Author's Note

This chapter will unfortunately be shorter than intended because I've cut out the erotic scene! Instead I'll be uploading it to AO3 where the content will not be considered illicit and liable to be taken down. You can find me under ManicPixelDreams. (I also admittedly would like to transition there where people will not rudely use the reviews section for anything other than what it's intended for... I deeply appreciate those of you who stayed on topic.)

But you say
You'll never leave me

Twelve: White Knights

She awoke with no appetite, only a hankering for coffee, black like her mother's soul. Little did Pamela know that Sam honored her mother's suffering through aesthetic. If Pamela preferred to hide her suffering with saccharine sweetness, Sam would leak the Truth in her apparel, her furniture, her myriad fixations. Of course Pamela mistook it for rebellion, but in reality, Sam's trying to help—she's trying to force her to look. Look what you did. Look what you're still doing.

Climbing down the stairs, she heard no trace of Phantom's heartbeat. Apparently he'd left the room when she fell asleep—which was fine, of course, it's the proper thing to do, right? What did she expect, to wake up to him spooning her?

Coffee. She needed coffee. Maybe with a dab of whiskey in it. But oh wait, she specifically avoided ever buying alcohol so that she wouldn't succumb to those urges. One of her rules, despite what she told her father last night—and it tickled her that she used the same half-truth against him. 'Maybe,' her parents would often say, which Sam learned was neurotypical speak for, 'No.'

This led her to chuckle slightly as she flipped through the channels, ensconced in her blessedly black leather couch, sipping idly at the mug in her hands. When Phantom appeared, she heard the telltale swish of air preceding him.

"How did you sleep?" He floated down to her side, slowly enough that she could've protested, Sam noted with appreciation.

She offered a glance before fixing on the screen again. "Good. Thanks for lulling me to sleep with that little blurb about quasars. Genuinely."

"Well, you didn't scream."

Nope. Just cried.

"Mm." That's all she said.

"Sam. I…"

Sensing an urgency within the invocation of her name, Sam turned to look at him fully.

"I'm not trying to pry, but you mentioned your upbringing once, and yesterday when your parents came… You were tense."

Sam automatically fell into her routine, unearthing ancient scripts for exactly this type of situation. How many teachers and therapists had noticed something off, only to be expertly shut down by her?

Sam would protect her mother with her dying breath. She had protected her with her dying breath, once. Never even composed a suicide note citing the exact reason why.
After all… She promised.

Of course she understands this is one of those instances where her rigidity only hurts her.

"Everyone's tense when their parents pay them an unexpected visit."

"I guess?" Feeling his gaze boring into her, she resisted the urge to snap her jaws. Metaphorically speaking, of course—Phantom had not yet earned her bite, her marking. "But… that comment about us, with the parallels?"

She sighed, purely for effect. "I was referring to control issues. Sorry. I blurt stupid things sometimes."

"Sam." His irises were flickering. Had she triggered Red? Fuck. "I need to know that you're safe. If not, I can make your parents leave."

"No. My parents absolutely cannot know this place is haunted," she warned with a hard stare, swigging coffee as she did.

"They won't know or remember anything. I'll overshadow, plant the idea that they agreed to go home. Simple."

Sam felt a bloodless chill falling over her like he'd cast one of his ghostly spells. "You're offering to possess my parents?"

He nodded, irises flickering once again. Apparently Red's swimming up to the surface.

Sam carefully coached the tremor out of her voice when she asked, "How often have you used this on people?"

"Only for emergencies."

"Such as?" she pressed, holding her breath.

He grimaced at the memory. "Such as… overtaking Dash when he tried to rape a barely-conscious Paulina."

Sam shut her eyes, searching for answers in the subsequent darkness. "I understand why you had to do that." Her hands found his thighs, relishing the quadriceps clad in skin-tight spandex, claws digging in. "But please don't ever do that to my parents, under any circumstances."

"Why?" he asked unflinchingly.

Sam leaned in—confrontationally, not flirtatiously. "Because it's wrong."

"Hmmm." Her chest fluttered with nervous excitement when he narrowed his eyes, a faint glow of red superseding the green. "You know what I think?"

She gritted her teeth.

He pinched her jaw with a thumb and forefinger, tempting her to thrash her head and scream in his face. "I think you're obsessed with protecting someone like I'm obsessed with protecting you."

That was enough. Sam splashed the remainder of her coffee onto his face, but missed when he turned intangible. Growling in frustration, she leapt up from her couch and headed to the kitchen for a second fill.

"Sam, hold on." He'd flown up to grab her shoulder; her hackles rose on contact. "I'm just trying to help."

"Everyone tries to help," she snapped with a derisive laugh. "But usually they end up making it worse! So much worse! And that's exactly what you're doing right now!" She whirled on him.

"Then I'll make it better," he shot back. Redness radiated from him as he encircled her waist, pulling her flush against him.

Sam's breath stalled in her chest, heartbeats commingling.

"Let me," he demanded, though soft enough that it almost felt like a request.

Sam loosed a shuddering breath. That's all the confirmation he needed to lock her lips in one of those heady, dizzying dances. Never had kisses affected her this much; mostly they felt awkward, pointless filler for the impending climax. But here, in this moment, she could've let Phantom kiss her until she suffocated.

"How's that?" he asked, still in that deceptively gentle tone, despite how nothing about that kiss had been gentle. More like feral and bruising, just how she liked it.

"I—" Her wave of coldness had been replaced by torpid, muggy heat. Previously she'd been poised to snap—a built-in defense mechanism to deflect any questions about her mother that she couldn't possibly answer—but her tongue felt dumb and useless in her mouth. Like it had been meant for kissing all along instead of speech.

"Good?" he prompted gently when no response was forthcoming, and she nodded. "I'm sorry I upset you."

His eyes had not faded back to green.

"I overreacted," she conceded.

"To the kiss or the offer for help?" he taunted, a smirk twisting. Her insides twisted along with it.

"Arrogant fuck," she echoed, but then amended a second later, "Well, arrogant kiss, I guess."

He chuckled darkly, its tenor awash in that signature sanguine hue, casting an intoxicating haze over her senses. She considered withdrawing, negative reinforcement to ensure he wouldn't press this issue again. Make it abundantly clear that she won't tolerate this, won't encourage it. Not because he'd done something wrong—he hadn't—but because she had no choice but to coach this behavior.

Her inner child felt righteously furious, however. Spiritually deprived, limited by her abnegation. She wanted a taste desperately. What would it feel like with someone you're actually, deeply attracted to? Her experiments offered no data on that; she had long since given up on this unexpected variable.

But also, admittedly, she's succumbing to the effects of this aphrodisiac color-aura.

Thus she leaned in, whispering sweetly into his ear, "I want to be on my knees for you."

And it spiraled from there.

A few hours later, she welcomed in Danny. A red-headed woman with blue eyes accompanied him, clad in long black sleeves and jeans and flats.

"Jazz?" Sam guessed. She had texted Danny about her arrival beforehand. Apparently she's traveling and made a pit stop?

"That's me. Hi, Sam." She extended her hand to shake and Sam tolerated the formalities that she never truly understood. Luckily, though, Jazz's aura did not repulse her, not like her parents or Vlad. That made touching a lot less scary. She followed the usual routines, welcoming them both inside and offering drinks.

Jazz accepted water and broached the topic that likely inspired her visit. "So... Danny tells me you're an autistic Savant?"

Oh, great. Why did she even mention it? Simply to scare Danny, she supposed.

"Uh-huh."

"I've actually worked with a lot of autistic Savants."

Sam sipped at her sparkling water to hide the shock. "Oh?"

"Yes! I'm a parapsychologist, in fact."

'Know any?' she recalled asking Phantom.

'I can't say,' he replied.

Her gaze fixed on Danny, suspicions festering evermore. "Oh. That's uncharted territory in the medical field."

"It's not well-respected," she admitted, side-eyeing Danny curiously when she noticed Sam staring. "Certainly not like criminal psychology. Um, if I may ask, why aren't you working currently? Have you changed your mind?"

Sam's stare finally relented, Danny's tension melting in her periphery. "Not exactly. Death in the family. Taking a break for my mental health, you see. Our field is taxing enough, but worse so if you're focused on the dregs of society."

Jazz clucked her tongue morosely. "My condolences. Someone you were close to?"

"My grandma practically raised me." She let the implication hang in the air. Though Pamela forbade her from ever delving into specifics, she often dropped hints like this. A desperate cry for help that went unnoticed, like the wrist-cutting and the goth aesthetics.

But what about a parapsychologist? Would she notice? None of the doctors or counselors ever caught on, except one who had witnessed a meltdown first-hand. That one she had liked the best, a veteran who understood suffering innately.

"Your mother was busy?" Jazz inquired hesitantly.

Sam shrugged. "More like my grandma took over when she noticed I was different."

"Ah..." She exchanged a look with Danny, an undercurrent passing between them that she couldn't translate.

Sam's grip on the glass tightened dangerously. She wondered what to punctuate the silence with. "What else has Danny told you about me?"

Danny blushed and ducked his head, spikes obscuring him from view.

"He told me about your abilities." She eyed Sam with keen interest, glancing at the whitened knuckles. "I'm sure that would be very useful as a forensic psychologist."

"I guess it would be." Her grip loosened, though her tension didn't ebb. "Did you come here just to see another Savant in person?"

"No," Jazz assured her, lacking any darkness that would indicate a lie. "I came here because... I thought I could be a friend."

"Alright," Sam conceded. "How long will you be in town?"

Jazz brightened, perfect white teeth on full display. "A week. Why don't we start with a game of Chess?"

"One of the things I noticed about Savants, especially of the autistic variety," Jazz noted, edging her pawn outwards onto the board. "They prefer to be intellectual or physically stimulated at all times. Yes? That's why I thought you'd much prefer talking to me over a game of Chess."

Sam nudged her pawn forward in turn. "Thoughtful of you. Thanks."

"Since you're from an upperclass household, I trust you were accommodated?"

She hesitated, eyes following the trajectory of Jazz's white knight. "My grandma oversaw most of that, but yes."

She would not permit the impression that her mother did anything. Perhaps due to the stress load of raising a hyperactive child, or perhaps suffering postpartum depression or even lacking the ability to form a healthy attachment to her daughter altogether—more likely a deadly concoction of all three—Pamela generally avoided Sam beyond the bare necessities, preferring instead to steal away to bars and work functions and stuffy social engagements, foisting Sam upon nannies that she tortured until they cried—Sam had not been a highly empathetic child starting out—or a father she worried until he drank. Only Ida Manson could tolerate her presence, commanding her respect like no one ever had. While Sam didn't exactly resent her mother for this anymore, she refused to let her take all the credit.

"She had been a Registered Nurse. Could've been a doctor but wanted to be closer to her patients. So she noticed me straightaway and knew what to do. I don't know where I'd be without her tutelage."

"That's very lucky. Sounds like you essentially had an early intervention conducted at home."

Sam allowed a thumb-sized smile, avoiding her gaze and whatever pity may be contained within it. "Yeah."

Jazz chewed her lip, contemplating her next move. "You miss her, I take it."

"Of course."

"Danny and I also lost family when young." She glanced meaningfully over at her brother, who'd been silently observing from the couch. "We try to be grateful for the years we had."

"That's a healthy philosophy."

Would've been nice if she had seen her graduate though.

"Would you mind if I ask, Sam," Jazz broached, moving her pawn a square forward, "do you recall when your ability developed?"

"It's not really something that developed; it's just always been there," Sam admitted, flashing back to her earliest memory. "In fact, I can recall having it since I was in diapers, looking up at my mother's face and…"

Intuitively sensing pain underneath that contrived smile, unable to articulate what exactly it was but trying to alleviate the pain with contagious laughter.

"It's kinda funny actually," Sam tried to reframe it in a less suspicious, more positive light. "She used to blow raspberries on my stomach. Got bored after a few repetitions but, I'd giggle anyway to see the pretty colors flying off her face."

In other words, she'd been masking from a young age, eager to soothe her mother's underlying, pervasive anxiety.

"How old were you?" Jazz asked, a tang of shock in her tone. "It's common for Savants to have impressive long-term memories like this…"

"Dunno, really. I had been potty-trained late so I suspect two or three; a lot of my developmental milestones were delayed, despite how my intellect outpaced everyone, so who's to say?"

Jazz nodded, pursing her lips when Sam cornered her with a few pawns. "That's fascinating."

"My turn for inquiry. What sort of research are you conducting on these kids?"

"Unfortunately I'm restricted on what I can share, since it's the highest level clearance from the government." She smiled regretfully. "But I can tell you the children are safe and content under our care."

"What's your objective?"

"We want to know what causes psychic abilities to manifest, if it can be taught to anyone, and how it can be refined and utilized for our society as a whole."

Sam eyed her doubtfully, still one foot in denial. "And you've seen it in action?"

"We've documented a clear pattern of telepathy or clairvoyance in several subjects. Others struggle more to do anything on command."

"So what's the risk factors for being a psychic?"

"Savant syndrome and Autism Spectrum Disorder are common among them, but not guaranteed." She smiled when Sam pounced on her pawn with a dark knight. "Also ADHD, TBI, psychological trauma (especially chronic), bipolar disorder, near-death experiences, any variance of synesthesia, or being nonverbal can enhance it too."

Sam refrained from noting that she checked almost all of those boxes. Though she trusted Jazz on sight—her luminosity shone with blue and pink and purple, all non-threatening shades—Sam preferred not to be a test subject, even informally, since that would be a crippling blow to her rapidly declining sense of humanity.

"You have at least two or three of those, don't you?" Danny piped up, to her dismay. She almost dropped her mask of pleasantry to glare at him.

"I guess." Sam shrugged nonchalantly, never looking up from her board, again fearing what she may read in those hypnotic blue eyes. "Don't people write you off as a kook, Jazz?"

"Well, I don't bring up my work to anyone but trusted confidants, for the most part, but…" Jazz sighed forlornly. "I used to judge my parents the same way, but I've realized since then that… we need more scientists who are willing to explore uncharted territory."

"Or else we'd still be upholding the geocentric model," Danny added.

"True," Sam said, promoting one of her pawns in a move she planned far ahead. "Think you could train me, Jazz?"

"I'm so glad you asked." Having secured another checkmate, Jazz beamed triumphantly at her. "Well! Looks like I'm giving you a run for your money, Sam."

Sam blinked down at the board, respect and admiration brewing. Challenge. Finally. She's been bereft since Grandma died.

"So what's the training involve?"

"Can you meditate?"

Sam snorted. "I can't stay still for very long."

"That's what they all say."