A/N: This fic contains potentially triggering subject matter including but not limited to: suicidal references, gun violence, sexual trauma, homelessness, drug abuse, depression, homophobia, and cancer. It may contain inaccuracies. No copyright infringement intended. Thanks for reading!

BOOK ONE - PART ONE - CHAPTER FOUR

Sam wasn't sure she'd ever been cleaner in her life. For the last half hour, she'd stood under the spray of the warm water in the shower, scrubbing her skin raw. She'd considered asking Cat for a razor and shaving cream so she could tidy herself up a little, but ultimately decided against it. Cat had never minded her lack of shaving before. So, when she was done, she toweled herself off and retrieved the pile of clothes left for her outside the door. They were nothing fancy; just a gray pair of sweatpants, a dark blue t-shirt so worn it was impossible to decipher the logo on the front, and a black pair of socks. Still, they were the most comfortable clothes she'd worn in years. After one last glance in the foggy mirror, she stepped back out into the bedroom, ready to take whatever life threw at her.

Cat was waiting there when she came out, leaning back against the edge of the bed. She looked relieved when she saw her; almost like she was afraid she might've been a hallucination. "Hey. Feel better?" she greeted.

"I don't know. I'm still kinda numb right now," Sam admitted. Her stomach growled loudly, cutting off her next words.

Cat giggled and walked over to poke her tummy. "Come on, let's go get some food in you. It's in the kitchen." She took her hand and led her there.

Sikowitz was there when they arrived, sipping from a straw sticking out of a coconut. "Oh, hello, girls."

"Hey." Cat bit her lip. She waited for a moment, and then awkwardly mumbled, "Um, sorry; can you maybe, like… get out?"

"Oh, of course. My apologies." Sikowitz hurried out of the kitchen. He clearly couldn't take a hint.

Cat turned to Sam. "Chicken's over there," she told her, motioning to the large bucket.

Sam approached it cautiously. She was looking around as if she was afraid it was a trick.

When Cat saw Sam hesitating, she offered, "Do you want, like, a plate? Or something to drink?"

"You got any beer?" Sam asked, grabbing the bucket of chicken and hugging it to her chest. She carried it over to the table and sat down.

"No. Robbie's got some wine coolers if you want one," Cat replied. She wasn't much of a drinker. Sam had already dug into the tub of chicken, so Cat went to the fridge and grabbed a drink. She used a bottle opener to pop the cap off, then set it down on the table in front of Sam. "I think it's blackberry."

Sam grabbed the bottle and downed half of it. Then she went back to stuffing her face with chicken. She was seriously starting to wonder if she'd died and gone to heaven. When she noticed Cat hovering awkwardly next to the table, she stopped eating momentarily, and with a full mouth, said, "Hey. You want some?"

"You're… sharing your chicken with me?" Cat was astounded. Was this really the same Sam that had walked out on her ten years ago?

"Well, you bought it," Sam muttered. "I can spare a puck or two. I'm pretty sure I'm not gonna be able to finish this." Her stomach capacity wasn't what it used to be. She handed Cat a puck.

Cat lowered herself into a chair and took a small bite. She couldn't stop smiling.

Sam was eating ravenously until she noticed Cat staring at her. "What? Is there sauce on my face?"

Cat replied, "No. I just can't believe you're here. I wasn't even sure if you were still alive."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked with her mouth full, already hating where this conversation was leading.

"Well, that shootout between the Obliterators and the Renegades was all over the news six years ago," Cat explained. "They said there were multiple casualties, but never released any names. We all thought you might've been one of them."

Sam tensed. "Oh. Well, I don't really like to talk about it, but, uh… I was actually on the other side of a gun that night."

Cat wasn't sure what that meant. "Huh?"

"I killed a guy." Sam continued eating, swallowing against the lump in her throat.

Though she was a little nervous now, Cat still wasn't afraid of her. "You murdered someone?"

"Not exactly. They charged me with second-degree manslaughter. I was in prison for four years," Sam explained. She continued stuffing her mouth to avoid answering too many questions. Finally, she managed to force a small smile. "How 'bout you? Have you done any hard time?" She was joking, of course.

"Why didn't you ever try to call me?" Cat asked. "You know I could've helped get you out."

Sam shrugged. "To be honest, prison wasn't so bad. You get a bed, and a bathroom, and three meals a day, and… the other girls were pretty cool. Mostly."

"What have you been doing since you got out?" Cat was hesitant to ask.

"Well… not a lot," Sam admitted. "I can't find anyone who'll hire a convicted felon, so I've been living under the bridge downtown for the past couple years. I stand on the corner with a sign most days." She forced an embarrassed laugh. "Pathetic, right?"

Tears sprung to Cat's eyes. "Dammit, Sam—you are so stupid," she choked out, shoving her arm.

"Ah—!" Sam hissed in pain and clutched her hurt shoulder. "Fuck!"

"I'm sorry!" Cat looked at Sam in alarm—she hadn't realized she'd pushed her so hard.

"It's… I'm okay. It's fine," Sam growled out through clenched teeth. "A car hit me on my motorcycle last week. I flew off and landed on my shoulder. It's pretty messed up."

Cat immediately looked concerned. "Why haven't you seen a doctor?" she asked disapprovingly.

Sam rolled her eyes. "I can't afford a doctor. I don't even have health insurance. I'm pretty sure I'd need at least a couple x-rays, and that shit's not cheap."

Cat sighed. She placed her hand on Sam's injured shoulder much more gently this time. "We're going to the hospital tomorrow. You need to have this looked at."

"Did you not hear what I just said? I can't afford—"

"I'm gonna set up an appointment for you with my doctor," Cat told her, leaving no room for argument. "I want you to get a full check-up, to make sure you're healthy. We can deal with your shoulder while we're there."

"But Cat—"

"Stop." Cat took Sam's hand and looked her in the eyes. "You need to let me help you. I'm done letting you make stupid decisions."

"I… I've only ever been to a doctor three times in my life."

That's when Cat realized that Sam wasn't just being stubborn—she was scared. She gave her hand a little squeeze and murmured, "That's okay. I'll stay with you the whole time. I won't let them do anything bad to you. And then afterwards, we're going to the mall."

"The mall?"

"Yeah. I want to buy you some clothes," Cat replied. "Would that be okay?"

Sam was uncomfortable with that. "I don't want you to feel like you need to do a bunch of stuff for me," she told her. "I don't need your pity."

"It's not pity, it's…" Cat bit her tongue. "I just… I really missed you, Sam. You don't even know how much I've missed you."

Sam could tell she was being truthful. "So, I really don't disgust you now?"

"Disgust me?" Cat furrowed her eyebrows.

"Well, yeah. I mean… you're a celebrity now," Sam pointed out. "And I'm homeless. And a criminal."

Cat couldn't stop looking at her. "You don't have to worry about that. It doesn't matter where you've been, or what you've done. I'm just happy to have you back."

Sam chuckled disbelievingly. She couldn't stop looking at Cat either, but her staring was a little more subtle. She didn't look that different than she remembered, but she had definitely filled in a little. The thoughts gave her a major spike of anxiety. This was what had caused her to leave in the first place. But she had to remind herself—Cat was older now. Sam no longer felt she was preying upon her innocence. She was attracted to her, and that was okay. She even let herself hope that perhaps Cat might actually like her that way too.

Crazier things had happened.