(no subject)
Title: Broken Open
Pairing: Sam/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “hurts/stay”, for freiheitfuehlen .
A/N: This, oddly, didn't actually end up being any of the seven other stories I have started about them. Enjoy-
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- Broken Open
Cold War Kids
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Sam's learned a lifetime of tricks when it comes to Addison. He knows how she takes her coffee, when she'd prefer tea, what to do when she can't sleep, and to let her simmer when she asks for time lest her temper get the best of the entire situation. He's great with picking dinner plans, with pushing when she's stubborn, with gently treading over areas where the ice has been fractured by her previous endeavors.
But something he's never grown accustomed to is a quiet Addison. And he can only say “talk to me” a hundred or so times before he himself gets weary of hearing it. He hates when she gets wrapped up in her mind, forgets she has a mouth, and keeps looking at him with those eyes that tell him exactly how much pain she is really in.
In truth, he's never been great with the silent treatment, whatever its reasoning. He loathed it when his friends got mad at him and decided to play with someone else for the weekend, and he never appreciated Naomi's particular brand of dealing with their arguments. And he knows that this time, this evening shrouded in eery absence, can't possibly be his fault.
It gives way to a bravery he wasn't sure he possessed when he spotted the empty wine bottle, surely red, on the living room floor. It cloaks him when he unwinds her from the ball she's curled into, it shields him when she pushes away to go find a hot bath.
“Come on Addison, whatever it is...it can't be that bad.”
The glare he gets in response lets him know just how wrong he is, at least in her opinion.
“Archer,” she mumbles and then decides better of it, and busies herself with a pale green toothbrush.
“Archer,” Sam moans, rolling his eyes. God, her family. They're bossy, and nosy, and annoying, and they always send Addison into a crazy tailspin that he doesn't understand.
“Never mind,” Addison says in between rinses, fakes a smile, and then saunters back toward bed when it becomes apparent that he isn't leaving her. “It's nothing, I'm just...tired. They're exhausting.”
While they are exhausting, Sam concedes, that isn't the whole story here. She's so obvious, pulling back the covers, slipping onto the cold sheets. It's frustrating, watching her turn away, flick off the light, pretending as though whatever it is won't eat her alive all night, forcing him into a fit of tossing and turning to compensate with her restlessness.
And the one thing he's learned with her family is that if it sounds like a nightmare, it's probably a tragedy. And he's had enough. There's been enough of them for this year, possibly for this lifetime. “If you're not ready, to talk, that's fine,” Sam whispers, peeling off his shoes and punching his too fluffy pillow. “But I'm going to find out eventually, and if you tell me now, I can help you feel better.”
She seems defiant, at first, as if to prove him incorrect. But then, just as his eyelids begin to feel heavy, he can feel her shift closer, smell the light scent of her hair coming to rest on his chest.
“Archer said...he said I'd be a horrible mother,” she relents, gripping Sam tighter. And maybe it's dumb, but she's always been especially susceptible to scrutiny.
He sighs before he can stop himself. Again with the nonexistent babies. Again with the future. Again with Archer. He doesn't want to fill her with hope, he doesn't want to leave her devoid of comfort, so he searches frantically for a middle-ground. “For someone who probably has several children he's never heard of that's a leap.”
“Yeah,” Addison agrees, not quite satisfied, but pacified.
Sam gulps the knot down in his throat and for a brief moment he finds the heart, finds the footing to give more than ever before, a sign he's not ready to acknowledge and one they hopefully won't have to discuss in the morning. “You'll be a great mother.”
A pause, and then relief punctures her lungs. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Archer's an...ass and he's hurting, but that doesn't mean he's right. It doesn't mean you should stay up all night thinking about the implications of something no one can possibly judge. Ok?” He's wound up now, he's the one with blood flowing through his veins.
“Ok,” Addison agrees with a yawn, and then coils her body around his, not willing to flip over and lose the warmth of his skin, not tonight.
“Night,” Sam whispers, fingers finding her hair, brushing, trying to ease his own mind.
He's sprung open a can of worms, leaving them free to inch through her sweet dreams, through his vivid fears. As her breaths deepen, lengthen, Sam ponders the reality that could have been- leaving her to stew in silence.
At four in the morning, after staring at the bumpy ceiling until it became jiggly static, he realizes he'd rather know than be in the dark, whatever the cost.
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Pairing: Sam/Addison
Rating: PG-13
Summary: “hurts/stay”, for freiheitfuehlen .
A/N: This, oddly, didn't actually end up being any of the seven other stories I have started about them. Enjoy-
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
- Broken Open
Cold War Kids
~-~-~-~-~-~-~
Sam's learned a lifetime of tricks when it comes to Addison. He knows how she takes her coffee, when she'd prefer tea, what to do when she can't sleep, and to let her simmer when she asks for time lest her temper get the best of the entire situation. He's great with picking dinner plans, with pushing when she's stubborn, with gently treading over areas where the ice has been fractured by her previous endeavors.
But something he's never grown accustomed to is a quiet Addison. And he can only say “talk to me” a hundred or so times before he himself gets weary of hearing it. He hates when she gets wrapped up in her mind, forgets she has a mouth, and keeps looking at him with those eyes that tell him exactly how much pain she is really in.
In truth, he's never been great with the silent treatment, whatever its reasoning. He loathed it when his friends got mad at him and decided to play with someone else for the weekend, and he never appreciated Naomi's particular brand of dealing with their arguments. And he knows that this time, this evening shrouded in eery absence, can't possibly be his fault.
It gives way to a bravery he wasn't sure he possessed when he spotted the empty wine bottle, surely red, on the living room floor. It cloaks him when he unwinds her from the ball she's curled into, it shields him when she pushes away to go find a hot bath.
“Come on Addison, whatever it is...it can't be that bad.”
The glare he gets in response lets him know just how wrong he is, at least in her opinion.
“Archer,” she mumbles and then decides better of it, and busies herself with a pale green toothbrush.
“Archer,” Sam moans, rolling his eyes. God, her family. They're bossy, and nosy, and annoying, and they always send Addison into a crazy tailspin that he doesn't understand.
“Never mind,” Addison says in between rinses, fakes a smile, and then saunters back toward bed when it becomes apparent that he isn't leaving her. “It's nothing, I'm just...tired. They're exhausting.”
While they are exhausting, Sam concedes, that isn't the whole story here. She's so obvious, pulling back the covers, slipping onto the cold sheets. It's frustrating, watching her turn away, flick off the light, pretending as though whatever it is won't eat her alive all night, forcing him into a fit of tossing and turning to compensate with her restlessness.
And the one thing he's learned with her family is that if it sounds like a nightmare, it's probably a tragedy. And he's had enough. There's been enough of them for this year, possibly for this lifetime. “If you're not ready, to talk, that's fine,” Sam whispers, peeling off his shoes and punching his too fluffy pillow. “But I'm going to find out eventually, and if you tell me now, I can help you feel better.”
She seems defiant, at first, as if to prove him incorrect. But then, just as his eyelids begin to feel heavy, he can feel her shift closer, smell the light scent of her hair coming to rest on his chest.
“Archer said...he said I'd be a horrible mother,” she relents, gripping Sam tighter. And maybe it's dumb, but she's always been especially susceptible to scrutiny.
He sighs before he can stop himself. Again with the nonexistent babies. Again with the future. Again with Archer. He doesn't want to fill her with hope, he doesn't want to leave her devoid of comfort, so he searches frantically for a middle-ground. “For someone who probably has several children he's never heard of that's a leap.”
“Yeah,” Addison agrees, not quite satisfied, but pacified.
Sam gulps the knot down in his throat and for a brief moment he finds the heart, finds the footing to give more than ever before, a sign he's not ready to acknowledge and one they hopefully won't have to discuss in the morning. “You'll be a great mother.”
A pause, and then relief punctures her lungs. “Thank you, Sam.”
“Archer's an...ass and he's hurting, but that doesn't mean he's right. It doesn't mean you should stay up all night thinking about the implications of something no one can possibly judge. Ok?” He's wound up now, he's the one with blood flowing through his veins.
“Ok,” Addison agrees with a yawn, and then coils her body around his, not willing to flip over and lose the warmth of his skin, not tonight.
“Night,” Sam whispers, fingers finding her hair, brushing, trying to ease his own mind.
He's sprung open a can of worms, leaving them free to inch through her sweet dreams, through his vivid fears. As her breaths deepen, lengthen, Sam ponders the reality that could have been- leaving her to stew in silence.
At four in the morning, after staring at the bumpy ceiling until it became jiggly static, he realizes he'd rather know than be in the dark, whatever the cost.
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