The Magpie's Death

I'm Sorry (1)

After two hours of a sometimes earsplitting, sometimes coarse lecture from Squirrel about the insanity of leaving so soon, followed by a half-hour of them ugly-crying in his arms, Sam was on the road.

His friend wasn't wrong. Every muscle in his body ached and the torn gash in his shoulder still hadn't stopped bleeding. It was foolish to go in this condition, but going at all was foolish. He just wanted to get there as soon as possible.

He detoured west through Jersey, avoiding as many main roads as possible, and kept himself out of sight the few times he needed to stop. Squirrel was keeping his ghost in the city, so he couldn't leave any other trail. Over nine hours later, he was standing outside the picket fence, staring up at the large, decorative, Victorian house. It had only been a week and a half, but to him it was like a lifetime. His legs and chest grew heavy, weighing him down and rooting him to the pavement. Before it had been nothing more than a house. Now it represented his overwhelming hope and dread.

There was no question he wanted to come back, but he'd been so busy preparing, he didn't think about what might be waiting for him when he returned. A week and a half was a long time to abandon your child and someone who was at least a friend. Would he even be accepted back? What had they been thinking this whole time? What could he possibly say when he stepped beyond that stained glass?

Taking in a deep breath, he ripped his feet from the ground. Whatever happened, he deserved it and would take it willingly. With a small duffle bag slung over his good shoulder, he trudged past the picket fence, down the path, up the porch steps, and through the large front door. Jack stood behind the desk, green eyes wide and mouth open, frozen in shock.

That shock only lasted a few steps. Sam halted when Jack turned away from his guest and marched over, surprise swiftly becoming anger. His face was red and his eyes darkened as they glared. When Jack was close enough, he reached out and grabbed the collar of Sam's shirt.

"Where the HELL were you?" he shouted, using the grip to pull himself closer. "Do you know how long it's been? Your phone was off the entire time! What were we supposed to think? Do you know how-"

Sam dropped the bag and wrapped his arms around Jack, bringing him tight to his chest. There was instant silence, the shock returning, and he hung his head over Jack's shoulder. He only now realized it, but he had wanted to do this for a long time. He wanted to feel this warmth and comfort and calm, along with the reassurance that things would be alright. And he wanted to give those feelings in return.

"Wha... What are you...?" Jack stuttered and paused, feeling Sam tremble. "Sam?"

"I'm sorry."

It was all he could say. His voice was hushed, almost a whisper, and Jack took a quick breath. They stood that way for a long minute until Jack chuckled and laid a hand on Sam's back, breaking through the awkward quiet.

"I should be furious with you right now, but what is this? I don't even know how to respond..."

Feeling a soft punch to the shoulder, Sam winced. "Ugh, shit."

"Really?" Jack quickly pulled back, a bit frantic as he searched for an injury. As if he could see anything through the clothes.

Sam pushed him away. "It's fine. I'll explain what I can later."

With a nod, Jack opened his mouth to speak again, but he was cut off by another voice – clear and melodic, with the faintest hint of curiosity.

"Dada?"

Sam's entire body tensed and he let his gaze drift past Jack to the little girl. Grey-blue eyes were wide and staring as she stood in the hall between the stairs and desk.

"Dada?" she repeated, then she scurried over as Jack flashed him a warm smile and stepped to the side. "Dada!"

He crouched down in time for her to come running into his arms. Every muscle burned as he scooped her up, but he didn't care. He squeezed her until she let out a breath and tapped his shoulder. Releasing only enough to see her face, they stared at each other, expressionless except for two pairs of shining eyes.

Jack chuckled, then choked on a sharp breath. "Shit, are you crying?"

Wiping at a cheek, Sam felt the wet drop and huffed out a small laugh.

"I guess so."

It should have been surprising. He had never cried in his life, no matter what happened. But without an explanation, he understood. Maybe this is what it felt like to be happy enough to cry.

"Dada."

Ellie's big eyes traced his face for a brief second. Letting out another small breath, she rested her head on his shoulder and circled her little arms around his neck.

Stepping close again, Jack smoothed down her wild hair. "See? I told you he'd be back." His eyes shifted to him, then locked onto the scar forming across his cheek. "What happened?"

He had forgotten all about slicing himself and ran a finger along the red line. "I cut myself." Literally. That was a story best left untold. "When did she start speaking?"

Jack pet Ellie again, his sweet gaze fixed on her now. "About two days after you left, she started pointing and asking 'Dada?' everywhere we went. Every pair of boots she saw on the street, every random movement outside the window... Sometimes she would go up to your room and point at the closed door." He removed his hand, looking a little hurt, as if he was feeling what the girl should have while Sam was away. "It's the only word she says."

The stranger at the desk made sure his cleared throat could be heard throughout the house and Jack jumped.

"Ah. I should go take care of that." He took a step backwards. "You owe me an explanation, but I'll leave you two alone for now."

With a nod, Sam shifted Ellie in his arm, lifting his bag and wincing again as it pulled at his wound. "Drinks? Tonight."

Jack returned the nod and smiled. It was a different smile now, with that expression Sam didn't recognize. Then he was gone, hurrying back and apologizing profusely to the guest.