Chapter Text
It’s been a week since Sam turned and Hellen’s barely left Sam’s side, aside from her midnight patrols. She’s been helping him, to say the very least. In reality, he couldn’t do anything without her, right now. It’s not just the physical help, parenting, or getting used to the new form enough to work, it’s the freaking companionship. And god, Sam acts introverted but he really is a social creature. More of a creature than social as of late.
Initially, standing in general was hard, but now he stands on his all-fours surprisingly well, for never having done it in the past. Initially, he tried to ignore the guilt he felt for scaring Joel, but that first morning, Hellen helped reunite them. Joel had been relieved and reasonably sobbing violently, hugging Sam tighter than he ever had since he first hugged Sam for comfort when he learned the truth about his family. Hellen took a hint and let them have their moment. For the first time in forever, Joel’s hug didn’t hurt Sam, and Sam takes every good news when he can, especially now.
Hellen leaves for her nightly patrols sometimes before Sam falls asleep, sometimes after, but always at the same time, unless Sam or the kids needed help prior. Still, she will always be back after the crack of dawn, and before Sam wakes. Yet today, Sam wakes before the crack of dawn, he can tell by his boarded window that leaks strips of light when it can.
He can tell it’s blue hour, though, because he can see the room around him. With discomfort brewing in his abdomen, he gets up to use the bathroom. He can stand by putting his weight on the wall, but it’s hard and risks falling. It feels so different to stand upright, like Sam knows it's right but his body says it’s wrong, unnatural. It’s just another addition to the surmounting list of things that steal his focus.
He reaches the corner of the room, and loses his balance on the transition; falls square on his crevasse. He tries to stand, but he knows it doesn’t work from the floor without something or someone helping him, and the wall is no good for his current skill level. From here, he can only crawl to his bed and pull himself up to the frameless mattress to try again, or sit there and admit defeat. He can’t bring himself to try. The tears start unprompted and refuse to slow or stop, not that he’s in a hurry. There’ s no one and nothing coming to help him, he knows.
Sam hates his freaky weird body. He went those excruciating two weeks without looking outside, without getting too badly injured or turning. He’s even gone three whole years of fighting against the Hundred Gods– things that cults prayed to, cults he had to fight, too.
But in the end, Sam was only ever lucky. Not immune, not resistant, and not skilled. Strangers tell him every day, even though he never once took it for granted. His luck was bound to finally run out, and that happened to be this recent unlucky day.
Ever since that first day, three years ago, and for the rest of time, it only ever took one unfortunate moment to change everything for someone. To change everything for Sam. To make him a thing, like the things that creeped out Sam or the things that, before this, he used to kill almost every single day.
Before this. God, Sam was a fighter; the most hard-sought and highest valued fighter for his skillset, in this apocalyptic society, and his best contesters are Leigh and Hellen. But Sam can’t fucking stand.
Sam lets the silence consume him for a moment. It feels like the world itself is on fire, lighting ablaze in front of his very eyes, the heat he now feels on cool nights like this. He’ll never get used to it, never recover. Maybe he’ll have the most pitied occupation, cleaning, which pretty much only consists of the most fucked-up, disabled cursed. Lord, how the mighty hath fallen.
No, Sam deserves this. For the times he gagged at Lyle and those like him. For almost feeding Ratom, a baby, to a goddamn hole in the wall without a second thought, just because he looked like a mutated rat. For all the times he shot a pitying, disgusted look at one of the cleaners, even though he didn’t mean to. And last but not least, for every time he wondered how specific cursed do private, personal actions, and if the person he’s talking to needs help with some of them.
Sam deserves this fate– from any and every good book of morals– with how little he’s always valued the cursed that don’t touch a soft spot with him; the weird personalities and the murderers bunched into the same group of sans-guilt for any action or thought had against them. With how he subconsciously looks a little less of the cursed to the point he’s had to stop himself from telling a good friend that they aren’t cursed when they are.
A squeak sounds from the door.
Sam looks up to see Ratom, worried, tearing up but frozen in place. Sam needs to take care of Ratom, and god, he knows Ratom had to have heard some of the incoherent rambles pouring out all this time. Hence, Sam isn’t in a place to. Still, he will do what he can for Ratom, always. He deserves the best and Sam will do everything in his power to give that to him.
Sam keeps his bottom arms at the ground and beckons Ratom closer with his top ones, unable to find words. Ratom closes the distance in a gallop and nuzzles against Sam’s top arms, requesting pets. Sam carefully moves one of four arms to pet Ratom’s cheek, relishing the cuteness of Ratom when he leans into the touch.
God, Ratom probably feels horrible about this all. Has Hellen been emotionally there for Ratom, or was it just Joel and Ratom helping each other through this hardship? Tears well up all over again at the thought, adding to the collection of emotions that beat his chest like a drum, trying to pull him under the waves.
No, Hellen told Sam that she was helping Joel and Ratom both, not just tucking them in and cooking for them. Sam doesn’t stop petting Ratom as he thinks, and even if it isn’t affecting those around him, he needs to get out of his head. God, he is certainly pathetic, isn’t he? He’s 32, in his prime, he shouldn’t be needing help to think or function or stand. He shouldn’t need this constant coddling that Hellen gives him, waiting for his thoughts to catch up to him and never leaving him alone unless he asks. He wishes he could talk himself into calming down like anyone else can in his life.
This situation isn’t new to Sam. People turn, people die, it happens. And in his (prior) line of work? He should’ve been expecting it to happen eventually. Just…not like this. In active combat he’d be slashed and not have to worry about it because he’d go crazy and be put down. Is it bad that, at least for a split second, he prefers that to the fate he’s been damned to?
People turn, people die. Turning into a 6-foot tall rat creature with the nose of a blobfish, a massive 3-foot tail, two sets of arms and must-be dulled claws isn’t a big deal! No, really. Lyle got turned into whatever is under his cloak– something to do with chitin and glass– and still pursues a relationship, after all this time. Hellen’s got her romance going with the butcher two blocks away. It isn’t really a romance, but Hellen always has a pleased tone after talking with her, and they spoke often.
The point is that everyone else, even Audrey, makes it work. So it shouldn’t be so hard with Sam, someone with arms and legs and a normal number of eyes. Someone with near-human anatomy as opposed to Emmanuel, who has fingers for hair, feet and hands. As opposed to someone who is invisible with bright lights. As opposed to someone like Spine. It really can’t be that hard for someone as normal as Sam still is.
Ratom nuzzles Sam’s face at the pause, and Sam nuzzles back. “I love you, too.” He smiles into Ratom’s light brown fur, pressing into his soft bulb of a nose and pursing his lips and humming a kiss. The change has affected so much, but at least it doesn’t stop him from hugging and kissing Ratom or Joel. The Visitor could take away his body and his peace of mind, but it could never take away his fatherhood.
Even though he hasn’t been making food for them or tucking them in lately, he’ll get around to it. He does what he can and they do what they can to help.
Regardless, they will always be Sam’s kids. And he will always be their father.