Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Sam lurches forward again, his stomach emptying its contents.

Ratom bit him– by accident, again. Usually, Sam’s wearing gloves when in at-risk positions, like tucking in Ratom or cleaning him. But now? He just hugged Ratom. Ratom knows it’s bad, what can happen. Ratom’s even pierced skin by accident before; drew blood. Sam bled. But it wasn’t like that now.

He was okay before. It even was deep sometimes, but it was fine.

Another wave of pain leaves him writhing. It’s not fine now.

Three years. It’s been three years since The Visitor left, and yet people still get cursed or killed every month. One of them being Sam.

He cries, his mouth unmuted and unobstructed. Hair grows, limbs bulge, throat tears apart. The only sound he hears beyond the painful stretching of ligaments and snapping of sinew is the pitter-patter and squeaks of Ratom outside the bathroom door. Sam had shut himself in here as fast as possible; the moment he felt movement beneath the skin. God, it all happened so fast.

The waves stop, and so do the wails. Sam pants on the warm tile floor of the bathroom. His brain and body are full of tingles, and Sam wants nothing more than to let go, be absorbed into sleep, as if the adrenaline doesn’t keep him just barely awake, as if it doesn’t keep him from taking a full breath.

And those little claws on linoleum ground him, a small, repeating pattern that he can visualise as the real thing. It’s the only thing he thinks of until he can think of more. The tile around him, the door that muffles the squeaks, the ceiling above him, the walls encasing him.

After he regains the ability to think for himself, it takes a while to muster up the courage and strength to get up. A lot of convincing squeaks from Ratom, a lot of encouraging self-talk.

“You can do it, Sam,” “C’mon, just open the door and you can rest,” “Stop wallowing in your own misery, Ratom needs you.” That got his motivation humming like the engine on a motorbike.

“Yeah, Ratom needs you,” “He's so scared, he needs to know you’re alive,” “For Ratom.”

He takes a misshapen lug of an arm, and fumbles. He keeps his eyes closed. He tries a knee to lift him up instead, then his other. So those are unharmed; he avoids the word “normal”.

He lifts his right arm, then notices the issue as it clambers to the floor again; he has four of them. Two sets, two left and two right; the stump is gone.

He focuses on the arbitrarily good, hard fact, not the overall changes. One arm goes up, then its mirrored twin, which he has now.

He puts effort into it, his torso rising from the ground. He sits to break, pivoting to his side as pain from a new limb swims in his vision.

He can't process it right now– he has to get the door open. He can't let his anxiety consume him just yet. He lifts himself up all over again, rising to his knees and staying there. He crawls the small distance to the door and twists the knob. Ratom busts through the moment it creaks open, simply trampling Sam. Sam yelps, and his voice sounds… normal. It even feels normal to speak. (So much for avoiding the word.)

Sam rolls to his back, courtesy of Ratom’s movement. The newly covered tile didn't feel cool to his touch, oddly enough. Ratom licks Sam's nose, which feels bulbous and swollen. He dares not open his eyes yet.

He lifts his arms– all four of them– to pet Ratom. He'd grown two feet and a half in the past three years, anyway.

“Ratom.” Sam smiles widely, despite the circumstances, all because of Ratom’s love. “You need to get someone.”

When Ratom stops, Sam opens his eyes to view his body language, and sees Ratom looking wide-eyed down at Sam as he tilts his head as if to ask him to elaborate.

“Dan, Papineau, Hellen, Xaria. Anyone. Just someone you met in the apartment. No one else.” 

Rat sits on Sam's chest, unsurity in his eyes. Sam brings one arm up to pet him, and Ratom cooed into Sam's hairy chest. Hairy? Sam can barely grow stubble. He slams his eyes shut. He can’t deal with knowing right now.

He needs an adult friend who’s been through this before, not Ratom, who was practically born with the curse, or Joel who’s still in the thralls of grief for his family. Who wouldn’t be? 

Ratom’s voice is full of desperation as he squeaks out a plea. “Don’t wanna leave.” His voice grows wet with tears, “Wanna Stay.”

Sam tries his best to keep the smile, to give Ratom confidence. Sam knows Ratom’s confidence resides in him, though they’ve been trying to work on Ratom being alone.

“I’ll be okay.”

With a wobbly lower hand, Sam holds Ratom’s head, with Ratom mumbling gently as he leans into the touch.

“I know, I know.” Sam lets himself mentally lean into the sensation of Ratom, to ground himself.

Everything changed, but Ratom didn’t. But oh, Sam notices the slight difference, that bit of fuzziness that Ratom has now that he didn’t before. His touch feels different, ever so slightly, and god does it make a world of difference.

Sam desperately needs to avoid this line of thought, because he knows it’s a result of the curse. Panic is known to worsen the transformation, and Sam is known to panic. This is a bad, very bad, no good situation to be in, and Ratom won't listen, his childish nature keeping him to his own predilections; Surety over Unsurety; Sam over Alone. And god, if Sam doesn't want the world for Ratom, but it's just far too much right now.

Sam has since let the smile fade, and pleads again. “Please Ratom. Do it for me.”

It’s a horrible thought, but Sam needs to lean into Ratom’s predilections; Sam over Not. He doesn’t know how long he can say no to Ratom, especially when he so badly wants to submit to gravity and stop fighting Ratom. He’s glad he can’t see his face right now, it would make this so much harder.

And then he adds, “Help me help you.”

It’s one of Ratom’s favorite songs, even if it’s unsung among the current anguish and tears. Sam feels his tail swish back and forth above his exposed legs.

Ratom chokes out behind tears, “Okay.”

“Love you Sam.”

He kisses Sam’s cheek as he does; as a lick, but it’s dry on his cheek. Another thought to tuck away, but Sam could barely keep up that wall for much longer.

“I love you too, Ratom.” 

Sam breathes deep, and lets his eyes open to look up at Ratom for comfort, for familiarity. At least his vision didn’t change.

“You need to go.”

Ratom nods twice, takes one step to the floor, looks back, then scurries out the open door.

Sam sighs with deep-seated relief, heart heavy. He takes a moment to restabilize his breathing, then gets back on all-fours (all-sixes now) to shut the door. Brown fur greets him, dousing his four arms like sleeves, and that’s when the wall breaks.

Chapter Text

Everything is fucked. 

Sam has had nightmares before of turning, attacking the people he loves or being unable to move coordinated. He’s woken up covered up in sweat with all fingers and limbs attached, where they should be. They were nothing like the real thing. The pain, the turmoil, the dread, the exhaustion, the psychological agony. Sam could be the next Jeanne, someone to be put out of his misery, driven by another being’s desire, brought powerless against it and forced to watch, and he’ll never know.

He pants, gritting his teeth and choking out sobs. Sam still feels…an indescribable sensation, greedily taking his attention and clawing for more, more. Movement beneath the skin works well to describe it, a beacon of sensation blinding his peripheral senses. Muscles shift into place, gluing into bone in the objectively wrong place. Some grew anew in odd places– the ankle, now thin nailbed. It retreated from his back and split apart to find its place across his body, biceps joining his chest, embiggening already existing muscles.

He shakes, tingles running down his complacent spine, feigning cold though his newfound fur protected from that. Fur. It sounds too out-there to be true, even though Sam knew it would happen to him, sooner or later, deep-down inside. Anxiety or not, he was right in the end, wasn’t he?

He knows tons of fighters who got turned fighting. Some rabid, some better off dead, some ruined through and through, some only minorly impacted. Sam wonders which category he'll be in by the end of this.

With an ear pressed against the door, clinging onto hope this whole time, he hears the front door creak open. Dread pulses through his veins, and he freezes.

Cautious, heavy footsteps are followed by beloved claws. Sam sighs, trying for relief, but it just isn’t in his grasp at the time. Claws scamper to the bathroom door, nudging it open with little luck. The footsteps quicken, following the path and stopping at the door. Sam holds his breath, suddenly hoping it’s not Leigh, who he never lost the fear of. The person pushes the door open further– it’s a shame Ratom can’t grip circular doorknobs– and the wood bumps into Sam, stopping. Sam doesn’t have the strength to get up or roll out of the way, mentally or physically. Luckily, the person forces it into Sam, pain following it as he’s pushed across the tile and into the center of the room.

A shadow stands over Sam, tall and wide, blocking the ambient light that could’ve filtered in through the windows littered around the front room. Sam strains his neck up to process the figure. Though the face is more than draped in shadows, that build is unmistakable.

Hellen kneels to greet Sam, asking a shocked, painful question, as if to be sure.

“Sam?” Is all it asked, but it asked it all; Is it really you? What happened? How can I help? Can I help?

Exhausted, Sam lies motionless, unable and unwilling to answer any of the four.

At first, Hellen stepped in and sat down in the room for a while, shutting the door only most of the way. She’s been quiet, at least after she shooed Ratom to Joel. The only thing she’s said this entire time is the 3-4-3 breathing exercise on repeat. All the while, she never took her gaze off the door, no glances being spared to her left, where Sam resides.

Bit by bit, it gets easier. Sam follows Hellen’s pattern, even though he always used the 8-4-8 variant. Even though it’s just that, it did its part. Hellen having faith in him is help enough, it seems. And slowly, gradually, Sam calms.

After it all; after the tears stopped and the shakes stilled, Hellen stops, which lets the silence consume them. They could hear the muffled laughter of Joel and Ratom in the next room. Good. Sam was so worried about Joel. Joel’s never present in conversations pertaining to the cursed.

Hellen inhales, and Sam focuses on her for her next words, but she lets the breath go. This happens twice more in succession. The silence consumes them once more, and Sam tunes into the laughter once more as his breath completely abandons their laboured quality. And eventually, Hellen’s breaths become words, spoken with such plan and precision.

“How are you feeling?”

Sam glances up, and sure enough, she still faces the door. She’s unreadable now as ever, but Sam doesn’t need to read her right now. He needs to let things happen. He just needs to listen. And after a moment of focused thought, the answer comes to him.

“Bad. Overwhelmed. I’m not panicking anymore, thanks.”

A shorter silence passes over them. Hellen breathes again, but doesn’t wait to speak.

“Look, I’m not good at this comforting thing. I dunno why Ratom got me to help.”

“I just needed company. Adult company. You’re the first Ratom saw, I guess.”

Hellen weighs her value as if it’s relevant. “Sam, you don’t want me.” 

“Yeah, maybe Panineau or Leaigh would be better.” Sam fails at an attempt at sarcasm, but Hellen seems to get the idea with her following silence. Fuck, Sam usually reassured her, but he just wasn’t himself right now. He wasn’t thinking and frankly didn’t know when he would.

Papineau lives on the other side of town and Leigh has never stopped threatening to kill Sam and Sam only. Monty, Frederick, all of them… weren’t all there in the head. Xaria is probably the only person who could help besides Hellen, and Sam didn’t keep up with her.

There are other options, but Ratom got Hellen, so that’s the only option now. Luck had its stupid way of doing things, and Sam was forced to follow in its wake. That’s been proven by Sam running out of luck an hour ago. A half hour? Hours? It’s not clear, and a wave of disorientation collapses on Sam. He tries to shake it, but he knows he only will as time passes more and he gets used to…everything. All the while, Sam’s been feeling Hellen’s gaze has been fixed on him, and finally, she breaks the unbearable quiet.

“I don’t know what to do.” She says, dull and void.

“Just hug me, maybe.”

Sam tacks on the last word because he knows she doesn’t like touch. And Hellen simply continues to eye him, seemingly weighing options; choosing her words.

“And, what, improvise?”

It’s as if it’s a fake word in her mouth, but god does it make its point.

“I can’t hug you while you’re laying down.” Hellen adds, dull.

“So then yeah.” Sam wobbles at his attempt at a shrug while he’s on his side.

“I can’t get up right now.”

“Can’t or won’t?” Hellen tilts her head to the sit, as if it’s supposed to be a step down from serious.

“Won’t. Not now. It hurt and I can’t figure out why.”

He could, though. He could press his mind further and focus on every sensation. He just did not want to deal with all that right now. He didn’t have the energy to expend and didn’t have the necessity. Hellen answers his question with something that sounds part question, part questioning him.

“Maybe it’s the tail?”

Yeah. It takes Sam by surprise, tears working their way to surface as he goes over everything he knows about his new form. He’s cisgender and straight, so he’s not sure what dysmorphia feels like, but this has to be it. The wish to be not normal, not just a human, but himself. The constant, oppressing urge to rip his skin off his body, hoping that that’ll do something. The almost disgust he feels when he sees just small bits of himself. The voice in the back of his mind that says I’m not me. And the dread that tacks on, And you never will be.

With his focus on thinking, words pour out his mouth, unexpected.

“Do I just look like a rat?”

He doesn’t want to know that answer, but Hellen shrugs back, dull again.

“More or less.”

Sam gets his turn to speak, and squanders it in silence. Minutes had to pass in the time it took Hellen to pull her eyes away from him, and only after her gaze slowly drifted back, did Sam actually speak.

“So…about that hug?” Sam manages past anxiety.

And to his surprise, Hellen didn’t so much as take a breath before she found a way to hug Sam, despite the awkward position and her avoidance of lying down. Even though it was shit, it did its job. A long ways just for a bit of reassurance that Sam wasn’t alone, and a lot of reassurance that he was still wanted.

Eventually, though, Sam had to submit to Hellen’s teases and try to get up. It takes a lot of fandangling to sit with his tail unbothered, because it’s sensitive like freshly exposed nailbed. More teases to stand up, but that seems impossible, as Sam’s very top-heavy now, his balance unaccustomed to the new development.

Thankfully, though, Hellen takes the precedent to help Sam stay upright and keep encouraging him. Even with help, Sam sags into her hold.

“Where are we headed?” Hellen asks.

Sam chuckles, or a breath mixed with a chuckle, as if he forgot how. He hasn't, but he can't think to fully try for a chuckle right now, his attention on his balance.

“My bed, maybe. I dunno the time but I'm beat.”

There's a quirk of positivity to Hellen’s voice when she says her next part, but beyond that is undecipherable. She's like that.

“Yeah, okay. Left.” Hellen leans to Sam’s left as they walk, and Sam follows.

Hellen bodily offers to sit him on the bed, but Sam gladly falls out of her hold, planting face-first onto the mattress. He really shouldn't be doing that, because it can break the springs, but he doesn't care right now. He just needs the comfort of his weight, soreness and pain to be absorbed by the fabric, cotton and metal beneath him, as if it has benevolent intent.

Thankfully, Sam's mattress isn't living, so it does what it always does; bring sleep face-to-face to meet Sam.

“I’ll make you something to eat, alright?”

The dull tone has returned to Hellen's voice, but Sam can't bring himself to even verbally respond, his mouth buried in the blanket. Usually, insomnia would consume him, but his brain agrees to let him rest.

Sam has a dreamless sleep, his limbs sprawled and on his side uncomfortably. The ache is gone, the transformation over, and while he’s not fully calm, he’s no longer actively panicking.

When he wakes, it's dark, aside from flickering light near the doorway. He shuts his eyes and tries to sleep, but insomnia peaks its head again and refuses to let him continue to rest, though he can’t say that he rested much at all in the past few hours. The silver lining is that he’s not a Jeanne, ever-growing; and he’s not a creature fused with whatever man-made object, beyond the glimpse of creature-hood.

He searches his mind for a pose to use to mimic sitting without messing with his tail, which seems to have lost its sensitivity. With the image clear, he rises from his side to a dog-like sit, leaned forward with some weight on his main arms. From there, he sees a figure by the door, back facing Sam, the source of the light, a candle at her side. Hellen’s hunched over reading a book, as she spends a lot of her free time since she can’t sleep.

“Morning.” Sam stretches.

Immediately, Hellen stands, taking a plate from the floor as she turns, walking it to Sam. Sam blinks at a loss for words, the motions so planned and expected, as if routine, robotic.

“It’s food.” Hellen pauses. “Eat.”

Yeah, it’s an omelet alright. Some hesitation and Sam takes the fork and plate, and he has to stop and retry to not use both sets of arms. Sam looks up to thank her, but she’s already turning away to don her mask, though Sam saw her face. He’s seen it before, every so often, but she’s never willing to show it to people other than Ratom, who’s tense whenever anyone hides their face.

“You don’t have to wear a mask with me.”

“It’s personal preference.” The retort was immediate.

Sam takes a breath. “You hide because people think you’re scary.”

The dull tone becomes near-pride. “I am scary.”

“You hide because people avoid you when you don’t. They scream, I’ve heard it.”

Did Sam just bring up what was a very unpleasant and vulnerable experience for Hellen? Yes, yes he did. And fuck, he’d get her mad at him a hundred times if that’s what it took. And her anger shows as it always does; blankly staring at the perpetrator, as if looks could do her dirty work for her. But no one’s look– not even Hellen’s half-serious look– brought Sam fear anymore. He’d become too skilled a fighter to let a glare invoke fear, not really.

Hellen takes a deep breath, keeping her composure. There’s quite a bit Sam could learn from Hellen. She speaks, and she finally lets emotion penetrate the veil she keeps around her voice; wonder or curiosity mixed with annoyance and a hint of indignation.

‘Why do you care?”

Sam inhales, looking down at his untouched food for emotional support; a break from talking with Hellen.

“I dunno, just to help me accept the new reality.”

Hellen stares at Sam once more, mulling over the answer, Sam can assume, because she only hesitates when pissed or in deep thought. Her facade doesn’t return to normal, care and concern leaking through.

“How would that help, Sam?”

Sam dances his fork over his plate– he should really work on that– part of him just wanting this to be over; regret for speaking his mind in the first place.But Hellen doesn’t put things down once they’re picked up, even if she gets the last say in it. She’s great at debating, Sam will give her that. Sam breathes in, out, again and again, twirls the fork around on ceramic, and still doesn’t speak. Hellen waits for him all this time, though Sam just wishes she’d act so he doesn’t have to, the center of attention in this room of two.

“You hate your face and I hate my body.” Sam stabs the egg, “But I don’t hate your face.”

He gulps, throat dry. “I don’t know about you, but I still hate my body, even though I barely know what it looks like.”

“I don’t hate your body.” Hellen answers without skipping a beat.

“Does it help you? Seeing my body and not hating it?” Sam breathes, but doesn’t continue.

Hellen sighs, then shrugs, as if to say “you got me there.” But she doesn’t, and won’t, say it. That’s Hellen for you. The eggs fall and Sam restabs it, tilting it up to prevent slippage.

“I’m not gonna force you. I know it’s private to you. But it would mean a lot to me if you did.”

Silence passes them, and Hellen’s vocal mask fixes itself as she unclasps her facial mask. “Anything for you, Sam.”

Without the tone, it’s impossible to tell if it’s sarcastic or genuine and teasing, but Sam is thankful nonetheless. Hellen leaves the mask on the table and sits on the edge of Sam’s bed, facing the wall to Sam’s right. He wasn’t planning on staring, anyway. Her face looks as it always does: an immovable smile up the side of her face and two eyeholes; one a circle on the right, and one a crescent up the left. A pool of eyes circle beneath the skin, mesmerizing and pulling Sam into their magnificence whenever he catches a glance. While the first time was jarring– creepy? Eerie? Weird? Yes, of course. But something about it always draws Sam in.

It's pretty like a lake, natural like death, interesting like fungi, calming like rolling hills, beautiful like a mountainside, calming– trustworthy like a valley. Hellen is all these things, but now. She doesn’t like the change, no, she hides it, but Sam never wonders what she used to look like, because her looks are so fantastical right now.

To Sam, she’s not pretty in a girl way, but pretty in the way that landscape is pretty. Pretty in the way that Sam wants to spend an hour a day staring into its serene beauty, pretty in the way that Sam wouldn’t mind trading livelihood if it meant he could wake up staring the sun in the eyes every morning. Pretty in the way that Sam wants to spend the rest of his life here, lying in the rolling hills and swimming in the algae-infested lake, discovering every aspect about every mushroom, hiking up the mountainside, skygazing in the valley, and even submitting to the end of all things.

Sam takes a bite out of his eggs, thoughts absent, calm besettling him. He rests the fork on his plate as he chews the oversized bite, and Hellen looks his way. She chuffs, “What makes you so happy?”

Sam freezes. Shit, he thought that smile was internal.

“What, embarrassed?" Amusement soaks her voice like a drunken fool. Sam searches for words that fit the vibe, silence thinning the atmosphere bit by bit as he takes his short pause. First, he has to get the food out of his mouth, so he swallows what’s chewed and shrugs, hoping it doesn’t look forced as he takes a breath.

“I really like your face.” He looks down, smiling into his food and not at her. Hellen looks into her lap as well, then back up at Sam. Honestly, it sounds so stupid, but it’s all that can suffice to explain. If she could’ve, she’d be smiling. At least that’s what her tone conveys.

“And I like you, Sam.”

Sam smiles again, looking up. She doesn’t flinch when they’re facing head-on. “Really? With how I look now? It’s weird, right?”

Hellen sighs calmly. “Yeah, it’s weird, but you’re weird. Your personality is all I ever liked about you anyway.”

Sam chuckles. Wait, did she just insult his prior looks? Not that he can be anxious over it anymore. “Was I really that ugly?” It’s lighthearted, and he keeps his smile.

Hellen chuckles, keeping her verbal tone that resembles a smile. However, she doesn’t answer the question, and Sam thinks she never will.

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. 

Chapter Text

A few days pass where Sam decides crawling is better than walking. Only after he accepts that does he realize the fact that his legs aren’t longer than his arms, and he can quadrupedically walk. Ratom quickly catches on, and starts standing from his all-fours whenever Sam nears. Sam catches on and starts watching, finding the minute shifts in bodyweight and stowing it in his memory to replicate later, when he understands it better.

And God, does it work. Ratom is a genius with his body language, and now Sam can stand and walk without help from anyone. Which, granted, wouldn’t have meant shit to Sam a month ago.

Despite it all, walking continues to feel weird, while Sam’s all-fours do not, even though it should. Sam has muscle memory that was never there, and lost some that always was. But he has to push back the thoughts that say that it’s not supposed to be like this, even though that’s the truth. None of this is supposed to be the way it is. Sam was going to continue his bouncing between job to job, Sybil was going to keep watching the stars, Hellen was going to keep gardening, and the Visitor would’ve never shown up. Racism and sexism would still be prevalent, society would keep exponentially growing, but Sam still would want to trade it all just to go back, and so would most of current society.

Everyone wants their lives back to the way they were, their families back in one piece and out of the ground’s rot. But after years of trying to keep the grief at bay, Sam assumes it’s about time it’s caught up with him. He always keeps himself busy, but he just can’t be busy much lately.

With reeled in tears and a heavy heart, he sighs with a determined thought: That needs to change.

“So?” Sam asks after a bout of silence.

Hellen sighs lightly, no tone to it. “I don’t think you’re ready, but training’s usually not a bad idea.” She adds, “Yes, we can spar.”

Sam sighs with relief and accomplishment, leaning forward in his sit as he relaxes. He really didn’t think he’d be able to convince her, but here he is, smiling from nothing but casual words. Hellen adjusted her seating on the edge of the bed, turning slightly more toward him. “You really like fighting, huh?”

Bemusement alights her voice, but Sam just sat up straight again, a small smile spreading across his face. “Yeah. I guess it’s always been my calling.”

Hellen chuckles at the phrase, sounding grungy as she always does, and doesn’t hesitate throwing an arm around Sam’s shoulder in a hug. Hellen isn’t the touchy-feely type unless she’s drunk, so the contrast is beyond odd. Sam presses the side of his face against the dark hair and ridge of the mask.

Despite the side-hug position, Sam hugs her back with veracity, all four arms getting involved; fumbling over one another, Hellen’s arm between them on one side and above them on the other.

They sit in silence for a moment, but past Sam’s anxiety, he is a touchy-feely person. He never initiates anything, but he loves when others do and, something he’ll never admit, is that he hates to see them go. It’s a cherished silence, kept close to the heart of one like a happy memory. Alas, she breaks the silence with a question. “When were you wanting to spar?”

Sam shrugs, then leans into Hellen’s hold, who damn-near pulled away with a powerful flinch. Shit, he wasn’t trying to make her uncomfortable. Was she just hugging for Sam’s sake in the first place? He leaned away, loosening his hands’ grip on her shirt to nothing and his weight on her to a space between their heads, but Hellen didn’t imply anything besides the flinch.

His heart pounds for a moment because he didn’t mean to make her uncomfortable and he breaks away, and Hellen follows suit. Despite the worry, his answer is normal and calm. “Tomorrow, maybe early morning.”

Despite the close proximity to face and mask, Hellen glances from the wall to Sam to make her reply. “Are you missing your schedule?”

“Yeah, a bit. Ratom and Joel are taking their naps whenever I wake up.” Sam chuckles, but the smile’s gone and the tone’s missing.

Hellen seems to get the meaning behind it, because she shifts her neck and Sam feels piercing perception from her to his eyes, which Hellen does to convey honesty, even as her voice stays numb. “Sam, you’re their dad. You always have been and always will be.”

Sam takes a deep breath, clearing the remainder of the irrational anxiety, and lets Hellens words sink in. He looks up to the mask’s eyeholes that flash eyes every half a moment. A very appreciative and real thanks leaves his lips. A tear meets his eye, even though he fights it.

Hellen tilts her head the slightest bit down. “Don’t get sappy on me, Sam.”

It’s a tease, even though the tone isn’t there spare a shrivel of loving care, but Sam knows what to look for.

Sam takes a deep breath and lays back on the mattress, filling his lungs and closing his eyes.

“Ready for bed?” Hellen asks, a certain softness to her voice that she only has for the people she’d die for, who are few and far between.

Sam hums, drawn out with a yawn. It carries into his words. “Yeah.

He smiles as he scoots to the shirt he uses as a pillow. Hellen stands for Sam to pull up the blankets, then sits back on the end of the bed, facing out this time. “Night, Sam.” 

“Goodnight, Hellen.”

Sam takes comfort in the dip in the mattress beside his feet and falls asleep rather quickly that night, even though he knows Hellen will be gone in an hour for her nightly patrols.

She doesn’t, however. She stays the night

on that bed, meditating deeply.

Chapter Text

Hellen has been having conflicting thoughts as of late. She always has with personalities like Sam’s– strong-spirited, generous, kind, caring, passionate, determined– like Melody, the butcher in the community. Melody doesn’t look approachable, but Hellen never cared about looks in that department, or even understood what “hot” really meant. She knows what it means– she’s not dumb– but she’s never got why people even care to fight over or share a pretty boy or cute lady. 

Hellen’s looks were never the talk of the town before the accursed Visitor came, but now? To be honest, it’s a little flattering the way the cursed check her out, not knowing what’s beneath the mask, and a little disgusted by the way some of the more human ones speak amongst themselves about her possible “functional girl parts.” It makes Hellen glad she’s not been hot her whole life.

But it was only the kind, strong, determined type that ever gets Hellen’s attention when it comes down to it. They always get her feeling so…happy, so calm. They get her addicted to their company, even if they aren’t doing anything particularly good for the world. And no, she’s not into vulnerability, especially in a world where everyone’s inner monster has come to light, but she’ll be damned if she lets that aversion get in the way of what she really wants.

And yes, it takes ahold of her. God, it gets so bad, to the point where her face warms beneath the mask and she can’t think of anything else but to take off the mask and bury her face in their warmth. And it’s gotten bad to the point where it simply happens, even from just talking to them.

As Hellen’s spent more time with Sam– less breathers, less breaks, more time to think, she’s started to relish their talks just as much as their time fighting, started to cherish every thought of his as if it’s a glass of honey whiskey, started to cherish every moment of his time as if it’s hard to come by.

Her aversion to loving touch has begun to fade with him, until the potential reward far outweighs the past risk. And dopey kind eyes make her want to comfort Sam the way she knows all too well; tightened, clingy hugs.

It ends up as a half hug, and shit, what if Sam gets the wrong idea, though she liked him? She tries to pull away, but shit, what if that didn’t help either? Luckily, Sam didn’t seem to take it any way, ending the hug once he’s ready. And yet, Hellen wants that warmth again, already misses it. This is why she doesn’t hug people, damn it! 

But she thought the emotions were growing slower, at a more controlled rate. She’s been handling this part of herself by fucking Melody, so she doesn’t get why she’d feel anything toward Sam, her closest living friend of three and a half years. 

Whatever it is, it’s something to meditate on; to be in deep thought about. It’s lucky that Sam just so happens to be tired this late.

When did things change for them?

She doesn’t get an answer.

Hellen and Sam start sparring, it’s a new endeavor, one which needs emotional delicacy that Hellen can provide. It’s half like training a newbie, half like practicing with a pro. Sam knows all the strategy, and none of the coordination or balance. However, he didn’t even have the ability to use the same stances, no doubt due to the altered anatomy.

Ratom needs to get involved to teach him, and Ratom is all for it. So Sam changes stances, learns new moves, and falls on his ass one too many times that it becomes muscle memory to get out of the way of a “killing blow,” and during one sparring session, Hellen realises this.

Hellen gets her head back in the game as Sam dashes across the room on all-fours. The acceleration, the speed, is unmatched. And for the first time in a long time, excitement blooms across Sam’s face, and Hellen relishes the smile, too. She’d do anything to see it on him more. 

“I’m a speed demon!” Sam smiles wider when he says it a second time. “I wonder how fast I can go?”

“Probably a lot faster than Ratom.” Hellen was sure to offer emotionless tone

Ratom squeaks at Hellen with playful annoyance.

“Seriously?” Sam elaborates, “It’s so easy to do stuff on my all-fours– all-sixes? Whatever.”

He continues. “I think I only need to train how to do stuff standing. But running like this will give me an advantage on the battlefield.

Ratom squeaks and nods his head, demonstrating a chomp on his own arm.

“He doesn’t have teeth like yours.” Hellen answers.

Ratom changes it to a pawing motion.

Sam’s smile stays, though it hasn’t stopped wavering. “But I have claws!”

Hellen nods, then offers a dull-toned response. “I but Leigh would love for you to test those on her.”

Sam hesitates. “You haven’t told her yet…”

Even though Hellen was asked to tell folk so he wouldn’t have to, Leigh was left out of the loop, because of that obsession with “eventually killing Sam,” even though they didn’t even know each other before the apocalypse. Honestly, it’s not a genuine delusion, just an odd rivalry leading to Leigh breaking into homes to fight Sam. He doesn't want that stress right now, and Hellen doesn't either. She's only ever assumed the rule “only close friends,” and Leigh is not that to Sam. She’s confirmed here and now that her assumption was right.

“No, but she’ll get it.” F, it kills her that Sam’s smile is nearly gone, from something she said. Regardless, she stays calm, as always. “Everyone else knows.”

“What’s it gonna be like?” Sam asks, and god, he’s so innocent. Has he really not thought about that until just now?

Hellen just shrugs. “Eh, some assholes may ask about it or pity you, but not your friends. They’ll try to act chill but they’ll be worried.”

It was so different at the beginning: to change, and how people perceived you. It wasn't a pity, it was a fear. A worry. A terror. Now, they’re so much more understanding, but some aren’t as kind; so much harder, in her honest opinion. As soon as someone can work, they do, or they’re shunned. There’s so much that has to be done, to keep people fed and hydrated and their odd shapes clothed in the frankly cold Canadian snow. The only reason why Sam got this much rest was because of his role as a fighter and because Hellen would never let someone force Sam to do anything.

Let. Hellen thinks, given the wording her internal monologue used, that deems Sam fragile, yet she’s never seen him as anything less than a warrior, even though she could bench him easily when they first met. That’s the kind of talk someone uses with someone they love, and God, Hellen loved Sam. Sam’s like family to her, they’ve grown that status over the years as they ate together, fought together, made hard decisions together, got drunk together, bled together, killed together. 

But Hellen doesn’t use this language on anyone else she fought with, talked to, drunk with; No, Sam and Melody have taken the place of people she fights for: what makes her keep going when times get tough. She feels as their protector, even though she sees them as strong.

God, she’s really comparing Sam to someone she sleeps with on the regular.

Well, that answers all the questions she’s been asking herself recently. She is really, really into Sam, and hadn’t even realized until a mediocre sparring session. 

When did it start? No, no off topic questions. She doesn’t need to know that right now. She doesn’t even need to figure out if Sam reciprocates or not. She just needs to get Sam back on his feet, like she’s been doing.

“Yeah.” Sam says for the second time in the past minute. “She probably won’t even care.”

That’s right, this wasn’t even about Hellen.

“Well, let’s get you up to par, and then we can worry about her.

Sam chokes out a laugh, the genuinity unable to make a clear cut through the forced tone. “Yeah.”

He smiles, pure once more, but still hesitates before adding something else. “Thanks Hellen. For everything.”

“Anything for you, Sam.” And for the first time in a while, Hellen feels a phantom smile alight her face beneath the mask.

God, she’s really got it bad.

Sam’s arms wrap around her, and she leans into it.

That's all the confirmation she needs, she supposes. For now, at least