Sam Porter Bridges (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
300kgbackpack) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
ph_logs2024-04-04 04:22 am
300kgbackpack) wrote in ph_logs2024-04-04 04:22 am
Round and round it goes, connect, reconnect...
Who: Sam Porter and whom it may concern
What: Seasonal Log for current and near-future things around the event
When: Throughout the spring/early summer season
Where: Around the island as a whole
Warnings: Will update as necessary
Sam is one of the town's most hard-working couriers. He can often be seen quietly trudging his way about town, or the trails leading up to the island's more isolated inhabitants. He seems friendly with most everyone, exchanging a nod or a word or greeting, but by and large, he keeps to himself.
When his load is heavier, he has a cart and horse borrowed from the post office, but more often than not, he simply keeps his load on his back and steadily marches on.
He can often be seen with a baby strapped to him. She is definitely the more social of the two of them. Every so often, you might hear him whistling to her.
1. The Daily Routine
Ever since the recent population boom and people had begun to scatter about and find their own places to live, Sam has been there, transporting building materials, food stock, supplies and whatever else might have been asked of him. He's dedicated to the tasks as they're set before him and doesn't tend to turn down anything even if it's small or fragile and needing to be transported by hand to protect it. He's delivered pizzas in the apocalypse. This wouldn't put him out by any means.
Have you ordered something? Do you need it delivered? Do you simply want to meet Sam as he goes about his business? He doesn't know how to say no to anyone unless he's forced, and it takes a lot to push him to that point so if you want his company, you've got it.
2. Porter's Spring
Sam hasn't been up to the hot springs since they were opened up to the general public. At first, it was just him that even knew it existed, a waystation on his march around the island when he needed to recover. Then he'd introduced one or two others to the area, thinking that maybe they would like to partake of it themselves, that it might help them to recover from the harsh winter and its many aches and pains.
Now it tended to be crowded. If even one other person was there that he didn't have history with, he would leave the moment he heard them moving in the water. He'd lost the one place that he felt safest outside of the home that he'd built out of the blighted husk that he'd located out in the trees. It was only a matter of time, really. The place would probably end up covered in litter, disgusting and poorly maintained, if it was maintained at all, but until then, he could take a little bit of time to appreciate it still.
On a day when nobody else is there, he will make his way out there at the end of a particularly long day, and strip to nothing without bothering to duck into privacy. Here he will stay, with or without Lou, until sundown or until someone else appears up the path.
Wildcard
The catch-all for meeting the mailman, asking about his daughter, and generally getting to know the man with the towering backpack and the handprint-shaped marks all over his exposed skin. Maybe you're in the woods and found his cabin there as he hammers away at a project while Lou hangs out nearby in a little net swing with her plush rabbit. Either way, don't be surprised if he doesn't make eye contact.
What: Seasonal Log for current and near-future things around the event
When: Throughout the spring/early summer season
Where: Around the island as a whole
Warnings: Will update as necessary
Sam is one of the town's most hard-working couriers. He can often be seen quietly trudging his way about town, or the trails leading up to the island's more isolated inhabitants. He seems friendly with most everyone, exchanging a nod or a word or greeting, but by and large, he keeps to himself.
When his load is heavier, he has a cart and horse borrowed from the post office, but more often than not, he simply keeps his load on his back and steadily marches on.
He can often be seen with a baby strapped to him. She is definitely the more social of the two of them. Every so often, you might hear him whistling to her.
1. The Daily Routine
Ever since the recent population boom and people had begun to scatter about and find their own places to live, Sam has been there, transporting building materials, food stock, supplies and whatever else might have been asked of him. He's dedicated to the tasks as they're set before him and doesn't tend to turn down anything even if it's small or fragile and needing to be transported by hand to protect it. He's delivered pizzas in the apocalypse. This wouldn't put him out by any means.
Have you ordered something? Do you need it delivered? Do you simply want to meet Sam as he goes about his business? He doesn't know how to say no to anyone unless he's forced, and it takes a lot to push him to that point so if you want his company, you've got it.
2. Porter's Spring
Sam hasn't been up to the hot springs since they were opened up to the general public. At first, it was just him that even knew it existed, a waystation on his march around the island when he needed to recover. Then he'd introduced one or two others to the area, thinking that maybe they would like to partake of it themselves, that it might help them to recover from the harsh winter and its many aches and pains.
Now it tended to be crowded. If even one other person was there that he didn't have history with, he would leave the moment he heard them moving in the water. He'd lost the one place that he felt safest outside of the home that he'd built out of the blighted husk that he'd located out in the trees. It was only a matter of time, really. The place would probably end up covered in litter, disgusting and poorly maintained, if it was maintained at all, but until then, he could take a little bit of time to appreciate it still.
On a day when nobody else is there, he will make his way out there at the end of a particularly long day, and strip to nothing without bothering to duck into privacy. Here he will stay, with or without Lou, until sundown or until someone else appears up the path.
Wildcard
The catch-all for meeting the mailman, asking about his daughter, and generally getting to know the man with the towering backpack and the handprint-shaped marks all over his exposed skin. Maybe you're in the woods and found his cabin there as he hammers away at a project while Lou hangs out nearby in a little net swing with her plush rabbit. Either way, don't be surprised if he doesn't make eye contact.
no subject
stops.
It's a complicated feeling when he sees John there, holding a live rabbit for Lou to see. Relief, chagrin, frustration, less identifiable emotions that make his chest hurt the longer he watches. So he simply continues around the side of the house to the job at hand. He trusts John with his daughter implicitly.
Lou, meanwhile, reaches out to try and grab the rabbit, likely startling the poor thing.
no subject
“There, see? Nicely.” John murmurs. “Very soft…maybe I’ll have to make you a blanket or a play mat with some of the pelts I got. How’s that sound, Lou? Yeah, sounds good, huh?”
He lets her pet the bunny for a few more moments, then kisses the top of her head and extricates the bunny so he can slip it back in the cage and set his things on the porch.
Following Sam around the house, he watches silently for a few moments as he gets back to the task of painting.
Spotting a clean branch, he picks it up, dusts it off a little, and crosses over to offer it to Sam as a stir stick when he opens the can of paint.
“…so I moved.” He declares with a small smile. “I’m a little closer now—picked up a plot a little ways down from Eddie ‘n Angel. Grew up on a horse ranch so I thought I’d get back to my roots.”
He takes a deep breath—a genuine, relaxing one, savoring the stillness around him, the only presence that of Sam’s closeness. It hums, almost painfully, like every too-close body does, but it’s so familiar that aching buzz of awareness transitions from painful to soothing.
“Get away from so many people—been too much to handle since I got back.” He admits.
no subject
Sam pauses at the offered stick, taking it cautiously, then using it to mix the separated paint with a quiet murmur of 'thanks'.
He's busy painting the border around the side wall of the coop when John speaks up, and doesn't look around at him, instead just keeping his eyes on the task at hand.
"Makes sense," he replies quietly, dipping the brush and continuing to work. "Lots of people arrived while you were gone. Been working on getting a few of 'em set up. Woman out in the woods makin' up her own little underground den. 'minded me of the preppers back home."
no subject
The water he’s waist deep in is warm, too warm even for the jungle…clouded not by dirt but by Co Bao’s blood…
When she’s gone, when she’s just a body in his arms, it doesn’t hurt to hold her anymore.
He hadn’t even been able to bury her.
John isn’t even aware of the hand he has pressed to his chest, gripping the reassuring edges of the dreamcatcher beneath his shirt for solace—he’s only aware of how his eyes are burning, and blinks hard to keep them from filling.
“If, uh…if you’re comfortable with it, same open door policy is there at the ranch as I had in town.” He continues quietly after a moment. “Noticed someone found the spring, so if it gets crowded out here at all, it’s not over there. You ‘n Lou are welcome.”
He hesitates, uncertain if he should say more…
“Maybe…you could come out some time for dinner. Both of you. Pick up some of the stuff we left at the…flower festival thing?”
no subject
The brush dips back into the bucket, and carefully Sam continues to work on the trim of the coop, until John extends that invitation. He doesn't address the springs; as far as he's concerned, it's no longer a place for him. He could go nearby and listen for voices, avail himself once in a while, but more often than not, he takes his soaks at home now.
"Yeah," he says simply. A general acknowledgement, as he has no other words to offer in the moment.
no subject
Because he loves him. God help him, John loves Sam, and even thinking it is terrifying because just the promise of something good got Co killed. Sam and Lou, he loves them both, loves them with an agony that dwarfs the ache in his bones…
“…are you okay, Sam?”
He laughs a little, quiet and bitter as he shakes his head at himself.
“All this shit, and I’m not sure I ever asked you that. I’m such a fuckin’ asshole, but…then, now, in general. I keep talkin’ about myself all the goddamn time. Are you doin’ okay? Truly?”
no subject
It's easier for him to keep his eye on what he's doing, but John is used to this. He knows that Sam isn't just ignoring him. He can't.
"Everyone's got the capacity to be an asshole, you're nothin' special," he mutters, adjusting where he kneels to be able to paint up the vertical edge of the little coop. "Not like I ever really invite askin' questions about me anyway. Got thinkin' about that, after shit at the festival thing...Ain't said as much to you as I shoulda. Drip-feeding the info isn't helping either. N'...n' I'm sorry for that. I was makin' a lot of assumptions about what you knew, or that you put together from the shit you knew.
"Got used to people doin' that by default, y'know? Decidin' they knew the whole story without my input."
no subject
However, when Sam continues, he feels...he's not sure. Just a gnawing sense of regret, of guilt, for not pushing for more information. He didn't want to, didn't want to hurt Sam or make him more uncomfortable...
"I never wanted anything you weren't ready to give." he replies after a moment. "Maybe you're kinda right about that, but...I'm here, Sam. Not goin' anywhere unless you tell me to fuck off, even if things have gotten weird between us. I'd rather stew in a little awkwardness 'n take some lump from bumps in the road than push you to share things you're not ready to. But...yeah. There's stuff I don't know, and I can wait to find out, just...bear in mind."
He pauses, rolling his shoulders as he watches Sam--because this part is comfortable, familiar. Watching him, just sitting quietly by, the back and forth of picking up what the other drops. The give, the take...it's a good kind of ache.
"Still sorry for the shitstorm, though. What I do or don't know doesn't excuse me bein' a jerk, no matter how rotten that stupid dream was. So you're sorry, I'm sorry...now the air really is clear and we can just...be friends like we were before? Or go anywhere else that takes us."
...shit, maybe he shouldn't have said that...
no subject
"You never asked, n' I didn't wanna put anything on you that'd make shit worse. Ain't like my story's a fuckin' fairytale," he murmurs. "We're fucked up, man. Whether we did it to ourselves or not, we're fucked up."
The paintbrush gets put down finally, resting across the top of the paint can, and he looks up at John there, the familiar frown and knit of his brow on his face of trying to figure out what John wants from him.
"You talk about shit like you're so sure of it, like it don't need anything but what you already got out of it and you don't need any input but yours. That ain't gonna fly anymore, you get me? Whatever else we are, you're gonna listen to me, n' understand that just because I ain't doin' alright doesn't mean I'm shovin' you away.
"N' if you ever disappear on me again, I ain't gonna forgive that shit."
no subject
Whatever else we are.
He can feel Co's soft fingers in those words, that headrush of imagining taking her back to Arizona and showing her where he grew up, giving the ranch a wide berth...
...the weight of her lifeless body in his arms.
Co was as capable as Sam, maybe moreso with her intelligence background. She was strong and capable and she still couldn't survive him.
But what Sam is asking for, John can give, so he nods as his throat closes up.
For one crazy second, he wishes he could remember what was so fucking bad he disappeared the first time.
"...I'm scared, Sam."
His eyes well as he says it, and he has to look away as he draws a shaky breath.
"I'm not disappearing, I'm not--I'm listening, and I know you're not pushing me awa--"
He cuts himself off, scrubbing both hands over his face in frustration.
"I wanna be here. I want all of it--I'll listen, I'll hang in there, and I won't drop out again. I can do all that, I just can't--"
Watch someone else die for caring about me.
"--just...don't get yourself killed 'cause of me." he finally whispers. "Whatever happens, whatever we are or could be, just--don't let me get you killed. Please."
no subject
"John Rambo you better be fuckin' listening to me," Sam starts as he stands up, drawing himself to eye level with John, finally making himself meet the other man's eyes in an earnest attempt to make his point. "You talk about that shit in the abstract. Like somethin' out there is drawn to you that's gonna fuckin' kill me. Ain't nothin' able to kill me, and that's the problem." He only just stops himself from snapping, his tone rough but his volume still low. He doesn't want Lou to pick up on what's happening with him right now, doesn't want her to start to fuss and break through what they're trying so hard to nail down here.
With a grunt, Sam pulls open the buttons of his shirt, shucking it down from his shoulders to show several of the myriad stenciled prints irrevocably tattooed into his skin.
"I told you what these are, right? These ain't because of living people. These are from the dead, tryin'a drag me back into the in-between, back to battlefields, the Seam, the fuckin' Beach. Every time they grab me, I gotta fight my ass back out. Because you know what happens when I die?
"I don't fuckin' die, John. Everyone around me does." He gestures outward, like an explosion.
"That ain't even the worst of it. Because I got this shit in my body that makes other people..." He tenses, draws in a deep breath, grimaces as he tries to put words to it. "I'm fuckin' toxic, man. Everything goin' on with you, I make it worse, because that's how it works. It's the shit that made it so I can't fuckin' die. It seeps in, makes your brain haywire, it...it makes the nightmares come nonstop. It makes the mental shit worse. It...
"It killed my wife. Bein' with me killed her.
"I killed Lucy."
He hasn't even reacted to the tears falling freely, making their tracks through the grime accumulated on his face from his abandoned yard work.
no subject
John--he does, he hears everything Sam says, but nothing else seems to matter beyond that. He doesn't understand all of it--the Seam, the Beach, how it's even possible, but...
...as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end.
John hasn't hurt this much in a long time--for himself, for Sam, for Lucy, for poor fucking little Lou--and for Co. For all the loss, for all the pain, for all the darkness, he feels like something's been torn right out of his fucking marrow and what's killing him is that he can't reach for Sam just to fucking hug him.
He's well aware of his own tears--but he welcomes them. They're strangely soothing, warm rain streaming down his cheeks. He hurts...but he doesn't feel bad, and that's new.
With shaking hands, he reaches into his pocket for one of the ever-present rags or bandannas that he keeps on him. He lifts the bandanna, slowly, offering it to Sam.
"You're serious?" he asks, his tone hopeful in spite of himself. "You can't...you can come back if you die?"
If John understands what he's saying.
You won't leave me. You'll come back. You'll be safe if caring about me ends up getting you killed, because you can just crawl back out of the grave and come back to me.
no subject
"Yeah, that's what I'm fuckin' saying. I'm a repatriate, it's been a thing since way before I got here. But that ain't the problem here, man."
He says that, and bends to pull a utility knife out of one of the pockets on the leg of his pants, pressing the blade to the meat of his palm until a line of blood wells up under the edge. This, he holds up to John with a hard expression.
The blood shimmers very subtly, like it's full of the kind of superfine glitter that will never, ever come out in the wash.
"This stuff. This is the shit that kills everyone around us. It gets in your brain, fucks up its chemistry. If I get close enough to expose you, the shit that makes it hard for you to live with people? It's gonna make you do the same fuckin' thing. It's gonna make it worse. I'm gonna make you worse."
CW: outdated offensive language re:mental health, links to video depicting cinematic torture & death
...then he sees that shimmer. That sparkle, that otherness that ought to scare him.
As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end...
I believe in the Holy Spirit, the Holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body...
It takes John a few seconds to realize he's smiling--small, soft, shaky. When he does, he doesn't try to hide it, but he does look Sam in the eye and urges him to take the rag again. He also, very deliberately, very carefully, raises a hand to hover over Sam's forearm--urging him to drop it without touching him.
"I hear you. I--no, I don't understand, but I know what you're saying. Whatever it is that keeps you from dying, it's this stuff in your blood--and it screws with the brain as an organ. It can...cause craziness, or aggravate it if you're already nuts like me." he replies quietly, his gaze unwavering.
"Getting close to you, it's a risk...I hear that. Now hear me, or I'll never forgive you for bein' a big fat hypocrite, okay? Please, just--just listen. I got all the facts, I know what your deal is...and I don't care. I'm choosing whatever comes of it--'cause I'm not afraid."
He takes a deep breath--his tears begin to fall again--and John continues by telling Sam about everything else. He knows about what came before...
But now he tells him about the rest.
Three years in prison. An offer, to earn a pardon by going back to Vietnam.
Getting left behind. Being tortured. Getting rescued by Co Bao, the indigenous agent that didn't have to come back to help him but did it anyway.
And the price she paid for giving a damn about him.
no subject
"This ain't about whether you're afraid, and it ain't like anyone else ever fuckin' understood when I tried to explain it to 'em. That ain't the point here."
Sam's hand drops, and he digs for a rag of his own, whipping it out of his pocket to wrap around his hand to stem the blood flow. "I ain't Co Bao, I ain't just gonna up and die because we got close. What is gonna happen is me makin' you fuckin' miserable. I don't want that on my conscience. I'm not gonna hurt you just because you got it in your thick fuckin' head that you can just plow forward hard enough to get me to cow to what you want. You act like my opinion doesn't matter worth a damn when it's put up in the face of yours. I'm tired of people decidin' shit for me, and you ain't gonna be the exception to that."
Tying the rag off with one hand and his teeth, Sam paces back around to where Lou is watching the two of them with big eyes and a bewildered little frown. He kneels beside her and lays a hand on top of her head as he looks back at John. "She's like me. She don't die. But she ain't contaminated like I am. She has a chance at bein' more than I ever coulda hoped to be and she sure as hell doesn't deserve to be caught in the middle of a lopsided, damnfool relationship where nobody's happy."
no subject
Pisses him off a little, too because...because fuck, he feels better than he has in a long time. Knowing Sam is safe, that Lou is safe, that they can't be taken away from him, from anyone...
Just knowing John never has to live in a world they aren't a part of--he feels lighter than he has in years, steadier...he hurts, he wants, God how he wants, but...fuck.
"Sorry, all I'm hearin' is a bunch of bullshit." John replies quietly, calmly, watching the two of them together. "Because you explained your situation, I said I was willing to take my chances...willing for a chance, not that we had to do this whether you like it or not...and you're saying I'm not allowed--not that you don't want any part of me, but that you won't let me even if we both want it. It sounds like you just made my choice for me when you've had a bug up your ass about people do that to you. And don't gimme that crap about what's on your conscience, 'cause I'm pretty sure you just got real pissed at me for doing something similar."
cw: allusions to suicide
He never wanted to think of what happened with Higgs as a trauma, but...fuck. It was a violation at best.
As a last ditch effort to get some point across, Sam simply sits on the ground, letting Lou hold onto his finger, eyes down on the grass.
"Look at it this way: What would you do if you saw someone you cared about putting the barrel of a loaded gun to their head? I'm pissed at you for sittin' there, with that gun in your hand, begging to put it against your temple, with my finger on the trigger. I ain't fuckin' around with you about this, John Rambo."
CW: depersonalization
Crossing over, John sits down in front of Sam, a good two feet of space between them--deliberate breathing room, pointedly recognizing that damage that's still there and respecting it.
"You're not getting out of this unless you look me in the eye and tell me you want nothing to do with me. That you don't give a rat's ass about me, and you never wanna see me again. Do that and I'll do as you ask. I can live with that--if you'll really stop and fucking look at me, you'll see that."
And it does show if Sam really stops to look--sure, he still needs. He still hurts, still wants, still aches--but most of the tension has left his shoulders, and there's a light in his eyes that he might remember from the dream that John has forgotten.
"Whether you don't want me around, or you're just plain scared, Sam--I love you 'n Lou. And whether you send me on my merry fucking way or you let me stick around and just have a chance to...God, just fucking rest knowing you 'n Lou are safe? You're gonna leave here understanding that I get the danger. I understand it...but knowing I never have to live in a world you guys aren't in? It's gonna be the thing I hold onto for the rest of my fucking life. That's gonna be what keeps me going when I have nothing else to fight for."
He pauses, finally lowering his gaze.
"So just...tell me you don't want me, or deal with me, but I'm begging you to stop trying to prove to me how dangerous you are to my health. 'Cause I know, and I don't care--I just spent three years being reminded of how little I matter 'cause I'm just a really complicated weapon, and you were the one who made me believe I could be more. And I'm tryin' to be, Sam. I really am--if I wasn't, I'd have stayed away 'cause weapons don't love little babies 'n loyal, hard headed jackasses."
cw: more suicide mentions
John didn't have the same taint. He didn't have the same toxic bullshit in his body that makes others kill themselves. That once made him kill himself. That ended thousands of lives in one fell swoop. He doesn't know. He doesn't want to know.
Sam's head feels leaden when he raises it, trying to force himself to make the eye contact that John wants, when it's near impossible for him to look anyone in the face even at the most low-pressure of times. He's fighting back against his tunneling vision and the high whine in his ears that comes with the grief and anger that the whole exchange is bringing up.
"There's not a damn thing that can kill me in a way that matters," he growls. "I'm always gonna be this way. You can hope and pray and argue, but that ain't ever gonna make me anything more than this. And I don't want to be the reason that you hurt yourself. You deserve better. You're a good man. You talk about the people you had before n' I know that. Hell...I'd be lying through my fuckin' teeth if I tried to say I didn't feel somethin'. You were the first man I ever actually considered.
"Now...now I can't trust you. You look at me like I make the goddamn sun rise and I can't take it. I sit on this idea like we can't even be friends anymore, because any time you're within ten feet'a me it goes right back to bein' this. You want too much, n' you already proved to me that you don't wanna take no for an answer, so I'm fucked over a pommel, here. You talk a big game and then you look at me all soft like I'm trampling all over your feelings when lately all you've been doin' is ignoring mine. That ain't right."
no subject
But he’s been here before. He remembers that, after the dream—and this time, he’s ready.
So he rides it out, he finally breathes…and he leans over to kiss Lou’s head. Because this is the worst part.
“I messed up before. I know that—I could have lived with this, I know that now. And you—you have Lou. You’ve had. I never have. Not until you.”
He runs a hand over her hair, and he feels so cold.
“Gonna miss you, princess.” He breathes, then kisses her head one more time before he shifts to get to his feet.
“I didn’t take no for an answer before. I can now…take care of yourself, Sam.”