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seriousficTitle: Happy birthday, Kevin Flynn
Fandom: Tron: Legacy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,067
Characters/Pairings: Sam Flynn, Quorra, Alan Bradley
Previous: 1/2
Summary: Sam lived for twenty-seven years without Quorra in his life. It's amazing how he can't do it anymore.
Sam woke up to a hangover. It was nostalgic. He moved a little, trying to determine a bare minimum about his surroundings. He was back in their—Quorra's—apartment and smelt coffee being offered to him. He took it from an aged hand. Alan's.
"I know you must be nursing a hangover, so I'll be brief and quiet."
Sam moved just enough to be able to sip his coffee. He didn't quite trust himself to talk to Alan.
"I could never replace your father. You and he have too much in common. He'd know what to say to you. He'd know what you're going through. I've always been content to play by the rules. And that's not who you are, I know that, I would never try to change that. But I've also done my best to help people, give them a fair deal. That's how I met your father. And if there's one thing I tried to teach you, it's that you'll be happier doing the right thing than you ever will trying to be happy. Tell me you didn't listen.
"I listened," Sam said quietly. "I just can't. I can't be that guy."
"Quorra thinks you can," Alan interrupted. "She seems to have this idea that you're patient, that you're kind, that you're understanding. Why would she think that if you're such a bum?"
Sam shrugged. "Incurable optimism."
"I'd say it's the voice of experience. Besides, if there's one thing she could've learned from your father, it's how to be a good judge of character."
Sam's eyes felt like they would burst out of his skull, and not just from the hangover. "She told you."
"It was a lot to take in. Fortunately, you're a late sleeper."
The pounding in Sam's head went into overdrive. "I didn't mean for you to find out like this."
"I know. But you don't have to--can't--deal with this on your own."
There was a lull in the conversation, Sam not knowing what to say and wishing Alan would say something and wishing he wouldn't. After twenty seconds, Quorra burst into the room. "I made brownies."
She set them down on the couch between Sam and Alan.
"What happened to the coffee table?" Sam asked.
"We may never know." Quorra put her hands behind her back. She was vibrating with anxiety. "I'm sorry I told Alan. I didn't know what else to do."
"It's okay. You did the right thing."
Quorra bustled off, saying "I'm going to take a catnap now. Continue your bonding," as she went out the door.
"Is she eavesdropping on us?"
"Trying to."
"Why are these brownies gray?"
"I'm guessing Quorra took the name as a challenge."
***
Quorra was on the floor by the door when Sam walked through, a blanket over her. He looked at her.
"I was sleeping. I have a blanket," she declaimed.
"I need a ride," he said.
***
Quorra was surprisingly careful about driving. Sam barely felt a bump. He managed to stay upright as Quorra smoothly manipulated the wheel this way and that.
"People say things they don't mean when they're drunk," she enunciated carefully. Then she felt him stare at her. "One of us should say that."
Sam turned on the radio. Quorra turned it off.
"Are you angry?" he asked.
"I'm worried."
"You can be angry too. It's the little black dress of emotions. Goes with anything."
Quorra flexed her fingers on the wheel. "I'm trying to figure out how angry I should be."
Sam rested his head against the window. He'd tried not to think of what he'd said to her—liquor was good for that—but now that he did… "Pretty angry, I think."
Quorra seemed to agree. "Why are people such… jerks?"
Sam raised a finger. "Assholes, I think is the word you're looking for."
She turned to him and the car clipped a curb. "Well?"
Sam took a deep breath. Kneaded the growing pressure in his head. "Because they have bad days. Because they're tired, or sad, or… just because."
Quorra was close to tears, her jaw shaking as she tried to keep her mouth closed. It was hard for anyone to go through this, but she didn't even know the rules.
He'd damaged her Zen thing. Sam seemed to have a knack for that.
"I don't see why they can't just be nice. I do it all the time."
Sam put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't change that."
***
"We're here."
Quorra followed Sam out of the car. "A cemetery? I don't understand."
"Me neither. Alan's idea… sort of."
Sam walked through the gate and over the bright green grass and between the polished headstones. It all looked so tidy to Quorra. Like a single giant had derezzed and this was what remained.
"What did you and he talk about?"
"The Grid. He wanted to hear it in my words. Then he wanted to talk about Dad."
It was funny, how rarely they'd talked about Kevin Flynn before the page. He was like a ghost, haunting their conversations. Maybe Alan had thought Sam hated the very mention of his father, or some melodrama like this. He didn't. He just hated the way he went numb whenever he heard his father's name.
"Alan said I never came here." Sam walked with long, purposeful strides, like he'd recognized the features on the last leg of a journey. "I guess that's true. When Encom declared him dead, I still thought Dad was alive. I still cared."
They'd found the headstone. Kevin Flynn. Beloved husband and father.
"They buried an empty casket?" Quorra asked.
"Had to bury something. And I guess now it's as good a resting place as any." Sam patted his pockets. "Shit, I forgot flowers."
"Maybe you could… say something to him?" Quorra asked hopefully.
Sam looked at the headstone for a long moment. 1949-1989. "I don't have anything to say to him. Maybe that's the problem."
Quorra got closer, clutching his arm. "Close your eyes. Picture him as he was the last time you saw him. What would you say?"
"This is pointless. I'm getting therapy from someone who thinks the Sun goes around the Earth."
"It doesn't?" Sam wasn't sure if she was joking. "Please. For me."
Sam closed his eyes. Saw his father with the beard, the wrinkles, the Jedi robes. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Quorra's voice intruded.
Sam opened his eyes. "I don't know, it's just a thing people say."
"He'd want to know why." Quorra put her hand over his eyes. "Hear his voice, Sam. He wouldn't be angry. He wouldn't judge you. He's just curious."
Sam threw his hands up. "I'm sorry I've done such a crap job of protecting Quorra. I'm sorry she's better off without me. I'm sorry you're dead."
Quorra took her hand away. All he could see were her eyes, lancing him. "It wasn't your fault."
"I never said it was."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Oh, I get it, you're doing Good Will Hunting."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Yes it is! I was the one who disobeyed him, I was the one who lost his disc, I was the one who could've stopped CLU a dozen times, but was never good enough! If it weren't for me being such an idiot, we could be back on the Grid, alive, together, planning our next move!"
"He didn't want that for us. We belong out here."
"I don't care! I want him back! I want to have a father!"
"You do. And even if you don't think that's good enough, there are others who care about you. Alan. Me."
"It's not—it's not…"
Quorra stepped close and pulled him closer, her arms around his back like a circuit completing. "If he were here, he'd do this. I know it's not much. I know it's not the same. But I spent a thousand years with your father, mediating and studying and preparing. I would rather be here with you, brand new every day."
She held him tight. For minutes he shook and breathed, not crying, not speaking. Then he was still.
Quorra kissed his cheek. "Shall we go home now?"
***
It was in the car that Sam finally spoke, putting his hand over Quorra's when she tried to turn the key in the ignition. "You know how you're learning about humanity? How it feels like you're not quite… done yet? That's how I am."
"Your father was like that. Learning right up until the end."
"Yeah… I know it can't have been easy for you, going through all this with me when we're so… raw. Maybe you have something you want to say to me, maybe something you want to ask… do it. And if I end up walking home, so be it."
"You said I imprinted on you like a baby bird. I looked that up. It's hurtful you could think that."
"I know, and it's not something I—know. Believe. It's what I think when I wonder what you could see in me."
"Are you worried that I'll stop seeing it? Leave?"
"No. I'm worried you'll stay. And when you meet someone you could really love, someone who deserves you, you'll be with me. Out of loyalty. Hating me."
Quorra put her hand on his face. "Don't I get to decide who deserves me?"
"Yes, but you don't know how special you are."
"I do when I'm with you." Quorra got out of the car. Walked around to his side and pulled him out so they were face to face, nowhere else to look. "I don't believe in unrequited love, Sam. I think if you truly love someone, you love the person that loves you. So… do you love me?"
Sam couldn't say it, couldn't bind her to him like that. "I want you to be happy."
"Then kiss me."
He couldn't tell her how he felt, not with three words or three hundred. Couldn't show her with jewels or roses or chocolates. But she could feel it in the meeting of their lips, in the hunger the answered hers as she pushed him onto the hood of the car…
"Quorra, stop…"
Quorra did, if only to work on getting off her bra. Sam would be hopeless at it. After all, it had taken her forever to figure it out. "It's okay. I'll be gentle."
"No, I mean… we're in public. In a graveyard. On a Ford Thunderbird, which I really want to preserve for posterity."
"Oh."
"And I really do have a headache."
***
In their apartment, Quorra's grayies turned out to go great with tea. Sam put a wet washcloth on his forehead and stretched out on the couch. It was good to be home.
Quorra hopped up on the back of the couch and managed to sprawl there despite it being half her width. "I've decided not to be angry with you."
"Are you sure? Because if you don't set firm boundaries, I'll think I can get away with anything."
Quorra reached down and ruffled his hair. "If you're not supposed to get mad at me for mistakes I make while I'm learning, why should I get mad at you for mistakes you make while you're learning? You were sick. You made bad choices. You're going to see a doctor and you know to make better choices. So what's there for me to be mad at?"
Sam grimaced. "C'mon. You've got to take it out on me some way. Make me sleep on the couch or something. C'mon. Just for my peace of mind."
Impressively, Quorra spun so she was sitting on the back of the couch, legs crossed on his chest. "Well… there is one thing, but I'm not sure it would count as a punishment, since it'll be so much fun…!"
***
As soon as the Japanese businessman got off the stage (Sam thought he recognized him from a shareholders meeting), Quorra gave Sam a firm push toward the steps. He took them like he was headed to a gallows. He'd been free-diving, base-jumping, and… parkour-iz-ing. He could survive this. Probably.
No sooner had he taken the microphone then lyrics began to scroll on the screen. "Do you ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind wanting to start again?" he sang.
Quorra ended up calling for an encore. So that was something.
Fandom: Tron: Legacy
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,067
Characters/Pairings: Sam Flynn, Quorra, Alan Bradley
Previous: 1/2
Summary: Sam lived for twenty-seven years without Quorra in his life. It's amazing how he can't do it anymore.
Sam woke up to a hangover. It was nostalgic. He moved a little, trying to determine a bare minimum about his surroundings. He was back in their—Quorra's—apartment and smelt coffee being offered to him. He took it from an aged hand. Alan's.
"I know you must be nursing a hangover, so I'll be brief and quiet."
Sam moved just enough to be able to sip his coffee. He didn't quite trust himself to talk to Alan.
"I could never replace your father. You and he have too much in common. He'd know what to say to you. He'd know what you're going through. I've always been content to play by the rules. And that's not who you are, I know that, I would never try to change that. But I've also done my best to help people, give them a fair deal. That's how I met your father. And if there's one thing I tried to teach you, it's that you'll be happier doing the right thing than you ever will trying to be happy. Tell me you didn't listen.
"I listened," Sam said quietly. "I just can't. I can't be that guy."
"Quorra thinks you can," Alan interrupted. "She seems to have this idea that you're patient, that you're kind, that you're understanding. Why would she think that if you're such a bum?"
Sam shrugged. "Incurable optimism."
"I'd say it's the voice of experience. Besides, if there's one thing she could've learned from your father, it's how to be a good judge of character."
Sam's eyes felt like they would burst out of his skull, and not just from the hangover. "She told you."
"It was a lot to take in. Fortunately, you're a late sleeper."
The pounding in Sam's head went into overdrive. "I didn't mean for you to find out like this."
"I know. But you don't have to--can't--deal with this on your own."
There was a lull in the conversation, Sam not knowing what to say and wishing Alan would say something and wishing he wouldn't. After twenty seconds, Quorra burst into the room. "I made brownies."
She set them down on the couch between Sam and Alan.
"What happened to the coffee table?" Sam asked.
"We may never know." Quorra put her hands behind her back. She was vibrating with anxiety. "I'm sorry I told Alan. I didn't know what else to do."
"It's okay. You did the right thing."
Quorra bustled off, saying "I'm going to take a catnap now. Continue your bonding," as she went out the door.
"Is she eavesdropping on us?"
"Trying to."
"Why are these brownies gray?"
"I'm guessing Quorra took the name as a challenge."
***
Quorra was on the floor by the door when Sam walked through, a blanket over her. He looked at her.
"I was sleeping. I have a blanket," she declaimed.
"I need a ride," he said.
***
Quorra was surprisingly careful about driving. Sam barely felt a bump. He managed to stay upright as Quorra smoothly manipulated the wheel this way and that.
"People say things they don't mean when they're drunk," she enunciated carefully. Then she felt him stare at her. "One of us should say that."
Sam turned on the radio. Quorra turned it off.
"Are you angry?" he asked.
"I'm worried."
"You can be angry too. It's the little black dress of emotions. Goes with anything."
Quorra flexed her fingers on the wheel. "I'm trying to figure out how angry I should be."
Sam rested his head against the window. He'd tried not to think of what he'd said to her—liquor was good for that—but now that he did… "Pretty angry, I think."
Quorra seemed to agree. "Why are people such… jerks?"
Sam raised a finger. "Assholes, I think is the word you're looking for."
She turned to him and the car clipped a curb. "Well?"
Sam took a deep breath. Kneaded the growing pressure in his head. "Because they have bad days. Because they're tired, or sad, or… just because."
Quorra was close to tears, her jaw shaking as she tried to keep her mouth closed. It was hard for anyone to go through this, but she didn't even know the rules.
He'd damaged her Zen thing. Sam seemed to have a knack for that.
"I don't see why they can't just be nice. I do it all the time."
Sam put his hand on her shoulder. "Don't change that."
***
"We're here."
Quorra followed Sam out of the car. "A cemetery? I don't understand."
"Me neither. Alan's idea… sort of."
Sam walked through the gate and over the bright green grass and between the polished headstones. It all looked so tidy to Quorra. Like a single giant had derezzed and this was what remained.
"What did you and he talk about?"
"The Grid. He wanted to hear it in my words. Then he wanted to talk about Dad."
It was funny, how rarely they'd talked about Kevin Flynn before the page. He was like a ghost, haunting their conversations. Maybe Alan had thought Sam hated the very mention of his father, or some melodrama like this. He didn't. He just hated the way he went numb whenever he heard his father's name.
"Alan said I never came here." Sam walked with long, purposeful strides, like he'd recognized the features on the last leg of a journey. "I guess that's true. When Encom declared him dead, I still thought Dad was alive. I still cared."
They'd found the headstone. Kevin Flynn. Beloved husband and father.
"They buried an empty casket?" Quorra asked.
"Had to bury something. And I guess now it's as good a resting place as any." Sam patted his pockets. "Shit, I forgot flowers."
"Maybe you could… say something to him?" Quorra asked hopefully.
Sam looked at the headstone for a long moment. 1949-1989. "I don't have anything to say to him. Maybe that's the problem."
Quorra got closer, clutching his arm. "Close your eyes. Picture him as he was the last time you saw him. What would you say?"
"This is pointless. I'm getting therapy from someone who thinks the Sun goes around the Earth."
"It doesn't?" Sam wasn't sure if she was joking. "Please. For me."
Sam closed his eyes. Saw his father with the beard, the wrinkles, the Jedi robes. "I'm sorry."
"For what?" Quorra's voice intruded.
Sam opened his eyes. "I don't know, it's just a thing people say."
"He'd want to know why." Quorra put her hand over his eyes. "Hear his voice, Sam. He wouldn't be angry. He wouldn't judge you. He's just curious."
Sam threw his hands up. "I'm sorry I've done such a crap job of protecting Quorra. I'm sorry she's better off without me. I'm sorry you're dead."
Quorra took her hand away. All he could see were her eyes, lancing him. "It wasn't your fault."
"I never said it was."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Oh, I get it, you're doing Good Will Hunting."
"It wasn't your fault."
"Yes it is! I was the one who disobeyed him, I was the one who lost his disc, I was the one who could've stopped CLU a dozen times, but was never good enough! If it weren't for me being such an idiot, we could be back on the Grid, alive, together, planning our next move!"
"He didn't want that for us. We belong out here."
"I don't care! I want him back! I want to have a father!"
"You do. And even if you don't think that's good enough, there are others who care about you. Alan. Me."
"It's not—it's not…"
Quorra stepped close and pulled him closer, her arms around his back like a circuit completing. "If he were here, he'd do this. I know it's not much. I know it's not the same. But I spent a thousand years with your father, mediating and studying and preparing. I would rather be here with you, brand new every day."
She held him tight. For minutes he shook and breathed, not crying, not speaking. Then he was still.
Quorra kissed his cheek. "Shall we go home now?"
***
It was in the car that Sam finally spoke, putting his hand over Quorra's when she tried to turn the key in the ignition. "You know how you're learning about humanity? How it feels like you're not quite… done yet? That's how I am."
"Your father was like that. Learning right up until the end."
"Yeah… I know it can't have been easy for you, going through all this with me when we're so… raw. Maybe you have something you want to say to me, maybe something you want to ask… do it. And if I end up walking home, so be it."
"You said I imprinted on you like a baby bird. I looked that up. It's hurtful you could think that."
"I know, and it's not something I—know. Believe. It's what I think when I wonder what you could see in me."
"Are you worried that I'll stop seeing it? Leave?"
"No. I'm worried you'll stay. And when you meet someone you could really love, someone who deserves you, you'll be with me. Out of loyalty. Hating me."
Quorra put her hand on his face. "Don't I get to decide who deserves me?"
"Yes, but you don't know how special you are."
"I do when I'm with you." Quorra got out of the car. Walked around to his side and pulled him out so they were face to face, nowhere else to look. "I don't believe in unrequited love, Sam. I think if you truly love someone, you love the person that loves you. So… do you love me?"
Sam couldn't say it, couldn't bind her to him like that. "I want you to be happy."
"Then kiss me."
He couldn't tell her how he felt, not with three words or three hundred. Couldn't show her with jewels or roses or chocolates. But she could feel it in the meeting of their lips, in the hunger the answered hers as she pushed him onto the hood of the car…
"Quorra, stop…"
Quorra did, if only to work on getting off her bra. Sam would be hopeless at it. After all, it had taken her forever to figure it out. "It's okay. I'll be gentle."
"No, I mean… we're in public. In a graveyard. On a Ford Thunderbird, which I really want to preserve for posterity."
"Oh."
"And I really do have a headache."
***
In their apartment, Quorra's grayies turned out to go great with tea. Sam put a wet washcloth on his forehead and stretched out on the couch. It was good to be home.
Quorra hopped up on the back of the couch and managed to sprawl there despite it being half her width. "I've decided not to be angry with you."
"Are you sure? Because if you don't set firm boundaries, I'll think I can get away with anything."
Quorra reached down and ruffled his hair. "If you're not supposed to get mad at me for mistakes I make while I'm learning, why should I get mad at you for mistakes you make while you're learning? You were sick. You made bad choices. You're going to see a doctor and you know to make better choices. So what's there for me to be mad at?"
Sam grimaced. "C'mon. You've got to take it out on me some way. Make me sleep on the couch or something. C'mon. Just for my peace of mind."
Impressively, Quorra spun so she was sitting on the back of the couch, legs crossed on his chest. "Well… there is one thing, but I'm not sure it would count as a punishment, since it'll be so much fun…!"
***
As soon as the Japanese businessman got off the stage (Sam thought he recognized him from a shareholders meeting), Quorra gave Sam a firm push toward the steps. He took them like he was headed to a gallows. He'd been free-diving, base-jumping, and… parkour-iz-ing. He could survive this. Probably.
No sooner had he taken the microphone then lyrics began to scroll on the screen. "Do you ever feel like a plastic bag, drifting through the wind wanting to start again?" he sang.
Quorra ended up calling for an encore. So that was something.
