Title - The Morgan's.
Author - OblivionsGarden
Genre - Hurt/Comfort/Family
Disclaimer - I do not own the Uncharted Series in anyway shape or form. I only own the plot points surrounding this work.
Word Count - 1634 words.
A/n - Just a sad little drabble of a head canon I've had for a while regarding Sam growing up when his mother was still around.
Please leave a review, I'd greatly appreciate it. Hope you enjoy, xx (:
WARNING - Mentions depression, bipolar and a difficult childhood.
You had struggled with your family. You had struggled with friends. You'd struggled with partners. You'd struggled alone, mostly. But recently you'd realized that struggling with Sam was different.
Somehow he understood... Somehow he seemed to know when you needed space and he knew when you needed comfort. He was by your side when you needed him and just a call away when that was what was best. He just knew how you worked and how your brain didn't sometimes. You had wondered how he was so good at dealing with you but part of you was afraid to ask, afraid that he had dealt with this himself during his time in Panama.
But there was one occasion when he talked you through a breathing exercise that made you feel the need to ask. You, who had been to therapy, read all of the self help books and looked at all the advice web pages, even you hadn't heard of this technique of his. It was hard at first, trying to match his breaths whilst your lungs seemed to have shriveled down to the size of a grape. But Sam's voice was soft, soothing, holding one of your hands to his heart and the other to yours so you could try and sync up their rhythms. That was how, when you finally asked, you felt the stutter in his.
It was his mom. He told you in a quiet voice in the dead of night, keeping you tucked into his side to avoid eye contact. He had only been five years old when he overheard her telling his dad that the doctor told her she was bipolar. His dad, crass as he was, laughed it off and said at least they had a reason for her crazy bitch attitude now. Sam had stopped liking his dad that day. He adored his mother but he didn't understand what bipolar was. He asked one of his teachers who tried to explain it as best they could and even at his young age he could see how Mrs Tipper had looked at his mother different when she came to collect him that day.
As he grew up he saw it more and more. How the people that knew would treat her like she was fragile, as though a loud noise would break her. His father drank more and more over the years, unwilling to deal with her moods and even going as far as to accuse her of making the whole thing up. She was just a women who had PMS, that's all it was. There was no need for all the doctor visits and the pills. A waste of money! He threw her medication away and she couldn't get any more for another week. It was the worst Sam had ever seen her. She'd be fine one day, talking about her work, about Henry Avery and playing with him and his baby brother Nathan. Then the next she'd seem to drift around the house like a ghost, putting food in the oven and forgetting about it until it was charcoal black. Sam had burnt his fingertips trying to take it out before a fire could start. His father had told her she was incompetent. She had wailed and sobbed for hours, clutching Sam and Nathan to her chest and repeating over and over how sorry she was and how she didn't deserve to have such beautiful boys.
Sam tried to tell her it was ok, he still loved her even if dad didn't. Nathan just spoke in his baby gibberish and pulled her hair. It set her off again and so Sam, now seven years old, took Nathan to bed and then returned to help his inconsolable mother into hers. He slept beside her that night, promising he'd always take care of her. He stroked her hair until she calmed and whenever she moved too much that the duvet fell, he lifted it back over her to keep her warm.
It went on like that for a couple of years, his dad turning into more of a twisted, selfish bastard and his mothers illness getting worse when he would toss out or hide her medication. Sam kept to his promise and took care of her and Nathan when she couldn't quite manage it. He learned all of his tricks from helping her. He knew when she needed her boys close and he learnt to tell when she just wanted space. He taught himself her medication schedule and how to talk her through the panic attacks that shook her body until she was nearly vibrating with her gasping breaths and he never ever forgot how. As time went on he watched her become consumed with the legend of Henry Avery and promised, in the most grown up voice her could muster at eight, that he would help her find the pirates treasure one day. It was the happiest he saw her for a while, imagining her two beautiful boys, travelling the world and finding long lost treasures.
But then when he was just nine years old, walking home from school alone since she had forgotten to pick him up again, not that he minded much, his whole world changed. When he opened the door to their home he could already hear four year old Nathan crying from the living room. Sam was quick to find out his favorite monkey plush and console him, tossing his rucksack onto the floor. When the uncomfortable silence settled on him, goosebumps sprang up all over his arms. He asked Nathan where mommy was and had received the answer 'sleepy time' in return. That wasn't so strange. Cassandra sometimes took naps during the day if it was a bad day. But when he reached her bedroom and felt the stiff cool air from inside he frowned. She could never get to sleep if she was even just a fraction too cold. She used to joke that she was like a lizard in the wrong climate and she needed a heater in her tank.
Her arm was stretched out, hand hanging limply from the bed when Sam reached to hold it. He flinched at the iciness of her skin, pressing up onto tip toe to peek at her face. Her eyes were closed, all worry lines had smoothed out and there was a small hint of a smile on her lips. He shook her once, twice and then a whole heap more, his heart thudding when she didn't stir. In his frantic movement something fell from her other hand. He recognized the small plastic container well, his mother kept her medication in them. But he'd never heard the word 'Restoril' before. And why was it empty, she never took that many pills in one go.
His stomach churned as he moved back into the living room and took his brothers hand. He lead him out of the house and round to the neighbors, knocking calmly on the door despite the whooshing of his blood in his ears. The couple that lived beside them were around their mothers age and always brought Sam and Nathan cookies when they went to the bakery. The woman answered, surprised to see the two youngsters alone.
"Mommy's sleeping and she won't wake up. She took some pills, I think- I think she's-" And then finally his tears came. Not because he had found his mother dead but smiling in her too cold bedroom but because he couldn't bring himself to say the words whilst Nathan held tightly to his hand as he had always been taught to do.
The next moments were a blur. The woman ushered them inside and sent her husband over to investigate. An ambulance came and then the police, talking to their father and then both the boys. They were at home for just two days, Sam unable to go near that room and unable to sleep. He refused to talk to his father, knew that his intolerance and hatred had drove his mother to it. Then they were surrendered to the state. Sam didn't know what that meant other than that he and Nathan had to go and live with all the other forgotten children with the nuns. Sam kept a photo, one of him and Nathan in his mothers arms when he was five and Nathan just hitting one. He kept it with him for years as a reminder of his promise to find Avery's treasure. When he 'died' in Panama, Nathan had found and kept it when he cleared out Sam's apartment. He gave it back after they found Avery and Sam could imagine the smile his mother would've had on her face.
When he finished telling you he had pulled said photo out, showing you for the first time in your relationship. You commented on her beauty, because she truly was an incredibly elegant woman and Sam had smiled and nodded. You went to rifle through your photo box, knowing you had a spare frame somewhere. Once you found it you took his picture and slipped it inside, placing it on Sam's bedside table. You told him that you didn't need to have met her to know she be so proud of him, for everything he's done both before and after she passed. Sam tried to hide his tears as he looked at his mom but you kissed them away, curling into him and looking at her too. In your head you sent up a thought to Cassandra Morgan, wherever she may be resting, thanking her for having raised such an incredible man with the kindest heart you'd ever witnessed and you promised you'd take care of him for her, just as he took care of the two of you.