*sigh*

Sitting quietly on his recliner in the darkened living room of his apartment, Sam reaches to his side to grasp the longneck bottle forming a ring of condensation on his glass endtable. He lifts it to his lips and takes a long swig. Replacing it back onto the table he leans his recliner back to stare up at the ceiling.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He raises his other hand closer to his face to examine it again. The gauze wrapped around his knuckles and fingers is still soaked in blood, despite his attempts to clean the wounds. Making and closing a fist a few times was a painful, but it told Sam that he still hand a full range of motion. That no bones were broken. His wrist is stiff, though, and that may cause trouble down the road. Sitting there in the dark, Sam knows that was the least of his worries.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Looking across the room, closer to the entryway, a hole in the drywall can be seen. Immediately behind it, a wooden support post. Sam had put his fist through the wall. Or at least had tried to, when he caught beam behind the flaky greyish-white drywall. It took most of his will to restrain himself from doing what he really wanted.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It had a been a long time since he truly wanted to hurt someone. To want to reach out with his hands to inflict bodily harm to someone. He felt this way way about some criminals he has had to chase down in the ICC, and about some terrorists he had to fire at in Afghanistan who had wounded his comrades. But this feeling is absolutely wrong. It twists in his mind like a screw, tearing a hole as it digs deeper. This is an innocent person. She is an innocent person. One whom he thought he might have loved someday.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

It started as a heated argument about Sam's job. About how risk-laden it was. About how, on any given day, he might not come back from the office. She did not care much for those thoughts. Questioning why he couldn't go back to being an EMT and making better money in safer job. He could not get his point across. ICC is not about the money. Not at all. Not for Sam, at least.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

He still feels horrible about snapping. Never had he shown such anger in his life; especially while not gunning down villians in an arid desert. But her simple words provoked him more than anything else could of. The feminine voice still rings resoundingly in his head, 'Who gives a shit about anyone else, Sam!? Shouldn't it just be about me and you? You were nearly killed once, why go back out and throw your life away again!'

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Sam lets out a long sigh. He speaks quietly to the shadows flittering across his empty room, "I was not given a second chance at life. I took it... I stole it away from hell with a clenched fist. I am not going to lay down and live my life in vain. I have the capacity to do what many other people can't, so I'm going to fucking do it."

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Ungritting his teeth, he speaks more calmly now, "It's not that I didn't care about you... it's that I care about everyone else just as much..."

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Leaning his head back, Sam closes his eyes. 'So be it. She isn't the first to not understand, and won't be the last. I'm sure...' he smirks to himself, 'I suppose this is one of those sacrifices I promised to make.'

Happy birthday, Bro!

William!

Happy birthday!

You're finally in the big leagues. Sixteen years old. I remember when I was that age. It feels like it was so long ago... but you don't care about any of that. I wish I could be there to help celebrate one of the three most important birthdays you'll ever have ( the other two being 18 and 21 ) but we're getting ready to leave Atlanta to help out another branch. I could tell you where, but then I'd have to kill you on your big day. I'd rather not have to do that.

So knowing how it goes, you're sitting at the table. Mom is standing over your shoulder. Dad is already back to work at his computer. And 'Lee took off to go talk to a boyfriend of hers that just happened to call in the middle of the ceremonies. You're more than a little upset that Dad didn't splurge and buy you a car for your birthday like you were secretly hoping. I'm sure he gave you some speech about how you need to get a summer job and earn your own keep. And you are more than a little jealous at 'Lee who DID get a car for her 16th birthday ( we all know she's going to marry a millionaire and not ever have to worry about doing an ounce of work in her life, anyways ).

Forget all that, Bro. After you finish reading this, turn around and give Mom a big hug for both of us. She should, if she was listening to what I told her on the phone, have two sets of keys. The first is going to have a bright orange plastic thing on it that reads "Public Storage." The other set of keys should have a little 'H' on them, since they're the keys to my old Honda Civic Si stored there. Provided you sign off on all the paperwork, and get Mom to put you on their insurance, it's all yours, Will. She's not much too look at anymore, but with a little care, she'll be purring again in no time.

And, as an another birthday present, I'm going to not go into any detail about how you should drive safe and always be responsible. I already talked to Dad. He's going to do all of that for me. Besides, I shouldn't have anything to worry about. You're one of the most straight-headed people I know, Will. More so than me, sometimes. With what I've been going through lately, that means quite a bit.

Anyways, enjoy your birthday, little man!

With love,
Your big brother Sam

P.S. Get Ashlee in the arm a few times for me. :P

Mirrors are powerful devices

"... nineteen... twenty." There's a metallic sound as a dumbell is dropped onto the carpeted floor of a modest two-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of Atlanta proper. Standing up from the workout bench, Sam wipes the driping sweat from his face and hair with the towel draped around his neck. After performing a quick series of cool down stretches he exits his personal gym, a converted second bedroom, and slips into the adjacent bathroom. Fixing his simple blue shower curtains, he turns the water on in the tub, allowing it time to heat up. Returning to the sink, he starts to reach for toothbrush when he catches something in the mirror...

Spread across his upper body are four quarter-sized areas of scar tissue. "Sam? Sam!? Saaaaaaam!" He blinks as the voice of Tom, his friend and comrade-at-arms, floods into his head. Those were the last things he heard before he woke up again nearly two weeks later in an army hospital. Reaching up to the mark in his chest, he digs his thumb into it. It didn't hurt anymore. It hadn't hurt for a long time. But he could still -feel- it, and it panged him mentally. Looking up at himself in the mirror, another memory hits him. "I'm not going to bullshit, Sergeant. I doubt you'll ever make a full recovery. I've seen lesser wounds cripple a man for life. You're lucky to even still be alive." The voice of his doctor after he was let out of intensive care. Smirking at himself, he shakes his head. He had proven the doctor woefully wrong. Through sheer determination he progressed quickly through recovery, and obtained a higher state of health than anyone imagined that he ever would again. Hell, one doctor even said that he would be wheelchair bound for years, and would probably need at least a cane for life.

"I have to stay strong, more so now than ever." Sam's voice is clear and real - not another one of his memories. "I have too many people counting on me to let myself get soft. Seung, Trance, Chris, and now Sari. They each work hard to support the others. I can never afford to let anything happen to a single one of them, even if I have to sacrifice." He takes his toothbrush and drops a bead of paste on it. The steam from the shower having fogged up the mirror completely by this point. "On my watch, everybody gets to go home. I promise."