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I.
They end up in a small hospital the next town over from Woodsboro. The antiseptic smell and the hum of the fluorescent lights make Tara's skin crawl, and she tries to ignore the creeping anxiety that gnaws at her chest. She's never liked hospitals — spent too much time in and out of them when she was little — and her most recent stint obviously hasn't done anything to improve her opinion of them.
It's not so bad, though, when she feels Sam's hand brush against hers. Fingers slip between her own, tangling them together until she's not quite sure where she ends and Sam begins (and maybe that's just the drugs talking, but it's still how it feels, and she's never been so grateful not to be alone).
Sam had demanded that they be kept in the same room. Tara had almost felt bad for the nurse that tried to whisk Sam away to another exam room, citing the need for scans and stitches, but mostly she just felt a quiet warmth in her chest when Sam flat-out refused. It's been so long since she's had someone who would fight for her. She's been trapped in the dark of winter for what feels like an eternity, but now suddenly Sam is back and it's like being caught in direct sunlight, beams of gentle heat thawing the ice encasing her chest and melting away the pain and fear and loneliness as she remembers what it is to be alive.
(And okay, yeah, that's definitely the drugs talking, and she barely holds in a giggle as she imagines the sun wearing Sam's face.)
It's a little disconcerting how quickly she's fallen back into old habits now that Sam is back. The distance between their hospital beds had been overwhelming, and she couldn't help the pulse of relief she'd felt when Sam had barely waited until the nurses were out of the room before moving to push their beds together. It helps, to know that Sam feels the same desperate pull for closeness. To know that she's not alone in this. Not this time, and maybe not ever again.
The cynical part of her mind whispers that she's setting herself up for another betrayal, that Sam promised not to leave when they were kids, too, and look how that ended up. But she thinks of how tightly Sam had held onto her as they stood on the bloodstained carpet in Amber's house, of the way that every time she looks over at Sam she sees dark eyes watching her with shocking intensity, like she's afraid that Tara will disappear if she so much as glances away.
It's almost enough to make her believe that this time really will be different, and when she tips her head to the side so that her ear is pressed against the slope of Sam's chest, the even rhythm of her heartbeat beneath Tara's ear is enough to drown out any remaining doubts.
"You okay?"
Tara starts to lift one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug before wincing as her entire body protests the movement. "Fine. Just waiting for the drugs to kick in."
"Do you want me to call one of the nurses?" Concern radiates from Sam's voice, and it sends warm embers skittering throughout Tara's chest to have another piece of evidence of just how much Sam cares.
"Nah," she says after a second of consideration. "If it's anything like last time, I'll probably be unconscious before they even get here."
Even without looking at Sam's face she can feel the worried frown, can imagine the exact tiny furrow in Sam's brow as she debates whether to push the matter. She's grateful when she feels Sam relax a fraction of an inch into the pillows, knowing that it signals her begrudging acceptance.
"If you're sure… But if that changes, promise you'll tell me?"
"Promise." She knows it won't be an issue. The familiar haze is already starting to make the edges of her mind pleasantly fuzzy, and she turns her face into the side of Sam's neck and nuzzles close. Her hand brushes against the thick bandages wrapped around Sam's abdomen and she shifts to make sure that she's not putting any pressure on the injury.
"Congrats on surviving your first time being stabbed, by the way," she mumbles. She means it as a funny offhanded comment, just something to ease the tension that still has them both in a vise grip. She's expecting Sam to groan, maybe chide her gently, and she frowns when she feels Sam's entire body go taut against her instead. The heartbeat beneath her ear slips from steady kickdrum thumps into a sharp, rapid-fire staccato, and Tara struggles to push herself upright enough to try to see Sam's face.
"Sam?" It's hard to get her eyes to focus. For a second she thinks that Sam hasn't heard her, but then she feels a quiet exhale ghost across the side of her face.
"Sorry," Sam says. "Zoned out for a second. But thanks, I guess?" There's something dark in her tone, some emotion that Tara can't quite put her finger on. She tries to get her tongue to cooperate so that she can ask Sam about it, but everything is muted and hazy and she only manages a quiet mmph.
"Go to sleep," Sam says softly. "I'll be right here when you wake up, I promise."
***
She means to ask Sam about her weird response when she wakes up the next morning, she really does, but the day is filled with a flurry of activity. Between doctors and nurses constantly moving in and out of their room, being whisked away for further tests, and Sam making phone calls to their mom to try to update her on things, she hardly has time to breathe, let alone think about staging an interrogation.
(She makes pointed small talk with the closest nurse every time Sam calls their mom and gets sent to voicemail yet again, determined not to let the hurt show on her face.)
It's dark by the time they have a moment to themselves, but she finds herself with more pressing matters to deal with than whatever it is that happened the night before.
She's lying pressed next to Sam again, but something is wrong. She can hear it in the way that Sam's breath stalls out every time she inhales, can feel it in the obvious wince when Sam tries to move closer.
"Do you need more pain meds?" she asks. She feels Sam shake her head in response and rolls her eyes. "Come on. I can tell you're hurting. Don't be stubborn, let me call the nurse—"
"Don't!"
Sam catches Tara's hand before it can reach for the call button, letting out a pained gasp even as her fingers tighten around Tara's wrist. Tara stares at her in confusion.
"What the hell, Sam?"
"I'm fine." It's a lie, and not even a very good one, but Sam just meets Tara's eyes defiantly.
"What—" Tara stops. Thinks. Realizes that she doesn't remember seeing Sam ask for more pain meds once the entire day even though she was borderline obsessive about making sure Tara got hers on the dot at every scheduled interval. Her eyes narrow as she looks at Sam. "You haven't been taking anything for the pain."
Sam starts to disagree and Tara pushes herself upright, immediately missing the warmth of Sam's arm against her own.
"Don't fucking lie to me, Sam, I'm not stupid. I haven't seen them give you anything since we got here last night."
"I'm not lying," Sam says, voice soft and plaintive. "I swear, I've been taking painkillers."
"Oh yeah? What have you taken?" Tara snaps. She's irrationally frustrated that Sam would try to lie to her, and she feels a sliver of vindication at the way Sam seems to shrink back at her tone.
There's a pause, and then Sam sighs. "Ibuprofen. And tylenol."
Tara blinks. "Ibuprofen and tylenol? What the fuck, Sam? You take ibuprofen and tylenol for a headache, not because someone stuck a fucking knife in your stomach!"
Sam stares down at the threadbare hospital blanket draped across their legs, picking at a loose thread and avoiding all eye contact with Tara.
"You're such an idiot," Tara mumbles. "Just ask them for some of the good stuff so that we can both get some sleep." She starts to reach for the call button, only to find Sam's hand grabbing at hers again before she can push it.
"I'm fine, really."
Tara throws her hands in the air, frustration clear as she says, "Jesus christ, obviously you're not fine. You can barely move, Sam."
"I just—" Sam cuts herself off. She's quiet for a second, but then her shoulders slump and she says, "The other pain meds are all opioids, and I...I don't want to take the risk."
Oh.
Sudden understanding strikes Tara and she feels like the world's biggest asshole. She still remembers the blur of days and nights before Sam left when she would come stumbling home with hazy eyes, remembers Sam's words from the first day she'd come back—
I went out, and I started doing every drug I could get my hands on.
She sees the shame etched in the lines of Sam's face, the way that her eyes are still downcast and shadowed, and she reaches out and takes Sam's hands in her own. It's enough to get Sam to look up at her, and Tara shifts closer until she can lean her head on Sam's shoulder.
"I'm sorry," she says softly. "I wasn't thinking about that."
"Don't apologize." Sam's voice is firm even as her breathing hitches when she moves to tilt her head so that it's resting against the top of Tara's. "You didn't do anything wrong."
It's not enough to ease the guilt gnawing at Tara's stomach, but she doesn't protest when Sam moves to adjust their position so that they're both horizontal again. There's a quiet grunt of pain as they settle back against the pillows and Tara holds herself carefully, hyper-aware of the fact that Sam is in pain and desperate not to make it worse. They lay there for a minute before Sam huffs and grips the edge of Tara's hospital gown to tug her closer.
"I'm not going to break," she mumbles. "Just don't, like, elbow me in my stitches or anything."
Tara exhales slowly and nods, but sleep is still a long time coming.
***
They're stuck in the hospital for another five days before they're cleared for discharge. The slow pace of her recovery has Tara irrationally irritated with everyone around them. She still can't move from the bed to the wheelchair without help—or, well, she can do it without help, but it's agonizing enough that she only tries it once before resigning herself to asking for help the next time—and she fails to bite back a hiss when she pushes herself upright in the bed.
"I'm so fucking sick of this," she grumbles. "Everything hurts all the fucking time. Shouldn't I be getting better yet?"
Sam is busy trying to make sure they've got all their stuff together before the doctors come around to do a final check before they leave, and she shoots Tara a distracted smile. "It'll get better in a few days, you've just got to be patient."
Tara rolls her eyes spectacularly. "Oh yeah? And how would you know? Are you suddenly an expert on recovering from stab wounds?"
"No, but I—" Sam stops talking abruptly, and Tara raises an eyebrow at her even though her sister's back is turned.
"You what?"
Sam shakes her head and sits down on the end of the bed, staring down at the bag she's rifling through. "Never mind."
The dismissal only piques Tara's interest more, and she scoots down the bed toward Sam. "No really, what were you going to say?"
"It's nothing." Sam's eyes remain fixed on the bag. Tara frowns, alarm bells beginning to sound at Sam's response, and a fragment of memory from the first night they were in the hospital flashes through her mind.
"Congrats on surviving your first time being stabbed, by the way."
Her own words echo in her ears as she remembers the way that Sam had tensed against her, and she feels a swell of nausea as she stares at Sam.
No.
It's absurd. She would know if something like that had happened to Sam. But as she sits there and watches her sister, she thinks about the five years they've been apart and she can't escape the thought, can't help but ask the question burning through her mind.
"Sam." There's no acknowledgment, and Tara's throat tightens. She swallows twice before she can force the words out. "This wasn't the first time you were stabbed, was it."
It comes out as a statement rather than the question she intended, but somehow she knows. The room spins around her and she tries to remember how to breathe. She prays that she's wrong, hopes that Sam will laugh it off or say something, anything, that will put the matter to rest and make Tara feel foolish for saying something so ridiculous.
But instead Sam just goes perfectly still for a few seconds before she wraps her arms around her middle and tucks her chin down into her chest like she's bracing for a blow, like she's waiting for Tara to yell at her or lash out or do something.
And maybe there is a part of Tara that does want to yell, to scream until her throat is raw and she tastes copper. Five years of unknowns stretch between them, the chasm filled with all of the things that she no longer knows about her sister. How could she not know? She thinks of Sam bleeding and scared in a hospital somewhere, alone with no one to tell her that it would be okay, that there were people who loved her and would take care of her.
There are so many things she wants to say in the face of that imagined history. She wants to wrap Sam up and never let her go, to say all of the things that she should have said years ago, all of the things that she's thought every day since Sam left. But in the end, all that she manages is a strangled, "When?"
Sam visibly hesitates, her fingers digging into her arms until pale indents appear around her fingertips. For a moment Tara thinks that she's going to refuse to answer at all, and despair simmers low in her gut at the thought of Sam not trusting her enough to be honest with her. She knows it's not really about that, that Sam's reticence is more about her desire to protect Tara than any real reflection on whether she trusts her, but it still makes her ache to be kept at arm's length like this.
Finally, Sam says, "It was a few years ago."
A million questions flit through Tara's mind.
How many is a few? Who did this? Did they ever have to pay for what they did? Was it another Ghostface? How bad was it?
Sam must see at least some of that on her face, because she sighs. "It happened a couple months after I left. I was in the wrong place at the wrong time during a house party, and one of the guys had a knife—" She shrugs a little. "I spent a few days in the hospital and that was that."
Tara's hands clench into fists at the dismissive way Sam talks about it. Like it doesn't matter that she was stabbed, like Tara didn't almost lose her forever without even knowing it.
"What happened to the person who stabbed you?" She has to know, feels sick at the thought of someone hurting Sam like that and getting away with it, living a carefree existence without a single moment spent dwelling on the hurt she can see carved in the defensive set of Sam's shoulders.
"Dead."
Tara sucks in a breath, relieved even as her next question trips off her tongue without thought. "Did you—"
Sam glances up at her sharply. "No." Her eyes are dark and wounded and Tara reaches for her hand, immediately contrite. She smoothes her thumb over the back of Sam's hand in silent apology. She wouldn't care if Sam had killed him, but she knows that Sam would care. That she probably cares most of all at the implication that Tara thinks she's a killer.
It takes a few moments, but eventually Sam sighs and relaxes a fraction of an inch, leaning into Tara until their shoulders brush.
"He overdosed. A few weeks after I got out of the hospital."
"Good." It comes out steely, and some of the protectiveness she's feeling must be audible in her voice because Sam looks at her sideways before the edge of her mouth ticks up in a hint of a smile. Tara frowns as something else occurs to her. "Where?"
Sam shifts uncomfortably next to her and Tara almost takes it back, but then Sam taps a finger against her ribcage. "Here."
"Can I —" She's not exactly sure what she's asking. Sam looks at her for a second, searching her eyes like she's trying to understand what Tara wants, why she can't seem to let this drop. After a few beats she nods and slowly reaches down to lift the hem of her tank top.
Tara holds her breath and the hospital room around them goes dull and quiet as a jagged slash of scar tissue comes into view. It stands out against Sam's skin like a brand, maybe an inch long and obviously long-healed, the tissue shiny and smooth just below the band of her sports bra. It's on the opposite side from where Richie stabbed her, and Tara isn't sure if that makes it better or worse.
She stretches her hand out before she can think better of it, fingers making contact with the warm skin of Sam's stomach before sliding up until her palm is resting against the scar. She's not sure how long they sit like that before she feels Sam let out a shaky breath, and Tara presses closer until she's practically in Sam's lap.
"I wish you'd told me," she whispers. She isn't trying to reopen old wounds, knows all of the reasons why Sam didn't tell her, but she can't shake the fear of how close she came to losing Sam. Even with Sam's skin warm beneath her hand, it still isn't enough.
Sam blows out a rough exhale. "I'm sorry." It's an apology for so many things, almost none of them actually her fault. She gently covers the hand Tara has pressed against her ribcage with her own, lacing their fingers together as they sit there in the quiet.
Eventually, Tara moves back a few inches so that she can look up at Sam. "No more getting stabbed, okay? For either of us."
It's not a promise they can make. Not really.
But in this moment, the quick smile that Sam gives her as she says, "Deal," is almost enough to make Tara believe otherwise.
II.
Having Sam back is the best thing that's ever happened to her.
It's also the worst.
Every time the nightmares come, every time an unknown number pops up on her phone and she panics, Sam is there. Tara feels six years old again, scared and running to her big sister for protection, and she hates herself for it. Hates Sam for leaving in the first place, for being so fucking stupid and not being honest with her about what was going on, for being able to show up back in her life after five years have passed like she isn't single-handedly responsible for burning their lives to the ground when she left.
Even after years with nothing but a house filled with empty, silent rooms and dogged attempts by her friends to be there for her—
(Never enough, never realizing that there is no universe in which they could ever hope to make up for what she's lost)
—her instinct is still to seek Sam out at every opportunity. To make herself small so that she can disappear in Sam's arms, warm and safe and almost able to forget the bitter sting of old betrayals.
She fights the impulse to let Sam take care of her at every turn. Snaps at Sam over the littlest things, prods at scar tissue that she doesn't think will ever fully heal—everything she can think of to try to hold on to some sliver of independence. She's spent five years stitching the tattered remnants of her heart back together, pretending that she can do this on her own, and the thought of admitting she might need Sam after all is too much.
Sometimes she lies through her teeth to Sam. Not about anything really important, but little things that pop up as the days and weeks unfold. She bides her time, waits for the moments when she knows the lies will cause the most damage:
When Sam goes grocery shopping and picks up some of the cereal that has been Tara's favorite since she was eleven, and Tara glances at the box and pretends that she stopped liking it years ago.
The day that they're cooking dinner and a song comes on the radio that will always, always be linked in her memory to the day that Sam took her to the park and they danced in the water fountains while the song played from speakers taller than Tara was, but when Sam looks over at her Tara carefully arranges her face into a thoughtful expression and says, "This song is pretty good, I'm surprised I've never heard it before."
How she takes the old hoodie that belonged to Sam before she left, the same one that she spent most nights curled up inside of dreaming that her big sister came back for her, and shoves it into the very back of a closet, feigns ignorance when Sam finds it a week later and casually says, "Oh, I must have forgotten that was back there."
It's petty and bitter and makes her feel horrible every time she sees the flash of hurt in Sam's eyes before it's hidden away, but she can't seem to stop herself. She loves Sam, more than anything or anyone in her life, but that doesn't make her resent her any less.
So she lies to Sam, and she lies to herself, and she hates every second of it. She's tearing them both apart, sinking her fingers into flesh and rending, biting, gouging with every millimeter of distance she forces between them. She can see the way that her barbs sink into Sam, flaying her alive until she's not sure why Sam doesn't just leave.
(But in the crushing loneliness of her too-big bed every night, she is so, so grateful, the knowledge that Sam is just on the other side of the wall the only thing that allows her to keep breathing.)
They move to New York and that only makes things worse. Sam works two shitty jobs so that they can afford rent and Tara can go to Blackmore, and the guilt threatens to swallow her whole every time she sees the exhaustion writ across Sam's face.
She oscillates between extremes, clinging to Sam in one moment only to shove her away in the next. Shame creeps up her throat until it strangles her every time she reaches for Sam and her sister welcomes her with open arms, something like gratitude shining in her eyes as she pulls Tara close. It takes so little to fix Sam, to ease the weight of the world from her shoulders for a few precious minutes, and it just makes Tara feel worse because she could be doing that all the time, could be a source of comfort and support and love rather than giving them both whiplash as she pivots from soft embraces to words laced with venom.
She doesn't even know what she wants anymore.
She wants space, but she also never wants to let Sam out of her sight again. She wants her sister's arms around her solid and strong and real, protecting her from the rest of the world, but she also chafes at the constant contact. She's just so angry, all of the time, and she doesn't know what to do with that.
This was never meant to be her life. She doesn't want a revolving door of scar tissue and trauma, doesn't want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder, always waiting for the other shoe to drop. She feels too much all of the time, emotions crackling beneath her skin and exploding outward to level unsuspecting bystanders, and she only regrets it a little.
Maybe one of these days, she'll be able to hurt someone who actually deserves it. Maybe one of these days, she will feel normal again. Maybe, maybe, maybe—
Or maybe not.
III.
She's in the middle of her bio class on an otherwise normal Wednesday afternoon when she gets a text from Mindy. It's short, but she throws her notebook into her bag and sprints out of the lecture hall when she reads it.
Mindy: SOS. Get back to the apartment now.
She calls Sam before she's even out of the building, drumming her fingers against her thigh as she listens to the phone ring. Her anxiety spikes when the call rings through to Sam's voicemail.
Sam never ignores her calls.
She can't think of a single time when she's tried to call Sam in the past year that Sam hasn't picked up by the second ring, much less let her go to voicemail—especially after everything with the Baileys.
She sends Sam a series of rapidfire texts, hoping that maybe there's a perfectly normal, non-threatening explanation.
Tara: are you okay?
Tara: Mindy texted me, what's going on?
Tara: I'm worried, Sam, call me as soon as you get this.
She's debating trying to call Sam again when her phone starts to ring. Her heart sinks when she sees Mindy's name on the screen and not Sam's, but it's better than nothing.
"Mindy? What's going on? I tried to call Sam, but she's not answering, and —"
"Tara." Mindy sounds worried, and that's really not doing anything to make Tara feel better about the situation. "Tara, your mom is here."
"What? Like here in New York?" They haven't spoken in months, and Tara has deleted all of her texts and voicemails without looking at them.
"No, like, here at the fucking apartment."
"Fuck." She took the subway to get to class, but she doesn't have time to wait that long. She flags down a taxi instead and rattles off their address as she presses the phone to her ear. "Is Sam—"
"Yeah."
She can hear muffled sounds in the background of the call and her chest tightens as she imagines their mom in the apartment yelling at Sam. "I'm in a taxi, I'll be there in 20 minutes. Can you stay with her?"
"Of course. Just...hurry, okay?"
The call disconnects and Tara immediately dials her mom's number. She's hoping that maybe she can distract her, keep her attention off of Sam until she's able to get to the apartment, and she swears under her breath when the call goes straight to voicemail.
She leaps out of the cab before it even comes to a full stop in front of their building, throwing a few bills at the driver as she runs inside. She takes the stairs two at a time, unwilling to wait the extra few seconds for the elevator.
The shouting is audible as soon as she leaves the stairwell. Angry voices spill into the hall as she frantically fumbles with her keys, shouldering the door open.
She doesn't know what she's expecting to see when she finally steps into the apartment. Maybe their mom and Sam standing toe to toe, or even Sam pressing the advantage against their mom. Instead, she finds Sam standing with her back pressed against the wall in the living room, eyes downcast as their mother stands inches from her face and screams at her.
Mindy is hovering on the perimeter of the room, and when Tara catches her eye she gives a faint shake of her head.
"Hey!" Tara has to scream to be heard, and both her mom and Sam whip around to stare at her. She meets Sam's eyes for a second and takes a step towards her before something yanks at her arm, jerking her back.
"We're leaving," her mom snaps, hand fisting in Tara's jacket. Tara digs in her heels and tries in vain to twist free.
"I'm not fucking going anywhere with you," she says. "What the fuck are you even doing here?"
Her mom looks at her like she's stupid. "I'm getting you away from her." She spits the last word like it's something dirty as her eyes dart over to Sam. "I never should have let her take you with her."
"She didn't take me, I wanted to go with her!" Tara manages to pull free from her mother's grasp and stumbles backward. She feels a hand press against the small of her back, steadying her, and she knows that it's Sam without even turning to check. She leans into the touch for a second, letting it ground her, before refocusing on their mom.
"She's a killer, Tara." Their mom looks at her pityingly. "I don't know if you're in denial or if you're just not smart enough to see it, but—"
"Don't talk to her like that."
Tara blinks at the sudden venom in Sam's voice as she moves to stand between them, blocking her view of their mom.
"Your issues are with me, don't you dare try to take them out on her. Tara is smart, and resilient, and so fucking kind, and she is who she is in spite of you."
A warm glow settles in Tara's chest as Sam speaks, but she doesn't have time to dwell on it as she sees her mother's lip curl back in a snarl.
"Well, I might not win any mother of the year awards, but at least I've never been responsible for her getting stabbed."
Sam rocks back on her heels as the words land, and Tara snaps into action.
"Don't you fucking dare put that on her." She can't remember ever being this mad before. Her hands itch with the desire to lash out, and she clenches them into fists at her side. "Nothing that's happened is her fault. She's a better person than you could ever dream of being no matter who her dad is, and I would choose her over you every fucking time."
She takes some modicum of satisfaction in the shock that races across their mom's face, but it's not enough. She wants to twist the knife, wants to make their mom hurt the way that she's hurt both of them, and so she keeps talking. "You don't get to stand there and pretend like you're a saint. You're the one who went and fucked a serial killer—"
Their mom's hand swings back faster than she can react. She feels a sick sort of satisfaction as she braces herself for the blow, but it never comes.
Instead, Sam moves between them in the span of a heartbeat, and the crack of their mom's hand striking her face ricochets around the room like a bullet. Shrapnel lodges itself in Tara's chest as Sam staggers a little from the force of the hit, and she launches herself at their mom, arms outstretched and body primed to ensure that she never touches Sam again.
She collides with their mother with enough force to carry them both to the floor. Part of her wants to push the advantage, to set her hands around her mom's neck and make her pay for everything she's done to Sam — everything she's done to both of them. But the impulse to make sure that Sam is okay is stronger, and Tara pushes herself to her feet and turns to face Sam.
"Sam—"
"I'm good." Sam's voice is firm, but the words stand in stark opposition to the clear handprint emblazoned across her face. Tara's heart clenches as her eyes catch on a trickle of blood leaking from a cut high on Sam's cheekbone—from a ring, maybe—and she tries to remind herself that they've survived far worse than this.
She swallows back all the things she wants to say and just gives Sam a short nod before turning back to their mom.
"You have ten seconds to leave."
Their mom is back on her feet again, and she crosses her arms. "Or what? Are you going to call the cops on your own mother?"
"The cops are going to be the least of your worries if you don't get out of here." She grits her teeth against the desire to say more, to hold the threat of violence against their mother's throat like a blade. When their mom takes a step towards her, she moves forward to meet her until gentle pressure around her wrist stops her in her tracks.
Sam squeezes lightly, encouraging Tara to shift back. "Don't. It's not worth it."
Tara breathes in through her nose and holds it until her lungs ache. She disagrees fundamentally with Sam's statement. Because protecting Sam? That will always, always be worth it to her. She would fight anyone, their own mother included, if it means keeping Sam safe.
But she trusts Sam—more than she trusts herself, sometimes—and so she reluctantly nods. She pins their mom with a glare and jerks her head at the door.
"Go."
Their mom looks like she's going to argue, and part of Tara hopes that she does, hopes that she'll give them a reason to fight back. But then her shoulders drop and she takes a step back.
"Fine. But don't come crying to me when you end up on the wrong end of her knife one day."
She's out of the apartment before Tara can muster a response. Tara glances over to where Mindy is standing and feels a burst of gratitude when she sees Mindy silently set a kitchen knife down on the counter. She has no idea when Mindy grabbed it, but she appreciates the unspoken backup.
"Call Chad and Danny. Get them over here and make sure she doesn't come in the fucking building again."
Mindy nods and Tara turns so that she's facing Sam. The handprint is already beginning to bruise along the ridge of her cheekbone, and she offers Tara a weak smile. "I'm gonna go get cleaned up."
She turns and makes her way down the hall to the bathroom, and Tara quickly follows after her. The adrenaline is beginning to fade, leaving her woozy and light-headed, and she is almost desperate with the need to take care of Sam, to make sure that she's okay.
Sam meets her eyes in the mirror above the sink as she steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a quiet click. Tara moves closer until she's able to gently push at Sam's shoulder, guiding her down to sit on the edge of the tub as she says, "Let me get the first aid kit."
She pulls out the enormous box from under the sink and almost smiles at the label taped across the lid. Mindy jokingly dubbed it the In Case of Apocalypse kit after Sam insisted on stocking it with every type of ointment and bandage she could find, and Tara bites her lip at the reminder of how hard Sam tries to take care of all of them.
She grabs a washcloth and holds it underneath the tap, pressing the damp cloth against her wrist to make sure that she didn't run the water too hot. She kneels in front of Sam, intending to clean the cut on her cheek, and her heart cracks down the center when Sam flinches away from the touch.
"Shh, it's just me," she murmurs. "Let me take care of you, Sammy." The old nickname slips out unbidden, but it's enough to ease some of the shame from Sam's face as she nods.
Tara keeps her movements steady and light as she dabs at the cut, and it doesn't take long before she's managed to clean all traces of blood from Sam's face. She sets the washcloth down but can't help reaching back up to ghost the pads of her fingertips across Sam's cheek.
A sob catches in her throat as the guilt crashes over her all at once. "I'm sorry, Sam, I'm so sorry," she whispers. She tries to pull back when Sam's hands come up to cup her cheeks, thumbs brushing away her tears. The tender action burns, so much more than she feels like she deserves, but Sam doesn't let her move away.
"You have nothing to be sorry for," Sam says softly. "This wasn't your fault, Tara."
She sniffles. "It wasn't yours either." Sam's mouth ticks up in a wry smile at the response, and she shakes her head as she tugs Tara closer until Tara is able to bury her face in the curve of Sam's neck. She wraps her arms around Sam, splaying her fingers across her shoulder blades in a bid to keep her as close as possible, and she feels Sam press a kiss to the side of her head.
They sit like that for a few minutes before Tara sighs and uncurls herself. "We should get you some ice or something."
Sam lets Tara lead her into the kitchen and accepts the bag of frozen peas that Tara hands her, dutifully pressing it to her cheek. They're still sitting there when the apartment door opens, and Tara tenses as she prepares to physically throw their mother out if need be, only relaxing when she sees Mindy and Danny step inside.
"Chad's keeping an eye on things out front," Mindy says. "I'm pretty sure she's long gone, but better safe than sorry."
Tara nods gratefully as Danny comes over and leans down to kiss the top of Sam's head.
"How are you two doing?"
Sam shrugs. "Oh, you know. Just thought I'd get a jump on defrosting dinner."
"Very considerate of you," he says. He glances at Tara and then back to Sam before seeming to come to a decision. "Why don't you two go rest for a little? I can make us some food, and then this seems like the kind of day that calls for a really bad movie marathon."
It's a testament to how exhausted Sam is that she hardly protests as Tara tugs her up from the table and over to the couch. Tara fluffs a few pillows and grabs a blanket before settling in next to Sam. She smiles a little as Sam's arms automatically come up to encircle her, pulling her close as Mindy and Danny talk quietly in the kitchen.
Tara listens to Sam breathe, the sound lulling her into an almost meditative state as she burrows deeper into Sam's arms. "I meant it, you know," she whispers.
"Hmm?" Sam sounds half-asleep and Tara almost smiles, the fierce urge to protect Sam from anything and everything that might hurt her welling up all over again.
"When I said I would choose you. I meant it."
Sam's arms tighten around her. There's a beat of silence, and then she says, "I know." Another beat. "Thank you."
Tara sighs in contentment when one of Sam's hands comes up to stroke soothingly through her hair. There is more that still needs to be said, but for now, she allows herself the luxury of nuzzling into the soft material of Sam's shirt as they fall into a quiet doze together.