An Unchanged Soul
Chapter Eleven


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With a groan, Sam rolled over onto his back.  A
slight nudge of nausea in his throat bolted him
upright, and he shook his head, taking a deep
breath to clear the unwelcome feeling.  What the
hell happened?

The front door to the pub creaked to and fro in the
blustery wind, scattering sunlight over the shiny
floor.  Silence crept around him as he propped on
one hand, hanging his head.  A flash of white on
green caught his eye... Emma!

He crawled to her side, a litany of muttered curses
streaming from his mouth.  Carefully, he swept the
hair from her too-white face.  His hands, his
shaking, oversized paws, tried to keep from hurting
her as he rolled her over.  He hissed at the way
her small body fell limp into his embrace - stupid,
stupid!  God, had she hit her head?  Was she still
breathing?

"Emma," he choked out, cradling her like the most
precious of things.  "Emma, wake up.  Please."

He touched her face, her neck, spread his fingers
over her heart as he bent his head.  The steady
beat satisfied his somewhat, as did her soft exhale
against his cheek.  But he wouldn't be calmed until
she opened her eyes.

"God, Emma... wake up.  Please, sweetheart - don't
do this to me."  Over and over, he begged her to
open her eyes.  He prayed to a God he'd not given
much thought to in years, vowing to change his ways
once and for all if she'd just wake up.  "God,
please, let her wake up."

"Mmm..."

He caught his breath at the sound.  "Emma?"

Her head lolled on his arm and her eyebrows pinched
in a prelude to full awareness.  Her lips, starkly
red in an otherwise pale face, parted on a sigh. 
"Sam?"

A swift exhale punctuated his trembling smile as
her eyes opened.  Not quite back to normal, they
slowly drifted in a blue daze.  "Hey," he breathed,
"welcome back."

He saw the exact moment her faculties returned, as
she looked up with a piercing stare.  "Sam?"  Her
hand came up to cradle his cheek.  Her fingers were
still cold, and he covered them with his own,
willing his warmth into her body as his smile
cracked a bit with emotion.

"You scared me," he said.  Was that his voice?  It
sounded like a scratchy record.  "Are you okay?"

Her gaze searched his face with a bit of confusion. 
"I'm fine."  Suddenly, he found himself face-to-
face with a very aware Emma, as she sat up, her
hands going to his stained shirt.  "Oh God, Sam -
you're hurt!"

"Emma -" He tried to stall her frantic inspection,
to no avail.

"Let me see!  Sam, oh Sam... God, please -"

He let her lift his pullover, and winced at the
feel of her fingers on his flesh.  "I'm okay,
Emma," he said with soft insistence, though she
seemed not to hear him, her head bent to look.  She
bit back a choked sob at his hiss of displeasure.

"No you're not - I saw - I saw -" She couldn't get
the words past her lips, and he let her poke
around, knowing she wouldn't be satisfied until
she'd seen for herself.  "What -?"

"You know, for a nurse, you have mighty cold
fingers," he quipped, seeking to ease her tension. 
He was more worried about the fact he'd had to pick
her up from the floor like she was gone from him
forever.  The agony he'd felt seeing her limp form
stayed with him still, and he used gentle fingers
to lift her chin, as well as assure himself she was
unhurt.  "I'm okay, Emma," he said again, this time
looking into her eyes with solemn promise.

"But the blood... your shirt is stained!  I saw
him... the knife... I saw!" Her eyes filled with
tears, as if she relived the moment.

"You felt for yourself, Emma.  He didn't stab me,"
Sam insisted.  "The fool most likely cut himself
with his own knife.  That's the blood you see. 
His, not mine."

He could have kissed her then and there, watching
the way her lower lip trembled in an effort to
maintain her composure.  She had a strong will and
later, when her fiery, proud nature took hold once
again, she was liable to pounce on him for scaring
her that way - and extract a promise to never say a
word about her fright, especially to her father. 
He wouldn't, of course.  He knew she needed to be
strong in front of the world, and he'd never deny
her the dignity she wrapped around her like armor.

But all that flew straight from his head in the
next shocking instant.  All worry, all doubt, all
sanity - all promises of friendship and distance
gone the moment her lips touched his.

The kiss he so badly wanted, she gave him, her arms
curling around his neck with almost-desperation. 
For a second or two he stiffened, shock at her
overture immobilizing him.  It was as if she'd
jumped into the Severn in the middle of January, he
was so surprised at what she'd done.  She was a
kitten suddenly transforming into a tiger, her
teeth bumping against his as she sought entrance to
his mouth.

Still, her kiss was awkward, as if she'd not had
much practice.  He wasn't surprised by that - Emma
had 'innocent' practically stamped on her forehead,
despite her sharp tongue and bright intelligence. 
He should stop her, he thought.  Pull away and
laugh it off as leftover anxiety, giving her back
that dignity he vowed just moments ago never to
strip from her.

But he could no more stop his starving response
than he could stop breathing.  He took what she
offered with all his being, opening to her kiss
with a storm of feeling.  Under his pressure, she
whimpered in the back of her throat, and he
gentled, plying with lips and tongue as he recalled
this was Emma.  Emma, who, in other times, he
wouldn't have used in such a lustful manner.  Oh,
he would have been attracted to her certainly.  But
never would he have applied his calculated
seduction.  She was too cautious, too warm and
unknowing to treat like a more worldly woman.

She tasted like no other woman before her. 
Bringing his hand to her damp cheeks, he left her
for a moment, savoring the feel of her lips with
closed eyes.  It wasn't enough; with a groan of her
name, he came back.  She was home to him - all
things familiar and favored.  He kissed her as if
he'd known her all his life, as if he'd loved her
forever.

This time he bent her over his arm, protecting her
from the evils beyond their embrace.  She was more
precious to him than his own life, and he wanted
nothing more than to worship her in the only way he
knew how....

"What the devil?"  A harsh voice broke into the
miasma of desire.  "What in Hades happened here?"


**********


Emma pulled away from Sam, reality intruding in the
form of her father's gruff entrance.  With a
muttered, "Saints preserve us," she scrambled to
her feet, ignoring Sam's gaze, though she felt it
follow her retreat.  How was she to explain this?

She'd practically thrown herself at the man.  If
her father wasn't present, she'd curse, using words
even she and Dana were afraid to say aloud.  Her
father!  Dear God, had he seen her make a hussy of
herself with Sam?

On her feet at last, she turned to face his wrath. 
But in the next instant, she realized he'd seen
nothing - the curved edge of the bar by the door
had blocked his view.  Still, he looked like he'd
seen a ghost, and it wasn't until she looked down
she understood why.

Mike stood in the door, a bloodied knife in his
hand.  "Emma!" he nearly shouted, stepping over the
fallen mop to round the bar.  "Girl, are you okay? 
Emma, answer me!"  He was at her side before she
found her voice.

"I'm fine, Da."  She smoothed the sodden apron with
a shaky hand.  Still reeling from the events of the
last five minutes, she noted absently the
overturned bucket.  Water pooled at her feet, and
the sheer effort of looking down at the flood
drained her.

"Whoa, girl, take it easy."  Her father dropped the
knife and took her arm, gently steering her to the
kitchen, where he sat her in a chair.  "Tell me
what happened."  He ran to the sink and returned
with a glass of water, which she took gratefully.

Between sips, she told him of their unwelcome
visitor, how the man had meant to rob them until
Sam stepped in the middle of the conversation.

"I thought he'd been hurt, Da," she whispered,
still unable to believe Sam had escaped harm.  "I
guess I must have fallen down.  I don't remember
much after that."

"That's because you passed out."

Sam stood in the kitchen doorway, hands in pockets. 
Even with the distance separating them, Emma saw
his eyes were a dark, stormy gray, very unlike
their usual soft, changeable hazel.  He didn't
waver in his stare, the look he gave her somber yet
challenging.  Deny me, it said.  Pretend it didn't
happen.

God, she couldn't deal with him right now, she
thought, as she lowered her chin to break the hold
of his gaze.  It was bad enough she'd thought he'd
been hurt.  Now, his whole demeanor spoke of his
intention to discuss what had happened afterward. 
And worse, to take up where they'd left off.  Thank
goodness for her father's interruption - and even
more so, for his steady presence at her side since
then.

"Is that true, Emma?"  Mike crouched before her,
taking both her hands in his.  "Are you hurt,
girl?"

"No, Da - I'm not hurt.  And I didn't pass out." 
Actually, she didn't know what had happened, but
she wasn't one for fainting, never had been.  She
had the constitution of an ox; it had served her
well in the Emergency Room.

"I couldn't wake you up."  Sam again, this time
with an impatience that spoke of his concern for
her.  She wondered if that was truly the case - or
did he just want to hurry things along so they
could talk?

"Did you hit your head when you fell, Emma?  Maybe
I should take you to the hospital for -"

"No!"  She raised her head in a panic, not wanting
to cause her father any anguish with a trip to the
hospital.  "I told you I was fine, Da.  Maybe it
was just the shock of it all.  He looked like such
a nice boy."

"A nice boy with a switchblade," Sam muttered.

Mike stood and faced Sam.  "You're all bloody, lad. 
You sure you weren't hurt?"

"I'm okay, Mike.  I think the guy slipped up and
caught his own palm with the knife."  Sam sighed,
and Emma knew by the sound he'd temporarily given
up his pursuit of her.  Her suspicions were
confirmed when he added, "I'm going to call the
police, Mike.  The guy's probably long gone by now,
but we need to report it."

"Sure, lad.  I'll sit with Emma.  Lock the front
door just in case, okay?"

Emma heard Sam leave the doorway, but only after
feeling the burn of his gaze sweep over her one
more time.  No way was he letting her leave there
without a word or two, she could see it coming. 
She hated to do it, but maybe it was time to play
on her father's sympathy.

"Da?"

"Yes, love?"  Mike pulled out another chair to sit
close beside her.  One arm came around her
shoulders and she leaned into his embrace with a
sigh.

"After you speak to the police, can we go home?"

"Sure you don't want me to take you to see a
doctor?"

"I'm just tired, Da.  It's been a long day.  I
never thought anyone would ever try to steal from
us, or hurt us.  It's upsetting."

"To say the least," Mike agreed, giving her a
reassuring hug.  "Every one in the town knows the
Scullys - if they need, all they have to do is
ask."

"He looked like he hadn't had a decent meal in
days, Da," she whispered.  "I offered to get him
something to eat, but it was like he didn't hear
me.  He kept saying how sorry he was, but he had to
do it.  He needed money.  I don't know how anyone
could do that to you... to *steal* from you."

"Maybe he was new in town, Emma."  She felt a soft,
trembling kiss brush her forehead.  "Doesn't
matter.  All that matters is you're safe, girl. 
'Tis a good thing Sam was here.  If you'd been
alone...." He broke off, his stoicism suffering a
bit from emotional upset, as if he'd finally
realized how disastrous the afternoon could have
turned out.

"But I wasn't, Da."  Emma took his hand; his
fingers wrapped around hers in a viselike grip, but
she didn't complain.  For all his gruff manner and
courageous front, her father was very susceptible
to fear, just like everyone else.  "Sam was here." 
Just in case her father had seen more than he
should have, she added, "He's a good man, Da."

"That he is, Emma.  I owe him one after this, that
I do."

Her father wasn't the only one who owed Sam.  But
he *was* the only one likely to get off with light
payment.


**********


His brother made it to the pub right after the
police arrived.  Of course, it was just like Fox to
tear up the road to see for himself Sam was okay,
even though Sam had told him not to worry.  He'd
debated even calling Fox, but knew it wouldn't do
to have his brother hearing the news from someone
else.

Sam sat at the bar, listening with half an ear to
the cops murmur to one another as they looked
around for any evidence.  The knife had been picked
up, but that was about it for anything to point a
finger in the guy's direction.  And even then, Mike
had touched it, so it was likely any fingerprints
would be useless.  So much for catching the bad
guy, Sam thought as he sipped at a glass of water.

Fox, after checking on him with a concerned glance
at the stained shirt, was in the kitchen with Mike
and Emma.  Sam hadn't wanted to call Fox, mainly
because he knew exactly what he'd hear.  Just one
day out from under his brother's watchful guard and
he fell into trouble, even if none of it was his
fault.  It didn't matter what Fox would lay on him
when he returned from the kitchen - he wasn't
giving up this job, nor was he moving back to that
cozy little house of his brother's.  In Sam's mind,
he was now on his own, and it would stay that way
until Mike kicked him out.

Or Emma made her father get rid of him with a wild
tale of unwanted sexual advances.

No, she wasn't the type to invent stories, not even
to save herself from embarrassment or
confrontation.  And there *would* be a showdown
between the two of them, that much he was sure of. 
She could avoid him all she wanted, put her father
before him like a big, brawny roadblock, or pretend
nothing had happened on the floor altogether - but
he damned well was not going to rest until they
talked about that kiss.

That wasn't a kiss between two friends, not by a
long shot.  She couldn't look him in the eye and
tell him any differently without looking like a
fool.  He could hardly wait until he had her alone
again.  Knowing her agile mind, she'd be prepared
with a list of reasons explaining her behavior,
none of which would satisfy him until she admitted
what he'd known from the beginning - they were hot
for each other.  That it took a near brush with
injury or death to bring it out wasn't unusual;
they were both strong people unwilling to give in
unless prodded a bit by extenuating circumstances.

In this case, a bloody shirt and a dead faint.

"Sam?"

Fox appeared at his side, and Sam looked up with a
steady stare.  "Don't say it, because I'm not going
anywhere."

"I know you aren't."  Fox slumped into the stool
beside him, his long arms paralleling Sam's as they
stretched out in front of him.  "It would do no
good for us to argue about it, so I won't even
try."

Sam swallowed down the lump of panic that had
shoved up his throat at Fox's return.  He'd been
prepared to argue until doomsday, though he'd not
really felt up to it; he was glad Fox realized the
futility of an argument.  Or maybe not, as his
brother faced him with a narrowed gaze.  "I will
say this, however - stop acting like Superman."

"What?"

"You heard me.  From what Emma says, you told the
guy to beat it, even though he'd drawn a knife on
you.  You're lucky he didn't gut you right there,
you idiot.  Next time, give him the God damned
money."

"He drew the knife *after* I told him to get lost," 
Sam answered with a sniff of pride.  "And it wasn't
my money to give - it was Mike's."

"I don't give a shit whose money it was!"  After a
glance at the officer behind them, Fox lowered his
voice as he leaned it to drive his point home. 
"This isn't high school, Sam.  You can't intimidate
the smaller kids with your size anymore.  And it
damn well isn't the army, where you had a dozen men
ready to back you up with rifles.  That guy could
have killed you in a second, and then gone for
Emma."

Sam swallowed at the image, staying silent.

"It's time you learned you can't always be the
winner, Sam.  There will be times you'll have to
back down, times you'll have to walk away.  This
was one of them.  You were lucky this time.  Next
time you may not be so lucky."

Still, Sam couldn't shake the last traces of
obstinance.  "All he had was a knife, Smokey.  I've
faced down knives before."

Fox threw up his hands with a huff.  "Don't
'Smokey' me, you lamebrain.  Next thing you'll be
telling me is that you've beaten bullets.  Superman
lives only in the comics, Sam."  He pinched at the
blood-stained shirt, rising from his stool. 
"Remember that."  He nodded to the police officer,
then walked out.

Sam sat, pondering his brother's warning with a
yearning for a shot of whiskey.  Damn it, he'd
saved the girl *and* the pub - wasn't that worth
even a nod of recognition?  Instead, all he'd
gotten so far was the brush off from Mike and an
ass-chewing from Fox.  He would never have put Emma
in any danger; it had all happened so fast, he
didn't have time to think.  If he'd had a moment's
thought, maybe he would have just given over the
money and suffered the humiliation of cowardice. 
But he hadn't, and what's done was done.  Fox
should thank him instead of jumping on him.

"Sam?  We're leaving now."

He looked up to see Mike standing beside him. 
"Where's Emma?"

"Already in my car - I'm driving her home.  I'll
send Jaime over later for her vehicle.  She's still
not quite calm enough to drive, I think."

Craning his neck around Mike's bulky form, Sam saw
her sitting in the front passenger seat.  Well, he
hadn't expected her to stop and chat, but the least
she could have done was say good night.  He got up
from the stool with a sigh.  "She okay?"

"Right as rain, thanks to you, son."

Except she wouldn't even look in his direction,
though she was bound to know he was staring out the
window at her - what a little coward.  They were
going to have it out, and soon, he promised
himself.

The lights of the patrol cars faded away as the
cops left; he hadn't even noticed their departure. 
"Then that's it?  What did they say?"

"They likely won't catch the guy," Mike replied. 
"They get a call or two like this around Christmas
every year.  People tend to need money more, so
they get it any way they can.  What's this world
comin' to?"  He wrapped his coat tighter around
him, then extended his hand.  "Well, it's glad I am
you're here, lad.  You done good today."

It was about time someone congratulated him on his
heroics.  Sam took Mike's hand with a small smile. 
"Thanks.  I'm glad I was here too, Mike."

The older man smiled in return, then leaned closer
as his smile became guarded.  "Next time, though -
let him have the money, lad.  I don't leave all
that much in the cash register, and it's not worth
losing your life over, you ken?"

Sam looked at his boss with a lopsided grin,
wondering if maybe there was something to be said
for backing down from a fight.  "Fox just told me
the same thing."

"Your brother's a smart man.  Not that you aren't,
Sam.  But I'd hate to see you throw away something
fine for something worthless like pride."

In the deepening dusk outside, Sam could barely
make out Emma's profile as she sat in her father's
car.  Even pale as she still was, she made him want
to shake her for running out that way without
giving him a chance to talk to her.

"She's a good woman, Sam."

He dragged his eyes from their single-minded stare
out the window to face a solemn Mike.  Of course -
Mike had noticed him looking at Emma.  Damn, he'd
probably seen every little thing between the two of
them in Sam's face, maybe even had seen the liplock
on the floor.  Would he now get the third degree
from a protective father?  He supposed he deserved
it, and he straightened his shoulders, bracing for
the lecture.  But not before he put in his two
cents on the subject.  "She is," he agreed.  "A
good, *grown* woman."

"Now don't be getting all roostered up on me, lad,"
Mike chuckled, reaching into his pocket for his
keys.  "It's not my business what's between you
two... until you *make* it my business by hurting
her.  You understand?"

"I'd never hurt Emma, Mike."

"I know you wouldn't, Sam.  A word of warning,
though, about my little Emma... she's very
headstrong.  She won't be pushed into anything by
anyone."  Mike winked, pulling down the brim of his
hat.  "Sometimes all it takes with her is a bit of
space.  Some time to come around.  See that you
remember that."  Whistling, he left the pub.

Sam stood inside the closed door, slamming the lock
home as he watched the two of them drive away.

Headstrong, stubborn, just plain hardheaded. 
Whatever word you put to it, it fit Emma to a 'T'. 
What she hadn't yet realized was that he shared
that same trait.

And the battle was just beginning.


**********


Emma breathed her first relaxed breath as they
rounded the corner.  It was cowardly of her to slip
by Sam, leaving her father to bid him good night
and thanks, but she needed some room.  

"Nice night."

Lovely.  Her father sat behind the wheel, whistling
a little Irish ditty like the day was just another
uneventful Sunday.  His comment on the night was
sure to be followed by another, more probing
statement.  Then another, and another, until he
finally got around to the subject he *really*
wanted to discuss.  She wasn't in the mood for it,
and let him know it.

"Okay, spill it."

"Spill what?"  He kept foot to the pedal and his
eyes on the road, but his voice slowed to a drawl. 
"Seems to me you did a nice enough job of that with
the mop water."  His face cracked into a disarming
smile, and she couldn't help but grin along with
him.  Maybe she was being paranoid about the whole
scene with Sam.  If her father hadn't commented on
it yet, that meant he hadn't seen it all.  No way
could Michael Aloysius Scully hold his tongue about
his children's lives if he felt compelled to do so
- and her throwing herself at Sam that waay surely
would have qualified for a little of Mike Scully's
concern, as well as a bit of fatherly ribbing.

"We did, didn't we?" she answered, smoothing her
coat over her lap with a wistful look.  She was
tired and she knew her father sensed her need for
some calm, bless him.  She could tell the afternoon
had unsettled him; though the tension of before had
faded from his face, he still glanced her way now
and then as if he expected her to go into another
faint at any second.

"Emma?"

"Yes, Da?"

"I know I don't tell you nearly often enough... but
I love you, girl."

Now she really was going to cry; her father was
blustery and he easily spouted platitudes to her
so-called beauty and charm, but he wasn't the
emotional sort who used words like 'love' lightly. 
He really must have gotten a scare today, she
thought.

"I love you too, Da."  She put her hand on his arm. 
"I know I scared you today, but I'm all right,
really I am."

"Me poor heart fairly stopped when I saw that
knife, Emma."  His gruff statement echoed her own
sentiment, as she recalled the way she'd seen the
knife sweep down toward Sam.

She was so sure he'd been stabbed.  The awful
feeling of dread still lingered, and she forced it
away, unwilling to let her father dwell on it by
adding to his fear with a remark about Sam. 
Instead, she smiled, giving him a bit of sunshine.

"Look at it this way, Da - we've had our bit of bad
luck for the year."  Her father, the oldest of
three brothers, had spent his youth in Ireland
before emigrating to the States with his family;
her uncles Bill and James were young at the time,
but Mike Scully had spent enough time in the
motherland for superstition to take hold.  Emma,
while never believing in omens like black cats and
birds, respected her father's beliefs and sought to
ease them whenever possible.

"Let's hope so, Emmagirl," he replied softly. 
"Let's hope so."


**********


Sam trudged up the stairs in near darkness,
suddenly tired beyond belief.  The day's near
disaster had drained him, and he wanted nothing
more than to get out of his stained clothes and
shower before hitting the sack.

He pulled the string above the sink in the tiny
bathroom, wincing at the blare of light.  The face
in the mirror had a shadow of stubble and the eyes
were a bit haunted, but he didn't feel like
shaving.  There was time for that tomorrow.  The
splash of red on his shirt caught his eye; his hand
came up to touch the stiff stain.  Slowly, he
raised the hem of the shirt.

Nothing.  The skin beneath it was smooth.  He still
felt the blade pierce him, but maybe it had been
nothing more than leftover anxiety from the past
few days.  After all, no one could blame him for
being a little antsy since he had no idea what his
life had been like for the past two years.  The guy
with the knife hadn't acted like he knew Sam, but
these days, he couldn't be sure.  Maybe he'd made
many enemies he knew nothing of anymore.

Or maybe he was just going crazy, like he feared
would happen at any second.

He relaxed, hanging his head with embarrassment,
though there was no one around to see.  What a
dope, he told himself.  He hadn't been stabbed,
there were no wiseguys lurking around every corner. 
He really needed to lighten up.

Pulling the sweatshirt over his head, he turned for
the bathtub then stilled, feeling his heart jump in
his chest.  His hand caught in the folds of the
shirt and he felt a brush of cooler air caress the
tip of one finger.  Bringing the fabric up to the
light, he squinted at the stain that marred the 'L'
in Yale.

One finger poked out through the red, waving at him
like a caterpillar popping up from red dirt.  A
perfect slit in the material surrounded that
finger, and his mouth went dry.

The cut was the size of a switchblade knife.



End Chapter Eleven