This is a Sam/Amelie fic set during Carpe Corpus

I know I've written variations on this scene many times, but I had this idea and I wanted to write it, so


"No."

Amelie's tone is firm and decisive as she looks up at Sam, her attention immediately distracted from the plans of Morganville in her hands. His face is enough to remove any focus upon anything else in the world that she may have because it means that he's here, with her; for the first time in fifty years, they've been able to spend more than a fleeting moment together…and it's almost worth being an outcast in her own town to have this.

His expression isn't happy though, for she's denying him the one thing he wants: to fight alongside her. "And why not?" he snaps—or as close to a snap as Sam, her gentle angel, can get to—as he takes another step towards her. Now, only a small wooden table separates their bodies, and Amelie takes a moment to calm herself before she answers.

"You're not to be risked!" Her tone is sharper now, yet more open—she knows that emotion seeps through every word she says, and she doesn't care. "I don't understand why you don't understand this, Samuel, for I have said it many times. You are not to do anything that could—"

"Result in my capture or potential death," he finishes for her, and Amelie shrinks back almost imperceptibly at the coolness of his tone. "Yes, yes, you've said that more times than I think you've ever said 'I love you' to me, I get it. I thought that you'd just maybe come to your senses about me…I guess I was wrong."

He walks away from her before she can say anything, and Amelie barely resists burying her head in her hands; Oliver's due in the room any minute now to discuss this first, near-silent attack upon Bishop's strongholds in Morganville, and it wouldn't do for him to see her weak. It wouldn't help anyone besides herself, and relief from that would even be fleeting.

With her greatest effort, Amelie pushes all emotion away from the surface of consciousness and refocuses upon the maps, determined to save them all before she saves her relationship with Sam.


Sam's hands linger upon her collarbone as he finishes tying her cloak together, his touch a gentle caress. Even though there are many others around them, his lips move closer to hers and Amelie has to resist every fibre of her being that desires their lips to meet.

"You're not coming with us," Amelie whispers, her voice barely more than a breath, and the look on Sam's face hardens once more. "I am aware that it isn't particularly a dangerous mission—"

"You can say that again," he mutters, interrupting Amelie.

She pauses for a moment, allowing her gaze to harden as their eyes meet once more, before continuing. "However, you are not old enough to engage upon a mission which involves sustained periods of time out in the sun, with only minimal protection. This means I cannot take you."

Her tone is softer than when he asked her before to be included on one of their missions because he's right; he should be allowed to come. Yet she can't risk him—though she won't say that after his reaction before—and as her grip upon his hand tightens, Amelie closes her eyes, securing the image of Samuel behind her eyes.

"I understand," he breathes in her ear, and the closeness of his body to her own startles Amelie. She didn't realise that he had moved so close to her, and as her eyes fly open, she notices that her head is almost upon his chest. "I'll miss you whilst you're gone."

"And I you, Samuel," is her response, to which Sam smiles. "I shall see you shortly."

His lips move to press a lighter than air kiss upon her left cheek, before his presence disappears entirely, taking with him her emotions.

"Are you quite finished?" Oliver barks, and as Amelie turns to face him, she finds herself rolling her eyes.

"Not that it is any of your business but yes, I am," she snaps.

Striding quickly in the direction of the hole to take them to the surface, Amelie lifts her hood to cover her head, and for a brief moment her fingers linger upon where Sam kissed. Almost immediately, however, she removes her hand and allows it to slide down to rest against her side; sentimentality is something that will get her killed.

At least, that's what she's always believed.


"You've always liked roses."

Sam's voice startles Amelie, and she turns from the rose bush to face the man fast approaching. He's dressed in jeans and a shirt that she's never seen before, and Amelie's surprised to say that it suits her beau; he'd fit in just as well in this decade as he did in the one she met him in, which is something that many vampires are unable to say.

"I have," she says simply, not sure what to say. Amelie suddenly realises that her hair isn't in its usual crown, but rather in soft curls around her face; she didn't expect anyone to disturb her here, in the one place of solace that she's kept throughout the past six months, not on the last night of her life.

Or so she thinks, anyway.

"You look beautiful with your hair down," Sam murmurs as, all too soon, their bodies are mere inches from one another. "Even more beautiful than normal, I mean."

It takes every ounce of effort to take a step back from her beau, though Amelie's eyes never leave Sam as she does so. "Why are you here?" she whispers. "I asked to be alone…and…"

"When do I ever listen to what you say?" he laughs, and Amelie has to smile; he's telling the truth. "Anyway, I'm here to tell you what I'm doing. I don't want to hear that I'm not allowed to do it, because I've already spoken to Myrnin and Oliver and they're more than happy to allow me to—"

"What are you talking about?" Amelie sighs, reaching out to take Sam's hand. It's something she's allowing herself on this last night of life; she's going to be captured in the morning, it's all been arranged, and so she feels she can allow herself this last vice.

The words Sam's mouth form don't make sense to her, nor the sounds that come out of his mouth, because she doesn't want them to. "I'm taking the poison, too."

"No," she gasps a few moments later, as finally, they make sense in her mind. "No, Samuel, you cannot do that! I refuse to allow—you knew I would say this, didn't you? That's why you went to Myrnin and Oliver first." It all makes sense to her now, not that clarity brings anything but horror to her now.

He nods, reaching into his pocket for a vial of clear liquid, the exact same as the one that rests inside Amelie's pocket. "Myrnin said that this should be enough, is that right?"

"You can't do it, Sam!" Amelie cries out, the agony tearing through her voice. "I won't allow it, I can't allow it!"

Sam doesn't say a word in response. Instead, he reaches forwards and presses his lips to hers, as gently as the kiss upon her cheek from before, yet with one thousand times more emotion in it. "That's the first time that I can recall you calling me Sam."

A small laugh escapes Amelie's lips, her grip upon Sam's hand tightening as she laughs. "That hardly seems the thing to be worrying about when you consider the fact that you're planning on risking your life—more than risking it—to be with me upon that stage."

Shaking his head, Sam replaces the vial in his pocket so that his hand is free to take Amelie's other, pulling her against his chest. She allows him to do this without a fuss, resting her head above his motionless heart.

"I wouldn't want to be in the world if you died, Amelie," he whispers into her ear, moving away curls of hair to do so. "Anyway, I don't want you to be up there alone; there'd be nothing worse than seeing you in your last moments completely and utterly alone, let me tell you that. There's nothing that you can do to change my mind, so please, just accept that I'm going there with you, and allow this last night together to be special. Please?"

The pleading tone of his voice makes Amelie accept that she never really had a choice; she could deny him before, but now that he's bypassed her to make his own decision, she has no influence over what Sam Glass does. And anyway, she's never wanted to control him; she's always been unwilling to do anything to oppose his free will.

"Very well," she sighs, moving her head from Sam's chest so that she can look at him. Only then, as she notices the wet patch upon his shirt, does she realise that she has been crying silently, droplets sliding down her cheeks and leaving their mark. "But please, don't do anything stupid, samu—Sam."

He doesn't say anything, only wipes away a tear from her cheek and presses his lips to the spot where he wiped it from.

"I mean it," Amelie whispers, though there's nothing to her voice, no fierceness or determination or anything other than love. "I mean it, Sam…if you don't come away from the stage alive, I'll never forgive myself."

"Never regret," is Sam's response. "Don't regret me if that doesn't happen; I'll do my damndest to get us both away from there, Amelie, but if not…never regret."

"But…" she begins, but Sam cuts her off with a small, chaste kiss upon her lips that leaves Amelie wishing for more.

"No buts," he tells her firmly. "We've got tonight; let's make it special. And you've argued enough with me to last another three lifetimes together, Amelie, we need not add to it tonight."

(Little does Amelie know that acquiescing to this request has signed Sam's death warrant—saying no to the man she loves for the third time would have saved his life.)

(This knowledge won't help her now, though, only add to her guilt.)


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