Three Hours and Twelve Minutes

by Nienor

Sean sits in the plush chair, his hands neatly folded in his lap and his back straight. Here, among all these people, just these ones, he should not have to hold the pose, should not have to maintain the terrible implacable poise, but he does because Dom's behind him with Elijah and he's nervous, waiting for the stinging wet spitball flick against his ear or the sly chuckle or the sound of a stolen kiss or all of the above.

Christine nestles into her seat next to him, comfortable, already riveted to the screen and oblivious to everything else, and the music has barely started.

He isn't looking forward to this and she knows it. They all know it. He hasn't been ever since the official running-time leaked out; he learned about it on TORN before his agent ever called. He looks at his watch. This is gonna be the longest three hours and twelve minutes he ever sat through, reminding himself every second that he can't do anything...

...except let it go.

...Let it go.

...Let him go.

...Them.

All of them.

Elijah, Dom, Sam, Frodo. Let them all go. Time will swirl them away down the plughole and leave this pain a fading memory. It won't be long now. He doesn't think he'll have to do much publicity after the Oscars are over, because who'll want him then? No chance he'll be setting a golden statue on his mantel, not with Sam's best scenes littering the cutting-room floor like bloody teeth knocked out of a smile.

He wants to chuckle because even with that, even with that gaping wound slashed right through him, through Sam, he's the lucky one. He could be Christopher Lee, whose noble indignation and threats to boycott the Academy if "Return" didn't snag best picture look pretty sad and laughable right about now. At least Sam's still in the fucking film.

If his mother ever taught him anything, it's that you damn well better find a way to look on the bright side, no matter how bad things are-- because if you admit how bad off you are, then you've got nothing. But if you don't, then you're the survivor. You're the amazing one, the strong one, the winner who gets knocked down but just keeps on coming back for more.

You're Sam, Sam like he was in the books, if you can do that.

So maybe Sam exists after all, somewhere deep inside Sean, listening to Valinor receding over his shoulder while he sits with Elanor and Rosie making a perfect little picture on his right hand side, and with little Goldilocks asleep in his lap, one hand curled into a spidery little fist between two buttons of her daddy's shirt.

Or maybe Sam's hope was useless, like every hope in Sean's life has always turned out to be. Maybe Sam was dead inside after it was all over and Frodo left him. Maybe he put on a facade just like Sean always has, turning to Rose to dull the pain, feeling empty and hollow and done with, rejected and abandoned, a has-been.

Sean doesn't know.

He sits back, puts a polite, interested smile on his face like a test pattern, and wonders how the hell he'll ever manage to spin the interviews.

He's got three hours and twelve minutes to figure it out.

-finis-

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