Once a Nerd

a/n: Another two chapters in one, so it's long. Hope I wrapped up this out-of-nowhere plot point in a satisfactory way. I'm not a cop, lawyer, or doctor, so if you work in any of those professions, don't dog me too hard if you're like 'that's not how any of this works, bruh.' Googling can only get me so far, and I feel bad bothering strangers on Reddit. Also, I'm starting to feel bad for posting this on Literotica, because the last...what, two or three chapters? No EROTICA to be found. But for those who do care about the plot, here you go.

This story will go for maybe two or three more chapters, then I'm officially putting the nail in the coffin. As always, check my bio for updates. For those who've enjoyed it and take time to comment, thank you so much for your kind words/constructive criticism/ideas/support. It means the world to me, seriously.

TW's: nothing crazy, just the obvious aftermath of SA. Don't come at me for Sam's behavior at the end, he's not as 'okay' as he's putting on. My man's just doing his best.

There's no room or energy for discomfort, at least.

Warm, dry air blasts from the vents. Our clothes are so waterlogged, I'm sure to be pruned once peeled out of them. Whatever Matt slipped me, I'm left sleepy, heavy, and sick. My head pounds. My glasses are missing, I can't remember when they were last on my face. They might've knocked off in the street, or the backseat of my car. My phone, leftovers, and giftbag are also up in the air. Dean has my keys, and my wallet's still safe in the depths of my pocket.

That's good.

Rishad doesn't need directions to my apartment, and he's driving with eyes fixed forward and hands at a strict ten and two. Tonight's the first time we've actually met, or had any kind of direct communication. Such an awful first impression. Neither of us say anything for several minutes after leaving Dean behind in that lot, and while I'm racking my brain, it's borderline nonfunctioning. So, it earns a jump when he suddenly asks:

"...you okay?"

I want to lie for decorum's sake. I don't want him to be more uncomfortable than I'm sure he already is, or burden a stranger with my emotional load. But, I don't have the energy for decorum either.

"No." It's a brittle admission. "I'm not."

"Did...do you want to...talk about it? Talking helps, sometimes."

...do I? Should I?

"I don't know. I don't know what to say."

"Did you, ah, know...him? That guy?"

"Yeah, he's a friend of a friend. He's always been a prick, but I never...expected he'd—"

"I don't think anyone

expects

it, Sam. You didn't do anything wrong, okay?"

"...didn't I? I shouldn't have let my guard down like that. I should've told someone he was giving me problems

weeks

ago. He's been a complete dick since we met, I just didn't think...he'd take it this far. He fucking slipped me something."

"Oh, shit." Rishad glances over, nervous. "Do you feel sick? You got hit in the face, too, right? Should we go to the hospital? Ah, I mean, if you want to press charges, we definitely should—"

"I want to go home."

"But—"

"What about you? You're really okay with all of this? Whatever he did wrong, he could

die.

Dean...Dean might have actually killed him."

I'm not trying to paint Dean in a bad light, it's just the truth of the matter. A heavy, unavoidable truth. We have no way of knowing if Matt will pull through or not, and if he doesn't, that's a big secret to shoulder on another person's behalf. It wasn't just disclosed to him, Rishad

witnessed

it. Eventually, his own sense of morality might drive him to a confession. Personally, I'm praying for Matt's survival, if only because it won't be as severe of a crime should Dean come out as the perpetrator.

If he dies, however, you won't exactly catch me in mourning. It's just...the uncertainty. More uncertainty for a future that's already so precarious. Dean was actively trying to kill Matt, and so I'm sure he'd prefer him not to survive. I could see it loudly expressed in his face, tone, and body language. As always, he's unconcerned with any consequence. If it meant Matt would pay appropriately for his crime, Dean was all too comfortable flushing away his scholarship, his chance at the League, and his general freedom. Us.

"I'm...I'm not sure, honestly. It's hard to say I'm 'okay' with anything, but it just felt...like the right thing to do. Dean has that effect, I think. He's always so sure of himself, of everything. That man did something horrible to you, and while it might not be our place to pass judgment, we do it...all the time."

Rishad sounds confused, uncertain, guilty, and a little afraid. He's shaken, but he also believes in what he's just said. Morality, in most cases, is a gray scale, and some people commit atrocities deserving of death. Frankly, it's all philosophical bullshit. Crime's a crime's a

fucking crime.

If Dean killed Matt, Matt drugged and very nearly raped me in the back of my car.

Who actually gives a fuck what happens to him.

If anyone can stomach the magnitude of taking a life, it's Dean. In fact, I don't believe it'll cast the slightest shadow on his conscience.

Dean exists somewhere between clinical apathy and primitivism. He doesn't view the world through a neurotypical lens. While he isn't lacking in confidence or Ego, he's quick to devalue himself in circumstances he considers dire. There isn't much he considers dire.

"Um, we're..."

My apartment leers through the windshield. Some windows are uncomfortably pitch, some are Christmas showcases brandishing the shape of twinkling trees. The stairwell spills jaundiced light on the sidewalk. I should be relieved to see it, but I'm ill at the thought of ascending to my floor alone. My chest is tight. Dean's not up there. For all I know, he won't come at all. Soaked to the soul, busted knuckles, counting all the spots the paint's chipped away from the ceiling of a dated cell. If he doesn't come home, I—

"Sam!" Rishad's got a firm hand on my shoulder, jostling me.

I flinch. My eyes feel huge in my face. Dry. I'm lightheaded. I wasn't breathing properly. Short, sharp whistles that spread too little oxygen to the organs in need. Rishad looks pained.

"Sorry, fuck. I'm sorry. I'm fine."

"You're

not

fine. Should I—?"

"No, no. You've done way too much."

"Dean...wouldn't want you to be alone."

Rishad's developed some sort of loyalty towards Dean, and I think he's driven by that more than any desire to mollycoddle me. He doesn't want to disappoint Dean, or leave room for him to feel upset or betrayed. Just as Dean displayed the ability to make clear, concise choices in a critical situation, whether they were right or not, Rishad wants to step up to the plate in his stead. Or, maybe it's a bit of both. Maybe he's just that kind.

"You got me home, that's more than enough." I harden my expression, attempting to impart the seriousness of it all. "You—you didn't have to do any of this, and whatever you choose to do after, I'll never blame you for it, okay? Dean won't either. You're your own person, so just...do whatever you think is right."

Rishad frowns, confused. "What do you—? You think...I'd snitch? On Dean?"

"If that's what you want to call it. If Matt dies, that's...a really heavy secret, and if it's making you miserable to keep it, or if you become a suspect—"

It seems Rishad's found some resolve on the last leg of the drive, because he's aghast at the idea. "I'm not worried about 'what if's' right now."

"...alright."

"Will you at least let me walk you to your door?"

"Sure."

As soon as it leaves my mouth, I realize I'm at a point of no return. It's difficult to think clearly, but I understand the repercussions of not being seen by a medical professional. Whatever evidence exists in my car, there's more on my person. Epithelial tissue galore has to be caked under my nails for how much I clawed and struck out. I can barely bring myself to think it, but there might even be traces of semen left behind. If I go upstairs, alone, I won't be able to resist the pull of a shower so hot, it's nothing but sterilizing.

I have no idea what course of action to take after the dust is settled. I'm not sure if Matt will survive long enough to take to court. Dean's already somewhat lied to dispatch, and there's no telling if he'll keep up the ruse with those responding to the scene. If anyone possesses the pure charisma to Bundy their way out of an arrest, it's him. Whatever that says about his personality, good or bad, it's fully in his wheelhouse to pull off. However, even if he walks away tonight, it's likely any in-depth investigation will circle back to his doorstep.

He needs all the aid he can get should the worst come to pass, and as desperately as I want to, I can't bring myself to wash so much of it down the drain.

"Actually, can I...borrow your phone?"

Rishad offers it immediately, and with Dean otherwise occupied, there's only one person in the entire world I can rely on. I punch in that same sequence of numbers I memorized at the age of six, squishing the receiver against my ear. It's answered on the fifth ring, because Mom always answers unregistered numbers. Just in case, she'd say.

"Jane Powell speaking."

"...Mom."

"Sammy?"

Her tone cuts with anxiety, sensing something is drastically amiss.

"What's going on? Where are you?"

"Home. Can you—"

"I'll be right there. Can you stay on this line?"

"No, I'm borrowing it."

"Sit tight, baby. Ten minutes."

"Okay."

Passing it back to him, there's a knot already loosening in my chest. One of many, the rest still too snarled up to touch. "Thank you."

"She's coming...?"

"Yeah."

Letting Rishad aid me was the right call, as I'm in worse shape than I thought. Everything's stiff, achy. My coordination hasn't returned, and my arm ends up looping his neck. Movement blurs my vision. There's a clanging pain in the crown of my head, and the urge to vomit returns. Two flights is equivalent to Sisyphus' eternal struggle with the boulder. Rishad unearths the spare key under my breathless direction, and I'm again daunted by the thought of being left alone in my apartment.

I won't ask him for more, however. Rishad has his own life, his own family. Places he'd rather be, things he'd rather be doing.

"Thanks."

"You're sure...? I can—"

"I'm sure, and...I'm sorry we had to meet like this."

"You have nothing to be sorry about, Sam, seriously. I'm sure...Dean will be here soon too." He doesn't sound remotely sure. It's an empty assurance to make us both feel better, but it's too transparent to be effective.

Once Rishad reluctantly departs, and I'm alone in the unlit foyer of my home, there's a smothering, inescapable anxiety. The apartment is so dark without the stairwell's yellowed light pouring into it, and while it felt vaguely cancerous, it wasn't this horrid abyss. Like the paradoxical realm of a black hole, it feels both endless and too finite to expand for a breath. Blind and panicked, I throw my hand towards the lamp. Instead of brightening my foyer, it's swept from the table. The ceramic base shatters on impact with the linoleum, like the screech of some unholy ghoul.

The interruption grounds me. This isn't a shoebox dimension or a pit to choke me down whole. I can leave if I want to. I can break things. This space is an extension of me, my home. With the lamp no longer an option, I fumble along the wall for the switch. The fluorescence is white and grating, but it's preferable to crunching over shards. My chest hurts from a series of sharp, gasping breaths, and I scrape the meat of my palm up and down my sternum to soothe it. The sight of the broken lamp brings relief, oddly.

I make no move to gather the larger pieces or procure a broom, and there's no concern over staining the carpet as I trek across it with squelching shoes. I'm cold, in pain, and tiptoeing around a debilitating attack. All I can think to do is sit on the kitchen floor, back pressed against the fridge. At least I won't be subjecting the carpet to any further damage. I hug my knees to my chest and breathe deeply into the canyon of my legs. In the few minutes it takes my mother to arrive, they're some of the loneliest of my life. Despite the faint sounds of neighbors milling about in the surrounding units, headlights slicing through the curtains, it feels as though I'm the last person left in this big, unapologetic world.

Fortunately, my mother erupts through the front door before I'm crushed to death under the weight of that scary, ugly feeling.

"Sam!"

The lamp. She might mistakenly believe I'd been burgled.

"Kitchen."

Other than the foyer, I hadn't hit any of the lights on my way through the apartment. Instead of the overheads, Mom clicks on the less abrasive hood light. It's bright in my peripherals where I'd neglected to completely bury my face. I called her here knowing she'd see the state I'm in, that I'd have to provide a detailed explanation for it, but I...don't want her to see me like this. I'm so deeply, cripplingly

ashamed.

"Sam, look at me." Soft but stern, both her cadence and the mitten—warmed pair of hands that cradle the sides of my neck. As always, there's no room for argument with her.

Lifting my head, there's no horrified outburst or hysterics. Mom's face tightens at the sight of mine, but otherwise remains placid. She says nothing else, only fishing her phone from her pocketbook and planting on the floor beside me. She's unbothered by the soggy state of my clothes leeching moisture into her's. I'm not anxious by her suddenly making a call, because I trust my mother implicitly. Where logic and objectivity are failing me, her head's probably never been more clear. She's sitting close enough that it might as well be a three-way, and I can tell the recipient is an older male. He says her name like the random call is a pleasant surprise.

"Bill, I need a favor. It's urgent."

"Urgent? Jane, what's going on?"

"I'm going to text you an address, please get here as soon as possible. Bring your kit."

"Kit? Is someone hurt? Attacked?"

"I'll explain when you get here."

"...alright."

So, Bill's likely a doctor. It's a little funny to me, Mom's been in this city for less than three years, but she's always been good at collecting favors and friends in high places. She knows when to pull the right strings for others, so they'll do the same for her when the time comes.

"I know it's not at all something you want to do, not now, possibly ever, but I need you to describe in as vivid detail as possible what's happened. Where's Dean? Shouldn't he be here by now?"

She suspects he might be responsible, and refuting that is the easiest part of explaining: "He didn't do this. He's—"

She doesn't press.

"I don't know where he is. He's...he might be in trouble."

With that, the rest comes pouring out. There are many pauses for breath and jilted spaces between words, and Mom doesn't rush me through any of it. She doesn't interrupt, gasp, well with tears, or engage in any theatrics. I start at the bar, then backtrack to my brief experiences with Matt these past few months. I describe the level of premeditation I'm sure went into this, from spiking my drink to knowing where I'd parked my car. The attack itself is summed up succinctly in two sentences. When it comes to Dean's intervention, I'm not sure how he knew where I was or what was happening, so I can only explain it as:

"He was just...there."

He assaulted Matt with the intent of killing him, but ultimately stopped. Though he called the police himself, he admitted nothing over the phone. Dean remained behind to wait for the responders, while I fled the scene with the help of an uncharacteristically helpful Uber driver. Rishad makes the only active witness that I'm aware of.

Mom is neither judgemental, nor overly sympathetic. She's determined not to exert any pressure whatsoever. However, before she can express a single thought, Bill-the-probably-a-doctor raps his arrival against my front door. She greets him in the foyer, and there's a hushed conversation I can't parse the details of. Huddling on my kitchen's floor suddenly feels childish and embarrassing, but changing locale is daunting.

Bill looks like he sounded through the phone. Aging with grace, neatly dressed despite the hour and abysmal weather, very much running in the same circles as my mother. Thinning, graying hair is cut tight to his scalp. His features are overall flaccid, but a pair of thick, wiry brows lend some character. He looks like a man with good bedside manner, but I'm not endeared.

"Sam, hello. I'm Dr. Raytham, but you can call me Bill. Your mother explained some of your situation. How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

With introductions out of the way, thus proceeds one of the greatest humiliations of my life. Which is saying something, as there have been many. Borderline naked in the presence of a stranger, I'm subjected to an examination that's just shy of a full rape kit. Shedding my clothes isn't the relief I thought it'd be, as my bare skin stings in the open air. Sat on the edge of my bed with a towel draping my naked lap, Bill draws blood, swabs the inside of my cheeks, scrapes under my nails, and takes many pictures with flash. The blinding wink of light shoots pain through my retinas, even with my eyes tightly closed.

He doesn't say much while he works, taking a similar approach as my mother, but we exchange occasional comments to dilute the gravity of what's happening. What he's having to do, what I'm having to endure, and why. When it comes time to remove the towel, I wish I'd died in the backseat to spare myself the grief. His fingers are stiff beneath the latex, and the clinical touch isn't any easier to tolerate than an aggressive, hurtful one. Like he can't help himself, Bill starts dropping every line from the 'Soothing a Victim' script he can think of. 'It'll just take a moment, alright? Bear with it for me, Sam.' 'You're doing great, I know it's uncomfortable.'

Mom asked if I wanted her in the room for support, and I'm beyond grateful I declined. A parent's duty might never end, but this is never, ever a memory I'd want to share with her. If I could erase it from my own mind, I would.

As my bedroom is a far cry from a clinic or laboratory setting, Bill's very meticulous in bagging, tagging, and packing away the samples collected from me. He was just as painstaking during the collections, and the whole process lasted little more than an hour. Nothing is broken, nothing requires stitches, though he did offer to treat my facial wounds. I declined that too, since it's something I can do myself after showering. Bill suspects I was slipped GHB after describing my earlier symptoms. Given I'm mostly aware and functioning, he prescribes: sleeping it off.

"Thank you." I force myself to say.

He sighs through his nose. "Sam, listen. Jane is a very good friend of mine, and I owe her quite a lot. That's all to say, I don't know the details of your situation, and I don't intend to dig into it. It's none of my business. I'm going to process what I've gathered, catalog it, and store everything securely in case there's a time you'll need it. That's it. As far as anyone is concerned, you were seen this evening as a patient in Alta Bates Summit Emergency. I'm—"

"It's fine. Don't...say that."

"Right. I'll be on my way. Take care of yourself."

Now, showering is all I want to do. It feels like the last stronghold where all others have fallen. My bright, clean bathroom. The tight quarters of a stall brimmed with steam and scalding, pressurized water. There's no better place to completely fucking lose it. All of it. My composure, my voice, my mind. If I let the water run too hot, maybe even my consciousness.