Chapter Text
His apartment by the river proved to be too small for him and Quorra fairly fast once he brought her home. He already had it filled with so many posessions that bringing in anything else cluttered the space. Quorra needed her own space, her own things, and a proper bedroom, though. By taking up the reins at ENCOM, Sam needed a home office to work with, too, not the little desk in the corner he was used to sitting at, but something more comfortable with an actual surface area for files and stuff. Reluctantly, he went to Alan for the keys to the house about a month after surviving his trip to The Grid. Three days later, he had movers transport everything, bought a few new pieces of furniture, including a full bedroom set for Quorra, and began settling in to the old place. It needed a little work here and there after so many years of neglect. Teaching Quorra what little he knew about home repair wasn't easy, and they learned the rest together. They made a great team in more than combat after all.
Slowly, the ghosts in his mind settled down as he and Quorra made their new life in the family home. Instead of remembering the horrible newscasts that claimed Kevin Flynn “simply ran away,” he remembered things like laying on the floor in the den playing with lightcycle toys. Instead of remembering his grandmother crying over pictures of his mother until she fell asleep, he remembered napping on his dad's chest on the living room couch. Instead of remembering his grandpa sitting in the recliner gasping for breath while on oxygen after a short walk to the bathroom, Sam thought of the old man teaching him how to tie his shoes by the back door. Faintly, there was a memory of his mother, too, humming a lulliby as she carried him to his crib, one he was outgrowing. He didn't mention the bad memories to Quorra at all. But, when a good one struck, she always seemed to know. She would ask, and Sam would tell her all about it as best as he could remember.
Taking off his button down shirt and slacks to replace it with something more comfortable, Sam set about washing his hands and face for dinner. When he patted his face dry with a hand towel by the door, he glanced in the mirror, half expecting to see his younger self looking back at him, mop of curly brown hair and all. Instead, he saw a thirty-year-old man with a neat trim, the beginning of a five o'clock shadow, and less than innocent eyes staring back at him. He wished, not for the first time, that he could talk to Sam Flynn, the boy, in that mirror, tell his younger self to trust Alan and his instincts instead of pushing him away. He wished he could go back in time and say so very many things, lead himself to his father, to Quorra, to Tron, and make it all better.
The past could not be erased or altered, no matter how much he wished he could. Users weren't what Quorra thought they were. His father had tried to get her to understand that, but she could see nothing other than a god when she looked at Flynn. Now, though, she was starting to really understand that this world wasn't like hers. One couldn't just have their disc altered to erase a memory, perfectly heal a wound, or alter a line of code to correct an emotional or mental error. For as much as many Programs had dreamed of coming here, there were so many more things that were better in their world than in this one. It made sense now, to Sam, why his father wanted to make The Grid for everyone, Programs and Users alike.
“Sam?”
The light knock at the bedroom door startled him out of his thoughts. “Huh?”
“Food's getting cold. Are you okay in there?”
“Yeah, be right out. Sorry.” Sam shook himself.
Now was not the time for this. Now was the time to shut off his work phone and enjoy breakfast for dinner with Quorra. She was one of his brightest joys in life. He couldn't neglect her, not after she made hashbrowns for the first time. It had to be a moment of pride on her part, and he needed to be there to either praise it or give constructive criticism. She seemed to live for his encouragement on normal User activities.
When he got out of the bathroom and opened the bedroom door, she was still standing there, concerned. Quorra held herself, insecure about something. Sam gave her a puzzled look, honestly wondering if it was about the food or how long he had taken in the bathroom.
“Sorry I took so long,” Sam apoligized. “I got lost in my head again.”
“Work?” Quorra prompted.
“Part of it. Come on, let's not let the food get too cold. Cold eggs are nasty.”
He herded her back down the hall and into the kitchen with a smile he didn't feel inside. There was an actual dining room, fully furnished, but they tended to eat in the breakfast nook more often than not. The dining table was reserved for parties of more than four as he remembered from his childhood. Alan and Lora seemed to have the same rule when he lived with them. That carried over into his adult life now. The only time they had used the dining room since moving here was for his birthday parties. They held a couple for Quorra, too, but that was more informal and stayed in the living room and kitchen since Alan and Roy were the only other ones in attendance. Quorra hadn't actually made any of her own friends yet. She was too nervous to really go out and socialize until later in the previous year.
“I hope you like it.” Quorra commented, taking a tentative bite of her own food.
Sam didn't bother with the small bite taste test. Hunger gnawed at him again as soon as the scent hit his nose. He took a big bite of hashbrowns first, finding them crispy but not burnt. Swiss cheese accented the potato nicely with a few grains of black pepper.
“Nope. I don't like it.” Sam said, mouth full even as he went for another forkfull. “I love it!”
The flash of disappointment on her face quickly morphed into pleasure. Quorra gained the confidence to take a bigger bite of her own. Seeing the happiness in her eyes, Sam tapped her foot with his under the table playfully.
“That's good work, Quorra.” He took a drink of the milk she'd poured for them. “You could make an excellent chef at a five star restaurant if you wanted to.”
“I don't know about that.” There she was, doubting herself again. “I'd probably stab the first person who tried to mess with my dishes.”
“Okay, true.” Sam knew she probably wouldn't, but he'd go with it. “So, does that mean I get to keep you as my personal cook, then? I'll pay you.”
“You already pay me, Sam.”
“An allowance and emergency fund aren't payment enough for this.”
“There are other ways to show your appreciation besides money and things.”
Sam almost choked. Her toes were trailing up the leg of his sweatpants. Above the table, she was eating like any normal person. Below the table, that foot was getting onto his thigh on the inner side and still moving north. He didn't know she had it in her to try something like that.
He pretended not to notice. “Oh, yeah? Like what?”
Her foot withdrew. He felt conflicted about that. Part of him was thrilled at the prospect of her touch going all the way up. Part of him was relieved she had chosen to back off. There had been hints dropped from both of them since they first met, but nothing that couldn't be mistaken as friendly affection and basic complements beween a male and a female friend.
“I'm sure you can think of something.” Quorra sipped at her own drink, eyes not leaving his. “You wouldn't have to think of it as payment, really. There are things we both want and haven't gotten in a long time. Mutual benefit.”
He tested his luck, wondering if she knew what she was doing or not. “Things like what?”