And, courtesy of shoorihoshi, what I'll be doing with the rest of my life:
Sam moved to London after graduating from college and rose to the top of the broadway by writing, singing, directing, and producing her own musical. She regularly attends lavish Hollywood parties in which Sir Ian confides in her that "You know, you're the only interesting person here besides Alan Cumming." By slipping the writer of the fifth X-Men movie a wad of cash, she has officially made it canon to slash Wolverine and Cyclops, thus saving slash. When she tires of owning her own publishing company, Sam retires young to Scotland where she owns her own castle, regularly eats scones, and phones me to tell me about her latest awesome slashy ideas. Since retiring, we're not really sure WHAT she does anymore, only that it's really interesting.
As an unperfect actor on the stage
Who with his fear is put besides his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart.
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
O'ercharged with burden of mine own love's might.
O, let my books be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love and look for recompense
More than that tongue that more hath more express'd.