"It’s only a matter of hours now," George was saying, his voice heavy with echoes of hopelessness.

"I know, lovebird. I know."

Martin’s reassurances were gruffly soft; a quiet caress of words that carried sympathy and comprehension. The sound of them sent a shiver down the unseen eavesdropper’s spine.

Al had nearly walked into the two of them; could have walked through them, if he’d been so inclined. But he’d arrived in time to witness an unexpected scene, and he’d been caught by the moment, feeling an intruder on their intimacy, yet drawn by it all the same.

There had been no words to begin with. Just genial George, leaning his weight against the desk in the lobby and utterly bereft of his usual effervescent animation. Martin had arrived, taken one look, and gathered him up, pulling him into an insistent embrace that cradled and protected and offered strength, holding him, rocking his ungainly bulk as if he were no more than a child.

It had been so much the gesture of comfort that Alonzo had wanted to extend to his own lover, not so long since, that watching it had hurt.

The irony was that in many ways the shared moment had absolutely nothing to do with sexual orientation or physical need; it was just sheer depth of feeling, a communion that could have been equally well expressed between father and son, or brother to brother.

"It’s never easy, is it?" George’s voice held resignation. "To lose someone. You’d think, after all this time - "

"No, I wouldn’t," his partner interrupted, with brusque affection. "I know you too well. Listen - Chelsea will be okay with Kent. I know I had my doubts about him, but he seems really committed to this. I looked in on them just now, and - well, he’s doing just fine."

George looked up and sighed.

"Fine. Huh." His snort of laughter was involuntary. "He’s nineteen, muffin. He’s never faced anything like this before; it’s one bitch of a weight for anyone, let alone a wet-behind-the-ears kid like that. How can we ask him - ?"

"Because we have to." It was Martin’s turn to sigh. "You know how stretched we are. Mark and Danny and the others need us just as much as Chelsea does. Maybe more so. Kent isn’t trained to help them. All we’re asking is that he keeps one man company - for a night. Maybe two.

"Face it, George. If he wasn’t here, we’d have had to leave Chelsea alone ..."

Alonzo went cold at the thought. Perhaps he had been wrong, warning Sam to keep away. His concern had been for his friend, for the pain he would feel, having to watch a loved one die. Having to deal with something that should be over and done with.

But had he ever given thought to Chelsea, except in past tenses? Ever considered what he might have gone through in that time when Sam hadn’t been there?

He’d had enough to think about, without adding that to the equation. Hadn’t he?

His eyes rolled heavenward in brief but heartfelt supplication.

Sometimes, he considered wearily, life sucks ...

And since that was a lesson he’d learned a long time ago, he sighed and walked away, leaving the two men to their private moment. The glance he threw behind him was mostly weighted with sympathy.

Along with just a little unavoidable envy ...

Half a dozen steps later he walked into Sam.

To be accurate, the object of his quest walked into him - and it wasn’t a walk, it was nearly a run, the athletic figure practically leaping down the stairs and breaking into a loping stride as soon as his feet touched linoleum. Alonzo blinked in startlement as his friend’s image flowed through him, its owner clearly unaware of his presence. The handlink bleeped a soft protest, which he ignored; his heart hit a moment of overdrive, and he had to take a minute to regain his breath.

"Hey, kid - !" he started to protest, then remembered that he was supposed to be invisible, and set off in pursuit, arriving at the door into the care unit just as Sam completed his pell-mell arrival and scattered his burden of writing paper all over the bed.

"Hey, sweetstuff," Chelsea half-laughed in greeting. "I didn’t tell you to break records, did I?"

"No," Sam apologised, hastily gathering up the explosion of paper and presenting it in better order. "This is what you wanted, isn’t it?"

"Uh-huh." The invalid’s smile was bravely amused, his dark eyes glittering in his drawn face. "Apart from you, of course ..."

It was Sam’s turn to laugh, his head dipping in self-conscious response along with the inevitable flush of colour that tainted his cheeks. Al frowned, reacting to the exchange with an immediate surge of irritation.

He realised what he was thinking - what he was doing - almost instantly, and took two steps backward into the safety of the passageway where he could safely expend his misplaced anger in clenched fists, several deep breaths, and a severe self-reprimand.

Don’t, he warned himself, annoyed that he could react like that even after all his introspective preparation. Just don’t, okay? There’s no reason to be jealous. No reason at all ...

"I brought my guitar down," he heard Sam say, the sound of his voice drifting through the half-open door. "Do you mind if I play for a while? I - gotta practise."

"No sweat," Chelsea answered generously. "Just keep it sweet, huh? None of this - uh - Kiss or Black Sabbath stuff, okay?"

"Okay." Al didn’t need to see Sam’s face in order to picture the smile that had settled there; it was written in that soft word, in the gentle amusement that was undoubtedly inspired by memories of an earlier Leap. The Commodore sighed softly. His life would be so much easier if all the Leaps turned out like that one.

It had been an amazing experience, being on stage with King Thunder - not to mention teasing his prudent prince about those gorgeous girl groupies. And as for that costume ...

He gave himself a little shake, took one more deep breath, and walked determinedly through the door. Sam was sitting on a high-backed chair next to the bed, the guitar balanced on his knee. Chelsea was sitting up, propped by pillows, not watching his company but concentrating on paper and pen. It was an oddly domestic sight, and the unseen observer felt uncomfortably intrusive. He found a spot close by the door and used the adjustment on the link to bring his floor level up to the height of a sensible chair.

After which he sat down, an invisible guardian taking up his self-appointed post with diligent forbearance. There was nothing he could do now but watch and wait; not something he ever liked to do, but a skill he had honed to perfection all the same.

The soft thrum of the first guitar chord was followed by a more intricate patterning of notes; the skilled musician was exploring the tone of the instrument, and flexed his agile fingers with unselfconscious confidence.

"That’s pretty," Chelsea noted, glancing up from his laborious work with a weary smile. "I like that."

"Mozart," Sam noted, frowning a little in concentration. "It’s really a piano piece ..."

The tune rippled on, offering gentle notes that wove a soft spell around the room. The man in the bed leaned back to take a rest from his self-imposed effort and listened with genuine pleasure.

"Oh, yeah ..." he breathed as the piece finished. "They don’t write ’em like that any more." He lifted his head and stared thoughtfully at the would-be troubadour. "You sing too, sweetstuff?"

The musician looked up and smiled. "If you want," he offered. "Any requests?"

Chelsea reached for the oxygen mask and took a careful breath before he answered. "Not really," he decided. "Something with soul, I guess. Something - you might sing for someone you loved. Someone you really cared about." He found a haunted smile. "The kind of someone I let slip away, too many years ago ..."

Sam’s reaction to the man’s obvious flash of remorse was equally haunted, although he concealed it well enough, looking down at the guitar strings so as not to meet the speaker’s eyes. Over in his chosen corner Al shivered a little, hearing in the words an echo of an inner pain he had felt too often in his life.

It had been that way with Beth, hadn’t it? Taking her love for granted until the day it was all he had left to sustain him - and coming home to find nothing but hollow memories waiting for him.

I won’t do that to Sam, he vowed inwardly, not for the first time since he’d woken, cold and alone, in the middle of the night. Chelsea’s regrets were probably less directed, born more from lost opportunities than from true tragedy, but no less distressing all the same.

It was a disturbing thought, one which might have led him to wonder about the intricate tangle of time and event that had led all three of them to this moment; but Sam had picked a distinctive chord from the metallic strings - and had begun to sing.

Soft words.

A gentle ballad.

One that wouldn’t be written for another six or seven years ...

And Alonzo Calavicci went cold, all the way to the depths of his soul.

It had been one of those tediously hot, hard-working days, not all that long before everything fell apart. One which had ended with the two of them sneaking off together in Sam’s pickup just in time to catch the sunset over the mountains.

And that song, which had come whispering over the airwaves from some distant radio station ...

Chelsea was nodding approval to the melody, listening to the tumble of words as they tore their other, unseen listener apart.

Sam’s voice was unbearably mellow, perfectly pitched to match the feelings in the lyric. Feelings that he probably empathised with, even if he didn’t know exactly why.

Al remembered responding to the song that first time, caught by the poignancy of the refrain, reminded - back then - of how it had felt to be so far from home, and from the love you knew was waiting for you there ...

Thinking of Beth had stirred old sorrows.

Listening to a song he might have claimed for his own, but for the ironies of history.

And Sam had warmly teased him over it, accusing him of being a hopeless romantic, of being nothing but mush beneath his hard-bitten, scarred exterior ...

If words could cut like knives, then the ones Sam offered so obliviously were busy carving pieces out of his Tomcat’s heart.

Pieces he would have given willingly - if giving them had meant bringing his lover safe home again.

He was there. Intangible.

Invisible.

Right where Sam needed him to be ...

The chorus no longer sounded like a bitter irony. Instead it held a perfect truth - a promise.

A message, not of despair, but of faith and hope.

And Sam was putting all his heart into the performance. As if he could somehow reach the soul he knew would be waiting for him.

Even though he had no idea who that might be ...

The singer picked up the next verse, his fingers weaving a complex counterpoint to the melody of the lyrics.

While the man they softly murdered hugged his arms around himself and watched and listened, because that was all he could do.

"What - time is it, sweetstuff?"

The request stirred Sam from his half-doze, and he forced bleary eyes to focus on the face of his watch.

"Uh - one-thirty, thereabouts. You need anything?"

"Uh-uh." Chelsea shook his head the barest amount, denying any need or interest in the matter. "I just wondered."

His voice was fainter than before, the effort to speak washing colour out of every word. Sam hitched his chair a little closer to the bed, studying its occupant with anxious eyes. The long evening had become an even longer night, weighted with inevitabilities. He’d played and sung for a while, filling the time with distractions while Chelsea wrestled with words on paper, but his audience had tired, and he had found his voice betraying the inner emotions that he could not afford to reveal.

From song to silence: his desire to help reduced to a simple act of companionship.

To just being there ...

"You should be asleep," he said, and his company found him a weary smile.

"You should be asleep," Chelsea corrected softly. "Dreaming of tomorrows." He paused to gasp a laboured breath. "The ones I won’t see."

There was a part of Sam that wanted to deny that. That wanted to protest and insist that there were many tomorrows waiting for his friend. But he knew it wasn’t true. He didn’t need his doctor’s training to read the reality of the situation. Chelsea was dying, his every breath a hard-fought struggle for the life that was slipping away from him.

"I wish there was something I could do," the time traveller sighed, reaching for the man’s hand as if, by sheer force of will, he could hold on to him and keep him from the final fall. Fragile fingers wrapped themselves around his with gentle pressure.

"Everything’s been said and done," Chelsea whispered wryly. "And I’m ready for it. You’ve done enough for me, kid. Don’t make it personal. Not your fault. Not your business ... But I’m glad you’re here."

Another hour passed.

Two.

The night was creeping toward the dawn when the shrill protest of the handlink briefly cut through the air.

The Commodore jerked upright in startled disorientation. He’d been drifting toward sleep, lulled from vigilance by his own inactivity and the descent of silence. It took him a moment or two to recall where and when he was, and once he had done so he dragged the link out of his pocket to stare at the readout with concern.

The message was clear: the damping field had finally failed, fritzing out without any kind of warning. He’d probably just materialised in plain sight, like an unwelcome conjuring trick.

He glanced up guiltily, feeling as uneasy as he’d ever done in the long-ago days when sharp-eyed nuns might have spotted him sneaking out of a girlfriend’s dormitory.

Fearful of discovery.

And only too aware of his reasons for being there ...

The room in front of him was quiet; a space dimly lit only by the glow of the bulb in the bedside lamp. It threw a pool of soft yellows, a hint of artificial sunshine that barely illuminated the pillowed end of the bed and the gaunt figure that occupied it. The rest was little more than shadow.

Shadow and silence.

As if the entire world held its breath for one dying man ...

Sam appeared to be asleep. His chair was drawn close to the bed and he was draped over the edge of the mattress, his folded arms resting on the quilt and his head pillowed on their support. No doubt he had slowly drifted off, lulled - like his unseen Observer - by the passage of time and the stillness of the night.

Thank you. Al glanced upward with decided relief, grateful that the sound of the handlink hadn’t woken his friend the way it had woken him. He keyed a quick sequence into the offending device and then climbed to his feet, his image once again focused at floor level.

I should go, he realised, considering the scene before him with anxious eyes. If Sam should wake ...

He took a step forward despite good sense, tempted to linger as long as he could, wanting to stay, and needing the reassurances that only his own observations could give him.

Caught up amidst the tendrils of a drama he could not affect and tethered there by an anxious sense of circumstance.

He took another wary step, drawing close enough to understand what he was looking at. Sam was asleep, head down and vanquished by weariness - and one dark-skinned hand was gently stroking the silken tumble of his hair, ravaged fingers offering the barest of caresses.

Seeking comfort - or giving it? the Observer wondered, taking the final step almost without volition, so that he stood at his lover’s side, looking down at that unexpected contact while he pondered what it might mean.

Then he glanced up - and caught the look that sat in a dying man’s eyes. A look of quiet wonder, of grateful and unquestionable affection.

One directed at the sleeping figure that lay between them.

There could have been jealousy in the unspoken question - helped by anger at the way fate had allowed this man to touch where he could not - but the thought held puzzlement rather than bitterness, and it was spawned by a decided sense of empathy. The drawn face, the bony remnants of what had once been an athletic physique - all of that carried too many echoes of his own past, and raised old spectres from times he kept locked deep in his heart.

In that moment he knew there was no way he could feel jealousy for this relic of a vital man. Not even pity for him. Just simple sympathy, comprehending what it is like to share each waking hour with the looming shadow of your own mortality.

Because for Chelsea there would be no last-minute reprieve, no whisper of chopper blades cutting through the air, no warm, reassuring voices, no strong hands to haul him back into the light of life and freedom. In this war there would be no cessation of hostilities.

Al studied the sick man’s face carefully, reading there the remains of impetuous determination and the hint of spontaneous mischief that Sam had adored and despaired of, all at once.

You and I have more in common than I thought, he realised, his eyes drawn back to the extended hand and the tumble of dark-blond locks on which it so gently rested.

"Do I know you?"

The question was barely a whisper, but it fell into the hushed atmosphere with resonant tones. The Commodore looked up in startlement - straight into the dark intensities that were the eyes of Chelsea Harrington.

He thought fast, dissembled faster. He’d been wary that Sam might see him now that the damping field had fritzed out.

But he’d never given a moment’s consideration to the possibility that Chelsea might.

"Uh - no. Not - exactly," he hedged, disconcerted by the directness of the man’s scrutiny. The bright eyes - too bright, too intense - narrowed within their ravaged frame.

"Yes, I do," their owner decided. "I remember you - from somewhere. I never forget a face." Dark lips cracked an unexpected smile. "Not one as distinctive as yours, anyhow."

He’d lifted himself up a little to get a better look. Now he sank back into the pillows, groping for the oxygen mask and fighting for breath with obvious difficulty. Sam stirred a little, but did not wake.

"It’ll come back to me," Chelsea decided, once he could speak again.

"It doesn’t matter," Al dismissed, glancing at the sleeping scientist with anxious concern. "Just forget I’m here."

"Oh, sure," the sick man drawled, intentionally sarcastic. "Hey - if I’d known I’d be this popular an event, I’d have issued tickets."

Each word was laced with hard work, each indrawn breath a struggle - but the defiance in his voice was unmistakable. If there had been a way to fight back, Chelsea would have taken it.

"He’d have got the first invitation though."

The gesture was directed at Sam, and Al instinctively stepped forward to ward it off.

"Don’t," he requested anxiously, then continued more gently, "Don’t wake him. He’s exhausted. Let him sleep."

"You bet." The reaching hand became a soft caress. One that explored the curve of a muscular shoulder. "That’s typical of my Sam, you know? Never gives less than 120 percent of himself."

Al’s eyes widened in startlement, and he glanced from the dying man to the sleeping figure and back again.

"You - you recognise him?" he asked in a somewhat strangled tone. Chelsea actually chuckled.

"As if I’d forget," he drawled, losing the casual amusement in a choked-back cough. "He was always special. Too special, sometimes. I didn’t know he knew. I just wrote him a letter, like all the rest. And yet here he is, large as life and just as - " The sick man sighed. "Well. I never could resist that handsome face of his. Funny though - " His look was puzzled. "I could have sworn it was Kent that fell asleep on me, but - "

"It was." The Commodore’s interruption was gentle. This man was dying; too close to eternal truth to be denied the reality of his situation. And he could see Sam; the moment had to be very close now.

"I don’t expect you to understand this, but - Sam came back through time to be with you. Right now - your now, 1986 or whatever, he doesn’t know. But he will. When your letter reaches him, when it’s all too late for him to tell you how he cares ...

"That’s why he’s here. He wanted to be with you. And that’s why I’m here. Keeping an eye on him. Whether he likes it or not," he added, half under his breath.

"He was the best," Chelsea murmured, almost as if he hadn’t heard what he’d been told. "Always the best. But I hurt him, and I lost him, because I couldn’t give him what he needed most. I couldn’t live in his world or follow his dreams. I didn’t understand most of them. And he needed someone who did. Someone who could be the wind beneath his wings ..."

His voice tailed off, and his eyes slowly lifted from Sam’s sleeping face to study that of his intangible company. "I do know you," he realised with a note of wonder. "You’re Sam’s Tomcat. That crazy Navy pilot he had the hots for all year ..." He chuckled again, a wheeze of amusement overwritten with pain. "Out of bounds and way off limits, right? I told him running after the straights of this world don’t get you nowhere."

Al had to glance away, conscious of the monitoring team that would hear his side of the conversation and unwilling to meet the man’s eyes to confirm an assumption that was - in fact - an utter lie. Chelsea frowned.

"You said he came back," he recalled slowly. "Said you were here because he was ..." Suspicion dawned in the fevered depths of his eyes. "You’re still his friend, aren’t you? You’re not here to take him away from me. Not now ..."

His hand tightened on a sleeping shoulder and Al winced, hearing a sudden hint of fear in the man’s words. His half-embarrassed glance away became a strong desire to turn his back completely while he sought a measure of self-control.

Oh god, he considered, shaken to the core. I wish there were some way I could make you understand.

If I could have taken him away before it came to this, I would have done. To save him this pain, to protect him all I could.

But not now. Not after all this ...

He loves you, and he’s hurting for you, and that hurts me.

But I’d hurt him all the more if I denied him your last breath, and I can bear all the pain he costs me, because without him I wouldn’t feel anything at all ...

"Is that it?" The dying man’s anxiety manifested itself in belligerent distress. "My Sam came to me, and you came here - "

"No," Al interrupted firmly, finding the inner courage to turn back and meet those burning eyes. "I told you. I’m just keeping an eye on him. I’m not here," he explained, demonstrating the fact by stepping behind Sam’s draped figure and into the bed. "I’m just an image, somewhere in the future. I can’t affect your time in any way. I can’t even touch him," he concluded a little bitterly, driven to do just that and clenching frustrated fingers as they slid through his lover’s form and closed on so much thin air.

Damn it.

Damn it!

The man in the bed had gone stark, looking down at the sudden evidence of apparition where his mind had registered solidity. "Are you a - ghost?" he stuttered, then - with a leap of understandable comprehension - "Or some kinda angel?"

"Neither," the Commodore sighed, stepping back to linger at Sam’s shoulder. "Just a friend. Chelsea," he requested warily. "When Sam wakes up - don’t let him know you know, huh? Everyone’s supposed to think he’s Kent. And he might not be able to deal with ... Look - it’s bad enough for him, seeing you like this ..."

"I’m not a fool, mister." Chelsea’s hand crept back to rest once again on the warmth of a sleeping shoulder. "I didn’t want him here. Not to see this. But - " He stared at the hologram in front of him for a moment, then let confusion and puzzlement slide away, replacing it with acceptance. With gratitude. His lips curled into a pained smile. "I’m glad he came. No matter how ..."

Al found himself smiling back - wryly, and with an odd sense of comradeship. He knew how deeply Sam Beckett could offer up his devotion - and Chelsea Harrington had been the first man to receive that precious gift.

Which had to make him something special, right from the start ...

"I just wish," the cracked voice went on, "I could have lived up to what he wanted from me. I hope he finds someone who can. Someone to care. That’s the real trick, right? Not taking it where you find it, not looking for the next new thing, not even living for the day - good as that all gets sometimes. It’s knowing that there’s someone there for you. A parent, a brother, a lover ... Even - " He paused to gulp in a breath and looked up to where the Commodore stood watching him, "Just a friend ..."

Silence stretched between them, the challenge in the dying man’s gaze unmistakable. This time Al felt no desire to turn away.

"Would you settle for a battle-scarred Tomcat?" he asked softly instead, laying the image of his hand over Chelsea’s own. He held the man’s gaze as he did so, silently willing him to get the point; the question was obscure enough to slip by most of those who might be listening, and he’d suddenly realised that he wanted this ghost from Sam’s past to understand. That Chelsea needed to know.

Because knowing that his ex-lover was loved would help ease the obvious grief the man felt in having left him.

I’ll be there for him.

As long as I can.

As long as he needs me.

No matter what.

Because he means everything to me ...

Chelsea’s eyes narrowed warily.

Then he grinned.

A wide and wondrous grin that lit up his entire face and offered generous acknowledgement to the joke he hadn’t even known about - until now.

"Son of a bitch," he muttered, his fingers tangling in Sam’s hair - though not firmly enough to wake him. "He went and did it, didn’t he? Always gets what he wants, right? Man, did I figure you wrong ..."

"Not - entirely," Al denied, returning the grin with a vaguely embarrassed one of his own. "But - you know Sam ..."

The grin got wider - and its owner began to chuckle involuntarily, a surge of delighted laughter that shook his entire frame.

Only the chuckles quickly became gulps, and then coughs, and then a choking fight for breath. He fought for air and equilibrium, and his distressed struggles stirred the sleeping figure, who woke with decided alarm.

"Chelsea? Chelsea!"

Al backed up as fast as he could, hiding his image in the shadows; Sam’s attention was completely focused on the occupant of the bed, whose breath was rapidly becoming strangled gasps. Anxious fingers fumbled with the oxygen mask, only to have it pushed away.

"Enough," Chelsea whispered, exhausted by the fight. His hand closed over his companion’s, clutching at him with the last vestiges of his strength. "Final whistle, baby. No more time-outs. Not for me. Stay clean, huh? Stay safe."

"No," Sam denied, his face contorted with dismay. "No. Uh - I mean, yes - I mean - Chelsea ..."

"It’ll be - okay," the whispered voice assured him. "You don’t - need me - any more. Not to take care of you." For a moment the dying man’s glance darted in the direction of the concealing shadows, and a twist of one final smile touched his lips.

"Make it forever," he mouthed.

And was gone.

A long time after - a long time after - Sam found himself being led away by Martin, the tall financier’s arms wrapped around his shoulders with sympathetic strength. A small part of him wanted to struggle, to protest and pull away - to return to the darkened room and the silent figure it still contained - but the rest of him felt so numb that the idea of struggle just seemed pointless.

"You should get some sleep," Martin was saying, pointing him toward the stairs. "We’ll take care of everything now."

He paused before he let go, looking at what he thought to be a young man overwhelmed by his first experience of death. "I know you feel bad," he offered softly. "But you did real good in there. There was nothing you could do to make a difference. Nothing any of us could do."

Sam sighed, and started up the steps with heavy tread and a heavier heart. He had hoped to do so much.

And yet, when it came to it, he had been completely helpless.

He’d even fallen asleep!

He didn’t think he would ever be able to sleep again ...

His mind played out those last moments insistently, over and over.

The strangled fight for breath.

The clutch of weakened fingers that had slowly slid away.

And the look - that look - in Chelsea’s eyes.

Intense.

Amused.

And then nothing but absence, all trace of his spirit flickering away into a dulled and empty gaze.

What was he laughing at?

Something struck him as funny.

Sam had seen nothing in that shadowed room that might be even faintly amusing. Just the paraphernalia of pointless medicine, the desperate machinery that men try to use, wanting to cling to life with panicked anxiety.

He folded himself down onto the narrow bed in his attic room and stared at the ceiling, numbly trying to decide if the price Chelsea had paid had been worth anything at all.

A long, slow slide into death.

Knowing it was waiting.

Feeling it strip away your strength, letting it layer you with effort and pain.

Dying by inches.

Day by day.

Moment by moment.

Each of them a futile struggle ...

But then, he sighed, turning over and burying his head in the pillows, isn’t that true of everyone?

And if it were -

Could there be any real point to anything?

Anything at all?

His hands clenched in distracted frustration, drawing the quilt around him as if it could shelter him from the entire world. He wanted to remember. To recall the days of glory that Chelsea had known, to picture him, strong and laughing, to reassure himself that that empty end had simply been the coda to a brilliant symphony of life.

But all he could comfort himself with were vague, disjointed flashes - and the sound of that ragged breath, struggling to survive ...

There were no answers waiting in the cold dawn, nor any in the dreams he found to share it with.

No answers in the days that followed.

And no real feelings either.

Just a consuming and empty numbness that he thought nothing would ever dispel.

It was Beeks who finally woke him: gently, with a cautious shake and a quiet offer of a steaming cup of coffee, which he accepted with bleary acknowledgement.

"What - time is it?" he asked, fighting down a yawn as he did so. The psychiatrist grinned.

"Here, or there?" he queried. "Actually - it’s - uh - just after seven thirty. PM. You’ve been asleep for sixteen hours. And don’t look at me like that, Commodore. You needed it. I’ve had the entire staff walking on tip-toe all day."

Al paused in his reach for the coffee to consider the image this summoned up. Then he sighed and completed the movement, offering the hovering doctor a twisted smile.

"You needn’t have bothered," he decided. "I’d have slept through World War Three. Ah - god - " The coffee was sweet and hot, and hit the cinder pit that was the inside of his mouth like a wave on Waikiki beach.

On a day he couldn’t be there ...

"You can’t go on doing this kind of thing forever," Beeks observed kindly, perching himself on the edge of the nearby desk and watching his friend and patient with sympathetic eyes. "Staying awake for days on end. Working flat out and living on adrenaline. You’ll burn yourself out, Al."

"Did that a long time ago," the Commodore shot back, working the kinks out of his neck with his free hand. "And I’ll survive this as long as I have to. The day Sam gets home - that’s the day you can book me a rubber room at the funny farm."

The psychiatrist’s smile widened a little. "No need," he said with a warm shake of his head. "I’ve already got a straitjacket with your name on it, just in case."

Al allowed himself a small chuckle. Just a very small one. The situation that lurked behind their current circumstance was a long way from being funny. But Beeks was well aware of the alternative to laughter, and worked hard to keep it at bay.

He shivered, and drained the dregs of the cup, finding those last few drops tasting bitter in the back of his throat.

"You wanna give me ten?" he asked wearily, glancing around at the dishevelled cot he was resting on and scraping the back of his hand across the rasp of his chin.

"Sure." Beeks retrieved the cup and went back to sitting on the desk. Patiently. Which at least allowed Al to gather his thoughts before he had to head for the bathroom.

Vega might tell him, if he asked. But Beeks was listening - and might end up filing the need to know against all the other observations he’d been compiling over the years.

He sighed, wrapped himself up in his dressing gown, and took the short but vital walk down to the head.

I feel like death, he started to think - then stopped himself with annoyance, because he remembered all the events of the day before and, compared to Chelsea and his final agonies, a few creaking bones and a nagging headache were nothing..

Nothing at all ..

He remembered his reluctant retreat from the Imaging Chamber, his conscience tearing at him because he was leaving Sam in such distress - and the short sharp conversations he had had afterward. First with an expectant Beeks - go to hell, he recalled growling - and then with an anxious Tina, who’d got short shrift and a not tonight, I’ve got a headache routine.

Following which he’d thrown the handlink at Gushie and sought the sanctuary of his office so that he could find some space to think - where he had promptly fallen asleep, which had been the last thing he’d expected to do.

Of course, the cot was always set up there during a Leap so that he could snatch a few vital minutes’ rest if the need arose. And after sitting cross-legged on the Imaging Chamber floor for several hours, its wallowing softness had been an irresistible lure for his weary bones. He’d even slid out of the stuff he’d worn for too many hours and into his PJs, because dressed that way no-one would feel comfortable about disturbing him.

But he’d been wrestling with event and emotion, feeling as taut as a catchwire on a carrier deck, and going over those last few moments of Chelsea’s life again and again.

He stared at his reflection while he wielded his razor and wondered - in retrospect - if that had been such a bad thing.

And whether Sam had found equal escape from his own emotional exhaustion.

"So what’s next on the agenda?" Beeks asked thoughtfully, on his return to the office. Al considered the question while he opened his locker and stared at its contents. Someone - he didn’t know who, but he could probably narrow it down to a minimal number of suspects - had removed the pile of would-be laundry and hung a selection of clean clothing in its place. A reasonable selection too; he picked out a deep crimson shirt overprinted with tiny gold stars and teamed it with dark pants and his black salmon-skin vest. Sam, he recalled with an inner sigh, liked that vest. Liked to run his fingers over its texture and admire the ripple of soft iridescence that his touch coaxed from its reflected light ...

"Breakfast, I guess. Or supper, or whatever the hell meal it may be. Then - uh - Vega can fire everything back up and I’ll go catch up with Sam - "

"Uh-uh," the psychiatrist interrupted firmly. "Bad idea. Bad timing. Sam’s not going to be in a fit state to deal with you just yet. I’d give him some room over this one, if I were you."

"You’re not me," Al growled, halfway up the buttons on his shirt. "Damn it, Beeks, if you’d seen the look on his face ..."

"I don’t need to. Listen - if you turn up now, all he’s going to read into it is a righteous I told you so. He asked you to stay away until it was over - so stay away. Respect his wishes, and he’ll go back to trusting you."

The look that the Commodore threw his company wasn’t a request for clarification. It was a demand. Beeks sighed.

"The stages of grief are well documented, Al. Right now Sam is going to be feeling numb. Disconnected. Almost in denial. He needs a little time to assimilate what’s happened, how he feels about it. Normally - well, if this had happened in our time I’d be advising you just to be there for him, just to wait and listen when he was ready to talk about it. But this isn’t a normal situation. This is a grief he’s already faced once, only he won’t remember having done so. And tangled up with that will be the remains of the anger he launched at you. Push him too quickly on this and you’ll end up with the blame; he’ll hold you responsible for all the things that are making him feel guilty. And you don’t want that. It could damage your relationship beyond repair."

"Jeezus," Al breathed, his eyes narrowing and his expression sceptical. "I can see why they gave you your diploma ... You sure about this? I mean - you were the one telling me to be there ..."

"That was then," Beeks said gently. "This is now. In any case," he admitted, with a vaguely sheepish look, "that was about finding a way for you to deal with the event, not Sam. If you’d stayed away you’d have driven yourself crazy with guilt about it."

Al half-opened his mouth to refute the idea, momentarily angered by the implication that he’d been well and truly manipulated - and then he realised that Beeks was probably right. Which didn’t make him feel any better, but did help put the situation into perspective.

Some days, Vernon Beeks, he considered ruefully, I don’t know whether to hug you - or punch your lights out.

He did neither, of course. He’d spent a long time learning to live with the infuriation that was Sam Beckett, and, compared to that, the psychiatrist was a minor exasperation that generally had his best interests at heart.

And, when it came down to it, he really did know his stuff.

"So you’re telling me to back off for a while, right? Just how long did you have in mind?" His return to the immediate subject matter was not a complete forgiveness, but he saw Beeks heave a small sigh of relief all the same.

So you weren’t sure how I’d take that, Al noted, and mentally flicked over one more point on his side of the scoreboard. He and Beeks were running roughly even, even after all this time, although he often wondered if the mere existence of their mutual and unspoken game was merely a ploy of the patient psychiatrist in his quest to keep the Project Observer sane.

"Vega tells me that the funeral’s a week today. That should be long enough to move Sam out of denial and into acknowledgement of loss. And I thought you might like to be there anyway."

"Damned right," Al growled, crossing to his desk in order to scoop a cigar out of the relevant box. Of course he wanted to be there. And not just as background support. Did Beeks think the only thing he cared about in the whole damned world was Sam?

"A week, huh?" He lit the cigar with deliberation, using the ritual act to help reassemble the layers of armour with which he commonly guarded his soul. "We’re in the middle of a Leap. What in hell am I supposed to find to do that the committee will believe is relevant?"

Beeks shrugged.

"You could talk to Kent," he suggested, trying not to sound hopeful and failing miserably. "He needs to unload on someone - but he’s not giving so much as an inch to me ..."