Make Sure it's Forever

Penelope Hill

Project StarBright
November 1986

It had been learning that Chelsea was dead that had made him take a hard look at himself. He’d found he didn’t much like what he saw. Chelsea had been special - really special, a photographic negative of the gawky, self-conscious and shy schoolkid that he had helped and taught and made a man. He’d had everything back then; his mahogany good looks matched with a rangy athleticism, his earthy tastes and freewheeling attitude toward so many things a positive revelation to the Indiana farmboy he’d taken under his wing. But now he was dead. He’d died unpleasantly in a struggling Village AIDS shelter, his last letter composed to those half-dozen among his many ex-lovers that he still held in high regard.

Stay free, stay safe, stay clean. And next time you fall in love - make sure it’s forever.

Forever. Sam Beckett crumpled the fragile sheet of paper in his hands and fought down the lump that rose in his throat. Nothing had ever been forever where Chelsea was concerned. Just now and forget tomorrow. Grab the world with both hands. Enjoy it. Eat cake and move on to ice cream ... He could hear the words even now, delivered in that deep-throated, suggestive voice; feel the man’s fingers slide up the curve of his arm and remember the rumble of laughter that had always followed. Chelsea had never cared. Hadn’t cared a moment of his life, and had loved to tease his so-serious boy genius, to tempt him to indiscretion and persuade him to take risks. To reach out and just take whatever he wanted ...

Except that Chelsea had paid an unforgiving price for his disregard of fate or feelings; and Sam Beckett, PhD several times over, respected scientist and admired man of education, had come to learn that just taking without concern for consequence never really gave you what you wanted to begin with.

He shivered and smoothed out Chelsea’s missive, laying it reverently back among the papers he wanted to take home that night. He felt tired and drained and somehow bleak to the core. That was crazy, of course. The world looked at him and saw someone right at the very pinnacle of achievement. StarBright threatened to become a roaring success, providing they could iron out certain problems; he’d received the nomination for the Nobel Prize for his work on universal string theory; the government funding committees were considering his submissions for future projects; and half a dozen prestigious institutions from across the world were all clamouring to offer him a chair. All before his thirty fourth birthday. Still the boy wonder. Still the revered prodigy. Still adrift and uncentred. Still fundamentally alone.

You’re full of crazy dreams, Samwise, Chelsea had teased him. Living in yesterday and tomorrow. Don’t leave out today. Today is the best day ever. The only day you’ll ever have ...

The man had unlocked the truth of his soul, given him a clarity that had helped direct his sense of purpose and design; but he’d been a shooting star in a generally lonely sky, and he’d never really understood what drove his golden child. They’d drifted apart - Sam to his work, Chelsea to innumerable affairs and the taint of death.

There had been others; one or two discreet liaisons, a couple of one night stands (something quickly abandoned as impersonal and unsatisfying) and once - just once - a single night when he had almost understood what Chelsea had meant by today being the only day there was ... But on the whole he had subsumed his passions into his work and kept them there, consumed by intellectual fire, locking himself into the ivory tower of self-denial.

And this night - knowing that Chelsea was lost - he suddenly saw that safe haven for the encroaching prison it had become. A wall he had built around himself. Afraid to reach beyond it in case he fell into the bitter morass of human emotions that waited to engulf him; afraid to connect with others lest they entangle him and shatter the fragile certainties of his dreams.

People hurt you. He’d learnt that lesson from Chelsea too, finding him tumbled in bed with a wide-eyed freshman on the day he had rushed home to deliver the news of yet another academic success. He’d shut himself away from them then, refusing to traffic with the common man and restricting his sympathies to stray dogs and other helpless creatures who had no voice of their own to defend them. And now very few even bothered to knock at the door to his ivory tower. They looked. He knew they looked - most of them admiring women who refused to believe that such an eligible catch was still single. He was a good-looking man and he kept himself in shape - another gift from Chelsea, who had introduced him to his first sensei. He’d never succumbed to the temptations he was constantly offered; his preferences were not common knowledge and he preferred to keep them that way.

Only now Chelsea was dead. That hurt. Knowing it. Knowing there was nothing he could do to make it right. Knowing it was too late to reach out and react, too late to express the thanks and the appreciation he really owed the man. Far too late for Chelsea now.

But not too late for Samwise Beckett, suddenly hell-bent on rejoining the human race before it left him completely behind.

He knew where he ought to start, too. With an old apology, long overdue and probably a slap in the face to go with it. An offer, perhaps, of the help he should have extended that very first day in the complex. Offered without hesitation or second thoughts, regardless of anything but an old friend’s need; only he had hesitated, had had second thoughts, and the man concerned had walked away, driven by his self-destructive anger.

So much anger. It had scared Sam to see it there, in a man he had thought too anchored in his regained self-security for the world to tear apart a second time. And afterward - after that moment of lost opportunity - they had worked together with walled-off politeness, the scientist unwilling to reach beyond his cultivated barriers, and the other man wrapped in a tight, directed determination, his eyes shuttered against the intrusions of the world.

They had been friends - or perhaps only acquaintances - back in the days of academia, discovering the delights of a universe filled with possibilities. The much fêted boy genius, introduced to the hard-bitten naval pilot whose life was already scarred by experiences most of those who surrounded him would never comprehend. His determination then was an inspiration to many, since he seemed driven by a passion for life that would not be extinguished. It was a passion that was even to take him to the very edge of the stars, a privilege few men shared, even now. Like Chelsea he’d been sufficiently struck by the young Beckett to offer him a helping hand; he’d made him contacts, even arranged a few meetings and opened a few doors, an open-hearted gesture that Sam had seized on and made a stepping stone to his own future. A generous gift that he’d taken and turned to gold, just like every other gift he’d been given - except that, for once, he’d repaid the generosity with self-indulgent betrayal. Because Al Calavicci, American hero, survivor of the horrors of Vietnam, man of the world, and passionate individualist, had been the one temptation that the hot-blooded Beckett could not resist.

The sight of him that day - hammering the hell out of a recalcitrant vending machine, a little older, a little more careworn, and distinctly more defensive - had opened floodgates of memory and conflicting emotions. His perfect recall - normally a blessing - had suddenly laid out for him the recollections of that night with disorientating clarity. Sam, hell-bent on mischief and getting his own way, meeting the man in that secluded bar - by accident, on purpose - and the hours that followed, step by directed step to the planned point of no return, and the exquisite surrender that he’d not dared to expect. He’d never seduced a man before, and he’d never done it since. He’d never even been entirely sure of the how of it, since even Chelsea had been of the opinion that - if there were a god - then he’d saved the dark-eyed Italian strictly for the pleasures of the opposite sex. More’s the pity, he’d added with a sigh. Sam had never revealed his victory to anyone, never told Chelsea that his dare had been met and even surpassed. There had been something - something unexpectedly vulnerable - lurking beneath the surface image of the man he had sought to possess; the alley cat, all surface sensuality and self-surety, had revealed a tender nature and an inner passion that his conqueror had not been expecting to find.

Calavicci had been something then. Intense, self-confident, even dangerous in a highly attractive way. Their reunion had been startling, not least for the unanticipated change in the man himself. He was still all Tomcat - sleek and volatile - but it was an angry, bitter and defensive beast that had hissed recognition at his one-time-only lover. The moment had been there to seize - to reach out and offer the support the man so clearly needed - but Samwise Beckett had let it slip away, fearful of rejection, of recrimination; fearful of that sudden surge of memory that had said ‘I want’ so definitively that it had felt like a lightning strike.

A year and a half of that, then. Working together and being miles apart. Never asking the questions, lest the answers dragged him into the threat of maelstrom; why had the man resigned from the service that had been his life? Why would the Navy insist he become involved with their pet project, then threaten to terminate his role of consultant when his behaviour became unpredictable? Colleagues expressed vague concern - the Commodore drinks too much; he’s going to get into real trouble if he’s not careful - but it had been easy to dismiss it as someone else’s problem. The work had never suffered, despite, or perhaps because of the Project Chief’s threats. Calavicci himself had made a point of avoiding the complex’s resident genius, and Sam had tried to push their association back into the past, one more thing, perhaps, to be revisited and reworked when time - and dreams - allowed ...

"Dammit!" Sam swore, kicking himself to his feet and heading for the door. It was late - well past ten o’clock - and the complex was practically deserted. Chelsea’s death was an irritation on his conscience that refused to go away and the man’s ghost was hovering at his shoulder like an African Banquo.

Let it all go, Sam-baby. Let down all the people you’ve touched. It’s real easy. Just turn your back and pretend we don’t exist ...

He’d lost his sister to a war he’d never understood, and his mother to a grief he could not prevent - and hadn’t even been there when it had happened. He’d pushed Chelsea away and the man had died alone when his only crime had been to love too much. All his gold seemed to have turned to dust in Sam Beckett’s hands. What’s the point of dreams, he asked himself bitterly, if there’s no-one there to share them with ...?

He’d go to the Commodore. Speak to him. Just speak to him. Get that slap in the face and then be able to go on with his life at least knowing where he stood. The man probably hated his guts, but he suddenly needed to hear him say so.

He stalked through the empty corridors and offices, and paused by the security desk where a familiar face looked up to greet him.

"Good evening, Doctor Beckett. Working late again?"

Sam nodded distractedly. "I guess so, Ben. Am I the last one out tonight?"

The night security officer grinned. "Sure are. It is Friday night, you know."

"It is?" Sam seemed to have lost track of the days again, something he was developing a habit of doing. "Listen - Ben - can you tell me where I might find Commodore Calavicci tonight?"

Ben frowned. "Was he in his office yesterday?"

"I think so - yeah, he came to the briefing just before lunch."

"Well, I guess you could try his apartment then. It’s a short weekend, see."

Sam looked confused. "A short weekend?"

The officer grinned. "Uh-huh. On a long weekend, he tends to go walkabout, so you’d either have to comb all the bars in town or chase him to Vegas or New York or someplace like that. He sets off Thursday morning, crawls back Sunday lunch. Wakes up Tuesday, round about. That’s a long weekend. Short one - he just cuts out the scenery. Liquid lunch on Friday, liquid dinner, supper, and breakfast ... out like a light by Saturday evening, sleeps all day Sunday. Short weekend. No company, no exertion. It’s cheaper."

"Are you serious?" The scientist didn’t believe what he was hearing. Not that a man might actually try and live that way, but that the officer telling all of this didn’t seem at all concerned about it.

"Sure," Ben shrugged. "What else has he got to do?"

It was a question Sam didn’t want to answer. He gave the security man a non-committal smile and strode out into the night, heading for his car. The complex and its attendant airbase had been built a good sixteen miles from the nearest town - for safety reasons as well as security - and the estate that housed its workers lay halfway in between. He covered the distance in record time, not watching his speed for once, and parked up in his usual spot in the landscaped parking lot. There was music pounding from the recreation hall, and lights flooded from some of the apartment block windows. He’d been given a penthouse suite, complete with view of the river, but he didn’t spend much time in it. It occurred to him, as he crossed the paved space in front of the five buildings, that he’d never even checked which of the squat towers served as home to the man he sought that night. He paused to ask in the service office, the night officer there checking the answer in his directory.

"Block three, third floor. Apartment twelve. Something wrong, Doctor Beckett?"

"No," he reassured the man, wondering what had shown on his face. "Just some paperwork I want to deliver."

The man smirked. "Shove it under the door. You won’t get any answer tonight."

Did everyone know about the man’s habit? Was he so obvious, or did he just not care any more? Sam wondered if Chelsea’s note had reached him too late to retrieve this situation as well.

He went up the stairs, disdaining the lift. It was only three floors and he wanted to settle his sense of nervousness. He was probably crazy to even think of doing this. Perhaps he should just leave the whole thing for another time. Perhaps he should leave it altogether. He reached the third floor and nearly turned back, but an image of Chelsea halted him in his tracks.

Finish what you start, Sam. Always finish what you start ...

Apartment twelve lay at the back of the building, tucked away in a discreet corner. The door was closed, but it gave under the scientist’s hand as he gave it a gentle push. Al Calavicci rarely locked doors behind him unless he had to, Sam recalled, wondering why that was. There would be no need on the estate. Its security was almost as good as that of the StarBright complex itself.

Beyond the door was a short passage, unfurnished and carpeted in nondescript grey. An open door on one side led to an empty kitchen, its interior as neat and punctilious as that of any Navy establishment. On the other was an equally spartan bathroom. He passed both of those and knocked tentatively on the third and final door.

"Go away," a voice growled with obvious annoyance. Sam took a deep breath and went in anyway.

The living room was practically devoid of furniture. A single table supported a sprawl of books and papers; beside it was a simple unit stacked with a compact hi-fi; a bookcase paraded regimented volumes on one side of the room, and a plain black leather suite filled the rest of it, one chair and an immense sofa, currently intent on swallowing its occupant. Commodore Alonzo Calavicci lay flat on his back, eyes fixed on the ceiling, dressed in little more than dark pants and an unbuttoned shirt. There was a half-filled bottle of scotch in one hand and a half-smoked cigar in the other. An empty bottle lay on the rug beside his chosen perch, and a full one stood next to the ash-filled glass tray within easy reach of the man’s hand. The room stank of alcohol and stale air, and the eyes that turned in Sam’s direction were glazed with bitterness and empty despair.

"What the hell ..." the man growled, half hiking himself up to stare at his unexpected visitor. He focused with difficulty and then his face dropped into wary alarm. "What are you doing here?" he asked suspiciously.

Sam was asking himself the same question. This wasn’t what he’d expected. This wasn’t his Tomcat, sleek and in control. This was a wounded animal, biting at its own flanks in self-destructive fury. The sight appalled him; he’d not known that the desperate anger he’d recognised a year and a half ago would lead to this.

"Al?" he questioned softly, taking a few steps forward. "I - just thought we ought to talk, that’s all."

"Talk!" The reaction was savage. "Yeah. You’re good at that, aren’t you, Beckett? Always were. Sweet tongue in a sweet mouth." The man sat up and took another swig at the bottle, a deep-throated swallow. "Come to gloat? Or just curious? What does a man look like with nothing left to live for?" He grinned suddenly, an angry leer that contorted his features. "Or did you finally remember we might actually know each other?"

That hurt. After all Sam had faced within himself that evening, the bitter remark bit deep.

"I remember a lot of things," he offered tightly. "But I don’t remember you ever giving up. Not like this."

The drunk forced himself to his feet and swayed there, his face twisted in anger and his eyes fixed on his visitor with hostile intensity. "I never asked you to come here," he growled. "Never asked you anything, Sam Beckett. So get the hell outta my place, and outta my life, and outta my head ..." He lurched unsteadily as he took a step forward, the hand with the cigar pushing across his temples as confusion clouded the fury in his eyes. "Get out, you hear? Just leave me alone ..." There was pain in that final plea, but Sam didn’t hear it. He was watching this parody of a man with a sense of shocked dismay. This had been a man he’d wanted once; someone whose determined strength had attracted him, whose ability to demonstrate that a man might suffer setback and yet still dream had inspired him ... He strode across and wrenched the bottle from the drunken hand with an angry tug.

"Forget it," he decided, looking at the wreck that had been a man, at the distorted image of something that still stirred his inner self. "I wanted to apologise, but you’re way past that. I used to think you were strong. I used to look up to you. Now look at you. Look at you. You’re nothing but a deadbeat drunk. You disgust me, Calavicci. I was a fool to expect anything else." He turned on his heel and walked away, smarting inside. Angry with himself and a world that could do this to such a man.

"Sam?" The question was laced with heart-stopping pain. Sam kept right on walking. This wasn’t his problem. He had his own hurts to nurse. Forget the man who had once touched his soul. He’d made it pretty clear he didn’t want any help from that direction.

He dropped the bottle on the table and went through the door; was halfway down the hall when the sound of breaking glass jerked him to a halt. It was anger, that was all it was, the drink exploding in undirected violence. So why did his flesh turn cold and his own anger dissipate completely? He waited for a bare second or two. No other sound followed that certain crash. He ought to leave. He ought to go back to his work and his future, leaving this echo of his past behind; but the memory of that night rose up inside him, of the warmth of another’s presence, of moments spent with the man now lost beyond that door, of that exquisite passion and the sense of being able to share ...

He cursed his own impulsiveness and turned back, expecting to be greeted by a barrage of abuse. What he saw was total horror.

The man had recovered the bottle from the tabletop and smashed it down hard against the dark wood. What remained was now a broken, jagged-toothed dagger in his hand - and he was using it to drag rivulets of scarlet blood from the outstretched reach of his left arm. Each slash downward was a savage, angry blow that cut deep through cloth and into skin and muscle alike. He was sobbing silently, his features contorted with desperation as he raised his hand again and again ...

"Nooo!" Sam closed the distance with athletic speed, not stopping to consider there might be any danger to himself as he did so. He seized the hand and its bloodied weapon, stilling the next strike. Alonzo fought his hold, fought and struggled to complete his destructive work. The bottle twisted over, its scarlet-tipped teeth whispering past the determined rescuer’s face. "Al, no, don’t do this!"

The man seemed beyond reason. He growled, a savage sound of hate and inner anger, reaching with his injured arm to seize the broken glass while he fought to be free of the directed grip. Sam held tight, catching at the bloodied fingers as they snatched at the prospect of pain. "Al! No! Please. No ..."

There had never been those separating years, never been a yesterday. It was the same day, the same moment, and the anger and the pain and the despair were there in his Tomcat’s eyes as he tried so desperately to still the anguish in his heart. "Please ... Let me help you. Don’t do this."

The eyes focused, focused past their pain and their determination, dark eyes that fixed on his own desperate plea. "Sam?" the man questioned, confusion replacing the hate. "I - I thought - this was what you wanted ..."

"Nooo." He twisted the bottle free from reluctant fingers, throwing it far away as he did so. There was too much blood and he turned his attention to the injured arm, wrapping his hand over the worst of the injury so as to stem the scarlet tide. "Never. Not this. Tomcat, not this!"

"I disgust you," Alonzo considered with slurred effort. "I’m not worth it, Sam. I’m not worth anything. Just taking up too much space and effort. Just getting in the way. Got nothing - if you don’t need me ... Better, just to hit the deck. No way out, you see. No way out, but this one. Can’t pace in a tiger cage ..." His voice faded into nothingness and he slid, a dead weight, into his companion’s arms.

"Shit!!" Sam swore with feeling. "Damn you, Al. Damn you!"

His first instinct - bad instinct - was to administer first aid, call 911 and get the hell out of there. He didn’t. For one thing, the very last kind of help the man in his arms needed was public exposure of his private pain. For another, the ghost of Chelsea hovered at his shoulder with accusing eyes. Walk away, the phantom voice suggested sarcastically. Again? He banished the memory with impatient effort, conscious of the pulse of blood as it oozed through his fingertips. He was a qualified doctor, for god’s sake, perfectly capable of dealing with this; so why did his heart surge with panic at the sight of this man’s life as it slicked his hand? He took a deep breath and pushed the emotions to one side, drawing on the adrenaline so that it would aid rather than hinder him. First things first. Deal with the emergency, then face the crisis.

He half-dragged, half-carried, the unconscious man out into the hall and down to the bathroom. A clean towel replaced the pressure of his hand as a temporary measure, and the curve of the bath allowed him to prop the wounded limb above the rest of the comatose body. He had to stop the bleeding and fix the damage, and that was going to take stitches. He had the means - an emergency kit in his car, other stuff back at the penthouse ... The car was closest. His place was on the seventh floor of a block five hundred yards away. He padded the wounded man with towels and anything else he could find, took a moment to check that he wasn’t about to wake up in a hurry, and sprinted out into the hall, heading for the stairs.

He ran the entire distance, somewhat relieved to find he encountered no-one in either direction. His shirt was plastered with blood and it would have taken just too long to explain had he been seen. His mind was racing as fast as his body, taking mental steps two at a time. He’d failed Alonzo Calavicci twice already - once by taking advantage of his trust, and then by refusing to become involved when he clearly needed someone to do so. Sam could not shake the feeling that it had been his arrival - and stupid accusatory departure - that had pushed the man over the edge.

The sight of that self-destructive rage had shocked him to the core. The bleak despair in the man’s eyes; the echo of old pain and older memories wrenched to the surface by undefined emotions; all of that seemed minor compared to that single wretched phrase. I thought that was what you wanted ... And his own words haunted him with sharp irony. You disgust me, Calavicci. Who was he to pass such harsh judgement, so quickly? It hadn’t even been true. The drink had disgusted him, its poison wreaking pitiful dissolution, but the man ... Even in that bitter state there had been a hint of drowning defiance fighting to survive - until Samwise Beckett had cut him down with savage words.

He locked the door behind him as he slipped back into the apartment, his resolution wavering as he identified the bloodied prints of his own hand on the bathroom doorframe. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and went in.

He had to put sixteen stitches into the slashed flesh, each one fastened with a discomforted wince. The wounds were deep and would leave scars, although perhaps they would never be as deep or painful as the emotional wounds inflicted that night. Sam felt as if he’d crawled across a battlefield to be there, braving the guns of accusation and exposure as he did so. His ivory tower was crumbling around him, and he had no place else to go; no guarantee that the man he now tended would not just curse and banish him once he woke. No matter. He had chosen his course and he would stick with it, take responsibility for his deeds for once, not just let others pick up the pieces he left behind.

His patient stirred only once as he worked, and that not to fully wake, but only to retch violently. Sam gritted his teeth and supported the man’s spasms, making sure that he did not choke or inhale something he shouldn’t; what came up was mostly fluid anyway. It was obvious that food had been a long way down the Commodore’s list of priorities; it was no wonder he’d managed to get quite so drunk, so quickly.

That was if he’d been sober at any time over the past few weeks. Sam doubted it somehow. As an addiction, alcohol was insidious; it was socially acceptable to drink, even considered manly by those who didn’t understand its dangers. Once hooked, the alcoholic rarely saw the slope down which he slid until he hit the bottom - by which time it was often too late. Not this time, Sam promised himself firmly, rinsing his hands and going back to his stitching. Not without a fight. The one I should have joined that day by the vending machine.

The final stitch in place, and a layer of bandage carefully placed over them, Sam turned his attention to the rest of the man’s needs; stripping him of blood-stained clothing and cleaning him up as best he could. That was disconcerting; his fingers lingered in the texture of dark hairs whorled across the dampness of sleeping skin, and his memory painted him a picture of the same gesture, the same tentative caress ... The figure beneath his hands had lost none of its compact physique, solid muscle and taut skin layered with the subtle patterns of an intricate pelt, so definitive a contrast to Chelsea’s smooth toffee flesh. The scars that marked the man’s skin had faded a little over the years, but were still distinct; like the newer wounds they were souvenirs he would never lose entirely. Something stirred inside Sam as he gently rinsed away the stain of blood, but it wasn’t desire; it was an unexpected tenderness.

"What happened, Tomcat?" he murmured, carefully lifting the man out of the chill of the bath and into the supportive curve of his arms. "Why are you doing this to yourself?" There was no answer, nor did he expect one. Not yet. But he would know. He had to.

The bedroom lay at the back of the apartment, the one place that seemed to contain a little colour and life. Most of that was in the wardrobe, its spilled array echoing the flamboyant nature Sam recalled from days on campus. The determined pilot, proud of his retention in the service, had worn uniform during the day, but at night - at night the alleycat had strutted his colours with easy and enviable panache. Apart from the clothes, Al Calavicci seemed to have little else to call his own. The bedcover was a woven throw in a riot of scarlet, black and gold, and there was a single photograph hanging on otherwise bare walls. An image of the Earth, taken from some point in space. Not a poster or a glossy print, but a genuine original, several faded signatures scrawled across the white surround. Beyond that - practically nothing, except for the half-empty bottle on the bedside table. The doctor placed his patient in the bed and into a textbook recovery position, padding him with pillows and covering him over. Once he was sure he was comfortable, he picked up the bottle and carried it out to the kitchen, collecting the full one as he passed. A moment’s hesitation and then he scoured the rest of the apartment, unearthing two more bottles of scotch, one of vodka, and three of brandy. The whole lot went down the sink, a satisfying glug of discarded poison. After that he stripped off his own bloodstained clothing, throwing it into the compact washing machine he’d found, and shrugged into the sweatsuit he’d brought up with his medical kit. A little more comfortable himself, he headed back to the bedroom, where he pulled up a chair and settled down to wait. He suspected he might have to be there a long time.

It was three am before the unconscious man stirred into bleary wakefulness. He groaned, the sound coming from empty depths to alert his equally bleary guardian. Samwise sat up, startled from his semi-doze, and watched as his patient turned over onto his back to stare, unfocused, at the ceiling.

"Ohhhh," was the only comment Al seemed prepared to make, so Sam decided he had to open the conversation.

"Hi," he offered softly. "Feeling any better?" It was a stupid question, of course it was, but it came with all the training in bedside manners and rule of thumb psychology that his medical background had prepared him with. He’d always wondered why doctors sounded so fatuous. Now he knew. They didn’t know what else to say.

"Ohhh, god," his company breathed with bleak realisation. "I thought I told you to go away."

"I came back." Sam kept his voice level and his tone light, aware of how delicate this situation was going to be.

There was an uncomfortable pause and then the gravel-filled voice demanded, with a hint of unspecified pain: "Why?"

That was a good question, and he didn’t know how to phrase the answer. Didn’t know what explanation this brittle soul might accept. "Because," he shrugged. Because Chelsea is dead and my world is falling apart? Because I still want you? What kind of answer would that be? "Because I’ve been a total jerk for far too long."

A hand clenched tight around the bunching of the bedcover. "Ya should have let me finish it, kid," its owner said with quiet bitterness. "Saved yourself the effort."

"Don’t be crazy," Sam snapped with authority, leaning forward a little as he did so. He couldn’t see the man’s eyes, couldn’t read what lay there. "That’s the drink talking, and you know it. Nobody has reason to do themselves this kind of damage. Nobody."

"How the hell would you know?" The question was challenging, asked with considered anger; Al deliberately looked away from him, his fist clenching tighter so that the knuckles went white. "You’ve never had to fight for anything in your life, kid. You just put out your hand and the golden apple drops into it. Anything you want - you get."

"That’s not true - " Sam reacted to the accusation with defensive protest. "That is, I ..." It was true; terrifyingly so. Except that all the things he’d taken for granted had been stripped away from him - things he had realised he valued only after he had lost them ... Don’t forget today, Sam-baby ... Chelsea’s chuckle clenched at his heart as tight as the fist on the bed. "I guess I - oh, boy." What sort of help was he, anyway? How could he hope to refute the bitterness that ate at this man when he couldn’t even face his own harsh truths?

"Okay," he admitted, taking a determined breath. "I guess I don’t know. I don’t know what’s eating at you and I don’t know why. But I do know this - " He leaned even further forward, laying his hand over the bunched fingers that held so tightly to the fabric within them. "There are some things worth fighting for. And maybe here is where I have to start. With you. With facing things and being prepared to care for once. You scared me, Al. You’re still scaring me. I’ve lost too many people, too many friends, because I was too occupied to notice how they slipped away from me. It’s getting damn lonely up in this ivory tower of mine, and I’m only just beginning to realise it."

The fist beneath his hand was a rigid ball of tension. "That’s a pretty speech, kid. I wish I could believe it. But you don’t need me. I’m just a waste of space."

"No!" Sam denied the statement with a vehemence that surprised even him. "No man is ever just a waste of space. And you are worth so much more than most men."

His companion’s head finally turned, dark eyes meeting determined hazel-green ones with haunted intensity. "Do you mean that, Sam?"

"Oh god, yes!" The emphasis was spontaneous, an expression of belief, of comprehension - almost of revelation in a way. Sam’s grip tightened with decisive pressure. "Listen - I may have been an utter jerk these past few months, but that stops right here, right now. You came to StarBright loaded with - I don’t know what, but hurting. And I saw it, and I turned away - because of something stupid I did, too many years ago. And nobody - absolutely nobody - in this damn complex has lifted a finger to help you since. They couldn’t be bothered. Not their concern. Well - " He took a deep breath, committed himself without a single look back. "I’m making it mine. Because I should have done something back then. Because I do care. Because a drowning man has no choice but to drown if no-one throws him a lifeline. I don’t think you jumped deliberately. I can’t believe that. So here’s the rope. Grab onto it, Al. Grab on, and scream and lay all that anger and pain on me if you have to, and I will not let go! You hear me? No matter what, no matter how much it costs, I am going to save you. Whether you like it or not."

For an instant - a precious instant - he thought he’d got through. The eyes that stared at him were taut with startled hope; and then all the pain and the anger cascaded into them, shattering that fragile moment with bitter savagery.

"Why the hell should you bother anyway?" Al growled, wrenching his hand from under Sam’s grip and turning away from his self-appointed protector. Samwise considered the curve of the man’s shoulders and wondered how he could encourage trust in someone who had every right to believe him capable of betrayal - because he had done just that, once.

"Because I care," he offered softly. "Because what’s the point in my having all this skill and knowledge if I don’t use it to make the world around me a better place?"

"Oh, god," the man’s voice growled for the second time. "Now he wants to save the world ... What am I to you, kid? A stray puppy you picked up in the street? Or just a guilty conscience come home to haunt you?"

That was too close a stab to be comfortable. "Maybe," Sam admitted. This had to be faced, or it would stay between them like an unbreachable wall. "What happened - all those years ago, between us? That was then. I was a young idiot, not thinking about much beyond what I wanted. This is now. And I’m not here with any motive other than wanting to be your friend. Just your friend. I’ve spent most of my life taking from people, and I want to start giving back. I don’t know what brought you to this, but I know it has to stop. Right now. Before the drink kills you as certainly as you tried to do tonight. Now - if my being here makes you uncomfortable, well - I can’t help what I am. But I promise - no, I swear - that I will never, ever, act toward you in any way other than I would my own brother. I made a mistake, and I’m sorry. That was what I came to say tonight, and now I’ve said it. I’m sorry. I was wrong, Tomcat. I won’t make that mistake again."; No matter how much I might want to, Sam determined quietly to himself. No matter how much it might hurt me, I will never hurt him again.

"That’s one hell of a promise, kid." Al turned back slowly, considering his companion with tormented eyes. "That one - and the one before it. Do you have any idea what you might be taking on?"

"No." Sam found him a smile of encouragement. "But that’s my business, Alonzo Calavicci. Discovering the unknown. Care to come along for the ride?"

Continued in Part Two ...
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Disclaimer:This story has been written for love rather than profit and is not intended to violate any copyrights held by Donald P Bellasario, Bellasarius Productions, or any other holders of Quantum Leap trademarks or copyrights.
© 1994 by AAA Press. Written and reproduced by Penelope Hill. Artwork by Joan Jobson