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He was never a big reader, Sam.
Well, that wasn’t quite true; he was a reader, he had been once since Al met him—name any reasonably well-known book and the kid’d give you a synopsis, footnotes, and enough citations for a last-minute book report, all off the top of his head—but with a mind like his? He’d read a book once, one time, and then he’d have it forever, a mental printout of each page locked up in that steel-trap brain. As such, Al never really saw him read anything for pleasure.
So when he walked into the project’s cafeteria to see the physicist perched away from all the other nerds, nose buried deep in a copy of some old and weathered book that Al swore you’d only find at the bottom of a bargain bin someplace, it caught him unawares.
He plopped down next to him in a backwards-turned chair, peeking over his shoulder. A meal sat untouched to his side— probably for the better.
“Spread out, will you?” Sam leaned away slightly, casting a sideways glance at his friend.
“Nyck-nyck-nyck. What’s with the book?”
That old embarrassed smile crept up on his face, the one with only half his mouth up and red ears. “Just an old classic.”
“Oh, a classic, well.” It was so ‘classic’ that Al had never heard of it— in fact, so classic that Al thought it was probably only known to Sam himself— so classic that if Al didn’t know any better, he’d think it was some schlocky western that Sam would rather him not see.
“Do you have a reason for interrupting my dinner, or do you just feel like antagonizing me for old time’s sake?”
“Oh, like you’re eating anything anyway—” Al pushed a plastic fork through the mush, something the cooks generously called ‘shepherd’s pie’. The mashed potato was more film than actual food, crisp like an accidental crème brûlée. “Can’t say I blame you. Feel like this stuff might put you in a calorie deficit.”
No chuckle—not even an eyeroll.
Al pressed his lips together, leaning on his fist with an elbow on the table. Sam’s eyes were locked firmly on the book, coloured cover slowly peeling from the paper base in confetti strips. His thumb picked at the spine idly and while the other reached out, grabbing up a can of soda water that Sam always said he hated. Al watched his face scrunch up after he sipped, and he traced his eyes down his neck as Sam swallowed, hesitating at the mole just barely off-center from his throat. He didn’t have any real freckles— unbefitting of a corn-fed farm-boy, like most of Sam—but he did have a few beauty marks dotted around the area; three prominent ones on his neck, one a few inches under his right clavicle and another smack-dab on his left, and one halfway to his shoulder blade. Al’s eyes bounced between each spot absentmindedly.
Couldn’t really see most of them, covered by a mostly-buttoned-up bowling shirt tucked into slacks for a bit of professionalism— that was the intent, anyway. To Al, it looked a little too Springsteen upstairs to pass as regular white-collar dressings, albeit a bit looser-fit than the Boss usually put on, with twice the chest hair and none of the rockstar energy. Not that it mattered what he wore— what either of them wore.
Al returned to the disintegrating book cover, squinting.
“The Deer Stalker . I thought you were a Heinlein guy, who’s that?”
“Zane Grey.” Something about his shoulders seemed oddly stiff, held in close to his body like the shirt didn’t fit right.
“That book looks older than me.” Al’s chuckle managed to wrench a smile out of Sam’s mouth, if only briefly. Success.
“By a bit, yeah.” New crows feet crinkled his eyes, a strange sight on such a boyish face. A sight Al was still getting used to—but then again, so was Sam.
Another little difference. The shrink told Al that the kid’d be mostly back to normal after a few weeks, but the longer time stretched out, the more ‘mostly’ seemed like ‘somewhat’. It was all small stuff, of course: bumping his head on a ceiling light he thought he had clearance for, staring a little too long in anything reflective and touching his face, staying up all hours with a busted-up internal clock and only sleeping when someone made him, so on. Little picked-up habits from the last five years. Apparently, swapping from sci-fi to westerns was one of those little things.
“You need some sun,” he already had Sam by the arm, pulling him up and away from the empty table. Coworkers had since looked up from their dismal plates, watching the two directors like curious children. Anyone hired-on in the last few years had never gotten to see one of their squawks, and with Sam awake, they seemed excited about their front-row seats.
On the flip side, the old timers were watching to see if Sam could still deliver.
“Al, I’m busy.”
“No, you aren’t. And you’re too skinny to skip dinner, there’s barely any meat on this wing. C’mon, I promised to take you out when you got back, I think it’s time you reclaim that offer.”
“You sound like my mom—” Sam’s balking protests were no match for Al’s surestep pace and steely grip on his bicep.
“I’d be happy to phone Hawaii and have her tell you the same thing, kid.” Al turned on his heel, facing Sam just inside the cafeteria doors with a sly grin.
They shared a long look. Sam’s green-hazel gaze bore into Al’s coffee-coloured stare, both brows set firm, furrowed against each other in a duel. A battle for dominance, for authority. Neither would give an inch, Sam lowering down to Al’s level with a squint while Al puffed up his chest with chin upturned. Sam was stubborn, but Al was persistent. Sam, patient, Al, annoying.
The scientist blinked.
Al smiled. “Great. Meet you upstairs.”
Sam said nothing in the car.
He was leaning against the window like a kid on the bus, watching the cars drift by, lazy gaze fixed on the license plates, the model dates, the occupants. Taking it all in. Taking in all the little things that didn’t matter. The book sat on the unused coat across his lap, dog-eared pages trekking up halfway through. His watch was missing.
The radio announced the start of its ad-free weekend, bringing the sunny city of Albuquerque all the best oldies without interruption.
“Oldies,” Al couldn’t stifle a chuckle. Lennon started crooning, imploring them to imagine , and Al turned the review to peek at Sam without taking his eyes off the road. “Is that what we are, now? Oldies?”
“Guess so.” Sam glanced at the sky above them, cloudless. Nothing.
“I must’ve been something like… thirty-six? Thirty-seven?” He snuck a glance at his passenger. “How about you?”
“The Beatles? What album was this?”
“It’s John- this is your favourite, Sam.”
The quiet panic that set in across the console was heartbreaking. He seemed half his normal size, grinding his knuckle hard into his palm—at least that little tick stayed the same—and looking ahead at nothing in particular. He looked like he did something wrong, waiting for a scolding.
“It’s- if I was thirty-seven—”
“I was eighteen.” The answer came fast, automatic.
“That sounds right, yeah.” Least he’s got that, still.
“Maybe they’ll play some Bee Gees next.”
“I thought you hated disco.”
“Well…” Sam wet his lips, thinking. An old habit turned sideways; his mouth was working faster than his mind. “Just… I like Beatles, you like disco, so… it’ll even out.”
“Hah… I can only hope. Beatles aren’t really my style, but just this once I’ll make the exception, just for you.”
“Thanks.”
After not getting a return investment on his sideways-cast smile, Al rubbed a knuckle across his lips, propping his elbow on the car door. Watching the rearview, he saw Sam slowly fall back to his normal window-gazing, relaxing without another word. Closer inspection showed he wasn’t looking out the window, but at it, and the reflection looked more melancholic than it did a second ago—maybe it finally remembered what happened to its favourite singer.
He was too quiet these days, something Al was beginning to loathe. Sure, Al had usually been the bigger talker, but Sam would usually have his own things to say, too. Fantastical things, definitions and etymologies of words Al had never heard of, sciences he’d never begin to comprehend, but things nonetheless.
Even when he was quiet, he was still there . Al figured out a long time ago that he might as well have a human computer as a best friend; background processes at any given moment, not in the least related to whatever they happened to be talking about. He’d get this look on his face, look off someplace distant, and respond with little more than ‘mhm’ and ‘oh really’ for the next few minutes—yet if Al said something outrageous, try and catch him out? The same plain, placid voice would tease him for being so immature.
He never stopped. The kid didn’t know how to stop. When Al asked for him back, he expected him , dammit, the Sam Beckett that wasn’t happy unless he was climbing Everest, not this pensive, dreamy husk of—
No . No. He was wrong. Sam had always been quiet. He was a listener, a sponge. Absorbing. It’s what he always did. He was just a little more… wave-like, now. Less thinking, less cataloguing, less solving, more… reflection. Contemplation. Everything else was the same. Sensitive, smarter-than-his-own-good, terminally-good, self-sacrificing shyboy Sam.
He was tapping his fingers along to the beat, now. That was his Sam. Long, strong fingers. Not quite delicate. They could tighten a lug just as well as play piano.
That’s how a lot of him was. Look at him one way, he was the grown-up version of a kid shoved in a locker. All arms and legs. Look at him another way, and he was a real tall drink of water. Anyone with good taste could see that— and anyone that ever touched him could feel it. It reminded Al of a few male dancers he knew, way back when—lithe body, muscle almost hidden until you moved.
“You ever do dance, Sam? As a little kid, I mean.”
“Like—like that, ballet? No, I don’t think so.”
“Mm.”
The trip from the project back home wasn’t very long. The pay was terrible, and the hours were worse, but the short commute almost made it worth it.
Parking in the driveway, Al was already halfway out of the car before he noticed Sam hadn’t even unbuckled.
“Hey, Earth to boy scout. What’s the holdup?”
His friend was looking at the front door with thin recognition, surveying the blooming calla lilies with a frown. “You pulled me out of work for a house call?”
“ No , I pulled you out of boredom to come eat some actual food—and you haven’t taken me up on my offer to cook you dinner.”
“I guess that counts as treating me to it.” Sam finally undid the latch, sliding out of the car and unfolding long legs onto the pavement.
“With me behind the wheel, yeah.” Al walked him up to the porch, thumbing his keys. “Besides, I still need to show you what real spaghetti tastes like—I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for that insult to Italian cuisine.”
Sam smiled in that tired way he always did, eyes squinted in mock-annoyance, shaking his head gently in a the-things-I-put-up-with way. “The kids seemed to like it fine.”
“They’re kids , their opinion on food doesn’t count. If it was up to them, they’d eat pancakes for every meal.”
His hands—long, elegant, musician’s hands—twisted around each other. “Who was that, again?”
Al almost bit his tongue. “That was the Robicheauxs. You were helping the boys make dinner after their grandmother’s funeral, you helped their father with—”
“Right, right. Right.” Sam’s eyes re-focused on Al’s keys, making him fumble the right one. “What’s wrong with pancakes?”
“Nothing! Just not a well-rounded diet.”
The keys seemed to lose their appeal. Sam reached for one of the long-stalked flowers, bending it to smell. “Weren’t these uh… your second—no, your first wife. Weren’t these her favourite?”
Al finally pushed the door open, hiding his hurt, trying to adopt a light tone. Doc said treat him gentle . “Out of all the things you gotta remember, you had to pick the most embarrassing stuff, huh? She wasn’t even around by the time you showed up.”
No verbal response came, just an apologetic smile, panicked fidgeting, and a lowered head. Sam ducked inside.
Al watched his friend make his way through the house, wide eyes drinking in the scenery like it was the first time. It was the same empty house it had always been, only minor changes since they last stumbled in together, laughing and joking and making merry, leaving sandy footprints on the foyer carpet, raiding the fridge for late-night brain food, prodding each other awake like college kids the night before finals. A plant had now taken up residence in the corner of the living room, Al had hung a new calendar with the passing years, and a fresh coat rack sat by the door to replace the last one that he broke the arm off.
“I’d offer to let you help, but unless you got a culinary degree when I wasn’t looking, I’d rather avoid the food poisoning.” A little teasing before the kid managed to swallow his tongue from the nerves.
“Oh come on, Al,” Sam’s indignation brought levity to the eggshell tension. “I don’t make fun of you for not knowing stuff I know.”
“Uh-huh.” The pots rattled and banged as they came out of the cupboard, lids almost toppling onto the floor. “That’s because you know everything, and you’re a good person.”
“And you’re not?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“I should hope so—I don’t think the flea market would take golden bowling shoes, where do you even buy those things?” Sam took his usual seat at the counter without expecting an answer, watching Al fill the biggest pot two-thirds with water and setting it to boil. He made an attempt to fix his wind-swept hair, small white streak sticking out starkly in the chestnut.
‘Poliosis, Al’ one afternoon, after an exhaustive round-robin shuffle begging for funding. ‘Poliosis circumspecta, my dad had it too. From ‘pilios’, it’s Greek for grey. I’ve got at least another fifteen years before I get your silver temples. It’s a birthmark , Al. A Mallen streak. It’s nothing special. Stop calling me Cruella.’
“Ever think about getting a dog?” Now Sam had set his hungry hands on a crocheted potholder. White and blue.
“You callin’ me lonely?”
“ No , just… I’ve never had a dog, I don’t think. What do you even do with them?”
Al worked his jaw, thankful the stove gave him reason to show Sam his back. “Well, you love ‘em. Feed ‘em, play fetch with ‘em, take ‘em on walks. Sometimes people even let the dog sleep in the bed with ‘em.”
“I let our cats sleep in my bed when I was little.”
You did, yeah. You’ve told me before. “And what did Mom ‘n Pop think about that?”
“’ Sammy, get that barn cat out of your room before you get fleas,’ if I’m not mistaken.” Sam leaned on his hand, graceful, face bright at the remembrance.
“You really need to introduce me sometime. Never got to meet any dairy farmers in Philly.”
“You’ve met me.”
“Yeah, and you’re a terrible example of pretty much any type of box I can put you in.” Al pulled open the latch on the window, letting fresh air blow.
Twenty minutes. The silverware was mostly polished, though Al could’ve scrubbed a little harder at some of the tarnish if he’d planned ahead to host. The steadily-burbling pot silenced, and a column of steam wafted from the sink as he strained the pasta. With a little water on the bottom to make the sauce stick, Al mixed together the contents on the stove and brought it all to the little tea-table by the window that Sam had wandered to.
“Oh— I— we can sit at the dining table—”
Al silenced him with a finger. “Any table works. Just don’t scratch the wood.”
A cold bottle of light beer for the farm boy, and a glass of ice water for the dried-out city-slicker.
Despite the frankly delicious meal, if he did say so himself, no words floated between them. The soft breeze was the only conversation, the New Mexico air hot and dry.
This was wrong. It was downright uncomfortable—this was Sam, this was his best friend, why did it feel like a chaperoned diner stop after cotillion? What was all the nerves for?
They both focused mainly on their meals, but Al could feel his stare occasionally. He was always very curious—you don’t go to school for so many years without having a strong natural curiosity—but he was always looking at the world. Sam liked physics, always his favourite, always his special gift. The Sam he knew wanted to take the world apart like a broken calculator, just to see how it worked. So what if his finger got zapped?
That isn’t to say he wasn’t interested in people; he wasn’t a jackass, he cared about people. Learned their lives. Asked about their day. He’d remember every birthday, anniversary, upcoming doctor visit—even for people he’d never see again, even for strangers on the street. Once or twice, Al had first-row seats to a clerk spilling their life story to the poor guy, just because he had one of those kind, empathetic faces that made you want to bare your heart and let someone hold it, even for a moment, ‘cause you knew they’d treat it nice.
But that was never turned on Al, not anymore. His depths had long-since been plumbed, picked apart and put together—Sam knew Al better than Al knew himself, picking up his life like another expertise, slotting it away safely, just as important as any doctorate, and that was that.
Now?
Now, between bites of perfectly-cooked pasta and mousy sips of beer, the kid looked like a confused pooch: head tilted, brow furtive, eyes pleading. He always did that face when he thought really, really hard; he probably didn’t even know he was doing it. A million questions were streaming through his head, and instead of them being dedicated to the secrets of the universe or the cure for the common cold, they were definitely focused on the decidedly un-secrets of Al Calavicci.
“I’m not gonna scratch you behind the ears, you know.”
“Mh?” Sam perked his head up, not doing himself any favours with the comparison.
“You’re giving me that sick puppy look again. Cut it out.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t be.”
A fork twirled noisily against ceramic.
“Al?”
“Yeah?”
“Do uh… do you remember that one night, in Washington?” Sam pushed his spaghetti around, only having eaten about half.
“You’re gonna have to be more specific, Sam.”
“In… ’88, I think. I told you I needed a shark for D.C. waters—”
“And pulled me out of retirement to come help make those jarheads cough up some dough for your crackpot research idea.” A grin danced on Al’s face, warm at the memory. A simpler time.
“Right.” Sam nodded, sitting up straighter, pothole memory being repaved. “But it—it was a day or a couple days before Thanksgiving, and I didn’t have time to fly out and see Jim and Katie, and Mom, so we just decided to do our own little thing—”
“Maybe this year we’ll both go see ‘em. Make your brother come, too.”
“That’s a nice idea. And—and you said something about a new movie you heard about that was gonna come out that night, and you asked if I wanted to see it with you.”
Al’s own memory was intact, thankfully, but that didn’t mean he had Sam’s superior recall. “It—it was a Christmas flick, right?”
“Based on A Christmas Carol, yeah, which I thought could be fun, since Tom used to read that to me when I was little—”
“Scrooged! Bill Murray, Carol Kane, I remember.”
Sam puffed out through his nose, amused. It was a good sound. “But you took me to some theater I’d never heard of, and we sat in the middle row, you had peanuts instead of popcorn and gave me your soda because you don’t like how the water tastes in D.C., when the movie started you kept talking, just at a whisper, and every time Carol Kane would hit Mr. Murray you’d slap my knee trying not to laugh and interrupt everyone’s enjoyment—”
A dark theater, bitter outside air permeating the soundproofed walls, rows of dim lights in the aisles to prevent tripping, and a big screen lit up with Dickens made into comedy. Plenty of patient people quietly enduring one man rocking his seat, buckled over, loud leather jacket squeaking with each motion, knocking shoulders with his movie-partner, both of them giggling like a teen girl’s sleepover, ice rattling in a soda cup each time the slapstick got too funny, an usher telling them to keep it down—
“—and after the third cab refused to stop for us, we just started walking back to the hotel instead, and I thought you’d push me into the street with how hard you were leaning on me—”
So many years ago—
for Al, it was a lifetime, but for Sam , it might as well have been yesterday’s affair. Sam gestured with his fork when he talked—a habit rubbed off from Al—looking bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, all concrete, all real. Present. His mouth was barely keeping up.
“—and you tried flirting with the woman at the front desk, but I think she must’ve thought you were married or something, cause she took everything you said as just something nice to say—”
Al leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. His gaze was impossible to look away from, full of life, full of spirit, zest, something special. He’d never met a man—a person—like Sam before, a little comet sailing by. A bright spot flashing across Al’s sky some ten-odd years ago on the lowest night of his life. Hold onto the tail, and buckle in for a wild ride, one you’ll never forget. A unique delicacy born out of the common clay.
“—you said something about the guy from that old war show, the one that wore dresses to get out of the army, and how you met a few guys like that when you served, but you didn’t talk that much about it and just started listing off everyone else, like Mr. Murray’s brothers, and I asked when you got to be a film buff, and you rolled your eyes and said ‘since always, Sam’—”
That’s part of why it hurt so bad to see it all… flicker out, fall right out of the sky. Such a special person, so full of life and exuberance, so willing to try anything, everything, so ready to take the world by the horns and make it a better place. A person so full of love, so easy to love, so easy to spend time with.
“—what time do you think we got to bed that night?”
It made you stop believing that there was anything out there worth waking up for. Made it hard to get out of bed; so perfect a person could be gone, just like that, and even if they came back? They might not ever be right again, the person you knew would—
“Al?”
Now it was his turn for flushed cheeks and embarrassed chuckles. “We probably got back near eleven, I don’t think we actually got in bed ‘til after one.”
“One-thirty-six.”
Red numbers on a brand new alarm clock. Black-out curtains that didn’t black-out jack. The touch of a warm, starchy comforter on his side, arms wrapped around himself. A dry mouth. The dark shape on the bed next to his own, laid out on its stomach. The smell of dull cologne. A slow rise and fall. The quiet sound of sleeping breath.
“Al?”
“Yeah?”
“We should see a movie again sometime.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah. I- Katie told me over the phone about this one, it’s um- it’s a comedy, it's got Robin Williams, Nathan Lane—”
“Gene Hackman, too, I heard about that one. Heard it’s pretty good.”
“She told me—” Sam swallowed the bite in his mouth, appetite renewed, “she told me it takes place above a drag club, and she said I’ll like the physical comedy—which I always do, when it's Mr. Williams—and asked me if I’d seen Mrs. Doubtfire yet, since I have catching up to do, so— so we might have to go see that, too.”
Al looked across the little table, feet stretched out far under it, taking residence under his friend’s chair, calf touching calf, feeling Sam’s leg bounce at a breathless pace, full of boundless energy that he had to get out. Warmth and fondness lit his eyes; a gentle smile brushed his lips and dimpled his cheeks with creases.
Maybe his shooting star just needed a few orbits around memory lane.
“That sounds like something to get out of bed for.”