Archive of Our Own

Sam silently thanked whoever was leaping him around that he found himself in a warm, soft bed. He's leaped into much worse, he supposed he could use a break. 

He was absently aware of another body wrapped around him, but it was far too dark to discern any feature on the other person. That is, until they suddenly sat up and froze, plastering an unsteady hand over Sam’s chest. 

“Did you hear that?” The person asked in a hurried whisper, and Sam could confidently identify the voice as male. And somehow… familiar. 

“Hear what?” Sam answered, matching the man’s hushed tone. 

He, whoever he was, didn't answer. Instead, he carefully slid a blanket further on Sam, though his attention was elsewhere, as if he was waiting on something. Sam was starting to notice the tension in the air and it just made his pulse speed up.

“Thought I heard footsteps… Maybe you were right about this being too risky,” The man said solemnly, turning to Sam. He carefully took his hand and kissed the side of Sam’s lips. 

Oh. 

“Uh,” Sam started, though he had no idea how to answer. “Maybe– Maybe I was, yeah.” 

The man slumped next to Sam, who could feel their chests rising and falling in sync. He turned towards him, Sam suddenly feeling nervous under his gaze even though the two men could barely see one another. The man must have smiled, then, since his teeth sparkled while catching the slightest bit of light. 

“You don't sound too sure, Bobby,” He started quietly, his smirk obvious from his smooth voice. “Maybe I could have you for a bit more? You can leave before reveille.”  

“Uh–” Sam started, growing distracted when the man’s arm started gliding across his torso, stopping on his lower abdomen. “I guess so.” 

“You guess?” The man laughed softly, the sound making his chest vibrate against Sam. He shifted and drew his hand back up to rest on Sam’s shoulder. “Is something wrong?” 

“No, no,” Sam answered automatically. “Just kind of tired, you know? Nothing’s wrong.” 

The man leaned closer, inspecting his face before pressing his lips gently against Sam’s temple. “Okay,” He said softly. His tone eased something in Sam and he reached for it on instinct. 

Sam felt a lean arm reach behind him, resting on his shoulders as a gentle hand raked through his hair. Though it felt as if his hair was too short for the gesture. It's the thought that counts, Sam guessed. Eventually the hand stilled, the man’s evened breathing suggesting sleep. 

The air shifted next to the bed, what little light Sam could see from the outside suddenly bending in front of the window. Al appeared, clear as day despite the deep dark. He puffed on the cigar in his mouth, his distant gaze stuck on the bed. 

“Al–” Sam blurted out as he went to sit up, just a bit too loud for the circumstances. 

“Don't talk,” Al ordered. Anything Sam wanted to say was quickly forgotten thanks to his friend's unusually sharp tone. “It's two o’clock, you need to leave at five. Your quarters are three doors down the hall. We’ll talk when you're alone, alright, Sam?” 

“...Alright,” Sam replied in a whisper, frowning at Al. Confusion and worry arose in him, but he supposed he could wait a couple of hours instead of pestering his friend right now. Al didn't seem up to talking. 

“Alright,” Al said quietly, pretty much to himself, as he brought the handlink up. His eyes were dark as they lingered on the bed for a second that stretched on for too long.

Sam looked at the bed himself, only to be met with soft hair on his face and the man next to him inching closer in his sleep. The man. Sam nearly rolled his eyes in exasperation. Is that what’s bothering Al? He'd thought his friend had gotten over certain opinions after the leap into the queer cadet commander. Maybe not. Whatever the case, Sam would have to lecture him in the morning. He looked up at Al, only to see the hologram had disappeared.

By around five o’clock, the man in bed with him was stirring awake. Sam carefully untangled himself from him, turning to look for his clothes now that the shine of dawn was filling the room enough for him to see. He stood, quickly picking up a thin white undershirt from “his” side of the bed, hoping it belonged to Bobby. As he was tugging it on, he felt a finger poke at his bare thigh. Sam looked down and froze at the sight. It was Al. Younger than Sam had ever known him as, but undoubtedly him. A boyishly handsome Al sprawled on the bed, staring up at him with a mixture of sadness and passion in his deep eyes. 

“Al…?” Sam asks, despite himself, voice cracking. 

The younger Al’s lips curl up in a small smile before he rolls out of bed. Sam’s eyes trail down his almost nude figure before he forces himself to look up at his face. No need to make this weirder than it already is. 

“You’ve got about ten minutes before the passageways fill up. Might wanna hurry up, Bobby,” Younger Al said while getting dressed in a hurried routine.

“Right, right…” Sam answers absently, his eyes still stuck on this version of his friend as they put on the rest of their respective uniforms. 

The man in front of him seems to notice he's staring and avoids Sam’s gaze, smiling sheepishly under his hat. Sam is sure he must be seeing things. 

“Don't forget your cover again.” 

Sam just blinks up at Al, not fully processing the words said to him. The man – boy, really – points somewhere behind Sam. Turning around, he sees a white dixie cup hat. He quickly snatches it and stands up, but hovers by the door, not quite ready to stop looking. Feeling brave, he reaches out, cupping the side of Al’s face. He runs a thumb over his smooth lips as he examines every detail of his face. If he stares long enough into the pair of eyes in front of him, he can almost see his Al. 

This Al grabs a hold of Sam’s wrist and leans in. Their lips meet softly, the moment fleeting even though it's clear the other man wants it to last longer. A part of Sam shares his desire. He buries the thought deep down as soon as it makes itself clear.

“I’ll see you at chow. Now go,” He says, still smiling, but aware of how important it really is that Sam leaves. 

With a last quick glance at Al, Sam disappeared, charging down the passageway to look for the room that was apparently his. 

Once inside, he takes a moment to look at a mirror. Bobby stares back at him – young and clean shaven, but the dark circles under his eyes suggesting he wasn't getting much sleep even before Sam got here. He stares for a bit too long, imagining Al being all over this guy last night. He suddenly hears a familiar beeping of a handlink to his side. 

“Al,” Sam starts carefully, sensing his friend is still on edge, but desperate for information. “What’s happening?” 

“Uh, it's June fifteenth, 1956. Your name is Robert Bennett. You're a twenty-two year old ensign in the United States Navy. You're in the Naval Air Station in San Diego on shore duty,” Al replies quickly, holding back the info Sam cares most for. 

“And?” Sam asks, gesturing for Al to continue, but the other man just stares at him, biting his lip nervously. Sam sighs. “Al, I saw you. I know that was you. Just tell me what’s going on,” He prods gently. 

“Okay, okay,” Al says, resigned. He rubs a hand over his face, a golden ring on his pinky twinkling under whatever light it is catching in the imaging chamber. “Bobby and I were, uh, seeing each other at this time. He was found out to be, you know…” Al explains, voice unsteady. “And he got dishonorably discharged. And, well, everyone was against him, here. Almost everyone, I guess, 

He committed suicide at twenty-five. I think it's connected,” His voice trails out as he squeezes the device in his hand. 

Sam softens, watching Al intently, seeing him in a new light. But not too different, he realizes. “No one found you out?” He asks before he can stop himself, realising too late it's the wrong thing to ask. 

Al inhales deeply before swallowing the lump in his throat. “No. No, he didn't tell anyone about me. They tried to force it out of him, but he wouldn't spill. He wouldn't– couldn't do that to me.” 

Sam nods, slowly walking by Al to sit at the foot of the bed. “So, I’m here to make sure no one finds out?” 

“Yeah. I mean– Ziggy says it's a 97.6% chance, and I– I think so, too.” 

The sounds of various voices and boots hitting the floor get increasingly louder on the other side of the door. 

“You should probably go down soon, it's almost oh-six-hundred” Al tells him, his voice somehow commanding and careful at the same time. Sam thinks about the way younger Al was telling him to leave. 

Sam stands up and looks at his friend where he's fidgeting with the colourful device in his hand. “Uh, Al,” He starts carefully. Al forces himself to straighten up and look at Sam directly. Though, if the ashamed expression on his face is anything to go by, Sam is sure he'd like to do anything but. “I don't mind.” 

“Don't bring it up. Please,” Al replies, his voice distant. With a few presses of buttons, he's gone. 

Sam sighs before stepping out of his quarters, letting himself blend in with the commotion. A strong smell of aftershave hung in the air. Sailors rushed past him, all of them looking pretty much the same in their uniforms, with short haircuts and smooth youthful faces. Still, one guy stood out. 

Walking towards him from the end of the hall, posture straight as possible but hat slightly crooked, laughing at some joke that a blonde, lanky sailor to his side threw at him. His eyes met Sam’s, his face softening for only a second before returning to professional and neutral. 

“Morning, Bennett,” Al addresses him, letting himself smile warmly only when he was close enough to Sam so no one but him would see it. So, it's Bennett when there are people around. Sam makes a mental note of that. 

“Morning, Calavicci” Sam replies quickly, hoping he sounds sure enough in himself. He wonders how much or how little it takes for people to get suspicious around here. 

Sam risks a lingering look at his back, the sound of Al’s laughter ringing in his ears. Snapping out of it, he hurries to the mess hall. 

*** 

Trays clattered in the distance as Sam entered the hall and looked over the sailors sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with each other, chugging coffee and stuffing pale powdered eggs and toast in their mouths. He stepped in line, grabbed a tray of food and scanned the ocean of sailors. 

“Bennett!” A familiar voice shouted from behind him in a bright tone. Turning around, Sam immediately noticed Al, who lightly patted the seat next to himself. God, he looked even younger under this light. His sleeves were rolled up, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the line of his throat. Sam smiled and rushed over, thankful to know they could be seen together in some regard without raising suspicion. 

The longer he sat, the more guys came in. Everyone had to squeeze together around a few tables. Sam and Al repeatedly bumped shoulders, and their thighs were practically pressed against one another. The heat emanating from their contact was distracting for a reason Sam decided was not important.

“Morning, Bingo,” A voice said from behind Sam. He turned his head to see a red-headed, broad guy giving Al a pat on the back before sitting down across from him.

“Bingo?” Sam wondered, accidentally aloud. 

“Yeah?” Al answered, turning to him. Their faces were definitely too close. 

“Uh– nothing,” Sam said quickly, trying to sound casual. He would have to ask his Al about that nickname later. 

“Calavicci,” Someone further down the table called out. “You’re on watch this afternoon, right?” 

Al– Bingo groaned dramatically. “Uh-huh. Noon to sixteen-hundred.” 

“Thought you swapped that,” Someone a bit closer said. 

“I did. Then I lost a bet with Jones.” 

“Serves you right.” 

Sam tried to follow the chatting casually, laughing along like Bobby had probably done countless times before. Bingo bumped his knee under the table, immediately snapping Sam’s attention to him. 

“You clear after drills, Bobby?” He asked in a low tone, only to be heard by Sam. 

“I– I think so, yeah.” 

“Good,” Bingo said, hiding a smirk behind a mug of coffee. Good. Just one word was enough to send Sam’s mind racing. 

As he continued watching Bingo laughing with the other flight boys, a tight knot appeared in Sam’s chest. This was Al, he had to remind himself. But he was so different from Sam’s best friend. The sparkle he saw in Bingo’s eyes was dulled in Al’s, now. 

Under the table, Bingo pressed his knee against Sam’s again. Firmer this time.

“Don’t stare,” He murmured below his breath, face neutral as he moved his mouth as little as possible. 

Sam blinked. “What?” 

“You're staring,” Bingo said, his voice trailing out as he moved his head away from Sam. 

Sam quickly looked away, his gaze instead dropping to a piece of egg he was absently poking at. 

Noticing a shimmer of colour in the corner of his eye, Sam looked up to see Al standing on the other side of the hall, a cigar hanging from his mouth as his eyes were fixed on their table. Once noticed, he waved Sam over. 

Setting his fork down, Sam stood up, muttering something about hitting the head. 

“Don't fall in,” the sailor next to him joked, earning a laugh from the guys around him. 

The only one paying attention to him, looking freely while others were distracted, was Bingo. “Don't be long,” He said quietly, fingers brushing over Sam’s wrist as he stood up. Brief enough that no one noticed, but also intimate enough for it to stick with Sam. 

The bathroom was empty, fortunately. Sam squinted at the harsh overhead lights. Al appeared almost as soon as Sam pushed the door shut. 

“You gotta stop that,” Al told him, his voice uncannily serious.

“Stop what?” Sam asked, tilting his head at the hologram. 

“Looking at him like that. I know I was a handsome devil, but come on,” He tries to joke. “Someone will notice, you know.” 

Seems someone already has. Sam's breath hitched at his friend's words. “Al, I’m not–” 

“You are.” 

No point in lying to him, Sam supposed. He didn't seem angry at least. Just kind of… resigned. He probably has more important things on his mind right now. Speaking of, 

“What's gonna happen?” Sam asked, remembering he has a job to do here. 

“Bobby gets reported two days from now. By that ginger kid, Jenkins, but most of the guys were talking. I dunno what they saw, but it was enough. Everyone seemed to know about Bobby suddenly,” Al’s tone strays from the familiar notion of giving Sam leap information, shifting into uncomfortable recollection of his own memories. “They just couldn't figure out who he was seeing.” 

“Well,” Sam started gently. “If we can find out what exactly they saw that made them report Bobby, maybe we can–” 

“No, Sam,” Al interrupted sharply. “The only way he doesn't get caught is if there's nothing to catch in the first place.” 

“You mean…” Sam looks deep into Al, his eyes glossy under his furrowed brows. “I have to break it off?” 

“Yeah,” Al replies, almost inaudibly. 

“Oh, I don't think– I mean, Bingo seems to care about Bobby a lot.” 

Sam hears an unexpected chuckle from Al. “You calling him Bingo now?” The hologram asks, his voice slightly brighter. 

Sam smiles despite being a bit embarrassed. This is the first time on this leap he's seen his friend in a somewhat good mood. “Uh– Well, someone called you that and, you know–” 

“It's fine,” Al says softly, bringing the cigar to his mouth. “Takes me back,” He says around it, voice slightly muffled. 

“Do I want to know?” Sam jokes, his own mood brightening. 

Al exhales a short laugh. “Probably not.” 

Sam hadn't quite realized until now how much Al’s attitude affects his own feelings on each leap. He's usually capable of making light of any situation and making Sam feel easy and comforted under the worst circumstances, but now it wasn't Sam who needed comfort. He would try to say something to his friend, but he's sure Al wouldn't accept it. He’d probably beep out of existence if Sam tried anything. So he stays quiet. 

A moment passes, then another. Al fiddles with the handlink, though Sam thinks he's only doing it to fill the silence. 

“Uh, Sam, listen,” The hologram starts, uneasy. “Break it up today or tomorrow, and don't– don't make a big deal out of it, you know? Tell him you’re scared or something. I can handle it.” 

Sam opens his mouth to protest, but something else occurs to him. “What did you say the date was today?” 

“June fifteenth, 1956.” 

“Al, tomorrow is your– it's Bingo’s birthday. I can't–” 

“Sam,” Al cuts in sternly, cocking his head at his friend. “You have to. Don't worry about me, for God’s sake. You leaped for Bobby, remember?” 

“I know, I know, but…” 

“But nothing. Now get out there, the division officer is gonna give assignments for the day soon,” Al says, summoning the Door behind him. Sam sighs, turning around. “Sam.” 

Sam pauses, hand on the door knob. His head whips towards the hologram. 

“Don't let him talk you out of it.” 

***

Men spill out of the mess hall in a rushed, but organized manner. Sam squints as the fluorescent light above him is replaced by the blistering California sun. He puts his cover back on and falls into line automatically, gravel crunching under his boots. Bingo steps into place beside him, their shoulders bumping and hands lightly brushing against each other. Sam freezes in place between other guys of the class lining up for muster. 

Ever since he started leaping, he often found himself longing for the casual touches he and Al exchanged back when they could actually be near one another physically. He wants to savour Bingo’s touch, but with the knowledge he has, every subtle contact feels like evidence. 

“Bennett,” An officer calls out sternly. 

“Here, sir,” Sam replies, trying to tear his focus away from the man at his side. 

“Calavicci.” 

“Present,” Bingo answers confidently, his bright voice vibrating through his ribs and seeming to hit Sam square in the chest. 

Assignments are read off – hangar maintenance, inventory rotation, drills from 0900 to 1000. Sam is reminded he promised to meet Bingo after the drills. His hands shake while he works as he thinks about it. 

Bingo passes by him, gently pushing Sam out of his way with a firm hand on his waist. Down the line, some guys laugh amongst each other. A sailor whispers something to his buddy, a smirk on his face. Sam inhales sharply. Are they looking at them? Someone always seems to be looking at them. Are they already suspecting something? 

Sam snaps his attention away from the other sailor, focusing on Bobby’s tasks. Paranoia won't do him any good. A sailor walks up to Bingo, clapping a hand on his shoulder. 

“Drinks tomorrow, Bingo. Don't think we forgot,” He says, friendly. The other man smiles brightly. Sam thinks about having to diminish his happiness. 

As they're dismissed to the hangars, Bingo falls into step beside Sam automatically. 

“See you after drills. Don't disappear on me,” He says slyly, with a wink Sam hopes isn't too obvious. His face heats up, but he forces himself to just smile and nod. 

“I won't,” Sam mumbles, feeling like he's lying. Technically, he is. He has to disappear at some point. But Bobby won't, hopefully. 

The morning stretches on endlessly, Sam attempting to lose himself in the blur of engines and tools. He works mechanically, hyperaware of Bingo outside the hangar. Leaning against a wall, sleeves rolled up, trying to light a cigarette against the breeze. His familiar smile every time his eyes met Sam’s. 

A couple hours pass by and drills end with shouted orders and sweat-soaked undershirts. Men disperse in different directions. Bingo catches Sam by the elbow as soon as they steer clear of the main cluster of sailors, leading him away. 

He pulls him around the side of the hangar and into a narrow strip of shade just outside everyone’s view. Once it's just the two of them, Sam considers talking about the inevitable. Perhaps he could gently nudge Bingo to believe what they’re doing truly is too risky, and make the breakup seem like a mutual idea. 

His lips part, but Bingo catches them in his own before Sam could say anything. Taken aback, he stiffens as Bingo’s plush lips press against his. Softly at first, but gradually becoming more eager. 

And Sam just lets him. He can't believe what he's doing. His hands hover in the air uselessly before he plants them on Bingo’s upper back. The other man makes a pleased sound in the back of his throat, and Sam allows himself to kiss him back. He shouldn't, he knows that. But it's been so long since he touched Al, he missed the feeling of his hand meeting solid flesh instead of thin air. It's selfish, Sam thinks the entire time, but he can't stop himself. What if Al was around to see him like this? Would he be angry at Sam for indulging? Surely. 

Would it really be so terrible, though? Sam forgets about the possible consequences as Bingo presses himself against him, sharing warmth. 

He pulls away slightly, just to breathe for a moment. A hand slides up Sam’s back to cup the back of his head. “You’re kinda weird today,” Bingo comments in a low tone. “Everything alright, Bobby?” 

Sam considers. Bingo is giving him a clear opening to say what he knows he has to. Still, his mouth stays shut as Bingo looks at him with a far too familiar gaze, eyes deep and warm. 

“Uh,” Sam starts. The other man brushes his thumb alongside his jaw tenderly. The notion makes every thought Sam’s mind evaporate. “I’m fine,” He says, like a coward. 

Bingo squints at him, searching his face before smiling, slowly. “Okay,” He says, so soft Sam can't even hear it. “Had me worried,” He murmurs between light pecks on Sam’s lips. 

A sinking feeling of heaviness fills Sam’s chest. He's taking advantage of the situation, he knows it. He can't forgive himself, but can't quit either. He prays Al is more forgiving than him. Every second he and Bingo spend lost in one another increases the risk. Sam’s usually not this careless, but he can't seem to help himself when Al is in the question. A version of him, at least. 

They smell the same, which really sets Sam off. He's reminded of every late night he and Al spent working on the Project. Falling asleep next to each other and waking up to Al’s hair tickling his face. His friend smoking through his window, the smell of tobacco still managing to fill the room while Sam rambled about his theories. Memories that rarely get triggered in Sam’s brain these days. 

*** 

Around noon, Bingo had to go on watch. You’ll survive without me for four hours, he had said with a smirk that really almost convinced Sam that he would. He wasn't so sure now. 

The yard feels bigger, emptier without the familiar face. Louder, too, every laugh ringing in Sam’s head sharply. 

Sailors talk to him about things Bobby should understand, but Sam doesn't, so he just nods along and laughs when everyone else does. He notices a few guys muttering amongst each other, and Sam skin starts prickling. It’s likely not about him, but it feels like it is. 

Without Bingo beside him, Sam feels more out of place than usual. He doesn't know where to look, where to stand, what to say. Who to stand near, without the obvious choice around.

Across the yard, at the hangar entrance, Bingo stood watch. Eyes focused, posture straight, his uniform giving him a sharp, official silhouette. For a moment, he meets Sam’s eyes. And with the subtle smile Bingo gives him, everything around him seems to steady. 

The feeling of reassurance is familiar and Sam realizes Al has been doing this for him since his first leap. He's always an anchor in unknown waters. Maybe being with Bobby shaped him into that role. Something in Sam’s stomach twists at the thought. 

He's snapped out of whatever trance he was in when another figure walks up to Bingo. Jenkins. He starts talking to the shorter man, making him laugh. Sam’s breathing speeds up when Jenkins glances at him. He looks away quickly enough. 

*** 

The heat was heavy in the late afternoon. Sam wipes at his damp forehead as a clipboard is pushed into his hands. Bingo is beside him again, because of course he is. 

“Swear to God,” He starts, close enough that Sam can feel his breath on his ear. “I’m gonna make Morales redo the whole list. Guy can’t even count properly.” 

Sam laughs, pretending to know what Bingo is talking about. Bobby would know, he guesses. The sound is accidentally too loud, but Sam doesn't notice, preoccupied with the way Bingo’s grin widens when he hears him laugh. 

A quick glance up, and Sam’s smile falls. He sees Jenkins squinting in their direction. Not hostile exactly, but still too observant for comfort. Bingo doesn't seem to think it matters as he nudges Sam’s arm and softly tells him to relax. 

Later, while waiting for the petty officer, Bingo leans in again to mumble some snide remark under his breath. Sam turns to him as soon as he senses movement, and quickly realizes his mistake. Their faces end up way closer than they should be in broad daylight. 

Sam pulls away, looking around. Jenkins in close by, his questioning gaze lingering on the pair longer than Sam would prefer. 

He looks away and Sam releases a breath he'd been holding. His stomach twists at the reminder that this kid will ruin Bobby’s life in just two days. The countdown suddenly seems very real, hanging over Sam.  

With the workday finally over, men drift towards showers and quarters. The sun is low now, painting the landscape in a soft golden glow. 

Bingo walks with Sam to the enlisted quarters, hands shoved into his pockets.

“You're free tonight, right?” 

Sam swallows thickly. “Yeah,” He says, realising too late he should probably lie. The thought of lying to Al, even a version of him that didn't know Sam, makes him uneasy. 

“I’ll come by later,” Bingo says casually, like he doesn't even have to say it out loud for Bobby to know it. “After lights-out.” 

Sam considers. He shouldn't. He recalls Jenkins’ lingering stare and the day of report getting closer and closer. It takes Sam every ounce of willpower to not just nod and wait for Bingo in his room. He can't do that, what would Al say? 

Bingo stops outside Sam’s quarters, crossing his arms over his chest. “You're still being weird,” He says gently, looking for something in Sam’s eyes. “Did I do something?” 

The vulnerability in his eyes almost undoes Sam. “No,” He snaps too quickly. “No, it's not you.”

“Then what?” The softness of Bingo's voice ruffles something within Sam’s chest. 

He can't tell him, not yet. 

“I’m just beat, Al. Drills really took it out of me, you know?” Sam opts for instead, offering a weak smile. It's transparent, he knows. 

Bingo perks up at the use of his actual name, but he sees right through Sam and looks at him like he doesn't believe a single word.

“Never stopped you before,” Bingo murmurs with a smirk. Sam feels his ears grow flushed. At lack of response, Bingo straightens up. “Alright, alright. Get your beauty sleep.” 

He steps away, eyes never leaving Sam. “Night, Bobby,” He whispers before reaching out to squeeze Sam’s wrist gently. 

“Night,” Sam responds, focusing on the warmth of the other man’s hand. Bingo turns away, retreating to his own quarters. 

***

Sam sat silently on the bed, covers neatly folded underneath him, listening to faint laughter from men passing in the hallway. His wrist seemed to burn, Bingo’s touch still echoing. On his side, he noticed a hologram slowly phasing into existence, but he avoided looking at it. 

“Sam,” Al started irritably, stretching out the syllable. “You're running out of time here.” 

“I know,” Sam replied quietly, running a hand over his face. “I’ll do it tomorrow. Definitely. I promise.” 

“You better.” 

He finally looks up, and his friend immediately starts fiddling with the handlink once their eyes meet. 

“You– He’s just nice to talk to. I feel bad thinking about breaking him and Bobby up,” Sam tells him, and it is the truth. Just a part of it, though. 

“Yeah, I bet,” Al scoffs. “Think you were doing more than talking, Sam.” 

Sam stiffens, unblinking eyes fixed on the hologram. Al doesn't look angry, but still… “You saw that?” He asks quietly, voice subtly cracking. 

“Uh-huh.” 

“I, uh, had to,” Sam stammers. “Go along with it so he wouldn't get suspicious. You know that, Al,” He tries to sound convincing, but is anything but. Al knows better. Knows him better.

“Whatever you say,” Al starts, his lips slightly curling up. “Just didn't seem necessary this time.”

Sam inspects his friend thoroughly, relaxes slightly at what he discovers. Al’s voice is softer now than when he first came in to lecture Sam. He's smiling. His eyes hold that sparkle Sam hadn't seen this whole leap. Maybe there's hope yet. 

Taking his silence as overthinking, Al chimes in. “It's okay. I’m flattered, actually,” He assures. Sam can sense some kind of sincerity in his joking tone. 

Sam chuckles, shaking his head. His eyes meet Al’s and they hold one another's focus as a comfortable silence sets between them. Their gaze is tender, holding a shared feeling. Sam considers saying something to acknowledge it, but figures now isn't the time. And it won't be the time for a long while, not like this. Not with them separated in different times, never really standing in the same room. There’d be no point. Sam looks away. 

“Al,” He starts, considering something else that's been on his mind. “Have you talked to him?” 

Something dark flashes across the other man’s eyes and he pulls a cigar out of his pocket to distract himself. “Who?” He asks. 

“You know who – Bobby. In the waiting room.” 

“Oh,” Al hums inaudibly, not fooling Sam with the attempted casualness. “Sure I did,” He bites down on the cigar and lights it, taking a few quick puffs. 

“Did you tell him who you are?” Sam asks incredulously.

Al glances at the other man quickly, like he was annoyed at the question. And like he knew Sam would be even more annoyed with the answer. “No,” He says quietly. “Wouldn’t do him any good, Sam. Trust me, it's better he doesn't know.” 

“I don't believe that,” Sam cuts in, trying to keep a gentle tone as to not upset his friend. “He cares about you, I can feel it. And you must remember it. I think he’d be delighted.” 

“Yeah, I remember.” 

“And you have a chance to apologize,” Sam finishes softly, moving to stand as close as he can to Al without touching him. Or, rather, phasing through him. 

“For something that hasn't happened yet?” Al scoffs, looking away. 

“Well, you don't have to apologize directly or anything,” Sam tries to explain. He sighs, crossing his arms. “I think it would be good for you to talk to him one more time.” 

Al stares into him, considering. Smoke circles around his head, reaching towards Sam but unable to flow to him. It's no doubt leaving a foul smell on Al’s person. When they worked together, it used to bother Sam quite a bit. Entering his friend's space to talk his ear off, only to be met with the smell of smoke stuck to his clothes. It never once bothered him enough to pull away, though. 

Al’s gaze slides down to the handlink. The Door opens with a soft buzz, and the hologram hesitates in front of it. “Try to break it up before breakfast tomorrow. I don't know how much time you have.” 

Sam nods, watching Al disappear through the bright light. The room suddenly feels profoundly emptier. Of course, to anyone else here, it is no more empty than when Sam first came in. 

He lowers his body onto the stiff mattress, staring up at the ceiling. Whatever he does, however he does it, he’ll break Bingo’s heart. Don't worry about me, you're here for Bobby – Al’s words echo through his head and Sam groans. Because how could he not care about Al? The mere concept is completely foreign. But now, he has to disregard his friend. Hurt his feelings in order to prevent the loss of a life. The latter is a bigger sacrifice, he knows, but he can't quite bring himself to accept it. It's not like he has another choice, though. 

***

The mess hall is loud with clattering trays and fellow ensigns shouting birthday wishes at Bingo and clapping him on the back. Sam wished him first thing in the morning, trying not to pay attention to the way the other man’s smile seemed to make the morning sun shine brighter. 

The two men are sitting across from each other, since a loud sailor slid into the seat next to Bingo before Sam arrived. Sam is irrationally upset at that no matter how hard he tries to convince himself the feeling is ridiculous. Bingo’s booted foot brushing against his ankle reads as an apology, and Sam forgets all about it. 

“You're buying us drinks tonight, aren't you, Bingo?” A guy next to him asks. 

Bingo groans, but his smile widens. “Yeah, yeah. One round.” 

Sam wonders how long he can put off the breakup. He glances around, failing to see Jenkins anywhere, and imagines the worst. Maybe he's already off filing a report. 

For what seems like the first time, but really shouldn't have been, Sam thinks of Bobby. The man he's here to save, yet he spent the greater portion of this leap ignoring his existence. His chest tightens at the thought of how careless he's been. Sam leans in slightly, catching the attention of the man across from him. 

“Bingo, uh, can we talk after chow?” He asks quietly, though the men around them are lost enough in their own conversations to not hear him anyway. 

Bingo nods while chewing, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sure, Bobby.” 

Sam makes an effort to not look at him until they’re done eating. Bingo stares at him though, eyebrows knit together in either confusion or concern. Perhaps both, Sam can't tell either way. 

The men around him stand up, and Sam quickly appears by Bingo’s side, nudging the man’s shoulder with his own. He points behind him with his thumb, and the two men quickly separate themselves from the crowd. 

They stop in an empty hallway, just outside the bathroom. Bingo leans against the wall, his patient gaze making Sam grow uneasy, the knowledge of what he's about to do weighing heavily on him. 

“What's up with you, Bobby?” Bingo asks worriedly, reaching out to brush his fingers over Sam’s hand, who winces at the touch. 

“Al…” Sam starts, voice cracking, inching closer to the other man on instinct. Searching for comfort, for his anchor. “I don't think I can do this anymore.” 

Bingo’s eyes darken as he stills, his fingers stopping to clutch at Sam’s sleeve. He doesn't respond.

“I still–” Sam stops himself. “It's nothing against you, I’m just… scared. I’m really scared, Al,” He says, breath hitching. He hopes he sounds desperate enough for Bingo to sympathise. 

“I get it,” The other man says monotone, voice hoarse. 

“I’m sorry.” 

“No, it's okay. Really,” Bingo assures him, but his eyes are glossy. His mouth pressed in a thin line, the bright ensign appears unthinkably small now. His grip on Sam’s sleeve loosens before he pulls him in an embrace. The fabric of Sam’s khaki shirt wrinkles under Bingo’s hands where he's holding onto the other man. Bingo turns his head, burying his face into the side of Sam’s neck. Savouring the feeling, creating a memory. Sam's breath hitches when he swallows the lump in his throat. 

Bingo pulls away, holding onto Sam’s wrist for as long as he can before walking back. Sam lets him, but refuses to meet his eyes, afraid he won't be able to let go if he looks at the young man.

Once alone, Sam releases a breath and slides a hand across his face, wiping away stinging droplets of tears. Looking up, he sees Al at his side and wonders how long his friend went unnoticed by him. 

“Okay?” Sam asks, voice barely above a whisper. 

“Okay,” Al assures, smiling before glancing down at the handlink in his hand. “Bobby doesn't get a dishonourable discharge, and everyone is off his back. He serves his time and is still alive, somewhere in Maine. You did good, Sam. Thank you.” 

Sam nods, proud of himself despite everything. “What about the Bobby in the waiting room?” 

Al’s expression softens. “I talked to him. Thanks for convincing me to do that, by the way,” He says gently. “I– I explained what happened, and that I’ll– We’ll fix it. And he thanked me, imagine that. Hugged me and everything.” 

Sam laughs, grateful. What Al forgot to mention, knowing he shouldn't, was the feeling of Bobby embracing him while inhabiting Sam’s body. It's a drag, on every leap, a stranger looking exactly like his best friend. Talking to him, touching him. Sometimes gripping his shirt in anger, other times reaching out in gratitude or seeking comfort like a child. If he really tries, he could pretend it's Sam. But one look at the eyes reveals there's no trace of him. He almost didn't mind this time. 

“Bye, Sam,” Al says weakly. He keeps his eyes focused on Sam's and his smile warm, giving his friend a pleasant last image to remember while he leaps. If that's even how it works. He doesn't know. No one knows. 

In a flash of light Sam can't see and won't remember, he's gone. As is the man occupying his body in the waiting room. Only one of them is returning to a life that's his, though.