Work Text:
June 1997
Albuquerque, NM
Beth Calavicci was sitting at the dining room table in the middle of the afternoon paying bills when the front door opened. She pushed away slightly from the table, leaning back to try to catch a glimpse of her husband as he walked in. Al had been at the project for over a day. He’d left in dress whites, and she saw a flash of them now as he swept past towards the bedroom.
So he hasn’t slept.
His usual habit upon walking through the door was to seek her out for a greeting and a kiss. He did so every time, without exception.
This time, he didn’t.
She frowned, concern just on the edge of her vision.
Sometimes leaps were hard for him. Al worried about Sam in the same way he worried about their children. Was he safe, was he happy … when was he coming home?
This time, Sam had leaped into Vietnam, into his older brother’s squad, and she didn’t like to think of the memories that could conjure for Al. But when he’d called to check in early on in the leap, he’d seemed fine. Cautiously cheerful, even.
She waited a moment but, when he didn’t appear, she followed him down the hallway to the bedroom. She found him in the bathroom, hunched over the toilet bowl, vomiting. One hand held the tank, the other was shielding his medals, protecting them from stains.
“Al, are you coming down with something?” she asked, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it. She handed it off to him when he sat back against the shower door. He was pale. He flushed the toilet and wiped his face, then climbed to his feet. “You look awful,” she murmured, reaching out to help him up.
“Thanks,” he said wryly. He took a swig of water from the sink, then spat it out again.
“Here,” she offered, “let’s get you out of this uniform before it gets ruined.”
He let her pull the uniform jacket off and then stood with both hands on the countertop, bracing himself.
She put the back of her hand to his forehead. “You’re not sick,” she stated, no hesitation in her tone. That only left one conclusion. “Something happened.”
He exhaled heavily and the air was thick with what hadn’t been said. “Yeah.” His voice was raspy and uneven.
“Sam okay?”
He smiled, faintly. “He’s good. He saved his brother’s life today.”
“Tom?” She furrowed her brow. “Did something happen to Tom?”
Al passed by her and sat on the bed, leaning forward with his head in his hands. “Yeah. He was killed in Vietnam.”
“He was?”
“Originally.”
She sat next to her husband, resting her palm on his back. Timeline shifts were tough on him and eerie for her. His reactions generally included confusion and even temporary memory blackouts, but not nausea. “Talk to me, Al.”
“I will, just … give me a minute.”
“Of course.” She rubbed his back slowly, tracing circles. “You need some water?” He shook his head. “Tea?”
That brought a little laugh and he straightened. “Just time, hon.”
“Okay.”
“I … I’m not really sure how to tell you this.”
She felt the pit of her stomach twist. “Tell me what?” When he didn’t answer right away, her unease sharpened into fear. “Al, tell me what?”
“Sam … he failed in his mission.”
She folded her hands in her lap. “I thought you said he saved Tom.”
“He did. But that’s not what he was there for.” His words were coming slower, as if he was sifting carefully through them before he released them into the conversation.
The question lodged in her throat. She asked it anyway. “What was he there for?”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. “He was there to make sure their mission was successful. And their mission was to rescue some POWs.”
She knew, then – there was no other reason for him to be this rattled. “Oh, God, Al… What year was this?”
“’70.”
The room tilted slightly. She needed to hear him say it. “It was you,” she whispered.
His gaze hit her with enough force to push the air from her lungs. “It was me,” he confirmed.
“So, the photo…”
He rubbed the back of his neck. “That was our doing. We needed Maggie Dawson on the mission to find out what happened. We didn’t know she’d give the Colonel the slip. Or that she’d take the shot she took.”
“That photo was so important to me. It kept me going. I still remember the first moment I saw it. My commanding officer called me into her office and sat me down… Showed it to me before it went public.” Invisible fingers traced goosebumps up and down her back. “That look in your eyes – you had hope, still. I could see it in you.”
“I remember seeing her.” His voice was distant with memory.
“You’ve told me,” Beth said with a small smile.
“I did?” He shook his head as if he could force the new timeline to tumble into place.
“Why … why did the mission fail?”
“There wasn’t time to do both – rescue me and save Tom. Sam didn’t know. I didn’t tell him. I only found out myself a few moments before. I…” He heaved a shaking breath. “I didn’t have time to bring you in on this, Beth, I’m sorry. I had to make a decision.”
She reached for his hand, pulled it into her lap and gripped it tightly. “Al, you … you are amazing. You made that decision? That fast? And you chose…” A tear skipped down her cheek. “You are the most incredible man I’ve ever met.”
His eyes searched hers, studying her face. “You’re… You’re not mad?”
“Mad?! Al, why would I be mad?”
“We could have had those years, honey. I could have come home so much sooner to you.”
“No, we couldn't. Because you could never have let Tom die. You wouldn’t have let anyone die for you, especially Sam’s brother.”
“You give me too much credit. When Sam asked me to help him…” Al cleared his throat. “I hesitated.”
She lifted his hand and kissed it. “Of course you did, Al, of course! It was three years of your life. Three years of…”
“Three years apart from you,” he whispered. “That was the real torture.”
The word dropped like a stone in the center of the room, the impact of it rippling over them. “What was it like? Seeing … him.”
Al’s voice had been quiet, but firm. Now she heard the tremor. “It was just for an instant, a few seconds, but it was … unsettling. Memories and feelings I haven’t thought of in years. Seeing the other men I was with.” He gasped slightly. “The other men – I made this decision for them, too. God, Beth, what right did I have to do that?”
“You can’t put that on your shoulders.”
“Can’t I?” He pulled his hand free and stood, setting into motion and tracking a small oval on the carpet in front of her. “There’s literally nobody else. Sam was supposed to save them. I stopped him.”
“Al…”
“Me!” He faced her and she saw echoes in his eyes of the pain from the photograph. “Sam didn’t make that choice, Ziggy didn’t tell us to, God, Fate, Time or Whatever the hell is doing this wanted those men free.”
It was unfair that, in doing something so selfless, he’d collected another burden he’d have to live with.
She stood and embraced him and she could feel his body trembling. “I’m so proud of you,” she murmured. “So proud. I don’t care what the odds were or what Ziggy said or what was ‘meant to be’. You did the right thing.”
He held on tightly, gripping her. He’d once told her that he’d only survived because of their love. It would be enough for this, too. When they pulled apart, Beth tried for a small smile. “Meg and Julia should be home with Janis soon. I’ve got meatloaf in the oven. Are you exhausted or are you up for having dinner with us?”
The tug back to normalcy seemed to steady him and he glanced at his watch. “I can do a few hours. Maybe play Uno with Janis when they get home.”
“That’s a good idea,” Beth said gently. “Why don’t you get a shower and I’ll finish up the cooking.” She kissed him. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Al didn’t notice that Beth had brewed coffee after dinner. He’d gone up to settle into bed while she helped Meg with her homework. She drank as they worked on the calculus problems. It was going to be a long night and she needed all the help she could get. He was distracted, too preoccupied to realize what was likely to happen once he fell asleep.
But Beth knew.
Meg finally finished the last problem and bid her mother goodnight with a peck on the cheek and a swift hug. Then she was off, scattering into the home with her siblings.
Beth sat at the dining room table a bit longer, sipping the coffee.
Three years.
She remembered sitting in the overcooled office with Captain Marshall, remembered being told that they had something difficult to tell her. The command chaplain had been there, too, offering words of comfort that fell on deaf ears.
Her first sensation had been relief. She’d been told, almost exactly a year prior, by what she’d thought was an angel or a vision or a hallucination, that Al was alive. Now, here was photographic evidence. He was still out there in the world somewhere. She wasn’t waiting for a dead man to return to her.
Her second sensation was difficult to describe. The harder edge to horror, pain, grief. Because she saw his hands were bound, the strap fastened around his neck. She saw hope in his eyes, yes, but she also saw fear.
The chaplain was saying something again, but it was so far away. She made some noise of agreement, hoping it would cause his words to cease. Her fingers caressed the image.
She didn’t cry. She thought she would sob, scream, something, but there was only silence.
Captain Marshall’s voice had taken on a tone that made it sound like they were at the end of their meeting. She caught the word “leave” and it took her a moment to realize she was being directed to take time off. She accepted it without comment.
The door to the office opened and Beth left, dazed. A friend drove her home and offered to stay, but Beth shook her head, stood stiffly as her companion hugged her, and then shut and locked the door behind her.
Over the years, she would look at that picture so often that every line of his face, every wrinkle in his clothing, was committed to memory.
What if, along with the picture, had been the news that he had been rescued and was on his way home? What if he’d only had to suffer three years of imprisonment instead of six? How many of the scars that littered his body would be absent?
Beth downed the last of the brew in her hands and ascended the staircase. He was tucked into bed, but not yet asleep. He opened his eyes when she came into the room.
“You’re still up,” she observed.
“Waiting for you.”
She changed and slid under the covers next to him, moving close as he tucked his arm around her and kissed the back of her head. It wasn’t long before his breathing settled, deepened, and he drifted off.
She eased out of his embrace and picked up the book from her nightstand to read. Her focus was only partly on the novel; mostly it was on listening to him. She glanced at him frequently, her eyes passing over his lax muscles.
She wished she could climb inside him, stand between him and the darkness, but all she could do was hold vigil, drive it away when it appeared.
It was about two in the morning when it finally happened. In spite of the coffee, Beth was starting to fight the fatigue and was debating the wisdom of staying up for the duration. But part of her felt … Al had given up three years of peace for his friend. She couldn’t bear for him to endure one more second of torment.
That kind of sacrifice deserved better than what was coming for him now.
His breathing shifted first, several deep gasps that immediately caught her full attention. She put the book down and watched him, determined not to interrupt his slumber unless she was positive. His arm twitched once, then a second time, more violently. He emitted a soft moan and now she was certain.
She shook him and immediately backed away. It didn’t take much to awaken him from dreams like this and, when she did, maintaining contact in those first few seconds when he was disoriented and panicked could be disastrous.
“Al,” she said firmly. “Al, wake up.”
He came into wakefulness, eyes wide and terrified, lungs pulling air fiercely as if he was suffocating.
Her tone shifted from stable to soothing. “Al, it’s okay. It was just a dream.”
The minute he made eye contact, she knew he was back with her and so she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder.
“Oh, God…” He took a shuddering breath.
“It’s okay,” she repeated. “You’re here with me and you’re safe.”
“With you,” he whispered.
“With me.” She stroked his hair, moving closer, letting him draw comfort from her proximity. “You’re home.”
His began to steady and he looked at her, noting the lack of sleep in her eyes. “You were awake?”
“Yeah.”
“You knew.”
She moved her palm to his cheek. “I knew.”
He covered her hand with his own. “Come hold me,” he said softly, the words of someone who knew that his wife would always be there for him.
She clicked off the light and pressed against him in the dark, wrapping her arms around his shivering form, feeling the scars on his back under her fingertips. She kissed his cheek and he tucked his head against her shoulder.
She held him securely. “You’re safe,” she said. “You're home.”