#al loves sam

[drarreckyninja]

*after he finally gets back*

Sam: Al, that shirt looks like it's made for a woman. In fact, I think I saw Bena wearing the same one earlier.

Al: Very funny, Sam. I'll have you know, it's a unisex shirt.

Sam: Well, maybe you need sex.

Al: No. U-N-I-sex, you dolt.

Sam: How can I say 'no' to such an offer? *grabs the front of his shirt to pull him in for a kiss*

Al: Samm-- *kisses him back*

[thisisntcanon]

Inchworm Kids

Two and two are four Four and four are eight Eight and eight are sixteen Sixteen and sixteen are thirty-two Inchworm, inchworm Measuring the marigolds You and your arithmetic…

The lyrics bring a calming dreamlike experience to Teresa, the toddler who sees him as he is. Not the womanizing veteran he plays himself up to be. She sees a caring man, a child-friendly angel. The lyrics mean something else to Sam, though. He bypasses Kevin’s room and heads downstairs. Throwing open the front door, he catches Kevin just as he’s jumped from the second story. Sam grabs the bike handle just as Kevin does, and a disgruntled fifteen-year-old reluctantly returns inside.

… inchworm Measuring the marigolds Seems to me you'd stop and see How beautiful they are.

Al finishes his singing with a soft smile on his face. Kevin’s music is turned down, and Sam’s propped the door open. He gestures for Al to join him in the hallway while Kevin reluctantly reads, and Teresa has fallen asleep.

“You know,” he starts up, unaware of the mess Sam’s stopped for now, “have I ever told you how much I like kids?”

“Sure,” Sam nods easily as he pulls Teresa’s door shut, “every time we’re around our own.”

He turns to check on Kevin and finds Al staring at him in confusion and awe.

“What?”

“What did you just say?”

“I said, ‘sure, every time we’re around… our own. Our own! God, Al! I remember our kids. Andrew! And, and Daniel. And… Teresa? What ha?”

“Let’s just say it had something to do with Tularosa and WITSEC four years from now.” He waves him off. “Forget about that, Sam. You remember the kids!”

“Al…” He groans, tears forming in his eyes. “I remember the kids. I remember you. The real you. Why the hell do you go off talking about these girlfriends, huh?”

“Coping,” he shrugs.

When Sam only glares at him, Al hastens to explain.

“I’m not coping with any girls. I’m coping with the theory of girls. I’m still solo, Sammy. Working the Project, fathering the kids.”

“I wanna go home, Al.”

“I want you home, too, Sam.”

Their tender moment is broken by Gooshie on the handlink. It seems Kevin’s snuck out again, this time successfully. Sam instructs Al to stay with Teresa as he runs to grab Susan and call Rafaella.

[drarreckyninja]

*after beating up a vending machine*

Al: what’s with midlife crises? what if someone dies young and they never knew when their midlife crisis was? you never know your midlife point.

Sam: that’s why i’ve decided to have an ongoing crisis.

[drarreckyninja]

Al: I’m scared that when you become rich and famous you’ll be embarrassed by me. Sam: Oh Al, I’m already embarrassed by you.

[drarreckyninja]

Sam: You were an idiot to leave Al.

Beth: And you were fast enough to replace me.

Sam: I love him. You can’t even imagine what that is.

[drarreckyninja]

Al, to Gooshie via handlink: "Sleep? I don't know about sleep... it's summertime."

Sam: "You haven't gone to bed?"

Al: "Oh, he caught me."

[thisisntcanon]

Down Like the Domino

What do they expect from us? Our names are on every big screen in the world most likely. I can see it: Samuel Beckett and Albert Calavicci. Wanted for Crimes Unimaginable. Not so terrible anymore. Compared to how terrible life has gone for everyone around us. We’re basically thieves who’ve done a bit of homicide only when the walls close in. we’ve never been caught. And if we got caught now, it’d be way worse than when we started.

We don’t use our real names, so I wonder how good that headline works. And they’ve never figured out our faces. Granted, we change them for every job. Money changes hands. Never any bank accounts. But we could. We have so many aliases. And no one has ever figured that we’ve got another member to our little team. No one knows about Ziggy, our computer expert who finds half our jobs. No one knows we have implanted chips that help us keep in touch with each other when we need to be separated.

Implanted chips that download information directly to us. Like a well-oiled machine. A well-tracked mind. She’s our source to outside databases, like a projection in the backs of our minds. God, I remember all the people we’ve had on our jobs. Donna Wojohowitz. My wife back when this all started as a few drug runs. Well, girlfriend at first. Had a code saying, ‘hearts, stars, and horseshoes.’ The hearts were the runs themselves. Donna worked for Red Cross and could always get us an ambulance or something no cops would stop on the road.

She even played the role of a corpse for a serious run gone after a mob boss. We were in a hearse, dressed all in black. Cops didn’t stop us except to ask if we needed an escort. Fucking escorted by the cops while he had the bottom half of a coffin stuffed with dirty drugs. Still can’t believe it. One for the books, and her best case she ever took on with us. The stars were the receival. Usually, we dealt with cash. Occasionally, fine gems or jewelry. Something less traceable once you file off those pesky serial numbers.

We were stars in our own eyes. This was something we knew how to do and do it well. Had Gooshie with us too. A little guy with bad breath. Al never liked him. could trust him when it counted, but never liked him. Even back then when Sam hardly knew anyone aside from Donna, Al’s opinion mattered. Gooshie helped with the horseshoes. Horseshoes always denote safety. Safe houses. Run the deal, get something in return, and contact me when you reach the safe house. Hearts, stars, and horseshoes.

Unfortunately, Donna was caught in a raid. Wasn’t even strictly a deal. Something simple we were pushing on the side when we had a serious gig going on over a decade ago now. Seems like so long yet sometimes, it feels like yesterday. I just wanted her to relax. Gave her an easy deal. But then the world broke down on me, reminding how quick life turns to shit. She wouldn’t give us up. They fucking tortured her, but she kept her mouth shut until she couldn’t anymore.

I remember Ziggy telling me that she got in touch. That Gooshie went in with one of those cell pills. Like swallowing a magnet, explodes before it reaches the stomach acid. The good thing is, she didn’t suffer anymore than what they’d done to her. We got Verbena working with us about a month after that. Had a psych degree. I stopped following the hearts, stars, and horseshoes guidelines. And Verbena tried a different motto. Don’t remember it. I wouldn’t listen to her.

I remember Al came and got me to rejoin. We had Martinez and St. John working in our places. And things accelerated. Didn’t just have drug runs. Still had them, but we also had burglaries and invasions, and an occasional kidnapping. Our pseudo-selves had their own fruit code for which was meant. Drug runs were berries. We were so used to them; they were like picking fruit. Burglaries were oranges, a bit harder. Invasions left a sour taste, so lemons they were. And kidnappings were the most difficult. Watermelons.

It was a horrific watermelon that we lost most of our team two years ago. We didn’t have the whole story thanks to a completely hidden alias. And witness protection. It wasn’t real of course. But we didn’t know. Gooshie, Verbena, Martinez, St. John. All gone.

Sam uses his key and walks through the apartment door. His partner and husband instantly notices the change in the air. Without a word, he wraps his arms around him and guides him to the couch for much-needed cuddle time.

[thisisntcanon]

The Unreachable Star

Disco playing from the radio, racing down a lone highway in his experimental model car, and all that’s on Al’s mind is the QLP. The Project that saved his life. He had been in a deep depression on the verge of attempting suicide after his girl hadn’t waited for him. He’d been kidnapped in the Vietnam War. Taken and tortured. And his girl assumed him dead and ran off with someone else. With the only thing in his life gone, he took out his frustrations on an inanimate vending machine… and a hapless young stranger who pulled him away.

Sam. The man who invited him to partake in the Chinese food he’d ordered in. The man who laughed off the black eye that had begun to foster. Not only did he not pry, but he joked about the machine putting up a good fight. They’d become fast friends and begin working on the Project together. Time-consuming. Years passed, but they hadn’t grown apart. If anything, they grew closer. At the Christmas party, there were leers among hoots and hollers when Sam easily kissed him under the mistletoe.

Al had kissed back, feeling like a million bucks. But it wasn’t real. It wasn’t real at New Year’s either, but he’d had an inkling by Valentine’s Day. After all, grown men don’t ask other grown men out for dinner on February fourteenth unless… Al had been willing to oversee the blip on his radar until Sam asked to see him on a non-specified holiday. Turns out, they’d been dating since before Halloween, and Al was just a bit slow on the upkeep. They’d had a Civil Union in the summer, hiding their rings on necklace chains.

He adjusts his bowtie on his tux, keeping one hand on the wheel, and he doesn’t notice the woman on the side of the road. The woman in a sparkly pastel pink dress, flashing earrings, and a flat tire to her car. His mind is focused on getting to the Project, to Sam. Speaking of… Gooshie calls out, over the speaker.

“He’s leaping!” The man is hysterical. “Cindy said no, but Sam’s leaping!”

Al’s heart drops to his stomach and his foot slams on the gas. They don’t often drive separately, but Sam had an epiphany after a little rendezvous in bed this morning. Al had let him go, knowing it would only fester in his husband’s mind if he hadn’t. At this moment, he could kick himself.

“He can’t leap! We’re not ready!”

“Tell Sam that!”

Al reaches for his phone, dialing a number he knows by heart, hoping for the life of all things right, that Sam will hear his phone and pull away. They haven’t perfected the retrieval system. That was the task for today. He calls but no response. Dead silence. From Gooshie, he learns that Sam is in the accelerator. The building nears in Al’s sight, and he doesn’t bother with the gate. He crashes through at top speeds. Any direct interference will kill his beloved. Even so, he jumps out of the moving vehicle as soon as he’s close enough to the door. It’s murder on his back, but he’s got a one-track mind now. Sam would be proud.

“Where is he, Goosh!?”

… but it’s too late. He’s too late. Sam’s gone. The love of his life, gone in a flash. Everyone’s working around him. Al’s left alone, staring at the empty accelerator, silently wondering if Sam is doing the same. Wondering where the hell; when the hell he is.

“… 1956.”

“What?”

Al’s voice cracks, looking up to Gooshie. The man stands before him with a hesitant hand wavering over the former soldier’s shoulder.

“He’s gone to September 13, 1956.”

“How did you-?”

“Ziggy.”

Ziggy. Of course, it’s Ziggy. Gooshie goes on about how the sudden leap damaged some of Ziggy’s foundation and crossed some wires, but they can be certain of the date. Sam had been so excited over just the idea of the Project. Going back in time and righting the wrongs of history. Al had been reluctant at first. What if they changed history so much that they’d no longer be together when they returned? But Sam had assured him that so long as the two existed they’d find some way back to one another.

It feels like days, but only hours later, the minds behind the Quantum Leap Project (not accounting for Sam and Al, of course) have made a temporary solution via hologram projection through the accelerator. With the actual accelerator fried from further use until Sam can safely return, a volunteer can step into the imaging chamber and project themselves into the world where Sam is. They can see each other and communicate, but no physical touch will be featured.

“I’ll do it.”

The words are firm and determined, laced with concern and apprehension. Donna places a hand on his arm, almost questioning his readiness. She looks over to a nearby room with a one-sided mirror. It’s like an interrogation room mixed with a solitary confinement space. The scientists can see this man, an Air Force pilot from the fifties, but all he can see is some sort of waiting room. He has no idea what’s going on or where he is, and Al feels the same way inside.

Rather than voice his true thoughts, he lights a cigar to center himself. He steps up to the machine and nods to the control man to take him to Sam.

He materializes in an Air Force hut where Sam sits among the others. Al doesn’t recognize him but pinpoints the man sitting off a bit from the others. There’s a certain twinkle in his eyes that screams Sam, and Al feels uneasy. Sam smiles, laughing politely along with the others, barely glancing over at Al. Al knows they make eye contact, but the lack of recognition is disheartening.

“Oh, I like that guy,” Al grins, walking over to Sam, gesturing to the pilot joking bragging about being a hero. “Kinda reminds me of me back in the old days.”

Sam grins more genuinely, and Al feels a touch of pride trail down his spine. Still, Sam doesn’t appear too enthralled in Al’s overall being. He follows behind the other men. Sam obviously can see and hear him, but there’s no recollection there. Al feels like he did in the early days. Before they were dating, before they got to know each other. He always felt like he might do something wrong, and he’d lose another friend. And now, he’s stuck in a sort of limbo, unable to reach his husband. And his husband unknowing of him.

He ducks out for a while, the experience overwhelming him. Throughout the flight, Sam keeps seeing Al like a ghost in his white suit. At the diner station, Al is more composed. Until he watches Tom dancing with his wife Peg, knowing all the while that’s his husband. His amnesiac husband is in someone else’s body. And not in a fun way. Al watches them sway from across the room, imagining being in her place. Remembering their first dance in the canteen while the janitor swept away. They were the only people staying late on the Project, but Al asked for a break. And Sam asked for a dance.

“A dance?”

“A series of movements that match the speed and rhythm of”

“I know what a dance is, wiseass. Where’s the music?”

Sam smirks, holding out his hand before he begins to sing under his breath. “To dream the impossible dream… to fight the unbeatable foe,”

Al wills himself not to blush, though it doesn’t work quite so well. Sam keeps singing.

“To bear with unbearable sorrow, to run where the brave dare not go…”

Al accepts Sam’s hand, and the younger man takes the lead without breaking from his song.

“To right the unrightable wrong, to love pure and chaste from afar,”

He pulls Al closer to him, expressing himself by using someone else’s words. A particular someone who Al has talked about in a certain way.

“To try when your arms are too weary, to reach the unreachable star…”

The words fade away as they dance. Al glides across the floor, Sam pressed against him. He continues singing as they step, slide, rise, and fall. There’s no one else around, but Al imagines them dancing in a grand ballroom. Sam’s the most elegant person there; all eyes are on them, but Sam only has eyes for his dancing partner. If a lovely lady were to try and cut in, Al would sacrifice his happiness for Sam to dance with someone more compatible.

His hands grow sweatier, and he worries what Sam might think. Maybe he’ll brush it off as a hardworking sort. As he tries to forget about his hands, he feels his cheeks getting hotter, his neck threatening to make a home in the crook of Sam’s neck. There’s a perfect place, but Al remains upright. His heart begins racing, overthinking things again. Sam’s arms tighten ever so slightly, and Al relaxes a fraction. He breathes in a deep scent of pure Sam Beckett. He has his own intoxicating scent that Al has been striving to put into words.

Sam twirls them quickly, his shirt lifting slightly so Al can catch a glimpse of his sweaty torso before it’s covered again. Al’s mouth dries, his mind working in hyperdrive trying to think of why he would be so sweaty. It could be that he’s nervous, but then wouldn’t he just quit dancing? It could be that he’s just tired, but then why would he have suggested they dance? Before he can get too far in his own mind, Sam’s words register so close to his ear.

“… one man, scorned and covered with scars…”

Al had forgotten Sam was supplying the music as well. His voice is so melodic, and Al could swear the butterflies he felt with Beth have been reborn in his stomach.

“Still strove with his last ounce of courage…”

He’s struck with the thought that here, dancing an almost-waltz with Sam is the most comforting thing he’s experienced in a long time. He’s very curious about why Sam decided to dance with him, especially this song.

“To reach the unreachable star.”

Al sighs contentedly as the song ends. He’s hesitant to break away, and Sam seems to sense it. While he lets go of Al’s hand, he keeps the other firm on his waist. With the now-free hand, he sifts through Al’s hair and then lifts his chin, so their eyes meet.

“Sam, I—”

“I love you, Al.”

The words are quiet, whispered despite the men being the only people at the facility. Al barely has time to gasp at the words before Sam lowers his mouth to cover his partner’s. Al catches up after a few seconds, using the hand still at Sam’s waist to pull him impossibly closer. The next time they break for air, Al leans into the crook.

“I love you too, Sam. Always.”