In Your Dreams
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or situations created for TGAH; I am borrowing them purely for entertainment purposes and am making no profit from their use. Thank you to Stephen J. Cannell, the cast, producers, writers, directors, and crew for giving us this wonderful, timeless show and the characters that bring it to life.
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Note: This story takes place one week after the events of "Contact." You don't have to read "Contact" first, but it wouldn't hurt.
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Ralph Hinkley, schoolteacher and part-time super hero, stood staring down at his phone. The old saying about pots apparently also applied to answering machines. No matter how long he stared, the light would not go on.
Of course, he'd tried not looking at it. He'd scored his personal best endurance record on Wednesday. If he included the eight hours he spent teaching Summer school, plus the 90 minutes he'd spent in the staff meeting, plus travel time to and from work, he had spent a good 10 hours not looking at his answering machine.
Calling it from school every half hour didn't count. He wasn't physically looking at it.
"Aren't you afraid you're going to catch it on fire?"
He jumped guiltily. Pam walked over from the kitchen. She looped an arm around his waist and stood staring down at the machine with him. She rested her cheek on his shoulder.
He turned in her embrace and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. He breathed in the faint vanilla scent of her long, dark hair.
"You should call him," she murmured. "He'd return your call. You might even get him on the phone."
"I know, I should," he said. "It's just- "
He sighed.
"I'm afraid I wouldn't know what to say."
Pam gave his waist a gentle squeeze.
"He's your son," she said. "It doesn't really matter what you say, as long as you talk."
He laughed.
"You don't think I should call up and say, 'Son, guess what? Your Dad almost died at the hands of an alien invader last weekend. So, how's Miami?'"
She laughed and pushed him away.
"Save that conversation for some Thanksgiving," she said, moving back to the kitchen. "When you run out of things to say after, 'please, pass the gravy'."
"Sounds like more an Easter kind of conversation," he said.
"Blasphemer," she called from the kitchen.
He grinned and crossed to the dining room cabinet. He tugged open the linen drawer and rummaged for two matching placemats.
"But speaking of Pontius," Pam said.
He turned to see her standing in the arched doorway that led to the kitchen with a wooden spoon in one hand.
"How is Bill?" she said.
"Pam," he said evenly.
"I know," she said, holding up the spoon like a shield. "I know, he saved your life and I'm very glad, but the fact remains it was his fault you were out there."
"We don't know that," he said, turning back to the linen drawer. "Aliens work in mysterious ways."
He spotted two placemats with a similar configuration of vine leaves on a black background and pulled them out.
"If Bill hadn't decided to go out there, they would have engineered something else," he said. "Maybe they engineered that."
He laid a placemat on either side of the compact table.
"I don't think there's any such thing as coincidence where they're concerned," he said.
"I understand that," said Pam.
He looked up. She was chewing her lower lip and staring into space.
"I'm trying to be reasonable about this, really I am," she said at last. "Because I know it's not your fault. But, Ralph…
She met his eyes.
"I can't take much more of this," she said.
She pointed her spoon at his chest.
"And I don't think you can either," she said. "Between Bill and your alien buddies, you'll be lucky to see another birthday."
He turned back to the drawer and began sifting through the napkins.
"On the other hand," he said, "Maybe the worst is over. It could be all kittens up trees from now on. There's no way to know. But I'll tell you what I am worried about."
"What's that?" she said softly.
"Have you ever made rice pilaf before?" he said. "Because I don't think it's supposed to smell like that."
She snorted.
"Hey, flyboy," she said, and he heard her move back into the kitchen. "Critique my cooking when you've mastered something more complicated than Macaroni and Cheese ala Ralph."
There was one black, vine leaf covered napkin at the bottom of the drawer. He pulled it out and rummaged for its mate.
"Seriously, though-" she called.
"You weren't being serious before?" he said. "I think I'm hurt."
"Boy, you are quite the comedian tonight," she said. "If I say the secret word, will a duck drop out of the ceiling?"
He laughed.
"Sorry," he said. "Guess I'm still just glad to be alive. Do you know if we've got another one of these?"
"These what?"
He turned to find her in the doorway again. He showed her the vine leaf covered napkin.
"Bill used it as a tourniquet," she said.
"Oh."
He looked at the napkin in his hand.
"Do you mind if they don't match?" he said, pointing at the table.
She shrugged.
"When I care about matching table linen, we'll eat at my place," she said.
"Great," he pulled out a saffron yellow napkin and tossed it on the table.
"What did you start to say a minute ago," he said, shoving the drawer closed.
"It was about Bill, actually," she said. "Come help me in the kitchen."
He followed her to the small galley kitchen and extended his hands docilely.
"It's not that I miss him or anything," she said passing him a salad bowl full of shredded lettuce. "I've enjoyed the peace and quiet."
"But isn't it odd," she said, following him to the dinner table with a basket of rolls. "Not to hear from him for a whole week?"
He set down the bowl and fished out a piece of lettuce. "Now that you mention it," he said, "It is. I guess I was just so obsessed with thinking about Kevin, it never occurred to me."
He chewed the lettuce leaf thoughtfully and reached around to the hip pocket of his khakis. He felt the familiar shape of his two-way communicator. He tugged it out and turned it over in his hand.
Pam was back in the kitchen. From the sound of rattling dishes, he guessed she was looking for a serving bowl for the pilaf.
"Well, maybe you should give Bill a ring, too, you know," she called. "Just to check in."
"Yeah, I think I will," he said and thumbed the communicator's microphone switch.
"Bill," he said. "Are you there?"
Pam reappeared in the doorway, serving spoon raised.
"I meant after dinner!" she hissed.
He grimaced and mouthed "sorry!" She rolled her eyes and went back in the kitchen.
"I've only got enough pilaf for two," she called. "If he comes over he's going to have to bring a burger."
"I'll tell him," he called back.
"Bill," he said into his palm. "Breaker good buddy, come back."
He listened. There was no sound from the tiny speaker. He frowned at the communicator. The one control opened the radio link; there was no way to adjust the volume.
"Bill, it's Ralph," he said. "Um. Obviously. Are you there?"
Pam cocked an eyebrow at him as she moved to the table and centered the bowl of pilaf between the two placemats.
"No answer?" she said.
"No."
"That's strange," she said. "I thought he even took it in the shower with him."
"He does," Ralph answered.
"I was just kidding, Ralph," she said, crossing to his side. "That's weird."
"That's Bill," he said.
"How long is the battery life?" Pam asked. "Maybe his died."
"No," Ralph said. "It's a special top secret isotope battery or something. He said we should never have to replace it."
"That's what they said about the Titanic."
He shook the communicator and held it up to his ear. There might have been a faint sound of movement, like rustling paper or fabric. If so, it was too low to make out.
He met Pam's eyes. She sighed.
"I'll put the pilaf back in the oven," she said.
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He was dressed in the new suit in a matter of minutes. It was a little strange to pull it on again after a week, especially considering the circumstances when he'd first worn it. But, he thought, it was time to give it a test run and see if the "little green guys" had given him a Super Suit Mark 2.
Pam sat on the bed watching him.
"Does it feel any different?" she said.
He shook his head.
"Same as always," he said. "You'd never know it was a new one."
He snugged the tops of his boots over his leggings.
"That's custom tailoring for you," Pam said.
"Or mass production," he said, adjusting the belt. "It's hard to say which."
"What are you going to use?" she said.
He held up the communicator.
"I'll try this first, although honestly," he said. "There's no shortage of things he's been in contact with around here."
"Including you," she said.
He shot her a look.
"If you don't mind," he said. "I'm trying to focus."
He took in a deep breath and held the communicator in both hands. Almost immediately, he felt the familiar tickling sensation at the base of his skull. It built quickly to a heavy pressure, thrusting into his head.
"I'm getting something," he said. "It's strong."
He stared fixedly at the small mirror on the back of the bedroom door.
A wavering picture began to appear, like an image reflected in rippling water. As the ripples slowed, the picture solidified.
But instead of resolving into an image, the picture morphed from wobbling bands of white to a solid field of white.
"What do you see?" said Pam.
"I'm not sure, it's all-"
His voice trailed off as the white shredded and drifted away.
"It's smoke," he said. "And…"
Beyond the smoke, figures were moving. They wore green uniforms. And helmets. They were carrying rifles. Someone yelled and they all dropped to the forest floor. A shell exploded spewing up fragments of vegetable matter and-
"Ralph!"
Pam was holding his shoulders and shaking him. He heard her gasp.
"Can you see it?" he whispered. The soldiers were climbing to their feet, covered in leaves and debris. Most of them were moving – not all of them.
"What does it mean?" she said. Her voice sounded choked. "Is he dreaming?"
"It's so real," he murmured. "I can smell-"
A young soldier clambered to his feet at the edge of the clearing. His face was as smooth and as lean as a knife blade, but the solid angle of the jaw was as unmistakable as the sharp eyes.
"There he is!" Ralph said. He pointed at the young soldier. "Right there."
"He's so young," Pam whispered. "Ralph, I think this is Korea."
Ralph watched as the young man knelt by one of the GIs who hadn't tried to stand. Bill touched his shoulder and carefully turned him over. The fallen soldier was clearly dead. He stared at the overhanging trees with wide, sightless blue eyes.
"Ralph, that's-"
"Yeah," he said.
"Ralph, this is scary," Pam said.
Bill wiped a hand across his eyes and moved off, trudging across the leaf litter and fallen branches.
Ralph studied his own face, staring up from the forest floor with dead eyes.
"Honey," said Pam. "Why is Bill dreaming you're dead?"
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Ralph was running when he reached the back door. He yanked it open and jumped down the two steps to the small patch of backyard.
"Wait, Ralph!" Pam called behind him.
He spun toward the house and took two long steps backward. If he pushed off hard, he thought, he could just clear the roof.
She skidded on the backdoor mat and caught herself against the railing.
"Be reasonable, Ralph! You don't know where you're going – You don't even know for sure something's wrong!"
He stared at her. Her face was pale as she bent toward him.
"Something's wrong," he said at last. "Pam, I don't know what else to do."
She exhaled slowly, then held out her hand.
"Get in the car," she said. "I'm driving."
-continued-