A/N: I'm re-watching the show as I write, so hopefully the characters are in character and believable


Where Everybody Knows Your Name


The lights are bright. The room is quiet–not silent, just quiet. Pipes and ghosts, and everything in between, make sure he is haunted by sound for the rest of his days, however long he has left. Sam Malone, merely a caricature of the man he once was, stands before the bar, a towel dangling from his shoulder as he fills up the first drink of the evening: beer, for his longest, most loyal customer. And as if taking his cue, he enters the bar with a scuttle of a drunk old man overstimulated, overtired by the weight of life.

"Afternoon Sammy."

"Norm!" Sam cries–Sam greets, his voice echoing in the quietude. A formality, a habit to honor what once was. They spent their lives in reruns, the same gestures, the same patterns of a younger and more carefree day.

He slides the glass over to Norm's spot; Norm catches it before it slides off the bar top, and he sits on his designated mark.

"How's life treating you, Norm?"

He drinks before he speaks. "Like it caught me in bed with its wife."

These lines have been spoken before. This moment is in syndication. And they are old now, beyond primetime. Norm sits drinking his beer as Sam begins washing glasses. A moment of content quietness looms between them before the door opens again and Tatum–the only waitress now at Cheers–hurries inside.

"I know, I know! I'm late." Twenty-five with bleached hair, bright pink lip gloss and a skin tight top, she's thirty years too late for Sam to call her, "Babe." He settles now on, "Kid."

"You're fine," assures Sam, already pouring her a cup of coffee. Cheers is not the hot spot it once was in its glory years, so a late waitress is the least of his worries. She places her bag on the counter and he hands her the cup.

"I was up studying again," she says. "I guess I forgot to set my alarm."

"It's okay," assures Sam again.

"I just want Friday to be over already," she says, sipping her coffee.

"You'll knock that bar exam right out of the park, kiddo."

"Yeah," Norm chimes in, "third time's the charm, right?"

Sam points in agreement. She failed the last two tries, but he admires the kid's dedication. She'll make one heck of a lawyer, someday.

The door opens and Cliff enters with a few old men following close behind–not quite regulars, not quite strangers. Cheers won't get much livelier than this in the coming hours. In the coming months. In the coming years. Cliff and them part at the bottom step with Cliff heading for the bar and the older men finding a seat near the window.

"Hey-ya, everybody," Cliff greets.

"Hey Cliffy," says Sam. He moves to pour him a beer as Carson emerges from the back office. She's the same age as Tatum, slightly younger; they grew up together. Practically sisters. The story's the same; they just recast a few characters along the way, that's all. Tatum moves to wait on the men near the window.

Norm takes a big gulp of his beer, finishing it and already in need of another one. Carson, now behind the bar, refills his glass. "Hey, what're you gonna do when she does finally pass that exam?" he asks Sam.

The front door opens again and a few more elderly white men totter inside. They find their place at the back of the bar. Sam greets them with a mechanical wave. He takes the towel from his shoulder and begins wiping down the counter. "Whaddya mean, 'what am I gonna do?'" he says, his focus on the spot before him. "We'll celebrate or something."

"Well, you know, Sammy, she passes that exam and you're out a barmaid," says Cliff seriously.

"They're right…" agrees Carson, but stops and turns to Cliff. "They're not called barmaids , Cliff," she pauses to scold him before continuing the conversation: "I'll put the 'Help Wanted' sign back on the window. Post about it online."

"Sweetheart," Sam tells her, his hand holding her, his thumb gently caressing her shoulder, "let's not think so far ahead. All right?" He opens a bottle of water and sips it.

"She's gonna pass this time," Carson insists.

"I know, I know," he says, avoiding her eyes. He moves slightly away from her. "I just think maybe we shouldn't be so quick about hiring a replacement." Tatum returns with orders. Sam begins preparing the drinks while Carson remains unmoving. "There's no need," he adds with a shrug.

"No need?" she echoes.

"Look at this place: it's… it's practically a retirement home," he tells her quietly.

They both glance at the people around them, all silver haired, aging with wrinkles and hair loss, much like Sam. "Okay, so it's a little ancient…"

"Woah, hey," Norm interrupts. He's finished his second glass and ready for more. Carson moves to refill it. "We prefer vintage."

Sam decides to move the conversation along. "The point is, you should be out getting crazy, living your best life," he tells her. He watches Tatum carry the drinks to the table. "You and Tate both. Instead, you're here."

She rolls her eyes. "We like being here."

Sam sighs. Arguing gets them nowhere. "Hey, Sam, how 'bout some nuts over here," says the old man at the end of the bar.

"Yeah, sure," he says, moving to serve him.

The telephone rings. "Cheers," Carson answers. "Oh, hey. Yeah, they're right here." She puts the phone to her chest and speaks: "Hey Cliff–Norm, you two are living proof God has a sense of humor."

Cliff smiles and waves just as Norm says, "Give Carla our best, would ya?"

She puts the phone back to her ear and listens to what Carla has to say. "Yeah, sure. Okay." She extends the phone out to Sam just as he nears her. "It's for you."

Sam takes the phone while Carson moves to prepare more drinks. "Hey Carla," he answers. He pauses, listening to her speak. Cliff wanders over to Norm. They greet each other with the clink of their nearly empty glasses. "Yeah, we're all here. Okay, see you in a bit." He hangs up the phone and turns to the two men. "Carla says she's got a surprise for us. She'll be by in a minute."

Cliff visibly perks. "Maybe she's finally returning the betamax I loaned her."

Norm finishes his beer. "When did you loan her a betamax?"

He thinks for a moment. "Eh, June of 1983."

"Oh. I hate to tell you this but I think she gave that betamax to me," Sam says.

"Okay, I'll get it back from you…"

Sam grabs his bottled water and sips it. "I… I don't have it anymore," he says. "I threw it out when I bought a VHS."

Cliff ponders for a quick moment. "I'll take your VHS, then."

He nods, continuing by refilling Norm's glass. "I'll tell you what, Cliffy: if I find it, you can have it."

"Thank you, Sammy."

The front door opens slightly and Carla pokes her head in. "Are you saggy monkeys ready for this one?" Everyone's attention turns to her as she opens the door to reveal no other than Dr. Frasier Crane, smiling from ear to ear. "Found this guy down the block." Sam leaves the bar to greet him, a sense of nostalgic joy fluttering inside him.

"Frasier!" he greets. They shake hands, which quickly turns into a hug. Both Carson and Tatum are nearing them. "What brings you back in Boston?"

"Can't an old barfly visit his former hangout, Sam?"

"Sure, sure…" he says, glancing behind him. Carla greets the girls before nearing the bar. "Hey. Come meet my girls. Come meet my girls." He moves to wrap his arms around Carson and Tatum. "This is Carson, my daughter, and her best friend Tatum. Girls, this is Dr. Frasier Crane—he's an old buddy of mine."

The three of them exchange variations of "hello" before Tatum is called to a table and Carson returns to tend the bar. "A daughter, Sam," says Frasier when they're alone. "I must say I am surprised."

"Hey, me too," Sam agrees, leading him to the bar. "Who knew I had it in me. Now how 'bout a drink? What're ya having, Frais?"

"I haven't had a beer in ages."

"Carson"–and his daughter looks up from what she's doing–"get a beer for Frasier here. On the house." He pats his friend's back, then moves back to tend the bar.

"Gee thanks, Sam." He pauses to take in the bar before his eyes settle on Norm and Cliff sitting side by side across from him. "My God, you two haven't moved in thirty years. You're in the exact same spots you were in when I left here."

Norm and Cliff look at each other as Frasier moves to greet them. "Has it been thirty years?" questions Cliff.

"I don't think so," says Norm with a shake of his head. He gulps his beer. "Yeah, no, we've been sitting here long before Frasier."

They shake hands and exchange informal greetings before Frasier settles between them. Sam observes them from behind the bar. He's seen this episode before, a rerun–or a rewrite. Or something. He can't put his finger on it. Carson sets Frasier's beer down before him.

"So catch me up," says Frasier gleefully, "on everything that's happened since I've been away."

Silence—no, no, not silence: quietude looms around them as they contemplate all that's happened to them since they parted. What have they all done?

Sam leans against the bar, thinking for a moment. Finally, he has one. "Well… I had my daughter," he says and everyone nods, "with a marriage and a divorce somewhere in between."

"Here, I've got some news…" begins Cliff, giving a quick look at Carla. Sam mentally prepares for one of his famous Clavin rambles.

"Eh, shut your trap, ugly," Carla interjects, pushing him aside to face Frasier. "What about you, Doc? What's life been like on your end?"

"Oh, you know, just riding that endless train to nowhere. With me, my own baggage of misery." He sips his beer. "Choo… choo."

A pause simmers. "So, not much has changed, huh?" Norm says.

Frasier nods. The phone begins to ring.

"We're running low on beer nuts," says Carson nearing Sam. "I'm gonna run to the back and get more."

Sam picks up the phone. "Okay, sweetheart," he tells her, then addresses the caller: "Cheers." The caller hangs up quickly. Sam shrugs, setting the phone down. Wrong number, probably.

His attention turns to Carson as she makes her way to his office. She's him, almost an exact copy: charming in a tall, dark and beautiful kind of way, quick witted with a smile that could kill. But she's good, kind and gentle, better than him in absolutely every way. Too precious to be spending her life in this bar, frozen in time with the rest of them.

"Hey, since everybody's here, I have a little announcement to make…" He leans close to his friends and checks to make sure Carson's out of ear shot. "I've decided to sell the bar."

"You're selling the bar?" exclaims Carla, and Sam shushes her, his eyes glancing at his office door. To his relief, Carson couldn't hear her.

"Sammy, you can't," says Norm. Sam refills his glass with beer. "I was planning to die here."

"You still can," says Sam. "It'll probably still be a bar. Just not mine."

"Seems kind of embarrassing, doesn't it?" reflects Norm. "To die in a stranger's bar."

The office door opens and Carson emerges with a bag of bar nuts. Sam quickly silences his friends. "Listen," he says. "I haven't told Carson yet."

"And you shouldn't," says Carla. "The kid loves this bar almost as much as Norm does. And that's saying something."

"Yeah, Carson'll be devastated," agrees Cliff just as Carson enters earshot.

Sam stumbles slightly as she looks at them for clarification. "Stamp prices have gone up," he's quick to lie. "Uncle Cliff here seems to think you won't take it well."

Carson moves to refill the bar nuts. "I barely even use stamps."

"See, there you have it, Cliffy," says Sam with a nervous laugh. Carson moves away from them again and he leans in to speak quietly: "I'm planning to tell her tonight, all right? So just keep this between us until then." Tatum gets his attention, and he goes to help her.

"I can't believe this," says Frasier, his expression stuck on stunned.

"I know," grumbles Cliff. "Barely uses stamps. What is this world coming to? This generation has no respect for the postal service." He steps aside to take a breather.

"I drank away the best years of my life here and this is how he repays me," Norm says.

"You know, it didn't matter what was happening in my life—whether it was my divorce from Lilith or my father's recent death—I felt comfort knowing Cheers was there to… help me move forward," says Frasier. "Even if I physically could not be at Cheers to drown my sorrows, just knowing that it was here helping some other sap with his problems made all the difference."

"Hey, if I know Carson, and I do, she ain't gonna let this happen," assures Carla. "We just need to have a little faith she talks him out of it, that's all..."

Her voice falters when Sam returns with Carson at his side. There is a slight pause before Frasier decides to speak up: "So, Carson, you work at the bar with your father?"

"No, she's just taking drink orders because she likes it," Carla tells him sarcastically.

"Yep, since college," says Carson.

"Carson here graduated top of her class at UMass Boston," boasts Sam proudly, putting his arm around her.

"Very impressive," says Frasier. "What in?"

"Business management," she says. "To get a better idea on how to run this place…"

Frasier fakes a smile, attempting to hide the disdain he clearly feels about the bar being put up for sale. "Is that so?" He looks at Sam, as if wanting to scold him, but hiding it behind his teeth.

Sam straightens, unable to stand the uncomfortable gaze. "You know what, honey," he tells Carson quickly, "why don't you help Tate with the orders. I'd like to catch up with my old friend Frasier here."

And Carson moves away from them.

Frasier grits his teeth. "You are going to break that little girl's heart, Sam."

"Hey, you don't know her. You don't," he says. He sips his water. "She's a smart kid. Too smart for this place. She could be running Wall Street, if she wanted to."

"But she wants to run Cheers," Carla insists.

"I made up my mind, Carla," he exclaims, too loudly for his own liking. Both Carson and Tatum stop what they're doing and look at him.

Not wanting a fight, he heads for his office. "Look, I need to handle some bills," he says as his excuse. "Carson, you got the bar covered? Great. Call if you need anything."

He enters his office, slams the door shut behind him and sits at his desk. Again, stillness surrounds him, except for pipes and muffled chatter. It's time to go, he decided about a week ago—or maybe before that, it's all jumbled together now—when some doddering dirtbag harassed his waitress, sent her crying to the bathroom. Carson's more aggressive with these jerks; Tate's a little more sensitive. He's just been thinking a lot lately. About Carson. About his time before fatherhood—when life seemed like a big old party. He thinks of Coach, and Rebecca. What they might do. What they might say. Hell… he even thinks of Diane. The glory days. When he didn't think about dirtbags, because he was one. When he really didn't have to think at all. But that was then, and this is now. And now is aging, rotting within itself. His daughter deserves better.

His phone rings. "Cheers," he answers with a sigh. Nothing but wind, sounds like. They're outside maybe. "Hey pal… look, I don't have all day. Do you need something or what?" And then click. They hang up. He sets the phone down and massages his temple.

After a moment, he musters enough energy to focus on the bills. They're not exactly underwater. Business is okay, financially speaking. Not great, just okay. The door opens and Carson stands at the threshold. "Hey, honey, everything okay?" he says without looking up.

"I could ask you the same thing."

He stops to look at her. "What?"

She closes the door behind her. "Come on, dad. You haven't exactly been yourself lately."

He looks away like a stubborn child not getting his way. He returns to the bills. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You don't want to hire a new waitress. You're fighting with old friends… What's up?"

He stands. "Listen, honey…" The sound of breaking glass interrupts him, followed by a muffled cheer. He moves to open the door. "Let's finish out the night. Then we'll have a long talk later. Okay?"

"Okay," she agrees.

Tatum's sweeping up glass when they return to the bar. "I'm sorry, Sam," she says. "Grabbed more than I could carry."

He takes the broom and dustpan from her and begins sweeping. Carson moves her away from the glass. "You're okay, kid. Just take a breather."

"Never had that problem when I was around," Carla comments.

"Yeah, you just harassed your customers," says Norm, which triggers a laugh from both him and Cliff.

Carla replies by smacking both their heads. Their eyes bounce as they recover from the hit.

The phone rings again and Carson goes to answer it. "Cheers." She waits a moment, then hangs up and shrugs. "No answer."

"That's been happening all night," says Sam. "Phone line must be on the fritz."

"Eh, you should really make sure your phones are up to date, Sammy," says Cliff. "Yeah, it's a little known fact that—"

"Give it a rest, would ya?" interrupts Carla. "You've been using that line for over forty years. It's a little known fact this! It's a little known fact that! Nobody cared then and nobody cares now."

"Hey Carla—Carla, remember when we had that little chat about compassion?" Sam says.

"Yeah, so?"

She looks at him with fire in her eyes and his life flashes before them. He finishes sweeping and sets the broom and dustpan aside. "Nothing. Keep it up. Keep it up."

Carla sighs. "I'm sorry, doofus," she tells him apathetically. "Please, what little known fact will you give us today?"

Cliff waves it off. "Eh, unimportant, Carla," he says uncharacteristically, gesturing for Carson to refill his empty glass with beer. "You know, sometimes I think I just like to hear the sound of my own voice."

Carla's eyes remain fierce. "No kidding."

Sam grabs her before she commits any of the deadly sins and moves her away from him.

And the rest of the night is uneventful. The same old stuff that's been happening for years. Norm drinks. Cliff rambles. Carla stings. Frasier vents. Everybody else molds perfectly around them. A perfect rerun. Laser, Tatum's fiancé, arrives around one: a thirty-something nimrod with ambitions to one day become a famous Twitch streamer, whatever that means. He currently works as a manager at some cellphone place across the street. The bar's nearly empty, except for the supporting cast. Before, this place was crawling with barflies at this hour—now, not so much.

"Hey there, Laser. How's it going?" greets Norm from the end of the bar.

"Hi, Mr. Peterson," Laser says. "Just came by to wait for Tate. We're gonna check out that new club on High Street after her shift. Suppose to be all the rage."

"Oh the joys of being young and filled with unfiltered liveliness," contemplates Frasier. He sticks out his hand to introduce himself. "Dr. Frasier Crane, former barfly here."

"Teddy Laser, but everybody calls me Laser," he says as they shake hands, "proud bar hop."

The phone rings again. Sam picks it up, but expects no answer. He hangs up after a minute. "Say, why don't you kids take off now," Sam suggests.

"Are you sure, Sam?" asks Tatum.

"Yeah, go ahead. We're not busy," he says. "In fact, I think I might close the place a little early."

"Woah, Sammy," says Norm. "Where do you expect me to go? Home to my wife?"

"You love your wife," says Carson.

Norm looks around, making sure no one else is around. "Keep it down, Carson, would ya? I have a reputation to protect."

"I'm serious," continues Sam, ignoring Carson's quiet protest. "In fact, everybody, last call."

His friends all groan. "C'mon Sammy," Cliff practically begs.

Frasier pulls out his wallet and pays his tab. "I should probably get back, anyway," he says. "I got a flight to catch in about"—he checks the time on his watch—"three hours." Frasier stands and waves his goodbye, then moves to leave. "You saw me at my worst. You saw me at my best." He stops at the door, takes a good look around at the bar. "I believe it was Confucius who once said: 'They must often change, who would be constant in happiness or wisdom.' I look forward to our next hello. Bon voyage, Cheers. Everybody."

"See ya, Doc," says Carla.

"Don't be a stranger," says Sam, watching him leave.

Norm and Cliff stand. "Well, Cliffy, I guess that's our cue to leave too," says Norm. And they make their way to the door. "Same time tomorrow?"

"I'll keep an eye on the beer for ya while you're away, Norm," Sam says, waving them off.

"That's all I ask, Sammy."

Carla follows them out, leaving Sam with a quick warning: "Don't go doing anything you'll regret, okay? Leave all that to Cliff." She opens the door, but pauses to take one final look at Sam, then at Carson. "And don't go breaking any more hearts tonight."

Tatum begins packing up. Carson makes her away toward the pool room, turning off lights along the way. "Are you sure?" Tatum asks again, already walking away. Laser's opening the door.

"Yeah, we'll be okay," Sam assures again. "Go have your fun. You deserve it."

"Thanks, Sam," says Laser.

"I was talking to Tate," he says, but they're already out the door.

And then quietude once more, alone in darkness. Something feels… off. Something's missing. Or something needs to go. He can't quite put his finger on what's wrong with him. He shakes any and all thoughts away, begins clearing the glasses from the bar. Carson emerges from the back. "All right, so what's up?" she asks him gently. He doesn't answer, choosing to focus on cleaning. "Dad?" she persists.

He looks at her. "Sweetheart, I'm… thinking about selling the bar."

Her expression falters, her face goes pale. She runs to him. He meets her in the middle, and he comforts her. "Dad, you can't!"

"Nothing's been decided yet, but… Well, just look at this place, honey," he says. "It's a sinking ship. We don't wanna be here when it finally goes under, do we?"

"No, because we're not gonna let that happen," she assures. "We're gonna fix up the place, like how it was in your glory days." And with a determined strut she inherited from her mother, Carson goes behind the bar to finish cleaning up.

"Carson—I wanted you to go to college so you could do better than me. Maybe become President or something."

"President?" She looks almost disgusted. Offended, even.

"Or something," he tells her, then moves quickly to her side. "This place has a lot of history. Some of it not so good. I've done some stuff here, Cars. Stuff that I'm not exactly proud of." He was a different man before Carson. And he hates that it took him having a daughter to change his ways. "Look, honey, you're too good for this place." His hands rest on her shoulders. "Too good for me, even."

She pulls him into a hug; he kisses her head. "Oh, Dad…"

"I'm sorry, baby girl." He can feel her crying on his shirt, which makes him hold her even tighter. "Hey, why don't you catch up with Tate and Laser. Have a crazy night at that new club they've been talking about." He pulls away only to grab cash from his wallet. She wipes her tears. "On me, okay? I'll close up here. We can discuss everything later."

She's hesitant to leave, but he insists. And solitude never felt so lonely. He goes to the register to end the day, checks how much they've made. Not much. He hears the door creak open and he turns around to say his usual spiel: "Sorry, we're clo—" But he stops when he meets her eyes. Her beautiful eyes.

"Hello Sam," she says formally. She was always so formal.

She's older: thirty years to be exact—like him—but he knows that face like the back of his wrinkly old hand. "Diane," Sam manages to stumble out.


A:N: This is the first half of the fic. I'm slightly experiencing some writer's block and the next few words aren't coming out quite as easily as these first 4,000. Sorry. This is partly because I've come to the part where Diane returns, and I'm currently on season 7 of the show (where Diane isn't anywhere to be found). Hopefully I'll get them out, some day.

Also, is it just me or does Sam's character development just plummet without Diane? In a realistic reboot, I would like to see a more "dad" Malone than a "lady's man" Malone, but that's just me