John glances up from his coffee. Sam’s bright and beaming and radiating about seventy percent more mischief that anyone has the right to at oh-five-hundred.
“Aliens, John,” he says again, like it’s an absolute revelation, like they didn’t fight a war against those aliens for almost thirty years. John blinks blearily at him and sips at his coffee.
If he ignores him, maybe he’ll go away.
He should have known better than to hope. Sam plops himself down on the bench across from him and slaps his hands on the table hard enough to make Linda do a slow turn-and-stare from the next table over.
“Sorry,” Sam says. There’s only a hint of sheepishness to it. Linda rolls her eyes and returns to her breakfast. Sam waits a second and then leans forward on his elbows. “Aliens,” he whispers earnestly and John sets the mug back down and sighs and wonders where in the hell Fred is. Isn’t he supposed to be in charge of this team? Ranking officer?
“All right, Sam,” he says, measured. “Yes. There are aliens out there.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Did you hit your head?”
Sam recoils and presses a hand to his heart. “John,” he says, “I thought you’d be happy I’m back.”
“I am.”
“But you don’t wanna hear about the aliens.”
“Sam, we’ve fought aliens.”
Sam wrinkles his nose. “Not those aliens,” he huffs.
“Then what aliens?”
Sam points to the door behind him wordlessly. John presses his eyes shut for a brief breath and then forces himself to look.
“That’s Fred,” he says flatly.
“He doesn’t look like Fred.”
No, he looks like Fred but frazzled. John raises an eyebrow at him and Fred just stares past him. John’s half-concerned for a beat but then Fred blinks suddenly and slips off to the mess line.
“He saw one of them and now he’ll never recover,” Sam says, shaking his head sadly.
Fred fumbles with his tray and almost drops it. John nearly gets up to help him but settles for narrowing his eyes instead. “Did he hit his head?”
“Why don’t you ask him?”
“Ask me what?” Fred sets his tray down with a caution and precision that defy the task’s simplicity.
“About the alien,” Sam says simply.
“The what?”
“The alien. Tell him, Fred.”
“What alien, Sam?”
“The one you saw.”
“I…didn’t see an alien?”
“You must have, though.”
Fred stares at him. “What alien?” he demands, exasperated. John raises both eyebrows.
Sam shrugs easily. “The one that smiled at you earlier,” he says, helping himself to John’s coffee. “Right before you froze.”
“I didn’t–”
“I think it was called Lopis,” Sam whispers.
Fred glares.
“What’s a Lopis?” John hedges.
“No one important,” Fred says sternly. “Drop it, Sam.”
Sam grins and sets the mug back down. “If she’s not an alien, then why couldn’t you understand her?”
“I did understand her. I just–”
“If someone smiles at you, you have to smile back.”
“I–”
“Was she speaking another language?”
“No–”
“Then why–”
It’s too early for this.
“Eat your breakfast, Fred,” John interrupts. Fred gives a withering look and slides onto the bench. Sam’s silent and for a breath John almost thinks he’ll stay that way.
Time's Vengeance 