Notes: Written for the Vice Versa Challenge for this photo. Expanded from my drabble Familiar. The title belongs to the Tate guys from Spartan Fidelity.
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You used to believe that he was your shadow.
He was the reflection you saw when you looked in the mirror, the voice you heard when you opened your mouth. You held his memory to you like a brand, a death sentence.
He was your guilt.
You used to believe that your brother was your shadow, but you were wrong.
You are his.
Ever a shadow, nothing more.
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There is a lighthouse at the end of the highway.
It is no more substantial than any other dream from his childhood, and the years have taught him that his memories cannot all be trusted. He no longer knows whether it ever existed at all, except within his mind.
But there is a lighthouse in his memory, and beside it run the ghosts of his past.
Sometimes it�s David that he sees, back in the days when he was still human and not some living extension of their parents� will. In those days, when they were young together, he still smiled with a touch of sincerity, still cried out when he was in pain. He�s not sure when those days ended, exactly, but he can make a pretty accurate guess. Sometime between the days of ice cream trucks and snowball fights and the days of business trips and responsibility, David had lost what it was that made him a brother.
Sometimes he sees himself, back before he ever had to make an identity of his own. It was easier in those days to make an impression based on what he knew, rather than what he was. Identity was insignificant in the face of such staggering intellect, and by the time he was old enough to realize that a personality was an integral part of being human, he had already been overshadowed in that department by Danny.
It is Danny he sees most often there at the lighthouse in his memory, and the images are so clear, so perfect, that he has begun to believe that it must really have been a true place that they went when they were small. Because Dan lives there, as much as he lived when they were children, and that is always how Sam sees him. He sees the boy that Danny was, back in the years when the three of them were brothers and not just random collections of similar DNA. He sees that infectious smile, those eyes that could melt any heart.
Somehow, in his memory, he never sees his own guilt.
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�That�s not Danny�s car.�
They were the first words out of his father�s mouth, interrupting the cop�s statement, and they restored his hope, if only for a second. Because if it wasn�t Danny�s car, then Danny couldn�t possibly have been driving it. There had been some kind of mixup, some kind of mistake, because surely there must be another Dan Rydell in the area, one who drove a Ford.
It took him a moment to realize that his father had called him Danny, not Dan, and suddenly it didn�t matter that the car was wrong, didn�t matter that there may have been some kind of horrible mistake, because that word alone told him that his father believed Danny was dead.
He found himself on his knees by a trash barrel, choking, gasping for breath while his father looked on, looked through him.
There was more compassion in the cop�s eyes than his father�s.
This son was no longer the priority.
He vaguely heard the cop telling his father that he�d have to identify the body, and he didn�t look up to see him nod numbly, didn�t have to, because he could feel the same dullness stealing along his bones, chilling him until he felt nothing but the hard floor beneath his knees, the metal rim of the barrel digging into his knuckles as he clutched it. His father barely looked in his direction before following the cop through a swinging door, and his legs shook as he rose to sit in one of the green plastic chairs that lined the wall.
In the days and weeks to come, there would be no surprise in anyone�s eyes when the gossip made its way through town, between people who had barely known the Rydells at all. Drunk, one would say, high as a kite, another would add, and the third would sigh knowingly. That middle boy, always knew he�d come to no good.
Sam could see the sympathy in their eyes as he walked down the street, made his way through the halls at school, and it suffocated him. He didn�t want their pity, didn�t want to see the glances that said so much promise, poor boy. He�ll be haunted the rest of his life. He saw enough of that when he looked in the mirror, and more besides.
The other piece of gossip made its way around a few months later, and no one knew where it started. But by the time Christmas came, there wasn�t a person in town who didn�t know that a ribbon had been tied in a bow around the rearview mirror, with a tag hanging from the end of it.
Happy birthday, Sammy.
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He stood numbly behind the podium and wondered how Danny did it. This had always been his kind of thing, the speaking, the visibility. He thrived on it, lived on it, and now watching the expectant faces before him, Sam found that his words had deserted him, and Danny was no longer here to save him.
What was there to say about someone who had been his hero? Those words were too sentimental, of course, too maudlin, and it was laughable to think of saying them aloud. Danny could have thought of other words, perhaps, could have stood before these people and captivated them, led them to laughter or to tears. It didn�t matter which, because they needed both now.
Sam could do neither.
Danny had been his voice for as long as he could remember, for too many years, and now that he was gone there seemed no words left to say, none but the dreadful �I�m sorry� that tumbled unbidden from his lips.
All eyes were on him now, if they hadn�t been before, and he felt the urge to tell them that he had stolen the wrong boy from them, that there had been a terrible mistake and it was all his fault. But again it felt too cheap, too unwelcome. So he let another apology fall on the ears of the assembly, and he discovered as he fled that he had indeed captivated them after all.
No one came after him, and it was in that realization that he understood his life had changed irreversibly. David took his place behind the microphone like the dutiful son he was, while their mother escaped on her tears. Only his father�s eyes followed him, his eyes and nothing else.
It was as if they could all see Danny�s ghost at his heels and knew he was not alone.
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The guy was better looking in person.
He had one of those late night shows that Sam only watched when the insomnia hit and he was desperate for anything that could take his mind off the fact that he was still awake, but it was the smartest of the bunch, the one Sam found himself watching the most. He had never really struck Sam as the kind of guy that would frequent tiny New York sports bars, but here he was, slumped on a barstool dividing his attention between a half empty glass and the football game that played on the little screens behind the bar.
The sportscasters onscreen were rambling about something that Sam didn�t have a prayer of understanding, so he had let his attention wander, but when the guy let out a harsh laugh, he turned his attention back to the screen to find out what was so funny.
�Dave, you hack!� the guy called in the direction of the screen. He turned to look at Sam beside him and gestured at the tv. �Guy wouldn�t know a good play if it was tattooed across his ass.�
�Be pretty hard to see it at all if it was on his ass,� Sam returned with a shrug, and was rewarded with a sudden genuine smile.
�An irrelevant detail,� the guy dismissed with a shrug. �It�s what mirrors were created for.�
�Ah. Is that what they�re for.�
��Course.�
�Well see, it�s a good thing I met you then, because I would have spent my whole life not knowing that bit of information,� Sam said with an answering smile.
�And what a tragedy that would have been,� the guy agreed, then stuck out his hand in greeting. �Casey McCall.�
Sam shook the offered hand, and was a little surprised by the strength of his grip. �Sam Rydell. You do one of the late night shows, don�t you?�
Casey glanced around shiftily. �Shh, I�m incognito,� he stage whispered with a disarming grin.
�Ah. Right.�
�Actually, no. I�m lying. I�m in here all the time, so everyone pretty much knows me already. Right, Jack?� he called to the bartender, who glanced up and nodded in their direction, clearly not having heard the rest of the conversation at all.
�Why here?� Sam asked, swirling the beer around in his bottle.
Casey nodded towards the door. �Got a friend who works down the street at CSC. I used to meet her here for lunch or drinks sometimes, and it eventually just became habit.�
�Sportscaster?� Sam guessed, vaguely recognizing the name of the sports network.
�Producer, actually, for Sports Night. Worked with her down in Dallas before I got the offer at NBC.�
�You were in sports?� he asked, glancing up with renewed interest. He felt his chest tighten familiarly and took a deep breath to try to push back the sensation.
�Yeah, Lonestar sports in Texas, a show in LA before that.�
�Do you miss it?� he asked, and watched as Casey�s face took on a wistful look.
�You know, I don�t think I�ve ever had anyone ask me that. Everyone always goes on about how happy I must have been to get the offer to do late night, and I mean, don�t get me wrong, it�s a great job and I love it. But yeah. I do miss doing sports. I mean especially when they put dipshits like that on the air.� He waved a hand at the screen. �Makes me wonder sometimes where I�d be if I didn�t land this job, you know?�
�Yeah,� Sam replied vaguely, studying his drink. �You know, you would really get along with my brother,� he blurted out, then bit his lip. He hadn�t meant to say it, just think it, but now it was out there, and Casey was looking at him a little quizzically.
�Really,� he said, raising an eyebrow, seeming to invite an explanation.
�He wanted to go into sports,� Sam explained. �He was never a great player, good, but not major league material, and he decided somewhere along the way that he was going to get into sports journalism. He would have been good at it too. He was funny, like you. You�re funnier than I thought, you know. I always thought you just had a good writing team.� He broke off, realizing that he was just digging himself deeper into a hole. His fingers reached for his pocket, already plotting an exit strategy, wondering how fast he could get his money on the bar and get out the door.
But to his surprise, Casey laughed. �I am my writing team. I mean, I have one. But they mostly do the segments, you know? Pretty much everything I do myself, I wrote.� He turned to look at Sam almost shyly. �You really think I�m that funny?�
�Yeah,� he replied, letting his hand fall back from his wallet. �I mean, I don�t really watch tv that much, but from what I�ve seen of your show, I like it.� He raised his eyebrows. �You don�t think you�re funny? Isn�t it some kind of requirement in your business to have an overinflated ego?�
Casey grinned. �I spent my entire career having someone to bounce stuff off of, and then I ended up here and was stuck behind a desk by myself. It�s a little unnerving.�
Sam�s smile wavered as he remembered Danny�s funeral, remembered the piercing stares of all those people. �I can imagine,� he replied with a small shudder.
�Not big with the public speaking?� Casey guessed.
�Hell no. That was Danny�s area,� he said, and tried to ignore the return of that tight feeling.
�Your brother,� Casey replied, and it wasn�t really a question. �Is he�?� he trailed off, seeming not to know how to continue.
�He�s dead,� Sam supplied, nodding. �Died on my sixteenth birthday. Car accident.�
�Shit, I�m sorry,� Casey said, and seemed to mean it.
Sam nodded. �Thanks,� he muttered uneasily. Even after all these years, he had never really learned how to respond to people�s sympathy. He played with his beer bottle for a few minutes, then made a weak attempt at a subject change. �So, Texas, huh? Must have been hard to leave.�
Casey smiled a little. �Not really. There wasn�t much there that I liked, besides the job. The weather was�� he gestured with his bottle and shuddered expressively. �And we hadn�t been there long enough to make a lot of attachments. My wife had always missed New York, Charlie was young enough that pulling him out of school wasn�t going to be some life-altering event, the money was better up here, Dana had just been offered Sports Night�it was a pretty good situation all around.�
�You have a son?� Sam asked, and saw something brief and dangerous flash across Casey�s face.
�He lives with his mother now,� he said flatly, and there was more of a story there, but Sam didn�t ask. He didn�t have to, because after a few seconds, Casey continued. �She was the one who wanted to move back up here, wanted the money, wanted me to have this gig, and of course I was all for it too. But then we got up here and all of a sudden it was you just came to be with Dana, and I never meant shit to you, did I? and God forbid your wife get in the way of your all-important career! She seemed to think that just because I needed to spend more time working, it meant I didn�t love her, didn�t love Charlie. She moved out a few months ago, went to stay with her mother, eventually bought a place in Connecticut. She won�t let Charlie stay with me anymore, says it�ll �disrupt his pattern� or some shit, like moving him out of state didn�t do that enough.� He sighed, then smiled a little ruefully. �And I�m sure you�re just dying to hear the rest of my life story. Sorry about that. Think I�ve gotten the role of the bitter ex-husband down pretty well?�
�You�re a natural,� Sam said with a grin. �And really, I don�t mind. You had to listen to me about Danny, it�s only fair.�
The corner of Casey�s mouth curled up in something that was almost a smile. �Why is it that we can say to a stranger all the shit that we never tell the people we see on a daily basis? I mean, I�ve got friends at work, people I hang out with outside of work, Dana, who I�ve known for longer than either of us would like to admit, and I never talk to any of them about what�s going on with Lisa.�
�I never talk about Danny either,� Sam admitted, and the truth of it hurt. He had discovered early on that no one wanted to hear it. Friends couldn�t understand, and his family, the only ones who knew what he was going through, flinched every time he mentioned his name. The memory of him was always there, shadowing every word, every decision, but to speak of him had become something forbidden.
He didn�t realize he had spaced out until he felt the light touch of Casey�s fingers against his wrist. �Where�d you go, man?� Casey asked with a touch of concern flickering behind his smile.
Sam forced himself to smile back. �Still here,� he assured him, and emptied the rest of his beer.
�Well I�ve got to head back to get ready for the show,� Casey said, and Sam decided that he�d finally managed to scare the guy away. Then Casey kept going. �Ever been on a tv set?� Sam shook his head, a little slow to catch on. �Well you�re welcome to come watch the taping, if you want.�
�Seriously?� he asked, and Casey shrugged.
�Got something better to do?�
�Hmmm�� Sam pretended to debate. �I guess I can squeeze it in, in between all the other fascinating things I have planned for tonight.�
Casey laughed and made some suitably disparaging remark about Sam�s prospective plans as they pulled out their wallets and lay some money on the bar.
As they made their way out onto the street to hail a cab, Sam tried to remember the last time he had smiled this much, laughed this hard.
It had been when he was fifteen.
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It was the touch of Casey�s hands on his face, his shoulders, shaking him awake, that pulled him out of his nightmare. He lashed out briefly, feeling his fists connect with solid warm flesh, before he got control of himself and curled up into a ball, clutching his knees to his chest.
�Shit, Case, I�m sorry,� he mumbled against his knees, trying to catch his breath. He opened his eyes a tiny fraction, as far as they would go in the harsh light streaming down from the lamp above him, and he glanced around, trying to get his bearings. The game, he remembered finally. They had been watching the game on Casey�s couch, and he must have dozed off at some point. It wasn�t an uncommon occurrence, and they had both become accustomed to Sam waking on Casey�s couch with the afghan from the chair thrown over him, his head resting on a throw pillow.
Now Casey knelt by the couch, eyes sweeping across Sam�s face as if assuring himself that he was ok. �The usual?� he asked, and Sam nodded, managing to twist his mouth into something that resembled a smile.
�I think it�s a bad sign that you�re starting to recognize my nightmares,� he said, propping himself up against the armrest.
Casey chuckled and rose from his knees to settle down on the couch beside him. �You want anything? Water, tea, something to eat?�
Sam clutched his ankles, trying to get the trembling in his fingers to subside. �No thanks. I think caffeine is the last thing I need right now.� He glanced around, squinting at the clock above the tv. �What time is it, anyways?�
�Almost 12:30,� Casey told him, leaning down to retrieve Sam�s glasses from the floor. He reached over and settled them back on his face with a small smile.
Sam groaned. �I should get home,� he said, scanning the room for his jacket before Casey put a restraining hand on his arm.
�Tomorrow�s Thursday,� he reminded him. �You don�t have to be in until the afternoon. Anyways, there�s no way you�re driving back across town like that.� He nodded towards Sam�s hands, which were still shaking.
Sam felt his cheeks flush and he glanced away. �Sure you don�t mind?� he asked, wondering vaguely why Casey even bothered with such an emotional cripple.
As if he had heard his thoughts, Casey slid his hand up Sam�s arm to his shoulder and squeezed lightly. �I never mind,� he said, and something in his voice made Sam turn to look at him. �Anyway, who�s going to make fun of the tourists at the caf� with me if you don�t at least stick around for breakfast?�
�Ah, I see,� Sam said, smiling a little at last, and leaning back to prop his feet up on the coffee table. �You just don�t want to have to face Angela the Desperate Waitress without backup.�
�Hey, that woman has it in for me,� Casey said seriously, eyes narrowing.
�It�s true,� Sam agreed. �And it has fallen to me to be Protector of Casey McCall�s Virtue. It�s a tough job, you know, but it must be done.�
�It must.�
Sam tried to stifle a yawn, but failed, and Casey immediately stood and pointed towards the guest room. �Bed. Now.�
Sam smirked up at him. �Yes, Mom.� Despite his teasing voice, he glanced towards the door with something approaching fear, and he felt his cheeks burn again when he saw in Casey�s eyes that he had noticed. He didn�t make any sign of it though, just offered Sam a hand up from the couch and pushed him towards the bedroom.
He slid down between the sheets gratefully, enjoying the feel of the cool fabric against his skin, but he felt his breathing tighten as he remembered his nightmare, still able to hear the squeal of brakes, smell the tang of burning gasoline. His eyes snapped open as he felt Casey flop down on the other side of the bed.
�What�re you doing?� he mumbled into the darkness.
�I was doing laundry when you got here. There are piles of clothes all over my bed, and I�m way too lazy to deal with them tonight. I�ll take care of it in the morning.�
He knew it was an excuse, but he found that he didn�t really care, and his wounded pride would let him accept the company, just this once, because he needed to go to sleep knowing that there was someone else alive in this world besides him.
It seemed that Casey was the only thing that could keep the nightmares at bay.
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There was a light on in Casey�s apartment when the cab pulled up, and Sam could imagine him there, slouched in the corner of the couch in the flickering light of the tv, watching some mindless sitcom, or the late night recaps of the sports highlights. It almost made him feel less guilty about arriving so late, coming uncalled to his friend�s doorstep.
But it had been a long conference, a waste of two perfectly good weeks, and he had found that his days were not the same without the possibility of returning home to find two game tickets tucked beneath his door, or a message on the machine telling him to stop by later that night after the show.
It had been harder to sleep, too, knowing that Casey was half a country away.
So here he was, in the silent dark of an autumn night with his scarf flapping around his shoulders in the cool breeze as he reached out to ring the buzzer with hesitant fingers. He saw a shadow appear in Casey�s window, waved a little sheepishly, and was rewarded by the loud buzz of the door opening for him.
Casey met him at the door, took one look at him, and laughed, reaching out to tug on the end of his scarf. �I never understood it. You�re a Connecticut boy�you should be able to handle the cold,� he said by way of greeting, and Sam found a strange kind of comfort in the fact that they needed no more hello than that. �It�s not even November yet,� Casey continued, closing the door behind him and waving a hand at the corner to indicate where Sam should leave his bag.
�Tell that to my hands,� Sam replied, following him into the kitchen and briefly touching the skin on Casey�s neck to prove his point. Casey let out an inelegant yelp and turned to glare at him. He shrugged innocently. �I rest my case,� he said, leaning back against the counter behind him.
�Nice,� Casey remarked to the room. �He comes back, and all of a sudden it�s Let�s Torment Casey Day.�
�You know you missed it,� Sam said with a grin, leaning past Casey to pull a beer out of the fridge.
Casey�s lips curved into a tiny smile. �Yeah,� he admitted. �I did.� He pulled on the scarf again, unwinding it a little. �Gonna keep that on, or did you plan on staying a while?�
Sam peered down at it in mock appraisal. �I think it�s quite the fashion statement, don�t you? I think everyone should start wearing scarves inside. Think about it. We can be the leaders of the�� he waved his beer around. �The Scarf Revolution.�
�Ok, that�s it,� Casey said, shaking his head. �Virginia has severely messed with your mind.� He pulled the scarf the rest of the way off and tossed it onto the table. Then he leaned back and studied Sam with serious eyes. �Really though�how was it?�
Sam shrugged. �Harmless. Boring. Complete waste of time. Did I miss anything new and different here?�
�Well, Desperate Angela told me to say hi to you. I think she might have found a new target.� He smiled wickedly as Sam cringed. �And�let�s see. Had dinner with Dana on Thursday. She said that anytime that computer crimes thing gets boring for you, give her a call and she�ll put you on the air in a second.�
Sam rolled his eyes. �Right. That would be pretty.�
�I�m telling you, you made a hell of an impression when you met her. I haven�t seen her laugh that hard in a long time.� He peered at the window, and Sam smiled a little at his Trying Hard To Remember face. �Charlie was over this weekend. Loved the book you left him, by the way. He asked if you had any others by the same guy. Oh, and I cleaned.�
Sam smirked. �You. Cleaned.�
Casey raised his eyebrows in an expression that may have been defensive if there hadn�t been a smile lurking in his eyes. �It is something that I do on occasion. Actually, I did something that was more like clearing than cleaning. You know, in case you wanted to, I don�t know, keep some stuff here or something.� His voice trailed off a little towards the end, and his eyes had found something fascinating in the marble swirls of the countertop.
�Why, Mr. McCall, are you asking me to move in with you?� Sam joked, then saw the stricken expression in Casey�s eyes as he looked up reflexively from the counter. �Oh�God, Case�I didn�t�� But Casey was already backpedaling, both physically and verbally, backing away from Sam as he said, �Look, I shouldn�t have�� until Sam stopped his mouth with a kiss.
Eventually he pulled back, but neither of them moved, Casey leaning back against the refrigerator with his hands splayed across Sam�s back, Sam�s hands tangled in the front of his shirt. Finally Casey closed his eyes and turned his head away, mumbling, �maybe this wasn�t such a good idea.�
It was Sam�s laugh that finally broke the tension, and he pulled away, feeling Casey�s hands slip from his back. �Not exactly the best response a guy could hope for, but we can work on that.�
Casey�s eyes snapped open, and for a moment they were full of bewilderment, but then there was a moment of clarity and the slightest hint of a smile returned to his face as he reached out to straighten Sam�s glasses. �You mean that?� he asked, and coming from anyone else in any other situation it may have sounded desperate, but it was Casey, and all it sounded was a little unsure.
�You know,� Sam said, �for a guy with his face plastered on the sides of buses, you have one hell of an inferiority complex.�
Casey groaned. �You saw those?�
�I leave town for two weeks, and I come back to find that half of Manhattan has been riding you since I�ve been gone.�
Casey let out a snort. �You�ve been holding that line in since you passed the first bus, haven�t you?�
�Damn right,� Sam said with a grin.
There was a pause as Casey pulled back and scrutinized Sam for a moment. �You know you�ve still got your coat on?� he asked.
Sam glanced down. �Well. So I do. Guess we�re going to have to remedy that.�
So they did.
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Sam woke in the night, and lay awake listening to the slow and steady beating of the heart beside him. As dawn crept over the horizon, he finally drifted back to sleep, safe and warm in Casey�s arms.
And when he slept, he dreamt of a lighthouse, with red roofs and white walls, and the ghosts of his past running through the front yard.