Chapter Text
Sammy sat quietly, holding his banjo.
It was supposed to be a practice day, though Jack hadn't brought that up, as Sammy just held the instrument like a child clinging to a blanket, tapping his fingers on the neck without actually sounding any notes.
Jack hadn't brought up the reason he'd urged them home early, either, though after the way things had gone, he… could guess. Instead his partner had just started cooking for the two of them, as if this were all normal. Or maybe... to make it normal. Much as he’d grumbled about missing work, it was better to be here before Pete and Joey got back to fill the little house with people.
Just him, and Jack, and a patient banjo, and the uncertain presence that had never quite stopped hovering in the back of his mind.
They probably had to talk about it at some point. The quiet of the house was a good reminder that they were home earlier than usual, making it hard to ignore the reason why they were back already. But, with how Sammy had been at work... Jack didn't really want to push him to talk if he didn't want to.
So instead, he was making food. Nothing fancy - just a simple stew. But it was something filling to warm them up on this gloomy, cloudy day, and it'd be easy to heat the leftovers through later once the others got home. And... chopping veggies gave him something to do with his nervous hands. Better this than his usual fidgeting.
He glanced over at Sammy – still sat nearby, wrapped around his banjo as if it was the only thing keeping him here. Maybe it was. Or maybe he was just tired.
"You doing okay? ...I can make some coffee if you need it."
There was only a quiet “hm?” as Sammy looked up, but the motion was abrupt, startled out of… something. He lingered on the gentle rhythm of his partner’s chopping, his own fingers twitching against the strings, and took a long moment to fish meaning out of the words before shaking his head. “Just... a bad day,” he said delicately.
Jack would recognise the phrase. Though Sammy had never directly explained what he meant by it – the days when reality seemed a little too unsteady – all Jack needed to know was that he was feeling crazy and needed space, quiet, privacy… and someone he trusted nearby. Other than that, Sammy could handle it, usually. Just like he could handle the anticipation of a quiet hall, or the moments he felt spun around and his surroundings disconnected from each other... usually. He had directions jotted down and folded in his pocket. But today, all of it together with a wrong turn and he’d completely cracked, pacing the hallway and scared of all the doors until Jack had appeared like a vision.
...Or... something like that... maybe the other had been the one pacing? He was sure the Prophet had been... there... but it felt like he was remembering the wrong moment. He frowned, trying to recall, as the whole thing swirled and shifted in his memory like smoke.
“…Jack. Was it just me? Or was he there, too."
Jack slowed his chopping, careful to keep his fingers from under the knife blade.
"He was there for a bit. Not the whole time, I don't think...?" He paused to think back.
Sammy wasn't kidding when he called it a bad day. Things were still rough lately, but he hadn't seen Sam that bad for a while. Jack had led him down to his office to sit for a while - if he was going to lose his mind, he'd probably appreciate the privacy at least. But by the time they were there...
"...He was with me in my office for a while, at least."
Sammy frowned, not looking up from his instrument. “He thinks he’s helping,” he grumbled. Maybe he was.
Months ago, this would’ve been terrifying — would the Prophet hurt Jack? Now the idea seemed absurd, but Sammy’s body still tensed anxiously around his banjo. Shared mind didn’t mean everything was shared; this part of his life was his. Work was his! Setting aside time for the Prophet to research his own eldritch projects was one thing, but he couldn’t keep just… turning up in Sammy’s life like this.
“Did he… do anything…?” he asked, finally. “Want to do anything?”
"He didn't do much. We just sat for a while and... talked."
As Jack spoke, he picked up the chopping board and slid his chunks of potato into the pot, careful not to splash himself in the process. He'd done most of the prep work now - he probably had some smaller things he could add in, but at this point it was mostly letting it cook.
He gave it a quick stir through, then returned his attention to the conversation. Now was as good a time as any to bring things up, and... he didn't want to be keeping things secret from Sammy.
"We did end up talking about, uh." He stared down at his hands, trying to work out how to phrase this. "...If he's, able to come out more often..? I mean- I know it's not an easy thing to arrange, but he wanted to be around more to keep watch on things, I think...? And... I think it might be good for him, too."
If Prophet could be around more often, maybe it'd be easier to get him used to how things were when things were normal. Maybe they could help him more. Or... at least get to know him a bit better.
Sammy didn't say anything. He strummed a chord, then started to play. He just needed to breathe, and getting some notes out was close enough.
The request was fine. Prophet had been getting his little arranged meetings with others up until the ritual; it wasn't surprising he'd wonder why they'd stopped. Sammy didn't have a good explanation, either, just a lot of unreasonable dread at everything associated with those overwhelming memories – though the Prophet had probably found those feelings in his brain by now, anyway. Sammy would just have to get over it. It was how things had been before.
But something else was... different.
Just sat and talked. Not prophecies or plans. Not relaying updates about their shared supernatural situation or information about the Masked Messenger.
Just sat and talked.
Our sheep.
It pressed against him, like something heavy on his chest.
"What about you, Jack?"
His fingers paused and the simple runs he was playing stopped, one last note hanging in the air as Sammy let it resonate. "What is he to you?" Despite the sharp whisper of his voice, it wasn’t accusatory. “...Are you his partner, too?”
"I-" Jack's mind went completely blank. It was a question he'd been wondering himself, lately, but he hadn't expected Sammy to bring it up!
But... maybe this made sense, actually. Sam had already been worried before, about Prophet replacing him... Maybe this was a concern, too.
"I don't... think so? Not officially, anyway, but..." He fidgeted with his hands, trying to pick his words carefully. The last thing he wanted was to fumble what he was saying here.
"It hasn't really come up, but I don't... know how this works. With you and him and- and you being the same person but not being the same person at the same time, it's... Hah," he gave a short laugh. "It's not exactly something I have experience with, y'know…?"
He trailed off, thinking back to conversations they'd had before - the dinner talk they'd had, the discussion about Susie and how Sammy felt. Communication, and trust…
He continued, his voice softer.
"...I wouldn't want to do anything official without checking with you first, though. And I'd like to... get to know him better, but not if you weren't okay with that… Your feelings are important to me too."
"Well, it's not supposed to work like this," Sammy muttered. "He... cares for you the same as me. Hard to imagine that working out for everyone."
But it shouldn't be. This was weird for them both, but Jack just... sounded like him, asking about Susie. And it was the same way Jack had talked when he'd insisted that their relationships were real and his partners got some say in whether or not he dated Pete. Somehow, Jack understood what it meant, if they were going to stay separate.
His own appreciation echoed, softly, somewhere in the back of his mind.
Sammy shook his head with a little scoff. "Who'd want two of me! One's pushing it."
Jack laughed. "You say, as if you're not talking to the man you've worked with for... what, ten years now?"
Now that he thought about it, it was about the same time of year they'd started working together, too. So much had changed since back then, especially in the past few years, but... In spite of everything, he really was glad they were still together.
"Anyway, uh, you don't have to... decide now or anything. I know it's a lot to think about."
Ten years.
Hard to wrap his brain around that much time; hadn't things been strange so much longer than they'd been normal...?
He set his banjo aside, pushing himself up to drift over to Jack at the stove, letting his thin fingers wrap around Jack's and running his thumb over the lyricist's scarred hand with a deep frown. Another set of thoughts tangled with his own, full of frustrated worry, and it was hard to place... He wouldn't have asked if he didn't want to know. But now it felt like he was giving something up, opening his hand and letting it slip out of his fingers. Not Jack, but… the hope that something would go back to how it used to be.
He should be at work.
Sammy finally met Jack's gaze with black eyes that struggled to focus. "Everything still feels like a dream," he admitted, voice delicate. "Like I could wake up, and it would all be back to normal." He huffed, annoyed with himself. It wouldn't. Waking up, opening your eyes, never made things easier. "I don't want to keep him asleep," he continued, trying and failing to find the music director's decisive tone of voice. "We'll schedule something, or... or talk..."
"Sounds good." Jack nodded, giving Sammy a soft half-smile. This was a lot to ask of him, so... it was nice to know Sammy was at least on the same page for bringing Prophet out more. The rest, though... It really hadn't been that long since the incident earlier. Sammy deserved some time to rest and recover. They could drop the conversation for now.
He took a quick glance over at the pot on the stove; the stew was gently bubbling away, but still had a while to go before it was done. They probably had time to leave it for a little.
"Food will still be a bit to cook, I think... We could go sit in the other room, if you wanted? Check on the kittens maybe." Beans had been handling most things well enough by herself, but it was nice to just sit and watch them after a long day. And... it'd been a while since Jack had had time to just sit and cuddle with Sammy. It'd be nice to just enjoy a quiet moment together.
Sammy's face didn't seem to register, but he squeezed Jack's hand tighter. Yes. That sounded... familiar in the right way; not a buried memory jostled free, but a comfortable place to hide.
The kittens would be new. Sammy didn't care as much about that part. Kittens were... fine, just, whatever gentle magic took hold of the others around small animals seemed to have skipped him. But they had given Jack something needed, some deep emotion in his face and his voice that was bright, but wasn't quite as simple as happiness; something Sammy hadn't felt even for music in months. It was good.
He tugged Jack's hand towards the next room, starting to lead him there, then faltered a moment later, not entirely sure he was going the right way. "Sure," he said, instead. "Sounds nice."
Jack picked up where Sammy left off, holding his hand tight, pulling him out of the kitchen and into the living room with him. As advertised, the kittens were here; Beans was trying to groom one especially wiggly kitten as it mewled and tried to escape her grasp.
He let go of Sammy's hand briefly to crouch down and give her a quick scratch behind the ears - good Mama, taking care of all these babies! - and she purred and pressed her head up against his hand. The kittens were doing well. They were still varying levels of baby-wobbly, one of them still learning to walk it seemed, but growing more every day. Beans had taken well to being a mother, and Jack couldn't be prouder.
With the cat given needed affection, Jack got back up to his feet and took Sammy's hand again, to pull him over the rest of the way to the sofa and settle in.
Sammy followed, and wrapped his arms around Jack like he was the first thing he'd ever been able to touch, first cautious, then clinging tight.
He was always the one struggling to hang on to how it all was before – a version of Jack from months ago; a version of Joey that hadn't existed in years; the job as it had seemed when he wrote his first song for the studio, before he was dragged off into the Haitian jungle...
...A version of himself that didn't have to share.
The kittens were new, and different, and Sammy hadn't been happy about them throwing yet another complication into their days when he was still wrangling his own out-of-sync routine, but they were good. Jack looked forward to them at work; he beamed at his cat like they were his own children, too. Just months after everything, Jack seemed a little like himself again -- but, not the Jack of years ago. There were good things in the changes, too.
After all, the Jack of years ago would not have been holding him so closely on the couch.
Sammy pressed kisses into the side of Jack's face, undeterred by how scruffy he was, and sighed, leaning into him, some of the tension finally lifting from his own shoulders.
This was better, Jack thought, as he pulled Sammy closer in turn. It didn't fix everything, not fully, but it was comfortable and nice. He gave the clock on the wall a quick glance to check the time – the stew timing wasn't exact but he didn't want to overcook it too badly. Then, with that handled, he let himself relax into Sammy, his hand moving up to idly play with the man's hair.
They may not have forever; eventually, they'd have to get up again. But for now, it was nice to just sit here together.
*******************************
Sammy could've drifted off with Jack's arms around him, exhausted after the panic at work and finally safe enough to relax. It wasn't nearly long enough before Jack was gently patting his arm and saying he needed to check on dinner. But not long at all after that, Jack was joining him at the table with a pot of stew that smelled so good, Sammy wasn't sure he could've put this off even for another hour of softly sitting together.
He was, as usual, quiet as he ate, at least at first; focused totally on a meal that was simple and warm and tasted like home. Getting dinner with just him and Jack was special... but it was hard not to be at least a little bit aware of why he was getting something delicious cooked just for him -- not because they'd planned something nice or had an unexpectedly pleasant opportunity, but because he'd lost his mind at work so badly that his other self had needed to step in.
Ha. Maybe his other self should be the one getting the meal.
...He did want to give Jack a real answer about that. Joey might poke and prod and withdraw juuuust long enough to engineer some perfect situation to dig out the answer, but Jack would step back patiently for years and years, not wanting to assume. But answering meant having an answer, and Sammy wasn't sure what it was, other than wanting to trust Jack and wanting something better for the Prophet. "I don't care if you date my other self" wasn't quite true, but "I don't want that to happen" wasn't quite true either.
He stopped, and reached under the table to seek out Jack's hand with his own, ignoring whether this would get in the way of his trying to eat.
"Jack. Would you... like to talk to him... now?" He squeezed his lyricist's hand. "Like having dinner." It was the only way he could think to give Jack his blessing honestly – a chance to try.
Jack's hand easily slipped into Sammy's. The stew was nice, but the choice between the stew and Sammy was an easy one, and truth be told he'd been hoping for this, after having spent the time curled up together.
What he hadn't expected, though, was the follow up question; he paused for a moment, running his thumb over Sammy's hand as he thought on it.
He did want to talk to Prophet, and he'd be lying if he said he didn't want Prophet to enjoy this moment too - a nice quiet meal, and time to relax. But he didn't want Sammy to feel like he had to give up this moment, either.
He looked up to meet Sammy's eyes. "If that's okay with you?" He couldn't make the decision for Sam, but... if this was his choice, Jack wanted to trust in it. To take this chance.
Sammy met Jack's too-pale eyes and nodded. If he could be fine with this... then it would be fine.
He looked down, still holding Jack's hand, doing his best to focus on that connection – the way it had felt as Jack led them softly to his office; a worried and protective care for someone deeply beloved by them both – and that other presence hovered in response, a ghostly echo of those feelings, somewhere just out of reach.
Sammy huffed, frustrated. It was harder to connect to that open affection when he felt more like he wanted to close his fist around it. He squeezed Jack's hand tighter. "I'm trying," he growled under his breath.
And suddenly, it clicked into focus; like a door blown open by a storm, the other was there, with that same discontented want swirling around them both. Trying, caring, falling short somehow; annoyed.
You separate us, Shepherd, he insisted, and then you lose faith! I have a part to play. How much of this small life would you leave me sleeping?!
It's MY life! spilled out before he could hide it behind anything else. It was honest, but it wasn't what he'd meant to say, and he could feel it tear between them now, something icy and sharp; his own whirlwind to push back the Prophet's.
Like a hand shot out instinctively, he tried to grab for the other before he lost that presence – and found his other self urgently reaching out for him in turn. He'd never known how to describe this feeling, but it resonated in them both as they pulled each other close again – angry and unresolved, but together.
That's not what I want, Sammy admitted, more carefully. I want to try.
The feeling of hands in his warmed slightly, then faded.
Sammy was still holding a hand as he sat up and blinked awake, glancing around a bright little room he recognised from another moment that touched this one, a moment with music and the company of the same little sheep that would put in a good word for him while he slept. The Shepherd had been true to his word, as well – this wasn't the Sanctuary where his notes were, but it also wasn't a moment of danger or fear.
It was a strange choice of a moment to call him, actually, one he could still feel the weight of in their shared body; a half-eaten meal, their favoured sheep sitting beside them.
"My sheep!" he exclaimed with a smile, but there was a note of confusion in his voice as he looked around the room, trying to figure it out. He'd clearly been called intentionally... but why now?
It seemed tense, for a moment – the pause as the two Sammys swapped places – but Jack didn't interrupt. He hadn't seen this often enough to be able to tell how these things worked… at least, not during calmer moments. But, a second later, the tension passed, and Jack returned Prophet's smile with a warm one of his own.
"Hopefully this isn't too soon for you? I, uh, asked Sam about what we talked about earlier, about you being around more...? Didn't expect it to be so soon though, hah," he laughed softly, not quite sure what else to say, now that the moment was here.
Should he bring up the other stuff...? He wasn't sure how much the Prophet had picked up from before – he remembered more than Sammy did, but he didn't seem to always parse it the same way.
"...There's still stew left, if you wanted to eat some with me?" Jack settled on giving that offer, with a soft squeeze of the Prophet's hand. After a second, he added, "I think he wanted you to have some, too."
Sammy squeezed his hand back, but only tipped his head with an uncertain squint at the food left for him. Why...? He glanced back to search the warm look on his trusted sheep's face, and found no reason to believe that this was anything other than an attempt at a gift.
"Ah," he said, something conflicted behind his smile. "He wished to share." He was sitting straight up, alert as always, eyes too wide and that same smile always trying to find its way to his face, but his usual eager energy was uncharacteristically hesitant as he slipped his hand free and took up the spoon, holding it more like a pencil than an eating utensil, as if that were his best guess.
He couldn't quite pull his thoughts free from that... confrontation, from the way something in the Shepherd's spirit had cringed from him since the ritual that was meant to make them whole. Star-flecked eyes found the other's face again, and the smile faded for a moment; open, unsure. "It was... harder, this way," he confessed, softly. "Why will he choose this...?"
Jack tilted his head to the side a little, unsure what to make of the question.
"Choose...?" He looked down at the bowl in front of Prophet, more than just a simple meal - something warm, made with love. A taste of home. Before he realised what he was doing, he reached over to adjust the other man's grip on the spoon to something more fitting.
The same way Jack was sharing this moment with Sammy, Sammy was also sharing this moment with the Prophet. And when Sammy was struggling, the Prophet stepped in to help. It might not be easy, but, was it helpful, to have that support?
"...Sometimes it's worth it, I think. To choose to do the harder things, if it means getting something you want. Or keeping something important. It's not always easy, but..." He looked up at Prophet again, with a smile. "I... think it's worth trying, at least."
It clicked, again, like the moment with the gun; something soft and familiar, as the Mender adjusted his hand – a memory that remained in the body, even as the mind discarded it as unimportant... or a memory that belonged to his other self, instead of him.
"He risks more than he gains," Sammy insisted earnestly, still distracted from the food he'd been offered. He understood the worth of a trial, a test, a hardship that brings understanding – of course! But... "He is meant to face this trial with my faith!" he exclaimed, a manic energy rising in his voice, coiled in his body like he might at any moment jump up from his seat. "What good was our company, if he was lost...!"
The words hung in the air like a note struck and left to resonate, and he was surprised by how easy it was to say; to hold such a weighty fear out where the other could see it. But... although his little sheep was not called to guide, he was still called. He would not have answers, not really, but... it meant something, to have someone trusted, to share it with.
...Of course the Shepherd wouldn't want to be alone. Wouldn't want him to be alone. Sammy let out a quiet sigh, something in his shoulders untensing, just slightly. "...Forgive me, my sheep."
"No... no, it's alright," Jack said, resting his hand against the Prophet's arm. It made sense, to worry about these things. Especially if you couldn't talk about it... which, as he thought about it, it made sense that it'd be difficult for Prophet to do that. He wasn't around very often, and if the one person he had more access to talking to was the person he was worried about...
"I'm not much help with," he gestured vaguely with his other hand. "Well, a lot of this stuff, but... sometimes it's easier to make sense of it all if you talk it through with someone. And I'm happy to listen, if it helps."
He looked back down at the food on the table. "Though, uh... we also might want to eat this food before it starts to cool down, hah. Sometimes food helps too."
He returned the Mender's gentle smile with his own. His mind felt clear enough, in the wake of the Shepherd's deliberate retreat, that there was no reason to fear losing this moment and slipping away if he tarried -- even if leaving him with the task of eating still seemed very unnecessary. But it meant something to this treasured sheep, he reasoned, as he took up the spoon again, and it was made for them by the Mender, intended as a sort of minor healing; he wouldn't turn that down.
Delicately, he took a bite.
He chewed thoughtfully.
It was so... small.
It made sense; even the impure ink carried an echo behind it that resonated with his Lord, its power vast enough to overwhelm if you could feel it, leaving you strangely empty in its absence.
He ate another spoonful, then another, hungrily. The taste was nice, but not in a way that seared through his brain to fix it. It wasn't healing. Just warm and small.
This moment strained and stretched to find another that would match it, but they were disconnected by something more than time; the foggy, indistinct memories of a version of him untouched, not yet remade. He hadn't tasted anything but ink, paint, his own blood dripping down his face, and lakewater since he and the Shepherd had diverged, and most of the context he had to describe flavour had faded. It was smaller than ink. It was more complex than blood. It was pleasant and easy in a way necessary things rarely were. The Shepherd's affection lingered in the back of his mind, with a feeling of "home" he couldn't quite connect to; the temptation deep and heavy, like sleep.
"Medicine...is meant to taste bad," he hummed. "This will not. Thank you, Mender."
"Heh, I try." Jack's smile grew at what, from the Prophet, sounded like fairly high praise – and with that said, he turned back to his own meal and continued eating as well.
Medicine is meant to taste bad, Prophet had said – similar to what they'd been talking about before, but not quite. Sometimes, necessary or important things were uncomfortable, or painful... Things done not for the joy of it, but out of hope that the outcome was nicer. Like taking medicine for an illness, or getting a surgery... or choosing not to merge into one person.
But... that didn't mean that all necessary things had to be bad. Like a nice warm stew – maybe it didn't have all the healing powers of some eldritch magic or some strong cough syrup, but it still helped, in its own way. And having something soothing, something comforting... It made things better, even if it didn't fix the problems right away.
Maybe that was the case for Sammy and Prophet, too. At times, being separate might feel like it wasn't helping, but even when it was tough, they were still getting some support, something comforting from it.
He mulled it over some as they ate, not wanting to distract from the food again – while Prophet seemed to be enjoying the stew, it didn't seem to be something that came naturally to him – but, once their bowls were looking a little more empty, he spoke up again.
"You don't have to answer if you don't want to but, if you don't mind me asking... Why did you choose to stay separate from... the other Sam?" He pushed his bowl further forward on the table, not quite looking at Prophet just yet. “I mean, if you thought it would be harder...”
The Prophet frowned, idly licking off the spoon, too obvious to be good table manners. Did he choose this...?
He shook his head. "The Shepherd's choice, not mine. He will separate us. I would not force him." He stared at the ritual as something soon to come, a prophecy he could avert, and it all felt inevitable from that angle, too.
"But... he will agree to remember," he said, after a long moment, voice delicate and full of emotion. His eyes gazed distantly off beyond the other, beyond the room, at nothing. "He will choose to remember. He will let me take his hand; it feels like faith. I will... believe him."
Ah. Not a specific choice, then, but more... meeting Sammy half way, maybe? Not the exact things they wanted – compromise rarely worked that way. But still... something there that they could both benefit from, for themselves and each other…
"It's... similar for both of you, then. I think, anyway. Not the easiest option, but," he laced his fingers together, "even if it's hard, and you don't get, well, exactly what you wanted, it's... worth trying, to get something that works for both of you."
He paused for a moment to let that thought sit – then, with a shake of his head and a short laugh, he broke the silence.
"Hah, or maybe I'm just overthinking it."
He tipped his head thoughtfully. "Do not dismiss yourself, my sheep," he said, resting a hand over the other's fidgeting fingers.
What the Mender described seemed accurate; that's what they'd done, whether they'd meant to or not: not exactly what they wanted. The Shepherd said he wanted this, but the sting of his frustration was still sharp in the Prophet's memory; this small life hard to relinquish when the promise of purpose wasn't bright in his mind. The Prophet struggled to wait for these faltering steps... but, to guide the Shepherd back more gently...
"...Love requires sacrifice," he whispered, barely more than a breath.
Sammy pushed himself up from the table abruptly. Was that blasphemous? To sacrifice for only the love of a person? He crossed the room with an aggressive stride and turned to pace. His Lord is the One he owes everything to! He had relived his Lord's touch so vividly in that shared memory, a love so much bigger than him that it strained him to breaking just to comprehend. Was there room, in something so all-encompassing,
for this...?
He didn't like the uncertainty, a string plucked deep in his gut. There was room for the sheep, and the wayward Shepherd with them! It would lead him closer to their shared purpose, to try something different from the fight for control!
"I wanted this too," he declared finally, pacing winding down until he was just sort of anxiously stepping back and forth in front of his partner. "A compromise, an understanding, a step taken in faith. Our Lord would set us free... I wanted him with me. But I would not compromise my calling! He threatens our purpose when he fears to wake me."
Jack watched, nervously, as the Prophet paced - but as the man's pacing slowed, he stood up as well, reaching forwards to take hold of the Prophet's hands.
"It... takes time, to make those steps. To get more used to these things." Both for Sammy having to share his life, and for Prophet finding value in more than just his purpose.
"He wants to try. You both just... need more practise, with it." Jack looked up to give the man a nervous, but hopeful, smile. "I can see how he feels, later. If he's willing to try more often."
It takes time, the Mender said, and the distinction barely made sense. All they had was the moment they were given... If something was given to them in that moment, they had to act, and they could not fail.
He looked down at brown hands, lightly scarred, wrapped so certainly around his own thin fingers. It was the Mender's job to heal them, to keep them all alive and well. It was the Prophet's job to guide them, to speak his Lord's will.
This was something... in between.
Jack still wasn't sure about how things would turn out, with Prophet's purpose and all, but it felt... promising, the way Prophet was thinking about these things. Not just as a single-minded goal, but with consideration of the other Sam, too. Maybe it was dangerous to keep bringing him out, but without these experiences, it would be difficult for Prophet to make decisions for himself if he wasn't around to make them.
And... Jack wanted that, for him. To be able to make his own decisions, to keep making them, to work out what he wanted.
"We have this time now, too," he added, after a moment. "I don't know how much longer you have left, but if you have more, then... what do you want to do?"
Star-flecked eyes snapped up to his face again, focused with interest on a much less murky puzzle. "Good question, my sheep..." What DID he want to do with this gift?
Sammy stepped back, pulled his hands away to rifle through his pockets, retrieving a several-times-folded piece of paper and delicately unfolding it. He'd never looked it over for himself, but knew it from his other self's memories, jotted with notes that would only make sense in this small slice of reality; the thing the Shepherd pulled out whenever the feeling struck him, too, that he was somehow caught on the side of reality that stopped him from moving place to place and time to time as he intended.
He held the note of scrawled directions out for the other to see. "I did not have much, my sheep, but let us plan! The Shepherd's memories of the moments that connect outside these walls are strong; but mine were faded, always confined." He took the Mender's hand again, and finally his face was bright and eager, lit again with purpose. "I want to see more, to know each place, that I could recognise it in a vision."
Jack's eyes widened - not the type of plan he'd expected! - but then he nodded as he skimmed the note. It made sense that Prophet would want to be able to fill his role better, and given how tough it had been to work out where they needed to be previously, it'd probably be good for the man to have more points of reference to interpret his visions.
Though... the specifics of this note probably weren’t of interest to Prophet. The writing was short and to-the-point, so definitely Sam's doing. Directions, scribbled down to keep track of familiar locations. The studio, his apartment, a few other places around town... Places that Prophet was already likely to know, or unlikely candidates for visions… assuming cults and monsters weren’t likely to go buy sandwiches for lunch, anyway.
"Knowing more places is a good idea, though maybe we should... Hm, where did I put..."
A quick glance over the room, looking for- ah, there it was! Pulling Prophet along with him, he stepped over to the cabinet to the side, where he'd left the notepad and pen he used for recipes. He flipped the pad open to a fresh page and held it up to show Prophet in return.
"I can write out a list of places that might be good to check out, maybe? Then when you're here next, I can drive us around to check them out, see if there’s any useful landmarks to keep an eye out for?”
He'd have to check in with Sam about it – and keep a close eye on Prophet, if they were out in public. But hopefully, they could work things out. If they needed Prophet to warn them about things… it’d help them all if he could do that easier.
"Yes!" he exclaimed, thrilled they were on the same page and back to his old energy at once. "Then, when I returned, our preparation began in earnest!"
*******************************
If he'd been asked to put this feeling into words, Sammy would've picked out the same ones he would’ve chosen the first time they switched -- and it was clearly intended as an echo of that moment.
I do not wish to split us further.
But the meaning was… different. The Prophet had used this feeling over and over again to find him, the one thing at their core they agreed on, but it always carried that hope inside it that they could one day be sewn together. Sammy hadn't noticed when, exactly, he'd stopped agreeing, until that sentiment abruptly couldn't find him anymore.
But this time it clicked in place. And the tentative, wary hope in it clicked, too – not the hope of a day when they wouldn't have to worry about being split in two anymore, but... a smaller hope that this was enough to make it work.
Sure, was all Sammy said, because the other could feel he hoped so, too.
Their spirits brushed each other curiously as they passed, and he could feel the other's warmth so strongly, something bright and cared for that left no room for a fear of neglect – that warmed something inside of him, too, with an overwhelming gratitude.
God, what had he been so scared of...? Jack knew how to love them both.
Sammy blinked awake, slowly, on the sofa once again, as though dinner hadn't happened yet at all, Jack's arms around him and his whole body heavy and warm with bled-through emotions that were much harder to identify when they weren't attached to someone else. He might cry, for some stupid reason, just feeling loved and lucky with an intensity that was frankly not necessary for this situation and a little embarrassing, and he just blinked harder with a little shake of his head.
"Well," he mumbled, "How'd it go?"
"Oh! Welcome back, Sam," Jack said, pressing a kiss against Sammy's cheek. "It went well..!"
For a moment, he pondered bringing up everything he'd discussed with Prophet. But... well, he didn't want to meddle too much, and Sammy might still be too drowsy for a full in-depth conversation. He could probably do with a break for the rest of the night. But Jack wanted to give him at least a small update... He didn't want to be hiding things.
"We talked for a while... He liked the stew, I think. And... he had some ideas, for next time he's out, if... that's okay with you? Though, we don't have to talk about that now, if you don't want to. It's been a long day." He moved his hand so he could lace his fingers into Sammy's.
Sammy nodded slowly, glad to accept the kiss and the hand in his. "I... need a minute," he managed, "then we'll talk. We should schedule something anyway; I can't just wait for this to happen again," he scoffed. The emotion he was struggling to package back where it belonged barely came through in his voice – he just sounded tired.
Though after a moment, he sat up, pulling Jack with him. "Let's play," he said, decisive. If he was going to be left with this feeling like his heart was exposed, he should at least find his banjo and try to do something with it.
It wasn't that different; music, and this.
A vital relationship he couldn't describe, that could never be separate from him. One that had scarred him, plunged him into the pool and drowned him. One he was still scared to touch... but missed, and was missed. He didn't know if it would really get better.
But he wanted to try.