A Preference for Rare Pairs

Sam stepped through the time portal into 2040, took a deep breath, and fell over.

“Sam?” Nova asked, leaning over him. “What happened?”

A gloved hand landed on her shoulder, and Bridge appeared behind her. “Some people don’t react well to time travel,” Bridge said, bright and sympathetic and clearly older than the nineteen year old Sam had just left behind in 2025. Sam stared. “When I did it I had a migraine for a week.”

“I didn’t know you’d time traveled,” Sam blurted, except he did know. He could remember the panic when Bridge – the red ranger he never would have called that – disappeared mid-battle only to reappear three months later in the company of Mac Hartford.

He would swear he hadn’t had that memory two minutes ago.

“Rachel, go let the other Rangers know you two are back,” came Sky’s voice – Commander Tate that was less of a surprise – from somewhere beyond Sam’s view.

Rachel – Nova – sent the commander a dubious look but still stood up, punching Sam lightly on the shoulder as she did. “Good to have you back, Sam.”

“Good to be back,” Sam said, honestly, even though he was pretty sure he’d never been in this room before. At least, not in this time period. His memory doubled, presenting him with a parade of time spent in the room – the lab – over the past few years. “Is this how you feel all the time?” he asked Bridge plaintively.

Bridge’s smile widened and he offered Sam a hand up. “Not really.”

Same wavered for a moment once back on his feet. “Yeah, that was a stupid question.” He shook his head to clear it, letting the memories sort themselves out, and stopped to actually look at the older – former – Rangers. Looked at Bridge’s labcoat with the rolled-up sleeves and his crow’s-feet and the more controlled way he held himself. At the gray at Sky’s temples and how relaxed his shoulders were under the command coat and how he was laughing with Bridge as the two of them gave Sam time to collect himself. Saw the wedding ring on Sky’s finger, and he knew there was a matching one hidden under Bridge’s glove.

Sam felt his throat tighten. Each detail brought a wave of memories that forced back the old, dark ones, but he remembered enough to know this was exactly what he’d been sent back for. 

“Commander.” Sam saluted. “I’m reporting a successful mission.”

It perhaps spoke of Walter’s growing ease with the changes in his life that he was still awake and unphased when Miss Sciacca walked into his rooms unannounced, her black curls in disarray, at two in the morning, muttering curses under her breath.

“Miss Sciacca, always a pleasure.” He stood quickly, offering her the more comfortable of his shabby chairs.

“Mr. Thorne.” She settled in the chair with a sigh. “I apologize for the late hour, but I needed a rest before I made my way home.”

“You know you’re always welcome.” Walter checked the teapot, frowning at the tepidness of the drink. “Tea will just be a minute. What brings you out at this hour?”

“Idioti,” was the flat reply. “Some smugglers lost control of the hellhounds they’d summoned to protect their warehouse. There wasn’t much left of them by the time I arrived, but at least I kept the hounds from getting out.”

“Good show.” Fresh cup of tea in hand, Walter turned back to his guest only to stop short. Miss Sciacca had her skirts hitched up and was examining a long scrape down her calf; Walter felt his face flushing and focused on the tired annoyance on her face rather than the exposed length of olive skin. “Ah, Miss Sciacca? Are you all right?”

She made a small noise and dropped her skirts back down. “It’s nothing. Thank you for asking, Mr. Thorne.”

Walter pressed the cup into her hands. “I, ah, I have bandages, if you…”

“You are a dear. Thank you.” She breathed in the steam from the tea, some tension melting from her body even as she fixed him with a fond look. “You don’t need to do all this, you know.”

“All what?”

A smile quirked her lips. “Dolce,” she murmured, then, at a normal volume, “The bandages, Mr. Thorne. And please, call me Clarissa.”

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People were staring at her. Most were at least aiming for discreet, but a few threw subtlety out the window and stared openly, whispering amongst themselves when Syd walked into cafeteria. She made a face as she scanned the room for a seat. Several people waved her over when she glanced their way, but she either saw a hint of star strike in their eyes or recognized them from earlier in the week, before she made it clear that she didn’t want to talk about her singing career. As far as she was concerned, she was always a worthwhile topic of discussion, but it was getting to be distracting. She was an SPD cadet now, just like everyone in the academy, but it would be a lot harder to get anywhere if people treated her as ‘Sydney Drew, Pop Star,’ instead of just ‘Syd, new cadet who happens to be extremely talented.’

Her gaze settled on a small table by the windows, a cadet about her age sitting alone, head bent over a book. After a moment, he glanced up, their eyes meeting for a second before he gave her a quick smile and turned back to his book. Syd started walking towards him almost immediately, somehow thankful for that moment of impersonal eye contact.

“Can I sit here?”

He looked up, pure bafflement on his face before he apparently registered what she said. “Oh, yeah, sure!”

“Thanks.” She waited until he shuffled his things off to the side before she sat, extending a hand as soon as she set her tray down. “I’m Syd.”

He smiled, but didn’t make a move to take her hand. “Bridge.”

“Oh!” The exclamation slipped out before Syd could stop it, and she immediately regretted it as wariness and resignation slipped into Bridge’s eyes. Still, knowing first hand how much rumor mills normally got wrong, she asked, “Is it true?”

“Yes.”

Syd smiled and laid her hand on her tray. “That’s great! I thought I’d be the only one who was different.”

Bridge’s smile, when he saw her now-plastic hand, was brilliant.

A tickle of heat against his hip woke Sanji, idly circling his hipbone. He shifted to his stomach, burying his face in the pillow. The heat paused for a moment, glided slowly across his side, and started tracing patterns on his back.

He turned his head enough to speak clearly. “Why’re you up?”

Ace’s fingers stilled. “Couldn’t sleep.” At Sanji’s disbelieving snort, he added, “It happens.” He continued running his fingers across Sanji’s back and bit at his shoulder. “You’re not asleep, either.”

“I was.” But it lacked venom, and Ace just pressed an unrepentant grin into his neck. The heat spread lower as he moved his hand.

Sanji only opened his eyes when Ace nuzzled against his cheek, lips sliding across his jaw. Twisting slightly to meet for a lazy kiss, Sanji saw, before black hair blocked his vision, fingers of flame stroking his skin.

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For as long as she could remember, she would sneak out to watch her guardians spar late at night. Most times Igaram or Terracotta would catch her and send her back to bed. When she did slip past, she always curled up on the edge of the balcony overlooking the courtyard they met in, watching the two soldiers below match each other speed for speed, strike for strike. She may not have understood why they would go out each night, but she did recognize a type of beauty in their motions.

Now, after two years with Baroque Works, Vivi thought she understood.

Unable to sleep, she wandered back out to that balcony; the courtyard was empty. She leaned on the railing, images of feathers and fur and fluttering robes mixing with memories of peacock slashers and baseball bats and instruments-cum-guns, all geared towards the same goal—not perfection, or even becoming the best, but just to be strong enough. Strong enough to leave home, to become an Agent, to save a country.

Strong enough to die.

Her body reacted before her brain, squatting into the shadow of the railing as she caught movement below.

Pell limped into the courtyard, Chaka easily matching his pace. They both looked better, Vivi noticed; Pell was not leaning as heavily against his crutch, and Chaka had lost the drawn look he’d worn the past few days. She watched as Pell laid aside his crutch and faced Chaka for a moment before throwing a soft punch.

It was nowhere near the ease Vivi remembered, but still they matched speed for speed, strike for strike. And when Pell’s leg twisted from under him, Chaka met him before he fell.

More than strong enough.