2012-07-21 Ghosts in the Park

There was only one thing to do after managing to land yourself a job with people who didn't mind that you were a) legally dead, or b) a mutant, and that was celebrate. Doug had decided to head down to Bryant Park to treat himself to a fine meal as a reward for his good fortune.

...of course, all he could afford was a small sandwich and a drink from a 'wichcraft kiosk, but it was more than he was willing to splurge yesterday.

Now that he has food in hand, Doug's found himself parked on a bench near the old carousel, people-watching while he eats and tries to reflect on his situation without falling into a funk.

"Can't believe you chickened out, Samuel Guthrie." Sam gives into the urge to kick an unsuspecting garbage can so hard it rattles. He'd gone right past the mansion and kept driving until he found himself down near Manhattan. Thanks to his phone, he'd found a Super 8 motel and crashed there for the night, promising he'd go back the next day.

Instead, he ended up over at Bryant Park, first place he'd ever been in New York City. It's still one of the prettiest places in the world as far as he's concerned. He's still a slack-jawed hick, he knows it, but at least he doesn't stare so hard this time. They'd come back more than once, there was so much to do here.

Sam makes his way to the carousel. He always wants to bring the kids here, not that he has any idea how to get nine kids from Kentucky to New York on no money. Still. If he ever figures that out, he'll be damn happy.

Meanwhile, he has to think on taking another run at going back to the Institute.

Somewhere around the middle of his sandwich, Doug notices something tugging at the edge of his attention. Something familiar. He's not sure what -- he certainly doesn't see any faces he recognizes in a crowd this big, and he *definitely* isn't looking for any. But still. It's annoying him now. With a slight frown, he gives up and starts looking around more attentively, trying to figure out what it is his head is trying to make him notice.

Doug pauses when his eyes fall upon the back of a tall blond man, and he pauses. The body language feels familiar. That couldn't be it, could it? He finds himself leaning to the side without leaving the bench, as if it would give him a better angle on the man's face. Sure, Dougie. You keep that up.

Sam pulls out his phone and snaps a photo of the carousel to send to the family email account. At least Paige and Jay oughta come to New York some time. They're old enough. He adds his love to Ma and the kids under the picture - he's not going to mention that he hasn't been up to the mansion yet.

Hitting send makes him wish he could email himself home. He has no idea why he thought he could manage coming back here. Some days, still, all he can remember is Doug dying. They'd all felt invincible with their crazyass code names and uniforms, wanthing nothing more than to catch up to the big kids and become 'real' X-Men. Then, reality came in on a bullet.

Sam pushes up his sunglasses to rub the back of one hand across his eyes, shoves his phone back in his pocket. Being over something back in Kentucky isn't being over it in Bryant Park, that's for sure.

Even getting a look at the guy's face doesn't help. Not right away. Once Doug's had a minute to think and do some mental math, however, he very nearly spits out a mouthful of his drink. On the one hand, he manages to refrain. On the other hand, he also swallows some of it down the wrong tube in the process, and lapses into a highly dignified coughing fit.

Sam glances over his shoulder at the disturbance but he's too lost in his own thoughts to look twice. He could go his own way, he thinks. He sits down on a bench, staring at his own hands. It's not like he can't get work somewhere but that's not what his gut wants and Ma knew that, that's why she sent him back here.

The school, the other kids there, they were like his second family and Sam doesn't know what to do without family. He's just made for it. Losing too much of it too fast, that was just bad luck or God trying to tell him something he wasn't smart enough to understand.

Sam leans back and squints at the sky, then looks around again. Something's nagging at him, something pricking that sore place he thought heÕd left behind. Sam puts his glasses down to keep the sun out of his eyes, to get a better look.

Doug thumps himself on the chest with a fist a few times in the belief that somehow, it will help clear up his cough. What's weird is that it does. He clears his throat and draws in a deep breath, pausing to assure a concerned passer-by that he's all right by holding up his drink. "Wrong tube," he explains, just a little hoarsely. "I'm okay. Thank you."

With one crisis averted, Doug reluctantly returns his attention back to the other one. That couldn't possibly be Sam Guthrie. He wasn't a skinny, goofy-looking beanpole, for one thing. Still. All Doug needs to do is figure out which option he should be listening to: fight through his fear and go say hello, or turn tail and spare everyone the pain of it all.

"I'm going crazy," Sam mutters under his breath. For a second there, he thinks he's seeing Doug, then a family with one of those huge all-terrain strollers passes by him and breaks his focus. He shakes his head. Seeing dead people isn't one of his talents. He watches the carousel again but then he just has to look over again. In case.

The bench is empty by the time Sam looks back, as Doug has elected to beat a hasty retreat. "Such a coward," he chastises himself, weaving through the crowd to try and reach the street. But it was better this way, right? He could go start his new life up on the helicarrier, helping Miss Rushman and the rest of S.H.I.E.L.D. help others, and the Institute never needed to know. They wouldn't have to mourn him a second time if anything went wrong. Yeah. Much better.

The guy is gone but, through the crowd Sam catches a glimpse of the same shirt. Closer, he had to look twice, but that walk, the hunch of the shoulders, that hair. . . That's Doug. From a distance, Sam just knows it.

Doug's dead but Sam's instincts don't care. He's on his feet, finding the clearest path through the crowd, trying to keep track of the guy.

Doug is so focused on getting to the street that he doesn't realize he's being followed. Unfortunately for Sam, escape and evade was always one of Doug's strong suits -- his powers meant that he practiced it a lot -- and he's always been just average-looking enough to melt into a crowd. He zigs around the 'wichcraft kiosk on his way towards the street, stopping long enough to drop his drink in the trash and avoid tripping over what he swears has to be a high school field trip or something, given the sheer numbers and volume.

Sam has no idea why the guy is in such a hurry to get away but for some reason it makes him even more certain that's Doug. Doug always was slippery that way when they were playing tag.

"Doug!" The name comes out of Sam's mouth before he can stop it. He's pretty sure he's crazy now. 'Doug, it's Sam.'

Some big guy steps in his way and Sam catches a shoulder. "Sorry, sorry." He's about ready to use his power to catch up.

Doug hears his name and does the stupidest thing imaginable.

Doug looks back.

It doesn't last, though. As happy as he is to see an old friend, the irrational fear is overwhelming. With a quiet curse under his breath, Doug spins on his heel and bolts as fast as he can, putting his head down and silently praying Rahne isn't with him. He couldn't even articulate the ways in which that would be, literally, the worst.

Sam's inner voice points out that anyone would run if someone Sam's size went sprinting after them, shouting a name that wasn't theirs. This is just insane but Sam can't give up.

"Hey, man, I just want to talk to you," he calls out. "Just. . . Hold up, please."

Nope. ''Nyet. Nein. Non''. A big old negatory. Whatever the language, Doug's mind is made up. Flight has won the day, and all he needs now is to reach the curb, throw up a hand, and make good his escape in a manner befitting a true New Yorker.

"TAXI!"

Doug would need some time to meditate on whether it was good luck or bad luck that he managed to flag down a ride quickly, all but scrambling into the back seat and yanking the door closed behind himself. "Uhh -- the UN building, please." He'd be safe back at the S.H.I.E.L.D. office. Surely.

"Goddamnit!" Sam punches an innocent recycling bin when the cab pulls away. "God. Freakin'. DAMNIT!" His heart is pounding so much he thinks he's going to be sick. And he's crazy, too. He steps back and sinks down against a lamppost.

On top of everything else, he ruined some poor guy's day. Maybe God wants to remind him what he's missing, not going to Xavier's. Missing being so close with someone that five years after they're gone he's chasing strangers on the off chance God has a bad sense of humour.

"Okay," Sam says, looking at the sky. "I gotcha. I'm goin'." In the bottom of his heart, though, the feeling that he's missed something important is still lurking.