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Al Calavicci sat in the overstuffed chair, smoke from his pipe curling around his head, and stared at the silver framed photo in his hand. Beth, his wife of almost 39 years, sat on the arm of the chair, her arm around her husband's shoulders, studying the same photo. "You know, I didn't realize it at the time," he said, thinking out loud, "but he wasn't someone else; he was Sam. He was himself."
Beth frowned. "Himself?"
"That's why there's no one in the Waiting Room. And without a body in the waiting room, all Ziggy can do is run a nano-second search through Sam's lifetime. That'll take months and by then, he'll have probably leaped again."
"It didn't take you months to find him."
"I got lucky."
"Luck, Admiral Calavicci, had nothing to do with it."
Al smiled up at the woman sitting beside him. "You think I can find him again?"
Beth returned the smile and leaned down to kiss him softly on the forehead. "I know you can."
"How can you be so damn sure?" the Quantum Leap project observer growled.
Beth looked at the photo held tightly in her husband's hands, a photo of Admiral Albert Calavicci and the absent head/creator of Quantum Leap, Dr. Samuel J. Beckett, and put her hand over his. "Because that's what friends are for," she told him.
Al grinned, and tugging on Beth's hand, pulled her into his lap, kissing her thoroughly. He still marvelled that Beth was in his life again. It was one of the primary reasons he wanted to find his friend. He would never know what happened on the last leap, the leap on Sam's birthday. Whatever it was, Beth was in his arms now because of it. As he kissed his wife again, Al knew the second thing he intended to do when he caught up to Dr. Beckett, was to thank him; the first thing he planned to do was murder the man for putting them through all this waiting and worrying.
Beth returned her husband's kisses ardently and both became lost in their feelings. So lost neither heard Ziggy's signal on the comlink for several minutes. The hybrid computer kept increasing the decibel level on the link until the noise eventually caught the admiral's attention.
"What do you want, Ziggy?" he snarled into the communicator on his wrist.
"I just thought you'd want to know, Admiral; I've found Dr. Beckett."
"What?" Al breathed, so startled by the pronouncement he nearly dumped Beth off his lap. "How -- ? Where -- ?"
"We have located Dr. Beckett in Washington, D.C., during the month of October, 1993."
"But how did you know where to find him? I didn't think there'd been enough time for that nano-second search to pay off."
"It didn't, Admiral. We have a guest in the Waiting Room."
"Wait a minute. I thought Sam was leaping around as Sam; I didn't think he was taking over other people's bodies anymore."
"Apparently he changed his mind, Admiral."
Gently moving Beth aside, Al stood up and started pacing around the room. "But that doesn't make any sense. Why would Sam suddenly alter his methods? He's been leaping as himself for months. What could've happened to change his mind?"
"Unknown, Admiral," the computer responded. "Will you be coming to the project to interview our guest?"
"Absolutely; I'll be there in twenty minutes."
"Very good, Admiral Calavicci; I'll alert security."
Al took a deep breath and stared off into space, lost in his thoughts. A soft touch on his arm jolted him back into the present and he looked into the concerned face of his wife.
"You think something's gone wrong, don't you?"
"I don't know." He smiled and gently touched her cheek. "We haven't had a clue about where Sam was for a long time and now... out of the blue... someone drops into the Waiting Room." He paused and nodded slowly. "Yeah," he admitted, "I'm afraid something's wrong."
Beth saw his anxious look and pulled him into a tight hug. "I hope everything's all right. Please give Sam my love when you see him."
Al returned the hug, burying his face in her neck for a brief moment. "I hope I see him soon." Releasing her, he kissed Beth quickly then left the house for the project headquarters.
"Admit it, Hunt, you can't cut it in this dog-eat-dog, cut-throat atmosphere," Murphy Brown crowed, striding out of the elevator on the way to her office. "You're way out of your league."
Peter Hunt, following his colleague and chief antagonist out of the elevator, paused in the middle of the newsroom bullpen. "Why, because you pulled some strings, called in a every favor you could think of... cheated... and got that interview with Bob Dole before I did?"
Murphy turned in her office doorway and came back into the room. "I don't have to 'cheat,' Peter. What I did is called good journalism. Something you probably know very little about."
"Right, Murphy, I don't know anything about journalism. I guess all those reports I filed from Sarajevo and Mogadishu were just dumb luck."
"Hey, it's real easy to come up with a story when all you have to do is stand out in the open in some war-torn country for a few minutes and wait for someone to start shooting. Here in Washington, it takes skill, finesse, and guts to find a good story. It's a tough world out there in the political jungle."
Peter's answering smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "That's quite amusing, Murphy. You know, I don't recall your filing anything from the field lately." Walking over to the counter, he started filling a cup with coffee then stopped and looked back at his adversary. "Oh, but I remember now. You haven't done any remote reporting in... oh, how long has it been?... a couple of years? Something about motherhood?" Turning away from F.Y.I.'s senior reporter, Peter picked up a jelly doughnut and took a bite. "Trust me, Murphy, you're the one who has no idea what it's like out in the real world anymore." The argument was settling into its familiar patterns; they'd had it many times in the past month and were probably destined to have it many more times.
Murphy's smile faded from her face. "I've done plenty of reporting from the field," she told him through clenched teeth. "I was reporting from places like Bangladesh and Saigon when you were still in high school. Just because I don't choose to do remotes any more doesn't mean I can't do it. Isn't that right, Frank?" She turned to the newsmagazine's resident investigative reporter.
Frank Fontana choked on his mouthful of coffee, trying not to spit it across the table and onto the immaculate white shirt of his colleague, Jim Dial. He struggled to swallow the hot liquid, his eyes watering with the effort. "Uh, that's right Murphy. You're ahead of everyone."
"See, Peter, what'd I tell you?"
Peter sighed. "Of course Frank's going to agree with everything you say, Murphy. He's scared of you."
"Frank's not scared of me."
"I'm not scared of Murphy." The protests were simultaneous.
"Right." The disbelief was evident in Peter's voice as he turned toward the assignment board.
"Actually, I can remember Murphy's many reports from the front lines very well," Jim proclaimed, taking a bite of his sweetroll. "She was an excellent field reporter."
"See," Peter whipped around, "that's my point. Murphy 'was' a good field reporter. These days, she spends all her time in the studio." He smiled and stood a little straighter. "That's why the producers brought me in."
"Actually, I could care less why Peter's here." Corky Sherwood leaned coyly against the edge of the counter and smiled at F.Y.I.'s international reporter. "I'm just glad he is."
"Corky, the only reason you like Peter is because you think he looks great in tight jeans." Murphy brushed by the younger woman on her way to the board, almost knocking her off her perch.
"Murphy!" Corky blushed, embarrassed her feelings were so transparent.
"Good morning all. It's so nice to see the entire F.Y.I. staff getting along at last." Miles Silverberg, producer and eternal optimist, approached the group. "I have the assignments for this week."
"That's right, Miles, just ignore all this strife and turmoil in your staff." Murphy came up behind him, sitting down at the table next to Jim.
"There's always strife and turmoil on this staff. So what else is new? Now listen up while I read the list for this week. Corky, we'll go with that piece you did with those Girl Scouts in your hometown in Louisiana. Then we'll have a report from Frank on the drug dealers he's been following and Murphy's report on how the single parents in Congress find good day care. Finally, we'll use Peter's report on the firestorms in Southern California." Miles turned to the reporter. "I'm really looking forward to your report, Peter. I understand you got some pretty dramatic footage going out with those firefighters."
"Thanks, Miles. It got kind of hairy a couple of times, but it was exhilarating too."
"I'll bet it was." The producer smiled wistfully. "I wish I could have been there with you."
"Oh, no you don't, Miles," Murphy argued. "The closest you ever want to get to the action is the nearest telephone."
Miles spun around. "Cute, Murphy, very cute. When was the last time you requested a dangerous story?"
Peter laughed, Corky chuckled, and even Frank snickered at the question. Although Miles had missed most of the early conversation, he had inadvertently stepped right in the middle of the disagreement. Murphy glared at her fellow reporters then reached over and punched Frank in the arm.
"Ooowwww!" the intrepid correspondent yelped, holding the bruised spot. "What'd I do?"
"You agreed with them," Murphy hissed.
"Well, it has been a long time since you went out anywhere. I mean I know why you're staying close to home, but that still doesn't change the fact that you haven't been to a class one field assignment in months."
"Thanks a lot, Frank," Murphy snarled before stalking back to her office. "I'll remember this. And I won't forget you either, Corky."
"Now, Murphy," the Southerner placated the irascible reporter, "we all know you want to be home with Avery now. There's nothing wrong with trying to be a good mother and not wanting to go off anywhere it might be dangerous."
Murphy started to go into her office then paused outside, staring at the unfamiliar face behind the desk. "Who are you?" she growled.
"I'm Mary Jones." The petite woman looked up meekly. "I'm your new secretary."
Rolling her eyes, Murphy shook her head. "You won't last long," she declared as she slammed her door shut.
Miles watched the interplay of his on-air staff and reached into his pocket for the roll of Maalox tablets he always carried with him. Popping one into his mouth, he was grateful the off-the-air antics didn't translate to problems on screen. No matter what happened in the bullpen, Miles knew he could count on Jim to hold things together when the cameras were rolling. He was a good anchor and Miles knew he was lucky to have him.
He felt the same way about Peter Hunt. He wasn't sure what gods had smiled on F.Y.I. that allowed them to land such an experienced investigative reporter, but he would always be grateful to them. He was also grateful Peter was doing his best not to become entrenched in their office politics, despite plenty of provocation from Murphy. He also knew Murphy, Jim, Frank, and Corky had been extremely resentful that the network brought Peter on board but things did seem to be settling down a bit in that department. Glancing around the room, Miles noticed the young man studying the assignment board. Strolling over, he stood next to him.
"I hope all this bickering isn't getting to you."
Peter looked up. "No, Miles, not in the least. In fact, it sort of reminds me of being in Sarajevo, only I think Sarajevo was a littler safer."
The producer laughed. "Yeah, at least there you knew the people shooting at you were your enemies; here you can't be sure where the next round is coming from." The reporter chuckled and nodded. "You know, Peter, I'm really glad you joined F.Y.I." Peter cocked an eyebrow and waited for Miles to continue. "I needed to have at least one sane reporter on this show."
"Thanks, Miles... I think."
"Don't worry about it, Peter, just keep on doing what you've been doing."
"Sure," the reporter replied. He tried to figure out what had prompted all that as he watched Miles, followed by Jim, Corky, and Frank, walk into Murphy's office. Part of him wished he could listen in on that conversation while another part was glad he didn't have to.
Refilling his cup, he turned to head to his office and nearly ran over the man standing directly behind him. Trying to keep the hot coffee from splashing all over his hand, Peter briefly wondered where this garishly dressed individual had come from. He didn't remember seeing him when he and Murphy arrived and the way this guy was dressed, there was no way Peter could've missed him coming in. He couldn't recall hearing the elevator ring; then again, he hadn't exactly been listening for it either. Mentally shaking his head, he knew he'd definitely been in Washington too long when he failed to hear even the softest of footsteps come up behind him. "Sorry," he apologized, recovering his balance, "I guess I didn't see you."
"Real bizarre group, isn't it?" The man gestured toward Murphy's office.
"Yeah, I suppose so," Peter replied absently, trying to get around the stranger.
The man chuckled. "You know, I haven't seen a bunch of characters like that since the last time I was in front of a Congressional hearing." Peter smiled in response and once more tried to walk around the man. He found, however, his way was blocked. "It's really good to see you. How've you been doing? Do you know how worried we've all been about you?"
The reporter frowned. What was going on? Just who was this guy? "I'm doing okay. Had a few close calls in Bosnia but I made it through all right." He glanced around the newsroom for help, but he and the stranger were alone.
The stranger seemed to study Peter for a few minutes. "Yeah, I'm sure you did. You know, when Ziggy told us where you'd been, I have to admit I got a little scared. Bosnia-Herzegovina wasn't exactly the garden spot of the '90s. I wish I could've been there to help you but we had no idea where you were until Hunt showed up in the Waiting Room."
As he listened to the stranger, an odd feeling came over Peter. There was something about the man that felt oddly familiar, but who did he say showed up where? "Look, mister, what are you talking about? I don't know anything about any waiting room. I've been here for the last month." He looked around again. They were still alone. Where was everyone when he needed them? "You're not making any sense."
The man stared at Peter, looks of surprise, shock and finally horror flew across his face. "Aww, geez, not again. Ziggy said this would happen and I didn't believe her." He shook his head resignedly. "We're never gonna be able to live with her this time." He studied Peter's face. "You really don't know who I am? Do you even know who you are?"
"Sure, my name is Peter Hunt and no, I don't know who you are. Who are you?"
"The name's Al and your name is not Peter Hunt; it's Sam Beckett."
"Uh-huh." Suddenly everything was becoming very clear. "Murphy put you up to this, didn't she?" Before the man... Al he called himself... could reply, he answered his own question. "Never mind. You don't have to worry, I won't tell her it didn't work. I know how she can be when she doesn't get her own way. Nice try, though. Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a lot of work to do." Sidestepping the older man, Peter started toward his office.
In the blink of an eye, Al was in front of him, impeding his progress. "Wait a minute. You think all this is some sort of practical joke?"
Peter stepped around him again. "Of course, it's got Murphy's fingerprints all over it. Like I said, it was a good try. It's not your fault it didn't work."
Al kept pace with him this time. "Look, Sam, this is no joke." Pulling what looked like an elaborate calculator out of his pocket, he punched a few of the keys. "There's only one thing I can do. I'm gonna have to prove it to you."
"I told you my name's not Sam and there's no way you're gonna prove anything to me."
"Sure there's a way; there's always a way. I've just got to figure out what it is."
"Yeah, you go right ahead. In the meantime if you want me, I'll be in my office trying to get some work done."
As Peter started to walk out of the bullpen, he heard someone across the room clearing their throat. Peter glanced around to see the group had emerged from Murphy's office and wondered how long they'd been watching him.
"Oh, God, it finally happened," Miles whined. "I was afraid of this. The strain of having to deal with you people has broken him at last." Miles looked as though he might start crying at any moment.
Murphy led the F.Y.I. parade over to the table at the coffee bar, coming to stand next to Miles. "Yeah, Petey, that talking-to-someone-who's-not-there routine is so old it's got whiskers on it. I would've given you more credit to come up with something a little more original to get Miles' sympathy." Murphy put her arm around the beleaguered producer's shoulders.
"Don't try to turn the tables, Murphy; you know this was all your idea." Peter walked toward the group, Al following behind him.
Murphy's eyebrows jumped to the top of her forehead. "Give me a break, Petey," she sniggererd, knowing how the reporter hated the nickname. "Don't go blaming me if you've snapped under the pressure of trying to keep up with the Browns."
"Oh get serious, Murphy. You know you set this all up. Why don't you admit this is just another one of your lame practical jokes."
"Miles," Murphy leaned close to his ear and spoke in a loud whisper, "I think you better put a call in to the guys in the white suits. He might start foaming at the mouth any minute now."
Peter looked from one F.Y.I. staffer to the others. "Don't tell me, let me guess. You're all in on this pathetic excuse for a joke." He shook his head. "Guys, after a month, isn't it a little late to be pulling welcome-to-the-show stunts?" When he got no reply, he threw up his hands in disgust and turned away. "You're all pitiful."
Corky went over to him and placed her hand on his arm. "Murphy's right, Peter, you are starting to act pretty weird. It's perfectly understandable if the stress is getting to you."
"Corky, I've lived in active war zones for months at a time. Compared to that... even though this place does resemble a battlefield occasionally... F.Y.I. is a cakewalk." Peter removed her hand and walked away, putting a little distance between himself and the group.
"Yes, we're all aware of your impressive credentials, Peter," Jim's voice rumbled across the room, "but that still doesn't alter the fact that everyone has a breaking point. I guess trying to stay even with Murphy was yours."
Peter could feel his patience draining away. "There's nothing wrong with me! This is all Murphy's doing and she's obviously convinced all of you to go along with her. It's so typical."
"What do you mean by that?" Frank demanded. "Are you saying the rest of us can't think for ourselves?"
"Hey, if the shoe fits... "
"Well, at least I have more imagination than to try to pull a lame stunt like the one you're trying to get away with." Frank smiled smugly.
Peter could feel his blood pressure start to rise. "This has gone on long enough. I have better things to do with my time than to waste it on Murphy's stupid pranks." He turned to the senior reporter. "Why don't you just tell your friend here it's all over, it didn't work, and to go back to wherever it was he came from."
Murphy laughed. "Boy, you just don't give up, do you, Petey? Well, I'd be glad to tell your little friend to go play somewhere else if I could see him."
"This is really getting old, Murphy, and it stopped being funny a long time ago," Peter said, stepping closer to her until they were almost nose to nose. His voice was menacingly quiet. "Now just admit you're defeated and tell this bozo to get out of my way."
Murphy didn't back down. "Peter, there's nobody there for me to tell!" she shouted, waving her arms through the air around her. Her arm came dangerously close to going through Al's head.
"Won't you ever give up?" Peter matched her shout for shout. "He's standing right here. How can you miss a guy wearing an outfit that glows in the dark?"
Miles went over to the international reporter and put an arm across his shoulders, trying to defuse the situation and also because he was truly concerned for the man's obviously fragile mental state. "Peter, we don't see him because there's nobody there. Maybe I have been working you too hard lately. After all, you were injured in Sarajevo not so long ago. You're probably just having a relapse or something."
Peter shook off the gesture. "Fine, I'll just throw the guy out myself."
"Sam," Al warned, "you really don't want to do this."
"Hey, you can really pick 'em, Murphy," Peter chortled as he turned toward the wildly garbed man. "This guy can't even get my name right." He reached for the man's shoulders then watched as his hands passed right through his body. Peter stared at the stranger, feeling his heart suddenly crash into his throat, beating a hundred miles a minute. His face went white and he felt a cold chill run up and down his spine. He took an involuntary step backwards as everything in the room began to take on an eerie, incredibly bright and vivid quality.
"I did try to warn ya, kid." Al glanced at the object he held in his hand, punching a few of the buttons.
Gathering his courage, Peter stepped forward and attempted to grab the man once more. When his arms again failed to garner anything except air, his legs became shaky and he felt as though he could barely breathe. "What... what's going on?"
"Oh, I'd say a pretty good performance but I don't think you'll win the Academy Award," Murphy sneered. "Claude Rains has nothing to worry about."
"It's what I've been trying to tell you, kid," Al explained over Murphy's comment. "Your name is not Peter Hunt; it's Beckett, Dr. Samuel Beckett and you are the creator of a time travel experiment called Project Quantum Leap."
Peter stared at the apparition for a few minutes, a glimmer of recognition slowly growing in his eyes. "Oh, boy," he murmured as he pitched forward in a dead faint.
The F.Y.I. crew immediately sprang into action. Frank ran over to catch his colleague seconds before his head slammed into the corner of a desk. Slowly lowering the reporter to the floor, Frank checked his pulse and made sure he was breathing. "I think he just fainted."
"Somebody call 911!" Miles yelled to the gathering crowd. Corky suddenly appeared with a blanket and pillow from somewhere which were placed over and under Peter.
Jim and Murphy stood over to one side, watching the activity. Murphy's arms were folded across her chest, her face an unreadable mask. "You know, slugger," Jim commented, "I have to correct you on one thing. Claude Rains played the Invisible Man; Peter was just talking to one. If you must use an analogy, I think Jimmy Stewart in 'Harvey' would be a better choice."
"Never mind, Jim." Murphy waved him aside, trying to contain the great concern she was feeling from spilling over into her voice. After what seemed like an eternity, the paramedics arrived and took over the care of Peter Hunt. For herself, Murphy was grateful for their distraction. It saved her from having to deal with the multitude of emotions Peter's illness had caused.
Al observed the proceedings with mixed feelings. While he was worried about Sam's reaction to his appearance... the loss of memory explained quite a bit... he was cautiously encouraged by what he perceived as Sam's returning memory. Only time would tell if he was right, and time was something he had a lot of experience with.
His head felt as though there was someone inside trying to get out, his mouth felt like the Sahara Desert, and his eyes felt like they'd been glued shut. He could vaguely hear voices around him but he couldn't distinguish who was talking or what they were saying. Finally managing to pry his lids open, he tried to raise up to see who was in the room with him and was immediately rewarded with a skull-jarring blast of pain. Moaning, he sank back into the soft cushions beneath him. Within seconds, a cool cloth was being placed on his forehead and he felt whatever he was lying on give way as someone sat down next to him. "How are you feeling?" a woman's voice asked him.
Peter/Sam slowly opened his eyes, wincing when the light stabbed into them, and looked into Corky's worried face. "I don't want to talk about it," he mumbled, looking over her shoulder. He was surprised to see Murphy, Frank, Jim, and Miles hovering nearby. "Where am I?"
"You're in my office. The paramedics checked you out and said they couldn't find anything wrong; but if you faint again, we're to take you straight to a hospital. They put you in here because I've got the only sofa in the newsroom."
Peter/Sam nodded and immediately regretted it. He groaned as the pain in his head increased tenfold with the motion. After a few minutes, he took a deep breath and tried to look around the brightly lit room. He was still feeling groggy, his thoughts a tangled conglomeration, and even the smallest movement made him dizzy. Moaning, he settled back on the couch and closed his eyes. Corky replaced the cloth on his head. "You okay?"
"Uh-huh."
"We've all been really worried about you, even Murphy."
"Murphy?" Peter/Sam's jumbled brain tried to put a face to the name. "Yeah, Murphy. You know, it's been so long since I've seen him, I gotta remember to ask him if he ever got his nose fixed."
Corky frowned thoughtfully. "Oh, I don't think Murphy's had her nose fixed."
"Unless there's something she's not telling us," Frank suggested. The subject of their conversation reached over and punched him... hard... in the same arm she'd hit earlier. "Owwwww," he groaned, holding the injured limb. "What was that for... oh, don't bother, I can guess."
"You're lucky I only hit your arm," Murphy snarled. "Well, I see Sleeping Beauty is finally waking up and Corky didn't even have to kiss him."
"Put a sock in it, Murphy," Corky snapped. When she turned back to her co-worker, her whole demeanor changed. "Peter, are you really all right?" she asked sweetly.
"Mmmmmmm." For some reason, he was finding it increasingly difficult to stay awake.
"Of course he's not all right, Corky," Murphy retorted, "look at him, he's off in la-la land."
"Sam? Sam, I need to talk to you." A different voice, a male voice, intruded into his drowsy state. When the reporter didn't answer, the voice tried again. "Sam, it's time to wake up."
"No, it's not," Peter/Sam murmured.
"Sam, we've got to talk. If I'd known you'd completely lost your memory, I never would have shown up like that." No response. "If you think you can hide by pretending to be asleep, you've got another think coming." Still no response. "Sam, I know you can hear me. You may be fooling them but you can't fool me. I know you too well." Once again, no reaction. Al wished... and not for the first time... he had a bucket of water. "You know, if you really didn't want us to find you, you shouldn't have bumped out Peter Hunt." He was getting impatient with this game. "Sam!" he growled.
"Go 'way; leave me alone." He tried to turn away from his tormentor, but the sofa was too shallow to allow him much movement.
"Who's he talking to?" Corky asked as she stood up and walked over to Frank. He shrugged in answer to her question and shook his head. "Peter, who are you talking to?"
"Don't tell her, Sam. They can't see me and they already think you're acting crazy; better not give them any more ammunition. Just figure out some way to get rid of all of them and then we'll talk." The Project Observer paced around the brightly colored, sunlit office. "I think you've got your memory back now, don't you? Geez, we've got to figure out some way to get them out of here."
"Peter?" Corky removed the damp cloth and felt his face for any signs of fever.
"Yeah?"
"Who are you talking to?"
Sam Beckett opened his eyes and blurrily looked into the young reporter's concerned face. "You, Corky... " His voice sounded tired and worn out. "Who else would I be talking to?"
"Well," she paused, looking around at the others, "I thought you might be talking to your, you know, your friend."
"What friend?"
"You know, your friend from the newsroom?"
Sam rubbed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Do I have any friends in the newsroom?"
Corky sat back, indignant. "Of course you do. You've got me and Frank and Murphy and Jim." The sound of someone clearing their throat made her look over her shoulder. "Oh, and Miles too. We're your friends."
"Then I must have been talking to one of you, right?"
"Well, you weren't when you were in there a little while ago and I thought... I thought, maybe... oh, I don't know. You tell him, Murphy."
"Me? Why me?"
"Because you've been in this situation before, sort of."
"What?!"
"I mean, you used to talk to people... and other things... that weren't there." When Murphy's eyes widened and her expression darkened, Corky blurted, "At least that's what Frank told me."
"FRANK!" Murphy swung around, turning her wrath on the intrepid newsman. "What have you been telling her?"
Frank immediately scooted out of arms' reach. "Nothing... much." Murphy started toward him; he danced out of her way. "I don't remember, Murph; it was a long time ago."
"Well, you'd better start remembering, buster, 'cause I want to know what you told her." Murphy stalked toward him.
"Sam, as entertaining as all this is, we do need to talk," Al interrupted. The quantum physicist ignored him, intent on the unfolding battle. "If I didn't know you better, I'd think you were trying to give me a complex because it sure looks like you're trying to avoid me."
After a few minutes, Sam sighed and pushed himself to a sitting position. He fought the sledgehammer in his head and the queasiness in his stomach as he attempted to get the group's attention. "Hey, guys," he yelled. The skirmish between Frank and Murphy stopped as everyone turned around. "I was wondering if it would be all right if I stayed in here for a little while. I'm still not feeling too well and I think some rest might really help." It was a statement not too far from the truth.
"Oh, Peter," Corky came over to the sofa and perched on the arm, "I'm sorry. I guess we kind of forgot you were over here. Are you feeling bad again? You look a little pale."
Sam forced a small smile. "Yeah, I am. I just need a little peace and quiet for awhile. Do you mind?"
"No... no, not at all. We'll get out of here and let you get some rest. Holler if you need anything." Corky stood up and began to usher everyone out. In a matter of moments, the room was empty save for Sam and Al.
"It's about time," Al commented from his position close to the window. He punched a series of buttons on the computer access link then hit it with the side of his hand when it gave him incomplete information.
"It's good to see you, Al. How've you been? How's Beth?" Sam spoke quietly so he wouldn't attract attention from anyone in the newsroom. The last thing he needed was for Miles or Murphy to wonder who he was talking to again and decide to investigate.
"Beth is terrific, as usual." He hesitated a minute, unsure of how to continue. "I really want to thank you for what you did. I don't know exactly what you did or how you did it, but... thank you."
Sam nodded, smiling. Not helping Al by convincing Beth not to marry Dirk Simon had been the one thing he'd always regretted. He was glad he'd been given the opportunity to make amends.
"As for me," Al continued, "I've been doing okay, no complaints. We've been really worried about you, though."
"So you said earlier."
Al consulted the handlink. "I guess you're probably wondering how we knew where to find you."
"I'll admit that thought had crossed my mind, although I seem to remember something about Peter in the Waiting Room?"
"Yeah, we would never have found you except Peter Hunt showed up and Ziggy was able to get a fix on you."
A frown creased Sam's forehead. "Ziggy? Ziggy is... "
"...the hybrid computer you built to run the project. You know, the one with the ego the size of Texas?" Sam nodded. "Your brain is swiss-cheesed again. Don't worry about it; happens every time you leap into somebody. Anyway, the minute Hunt showed up and we knew where you were, Ziggy began running scenarios and we were able to figure out why you were here but we still don't know what made you decide to leap into Hunt instead of just dropping into the action."
Sam massaged his brow. A few things were becoming clearer, especially recent events. "He was going to be killed when a bomb went off in the building he was working out of in Sarajevo and since I didn't get there in time for me to affect the outcome as myself, I bumped him out instead. It was my intention to get clear as soon as I leaped in but there was a little girl in an upstairs room I had to get out first." He shrugged. "I guess I just didn't time everything right. The bomb exploded before I could get far enough away and I was knocked out. When I came to, I couldn't remember who I was or what I was doing there. The little girl was hurt pretty bad so I carried her to the nearest hospital. There was a group of reporters who recognized me and told the doctors who I was. Since I had nothing else to go on, I just took their word on everything."
Al nodded, reading the data he had pulled up on the handlink. So far, everything Sam had said coincided with what they knew of Hunt's background from Ziggy's data banks. "So how'd you end up back here?"
Sam tried standing up only to fall backwards onto Corky's sofa when his vision filled with a kaleidoscope of swirling colors, a result of getting up too fast. After a few minutes, he made the attempt again and this time managed to stay on his feet, holding onto the arm rest for a little while for balance. He walked over and stared out the office windows at the streets below.
"After they let me out of the hospital and since I didn't remember anything else, I tried to go back to Peter Hunt's life in Sarajevo but I couldn't. Maybe it was seeing what had happened to that little girl and carrying her to the hospital, praying every step of the way she wouldn't die before I got there..." He paused and shook his head. "I don't know. The only thing I was sure of was I couldn't stand by anymore and watch the suffering and anguish and death and not be able to do anything, so I asked for a transfer back to New York."
Al sighed. He was somewhat familiar with the sentiment having felt it his entire tour in Vietnam. He wished he could help his friend with something other than words but being a hologram, it was all he had. "Maybe it wouldn't have been so bad if you hadn't lost your memory or if I'd been around like the old days. At least that way I could've told you how it was all going to turn out and that might've helped, you know?"
"Al, I think it would have been too much even if I had remembered who I was." He turned and looked at the project observer and Al saw the pain reflected in his eyes. "It was like the time I was in Vietnam with Tom. There was so much pain and destruction all over the place and no matter what I did, it would never be enough."
His voice trailed off as he looked back out onto the street. It was one of the few times Al would have given anything to be able to just clasp the younger man's shoulder in comfort. Finally, Sam took a deep breath and shook off the memories. He looked back at his closest friend, an ironic smile playing across his lips. "So I traded one war zone for another. If I'd known what I was getting into here, I might have stayed in Bosnia."
Al chuckled. "Yeah, I've seen a bit of what you've had to deal with. I guess it's been pretty tough, huh?"
"No, not really. The people are, for the most part, great to work with and the assignments have been interesting." Sam grinned. "I will have to admit, though, there are times when I'm not sure if I would qualify as the keeper or one of the inmates." He stopped, his brow furrowed in concentration. "Where have I heard that before?"
"Your cousin Andy used to say it all the time when he talked about that radio station he worked at in Cincinnati."
Sam nodded. "WKRP. Yeah, I remember now."
"I agree, the analogy fits." Al pulled a cigar from his pocket and lit it. "The situations are similar although I don't think there was anyone there as obnoxious and unpleasant as Murphy Brown."
"If I remember Andy's descriptions right, Herb Tarlek would run her a close second. Besides, Murphy's okay," Sam replied. "It's a tough business; she's had to be tough herself in order to succeed. If that makes her come off as being abrasive then..." He shrugged.
One of Al's eyebrows crawled up his forehead. "Sounds like you've formed your own fan club."
Sam shook his head. "No, you've got it all wrong. Since I've been here, I've had a chance to watch her. She's worked hard for what she has and I respect that."
"Well, all I can see is a smart mouth and an ego the size of Ziggy's."
Sam sighed, walking away from the window. "You're just looking on the surface. She's not like that at all."
Al's other eyebrow joined its twin at the top of his forehead. Why hadn't he seen it before? "You're stuck on her! That's why you're still here, isn't it? That's the reason your mind or subconscious or whatever hasn't bounced you out of here yet."
"What?" Sam stared at him. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."
"I'm not so sure, Sam. Think about it. In the past, as soon as you'd saved Hunt's life and gotten him back to New York, you would've leaped somewhere else, whether you'd lost your memory or not, right?"
"I guess so."
"Well, you're still here. Peter Hunt is safe so why haven't you leaped?"
"You're saying I stayed around because of Murphy?"
The admiral shrugged. "Could be. Ziggy doesn't have anything else in the data banks about Hunt. In our time, he's still reporting the international news for F.Y.I. and while he's been in some tense situations, he hasn't been in any real danger again. The same goes for the rest of the on-air staff." Al entered some data on the handlink then shook his head. "I can't come up with another reason."
Sam paced around Corky's office. Could it be true? Was he staying around just because he found Murphy... attractive? He involuntarily shuddered at the thought. The woman was obnoxious, arrogant, abrasive, conceited... everything Al said she was... even if he did respect her knowledge of the business. He shuddered again. "No, I don't believe it. There's got to be something else."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. What does Ziggy say?"
Al sighed and worked the handlink. "Nada, zippo, bupkiss." He held the computer access so the quantum physicist could see the readout. Sam shook his head and continued pacing. "You know, Sam, you never have asked what I was doing here."
Sam blinked. "I guess I never thought about any reason other than the obvious one." After a few minutes, he stopped and faced the older man. "So are you going to tell me or do I have to guess?"
Al took a deep breath. "You've been leaping a long time, Sam. During that time, we've managed to get all the bugs out of the retrieval program and it's been tested successfully." He studied the creator of Project Quantum Leap intently. "You're exhausted, mentally and physically; I can see it in your face. It's time you came home."
Sam stepped away from the observer, his eyes widening in surprise. "I can't leave now, Al. I still have a lot to do."
"Like what?"
"Al, there are people out there I can help." Sam stared at Al as though willing him to understand. "How can I go home and live with the knowledge I could've done something and didn't?"
"Sam, this has got to stop. You can't keep doing this forever. There will always be one more person in need, one more life you could change. Don't you see? You can't help everybody!"
Sam stalked around the office, his mannerisms becoming increasingly agitated as he talked. "You just don't understand, do you? I'm needed. Whatever it is out there that started me leaping wants me to keep going. But it's different than it was the first time." He turned to the older man, the intensity of his feelings evident on his face. "I control the leaps, no one else. Me. I decide where to go, who to help. And there are so many people out there who need my help. I can't abandon them."
"Sam, there is no way you can help everyone who might need it. You just can't. Accept you're just one man and there's only so much one man can do."
"You're missing the point." Sam turned away, walking back to stare out the window again.
"Then explain it to me." No reply. Al sighed. This was going nowhere fast. "Sam, I know you feel an obligation, but you're setting an impossible goal for yourself. You are not the savior of the world!" He didn't get a reaction and truthfully, he didn't really expect one. "Sam, you're tired. You've been leaping for five years without a rest. It's time to stop. I'm asking you one more time to let us bring you home."
The physicist shook his head, continuing to stare out the window. "You still don't get it. I control it; I control everything. I don't need the accelerator to get home. I can go wherever I want whenever I want." He glanced back at his partner. "It's me, it's always been me. I just needed someone to explain it to me before I understood."
"And now you do." The admiral's voice betrayed the irritation he was trying hard to control.
"That's right and when I decide the time is right to go home, I'll go." Sam, looked away, watching the movement of the people and vehicles below.
Al's frustration level was threatening to overload. There was only one option left to convince Sam, although it was a little more drastic than he'd hoped he have to use. "I guess then there's nothing more I can say to persuade you."
The creator of Project Quantum Leap shrugged. "Not now; maybe some other time. At the moment there are people here who need me... maybe even Murphy Brown. I can't leave knowing that."
Al sighed; that was something he understood very well. He punched in the code on the handlink to open the Imaging Chamber door. "If you're determined to stay, I'll get Ziggy to run some scenarios and we'll see if we can't help while you're here. I'll be back soon as I've got something." The physicist nodded. Al stepped through into the Project control room, closing the door behind him. Sam took a deep breath. He was alone once again.
As soon as he walked inside the apartment F.Y.I. had rented for Peter Hunt upon his return from Sarajevo, Sam Beckett shut the door and leaned back against it. He felt drained, more exhausted than he could ever remember feeling. The events of the day had definitely taken their toll on him, both mentally and physically.
After he'd come out of the office, Miles, Murphy, and Corky had rushed to his side, asking how he was feeling, if he was really okay. Everything had threatened to overwhelm him so much he'd seriously considered retreating back into Corky's overly bright and cheerful office to hide under her desk. Eventually though, he'd been able to convince them the only thing he wanted to do was to salvage what he could of the day. However, after a few hours of trying to concentrate on the latest story he was working on for that week's show, Sam gave up and decided to go home to his/Peter's apartment.
Sam pushed himself away from the front door and went into the sparsely furnished living room. Falling onto the sofa, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Immediately, his mind was filled with a thousand swirling images and faces, some of whom he could recognize, many others he could not. He tried to force everything from his mind so he could relax but it was a futile effort. Al's appearance in the newsroom had started a million questions tumbling through his mind and he was beginning to wonder if he was really going to get any rest at all. After fifteen minutes of trying, Sam gave up the fight, stood, and went into the kitchen. If nothing else, he might as well get something to eat. Maybe the activity would make his thoughts settle down.
Unfortunately, he wasn't going to be that lucky. Too many things had happened in the past few hours for him to get any real peace. Even familiar things took on a different hue in the light of his newly recovered memories. It was odd how foreign Peter Hunt's apartment now appeared to him even though Peter had never actually lived there and whatever was in it reflected Sam Beckett's taste. He felt like a stranger in a place he'd called home only 24 hours earlier. He disliked the feeling immensely but it did start him thinking about what Al had said. Now that he knew who he was and what he was doing there, why was he hanging around? Was he here to help Murphy... like he really thought anyone could sort out Murphy Brown's life. Would she ever find a secretary she liked and could keep? Would she ever find someone to love? Someone she wouldn't drive screaming from her life in a straitjacket? He shook his head. True, her life was so screwed up she could definitely use the help but where would he begin?
Picking up his soft drink and the sandwich he'd just made, Sam walked over to the dining room table and sat down. The conversation with Al nagged at him until he could think of nothing else. It had always bothered him he couldn't recall everything about the Project and his past when he leaped into someone. Some things he could remember with crystal clarity while others remained murky and half-formed. He massaged his eyes with one hand. There were times when it was a blessing not to remember what he was forgetting and even if he did remember, how could he be sure what he was remembering was what really happened. He shook his head. Even thinking of that made his head hurt. How would he ever know if he had changed something when he leaped? What if everything he did remember was wrong now? He picked up his sandwich and took a bite, suddenly troubled by too many questions and too few answers.
The scientist was so lost in thought, he failed to hear the unmistakable sound of the vacuum sealed Imaging Chamber door opening. "How're you doing, kid?" Al asked after the door had slid shut behind him.
Sam jumped at the sound of his voice, nearly dropping the soda bottle he was drinking from. He did a double take as he noted the outfit the Project observer wore this time was even more outrageous than the last. He shook the image from his mind.
"Not too bad, considering."
"Yeah, it has been one hell of a day."
Sam took another bite of his sandwich. "So did you just come to find out how I was or did you have something else in mind?"
Al looked around the room. "I'll admit I was a little worried about you. Finding out you're not who you thought you were was bound to be quite a shock. Plus, I wanted to know if you've given any more thought to what we were talking about earlier."
"About going home?" Al nodded. Sam took a long drink of the soda then set the empty bottle on the table. He leaned back in his chair, studying the admiral. "Truthfully, not really. I've spent so much time trying to deal with everything else that's come up since I first saw you this morning, I haven't had time to think much about it."
"Then you haven't made any decisions yet, right?" Sam shook his head. "Good, that gives me another opportunity to persuade you."
"Al, while I think you may be right about staying here, I still don't see what good it would do for me to go home." He picked up the now-empty plate and soft drink bottle and moved to the kitchen, Al trailing behind him. "I can't stop thinking about all the people I'll never have the chance to help, lives I could've made better and didn't if I stop now." He set both items in the sink then turned to his friend. "I don't know who or what got me started helping correct things that once went wrong, but it's what I'm supposed to do." Al had never heard Sam so passionate. "It's why I'm here in the first place, what I was born to do." He searched the older man's face. "Can you understand that?"
Al sighed. It wasn't exactly a new idea; he'd thought about that very thing many times during the previous five years. "Maybe you're right, Sam, maybe this is what you were always meant to do." He paused. "Look, I'm not asking you to give up leaping completely. I just think it would do you a lot of good to come home for awhile and let your body and mind rest. Think of it as being sort of like a vacation."
"I don't know, Al." Sam turned off the kitchen light and walked back into the living room. "I'm not so sure that would be a very good idea."
"Why not? What's wrong with it? You said yourself you don't need the Accelerator to leap anymore. You could leave whenever you wanted."
"It just wouldn't work." Sam walked over to the front window and pulled open the drapes. Unfortunately, the apartment building next door blocked any view of the city he might have had. He stared into the few open windows he could see then, feeling a little bit like Jimmy Stewart in "Rear Window," closed the curtains and paced around the room.
Al watched his friend. Here we go again, he thought, trying to figure out what was making the physicist so reluctant to go home. "What's the deal? Why are you putting up such a fight? What is it about coming back that has you so spooked?"
Sam sighed and turned to face him. "Al, we've been all through this. I've told you my reasons for not going back. Why can't you just accept them?"
"Because they don't make any sense!" Sam's eyebrows climbed his forehead. "No, that's not true. I do understand why you want to stay," Al started to walk around the room, " but I don't have to agree with the reasons."
"Just because you don't agree doesn't make them any less valid!" Sam's voice rose in pitch.
The two men paced around each other, each contemplating what the other had said. Al thought back over everything Sam had been saying and suddenly it all became clear. He looked back at his friend, amazed it hadn't occurred to him before now. "You're afraid no one will need you if you go back. That's it, isn't it? All these years, you've been helping people who don't know you and never will and somewhere along the way, you discovered you liked it. You like being the Lone Ranger or Zorro or whatever."
Sam whirled around to stare at the admiral. "Are you kidding? That's the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard."
"No. No, it makes sense. The idea that no one will need you if you go home is scaring you to death." Al puffed on his ever-present cigar as he entered data on the handlink. "Yep, Ziggy says there's a 97.3% chance I'm right."
"Well, I say you're both wrong." Sam stalked away from the older man.
Watching as the physicist paced through the small apartment, Al was reminded of a caged animal. No doubt Sam was feeling trapped by his own feelings and Al's perception of the truth. He would have to handle this very carefully. If Sam began to feel cornered, he could always leap, then they risked losing him forever.
It was also becoming increasingly apparent no amount of persuasion was going to change Sam's mind. Maybe it was time to try another tactic. If he wouldn't listen to Al, perhaps someone else could change his mind. "Since it's clear I'm just wasting my time talking to you, maybe you'll listen to somebody else."
Sam stopped pacing, coming to stand two feet in front of the older man. "What are you talking about? You're the only one I can talk to, remember?"
Al smiled. "Not necessarily." He punched a button on the computer access link. "Gushie, send in Plan B."
"Plan B? Al, isn't this just a little melodramatic?" The observer didn't answer, just continued smiling. Sam frowned, his arms folded across his chest. Now what? he wondered.
He didn't have long to wait for his answer as the Imaging Chamber door opened and a young woman with long dark brown hair walked through. "Hi, Dr. Beckett," she said, coming over to stand next to the admiral.
Sam's eyes grew wide as he felt his heart start to beat wildly and his breath catch in his throat when he realized he was seeing... and hearing... her even though she was not in physical contact with Al. He couldn't remember why, but he knew this shouldn't be happening. There was also something extremely familiar about the woman that kept nagging at him from the deepest corner of his mind. He knew he knew her but he was having trouble putting a name to the face. Then it came to him. "Abigail?" he whispered.
The young woman smiled. "Abigail is my mother's name," she said, the Cajun accent obvious in her voice. "I'm Sammy Jo."
Sammy Jo? A sharp gasp was all that betrayed Sam's reeling emotions. Of course. He should have known who she was the minute she walked into the room. How could he have forgotten the leap that had turned into a three-part odyssey to save Abigail Fuller's life? The memories came flooding back with the force of a hurricane. He remembered leaping into the 10-year-old Abigail's father when Leta Aider had accused the youngster of murdering both her daughter Violet and husband Bart. Then he had leaped into Will Kinman on the eve of his and Abigail's wedding and finally into the lawyer defending Abigail when she had been accused of murdering Leta herself. On that leap, Sam had been surprised to discover Abigail had had a daughter during the years between his appearance as Will and the lawyer; he had been equally astonished when Al had told him he was the child's father.
Now he understood why he was able to see and hear Sammy Jo as well as he did Al. The neurons and mesons of her brain were probably so close to his, Ziggy had been able to blend them in with his and Al's. He'd completely forgotten Al had told him she was working on the Project; however, that didn't explain what she was doing here now. He tried to be inconspicuous as he studied her face. "It's nice to meet you."
"Oh, we've met before, Dr. Beckett. Don't you remember?"
Sam felt a cold chill come over him. Calm, he told himself, keep very calm. "Probably when I first hired you, right?"
"Actually, Admiral Calavicci is the one who hired me. No, I was talking about a long time ago."
"I'm afraid I don't... " Sam glanced over at Al. He needed to know they were still the only ones who knew Sam was the young woman's father, but the expression on Al's face was unreadable and the scientist found no reassurance there.
Sammy Jo smiled. "That's okay, Dr. Beckett, I know how you have a tendency to lose part of your memory when you leap." She walked toward him. "I met you when you leaped into the lawyer who defended my mother against that murder charge. I was 11 years old at the time."
A sheen of perspiration broke out on Sam's upper lip. "I remember." His heart pounding in his chest, he was determined not to let her see his apprehension. "How is your mother?"
The young woman stopped a few feet away. "She's doing well. I miss seeing her sometimes but the Project keeps me pretty busy."
Sam nodded then strolled across the room, trying to put some distance between himself and the young scientist. He had to get his emotions under control. There were still too many questions he was afraid to ask that had answers he needed to know. "How did you know I was the one who defended your mother? As far as everyone else was concerned, I was Larry Stanton."
Sammy Jo followed him across the room, stopping just a few feet away. "Oh, I know." She looked at him from beneath long dark lashes. "That's what I always thought until I started helping the Admiral search for you by reading about your past leaps in Ziggy's memory banks."
Sam felt his heart slam into his throat, almost choking him. He looked back at the Project observer to see what his reaction was and noticed a slight touch of fear showing in his face as well. "Al... " He coughed nervously, clearing the lump in his throat. "Al, I thought you said no one knew where I was until Peter Hunt appeared in the Waiting Room."
"No one did." Al puffed on his cigar, a cloud of smoke surrounding him. It wasn't the first time Sam was grateful his friend's smelly cigars were holograms as well.
"That's right," Sammy Jo agreed, "but I thought knowing about where you'd been before might help us figure out where you were now. They were fascinating reading."
Sam swallowed. "I'm not so sure about that," he said nervously. "I guess it was all pretty cut and dried; you probably didn't have to ask Al about anything much."
"I did once or twice. Most of the time, though, it was all pretty clear." Sammy Jo stepped a little closer to the physicist. "Whenever I did come across something I didn't quite understand, Admiral Calavicci would explain it to me."
Sam gave the observer a sharp look. Al, busily entering data on the access link, ignored his partner. Finally, the admiral looked up. "What?"
"What did you explain to her, Al?"
The observer shrugged. "I don't know; different things I guess. Why?" Sam tilted his head to one side and, eyebrows raised, stared a hole through the older man. After three or four long minutes, a glimmer of understanding sparked in Al's eyes. "Oh," he said quietly.
"Yeah," Sam agreed.
"I don't think so, Sam." Al thought for a moment. "No, I'm sure I never said anything about that." Sam nodded and breathed a sigh of relief but the relief was short-lived.
Sammy Jo was getting tired of the two men talking over her head. "Dr. Beckett, Admiral Calavicci, I think I should clear up a few things before we go any further. I did come across a couple of things in my research I didn't ask you about, Admiral; a couple of things I investigated on my own." She glanced at both of them before continuing. "You can imagine how surprised I was when I found my mother's and grandmother's names in Ziggy's memory banks. So I kept checking and some of the things I'd often wondered about my childhood started to add up." She paused, taking a deep breath. "I learned my mother wouldn't even be alive if it weren't for you, Dr. Beckett and consequently, neither would I. But helping my mother wasn't your only connection to me and my family, was it?" She searched Sam's face for any reaction. "I know you're my father, Dr. Beckett."
All of the color drained from Sam's face and an icy chill skittered up and down his spine. His heart felt as though it was going to burst out of his chest as he turned and looked for the nearest spot to sit down. "I'm sorry," his voice was soft as he sank down onto the sofa. "I never meant for you to find out, at least not that way." He looked up and met her direct gaze. "I loved your mother very much. I want you to know that." He looked over at his friend and lifeline to his own time and saw a myriad of emotions flashing across the older man's face.
"I do, I could tell that from the reports Admiral Calavicci filed," Sammy Jo replied. "My only regret is she never got to meet you as you." She smiled at the quantum physicist, bending down until she was eye level with him. "I guess that's really why I wanted to come here. I wanted the chance to see my father and talk to him but most of all I wanted to ask him to please come home so I can have the chance to know him better."
Sam looked over at Al, a sardonic smile playing across his lips. "It seems we both underestimated Sammy Jo, Al." The observer cocked his head, puffing on the cigar. A thought suddenly occurred to him. He looked sideways at his friend. "You suspected she knew all along, didn't you? That's why you arranged this meeting." The observer's eyes widened in a "who-me?-I'm-innocent" gesture and Sam heaved a long suffering sigh. "You really know how to fight dirty, don't you?"
Al shrugged. "Like I said, Sam, it's time you came home. I was willing to do anything to convince you of that."
Sam leaned back into the sofa, assuming his best executive tone of voice. "Admiral, I can see we're going to have to have a discussion about your very questionable methods at the earliest opportunity." The scientist breathed deeply and noticed that his heart rate, which had probably topped out at over 200 beats per minute, had slowed considerably.
Sammy Jo grinned. "Does that mean you're coming back?"
Al looked over at Sam for confirmation and the scientist nodded. "I think I'd like the chance to get to know my daughter before I get too old to appreciate having one."
Sammy Jo laughed and tried to hug her father, disappointed when her arms passed right through him. "Don't worry, honey," Al told her, "seems like you're gonna have plenty of time to squeeze on him when he gets back." The young woman grinned and for the first time, Al saw the resemblance between father and daughter.
He was glad the two of them were going to have the chance to become acquainted. Somehow it seemed appropriate... this is the way it should end. Throughout all the leaps Sam had made, throughout all the changes he'd been responsible for, his daughter was the one thing that never changed. From the minute Sam had leaped into her mother's life and saved her from being convicted of murder, Sammy Jo had been there. Events would change, people would come and go -- even Donna Elesee had been married to Sam for a few leaps then she too had disappeared, the victim of some quirk of fate -- but Sammy Jo remained.
Sam stood up, stretching the knots out of his shoulders, and felt the absence of a weight he hadn't realized he'd been carrying. It was a great feeling. He grinned at his companions. "Might as well get going. There's no time like the present and to tell the truth, I'm starting to get anxious to get home. Al, has Peter Hunt been briefed?" The older man nodded and Sam took a deep breath. It had been so long since he'd actually leaped into anyone he hoped he remembered how to reverse it. Only one way to find out and that was to try. "See you both back at the Accelerator," he said as the blue lightning began to envelope him.
In a matter of moments, Sam Beckett was standing in a large white room far below the New Mexico desert and Peter Hunt was in an unfamiliar apartment wondering what had just happened to him. Sam opened the door to the Waiting Room and was immediately enveloped in a series of rib-shattering hugs. Laughing, he returned each of the hugs enthusiastically, glad to be with these people again, glad to be home.
Walking down the corridor leading to the Project offices, Sam took advantage of the first chance he'd had to talk to Al since he'd returned. "Al, have you heard anything from my family recently?"
"Not really. Why?"
"Oh, I was just wondering if they were planning a family reunion anytime soon. Suddenly, I've got a real desire to see Andy, Lee, Murphy, Skip... " his voice trailed off. Sam glanced at his friend and shrugged. "It's been such a long time since I've seen any of them; they may not even remember who I am. Still, I'd like to go to a reunion for a change, have a chance to catch up with everyone. I might even take Sammy Jo. It'd be a great way for her to get to know her father's side of the family."
Al blinked and shook his head. "If nothing else, it'll give 'em something to talk about." Sam rolled his eyes and laughed, slapping an arm around the older man's shoulders. Yeah, it was great to be home again.
Peter Hunt wandered into the newsroom and offices of F.Y.I. the next morning, a confused expression on his face. "Hey, Petey," a brash female voice shouted across the room, "seen any little invisible men lately?"
Peter turned to find the source of the question. He immediately recognized Murphy Brown, then the rest of the F.Y.I. personalities. There was something almost familiar about this room and these people but he couldn't place what it was. Maybe it would come to him later if he just played along. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he said, striding over to the group. "I don't see invisible men. That's why they're invisible, isn't it?"
"Well you certainly saw enough of them yesterday," Murphy retorted. "I guess you couldn't handle the stress after all, hmmmm?"
"Stress? What stress?"
"Of trying to keep up with me," she smirked, taking a bite out of a jelly doughnut.
The sight of the confection caused his stomach to rumble, reminding him he hadn't eaten anything since he couldn't remember when. He looked over at the counter and spied an open doughnut box. Walking over, he looked inside and saw only plain glazed doughnuts. "Aren't there any more jellies?"
"Nope, just this one." Murphy stuffed the last of the pastry into her mouth. "Haven't you figured it out yet, Petey? First in news, first at jelly doughnuts."
Peter frowned. "And last in manners."
"No one ever got to the top by being polite." Murphy reached for her coffee cup and leaned back in her chair.
"If awards were given for being loud and obnoxious, Murphy, you'd win every single one."
Miles came out of the elevator just in time to hear the last of their conversation. He heaved a long-suffering sigh as he approached his staff. Just another typical day at F.Y.I., he thought, and he wouldn't have it any other way.