Sam's last leap had been hectic, to say the least. After stretching his muscles to fight off crazy ex-boyfriends, win a drag race, and rescue a damsel in distress, he was exhausted and ready for some well-deserved R&R. Of course, leaps didn't work that way. With his luck, his next trip would land him in a wrestling ring during the title match or a postman's uniform being chased by Sparky, the rabid neighborhood dog. Just once, he'd like to land somewhere peaceful and non-life-threatening.
Maybe good thoughts would help sway the leap. As Al waved goodbye and the blue light overtook him, he imagined it was from soft waves, rhythmically foaming up and down the beach over sand-squished toes. Eyes closed, comforting heat enveloping him securely. A slow inhale, the salty scent of the ocean.
Then, he realized, he was already on the next leap.
The feel of sheets told him he'd been asleep in bed. He felt...relaxed. Unpressured. No fire alarms, no one rushing him awake because their significant other was coming home...he could sleep in to his heart's desire. Was this possible? For the first time in a long time, he felt content leaping in. With a pleased sigh, he at last opened his eyes to see his new home.
It was difficult to ascertain his surroundings in the dark, but he could make out a woman seated across from him. A head of dyed red hair was slumped over as she snoozed under a blanket. Not long after Sam spotted her, she began to stir. Bleary eyes groggily fell on him.
Giving an awkward but polite smile, Sam threw her a little wave. "Morning."
And that was the end of his tranquil leap-in. The woman screamed in shock and nearly fell out of her seat. Scrambling upright, her eyes nearly bulged out of her head. "Eric?" she gasped disbelievingly.
"Uhhh...yes?"
Then the woman's entire weight fell onto him in an emotional heap as she hugged him so tight he could hardly breathe. "Thank you Jesus!" she wailed, "Oh thank you! Thank you!" Loosening her grip and allowing him to breathe better, she began to sob onto his shoulder. Not sure where to put his hands, Sam sat there with his arms uneasily hovering over her. "Eric, I never gave up on you! Never!"
That's when Sam recognized his surroundings as a hospital room. "Oh boy," he gulped. He had a really bad feeling about this one.
-
"Do you know where you are, Eric?" The doctor shone a light in Sam's eye. He gathered her name was Karen Whittaker, since that's what her name tag read.
Glancing around obviously, he lifted his hands and joked, "Looks like a hospital."
Dr. Whittaker and the woman behind her chuckled. The doctor put her light away. "Do you recognize who this is?" She motioned toward the woman, who smiled hopefully.
Sam swallowed. "My...wife?" he guessed, trying to sound more certain than he was.
Her grin faltered, but didn't disappear. "What's my name, sweetie?"
Stuck now, Sam merely lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. His wife frowned sadly.
Dr. Whittaker continued impassively. "Do you remember your accident, Eric?"
Again, Sam could only shrug.
Where was Al? He knew he wasn't usually this early on leaps, but he could definitely use his help on this one. He hoped Eric's memory lapses weren't too damaging to the leap, but he had nothing to go on. He had no bandages or casts to indicate to him where or how he was injured, so it must not have been anything too traumatic. Dr. Whittaker's examination told him it at least involved a head injury, so perhaps Eric had suffered a concussion. In which case, memory lapses would be perfectly normal.
More questions, some of which he could answer, depending on if they directly involved Eric or not. He gleaned some information from it, learning his wife's name was Marjorie, and their last name was Horn. Then tests which involved writing and drawing and coordination. What exactly happened to this guy to warrant such extensive examination, Sam wondered? At last, the doctor leaned back in her seat and scrutinized him closely.
"Hm." She wrinkled her brow, chewed on her pencil. "Hm hm hm..."
"Hm," Sam responded half-questioningly, hoping this would be over with soon.
"If I can be frank, Mr. Horn...you shouldn't be like this. I'm completely stunned."
"Like what?"
She sighed and gestured toward him in confusion. "Moving around, having conversation...I've never seen such a remarkable recovery in all my years in medicine. You have no muscle atrophy, no significant brain damage... I can't even begin to explain it. It's as if you've become a new person."
Muscle atrophy? Significant brain damage? Now Sam was getting concerned, because this was way more than just a concussion. "What happened to me?" he finally asked.
"He was in a coma, Sam." The answer came from the corner, where a solemn Al stood out in plum purple. "Eric Horn has been in that bed for seven years."
Unable to respond to Al even if he wanted to, Sam could only gape in stunned silence. Had this ever happened before? Could it happen? He'd never encountered anything remotely close.
"Never mind that now," Marjorie said before Dr. Whittaker could respond, taking Sam by the hand, "We'll talk about it when you're feeling better. I can't wait to tell Christina and Ellie that Daddy's coming home!"
"Mrs. Horn, I'd like to speak with you outside," the doctor said gently. Marjorie nodded, promised Sam she'd be back soon, and they left.
Lightning fast, Sam's head whipped toward his holographic companion. "I'm in a coma?" he gasped in astonishment.
"Not you, Sam," Al corrected him as he slid over, "Eric. And I didn't say he is in a coma, I said he was in a coma. Because as of three days ago your time, he was officially declared brain dead."
"What?"
"Believe me, I know," Al answered, bringing the handlink up to his face. The blinking lights danced over his features. "In 1982, Eric Horn was working a construction job when he fell off of the scaffolding and cracked his noggin open. That, uh, was seven years ago." At that last part, Al got an odd look on his face. Sam was too preoccupied to notice, and he didn't elaborate. "Anyway, that's how he went into the coma. And now that he's been declared brain dead, it's only a matter of time before...y'know." He shrugged a single shoulder uncomfortably.
"But that's impossible. How can I leap into someone who's brain dead?"
"You got me on that one, but evidently it is possible."
"No, that can't be right," argued Sam, shaking his head, "He must have some chance of waking up. I mean...I don't even have a ventilator."
"Well, see, that's why they've been hanging on," Al explained, gesticulating over his head, "Eric's cerebrum died, but his brain stem is still kicking. So he can breathe and whatnot, but," his hand wobbled, "nobody's up there. It's another week before everything shuts down and then...kaput."
Sam got a thoughtful look on his face. He wasn't willing to accept that outcome. "Maybe I'm here to change that."
Al could sense where this was going, and it was nowhere but heartache. Already he could see the heroic, logic-defying ideas forming in his friend's mind, and he shook them away with an emphatic finger. "Nu-uh, Sam, no."
"Yes."
"No."
"Yes."
"Sam."
"Why not?" Sam questioned sensibly, "We've made advances in the medical field that they didn't have in 1989. Maybe we know something they don't."
Absolutely certain, Al took a step toward him while shaking his head. "He's certified, 100% dead, pal. Science might have made a lot of advances, but we still can't cure that." With that, he swiped his hands across each other in finality. "Trust me, he's never waking up."
Sam seemed to shrink as all of the information sunk in. Brows furrowed sadly, he looked toward the door where Eric's wife was still speaking to the doctor. "Then that means, before I leaped in...he never regained consciousness at all."
Sharing the same thought, Al nodded glumly. "Yeah. It's all very sad."
"He has two daughters."
"I know."
"But that's not fair, Al!" Sam said heatedly, "I can't just give him back to them and then take him away again. Not even God, Time, Fate-Whatever's been leaping me around is that cruel. Why would I leap into him if I'm not supposed to help him?"
Al thought on it for a moment. Hands in his pockets, he bounced once on his heels and shrugged. "Look at it this way. Before you came, they were never gonna see him again."
At this, Sam fell silent. Maybe this was true...but it still didn't seem right. They weren't really seeing Eric again, they were seeing Sam in an Eric disguise. He contemplated the door once more.
Al's shoulder slid up again. "I don't know, maybe you were able to leap in since Eric's body is still technically up and running. But back at the Project...I mean, he's already starting to go." He shuddered, then shot a grim Sam a sympathetic look. "There's nothing you could've done at this point."
Then why did Sam feel like he was letting him down?
"Al?"
"Hm."
"What happens if his body dies before I leap?"
That was a good question. This leap was full of those.
-
Clunk-shoooooooom.
As the Imaging Chamber closed at a snail's pace, Al glanced back with a questioning eyebrow. The blue orb above shimmered as he placed the handlink on its charger. Jamming his thumb behind him at their pain-in-the-ass supercomputer, he addressed Gooshie at the console. "What's her problem?"
It was Donna who answered, seated nearby with her chin in hands as she memorized the scuffs on the floor. "She's depressed."
Of course she was. Gooshie shrugged and Al made his way over to Donna. "Well she needs to get over it. We don't need another one of her fits on top of everything else."
The haggard scientist looked up through fallen strands of hair to find Al looking away thoughtfully, fists deep in his pockets as usual. Brushing her face clear and straightening up, she leaned back in her chair with a sigh. "The timing is a little strange."
"A little strange? It's spooky." Unsettled, Al rolled his shoulders back and stretched his neck. "I mean, what're the chances of Sam leaping into someone who's been in a coma for seven years, on the seventh anniversary of his first leap? It gives me the willies."
Rolling her eyes, Donna made an annoyed noise and got to her feet. "Al, don't act like this is some sort of ominous portent. It doesn't mean anything. It's just...sad, is all. It reminds us of how much time we've lost."
"I don't know, Donna. I don't like it." Al knitted his brows and stewed on his doom-and-gloom thoughts.
Donna's viewpoint was much more simplistic. This was mere coincidence, but a parallel she couldn't deny. More than usual, Sam was on her mind. Running her hand across a panel, she gazed at the ring on her finger wistfully. "Seven years. He's been gone for seven years."
"I know."
"I miss him, Al."
"Yeah. Me too."
Save for Ziggy's humming and Gooshie's button-pressing, the two of them sat in dejected silence after that. Seven years since Sam had completely rearranged their world. Then again, if one were to get technical, Sam had changed their lives long before that. Al knew that for sure. For him, it began in 1984.
-
Captain Albert Calavicci was having a very bad day. This hangover he was dealing with was an old but painful kind of hell, his back was aching from sleeping on a crummy motel bed, and his hair was doing that thing he hated. Y'know, that one thing. And now he was holed up in his shared office at Starbright, feet propped on his desk, trying to keep the glowing blue star on Captain Brown's chest away from his sore eyes, and thoroughly looking over resumes. One puzzling candidate in particular kept calling to him. A candidate who was equally impressive and enigmatic, which automatically made him suspicious. That earned the resume a long-term place in the set aside pile. Problem was, nobody else seemed up to snuff. Once again, his eyes flicked over to the folder on the corner of the desk. Oh, hell. Finally, he leaned over and picked it up with a groan. Jeez, that motel was the pits. He was looking forward to when Ruthie let him back home this time. He studied the black and white photo that was paper-clipped on top, a half-grinning 30-year-old who already had crow's feet and a streak of gray hair, and yet somehow still exuded a sense of youthful optimism. Before he'd read a word he already knew his name. Sam Beckett. He'd seen him occasionally on the news and in the paper. Being a child prodigy tended to get you noticed. "Hey. What do you think of this guy?" Al flashed the picture toward the man seated across from him, who had been filling out forms silently. Brown, a man who looked like out of his 54 years he'd slept for approximately two of them, looked over his glasses tiredly. He squinted at the picture before raising his eyebrows. "Sam Beckett?" "Yeah." "What about him?" "Y'know. What's his deal?" Removing his glasses, Brown let out a long-suffering sigh. They'd been working together far longer than he would've liked. Al couldn't care less what his boring opinion of him was; he was more concerned with what he could tell him about this kid. "He's some kind of genius. Specializes in quantum physics I think. Hasn't he been earning degrees since he was in diapers or something?" "That's what I thought," Al answered quizzically, scratching at the stubble on his neck, "He's more than qualified for what we need. So if he's this whiz kid, how come he's never worked on a big project like this before? You'd think people would be fallin' over each other tryin' to snatch him up." Hand drawn across his mouth, Brown laughed from between fingers that hid a sly grin. "Because he's a weirdo, that's why," he said, "His ideas are pretty out there. There's a fine line between scientist andmadscientist, if you know what I mean." He chuckled and stuffed a donut into his fat face. For some reason, the insult really rubbed Al the wrong way, like sandpaper across his feet. His toes curled up reflexively. The kid was a brainiac, right? Maybe he was onto something other people weren't. Giving an exaggerated frown that made his chin disappear, he eyeballed the resume again and tilted his head to the side. The jab had made up his mind for him. If Brown didn't like him, chances are he was the perfect choice. "Call him up. He's got the job." Brown's star blinked as he did. A disbelieving chuckle. "You serious?" "Do I look like I'm joking?" Al stared him dead in the eye with an expression that could've challenged the president himself. That pretty much answered his question. His stock might've fallen like a ton of bricks since he'd first started here, but when he wanted something, he got it. A pause. Brown lifted his eyebrows. "Okay. It's your call." - After six hours of sitting in his wonky chair with the squeaky wheel, Al's back was really bitching at him to get up and take a break. Hell, Brown had been squeezing every second he could out of his 20 minute side trip to the copy room, so Al figured he'd earned himself a reprieve. The west side of the building offered the least chance of running into someone and having to socialize, so Al made his way out with his coffee and a trail of cigar smoke behind him. A cursory search of the area seemed clear, so he took out his flask and poured a little something extra into his cup. Not that it was exactly a secret by this point, but whatever. Just as he was taking a sip, he heard voices around the corner. Puh. Brown was there. The copy room, his foot. Al knew it. He was pissing around with Goldstein again. Probably discussing how to give their lives an even duller finish. Or the benefits of never using deodorant. He probably shouldn't've. It's not like he cared. But he was bored enough to listen in. "Sam Beckett. Swear to god." "That nut? Great, that's just what we need around here. Someone else to babysit." "Hey, this could work out for us. It's just going to get drunk Calavicci canned even quicker." The two of them shared a good laugh, and Al's eyes narrowed. Yuk it up, chuckles. Coupla gasbags. Like they were worth the breath it would take to chew them out. Al chugged the rest of his coffee and looked for a place to smoke in peace.
Sam had to remember to act sick if he wanted to avoid ending up being experimented on. Not that he could explain away Eric's remarkable recovery, but it certainly helped if he pretended he wasn't in perfect health after being in a coma for nearly a decade. Dr. Whittaker had been very insistent on keeping him there, which was pretty worrying, but he'd managed to persuade her into letting him go home with the promise of regular visits. He suspected she wanted to keep his story a secret until she could publish a paper about it, and that worked for him.
As for Marjorie, she was more than happy to take her husband back with her. On their way home she talked nonstop about old memories, hoping to refresh his mind with familiar stories. Sam simply nodded and listened. In a rare stroke of luck, he would have someone on the leap filling the blanks in for him.
He kept thinking of what was going to happen after everything was said and done. How exactly would this play out? He'd help whoever he was meant to help, and then a blue light takes him away, and Eric is collapsed on the floor? Would he be dead already? Who was going to find him? Why did it have to be Eric he leaped into anyway, out of everyone in this scenario? It didn't make any sense.
Marjorie held the door open for him and he stepped inside his home for the time being. A mid-sized suburban house, well lived-in and evident of life even while empty. A clunky TV sat in the middle of the living room with the rabbit ears up. Toys were left out carelessly on the floor, and a stuffed rabbit slouched halfway off the green sofa. Sam's stomach clenched when he remembered Eric's daughters.
He noticed his wife watching him and grinned tightly. "It, uh...it looks just like I remember it."
With a worried frown, Marjorie explained gently, "You didn't live here, sweetie. We moved here three years ago."
Sam kicked himself for his mistake. Quickly covering, he chuckled, "I know. I was just testing you." He pointed playfully. "Gotta stay sharp." Boy that was lame. She bought it anyhow and giggled.
"You were always a joker, Eric." She helped him take his coat off and placed it alongside hers on the rack by the door. "I called Christina at work and told her the wonderful news. She and Michael are going to pick Ellie up from school."
Sam nodded in acknowledgment. He realized from the toys left behind that Ellie must be fairly young. His eyes fell on the wall leading to the kitchen, which was covered in pictures, and he drifted over to it.
Frames of all shapes and sizes, pictures of Eric and his family. In one where they were all together, he held a small baby in his arms while a little girl in a pink dress held onto Marjorie's hand. The pictures where the girls were older...well, Eric wasn't in them. The girl in the pink dress was a little bit sadder.
Then there was a wedding photo. Eric and Marjorie posed by the cake joyously, Marjorie with long lace sleeves and Eric with giant sideburns and a mustachioed grin. But then, suddenly, Sam saw another face in his mind. A soft brunette with wavy hair and a wide smile. Sam fed her a piece of cake and she giggled, trying to stay composed for their pictures. But she couldn't hold herself back with him, and she doubled over with laughter. He remembered how he loved that laugh.
Donna. His throat tightened as the memories came back to him. His wife. It took everything in him to keep himself together at this moment. His knees felt weak.
He gently touched the photo. How could he forget her again?
"I loved that mustache."
Sam was pushed back to the present, and he attempted to act normal. "It was certainly a look," he said with a masking grin.
"You had it when we first met. Remember?"
A pause. He looked toward Marjorie thoughtfully. "Why don't you remind me?"
-
Sam was a bundle of nerves. Jittery, (mostly) excited nerves, but nerves nonetheless. He wanted to make a good first impression, so he'd rented a suit. It was slightly too big on him, but it was too late to change now. He was never concerned with looking sharp until he really needed to, and then he found he had no skill at it. But never mind. He was here now and this was going to be great. As he took his first steps onto Starbright property, he was full of optimistic enthusiasm for a new start. Today was the beginning of the rest of his life. Getting inside the facility was a huge to-do. This had required at least two forms of ID, a fingerprint scan, and an escort into the car park. He'd never worked in such a secretive place before. He'd played at Carnegie hall and this was still intimidating. But it made him feel more than ever that this was important work and he couldn't mess this up. Pulling at his collar, he gulped and strode confidently inside. And immediately got himself lost. This was embarrassing. He never liked to find himself out of his element, but especially not now. A photographic memory was useless in a new place, so he hoped he'd find someone who could help him with as little shame as possible. He noticed movement in an office nearby, so he sheepishly made his way over. He stopped in the doorway. She was beautiful. Understated, but gorgeous. Her brown hair was clipped back but still hung over her shoulders, and she bit her lip as she concentrated on packing the box on her desk. Taken aback by her beauty, Sam forgot he'd come in to ask something. The woman felt his eyes on her and looked up over her glasses, annoyed. "Can I help you?" Suddenly, Sam was tongue-tied. Blushing, he looked to the floor. "I-I, um...lo-I'm lost." Sighing tiredly, she placed her hands on her hips. "Well where do you need to go?" "Admiral Benton-Um, I need to find his office." "Then you're in the wrong wing. You need the east wing; you're in the north." Sam looked confused, and she sighed again. Stepping out from behind her desk, she slid past him and into the hallway. Pointing the way he came, she instructed, "Go down the hall and left until you hit the elevators. Up one floor, and straight down the first right. There should be signs." Sam realized his face was still red at her proximity, and he ducked his head down in embarrassment before uttering a quick thank you. This office had gotten pretty chilly. He was about to leave when she spoke up. "Hey, I know you, don't I?" Sam would remember her. Definitely. "I don't think so." The woman squinted and shook her head. "No, I've definitely seen you before." When the realization hit her, her stern features shifted. "Wait a minute! You're Sam Beckett, aren't you?" Sam grinned nervously. "Yep, that's me." Her face lit up. Immediately, her attitude was lost. "I've read your papers. I'm a big fan of your work." "Really?" Sam asked, surprised. He frowned. "I mean, not that you wouldn't-or couldn't-I just didn't expect you-" He sighed and hung his head again. "Please stop me." The woman laughed. As embarrassed as he was, Sam loved the sound of it. At least she thought he was funny. "It's okay. You're not the first guy to think that." She blew out a disappointed breath. "It's a shame we won't be working together. I'd love to pick your brain." "Maybe we'll see each other around," Sam pointed out hopefully as his confidence grew. "I'm afraid not," she responded as she motioned to the box on her desk, "Today's my last day. If only you came here a little sooner." "Or you stayed a little later." She grinned in regretful agreement and leaned against her desk. Too late. Apparently time had other plans. With polite disappointment, Sam shifted his briefcase to his left hand and extended his right to her. "Well it was nice meeting you anyway, Miss..." He read her name plaque on the desk, "Eleese." She took his hand. "Donna." - "Ah, hello, Dr. Beckett. Please, come in." Admiral Benton stood up to shake Sam's hand as he entered his office. He was as polished as his expensive office, his dark skin a contrast to his dress whites. He motioned toward the chair in front of his desk. "I've heard a lot about you." "Good things, I hope," Sam said half-jokingly as he sat down. "You have quite a reputation," Benton said, although whether that was a confirmation of Sam's wishful thinking was unclear. He folded his hands on his desk. "Captain Calavicci definitely thought so." There was a certain tone to his voice when he said Captain Calavicci's name, something Sam couldn't quite place. Regardless, Sam was flattered. "Thank you." He hoped he wasn't sweating through his suit. "I hope I can live up to that reputation. I can't wait to get started. Oh, um-" Reaching beside him, he picked up his briefcase. "If you have time, we could go over some ideas I have that-" With an amused smirk, Benton lifted his hand to stop him. "Well, we'll see about that. First, you need to work your way up around here. Start small." Sam's hands were stopped mid-clasp. "Oh. I see. Sorry, I just assumed." He lowered the suitcase again, nodding respectfully. "Where do you need me right now?" "Oh, we've got something very important for you to do."- As he heard snickering in the hall, Sam slid another folder under 'F' and slammed the filing cabinet shut. He lost count of how many this was now, but the unsorted pile on the desk hardly seemed to have a dent in it. His face flushed red and he dropped angrily into his chair. He was better than this. He had seven degrees, and the last three days he'd been relegated to filing duty. This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for, and so far he'd clocked the most time in the basement. This couldn't be why he was here. It was a waste of a good mind. But more to the point, he didn't like getting jerked around. By now he was used to some people in the scientific community thinking he was a joke. He'd learned to ignore the stares and the amused whispers because he had the conviction to follow the path he'd set for himself, and he'd worked hard for every accomplishment and every ounce of respect he'd been given. But he wasn't sure why he'd been hired at Starbright if they were in the joke camp. It was like he was in high school again, and his shortened stay there was as much as he'd wanted. But he wasn't going to take it anymore. He knew he had great ideas, and he was going to make them listen. He'd rather be fired than squander his time. - Meeting fully underway, the conference doors flew open and in came Sam. A room of confused military personnel looked toward him, and Admiral Benton got to his feet. "Dr. Beckett, we're in the middle of-" "I want you to take a look at my blueprints for the probe, Admiral." "You can't just barge in here unannounced." "How else am I gonna get you to listen?" Sam questioned hotly. Without asking, he placed his briefcase on the table and opened it up. Now Benton was really irked. "I could have you fired for this." "Admiral, I promise, if this isn't what you're looking for...I'll get out of your hair forever." Sam laid the blueprints out and pressed his hands onto the table, meeting Benton's gaze confidently. "But I guarantee you'll want me." Without looking down, Benton started for the door. He was having none of this. "That's it. I'm having you escorted out." "Benton. Take a look at this." It was Ipstein. Her eyes were on the blueprints, a look of awe on her face. Benton stopped and she looked up with a grin. "This design is genius." A beat. Not changing his expression, Benton returned to the table and finally saw Sam's layout. And then he cracked. His mouth fell open, ever so slightly. "This could get us light-years faster," Ipstein continued, "It would save us years of work. Billions of dollars." She pointed. "Wow, I wouldn't even think of that..." Now the entire table was staring at Sam differently. His grin was plastered on his face. Shortly after, he was put in charge of the team.