Disclaimers: Sam, Al and the rest aren't mine. I know, you're shocked.
Al popped two Tylenol in his mouth and swallowed them dry. After a moment, he took a third. "Gooshie, think you can hold down the fort for two days? I covered you last time."
Gooshie paused, checking the readout panels. "It doesn't look like Dr. Beckett will resurface for another few days. Where are you headed? You'll take your beeper?"
"I, ah, there's this woman…" He grinned. "Let's leave it at that, all right? Don't tell Tina." Gooshie turned away, embarrassed, and Al used that moment to slip a photograph and some printouts into his back pocket. If all went well, Gooshie wouldn't even know they were gone. "I'll take my beeper. Page me if anything happens."
Al drove quickly across the compound, careful not to look suspicious. When he got home, he threw some light clothes in an overnight bag, added a box of cigars and a toothbrush. He stripped and dressed himself in an undershirt, open dress shirt, slacks and loafers. It was an outfit Al Calavicci would never dream of wearing: too boring for recreation and too slouch for military events. He added a pair of aviator sunglasses, combed his hair back, and drove down to Paco's Bar and Grill, one of his favorite hangouts.
Once there, he checked to make sure no one had followed him, then called a cab. The cabby was a lean, bearded Mexican. "The airport," Al ordered. He sat back and fingered the collar of his dress shirt, remembering.
There was a time when all that kept Al together was the military. It was the one constant in his life, the one thing he could control and do well. Through failed marriages, alcoholism and memories of rotten foster homes, he could always look always look at himself in the mirror and say 'I am Admiral Albert Calavicci, decorated for valor. My life is worth something.'
He felt for the printouts and the photograph in his back pocket, took them out and stared at them. If anyone found out, he could be killed as a traitor. Even with the cold war over and no major threat on the horizon, America didn't take kindly to those who disclosed its secrets.
Al wasn't particularly fond of small airplane companies, but it was the only way he could get a seat without a reservation and pay in cash. After a bumpy, crazed, and thankfully brief flight, Al buttoned up his dress shirt and tucked it in while the plane landed. No point in looking sloppy.
And there she was, waiting for him at the gate, trying hard to contain her eagerness. She was wearing her best dress, the blue one with the delicate pomegranate design, and she'd cut her hair very short since he'd seen her last. He walked over to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
"Let's get out of here," he said.
"Were you followed?" She looked worriedly through the crowd.
"I don't think so. But it's not good to stand around. Your place?"
Her house was only a half an hour away by car. It was a lovely little bungalow in the hills, a few minutes walk from the beach. "Do you want some coffee?" she asked. "Tea? There's still some sugar cookies left, I know you like them." She took his bag from him and coaxed him to sit down in a comfy chair.
Al couldn't help but laugh at himself. This had to be Sam's fault. Before he'd met Sam, his life had been orderly, logical. In all the stories of spies and betrayal he'd ever heard, not one of the traitors listed 'surrogate mother' as their price and pay-off. Yet here he was, dodging court-martial to steal his best friend's mother. "Ah, coffee's just fine, thanks." He leaned back on the armchair as she puttered around the kitchen. "Can I help?"
"I've got it." She offered him the mug and a plate of pale cookies that glistened with sugar.
He bit into one. It was soft and chewy, with a sugar crust, just the way he liked them. "These just keep getting better." She was sitting on the edge of her chair, eager to be with him, but damping down her impatience for his news. "Sam's still alive, but he's still not home." He took out the printouts and the photo. "We think he may be getting closer, though, because he's been leaping into the same person or situation multiple times lately. We think he's getting more control over what happens to him when he leaps." He handed her the photo.
"What's this?"
"That's the product of the last leap, so to speak. Her name is Samantha Josephine Fuller, and she's working with us at the Project." He took a deep breath. "She doesn't know. Neither does Donna. I'm not even sure how much Sam will remember, but…" He swallowed. "She's Sam's daughter."
Mrs. Beckett put her hand over her mouth to keep from crying, still holding the photograph in the other trembling hand. "She looks like him, around the mouth. But she's so old!"
"Well, she was born when Sam was still a kid, barely a teenager. She's got his brains and his sense of humor. I think you would really like her if you met her."
Mrs. Beckett shook her head, ruminating. "Poor boy. He just can't let his father go; he keeps trying to save us. When you told me that Tom was only alive because of what Sam did, that he was originally killed in Vietnam … it's so strange that I can't remember! I mean, if history changed, wouldn't I know it? But it just feels so right and natural to have Tom around, like I've never known anything else." She took a long look at the photograph. "I wish I could keep it, since I can't meet her."
"I'm sorry. But when Sam gets home, he'll probably tell her anyway, or just bring her into the family without telling her. You know how he is. Either way, you'll have better than a photograph."
"If he comes home. This is so hard, Al. For all of us." She touched his arm and offered him another cookie. "How's Tina?"
"Ah, she's pretty good." He winced and closed his eyes. "I just found out she's sleeping with someone else. Gooshie, of all people. How she stands the breath, I don't know. But we're all pretending we don't know about it, just like they pretend they don't know I'm…"
Mrs. Beckett got up and knelt beside him, hugging him to her. "Al, it's not wrong to want to be loved. You're not a bad person for wanting people to care about you." He could feel her arms about him, fingers stroking his hair with a maternal touch. "But if you keep falling in love with people who can only cause you pain, that's all you're going to reap from it."
He could feel hot tears spilling down his cheeks, and he was suddenly grateful for the rule that the rest of the family had to keep out of the house when he first got here. "Shh, shhh," she soothed, "It's all right to cry."
After the tears there was a hollowness. "I think I'm in love with Sam, that I'm just afraid of thinking of myself as a homosexual. I just ... I don't think I could handle loving him, changing everything I know about myself, when he's not even here. When he can barely remember what I say from one leap to the next, and when he remembers next to nothing about all the years we were friends." He laughed shakily. "I can't believe I'm saying this. Especially to you."
Mrs. Beckett smiled and urged him to drink his cooling coffee, to soothe him. "You're as bad as my children and grandchildren. They think somehow that being a mother and being my age means I don't know anything about the world. How do they think I got to be a mother in the first place? Honestly." She tilted his chin to make him look her in the eye. "Albert Calavicci, I've told you this a hundred times. You are welcome in this house whenever you want to come. Even if you had no news, even if you kept all your information classified, you're like a son to me, and you will always have a place here. You've always done right by Sam, better than you've done by yourself. So if he comes home and you tell him how you feel, I'm going to plan the biggest wedding you've ever seen. Or if you're worried about what the military will think, I'll keep your secret and just be happy for you. I've lost Sam, and even if I can't remember it, I've lost Tom too. I'm not going to lose you and Sam to prejudice."
Al felt the ache ease a little. "I miss him so much."
"I miss him too. I know you can't tell him, because you're monitored when you're with him, but can you signal to him that I love him and miss him?"
Al smiled at her. "He knows. But I'll do what I can." He handed the printouts to her. "Read them and burn them afterwards. They won't be missed, but you don't want any evidence if the house is searched. I have to bring back the photo, I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She kissed his forehead, then looked over his shoulder out the window. "The kids are back, they're outside. Up for a game of soccer?"
"Anytime. You go get changed and I'll meet you outside." And with that, Al stood up, kissed her cheek, and went out into the sun.
End.