Work Text:
1994
The air in the quiet New Orleans home is thick with the soothing, yeasty scent of a freshly sliced baguette, cooling on a rack in the kitchen. It is a comforting anchor in the otherwise unpredictable lives of the two men in the living room. Al Calavicci, sixty years old and still possessing the sharp, charismatic gaze of a Navy Admiral, sits on the edge of the large, soft armchair. His expression is one of pure, unadulterated devotion. Next to him, Sam Beckett, forty-one, leans close, his thick-rimmed glasses reflecting the dim light from the hallway.
They watch three-year-old Laurel sleep, tucked deep into a blanket nest on the sofa. She is a tiny, bundled universe.
“Just look at these fingers,” Sam whispers, his voice a low, reverent rumble. He gently lifts one of Laurel’s miniature hands, his own large, capable palm dwarfing it entirely. The mathematical impossibilities delight the physicist in him. “How can they be real? They are mathematically too small.”
Al’s breath catches, a tiny, almost painful sound. “They are real, Papi,” he murmurs, his hand hovering, not daring to touch. “She is real. Every day, every time I see her, it’s… it’s a miracle we finally earned.”
Sam gently lays the tiny hand back down, tracing the curve of the miniature knuckles with the edge of his thumb. He looks up at Al, a warmth in his blue eyes that rivals the faint December sun outside. “She really is,” he agrees, then leans down to press a soft kiss into her riot of dark curls.
A shadow falls over them from the doorway. Douglas Calavicci, thirty years old and leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, rolls his eyes with dramatic theatricality.
“You two are creepy and embarrassing,” Douglas states, his voice perfectly even, a flat assessment of their parental adoration. “I swear, it’s like watching two giant teddy bears attempting quantum physics. Back away from the tiny human.”
Al snaps his head up, momentarily startled out of his daze. “Oh, Dougie. She’s not tiny, she’s… Laurel.”
“Exactly,” Douglas replies, pushing off the doorframe. “She’s the heir to the Calavicci-Beckett empire of excessive affection. Don’t worry, I’ve already established I’m the cool one.” He walks past them, snagging a piece of the baguette, and exits before either of his dads can muster a coherent defense.
2004
Ten years later, the December air in New Orleans is cold and damp, clinging to Laurel’s denim jacket as she speeds down the dock toward the familiar glow of Tru Tone Bar. At thirteen, she has inherited Al’s flair for the dramatic and Sam’s headstrong intelligence, and she needs to deploy both. It is 2004, and the co-ed sleepover is the ultimate social hurdle.
After Sam’s nearly five years lost in time during the Quantum Leap Project, he and Al decided on a clean break. They moved from New Mexico to New Orleans, settling deep into the bayou culture, and legally changed their names—Al became Tom and Sam became Dwayne, erasing any trace of the government project that had nearly cost them everything. Laurel, having learned the secrets, uses the new names with ease, but sometimes affectionately calls them by their initials.
She has already tried Papa T (Tom). In the kitchen, where Tom (Al) is currently attempting to make a complicated Italian sauce, Laurel poses the question with strategic innocence. “Papa T,” she says, leaning against the counter, “Can I go to Becca’s sleepover next Friday? It’s important.”
Tom, now seventy, sighs, stirring the bubbling tomato base. He sees the edge of teendom in her eyes—a fierce independence and a budding sense of ‘Laurel Pride’ that makes him incredibly nervous. He is the easygoing one, the rule-bender. He does not want to be the gatekeeper to her social life.
“Go ask your Papa D, sweetie,” Tom says quickly, without meeting her gaze, wiping a stray splash of sauce onto his apron. “He’s down at the club. Tell him I told you to ask him.” He is passing the parental buck, and they both know it.
Laurel beams at the tactical victory and slips out. The bar is mostly quiet this late afternoon. Dwayne (Sam), fifty-one, sits at the weathered piano, practicing a complicated, bluesy riff, his shoulders moving subtly with the rhythm. Chris LaSalle, the young bartender, wipes down the mahogany with a slow, bored efficiency. Laurel slides onto a barstool, the vinyl squeaking beneath her. The rich, clean smell of beer and aged wood replaces the house's delicious baguette scent.
“Papa D,” she asks, projecting her voice slightly over the music, “Becca is having a sleepover. Boys and girls are going. Papa T said I could ask you.”
Dwayne stops playing, letting his hands rest on the keys. He looks at Chris, then back at his daughter. The co-ed detail is a heavy pause. He calculates the variables, balancing risks versus social necessity.
“Well, Sweetheart, I don’t know…” Dwayne begins, his brow furrowing in deep consideration.
Before he can finish, two strong arms wrap around her from behind, scooping her straight off the stool, making her squeal in surprise and annoyance. “What’s this I hear about you going to a boy-girl party?” Douglas, forty, demands playfully, setting her back down but leaning close to whisper loudly into her ear. “Are you bringing your backpack of emergency scientific facts for protection? Or just your eyeliner?”
“Dougie!” she whines, pushing his arms away instantly, her face flushing red. “You’re embarrassing me in front of Chris!”
Chris just offers a slight, amused grin as he continues polishing the bar. Douglas simply laughs, a rich, rolling sound, entirely unbothered, and steals a sip from Dwayne’s abandoned water glass.
“That’s my job, kiddo,” Douglas announces, winking at Dwayne. "Now, let's talk curfew."