Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Bed Sharing

(This one's a little bit racy. You have been warned.)

He was heavier than she thought he’d be.

Not that she’d ever imagined this—being flat on her back with the Colonel lying fully on top of her. Breathing heavily, slightly sweaty, his arms bracketed around her body just as her knees gripped his thighs. His lower body—um— settled —intimately against hers. His sidearm—

Well, hell. Sam swallowed a sigh. Nope. She’d never imagined this at all. 

Well, at least not exactly like this . In odd moments of weakness, she may have mused upon certain other situations that might approximate this one, but within very, very different circumstances. Circumstances that didn’t involve flowers, gravel, or bushes. Or the restrictions placed on people by military ranks. Or unexpected squads of Jaffa appearing where they had no business appearing.

Sam shifted, drawing another pained near-silent groan from the Colonel. She’d just been trying to keep her legs from going numb, but all she’d managed to do was nestle his hips more firmly against her center.

“Can you stop that?” He whispered it against her ear. He’d bent his head to rest on the bed next to her temple. Skin to skin.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Sam closed her eyes, trying to lie as still as possible.

Lord, he was heavy. Solidly, wonderfully, deliciously heavy.

Don’t think about it, Sam. Think about the Jaffa standing a few feet away. Think about the danger, instead. Even her internal monologue scoffed at that. Right. She was in more danger that she’d still be fantasizing about this predicament for years to come.

“I’d get off, but it’s too tight in here.” Another whisper. More pained, this time, his voice against her ear, his breath warm on her cheek.

Curse the double entendre. Sam bit her lips until they hurt, trying not to laugh. But damned if her body didn’t betray her by trembling oh-so-gently beneath his.

Unbelievably, he snorted quietly, raising his head so that he could glare down at her. “What have I said about giggling?”

“I’m trying not to, Sir.” But she just giggled more. And damned again if it didn’t meld them even closer together.

His dark eyes studied her—his lips curving in approval, and maybe a hint of pride. “You have a surprisingly dirty mind, Carter.”

She shifted again. On purpose this time, her knees tightening on his thighs as she lied. “I’m trying not to, Sir.”

Boots scraped against the ground a few feet away, and Sam turned her head to watch as a new pair joined the others. Five Jaffa soldiers now stood just beyond the garden plot where she and the Colonel had sought cover. Five Jaffa soldiers who weren’t supposed to be on this relatively peaceful planet in the middle of a solar system not frequented by the Goa’uld. Hell—the address hadn’t even been on the Abydos cartouche. They must have come through the ‘Gate for some reason, but neither she nor the Colonel spoke enough Goa’uld to winnow that reason out of the conversation being had just beyond their hedge.

The newcomer muttered something that made the other Jaffa laugh, and then he moved among his comrades. Sam could see just enough through the foliage above her to see him dispersing something amongst his crew. And then there were sounds of— chewing ?

“What are they doing?”

Dear heaven above—what the tickle of his voice against her ear did to her insides. Sam pushed past it and forced herself to zero in on the enemy. “It looks like they’re eating something.”

“Un-freaking-believable.” He pushed at the ground with his elbows, lifting his body just a fraction off hers—just enough that he could turn his head to see through the branches.

A movement which just redistributed pressure—um— elsewhere . Holy Hannah. 

Focus, Sam. Focus on literally anything other than ‘elsewhere’. Not on that, though. Don’t focus on his sidearm. 

Crabnabbit. Now she was thinking about his sidearm. 

Sam grimaced, tilting her head back and peering through the leaves. There was a bug directly above her, scooching along a particularly thick branch. Ants made their way along another. And she was fairly certain that something was crawling up her left leg. She drew her knee upwards, hoping to swat whatever it was away with her fingertips, but the look on the Colonel’s face stopped her.

Too late, she realized that the movement had made everything worse. Closer. Tighter. More— more .

“Don’t.” Pain. And something else—something beyond explanation passed across his features. A wry kind of acquiescence that made no sense. He lowered himself again, angling his hips just so—muttering a litany of curse words under his breath as he shifted. “Just don’t.”

Well, damn.

Above them, someone made a joke, and all five of the Jaffa laughed. Sam understood a few of the words—enough to know that the jest had involved a woman and her mik’ta. More laughter echoed in the garden as the soldiers joined in on the joke around bites of whatever they were eating. Near the end of one particularly humorous volley, the leader—the one who’d brought the sustenance—goodnaturedly did his ‘kree’ thing, indicating that break time was over. A few of the guards stepped close to where Sam and O’Neill hid and tossed wadded-up pieces of what appeared to be parchment into the hedge. Food wrappers? The bits of paper caught in the twigs above their hiding place. It looked like they were hanging in space. As the soldiers moved back to their group, their boots kicked pebbles under the bushes, stirring up the dirt enough that Sam squinched her eyes closed and tilted her head away. 

And then, as if by some unspoken command, they all turned and marched off in the direction of the Stargate.

Still, the Colonel didn’t move. He seemed frozen, despite the heat of the late afternoon sun and the sweat beading on his temple.

“I think we’re safe.” Sam wriggled just enough to get his attention, lifting her hand to tap him on his shoulder. His unit patch was rough beneath her fingers. “You can get up, now.”

“I can, huh?”

“They’re gone.” She squinted up at him, against the light that now glared through the bramble. “So, yeah.”

“Give me a minute.” He sounded as if he were being strangled. 

She already knew the answer to the question, but asked it anyway. Conversationally. Lightly. “Are you okay?”

“Mmm.”

“Stiff?”

“What?” Annoyed and strangled. That’s what his voice sounded like now.

“It’s understandable if you’re stiff.” Sam crinkled her nose. “You know, from not moving for a while.”

His dark eyes glowered down at her. He pressed his lips together before hissing at her. “You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?”

Sam shook her head, her eyes wide. Innocence incarnate. “Doing what?”

“Sam?” Daniel’s voice broke through the foliage, concern tinging his tone. “Jack?”

O’Neill swore again. A word that might have described their positioning—if they’d been doing something other than hiding. 

“Where are you concealing yourselves, Colonel O’Neill?” Teal’c had entered the garden. His footfalls sounded more heavily on the hard-packed dirt walkways. “You may emerge. The danger has passed.”

“Sir?” Sam chewed on her bottom lip with her teeth. “I think that you can get out now.”

“Damn it.” More to himself than to her. He glared past her into the bush before scooting backwards out of their hidey-hole. Once clear, he stalked off to the edge of the formal gardens. Daniel moved towards him, but O’Neill waved him off, muttering something about needing to work out some kinks.

Sam scooched on her butt until she’d exited the hedge, then stood. Brushing dirt and dead leaves off her butt and thighs, she hazarded a glance at Daniel. Of course, his keen blue eyes gleamed back at her with a hefty amount of rank speculation.

“So?” The corner of his mouth jerked upwards. “What were you two doing in there?”

“We were heading back to the Governor’s Chamber when we heard the ‘Gate engage.” Shrugging out of her overshirt, Sam shook the dirt off the back of it. “At first, we thought it was SG-14 coming back with the medicine we’d promised as part of the negotiations, but then we realized that it was a squad of Jaffa.”

“We saw them as they marched to the town square.” Teal’c tilted his head in his Teal’c-ish way. “Governor Johntu assured us that the Jaffa come here only to purchase goods from vendors in the marketplace.”

Daniel shrugged, casting a look over at where Jack was still pacing several yards away. “Apparently, they’ve negotiated conditions so that the Goa’uld don’t threaten this planet in exchange for freedom to participate in trade here.”

Satisfied she’d gotten all of the guck off her clothing, Sam tucked the blouse over her forearm and reached for her pack. “So that was just a lunch run.”

“An intergalactic pit stop.” Daniel grinned. “Still, we didn’t engage with them. We were pretty concerned that the two of you were out in the open without any weapons or communications equipment. Teal’c and I came as soon as we could get out of the Chamber in case you needed help.”

“We didn’t have time to run.” Sam indicated the bushes with a nod. “We dove in there as soon as we saw the Jaffa. It was literally the only bed in here with plant life large enough to hide in.”

“And even then—it was only just barely big enough to hide the both of us.” O’Neill had made his way back towards his crew. He took his pack and weapon from Teal’c, hefting it over one shoulder and clipping the P-90 to his vest.

Daniel leaned over to peer down into the bush. “That must have been a tight fit. You had to have been packed in there like sardines.”

“Pretty much.”

“Hey, Jack.” Daniel reached into his own pack and withdrew a large, heavy object. Extending it towards the Colonel, he smiled. “I’ve got your Beretta. You left it in the Ombudsman’s lockers with your P-90.”

Sam looked up just in time to see the Colonel flicker a look at her. She watched as he strapped the weapon to his thigh.

“Well, anyway.” Daniel stuck his hands into his pockets. “The talks are done for the day. We’re supposed to come back the day after tomorrow to continue the negotiations.”

“Thursday.” Jack nodded. “So, I guess we should head on home.”

“Guess so.” Daniel turned on his heel and, falling in step with Teal’c, headed in the direction of the ‘Gate.

“C’mon, Carter.” O’Neill tugged his cap out of the side pocket of his pack and pulled it low over his brow. “Let’s blow this joint.”

But Sam was slowly turning, taking in the gardens, and the double moons that were just barely breaching the horizon, and the way the light was changing in the private alcove. “It’s pretty here. We don’t usually see formal landscaping like this.”

“I wish they’d planted bigger plants. It’s kind of hard to hide behind a begonia.”

“Depends on the size of the begonia.” Sam lifted a shoulder. “Doesn’t it?”

O’Neill narrowed a look at her. “What are you getting at?”

“Nothing.” She stepped closer to him, smoothing the fabric of the blouse on her arm. Quirking a brow upwards, she flickered a glance down towards the Beretta holstered on his thigh. “I just hadn’t realized that you’d left your sidearm in the Chamber lockers.”

“The ombudsguy seemed pretty emphatic about their ‘no guns’ policy.” His brows rose, and he rested a hand on his P-90. “And?”

“And I thought that you might have been wearing it while we were—“ she glanced pointedly at the bush they’d so recently vacated.

It took him a minute. When he’d caught up to her train of thought, he groaned. “While we were being sardines?”

She simply smiled, leaning close as she caught his gaze. “Some begonias are easier to hide behind than others.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Not much.” Shaking her head, she ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging more dirt and a few twigs. “Just making conversation about your begonia. And how nicely it blossoms.”

His answering grin was a slow, easy thing. “You have a remarkably dirty mind, Major.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Colonel.” She nudged him with her shoulder. 

He nudged her back. “We’d better go before Daniel comes back to find us again.”

“Yes. Well, at least we know that both of us do, indeed, fit in one of these flower beds.”

“You’re impossible.”

She chuckled, falling into step beside him. They walked in companionable silence until they’d reached the ‘Gate. 

Daniel had already dialed home, and the event horizon shimmered within the naquadah ring. Jack stopped next to the DHD, watching as Daniel and Teal’c ascended the platform and stepped through the pool. 

“About that, Sir.”

“About what?”

“The flower bed thing.”

“Yeah?”

Sam reached out and picked a bit of schmutz off his uniform, taking her time brushing dust off his chest and shoulder. “The next time we share a bed—“

O’Neill’s eyes flew wide, and a single dimple flashed in his cheek. “The next time?”

“I’m just saying.” She found more dust on his chin, and swiped at still more on his throat, taking her time with the chore. His skin was warm beneath her fingers. She smiled as his breathing hitched a little. “The next time we’re in a bed together—”

“Yeah?” He was back to sounding strangled. His voice actually cracked.

Sam leaned in close, pressing her body against his just—that—much. “I get to be on top.”

Chapter Text

Blue Jello

(Angsty Jello. Like last time, you've been warned.)

“So—are we still doing this?”

“Doing what?”

Daniel nodded downward to the plastic bag dangling from Jack’s fingers. “That.”

Jack punched the button on the elevator again. He used the long finger, this time. The middle one. As if he could make the contraption go faster by being rude to it. “Apparently.”

Frowning, Daniel pursed his lips. Then, he did that thing where he peered over the tops of his glasses’ frames. It took him two floors to finally ask. “Why?”

But before Jack felt compelled to answer, the elevator lurched to a halt. He moved closer to the doors and waited for them to open. General elevator etiquette dictated that those disembarking got to go first, but Jack had taken to going first regardless. 

He considered that to be General general elevator etiquette. His stars gave him permission to do lots of things. 

Except for the things that really mattered. 

Nobody was waiting on the opposite side of the doors, a fact for which Jack was grateful. It meant that he could get out even faster. Switching the bag to his other hand, he took the hallway in long, impatient strides. He’d intended escape—from Daniel and his questions. From his own choices and their consequences. From that look that his oldest and best friend had taken to giving him lately. That look that told Jack that he was simultaneously insane and pitiful. 

Usually, Jack could get away by ducking into random rooms and claiming to be late for nonexistent meetings. But escape didn’t seem to be on today’s menu.

Because naturally, this stretch of corridor was bereft of random doors. And, unsurprisingly, Daniel’s long legs carried the archaeologist right back into step with him. 

Damn it.

“Jack?”

“What, Daniel?”

Daniel indicated the bag again with a scathingly pointed look. “Why?”

“Because.”

“Because why?”

To be honest, Jack had asked himself that same question over the past several months. Why? Why did he continue to do the things he did? Why did he persist in endeavors that others would most likely see as ridiculous? And those questions didn’t even bring her into the equation. 

Her.

Why did he give her the leeway he did? The almost-automatic permission to do whatever crazy-ass thing she felt necessary? Why extend her such latitude? Why the hell was that soft spot he’d always harbored getting softer rather than toughening up? 

Why the hell did he linger when she’d oh-so-clearly moved on?

“It makes no sense to keep this up.” Daniel’s voice carried a twinge of something—sadness? poignancy? pain?—something that begged for an answer better than the ones he’d heretofore been given. “Jack—“

“Mumpsimus.”

Teal’c had given Jack a Word of the Day calendar for Christmas a few months ago. It was currently sitting on the desk in his office right next to his Gameboy. It was one of those little square ones with pages that you ripped off each day. Knowing Jack’s penchant for grammar and his approbation for all things lexical, Teal’c had chosen the gift with discernment and prudence.

Jack had looked forward to uncovering each new word. He’d even set a goal of using the word in conversation at least once on the day it appeared on a little square page. Until a few weeks ago when he’d torn off the preceding day to find this word staring at him. He hadn’t torn any pages since.

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“Mumpsimus?” Daniel was trying to place it. “Latin, obviously.”

For some reason, Jack had always imagined there to be a useful family of squirrels inhabiting Daniel’s cranium. They were the keepers of knowledge—librarian-like critters that would scamper back into the deepest recesses of Daniel’s mind and dig up useless bits of historic dross. At this moment, Jack could practically see every one of Daniel’s squirrels tittering around inside his oversaturated noggin. Searching. 

Jack narrowed his eyes as he answered. He didn’t want to give the rodents too much of a head start. “Sort of.”

“What does it mean?”

“This.” Jack stopped at the commissary entrance and wiggled the bag around a little. “It means this.”

But Daniel was getting all linguistical. “Sounds like ‘sumpsimus’.” 

“Daniel—“

The squirrels apparently worked quickly—his friend had already figured it out. Damn him and that oversaturated noggin. And damn the rodents, too. Little traitors.

“It’s that priest thing, isn’t it? Sixteenth or seventeenth century priest mispronounces a word during Eucharist and stubbornly insists that he hadn’t said anything wrong. ‘Mumpsimus’ in place of ‘sumpsimus’.” He squinted down at the plastic bag still hanging from Jack’s hand. “The new word eventually becomes a noun describing the phenomenon of persisting in an action even when it makes no sense to do so.”

Jack breathed once—twice—before answering. “There you go.”

Daniel folded his arms, leaning back against the door jamb. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that it only just reached across the space between them. “You can’t keep doing this, Jack. She’s going to get married, and you need to move on.”

“I know.”

And he did. Logically, he knew that Daniel was right. Carter was going to marry Pete Shanahan and carry on with her life. Why he hadn’t taken strides to get on with his own life wasn’t a mystery. It was just painful. Not to mention difficult. And a little shameful. He needed to expunge whatever it was that kept him shackled to the hopes of the past. Let go. Purge. 

It was just that some shrapnel was buried so deep that digging it out did more damage than just living with it.

“Jack—“

“I know, Daniel.”

“You know I’m here for you.”

“I know that, too.”

Pushing away from the door, Daniel glanced into the mess. “Well, she’s in there, so I’m going to go say hello before I head on home.”

“You do that.”

Jack watched as Daniel passed through the doors and made his way through the maze of tables until he’d gotten to the one where a familiar blonde was sitting. She was chatting with Teal’c, Felger, and a few other scientists he recognized, but whose names he couldn’t recall. She didn’t even notice when Jack crossed the threshold and headed for the kitchens.

One of the perks of being the Man was that nobody questioned why you were anywhere on base. Jack passed around the far end of the food service line and into the food preparation area without comment, stopping near the storage racks next to the huge industrial freezers. 

“Sir.” Laurents emerged from his offices just as Jack had started unloading the contents of his bag. “Good to see you.”

“Inventory’s down, Chief.” Jack nodded at the rack. Master Chief Laurents had been at the Mountain nearly as long as Jack had. He’d been the one who’d had to break the bad news that their food supplier had stopped carrying certain items in bulk. Bow-tie pasta, canned carrots, and—lamentably—Berry Blue Gelatin mix. While he hadn’t been able to resolve the farfalle and root vegetable issues, Jack had been able to rectify one shortage. He’d been quietly taking care of the gelatin crisis for nearly six years. The Air Force happily paid for the red, orange, and green Jell-o, but blue came straight out of Jack’s pocket. “I just thought I’d re-up the supply.”

“We were running a little low.” The section chief shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his omnipresent apron. “But then, she hasn’t been going through it as quickly as she usually does.”

“Huh.” Jack paused, considering that bit of information. “Wonder why.”

“She told someone at the front that she was trying to eat cleaner.”

Jack put the last box on the rack and then wadded up the bag. Sticking it in the bucket meant for such items, he frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Dunno, Sir.” Laurents shook his head. “Doesn’t get much cleaner than Jell-o.”

“Right? Sugar-free.”

“Non-fat.” The Master Sergeant nodded towards the tidy stack of boxes on the shelf. “If you can get past the whole ‘boiled-down horse bits’ part of the ingredients list.”

Well, naturally. Jack’s frown deepened. “Huh.”

“Maybe it’s for the wedding, Sir.”

It was O’Neill’s turn to stick his hands into his pockets. “What do you mean?”

“My little sister’s best friend is getting married about the same time as the Colonel, and she and her entire bridal party are doing a juice cleanse for the whole week before the wedding.” Laurents scratched at a spot next to his ear. “It’s supposed to flush toxins out of the body. Janie—that’s the best friend—says that she wants to start married life toxin-free.”

Jack scowled down at his boots. What the hell did that even mean? Toxin-free. As if people just walked around leaking hazardous waste or spontaneously erupting into noxious fumes. He assumed what he hoped was a careless posture and shrugged. “Who knows?”

“Right, Sir.” Laurents smiled. “Who the hell knows?” 

“Exactly.”

“Well, anyway, Sir.” Laurents nodded, smiling. “It’s always a pleasure to have you visit us here in the galley. But I’ve gotta get started on the dinner menu.”

“Then I won’t keep you.” Jack nodded back, then retraced his steps back through the prep area and stopped at the edge of the service line. 

They were still there, Daniel included. Despite his earlier declaration about heading home, Jackson was smack dab in the midst of things, laughing as Felger’s girlfriend—Clovis? Lois? Cola?—recounted something that Jack presumed to be science-y. Carter giggled right along. Obviously, it had been quite the tale. Her smile was still the most beautiful thing that Jack had ever seen.

Shrapnel. Beautiful shrapnel. 

Pacing around the edge of the mess, he stopped at the drinks station and drew himself a cup of coffee. Blowing into the steaming, dark brew, he added sugar and a dram of cream before turning to peruse his domain. 

Well—not his domain, per se, but his people. At least, they had been his people at one point. Not so long ago, he’d have been at that table, pretending to understand whatever had so amused the rest of them. Trying not to let everyone know that he really only gave a damn that one of them was enjoying herself. 

He’d forgotten a stirrer, but it didn’t matter. Jack swished his coffee back and forth in the mug before taking a tentative sip. No amount of futzing was going to put lipstick on that caffeinated pig. Sludge was sludge. 

“General!” 

Felger had seen him. Standing half-way, the physicist was flailing an arm in Jack’s direction in what could either have been a new dance move or an invitation.

And since there was no music playing—

Jack seriously considered simply walking away. He was the boss. It wouldn’t be at all out of character for him to offer a simple wave and head back into his dungeon where he could pretend to labor—um—laboriously. He’d done it before. 

But for some reason, he nodded, instead. And then, he was walking through the mess until he’d arrived at the table. Ridiculously, he was trying to appear happy about it.

Sam and the little blond engineer—Lotus? Cletus? What the hell was her name?—were the only ones with food still in front of them. Sam’s tray still held half a sandwich and the dregs of a side salad, while a plateful of congealing pasta sat in front of the engineer. This shindig had probably started with them lunching together. Teal’c’s place at the table was punctuated with a selection of neatly-stacked plates and  several empty water bottles. Felger was toying with a ginormous bottle of soda, while the rest of them had only cups of coffee or tumblers of some other beverage in front of them. 

“How are we doing today, General Sir?”

They’d had this discussion before, but Jack apparently needed to have it again. “It’s either General or Sir, Felger. You don’t need to use both.”

“Ah. Gotcha.” He nodded, beaming. “I’ll try to remember that, Sir.”

“In fact,” Jack sipped at his sludge. “You don’t have to call me Sir at all, Doctor. You aren’t military, so those rules don’t really apply to you.”

“Jay just wants to show you all due deference, Sir.” The little doctor—damn it, what was her name?--Chloe! Chloe passed a smile between her boyfriend and the General. “You know as well as I do that he’s always been your biggest fan.”

Well, that was icky. Jack tried to look appeased, but he was fairly certain that he just ended up appearing nauseated. 

“What are you doing here, Sir?” Carter leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table. “I thought you had a meeting this afternoon. Someone from Washington.”

“Langley, actually.” Jack went back to swishing. “I’ve got a few minutes, still.”

“Oh.” She picked up a spoon that sat, unused, on her tray and fiddled with it. The diamonds on her left hand glimmered in the fluorescent overhead lighting. “Well, pull up a chair. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Yeah.” Daniel smiled up at him. “We’re just shooting the breeze. Having a little fun.”

Jack considered it—for the scarcest of moments—before shaking his head. He raised his cup as if in tribute. “It’s all good. I got what I came for.”

“No dinner tonight, Sir?” Carter tapped the spoon against her palm. “I didn’t see you have any lunch, either.”

“No jello tonight, Colonel?” He hadn’t meant to say it. It had emerged as banter. Automatic, easy—thoughtless, really—just as they’d been gently teasing each other for eight long years.

A hint of confusion swam across her features, her eyes going a shade darker. “Um, no. Not today. Pete and I are trying to cut out junk food. You know—before—”

“Before the blessed nuptials.” Felger laughed. He was pleased with himself for getting the answer right. “A wise endeavor. Cleans out the toxins.”

“Ah.” Jack gritted out another smile. Or half of one—he only felt part of his face comply. “I wasn’t aware that jello was junk food.”

“Gelatin has very little nutritional value.” Chloe offered this. “And it’s made out of hooves and stuff.”

Again, Jack resorted to the classic monosyllabic, “Ah.” It was the best he could do.

“You sure you won’t join us, Jack?” Daniel squinted up at him, his face carefully bland. 

“Nah. You guys have your fun. I’d better get going.” He raised his cup again and stepped back, angling past the neighboring table and towards the door.

This time, he did have to wait at the elevator—a pair of SG teams heading to the mess had to exit before he could enter—but it was smooth sailing the rest of the way to his office. He settled the now-cool mug on his desk and took his seat. It was quiet, but for the drone of the fan in his computer tower, and the omnipresent hum of background HVAC systems. That was the one thing he’d enjoyed about being the Boss. His office was nice and secluded. More lair than workspace. Or a cave. Someplace where he could go to hibernate, and nobody dared poke that particular bear without a damned good reason.

Next to his Gameboy sat the calendar, and Jack reached out to pick it up. 

Mumpsumis. (n) Latin, 16th Century

1. The act of adhering to traditional or archaic notions even though they are unreasonable.

2. A person who stubbornly clings to traditions regardless of appropriateness or suitability.

Jack flipped the page upwards, glancing at the word featured on the following day. Flagrant.

The next. Caustic. He thumbed past a few more pages. Fortuitous. Defenestration. He shoved a few more days upwards and read again. Gumption.

With his thumb, he found the most current page—matching the date with the one on his calendar. Yanking the paper upwards, he read the word there. 

Shrapnel. 

Well, hell.

Securing the calendar with one hand, he ripped the intervening pages off in one large stack. It felt like a relief, somehow, as if he’d started something that he’d been putting off for far too long. Like that cleansing thing that Sergeant Laurents had been talking about, only without the juice.

It was time, wasn’t it? Time to do what Daniel had been nagging him to do. Time to let it go. Shake it out. Move on. Cut out the shrapnel that he’d been allowing to fester. The signs couldn’t have been more clear, could they? It was right there—literally written in front of him. Emblazoned on the little square calendar on his desk. 

A knock at his door had him looking up just as a head peeked around the opening. Female. Dark curls, pretty face—lively eyes that immediately took in the calendar in his hand and the wad of paper in the other. 

“I can never keep up with those things.” The pretty face grinned. “My mother gives me one every year for Christmas, and I always end up ripping off weeks at a time because I just forget it day to day.”

“It’s a great idea in theory.”

“But perhaps not in execution.” She tossed her hair, pushing the door wider and easing the rest of her through. “It seems to require purpose of thought and attention to detail.”

“Attributes which I seem to possess in lamentably minute quantities.”

The woman adjusted the strap of a large briefcase on her shoulder and moved towards the desk. “I’m here for a meeting with General O’Neill. Since this is his office, I’m assuming that you are he.”

“I am, indeed, he.” Jack stood, catching her hand as she extended it. “And you are?”

“Senior Investigations Officer.” Her hand was soft, but strong. She held his a little longer than necessary before releasing it and stepping back. “I’m here from the Central Intelligence Agency.”

“Ah.” Jack gestured towards one of the chairs opposite his desk. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.” She grabbed the arm of one of the chairs and dragged it closer to the desk. “Do you mind? I hate balancing all my crap on my lap. It would be amazing if I could borrow a corner of your workspace.”

“Sure.” He watched as she pulled items out of the bag—pencils, a digital recorder, a couple of yellow legal pads. When she finally had everything arranged to her satisfaction, she situated the chair just so and lowered herself to sit. Only then did the General sink into his own chair.

She was pretty. Really pretty. And he was a General, but he was also a guy, and he couldn’t help but notice that she was rounded in all the right places. And kind of hot. And she kept looking up at him from under her eyelashes as if she were trying to sneak glances without letting him know that she was sneaking glances. Flustered, maybe. Kind of like she was trying to decide whether she wanted to—flirt with him?

His eyes wandered from the interesting things happening in front of his desk to the calendar sitting on top of it. Shrapnel. 

And in his hand, the page on top of the stack still clutched between his fingers. 

Mumpsimus. 

It hurt, a little, as he leaned over and tilted his hand towards the trash can. As if he’d started digging at the shards still festering beneath the surface. Like he’d begun the process of detoxifying—as mystifying as that still seemed. He actually felt a rush of something indefinable—sorrow, maybe, or grief—as he tossed the stack into the garbage. The sound of it hitting the plastic bag inside his receptacle pierced something deep inside him. Regret. That was it. Regret.

But it was time. Right? 

Right?

“You know my name.” Jack indicated the framed brass plate on his desk with a nod. “But you still haven’t told me yours.”

“Oh, criminy, I’m an idiot.” She laughed. Melodic, self-deprecating. “Kerry. Kerry Johnson.”

Let it go, Daniel had said. Move on. 

Well, okay then.

He was doing this.

It was time.

Chapter Text

Presidential Pardon

A Too-Long Drabble (Sort Of) About My Least Favorite Sam/Jack Trope

Not Shippy in the Least, Except Maybe If You Squint Really Hard

There. It’s Done And Checked Off The Bingo Board.

“Was he supposed to be here?” Sam dipped her chin, angling the question towards where her CO stood at her side.

“I didn’t think so.” Colonel O’Neill frowned, straightening his tie. “They said we wouldn’t see him until later.”

Yet, there he was. The Commander-in-Chief. Glad-handing his way through the crowded reception. Heading, in fact, in their direction.

“And here we have our heroes.” The President stopped, smiling at Carter and O’Neill. Extending a hand, he grasped O’Neill’s in a firm shake. “The two Air Force officers who saved the world.”

“We were just doing our jobs, Sir.”

“Well, you acquitted yourselves admirably, Colonel.” Blindingly white teeth flashed in a practiced grin as he clapped O’Neill on the bicep with his free hand and then stepped away. “The whole nation owes you a debt of gratitude.”

“We do our best, Sir.” O’Neill cracked a smile. He wasn’t impressed. To his credit, however, he was trying not to show it.

“And you, Captain Carter.” The older man reached for her hand, stepping towards her. “You and Colonel O’Neill have my undying respect and admiration.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Sam returned his handshake, expecting him to let go at any moment.

But he didn’t. Instead, he stepped closer, raising his other hand to clasp her shoulder. His expression turned oddly intimate. “I’ve known your father for years. He’s a hell of a guy, and a fine officer. It was no surprise to me that Jacob Carter’s daughter would be on the front lines of this new frontier.”

“I believe he’s here somewhere, Sir.” Sam scanned the crowd behind the President, but couldn’t find him. He and General Hammond had said something about catching up. They were likely holed up in a quiet spot somewhere reliving their glory days.

“I’m sure he’ll find me eventually.” Finally, he drew away, letting go of Sam’s hand.

“Probably.” Sam resisted the urge to wipe her hand on her skirt. She hadn’t expected the President of the United States to have such sweaty palms. “He tends to turn up when you least expect it.”

“True! True.” Booming laughter, and then he offered them both a little sort of obsequious nod. “Well, I guess I’ll see you later at the ceremony.” 

The Commander-in-Chief continued on, intent upon another group. However, just as he moved past Carter, a waiter dodged around a large ice sculpture, emerging directly in front of the President. Startled, the President hotstepped rearward to avoid collision.

He tripped, losing his balance before tumbling backwards directly into Carter. His heel came down hard upon her toe, and, muttering a curse, he fell heavily against her, knocking her completely off-kilter.

With an epithet of her own, Sam valiantly attempted to steady herself and the Commander-in-Chief, but he was too unwieldy for her—too heavy in her arms. Stepping backwards, she realized too late that her foot was still squished beneath the foot of the President, and she faltered, floundering sideways into the large, solid body of the Colonel. 

Within seconds, the President’s entourage of Secret Service agents gathered around the Commander-in-Chief, pulling him upright and away from SG-1. They put themselves to work getting him situated and making certain he was unhurt. 

Suddenly free of her anchor, Sam collapsed into O’Neill, relieved when his arms encircled her and kept her from tumbling to the ground. He held her just long enough to make sure she’d regained her balance, then carefully let go, keeping his hand at the small of her back for seemingly moral support. 

The President laughed it off once he was back on his own feet, casting embarrassed glances around at the gawking crowd. He tugged at his suit coat, then recentered his tie. Adjusting his sleeves, he smiled—a little sheepishly—at Sam.

“Captain. My apologies.” This time, his smile was self-deprecating. “Obviously, that wasn’t part of the ceremony.”

“Please don’t concern yourself, Sir.” Sam wriggled her toe in her shoe. Damn, that had hurt. Like—really hurt. The President could stand to lay off the hors d’oeuvers. Still, she gumptioned up a smile. “It was an accident. I’m more concerned about you.”

“Just a little embarrassed.” He tilted his head with a wink. “Good thing this shin-dig is top secret and there’s no press allowed, right?”

Right.

—---OOOOOOOO—---

“Oh—Captain Carter.”

Sam looked up from the velvet box in her hands. Turning, she faced General Hammond. “Yes, Sir?”

They’d just been awarded the medals that had been intended for them in DC. After the death of the reporter and subsequent investigation, plans for the ceremony with the President and Joint Chiefs had been scrapped. Carter had flown back to the Springs between O’Neill and Hammond, worried about her father and babying her still-throbbing big toe.

It had been a weird trip.

“The President asked that I give you this, as well.” He reached out, extending a small, white envelope.

“Getting private notes from the President, are we?” O’Neill leaned over to look at the missive. “You must have made quite the impression on the Commander-in-Chief.”

Sam handed the Colonel the box containing her medal, then took the dispatch from the General. Turning the envelope, she frowned down at it in confusion. It wasn’t large—smaller than the typical greeting card. Her name flowed across the smooth surface in delicate calligraphy. Flipping it over, she studied the back. It had been sealed with a small dot of red wax. 

O’Neill made a little snort. “Fancy.”

“I’m sure it’s the norm in DC. Everything is ostentatious there.” Sam slipped her finger behind the back flap of the envelope and popped the seal open. The card inside was elegant—thick white card stock with gilded accents. The President’s name and “The White House” were embossed on the card’s front in gold.

Sliding the card free, she opened it, reading the hand-written message out loud.

“Captain Carter,

It was a pleasure to meet you and Colonel O’Neill in Washington last week. Allow me to once more express my, and this country’s, undying gratitude for the job that you are performing on our behalf.

On a personal note, I would again like to apologize for landing in such an ungallant fashion on your foot. I sincerely hope that you were not injured, and that you don’t harbor any ill will against me for the incident.

If you should feel the need for retribution, however, I hereby extend this invitation. Feel free to come to the White House and step on my toe at whatever time you wish. For this, and for any other peccadilloes, you are promised my immediate and complete pardon.”

His name was signed with a flourish. 

Punctuated with a smiley face.

“Peccadilloes?” Sam grimaced. “What the heck does that even mean?”

“‘Sins’. It’s archaic, but it means ‘little sins’.” O’Neill shrugged. “I’m more intrigued by the fact that he basically invited you to his office to beat the crap out of him.”

General Hammond sighed. “As much as we are all inclined to respect the man, he certainly makes that difficult from time to time.”

“Well, Carter.” O’Neill watched as she closed the note and slid it back back into the envelope. “Look at it this way.”

“What’s that, Sir?” She accepted the blue velvet box back from him.

“Rob a bank. Steal a HumVee and go for a joyride. Take an F-15 and fly it low and loud over the Capitol.”

“Why would I do any of those things?”

“Do something fun, Carter. Misbehave for once. Get in trouble.” He tapped the envelope in her hand with his index finger. “You’ve just been given your very own Presidential Pardon.”

“It’s just so weird.” Sam shook her head, crinkling her nose. “Isn’t it weird?”

“Hell, yes.” O’Neill was giving her an odd, speculative kind of look. Flickering a glance at Hammond, he leaned in towards her, his voice low and gravelly. “But I’d still hang on to it.”

“Sir?”

This time, his smile was veiled in something Sam had never seen, and couldn’t even hope to identify. A little shiver worked its way up her spine.

“You never know when that might come in handy.”

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Blind Date, Jealousy, Friend with Benefits

This story is set post-Shades of Gray and references another story I wrote  called “Cracks in the Glass” which is set post-Point of View. In my head, the conversation that Jack and Sam have in that story is very much canon.

TL/DR:

“Because if I’m going to kiss a Carter, it’s going to be the right one,” he said. “And damned if you aren’t the right one.”

-------OOOOOOO-------

If Sam Carter didn’t have bad luck, she’d have no luck at all. 

She leaned back in her chair, swishing the water in her glass. Why these places served water in fancy drinking vessels was beyond her. Tap water in a wine glass was still nothing more than tap water. Sam glared into the glass. The waiter hadn’t even deigned to add an ice cube. 

Warm tap water in a crystal goblet.

If that wasn’t the perfect metaphor for this entire cluster of an evening, she had no idea what was.

“I’m still just blown away at this coincidence.” Eric shook his head, his jovial face relaxing into an even broader grin. “It’s just weird, right? Jane and I have been at the same firm for ages—but the fact that the two of you work together, too? What a hoot that we happened to be at the same restaurant tonight.”

Sam managed a smile at that. Her own description wouldn’t have been quite that gracious. 

She’d arrived at the restaurant a little late. She’d lost track of time as she’d analyzed one of the alien devices recovered from the dark ops site. Gunning the Indian down the mountain at breakneck speed had gotten her home with just enough time to change, smooth on some lip gloss, and drive to Le Fleur, where she’d found her date already seated at a table. 

Only, he’d run into a friend from work, who was there with a blind date. Naturally, gregarious Eric had invited his friend Janie and her gentleman friend to sit with Sam and him. Sam hadn’t really wanted to be there in the first place. But now?

Of all the stinking, rotten, damned-awful luck. 

The Colonel raised his bottle in a semblance of a toast. “A hoot and a holler.”

“What is that, anyway?” Jane mused. Melodically. She leaned forward, folding her arms on the table.

“What’s what?” Eric and his friend had carried the majority of the evening’s conversation. 

“That phrase. My PopPop used to say that all the time. ‘You’ll have fun, Janie. It’ll be a hoot and a holler.’” She leaned forward, folding her arms on the table in front of her. It didn’t seem to occur to her that her posture pushed certain of her— assets —into greater prominence. 

Or maybe it did. 

Sam flickered a glance at the Colonel, who was taking a slow swig from his bottle. He didn’t appear to be paying attention to anything but the beer, but Carter knew better. It was one of his talents—pretending to do one thing while he was really doing another. That ability had been on full display in the past few weeks, as he’d acted as if he was betraying his team and his country, only to actually be saving the planet. Again.

Beside Carter, Eric laughed. He’d acted the gentleman, rising and pulling her chair out to help her sit. But then, he’d scooted his own chair closer to hers, making suggestions about appetizers and wines, commenting on her food as it had been served and suggesting different items for next time. He’d offered bites of his own entree to her from off his fork throughout the meal, which she’d not-so-politely declined.

Who did that? Especially on what was ostensibly only a second date. That was third date stuff. When you had a reasonable expectation of getting more than a handshake on the porch step.

His knee bumped Sam’s as he shifted on his chair. “I think it has something to do with owls, doesn’t it? Because owls hoot.”

Janie squinted a little, her full lips pursed as she considered. “But what about the holler part?”

“Perhaps that’s from Appalachia.”

He pronounced it wrong—with a long ‘a’ sound at the end and the rest of the word sounding like a kitschy statuette that grew hair from seeds. Sam looked down at the tablecloth and stopped herself from rolling her eyes. It hadn’t been for the first time this evening. 

“Don’t they call small pockets of farmland ‘hollers’? Probably derived from the word ‘hollow’.” Eric liked to do that. Display useless factoids as if they were worthy of anthology.

Sam had found it slightly endearing on their first date. 

Tonight? Annoying as hell. 

“Actually, that colloquialism can mean a few things.” O’Neill stretched one leg underneath the table. His foot brushed against Carter’s once—then twice—then moved away. He gestured with the hand holding the bottle. “It can either mean a short distance or journey, or it can refer to something that’s a good time.”

Sam dropped her eyes to her lap. Her napkin had made its way to the floor at some point during the evening. She could see it down there between her left foot and the Colonel’s right dress shoe. That shoe, though—his whole ensemble, really, had thrown her. She didn’t think she’d ever seen him in dress clothes that weren’t a uniform of some sort, except for that Christmas Eve when they’d taken Teal’c to church. Even then, he’d worn a sweater rather than a sports jacket. 

Tonight, he was actually wearing a suit. Dark gray. His tie was varying shades of blue on a navy background, his shiny black Oxfords looked as if they were new. He looked like a normal man out on a fancier-than-normal first date. And Jane, in her satiny low-cut halter dress and sky-high heels looked eminently complimentary to O’Neill’s classy—although unexpected—suavity. 

Eric’s sports jacket was tweed, which Sam found more humorous than anything else. The last time she’d seen anyone wear tweed, it had been Daniel. Only—Daniel could pull it off. Something about his inherent geekiness meshed with leather elbow patches. Eric? Not so much.

Sam, on the other hand, was underdressed for the evening. She’d worn a skirt, at least—bought for Cassie’s adoption party a few years before. Some sort of floaty fabric that swirled when she moved. Pretty—but juvenile when compared to Jane’s sophisticated sheath. If she hadn’t been in such a hurry, she would have rethought the sleeveless silk blouse she’d worn, or at least decided against checking her coat. The table they’d gotten was right under a vent. Sam had been cold the entire evening. That’s how she’d lost her napkin. She’d spread it out on her lap like a tiny blanket, only to move wrong and send it sliding down the slick gauze of her skirt to land on the floor.

So classy.

“Is that so?” Eric humphed a little. “Interesting.”

Janie swished her wine again, reaching out to splay her fingers on the Colonel’s bicep. Her manicured nails made perfect arcs against the deep navy of O’Neill’s sleeve. “PopPop told me that you were smart.”

PopPop. 

What self-respecting grown-ass woman called her father ‘PopPop’? 

Perfect ones obviously, with perfect family dynamics, and perfect relationships. Probably daughters who never worried that they were disappointments. Daughters whose fathers felt it incumbent upon them to set their beautiful, perfect daughters up with the good-looking next-door-neighbor who was also conveniently single. 

Perfect daughters like Jane. She was beautiful—one or two years older than Sam, shorter, a hell of a lot more buxom. She was the petite, vivacious kind of woman who managed to make other girls feel brutish and clumsy without really meaning to. Exotic hazel eyes, dark hair that fell in a perfect sheen just past her shoulders. Perfect teeth. Perfect makeup. Perfect manners. 

Just—perfect.

Sam glanced over at her own date. Eric was nice enough. Attractive. Mildly amusing. Smart enough that conversation wasn’t completely banal. But tonight—in such flagrant juxtaposition against the Colonel—well, hell. 

Sam was finding it difficult to remember why she’d even given him a second glance when she’d first met him the week before.

Maybe it had been the wine. It had been an exhausting, gut-wrenching past few months, culminating in a supremely crappy week. She’d ended up at O’Malley’s, sitting alone at the bar pushing a limp salad around her plate and slowly nursing a glass of red. So, when this nice guy had intrepidly plunked himself down on the bar stool next to her and tossed out some lame pick up line that shouldn’t have worked, she’d let herself be convinced. 

She didn’t drink much as a rule, so the single glass may have lowered her defenses. Perhaps that’s why she’d let him talk her into a second glass. And why she’d accepted his invitation to dinner a few nights later. 

If she were being honest with herself, though, she’d been nursing more than the wine. 

She’d been nursing her pride. 

“No, Carter. I haven’t been acting like myself since I met you.” He’d been standing near the control room, dressed in BDUs. His face had gone hard. “Now, I’m acting like myself.”

And then, he’d left. Gone back to retire with Laira on Edora. At least, that’s where he’d said he was going. In reality, he was single-handedly taking on a dark-ops crew of traitors and saving Earth’s relationships with vital intergalactic allies. 

So, the limp lettuce and the Cabernet had been a coping mechanism, maybe, or perhaps a crutch.

As for Eric? He’d been a distraction. A nice one for the past week or so, sure. But Sam found that his milquetoast blandness was quickly curdling.

Turning her attention to Jane, Sam schooled her expression into something acceptably benign. “I understand that your father lives next to Colonel O’Neill?”

“Right next door.” Janie nodded, leaning forward even more. She tilted her chin winsomely in the Colonel’s direction. “For several years now, all I’ve heard about is Jack O’Neill this and Jack O’Neill that. They both love fishing, both have ridiculous trucks, and my father flew in Vietnam, so he thinks that Jack’s pretty much perfect.”

Of course he was. So damned perfect.

Jane’s expression was cautiously speculative. “And the two of you work together as well?”

“Yep.” O’Neill had adopted a similar pose to Carter’s, scooted back from the table, one arm draped across his midsection while he balanced a bottle of beer on his thigh. He kept his focus on the centerpiece in the middle of the table. “Same unit.”

The woman in the next chair over perked up at that. “What kind of unit?”

“We work in Cheyenne Mountain, monitoring deep space radar telemetry.” It always sounded more believable coming from Carter rather than O’Neill. Nobody in their right mind would look at the Colonel and think ‘desk job’. Sam tried to sound casual. “Colonel O’Neill is my commanding officer.”

“So—what—that’s like your boss?”

“Basically.” She passed a furtive glance at said boss. He still hadn’t met her eyes. Impressive, really, since they were waiting on the check.

“So, that’s it.”

O’Neill took this volley. “What’s what?”

“There’s a tension between the two of you.” Despite her sweet and shallow affectation, Janie was an astute observer. She leveled an assessing look between her date and Sam. “At first, I thought that you two were just bored because Eric and I were monopolizing the conversation with lawyer stuff. But now, I think that it must be something else.”

Eric’s eyes widened. Drawing back in his seat, he looked between Sam and O’Neill with a keen eye. “You know—I think you’re right, Counselor.”

“Voir Dire.” Jane sat up straighter, all business. “Let’s figure these two out.”

“Let’s not.”

“There’s nothing to figure.”

Sam bit her lips together. She and the Colonel had spoken at the exact same time. And of course, Janie and Eric had noticed. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t.” Eric picked up his unused spoon, turning it over in his hands as he scanned the table before shifting focus back on Jane. “It’s pretty obvious that they’ll be hostile witnesses.”

“Not hostile. There’s just not much to talk about.” Forcing a smile, Sam kept her tone light.

“So private. So hush-hush.” Janie narrowed her eyes at Sam before glancing at O’Neill. “The two of you are incredibly tight-lipped.”

“Maybe it’s a military thing?”

“No offense to either of you, but what we do is classified.” The Colonel gripped the neck of his beer bottle between two fingers letting it swing slightly just above his thigh. “There are rules about what we can and can’t share.”

“Aren’t there also regulations about you people hanging out together?” Eric scooted his empty plate towards the middle of the table. “Even at Brimley, Brimley, Duncan, and Cross we have rules about who the senior staff are allowed to date.”

“We just work together. That’s it.” Sam was instantly aware how defensive she’d sounded. Pausing, she tried again. “I mean—yes, there are rules against fraternization in the military. But that usually only encompasses intimate relationships.”

“So, sexual relationships.”

“Yep.” The Colonel squinted at his bottle, a tiny smile playing on his lips as he looked over the table at Eric. “That.”

Eric’s tone was edging more towards ‘cross examination’ than ‘conversation’. “So, therefore, you should be able to socialize, right?”

“Of course.” Why she felt the need to explain, Sam couldn’t say. “We hang out all the time. Our whole team. All four of us. Or, at least, we used to.”

“Used to?” 

Eric had asked the question, but Sam’s attention was on the Colonel. She’d hazarded a look at him, only to find that he was looking back at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. She wasn’t sure what to make of that—but both relief and shock worried their way through her system. Before this past mission—before Edora—he’d always treated her with a mixture of amusement and admiration. But now? She didn’t know how to interpret the look he was casting her way. She only knew that she could feel his gaze all the way through to her center. 

It felt both foreign and familiar to be his target. She’d missed him—so badly—when he’d been stranded on Edora—worked so hard to get him home, only to have him look right through her as if she didn’t even exist. And then he’d launched into the act he’d had to play for the Tollan and Asgard, pushing her even further away. She’d tried not to think about it, tried to let go of whatever emotions had assuaged her during his absence, but late at night, without other distractions, she’d found herself staring at the ceiling trying to interpret what it had all meant.

Trying to chase away the grief she’d harbored at what she’d lost.

“I’ve been away on another assignment for a while.” O’Neill moved closer to the table, somehow divesting himself of Janie’s touch without seeming to do it on purpose. “I just got back a few days ago.”

“How fortuitous, then, that I happened to meet you yesterday.” Janie dodged to one side as a member of the waitstaff took her plate. She’d ordered something elegant and light—and left half of it uneaten. Picking up her wine glass, she swished her chardonnay absently as she leaned on the table. “I go to visit my dad and there’s this virile, handsome manly-man that my dad’s always talking about. I was totally bored with the guy I’d been dating, so, really, the timing was ideal.”

“Ideal.” Sam sat up, scooching her chair closer to the table. She threw the waiter a smile as he tidied her plate away. “The Colonel, or just the timing?”

Janie touched O’Neill again, this time squeezing his forearm. Her lips relaxed into a grin. “Well, you have to admit he’s pretty hot.”

“Which means that ‘hot’ is your ideal.” Eric stretched his arm across the back of Sam’s chair, his fingers coming to rest on her shoulder.

“A girl has to have her standards, Eric.”

“Since when?” He laughed out loud at that. “I mean—after all—you dated me for a while.”

Sam’s brows rose, and she shot a sideways look at her date. “Excuse me?”

Eric snorted, angling towards Sam even as he raised his wine glass. “It didn’t last long, and we were never really together.”

“We didn’t really date, Sam.” Jane shrugged. “Let’s just say that we were friends with benefits.”

“It was on one of those schmoozy professional conference cruises.” Eric grinned, remembering. “Janie and I were the only ones there who were single—“

“And not disgusting—“

“Or ancient.” He looked over at Sam. Sheepishly, maybe, or just embarrassed. “We got bored and there was a lot of alcohol involved.”

“What can I say? I’m a modern woman.” Jane patted the Colonel on the arm. “Only—don’t tell PopPop. He still thinks I’m a lily-white virgin.”

O’Neill lifted the corner of his mouth in what might have been termed a smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”

“So, what do you say, Jack?” Jane removed her napkin from her lap, folding it neatly before placing it on the table in front of her. Resting her elbow on the table, she narrowed a look at the man beside her. “Let’s go somewhere else for dessert.”

“Even better.” Eric’s palm was light against Sam’s shoulder. “I know of a great little jazz place a few blocks from here. Great cocktails—live music. We could make a night of it.”

Sam sat up straight, shaking her head as she moved her chair away from the table. “I’m sorry, Eric. I’ve got to get home. I’ve got an early morning briefing.”

“We both do.” O’Neill gestured towards the waiter, asking for the check. “Maybe another time.”

—----OOOOOOO—----

“Well, that was awkward.”

He’d shown up quietly, coming around the side of her little house to stop at the foot of her porch steps. It felt a little like deja vu. He’d come here a few months ago. After he’d saved another Earth in an alternate reality. After Sam had watched him kiss Dr. Carter-O’Neill goodbye on her side of the quantum mirror. Sam had fled the Mountain, escaping to this exact spot on her porch to watch the sun set.

And here he was again. Fresh off a date with another woman. Judging by the fact that he was still wearing his suit, he’d most likely just dropped Jane off at her apartment.

Awkward? Hell, yes.

“Kind of.” She gathered the quilt more tightly around her body, tucking it around her toes. It was frigid outside, but she’d needed it—needed the fresh air and night sky. Needed to look up at the stars to help clear her head after the muddle that the evening had made in it. Find her center. Quiet the doubts and misgivings roiling around in her soul. 

His voice was low, but earnest. “I had no idea that you’d be there tonight.”

“I can’t imagine how you could have known, Sir.”

“I didn’t know that you were dating anyone.”

She watched as he stepped nearer, as he stopped at the bottom of the stairs opposite her. She was sitting on the top step, leaning against the rickety railing. In the light filtering through the kitchen window behind her, she could barely make out his features. His eyes—still shuttered—seemed fathomless as they studied her. She looked away—suddenly, and ridiculously—self conscious. “I wasn’t, really.”

“Wasn’t?”

“It was only the second time I’d seen him.” She tangled her fingers in the fabric of the quilt. “And I’m not interested in seeing him again.”

O’Neill shoved his hands into the pockets of his slacks. He’d loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his dress shirt. He’d checked a coat at the restaurant, but he wasn’t wearing it now–it was most likely still in his truck.

Sam hadn’t heard him ring her doorbell, but that wasn’t unusual. He had probably seen the light in the kitchen and come around to the back rather than continue knocking up front. He’d done it before. He knew her habits. Knew where she liked to think. Even at midnight in the chill of a Colorado Springs February.

“So, a briefing, huh?”

It had been an excuse, and of course, O’Neill had known that. “Too obvious?”

“Just obvious enough, I think.”

Sam grimaced. “I just really wanted to get out of there.”

He murmured an assent, looking down at where his shiny shoes made indentations in the dead grass. “Me, too.”

It hadn’t snowed much this winter, but it had rained copiously. As a result, Sam’s yard wasn’t as much dry, dead grass as it was wet, muddy, dead grass. She hadn’t ventured further than her porch since New Year’s Day, when she’d pitched her withered Christmas tree in the trash, a chore that had left her with dirty, sodden slippers and cold feet. She’d wisely kept to her tiny porch ever since. 

Carter cast a furtive glance towards the detached garage just to the west, where she’d stowed her patio furniture a few winters before. Internally, she chided herself once again for never having gotten it back out. Despite the quilt, her butt was cold on the hard wooden slats of the porch.

But she digressed. “Didn’t you like her?”

“Who, Jane?” O’Neill tapped at the bottom step of her porch with the toe of his Oxford. “She was alright.”

“She was beautiful. Funny. A great conversationalist.”

“She was.” But his tone said that he was unimpressed. He looked at Carter, his expression carefully bland. “Eric seemed nice. Smart. Successful. Moderately interesting.”

“He was.” Sam dipped her chin towards the quilt, pressing her nose to the patchwork.

“But?”

Carter raised her brows, turning his question back at him. “But?” 

He let out a strangled breath, climbing onto the bottom stair. “If he was so great, why don’t you want to see him again?”

“If Jane was so great, why don’t you want to see her again?”

Slowly, he took another step. Then another. He was standing on the step below hers, now, his back against the rail opposite her. His hands made tight fists in his pockets. His deep eyes found hers through the darkness. “I think that you and I both know that it wouldn’t have been fair.”

It almost hurt, to be caught by his gaze. Pierced to her core. And all of a sudden, all she could remember was the feel of him against her, his hands on her throat, her cheek, her back, as he’d kissed her five months ago. The taste of him, his smell. How easily he’d filled every bit of her emptiness and left her wanting the impossible.

She’d thought she’d moved past it. Thought she’d accepted what had to be. What couldn’t be. She’d thought that there had been some understanding between them. She’d thought—well, damn it, she’d thought wrong. Allowing her eyes to drift closed, she fought through the memories, the images tumbling through her head like a river current over boulders.

“So, what is fair, Sir?” Sam’s toes curled around the lip of the step. “Was Edora fair? And what happened after Edora—was that fair?”

“Carter—“

“Because it didn’t feel fair , Sir.” Her voice tasted bitter in her throat. “When I practically killed myself getting you home and you turned around and betrayed me.”

He turned away from her, scanning the yard briefly before looking down at where his shoes were dark forms against the pale white of her porch steps. “I didn’t betray you.”

“Logically, I know that.” Sam ducked her chin, brushing her cheek against the softness of the fabric encircling her. “Intellectually, I know that.”

Silence stretched between them—the darkness making them feel closer. Making the porch feel intimate rather than out in the open. Sam loosened the quilt at her throat, wriggling her shoulders to free her arms. Her fingers instantly ached in the cold. But just now, that pain was more welcome than the other ache assailing her. The one closer to her heart. 

“But?”

“But nothing.” She shook her head, turning her face into the breeze. At least the brisk wind would give her an excuse for the wetness that threatened behind her eyelids. She swallowed hard—then sniffled, then sighed. “There’s nothing more to say, is there?” 

Nothing to feel. At least—nothing that she was allowed to feel.

“I think that you and I also both know that’s a crock.” He slid towards her, so that his shoes were next to the quilt covering her. Tugging his hands free of his pockets, he indicated the spot next to her. “May I?”

She hesitated for a breath, then tilted herself up and pulled the quilt out from underneath her. Lifting the edge, she extended it in invitation. Foolhardy. Stupid, even, to share warmth with him. 

Still, when he sat, she reached around to tuck the quilt around his back, feeling what—relieved? gratified?—when he scooched closer to her and pulled the quilt around to cocoon around them both. He was wearing cologne—something else that was new. Sandalwood and a hint of citrus, when she’d never known him to smell like anything but him . 

“Thank you.” 

“It’s cold, Sir.” As if that could explain away her immediate capitulation. 

This—this closeness—should have been anything other than comfortable, but instead it felt right. As if the porch, the night, and her quilt had lacked nothing but his presence to become perfection. 

Damn that luck, too. That the one person who could make her space in the world feel like home was also the one person who wasn’t allowed to live there. 

“For what it’s worth, Carter, I’m sorry.” The Colonel angled his head towards her without looking at her. He spoke down to where the quilt overlapped between their bodies. “Daniel and Teal’c told me what you did—how hard you worked to bring me home. I haven’t told you how much I appreciate it. I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.” She was too quick to dismiss him, but she flailed forward, anyway. “I was just doing my job.”

“I owe you everything.” His voice gritted through the space between them. “Without you—well, I’d still be there. Still miserable. Still hating myself for—well, for the whole damned situation.”

“I thought you’d want to come home.” Sam futzed with the quilt, tucking it back around her bare feet. “But when I got there, you seemed happy. You’d built something there. With the village. With her.”

“I didn’t want any of it.” He raised his free hand to scratch at the shadow on his chin. “I just wanted to be here.”

“Then why—” She didn’t need to finish the question. They both knew what it was.

“Because I’d lost everything, Carter. My life here. My team. Everything. Everything was just gone.” He clenched his jaw, remembering. His entire body went tense. “I kept hoping that I’d get a radio signal. That the ‘Gate was active underground. Any kind of sign that I hadn’t been left there to rot. I worked in the village during the day, and spent hours every night trying to dig up the ‘Gate. It was exhausting and infuriating. But in the end, I got nothing. The job seemed impossible. Was impossible.”

“You had to know that we wouldn’t give up.”

“I hoped you wouldn’t.”

“Then why—” She stopped herself again, hesitant.

“Why did I sleep with her?” He covered his eyes with his hand, sighing heavily. “Is that what you want to know?”

“I don’t have the right to ask that, Sir.”

Sir. 

Sir.  

For the longest time, he merely sat and glared out into the quagmire that was her yard. His lips, his expression—his entire being tight. When he finally spoke, his words were reedy and thin. “Yes, you do. Although you may not like the answer.”

“Then I won’t ask it.”

O’Neill raked a hand through his hair, groaning a little in frustration, or maybe in pain. “I lost hope, Carter. I lost faith that I mattered anymore.”

“Of course you mattered.” 

“In our world, people are expendable. I’ve been deemed an acceptable loss a few times. I thought it had happened again.” He moved a shoulder. A shrug, or just acquiescence—that was unclear. “And after so long—I didn’t expect to ever hear from home again. From any of you.”

His thigh, his shoulder, were solid against hers. She hadn’t changed when she’d gotten home, and the stiff fabric of his suit coat rubbed against the bare skin of her arm. She could feel the subtle play of his thigh muscle through the gauzy fabric of her skirt—could see this man as Jane had seen him—as he appeared to strangers. Virile, handsome, masculine. But Sam knew him in ways that Jane never could. His compassion, his humor, his innate sense of honor and integrity. His courage. His strength. 

Carter could not conceive of a moment—a single millisecond—when this man would not be vital to her existence. When she wouldn’t move the heavens and earths in every galaxy in the universe to bring him home to her.

“You have never been, and never will be, expendable to me, Sir.”

He stilled. Expectant, unsure. “Not even when I’ve hurt you?”

“It was the situation that hurt, Sir.” She turned to look at him, and again was struck at the intensity of his eyes on her. “It was seeing you there, with—her. And then being cut out of the other mission as if I weren’t good enough, somehow. As if I were no longer necessary.”

He merely waited, knowing that she had more to say.

“Teal’c broke through on Edora expecting to see you working to get home, and instead we found you happily making a new home for yourself. I thought you’d welcome us with open arms, and you almost seemed disappointed to see us.” 

Somewhere beyond the little house, a car wended its way through her neighborhood, its engine cutting through the relative peace of the night. It cut a bit of the tension, too. Offered a buffer from the moment. 

“I was ashamed of myself, Carter.” The Colonel smiled down at the quilt, but the expression was humorless. “I was disappointed in myself for what I’d allowed to happen. For being weak.”

“Not weak.” Sam shook her head. It was testament to her admiration for him that she could defend what had caused her such pain. “Human.”

“I should have known you’d figure it out.” Shifting under the quilt, he moved closer, his heat seeping into her body. “I should have—aw, hell.”

Sam went back there in her mind. Standing on the path, watching him. Seeing Laira, her face cautious, yet hopeful. The picture had come to Carter with immediate clarity—what had happened there between O’Neill and the village woman. It had hit her with remarkable, devastating force.

She’d been immobile. Could only stand there as she struggled against the knowledge. She’d felt stupid and used. Like some junior high geek who’d done the cute popular guy’s homework. She’d been embarrassed and jealous and a little angry. Still was, maybe. And yet, she still hadn’t had an opportunity to resolve it. Not with the Colonel leaving almost immediately afterward to deal with bases full of dark ops thieves stealing stuff from their allies.

Sam pressed her eyes closed, only to feel it all again. The shock, the despair. The embarrassment. “Everyone was staring at me. Or watching the two of you. I had to shove everything down and try to act as if—” 

Act as if my world hadn’t been shattered. As if my heart hadn’t been broken. As if I wasn’t aching, hurting, bruised. She couldn’t say the words but they were there. Implied rather than spoken. Hanging in the dark between them.

And of course, he interpreted the silence perfectly. “Act as if the whole situation wasn’t FUBAR.”

“That.” She should have stopped there, but the spigot had been turned. Once the words started to flow, Sam found that they wouldn’t stop without effort. Sucking in a deep, frigid breath, she shrugged, further roughing her shoulder against the nap of his suit. “And then, to be cut out of the dark ops mission. It felt like a further rejection. And I know—logically—strategically—it had to happen how it did. What you did, how you acted, was mission-necessary. What you said was appropriate for the situation. But damn, Sir.”

It hurt. 

His hand found hers under the quilt, the weight of it—the heat of it—welcome on her skin. “For what it’s worth, I was chosen for the dark ops mission because nobody would have believed you going rogue. You’re too good. Too golden.”

“Still.” Sam knew that she sounded a little petulant, a little small. “It still didn’t make me feel better. I felt like I’d failed in some way. When we found out what was really going on, it made it worse. As if I’d been rejected again.”

“On top of everything else.”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

His fingers threaded themselves between hers, lifting her hand to rest on his thigh. “I’m sorry, Carter. I wish it could have been different. That everything could be different.”

He wasn’t just talking about the mission. Hell—he wasn’t even just talking about Edora. Sam could feel the callouses on his palm, the rough strength of his hand around hers. Could feel the tension in his body, the way his voice caught on his words as if he were trying to control more than his tone. 

She tilted her chin downward, and somehow her cheek ended up against his shoulder, and he’d lowered his head to press his cheek against her crown. Switched the hand that held hers in order to insinuate his arm around her back—dragging her even closer against him, until she was enveloped completely by his heat—his body—his smell.

By him. 

She simply breathed for a minute, relishing the feel of him next to her, the sound of his breathing. The beat of his pulse against her wrist. The fervid connection they shared. 

“So, like I said, I’m sorry.” He squeezed her fingers again, his thumb making a slow arc on the top of her hand. “I never intended to hurt you.”

“I know.” And she did.

After a long beat, he let go, placing her hand on her own lap. He shrugged the quilt off one shoulder. “So, we’re good? Friends again?”

Oh, lord, how that stung. “Friends.”

“Okay.”

They simply sat there for several more minutes. The temperature had fallen to the point that their breath made little puffs of white in the air. The moon cast a hazy path along the dead grass in her yard, sparkling off the wetness still there from the last bit of rain. Stars—so many stars—littered across the blackness above.

Sam curled her toes again, tucking them into the hem of the quilt. Damn, it was frigid. Less so with him next to her. But she was already mourning his leaving.

He frowned, tilting his chin in her direction. “Friends with benefits.”

Ummmmm. “Sir?”

“That must be a new thing.” O’Neill narrowed his eyes, gazing off into the hedges that formed a border between her yard and her neighbor’s. “I’m assuming they weren’t talking about dental and a 401K.”

Sam couldn’t bite back the giggle. “No. They weren’t.”

“So, is that some Generation X code word?” A dimple creased his right cheek as he grinned over at her. “I’m a Baby Boomer, so I’m unfamiliar with these newfangled ideas.”

“It’s like a booty call, Sir.” 

“Booty call?” He frowned. “As in pirates?”

She could feel her cheeks grow pink. “When people hook up.”

“Like you hook up cable, or the internet?”

“No—as in sleeping together.” Sam tried again. In for a penny, right? She laid it all out. “Meaningless, casual sex. When it’s between people who know each other, and not something random like a one-night stand—”

But when she looked at him, she saw that he was laughing silently, his shoulders shaking gently beneath the quilt. 

“—and you knew what it meant in the first place.”

“Yes, I did.” He nudged her with his shoulder, leaning in to speak next to her ear. “But it was fun listening to you explain it.”

She nudged him back. “Dork.”

“Yes. I am.” He shifted, shaking the quilt off his shoulders and repositioning it around her body. Standing, he tucked the thick folds around her body. “Warm?”

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He straightened, studying her face for a beat before pivoting a quarter turn and descending. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “At the early morning briefing.”

“That’s at three in the afternoon.”

“Yep. That’s the one.”

Nodding, he looked down at his shoes, his smile bright in the darkness. Again, the silence stretched between them. Only this time—it felt different. Resolved, somehow. Or just filled with understanding. And yet he didn’t leave. He looked up at her again, capturing her eyes with his. 

“You said that it wasn’t fair.”

“Sir?”

“None of this is fair, Carter.” His words were filled with quiet resignation. “To find someone—so—needed. To find someone who makes me want—”

“What?” She had to ask, even though she knew to the marrow of her bones that the answer would hurt. “Someone who makes you want what, Sir?”

He hesitated for a beat. Preparing himself for what he had to say, perhaps. Or maybe just feeling the night, and the cold, and what had passed between them.

“You have to know that I can’t answer that.” He was practically whispering, now. 

She answered him in kind. “I know.”

“But you also have to know that I want to.”

“I  know that, too.”

He nodded again, tugging at his tie with the hand that had so recently held hers. “All right then.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Sir.”

“Yeah.” 

And for once, she was grateful for the night, for the darkness. Grateful that she couldn’t see him clearly enough to read the expression in his eyes. Thankful that he couldn’t interpret hers. Couldn’t see just how much she understood what he’d meant by needing someone so much—wanting someone so badly—that it seemed as if nothing in the world would ever be fair again. 

He dragged a hand across his jaw, scratching at the stubble there. Frowned again. Sighed. 

“Good night, Carter.”

“‘Night, Sir.”

And then he’d turned and gone, making his way across grass dormant in the winter cold, leaving Sam to wonder about wanting, and friends, and need, and hope. 

And thinking that she might not be completely luckless, after all. 

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Hockey

Cassandra Fraiser

Fake Dating

“So, are you married?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so.” The woman shook her head, her hair swishing around her chin. “I’ve noticed you around here from time to time, and I’ve never seen a ring.”

Oooookay. Jack narrowed a look over at the interloper. “Some married guys don’t wear rings.”

“True.” She was attractive, in a well-coiffed, well-dressed kind of way. Bleached blond hair, just a tidge too much makeup. Her jewelry was both flashy and real. Over forty, but not wanting to admit it. She scooted closer to him on the metal bleacher, the heels of her expensive shoes scraping against the metal step. “But it’s still more common than not.”

Whistles on the field drew everyone’s attention, and a low murmur spread through the stands. A flurry of shouted instructions came from the coaches on the sidelines, with one in particular arguing with the umpire who had blown the whistle. Players hustled to their positions for a penalty stroke.

“So?” She leaned in towards him. “Which one’s yours?”

Good lord. Even her perfume was intrusive. Leaning to the opposite side, O’Neill scanned the field for a moment, finally nodding towards the furthest edge of the field. “Number fifteen. Right midfielder.”

“Ah.” The woman brightened. She had a fleck of lipstick on her right incisor. “The Fraiser girl. Are you the father?”

“Nope.”

“Mom’s boyfriend?”

Date Doc Fraiser? She’d insist on flashing that eye flasher thing in his eyes every night before bed. And dollars to donuts there’d be big honkin’ needles appearing at exactly the wrong moments. “No.”

Even closer, now. He could see a faint line in front of her ear where her foundation hadn’t been blended correctly. Like high tide marking the sand.

“I’m Angela.” The woman turned towards him, extending a hand. Her nails were more than slightly reminiscent of talons, long and polished until they gleamed in the afternoon sun. “Angela Longsworth. Of the Denver Longsworths.”

“Hi, Angela.” Jack hesitated. Why did it seem like a trap? He’d been trapped before. He knew all about traps. This seemed like a trap. Despite his better judgment, he shook the proffered hand, letting go almost immediately. “I’m Jack.” 

“So, Jack.” Angela angled herself towards him. “What do you do?”

“As in—for work?”

“Yes, silly. For work.”

She’d tittered. Jack had never heard a woman titter before, but he was pretty certain that's what she’d done. He focused on the field, picking Cassie out of the crowd of field hockey players making its way down towards the opposite goal. “I’m a military man, Ma’am.”

“Ooooh. So, what does that mean?”

“What does what mean?” He thought he’d been fairly clear.

“You being a military man.” The talons made finger quotes in the air. 

“Well, I’m a man.”

“Obviously.” 

Wide eyes sized him up at that one. Jack sat up straighter. “And I’m in the military.”

“Which branch?”

“Air Force.”

“Oh? I hear that’s one of the good ones.” She said it enthusiastically. As if they were talking about breeds of cat or headache medications.

Jack tried to figure out exactly how to respond to her, but was hampered by movement on his other side. 

“Angie, you little minx, you.” 

A new voice clamored in Jack’s other ear. Another woman climbed over the bleachers behind him, plunking herself down on his other side. The newcomer was practically identical to the first one, only her hair was a carefully expensive shade of red. 

So—not just a trap. This was an ambush. 

“Have you finally made contact, Angie?” Red laid a hand on Jack’s arm, dragging his attention her way. “She’s kind of our ring leader. We’ve been trying to suss you out for a while, mister.”

Jack swallowed, longing for his P-90. “We?”

“Angela, Tiff, Betsy, and me.” Red laid her hand against her own sternum. Her nails were identical to Angela’s. She jerked her head slightly ahead and down to their left where two other women peered up at them with thinly veiled interest.  “I’m Therese.”

“Hi, Theresa.”

“No–not Theresa.” She shook her head, her earrings swinging beneath her lobes. Her teeth were lipstick-free when she smiled.  “Therese. It’s French. Therese Hackett.”

“Of the Paris Hacketts?”

His joke fell flat. Even so, both women were now peering at him as if he were far more interesting than he really wanted to be. Like a new offering at their favorite cafe. Or carrion. Or a possible sacrifice at some near-future single women’s revenge ritual. He had a strange sensation that either of them would pounce at any moment. 

“It’s just that you’re kind of an anomaly. A nice, normal-looking single gentleman of a specific age at one of these things. You know how it is.”

“Who says I’m normal?” Jack’s brows rose. And who the hell ever said that he was nice?

Another whistle broke through the conversation, and Angela and Therese both looked toward the field, yelling their kids’ names and clapping.  Their responses were automatic. Pavlovian. Creepy. 

“Well,” Her motherly duties dispensed with, Angela turned back towards Jack, touching him on his knee. “You wouldn’t be here cheering for that Fraiser kid if you weren’t nice.”

That Fraiser kid? Wait just a cotton-picking minute—

“Jack—I’ve been looking for you.”

He’d missed her entering the complex. She’d obviously brought the Indian. She was in full leathers; body-hugging, tight, soft, delicious leathers—right down to the chunky boots she favored when she was on her bike. Her hands were occupied with a tray from the concessions stand—sodas and popcorn nestled in their individual cardboard sections. Fresh-faced, natural, her hair was wind-mussed gold, glowing in the late-day sun like a tousled halo. 

She was the polar opposite of the women on either side of him. She was perfect.

Still— Jack ?

“Have I missed much?” Carter stopped just to the side of Angela, glaring down expectantly at the woman. Her expression flickered between battle-ready Major and Biker Chick. Fun, with a hint of assasin. Sexy as hell. “I tried to get here sooner, but they made me lock up my sidearm before I could come in.”

Therese’s eyebrows rose sky-high. “And you are?”

“With him.” Carter grinned. It wasn’t friendly. “Now scooch.”

Angela looked towards Jack—surprised, shocked, annoyed—her eyes wide and not just a little hysterical. “Do you know this woman?”

“I do.” Jack peered up at Sam. Despite his surprise at seeing her there, he was intensely relieved that she was, indeed, there. Still, he wasn’t quite sure what he was supposed to do. “She’s my—”

Friend? Co-worker? Wildly off-limits subordinate? Nightly fantasy?

But he shouldn’t have worried. Carter was handling it. 

“Angela?” Her eyes were icy. She slid past Angela’s feet, her boots heavy on the metal bleachers step. Leaning over, she plunked the concessions fare on Jack’s lap. “Your name is Angela, right?”

“Angela Longsworth. Of the Denver Longsw—”

“Yeah. Whatever.” Sam’s gaze flickered between the blond and the redhead. Now that her hands were free, she slowly unzipped her riding jacket, revealing a white tank top underneath. “I’m with him. Have been for a while.”

“You should probably know that he said he was single.”

Jack watched as Sam shrugged out of the jacket. Toned arms, cut biceps, slim waist, just a hint of a bruise on her right shoulder where she butted her weapon. And, well, everything um— else . So. Damn. Freaking. Perfect. 

And while he wasn’t supposed to notice all of that amazing faultlessness, he was just a little fixated on it all the same. Hell—even Angela, Tiff, Betsy and Therese were fixated on the Major, and they ostensibly didn’t even swing that way. 

“I’m missing the game.” Sam’s smile broadened, her dimples cutting deeply into her cheeks. “And you’re in my seat.”

The two women glared up at Sam, their eyes sharp and narrow. 

But Biker Chick Sam cared not a whit. Her tawny eyebrows lifted a tidge. “Scooch.”

So, Angela and Therese scooched. 

Skedaddled. Vamoosed. Flew the coop. Their high heels clonking against the metal stands as they decamped back to where Tiff and Betsy were still half-heartedly watching the game between glances back up at Jack.

Sam pivoted on her chunky boot heels and lowered herself to the seat beside O’Neill. Laying the leather jacket on the bench on her other side, she surveyed the hockey field, scanning the players for Cassie. 

“She looks good out there.”

“She’s had a great game so far.” O’Neill shifted, finding the warmth of her leather-clad thigh strangely comforting against his. “She scored a goal early on, but the other team has been guarding her closely.”

Sam reached into his lap for some popcorn. “You might want to put your arm around me, Sir.”

“Excuse me?”

“Are you going to continue coming to Cassie’s field hockey games?”

“Of course.”

She squinted over at him. “Do you want those women to continue flirting with you?”

Is that what that had been? Flirtation? It had felt like a full-frontal assault. “Not really.”

“I’ve seen their kind before, Sir. Last year, when Cassie played soccer, a group of harridans just like that wouldn’t leave this nice single dad alone. They were relentless.”

“Didn’t he want to be pursued? Some guys like that.”

“His wife had just left him. The divorce wasn’t even final. He wasn’t ready to date again.” Sam shrugged. “Eventually, he started hanging out with Janet and me just for protection.”

“It’s been a while for me, Carter. I haven’t studied up on modern mating rituals.”

“Well, Sir.” She swallowed, reaching into his lap again for her soda. “You’re in their sights. You’re their target. That makes you the prize catch. They won’t stop until one of them has landed you and you’re being ceremonially scaled and fileted.”

He actually shuddered. That thought was terrifying. “That sounds horrific.”

“Then you need to sell this.” She sent him a sideways glance, from beneath lowered lashes. “If you want them to leave you alone, you need to make us believable.”

“Okay.”

Where to start? He’d spent so many years endeavoring not to touch her that doing it now, on Earth, in public, was terrifying.  Jack looked over at Carter, but she’d turned her attention back to the game, her quick eyes following the action on the field. 

Exhaling slowly, he looked around at the other spectators. Moms and Dads, siblings, grandmas and grandpas. One couple sat a few rows down in front of them, the husband doing just as Carter had suggested—his arm draped around his wife’s lower back. 

The man had what looked like a rubber band around his wrist. Jack had seen something like it before—some religious types had been selling the same sort of bracelets outside the Safeway the other day. Just like those bracelets, four capital letters were emblazoned on this band. 

W. W. J. D.

And while he knew full well to whom the ‘J’ on the band was actually referring, something else—someplace else— someone else tickled in the back of his mind. 

Raw minerals spitting sparks and fire. Dark, cold tunnels, dank, recycled water, common sleeping rooms. And a spot behind the ventilation processor on the second level where nobody else ever ventured. Long hours spent working out exactly how the plucky, optimistic engineer with the fathomless blue eyes had liked to be touched. Jonah hadn’t had a single qualm about discovering Thera—hadn’t struggled to figure her out in the least—and he’d only been trying to survive a glacial apocalypse. 

Jonah had never been actively pursued by one of the Denver Longsworths. 

So? What would Jonah do?

Jack leaned back a little, careful not to upset the tray on his lap. Carter was close enough that he could feel the muscles in her thighs as she tensed and relaxed along with the game play. Her arm brushed against his, her shoulder nearly flush with his own. 

A quick glance down and to the left assured him that yes, the Harridan Squad was still watching. Taking a deep, surreptitious breath, Jack moved the tray to the bench beside him and, literally taking his life into his hands, he reached over and curved his hand around Carter’s thigh.

She looked down at his hand, then sideways at him, a single dimple making a lovely little divot in her cheek. “That’s a hell of an opening salvo, Sir.” 

“You said to make it believable.” He raised his other hand, using the back of his index finger to trace a hint of a line down her bare arm. “I’m just following orders.”

Was that a hitch in her breathing? He checked, but her expression was benign. She was well-trained. She wouldn’t betray the game if she could help it. 

He squeezed her thigh, then reached over and took her hand in his. His thumb made a wide, deliberate arc on the side of her hand. He could feel the calluses of their trade on her palm, a little roughness against his own as he lifted their joined hands and feathered a kiss on her knuckles. 

Her eyelids fluttered, but still, she appeared focused on the game, watching as Cassie’s team made a play for a goal, only to be blocked at the last moment. The other team’s center midfielder took the ball downfield and drove it to a forward, who passed it laterally to another player to score a goal. Groaning, Carter tightened her fingers around his, looking down at their hands, at the spot where his lips had touched her skin. “Are you really sure that you want to get this believable?”

“It was your idea, Major.”

And he honestly couldn’t tell whether her shrug was in resignation or challenge. 

On the field, the whistle blew again.

“Offsides.” Carter pulled her hand free, applauding and calling out encouragement towards the field. “Atta girl Cassie! Head on a swivel!”

With a final clap, Carter straightened on the hard metal bench, craning her head to watch as the players ran down towards the goal at the opposite end of the field. Her posture seemed expectant, somehow. Like she was waiting for his next move. 

All right, then. Jack stretched his arm around her lower back, catching her belt loop with his thumb and testing the leather on her hip with his fingers. 

She leaned into his body with her customary nudge. “That’s believable.”

“But boring.”

“It’s what couples do, though, isn’t it?”

“Depends on the couple.” O’Neill dragged his hand off her hip and meandered up her back, teasing slightly against her spine, rubbing tiny circles with the pads of his fingers until he’d reached the nape of her neck, where soft skin beckoned just under the fringe of her hair. He brushed her fingertips at her hairline, using his thumb at the base of her skull. She leaned back into his touch with a slow exhale. Just like she had all those many months before—when she’d responded to his hands from within a different name. When they’d actually been a thing rather than just pretending to be one. “Some couples are more interesting than others.”

He knew she liked this. Jonah had figured that out early in their tenure under the ice city. And Jack remembered exactly where to put just the scarcest hint of pressure—just under her ear—

There it was. He bit back a self-satisfied smile. This time, he had definitely heard a hitch. And felt the delicate shiver as it made its way down her body. 

So, he did it again, and then ventured just a bit further when she sighed out the slightest hint of a moan, leaning in to ask, “Everything okay?” 

“That may be a little too believable, Sir.”

With a wry smile, Jack hazarded a glance back down towards the Harridan Squad. “I’m still not sure they’re buying it.”

“Sir—” But she quietly moaned again as his fingers made their way back down her spine, massaging gently as they went. “Holy cow. You have no idea how good that feels.”

“I think I do.” Jack dug in at a particularly tight spot. “I can feel a knot right there.”

“I was bent over an electron microscope all day.” Her eyes drowsed shut, and she reached over to brace herself with a hand on his thigh. “I got this horrible crick in my neck after the first hour and it’s just gotten worse since then. If Janet hadn’t reminded me about this game, I’d already be home soaking in a hot bath.”

Jack filed that image away for later. Because. Gah.

He’d just started in on Sam’s lower back when the umpire called an equipment time out. A player on the opposing team had broken her stick. The players huddled up in their respective teams while the affected forward raced to the sidelines for a replacement. 

Jack shifted on his seat, turning and extending his leg on the step behind him. Bracing his other foot on the opposite side, he rested his hands at Carter’s waist and applied just a hint of pressure. “Swing around.”

“What?”

“Pivot a little.” He gently pushed at her hip. “Let me get a better angle.”

“Sir—”

His voice came out harder than he intended. “Just let me do this for you, Carter.” 

She hesitated for a beat, then made a quarter turn. Cocking one leg on the bench in front of her, she planted the other foot on the metal plank below and scooted backwards until his hands halted her movement.

He started massaging again just as the whistle signaled play to resume on the field below. Thumbs towards her spine—kneading deep, thorough swaths up and down her back. Her head fell forward, exposing the elegant column of her neck and nape, the strong, vital curve of her shoulders, and the darker strands of gold beneath the sun-kissed blond of her hair. Intimate. Profoundly so for people like them.

“You didn’t forget.”

“Forget what?” His fingers paused momentarily as he leaned closer to hear her. 

“The mines. Or whatever. The power station under the domed city.” 

She’d figured out his methods. Damn that brilliant brain. Jack grimaced just a little as he started massaging again. “This isn’t our first rodeo at this whole ‘couple’ thing.”

“Hmmm.” Carter leaned back into his touch, deepening the contact. She seemed to struggle internally for a moment before continuing. “Do you think about it much?”

Yes. Constantly. But Jack wasn’t about to be transparent about that. Wasn’t about to reveal just how much those weeks had changed him. “From time to time.”

Her hand settled on his knee, and she tightened her fingers against the denim of his jeans. “Yeah.”

What that meant, he couldn’t begin to guess. But then she reached behind her and found his hand, pulling it in front of her as she levered herself backwards until her back was flush with his chest. She rested the back of her head against his shoulder, melting into his body.

“Carter—”

“I miss it sometimes.” Tilting her chin diagonally upwards, she caught his gaze.

And it was both courage and foolishness that made him nod. “Me, too.”

She threaded her fingers through his, squeezing gently as she rested their joined hands on her abdomen. “I’ve wondered if you did.”

O’Neill didn’t know what to say to that, so he just ducked his head until his cheek was resting against her temple, and he could breathe her in. He pulled away just enough to look down at her. “Well, now you know.”

She turned her face towards him, her eyes huge. “Kind of sucks, though, right?”

Jack pressed a kiss to her jaw—lingering a bit this time—his palm flattening against her rib cage as he wrapped his other arm around her midsection. “Yeah. Kind of.”

Something had changed. It wasn’t just the light—although the sun now sat precariously low in the sky. The parklights had started to hum, getting ready to glow bright, but it wasn’t that. The change wasn’t in the wind that had picked up out of the east. Or the game—where down on the field, the opposing team had lost the ball back to Cassie’s, eliciting a fresh, new energy in both the action and the crowd.

It was both old and new, now. This— whatever it was —that had been seething between them for years. But now—here on Earth, on their own world, their own space—with her body resting solidly against his chest, her hair catching the stubble on his jaw. Her smell. Her vibrance. The way her body moved in concert with his—as naturally as if they’d always sat like this—been like this. He tried to stop himself—but failed—and ended up dipping down to brush his lips against the curve of her neck, inhaling as he teased his way up towards her ear. As he wished that he could take her home and— well, damn.

Oh, if only. If only. 

“Sir—” Her voice was shaky. Uncertain. For the first time, she’d lost the Biker Chick confidence and radiated something else—something poignant—loss, maybe, or sadness.  

He paused, sucking in a deep breath before raising his head and looking down towards the field. Too far. This had gone too far. Swearing softly, he set his jaw, cursing the Harridan Squad, and fate, and his own stupidity. Damning the universe itself, which had seen fit to present him with the most interesting, enticing, intoxicating woman in existence, only to make her explicitly off limits. 

“I’m sorry.” He started to push himself away. “I’m—”

But Carter suddenly unfolded herself off the bench and stood—just as the crowd around them surged to their feet. Jack followed suit, turning to look down at the game, watching as Cassie raced downfield towards their opponents’ goal. 

Dodging, weaving, she took it more than halfway before passing the ball to the left inner, who passed it back to the left forward. That player hucked the ball back towards Cassie, who evaded two more defenders before taking a firm position and hitting the ball directly through the goalie’s legs and into the goal just as the umpire’s whistle ended the game. 

Cheers erupted around them, kids and adults jumping up and down in excitement. Sam raised both arms above her head, whooping, bouncing a little as she watched Cassie’s team gather midfield for their celebration. 

“Good girl!” Carter clapped wildly, her boots heavy as she jumped a little on the metal bleachers. She pivoted, stepping closer to O’Neill. “Did you see that?”

“I did.”

Such joy. Her smile was luminous—wide and bright and dimpled and beautiful. Her eyes shimmered, so blue that the sky seemed colorless in comparison. Such unabashed, pure joy. Joy infused through her to him, when he hadn’t felt anything in months. 

Jack stepped backwards, seeking distance—seeking refuge—seeking to flee when what he needed in that moment was to share in what she was feeling. To reach for her and bring her close and absorb as much of her as he could.

But that would have been the height of stupidity. Not here. Not now, not with the feel of her supple muscles still on his hands, the taste of her, her smell still toying with his senses. Not when he’d remembered what it had been like to be with her—to be able to be with her, without rank and honor and regulations getting in the way.

“Sir?” Her hands were stretched towards him—she’d been about to hug him.

‘Sir’ —son of a bitch . 

Sir, when what he wanted—when he couldn’t have what he wanted. Couldn’t even admit to wanting what he wanted.

He swore again. Bitterly, taking one—two—steps towards her and taking her into his arms, drawing her close enough that he could feel her heart beat even as he could feel her hesitation. 

“Sir—I—”

“Shut up, Carter.” But he didn’t mean it. He didn’t. All he wanted was more. More of her. More of this.

Her expression changed, morphing from happiness to something different as she stilled in his arms, as her hands gripped first his forearms, then his elbows, before smoothing up his biceps to rest on his shoulders. She knew where his mind was—that was obvious by how she trailed her fingers across his collarbones, his throat, before cupping his jaw and tilting up to press her mouth to his. 

And then he was lost. Lost in her. In the feel of her lips softening against his, opening beneath his, her tongue tentative and subtle and sweet. Jack’s hands rose from her hips to her sides, his thumbs brushing her rib cage, his fingers testing the supple strength of her body even as he tasted the wonder that she was.

She whimpered against his mouth—or maybe that was him—as she rose up on her toes and pressed herself more tightly against him. Her hands raked through his hair, cupping the back of his head, folding around him as she braced herself against his larger form. 

She was soft, and hard, and eager, and tentative. She was sweet and tough and feminine. She was life. She was eternity. She was everything. 

Everything except his.

It broke him a little, reminding himself of that. He kissed her hard, deep, his hands rough against her body even as he mourned that he’d have to let go—let her go— “Sam.” Her name was both beautiful and devastating. 

She pulled away for a breath, touching his lips with her fingertips before leaning in for more, nipping at his mouth, his chin, his jaw, the tender skin beneath his ear. Pressing her forehead against his as she fought for breath. As he fought for control, with her still so close to him that he felt as if she’d become part of himself.

“Get a room, buddy!” 

The shout broke through their haze, startling Jack into raising his head to find the source of the voice. He found it—a few rows up and to the right of them, a guy a decade younger than Jack with a passel of kids surrounding him. Their round faces radiated keen interest in the scene playing out just below, while the man’s expression was full of decided annoyance. Casting the man a wry smile, Jack lifted a finger in apologetic salute before enfolding Carter in his arms and turning them both to face the field. 

Sam tucked her face into his neck, breathing out a giggle. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“You may have been right.” He spoke against her hair. “That may have been a little too believable.”

“I don’t think you’ll have a problem with those ladies again, though.” She squinted up at him, a crinkle forming above her nose. “So—bright spot?”

Jack flickered a glance down to where the Squad stood at the bottom of the bleachers. Tiff and Betsy were chatting animatedly with who appeared to be their children, but Denver Angela and French Therese were openly staring up at where Jack and Sam stood.

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

“I’m sorry.” She pressed her hand against his chest, testing the fabric of his shirt. “That was—”

“Stupid?”

“I was going to say foolish—”

“Dude. Seriously?” 

That voice, they both knew.

Separating, Jack wheeled around to see Cassie making her way up the steps to their right, carrying her gear bag over her shoulder. 

Her face was aglow with unveiled interest. Stopping a few feet away, she threw her ponytail back over her shoulder as she twiddled a finger between the two of them.  “What’s this?”

“Celebration.” Sam patted O’Neill’s chest, pulling away. “We were just so excited that you won the game.”

“So, you started making out?”

O’Neill frowned. He hoped it was convincing. “We weren’t making out.”

“Do old people call it something else?” Cassie had perfected the snotty teenager act. “Because that looked like you were making out.”

“We got caught up in the moment.”

“Heck of a moment.” Her eyes flew wide. “Because holy crap, people.”

“Come on, Cassie.” Carter looked over at Jack. She smiled as she stepped away from him and dipped down to where her jacket still lay on the bleacher bench. Folding it over her arm, she reached for the bulky gear bag. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’ll take it.” O’Neill snagged it instead, tossing the wide strap over his shoulder. “C’mon.”

Down the steps, he followed Cassie and Sam, listening as they chattered about the game, and Cass’s goals, and the team’s win. Jack couldn’t help but notice how Carter moved—easy and confident—or how flushed her cheeks were. How bright her eyes were. How often she glanced back at him, her expression unreadable.

“Anyway. Do you want to get some dinner?”

They’d reached the front gate. Jack could see the Indian at the end of the first parking lane, on the opposite end of the lot from his huge Super Duty. He guided them out and alongside the chain link fence, where they stopped and turned towards him.

“Naw.” Cassie answered Carter with a shake of her head. “Jack can just take me home. I’ve got some homework that I need to do before bed.”

“Your mom said she’d be home as soon as she could.”

“She texted me.” Cassie held up her phone. Passing a glance between O’Neill and Carter, she pursed her lips a little, squinting. “You know, my mom is super excited to hear about the game.”

“I’m sure she is.”

“And all of the awesome stuff that happened at the game.” 

The little twit was too smart for her own good. Jack broached the subject first. “Yeah, Cass. You’re going to have to pretend that you never saw that.”

“Like—amnesia?” She pretended to consider. “I didn’t do too well in eighth grade drama class.”

Carter bit her lip, hazarding a glance over at O’Neill before looking back at Cass. “How about if I get you that bike jacket you’ve been wanting?”

“And the boots?”

“And the boots.” Sam’s blue eyes narrowed. “And this Saturday, I’ll take you up to the reservoir and let you drive her up the side trail.”

“By myself?”

“I’ll be on the back.”

Cassie pretended to have to think about that. She squinted again, glancing first at Sam and then back at Jack. “You know that this is a hockey field, right?”

“Yeah. So?” Jack squinted back.

“But it’s not a tonsil hockey field.” With a shrug, Cass tossed her ponytail again. “Does this mean that I can blackmail you two for the rest of ever?”

“Smartass.” Jack smiled down at his favorite little mercenary. Dipping into his pocket, he came up with his keys. He dropped them into Cassie’s outstretched hand.  “Go get in the truck.”

With a grin and a nod, Cassie retrieved her gear bag and headed into the parking lot.

“You know, she’s going to hold you to the whole reservoir thing.”

Sam looked down at her boots, scuffing her toe against something on the sidewalk. “I know. It’s okay. She’s sixteen. I was planning on teaching her how to ride next year anyway.”

“Ah.” Jack reached out and plucked Carter’s jacket off her arm. “Here.” 

Turning, Sam let him help her put the leather jacket on, swiveling back around as she fit the zipper together and tugged it half-way up. “You know—”

“Carter—”

With a hinted smile, Jack started again. “I’m sorry. For what happened in there. I let things get out of hand, and I shouldn’t have.”

“I was the one that kissed you first.”

“But I should have—”

“Should have what?”

Shaking his head, O’Neill shrugged. “I don’t know. Should have been stronger. More disciplined.”

She dragged her gaze away from his face, then, looking off over his shoulder towards the field house, or the mountains beyond. Towards something indefinable in the distance. “You know, Sir. Sometimes I think that we need these little moments of weakness. I think that they’re a reminder to us of why we do what we do.”

Despite himself, he smiled at that. “Tonsil hockey is a reminder?” 

“Sure. Tonsil hockey’s good for all kinds of things.” She smiled back. “But seriously. We’re fighting to save humanity, right? But what happens when we can’t remember what it feels like to be human?”

Jack leaned back against the metal fencing, watching as she edged closer, until she was inches away from him.

“Sometimes, I miss being down in that underground city so badly that it hurts. We were fighting for humanity there, too. But down there, we could at least feel things. Be things. I could reach out and touch you if I wanted to. When I needed to. And sometimes, I just need to. You know?”

He did. As if to prove it, he settled his palm on her hip again, his thumb burrowing beneath the bottom of her jacket to brush at the softness of her tank top. “I do.”

“I still need that from time to time.” She leaned into his touch. And then, in a spate of pure madness, she tilted up again, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth—not even a kiss, really, but the promise of one. And then she readjusted, brushing her lips fully against his before drawing back to whisper. “Don’t you?”

He ducked his chin, meeting her forehead with his own. “Sam—I—”

“Don’t apologize.” She shook her head. “Don’t. I’m not sorry for what I feel. I’m not sorry for what I want. I’m just sorry that it’s taking so damned long to get to a point where we can—well, you know.”

Yeah. He knew. He exhaled heavily. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“And we’ll do that whole amnesia thing. Where we revert to just being teammates again, and I go back to just being your subordinate. And we’ll make believe that our lives are normal, and that we don’t have to pretend like we’re regular people in a relationship at a kids’ field hockey game just so that we can remember what it feels like to be human every once in a while.” Somehow, she didn’t sound bitter. Her tone was forbearing, maybe, filled with resignation. But not bitter.

O’Neill, on the other hand. Well, his tone was decidedly acidic. “Yep. That.”

“Okay, then. Tomorrow.” 

“Hey, Carter?”

“Yeah?” She’d moved away, but stopped when he’d called her. 

“Thanks for saving me earlier. From the Harridans.”

“No problem, Sir.” This time, her grin was genuine. “I’ve always got your six. Besides. You’ve saved me plenty of times.”

“Good night, Carter.”

“Good night, Sir.”

And then she stepped away from him, flashing one last smile his way as she pivoted to step off the sidewalk. Looking both ways, she fished her keys out of her pocket as she strode across the asphalt, making her way to the far side of the first aisle towards her Indian, disappearing into the crowd.

He needed to get to his truck. Needed to get Cassie home. He needed to run to the grocery store, do some laundry, shower, and head to bed. He needed to sleep. 

But later, when he was staring up at his ceiling, alone in the quiet darkness, he thought about how she’d felt in his arms. How warm she’d been, how supple. Recalled the taste of her, and her unique scent—a perfect blend of leather and gunpowder. And he wondered if she was right. If it was okay to be weak every so often. Okay to need. Okay to look at her and wish that things could be different. Whether all that really made him more human, and whether succumbing to that humanity made him more capable of saving it.

Because he needed that these days. Faith, or whatever. Conviction. Certainty. Needed it to the depths of his ruined soul. He needed to believe what she believed. That this task they’d been given was achievable. That they could win this battle. Could save everything.

And maybe, just maybe, when all was said and done, that he might still be worth saving.

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Aliens Made Them Do It

Thor

Telepathy

Hand Holding

Stuck Together

—-----OOOOOOOO—----

Set in Season 6 between “Metamorphosis” and “Disclosure”. 

———-OOOOOOO———

“You know how I feel about being a human guinea pig, Sir.”

He was pacing. He didn’t want to, but he needed to move, and pacing seemed more mature than stomping his feet and throwing things. Damn it. Scrubbing a hand across his jaw, Jack paused near the door that opened into the briefing room, looking out at the people gathered around the long, stately table. 

Well, mostly people. Entities, maybe. Peeps? Minions? No— individuals . That was a more inclusive word for a crowd in which only half of those assembled were actually human, wasn’t it?

On the other side of the desk, General Hammond nodded. “I do, Jack.”

Turning, he fixed the General with a glare. “It’s just that every time we’ve participated in one of these little experiments, something has gone horribly wrong.”

“But this is the Asgard, not the Tok’ra. Surely you trust Thor and his scientific team to protect your interest and respect your boundaries.” General Hammond tapped a pencil against the legal pad in front of him. It was the only sign of his hesitancy to just do his General thing and give this ridiculous idea the go ahead. 

They’d come through the ‘Gate a few hours before, bypassing the iris in that annoying way they had. Four of the little gray aliens had simply made their way to Earth, led by the intrepid Thor. 

Stinkin’ Asgard and their stinkin’ superior technology. 

Littered atop the briefing room table, various and sundry bits of alien tech caught at the lights overhead. Some Asgard—some not—but, apparently, none of it was compatible with current Asgard physiology. And for this reason, the Asgard version of the Science Geeks had no idea what it was all supposed to do.

With the humans of Earth being closer to the original non-cloned Asgard physiology—well?—enter the guinea pigs.

“At this point?” Jack shook his head slowly, sighing heavily. “I’m not sure I trust anyone.”

“Listen, Jack.” Hammond angled his way around the desk towards the Colonel, stopping at his side. “I know that you and your team have been on the wrong end of things lately. First, losing Doctor Jackson. Then Nirrti, the NID, the Jaffa, the Tok’ra. Ba’al. Hell, even Jonas Quinn’s people have screwed around with us. SG-1 has lost a few battles.”

And nearly lost too many people. Specific people. Jack still couldn’t think about the past year without fighting back a deep sense of dread. He’d nearly died a couple of times. Actually died a few times. But worse—he’d nearly lost her too many times. Lost her before they’d even been given a chance to find each other. Before—aw, hell. 

O’Neill’s lips drew thin. “Too many battles.”

“But as far as I can tell, Thor and his people are here because they have no place else to turn.” The Texas was in full force in the General’s tone, his drawl heavier than normal. “It might be best if we just give them the aid that they’ve requested.”

“And what do we get out of it?” O’Neill scowled. “I mean—other than mellow vibes or positive juju.”

“Good will?” Hammond drew in a deep breath. “Lord knows we could use a whole lot more of that around here.”

Jack let his head fall until it hit the wall with a dull ‘thunk’. “You know how I feel about Thor, Sir. Love him like a brother. It’s just—”

“It’s just that you’re getting tired of being on the butt end of all the cosmic jokes.”

“Exactly.”

A movement at the opposite end of the space drew his attention, and Jack looked up to see Carter make her way into the briefing room. The metal tray she carried held a dozen or so of the smaller items the Asgard had brought through the ‘Gate. She settled the tray on the table, then looked over her shoulder to where the Colonel and Hammond still stood at the window in the General’s office. Her expression was cautiously expectant. 

Jack knew that look. It was the one that told him that she had some answers, but not enough facts, and that more tests were needed. He hated that look nearly as much as he loved—well, damn. Suffice it to say that, of all the looks that she was wont to throw his way, that one wasn’t among his favorites.

That one usually meant that he was going to be that damned freaking guinea pig. 

“Well, Colonel. No use borrowing trouble.” Hammond reached around Jack and opened his door. “Let’s go see what she’s found out.”

———-OOOOOOO———

“Sirs.” Carter looked up from her task. She’d been organizing the alien technology, each individual device sorted into one of three groups. “I’ve managed to figure out some of these. A few are items we’ve seen before.”

“But?” He’d overemphasized the ‘t’, squinting at his second in command and waggling his eyebrows a bit. It was a ‘Daniel’ expression. A throwback to days when he’d teased her more. When they’d been easier with each other.

“Excuse me, Sir?” A little crinkle formed above Carter’s nose as she peered over at him. “But what?”

“There’s always a ‘but’, isn’t there?” He’d been around enough to know this. He gestured at the items on the table. “All this alien crap always seems to have a gigantic, big-ass ‘but’.”

He loved it when she did that—when she bit her lips together to keep from laughing at something he had said. It made saying those ridiculous things worth it.

Because ultimately, if Carter was happy, it made everything better. And there had been precious little lately that had made her smile. The past few months had been remarkably crappy for them all—but she’d taken the worst of it in many ways. She’d been the one who’d nearly died on the Prometheus, and she’d been the most adversely affected by Nirrti’s experimentation. She’d felt Daniel’s loss the most keenly. She’d taken all of it personally—as if she’d somehow failed. 

Worst of all, she blamed herself for Jack’s tenure in Ba’al’s torture chamber. After all, Carter had been the one who’d begged him to let the Tok’ra save him from the Antarctic virus. She had been the only reason that Jack had agreed to do what he’d done. Then, things had gone so far sideways that they’d met themselves coming back around. He’d struggled to recover. To heal. To forget. 

She’d struggled to forgive herself.

She was right, in a way. It was her fault. Nothing— no one —else on this planet or any other could ever have convinced him to get snaked. But she’d asked him—begged him, really—those blue eyes desperate, and needy, and sad. And so he’d done it. 

They still hadn’t had an opportunity to talk about it. She’d visited him in the medical facilities during his recovery, but that wasn’t the place for the kind of conversation they needed to have. And, by some unspoken agreement, they hadn’t allowed themselves to be alone together for months, now. It was just too—comfortable. Too tempting to have her so near without someone else there to chaperone.

He’d never had an opportunity to absolve her. To tell her that it was okay. To tell her that, despite everything, he was grateful to be alive. To thank her. Because while her pleas had been what had made him accept the blending, it was also the thought, the memory, the promise of her that had helped him through it. During that ordeal, all he’d focused on was surviving so that he could come home to her. He’d been stupidly determined to see her smile again. 

So, if he had to act like an idiot from time to time just to make her happy, so be it. He’d done worse things for lesser reasons.  

Hammond, on the other hand? Well, he wasn’t quite so easily entertained. 

“Colonel O’Neill. If we may continue without the editorial, that would just be dandy.” The General pulled his seat out from the head of the table, but he didn’t sit. Instead, he braced his fists at his waist and looked down at the items in front of him. “What have you discovered, Major?”

Ducking her chin, Carter composed herself. Her expression was serious and science-y when she indicated the largest of the piles. “These are pretty much useless. Either they’re objects that are decorative in design, or they’re purely meant for entertainment purposes.”

“Toys?” Jonas stood up, leaning over the table to look at the items. “The Ancients made toys?”

“Not just the Ancients.” Thor sat directly across the table from where Carter had laid down her specimens. He was flanked by Hermund on one side, and Asfrid and Iorund on the other. All four of the Asgard contingent were seated forward in their seats, focused on the items being displayed by the Major. “The Asgard developed many items which were meant to be both entertaining and educational.”

“Why?” Quinn shook his head, setting aside the apple he’d been working on. “I mean, forgive me, but you don’t reproduce in the same way that humans do. Our young need to learn. The Asgard don’t have ‘young’. There doesn’t seem to be a reason to either educate or to entertain.”

“That is correct, Jonas Quinn.” Asfrid responded, her large eyes landing on the Kelownan. She was the smallest of the Asgard contingent, seated directly to Thor’s left. “However, that has not always been the case.”

“Thousands of years ago, the Asgard were much as you are now.” Thor indicated the humans with a tilt of his head. Gesturing at the collection of devices in front of Carter, he continued. “That is the reason for which we have brought these items to Earth. Your physical makeup is much more likely to allow these devices to function so that we can ascertain what their purposes are.”

“When we discovered this trove of artifacts in one of our scientific institutes, we were curious if they could be of some use in furthering our work to perfect our cloning technology.” Iorund, the scientist on the other side of Asfrid reached out to touch one of the items nearer to his side of the table. “Since the devices seem to be stimulated by physiology, we might be able to retrofit our clone coding to be able to interact with the technology.”

“You want to tweak your cloned selves to be able to use these items again.” Carter was quite possibly the only person in the room who had understood what Iorund had said. But then, she’d always been good at translating crap from ‘genius’ back down to ‘mere mortal’. “Sirs, they’re saying that they’re hoping to reintroduce certain physical capabilities back into their genetic code. Figuring out how our bodies interact with these artifacts will allow them to dial back elements of their own evolution in order to regain specific lost functionalities.”

Silence. 

She tried again. “It’s like retrofitting your stereo to play cassette tapes and not just compact discs.”

“Eight-track?”

Those dimples appeared again. “Forty-fives?”

Biting back a grin of his own, O’Neill looked over at their little gray friends. “You’re hoping to make yourselves dumber?”

“Not dumber, Colonel O’Neill.” Thor’s expression lightened. It was as close to a smile as the Asgard ever got. “Merely more capable of the kind of action and thought that would allow us Tau’ri-like flexibility in future iterations of ourselves.”

Jack’s eyes lit on Carter, then Teal’c and Jonas, then flew back to Thor. After a bit, he shrugged and said, “So. Dumber.”

Teal’c seemed to agree. “Less advanced.”

“Yes.” Jonas nodded. “Definitely dumber.”

“If you three are finished, I’d like to hear what else Major Carter has to say.” General Hammond sent a withering look towards where O’Neill was standing before focusing back on the briefing room table. “Major. You may continue.”

“Okay.” She wasn’t exactly smiling, but her expression was decidedly brighter than it had been. Schooling her features, she indicated a few of the items on the table. “These are basic puzzle games. We have similar ones here on Earth. Square peg, round hole kind of things. You need to remove one piece of the puzzle at a time through a specific set of moves.”

“We had these on Kelowna, too. I used to love them.” Jonas leaned forward and took one off the pile. “I had a whole bunch of them that I’d play with while I was concentrating on figuring out other problems. I called them my ‘thinking toys’.”

Smiling at Jonas, Sam indicated a smaller set of objects that she’d set aside. She lifted a soft, malleable sphere and sent it rolling across the table towards Teal’c, who caught it handily. “The rest are probably meant for much smaller children. I wasn’t able to detect any radiation fields or energy signatures from these, so my guess is that they’re either purely decorative or for entertainment purposes.”

“And what is this second pile?” Hammond leaned over to look at the group in question.

“These are more advanced than the others. They’re still toys, but far more complex.” Carter picked up an object from the middle pile. A cube, it was slightly smaller than a baseball and covered in opaque tiles. As she held it in her palms, the tiles glistened and then shuffled themselves in a multicolored haze until the tiles settled themselves in a seemingly random order. “This one might interest you in particular, Colonel.”

“Oh?” He stepped closer, peering at the cube. “It’s cool.”

“Beyond that, it’s educational. As far as I can tell, it’s intended to teach problem solving, spatial awareness, and algorithmic reasoning.”

O’Neill watched as she shifted the panels of tiles around a central axis, aligning tiles of similar hues together. Once one side was a uniform color, the tiles on that side started to pulsate. She then started reconfiguring tiles on the opposite side. 

As she worked, she explained, “The pulse is a timer. Each time you solve a side, the timer scales back, allowing the user less time to solve subsequent puzzles.”

“Well, I’ll be damned.” O’Neill reached out, motioning for Carter to hand the device over to him. Once she’d placed it in his hands, the entire thing reset, and he turned it over to watch as the multicolored tiles shuffled. “It’s like a Rubik’s Cube.”

“I thought you might like that one.” She flickered a look at him from under her eyelashes. “What with your collection and all.”

“Now, now, Major.” He smiled back at her, fiddling with the tiles with his fingertips. “Don’t give away all my secrets.”

She looked back down at the table, but her dimples belied the fact that she was still grinning. “Of course not, Sir.”

“What are these items, Carter?” General Hammond made his way to her other side, pointing towards a larger selection of artifacts that were on her tray. “They look kind of familiar.”

“They should, Sir.” She lifted one, placing it in the palm of her hand and reaching for what appeared to be its companion piece. “These are similar to the Tok’ra memory recall devices. The Tok’ra attach the reader to their subject’s temple, and a receiver generates images based on the recovered memories. Although I haven’t tested these personally, they appear to share memories directly from one individual to another, without the use of a screen or receiver.”

Jack poked at a set of crystals set in gold and linked by thin chains. “These look like Goa’uld hand devices.”

“As far as I can tell, they’re diagnostic rather than therapeutic or weaponized.” Carter looked over at him. “And while the Goa’uld devised a way that allowed only those who have specific naquadah or protein markers in their systems to operate their devices, these are activated simply by putting them on.”

“There are limits to their usage, Major Carter.” Asfrid leaned back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. “While you may be able to use the devices, we were not capable of doing so. We were not aware that the Asgard of millennia ago were utilizing technology so similar to that of the Goa’uld.”

“Well, we know that the Goa’uld co-opted Ancient technology for their own uses.” Carter nodded, folding her arms across her body and rocking back slightly on the heels of her boots. “I’m sure that there was a lot of cross-pollination of technology and advanced design between all of the races of that era.”

Thor seemed inclined to agree. “As much as we wish to believe that the Asgard were at the forefront of development, evidence has proven that many of our advancements were made on par and in concert with those of other races within the same time periods.”

“No progress is made in a vacuum.” Jonas shrugged, futzing with the stem of his half-eaten apple. “Everything affects something somewhere.”

“And this?” Hermund stood, leaning as far as he could across the table to point at a small box still on the tray. “What have you learned about this?”

Shaking her head, Carter opened the box and removed a crystal. It was a few inches in diameter, deep red, and faceted identically on both sides. Settling the gem in her palm, she turned the box so that the Asgard could see the inside of the lid. “Not much, I’m afraid. I recognized the symbol on the lid as the sign for ‘infinity’ here on Earth, but I don’t know what relevance it has for the Asgard.”

“The same.” Hermund nodded towards the box, pointing at it with his long fingers. “It is a mathematical notation.”

“We use it in a few different ways. Math is only one of them.” Carter laid the box on the table and scooted it closer to the Asgard contingent. “However, since I don’t read Asgardian, I don’t know what the other part of the inscription says.”

Hermund lifted the box and was peering at the inscription inside. After a moment, he set the box on the table and pushed it towards Thor. “It appears to be a riddle, written in ancient Asgardian.”

Thor, however, didn’t seem convinced. “Perhaps. And perhaps the words are instructions as to the use of the crystal.”

Iorund nodded. “I have documented many instances in which couplets such as this were used to provide information regarding the use of connected technologies.”

“Well, I wasn’t able to read it.” Sam tilted her head to one side, her eyebrows edging upwards. “The crystal obviously does something, and I was hoping that one of you could tell me what the inscription actually said.”

“What does it say?” Hammond’s gaze moved between the Asgard scientists and the box on the table in front of them. “Even though it’s in an older form of Asgardian, I’m assuming that you can still decipher it.”

Asfrid nodded. “Loosely translated, it reads, ‘Held by one, he will see, Embraced by two, they will know’.”

“Any idea what that means?” Jack stepped closer, looking down at Carter’s palm to where the crystal glimmered. It was impressive—nearly filling her hand—and it seemed to have a life of its own. Light from every source in the room collected in it, bouncing back out through the facets until it glowed.

Thor shook his head. He seemed rather disappointed. “I do not believe we can know until we discover what purpose it accomplishes.”

“Perhaps the humans should try to activate the device.” Hermund leaned over to speak directly to Thor. “I believe that to be the only way in which we can learn what it does.”

“Everything else has been benign, right?” O’Neill narrowed a look at the Major. “All of the stuff they brought through has been harmless?”

“Yes, Sir.” Carter surveyed the array of items on the table before looking back at him. “And while I can’t be certain that none of this couldn’t be repurposed for nefarious means, I doubt that anything here is threatening in any way.”

He’d never been able to resist shiny things. With a little nudge, he drew her attention. “May I?”

“Sure.” She flattened her hand out in invitation. “Careful. There’s a slight vibration to it. As if it’s radiating some sort of energy.”

“Energy?” Using the pads of his fingers, he gingerly raised the gem off her palm and placed it into his own. It was heavier than it had first appeared, and Carter was right—it was vibrating. He raised his palm so that he could get a better look. “From what?”

“I don’t know, Sir.”

He was so close to her that he could get away with muttering. “It kind of tickles.”

“Right?” Her smile was puckish—luminous. “I thought it was really cool.”

O’Neill tilted his hand this way and that, watching as she crystal cast sparkling shafts across the room. It was hypnotic, in a way. Beautiful—almost ethereal. Just as an experiment, he flattened his palm, balancing the gem on the heel of his hand, looking up above, where a ruby-red arc stretched across the otherwise nondescript ceiling. Then, he closed his hand around the stone, enclosing it in his palm. 

Warmth. 

Darkness—he was moving—progressing through darkness. Voices whispered before him, around him—through him. Not voices. Questions. The answers were unclear.

At the edge of the blackness, something beckoned. A glow. Like the first hint of dawn on the horizon. A pinprick of light that steadily grew bolder.

So warm. His body seemed infused with heat—not unpleasant. Just enough to feel welcomed as he emerged from the darkness into radiance.

Not a room. Not a planet. Merely space. And time. Brightness all around as his feet planted themselves comfortably on a floor that wasn’t solid, as he halted in the brilliance.

The voices were stronger now, the questions permeating his consciousness. Not words. Not language—feelings. Impressions. 

Images tumbling through his mind like rocks in a pyroclastic flow. Rushing over and through him—catching at his memory, his psyche. 

Sara. Charlie. Pain—pain—sorrow. His father—anger and resentment, his mother’s face, faint with her absence. Friends. Kawalski—Fisher—Cromwell—Tolman—those he’d lost on missions and after—through darkest moods. 

Run—escape!—but his planted feet kept him still. 

Who? Words, now. 

Heal. Peace. Final. Love. Love. Now who? 

Faces swimming around him. Dark and light and thin and stout. Daniel. So worried. So serious. Tattoos on foreheads and tilted brows. Blue shirts, bald heads, stars at collars and overhead in the firmament. Friends. Brothers. Comrades. 

Stars. Forests and trees and campfires and more, more, more.

Comfort. Thick quilts. Cushions. She rolls towards him, gold against white, tangled legs—feet—hands.

Blue. So blue. Cerulean wisdom. Feathery fringes of old-gold lashes and a smile that melted hearts and souls. So beautiful. Heart wrenching, lovely. Intelligent. Brave. Blue. Blue. Wonderful.

His.

“He sees, now. It is done.” No words. Warmth blossoming within. Blue and gold and ruby.

“Sir!”

Shouting. He could feel a hand on his—voices in a flurry around him. Calling him. Calling. 

“Sir!”

Her. Her fingers on his, prying his digits off from around the stone—one—two—the images fading from his mind. He was falling—faltering—his hand lax as he stumbled forward. 

“Colonel O’Neill!” 

Deep Texas. Blue shirt, bald. Sharp eyes. Rules. Regulations. Steel.

“Colonel—don’t—“

Her. She’d caught him. Balance. Her hand on his. Reaching for the stone—don’t drop—damage. Damage, crack. Break—

Her fingers within his—tight!—clasped together tightly. Hard crystal pressed between their palms. Whooshing. Motion. Darkness closing in again—then light. 

There! There she was. With him in the light. 

“Sir?” Tremulous. Seeking. 

“Are you here?” His own voice calm, quiet. But not a voice at all. Pictures. Knowledge. “Are you here with me?”

“Where’s here?”

She stood before him, in the light. Her feet planted toe-to-toe with his. Those eyes—as brilliant as the sun, as heaven itself—as they’d shone while they’d shared their smiles around cubes and secrets.

“It’s the crystal.”

“I tried to take it from you. You were falling.”

“Not falling. Arriving. Becoming.”

“I don’t understand.”

“‘Held by one, he will see’.”

“‘Embraced by two, they will know’.” Her voice soothed towards him. Sweet, lithe. Beautiful.

Absent. Not vocal. Just impressions.

She wasn’t speaking in words, but in images. Eternity glimmered in her face. Forever, forever. Always.

“You’re reading my mind.”

“And you’re reading mine.”

“Telepathy? This is—“

“Talk to me, Carter.” Now. Now. Finally say the things that were unutterable. “Talk to me. Real talk. Don’t waste this trying to figure out the science.”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head, her eyes fixed on him. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?”

“For what happened to you. With Ba’al.”

He smiled. A slow, easy thing. Real. Not stifled by regulation or honor. Truth. “How did I know that would be what you’d say?”

“I’ve wanted to tell you so many times, but there wasn’t a moment—“

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It was, Sir.“

“You kept me alive. You were there with me. In my head. Every time I woke up in the sarcophagus, you were there. On the rack. I saw you. In the chamber, through the pain, the death. You kept me alive in there. The hope of you.”

“The hope—“

He tugged her closer—thigh to thigh—his body against hers. “Someday. The hope of someday.”

“Sir—I—Someday sounds perfect.” She leaned in, her softness against his chest. “But still—I owe you—.”

“You owe me nothing.”

“I missed you so badly.” Glistening regret now, in those luminous eyes. “I was so terrified that I’d lost you, and then I was afraid you’d hate me.”

“I could never hate you, Carter.” 

“I couldn’t live with myself.“ She paused, her hand on his jaw, his cheek. Her body trembled, even amidst the warmth, against his body, within a half-embrace. 

So bright, amid the silence. No voices now, no questions. The light swirled and danced over and around them, red and yellow and deepest gold—

Lips. He touched her, soft, soft, light—brushing, silk to silk—her body rising up to meet him.

Deeper. Open. Eyes open, she watched him kiss her, he saw her respond—intimate, conscious, knowing—until the blue was lost behind those lashes—dark gold, feather soft. 

“This is someday, Sam.” Against her lips. He pressed again. Harder. His hand tightened around hers, the gem solid between their palms. “Someday is this. Us. I saw it. I held the stone and saw it. I saw you.”

“Embraced by two.” Her hand in his hair, at his throat, as the stone grew hot and vibrant between their joined palms. “That‘s what it means. This is what it means.” 

He saw her. Saw her soul. Saw her pain, her struggle. Her loneliness. Saw the weeks–days–years wasted pushing down what should have been allowed to bloom. Saw her pureness. Her honor. It swirled around him, falling upon him, infusing her within him.

Gentle. Lips, tongues, hands. Sighs. She sobbed against his mouth with the beauty of it all, skin to skin, and true. So wondrous. Peaceful. He kissed her again—lingering, bodies and hearts and mouths joined. Deep. Profound. Real.

Effulgence and wonder and light.

Pressure. Fingers being pulled and pressured and parted. Shouts and force against their joined hands. The connection wavered, faltered—fight! Harder. Hold on! Just a little longer— 

Dark to blue. His eyes fiercely insistent. “I need you, Carter. Don’t ever forget that.”

“I won’t.” She pressed up against him, fighting the forces shredding their connection. “I need you, too. You’re my someday.” 

“Always, Sam.” Fighting to say it. Voiceless, the images fading, the communication waning. “Always. Remember.”

And then she was gone, lost to the blackness that quickly reclaimed him.

—----OOOOOOO—----

He recognized the ceiling. 

Jack blinked a few times, glaring up at the discolored tiles. He’d gotten really familiar with those panels over the course of the years. He could pinpoint precisely where he was within the infirmary by which stained tiles hovered overhead. 

He lay in the third confinement section over from the main office. It was the second-largest of the curtained divided sections. The largest one being the corner bay, directly to his left.

He could hear voices, but no beeping. So, at least they hadn’t had to use machines or intubate anyone. A quick look at his arm confirmed the fact that he’d been hooked up to the ubiquitous drippy fluids. He couldn’t see the clock. He had no idea how long he’d been out.

Or how long it had been since he’d closed his hand around that gem.

He only knew that he hadn’t imagined it. Hadn’t dreamed it. Whatever had happened between him and Carter as they’d both clutched that ruby-red stone had been real. Profoundly so.

He was still wearing his own clothes—trousers and his t-shirt, at least. His feet were bare, and they’d removed his button-down shirt. He was on a gurney, and not one of the fancy-schmancy hospital beds, so that had to mean that he hadn’t totally freaked them out. 

Kicking the covers away, he levered himself upwards and swiveled around so that he was sitting on the edge of the cot. 

“You’re awake.”

Quinn. Jack closed his eyes again, exhaling sharply. “I am.”

Jonas pulled the curtain wide, pausing in the opening. “How are you feeling?”

Fuzzy. Disoriented. Hazy. Foolish. Wanting. “Fine.”

“Because you kind of just blanked out there.” He’d been reading. There was a book tucked under his arm. “After you touched that crystal thing.”

Aw, hell. Jack started picking at the adhesives holding the IV into place on the back of his hand.

“We’ve all decided that it’s a love potion of some sort. Although it’s a rock, and not liquid.” Jonas edged closer, pulling a tissue from the box on the table next to the gurney and handing it to the Colonel. “Soulmate stone? Crystal of Connection? Teal’c and I were trying to come up with a nifty name for it, but neither of us are very creative nor alliterative.”

Jack tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry. When he could finally speak, his voice resembled that of a famous frog. “You ought to hear his jokes.” 

“The Jaffa have jokes?”

Despite himself, O’Neill smiled at that. Pulling the cannula from his hand, he tossed it aside and applied pressure to the site with the tissue. “That’s what I said when I found out, too.”

Jonas stepped backwards and found the little plastic pitcher and cup that seemed omnipresent in these places. Pouring water into the cup, he handed it to O’Neill.

Jack took the drink. A little grudgingly, but still grateful. “Thanks.”

“Sure.” Jonas’s brows dipped low. “Do you remember what happened?” 

“Not really.” At least, not that he was going to discuss with the Kelownan. Hell. If Daniel were still around, Jack wouldn’t discuss it with him, either. But then—Daniel probably had been here. Laughing his Ascended ass off at the situation. Asscended ? There was a joke there, somewhere. Forcing himself to focus, he looked back up at Quinn. “Is she okay?”

“Sam?” Jonas raised a shoulder in a half-shrug. “When I looked in on her a half an hour ago, she hadn’t woken up yet. Teal’c’s with her.” 

“Is she—“ O’Neill gestured towards the IV pole and the gurney.

“Doctor Fraiser hooked you both right up as soon as they carried you both to the infirmary.” Jonas slid his hand into his trouser pockets. “It’s been several hours.”

“Hours?”

“The Asgard took their toys and went home.” Quinn rocked forward on the toes of his boots. “They hung around for a while, but decided it would be better if they returned to their homeworld.”

Ingrates.

Jonas stepped even closer, so that his leg bumped the mattress. To his credit, he spoke quietly. “You know, I’ve always suspected. But the two of you are expert-level at this whole ‘denial’ thing. How you keep all that contained is beyond me.”

“Keep what contained?” Madness—or stupidity—made O’Neill ask the question, but his tone made it clear he didn’t expect an answer. He stood, wincing at the cold of the concrete floors on his bare feet. Satisfied that he wasn’t going to fall over again, he aimed towards the curtain separating his isolation unit from the one next door, grabbing the fabric and drawing it aside. 

Blue eyes. She was awake and lucid, although pale. Still lying in the bed, she’d curled up on her side with her hand beneath her cheek. When she saw him, her lips relaxed into just the hint of a smile.

“Carter?”

“Sir.”

“You okay?”

“Yes, Sir.” She nodded, exhaling slowly. “You?”

“I’m fine.”

From down the way, the unmistakable clicking of heels heralded the arrival of the Doctor. Her footsteps were accompanied by heavier treads.  “I don’t know what to tell you, General.”

Dragging his gaze off Carter, Jack watched as Fraiser strode into the unit. 

She was frowning down at her omnipresent clipboard, flipping back and forth between the pages. “We’ve run all the tests. There is nothing abnormal about any of the results.”

Hammond stopped in the middle of the unit, the wrinkles on his forehead more pronounced than normal. “There has got to be some explanation for their behavior, Doctor.”

Fraiser speared O’Neill with a glare. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Standing?” He shoved his hands into his pockets, sighing in resignation when she marched up alongside him and handed the clipboard to Jonas.

Reaching for his wrist, the Doctor probed for and found his pulse with cool fingers, turning her arm to measure the beat against her watch. Apparently satisfied, she did her little ‘light-in-the-eye’ thing and then shoved the penlight back into the pocket of her lab coat. It only took a moment for her to repeat the whole process with Carter. 

With a little shake of her head, she shrugged in the General’s direction. “Maybe the Asgard were right. The only plausible explanation is the gem itself. There is nothing physically wrong with either of them.”

“How are you feeling, Colonel?” Hammond looked towards O’Neill as he shuffled towards the Major’s bed, his expression cautious.

“Like a guinea pig, Sir.” He was glaring. He really didn’t give a damn who he offended by that.

“What do you remember?”

“Nothing.” His answer was immediate. “Not a thing.”

Hammond shifted his gaze towards Carter. “Major?”

“Nothing, Sir.” She’d sat up, and was raking her fingers through her hair. “I don’t have any idea what happened.”

“Well, people.” Shaking his head, the General sighed heavily. “I really don’t know what to say.”

“I do.” Jack levered himself upright, pressing the button on the remote that raised the back of his bed fully. “The correct words are ‘I told you so’.”

“I guess that I have to give you that one.” Hammond chuckled. “The Asgard seem to believe that the stone has the ability to retain the emotions of the people who have handled it. Iorund and Asfrid postulate that it may have been used in concert with the memory recall devices to help to establish romantic relationships between their ancestors.”

Jonas motioned with the hand still holding the clipboard. “Thor told me that it may have been a way for them to find compatible mates. Sort of like a crystalline yenta.”

“That’s actually a pretty solid theory.” Carter tilted her head from side to side, holding her hand as Janet disengaged the IV and pulled the cannula free. “The infinity symbol is used for more than just mathematical notation. It’s also used to symbolize ‘eternity’.”

“It may then be unfortunate that the Asgard took the stone with them back to their homeworld.” Teal’c rose from his seat at the foot of Carter’s gurney. “Such a stone might facilitate the strengthening of familial relationships between the Tau’ri.”

The General squared his shoulders, passing a glance between Carter and O’Neill. “Regardless, I can’t help but feel as if the two of you were put into an awkward situation. I guess that it’s a blessing that you can’t remember any of what happened.”

“A blessing.” O’Neill tried to appear agreeable. He was pretty certain he lost that battle.

“Sure, Sir.” Sam’s tone, on the other hand, was decidedly more convincing. 

“In the end, I guess that all’s well that ends well.” Hammond gave them an odd little half-smile as he backed out of the unit. “In fact, in light of your actions while you were affected by the stone, it’s safe to say that the aliens made you do it.”

“Do what, Sir?” There was that crinkle again, directly above Carter’s nose.

“I don’t remember doing anything, General.” Jack rocked forward on his bare toes. “One minute I was conscious, and the next I wasn’t.”

“That’s probably for the best.” He turned towards the exit, only to throw one more direction over his shoulder. “Take the rest of the day, folks. We’ll reconvene tomorrow for the briefing about your next mission.”

Jonas and Teal’c left next, followed by Doctor Fraiser. O’Neill waited until their footsteps had faded before making his way towards the gurney and sitting down next to his second in command.

She looked up at him sideways, from under her eyelashes. “Were you telling the truth, Sir?”

“About what?” 

She seemed slightly disappointed at that, pressing her lips together before venturing further. “Do you really not remember anything?”

“Sure.” He cast her a sideways glance, scrubbing a little at the blood drying on the back of his hand. “What’s there to remember?”

“Right.” Nodding, Carter leaned into his shoulder. It was their thing—communicating through nudges. “Nothing happened to remember.”

The infirmary was quiet—somewhere beyond the curtains, someone was mopping. Someone else was pushing a cart of some sort—the squeaking of the wheels echoed on the cement floors. Whirring computer towers, muffled voices, paper shuffling, pens clicking. A woman laughed even further away. Maybe in the hall, or at the nurses’ station. 

But back in their little back corner, it was quiet, and intimate, and close. Sitting alongside each other, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. Her foot swinging gently in concert with his. Bare heels brushing with every few passes. 

He wanted to hold her again. Wanted to be held by her again. Whatever had happened with them—to them—between them—had been so damned right that losing that connection now seemed unnatural and wrong. He couldn’t help it. His hand moved before he could stop it, taking hers, entangling their fingers together. 

“I meant it.”

“Yeah.” Her hand tightened around his, and for the briefest beat, her head dropped to rest on his shoulder. She sighed against his throat. Warmth, and sweetness, and comfort. “Me too.”

So short, the moment was over practically before it had begun. A pair of footsteps had Jack up on his feet and heading across the concrete floor before the orderly had even reached the curtain. 

“Sir?”

He turned back towards her. 

She seemed smaller on that cot, the blanket gathered up around her lap, her bare feet crossed at the ankles. Her eyes were huge, searching his face. “But someday, Sir. Right?”

"Someday, Carter." Damn, he hoped so. He had to clear his throat before he could answer her. And when he did, his words held the sincerity of a vow. He was struck by how fervently he meant it. To the roots of his soul, he meant it. "Someday.”

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Jacob Carter

Jealousy

“So.”

Jack looked up from his expense reports. Earlier in the evening, he’d considered hauling them to the mess, but had decided against it. Paperwork sometimes seemed less interminable when accompanied by cake and coffee. On the other hand, the mess had people in it, and he wasn’t in the mood for people. 

The day had already been too full of them. Too many meetings. Too much drama. Jaffa emergencies, Daniel going missing, Jacob making himself at home at the SGC, Carter doing her Carter thing. 

Pete Shanahan—existing. 

Then there was Kerry Johnson. A distraction. A pleasant one, sure, but a distraction, nonetheless. He liked her. At moments, he really liked her. But it wouldn’t go farther than that. Jack was introspective enough to know that much, at least. A fact which made the whole ‘sleeping with her’ thing more uncomfortable than he’d expected. 

That’s one reason why he was here in his office and not with her at her hotel. She’d wanted to go out for dinner this evening, but Jack had politely declined. He had paperwork to complete, and he was still holding out a modicum of hope that Daniel would reappear sooner rather than later. He was also waiting to hear from Bra’tac and Teal’c, so sticking close to base seemed best.

They were excuses. Good ones, but still excuses.

What he hadn’t been either hoping for or expecting was Carter’s father barging into his office, fresh from his tete a tete with the aforementioned cop. 

Jacob stepped closer to the General’s desk. “Jack?”

Leaning back in his chair, O’Neill twiddled with the pen in his hand. “Yes?”

“I asked you a question.”

“You said, ‘so’.” O’Neill pointed at Jacob with the pen. “I don’t believe that’s a question. It’s an adverb with multiple definitions.”

“Damn it, Jack.” Jacob narrowed his eyes, glaring down at Jack. “You know what I meant.”

Groaning, Jack tossed the pen onto his desk top. “Okay. Let’s say I do.”

“And?”

“‘And’.” Taking his life into his hands, Jack squinted at the older man. “Conjunction. A function word showing connection to or addition to related words. Also used to join sentence elements of the same grammatical hierarchy or structure.”

“Unbelievable.” Jacob stepped backwards, his eyes flying wide. “Cut the crap, will you?”

Jack scooted backwards a little, dropping his hands to his lap. Frowning up at his friend, he exhaled slowly. “I think it’s safe to say that you have something you’d like to discuss with me.”

Jacob grunted. Looking behind him, he found one of the chairs that Jack kept across from his desk and plunked himself down. After a moment, he bounced right back up, gesturing back at Jack with a splayed palm. “I can’t believe you’re letting her do this.”

Ah. He’d been wondering when this fresh slice of hell would be served onto his plate. Just what he needed. More drama. Jack slid his chair forward, leaning on to rest his forearms on his desktop. “I’m not letting her do anything.”

“You’re sure as hell not stopping her.”

“How am I supposed to stop her, Jacob?” He’d asked himself this question multiple times over the past few months. How? When things were as they were. Still were as they were. She’d moved on. She’d made that decision for the both of them. Who was he to say that she wasn’t doing exactly what she wanted to do?

“You could have done something. Could still do something.”

“Like what?”

Jacob cursed, tilting his chin down and rubbing at his temples with his thumb and middle fingers. He turned in place, as if doing so would give him something—perspective?—or maybe just to buy time. Finally, he faced Jack’s desk again. “Like something. This isn’t right for her, and you know it. You can still stop this.”

“Stop what?” Jack folded his hands together. “She’s an adult woman. A Colonel in the United States Air Force. She’s the smartest human being I know, and she could take my sorry ass out without even breaking a sweat. Are you actually telling me that she doesn’t know what she’s doing?”

Jacob smirked down at him, that single eyebrow raised in such a supercilious arch that Jack was fairly sure that it would even seem condescending to God—whichever one happened to be present. “Has she ever been given an alternative?”

“She knows—”

“Don’t give me that pile of bull, Jack.” Jacob snorted, shaking his head. “Have you told her—in actual words—what you want?”

He hadn’t. Not really. Not recently, in any case. The closest they’d ever come had been four years before in that stinking room with Anise and Teal’c and Doctor Fraiser looking on. It may as well have been centuries ago. There had been a moment in his living room, before the knowledge of the Ancients had overwritten his mind the second time. She’d shown up at his house—she’d tried to have a real conversation. But then Daniel had barged in and that had ended that. 

Beyond that? They’d had moments. Hundreds of them. Thousands of them. Looks. Touches. Glances. Pinpricks in time when he’d been sure that he wasn’t feeling it all alone. But that had all changed once she’d returned from being trapped on the Prometheus. She had changed. Her relationship with him had morphed into something he barely recognized. He hadn’t even been able to put his finger on it. It had just been different.

After her return, there had been humming in elevators and rings in boxes and questions in her lab.

“If things were different. . .” 

Her eyes had been obscure, unreadable. At once opaque and hollow. He hadn’t known how to fix whatever it was that had gone so damned wrong. So, he’d given her the most nonchalant answer that he could honestly give her. Glib to the point of pain. 

“I wouldn’t be here.” 

And he’d shattered inside, knowing that she’d given up on him.

“How do you know what I want, Jacob?” After all, Jack had never told him. This is a conversation that he’d never had with the father of the woman he’d loved for eight years. A conversation he’d avoided, to be honest. He considered Jacob a friend, and Selmak an ally. It would be the height of awkwardness to express how much he wanted to take his—their?—daughter to bed. How much he wanted to hold her, protect her, let her fly. Grow old with her. He measured his words with care. “Maybe you don’t know as much as you think you do.”

Jacob snorted—loudly. “Good god, Jack. You’re actually going to try to deny it?”

Steeling his expression, Jack looked down at his desk. Just for something to do, he reached for the pen again. “Deny what?”

“You’ve been in love with Sam for years. Anybody with one eye and half a brain could see that.” 

“She couldn’t see that. Or maybe she did and it didn’t matter.” He raised a shoulder, tilting his chin to one side, looking at the wall next to the door. He’d hung pictures there a few months ago. Not the ones he’d intended to hang—those were still in his bottom drawer, buried beneath other assorted dross. It had seemed too desperate, somehow, to have her on his wall. As if he’d already reduced himself to an observer rather than an active participant in her life. “Regardless, she toddled off and got herself engaged to Pete.”

“Pete.” Jacob spat the word as if it were an epithet. “Pete. He’ll kill her. Not literally. But just as violently. He’ll kill her spirit. She’s so desperate for something more in her life that she’s settling for mediocrity. She’s trying to be someone and something that she’s not in order to capture just a little taste of what she wants.”

“You don’t like him.”

“He’s not right for her.”

O’Neill pressed his lips tightly together, tapping the pen lightly on the desktop. “Shouldn’t that be her decision?”

“Damn it, Jack!” Jacob hadn’t yelled—not quite. But his tone definitely verged on something more potent than mere conversation. “She needs you. You need to stop her somehow.”

Jack stood, planting his feet so that he was solid, willing himself to stay impassive. “You know I can’t do that, Jacob.”

“I know you won’t.” The elder Carter glared at O’Neill. “There’s a difference.”

“There are complexities to this, General Carter.” His choice of words was deliberate. “Surely you haven’t forgotten what’s at stake here.”

“I’m uniquely qualified to know what’s at stake here.” Jacob sank into the chair behind him, weariness evident in his entire being. He looked down at his boots. “But she’s my daughter. And she’s making the mistake of a lifetime. And you know that as well as I do.”

She’d been so nervous, asking him for permission to bring Pete to meet her father. They’d been friends—closer than friends—for eight years, and she’d been anxious about broaching the subject with him. He’d wondered as he’d signed the paperwork whether she would have been as off-kilter had she been asking Hammond. If it was the situation that had upset her, or the fact that she’d had to ask O’Neill. 

Jack turned the pen over and over in his fingers, watching as the overhead lighting glistened off the plastic body of the implement. Cheap pen. Cheap effect. He thought he’d buried this. He’d tried to, at least. He’d busied himself running the base, playing at politics, and signing the endless paperwork. He’d made his own attempt at finding that life he wanted—allowing himself to take refuge in Kerry’s bright smile and willing arms. Cheap. He knew that the effort had been cheap. A low-effort facsimile of what he should have been doing all along. “What do you want me to say, Jake?”

“Tell me the truth.”

“What truth is that?”

“Do you love my daughter?” Jacob spoke quietly. Too softly, really. As if he both anticipated and dreaded the answer. He stood again, bracing himself against the arms of the chair like he needed the support to get upright.

Jack watched as the Tok’ra found his balance, trying to find his own equilibrium within this instant of upheaval. Their eyes met briefly, but the moment was enough. It was time to be open. 

Jacob pushed. “Do you?”

He’d never answered this question out loud. He’d tried to—in his head. In his soul—he’d tried to put it into words. But he’d never once been successful. Because how did a guy like Jack O’Neill express that kind of need? How could he put into words what he felt for Samantha Carter? It was beyond mere language. It was bone-deep, body-infused, and soul-profound. It was searing, and soaring, and superlative. It was anxious and maddening, and obdurate. It was kind. Compassionate. Beautiful. Dark. Heartbreaking. Pure.

True. 

“Yes.” He laid the pen down on his desk, sinking his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “Yes, I do.”

An odd amalgam of expressions played across the older man’s features. At last, he cracked just the hint of a smile. Triumphant? Perhaps. But real. “I didn’t like you when we first met. Did you know that? I thought you were foolhardy and arrogant. A real cocky son of a bitch.”

Jack’s brows rose, but he didn’t need to respond. He’d known all that. 

“But then I saw how Sam responded to you. How you took care of her. You listened to her. You valued her. And you still do.” Jacob ran his palm over the smoothness of his scalp. He turned, looking through the window into the briefing room, angling his body away from O’Neill. “Pete doesn’t have a clue who she really is. He has this idealized image of her in his head—he’s got her up on this pedestal. He thinks that she’s some perfect little girl who’s going to settle down with him and be happy doing his laundry and cooking his meals as soon as the ring hits her finger. And she’s trying to be that because she doesn’t think that she can have someone who just wants her to be who she is.”

Again, O’Neill just listened. There was nothing to say to that. Nothing to add to things that Jack himself already knew. 

He seemed so tired, now. Jacob’s shoulders drooped, the soft leather of his Tok’ra garb sagging slightly. He was thin. Pale. He pivoted slowly, shaking his head as he looked at the General. “She’s special, you know? And I’m not just saying this because she’s my daughter. I’m saying this because it’s true. And you know it. You understand her.”

“Jacob, I—”

“She needs you, Jack. Not because she truly needs anyone, but because she wants someone. And unless she’s given another option—she’s going to marry that man-child she’s convinced herself she’s in love with. And over time, he’ll kill her. He’ll change her. He’ll whittle her down until she’s just a shell of what she could have been.”

“I think you’re underestimating her.” Jack passed his tongue across the inner crease of his lips. “I think she’ll figure it out.”

“And then what?” Jacob crossed towards the desk, his eyebrows low over his hardened eyes. “Once her heart’s been broken? Her confidence has been shaken? Once she’s lost her faith in herself? When the divorce is final and she’s left alone again—what then?”

Jack bit back a sharp retort, looking down at the pen still braced between his fingers. “I don’t know.”

“So, I’m going to ask you again, Jack.” Jacob ran his fingertips along the fine grain wood of the General’s desk. “Do you love my daughter?”

“I’ve already answered that.”

General to General. Man to man. Two men who loved the same woman in different, but equal, ways. Their eyes met, then held as understanding passed between them. 

“Then what are you going to do about it?”

—----OOOOOOO—---

There was a lull between visitors. Teal’c and Bra’tac had visited with Jacob briefly, preceded and followed by more Tok’ra and SGC personnel. Jack had never felt more like the General, perched as he’d been in the observation room above. Like some damned angel of death—waiting for the end—lacking nothing but the scythe. 

A nurse had come in to futz with the IV. She’d attended to the task and then gone, leaving the room empty other than the patient. It was then that Jack had risen and made his way down to the bedside. He’d sat down in the chair next to the bed, his movements efficiently quiet. 

“Hey, there, Jake.” He laid his hand on Jacob’s arm, bringing the older man’s attention his way. “Way to make a dramatic exit.”

“Shut up, Jack.” But Jacob smiled, blinking a little against the light in the ceiling. “How is she?”

“Holding up.” It wasn’t necessary to ask about whom he was inquiring.

“Have you talked to her?”

He hadn’t. But he would. He’d planned on speaking to Kerry first, but she’d beat him to that. Earlier in his office, when she’d closed the deeply symbolic door and told him that he needed to retire. Jack hadn’t felt even the least bit compelled to argue with the CIA officer who’d been spending time in his bed. That fact alone told him that she was right. It was time to finally confront the pachyderm in the ‘Gateroom. “One thing at a time, friend.”

“Promise me that you will.”

“I swear.” The corner of Jack’s mouth rose in a half-smile. “Pinky promise.”

Jacob nodded, his eyes drifting closed for a beat. His jaw worked as he turned back to face Jack. “You know, about what I said before.”

“Which part? When you called me an arrogant jackass, or when you ordered me to date your daughter?”

Another smile. Wider this time. “Both.” 

“What about it?”

“I’m okay with dying, Jack.” Jacob indicated the medical equipment with a nod. “I really am. I’ve lived a good life. An interesting life. I have no regrets except one.”

O’Neill narrowed his gaze at his friend. “Oh?”

“I’m going to miss out on seeing my grandkids grow up. On seeing Mark navigate fatherhood.”

“That’s two regrets.” Jack cocked an eyebrow.

Jacob groaned. Whether it was from pain or exasperation wasn’t clear. “But my biggest regret is that I won’t get to see Sam hit her stride. I won’t get to witness the miracle that will be unleashed once she figures things out and starts flying.”

“She’s pretty amazing already, Jake.”

“She is.” The elder Carter nodded. “But as I’ve been lying here, it hit me that I’ll miss so much with her. I’ll miss her wedding. I’ll miss seeing her in love and being loved. I’ll miss seeing her making rank, and saving the planet, and making discoveries. God willing, she’ll have children. And I’ll miss that, too.”

“You’ll see it.” Jack looked down at his hands. At his boots, planted between the legs of his chair and the heavy-duty wheels of the hospital bed. “Somehow, you’ll be there to see her.”

“I’m dying, Jack.” As if that fact needed to be reiterated. It had been said caustically. Sarcastically.

“C’mon, Jacob.” He smiled—the expression at once sad and wry. “You can’t tell me that a little thing like death will keep you from having your say in things around here.”

Even dying, Jacob could still give a hell of a stink-eye. “What was it you were saying about being an arrogant jackass?”

Grinning, Jack angled a look back up at his friend. “Point taken.”

“But here’s what’s really chapping my hide.” Jacob’s voice grew stronger, his expression more pointed. “You get to see it. You’ll witness it all. You get to watch her become the woman that she’s always been meant to be. And damn it. It makes me so angry that you’ll get to see it happen. That you’ll see it as she hits her stride. That you’ll get to be there to cheer her on.”

He didn’t know how to respond to that. The truth was that he’d always been a little in awe of Carter. Been at once amused by her endless curiosity and intimidated by the weight of her intellect. Watching her at work was one of the most inspiring things he’d ever witnessed. But the rest? Her future—their future. Love. Marriage. Motherhood— He closed his eyes, scrubbing his palm over his face. Damn.

“I’m so damned jealous of you, Jack.” Jacob reached out and touched Jack’s arm. “I don’t want to miss that.”

“So don’t go.”

“You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t.” He spoke downward, towards his boots. He’d lost people over the years—too many people—but somehow, losing this friend felt different. “I thought that the Tok’ra knew how to handle this stuff.”

“Weeks ago, when Selmak started failing, I thought that there was a chance.” He sucked in a deep breath, wincing a little in pain. “But I needed him to help us defeat the replicators and tweak the weapon on Dakara. After that, he didn’t have the reserves to heal himself, or to stop the toxins his body released from poisoning my system.”

“You should have said something.”

“What could I have said? Without Selmak, we all would have died. We were both willing to make this sacrifice.” He coughed, then cleared his throat. “Losing Selmak feels like losing half of myself, anyway. I’d feel like a shell without him. I wouldn’t survive it. It’s better that we go together.”

Jack breathed out a curse, taking Jacob’s hand in his own. The other man’s fingers felt cool and dry as they gripped Jack’s.

“I lost Sam’s mother too soon, as well. Before I’d had a chance to show her what she meant to me.” He turned his head away—looking up at the ceiling. “And I failed as a father. I tried. But you can’t replace a mother. And all I could think about was Sam’s mom looking down from wherever she was and hating me a little for screwing everything up so badly. Resenting the fact that I was still with the kids and she wasn’t. Envying me.”

“You didn’t fail her, Jacob.” Jack turned Jacob’s hand in his. “Look at how incredible she is.”

Jacob waved off the words as if they were mere platitudes.“It’s just that I know I’ll miss her. And you’ll get to see it. See it when she hits her stride and becomes beyond amazing. You’ll get to see her get her first real command. You’ll be who she turns to when she needs support or advice. You’ll be able to see her smile, and hear that dorky laugh she has. You’ll get it all. And I’ll miss it.”

Jack watched as this man—his friend—fought against something profound and deep—a surge of emotion that pulsed across his features and radiated through his body. 

Jacob’s eyes grew misty—glistening in the harsh overhead lighting. “I hate you a little bit—I’m as jealous as hell because you’re the right man to be at her side. She needs you, not some overbearing father. She needs you as much as you need her. And I’m grateful for that. But I also loathe it.”

“I know.”

Jacob let out a long sigh. Thready, and weak. “Lord, I’m tired.”

“I’ll go.” Jack enveloped Jacob’s hand within his own, trying to will some warmth back into his friend. “I’ll miss you. It has been beyond an honor to serve with you.”

Jacob nodded, his eyes drifting closed again as he squeezed Jack’s fingers. “Yeah. Same.”

Jack placed Jacob’s hand at his side, taking a few moments to make sure that he was covered by the blanket, adjusting the rim of the portable light fixture to get the worst of the glare out of Jacob’s eyes. A movement at the door drew his attention, and he looked up to see a new pair of Tok’ra waiting just outside to pay their respects. 

“Jack?”

He turned back towards the bed. “Yeah, Jake?”

“You make sure that she knows that I’m proud of her.” His voice was stronger. Fierce—his eyes more clear than they’d been just seconds before. “Swear to me, Jack.” 

“Of course, Jacob.” He angled his head downward. “I’ll make sure she knows.”

“And you’ll do what we said, right?” He gasped a little, then coughed again. 

Turning, Jack bent over the bed, fixing Jacob’s gaze with his own. “For the rest of my life, I will endeavor to deserve her. I swear.”

Jacob seemed to accept that. He nodded, then raised his arm to wave Jack away. “Get out of here. You’re holding up the line.”

“‘Bye, Jake.”

“‘Bye, Jack.”

—----OOOOOOO—----

He waited as long as he could. He’d stood in the corridor, watching as people filed in and out of Jacob’s isolation room, acutely aware of Carter shifting between Jacob’s bedside and the observation room. She’d been calm. Assured. Quiet. 

Anyone watching her would remark on how collected she was. How serene. But Jack could see the cracks around the edges. The tightness around her mouth, the way her chin trembled when she smiled. She tended to fiddle with things when she was upset about something. Picking at hangnails, worrying at her hair, cleaning the crystal on her watch. This evening, it was pushing up the sleeves on her shirt to her elbows, only to smooth them back down towards her wrists. Over and over and over again.

So, when she’d escaped into the glass room that looked over the vigil, he counted out ten hippopotamuses and followed her in. She’d seemed mildly surprised to see him, but not unhappy about it. And she’d been honest in her answers, even if Jack knew that the veneer of strength she was exhibiting was just that—a facade.

“C’mere.” He’d said, putting his arm around her shoulders and pulling her near. And he could feel her settle against his body, as she took his hand in hers and pressed her cheek against his skin like she was trying to pull some of his strength into herself. And she’d stilled a little, her body against his. As if she’d finally found an anchor, or solid ground, or safety. 

She’d been grateful for his support, which was ridiculous. He’d have sat there forever, held her forever, if that’s what she’d needed. He’d do anything for her. It hadn’t just been his last promise to her dying father. It was just finally the right time to confront what they’d always been within the auspices of what they could be. All of it. 

And in some ways, it felt like a new beginning. A sea change, a shift in the wind.

She’d thanked him for being there for her. 

And his answer was perhaps the truest thing he’d ever said. A promise. A vow. As hopeful in its sincerity as it was in simplicity.

“Always.”

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Truth Serum

Undercover as a Couple

Forced Marriage

Amnesia

Part One

Set in Season 7 between “Lifeboat” and “Space Race”.

“Guys, we have to find that ring.”

“We know, Carter.” Jack rifled through another patch of tall grass, searching for even the merest glint of gold. 

They’d been looking for at least ten minutes now, the clock ticking ever closer to the appointed time for their meeting with locals. Jack was annoyed to be on this planet in the first place. Annoyed to be placed yet again in this position, and flat-out peeved to be scrounging around in alien dirt for a diminutive bit of metal. Damn Daniel and his tiny hands.

“Have you looked over there?” Daniel was on his knees on the opposite side of the path. He pointed at a spot just beyond where Carter was crouched. “It could have rolled further than we first thought.”

“Indeed I have searched that area.” Teal’c had refused to get on the ground, choosing to bend at the waist in order to look for the lost circlet. He was using the butt end of this staff weapon to dig around in the foliage. “The ring was not there.”

Carter sat back on her heels, scanning the area. “Well, it has to be here somewhere.”

“Why do we even need the damned thing, anyway?” Jack flicked a bug off his trouser leg, then foraged through another patch of grass. “How do we even know that this society uses them?”

“People have been using them since Ancient Egypt, Jack.” Daniel crept a little further off the path towards a promising-looking sapling. “And since these people are likely descendents of the Vikings of Earth, my guess is that they brought the tradition with them.”

Finding nothing, Jack abandoned the grass, half-crawling along the side of the trail towards another likely spot. He scoured the heavy, dark dirt beneath him as he went, using his fingers to gently sift the soil in search of the article they were missing. 

A wedding ring. Sergeant Siler’s wedding ring, to be exact. Borrowed as the ‘Gate had blazed to life for the weirdest rescue mission SG-1 had mounted thus far. 

Captains Mills and Shaw of SG-5 hadn’t been allowed to return from their mission to P3X-756. Colonel Nichols had sent Lieutenant Lewis back through the ‘Gate for help in negotiating their release. The details were still a little sketchy—Lewis wasn’t known for his eloquence—but he’d managed to convey the important bits. 

First—the people of Frigganheim were only too willing to share their knowledge of seemingly miraculous plant-based medicines. 

Second—they were completely devoted in their worship of their Goddess.

Lastly, the Frigganheim leadership would not trade with people whose moral code was not similar to their own. They feared that sharing their knowledge with those less-than-worthy would anger their Goddess, leaving them without her blessing. 

A few other things were true, too—like the fact that it was important that the two captains made it home sooner rather than later.  Captain Mills’ daughter was graduating from the eighth grade tomorrow, and Captain Shaw’s wife was due to have their twins any minute. 

This particular mission had been a fluke for SG-5—a spur of the moment thing after another team had returned to the SGC with raving reviews of the herbal prowess of the people here. SG-5 was the only research team with both a botanist and a member with a medical background, so they’d been sent back through to make a more knowledgeable assessment of what the locals had to offer. They’d only been meant to spend the day. Gather some samples. Schmooze with the locals.

“I just don’t understand what their problem is.” Carter turned, scanning the ground around her for the missing item. “Mills and Shaw are married.”

“They’re married to other people but working and traveling together without their respective spouses.” Daniel stood, stretching his back for a bit before crouching down in a different spot. “That seems to have been the issue. The people of this world worship the Norse deity Frigga. She’s the goddess of fertility, marriage, and prophecy. And while the Norse on Earth were more moderate in their reverence towards Frigga, it appears that this society has taken their devotion to another, much more puritanical, level.”

“They do not believe that women and men should interact casually in any way.” Teal’c nudged aside a small bush with the toe of his boot. “They view Captains Mills and Shaw as adulterers and thus in defiance of their most holy law.”

“Which is how they’re also going to see us, thanks to Daniel and his spindly little fingers.” Jack shot a glare towards his teammate. 

“I don’t have spindly little fingers.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I have perfectly fine hands.” Daniel held one up, turning it back and forth as if to prove his assertion. “Janet told me once that I have the hands of a pianist.”

“Yes, Daniel. You have pen—”

“ Colonel .”

Carter had perfected that tone. The one that told O’Neill that he really shouldn’t say the first thing that popped into his fron—and that he probably shouldn’t have been thinking the thing that popped into his fron in the first place. He glanced over just to check—and yep. She was also giving him that look. The one that told him that she was probably thinking exactly the same thing that he was thinking, but was mature enough not to actually say it out loud. 

So, alas, his joke about— ahem —pianist fingers which substituted a different (yet delightfully near-homophonous) body part for the word ‘pianist’ would have to remain unsaid. 

Damn it.

Even more reason to grumble as he rooted around in the dirt like one of those pigs that sniffed out truffles. 

“Anyway. Why not just send back an all-male team?” Carter went back to her search. “That way, nobody has to pretend at all.”

“Colonel Nichols indicated that a positive example of Earthly married bliss would go a long way in swaying the people of Frigganheim.” Teal’c prodded around the base of a tree with the butt of his staff weapon. “That is the only justification General Hammond could give for his approval of this subterfuge.”

Subterfuge which wouldn’t work if they couldn’t find the damned ring. O’Neill muttered yet another curse at the ground below him. “Less jabbering. More looking, people.”

“We’re looking, Sir.”

“And once we find the damned ring, we can all thank Daniel for the dirt bath.”

“Listen, Jack. This isn’t my fault.” Daniel shifted a large rock out aside and poked around its base. “Just because you have knuckles the size of walnuts—”

“I do not.”

“Guys!”

That tone was recognizable, too. Especially since she’d started using it more and more lately. Ever since Daniel had come back from being Ascended, and Jonas had headed home to Kelowna. Ever since they’d nearly lost Teal’c and she’d had to watch Daniel slowly go insane. She’d flung herself into her work—spending hours poring over engineering specs for the Prometheus whenever she wasn’t involved with her tasks with SG-1. He’d had to order her to go home last week, after she’d spent nearly ten full days within the Mountain, living out of the on-base quarters usually reserved for her father.

O’Neill hadn’t been able to decide what she was running from—or to—by burying herself in work. It was just obvious to him that she was seeking something that she was in no danger of actually finding.

And Jack had been endeavoring not to wonder where he fit into that search. Where he fit into her life—or even if he still fit in there at all.

That was the main reason that Daniel had been cast in the role of ‘husband’ for this little jaunt. The question had arisen as they’d geared up, and Jack had pretended not to have been listening, paying inordinate attention to a specific pocket closure on his vest while he tried not to imagine how nice it might be to be able to act out what he actually felt—showing her deference as his woman rather than just as his teammate. He’d immediately been a little ashamed of himself. Still was, really—painfully aware that his thoughts made him seem porcine in a different way. Sexist, rather than truffle-finding. 

Thankfully Daniel—being Daniel—had happily volunteered. It was easier this way. Less complicated. 

O’Neill dug around an expansive stand of native flowers. They were everywhere on this planet—tall-stemmed with large, fragrant blooms. He’d counted at least a half-dozen different colorations so far. This particular bunch sat a little ways off the path, about halfway between the walkway and the outer edges of the forest beyond. Blue petals and wide, deep green leaves, and—wouldn’t you know it—a plain gold ring sitting atop a root ball of the outermost stem.

“Found it!” He snagged the ring between his index finger and thumb, wincing a tidge as he stood. Getting old pretty much sucked. Shaking the worst of the dirt off the band, he moved towards the center of the path, where the rest of the team was congregating. He extended the ring towards his friend. “Now, Daniel—don’t lose this again.”

“I didn’t mean to lose it last time.” Daniel took the item from Jack, sliding it onto his ring finger. Holding up his hand, he wiggled it a little, sending the band up towards his knuckle. “It’s just so big. Siler has gigantic fingers.”

“Maybe you could just keep your hand curled up.” Sam made a fist as an example. “We won’t be here that long, right?”

“All that needs to be accomplished here is to convince the people of Frigganheim that the people of the Tau’ri believe in the sanctity of marriage.” Teal’c kicked the dirt off the heels of his boots. “Once that has been done, they should release Captain Mills and Captain Shaw and we can return home.”

“That’s the plan, Teal’c.” Jack glowered over at Daniel. “As long as Daniel here keeps the ring on.”

“I’ll keep it on.” Daniel gestured towards Jack in exasperation, only to have the ring sail off his finger yet again. 

On sheer, lucky, reflex, O’Neill raised his hand, snatching the bit of gold in mid-air. Narrowing a look at the archaeologist, he threw his arms wide, the ring tucked tightly in his palm. “Seriously?”

“I’m not doing it on purpose.”

“Sir.” Carter nodded meaningfully in the direction of the town, lowering her chin so that she could speak surreptitiously. “We have company.”

Muttering a curse, Jack turned his back on the arriving contingent. They didn’t have time for this. If Daniel couldn’t keep this ring on his teeny piano hands, then the gig was up. With a resigned look towards the Major, he slid the ring on his own finger, stepping closer to her as he turned to greet their arrival party. 

“Sir—”

“Sorry, Carter.” He leaned in towards her, taking her hand in his own. “Looks like you’re stuck with me.”

There were five of them. Two men and three women. The older of the men was large—bushy-bearded, broad-shouldered and barrel-chested—wearing a long tunic, belted at the waist, and a pair of baggy trousers tucked into leather boots. The younger man was tall and wiry, his beard thinner, his hair blonder. His tunic just reached mid-thigh, and his leggings fit snugly around his legs before disappearing into his calf-high boots. The women’s dresses flowed nearly to the ground—straight shifts split up the sides with longer skirts beneath. While scabbards on the men’s belts carried long swords, beautifully ornate sheaths on the women’s hips held daggers. 

Despite the weaponry, the group seemed friendly, chattering happily with each other as they strode along the trail. As they neared, the eldest of the group raised a hand with a shouted, “Heill!”

Jack reciprocated, lifting his own—newly ring-adorned—hand. “Hey, there.”

“We have been expecting you.” Again, the senior gentleman spoke, stopping a few yards from SG-1. He slapped his fist against his chest. “I am Gorm. I am the Harald of this province.”

“Gorm. I’m Jack.” O’Neill smiled at the older man, indicating his companions with a nod. “These are my friends Teal’c and Daniel.”

“And you have brought a woman with you.” Gorm’s eyes narrowed in speculation. 

“I have.” Jack raised their joined hands, pressing his lips to Carter’s fingertips, angling her fingers so that her borrowed ring sparkled in the afternoon sun. “This is my wife Samantha.”

“A wife!” Gorm pressed his palms together, his eyes bright. Around him, the ladies tittered between themselves, peeking over their shoulders at Sam. “You have brought a wife!”

“A wife.” Jack glanced over to find Sam looking back at him. Her blue eyes were cautious. Unreadable. Her smile seemed genuine, even if a little careful. He skimmed his thumb along her knuckles, loosening his grip on her fingers even as he edged closer to her. His hand made its way to the small of her back, settling there. “I’m assuming this is your family?”

“Indeed it is!” Gorm threw his arm around the shoulders of the woman at his side. “Thurid is my beloved bride. Thirty-three years and nine children. Frigga has certainly been beneficent.”

“Nine children!” Jack’s eyes widened, and he cracked a grin as he glanced sideways at Sam. “It certainly seems so.”

“Come!” Gorm raised his hands into the air. “Come! Let us go and become friends!”

———OOOOOOO———

The women had taken Carter away. 

It had been done in such a sweet, persuasive manner that O’Neill had barely even realized that it was happening. One minute Thurid and her two youngest daughters had been exclaiming over the color of Sam’s hair and eyes, and the next minute she’d been trundled off to a long, low edifice that Gorm had casually dismissed as the “Women’s House”.

Jack, Daniel, and Teal’c had followed Gorm and his son-in-law—a brawny young lad named Thorsten—to the town’s main building. Situated across the square from the Women’s House, the Meeting House was a broad, wooden, round-roofed affair that reminded Jack of a quonset hut on steroids. The interior was dim, but not dark, lit almost entirely by glass windows near the front, back, and side doors and a few well-placed skylights in the thatched roof. An expansive table ran the length of the center of the single room, while a variety of mismatched tables and shelves marched along the walls. Candles had been placed in sconces on the walls and candlesticks on the tables, but none were burning.

There were no chairs at the table. Instead, dozens of densely-padded benches and round stools provided comfortable places to sit. Gorm had led them to the head of the table, indicating that Jack should sit on his left side, while Daniel and Teal’c took seats a little further down. As if on cue, Colonel Nichols had entered through the back door, sinking onto a tuffet next to Thorsten.

“So, your people allow your women to work with the men.”

“On Earth, it is common for women to choose their own paths in life.” Daniel was making strides with Gorm. “In fact, on Earth, even your distant cousins are quite liberal in their attitudes, and women are equals in their society. They can work how, where, and with whom they wish.”

“And how does this affect your families? Your children?” Gorm wasn’t quite convinced, but he was certainly more open to the concept than they’d expected him to be. Shifting his attention from Daniel to O’Neill, he asked, “Colonel Jack. How many children has Samantha given you?”

Kids? Aw, hell. Jack shook his head, leveling a cautionary glare towards Nichols. They hadn’t had a chance to clue him in on their little act. Jack hoped he’d take the hint. “None. We’ve only been together for a few years.”

“Years?” Gorm’s brows flew high. He exchanged a brief glance with his son-in-law before focusing back on Jack.  “Years? And still no offspring?”

“Not yet.” Jack looked down at his hands. They’d given him something to drink, but he’d been fairly reluctant to imbibe, choosing instead to fiddle with the sealed earthenware bottle. Siler’s ring made a satisfying noise every time it impacted the hardened clay. “But we’re hopeful.”

“Thorsten has been wed to my daughter Bodil for only three years and has already been blessed with two fine sons.” The Harald leaned back in his seat. “Is this not the reason that we marry? To produce offspring?”

“Of course we’d like kids.” Lying was easy when it was the truth. Even a truth that you didn’t realize was the truth yet. Jack put his drink on the table. It landed with a ‘clunk’. “It just hasn’t happened yet.”

“Is there an issue with your manhood?” Gorm leaned close, his voice low and conspiratorial. “We have herbal remedies for that. Or for any failure that might be on your wife’s part.”

Failure? O’Neill squelched an immediate urge to spit in the man’s eye. Of all the freaking nerve. If Samantha Carter was anything, it was not a failure. And as for his manhood—well, hell. There was nothing wrong there. Not that he’d had much of a chance to prove that, lately. Jack opened his mouth to speak, but nothing emerged except for an inauspicious grunt. 

Luckily, Daniel was there to take up the slack. “I think that the main point we’re making here is that when we marry, when we have children, and the work that we do is up to us. The humans of our world value our free agency. Having said that, the family is still the base unit of our society. Captains Mills and Shaws have families of their own who are very anxious to see them again.”

“The wife of Captain Shaw is nearly at her time to deliver.” Teal’c glared down the table towards Gorm and Torsten. “I am certain that she would appreciate having her husband back home when that time comes.”

“And yet, your two captains were seen in an embrace. As one would hold one’s lover. That is the crime for which they are being held.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed, and he clenched his jaw briefly before taking a quick breath. “They were hugging?”

“Yes.” Gorm nodded. “In the town square. In plain view of all the people. It was most unseemly.”

“As I have already explained,” Nichols sighed. It was obvious that he’d grown weary of the entire situation. “Captain Mills hugged Captain Shaw when Shaw expressed some anxiety about becoming a father. Mills is a great airman, but she’s also just a nice person. She’s very demonstrative—she just kind of mothers us all. Hell—she hugged me last week after I told her that my oldest son broke his ankle playing football.”

“That sounds terrible.” Frowning, Daniel looked over at Nichols. “Is he okay?”

“He broke it seven years ago, Doctor Jackson.”

Daniel’s mouth puckered into a little ‘o’. Flickering a look at Jack, he offered a half-shrug before placing his own earthenware bottle on the table in front of him. “Well, it seems to me that this is all just a lack of understanding between cultures. Surely you can see, Gorm, that no harm was meant by this hug. Captain Shaw and Captain Mills aren’t involved in any sort of extramarital affair, and they didn’t mean to expose your people to any kind of nefarious example.”

“And yet, the offense was committed.” Gorm shook his head, a little sad. “As much as we desire trade and friendship with your people, we must be assured that you value our reverence for Frigga and her admonitions.”

“So?” He’d had enough. Jack stood, shoving his stool backwards with a little kick of his heel. The table was too low for him to sit comfortably, anyway, and he was in a mood already without adding aching knees and a sore butt to the mix. Sitting around teaching physics to a wall would be more worthwhile than continuing to talk in all these damned circles. “What’s it going to take, Gorm?”

“Pardon me?”

“What’s it going to take?” O’Neill shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “You have stuff that we’re interested in, and we have stuff that would make your lives easier. We’d love to trade. Sure. Our cultures aren’t exactly aligned. But we honor you and your way of life, and we respect it. That doesn’t mean that we’re going to go all out in our worship of Frigga any more than it means that you’re going to adopt our ways.”

Gorm seemed to acknowledge that with a slow, thoughtful nod. “True.”

“Mills and Shaw are not violating the principle of your laws—or Frigga’s admonitions—in any way. They are friends. Deeply in love with their own spouses and their families and not guilty of anything other than being friends.”

The town Harald squinted up at Jack. “Just as you and your wife are deeply in love.” 

“Exactly.” O’Neill nodded, then paused. Purposefully avoiding the gazes of any of his Earthling contingent, he passed his tongue along the inside crease of his lips. Crossing his arms across his chest, he rocked back on the heels of his boots. “So? What’s it going to take for you to release Mills and Shaw and open trade relations with the people of Earth?”

Gorm rose, his broad shoulders straightening. For a long, long time, the Meeting House sat in silence as the Harald considered arguments and options. His bushy gray brows slung low over his eyes as he shifted his attention from Nichols to Daniel to O’Neill. Finally, with one last glance at where Siler’s gold band graced O’Neill’s finger, he sighed. His sharp blue eyes lifted to pillory Jack.

“It will take a wedding.”

—----OOOOOOO—----

“We’re going to do what?”

“Get married.”

“Colonel—”

“Now, now, Major.” Jack was whispering, leaning against the outside wall of the Women’s House near the back door. “If you keep calling me that, they won’t buy it.”

She pivoted away from him, shaking her head. Running her hand through her hair, she grunted—just a little—before making a quarter-turn back in his direction. “This is stupid.”

He’d rarely seen her like this—genuinely at odds with both herself and him. She was upset—that was obvious by the way that she didn’t quite meet his eye. By the way her chin trembled slightly when she spoke to him. The way her shoulders tilted away from him—as if she were seeking to put distance between them rather than drawing nearer. He hadn’t felt that from her since before they’d been captured by Hathor so many years before. When they’d both learned how easy it was to exist within each others’ heat. He still thought about that from time to time—taking himself back to the corridor with her body pressed back against his, his hand over her mouth as she’d cried out through painful memories. 

They’d stood more closely since then—grown accustomed to each other in ways that weren’t quite military-appropriate—but Jack had always considered that moment—being tucked into that alcove between corridors—to be when he’d known it for certain. When she had first become the only person that he’d wanted to hold against himself for the rest of ever. 

“I argued with Gorm, but it did no good.” Jack crossed his arms, raising one foot to rest against the wall behind him. “He wants us to prove our devotion by reaffirming our vows. As soon as we’ve said ‘I do’, Mills and Shaw can go home, and we can open up trade negotiations.”

“Have you had a chance to talk to Colonel Nichols about all this?”

“Daniel and Teal’c are with him now.” Jack had trusted them to fill Nichols in on the whole plan. “Everyone just wants to get home. If we have to get married to make that happen, then so be it.”

“Get married.” She faced him fully, her eyes huge. “Are you listening to yourself?”

“It’s not like it’s binding on Earth.” He shrugged, trying to maintain a composure that he didn’t quite feel. “And here, it’s just a renewal of vows, since they think we’re already hitched back home.”

“I’ve been talking to the women, Sir.” Her voice grew stronger—something beyond the heavy whisper they’d been using. “Marriage here is more than just a formality. It’s more than just a nice little celebration. These people are ritualistic about it. It’s what they live and breathe.”

“Carter—”

“I don’t think you understand, Sir.” She edged closer, until her body shared his warmth. Even with her whispering, her voice reached him easily. “We’re talking medieval European customs. Handfasting. Animal sacrifices. Witnesses at the consummation kinds of customs. Frida—that’s Thurid’s youngest daughter—told me that she’s already picked the people she wants to be in the room when she’s with her husband for the first time. And she’s not even engaged yet.”

“Then we’ll choose our own people as witnesses.” Jack’s shoulder rose slightly. “Jump up and down on the bed to make things interesting. Or we can come up with some great excuse and leave right after the ceremony.”

“Sir—“

Jack pushed away from the wall, stepping even nearer to her. He took a chance and reached for her, his fingers bracing her biceps, then trailing down past her elbows towards her wrists. Taking both of her hands in his, he tugged her close. “Listen, Carter. I know you’re mad at me.”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“Bull.” He snorted. “You’ve been in a crappy mood for weeks. Whatever it is—we need to sort it out.”

“And you think marriage is the way to do that?”

“I’m here to listen. I’m here for whatever you need. Or, if you don’t want to tell me what it is, that’s fine, too.”

Her chin was tilted downward, and she shifted her hand in his, until the borrowed ring on her own finger caught the late afternoon sunlight. “I haven’t been in a mood.”

Ooooookay. O’Neill resisted the urge to call out that blatant lie. Pressing his lips together, he soldiered through. “Sam.”

It was her name that did it. Made her meet him in the eye. It was a powerful thing—breaking down that barrier that clearly defined who they were. Moving past rank and file and regulations. Towards something personal.

She bit her bottom lip before answering him. “What?”

“I don’t want to have to make this an order.”

That little crinkle formed above her nose, and a single dimple flashed in her cheek. “I’m pretty sure that’s not allowed.”

He smiled, gratified that she’d responded to his lame attempt at humor. His fingers tightened on hers. “Let’s get this over with. Do what Gorm is asking us to do. Secure positive relations with this planet and these people. Once that’s done, we’ll send Colonel Nichols home with his team.”

“Okay.”

“After that, you and I will take a minute.” He studied the depth of her blue gaze for a while. “Get things straightened out.”

And it seemed like forever before she exhaled—slowly, through clenched teeth—her entire body tense and tight. “Okay.” 

To be continued

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Truth Serum

Undercover as a Couple

Forced Marriage

Amnesia

Part Two

Set in Season 7 between “Lifeboat” and “Space Race”.

“Where the hell did all these people come from?”

Carter hadn’t been blowing smoke. The people of Frigganheim loved their weddings. Behind the Meeting House, hundreds of them had gathered to witness the event—everyone from the very old to babes in arms. Somehow, they’d already erected an arched bower at the center of the expansive meadow, where a gently sloped rise provided a convenient spot for such events. At the far edge of the lawn, large fires had been banked around blackened stones, providing heat for the meat being methodically turned on spits over the coals. 

“I believe that runners were sent to the outlying villages announcing your nuptials, Colonel O’Neill.” Teal’c was enjoying this a little too much.

“It’s political as well as religious.” Daniel ducked a look out the window. “Everyone wants to see the Earthlings seal the deal, so to speak.”

“Thorsten informed me that the celebration will likely extend into the late morning hours of the morrow.”

“As long as Mills and Shaw are home by then, it’s all good.” Jack stepped back from the window. “Let’s get them out of here and then worry about ourselves.”

Daniel, in his element as Best Man, stood ready with the ceremonial sword Jack was supposed to wear on his belt. “Thurid and Frida just told Gorm that Sam’s ready.”

They’d given him a tunic, and some soft, fitted leather leggings. His wide, borrowed belt was ornately tooled, and already equipped with a heavy pair of leather loops for the sword’s scabbard. Some poor soul had even donated his boots to the cause, just so that Jack could walk down the aisle looking like a native Frigganheimer.

O’Neill raked his hands through his hair, ducking to look into the polished piece of metal that served as a mirror in the Meeting House. Why he cared what he looked like was something he couldn’t quite figure out, but there it was. He fiddled with the laces at the neck of the tunic, tightening them, then pulling them loose again. 

“Are you nervous?” Daniel squinted at him through the lenses of his glasses. “Because you look nervous.”

“Perhaps Colonel O’Neill is anxious about his wedding night, Daniel Jackson.” The Jaffa’s mouth turned up at one corner. “At his age, he may be concerned about performing his husbandly duties.”

Great. More Jaffa jokes. “Just shut up, you two, will you?”

“You know, Jack.” Daniel wrapped both hands around the hilt of the sword, weighing the weapon experimentally. “I’m kind of glad that Siler’s ring was too big. I would not want to be in your shoes right now.”

“Boots.” Jack gestured down towards his feet. “They’re boots, Daniel.”

“Boots. Whatever.” His eyebrows steepled over the bridge of his nose. “I’m just saying that I wouldn’t want to be the one who gets hitched to Sam today.”

“She agreed to it.” O’Neill frowned. “And we’re not really getting married.”

“Still.” The archaeologist shrugged. “It’s the first time she’s walking down the aisle, and it’s not even real. That’s got to sting a little, doesn’t it?”

“I don’t know.” His frown deepened. But actually? He’d thought about it. Truthfully, he’d been thinking about that during the entire time they’d spent sitting with the village Hofgothi—the pagan elder who performed rituals for the Frigganheimers. The old man had smiled broadly as he’d explained the ceremony, obviously enthusiastic about the prospect of helping two outsiders renew their vows in the tradition of and in reverence to Frigga.

Jack had done his best to appear excited about the whole thing—acting his part to the tee. Carter, on the other hand, had reverted to that smile from earlier. The wan, listless one that never quite reached her eyes. She’d said all the right things, but her cheeks had been pale, her body language stilted. It was worse than when he’d returned from Edora. Worse than when he’d returned from the black ops mission he’d run in conjunction with the Tollan and Asgard. She’d barely looked at him, gazing downward, instead, to the diamonds sparkling in the wedding set she’d borrowed from one of the nurses in the infirmary. 

“She’ll be fine.” He wanted to believe that. And if not? Well, he’d promised that he’d be there to listen to her rant about it. He’d take the hit. He was good for that, at least. 

“Colonel Jack.” Thorsten appeared in the side door, his hand on the hilt of his own sword. “All is in readiness.”

“Thanks.” Jack nodded at the young man, then turned, reaching for the sword. He was a little surprised when Daniel held it against himself rather than handing it over. 

“Jack—“

“Yeah?”

“About Sam.” Daniel’s voice had dropped to a bare whisper.

“Yeah.”

“I’m worried about her.” The younger man swallowed, his eyes narrowing. He hugged the sword in its ornate scabbard to his chest. “So, I’m asking you. Don’t do that thing.”

“What thing?”

“This thing.” Daniel wiggled his finger between them. “This boneheaded, pretend-idiot, smart-assy thing that you do.”

For some reason, that made perfect, convoluted sense. O’Neill was serious when he answered. “I’m not a complete bastard, Daniel.”

“I’m just saying.”

“Me too.”

“Okay, then.”

“All right.”

Straightening, Daniel hefted the sword and angled it through the hanger on Jack’s belt, until the lip of the scabbard seated neatly against the upper leather loop. He tilted a wry smile up at his friend. “Do you need any pointers for the honeymoon?”

“You can go straight to hell.”

“Noted.” Tweaking the laces on Jack’s tunic, he pretended to straighten the neckline, then clapped his friend firmly on the shoulder. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Jack pivoted on the toe of his boot and headed out the door. Thorsten was waiting just outside, gesturing for the three of them to follow him towards the center of the meadow. As they wended their through the crowd, the locals slapped Jack on the back or arm, pelting him with loud—and sometimes bawdy—well-wishes as the rest of the villagers laughed and shouted encouragement.

“Up here.” Thorsten emerged at the base of the rise, pointing towards the flowered arches at the apex. “The Hofgothi is there.”

With a last look at Daniel and Teal’c, Jack hiked up the mound, stopping next to the ancient pagan priest. As he turned into position, he could see the entire village looking up at him—hundreds of faces smiling in his direction. Far in the back, near the Meeting House, he could see Nichols standing with Shaw and Mills, while a contingent of swarthy young men kept watch nearby. 

He’d expected music. Or some pronounced start to the festivities. Instead, the crowd simply quieted, and Jack raised his head to see the back doors of the Women’s House swing wide. 

She was dressed in white. Well—mostly white. Her ivory dress was long—slit to the hips at the sides and front to reveal a long ice-blue skirt underneath. The neckline draped wide and low, secured by laces similar to those on his own tunic, only more useful than decorative. The fabric clung tenuously to her shoulders, revealing the delicate lines of her neck and collarbones, while hinting at the fullness just beneath. A belt made of heavy silver discs linked with leather thongs rode low on her hips, catching the rays of the afternoon sun as she walked. Sam’s short hair had been brushed and teased into a random tumble of waves, then crowned with a silver circlet from which a gauzy length of veil trailed down her back. 

Rather than flowers, she carried a sword of her own—bearing the weight of the weapon in both hands as she walked across the grass in a stride so purposeful that nobody would have guessed that her actions were motivated by anything other than truth.

She was so beautiful. Strong. Composed. Elegant and intentional. Even knowing that she was angry with him—with the situation—with life in general—the mere sight of her was a jolt to his senses.

If only this were real. If only this were possible—

If only she were walking with such intent towards him because of something other than duty, or the mission. If only it were because of him, and not in spite of him. 

Jack sucked in an unsteady breath, shifting his weight on the slick, heavy grass beneath him. Beside him, the priest sighed out what sounded like an oath, and a quick look sideways told Jack that the Hofgothi was just as taken with the vision as he was. 

Something within him surged. Pride? Friendly affection? Not protectiveness—nothing so honorable as that. It was possessiveness. He wanted her. Not just in a physical way—although that desire burned in him, as well. But he wanted to claim her as his own.

Damn. He knew he’d let things go too far—let himself get too comfortable with the stalemate in which they’d found themselves. But how had he allowed it to get to this point? To actually think that he could participate in this charade—this farce—and not have it come back to bite him in the ass?

“She is quite lovely, Colonel Jack.” The priest leaned close. He smelled of mead, and leather, and something mystically smoky that was probably incense. “Frigga has been most gracious to you.”

“Yes.” Jack couldn’t quite pull his gaze away from Carter, knowing full damned well that he was losing himself even more in the fantasy of it all. “She has.”

She’d reached the base of the rise, and needed to adjust her hold on the weapon so that she could gather her skirts in one hand to climb the hill. She was barefoot—some part of the local tradition, probably—her toes gripped the heavy grass as she ascended towards him. And then she was pivoting in a slow circle until she’d placed herself on the other side of the Hofgothi, facing O’Neill across a few feet of grass.

She took her time situating herself, holding the weapon in the crook of her arm as she arranged the full skirt around her feet. Finally, she took the sword’s hilt in both hands again, settling the tip of the scabbard on the grass near her toes as she looked up at Jack. 

Her eyes were troubled. Stormy. Her jaw was tight. 

“Are you ready, my dear?”

Sam tilted her chin downward again, glancing over at the priest. “I’m a little nervous, actually.”

“Well, then.” The little man smiled, reaching out and patting Sam’s hand where it rested on the hilt of the sword. “Let’s just get to the good parts, shall we?”

—----OOOOOOO—----

The vows had been the same for both of them. 

The Hofgothi had coached them on each step of the ceremony, holding out his wizened hand for their rings even as he guided them through unsheathing their blades, then kneeling to lay their swords in the grass between them. His husky voice had pronounced an ancient blessing on their union as they’d exchanged the weapons. 

Gorm had already explained the symbolism of the act. Her sword—borrowed from Thurid’s family—would have been taken from Sam’s father and given to her new husband. The gesture symbolized a bride taking leave of her family of birth and aligning herself with the family of her husband. 

His token sword—no doubt taken from Gorm’s own collection—had been stolen many years before from the grave of a fallen warrior. As Jack had placed the weapon in front of Carter, the priest reminded them both that, in giving her his blade, O’Neill pledged to care for her. To provide for her. To lay down his very life for her comfort and protection. To love her until the end of time.

But then—Jack was already fully prepared to do all of that. He’d been doing his best to keep her safe, to show her he valued her, for seven long years. And would keep doing it all for as long as she still needed him. Or hell—as long as she wanted him.

He’d had to close his eyes as the Hofgothi had prompted him through his vows, because looking at her would have been his undoing. Even so, his voice had cracked as he’d tripped over the important parts. “For you, I labor and fight. With you, I share my body and my life. To you, I give my heart. All this I choose as a free man. By so speaking, I pledge myself to you.”

She’d studied him as she’d said her part, her eyes—the same color as the sky overhead—taking him all in at once. For the first time that day, she’d sounded like herself. Sure, clear, and vital. She had needed no help from the priest. “For you, I labor and fight. With you, I share my body and my life. To you, I give my heart. All this I choose as a free woman. By so speaking, I pledge myself to you.”

“Now for the rings.” The priest reached into the pouch at his waist and withdrew a long silken cord, delving in again for the rings. Threading the bands onto the cord, he lifted the silk above his head, nodding as the crowd cheered and clapped in response. Apparently satisfied, he removed the rings from the silk rope and bent over, carefully placing Jack’s ring on the wide blade of Sam’s sword, and her ring on his. “Colonel Jack? You first.”

He took her proffered hand. It was the first time he’d touched her during the ceremony, and he was struck by the coolness of her skin. How slender her fingers were, how soft—even with the calluses of their trade on her palm. He picked the borrowed band off the blade of the sword and angled it on her finger, sliding it past her knuckle and fitting it just so. 

She looked at it for a moment before flitting a glance back up at him, meeting him in the eye. Without looking down, she unerringly found Siler’s ring on the broad blade of Jack’s sword, lifting it and turning it a bit to and fro. He extended his left hand, splaying his fingers, only to watch as she smiled and took his hand.

“Knuckles the size of walnuts.” She leaned in to whisper at him. “Isn’t that what Daniel said?”

He grinned, unable to not respond when she was finally looking—acting—more like herself. “I can’t help it that he has pianist fingers.” He hadn’t said the word right—slurring it so that it sounded like the joke he’d intended earlier. 

She slid the ring home, holding onto his hand longer than she’d been coached to. Catching her bottom lip between her teeth, she suppressed a laugh. “You’re such a child.”

“Thanks for noticing.”

The priest smiled down at both of them, producing the scabbards for the swords and watching as they sheathed the blades. He then gestured for them to rise. Taking each one by the wrist, he urged them to hold hands, then draped the cord around their wrists once—twice—and a third time before tying it in an intricate knot. 

As soon as he stepped backwards, the crowd erupted in cheers—the din echoing between the buildings and trees and through the crowd even as a new sound started building. 

“ Kyssa !” The word came first from the back of the crowd, repeating here and there until the chant gained strength. “Kyssa! Kyssa! Kyssa!”

O’Neill angled a look back over his shoulder at the Hofgothi, who smiled and offered a little shrug.

“Go on.” He leaned in to be heard over the clamorous chanting. “Kiss your bride!”

Gorm hadn’t mentioned a kiss as part of the ceremony. Neither had the priest, during their meeting with him. But Carter’s hand tightened on his, connected as they were by the silken rope. She tugged at him, pulling him towards her. 

Jack tilted his head down to speak into her ear, his temple brushing hers. “Are you sure?”

“Just kiss me, Sir.”

They were close, her skirts pressed between their bodies, billowing around his legs. He could see her pulse pounding in the hollow between her collarbones, and a pale pink blush as it spread up her throat. He watched as her pupils slowly dilated as she watched him, as her lips parted slightly. 

“Jack.”

It was awkward, with their hands tied together. Handfasted—that’s what she’d called it earlier. Her thumb teased at the back of his hand, roughing against the fine hairs there. It was almost intensely intimate, personal. 

“Kyssa! Kyssa! Kyssa!” 

The chanting grew in vehemence, and Jack made a quick look towards the back of the crowd—near the Meeting House, where Nichols still stood with the remainder of his team, arms crossed across their chests, their expressions unreadable at this distance and in the failing light. 

“Jack?”

Damn it.

He raised his free hand, trailing his fingertips along the fine arch of her cheek, the smooth plane of her jaw. “You’re beautiful. Have I ever told you that?”

Her mouth curved upwards in the sweetest smile he’d ever witnessed—even sweeter because he could still see it in his mind as he bent and tasted it, meeting her lips with his own. She was heat, and light, and comfort. She was softness, and strength. She was life.

She was his life. 

He pressed closer, urging her lips to part with a touch of his tongue, with his thumb applying gentle pressure at her chin. And when she finally opened for him, he delved deep, angling his head to take more of her, to discover her completely. 

The crowd erupted—deafening cheers rising up towards the evening sky, as the setting sun sent its last rays sideways around the couple on the hill. 

“Kyssa! Kyssa! Kyssa!”

But Jack couldn’t hear them—all he could hear was the delicious way she moaned deep in her throat as his tongue found hers, as his hand traced the side of her throat, teasing down the supple curve of her shoulder. 

She went up on her bare toes, her hand gentle against his waist, soothing upwards to rest on his chest, her fingers splayed against the fine linen of his tunic as she briefly captured his bottom lip between her teeth.

Damn. He wanted more—more, now. But there was the crowd, and Daniel and Teal’c, and three-fourths of SG-5 still standing there watching, and he pulled away, instead. Just enough for her to let go, and for him to breathe his name.

“Jack.”

Against his lips, her whisper was felt, more than heard. She angled back a bit, sucking in a deep breath as she looked at him before tilting up for more. 

Gentler, this time. Softer. He pressed his lips to hers once—and again—then brushed his nose against hers, gratified when she smiled again and framed his jaw with her free hand as she pressed her forehead to his.

“Sam—I—”

He wanted to tell her right then. Tell her how he felt. Tell her that he’d marry her for real right here—right now—if she wanted it. He’d retire, or ask for a transfer, or whatever he needed to do so that he could fulfill the promise he’d made while kneeling with her in this soft grass, with borrowed swords and rings, but wants—needs—so genuine, so much their own— that it had felt more real than anything he’d felt in years. 

For you, I labor and fight. 

With you, I share my body and my life. 

To you, I give my heart. 

All this I choose as a free man. 

By so speaking, I pledge myself to you.”

He’d say it all again. For real. If only. Oh, if only—

But the Hofgothi was suddenly hovering, urging them to retrieve their weapons, effectively ending the moment. Awkwardly, they bent and grasped the swords, the task was made more complex because of their bound hands. So they helped each other, Carter using her left hand to fit his weapon through the loops on his belt, and O’Neill holding hers in his free right hand. 

The crowd cheered again, applauding as the newly married couple carefully descended the hill, the men slapping Jack on the back and women whispering encouragement to Sam. And as the crowd swallowed them up, Jack decided that he was kind of glad that he had knuckles the size of walnuts.

———-OOOOOOO———-

“A toast!” 

The tables from the Meeting House—and presumably every other building in the village—had been brought out to the meadow. Gorm sat at the head of the largest one, with Jack and Sam sharing a bench near the middle. Thurid directed the serving of food and drink, a veritable army of young single girls doing her bidding with cheerful grins and willing hands. 

There was food—all kinds of food—and drink in abundance. Each reveler had a plank of polished wood on the table in front of them, upon which the village girls would deposit meat, or roasted vegetables, or bread and cheese whenever a lack was perceived.

Earthenware cups and bottles littered the tables, too. Young men served mead from pitchers the size of buckets, each round eliciting more laughter, more raucous jibing, and more lewd suggestion aimed at the guests of honor.

A huge man that O’Neill had never met had called for the toast. He stood near one of the hundreds of torches which had been sunk into the soft ground, one beefy hand wrapped around the hilt of his sword, the other holding his cup aloft. “A toast to Frigga and her beneficence!”

“To Frigga!” The crowd shouted back. “To Frigga!”

Daniel sat on Sam’s left side, while Teal’c had immediately stationed himself on O’Neill’s right. More than an hour before, Nichols had ushered Mills and Shaw back to the ‘Gate, promising to inform Hammond that SG-1 would follow as soon as trade relations had been established. 

Given the impressive quantity of mead, beer, and ale being consumed, however, O’Neill was under no delusion that they’d get away much before noon of the following day. 

“For your men!”

One of the young men set a tray on the table next to Jack, offloading three more of the clay bottles that seemed to hold the ‘good stuff’. The Colonel shoved one down towards Daniel and then set one in front of his ‘bride’ before taking the last one for himself.

“I haven’t had this drink yet.” Carter tilted towards him to speak into his ear. The musicians had struck back up, drowning out everything except the toasts. “What’s it like?”

“Beer.” Jack pulled the cork out of his bottle with his teeth, dropping the stopper to the table. “Weak, sweet, herby beer.”

She angled the bottle towards him, grinning when he automatically understood what she wanted. 

He used his right hand to yank the cork out, positioning it next to his own. “It’s not bad. But it’s not Guinness, either.”

“Well, in that case, maybe I’ll actually like it.” Lifting the bottle to her lips, she took a hesitant sip, then a longer draught. “You’re right. Not bad.”

“It’s got to be better than the wine you’ve been swilling.”

“That stuff has been watered down.” She drank again from the clay bottle. “They’re giving it to the kids, so it’s obviously made weak for a reason.”

Jack picked up a piece of crusty, dense bread, taking a bite. He chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “It’s probably little more than grape juice.”

“That’s why this is better.” Sam raised her bottle. With another long swig, she lowered the empty vessel to the table with a dull ‘thunk’. “It’s got a kick to it.”

She’d finished picking at her food. They’d managed to cut and serve the meat and larger bits of potato and cheese using their free hands. Still, she’d never been a big eater, and had been full before the second serving had hit her trencher. 

Jack, Daniel, and Teal’c had helped to clear her plate, with Jack picking the best bits off her wooden platter and sharing them with the rest of the team. When Daniel had attempted to take a random carrot from her place, a sharp sound from Thurid had stopped him cold. 

Point taken. His wife—his responsibility to see to her needs. Jack had portioned it out from then on.

He looked down to see Sam playing with her bottle, absently spinning it on its side. “Are you already done with that?”

“I was thirsty.” Sam leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. “What I want is water, but they don’t seem to serve that.”

Jack watched as she yawned, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. “Tired?”

“It’s been a long day.” She sighed, her breath warm on his shoulder. Catching sight of Thurid, she raised the empty earthenware pot, jiggling it between her fingers in a request for more. 

“Maybe we can get out of here. Go hit the hay.”

“Wouldn’t that be rude?”

“I highly doubt that this party needs us in attendance to continue.” He shrugged. “So yeah. We could go to the bridal suite, pretend to do the deed and get some shut eye.”

“Why pretend?” Carter drew their bound hands into her lap, scooting close enough to him on their shared bench that she could capture his earlobe with her teeth. Flicking it with the tip of her tongue, she angled southward, kissing the sensitive skin directly below his ear. “We could just not pretend, you know.”

Ooookay. Jack frowned down at her. She was doing the hard-sell on this marriage thing. Playing her part to the fullest.

And Daniel had noticed, straightening on his padded seat and casting an odd look over the top of her head in Jack’s direction. 

“You smell so good.” She nuzzled him again, kissing his neck, brushing her forehead against his cheek. “I’ve always loved the way you smell.”

“Uh—Jack?” Daniel was doing his squinty-querulous-worried thing. 

“I think it’s pheromones.” Carter kissed his jaw, closing her eyes as she inhaled against his skin. Her free hand had started massaging his thigh just above his knee.

Yeah. This wasn’t normal.

“Daniel doesn’t smell anywhere near as nice as you do.” She inhaled him again, making an odd sigh deep in her throat before turning towards Daniel on her left. “You’re pretty, though. Did you know that?”

Clearing his throat, Daniel frowned over at Carter. “I’m what?” 

“Pretty.” Sam tilted her head back and forth, studying him. “All the girls say so. Janet, Larissa, Lieutenant Chen—even Karen in accounting has the hots for you. You could have a harem of chicks at the SGC.”

“A whole harem, huh?” He squinted over her head. “Jack?”

“And don’t worry about what the Colonel said earlier.” She leaned over to shout-whisper conspiratorially. “You don’t have penis fingers.”

“Uh—Sam—that’s really not appropriate—”

But Carter wasn’t paying attention to Daniel anymore. She scooted forward on the bench, glancing down the table past Jack. “Teal’c could pretty much have any woman on base, too. There’s a club.”

“A club?” Jack cracked half a smile. What the actual hell?

“A fan club. You should hear how they talk about him in the women’s locker rooms.” She leaned across Jack’s body, tapping Teal’c on the arm with her free hand. “If you’re interested, I could make a list for you.”

“Thank you very much, Major Carter.” The Jaffa raised that single brow of his, tilting his head to one side. “I do not believe that will be necessary.”

“How do you do it?” Carter stared at him. Intently. “The eyeliner thing. Or is it eyeshadow? Do you buy it, or is it something that you make?”

“I do not understand your question, Major Carter.”

“Major O’Neill .” She corrected, thrusting her left hand towards their Jaffa friend. Sam admired the diamonds on her finger. “We got married!”

“Colonel O’Neill.”

“Yeah, Teal’c?”

“I believe that something has affected Major Carter in some adverse way.”

“Yeah.” Jack nodded, hauling his wife back upright. “I’m getting that, too.”

But Carter wouldn’t be denied. She leaned sideways, resting her elbows on O’Neill’s thighs, her right arm dragging Jack’s along with it. “About the eye makeup, though. How do you get it so perfect? Do you use a template?”

“I do not.” Teal’c shook his head. “My accuracy is the result of practice and tradition.”

“Tradition.” She frowned at him. “I don’t have any of that.”

“My eye makeup serves a purpose. It is not merely decorative.”

“Getting chicks?”

“I have no use for young chickens.”

Gesturing towards her face, she grimaced at Teal’c. “I tried to do cool eyeliner once—that smokey eye thing—but ended up looking like a raccoon.”

“Perhaps I could demonstrate my technique once we return to the SGC.”

“Cool.” Sitting back up, Sam straightened the silver circlet on her head. “This thing is kind of a pain.”

“You could take it off.” Jack futzed with it, untangling the veil and draping it down her back. 

“But it makes me feel like a princess.” She tried to look upward at it, nearly tipping herself over backwards. “I’ve never been this kind of girly girl before.”

O’Neill honestly had no ready response to that. Nor was he prepared for what she said next.

“You know what I like about this place the best?”

“No.” He really didn’t want to ask, but some sick fascination made him do it, anyway. “What?”

“No bras.” She made a random gesture towards her chest. “None of them wear one. Or corsets, either. Do you have any idea how good it feels just to let the girls fly free?”

Oh, dear lord in heaven above. The images that stirred up in his brain. He was going to go straight to hell. Sucking in a stilted breath, he schooled his features into something mild. “Sam?”

“Yes, husband?”

“What have you eaten?”

“Meat. And vegetables. Same as you.” Her eyes sparkled at him, and she dimpled into a broad, heady grin as her hand landed on his upper thigh. “But I could go for something different.”

“Sam—“

“I love it when you say my name.” She touched his face, measuring the new stubble on his jaw, on his throat. “Did you know that? It makes me feel all tingly.”

Jack watched as she drifted closer to him, as she rubbed her cheek against his chest, her eyes drifting closed. Hoped—against hope, really—that she was getting sleepy. Maybe she’d just drift off. 

But there was no joy on that burn. She suddenly sat up straight and pointed. “That guy has an amazing butt.”

“Carter—you probably shouldn’t say stuff like that.”

“Teal’c has the best butt of all of us. Daniel’s second.” Leaning back on their bench, she balanced herself using their joined wrists to get a better look at his behind. “Yours is the flattest of all of our butts, but that’s okay. I don’t want to sleep with someone who has a better ass than I do.”

She was getting louder. And more obnoxious, frankly. She grabbed her empty bottle again. Holding it aloft, she shouted, “Thurid!” 

Gorm’s wife trundled across the lawn towards her, bending over the table. “Yes, Samantha?”

Carter turned to Jack. “She likes to call me Samantha. Isn’t that precious?”

“Sure.” O’Neill passed a look between Carter and the Harald’s wife. “I don’t think Samantha’s feeling very well.”

“I feel fine, honey.” Waving off Jack’s concern, she thrust the empty container towards Thurid. “Can I get some more of this?”

For a moment, Jack thought that the older woman’s face was liable to break. Her eyebrows lifted high, her expression going glassy.

“Did you drink this bjorr, Samantha?”

“It’s better than the wine.”

“The whole bottle?” 

“I’ll take more if you’ve got it.”

Thurid tucked the empty clay pot into the pocket on her apron, shuffling sideways and bending towards Jack. “Did not the sveinn tell you that this was for your men?”

The sveinn—the young man who’d served them the stuff. Jack thought back to that moment. The tray, the server—he’d placed three bottles on the table and said, “For your men.”

He’d meant it literally. For. Your. Men .

The musicians were wrapping up one song and starting another, the crowd applauding their efforts. In the clearing, couples fell into position for the next round of dancing, while other villagers milled around at the tables talking and eating. 

Thurid waited for the clapping to wane before speaking again. “This bjorr contains herbs that affect men in one way, and women in another. That is why you were warned that it should only be consumed by your men.”

Daniel was the one to ask the question. “And theoretically—if a woman were to drink this bjorr stuff?”

The matron’s expression fell, and she clasped her hands in front of her. “She may lose her inhibitions. She may say things that she normally wouldn’t say. She may be—quite affectionate. And she will not remember much of it in the morning.”

“Perhaps it would be best if you took Samantha to your quarters, Colonel O’Neill.” Teal’c spoke quietly, preparing to stand. “Daniel Jackson and I are prepared to guard your privacy.”

“We have the Bridal Suite prepared for you in the Free House.” Thurid stood up straight, scanning the meadow for someone specific. Waving them over, she turned back to Jack. “Frida will show you the way. She will fetch whatever you might need.”

“Water.” Jack tugged on Sam’s hand, pulling her up with him. “We need some water to drink.”

“I will send some over.” Thurid nodded. “Go, Colonel Jack. And Frigga be praised.”

Abso-Frigga-lutely.

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Truth Serum

Undercover as a Couple

Forced Marriage

Amnesia

Part Three

Set in Season 7 between “Lifeboat” and “Space Race”.

They didn’t get away without the crowd noticing. As soon as the bride and groom had risen from the table, groups of young men had fallen in around them. From the meadow, around the Meeting House, through the square, and to the far side of the village, the escort had followed along, singing raunchy songs and shouting out encouragement to the groom. It was only when Frida had swung the door to the Free House closed that the revelers had retreated back to the clearing for more bjorr and song.

The Free House seemed like more of a hotel than a home—a main room at the front of the structure held a large table and a few chairs in front of a stone fireplace. Deeper into the building, a narrow hallway contained a series of sparsely-furnished single rooms, with double doors at the end opening into a large suite. 

Teal’c had made certain that the place was both safe and private, scouting out the rooms and checking latches and windows. He’d also taken care to secure the sword that had been loaned to Sam for the nuptials, placing it on the bed in the main suite while Daniel had helped Jack untie the silk handfasting cord.

O’Neill led Sam directly into the suite, using the candle Frida had provided to light the tapers in the sconces. It was dark, and quiet, and Jack could hear himself think for the first time in hours. Closing the heavy doors behind them, he slid a leather thong through the wooden handles, securing it on a carved hook on the other side of the door frame. It was the closest thing to a lock they had.

“I wasn’t supposed to drink that stuff, was I?”

He took his time taking the sword off, laying it on a table next to the main door. Unbuckling the wide belt, he deposited it on top of the scabbard. Finally, he turned to look at Carter. “No. You weren’t.”

“My mind. It’s—all over the place right now. I’m just dumping everything I’m thinking out into the universe, aren’t I?”

“Yes. You are.”

“There was something in the drink, wasn’t there?”

He passed his tongue over his lips. “Yes.”

“I thought so.” Nodding, she raised her hand to tug the silver circlet and veil off her head. Slowly, the silver crown dangling from her fingers, she made a deliberate circle in the middle of the room, taking in the wood-slatted walls, the high, timbered ceiling, and the wide stone fireplace before coming back around to face him. 

Jack had never seen her so vulnerable than she was in that moment—she was completely real—almost visceral. Honesty radiated off her like heat off the sun. And more than anything else, he wanted to protect her from doing anything—saying anything—that would cause her further pain or embarrassment. 

At the same time, he wanted to understand her. Needed to let her have her say. He’d promised he would before the ceremony, while he’d been convincing her that this fake wedding thing wouldn’t be a disaster.

“It’s just that I feel this stuff all the time. It’s always there just beneath the surface. Festering, or boiling. Seething. But I never say any of it.” She looked away from him, towards the darkened corner of the room, where an embroidered screen partially obscured a deep wooden tub. “I’d love a bath.”

“That’s not a good idea, Carter.” 

“I know.” She walked over to the tub, running her fingers along the carved wood. Despite the atavistic appearance of Frigganheim, they’d made some forays into modernity. They’d figured out indoor plumbing. Sam smiled as she touched the metal pump handle. “They bathed me before they dressed me up. It’s part of the ritual.”

“Oh?”

“They anointed me with oil. Lavender, I think. And I’m pretty sure it was infused with those flowers that are everywhere.”

“Why?”

“Why did they bathe me?”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know. Baptism? Something similar?” Looking up at him, she sighed. Something passed across her features—a look that mirrored the battle waging in her head. She was trying to stop herself from saying something—and it was a skirmish that she apparently lost. “It was supposed to restore my maidenhood.”

O’Neill pressed his lips together. Well, damn.

“Wouldn’t that be nice? I’d love to get that back from Jonas.” She sent an odd look his way. “Hanson, not Quinn.”

“Sam—you don’t have to—”

“He was my first. Did you know that? And there have only been a couple since then. And nobody in years. More than seven years.” Covering her mouth with her palm, she shook her head. “And I can not stop talking.”

“I’m sorry.” He was. And he wasn’t. It was the dichotomy of a lifetime. He was finally getting a glimpse inside the most glorious mind he’d ever encountered—but that glimpse came at the expense of Sam’s privacy—and maybe a bit of her pride. He fervently hoped that Thurid was right, and that she wouldn’t remember any of this.

“I shaved my legs this morning.”

Jack simply waited, leaning back against the heavy door. 

“I’ve shaved my legs every day for nearly seven years.” With a sad kind of smile, she glanced over at him before angling past the screen and back towards the center of the room. “I’ll bet you don’t understand the significance of that.”

O’Neill couldn’t even begin to guess, so he shook his head. “No.”

“It’s a protective thing. You never shave your legs for a first date. Especially if you really like the guy. Because then you’re not as tempted to do something you really shouldn’t do.” Heading towards the bed, Carter tossed the silver crown down onto the fur coverlet next to the sword. Going to work on the clasp of the silver belt, she gathered the links in her hands and placed them next to the crown. “Hairy legs are your last natural defense against your own lack of self-control. Impulsivity. Or stupidity. Or something.”

He couldn’t help it. He had to ask. “Because you think that leg stubble would make you less attractive?”

“I guess. I don’t know. It’s stupid, right?”

Kind of. But not for the reason she was thinking. There was literally nothing that would decrease his desire for her. Nothing. 

“So, you see? I’ve been ready for seven years.” She moved towards him, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She was still barefoot, and her left foot had a blade of grass stuck to the arch. “Ever since—“

This battle, she won. She hadn’t completed that thought. But they both knew what she’d successfully squelched. 

Ever since I met you.

Her eyes found his. Kept his gaze even as she moved across the room. “But it’s never been the right time.” 

Somehow, she’d approached him without him realizing just how close she’d gotten. It only took two—four more steps before she was directly in front of him—a breath away. So close that he could smell the oil she’d been talking about. Lavender, and the fresh, bright, cloying fragrance of the flowers littering the planet. When he breathed her in, he could envision other things—warm water, hushed voices, and smooth, trim calves—

Escape. He needed an escape. Some excuse to do something that would jolt them both—or maybe just him—away from the visions roiling around in his head. 

Sinking to one knee, Jack reached for her foot. He lifted the hem of her ice blue underskirt with the back of one hand, picking the grass off her arch with the other. 

Only to have her crouch low—on his level again, her dress blousing around both of them like the billowed waves of the sea. 

She fell, rather than sat, ending up perched on her hip on the floor in front of him. And still, she was fighting the urge to do—to say—everything in her mind. She touched the soft leather at his knee, testing the suppleness. “Even now, it’s not the right time.”

He was caught. Captive. Imprisoned between the woman he’d always wished to be his future and a present that sought at every level to deny him that desire. 

“No.” Flicking the bit of grass off to the side, he tensed, then sank down to sit, resting his back against the door. “It’s not.”

She pivoted until her pose mirrored his—sitting on the floor with her back against the heavy carved door. Her shoulder grazed his, linen to linen, her skirts a muddled tangle of ivory and blue next to his bent knees.

Like the rest of the building, the floor was solid—planks of wood stained to a deep mahogany color. Heavy fur rugs lay here and there in the room—in the center of the suite, beside the bed, and a few feet away from the hearth. A large rug warmed the floor beneath where they sat, the fur worn down by the swinging door. 

“When will it be time?”

“I don’t know, Carter.” He hoped he didn’t sound as tired as he felt in that moment. As defeated.

Against his arm, he felt her body move, and Jack looked over to see her cover her face with both hands, exhaling heavily. 

Despite his better judgment, he reached around her, settling his arm around her shoulders. “I wish I had a better answer for you.” 

“Me too.” 

It was subtle, the shift that happened. Her body angling in towards his, her cheek coming to rest on his chest. O’Neill let his head fall back against the door, heard and felt the satisfying ‘clunk’ of his skull hitting the hard wood. 

“I’ve had this song in my head for weeks. You know how that happens?”

“Yeah.”

“Cassie’s been in this angsty mood. She’s been listening to all these alternative female artists lately.” Carter snuggled closer, her body warm against his. “And this song came on the radio the other day while we were driving and one of the lines just hit me right where it counts.”

“A knock-out punch.”

“A sucker punch. I wasn’t prepared for it—or expecting it.” She tilted her chin up to look at him. “I just heard this line and thought—that’s me. That’s my life. I’m that person now.”

“What person?”

“‘I’ve been treated so long as if I’m becoming untouchable.’” So soft, her voice just a breath against his throat. “I’m untouchable. That’s what I am. That’s who I am.”

He wanted to refute her—to deny her assertion. He desperately wanted to argue with her, but he couldn’t. Because, despite his earnest wish for her to find happiness, if that wasn’t achieved with him, he would break. Refuting this point would effectively be urging her to move on. So, instead he stated the obvious. “You need to sober up, Carter. Get some sleep.”

“I need you.” She touched his face, her fingertips gentle on his jaw, his cheek, the softness of his eyebrow. “I’ve needed you for so long.”

“You need to sleep this off.” He looked down at her, taking her in. He knew her face as well as he knew his own. Better, somehow, since at times lately he’d found himself to be unrecognizable. But her face—those clear, wide eyes—deeply honest—filled with a desperate mix of sadness and hope. The dark rim of lashes framing them—thick and lush. Her chin—so damned stubborn. Her lips parted in such blatant invitation that he couldn’t trust himself to both look at her and touch her.

Jack turned his face away, focusing on the empty, cold fireplace, on the fur on which they sat, on anything other than her. Anything other than her fingers, as they wandered down his throat to his collarbones, then downward still, playing lightly with the laces on his borrowed tunic. How they threaded themselves between the ties and combed through the hair on his chest.

He closed his eyes, fighting to control his breathing as she further loosened the neck of the shirt, as she turned her body and somehow ended up on his lap, straddling him, her skirts bunched up around her legs and his. Her weight on his thighs as she leaned forward to use both hands now, to skim at his skin—chest, throat, jaw—and to rake through the coarse strands of the hair at his temple, and at his nape. 

“I need you.” She breathed it against his jawline, her lips light against his skin, teasing the soft skin of her mouth with the day’s worth of stubble on his cheek.

He felt, rather than saw, her smile. Felt her softness—her pliant strength—as she took her time exploring him. As she traced the outer ridge of his ear—first with her fingers, and then with her tongue. As she teased at the side of his neck with her lips, her body pressed so close to him that he could smell nothing but those damned flowers, the herbed sweetness of the bjorr they’d been drinking, and the deliciousness that was Sam Carter. 

She rocked against him, causing them both to exhale—her in a low sigh, and him in a quick, pained hiss as his hands rose to rest on her hips, then to travel higher to bracket the slim curve of her ribcage. 

“Sam—” he spoke even as he knew it was useless. He was lost. Lost, as she found his lips, as she pressed deeper, as she explored him with such frank deliberation that he couldn’t help but respond in every way that he shouldn’t. 

With his hands drifting ever higher, skimming over the supple planes of her back up to the tantalizing softness of her shoulders—her skin smoother than silk—warm and delicate. With his lips wide against her own, his tongue finding—teasing—at hers, at her teeth, tasting her so intimately that he was reeling. The earth whirling beneath him while the sky boiled overhead.

She moved again—slowly, profoundly—thank Frigga for the layers and layers of fabric between them—her body melding against his—so close that they could feel the other’s heartbeat, that they breathed in unison. Her hands dug into his jaw, her fingers tight on his face, her mouth warm and wet and wanton as she discovered what made him lose control, what made him gasp her name again.

“I need you.” She said it again. Against his cheek. Near his ear, so quietly that it wasn’t even quite a whisper. Maybe a sob, or a whimper, as her body relaxed against his, her full weight sagging against his chest. “I need you so much. But it’s never going to happen, is it?”

Jack felt her forehead rest against his shoulder, her hands drifting downward, from his face to his biceps, to thread under his arms and fall to his waist. She was swimming against the tide, now. “I don’t know, Carter.”

“I’m so tired of fighting this.” This was a whimper. Forlorn, alone. Alone, even with his body right there, wreathed around her own. “So tired.”

“You’re drunk, Carter.”

“Probably.” 

She inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly, her breath stirring the tiny hairs on his skin, sending him even deeper into the abyss. And it was all that Jack could do to wait, glaring at the fireplace, and the fur rugs, and that damned enormous bed just across the suite from the hard door where he’d so unceremoniously landed. Wait until she’d relaxed completely, and her breathing had steadied into a rhythm that signaled that she had, indeed, fallen asleep. Until she lay heavily against his body—her cheek suspiciously moist against his shoulder—and he couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. 

And when he’d finally found some control, he gently lowered her down to the fur beneath them, giving her his arm as a pillow, wrapping his body around hers for warmth, and then losing himself to the blessed oblivion of sleep.

—----OOOOOOO—----

She’d turned at some point in the night, tucking her head under his chin, her cheek on his shoulder, her body nestled against his. His arm was numb, but he didn’t care. He liked waking up with her like this. With her within his space.

He’d come half-awake once or twice during the early morning—adjusting himself around her, selfishly watching her as she’d slept. It had been a release of sorts, to be awake-yet-not, his mind still playing between the edges of sleep and consciousness. And while he’d drowsed in that state of half-awareness, he’d come to some conclusions. Some he welcomed, while others had burned red-hot agony within.

He’d dreamed a little, too. Or maybe it had been a memory from his childhood. A story he’d once heard about a little boy on a merry-go-round. The operator would dangle a brass ring from a string at the edge of the canopy. A rider who was able to grasp the ring would win a free ride. In Jack’s dream, he’d been the boy, leaning off his carousel horse trying desperately to catch the ring, and always coming up short, his palm filling with cold air and disappointment.

He’d drifted back to sleep as a form of escape. Or perhaps in some vain attempt to ignore what his mind had revealed to him. He knew some things now, though. Knew what he had to do.

What she needed was something that only he could give her. And it had nothing to do with this—this deep, abiding, delicious lethargy that they both felt at awakening in each others’ arms. 

It was about that future for which he’d been yearning. A future that she needed to know that she could still live.

When he opened his eyes to the light of late-morning, she’d already roused, her fingers playing with the laces on his tunic. Once she’d realized he was awake, she hadn’t pulled away from him. She’d merely looked up at him from beneath her lashes and continued smoothing the thin ties at the front of his shirt. She hadn’t been in any hurry to rectify their positions. Hell—one of her feet was still captured between his ankles.

“Good morning.” His voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. Her hair was soft against his throat. “How did you sleep?”

Her eyes were clear, now. Worry replacing the passionate desperation of the night before. She flickered a look at him, that wrinkle creasing the skin above her nose. “Did we—”

He couldn’t help himself. He nudged the wrinkle, hazing his thumb along her eyebrow with a thin smile. “No.”

“I don’t remember how we got to this room.”

“I’m not surprised.” Jack smoothed a bit of hair off her face, tucking it back behind her ear. “You were pretty out of it.”

“It was that drink, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

She levered herself up to a sitting position, adjusting the neckline of her borrowed tunic. It was hopelessly wrinkled, exposing more than she would normally have been comfortable with displaying. With a rueful smile, she gave up on the dress, peeping over at him. “Do I have anything to apologize for?”

Jack shook his head, rolling onto his back. Despite his age and the fact that they’d been sleeping on the floor, he felt fairly rested. “No.”

Her head lowered in a half-hearted nod, and for a moment, she continued working at the tangled mess of her skirts. “I just don’t remember anything much past drinking out of that bottle.”

“We clued in pretty quickly that it was affecting you badly.” The pins and needles were starting in his arm. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to wriggle his fingers, allowing the blood flow to naturally restore feeling to the limb. “Teal’c and Daniel helped me bring you here.”

“And we slept on the floor because—“

“Because the drink was affecting you badly.” Jack wasn’t going to explain any further than that. He hoped his tone lent an air of finality to the conversation. 

“Ah. I see.”

But she didn’t. O’Neill knew that to the tip of his toes. 

“Are you thirsty?” He sat up, wincing as the last of the needles pricked at his fingertips. “Frida said that she’d bring some water for you.”

“Actually, I really need to use the bathroom. I think there should be one around here somewhere.”

“Daniel and Teal’c were supposed to bring your pack from the Women’s House. You should probably get changed to go home.”

She stood first, rising in that unconsciously graceful manner that she had. He allowed himself the surreptitious pleasure of watching as she crossed to the bed, as she worked to smooth the wrinkles from her gown, as she peered down at her dirty feet and worried at her sleep-tousled hair. “Geez. I’m a mess.”

She wasn’t though. She was sublime—effulgent—beautiful. He’d been honest about that during their sham-wedding—in those moments before he’d kissed her to appease the chanting crowd. He only felt a little guilty about it now, although he was certain that feeling would grow deeper as time went on. Things had gotten out of control. So very, very out of control. “I’ll get your pack. You can take a bath. Clean up a little.”

“That would be kind.” She aimed the words at him from over her shoulder, touching something on the bed that had drawn her attention.

The silver circlet. The veil. The sword in its intricately tooled scabbard. 

Jack sat up, then stood, shaking his own tunic down over his leather leggings. As he crossed towards the bed, it occurred to him that he hadn’t ventured this far into the room. He’d lit the sconces, deposited his sword on the table next to the hearth, and then spent the rest of the night near the doors.

“I’ll make sure that Thurid gets the crown back.” He could do that, at least. While she dressed. While she put herself back together. “I’ll take the swords back to Gorm and make sure that I can send another SG team back to formalize the trade agreements.”

“Sounds good.”

On an impulse, he reached out and touched the crown, lifting it. The veil had only been tucked around the crown, and it fell away to land in a gauzy, ivory heap on the bed. Holding the circlet up, Jack turned it in the light coming in through the room’s single window, watching as the brightly polished metal gleamed in the sun’s rays. 

“It’s supposed to symbolize a young woman’s journey from childhood to adulthood.” She watched him study the carved piece. “Thorid said that young women typically inherit them from their mothers, but she had six sisters, and has five daughters, so they just end up making new crowns for each wedding. This one is meant to be worn by Frida when she gets married.”

It was cool in his fingers. Heavy. Something solid amidst the tumult of the past few hours. With a little grin, he held it up towards Carter. “Well, we’ve given it a dry run.”

She laughed—little more than a chuckle, really. But she was back to something closer to her usual self, amused at the stupid stuff that he said. Comfortable in his presence. 

O’Neill laid the crown back on the fur coverlet. “I’ll go. Let’s plan on ‘Gating home within the hour.”

“I’ll be ready.”

Turning, he aimed himself for the door. The fur was soft beneath the soles of his boots, pliant. Something to sink his toes in as he reached for the leather strap on its hook. 

Damn it. 

“Sam?” 

“Yeah?”

“It’s okay, you know.” The heels of his boots caught in the fur as he pivoted towards her.

“What’s okay?” Her skirt caught on the heavy bedframe as she turned, twisting her dress off-center. Her expression was frozen somewhere between a smile and a frown. Cautious. Careful, again.

 “It’s okay if you don’t want to wait.”

“Sir?”

He swallowed past the lump growing in his throat. Past the pain he knew he would feel at saying what he knew he had to say. “Something you told me last night. About feeling as if you’re untouchable.”

The color drained from her cheeks, her eyes flying wide. “I said that?”

“And I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn’t have to feel like you need to put your life on hold waiting for the time for—whatever this is—” he gestured between them with a flat hand, hoping she’d understand. “Waiting for whatever there is between us—to be right.”

“Sir.” The light reflected gold off her hair as she shook her head. She opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it again, retreating back into silence. 

“You deserve to be loved, Carter. You deserve to be happy.” He pressed his lips together, the tightness in his throat extending down his body into his chest. His breathing was stilted, his heart pounding. “And if you’re tired of living in this half-life that we have, I get it.”

“I’m not—I don’t—” She shook her head, her eyes growing darker. Stormy, somehow, rather than mid-day blue. She stuttered a little, trying to answer him. “I’m not following you.”

He could still feel her in his arms, could still smell her on his shirt, on his skin. He could still hear her in his head—the words she’d spoken as the sun had set behind them, as they’d knelt in the thick, abundant, cool grass with blades at their knees. With you, I share my body and my life. To you, I give my heart. He’d always be able to hear her—but he didn’t expect her to feel the same. He had to be sure she knew. “If you feel like you can’t wait anymore. I understand.”

“Sir—I—”

His hand curled around the leather strap on its hook—offering him something substantial as he effectively demolished some walls that they’d never actually erected, but had been built just the same. “I just don’t want you to be unhappy, Carter. You shouldn’t ever feel like your happiness isn’t important to me.”

She looked so confused—so damned confused—as she repeated herself yet again. “I’m happy.”

He knew she wasn’t. And so he’d give her what she needed. A push—a nudge—permission—to let him go. To take whatever opportunity she got to find what she wanted. Even if, in doing so, he consigned himself to some kind of lonely agony. It was an acceptable trade. “I just need to know that you understand, Carter. Okay?”

“I understand.” 

But he knew that she didn’t. Couldn’t really fathom what he was trying to tell her. Not until she’d moved past him and allowed herself to see a future for herself that wasn’t mired in the past.

“I love you.” Oh, lord. How it hurt to say that. “I do. But this isn’t sustainable, Sam. How we’re living isn’t good enough for you. You deserve so much more than this.”

And he knew that he’d be able to see it forever—the image of her in his mind. Standing beside that bed, in a single ray of morning sunshine, tousled and sleep-warmed and beautiful. The way the sunlight bounced off the silver circlet held between her fingers. The crown she’d worn as she’d married him—as she’d spoken vows that might have been a ruse in her mouth, but had been absolute truth in his.

“But if you’re willing to wait, Sam. I’ll say it all again. I swear to you, I will.” His hand tightened on the leather strap. “I’ll kneel in the damned grass and I’ll even find a damned sword if you want. And I’ll give you a ring that we haven’t borrowed from someone. And we’ll make it real.”

She looked confused, and small, and a little lost. Forlorn. As if she’d just realized that the home she’d been traveling towards was no longer standing, or was in a different country, or maybe hadn’t ever existed at all. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She merely shook her head slowly, her toes curling into the fur at her feet as she searched his face. 

“I just needed you to know that.”

Then he yanked the leather strap off the hook and flung the heavy door open, taking the length of the corridor with long, strident steps—taking himself out of the house, away from her—cursing himself for both his honor and his cowardice. 

An hour later, as the ‘Gate blazed to life, O’Neill stood a little apart from his team. Back in his own clothes, his own life, with Siler’s ring deep in his pocket. Thurid had given Sam the silver headpiece, imploring Frigga on Jack’s behalf for a daughter to someday wear it. Carter hadn’t packed it away, instead choosing to carry the circlet through the ‘Gate. She’d recovered a bit, chatting freely with Daniel about the symbolism, and the ceremony, and laughing at something he’d told her about the night before. She’d taken the nurse’s ring off as soon as they’d been out of sight of the village, stowing it in her own pocket, anxious to return it to its owner.

And Jack thought a little about circles. Circlets of silver, and gold rings, and life itself. Rings lost, and rings found. And the boy from his dream—spinning on that damned carousel, forever straining, forever stretching—forever trying to grasp the prize that was always just out of reach. 

Forever fated to be left holding nothing but a handful of air. 

—----OOOOOOO—----

***The lyrics quoted in this story come from Natalie Merchant’s song “My Skin”. 

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Quantum Mirror

Hurt/Comfort

This chapter is set directly after the Season 3 episode “New Ground”. This story would be a sequel of sorts to Chapter 4 (Friends with Benefits/Blind Date/Jealousy), and also references Chapter 2 (Blue Jello) of this series. 

—----OOOOOOO—----

Finally. 

She’d finally forced herself to turn it off.

Sam laid the controller in her lap, slumping forward and resting her face in her hands. The quantum mirror stood next to her, blessedly dark for the first time in what seemed like hours. The strange stone of the outer framework gleamed silver-gray in the light from the corridor. It was the only illumination in the room.

She wasn’t supposed to be here. She should be at home—where she’d been ordered to go once Janet had released her from the infirmary. The Bedrosian weapons had only left blisters on her skin, treatable without the help of more than a little ointment and some time. Small favors, she guessed.

There was something to be said about being a lightweight, when all was said and done. Whatever made Sam take longer to recover from Zat blasts had also rendered her more susceptible to the electrocution-like effects of the weapons on P2X-416. Unconscious, she’d been left alone long before they’d given up on torturing Daniel and the Colonel. And while neither of them had been remanded to a gurney or isolation room by the formidable Doctor Fraiser, the time they’d spent being patched up had far exceeded hers. 

Teal’c, of course, had fared the worst. He and Nyan were still in the medical unit. Janet had sent everyone else away, ordering the team to go home while she ministered to those who needed her the most. Sam had gotten as far as her locker before it had become apparent that driving wouldn’t be a good idea. Especially since she’d brought the Indian that morning. With the tricky clutch and iffy brakes, it was a rough ride in the best of circumstances. 

This evening? Well—mounting up would be the epitome of hubris. Sam Carter knew her limits, even when she didn’t like them. 

She’d probably end up sleeping in one of the on-base quarters reserved for officers. That way, she could check up on Teal’c. In the morning, she could get some hot breakfast, rather than slamming down an energy shake or handfuls of dry cereal straight out of the box as she stirred her coffee in her little kitchen.

Also, if she stayed on base, she would be here on time for the post-mission debrief, where they’d deconstruct the whole damned fiasco for the General. When that would be, Sam had no idea. Why this mission had hit her harder than other, similar, missions, she couldn’t say, either. At least, not out loud. 

Not with any kind of honesty.

With a harsh exhale, she looked at the device again. The controller lay heavily in her lap—warmer than she’d expected. Most alien technology had far more sophisticated internal systems than those of Earth origin. She’d encountered very few that had the overheating issues that she’d been fighting with her laptop or her PC at home. But the little hand-held dialing computer for the quantum mirror retained more heat than it seemed that it should. Probably something to do with the internal sequencers—wire relays rather than crystals. She’d check it out again later. Once she’d had a chance to sleep.

Once she’d had a moment to try to process—things.

Figured out what had gone so wrong. 

But tonight? She was just too damned tired.

The floor had grown colder, somehow, even since she’d sat down. How that was even possible, she didn’t know. Maybe it had more to do with her than with the physics of the situation. Perhaps she’d finally lost so much of her humanity that she’d grown completely cold. When had that happened? When she’d used the Goa’uld hand device to kill Seth? When she’d fought against the mind control potion in Netu? 

When she’d nearly killed herself working to bring the Colonel home from Edora? 

Or had it started over a year before? When she’d watched him kiss another Samantha Carter from within another reality and forced down the bile as she’d decided not to let it bother her.

That’s why she was sitting here, wasn’t it? Good lord, she was hopeless. 

She let her head fall backwards, wincing slightly when it connected with the wall behind her. She didn’t know why she hadn’t found a chair. Hell—she didn’t know why she’d come here in the first place. To this level. To this storage unit. To this darkened corner of the SGC where she had no business being. 

Except that maybe she was hiding. Or looking for the privacy that she would have at home. Privacy that some people might call solitude. Others would call it ‘loneliness’. 

This is what her life had become. 

“I thought this thing was supposed to be destroyed.”

The voice came from her right where the door stood slightly ajar. She should have closed it. Enveloped herself completely in darkness. 

She didn’t answer him, clenching her jaw and angling her chin down towards her chest.

“Carter?”

He’d keep pushing. She knew him well enough to know that. “Yes, Sir?”

He took her answer as an invitation, edging the door open further with his foot and slipping carefully through. He found her immediately, even hidden as she was in the corner. Stopping near her feet, he poked at her heel with the toe of his boot. 

“I brought you something.”

What—a life? Purpose? Direction? But she swallowed the sarcasm and craned her neck upwards to meet his eye. “You didn’t need to do that.” 

His shrug was both dismissive and flippant. “I figured you might be tired and hungry.”

“Oh.”

He bent towards her, extended the mug in his left hand. He held another in his right. Suspicious bulges in the pockets of his BDUs suggested that he might have absconded from the mess with more than just the coffee. 

It was warm. So warm in her hands. Cupping her fingers around the cheap ceramic, she brought it to her face, inhaling the gentle heat wafting above the rim. Despite her sour mood, she raised her brows with a hinted smile. Not coffee after all. “Tea?”

“That green stuff you like.” He pivoted, then lowered himself carefully to the concrete floor next to her. “Honey, and a little bit of skim milk.”

She closed her eyes, dipping her head fully. If she’d expected anything—it hadn’t been thoughtfulness. After all—she’d been the one to get off lightly. She should be the one showing the niceties. Damn. 

He blew into his own mug, settling back against the wall. With a little grunt, he stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. 

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Don’t mention it.” Reaching into his breast pocket, he pulled out a tidy bundle. He thrust it in her direction, waiting expectantly until she took it in her free hand. “Like I said. I figured you might be tired and hungry.”

He’d figured her out a long time ago. Knew just what she wanted before she even knew she wanted anything. She couldn’t drink coffee after around six in the evening and still expect to get to sleep later. He’d remembered that. And he knew that she only liked the mess hall’s banana bran muffins when they were fresh out of the oven. The one he’d handed her was still hot, wrapped in a heavy paper napkin like a blanket. 

“Sir—I—” But there was nothing more to say than another lame, “Thank you.”

“Eat, Carter.” He took a measured sip from his mug. “Fraiser wasn’t too happy that you’ve lost more weight since the last time she checked on you.”

Sam thought about that, frowning down into her cup. Taking a tentative taste, she couldn’t help but close her eyes in satisfaction as the sweet herbal goodness started to warm through her system. 

“So?”

“So, what?” 

The Colonel raised his mug in the direction of the quantum mirror. “I thought that this thing was supposed to be destroyed.”

Sam broke off a bit of her muffin. “It was.”

“So why is it still like this?” He pulled one heel back towards his body, resting the arm holding his mug on his up-bent knee. 

“Like what?”

“Intact.” His face did that thing—his expression relaxing into a half-grin, a single dimple emerging as he teased her. “Whole. Still together. Notably complete. Integral. Plenary. Decidedly non-destroyed.”

She couldn’t help it. Turning her head away from him, she hid the smile that she couldn’t quell. “We haven’t been able to figure out how to accomplish that.”

“Why not?”

She took her time chewing the bit of muffin, and then raised her cup for another sip of her tea. “Naquadah in the frame and in the projection surface itself. I’m a little concerned that using any kind of explosive, corrosive chemical, or combustible material will cause secondary—and far more hazardous effects.”

“You’re afraid it’ll blow us all up.”

“Pretty much.” More tea made its way down her throat, followed by another, larger, bite of the muffin. 

“Sledgehammer.”

“Excuse me?” Sam angled the question at him. 

He looked back at her, his dark eyes deeply shadowed. “Have you tried just whacking it with something?”

Despite herself, she smiled. “We have, actually.”

“And?”

Sam gestured towards the mirror with the half-muffin still in her hand. “It’s still non-destroyed.”

O’Neill made an odd little face at that. “Well, then.”

“Sergeant Siler and I were supposed to be working on it a few months ago. When you were—” She hadn’t meant to bring it up, but somehow, it had just happened. She stopped speaking, taking another bite of the muffin, washing it down with a mouthful of tea. 

“When I was on vacation?”

She used the napkin to sop up some tea on her lip. When she spoke, it was soft. “When you were on Edora.” 

For a long time, he didn’t say anything, merely looking at her out of the corner of his eye as she finished off the last of the muffin. 

He was right. She had been hungry. If he’d brought a few more of the muffins, she probably would have polished those off, too. Crumpling the napkin in her fist, she drank down the last of her tea, then set her mug on the floor next to her. The dull ‘clunk’ was the only sound in the room. 

“I never thanked you properly for bringing me home, Carter.” He fiddled with his coffee cup, tilting it to and fro, watching as the dark liquid sloshed around inside. “I owe you a debt that I can’t possibly repay.”

“Just doing my job, Sir.” 

But they both knew that wasn’t true. 

“And I owe you an apology.”

Sam pressed her eyes closed, her hand tightening around the napkin. They’d already talked about this a few weeks before. On her back porch, cocooned together in the old quilt she’d pulled off her couch. Just a day or so before, she’d held it close and could still smell his cologne on it. “You’ve already apologized, Sir. You don’t owe me anything.”

She could feel his eyes on her, as he studied her. It was almost tangible—the touch of his gaze so close to being a physical sensation that she nearly pulled away. 

Instinctive—her response was automatic. Because retreating from him had somehow become her first impulse, while at the same time she still yearned to fling herself towards him across the abyss. She didn’t understand it herself, which added to the madness of it all.

Carter looked down at the empty mug on the floor next to her, chasing back the images that hovered just beyond her mind’s eye. There had been an animal in a book her mother had read to Sam when she’d been a little girl. A llama with a head at the front and the back. She felt like that animal lately—forever in a cycle of reaching towards while simultaneously running away from what she wanted. Never knowing in which direction she really wanted to go.

“So?” He was doing that thing again—poking his finger into his cup in search of a nonexistent bit of schmutz. Shaking it off, O’Neill nudged at her with his elbow. “What are you doing in here? Alone in the dark with this remarkably non-destroyed piece of alien technology?”

“I don’t know.” A blatant lie.

Which he seemed to know already. “But you have the remote thingy.”

Carter looked up at the ceiling, at the single ray of light that sent a bright shaft along the concrete surface. At the way the light reflected off the walls—like candlelight in a mirror. Enough light to be noticeable but too weak to be useful. A sad metaphor for something, surely. Hell. Maybe a sad metaphor for herself. “Have you ever questioned your life’s choices?”

Narrowing his eyes, the Colonel passed his tongue along his bottom lip before inhaling sharply. He looked away as he answered. “I try not to.”

She wanted to press him further, but she knew by the way he’d said it that any such attempt would be futile. Sighing, she opened her hand, pulling the compressed napkin free and worrying it back open. “The Bedrosians were so totally convinced that they were right. Even when faced with overwhelming evidence to the contrary.”

“They were big self-righteous dicks about it, too.”

Breathing out something close to a laugh, Sam bent her head back to look at the slip of paper in her fingers. “They were.”

“But you’re not talking about religion, are you?”

Carter closed her hands into fists, then spread her fingers wide. She was still cold. The temporary effect of the tea was fading. An involuntary shiver startled its way down her body. “Not really.”

“Cold?”

“A little.”

He put his cup on the concrete floor and shucked out of his BDU over-shirt. Without a word, he draped it over her shoulders, then sat back and watched as she threaded her arms through the sleeves. 

It was warm. And smelled like him, and the coffee. No cologne this time—just him. Sam resisted the urge to tuck her head towards her shoulder and breathe deeply even as she pulled the front plackets across each other and tucked them tightly around her body. Still, she sighed as the heat seeped into her. 

“Better?”

“Yes.” She took a little time to adjust the cuffs, so that her hands were partially covered by the heavy fabric. “Thank you.”

For a long time, he just watched her, his dark eyes catching what little light was coming in through the door. His face was cast in a fascinating kind of shadowed relief, the hard planes of his cheek and the strong cut of his jaw becoming more pronounced. 

Sharper. More striking. 

“So, what’s going on?” Quiet—so quiet. He reached over and tapped the mirror’s controller with the side of a knuckle. “What’s all this about?”

“May I speak freely?”

“Always.”

Hesitating, Carter organized her thoughts as best she could. Amidst the exhaustion—mental and physical—her efforts would be subpar at best. But what the hell. “How does it get to that point where you have to believe in your own delusion? When you won’t entertain any thought other than the ones that you’ve been laboring under for your entire life?”

“Cognitive dissonance?”

“Sort of.” She shrugged. “I guess. But not really.”

He waited for several moments before leaning towards her, tilting his head towards hers.  His shoulder resting against hers. “Talk to me, Sam.”

It was the gentleness that did it for her. That tone that he reserved for so few people—the one he usually saved for her. And he’d used her name—something he did so rarely. In moments when they needed such intimacy to tether them as humans—as something more than friends. As they did now, sitting here in the dark, as the heat from his body had started to seep into hers. 

Melting a little, Carter twisted the napkin between her fingers. “I’ve been in here watching the mirror.”

“Watching it?”

“I turned it on and dialed it to various realities.” 

“Carter, it’s not a TV. You can’t pull up HBO or the Discovery Channel.” He was laughing at her. Well—not laughing really, but most certainly amused. 

She leaned into his shoulder, giving him a nudge. “I was looking for me. Well, not me—but me .”

“Samantha Carter from other realities.”

“Yeah.”

His brows rose high. “And did you find yourself?”

Oh, that dimple again. That crooked, smart-ass smile that never failed to make her feel things that she shouldn’t. Looking away, Sam found the empty mug near her thigh again, running her finger along the smoothness of the ceramic handle. “I guess.”

“And what did you find?”

“After we got back from P2X-416 and we all went to the infirmary, I was listening to Daniel and Nyan talking.” Sam cast the Colonel a quick look. “They’re similar people—both very focused on learning where the facts take them. Nyan was completely capable of seeing where the evidence was leading him and then accepting the truths behind that.”

“While his leaders and those in charge of his country were not.”

“Right.” She started smoothing the napkin out on her thigh. “And as a result, that entire country is going to continue to believe things that aren’t true, while never knowing what the truth really is. The consequences are enormous, including the continuance of a war that doesn’t need to be fought.”

His eyebrows drew low. “So, how does this involve you and this mirror?”

For just half a beat, she considered lying. Thought briefly about obfuscation. But he was still looking at her, with those deep, brown eyes warming through her. “Most of the other Sam Carters out there aren’t part of the military.”

His eyes never wavered, his expression inviting her to continue. 

“I didn’t keep count, but I probably found a hundred or so versions of myself through that mirror.” She took some time to fold the napkin again, creasing the lines with the pads of her fingers, only to scrunch the whole damned thing back up in her fist. “Along with many, many versions of you.”

Together. That was the word she’d omitted. 

“I’m assuming that you mean—“ He waved his hand between them, from himself to her and back again. Of course he’d pick up on that. His jaw worked as he considered what she hadn’t said. What he hadn’t iterated except for in gesture. 

“Yeah.” She swallowed past the tightness in her throat. “Very few of those Sam Carters were Air Force officers. Or Air Force at all.”

He breathed out, a deliberate action. As much so as was the way he scuffed at the floor with the heel of his boot. His hand came to rest on the ground between them. “And the ones that were military?”

“Like this.” Sam’s shoulder rubbed against his when she shrugged. “Like us.”

  Not together. Two words omitted this time. 

“Huh.” His frown became more pronounced, reaching his chin, where a groove drew a tight line down towards his jaw. He made another scuff at the floor, lifting up his hand and putting it back down. “How could you tell? About the civilian yous?” 

Outside, a pair of guards patrolled down the corridor, talking quietly between them. Sam recognized their voices, but couldn’t immediately come up with names. She waited until their footsteps had faded before exhaling. Why she’d been holding her breath, she couldn’t say. 

“Carter?” He asked it again. Softer. “How could you tell?”

Sam combed her hair back behind her ear, pulling her legs back towards her body. Hugging her knees, she looked over at him. “Name tags. Badges. SGC—or similar—security placards. Wedding rings. BDU name patches on the military ones.”

He seemed to accept that. He leaned forward, mirroring her pose, his eyes working through the darkness to see her better. “Doesn’t necessarily mean—“

“In a few of the realities, there was more— vivid evidence.”

O’Neill’s eyebrows sailed upwards. “As in—“

“As in.” Sam felt her cheeks go pink. Thank heaven for the shadows. She pressed her jaw against her wrist. “One of them must have had better knees than you do. A few of them worked out a lot more.”

He sat up again, leaning back against the wall. With a little shake of his head, he squinted at her. “In front of the mirror?”

“We put it here. On a level nobody ever comes to, in a dark storage room that nobody ever enters. There aren’t even any surveillance cameras in this unit.” She looked from the mirror back to the corner where they both were seated. “Two guards just walked past us without ever knowing that we were here.”

“And if we closed the door—” His voice trailed off. There was a hint of suggestion in his tone, and in the way he cocked his head to one side.

“Yeah.” Carter’s blush deepened. She could feel the heat creeping up her throat. “It’s as viable a place as any on base if you were looking for some time away.”

“Is that why you came here?”

“To do—” She choked on a hysterical little giggle. “That? No. Of course not.”

He assessed her thoroughly, as if seeing her in a new light. Finally, he nodded. Once. “Just checking.”

Anyway. Looking down at the toes of her boots, Carter bit back a smile. “I came here to be alone. To think.”

“About your life and the choices you’ve made.”

She shifted on the cold floor, turning until her knees were closer to his. Until she could look him in the eye. “Remember when we went to that planet with the symbiotic plants?”

He rifled through his memory, gazing off over her shoulder into the shadows until he found the right reference. “Yeah. The UAV went down on —445, right? Those weird little dudes who wore white paint and didn’t talk much.”

“I told you about my rhododendrons, and my succulents.”

The corner of his mouth tilted upward. “And how you converse with them.”

“I talk to them.” Sam lowered her chin to her wrist, aiming her words at the floor.  “It’s not like they answer back.”

He touched her knee with his index finger. “I was just kidding, Carter.”

She couldn’t quite keep the wounded tone out of her voice. “But it’s just all about choices, isn’t it? The ones you make. What you decide to do. The direction you take your life.”

He sent a quick look towards the alien mirror. “Join the military or not. Follow pure science or use that incredible brain of yours for the protection of the planet.” 

“It’s the ifs that get you, isn’t it? If my mom hadn’t died. If I hadn’t been so determined to please my father. If I’d chosen straight science rather than applying to the Academy. If, if, if.”

He’d always been quicker than he let on. He went straight to the point of the matter. “Then maybe you’d have something more to talk to at home than a ficus.”

It was more blunt than she’d expected him to be, but the truth, nonetheless. “Yeah. That.”

“So, you think that you’ve been fooling yourself all this time? That because a hundred other yous out of potentially billions of yous out there in the great beyond didn’t make the same choices that you’ve made—” he paused, making sure she was following him. “You’re thinking that the choices you’ve made haven’t been correct.”

“Kind of.” She raked her hand through her hair again, tucking it back behind her ear. “There’s a certain logic to it, isn’t there?”

She was close to him—close enough that he could reach out and take her hand. And he did—his long fingers wrapping around her palm. His hand was warm against hers. Rough calluses and fine hairs on the backs of his knuckles and surprisingly smooth skin in between. Strong. Solid. Hands like the man they belonged to. Substantial.

“You’re not fooling yourself. You aren’t like the Bedrosians, Carter.”

“Then why do I feel so—” But she couldn’t complete the question. Sam really didn’t even know how to put words to the muddle roiling around in her gut. “I just feel like I’ve been lying to myself. Like I’ve kept telling myself that I don’t want more, expecting myself to believe it.”  

“Well, really, how can you not believe yourself?” He was teasing again, but more gently. 

“A hundred mes, Colonel. Most of them—it seems—living very different lives than the one that I’m living.” She turned her hand within his grasp, threading her fingers between his. They fit so perfectly. It felt so damned natural to sit this way. Thigh against thigh, hands joined, skin to skin. She could smell him—on the shirt she was wearing,  the coffee on his breath, and whatever else he had in the pockets of his BDU trousers. Something citrusy. One of those tiny mandarins he liked, or the sweet orange pastries that Master Chief Laurents made just for him. “How can I not believe that they might have made the right choices? Ones that I should have made?”

“Because you’re not them. You’re you .” So simple. He made it sound so damned simple. Somehow, he’d turned enough that he could look at her straight on. That he could reach out and cup her face in his other palm, his thumb making a wide arc across her cheek. “Nobody else is you. Not in this reality, and sure as hell not in any other.”

Their eyes had long since adjusted to the shadows, and Sam could clearly see his expression—a little concern, a little bemusement, a lot of sincerity. His dark eyes seemed fathomless—deep—holding the secrets of the universe just beyond his irises. And the smile that played at the corners of his lips held something—something indefinable that Sam wasn’t even sure she wanted to pin down.

A promise. Or a regret. Or both.

Sam couldn’t hold his gaze. She allowed her eyes to drowse closed, pressing her cheek more firmly into his touch.

“I didn’t want to go home to an empty house tonight.” She turned her face until her lips whispered against his palm, her own hand rising to graze along his arm. Bare skin beneath the pushed-up hem of his sleeve. “I needed— something —tonight. Just some connection, I guess. Or reassurance that I haven’t totally screwed my life up in some way.”

His jaw worked again, clenching, releasing, and clenching again. If anything, his brown eyes grew more obscure. More profound. Finally, he pushed away, pivoting on his butt on the floor and tugging her along. “C’mere.”

It was just another little shift and they were back against the wall. Only the Colonel had gathered her against him, his arm around her shoulders, her cheek tucked against his collarbone. His hand rested on her arm, making long, slow strokes up and down against the sleeve of the shirt he’d loaned her.

“You haven’t screwed anything up.” Words breathed more than spoken, warm against the crown of her head, with his heat surrounding her, and his smell so welcome in her nostrils. 

He overwhelmed her senses so easily. Too easily. She should be more immune to this, shouldn’t she? Shouldn’t want this so much. But those hundred other Sam Carters hadn’t been immune. They’d sought this out too, hadn’t they? Not just a connection—but this connection. This connection with this man. 

And maybe those other Sams—those wearing uniforms and dog tags and adhering to codes in their worlds—maybe they wanted this, too. Maybe they were living within the same odd half-life that she was. Maybe they were questioning the same things that she was. 

For every ‘if’, there was a ‘maybe’, for each ‘maybe’ another ‘if’. Perhaps it was the same in every universe. Perhaps those ifs and maybes were why universes diverged. 

Only, now she was spiraling into the physics of it all. Asking those theoretical questions that would suck even more of her brainpower, and require more energy than she had at the moment to even attempt to order and resolve them. With an effort, she chased it all away. Concentrating on the here and now—this scant point within her own present reality—the reality that Teal’c had declared was the only one that mattered.

Turning her head, she leaned more heavily against O’Neill, his arm securing her more closely. She felt him move, and all of a sudden, another little packet appeared in front of her. 

“Eat.”

She took it the package, settling it on his thigh as she worked at reading the label. “What’s this?”

“Sustenance.” O’Neill’s hand grew tighter on her arm. “Like I said. Ol’ Doc Fraiser’s on the warpath about you.”

It was an energy bar. The kind that she liked—oatmeal, peanut butter, nuts, and just the right amount of sweetness. Breaking off a chunk, she slipped it between her lips, sucking a bit of chocolate off the pad of her thumb.

“And you’re dehydrated.” He’d produced a water bottle from somewhere, putting it in her lap as he scooched out, extended his legs and settled in. “So, drink.”

She did. Obediently finishing off the energy bar and the bottle of water as he sat there with his arm around her shoulders and his fingers wandering aimlessly up and down her bicep. And when she’d deposited the rubbish in the empty ceramic cup that had held her tea, she nestled in against him again, content to simply be there for a moment, in the quiet, and the shadows. With his warmth infusing itself into her, and her brain finally— finally —growing calm. 

Out in the hallway, the guards swept back through, still talking quietly between themselves. Something about football—or baseball?—team trades and salary caps and chances at the championship. Good-natured ribbing about home teams and win-loss ratios and how long it had been since the Cardinals had been in the playoffs. 

Sam wasn’t really listening—merely waiting until their bootfalls had faded down around the far end of the corridor again. When all lay quiet again, she looked back up at the Colonel.

“Sir?”

“Yeah, Carter?”

“Why did you come looking for me?”

“I knew you hadn’t gone home.” His fingers on his free hand absently thrummed against his thigh. “I figured you’d holed up somewhere for whatever reason. Probably licking your metaphorical wounds. I was worried.”

“So, how did you know I was here?”

“Black ops training.” Flippant. Light. He was teasing—again. “I asked myself where I’d go if I were a genius with huge blue eyes, an inability to obey orders, and a houseful of talkative plants.”

His t-shirt was soft against her cheek as she tilted her face upwards to look at him. Despite the moment, her voice held a hint of laughter. “Right.”

“Dunno.” He exhaled quietly, his hand stilling on her arm. It took him longer than it should have to meet her gaze. “I just seem to have a weird sort of radar where you’re concerned.”

“Oh.”

“I just kind of knew.”

“For the record, I’m grateful, Sir.” She laid her hand flat against his chest, smiling when she could feel the steady thrum of his heart under his shirt. “I don’t know why, but this one really threw me.”

“I got that.” He dipped his chin until his cheek was resting on her crown. “When I saw your motorcycle still topside, I figured you’d gone to ground to think about things. To overthink about things.”

“You were right.”

“So, I came back in to find you.” His free hand found hers where it lay splayed against his chest. It seemed perfectly natural for him to cover that hand with his own, completely enveloping it. “And here we are.”

“So?” She watched as his thumb made lazy circles on the back of her hand. “Have I convinced you that I’m crazy yet?”

“Everyone has their moments, Carter.”

“And what if this moment is the moment where I wonder if everything I’ve ever done has been a total lie? What if I doubt every single thing that’s ever happened to me? What if I regret it all?” She breathed against him, pressing her cheek against the wide swath of his chest. “What if I‘ve lost whatever it was that made me capable of doing this work? Of being who I am?”

“Well, that would suck.” It took him a minute to continue. Maybe he was stalling for time, or trying to decipher her actual concern. But his arm only pulled her closer, his head lowering to rest against hers. And his voice—soft, but fervent—felt as well as heard—a deep rumble in his chest against her cheek. “But if that were the case, then I’d sit here with you and keep you company until you’d figured it out.”

“You’d do that for me?”

“I’d do anything for you, Carter.”

Somewhere far away, the elevator had started. Sam could hear the mechanical hum of the generators far below, the constant drone of AC units and air pumps. Footsteps—real or merely perceived—made their way through halls and across floors and up ramps. Voices traveled through vents and hallways, echoing off the concrete of the silo’s construction.

And she was finally warm. And the vague panic that had seemed poised to overwhelm her had dissipated. The controller lay next to her mug on the floor, the mirror quiet, and cold across the room from where they sat. The tea, and the muffin, and the energy bar had pushed back some of the exhaustion and hunger. And her mind—and her heart—were finally beating normally again. Because of him? Maybe. Probably. Thankfully.

“You okay?”

“I’m okay.”

Finally. 

—----OOOOOOO—----

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

No Pete

Going to a Wedding

Accidentally a Couple

Part One

—----OOOOOOO—----

Thinking about it (now that it’s done), I may have misunderstood the whole “No Pete” space. My brain immediately flew to a period of time in the series when Pete had, indeed, left the building. 

But now that I’m more than 10,000 words into this chapter of the series, I’m thinking the trope actually meant “Pete Never Entered the Picture”. Oops.

Welp. Sorry, folks. Since this was literally the first plot that I hammered out when I saw the Bingo Board,  this is what you’re going to get.

 (If it helps—I promise there’s a happy ending in Part 2.)

—----OOOOOOO—----

“You’re really going to do this?”

He hadn’t shouted. Not even close. His voice was a lesson in calm—controlled and precise. Serene, even, his expression as blank as fresh paper. The only evidence of any emotion at all was the single vein throbbing in the side of his neck. 

And the hurt look he’d quickly hidden when she’d pulled away from him. When she’d fled.

Even now, she was breathing hard—quick inhales and exhales while her heart beat so furiously that it felt as if it were trying to escape. But she couldn’t look at him. Not now. Not with his shirt unbuttoned, untucked, and wrinkled. Not with her hair mussed, her core heated and wanting, and her bra closure hanging on by a single hook. Not with the taste of him still on her lips, the feel of his hands still heavy on her body.  “I don’t know what else to do, Sir.”

“Sir.” His eyes narrowed—almost imperceptibly—as he pulled his gaze off her to search the sky—or the tops of the trees—or the universe itself—for answers. Finally, he turned, taking a few steps towards the edge of the porch, touching the log support with his fingertips as he found her again. “So we’re back to that.”

Sam weighed the keys in her hand, felt the sharp points of the metal pieces as she closed her fist around them. Welcomed the pain when she tightened her fist, gouging the sharp jagged edges into her skin. Welcomed feeling anything past the panic that still raged within her, coursing through her like a pyroclastic flow—hot, and searing, and destructive. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You do know, Sam. You know exactly what to do.” Still so controlled. Not even a wobble in that tone. His jaw worked once—twice, his lips thinning further as he looked down at where she stood just on the other side of her car. “You’re just too scared to do it.”

There was no point in denying the point. It was true. She was a coward. 

Yanking the door of the Volvo open, she tossed her duffel bag into the passenger seat. She’d only taken a minute or two to grab a few handfuls of her things, heedless of what she was abandoning at the cabin. After all, she was used to traveling light—to leaving items—leaving people—behind. She’d survive.

And ridiculously, she knew that she was kidding herself. 

She’d been given the smallest room, which also happened to be the master. The guys had slept in the secondary, larger, bedroom, while Teal’c had staked his claim on the pullout sofa in the great room. This was supposed to have been a few days of team fun at the cabin. A few days meant to serve as a transition of sorts. 

That had certainly been the intention. Three days with Daniel and Teal’c as a buffer. Three days of playful banter and barely-hidden innuendo. Three days of lingering looks and extended touches. Accidental bumps of hip or thigh, his hand at her waist as he passed her in the kitchen, her fingers on his as she learned to tie a lure. His voice calling her ‘Sam’, with no ‘Sirs’ in sight.

Things had been sweet. Flirtatious. Easy. 

Until they weren’t. 

Until the dust had settled behind Teal’c’s SUV, and Sam and Jack had been left alone amidst acres of forest. And all of a sudden all that playfulness had found its purpose. They’d cooked together—sharing a spoon to taste the sauce. Clean-up had been quietly anticipatory—warm water and domestic ease. Casual talk about nothing and everything. She’d noticed marinara on her blouse and headed to her room to change.

She’d looked up to find him in the doorway of that small room, reached for him. Beckoned. He’d touched her gently, kissed her, smiled as she’d moaned against his lips—then taken her mouth more thoroughly. Touched—tasted—her face, and throat, and shoulder. He’d swallowed a sigh as she’d explored the planes of his chest—abdomen—smiling at her as her fingers had stilled on the button of his jeans—

“Damn it, Sam.” For the first time since she’d panicked, his voice faltered. Cracked as he edged even closer to the porch steps. So close to chasing her. “Just talk to me.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” She was breaking. Shattering. Throwing everything to hell. And the worst part was that she knew it, but couldn’t figure out how to stop herself from doing it all the same. “I’m sorry.”

“Sam—”

“I’m so sorry.” 

She hadn’t cried until she’d hit the interstate.

—----OOOOOOO—----

Organza. 

Why was it always organza?

Sam looked down at the dress she’d been given. Peach satin layered with organza, ruched at the bodice before cascading downward into a frothy floaty skirt that danced around her calves. Wide straps skimmed over her shoulders, criss-crossing her bare back until they reconnected to the bodice just above her waist. The dress was tight at the waist, saggy around her boobs, several inches too short, and the straps were staying up due to a combination of determination and prayer—all attesting to the fact that the gown hadn’t actually been intended for her.

Of course, Sam hadn’t intended on being a bridesmaid at this wedding.

Originally, she’d intended on being the bride.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Sam looked over her shoulder to see Chloe standing just behind her. She looked beautiful—resplendent, really—in simple white silk with touches of French re-embroidered lace on the sleeves and train. Her hair had been curled and caught up in a half-up-do, ready for the short veil to be added at the last moment. How she’d nailed her own gown so perfectly while going so far afield with the bridesmaids’ dresses was, indeed, a mystery. 

Apparently the old adage about the bride not wanting to be overshadowed by her attendants carried some truth to it. Janet had once declared that bridesmaids were supposed to be ‘purposefully ugly’. Janet had always been right about that kind of thing.

“I’m fine, Chloe.” Sam drummed up a smile. “I’m happy to help.”

“It’s just that my stupid little sister managed to get herself arrested again. I’d just say to heck with it and have fewer bridesmaids, but then one of Jay’s groomsmen would be walking down the aisle by himself, and that would look totally lame.” Chloe sighed. “Besides. They’ve all flown in from out of town—except for Simon, of course—and I’d feel bad if one of them didn’t get to participate because my stupid little sister can’t stop stealing stuff from the CVS.”

“It’s okay.” Smoothing down the poofy skirt, she cast a glance over towards where the other bridesmaids were gathered around the vanity mirror in the bride’s room. They were primping. Sam didn’t know how to primp. She’d touched up her lipgloss and made an attempt with mascara, and called herself done. That’s why she was over here looking out the window and not still futzing with her face at the mirror. “Really. I don’t mind.”

“I just know that this has to be all kinds of awkward for you. I don’t want it to be too weird or anything.” Chloe stepped closer, her eyes growing wider. “But when I saw you earlier in the hotel lobby, I figured that there was no harm in asking.”

This time, Sam’s smile was real. She honestly liked both Chloe and Jay—and was happy for them. Not to mention grateful for the tiny bit of what—providence? Luck? Favorable planetary alignment?—that had brought this entire situation about.

She’d called off the wedding on the wrong side of the grace period for the contracts they’d signed. Pete had balked at taking the loss—and Sam had been too exhausted to fight about it. She’d already been fighting through the process of settling her father’s estate, fighting with the new posting at Groom Lake, and dealing with an R & D team that really didn’t want her. Struggling to find housing in Nevada—trying to decide what to do with her little house in the Springs. Fighting through her grief for her father. 

And grief for him .

Don’t think about him, Sam. Not here. Not now. Let him go. 

It had been her mantra for the past seven weeks. Ever since she’d last seen him in her rearview mirror, leaning against the support pillar of his cabin porch, watching as she’d driven away. She could still see the expression on his face as he’d asked her to stay. Such bleak vulnerability, such honesty, mixed with his anger. 

Even now, she needed to allow her eyes to drift closed and force his image from her mind. If only it were as easy to get him out of her heart. 

She’d returned from the fiasco in Minnesota to find several terse messages from Pete on her machine. Her engagement to Jonas Hanson had never gotten this far—she’d returned his ring before the wedding had even been scheduled. So, she wasn’t anticipating this part of the break up. The business of it. Haggling over returning the rings, sending back the engagement gifts, and adding up the receipts already paid out for the wedding that wouldn’t happen had been chores that Sam really hadn’t been prepared to do on top of everything else.

Insult to injury, or something.

Just as Sam had numbly agreed to eat the non-refundable deposits for the catering, photographer, florist, and venue. Chloe had announced that she and Felger were engaged. A few well-placed hints later, and voila! Jay and Chloe had decided they were only too glad to take Sam’s wedding and make it their own. 

See? Providence. Favorable planetary alignment. Luck.

Only—they hadn’t really done much in the ‘make it their own’ department. The event looked exactly as Pete and Deborah had planned it—from the flower-covered arch at the front of the smaller of the two tent-like structures they’d reserved right down to the three-tiered cake behemoth with alternating layers of vanilla and chocolate waiting on the dessert table in the reception area.

There were a few differences—the rose-colored linens and chair hoods had been changed out for a light shade of peach, the centerpieces—flowers arranged around tall, thin candles—now sported white ribbons rather than green. A large table had been added at the reception tent entrance for the guest book and for gifts. Deborah hadn’t wanted anything so gauche as an obvious spot for such things. She’d had the drop-off point placed deeper into the structure, near the bar.

Sam hadn’t minded being married by the priest Pete and Deborah had chosen, but she hadn’t felt comfortable with the church aspect of the whole thing. Something about standing before God in His own house and making vows hadn’t felt right—not when Sam had spent the better part of the last decade hunting down and dispensing with various and sundry other deities. The fact that they’d all been false gods somehow seemed irrelevant. Birds of a feather and all that. 

Not that she’d been able to explain any of her reservations. Not to people who couldn’t possibly understand them. But Pete was a good guy, when all was said and done. He’d inferred what Sam hadn’t been able to iterate, and he’d gone to bat for her with his mother.

So, they had compromised on that part of things. A fact that had worked out well, since Felger and Chloe had engaged both a rabbi and a pastor to perform their ceremony, and added a chuppah to the bower.

It was beautiful. Really—it was. And despite knowing that the choice she’d made in ending her engagement had been the right one, she still felt a twinge of something indefinable standing here on the outside of her wedding and not being the bride. 

So—weird? Hell, yes. Still, she reached out towards her friend and squeezed her hand. “I’m really okay, Chloe.”

Chloe’s keen green eyes made quick work of Sam’s expression. Finally, the little physicist nodded and stepped backwards, addressing the rest of the room. “Well, then, let’s do this, ladies. Let’s get me hitched.”

—----OOOOOOO—----

They’d kept her quartet.

Well—not her quartet, really. Sam hadn’t truly had an opinion about it. Pete’s mother had been vehemently pro-quartet, Pete had wanted to please his mother, and Sam had simply not argued the point. Apparently, Chloe and Jay had sided with the Shanahans. The wafting strains of Vivaldi’s Spring drifted lazily across the grass as the female contingent of the wedding line approached the smaller of the two canopies.

Sam was second in the line-up, situated between Chloe’s non-felon older sister and her two best friends from college. As she tugged at her bodice for the umpteenth time, Sam felt a little envious of the other three bridesmaids—all of whom were wearing dresses tailored specifically for them. She was, however, intensely grateful that she was so much taller than the rest of the line—the other girls, having chosen to wear high heels, had to tiptoe their way across the lawn, while Sam could walk normally in her flats.

Rounding the outside of the larger tent, the party aimed towards the smaller canopy where the wedding was to take place. It was just past dusk—the sun already having dipped below the horizon. Still, Sam could make out Coombs, looking dapper in a tuxedo, chatting with two similarly-attired groomsmen. And just to their right, wearing his full service dress uniform, stood—

Oh, damn. 

Him.

Damn, damn, damn, damn . 

Sam stopped dead in her tracks, eliciting a startled gasp from the bridesmaid just behind her. Muttering an apology, Sam stepped to one side and let the other ladies pass. It was at that moment that the General looked up, instantly finding her within the approaching group. Even at this distance, Sam could see him frown, could see his jaw tighten. His eyes were dark beneath his lowered brows, his lips thin. He seemed as surprised as she was.

Cursing beneath her breath, Sam futzed with the strap of her gown yet again—more out of nervousness than modesty. 

Seven weeks. Seven weeks and all those damned mantras, and she still went weak looking at him. Still felt everything— all of it —deep in the pit of her soul. 

“By the way, Sam. General O’Neill will be your escort. Jay practically pestered the man to death until he agreed to be in the line, bless him.” Chloe adjusted the bouquet in her hands as she urged Sam to start walking again. “Originally, he was supposed to escort my friend Malia, but with my stupid little sister and all, well, I thought that he could do you, instead, since you two have history and all.”

“Do me?”

Chloe caught the double entendre, crinkling her nose and giggling. “You know what I mean, silly.”

Damn. 

The quartet paused, and the crowd inside the venue turned expectantly in their seats. Coombs was already holding his arm out for Chloe’s older sister, while the college girlfriends lined up with their groomsmen. They’d obviously practiced this at the rehearsal dinner night before last, before Sam had arrived in the Springs. Before she’d been sucked into this rapidly worsening debacle.

Without a word, the General moved to fill the empty spot in the line, raising a single brow as he looked at Sam. His expression was utterly implacable. Unreadable. Bland. 

Gritting her teeth, Sam tightened her hand around the small bundle of flowers she held and slid into place next to him, instantly overwhelmed by his presence—by his smell, his heat. By him.

Damnity-damn damned freaking damned damn. 

The quartet eased into the opening measures of Pachelbel’s Canon in D , and the first couple started slowly down the aisle towards the arch, where the priest and the rabbi stood smiling. 

After a few beats, the second couple moved forward down the aisle. And a few beats after that, the General held out his arm. Sam ducked her chin before placing her hand in the crook of his elbow. He felt warm, and solid, his arm strong beneath the heavy fabric of his uniform. And then they were walking. Easily—with the familiarity of two people who had moved together many, many times before. 

“I didn’t know you were going to be here, Sir.” It was probably against the rules to talk during the processional, but Sam couldn’t help it. “I had no idea you were in this wedding.”

“I was going to be here anyway, for some transitional meetings with Landry.” As if that explained everything.  “Besides. It’s Felger. Saying no would have been like kicking a puppy.”

Sam cast a long sideways look at O’Neill. “That was really nice of you, Sir.”

“So, we’re still sticking with the ‘Sir’, are we?” This, he’d whispered. Low, close to her ear, his voice deep and soft. 

“I guess.”

“Just so we’re clear.” His arm tensed beneath her fingertips as he cast her another sidelong glance. Longer, this time, more deliberate.

They reached the end of the aisle, and Sam pulled her hand off O’Neill’s arm as she moved to the bride’s side of the platform. Turning, she angled her body in the same direction as the other attendants, watching out of the corner of her eye as the General did the same on the opposite side.

And already, she wanted to touch him again.

Damn.

—----OOOOOOO—----

Sam couldn’t concentrate on the ceremony. Not with him standing just a few yards away. Not with him looking past—no, through —the other people in the wedding party and focusing in on her. She could feel him watching her. Knew every time he looked away, or blinked, or glanced into the audience. And she knew exactly when his eyes lit on her again. She could feel his attention on her—as if she were one of his objectives for recon—or his prey—and he’d made himself familiar with every aspect of her form, her existence. Every movement tracked and followed. Mental annotations made of each and every time she twitched, or shifted, or futzed with the blasted ill-fitting bodice of her dress.

She’d never felt so exposed, nor so seen.

It shamed her as much as it thrilled her. 

And standing there, in this tent, with his entire focus on her, she finally understood how it had all happened. How she’d managed to convince herself that Pete Shanahan had been the answer to the questions she’d been too ashamed to even admit asking.

She’d thought about little else over the past two months—standing hunched over a microscope, or poised at a keyboard, or lying alone in her bed in her tiny apartment in Nevada. There were entire days where she’d spoken to—interacted with—no one else. Where she’d suddenly realized that she was hungry and then wondered whether she’d eaten that day, or the day before. Or she’d yawned and then couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually slept. It had occurred to her more than once that nobody knew—or even cared—how long she’d spent in her lab. Not a single soul gave a damn whether she drove too fast, or drank enough water, or whether she’d had dinner before falling—wide awake—into bed.

She’d been living like this for years. At least when she’d still been part of SG-1, she’d had her team. 

Even so, she’d been just that needy for more. Something more than brotherly kindness. Something more than Daniel and Teal’c could offer. Everything more than he’d been willing to give.

She’d needed him . 

But he hadn’t been available, right? He’d told her so, when he’d looked at Pete’s ring and told her that he’d rather be anywhere other than with her. 

So, she’d settled for something far, far less. She understood that, now. She’d had a lot of time to work all of that out. At least she’d gotten to the bottom of it before she’d actually donned the gown.

She’d lain in her unfamiliar bed in Nevada, staring up at her unfamiliar ceiling, thinking about him. About what she’d lost. It had been an anchor, of sorts. Something familiar in a shifting sea of the unknown. Weird that her greatest failure was the one thing that kept her tethered to reality

He was still out there. In Washington, or Virginia—or wherever he lived in the vicinity of the Pentagon. In that great ‘anywhere’ she envisioned whenever she thought of that day. That ring. Her question. His response.

She might not know where he lived these days. 

Only that he’d taken up permanent residence in her head.

—----OOOOOOO—---

“So, anyway. Again—to our parents—we are truly grateful for everything that you’ve done for us. Chloe and I will strive to live up to your amazing examples.”

Some idiot had given Felger a microphone. At the best of times, the man was chatty. At the worst of times—a few glasses of wine into his own wedding reception and running high on adrenaline—he was positively loquacious. Sam wasn’t wearing a watch, but she’d peeked the last time that the General had checked his, and they were well past the half-hour mark. 

And he clearly wasn’t done. 

Sam wriggled her toes against the vinyl flooring the event facilitators had laid down over the grass, grateful for the floor-length cloth on the table. She’d slipped her shoes off around twenty minutes before. Even though it was an early-summer mountain evening, the enormous crowd in the enclosed reception tent made the place seem stifling. She couldn’t help but feel sorry for the General. He had to be roasting in his wool suit.

“Chloe and I would like to take this opportunity to thank some other very special people who are here with us tonight.”  Felger fumbled with the note cards in his hand, shuffling through them until he’d found the one he wanted. “Malia, Audrey, Desiree, Grant, and Henry—you’ve been our friends for ages, and you’re still standing with us. Thank you for traveling here at such short notice to be in our line. We love all you guys. Frankie—who kit-bashed the custom original Aragorn and Arwen cake toppers for us. As Gandalf the Gray said, ‘All we have to do is decide what to do with the time given us’. Chloe and I appreciate the time you spent on this fine work, my friend. Mandy—the groom’s cake is epic. I can’t believe how much it looks like The Eye of Sauron. Truly–it’s a masterpiece and I can’t wait to storm it when it’s time for second breakfast.”

O’Neill leaned in towards Sam, a smile playing around the corners of his lips. “Maybe he’s like a wormhole.”

It was the first time he’d spoken to her since the ceremony had ended. Since they’d followed the now-husband and wife back down the aisle and into the reception area. Since he’d pulled her chair out for her at the head table and then settled in beside her. 

They were practically sitting on top of each other. The head table was just barely large enough for the entire wedding party—but with the addition of layers and layers of organza in the bridesmaids’ dresses, space was at a premium. Even sitting ramrod straight in her chair—the only way she could keep her dress from falling off—Sam was close enough to Jack that their knees and elbows kept bumping.

“Sir?”

Stretching out his right arm, he rested it on the back of her chair, indicating his watch with a twist of his left wrist. “Maybe he automatically shuts off after thirty-eight minutes.”

Stifling a snort, Sam wriggled backwards in her chair, the weight and movement of her body tugging her bodice back into place. Standing in the ill-fitting gown was doable. Gravity helped to keep the pertinent bits covered. Sitting was a whole different nightmare. The organza overskirts were so slick that Sam was constantly sliding forward in her chair. Any forward movement meant that the straps at her back went lax, causing the front to sag, which made the bands on her shoulders slide down her arms. 

The damndest part of the whole situation was that the dress had a built-in bra. There was nothing underneath that but—well— Sam . A fact that made it even more imperative that she keep the dress in place. She wasn’t in the mood to flash a bunch of strangers tonight. 

This wasn’t Mardi Gras and nobody was handing out any freaking beads.

Gingerly, making sure not to upset the fragile balance of her clothing, Sam tilted her head just enough to speak directly into O’Neill’s ear. “At least the ‘Gate has an iris. I’m pretty sure that there’s nothing around here that’s going to shut him up quite as efficiently.”

The corner of the General’s lips twitched. “You could probably engineer one that would fit his speaking orifice, right?”

“Maybe.” She bit back a grin. “Given enough time and the right materials.”

But she didn’t have the materials, and the time just kept ticking away as Jay Felger just kept talking. 

“Auntie Olive, we can’t thank you enough for making the chuppah. I promise that we will take care of it forever to pass on to our future little Felgers. And to Simon Coombs, who introduced me to Chloe. Wow. My brother. My wingman. I promise that I will try to return the favor. Somewhere out there, there’s a Janeway for your Chakotay. Ladies? He’s single, and a heck of a catch. He’d love to find some sweet thing with whom to live long and prosper.”

As a low rumble of laughter eased through the crowd, Sam glanced over at her escort. He was sitting back in his chair—incongruously military and masculine against the frou-frou chintz of the apricot covering on the backrest. He’d stretched his long legs out beneath the table, extending his arm across the back of her seat in a posture that could either seem casual or protective. She wasn’t quite ready to speculate as to which.

Above all else—he was bored. Sam knew this with absolute certainty. She could feel his fingers thrumming against the top of her backrest. He always got fidgety when he was bored.

Or when he was brooding about something.

“It can’t be harder than blowing up a sun, right?” He finally looked at her, meeting her gaze with his own. His eyes were softer than they’d been earlier. Less intense. It was as if they’d traveled back in time a year or so. Before things had gone so horribly wrong. “And you managed that just fine.”

Sam let out a tiny smile. She’d missed this. Missed him. Missed the wealth of shared history that could be passed in just a single look, or a wry smile. Missed everything she’d lost when she’d walked away. When she’d gone chasing what would end up being a pipe dream. She tore her eyes from his, focusing down at where the peach froth of her skirt bunched up against the navy blue of his uniform. “I’m never going to live that down, am I?”

His fingers shifted on the back of her seat, and his thumb brushed against the sensitive skin of her arm, drawing her gaze back to his. “Would you want to?”

Sam frowned down at her lap, at her hands folded neatly on the peach froth of her skirt. She wasn’t sure how to take that. Would she want to do what ? 

Blow up another sun? That opportunity wouldn’t come again—especially now that she’d buried herself in an earth-bound lab. Anyway—it was a non-event, really, since the accomplishment only existed in the memories of those who lived it, and in a series of reports that would most likely never see the light of day. 

Maybe he was referring to ending the constant ribbing she’d taken about that incident. She’d grown accustomed to that. Just as she’d gotten used to being expected to pull random bits of genius out of her ass whenever the situation warranted it. 

Or was he asking about something else? About returning to the past? Before things had been done—choices had been made—that had changed everything else.

Would she want to do that? Go back in time? After all, she and the General were uniquely qualified to know that it was actually possible. 

Still—even as her mind questioned itself, her body reacted to his touch, and she had to force herself not to lean into it—not to let loose the sigh that hovered at the back of her throat. Closing her eyes, she sought something—grounding? Sanity?—as her palms moved against the slick fabric on her lap. 

When she opened them again, he was still watching her, the pad of his thumb making a warm arc on the back of her arm. His face was impossible to read—at once intense and impassive. 

And still so damned compelling. Galvanizing. Provocative.

Apparently, Felger thought so, too.  “And finally, we’d like to thank two people who have been literal lifesavers for Chloe and me. Who have taught us grace under pressure, and who have shown us what it means to truly work as a team.” Felger turned back towards the table, indicating Jack and Sam with a wave of his notecards. “General Jack O’Neill and Colonel Samantha Carter—our heroes. Two of the most gifted, brave, strong, intelligent, stalwart, and self-sacrificing individuals I’ve ever known. These two have put honor and duty before all else time and time again. And I’m not just saying that because the General used to sign my paycheck.”

The whole room seemed to shift its attention from Felger to where she sat next to O’Neill. Dozens—no—hundreds of eyes narrowing in on her—and him— them . Oh, lord. Sam ducked her chin towards her chest, sagging down in her chair—then instantly regretting it when the movement sent the straps of her dress sliding down her arms. As the wedding guests laughed good-naturedly at the groom’s joke, Sam grabbed at the front of her dress in a desperate attempt to prevent it from falling down completely. Groaning, she used her free hand to pull the fabric back up over her left shoulder, but didn’t trust the top to stay in place long enough for her to fix the strap on her right arm. 

Cursing under her breath, Sam instantly bolted back upright, fumbling with the slippery fabric as she yanked and tugged.

And of course, he’d noticed her dilemma. With a nod and a smile towards the audience, he wrapped his arm around Sam’s shoulders, hooking the errant band of fabric on her right arm with his fingertips and shoving it back into its proper position. Pulling her in towards him, he tucked her body into himself, effectively anchoring the other strap in place so that Sam could shift things around enough to fix the front.

Oblivious, Felger waved those damned notecards in their direction again. “Awww. Would you look at them? They’re a powerhouse power couple, wouldn’t you say? Maybe we can arrange things so that Doctor Colonel Carter catches the bouquet tonight. You know what I mean? What do you say, Chloe? But until then—hey! Let’s give a hand to everyone who helped out with tonight’s festivities. A big round of applause, people!” 

A smattering of clapping filled the air, after which Jay finally landed the blasted plane. “So—the food is going to be served shortly, and then we’ll get this party started!” 

On cue, the DJ dimmed the lights and a love ballad started blaring through the speakers as members of the wait staff hauled out serving carts filled with covered dishes. The crew worked quickly, placing the plates with almost military precision. 

Beside her, the General relaxed slightly, watching as she threw her shoulders back in an effort to keep things in place. His dark eyes made quick work of how the whole system worked before lowering his hand to grasp both straps where they crossed just below her shoulder blades. “Better?”

Inwardly, Sam groaned. She was blushing—pink washing up her throat and into her cheeks—which only added to her frustration. “It’s just this damned dress.”

“It’s not cooperating?”

“It doesn’t fit.” She looked over at him, scowling. “I wasn’t supposed to be a bridesmaid. Chloe asked me at the last minute when her sister was detained.”

“She missed her flight?”

Despite the situation, Sam grinned. “No— actually detained. By law enforcement.”

Jack’s eyebrows rose. “Arrested?”

She cast him a sidelong glance before responding. “Apparently, Chloe’s youngest sister is a bit of a kleptomaniac.”

“No kidding?”

“No kidding.” Sam shrugged—which was a mistake, because it just sent the left strap sliding back down her arm. Dragging it back up to her shoulder, she continued.  “Anyway, she’s in jail awaiting arraignment, and I got roped into being a bridesmaid.”

“So, you’re wearing her dress—which is why it doesn’t fit.”

“I arrived in the Springs late yesterday afternoon. I’d just walked into the lobby here when I saw Chloe. She was frantic, and I asked what I could do to help.”

“That was your first mistake.” That elusive dimple creased his cheek as he eased into a smile. “You kind of walked into that one.”

“I know.” Another sigh. That seemed to be her norm these days. Reaching out, she touched the stems of the flowers she’d been holding through the ceremony. Cabbage roses, with some thick green leaves mixed in and tied with a ribbon. Pete and Deborah had debated about the color for more than an hour before they’d finally decided on white. Chloe and Jay must have simply added the groomsmen’s boutonnieres and the bridesmaids’ bouquets onto the original order because no such preparations had been made for the Shanahan–Carter wedding. Sam had flatly refused to have a line of any sort. That part had not been up for compromise.

O’Neill tugged at the back of her dress to get her attention. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“I’ve got to get some air.” With a quick move of his feet, he scooted his chair backwards, careful not to disrupt the tenuous balance of her bodice. Rising, he hesitated for the scarcest of moments before turning towards her. He extended his free hand—palm up— towards her with a tilt of a single brow. “Join me?”

She shouldn’t. She should stay here, in this seat, fighting with the damned dress she was wearing and eating whatever it was that Chloe’s sister had requested for her entree. She should fight against whatever it was inside her that wanted to follow this man out of this tent—away from this weird, freakish, hellacious situation. She should say no. She should remember that this— that he —wasn’t what she could have anymore.

She’d already burned that bridge, hadn’t she? 

And yet here he was, with his invitation. His hand literally outstretched. And his expression—unreadable. Obscure. Deliberately so, most likely. Whether it was by artifice or for self-preservation she couldn’t possibly say. 

“Sir.” She couldn’t help it, couldn’t stop herself from looking up at him, at how his dark eyes were fixed on her. “I—”

“Just come with me, Carter.” His fingers moved—almost imperceptibly—his eyes softening as he asked again. “Please?”

To be continued. . .

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

No Pete

Going to a Wedding

Accidentally a Couple

Part Two

—----OOOOOOO—----

The music had changed. 

They hadn’t distanced themselves too much from the tent. Just far enough that they’d found a breeze making its way across the golf course. They’d stopped at a convenient rise on the footpath leading to the fourth tee and watched as the moon drifted behind a bank of high, dry clouds. Behind them, the party was going strong—the music transitioning from dinner background ballads to dance mixes.

Jack had loosened his tie, slipping his jacket off and folding it neatly over his arm. Neither of them had really found it necessary to talk. It had just felt—right—to simply walk. To be.

“Do you want to go back?”

Sam looked over at the General. He’d stopped next to a large shrub, tucking his hands into his pockets. She took a few more steps before coming to a halt a yard or so away from him. “Not really.”

He squinted at her through the nascent darkness. “Were you planning on dancing? Because we could go back.”

“In this dress? That sounds dangerous.” She looked down at the organza flitting in the breeze. “Besides, I’m not much of a dancer, Sir.”

“We’re at a wedding, Carter.” He looked down towards his shoes, his hands deep in his pockets. “You are no longer in my chain of command. Can we lose the honorific?”

She had to think about it—taking her time working a strap back up on her shoulder as she found the right words. “I don’t know what else to call you.”

He scowled down at the sidewalk beneath him. At the plants in their neat rows. At the decorative concrete curbing that separated the grass from the flower beds. His jaw tensed once—twice—before he answered her. “You could try my name.”

“We’ve already tried that, Sir.” Sam reached out, touching the top of a perfectly manicured flowering shrub. It was early yet for full coverage. Still, several mature blossoms danced amidst a mass of buds—in a few more weeks, it would be fully in bloom. It was one of the only reasons she’d agreed to the ridiculous idea of having the wedding at the Broadmoor—she could envision what the place would look like right now. Early summer before the heat set in and the grass started to wither. Green and lush and beautiful. If she had to get married, she’d wanted it to happen somewhere pretty. Not that it had ended up mattering, right? Lately, it seemed as if nothing mattered. “It didn’t work out too well.”

He took one hand out of his pocket, then touched the bush in precisely the same manner that she had, skimming the curvature of the top with his palm. When he was done, he pulled a dead leaf from a twig, flicking it off into the darkness beyond the walkway. “We could try again.”

The music from the main tent grew louder—obviously the planned dances had ended. Cheers and shouts erupted from inside the structure as the crowd took to the dance floor and the real party started. 

Sam smiled into the darkness. Tiny pinpricks of colored light played here and there on the grass—a disco ball, probably. She’d seen one near the DJ’s set up, along with a few other light displays. For a moment, she just watched as the colors morphed and shifted, creating odd patterns on the grass and against the elegant landscaping. So much could change with the addition of a little bit of light.

Light. It was an oddity of her life. Even as she’d been tucking herself into her solitary darkness, she was still drawn to the light. Sought it out even as she’d wanted to hide away in the shadows. Something about truth, maybe. Scientists looked for it. And truth being light—well, hell. And from somewhere, she found the courage to ask the question. “Why?” 

“Why, what?”

“Why would you want to try again?”

The General touched the bush again, frowning down at the colors dancing around the leaves. “Come on, Carter. Don’t pretend to be obtuse.”

“I’m not being obtuse.” Sam tugged at the blasted strap again, yanking it up nearly to her chin. Folding her arms, she secured her bodice against her breasts before continuing. “I’m being honest.”

“Honesty.” He snorted. The sound was neither delicate nor pleasant. “Sounds like a good place to start.”

She deserved that. Sam bit her lip, focusing on his hands. At how his fingers were worrying at the top of the bush. Fidgeting again—nervous, or bored, or brooding. Honesty? Well, okay. If that’s what he wanted—Sam sucked in a silent breath, exhaling slowly. “I never intended to hurt you, Sir. I hope that you know that.”

“I didn’t think that you did.”

“I wanted to stay. At the cabin. I wanted to stay there with you.” She hazarded a look over at him, only semi-surprised to see him watching her. He’d lost the phlegmatic passivity, replacing it with a veiled kind of intensity that she couldn't hope to interpret. But if this was her chance to make things right—she’d soldier through it, damning all her uncertainties. “I was just so scared. You were right. I was a coward.”

“I never said that.”

“But I was. And that’s what you meant.”

“It hurt, Carter. We’d been tiptoeing around all of it for years. Years, Sam. Too long.” He took a single step backwards, his shiny shoes taking in the moonlight and reflecting it back. “And then at the cabin, it seemed like you were ready. Like we could take a shot.”

“I thought I was ready.”

“But then you just ran away.” He found a pebble on the path at his feet, scooting it around the concrete walkway with the toe of his shiny shoe. “We had nearly figured things out—at least I thought so—and all of a sudden you were gone. What was I supposed to think?”

“I’d been through some stuff, Sir.” Steepling her fingertips at her waist, Sam angled a look directly at him. “So much had happened to me. Because of me. Daniel missing—again. The Jaffa with their drama. The weapon on Dakara. Ba’al. The replicators. My dad dying—without even telling me that he was sick. And through all of that, I was planning this stupid wedding to a man that I knew that I didn’t—”

But she couldn’t quite say the words. She’d tried to love Pete. And honestly had loved the idea of him. She’d loved the concept of moving forward. Of taking a step towards some kind of stable future, rather than continuing on in perpetual limbo. It had felt right—right up to the point when she’d known that it wasn’t. When she’d seen the only man she’d ever truly needed moving on right along without her. 

And her world had imploded—shattering into billions of sharp, angry shards—blown apart in a moment of such brutal clarity that she’d been helpless to do anything other than despair that she could ever make it right again. 

So yes. She’d been through some stuff. 

A realization made all the worse by knowing that the wrong man would be waiting to help her pick up the pieces. Pete wouldn’t have had the faintest clue how to do that. He’d have coddled her—pitied her. He wouldn’t have known that she’d need to shoot things, or ride her Indian too fast—too far, or take out her frustrations on a punching bag—or another human—at the gym. He’d have smothered her—breakfast in bed, flower arrangements, or some other cloying, saccharine sweet gesture when what Sam would have really needed was to beat the living hell out of something. Throw things. Blow something up. 

“Didn’t what?” His voice again, dragging her out of the mess inside her own head. 

“Do you really want to know?” Sam lifted a hand to tuck her hair behind her ear. “It’s immaterial at this point, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know, Carter.” Jack frowned, his eyes narrowed beneath low brows. “I’d say that you getting engaged to Pete was pretty damned material to this particular conversation. With everything that you and I had been through up to that point—with what we’d been to each other—I’d say that how you felt about that guy was kind of important.”

“How did you feel about Kerry Johnson?”

He actually chuckled at that. The sound wasn’t born of humor. “Are we really bringing her up?”

“You slept with her.”

“I did. And you were sleeping with Pete.”

“He was my fiance.”

“Exactly. You were engaged.” Raising his chin, he skewered her with a look. “Was I really supposed to be a monk for the rest of my life? You’d moved on. I took that as a sign that I should, too.”

Sam turned slowly on her heel, until he was behind her. “Honesty. That’s really what you want?”

“I think that I deserve it.” So soft, his voice wafted across the distance like pollen on water. “I think that I’m owed some sort of explanation.”

“Okay.” She nodded. Down towards her feet, but it was a start. “Okay. I didn’t love him. I liked him. He was nice. Uncomplicated. There wasn’t any baggage there. No years of wanting without being able to have. No alien viruses, or mind stamps, or—”

He stepped in when she faltered. “Quantum mirrors.”

“Arm bands or time loops.”

“Martoufs or Narims.”

“Edoras.”

“Those.” His lips thinned, and he rebalanced himself on his heels, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Right.”

“And it felt like I could just start fresh. Like I could have a normal existence with a normal guy and be—normal.”

“Okay.”

“But I saw how you were with her. With Kerry.” Sam wrinkled her nose, remembering. “Through the window in your office. I could tell that something was happening between you, and it just—” 

He waited. One song ended and another began. He waited for the chorus to begin before he prodded her. “Just what, Sam?”

She closed her eyes against the rush of emotion that threatened to overtake her. When she spoke, her tone was quietly brackish. Rough even to her own ears. “It made me angry.”

“Why?”

“Because I was so forgettable to you. Despite all we’d been through. I was so easily replaced.”

Unbelievably, he snort-laughed at that. Tilting a look skyward, he shook his head. “You’re the most logical person in the world, Carter. But that makes absolutely no sense.”

But she kept barrelling forward. “And then Pete bought that house. Without telling me—which pissed me off—but he bought the house, and all I could think was that he would expect me to live there. With him. That was my future.”

“Of course it was your future.” He turned away from her, scuffing at something on the concrete beneath them. Gum, maybe, or dirt. “You were marrying him.”

“But that house—as nice as it was—would never have been my home.” 

“Your home is in Nevada, now.” Jack lifted a brow in her direction. “From what I’ve been told, you’re in the Springs signing the contract to sell your house here.”

“You’re not getting it.”

“Then explain it to me.” His teeth flashed in a quick smile. “Use small words, so even I can understand.”

He was standing close. Close enough that she had to tilt back a little to look him in the eye, and his large body blocked the breeze wending its way off the green. Close enough that she barely needed to lift her voice so that he could hear her. “You know how it is for people like us. Houses—they’re just buildings. Just places to sleep, and bathe, and put your gear.”

“Buildings aren’t home.” He passed his tongue along his lips, then breathed out slowly. “People are home.”

“Somehow, along the way, I convinced myself that Pete could possibly be that for me.” She reached towards him, running the tip of her finger along his tie. “But when I saw you with Miss Johnson—it felt like I’d been summarily evicted from the only real home I’d ever wanted.”

“Tossed out on the curb?”

“Something like that.”

For the longest time, he merely looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers, his expression hovering between understanding and invitation. When he did speak again, it was low, and mild, and kind. “I didn’t mean for you to find out that way.”

“And then I came to your house that day. When everything fell apart. I wanted to have this talk with you—the one we’re having right now. To find out if you still wanted this. To ask if you still wanted me.” She folded her arms again, glaring down at where the froth of her skirt was swishing against his thighs and knees. “But she was there. And she was so nice, and laughed off just how awkward it all was. I was so embarrassed, and ashamed, and felt so, so stupid for having thought that anyone else in the entirety of the universe could have been my home other than you.”

“Sam—”

Stepping backwards, Sam whirled around, blinking rapidly against the sudden rush of heat behind her eyelids. Tears—damn them—tears were making their way down her cheeks. Swiping at the moisture with her thumbs, she sniffled, stepping even further away from him.

“Sam.”

“And then my dad died. And I broke up with Pete. I pretended that everything was fine. I bounce back, right? That’s what I do—over and over and over. And we went to the cabin.” She lost the battle against the tears and just let them flow, now, watching as they dripped off her cheeks and rolled off the seemingly-indestructible organza. “And I wanted it so badly. To be with you. But—”

Behind her, his tone was gentle. “But what?”

“I’m difficult. I’m tense. Even my dad always said that I was— am —high-maintenance. I can’t cook. I’m not sweet, or nice, or thoughtful. With the exception of a few aliens here and there, nobody has shown any interest in me for years. I get consumed with work and forget that I need to eat, or bathe, or sleep. Jonas told me once that it was a good thing that I had a nice rack, because otherwise, nobody would want to spend any more time with me than necessary because I’d bore them to death.”

“Jonas Hanson was a prick.” His retort has been instantaneous. Sniper-sharp, and sure.

She let that settle there, in the dark between them, as she swiped at her cheeks with the backs of her thumbs and tried to fix what was sure to be a mess of mascara underneath her eyes. “So I wondered if, once we’d done— that —that you’d lose interest.”

“That will never happen.”

“Because I couldn’t live through that, Sir.” She bowed her head, worrying at her top lip with her teeth. “If you rejected me, too. I wouldn't survive that.”

She could hear his footsteps. Soft against the sidewalk. She felt his heat—his presence behind her—the force of him at her back. Could feel his words as they rumbled their way through her.

“Do you remember that palace? The one Hathor had made that looked just like the SGC?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

“They told me you were dead. Hooked that thing up to my head.” Velvet smooth—his voice through the night. He exhaled in a harsh burst, remembering. “I was cold. So damned cold. But not from being frozen—it was knowing that you were gone.”

She’d felt the same way, when they’d told her. But she’d summoned up some soldier-like strength and complied with the orders they’d given her. Shoved down the panic she’d felt at having lost him and concentrated on the problem at hand. She was good at that—at refocusing emotion into the complex sterility of science when needed. At sticking things in boxes to unpack later.

“But then, I found you lying there on that exam table—or whatever the hell it was. Covered in that silver quilted thing.”

Sam wiped at her eyes again, trying not to sniffle—and failing. “It was a thermal blanket—meant to help us regulate our temperature.”

For a moment, he didn’t make any sound at all, and Sam knew—to the core of her soul—with more certainty than she’d ever felt anything—-that he was laughing at her. Smiling at least, with that roll of his eyes that meant that he was both amused by her and resigned to the ridiculousness of her expounding upon all things scientific on a night like tonight, with the moon flirting with the clouds high above them and the pinpricks of color dancing on the grass below and nothing standing between them but their own history.

She tucked her chin towards her chest, feeling heat rise up her throat. She was blushing again. Damn it. But at least she’d stopped crying. 

And then he touched her. A finger—the back of his knuckle, maybe—testing the tender skin of her neck just behind her ear. Teasing at the hair at her nape before skimming slowly down her back towards her shoulder blade. 

Just a hint of a touch, really, so light that she might have imagined it—except that she knew his touch. Knew what it felt like when he focused his energy on her. Like she’d felt before as she’d walked towards the wedding venue—as if she were his objective. 

“Do you remember? I detached the tube thing and stopped the medication and you came to.”

Sam remembered, her eyes drifting closed as that finger—so, so gently—swept along her skin.

“Carter.” He’d whispered. “Carter.”

His hands on her body, agitating her arms, her face, trying to bring her back to consciousness.

“Carter.” 

Harshly, he’d jostled her—focused on his purpose, anxious to complete the mission—he hadn’t been gentle. But when she’d seen him—she’d reached for him, needing to feel him to know that he was real and not some part of the forced memory recall. 

She’d wanted more—she’d wanted to wrap herself around him and bury her face against his throat and breathe him in. Or maybe just pull him down to lie on that silver slab next to her and use his heat to warm her. She’d been that cold—body and spirit—that desperate.

As if on cue, he moved closer to her, two fingers now, the backs of two knuckles learning the curve of her spine. Dipping underneath the straps of the damned bridesmaid’s dress and moving down—down towards where the satin gaped a little just above the small of her back.

She shivered, closing her eyes to gather the sensation up and save it. Felt parts of her tighten in response to his caress, to the warmth of his skin traveling upon hers. 

“And you sat up.” Barely a whisper—so, so softly—his voice both soothing and provocative. His breath stirring the tiny hairs at the back of her neck—stirring more than that within her. “And—well, damn.”

She was breathing in stilted little puffs now—as if she’d been sprinting. Spiraling between wanting to turn around and face him and needing to protect herself from the inevitability of his rejection. Needing him to continue touching her—wanting to be somewhere other than here, on a lawn at a resort near the tent where someone else had just been married at her wedding.

“You’re beautiful. That fact was evident from the moment you strutted through the briefing room door that first day.” Still, his fingers wandered along her skin, his heat invading her space. “But you also were the most tenacious, stubborn, determined human being I’d ever been saddled with. The look on your face when you first saw the event horizon—pure wonder. And you worked harder—tried harder—than anybody I’d never known. I respected the hell out of you nearly immediately. I grew to depend on you.”

“As a subordinate officer.”

“As a person.” His palm now, his entire hand at her hip, his fingertips making dents in the fluff of her skirt. “As a friend. And yes—as a teammate.”

“A friend.” The word tasted sour on her tongue.

“I had to work not to see you as anything else, Sam.” His voice carried something else, now—a hint of self-deprecation. A little bitterness. “I tried so hard to ignore the fact that you were a woman. I fought it constantly. But it was no use. I wanted it all. I wanted the whole package. Every smart-assy, ridiculous, over-thinking, hyper-focused, gorgeous bit of you. But when you sat up on that bed—or whatever it was—it was entirely too evident that you were, indeed, a woman.”

The corner of her mouth quirked upwards. “Still am, actually.”

“A very, very desirable woman.”

“I’m not so sure about that part.”

“And even then, as you were spouting scientific nonsense, all I could think about was touching you.” His other hand rose to land on the curve of her shoulder. Warm, and dry, and heavy against her skin. “Just like now.”

“And what about after?”

“After what?”

“After we’ve done that—the deed. Whatever.” She shrugged a little, swearing under her breath as she grabbed—yet again—for a blasted satin strap. “Sex is just sex. An act. Once it’s done—what then?”

“I know who you are, Sam. I’ve seen you at your best, and at your worst. I’ve watched you struggle, seen you triumph, witnessed you despair, flagellate yourself, and want to kill. I’ve watched you mourn. I’ve seen you break, and then strike back. I know you.”

“And?”

He shifted behind her, tossing his uniform jacket onto the dense shrub next to them. With his hands at her waist he turned her to face him, took her face between his palms, smoothing a touch across her cheeks with his thumbs—wiping away any lingering wetness—as he forced her to look at him. To meet him directly in the eyes—cerulean to deepest mahogany. “And? And I love you.”

“Simple as that?”

“All of it. All of you.” He dipped towards her—bringing his forehead to touch hers, his nose bumping a little against hers, his whisper filling her empty. “Simple as that.”

She lifted her hand to rest on his wrist, her other hand moving up his chest, the fabric of his shirt smooth under her palm. Tilting her face towards his, she leaned into his body. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Don’t you want to go back into the tent thing?” He grazed her temple with his lips, dragging tiny kisses down her cheek towards her chin.

Melting a little, Sam raised her chin, her hand on his cheek, now, his skin just beginning to grow rough with new beard. “Hell, no.”

“And about the whole ‘catching Chloe’s bouquet’ thing—” His mouth—firmer now—on the underside of her jaw, on the pulsepoint of her throat, his fingers raking through her hair, tiny movements of his tongue tasting her skin.

“I would literally rather sunbathe on Netu.”

O’Neill smiled, breathing out a chuckle as he found her lips. As his mouth hovered over hers and he answered, bumping her nose with his own again. Teasing. Playful. “Good to know.”

So, so soft. His lips brushed against hers once—twice—his fingers gentle on her cheek as he angled in for more. He kissed her again—longer this time, harder—as his hands drifted along her skin—down her throat, her shoulders, the bare, bare skin of her back. He found her ear, testing a lock of her hair between his fingertips, urging her lips to part with a hint of pressure of his thumb on her chin.

“Please, Sam—”

Humming in the back of her throat, she opened for him, rising up on her toes to press herself against him as his tongue swept against hers. As his hands pulled her closer, until nothing was between them except for need and far, far too many layers of organza. 

She took his face in her hands, now, delving deep into the warmth of his kiss, biting down gently on his lip, releasing it again with a sigh as his moan reverberated against her. Slow—methodical—divine—as his mouth moved on her. As he nuzzled at her throat again, then up to her ear, trailing sweet little touches back to her cheeks, where he found her dimple with the tip of his tongue.

“Jack—” His name, now, when nothing else would do. “Jack—please—”

And there it was. That overwhelming feeling that she’d found it—the place where she belonged. Here—so close to him that she could feel him breathe—so closely entwined that she knew the moment that he ceded the iron-clad control he’d been keeping and gave in to the desire that had been hovering around them.

His hands were on her back—her sides—his thumb tucking itself between the satin of her dress and the silken softness of her skin, skimming along the side of her breast—eliciting a shiver and a gasp, with her teeth against his tongue, and her own hands running along his body—his throat—his face—his chest.

“My hotel isn’t far from here.” O’Neill whispered against her lips, taking her mouth again in a searing kiss before moving back to her throat. “I’ve got a rental—”

“My hotel is right here.” Panting, Sam drew back, sparing a glance at the behemoth building behind them. “I’m staying here.”

“You booked a room?”

“Jay and Chloe bought a house. They wanted to spend their wedding night there.” She touched his lips with her fingertips—leaning into his hands on her hips, her sides. “And since I’d already paid for the bridal suite, I decided to keep it.”

He was already reaching for his coat, turning back towards the reception. “Why are we still out here, then?”

She’d already taken a step towards the hotel, reaching back towards him, urging him onward. “Jack—”

“Don’t you need a purse or something? Room keys?”

“I’ve got it.” Sam wriggled her fingers. “Come on.”

He didn’t need a second invitation. Taking her hand, he followed her up the walkway, past the tent where the reception raged on—lights and music and laughter drifting across the finely manicured lawns. They jaunted past a long line of young pine trees—their long legs eating up the ground—nearly jogging—cutting across a rougher area of lawn, where their feet kicked up glistening droplets in the grass. At the first semi-deserted patio, he hauled her into the shadows, pulling her close—his fingers tangling in the mess of straps criss-crossing her back as he captured her body—her mouth—her sighs with his own.

“Jack.” She breathed against his lips—falling, falling—losing herself and time and space in the feel of him around her and against her. Pressing further, deeper—her hands working at his belt before she remembered that they were on a public patio and not in a room—before pulling back on a muffled groan. “Come on.”

Another mad dash—into the hotel lobby, past a long line of new arrivals at the check-in desk. Past a pair of disgruntled-looking kids waiting as their parents argued about missing luggage, or reservation numbers, or keys. Right on by a younger couple exchanging kisses and nuzzles of their own before noticing where Jack and Sam had paused near the gift shop to linger again at each others’ lips—a flurry of hands and sighs and whispered urgencies. 

Back in motion again—past an elderly couple sitting in the bar, who watched them with keen, interested amusement—holding each others’ hands and smiling in encouragement. Kissing again behind a huge potted ficus—his hands on her hips, her sides, in her hair. Her fingers working his tie free, pulling it out from under his collar as she kissed his throat, sucked gently at the skin above his pulse, laved at his tongue with her own—hot and greedy and open. 

“Damn it, Sam.” He pushed her back into the main area, towards the elevators, striding rather than running. Propriety, after all. Keeping up appearances—with his general’s stars clearly visible on the uniform jacket in his hand, and her dress dangerously askew. 

Sam smiled as he wavered between a fast walk and an all-out run. As he pressed the button for the elevator once—again—and then again—as the cars lifted and lowered with no regard for their sense of urgency. 

And then she ended up kissing him again until the doors opened, long and sweet and slow, her heels slipping free from her ballet flats when she came up on her toes to get even closer to him with his smell, his feel, his taste overwhelming her in all the best ways. 

“Six.” She whispered against his lips. “Sixth floor.” 

His fingers found the right button—the door sliding closed—almost— almost — and then they’d be alone—

But damned if the door didn’t slide back open, and the arguing parents pushed into the car, with their luggage, and their less-than-amused kids, and Jack and Sam found themselves pushed to opposite sides of the car as the doors slid closed. 

“We’re on five.” Spoken in her husband’s direction, the woman shrugged her purse over her shoulder, hauling her son back towards her as she glanced up at the display. “Hopefully, this room is more suitable.”

The husband muttered something unintelligible—whether that was through design or sheer carelessness was a tossup. He reached down and grasped his daughter’s hand when she got too close to the buttons on the control panel, adjusting his grasp on the huge suitcase he was hauling in his wake as he watched the numbers blink on the display above his head.

Sam glanced over at O’Neill, biting back a giggle that she was probably too old to let loose. He was looking down towards his shoes, his coat thrown over his arm as he worked on controlling his breathing. He was aiming for mature nonchalance—his pose carefully casual as he leaned against the corner of the elevator car. But that dimple—deep in his cheek—betrayed him completely.  He grinned outright when he lost the battle, looking over at her with such naked yearning on his face that she felt it all the way to her toes.

She could taste him on her lips. Feel him still, in her mouth. Smell him on her skin when she lifted her arm to worry—yet again—one or both of the straps back up over her shoulder. 

Five floors. Five damned, slow, torturous floors. The other couple in a stale-mated silence as their kids whined quietly amongst themselves. While Carter wanted nothing— nothing —on this planet or any of the hundreds of other planets she’d visited—more than to feel him against her again.

Finally, finally—the elevator slowed, the door dinging open to disgorge the dour extra occupants, and Sam could cross the tiny space again to lean in against him, to accept his arms back around her, to exult in how his lips felt against her throat, his hands bracketing her waist, her hips, skimming over the swell of her rear—

“Jack—”

“Almost there—”

And then the car came to a stop and the hallway was open, and empty, and she could lead him down the ornate corridor—past larger and larger rooms, where empty trays waited on the floor outside of the doors for room service to clear them away. Past the humming ice machine, and the brightly-lit vending machines, and the open door to the on-floor workout room. More slowly now—as he tugged her to a stop time and time again, to taste her, to learn her—to anchor her against the wall once—and again—and again —rattling the sconces on the walls as she moaned into his mouth. 

“Key.” 

They’d reached the bridal suite—tucked back into the farthest corner at the end of the south hall, private and secluded. Sam backed away from Jack, bending to lift her skirts high and away at her right thigh, where she’d strapped her conceal holster with its palm-sized 9mm. On her inner thigh, a small pocket held the digital card that sufficed as a room key, along with her credit card and ID. Sliding the cards free, she looked up to find him watching with scarcely-concealed hunger. 

“That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

She did laugh, then, letting the organza float back down towards her knees as she found the right piece of plastic. “You don’t get out enough.”

And there they were. One more kiss—short, shallow, fleeting—when what she wanted was long and deep. She moved to fit the keycard into the digital reader next to the door frame when his hand stopped her. 

“Wait, Sam.” His forehead rested—heated—against hers, again, his eyes closed as he asked the question. “Are you sure?” 

“I’m sure.”

“Because if we do this—if we go in there—I’m going to want it all.” 

He wasn’t just talking about the physicality of it. Sam understood immediately. He wasn’t just referring to the sex. He’d want the relationship. He wanted her . He wanted her to be his home as deeply as she needed him to be hers. 

“I know.” She slid the card, waiting until the light above the reader blinked green and turning the handle on the door. “I’m sure.”

Someone had turned down the bed—left roses and champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries on the table next to the kitchenette. Rose petals littered the sheets, the table, the dresser where the TV sat silent. Romantically kitschy—sweet. 

The door closed behind them, and Jack took his time turning the lock and flipping the security latch at the top of the frame. He shook out his uniform jacket, folding it more neatly and tossing it over the back of a chair at the table.

Sam deposited the cards next to the chocolate, bending again to raise her skirts to retrieve her holster. 

“Let me.”

She looked up at him, her expression turning quizzical. “What?”

“Let me do that.” Coming closer, Jack slipped one arm around her waist, bracing the other hand at her hip—taking a bunch of the frothy fabric in his fist as he pressed a simple kiss to her cheek.

Sam leaned into his touch—only just able to think as he worked the fabric upward, as his hand found the holster, teased at the skin of her thigh. “Why?”

“Ever since I first saw you in this dress tonight, I have been imagining taking it off you.” He breathed it against her throat, working at the closure of the holster as his other hand slid underneath the fabric at her back. Softly, his fingers teased at her shoulder blade, skimming down the length of her spine and dipping beneath the back waistband before he paused, tilting his forehead towards hers again. “But if you still don’t want this—you need to tell me now, Sam. Before—”

“I want this.” Sam pressed her body against his, her hand curving around the back of his neck as her fingers worked at the buttons of his collar. “But there’s just one stipulation.”

He tensed. His entire body suddenly becoming completely still. 

“Do you remember that planet where we were negotiating with that Governor. Johntu–something. They didn’t let us take weapons into the Chamber.”

“That weird planet with the Ombudsman where the Jaffa went for snacks?”

“That one. We had to hide in those bushes.” Sam nodded. She’d successfully released three of his buttons, now, and was working on the fourth—but not before she leaned in to kiss the spot just between his collarbones. “Do you remember what I told you about the next time that we were in bed together?”

He was laughing at her again, actually laughing this time—dimples in both cheeks and all—as he managed to remove the holster one-handed, placing it amidst the rose petals littering the table. His hands moved to the zipper at the back of her dress, now, then up—up—skimming up her skin and pulling the straps off her shoulders. All the while, he urged her—guided her as if he were the George to her Gracie—backwards across the plush carpet of the bridal suite towards where the gigantic bed beckoned. “I remember you had a dirty mind.”

The backs of her knees hit the bed, and she skillfully pivoted so that he was backed up to the mattress, instead. It didn’t take much—just a little shove—and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, his body making a generous indentation in the mattress. But he wasn’t deterred. He grabbed her around her rear and fell backwards, hauling her down with him, grinning up at her as she nimbly straddled his thighs, as her hands kept working at his shirt even as she bent down over him and took his mouth in a long, leisurely kiss. 

Against his lips, she continued. “I told you that the next time we were in bed together—”

“Something which took far, far too long to happen, I might add—”

“Anyway. You agreed that the next time—” Sam smiled, kissing him quiet. Humming a little as she worked her way down from his mouth to his throat to where the hair on his chest had turned silver. Why that was so damned sexy she could work out later. Right now? She straightened—sitting back on his thighs, that damned dress a fluffy cloud of peach around them both. “I got to be on top.”

—----OOOOOOO—----

“Marry me, Sam.” 

Dawn was glistening through the window–all pink and gold and new. The breeze rambled through the drapes at the huge sliding glass door that led to the balcony, tumbling the sheers into wafting waves of white. 

They hadn’t slept. Not for more than an hour or so before coming together again in another ardent spate of hands and kisses and low, quiet moans. Sam was exhausted, but sated, lying with her head on his arm in a state of such glorious lassitude that she wondered how she’d ever get herself out of bed before autumn.

He was on his side facing her, his free hand making lazy circles on her back. Awake, but drowsy, his eyes lighter in the morning glow—the color of oak rather than coffee. His eyelashes were perfectly straight—with not even a hinted curl. Just something else she’d discovered about him during the long night. A quirk that made his focus on her seem even more profoundly direct.

She’d found his shirt on the floor an hour or so before—when she’d left their tousled haven for a much-needed drink. She’d slid her arms through the sleeves before slipping back into bed, not bothering with the buttons. Warm, she’d been languishing in the haze between sleep and wakefulness, burrowed deeply beneath the covers—with this man curled around her—and she thought she might have heard him wrong.

“What?”

“Marry me.”

“When?”

“Now. As soon as possible.”

“It’s Sunday. Nothing’s open.”

“Then tomorrow.” His thigh moved against hers under the duvet, his hand stalling at the small of her back. “We’ll get a license and find a justice of the peace. Cassie’s in town. She can be the witness.”

“I think we need two.”

“Siler. Or Walter.” He grinned. “Or hell—we spring the klepto sister out of lock up and use her.”

“Marry you.” She worked the words over her tongue, trying them on for size, her fingers combing through the hair on his chest. “We live on separate halves of the continent.”

“There are these nifty things called planes and telephones.” His brows lifted. “We could have phone sex. I’ve never done that before.”

“We’re both still active duty.”

“I’ve got a desk job. And once we’re legal, you can request a transfer back to the SGC. Rejoin SG-1. Get out of Groom Lake.”

“They don’t really like me there.” Considering, she squinted at him, a smile playing around the edges of her lips. “So that would be good.”

His palm flattened against the base of her spine, and he hauled her closer, until their bodies were flush against each other. “Marry me.”

She couldn’t stop herself from tasting him again—from surging towards him and tilting her head to kiss him. Her hand raked roughly through his sleep-mussed hair as she teased at his lips, the scent of him—of them—heavy in her nostrils. 

Marry him—become part of him. He’d become part of her. A real family rather than a found one. That home thing that she’d been talking about the night before. Marry him—and she could claim that forever.

“You know—on some planets, we’re already married.”

He frowned at that. “The ice planet didn’t count. We never said vows.”

“For you, I labor and fight.” She said. Flickering a look up at him from beneath her eyelashes, she trailed a touch down his cheek, her finger tracing the sharp line of his bottom lip. “Remember?”

“Frigganheim.” His smile was beautiful. So, so real. Soulful and artless, as his eyes softened, taking in her face as if she were the most precious thing in the universe. “With you, I share my body and my life. To you—“

She demonstrated, placing her palm flat against his sternum. “To you, I give my heart.”

“Marry me, Sam.”

“Of course, Jack.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

He came up on his elbow, framing her face in his palm as he dipped closer to kiss her again. His hand drifted lower—lower—finding the opening in his shirt and discovering her all over again as he pressed her back into the mattress. “Tomorrow.”

But there was something to say—before she lost herself in his touch, his heat. Before he’d brought her to the point where she was no longer capable of speech, let alone coherent thought. Sam captured his hand against her body, her breathing already heavy as she looked up at him. “Jack—”

“What?”

“I love you.” Softly—her fingers on his ribs, in his hair— “I haven’t told you that yet. But I do. I love you. I have since I met you. I just thought that you ought to know that before we actually get married.”

Another real smile. She could feel it against her throat as he nuzzled her under her ear, at the tender spot where her neck and shoulder met—at the gentle arc of her collarbone. “You do, huh?”

“I thought you should know.”

He sighed against her throat, his eyelashes brushing oh-so-gently against her skin. Raising himself back up to look at her, he grinned again. “It’s about damned time.”

—----OOOOOOO—---

And that’s the whole board! Thank you to everyone for following along—I appreciate all your kudos, comments and the support this fic has gotten. 

I do have a plan for the “Free Space” if y’all aren’t sick of me yet. Thoughts? Yea, or nay? 

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Free Space

Part One

———-OOOOOOO———-

“Me?”

“Yep.”

“In Atlantis.”

“Yes.”

“ Atlantis .”

“As I’ve already stated.”

“Yeah—but me ?”

“The Pentagon requested you specifically, Sam. With Weir out of the picture, they need experienced, responsive leadership.” He poured a dram of milk into the eggs in the bowl, then added salt and pepper and started stirring. “You know the place. You know the people. You’ll be great.”

“Me.” Not so much a question as a concern, really. Her eyes were wide, and she’d folded her arms across her abdomen—a sure sign that she was consternated about the situation, if not downright irritated. 

To be fair, he was irritated, too. No—he was perturbed. No—more like—seriously pissed. 

Things had finally settled down enough around the galactic neighborhood that Sam had been able to take a few months’ worth of leave. So, once they’d passed the Odyssey to a new crew and offloaded the Asgard technology, she’d submitted her request and headed to the East Coast. After two years of marriage, they were finally going to live under the same roof for a while.

To be fair—it wasn’t like they’d never gotten to see each other. They’d made something of a game of it during the two years they’d been stationed apart. Every time they could coordinate a few days off at the same time, they’d pick a city somewhere between Colorado Springs and Washington DC, find a hotel near the airport, and spend every moment of every hour together. Usually in bed. Usually without actually sleeping. It was as satisfactory an arrangement as was possible, under the circumstances.

So when he’d received the call this morning—that The Powers That Be had decided that Sam was the perfect person to take the helm on Atlantis—he’d sat on the edge of the bed and forced himself to stay calm. Somehow kept himself from throwing the phone across the room. Somehow kept himself from weeping. 

Adding insult to injury? She’d only been home three weeks. Three weeks when they’d been promised three months. 

Jack whacked the whisk against the bowl on the counter, then laid it on the paper towel he’d set out before he’d turned on the stove. There were few things worse than putting your whisk on the counter and leaving an eggy, slimy mess behind. He’d pioneered the paper towel method during his many, many years living alone. It was a bachelor trick—one of those things a guy figured out that allowed him to avoid the kind of involved clean-up that would take precious time away from watching hockey or sitting behind his telescope staring into the sky. 

The sad thing was that he was married now—married and still living as a bachelor. It was truly one of the greatest tragedies of all time that a schlub like himself had managed to land the most incredible woman in the entirety of the universe, and hadn’t been able to live with her for more than a weekend at a time. 

It had been nice to have her around for a longer period—nice to be able to feel married as well as be married. Waking up next to her without hearing a countdown clock in the back of his head had been beautiful. 

As had really learning what it was like to live with her—to share space and not just moments.

She hated wearing shoes in the house. She shucked her footwear immediately upon entering the house and squibbled her toes in the rug. She had cold hands. Always. She happily allowed him into her shower, but absolutely refused to allow him to trespass the sanctity of her bathtub. She used two different kinds of face cream—one in the morning, and one at night. She liked her fried eggs on the runny side, her scrambled eggs a little dry, and preferred her toast slightly burned. She liked to run mid-morning while listening to 80s music—and she sang along whenever she thought that nobody could hear her. Couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket with a lid on it, but it didn’t stop her from trying. 

She’d never admit it out loud, but she had the hots for Jon Bon Jovi. Not that Jack could blame her. The guy was handsome in a bad-boy kind of way. Still—she wouldn’t share a water bottle or her favorite ice cream with anybody—not even the hot lead singer of her favorite band.

She didn’t have any idea how beautiful she was, or how awe-inspiring, or how much he loved holding her and falling asleep as she explained complex physics to him. And sometimes—when she was really, really tired, or had been very, very—um— satisfied , she snored.

But he digressed. 

A glance towards the stove told him that the butter had melted, so he angled the bowl towards the skillet and poured. The egg mixture made a gratifying sizzle as it hit the pan, and Jack picked up a spatula to give everything a little stir as he rewound his thought process back to her question. He found an appropriate tone and answered her.  “Yes, you.”

“I’m just kind of blown away by this.” She was leaning back against the counter on the other side of the stove, watching as breakfast cooked in the skillet. “Did you have any idea that they were even considering me?”

“Nope.” There had been talk, of course. There was always talk about his wife. Countless different heads of countless different divisions clamoring for Sam Carter to join this project or that. Usually, Jack sat back and let other people fight it out. This time, he’d argued as much as he’d been able to—but he was iffy about sharing that fact with her. 

One of the things he and Sam hadn’t talked about yet was what she wanted to do next. Where she was aiming, career-wise. The last thing that he would want was to stand in her way. “But your name is everywhere these days. You’re in high demand, Colonel.”

She exhaled sharply at that, narrowing her eyes down towards where her bare toes were pale against the elegant hardwood floor. She was wearing one of his old t-shirts—one that she’d stolen ages before on a mission to some nameless planet somewhere. It had been revelatory, in a way, to see how many of his shirts had ended up in her possession. To see how often she’d taken the opportunity to steal a little bit of him and take it home with her.  

Not that he wanted them back—she looked far better in them than he ever had.

Especially when she looked like she did right now—her profile silhouetted in the morning sun, her long, lithe legs bare and sleek and perfect. And while they hadn’t actually inhabited the same domicile long enough to figure much else out, Jack had decided that he liked this—cooking in the kitchen on a lazy Saturday morning as his wife stood next to him wearing nothing more than his old t-shirt and a slip of something silky underneath. 

It was a travesty, taking her away so soon. 

Her hair fell forward over her shoulder to swing in a golden curtain near her cheek. The longer hair was new—something else they were both still getting used to. She cast him a sidelong look, upwards, from underneath her lashes, a little frown worrying at her chin as she tucked her hair back behind her ear.  “It’d be nice just to be left alone for a little bit.” 

“It would.” Jack poked his spatula at the eggs, cutting up the biggest chunks with the edge of the utensil. They were both career military. They both knew the requisite sacrifices. Go where the battle is, fight where you’re needed. Jack was at the tail end of his career, however, while Sam was still right smack-dab in the middle of her rise. Going to Atlantis—taking this command—would be another feather in an already well-fletched cap. Surely it would help to catapult her into an even higher echelon. Another step towards becoming General.

If that’s what she wanted. If . 

“I just thought we’d have more time together.” As if she’d been reading his thoughts. She turned towards him, leaning her hip against the counter now, reaching out to fiddle with the handle of the whisk. “I wanted more time.”

Jack gave the scrambled eggs another stir, then reached over and slid four pieces of bread into the toaster. Using his thumb and middle finger, he slid the levers down, then turned back to look at his wife. “Me too.”

“Did you try to talk them out of it?”

Jack grimaced, exhaling in a little hiss. “I didn’t think you’d want me to do that, Sam.”

“Why?”

“Because I know how important your career is to you.” He picked up the spatula again, shoving the eggs back and forth in the pan. “I don’t ever want to be the reason that you feel held back.”

“Hmm.” She nodded, but it was more of a non-answer than it was anything else. 

Jack studied her out of the corner of his eye as he worked on the eggs. “Don’t you want to go?”

“Maybe.” She scrunched up her mouth in thought before shaking her head. “Not really.”

“I thought you’d want to have your own command.” He flicked the knob on the stove and turned off the gas. “I mean—you’ve spent the past two years sharing leadership with Mitchell. Maybe it’s time for you to prove that you can do this on your own.”

It took her a moment too long to ask, and even when the words had emerged, it was evident she didn’t want an answer. “Prove it to whom?”

She’d over-enunciated the ‘m’ in ‘whom’. Jack cracked half a smile. At least some part of him was rubbing off on her. Grabbing the toast, he positioned the slices on plates before adding portions of eggs nearby. He’d already seeded and cubed a cantaloupe, and it sat ready in a bowl on the table in the breakfast nook. He’d made coffee for himself and tea for her even before she’d gotten out of bed. It was the least he could do for her.

It had become their routine. As if he could keep her around longer by taking care of her every need.

She pointed her foot, extending her leg to trace an arc on the floor like a dancer. When she spoke again, she sounded smaller. Wistful. Plaintive.  “Have you ever thought about us taking things in a different direction?”

“Different direction?” Jack took the plates and crossed towards the table. Setting them down, he pulled her chair out in a thinly-veiled invitation. “In what way?”

Which she ignored. She shrugged, turning just enough that she could catch his eye across the kitchen. “Just. Different.”

She looked tense. Apprehensive, somehow, when for the past three weeks she’d been freer with her smiles and her laughter. That look was back—the guarded one that lent an added sharpness to her jaw, a wary depth to her eyes. She was back to chewing on her bottom lip—a sure sign that she had more to say than she was ready to share. 

“Sam?” Jack turned his back on the table, settling his body into an easy balance. “What’s going on?”

She pushed away from the counter, meandering a little way in his direction. Stopping near him, she reached out and touched his chest, testing the softness of his t-shirt, her fingers catching in the fabric. “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess.”

But he knew her. Knew better than to take her at her word in this. “Sam.” 

Only to have her surge towards him, wrapping her arms around his body and tucking her face into his throat. Her lips moved against his skin. “It’s nothing. I’m okay, Jack.”

And, as he pulled her closer, he wasn’t sure if he was more disturbed by the fact that he was certain that she was lying, or that he had absolutely no idea as to why.

—----OOOOOOO—----

“They’ve given me a few more days.”

“How many?”

“I need to report at the SGC on Thursday.”

Well, that sucked. 

Grimacing, Jack glared at the ceiling. Sam crawled across the mattress towards him, turning and tucking herself under his outstretched arm. She wasn’t wearing a t-shirt tonight, but had put on some slinky little thing that he’d never seen before. It was soft and slick under his palm, and clung to her in all the best ways.

He’d be seeing that little bit of nonsense in his dreams for months to come.

They’d lingered over breakfast, talking blithely about anything and nothing. As if by some unspoken agreement, they didn’t mention Atlantis, or the SGC, or Sam’s departure. Instead, they’d laughed about silly things, completed the crossword, and discussed where to go for lunch. 

It wasn’t until early afternoon that Sam had taken her cell phone and gone into the spare bedroom Jack had converted into an office space for her. She hadn’t looked at him as she’d shut the door. Jack had gone out to the balcony off their bedroom while she’d called to be briefed about the new assignment, sitting in the large chair he’d hauled up there when he’d moved in. He’d leaned back, balancing his feet on a little table he kept handy, looking out over the balcony railing at the trees just beyond the yard. 

That was where she’d found him when her call was done, where she’d brought him a beer and lowered herself to sit sideways next to him on the huge chair, her legs draped across his lap. Where they’d started discussing the real things. The hard things. Where they’d switched from “married” mode to “mission” mode, automatically making lists and plans while mentally preparing themselves to detach. 

They were used to this part. This was the normal part of their relationship. The part they understood about the lives they led. 

Now, later, in the dim comfort of their room, he shifted, bringing her closer, testing the fabric of the nightgown she was wearing between his fingertips. Finding the softness of her skin around its edges. “So. Thursday.”

“Yeah.”

He’d already calculated a few things in his head—travel logistics, what she’d need to close things down at his—no, their —house in the Springs, how much time she’d need to gear up. How much time he’d need to say a proper goodbye. There was nothing else to be done but face it. 

Pressing his lips against her crown, he inhaled her, savoring the feel, the smell, the essence of this woman who had, for some unfathomable reason, seen fit to marry him. “Well, we have the weekend.”

“I’ll probably have to leave Tuesday evening.”

“Commercial?”

“Unless I can find a transport.”

“Sounds about right.”

It was dark—but not late. The day had passed in a disjointed jumble—bits of domestic bliss punctuated by the hard, stark reality that it would all be ending soon.

Once they’d left the cool intimacy of the balcony, they’d had something simple for dinner. Early, uncomplicated. Cooking together with that mindless, easy sort of affinity that people have after working for so long at each others’ sides. After dinner, he’d cleared the table while she’d done the dishes, wiping down countertops as she’d scrubbed the last pan.

He’d finished first, tossing the damp towel in the hamper and simultaneously pulling a fresh one off the oven handle.  Coming up behind her as she’d turned off the faucet, he’d threaded his arms around her waist and handed her the towel, pulling her back against his chest as she’d dried her hands. He’d feathered a kiss at her crown, her cheek, the side of her throat. Sucked lightly at the skin between her throat and shoulder as his hands soothed along her curves.

Pushing her hair back over her shoulder, she’d angled her head to one side—a wordless invitation—then shivered as his tongue had found the outer curve of her ear, as his hands had wandered along the slim lines of her form. 

Fingers on her hips, he’d turned her, trapping her body with his larger one, taking her mouth—taking in her taste, her touch, the feel of her softness—her lithe strength—her. Just her. 

She was his reason—this woman who had brought him back to life all those years ago. Made him believe that life might still be worth savoring. She was why he still fought. Hell—she was the reason that he still believed in anything at all.

And now, she was leaving him again. 

Deeper, more thoroughly, he explored her. Felt her as she rose up on her tiptoes, her palms on his jaw, her teeth gentle on his bottom lip. Her sigh against his mouth felt like heaven—or as close to heaven as a man like him could get—a man who had lived most of his life between hell and purgatory.

Her hands had found his chest, his abdomen, her thumbs rasping across the day’s growth of beard on his jaw before raking through the coarse gray hair at his temples. She’d urged his mouth open—kissing him hard, forcefully, purposefully. She’d been the one to move towards the bedroom, tugging at his shirt—his clothes—unbuttoning and unbuckling along the way. Stopping each step or two to press heated kisses to his throat, his chest, his mouth—swallowing both their moans, their whispered pleas—their eager hands and nimble fingers leaving wardrobe wreckage in their path. 

They’d still been basking in the hazy aftermath when her phone had rung again. She’d shrugged into his discarded shirt and taken the phone to her office, only returning to the bedroom when she’d hammered out the pertinent details. She hadn’t brought the phone back with her, closing and locking the door instead in some kind of symbolic promise before crawling up and settling herself next to him.

“I’ll get the Volvo back to Colorado somehow.” Logistics, still. Jack couldn’t quite stop them from taking over.

“No rush. But I’d appreciate that.” Sam turned in his arms, laying on her side so that her body was practically melded along his. She rubbed her cheek against his shoulder before flattening her hand on his chest. “So, we have tomorrow and Monday to just be together. Can you take Monday off?”

“I can shift around a few meetings. I’ll take Tuesday, too.” He bent his head down to rest his chin on her crown. 

She stirred against him, flattening her hand on his abdomen, moving it back and forth across his body. “I worry about you, Jack.”

O’Neill looked down towards where she was tucking her feet between his calves. It was another one of those things he would miss—her seemingly constant need to be in physical contact with him. She was far more demonstrative than he would have imagined before they’d had this time together. He’d quickly become accustomed to her hand on his back while they shopped for groceries, her reaching across the center console of his Super Duty and taking his hand, or leaning against him while standing in line at the coffee place. 

He liked it. He really, really liked it. Having to curb his impulse to reach for her for eight years had been torturous. Freedom to hold—to touch his wife whenever—wherever—he wanted to had been astoundingly gratifying. Comforting, somehow. This place had finally started to feel like home—all because she had come to him. 

“You don’t need to. I’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. Well.” She snorted, tugging gently at his chest hair with her fingertips, then smiling innocently when he yelped. “I’m still going to worry about you.”

“Why?” He angled his chin to see her expression. “I’ll be fine. I’m always fine.”

“You don’t have friends here, Jack.” Sam pressed her cheek against his chest, her breath warm against his skin. “You can’t even seem to keep a constant support staff.”

“My support staff is fine, too.”

“You’ve chased away how many administrative assistants?”

“Seven.” It wasn’t a guess. He’d actually been keeping count. Tick marks on a post-it he’d taped to his computer monitor. “Soon to be eight.”

“You don’t do anything except work, attend your meetings and hearings, and come back to ramble around this house all by yourself.”

There was more. Jack squinted into the dusky light of the room. It took him entirely too long to come up with what that ‘more’ was. “I watch hockey. And baseball.”

“You sit on the couch and drink beer.” She had a point. But then, she was smart that way.

A fact which O’Neill blithely ignored. “Did you know that Guiness has a lower alcohol content than most other commercially produced beers?”

She quirked an eyebrow upwards, the corners of her lips curving into a benign sort of smile. “Really.”

“It also has a lower caloric content than other beers. Most of the calories in beer come from the alcohol, so—lower alcohol by volume means fewer calories.” He grinned. “It’s practically a diet drink.”

“You are such a dork.”

“But a convincing dork.”

“A convincing dork who was living like a hermit before I got here a few weeks ago.”

Weeks . Weeks, when he’d been promised months. Damn it. He frowned off in the direction of the bathroom, turning his face so that she couldn't see him. Couldn’t see the ache that he was certain was evident in his expression. Still, even he could hear it when he spoke. “I’m not a hermit, Sam.”

Her silence was more of an answer than words would have been. But she was going to drop it—that was obvious by the way her body relaxed against his. How her low sigh stirred the hair on his sternum. She didn’t want to argue. She was right, and she knew it, but she wanted to leave things in a good place rather than take off across the galaxy with this kind of tension lingering between them. All this, he could tell by how she felt against him. 

He tightened his arm around her, crooking his elbow to capture a lock of her hair to slide between his fingers. ”I’ll be fine, Sam. I’ve been alone before. I’m a big boy.”

“I know that, Jack.” Tilting her head back, she looked up at him. 

“Really.”

Her snort was a blunt, and precise, response. “Anyway. So, I’ve been thinking.”

This time, he was intelligent enough to cover her hand with his before answering—preventing any more hair-pulling. “I’m shocked.”

“Smart ass.”

“Yes, well.” 

“Let’s do something together tomorrow. Something different.” She captured his gaze with her own—her eyes bright even in the evening dim as her hand smoothed along his bare chest. “Let’s make a new memory.”

“Ummm—” Jack surveyed the bed, and the woman in it, and how the little slip of fabric sleeking across her body seemed like plenty to keep him busy until she absolutely had to leave for the airport Tuesday evening. But if she wanted to do something else, that was cool, too. “Sounds fun.”

“So, we’ll leave after breakfast.”

“Okay.” 

“And we’ll need to take your truck.”

To be continued. . . 

Chapter Text

Filling the Spaces

Free Space

Part Two

—----OOOOOOO—----

The park was busy—some sort of event to which it seemed that the entirety of Alexandria had been invited. Creeping his way slowly through the parking lot, he stopped several times as groups of people moved through the cars. Jack parked in the furthest part of the public lot, carefully pulling the beast into a space between a minivan and a sedan that looked like a veteran of a demolition derby. 

He turned the engine off with a practiced twist of the key. “Tell me. Why are we here again?”

Sam simply smiled at him, opening her door and hopping down out of the truck.

She’d been wily this morning—waking early to load up the truck for whatever she’d planned. He hadn’t been allowed to help, so he’d sat in the living room reading until she’d told him it was time to go. 

Now, Jack yanked the handle of his door, swinging the panel wide and sliding to the ground. Locking up, he walked around to the back of the truck where his wife was already at work unpacking. Sitting on the edge of the tailgate were a tacklebox and a pair of fishing poles that she’d dug out of the garage. She handed him a large insulated bag which he suspended over one shoulder, then she dragged out a heavy quilt that she’d unearthed from some closet somewhere. He vaguely remembered it from his past—some aunt had made it for him out of old Levis as a Christmas gift. Sara hadn’t wanted to keep it, so Jack had gotten it after the divorce. 

“So, what now?” He picked up the tackle box, watching as she tucked the quilt over her arm before he slammed the tailgate shut.

“There’s a lake in there somewhere.” Pointing towards the park, Sam smiled over at him—a good smile. The kind that engaged all of the best parts of her face. “I thought we could do some fishing.”

“Fishing?” He was leering. He knew that. The word had gained a different—slightly sketchy—connotation since he’d taken her to his cabin the first summer after they’d gotten married. Alone that time—without the added company of Daniel and Teal’c—-they’d been freer. Enough so that she’d taught him that the pier down by his pond could be put to much, much better use than angling for non-existent fish. 

He still daydreamed about that night, the moonlight making silver shadows on her curves, the cool breeze tickling at their skin. He’d never felt quite so perfectly complete than he had while lying there with his wife in his arms, listening to the breeze tussling through the branches and the subtle lap of the water against the shore. 

Damn it all straight to hell. He was going to miss her.

“Fishing.” Her eyelids fluttered on a roll. She’d followed his train of thought. “In the most conventional sense of the word.”

“Dagnabbit.” He let loose an over-exaggerated sigh as he followed her through the cars towards the common areas. “I like the other one better.”

“Anyway.” She stepped off the asphalt onto the grass. “On Sundays, this park has all kinds of things going on. Sports, a farmer’s market, craft fair, and there’s usually live music somewhere.”

“And fishing.”

“And fishing in a fully stocked pond.”

They hit the main entrance, moving from the asphalt of the parking lot to grass. The main lawn of the municipal park was enormous, sloping down on the south side towards the aforementioned pond, and on the north to an amphitheater where a guy with a guitar and an amplifier was plucking out tunes. Far to the east, large stadium lights suggested soccer or baseball fields, while Jack could see basketball hoops in the distance. Immediately in front of them, the grass had been taken over by pop-up tents and awnings where people milled around in what Jack assumed was the farmer’s market. Off to one side of that, a series of free-standing fenced kennels were positioned around a central axis in what looked like some sort of petting zoo.

“Busy place.”

“I saw a flyer advertising Sundays at the Park on the bulletin board at the grocery store the other day.” She dodged nimbly around a woman with a baby stroller. Hustling, she fell back into step beside Jack and smiled up at him. “So, I thought we could do something different. Make a new memory.”

Her eyes were bright, her dimples deep—and her mouth—well, that mouth had kept him awake entirely too late into the early morning, so he kind of loved that part the most. Jack couldn’t help but smile back. “Fishing memories are good memories.”

“True.”

“Do we need a license?”

“I have no idea.” She peeked over her shoulder as he angled around a group of kids playing with a ball. 

His long strides quickly brought him back to her side. “What if we do?”

“Need a fishing license?”

“Yeah. What if we get caught, Colonel?”

“I don’t know, General. Tell them that, for us, fishing is a matter of planetary security?” 

Yeah. That would work. With half of a resigned grunt, he followed her through the crowds. Southward, across the lawn, to where the little lake made a brilliant blue divot in the center of velvety green.

The pond was large—oval-shaped, and obviously man-made. A concrete path encircled the entire thing, set back from the shoreline enough to allow some sand and grass in between. On one side, a large stand of reeds had been allowed to promulgate, providing shade and protection for the ducks that paddled lazily around the place. Nobody else was fishing, although a few kids were sailing a remote control boat around near the reeds. Jack scouted out a suitable spot—near a tree and away from the boat—and set the cooler and the tackle box on the grass.

Laying the rods down, Sam unfurled the quilt and spread it out on the lawn. Sitting cross legged on the quilt, she patted the space next to her in invitation. “Well?”

Jack deposited the tackle box and cooler on the quilt to one side, then lowered himself down onto the quilt at her side. 

For a long moment, he simply took in the place—green grass, the sandy man-made “beach”, the hundreds of people milling around them. He could just barely hear the guitarist at the amphitheater over the hubbub of people talking and laughing and moving around under the awnings of the farmer’s market. Animal noises flittered in and around the people noise—barks and yips and brays—probably from the petting zoo. Every once in a while, the metallic jolt of an aluminum bat hitting a ball stung through the sky. It sounded eerily like a staff weapon being fired.

On the pond in front of them, the little remote control boat sped past, and the boys ran along the shoreline after it. They were lanky and raw-boned—ten years old or so—one freckled and tow-headed, the other darker—straight black hair and deep brown eyes. Not brothers, but close friends. One boy’s shirt had Spiderman on it, while the other’s was white with blue stripes. Both wore jeans and generic sneakers. Normal kids. Doing normal things. Normal things that weren’t conducive to fishing. 

With a sigh, he stretched one leg out, cocking the other, balancing his forearm on his up-bent knee. 

“So, are we actually trying to catch something?” Jack flickered a look at his wife, nodding towards the water. “Or are we here just for the ambiance?”

“Both?” Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. I just wanted to do something different today.”

“Something different.”

She squinted off into the distance, a tiny smile playing around the corners of her lips. “Something Earthy. Does that make sense?”

It did. Complete sense. If you were who they were. Knew what they knew.

A group of teens strolled past—full of themselves and the bravado of youth. Couples—old and young—wended their various ways along the path, or across the grass, or through the trees. Families—scolding moms and protective dads and kids simply being kids. A veritable melange of humanity. 

A little girl—young—no more than two—toddled towards them from the area with all the tents, her mom —heavily pregnant—waddling along behind her. The girl made it to their quilt, reaching her chubby little hands out towards Jack. He couldn’t help but smile at her, holding out his finger for her to take.

“Hey, kiddo.”

“Ba.” The little girl beamed at him, tugging on his finger as she aimed herself across his lap in the direction of the fishing poles. “Po.”

“That’s probably not a great idea, honey.” Jack grabbed the child beneath her arms and lifted her high, eliciting a giggle and a squeal. “Fish hooks aren’t great for your little hands. Owie.”

“I’m sorry.” The mom had finally caught up with her toddler. She was breathing heavily, her cheeks ruddy from the warmth of the morning and her exertion. Pausing for a moment to catch her breath, she scratched absently at her belly.  “She’s quicker than I am at the moment.” 

“No problem.” Jack turned the child in mid-air, handily settling her on the grass next to her mom. “They’re pretty crafty at this age, too. They take advantage of all your weaknesses.”

“That’s so true.” The mother grabbed her child from Jack with a practiced motion, settling her on her hip. Murmuring another ‘thank you’, she smiled again and turned back towards the crowd.

Glancing sideways at Sam, Jack started to reach for a fishing pole, but stopped short at the look on his wife’s face. She was staring back over her shoulder at where the young mother was carrying her toddler away into the crowd, her expression a bit distant, a tad empty. A worried little frown played around the corner of her mouth, and a telltale furrow had made its way to the spot above her nose. 

She was brooding. 

“You okay?”

Sam smiled, averting her eyes as she turned back towards the lake. After a long beat—quietly, she angled a look in his direction. “Are you?”

She’d brought her heels up towards her body, wrapping her arms around her knees. In her jeans and tank top she seemed fresher. Younger, somehow—especially wearing one of his shirts like a jacket, sleeves folded neatly to her elbows and the front tails tied into a knot at her waist. 

Despite how she seemed, however, Jack knew that something was off.

He could pretend. Could make believe that he was fine with everything that was happening. He probably should act that way—just to spare her feelings. He should deny that he was dreading saying goodbye to her all over again. That he didn’t wish that she hadn’t accepted the mission. He should make her believe that he truly was glad for this new opportunity for her. Shouldn’t he? Time was short. It’d be torture if she left thinking that he didn’t support her in every way possible. 

Still, with the lives they led, the uncertainties with which they lived—prevarication would be wrong. Cliches being what they were, well, there was something beautifully simple about that whole honesty thing. Less to keep track of later. Less guilt to allow to fester.

Pressing his lips together, Jack considered his words, organizing his thoughts before broaching his target subject. Even then, it took him a minute to speak. “What did you mean yesterday? About taking us in a new direction?”

Sam suddenly found the toes of her sneakers fascinating. It seemed like forever before she answered, and when she did, she avoided his gaze. “I was just thinking about our future.”

“Our immediate future?” He exhaled slowly. Speaking more softly, now, he pushed back a little. “You’re going to Atlantis.”

“No.” She shook her head, tucked her hair back behind her ear. “Further than that.”

“What about it?”

Sam pressed her cheek to her knees, turning her face towards him, studying him—his posture—his expression. He was used to this—to her almost unnatural ability to read him. It seemed that she was more hesitant just now, though, her eyes cloudy, and the full line of her lips taut. “When I spoke with General Landry yesterday, he asked me to take a pregnancy test.”

Jack’s fingers tightened on the quilt, digging into the ground beneath. 

“I did it. Took one. Yesterday after my run. You were in your office reviewing the budget requirements for the Alpha Site or something.”

“It was actually personnel exchanges for your new command.”

“Whatever.” She lifted a shoulder in a haphazard shrug. “It doesn’t matter.”

“And?”

“And it was negative.” She swallowed, returning her focus to the way the water sparkled gently in the late-morning sun. “Just as I had expected.”

“Was there the possibility that it could have been positive?”

“Not really. It’s only been a few weeks that we’ve been together. But realistically—no. It was—unlikely. I’ve always taken precautions.”

He hadn’t. He’d known that she was pretty rigorous about her birth control, so neither of them had thought that necessary for him to do anything more. She’d never been missish about talking about that kind of thing, just as he’d never been obtuse about how biology worked. It was just how it was. 

Jack watched as she lowered a hand to play with the reel on the rod closest to her. He was certain that she hadn’t wanted to bring this up—had been trying to ignore the subject. But he was equally sure that she needed to talk about it. Still—the conversation was hers to lead, and he’d let her have it. 

She worried at the handle, swinging it back and forth before flickering a look at him again. “I’ve been thinking about it, though.”

“About what, Sam?” He didn’t want to force her to say it, but he needed to know exactly what they were talking about. “About kids?”

“About the possibility of them.”

Damn it. Damn it all. Jack pressed his eyes closed as he dipped his chin towards his chest. He threaded his fingers through his hair, finishing with a scratch at the nape of his neck.“Do you want to have a child?”

“I didn’t think so.” She shook her head, a harsh laugh escaping her lips. “I really didn’t think so. But lately—it’s just—well. I don’t know.”

“Sam—”

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, Jack.” Looking over at him, she bit her lips together before continuing. “I know that you don’t want children.”

Didn’t he? Had he ever said that? To be honest, he hadn’t really ever thought about having another child. He’d never considered that Sam might want that complication in their lives. Not once in the two-plus years that they’d been married had this subject been hinted at, let alone discussed. 

That she was so hesitant about it—that her cheeks had lost all color, her eyes progressively becoming wider—her breathing stilted, and raw—all bore testament to the fact that she had been thinking about it. And she’d been hesitant—nervous, perhaps—about bringing it up. 

Well, hell. 

“It’s not that I don’t want them, Sam.” He leaned towards her, edging a little closer as he tilted his head to catch her eye. “I love kids.”

“I know. I always thought that you’d be such a great dad—” she faltered, sucking in a breath in a sound that could only be described as a hiss. “I know that you were a great father.”

In the moment, he had to tear his gaze from hers, returning it to the water, and the reeds, and the ducks as they lazily paddled around the glassy surface. The boys laughing as their boat grazed the water—joined now by a dog splashing at the water’s edge. “Not so great.” 

It lay thick and deep between them—the chasm they’d never crossed. Charlie. Charlie and his death. She’d never asked him about it, and he’d certainly never offered it up as fodder for conversation. 

Still—

He usually couldn’t think about it without pain. Pain and guilt and that clench in his gut that reminded him that he’d failed so spectacularly in his responsibilities that his own life had been forfeit because of it.

Nuclear bombs and alien ‘Gates and suicide missions and all. 

The pain was still there. Not even lessened—just more bearable, maybe. Less acute. Not as searing. Tempered by time and experience. And perhaps a little grace. Mercy, damn it. When he never thought he’d deserve such a thing.

When had that happened? When had he begun to heal?

Probably at about the same time that she’d entered his life. Sam Carter, with her endless plucky determination. The ridiculous faith that she had in him. The possibility that she carried deep within.

And eyes so blue that the oceans and skies billowed with envy. 

“I would never ask you to do anything you don’t want to do, Jack.”

“I know, Sam.” Reaching towards her, he took her hand, threading his fingers between hers. “I just—“

Wetness. Fur. And worse—the musky, dense stink of wetness and fur. And rough paws and sharp nails and bits of grass and dirt flying—

“Matilda! Stop!”

The furry wet stink slammed into Jack’s back—throwing him to one side and yanking his hand from Sam’s—then scrambled around him in a tumble of soft ruff and flailing limbs. Before he’d even processed the sopping fur, Jack was being mauled by a tongue—and a tooth every now and again, as a slobbering sodden mess took over his lap, seemingly intent upon invading his actual body. 

“Matilda!” 

“Matilda! Come back here!”

Two voices now, and footsteps running across the grass towards them. Paws everywhere—on his legs and chest and coming to a rest on his shoulders—and then more of that tongue—and a whiffing kind of bark every once in a while, just to make things interesting. And that tail—whipping back and forth spewing more water and mud with every stroke.

Jack instinctively grabbed the wet furball with both hands, leaning back out of tongue range and glaring at the animal. 

“Sit.” He’d used his ‘General’ voice.

Matilda sat. 

Gingerly, he shifted so that the dog was sitting between his outstretched legs. Maintaining a grip on the scruff of the mutt’s neck with one hand, Jack swiped wet leaves and broken twigs out of the dog’s coat with the other. It was the same dog that had been playing near the boys at the pond. White paws and legs, gray muzzle and face, one black ear, one white. Matching gray patches were over her eyes—which were a startling shade of icy blue. The rest of the dog was a lively mottle of black, gray, and white, with a splotch of brown here and there, just for fun. One ear flipped forwards, while the other ear was perked up in a perfect little triangle. 

“You caught her!”

Jack glared first at the dog, and then down at what had been a clean t-shirt, but which now was a wet, muddy, grassy mess. Tilting his head back, he looked up at the newcomers—a pair of twenty-somethings—one male, one female. They were wearing matching shirts emblazoned with a cartoon dog and the words Alexandria’s Fur Lovers .

Clever.

“I’m so sorry, sir.” The guy reached over and slid a thin cord around the dog’s neck. Sliding the loop closed, he stepped backwards, trying to haul Matilda with him. He had a tattoo of a paw print on the inside of his forearm just above his wrist. “This one has been giving us trouble all day.”

“She just won’t stay in the kennel.” The girl piped in. She was short. Cute and perky, her hair was caught up in ponytails on either side of her head. “She got out and we’ve been chasing her ever since.”

“Well.” Jack looked down at his shirt, where smears of mud were plastering the fabric against his body, before grimacing down to his legs, where sludgy paw prints made a dense pattern on the denim covering his thighs. Grunting, he peered back up at Tattoo. “Now, you’ve caught her.”

Except that he hadn’t. Matilda shook her head—a shake that traveled all the way down her body to the tip of her flowing tail—throwing even more water and mud off her as it went. She whined, dancing backwards before twisting her entire body and nimbly slipping free of the make-shift leash. Leaping to the side, she dodged around Ponytails and Tattoo and made a run for it back down towards the pond. 

“Son of a bitch !” Tattoo groaned, whipping the cord against his leg as he spun around and ran down in the direction of the water. 

Ponytails threw an apologetic look at the O’Neills, then turned and sprinted after Tattoo. Within moments, they’d all disappeared around the large stands of reeds on the far end of the pond.

“I think he’s got that wrong.” Jack frowned. Standing, he brushed off the worst of the muck on his jeans. He was wet from head to toe—wet dirt in his hair dripped down over his forehead and around his ears to land on his muddy t-shirt. His jeans had been blue—but now they seemed more brown than anything else. Even his shoes had guck all over them.

“Oh?” Sam was biting back a smile as she scrutinized the wreckage. “Which part?”

“The whole ‘son of a’ part.” Casting her a wry look, he swiped at the grit seeping from his hair down under his collar, shaking it off his fingertips before going back for more. “The dog’s name was ‘Matilda’. So—she’d be the bitch, right? Not the ‘son of a’. In the purely conventional sense of the word, of course.”

“I guess.” Sam brushed dirt and grass off the quilt. With a graceful motion, she rose, making a thorough survey at his shirt—at the dirt on his thighs and lower legs—trying to make sense of the mess before breathing out a hapless chuckle. “It’s no use, Jack.”

She was right. With a final go at the muck on his cheek, Jack grimaced. Sighing, he gave up on trying to mitigate the disaster and brushed at the crap on the quilt with the side of his shoe. “I’ve been dirtier.”

“Remember that one planet?”

“Where it rained for two days—”

“And we got caught in that mud slide—”

“And ‘Gated back home so filthy that Hammond actually ordered us to be hosed off topside?”

She grinned. A little sadly, maybe. Peeking up at him from beneath the fringe of her bangs, she crinkled her nose again. “Do you want to go home?”

“Not really.” It was a beautiful morning. Warm—breezy—clouds dotting the sky. Perfect. And she was here with him. Even more perfect. As if to prove the point, he sat back down, extending one leg and propping his elbow on his bent knee. “I’ll dry.”

Down by the water, Tattoo and Ponytails were still chasing Matilda. They were past the reeds, now, on the other side of the lake, ducks quacking and squawking whenever the dog got too close. Some bystanders had joined in the race—including the boys, who had apparently grown bored with their boat. While the kids were laughing as they ran after the beast, the other volunteers and park-goers seemed rather less than amused by the game.

The dog, on the other hand, was having a ball. Ears erect, tail wagging, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth, Matilda was having her best day.  

Jack’s gaze moved from the scene back towards his wife, who had lowered herself to sit next to him. Closer, this time, both knees drawn up. She’d rested her chin on one upturned hand, using the other in a vain effort to clear the mud off the quilt between them. In between passes, she was watching him—her face an amalgam of expressions too complex—too disparate—to try to read. 

For a moment, he simply looked at her, finally bridging the distance between them to lay his hand over where hers was still worrying at the mud on the quilt. “There’s no point, Sam.”

“I’m sorry your quilt got dirty.”

“It’s ours.” He flickered a glance at it. “And I’m pretty certain that it’s indestructible.”

“Was it special to you?”

“Not really.” Jack thought about it for a minute, trying to recall which of his aunts had made it for him. Margaret, probably. His mother’s older sister. Or maybe it had been his father’s only brother’s wife. She’d been crafty. What was her name? Did it even really matter? “I don’t even remember exactly where I got it.”

“Well, I’m still sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Her fingers felt smooth beneath his, a little gritty, but soft beneath the grime. “Did you want to keep talking about—”

“Not really.” Her cheeks flushed pink. “Not here. Not now. I shouldn’t even have brought it up.”

“Sam, if this is something that you want, then let’s talk.”

“I’m not sure it really is, though.” She let out a wry, half-hysterical laugh. The kind that meant the opposite of how it sounded. Tilting her head away from him, she chewed at her bottom lip a bit. “The only living being for whose life I’ve ever been responsible was Schroedinger.”

Jack needed to work to place the reference. “The cat. You gave him to Nariz.”

“Narim.”

The correction was automatic. Jack doubted that she even knew she’d done it. Stifling a smile, he gave her a nod. “Right. Narim.”

“I just gave him away. I didn’t even really miss him.” 

“Which one? Narim or the cat?”

“Take your pick.” Her tone had turned a little sour. “So, you can see what kind of mom I’d be.”

Oh, lord. The images that conjured. Images he’d never allowed himself to even begin to entertain. Sam pregnant. Sam with a newborn in her arms—cuddled at her breast—or sitting on the couch in the living room reading a book about quantum mechanics to a toddler. Building a potato battery—or a naquadah reactor—with the kid for his science fair project. Christmas mornings and new bikes and lazy afternoons at the park with swings and slides. 

Images that—if he were to be honest—were things he’d wanted to indulge, but had been afraid to. Despite the moment, he smiled, breathing past the sudden twinge in his throat. “You’d be an amazing mother, Sam.”

For a long, long, time, she let that linger between them. She turned her hand, threading her fingers through his, her thumb rasping against the skin of his wrist. “I just think about it sometimes. But I’ve always known that isn’t what you want, so I shouldn’t even have said anything at all.”

“I don’t know that.” He clenched his jaw, his fingers closing around hers. “I didn’t know that you might want all that, so I’ve never really thought about it.”

“We don’t live together, Jack. At least, not until recently. We don’t talk about these things. How could you know what I might want?”

As usual, she was right. O’Neill watched as a pink haze crept up her throat and painted her cheeks. “You could have told me.”

“You’re right.” She leaned into his shoulder, resting her arm against his. “I thought you might be disappointed in me for possibly wanting something other than becoming a general.”

“Never. I could never be disappointed in you, Sam.” Vehement. Sure. Certain. If there was anything he knew—it was that. “Ever.”

She relaxed some, her body melting into his side, her cheek against his shoulder.

 “Do you want a child?”

“I never thought I did. Until—”

Until I fell for you. That’s where she’d edited herself. Jack knew that for certain. “Until recently?

Her nod was hesitant, and small. As was her voice. “Yeah.”

“I’m pushing sixty, Sam.” It had to be said. The reality of the situation needed to be stated. “Don’t you think I’m kind of old to be thinking about starting down that road?”

“And I’m nearly forty.” More informational than anything else. She was weighing the arguments. Making some internal study of the facts. “We’re both healthy. Active. Mentally sound. Ages are just numbers, aren’t they?”

“You’re going to be in a different galaxy.” He reached out with his hand and flicked a chunk of drying mud at her—more teasing than anything else. “That would make this entire operation a little difficult to accomplish.”

“True.”

But . It was there. He knew that there was more she wanted to say. 

Hell. He may as well hear it. He prodded her, his tone gentle. “But?” 

She shoved her hand through her hair—then seemed to remember that there was still mud on it. With a resigned kind of groan, she ducked her chin towards her chest. “I was kind of thinking about retiring. About bowing out of all this.”

At first, he thought he’d heard her wrong, but then he looked at her, at how the color was creeping up her throat. How she’d pressed her lips tightly enough that even her jaw was tense. She was in earnest. “Really?”

“I had lunch last month with some friends from the physics department at the Academy.”

Jack’s brows rose, and he passed his tongue over his lips. Tasting dirt, he wiped his face again on his sleeve before responding. “Oh?”

“Colonel Aldrich says there’s a place for me there should I ever want it.”

“In the Springs.” Again—not in DC. Not with him. Jack turned his face into the wind, glaring past the reeds and the lake and the grass beyond towards the ball fields in the distance. 

“That opportunity was in the Springs.” She inhaled deeply before continuing. “But with my credentials, my education, my training, my service record—I could really get myself a position anywhere.”

His mind worked through that in moments. “And if you’re teaching, your life would be more conducive to the other thing.”

“To having a baby.” Her eyes were so, so blue. Wide—intense, really. She only looked at him for a beat before focusing back on the water. “It’s why I asked for leave. I thought that you and I could have some time to really discuss it.”

“So, this is something you’ve been thinking about.”

“Maybe. Yeah.” One tawny eyebrow peaked upwards. Her shoulders fell as that wrinkle appeared above the bridge of her nose again. “Yes. For a while now.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. On one hand, he’d been peeved that she’d taken the new assignment so quickly. On the other—he honestly had no idea how he felt about starting a family. It seemed that she was just as confuddled about the options as he was. In the end, he merely pressed his lips together and exhaled steadily.

“I’m sorry, Jack.”

It shouldn’t have taken him as long as it did to answer. When he finally found the right words, they seemed weak, somehow. He raised their hands, pressing a kiss—slightly gritty—to the inside of her wrist. “There’s nothing to be sorry for, Sam.”

“This is all wrong. This isn’t how I’d wanted to have this conversation.”

At this, he actually smiled for real. Shifting, he let go of her hand, draping his arm over her shoulders and pulling her close. He pressed his lips to her temple, breathing her in before smiling against the silk of her hair. “Wrong how? In public, in broad daylight, covered in mud and grime a few days before you’re leaving our solar system?”

“Pretty much.” Somehow, she pressed even closer—hip to thigh to calf—she turned her face towards his, capturing his dark eyes with her own blue ones. “So—just think about it, okay? When I get back, we can make decisions.”

Fair enough.

Damn, but she was beautiful. Even smudged here and there with dirt and mud. Even with her hair mussed, and her lips pale, and her cheeks still tinged with pink. Even with the look she was giving him—uncertainty mixed with a raw brand of need that he didn’t quite know what to do with. 

Jack reached towards his wife, nudging her chin upwards with the back of his hand and picking at a splotch of dried mud with his thumb. His fingers wandered, brushing her hair back from her face, flicking some grass off her arm. Touching the soft curve of her cheek, the tantalizing fullness of her lower lip, he wondered again at what remarkable luck he’d had, to have been blessed with this woman. 

Damn again. He leaned forward to rest his forehead against hers. A pit had suddenly opened in his gut—the stark reality of what awaited him only a few days from this moment hit him with force. Good lord, he was dreading her leaving. “I’m really going to miss you, Sam.”

“Me too.” She turned towards him, leaning in to rest her forehead against his cheek. After a moment, she tilted her head up and pressed her lips to his jaw, his cheek, using her fingers to clear away whatever grime remained as she went. Her lips moved against his throat as she sighed. “I’ll miss this.”

She wasn’t talking about the quilt, or the park, or the situation. Jack was intuitive enough to know that. She would miss him . Being with him. Being part of each other’s lives. Doing this whole ‘married’ thing together.

“C’mere.” He urged her closer, gratified when she complied immediately and pivoted around to end up straddling his lap. 

Scooching closer to his body, she framed his face in her palms and bent to take his mouth, her touch light as her lips whispered against his own. Soft—undemanding. Nearly delicate—until she pressed further, urging his mouth open with her tongue against his lips and her fingers on his chin. 

He should be used to this by now—the frisson of sensation that overtook him every time she touched him like this. But it still felt new. Perfect—exotic, somehow—whenever his wife reminded him that he wasn’t alone in this intense need. Whenever she touched him in this way that reminded him of how many years they’d had to refrain from such indulgence.

“I thought you wanted to go fishing.” Jack smiled against her lips, groaning a little when her hands wandered down his throat—his chest—coming to a rest on his sides as her knees tightened against his thighs. “In the purely conventional sense.”

“I did.” She nuzzled against his cheek, bumping his nose with her own, coming back to his lips again and again in between. “But now, I want to do it in the decidedly unconventional sense.”

“I’m not sure that the Sundays in the Park people would appreciate that.”

“They can go straight to hell.”

“Even guitar guy?”

“Especially guitar guy.”

Jack chuckled at that, capturing her jaw in his palms and delving deeper into her mouth. Damn, but she was sweet. Sweet, and eager, and forthright. Strong and lithe, her legs braced at his thighs, her body deliciously soft as she rocked against his own—

This time, he heard it first—even through the haze. Paws on the grass, excited panting, soft whuffling snorts. Shouts and hollers followed by footsteps sliding on the grass and sand. 

Jack pivoted on his butt—reflexively shielding his wife with his larger body as Hurricane Matilda took aim once again on their position. The dog skidded to a stop at his side, then pushed her nose between Jack and Sam, whimpering as she tried to insinuate her body between theirs. Like a rabbit crawling into a burrow.

“Damned dog—”

“Whoa, girl—”

Who had said what didn’t matter. Jack tangled his fingers in the dog’s fur again, hauling her back as Sam rose on her knees and rotated off his lap. 

The General voice had worked once, right? What the hell, he’d try it again. “Sit.”

Matilda sat.

“Down.” 

She cocked her head to one side, her eyes focused on Jack, that single ear perked upright, the other one flopping forward. With barely any hesitation, she dropped down on her belly, then crossed her paws neatly in front of her. The image of a perfect little lady.

Despite himself, Jack smiled, then gave her an affectionate pat behind her ears. The dog seemed to relish it. She touched his hand with the tip of her nose, then whimpered again, pawing at the quilt in an effort to get closer to him.

“What is it with you and this guy, Matilda?” Tattoo had gotten there first. He was sweating profusely, breathing in large, heaping gasps. He practically fell to his knees beside the grubby beast, following Jack’s lead in gripping her fur in his fist. “Again, sir. I am so sorry. I don’t know why she can’t leave you alone.”

Jack looked down at the dog in front of him. She’d positioned herself at his side, looking up at him expectantly, her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. Her long, plumed tail was making neat fans in the grass behind her, as her entire back half wagged along. She was a pretty dog—obviously intelligent. More than a little wily. Too intelligent by half.

Kind of like another gorgeous girl he knew with piercing blue eyes and more brains than she knew what to do with.

Tattoo thrust his hand into his back pocket and withdrew an actual collar. Unfastening the plastic buckle, he slipped it around Matilda’s neck and clipped it tightly. Then, he tugged on the adjustable strap until it was snug. From his back pocket, he took out a more substantial lead and hooked it to the metal clip on the collar. Apparently satisfied, he stood and passed a look of pure exasperation towards the General. “Again—I need to apologize for this damned dog.”

“She might need a little training.”

“She’s had training.” Ponytails careened to a halt just off the quilt. Bending forward, she braced her palms against her thighs and sucked in deep breaths as she cast less-than-kind looks at the dog. “Tons of it.”

Tattoo raised a shoulder in a motion that was less ‘shrug’ and more ‘resignation’. “She has. She just doesn’t care. She’s the last of a whole litter that we rescued last year. They were strays that we found in a culvert. That’s why her tail hasn’t been docked.”

“That’s usually done when they’re pups.” Ponytails wheezed a little, straightening and squinting off into the distance. “Obviously, there’s no point in doing it now that she’s nearly grown.”

“She’s not quite a year old, so she’s really still a puppy.” Tattoo grunted. “She’s been through four different foster homes—all of whom have done the requisite training. She’s the sweetest girl. She’s not destructive. She’s house trained. She’s an Aussie, though—loaded with energy—and her breed doesn’t technically mature for another year or so. She’s just so damned willful. It’s like she doesn’t respect anyone and therefore doesn’t see the need to obey them.”

“I told you, Tony.” Ponytails dragged her palm across her forehead, wiping at the sweat beading there. “We should just give up on this one.”

Tony frowned, looking down at where the dog had crept even closer to Jack—close enough that her nose was tucked against his leg. “I don’t believe that. And besides, I don’t want to, Amber.”

“Why not? She’s not adoptable.”

“If we can just find the right—”

“We’ll take her.”

It took Jack a moment to figure what had happened—who’d interrupted with the offer—only to realize that Sam had said it. 

Sam —who had just waxed eloquent about handing her cat over to an alien without any afterthought. Sam, who had barely tolerated the dog he’d borrowed for Cassie so many years before. His wife, who was suddenly talking retirement, and babies, and new directions.

“Sam?”

“She could keep you company.” Reaching across him, Sam ruffled her fingers through the soft fur behind the dog’s ears. “While I’m deployed.”

“Deployed?” Tattoo—er—Tony exchanged a look with Amber. “Are you military?”

“Air Force.” Jack frowned. “Both of us.”

“Adoption fees are always cut in half for those who serve.” Amber’s hair bounced as she spoke. “And you get a free bag of dog food.”

Matilda had gotten close enough to him now that she could rest her muzzle on his thigh. She hadn’t taken her eyes off him since she’d lain down.

“Aussies are a working breed. High energy and very focused.” Jack buried his fingers in Matilda’s fur, the corner of his mouth tilting when the dog leaned into his touch with a happy sigh. “She just needs a job.”

“You like dogs. And she seems to like you.” Sam flickered a look at Tony and Amber before meeting Jack’s gaze again. “She could keep you busy. Lord knows that’s one—maybe two—full time jobs.”

“Because I’m such a hermit?”

“You calculated the nutritional value of Guinness, Jack.” Sam grinned. “You need her as much as she needs you.”

He caught her eyes in a narrow gaze. “I thought that you were thinking about expanding our family in other ways.” 

“Think of it like a dry run. Having a dog is kind of like having a kid. A little, at least. Maybe? If you hate it, then we’ll draw back and punt.”

“Are you sure that we need a dog and a kid?” He’d spoken quietly—practically whispering directly into her ear. 

Not directly enough, however. Tony had heard him. Damn the ears of the young. “Aussies are great family dogs.”

A selling point that Amber glommed onto. “Most of her foster families have had young children who have all loved her. And Matilda’s a sweet girl, even if she’s sometimes a pain in the ass.”

Standing, Jack watched as the dog inched forward to put her muzzle on the tip of his shoe. “I have to ask—why ‘Matilda’?” 

Tony scratched at his chin. “We name our litters thematically. There were five puppies, all Australian Shepherds. So, we named them iconically Aussie names. Dundee, Barbie, Koala, Outback, and—”

Jack got there before Tony did. “Waltzing Matilda.”

“Yep. Matilda.” Amber nodded.  “Adoptive families typically change the names, though.”

“We’ll take her.”

Jack grimaced. “Sam—”

“I’m serious, Jack.” Sam rose to her feet, reaching towards Tony and taking the leash out of his hands. Glancing down at the dog in question, she watched as Matilda lurched upwards, then bounded around Jack to sit obediently at Sam’s side. “And look. She likes me a little, too.”

“Are you sure?”

He’d asked her that once before—a few years before, standing outside the bridal suite in a swanky hotel. On the day that she’d planned to marry Pete.  He could still see her—lips swollen from his kisses, her shoulders and back bare, her hair tangled by his hands. That damned peach dress with its layers of fluff and its traitorous straps and the holster on her bare thigh. He’d asked her, and then she’d taken him inside. And then—he’d asked her to marry him. 

“I’m sure, Jack.” She was there, too. She’d remembered. She’d followed him into their past. “Just like last time.”

“Because if we do this,” he reached for the leash, running his fingers up the braided nylon until he was touching her hand. “If we do this, I’m going to want it all.”

“All?” Her eyes were wide—her cheek just hinting at a dimple. Her lips tilted upwards in the beginning of a smile. “You mean—”

“Everything.” 

“We’ll take her.” Sam ducked her chin to her chest, biting back the grin that was begging to be released. “We’ll take the damned dog.”

—----OOOOOOO—----

“I’ll be ‘Gating out soon.”

“I figured.” Jack glanced down at his watch. He’d already set the secondary time face to reflect Atlantis mission time, or its nearest approximation. From experience, he knew that he’d have to rejigger that every once in a while in order to keep tabs on what time it was where she was.

“I’m sorry to have to call so late.”

“It’s early, Sam.” Just after two in the morning. Two-eighteen, to be precise. He’d been in bed, but he hadn’t been able to sleep. They’d talked about her calling before she shipped out, and he’d been anticipating it. “And you know that I don’t mind.”

“I just really wanted to talk to you before I left.”

He was in bed. The bed in which, forty-eight hours before, they’d both lain awake, alternately talking about nonsense and losing themselves in each others’ touch. He could still smell her on the sheets, on her pillow. Could still practically feel her heat, even though right now she was all the way across the country from him. 

Soon to be on the other side of the galaxy. Or something. He never could figure out exactly where things were in the Great Dark Beyond. 

Last night had been rough. He’d showered and sat in bed reading for a while. She’d called and they’d talked about the mundane—packing up the Colorado house, having her mail forwarded to his Virginia address, leaving an extra key for Cassie. And when they’d hung up, he’d sat there for hours, staring at the ceiling trying to sleep. 

That’s when a whimper at his bedside had caught his attention. A whimper that had become a whine, and then a muzzle on the mattress. And then a paw.

Ultimately, the dog had made her way up onto the bed, turning in a tight circle three times before flopping down where Sam’s feet had been the night before. With a grand sigh and a twitch of her pointy ear, she’d promptly fallen asleep. Not a substitute for his wife, but certainly a comfort in her absence. 

“I’m glad you called.” Stifling a yawn, Jack lay back on pillow, raking his fingers through his hair. “I miss you.”

“You’re probably cuddling with the dog.” Sam chuckled softly on her end of the line. “Is she on the bed with you?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

“Look at it this way.” Jack passed a glance down at the furry mass near his feet. She was clean, at least. They’d bathed her as soon as they’d gotten her home, brushing out the loosened leaves and sand she’d gathered up in her grand adventure. “She’s keeping your side of the bed warm.”

“I’ve been replaced.”

“Never.” 

“Good to know.”

“But hey—I finally figured out the right name for her.” Jack smiled, pressing the receiver to his ear. Reaching out his foot, he rifled the dog’s fur with his toes. They’d gone through myriad names without having found one that fit.

“Oh?”

“You know how she does that dancing thing?” It was sweet, really. Whenever he or Sam had walked in the house, the dog had followed along—anticipating their course in an oddly endearing kind of dance routine. She was dainty, almost—lissome and nimble—her paws light on the hardwood floors as she’d pranced around them.

“Yeah?”

“So, today I was doing laundry, and she was right there, and I looked down at her and felt like I was in one of those old movies. You know—the ones where people burst into inexplicable song and dance.”

“My mom and I used to love watching those old movies.” Sam’s voice had gone a little wispy. “Like White Christmas, or Singin’ in the Rain.”

“Right.” Jack kicked the sheet off his feet, cocking his knee and digging his heel into the mattress. “Anyway, so I looked at her and just knew.”

“Are you going to keep me in suspense?”

“Do you want me to?”

“Well, I do have a rather important appointment on the opposite end of the universe.” Her voice carried more than a hint of laughter. “But take your time.”

“Smart ass.”

“You knew that before you married me.”

“Anyway, so I’ve named her Gracie.” Jack smiled down at the dog, whose ear had twitched again at the sound of her name. “Grace. You know—like George and Gracie.”

“That’s really perfect.” Sam switched hands with the phone receiver—things got muffled for a moment before she spoke again. “I’ve got to go. They’re dialing the ‘Gate.”

“Sam—I—”

“Jack—”

A brief pause, then Jack broke the silence. “You first.”

“I was just going to tell you that I love you.”

“Yeah.” Closing his eyes, he tried to memorize exactly what that sounded like. What this moment felt like. How he could still smell her, could instantly remember how she’d felt the night before in his arms even as she talked to him now from thousands of miles away. How this woman—the most incredible woman in the universe—could possibly have chosen him. How damned lucky he was. “I love you, too.”

“I’ll be home before you know it.” She dropped her voice. There were sounds behind her—crew members, tech support, the other people traveling with her to the new assignment. “And then we’ll get started on what comes next.”

“I’m ready for all of it.”

“Me too.”

She inhaled sharply, and Jack could imagine her face. Could practically see her eyes—cloudy, visceral, raw. Could hear the hitch in her breath that told him that she was struggling to stay strong. “Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“Just come back safe.”

“You stay safe, too.” Silence, then a swallow, and a sniffle. “I’ve got to go.”

“‘Bye, Sam.”

“‘Bye, Jack.”

—----OOOOOOO—----

Thank you to everyone who has followed along in my Bingo adventure. This has been such an amazing ride for me—and I’m so glad that @starrybouquet set this whole thing up! I appreciate each and every read, kudo, comment, review, and follow—you all are the best! 

Oh—and this trope was “Little Girl Named Grace”, of course. Another Sam/Jack fandom trope favorite that I’ve never used. ;)