Duty

by

moon_n_star

 

 

 

 

He saw her face everywhere – the billboards lining the highway, the clothes piled in the hamper, the beer bottles stacked in the fridge.  Whatever he did, wherever he went, she followed him, an unsolicited reminder of the very thing he was trying desperately, if even for a few hours, to forget. 

 

She’d gone by the time Jack had left Hammond’s office, her checkup (he really wasn’t thinking about what that had entailed) with Fraiser long since completed.  The weaker part of him had breathed a sigh of relief, wanting to prolong their inevitable confrontation for as long as possible. 

 

His own stay in the infirmary had been short; in fact, considering that Fraiser barely even looked at him, he was surprised it hadn’t taken longer (or that he wasn’t sore).  Not that he’d complained, shooting off the bed the moment the word “done” had escaped her lips, choosing to skip the standard after-mission shower to, instead, head straight home. 

 

He’d been there almost five hours, his stubborn clock slowly ticking into the wee hours.  Sleep had proven impossible, but than so did anything that required his feet to stop for more than five minutes.  Eating, drinking, the boob tube – all of them failed to work their usual, mind-numbing magic, none of them able to stop his cognitive wheels from spinning.  Nothing could keep his attention long enough to drown out the thoughts and images plaguing his mind. 

 

But it wasn’t the past that haunted him, the memory of her stifled moans and gasps as he’d touched her – felt her – playing mercilessly in his mind. 

 

It was the thought of what could have been.

 

The bundling nerves in his gut as he – finally – asked her on a date. 

 

The ridiculously large meal he’d order at the restaurant, knowing that his stomach would be too tied in knots to eat a bite. 

 

The candlelight dancing in her hair, along her cheekbones, highlighting the curves of her mouth as she smiled at something he said, his feet exploring hers, smoothing over her bare ankles. 

 

His car pulling up to her house, where he’d open her door and follow her up the short drive, his fingers brushing hers as they walked. 

 

The look on her face, both shy and wanting, as he leaned into her, her body then pinned between him and the front door. 

 

The heart-stopping feel of her lips, soft and warm beneath his own, their noses bumping as the kiss lusciously exploded. 

 

It was everything it should be.  Everything P55-FY7 was not. 

 

For he may have been inside her, his sweaty skin melting into hers, but a simple kiss, one that was gentle, loving, passionate – everything a first kiss should be – was far more intimate than anything they’d been forced to do that night.

 

But none of that mattered now, because it was gone.

 

Why the hell had it been him?  Why had it been his ass dragged into that tent?  As thankful as he was she’d been given a choice, a part of him hated that they’d chosen him.  They could’ve easily selected Jonas or Teal’c instead.  Both of them would, of that he had no doubt.  But, to either of them, it would’ve been an act of friendship – and only that.  They’d regard it as helping their colleague, their friend, in a time of desperate need.  And, although it would be awkward as all hell – for everyone involved – given time he knew they’d recover, the ties of friendship bandaging their emotional wounds. 

 

But to Jack ... well, it was so much more.

 

Downtime had been granted, in order to “regain perspective.”  Jack had even landed some chair time in Mackenzie’s office.  But, all in all, Hammond had handled the news well, calmly listening as Jack relayed the events of the mission, second by sordid second. 

 

Afterwards, when he was sure Jack was through, Hammond had recited the same lines he’d been churning in his head since turning his back while Carter dressed. 

 

“You did the right thing.”

 

“You got your team home.”

 

“You did your duty.”

 

Duty. 

 

It was something he never tried to define, knowing after too many years in the field the impossibility of its definition.  But he knew it when he saw it, or, more accurately, when he felt it.  It was an instinct, a gut reaction, not definable by terms or categories, but rather something sensed, something felt.

 

And he’d felt it. 

 

He’d felt it as he had adeptly unfastened her pants, his hand unsnapping and unzipping until it had moved inside, sliding smoothly against her silken skin, skimming under the cotton, always trailing lower.

 

He’d felt it as she’d inhaled sharply when his hand had curved around her, his teeth sinking into her supple neck to muffle his own reaction.

 

He’d felt it as his fingers wiped through her, his dry throat growling (“God”), her eyes fighting to stay open despite the shivers of intensity coursing through her body. 

 

He’d felt it as he’d lowered himself between her legs, knowing, despite the blinding desire in her eyes, that this moment wasn’t theirs.

 

He’d felt it as she’d moaned his name (“Jack”) when he’d entered her, his heart wanting nothing more than to lose himself in her – in her body, in her soul – but instead only whispered in her ear, “Don’t.”

 

He’d felt it as he’d collapsed against her, her dogtags jabbing his ribs as they panted for air. 

 

He’d felt it as he’d pushed his hands against the ground, tearing his body from hers until she’d uttered one word (“Please”); knowing that he shouldn’t, that they should get out of there as soon as possible, but also knowing how much she gave of herself without ever once asking for anything in return.

 

He’d felt it as his arms went around her, moving beneath her back, enveloping her vulnerable body and molding it against his own, the tenderness almost doing him in.

 

He’d felt it as they’d dressed in silence, as he’d held the flap over the entrance as she followed his wordless lead, as he’d crossed its meager threshold without any thoughts about consequences or broken relationships. 

 

Because he’d done his duty.

 

That was the one question Hammond hadn’t asked, the one Jack had been expecting the entire gut-wrenching time he’d spent in his office.

 

“Is this a problem?”

 

He honestly didn’t have an answer (the logical part of his brain, albeit the smaller part, realizing that’s where the perspective came in).

 

He had, for all intents and purposes, been avoiding her, taking the coward’s way out (“she probably needs her space right now”) and driving home instead of pulling onto her street and walking up her driveway like he knew he should.  He’d been right in the infirmary – the confrontation was inevitable.  They’d have to hash this out eventually, for the team, for themselves.  And even he had to admit that this was just too damned heavy to deal with on his own.

 

And wasn’t it his responsibility, as her commanding officer, to approach *her*? 

 

His duty?

 

Shrugging into his jacket, whisking the keys off the end table, and shifting his truck into gear, he made her house in record time, his feet sparing no time to jump out of the truck.  His hand banged on her sleeping door, his hair and clothes drenched from the torrent of rain.

 

As the door pulled back, the warm hallway light swaddling his skin, his eyes breathed before finally meeting hers.  Without a spoken word, she moved aside, opening the door wide enough for him to pass.  And as he did, his eyes retreated lower, noting every step of his bare feet as they crossed her threshold.  And as they did, he sighed his relief knowing he'd done the right thing.

 

He'd done his duty.