A Fleeting Glimpse

by

moon_n_star

 

 

 

“What do you mean that’s not allowed?”

 

Major Carter grimaced at the frustration-spiked words she caught despite the generous distance that separated them ... diplomatic would never be a word she’d use to describe Jack O’Neill.

 

Gating to the planet, called Arecia, over thirty hours ago, SG1 had received permission from General Hammond to extend the mission in order to learn about the life and customs of the passive people they met there.  With puffy clouds that mimicked cotton balls collecting on the horizon, and a temperature that stabilized at an ideal 73 degrees – weather the Arecians declared as normal for this time of year – SG1 exhausted their first day on this new world by touring the sprawling grounds during the day, and savoring a hearty banquet in their honor later that evening.

 

The subsequent morning welcomed a cozy breakfast shared with several Arecian elders; the team fragmented later that afternoon, with Carter chatting with Perlen as he guided her to the outskirts of the village.  A kind of leader – analogous to a mayor – Perlen appeared older and weathered; he still retained his good looks, though, and wielded an air of affability, his eyes wizened with lines of intelligence and grace.

 

Rooted in the village square, Colonel O’Neill stood out among the Arecians like a soaring tree amid a forest of bushes.  The small crowd, centered around O’Neill, gathered outside what could be construed as full-sized huts; the sizeable structures employed a material similar to cement as foundation and elongated plant stalks as the roof.  With no obvious adornments or decoration, the houses – like everything else on this planet – were practical and unassuming.

 

An early agrarian society, the overly-superstitious people abided by a very harsh schedule ... awaken at the crack of dawn, trek into the vast fields to tend their crops, and then return way past dark for the evening meal and sleep.  Only a scattered few stayed behind to mind the children and village, and prepare all meals for the workers.  Yet, the Arecians seemed very happy with their existence.

 

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud.”  With his chin sunk near his chest, Sam, too, could hear the infamous phrase he muttered under his breath as he assertively strode in her direction.  “Carter!  Would you kindly explain to these wonderful folks that my sunglasses *are* completely necessary, and are *not* some instrument of evil that would steal their spirit.”

 

Carter regarded him respectfully, but underneath she was smiling.  “Sir, I don’t think anything I could say could change their minds.” 

 

O’Neill treasured his sunglasses like a child treasures a security blanket ... and he never went anywhere without them.  The Arecians, however, were apparently strangers to the security blanket concept, and requested that O’Neill not wear them in their presence ... but then, with *their* eyes, who could blame them.

 

A quaint society, the inhabitants of Arecia boasted dark hair, fair complexions, and the most arresting green eyes – green like emeralds – Carter had ever seen ... the Arecians certainly cornered the market on beautiful eyes.  The colorful clothing they dressed in contrasted their lackluster surroundings, but the fashion was more practical then trendy.

 

“No,” O’Neill conceded, “probably not.”  Parked alongside each other, he perused the area surrounding them, his olive cap swiveling with the movement, as if searching for something.  “Where’s Merlin?”

 

“*Perlen* should be back shortly.”  The shake of her head accentuated the quasi-reprimand in her tone, although she presented her reproof lightheartedly.  During those initial months of SG1, Sam had wondered whether he did that out of rudeness or ignorance.  But, after some time, and especially over the past few years, she knew *exactly* why he did it … and, as evidenced by the smile alighting her face, it worked every time.  “Apparently, one of the village elders requested to show me around the rest of the grounds.”

 

“We’re due to head out in eighteen hours, Major,” his authoritative voice reminded her, while his eyes tracked the fading sun, “rain or shine.” 

 

“I only have a few samples to take, Sir, before we head out in the morning.”  Sam justified the excursion with a patience she often demonstrated whenever around him.  “Perlen assures me that can be accomplished before sunset.”

 

“O-kay.  But, I, for one, would like to make it home *sometime* before Christmas.” 

 

Instinct cautioned her to ignore his blatant use of the old cliché, even though, this time, it was accurate.  Christmas Eve would arrive come midnight; and, just like the Colonel, Carter was anxious to go home.  Not that she had any plans for the holiday, she thought dismally.  But being home with no plans certainly beat being off world during her favorite holiday.  “I didn’t realize you had big plans, Sir.”

 

“Oh, yeah,” his unbridled sarcasm molded his accent, “I’m cooking a feast the likes of which you wouldn’t believe, and the whole family’s coming over.”

 

“So, beer, pizza, and a Simpson’s marathon?”  Sam imparted her summation with a shrewd grin.

 

“Pretty much,” he answered wryly.  “How about you?”  O’Neill’s textbook poker face masked his throbbing curiosity ... except for a tinge of anxiety that poked through the façade, allowing the strain to surge through his body as he nervously awaited her response. 

 

“Oh ... well.  Dad can’t make it this year – for obvious reasons.  And I couldn’t make it out to Mark’s – for obvious reasons.  So, I’ll probably just stay on base – catch up on the paperwork accruing in my lab.  With the steadiness of missions lately, I haven’t had the time to even touch the stuff.” 

 

Carter, who practically achieved miracles and defied universal laws on a daily basis, was spending Christmas alone?  His heart dropped despite himself. 

 

Sam devoted so much of herself to the SGC and her work that it pained him to see her so ... lonely.  Sure, she was the amazing Major Carter ... who’d walk a million miles before showing weakness, or who’d never complain, even when warranted. 

 

But, *Sam* deserved better ... she deserved the world. 

 

She deserved the family her job couldn’t afford her ... the overjoyed children bouncing on the bed early Christmas morning, who’d whine relentlessly until she peeled her sleepy body from the velvety mattress ... the sight of their faces carved with enchantment as they spied the gifts from Santa swimming under the trimmed tree, or their faces etched with wonder as their wide eyes imagined at the empty plate seated on the mantel that he actually ate *all* those cookies ... she deserved an adoring husband who’d fasten her in a tender embrace, long after the children had nodded off, and would together watch the nomadic snowflakes tumble from the starry sky outside. 

 

*He* wanted to be that husband – wanted her family to include him – but it was a dream unworthy of him, and one that belittled their working relationship.  His job – *their* job – forced O’Neill to resign those dreams, and he accepted the probable fact that this – whatever it was between them – wouldn’t amount to anything in the end.  He needed that – needed to believe it – so he could continue to work tirelessly by her side, day-by-day.  Carter was his rock, and her steadfast companionship and unsurpassed brilliance helped him more than he could ever say. 

 

But, somehow, while standing side-by-side on a tepid planet millions of galactic miles from home, he overlooked all that, and listened to the flicker of hope that softly tickled his heart.  “Uh, Carter,” he stammered, the words persisting despite his sudden shortness of breath.  ”I could make that a pizza for two – uh, four ... pizza for four.”  His narrowed eyes screened the area for any danger – not that he anticipated any, but the action spared Jack from meeting her gaze and potentially seeing within her countenance a repulsion at his invitation.  “I know the Simpson’s can’t compare with paperwork and all, but it’d be fun.  Heck, I’ll even make it beer for two ... four.”  Damn, slip number two.  And he was rambling ... he *hated* rambling!  “I’m sure, between the two of us, we could convince Teal’c.  And Jonas?  All we’d need to do is tell him there’ll be food.”

 

Carter inwardly giggled at the inarticulate invitation, while her two-timing brain thrilled with the portrait he painted.  It wasn’t much – in fact, most people would sneer at the idea of pizza on Christmas.  But, to Sam, it sounded perfect. 

 

And yet, she was at a loss for a response.  It took a lot for him to ask, she couldn’t refuse that.  But, although it warmed her soul, it also made things tougher; so much so, she almost wished he’d never even asked.  To accept the invitation, she knew, would play with fire ... and their blaze needed very little spark to mushroom it into an uncontainable inferno. 

 

Of course, with Jonas and Teal’c around, Carter supposed it would be safe.  But, the idea of Christmas with Jack was painful ... because it wasn’t Christmas with *Jack*, it was Christmas with *Colonel* O’Neill.  It sounded stupid even to her own ears, but she just couldn’t pretend ... not on that day.  So, she’d decline, concocting some inane excuse, while the sadness blitzed through her and bombarded her defenseless heart. 

 

It shouldn’t be like this, Sam thought despondently.  Love, or whatever it was, shouldn’t be shoved unwanted into the basement, left to wither in the dark; love should be bathed in the glorious sunshine, allowing its infectious vivacity to permeate through everything, converting even bad things into gold. 

 

But, both had made a conscious decision that day to let it go; and, since she would not be the one to break their agreement, Sam knew what needed to be done.   

 

His unease swelled with her unreadable expression, and his mind questioned whether he’d overstepped their unseen boundary.  As her silence persisted, Jack gradually retreated behind his barriers out of self-defense, prepping himself for the blow to come.

 

Sam’s head tilted forward while her eyes absently watched her left foot scuffing against the unpaved ground.  With a heavy heart, her lips tightened, and her tongue swallowed the cruel sensation wilting in her throat.  “Sir, thank you for the offer, but I think I should probably ...” 

 

But, before she could finish, Perlen returned, alone.  “Major Carter?”  Although he only addressed her, Perlen nodded to both in greeting.  “Mivosa is ready to escort you when you are ready.”  His fingers pointed to a spot past her back, a gesture she assumed indicated that Mivosa waited from behind her. 

 

Her troubled eyes never left his face and, as expected, they witnessed the flash of disappointment from her rejection.  And, at that moment, she ceased to care. 

 

She loved him, and she’d hurt him. 

 

Sam longed to smooth her fingers against his cheeks, her hands rubbing out the misery that blemished his handsome face.  She wanted to scream, to tell him she was sorry and that she loved him.  She wanted to look him straight in the eyes, forcing him to understand through the overpowering contact that she hated it, too ... she hated hurting him, hated hurting herself ... that she hated the whole damn thing.  But the sand sifted unmercifully through the hourglass, and the moment faded as quickly as it had arrived. 

 

O’Neill, glad for the interruption, cleared his throat, his sandy voice striving to maintain an even tone.  “I’ll just, uh, go bug Jonas.”  Offering her a lifeless smile, he issued an uninspiring “Have fun,” before veering hurriedly toward the village center. 

 

The anguish singed her cheeks and stung her eyes; the memory of his dejected expression made her want to burst into tears ... if only she were the type that could. 

 

Remembering where she was, Sam turned on her heel and encountered a diminutive woman, who stood a few feet away with her arms draped loosely in front of her ... obviously Mivosa.  Carter examined the mature woman during the passing moment of silence; she resembled all the other Arecians she’d encountered thus far ... although ribbons of gray stained her long black hair, and wrinkles chafed frugally along the edges of her face.  But, something was different about her; Sam just couldn’t decide what that something was. 

 

“Major Carter, may I introduce you to Mivosa.”

 

Smiling in salutation, Sam observed that Mivosa’s lips spread tightly between her two cheeks; forming an orderly line, the expression was neither frown nor grimace, but more suspiciously akin to a smile ... and a curious smile at that.   

 

Perlen excused himself shortly thereafter, leaving the two women to themselves.  The woman opposite stayed completely motionless, until Carter finally elevated her arm to indicate the land to their east.  “Shall we?”

 

Wordlessly stirring her feet, Mivosa joined Carter at her side as they passed the outlying dwellings, the roundness of her figure adding a minor wobble to her step.  With the lack of conversation as they walked, Carter seized the opportunity to behold the passing scenery. 

 

The russet shelters blended well with the auburn fields that framed the village; trees needled the land here and there, but offered little cover.  In the distance, minute sprouts surfaced timidly from the sallow sand, their lime-tinted leaves sheathing the plants like a second skin.

 

The farmland consisted of five massive squares that stretched beyond the horizon, with each cube responsible for a different crop.  During their visit, Carter had seen all but one, and it amazed her how little the Arecians required to sustain their life. 

 

“Mivosa,” Sam queried, crouching her knees closer to the soil, “what are these plants for?”  A tube held firmly in one hand, the other stroked the crop near her feet. 

 

“The ficket plant – it is used to heal wounds.”  Whether speaking or not, Mivosa’s eyes never once abandoned Carter, as if determined to maintain a constant vigil that had commenced upon their introduction ... and it unnerved Sam.  “Its healing powers are most effective, however, when combined with the sap from the river trees.”

 

The river trees – Sam had seen those yesterday.  While walking through the fields with Perlen, Sam spotted a glittering shower of violet raindrops in the distance.  Only as they neared the river did Sam discover they were trees – normal trees, except for a delicate purple flower that embroidered each limb.  According to Perlen, the flowers fell year-round, resulting in an orchestra of waltzing petals that elegantly fluttered downward until reaching the hospitable water below.  These flowers bestowed the only hint of color in an otherwise drab-looking planet, and it was the most beautiful thing Sam had ever seen. 

 

Carter, still squatting near the ground, lifted the leaves surrounding the plant to look underneath.

 

“You are a laborer.”

 

Thrown by the unexpected statement, Carter then remembered that Perlen had used the same term to categorize those who worked the farmland; and, in that context, Sam agreed that the term appropriately characterized her team.  “Uh, yeah.  I suppose that would be an accurate description.”  The feeling of being watched crawled across her back like a trespassing insect; Sam, however, ignored it as she tilted forward on her knees, her hands expertly scraping the dirt back to expose the plant’s root. 

 

“You, Major Carter, work especially hard.”

 

“No more so than your people.”  It was an odd statement – odd in that it hit pretty close to the mark. 

 

“Perhaps.” 

 

The evasive reply disrupted Carter, who, for the first time, made eye contact with the woman standing over her.  “Your people labor in the fields all day, with little rest or relaxation.  I hardly think the two compare.”

 

“Major Carter, you have only been here but two days,” Mivosa declared evenly, her inflexible stare still boring into her.  “You have not yet experienced all of our ways.”

 

“True,” Sam acceded graciously.  “I mean no offense; but, from what we’ve seen, the people here work very hard.”

 

“But our reasons are different.”

 

Still holding her gaze, Sam didn’t understand her point.  The Arecians toiled over the land, producing food and medicine for their survival; SGC members traveled to other planets seeking new discoveries, and sometimes engaged in ruthless battles, also for their survival.  In her mind, the two were identical.  “The work may be different, but the motive is the same.” 

 

“We work hard, but we also do not want for anything.”  The elder woman finally moved, her elfin feet inching closer to Sam.  Without the blighting glare of the sun, Sam realized that Mivosa, unlike the other Arecians, had crystal-blue eyes, which appeared to grow darker the longer she stared.  “I have been watching since your arrival, and I am fascinated by you.  That is why I asked Perlen to be your escort.  Because you, Major Carter, lack something – something very important – and that troubles you.”

 

The words struck an inharmonious chord; what the heck did *that* mean?  Despite her piqued curiosity, though, Sam decided logically to hasten with her samples and return to the village – to return to the safety of her team.  “Maybe we better collect the last few samples and head back to the village before dinner.”

 

Arising from her hunched position, Sam snapped the cap onto the tube, sealing it securely, before sidestepping the foreboding woman.  No longer making eye contact, Carter trudged north about forty feet until she swiftly bowed to the floor.

 

Mivosa stayed glued to her spot; her eyelids tightened together, enfolding her translucent eyes within their shell ... her body motionless except the utterance of a single word.

 

“Granted.”

 

******

 

O’Neill tapped across the bare doorsill, ducking his head to miss its slumped frame.  Even with the lowered ceiling and doors – easily explainable given the Arecian’s lower-than-average height – the size of the hut, charitably supplied by their gracious hosts for the duration of their visit, had surprised him.  The appearance of the homely residence from the outside abbreviated its real size; for, on the inside, its shell actually encased multiple rooms, each economical but comfortable, but not enough to allot to each SG1 member their own room. 

 

As such, Teal’c had settled for the evening into the main room – an area that functioned as the kitchen, dining room, and living room ... all efficiently rolled into one.  With two bedrooms to pick from, O’Neill and Jonas had split one, while Carter had adopted the smaller of the two.  It wasn’t much, O’Neill had readily appraised, but it sure beat sleeping in a tent on the hard ground.

 

Jack had woken up a tad later than usual the next morning, as ascertained from the time on his watch and not the fiery circle rising outside.  Hauling drowsy feet into the main room, he’d found Teal’c already brewing the obligatory morning coffee as two fingers intermittently rubbed the sleep from his eyes.  Jonas soon followed, notifying the Colonel of his failure to awaken Carter.  Although surprised, O’Neill had elected to let her sleep in – it was Christmas Eve, after all, and they had several hours before their expected time of arrival through the gate.

 

Chatting by the adequate hearth for a short time, the three men had then unhurriedly busied themselves by stowing their belongings and neatening the little mess they’d made during their visit.  Afterwards, Jonas excused himself to meet again with Perlen, his mind eager to ask a few more questions before their departure. 

 

Jack glanced down at his watch, on the hand not occupied by the tin cup brimming with steaming coffee – 7:20.  O’Neill had fully expected Carter to wake up by now ... because she *never* overslept, not even when sick.  So, there he stood, inside the room designated as Carter’s.

 

She was still sleeping. 

 

O’Neill proceeded further into the space, his feet taking no extra measure to quiet their approach as they stepped closer to her cot.  Sinking next to the bed, his keen eyes steadied on her face, and immediately noticed things – things Jonas wouldn’t have noticed thirty minutes ago ... because Jonas simply didn’t know her like he did. 

 

Like how she’d positioned herself on her back as she slept ... when O’Neill knew she *always* awoke on her side.  Or, like how her brow creased, as if calculating some insanely-difficult mathematical equation ... when he’d observed that only during sleep did Carter *ever* appear to stop thinking.  Or just the faint twist in his gut that told him that, just by looking at her, something was definitely not right. 

 

And, with that thought, command mode instantly interceded; checking her vitals, his fingers looped around her slender wrist, which slouched limply at her side – normal heart rate, regulated breathing.  His hand then brushing against her forehead, her sleek skin felt cool beneath his worried fingertips.  Everything appeared normal ... normal except that nothing – neither word nor action – could rouse her. 

 

His mind raced through the events from the previous evening, scouring every action, every word, in order to find something – anything – that could explain this.  As if sensing his mind’s distraction, his hand furtively slinked lower on her face, his doting fingertips tickling the skin along their path, until his hand stopped to cup her rose-colored cheek. 

 

“Is there a problem, O’Neill?” 

 

The hand guiltily retracted at the sound of Teal’c’s voice, which emanated from just inside the door.

 

“Yeah,” he answered squarely, “*something’s* not right.” 

 

Teal’c advanced from the door, his body nearing the bed.  With his eyes not once retreating from Carter’s unconscious form, O’Neill observed his approach from the side. 

 

“Is Major Carter not well?”

 

“I don’t know.”  And the honest uncertainty of the words launched a petrifying shudder through him that tormented every vein, every muscle, until it jolted his vacillating mind into action.  “Teal’c,” he commanded, ”find Jonas.  We’re leaving ... *now*.” 

 

Reliably, Teal’c left immediately, following the order without debate. 

 

“Come on, Carter,” Jack softly demanded, his fingers stiffening as they lingered on her unmoving arm.  “Wake up.”

 

 

******

 

  

‘Wake up.’

 

Every nerve in her tired body urged her to wake, the words charging every synapse in an attempt to stimulate her sleepy muscles.  Unconsciously, Sam knew she needed to awaken; but nothing could penetrate her heavy-eyed stupor, not even a drill sergeant barking the order into her ear. 

 

God, she was tired.

 

Not to mention lightheaded – it felt as though her head had been marinated with fog, and her ears stuffed with cotton. 

 

Defiantly, her eyes refused to open, their lids disobeying every command.  She cursed them for their insubordination; but, considering they weighed down like bags of sand on her tired face, she really hadn’t expected otherwise.  And, if given a choice, they probably wouldn’t have opened for another couple of hours, if not for the shrill noise that relentlessly offended her aching ears.  The monotonous blare proving too taxing, her eyes finally caved, and warily batted open.

 

Her body slanting forward, and her head resting on what felt like a balloon, Sam hoisted the cumbersome weight from its makeshift pillow to find her bearing, her ears celebrating as the obnoxious noise ceased with the movement.

 

A deep inhale released a fit of coughs as smoke clouded her lungs; but, despite their persistence, Sam’s eyes nevertheless surfed her surroundings.  She was in a car – one that, judging from the inflated airbag that previously served as her headrest, had either hit or been hit. 

 

Airbag smoke stifled the air inside the vehicle, but outside loomed only darkness, except for the illumination from the headlights.  Sam opened the door, patches of skin on her arms burning as she did; once unlocked, her feet stepped outside the car, the ground gratefully solid beneath her wobbly feet. 

 

Black night greeted her, engulfing everything within the vicinity.  Without lights from street lamps or a nearby building, it proved impossible for Sam to recognize anything or to determine where exactly she was. 

 

Her feet ambled cautiously alongside the car, marching forward until they reached the front-end.  She’d hit a tree, the headlights revealed ... but their unilateral lighting exposed nothing but trees in their path, with white shingles dangling from their desolate limbs.  It was obviously winter, or so she could ascertain from the half-lit scene; of course, the bitter wind that passed through her upon exiting the car had already blabbed that revelation. 

 

Except, it *wasn’t* a car.

 

It was a truck ... a truck that didn’t belong to her.

 

Oh, crap.

 

But, that wasn’t the worst of it. 

 

Awareness gradually filtered through, and her mind took full advantage as it inventoried the events she could remember from the past few days.  They’d been on a mission – Arecia, P46-X35 ... a planet that hosted a hospitable people, a breadth of farmland, and banquets that gave even Jonas a run for his money. 

 

She remembered retiring for the night after a good day of walking ... the day before Christmas Eve.  SG1 had planned to return home early next morning; and, apparently, they had ... except, she didn’t remember that part.

 

Red and white lights raced from down the road, their intensity obscuring the vehicle towed underneath.  The police car slowed as it neared her location, the red brake light designating its position as it pulled behind her.  Once parked, the swinging driver-side door introduced a tall man, made taller by the high cap perched on his head; a thick coat draped over dark blues, and it joggled with each step as the man strode in her direction. 

 

“Sam,” the man shouted with apparent relief.  “Thank god.  We’ve been looking all over for you.”   

 

Sam had initiated her own footsteps as he spoke, her feet progressing closer to the lit vehicle in hope to catch a better glimpse of the man who seemingly knew her ... the man, for the life of her, she couldn’t place. 

 

With each step, however, the increasing illumination did little to aid in her recognition; in fact, if it weren’t for the use of her name, she’d have sworn that they had never met before.

 

The bright beams atop his vehicle elucidated the scene; and, after a cursory inspection of the tree angled perpendicular to her truck, his approach quickened.  “Are you okay?” 

 

“Fine,” she muttered faintly, baffled as to why this stranger – one who knew her name – had placed a reassuring hand on her forearm as he stopped before her. 

 

Deputy Hartmann, or so she’d read from his nameplate, disregarded her response and immediately clicked his radio to life; requesting an ambulance, Sam overheard his description of their location, but didn’t recognize it.  One thing was for sure – she wasn’t in Colorado Springs. 

 

Once finished, his hand added a slight pressure to her arm, motioning her away from the truck and toward his parked police car, marked Red Lake County.  “Do you remember what happened?”

 

“Not really,” she answered honestly.  Sam chose to stick with basic, and unrevealing, responses ... because, until she got more answers, she still had no idea *what* she was dealing with.  “Where am I?”

 

Pulling the handle, Hartmann freed her arm to open the door, letting Carter sink into the warm, leather chair.  “Just a few miles from home.” 

 

She glanced up at the Deputy, a frown ready on her reserved face.  “Home?”

 

“Well,” he smiled good-naturedly, “for about forty-eight weeks of the year anyway.” 

 

Her frown achieved full bloom on her face, and the expression immediately expunged the smile from his.  “Hey, you sure you’re okay?”

 

“Yeah.”  A silence ensued as Sam closed her eyes; her body curled into the seat while the car’s heat breathed against her cold skin.  Sitting had eased her dizziness, but not her confusion. 

 

She was on Earth, but how was that possible? 

 

There were worse places to be, Sam thought optimistically.  And, yet, something didn’t add up. 

 

Sam conceded the possibility that she’d hit her head upon collision, resulting in a slight concussion, or that she’d simply suffered from shock – both completely valid reasons for her temporary forgetfulness.  But, although valid, they didn’t *feel* right.

 

As a strident wail announced the ambulance’s arrival, Deputy Hartmann moved backward, allowing Sam to rise up from the car, and escorted her to the emergency vehicle’s rear. 

 

“I should probably go call O’Neill,” Hartmann asserted, promptly excusing himself once the paramedic began examining Sam.  “That is, if he isn’t still contacting every policing agency in the state.”

 

Suddenly the pieces connected.   

 

Truck.

 

Woods. 

 

Red Lake County. 

 

O’Neill. 

 

But ... it wasn’t possible ... was it? 

 

Concussion or no, Sam knew for a fact that O’Neill hadn’t scheduled a visit to his cabin for either Christmas or New Year’s.  But, for argument’s sake, even if he had changed his mind, why in the world would *she* agree to accompany him* ... to his cabin ... alone?  Or, so she assumed. 

 

Just then, the paramedic concluded his examination, declaring her completely fit minus the varied burns on her arms from the airbag. 

 

“Come on,” Deputy Hartmann said, his body poised at the rear of the ambulance.  “I’ll take you home.” 

 

Journeying back to his squad car, Hartmann related the crude details of his telephone call to O’Neill as the ambulance skidded onto the highway, its rotating lights deactivating halfway down the road. 

 

Home, Sam mused – a word the deputy had used to describe O’Neill’s cabin several times. 

 

*Colonel*O’Neill’s cabin.

 

How many times had he asked over the years, she wondered.  As many times as she’d declined, her heart ruthlessly lobbed back.  But, despite herself, the thought of finally seeing his cabin thrilled her to no end ... but for reasons probably best not to mention.  Because Sam didn’t belong here.  She didn’t know how she got here, what she was doing here, or why she couldn’t remember anything beyond Arecia.   But, that didn’t matter, because she just *knew* this wasn’t right.

 

After a few miles, the car turned onto a hidden – at least in the dark – side road bordered by soaring trees.  Concealed at the driveway’s end, a small cabin appeared, inviting and unpretentious.  A snug light brooked through its front, silhouetting a figure that shot from its gallows and stomped toward the still-moving car.

 

O’Neill.

 

Arriving along the passenger side just as the car stopped, he quickly opened the door before she even had time to unfasten her seatbelt ... at one point, she thought he might just reach over and undo the pesky strap himself. 

 

Once free, his hand lowered to gently wrap around her arm, his strength shouldering her weight as she stood from the car.  But, before she could balance herself, his hand yanked her closely to him, his strapping arms enfolding her in a tight embrace as a muted “thank you” wheezed across her ear. 

 

A hundred questions leapt through her mind; but, instead of asking, she quieted them, shutting off her mind as she allowed herself to bask in his warmth, if only for a moment. 

 

“Look who I found.”  The words reminded both of Hartmann’s presence; but neither spoke a word – Sam because she had no idea what to say, and O’Neill because he couldn’t peel his eyes from the woman in his arms. 

 

O’Neill eventually released her from his grip, but only slightly.  Mere inches apart, a hand snuck up to her face, his agile fingers sweeping across her forehead and cheek, confirming with his hands what his eyes could already see. 

 

His hand lingered on her cheek, while his dark eyes ravaged her ... and it stunned Carter.  She’d never seen so much emotion from him, at least not geared toward her.

 

“You’re cold,” he whispered, the tenderness in his voice supplemented by his hands that had lowered in order to rub affectionately up and down her arms. 

 

“A little.” 

 

O’Neill broke eye contact with her to regard the man waiting on the opposite side of the car.  “Thanks, Jerry.”

 

His arm sliding around her back, Sam cuddled into his body as he started walking them toward the cabin.

 

“No problem.”  With the ability to actually see him, she noted that Jerry seemed pleased, his feet also moving as he accompanied them toward the door.  “Just promise me no more arguments with trees,“ Jerry joked, stopping short of the stairs.  “They win every time.  Oh, and I don’t expect the truck to be worked on till the day after, considering it's Christmas.  So, if you need anything, just call.” 

 

“Thank you,” Sam responded verbally after sensing O’Neill’s non-verbal nod.  She was grateful; but, more than anything, she needed him to leave.  She needed answers – answers to questions she could only ask O’Neill in private.

 

“Well, goodnight Jack,” smiling amiably, Jerry nodded his cap in salutation.  “Mrs. O’Neill.”

Sam’s eyes widened while a flush, that had nothing to do with the bitter cold, stole across her cheeks.  The deputy retreated to his car, and Jack moved them so they faced the entrance to his warm cabin.

Yep, she needed answers ... she *definitely* needed answers.

 

 

******

 

 

O’Neill limply watched as his teammates bustled to gather their belongings, all the while wishing they’d move faster.

 

He felt numb.

 

He couldn’t help her.  Whatever this was, it was far beyond him. 

 

Fraiser could, though, or so he hoped ... Fraiser and the scores of other eggheads at the base.  They were her only chance now.

 

So O’Neill blacked out all other thoughts, his mind programmed to one single mission – get Carter through the gate.  It was the only thing he *could* do, and so help anyone who got in his way.

 

He watched still as they shuffled her from the cot to the portable stretcher.  She was still unconscious, her colorless face devoid of its usual luster.  He’d hoped that the move from her bed would have jostled her awake, and even considered ordering Teal’c and Jonas to add a few more bumps during the transfer.  But, it hadn’t ... he had hoped it would work, but never really expected it to.   

 

So he watched ... and he felt nothing.

 

He felt as numb as she looked.   

 

All except for his fingers. 

 

They burned. 

 

His fingers blazed with an intensity stronger than any fire.  It was as if all the emotion he couldn’t allow himself to feel had slowly drained into his fingertips.  The emotions, hot and raw, harvested in his fingers until they boiled under his skin, begging him to act ... begging him to do *something*.       

 

It was always that way ... whenever he felt helpless, when there was nothing he could do but watch as a member of his team suffered.  He hated torture – hey, who didn’t – but he hated the waiting more.  He hated sitting on the sidelines so much that he’d rather trade places with his teammates any day than sit by and watch them suffer.  

 

But, when it was Carter ... well, it was different. 

 

Heck, *everything* with Carter was different.   

 

Her pain added a pungency that pelted him like grains of acid ... caustic nicks that, little by little, corroded his professional armor. 

 

His hands twitched and joggled, his fingers rubbing together to ignite a friction that would hopefully quiet the maelstrom reeling under his skin.  They’d move out soon ... not soon enough.     

 

“No!”  The cry gusted from the open door, burglarizing Jack’s thoughts and snatching the movements from his teammates. 

 

Perlen. 

 

“You must not move her,” he stated doggedly, yet calmly, as he advanced into Carter’s room. 

 

The Arecians utilized a muted coolness in their approach, executing both their words and actions with deliberation and precision.  O’Neill had learned after their first night that very little animated the people on Arecia – what they called a party, and what O’Neill called a party, were two *totally* different things.   

 

Regardless of Perlen’s calmness, O’Neill’s fingers could stand no more.  He bounded toward the man, who stood just inside the door.  He obviously knew *something* about Carter’s condition, and that notion reinforced O’Neill’s determination to wring every ounce of information out of him.  “What’s wrong with her,” Jack pounced, his heavy boots clogging forward. 

 

“Nothing is wrong.”  To his credit, Perlen maintained his composure, even with O’Neill’s anger blighting his eyes.  “Major Carter is fine, I assure you.”  Perlen sidestepped Colonel O’Neill, his feet nearing the stretcher; Jack’s eyes stalked his every movement.  “Please,” he implored as he hovered his hand above Sam’s head, gesturing to Teal’c and Jonas to set her down.  “It is imperative that she not be moved.”

 

But, O’Neill didn’t buy it.  “Like hell.”  

 

“O’Neill,” Teal’c interjected, “I do not believe they intend any harm to Major Carter.”

 

Gee, like he’d never heard *that* before? 

 

But, even if Teal’c were right, even if the Arecians did seem nice enough, he’d never trust them over the life of a teammate.  Never.  And especially not over *her* life. 

 

“Tell that to Carter,” he unmercifully threw back.

 

“Colonel O’Neill ... ”

 

“Jonas,” O’Neill barked, the warning silencing both.  “If this guy doesn’t tell me what he knows *right now*, we’re taking her through the gate.”  Jack’s entire face grimaced in fury, and his veins swelled with his impassioned words; O’Neill pinned Perlen with an unyielding gaze.  “And I will *not* be responsible for *anyone* who gets in the way.”

 

“I believe,” a faint whisper breezed in, speaking softly into the broken air that steamed between them,  “that I can explain.”

 

 

******

 

 

Continued in Part II