|
|
Old Love, New Beginning
by
moon_n_star
“Am I a prisoner?”
Jack swayed his body side to side, his eyes
examining the embodiment of Teal’c’s imprisonment. Ever since stepping through the steel door into Teal’c’s –
‘quarters’ – he’d fretted this conversation.
Nevertheless, he forced an answer because, at the very least, Teal’c
deserved the truth.
He just hated the answer.
“Ah, yeah.”
Teal’c returned his head to center, his eyes
closing briefly the only sign of resignation to his predicament. “I understand.”
Jack’s head bobbed as his eyes locked on a target
to his right. He moved leisurely, his
relaxed demeanor donned to mask his escalating bitterness. “We’re not exactly living up to your
expectations of us, are we?” He tried
to suppress the contempt in his voice and, for the most part, considering how
he truly felt, he did a pretty good job.
Because, just like Teal’c, he understood.
He just really hated it.
Whirling the chair around with one stroke, his body
descended until connecting with the seat, his height now level with
Teal’c. Hardened and metallic, the
green chair failed to relieve any of his strain. But Jack nonetheless continued, his words as much an attempt to
persuade himself as Teal’c.
Teal’c veered his head to the side; and, for the
first time, both men faced each other.
“You see, Teal’c, we’ve been living alone in our little corner of the
galaxy for a while, and I think the people I work for just need to get to know
you a little better. I mean, your
knowledge of the Goa’uld alone makes them a little curious.”
“I will give that knowledge freely.”
Jack hadn’t swallowed their logic, either. That knowledge
personified the very reason for Teal’c to join the fight on the frontline, not
be caged like some guinea pig in a lab thirty floors underground. And although O’Neill lacked the authority to
stop it, he hadn’t given up – not by a long shot. “Yeah, I know you will, and we’ll put it to good use.” Of that, he was damned sure.
“I will pledge allegiance to this world,” Teal’c
avowed, his conviction as stalwart as his countenance. And it amazed O’Neill, since their actions
toward this new ally hardly proved them worthy of such loyalty. This undoubtedly was not what Jack
anticipated when he asked Teal’c to escape with them – if he only knew then …
O’Neill broke eye contact then, the burgeoning
guilt over his friend’s situation too overwhelming. His eyes roamed the floor before his arms took flight,
accentuating his next point. “I’m just
not sure that’s ever going to be enough for them to trust you. To be honest with you, I think they’re
scared of you.”
“I understand.”
It wasn’t hard to.
One look at the big fella, and who wouldn’t be scared? But that was the point – warriors were
intimidating, otherwise they wouldn’t be effective. Wasn’t that partly why he spent years training in Special Ops?
And the continual scowl didn’t help; in fact,
Teal’c had yet to crack a smile, not that he had any reason to. O’Neill had tried, though, but soon
discovered that he expended more time explaining the joke then telling it. They obviously didn’t have many “A Jaffa
walks into a bar” jokes on Chulak.
‘Boy, are they missing out.’
Then there was the gold emblem-tattoo-thingy on his
head. What exactly was that,
anyway? A light reflector, perhaps,
like what doctors wear in campy B-movies or soap operas? Maybe the Jaffa version of Indian
Poker?
“You must be used to that by now, huh?”
“I am a Jaffa.
I have served as a warrior for your enemy. I have carried your enemy within me.”
“Yeah,” he had worked that out himself. Still … “Well, it’s kind of a human
thing. We tend to be afraid of things
we don’t know.”
Teal’c remained silent, his contemplative eyes
directed at the opposite wall. He
crooked his head deliberately, his curious stare falling upon Jack. “Why is O’Neill not afraid?”
”Teal’c, I saw you stand up to a god,” his response prompt and
resolute. “You refused to kill. I saw you make that decision. In that moment, I learned everything I
needed to know to trust you.”
Seemingly unimpressed with the answer, Teal’c
continued his scrutiny as if reading Jack effortlessly. “And what of Dr. Carter?”
Jack’s eyes snapped forward to meet his, the
question totally surprising him.
“What?” Sam? What did Sam have to do with …
Ah!
Great!
Teal’c had been here, what, 48 hours, and he
already knew? ‘What, are they covering
it in briefings now?’
“You are afraid,“ Teal’c uttered, not as a question
but as a fact.
“That’s nonsen …” Jack rushed in response, his
pitch raised a few decibels, when he stopped.
Teal’c knew.
He didn’t know how, but Teal’c saw within him in a
matter of days what others couldn’t see in years. With anyone else, that insight would unnerve him, but not with
Teal’c. Somehow, he just felt –
comfortable – around the guy. So he
dropped the pretense, figuring Teal’c saw through it anyway. “Well, yeah,” he pushed out meagerly, his
head bowing in defeat. “It’s
complicated.”
“Indeed.”
A small snort escaped his lips, accompanied by a
brusque tremor that coursed through his body.
One little word, and yet it expressed so much; for some reason, that
idea amused him. And Teal’c, he was
learning, was a master – so few words, so much content.
Typically, now was the time O’Neill would slam down
the defenses, and pitch some clever remark to deflect the attention away from
him. This time, he realized it wouldn’t
work. And a small part of him was
glad. It didn’t make talking about it
any easier, though.
“Amid times of war, the Goa’uld invoke the
tradition of the Klimtar, an elite group of Jaffa that lead the army into
battle. Only the best warriors from the
Goa’uld’s army are selected.”
Ooo-kay. A
little off-course, but distinctly more agreeable than the previous line of
questioning … so he played along.
“Makes sense,” he blurted, fixing Teal’c with his ‘please-tell-me-this-is-going-somewhere’
look.
“As First Prime of Apophis, it was my duty to
select those Jaffa that would serve in the Klimtar. Many Jaffa believed those who served should be chosen for their
strength and power. I did not share
this view. I, too, chose warriors who
demonstrated strength of conviction, of character, and of intellect. It is only by combining these traits that
the Klimtar will achieve proper balance.”
Sweet! Back
to that. “Yeah. Look, that’s real interesting, Teal’c,
honestly. But it’s not me.” He had no idea how, because his face hadn’t
even twitched, but Jack somehow understood that Teal’c … didn’t. “She
requested off the team.”
Teal’c lifted his eyebrow in reaction, which
O’Neill interpreted as surprise. ‘Guess
he doesn’t buy it, either.’ Yet again
it astounded Jack at how much Teal’c could convey with such a minute
gesture. ‘Not to mention do a great
Spock impersonation.’
“And you believe this to be the result of your
actions regarding Dr. Carter?”
“Yes,” he barked, then hastily added, “no … I don’t
know.” With the knot in his stomach
twisting again, he blew out a jagged breath, its emotional weight painful to
his lungs. “She’ll go on some missions
with SGC teams, including SG1, but her permanent assignment will be on-base.”
“And this concerns you, O’Neill?”
‘Oh for cryin’ out …’
“Yes!” he snapped.
“And will you please stop channeling Barbara Walters on me
here!”
There … that was the ‘brow’ of confusion; he’d
recognize it anywhere. ‘Damn, this is
better than charades.’
“I have long wished to rise up against the Goa’uld
and free the Jaffa from their slavery.
During my service as First Prime, I had seen many warriors challenge
Apophis, but I had never seen one win.
And, with each failure, my hope of one day overthrowing the Goa’uld
diminished. Your team showed great
skill and conviction on Chulak. It was
only then that I, for the first time, believed that goal could someday be
achieved.”
Wow. “Why,
thank you, Teal’c.”
“Dr. Carter handled herself sufficiently on Chulak.”
“Teal’c!”
He’d had enough.
But Teal’c ignored him, determined to say his
piece. “You question Dr. Carter’s
ability to handle herself in battle situations.”
“No! Like
you said, she did great. But …”
“Then, have you not learned all that you need to
know?”
**********
Mind control.
He was one hundred percent …
… uh, well …
… ninety-nine percent certain that he used the
tattoo for mind control. How else could
he explain standing in the hallway, alone, outside her lab, for the past twenty
minutes?
Okay, so maybe that little rap session with Teal’c
played some part.
But he still bet on mind control.
He headed here after showering, the path
practically preordained. And, ever
since, he found himself in a holding pattern outside her lab, as if trapped by
some kind of tractor beam.
He would take a small step forward, the new
location granting him a peek of her through the cracked door. For the last, oh, twenty-one minutes, her
body – perched over some computer gizmo or other – had not budged. Even from this distance, he could spot the
wonderment alight in her eyes as she worked.
From the moment they met, he had surrendered to her vitality, her love
of life … he’d been helpless from the start.
Sam was the most stunning woman he’d ever
seen.
Still was.
And that thought instigated the next stage, where
he abruptly stepped back, recoiling as if burned by fire. And then, unable to stand still, he began
pacing, careful in his footpath not to breach the vicinity of the room.
Back and forth, like an expectant father.
‘This is crazy!’
He didn’t come here to burn a hole in the
figurative carpet, and he certainly didn’t come to make an ass out of
himself. He came because Teal’c was
right – or, at least, he was sure of that when he left Teal’c’s room.
Ahh!
“Would you stop
it!” He couldn’t repress the
exasperated growl; he hated indecision, and his seemed unrelenting.
“Sir?”
Altogether absorbed with his own musings, he had
overlooked the young, and very befuddled, SF that had paused near him in the
hallway several minutes ago. And he
looked very … concerned.
“Oh, um … Tai-chi.” He pointed to his feet, as if that explained everything. “It’s all the rage,” he shrugged. Notwithstanding the eloquent explanation,
the subordinate’s concern deepened, his face contorting with lines of
worry.
Jack’s eyes reeled back in resignation, his head
then nodding in dismissal; the SF wasted no time in scooting down the
passageway, still undecided about what he just witnessed.
Despite the unexpected – though much appreciated –
interruption, the short-lived breather had afforded no resolution. But he’d had enough – it was now or
never. Gritting his teeth, he hastily
propelled his feet forward, eliminating the opportunity for his mind to
dissuade him again.
But his outward appearance of cool, a countenance
he’d practiced to perfection, couldn’t stop his feet from tumbling when they
crossed through the door, causing him to stumble until he collided with her lab
table.
Very cool indeed.
“Hi.” He
tried for non-chalance – and failed miserably.
Regaining his balance, Jack’s eyes perused the room, frantically
rummaging for something – anything – to look at that wasn’t her. Problem was, in this room, there was too much distraction. Scrolling computer screens, flashing lights
– with all the activity, his eyes were incapable of focusing on just one thing.
Sam looked on with mild amusement. Prior to his grand entrance, she herself had
been spellbound with her work, engulfed in a pool of silence that was tainted
only by the intermittent tapping of her keyboard. Startled by his entry, Sam had swiveled her chair, her head
whipping tersely from the screen.
Widened in shock, her eyes couldn’t veil her mirth – he always did have
that boyish charm.
As he recovered, Carter, too, schooled her features
to match his own indifference.
“Hi.”
Despite her detachment running full force outside, inside her body
tensed with apprehension. She knew why
he was here, or at least had a pretty good idea. Jack didn’t exactly make daily visits to her lab – in truth, he’d
only popped in once, and only because he needed Daniel for something.
Her head told her it was for the best. Whenever together, alone or otherwise, their
dialogue gradually degraded into argument – ugly and brutal.
Okay, this was it.
His move. ‘Just spit it out,
O’Neill … get it over with.’
“What ya working on?” His brain chickened out in the end. Besides, this approach was infinitely safer - she always loved
talking about her work.
That, and he still had no idea what he was going to
say.
Her eyes followed the path of his nod, spotting the
object of his interest to her left.
“Oh, the, um, dialing program.”
Sam could have expounded on that – the response already formulated in
her head – but, in remembering her audience, she thought otherwise. That wasn’t why he was here.
Her answer obviously shorter than he expected, Jack
thrust his hands into his pockets … ‘what now?’
Now, there were two choices: carry on with some
mundane nicety; or, get right to it, no more stalling. They’d arrive there eventually anyway, and,
since she probably knew why he dropped by – she always could see right through
him – why prolong it?
He inhaled a quiet breath, and elected to shove the
words out with his exhale, crushing any chance for his mind to mutiny
again. “I saw Hammond today. He told me about your request.”
Phew.
‘There, her turn.’
Thankful to forego with the pleasantries, her mind
struggled for the proper words. She
could imagine what he thought – he completely misunderstood, and blamed it on
something he did.
Truth was, she didn’t know herself. She just knew she had to do it. “Yeah.
Jack, it’s not what you …”
“Look, it’s your decision.” O’Neill interrupted, waving his hands to bat
away her explanation. He wasn’t here to
judge; he just wanted to assure her that, while he disagreed with it, he
respected her decision. “I just … I
didn’t want you to think that I wanted you off the team. I wouldn’t have given you the chance to go
if I …”
What?
“Given me
the chance?” She repeated slowly,
disbelief building with each syllable.
He still doubted her. How could
he …
No. How dare he? She’d worked hard for this, devoting her life to it the past two
years. She had long since proven
herself worthy. Sam shook her head in
astonishment, the movement all she could muster through her agitation. “You haven’t changed at all. Of all the arrogant, egotistical … I earned
the right to go on that mission long before you showed up. And when you did, you were the first thing to threaten it.”
“Oh, here we go.”
He muttered under his breath, rolling his head exaggeratedly back toward
the ceiling. He cursed himself for
being so naïve – he should’ve known how this would end.
“Excuse me?” Her eyes, piercing with anger, never left his.
He purposely stepped forward, his tone rising with
each small step. “Reality check. This is a military operation, Doctor. So, unless you’ve enlisted since we last
met, you are not military and are, therefore, a guest of this facility. You may have lobbied for the program, and
tweaked a few computers here and there, but that does not entitle you to travel through that gate.” His body leaned over the table, one fist clenched tight to the
cold tabletop, the other raised with a finger pointed in the direction of the
stargate.
His wintry tone, although enough to make grown men
cry – and had numerous times – only encouraged her. “There wouldn’t be a gate to go through if not for me.” She, too, slanted forward, her body hovering
over the bench, while she hoisted her arm toward the gateroom, mocking his
previous stance.
“And there wouldn’t be a planet to come back
to if not for me.”
“Huh!”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means, if left to you, there wouldn’t be a gate because you’d blow the thing
to smithereens!”
“That is exactly what I mean!”
“You are so quick to discard me as
unqualified.” She said right over him,
as if he had never spoken.
“Because … you’re not? Unless we’re counting all that wining and dining of stuffed
shirts you did in D.C. Don’t seem to
recall that in basic – but, hey, it’s been a while.” His unforgiving sarcasm just rolled off his tongue, his mind
unwilling or unable to stop now.
“That’s it! Instead of bombing
his ass to kingdom come, I should’ve taken Ra to a fancy restaurant – a few
candles, nice romantic music, some wine, get him liquored up. Oh, yeah, he’d crack. Great plan, Carter! Gee, how did we ever manage without you?”
Sam’s color drained from her face, her
anger-stained cheeks now pallid. Her
head shot downward, and her body faintly retreated from their current face-off.
Her withdrawal missed Jack completely; he remained
where he stood, recalling from past experience that the blowout had yet to
befall.
Nothing.
Her silence persisted, and it unnerved him. Sam never backed down from a fight,
especially when it involved him.
“What?” He
stated gruffly, still waiting for her ire to return. Something he said bothered her, but practically everything up to
this point had that intention.
He never really meant to hurt her. But the maliciousness always surfaced,
because he needed to draw her out; he needed her to unleash those emotions she
locked inside, the ones that had nothing to do with the stargate, his
selfishness, or her lack of combat training.
They both knew; they just never discussed it, not since it happened –
neither possessed enough courage to actually broach the subject. But he knew she blamed him … for Charlie,
for their crumpled marriage, for everything.
But she bottled it inside, probably to spare him further pain, no
doubt.
And he hated that.
“Nothing.”
He barely heard her whisper, her face still cast downwards.
“Oh, no, don’t hold back on me now.” He wanted her to say it, needed to hear she
condemned him. He’d promised her to
protect their family, and ultimately he was the one to destroy it. But, her damn compassion prevented her from
revealing it.
He wanted none of it. He needed to know she hated him as much as he hated himself.
Damn her pity.
Sam finally faced him, her eyes tinged with
humiliation. “It’s just … you called me
Carter. Guess I’m not used to it.” She shrugged, her discomfort growing
exponentially under his heated gaze.
“Yeah, well, whose idea was that?” Jack’s volume had decreased, but the
venomous tone still lingered, although he was a bit shakier in his
resolve. This was dangerously close to
uncharted territory. And just as sure
as he wanted to hear it, he was just as sure at how much he didn’t.
“I never asked for a divorce.” Her voice quivered, painfully aware of the
route their argument had undertaken.
“Maybe not, but coming home one day to an empty
house didn’t exactly leave me with too many options.”
“It wasn’t just ‘one day,’ Jack,” she countered
softly, “and you know it.” It was the
truth – candid and raw.
And it hurt.
So he raised the defenses again, as well as his
pitch. “Things get a little too rough
for you? Huh? Did I not fit your image of an ideal husband? Sorry, Carter,
but I don’t stay within the lines for anyone.
You of all people should know that.”
Again, she spoke over him, a sure sign that she,
too, had raised her defenses. And, for
both, that meant attack. “What about
you? It wasn’t me flying off on some
suicide mission across the galaxy.
Maybe we should be talking about whether *you're* qualified!”
“It wasn’t just ‘flew off,’ and you know it.” Jack replied, mimicking her earlier line,
except his was decidedly more frosty.
So, she knew.
He figured she did after the initial shock of seeing her here wore
off. He never thought she would,
though. That had been the point.
But he was different then.
Then, he was still out of his mind with grief; he
couldn’t think or feel anything outside of his guilt or self-hatred. When they knocked on his door, he believed
the mission would be his ticket to freedom – his removal from this harsh world
and the even harsher reality he had created; a place where he couldn’t feel
anymore, and where thoughts and memories didn’t exist. A small part of him even believed – hoped –
he’d be with Charlie, wherever he was.
And Sam? He
was doing her a favor. He’d go down a
hero, and she’d never be told the whole story, which made it perfect. See, it was shame that stopped him night
after night – Sam’s shame. The thought
of her finding him, and of her having to explain his death to their friends and
family … it was unthinkable. He
couldn’t do that to her.
So the Air Force appeared and offered him a better
solution. He accepted, figuring the
mission would do what he’d been unable to do himself. But he didn’t give a damn about any of it – the stargate, the
team, the planet. But, like the
duty-bound soldier he’d proven to be his entire adult life, he fully intended
to complete his mission.
He never envisioned that it would change him,
though; he never imagined that anyone could penetrate his shell. But they did – Daniel, the Abydonians,
Skaara.
Somewhere along the way, Jack’s armor cracked. He set aside his personal anguish, and
helped them fight against their oppressing ‘god’ – he’d accept whatever fate
threw at him … for them, to save them.
When they succeeded in the end, and his team
returned through the gate minus one archeologist, his only thoughts were of
Sam. But, when he finally drove home,
she wasn’t there … and, although she left no note or message, and her clothes
still lined the closets, he knew.
Which led to this.
And it shamed him, because she knew.
And yet she didn’t.
Sure, she read the facts from the report, all the
play-by-play action. But she would
never learn from that report how a young boy reminded him of their lost son;
how that boy and his people restored his sense of honor and purpose; how, when
he believed he was about to die, the last thought that crossed his mind was how
much he loved her, and would die without her.
No, not from a report. And so, she would never know, because he’d never tell her. He destroyed the only thing he loved … his
family. And he was hell-bent that no
one would trust or love him again. He
was unworthy of love … he was unworthy of her.
“No, you’re right, Jack. You left way before that.”
Their dispute reached an all-time low, and Sam’s
conscious reprimanded her for sinking with it.
His forlorn look prompted her to gaze anywhere but at him. When passing over the clock, her mind
registered the time; she started at the realization. ‘How time flies’ she mused miserably.
Her heart ordered her to stay; they needed to talk
this out, to determine how to work together.
Then her sense of duty jerked in, forbidding her to shirk her
responsibilities, even for Jack. The
deciding vote, however, was neither heart nor duty, but fear: she feared
continuing the conversation, scared that they were only capable of hurting each
other. Feeling cowardly and ashamed,
she bowed out nonetheless.
“Look, I, uh … I have to meet Dr. Jackson for a
meeting.”
“Yeah, go, run.
Just look me up whenever you need a good punching bag.” The hostility engrained in his farewell
facilitated her decision, and she disappeared around the corner without looking
back.
Jack felt alone and terribly ashamed. They had to stop doing this to each other,
but he didn’t know how. It all pointed
to a conversation they should’ve had a long time ago.
Question was … would it be enough?
******
It was Sam.
That was the only logical explanation. She must have snuck in while he was stuck in
the infirmary, signing off on the initial paperwork. She would’ve had plenty of time, as he’d been there a while … too
long, in fact.
He propped his somnolent body against the door,
oblivious to the amount of time he’d been standing there. Ever since leaving the gateroom, he’d been
moving on autopilot; the brief meeting with Hammond, the stop in the infirmary
… all done in a trance, as if hypnotized.
And, in the end, his preprogrammed feet had steered him here – his
quarters, where the last thing he recollected was kicking the door closed
behind him with a sharp jerk of his foot.
Shaking off his disorientation, O’Neill tread
further into the tiny space. The room
was dark, the small fixture by the utilitarian bed providing the only
light. The gray, unadorned walls, the
dark-gray cement floor … the room exuded no life, no personality. It was just … cold.
He liked it that way … it suited his mood.
He sensed his way around the room, his dejected
body walking until his hands met the chair adjacent the generic table. Dropping into it, he slanted back in the
seat, his eyes squeezing shut. Lifting
his right leg to rest on his left, he untied the bootlaces; when finished, he
released his leg, and used the other foot to kick the shoe off. He methodically proceeded with the left leg
in the same manner. Once removed, he
paused before undoing the buttons of his BDU jacket, his eyes still refusing to
open. He tugged the jacket off,
economically discarding it to the floor beside him. He pressed back further into the chair, the strong seat
supporting his cumbersome weight.
Damn. What
a day.
He unlocked his eyes before he could complete that
thought. He would not get into this; he couldn’t afford to … not now. He needed to move, and keep moving. He thrust forward in the chair, plunging his
torso over his knees as he removed his socks.
Just as he yanked vigorously on the soft fabric, his eyes glanced
upward.
That’s when he noticed it.
He knew what
it was – that much was obvious.
He knew who brought
it here.
He had the how
pretty much narrowed down.
The why? He didn’t need to figure that out … not
after today.
What felt like days had actually only been hours as
reality slowly crept in. His quarters
where, not too long ago, he’d sprawled across the bed, staring up at the
ceiling, before all hell had broken loose.
What had he been thinking about, anyway? His brain must have blocked it out; that wasn’t surprising,
considering. Now, it would probably
seem trivial in comparison.
He bolted upright in the chair, his hand wiping
over his face as if it could cleanse the emotional grime from today’s
events. But it couldn’t – because,
unlike physical grime, this dirt lie underneath, where no cleanser could
reach.
Ferretti was gone.
Damn.
Jack couldn’t believe it; he couldn’t will his mind
to grasp that fact … not yet. Not when,
twenty-four hours ago, he had settled by Louis’ bedside …
‘When am I gonna talk about it Jack, this could be
my last conversation?’
‘Oh for crying out loud, it's not your last
conversation.’
… and endeavored to shake him from his
pessimism.
‘Listen, I gotta ask you something. It's not easy
for me … If you don't make it, can I have your stereo?’
He squeezed his eyes shut at the memory, tormenting
himself with doubts and what-if’s. It’s
what he did, to find humor, even in the darkest of times. And, usually, that was his one comfort.
But, not today.
Today, he only felt guilty. Not that Ferretti hadn’t needed the laugh,
especially given the circumstances, and the somber note their conversation had
taken. But, because it hadn’t been his
only motivation. Maybe, just maybe,
he’d done it out of a more selfish need, because he couldn’t talk about
emotions, not after the row he had just exchanged with Sam. No, he couldn’t lie to himself now that it
was purely for Ferretti.
“Don’t.
Just … let him go,” Jack heard her say, faintly, as he exited the
gateroom. He knew someone – and he
suspected Daniel – had tried to follow him.
Damn, but she knew him well. It
may seem astonishing, but even after all this time that fact still surprised
him. But it did little to comfort him;
in fact, it dug the pain deeper, conjuring up all the repressed emotions he
usually controlled so well.
He’d forgotten that Ferretti had hurt Sam, or
perhaps he just tried to forget. She’d
been in the control room when the Goa’uld took him over. Jack remembered her eyes – large and
frightened – as Ferretti seized her from behind, holding her hostage as he
backpedaled toward the stargate.
Powerless to stop him, O’Neill watched the elevator doors shut; he
pushed his feet to their limit, racing to meet the elevator when it opened. His
nightmare born into reality, Jack saw Sam’s motionless body slumped against the
back wall.
They rushed Sam to the infirmary, where O’Neill
staunchly waited – much to the chagrin of the medical staff – until given the
word she would be okay. He left her
side before she woke, departing for Ferretti’s room.
He unfastened his eyes then, and they converged on
the unassuming object. He considered
that, given the lack of light in the room, it could just be a figment; and, in
his current mental state, he wouldn’t be surprised. There was only one way to be sure; but he dared not touch it, in
case it was actually real.
So he stared at it.
And he remembered …
**********
Sam had been slaving over the stove, supervising
three pots on top and one pan in the oven.
Sam hated cooking and, according to her, she never had much practice
growing up. Her mother passed away
before she could impart any skills to Sam; afterwards, the Carter’s typically
ate out, whenever they actually ate together.
And, like the professional college student she was when they met, her
only especial was macaroni-and-cheese.
Luckily, Charlie loved the stuff.
So much that Sam constantly worried whether he got a balanced diet, as
he generally only ate that and chicken; even then, he never ate much of
it. But the doctor assured them that he
would eat when he was hungry.
But she’d learned much over the years – thanks to
experimentation and two obliging subjects – and had become quite the chef.
“I’m telling you, it was amazing.” He couldn’t
contain his excitement. They had
returned not too long ago from the hockey game; Charlie had predictably fallen
asleep on the way, so he carefully placed him in his bedroom to finish the late
nap. After a cursory pit stop in their
bedroom for a quick shower and change, he hightailed it down the stairs, eager
to relay the events of that day.
Sam smiled in obvious amusement, his enthusiasm
highly contagious. Their father-son
outings always warmed her heart. The
nature of Jack’s job forced him to be away a lot; so, whenever home, they
generally ensured they spent the time together – be it a walk to the park, or
hot seats to a local hockey game, or even a trip to the grocery store. He wanted to show his son the world, and he
didn’t want to waste a single moment.
The bubbling pot grabbed her attention; she
clutched the nearby spoon, quickly stirring the contents before it boiled
over.
His body leaned confidently against the counter
opposite the stove, positioned out of her way.
“The seats were great – section 105.
We could see everything.” He resumed, his hand trailing along the
burgundy tile lining the countertop – the color, he mused, provided an exact
complement to the beige wood of their cabinets. It took some convincing on her part when she picked the color;
but, he later admitted that, after installing it, she’d been right … as usual. “You were right about his seat, though. He sat there for probably 30 minutes before
moving to my lap.”
“Thirty minutes, huh,” she overstressed. “Wow, he must have really been into the
game!” She loved toying with her
husband; their playful exchanges charged the air between them, even after four
years. Thirty minutes scarcely proved a
record for Charlie, but she refused to tell him that – she wouldn’t dare douse
his enthusiasm.
“Oh, yeah!”
As he narrated the events, his hands constantly gestured, as if he were
miming. “Of course, I had to explain a
lot of the rules to him.” His eyes fell
upon the small table opposite the kitchen, near the bay window. The quaint, oak table had belonged to her
mother, and it was scratched throughout.
‘It’s called distressed,’ she’d once corrected him. Still looked like scratches to him. “So, we’re watching the game,” he recounted,
“and Charlie’s really getting into it …”
She flung him an affectionate smile as she tipped
over the pan of noodles, the contents spilling into the strainer in the sink;
Sam drew back enough so not to get overwhelmed by the steam.
“He was so excited – the game was getting real
intense. Then, he dropped the bag of
popcorn on the floor, so I bent over to pick it up, right, when he points to
something toward the ice. I followed
his finger, and I see something coming toward us – flying, like lightning. Immediately, my arm shoots up and …
bam!” He nods toward the object he had
been tossing about, “It flies right into my hand.”
“Really?”
Sam replied dryly, her dazzling smile prevailing over her sarcasm.
His grin doubled at her smart-ass remark. “Okay, you doubt me now,” he warned
teasingly, “but I’m telling you, he’s got a gift. I mean, do you know the odds of catching a puck at a game?”
With that, a huge smile stole over his face, the
pride and joy evident in the expression.
She matched it, finding herself surrendering to his excitement as she
removed the hot pan from the oven and placed it on a dish holder near the
stove. “Jack, he’s only 3 years
old!” She whined teasingly.
“I’m just saying!”
Sam headed over to his counter, reaching around and
behind him for a large spoon. “So, it’s
lucky, then?”
His eyebrows raised, he curved his head toward her
before answering. “What, the puck? Hmm
… the luck puck?” He repeated, trying
it on for size. “Hey, I like that.”
She smirked in response; she couldn’t resist his
sense-of-humor, even the corniest lines received some response. Retrieving her target, she retracted with
the spoon firm in her right hand, her feet already pivoting toward the
stove. Before she could pull away, he
hooked his finger around the button on her jeans, the small digit strongly
tugging her close to him until her face burrowed into his neck.
“What do you say,” he whispered, placing a
feather-light kiss to her ear …
“… we see …” his warm hand caressed the other side
of her neck, as his lips tantalized the skin behind her ear …
“… how lucky it is,” he finished, while his teeth
succulently nipped at her earlobe.
Her eyes fluttered at the sensations he aroused – the
attention to her ear a sweet torture – until they spotted the abandoned pans,
the sight dragging her back to earth.
“Jack,” Sam sighed, with one-half longing and one-half exasperation.
O’Neill sensed her hesitation, and altered his plan
of attack. His mouth moved around her
neck, placing silky kisses under her chin, while he deposited the puck onto the
counter behind him. Now free, his arm
snaked around her hip, his muscles pulling her tighter against him. He grasped the other earlobe between his
teeth until she moaned in his ear. Jack
knew she was on the verge of breaking, so he softly kissed downward; he suckled
her neck, her pulse throbbing beneath his tongue as he switched between kissing
and nibbling her honeyed skin.
“Jack, I’ve got … to … fin … ish … din … ooh.” If not for his strong arm cradling her,
Sam’s body would have collapsed when her knees caved in. Jack’s arm tensed, holding her firmly in
place; his other hand slowly caressed down her body, his heated touch bleeding
through her blouse, as he continued his incursion on her neck. Needing more, his hand cupped the back of
her head while he, with one stroke, spun her around to pin her between himself
and the counter, and slipped a leg between hers for balance.
Long forgetting dinner, Sam slinked one hand under
his shirt, her fingers playing with the skin near the rim of his pants, her own
plan of attack begun. Her fingers
dipped lower inside the hem, but never low enough. To torment him further, she occasionally shifted her lower body,
the motion rubbing her leg against all the right places. Through his desire-filled haze, he
recognized the need for speeding things up a bit, as Charlie would wake any
moment.
He controlled their descent, his strong arms
guaranteeing her a soft landing. All
the while, his lips continued moving south; reaching her stomach, his hands
positioned at either side leisurely lifted her top, his mouth trailing kisses
in its wake. Sensing movement to his
left, he shifted his head and, to his amusement, noted she still gripped the
spoon in her hand. Jack hoisted his
body to see her flushed face as his hand reached out to remove the object from
her grasp. “We can use this some other
time.”
“For the record,” she managed through the giggling,
“it’s lucky.” Her giggling shortly
surrendered to moaning, however, as his adept hands unfastened her bothersome
clothing, his kisses traveling south.
“Ve … ry lucky.”
******************
He pressed his palms into his eyes, his elbows
resting on his knees … the pleasant memory too much to bear.
That’s how it began. To Charlie, that puck became a sort-of security blanket, a
rabbit’s foot. It even had its own
stand in his room that they made together – well, he had crafted it, and
Charlie had decorated it. And his son
cared for it with more attentiveness than some would do for a pet. It never had a speck of dust on it.
In fact, he remembered once – Charlie must have
been around seven – when Sam had hired a housekeeper. She worked full-time again after Charlie started grade school;
but, between her job and her family, she found less and less time to manage the
house. So she hired someone to work
once a week.
The first visit corresponded with the longest leave
Jack had that year. He remembered that
they had just returned from a bike ride, while Sam stayed with the
housekeeper. He’d heard the scream from
the bathroom, after he had turned on the shower and thrown his shirt to the
floor. Knowing it originated somewhere
near Charlie’s room, he ran lightning-fast to the direct opposite side of the
house. Once there, he slammed on the
breaks, and saw one very outraged son and one very startled housekeeper. Sam sprinted up the stairwell, obviously
having heard the shriek from downstairs.
Following his shocked son’s gaze, he observed that
the unknowing housekeeper held the puck in one hand and an ordinary household
cleaner in the other. Charlie just
stared, making a great impression of a goldfish – sounds occasionally escaped
his lips, but he was too upset to spit out the words. Jack and Sam looked at each other, trying not to burst; Sam bit
on her lower lip, while Jack tried – failingly – to suppress an amused
grin.
“Uh … maybe you should put the puck down?” That sentence did it for Sam, who couldn’t
contain her laughter any longer.
Charlie stared at his mother in shock, obviously not amused at all with
the situation. The elder woman, too,
stared in shock, but at Jack, as she just realized that he was clad only in his
shorts.
It worked out in the end; fortunately, she had only
just picked up the puck, and hadn’t touched it when Charlie found her. The woman immediately understood when Sam
explained, but that housekeeper never did return.
It came in handy, though. The puck ended many a tear when he was younger, and consoled him
when he was sick or hurt. During the
older years, the puck functioned great as a bribe – a reward for good behavior,
and a threat for the not-so-good behavior.
It worked like a charm.
