Old Love, New Beginning

by

moon_n_star

Part II

 

 

 

“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. 

 

Charlie had even used it on him once.  About a year after the game, O’Neill had returned from a particularly nasty mission in which both friends and the battle were lost.  Cemented to his favorite brown-leather armchair, his eyes vacantly glued out the living room window, he distantly heard Sam asking Charlie to leave him alone. 

 

“Daddy’s not feeling good right now.” 

 

That was an understatement.

 

How could a four-year-old possibly understand what he’d seen?  Nor did he expect him to.  That was the exact reason why he did it, so that his son may, one day, never have to.  It was idealistic, and naïve, but it gave Jack the motivation to carry on.   It was hard at first.  He truly loved his wife and son – no one who witnessed them together would ever doubt that.  But, when in full mood swing after returning from a mission, his family usually took the brunt, something he rebuked himself for.  He never wanted to cause his family strife or pain – he only wanted to love and protect them, and that thought alone helped him through the tough missions.  He did it for his family, so that they would be safe. 

 

He had no idea how much time had passed since he overheard their conversation in the kitchen; he’d pretty much tuned everything else out as the mission replayed over and over in his head.  His mind became hazily aware of something to his left; he arched his head slowly, his eyes resting upon his young son standing tentatively behind the chair.  Charlie just had a bath, evident from his wet hair, which was disheveled from towel drying, and his clean pajamas.  Their eyes caught; he recognized, as if for the first time, how much his son’s eyes resembled Sam’s.  And, just like his mother, they emitted so much in their blue depth. 

 

Faintly aware of movement, Jack looked down toward the boy’s hand, and his heart immediately melted when he saw what it held.  The puck.  A proud grin dawned on his face, and all thoughts of missions and death and military flew out the same window he catatonically stared out of for the good part of the day.  He took the puck from his son’s hand, the action evoking a similar grin from his son. 

 

“Thank you,” he managed to whisper through a gravelly voice.  Charlie’s grin widened, obviously pleased with his success.  

 

Swept away in the moment, neither noticed the audience silently watching from the kitchen doorway.  Sam rarely cried, but the sight before her couldn’t stop the flood of emotions overwhelming her, allowing a few tears to escape before she turned away, not wishing to intrude any longer. 

 

He didn’t know what hurt worse: that he just lost his friend not two hours ago, or the memories her ‘gift’ conjured.  So simple and yet so powerful, its presence intoxicated him, his eyes trapped like tunnel vision that eliminated everything from view.   It reminded him of the good times, the happiest years in his life, when he loved his family and they loved him. 

 

And nothing was more important. 

 

For a brief moment, he immersed himself in his memories, allowing himself the illusion that his family still existed, and that they still loved him.  But, as always, the fantasy shattered, and reality crashed back in. 

 

Peeling his eyes from the table, he felt the sudden urge to bolt from the constraining confines of his quarters.  But go where?  He couldn’t go home … it didn’t exist anymore, not like in his memories.  That home – that world – was gone, along with everything it embodied; going to the unbearably empty house he owned now would only drive home that fact.  He needed something else, something that would remind him what love and family meant. 

 

And only one place came to mind …

 

******

 

‘Maybe not such a good idea.’

 

His truck lurked under the sprawling tree, its orange and crimson leaves drizzling like a delicate, graceful rain on a clear day.  The engine long turned off, the only sound to be heard was the rustling fall wind rumbling against the stationary pickup; the view beyond the windshield exposed a sparkling autumn day, the toppling leaves showering the cemetery with a beautiful explosion of color.  The sun sagged in the pale blue sky, shaded by the snow-capped mountains that loomed in the distance. 

 

It was a perfect day.

 

But not to O'Neill.

 

Taut and anxious, he lingered in the truck, his body planted in the seat; his uneasy hands gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles whitened.  Aimlessly, Jack glowered out the glass, his mind perverting the picturesque sunshine into darkness, the azure sky into grayness, the falling leaves into ashes. 

 

He didn’t want perfect - perfect was nice and simple.  And his reason for being here was anything but nice or simple.

 

Lodged in his seat, O'Neill conceded that anguish, and not indecision, prevented him from budging.  He came seeking refuge from the pain and loss of today, not really thinking that this place would remind him of the very thing he sought to forget.  He had visited only a few times, with each one being more painful than the last. 

 

Never one to retreat without a fight, however, he scrapped his doubts and exited the car.  Pulled up off the path, he jostled the door open; each foot took turns stepping outside and, once firm on the ground, his body followed suit.  Jack’s arm clung to the door for support, the other stretching up to secure the sunglasses around his jaded eyes; with this new perspective, he observed, the overcast sky appeared almost as black as coal. 

 

He browsed the immediate area, noting the scattered cars parked here and there, then swung the door shut; the discordant slam reverberated through the stillness, the raucous sound blasphemous in the hallowed grounds.  He tread away from his truck with his eyes pointed down; although he'd only visited a couple of times, he instinctively maneuvered along the path, the worn grass having wilted into a yellowish-green.  His heavy boots crunched the brittle foliage that confettied the ground, and the wind howled through the trees, the sound of the barren branches crackling against each other chilling and hollow.  His sheltered eyes squinted when facing the low, fiery sun, the dark shades no match for its brilliance. 

 

The temperature had slumped several degrees with the setting sun; or, perhaps, O’Neill considered, the chill that beset him was more psychological.  Nonetheless, he tugged his leather jacket tighter as the nippy breeze swept through his exhausted bones, and he thrust his uncovered hands into his coat pockets, his right brushing the metal object resting there.

 

He kept his eyes peeled to the ground, his mind priming him for the onslaught of emotions; he tried not to think or to feel, but allowed the ambiance to permeate his leaden heart.  Jack had changed since he was last here, just after the first Abydos mission; his unremitting misery didn’t consume him as before.  But he hadn’t changed so much that this still didn’t kill him – like a dagger puncturing his lungs, amputating his ability to breathe. 

 

He rounded the arc in the trail, his heart stilling as he drew closer.  His lids squeezed shut as he purposely inhaled deep breaths before his feet involuntarily stopped.  He blew out the indrawn breath, and steadily released his hesitant eyelids.  The vision opposite him startled Jack out of his own foreboding.

 

Sam.

 

Crouched forward on her knees, with her feet perpendicular behind her, Sam started at his arrival, her gloved hand stilling as it caressed the smoky-gray headstone.  Shards of golden light escaped past the mountainous landscape, illuminating her sun-kissed hair and silken skin.  Stunned into an unnerving silence, her lips, pursed into a thin line, betrayed her sense of apprehension. 

Fight or flight, O’Neill contemplated. 

Loathe to intrude upon her privacy, Jack’s gut opted for flight, compelling his mind to depart asap.  But he clenched down on that impulse, recognizing morosely that fighting was impossible here; and, no fighting meant talking … honest to goodness, no holds barred talking.  And, although it wasn’t why he came here – in truth, had he known she was here, he would’ve steered clear – they needed to talk, needed to resolve this friction between them … before they both broke. 

 

“I could come back …” O’Neill offered, his temperate voice rupturing the silence that followed his appearance. His hands still cowering in the pockets of his jacket, he veered sideways to signal his truck, the motion causing his arms to flail somewhat.

 

“No … it’s okay.”  Sam nodded in assurance, because it was – she could think of no other person that belonged more.  How many times had she sat here, alone and despondent, wishing for his companionship and strength?  Suddenly conscious that her body had stiffened at his entrance, she yanked her arm away from the hard granite, the gloved hand coming to rest on her lap.   

 

He inched closer toward her, extracting his hands from their protective shell.  Jack withdrew the puck from the pocket; uneasily embracing the object in his right hand, he extended his arm toward her.  “Uh, this is yours.”

Her gaze lowered to his raised fist, instantly locking on the black disk.  Her heart sank at the image – that simple item encompassed so much sentiment and too many memories … like looking at a long-lost photograph.  It was also the first time she’d seen him with anything of their son’s since he died – not that she begrudged him for it, for Sam of all people understood.  Except she had given him the puck because it fit – it undeniably belonged to him – and, somehow, she knew it was time.  “Keep it.”

The puck tilted in his hand, the question hanging from his lips.  After Sam gestured her consent, he seized it with both hands, bringing it before him.  “Thanks.”  Jack groped the inconspicuous disk in his palms, relishing in the sensation – it felt good to hold it again … he just didn’t know if he deserved it. 

Her feet rocked backward, impelling her legs ahead of her before twisting them to sit Indian style.  Once settled, Sam glimpsed up, raising her eyebrows in invitation.  Taking the hint, he joined her, cautiously sinking to the grass to her left. 

 

It was awkward for both – considering where they were, considering that he would normally sit from behind and tug her willing form close to his chest.  This was the first quiet moment they had shared since their divorce …

 

… and it was awkward. 

 

Jack almost wished they were fighting.

“I, uh, just saw Annie,” her voice quivered, the feelings too fresh to subjugate. 

Jack grimaced at this revelation; he’d neglected to call her, presuming that Hammond would make the necessary calls.  But, neither married nor engaged, Annie would most likely have heard it from Louis’ relatives.  They’d been together for four years now, which certainly entitled her the right in O’Neill’s mind, regardless of their marital status.  “I probably should’ve been the one to …”

“You had other responsibilities at the base, Jack.  Kawalsky wanted her to know right away, and from someone she knew.  I volunteered to go along in case she needed another familiar face.  We were both in shock, really.  That’s probably why Charlie wanted to do it, before reality could set in.” 

 

His frown remained, impervious to her words.  Sam identified the expression immediately as guilt for shunning his duty, a sense that ran in him as deep as blood. 

 

“There’s nothing you could have done different,” Sam added, her tone tenderly assuring him. 

 

“Yeah,” Jack admitted solemnly - he knew it was true, but truth didn’t lessen his remorse. 

 

Their dialogue paused, each awaiting the inevitable conversation.  Jack plucked the murky glasses from around his ears, letting them crash carelessly around his neck.  Without facing her, he opened his mouth to speak, wanting to heal the paralysis created by their last interaction.  “Look, I, um … I’m sorry about before – our, uh, disagreement.” 

 

“Which one?”  She scoffed thoughtlessly, but immediately regretted the flippant remark, fully aware that comments like that usually sent the sparks flying. 

 

But, whatever her concern, Jack didn’t share it.  “All of ‘em.  I really don’t mean it … you know what an ass I can be sometimes.”

 

‘Sometimes?’  She privately ragged, but prevented herself from voicing it.  Two years ago, she wouldn’t have hesitated.  “Well, my behavior hasn’t exactly been … “  Her chin darted out as she racked her brain for the proper description.  Unsuccessful in her search, she recycled his word.

 

“ … un-ass-ish … either.” 

 

Albeit, with a little modification.

 

His lopsided grin exploded, and Jack was powerless to restrain his laughter.  Sam had a wicked sense-of-humor, one she didn’t display to just anyone.  He loved her wit, a part of the fire that radiated within her – a fire he thought he had burned out.  But her recent word manipulation - ‘unassish’ … so not a word – was very classic Jack O’Neill. 

 

“Charlie hated it when we fought.” 

 

Disciplining his features, Jack angled his head to engage her, only to discover her glossed eyes staring into the sky, lost in the memory.  “Yeah, never much cared for it myself.”

 

“No, me neither,” she sighed faintly.

 

“Look, I, uh … I know I’m not the easiest person to get along with - you know I’m not the easiest person to get along with.”  Jack paused, pointedly fixing her with a serious look.  “If it’s too – hard – I’ll leave.  They obviously need you a hell of a lot more than they need me.”

 

His proposition overpowering her, Sam delayed before countering, mindful that, if she spoke before calming herself, the unwanted tears loitering behind her thick eyelids would flow freely.  “Oh, I don’t know about that.  I saw you out there, and you were …”

 

“A hard ass?”  He added self-effacingly; but, despite his diversionary attempt, Sam saw through it.

“… amazing."  Her heartfelt word attracted his eyes to hers, finding within their depth a breathtaking sense of devotion and pride.  Their unguarded eyes entangled in an all-encompassing gaze, the intensity expunging their recent history and plunging them both back to a time long gone.  Drifting along the ripple of tenderness and familiarity, the remembrance of light, loving touches and affectionate embraces consoled his aching soul, like a bowl of hot soup on a blistering winter day.  His parched heart drank in her warmth, a heat Jack had leaned on for years, her openness at once both dangerous and peaceful.  His unabashed hunger flickered bluntly across his eyes; the need wasn’t sexual, but sensual, and it trounced upon his defenses, forcing him to feel.  Jack needed her – he had ever since they met.  Finding Sam was the best thing that had ever happened to him; that she had loved him back dumbfounded him.  He doubted she'd ever truly know how deep his feelings for her went, for he barricaded the intensity of his emotion behind his hardened armor … and did so for a reason, Jack reminded himself.

"You’re needed, Jack," she murmured quietly, her stare solid despite the wobble in her voice. 

Jack knew he should leave; that staying would only hurt more … hurt him more.  Two years was a long time, plenty enough for her to have moved on – and that was a notion that both gladdened and aggrieved him.  And yet, despite the complexity, Jack couldn’t wholly disregard the muted hope in her voice.  For a brief moment, he questioned whether Sam meant it was the SGC that needed him, or something – someone – else.  But it didn’t matter, his mind scolded him sternly, because those days were irretrievably lost. 

 

The SGC did need him, both of them - it wasn't an arrogant statement, but Jack knew it just the same.  And he needed it, too, just as he suspected she did.  So he decided to stay, to put aside his ambiguous emotions for the greater good. 

 

After all, if Sam believed in him, then he believed, too.

 

“So …”

 

“So.”

Their eyes parted, uncertainty invading the empty space.  The mood was decidedly less discomforting, as if they understood that, although no longer attached or bound to the other, they still had a loving history – a relationship that had weathered numerous storms.  There was no one outside that circle that they trusted more.  “Where does that leave us?”

“Colleagues?”  Her tone questioned the response; working around him would be hard, not because he was difficult, but because the idea of trading their relationship with a detached professionalism turned her cold.  But, if they couldn’t go back – no matter if they wanted to or not – what did that say about their future? 

‘Colleagues’ … he balked at the iciness of the word.  “Actually, I was, uh, thinking more on the lines of friends,” Jack suggested.  "There was a time when we were just friends.”

“We were never just friends, Jack."  Sam admonished softly, the truth causing his head to nod in concession.  ‘Although you were the best friend I ever had for over ten years,’ she added silently.

“True, but ... look, we only have two options here – one of us leaves,” her look of aversion echoed his own distaste, so he directly proceeded with the second choice, “or we both stay and bury the hatchet ... start over.”

 

“Start over … as friends?”

“Yeah.  Here ...”  Sam glimpsed down at Jack’s extended hand, then gradually lifted her gaze into his resolute eyes – determination, fear, remorse, friendship … they were all there, a testament to his unfailing bravery.  Just as determined, Sam stretched out her arm and lightly situated her palm against his. 

"Jack O'Neill." 

"Samantha Carter." 

Briefly, their fingers entwined, both bathing in the gesture’s reassurance as they ratified their new beginning.  But the moment soon ended, and he slipped his hand from hers.  Yet, as much as he excelled in the art of repressing his feelings, Jack O’Neill could never suppress his humor – in fact, it was the very brush with which he painted his camouflage.

“Can I still call you Sammie?”

 

Adopting his playful tone, a devilish grin stole over her as she peered at him sideways.  "I never let you when we were married ... Jonathon."

 

His down-turned head jerked upward as a small snort escaped him. 

 

”Friends?”  She questioned, testing the unfamiliar word on her lips. 

”Friends,” he agreed confidently.  Embraced in a contented silence, his eyes wandered over the arresting landscape, observing for the first time how the residual leaves nuzzled the withering branches for sanctuary … how the emerald grass swayed in the wispy breeze like the ocean tide … how the lofty mountains nestled the humble earth like a protective mother … how Sam’s smile shined brighter than the autumn sun. 

 

Perhaps it was a perfect day. 

Jack’s eyebrows abruptly awakened as his hands encountered something lodged in his left pocket, an item he’d snatched earlier from the commissary.  Excitedly, he dug his fingers into the pouch, the action triggering a quizzical look from Sam.  Having salvaged the object, his palm unfolded to bare a saran-wrapped cookie – chocolate chip, her favorite.  With an amused smile, Sam looked up to his face and witnessed his brows elevate in a silent proposal.  Following her small nod, he unwrapped the cookie and, dividing it in two, passed half to Sam.

“Thanks.”
 

For the first time in two years, Jack felt … good.  His lips were unable to contain their elation at the confession; the pressure drained from his face and shoulders, and his body eased with the fading tension. 

“Not bad, considering it’s from the commissary.”  Sam remarked pleasantly.

And, also for the first time, he regarded the future with a little hope.  Samantha Carter would always own his heart; even he couldn't lie to himself about how much he'd missed her, and how the concept of seeing her day-to-day didn't electrify his traitorous heart.  And, if they couldn't be what they were, wouldn't friendship be enough? 

 

He had no idea what the future held - for him, for them, for the planet - but he knew they could do this.  “Yeah ...” 

 

With Sam by his side, he could do anything. 

 

“ ... yours are better.”

 

******

 

The End