SG-1 Fic: Metaphors for the Void
Title: Metaphors for the Void
Author: Abyssinia
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Characters: Sara O’Neill, Jack O’Neill
Rating/Warning: PG-13
Word Count: 1686 words
Author's Note: A month ago
katie_m responded to my request for timestamp prompts with: One month after A Still, Small Voice. Thanks to
aurora_novarum for the quick beta. We won't talk about how the title was almost "in which Jack and Sara don't have sex."
Summary: A month after Sara learns Jack is missing in action and presumed dead, he shows up at her doorstep. Even old ghosts need to eventually rest.
Sara's reorganizing the basement when the doorbell rings. The black pick-up out front is visible through her kitchen window and there's a brief moment where she can't bear to answer the door. She does anyway, because she's too old to be afraid of ghosts.
Jack looks like he wants to be standing anywhere else and his eyes focus somewhere beyond her left shoulder instead of on her face. "I thought you were dead," she says, surprising herself at the sharpness and the jolt of pain deep in her gut. It's the first time she's realized how much actually believing it would hurt. Seems she'll never be able to truly exorcise him from her life.
He shrugs. "I got better." It's a little too nonchalant, even for him.
The metal of the doorknob is cold under her hand as they both let his words hang in the air, not quite looking at each other. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched under a voluminous black windbreaker.
"Look, can I come in?" he asks at the same time she says, "I have beer in the fridge." When he steps from the twilight of her porch to the bright lights in the hallway, she notices how pale he looks. He’s skinny beneath the clothing he always buys a little too big.
She'd moved not long after the incident with the thing that wasn't Jack and wasn't Charlie -- couldn't stand rattling alone with the ghosts in that too-big house -- and he hasn't been here, so she guides him to the kitchen and hands him two bottles from her fridge. Before she can find the bottle opener he fishes his keys from his pocket and uses a keychain.
She watches the pale skin of his throat beneath the five-o-clock shadow as he swallows half the bottle. When she takes a swig of her own bottle the beer is cold and bitter on her tongue. "I just," he starts, setting the bottle down, turning it slowly, then lifting to reveal the perfect circle of condensation on the table. "Carter said they had to notify you. I wanted you to know I was okay."
The bitterness of the beer is nothing compared to what rises up from her gut. It's anger and frustration at his inability to stop punishing himself long enough to realize he was punishing her too, and at the pure meaninglessness of the "through good times and bad" he once swore to her. At the fact that ten years ago he’d promised answers and disappeared and all she had was a handful of terse letters and suddenly she was still important enough to be notified that he's gone, just not to be a part of his life. Even after the divorce, all he could give her was death and absence and more questions. But right now he looks like a strong gust of wind will blow him over and there is nothing she can say that will be sharper than the mental whips he uses for self-flagellation. "I'm glad you're okay," she says, because she still remembers how to be a military wife.
His face flashes, for just a second, naked and wounded, before shutting down hard and she swallows large mouthfuls of beer to stop herself from reaching out to either hug him or slap him. "I assume you can't tell me why they thought you were dead," she states, putting down the mostly empty bottle. "Especially since last I heard you were working a desk job in Washington."
"One of our bases had a problem that...needed some specific skills to solve," he says, evasively dancing over the truth without actually lying. She still knows all his tells. "There were complications." There are always complications.
The silence is palpable as they finish the beers and Sara fishes two more from the fridge. It's oddly both awkward and comfortable, having him in her kitchen. When he opens her second and hands it back, she can't hold back the question that's been gnawing at her for ten years. "You promised you'd explain everything, back when..."
"I couldn't tell you the truth," he interrupts. "And you deserve better than a lie."
"So, what? It was easier just to forget it?" She can't stop the anger now. "You got to just go on living your life, and I had to pretend I didn't see something that wasn't my ex-husband? That I didn't see Charlie?" He flinches at the name, the way most people would flinch at a gunshot. "Who the hell are you to decide that?"
"This was a bad idea," he tells her, pushing off the table and taking a step to the hallway. "I should go. I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"Sit down," she snaps, not caring if it comes out harsh. He nearly falls into the chair and she shakes her head. "I'm not saying I think your life has been easy, Jack. But as hard as it was being married to you, it's harder not being married. I got used to it. I got used to Charlie..." her voice catches in her throat and she swears Jack is eyeing his beer like he hopes it will drown him. "I didn't know anything for ten years. I didn't know where you were or what you were doing or whether you were missing or okay and then...then suddenly there's two people in uniforms telling me the Air Force thinks you're dead."
The last word is barely a whisper and he reaches across the table to take her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm retiring," he says. "For real this time. Moving back to Colorado and waiting for them to invent bionic knees."
"Why are you here, Jack?" she asks tiredly.
"I..." he starts, reaching up to scrub his hands through his hair. "I had a lot of time to think, when I was...when the Air Force thought I was dead, about..."
Sara shakes her head. Jack is one the bravest men she knows, risking his life for people he's never met, but asking him to talk about feelings has always been pulling teeth. She opens her mouth to tell him it's okay, but he raises a hand to stop her.
"It wasn't fair to you. I wasn't fair to you. And I'm not asking for forgiveness, and I know I can't make it better, but I just...wanted to say I was sorry. You deserved better than I gave you."
If she looks at him, really looks at him: beyond the age and the worry and the wrinkles and the hollowness, she can still find the man she married. He's hiding somewhere around the eyes and the way he holds himself so still in the chair while constantly appearing almost in motion. "I forgave you a long time ago," she tells him. She doubts the things he thinks he needs forgiveness for are the same as the things she actually forgave him for. It doesn't matter.
His head bows and he releases a long breath. Before he can say anything, and before she can think better of it, she leans forward and kisses him. He goes completely still, but just when she's about to pull back, his hand comes up to tangle in her hair and his lips soften and, oh god, it's just like all those years never even happened. Her heartbeat is crashing in her ears, the way it hasn't in so very long, and she's remembering all over again that for all the problems they had, loving each other enough was never one of them.
After a minute she pulls back, runs a finger along his cheekbone, and says, "I do have a bed you know." When his eyebrow raises she adds, "I mean, we could try the kitchen table, but I think we're getting a little too old for that."
"I didn't come here for sex." His voice is hoarse.
"I know," she says, standing up and holding out her hand.
He hesitates a minute before taking it and letting her lead him down the hall to her bedroom and when she turns around he's right there, leaning down to kiss her again. She pulls back to unbutton his shirt and finds a new scar on his chest. It looks almost like a handprint, though not human-sized, and it's red and a little bit angry, like it's still new to him too. Unthinking, she lifts her right hand to cover it and suddenly his fingers are tight around her wrist and he's stepping back and she knows this drill too, relaxing and dropping her hand when he lets go, giving him a minute to readjust before looking at him.
His eyes are unfocused and she can see him breathing hard. "Sorry," he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair again and then slowly collapsing to sit on her bed. He looks small and lost, elbows on knees and head in hands, and she sits next to him, careful to telegraph her movement. Hesitantly, she reaches a hand to his back and, when he doesn't flinch, rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades. "You don't have to," she says quietly, "but if you want to talk about it...."
The question hangs in the air a long minute before he shakes his head. "It wouldn't make sense without everything I'm not allowed to tell you." It's less of a refusal than she's gotten in the past.
"C'mere," she says, lying back on the bed and pulling him with her, so his head rests on her breast. She lets her fingers card through the hair on the back of his head and feels him slowly relax against her. "I'd like to see you occasionally. If you do move back here." She chooses to take his grunt as agreement.
Hours later, sometime in the middle of the night, he rolls away from her, puts on his jacket, and lets himself out the front door. She pretends to still be asleep.
This entry was originally posted at dreamwidth
. Replies are welcome on either post.
Author: Abyssinia
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Characters: Sara O’Neill, Jack O’Neill
Rating/Warning: PG-13
Word Count: 1686 words
Author's Note: A month ago
katie_m responded to my request for timestamp prompts with: One month after A Still, Small Voice. Thanks to
aurora_novarum for the quick beta. We won't talk about how the title was almost "in which Jack and Sara don't have sex."
Summary: A month after Sara learns Jack is missing in action and presumed dead, he shows up at her doorstep. Even old ghosts need to eventually rest.
Sara's reorganizing the basement when the doorbell rings. The black pick-up out front is visible through her kitchen window and there's a brief moment where she can't bear to answer the door. She does anyway, because she's too old to be afraid of ghosts.
Jack looks like he wants to be standing anywhere else and his eyes focus somewhere beyond her left shoulder instead of on her face. "I thought you were dead," she says, surprising herself at the sharpness and the jolt of pain deep in her gut. It's the first time she's realized how much actually believing it would hurt. Seems she'll never be able to truly exorcise him from her life.
He shrugs. "I got better." It's a little too nonchalant, even for him.
The metal of the doorknob is cold under her hand as they both let his words hang in the air, not quite looking at each other. His hands are stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his shoulders slightly hunched under a voluminous black windbreaker.
"Look, can I come in?" he asks at the same time she says, "I have beer in the fridge." When he steps from the twilight of her porch to the bright lights in the hallway, she notices how pale he looks. He’s skinny beneath the clothing he always buys a little too big.
She'd moved not long after the incident with the thing that wasn't Jack and wasn't Charlie -- couldn't stand rattling alone with the ghosts in that too-big house -- and he hasn't been here, so she guides him to the kitchen and hands him two bottles from her fridge. Before she can find the bottle opener he fishes his keys from his pocket and uses a keychain.
She watches the pale skin of his throat beneath the five-o-clock shadow as he swallows half the bottle. When she takes a swig of her own bottle the beer is cold and bitter on her tongue. "I just," he starts, setting the bottle down, turning it slowly, then lifting to reveal the perfect circle of condensation on the table. "Carter said they had to notify you. I wanted you to know I was okay."
The bitterness of the beer is nothing compared to what rises up from her gut. It's anger and frustration at his inability to stop punishing himself long enough to realize he was punishing her too, and at the pure meaninglessness of the "through good times and bad" he once swore to her. At the fact that ten years ago he’d promised answers and disappeared and all she had was a handful of terse letters and suddenly she was still important enough to be notified that he's gone, just not to be a part of his life. Even after the divorce, all he could give her was death and absence and more questions. But right now he looks like a strong gust of wind will blow him over and there is nothing she can say that will be sharper than the mental whips he uses for self-flagellation. "I'm glad you're okay," she says, because she still remembers how to be a military wife.
His face flashes, for just a second, naked and wounded, before shutting down hard and she swallows large mouthfuls of beer to stop herself from reaching out to either hug him or slap him. "I assume you can't tell me why they thought you were dead," she states, putting down the mostly empty bottle. "Especially since last I heard you were working a desk job in Washington."
"One of our bases had a problem that...needed some specific skills to solve," he says, evasively dancing over the truth without actually lying. She still knows all his tells. "There were complications." There are always complications.
The silence is palpable as they finish the beers and Sara fishes two more from the fridge. It's oddly both awkward and comfortable, having him in her kitchen. When he opens her second and hands it back, she can't hold back the question that's been gnawing at her for ten years. "You promised you'd explain everything, back when..."
"I couldn't tell you the truth," he interrupts. "And you deserve better than a lie."
"So, what? It was easier just to forget it?" She can't stop the anger now. "You got to just go on living your life, and I had to pretend I didn't see something that wasn't my ex-husband? That I didn't see Charlie?" He flinches at the name, the way most people would flinch at a gunshot. "Who the hell are you to decide that?"
"This was a bad idea," he tells her, pushing off the table and taking a step to the hallway. "I should go. I'm sorry I disturbed you."
"Sit down," she snaps, not caring if it comes out harsh. He nearly falls into the chair and she shakes her head. "I'm not saying I think your life has been easy, Jack. But as hard as it was being married to you, it's harder not being married. I got used to it. I got used to Charlie..." her voice catches in her throat and she swears Jack is eyeing his beer like he hopes it will drown him. "I didn't know anything for ten years. I didn't know where you were or what you were doing or whether you were missing or okay and then...then suddenly there's two people in uniforms telling me the Air Force thinks you're dead."
The last word is barely a whisper and he reaches across the table to take her hand, running his thumb over her knuckles. "I'm retiring," he says. "For real this time. Moving back to Colorado and waiting for them to invent bionic knees."
"Why are you here, Jack?" she asks tiredly.
"I..." he starts, reaching up to scrub his hands through his hair. "I had a lot of time to think, when I was...when the Air Force thought I was dead, about..."
Sara shakes her head. Jack is one the bravest men she knows, risking his life for people he's never met, but asking him to talk about feelings has always been pulling teeth. She opens her mouth to tell him it's okay, but he raises a hand to stop her.
"It wasn't fair to you. I wasn't fair to you. And I'm not asking for forgiveness, and I know I can't make it better, but I just...wanted to say I was sorry. You deserved better than I gave you."
If she looks at him, really looks at him: beyond the age and the worry and the wrinkles and the hollowness, she can still find the man she married. He's hiding somewhere around the eyes and the way he holds himself so still in the chair while constantly appearing almost in motion. "I forgave you a long time ago," she tells him. She doubts the things he thinks he needs forgiveness for are the same as the things she actually forgave him for. It doesn't matter.
His head bows and he releases a long breath. Before he can say anything, and before she can think better of it, she leans forward and kisses him. He goes completely still, but just when she's about to pull back, his hand comes up to tangle in her hair and his lips soften and, oh god, it's just like all those years never even happened. Her heartbeat is crashing in her ears, the way it hasn't in so very long, and she's remembering all over again that for all the problems they had, loving each other enough was never one of them.
After a minute she pulls back, runs a finger along his cheekbone, and says, "I do have a bed you know." When his eyebrow raises she adds, "I mean, we could try the kitchen table, but I think we're getting a little too old for that."
"I didn't come here for sex." His voice is hoarse.
"I know," she says, standing up and holding out her hand.
He hesitates a minute before taking it and letting her lead him down the hall to her bedroom and when she turns around he's right there, leaning down to kiss her again. She pulls back to unbutton his shirt and finds a new scar on his chest. It looks almost like a handprint, though not human-sized, and it's red and a little bit angry, like it's still new to him too. Unthinking, she lifts her right hand to cover it and suddenly his fingers are tight around her wrist and he's stepping back and she knows this drill too, relaxing and dropping her hand when he lets go, giving him a minute to readjust before looking at him.
His eyes are unfocused and she can see him breathing hard. "Sorry," he mutters, scrubbing a hand through his hair again and then slowly collapsing to sit on her bed. He looks small and lost, elbows on knees and head in hands, and she sits next to him, careful to telegraph her movement. Hesitantly, she reaches a hand to his back and, when he doesn't flinch, rubs gentle circles between his shoulder blades. "You don't have to," she says quietly, "but if you want to talk about it...."
The question hangs in the air a long minute before he shakes his head. "It wouldn't make sense without everything I'm not allowed to tell you." It's less of a refusal than she's gotten in the past.
"C'mere," she says, lying back on the bed and pulling him with her, so his head rests on her breast. She lets her fingers card through the hair on the back of his head and feels him slowly relax against her. "I'd like to see you occasionally. If you do move back here." She chooses to take his grunt as agreement.
Hours later, sometime in the middle of the night, he rolls away from her, puts on his jacket, and lets himself out the front door. She pretends to still be asleep.
This entry was originally posted at dreamwidth
. Replies are welcome on either post.