Gravity Always Wins in the End (2/6)
Title: Gravity Always Wins in the End
Author: Annerb
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After Sam is held hostage, Jack takes an impromptu trip to Atlantis.
Timeline: SGA Season 4, sometime before ‘Midway’
Categorization: H/C, SG-1/SGA Crossover, Sam/Jack
Gravity Always Wins in the End
Day One
Day Two
Jack is sitting in the commissary picking at the Pegasus’s version of tuna casserole when Teyla and Sheppard appear, and after a brief hesitation, sit across from him.
Jack’s been down here for almost an hour. He’d woken to find Sam already hard at work at her computer, the daylight streaming across the unyielding stiffness of her profile. He’d grabbed a book off her shelf, leafing through it while she worked.
They spent most of the morning like that until she’d started to get that look he knew meant she was going to kill him if she didn’t get at least twenty minutes to herself. They’ve never been the spend-every-moment-together kind of people, no matter how much she hadn’t let herself move more than five inches away from him last night.
She has a history of finding some things harder to admit during the daylight.
Ronon and McKay follow Sheppard and Teyla to the table a short while later. Ronon nods at Jack, but McKay, busily in the middle of a scientific rant of some kind or another, doesn’t even notice him. That’s fine with Jack.
“I mean, I told Zelenka not to let Miko near the damn thing, but does he listen?” McKay pauses to shove a giant forkful of food into his mouth and his eyes fall on Jack, widening almost comically as he chokes on his food. Sheppard whacks him on the back.
“What are you doing here?” McKay eventually sputters around his mouthful.
Jack takes a deep breath and tries to remind himself that these are Sam’s people and she would undoubtedly not look kindly on him physically harming any of them, no matter how tempting.
“I’m visiting Sam,” Jack explains evenly.
“Visiting Sam?” McKay repeats with far too much incredulity for Jack’s taste. It isn’t that he expects Sam to discuss her private life with these people, but it’s a bit off-putting how inconceivable their relationship seems to be. Then again, it’s Sam, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Some days he’s shocked by it.
“Yes, McKay,” Jack repeats. “I’m visiting Sam.”
McKay seems to deflate a little bit. “Oh. How is she today?”
All eyes land on Jack, full of genuine concern and he shrugs.
These people have had six months to get to know Sam, they should know by now that she’ll deal with this by going back to work too early and compartmentalizing away like she’s the machine she wishes she could be sometimes. If they don’t get that, there’s no way he’s going to explain it to them.
“She’s Carter,” he says.
“What is that supposed to mean?” McKay asks only to let out an indignant ‘Ow!’ when someone apparently kicks him under the table. Jack’s money is on Teyla. Her aura of serenity doesn’t fool him for a second.
Jack looks around the table, deciding that if he’s got to sit here with Sam’s frontline team, he might as well dig up some information on the situation.
“So,” he says, “anyone ready to tell me how the hell you let this happen?”
The question tumbles out into the middle of the table with all the delicacy of a bomb. Ronon shifts in his chair, somehow his entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to on guard with the simple change in posture. Sheppard’s eyes narrow in suspicion, far too canny to take Jack’s sudden hostility at face value. Teyla just looks bored by his posturing. Only McKay visibly flusters, his mouth falling open on an indignant, “Excuse me?”
With little more than a flick of his head, Sheppard manages to silence McKay and signal Ronon to hold off on maiming anyone for the moment. Jack’s mildly impressed, despite himself.
“I thought you weren’t here for an inquest, sir,” Sheppard grinds out.
Jack nods, spreading his hands wide. “Consider it a friendly request, then.”
They stare at each other across the table for a while, an unspoken battle of wills, until Teyla mutters something under her breath that is rather unflattering to them both.
“We were establishing trade relations with the Yorell,” she supplies, ever the diplomat of the group. “They are not a very advanced culture, having suffered greatly from frequent cullings, but their planet is rich with raw materials. They were eager for our friendship and our medical aid. They specifically requested Colonel Carter’s presence for the final ceremony.”
“And of course she went,” Jack says.
Teyla nods. “She often brokers alliances with new cultures in person.”
Jack isn’t surprised. It’s not Sam’s style to be hands off, no matter how much better he’d be able to sleep if she were.
“I sent Lorne’s team with her,” Sheppard interjects, his tone not hiding the fact that he now wishes he had gone himself.
“A third party blackmailed the Yorell to betray her,” Teyla explains.
“How?” Jack asks, wondering how a benign, primitive people could be pushed into that.
“They took their kids,” Ronon says, stabbing at his plate with his knife.
“As in their children?”
“Yes,” Teyla confirms.
“Jesus,” Jack swears. “Did they get them back?”
“Some of them,” Ronon says obliquely.
Jack knows he’s not getting the whole story, but isn’t sure he really wants to hear it either. “Who exactly is this mysterious third party?”
“They call themselves the Valedin,” Sheppard says. “Apparently it’s a coalition of humans that makes a great deal of money peddling protection from the Wraith.”
Like the Pegasus version of the mafia. Nice. “Is that a commodity they can actually supply?”
“As far as we can tell from our limited information.”
“You were cutting into their business,” Jack guesses, easily imagining how it all could have played out. “And they never intended to use Carter for anything as simple as ransom.”
Sheppard shakes his head. “We think they wanted her for information, but also…,” he trails off, but Jack can fill in the words.
“They hoped losing your leader would cripple you.” It’s easier to be blunt and matter of fact about Sam’s hypothetical murder here in the bright light of commissary when he doesn’t have to see the bruises on her face. Or maybe that’s just what he tells himself.
“We had no idea how to find them,” Sheppard admits, the words bitter.
Nothing sucks more than helplessness, Jack knows. “But you did eventually.”
“No,” Sheppard says. “She escaped.”
“Stole one of their ships,” Ronon adds with pride.
“Of course she did,” Jack says with a small smile.
“But not before they killed off Lorne’s entire team,” Ronon continues.
Jack’s already heard whispers of experimental drugs and drawn out deaths. “How did these people even hear of you?”
Sheppard shrugs.
“The Athosians,” Teyla says quietly.
“You think they were the ones to attack your people?” Jack asks, aware of the carefully neutral expressions the other members of her team now wear.
“The Athosians have long been the strongest allies of the Lantians, and their greatest ambassadors. It makes sense.” Her tone is almost defensive.
“It’s a possibility,” Sheppard qualifies, some sort of warning in the gaze he levels on her.
Teyla drops eye contact first, a faint tinge of red coloring her cheeks as she looks out the nearest window, her jaw set and hands absently caressing her rounded stomach.
Sheppard shoves his tray away from him, apparently having lost his appetite.
Jack doesn’t hang around for dessert.
* * *
Sam is struggling to pull on her jacket when Jack returns. He doesn’t make a comment about her going back to work too early, instead coming up behind her and carefully easing the sleeve up her arm.
A large part of Sam just wants to pull him back under the covers and spend the day with those hands chasing away the darker thoughts, but she knows that really isn’t a solution. At least not one she’ll allow herself in the harsh light of day.
“Ready to talk about it yet?” Jack asks, his hands still resting on her arms.
Sam forces herself to take a step away from him, picking up her comm from the table, and smoothing one hand down the front of her uniform. “I take it they filled you in.”
He shrugs. “Some of it.”
His tone is ambiguous at best, but she can easily imagine what he might have had to say to some of the people under her command. She sighs, knowing that even if he doesn’t do it on purpose, he has a way of intimidating people, and the last thing she needs right now is a rogue vector messing with her carefully balanced power structure here on Atlantis.
She wants Jack here, she knows that. She remembers all too clearly asking him to stay, the relief she felt, and still feels, knowing he will be here for a while. Only now, standing here in her uniform, she’s not sure what to do with him.
“Sam,” he says, cutting into her tangled thoughts. “I’m not here to complicate anything. This is your show.” She looks at him dubiously and he gives her an easy-going smile. “I’m just a guy visiting his girl.”
“Your girl?” she says, a smile already worming its way onto her face. Technically she’s offended, but knows that’s exactly why he said it. Damn him and his freaky ability to know the exact right thing to say. Seeing him standing there in his too big for him shirt with his hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets, she can almost fool herself that he isn’t a complication. Almost.
Sam sits down in front of her mirror, her hand automatically lifting to the stitches and purple shadow of a bruise under her right eye. Her hair is a bit of a wild tangle around her shoulders. She’s looked worse, much worse, but still wants to try to salvage something of her appearance before officially getting back on the job. Just another facet of command she’s adapting to: appearances really can matter.
She picks up the brush to wrest some control out her hair but involuntarily hisses at the sharp pain in her back the motion causes. She can feel Jack’s eyes on her, but he knows well enough to wait until she asks for help. Maybe in the safety of her quarters she doesn’t have to care quite so much about appearing invulnerable.
“Could you help me with my hair?”
Jack steps up behind her and takes the brush from her hand. “Sure thing, Carter,” he says. “Teal’c and I have been braiding each other’s hair for years.”
Despite all the intimacies they’ve shared over the years, this is not something he’s ever done for her. He’s amazingly deft with the brush though, carefully working his way through the tangles and she tries not to imagine when he might have practiced this. The rhythmic pull of the brush threatens to put her to sleep and she lets her eyes drift closed. He continues with the brush much longer than is probably necessary, but she doesn’t mind. Maybe he needs this as much as she does.
Eventually his hand slides under her hair and against her neck, his thumb massaging gently at the base of her skull, his fingers dipping into the hollow above her collarbone.
“I need one of those hair thingies, Sam,” he says, his voice low and slightly rough, his fingers still working gently against her flesh.
Opening her eyes, Sam meets his gaze in the mirror and she can see how hard these last three weeks were for him, how seeing her like this is still tearing at him. She picks up an elastic band from the counter, lifting it up to him, but catches his fingers with hers when he reaches for it.
“Thank you for coming, Jack,” she says.
Pulling her hair to one side, Jack leans down, pressing his lips to the side of her neck. Despite herself, she feels a surge of warmth at the contact, a shiver running down her spine.
“Anything for my girl,” he says with a grin.
“It’s a good thing you’re useful, Jack O’Neill,” she says, holding up the band again. She has no idea how she manages to sound affectionate and annoyed at the same time. Just another one of those strange effects he has on her.
He pulls her hair back in a pretty good imitation of a ponytail. After dashing a light cover of powder over her bruise, Sam decides she’s as good as she’s going to get.
“I need to go to the infirmary first,” she says, picking up her data pad. “You want to come?”
He looks surprised. “You really want me tagging along?”
She feels a beat of guilt for keeping him in the dark about her experiences, but thinks that letting him see for himself will be easier. Especially in the semi-public space of the infirmary. She tries to ignore the feeling that she’s being a coward.
“This way you won’t have to take the time to bully Dr. Keller into giving you a copy of my file later,” she says.
Jack tries to look offended, but Sam can see his amusement far too clearly to believe it. “I wouldn’t dream of harassing any of your people, Carter,” he protests.
Sam raises an eyebrow at the blatant lie and heads out the door. “You coming or not?” she calls back over her shoulder, not surprised when Jack falls in step next to her in the hallway.
Feeling him by her side in the halls that have finally become familiar, she thinks maybe her biggest fear isn’t that he’s going to complicate things, but that she’ll get used to him being here.
His hand casually brushes against hers, nothing more than everyday incidental contact, but it burns its way up her arm and she has to swallow back an agitated sigh.
Sure, Jack, she thinks, you don’t complicate anything.
* * *
Jennifer thinks Sam looks steadier, if not still rather badly banged up, when she wanders into the infirmary for her first wound checkup. General O’Neill is right on her heels, and Jennifer greets them both, guiding Sam to the nearest bed.
Sam sits patiently while she checks her face, pressing firmly along her cheek bones to make sure that the blow to her face had not cracked any bones she may have missed in her initial exam.
“How’s the headache?” Jennifer asks, aware that General O’Neill is closely observing, but choosing to ignore him for now.
“Not bad,” Sam hedges.
Jennifer interprets this to mean it’s still pretty bad, bad enough to need something to ease it, or she would have just lied and said fine. “I’ll get you a script.”
Sam nods her agreement without comment.
“And how did you sleep?”
Sam seems to pause, as if considering the question. “Fine,” she decides.
There is the soft sound of someone clearing their throat, but when Jennifer looks up at the source, General O’Neill’s expression is completely neutral as if he hasn’t just called Sam’s bluff.
“I slept well enough,” Sam reiterates, her tone warning them to disagree with her at their own peril.
The general remains noticeably silent and Jennifer follows his lead. Sam is obviously at her edge of patience with coddling.
“I’ll need to change your bandages,” Jennifer says, pulling the curtain around them and trying not to look surprised when General O’Neill steps calmly into the sequestered space. Jennifer raises an eyebrow at him in askance, but he just stares back at her as if his presence is the most natural thing in the world.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, breaking the stalemate and already sliding her jacket down her arms, following with her shirt after a brief struggle with the fabric.
Neither Sam nor the general seem to think Sam’s partial nudity is a big deal, so Jennifer puts on her professional face and refuses to speculate, even though the rest of the city is already fairly buzzing with rumor and innuendo. Sam lies down on the bed to give Jennifer better access to the bandages that cover her back from shoulder to waist.
Jennifer suppresses a shudder as she remembers the state Sam had returned to them in not so very long ago. Everyone had been disquieted to see their base commander return to Atlantis unconscious on a stretcher, her face terribly pale under the blood and bruising marring her skin. As someone who has become an active, vital part of the city, it was unnerving to see her so still.
The injuries to her back are unlike anything Jennifer has ever seen in her career: a wild tangle of ragged gashes where the sharp impact of a leather lash had torn open the flesh. Some are partially healed, others only days old. Worst of all, though, are the thin scars underneath, at least a decade old, the lines that speak to the fact that this isn’t the first time someone has taken a whip to Sam Carter.
The tension in the small space ratchets up with each bandage she removes, each wound she reveals. General O’Neill hasn’t said a word, still standing a few feet away with his arms crossed. When Jennifer dares to glance up at him, his face is completely devoid of expression and it sends a chill down her spine.
Her fingers unintentionally tense and Sam shifts, looking up at her. “Could you give us a minute, Dr. Keller?”
“Sure,” Jennifer automatically says. “I need to grab a few supplies anyway.”
She escapes out of the curtain, carefully closing it behind her, trying not to hear Sam’s soft voice as she says something to General O’Neill. Jennifer pulls open a cabinet, digging out lengths of gauze and a vial of the wonder serum they’d traded for with one of the Athosian allies earlier in the month. She dawdles a few moments longer, poking aimlessly at her data pad before heading back across the room to the curtained cubicle when she decides she’s given them enough time.
“I know, Carter,” she can hear General O’Neill saying as she nears. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t want to kill the son of a bitch.”
The general is standing close to the edge of the bed when Jennifer enters, his hand casually resting on the bed right near Sam’s elbow, but not quite touching it. He doesn’t move away and Jennifer busies herself cleaning the wounds.
“These are looking much better,” Jennifer observes to no one in particular. “The Tanthri serum seems to be working well.”
“New miracle medicine,” Sam explains, her head still turned towards the general. “Should be quite a hit back on Earth.”
“Anything that might shut up Woolsey for any length of time would be muchly appreciated,” General O’Neill replies and Jennifer has to wonder at their amazing ability to jump from gravity to amusement in the blink of an eye.
The pair continues in this vein while Jennifer replaces the bandages with fresh ones, but she can’t help but think that their light-hearted disparaging of Woolsey is a cover for something else brewing right under the surface.
When she finishes, Sam pulls her uniform back into place, her data pad already in hand and Jennifer gives the colonel a dubious look. “Are you planning on going back to work already?”
“Yes,” Sam confirms, one eyebrow raised in warning.
“Normally you would order anyone with your injuries to take at least a week or two off,” Jennifer observes, crossing her arms over her chest, refusing to be deterred.
“Unfortunately, Doctor, our current situation doesn’t allow for such a luxury,” Sam replies, just the slightest edge of steel lining her voice as she jumps down off the bed.
“Well, I’d hate to let the situation get to a point where I’d have to pull rank, Colonel,” Jennifer says, letting her know that she’s perfectly capable of doing it if she has to.
General O’Neill has been looking back and forth between the two women. Turning to Sam, he loudly declares, “I like her.”
Sam rolls her eyes. “I knew you would.”
The two stare at each other for a bit longer than Jennifer’s comfortable with and she clears her throat. “I’ve got time in my schedule if you’d like a trip through the scanner while you’re here, sir,” she offers, amused to see the man’s face lose all trace of amusement.
“No, uh, really. Wouldn’t want to be a drain on precious resources,” he says, throwing pleading glances in Sam’s direction as if asking her to not let her people torture him.
But Sam doesn’t notice, her eyes darting back towards the isolation rooms. “How is Lorne today?” she asks in a careful tone.
Jennifer frowns, tapping various files in her data pad. “No change. The anti-viral meds are still having very little effect. Until I know what’s been done to him with greater certainty…,” she trails off, not really wanting to speak the damning words.
“We’ll get you your answers, Doctor,” Sam promises, still staring back toward Lorne’s room, her jaw taking on a stubborn tilt that fills Jennifer with unease.
Shaking her head as if clearing her thoughts, Sam turns on her heel and heads out of the infirmary, the thoughtful looking general right behind.
* * *
“The rec rooms are all in the next pier,” Sam says with a jut of her chin down the next hallway.
Jack slows to a stop next to her, a wry half-smile on his face as if he’s really trying not to look amused. They both know he has little to no interest in ping pong or golfing, but it’s the only round about way she can think of asking him to let her get back to her job-alone.
A few people are filing in and out, many of them giving Sam bright, relieved smiles when they catch sight of her.
“Colonel Carter,” they say before their eyes move on to Jack.
Sam greets them by name, Jack just nodding as they move on.
“If you don’t mind,” Jack says during a break in traffic, “I’m going to explore around a bit. You know, while I’m not being chased by robots.”
“Replicators aren’t-,” Sam starts to correct, only to catch herself.
Jack grins. “I don’t suppose asking you not to work too hard is going to do me any good.”
“Probably not,” she admits, her mind already turning towards the piles of work ahead of her with something akin to relief.
“Oh well, it was worth a try.” His tone is light, and she knows he’s making this easier on her than she probably deserves. Most people might be offended to be displaced so soon after a six-month separation.
It’s possible he just gets how important jumping right back into work is to her.
“I’ll be fine, Carter,” he says, apparently reading her hesitation.
She hefts a smile on her face, giving his arm a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you later.”
“Count on it.”
She forces herself to turn around and walk away.
John is in the control room when Sam gets there, lounging back on a chair with his feet propped up on a console.
“Colonel,” John says, scrambling up from his chair. She can tell he hadn’t expected to see her today. “It’s good to see you up and about.”
Sam is uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on her, assessing, judging. She smiles. “Thanks. I’m eager to get back to work.”
“Great,” John says, following her when she gestures towards her office.
She pauses momentarily on the threshold, her fingers clenching around her data pad, but if John notices, he doesn’t say anything. Forcing herself in and around her desk, she sits down.
“I finished catching up on the mission reports,” she says.
“What, all of them?” He’s back to looking surprised and vaguely concerned.
She drops his gaze. It’s easy to get caught up when you’re not sleeping. “It looks like you did a great job while I was…away. Not that I’m surprised.”
“Hey, you know how I feel about this stuff,” he says, waving vaguely at her desk. “Very glad to hand it back over.”
There was a time Sam would have thought him crazy for not wanting this job, but now she’s beginning to see a certain amount of wisdom in it. At least he knows himself that well, which is more than most people can say.
“Well,” she says with a smile, “thank you anyway.”
Johns drops down into a chair. “So, any specific reports you want to go over?”
Sam shakes her head. “Right now, I’m more interested in what’s going on with the Valedin ship.”
“Of course,” John says, leaning forward. “I sent a team of technicians to check it out this morning.” He glances at his watch. “They have a check in scheduled two hours from now. We should have a better idea then of what kind of shape it’s in.”
Sam nods. “I’d like Rodney and Zelenka on this as well, if they aren’t in the middle of anything vital.”
“Sure. When?”
“Immediately. We need to get as much information about the Valedin as possible. Star charts, data files, anything that might be on that ship. I suspect it’s a medical transport, considering where I got it.”
“This about Lorne,” John surmises.
“You read my report?” she asks.
His mouth presses into a thin line. “Yes.”
“Then you know odds aren’t looking so great for him. Whatever that injection they were giving him, it killed Cahill and Miller.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause, but John doesn’t mention Reed, and she’s grateful for the omission.
Sam had written her own report of the experience almost the moment Keller finally let her free of the infirmary, wanting it out and over and done with. Something concrete to point to in answer to any questions that might arise in the next few days. Anything to avoid ever speaking of it directly.
Of course, that had been before Jack O’Neill factored into the equation.
“I really hate these guys,” John mumbles.
“What?” Sam asks, bringing her attention back to him.
“I’ve seen a lot of torture techniques, but the idea of using prisoners as lab rats…”
Sam nods in understanding, one hand lifting to her bruised cheek. It’s a harsh reminder that even with her injuries, she was the lucky one.
“I got the feeling they did it quite often,” Sam says without thinking, remembering the ease and efficiency of her captors.
The comment catches John’s attention. “You don’t think the Yorrel children…”
“I really hope not,” she says, but she can’t quite hold his gaze and it gives her away.
There had been crying, some days, echoing down the hall to her cell. Voices far too young…
John sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ll go tell Rodney and Zelenka,” he offers, pushing out his chair.
“Thanks.” She turns her attention to the stacks of paper covering her desk.
“Sam?” he says, and she looks up to find him regarding her from the doorway. “It’s really great to have you back.”
Sam bites down on the inside of her cheek, nodding in response, not quite trusting herself to speak.
With an easy grin and a quick wave, he disappears.
* * *
Jack nods to the technicians on duty in the control room as he enters. Off to the other side, he can see Sam at her desk, where she’s been hiding in plain sight for the last few hours. Keller already bullied her into eating dinner, he knows. He can see the half finished tray pushed off to the side of her desk.
Sam Carter at work is by definition a thing of grace, never so at ease as when she’s elbow deep in something complex and delicate whether that’s the guts of a ship or a nasty bureaucratic tangle.
Tonight, however, there is only disjointed motion, nothing holding her attention long as she jumps from computer to papers to files. To the untrained eye, she seems actively busy, radiating the idea that she is doing Very Important Things. Having spent a decade watching her work though, Jack recognizes the edge of agitation to her movements that tells him she’s faking it.
What he’s not so clear on is why she’s bothering to pretend in the first place. Whether for her own benefit or that of her people walking by, to reassure them that things are normal, he doesn’t know.
I’m here, I’m working, everything is fine, she seems to scream.
Jack’s not fooled.
“Can’t find anything to do?” he asks from the doorway.
She tries to give him the ‘I’m very busy, go away’ look, but quickly realizes he’s not buying it.
Her pen drops to the desk with a petulant thud. “John did my paperwork for me,” she admits.
Jack winces at the rookie mistake. Poor guy, how could he have known how essential paperwork is to Sam’s recovery? “I’m sure he meant well.”
“Yeah,” she says, almost but not quite pouting.
“He just got his ass kicked by Ronon with those stick things, if that makes you feel any better,” Jack offers.
A hint of amusement crosses her features. “Yeah, actually, it does.”
Jack takes a few steps into the office, looking around. It hasn’t changed all that much since it was Elizabeth Weir’s domain. He knows the generic abstract sculptures are more likely gifts from allies than part of either woman’s personal art collection. In fact, the only truly personal touch seems to be the row of framed photographs filling the shelf behind her desk. He skims them, easily recognizing most of them, his own face catching his eye a few times.
“What?” she asks, following his gaze.
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow.
He shrugs. “Some people were really surprised to see me here, and yet, it doesn’t look like you tried too terribly hard to hide it.”
She’s looking amused again. “I also have photographs of Daniel. Doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with him.”
Jack picks up a photo of all four members of the original SG-1. “Well, you know what they used to say about the four of us,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
Sam rolls her eyes. “Oh, trust me, I remember.”
“Come on,” Jack says, reaching for her hand. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Looking resigned, she reaches to take his hand, only to drop it back to her side after a quick glance behind her. Jack turns to see at least four heads in the control room look away at the same time.
He takes another moment to study the room. “It’s a nice office, Carter, but doesn’t all this glass make you feel like you’re on exhibit at the petting zoo?”
Picking up her computer, she slips past him towards the door. “Every damn day,” she says under her breath.
He thought so.
* * *
The day after the first member of Lorne’s team dies, they start injecting Captain Reed.
He’s so young and he knows exactly what will happen to him, having been forced to watch Dr. Cahill’s slow disintegration over those long four days. But he’s a soldier, his focus intent when Sam gives him orders they both know he can’t follow, clinging to the comfort to be found in structure.
The tenth night he’s as bad as Cahill ever got, chains rattling with his tremors, sweat dripping from his nose.
“Look at me, Captain!” Sam demands from her neighboring cell, just barely able to reach through and touch his outstretched fingers. The kid raises his eyes to her with difficulty. “You will hold on, do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, Ma’am,” he replies. Sam thinks he would have saluted if he could.
She doesn’t know how, but he follows her orders to the letter, the next morning finding Reed breathing easier, his tremors smoothing out. Lorne and Sam share relieved glances.
“You’ve got a fine officer there, Major Lorne,” Sam says with a smile.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he agrees.
The kid looks so damn proud and she’s glad.
At least until they bring the Wraith in.
She can do nothing but watch as they let it feed on Reed, stealing year after year of youthful ambition, decades of could-have-beens. His face sinks in, skin like paper, his mouth hinged open on a silent scream, but his eyes…his eyes remain latched on Sam, looking for orders, looking for help.
She can do nothing.
If their captors look more disappointed than satisfied by Reed’s drawn-out death, Sam doesn’t have time to contemplate it because one of the clipboard-carrying observers makes the mistake of straying too close to Sam’s side of the cage and she strikes out at him without thinking, grabbing him and slamming him back against the unyielding bars as if she might be able to force him to undo what’s been done.
She’s never been so close to killing someone with her bare hands, rage spilling up and over the edges, her fingers closing around the man’s delicate throat. It takes three taser hits to get her to release him. Worst of all, though, is the look on Lorne’s face as they slam her into the floor, careful to lean into the open gashes in her back.
He’s staring at her with horror.
Their captors don’t make the mistake of leaving her unrestrained again.
Sam bolts awake with gasp, her face lifting up from the pillow clutched in her arms. There’s a moment or two of disorientation before she finally places herself, the terror of her dreams clinging stubbornly to her senses. She tries to feel relief, to remind herself that she's safe now, but they’re hollow reassurances and the tension refuses to leave her body.
She considers bolting for the balcony, just to get away and out there and open.
The bed shifts slightly and she knows Jack’s watching her in the dim light. His hand brushes warmly against her arm and she turns her head to meet his gaze, reads the concern there. He’s staring at her like she’s something fragile. That’s not what she wants.
Leaning across the space between them, she kisses him.
He’s caught a bit off guard, his hand moving up to grab her shoulder. He responds eagerly enough, but keeps it slow and languorous, careful. She slides her leg over his, pressing up against his body, demanding more than his tenderness.
“Sam,” he says lowly.
She knows he wants to give her the chance to talk, his tone warning that this isn’t going to solve anything, but she doesn’t care, just knows that she needs this, needs him and that despite Jack’s misgivings, he’s already responding to her, his body moving ahead of his mind.
“Jack,” she says, running a hand down his stomach, pressing against the undeniable evidence of his desire. He lets out an unsteady breath, his hands tightening on her arms and it’s a bit heady to know that she can still affect him this way, reassuring that their time apart hasn’t dampened anything. It’s something solid to hang on to.
His fingers trace along the edge of her bandages, his eyes intent on her bruised cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she promises, shifting her weight until she’s sitting on top of him, his hands automatically moving to her hips. Ignoring the protest of her back she pulls her tank top up and over her head, dropping it to the floor.
Apparently having decided not to fight this, Jack sits up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he claims her mouth, his tongue sweeping in with long months of suppressed need. Sam wants to sob with relief, feeling the mindless throb of desire taking over. Her hands insistently reach for the waist of his pants, not wanting to wait a moment longer to feel him inside her, to lose herself. Anything to drive away the image of that young terrified face, frozen in death.
Jack catches her hands, pulling them up against his chest. “There’s no rush, Carter,” he says, working his mouth up the side of her neck, his teeth grazing the lobe of her ear as his knuckles brush tantalizingly across her breasts. She shudders against him, the combination of sensations and her name, that name, on his tongue as he does this to her, it loosens every joint in her body, draining the last remaining edge of terror from her and replacing it with the liquid crawl of heat. She lets her eyes drop shut, knowing he’ll draw this exquisite feeling out as long as he possibly can.
In perfect synch, as if six months haven’t passed, he knows exactly what strings to pull, where to touch her to build that steady, blinding wave until she’s ready to plead, his name coming out as little more than a trembling breath. He doesn’t make her wait too long, his mouth latching onto her breast as his fingers slide deep inside of her. She shifts insistently against him, beyond caring that she’s crying out, her hand tangled in his hair, encouraging the twist of his tongue against her nipple. Finally, finally, his thumb brushes against her, just the right amount of pressure and she’s lost, her entire body tensing as she rides out the tumbling tide.
There’s a tiny perfect moment there where she forgets everything but this feeling he’s conjured in her.
Leaning forward, she presses her mouth to his collarbone, running her tongue right along the edge to taste the salt of his skin. Only then does he finally guide her down onto him, tantalizingly slow increments until he fills her completely. She knows, just from the cadence of his breathing and the firm grip of his fingers, that he’s right on the edge, fighting to maintain his control. Drawing her bottom lip through her teeth, she rocks against him, twisting slightly and she’s rewarded with an incoherent sound from the back of Jack’s throat, his eyes almost rolling back.
“Jesus, Carter,” he rasps and she smiles, drawing away from him again, feeling the strain in her muscles, but too intent on pushing him that last final inch to care. This time she lifts almost completely off of him before sliding back down and he pulls at her hips, thrusting up to meet her halfway.
Any attempt at maintaining a coherent rhythm falls to the wayside almost immediately, Jack’s restraint having been pushed as far as it will go. His fingers dig into her thighs and she likes the thought of bruises on her body being born of ardent intensity and bone-deep need rather than subjugation.
Her name erupts from his lips sounding like it’s been ripped from the back of his throat. When he says her name like that, holding her tight against him, she’s almost willing to believe everything can be okay again.
He pulls her with him as he sinks back in the bed, kissing her intently before letting his head drop back into his pillow with a garbled sound of contentment.
She lies there for a while, head pressed to his chest as she listens to the rapid staccato of his heart with something akin to accomplishment. When he recovers enough to start playing with her hair, tender stokes against her scalp, she lets her eyes close, concentrating on crawling into the sensation of feeling precious and cared for. She no more than drifts into the slightest slumber though, when the haunting images begin to creep back in--far too soon.
Deliberately sliding up along his body, she kisses him as she gets up and his arm just flops rather uselessly in an attempt to keep her in bed. She sidesteps out of reach, trying to ignore the burning protest of her back, hoping she hasn’t popped any of her stitches. That would be hard to explain to Keller.
“You okay?” he asks, lifting himself up on his elbow.
“Yeah,” she says with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m just going to…” She tilts her head towards the bathroom.
She steps into the small space, closing the door after her and makes the mistake of looking in the mirror. In the harsh light it’s her bruised, terrified face staring back and the pleased hum of her body doesn’t last.
She stays in there a little too long hiding, feeling his eyes on her when she finally returns to bed.
She spends the rest of the night lying on her stomach, head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, fingers painting lazy equations on his chest. She doesn’t speak about her injuries or her dreams, just jerks awake the few times she lowers her guard enough to sleep.
He pretends not to notice.
Day Three
Author: Annerb
Rating: NC-17
Summary: After Sam is held hostage, Jack takes an impromptu trip to Atlantis.
Timeline: SGA Season 4, sometime before ‘Midway’
Categorization: H/C, SG-1/SGA Crossover, Sam/Jack
Gravity Always Wins in the End
Day One
Day Two
Jack is sitting in the commissary picking at the Pegasus’s version of tuna casserole when Teyla and Sheppard appear, and after a brief hesitation, sit across from him.
Jack’s been down here for almost an hour. He’d woken to find Sam already hard at work at her computer, the daylight streaming across the unyielding stiffness of her profile. He’d grabbed a book off her shelf, leafing through it while she worked.
They spent most of the morning like that until she’d started to get that look he knew meant she was going to kill him if she didn’t get at least twenty minutes to herself. They’ve never been the spend-every-moment-together kind of people, no matter how much she hadn’t let herself move more than five inches away from him last night.
She has a history of finding some things harder to admit during the daylight.
Ronon and McKay follow Sheppard and Teyla to the table a short while later. Ronon nods at Jack, but McKay, busily in the middle of a scientific rant of some kind or another, doesn’t even notice him. That’s fine with Jack.
“I mean, I told Zelenka not to let Miko near the damn thing, but does he listen?” McKay pauses to shove a giant forkful of food into his mouth and his eyes fall on Jack, widening almost comically as he chokes on his food. Sheppard whacks him on the back.
“What are you doing here?” McKay eventually sputters around his mouthful.
Jack takes a deep breath and tries to remind himself that these are Sam’s people and she would undoubtedly not look kindly on him physically harming any of them, no matter how tempting.
“I’m visiting Sam,” Jack explains evenly.
“Visiting Sam?” McKay repeats with far too much incredulity for Jack’s taste. It isn’t that he expects Sam to discuss her private life with these people, but it’s a bit off-putting how inconceivable their relationship seems to be. Then again, it’s Sam, so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised. Some days he’s shocked by it.
“Yes, McKay,” Jack repeats. “I’m visiting Sam.”
McKay seems to deflate a little bit. “Oh. How is she today?”
All eyes land on Jack, full of genuine concern and he shrugs.
These people have had six months to get to know Sam, they should know by now that she’ll deal with this by going back to work too early and compartmentalizing away like she’s the machine she wishes she could be sometimes. If they don’t get that, there’s no way he’s going to explain it to them.
“She’s Carter,” he says.
“What is that supposed to mean?” McKay asks only to let out an indignant ‘Ow!’ when someone apparently kicks him under the table. Jack’s money is on Teyla. Her aura of serenity doesn’t fool him for a second.
Jack looks around the table, deciding that if he’s got to sit here with Sam’s frontline team, he might as well dig up some information on the situation.
“So,” he says, “anyone ready to tell me how the hell you let this happen?”
The question tumbles out into the middle of the table with all the delicacy of a bomb. Ronon shifts in his chair, somehow his entire demeanor shifting from relaxed to on guard with the simple change in posture. Sheppard’s eyes narrow in suspicion, far too canny to take Jack’s sudden hostility at face value. Teyla just looks bored by his posturing. Only McKay visibly flusters, his mouth falling open on an indignant, “Excuse me?”
With little more than a flick of his head, Sheppard manages to silence McKay and signal Ronon to hold off on maiming anyone for the moment. Jack’s mildly impressed, despite himself.
“I thought you weren’t here for an inquest, sir,” Sheppard grinds out.
Jack nods, spreading his hands wide. “Consider it a friendly request, then.”
They stare at each other across the table for a while, an unspoken battle of wills, until Teyla mutters something under her breath that is rather unflattering to them both.
“We were establishing trade relations with the Yorell,” she supplies, ever the diplomat of the group. “They are not a very advanced culture, having suffered greatly from frequent cullings, but their planet is rich with raw materials. They were eager for our friendship and our medical aid. They specifically requested Colonel Carter’s presence for the final ceremony.”
“And of course she went,” Jack says.
Teyla nods. “She often brokers alliances with new cultures in person.”
Jack isn’t surprised. It’s not Sam’s style to be hands off, no matter how much better he’d be able to sleep if she were.
“I sent Lorne’s team with her,” Sheppard interjects, his tone not hiding the fact that he now wishes he had gone himself.
“A third party blackmailed the Yorell to betray her,” Teyla explains.
“How?” Jack asks, wondering how a benign, primitive people could be pushed into that.
“They took their kids,” Ronon says, stabbing at his plate with his knife.
“As in their children?”
“Yes,” Teyla confirms.
“Jesus,” Jack swears. “Did they get them back?”
“Some of them,” Ronon says obliquely.
Jack knows he’s not getting the whole story, but isn’t sure he really wants to hear it either. “Who exactly is this mysterious third party?”
“They call themselves the Valedin,” Sheppard says. “Apparently it’s a coalition of humans that makes a great deal of money peddling protection from the Wraith.”
Like the Pegasus version of the mafia. Nice. “Is that a commodity they can actually supply?”
“As far as we can tell from our limited information.”
“You were cutting into their business,” Jack guesses, easily imagining how it all could have played out. “And they never intended to use Carter for anything as simple as ransom.”
Sheppard shakes his head. “We think they wanted her for information, but also…,” he trails off, but Jack can fill in the words.
“They hoped losing your leader would cripple you.” It’s easier to be blunt and matter of fact about Sam’s hypothetical murder here in the bright light of commissary when he doesn’t have to see the bruises on her face. Or maybe that’s just what he tells himself.
“We had no idea how to find them,” Sheppard admits, the words bitter.
Nothing sucks more than helplessness, Jack knows. “But you did eventually.”
“No,” Sheppard says. “She escaped.”
“Stole one of their ships,” Ronon adds with pride.
“Of course she did,” Jack says with a small smile.
“But not before they killed off Lorne’s entire team,” Ronon continues.
Jack’s already heard whispers of experimental drugs and drawn out deaths. “How did these people even hear of you?”
Sheppard shrugs.
“The Athosians,” Teyla says quietly.
“You think they were the ones to attack your people?” Jack asks, aware of the carefully neutral expressions the other members of her team now wear.
“The Athosians have long been the strongest allies of the Lantians, and their greatest ambassadors. It makes sense.” Her tone is almost defensive.
“It’s a possibility,” Sheppard qualifies, some sort of warning in the gaze he levels on her.
Teyla drops eye contact first, a faint tinge of red coloring her cheeks as she looks out the nearest window, her jaw set and hands absently caressing her rounded stomach.
Sheppard shoves his tray away from him, apparently having lost his appetite.
Jack doesn’t hang around for dessert.
* * *
Sam is struggling to pull on her jacket when Jack returns. He doesn’t make a comment about her going back to work too early, instead coming up behind her and carefully easing the sleeve up her arm.
A large part of Sam just wants to pull him back under the covers and spend the day with those hands chasing away the darker thoughts, but she knows that really isn’t a solution. At least not one she’ll allow herself in the harsh light of day.
“Ready to talk about it yet?” Jack asks, his hands still resting on her arms.
Sam forces herself to take a step away from him, picking up her comm from the table, and smoothing one hand down the front of her uniform. “I take it they filled you in.”
He shrugs. “Some of it.”
His tone is ambiguous at best, but she can easily imagine what he might have had to say to some of the people under her command. She sighs, knowing that even if he doesn’t do it on purpose, he has a way of intimidating people, and the last thing she needs right now is a rogue vector messing with her carefully balanced power structure here on Atlantis.
She wants Jack here, she knows that. She remembers all too clearly asking him to stay, the relief she felt, and still feels, knowing he will be here for a while. Only now, standing here in her uniform, she’s not sure what to do with him.
“Sam,” he says, cutting into her tangled thoughts. “I’m not here to complicate anything. This is your show.” She looks at him dubiously and he gives her an easy-going smile. “I’m just a guy visiting his girl.”
“Your girl?” she says, a smile already worming its way onto her face. Technically she’s offended, but knows that’s exactly why he said it. Damn him and his freaky ability to know the exact right thing to say. Seeing him standing there in his too big for him shirt with his hands stuffed into his jeans’ pockets, she can almost fool herself that he isn’t a complication. Almost.
Sam sits down in front of her mirror, her hand automatically lifting to the stitches and purple shadow of a bruise under her right eye. Her hair is a bit of a wild tangle around her shoulders. She’s looked worse, much worse, but still wants to try to salvage something of her appearance before officially getting back on the job. Just another facet of command she’s adapting to: appearances really can matter.
She picks up the brush to wrest some control out her hair but involuntarily hisses at the sharp pain in her back the motion causes. She can feel Jack’s eyes on her, but he knows well enough to wait until she asks for help. Maybe in the safety of her quarters she doesn’t have to care quite so much about appearing invulnerable.
“Could you help me with my hair?”
Jack steps up behind her and takes the brush from her hand. “Sure thing, Carter,” he says. “Teal’c and I have been braiding each other’s hair for years.”
Despite all the intimacies they’ve shared over the years, this is not something he’s ever done for her. He’s amazingly deft with the brush though, carefully working his way through the tangles and she tries not to imagine when he might have practiced this. The rhythmic pull of the brush threatens to put her to sleep and she lets her eyes drift closed. He continues with the brush much longer than is probably necessary, but she doesn’t mind. Maybe he needs this as much as she does.
Eventually his hand slides under her hair and against her neck, his thumb massaging gently at the base of her skull, his fingers dipping into the hollow above her collarbone.
“I need one of those hair thingies, Sam,” he says, his voice low and slightly rough, his fingers still working gently against her flesh.
Opening her eyes, Sam meets his gaze in the mirror and she can see how hard these last three weeks were for him, how seeing her like this is still tearing at him. She picks up an elastic band from the counter, lifting it up to him, but catches his fingers with hers when he reaches for it.
“Thank you for coming, Jack,” she says.
Pulling her hair to one side, Jack leans down, pressing his lips to the side of her neck. Despite herself, she feels a surge of warmth at the contact, a shiver running down her spine.
“Anything for my girl,” he says with a grin.
“It’s a good thing you’re useful, Jack O’Neill,” she says, holding up the band again. She has no idea how she manages to sound affectionate and annoyed at the same time. Just another one of those strange effects he has on her.
He pulls her hair back in a pretty good imitation of a ponytail. After dashing a light cover of powder over her bruise, Sam decides she’s as good as she’s going to get.
“I need to go to the infirmary first,” she says, picking up her data pad. “You want to come?”
He looks surprised. “You really want me tagging along?”
She feels a beat of guilt for keeping him in the dark about her experiences, but thinks that letting him see for himself will be easier. Especially in the semi-public space of the infirmary. She tries to ignore the feeling that she’s being a coward.
“This way you won’t have to take the time to bully Dr. Keller into giving you a copy of my file later,” she says.
Jack tries to look offended, but Sam can see his amusement far too clearly to believe it. “I wouldn’t dream of harassing any of your people, Carter,” he protests.
Sam raises an eyebrow at the blatant lie and heads out the door. “You coming or not?” she calls back over her shoulder, not surprised when Jack falls in step next to her in the hallway.
Feeling him by her side in the halls that have finally become familiar, she thinks maybe her biggest fear isn’t that he’s going to complicate things, but that she’ll get used to him being here.
His hand casually brushes against hers, nothing more than everyday incidental contact, but it burns its way up her arm and she has to swallow back an agitated sigh.
Sure, Jack, she thinks, you don’t complicate anything.
* * *
Jennifer thinks Sam looks steadier, if not still rather badly banged up, when she wanders into the infirmary for her first wound checkup. General O’Neill is right on her heels, and Jennifer greets them both, guiding Sam to the nearest bed.
Sam sits patiently while she checks her face, pressing firmly along her cheek bones to make sure that the blow to her face had not cracked any bones she may have missed in her initial exam.
“How’s the headache?” Jennifer asks, aware that General O’Neill is closely observing, but choosing to ignore him for now.
“Not bad,” Sam hedges.
Jennifer interprets this to mean it’s still pretty bad, bad enough to need something to ease it, or she would have just lied and said fine. “I’ll get you a script.”
Sam nods her agreement without comment.
“And how did you sleep?”
Sam seems to pause, as if considering the question. “Fine,” she decides.
There is the soft sound of someone clearing their throat, but when Jennifer looks up at the source, General O’Neill’s expression is completely neutral as if he hasn’t just called Sam’s bluff.
“I slept well enough,” Sam reiterates, her tone warning them to disagree with her at their own peril.
The general remains noticeably silent and Jennifer follows his lead. Sam is obviously at her edge of patience with coddling.
“I’ll need to change your bandages,” Jennifer says, pulling the curtain around them and trying not to look surprised when General O’Neill steps calmly into the sequestered space. Jennifer raises an eyebrow at him in askance, but he just stares back at her as if his presence is the most natural thing in the world.
“It’s okay,” Sam says, breaking the stalemate and already sliding her jacket down her arms, following with her shirt after a brief struggle with the fabric.
Neither Sam nor the general seem to think Sam’s partial nudity is a big deal, so Jennifer puts on her professional face and refuses to speculate, even though the rest of the city is already fairly buzzing with rumor and innuendo. Sam lies down on the bed to give Jennifer better access to the bandages that cover her back from shoulder to waist.
Jennifer suppresses a shudder as she remembers the state Sam had returned to them in not so very long ago. Everyone had been disquieted to see their base commander return to Atlantis unconscious on a stretcher, her face terribly pale under the blood and bruising marring her skin. As someone who has become an active, vital part of the city, it was unnerving to see her so still.
The injuries to her back are unlike anything Jennifer has ever seen in her career: a wild tangle of ragged gashes where the sharp impact of a leather lash had torn open the flesh. Some are partially healed, others only days old. Worst of all, though, are the thin scars underneath, at least a decade old, the lines that speak to the fact that this isn’t the first time someone has taken a whip to Sam Carter.
The tension in the small space ratchets up with each bandage she removes, each wound she reveals. General O’Neill hasn’t said a word, still standing a few feet away with his arms crossed. When Jennifer dares to glance up at him, his face is completely devoid of expression and it sends a chill down her spine.
Her fingers unintentionally tense and Sam shifts, looking up at her. “Could you give us a minute, Dr. Keller?”
“Sure,” Jennifer automatically says. “I need to grab a few supplies anyway.”
She escapes out of the curtain, carefully closing it behind her, trying not to hear Sam’s soft voice as she says something to General O’Neill. Jennifer pulls open a cabinet, digging out lengths of gauze and a vial of the wonder serum they’d traded for with one of the Athosian allies earlier in the month. She dawdles a few moments longer, poking aimlessly at her data pad before heading back across the room to the curtained cubicle when she decides she’s given them enough time.
“I know, Carter,” she can hear General O’Neill saying as she nears. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t want to kill the son of a bitch.”
The general is standing close to the edge of the bed when Jennifer enters, his hand casually resting on the bed right near Sam’s elbow, but not quite touching it. He doesn’t move away and Jennifer busies herself cleaning the wounds.
“These are looking much better,” Jennifer observes to no one in particular. “The Tanthri serum seems to be working well.”
“New miracle medicine,” Sam explains, her head still turned towards the general. “Should be quite a hit back on Earth.”
“Anything that might shut up Woolsey for any length of time would be muchly appreciated,” General O’Neill replies and Jennifer has to wonder at their amazing ability to jump from gravity to amusement in the blink of an eye.
The pair continues in this vein while Jennifer replaces the bandages with fresh ones, but she can’t help but think that their light-hearted disparaging of Woolsey is a cover for something else brewing right under the surface.
When she finishes, Sam pulls her uniform back into place, her data pad already in hand and Jennifer gives the colonel a dubious look. “Are you planning on going back to work already?”
“Yes,” Sam confirms, one eyebrow raised in warning.
“Normally you would order anyone with your injuries to take at least a week or two off,” Jennifer observes, crossing her arms over her chest, refusing to be deterred.
“Unfortunately, Doctor, our current situation doesn’t allow for such a luxury,” Sam replies, just the slightest edge of steel lining her voice as she jumps down off the bed.
“Well, I’d hate to let the situation get to a point where I’d have to pull rank, Colonel,” Jennifer says, letting her know that she’s perfectly capable of doing it if she has to.
General O’Neill has been looking back and forth between the two women. Turning to Sam, he loudly declares, “I like her.”
Sam rolls her eyes. “I knew you would.”
The two stare at each other for a bit longer than Jennifer’s comfortable with and she clears her throat. “I’ve got time in my schedule if you’d like a trip through the scanner while you’re here, sir,” she offers, amused to see the man’s face lose all trace of amusement.
“No, uh, really. Wouldn’t want to be a drain on precious resources,” he says, throwing pleading glances in Sam’s direction as if asking her to not let her people torture him.
But Sam doesn’t notice, her eyes darting back towards the isolation rooms. “How is Lorne today?” she asks in a careful tone.
Jennifer frowns, tapping various files in her data pad. “No change. The anti-viral meds are still having very little effect. Until I know what’s been done to him with greater certainty…,” she trails off, not really wanting to speak the damning words.
“We’ll get you your answers, Doctor,” Sam promises, still staring back toward Lorne’s room, her jaw taking on a stubborn tilt that fills Jennifer with unease.
Shaking her head as if clearing her thoughts, Sam turns on her heel and heads out of the infirmary, the thoughtful looking general right behind.
* * *
“The rec rooms are all in the next pier,” Sam says with a jut of her chin down the next hallway.
Jack slows to a stop next to her, a wry half-smile on his face as if he’s really trying not to look amused. They both know he has little to no interest in ping pong or golfing, but it’s the only round about way she can think of asking him to let her get back to her job-alone.
A few people are filing in and out, many of them giving Sam bright, relieved smiles when they catch sight of her.
“Colonel Carter,” they say before their eyes move on to Jack.
Sam greets them by name, Jack just nodding as they move on.
“If you don’t mind,” Jack says during a break in traffic, “I’m going to explore around a bit. You know, while I’m not being chased by robots.”
“Replicators aren’t-,” Sam starts to correct, only to catch herself.
Jack grins. “I don’t suppose asking you not to work too hard is going to do me any good.”
“Probably not,” she admits, her mind already turning towards the piles of work ahead of her with something akin to relief.
“Oh well, it was worth a try.” His tone is light, and she knows he’s making this easier on her than she probably deserves. Most people might be offended to be displaced so soon after a six-month separation.
It’s possible he just gets how important jumping right back into work is to her.
“I’ll be fine, Carter,” he says, apparently reading her hesitation.
She hefts a smile on her face, giving his arm a quick squeeze. “I’ll see you later.”
“Count on it.”
She forces herself to turn around and walk away.
John is in the control room when Sam gets there, lounging back on a chair with his feet propped up on a console.
“Colonel,” John says, scrambling up from his chair. She can tell he hadn’t expected to see her today. “It’s good to see you up and about.”
Sam is uncomfortably aware of all the eyes on her, assessing, judging. She smiles. “Thanks. I’m eager to get back to work.”
“Great,” John says, following her when she gestures towards her office.
She pauses momentarily on the threshold, her fingers clenching around her data pad, but if John notices, he doesn’t say anything. Forcing herself in and around her desk, she sits down.
“I finished catching up on the mission reports,” she says.
“What, all of them?” He’s back to looking surprised and vaguely concerned.
She drops his gaze. It’s easy to get caught up when you’re not sleeping. “It looks like you did a great job while I was…away. Not that I’m surprised.”
“Hey, you know how I feel about this stuff,” he says, waving vaguely at her desk. “Very glad to hand it back over.”
There was a time Sam would have thought him crazy for not wanting this job, but now she’s beginning to see a certain amount of wisdom in it. At least he knows himself that well, which is more than most people can say.
“Well,” she says with a smile, “thank you anyway.”
Johns drops down into a chair. “So, any specific reports you want to go over?”
Sam shakes her head. “Right now, I’m more interested in what’s going on with the Valedin ship.”
“Of course,” John says, leaning forward. “I sent a team of technicians to check it out this morning.” He glances at his watch. “They have a check in scheduled two hours from now. We should have a better idea then of what kind of shape it’s in.”
Sam nods. “I’d like Rodney and Zelenka on this as well, if they aren’t in the middle of anything vital.”
“Sure. When?”
“Immediately. We need to get as much information about the Valedin as possible. Star charts, data files, anything that might be on that ship. I suspect it’s a medical transport, considering where I got it.”
“This about Lorne,” John surmises.
“You read my report?” she asks.
His mouth presses into a thin line. “Yes.”
“Then you know odds aren’t looking so great for him. Whatever that injection they were giving him, it killed Cahill and Miller.”
There’s an uncomfortable pause, but John doesn’t mention Reed, and she’s grateful for the omission.
Sam had written her own report of the experience almost the moment Keller finally let her free of the infirmary, wanting it out and over and done with. Something concrete to point to in answer to any questions that might arise in the next few days. Anything to avoid ever speaking of it directly.
Of course, that had been before Jack O’Neill factored into the equation.
“I really hate these guys,” John mumbles.
“What?” Sam asks, bringing her attention back to him.
“I’ve seen a lot of torture techniques, but the idea of using prisoners as lab rats…”
Sam nods in understanding, one hand lifting to her bruised cheek. It’s a harsh reminder that even with her injuries, she was the lucky one.
“I got the feeling they did it quite often,” Sam says without thinking, remembering the ease and efficiency of her captors.
The comment catches John’s attention. “You don’t think the Yorrel children…”
“I really hope not,” she says, but she can’t quite hold his gaze and it gives her away.
There had been crying, some days, echoing down the hall to her cell. Voices far too young…
John sighs, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’ll go tell Rodney and Zelenka,” he offers, pushing out his chair.
“Thanks.” She turns her attention to the stacks of paper covering her desk.
“Sam?” he says, and she looks up to find him regarding her from the doorway. “It’s really great to have you back.”
Sam bites down on the inside of her cheek, nodding in response, not quite trusting herself to speak.
With an easy grin and a quick wave, he disappears.
* * *
Jack nods to the technicians on duty in the control room as he enters. Off to the other side, he can see Sam at her desk, where she’s been hiding in plain sight for the last few hours. Keller already bullied her into eating dinner, he knows. He can see the half finished tray pushed off to the side of her desk.
Sam Carter at work is by definition a thing of grace, never so at ease as when she’s elbow deep in something complex and delicate whether that’s the guts of a ship or a nasty bureaucratic tangle.
Tonight, however, there is only disjointed motion, nothing holding her attention long as she jumps from computer to papers to files. To the untrained eye, she seems actively busy, radiating the idea that she is doing Very Important Things. Having spent a decade watching her work though, Jack recognizes the edge of agitation to her movements that tells him she’s faking it.
What he’s not so clear on is why she’s bothering to pretend in the first place. Whether for her own benefit or that of her people walking by, to reassure them that things are normal, he doesn’t know.
I’m here, I’m working, everything is fine, she seems to scream.
Jack’s not fooled.
“Can’t find anything to do?” he asks from the doorway.
She tries to give him the ‘I’m very busy, go away’ look, but quickly realizes he’s not buying it.
Her pen drops to the desk with a petulant thud. “John did my paperwork for me,” she admits.
Jack winces at the rookie mistake. Poor guy, how could he have known how essential paperwork is to Sam’s recovery? “I’m sure he meant well.”
“Yeah,” she says, almost but not quite pouting.
“He just got his ass kicked by Ronon with those stick things, if that makes you feel any better,” Jack offers.
A hint of amusement crosses her features. “Yeah, actually, it does.”
Jack takes a few steps into the office, looking around. It hasn’t changed all that much since it was Elizabeth Weir’s domain. He knows the generic abstract sculptures are more likely gifts from allies than part of either woman’s personal art collection. In fact, the only truly personal touch seems to be the row of framed photographs filling the shelf behind her desk. He skims them, easily recognizing most of them, his own face catching his eye a few times.
“What?” she asks, following his gaze.
“Nothing.”
Her eyes narrow.
He shrugs. “Some people were really surprised to see me here, and yet, it doesn’t look like you tried too terribly hard to hide it.”
She’s looking amused again. “I also have photographs of Daniel. Doesn’t mean I’m sleeping with him.”
Jack picks up a photo of all four members of the original SG-1. “Well, you know what they used to say about the four of us,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.
Sam rolls her eyes. “Oh, trust me, I remember.”
“Come on,” Jack says, reaching for her hand. “Let’s get some sleep.”
Looking resigned, she reaches to take his hand, only to drop it back to her side after a quick glance behind her. Jack turns to see at least four heads in the control room look away at the same time.
He takes another moment to study the room. “It’s a nice office, Carter, but doesn’t all this glass make you feel like you’re on exhibit at the petting zoo?”
Picking up her computer, she slips past him towards the door. “Every damn day,” she says under her breath.
He thought so.
* * *
The day after the first member of Lorne’s team dies, they start injecting Captain Reed.
He’s so young and he knows exactly what will happen to him, having been forced to watch Dr. Cahill’s slow disintegration over those long four days. But he’s a soldier, his focus intent when Sam gives him orders they both know he can’t follow, clinging to the comfort to be found in structure.
The tenth night he’s as bad as Cahill ever got, chains rattling with his tremors, sweat dripping from his nose.
“Look at me, Captain!” Sam demands from her neighboring cell, just barely able to reach through and touch his outstretched fingers. The kid raises his eyes to her with difficulty. “You will hold on, do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, Ma’am,” he replies. Sam thinks he would have saluted if he could.
She doesn’t know how, but he follows her orders to the letter, the next morning finding Reed breathing easier, his tremors smoothing out. Lorne and Sam share relieved glances.
“You’ve got a fine officer there, Major Lorne,” Sam says with a smile.
“Yes, Ma’am,” he agrees.
The kid looks so damn proud and she’s glad.
At least until they bring the Wraith in.
She can do nothing but watch as they let it feed on Reed, stealing year after year of youthful ambition, decades of could-have-beens. His face sinks in, skin like paper, his mouth hinged open on a silent scream, but his eyes…his eyes remain latched on Sam, looking for orders, looking for help.
She can do nothing.
If their captors look more disappointed than satisfied by Reed’s drawn-out death, Sam doesn’t have time to contemplate it because one of the clipboard-carrying observers makes the mistake of straying too close to Sam’s side of the cage and she strikes out at him without thinking, grabbing him and slamming him back against the unyielding bars as if she might be able to force him to undo what’s been done.
She’s never been so close to killing someone with her bare hands, rage spilling up and over the edges, her fingers closing around the man’s delicate throat. It takes three taser hits to get her to release him. Worst of all, though, is the look on Lorne’s face as they slam her into the floor, careful to lean into the open gashes in her back.
He’s staring at her with horror.
Their captors don’t make the mistake of leaving her unrestrained again.
Sam bolts awake with gasp, her face lifting up from the pillow clutched in her arms. There’s a moment or two of disorientation before she finally places herself, the terror of her dreams clinging stubbornly to her senses. She tries to feel relief, to remind herself that she's safe now, but they’re hollow reassurances and the tension refuses to leave her body.
She considers bolting for the balcony, just to get away and out there and open.
The bed shifts slightly and she knows Jack’s watching her in the dim light. His hand brushes warmly against her arm and she turns her head to meet his gaze, reads the concern there. He’s staring at her like she’s something fragile. That’s not what she wants.
Leaning across the space between them, she kisses him.
He’s caught a bit off guard, his hand moving up to grab her shoulder. He responds eagerly enough, but keeps it slow and languorous, careful. She slides her leg over his, pressing up against his body, demanding more than his tenderness.
“Sam,” he says lowly.
She knows he wants to give her the chance to talk, his tone warning that this isn’t going to solve anything, but she doesn’t care, just knows that she needs this, needs him and that despite Jack’s misgivings, he’s already responding to her, his body moving ahead of his mind.
“Jack,” she says, running a hand down his stomach, pressing against the undeniable evidence of his desire. He lets out an unsteady breath, his hands tightening on her arms and it’s a bit heady to know that she can still affect him this way, reassuring that their time apart hasn’t dampened anything. It’s something solid to hang on to.
His fingers trace along the edge of her bandages, his eyes intent on her bruised cheek. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You won’t,” she promises, shifting her weight until she’s sitting on top of him, his hands automatically moving to her hips. Ignoring the protest of her back she pulls her tank top up and over her head, dropping it to the floor.
Apparently having decided not to fight this, Jack sits up, wrapping her legs around his waist as he claims her mouth, his tongue sweeping in with long months of suppressed need. Sam wants to sob with relief, feeling the mindless throb of desire taking over. Her hands insistently reach for the waist of his pants, not wanting to wait a moment longer to feel him inside her, to lose herself. Anything to drive away the image of that young terrified face, frozen in death.
Jack catches her hands, pulling them up against his chest. “There’s no rush, Carter,” he says, working his mouth up the side of her neck, his teeth grazing the lobe of her ear as his knuckles brush tantalizingly across her breasts. She shudders against him, the combination of sensations and her name, that name, on his tongue as he does this to her, it loosens every joint in her body, draining the last remaining edge of terror from her and replacing it with the liquid crawl of heat. She lets her eyes drop shut, knowing he’ll draw this exquisite feeling out as long as he possibly can.
In perfect synch, as if six months haven’t passed, he knows exactly what strings to pull, where to touch her to build that steady, blinding wave until she’s ready to plead, his name coming out as little more than a trembling breath. He doesn’t make her wait too long, his mouth latching onto her breast as his fingers slide deep inside of her. She shifts insistently against him, beyond caring that she’s crying out, her hand tangled in his hair, encouraging the twist of his tongue against her nipple. Finally, finally, his thumb brushes against her, just the right amount of pressure and she’s lost, her entire body tensing as she rides out the tumbling tide.
There’s a tiny perfect moment there where she forgets everything but this feeling he’s conjured in her.
Leaning forward, she presses her mouth to his collarbone, running her tongue right along the edge to taste the salt of his skin. Only then does he finally guide her down onto him, tantalizingly slow increments until he fills her completely. She knows, just from the cadence of his breathing and the firm grip of his fingers, that he’s right on the edge, fighting to maintain his control. Drawing her bottom lip through her teeth, she rocks against him, twisting slightly and she’s rewarded with an incoherent sound from the back of Jack’s throat, his eyes almost rolling back.
“Jesus, Carter,” he rasps and she smiles, drawing away from him again, feeling the strain in her muscles, but too intent on pushing him that last final inch to care. This time she lifts almost completely off of him before sliding back down and he pulls at her hips, thrusting up to meet her halfway.
Any attempt at maintaining a coherent rhythm falls to the wayside almost immediately, Jack’s restraint having been pushed as far as it will go. His fingers dig into her thighs and she likes the thought of bruises on her body being born of ardent intensity and bone-deep need rather than subjugation.
Her name erupts from his lips sounding like it’s been ripped from the back of his throat. When he says her name like that, holding her tight against him, she’s almost willing to believe everything can be okay again.
He pulls her with him as he sinks back in the bed, kissing her intently before letting his head drop back into his pillow with a garbled sound of contentment.
She lies there for a while, head pressed to his chest as she listens to the rapid staccato of his heart with something akin to accomplishment. When he recovers enough to start playing with her hair, tender stokes against her scalp, she lets her eyes close, concentrating on crawling into the sensation of feeling precious and cared for. She no more than drifts into the slightest slumber though, when the haunting images begin to creep back in--far too soon.
Deliberately sliding up along his body, she kisses him as she gets up and his arm just flops rather uselessly in an attempt to keep her in bed. She sidesteps out of reach, trying to ignore the burning protest of her back, hoping she hasn’t popped any of her stitches. That would be hard to explain to Keller.
“You okay?” he asks, lifting himself up on his elbow.
“Yeah,” she says with what she hopes is a reassuring smile. “I’m just going to…” She tilts her head towards the bathroom.
She steps into the small space, closing the door after her and makes the mistake of looking in the mirror. In the harsh light it’s her bruised, terrified face staring back and the pleased hum of her body doesn’t last.
She stays in there a little too long hiding, feeling his eyes on her when she finally returns to bed.
She spends the rest of the night lying on her stomach, head nestled into the hollow of his shoulder, fingers painting lazy equations on his chest. She doesn’t speak about her injuries or her dreams, just jerks awake the few times she lowers her guard enough to sleep.
He pretends not to notice.
Day Three