Satellite Heart
Title: Satellite Heart
Author: ardvari
Rating: M
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Stargate Universe 1x01 Air.
A/N: Sequel to Limelight. Just when things start to look up, disaster strikes again- just like always.
Satellite Heart
Of course disaster strikes again the way it always does when things seem to settle down, when everything seems to go well. When things seem almost normal, when that nagging voice inside her head tells her that this is too good to be true, this can’t really last.
And here she is, reporting back to Jack from the bridge of her ship, about how they lost the Icarus base, about how they’d been able to beam some people out and the rest are gone apparently. She doesn’t know where, and neither does he.
The Hammond took some hits, too, and her crew is already fixing some of the issues. They’ve established orbit around Earth and far below them, in the bustling interior of the Pentagon, he’s pushing his hands into his pockets and shrugging. Tonight their roles will be reversed, he’ll be up all night trying to figure things out and she will sleep. She would sleep. She knows she won’t be able to.
She still leaves the bridge eventually, retires to her quarters. She climbs into her bed fully dressed, pulls the starched, rough cotton around her. It takes those sheets forever to get warm and even when they do, their rustling reminds her of where exactly she is. Not that she sleeps much anymore, she constantly hovers in a state of almost-awake and she hasn’t slept for more than a couple of hours in days.
Next week she is supposed to beam down to Earth for a weekend, she’s been looking forward to it. Now she’s probably going to be somewhere out there, out here in space. Trying to figure out what happened to the people at the Icarus base. If they made it out through the open ‘gate leading somewhere other than Earth.
Maybe they’ll know tomorrow. Maybe she will be able to beam down to Earth for the first time in three months. If she doesn’t get to, it’ll be another three months, and then another, and another, the way it always has been. She wonders when exactly she’s started to think of years as an okay measurement of time to stay away from home. A year she can handle, she knows that. She sighs, mentally kicks herself. This isn’t about her. She hates losing people, she hates the Lucian Alliance. She hates it when things don’t work out as planned and there’s nothing she can do. She’s usually the one with all the answers and not having one now nearly kills the part of her brain that tells her she should, really, have an answer. Just like always. Just so that everyone can sit back, nod, and she’ll have saved the day. Again.
She doesn’t come home the following weekend. She comes home a month after, standing on the bridge and nodding to Vega to beam her down. It’s one in the morning in Washington, and she gets beamed right into the hallway of his apartment, blinking until her eyes have adjusted to the nightlight. She doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t want to startle Jack if he’s still awake but the apartment is quiet and dark, and so she takes her duffel bag into the bathroom with her, shuts the door, undresses, showers. He’s not going to think someone’s breaking in when he wakes up because people who break into houses don’t have showers in the middle of the night.
She braids her hair down her back, walks into the bedroom naked. She’d sleep naked too, if there wasn’t that edge of fear of being beamed up onto the ship for an emergency, landing on the bridge stark naked. She pulls open a drawer quietly, pulls out one of his old, worn t-shirts that reach down to her knees and then some underwear. If they’re going to beam her up, which they’re not supposed to anyways, she’ll at least be decent.
He’s fast asleep on his side of the bed, his face half buried in his pillow. These last few months have been exhausting for him, too. He’s grown bitter, he wants his weapon back, he wants to shoot the Lucian Alliance the hell up, is what he wants. He gets politics instead and she does the shooting. Her ship does the shooting.
She climbs under the covers, scoots close to him, pushes her hand beneath his shirt and feels his warm skin, the dip above his spine. He tenses for a moment and she knows he’s awake then, her fingers drawing lazy circles. All she’s wanted was to sleep and here she is, her fingers dipping lower, tracing the edge of his boxers.
“Sam,” he mutters sleepily, rolls over.
He blinks at her a couple of times, eyes bleary. She wonders if he can make out her face hovering above, that glint of desperation in her eyes. The fact that her body is so tired her nerves seem to be on fire and yet she won’t be able to sleep. She wants to touch and feel, she wants to make this one night count. There’s a war going on out there and tomorrow morning she’ll fly back into the middle of it.
He sighs, the kind of sigh that tells her he knows exactly what she’s thinking, knows exactly what she’s feeling. He takes her hand, pulls her on top of him and then down, chest to chest, until her lips are touching his.
Despite the late hour, despite the fact that sometime tonight they should probably get some sleep, they take their time. It seems like forever until their clothes are off, until their skin’s on fire, until all they can hear, all they care about, is making the other moan, and sigh. She loves kissing him, loves sitting up, straddling him, arching her back, taking what she needs while he watches in awe, desire so clearly written across his face.
They kiss a lot afterwards, too, slowly, languidly. Her body feels so very heavy now, her muscles tired. She’s deliciously achy in all the right places, cuddled against him, warm and safe. His hand is stroking up and down her back lazily, all the way to her shoulders and then down again to the small of her back, playing along every single knob of her spine. She hums, her eyes closed, her face pressed against his neck so she can breathe in the scent of him, clean and a little spicy.
She does fall asleep naked and nothing happens, no one beams her up. His alarm goes off at six, and they’ll beam her back up at eight. They shower together and then he cooks her breakfast. Earth-style, with bacon and eggs and whatever else she may want. He puts everything on a plate and then stands between her legs while she sits on the counter, and they eat off this one plate, smiling at each other between bites, sipping coffee.
This is their normalcy. This is what they get up for in the morning. This and the galaxy, the universe. This and all of creation.
She has just enough time to call Cassie, who’s still asleep but happy to hear from her nonetheless. Just enough time to pack a few things, to leave a few things behind, to pull on her BDUs, pull her hair into a bun.
Quarter to eight he wraps his arms around her, kisses her, all tongue and teeth and lips, makes sure she knows what she’s going out there for. And then he steps back and she smiles, tells him she loves him, manages to close her mouth, to hear the beginning of his “I love you, too” just before she’s back on the ship’s bridge.
She takes a deep breath, shakes off her wistfulness. She turns and smiles at her crew, hears their reports about repairs, simulations. She puts her stuff in her quarters, checks the computers, goes through the logs. No glitches. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another war. Just one more time going out there and hoping someone doesn’t shoot them all to hell.
She sits down in her chair. The boss chair, Vega calls it. She nods, smiles, gives the order to “take him up”, her Phoenix, this ship that’s keeping General Hammond’s memory alive. And then they’re off, hyperspace whooshing past, off to fight this war, to win it.
She has a lot to lose. She can’t lose. Ever.
Author: ardvari
Rating: M
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Stargate Universe 1x01 Air.
A/N: Sequel to Limelight. Just when things start to look up, disaster strikes again- just like always.
Satellite Heart
Of course disaster strikes again the way it always does when things seem to settle down, when everything seems to go well. When things seem almost normal, when that nagging voice inside her head tells her that this is too good to be true, this can’t really last.
And here she is, reporting back to Jack from the bridge of her ship, about how they lost the Icarus base, about how they’d been able to beam some people out and the rest are gone apparently. She doesn’t know where, and neither does he.
The Hammond took some hits, too, and her crew is already fixing some of the issues. They’ve established orbit around Earth and far below them, in the bustling interior of the Pentagon, he’s pushing his hands into his pockets and shrugging. Tonight their roles will be reversed, he’ll be up all night trying to figure things out and she will sleep. She would sleep. She knows she won’t be able to.
She still leaves the bridge eventually, retires to her quarters. She climbs into her bed fully dressed, pulls the starched, rough cotton around her. It takes those sheets forever to get warm and even when they do, their rustling reminds her of where exactly she is. Not that she sleeps much anymore, she constantly hovers in a state of almost-awake and she hasn’t slept for more than a couple of hours in days.
Next week she is supposed to beam down to Earth for a weekend, she’s been looking forward to it. Now she’s probably going to be somewhere out there, out here in space. Trying to figure out what happened to the people at the Icarus base. If they made it out through the open ‘gate leading somewhere other than Earth.
Maybe they’ll know tomorrow. Maybe she will be able to beam down to Earth for the first time in three months. If she doesn’t get to, it’ll be another three months, and then another, and another, the way it always has been. She wonders when exactly she’s started to think of years as an okay measurement of time to stay away from home. A year she can handle, she knows that. She sighs, mentally kicks herself. This isn’t about her. She hates losing people, she hates the Lucian Alliance. She hates it when things don’t work out as planned and there’s nothing she can do. She’s usually the one with all the answers and not having one now nearly kills the part of her brain that tells her she should, really, have an answer. Just like always. Just so that everyone can sit back, nod, and she’ll have saved the day. Again.
She doesn’t come home the following weekend. She comes home a month after, standing on the bridge and nodding to Vega to beam her down. It’s one in the morning in Washington, and she gets beamed right into the hallway of his apartment, blinking until her eyes have adjusted to the nightlight. She doesn’t move for a moment, doesn’t want to startle Jack if he’s still awake but the apartment is quiet and dark, and so she takes her duffel bag into the bathroom with her, shuts the door, undresses, showers. He’s not going to think someone’s breaking in when he wakes up because people who break into houses don’t have showers in the middle of the night.
She braids her hair down her back, walks into the bedroom naked. She’d sleep naked too, if there wasn’t that edge of fear of being beamed up onto the ship for an emergency, landing on the bridge stark naked. She pulls open a drawer quietly, pulls out one of his old, worn t-shirts that reach down to her knees and then some underwear. If they’re going to beam her up, which they’re not supposed to anyways, she’ll at least be decent.
He’s fast asleep on his side of the bed, his face half buried in his pillow. These last few months have been exhausting for him, too. He’s grown bitter, he wants his weapon back, he wants to shoot the Lucian Alliance the hell up, is what he wants. He gets politics instead and she does the shooting. Her ship does the shooting.
She climbs under the covers, scoots close to him, pushes her hand beneath his shirt and feels his warm skin, the dip above his spine. He tenses for a moment and she knows he’s awake then, her fingers drawing lazy circles. All she’s wanted was to sleep and here she is, her fingers dipping lower, tracing the edge of his boxers.
“Sam,” he mutters sleepily, rolls over.
He blinks at her a couple of times, eyes bleary. She wonders if he can make out her face hovering above, that glint of desperation in her eyes. The fact that her body is so tired her nerves seem to be on fire and yet she won’t be able to sleep. She wants to touch and feel, she wants to make this one night count. There’s a war going on out there and tomorrow morning she’ll fly back into the middle of it.
He sighs, the kind of sigh that tells her he knows exactly what she’s thinking, knows exactly what she’s feeling. He takes her hand, pulls her on top of him and then down, chest to chest, until her lips are touching his.
Despite the late hour, despite the fact that sometime tonight they should probably get some sleep, they take their time. It seems like forever until their clothes are off, until their skin’s on fire, until all they can hear, all they care about, is making the other moan, and sigh. She loves kissing him, loves sitting up, straddling him, arching her back, taking what she needs while he watches in awe, desire so clearly written across his face.
They kiss a lot afterwards, too, slowly, languidly. Her body feels so very heavy now, her muscles tired. She’s deliciously achy in all the right places, cuddled against him, warm and safe. His hand is stroking up and down her back lazily, all the way to her shoulders and then down again to the small of her back, playing along every single knob of her spine. She hums, her eyes closed, her face pressed against his neck so she can breathe in the scent of him, clean and a little spicy.
She does fall asleep naked and nothing happens, no one beams her up. His alarm goes off at six, and they’ll beam her back up at eight. They shower together and then he cooks her breakfast. Earth-style, with bacon and eggs and whatever else she may want. He puts everything on a plate and then stands between her legs while she sits on the counter, and they eat off this one plate, smiling at each other between bites, sipping coffee.
This is their normalcy. This is what they get up for in the morning. This and the galaxy, the universe. This and all of creation.
She has just enough time to call Cassie, who’s still asleep but happy to hear from her nonetheless. Just enough time to pack a few things, to leave a few things behind, to pull on her BDUs, pull her hair into a bun.
Quarter to eight he wraps his arms around her, kisses her, all tongue and teeth and lips, makes sure she knows what she’s going out there for. And then he steps back and she smiles, tells him she loves him, manages to close her mouth, to hear the beginning of his “I love you, too” just before she’s back on the ship’s bridge.
She takes a deep breath, shakes off her wistfulness. She turns and smiles at her crew, hears their reports about repairs, simulations. She puts her stuff in her quarters, checks the computers, goes through the logs. No glitches. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just another war. Just one more time going out there and hoping someone doesn’t shoot them all to hell.
She sits down in her chair. The boss chair, Vega calls it. She nods, smiles, gives the order to “take him up”, her Phoenix, this ship that’s keeping General Hammond’s memory alive. And then they’re off, hyperspace whooshing past, off to fight this war, to win it.
She has a lot to lose. She can’t lose. Ever.