SG-1/SGA ficlet -- The Journey's Pause
I realize that probably everything there was to say about Jack and Sam was said ten years ago, and that I'm totally late to this party, but I had to try them.
This ficlet goes at the end of SGA "Enemy at the Gate", and it really has to be for salr323, doesn't it?
Sam is not the kind of woman who gets crushes on her commanding officers. She knows that kind of woman. She's known her through her whole career, and doesn't think much of her. So when she has a crush, she knows exactly what to do about it.
Nothing. It gets kicked in the back of the closet, and there it's supposed to stay. Once in a while it peeks its head out, drawn by an expression that makes her catch her breath, drawn by a consideration unexpected, a moment that seems as clearly limned as if she'd engraved it in her memory. And then she kicks it back in the closet again. She knows what she thinks about that.
Months turn into years, and uneasy professional courtesy to friendship. Once in a while it pokes its head out again, just to remind her it's not dead. Once in a while, when he turns his head in profile and she sees his mouth tighten just so, or when he gets out of the car on some really bad day and her heart unexpectedly lifts. She knows what she thinks about that. It's stupid. It's childish. It's a crush, the kind of unreturned feelings that make you look bad, that wreck your career and prove that women don't belong. Sam is not that kind of woman.
It's eight years before she realizes he's watching her too.
Thirteen years on, and the spires of Atlantis rise out of the Pacific Ocean, improbable and entirely real. Night has long since fallen. The dawn will come up swift overland in an hour or so, the stars paling long before the bright dawn line crosses their longitude.
All their teams are coming in. Sam has recalibrated the Atlantis gate to get the stranded SG teams home, and Banks and Major Lorne are getting them in one at a time, finding them places to stay in empty rooms, towers that could hold thousands more people than the peculiar wanderers they do now. They are all peculiar wanderers, her people. The SGC attracts them, becomes home. By noon they'll have nine teams in, standing around Atlantis' mess, as the bleary eyed expedition people drag out to begin repairs on the city. Saving Earth doesn't get you a day off, as the SGC knows.
But it does buy a few hours, and looking out at the spires of Atlantis bathed in light against the dark sea, she's not surprised to find Jack at her elbow.
He's in service blues, just come from a meeting with Woolsey and a cross country flight, and he looks as ragged as she feels. "VIP quarters are pretty nice," he says, leaning on the rail beside her, their elbows not quite touching.
Sam snorts. "I don't think they've remembered that I don't have quarters here anymore. Nobody's put me anywhere."
He looks at her sideways, not a twitch to betray his deadpan manner, but his eyes have a wicked glint. "Inviting yourself somewhere, Carter?"
She knows better than to answer that. He likes to pursue, and she likes to run. But it's kind of late to run very fast.
"Zelenka deserves a decoration," she says. "For getting the city here."
"I don't think we can decorate Zelenka."
"Lorne, then," she says. "For the suicide mission on the hive ship."
"We can decorate the hell out of Lorne," Jack says. He leans over and they stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the faint changes to the sky. Daniel would have some words about proud Helios heralding the dawn. She knows she's heard him say them, but she can't remember them now, bits and snatches of poetry the way he does. Sam is no poet. It's a music she cannot make.
Instead she rests there, one shoulder against the other, as intimate as they will ever be in public, feeling the winds of Earth pulling her hair from its braid.
The City of the Ancients. The people of Earth. The people of Pegasus left facing the Wraith. The teams rolling into beds in white towers, the scientists getting up to drink coffee and look at what the journey wrought.
"What happens now?" she asks.
Jack laces his fingers with hers. "I have no idea," he says.
This ficlet goes at the end of SGA "Enemy at the Gate", and it really has to be for salr323, doesn't it?
Sam is not the kind of woman who gets crushes on her commanding officers. She knows that kind of woman. She's known her through her whole career, and doesn't think much of her. So when she has a crush, she knows exactly what to do about it.
Nothing. It gets kicked in the back of the closet, and there it's supposed to stay. Once in a while it peeks its head out, drawn by an expression that makes her catch her breath, drawn by a consideration unexpected, a moment that seems as clearly limned as if she'd engraved it in her memory. And then she kicks it back in the closet again. She knows what she thinks about that.
Months turn into years, and uneasy professional courtesy to friendship. Once in a while it pokes its head out again, just to remind her it's not dead. Once in a while, when he turns his head in profile and she sees his mouth tighten just so, or when he gets out of the car on some really bad day and her heart unexpectedly lifts. She knows what she thinks about that. It's stupid. It's childish. It's a crush, the kind of unreturned feelings that make you look bad, that wreck your career and prove that women don't belong. Sam is not that kind of woman.
It's eight years before she realizes he's watching her too.
Thirteen years on, and the spires of Atlantis rise out of the Pacific Ocean, improbable and entirely real. Night has long since fallen. The dawn will come up swift overland in an hour or so, the stars paling long before the bright dawn line crosses their longitude.
All their teams are coming in. Sam has recalibrated the Atlantis gate to get the stranded SG teams home, and Banks and Major Lorne are getting them in one at a time, finding them places to stay in empty rooms, towers that could hold thousands more people than the peculiar wanderers they do now. They are all peculiar wanderers, her people. The SGC attracts them, becomes home. By noon they'll have nine teams in, standing around Atlantis' mess, as the bleary eyed expedition people drag out to begin repairs on the city. Saving Earth doesn't get you a day off, as the SGC knows.
But it does buy a few hours, and looking out at the spires of Atlantis bathed in light against the dark sea, she's not surprised to find Jack at her elbow.
He's in service blues, just come from a meeting with Woolsey and a cross country flight, and he looks as ragged as she feels. "VIP quarters are pretty nice," he says, leaning on the rail beside her, their elbows not quite touching.
Sam snorts. "I don't think they've remembered that I don't have quarters here anymore. Nobody's put me anywhere."
He looks at her sideways, not a twitch to betray his deadpan manner, but his eyes have a wicked glint. "Inviting yourself somewhere, Carter?"
She knows better than to answer that. He likes to pursue, and she likes to run. But it's kind of late to run very fast.
"Zelenka deserves a decoration," she says. "For getting the city here."
"I don't think we can decorate Zelenka."
"Lorne, then," she says. "For the suicide mission on the hive ship."
"We can decorate the hell out of Lorne," Jack says. He leans over and they stand shoulder to shoulder, watching the faint changes to the sky. Daniel would have some words about proud Helios heralding the dawn. She knows she's heard him say them, but she can't remember them now, bits and snatches of poetry the way he does. Sam is no poet. It's a music she cannot make.
Instead she rests there, one shoulder against the other, as intimate as they will ever be in public, feeling the winds of Earth pulling her hair from its braid.
The City of the Ancients. The people of Earth. The people of Pegasus left facing the Wraith. The teams rolling into beds in white towers, the scientists getting up to drink coffee and look at what the journey wrought.
"What happens now?" she asks.
Jack laces his fingers with hers. "I have no idea," he says.