Yesterday's Life (Part 2/?)
Title: Yesterday's Life
Author: Kedd
Summary: She feels frayed and faded, like a scrap of fabric accidentally discarded and forced to weather the elements.
Spoilers: Continuum.
Pairing: S/J
Rating: Currently PG-13
Author's Note: Another part of the sj_everyday Secret Santa exchange, for bringingupsammy, who asked for a mature, angsty Continuum fic, a long, long time ago. Title taken from Jimi Hendrix's "Wind Cries Mary".
Warnings: WIP.
"So, Colonel, what's your assessment?"
He was getting damned tired of being asked that question. It's not like he is the only person who's been assessing the tapes of the interrogations. Hell, he was probably, of anyone they had working on this, the least qualified. He didn't understand half of what came out of Jackson's or Samantha's mouths, and while the mysteriously non-existent Mitchell had spoken plainly, his babbling hadn't revealed a heck of a lot that was substantial. He cleared his throat, trying to look thoughtful instead of just annoyed.
"I think they believe what they're telling us, sirs." He looked into the camera that was teleconferencing this over secure channels to the Pentagon. "And I think their stories are similar and detailed enough to be true, without feeling rehearsed, sirs." He cut himself off, for a brief correction, "Well, except for some of the basic stuff about the Stargate, sirs, it seems like Carter and Jackson have told that information many times, but they still focus on different areas. I don't think this elaborate a tale could be completely made up." He paused to allow for the short time delay to see the reaction of the brass. Mostly, there were nods.
A second screen crackled to life, transmitting the familiar face of President Hayes. "If what they're saying is true, there's a hell of a lot we could stand to gain with these allies."
A grim-faced General Vidrine snorted before his reply came through the other monitor, "Or a hell of a lot to lose. It sounds like there are some mighty powerful enemies out there, Mr. President."
"Including one they think's already on the way, sirs," Jack threw in.
"We've no proof of that," said Vidrine.
"With all due respect, sir, we've no proof of a lot of things." Jack said, inwardly cursing his bluntness. He let out a slight sigh of relief when he saw Hayes nodding from the corner of his eye.
"I agree with Colonel O'Neill," the crackly voice of the President said, "And until we see what we know for sure, there's no point in arguing about the rest of it." He clapped his hands and stood up, his face momentarily cut off by the camera. "So, let's get a team of scientists and military down to Antarctica and see if we can find this other Stargate-thing, and we'll go from there." He gave a sharp look at the camera, before ending the meeting, "That's all for now, gentlemen." Jack was just reaching out to turn off his end, when he heard that same voice, "Except for you, Colonel. I'd like a word."
Jack settled back down into his chair and blanked his face. The fact that the POTUS had agreed with him would usually be a good sign, but a private meeting after a few blunt remarks? He'd been around long enough to know that secrecy rarely equalled good things. He waited impatiently as the others terminated their video-links, the small numbers in the corner allowing him to see that it was just him and the President now.
Henry Hayes' blue eyes focussed on him through the screen. "Jack, I like what you've done. I think your assessment of the situation is accurate."
Jack gave a small smile, "Thank you, Mr. President."
"However," Hayes continued, "I don't think we know enough. Now, according to all these reports you were heavily involved with this program in the other reality, correct?"
Jack felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, and braced himself. That didn't prevent him from answering honestly. "Yes, sir. Apparently I was - for about a decade."
"Part of their team, and then their commander, I believe."
He nodded.
"Presumably they trust you." Jack feels the weight of the President's gaze on him as heavily as a full combat pack. "Jack, we need to know more. That trust?" Jack looked into the video screen, meeting the President's eyes. "Use it."
The Air Force relocates her to Seattle. They set her up with an average condominium, an average car, and an average stipend. Seattle's a gray, monotonous city. It rains, a lot.
It suits her.
She feels as though someone had taken all the individual pieces that made up Dr.-Colonel Samantha Carter and scattered them across the universe. A few had blown back to her, but they were ragged, and fragmented, and wouldn't fit back in the holes they'd left behind. She feels like an impostor, an actor in someone else's costume, someone else's role, struggling with this mundane existence that is now her life. Trying to find the motivation to live it, but settling for just keeping on, keeping on.
Her days vary little from one to the next. She makes sure she gets up and leaves the house, every day. If she doesn't, she's afraid that it will become too easy to not get out of bed. Her job, such as it is, is about as boring and mundane as an occupation can get. She can only put her brain to use internally, or in hastily scrawled equations on scraps of paper in the privacy of her apartment. She works out a few ways this could have happened, a few more ways they could fix things, go back to how things should be. She doesn't write anything important down; she knows she's being monitored, and she refuses to give these people any more than they have already figured out for themselves.
The worst is at night, with the streetlights shining in through the window, their once-friendly glow bathing her empty bed in a harsh light, the distant traffic noise too far removed to disturb the silence which is becoming slowly more natural, once again. She'll wake up, sometimes, reaching for him, and the loss hits her as sharp and hard and new as a bullet, and if the taste in her mouth is the salt of tears instead of the iron of blood, there's no one else around to know that, sometimes, she wishes otherwise.
She wonders why she does it, sometimes. Sleeps with him. She's slightly ashamed of it, a part of her glad that she can't get in contact with Daniel and Cam, glad that they can't see her replacing her dead husband with this man, glad they can't see the masquerade that is her life. She doesn't trust this Jack O'Neill. She can't - she doesn't know him like she did her Jack, and he barely knows her.
She gets angry at times, knowing that the day when Ba'al will arrive is drawing closer and she's stuck here, doing nothing, working at a dead-end job in a dead-end world. And then not-Jack will show up, and something he says will make her laugh and for a moment she can forget that another world is going to end and she won't have done anything about it. For a moment she can pretend that Jack's not dead, that she's not alone.
Some days pretending is all that gets her through.
He doesn't remember when, precisely, he started sleeping with her. Oh, he remembers that they were angry, and fighting, and the way she left ten crescents in his back from grabbing his shoulders so hard, just as he left dark thumbprints on her hipbones, but he doesn't remember when. He does remember the moment he realized that the mission - that she - had become so much more important to him. They had gone for a walk, and she'd been explaining something about the upcoming meteor shower to him, her eyes sparkling, and her face animated. He'd reached his hand out to brush a strand of hair away from her face, feeling the fine hairs and the silkiness of her skin as his calloused fingers swept across her cheekbone. She'd stopped talking mid-word, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes met his and he'd known.
He was in love with Samantha Carter.
And then he'd watched as her eyes went from happy and open, to distant and cold, and he'd felt an icy wave sweep over him, settling into a hard ball in his gut. Because it didn't matter if he'd gotten too close during this mission, whether he cared for her more than he was supposed to, if he loved her.
She couldn't look at him without seeing another Jack O'Neill.
So he went back to her house and fucked her. It was hard, and rough, and all he wanted was for her to see him.
He finds himself standing in his dress blues outside her building, huddled close to the doorway to try and get out of the wind and fog. Samantha Carter was apparently out, despite the fact he was replacing the officer who would normally see her for a regularly scheduled check-in. Based on an offhand remark the other man had made, this wouldn't be the first time she was late. A passive-aggressive display of her displeasure with the continued monitoring, he'd said. Jack watches the cars as they drive by, hoping each time that one will turn in. If he'd bothered to read the dossier the Air Force compiled on her, he'd know what to look for; as it is, he's hopeful every time he sees a blinker.
The dampness of the air has thoroughly penetrated his uniform before a familiar blonde head appears out of a car door. As she goes around to the trunk, he moves away from the wall and walks towards her. He can hear her deep sigh as he stops behind her, but she doesn't startle. Instead, she throws a casual order back over her shoulder, directing him to grab the rest of her groceries.
"Sure," he says, and that gets a reaction.
Samantha spins around to face him, eyes wide with surprise, and perhaps a bit of anger. "What are you doing here?" she demands.
Jack snags the last couple of bags out of the trunk - oooh, Frooties - before closing it, and starting to walk towards the building. "Checking up on you, of course."
She belatedly begins to follow, hitting the button on her keys to lock the doors. "What happened to Fredericks?"
Jack waves his hand. "TDY somewhere. And, well, there are very few people who know about you, you know?" He waits for her at the entrance to the building. He can tell by the expression on her face she wishes it was anyone except for him. "Look, let's go inside and then we can talk." Her face subtly changes, her jaw tightening and her chin jutting out. The last thing she intends to do is talk, but Jack's just as determined to change that.
The journey to her apartment is made in silence, and she opens the door, leaving it so he can follow through after her. A quick glance over the place reveals it to be small, tidy, and bare. The rooms are largely empty and the grey walls mirror the weather outside. If he didn't know differently, he'd be hard pressed to find evidence of anyone actually living there. He follows her into the kitchen, casually depositing his bag on the counter. As she starts putting groceries away he scans for obvious signs of bugs, because he's sure there are some, and starts asking the questions that are expected of him. Samantha answers automatically, and he waits until she's finished with the groceries before catching her eye. He gives his ear a quick tug, and has the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen, before she gives a quick nod. Gratifyingly, she doesn't lose the thread of her answer. Even better, she gestures towards her eyes and then shakes her head. Jack waits until he's just about finished the standard questions, before throwing a new one in. "Want to go for a walk? I've been standing in one place too long already." He sees her hesitate, weighing her desire to get away from him with her curiosity over what he wants. Finally she nods.
They've been walking for about 10 minutes, Jack following her as she moves off the main streets to empty sidewalks before he speaks again. "I've spoken to Jackson and Mitchell recently." Her head turns to him swiftly. "They're settling in. Jackson's doing better with the crutches - he's talkin' about getting a prosthetic, and Mitchell seems to have a good thing going. Nice car, too." He can see the curiosity in her eyes, her desire to find out more warring with her wariness about why he's telling her this. He's impressed in spite of himself - she'd have made a brilliant officer with that kind of skeptical caution - but he's also worried, because it will make his job that much harder.
"They've got you talking to all of us?" she asks, looking directly at him for the first time since he showed up at her place.
Jack gives an off-hand shrug, as if it's of no consequence. "They decided they wanted one person to do it."
Her eyebrow arches. "And they picked you?"
He sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. "They needed someone in the know. And, well," he gives a little wave, "The knees, you know? And the back's not what it used to be." She stares at him in disbelief. If what she claimed before is true, she probably knew the other him well enough to know that he wouldn't let his knees or back interfere with his duty unless he damn well couldn't walk. He hesitates for a moment - he needs to get her to trust him, but he needs it to be natural. Which means not giving her too much, too soon. Because as similar as he and the other Jack seem to be, he can damn well bet the other him didn't open up easily. But she's still staring at him, waiting for more. For the thing that would make him move away from active field duty and postings overseas. He looks away for a moment, drawing a hand over his face. "Charlie's been having a hard time recently. I figured, this way I could be around a bit more." He shrugs, as if his son's struggles were of little importance, or as if he wasn't worried, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her face change for a moment - a flash of understanding and a hint of worry, before the mask falls back into place.
"Nothing too serious, I hope," is her casual remark.
He gives a little hand wave. "School and girls. It seems serious to him now."
She nods.
They walk in silence for a bit, the damp wind blowing through their clothes. He notices that their strides match, another example of her military training and their companionship in another life. The blank expression on her face, the carefully maintained distance between them, the very fact that she's walking in parade perfect form - they all speak to the gap between them now. But he knows enough to wait. So, they walk.
It's been almost fifteen minutes since either of they spoke when she breaks the silence. "Daniel and Cam. Can you tell me more?" Her voice is light and the tone casual, her head still looking ahead of them. If it wasn't for the tensing of her hands, the stiffness of her spine, he could be convinced that his answer was of no great importance to her. But he knows better. And now he knows how to get in.
"Yes."
Little things still catch her off-guard, even after all this time. There'll be a moment where he'll look at her from a certain angle, light glinting off his hair, turning it silver, or when he'll come in from the cold wearing one of those stupid black toques, or when he shows up wearing the exact same plaid shirt as her Jack wore the first time it was just the two of them at the cabin, and all she'll want to do is go bury herself in her bed and sob. But she bites her lip, takes some deep breaths and soldiers on.
And if a part of her breaks a bit more when, three months later, she realizes that those moments are happening more and more infrequently, well, she's already so fragmented that she barely notices.
They were fighting.
It happened more often than you'd think, given how little she and Jack had fought in the 10 years she'd worked and then lived with him. But, she reminded herself, this wasn't her Jack. This was another man, a damned stubborn one, and a damned frustrating one.
"Why can't you just tell me?" she said, trying desperately to rein in her anger.
His eyes were almost black. "You know damned well why I can't," he growled, "Or do they not have National Security Clearances in your world?"
"Oh, like that's stopped you from telling me other things," she said, throwing the words at him, mad enough that she doesn't care who might be listening in or what kind of trouble he might be in because of her words.
He moves closer, trying to intimidate her with his height, but she just glares defiantly up at him. If he knew her better he'd know that she's not afraid of him. She knows him too well to believe he'd actually physically hurt her. He holds her gaze even as he leans down to whisper in her ear, voice low enough that even the most sensitive bugs would have a hard time making it out. "Well, thank you, Samantha. I'm sure whoever's listening in is going to find that statement very interesting."
Even with the sarcasm dripping from his words, the anger barely concealed underneath, she feels herself breathing more deeply. The rush of hot air down her neck, the rumble of his voice in her ear, the way the only thing she can smell is him, it all reminds her of her Jack. And she feels her body leaning a little bit closer, her lips parting, trying to hang onto the sensations rushing through her. She can tell the instant he notices her changed mood - his head turns just a hint towards hers, his nose just brushing the hair tucked behind her ear, and his muscles tense. She can make out the pulse in his neck jumping, but from rage or lust, she can't say.
"Be careful, Samantha," he whispers, "I'm not your husband."
She tries to suppress a shiver. He drawls her name the same way. And as she reaches up to him, it's her turn to whisper, "I know."
Later that night in front of the bathroom mirror she traces the bruises on her hips, the beard burn on her neck, the bites on her breasts. She avoids looking herself in the eye. If the pleasure still humming through her body overlays a deeper hatred of herself, there's no one else around to know.
TBC....
Author: Kedd
Summary: She feels frayed and faded, like a scrap of fabric accidentally discarded and forced to weather the elements.
Spoilers: Continuum.
Pairing: S/J
Rating: Currently PG-13
Author's Note: Another part of the sj_everyday Secret Santa exchange, for bringingupsammy, who asked for a mature, angsty Continuum fic, a long, long time ago. Title taken from Jimi Hendrix's "Wind Cries Mary".
Warnings: WIP.
"So, Colonel, what's your assessment?"
He was getting damned tired of being asked that question. It's not like he is the only person who's been assessing the tapes of the interrogations. Hell, he was probably, of anyone they had working on this, the least qualified. He didn't understand half of what came out of Jackson's or Samantha's mouths, and while the mysteriously non-existent Mitchell had spoken plainly, his babbling hadn't revealed a heck of a lot that was substantial. He cleared his throat, trying to look thoughtful instead of just annoyed.
"I think they believe what they're telling us, sirs." He looked into the camera that was teleconferencing this over secure channels to the Pentagon. "And I think their stories are similar and detailed enough to be true, without feeling rehearsed, sirs." He cut himself off, for a brief correction, "Well, except for some of the basic stuff about the Stargate, sirs, it seems like Carter and Jackson have told that information many times, but they still focus on different areas. I don't think this elaborate a tale could be completely made up." He paused to allow for the short time delay to see the reaction of the brass. Mostly, there were nods.
A second screen crackled to life, transmitting the familiar face of President Hayes. "If what they're saying is true, there's a hell of a lot we could stand to gain with these allies."
A grim-faced General Vidrine snorted before his reply came through the other monitor, "Or a hell of a lot to lose. It sounds like there are some mighty powerful enemies out there, Mr. President."
"Including one they think's already on the way, sirs," Jack threw in.
"We've no proof of that," said Vidrine.
"With all due respect, sir, we've no proof of a lot of things." Jack said, inwardly cursing his bluntness. He let out a slight sigh of relief when he saw Hayes nodding from the corner of his eye.
"I agree with Colonel O'Neill," the crackly voice of the President said, "And until we see what we know for sure, there's no point in arguing about the rest of it." He clapped his hands and stood up, his face momentarily cut off by the camera. "So, let's get a team of scientists and military down to Antarctica and see if we can find this other Stargate-thing, and we'll go from there." He gave a sharp look at the camera, before ending the meeting, "That's all for now, gentlemen." Jack was just reaching out to turn off his end, when he heard that same voice, "Except for you, Colonel. I'd like a word."
Jack settled back down into his chair and blanked his face. The fact that the POTUS had agreed with him would usually be a good sign, but a private meeting after a few blunt remarks? He'd been around long enough to know that secrecy rarely equalled good things. He waited impatiently as the others terminated their video-links, the small numbers in the corner allowing him to see that it was just him and the President now.
Henry Hayes' blue eyes focussed on him through the screen. "Jack, I like what you've done. I think your assessment of the situation is accurate."
Jack gave a small smile, "Thank you, Mr. President."
"However," Hayes continued, "I don't think we know enough. Now, according to all these reports you were heavily involved with this program in the other reality, correct?"
Jack felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, and braced himself. That didn't prevent him from answering honestly. "Yes, sir. Apparently I was - for about a decade."
"Part of their team, and then their commander, I believe."
He nodded.
"Presumably they trust you." Jack feels the weight of the President's gaze on him as heavily as a full combat pack. "Jack, we need to know more. That trust?" Jack looked into the video screen, meeting the President's eyes. "Use it."
The Air Force relocates her to Seattle. They set her up with an average condominium, an average car, and an average stipend. Seattle's a gray, monotonous city. It rains, a lot.
It suits her.
She feels as though someone had taken all the individual pieces that made up Dr.-Colonel Samantha Carter and scattered them across the universe. A few had blown back to her, but they were ragged, and fragmented, and wouldn't fit back in the holes they'd left behind. She feels like an impostor, an actor in someone else's costume, someone else's role, struggling with this mundane existence that is now her life. Trying to find the motivation to live it, but settling for just keeping on, keeping on.
Her days vary little from one to the next. She makes sure she gets up and leaves the house, every day. If she doesn't, she's afraid that it will become too easy to not get out of bed. Her job, such as it is, is about as boring and mundane as an occupation can get. She can only put her brain to use internally, or in hastily scrawled equations on scraps of paper in the privacy of her apartment. She works out a few ways this could have happened, a few more ways they could fix things, go back to how things should be. She doesn't write anything important down; she knows she's being monitored, and she refuses to give these people any more than they have already figured out for themselves.
The worst is at night, with the streetlights shining in through the window, their once-friendly glow bathing her empty bed in a harsh light, the distant traffic noise too far removed to disturb the silence which is becoming slowly more natural, once again. She'll wake up, sometimes, reaching for him, and the loss hits her as sharp and hard and new as a bullet, and if the taste in her mouth is the salt of tears instead of the iron of blood, there's no one else around to know that, sometimes, she wishes otherwise.
She wonders why she does it, sometimes. Sleeps with him. She's slightly ashamed of it, a part of her glad that she can't get in contact with Daniel and Cam, glad that they can't see her replacing her dead husband with this man, glad they can't see the masquerade that is her life. She doesn't trust this Jack O'Neill. She can't - she doesn't know him like she did her Jack, and he barely knows her.
She gets angry at times, knowing that the day when Ba'al will arrive is drawing closer and she's stuck here, doing nothing, working at a dead-end job in a dead-end world. And then not-Jack will show up, and something he says will make her laugh and for a moment she can forget that another world is going to end and she won't have done anything about it. For a moment she can pretend that Jack's not dead, that she's not alone.
Some days pretending is all that gets her through.
He doesn't remember when, precisely, he started sleeping with her. Oh, he remembers that they were angry, and fighting, and the way she left ten crescents in his back from grabbing his shoulders so hard, just as he left dark thumbprints on her hipbones, but he doesn't remember when. He does remember the moment he realized that the mission - that she - had become so much more important to him. They had gone for a walk, and she'd been explaining something about the upcoming meteor shower to him, her eyes sparkling, and her face animated. He'd reached his hand out to brush a strand of hair away from her face, feeling the fine hairs and the silkiness of her skin as his calloused fingers swept across her cheekbone. She'd stopped talking mid-word, her lips slightly parted, and her eyes met his and he'd known.
He was in love with Samantha Carter.
And then he'd watched as her eyes went from happy and open, to distant and cold, and he'd felt an icy wave sweep over him, settling into a hard ball in his gut. Because it didn't matter if he'd gotten too close during this mission, whether he cared for her more than he was supposed to, if he loved her.
She couldn't look at him without seeing another Jack O'Neill.
So he went back to her house and fucked her. It was hard, and rough, and all he wanted was for her to see him.
He finds himself standing in his dress blues outside her building, huddled close to the doorway to try and get out of the wind and fog. Samantha Carter was apparently out, despite the fact he was replacing the officer who would normally see her for a regularly scheduled check-in. Based on an offhand remark the other man had made, this wouldn't be the first time she was late. A passive-aggressive display of her displeasure with the continued monitoring, he'd said. Jack watches the cars as they drive by, hoping each time that one will turn in. If he'd bothered to read the dossier the Air Force compiled on her, he'd know what to look for; as it is, he's hopeful every time he sees a blinker.
The dampness of the air has thoroughly penetrated his uniform before a familiar blonde head appears out of a car door. As she goes around to the trunk, he moves away from the wall and walks towards her. He can hear her deep sigh as he stops behind her, but she doesn't startle. Instead, she throws a casual order back over her shoulder, directing him to grab the rest of her groceries.
"Sure," he says, and that gets a reaction.
Samantha spins around to face him, eyes wide with surprise, and perhaps a bit of anger. "What are you doing here?" she demands.
Jack snags the last couple of bags out of the trunk - oooh, Frooties - before closing it, and starting to walk towards the building. "Checking up on you, of course."
She belatedly begins to follow, hitting the button on her keys to lock the doors. "What happened to Fredericks?"
Jack waves his hand. "TDY somewhere. And, well, there are very few people who know about you, you know?" He waits for her at the entrance to the building. He can tell by the expression on her face she wishes it was anyone except for him. "Look, let's go inside and then we can talk." Her face subtly changes, her jaw tightening and her chin jutting out. The last thing she intends to do is talk, but Jack's just as determined to change that.
The journey to her apartment is made in silence, and she opens the door, leaving it so he can follow through after her. A quick glance over the place reveals it to be small, tidy, and bare. The rooms are largely empty and the grey walls mirror the weather outside. If he didn't know differently, he'd be hard pressed to find evidence of anyone actually living there. He follows her into the kitchen, casually depositing his bag on the counter. As she starts putting groceries away he scans for obvious signs of bugs, because he's sure there are some, and starts asking the questions that are expected of him. Samantha answers automatically, and he waits until she's finished with the groceries before catching her eye. He gives his ear a quick tug, and has the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen, before she gives a quick nod. Gratifyingly, she doesn't lose the thread of her answer. Even better, she gestures towards her eyes and then shakes her head. Jack waits until he's just about finished the standard questions, before throwing a new one in. "Want to go for a walk? I've been standing in one place too long already." He sees her hesitate, weighing her desire to get away from him with her curiosity over what he wants. Finally she nods.
They've been walking for about 10 minutes, Jack following her as she moves off the main streets to empty sidewalks before he speaks again. "I've spoken to Jackson and Mitchell recently." Her head turns to him swiftly. "They're settling in. Jackson's doing better with the crutches - he's talkin' about getting a prosthetic, and Mitchell seems to have a good thing going. Nice car, too." He can see the curiosity in her eyes, her desire to find out more warring with her wariness about why he's telling her this. He's impressed in spite of himself - she'd have made a brilliant officer with that kind of skeptical caution - but he's also worried, because it will make his job that much harder.
"They've got you talking to all of us?" she asks, looking directly at him for the first time since he showed up at her place.
Jack gives an off-hand shrug, as if it's of no consequence. "They decided they wanted one person to do it."
Her eyebrow arches. "And they picked you?"
He sighs, rubbing a hand across his face. "They needed someone in the know. And, well," he gives a little wave, "The knees, you know? And the back's not what it used to be." She stares at him in disbelief. If what she claimed before is true, she probably knew the other him well enough to know that he wouldn't let his knees or back interfere with his duty unless he damn well couldn't walk. He hesitates for a moment - he needs to get her to trust him, but he needs it to be natural. Which means not giving her too much, too soon. Because as similar as he and the other Jack seem to be, he can damn well bet the other him didn't open up easily. But she's still staring at him, waiting for more. For the thing that would make him move away from active field duty and postings overseas. He looks away for a moment, drawing a hand over his face. "Charlie's been having a hard time recently. I figured, this way I could be around a bit more." He shrugs, as if his son's struggles were of little importance, or as if he wasn't worried, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her face change for a moment - a flash of understanding and a hint of worry, before the mask falls back into place.
"Nothing too serious, I hope," is her casual remark.
He gives a little hand wave. "School and girls. It seems serious to him now."
She nods.
They walk in silence for a bit, the damp wind blowing through their clothes. He notices that their strides match, another example of her military training and their companionship in another life. The blank expression on her face, the carefully maintained distance between them, the very fact that she's walking in parade perfect form - they all speak to the gap between them now. But he knows enough to wait. So, they walk.
It's been almost fifteen minutes since either of they spoke when she breaks the silence. "Daniel and Cam. Can you tell me more?" Her voice is light and the tone casual, her head still looking ahead of them. If it wasn't for the tensing of her hands, the stiffness of her spine, he could be convinced that his answer was of no great importance to her. But he knows better. And now he knows how to get in.
"Yes."
Little things still catch her off-guard, even after all this time. There'll be a moment where he'll look at her from a certain angle, light glinting off his hair, turning it silver, or when he'll come in from the cold wearing one of those stupid black toques, or when he shows up wearing the exact same plaid shirt as her Jack wore the first time it was just the two of them at the cabin, and all she'll want to do is go bury herself in her bed and sob. But she bites her lip, takes some deep breaths and soldiers on.
And if a part of her breaks a bit more when, three months later, she realizes that those moments are happening more and more infrequently, well, she's already so fragmented that she barely notices.
They were fighting.
It happened more often than you'd think, given how little she and Jack had fought in the 10 years she'd worked and then lived with him. But, she reminded herself, this wasn't her Jack. This was another man, a damned stubborn one, and a damned frustrating one.
"Why can't you just tell me?" she said, trying desperately to rein in her anger.
His eyes were almost black. "You know damned well why I can't," he growled, "Or do they not have National Security Clearances in your world?"
"Oh, like that's stopped you from telling me other things," she said, throwing the words at him, mad enough that she doesn't care who might be listening in or what kind of trouble he might be in because of her words.
He moves closer, trying to intimidate her with his height, but she just glares defiantly up at him. If he knew her better he'd know that she's not afraid of him. She knows him too well to believe he'd actually physically hurt her. He holds her gaze even as he leans down to whisper in her ear, voice low enough that even the most sensitive bugs would have a hard time making it out. "Well, thank you, Samantha. I'm sure whoever's listening in is going to find that statement very interesting."
Even with the sarcasm dripping from his words, the anger barely concealed underneath, she feels herself breathing more deeply. The rush of hot air down her neck, the rumble of his voice in her ear, the way the only thing she can smell is him, it all reminds her of her Jack. And she feels her body leaning a little bit closer, her lips parting, trying to hang onto the sensations rushing through her. She can tell the instant he notices her changed mood - his head turns just a hint towards hers, his nose just brushing the hair tucked behind her ear, and his muscles tense. She can make out the pulse in his neck jumping, but from rage or lust, she can't say.
"Be careful, Samantha," he whispers, "I'm not your husband."
She tries to suppress a shiver. He drawls her name the same way. And as she reaches up to him, it's her turn to whisper, "I know."
Later that night in front of the bathroom mirror she traces the bruises on her hips, the beard burn on her neck, the bites on her breasts. She avoids looking herself in the eye. If the pleasure still humming through her body overlays a deeper hatred of herself, there's no one else around to know.
TBC....