"Landmarks" Cam/Vala, Rated PG13
Here's a new SG1 fic. Cam/Vala, post "Continuum"
Disclaimer: Characters used without permission of their respective owners.
Summary/spoilers: Spoiler for “Continuum”. I’m taking a break from my usual Daniel/Vala shippy goodness for a foray into Cam/Vala territory. Hope you enjoy.
Thanks to sarahjane for inspiration, feedback and beta. Mistakes remain mine.
This one’s for her.
Rating: PG-13
And here I stand all alone
And driving down a pitch-black road
I can’t make it
On my own
~~~ Catie Curtis, “The Night”
Landmarks
He lies across her lap, eyes closed. She can’t tell if he’s dead.
She thinks he might be.
The chamber is quiet; the Tok’ra have returned to their home world, for the most part. One had offered his support, a hand on her shoulder like she was the grieving wife. The truth is she’d only known this body as Ba’al.
Ba’al’s hands around your throat, a thin smile on his lips as he lay on top of you, plunging in, hands with enough pressure around your windpipe to send you in and out of consciousness. The Goa’uld, Qetesh, moaning her satisfaction through your mouth, with your voice, crying out for more, then changing the game on him till they were both spent.
Until you were spent, your body bruised and cold and sated, Qetesh’s voice husky with lust.
More, more, no matter what the desire. Always more.
She shakes back her hair, inhales. Tries not to feel, tries not to relive the lingering flashes that send a chill and a wave of nausea through her. Qetesh had enjoyed this body, had shoved Vala’s consciousness-a strong consciousness-aside to plunder it all.
One more conquest.
Vala barely survived it. This man, eight hundred years of Ba’al…would there be anything left of him when he woke up?
If he wakes up…
The Tok’ra have allowed her to sit with him for hours now. If they hope for a miracle, it seems to her that the miracle has passed. She’s never sat through a removal ceremony of this kind. Qetesh’s removal is something she can’t remember, even if she wanted to. She can remember waking up in a dark room, naked, cold to the bone under a layer of thick blankets, faces above her that weren’t familiar, even if they were human.
And then taking those bits of Qetesh to her own advantage, taking what she could without causing too much harm.
That rationalization is almost as chilling as the invasion by the parasite.
There’s a hand on her shoulder; she jumps and turns, expecting to see the Tok’ra again. Instead, she’s looking into Mitchell’s eyes. He’s still dressed in their desert camouflage but he’s not armed with anything other than the Beretta strapped to his thigh.
He truly is the last person she expects to see.
“What are you doing here?” she says. She tries to keep a lilt in her voice but it sounds like she hasn’t spoken in weeks.
He tightens his mouth into a smile, arms crossed over his chest, feet slightly apart. “Came to check on you.”
“I thought General O’Neill was buying.” She offers him a tilt of her head, and a smile.
Mitchell shrugs. “Ah, he’s cheap.” Pause. “Anyway, I’m not very hungry.” He crouches down, eye level with her. “What’s the story with this guy?”
She smoothes her hand over the man’s hair, her eyes closed. Thankfully, this time there’s nothing: no repressed memory, no flash, no Qetesh lurking behind the gesture.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he…well, is he gonna make it?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Listen,Vala.” He moves from a crouch to sit beside her, legs stretched out, arms behind him and supporting his weight as he leans back a little. “You don’t have to stay here. The Tok’ra… I’m sure they have it all figured out.”
“Maybe.”
He shifts a little and runs a hand over her arm. His hand feels heavy, comforting. “Well, I’ll stay here too.”
She turns to him and raises her eyebrow in a question. “Why in the world would you do that?” she
asks. “I mean, certainly you have other business, reports and such. The General wouldn’t appreciate you spending that precious time here.”
“You know, when I first joined SG1…” He sighs. “I didn’t really know what to expect. A rush better than flying fighters? Maybe proof that I was still alive, that I was going to make it after all, that maybe all the work and all the fight and all the goddamn pain was worth it.”
“Was it?” She turns her attention away from the man she’s cradling to the one who sits beside her, almost shoulder to shoulder. He’s looking off in the distance-she hasn’t seen him this pensive since she thought they’d lost Daniel to Merlin’s spirit. It seems like she’s lived two lives in the span of one since that time.
“You tell me.” He nods his head in the direction of Ba’al…or the man who once was. “You’re here.”
“It was almost eight hundred years for him but…I know…I know what it’s like--” She swallows hard against a memory that flares up behind her eyes…
They’re lined up at the entrance to the Naquadah mines, hundred of innocents. They’ve been reduced to rags and bones. You know the mines have been bled dry; Qetesh shares that knowledge freely. “They’ll suffer and they’ll die for me, and they don’t even know it.” What’s the point, you want to scream, but you’re as captive as they are.
And when they tried to rise against Qetesh, she’d slain them all, each one, throats slit by her loyalists as she allowed you access to your consciousness. “Let it be a lesson. You do not dishonor your god.”
Blood on your hands; Qetesh, of course, had initiated the executions. Blood on your hands, screams in your ears, your own screams never to find voice. At some point, you knew you’d retreated, as much as you could without the parasite noticing.
Ba’al was equally vicious and when they’d joined, it seemed that they left more death in their wake. How would this man live with eight hundred years of images?
A full shudder convulses through her. Mitchell’s arm is around her, pulling her to him. His voice is in her ear, fighting for primacy over the old voice of Qetesh that’s returned, unbidden.
“Vala. Vala!” he whispers sharply. “Are you okay?”
She looks down. Ba'al's face is slack, eyes half open. Her hands move to his chest. It’s still.
She glances at Mitchell, meets his eyes. She sees the question, then realization as he scrambles to his feet.
“Hey! Hey, somebody!” He looks lost; the amber hued temple is cavernous. Every angle looks like every other. She watches him turn in a circle, his eyes searching for an exit, his voice raised in a shout.
“Hey!” he says again, until the last, nameless Tok’ra appears silently in front of him.
“He…” Mitchell points at her. “I think he’s dead.”
The Tok’ra gathers his robes and crouches in front of her. His hands examine the inert body and finally come to rest on his eyes. He closes the eyelids fully and looks at her, face a mask of neutrality.
“It was too much to expect,” he says.
Mitchell is still standing. “And you didn’t tell her? You guys just let her sit with this guy, hoping it would all work out?”
“She knows,” he says. “She knows Qetesh.”
“Knew,” Mitchell says emphatically. “She’s Vala Mal Doran. She always was. She’s not Qetesh. She’s a member of my team and I don’t appreciate-“
“Mitchell,” Vala cuts in.
“You must leave now,” he says.
She nods. “Yes. You…you’ll take care of him?”
“Yes.” He slides his hand under Ba’al’s head, cradling his skull. Mitchell offers her his hand. She takes it, feels his strong grip around her wrist as he pulls her to her feet.
***
They’d found an exit, easily; one turn, two and they were off the highway.
The lights of Mitchell’s car pierce the darkness. She can’t remember what day it is. She watches as headlights fade off in the blur of cars and guardrails, flickering in her peripheral vision.
He flexes his leg as he downshifts and turns right into a graveled parking lot. There's a silver building that reminds her of a bus, rounded edges and rivets visible in the flickering light of a broken sign. The only visible word-‘iner’-fades in and out in a low, buzzing electrical sound. The light’s neon blue; she sees faces through the windows, grizzled men and a few tired looking women hunched over cups of coffee.
They’d had enough time to change their clothes at the base, she into a pair of jeans, a sweater and a coat; more than enough time to change her mind. But once she got to her quarters, she felt the weight of every ton of Earth above her head.
He cuts the engine and is out and around to her side of the car, opening the door before she can get her fingers curled around the door handle. She slides out and stands, face turned up to the sky. It’s better to be here, outside, inhaling diesel fumes and the cold night air, watching the moths dance in the dim lights scattered throughout the parking area.
He grasps her arm and steers her towards the door, gravel crunching under their boots as they make their way to the entrance. The night is quiet other than the low hum of traffic on the highway flowing like a river.
They make their way past the metal and glass double doors into the dining area. The din of voices and loud music clashing with the clink of forks against plates replaces the sound of the highway.
He pulls her towards a large, brightly colored plastic contraption, closer to the sound of the music.
“Jukebox,” he says. “My dad was big on Elvis. ‘Cold Kentucky Rain’ of all things. You’d think he’d like something more upbeat.” He glances at her and smiles. “But…you don’t really want to hear all that, do you.”
“Uh, no, no it’s fine.” She shakes her head. It’s fine, his fingertips light on her back, like that’s all it takes to keep her standing and moving forward. She has a pounding headache but his voice is comforting, an anchor to the present.
“CCR-there you go.” The song changes--he sounds lost in his own world for a moment as he sings the words: “’Someone told me long ago, there’s a calm before the storm…’”
“Can I help you guys?”
The young, female voice startles both of them. He reddens a little in embarrassment.
“Table for two.” He points to a corner booth. “Over there, maybe?”
“Sure,” the waitress says. “I’ll be over with menus.”
Vala follows him to the booth and they slide in opposite each other. She feels like there’s more to this than his looking out for her, like there’s something he wants to say.
“Daniel…did Daniel send you?” she says.
Mitchell’s arms are folded on the Formica topped table, the sleeves of his brown leather jacket rucked up at the elbows, the fingers of his right hand thrumming on the table in time with the music.
“When I got this assignment, this place was the first one I found.” His blue eyes cut to the window. “It was a landmark. I knew when I saw it, I was home.”
“Mitchell.” She needs to hear where this is going. Why is he here now?
Why is she grateful that he is?
His hands are still and he looks at her, lips set in a tight line. “Would it matter?” he says.
She tilts her head back, closes her eyes.
Would it matter? If she walked through the gate, left Stargate Command behind, would it matter? If she’d stayed with Tomin would it matter?
She is to Daniel Jackson what the man who played host to Ba’al was to her-something to pity, something to watch over, something, maybe, to prove to themselves that they hadn’t lost any innate goodness along the way.
He isn’t in love with her. She knows that in her heart.
Would it matter if he were?
She thought that she loved him; he was her point of reference in this world, on the team, the one who stood up for her when it seemed no one else would. But she’s past that now, and it’s obvious to her, as much as he cares for her, and as much as she cares for him…he’ll never love her.
And he most certainly will never want her.
She sits up, looks into Mitchell’s eyes. He hasn’t moved, still leaning forward on his arms, hands folded. Waiting, gaze fierce, unrelenting. A soldier’s. She meets it with equal force.
“I need to know,” she says, her voice low. She spreads her hands on the table top, palms flat.
“It’s been a rough day,” he says.
“No. You’re not letting it go that easily. A man died in my arms today. I didn’t know him as anyone but Ba’al. It wouldn’t have mattered what he was before, or how he came back-if he came back. He’d always be Ba’al to me. Is that what he sees? In me? What I was?”
He reaches across the table and rests the palm of his hand against her cheek, sliding one thumb just under her eye to wipe away a tear that’s formed there.
“I don’t know what he sees,” Mitchell says. “I only know what I see.”
His voice stirs something deep inside her. There was a reason Qetesh had taken her as a host, beyond her obvious physical charms. Vala Mal Doran had always looked out for herself, knew to make the deal before someone else made it at her expense. She wasn’t blameless, not entirely.
Mitchell looks at her like none of that matters. Like he already knows. Like he’s known it from the first minute she stepped into the Gate Room.
“Tell me.” There are gestures and glances but she needs to hear it. It needs to be concrete and real before it’s just one more voice in her head.
“I see…” His voice falters and he pulls his hand away and turns like he’s going to slide out of the booth.
“This isn’t right,” he says. “This isn’t the right time.”
“Mitchell…” She reaches across the table, grabs his arm. “Can we get out of here?”
***
He was right; the distance was short and there’s little time to think.
They’ve pulled up to his darkened house before she has time to register where they’re going. She doesn’t wait for him to open the car door this time. They’re both outside the car, doors slamming simultaneously. The chill in the air hasn’t done anything to quell what she feels inside.
He grabs her hand, and pulls her towards the door, fumbling with his keys as they move up the walkway. They’d left the diner in complete silence, Mitchell placing a five on the table as the confused waitress had arrived with their menus.
Her hand is warm inside his larger one. The door clicks open and he’s pulling her past, closing it with the side of his boot. He still hasn’t let go of her as he reaches over and flicks a switch. Light streams out from under a lampshade on a side table, making the room glow from midpoint. All she can really see is his face still in shadow.
He turns to her fully. There’s not a hint of a smile, none of his usual playfulness. His hand cradles her cheek, slips to the back of her neck, lifting her hair away. He draws her in, his lips on hers before she can react, both hands in her hair.
The sounds and images won’t leave her: the Goa’uld voices of Ba’al and Qetesh, Ba’al’s hands rough on her body. Neither Qetesh nor Ba’al were satisfied until they’d left their marks.
Tomin. She tries to think of Tomin as Mitchell’s hands work their way gently down her body.
Qetesh has been unlocked today, again, and she can hardly remember the man who was her husband.
Mitchell pulls away from her, hands on her arms and holding her apart from him.
“Vala?”
It’s all going too fast yet not fast enough. There’s nothing in shadow on his face anymore. His mouth looks soft, smiling encouragement, eyes alive for her.
It’s been so long since anyone has looked at her that way.
Her hands move to his shirt, undoing one button then the next. He shrugs off his jacket, lets it fall to the floor. His chest is warm under her hands.
“It’s ok,” she says. “It’s ok, Mitchell.” She pulls his shirt open, helps him yank his t-shirt over his head. Her arms around him, holding him close. She can feel his heart beating hard in his chest.
Her lips find his, soft against her own. She takes his hands and guides them to her own clothes, helps him as they shed jackets and pants. He maneuvers her towards the wall, and she feels it cool against her back. She pulls him closer, wraps a leg around him, pulling him in deeper. He’s hard, ready, and he fills her.
She closes her eyes, hands in his hair. Her voice is her own as she murmurs his name, her own heat rising. He moans against the sensitive skin of her neck, calling her name, claiming her. This once, it doesn’t have to be anything more than this one time, just to bring her back, to set her right.
She arches her back, feels it in waves through her body; he’s a beat behind her. His head rests on her shoulder, breath hot against her ear. She holds him close, hands firm on his back. She doesn’t want to let go, lose this moment.
“Vala,” he whispers. “Oh, god…”
She laughs and ruffles her hands through his hair. In spite of the cold, they’re both sweat slicked. They unwind from each other.
He laughs too, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect that…wow…did not expect that.” He takes her hand, kisses it once, still shaking his head with a smile. “Damn.”
She smiles in return, grounded. He leans down and snags his shirt and jeans from the floor then drapes his shirt over her shoulders. He steps into his jeans and zips them up.
“Sam told me once that I always lose my pants.” He helps her button his shirt, takes a moment to brush a kiss over her lips. “Guess she was right.” He takes her hand in his and pulls her towards him. “You hungry?”
“That depends on what you have in mind.” She rests within his arms.
“Breakfast, dinner, midnight snack. We have all night.” He brushes her hair away from her face. “But I promise you, I make a mean omelet.”
"Let's...let's just stay here, for just a minute longer?" She looks into his eyes. His gaze washes over her, fearless, open.
She leans against his shoulder; his arms tighten around her, one hand smoothing her hair.
Maybe all the work and all the fight and all the goddamn pain was worth it…
She pulls away, brings her hand to his face. “What you said, earlier? About proving, knowing that you were still alive?”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“It’s worth it. All of it.”
“It’s gonna be ok, Vala,” he says. “I promise, it’s all gonna be ok.”
She sways against him as he starts to hum, that same tune they’d heard in the diner.
“I know.”
#END#
Disclaimer: Characters used without permission of their respective owners.
Summary/spoilers: Spoiler for “Continuum”. I’m taking a break from my usual Daniel/Vala shippy goodness for a foray into Cam/Vala territory. Hope you enjoy.
Thanks to sarahjane for inspiration, feedback and beta. Mistakes remain mine.
This one’s for her.
Rating: PG-13
And here I stand all alone
And driving down a pitch-black road
I can’t make it
On my own
~~~ Catie Curtis, “The Night”
Landmarks
He lies across her lap, eyes closed. She can’t tell if he’s dead.
She thinks he might be.
The chamber is quiet; the Tok’ra have returned to their home world, for the most part. One had offered his support, a hand on her shoulder like she was the grieving wife. The truth is she’d only known this body as Ba’al.
Ba’al’s hands around your throat, a thin smile on his lips as he lay on top of you, plunging in, hands with enough pressure around your windpipe to send you in and out of consciousness. The Goa’uld, Qetesh, moaning her satisfaction through your mouth, with your voice, crying out for more, then changing the game on him till they were both spent.
Until you were spent, your body bruised and cold and sated, Qetesh’s voice husky with lust.
More, more, no matter what the desire. Always more.
She shakes back her hair, inhales. Tries not to feel, tries not to relive the lingering flashes that send a chill and a wave of nausea through her. Qetesh had enjoyed this body, had shoved Vala’s consciousness-a strong consciousness-aside to plunder it all.
One more conquest.
Vala barely survived it. This man, eight hundred years of Ba’al…would there be anything left of him when he woke up?
If he wakes up…
The Tok’ra have allowed her to sit with him for hours now. If they hope for a miracle, it seems to her that the miracle has passed. She’s never sat through a removal ceremony of this kind. Qetesh’s removal is something she can’t remember, even if she wanted to. She can remember waking up in a dark room, naked, cold to the bone under a layer of thick blankets, faces above her that weren’t familiar, even if they were human.
And then taking those bits of Qetesh to her own advantage, taking what she could without causing too much harm.
That rationalization is almost as chilling as the invasion by the parasite.
There’s a hand on her shoulder; she jumps and turns, expecting to see the Tok’ra again. Instead, she’s looking into Mitchell’s eyes. He’s still dressed in their desert camouflage but he’s not armed with anything other than the Beretta strapped to his thigh.
He truly is the last person she expects to see.
“What are you doing here?” she says. She tries to keep a lilt in her voice but it sounds like she hasn’t spoken in weeks.
He tightens his mouth into a smile, arms crossed over his chest, feet slightly apart. “Came to check on you.”
“I thought General O’Neill was buying.” She offers him a tilt of her head, and a smile.
Mitchell shrugs. “Ah, he’s cheap.” Pause. “Anyway, I’m not very hungry.” He crouches down, eye level with her. “What’s the story with this guy?”
She smoothes her hand over the man’s hair, her eyes closed. Thankfully, this time there’s nothing: no repressed memory, no flash, no Qetesh lurking behind the gesture.
“I don’t know.”
“Is he…well, is he gonna make it?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t know.”
“Listen,Vala.” He moves from a crouch to sit beside her, legs stretched out, arms behind him and supporting his weight as he leans back a little. “You don’t have to stay here. The Tok’ra… I’m sure they have it all figured out.”
“Maybe.”
He shifts a little and runs a hand over her arm. His hand feels heavy, comforting. “Well, I’ll stay here too.”
She turns to him and raises her eyebrow in a question. “Why in the world would you do that?” she
asks. “I mean, certainly you have other business, reports and such. The General wouldn’t appreciate you spending that precious time here.”
“You know, when I first joined SG1…” He sighs. “I didn’t really know what to expect. A rush better than flying fighters? Maybe proof that I was still alive, that I was going to make it after all, that maybe all the work and all the fight and all the goddamn pain was worth it.”
“Was it?” She turns her attention away from the man she’s cradling to the one who sits beside her, almost shoulder to shoulder. He’s looking off in the distance-she hasn’t seen him this pensive since she thought they’d lost Daniel to Merlin’s spirit. It seems like she’s lived two lives in the span of one since that time.
“You tell me.” He nods his head in the direction of Ba’al…or the man who once was. “You’re here.”
“It was almost eight hundred years for him but…I know…I know what it’s like--” She swallows hard against a memory that flares up behind her eyes…
They’re lined up at the entrance to the Naquadah mines, hundred of innocents. They’ve been reduced to rags and bones. You know the mines have been bled dry; Qetesh shares that knowledge freely. “They’ll suffer and they’ll die for me, and they don’t even know it.” What’s the point, you want to scream, but you’re as captive as they are.
And when they tried to rise against Qetesh, she’d slain them all, each one, throats slit by her loyalists as she allowed you access to your consciousness. “Let it be a lesson. You do not dishonor your god.”
Blood on your hands; Qetesh, of course, had initiated the executions. Blood on your hands, screams in your ears, your own screams never to find voice. At some point, you knew you’d retreated, as much as you could without the parasite noticing.
Ba’al was equally vicious and when they’d joined, it seemed that they left more death in their wake. How would this man live with eight hundred years of images?
A full shudder convulses through her. Mitchell’s arm is around her, pulling her to him. His voice is in her ear, fighting for primacy over the old voice of Qetesh that’s returned, unbidden.
“Vala. Vala!” he whispers sharply. “Are you okay?”
She looks down. Ba'al's face is slack, eyes half open. Her hands move to his chest. It’s still.
She glances at Mitchell, meets his eyes. She sees the question, then realization as he scrambles to his feet.
“Hey! Hey, somebody!” He looks lost; the amber hued temple is cavernous. Every angle looks like every other. She watches him turn in a circle, his eyes searching for an exit, his voice raised in a shout.
“Hey!” he says again, until the last, nameless Tok’ra appears silently in front of him.
“He…” Mitchell points at her. “I think he’s dead.”
The Tok’ra gathers his robes and crouches in front of her. His hands examine the inert body and finally come to rest on his eyes. He closes the eyelids fully and looks at her, face a mask of neutrality.
“It was too much to expect,” he says.
Mitchell is still standing. “And you didn’t tell her? You guys just let her sit with this guy, hoping it would all work out?”
“She knows,” he says. “She knows Qetesh.”
“Knew,” Mitchell says emphatically. “She’s Vala Mal Doran. She always was. She’s not Qetesh. She’s a member of my team and I don’t appreciate-“
“Mitchell,” Vala cuts in.
“You must leave now,” he says.
She nods. “Yes. You…you’ll take care of him?”
“Yes.” He slides his hand under Ba’al’s head, cradling his skull. Mitchell offers her his hand. She takes it, feels his strong grip around her wrist as he pulls her to her feet.
***
They’d found an exit, easily; one turn, two and they were off the highway.
The lights of Mitchell’s car pierce the darkness. She can’t remember what day it is. She watches as headlights fade off in the blur of cars and guardrails, flickering in her peripheral vision.
He flexes his leg as he downshifts and turns right into a graveled parking lot. There's a silver building that reminds her of a bus, rounded edges and rivets visible in the flickering light of a broken sign. The only visible word-‘iner’-fades in and out in a low, buzzing electrical sound. The light’s neon blue; she sees faces through the windows, grizzled men and a few tired looking women hunched over cups of coffee.
They’d had enough time to change their clothes at the base, she into a pair of jeans, a sweater and a coat; more than enough time to change her mind. But once she got to her quarters, she felt the weight of every ton of Earth above her head.
He cuts the engine and is out and around to her side of the car, opening the door before she can get her fingers curled around the door handle. She slides out and stands, face turned up to the sky. It’s better to be here, outside, inhaling diesel fumes and the cold night air, watching the moths dance in the dim lights scattered throughout the parking area.
He grasps her arm and steers her towards the door, gravel crunching under their boots as they make their way to the entrance. The night is quiet other than the low hum of traffic on the highway flowing like a river.
They make their way past the metal and glass double doors into the dining area. The din of voices and loud music clashing with the clink of forks against plates replaces the sound of the highway.
He pulls her towards a large, brightly colored plastic contraption, closer to the sound of the music.
“Jukebox,” he says. “My dad was big on Elvis. ‘Cold Kentucky Rain’ of all things. You’d think he’d like something more upbeat.” He glances at her and smiles. “But…you don’t really want to hear all that, do you.”
“Uh, no, no it’s fine.” She shakes her head. It’s fine, his fingertips light on her back, like that’s all it takes to keep her standing and moving forward. She has a pounding headache but his voice is comforting, an anchor to the present.
“CCR-there you go.” The song changes--he sounds lost in his own world for a moment as he sings the words: “’Someone told me long ago, there’s a calm before the storm…’”
“Can I help you guys?”
The young, female voice startles both of them. He reddens a little in embarrassment.
“Table for two.” He points to a corner booth. “Over there, maybe?”
“Sure,” the waitress says. “I’ll be over with menus.”
Vala follows him to the booth and they slide in opposite each other. She feels like there’s more to this than his looking out for her, like there’s something he wants to say.
“Daniel…did Daniel send you?” she says.
Mitchell’s arms are folded on the Formica topped table, the sleeves of his brown leather jacket rucked up at the elbows, the fingers of his right hand thrumming on the table in time with the music.
“When I got this assignment, this place was the first one I found.” His blue eyes cut to the window. “It was a landmark. I knew when I saw it, I was home.”
“Mitchell.” She needs to hear where this is going. Why is he here now?
Why is she grateful that he is?
His hands are still and he looks at her, lips set in a tight line. “Would it matter?” he says.
She tilts her head back, closes her eyes.
Would it matter? If she walked through the gate, left Stargate Command behind, would it matter? If she’d stayed with Tomin would it matter?
She is to Daniel Jackson what the man who played host to Ba’al was to her-something to pity, something to watch over, something, maybe, to prove to themselves that they hadn’t lost any innate goodness along the way.
He isn’t in love with her. She knows that in her heart.
Would it matter if he were?
She thought that she loved him; he was her point of reference in this world, on the team, the one who stood up for her when it seemed no one else would. But she’s past that now, and it’s obvious to her, as much as he cares for her, and as much as she cares for him…he’ll never love her.
And he most certainly will never want her.
She sits up, looks into Mitchell’s eyes. He hasn’t moved, still leaning forward on his arms, hands folded. Waiting, gaze fierce, unrelenting. A soldier’s. She meets it with equal force.
“I need to know,” she says, her voice low. She spreads her hands on the table top, palms flat.
“It’s been a rough day,” he says.
“No. You’re not letting it go that easily. A man died in my arms today. I didn’t know him as anyone but Ba’al. It wouldn’t have mattered what he was before, or how he came back-if he came back. He’d always be Ba’al to me. Is that what he sees? In me? What I was?”
He reaches across the table and rests the palm of his hand against her cheek, sliding one thumb just under her eye to wipe away a tear that’s formed there.
“I don’t know what he sees,” Mitchell says. “I only know what I see.”
His voice stirs something deep inside her. There was a reason Qetesh had taken her as a host, beyond her obvious physical charms. Vala Mal Doran had always looked out for herself, knew to make the deal before someone else made it at her expense. She wasn’t blameless, not entirely.
Mitchell looks at her like none of that matters. Like he already knows. Like he’s known it from the first minute she stepped into the Gate Room.
“Tell me.” There are gestures and glances but she needs to hear it. It needs to be concrete and real before it’s just one more voice in her head.
“I see…” His voice falters and he pulls his hand away and turns like he’s going to slide out of the booth.
“This isn’t right,” he says. “This isn’t the right time.”
“Mitchell…” She reaches across the table, grabs his arm. “Can we get out of here?”
***
He was right; the distance was short and there’s little time to think.
They’ve pulled up to his darkened house before she has time to register where they’re going. She doesn’t wait for him to open the car door this time. They’re both outside the car, doors slamming simultaneously. The chill in the air hasn’t done anything to quell what she feels inside.
He grabs her hand, and pulls her towards the door, fumbling with his keys as they move up the walkway. They’d left the diner in complete silence, Mitchell placing a five on the table as the confused waitress had arrived with their menus.
Her hand is warm inside his larger one. The door clicks open and he’s pulling her past, closing it with the side of his boot. He still hasn’t let go of her as he reaches over and flicks a switch. Light streams out from under a lampshade on a side table, making the room glow from midpoint. All she can really see is his face still in shadow.
He turns to her fully. There’s not a hint of a smile, none of his usual playfulness. His hand cradles her cheek, slips to the back of her neck, lifting her hair away. He draws her in, his lips on hers before she can react, both hands in her hair.
The sounds and images won’t leave her: the Goa’uld voices of Ba’al and Qetesh, Ba’al’s hands rough on her body. Neither Qetesh nor Ba’al were satisfied until they’d left their marks.
Tomin. She tries to think of Tomin as Mitchell’s hands work their way gently down her body.
Qetesh has been unlocked today, again, and she can hardly remember the man who was her husband.
Mitchell pulls away from her, hands on her arms and holding her apart from him.
“Vala?”
It’s all going too fast yet not fast enough. There’s nothing in shadow on his face anymore. His mouth looks soft, smiling encouragement, eyes alive for her.
It’s been so long since anyone has looked at her that way.
Her hands move to his shirt, undoing one button then the next. He shrugs off his jacket, lets it fall to the floor. His chest is warm under her hands.
“It’s ok,” she says. “It’s ok, Mitchell.” She pulls his shirt open, helps him yank his t-shirt over his head. Her arms around him, holding him close. She can feel his heart beating hard in his chest.
Her lips find his, soft against her own. She takes his hands and guides them to her own clothes, helps him as they shed jackets and pants. He maneuvers her towards the wall, and she feels it cool against her back. She pulls him closer, wraps a leg around him, pulling him in deeper. He’s hard, ready, and he fills her.
She closes her eyes, hands in his hair. Her voice is her own as she murmurs his name, her own heat rising. He moans against the sensitive skin of her neck, calling her name, claiming her. This once, it doesn’t have to be anything more than this one time, just to bring her back, to set her right.
She arches her back, feels it in waves through her body; he’s a beat behind her. His head rests on her shoulder, breath hot against her ear. She holds him close, hands firm on his back. She doesn’t want to let go, lose this moment.
“Vala,” he whispers. “Oh, god…”
She laughs and ruffles her hands through his hair. In spite of the cold, they’re both sweat slicked. They unwind from each other.
He laughs too, shaking his head. “I didn’t expect that…wow…did not expect that.” He takes her hand, kisses it once, still shaking his head with a smile. “Damn.”
She smiles in return, grounded. He leans down and snags his shirt and jeans from the floor then drapes his shirt over her shoulders. He steps into his jeans and zips them up.
“Sam told me once that I always lose my pants.” He helps her button his shirt, takes a moment to brush a kiss over her lips. “Guess she was right.” He takes her hand in his and pulls her towards him. “You hungry?”
“That depends on what you have in mind.” She rests within his arms.
“Breakfast, dinner, midnight snack. We have all night.” He brushes her hair away from her face. “But I promise you, I make a mean omelet.”
"Let's...let's just stay here, for just a minute longer?" She looks into his eyes. His gaze washes over her, fearless, open.
She leans against his shoulder; his arms tighten around her, one hand smoothing her hair.
Maybe all the work and all the fight and all the goddamn pain was worth it…
She pulls away, brings her hand to his face. “What you said, earlier? About proving, knowing that you were still alive?”
He nods. “Yeah?”
“It’s worth it. All of it.”
“It’s gonna be ok, Vala,” he says. “I promise, it’s all gonna be ok.”
She sways against him as he starts to hum, that same tune they’d heard in the diner.
“I know.”
#END#