Driven By A Desperate Hunger
Sam is mad.
Not “Honey I’m pissed off so give me some time”, or “I’m tired of trying to overlook your failings as a wife/husband” and definitely not “Yeah, I’m mad as hell but if we have sex I’ll be fine”.
No, this is something remarkably close to a primordial rage- a “Talk to me and die” mad.
It is her fault, she admits to herself as the lights of traveling cars flash through her windshield.
Well, mostly her fault. After all, Jack had thought he was just bringing up a simple topic, and of course he couldn’t help not understanding her feelings…
or know when to back off (even after five years of ‘together’ and eight more as leader/2IC)…
or realize exactly what had thrown her into near hysterics (because it wasn’t ‘that time’ of the month yet)…
or just leave it alone…
Her hands tighten on the steering white, knuckles quickly turning white.
No, Jack O’Neill had to pick at it, probe it, poke it curiously, like a child with a scab.
The anger continues to boil underneath her outwardly calm façade, crashing against the incredible love she had for him, battering her self confidence, throwing all other emotions into a tumbling chaotic state.
Finally she gets to where she wants to be, whether or not it’s actually a good thing. The neon lights of ‘Donnell’s Bar’ slide to a stop on her car as Sam parks and gets out, making sure to lock it. One way she knows that she is well and truly trashed is being unable to open the door.
Cold air slams into her lungs, making her gasp as the wind whips around her. It brings up the memory from almost four years ago- when marriage had been on the minds of both lovers. He had tentatively brought up the subject, and the night had deteriorated rapidly from there.
Sam had been too afraid to tell him why she was hesitant, especially as the words turned icier until they were in a full-out fight. And to be honest, she is a little unclear on the reasons herself.
There is her need to remain free; as hard as it might be for some people to imagine, a simple band of gold would weigh more heavily than the knowledge that the entire universe was depending on her.
An irrational feeling that marriage would prove disastrous (never mind that they are living together and have as good as tied the know) refuses to be persuaded that it is wrong.
And what of children? She can’t leave her job, won’t leave her job, and there is no logical way for her to divide her life between work and offspring. Yes, Jack will be a good father, but what if she somehow fails to be the mother they needed?
More fears lay buried under her conscious mind, stirring as the harsh arguments played back in her mind.
What if, but, how, why- all these repeat themselves senselessly as she approaches the door.
And now?
Well, Sam isn’t quite sure. But she is mad, and as sure as the fact that the course of true love never did run smooth, she is going to get drunk.
So she opens the door and walks in, the picture of Hell’s own seductress. Forty-plus years mean nothing when that dangerous beauty radiates from her like a tangible heat. Certainly the lift of her chin, the subtle grace in her walk, the arrogant light in her eyes inviting a man to try and tangle with her- none of it is done on purpose. But anger has always made women beautiful, and Sam is no exception.
The barman, recognizing her, pours a cocktail that will help chase away those nebulous fears and let her anger simmer out. He hasn’t survived this long without learning how to ‘treat’ the various moods of his customers.
She’s about to drink it down in one shot (nearly suicidal, yes, but that doesn’t quite matter at the moment) when someone grabs the stool next to her and sits down.
“Hey. Can I buy you another drink?” He flashes her a white grin. Her lips tug into a position that is caught between a snarl and a smile.
Oh, she knows what he’s after. After all, her college days were not spent living like a nun in a cloister. He wants a one-night stand, and right now she’s about ready to give it to him.
Then the stranger lifts his hand to get the bartender’s attention and Sam sees the pale circle where he’s taken off his wedding band.
It takes all her self control not to throw up, but that doesn’t help the roiling sensation in the pit of her stomach. From somewhere deep inside she tells him ‘No’ and gets up, pushing away from the bar as tears cloud her eyes. A confused query follows her out the door before it swings closed.
Slowly Sam gets in the car, pulling out onto the road and heading to a place she has only one name for.
-
He’s sitting on the couch, a bottle of beer (opened but untouched) by his hand. Thoughts go in vain circles around his head, occasionally vanishing only to reappear later with more friends.
Maybe he had been wrong to pressure her, however gently, about getting married or having children. Previous conversations had certainly proven to him that Sam wasn’t willing to do either. Contrary to popular belief, Jack has been willing to leave things where they were. But a few nights ago it had hit him that if she died, all he’d be left with was a folded flag and memories. And that had scared him.
His best guess at the moment is that she’s out getting trashed some place, drinking her cares away. It’s what he would have done ten or twenty years ago, but right now he doesn’t have the heart to even get up.
So what are they to do now? God knows that he loves her, despite his previous worries that his own hardened heart wouldn’t be able to care again. If tonight has set any precedent, though, he’s not sure he can continue on like this.
And then the glass door is sliding open and he’s about to react when two arms fold around him, giving him a bare second to be confused before Sam’s entire weight is positioned on his lap and knees. She’s crying, and he can tell because not only is she sobbing near his ear, but there’s a steady coolness running down his cheek and neck.
“Sam?” Instantly he’s poised between predator and comforter; one thing he had learned long ago was that Samantha Carter never cried unless she had a reason, and the most likely one right now is some bastard at a bar.
She’s shaking, her entire frame trembling. Jack hesitates, and then gently wraps his arms around her, whispering quietly into the mess of blonde hair and mascara.
The predator can prowl later- right now he’s going to hold the woman he loves more than life itself and wipe away her tears.
“Yes.” Sam hiccups, and Jack isn’t sure what she was referring to.
“What, love?” Her fingers must be solidly entrenched in his sweater, because he can feel her knuckles pressing against his shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry-“
“Ssh, ssh, ssh…” He holds her closer, leaning back a little in the chair to better support her weight.
“I’m sorry.” It seems like the plaintive wail of a child, except that she’s a full-grown woman (and who to know better than he?) and this is not like her at all.
“For what, Sam? There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
Does he really mean that? Jack thinks about it for a split second, and realized he does. Whatever anger he had been feeling had vanished when Sam had come back- even if it turned out that she was leaving him.
“Yes.” She whispers, refusing to remove her head from where it’s firmly planted against his shoulder and neck.
Now he’s just a little more than confused.
“Talk to me, Sam. ‘Yes’ what?”
“I’m sorry. But- but if you can forgive me, and understand just a little- I’m really sorry- I love you.” And she pulls away enough to look clearly at him, for all the world as if she’s offering her heart out on a platter.
Then he realizes that, for all intensive purposes, she is.
Because he’s almost afraid to break the moment and find out this is a dream, he puts his hands on hers and slides them up her arms. She shivers but doesn’t otherwise move as he holds the eye contact.
“I never doubted it.” And even as Sam begins to cry again, tears splashing down onto his face, Jack means the words with all of his heart.
Not “Honey I’m pissed off so give me some time”, or “I’m tired of trying to overlook your failings as a wife/husband” and definitely not “Yeah, I’m mad as hell but if we have sex I’ll be fine”.
No, this is something remarkably close to a primordial rage- a “Talk to me and die” mad.
It is her fault, she admits to herself as the lights of traveling cars flash through her windshield.
Well, mostly her fault. After all, Jack had thought he was just bringing up a simple topic, and of course he couldn’t help not understanding her feelings…
or know when to back off (even after five years of ‘together’ and eight more as leader/2IC)…
or realize exactly what had thrown her into near hysterics (because it wasn’t ‘that time’ of the month yet)…
or just leave it alone…
Her hands tighten on the steering white, knuckles quickly turning white.
No, Jack O’Neill had to pick at it, probe it, poke it curiously, like a child with a scab.
The anger continues to boil underneath her outwardly calm façade, crashing against the incredible love she had for him, battering her self confidence, throwing all other emotions into a tumbling chaotic state.
Finally she gets to where she wants to be, whether or not it’s actually a good thing. The neon lights of ‘Donnell’s Bar’ slide to a stop on her car as Sam parks and gets out, making sure to lock it. One way she knows that she is well and truly trashed is being unable to open the door.
Cold air slams into her lungs, making her gasp as the wind whips around her. It brings up the memory from almost four years ago- when marriage had been on the minds of both lovers. He had tentatively brought up the subject, and the night had deteriorated rapidly from there.
Sam had been too afraid to tell him why she was hesitant, especially as the words turned icier until they were in a full-out fight. And to be honest, she is a little unclear on the reasons herself.
There is her need to remain free; as hard as it might be for some people to imagine, a simple band of gold would weigh more heavily than the knowledge that the entire universe was depending on her.
An irrational feeling that marriage would prove disastrous (never mind that they are living together and have as good as tied the know) refuses to be persuaded that it is wrong.
And what of children? She can’t leave her job, won’t leave her job, and there is no logical way for her to divide her life between work and offspring. Yes, Jack will be a good father, but what if she somehow fails to be the mother they needed?
More fears lay buried under her conscious mind, stirring as the harsh arguments played back in her mind.
What if, but, how, why- all these repeat themselves senselessly as she approaches the door.
And now?
Well, Sam isn’t quite sure. But she is mad, and as sure as the fact that the course of true love never did run smooth, she is going to get drunk.
So she opens the door and walks in, the picture of Hell’s own seductress. Forty-plus years mean nothing when that dangerous beauty radiates from her like a tangible heat. Certainly the lift of her chin, the subtle grace in her walk, the arrogant light in her eyes inviting a man to try and tangle with her- none of it is done on purpose. But anger has always made women beautiful, and Sam is no exception.
The barman, recognizing her, pours a cocktail that will help chase away those nebulous fears and let her anger simmer out. He hasn’t survived this long without learning how to ‘treat’ the various moods of his customers.
She’s about to drink it down in one shot (nearly suicidal, yes, but that doesn’t quite matter at the moment) when someone grabs the stool next to her and sits down.
“Hey. Can I buy you another drink?” He flashes her a white grin. Her lips tug into a position that is caught between a snarl and a smile.
Oh, she knows what he’s after. After all, her college days were not spent living like a nun in a cloister. He wants a one-night stand, and right now she’s about ready to give it to him.
Then the stranger lifts his hand to get the bartender’s attention and Sam sees the pale circle where he’s taken off his wedding band.
It takes all her self control not to throw up, but that doesn’t help the roiling sensation in the pit of her stomach. From somewhere deep inside she tells him ‘No’ and gets up, pushing away from the bar as tears cloud her eyes. A confused query follows her out the door before it swings closed.
Slowly Sam gets in the car, pulling out onto the road and heading to a place she has only one name for.
-
He’s sitting on the couch, a bottle of beer (opened but untouched) by his hand. Thoughts go in vain circles around his head, occasionally vanishing only to reappear later with more friends.
Maybe he had been wrong to pressure her, however gently, about getting married or having children. Previous conversations had certainly proven to him that Sam wasn’t willing to do either. Contrary to popular belief, Jack has been willing to leave things where they were. But a few nights ago it had hit him that if she died, all he’d be left with was a folded flag and memories. And that had scared him.
His best guess at the moment is that she’s out getting trashed some place, drinking her cares away. It’s what he would have done ten or twenty years ago, but right now he doesn’t have the heart to even get up.
So what are they to do now? God knows that he loves her, despite his previous worries that his own hardened heart wouldn’t be able to care again. If tonight has set any precedent, though, he’s not sure he can continue on like this.
And then the glass door is sliding open and he’s about to react when two arms fold around him, giving him a bare second to be confused before Sam’s entire weight is positioned on his lap and knees. She’s crying, and he can tell because not only is she sobbing near his ear, but there’s a steady coolness running down his cheek and neck.
“Sam?” Instantly he’s poised between predator and comforter; one thing he had learned long ago was that Samantha Carter never cried unless she had a reason, and the most likely one right now is some bastard at a bar.
She’s shaking, her entire frame trembling. Jack hesitates, and then gently wraps his arms around her, whispering quietly into the mess of blonde hair and mascara.
The predator can prowl later- right now he’s going to hold the woman he loves more than life itself and wipe away her tears.
“Yes.” Sam hiccups, and Jack isn’t sure what she was referring to.
“What, love?” Her fingers must be solidly entrenched in his sweater, because he can feel her knuckles pressing against his shoulders.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry-“
“Ssh, ssh, ssh…” He holds her closer, leaning back a little in the chair to better support her weight.
“I’m sorry.” It seems like the plaintive wail of a child, except that she’s a full-grown woman (and who to know better than he?) and this is not like her at all.
“For what, Sam? There’s nothing for you to be sorry about.”
Does he really mean that? Jack thinks about it for a split second, and realized he does. Whatever anger he had been feeling had vanished when Sam had come back- even if it turned out that she was leaving him.
“Yes.” She whispers, refusing to remove her head from where it’s firmly planted against his shoulder and neck.
Now he’s just a little more than confused.
“Talk to me, Sam. ‘Yes’ what?”
“I’m sorry. But- but if you can forgive me, and understand just a little- I’m really sorry- I love you.” And she pulls away enough to look clearly at him, for all the world as if she’s offering her heart out on a platter.
Then he realizes that, for all intensive purposes, she is.
Because he’s almost afraid to break the moment and find out this is a dream, he puts his hands on hers and slides them up her arms. She shivers but doesn’t otherwise move as he holds the eye contact.
“I never doubted it.” And even as Sam begins to cry again, tears splashing down onto his face, Jack means the words with all of his heart.