Timestamp: Timeless (PG)
Timestamp meme.
majorsamfan asked for one week (more or less) after Timeless. Since Timeless was written for rowan_d, it has strong hints of Sam/Jack shippiness, as does this. Be aware.
She can’t see the clock.
It’s on the far wall but it’s cloaked in shadows and too far for her tired eyes anyway. It’s late. That’s all she knows. There’s no one else staying in the infirmary, and only the night nurse occasionally sticks a head in to see how she’s doing.
Sam stares down at her feet beneath the sheet and feels her eyelids growing heavy. When she starts to sleep, her body jerks awake again, her heart racing. No, no. I won’t sleep. I won’t sleep!
She’s slept too much over the past few weeks. She’s not even sure how many days she’s been back. She’s been doped to the gills until today…
What time is it?
There’s a fluorescent strip-light going out in the hallway. It flickers wildly and randomly, filling the doorway with shadows. She watches it with an odd fascination, until it suddenly seems to darken, to take shape. To become.
“Hey.”
She blinks. The Colonel fills the doorway in his jeans and leather jacket. “Sir.” She’s surprised and can’t quite hide it.
He gives her a faint smile. Her eyes go to his hair where a tuft is sticking up in the back. He notices and absently raises a hand to smooth it down. “How do you feel?”
She hesitates. “Fine.” She glances toward the unreadable clock. “What are you doing here so late?”
He stands next to her bed. “It’s not that late.”
She lifts a brow, and he pulls his sleeve back, twisting his arm so she can look at his watch face. She looks then lifts her gaze to his. “Sir, it’s two a.m.”
“It is?” His brows shoot upward and he lifts the watch to his ear, then he lowers it and taps the face with one long, lean finger. He makes a disgruntled sound through sullen lips.
She looks at him expectantly and he shrugs. “Well, I couldn’t sleep, and I kept thinking about the commissary’s cracker-jack coffee, and…”
“Sir.” Her voice is quiet, and it causes his words to drop away. He meets her gaze. She lifts a corner of her mouth. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
He presses his lips together in a resigned little smile and says, “Carter, you and I both know that’s never gonna happen.”
She takes a deep breath and says nothing, because she’s glad he’s here. They look at each other and it goes on just a little too long, and she fusses with her blanket so she can have an excuse to break the gaze. She can smell the leather of his jacket and the clean scent of his clothes, and she can remember clearly how it felt to lie on that stone floor in that cold cell, seeing his image in the shadows, her mind recalling these scents so vividly that she thought he was real sometimes.
“It’s your first night off the drugs, Carter. I thought you might want the company.” He’s basic and honest and bare now. He’s Jack, not The Colonel or the joker or any of the other roles he plays from day to day.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Sure.” His voice is soft. That rare kind of soft that says he’s trying not to tread too heavily. “Can I get you anything?”
“They took my watch,” she says, and she winces at the desperation leaking into her voice.
“What?”
She looks up at him. “They took my watch. I had it when I was… in the cell, but they took it when I was admitted.” She glances toward the shadowed clock again.
He follows her eyes and looks at the distant clock. When his gaze returns to her she stares at her blanket. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “The days felt like they would never end, didn’t they?”
She closes her eyes. “They lasted forever.”
He pulls a chair to her bedside and sinks down onto it. “You’ll get through this, Carter.”
“I talked,” she tells him, softly. He knows this already, but it’s eating at her. “I couldn’t help it, sir. I tried, but… it was so… so bad, and I… talked.”
He doesn’t reply right away, and she risks a look at him. He’s leaning forward in the chair, elbows on knees, forehead resting against the thumbs of his fists. His eyes are squeezed shut and his jaw is tense and he breathes slowly and deeply. She wants to reach out to him, but there’s a barrier between them that seems to exist only when they’re in the SGC.
When he finally opens his eyes and looks at her, there’s a wet glitter to his gaze. “Everyone talks, Sam.” His expression is intense and serious. He wants her to know that he’s not padding the truth for her. “No matter what they tell you in the classroom, everyone talks.”
His gaze is different now, and she sees past what he is now to what he was before the SGC. The days of black ops and secret missions, and one interminable and hellish stay in an Iraqi prison. She nods, exhaling a breath that she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.
“All I’ll ever ask of you, any of you, is that you stay alive until I find you. Because I will.”
And she can take that to the bank and cash it. She glances up. “That goes for you too.”
He does smile then, because she’s already brought him back from the lost time and time again. She smiles back, and it’s happening again. That connection that goes on a little too long. His gaze slides over her shoulders and her arms and her hands, and he twists his own hands together a little too tightly, his eyes shifting away a bit wistfully.
For one brief moment she wishes they were back in that cell, even as weak as she’d been, with his hand on her head and his breath in her hair. And his warmth soaking into her bones.
They both fall silent, listening to the connection…
Until the nurse quietly interrupts them and warns Jack that he needs to go.
He stands, and Sam takes a deep breath, steadying herself for the sleep that has to come sooner rather than later. She gasps silently when Jack’s long fingers close around her forearm. He slides his watch over her wrist, turning her arm so he can latch it snugly. The black metal is already warm from his skin, and she stares at it, watching the seconds ticking by with methodical persistence. Time is numbers. Time is order. Time is repeating and endless and unstoppable. But time is also predictable, and it can be measured.
She glances up at him. “You don’t have to do that.” Her opposite hand absently closes around the band, trapping the watch to her wrist.
His thumb brushes over the soft skin on the back of her hand. “Yeah,” he says, eyes dark and bright. “I do.”
I have all sorts of weird fic ideas running around my pointy little head right now.
majorsamfan asked for one week (more or less) after Timeless. Since Timeless was written for rowan_d, it has strong hints of Sam/Jack shippiness, as does this. Be aware.
She can’t see the clock.
It’s on the far wall but it’s cloaked in shadows and too far for her tired eyes anyway. It’s late. That’s all she knows. There’s no one else staying in the infirmary, and only the night nurse occasionally sticks a head in to see how she’s doing.
Sam stares down at her feet beneath the sheet and feels her eyelids growing heavy. When she starts to sleep, her body jerks awake again, her heart racing. No, no. I won’t sleep. I won’t sleep!
She’s slept too much over the past few weeks. She’s not even sure how many days she’s been back. She’s been doped to the gills until today…
What time is it?
There’s a fluorescent strip-light going out in the hallway. It flickers wildly and randomly, filling the doorway with shadows. She watches it with an odd fascination, until it suddenly seems to darken, to take shape. To become.
“Hey.”
She blinks. The Colonel fills the doorway in his jeans and leather jacket. “Sir.” She’s surprised and can’t quite hide it.
He gives her a faint smile. Her eyes go to his hair where a tuft is sticking up in the back. He notices and absently raises a hand to smooth it down. “How do you feel?”
She hesitates. “Fine.” She glances toward the unreadable clock. “What are you doing here so late?”
He stands next to her bed. “It’s not that late.”
She lifts a brow, and he pulls his sleeve back, twisting his arm so she can look at his watch face. She looks then lifts her gaze to his. “Sir, it’s two a.m.”
“It is?” His brows shoot upward and he lifts the watch to his ear, then he lowers it and taps the face with one long, lean finger. He makes a disgruntled sound through sullen lips.
She looks at him expectantly and he shrugs. “Well, I couldn’t sleep, and I kept thinking about the commissary’s cracker-jack coffee, and…”
“Sir.” Her voice is quiet, and it causes his words to drop away. He meets her gaze. She lifts a corner of her mouth. “You don’t have to worry about me.”
He presses his lips together in a resigned little smile and says, “Carter, you and I both know that’s never gonna happen.”
She takes a deep breath and says nothing, because she’s glad he’s here. They look at each other and it goes on just a little too long, and she fusses with her blanket so she can have an excuse to break the gaze. She can smell the leather of his jacket and the clean scent of his clothes, and she can remember clearly how it felt to lie on that stone floor in that cold cell, seeing his image in the shadows, her mind recalling these scents so vividly that she thought he was real sometimes.
“It’s your first night off the drugs, Carter. I thought you might want the company.” He’s basic and honest and bare now. He’s Jack, not The Colonel or the joker or any of the other roles he plays from day to day.
“Thank you,” she whispers.
“Sure.” His voice is soft. That rare kind of soft that says he’s trying not to tread too heavily. “Can I get you anything?”
“They took my watch,” she says, and she winces at the desperation leaking into her voice.
“What?”
She looks up at him. “They took my watch. I had it when I was… in the cell, but they took it when I was admitted.” She glances toward the shadowed clock again.
He follows her eyes and looks at the distant clock. When his gaze returns to her she stares at her blanket. He’s quiet for a moment, and then, “The days felt like they would never end, didn’t they?”
She closes her eyes. “They lasted forever.”
He pulls a chair to her bedside and sinks down onto it. “You’ll get through this, Carter.”
“I talked,” she tells him, softly. He knows this already, but it’s eating at her. “I couldn’t help it, sir. I tried, but… it was so… so bad, and I… talked.”
He doesn’t reply right away, and she risks a look at him. He’s leaning forward in the chair, elbows on knees, forehead resting against the thumbs of his fists. His eyes are squeezed shut and his jaw is tense and he breathes slowly and deeply. She wants to reach out to him, but there’s a barrier between them that seems to exist only when they’re in the SGC.
When he finally opens his eyes and looks at her, there’s a wet glitter to his gaze. “Everyone talks, Sam.” His expression is intense and serious. He wants her to know that he’s not padding the truth for her. “No matter what they tell you in the classroom, everyone talks.”
His gaze is different now, and she sees past what he is now to what he was before the SGC. The days of black ops and secret missions, and one interminable and hellish stay in an Iraqi prison. She nods, exhaling a breath that she didn’t even realize she’d been holding.
“All I’ll ever ask of you, any of you, is that you stay alive until I find you. Because I will.”
And she can take that to the bank and cash it. She glances up. “That goes for you too.”
He does smile then, because she’s already brought him back from the lost time and time again. She smiles back, and it’s happening again. That connection that goes on a little too long. His gaze slides over her shoulders and her arms and her hands, and he twists his own hands together a little too tightly, his eyes shifting away a bit wistfully.
For one brief moment she wishes they were back in that cell, even as weak as she’d been, with his hand on her head and his breath in her hair. And his warmth soaking into her bones.
They both fall silent, listening to the connection…
Until the nurse quietly interrupts them and warns Jack that he needs to go.
He stands, and Sam takes a deep breath, steadying herself for the sleep that has to come sooner rather than later. She gasps silently when Jack’s long fingers close around her forearm. He slides his watch over her wrist, turning her arm so he can latch it snugly. The black metal is already warm from his skin, and she stares at it, watching the seconds ticking by with methodical persistence. Time is numbers. Time is order. Time is repeating and endless and unstoppable. But time is also predictable, and it can be measured.
She glances up at him. “You don’t have to do that.” Her opposite hand absently closes around the band, trapping the watch to her wrist.
His thumb brushes over the soft skin on the back of her hand. “Yeah,” he says, eyes dark and bright. “I do.”
I have all sorts of weird fic ideas running around my pointy little head right now.