Fic: 'Rusted Wheel' (Sam/Jack) Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Day Nine
There’s someone new in the compound. The warden’s boss as far as Sam can tell. The atmosphere is drawn tight, all the guards kowtowing in a way she’s never seen before.
They’re afraid of him.
It’s late evening, and Sam is one building down from the warden’s house, standing against the wall of the warehouse just outside the spill of light. It’s payday, Sam suspects, as the guards have been cycling in and out of the low slung veranda where the stranger sits sipping some sort of liquid with them, no doubt a ritual meant to build good will with the underlings. The warden flutters about the periphery as each guard signs a ledger in turn, not ink and paper, but a touch screen of some sort that makes Sam’s fingers twitch like a caveman catching his first sight of a lighter.
This stranger is the answer they’ve been looking for, she’s certain of it.
She and Jack had split up earlier after the boss arrived. He’s somewhere on the other side of the compound, taking advantage of the guards’ distraction to search their barracks. She doesn’t need to meet back up with him to know he hasn’t found anything. She can feel his frustration beating at the back of her mind.
Leaning back against the wall, Sam rubs at her forehead as she feels a sharp pulse of pain, something different from the dull drone she’s accustomed to at this point, a tension headache building without warning, so suddenly that she knows it isn’t hers.
The stranger’s eyes stray across her and settle, just for a split second, but it’s enough for Sam to tense. “Damn,” she swears under her breath, quickly stepping further back into the shadows.
She has to be way smarter than this, can’t risk letting herself get distracted by the invasive noise in her mind. Circling back around the outside of the compound, well within the flimsy boundary marker that no longer looks quite as benign as it had that first day, she slips towards the dormitory.
She’s just reached one of the out buildings when she hears footsteps.
“What are you doing out here?” a voice asks.
Sam looks up to find a man she vaguely recognizes as Tucker, the hearthmate of Hannah. He’s not particularly tall or built, merely average with thinning brown hair and a sharp, angular face. Not threatening, but as far as Sam’s seen, men don’t interact publicly with other men’s hearthmates.
Warily, Sam moves to walk a wide berth around him, not bothering to respond.
He deliberately steps across her path. “You really shouldn’t be wandering around all on your own.”
The words are mild, but Sam feels the underlying threat drag across her skin. Keeping her eyes lowered, she says, “I’m heading inside right now.” She can make out the lights of the dormitory in the distance.
“Not quite yet, you’re not,” he says, his hand closing on her arm, squeezing her flesh.
Sam reacts without thinking, her training kicking in at the perceived threat. She lands a firm punch to his face, one that really should have knocked him solidly back, but he is barely fazed, one hand coming up to his cheek.
“Are you dumb, or just really that heartless?” he spits.
Sam stares at him, adrenaline receding long enough for her brain to kick in. Oh, God.
Hannah.
“I know you don’t want to hurt her,” he says, moving closer. Sam backs away with each step he takes towards her until she’s trapped against the wall of the outhouse.
He looks her over, the gleam in his eyes unmistakable. “Just be real quiet and it will be over before you know it,” he says, reaching for her wrists, pressing up against her.
Oh, God. This isn’t happening. This can’t possibly be happening. She’s still brainstorming some exit for herself, shifting her weight with the resignation that she will just have to hurt him as minimally as possible when someone grabs Tucker from behind, heaving him off of her.
It’s the rage she registers first before the sight of the familiar profile slamming Tucker to the ground. Jack’s fist is pulling back when Sam lunges forward.
“Sir, no!” she says, grabbing his arm. “You can’t! Hannah-.”
The asshole takes advantage of Sam’s interference to land a sucker punch on Jack and Sam feels the pain explode in her own side, thudding against her ribs. Jack barely grunts at the blow, one hand pressed against his side as Tucker scrambles away, disappearing into the dark like the spineless grub he is.
“Carter,” Jack snaps, rounding on her. “What the hell were you--.” He stops mid-sentence, realizing she’s doubled over in pain because he may have shrugged the hit off, but she feels like her ribs are cracked. “Damn it. Are you okay?”
“It’s nothing, sir,” she says through clenched teeth, but she can already see him making the connection, his eyes narrowing as his hand travels back to his own side. He’s going back over her words as she tried to stop him from hitting Tucker.
Sir, you can’t!
“Why didn’t you fight him, Carter?” He doesn’t sound angry anymore, just calm and terribly dangerous, because he’s putting it all together.
She sits down on a rock, her breath still coming out in uneven bursts.
“Carter,” he says, his hand on her arm now and she can feel his insistence, knows he won’t let this drop.
“Because I didn’t want to hurt his hearthmate,” she says.
His fingers tighten on her arm. “Are you trying to tell me…” He trails off, as if unable to put it into words.
She looks up at him, but doesn’t answer. His eyes dart to her back. She sits completely still as she feels him lift the hem of her shirt. They’ve faded somewhat, mellowed to a sickly green, but she knows he’ll be able to see the marks, even in the dim light.
“Son of a bitch,” he swears.
He paces away from her a few feet, passing in and out of the light spilling from the dormitory windows. Sam lifts a hand to her pounding head, wondering if his anger is always this loud, this close to the surface, or if it’s just this place. Or just what he’s been through.
She squeezes her eyes shut.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about--.
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” he demands, his voice low and furious and nowhere near as sharp as his thoughts.
“I don’t know,” she says, rubbing at her temples. She’s losing her mind, isn’t she?
“Shit, Carter. I think this pretty clearly falls in the category of things I need to know about.”
“You’re right, sir. I’m sorry.” She can’t explain what made her keep this to herself. But mostly she doesn’t want to even try because she suspects her reasons may be even more unsettling than the uncertainty. She just doesn’t want to look that closely.
“Anything else I should know?” he says, jamming one hand through his hair.
She hesitates, tries to judge his anger again and decide if he’ll be able to handle it if she tells him the whole truth. Before she can decide, there’s the louder intrusion of Tucker’s face in her mind, distorted and bloody.
“Sir, no,” she snaps, pushing to her feet. “Don’t even think about it.”
Jack goes completely still. “Don’t even think what, Carter?”
Oh, God.
“What exactly am I thinking?” he says, taking a few steps closer, looming over her, and the crackle of energy around him is almost audible.
“You can’t go after Tucker,” she says, forcing herself to look him in the eye.
He stares back at her as her fingers unconsciously stray to the collar around her neck, a confirmation of the connection that Jack suspects.
You’ve got to be kidding me, he thinks.
She shakes her head, her voice lowering to a whisper. “I really wish I was kidding.”
He looks calm, in control, the same way he always looks when off world in a dangerous situation. Only she knows better now.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
He shakes his head, and it’s the way he’s no longer meeting her gaze that makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. “Get back inside,” he says, taking her arm firmly and guiding her back towards the bunkhouse.
“Sir--,” she says, not resisting, just feeling winded by the whirlwind of emotions and thoughts jumbling in her head.
“Carter,” he cuts across her. “Just…don’t. For once in your life…” He bites the rest of the sentence off, but she knows exactly how close he is to snapping. He pushes her over the threshold of the bunkhouse. “Stay here.”
She doesn’t mistake it for anything other than an order.
He stalks off into the darkness.
* * *
He’s gone for hours, physically absent but still a soft hum in her mind, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions too distant and chaotic to be distinct. Something is building though, something stronger and singular, vibrating and brilliant above everything else-anger.
When he finally returns, the canvas pushing back from the door with a soft brush of sound, she lies still on the pallet, her back to him. She breathes slow and even, refusing to acknowledge the thrum of his emotion against her skin.
He knows she isn’t asleep. He’s just waiting. Testing her maybe.
Why didn’t you tell me?
She closes her eyes, but doesn’t roll over to look at him. “I wasn’t sure at first,” she says. “I thought I was just losing my mind.” It isn’t excuse enough, but it’s all she has.
“And after?” he asks, his voice bruised. She wants to think she’s imagining it, letting her exhausted brain get away from her, because how the hell does a voice sound bruised?
“It’s not all the time,” she hedges.
“Carter.”
She flinches, her hands clenching into fist, twisting up against her chest. “I thought we could get out of here and that maybe you’d never have to know,” she confesses.
She didn’t think he could handle it and they both know it. It burns through him, this betrayal. It builds up on her skin like a film she won’t ever be able to wash away.
She considers rolling over to explain that she was trying to protect him. To protect both of them.
It’s the one thing she can’t say.
* * *
It takes Jack a while to find her, to move past all the defensive walls piled up over her face, but even the snake can’t keep her hidden forever. All it takes is one moment of distraction, one weak stray thought and Jack has all the gory details exploding fully formed into his mind.
“What the hell did you do?” Jack demands, her name echoing in their mind.
Kanan is unsettled, thrown off balance by the sudden attack. “There was no time, the information was too important,” he justifies, throwing back up those walls as quickly as he can.
It’s much too late. Jack’s already seen it. “You loved her.”
Kanan shudders. “The mission-.“
Jack doesn’t give a shit about the mission. “You loved her and you left her behind,” he accuses, the words bitter in their throat.
There’s nothing Kanan can say to defend that.
Nothing.
* * *
Day Ten
On the morning of their tenth day stuck in Parramatta, the bells don’t ring. There’s no guard banging on the posts, no call to the wagons. Wondering at the general lack of activity, Jack mumbles something about checking it out and disappears out of the cell.
Sam follows more slowly, her head feeling three times its normal size. Even the bruise in her side from where Tucker had thrown a punch at Jack barely registers next to the ache that is her head.
When she finally rouses herself enough to step out into the bright morning sunlight, her eyes adjust slowly. Her vision clears and she can see that Jack is across the path, talking to a small collection of guards near the wagons. A short line of prisoners is filling them with what looks like basic supplies-water and food.
Sam doesn’t approach, rather waits for Jack to finish his conversation and cross back over to her side.
“Apparently today’s something of a holiday,” he says.
Listening to the voices pouring out of the dormitory behind her, Sam registers that everyone does seem more boisterous than usual. She can’t quite think of it as a boon though. In all honesty, a day’s rest from work couldn’t have come at a worse time. Without saying a word, Sam already knows that Jack wants to be anywhere but near her and she doesn’t blame him for that. She still doesn’t have an excuse capable of holding water for the secrets she’s kept. At least not one that won’t just make everything worse.
“I’m volunteering for the supply run,” Jack says. “Out to the grazers.”
Sam knows that the wool the women process here comes from a widely spread collection of men watching over flocks of sheep-like animals. It’s only logical that they must get their food and supplies somehow.
“It should give me a chance to see a little more of the outlying terrain,” he continues. It’s an excuse though, Jack going through the motions of pretending he isn’t just trying to get away from her.
The look he gives her practically dares her to call his bluff.
“Okay,” she says, demurring as always.
He lingers another moment, meeting her eyes squarely for the first time since Tucker’s attack. “You’re okay here?” he asks in the clipped tones of a commander checking on the status of his subordinate.
She nods. “I don’t think Tucker will try anything again, sir.”
Jack’s lips press into a thin line, and she knows his sense of duty to her safety is warring with his need to get the hell out of Dodge for a few hours. She thinks it will be safer for them both for him to take it.
He comes to the same conclusion. “Just…stick close to the group today, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” she says.
She watches as they finish loading the wagons. The men split up in groups of two, the wagons heading off in different directions. The dust settles behind them as they disappear into the greasy smudge of the horizon.
Dutifully, Sam turns for the cookhouse. When she ducks inside though, it is instantly clear that her status has changed. There’s a ripple of awareness through the room, eyes darting to her and just as quickly away, faces turned behind hands as they whisper.
Sam skims the crowd, ignoring the majority of the women. There’s only one face she’s interested in. When she finally finds Hannah, she’s sickened to see the dark bloom of a bruise across her cheek. Sam takes one step towards her, thinking to explain, to apologize, but Hannah carefully looks away, shifting her posture so her back turns to Sam.
It’s an obvious enough of a cut that Sam stops in her tracks.
Sam doesn’t blame her, no matter how much the gesture hurts. Hannah, like all the other women here, has very little in her life she has actual control over. Who she speaks to is one of them. A small act of defiance, but it’s all she has.
Sam grabs a bowl of porridge and ducks back outside, walking until she hits the stream. There are a few women out here doing small loads of personal laundry and Sam convinces herself that is close enough of a crowd to constitute following Jack’s order. Moving over to the shade of one of the few stunted trees out here, she sits at its base and watches the women, the way they dart wary looks at her over their shoulders.
She’s not sure how long she spends out there, food untouched. She catches herself thinking how nice it would be to have everything be quiet again, no more noise, no more suspicion from strangers and looks of betrayal from people who’d once trusted her.
She realizes she’s staring at the fence with something close to longing and nearly drops her bowl.
Sucking in a deep breath, she shakes her head to clear the cobwebs crowding it. She’s letting the noise get to her, the tangle of emotions cloud her brain. What the hell is wrong with her?
She has a problem that on the surface seems insurmountable, but since when is that new? She needs to do what she’s always done in these situations-trust the facts. Information. The answers will be there, she just needs to buckle down and find them.
Sitting out here moping is not going to fix anything.
Getting out of here is all that matters, she reminds herself. None of this will mean anything once they are back at the SGC. Everything will go back to normal.
She’s got to get this damn collar off. It’s as simple and impossible as that.
She can do simple and impossible.
With a flick of her wrist, Sam empties the contents of her bowl in the brush and turns back towards the cookhouse.
Stepping back inside, Sam watches the women with a critical eye. They seem set on spending the day doing chores they normally don’t have time for, fashioning replacement pieces of clothing from the small stipend of rough cloth not good enough to bother trading. Needle and thread and cloth are the three things other than dust that are in abundance here. There’s a tight trade in every other good, the small bits of makeup or decorative ribbons or whatnot that have somehow magically appeared quickly changing hands.
As Sam moves through the space, she watches the way backs turn to her, a strange swath of open space appearing wherever she goes.
In fact, there is only one woman that meets Sam’s wandering gaze with anything other than fear or resentment. Tess meets Sam’s eye, not looking away, rather throwing back a challenging look of her own. She’s not scared of her.
Crossing the room, Sam steps up behind a woman she estimates to be the most timid of the bunch huddled around Tess’s table. It doesn’t take long for the woman to push out of her seat just to avoid Sam’s presence.
Sam grabs the vacated chair, flipping it around and straddling it. A few other women get up and leave, casting wary, curious gazes back over their shoulders as they go. Tess, still flanked by the more steady of her cronies, merely leans back in her chair as if supremely unconcerned by Sam’s sudden appearance.
“Tess,” Sam says with a nod.
“Sam,” she returns. It has to be some sort of irony that Tess is the only woman who will speak to her anymore. She’s earned a sick sort of street cred now that the Tucker story has made the rounds. “You got something you need said?”
“I’m interested in acquiring certain items.”
Tess’s expression doesn’t change. “Do I look like a general store?”
“You look like a woman of many resources and talents.”
Tess smirks. “Oh, I got my fair share of talents,” she drawls, the women on either side of her laughing appreciatively.
Sam decides not to beat around the bush. “I need mirrors. Two of them.”
Tess raises an eyebrow. “Not exactly common in these parts. Or cheap.”
Sam shrugs, knowing showing any sense of urgency is the most dangerous thing she can do with Tess. “I think I could make it worth your while.”
Tess glances at the women by her side, their faces bright with the possibility of profit. “Let’s step outside, shall we?” she says, pushing to her feet and shaking out her skirts. Apparently Tess’s trust of her underlings stretches only so far, or maybe she’s just smart enough to keep her profits to herself.
Outside, the men have gathered in groups, most riveted to some sort of animal fight. Sam catches sight of the animals, something like a cross between a snake and a hamster. Apparently the lure of violence and blood isn’t completely missing in the men. This blood sport just may be the only safe outlet they have. They bet and trade in a thin cigar-like substance called the smoke. There is also a brisk trade in a bootleg sort of brew being passed around.
The women themselves are much more relaxed, laughter more fluid and she wonders if the collars even translate inebriety.
Tess pauses by one of the fights, watching the outcome of a particularly vicious bout and Sam forces herself to stand and wait, no matter how much the blood sport sickens her. Sam suspects Tess is not the sort to be nudged, not without shoving back twice as hard.
With a last brutal bite to the neck, one of the animals finishes off its opponent in a shower of blood. A cry of victory mixed with moans of defeat ripples through the crowd of men, smoke and brew changing hands.
Tess nods her head as if approving the victory, sliding Sam a look. Sam can’t help but think that Tess was testing her, or just not passing up a single moment to manipulate those around her, making Sam stand and watch something that could at best be called a gory, juvenile game of torture.
The men begin setting up for the next round, shouting out bets and insults.
“Come on,” Tess says, leading Sam around the back of the laundry and into the welcoming shade of the walls. “Mirrors ain’t cheap, even on loan. What you got to trade?”
“What would interest you?”
Tess’ smile stretches wide. “Well, as nice to look at as your man is, that won’t begin to cover it. And I ain’t into the smoke.”
The smoke is the main currency in the barter system among the men. The guards seem to be the main supplier of that commodity, usually earned by the prisoners through chores above and beyond normal duty, or by offering unobstructed access to their hearthmates. Sex and cigarettes, just two more of the great universals.
Except with Tess. Sam tries not to feel too relieved about that.
Deciding her best strategy, Sam looks Tess over, picking up on the details: the brimmed hat she always wears in the sun, the careful way she ties her hair back, covering it with scarves. The sign that despite her rough, work-honed hands, the nails and cuticles are carefully maintained. This is a woman living a rough life, but with a streak of vanity.
“What about a lotion that keeps your skin from burning in the sun?” Sam asks.
Tess’ eyes betray a flash of interest quickly hidden. “Now why would I want something like that, even if you do got such a thing?”
It’s a rough life here. Sam suspects it ages women prematurely. Maybe youth in a bottle is something Tess would find irresistible.
“How old do you think I am?” Sam asks.
Tess raises an eyebrow at the question, but doesn’t bother to hazard a guess. Sam thinks Tess may actually be quite a bit younger than herself, despite the way she carries herself, the web of wrinkles that speak to hard work and a lifetime of smug amusement. Modern convenience and a booming pharmaceutical industry have afforded Sam a much easier life in comparison. Unfortunately, off-world age in years means nothing. Glancing about, Sam sees a girl at the stream filling a bucket, judges her to be just a few years past puberty.
Sam juts her chin towards the girl. “Old enough to have her as my child.” And then some, if women here reproduce as early as Sam suspects.
Tess looks Sam over again. She doesn’t really have any reason to believe Sam’s claim, but despite her behavior, the bully is not unintelligent. Maybe she’s bright enough to see that Sam and Jack aren’t like anyone else here in either dress or manner. That if anyone might have access to something unheard of, it would be Sam.
After a while, Tess nods. “Bring it to the stream in three hours. If I think it’s worth it, I’ll lend you the mirrors.”
“Deal,” Sam says with a firm nod, turning back towards the dormitory.
“One can only hope you’re going to use the mirrors to do something with that mess you call hair,” Tess hollers after her, the rough snap of cruel amusement in her voice.
From a distance, Sam can hear the roar of the men as another helpless animal meets a bloody end.
She really hates this damn place.
* * *
Sam spends the few hours until the deal resting quietly in the dormitory. The stifling heat isn’t doing anything for the nausea crawling up her throat. There’s the slightest tingle in her fingers now that’s never been there before. She doesn’t want to think what that might mean.
When the appointed time comes, she digs the sunscreen out of their supplies and heads out to the stream. Tess is already waiting for her.
“Let’s see it,” Tess demands, getting straight down to business.
Sam produces the small tube of sunscreen, squeezing a small amount into her palm.
Tess rolls it between her fingers, not lifting her eyes to Sam as she speaks. “And why shouldn’t I just take it from you?”
Sam doesn’t change her posture, doesn’t let her body move at all, just stares back at the top of Tess’s head and says, “You could try.” She’s not unprepared for the possibility of a double cross, no matter how much it seems like Tess hasn’t brought back up with her.
Tess looks up, holding Sam’s gaze. Long seconds pass, only for Tess to laugh loudly, smacking Sam on the arm. “I’ve always liked you.”
Sam raises an eyebrow at her, clearly remembering how they met.
Tess just grins, pulling out two small handheld mirrors from the deep pockets of her skirt. “Best I could do on such short notice.”
One of them has a crack down the middle, but should still do well enough for her purposes. She tries not to wonder how Tess got her hands on them in the first place. She has more important things to focus on. Like escape.
Turning one of the mirrors slightly, it catches a burst of sunlight, temporarily blinding Sam. As her eyes clear, she can see her own face slide into view. She’s not ready for it, the reflection staring back at her. She’s pale, but with dark circles under her eyes. She looks like that dying nameless woman in the laundry, disappearing by increment.
She lowers the mirror, swallowing hard against the nausea in her throat.
Tess is giving her a critical look. “Your man’s out on refresh duty,” she says, not so much a question as a fact.
Sam neither confirms nor denies the supposition.
“He sure must have a hard yearn for the smoke,” Tess continues. “Either that or he just don’t like you too much.”
That’s when Sam finally makes the connection. It’s not the free day of rest the men are reluctant to pass up in order to do the extra labor. It’s that they all know it takes them out of range. Not far enough to kill, but far enough to make her sick.
So this is what it feels like, she thinks. She’s getting her first glimpse of what death here tastes like.
Tess shrugs and says, “They always get back well in time. Mostly.”
Clearly offering comfort is not Tess’ strong suit. Sam pulls out the tube of sunscreen and passes it to Tess.
Tess pockets it. “Just overnight now, hear me? I need those back at beginning of morning shift.”
“I understand,” Sam says, carefully wrapping the mirrors in her spare shirt.
“See that you do. I don’t think you’d enjoy the cost of going back on a deal,” Tess says lightly. Sam has no doubt this is more than idle threat. “See ya round, old lady.”
With that, Tess heads back towards the buildings.
“Tess?” Sam calls out, waiting for the woman to turn back. “Have you ever seen a woman walk past the boundary?”
Tess’s eyebrows draw together like she’s trying to figure out Sam’s angle. “There was a woman once, not right in the head. She accidentally wandered past.”
“And you saw her die? Saw this yourself?”
Tess gives her a sharp look. “I saw the body. She’s buried there, past the trees. That aught to be enough for anyone.”
For now, Sam supposes it is.
Beth is in the dormitory when Sam steps into the relative coolness of the interior space. The young girl looks up from a man’s shirt she is carefully mending, staring at Sam like something from a horror story.
Sam automatically puts her hands up, moving to duck back into her cubicle and leave the child in peace when she changes her mind.
“Beth,” Sam says, turning back to her. “Do you like sweets?”
She sees the battle going on in the girl’s mind, the fight between being scared to death of Sam and the kid part of her that would probably do anything for a small scrap of comfort in this harsh place.
“All I need you to do is hold something for me,” Sam assures her.
Beth looks around the room as if to make sure they are alone. “I want to see it up front,” she says.
Sam smiles. “How about I give you half to eat first, and half after?”
Beth licks her lips. “Deal.”
* * *
“Could you lift it just a little bit higher?” Sam asks, squinting at the reflection in the mirror in front of her.
Behind her, Beth lifts the second mirror. “Here?”
“Yes, perfect. Thank you.”
They’ve been at it for two hours already, but Beth has yet to complain. Sam stretches her hand, trying to work past the numbness. Jack must not be too far out, because the nausea has leveled out, the tingling not spreading past her hands. She’s just left with an inexplicable echo of panic. She shoves it aside. She’s going to use what time she has.
They have to get the hell out of here.
“What…what exactly are you doing?” Beth asks, apparently getting bolder the longer Sam proves not to be the bogey monster.
Sam lifts the notebook in her hand a little, showing off the various schematics of the collar she’s been drawing. It had taken half of Jack’s carefully rationed Butterfinger just to convince Beth to dare to peel back the panel on Sam’s collar, but it gave her a clearer view of how the warden’s device must connect.
“I’m trying to figure out how the collars work,” Sam says.
“Why?”
Sam stops to consider exactly how much she should share with Beth. The truth is that Beth is insignificant enough as to be invisible here. Or maybe it’s just that seeing someone as young as Beth trapped here is probably what Sam hates about this place most.
“So I can take it off,” Sam says.
She expects Beth to be scandalized, to suck in a breath and tell her that’s suicide just like everyone else here has, Tess included. Instead, the girl simply shifts, her knee briefly touching Sam’s back. “Do you think…,” she starts to say, her voice impossibly small. “Do you really think it’s possible?”
“Yes,” Sam says because she needs to believe it just as much as Beth does. “Now lift the mirror a bit higher. I want to see the script right below the opening.”
Sam focuses back down on the drawing. Some of the glyphs seem tantalizingly familiar and she’s never wished more that she’d spent a little more time learning Goa’uld and a little less time assuming Daniel or Jonas would always be there to help.
They’ve been at it nearly another hour when the curtain to the cell sweeps back, someone barging in on the space.
“Carter! What the hell are you doing?”
Beth jumps, already on edge and unprepared for the raised voice. The mirror slips from her fingers, the precious glass shattering as it impacts the floor.
Sam jumps up from the stool, spinning to see Jack in the doorway. Damn, she should have paid more careful attention to the resolution of her symptoms, should have known he was getting close. She just got too caught up in her work, in the relief of having something productive to focus on.
Sam shifts in front of Beth, shielding her from anger she won’t understand. But Sam understands. It’s fear pumping directly into his already festering anger, the pressing image of her body on the floor, seizing.
She shakes the memory out of her head, feeling a beat of guilt.
“Sir,” she says, raising one hand. “I know you’re angry--.”
He laughs. “Yeah, you would, wouldn’t you?”
She flinches against his acid tone, the spike of anger underlying it.
He takes another step towards her and her first instinct is to back away, but she forces herself to hold her ground. “In case the order wasn’t clear enough the first time, Major, you are not to do anything to your collar without my express permission. You got that?”
He hasn’t barked at her like a cadet in years and she has to swallow back her indignation. “Yes, sir,” she enunciates, crisp and perfectly clear.
His jaw clenches and for a moment she’s sure he’s going to reach out and physically shake her, but he simply turns on his heel and ducks out of the cell.
It’s only after he’s gone that Sam registers that he’d been out of breath like he’d run here, been chased here by panic long before he knew what she was doing.
Beth makes a snuffling sound.
“Shhh,” Sam says, turning to the girl. “It’s okay.”
Beth is shaking like a leaf, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sam pulls her into her arms, resting her chin on her head. It’s the first human contact she’s had in weeks, and it doesn’t escape her notice how good the warmth of another body feels.
“I’ll tell them I broke the mirror, I promise,” Sam murmurs, smoothing the girl’s hair back. “They won’t even know you helped me.”
Mirrors are like gold around here, worth a hell of lot more than one girl’s life.
* * *
Jack doesn’t return to their cell until well after dark.
He ignores the mostly cold bowl of food she’s kept for him, instead crossing over to their hiding spot, pulling out their rudimentary map. She watches him mark the locations he traveled to today on the map, a distance at least three times that of the nearby mine, and there it is in careful ink, the exact length of their tether.
“I didn’t know,” he says, lingering much longer over the task than it requires.
At first she has no idea what he’s talking about, but then the memory rises up like he’s willing her to see it.
Jack had wanted to rip the wagon driver’s head off when he realized just how far from the compound they were going, when it registered what it must be doing to her. But even that he couldn’t risk, giving the guard a reason to punish him. His hands were tied. And then to come racing back only to find her being so damn reckless?
She knows why he lost his temper.
“I never would have… I didn’t know.” He may be pissed at her, but he’d never be petty enough to do something like this consciously. This wasn’t punishment, but he’s scared to death she thinks it was.
“I know you didn’t, sir,” she reassures him.
The small absolution doesn’t help though. He’s beginning to realize that even his unconscious decisions have the power to hurt her. To get her killed.
She’s not sure anymore if the nausea rolling in her stomach is his or her own.
He takes a careful breath. “Did you figure anything out?” he asks.
“What?”
“With the collar.”
His voice is calm and even and she knows this is the closest he will get to an apology.
She pulls out her notebook, flipping the pages open to the drawings and words she can’t understand. “No,” she admits. She looks up at him, needing him to see that she hasn’t given up. “Not yet.”
He gives her a ghost of a smile. “Then I guess we keep trying,” he says, turning his back so he’s sitting in the small square of light from the moons. His collar gleams in the light as she shifts closer to get a better look, her hand lowering to his shoulder to steady herself.
His hand presses down on top of hers. “Just no futzing, okay?”
She squeezes his shoulder. “Looking only, I promise.”
“Okay,” he says, his hand leaving hers.
She starts to draw.
Chapter Four