Chapter Text
Things Wild
Slam!
The sharp, warped reverberation of metal hitting metal echoed through the locker room, followed by a hasty slew of guttural, muttered crudities. Then came another loud clunk—more muted, this time. Like a boot hitting the side of an ammunition case.
Or a locker.
Jack paused in the doorway, suddenly wary. It was the men’s hour for the shared space—he’d checked twice before passing his keycard across the scanner. Mentally, he ticked off the possibilities. He’d just left Teal’c in the capable hands of the medical staff in the infirmary, and Daniel had taken his mission notes up to the archaeology geeks, so he’d be stuck there for a while. Carter had hurried out of the ‘Gateroom as soon as the iris had closed behind them over an hour ago, and she never dawdled getting cleaned up after a mission. He’d figured she’d be long gone by now.
The place should be empty. Nobody else had access to this particular dressing area—Jack had made sure of that early in his tenure as CO. There had to be a few perks to being General, right? Other than the parking space, stuffy, windowless office, and endless supply of subpar coffee.
A shoe scuffed on the concrete floor, accompanied by a sniffle and a heavy-ish whump , followed immediately by a quiet creak and an achingly weary sigh.
Well, damn it. He knew that sigh. Low and throaty—really more of a moan than an exhale. Beyond feminine. He’d heard it often enough over the past eight years that he bet he could pick it out from amidst a thousand other sighs. Hell—from time to time, that breathy sound still haunted him in his dreams.
But he digressed.
Jack grimaced, then stepped fully into the room. The water wasn’t running, and only the scarcest hint of steam lingered in the air, so it was likely that she was decent. Still, he gritted his teeth for a minute before making his way around the outer edge of the locker bank.
She was sitting with her back to him on the single bench. Her locker door stood slightly agape, a new dent near the bottom. Her backpack sat on the floor next to her, and her car keys lay on the smooth wooden surface next to her. She’d showered, but hadn’t been particularly thorough with the rest of her toilette—the hair behind her ears and at her nape was still damp, and she hadn’t done anything decorative to her face.
“Carter?”
She jerked—startled—then stilled. From where he stood, O’Neill could see the sharp line of her jaw and the stubborn set of her chin. Her lips were thin and tight and pale, and her dark, lush eyelashes skimmed her cheek. Even her fingers seemed tense, curled around the blunt side of the bench. Her knuckles showed white.
“You okay?”
She answered automatically, nodding out a high-pitched, “Yeah.”
But she wasn’t. Jack hesitated only for a beat before shifting closer. “Are you?”
“I’m fine, Sir.”
“You are.” This time, the words were more statement than question, and practically oozing with skepticism.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He’d seen her like this before—stubborn and stoic. He knew her well enough to know that she hated any admission of weakness. In the past, she’d been more willing to confide in him. They’d been—friends, right? But lately—
He couldn’t help but glance at her left hand, where the diamond in her engagement ring twinkled in the harsh fluorescent light overhead. Jack swallowed hard. His throat had suddenly constricted, and when he spoke again, his tone was gentler. “Carter.”
She breathed out a groan, covering her eyes with her palm as she shook her head. When she finally spoke again, it was barely a whisper. “No. Not really.”
Tilting his head back, Jack cast an indignant glare at the ceiling. He’d been keeping his distance lately. They’d both been doing that—building up defenses and walls where once had lain open fields. A year ago, he’d have plopped himself down next to her and wrapped his arm around her shoulders and just—listened.
But that was before. Before general’s stars and promotions. Before he’d gotten stuck behind a desk and she’d continued on in the galaxy without him. Before she’d given up and moved on here on Earth, too.
Before Pete, and rings, and wedding plans.
“What about you, Sir? If things had been different.”
“I wouldn’t be here.”
Damn it all.
Exhaling carefully, Jack made his way around to her side of the room. “Want to talk?”
A groan, this time, coupled with a few words that he’d only heard her say in especially crappy moments. And then a sharp shake of her head. The gold of her hair shimmered dully in the harsh institutional light.
Jack waited until she’d stilled again. “What’s going on?”
She didn’t look at him, tucking her chin down towards her chest and wincing as she shook her head again. “It’s nothing. It’s stupid, Sir.”
“It’s either nothing or it’s stupid.” Jack kept his tone light. “The two are mutually exclusive.”
She straightened a little, raising a hand to tuck her hair back behind her ear. After a moment, she narrowed a look up at him. “It’s stupid, then.”
Shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers, Jack rocked back on his heels. “It’s your lucky day. Stupid’s what I do best.”
Unbelievably, she smiled at that. Not anything big—just a quick curve at the corners of her lips that disappeared almost immediately. Swiping at her cheeks with her fingers tips, she blew out a cleansing sort of breath. “It’s really, really stupid, Sir.”
Jack stepped around the side of the bench. Leaning down, he picked up her keys before pivoting and plunking himself down beside her. “Then I might just be able to help. I’m really not all that bright.”
It felt so—normal. How many times had they sat just like this over the past near-decade? How many hours had they spent sharing space like this? Knee to knee, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Shoulders just a breath apart and elbows jostling at the slightest movement. He could have stayed standing, but this felt right. Almost as if they belonged like—
No. Don’t dwell, Jack. She’s moved on. She’s not for you.
He fiddled with the keys, moving first her house key, and then the Volvo key back and forth on their simple ring. She kept her personal keys on a different ring than her work keys, now. He’d asked her about it a few months ago, and she’d muttered something about keeping parts of her life separated. He hadn’t thought much about it until she’d shown him that other damned ring. The one that she wore instead of carried.
“I mean—it’s just dumb.”
Jack dragged his attention away from the jingling bits of metal between his fingers and looked over at her. “What’s dumb?”
“Getting myself all worked up over—” Groaning again, she bent forward, burying her face in her hands as she mumbled into her palms. “Mmflrs.”
Mmflrs? What the hell were mmflrs? Jack frowned, turning her house key sideways and pressing the pad of his thumb against the rough pattern of the teeth there. “Yeah. Okay.”
“You know that feeling when stuff just feels wrong? When every little thing that anyone does just feels like it’s trying to make you annoyed?”
“Like fingernails on a chalkboard?”
“Oh, so much worse. Chewing styrofoam. Smoke detectors beeping. Forks scraping against cookie sheets.” She ran a hand through her hair, sending the strands into a delightful tussle. Her expression wasn’t nearly as pleasant. “And then there’s just that one last damned moment that sends you right over the edge.”
“Oh, those dromedaries and their stalks.”
Her blue eyes sharpened as she focused on him. “Excuse me?”
“Camels and straw.” Despite it all, Jack grinned. “Specifically the final straw that breaks the camel’s back.”
Her eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “I thought you hated cliches, Sir.”
“I do. But you have to admit that it was clever—using the scientific name rather than the—” But the look on her face had him skidding to a hasty stop. “Nevermind. Go on.”
“Anyway.” She’d used her Colonel voice, and that oh-so-subtle glare that she’d pilfered at some point from Teal’c—one tawny eyebrow arching slightly upward while her lips drew flat and her eyes narrowed in his direction. But then, she looked away from him, focusing on the bank of metal closets in front of them, where that new dent made an odd shadow at the base of her locker door. Her shoulders drooped—the movement nearly imperceptible. “This is really embarrassing, Sir.”
“Maybe.” He leaned in and bumped his shoulder against hers. “But I’m still going to listen if you want to talk.”
She seemed to weigh that for a moment, bridging her fingertips and then pressing them together before arching them outward again. Flat. Arched. Flat again—like a spider doing pushups on a mirror. Each movement made that damned diamond on her left hand shoot sparkles out like muzzle flashes. “It’s about the flowers.”
Mmflrs. That made a hell of a lot more sense now. At least he had a translation, if not context. “Flowers?”
“The flowers.” She held out a fist as if gripping something cylindrical. “From Maybourne’s planet.”
Ah. Jack narrowed his eyes, focusing on the dent she’d put in the locker door as he remembered. Yellow, right? Orange? Or red. Whatever, they’d been scraggly and mean—like the random red blobs he saw on the side of the highway on his way to work during the rainy season. More leaves and stems than anything else, but still decorative. He’d taken a sniff of his bunch, just for the hell of it, and it had been surprisingly pleasant. Except for the bug that had nearly gone up his nose. He’d tried not to sputter or yelp too loudly at that.
Taking his hesitation as a sign that he wasn’t following her, Carter sighed. “The women. His—Maybourne’s women.”
“You mean his wives?”
Snorting, she shook her head. “Wives.”
Jack winced. He’d heard that tone before.
XXX
“Wives?” Her tone had been a delightful mix of incredulity and disgust.
“Wives.” Jack had said it again—just because it was ridiculous. Putting a hand on Carter’s shoulder, he urged her towards the ‘Gate. “Go.”
It hadn’t taken her more than a dozen steps before she’d launched into her tirade. “I can’t believe that guy. It’s disgusting—not to mention demeaning to the women. What a lecherous dillweed.”
“Yes.” He’d hidden his quick smile by ducking his head and pretending to admire the rapidly wilting bunch of flowers in his hand. “Yes, he is.”
Carter was gesturing with hers. “I mean—that’s just wrong. He must have coerced them into marrying him. There’s no way that a self-respecting female would choose that.”
“Polygamy has been practiced for thousands of years, Sam.” Daniel dabbed at his forehead with a handkerchief. “It only makes sense that it would be a thing on other planets, as well. Especially on planets seeded by humans from Earth.”
“Even more so amongst royalty.” Teal’c had taken point, but angled his words back over his shoulder to be heard. “As many women would enjoy the status and the comforts gained by such a position.”
“Whoa, there, T.” O’Neill had grimaced. “The last thing I want to think about is Maybourne’s positions.”
The Colonel had stopped in her tracks. “And that’s another thing—”
Sensing another spate of lecturing, Jack came to a stop next to Carter. Turning to face her, he thrust his bedraggled handful of flowers in her direction. “Here.”
Sudden confusion skittered across her features, and she narrowed her eyes at him. “What?”
“Just take them, Carter.”
“Why?”
Jack resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Of course she was going to be difficult about this. She tended to spiral down into the Abyss of Annoyance whenever a bug crawled up her a—er—into her ear. And Maybourne and his medieval harem was a pretty damned nasty bug. “Because.”
Her clear eyes narrowed ever so slightly as she studied the sad little bundle in his hand. “Because why?”
“Just—take it.”
“I have my own bouquet.” She raised her hand and showed him.
“But I’d like you to have this one, too.”
She rarely looked at him anymore. Sure, they looked at each other—but they didn’t look at each other. The days were long past when they’d pass secretive, knowing glances across briefing room tables or silent communiques through a room with nothing more than a quick meeting of the eyes. So, it was odd, being caught like this again, her fathomless blue gaze studying him as if she were actually seeing him for the first time in months. As if she were remembering something important that she’d left behind—or lost. Or discarded.
He couldn’t help it—his eyes moved away from hers—flickering instead to focus for a single instant on her left hand, where a band of pale skin on her fourth finger seemed to glow like a tiny beacon.
And damned if he didn’t blink—turning his attention towards the ‘Gate, where Teal’c and Daniel had already begun the preparations for the trip home. Daniel had tossed his pack down at the base of the DHD and was plotting out the dialing sequence, while Teal’c scanned the perimeter for possible threats.
Jack shuffled away—a step further, no more. He felt suddenly foolish—silly, and ridiculous as he stood there, raising his hand and extending the flowers yet again. “Just take them. Okay?”
And yet again, she peered over at him quizzically. “Why?”
Looking down at the flowers he had clutched in his fist, O’Neill sighed—more from exasperation than weariness. Sometimes, her genius seemed to take a day off. “Because they’re pretty. Because they smell nice. Looking at them makes me happy. And because—at this exact moment—you seem to need pretty, nice-smelling things that’ll make you smile more than I do.”
“Oh?”
Jack glanced at her again, noting the set of her jaw—the slight lift of her eyebrows—the way her eyes had softened somehow, warming from glacial ice to pacific shallow. But it was the way she was worrying at her lip with her teeth that made him weak. He ripped his gaze from her face, looking down at his boots—at the frazzled grass beneath them—so that he could continue. “And it’s just that it’s been a long time since I saw you really smile.”
She frowned. First at the flowers, then at him, before taking the bunch from his fingers. With quick, efficient moves, she combined the two handfuls of leafy stems, tweaking a red one here, a yellow one there—until she was satisfied.
Jack couldn’t help but watch—first her nimble fingers as they made the adjustments, and then at her face. At the blush that had crept up from her throat and teased her jaw. At the tip of her tongue, flirting at the corner of her lips as she concentrated. At how the late afternoon sun glinted off the gilded softness of her hair. At the sweetest hint of dimple tickling her cheek as her expression relaxed into something nearing a smile.
At that pale spot on her finger again.
Damn it. He swallowed hard—his throat suddenly stiff and tight.
Silence stretched between them for several beats before she’d glanced over at him again. “Thank you, Sir.”
“Okay.” His voice had cracked, but he’d pretended it hadn’t. “Let’s go home.”
XXX
“Okay—so, Maybourne’s wives.” Jack dragged himself back to the present, reiterating the point before pressing his lips tightly against the wry smile that threatened. “What about them?”
She’d caught his grin. Rolling her eyes, she grunted. “Whoever they were—they gave us those bouquets, remember?”
Bouquets? Well, that was putting too much of a shine on that turd, but okay. “Sure. I remember.”
“So, we ‘Gated home, and the minute I walked down the ramp, the geeks from the botany department stole the flowers from me.”
“Why?”
“Something about not bringing alien pathogens or species back from other planets.”
Jack hid a grimace. He’d already hoed that row, to be honest. He could still smell the brackish smoke from the blowtorches as they’d worked to eradicate that weed that had nearly taken over the SGC a few months ago. He may have even been the one to sign the order that nixed bringing funky flora home. But to be fair, he’d also never imagined that they’d be on the receiving end of bouquets of wildflowers from Maybourne’s wives. “Oh.”
“And it just ticked me off. Like I’d intentionally bring anything back home that I thought would be dangerous.”
He snorted at that—then erupted into a spate of coughs that he hoped covered his initial reaction. Sputtering to a stop, he cleared his throat and wriggled uneasily on his seat, framing his upcoming lie in the best possible way. “Of course you wouldn’t.”
Casting a wary look over at him, she shifted on her seat before suddenly surging to her feet and taking a step towards the bank of lockers. “Can we really talk? Because it’s been a completely lousy week.”
A shiver of trepidation worked its way down his spine. It had been a while since she’d opened up to him. Hell—it has been a while since they’d exchanged anything other than pleasantries or mission briefs. Once she’d made the decision to become another man’s wife, Jack had tried to stop thinking about her as anything but a colleague—even when she still haunted his dreams on a nightly basis. It took a gargantuan effort to keep his tone even. “Sure. Of course.”
“It’s all this wedding stuff.”
Jack straightened, setting her keys on the other side of the seat. Scrubbing his palms against the rough fabric of his BDUs, he canted his head to one side and concentrated on keeping his expression benign. “What about it?”
“I’ve never planned one before.”
“But I thought—”
“We never got this far.” She’d anticipated his comment with a grimace. “Jonas and I. I called it off before we’d even set a date.”
“But with this guy—”
“Pete.”
Jack resisted the urge to grimace. “Pete. With him, you’re forging right ahead.”
“As much as I can.”
The phrasing of that wasn’t lost on Jack. He cast a quick look in her direction, noting the sudden pallor of her cheeks, and the way she was breathing—quick gusts in and out as if she’d been running. She was as uncomfortable as he was. Somehow, that made things a smidge better. “So, what’s the issue?”
“It’s not Pete.” The response came far too immediately to be true. She winced and retreated a little, slouching down again and bracing the heels of her hands against the smooth wood of the bench seat. “It’s me. I can’t decide on things. We—I—can’t seem to agree on the particulars.”
“Like what?”
“He wants to get married in a church. It’s beautiful. Very traditional. There are sconces and candelabras and these hand-carved decorations everywhere. There’s an altar at the front covered with this lacy cloth thing. The priest there is a friend of the Shanahan family, and he’s really nice.”
“But?”
“But I can’t see myself getting married there. I felt out of place somewhere so—normal. Like it was wrong, somehow.” She tilted her face in his direction with a sad sort of smile. “Like I didn’t belong.”
“Are you religious?” Somehow, he’d never thought to ask.
“I’m not—or, rather, I’m not churchy.” She looked down at her feet, her brow furrowing as she considered. “The whole church wedding thing threw me—the ceremony and rigamarole isn’t my style. And then there’s the dress.”
“The dress?”
“He’s collected a bunch of pictures of dresses from bridal magazines that he thought would suit me.”
“Suit you?” This time, he couldn’t keep the incredulity from tinging either his voice or his expression. Sam Carter would look spectacular in quite literally anything. There had never been a single moment that he’d considered her as anything but stunning—and he’d seen her in pretty much everything. Of course—he liked her best in ragged BDUs—her fingers stained with gunpowder, skin smudged with dirt, and her eyes bright with the fight, but he was admittedly biased. Still—he had to ask. “How would anything not suit you?”
“The church has a dress code. Traditional, remember? So, Pete’s found all these magazine pictures of frou-frou poofy ball gowns with cathedral trains and ridiculous amounts of lace that would make me look like a lily-white vir—” She faded to an awkward halt, peeking up at him from beneath her bangs as her cheeks went pink. “Well, you know.”
He did know. Not that he was supposed to know, but he did. Damned ice planet and its freaking malicious mind stamp. Those memories—the sound of her sighs, the memory of her bare skin glowing in the firelight, and the feel of her body straining up against him—were indelibly—inexpungibly—branded on his soul. That kind of thing tended to hang around a guy’s brain—no matter how much he’d denied it had happened in the first place.
Still, seeing how distraught she seemed right now, he wanted to disagree—to reassure her that she’d fit right into Pete’s matrimonial vision, but Jack wasn’t that good a liar. Besides—knowing her as he did—he couldn’t see her having a magazine-cover wedding. Not unless that magazine was Scientific American or Guns & Ammo.
She didn’t seem to expect a response, anyway. Pushing away from the lockers, she paced a few steps towards the showers, pivoting again to face him. “So, of course we argued about it. He was hurt because I didn’t immediately agree with what he wanted, and I was peeved that he couldn’t understand what I was trying to tell him.”
“That sucks.”
“The worst part was that I didn’t have any other ideas. I don’t know what the hell I want. I laid awake all night thinking about it and couldn’t come up with anything better.” She tilted her head back, running her fingers through her still-damp hair. “I had to get out of there, so I left. It was still dark, but I took the Indian and rode up north of town, past the Academy and up to Pike’s Peak. Took the highway up towards the Catamount trail.”
“Pretty country.”
“It’s beautiful.” Her shoulders drooped a bit. “I pulled off onto that last side road that heads west and went down through the switchbacks towards the reservoir.”
He knew the place. It was one of his favorite spots—he couldn’t count how many times he’d parked his Superduty there, lain in the truck’s bed, and just stared out into the universe. It was peaceful up there—quiet and calm. A guy could think up there—or not think. Clear his head. Fantasize. Dream. Remember. Try to forget—
Yes—he knew that place. Exhaling roughly, Jack pulled himself back to the locker room. “Near the summit. Right before that dirt road that leads down towards the water.”
“I got there just before dawn, and I sat there on my bike watching the sun rise. It was—amazing. So gorgeous. And it hit me that I’ve never seen anything so pure—so holy— in my entire life.” She let out a sad little laugh. “I realized in that moment that I don’t want a church wedding. I don’t want the elaborate ceremony or lavish reception. I want to get married there. In the mountains. Surrounded by the sky and the long grasses and wildflowers.”
He could see it. Carter, wearing something flowing and easy, surrounded by people who loved her. Standing in the dewy grass—no combat boots or shoes that pinched—hell, barefoot, if she liked—with the pale morning sun caressing her shoulders and the breeze making a mess of her hair. Happy. Blissfully happy and starting off on a new adventure.
Just—not with him.
It took him entirely too long to find the capability to speak again, and when he did, his voice sounded husky. “But?”
“But Pete.”
Pete. Jack quickly looked down at his boots—before she could see what he really thought about it all. Damned Pete.
“When I got home, he was gone. So, I went to his house and told him all the ideas I’d had. A simple wedding. Small and intimate. Nothing fancy. Just our friends. We could have it in that meadow and have a cookout or a picnic for a reception. Or hell—even come back down and go to O’Malley’s for a steak and a beer.” Again, her voice trailed off. For several beats, she stood there, her back to the lockers, one arm wrapped around her waist, the fingers of her other hand covering her lips. Finally, with a sharp shake of her head, she walked towards the bench and lowered herself to sit next to him again. “And he just looked at me and said, ‘Where would we put the string quartet?’”
There was nothing Jack could say to that, so he simply waited.
It wasn’t long before she turned to catch his gaze. “I didn’t even know he’d wanted a string quartet.”
“Don’t you need to have a wedding date to book all that stuff?”
“We’d talked about one. Weeks ago. I told him I’d put in a request for leave.”
Jack squinted, trying to recall if he’d signed such a thing. “Have I okayed that?”
“No, Sir. You haven’t. It’s been so crazy around here that I totally forgot about submitting the forms.” Straightening, she stretched one leg out, rocking her heel against the concrete—more for something to break the tension than anything else. “But apparently, Pete took it as gospel truth. He’s got it all scheduled. The church, the caterers, the reception hall. The only things he hasn’t already hammered down are the dress, the flowers, and the flavor of the cake.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
“It’s not like I’ve had time to even think about it, much less plan anything.”
“It’s your wedding, too.”
“I know.” She rolled her eyes, glaring off into the distance as a frown curved her lips downward. This time, she sounded even sadder. No—more resigned. “I know.”
Damn it. He wanted to put his arm around her, to offer her some small comfort, but thought better of it. It wasn’t his responsibility anymore, was it? Not his right—not his anything. Shifting on the bench, he leaned in just enough to nudge her with his shoulder. “So?”
“Sir?”
“The wedding.” He nodded at her ring. “You were talking about your wedding to Phil.”
“Pete.”
He lifted a single brow. “Him.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She straightened, pulling her hands back into her lap, her tumbled thoughts dancing erratically around her countenance until she’d recovered her place in the narrative. “Well, he’s got it all arranged.”
“And you’re upset about that.”
“Maybe. Kind of. But then he caught a case and I needed to report here.” She shook her head, lifting a hand to rub the edge of her thumb along her bottom lip. “And then we went on this last mission. And it’s chaos—obelisks and time machines and that stupid Goa’uld who almost ruined everything.”
“It was a bit of a challenge.”
“And then there was Maybourne.”
“And him.”
“So, we get rid of the Goa’uld and Jaffa, and Daniel’s finishing up with his study of the monuments. Teal’c’s doing his best to recruit the Jaffa we captured, and you’re talking to Maybourne.” She rolled her eyes up towards the ceiling, flashing a smile more bitter than pleasant. “I’m standing there on that gorgeous planet—perfect blue skies overhead, tall, old trees, knee-deep grass, flowers everywhere—all wild and natural and free—watching the birds and the breeze in the leaves, and listening to you and Maybourne talk, and it hits me.”
“Maybourne hits you?”
“No—the whole situation hits me. That place. Him and his people—who plainly adore him. And the women. Maybourne’s women. Of all people—Harry Maybourne has women .” The distaste in her tone was not only evident, it was rampant. “Maybourne. That conniving little weasel.”
“Conniving Little King Weasel.”
“Right. The King Weasel who has this perfectly idyllic existence on this beautiful little planet.” She sputtered out what might have been a harsh chuckle. “And then one of his wives hands me this pretty little bouquet of wildflowers and all I can think is that he—that royal horse’s ass—got my wedding.”
“He got your—” That made as much sense as mmflrs .
But there was no sense in trying to figure that one out, because she was already barreling forward.
“He got the meadow and the simplicity that I want. He got the ‘happily ever after’. He got it all—the King Weasel got everything . And I’m going to end up prancing down the aisle dressed up like some Tinkerbelle Immaculata being paraded like a bedazzled poodle at one of those dog shows.”
“Poodle?”
“And to add insult to injury, we finally get back home, and the botanist geeks confiscate my flowers—the ones you gave me—as if I were trying to smuggle azaleas laced with anthrax through security at JFK.”
“Look—Carter—”
“And I liked those flowers. They were pretty. And you were right. I needed that smile.”
That. Right there. That was the upshot of the whole damned thing. He nodded when it all came together in his mind. “There’s your dromedary.”
“And the proverbial straw.”
He stared at the floor for a minute, running through it all in his head. Of all the crap he’d had to wade through as General, this ranked right up there as the crappiest. He couldn’t fix this. Couldn’t make an order or send a team. And whatever they’d once shared—however much he’d screwed things up with her—however it pained him to aid her in hitching herself with freaking Pete—he’d sworn that he’d always be her friend. Sucking in a quick breath, he tilted a look at her. “We have flowers here, you know.”
She bit her lip again, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m not the kind of woman who gets flowers, Sir.”
“Not even from Pete?”
“He gave me roses once.” She couldn’t have sounded more indifferent had she tried. “They were very nice.”
Nice. Nice wasn’t good. Every husband or boyfriend on the planet knew that. ‘Nice’ landed somewhere between ‘fine’ and ‘decent’ on the totem pole. It was like putting a sign on something that said ‘an attempt was made’. But ‘nice’ certainly wasn’t going to leap tall buildings or win awards. He was no Casanova, but he was experienced enough in relationshipping to understand that differentiation. “But they weren’t what you wanted.”
“I like wild things, Sir. Stuff that has to fight a little to survive. Bluebells on the side of the highway. Lupine pushing up between the pine needles. Cornflowers next to the garbage cans at the park.”
“And weird red flowers from an alien planet.”
“They weren’t dangerous, Sir. They were just daisies.” She’d slumped again, bracing the heels of her hands on her thighs as she looked over at him. Her eyes were brighter now, more intense, with the fluorescent lighting overhead glinting off suspicious dampness in the corners that hinted at tears. Blinking rapidly, she swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “And I know how stupid this is. It’s just that I’ve never done this before, and I don’t have anyone to share it with or bounce ideas off now that Janet’s gone. I’m feeling all this stuff. Confusion—uncertainty. Like—I’m not sure who I am anymore. I’m fading away. Like I’m being systematically buried under something when I should be feeling happier and freer than I’ve ever been.”
His jaw was clenched—his entire body tight. He glared down at his hands—balled into fists—willing them to relax as he searched for words that would still be impossible for him to say. So, like a coward, he said nothing, sitting silently next to the only entity in the world who meant anything to him, incapable of giving her anything.
“It’s stupid, right?”
“No.” His voice cracked, damn it. Clearing his throat, Jack tried again. “No. It’s not stupid.”
“I’m delusional, aren’t I?” Just above a whisper—as if she were asking herself and not him. “I mean—a church wedding will be perfectly nice, won’t it?”
“You deserve more than ‘nice’, Carter.” He’d whispered, too. Not even sure if she could hear him. “You deserve so much more than that.”
For a long moment, quietude blanketed the locker room. It was late—most of the day crews had already gone home, and those poor shrubs remaining on base were most likely attending to their posts in other parts of the SGC. Distant sounds were there if he listened intently enough—footsteps in an upper hallway, voices through the air duct, water rushing through pipes, a random squeak from the wheels of a cleaning cart. A faint hum rumbled through the mountain around them—the omnipresent drone of mechanical equipment and ventilation systems.
And her breath, measured and shallow. The faint shush of her hands moving upon the fabric of her trousers. The whisper of her hair brushing against her collar as she turned to study him.
He shouldn’t have looked at her, but he did. He couldn’t help himself—he needed to see if she’d understood him. And she had. Comprehension flared there—although he couldn’t swear that he hadn’t imagined it. Just a hint of something in the endless blue of her eyes that said that she’d gotten it. That she knew what he’d meant. And then she’d braced her hand on the seat next to her, her shoulder impossibly close to his, her body swaying back and forth almost imperceptibly. Unconsciously—close enough that he could feel her warmth even if she hadn’t actually touched him.
Jack glanced down at their hands—his rugged—hers smooth. His long, scarred fingers dusted with graying hair and still speckled with mission dirt—hers impossibly elegant, long and lovely with their neatly rounded nails and sprinkle of freckles. And that damned diamond sparkling at him as if telling him something. Reminding him that she’d moved on. He couldn’t have her. She wasn’t his. He could practically hear it taunting him—like that fiendish heart from Poe beating beneath the surface of his world.
Not for you—not for you—not for you—
Her pulse was fluttering in the hollow at the base of her throat, and there went the pink in her cheeks again. She was working at her lip with her teeth—the azure of her eyes deepening—darkening—beneath the lush line of her lashes. Finally— finally— she looked away—down to where her hand splayed on the bench next to his, their pinkies nearly touching. And she exhaled a little roughly before whispering, “Sir—I—”
Not for you, Jack. Not for you—
Suddenly, she stood—almost as if she’d heard it too. Gathering up her keys, she took several steps away from the bench to bend and grab her backpack. Her movements were stilted and flurried, “I’m sorry, Sir. I’ll go.”
“Carter—”
“I’ve taken too much of your time.”
“It’s all good, Carter.”
“I’ll be back first thing in the morning to start my work on the ship.” She’d made it past the bench, past the entryway for the showers. Slinging her backpack over her shoulder, she reached for the door.
“Damn it, Carter.” Jack rose, pivoting to watch her stop at the door, her fingers just skimming the handle. “Wait.”
She didn’t say anything—not when her chin ducked down towards her chest. Not when she closed her eyes, brows furrowed—that wrinkle forming above her nose. Not when she moved—turning so slightly towards him that the shadows barely changed on her cheek.
“You feel like you’re losing yourself because you’re trying to be something you’re not.” It hurt to say the words—his entire being ached at the effort. “You’re letting who you are get overwritten by someone else.”
“I’m just trying to be happy, Sir.”
“But you won’t be. Not like this.”
She did turn, then, facing him across the room. From this distance, she looked even more pale than she had before. Smaller, somehow— younger —in her civvies, with her hair mussed and the backpack over her shoulder. “I was just talking about flowers, Sir. That’s all.”
“Daisies. Cornflowers. Lupine. They’re you.” Anyone with half a brain could see that. Carter was a wildflower, not a hothouse orchid. Beautifully tough. She was grace that thrived in the rough places, in the darkness, in the cold of space. She wasn’t something to be curated or coddled. She was something that needed the struggle—and was the better for it. “Deep down, beneath the science books and logic, you’re like them. You’re wild, and volatile, and determined. I see it every time you ride your bike. Each time you pull some crazy idea out of your ass or blow something up. Every time you go hell-bent-for-leather into battle—whenever you see someone that needs saving. I just get out of your way and let you do your thing. You’re uncivilised in the best possible way. And no amount of lace, no fancy dress, no string quartet is going to tame that out of you.”
A panoply of expressions flickered across her face—anger, disbelief, sadness—before she managed to get control. She smiled—a wan sort of thing—the expression not reaching her eyes. And she pulled the door open a sliver before she spoke again. “I’m not who you think I am, Sir.”
“You’re not who he thinks you are.”
Her chin rose a smidge. “Pete’s a good guy.”
It was, at best, a non-answer, but Jack eked out a smile anyway. He was getting better at hiding his feelings. Or, maybe, he was just improving at accepting the inevitable. Regardless, he didn’t have to prevaricate at all when he could speak the absolute truth even though it felt like he was trying to talk through a mouthful of gravel. “You deserve the best guy, Carter.”
With the door cracked, the sounds of the base were louder now. Boots scuffing against concrete, the droning of the elevators, a dull ‘beep’ as someone used a keycard scanner. The shower was dripping—and someone far away had just turned on a faucet.
But Jack couldn’t hear much beyond that damned throbbing refrain in his head. Not for you, Jack. Not for you—not for—
At least, not until she swung the door wide and stepped through, glancing behind her only to say, “Good night, Sir.”
And then her footsteps—quick and sharp in the concrete hallway—mercifully silenced by the metallic ‘click’ of the closing door.
To be continued. . .