Written for Penguin's Challenge 22: Begin by seizing something which your opponent holds dear; then he will be amenable to your will Sun Tzu. Rating for sex, slight non-con themes, violence, language and anything else you might expect to see in a borderline MA+15 rated movie... A very dark AU, not to be read by little kiddies.
Set anywhere around season 7, and a little out of character, mainly because we've never seen anything like this in the show. This story has been hiding on my harddrive for months. Edit after edit, I'm still not sure it's right. But then, that for you guys to decide. My first attempt at such dark subject matter, so please let me know what you think.
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Jack O'Neill was a man capable of a great many things. A man who had committed a great many evils. But this time, when the Devil asked for his soul, there was one piece she would not let him give away.
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"Sir, we can't let them keep that device"
"What do you suggest- steal it ourselves?"
She nodded once, firmly.
"Major, you are certifiable"
"Sir, they keep that thing, and they'll turn it against us before long. If we get out of here, we have to destroy it"
He sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehead, pacing around their cell for a moment.
"We have enough C4 to blow that thing up?"
"Assuming they haven't pilfered our packs, and with the added effects of the device's components and naquadah-based power source? Yeah. And bring half this place down with it"
"Okay" he sighed, sitting next to her on the bench, his expression terse, his focus on the ground in front of him. "We get out of here, we grab our gear, blow up the device-"
"And find its instructions"
"Carter-"
"Sir, we blow it up without taking the plans and they'll only build it again, and then they'd really come after us. We take the plans too, or we forget about sabotage all together"
He sighed again, staring at the doorway for a moment. He nodded once.
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The original mission had been a balls-up from the beginning. Daniel and Teal'c had only just managed to get through the gate before it was shut down, and the remaining two were thrown straight in lockup.
Escaping was the easy part; even the prison guards knew that. Nobody was stopping them from running back to their little planet, and the bad guys even made it simple for them with their predictable guard changes and skeleton crew.
What the dictators didn't expect was that the prisoners would actually have the gumption to stand up to them- to go after their monopoly on power; to destabilise a tyrannical government that had existed for five generations, feeding on the fear of its people. These aliens didn't know SG1, and wasn't that their particular brand of crazy? After all, SGC personnel were no strangers to harebrained ideas and lofty ideals working together to somehow jerry-rig a viable plan.
It was easy. Get in, get the goods, get out.
Don't die.
Don't get caught.
Don't risk your skin for anyone or anything other than the person right beside you.
Jack O'Neill put in one hundred and fifty percent into everything he did, so when he failed, he failed spectacularly; in good form, head held high and an 'ah, well, we tried I guess' thrown in.
This mission was his best and most spectacular failure.
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"Major! We have to move now!"
"Sir, not yet!" she shouted back, her eyes still skimming. The schematics in front of her were as numerous as they were complex, riddled with equations and charts, explanations and statistics. You name it, these people had it. All in a language she didn't understand, all explaining technology she would probably never use. She hoped with all her heart she would never have to, either.
Even so, these documents were the reason they had fought their way past a hostile prison-keeper to enter a heavily fortified enemy encampment while under fire from weapons unknown.
Just the two of them, against an army that wasn't too happy about strangers stealing the schematics to their most prized technology, even if this particular brand of evil had wiped out an entire planet to get the tech in the first place.
Two versus two hundred.
She was not leaving these God-damn sheets of paper behind.
"Major!"
"Alright, I got it!" she shouted, folding the last of them under her vest and deftly throwing her weapon up to her shoulder, following her loyal commander down the only hallway they'd manage to secure. If you could call five enemy troops instead of twenty 'secure'.
They moved quickly, stealth long out of the equation.
Two down, then five, then ten. Bullets after bullets- some of them over her shoulder close enough that she surely heard them next to her ear. Only her extensive training and experience kept her from flinching into them.
The corridors were all narrow, barely enough room to fit the two of them side by side, and so their ascent to the ground floors of the facility was made slightly easier by the bottleneck effect of the structure itself.
Two floors up, five clips down, he was on to his last. If he was a judge of these things- and let's face it, you don't live long in SpecOps if you're not- he would say Carter was down to her second last. One more floor to go and only half the ammo they needed.
When they we taken down only fifteen feet from the gateroom, Jack knew he'd forever hate Murphy and all his stupid laws.
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Sometime between joining the Stargate Program and almost losing him to the Land of Crop Farming and FireRain, she'd come to realise she was in love with her boss, and when she put it like that in her head, it made her sound a little bit like the slutty secretary. The telling thing was, she didn't really care. She was also not so blind or stupid as to pretend he didn't feel at least a little bit the same towards her. She was, after all, somewhere close to beyond genius. But she knew this relationship was going nowhere fast- for good reason- and that logically she should let him go. After all, this 'thing' she was harbouring only managed to dampen her love life; to provide a convenient reason to not settle down with anyone else.
But as her mother used to say, the head and the heart have always had trouble communicating.
And so the dull pangs in her chest and the tiny beats over shared moments became a bearable burden, and she learned to live with the fact that she would never have him while they were fighting this war.
Well fuck you Murphy, and take your stinking laws to hell.
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"She's with me" he said, his head gesturing to Carter where she knelt on the floor, hands bound, eye turning a lovely shade of purple, mouth gagged.
Her oversized handler didn't seem to hear him, or else just didn't care. Without waiting for permission he raised his fist, the other holding her collar steady. He could break half her face in a single blow, no question.
"She's my wife"
She looked as shocked as he felt, but when the fist was lowered, just inches away from her face, and the guard turned to confirm, Jack knew he'd spared her a slow and excruciating death.
In this cruel, archaic society, those were the only words that would save her life- nobody but the husband of a woman was allowed to kill her. Jack swallowed his fear and refused to think about the many ways they could use this lie against them.
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He didn't see her again for what felt like weeks.
It was not the first time he'd used the lie of matrimony- though Daniel usually did the honours, if necessary- but he'd never done it to prevent her immediate death before. She proved early on that she was more than capable of handling herself, but they inevitably encountered societies who crossed themselves repeatedly and swore black and blue until she was claimed as one of theirs, and when that happened they just ran with it, no questions asked.
He tried not to consider what it meant, as he lay broken on the stone floor, that he couldn't even hear her screams.
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"You should have gone"
It was the first time he'd heard her voice in four days. Amazing what sleep deprivation will do to a person's perception of time.
"What?" he snapped, turning to face her. They'd been separated the first three days. Hostage taking 101- divide the prisoners, weaken their resolve. Then, put them back together and watch them tear each other apart, spill their darkest secrets and give you what you want to know. Mind-games, all mind-games.
"To the gate. You should have gone" she repeated, her voice low and husky, her head lolling against the wall of the cell. Four days, they hadn't slept, and though these prison guards didn't seem particularly fond of water-boarding, Jack was just waiting for the other shoe to drop. A broken rib, bruised face and excruciating hunger were not the end of it, he knew.
"Carter"
"You could have made it Sir" she said, her eyes closing heavily as she fought exhaustion. "I could have covered you, and you could have got the intel home. Got reinforcements"
"Not a chance in hell" he muttered, looking at her like she might have finally lost it.
"Sir-"
"Carter. Enough. There was no way I was leaving you"
She opened her eyes then, anger flashing loud and clear in her expression. "You compromised this mission, Sir. You compromised-"
"I know!" he said menacingly, lowly, just a hint of the truth buried under the knowledge that she was very close to finding out the real reason he doubled back instead of leaving her to be caught.
"I'm well aware"
She didn't question him further, and he was torn between relishing her silence and screaming against it. They had to stop doing this.
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"Tell us what planet you're from"
"Jack O'Neill, United States Air Force-"
And so they hit him again and again, and if they'd owned a sarcophagus they would have recreated Ba'al's House of Horrors. But they didn't touch Carter, because only he was allowed to punish her, and though he wanted very badly to hit something, it never crossed his mind that he was allowed to hit her. Because no matter what these animals said, he wasn't allowed. Ever.
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It was about the year 1969, when she was buying clothes she was too young to remember the first time around, that he finally admitted he might find her attractive. It took the 'I'm kissing Carter but she's not really my Carter' incident for him to admit that it was more than attraction. He is not stupid- he knows he's got a type. Tall, blonde and wicked-smart gets him every time, and she certainly is that. But it wasn't until he saw who she could have been- and who he could have been with her- that he finally owned up to the feeling that had been slowly growing in the pit of his stomach.
He's a bit in love with her, and has been for years.
It shouldn't come as a shock, because everyone at the SGC is a little bit in love with Carter. The science geeks fall over themselves to work with her, and the jar-head jocks fight each other to see who will get to ask her out next. It's almost a game worth betting on.
No, what shocks him is how slow the feeling was to develop, and how much it took him by surprise. After all, his rational mind knew that he'd never be able to have her and this job at the same time, even if she did want him. And though he'd like to think they'd shared a moment now and then, he's not entirely sure she feels the same way. After all, she'd been the one to say she has a soft-spot for the lunatic fringe, but that didn't necessarily mean she wanted to marry them all.
So he'd resigned himself to the fact that, short of retiring or transferring out, he and Carter would continue their little dance-that-is-not-a-dance, and he'd never know what it would be like to kiss her again. He could almost convince himself that he was okay with this plan. He could almost convince himself that he wasn't falling for her more and more as time went on.
He could almost convince himself that she didn't feel the same.
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Another two days of the same routine. He would come back bloody, she would come back exhausted. Just because they weren't allowed to touch her didn't mean they didn't come up with ever-more imaginative ways to slowly kill her.
He remembered reading somewhere that after seven days with no sleep a person's mind would try to shut down, comatose. After ten, you die, brain short circuiting.
Not her. Dear God, please, of all people, not her.
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She waited for the miracle rescue as she laid on the stone floor, listening to his grunts and moans, the pounding of knuckles against flesh and the incessant dripping of water down the wall. She counted the seconds in her head, and then the minutes, and tried to figure out how long they'd been there, and how many guards had been sent to keep her awake all night and all day. She tried to remember what it felt like to be warm, and fed, and safe.
She tried, but all she could hear was his voice telling her hold on. She wasn't sure if it was a memory or a dream. It might have even been a hallucination. Really, all she wanted was sleep.
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He wasn't sure how much she was taking in, but every time he was returned to their cell he would talk to her. Sometimes it was a story, sometimes it was just a string of encouraging words about getting home soon. Mostly, it was just to confirm that she was not a figment of his imagination. She would get what little sleep she could find, and he would talk to her, his hand running over her head where it lay next to his bloody and beaten legs.
If he tried really hard, he could almost see them being back home.
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On day seven everything changed. He wanted so desperately to be beaten again.
He never wanted to do it- not like this. And he fought them, too. Long and hard- pain after pain inflicted as he tried to find another way for them to be punished.
He fought until they suggested that there was no point keeping his wife alive if he didn't want to bed with her. There were ways to kill her without touching her, after all. They all knew the lie that had been told, and the price that he was now going to pay for it.
He didn't want to.
But they made him do it, to prove his claim; to find another way of breaking them. He had done some damn distasteful things in his time- actions for which he never expected to be forgiven, not even by the Big Guy upstairs. But these evils were child's play compared to what they were asking him to do now.
They stripped them of their clothes, leaving them alone in the room with just the eye in the corner, always watching.
"By sunrise" the guard had said.
They both knew what he meant.
She was huddled in the corner- the only place with the slightest privacy- naked, shivering, holding her knees to her chest, looking at him with fear. He almost staggered when he realised, with gut-wrenching clarity, that she wasn't afraid of him- of the act they had to commit. She didn't fear his hesitant advance, or the way he lowered himself against the wall next to her, covering himself as best he could. She didn't fear her own nakedness, because God knows they could barely see anything in this light anyway, and the cold had made them feel bare long before their clothes had been stripped. And after all the injuries they'd received over the years- the state of undress those wounds inflicted- they'd seen nearly all there was to see.
She didn't flinch from the scowl on his face that was never aimed at her. It wasn't the act itself, but everything that went with it- their careers; their minds. More than anything, the unspoken, quiet, lingering hint that there was a part of them that wanted it, and had wanted it for years.
It was this part that he squashed, pulverised, ignored for as long as he could, until she leaned her head on his shoulder, exhausted, in silent acknowledgement of what had to happen, and told him that she had forgiven him long before he laid a hand on her.
"I know" she said softly.
She knew everything.
"I can't" he choked, his forehead resting on his arm, angry tears almost squeezing out.
Her hand reached for his cheek turning it towards her, her face mere inches from his. She was pale and drawn, and in desperate need of sleep, but her resolve was strong, and she only nodded, looking him in the eye, lightly touching her lips to his.
As much as he tried to ignore the gratitude and lust and something-he-would-not-name, and turn it into revulsion, they both knew they had no choice, and her eyes shone in the darkness, clear and forgiving, as she slowly unfurled her body.
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They'd each done the deed with a complete stranger over the years; an unknown, meaningless face being an easy consolation after many a drink. They'd each experienced the dingy pay-by-the-hour, and the shutting off of emotions as focus was shifted to the task at hand. Neither of them was a saint, after all. But never before was it done for their life, and never with someone they wanted, but couldn't touch.
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He was tentative, almost to the point of not touching her at all, and as much as she wanted to take over- take control- they learned each other slowly, and softly, and tried to find some semblance of humanity in what they were doing. His touch was feather-light where it would have been rough, and she was quiet as a mouse when normally she didn't much care how loud she was being. And somewhere in there, under the whispered moans and occasional cry, she felt it. She felt the redemption. It was that forbidden feeling between them that showed her, in another place, another time, another reality, he would have done this for her every night in a warm room, on a soft bed, because she asked.
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She slept soundly- for the first time in days- in his arms, huddled into the warmth of his body for lack of anything that resembled a blanket or clothes. He didn't sleep a wink. He stared at the ceiling and tried not to cry. He looked at the eye in the sky, hoping that whoever was watching had the decency to turn away. But mainly he watched her face, the softness of her exhausted features, the goosebumps on her skin from the unrelenting cold that, despite it all, he did his best to keep away. He prayed to anyone who wanted to listen that he might be able to look her in the eye in the morning. He prayed for rescue, or that this sin was punishment enough and they'd be free to go home. He prayed she would sleep dreamlessly.
He didn't bother praying for his soul.
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By the time rescue came, they were dressed and back in their old cell, half asleep in the corner, her head resting on his freshly beaten shoulder. They would learn later that an ally's ship was used to infiltrate the complex from above, and that the devices and all the schematics were destroyed by the two SG teams that had come to bring them home. It would take another two months, but eventually the fascist government would fall, and the Tau'ri would be hailed as heroes.
He almost believed it was worth it.
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She looked away as her doctor questioned her, fussing over the friend that was only hours back on safe ground. The questions rolled off the tongue as professionally as ever, and she had to wonder if two days of solid sleep was enough before facing the personality of the diminutive medical officer. They'd done a full body exam, so she expected every question thrown her way, but the not-so-subtle look her friend gave her, and the tilt of her head, threw her off balance, and for a moment she was back in that cell, naked and exhausted, curled into his side.
But when it came time to give a straight answer, she knew what she had to say, quiet as the response was.
"I wasn't raped, Janet"
And despite what her physical exam suggested and what any mental health expert would say, in her heart she knew it was mostly the truth, and she had to hold onto that.
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She waited almost a week before going to his door, sometime around midnight and a few scotches in the system. He opened it and stood still, waiting for her to tell him it was all over, she couldn't keep it up, she was leaving and never coming back and it was all his fault. God, he couldn't even look at her.
But the breakdown never came.
"We need to be okay"
He huffed, looked away, looked up and eventually looked back at her, only for a moment, before looking at his feet.
"I don't know how to do that. Not this time"
"You can start by letting me in"
He opened the door wider and she stepped inside, just far enough to close it behind her, smelling the alcohol from where he'd been standing.
"Thanks, but that's not what I meant"
And she leaned up and wrapped her arms around him as though it were the most normal thing in the world for her to be touching him, much less hugging him. She felt him stiffen like a board under her arms, felt his stance change to defensive, and she knew he was thinking this was a bad idea. So was she. She held on tighter.
"Whatever happened, whatever you may think, we need to be okay"
"How?" he asked, making no move to hold her, even as her own grip tightened.
"You could start by accepting this" she replied, squeezing a little with her fingertips.
He closed his eyes, and finally returned her hug, accepting her peace offering and tucking his face into the crook of her neck in his own silent quest for forgiveness.
She felt his shoulders shake just once, his breath hitching against her skin, and her neck got damp where his eyes were resting against her hairline.
"I'm sorry. I'm so... so damn sorry"
She didn't reply because he needed this, but her grip on his shirt spoke to her forgiveness, and her own tears fell fresh. He needed to understand, even if this quest for absolution came at a cost.
"I forgave you the moment you stepped in that cell" she whispered. "Now you need to do the same"
"How can I when I... What I've done... I..."
"Jack"
She pulled away to look at him, but kept a grip on his arms, refusing to let him move away.
"What you did..."
She deflated a little with a quiver of her lip, and held his eyes, and tilted her head. They both knew the price of that night, but they also knew what it would have meant to not tell the lie in the first place. The image of a giant fist raised above her came slamming back to him, and he closed his eyes against it, his throat closing up as he considered the options they'd been dealt.
"If nothing else, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for what you did"
"That doesn't excuse it" he said angrily, his eyes turning dark, his brow furrowed.
"No. It doesn't. But the right to choose was taken out of our hands. It wasn't your fault. We're alive, and we'll be okay. But you have to believe that... of all people..."
She stopped, and closed her eyes, and he couldn't help but look up.
"What I mean is..."
She sighed and looked down to his hand that was lightly gripping her arm in return, her face flushing, tears dripping down her cheeks.
"I'm glad it was you"
He jolted, a million thoughts running through his head as his frown deepened, ready to scream at her insanity, his anger coming back in full force.
"If it had to be done, there is nobody I trust more than you..." she said lowly, her head hung as though confessing her sins. "And for that, I'm grateful"
His hand came up to cup her neck, just under her ear, his eyes remorseful and grieving as he studied every inch of her, the pain in his chest throbbing again.
"The last thing I want is to hurt you. And I hurt you. You shouldn't forgive me for that"
Her grip on his sleeve tightened and a sad smile crept into her face as she looked up and took a shuddering breath.
"You didn't hurt me" she whispered. She held his gaze and willed him to understand what she was trying to say, but couldn't. She refused to look away until he understood, and he wasn't entirely sure how long he stood there before her message hit him like a truck. He let out a breath through pursed lips, closing his eyes and hanging his head, shaking it slowly.
"There are so many..."
He stopped himself. There were many other ways he had thought of it, had wanted it; ways it could have been done. Should have been done. For so long he had wondered, between being her friend and being her boss, what it would be like to be more. To have more. That cold, dark cell shouldn't be their only memory, and it was wrong that a part of him wanted to create others to replace it.
She nodded. "I know"
"I'm sorry for that, too" he whispered.
A strange look appeared on her face, part hesitant, part thoughtful. Before he could work it out, she was kissing him, slowly and softly, her hand resting on his cheek. He pulled back quickly, frowning, disorientated and hurt and mostly confused. She looked at him, desperate and pleading.
"Please" she whispered, her eyes glassy, begging him. And she was right. After what they'd been through, what was one secret night to cleanse their souls a little?
So he didn't resist when she gently slid his jacket from his shoulders and pushed it down his arms, her lips resting lightly against his. And he didn't flinch when she reached for his belt buckle, her movements slow and deliberate, so as not to startle either of them. She was now rested, and he was mostly healed. And when they were finally in his warm room, on his bed, only their underwear between them, he kissed every inch of her skin before tenderly pulling the fabric down her legs, not a hint of hunger or violent lust to be seen.
They moved slowly, savouring the feel of soft sheets being clutched tightly, and headboards being gripped. More than that, they savoured the feel of each other, whole and safe, consenting, enjoying, feeling every nuance, every breath, every sigh. They moved as one, and at some point the ache in his chest eased a little, and his soul didn't feel as heavy.
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Hours later she lay sated in his arms, listening to his heartbeat. She was facing the door, his arms around her, her head resting in the crook of his shoulder. Nothing as intimate as lying on top of him, but she was close enough. They would be okay. They had to be. And, those nights when nightmares haunted them, they would have a memory to hold on to.
He chose to believe it was a promise.