Launch

By

AstraPerAspera

A/N: Spoilers for SGA S5 Enemy at the Gate. Special thanks to JenniferJF for beta-ing and for kicking my muse out of it's recent stupor.

He knew the routine by heart. The sound of the shower. The soft snapping of the towel as it dried body parts he tried desperately not to think too much about. The hair dryer. The soft clatter of doors and drawers. Running water. The toothbrush being taken out of its cup. Two minutes of brushing. Rinse. Spit. Unintelligible mutterings at errant strands of hair that had escaped their pins. The faint misting of hair spray which drifted on the remaining steam from the shower into the bedroom, bringing with it a light, fruity scent. Twenty minutes, start to finish. He didn't even have to look at the clock as he lay there, listening. She was as precise in this as she was in everything else. Normally it would have been amusing, but not today.

"I hate Mondays," he muttered, his arm flung over his eyes as he heard her emerge from the bathroom and pause. He wasn't ready to see her, even in the dim light of early morning, because then there would be no denying that it was indeed Monday and, more precisely, this Monday…the one he'd been dreading for months.

If she heard him, she didn't reply. Without even seeing her he already knew she had that intensely focused look on her face, her mind half an hour ahead of where her body actually was. She'd already left him—already was on that ship—that ship he hated with a passion he hadn't felt in a long time. Well…at least not that kind of passion, anyway.

He watched her shadowed form move around the room. She'd packed last night. Not that she had much left to take. She'd been half living on the damned ship for over a month now, over-seeing the testing and calibration of the various systems as it kept station on the dark side of the moon. Most of her personal things had been packed up in the same USAF-issue blue bins that had only just made their way back from Atlantis with the city itself. Apparently Sheppard had rather sheepishly appeared with them one day at the SGC, apologetic that they hadn't been able to get them back to earth any sooner. They'd hardly had time to shed themselves of their Pegasus Galaxy dust before they were packed again and gone, hauled away by two airmen who seemed eager to escape the scowl Jack had aimed their way.

Now all she had was a small duffle, already waiting by the front door. He hadn't actually seen it yet, but he knew it was there. He'd have bet real money on it.

The first time he hadn't understood. Her determined packing, her apparent eagerness to leave for Area 51, the same duffle ready to grab and go—it had contradicted everything he thought they'd finally overcome—everything they'd finally had, after all those years of denial. It was as if she couldn't wait to get the hell out of there, one foot already out the door. Making a hasty and strategic exit.

It had been the same when she'd left for Atlantis. The night before, the same ritual. And again with the damned duffle, waiting by the door, ready to go, like some patient dog. Except he'd known better, by then. Understood what all the packing and the preparation meant. And that the duffle strategically placed by the front door was her means of a quick exit—not because she couldn't wait to leave, but because she was afraid she wouldn't.

And that was why it was there now, he was sure.

Just as he was sure she had no clue he was awake. Her careful prowling through the top dresser drawer had been done with the stealth of a cat burglar. Whatever it was she was searching for, she hadn't been successful yet in finding.

"Whatcha looking for?" he asked, finally.

"Tags," she replied, feeling again across the top of the dresser in the semi-darkness, not one bit startled by his sudden question. Maybe she'd heard him after all.

"Hold on," he told her, rolling to the other side of the bed and groping in the space between the nightstand and the mattress. His fingers raked the carpet in the dark until they found the chains of both their tags, tangled together. He had a vague recollection of reaching to put them on the beside table before becoming rather…distracted. That had been Thursday, when she came home. They hadn't had much use for them since.

"Pick one," he said, crawling out of bed and handing her the mess of chains. "I'm going to make coffee."

"I don't think I'll have time," she told him as he walked past her. "For coffee, that is."

"Yes you will," he called over his shoulder. "They won't leave without you. Trust me."

~o~o~o~o~

"What time's your flight to Andrews?"

He considered it a small victory that she not only was drinking coffee but was also sitting down to do it. He'd resisted turning on the overhead lamp in the kitchen, preferring the indistinct light of early morning. It was easier, somehow, if they couldn't see each other too clearly.

"Dunno. Eleven-hundred hours, maybe. I've got a 5 o'clock with the president," he sighed heavily. "I hate breaking in new guys."

He caught her smile on that one. It was faint and fleeting, but definitely there. Score another one for him.

The joy was short-lived though. He'd been doing his damnedest to not notice the flight suit she was wearing or the crisp new patch that was becoming visible in the ever growing light. But there was no avoiding it now. Even though renaming the ship had been his idea, he cringed every time he saw "The General Hammond" and the logo that now represented it. It was a fine tribute to an even finer man, but when all was said and done, he'd have given a dozen such ships to hear that Texas drawl one more time.

But at least it wasn't the Phoenix anymore. He didn't care how many ways Sheppard had assured him the timeline was permanently altered, there was no way in hell he was going to give her a ship with that name. That would have been tempting fate, and the way he had it figured, he'd pretty much used up all his high cards in that poker game. They could have named it The Pete Shanahan for all he cared. As long as it wasn't the Phoenix, he was good.

Well…maybe not "good". Good would have been Sam in charge at the SGC and him kicking back in retirement, waiting for her to come home at night and thinking of ways to keep her from getting to work on time in the morning. But that had been one hand that hadn't played his way. Sometimes new administrations liked change, and sometimes they liked continuity. And while it seemed the New Guy was all about shaking things up, letting go of the man with the most experience in the Stargate program apparently wasn't one of the things he wanted shaken. So that retirement he'd been so looking forward to had been postponed yet again, with the fall out being that there'd be no SGC for Sam—at least not for now—and another year in limbo for their future plans.

At least there was one thing, though, they hadn't waited for. The sun was edging it's way over the treetops and an advance ray of light caught the glint of gold on her hand as it wrapped around her coffee cup.

"You missed something," he reminded her, tipping his mug in the direction of her cup. A puzzled look crossed her face for a moment before she realized what he meant. With a rueful smile she set the mug down and worked the ring off her finger.

"I almost forgot," she admitted, pulling out her tags and unclasping the chain. He watched the ring slide down and clank softly against the rubber silencers as she secured the chain and slipped it back under the flight suit. He did his best not to envy the ring.

A faint beep sounded twice from her watch, and he knew he'd just run out of time. The duffle would be leaving very soon. He couldn't help it: he sighed. He missed her already and she hadn't even left yet. Maybe he was getting too damn old for this sucking it up bit. Area 51 and Atlantis had both been hard in their own way, but somehow this was worse. Much worse. Maybe it had something to do with that now empty space on the finger of her left hand.

"I think I have to go."

Glancing out the window he saw that the car he'd ordered up for her the night before was parked at the curb waiting. Damn military promptness.

"Yeah," he answered flatly. A hollow, empty feeling started churning in his gut. He stood and walked with her to the door. Sure enough, there it was. The duffle.

"So…" she said, turning to face him.

"This is where I say the stuff about watch your six…beware of Tok'ra bearing gifts…don't take any wooden naquadah…"

He knew the half-smile was only a reflex response to his lame attempt. She always did know when he was bluffing. Caught, he studied his bare feet for a moment, not quite able to endure her gaze. Finally, though, he glanced up and met her eyes—those incomparably beautiful eyes that he'd always figured could see past all his crap and into places no one else ever could. And because she was the only one he'd ever really dared let in to those dark and unfathomable corners, he couldn't look away, letting her see everything he knew he would never ever be able to say.

They held each other's eyes for a minute. Or maybe an hour. He wasn't sure. The only thing he did know was that he felt better and worse at the same time and vaguely wondered how odd it was that pain and peace could simultaneously coexist.

"This is harder than I thought it'd be." She spoke at last, her voice uncharacteristically husky.

He reached around behind her and gripped the handle of the duffle bag. It was lighter than he would have expected.

"I know," he replied, handing it to her. She hesitated only a moment before taking it from him, a shadow of some emotion he couldn't quite read evident briefly on her face.

"You can do this," he told her. He wasn't referring just to the ship. She didn't speak, but only nodded, not meeting his eyes, and he knew she understood.

Suddenly the bag was on the floor again, her arms flung around his neck, her damp face pressed to his unshaven cheek. He held her tightly—breathing in everything she was—feeling the tenseness of her body relax for the briefest of moments into his embrace. She clung to him, her fingers grasping his t-shirt as if someone or something was about to tear her from him, and he wrapped her even more completely in his arms to keep whatever force that might be at bay, if only for a few seconds longer.

"I'll miss you…." She could barely get it out even in a whisper. Pushing herself out of his embrace she held his face between her hands and kissed him more gently than he could have thought possible. Then in a fluid arc of motion she swept up her bag, turned, opened the door and was gone.

Standing in the doorway he saw the airman salute as he opened the car door for her and she ducked to get in. She hadn't looked back once and Jack didn't expect her to. Eyes straight ahead, the car pulled out and vanished from his view.

~o~o~o~o~

Later, showered, shaved and dressed in his least favorite clothes he picked up his tags, which Sam had left on top of the dresser. Beneath them lay a neatly wrapped package with his name on it in Sam's easily recognizable handwriting. He opened it to find a framed photo he'd never seen before. It was years old…back in the day when he'd been doing his best to keep Samantha Carter out of his thoughts as much as out of his heart. As best he could tell, Teal'c had taken the picture, since he was the only member of SG1 who wasn't in it and Jack remembered how, for a while, the Jaffa had been fascinated with photography and insisted on taking his point-and-shoot everywhere. Jack recognized his own back yard at the time. It was a completely candid shot. Daniel, sitting in a folding chair, was expounding on something of obvious significance because Sam, who was sitting across from him, was intensely paying attention to her fellow geek. Jack could tell by the blurry arms he held out in front of him that Danny had been in rare form. Jack himself was seated between the two of him, but instead of Daniel, his focus was completely on Sam, and even now he could tell from the look on his own face that he'd been completely absorbed with watching her and how enraptured she was with whatever the hell Daniel was talking about. He may have thought he'd been successful at burying any feelings he'd had for his 2IC at the time, but the picture was evidence of just how self-deluded he'd been.

More telling though, was the fourth figure in the photo. George Hammond, resplendent in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and a bottle of beer in his hand, stood off to the side. And as intently as Jack was fixated on Sam, George's gaze was similarly directed at Jack. It was the look on the general's face that told the story, however—a mixture of pity and understanding and regret. Hammond had known all along, there was no doubt about it now. He had known, and he had let them be—had let them figure it out on their own, without judgment—without sanction—without interference. If Jack hadn't already admired the man more than any other CO he'd ever had, the look on George's face would have earned him that respect.

Jack eyed the crumpled paper, hoping for a note to explain the gift. Sam wasn't one to randomly give things. There was, however, nothing except the picture and the discarded wrapping. When he flipped the frame over, though, her handwriting leapt out at him again.

He always had our six, even when we didn't know it. He won't let us down this time either.

I'll be home soon.

Love, Sam

Jack turned the photo back over and looked at it one more time.

She was right, of course. But then, she usually was. Way smarter than he was. Just like the man in the picture had said.