A short, angsty and dark one-shot that has been nagging at me for a while. I don't ever think that Sam and Jack would start something whilst they are with other people, I couldn't help but wonder what would happen if they did...
TAG to Season 8. Set around 'Threads' but obviously pre-'the breakup scene'.
Broken
Lightening flashes around them, coming through the open window in thin streaks and illuminating the taut muscles on his bare back. Her flushed face is highlighted against his shoulder in the dark. Rain is pouring incessantly outside, drowning out her soft moans.
She scrapes a nail against his cheek and down his neck, leaning in and trailing her mouth toward his. His breath hitches against her, and she can't help but smile even a little bit.
His hands are tight on her hips, gripping the thin material of her jeans as he holds her to him. She sits on the kitchen bench, the beginnings of dinner at his house long forgotten behind her in the black-out. Her hands are in his hair, long fingers tangling in the peppered grey spikes.
She wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him closer.
'What are we doing?'
His questions comes in a soft breath. It's so soft she can barely hear him over the pounding of the rain, and the warm breath on her own neck makes her still. The fog from her brain is clearing.
'Carter?'
His voice prompts her and she sits up straighter. Jack steps back and out of her space. He is giving her room; room to run out of the house into the rain and far away.
Only this time she doesn't want to run.
Tears prick dangerously at the back of her eyes, and she digs her nails into her palms.
'We can't do this.'
The four words are the by far the simplest she has ever spoken, and so them. She can't remember how they got here. The taste of him is still on her lips.
Her heart thumps painfully in her chest, the dull ache spreading through her body as her cheeks flame dangerously in the dark. She can almost feel his eyes seeking hers in the black but she refuses to look up.
The faces of Kerry and Pete refuse to leave her mind. She's never been one for the adulterous scene, but where he is concerned she doesn't know herself anymore. If she's really honest, it's been brewing for eight long years.
But now is not the time for her conscience to make an appearance.
Lightning crackles loudly overhead, illuminating their faces, and she can see a troubled look on his face. He takes a step toward her, and takes her head to his chest. She can almost feel the touch of his lips on the side of her head.
Her hands curl into his chest, gripping into the muscles with frightening force.
'I need you,' he whispers. The words penetrate straight into her soul, and shatter her resolve.
Outside, the rain is still falling.
o-O-o
Rain patters against the open window, silent streaks of water are running down the panes of glass. The breeze is cool, and the grey clouds are rolling by over the trees at the end of his street.
It's the perfect excuse to stay inside.
He is curled on the bed, the blankets low over his hips as he watches her sleep.
It surprises him everytime, but apparently she isn't one to sleep naked. His favourite white cotton shirt falls off one shoulder, and he can't help but stare at the creamy expanse of skin.
He knows what's underneath, marring the otherwise perfect skin. It reflects her life as a soldier, and he can almost remember with vivid clarity the exact moment another mark was made on her skin.
Another jagged white line that shouldn't be there if he had done his job correctly.
They serve as constant reminders that he can never let her go, and he silently thanks whatever god is listening that he still has her here.
She stirs in the grey light, rolling over. Blue eyes flicker to look at him openly, boring into his own with startling clarity.
'Morning,' he whispers softly, tracing lines on her shoulder in an oddly familiar gesture. She flinches away, and he pulls back suddenly. Her eyes betray her thoughts, and he can almost see the face of a certain police detective reflected back in the cerulean orbs.
'Is it?' she asks sleepily, scooting away from his touch as easily as she welcomed it last night.
'It is,' Jack states simply. 'And, its raining.'
The almost-joy in his voice is sheltered by the resounding guilt; the guilt that hangs around them like the rolling clouds outside.
Thunder crackles overhead.
'We can't do this again,' Sam's voice is clear in the room, rising over the top of the pounding rain and ricocheting of the walls. If there is any regret in the sentence she utters, Jack can't hear it. Maybe it's just that he doesn't want to.
'I think I've fallen more in love with you.'
The sentence is forbidden, and so wrong. It holds within it the word they have been avoiding for years, a word they can't say to each other but can easily let it slip out to someone else. It's the word that hold too much power, the word that has the power to determine who lives and who dies in their line of work.
Jack's hands clench on the sheet as he lets his words echo around them.
Sam sits up, and his shirt falls even more off the shoulder he had been staring at moments ago. He looks down again, committing it to memory so he can prepare himself if this really is the last time.
'I need to see someone,' she whispers.
He swallows roughly. He knows what's coming, and later today he will have to brace himself to have the same conversation with Kerry. They can't keep doing this.
In a move that surprises him, she presses a chaste kiss to his mouth before exiting the bed and striding out of his room entirely.
He can hear her rustling around, gathering a few things as she makes her way to the door. It closes with a brisk click as she gets into her car and drives away. Jack settles back into the bed, staring at the empty space on his left.
Somehow he knows she will be back in a few days. And it will start all over again.
Because they are two broken people that can never say goodbye.