Disclaimer: I don't own them, and again, if I did, I'd have dealt with this years ago.
Thanks to polrobin for the beta and the idea. :-)
Author's note: I'm horrible about replying to feedback, and it's because I'm horribly shy and have no idea what to say. But please know that all the reviews I've received for my stories has been wonderfully heartwarming and encouraging. Thank you.
The Loss of Distance
Jack didn't know why he was standing there. Why he had left the base. Why he had gotten into his car, and why, of all things, it had taken him there.
He didn't need her approval. That man was a monster, and simply failing to rematerialize was much nicer than the fate he deserved – right? He had killed hundreds, maybe thousands. He had tricked Jack into killing for him, and there should be consequences for that. There should be…
It had been so simple. "Close the iris," he'd said, knowing full well that Alar – neo-Hitler – would follow him anyway. It was clean, easy. He had done far worse in his time in Black Ops – slit the throats, broken the necks of men who were just following orders, not homicidal maniacs like Alar. This was nothing.
And yet, there he stood.
Black Ops had always been kill or be killed – well, kill or get others killed, sometimes. And always with men just as hardened as he was. Men with consciences, good men, but men who knew the necessity of their orders.
He had done much more terrible things, but never before had he seen that look. He'd said the words, and the look in her eyes had been… horrified. Shocked. Sickened.
And Jack ignored it, because he didn't need her approval. He was the team leader. It was his call to make, and he did it. And they would live with it – right? She'd cope with it and she'd be okay. They'd be okay. And just like it had with every hard call he'd ever made in every Black Ops mission he'd ever taken, they'd move on – right?
Right?
So why couldn't he get her face out of his head?
Why did he feel so ill?
And why in God's name was he standing on her doorstep?
He was completely unprepared when the door swung open. Sam had divested herself of anything remotely military, wearing jeans and a sweater that was a little too warm for the weather and when she spoke, it was nearly a whisper. "Are you just gonna stand there?"
She didn't look at him, didn't meet his eyes, but she stepped back to allow him entrance. He stepped in, wishing he had some idea – any idea – what to say to her.
He blindly followed her into her living room and stopped, the way blocked by the coffee table. Her yoga mat sat behind it, between it and the couch, and a single candle sat on top. He supposed, if she sat down, that the flame would be just about eye level.
"I was trying to meditate," she explained softly, "like Teal'c taught me. Hasn't been going so well."
He flinched. "Carter, I…" But there were still no words, and he stopped.
"You know, I was a damned good pilot."
The quiet, nonsensical words came from nowhere, and his eyes slowly came up to look at her. She wasn't looking back; her gaze locked down on the tiny candle flame, her face carefully neutral.
"And when I told you I flew in the Gulf, it wasn't just patrol. I was bombing. And I was good at it. Hit a button and the world explodes. And I knew that people were dying on the ground – I knew that – but it wasn't really… real. Death to a twenty-two-year-old green-as-grass fighter pilot is a very abstract concept."
Jack had spent a lot of time discussing life over beers with other pilots, and they'd said much the same – that killing a man from an F-16 was the rough equivalent of a six foot tall guy squashing an ant. It was distant, easy.
"And then they put me in research," she continued, "and it was even further removed. We talk about equivalence in megatons, not about how many people it'll kill. We did all that work on the Stargate knowing full well the disaster that could lay behind it, and I knew the mission, even though I didn't go. I knew the orders – examine the threat and eliminate it, no matter what the cost." A bitter laugh erupted, but she didn't move her gaze. "What a euphemism, huh?"
She broke away from the candle, shoving her hands in her rear pockets as she turned away from him. He knew why – she didn't want him to see her face. And he was grateful.
"I fought like hell for my place on SG-1. General Hammond didn't want me there – he was trying to protect me – and I couldn't understand that. I mean, I'd been on the front lines before. I was this big, bad, tough solder… I thought. But I… I remember the first person I shot like it was yesterday."
"Abydos," Jack said softly.
"Actually, it wasn't." She turned to him just in time to see the surprise cross his face. "I hardly touched my weapon on Abydos. Or the next mission, or the one after that. I thought about killing Turghan, really… but I couldn't do it. Same with Jonas. It was Hathor."
His eyes widened a bit at the revelation, but it explained a lot – the panicked look on her face that day, the way she'd emptied her entire clip at the Goa'uld.
"And she didn't even have the grace to die," Carter spat. "But it didn't matter. I had… looked someone in the eyes and aimed my gun at their head and pulled the trigger, and I would never be the same."
The moment of bravado gone, her eyes fell, and she moved away again. "And I've killed… hundreds… since then. And made choices and done things that have killed thousands more. And every time, I get a little harder. A little stronger. But I'm not where you are, sir. Not even close."
"I hope you never get to where I am, Carter," he said softly, and he meant it.
"You know, when you took that device from the Tollan, to get to the NID… when you left, Daniel told me he thought I should lead SG-1, and I told him that I thought I didn't have high enough rank. But that's not really… What I meant was that I wasn't ready. That there were choices that had to be made and things that had to be done and I wasn't sure I could do them."
She met his eyes then, and they were completely open – the hurt and the vulnerability laid bare. Her jaw shook as she spoke. "I don't think you understand, Colonel, how grateful I am that I don't have to be that person. Because sometimes I know what has happen… but I think it might kill me to do it."
He stared at her for the longest time, shocked at her faith in him, reveling in a warmth and innocence he'd given up decades ago. But she was still shaken, and she stepped back, dropping her gaze as tears threatened for the umpteenth time since the iris had closed earlier that day.
"So if you'll excuse me, sir," she whispered, "I'm gonna go eat a gallon of ice cream and watch a really, really sad movie now." She started for the kitchen but stopped at the doorway, realizing he hadn't moved.
"Carter," he said softly. "Major. I'll see you tomorrow?"
Though she sniffled, her spine straightened a bit. "Yes, sir."
"Good." He let himself out then, pulling the door quietly shut behind him. And as he closed his eyes for a split second, he realized that the face he saw there had changed. It was no longer shocked, horrified. It was innocent.
And while he knew he couldn't keep it that way forever, he was damn well gonna try.