Disclaimer: I own nothing. Sadly.
The Weighing of the Pen
Jack had heard, somewhere, he wasn't sure where, exactly – that when a person goes blind, their other senses increase to compensate.
He couldn't help wondering, if, perhaps, this had anything to do with the sudden extreme weight of the pen in his hand. The peculiar roughness of the paper under his fingertips he understood, but the weight of the pen…
He could hear her breathing, very close by, and knew she was going to speak by the sudden heavier inhale.
"Sir…"
"I can sign them, Carter."
Her hand touched his, and he fought not to flinch, not to turn his fingers and grasp hers, to press some kind of comfort on her.
Odd, really, that she was comforting him, rather than the other way round. And was this another part blindness, to suddenly speak in low, solemn tones. He hoped not, but it was all he seemed to do these days.
Another quick inhale.
"Yes, Sir."
His fingers moved carefully over the page. There was a subtle change in texture where the printed words were. The dried ink was smoother than the paper's surface, and it was merely a matter of finding the dotted line.
"Here?"
"Yes, Sir, the date's already been filled in, below it."
On second thoughts, maybe it wasn't just being blind that resulted in low, solemn tones, because she kept doing it too. Although in her case, it might be to keep from crying.
She hated this, he realized. She was grieving for his career, effectively up in smoke. Smoke lingers, though, and so would Jack O'Neill. He was too important at this stage of the game, had too many offworld allies who would only speak when faced with his face.
But there would be no more missions. No more gate travel. No more spaceships, or fire fights, or covert ops.
No more saving the world.
Jack penned his signature from muscle memory and sat back with a sigh.
There was a soft catch in her breath, and he felt her hand take up tentative residence on his shoulder. He rested his hand over hers, pressing that small comfort on her.
Perhaps, with retirement, there would be time for pottery, and cartoons he couldn't see and fishing at the cabin. Perhaps there would be time for a dog, maybe even a need for one.
He pressed Sam's fingers again. Perhaps there would be time for them.
AN: So...thoughts, questions? Reviews would be nice, too. Also, to be continued, or are you content to leave it at that? Let me know.