What if Things Had Been Different?
How the hell can she ask me a question like that? What does that even mean, for cryin' out loud?
O'Neill carefully avoids looking Carter in the eye. He is making a heroic effort to keep his features under control, to not look at the small black box on the table—the box that contains the object that will end all of his hopes. Ah, crap! They're false hopes anyway. There never really was a chance...
The accidental touches, the slow heated looks, the moments when it felt as if they shared something... Yeah, he shoulda known better. Okay, so she did kiss him back in the time loop—but that was—what?—four years ago, and, hell, she doesn't even remember it!
He should've had better sense than to fall in love with her.
"What about you?" she had said. "If things had been different?"
He'd felt his heart freeze.
Different how, exactly? If pigs could fly?
What if we didn't work on the same team—is that what she means? He'd still be a superior officer. And he'd never have gotten to know her the way he does, 'cause it isn't just her looks he fell for. It's everything—her bravery in the field, how many times she's saved his ass, listening to her breathe at night when they shared a tent off-world, the way they understand each other without saying a word, the joking around, the mild flirting in the lab, her brains, her ability to always find an answer. Those are not things you share with someone unless you spend time together!
In other words, we wouldn't have this problem! So shouldn't she know the answer to this herself?!
Five seconds have passed since she asked the question.
What about you, she said. Well, what about me?
What's she expecting—hoping—he would say? Dump the cop and run away to Tahiti with me? More likely she'd think he was crazy, if he says something like that. Damn, he's already said it anyway; I care about her.
I care about you!
She heard him! She knows damn well he can't say any more!
And what exactly did she say in return? We can keep it in this room. Nobody else needs to know. It never happened. We'll never bring it up again.
And he hadn't. Because she'd never said she cared about him!
And now she asks him this?
Different? If she'd wanted it different, it could've been different! He's willing. He's always been willing. He'd have changed everything for her! Can she possibly not know that? He thought she knew! He thought she knew...
What the hell does she think 'always' means, anyway?
His gut clenches. He actually thinks he might be sick.
Ten seconds.
"I wouldn't be here," he says, his voice flat, his meaning so unclear as to be pointless. He doesn't even know what he means. And he's too angry and hurt to care right now.
Her eyes start to change, but he doesn't wait to see the expression they will hold. He doesn't want to see, he never wants to know.
Turning, he walks quickly out of the lab.
Just something else to lock in that God-damned room!