This is an excerpt from a much longer and still unfinished work. I will update this story again when the full story is published here, (as well as on ralst) This is a crossover story with Stargate SG-1 and features Sam Carter and Janet Fraiser as an established couple. The stories in this line will all be labeled with "SGS" after the title. Feedback is always appreciated. Thank you for reading!
John Druitt sat quietly in Helen's office, legs crossed, one arm outstretched across the back of the sofa he'd settled into. He knew better than to try to speak first with Helen. So he sat quietly, and hoped that she would accept his silent olive branch. He found the intermittent snaps and pops of the fire a soothing surrogate for conversation in the meantime.
Helen did her best to keep herself busy at her desk. Despite all the pain of their past, she still found John's quiet presence reassuring. When he was himself, she knew he'd stand beside her no matter what. And right now, he seemed very much himself. She leaned forward and held her head in her hands. Why now? Why not when Ashley could have been our daughter? She hadn't meant to hang onto it, but the image of the life he had promised her once had always stuck in her head. She could see the cottage, the grass and rocks at the shore, the mist, and the sea. She could always feel John's arms around her, his lips at her ear, his breath on her neck as he whispered to her beautiful poetry of his own invention.
In the vision she was always pregnant. For a century that false hope had lain quietly within her, the century after John, before Ashley. It was so much a part of her connection to John that even now, after Ashley's life had ended, she was forever carrying her daughter in the dream that would never happen. She sighed softly, trying to release the building pressure of tears. She had no time to cry. She sat up again and flipped through the pages that told her nothing about who might be holed up in central California.
John heard the soft sigh and waited a few moments before slowly and quietly making his way to a corner of the room. Taking two tumblers, he poured a small amount of honey-brown liquid into each of them from an elegant cut-glass decanter. Wordlessly he made his way to Helen's desk and left one glass there, easily within her reach. He returned to his seat and resumed his former posture, glass in hand.
Helen pulled another book from the stack beside her and tried to make sense of the words on the page. At this point they ran together, had no meaning - she was getting nowhere. She closed the book and picked up the tumbler, then leaned back in her chair. She let the glass and her hands rest on her lap and ran her thumbs over the ridged surface of the container. Letting her gaze drift to the fire, she took a sip, grateful for the warmth and the silence.