Chapter 6
"Welcome back, SG-1," Hammond said. "Report to the Infirmary. We'll debrief at 1600 hours."
"D'oh!" Sandra muttered, her hand flying up to where her eye patch should have been. Doctor Fraiser was going to kill her.
"What's up, kid?" Jack asked.
"Lost my patch," she said, grimacing at him.
Jack chuckled. "So, finally, someone else is gonna get it from the Napoleonic power-monger!" he said triumphantly.
"It's not funny, fly-boy," Sandra countered, although she knew he spent half his off duty time being lambasted by the small doctor. Janet Fraiser might be a half pint, but even Teal'c did not cross her.
They had spent a further thirty hours on 621 helping with the evacuation. They'd gotten out just in time, too. As Jack had urged Garshaw into the wormhole, the Death Gliders had begun making passes over the terrain. She sighed slightly.
"You okay, Ryan?"
Considering they'd only known each other a few days, it was surprising how well tuned he was to her moods. Then again, they'd been intense days – days that either formed bonds, or obliterated them.
"Peachy," she said. "I just hope they'll be all right."
"You really like 'em, huh, kid?" Jack said.
"Yeah, I do," she agreed, "especially Jacob and Yosuf. Hell, I even like Garshaw and Selmak – and that I wasn't expecting!"
"Well, we'll see them again soon enough," Jack reminded her. "Remember; we've been invited to Solen and Sirena's wedding."
"I'm glad they got together," Sandra said with a smile at her favorite fly-boy. "Anyway, we'd better get to the Infirmary; General Hammond's staring daggers at us."
Same Day – 1800 hours:
"SG-1, SG-8; you have a week's leave – effective immediately," Hammond said.
"General Hammond; I request permission to visit my wife and child," Teal'c said quickly.
The big guy probably thinks I'm gonna take him fishing, Jack mused.
"Of course, Teal'c," Hammond said. "I anticipated your request – you can leave now."
"Thank you." The Jaffa got up, dipped his head to everyone and left.
"Major; leave is for rest," the Texan said. "That means I don't want to see you on the base for the next week. Understood?"
Carter blushed and looked sheepish. "Understood, General," she said quietly. "I'll spend some time with Cassie."
Alleluia!, Jack cheered inwardly. Carter spent nearly all her leaves poking at machinery – the woman just didn't know when to quit.
After Carter and Hammond left, he smiled down at the mini Marine. "You know, kid; we're the only ones with no plans. You wanna come over to my place and watch the Simpsons' marathon?"
"Y-your place?" she stuttered, her eyes widening until they threatened to take over her whole face.
D'oh! Take it slow, Jack! "Or your quarters," he amended quickly. Something a little less private for their first 'date' would be better.
She shook her head. "I don't have a VCR," she reminded him. "What time d'you want me?"
Jack clamped down on the wiseacre response that sprang to his lips. "No time like the present," he said.
"Make it a half hour," she said. "Give me time to change into my civvies."
"Okay," he said. "Half an hour."
The PA system blared into life. "Colonel O'Neill; report to General Hammond."
Sandra grinned. "You're being paged," she said. "Better make it an hour."
"Yeah," he said. "See you soon."
He touched her hair lightly, then sauntered out of the briefing room and over to his CO's office. He knocked on the door. "Come in," Hammond said.
"You wanted to see me, General?"
"Have a seat, son," General Hammond grumbled. He probably wanted to watch The Simpsons, too. "What's this transfer request? Is Lieutenant Ryan not working out?"
"Uh …". Jack knew he'd have to explain, but he hadn't expected to feel so damn stupid. But he certainly didn't want Hammond to think she was incompetent. "We're … attracted to each other, sir," he blurted out.
Not a flicker passed over Hammond's face – he may as well have been carved from marble for all the reaction he gave. "Go on, son," he said.
"We want to pursue it," Jack continued, finding it much easier now the initial declaration had been made. "But regulations …"
"Of course," Hammond said. "You did the right thing, Jack. Request approved. She can stay with SG-8 – Major Harris was very impressed with her during your mission to 621."
"Thanks," Jack said.
"Any plans for your down-time?" Hammond asked, moving from CO mode to grandfather mode.
"Goin' fishin'," Jack decided jauntily. "That's probably why T left so quickly."
Hammond's lips twitched. "It's very likely," he said. "Now, get the hell out of here!"
As his 2IC left the office, General George S. Hammond allowed the twitch to become a smile. Despite the man's antics, he was a good officer and a good friend. He pulled out Lieutenant Ryan's file and signed the transfer orders.
Secretly a matchmaker at heart, he saw no reason why Jack and the lovely young woman should not pursue a relationship. Hammond had been impressed with the way she'd handled Jack's mulish attitude, but had not realized their mock-antagonism would develop thus.
Despite his easy-going manner and charm, the Colonel was a lonely man. His marriage had collapsed shortly after Charlie's death, and although he'd built a surrogate family with his team, it was not the same. Since Doctor Jackson's death, Jack had retreated behind bad jokes and sarcasm, burying a world of pain.
He sighed and opened another file. A General's work was never done, he mused wryly.
Sandra started at the knock on her door. She couldn't believe how nervous she was! Her hands shaking, she gave up on her hair and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. "Come in," she said, her voice thankfully not betraying her nerves.
The door opened and Jack entered wearing jeans and a black sweater and carrying a leather jacket. Nice. "Hey," he said. "You look good." He touched her hair gently. "It looks nice loose."
"Thanks," she said. "You look good too." She swung a light jacket onto her shoulders. "Ready when you are, sir."
"Jack," Jack said. "We're not on duty now."
"Jack," she said, realizing the absurdity of calling her … boyfriend? … no; date! … 'sir'.
Jack grinned. "Better," he said. He held open the door for her. "After you, my lady."
She dipped a quick curtsy. "Thank you, kind sir," she said.
As they left the base, she shivered. She'd forgotten how cold Colorado Springs could get this time of the year. "Geez," she muttered, rubbing her hands up and down her chilled arms. "How far is it to your truck?"
"'Bout a quarter of a mile," Jack said cheerily – of course he'd be cheerful; he was wearing a leather jacket and a sweater. He looked down at her. "Cold?"
"Who, me?" she said, her teeth chattering. Eighteen years in Monte Carlo, two in DC, and three on the Farragut had left her unprepared for the sheer cold of this part of the North. "No; I just like blue."
He chuckled then slung a friendly arm around her shoulders. "Don't want you turning into a Sandra popsicle," he said.
Sandra liked this arrangement. His tall frame shielded her from the icy wind, and his after shave smelled wonderful – something light yet spicy. "Mmmm," she mumbled. "Thanks," she added, snaking her own arm around his waist. She had the feeling this was going to be a great evening.
Soda in hand, Sandra wandered around Jack's living room. Her eye was caught by a small photo frame near the stereo. She went over to it and studied it. A boy of about nine or ten with reddish hair and a cheeky grin – the resemblance to Jack was unmistakable.
He walked in from the kitchen, bearing a plate of fried chicken. "Cute kid," she said, gesturing toward the laughing pre-teen. "Any relation?"
Pain flashed into his velvety eyes before the shutters slammed down. "My son – Charlie," he said.
Sandra had the feeling she'd touched on a sore spot – the ex-wife had probably gotten custody. "He looks a lot like you," she said.
Jack nodded his head with a tight smile. "Yeah; most people said that," he commented.
'Said', not 'say'. Sandra was not stupid and knew Jack was hiding something really painful. So was she, so she knew he could not be cajoled into talking about it. "That smells great," she said instead. "I'm famished!"
"I'm making the most of it," Jack said. "Ol' Doc Fraiser's putting me on a diet next week," he grumbled.
Sandra raised an eyebrow. To her admittedly inexperienced eyes, he seemed in fine shape. "Why?" she asked. "There's nothing wrong with you."
Jack grinned. "Thanks," he said. "Unfortunately, I'm at that danger age, so I gotta cut back on meats and fat."
"It comes to us all," Sandra said. "But I can't see you ever being fat. You're not built that way." She sat down at the table and he followed suit. She eyed him appreciatively as he put some chicken on a plate and grudgingly added salad. He'd ditched the sweater as the house had warmed up, and the faded tee shirt showed off a lovely pair of arms. Not as big as Teal'c's arms, they were nevertheless well muscled and deeply tanned.
Mmmm. She was now getting rather warm herself. She tugged off her own sweater to reveal a rather battered brown tee shirt bearing the inscription "I'll Be Nicer If You Feed Me Chocolate".
Jack gestured to the tee shirt. "Aha! I knew you'd have a weakness! Chocolate!"
Sandra laughed. "Total addict," she confessed ruefully.
"Well, I happen to have a tub of Rocky Road," Jack said. "Should go perfectly with fried chicken and the wisdom of Homer."
"Mmmm, ice creeeeeeeem," she intoned in her best Homer impression – which wasn't very good. She was better at Bart.
Jack caught his breath as Sandra got up from the table. Petite she might be, but she had a lovely figure. There was something about BDUs – "one size fits all or else!" – that made even the most feminine of women look like boys.
The jeans and faded tee shirt showed off her slim yet rounded figure – he knew not by design – and the lights glinted off her soft blonde hair in a most lovely way. He cleared his throat. If he didn't distract himself, he was going to say something stupid and scare her off.
"Hey, kid; make yourself useful! Rewind the tape while I do the dishes," he said, clutching at the housework like a lifeline.
"Oh no you don't, fly-boy!" she said, putting her hands on her hips. "You cooked; I'll clean up."
"Uh …". Jack thought of the disaster zone that was his kitchen. He'd probably have to call in a SWAT team.
Too late. She'd grabbed the plates and headed for the kitchen. "Holy shit," she blurted out. "Geez; I guess that's what I get for volunteering."
He followed her in and cringed, seeing it through her eyes. "I wash, you dry?" he said.
She squared her slight shoulders. "I'm glad I never got suckered with KP on the Farragut," she said, shaking her head. The soft locks danced around her waist and Jack followed their course with an almost hypnotized fascination.
"Yo, anyone home?" she said, clicking her fingers in front of his face. She thrust a towel into his hands. "I'll wash, you dry then we'll call out the SWAT team for this bomb-site."
Less than an hour later, the kitchen was pristine. Once they'd gotten into a rhythm, it hadn't been as bad as it looked at first glance.
Sandra pushed some hair out of her eyes, wishing she'd gotten it cut. She spent most of her time with it tucked up anyway, due to regs.
She headed over to the freezer and dug out the quart of Rocky Road almost by instinct. She sometimes wondered if she had an antenna for chocolate.
Ice cream in hand, she wandered back into the living room. "Ice cream!" she announced brightly.
Jack smiled at her. "Well, you're definitely the prettiest Good Humor man I've ever seen," he said.
Sandra chuckled and sat down near him on the big leather couch. Although she figured they both had some Irish way back when, Jack's showed a lot more – especially his line of BS.
She gave him a spoon then gestured at him with her own. "Roll 'em!"
Jack aimed a little salute at her. "Yes, ma'am!" he responded.
During the course of the marathon Jack noticed that Sandra was getting closer to him. Wisely he stayed put, knowing that the next move had to be hers.
They'd demolished the tub of Rocky Road several hours earlier and had then fallen into a comfortable silence, punctuated only by laughter induced by Homer and the gang. Now she was leaning against him, her slender legs curled up on the couch.
He looked down at her. She was asleep, the little worry lines smoothed away, and looking about twelve years old. He smiled – he didn't have the heart to wake her, so he shifted carefully, put an arm around her, and let her head rest on his chest.
As she slept her head slipped lower and lower until it was finally resting on his abdomen. He'd never seen anyone above the age of about five sleep like that. She was literally curled up in a ball. If Jack believed in that Freudian mumbo-jumbo, he would've thought she was trying to protect herself.
Suddenly she gasped and sat bolt upright, eyes wide. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," he said wryly.
She gazed at him blankly, her eyes still sleep-fogged, then the mists cleared. "Hey," she replied, her skin now an interesting pink. "I … uh … I didn't … did I fall asleep on you?"
"Yeah," he said, "but at least you don't drool."
She went red and scrubbed her hands over her face. "Uh, I think I'd better get back to base," she said. "I must be tireder than I realized."
"Kid; we're off duty for the next week," he said. He got up and stretched his long frame, regretting the absence of her slim body next to him. He could easily have stayed there a while longer. "Come on; I'll take you home."
"I live on the base," she said. "I'm saving up a deposit for an apartment, but it'll be a while yet." She smiled up at him. "A Lieutenant doesn't earn as much as a Colonel, you know."
"Yeah," he replied, although it was rather sad to think of this lively young woman living in barracks. "I'll just grab my keys then I'll drive you back to base."
"Okay," she said, her eyes downcast.
Jack went out into the hallway and got his keys, wishing the evening didn't have to end. But he knew she was more tired than she let on. She'd only slept for one night during the mission – the same night she'd flashed back to her stepfather.
Her stepfather. Was that why she was so keen to get out of here? Had he crossed over some line?
He walked back into the living room and found her curled up on the couch, asleep once more. So much for taking her back to base. Putting the keys on an end table, he put his hands around her then scooped her up into his arms, surprised at her lightness.
Then he took her up into the spare bedroom, laid her down on the bed and removed her boots. He pulled the covers over her and smiled down at her. "Night," he said softly, kissing her forehead.
Jack shot up in bed, his hair pointing stupidly in every compass direction, as an agonized keening penetrated his dreams. "Huh?" he croaked.
"No …," came from the spare bedroom.
He flung back the covers and headed for his favorite jarhead. He went into the room and snapped on the lamp. She was stretched out to her fullest length, her limbs so taut they looked like they could snap.
His stomach twisted at his violation of her privacy. She was in the throes of some personal torment he had no right to witness. With more sensitivity than anyone would have credited him with, he looked for a way to wake her up quietly.
"No!" The whimper was barely human anymore. She was about to break. The hell with waking her quietly.
He set his jaw then deliberately crashed his shin into the bedside table, sending the lamp flying. "Holy sh …," he hissed. Who knew it would hurt this much?
She sat bolt upright. "Wha …?" She dug her fists into her eyes. "Hey, fly-boy," she said.
"Sorry," he said. "Just wanted to make sure you were warm enough." Slick, O'Neill, real smooth. He gestured vaguely toward the door. "Uh, I'll let you get back to sleep. I'll drive you back to base in the morning."
She went pink. "Was I … uhm … talking?" she asked.
"No; actually, you were quiet for once," he shot back, relieved to see the horror drain from her eyes.
She put her tongue out at him. "Now, why don't I believe you, fly-boy?" she said. "You lie very poorly."
"Hey!" He was Special Forces trained – he could lie to anyone, even himself. "Well, I'll let you go back to sleep," he added.
She grabbed his arm. "I … uh … I think I need to talk," she said. "About … 621."
So, not her stepfather! He sat down on the bed, ignoring the fact that he was only in tee shirt and shorts, and put his arm around her. "I'm listening, kid," he invited.
Silence stretched between them as Sandra reached the end of what had happened to poor Nickson. She stared up into Jack's soft brown eyes, trying to get a bead on what he was thinking. "Jack?" she said, hating the quaver in her voice.
"Oh, geez; you poor kid." He scooped her up and settled her into his lap. "It's okay," he soothed, circling a hand on her back.
She bit her lip – she wasn't going to cry. Marines didn't cry – they were the best. A tear leaked out. "Oh, crap," she said, then buried her head into his chest. She cried. For Nickson. For Mike Stevens. For herself. For Gabe.
She had no idea how long she'd been sitting there, sobbing and mumbling, but she became aware of a milk truck rattling its way into the quiet street. She pulled away from Jack, feeling herself go pink. Geez; some date she was! "Uhm … sorry," she said, wiping her hands over her eyes.
He shook his head, then produced a tissue and blotted her face. "It's okay," he said, then lifted her up and placed her on the bed. "You think you can sleep now?" he added.
She shook her head. "I'm not tired now," she said, putting a hand to her stomach. "But I am hungry." She squinted over at the clock. 0700. That was later than she'd woken up in six years! "I could go for some bacon," she said. Bacon was the one thing she could actually cook well. "You want some?"
"Yeah, sure!" he said then looked down, only now seeming to realize he was half dressed. "Uh, why don't you use the shower? I'll put your stuff through the laundry."
Was that a subtle hint that she smelled? She tugged at the over-ripe tee shirt. "I could use a shower," she admitted.
Jack attempted to raise one eyebrow, a la Teal'c, and failed. "Indeed," he intoned in Teal'c's deep baritone.
She put her tongue out at him.
"There's a spare robe in the closet," he continued. "It'll be a bit big, but it'll do. And there are towels in the bathroom. Help yourself."
She got off the bed and headed for the closet, amazed at how comfortable she felt around him. There was just … something about him; something so warm and giving.
Robe in hand, she crossed over to him and put her hand on his cheek. "You have no idea how special you are, do you?" she said.
His hand came up and clasped hers. "I think you're over-estimating me," he said. "It's a dangerous habit putting people up on pedestals. You'll only get hurt when they fall off."
She bristled. "I'm not a kid, Jack," she said. "I know your flaws. You're arrogant, cocky, sarcastic, play dumb far too often …"
"That's enough," he said wryly. "Now, go get your shower, jarhead."
"Yo, sir!" she said.
He bent his head to hers … she closed her eyes … and he kissed her on the forehead!
She gave a muffled scream and stomped off to the bathroom. The man was a jackass! A stubborn, blind, pigheaded Irish jackass!
Half an hour later, she pattered down to the kitchen, swallowed up by the bathrobe. "Hey," she said to Jack, who was sitting at the table, chuckling at the funnies. He'd evidently showered also – his hair was damp and stuck up in endearing spikes.
"Hey," he said, looking up. The laughter in his eyes spread all over his face. "You look like a kid playing dress-up," he said.
"Yeah? Well, you look like an electrocuted porcupine," she shot back, matching his evil grin. She wasn't sensitive about her height – or lack thereof. Now, her butt … that was a different matter.
He swept a hand through his hair, attempting to smooth the unruly spikes. "You want some coffee, kid?" he asked.
Sandra was pretty sure her eyes lit up like a pinball machine. "Uh-huh," she said. She sat up as the heavenly smell of Java hit her nostrils. For the last six years she'd subsisted on commissary sludge or instant. "Ah, sweet beans of delight!" she said, taking a moment to make the reverence to the source of all life.
Then she took a sip. "Now, this is coffee!" she said. Black and strong enough to walk away under its own power.
She took another sip then pattered over to the refrigerator. She pulled out a pack of bacon and began working swiftly – she really was hungry, even by her standards.
Jack had forgotten how nice it was to spend an ordinary Sunday morning reading in the kitchen. His favorite jarhead bobbed up and down in front of the grill pan to whatever song was playing in her head, while the delicious smell of grilled bacon filled the room.
She'd kill him if he said it, but she looked really cute bundled up in his spare robe. Maybe it was a cliché – and God knows he hated those – but she looked like such a defenseless waif.
"Yo, fly-boy; chow's up," she said, laying a plate in front of him. Bacon, tomatoes, hash browns, scrambled eggs and coffee. A real, honest-to-goodness heart attack breakfast.
"Looks good," he said.
"Well, don't sit there like a bump on a log," she said, her accent thickening. "Dig in."
He 'dug in' per orders and found every last morsel delicious, even though it was grilled and not fried. If he was the suspicious type, he'd have suspected she was in league with ol' Doc Fraiser.
"So, kid," he said, putting down his fork with regret, "you got any plans for your down-time?"
"Uh-huh," she said. "Hire a car and go down to Minnesota. The bass'll be jumpin' this time of …". Her voice trailed off. "Sorry," she said. "I tend to forget other people aren't into fishing."
Fishing? Could this jarhead be any more perfect? "I've got a cabin there," he said. "I was planning on heading down there. If you don't mind me breathing down your neck for the next six days, you could stay at my place."
Her eyes widened and he plowed on. "There's a spare room, and it'll be impossible to find a good hotel at such short notice. The only places available will be roach motels."
She went red and played thoughtfully with her fork. He went red on his own part. Geez; they'd only had the one date and already he was asking her to go away with him! "No monkey business," he said, holding up his hands. "No pressure."
"I'll go with you," she said quietly.
He'd opened his mouth to withdraw the offer when he caught her acquiescence. "You … will?" he said.
"I will," she said, mocking him gently, "but don't make promises neither of us want you to keep."
Huh?
"I mean it," she added. "I'm not some fragile little waif who needs your protection." She went red then blurted out, "You make me feel … things I've never felt. Let's … just see what happens, huh? Six days is a long time." She got up. "Anyway, I'm gonna go get changed."
She whipped quickly out of the kitchen, leaving Colonel Jack O'Neill stunned.
Huh?
Sandra retrieved her clothes from the tumble dryer including – ye gods! – her bra and briefs then hurried up the stairs before she could chicken out.
Was she nuts? She didn't know. But what she'd said to her favorite fly-boy was perfectly true. She really was attracted to him, and she did want to spend more time with him. And after they went back to work, God only knew when their down-time would coincide again.
Maybe things were happening awfully fast, but she had a lot of lost time to make up. Damned if she was going to let her memories rule her life any more. "I gotta lotta livin' to do, and I'm gonna do it," she murmured.
She scuttled quickly into the master bedroom and stole some of Jack's deodorant – naturally, she hadn't brought any with her. Then she flew back into the guest room and dressed hurriedly, wishing she had her hair clip with her.
She went back downstairs and saw that Jack had an overnight bag packed. "Whoa; fast worker," she said, then heard the comment after she'd said it. It seemed her mouth was in 'drive' while her brain was still stuck in 'neutral'.
His slow smile told her he'd caught her innocent double entendre, but he chose not to call her on it, for which she was thankful. She'd blushed more in the last five days than she'd done her whole life!
"Right, Goldilocks; let's get you to the base so you can grab your stuff," he said instead.
"Yeah; good idea," she responded absently, admiring the way his jeans fit across his butt when he bent over to pick up his bag. Whoa! She slapped herself mentally. Focus, Ryan, she thought. You're a Marine – we're the best.
She headed out of the house then waited at the truck for Jack to unlock the door. He came along shortly and ushered her into the passenger seat, slinging his bag into the back seat.
It was only 0800, so the traffic was still fairly light. Therefore, Jack made good time along the interstate, and they reached Cheyenne Mountain less than an hour later.
"I'll wait for you here," Jack said.
No point in feeding the rumor mill, Sandra realized – it was healthy enough already. "Okay," she said and hopped out of the truck.
She passed through the gauntlet of security guards then made her way to the elevator. As she got in, she saw Jonas Quinn with a pile of books under his arm and an abstracted expression in his eyes. "Geez; don't you ever leave the base?" she said.
The Kelownan smiled ruefully. "I haven't been given clearance yet," he said. "How was the mission to 621? We weren't expecting you back so soon."
"Yeah; the snake-heads kinda chucked a spanner in the works," Sandra said, surprised at how … human he seemed. Well, he was human, but he was also an alien, like Teal'c.
"Snake-heads? Oh, the Goa'uld," Jonas said. "I've been reading some of Doctor Jackson's notes about them."
"So; what d'you think?" Sandra said.
He flashed another rueful grin at her. "I know enough now to be relieved Doctor Jackson destroyed the naquadria experiments," he said. "I don't think I fancy my world being taken over by the Goa'uld."
"Right back at ya," Sandra said, surprised to find herself liking the young Kelownan. He reminded her somewhat of a plebe – bumbling, clueless, yet rarin' to go. Well, maybe he'll get a chance one day, she mused. They can't keep him locked up here forever.