Beauty In The Broken

Shattered

Skin.

Sensation, slick. Calloused palms—tender on pale softness.

Heat. Rough against smooth. Slow, tingle, sweet, smooth.

His fingers, nimble at her buttons, slowly—wonderfully—drawing her tunic aside. Cool within the heat. Fingers first—almost in wonder—then lips, teeth, and tongue. Her own hands roaming—exploring wide, strong planes of chest and back, the curve of his shoulder, raking through his hair—encouraging, learning–slower, closer, more, more. More.

Shivers and sighs—quiet, sigh-moan, quiet.

"Thera." So light against her skin, his stubble tickled as he breathed her name. "So beautiful. So damned beautiful."

His cheek was bristly under her palm. She was finally real. Complete. "Please, Jonah."

Slow–still. Joy–agony–release–fear–hot–tense. Shattering-whole-new.

Drowsy, eyes closed, lips parted. Here—him.

Reverent–worship—sweet, so, so sweet. Deep. Lush. Profound.

Beautiful. Beautiful. Beautiful.

—-OOOOOOO—-

Alone.

Sam glared into the darkness, suddenly and completely awake. Despite the chill of her room, she was hot—too much so—and her forehead was slick with sweat. Her breath came in deep, wracking sobs—as if she'd just run a marathon—and her feet and legs were tangled in her sheets and comforter.

She'd been dreaming again.

Pressing the heels of her palms to her eyes, she sucked in a deep breath, holding it for a count of five and then breathing out slowly. Then, she did it again.

And again.

Carefully, deliberately, she kicked at the tousled bedding until she was free, and then drew herself up into a seated position, pivoting on her butt until she was perched on the edge of her bed.

Her head hurt. Her lungs ached. Every muscle–every nerve–was knotted—tensed—sore.

And her heart—

Well, her heart hadn't been quite the same since that moment a week or so ago. Since reality had hit her with cruel clarity and she'd had her world explode around her in searing, anguished flames.

"Sir."

His eyes. Dark, troubled, raw. Anger roiling in their depths as furiously as agony was tumbling within her core. Realization had been just that cold, and harsh, and horrific.

"Sir."

Sam squinched her eyes tightly, fighting against the flood of memories that assailed her. Because they were memories—hidden within the dreams-–and they had plagued her nightly since SG-1's return to Earth from the mines that mazed beneath the city of ice.

Each evening, she'd gone to sleep, desperate for rest, only to wake in the dead of night, trembling and shaken. The images roiling through her head had left her pale, and wanting, and needy. Night after night, they'd jolted her awake, and then abandoned her alone in her bed, her body and her soul yearning for what she'd lived for so brief a time.

But what she could no longer have.

She wasn't even sure if she could call them 'dreams'—not when they seemed more like nightmares. Not when she'd been startled awake yet again with her heart pounding, her entire body on fire, and her hands fisted in her sheets. Not when she knew the truth.

Now that she knew what they could be.

Because it had happened. Regardless of what they'd written in their mission reports—what they'd told Dr. Fraser, and the Cheyenne Mountain Shrink. No matter what tripe they'd recited in the post-mission debriefing. Despite the fact that they hadn't been able to meet each other's eyes for days, now.

Notwithstanding that Sam had asked Janet to run additional tests once they'd landed back in the infirmary. Tests that might need to be repeated in the weeks to come. It wasn't as if they—or, rather—who they'd been in their underground prison—had had access to protection of any sort. Truly—it hadn't even occurred to Jonah or Thera that there would be consequences other than Caulder's punishment if they'd been caught.

Such relationships were forbidden for the workers. That part of the mind stamp had been very, very clear.

But Sam knew what had really happened. And so did the Colonel. And still, they both had vehemently denied it. They'd simply returned to their duties, their lives, their ranks, and studiously refused to deal with the truth. It was ironic that such beautiful reality had finally been found within the horror of an imposed fantasy.

He hadn't spoken to her—more than polite inquiries and work-related nonsense—but Sam had seen him watching her more than once, his expression one of veiled contemplation. As if there had been something vital to say—but the words were just out of reach.

So—they'd lied again. Obfuscated. Denied. Hidden. Maybe more to themselves than to their superiors, even. Lies compounding bigger lies.

"Sir." She'd tried to keep things light. To shrug off the most devastating moment in her existence. To pretend as if she weren't imploding.

And maybe he'd been doing the same thing, when he'd kept a shield over his features, carefully biting back anything more than a hinted frown. "Sir."

But his eyes. Angry, incensed, hurt. She hadn't known whether his fury had been directed at their situation, or at her. She still didn't know.

Sam made a pass through her damp hair with her fingertips, glancing at the clock on her nightstand. Four twenty-seven. Too late to go back to sleep, and too early to head into the Mountain.

Swearing under her breath, she rose, aiming herself towards her bathroom. Cold shower, coffee, and then a long ride on the outskirts of the Springs on the Indian. If she went fast enough, she wouldn't be able to think. Wouldn't be so focused on remembering. And she certainly couldn't dream.

How quickly this had become her routine.

How quickly she'd become inured to misery.

—-OOOOOOO—-

"So? How far did you go this morning?"

Sam didn't need to turn to see who was talking. She merely waited, watching the numbers blink on the display at the elevator until Daniel had appeared at her side. She also didn't need to ask how he'd known she'd brought the Indian. He'd tapped a knuckle on the helmet she had under her arm as soon as he'd come up alongside her.

Her ride had helped. She'd climbed high out of the Springs, up the 24 towards North Slope and Pike's Peak before turning around and heading back to the Mountain. Sunrise over the North Catamount Reservoir had finally calmed her down, helped her find her equilibrium—nearly as much as had the mad ride back down the mountain, weaving in and out of traffic as she'd sped to Cheyenne.

Smart, no. Effective? Hell, yes.

She glanced sideways at him before answering. "One twenty, one thirty. I'm not sure."

Daniel's smile teased at his dimples. "I was talking distance, Sam. Not miles per hour."

"Ha." She rolled her eyes. "She's an antique, Daniel. Not some tawdry crotch rocket."

"Of course she isn't tawdry. She's yours. You wouldn't possibly ride something tawdry or cheap." Daniel blinked up at the display before hiding a yawn behind his upraised hand. "Geez—it's early."

"Why are you here?"

"Couldn't sleep." The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Gesturing towards his friend, Daniel waited for Sam to enter before following her into the car. "It's been like this since we got back from P3R-118. It's almost like I'm experiencing jet lag."

Sam watched as Daniel punched at the right button, adjusting her helmet under her arm. "Is that a thing? Jet lag for 'Gate travel?"

The doors slid closed, and Daniel turned to her, his expression thoughtful. "Dunno. But it kind of feels like it should be."

She thought about that for a minute. "Maybe it's because we were underground. Lack of sunlight futzes with human systems. Circadian rhythms. Melatonin and all that."

"I guess it's possible." Daniel yawned again, this time tilting his head back and aiming it at the ceiling of the car. "I just can't seem to shake it."

"Have you seen Janet about it?"

"Nah." Daniel shuffled towards the elevator door. "I'm sure that it'll go away. It'll just take time."

With a dull 'ding', the doors slid open, and Sam followed Daniel into the corridor. "Still. I'd probably mention it to Janet. It could be residual effects from the mind stamp."

Turning the corner, they walked towards the secondary elevators. Daniel pulled his passkey from his pocket and swiped it at the security panel. "Do you think that's a thing?"

"What, the mind stamp?"

"No. I know that's a thing." He watched as Sam punched the button on the secondary system. "Residual effects. Do you think it's possible for the stamp to linger?"

Heat. Fingers skimming her skin. His mouth against her throat, her jaw, her lips. Intense joy. Release. Joining.

She was lost again, in the memories. A waking dream so real that she could actually feel his touch. Rough–gentle–hard–perfect–soft. And pulling herself out of it—well, damn. It hurt.

"Sam?"

She sucked in a shaky breath, closing her eyes in an attempt to collect herself—but it only made the memories clearer—more real.

"Sam." Daniel laid his hand on her shoulder and shook gently. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah." How she'd been able to enunciate that, she didn't know. But she managed a nod and a smile as well. "Yeah. Just a little tired."

"You too?" Daniel's grip tightened. "Maybe we should both go see Janet."

"I'll be okay, Daniel. Even without her poking me ten ways from Sunday." The door opened, and Sam strode forward, busying herself with the process of turning and facing the panel. "Are you going to your lab?"

He'd followed her in. "Yeah."

Sam punched the button for his level first, and then hers. She barely even had to look at the numbers anymore—it was more muscle memory than anything else.

"What do you have on the docket today?" She stepped back from the panel and readjusted the helmet under her arm as she waited for the door to close. "More prep for that symposium you're working on?"

"Yeah—what about you?"

"I'm supposed to be analyzing data from—"

It was barely noticeable. A tremble that rocked the elevator car slightly, and a noise—far distant—like a distinct rumble of savage thunder.

Sam paused, then threw her free arm between the lift doors as they slid shut.

"Sam?"

She shoved the doors back open. "Didn't you feel that?"

"I thought it was just the elevator."

"No—it's something else." Sam stepped back out into the corridor just as the claxons blared to life. Emergency lighting flared overhead, and the unmistakable sounds of airmen heading to their stations echoed through the concrete halls.

An armed patrol turned a corner, heading quickly toward them, and Sam waved their leader down.

"Lieutenant. What's going on?"

"Dunno for sure, Ma'am." The young officer jogged a few steps before pivoting to add, "Captain said possible incursion on Level Seventeen."

"Incursion?" Sam frowned. "Did you say Level Seventeen?"

The lieutenant took several steps backwards, then shrugged. "That's all I know, Ma'am."

"Did he just say 'possible incursion'?" Daniel had stopped just behind Sam, his eyes wide. "On Level Seventeen?"

"That doesn't make any sense." Sam shook her head. "There's nothing on Level Seventeen."

"Nothing but storage."

"Nothing but stor—Aw, hell." Sam turned to look directly at her friend. "Unit 17-G."

It took Daniel a moment to get there, but once he did, his expression mirrored Sam's. "Really? I thought they were supposed to destroy that thing ages ago. General Hammond ordered it."

"Me too." Sam turned and headed towards the stairwell just to the west. "Last I heard, they hadn't been able to figure out how to accomplish that."

"Maybe they just did?"

"What are the chances of that?" Bitterness tingeing her voice, Sam threw open the stairwell door and held it as Daniel stepped through. Allowing it to swing shut behind her, she headed down. "I mean—-with our luck and all."

Six flights. Down they flew, their bootfalls echoing in the concrete well. Skidding around the landings, they immediately took the next set of stairs until they'd reached Level Seventeen. Daniel got to the door first, shoving it wide and waiting for Sam to run through before following her down the corridor.

Right—left—then right again. Down a long, straight stretch of uniformly locked doors—dodging around heavily armed guards and geared-up medical personnel—before turning right again and skidding to a stop.

The door to 17-G had been blown off its hinges. Someone had dragged it a dozen feet down the hallway and discarded it on the opposite end of the corridor to make room for the guards and medical staff. There was no lingering smoke, but evidence of an explosion abounded in the thick black marks on the floor and door jamb. General Hammond stood in the doorway, frowning into the room, watching—

"Dr. Fraser—" The General's tone was urgent, insistent.

"I'm working on it, Sir! I could really use that gurney."

"It's coming, Doctor." This came from a medic threading oxygen tubing through the doorway. He connected the end of the tube to a portable tank and set about adjusting the flow.

Sam handed her motorcycle helmet to a nearby non-com, pushing her way through the crowd and coming to a halt next to the General. "What's going on, Sir?"

"I've only just arrived myself, Major." Hammond frowned through the doorway, angling for a better view of what was happening. "It appears that someone has come through that damned quantum mirror."

"And the explosion?" Sam took a step towards the doorway, but wasn't able to see beyond the medic and his oxygen equipment.

"I've got no answers at the moment, Major Carter." The older man grimaced. "We'll know more once we get whoever it is to the infirmary."

Just then, the medics arrived, shoving their way past the crowd as they wheeled the gurney. They disappeared into the storage unit, wheeling the cot as far as they could through the doorway. It only took a moment for them to load their patient, and a moment more for Fraser to prepare the victim for transport.

"Coming through!" The doctor pushed the gurney back through the door, gesturing towards her crew. "You–get the elevator! Run! Lieutenants Banks and Miller-–get her up to the infirmary immediately! Sergeant Aquino—you get the baby."

"Baby?" General Hammond took a step closer to the doorway, peering anxiously through the dark. "What baby?"

Miller and Banks emerged, pushing the cot between them. On it lay a woman, bloody, bruised, raw—her clothing ripped and burned. Bright white swaths of gauze had been pressed to her throat and abdomen, and were rapidly becoming stained red. It was difficult to see much past the oxygen mask that covered her mouth and nose, but she was awake, apparently lucid—and frantic. As she passed Sam, her eyes flew wide and she threw her hand out to grasp Sam's.

"Please! Please! Watch the drive. Please!" Her voice was gravely, and intense—at once terrified and insistent.

"What? What drive?" Carter tried to pull her hand away, but the woman's grip only tightened—dragging Sam along as the gurney rolled down the hallway.

Caught, Sam fell into step beside the gurney, peering to see beyond the soot and blood covering the woman's face. Her face was swollen–whether from the blast or from previous injuries, it wasn't possible to tell. But even jogging through the crowded hallway, Sam could easily make out cuts on her cheek, and a massive bruise that covered most of the woman's right orbital bone and temple. She'd been beaten before she'd acquired whatever injuries she'd sustained in the blast. Bending over the patient, Sam hurried to keep up with the medics' pace through the corridor as they rushed towards the elevator. The woman was fighting for consciousness, breathing heavily into the mask, even as blood pulsed steadily from a wound in her neck. The gauze there had become sodden.

Still—her eyes—clear, perfect blue—looked up at Sam. Imploring. Her voice was barely audible over the sound of the claxons, the crowd, and the squeaks of the gurney wheels. Still—she begged. "Please."

"What do you want of me?"

"Please, Sam. Take him." The woman coughed, aspirating droplets of blood into the oxygen mask she wore. She was weak, her words muffled by the mask and her injuries. Her eyes started twitching back and forth—her pupils dilating steadily larger. She was losing her battle. Even so, her fingers dug into Sam's wrist one last time before she lost consciousness, before her hand dropped to hang off the gurney, bobbling lifelessly as the medics ran.

Sam stopped, watching as the cot sped away, a horrifying thought niggling at the back of her head. It couldn't be. Shouldn't be. It wasn't possible.

But those eyes. So blue. So clear. So very, very terrified.

So familiar.

So—

She faltered, looking down at her wrist, where the woman's blood glistened on her own skin.

No—it couldn't be.

But there was Janet just behind her, tugging at the sleeve of her leather jacket, hauling Carter along in her wake. "Come on, Sam. I think that you'd better come with us."

"Is that—"

"It is." Dr. Fraser's brows rose, her expression grim. "Dr. Samantha Carter O'Neill has returned."