Title: Wandering (1/1)

Author: Sheryl Martin/Nantus

Email: xfdragon@zoominternet.net

Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of MGM,

World Gekko Corp and Double Secret productions. This piece of fan fiction was created

for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or

trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story,

are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead is

coincidental and not intended by the author.

Archive: anywhere you want! Helio, S/JD... anyone wants it, help yourself!

Rating: PG-13, UST to the max… but no more than I think you'll see in any episode!

Sam/Jack!

Spoilers: Season Seven - Fallen/Homecoming

Summary: Sam and Jack muse on the sudden change in their lives.

Wanderings

By Sheryl Martin/Nantus

She strips off the uniform in the locker room, amused and repelled at the scent sticking to

her skin. It's a combination of sweat, tears and more than a little arousal. Not that it's the

first time or the last, and she's not surprised at all.

After all, they pulled off a big one this time. Outflew a squad of Death Gliders; helped

take down a huge honking MotherShip and royally piqued Anubis off. And probably

saved a planet from destroying themselves.

And don't even get her started on understanding Daniel's return. Logically it made perfect

sense. But on a personal level…

Death isn't a stranger to anyone around here. Life, however, can toss some strange curves

that make the daytime talk shows look absolutely normal.

The hot shower breaks some of the tension from the muscles; dust from two worlds

spiralling down the drain as she stands under the steaming hot water and curses her father

for bringing her up with such strong personal walls.

Hammond's given them all two weeks off. Daniel's deep in contemplation in his

makeshift quarters, rereading his old journals to catch up on his own life. Good thing he's

a prolific writer. Teal'c relaxing/mediating - although that seems to be becoming an issue

for him. Jack's…

Jack's nowhere to be found, strangely enough.

Which, given her present condition, is probably a Good Thing.

The civvies feel almost strange on her skin; the leather jacket sliding easily over her light

blouse as she grabs her helmet and heads for the elevator. She doesn't need to see a scale

to know she's lost more weight and knows that her father will be sending threats via the

General to make her eat more if he sees her in this state.

In fact, she's ravenous. And not for MRE's, no matter how much they've improved over

the years.

O'Malley's isn't that far from here. Good steaks, good food.

And they've probably forgotten about that entire thing with Teal'c and Daniel by now.

Besides, they paid for the jukebox. And the pool table. And the chairs…

The parking lot is blessedly full; plenty of cars from base personnel and civilians who

just want a good meal. Carefully parking her motorcycle beside the other bikes in the

special section she winces as she pulls her helmet off. Yes, time for another haircut.

"One, please." She looks around the room quickly before speaking. No Stargate

personnel; no Janet or General or nosy airmen who want to score points by attempting to

make nice with Major Carter.

The booth is small and comfortable and far enough from the live band that she can still

think, but close enough to the bar that by the time her steak dinner has arrived (medium

rare and somewhat bloody, thank you very much) she's on her third beer and feeling no

pain.

And two containers of sour cream for the baked potato. Her father would be proud.

In fact, she's so intent on devouring every scrap of food on her plate that she doesn't

notice the man sliding into the booth to sit next to her; a pitcher of beer in one hand and a

full mug in the other.

"Damn, Carter. Remind me to never be around you if we run out of food in the field." He

smiles widely, taking a deep swallow from his glass. "You'd eat me up in no time."

They both freeze, her fork halfway to her mouth with a thick piece of steak hanging off

the tines.

"That's not… I mean…" He looks at the pitcher. "I told them to give me lite beer, really."

She chuckles, breaking the tension.

"So… how do you think Jonas is going to make out?" He reaches over to filch a french

fry, dipping it in the steak sauce.

"I think that if he can avoid the urge to zat them all on an hourly basis, he'll be fine." She

finishes off the steak with a flourish, launching a final attack on the baked potato.

"Why a potato and fries, Carter?" His fingers sneak another one, popping it into his

mouth.

"I was hungry. And not for anything really healthy like a salad, for once." Her mind

begins to go There as she notes the way his fingers work in unison and it takes an

accidental nip on her inner lip to bring her back to reality.

"Think too much of me rubbed off on him?" Jack takes another deep swig of the beer,

reaching over to top off her glass without asking.

"I think it can only be a good thing." She mumbles between bites. "At least it'll keep them

from setting off any more bombs for the time being."

"True." Waving over the waitress he shakes the near-empty pitcher. "And a plate of

nachos, please."

"Didn't take you for a nacho person, Colonel." Placing the fork down she stares at the

empty plate. "I don't think I've eaten that much since we had those armbands on."

"Shush." He glances around. "Let's not remind them of it, 'kay?" Rubbing the tip of his

nose Jack frowns. "Is it a good thing or a bad thing when you can't feel your nose?"

"Depends." Before he can react she reaches over, gently tapping the afore-mentioned

nose. "Can you feel that?"

His heart begins to race as her fingers drum on his skin. Grabbing her hand his eyes meet

hers, sparking a rush of heat.

"Oh, yeah." With a grin he puts her hand back on the well-varnished wooden table,

patting it as he withdraws. "Guess I better have another beer." Lifting the near-empty

pitcher in the air he waves at the waitress. "I hope you're drinking more of this than I

am."

"Oh, probably." Sloshing the remains of her own beer around the bottom of her glass she

empties it in a single swallow. "Although I think we'll be taking alternative transportation

home tonight."

A fresh jug appears, an inch of fresh foam on the top. Daintily refilling Carter's glass first

he tops his own off. "So, glad to be home?"

Suddenly she looks up, a puzzled look on her face. Her eyes dart around, taking in the

usual drunks at the bar; both civilian and military; the usual single guys seeking out

someone for the evening; the couples snuggling in booths not unlike the one that she and

her CO are in right now.

"You know… it doesn't feel like home." Holding up her glass she looks at the distorted

images through the amber liquid. "No place really feels like home these days."

"Whoa." Pursing his lips O'Neill nods. "I hear you there, Carter. Kinda deep, though." A

thin ribbon of foam runs along his upper lip, tempting her.

Shaking her head to banish evil thoughts she looks around the room again. "It's just

that… the base, my house, the gym… it all just doesn't feel like I belong in any of them."

"Well, you are kinda special." He chuckles as he refills both their glasses. "I mean, not

many have been through what you've been through."

"Both of us." She replies, with more than a little weariness in her voice. "And after all

that, after all the fighting and killing and destruction…" Her eyes dart almost angrily to

one of the couples dancing. "No one here knows. Can never know."

"Oh, man… I never thought of you as a sad drunk." The smile is forced and almost

painful as he reaches over, placing his hand over hers in a pronounced risk. "It's not just

us. There's plenty of people who can't talk about what they do, you know."

"I know." She tips the glass almost vertically, pulling the last few drops down to her

mouth. "Heard enough of that from Dad growing up." Pushing it over towards him she

gestures for a refill. "Doesn't make it easier when you belong nowhere."

He tops off both their mugs, careful not to waste a drop. "You belong, Sam. At the

Mountain, if anywhere."

"Really?" Her eyes meet his, flashing a warning. "You know how they look at me

sometimes; whisper about me in the mess."

"I always figured they were talking about my haircut." Jack rubs the top of his head with

a wide grin. "That barber…"

"You know what I'm talking about." She's trying hard not to sniffle because once it starts

she knows it won't stop. Retreating to her drink she drags her fingernails across the table.

"You should see what they say about Teal'c." He responds with more than a trace of

weariness. "Some of them still won't sit at the same table. Of course, that's probably

because by the time he fills his tray there's no room, but…" His fingers begin to move

over the back of her hand. "We all get it to some degree. All the SG teams; all of us."

"It just never feels like home anymore." She repeats, finishing the beer. "No place does."

Suddenly the waitress is standing in front of them, a weary smile on her face. "Closing

up, folks - can I call you a cab?"

"Ah…" Jack looks at his watch. "Whoa. Time flies when you're… whatever…" He looks

at the woman beside him as she rubs her bloodshot eyes. "Make it one cab and we'll be

back in the morning for our rides."

"You got it." Taking the offered credit card she disappears.

Picking up the motorcycle helmet he tucks it under his arm, gesturing for Sam to put her

jacket on. "At least we're not running out of here or being carried out by the cops."

"That was quite the experience." She laughs, pulling it on. "I never thought I'd see the day

that Daniel got into a fistfight."

"Well, not unless you make fun of his glasses." Nodding at the waitress at the front door

he retrieves his credit card and flags down the waiting cab. "Good to have him back."

"Yes, it is." She slids down along the back seat to make room for him, her helmet safe in

her lap."

He mumbles his address to the driver, not wanting to meet her eyes. His mind is fuzzy

and muddled, but not THAT muddled that he's not just a bit terrified.

But it's not a night to leave her alone. He knows that feeling and he knows what can

happen if you dwell too much on it. Been there, almost done that.

The ride is silent, the driver touching his fingers to the brim of his baseball cap as the pair

stumble out of his taxi at O'Neill's house. The Colonel's always been a good tipper and no

cabbie wants to piss off any military business, not when it makes up over half of their

take.

Although, as he pulls away from the curb, he realises that this is perhaps the first time

he's driven the Colonel home with a female friend. Good gossip for the taxi stand.

He fumbles with the key, more from nervousness than intoxication. For at this moment

he's more sober than he's ever been in his entire life. Opening the door he walks through,

dropping his jacket on the familiar armchair and heading for the kitchen. Without seeing

her he knows she's placed her helmet atop his jacket and has slumped into the sofa. He

knows her that well.

"Bedroom's that way Carter." He pours himself a glass of water. "No point in overpaying

the cabbie to go to two houses."

"Agreed." She gets up from the couch, staggering slightly. "Whoa." Putting one hand on

the wall she steadies herself. "Don't worry - Carters don't throw up in bed."

"I hope not." He still can't look at her, his heart pounding so loud that he wonders why

the neighbours aren't calling in an earthquake report. "Otherwise you'll be doing laundry.

I leave it for the housekeeper."

She would ask about that if she could, but all she feels is the weariness and exhaustion

and tiredness in her bones, spiralling out from her soul and wrapping her in a thick cloud.

The bed is warm and soft and inviting and as she pulls off her shoes and falls onto the

bedspread a part of her grumbles that if she were just a little more sober…

Her eyes are closed but she can't sleep. She senses the lights have been turned off and

that he's in the room with her but her arms are too heavy and her legs are too heavy and

her eyelashes are too heavy…

"Carter…" The bed shifts under her as a weight settles in beside her. "I don't do couches

and my knees are too old for the floor." A weary sigh. "Besides, I'm too drunk to do

anything and if anyone's going to throw up on this bed, it might as well be me."

She chuckles, lying on her side away from him. Her pulse is racing but she's feeling more

relaxed than ever.

"There's no place like home." The mumbled words drift by her ear.

"I wish…" Sam stutters over the words. "I wish I knew what that felt like."

A shift in the mattress and an arm appears out of the darkness; wrapping itself around her

waist with a firm possession that sends a shudder through her body. A soft breath at the

back of her neck shuts her mind down completely.

"This… is home." Not so much a question as a statement. Nodding, she relaxes totally

against him and begins to let sleep overtake her.

"Yes." Her whispered response follows them both into slumber. "I'm home."

-------------------------------------the end--------------------------------------