by ALC Punk!
He stays for a week, sleeping with her, giving her a strange respite.
"I hated you," she says into the darkness of the third night.
"I know."
They rarely speak about anything. Sam is simply strangely content to have him nearby. To know that she can touch him, can put her head on his shoulder, and he is there.
She notices on the fourth day that he looks less haggard then he did the first night, and wonders if he wasn't sleeping either.
Markhov tells them he can't stay.
"Why?"
"I'm afraid even the amount of time he's been here has compromised certain assurances," she looks uncomfortable and irritated.
Sam nods. "I resign."
"You can't."
"I can."
The walk back to her small (now shared) room makes her wonder where her serenity came from.
It doesn't last (she never expected it to). He is there on the seventh morning, and then not at lunch. It takes her until dinnertime to decide this is wrong.
Svetlana looks up when she enters her office, "Sam?"
"Where is he?"
"I'm sorry, Sam. He left this morning."
"Bullshit." Her hand slams down on the desk. "He wouldn't have left without saying goodbye."
"Can you be so sure?"
No. "Yes." The doubt boils to the surface, but she can't let it shake her.
Svetlana stands, "Look, Sam, I'm beginning to wonder if maybe you don't need some help. Counseling, or -"
It takes less time to disable her than it would a jaffa, Sam notes as she twists the doctor's arm behind her back and yanks back on her hair. "Where. Is. He?"
"Let me go."
Fear. An emotion she knows well. She twists harder, "Tell me now and I might let you live after I break your arm." This isn't her, she wants to yell. This isn't Sam Carter inside this body threatening an innocent woman.
But she knows it is.
"I don't know." Fear makes Svetlana Markhov's voice high-pitched. "I'm telling you the truth." Her accent gets deeper, too.
"Where would they take him?"
"There are - ancient cell blocks in the deserted part of the complex."
"Ah." Sam releases her hair and shoves her towards the office chair, then lets her go. "Sit."
"Sam -"
"Sit."
Markhov sits, her eyes dark with terror, "Please. Sam, I'm sorry, I didn't..."
"Sorry means nothing." The words are bitten off like dead cells. Phone cord provides the perfect restraint, and Sam soon has her attached to the chair, "You're not going to be able to warn your little friends."
A hair scrunchy and more phone cord provide the only means to a gag, and then Sam searches the desk drawers. There's no weapon, but she does remove the set of keys, hefting them. "Do any of these belong to the deserted area?"
Svetlana nods.
"Good." Sam leans over and smacks her forehead with a kiss. "Don't go anywhere, Markhov."
It was instinct that made her learn the halls of the base the first few weeks. She knows where to go and arrives at the small monitoring station to greet the one man on duty. He goes down without a sound, and Sam leaves him tied in a corner. The cameras only cover the lived-in portions, but it's enough to note where the guards are.
And that the armory isn't guarded.
Fools.
She takes only enough time to ensure that the computer virus she hastily programmed will work, and then leaves. Slinking through corridors, she wonders if Jack would be amused that the things he taught her are what she's using now. The planning, the tactics - some were drilled in at the Academy. The sheer courage and off-the-wall plans were always his.
Five men are removed from their posts as she skulks her way down to where they're holding Jack.
Most of them will wake up with only nasty headaches.
Finally, she's there, adrenaline pumping, mind clear for the first time in what feels like years. This is what she's good at, she thinks as she slams her elbow into the first guard, twisting and spinning, she takes them both on, leaving them bruised and bloody, unconscious at her feet. The keys are in the second one's pocket, and she opens the door with vague trepidation for what she'll find.
"Hey."
"Hey."
The knife in her hand cuts the ropes and wire tying him to the chair. She doesn't have time to stop and catalogue his injuries, but she's aware one eye is swollen shut and there's blood on his lips. When he stands, she knows they did something to his legs, too.
"Can you walk?"
"Try and stop me."
She has to shoot two men before reaching her planned destination. She discovers little regret in their injuries, knowing they will probably have medical care before Jack does. "It's going to be cold," she warns him as they climb onboard the snowmobile.
It is.
He clings to her waist, burying his face in the side of her neck as they fly across the moonlit slopes. Halfway there, he asks where they're going. She doesn't risk shouting to attract attention.
The village isn't much larger than the complex they just left. She stops at the rail station and studies the times of the trains. One went through not that long before they got there, heading for Moscow. Perfect, she thinks.
Jack is shivering when she climbs back on. "Carter?"
"A little longer." She looks at him and can't smile. "And then we can rest."
Figuratively.
It takes nearly an hour to catch up with the lumbering locomotive, and two minutes of riding along its length to find a box car of the right type. Sam points at the ladder, "Can you make it?"
His answer is to climb up, reach out, and transfer from the snowmobile to the train. The sled skids slightly at the shift in weight, and she has her hands full for a moment.
When she looks up, he's got the door open and is looking at her calmly.
Stepping on the accelerator, she sends the snowmobile two cars up. She has just enough time to get onto the seat and prepare herself as the train continues past. The leap is shorter than she expects, and his arms and hands drag her onto him as they tumble backwards into the waiting darkness.
They stay like that for a time, simply holding each other and feeling strangely relieved to be what is almost safe.
Finally, she moves, pulling him to the door so she can look at his injuries in the moonlight. Unfortunately, there's very little she can do for him without antiseptics and bandages. Grimly, she wonders if Markhov now understands just why you don't cross people.
Sam sets the alarm on her watch and they curl into a corner, sharing body heat as the night passes.
He wakes her when the alarm starts. "Carter, where are we going?"
"To a friend."
He blinks. "In Russia?"
"Yes." The words are simple, but she doesn't want to explain yet. Instead she runs her hands down his legs, checking for hot spots or breaks. There are none although he hisses at her touch on his shins. "I'm sorry, Jack, but we're going to have to jump soon."
"Great. I'm just peachy, Carter. Reminds me of Antarctica, actually."
She laughs, just a little. It's not hysterical, but she wonders if it could be.
He catches her hand. "C'mon, Mata Hari."
Starlight is the only light they have as they stare out at the fields. Sam eyes the slight glow in the distance, and nods. "Remember to roll, Jack."
"I've been doing this since before you were born, grasshopper."
"Jumping out of trains?"
"Oh, yeah."
The landing is harder than she'd thought it would be, and she strains her shoulder. Jack pulls her up. "Where to?"
"Towards the light, Jack," she half-smiles.
He snags an arm around her waist, and they walk through the field, occasionally stumbling, but mainly staying upright.
The sun barely touches the bottom of the horizon when they walk into the edge of the town. Jack studies it like a predator waiting for something to try killing it. Sam simply leads the way through myriad streets until they come to a small, respectable-looking house. She knocks twice with no answer.
"Maybe they're still asleep, Carter."
"Sergei always was a lazy bastard." Her next knock is with a closed fist, her voice raised, as she yells. "Sergei Romanov! Get your ass out of bed this instant!"
Movement from inside, and the door is suddenly dragged open by a man about Sam's age with shaggy brown hair and dark eyes. "Samantha?" He seems startled to see her, his quick glance taking in both her and Jack, he steps back. "Come in, come in, you look horrible. And famished."
"Well -" Sam began.
"Later," he raises his voice, "Natalia! Add eggs to breakfast, we have visitors in need of sustenance!"
An amused squawk is heard from the kitchen and a tall, lean woman stalks into the room, her short black hair bouncing, "Now, Sergei, I - Oh." She studies her sudden guests. "I see. Breakfast for four it is."
"Sergei," Sam tries again.
"No." He touches her cheek, notes the way she flinches, and shoots a glance at the man standing so silently behind her. "You will eat breakfast, first."
"Yes, Sergei." She relents. "This is Jack."
"Howdy."
"You are both welcome, now come, you look like you haven't washed your hands in days, and Natalia is very particular about dirty nails at her table."
He hustles them to the bathroom, pointing out soap and towels, then bustles off. Sam stands there for a moment, shaking with silent laughter before glancing at Jack. "I met him during the Gulf War."
"Ah." Jack gestures, "After you."
It takes them a few minutes. Sam finds bruises she didn't know she had under the dirt covering her face. Jack's are now a mottled blue-purple-black. They'll look really spectacular in a few days, she thinks with a wince.
"Don't say it, Sam."
The use of her first name makes her blink at him, "What?"
"It isn't your fault. And you got me out. So stop it."
"Fine." Another thing they won't ever agree on, she thinks dully as she dries her hands and turns to find Natalia watching them. "Hi."
She studies them for a moment longer, then tilts her head, her eyes dark with enigma. "Breakfast is ready."
They eat, chattering amiably. Sam finally gets Jack and Sergei discussing fish. They argue almost cheerfully about lures and sizes, the correct hooks and the zen of the art. Natalia watches them both with an amused eyes. She watches Sam, too.
Finally, they're done, and Sam knows it's time. "Sergei, I... We need your help."
"Anything." His face turns grave, "You saved my life more times than I care to count, I owe you debts unpayable."
She flushes, "Not that much, just. Could we borrow a little money? And," she grimaces, "some clothing?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
He doesn't ask what the trouble is, he never presses. Natalia simply watches all with her enigmatic eyes. By the time afternoon rolls around they're ready to go. Sergei has given them enough money to see them through several days. Sam hasn't asked, but she has the feeling Jack can find them the right places to get identification and passage out of a country that may want them dead.
They reach Moscow with little trouble, and Jack does, indeed, know all the places to go. Within a day they're renamed and passported, ready to leave one country for another.
In a back alley they come across a man raping a girl, and Sam finds herself attacking him, kicking and punching as she drags him away from the victim.
Men like him built the camp they were held in. Men like him coated her skin in dust and pain.
It feels clean to hit the man, to feel her punch pulverize his nose and eventually break his jaw. There's something so cleansing about mathematically calculating the precise angles needed. Down to the second, she considers how long it will take for him to die as her knuckles begin to ache.
"Carter!"
Roughly jerked away, she struggles against Jack, pulls towards the body at their feet.
He shakes her, "You can't kill him, Sam."
"But..." Reality comes back into sharp focus. The girl ran away, she notices as she sags against him. "Let's go."
They stay the night in a cheap motel, and leave Moscow in the morning.
Several days of travel finds them in Florida, a deserted stretch of beach as far as the eye can see. There's a small cottage and an inlet where Jack can fish. It takes less than a week to acquire a tan and an appreciation for fish.
They still sleep tangled together, but not for sex.
Jack's bruises fade, and she gets used to seeing him tanned and wind-whipped, the salt spray dancing nearby.
She knows civilization isn't that far away, but she prefers here, were they're the only two people in the world.
"Daniel would have been bored here." The observation is made one day with her feet buried in the sand and Jack's head pillowed on her stomach. "Teal'c might have liked it, though. All the sun and sand. No responsibilities."
"He would have missed Rya'c." Is Jack's lazy reply. "And Danny could have brought his books along and been content."
Later, he kisses her. It's the first kiss since their last fuck at the SGC, and she clings to him, dragging him onto her as her body reacts, demanding sex. She likes to think she didn't used to be this easy. His hand under her shirt makes her gasp, and then there is no shirt. It's just her and sand.
He stops, suddenly, "This... Carter, I don't want to push."
"It's okay." Her hands tangle into his hair and she drags his mouth to hers, pushing up against him.
He complies, pushing back, sliding between her legs, one arm circling her waist. Pressing her into the sand.
The grit on her back brings back flashes of memory, of dirt coating her skin, and she abruptly pushes at him. "I want to be on top."
He rolls them, and she stares down at him, feeling the sand under her knees and the sun hot on her back. She settles against him, contemplative as a light breeze dances over her skin. This is different. This isn't desperation.
"Are you sure?" His tone is concerned, his hands still on her hips.
"Yes." She bends over and finds herself mis-directed, urged upwards. Her entire body shudders as his mouth closes on a nipple.
It's different, this time. There's something careful about the way he handles her. Like she'll shatter in an instant. She thinks he might be right just before his fingers make her orgasm, and she falls down into a dark place and remembers blood.
Pooling at her feet, draining her until she is so helpless she can just lay there.
"Carter." His hands on her face draw her back to reality, and she stares down at him. "You're safe. We're safe."
"It doesn't matter." She shifts, finding him with one hand and then moving, sliding down onto him, her breath catching a little as this sensation echoes a hundred previous encounters.
He gasps as she rides him quickly, dragging his orgasm faster than she knows he wanted it. He stares at her as she sits above him, hands flat on his chest. "Carter..."
"No." Her fingers touch his lips. "I need you. I need this. All of it. I don't have a clue about tomorrow, Jack, but I know about today."
He pulls her down against him and simply holds her, face turned into hers.
The sex continues; he's still careful, gentle. Sometimes she wants to scream at him, but she understands that this is the only way it works for them, now. Sometimes, she doesn't come. Sometimes, neither does he.
Oddly, her cramps abate, though her monthly cycles continue. She thinks about getting checked out, but knows that might endanger their peace.
When four months have passed, she begins to think maybe they are safe.
Weekly routines have set in. He shops at the local market for most of their food. Or they fish. Meals are simple. And the sand and sea keep them company. It's a cliche, of course. Both of them know it. It's why sometimes he holds her extra-tight, or she buries her head in his shoulder.