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Title: That Damned O'Neill Charm I Guess
Started: February 2, 2005
Completed: February 11, 2005
Edited: July 11, 2005
Genre: Jack/Sam UST
Season: 4, post D&C
Spoilers: Season 4—"Divide and Conquer"
POV: Jack
Warning: Jack would hate this—it's one giant cliché and we all know how he feels about those! It's extremely CHEESY:D
It's after a mission like this I feel like kicking myself repeatedly in the nuts. But seeing as that's physically impossible, I'll stick to drowning myself in self-pity—I do that really well.
I commence my emotional beating with my "feelings" for my second-in-command—Major Samantha Carter. I knew she was going to cause me problems since I met her 4 years ago. So…spunky. I guess it was just the physical desires of a lonely man at first…but it is so much more than that now. I think I've known that it was that much more since the Tok'ra and Jolinar. But as time progressed and as I came to realize the intensity of my emotions, I tried to change things: I stopped calling her "Sam" at some point (even writing the word sends an alarm furiously down my spine); started calling her "Carter" so much that I think it's a better name for her.
And you know what the goddamned hardest thing is, to keep me from being attracted to her, is that she looks like Sara did when I first met her many years ago. Same hair, same smell, and now this is a cliché but that damned smile too!
And then…. Then there's the fact that she reciprocates! Only God—the real one, if he's even out there— knows why! No one can resist that O'Neill charm, I suppose. That damned O'Neill charm! Always getting me into trouble…
Trouble. There's a thought. For me, trouble's… innate, I guess—but the thought of all the trouble I'd get Carter into is unfathomable. She's so young, and… and full of potential.
…But then there would be no trouble if… if I gave it all up—the stargate, the war, the SGC, SG1, even her to some degree. But isn't it better this way? Isn't it better for me to fight at her side—with her, for her, and love her in every platonic way possible than to sit at home every day, worrying powerlessly? As I've said… and as she knows:
I'd rather die myself than lose Carter.
But when it comes right down to it, I'd do it for any member of my team. Not just for her. On the other hand, with her—it 's not just because she's a member of my team— Oh, no.
I guess that's why the regs exist.
You're probably expecting me to start cursing the poor dumb bastard that created those regs right now. But I won't. I can't. Fact of the matter is that if something like this—me almost having my brain dissected and Carter being sedated indefinitely for no reason – happens when we're not even fully aware, on a conscious level, of what was keeping me from leaving back there—that it had to take Carter to figure out— imagine how much chaos, how many problems would arise if we ever… pursued those feelings! The regs have a purpose. A damn good one.
But for a man who hates clichés (and talks about hating them so much), I'll never admit to believing in fate and destiny. If we weren't—aren't—meant to be together, so be it. If we are meant to be, I'll wait it out—I will wait for her until the day I die.
There is nothing I can do about it at this point—I can't get it—I can't get her—out of my head!
… but …
… but I can't get those damned snakes out of my head either. I have a job to do. We all have a job to do.
I'm pulled out of my thoughts by a knock at my door. "C'min," I call.
And who should come in but Carter herself. Talk about fate and destiny. "Uh, hi. Sir." She says, rather nervously.
I nod at her and throw a questioning glance at a bunch of papers she has in her hands. "What's goin' on?" I wince slightly at my own nerves.
She clears her throat, "I, uh, wanted to give you the mission reports you asked for."
"Oh," I breathe an internal sigh of relief… If those papers had been—
She sets the papers on my desk.
"Hey, Carter?" I beckon, clearing my throat.
"Yessir?" she replies, obviously dreading my next statements or questions. And yet if she'd truly dreaded them… why would she come here? I don't even know what I'm going to say until my mouth is open.
"How're you… holding up?" I struggle to find the right words. "I mean, with Mart—"
"I'm fine, Sir," she cuts me off. Score: dead Tok'ra—1, O'Neill—0. D'oh.
"Carter," my tone changes to one of complete control and seriousness, very similar to the one I use when I'm ordering somebody to do something (not to be confused with the one I use when I'm ordering her to do something ) "I mean it. Are you going to be okay?"
She looks down and for a minute I'm preparing a procedure for if she begins to cry. But she doesn't cry, what was I thinking? When she looks up, she's … smiling reassuringly. Not happily, not entirely convincingly, but sincerely.
"Yes, Sir. I'm going to be fine," She turns to leave but I interrupt her.
"Are… are we… going to be okay?" I ask awkwardly.
She turns to face me slowly. She looks away and down at the carpeting of my office's floor.
I can only imagine how dumb I look right now—confused, awkward, and bracing for the impact of a fist on my cheek at the same time.
She doesn't respond, but rather turns her back to leave.
I thought I'd done it! I'd managed to completely screw up yet another friendship and this time I'd destroyed the potential for—
"Always, " she says, her face turned to the side and not to me. Then she leaves, leaving the door open behind her.
And I know… everything will work out in the end. Martouf's death had not been in vain, and my and Carter's confessions hadn't either. I know…
The End