Warning:There is an explicit and potentially triggering scene regarding self-injury in this section, as well as suicidal ideation.
Note: The title of this story is pronounced "ah-LEE-ah JAHK-ta ehst." Just in case anyone wanted to know...
Alea Iacta Est
Part II
Reassurance
The number of days one is placed on medical leave varies indirectly with the number of hours one is continually assaulted on an alien planet. This resultant then varies directly with the ignorance of the personnel administering one's post-traumatic stress inventory.
It was a hypothesis Carter had never encountered before and she was not certain she agreed with its basic theory—well, at least the first half of its basic theory. Then again, Dr. Roberts had not asked her for her opinion, he had only sequestered the facts. While temporarily inclined to lie her way out of medical leave, she knew that the consequences of such an action would cause irrevocable damage; not to mention the fact that Jack, Daniel, and Teal'C would never allow her mendacity to remain unchallenged. Damn them.
SG-1 had been ordered to go on stand-down for two months, effective immediately by order of Dr. Fraiser, General Hammond, Dr. Roberts, and the rest of the fucking world. Her initial fury at being barred from her work for that long had deadened into a dull throb of fear that pulsed unremittingly in the pit of her stomach. Since her initial breakdown in the infirmary, she had spoken only in response to direct questions, and sometimes not even then. She often found herself "zoning" as the colonel referred to it—lost in the chasm between the clicks of the second hand. Dr. Fraiser called it a defense mechanism and she supposed it was, but that did not make it any less frustrating. Reconciling the knowledge that she did not need to defend herself from Jack, Daniel, and Teal'c with the belief that she was now defiled, her honor tarnished beyond repair, beyond what her co-workers already believed, proved to be a most daunting and elusive task.
Jack had rarely left her side during the interceding month since their return from '275 and she was thankful for his vigilance. Without it, she would probably be resigned to her home and internal machinations for the interim of the team's down time. As it was, Jack had offered her sanctuary at his cabin outside of Silver Bay, a small town in the north woods of Minnesota.
"I'm going to be heading there, anyway," he had told her. "It's a good place to…think. If you need to." He had taken her hand then and tipped her chin up disallowing her further avoidance of his gaze. "You don't have to come, Sam. It's an invitation, not an order."
She had turned away from him, unable to quell the tremors fomenting in her stomach. "Please, sir," she had whispered, choked tears straining her voice. "Don't feel obligated to take care of me. I'll be fine by myself."
"Janet doesn't agree."
Sighing in frustration, she had raked her fingers through her hair. "Janet and all the other doctors can go to hell as far as I'm concerned." That statement had undone her reserve, the calm she had collected over the previous few hours had evaporated immediately. Ignoring her body's signs, she attempted to reinforce her assertion through her tears. "They don't know what they're talking about."
He had moved behind her, and she had felt his warmth intermingle with hers. She had known he wanted to touch her, to pull her into his arms, but had refrained for the sake of propriety. "I think they know very well what they're talking about, Sam," he had said gently. "And I agree with their decision. You can't go back to work. Not right now at least. Hell, the whole team's shook up. You weren't the only one temporarily relieved of active duty, you know."
She had only been able to nod.
"C'mere."
She had gone willingly, her only fear of the contact fleeting as soon as her head rested against his shoulder. Summoning her courage, she stepped back from their embrace, his hand still lightly clutching her upper arm, and repeated her earlier sentiment. "Don't feel obligated, sir."
She could still hear his irritated sigh in the back of her mind. "Oh, fer crying out loud! I don't feel obligated, all right? I want to take you with me. You hear that? I want to." Stooping to meet her lowered eyes, he reiterated, "I want you to come with me, Sam."
The exchange had become too much for her to handle and had thrown her delicate emotional equilibrium out of whack. Tears had quickly welled up in her eyes and coursed down her pale cheeks in streams. Through her sorrow, she had weakly managed, "No. You don't want me."
His eyebrows had suddenly shot up. "I don't? Now that's news. Why don't I?"
Crossing her arms over her body, she had attempted to compact herself as much as possible. Her muscles were still stiff from the effort. The conversation had taken an unexpected turn and the undertones of his question disconcerted her somewhat. While she recognized her part in instigating the sudden shift, she had been unable to formulate an acceptable, or communicable, answer to his question. Her eyes closed painfully as he repeated his inquiry.
"Why don't I, Sam?"
His voice had been soft, kind—loving. Incapable of answering him directly, she had cleared her throat and swallowed any tears that had yet to fall. Her eyes, moist and bright, bright blue, had found his and she nodded. "I'll come with you."
He had smiled at that. "Great!" And then he added, "I'm not getting an answer to the other question, am I?"
She had shaken her head.
He had nodded, apparently satisfied. "I can live with that. I do have two months to weasel it out of you, though."
She had smiled then; it had been small, but it had been a genuine Samantha Carter light-up-the-world smile. And it had felt exquisite.
Gathering her bags in the front entry, she glanced down at her watch. Eight-twenty. Jack would be arriving in ten minutes to pick her up. Making a second sweep through the kitchen to double check the power buttons of her small appliances, she ruminated again on the upcoming two months. Perhaps after two weeks Jack would be willing to let her return home. She could talk to Janet then and maybe set up some kind of part time deal. Her nerves would calm down in two weeks, right? She would be better then. She would be able to perform her duties.
But, she doubted Jack would allow her to return to base, no matter how much she demanded and/or pleaded.
Jack…He had insisted that they "forget the formality" while they were on leave. Apparently, there was "nothing worse that having it all follow you when you're trying to get away from it." She supposed he was correct; however, this new familiarity was…surprisingly easy. Calling her commanding officer by his first name was not something she imagined that she would fall readily into, but apparently her imagination left something to be desired.
Hearing the rumble of an engine and the slam of a car door startled her from her introspections. Taking one last satisfactory inventory of the kitchen, she made for the front door and opened it just prior to his knocking.
"There's no sneaking up on you, huh?" He smiled and she pictured his eyes shining from behind his dark sunglasses.
"Not usually." She returned his smile, only briefly meeting his eyes, hoping that the tension that hung from her spine had not manifested itself in her expression. Drawing a quick, settling breath she turned to gather her bags.
He flanked her into the entryway and stooped alongside her to pick up one of the duffels. "Let me help you with those," he told her as he reached for the nearest handle, his hand accidentally brushing the side of her calf. Upon sensing the contact she immediately dropped the luggage she held and spun away from him, her face contorted with fear, her hands protectively blocking her chest.
Jack let go of the bag and held his hands up, his palms facing her. "Whoa! Hey, it's all right." He ripped his sunglasses off of his face and stuck them in his pocket. "It's all right," he repeated, his tone decidedly kinder.
Expelling a breath she had not been aware of holding, she leaned heavily against the wall and bent to rest her hands on her knees. Taking in a deep drought of air, she attempted to quiet the klaxons that burned inside her head. She closed her eyes against the sharp sting of tears and willed herself not to cry in front of him. Again.
"Sorry," she muttered.
"Nah, I should know better than to try and help you do anything."
His attempt at humor was lost on her; she was somewhere between mental phases trying to sort through what little she could fully grasp at present. His voice, his presence, her fear. That was about all she had a hold of right now.
"Take a couple more deep breaths, Sam." His voice again. Her fingers dug into her knees as she struggled to follow his suggestion, but her lungs simply would not heed her mind's request.
Noticing her effort, Jack spoke up again, his concern apparent. "Sam, I'm coming towards you. It's okay, it's just me, no freaking now, all right?" He knelt in front of her, his forehead inches away from hers. "I'm going to take your hands and help you stand up. Then we're going to walk out to my truck, I'll help you in, and then I'll come back to get your bags. Sound like a plan?"
Sam focused on his soothing tones and managed the clarity to nod her assent.
"Okay. Here we go."
The warmth of his hands smoothed over the tops of hers, his fingers moving across her soft skin in order to calm the death grip she had on her knees. Steadying herself mentally, she allowed him to help her stand and refused to flinch when his arm rounded her shoulders. Dazedly, she followed his lead to the truck, and climbed into the passenger's seat. Soon, she felt the truck's rear door slam, her things stowed safely inside. Then he was beside her, fastening his seatbelt and then reaching across Sam's body to lock hers into place.
Observing the tremulous rise and fall of his companion's chest, Jack said her name softly. "Sam?" Unable to gauge a discernable reaction, he called to her again, this time with added vehemence. "Sam. Over here. Look at me." She blinked several times before turning her attention to him, her mind visibly disengaging from its course albeit slowly. "There ya go," he encouraged her, smiling gently. "Focus on me and try to take a couple deep breaths, all right? It's tough, but it'll help you calm down."
It was and it did. After several minutes of idling in the driveway, Jack seemed confident enough in her stability to begin their trip north. Engaging her in conversation would be pointless, but he did not want to allow her access to the distant world she had created out of desperation. That solitude was not necessary, nor was it helpful according to his experience and the advice of Dr. Fraiser. While he thought quickly to locate a path out of this puzzle, Sam silently slipped her hand into his and allowed their fingers to interlace much the same way they had when she was in the infirmary. Surprised at the bold gesture, he glanced over at her only to be rewarded with a sidelong half-smile.
"Thanks," she whispered sheepishly.
"Anytime," he replied, smiling, and returned his attention to the road unfurling ahead of them.
Taking comfort in her physical grounding line into the present, she laid her head against the rest behind her and sighed quietly. Weary of fighting her mind's pervasive urge to forget itself, she allowed her consciousness to drift as she numbly watched the scenery outside of the window hasten into the past.
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After several hours of continued driving, Jack's vision had sufficiently glazed over and his stomach rumbled at him angrily. Oh yeah. Food, he thought wryly. Eating. I remember that. Caught up as he had been in his internal monologue—actually, this time it more resembled a tirade—he had forgotten the time. Glancing down at the LED on the dash, he grimaced at the numbers—1:18pm. Definitely time for a break. He took the next exit, its commerce and food offerings promising, and drove into the parking lot of the oasis. Shifting the truck into park, he allowed himself to gaze unabashedly at the woman sleeping in the seat next to him.
He had been shocked when she had accepted his invitation to accompany him on this little excursion; shocked, yes, but more than a little pleased. His motives had not been purely selfish; he knew from experience that trauma victims needed security more than anything else and he knew that from his perspective at least, security was one thing he could provide for her. Her acceptance of his proposal proved that she believed that, too. Although he resented the fact that he was required to report Sam's condition to Janet every twenty-four hours and he was technically Sam's "provisional medical supervisor," he was thankful that he had been given permission to assume the role.
Throughout the rigors of the psychological tests she had to endure, he had been with her; even more impressive was that she had allowed him to be with her, even asking him to accompany her. He had witnessed the slow unraveling of her carefully constructed emotional detachment and the crumbling of her internal protective barriers. While in the presence of General Hammond and the rest of the SGC, she became the vestige of whom she had been, stoic and precise, deliberately kind. But in front of Daniel, Teal'C, Janet, and himself, she emerged from behind those inner walls and allowed them to witness her brokenness. He knew better than to believe that she was hiding nothing from them, but he was confident that if they played their cards appropriately, everything would come with time. He would just have to be patient and, while that was assuredly not his strongest suit, for her, he was willing to make his damnedest effort.
Lingering over her relaxed frame, a smile slowly spread across his face. He could not recall the last time he had seen her this at ease, especially in sleep. Even when she had been unconscious, her body laid across the cot fraught with tension. Perhaps it was the civilian dress. As much as her jeans flattered the gradual slope of her contours, they looked damned comfortable. The oversized white USAF sweatshirt she wore engulfed her like a blanket, and the hood rested beneath her head much like a pillow. The anxiety that had riddled her face this morning was gone now having been erased by a sense of palpable peace. She was beautiful. She was exquisitely free of makeup, and he delighted in the soft contrast of her pale ivory skin and the spattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks. The bruises across her cheekbones had lessened substantially and the scrape that had decorated the left side of her jaw had reduced itself to a speckling of small scabs.
Perhaps sensing his scrutiny or in response to the sudden lack of movement, Sam stirred, her eyebrows creasing against the dense fog of sleep in an effort to rouse herself. Their hands still loosely joined on the seat between them, he squeezed her fingers lightly and traced small circular patterns on her palm with his thumb. Dr. Fraiser had advised him to keep their physical contact to a minimum, but he'd be damned if he was going to let her accustom herself to shying away from his touch. Especially now.
Her eyes fluttered open, revealing her momentary confusion as she quickly surveyed her surroundings.
"Hey, sleepyhead. 'Bout time you woke up."
Her uncertainty lifted as she hazily focused on her smiling companion. Freeing her hand from his grasp, she yawned mightily and stretched her arms out to her sides. Letting her head fall heavily back onto the rest, she stifled another yawn before drowsily asking him, "How long have I been asleep?"
"Almost five hours."
"Really?" She muttered. "It didn't seem nearly that long."
He reached out and grazed the back of his hand over her cheek; a full-fledged grin stretched across his face when she did not flinch at the contact, but turned her head into his caress, her eyes still closed. "Did you get much sleep last night?" he asked her, resting his hand on her shoulder and curving his fingers delicately around her neck. When her eyes remained closed and her head shook from side to side slightly, he began gently kneading the muscle beneath his hand, being mindful of her still-healing contusions. "Why not?"
She shrugged in response, her head lifting from its place against the rest and eyes slowly opening. Refusing to look at him, she whispered, "Just couldn't get to sleep." He felt the flesh undergoing his ministrations begin to tense as her mind continued to drift farther and farther away from his own.
"Hey," he said quickly, escorting her back to the present. Her head snapped up to meet his gaze, her eyes locking onto his. He smiled at her. "Let's get food. I'm starving."
Nodding thankfully, she unfastened her seatbelt and eased herself out of the car. Rounding the hood to meet up with him, her hand sidled into his as they walked over to entrance of the oasis. "I'm sorry I keep doing that."
He glanced down at her, bewildered at her sudden apology. "Keep doing what?"
She sighed deeply, her face downcast and fixed intently on the pavement in front of her feet. "Keep zoning." A soft snort caught her off-guard and she turned to look up at him.
Halting their trek towards the oasis, Jack stopped in the middle of the parking lot and closed his fingers around her upper arms. His gaze fixed with kind intensity directly into her eyes, he said, "Sam, 'zoning' is normal, and normal is decidedly okay."
Her eyes flicked away from his gaze in protest. "But…"
"But what?"
"But…" she began hesitantly, and then noticed the cautious approach of a burgundy sedan. "…the middle of a parking lot is not the best place to have this conversation." He turned and waved to the driver as he took her hand again and led her into the establishment. "I'm going to run to the restroom," she said and began to step away from him.
Startling a gasp out of her, he pulled her close to him and whispered, "Fine, but we're picking up that conversation again when we get our food."
Glowering at him, but saying nothing, she started across the hall to the rest room, turning only when she heard him call over to her. "Sam! What do you want to eat?"
"Something dead, cooked, and on a bun," she called over her shoulder before she disappeared into the ladies' room, oblivious to his large, appreciative grin instigated by her reply.
Jack thanked the cashier for their tray just as Sam trotted up behind him. "There you are," he said, tossing her a cup as they passed the fountain drinks. "I was getting ready to call base and have them start a search party."
She sniffled as she pressed the cup against the diet Pepsi lever, her slight smile obvious in her reply. "Might've been a little over the top, even for you."
Her voice sounding slightly, curiously congested, he peered over at her staring studiously ahead at her rapidly filling beverage. Red rims had formed around her eyelashes and the veins in her eyes stood out in stark contrast against their milky background. "Sam…" he began cautiously, but his concern was abbreviated by the slight shake of her head.
"Not right now," she said simply, bringing his inquiry to an abrupt halt. Forging past him, she selected a secluded table on the outskirts of the seating area, far from the prying eyes and ears of the other diners. She settled down in her chair, her back literally to the wall, and rubbed her hands wearily over her face. Taking his cue from her, he passed out their food and began to unwrap his burger when he noticed the bruises that still stood out in brilliant purples along the curve of her neck. With a start, he realized why she had elected to wear the billowing sweatshirt—not only did it conceal the curves of her body, but it also served to hide the injuries she had incurred on P3X-275. Anyone who saw them together in passing and happen to take note of her contusions might think that he was the perpetrator. His stomach turned violently at the idea of hurting her, the burger in front of him no longer holding the appeal it did a mere thirty seconds ago.
Their silence growing steadily around him, he cleared his throat, "Nice sweatshirt."
Her hands moved away from her face and she glanced up at him, smiling slightly. The gesture never reached her eyes. "Thanks," she answered. "I thought it was appropriate."
He grunted his agreement and took a sip of his drink, noticing that she had yet to unwrap her sandwich. "Don't like what I ordered? It fits your description perfectly."
She nodded. "It does. But I'm not that hungry."
Sighing, he leaned back in his chair. "Yeah, neither am I."
"You just said you were starving."
"I know," he answered, suddenly uncomfortable. "I think I, uh, lost my appetite."
"Okay," she drawled, her eyebrows knitting in bewilderment. "Since when do you turn down food?"
He somberly met her worried gaze. "Since our first day on P3X-275."
Eyes widening in realization and then averting his gaze, she nervously crossed her arms over her chest. Frowning against the barrage of emotion welling up inside of him, he gathered up their uneaten burgers and fries and tossed them into a nearby trash receptacle. He walked back over to where she sat and rested his free hand on her shoulder. "Come on," he whispered. "Let's get out of here." She nodded and obligingly rose, taking her drink in one hand and his hand in the other.
Fingers intertwined, they crossed the parking lot together in companionable silence and, after dropping their drinks off in the beverage holders in the truck, made their way to a grove of trees beyond the semi-truck parking slots. Jack led her down the dirt path they found behind the initial growth, its girth wide enough to accommodate two adults abreast. After continuing in their quiet stroll for several more minutes, Sam finally broke the silence.
"It wasn't your fault, you know," she whispered, her eyes staring intently at the ground several feet ahead of them.
His quick intake of breath at her statement confirmed that she had hit a nerve, possibly the topic of his ruminations. He said nothing and released her hand to plunge his into the depths of his pocket. This response proving itself inadequate, she stopped walking and grasped his elbow, pulling him to rest beside her. Now it was he who could not meet her eyes; he locked his gaze at the trees just above her head and did not respond to her when she laid her hand hesitantly on his chest.
"Jack," she said her voice tremulous and straining. Closing his eyes at the sound of her voice, he hung his head, still refusing to look at her. "Hey," she whispered, her fingertips rising to trace the outline of his jaw. "Look at me, Jack. Please..." Sensing the desperation in her tone, he finally brought his gaze in league with her own, and felt his breath catch in his throat when he saw raw fear and determination licking the depths of her pupils. She reached up with both hands to grasp the sides of his face. Eyes boring intensely into his, she whispered fiercely, "Listen to me, Jack. What happened over there was not your fault. There was nothing you could have done to stop them. Believe me, I looked." She paused as she drew a shaky breath, her eyes softening as her own grief intermingled with shame, their progeny manifesting itself in her gaze. "I can't do this alone. I-I can't. I-I…" Their visual connection broke then, her internal struggle overwhelming her capacity for speech.
Wordlessly, he engulfed her in his arms, holding her head gently against the crook of his neck. Feeling her inhale deeply, he placed a soft kiss on her forehead before drawing back to look at her face, her eyes downcast and quite sad. Unable to help himself, he leaned forward and placed his lips again against her forehead, offering her what comfort he could as he began to pull her back against him. This time, however, she stopped him, her hands alighting on the fabric of his shirt. Breathing shakily, she gradually brought her eyes into line with his before continuing the line of thought she had abandoned moments earlier. "I can't do this alone, Jack," she whispered. "I need you."
With her admission came the onslaught of her tears and the safety of his warm, comforting embrace. Resting his cheek against the top of her trembling form, he held her against him, certain now in her intent and reason for accompanying him here. Feeling a swell of emotion from deep within his body, he held her as desperately as she clung to him. Smoothing blond tendrils of hair away from her tear-stained face, he whispered, "You got me." Her arms snaked around his waist as she gripped him tightly, unwilling to let him go.
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Music crooned softly in the background, underscored by the steady vibration of the road beneath the wheels of the truck. The combination of the two, coupled with Jack's fingers running lazily through her hair, had lulled Sam to sleep a little over an hour ago. Breaking several traffic regulations in the state of North Dakota, she lay curled up on the seat beside him, her head resting against his upper thigh as they sped down the highway towards their night's destination. They had not spoken of this apparent new level in their relationship since Sam's tearful admission in the grove earlier in the afternoon. Jack knew only that Sam needed him right now, the regulations that bound them to professionalism had been effectively damned by his superior officer, and that this—whatever "this" was—felt right. He was no longer able to put their relationship into quantifiable terms, but he found himself surprisingly uncaring, content to ride the ebbs and flows as they presented themselves. He smiled as he recalled the sheepishness with which she had curled up next to him, asking him if he was "okay" with her gesture. Hell, he was more than okay with it. He welcomed the opportunity.
Flicking the blinker, he quickly changed lanes and guided the truck around the curve of their exit. The orange glow of the street lamps flooded the truck then, bathing the woman sleeping beside him in their gentle light. As he pulled into the parking lot of their hotel, Sam's eyes blinked open and she lifted her head from his leg.
"Great timing," he told her as he turned off the engine. "We're here."
Stifling a yawn, she answered, "Oh, good. Where's here?"
"Center, North Dakota. Home of the Roadside Inn and not much else."
"Ah," she nodded appreciatively. "Boring. I like boring."
He nodded and hooked his fingers around the door handle. "Yeah, boring's good." He hopped out of the car and met up with her in front of the hood, his hand staying her from proceeding into the lobby. Sam looked up at him questioningly.
"Before we go in there…" He trailed off awkwardly before gaining the courage to forge ahead with his inquiry. "Uh, how many rooms do we need?"
Her lips parted as her face broke in understanding; her eyes shifted away from his then, contemplating his timid question. Finally, after several agonizing moments, she looked back up at him. "One room, two beds," she whispered, smiling up at him and shyly winding her hand to rest in the crook of his elbow. "Apparently I can sleep with you around," she added.
He grunted, a wry smile forming across his face. "Apparently." His smile broadened as she giggled at his response, knowing that she was thinking about the amount of time she had spent snuggled up next to him in the cab of the truck. Hoisting the lobby door open for her, she preceded him and made her way up to the counter. Quickly requisitioning their room and stoically ignoring the raised eyebrow given him by the attendant when he asked for separate beds, he handed her the key, smiling sheepishly. "You'd better keep track of that. I'd lose it in ten seconds flat."
"Yes, sir," she said as her hand rose briefly in a mock salute.
He rolled his eyes, unable to quell the spark that lit his eyes at her jab. "For crying out loud," he muttered, nabbing her hand and towing her out the door with him. "Come on, you."
"Coming, sir," she replied, attempting to suppress her impending giggles.
"Would you stop that?"
"Sorry," she muttered, her eyes dancing in the dim light of the street lamps.
Pulling her towards him, his lips twitched into a small smile as he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pressed his lips to her temple in absolution. He was about to release her, wary suddenly of pushing her too far too soon, when he felt the soft, welcome pressure of her arm encircle the back of his waist. Sighing contentedly, he gently squeezed her shoulder before placing another kiss on the top of her head, her own sweet, spicy scent lingering with the musty aroma of his leather jacket. It was the smell of contentment, he decided; contentment and the warm blaze of something he lacked the vocabulary to describe. Whatever it was, he thought, he liked it. He liked it a whole hell of a lot. Reveling in the warmth of her pressed lightly against his side, their steps falling into perfect synchrony, he welcomed the coming months with open arms, hoping in them and their promises for the first time in many, many years.
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Jack awoke to the sound of running water. He and Sam had decided to leave early the next morning to beat the midday rush to Minnesota's Northwoods. Knowing that Sam could shower and dress in under ten minutes, he assumed that he had a quarter of an hour left to embrace the comforting warmth of the blankets and pillows. Groggily rolling over in bed, he wiped his hand across his eyes and blinked them several times before focusing on the clock on the nightstand.
3:14 am.
Startled and slightly confused by the readout, he glanced over at his companion's bed, frowning when he saw the disarray of the coverlet. 3:14 am. What the hell was she doing in the shower? They hadn't planned to start out unti—
Finally, realization knifed through his sleep muddled brain and his eyes widened with its intensity. "Shit," he muttered, dragging his body into a sitting position as he listened to the hard water spray hitting the tiled walls. Apparently I can sleep with you around—her earlier words drifted back to him as he raked his fingers raggedly through his hair. "Apparently not," he mumbled back to her sentiment. Sighing, he decided to give her ten minutes before he knocked to check on her. Perhaps paranoia was getting the best of him, but he would rather face embarrassment than endangering her already delicate psyche further.
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Their hands were everywhere—all of them, all at once. She could not get away from their groping fingers or their lustful, hungry stares as they openly surveyed her prone body, she could not rid herself of their penetrating members. They were all around her, wherever she went, cajoling her, grasping her, pulling her back towards them with terrifying ferocity. She had never left P3X-275, her body was still there, being brutally assaulted over and over and over again. The scent of their sweat encrusted, throbbing bodies poured into her nostrils; their cries of ecstasy and triumph as they came within her filled her ears, clouding out all that remained of her rational self. They inhabited her every system, her every thought and feeling and sensation…she had to get them out of her…she had to get them out…
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A dull thud reverberated throughout the bathroom, truncating his prescribed ten minute wait into a mere three. He was on his feet and across the room in a split second, his knuckles rapping lightly on the door as he called her name.
"Sam?"
No response.
"Sam!" He called again, louder this time and with more urgency. Still, she did not respond; pressing his ear to the door, he strained to hear anything beyond the water pounding against the ceramic tile, but to no avail. Finally, damning the consequences of his actions should she just be leisurely showering at three o'clock in the morning, he turned the door handle and stepped into the room, the immediate, overwhelming change in humidity catching him off guard.
"Whoa!" He exclaimed, coughing slightly at the atmospheric variation. "Sam," he said, flicking on the bathroom fan. "Sam, you okay?" Still his words garnered no response except the water running out of the showerhead; Jack felt his stomach begin to churn as the situation began to grow more and more unsettling. "Sam!" he exclaimed one last time before impatiently shoving the shower curtain against the wall.
Swallowing harshly, he felt his heart drop from his chest as he finally saw her body, beaten into a red sheen by the violent pressure and extreme temperature of the water, and crumpled into a fetal ball at the end of the tub, her head slumped dejectedly against the rounded corner. A thin, steady stream of dull mahogany water ran between her legs and swirled down the drain.
"Oh god…" he whispered as he quickly turned off the water and ran his hand along the crown of her head, her hair damp and unnaturally hot. "Sam?" he whispered, pushing her upper body away from the tub and directing her to face him. Desperately searching her eyes for any sign of her Self, he tapped the back of his hand lightly against her cheek repeatedly. "Come on, baby," he muttered, oblivious as the endearment rattled off his tongue. "Come on, look at me."
Continuing his attempts to rouse her, he quickly surveyed her body for the source of the brownish liquid, vainly hoping that her internal injuries had reopened somehow and had yet to congeal. Those hopes crumbled rapidly, however, when he glimpsed a broken disposable shaving tool clutched in her right hand; weeping self-inflicted lacerations crisscrossed the tops and sides of her breasts, blood spilling swiftly down their swells and across her abdomen.
Snatching several towels from the rack above the sink, he unfurled the smallest one and placed it over her wounds, gently guiding her left arm across her body to hold the make-shift bandage in place. When he was satisfied that the blood flow was beginning to staunch, he pried the razor from her grasp and hurled it into the garbage can; gently he pressed his fingers into the heated skin of her back. His fingerprints turned white and then gradually resumed their previous color, the scheme indicative of a first degree burn. "Shit," he muttered, his eyes closing momentarily before he stopped the drain and began running a gentle stream of cool water into the tub.
Turning from her, he grabbed one of the washcloths off of the pile beside him and dipped it into the growing pool surrounding her, saturating it thoroughly before withdrawing it and placing the cloth on the irritated flesh of her back. He knelt next to her, wedged between the edge of the tub and the toilet, and ran one hand through the damp strands of her hair while the other continued its soothing ministrations along her back and shoulders, the water cooling her skin with surprising speed. Every now and again he would say her name and whisper soothingly to her, his entire being focused exclusively on returning this woman to the present.
The discomfort he felt upon seeing her naked body on P3X-275 had dissipated entirely since their return. Her current state of undress did not affect him, except to foster within him a deep sense of compassion, manifested by the chaste, loving strokes with which he soothed her now trembling body. Sensing her slow return to normalcy, he increased the frequency of his murmured platitudes, each sentiment punctuated by water dripping from the cloth and down the smooth skin of her back. Hearing her slight sniffle, he stopped cooling her back momentarily and brushed damp blond tendrils away from her face.
"Sam?" He asked tentatively, his tone barely audible. "Can you look at me?"
Sam lifted her forehead from the edge of the tub and settled her cheekbone against her knee, her eyes focused on the white porcelain in front of her, refusing—or unable—to meet his gaze. Keeping his eyes trained on her, he resumed cleansing her back, working her shoulders, neck, and upper arms into his routine. Her eyes slid slowly closed and her eyebrows crinkled in response to his continued measures; he paused when he could not decipher the emotion behind her reaction.
"Is this okay?" He relaxed as she nodded, her eyes still closed, and her body progressively easing somewhat. Resuming his endeavor, he began silently massaging the groove of her temple with his thumb before gliding the tip of his finger along the bared portion of her face, tracing small patterns along the curves of her now drying flesh. Involuntarily she shivered, chilled, her body having returned to its normal pallor.
Placing a soft kiss on top of her head, he rung out the washcloth and laid it over the edge of the bathtub before letting the small pool of water out of the tub. After the water drained, he wrapped a large bath towel around her shoulders and bent over her, winding one arm across the back of her upper torso and snaking the other under her knees. Picking her up in one strong, smooth motion, he turned to deposit her on the closed seat of the toilet.
He gently disengaged her splayed fingers from the crook of her neck and brought her left hand down to her side. Wincing when he saw deep red blood stains running through the fabric, he removed the dressing and studiously inspected the inflicted damage. Several of the cuts were quite deep and continued oozing once the bandage had been taken away, but most were shallow, thin scratches along her skin that would hardly be noticeable in a day or two.
Focusing his attention on the more severe gashes, he reached behind his shoulder and retrieved his overnight bag from beside the sink. After rifling around for a bit, he located a tube of Neosporin, gauze, and medical tape and placed them on the floor alongside him. Dampening a clean washrag, he brushed it lightly against the bar of soap on the counter and then knelt in front of his companion. She stared dully ahead, seemingly unaware of her circumstances, his presence included.
Sighing resignedly, he looked down at the rag in his hands. "Look, Sam..." he began softly, his next words hesitant and drawn out. "I, uh, I don't know what I'm supposed to be doing. I'm kinda making this up as I go along. The military didn't exactly prepare me for this. You either, I guess." Taking a deep breath, heavy with the pressure of his own frustration, he raked his fingers through his sleep tousled hair. "I'm no good at this," he mumbled.
Then, after a moment, he began speaking carefully, deliberately. "I don't want to do something stupid and end up hurting you even more." Glancing up at her, her expression distant and dangerously vacant, he continued, his tone earnest, "If I do something wrong you have to tell me, Sam, all right? Can you do that?" Gently placing his hand over hers, he blinked several times in an attempt to repress the mist that threatened to overwhelm his vision and found himself incapable of holding her in his gaze any longer. Succumbing to sudden immense fatigue, he allowed his head to drift down, his chin resting dejectedly against his chest and long evaded tears falling noiselessly onto the fabric of his sweatpants, the material darkening in their wake.
Unexpectedly her fingers shifted beneath his own, trembling in their urgency, and interspaced them, lacing themselves lightly between his knuckles. Glancing up abruptly through his watery eyes, he fell helplessly into the sight of her own grief; his desolate plea had spurred her into the vestige of cognizance. Unable to prevent himself, he slightly tightened his grip on her hand as if to dissuade her from fleeing him again. His eyes slipped closed, his relief and compassion riveting the air, as she spoke hoarsely, her tone reassuring him while her heart lacked the strength.
"Yes," she whispered to him. "I can."
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Sam gradually awoke several hours later to the faint, comforting reverberation of a heart beating softly beneath her head. Even through a slumberous fog she was able to determine the sound's proprietor partly defined by the assuring pressure of his arms looped around her shoulders and waist. Taking in a long, deep breath, she allowed herself to revel in his presence, his clean, masculine scent, his soothing warmth before shifting further into his embrace. Wincing at the unexpected discomfort as her breasts pressed evenly against his chest, she drew back, vaguely aware of the circumstances that had bourn their current sleeping arrangements.
Little remained of her memories except for a few fleeting images, more impressions than actual pictures: Jack's attentiveness, the tenderness and empathy with which he had cleansed and bandaged her wounds and smoothed aloe into the irritated skin of her back; how he had meekly massaged lotion over her arms and legs, her shoulders and neck to stave off the impending dehydration that accompanies extended exposure to extreme temperatures; how he had helped her dress, his eyes never straying or staying fixed on any part of her nakedness for too long; how he had helped her into his own bed and, there, held her gently against his body as she had slowly succumbed to sleep.
Any doubts she may have had about accompanying him on this trek dissipated under the light of this new, insightful scrutiny. For the first time in her adult life, she yearned to feel safe and protected, and, here, in the arms of Jack O'Neill, her commanding officer and dearest friend those desired sensations engulfed her easily.
The flutter of his heart was augmented by the grumbling of his stomach then, stirring him to consciousness. His arms reflexively tightened around her eliciting a slight pained gasp from her as her back whimpered at the increased pressure.
Hearing her opposition, involuntary though it was, he relinquished his hold on her body, the arm under her head flopping back against the pillow while his other hand came to rest on his stomach. "Sorry," he muttered, his voice scratchy with sleep.
"It's all right," she answered, locating his hand under the blankets and threading their fingers together reassuringly. She felt his other hand alight on her head as his fingers began combing lazily through her hair, and allowed her eyes to droop contentedly closed at the settling, intimate contact.
His breath, warmed from sleep, washed over forehead as he brushed his lips against her skin and whispered, "How're you doing with…last night and everything?"
Sighing, she buried her head against his shoulder, stoically ignoring the pain that coursed over her chest. After a moment of hesitation, she whispered, "Fine."
"Bull shit."
"Jack…" she replied as she began mentally formulating a defense.
"Nope," he answered her, pulling back to look at her in the grey light of morning, his dark eyes hard with concern, his voice firm yet soft. Disengaging his hand from hers, he gently traced the outline of her face, beginning at her temple, rounding the rim of her ear, and dipping down to her chin before cupping her jaw gingerly in his palm. "Like it or not, I'm not going to let you tell me that you're fine. Not right now, not after what happened last night or on that god-damned planet. I know better than that." Resting his head again against the pillow, he softly touched his forehead to hers as he whispered, "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand. But don't tell me you're fine if you're not."
Swallowing the unexpected lump that had congealed in her throat at the passion of his words, she nodded meekly, allowing a few scattered tears license to roam down her cheeks. "All right," she responded, her throat tight.
Finding her free hand again, he traced the perimeter of her fingers before threading them with his. "So," he started softly. "How're you doing with everything that happened last night?"
She sighed and compacted herself against him; obligingly, he wrapped his arms around her thin frame, resting his cheek on the crown of her forehead and waiting for her to speak. "I'm, uh, kinda…kinda freaked out," she said finally, her shame evident. "I don't remember doing…anything, Jack. Nothing."
"Do you remember what you were thinking about?"
"Not really," she answered, her frustration rapidly gaining on the intensity of her embarrassment. She closed her eyes momentarily before withdrawing from his chest and settling beside him, needing suddenly to see his face. Sensing her intent, he rolled onto his side to face her, propping his head up on his palm. With tremulous fingers, she traced the contours of his face stopping once and awhile to brush lightly over an etched line or a battle scar.
Fighting to remain still under the influence of her tentative caress, he watched her watching her fingers course over his features. He knew he had never seen anyone—anything—more beautiful.
"I remember you," she breathed, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "I remember…" Her hand wrapped delicately around the back of his neck as she steadily directed his mouth to meet hers. Tentatively their lips touched once briefly, and then a second, lingering time.
As he withdrew from their kiss, he glanced down at her, desperate to see her reaction to the contact; his gaze softened when he saw her closed eyes and the small half- smile that clung to her lips. Watching her fondly as she lazily opened her eyes, he raised his eyebrow. "That was unexpected."
Her smile widened slightly. "Yeah," she agreed sheepishly. "It was."
Grinning down at her, he ran his fingers idly through her hair before bending down to capture her mouth once again with his, alert for any sign of her discomfort while savoring the sweet taste of her lips pressed gently against his own. Pulling back from their embrace, she gazed up at him for several long moments, her eyes bright and satisfied, as she adoringly scrutinized his features. Brushing the back of her first finger against his lips, she murmured, "We better get going if we don't want to get stuck in traffic."
Pressing his lips against her proffered finger, he nodded, acknowledging both her accurate assumption as well as her hesitancy to remain in such close quarters. Frankly, he was shocked—pleasantly so—that she had not only allowed but instigated such intimate contact with him so shortly after the onset of her trauma. Then again, if he had learned anything about Sam over the past five years it was that underestimation of her was to be strictly avoided.
Groaning reluctantly, he threw the blankets back and stepped out of the bed warmed by the combination of their bodies' heat. His arms stretched mightily over his head, he asked her, "You gonna shower?"
Her smile dissipated. "No," she answered. Quickly recovering, she added, "I'll just get my hair wet when you're done so it's not flying out in fifty million different directions." She shrugged playfully, "You know, be presentable and shit."
"Aw, but it's cute," he protested to her chagrin. "It's just me—you don't have to be presentable and shit. I've seen you dripping with sweat, slathered in grease paint, and hooked up to a dozen medical beeping thingies with wires plastered all over your face." Gathering his shower materials as a mischievous glint flicked in his eyes, he added, "Besides, I hear that 'bed head' thing is all the rage now."
She narrowed her eyes at him. "How do you know? You live in a mountain 28 stories underground."
"Cassie forgot her copy of Cosmo in my room when she came to visit last week," he retorted, his voice seeping with mock haughtiness.
She snorted and rolled her eyes slightly at his mention of the woman's magazine. "God, spare me," she muttered as she laid back down in bed, pulling the covers tightly over her body in a mock effort to end the banter.
Her disgust, however, only served to fuel the drive of his wit. "Hey, if it's in Cosmo it has to be true, right?"
She could hear his grin along the smooth delivery of his sentiment and groaned. "Just go shower."
"Yes, Ma'am." Grinning widely, he saluted her before disappearing into the bathroom.
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After stopping briefly to grab a sizeable breakfast, their first meal in at least twenty hours, they resumed their travels northward, Jack mentioning that they should reach their destination in approximately eight hours.
Sam smiled appreciatively. "When you said 'get away from it all' you weren't kidding."
"Nope," he replied glibly. "I prefer to leave work at work during down time, especially if it's longer than a week or so."
She nodded, realizing just how dissimilar they were in that regard. "Vacation" was not something she engaged in often, prone as she was to haunt her lab even during their stand down periods. Having received plenty of flack for her workaholic tendencies in the past, she remained silent, opting to stare instead out of window at the passing farmland.
Jack remained intent on the highway unfurling before them. Having driven the route many times prior, he was confident that he could get them to Silver Bay intact even if he was blindfolded. Allowing his mind to wander as silence filled the cab, he indulged the concern for his companion that had been gnawing a hole in his gut since last night and began contemplating the events of the past twenty-four hours.
Two incidents; two panicked, desperately blatant incidents manifesting her inner turmoil had occurred thus far. He could not help but fear what lay on the horizon if she continued to shy away from his prodding inquiries. 'You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to,' he had told her and had meant it—at the time. Now he was beginning to doubt the accuracy of his sentiment. She did need to talk about what happened regardless of her discomfort on the matter if she was ever to recover. Recover? Hell. If he did not know better, he would not think anything horrific had befallen her recently. Chalk one up for her military training from conception.
She had not eaten much at breakfast, merely picked at her omelet and hash browns; he knew she had to be even more ravenous than he had been. After all, she had consumed little in the past month, the results of which he had painfully noted last night—earlier this morning, whatever—as he had taken in the sharp protrusion of her hip bones against her taut skin and the sickly definition of her ribs along her sides. Glancing across at her hands now, he winced at the undeniable thinness of her fingers and the pronounced projection of her knuckles. He had never though of her as skinny; athletic and lean, yes, complete with the strength and confidence the terms imply. But never skinny. He would mention it to her when they stopped for lunch should she again ingest little.
"Jack?"
He blinked quickly at her inquiry, shrugging off his ruminations. Her hand delicately rested on the crook of his elbow, her eyes clouded with disquiet.
"Yeah?" he answered her, still somewhat distracted by the remaining wisps of his previous thoughts.
"You're going over eighty and your knuckles are turning a very interesting shade of purple," she told him, her voice quiet.
"Whoa!" he exclaimed as he caught sight of the speedometer. Eighty-six. Shit. Bringing the truck to an even, legal speed of sixty-five, he ripped his hands one at a time off of the steering wheel and shook them out, attempting to quell the impending nerve tingle and bring their color back to normal. Aware of Sam's gaze still fixed steadily on him, he turned briefly to her and flashed a brilliant smile. "Thanks. I must be more anxious to get there than I thought."
She nodded absently, obviously refusing to buy his cover. "Mm-hm," she mumbled. "Everything okay?"
"Yeah. Fine."
She sighed, her irritation catching him slightly off-guard. "That's not fair."
Cracking his knuckles in turn against the steering wheel, he frowned. "What's not fair?"
Crossing her arms over her body, she turned to look at him, her eyes flashing wildly. "If I can't hide behind 'fine' anymore, if you're going to ask me to drop the soldier act, then I'm going to ask the same of you. I'm not stupid. I've known you for five years; I think I know when something's wrong. Give me that much credit at least."
Straitening his shoulders, he abruptly pulled the truck onto the shoulder of the highway, parked it, and flicked his hazard lights on. Leaning forward to rest his head against the steering wheel, he heard her seatbelt unbuckle and felt the slight dip in the seat as she scooted closer towards him. He felt her hand rest on his back then, rubbing over the expanse in slow, soothing circles, a tactile reminder of her concern and…love for him. She was waiting for him to say something. Anything, probably.
"God, Sam," he sighed resignedly, finally allowing himself the luxury of words. If he was to ask her to relate her trauma to him the least he could do was pave the way, no matter how much he hated doing so.
"What?" She asked after a prolonged silence, knowing that he was not one to think before speaking and wanting to grasp this opportunity to hear his thoughts. "Talk to me."
Lifting his head from the steering wheel, he turned to face her, his moist eyes taking her aback somewhat, intensifying her concern. He timidly cradled her jaw in his palm as his mouth opened slightly and then shut again, effectively silencing his attempted relegation.
Moving his hand away from her face, she grasped it firmly in both of hers, silently willing him the strength to continue. "Tell me," she whispered, her voice urgent, almost pleading.
He closed his eyes briefly before beginning again, wishing that words came more naturally to him. Staring down at their joined hands, he began hesitantly. "When they brought you back that first time, I…I knew what they had done to you." He paused, suddenly uncomfortable and unsure of how to proceed, knowing only that he had to. "God, I wanted to kill them." Glancing up, his aggrieved eyes fell into hers as tears coursed silently down her fair cheeks. Unable to stop himself, he wrapped his arms around her tightly, drawing her close to his body, as a deluge of words unexpectedly found their way across his lips. "And when you told me that they were coming for you again and that there was nothing we could do…I couldn't even tell them to take me instead."
"I wouldn't have let you," she muttered against his tear-stained shoulder. "I wouldn't have let them do that to you."
A ragged breath escaped his lips in disgust. "That's what I always told myself, too."
Curious, she pulled away from him slightly, her dampened face etched with confusion. "What you told yourself?"
He nodded and gently pushed her head back towards his shoulder, needing to feel her, whole and complete, resting against his body. "I always knew this was a possibility. Daniel and I talked about it once, actually, after that run in at the beginning with the Mongols. I thought about it every time we walked through that gate…how there are worse things out there than death. I always told myself that I wouldn't let them hurt you like…that." She felt his throat convulse as he swallowed harshly.
She was speechless in the face of his pain. Never would she have assumed that her attack would have caused him this measure of pain; but apparently, as evidenced by the tears falling softly from his closed eyes, it had. Wordlessly, she wound her arms around his body, hugging him tightly to her in reassurance, for herself as much as him, and drew her legs up onto the seat beside her so that her body was completely nestled against his. She hoped that this, her show of trust in him, would help alleviate some of his grief, assuage at least a small part of the ache.
They rested in each other's arms, tears falling freely from them both, for several heart rending minutes. When Jack began lightly rubbing her back, Sam pulled away from him, looking deep into the essence of his tear-stained face. Brushing her fingers gently over his lips, her eyes slipped closed as he kissed her fingertips; watching her intently, he wound his hand around her jaw, spurring her eyes open and eliciting a small gasp at the unexpected contact.
Gazing intently at her, he whispered, "I will never, ever hurt you."
Still unable to speak, Sam simply nodded as she wrapped her fingers around the nape of his neck and brought their lips together in a long, tender kiss fraught with understanding and promise. She reveled in his gentleness, he, in her willingness; both found forgiveness and patience awaiting them readily in the heart of the other.
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"There's a Borders Books up here on the left. You wanna stop for awhile?"
Sam smiled broadly at him, a small chuckle escaping her lips. "You even have to ask?"
He grinned. "Yeah, it was a stupid question, wasn't it?" Clicking the blinker, he exited the freeway and entered the turning lane. After their emotional pit stop, Sam had remained curled up next to him, dozing off every now and again, lulled to sleep by the combination of the radio and his presence. Their conversation had relieved him, much more so than he assumed it would, and he had found a new, passionate hope in her ease around him. That, more than anything else, served to alleviate his tension; in the back of his mind, he had feared that she would continue to shy away from him like she had during their last night on P3X-275. However, that was far from the case. She had even mentioned that, after Jack had crawled into bed with her and wrapped her securely in his arms, her nightmares had not returned, she had slept peacefully, much like she had en route to Des Moines. Although she had not mentioned it, he surmised that they would spend the rest of their nights together, each taking comfort in the other's embrace.
Pulling into the parking lot, Jack quickly turned the truck off and hopped out of the cab, eager to stretch his legs after the long drive. "You know," he muttered to Sam as she looped her arm around his waist and they walked towards the building, "As much as I like driving, after traveling halfway across the galaxy in seconds, crossing a quarter of the country in twenty hours is starting to lose its appeal."
She giggled. "Patience not your forte?" she responded, her eyes shining under the haze of the midday sun.
"Yeah," he sighed, his eyes sparkling, as he opened the door for her. "You've noticed that, huh?"
"Only every other mission or so."
He grinned and pushed her gently through the open door. "Get in there."
His mock disgust only served to increase the wattage of her smile and he found himself lost momentarily in its intensity. "I'm gonna run up to the café and grab a cup of coffee," she said, breaking his reverie. "You want something?"
"Yeah, that'd be great," he said, surprised at the gesture. "Plain coffee. Black. No frills."
"No frilly coffee," she repeated, her eyes sparkling. "Got it."
He grinned at her as she walked away, noticing not for the first time the endearing arch her left arm inevitably made as she strode towards completing her mission. As she rounded the corner and disappeared from his line of sight, he felt an odd twinge in the pit of his stomach and realized that this was the first time since they had left the Springs that they had not been within visual range of each other. He shook himself mentally, attempting to convince his brain that nothing horrible could happen to her in such a public, civilian, non-threatening environment. However, he knew that he would not be totally at ease until she was back beside him again.
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Sam swallowed a bitter pang in the back of her throat as she stepped away from Jack, quite aware that she was not accustomed to being apart from him. She supposed that the distance was good; a proving ground of sorts that would demonstrate to both of them that she was safe, even disengaged from his side. Rounding the corner of the second story, she walked over to the line in front of the register, shocked to find herself scanning the room for possible assailants. A deep fear elbowed its way into her throat, winding itself around her lungs and stomach, chasing away her breath and cramping her abdominal muscles. Forcing her gaze to the menu, she attempted to mentally calm herself down, reassuring herself that she was in the middle of a very communal area; should anyone attack her, not only was she trained to deal with such assaults, but those around her would most likely jump to her aid as well.
"What can I get for you, miss?" The elderly gentleman behind the counter smiled warmly at her, startling her back into the present.
Sam endeavored to return his smile, but failed miserably, electing instead to prattle off her order, wincing internally as her voice quavered. "Just two small coffees, please."
"All right," he said, still smiling, as he punched the appropriate keys, oblivious to her discomfort. "Two dollars and ninety-seven cents, please."
Somehow through the slight tremor in her hands, she managed to pull three dollar bills out of her wallet, accept the empty coffee cups, and deposit the three pennies in the change box on the counter. Thanking the man, Sam resituated her purse strap on her shoulder and filled the cups, cursing as her hands continued to tremble, causing the hot liquid to spatter onto her hand. Grimacing, she grabbed the full cups and walked over to the coffee condiment island, ridding her skin of the offending liquid with a rough swipe. Hoping that she was not as conspicuous as she felt, she forced herself to take a deep calming breath before swirling cream and sugar into the dark depths of her coffee. Placing lids and heat wraps firmly onto the cups, she tried not to think about the fact that a simple task like purchasing coffee at a café had put her through the emotional wringer. How would she respond in two months when she was expected to resume her duties at the SGC?
Stop it, Sam, she chastised herself. Two months is not tomorrow. You'll make it. With great difficulty, she managed to stop her brain from continuing its previous train of thought. Squaring her shoulders and moderating the tension that had accumulated in her face and neck, she descended the stairs to search for Jack.
Realizing that he had not told her where he would be, she quickly scanned the room for his beautiful, graying head. Not in fiction, I'm guessing he's not in children's books, or magazines, or art… She was about to cross to the science section when she heard a familiar cough emanating from somewhere behind her. Turning the corner, she smiled as she spotted him in—psychology? She thought, somewhat mystified at his choice of perusal. Absently dismissing her confusion, she walked up beside him and held out his coffee, almost dropping it onto the book he held as she caught its title.
When the Woman You Love is Raped
There was that word. She had avoided it ever since P3X-275 and even now she was not prepared to accept its reality. Even Jack had not voiced it in her presence, perhaps sensing her consternation on the subject, using instead 'attack' or 'incident' or 'what happened on that god-damned planet.' She did not want to hear the word 'rape.' She did not want to see it. She could not associate it with herself, with what had happened to her.
Suddenly, the weight of both cups had left her hands and she was being held tightly against Jack's warm, welcoming chest. Forcing herself to relax into his embrace, she accepted it fully, winding her arms around him and resting her hands lightly on his back. After a few moments, she stepped away from him, mindful of his arm still rounding the small of her back, and gently took the book from him, steeling herself against the sudden onslaught of unnamable emotion when she again saw the title. Turning the material over, she quickly skimmed the back cover, noting that the author had elected anonymity, but that, while he was not a professional, he had great experience with the subject matter. Eyes still fixed on the paperback, she cleared her throat before hesitantly inquiring, "This is applicable to you?"
She felt his arm tighten around her waist as he pressed his lips softly to her temple. "Yeah," he whispered into her hair after a moment. "Yeah, it is." Leaning against him, she struggled to accept the implications of the title in light of his sentiment; '…the woman you love…' She had known, she admitted to herself. She had known long ago, but had failed to hope in the eventuality of their conjoining due to their military stations. But all of the politics had fallen by the wayside now, the importance of regulations and propriety substantially dwarfed by the immediacy and necessity of their emotional consummation.
Yes, she decided. Yes, she had known. But this was one hell of a way to find out from him.
As if reading her mind, he plucked the book from her fingers and replaced it with her coffee, whispering, "This isn't exactly how I wanted to tell you." He offered her an apologetic half-smile as he tucked the book under his arm and grabbed his cup from the shelf. Entwining their free hands, he scrutinized her carefully, the beaming florescent lights casting a sickly haze over her face. As he gently began directing her towards the registers, her hand suddenly squirmed out of his grasp. Instinctively, he knew she needed time to think, to contemplate the headiness of his admission.
"I need some air," she offered before weaving away from him and in and out of the bright displays of new releases and discounted items; he watched her lean heavily against the outside brick wall, her eyes wide and unfocused, her hair tousled by the breeze.
Sighing, he tore his gaze from her and slid the book onto the check out counter. As Jack reached for his wallet, the cashier took the purchase in his hand and flipped it over, searching, Jack thought, for the UPC strip.
"This is a good one," the man said softly, running the scanner over the identification tag. "The guy really knows his stuff."
Taken slightly aback at the man's forthrightness, Jack stared at him for a second before his military mask softened, making way for the humanness beneath it. Unable to form an intelligent response, he settled for nodding at the cashier's candor. Thanking the cashier, he shook himself out of his pitying stupor and exited the store, eager to gather Sam back into his truck and continue their trek up north.
They naturally gravitated towards each other as Jack left the building and fixed his sunglasses across the bridge of his nose. Enveloping her hand in his, they silently walked back to the truck, their minds disparately intense, but placated by the firm, tangible reminder of the other mere inches away.
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Sam groaned softly as the truck bounced over a pothole, causing the fabric of her bra to brush roughly against the gashes across her breasts. Pulling her legs tightly against her chest, she attempted to alleviate part of the ache by placing gentle, steady pressure on her injuries with her knees. The added weight helped somewhat, but she made a mental note to grab a few aspirin out of her duffle bag the next time they stopped.
Damning herself repeatedly for her awkward predicament—coddling her breasts, injured by her own hand in front of Jack—she continued to deprecate herself for not detecting the impetus to her loss of control last night. As uncontrolled as she felt now, she yearned to feel blissfully restricted, at least in her own company. She gasped slightly as they sped over a dip in the highway, pain driving into the delicate swells cradled tenderly against her knees.
Her soft cry garnered Jack's attention; his brow furrowed as he drank in her huddled, cringing frame. "Hey," he said softly, turning the radio off. "You okay?"
Taking a deep breath, she sat up in her seat, not wanting to continue their conversation while in the fetal position, and looked straight ahead, out at the road before them. Placing a protective hand across the top of her left breast, she nodded. "Yeah," she said hesitantly, shifting in her seat slightly. "I just…hurt."
Momentarily confused, he glanced down at the conspicuous placement of her hand, his eyes widening in realization. "Oh…" Snapping back to the road before them, he indicated to the glove box in front of her. "There's a first aid kit in there; I popped a few extra packages of aspirin in it right before we left."
After locating the kit, she pulled three single-dose packages of aspirin from the box, ripped them open, and washed the pills down with a deep draught from her water bottle. "Thanks," she said, wiping the back of her hand across her upper lip.
Glancing at her askance, he nodded slightly, his brow still furrowed in puzzlement. Sensing an impending question or reprimand, her back slowly melded into the upholstery of the truck, sinking as far as she could from his inquiries. Unable to tolerate his taciturnity any longer, she spoke up, her throat suddenly constricted and quite dry. "What?"
He had been 'zoning' himself, she realized abruptly when she watched his eyes refocus and blink several times. "Huh?" he said, genuinely unaware of her question.
"There's something you want to ask me," she replied matter-of-factly, her eyes narrowing to slits as she observed minute alterations in the set of his jaw, the height of his shoulders. "I wish you would."
Pausing contemplatively, he pursed his lips, running his tongue along the outer rim of his teeth. Finally, he said, "You just took six aspirin. I was going to say something about overdosing, but then I realized that you probably…need that many." His insight and willingness to explicate his consternation took her slightly aback; jolting slightly when his fingers brushed the back of her hand, she looked up at him, her eyes beginning to waver as he exhorted, "Just don't go overboard, okay?"
Nodding being her only option as her voice seemed to have inexplicably vanished, she utilized it and trembled with a sudden, gut-wrenching cold. Over the span of a twenty second conversation, Jack had translated the garbled whine that had ached in the back of her mind for the past week.
Make the pain go away. I don't care how, just make it stop.
She recognized the implication of her thoughts immediately and, though she did not think that her condition warranted such drastic action, perhaps this was just another facet of her denial.
I don't care how, just make it stop.
The words tumbled through her narrowing field of thought, bringing them into the light of a waning reality. The sight was harrowing; in the face of their implication, she unconsciously drew her knees, fraught with slight tremors, to her chest again, wrapped the bone-thinness of her arms around their slight girth, and clung to them, her knuckles whitening under the strain.
I don't care how, just make it stop.
But she did care. She did. She was not so far gone that she would invite the welcoming embrace of self-annihilation. No. That was not an option.
I don't care how…just make it stop….
…I don't care how…
-------------------------------------------------------
She had fallen asleep hours ago and for that he was thankful. After she had succumbed to a deep reverie that he had been powerless to stop or call her back from, she had dropped slowly into sleep, her muscles remaining taunt, alert for an inordinate length of time. Eventually, however, the tension throughout her limbs had dissipated leaving only faint stress lines etched around her eyes and mouth in its wake.
Every now and again a whimper would escape her throat, the skin around her eyes crease, and the corners of her mouth dip in response to the headiness of her dreams. But she was sleeping, he told himself; he should not wake her, he should not call her out of that sleep-deluded reality and into this one like he had several times prior. Perhaps she needed this mental immersion into her own hell to expedite her recovery; perhaps she would open herself to him, allowing him access to the deep-seated fears now harbored in the stronghold of her warrior's heart. Perhaps this was the prodding she needed, bourn not of outside stimuli but that of her own conjuring.
Right.
He reached across the bench seat and gripped the hand lying limply in her lap unable to withhold his comfort from her any longer. The force of her reciprocal strength shocked him; her fingers tightened immediately around his own, numbingly clenching his bones together. His discomfort was instantly justified, however; when her lips, dry and tight, parted to allow a strained, distant breath to pass.
"Jack…" she murmured through sleep, her hand lessening its grip and the lines slowly melting from the worn skin of her face.
His vision fogging suddenly, he kept his eyes trained on the road ahead of them as he ran his thumb over the soft skin of her hand. "I'm right here, baby," he whispered. "I'm right here."
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