Author's Note: Presently there are 20 completed fics to the Chosen Hearts series. I have WIP (works in progress) for the 8-10 seasons of SG-1. The years between Pre-Season 1's, Charades and S8,'s finale, Forever And For Always, will be fleshed out with your favorite action/adventure episodes. Also watch for futuristic stories, and believe me, they aren't fluffy domestic love stories at the O'Neill's household. Gag!
Now on with the story. . .
Title: Any Given Wednesday - Chosen Hearts Series - S7 - 712-713
Author: HDorothy aka HailDorothy
Category: Romance/Angst
Warnings: None
Pairing: Jack/Sam
Season: S7
Spoilers: 712-Evolution Part 1& 2
Rating: K+
Story Summary: For 7 years Jack and Sam have secretly met in their room. How much longer can Sam wait before she decides she needs more?
File Size: 64KB
Archive: Jackfic, GateWorld, Heliopolis, SamandJack, FanFictionSeries Summary: This is an established storyline in which Jack and Sam fell in love during Jack's retirement. When Jack is re-commissioned and Sam inadvertently assigned his subordinate, they pretend to be strangers and put their wannabe lovers relationship on hold. Little do they realize it will not be a matter of months, but years, before they can follow through on the desire of their hearts.
Special thanks to: My beta Carol Sue you make my words shimmer, you Renegade! And thank you, God, for bequeathing me the gift of the bards.
Disclaimer: All publicity recognizable characters and places are the property of MGM, World Gekko Corp and Double Secret Productions. This series may include script excerpts from the TV Series 'Stargate SG-1.' This fan fiction was created for entertainment, not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks are intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of said author, HailDorothy 2004 ©.
Feedback: Gosh, darn, don't make me beg! Pretty Please? Starvation of this writer's muse is no pleasant sight. All feedback is food for thought and well digested. "Feed me, Seymour!" (The Little Shop of Horrors)
SGC: Wednesday: 1230 Hours
You sit at your lab table, head bent over the newest alien energy source. Compact and portable! If you could just get the stupid gizmo to work with Earth's gravity! You sense him before he is there but don't look up. Not because you don't want to stare into his big brown expressive eyes. Because you love it when he comes around and watches you silently, love the moments in which you are alone together, even if under the scrutiny of the surveillance camera.
You know he feels the same. Still you sense the core tension within him and that he's urging you to look at him.
"Sir?" You glance up and smile.
"I'm going after Daniel." He drums his fingers on your lab table and holds your steadfast gaze.
"Good." You try to sound upbeat. After all, it's Daniel you're talking about.
"This other mission . . . " his sentence trails off as he gauges his internal pacing and flinches. You know he's concerned.
"Shouldn't be a problem, sir. When do you leave?" His mission is far more dangerous.
"Now." Which means the 'Closet.' He taps the countertop with his fingers. No fancy Morris Code. Just taps that only you two comprehend.
"Good luck." You give your best farewell smile, count five and then . . .
Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. 'That's all?'
"You too." He drums one last time.
Ten.
Better.
You nod and he strolls out. A wistful expression heats your face as you glance back at the alien thingy. Man, you even think like him now. Not until you hear his boot heels clacking down the corridor's concrete floor do you move.
Standing casually, you stretch and smile for the camera. You watch the clock and thirty seconds later take your leave. Your heart rides high in your chest. It always does when you aren't going with him. But these are desperate times and you both continue to make sacrifices for mother Earth. Dangerous ones in which the odds of one of you not returning is astronomically high. You don't do the math anymore. It's too fricking accurate.
Honduras! He could be going to Chulak for all that mattered. Just as perilous. Sometimes, home missions are higher risk than off world. And yet you know he's stepping back into familiar territory and mindset. Black Ops. You take comfort in that. Of late, that's not enough. You love him so much it causes you physical pain. A knot tightens in your belly and you wish you didn't. . .love him. Anyone but him. If only.
You stand before the abandoned custodian closet and let out a breath. Any given Wednesday on base you meet here, most often the same time. Rarely, do either one miss and if so, there's a good reason, save for those few occasions when one of you stubbornly held out because of an argument. Ironically, even those are often petty or work related. Not to mention all the times you'd both agreed not to meet here anymore. It never lasted. It's been the one concession you've allowed yourselves over the years. And the agreement to not discuss work is generally never broken unless like now. And like now, you're more than worried for him, you're scared shitless.
Two minutes later you sweep your card, open the door and step into the welcoming darkness of the closet. The same closet you met in seven years back. Although neither of you ever discuss it, it's not by accident that Hammond's never utilized this space. You suspect the general knows, but he's never asked, which in his military mindset means, he doesn't know. Yeah, right.
You stand in the darkness, the room's musty smell a pleasant invasion to your senses, especially when English Leather cologne dominates it.
"C'mere." His strong hands secure your shoulders and he draws you gently and possessively into his arms. You can't see his face, but you know every faucet of his features, of the longing look he's giving you. There's a light, but neither of you turn it on. Since after the first time, you never have. It would reveal too much. Say too much. Emotions and that undercurrent of physical passion you both keep in taut rein.
For now it must stay his way.
Dark.
Quiet.
Silent.
No sir.
No Carter.
Just two wannabe lovers stealing a precious moment.
"Got to stop meeting like this, Dorothy."
"Got a better idea, Scarecrow?" you tease, hoping he does.
"Come fishing?"
"Soon." You promise, as always, knowing that once you do everything will change, even the Closet. Neither of you will risk that. There's too much at stake. And it seems there always will be. You try to keep the moment light. When he said ten minutes that's exactly what he meant. You play the charade and stroke your fingers down his chest heading due south until he growls and captures your adventurous fingers. It's been so long, yet you remember the first and last time . . . A honeymoon on Chulak.
"Nah ah! Must not play with fire," he chuckles, but the heat of his breath on your neck reminds you his fire has been smoldering all these years too. When you finally come together it will be more blistering than the Chicago Fire. He buries his face in that familiar bow of your neck he covets. That rare place his kisses linger, and you relish the chafing of his stubble, holding on tighter you forget to breathe.
"How long?" You clench his fatigue's shirtfront, inhaling the scent of him, putting it to memory.
"Don't know. A week at best."
Another 'O'Neill hug and he fingers the curls along the shell of your right ear. "Going to miss me?"
"Of course."
"I'll spring for lunch when we get back."
"'Kay," you sigh against his heart, amazed this same heart that is so methodically calm in the frenzy of battle, now beats faster than yours.
He sniffs a breath and you savor that familiar habitable sound bite, expecting him to rub his aching lower back. He doesn't.
"So our old Black Ops stomping grounds, huh?"
"Yep. More wacko guerillas."
You don't want to think about the danger for him, Daniel and Doctor Lee. Neither does he.
"Reach into my right pant's pocket." His lovable lisp toys with your senses.
"Sir?" you blurt out breaking the first rule of the room. Still, you note the undeniable smile in his order. You slip your fingers into his pocket and across his thigh. His breath snags at your touch, while you grin at your find. Your fingers coil around the prize.
You quickly retreat with the sweet confectionary. Godiva chocolate! He never forgets. You'll save it for later, when you need to feel his essence, in the middle of a Goa'uld ambush.
"Thanks."
"Think nothing of it."
"Jack?"
"Samantha?" he says it slow and sensuous.
"Wanna arm wrestle?"
"Yeah sure yabetcha." A low rumble of laughter quakes within his chest. It's incredible how one of many intimate exchanges has yet to get old.
You nuzzle his jaw and the temptation to claim his lips almost overpowers your disciplined military nature. Lately, you find each secret rendezvous harder to face. You're so tired of the charade, of never having gotten pass first base with this man you'd follow to hell and back. This man is faithful to a fault, and he'd die a thousand deaths to be with you. This man promises that one day soon, you'll both take it out of this room and be together as lovers, as husband and wife. This man is forever your safe bet.
Lately though, you feel like something is about to break and you fear it will be you. "Come back to me alive, Jack."
"You too, Samantha." He caresses your quivering chin and lowers his forehead until it rests against yours. His hot sweet breath fans your face. A moment later, the searing heat of his lips brands your brow and the dance as old as time between you starts—again. It's so natural and instinctive neither of you rationalize as he passionately urges his lean hips against yours and you press into him. Familiar fingers caress those secret places you've memorized of each other and extract pleasured promises. A gasp escapes your lips. His breath hitches and you sense his fervor is about to overrule his practiced code of ethics.
The dance ends. Forever honorable, he breaks the intimate contact and cradles your face with calloused hands that shake slightly. You're grateful and regretful for his Irish steel will. Despite the darkness, you know he's looking at you. His chocolate brown eyes are narrowed with guilty contemplation. His mouth is flat because he's afraid to smile, to expect more than there is or will be from you. The furrow between his brows is deeper than ever with a lover's concern.
"Hey, we still okay?"
You swallow the lump that's lodged so tight in your throat you can barely breathe. You nod against those elegant, rough textured hands that have held you, shook you, comforted you and thrilled you all these years.
"Yes, Jack, 'forever okay."' A fragile thread of your relationship snaps so softly, you don't even know it . . .yet.
"Always," he says on a sigh. You feel him relax and know a smile softens his face.
You know his insecurity. That one of these times before a mission you won't come to the Closet, your room, or one of these times, 'Okay,' won't be enough and 'Always,' will become never. A renegade tear escapes your eye.
For now you settle and you brush a kiss across a masculine palm as it drops away and he opens the door of your room. Where here, for all intents and purposes an intimate joint admission made almost five years ago has yet to leave this room, and remains your one safe bet.
Fin
Please go to the next story of the Chosen Heart Series, Let Her Fly – S7.