/ For myblackrose, StargateFan and SamandJackForever, who made a very nervous writer very happy /
It's been four days since I wrote the letter.
It's been three days since he came back from Washington.
It's been two days since I've seen him.
I am an idiot. I left it in a pile of papers on my desk. I must have swept it up with my reports when I left for work. And he found it. He came by to say hi, but I had my nose stuck in an experiment in the next room, and asked him to wait. And he found it. He read it, and he left. Didn't say a word. I didn't even realise why, just thought he had been called away for something.
I found out about his resignation that afternoon. General Hammond came to my lab and told me. My world came crashing down around my ears.
He sent me home, said I looked tired, and could use some time to think things through. Looking back on it, I think maybe General Hammond had some idea of what was going on, maybe Jack had told him. Nothing much gets past Hammond.
I came home. I cried, sitting on the couch wrapped around a cushion. Daniel called, left messages on the phone, but even he seemed to know enough to leave me alone. Daniel's like that. Intuitive. He'll wait as long as it takes.
I've lost him.
Two days have passed since then, and I haven't been able to leave the house. I can't stop thinking about him, about us, about the stupid letter. I've been trying to pull myself together, to reason things out, but my head is clouded with pain and grief and the realisation that I did this to myself. I asked him to walk away, no, I begged him. I used the letter to pour things out that should never have been said but so desperately needed to be said. It was never intended for him to read and yet it was. I'm torn. I needed to be away from him, I needed to remove my reliance and my addiction, but now that he has done that for me, by body is screaming for him. I would give anything to hear his voice, to feel his presence near me, to bask in its re-assurance and hide in its security, but I can't.
I think I've been pacing the floor for a good two hours.
Logically, it was the best thing that could have happened, right? If I never intended him to know how I was feeling I shouldn't have wrote the letter. If some small part of me wasn't screaming for escape and the end to this charade then it would not have come out in ink on paper. He's walked away so I can move on. So I can see a normal guy, have a normal house with a normal family and a normal dog and a normal car and play at being mother and wife and chief cook and bottle-washer. It was the right thing to do. I know it was.
But then why, if it was so right, am I shaking with the need for him? Why am I still crying, two days later? Why do I feel so abandoned, so lost, so completely empty that nothing and no-one can draw me from my self induced reverie of melancholy and desolation? It's like the whole picture of my life, the way I view it in my head, has been torn from its frame and shredded and cast down. The very fibres of my being have been shaken to their cores, and now their begging for the one thing that they know will put it right. Jack. He would know what to say. He would fix it. He would draw me into his arms, into one of his bear-hugs that I secretly believe he reserves for me, and it would be all right. But he can't, because he is the reason that I have done this to myself. The very need of him is the reason I have banished him.
I think I'm on my fifth cup of coffee. The pot has long since boiled dry. I probably should go fix it.
Why couldn't I have left things alone? Why was it so important to me to break us apart? Because I was dying, I know that. I was being slowly consumed until there was nothing left but my need of him. But right now, I would gladly let it shackle me, tie me down for all time, just to regain some semblance of what it was like before I wrote that stupid letter. I'm still dying, but of withdrawal rather than addiction.
I need him.
I have to speak to him. I have to be near him.
Screw it. I'm going to find him.
Grabbing my car keys and jacket, I realise I'm still crying, and stop at the mirror in the hall to wipe my eyes. That's when I see him. Jack. He's standing on my driveway, looking at my door, almost ready to knock. He looks afraid, and he's hanging his head in that way he does when he's thinking. My heart stops dead. I'm filled with dread, anticipation, and sheer happiness as I look at him. My security blanket has just re-wrapped itself around my shoulders and my skin is humming. I'm falling again, falling back into the softness and familiarity that his presence near me creates.
I begin to realise that no matter what he wants to say to me it isn't going to matter. I will face what he has to say when it comes to it. What I wrote in that letter, what I have made him do to help me, it was all an attempt to save an individuality that should not exist any longer. I'm not on my own anymore, and I shouldn't be. I was simply afraid of it. My career, my normal future husband and normal future family can all go to hell. I want Jack. I'm going to have Jack. I don't care anymore, not about the repercussions or the fallout or any of it. I've saved the world enough times, isn't it about time some karma kicked in? I want to be happy, and the only way that that can happen, is with him. Screw being alone. Yes I'm addicted. Yes it compromises everything I once was. I want to be consumed. I want to be Sam and Jack.
It may be illogical, and yes part of me is shouting about regulations and self-reliance and my career, but that part of me is being quickly beaten into submission. My whole world is about to change. I'm going to make him see, not just how much I need him, but how much he needs me.
I take a deep breath, drop my jacket and keys, and open the door.
/ I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul. /