Memento More-y
Chapter 2
Valet Service
Somehow they all know to congregate in the cafeteria at the same time, the witching hour when they don't want to admit they have no leads, don't want to admit that they've given up on finding her, but again they all know they have no leads.
He stirs his coffee, his stomach a little upset, probably from not eating yet. Once he burst out of the restaurant, he didn't go back in, just pulled his valet stub from his jacket pocket while filling in Sam on what happened.
She liked the valet.
The idea of somewhere being so swanky they parked his car for him. Her tired, ringed eyes sparked again, and he held his arm out to her as they walked inside—mainly because of the way most of the valet guys were looking at him.
Mainly because of the way they were looking at her.
He fretted over her not bringing a coat and debated with himself if it was too forward to offer her his jacket. Decided against it because it might reinforce her idea of their dinner out being a date—because it wasn't—he just wanted to thank her, and when she insinuated what he thought she would, he fought his fluster down into his empty stomach and thought she understood until she excused herself.
Should he have gone with her?
Not in a creepy way or anything, but in an escort-y way to wait outside the washroom because she hasn't been off base that often. She's so unique, an alien who looks exactly like them, that he just assumed she was safe from the normal perils of being an attractive woman—but he's seen her defend herself off planet. Take down guys who loom over her, just flip around and scurry up them until her legs are around their necks and he has no idea how she defeats gravity to such a degree, but he didn't worry.
He should have worried.
All the worry roils around in his stomach and Mitchell plops down across from him, equally exhausted from organizing the search relays for her. He has the same Styrofoam cup of coffee squeezed between his hands and the same bitter look on his face.
"I sent out a picture of her to all the local police stations in case she turns up." Mitchell rests his head in his hands, then breaks one free to slide a package of antacids across the table to him.
Sam's forehead rests against her forearms, her face directed at the table and she's been that way for the last fifteen minutes, so he assumed she was taking a cat nap. But she adds—her voice muffled against the table, "I called all the woman shelters and faxed over a picture."
"Who took that picture anyway?" Mitchell laughs, his lips bubbling into his coffee.
He only stares at his coffee, black, with little ripples in the middle of it from the recoil of Mitchell's laughter shaking the table. Doesn't look up because he was the one who had to fish through her personnel file, through the write ups received from Mitchell, from Landry—one from O'Neill—for just sneaking around the base, for stealing things from office supplies to leftovers to someone's laptop.
Through all the medical records from Lam and cursed his literary prowess to read paragraphs before retaining the information, the things he shouldn't know now. How when he slammed closed the manila folder, he couldn't swallow the lump in his throat.
"I believe that is Vala Mal Doran's security clearance photo." Teal'c sounds the same, but he's doing the same staring off into a distant point, half awake, half listening, full of blame.
"She photographs like shit." Mitchell adds, sipping up more of his coffee.
Sam sits up, sharing the humor and Teal'c cracks a grin.
"She doesn't like cameras."
Doesn't know why he's bothering to explain the reason behind her crooked half grin and the worry in her slanted eyebrows. But he also knows it's because of what he read in her file and when he swallows this time all he tastes is bile.
"Really?" Sam darts her eyes to his coffee and he nods. She swipes the cup and begins swirling around the liquid inside. "I thought Vala would love the idea of posing."
"Getting caught on camera is usually how whoever was chasing her found her."
He was there when Landry demanded if she wanted to wander around the base unsupervised, she get her photo taken for a security clearance. The photographer told her to smile, but she fidgeted on the stool, smoothed out her pants, turned to him with concern evident in her wide eyes.
Should have explained the process, why it was necessary, that she looked fine, great, beautiful. Reassure her that no one was going to post it for the Lucien Alliance or any other bounty hunter to find.
Instead he gripped, "Vala it's just a stupid picture."
When she explained herself, he told her she was being dramatic.
"We shouldn't be worried." Mitchell tries again to raise morel by restating things they've already said to themselves a dozen times and will say a dozen more times before morning. "She can take care of herself."
What he doesn't have the nerve to say—something they all also know—is that most missing people aren't found after 48 hours.
And they must all be thinking of the same thing because none of them bother to agree with Mitchell, whose head falls back into his hand, his watery, tired eyes buried. "What the hell even compelled you to take her to a restaurant?"
It's not so much blame as misunderstanding in confusion, in exhaustion, in worry because none of them knew how much she meant to them until she was gone.
She's always just gone.
"Cam," Sam admonishes softly, her hand reaching across the table to land on his sleeve in a calming comfort.
Mitchell nods into his hand, his face really red. "Sorry Jackson, I—"
"She wasn't acting like herself. She was being quiet and careful, so careful, so I thought a change of scenery, getting out of this place, would make her happy." It's true. It's all true and if his stomach wasn't a boulder in his body, he would've lied. "I also thought she'd love the valet."