Authors Note: Wow, I posted the wrong story yet again. This is the correct one. Sorry! (Do I get a ditz award or something at this point?)
Another note. I was reading a history book the other day, and it turns out their was actually some Middle Easter country in Greek times that did auctions much like this one. There is an example of art accidentally intimidating life!
"No, not as a slave. You can be whatever you want to be."
"Ok, I want to be a wife," she says, moving closer and trying to kiss him.
He pulls away. She searches his eyes, confused. She figured he just needed permission. Some token that could ease his guilty conscience.
"I guess I didn't think this through," he says. "Just because you open the prison doors, doesn't mean that anyone will leave."
She isn't sure she likes this comment, it feels a bit like an insult. "If I do not cook or clean or care for children, what will I do?"
"What you did before. Research."
She stares at him critically, "You want me to research for the resistance?"
He isn't sure how she could figure it so quickly. He knew she was brilliant, but he didn't know how brilliant she was. "How did you know?"
"You wouldn't want a researcher unless you benefited from increased mine or agriculture output, or were part of the resistance. If you were in charge of the mine or agriculture, we'd be on a different street right now."
He smiles. "I know I don't have a right to risk your life without your permission. But I swear to you, Carter, I will do anything I can to keep you safe."
He isn't what she thought the resistance looked like. When she was a little girl, she'd played resistance and Jaffa like all of the other children. She'd always been the resistance; after all, being the underdog was more of a challenge. But when you played resistance, you dressed in black with a mask. She'd somehow expected that she'd know the resistance as soon as she saw it, even though she knew that was ridiculous. If the resistance were that easy to find, they would be instantly killed.
"I'm not as afraid as I should be," she says bravely.
Jack remembers when Sara found out that he was in the resistance. He'd already won her heart, and figured it was only fair to tell her before they were married. She'd cried, and begged him to leave the resistance. Sara always thought she'd lose Jack to the resistance.
And maybe she had. Not completely, all at once, through death, like she'd feared. But how many times had he snuck out of their marriage bed to do the business of the resistance? How many lazy rest days had he worked through? How often had he been gone for weeks at a time to place she didn't even know of? If he'd known how little time he would have with Sara, he would have listened to her plea.
But Carter isn't Sara. She's not begging him to quit the resistance. She's not afraid. He'd known that she was amazing, but he hadn't realized exactly how amazing she was.
"Carter, let me show you to your room," he offers.
She moves the pot off the flame, and nods her head, and he takes her down a hallway. When he opens the door, it whines in protest, obviously not having been used in a long time.
The room is nice enough. He had at least shaken the dust of the blankets, even if the dust went no farther than the floor beside the bed. He'd attempted to sweep the dust from the dresser as well, but he'd missed the corners. There were flowers cut from the bushes in the front laid on the dresser.
"I'm sorry, it isn't much."
"It's beautiful, but I really would prefer your room."
"I'm sorry, Carter, I ought to have asked if you wanted the gift I tried to give you. It's too late now. This is the life we've got to live. So you might as well make the best of it. You've a trunk coming from your fathers?"
Sam nods her head.
"All right, then," he says, walking out of the room.
She stands in the room for a few seconds. But there is nothing to unpack, and nothing to explore. So she follows him back to the main room.
He is cooking her biscuits.
"You don't have to do that," she says.
"If you're, hungry I will make you food," he says. "And call me by my name."
"I don't know it," she says bashfully. She suddenly wonders if she ought to know him. She searches her childhood for some memory of him.
"I'm sorry, Jack O'Neill," he says, extending his hand to her.
She tries her new name in her head. Samantha O'Neill. Mrs. O'Neill.
"And what do you do when you aren't fighting the Goa'uld?"
"Technically, I'm a professor."
Her eyes light up. "What field?"
"Literature."
Her face turns disappointed as quickly as it lit up.
He suddenly feels the need to defend his choice, and speaks before he remembers how unwise it is, "If you only knew the messages, secrets, and IDEAS, they put into those things!"
"Nonsense! They burn subversive books," Samantha says.
"Ah, only if they are smart enough to read books! If they knew about metaphors or alliteration or symbolism, they'd burn most of the books that have been written! But their brains don't work like that. They are a straightforward people who understand force and fear and truth. They don't understand secrets and spies and lies."
"What are spies?" Samantha asks him, never having heard the word.
"Well, mostly they are fictional. There was a writer… years ago, who wrote a fictional story about humans who won a war against Goa'uld by sneaking around and getting information on them. His name was George Washington*. Of course, the books were banned, but there have been people saving banned books since the beginning of time."
"Are you a spy, Jack?" she asks.
He stares back at her. It's a title that Walter bestows upon him when he delivers a particularly useful hunk of intel. It's a word that the new recruits whisper in awe when he gives them their first bit of training. It's the word that Sara whispered like a swear word when he slipped from their bed late at night.
He shrugs. "We say 'member of the resistance'."
"Well, words aren't that important."
"Try telling Daniel that."
"He's a big fan of words?"
"He's a linguist."
"Does the resistance need a lot of linguists?"
"Daniel isn't part of the resistance. Neither are his wives Farida and Hosna. Sha're is part of the resistance. He has no idea. The sad thing is, I think Daniel could be part of the resistance. The things he says sometimes… I think he wishes there was a resistance, but he doesn't even believe in it."
"So why don't you invite him to join the resistance?" Sam asks with a shrug.
"You don't just invite people to join the resistance. If you are wrong about them wanting in, they could have you killed."
"So, you took a chance on me," she says. Then she looks in his eyes, "No you didn't, because if I told on you, you'd just say something worse about me, and I'd be the one killed. They'd never believe a wife over her husband."
He shakes his head.
"What does Sha're do for the resistance?" Sam wonders. "I can't imagine a woman being particularly useful to the movement."
"Actually, our movement has a lot more woman doing useful things than pretty much anyone out there. These woman, they aren't given a chance to use their talents anywhere else, so they come to us, and we give them a chance to use their talents. Sha're works mostly as the delivery person. She does these social visits that include the depositing of packages all over town. She also watches Charlie when I'm gone. I couldn't go anywhere without her help. But our unit of the resistance has only one doctor, and she's a woman."
"Why would the resistance need a doctor? If you guys got hurt, you could just go to the healer."
"If you need treatment for a staff blast, they are going to figure out you are part of the resistance."
"You've been shot by a staff blast?" she asks.
"Obviously not a direct hit."
"I didn't know you could survive any kind of a hit with a staff weapon."
"That's because you've believed the propaganda of a million years," he says.
She stares at him as a new world opens before her eyes, "Why did you marry me?" she asks.
He debates for long seconds how much truth he is going to tell her, "I couldn't stand the thought of you marrying one of those that wanted you. I just… you're too good for them."
"And you wanted me to do research for you," she prompts.
"Yeah, well, I hoped you would. But if you don't, I'm not going to be mad."
"What do you want me to research?"
He shrugs, "What are you interested in?"
"The Goa'uld have sent me requests. They won't anymore, now that I am married with a child to care for."
"So, if you could research anything in the world, what would you want to research?" he prompts, smiling as he realized that she never thought about what she would do if she was free. That it is really that unimaginable.
"What does the resistance need?"
"Ah… weapons, shields, surveillance, surveillance blockers, and really anything that makes us smarter than the Goa'uld, provided that we can hide it. You know, of course, that being smarter than the Gou'ald is the fastest way to get yourself killed."
She nods her head slowly.
"You biscuits are done," he says.
"I only made them because I thought you might be hungry," she confesses.
"You would have made a wonderful wife," he says with a tone of sadness.
A knock at the door causes Charlie to cry.
"Jack, can I please get him? I know he's your son, but… he's probably the closest I'm ever going to have to a kid. I want to… help raise him."
Jack nods as he goes to get the door. Sam goes Charlie's bedroom. Most of the house is pretty simple, but this room is over the top. The walls are covered with color, and paintings. The furniture is all soft and bright, and it's bursting with toys. The room is a lot bigger than Sam's, and she suspects it's bigger than Jack's as well.
"Hi, Charlie," she says with a smile.
"Dada?" he asks.
"Your Daddy is in the other room," she tells him.
He stands up in his crib and reaches for her. She isn't sure what he wants until he says, "Up."
He's soft and warm in her arms, and he snuggles close against her with his sleepiness. "Charlie, you need to go back to sleep," she tells him.
"Kay," he says drowsily.
She suddenly knows she has to rock him back and forth, so she does. He grows heavier in her hands. Sam looks down at his fat red cheeks, and his puckered mouth.
"Oh, my Charlie," she whispers feeling like she needs to claim him.
She slowly lowers him back into the crib. He stirs, and opens his eyes halfway. She rubs his back, and the eyes close. She's fallen in love with the little boy.
Sam doesn't want to leave the room. But she can hear a trunk being pulled down the hallway. Her dad is here.
She closes the door. "Sammy," her father says, hugging her.
He has a huge smile on his face. Sam has a strange feeling that this is all a lie. Suddenly she feels like she is going to cry. Does she have to lie to her father for the rest of her life? Or would Jack mind if she told him? No, it's a risk. If he found out it's a fake marriage, he'd find out that Jack was part of the resistance. She was almost positive that her father wouldn't turn Jack in, but almost positive wasn't good enough. She wouldn't risk Jack's life.
"You've told her?" Jacob asks, glancing at Jack.
Jack nods.
"Sammy, I hope I made the right call. I was trying to… protect you. I wanted something different for you. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you could have loved one of them. Maybe I stole that from you."
"He knows?" she says, looking to Jack in shock.
"I told him before I put the bid in," Jack says.
"It was a big bid, honey, you can rest assured in the fact that the whole town is talking about how much Samantha Carter went for in the auction," Jacob assures her.
"You shouldn't have done that," Sam says to Jack, blushing.
"You're worth every penny, and more," Jack assures her.
"Well, your trunk is moved in, now is the time when the father-in-law scoots," Jacob says.
"The reason for that is gone; you're welcome to say, Jacob," Jack offers.
"Well, Samantha probably wants to get her stuff moved in," Jacob hedges.
"It's ok, Dad," Sam says warmly, "I made some biscuits no-one wants. Would you like some?"
"My daughter's first meal as a wife, why not?" Jacob says.
*Well, if he wasn't a soldier, why not a writer?