Alternatives

Chapter VI: Last Time

Based upon Stargate: SG-1

Rating: T

- JOR - Based on the Season 4 episode: "Beneath the Surface;" takes place shortly after said episode -

FYI, I think this is my favorite one . . .

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Sam Carter sat on her couch with a half gallon of chocolate ice cream and a spoon, watching the saddest chick flick she had seen in years. She felt awful. She had for days, and to be quite frank, she hadn't been trying to make herself feel any better.

She wanted to wallow in her own misery.

She could still remember the feel of his skin on her skin, his worn hands on her body, his lips on her neck, whispering words in her ears -- words that didn't really make any sense and seemed foolish now. She was never going to forget them. She missed them -- those words, those lips, those hands, that skin -- and she was always going to miss them.

It felt like she had lost someone. Two people, actually. She lost him, and . . . and herself. At least, the her that could love him; the man he had been.

She was on the verge of tears -- from both the movie and her memories -- when there was a knock at the door. She checked the clock, it was far too late for Janet to be stopping by to make sure she was alright.

Sam was tempted to not get up, but to simply stay on the couch with her sappy movie and her bucket of chocolate self-pity. There was a second knock and she groaned, realizing that she had to get up and get it. She hauled herself off of the couch and headed towards the door. Sam took a deep breath, trying to look at least a little less pathetic. She opened the door and the deep breath she had taken caught in her throat.

Colonel Jack O'Neill.

She didn't know what to say.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey," she echoed, purposely leaving off his title. She couldn't call him 'Sir,' not right now. She had been able to force it out at the Mountain but right now she was just too vulnerable, too weak, too tired, to continue the charade.

They stared at each for a few moments. Neither one of them said anything, words having temporarily lost all meaning.

"Can I come in?" he finally asked.

She wanted to say 'no,' or at least part of her did. The smart part of her wanted to say 'no.' The smart part wanted to send him away before she did anything she would regret -- something every part of her would regret.

Despite her better judgment, she stepped aside and allowed him into her home. She wanted to say something, but she couldn't find any words.

He looked around the room, his eyes pausing on the bucket of ice cream on the coffee table and the paused chick flick on the television. Eventually his gaze made its way back to her. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head, trying to find words. He never was very good at this type of thing.

"I . . ." he started. His voice was soft; much softer than she had ever heard it. Well, not ever. A softer voice had whispered in her ear what seemed like an eternity ago. His voice made her knees want to buckle, but she forced them straight. She was proud that she was able to stand her ground, but she knew it wouldn't last.

He sighed and smiled softly. "I need a last time."

The words hit her like a naquadah enhanced nuclear warhead. Again, she wanted to respond, but her voice was lost and her mind couldn't form enough words to arrange into a coherent sentence. She mocked herself silently, Look who isn't good at this type of thing now.

"I didn't know the last time was gonna be the last time," he continued, saving them both from waiting for her to come up with a response.

"Please go," she finally said, her vocal chords forcing the words out in a barely audible whisper.

It was silent for a several seconds while he thought of what to say next. "You . . . You are my addiction." His words came slow, but deliberate.

"Please go," she repeated a little louder, but still quiet enough to be categorized as a whisper.

"And I can get over you, I can. I can break the habit. I just . . . I need a last time. I need to know our last time is the last. time." He sharply punctuated his last two words.

"You can't even say my name, or hers for that matter," Sam said trying to force the coming tears and sound strong, at least until he left.

"That's 'cause it doesn't matter," he answered. "He felt for her the same things I feel for you. That's why he wanted to be near her. That's why he wanted to protect her. . . . That's why he wanted to be with her."

"Sir, just please go," she reverted back to her pleading, accidentally using his title by habit. She frowned at the unwanted tears welling up in her eyes.

"Look who can't say the name now."

"That's because it doesn't matter!" She was surprised by the sound of anger in her voice. She wondered who she was angry at. "Those people don't exist anymore, and we don't have what they did."

It took him a few moments to respond, and when he did, his voice was soft again. "I won't come back," he said, almost begging. She could hear the longing in his voice, the need. "I promise. I promise I won't come back. I just need one last time . . . with you.

"I need to say goodbye," he whispered.

The tears started to drip down her face, and she wiped them away angrily. She looked away from him and tried once more, "And I need you to leave," she forced with a surprising degree of credibility.

He took a small step towards her, just big enough to notice the difference. "Look me in the eyes and tell me to go home, and I will. I'll leave and I won't ever bring it up again. Either way, really, I won't bring this up again. Alcoholics don't bring up scotch."

She met his gaze and tried to hold her ground. She tried, hard, and for a moment, she actually believed she had it. She thought she had the will power to tell him to go. But those eyes bored into her. The background faded and was replaced by the cloudy rusty brown of oxidized metal occluded by smoke, steam, and grime. All that was left were a pair of eyes that wanted her, that needed her.

"Don't go," she surrendered.

As he took another step towards her, she threw her arms around his neck. "I miss them," she sobbed into his neck. She missed him -- the man he was right then, the man he had been -- and the woman she had been.

His arms tightened around her. "Me too."

His lips found hers slowly, and she cried, knowing it was the last time. But he was right. They could get over each other. It was possible.

He, too, was her addiction, and she could break the habit if she knew it was the last time.

So they had their last time.

He left her before morning. He untangled his limbs from hers and started recovering his lost clothing. She sat on the floor wrapped in nothing but the afghan from the couch and watched him prepare to walk out of her life -- prepare to walk just far enough out her life that she would be near him every day but never be able to have him.

Once his boots and coat were on, he crouched down to her level and kissed the tears off her cheeks. She watched his eyes slide close as he kissed her lips. She ran her hand through his hair -- for the last time.

He rested his forehead against hers as he tried to summon the will to actually leave. He kissed her lips one last time and walked away.

She cried, hard, for hours.

It had been their last time.

They had been wrong. She wouldn't be able to get over him.

At that moment, she would have given anything in the entire galaxy to not have to get over him. Anything, including who she was and who she had been. She would have given anything for that not to have been the last time.

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