A/N: Had to keep re-writing this. Couldn't get in the mood and kept whining to myself until I did it. I'm not satisfied with it, but I don't think I ever will be, concerning this part, so here you have it.
I have never been in the States, so I have honestly no idea how the weather is in California. I'm sorry for any and all the mistakes I make.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything related to the Stargate franchise. Any credit should be given to the wonderful creators, producers, directors, owners and actors of the three television series and movies respectively.
Changing Circumstances chapter two
When she recalls living in Washington, she understands why she has found it so hard to adapt into the dry Californian heat. Ellie has none of these troubles, having spent all her life living at their house on Pine Lake Drive in Colfax. Sam smiles at the memory of her introduction to the house. Her realtor had been truly puzzled at her demands, especially when she didn't ask for populated, toddler-friendly areas with nearby playgrounds and kindergartens. Which was why she had brought Mark, to at least assure the realtor that she wasn't a first-timer with no sense of experience. Five months pregnant, showing, and asking none of the typical questions a pregnant house-buyer would. But in the end, the house was perfectly suited for her needs.
Three bedrooms, one long ago made guestroom for occasions when Janet Fraiser flies in. Even though they're both busy mothers now, Sam cannot deny that she enjoys spending time with Janet, more than she should. There is lot of space in the house, lots of maintenance. Yet she hasn't moved, because this is the house where Ellie grew up. The house where she is growing up. And her own broken record has taught her that one home is better than twenty houses. That she has learnt from moving around constantly with her father.
The temperature is different, the sun more aggressive. She has experience with multiple suns, multiple solar systems. None of them have been places of permanent stays, which means that she tans easier than Ellie; of her versatility she always envies. Sometimes she curses Martouf for gifting their daughter with his skin rather than her fair one. Ellie has rarely needed sunscreen. Her? She burns rather than tans, leaving pink flesh sore to the touch. And what bothers her is, most people on other planets are too primitive to use or fabricate sunscreen and therefore their skin does not appear scorched. In hindsight, that really annoys Sam.
While their garden is small, the backyard a bit larger, the lawn still needs to be mowed regularly, the fence painted and the rope on the makeshift swing in the tree replaced. Sam has decided that in the next trail of weekends, she is going to do just that. With a bucket of white paint and a wristwatch secured on her forearm, she starts in the rear end of the backyard, humming a merry jingle from a commercial she can't remember. She has dressed in her oldest pair of faded jeans, a nondescript top that will go directly to the garbage can after this assignment and mismatched flip-floppers made of foam rubber. She has mowed the lawn yesterday although constant use has made it flat by default. She has placed industrial plastic on the tiles where she risks spilling paint. It takes forever to get off, she knows from experience in her own college years.
Sam doesn't forget time; she makes sure every time she has painted three planks of fence to check time. When it is time to clean up and switch clothes, she hears a clearing throat and spins around unceremoniously. She hasn't heard anyone arriving. Yet there stands Jack O'Neill with a duffel bag thrown casually over his shoulder, civilian clothes on, with a cheeky smirk at the sight of her mismatching clothes.
"Jack!" she grins, a little at odds. "I thought you said you couldn't come this weekend!" she says confused, painting brush in hand, forearms stained with titanium white paint 403, looking impossibly unattractive. And she can neither hug him, kiss him or greet him without messing up his clothes as well. And damn if he doesn't look cheeky right now, knowing what she just assessed.
"Pulled some favors," is all he claims, putting the duffel bag down. He sweeps his sunglasses off – she notices it is the same ones from missions and wonders how he managed to sneak off-world BDU equipment off-base, but then remembers that he's Jack O'Neill and wouldn't be if he didn't try that one – and steps closer, glancing at her and the fence. "Looks like fun."
She shrugs, smile still tucked in place. "It's work."
"Oh, I wasn't speaking about the fence, Sam," he smiles, dropping the bag and stepping in to give her a light kiss, inevitably pulling her into his personal space and getting all whitely stained in the process. She grins, running her hand through his hair. Now it is truly salt-and-pepper.
"You do know this is going to take forever to wash off, right?" she reminds him as he reluctantly lets her go. She gestures to his blouse, his arms, his hair.
"Sam," he says seriously. "I do like a challenge."
She blurts into laughter at that, feeling her stomach do somersaults at the very serious expression at the very O'Neill-like offer. And she can barely keep herself from smiling at the idea of Jack doing her that favor. She quickly shakes out of it once she remembers Ellie's riding lessons. She should be done by now.
"I need to go change, Jack, and pick up Ellie from the equestrian school," she reminds him; he can't possibly have forgotten that Ellie takes lessons on Fridays, yet she hates to spoil this utterly childish and ambiguous conversation filled with underlying messages.
"I called Andy and convinced him to do that," he admits sheepishly.
She raises a brow cockily. "Why?"
He turns around so instead of walking next to her, he is in front of her, running his hands caressingly over her forearms. "So I could have you for myself," he whispers in her ear, his tone suggestive and loving all the same. And Sam blushingly admits, she likes it. Yet the maternal part of her kicks in, ruining a perfect opportunity to be reckless and careless.
"And, what then? I mean, they're going to be here in twenty minutes, half an hour tops," she points out, studying his handsome features with a flippancy.
"And," he picks up, continuing her trail of thoughts, "I kinda talked him and Alyson into taking her for the night. What? Am I so in trouble for wanting to spend a night with you?" he says, phrasing it so she cannot possibly be mad.
"Does that line work on all the girls?" she asks, smiling.
"Dunno. All I need is one," he replies sweetly with his hands clasped behind her back. If it hadn't been for her flushed cheeks, sweaty palms and state of physical repulsiveness, she would have found it romantic. But right now she could smell the chemical scent of paint and sweat, and hardly call herself attractive or in the mood.
"Jack," she says breathlessly, disentangling herself from his embrace. His arms is sloped over her shoulders as they walk to the patio. "I really need a shower."
Reluctantly, and pouting, he lets her go, waiting outside while she showers. And even though she has putted the lid on the paint bucket, she finds him painting the fence by the time she steps out on the verandah, newly showered, hair wet and messy, frizzled. The light-weight, white and loose cotton pants are better than the discarded jeans, her feet bare and torso clad in a teal halter top. She dries her hair – longer now than ever per Ellie's request – with one of the soft, lightly perfumed towels as she descends the stairs, studying Jack and his concentration. She could watch him forever. Refreshed, she sneaks across the lawn, the grass brushing the soles of her feet, ready to startle him but as she creeps up behind him, ready to jerk, she hears him say, "Sam," in that tone she uses if Ellie's doing something she has been told not to.
"How'd you..?" she asks, but doesn't even bother to finish the question; he works for the Air Force, has done black ops training. Still, he didn't at least pretend. She pouts, then braids her fingers into his – the ones who are impressively paint-less – and leads him away from the work.
He cooks her dinner; or, that is the intention. He has seen her cook before, even admitted that she has gotten better than she was during their SG-1 time – to which she sourly replied that cooking wasn't on her list of priorities then – but he still likes to blow her off her feet with delicious meals that often involve pasta, olive oil and garlic. Dishes that make her gasp and feel like she isn't a busybody. By now they join in, both taking part in the ritual of cooking. It is kind of odd that Ellie is not here, because she usually is, even when the trio cook together with disastrous and wondrous results, but it still feels right despite that guilty feeling in her gut that is pleased that Ellie is not here. She flutters her eyelashes playfully, chuckling as Jack lifts her up on the kitchen table and orders her to watch the pans and pots. Sam feels like a teenager again, like she is in college and watching her newest boyfriend cook for her. It is silly, because they're adults who have cooked thousand times before, even to each other, but the occasion and the atmosphere make it all special.
She sets the table for two while Jack finishes the preparing of the ossobuco on the two plates, stealing a gaze at him; he too showered after painting, but not before cleaning up her mess. She finds that foolish, for him to think that she needs taking care of, but the thought is nice, considerate, and what woman does not like to be wooed?
Once they are done watching each other tenderly while eating lovely Italian food, they retire to the couch, zapping the channels until they settle for an episode of The Simpsons. Sam finds herself chuckling with her back against his chest, liking the soothing movements of circular patterns he is drawing on her thigh. Soon they forget about the lovable, dysfunctional, yellow cartoon characters, instead focusing on each other.
"This is nice," she lazily declares, exhaling deeply and drunk in the moment. The quiet, the niceness of it all. Like they're normal people.
Jack nuzzles into the back of her neck, tightening his loose grip on her waist in agreement. His breath on her skin sends shivers down her spine. "Yeah, it is."
Sam wiggles her hips around, awkwardly facing him before she places a soft kiss on his lips. Even though they have been together for a while, the action still feels so empowering, unlike the rush of anything she has experienced. How his body responds to hers, how hers responds to his, feelings only igniting a spark of what is already there. Trails of touches turn into the heated passion they are known for, eventually leading to a point where Sam must stop him – them – to go to the bedroom, the couch too small and too narrow to continue where this is going.
Despite his knees, Jack still half-carries her, half-pushes her backwards unto the bed, their lips clinging to one another. Sam can still hear the faint noise from the commercial break on the TV, but the message becomes lost somewhere between the mind-blowing kisses she gets from Jack. Soon clothes are discarded, pants, gasps and blissful pleasure shared.
And damn her if she doesn't like collapsing on Jack O'Neill's chest, knowing she is privileged at hearing their heartbeats in sync. Falling asleep just is the slightest better when you have someone to fall asleep next to.
It tickles when Jack traces circles on her back, but it is a nice sensation. Lying on her stomach beside him, her blue eyes sparkle as she stares at him, the only light in the room the moonlight that is streaming through the french doors of her bedroom. She knows the same windows and door will awake them in the morning with merciless rays of sun, but for now they are a bit romantic. The lot of the house is still isolated enough to not feel uncomfortable lying naked with a window directed at you.
"I'm gonna miss this," Jack whispers almost sadly. She tenses a bit, but asks him the question with the same laziness and sluggishness.
"Miss?"
Jack sighs like he is the bearer of bad news. "I got the message Wednesday. Thought I'd tell you in person.."
"Well, it doesn't get more personal than this," she points out softly, kissing the skin on his forearm playfully. The antecubital fossa. It is where one gets taken blood from, and on Jack there are faint scars from many blood tests, but she likes that it is the only spot where he is ticklish.
"True. I'm going to be going off-world," he replies, making it sound like it is a grand admission.
"So?" Sam shoots back, not seeing why he's getting so serious.
Jack stares at the ceiling with an intensity like it has grown tails and wings. "I mean, long-term. Three months."
She finds herself dumbfounded. "Oh." She doesn't really know what to say; sure, they've been separated before, this is, for all intends and purposes, a long-distance relationship, and there have been times where he went off-world not knowing if he would be coming back or when, but a long-term assignment is something different. It means that no matter how often she is going to go to Stargate Command, she isn't going to catch a glimpse of him for three months!
"All of SG-1?" she finally asks, her body cold with realization. It is hard to keep on cuddling at this point.
"No, not all. Teal'c going to assist other teams and commute between the Free Jaffa and Earth. Vala and Daniel are probably coming, Sherwood's replaced by this Mitchel guy."
"Where are you going?" She knows it is not going to matter, but the danger assessment means something to her. She is getting protective; too used to having Jack for herself. Too used to playing house with a space-explorer.
"Supervising the establishment of a delta site."
"Delta site? All I heard have been alpha and beta sites. Even one gamma site, but a delta site –?"
"A new idea some higher-up had. A secure location with storages of medical supplies, weapons stash, meeting point between allies – that sorta thing," Jack absentmindedly explains; she knows that the details are unimportant to him. The time frame is not.
"Won't that be very risky? I mean, keeping the gate address to a minimum of allies..," she trails off, realizing she is ranting for no reason.
"It's gonna be hard," he states, his brown orbs finding hers.
"Ellie is going to miss you," she says, trailing her fingertips across his weathered face, noticing how close they've moved. The thought of not seeing him, not having him drop by and be a part of their lives for three months make her heart ache. Then she realizes the timing.
"This is goodbye, isn't it?" A sob is dangerously close to surfacing in her throat.
"Not officially, no," he answers solemnly, then softens his tone as he caresses her face and strokes her hair tenderly. "Go to sleep. I'll be here in the morning. I'll be here to say goodbye to Ellie. And it's a see you later, by the way."
x STARGATE SG-1 x
A week later, the goodbyes are unexpectedly uneventful. Sam even receives clearance to get Ellie to say her goodbyes in front of the Stargate as the SG teams leave, but declines it. She and Ellie say their respective, private goodbyes in the backyard of their house. Ellie takes it well, which Sam attributes to her maturity, and it is a fairly tearless hug that signifies their farewell. Weeks later, Sam can still feel the brief kiss, Jack's lips on hers.
Suffice to say, she keeps busy. She misses him terribly, but focuses on her job. She gives a few lectures about astrophysics on nearby colleges, but spends time with Ellie as well. While she is a consultant paid by the Air Force, that does not mean they have her full-time. As long as she keeps her boundaries and more importantly, national security disclosure agreements, she is free to lecture on theoretical common-practice astrophysics. She has more spare time, often drives Ellie to her friends' houses, taking her daughter cheerful places, trying to distract her from the fact that Jack is absent.
By week three she is standing at the sink in her bathroom, knuckles white and lines marring her face. The mirror portrays a disheveled version of herself, one whose blue eyes are a bit hazy, the hair a little bit out of order, isn't it? The white porcelain sink is monstrously morbid next to her pale hands, filled with cuts and a paint stain she couldn't get off. She studies herself at noon, halting her daily routine to get a good look at herself. The long, blonde hair, set high on her scalp, hangs loosely and without enthusiasm. If hair had enthusiasm, that is. She looks sickly pale; maybe she is coming down with something.
Even the soft pink cardigan she is wearing looks dark. She ought to get herself checked. But that is not why she is here, why she is worrying. She bites her bottom lip bitterly and closes her eyes. For a moment she can pretend that she is not here; that she isn't flashing back eight years into the past; that she isn't painfully aware of how stupid this sounds and looks; that she isn't holding back sobs of frustration and confusion.
That she hasn't missed a period.
Denial is not just a river in Egypt. She has suspected for days, never really thought about it. It is hard to keep count of the days when she is as busy as she keeps herself, but she has written it in her calendar. And she cannot deny the fact that it so coincidentally happens that she is eight days late. Call it a mother's instinct, a woman's intuition, but she knows that buying a test will ultimately mean that she faces the problem. That she acknowledges the possibility of her being pregnant again. And bad timing is always a factor in her life. Sam Carter is a coward when it comes to that.
But, as so many other days in her past, she puts on a brave smile and endures it all. She puts on a layer of makeup to fix the haunted looks and the bony cheeks before driving to work at the office. Throbbingly, she vainly checks the side mirror to make certain that her civilian colleagues are going to believe the excuse that she went home during her lunch hour to grab some things she needed before picking up Ellie.
She thinks of Mark and Julie, and their little family. She thinks of Lisa, of David, and of Zach and Chris, the two-year-old twins. Of how Ellie and Reese and Davy always played when they were smaller. Reese being a tomboyish girl who live in the same neighborhood as David and Lisa. Then she nearly sobs twice when she thinks of all the time that has passed: Lisa is nearly a teenager! Cassie is in college! Her baby daughter is eight years old.
It is with great doubt that she buys the pregnancy test at the drug store before returning to her fellow professors at California State University, Sacramento.
x STARGATE SG-1 x
A mere handful of hours later she has returned to her home, picked up Ellie who is watching the Lion King for the umpteenth time this month. Giggles and snorts come from the living room and she is blissfully unaware of the emotional struggle her mother is having.
She cannot help being happy. Is that healthy? She knows it is no accurate test; it could be a false positive and she only bought one test. She glances at the bathroom door, knowing her daughter is sitting such out of sight, and then thinks of how she wasn't planned. And she turned out fine, despite the odds. Despite all the insecurities, Sam felt during her first pregnancy. Despite the chaotic timing, relations and cross-species genetic knowledge. Despite the fact that Sam killed her father to protect her.
Which she still does not know if Ellie knows about. She possesses the genetic knowledge of Martouf's symbiote, Lantash, from the moment of conception – a thought that makes Sam queasy – but somewhere along the way, she has stated that she knows her biological father is dead. Whether it is from seeing it with her own mind or from intuition, Sam cannot be sure. She isn't even sure if she wants to ask her daughter who she considers her father. Jack? Martouf? Lantash? She certainly seemed to know it was him when she met Alaric, his host, four years ago.
This child will be normal. Not that Ellie isn't, no. Her and Jack have never discussed children. Elara has always been a gift beyond comparison, and she thinks that the Charlie ordeal has made Jack shy to the idea. They haven't been trying; yet here she is, looking at her positive pregnancy stick, her only sexual partner being Colonel Jack O'Neill, United States Air Force.
A/N: I was extremely displeased to realize that I got Sam pregnant (pre-Changing Priorities) before she could blow up a sun. (4x22: "Exodus") That would have made an awesome one-liner. Well.. Also, I wasn't going for a super sexy, dripping scene between Sam and Jack – I wanted to spare the few Sam/Martouf/Lantash shippers out there – but a way of stating the established relationship. They're not just doing the horizontal tango for entertainment purposes (to us, yeah, kinda) or out of need but because they're a couple. Get it? But don't worry – this? – won't last for long.