Filling the Spaces

Truth Serum

Undercover as a Couple

Forced Marriage

Amnesia

Part Three

Set in Season 7 between "Lifeboat" and "Space Race".

They didn't get away without the crowd noticing. As soon as the bride and groom had risen from the table, groups of young men had fallen in around them. From the meadow, around the Meeting House, through the square, and to the far side of the village, the escort had followed along, singing raunchy songs and shouting out encouragement to the groom. It was only when Frida had swung the door to the Free House closed that the revelers had retreated back to the clearing for more bjorr and song.

The Free House seemed like more of a hotel than a home—a main room at the front of the structure held a large table and a few chairs in front of a stone fireplace. Deeper into the building, a narrow hallway contained a series of sparsely-furnished single rooms, with double doors at the end opening into a large suite.

Teal'c had made certain that the place was both safe and private, scouting out the rooms and checking latches and windows. He'd also taken care to secure the sword that had been loaned to Sam for the nuptials, placing it on the bed in the main suite while Daniel had helped Jack untie the silk handfasting cord.

O'Neill led Sam directly into the suite, using the candle Frida had provided to light the tapers in the sconces. It was dark, and quiet, and Jack could hear himself think for the first time in hours. Closing the heavy doors behind them, he slid a leather thong through the wooden handles, securing it on a carved hook on the other side of the door frame. It was the closest thing to a lock they had.

"I wasn't supposed to drink that stuff, was I?"

He took his time taking the sword off, laying it on a table next to the main door. Unbuckling the wide belt, he deposited it on top of the scabbard. Finally, he turned to look at Carter. "No. You weren't."

"My mind. It's—all over the place right now. I'm just dumping everything I'm thinking out into the universe, aren't I?"

"Yes. You are."

"There was something in the drink, wasn't there?"

He passed his tongue over his lips. "Yes."

"I thought so." Nodding, she raised her hand to tug the silver circlet and veil off her head. Slowly, the silver crown dangling from her fingers, she made a deliberate circle in the middle of the room, taking in the wood-slatted walls, the high, timbered ceiling, and the wide stone fireplace before coming back around to face him.

Jack had never seen her so vulnerable than she was in that moment—she was completely real—almost visceral. Honesty radiated off her like heat off the sun. And more than anything else, he wanted to protect her from doing anything—saying anything—that would cause her further pain or embarrassment.

At the same time, he wanted to understand her. Needed to let her have her say. He'd promised he would before the ceremony, while he'd been convincing her that this fake wedding thing wouldn't be a disaster.

"It's just that I feel this stuff all the time. It's always there just beneath the surface. Festering, or boiling. Seething. But I never say any of it." She looked away from him, towards the darkened corner of the room, where an embroidered screen partially obscured a deep wooden tub. "I'd love a bath."

"That's not a good idea, Carter."

"I know." She walked over to the tub, running her fingers along the carved wood. Despite the atavistic appearance of Frigganheim, they'd made some forays into modernity. They'd figured out indoor plumbing. Sam smiled as she touched the metal pump handle. "They bathed me before they dressed me up. It's part of the ritual."

"Oh?"

"They anointed me with oil. Lavender, I think. And I'm pretty sure it was infused with those flowers that are everywhere."

"Why?"

"Why did they bathe me?"

"Yeah."

"I don't know. Baptism? Something similar?" Looking up at him, she sighed. Something passed across her features—a look that mirrored the battle waging in her head. She was trying to stop herself from saying something—and it was a skirmish that she apparently lost. "It was supposed to restore my maidenhood."

O'Neill pressed his lips together. Well, damn.

"Wouldn't that be nice? I'd love to get that back from Jonas." She sent an odd look his way. "Hanson, not Quinn."

"Sam—you don't have to—"

"He was my first. Did you know that? And there have only been a couple since then. And nobody in years. More than seven years." Covering her mouth with her palm, she shook her head. "And I can not stop talking."

"I'm sorry." He was. And he wasn't. It was the dichotomy of a lifetime. He was finally getting a glimpse inside the most glorious mind he'd ever encountered—but that glimpse came at the expense of Sam's privacy—and maybe a bit of her pride. He fervently hoped that Thurid was right, and that she wouldn't remember any of this.

"I shaved my legs this morning."

Jack simply waited, leaning back against the heavy door.

"I've shaved my legs every day for nearly seven years." With a sad kind of smile, she glanced over at him before angling past the screen and back towards the center of the room. "I'll bet you don't understand the significance of that."

O'Neill couldn't even begin to guess, so he shook his head. "No."

"It's a protective thing. You never shave your legs for a first date. Especially if you really like the guy. Because then you're not as tempted to do something you really shouldn't do." Heading towards the bed, Carter tossed the silver crown down onto the fur coverlet next to the sword. Going to work on the clasp of the silver belt, she gathered the links in her hands and placed them next to the crown. "Hairy legs are your last natural defense against your own lack of self-control. Impulsivity. Or stupidity. Or something."

He couldn't help it. He had to ask. "Because you think that leg stubble would make you less attractive?"

"I guess. I don't know. It's stupid, right?"

Kind of. But not for the reason she was thinking. There was literally nothing that would decrease his desire for her. Nothing.

"So, you see? I've been ready for seven years." She moved towards him, her skirts swishing around her ankles. She was still barefoot, and her left foot had a blade of grass stuck to the arch. "Ever since—"

This battle, she won. She hadn't completed that thought. But they both knew what she'd successfully squelched.

Ever since I met you.

Her eyes found his. Kept his gaze even as she moved across the room. "But it's never been the right time."

Somehow, she'd approached him without him realizing just how close she'd gotten. It only took two—four more steps before she was directly in front of him—a breath away. So close that he could smell the oil she'd been talking about. Lavender, and the fresh, bright, cloying fragrance of the flowers littering the planet. When he breathed her in, he could envision other things—warm water, hushed voices, and smooth, trim calves—

Escape. He needed an escape. Some excuse to do something that would jolt them both—or maybe just him—away from the visions roiling around in his head.

Sinking to one knee, Jack reached for her foot. He lifted the hem of her ice blue underskirt with the back of one hand, picking the grass off her arch with the other.

Only to have her crouch low—on his level again, her dress blousing around both of them like the billowed waves of the sea.

She fell, rather than sat, ending up perched on her hip on the floor in front of him. And still, she was fighting the urge to do—to say—everything in her mind. She touched the soft leather at his knee, testing the suppleness. "Even now, it's not the right time."

He was caught. Captive. Imprisoned between the woman he'd always wished to be his future and a present that sought at every level to deny him that desire.

"No." Flicking the bit of grass off to the side, he tensed, then sank down to sit, resting his back against the door. "It's not."

She pivoted until her pose mirrored his—sitting on the floor with her back against the heavy carved door. Her shoulder grazed his, linen to linen, her skirts a muddled tangle of ivory and blue next to his bent knees.

Like the rest of the building, the floor was solid—planks of wood stained to a deep mahogany color. Heavy fur rugs lay here and there in the room—in the center of the suite, beside the bed, and a few feet away from the hearth. A large rug warmed the floor beneath where they sat, the fur worn down by the swinging door.

"When will it be time?"

"I don't know, Carter." He hoped he didn't sound as tired as he felt in that moment. As defeated.

Against his arm, he felt her body move, and Jack looked over to see her cover her face with both hands, exhaling heavily.

Despite his better judgment, he reached around her, settling his arm around her shoulders. "I wish I had a better answer for you."

"Me too."

It was subtle, the shift that happened. Her body angling in towards his, her cheek coming to rest on his chest. O'Neill let his head fall back against the door, heard and felt the satisfying 'clunk' of his skull hitting the hard wood.

"I've had this song in my head for weeks. You know how that happens?"

"Yeah."

"Cassie's been in this angsty mood. She's been listening to all these alternative female artists lately." Carter snuggled closer, her body warm against his. "And this song came on the radio the other day while we were driving and one of the lines just hit me right where it counts."

"A knock-out punch."

"A sucker punch. I wasn't prepared for it—or expecting it." She tilted her chin up to look at him. "I just heard this line and thought—that's me. That's my life. I'm that person now."

"What person?"

"'I've been treated so long as if I'm becoming untouchable.'" So soft, her voice just a breath against his throat. "I'm untouchable. That's what I am. That's who I am."

He wanted to refute her—to deny her assertion. He desperately wanted to argue with her, but he couldn't. Because, despite his earnest wish for her to find happiness, if that wasn't achieved with him, he would break. Refuting this point would effectively be urging her to move on. So, instead he stated the obvious. "You need to sober up, Carter. Get some sleep."

"I need you." She touched his face, her fingertips gentle on his jaw, his cheek, the softness of his eyebrow. "I've needed you for so long."

"You need to sleep this off." He looked down at her, taking her in. He knew her face as well as he knew his own. Better, somehow, since at times lately he'd found himself to be unrecognizable. But her face—those clear, wide eyes—deeply honest—filled with a desperate mix of sadness and hope. The dark rim of lashes framing them—thick and lush. Her chin—so damned stubborn. Her lips parted in such blatant invitation that he couldn't trust himself to both look at her and touch her.

Jack turned his face away, focusing on the empty, cold fireplace, on the fur on which they sat, on anything other than her. Anything other than her fingers, as they wandered down his throat to his collarbones, then downward still, playing lightly with the laces on his borrowed tunic. How they threaded themselves between the ties and combed through the hair on his chest.

He closed his eyes, fighting to control his breathing as she further loosened the neck of the shirt, as she turned her body and somehow ended up on his lap, straddling him, her skirts bunched up around her legs and his. Her weight on his thighs as she leaned forward to use both hands now, to skim at his skin—chest, throat, jaw—and to rake through the coarse strands of the hair at his temple, and at his nape.

"I need you." She breathed it against his jawline, her lips light against his skin, teasing the soft skin of her mouth with the day's worth of stubble on his cheek.

He felt, rather than saw, her smile. Felt her softness—her pliant strength—as she took her time exploring him. As she traced the outer ridge of his ear—first with her fingers, and then with her tongue. As she teased at the side of his neck with her lips, her body pressed so close to him that he could smell nothing but those damned flowers, the herbed sweetness of the bjorr they'd been drinking, and the deliciousness that was Sam Carter.

She rocked against him, causing them both to exhale—her in a low sigh, and him in a quick, pained hiss as his hands rose to rest on her hips, then to travel higher to bracket the slim curve of her ribcage.

"Sam—" he spoke even as he knew it was useless. He was lost. Lost, as she found his lips, as she pressed deeper, as she explored him with such frank deliberation that he couldn't help but respond in every way that he shouldn't.

With his hands drifting ever higher, skimming over the supple planes of her back up to the tantalizing softness of her shoulders—her skin smoother than silk—warm and delicate. With his lips wide against her own, his tongue finding—teasing—at hers, at her teeth, tasting her so intimately that he was reeling. The earth whirling beneath him while the sky boiled overhead.

She moved again—slowly, profoundly—thank Frigga for the layers and layers of fabric between them—her body melding against his—so close that they could feel the other's heartbeat, that they breathed in unison. Her hands dug into his jaw, her fingers tight on his face, her mouth warm and wet and wanton as she discovered what made him lose control, what made him gasp her name again.

"I need you." She said it again. Against his cheek. Near his ear, so quietly that it wasn't even quite a whisper. Maybe a sob, or a whimper, as her body relaxed against his, her full weight sagging against his chest. "I need you so much. But it's never going to happen, is it?"

Jack felt her forehead rest against his shoulder, her hands drifting downward, from his face to his biceps, to thread under his arms and fall to his waist. She was swimming against the tide, now. "I don't know, Carter."

"I'm so tired of fighting this." This was a whimper. Forlorn, alone. Alone, even with his body right there, wreathed around her own. "So tired."

"You're drunk, Carter."

"Probably."

She inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly, her breath stirring the tiny hairs on his skin, sending him even deeper into the abyss. And it was all that Jack could do to wait, glaring at the fireplace, and the fur rugs, and that damned enormous bed just across the suite from the hard door where he'd so unceremoniously landed. Wait until she'd relaxed completely, and her breathing had steadied into a rhythm that signaled that she had, indeed, fallen asleep. Until she lay heavily against his body—her cheek suspiciously moist against his shoulder—and he couldn't tell if it was sweat or tears.

And when he'd finally found some control, he gently lowered her down to the fur beneath them, giving her his arm as a pillow, wrapping his body around hers for warmth, and then losing himself to the blessed oblivion of sleep.

—-OOOOOOO—-

She'd turned at some point in the night, tucking her head under his chin, her cheek on his shoulder, her body nestled against his. His arm was numb, but he didn't care. He liked waking up with her like this. With her within his space.

He'd come half-awake once or twice during the early morning—adjusting himself around her, selfishly watching her as she'd slept. It had been a release of sorts, to be awake-yet-not, his mind still playing between the edges of sleep and consciousness. And while he'd drowsed in that state of half-awareness, he'd come to some conclusions. Some he welcomed, while others had burned red-hot agony within.

He'd dreamed a little, too. Or maybe it had been a memory from his childhood. A story he'd once heard about a little boy on a merry-go-round. The operator would dangle a brass ring from a string at the edge of the canopy. A rider who was able to grasp the ring would win a free ride. In Jack's dream, he'd been the boy, leaning off his carousel horse trying desperately to catch the ring, and always coming up short, his palm filling with cold air and disappointment.

He'd drifted back to sleep as a form of escape. Or perhaps in some vain attempt to ignore what his mind had revealed to him. He knew some things now, though. Knew what he had to do.

What she needed was something that only he could give her. And it had nothing to do with this—this deep, abiding, delicious lethargy that they both felt at awakening in each others' arms.

It was about that future for which he'd been yearning. A future that she needed to know that she could still live.

When he opened his eyes to the light of late-morning, she'd already roused, her fingers playing with the laces on his tunic. Once she'd realized he was awake, she hadn't pulled away from him. She'd merely looked up at him from beneath her lashes and continued smoothing the thin ties at the front of his shirt. She hadn't been in any hurry to rectify their positions. Hell—one of her feet was still captured between his ankles.

"Good morning." His voice cracked. Clearing his throat, he tried again. Her hair was soft against his throat. "How did you sleep?"

Her eyes were clear, now. Worry replacing the passionate desperation of the night before. She flickered a look at him, that wrinkle creasing the skin above her nose. "Did we—"

He couldn't help himself. He nudged the wrinkle, hazing his thumb along her eyebrow with a thin smile. "No."

"I don't remember how we got to this room."

"I'm not surprised." Jack smoothed a bit of hair off her face, tucking it back behind her ear. "You were pretty out of it."

"It was that drink, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

She levered herself up to a sitting position, adjusting the neckline of her borrowed tunic. It was hopelessly wrinkled, exposing more than she would normally have been comfortable with displaying. With a rueful smile, she gave up on the dress, peeping over at him. "Do I have anything to apologize for?"

Jack shook his head, rolling onto his back. Despite his age and the fact that they'd been sleeping on the floor, he felt fairly rested. "No."

Her head lowered in a half-hearted nod, and for a moment, she continued working at the tangled mess of her skirts. "I just don't remember anything much past drinking out of that bottle."

"We clued in pretty quickly that it was affecting you badly." The pins and needles were starting in his arm. Gritting his teeth, he resisted the urge to wriggle his fingers, allowing the blood flow to naturally restore feeling to the limb. "Teal'c and Daniel helped me bring you here."

"And we slept on the floor because—"

"Because the drink was affecting you badly." Jack wasn't going to explain any further than that. He hoped his tone lent an air of finality to the conversation.

"Ah. I see."

But she didn't. O'Neill knew that to the tip of his toes.

"Are you thirsty?" He sat up, wincing as the last of the needles pricked at his fingertips. "Frida said that she'd bring some water for you."

"Actually, I really need to use the bathroom. I think there should be one around here somewhere."

"Daniel and Teal'c were supposed to bring your pack from the Women's House. You should probably get changed to go home."

She stood first, rising in that unconsciously graceful manner that she had. He allowed himself the surreptitious pleasure of watching as she crossed to the bed, as she worked to smooth the wrinkles from her gown, as she peered down at her dirty feet and worried at her sleep-tousled hair. "Geez. I'm a mess."

She wasn't though. She was sublime—effulgent—beautiful. He'd been honest about that during their sham-wedding—in those moments before he'd kissed her to appease the chanting crowd. He only felt a little guilty about it now, although he was certain that feeling would grow deeper as time went on. Things had gotten out of control. So very, very out of control. "I'll get your pack. You can take a bath. Clean up a little."

"That would be kind." She aimed the words at him from over her shoulder, touching something on the bed that had drawn her attention.

The silver circlet. The veil. The sword in its intricately tooled scabbard.

Jack sat up, then stood, shaking his own tunic down over his leather leggings. As he crossed towards the bed, it occurred to him that he hadn't ventured this far into the room. He'd lit the sconces, deposited his sword on the table next to the hearth, and then spent the rest of the night near the doors.

"I'll make sure that Thurid gets the crown back." He could do that, at least. While she dressed. While she put herself back together. "I'll take the swords back to Gorm and make sure that I can send another SG team back to formalize the trade agreements."

"Sounds good."

On an impulse, he reached out and touched the crown, lifting it. The veil had only been tucked around the crown, and it fell away to land in a gauzy, ivory heap on the bed. Holding the circlet up, Jack turned it in the light coming in through the room's single window, watching as the brightly polished metal gleamed in the sun's rays.

"It's supposed to symbolize a young woman's journey from childhood to adulthood." She watched him study the carved piece. "Thorid said that young women typically inherit them from their mothers, but she had six sisters, and has five daughters, so they just end up making new crowns for each wedding. This one is meant to be worn by Frida when she gets married."

It was cool in his fingers. Heavy. Something solid amidst the tumult of the past few hours. With a little grin, he held it up towards Carter. "Well, we've given it a dry run."

She laughed—little more than a chuckle, really. But she was back to something closer to her usual self, amused at the stupid stuff that he said. Comfortable in his presence.

O'Neill laid the crown back on the fur coverlet. "I'll go. Let's plan on 'Gating home within the hour."

"I'll be ready."

Turning, he aimed himself for the door. The fur was soft beneath the soles of his boots, pliant. Something to sink his toes in as he reached for the leather strap on its hook.

Damn it.

"Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"It's okay, you know." The heels of his boots caught in the fur as he pivoted towards her.

"What's okay?" Her skirt caught on the heavy bedframe as she turned, twisting her dress off-center. Her expression was frozen somewhere between a smile and a frown. Cautious. Careful, again.

"It's okay if you don't want to wait."

"Sir?"

He swallowed past the lump growing in his throat. Past the pain he knew he would feel at saying what he knew he had to say. "Something you told me last night. About feeling as if you're untouchable."

The color drained from her cheeks, her eyes flying wide. "I said that?"

"And I just wanted to tell you that you shouldn't have to feel like you need to put your life on hold waiting for the time for—whatever this is—" he gestured between them with a flat hand, hoping she'd understand. "Waiting for whatever there is between us—to be right."

"Sir." The light reflected gold off her hair as she shook her head. She opened her mouth to say something else, but closed it again, retreating back into silence.

"You deserve to be loved, Carter. You deserve to be happy." He pressed his lips together, the tightness in his throat extending down his body into his chest. His breathing was stilted, his heart pounding. "And if you're tired of living in this half-life that we have, I get it."

"I'm not—I don't—" She shook her head, her eyes growing darker. Stormy, somehow, rather than mid-day blue. She stuttered a little, trying to answer him. "I'm not following you."

He could still feel her in his arms, could still smell her on his shirt, on his skin. He could still hear her in his head—the words she'd spoken as the sun had set behind them, as they'd knelt in the thick, abundant, cool grass with blades at their knees. With you, I share my body and my life. To you, I give my heart. He'd always be able to hear her—but he didn't expect her to feel the same. He had to be sure she knew. "If you feel like you can't wait anymore. I understand."

"Sir—I—"

His hand curled around the leather strap on its hook—offering him something substantial as he effectively demolished some walls that they'd never actually erected, but had been built just the same. "I just don't want you to be unhappy, Carter. You shouldn't ever feel like your happiness isn't important to me."

She looked so confused—so damned confused—as she repeated herself yet again. "I'm happy."

He knew she wasn't. And so he'd give her what she needed. A push—a nudge—permission—to let him go. To take whatever opportunity she got to find what she wanted. Even if, in doing so, he consigned himself to some kind of lonely agony. It was an acceptable trade. "I just need to know that you understand, Carter. Okay?"

"I understand."

But he knew that she didn't. Couldn't really fathom what he was trying to tell her. Not until she'd moved past him and allowed herself to see a future for herself that wasn't mired in the past.

"I love you." Oh, lord. How it hurt to say that. "I do. But this isn't sustainable, Sam. How we're living isn't good enough for you. You deserve so much more than this."

And he knew that he'd be able to see it forever—the image of her in his mind. Standing beside that bed, in a single ray of morning sunshine, tousled and sleep-warmed and beautiful. The way the sunlight bounced off the silver circlet held between her fingers. The crown she'd worn as she'd married him—as she'd spoken vows that might have been a ruse in her mouth, but had been absolute truth in his.

"But if you're willing to wait, Sam. I'll say it all again. I swear to you, I will." His hand tightened on the leather strap. "I'll kneel in the damned grass and I'll even find a damned sword if you want. And I'll give you a ring that we haven't borrowed from someone. And we'll make it real."

She looked confused, and small, and a little lost. Forlorn. As if she'd just realized that the home she'd been traveling towards was no longer standing, or was in a different country, or maybe hadn't ever existed at all. Her lips parted, but nothing came out. She merely shook her head slowly, her toes curling into the fur at her feet as she searched his face.

"I just needed you to know that."

Then he yanked the leather strap off the hook and flung the heavy door open, taking the length of the corridor with long, strident steps—taking himself out of the house, away from her—cursing himself for both his honor and his cowardice.

An hour later, as the 'Gate blazed to life, O'Neill stood a little apart from his team. Back in his own clothes, his own life, with Siler's ring deep in his pocket. Thurid had given Sam the silver headpiece, imploring Frigga on Jack's behalf for a daughter to someday wear it. Carter hadn't packed it away, instead choosing to carry the circlet through the 'Gate. She'd recovered a bit, chatting freely with Daniel about the symbolism, and the ceremony, and laughing at something he'd told her about the night before. She'd taken the nurse's ring off as soon as they'd been out of sight of the village, stowing it in her own pocket, anxious to return it to its owner.

And Jack thought a little about circles. Circlets of silver, and gold rings, and life itself. Rings lost, and rings found. And the boy from his dream—spinning on that damned carousel, forever straining, forever stretching—forever trying to grasp the prize that was always just out of reach.

Forever fated to be left holding nothing but a handful of air.

—-OOOOOOO—-

***The lyrics quoted in this story come from Natalie Merchant's song "My Skin".