Things Owed
100 Days and Shades of Gray
This is long. REALLLLLLLY long.
There's nothing I can do about it. I've spent hours editing and can't figure out what else to cut.
Shrug
The angst is strong with this one. It's a little more adult that I normally write, too.
I promise that the next "episode" will be a little more lighthearted. ;)
—-OOOOOOO—-
"Hey, Jack." Daniel pulled out the chair across the table and slumped down into it. He sighed-–heavily. Then he had the audacity to do it again.
Jack raised a brow, watching his friend from over the rim of his raised coffee cup. "Tough day?"
"How'd you guess?"
"All the whimpering."
"I'm not whimpering."
"Yes you are."
"I've never whimpered." Daniel glared across the table, somehow managing to do it even though there was something in his way. Something pink and red and frilly. "Not once."
Jack reached out and moved the lacy behemoth out of his field of vision, pushing it a few inches to the right. "That is a blatant lie."
"When have I ever whimpered?"
"Do you want a list?"
"Yes. I would."
"I'll gather the particulars and write a report." Jack took a sip of the swill in his cup. It was cold. And kind of sludgy. But he swallowed it anyway, because he needed the caffeine. Besides, it was already in his mouth, and expelling it therefrom would have been gauche. "With bullet points."
Daniel groaned, his eyes narrowing down to mere slits. With another sigh, he pushed up in his chair and leaned forward on the table. "Well, I guess congratulations are in order."
For a moment, Jack paused. His question was cautious, at best. "For what?"
Reaching out, Daniel plucked a flower from the gaudy arrangement on the table between them. He seemed mildly surprised that the flower was real rather than plastic. "You've been back on the team for what—a day?"
"Two."
"And already, you're making me regret missing you."
Ouch. That kind of hurt. Jack scowled at the archaeologist, settling his cup on the table with a muted 'thunk'. "Well, that was uncalled for."
"Come on, Jack." Daniel yanked a petal off the flower, rolling it between two fingertips. "You've been back for two days, and only managed not to act like an ass for one of them."
Ah. Now he was home. He couldn't help it. O'Neill put on a sincere face. "I missed you, too."
Daniel grinned, despite himself. He tossed the smooshed-up petal aside and gestured at Jack with the now-spindly blossom. "I've been looking for Sam. Have you seen her?
He actually had to think about that. Frowning down at his fingertips, he considered. "Not since the day before yesterday. In the 'Gateroom."
"Yeah. Me either." Daniel scooted his chair closer to the table. "And that's what has me concerned."
"About what?"
"Well, she was here a lot while you were away." He raised his brows, peering at Jack over the tops of his glasses. "Like—a lot."
"In the mess?" Jack glanced around at the cafeteria. Someone had been busy, decking the place out for the recent holiday. Lacy hearts glued to shish-kebab sticks had been arranged in skinny vases along with red, pink, and white carnations. The flowers were a little wilted, but that was to be expected. Valentine's Day had been a few days ago, after all. Within a week, the pink and white decor would make way for green shamrocks, pots of gold, and leprechauns. Jack had been around long enough to know the drill. The mess staff in the Mountain were nothing if not festively predictable. "Why would she be hanging around the mess?"
"No, Jack." Daniel's tone devolved into something one would use with a feeble-minded chipmunk. "She wasn't hanging around the cafeteria. She was on base, though. She barely left the Mountain while you were gone."
"When—during the last mission?"
He'd reappeared in the 'Gateroom two days ago–triumphantly, he might add, with his haul of traitors and thieves. It had taken the rest of the day to sort things out with the Tollan and Asgard, send the criminals to the brig, and have a private debrief with Hammond. He hadn't seen or spoken with the rest of SG-1 since he'd descended the platform. It hadn't been high on his list of to-dos.
Because–they were his team. Right? They knew that he couldn't have really been involved. Right? They trusted him.
Right?
Daniel's visage had grown speculative, though, his jaw working as he stared back at Jack from across the table. "Which mission—this last thing with you going undercover?"
"In which capacity I rocked, by the way."
"Or the other one? Where you went all native and got yourself a girlfriend?"
Jack pressed his lips together and dropped his gaze to where his thumb rested on the handle of his mug. He still wasn't sure how to define what had happened on Edora. He hadn't been lying to General Hammond. He did actually want—no—he needed—to go back and settle things with Laira. See how things were going.
He'd wondered whether—well, hell. There had been a lot to wonder about. Repercussions. Possibilities. Consequences. He'd brought home some baggage from Edora—baggage that was still as confusing as all get-out. And he'd been praying to every god that might be listening that he hadn't left anything important behind.
The woman he could bid adieu. She'd been a pleasant convenience, albeit one that he'd regretted nearly immediately. A woman who popped up carrying other complications—well, that was a whole other ball of wax. Cliches be damned.
That's what his private debrief with Hammond had been about. The Edorans were still interested in trading, and the SGC was still interested in their naquadah. Jack had asked permission to return to the planet in advance of the engineering folks. There were questions that needed to be asked, and there was a conversation that he needed to have. The fact that he still hadn't gotten an official response from the General was worrisome, to say the least.
"Although, to be fair," Daniel dropped his gaze towards the discarded petal. "I guess that I probably would have done the same thing. Found a nice place to hole up. With someone nice. If I thought that I was stuck there forever, that is."
The fact that Daniel was being so damned nice about the whole situation spoke volumes about how much he'd inferred about Jack's time away. Somehow, he could usually winnow out the interpersonal complexities of touchy situations. If Daniel Jackson had a superpower, that was it.
"Can we not do this, Daniel?" He'd dropped the tone he used for their regular banter. When he looked back up at his friend, he was surprisingly earnest. "I'm really not up for it."
"Sure, Jack." Daniel's lips curved upwards, his expression kind. "Besides. I still need to find Sam."
Okay. O'Neill squinted. "Why are you looking for her?"
"Uh—" Daniel hesitated, pursing his lips as he mulled over his answer. "Nothing in particular. It just feels like she's been avoiding me lately. Or—avoiding us lately. I just need to make sure that she's okay."
"Why is she avoiding you?" Jack swished the swill around in his cup. "Aren't you two BFFs?"
"BFFs?"
"Buddies. Friends. Besties. Best Friends Forever." He lifted the cup up to his mouth, then thought better of it and set it down on the table, instead. "It always seems like you and she are confabbing about something, somewhere."
Daniel's brows rose. "No. Actually. She's been a little touchy for the past few weeks. Or months. I've been worried about her. Not just me, either. Both me and Janet have been concerned."
"Janet and I." Jack muttered the correction without really thinking. The look Daniel gave him made him kind of regret it. "Sorry. But why are you so worried about her? She's usually pretty unflappable. Throw her down, and nine times out of ten, she bounces right back up."
For what seemed like forever, Daniel just studied him. Finally, the younger man shook his head and exhaled tightly, tilting the sad daisy in Jack's direction. "You don't really understand her, do you?"
O'Neill scowled. Of course, he knew her. Didn't he? They'd become something recently—something more like friends than colleagues. Something—just—more.
But that was before he'd spent three months on Edora. Before he'd spent three months with—
Well, damn.
"You haven't been here, Jack. You haven't seen it." Behind his lenses, Daniel's blue eyes were bright and intense. "I mean—she got passed over for leadership when you went on your little black-ops adventure. That had to have stung. I tried to stick up for her, but she just fell back into the Good Little Soldier routine. And before that, she practically killed herself working around the clock trying to bring you home. Then, when we finally dug the 'Gate out and got you rescued, you barely acknowledged her existence, or her efforts."
Jack's scowl deepened.
Daniel stood, pushing the chair backwards with a movement of his leg. "She's worn out. She's frustrated, and I'm pretty sure that she might be feeling pretty damned underappreciated at the moment."
"And this is all my fault."
Squinting down at his friend, Jackson shook his head. "I didn't say that."
But that's what he'd meant. And in the end, he didn't need to say anything else. Tossing the dying flower onto the table, he sighed.
Jack could simply watch as he walked away.
—-OOOOOOO—-
He'd tried her lab. And the gym. The 'Gateroom. MALP bays. Briefing room. Locker rooms. Her lab again. Hell—he'd even trekked topside and tried the outdoor range.
She hadn't been anywhere—even though her Volvo languished in its customary spot in the lot. He'd deduced from that little tidbit that she was still, indeed, somewhere in the Mountain. And now, he was standing in the doorway of the base library, glaring into its dark, deserted depths, wondering where in the hell his genius had gone.
Not his genius. Because, Jack was fully aware that he didn't possess any of that particular commodity. He was wondering where his Genius was. Capital G. As in a person. A Major person—who happened to be a genius—who also didn't seem to be secreted in any of her usually hidey-holes.
Well, damn.
Jack stepped backwards into the hallway, allowing the door to swing slowly shut. The corridor was deserted and quiet, which was normal for this level—libraries being what they are, and all. Other than a few random storage units, the only other things on this level were the power plant for the 'Gateroom, and Teal'c's quarters. The lack of traffic of Twenty-five had been why Teal'c had chosen this level for his private quarters rather than Level Nineteen, where the rest of the on-base quarters were. The relative peacefulness here made it easier for him to kelnorim.
Nineteen. On-base housing. Something tickled at the back of O'Neill's brain—something Daniel had said. Something about Carter practically living on base while she'd worked out the way to bring him home from Edora.
Maybe—maybe?
He hot-footed it down the hallway and back to the elevators. Up six levels, he stepped out into the bustle of Nineteen and headed east, down a short passage and then north again, towards the last unit on the right. Pausing at the threshold, he raised his hand and rapped on the doorway.
Nothing.
Waiting a few beats, he knocked again. More loudly.
And frankly, he was more frightened than surprised when the door suddenly opened.
"Hey, there." He'd spoken more out of shock than greeting. He truly hadn't been expecting his hunch to pay off. "You're here."
"I am." Her tawny eyebrows rose above eyes that were speculative, at best. "Did you need something?"
"Daniel's been looking for you."
"I've been here most of the day."
"Doing what?"
She stepped backwards into the room, edging the door open a little more fully. Leaning against the edge, she studied his face for a moment before hazarding an answer. "Just cleaning up a little."
Jack sighed. "Need some help?"
Carter narrowed her eyes at him, worrying at her bottom lip with her perfect little white teeth. "No offense, Sir. But why would you think I'd need help?"
"Dunno. I just haven't seen you much since I—" Trailing off, he raised one shoulder in a lazy shrug.
"Made your triumphal return?"
Okay. Sarcasm. He could deal with that. "Whatever."
It took a long moment to decide, but once she did, she stepped further backwards, letting the door swing fully open.
She'd been emptying the dresser. Several of the drawers yawned wide—some empty, some still partially filled. A large duffel bag gaped open on a chair, into which she'd been tossing clothing. The bed had been stripped, and the sheets and pillows piled on the bare mattress. A smaller bag sat on the floor next to the nightstand, half-way filled with books, while an alarm clock, more books, and a few toiletries still littered the small bedside cabinet. Piled neatly in a lacy froth on the top of the dresser was what looked like—
Jack tore his gaze away. He was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to be looking at those.
"Packing up?"
She surveyed the mess, pressing her lips together tightly. "It's time."
"Ah." Jack nodded. As if her answer had made any sense at all. "I hear that I'm in your debt."
Sam turned away from him, opening the drawer to the nightstand and withdrawing a small package of Kleenex and a tube of what looked like lip balm. "For what?"
Jack watched as she tucked the items into the smaller of the bags. Her movements were gracefully efficient, as usual. And even though she was obviously annoyed that he was there, she didn't make that fact super evident. He leaned back against the dresser, balancing himself with his hands. "For my rescue."
She didn't look at him, but her hands stalled briefly as she'd reached for the plug of the alarm clock. After a beat, she yanked the plug free of the wall socket, then wrapped the cord around the clock as she straightened and turned towards the bag. "I kind of got the feeling that you didn't really want to be rescued, Sir."
"Why would you think that?"
She cast him a glance that would have frozen lava. Almost immediately, however, she schooled her expression into something more subordinate-like and stowed the clock into an inner pocket of the duffel. "No reason."
"Carter." He began, pushing off his perch on the dresser. Sidestepping around the chair with the duffel on it, he angled towards the other side of the small room, stopping between the nightstand and the ugly metal desk propping up the wall. "I really do appreciate all that you did."
"It was nothing." Her hands zipped a pocket, then prodded another one open. "I was just doing my job."
"Your job." He looked down at the end table, perusing the books there. Science stuff. Math. One book that looked like escapist fiction—not romance, this time, though. Some sort of thriller. The spine hadn't even been cracked. A small box sat on the table between the books and the base-issued lamp. Black plastic with gold-foil inlay—the kind of thing you'd find in a tourist shop in Chinatown. It felt oddly out of place here. Something pretty amidst stark plainness.
"My job." She turned and reached back into the drawer, coming up with a few more items—a large bottle of hand lotion, a t-shirt, a few pairs of folded socks. Pulling herself upright, she tossed the clothes into the duffel next to the books. "You know—that thing that the government pays me to do."
"Sounds stimulating."
"At times." Her tone was careful, and purposefully placid. "Not as much lately."
"Listen—Carter—I'm not sure what's going on here—are we—"
"I really do have things covered here, Sir." She stopped his questions, gesturing towards the door with the lotion. "I'm sure that you have other, more important, things to do. I can finish up on my own."
"Major."
But she'd turned again, and was already reaching for the books. She was growing more impatient—less careful—and as she attempted to slide the books off the nightstand with one hand, the little box slid with them, toppling over the edge and crashing onto the floor next to the Colonel.
She swore under her breath, dropping one of the books before capturing the rest between her body and the bottle in her other hand. Pivoting slowly, she positioned herself over the bed and divested herself of the awkward load, dropping it into the pile of linens on the mattress.
Jack bent over and retrieved the box, relieved to see it hadn't broken. An earring had bounced out of it, and he picked it up, then searched the concrete floor for the other. There—just to the side of the night stand's leg. And underneath, a glint of silver. He crouched down to reach under the table and pulled out—
Silver links. A tiny pair of scissors. A minute telescope. An enameled globe.
He made the mistake of glancing up at her, of meeting her eyes. The purposeful barriers she'd constructed had abruptly crumbled, and he was seeing her fully now. Seeing what had happened to her while he'd been away. How she'd been affected by it all. Why she'd worked herself to death to bring him home.
Everything it had cost her. Exhaustion. Embarrassment. Shame. Pain. Disillusionment.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
Standing, he quietly deposited the jewelry into the box, replacing the lid and settling it back onto the end table. He stepped backwards—away from her—until he'd bumped up against the metal chair at the ugly desk.
"Sir." She crossed her arms in front of her body, worrying at her lip with her teeth. Ducking her chin, she spoke more to her feet—to her luggage—than to him. Her whisper seemed to pierce the quiet of the room. "Please. Just go."
It was his turn to walk away.
—-OOOOOOO—-
"I thought you were going with Mom."
Jack looked up from his book, surprised to see Cassie sinking into the seat next to him. "Um. No. Where's your mom going?"
"She said something about an urgent need off-world. Some disease thing that she needed to help with."
O'Neill flipped to the front of his book and found the dollar bill he used as a bookmark. Nestling it into place, he closed the book and laid it on the table in front of him. "So, why are you here, then, and not at home?"
Flipping her hair over her shoulder, Cassie sighed. "I'm just here waiting for Sam."
"Are you going to hang out with her tonight?"
"Even better. She's hanging out with me."
It had been a few days since his awkward encounter with Carter. Jack didn't know who was avoiding whom, but the mission had been successful. He hadn't even seen her since he'd left her quarters. She'd been hiding out in her lab, and he'd suddenly become hell-bent on finishing up all the paperwork that he'd ever procrastinated completing. Hammond couldn't have looked more shocked than he had an hour or so ago when Jack had deposited the stack on the General's desk. Which meant that he no longer had a reasonable excuse to hide out in the base library.
He'd been psyching himself up to go home, but hadn't relished the thought of the silence there. Before Edora, his house had been ground zero for team nights when they'd been on Earth on the weekend. Since his return, however, things had been quieter than a morgue. He'd tried not to dwell on the change, but it was difficult to do that when the shift had been so damned seismic. Even more so when he had no idea how to fix things.
Which was all why he was sitting by himself in the mess, wearing civvies, reading a random book he'd pilfered from the base library while sipping at what had to be the worst cup of coffee he'd ever endured.
Jack picked up his cup, glowering down at the swill within. Good lord, it was awful—but whether he was referring to the coffee or his mood, he couldn't have said with any degree of accuracy. Still, Cassie didn't need to be on the receiving end of his antipathy. Carefully, he forced himself to sound casual. "What are you two planning on doing?"
Cass sighed, leaning forward conspiratorially. "Well, since Mom's mission thing is last-minute, Sam's filling in for her at the school tonight."
"Oh?" For the first time, Jack noticed that Cassie was wearing a dress. Well—a skirt, at least. It was denim, and only just barely hit her knees. She had on a white t-shirt and a green plaid vest that matched the argyle socks that showed just above the high-top Keds on her feet. "What's with the groovy duds?"
Glancing down at her outfit, Cassie grinned. "It's for the dance."
The dance. What dance? When had a dance entered into this equation? "I am so confused right now."
The teenager took a bracing sort of breath. "Mom was supposed to chaperone the Valentine's Dance at the school last month. But then, there was that blizzard two weeks ago, and they had to postpone the dance. Which was totally lame because there was—like—barely any snow at all. But whatever." Cassie combed through the ends of her hair with her fingertips. She'd painted her nails green, too. "Well, anyway. They couldn't hold the dance the next weekend because there was some stupid basketball tournament thing happening, which we lost, so—gross—but they needed the gym for that. So, they finally rescheduled the dance for this weekend, but now Mom's got to go save some random planet so she can't come and chaperone, and so Sam said that she'd fill in for her at the dance."
"Ah." Jack set his cup back down. "And you're here on base because—"
"All of this just happened. Mom had to bring the car here for Sam to use because Sam brought the Indian to the Mountain today, and Mom still won't let me ride with Sam on the motorcycle—like—lame, right?—and so Sam's going to drive Mom's car to the school and then we'll just have to come back and pick her up when she's done vaccinating aliens."
Exhausting. Girls were exhausting. Jack was pretty sure that when he was Cassie's age, he'd never strung so many words together at one time—ever. "You know that you can't actually mention the aliens when you tell other people about your mom, right?"
"Oh, natch." Cassie squinted down at her cuticle. "Most of my friends think that Mom works at the medical center at the Academy, anyway. So, if I slip up and say something weird, they think I'm talking about cadets, who are bizarre and freaky anyway, and so they don't realize that I'm actually talking about actual aliens. It's just easier that way."
Smart.
"You ready, Cass?"
They'd missed her approach. Carter stopped just short of Cassie's chair, a few feet away from O'Neill. Like Cassie, she was wearing a skirt. It was yellow, with white flowers on it. Unlike Cassie, she had on a simple cardigan and tasteful flats. No plaid at all.
"Yeah." Standing, Cassie reached behind her and grabbed the purse that she'd slung over the back of the chair. "Do you have plans tonight, Jack?"
"Uh—no." O'Neill was careful not to meet Sam's eyes. "Just going home. Nothing exciting."
"Are you going home now?"
"I was." He scooted the cup towards the center of the table. It was only then that he noticed the new centerpiece. Sure enough, it was green. Glittery four-leafed clovers with paper cut-outs of leprechauns were stuck into what looked like sparkling balls of green foam. In light of his thoughts a few days earlier during his conversation with Daniel, he felt just the slightest bit prescient.
"Walk with us." Cassie beckoned him with a green-tipped hand. "I never see you these days. It's—like—been forever."
"I'm good, Cass." He caught a glimpse of Carter out of the corner of his eye, but she was assiduously avoiding looking in his direction. "I'll catch you next time."
"But it's been so long since we got to see each other. You haven't even seen Duke in ages. I bet that he doesn't even remember you."
"Cass—-"
"At least walk with us to the surface." She was wheedling. Shamelessly. "It'll give me time to tell you about the paintball gun Sam got me."
"Seriously—"
"It's okay, Colonel." Carter's voice was quiet and careful. "Cassie has missed you."
And then there was nothing else to be said. Grabbing his book, he rose, then scooted his chair back under the table. Cassie fell into step next to him, happily chattering about everything in her thirteen-year-old life while Jack could only listen and walk along. Sam had taken up their six, following several feet behind. Her shoes tapped lightly on the concrete floors of the SGC.
It was twilight up top, the sun rapidly dropping below the Rockies. Jack let Cassie lead the way to Fraiser's sturdy Explorer, and they both waited for the Major to catch up.
"Cass. Do you have the keys?" It was the first thing Carter had said since leaving the mess.
Cassie's eyes flew wide. "No. Didn't she give them to you?"
"She told me that she'd give them to you."
"I don't have them. She went right into the locker room to gear up for the assignment."
Groaning a little, Carter shook her head. "She must have forgotten. She'd already 'Gated out before I was done dressing."
"So—uh—" A conniving glint wiggled its way into Cassie's expression. "Does that mean that we can take the Indian?"
"She'd kill me and you know it. Besides—motorcycles and skirts don't mix well, Cass." Sam rounded the SUV to peer into the driver's side window. "It's locked. I guess we could break in and I could hotwire it."
"You can hotwire cars?"
"I can." Carter's dimples flashed in a brief smile. "But don't tell your mom that I taught you."
"Ladies—we don't need to hotwire Janet's car." Jack retrieved his own keys from his pocket, raising them to jingle in the breeze. "I'll drive you."
—-OOOOOOO—-
So, this is how it happens. One minute you're a bad-ass Air Force Colonel solely responsible for taking out traitors and thieves in the quest of strengthening Earth-Alien alliances and the next?
Well, the next you're sitting in the bleachers of a middle school watching gangly teenagers flirt.
Oh, the humanity.
Jack shifted on his seat. They'd only been here an hour, and he was already bored. Well—not bored, exactly, but so far, the whole thing hadn't quite lived up to Cassie's hype. It was hot, for one thing. But then, he probably should have expected as much. Shove three-hundred-some-odd eighth graders in a confined space, play some loud, terrible music, and the hormones would do the rest. He was surprised that the place hadn't spontaneously combusted.
The chemicals in the acne cream alone could probably trigger a small thermonuclear reaction.
Carter could figure out the probabilities. She most likely already had. But she hadn't said more than ten words to him since entering the gymnasium, so he had no idea whether that was what was keeping her brain busy, or if it was something else.
And frankly, he was a little afraid to ask.
She was sitting next to him on the bench, feet propped on the bench in front of them, her skirt tucked in neatly around her knees. He wasn't used to seeing her knees, or her calves—or any of the rest of her legs—for that matter. It felt very odd to realize that her ankles were really kind of perfect. Not that he was allowed to notice. But once he had, it had been difficult to not allow his eyes to wander back down towards them. And then, he'd felt like a lecher for having noticed at all—like some mustache-twirling villain in a novel from the Victorian era.
It would be easier if he had a distraction. Something other than the unmitigated awkward happening on the dance floor. But hell—if he were going to be tormented by something, he'd take the ankles over the awkward.
Swearing quietly to himself, he tore his gaze away from Carter's legs and searched the crowd for Cassie. The kid had abandoned them as soon as they'd entered the place, rushing off to find her friends. Sam had led the way towards where the other adults were holding court, but they were all obviously old hats at this chaperoning gig, and had the thing under control. Sam and Jack had been seemingly superfluous. A well-coiffed woman with a name tag that read "Principal Adler" had pointed to a spot near the top of the bleachers and asked them to keep an eye out for 'anything concerning'. She'd used finger quotes and everything.
Basically, they'd been consigned to overwatch. Area recon performed from a high altitude.
And it was boring.
He found Cassie again. Green vest, long brown hair. She was near the center of the crowd, moving lazily from side to side while talking to a young man. Her friends hovered nearby—maintaining a discrete distance and giggling amongst themselves while casting knowing glances towards the couple.
The couple? Well, now, that was interesting.
"Do you know him?"
He'd leaned over and asked the question before he'd remembered that she wasn't speaking to him. He honestly didn't know whether he was more surprised that he'd started the conversation, or that she answered him.
"Who?" She'd had to angle herself closer to him to be heard. "The boy dancing with Cassie?"
"Is that what that's called? It just looks like synchronized swaying."
The corner of her mouth tilted upwards. "His name is Vincent. He plays the saxophone and is in the Mathletes."
"The Mathletes?"
"Like 'athlete'—but with math."
Jack considered that for a moment. One song ended, and another one began before he responded. "I'm guessing that you were once one of those."
Carter lifted a shoulder in a wry shrug. "It's one of the reasons why I missed my Senior Prom. State semi-finals."
"Did you go to the finals?"
The sparkles of the disco ball caught in her hair as she shook her head. "Lost in the final round. Eddie Lewiston couldn't remember Fermat's Last Theorem."
"Did Kermit have a First Theorem?"
"Fermat." She finally looked at him, but only briefly. "Fermat's Last Theorem states that no three positive integers such as a, b, and c satisfy the equation 'a to the nth power plus b to the nth power equals c to the nth power' for any integer value of n greater than two."
O'Neill's tone was, at best, kindly facetious. "I'm shocked that Eddie Lewiston couldn't recite that in his sleep."
And, of course, she'd noticed. The subtle way she'd rolled eyes told him that. "Well, anyway. He couldn't. We came in second place."
"You missed your Prom for second place. That sucks."
For an extended beat, she simply sat there, staring down at a hangnail on her index finger. "I hadn't been asked, anyway. It's not like I'm the kind of girl that guys take to the Prom."
What the actual hell. Jack blinked down at those ankles again. Damn—and her calves. Slim, but defined with muscle. Absolute perfection in the 'lower limb' department.
But her legs paled in comparison with the best parts of Sam Carter. Her heart. Her drive. Her dizzying intellect. That kick-ass spirit that never ceased to in turn impress and inspire him. Those were the bits of her that he'd missed during his months in exile.
Not to mention that they were the bits that had gotten him home a few weeks ago. He swallowed past the sudden tightness in his throat as Daniel's face rose in his mind.
"You don't really understand her, do you?"
Honestly? He'd thought he did. Recently, however—
Well, damn.
"I find that hard to believe." It was the tamest response he could come up with on the fly.
"No, really." Sam straightened up, shrugging out of her cardigan. The blouse she was wearing underneath was a flimsy sort of affair that bared her shoulders and draped low across her collarbones. Depositing the sweater on the bench beside her, she continued. "I didn't date in high school. At all. I never got asked to a single dance, party, or event."
"Well, Major, you can be kind of intimidating." The words eked out before he'd had a chance to filter them. As soon as he'd said them, he regretted them.
It took at least half a song for her to mull that over.
"What's that mean?" Narrowing her eyes at him, she shook her head. "Seriously. What does that mean?"
"I don't know—"
"People say that kind of thing all the time, and I've never understood it." She gestured randomly in the air with one hand. "It's not like I go around threatening people with a shovel."
"We don't even carry shov–"
"Can I speak freely, Sir?"
"You can say whatever the hell you want to say, Carter." He meant it. He'd listen to whatever she felt the need to express.
She studied him for a long beat, gathering up her nerve. "What did you mean? When you told me what you told me that day?"
"Which—"
"'I haven't been acting like myself since I met you.'" She looked past him—to a distant point in the gym, or maybe to a distant moment in the past—it didn't matter. "It was when you'd stolen the Tollan device and were acting so oddly. I was just trying to show support—be a friend, maybe—and you said that. 'I haven't been acting like myself since I met you. Now I'm acting like myself.'"
Jack bit back his reply. Sometimes, too much frankness wasn't the best thing. Because that little outburst had been the one part of his acting performance that had been completely true.
He'd had a lot of time to think about things while he'd been stranded on Edora. Farm work had been mind-numbingly tedious, and his thoughts had wandered far too frequently as he'd toiled alongside the survivors. He'd thought about his life. His team. People who might be missing him. Things he'd lost. The life he'd lost.
And one evening, after the nightly meal, he'd walked off by himself into the fields and looked up into the sky and thought about Carter. Lord, he'd missed her. Her quiet support, her unfailing awesomeness. The way she hid her smile whenever he said the things he shouldn't have. He thought about the clock on his nightstand with its swirling galaxies, and the Desert Eagle in his gun safe. And about that tiny silver globe on her wrist, hockey on a deserted pitch, the smiles, the touches, the moments. He wondered if she was somewhere at home looking up at the sky, too, missing him.
He'd found himself sinking, again. Like he'd sunk after losing Charlie. Everywhere he'd looked, darkness had yawned before him and invited him to join it.
And damned if he hadn't wanted to hit the bottom this time. Laira had properly identified it as grief, but Jack hadn't been willing to—or maybe he hadn't even been capable of—conceding to that kind of honesty. Because admitting that he was mourning meant admitting what he'd lost.
Who he'd lost.
So, he'd denied. He'd turned all that anger inward. He'd beaten himself until he couldn't feel anymore. And then he'd given up and followed Laira to her bed. It had been escapism of the worst kind. He'd regretted it before it had even been over.
Before he'd met Samantha Carter, he wouldn't have regretted taking his refuge in sex. He would have considered the interlude as a survival tactic and moved on. But now? Now, things were different. She'd made him different.
She'd made him want to be different.
So, in the realest sense, he hadn't been acting like himself for more than three years. Ever since a certain Captain had marched into his life and challenged him to arm-wrestle.
He'd gotten permission from the General and 'Gated through to Edora for a few hours the day before yesterday. He'd settled things there—found that not only was Laira not carrying his child, but she'd already moved on, setting her sights on a widower from the village across the lake. The relief had been so profound that he'd hardly been able to breathe.
He passed his tongue over lips that had suddenly gone dry. Taking a bracing kind of breath, he sat up. "Carter—I—-"
But her attention had turned elsewhere. "Uh oh."
He followed her nod, to where Cassie was tromping up the stairs of the bleachers towards them. Coming down their row, she scooted past Sam and then plopped herself between them. Leaning forward, she propped her chin on her hand and sighed.
"Boys are stupid."
Jack, being a boy, wisely didn't argue.
Sam, on the other hand—
"Sometimes." She met O'Neill's eyes over the top of Cassies's head. "And sometimes girls can be pretty stupid."
"Yeah. Well. In this case, it's boys that are stupid."
"Okay." Sam tilted herself on par with Cass. "What happened?"
"Vincent was supposed to be here with me. Not like a date or anything, because Mom doesn't let me date, but we're—like—kind of going together, even though that's not really a thing anymore."
"Right."
Right? O'Neill scowled down at his boots. As if any of that had made any sense whatsoever.
"Anyway, so Jasmine Reynolds asked him to dance, and she's like—totally popular and cute—and of course all the guys want to dance with her, but she only wants to dance with Vincent because he's supposed to be here with me, and she doesn't like me because I get better grades than she does, and because Vincent told her that he thought that I was funny when I gave that speech in seventh grade about Amelia Earhart and I said what you said about how she crashed pretty much every plane she ever flew and like—everyone laughed."
"Well, she kind of did crash—"
But Cassie was nowhere ready to pause. "Anyway, so Jasmine asked him to dance, and then she made up this story about how she needed to go outside because she was feeling nauseated but she only wants him to go outside with her because then it looks like he wants to like—go outside and make out with her or something—but obviously he doesn't want to make out with her because—like—gross—so he'd only go outside with her because she was sick or something, but still it looks like he might want to make out with her if he goes outside, so he went anyway, and now all my friends are like—does Vincent still like you, or does he like Jasmine now—and I'm like—duh—no he doesn't like her. But they're like—then why is he outside with her when it's your song playing now?"
"Cassie—"
"And now I feel all stupid because he's out there with her, and what if he really wants to be with her out there, and not in here with me? But what if he's really only out there because he's a nice guy and is trying to do the right thing, and then I look stupid and mean and stuff because I'm upset that Vincent is trying to be nice?"
Sam reached out and grabbed Cassie's hand, squeezing gently. "This kind of stuff is hard."
"Totally." The girl dashed at her cheeks with the back of her hand. "Why can't this be easier?"
"Because then we wouldn't learn anything from it."
"What am I supposed to learn from this?" Cassie sniffled.
Carter grinned, then. That million-megawatt smile that had haunted Jack's dreams for nearly four months. "That boys are stupid."
"Well, it looks like the stupid boy in question has come back in." Jack pointed. Vincent was standing alone near the entry, clearly looking around for Cassie. He normally didn't feel the need to defend fellow members of his gender, but what the hell. "Maybe if you talked to him, you could find all this stuff out for sure."
Cassie stood, whirling around and swiping at the tears that still glistened on her cheeks. Jack helpfully dug around in his jeans' pocket and handed Sam a napkin he'd purloined from the mess when he'd sat with his sludgy brew. He watched as she used it to fix the mascara that had smudged around Cassie's eyes.
"I don't want to face him alone."
"Sometimes, you have to, Cass." Sam shrugged, slipping the napkin into the pocket of her skirt. "But we'll walk down with you."
"Good call." O'Neill stood, feeling every single year he'd lived in the numbness around his knees and butt. Whoever had invented bleachers clearly had a vendetta against anyone over the age of eighteen. "I could use a break."
Down the steps and through the pulsating hodgepodge of pubescents they strode, until they'd deposited their charge near where Vincent was standing. Sam and Jack stood off to one side as the two quickly conversed, and then Vincent grabbed Cassie's hand and they hurried back onto the dance floor. Crisis averted.
Sam's bare shoulder lifted in a shrug. "I guess that's that."
O'Neill touched her arm, motioning out into the school's hallway. "Let's take a walk."
She followed him out into the main corridor, then down a darker hall to the left. Banks of lockers were interspersed with heavily decorated bulletin boards and glass cases filled with pictures and trophies. Sam stopped for a drink at a fountain before continuing to where he'd stopped in front of a classroom door that was slightly ajar.
When he pushed the door fully open, she slid through first, then turned and waited for him to join her. It was dim in the room, the only light coming from the emergency lighting in the hallway they'd ventured through, and the parking lot lights outside. Cooler in here, too, without the writhing mass of bodies and sound equipment.
Above all, it was quiet. Blessedly so. Jack was fairly certain that his appreciation of that fact qualified him for 'geezer' status.
"History."
"Huh?"
"This is a history classroom." She'd paused in front of the blackboard.
Coming to a stop at Sam's side, Jack read over the notes still on the chalkboard. The class had been studying World War II. Off to one side, a numbered list trailed down the dusty surface. "Penicillin. Jet Engines. Computers."
"Technological advancements." Carter nodded at the list with a sigh. "People never stop to consider how much of what we have now came out of the struggle to win that war. All of those discoveries were direct products of war, yet we use them in everyday life."
"The teacher forgot a few. Blood plasma transfusions, for one. And radar."
The Major grabbed a piece of chalk from the tray at the bottom of the board and added those items to the bottom of the list. Then she added another item before chucking the chalk down and brushing the dust off her fingers.
"GPS?"
"Global positioning systems." She looked at him. Her blue eyes shone with a strange kind of wariness. "Did you know that GPS and WiFi were both developed out of the inventions that a woman made during World War Two?"
"No kidding?"
"Hedy Lamarr figured out how to use spread spectrum and frequency hopping to create radio-control guidance systems for torpedoes. Those technologies are what we use today for GPS and WiFi."
"Hedy Lamarr as in—the actress?" Jack's brows rose. "That Hedy Lamarr?"
"She gave the tech to the government. She even gave them the patent for her designs." Sam picked up the chalk again. "But the military refused to take her advice and declined to use the information. She still wanted to serve, though, so she signed on to help sell war bonds. Rather than use her mind to improve targeting systems and save lives, the government used her body to raise money."
O'Neill simply waited for her to continue.
"I wonder if people thought that she was intimidating."
"Carter—I—-"
"I told you what was likely to happen, Sir. I warned you. I'd done all the calculations, figured all the probabilities. I gave you all the information you needed." She shook her head—the movement almost imperceptible in the gloom of the classroom. "And then you went after her anyway. You chose her. Them. Even when you knew that you might get stuck there. I stood there on the 'Gate platform like an idiot calling for you on the radio, and you never came. Teal'c and I nearly got hit—we nearly died. And you never showed up because you chose to stay behind with her."
"No, Carter." He was surprised at how level his voice was. "I chose to stay behind with someone who was helpless. De Oppresso Liber, remember? I went after Laira because she was weak. She was in trouble. She needed me to stay. Isn't helping those who need help a large part of our mission?"
"'Liberate the Oppressed', Sir." Her voice bit quietly through the darkness. "Not 'Coddle the Adorable'."
"That's not fair, Sam."
"So what is fair, Sir?" She backed away from him, until she hit a desk behind her. "What's fair? Do you know how many hours I worked? How long it took to figure out the best way to bring you home? Can you even comprehend how many simulations I ran, how many computations I went through? How much I had to fight leadership to even let me try to bring you home? Do you have any idea whatsoever how hard it was to put Teal'c into that hole, hoping and praying that he'd be able to dig himself out? Have you considered any of that?"
There was nothing he could say, so he just let her rail.
"Was it fair to let us think that we'd lost you? To let us think that you were dead on the other side of the galaxy? Was it fair to make me watch you be declared MIA while you were off having some grand pastoral adventure with what—a pretty piece of a—-?"
"Major."
His voice stopped her mid-rant. For several beats, he just watched as she tried to calm herself—-as she fought against her emotions. And then it was her turn to swipe at the moisture under her eyes as she blinked back her anger.
"I'm fresh out of napkins." He took a few tentative steps towards her. "Cassie got the last one."
She pulled it out of her pocket, finding a clean corner and dabbing at her eyes. After what seemed like forever, she whispered, "I'm sorry—that was—-I was way out of line."
"Maybe." Jack lowered himself to perch on one of the students' desks, extending his legs in front of him, resting his hands on his thighs. "Maybe not."
The classroom clock ticked into the silence. He counted a hundred seconds before she spoke again.
"It was just so hard, Sir."
"I know." He looked down at his boots, giving her a bit of privacy in her struggle. "And I'm truly sorry."
"And then you came home, only to betray us."
"I didn't betray you, Carter." He sighed. "I was following orders. It had to look real. The best way to do that was to keep you three out of the loop."
"I know. Intellectually, I know all of that. Just like I know that you didn't stay with Laira, but with the village. That you were doing what you thought was right." She flicked a look over towards him, catching his eye before focusing back down on the desk at her side. She reached down and fiddled with a book that someone had left behind—lifting the cover and fanning the edges of the pages. "I also know that I have no right whatsoever questioning your actions or your motives. It's none of my business what you do, or with whom."
Jack pushed off from the desk, crossing the few feet between them and stopping in front of her. "I've been declared MIA twice. Once in Iraq. Once on Edora."
She let the cover of the book slam shut, the sound sharp in the quiet of the room. "You don't have to explain anything."
"I do." He watched as she lined the book up evenly with the edges of the desk—a move that was so Carter that it hurt for him to watch it. "I owe you that much. I owe you."
She thought about rebutting that, but ended up simply waiting.
"Right before the mission in Iraq went south, we—Sara—had had Charlie. I was flying high. Being a father—-well, it was the greatest thing ever." His throat closed up, remembering. He swallowed past the pain and moved on. "Anyway. I was wounded. Broken bones, concussion, cut up from rocks and razor wire. Infections set in pretty quickly. For days, I lay there in that prison and waited to die."
"And then they started the beatings. The torture was—difficult. I watched as the other guys were broken. I told you about one of them. A few other men killed themselves rather than let the enemy do it. A few just gave up and let their injuries take them." He shifted to one side, sneaking a glance up to see her looking back at him. Her wide eyes seemed bottomless. Eternal. "So, one night, I started to pray. To god—to the universe—Hell if I know. But I was pleading for the pain to end. For the misery just to be over. And Charlie's little face came into my mind. All I could think about from then on was getting home to him and Sara. He needed a father, and she needed me. And I needed—-well, I needed them."
"They saved you."
"It was hard." He shoved his hands into his pockets, pulling himself back from the brink of his memories. "So damned hard. To survive—to escape and make it home. It took everything that I had. Everything that I was."
"But it was worth it." She'd lost the bitterness in her voice, and her posture had softened. "For him."
He nodded.
"Colonel—I'm—so sorry."
"When Charlie died. When Sara left. I lost my entire reason to live. I was ready to be like those guys in that stinking Iraqi hell hole. I wanted to just curl up and die. But I was too much of a coward to do it myself. It takes a certain amount of chutzpah to eat a bullet." His smile carried no humor, but, instead, a healthy dose of reality. "So when the chance came to 'Gate through to Abydos riding a nuke, I took it."
Somehow, she knew that he needed something in that moment. She reached out and touched his arm, trailing her fingertips along his sleeve until she'd worked his hand free of his pocket. Her skin was warm, and soft, and alive. And when her fingers tangled with his—well, he couldn't help but tighten his own until she wasn't likely to pull away.
"But you survived. You defeated Ra and were able to 'Gate home."
"And then, a year later, I met you." Jack raked his free hand through his hair, buying time for what needed to be said. He was skating a fine line, along the edge of a precipice that neither of them were likely to survive should they stumble over. He chose his words carefully. "When I got stuck on Edora, I was angry. Really pissed, truth be told. I worked double time—days in the fields, and nights trying to dig up the 'Gate."
"Why? You couldn't have raised it by yourself."
"I was desperate. I missed home." He pressed his lips together, his jaw working as he drummed up the gumption he needed. "I missed you."
"We missed you, too, Sir."
"No." Shaking his head, he smiled ruefully off into the distance before capturing her gaze fully. "I missed you. Not 'you' collectively. Singular. You."
"But—you and Laira—"
"She was a distraction, Carter." He stood, pulling his hand free from hers and pacing towards the front of the room. He still had his back to her when he started speaking again. "This time, there was no rescue. No Sara, no Charlie to get home to. And I knew that I had no damned business wishing for—-well, wanting anything else. So, I finally just gave up. Just like those guys did in Iraq. I knew that it had been too long—you'd probably exhausted all the possibilities. The Pentagon would never permit a rescue after almost four months. I gave up. I was miserable, and she was there. I couldn't keep thinking about home. I couldn't keep thinking about— Well, hell. It hurt too much to keep thinking at all."
Slowly, he turned to face her. They both knew what he'd been about to say before he'd edited himself.
You. I couldn't keep thinking about you.
He looked down at his boots, focusing next to his feet at a spot on the linoleum flooring. "The misery was going to kill me."
"Sir."
"When you came through the 'Gate, you knew what had happened. You could tell. Daniel and Teal'c were there to run interference, but I think you can understand why I didn't treat you how I should have." He picked up a pencil from a desk near him, just for something to do. "I knew that you were disappointed."
"I was."
"And that's why you're intimidating, Sam." He breathed out the truth. "Because you make people want to satisfy your expectations. You see the very best in people. You believe in their nobler selves. And sometimes, that is really, really impossible to live up to."
That clock again, ticking in time to their thoughts. A minute passed—or slightly more.
"Like I said, Sir." Her skirt swished a little as she moved toward him. "I had no business being upset. I need to learn to manage my emotions—my expectations—better."
"I think that both of us need to learn to manage this better." Jack's voice was quiet, but forceful. He gestured in the space between them with an open hand, meeting her gaze with a directness that both of them usually avoided. "Whatever this is."
Even in the dark of the room, he could see the color creep up her throat and tinge her cheeks. Her shoulder rose in a wry kind of acquiescence, her wide eyes searching his. Finally, she spoke. "There is no this, is there?"
Damn it. O'Neill didn't know if that was the answer he'd been hoping for or not. Regardless, it was the only allowable one. He smiled at her, aware that the expression probably conveyed regret rather than relief. Gratified to some miniscule degree when her answering smile read the same.
He shook his head tightly. "No."
"Are we okay, Sir?"
"Yes."
The classroom fell into silence, but for the distant sound of music from the gym and the rhythmic ticking of the clock on the wall. He wanted to say more—there was still more to say—but it wouldn't have been wise to go further. Define anything further. And in the end, he felt bathed in cowardice all over again when she was the one who squared her shoulders and moved first.
"Alright then." Carter crossed to the door, pulling it open in a direct invitation. "We'd better get back to our chaperone detail."
He was careful not to touch her when he passed through the frame. "The dance is nearly over, isn't it?"
"I think it ends at nine. It's eighth grade, so they have a curfew."
"I'll take you home, and you can leave Doctor Fraiser a message telling her that her car's still at the Mountain."
She was an expert at extrapolation. "That way, she can make it home on her own."
"Exactly."
"I'll take you to pick up your bike tomorrow."
"No need." She grinned over at him. "I'll sleep there, and ride into the Mountain with them in the morning."
It hadn't taken them long to get to the gym, but rather than entering, they hovered on the borderline between the relative quietude of the hall and the chaos within the rec area. The DJ was saying something into his microphone, but it came out more garbled than clear. The crowd groaned in disappointment, then shuffled around—changing partners and positions before retaking the floor.
"Must be the final song." Sam led the way into the gym, then to the left, away from where the other chaperones had gathered near the water jugs and punch bowl. "It's going to be a slow song. It always is."
"I thought you didn't go to your Prom."
"I've heard all about other peoples'." She found a vacant stretch of wall and propped it up. "Janet was quite the social butterfly."
"Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."
As soon as the opening notes of the song hit, Carter grinned, craning her neck up to gaze at the balloons rigged in nets along the ceiling. Looking over at Jack, she nudged him with her shoulder. "Ironic. This was the theme song of that Prom I missed."
It took him a minute to recognize it, but he got there before the singing started. "Journey, right?"
"'Faithfully'. From their album 'Frontiers'." Her dimples deepened. "I used to play this album over, and over, and over. I'm pretty sure I had the whole thing memorized."
On an impulse, O'Neill took her hand, tugging her away from the wall. "Come on."
"What? Where?"
"Out there." He nodded towards the crowd on the dance floor. "You deserve to dance at your Prom."
"But—"
He'd already dragged her towards the center of the melee, much to the surprise of a few of the younger—and much shorter—couples. Her skirt swirled around her knees as he twirled her towards him.
"I don't dance, Sir." She was in earnest, her expression rife with consternation.
"I don't either." He took her hand in one of his, threading his other around her waist to rest at the small of her back. He bent down and spoke directly into her ear. "But I'm a pro at synchronized swaying."
She bit her lip, then acquiesced, settling into position as she placed her left hand on his shoulder. Her fingers felt light there, as if she was trying not to touch him. She'd put several inches between them—too many inches for their stance to be comfortable, but enough that their bodies weren't in contact.
Beneath his hand, she moved stiffly, her feet shuffling from side to side. Her body was ramrod straight, her smile plastered on.
He hadn't thought this through. Damn it. What had he been thinking?
O'Neill raised his chin, fixing his focus on a spot over her shoulder, where the DJ stood at a set of turntables that had been situated on a dais. A few colored spotlights had been aimed upwards, to where the disco ball spun lazily overhead. The entire crowd on the floor sparkled in the resulting rainbow.
Even from this chaste distance, she was close enough that he could smell her perfume. Close enough to see that the gentle smudging of the makeup under her eyes—evidence of the argument they'd had. She shifted her fingers in his, her palm slightly calloused, her slim fingers strong and firm in his.
"What time do we need to report for the briefing in the morning?"
She'd drawn even further away, forcing Jack to bend in toward her to answer. "Nine hundred hours."
"I hear we're re-trying some addresses we've tried before."
"Hammond wants to see if something's changed somewhere and the 'Gates are reachable now."
They were barely moving. The kids around them were hemming them on all sides, swaying side to side in an odd kind of synchrony that felt too stilted to be choreographed, but too unified to be random. A few other adult couples—other chaperones, he surmised—had joined in, as well. They were dancing more expertly than the rest of the crowd, but nobody seemed to care one way or the other. O'Neill found Cassie several yards away, dancing with Vincent. She'd twined both arms around his neck and they were both giggling. Vincent's hands were low on Cassie's back. Too low. Despite his own predicament, O'Neill's eyes narrowed. He'd have a little chat with Vincent in due time.
"Do you think we'll have any luck?" She'd pulled as far away from him as possible, thrusting her head forward to continue the conversation.
"Who knows?"
A couple bumped into Sam from behind, and she lost her already precarious balance, stumbling forward to collide with him. Instinctively, O'Neill wrapped his arms around her, supporting her as she struggled not to fall. Body to body—full contact—she felt perfect against him, as if she'd complete him somehow, or at least fulfill what he was missing. She smelled like spicy flowers—exotic, and fresh. And like Sam the woman—complex, and lush, and real.
And all of a sudden, his breathing had gone all shallow and choppy, and his body reacted to having her so close, to feeling the energy of her thrumming through them both. For a brief moment, he took all of her weight in his arms, and she looped her arms around his neck, resting her forehead against his neck as she found her footing.
His arms encircled her completely, his cheek brushing against her hair, her temple—-and it didn't matter that she was back on her own feet again, she stayed where she was, pressed flush against his chest, her skirt sliding against his thighs, her legs nearly straddling his. Her blouse was soft beneath his hands—flimsy, slick—he could feel the delicate line of her ribs, the warmth of her body under his palms. The weight of her felt like life—when his eyes slid shut, he could feel her heart beating against his own.
She was soft where he was hard. Yielding where he was strong. Powerful, sure, and delicate all at once.
He'd intended to resume their former position, but she moved when he'd aimed his hand back towards her waist, and the backs of his fingers grazed her bare bicep—and oh, lord above, but the sensation of his skin sliding against hers was—well it would be his undoing. Her fingers found the hair at the back of his neck, and he could not quell the shivers that racked his spine as she teased at the coarse strands there. And then it was her turn to quiver when his hand trailed down her arm, finding the beautiful definition of her muscles, and the satiny smoothness of her skin.
He wanted—-lord. He wanted.
And it blew through him how inane it had been—to claim that there was no this here. Not when she was panting brokenly against his throat, one hand raking through his hair, and the other framing his jaw. Not when she allowed his touch to discover just how soft she was, how perfectly her form morphed from thigh to hip to waist. And higher—how she might fill his hand—if they were anywhere else but here, in the midst of a horde of half-grown young people in a middle-school gymnasium.
Damn it to hell.
Jack groaned, nearly sobbing, against her temple, then pushed her away. The song wasn't over yet, but it didn't matter. She stood there for a breath—searching his face, his expression—her eyes huge and questioning and bright, her lips parted as she gasped for sanity.
"My sweater." At least, he thought that's what she'd said. And he could only watch as she bore her way through the crowd and towards the bleachers, losing sight of her when the rigging in the rafters was tripped and balloons and confetti spilled down over the cheering crowd like a December snow.
And much, much later, he could only gaze up into the sky as he lay in the back of his SuperDuty.
Ultimately, he hadn't been able to tolerate the idea of going home. Cassie had chattered animatedly the entire way to Janet's house, oblivious to Jack and Sam's terse silence. He'd left them there and then driven out of town—towards Pike's Peak—and then further to the Mesa Reservoir northeast of the Mountain. Parking there, he'd rolled out the tattered sleeping he always kept behind the driver's seat and used his jacket as a pillow.
And there, gazing upward at the stars, he considered the debts he still owed her. He'd apologized tonight, given her the best, most real explanation he could for why he'd hurt her. He'd acknowledged how he'd taken her for granted, how he'd failed her. Still, there were many more debts outstanding. Many more than he'd ever be able to repay.
But maybe—just maybe—pushing away from her tonight—letting them leave the situation with some small shred of dignity intact—would buy him a little break on the interest.