Warning: this story deals with alcoholism and drug addiction to painkillers, so if these subjects trigger you somehow or you don't feel comfortable reading about them, don't start and move to another story. This is probably the darkest story I have started writing about, so heavy, dark angst is on the way, people. There's no Stargate or SG-1 at all in the story. It's an AU story.
As Sam rode in the taxi, an unexpected roadblock suddenly caused the vehicle to halt. The street was filled with protests, blaring horns, and heated discussions as Sam's attention shifted from the commotion to the side of the road as she recognized the name. Her heart nearly stopped as she looked at the familiar name of the street. It was his street.
Swiftly, she fumbled for money in her purse and paid the taxi driver, who was in a dispute with a removal truck driver. Hurriedly leaving the taxi behind, Sam began walking down the street, her heart racing as she scanned for his door number. Eventually, her feet brought her to number 27. With a lump in her throat, she ascended the small staircase leading to the two-story house and noticed the handwritten "O'Neill" under the doorbell.
Taking a deep breath, Sam debated whether to ring the bell. It had been many years since their last encounter. Finally, she pressed the button and waited anxiously. No sound emanated from the house, and the door remained closed. Trying again, she held down the button, growing more impatient. It was well past midday; he wouldn't be sleeping if he were home, especially given his military background.
Unusual noises echoed inside the house—strange sounds like objects were dropping on the floor. Sam took a cautious step back from the door as she listened intently. Abruptly, the door swung open, and she was taken aback. The man before her was not the one she expected. It wasn't the highly decorated Colonel Jack O'Neill of the US Air Force—clean-shaven, short-cropped hair, and always sporting a teasing smile. This was a different man entirely.
"What?" a voice demanded as Sam stood there, speechless.
Slowly, a pair of deep brown eyes fixed on her, and she held her breath.
"What the hell are you doing here?" Jack asked, his messy hair framing his worn-out appearance at the front door.
Sam attempted to speak, but no words escaped her; the shock was overwhelming. In front of her stood Jack O'Neill indeed, but not the man she once knew.
His hair was a messy tangle, nearly reaching his shoulders, and an unkempt beard of several weeks obscured his features. Sam took a step back, a sense of unease settling in. The pungent odor revealed he hadn't showered in days, and his stained Cubs T-shirt and ripped jeans sent an unwelcoming message.
"Are you just going to stand there all day?" he asked irritably.
Sam cleared her throat, saying, "I'm in Chicago for a conference and saw your street. I thought about saying hello."
He barely stood on his feet, and it dawned on Sam why – he was drunk. "But I should have called," she added with difficulty. The absurdity of her last thought didn't even register in Sam's mind. After all, how could she have contacted him when she didn't even know where he lived until now?
"I'll leave," she said, turning away, tears welling up in her eyes.
"Now that you're here, Captain..." he mumbled, a mixture of a laugh and a hiccup.
Sam closed her eyes; they hadn't seen each other in over five years. What had happened to him? She turned around to face him again.
"What happened to you, Jack?" she asked, the fear of discovering the answer evident in her voice.
Jack swayed a little, still holding the door like his life depended on it.
"Ah... that," he sighed, taking a deep breath. Relinquishing the door, he stumbled inside the house.
Sam was left with a choice: follow him or go. She chose to enter his house; she needed answers.
Despite the radiant sunshine outside, the interior was shrouded in darkness, blinds tightly shut. The only illumination came from a small Tiffany lamp, casting a muted glow on what had once been a spacious living room with a welcoming wood-burning fireplace leading to a large dining area. Now, the room was cluttered with stacks of magazines, unopened mail, boxes, and an assortment of open and unopened beer cans. The unpleasant odor hung in the air, prompting Sam to cover her nose discreetly.
Jack was slumped in a worn-out recliner, fixated on a game playing on the TV. Empty and half-empty beer cans littered the floor around him.
"Take a seat," he offered, gesturing to a leather couch that had seen better days, now covered with a tattered blanket and various books. Sam pushed aside the books and perched on the sofa's edge, praying her dress blues wouldn't be stained.
His eyes remained glued to the game as he drained the last beer and carelessly tossed the can into an overflowing bin near the coffee table. The only sounds in the room emanated from the TV as Sam struggled to find the right words, and Jack appeared absorbed in the game's virtual world.
Suddenly, he glanced at her as if realizing he wasn't alone.
"What do you want, anyway?" he asked, scratching his head.
Sam swallowed.
"You disappeared, Colonel. I wanted to see what had happened to you," she said, attempting to inject some emotional distance between them. After what she was seeing, maybe it was for the better.
Jack closed his eyes.
"Retirement. I retired. That's what happened, Captain," he said disgustingly.
Sam looked at him in surprise.
"You did? Why?" she asked.
Jack opened his eyes, and Sam noticed they were no longer the familiar brown; they had darkened.
"Why do you care?" he asked.
Sam swallowed.
"You know why. I cared, Jack," she said slowly.
Jack threw the remote against the wall with such force that it shattered.
"I was MARRIED!" he yelled.
Sam lowered her head.
"I know. I mean, I knew; you told me," she whispered.
"So what the hell did you want me to do? Cheat on my wife?" he asked, grabbing another beer.
Sam kept her head low.
"I never asked you or implied to do that. I only told you that I cared about you," she said, her voice barely audible over the blaring TV game.
Jack downed the beer in one go and tossed the can with the same violence he had shown with the remote. Sam felt he wanted to hurl it at her, but the wall was again the target.
"We were in the middle of a war, Captain. A fucking war. Desert Storm! Does that ring any bells in your genius head?" he asked.
Sam slowly lifted her head and looked at him, seeing only a shadow of the man who had rescued her in the Gulf.
"Where is your wife, Jack?" she asked, scanning the room.
Jack tried to get up, but his legs failed him, and he collapsed back into the chair, his fury apparent.
"None of your damn business!" he almost yelled.
Sam stood up.
"You're right. Have a nice life, Colonel," she said, heading towards his front door.
Jack attempted to get up again, succeeding, but stumbled into the cluttered coffee table after the first step. Sam turned around at the loud bang. He lay unconscious on the floor, the table toppled.
"Dear God," she exclaimed, kneeling next to him.
A cut on his forehead and several broken glasses made the situation less desirable, but Sam knew she couldn't leave him like this. Taking a deep breath, she addressed the broken man on the floor.
Unfamiliar with the layout of his house, Sam desperately searched for a medical kit and discovered a filthy bathroom. Despite the unpleasant smell, she checked the cabinets and found a small med kit, which she quickly grabbed before returning to the living room, where Jack lay unconscious. Unsure if it was due to the fall or the effects of alcohol, she began tending to his cut, cleaning it, and applying a bandage. Fortunately, it seemed like stitches were not necessary.
Taking a moment to observe him, she addressed him directly, "You're not going to like it, but I honestly don't give a damn, Jack." Sam began to drag him towards the bathroom, puffing with the effort. She positioned him in the bathtub with half his legs hanging outside, a makeshift solution. Slowly, she turned on the water. Jack's eyes snapped open as the water hit him.
"FUCK!" he yelled, attempting to shield his face and body from the unexpected deluge.
Undeterred, Sam searched for shampoo and poured it over his filthy hair. Jack vacillated between insulting her with a barrage of curses and struggling to avoid drowning in his bathtub. Sam took her jacket, rolled her sleeves, and started washing his long hair. He stopped abruptly.
"What are you doing?" he asked, spitting water.
Silently, Sam continued to wash his hair, and he reluctantly remained still. When she finished, she gently rinsed it out, her fingers combing through his long, wet locks of brown hair.
"Take off your T-shirt," she instructed.
Blinking, Jack wiped the water from his eyes.
"What?" he asked, almost blushing.
"You smell," she stated, still holding the shower wand.
"Give me that; I can do it," he suggested.
After some internal debate, Sam reluctantly handed him the shower wand and stood up.
"Stay seated so you don't fall and break a leg or something," she advised before leaving the bathroom and closing the door behind her.
Jack stood there, holding the hand shower, completely soaked. Slowly, he began to undress, realizing the truth in her words about his pungent smell.
Sam stood still outside the bathroom with her back against the door, attempting to hold herself together, her jacket pressed against her chest. How had things reached this point? The last time she had seen him, she was being evacuated to Europe after her plane had been hit by enemy fire and crashed. Her father had utilized all his influence, and a special ops team had been dispatched to recover her. She was immediately transported to Landstuhl Regional Medical Center in Germany. Jack had led the special ops team sent to the desert to retrieve her and her co-pilot.
However, their paths had crossed much earlier at the Prince Sultan Air Base in Saudi Arabia, where they were both stationed. Sam had already earned the nickname "Destroyer" among the base personnel due to the high number of enemy aircraft she had taken down, and Jack had heard about it. Intrigued, he sought to discover who the pilot was and was baffled when he found out it was a fresh out of the Academy, tall, blond, blue-eyed First Lieutenant. Rumors circulated that she was on the fast track to a promotion to Captain.
And that was how they had initiated conversations: the stern-faced Colonel and the brilliant pilot who had every guy on the base mesmerized. Jack only learned that she was General Jacob Carter's daughter when she was hit, and he was summoned for a top-priority rescue mission. However, he would have gone even without being informed; things were already intensifying between them. Despite Jack's desperate attempts to keep his distance, they had been inexplicably drawn to each other from the first moment, even if he was married.
Jack took the filthy T-shirt inside the bathtub and slowly washed his body. He had been honest with her from the start—no misleading. A wife was waiting for him back in the States. Sam had been devastated, but she took the blow and confessed that she had fallen in love with him. And that was okay. She understood. Not very long after that conversation, she was hit by enemy fire, and her plane crashed somewhere in the desert. Jack and his team found her with a broken arm, blood dripping from a deep cut on her left eyebrow, fiercely firing at approaching enemies. Her co-pilot was unconscious with a fractured leg. She had passed out in Jack's arms minutes before they reached the base. It was the last time he saw her as the med team took over. He continued fighting until the war ended, and Sara awaited him upon his return.
However, Jack was no longer the same. They tried to rebuild their life; Sara became pregnant, and Charlie was born. For a while, Jack believed that his demons were finally behind him. Until Charlie grabbed his service gun and accidentally shot himself, dying on the way to the hospital in Jack's arms. The aftermath led to a divorce and chaos. Sara moved away, and Jack returned to his hometown, Chicago, inheriting the house his grandparents had left him. His demons returned in full force and never left again. Alcohol became the only solace, if only for a brief respite. Jack was slowly waiting to join his son until she unexpectedly arrived at his door.
Putting her jacket back on, Sam returned to the living room, her eyes catching Jack's only two pictures on a cabinet. One portrayed him holding a small boy, both smiling and embracing. A lump formed in Sam's throat. He had a son? The other picture captured his team in the Gulf, and Sam recognized some familiar faces. No sign of a wife. She had noticed he wasn't wearing a wedding ring when she entered. Was he divorced? Her mind buzzed with questions. Taking a deep breath, she sat down, patiently waiting for him.
Jack had finished his bath inside the bathroom, leaving his soaked clothes on the floor. Naked, he stood before the mirror, staring at the unrecognizable reflection. The long hair, the beard, the haunted eyes—it was no wonder she had contemplated walking away. Feeling sick, he barely made it to the toilet in time to vomit. After he finished, he flushed and sat down next to it, realizing he had hit rock bottom.
A soft knock on the door reminded him he wasn't alone in the house.
"Are you okay, Jack?" Sam inquired upon hearing him retch.
Jack cleaned his mouth and slowly rose.
"Yeah. I'll be out in a minute," he replied, grabbing the sink.
Sam rested her head against the closed door.
"Are you sure? Do you need anything?" she asked.
Jack cleared his throat.
"Can you get me a T-shirt and a pair of jeans from my bedroom? These are soaked," he requested while searching for his toothbrush.
Sam glanced down the hallway.
"Where is it?" she inquired.
"Second door on your right," Jack said as he cleaned his teeth.
Sam entered the bedroom, unsurprised to find it resembling the abode of a homeless person. The bed was unmade, clothes strewn across the floor, curtains drawn shut, and an unpleasant odor lingering. She took two steps inside and opened the curtains and windows, letting in fresh air. Finding clean clothes proved to be a challenge. After checking the dresser, she located a seemingly clean black T-shirt. The pants were less fortunate, so she chose the least soiled option and returned to the bathroom. Underwear appeared not to be an option; for once, she was grateful.
Knocking again, she announced, "I've got your clothes."
Jack opened the door, and she almost didn't recognize him. He had shaved, tied his hair into a ponytail, and wore only a towel around his waist. Sam handed him the clothes, blushing slightly, and then walked away, giving him privacy.
Dressed in fresh clothes and feeling somewhat cleaner, Jack exited his bathroom. His head was pounding, so he headed to the kitchen to search for painkillers, intentionally avoiding looking at the chaotic mess surrounding him. Swallowing two pills, he drank water directly from the tap and, taking a deep breath, returned to the living room where a pale Samantha Carter was seated on his sofa.
"Sorry about that," he said, unsure what he was apologizing for.
"Feeling better?" she asked.
"Cleaner," he replied, passing a hand over his newly shaved face.
Sam interlocked her fingers.
"Look, I think it's better if I leave, and we forget about this..." she began, getting up.
Jack stood near his recliner, his eyes scanning the disorderly living room. He couldn't blame her.
"Okay, I understand. This looks bad. What if I clean up a bit, and you come back later so we can talk more comfortably?" he proposed.
Sam bit her lip.
"Please," he urged.
Looking at his now cleaner appearance, Sam swallowed.
"I'm here for three more days. I'll be busy with the conference tomorrow and the day after. I can return before I have to leave," she offered.
A faint smile appeared on Jack's face, the first in who knew how long.
"Okay, that's excellent. I promise I'll have the house in much better shape," he assured her.
Sam nodded as she walked to his front door.
"Goodbye, Jack," she said as she exited his house.
"Goodbye, Sam," he muttered after she was already on the street, his words unheard.
He now had two days to clean the house and pull himself together.