Author: Regency
Title: Stealing Art
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Rating: PG
Warnings: angst, some sappiness
Spoilers: None; set post-series.
Word count: 1,796
Summary: A year gone by finds Sam and Jack in the thick
of yet another intergalactic war treading water. Jack has an idea that just might
save Earth again, but Sam isn’t so sure it’ll be worth the price.
Author’s Notes: Short sequel to “Not a Shambles,
Not a Work of Art.” Totally unputdownable’s fault. As usual, direct your constructive criticism this way, please
and thank you.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any characters recognizable
as being from Stargate SG-1. They are the property of their producers, writers,
and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was
made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
~!~
He was on her hit list by the time she set foot in Cheyenne Mountain this morning.
He’d crept out of her bed with a gentle
kiss good morning and out of her door with little more than a glimpse of a smile. It
wasn’t until she’d found her coffee, still warm, waiting on the counter that she realized that he hadn’t
looked her in the eye since they’d come home the night before. Her instincts
awoke, her gut clenched, her heart constricted—though, just a bit. Something
hadn’t been right then and she’d been too tired to see it. Something
wasn’t right now and the cold light of day made it very clear.
Her driver broke the speed limit getting
her to work and she passed through the security checkpoints without pausing once. The
SF’s were terrified of her on a rampage, the only one worse was General O’Neill, but she was nothing to sneeze
at. She knew it and Jack knew it. That
was the reason he’d fled so early. She was going to have his ass, but he’d
wanted to hold onto it for a little while longer.
It would have been endearing if she hadn’t
been ready to kill him on sight.
She found the briefing room empty once she
stepped inside, giving her a clear view into Jack’s office. She could see
him tapping at a keyboard with surprising speed, his face alight with the monitor’s unnatural glow. He was working like a man possessed, like a man with an uncertain, but crucial, deadline. Sam guessed that her arrival was likely the benchmark in question.
She stiffened her spine, squared her shoulders,
and marched toward his opened door, thinking, Too damned bad.
“You’re either crazy or doing
a damned good impression of it,” she said in greeting to the man that was essentially her commanding officer, best friend,
and so much more.
He paused only momentarily before continuing
with his work, eyes straying to whatever report had his attention now. “That’s
a matter of opinion, I think,” he replied, the emphasis of her rank going unsaid, but not unheard.
Sam dropped into a parade rest, realizing
that coming at this argument like a scorned lover could only have dire consequences. She was his 2IC, after all. “Sir, you can’t do this.”
He paused for longer this time, sliding his
eyes from the screen to her face in nothing less than a mockery of idle curiosity. After
a year in her bed, sir was a fighting word. “I can’t or I may not?”
The question lingered between them with obvious
implications. Sam wet her lips absently and she noticed that he noticed that,
too, softening ever so slightly toward her.
He let out a resigned sigh and waved her
toward an empty seat. “Words have meanings, Carter. You can’t just toss them out there without knowing how people are gonna take them.”
“Yes, sir.” She sat down on the edge of her chair and willed him to keep his attention on her. The more time they spent at this, the more time he’d have to make up later, and maybe that’d
keep him on Earth a while longer.
“I can do this, Sam. Hell, I have to do this.” Sam snorted at this and shook her head.
“No, you don’t. There are other people with the gene, other people with the capability of being just as valuable to these
people as you are. Hopefully, less valuable actually.” Suddenly, sitting was too small an action. She needed him to see, to realize how scared she was. So, she paced. “You’re an asset, Jack. We need
you here giving the troops the get-up-and-go they need to face these monsters and come home after. You can’t be an intergalactic bargaining chip when you’re irreplaceable.” She didn’t
bother to mention what his loss would do to her. She had some pride left to her.
He waved off her platitudes with his usual
deaf ear. She knew he didn’t think he mattered in the scheme of things,
and that he never had thought so, but she knew better. As the scientists did
her, the foot soldiers viewed Jack O’Neill with a sense of wonder. They
knew he wasn’t perfect, that he made bad calls, but the stats were in his favor and they couldn’t salute him fast
enough when he stepped on the floor. They wanted to make him proud, they wanted
to show him that they wouldn’t leave anyone behind either and that they’d die for this planet as surely as he
would and as the other members of SG-1—honorary and otherwise—had in years past.
“What are you thinking?” she
asked when asking him anything else seemed as likely to be met with silence.
He quirked an eyebrow. “What makes you think I’m thinking at all?”
She smiled wanly. “You’re always thinking.”
He leaned back with a grin content enough
to fool most people. “I don’t think so. That’s your department.”
With a brief nod that placated neither of
them, she went on. “You aren’t too shabby at it. Especially, when you get insane ideas like using yourself as leverage to get us under the protection of
the Asgard again.” Only the marginal flexing of his fingers as he laced
them behind his head gave him away. He was worried that she was here to stop
him and she knew he had reason to be.
“That’s pretty out there, Carter.
I mean, the Asgard are cosmic dust at this point. What am I gonna do, perform a séance?”
Despite the spark of humor in his eyes, the tension in his face grew along with the boulder in the pit of Sam’s
stomach. She decided that the straightforward route would save them both a trip
to the emergency room. She was as likely to have a heart attack from the aggravation as he was to go into cardiac arrest from
her kicking his ass.
“Don’t pretend you don’t
know what I’m talking about, Jack. SG-31 on Atlantis encountered a race
that bore great resemblance, physiologically and technologically, to the Asgard.” At his slightly taken aback expression,
she rolled her eyes. “I read the same mission reports you do.” She
continued. “All analysis so far indicates that they could be a group that
splintered off from the core genetic population centuries ago. More or less,
they’re suffering from the same genetic deterioration that would have eventually killed the Asgard had they not chosen
to take matters into their own hands.”
Jack looked at her with visible appreciation,
though she couldn’t decide if it was just because he liked the view afforded by her Class B dress skirt or if he was
really impressed.
“I really don’t know why anyone
insists I read the mission reports when I’ve got you around.”
“I don’t know why either,”
Sam smirked with a shrug. “All it seems to do is give you crazy ideas and
I know how you feel about crazy ideas.”
“Love ‘em,” he quipped,
seeming a little bit relaxed now.
“This is a bad idea,” she opined
once he seemed perfectly content not to say anything more.
“It’s the only idea I’ve
got left. If you recall, Thor loved us for our stupid ideas. I don’t see the point in messing with a working system.”
Sam resisted the impulse to shake him—and the one to hold him. When
faced with an impossible situation, he resorted to self-sacrificing brilliance. For
once, she’d rather he played dumb.
“The point is that Thor is dead, Jack.
That’s the point. We don’t know these guys. They may not be so understanding about the quirks of humanity as Thor and the Asgard High Council were.” Sam reached over and grabbed his arm so that she could take his hand. “Jack, they might not be so understanding about you either.
Thor didn’t want to experiment on you, these guys might. We’ve
gotten damned lucky for the last two decades, how much longer can we expect that to hold up?”
He turned their hands over to cradle hers
in his. “For Earth, I’m hoping a little bit longer, and if saving
this place means putting myself in their hands, I guess I don’t mind that so much.”
“And if I mind?” She supposed she’d left her dignified façade in her other uniform.
He brushed nonexistent hair from her face
and stroked his thumb across the knuckles of her fingers. “If you mind,
you’ll tell me so—loudly—and in words likely spanning six syllables or more.
I’ll listen, take your words into consideration, and--”
“—Go anyway,” she determined
from the wary set of his shoulders.
“Sam,” he started, but she cut
him off with the shake of her head.
“No, I understand. This isn’t
about you and me, or us. This is about the rest of the world. As much as I hate
it, I understand. Doesn’t mean I like it,” she made sure he knew,
“but I understand.” And she did. Really. Deep down, behind the heart that had waited nineteen years to have this
man to love, she got it. That didn’t mean she wasn’t secretly, or not so secretly, terrified of what she had left
to lose.
He hummed thoughtfully. “One of the many things I love about you.”
She rounded his desk and set herself on the
edge beside him. “Many things?” she questioned, knowingly.
He nodded, understanding, and beckoned her
closer. “Many, many things.”
“Can I get a list enumerating these
things?”
He pulled her down till her lips were directly
parallel with his own. “I’ll have Walter type one up for your perusal,
Brigadier General.”
“Why thank you, sir,” she replied
with a quick dart of the tongue to wet her lips, old habits back in force and dying hard.
“It’s always refreshing to find the Brass so accommodating.”
He nodded, snaking an arm around her waist. “Need I remind you, Carter, that you’re Brass, too, these days?”
“Semantics, sir. Semantics.”
“Ah,” he whispered as she drew
closer, “three syllables. You’re improving.”
“Yes, sir,” she murmured, only
to shut him up with a kiss.
And when the tell-tale whine of Asgard beaming
technology filled her ears and she felt the void against her lips where Jack had been too briefly to leave even a hint of
warmth, she decided not to open her eyes. This way, she could hold on to the
last year and she could still have her dreams.
This way, she wouldn’t have to admit
that the rest of her life had already begun and he, the he that mattered, was nowhere
to be found. This way, she wouldn’t have to finally let him go.
She was just getting used to him.
