Author: Regency
Fandom: Stargate
SG-1
Title: Never Say Die
Pairing: Sam/Pete, Sam/Jack UST
Categories: AU, drama, angst, UST
Rating: G
Spoilers: Post-season eight.
Word count: 1,345
Summary: Pete
finds that life as Mr. Samantha Carter isn’t all it’s cracked up to be as long as Jack’s around.
Author’s Notes: Constructive criticism is both delightful
and terrifying. What a rush! But, yeah, I think I may have made Jack into a somewhat
nefarious fellow. Not my intention, not exactly anyway.
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.
~!~
Pete and his kids had always had a weird relationship. It seemed that
they went their entire lives trying to spite him. Maybe it was just the way kids
were, it was certainly the way he’d been, but he’d expected things to be different when he became a dad. He’d
thought, for some reason, that things would be easier. He was wrong, even if
he’d step in front of a speeding cruiser before admitting it.
His kids weren’t big fans of his new wife, Sam. He’d tried every persuasive tactic in his repertoire to
get them all to get along, but it was nothing doing. They hated her like it was
a calling, like the priesthood or the Air Force, as Sam would have said. They
hated her like they got a salary with fringe benefits for doing it well. Pete
couldn’t help wondering if he had his ex-wife to thank for that.
As much as he would have liked to, he couldn’t blame her for all their children’s faults. He couldn’t blame them for this. This was all Sam.
Funny since they claimed to hate her living, breathing, beaming guts.
Peter took a long pull of Guinness—not his brand—as his children made a game of crawling all over General
Jack O’Neill. In Pete’s yard, on Pete’s grass, over possession
of the Nerf ball Pete had bought his seven-year-old tomboy for Christmas last year.
She hadn’t looked at the thing once until O’Neill had mentioned all the trinkets and toys he hid in his
desk. Even if Pete was unimpressed, his kids were head over heels. A general who plays with Nerf balls, their little eyes said
in awe. I wanna be a general.
This made about the fifth time that’d happened in as many months. If
there was a family gathering that could be had, they had it at his place with Sam. She
seemed happy enough to play domestic goddess and he was happy enough to show off the lovely house they had—even if the
General’s house was bigger and his backyard was bigger and everyone was far more comfortable lounging around his space
than Pete and Sam’s. They were making progress and her friends were learning
to unwind in his presence, though he knew they’d never let go completely. He
wasn’t a part of their world, he wasn’t in, and they couldn’t risk saying something compromising in front
of unauthorized personnel. Whatever the limitations, he was glad to be allowed this much.
He just wished the taking what he could get didn’t so often involve watching people he knew pretty well personally
fawn over someone he was pretty sure wouldn’t nudge him out of the path of a speeding train even if it was on his way. His mother liked the general. His ex-wife
and her new husband liked the general. Everyone Sam knew and invited to these
types of shindigs liked the general, even the ones who weren’t military. It went without saying that Sam herself did. Pete had just expected a little more support from the more discerning individuals
in his life.
His father had spent half of every evening they’d been in the same place talking to Jack O’Neill. From what little Pete had ever managed to overhear, the two of them passed the fading
afternoons trading war stories like long lost basic training buddies. Pete knew his dad had been in ‘Nam, even knew
that that was why his mom had been living with his aunt when he was born, but he’d never talked to him about it. To him, war was a world away. The closest he’d gotten to a battlefield was a
drug bust or a bank robbery gone wrong. And he’d never minded not having that to share with his father. Some of those memories were dark and hard for his dad to bear, so he’d been the good son and never
asked, never probed, even when his curiosity positively burned.
Maybe that was what bugged him about the instant friendship the two older men seemed to share. It took no effort whatsoever. They’d met and taken to
each other immediately. No suspicion, no question, no posturing. His father simply
liked the man his son was seriously growing to hate, and Pete had nothing to say about it.
And his children—well, his children had continued the tradition of doing none of the things he wanted them to
and all of the things he’d hoped they wouldn’t. The usually judgmental
rugrats—meant lovingly, though sometimes less so—had been wary of O’Neill a minute before meeting him. A minute after, Pete’s son was wearing the general’s worn green ball cap
and asking about hockey, a sport in which he’d shown absolutely no interest anytime prior. His daughter had right away decided to take up hockey, too, not that that was surprising since she was
a lover of all sports. Pete had been absolutely fine with that. Then, she’d
asked him to teach her how to play. She
hadn’t known him more than half an hour. He knew children could be fickle,
but he’d never expected them to stun him stupid.
It was at about that point that he should have woken up and smelled the napalm. He was losing his children to another
man and it wasn’t even his ex-wife’s new husband. No, this guy was something else entirely. This was Jack O’Neill,
someone Pete had been wordlessly fighting with for the better part of two years. He’d
thought he only had Sam’s heart to lose in the offing, now he knew the truth.
Opposing Jack O’Neill came at an enormous price, also known as everything.
When he’d entered O’Neill’s strange little world, he’d opened the door to his. You took from me, now I’m taking from you, he said, kneeling
on the ground while the children played tag using him as home base. He didn’t
say it in words, of course, but it was all in the eyes. The general said everything
he would ever need to with a meaningful look. Pete’s children were oblivious, but Sam wasn’t. The good Doctor Jackson, who only seemed so fond of Pete on a good day, wasn’t either. As for Teal’c, well, he had a warning glance of his own to impart, but he was equally as attuned
as the other two.
Pete finally came to the long-awaited conclusion that he had boxed himself in when he’d mingled his lot with
theirs. They weren’t his people and certainly not his brothers-in-arms.
Not a one of them would back him if he decided to take Jack O’Neill on, not even the one of them he had taken as his
wife. Hell, he thought she’d probably retreat the furthest of all.
He’d stopped trying to define whatever was between Sam and her commanding officer the day they’d said I
do. Because that was the day he knew he’d won. That was day the war had ended.
Or, so he’d thought.
He guessed this was just more proof that he’d never known Jack O’Neill as well he should have. Archenemies—and he’d be a fool to think they were anything else—should know each other
like the next breath; sure, steady, automatic, and, if necessary, extinguished. Pete
had become complacent because he’d managed to put a ring on Sam’s finger.
He hadn’t realized that a ring of gold was nothing next to the Gordian knot that bound her to O’Neill in
a big way, and to Teal’c and Daniel Jackson in a smaller, no less impermeable, fashion.
All this time, he’d just been waiting to lose.
Now, he mostly had. His children and his wife both adored someone else,
with slowly growing, creeping intensity. He wondered how long this could last
before something had to give, be it him, the smirking general, or the Nerf ball in his hand.
Evidently, on the day of their wedding, the
war had, in fact, ended. Pete just hadn’t had the good sense to realize that he hadn’t won.
