Lions make you brave
Title: Lions make you brave
Author: ardvari
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Line in the Sand
A/N: Sequel to No light. Sam gets hurt and Jack contemplates life. Concrit welcome!
Lions make you brave
During her last two years on SG-1, he gets to see her exactly four times. He visits the SGC twice, she comes to Washington once, and they meet at the cabin after she gets shot by a Prior staff weapon. That time is the only time neither of them has to work because she’s still hurt and he manages to take a week off to take care of her after she gets released from the infirmary.
He’s anxious when he waits for her at the airport in Minneapolis. When they brought her back through the ‘gate, Dr. Lam wasn’t sure if she was going to make it, and Daniel had called him, had told him that she was in surgery, that they didn’t know anything yet, that things were pretty bad.
He’d sat by the phone for three hours, alternately cursing himself and the universe, wanting to fly out to Colorado and be there when she woke up and knowing that he couldn’t. He was head of Homeworld Security. He couldn’t just up and leave because a member of an SG team was hurt, not even if it was a member of his old team. Not even if it was Sam.
He pushes his hands into his pockets, looks up at the screen again. Her plane just landed and he can’t wait to see her, to hold her, to feel her solid frame against his. Until he’s wrapped his arms around her, he can’t be sure she’s really okay.
He talked to Daniel twice while she was in recovery and Mitchell once. Mitchell, who is still reserved and edgy around him, had told him about her password, had suggested that maybe a week of fishing is exactly what she needs to heal.
The sliding glass doors pull apart with a mechanical hiss, and there she is, her hair tousled, her smile bright. He opens his arms and she steps into them, dropping her duffel bag at her feet so she can wrap her arms around him, can hold him tight for a few long moments.
When she finally lets go of him, he holds her by the elbows, scrutinizes her. She doesn’t look broken, looks fine, maybe a little pale still.
“Where?” he asks and she points to her left side, lets her hand rest on the spot where the staff weapon blew a hole through her. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s a little tender but the wound’s closed and healing well,” she says, shrugging a little.
She winces slightly when she goes to pick up her duffel bag again, and he takes it from her, slinging it over his shoulder before he takes her hand and walks her out to his rental car. It’s a small, dinky one, one of the ones that neither of them would ever buy. It’s white and quiet and he catches her biting her lip when she slides into the passenger seat.
“Sore?” he asks gently, resting his hand on her thigh.
“A little,” she confesses, smiling at him.
She takes some of her pain meds and then falls asleep on the way to the cabin. He turns on the radio and just listens to the news, to the mindless chatter and then some music. It feels a little weird having her here with him. He’s seen her a few months back for Mitchell’s 200th trip through the ‘gate, and before that… he hasn’t seen her since she came to Washington before she went back to SG-1. It’s been more than a year, and having seen her twice in the past six months feels like a novelty.
They talk on the phone whenever they can but with his schedule so packed and her being off world so much, their phone dates are sporadic at best. He’s had to remind himself again and again that this is for the greater good. He’d almost convinced himself but then she got hurt and now he wonders, just wonders if they’ll ever get the chance to be together, truly together without an intergalactic war in the way. Before something happens to either of them.
She wakes up when he turns off the main road and the gravel crunches beneath the tires. She blinks a few times, hides her yawn behind her hand and then stretches, one hand pressed against her side.
“It’s been so long,” she says when the cabin comes into view.
“Yes, it has,” he agrees.
He parks the car, watches as she climbs out of it, looks around, one of her hands pressed against her wound again. He wonders how long it’ll take her to stop feeling for it, until her hand won’t absentmindedly wander to the scar. She’s been hurt before, badly, but this time she seems to be more aware of the wound, of the scar that will undoubtedly remind her of what happened for the rest of her life.
“How often have you been here since…” she trails off, gesturing with her hands.
“Just a couple of times. To get it ready for winter. I don’t have as much time as I thought I would,” he says, shoulders her duffel bag again and follows her to the cabin.
“Yeah, time,” she says wistfully.
He hands her the key to unlock the door. The cabin’s a little cool, and he sets to stocking the fire while she has a shower. Then he opens a can of tomato soup and makes grilled cheese sandwiches. When she comes into the kitchen, she’s wearing a pair of his sweatpants, old and worn, and her bra. There’s a band aid the size of his fist stuck to the smooth skin of her belly and she’s holding another one in her hand.
“Can you… I can’t reach the one on my back, it’s awkward. Can you put it on?” she asks, her eyes big.
He drops the spoon onto the counter, tomato soup splashing off of it. She hands him the white square, watches as he rips off the paper before she turns around. The wound is closed, that much is true. But it’s big and the skin around it is still red and angry. He runs his finger along it, careful not to touch the broken skin.
“Christ, Carter,” he says.
“It’s not that bad, really. It healed well,” she says, as if she has to make an excuse for this.
As if this is her fault.
He carefully puts the band aid on her, smoothes down the edges, lets his warm hand rest on top of it for a moment. The staff weapon blast went right through her, punctured her, almost killed her. A little higher and… He leans down, kisses her shoulder and breathes in her scent. She’s not one to use smelly soaps, she always smells clean with a hint of vanilla. Just enough to linger on the air when she walks past.
“What’s for supper?” she asks, turning around to face him.
He leans down to kiss her, then gestures towards the stove. The sandwiches are a little too dark now but neither of them cares, dipping the sandwiches into the soup while they stand by the window, watching dusk settle.
It’s probably the best meal she’s had in a month, six weeks, ever since she woke up after her surgeries and was confined to the infirmary. She eats slowly, chews carefully, resting her hip against Jack’s. They eat the rest of the soup out of the pot, dipping their spoons in, blowing on it, smiling at each other.
“How’s Washington?” she finally asks, pushing herself up until she sits on the counter, her feet dangling, fingers clasped around the edge.
“Would be better if the IOA didn’t constantly do whatever the hell they please. I’m getting used to it though,” he answers.
“You’re doing great,” she says, reaching out to touch his hand.
“Well, I try,” he quips, winking at her. “Are you tired?”
“I’ve had a long time to sleep and rest, I’m fine,” she answers and smiles.
He nods, steps between her legs and puts his hands on her hips. She’s still just wearing her bra and his sweatpants, and he traces the edge of her band aid again. She puts her hands on his shoulders, lets them wander up the sides of his neck and into his hair, her thumbs on his cheeks.
“So, a week, huh?” he says, leaning in to kiss her again. “And then?”
“Then it’s back to saving the galaxy,” she says, shrugging again.
He chuckles, rests his forehead against hers. He gets to have her here for a week, a little worse for wear; he gets to make sure that when she goes out there again she’s rested, she’s ready, and she’s strong.
Author: ardvari
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Spoilers: Line in the Sand
A/N: Sequel to No light. Sam gets hurt and Jack contemplates life. Concrit welcome!
Lions make you brave
During her last two years on SG-1, he gets to see her exactly four times. He visits the SGC twice, she comes to Washington once, and they meet at the cabin after she gets shot by a Prior staff weapon. That time is the only time neither of them has to work because she’s still hurt and he manages to take a week off to take care of her after she gets released from the infirmary.
He’s anxious when he waits for her at the airport in Minneapolis. When they brought her back through the ‘gate, Dr. Lam wasn’t sure if she was going to make it, and Daniel had called him, had told him that she was in surgery, that they didn’t know anything yet, that things were pretty bad.
He’d sat by the phone for three hours, alternately cursing himself and the universe, wanting to fly out to Colorado and be there when she woke up and knowing that he couldn’t. He was head of Homeworld Security. He couldn’t just up and leave because a member of an SG team was hurt, not even if it was a member of his old team. Not even if it was Sam.
He pushes his hands into his pockets, looks up at the screen again. Her plane just landed and he can’t wait to see her, to hold her, to feel her solid frame against his. Until he’s wrapped his arms around her, he can’t be sure she’s really okay.
He talked to Daniel twice while she was in recovery and Mitchell once. Mitchell, who is still reserved and edgy around him, had told him about her password, had suggested that maybe a week of fishing is exactly what she needs to heal.
The sliding glass doors pull apart with a mechanical hiss, and there she is, her hair tousled, her smile bright. He opens his arms and she steps into them, dropping her duffel bag at her feet so she can wrap her arms around him, can hold him tight for a few long moments.
When she finally lets go of him, he holds her by the elbows, scrutinizes her. She doesn’t look broken, looks fine, maybe a little pale still.
“Where?” he asks and she points to her left side, lets her hand rest on the spot where the staff weapon blew a hole through her. “Does it hurt?”
“It’s a little tender but the wound’s closed and healing well,” she says, shrugging a little.
She winces slightly when she goes to pick up her duffel bag again, and he takes it from her, slinging it over his shoulder before he takes her hand and walks her out to his rental car. It’s a small, dinky one, one of the ones that neither of them would ever buy. It’s white and quiet and he catches her biting her lip when she slides into the passenger seat.
“Sore?” he asks gently, resting his hand on her thigh.
“A little,” she confesses, smiling at him.
She takes some of her pain meds and then falls asleep on the way to the cabin. He turns on the radio and just listens to the news, to the mindless chatter and then some music. It feels a little weird having her here with him. He’s seen her a few months back for Mitchell’s 200th trip through the ‘gate, and before that… he hasn’t seen her since she came to Washington before she went back to SG-1. It’s been more than a year, and having seen her twice in the past six months feels like a novelty.
They talk on the phone whenever they can but with his schedule so packed and her being off world so much, their phone dates are sporadic at best. He’s had to remind himself again and again that this is for the greater good. He’d almost convinced himself but then she got hurt and now he wonders, just wonders if they’ll ever get the chance to be together, truly together without an intergalactic war in the way. Before something happens to either of them.
She wakes up when he turns off the main road and the gravel crunches beneath the tires. She blinks a few times, hides her yawn behind her hand and then stretches, one hand pressed against her side.
“It’s been so long,” she says when the cabin comes into view.
“Yes, it has,” he agrees.
He parks the car, watches as she climbs out of it, looks around, one of her hands pressed against her wound again. He wonders how long it’ll take her to stop feeling for it, until her hand won’t absentmindedly wander to the scar. She’s been hurt before, badly, but this time she seems to be more aware of the wound, of the scar that will undoubtedly remind her of what happened for the rest of her life.
“How often have you been here since…” she trails off, gesturing with her hands.
“Just a couple of times. To get it ready for winter. I don’t have as much time as I thought I would,” he says, shoulders her duffel bag again and follows her to the cabin.
“Yeah, time,” she says wistfully.
He hands her the key to unlock the door. The cabin’s a little cool, and he sets to stocking the fire while she has a shower. Then he opens a can of tomato soup and makes grilled cheese sandwiches. When she comes into the kitchen, she’s wearing a pair of his sweatpants, old and worn, and her bra. There’s a band aid the size of his fist stuck to the smooth skin of her belly and she’s holding another one in her hand.
“Can you… I can’t reach the one on my back, it’s awkward. Can you put it on?” she asks, her eyes big.
He drops the spoon onto the counter, tomato soup splashing off of it. She hands him the white square, watches as he rips off the paper before she turns around. The wound is closed, that much is true. But it’s big and the skin around it is still red and angry. He runs his finger along it, careful not to touch the broken skin.
“Christ, Carter,” he says.
“It’s not that bad, really. It healed well,” she says, as if she has to make an excuse for this.
As if this is her fault.
He carefully puts the band aid on her, smoothes down the edges, lets his warm hand rest on top of it for a moment. The staff weapon blast went right through her, punctured her, almost killed her. A little higher and… He leans down, kisses her shoulder and breathes in her scent. She’s not one to use smelly soaps, she always smells clean with a hint of vanilla. Just enough to linger on the air when she walks past.
“What’s for supper?” she asks, turning around to face him.
He leans down to kiss her, then gestures towards the stove. The sandwiches are a little too dark now but neither of them cares, dipping the sandwiches into the soup while they stand by the window, watching dusk settle.
It’s probably the best meal she’s had in a month, six weeks, ever since she woke up after her surgeries and was confined to the infirmary. She eats slowly, chews carefully, resting her hip against Jack’s. They eat the rest of the soup out of the pot, dipping their spoons in, blowing on it, smiling at each other.
“How’s Washington?” she finally asks, pushing herself up until she sits on the counter, her feet dangling, fingers clasped around the edge.
“Would be better if the IOA didn’t constantly do whatever the hell they please. I’m getting used to it though,” he answers.
“You’re doing great,” she says, reaching out to touch his hand.
“Well, I try,” he quips, winking at her. “Are you tired?”
“I’ve had a long time to sleep and rest, I’m fine,” she answers and smiles.
He nods, steps between her legs and puts his hands on her hips. She’s still just wearing her bra and his sweatpants, and he traces the edge of her band aid again. She puts her hands on his shoulders, lets them wander up the sides of his neck and into his hair, her thumbs on his cheeks.
“So, a week, huh?” he says, leaning in to kiss her again. “And then?”
“Then it’s back to saving the galaxy,” she says, shrugging again.
He chuckles, rests his forehead against hers. He gets to have her here for a week, a little worse for wear; he gets to make sure that when she goes out there again she’s rested, she’s ready, and she’s strong.