"At Sea" by elly427
Title: At Sea
Author: elly427
Rating/Warning: PG. Non-major character death.
Spoilers: None. Set sometime in season three, after 'Spirits.'
Your recipient: Julie (splash_the_cat)
Request details: Sam in command on a mission that's going wrong in every possible way. No Jacob. No S9. No Pete-bashing. This is not exactly that.
After the memorial service, Sam heads back to her lab. She set up a few tests that she needs to check on, tests that take fifty five minutes, exactly ten minutes more than the duration of a normal SGC memorial. Dr. Wilmot's clocks in at two minutes short and she heads for the door as quickly and unobtrusively as she can once Hammond is finished.
The tests aren't a good excuse to leave, she knows, but she's used them before and Dr. Lee buys it when he tries to stop her from leaving. She smiles weakly and meets his eyes and he's the one to look away, to let go of her arm.
The halls are quieter than usual, but there are still people going about their business. The loss of one man is no longer uncommon, and there are things that need to be done regardless.
She doesn't bother to close the door to her lab when she sheds her blues in favor of BDUs. The other scientists don't like to be alone after they lose one of their own, so she's safe for the next few hours at least.
Dr. Wilmot, James, he was one of theirs, a civilian scientist and probably too young, too eager and too inexperienced to be off world but he'd been so earnest when he'd come to her. He'd seemed smart and capable and wanted to see another planet, so she'd said yes and he'd ended up dead. Her choice, her fault. Simple.
Her printer whirs to life, printing the test report and she realizes she's been standing here half-dressed for some time. She finishes buttoning her pants and shrugs her shirt over her head. She has work to do.
It's hours, hours and hours when her lab phone buzzes. She blinks slowly and it takes a second to understand what's going on.
She's not asleep, not exactly, but she's so deep in the math of the report in front of her it feels a little like being in a different state. A quick glace at her watch as she picks up the handset reveals it's three in the morning. Her watch, the clock in her lab and the one in the hallway all confirm it. She's used to losing time in her work, but she's been at her bench for nine hours and that seems hard to believe.
Sergeant Harriman has to explain twice that Hammond wants to see her. She's still wrapped up in the numbers on the page and it's taking too long to come back to herself because of the hour and the past few days and things she cannot think about.
Harriman is shrugging on his jacket when she arrives. He smiles a little, almost sympathetically. She doesn't look away, meets his eyes because it seems like the best way to face down everyone who is intent on giving her that look, which seemed like every single person on base today.
Harriman blinks and then looks away. "You can go on in, Major," he says. "And have a good night."
"You too, Walter. See you tomorrow," she says evenly and he looks down and she thinks she sees him shake his head a little.
Despite the sergeant's words, she still knocks gently on the general's door. "Come in," he says, and Sam pushes the door wide.
The ceiling lights are off and the room is lit only by the desk lamp and another on the credenza behind the desk. The general looks up from the file on his desk, and as he smiles at her gently it strikes her that in this light, he almost seems like the same younger man who sat in her kitchen with her mother and father all those years ago, playing crib and laughing so loud he'd woke her and made her slink downstairs to curl up in her mother's lap, cigarette smoke heavy in the air.
"Major," he says, startling her out of her reverie. "Come on in."
She nods and moves into the room, falls at parade rest in front of his desk. He closes the file in front of him, puts it to the side and he smiles slightly when he looks up.
"Have a seat." It's not an order, but close enough despite the informality in his tone, so she sits, hands folded carefully in her lap and watches as he digs in his desk.
"Ah," he says, and pulls out a bottle of whiskey she recognizes as his favorite. "Here we are," he says and sets it on the blotter. He twists around and grabs two glasses off of the side table behind him.
She watches him pour, and he slides the fuller glass towards her. She picks it up, looks at him, and fights not to raise an eyebrow.
"To absent friends," he says and as he's about to take a drink when she corrects him, can't help herself.
"It's Monday now, sir." He pauses and smiles at her, just a quirk of his lips.
"Well, then, to our ships at sea."
"Our ships," she agrees, and takes a sip. She long ago learned to hide her grimace when drinking hard liquor straight, but the general catches her out.
"Your mother never liked the taste either," he says, smiling a little more.
"Yes, sir," she says, having heard some variation of the story every time she's had a drink with her father.
The general takes another sip and then sits back, drink resting high on the curve of his stomach. "You know, major, when my other officers lose a man, I take them off base for this sort of thing. I don't think that would suit you."
"No sir," she agrees, and presses the glass to her mouth, wets her lips, licks them.
The general takes another drink, and she somehow feels like she needs to catch up, so she takes a swallow and holds her expression straight against the burn. He doesn't say anything more, so neither does she, hoping that's the end of things.
It's nice, in this office, with the lights low. It's like a hundred other offices she has been in over the course of her career and between that and the company and the alcohol, she feels like she might be relaxing for the first time since she came through the gate three days ago.
"I've done this with every single one of my officers who has gone out and come back missing someone. Every damned one, from Jack to Griff to your father."
Sam freezes, caught unaware. Her glass hovers, caught half-way to her lips, and suddenly she wants to bolt. God, as hard as she's pretended, as hard as she's tried to convince herself, she's not ready for this, she can't do this, can't have this talk right now. It's all too fresh and too soon and her fault and her stomach drops and drops and doesn't seem to be stopping.
He sets his drink down, leans forward, hands clasped loosely on the desk in front of him. "It's never easy, loosing a man." She hears what he's not saying, that she's not the first and she won't be the last to lose someone under her command, but that makes no difference. She can be as stubborn as anyone, as Colonel O'Neill or her father or the man in front of her when she tries.
"Yes sir." She meets his eyes and knows he sees her obstinacy in her eyes.
The general doesn't back down, and she does, breaking eye contact and looking to the glass in her hand. "You're never going to feel differently about it when it happens," he says. "It doesn't get easier and it doesn't mean any less, it just gets more familiar, a little more -" he searches for some word, and then shakes his head, coming up with nothing. Hammond looks down at the desk, traces something on his blotter. "That feeling is what makes you a good officer."
Something catches in her throat and she has to blink hard, can't say anything. There's a burning there and the words bubble in her chest for the first time in her life. She thinks I don't want to be a good officer, I don't want to feel this, I can't carry him around for the rest of my life, I can't I can't I can't.
But years of training won't let the words free. She swallows them back down but she thinks he might see them anyway, so she takes another drink, swallows and finds the bottom of her glass. She stares at it because it's easier than meeting his eyes again.
She clears her throat, shifts in her seat. She doesn't know what to say, and she's afraid of what will come out if she lets herself speak. So instead she asks "is that all, sir?" and she hears him sigh and the click of his glass on the desk.
"That's everything, major." She nods and doesn't look at him. She puts her glass down and stands, pushing her chair back and turning before she can meet his eyes again.
She's at the door before the sound of his voice stops her. She has too much respect for him to ignore him, no matter how much the voice in her head is all but telling at her to do just that.
"Get some sleep, Sam. And deal with this. Forgive yourself."
She turns and he's still in the dim light, still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual. She can't lie to him. "I'll try." And she will try, will go home and get into bed and try to sleep, but she's not ready to forgive herself, and she thinks maybe it's a good sign that she's willing to admit that much to herself.
He sees it, she knows he does, and he nods, solemn. "Good night."
"You too," she says, and shut the door.
Author: elly427
Rating/Warning: PG. Non-major character death.
Spoilers: None. Set sometime in season three, after 'Spirits.'
Your recipient: Julie (splash_the_cat)
Request details: Sam in command on a mission that's going wrong in every possible way. No Jacob. No S9. No Pete-bashing. This is not exactly that.
After the memorial service, Sam heads back to her lab. She set up a few tests that she needs to check on, tests that take fifty five minutes, exactly ten minutes more than the duration of a normal SGC memorial. Dr. Wilmot's clocks in at two minutes short and she heads for the door as quickly and unobtrusively as she can once Hammond is finished.
The tests aren't a good excuse to leave, she knows, but she's used them before and Dr. Lee buys it when he tries to stop her from leaving. She smiles weakly and meets his eyes and he's the one to look away, to let go of her arm.
The halls are quieter than usual, but there are still people going about their business. The loss of one man is no longer uncommon, and there are things that need to be done regardless.
She doesn't bother to close the door to her lab when she sheds her blues in favor of BDUs. The other scientists don't like to be alone after they lose one of their own, so she's safe for the next few hours at least.
Dr. Wilmot, James, he was one of theirs, a civilian scientist and probably too young, too eager and too inexperienced to be off world but he'd been so earnest when he'd come to her. He'd seemed smart and capable and wanted to see another planet, so she'd said yes and he'd ended up dead. Her choice, her fault. Simple.
Her printer whirs to life, printing the test report and she realizes she's been standing here half-dressed for some time. She finishes buttoning her pants and shrugs her shirt over her head. She has work to do.
It's hours, hours and hours when her lab phone buzzes. She blinks slowly and it takes a second to understand what's going on.
She's not asleep, not exactly, but she's so deep in the math of the report in front of her it feels a little like being in a different state. A quick glace at her watch as she picks up the handset reveals it's three in the morning. Her watch, the clock in her lab and the one in the hallway all confirm it. She's used to losing time in her work, but she's been at her bench for nine hours and that seems hard to believe.
Sergeant Harriman has to explain twice that Hammond wants to see her. She's still wrapped up in the numbers on the page and it's taking too long to come back to herself because of the hour and the past few days and things she cannot think about.
Harriman is shrugging on his jacket when she arrives. He smiles a little, almost sympathetically. She doesn't look away, meets his eyes because it seems like the best way to face down everyone who is intent on giving her that look, which seemed like every single person on base today.
Harriman blinks and then looks away. "You can go on in, Major," he says. "And have a good night."
"You too, Walter. See you tomorrow," she says evenly and he looks down and she thinks she sees him shake his head a little.
Despite the sergeant's words, she still knocks gently on the general's door. "Come in," he says, and Sam pushes the door wide.
The ceiling lights are off and the room is lit only by the desk lamp and another on the credenza behind the desk. The general looks up from the file on his desk, and as he smiles at her gently it strikes her that in this light, he almost seems like the same younger man who sat in her kitchen with her mother and father all those years ago, playing crib and laughing so loud he'd woke her and made her slink downstairs to curl up in her mother's lap, cigarette smoke heavy in the air.
"Major," he says, startling her out of her reverie. "Come on in."
She nods and moves into the room, falls at parade rest in front of his desk. He closes the file in front of him, puts it to the side and he smiles slightly when he looks up.
"Have a seat." It's not an order, but close enough despite the informality in his tone, so she sits, hands folded carefully in her lap and watches as he digs in his desk.
"Ah," he says, and pulls out a bottle of whiskey she recognizes as his favorite. "Here we are," he says and sets it on the blotter. He twists around and grabs two glasses off of the side table behind him.
She watches him pour, and he slides the fuller glass towards her. She picks it up, looks at him, and fights not to raise an eyebrow.
"To absent friends," he says and as he's about to take a drink when she corrects him, can't help herself.
"It's Monday now, sir." He pauses and smiles at her, just a quirk of his lips.
"Well, then, to our ships at sea."
"Our ships," she agrees, and takes a sip. She long ago learned to hide her grimace when drinking hard liquor straight, but the general catches her out.
"Your mother never liked the taste either," he says, smiling a little more.
"Yes, sir," she says, having heard some variation of the story every time she's had a drink with her father.
The general takes another sip and then sits back, drink resting high on the curve of his stomach. "You know, major, when my other officers lose a man, I take them off base for this sort of thing. I don't think that would suit you."
"No sir," she agrees, and presses the glass to her mouth, wets her lips, licks them.
The general takes another drink, and she somehow feels like she needs to catch up, so she takes a swallow and holds her expression straight against the burn. He doesn't say anything more, so neither does she, hoping that's the end of things.
It's nice, in this office, with the lights low. It's like a hundred other offices she has been in over the course of her career and between that and the company and the alcohol, she feels like she might be relaxing for the first time since she came through the gate three days ago.
"I've done this with every single one of my officers who has gone out and come back missing someone. Every damned one, from Jack to Griff to your father."
Sam freezes, caught unaware. Her glass hovers, caught half-way to her lips, and suddenly she wants to bolt. God, as hard as she's pretended, as hard as she's tried to convince herself, she's not ready for this, she can't do this, can't have this talk right now. It's all too fresh and too soon and her fault and her stomach drops and drops and doesn't seem to be stopping.
He sets his drink down, leans forward, hands clasped loosely on the desk in front of him. "It's never easy, loosing a man." She hears what he's not saying, that she's not the first and she won't be the last to lose someone under her command, but that makes no difference. She can be as stubborn as anyone, as Colonel O'Neill or her father or the man in front of her when she tries.
"Yes sir." She meets his eyes and knows he sees her obstinacy in her eyes.
The general doesn't back down, and she does, breaking eye contact and looking to the glass in her hand. "You're never going to feel differently about it when it happens," he says. "It doesn't get easier and it doesn't mean any less, it just gets more familiar, a little more -" he searches for some word, and then shakes his head, coming up with nothing. Hammond looks down at the desk, traces something on his blotter. "That feeling is what makes you a good officer."
Something catches in her throat and she has to blink hard, can't say anything. There's a burning there and the words bubble in her chest for the first time in her life. She thinks I don't want to be a good officer, I don't want to feel this, I can't carry him around for the rest of my life, I can't I can't I can't.
But years of training won't let the words free. She swallows them back down but she thinks he might see them anyway, so she takes another drink, swallows and finds the bottom of her glass. She stares at it because it's easier than meeting his eyes again.
She clears her throat, shifts in her seat. She doesn't know what to say, and she's afraid of what will come out if she lets herself speak. So instead she asks "is that all, sir?" and she hears him sigh and the click of his glass on the desk.
"That's everything, major." She nods and doesn't look at him. She puts her glass down and stands, pushing her chair back and turning before she can meet his eyes again.
She's at the door before the sound of his voice stops her. She has too much respect for him to ignore him, no matter how much the voice in her head is all but telling at her to do just that.
"Get some sleep, Sam. And deal with this. Forgive yourself."
She turns and he's still in the dim light, still leaning back in his chair, deceptively casual. She can't lie to him. "I'll try." And she will try, will go home and get into bed and try to sleep, but she's not ready to forgive herself, and she thinks maybe it's a good sign that she's willing to admit that much to herself.
He sees it, she knows he does, and he nods, solemn. "Good night."
"You too," she says, and shut the door.