This Airman First Class must have been close to the max height for the Air Force, and he was about six ax handles across the shoulders. Muscles on muscles from lifting, but otherwise ordinary: name tag "Duber, M."; lumpy knobbly unintelligent face, cunning in the back of the eyes. He came to a halt by Teal’c’s shoulder, threw a salute, and said, "Excuse me, sir - Colonel O’Neill?"
I admitted to this thing.
"General Hammond would like to see you, sir."
Damn; I hadn’t finished my pie. "You kids have fun," I said to my team, and got up. Duber’s eyes were on Carter, and I stamped on the urge to break his arms. "Airman?" I said shortly. He turned, and we went.
We were all in the gym a couple of days later, taking turns throwing each other around. I put Daniel down, he tried out a shiny new move I taught him the previous week, and I let him throw me for a change. I’ve fallen enough to do that part well but getting up fast seems to me, in my declining years, less and less necessary unless the adrenalin is flowing and the bad guys are throwing rocks. So Daniel, who obviously doesn’t share my priorities, was suddenly back on his knees beside me. "Jack? Are you okay?"
"I’m fine." I got to my feet, put him down again. He wasn’t expecting it but he bounced up, grinning. Dannyboy is beginning to learn the O’Neill rules.
We traded off and Teal’c matched up against me. Sparring with him is a joy, the big lug. We circle each other like two bears, bent at the waist, eyes wary, and I might be grinning. His statement actually lightens, so Teal’c is having a good time.
Two brief hard contacts and I was on the floor again, and there was no "let him" about this one. I hope never to fight Teal’c in earnest.
I forget he’s twice my age. I thought "Old and treacherous beats young and smart" was the wishful thinking of people who had let themselves get out of shape until I sparred with Teal’c. He tosses me on my rump any time he wants to because he can bring seventy years’ experience to the encounter, and I can’t.
But, by his standards, I am young. Which is nice . . . .
We had an audience. There are always six, seven, eight people in the gym at SGC. They were watching Teal’c, almost without exception. The "almost" was that Duber, again ogling my 2IC, and I began to dislike him on sight.
Carter and Daniel sparred on the other side of the floor. They are startlingly uninhibited about putting hands on each other in the gym, which should trigger all the O’Neill instincts but doesn’t. Out of the corner of my eye I saw him grab her in a place I wouldn’t dare to and try to throw her. Her voice came to me across the gym, patient, matter-of-fact: "You have your weight too far forward to do that. You need to stay on your back foot."
I myself am at a disadvantage when I have to engage in hand-to-hand combat with a woman. I like the way they smell and the way they think and the way they move and the softness of their hands. It slows me up.
Teal’c’s hands hit me like a pair of oak trees, which refocused my thoughts in a hurry. When he picks me up after I get stomped off-planet, those same hands are soft as silk, gentle as a mother’s. Now, though, I hit the floor again. He bent over me, extended a hand. "O’Neill, you are not concentrating."
"Guess not, Teal’c. Want a third one?"
"Certainly."
I lasted longer this time. That’s about the best I can say.
I got up and Carter said to me, "Go around, sir?"
"Sure." I’d like to lose the audience though, and maybe have some slow music playing.
She dumped me on my butt in something under fifteen seconds.
Twice.
When I’m not on planet P-whatever X-and-so-forth, my hours are eight to five, just like any other boring, pompous job. (Count in the time I spend off-planet and I probably get paid about thirty-eight cents an hour.) Three or four weeks in the shank of the year, right around Christmas, I go to work in the dark and come home in the dark. I’ve never liked that much.
In the pre-dawn version of dark, Carter locked her car, and turned to me. "Sir," she said brightly, and made me want to smile. Please note I said "want to."
"Carter."
We fell into step beside one another. She often carries a briefcase full of papers I would not understand if my life depended on it. Daniel once explained to me the easy parts of what she does. He admitted that much of her work was beyond him.
And if it’s beyond him, I am probably not even in the same room with it. Maybe not even in the same house, street, city, county, state. Possibly not on the same continent.
Nevertheless that woman, with that brain, is occasionally in my arms and in my bed. Not often enough, though. –You know what I find hardest about our situation? It’s not that we can’t get together and do the deed, but that we can’t spend our downtime together. Washing the car, cleaning the house, doing the laundry, completely failing to solve the New York Times crossword puzzle on my part, solving it in ink on hers, ordering in Thai food, balancing the checkbook, buying the groceries, putting in a garden, talking, wasting a Sunday by not getting out of bed, not necessarily doing what’s associated with bed but just lying around.
At the end of most working days, we go in different directions.
Earth's the right place for love:/I don't know where it's likely to go better.
For the record, old Robert Lee seems to be wrong about Sam and me. Yes, I read Frost. Wanna make something out of it?
We weren’t the only ones in the elevator down. Duber; again his eyes were all over Sam. She was miles away and her eyes were unfocussed; doing weird math in her head, I’ll bet you.
I wanted to punch him but if I did, to base personnel Sam would become "mine."
This would last until she found out about it, at which point I would become "damaged."
The cage stopped and the door opened.
Sometimes I wonder why so many words form themselves up in my head. I am condemned to think, compare, weigh, adjust, and poke around in my limited knowledge for reasons why. (And then to be sarcastic. Which is optional, really, but it’s half the fun and I don’t want to miss it.)
I accept that limitation, because I absolutely do not want to be spoon-fed any more "learning" in a plastic-chairs environment.
I have been companion, witness, and agent to pain, destruction, and death. I have no patience left for people who play for lower stakes than those. No academic I have ever met had any idea what "real," for which read "my," life is like. Except Daniel and Carter, who share parts of it with me.
It leaves a man with a lot of words inside his head, though.
And Carter thinks I’m smart enough for her, even though I ain’t got no eddication. So nobody else’s opinion matters.
I poked my head into her office. "Hey, Carter?"
"Sir?" She raised her head from a calculator.
"Five p.m., Carter. You can knock off with a clean conscience."
She looked at whatever she was doing. "I wish. I’ll be leaving late again tonight, sir."
Drat. "Okay. See you later, Major."
"Sir," she said, head back down, eyes and mind already back with her numbers.
In the parking lot, I saw Duber unlock his own car and get in. How he crammed himself into that tiny thing I will never know; maybe if I talked to Carter or Daniel about it they could tell me what the secret was. I mean, I learned that the outside can’t be smaller than the inside in some OCS math class, but maybe the rules have changed since then.
A couple of weeks and Christmas-and-New-Year went by.
When the phone rang, I surfaced from a nightmare I couldn’t quite remember, and squinted at the clock: three-fourteen a.m. I picked up the handset, saying, "O’Neill."
"Colonel O’Neill, this is Doctor Fraiser. I have Major Carter in the infirmary."
My gut contracted and I was suddenly all the way awake. "How is she?"
"She’s actually in pretty good shape. She has a knock on her head and some scrapes, but that’s all."
"What the hell happened?"
"She was attacked in the parking lot."
"Attacked?"
"That’s what she says."
"I’ll be right there."
Carter was sitting on a table with her legs dangling over the edge, a bandage over one eyebrow. I could see pain in her eyes; she wasn’t aware of being watched.
She was pale, she had the beginnings of a shiner, and there were scrapes on her face and a scratch along one arm. One of her hands was bruised and puffy around the knuckles, and her BDUs had a couple of triangular tears. She was carefully applying an ice bag to the damaged hand.
I walked in after rearranging my face a little. Because I wanted to find and beat the crap out of the responsible party, and the face I wear for that I saw in a mirror once. It scared me; Lord knows what it would do to Carter.
"Carter, what the hell?"
"Sir?" she said, startled. No pain in the eyes now. "I didn’t know they called you."
"They did and I’m here. What happened?"
"Duber jumped me in the parking lot, sir."
"Duber? - oh, that big guy. He give any reason?"
"No, sir, he didn’t even speak, just walked up and clocked me one." She reached up and applied the ice to the back of her head, wincing.
"Where is he now?"
"He’s in a cell." General Hammond pushed the swinging door open and walked in. "Major Carter, Airman First Class Duber alleged that you have sexually harassed him repeatedly since the day he arrived at this base. He has a notebook in which he has kept record of each incident."
Carter looked stunned. I probably did too.
"Unfortunately for him, in at least four of these entries he reports harassment by you when you and SG-1 were off-world. I’ve arranged for him to be seen by a psychiatrist. In the meantime, Major Carter, you can leave as soon as Doctor Fraiser clears you for it."
"Thank you, sir."
"I’ll drive you home, Major," I said. I don’t know what was on my face, but she looked at me and said only, "Thank you, sir."
General Hammond said to me, "I’ll see you in my office in the morning, Colonel." Then he looked at Carter and said, "Major Carter, I am truly sorry that this has happened. I expect you to stay home and take care of yourself tomorrow."
Janet and I had a fight over who got to take Sam home. I won.
"All right, dammit!" Janet yelled. She shoved a small plastic bag at me so hard I had to take a step back when it hit me in the chest. "One every four hours with at least eight ounces of water! And if you don’t take good care of her I’ll kick your butt, Colonel O’Neill!"
She’s a good friend to Sam.
Sam had another one of those bitty cars, and I had the hell of a time folding myself up into it. She didn’t say anything during the drive. I looked over at her once and her head was back against the seat, her eyes closed. I didn’t speak.
We got to her house and I gave her back the keys. She locked her car remotely and the lights in her house sprang on. "Neat trick," I said.
She gave me a wan smile, opened the door and went in, and turned to face me in the front room. "Thanks for driving, Colonel."
She was way too white for me to be gotten rid of that easily. "I’ll make tea?"
"Yes. I’d like that."
"Go sit down," I said.
When I came back into the living room she was wrapped in a throw at the end of the sofa, huddled into herself, looking un-Carterishly lost behind her eyes.
I set the pot and a cup down by her, set mine down beside hers, sat on the couch. Poured her tea. Then I got up to lay and light a fire, sat back down on the couch, near but not touching, my elbows on my knees and my hands clasped. I watched the fire but all my thoughts were with her.
A hand came out of the throw and she picked up her cup, still staring at nothing. Then abruptly her eyes focused, shifted to me. She said, "I’ve been hurt in combat, and I’ve been hurt in drills. But this is the first time someone that I knew came for me, personally, without any provocation."
I turned my head to look at her, and said, matter-of-fact, "It’s not a sane world, Carter."
"I know. Intellectually, anyway. The emotional reality is different."
Nasty emotional realities are always different, Carter. I didn’t say that. I leaned back and put an arm around her shoulders, wishing I could help.
She curled into my chest, her head on my shoulder, and we stayed that way for a while, until the deep shakes inside her body went away. Then she went to bed and I curled up on the couch.
Of course I didn’t follow her in there. What are you, nuts? The reality was that my friend Samantha Carter had been assaulted and was vulnerable, and any man who made the move right then would be six kinds of jerk. If she had asked me outright I wouldn’t have done more than offer comfort of the hug-and-cuddle kind. Her eyes were way too lost for anything else at all.
I’m a lot of things, often including six kinds of jerk. But not around Carter. She inspires me to my best behavior, and often to performing beyond my capacity.
Really good friends will do that for you.
I knocked on the door of Hammond’s office feeling tired and full of anger.
"Enter."
"Sir, you wanted to see me."
"Yes, Colonel O’Neill." He pulled a file folder out of the neat pile he keeps on the left-hand side of his desk when he is working. "Airman First Class Michael Duber has been placed on temporary psychiatric disability. Major Carter may be asked to bear witness at the hearing, next Tuesday."
"I see, sir."
He steepled his fingers and looked over the open file at me. When he does that I always wonder how much of Carter’s work he understands, because those little Texas eyes of his hide some impressive clockwork.
That’s right before I begin to wonder how much of my ass is grass at this particular moment in time.
"Colonel," he said finally, "Security reports that your car was in the parking lot here all night, and Major Carter’s was parked in front of her own house."
"Yes, sir."
"Did you spend the night at her residence, Colonel?"
"Yes, sir. On her couch, sir."
"Why?"
"She seemed to be shaken up after the attack, sir."
He sat back in his chair and this was the first time I have ever seen him look angry. Stern, sure; that’s more or less the natural set of his face. Angry, never before.
"Colonel, I caution you about the appearance of impropriety."
My face went wooden. "Sir."
"If I am forced to take official notice of a relationship between you and Major Carter, I will have no choice but to reassign the members of SG-1 to other teams. It is my assessment that such an action would be extremely deleterious to any effort we can put forth against the Gou’a’ould. I will meet further trespass against the proprieties with the strictest possible punitive measures. Do you understand me, Colonel O’Neill?"
"Yes, sir, I do understand. It won’t happen again."
He reached under the work surface of his desk and twiddled for a moment. Then he got up and went to the coffee machine he keeps in his office, poured two cups and gave me one.
"Sit down, Jack. --We’re off the record. How long have you two been involved?"
"Since the first mission to Kormai’s planet, sir."
"‘George’ will do. How serious are you?"
"I’m going to spend as much of my life as possible with her, George."
"She feel the same way?" Compassion in those Texas eyes.
"Yes."
We drank some coffee in a companionable silence; he makes good coffee. I said, carefully turning my cup in a small stationary circle, "Both Major Carter and I realize that as long as the Gou’a’ould are a clear and present danger, we have to put our personal concerns aside. The most important person on our missions continues to be Dr. Jackson, whose safety is paramount to the entire Stargate project." I squared my shoulders, raised my eyes to his face. "We’re both career, George. We’re both scared of what’s out there. We’re both afraid of making mistakes; the Gou’a’ould aren’t forgiving."
He looked at me thoughtfully, from beyond the gulf that chain-of-command creates: measuring, weighing, assessing. On neither side of that look is there any comfort at all to be had.
Suddenly he was not my CO any longer: just a friend, older in a hurry, face lined, shoulders burdened, eyes tired. "Hell of a world we live in, Jack."
"Yeah, George, it is."
"I’ll bury this security report." He squared the edges of the papers, and looked at the photograph on his desk. "I had wonderful years with her. I wish the same for you and Sam."
"Thank you, sir." I rose to go.
"Sit down and finish your coffee, son. The war will wait that long."
I walked down the corridor and noticed that people were getting out of my way. If my state of mind showed on my face, I don’t blame them.
I drove her car to her house about noon, Daniel following in his, chicken sandwich and fries in a bag beside me, chocolate shake in the beverage holder.
Daniel knocked at the door before I was halfway up the walk. It took her a little while to answer.
I didn’t like the look on her face: it was too inward. And of course she sported the shiner and the bruises and scratches. But she lit up a little, say about forty watts, when she saw Daniel.
The first thing I notice about her place is that it smells better than my house. She remembers to take out the garbage, and does laundry more often.
The teakettle began to whistle while we were in the hall, and she said, "Come on in," turned without haste and made for the kitchen. "I’ll get the tea, Carter," I said. "Take a load off." They arranged themselves around the kitchen table while I warmed the pot and put loose leaves in a ball and poured and steeped: made tea. Yeah, I know, the big bad Colonel makes tea. It’s what she lets me do for her.
She sat stiffly, and I remembered the days-after of my bar brawl years. You do get sore.
Daniel said anxiously, "Sam, are you okay?"
She smiled at him. "Fine. I’m just achy. I’ll be better tomorrow." She glanced at me, and said, "Thank you for the lunch, sir. I was craving a chocolate shake."
"Welcome, Carter. Any time."
Daniel put a folder and a couple of discs down on the table. "There’s the stuff you asked for. If there’s any more, just call me at the base, okay?"
"Thanks."
I put the teapot and cup on the table. "Do you need anything else before I leave, Carter?"
"No, sir. Thank you for dropping the car by, and for lunch."
"Any time. There’s anything else you need, give me a call."
"Thanks. I will." She didn’t, though. I hope it was because she really didn’t need anything.
I worked a little later than usual that night, and Daniel and Teal’c came to my office. Together. Which in and of itself is unusual.
Teal’c said, "O’Neill, what are we to do about the insult this Duber has paid Major Carter?" In his mouth, the name "Duber" was either a swear word or a lower life form with unfortunate habits and a tendency to leave a slime trail. Fine by me.
I looked at Daniel behind him, who made a brief hands-up shrug.
"The justice system will handle it, Teal’c. It looks like he might be crazy."
He leaned over my desk, the eyes intense. "You do not understand, O’Neill. I care nothing for your - justice system. My friend has been insulted and I shall avenge her."
I must have spent fifteen or twenty minutes explaining the justice system to him, stressing the fact that we Tau’ri live by rules and that we do not hold the crazy ones accountable. Daniel had some to say about it, too.
I really thought he was getting it.
But at the end, Teal’c slapped my desk with one big hand, said, "This emits a foul odor as far as the firmament, O’Neill," and stalked out.
I looked at Daniel, who translated, "It stinks to high heaven. He’s right."
"Ya think."
Next week at Duber’s psych review a picture of his ex-wife was part of the evidence.
Picture Major Samantha Carter with her integrity and intelligence washed out. Carter had to be there, which was hard; he kept turning to look at her. She didn’t have to testify, though.
I was worried that they might invalid him out; he knew where she worked and it wouldn’t be hard to find out where she lived. And you can’t exactly transfer from Stargate to Stargate. Instead, when one of the people with lots of letters behind the name got done testifying, they put him away for quite a few years. A place with bars and more psychiatrists.
It’s almost enough to make you feel sorry for the guy.
Thursday I went to the gym with a quiet workout on my mind. Some lifting, some treadmill, a serious quarrel with the heavy bag, some steam.
Carter came in when I did, wearing tank and shorts. The bruises were fading, but not gone yet. "Sir," she said.
"Carter. I’m here for the dance lessons. You?"
"I wanted to pound the crap out of something, sir."
We started on the treadmill. It doesn’t require words if you’re doing it right; you can talk or you can run. We ran.
In the weight room we spotted for each other after I lost the toss to go first. Or won it; spotting for Major Carter requires the spotter to watch a beautiful woman getting sweaty.
I don’t mind.
At the end of my own session, she took a surprising amount of the weight as I guided the bar back into the rack, and I sat up and wiped my face. "What next, Major?"
"The heavy bag, sir."
"You got it."
Lacing the gloves for an attractive woman-type person is pretty fun too.
I leaned my shoulder into the bag, and she worked on a complicated combination of hooks and jabs, putting her shoulders and back and legs into it. I began to smell hard-working human female, which is not a bad smell at all.
All at once she seemed to catch fire and get serious. I had to lean hard, use my belly and my legs, and still I got pushed around a little.
It wasn’t just the leather bag she punished.
She pounded out her anger and her rage and her fear and her frustration, not just at Duber and his sickness, but at the whole goddamned world as it stood right now, every rotten thing that had ever happened in any blameless life.
She was in combat against the general desperation of our work, the impossible stakes we played for, the enemy who will kill you without hesitation or remorse, inflict on you a torture spanning millennia.
She put all those things into that bag and she beat them into submission.
And then she stood back, with the fire dying out of her eyes and her skin wet. And she said, "I’m done for now. Your turn, sir."
I couldn’t fit all my demons into the bag that first time. There are too many of them.
But we’ll meet again in the gym, and eventually we’ll get all of her demons and all of mine into that bag.
. . . we’ll get around to the Gou’a’ould..
The End
Story Notes: Season/Sequel: First season, after "Solitudes"; following "Call Forward" and "Casablanca" (you should read them first) but before "Fifty-Minute Hour."
Content Warnings: Jack’s mouth, physical assault.
Author’s note: After being attacked (whether the attack is sexual or not) many women blame themselves for the assault. Sam had a supportive father, so she is unlikely to do that - but how would she react to assault? How would the members of her team deal with it? Also, it’s lots and lots of fun to get Sam and Jack into the sack together, but that is far from the whole of their relationship. And how would General Hammond cope with the managerial nightmare their involvement presents? I also wanted to try out Jack’s voice.
DISCLAIMER: The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-1, the Gou’a’ould and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-1 Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fan fiction is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and is meant solely for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea, and the story itself are the sole property of the author. Please ask to archive. Author’s copyright March 8, 2001 - 00:22:07. 4075 words
Content Warnings: Jack’s mouth, physical assault.
Author’s note: After being attacked (whether the attack is sexual or not) many women blame themselves for the assault. Sam had a supportive father, so she is unlikely to do that - but how would she react to assault? How would the members of her team deal with it? Also, it’s lots and lots of fun to get Sam and Jack into the sack together, but that is far from the whole of their relationship. And how would General Hammond cope with the managerial nightmare their involvement presents? I also wanted to try out Jack’s voice.
DISCLAIMER: The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-1, the Gou’a’ould and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-1 Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fan fiction is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and is meant solely for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea, and the story itself are the sole property of the author. Please ask to archive. Author’s copyright March 8, 2001 - 00:22:07. 4075 words
DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc, are the property of their respective owners. Any original characters and plots are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. ... [ read more ]