He hasn't wanted a family in too many years. He hasn't wanted to care.
Helping people at arms' length. Fighting the good fight and going home alone. It works for him. Keeps him moving forward. Keeps the demons at bay.
Once upon a time he said he wouldn't take his family back if it meant losing them again, losing his son. He said those words in front of Sam, knew she heard them, but all he saw in her was the empathetic ache.
He doesn't want to know he feels what he feels, doesn't want to cross the bounds of professional friendship. They've lost a comrade, and it's only natural they should support one another in their grief, comfort one another in the mourning.
But that's not what this is--not *all* it is--and he knows this. He wants to run.
Except she's Sam.
And she's crying.
And she doesn't want to be. It's clear as the shimmer of tears in her wide blue eyes that every inch of her hurts. And she's asking nothing of him but a moment to hear.
She will play formal to the end, will never ask anything she believes he is unwilling to give.
A pink flush on pale cheeks, a hitch in her breath.
It's Sam.
*"Come here."*
She feels good; warm and solid and right and home. The contact is bringing his own flesh to life, affirming his solidity. But the pain is palpable in her touch, in her muscles. She wants the comfort, but it takes her a beat to accept it. When she does, he feels her fingers digging into his back, the length of her body molding against his.
And he wants to give her this, needs to give her this.
*I gotcha, Sam. We're okay.*
He nestles in closer, every moment of contact a catalyst for more than he allows himself to feel. He buries his face against her neck--and that's it, the moment he has crossed the line. They're not professional comrades, anymore. They're Jack and Sam. And they're the only ones who can give this moment to one another. For these next few breaths, he needs to believe this.
He's seen her hit the ground in the field, could easily have seen it for the last time yesterday. But he never looks that in the eye, or their lives as they know them would shatter.
Yesterday, she watched reality in Technicolor. No lies or delays or self-deception. He surrounds her with his arms, suddenly feels his strength inadequate.
They are breathing together, chest to chest.
He doesn't want to let go. Doesn't want the only moments of good to ride on the heels of sorrow. Doesn't want to hear the word "Sir". He wants her tongue to curl around the simple syllable, "Jack". Doesn't want her fiery spirit reigned in any longer.
Another moment. Another synchronized breath. A hope that maybe she'll let him lead her for this moment longer...
Maybe she won't let go until he does...
Story Notes: SPOILERS: Through "Heroes II"
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yeah, more musings about the hug scene.:) I'm sure you've read a hundred of these already, but what can I say- -the muse started talking, and what are you gonna do?;) Oh, and this happens to be my first "Stargate: SG-1" fic. I'm moonlighting from another fandom...be gentle with me, I'm new but respectfully devoted.:)
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Yeah, more musings about the hug scene.:) I'm sure you've read a hundred of these already, but what can I say- -the muse started talking, and what are you gonna do?;) Oh, and this happens to be my first "Stargate: SG-1" fic. I'm moonlighting from another fandom...be gentle with me, I'm new but respectfully devoted.:)
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 ]