"You got a minute, Doc?"
Glancing up from her work, Janet's eyes narrowed the moment they landed on the strained face that was poking around the door to her office. "Of course, Colonel," she replied, turning away from her keyboard as he stepped into the room and watching him with a familiar sense of foreboding. "You look a little pale," she ventured.
O'Neill frowned and dropped into the chair opposite her. "Yeah," he agreed, raking a hand through his hair. He nodded to himself, leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees and stared down at his shoes. "I need some more Tamazapan."
Damn. "Still having trouble sleeping?"
"I just can't seem to shake it this time," he sighed.
"Any idea why?"
He shook his head, still staring at the floor. "Life, I guess. The holidays, maybe."
"It's tough time of year," she agreed, watching the way his fingers were toying tensely with a pen he held. "Brings a lot of things to the surface."
"Yeah," he agreed, letting that single word out before his lips clamped shut. Jack O'Neill did not talk about his problems; his symptoms, yes, his problems, no. And that, she was convinced, was half of the problem - if not most.
Getting up, she retrieved his file and returned to her desk. Flipping through the pages, she frowned as she said, "I gave you fourteen pills just a week ago, Colonel. Have you finished them all?"
"Most of them," he admitted, his gaze carefully averted. "Sometimes I take a couple."
Janet took a deep breath and doggedly kept the annoyance out of her voice. "You know these things are addictive, don't you?" she asked in as neutral a voice as possible. The colonel made no reply, but his very stillness was answer enough. "And you know what would happen if you became dependent. I'd have to...."
"I know," he snapped. And then, more quietly, "I know. You'd have to report it to Hammond." His head sank into his hands. "I just...I just need to sleep."
After a long pause, Janet closed his file and pushed it to one side. "Have you tried talking to anyone, Colonel?"
Dark eyes lifted to hers and she almost shivered at the sudden animosity she saw there. "I don't need a shrink."
"I was thinking more in terms of a friend."
He stared, as if the concept was ridiculous. "I just need to sleep," he repeated. "Are you going to give me any more of those damn pills, or not?"
Janet watched him, trying to gage what was going on. Was this just a reaction to the holidays, a resurfacing of the grief she knew he had to carry every day of the year, yet made more poignant by the season? Or was it a sign of something more serious, a relapse into the serious depression that was highlighted with bells and whistles at the heart of his medical file?
"Please, Doc," he said, losing the aggression. "Just 'til the New Year."
With a sigh she nodded. "I'll give you a week's worth," she told him, rising again and heading towards the drugs cabinet. "Don't take more than one at a time. And I know you know not to consume any alcohol."
"Sure, you betcha," he replied, distinctly more relaxed now that she'd agreed.
Her stomach twisted anxiously as she tipped the seven little pills into a bottle, and held them out for him. "No more," she warned him. "If you're still not sleeping, we'll need to consider other options."
The colonel nodded, although his eyes narrowed slightly at the veiled reference to a psych evaluation. "I'll be fine after New Years," he assured her. "I always am."
"I hope so," she replied, deadly serious.
He nodded again, giving her a tight little smile as he pocketed his pills and headed for the door. "Thanks, Doc. I appreciate this." But at the last moment he paused and looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, and merry Christmas."
"Yeah, you too sir."
He gave no answer, just nodded, and Janet let out a long sigh as the door closed behind him. She pressed a hand against her forehead; Jack O'Neill, she realized bleakly, was one very unhappy man. She wondered how his friends could stand by and watch it.
***
As she stood in line at the canteen, Sam mentally ran through the checklist of things she needed to do before she got on the plane tomorrow. Most of it was taken care of, Christmas cards sent, the shopping done, she just needed to....
The gruff voice of the server broke into her thoughts. "Lasagna or lemon chicken?"
She blinked. "Um, chicken. Thanks."
Right, she just needed to call Mark and tell him her flight details, then wrap the presents for his kids. Those she could do tonight, after she packed. Which would leave her a leisurely morning before her midday flight. She smiled slightly, enjoying the sensation of bringing order to the chaotic season. It was all a matter of planning.
The canteen was almost empty this close to Christmas, so she found a table near the door and sat down to eat. Daniel was already out of town, staying with friends in Chicago, and Teal'c had, as usual, made use of the slowdown to visit his own family. And tomorrow she'd be off too. Which only left the colonel. A small pang of unease fluttered in her chest as she thought about him spending the holidays alone, but she easily quelled it. He preferred to work over Christmas, to bury himself beneath the mountain and wait for the all-clear at New Years. It was his way, and she didn't have any right to interfere. Even if she'd wanted to. Which she didn't. And couldn't, given the nature of their working relationship and their respective
military ranks.... It was amazing how easily that phrase slipped into her head; it had become a silent mantra over the past year.
"Sam!"
She glanced up to see Janet making her way through the tables towards her, tray in hand and a troubled look on her face. "Hey," Sam smiled, making room on the table as Janet sat down. "I didn't know you were still on base."
Janet nodded as she took her seat opposite and started poking at her lasagna. "A couple of things came up at the last moment," she sighed. "They always do."
"Nothing bad?" Sam asked.
Janet didn't reply immediately, she just frowned into her forgotten dinner as if weighing a decision.
"Janet?" Sam pressed.
She looked up, fixed Sam with a serious look, and quietly said, "Have you talked to Colonel O'Neill recently?"
"The colonel?" Sam replied in surprise. "Umm, well, we had a strategic security meeting with General Hammond this morning and I saw him there. Why?"
But Janet was shaking her head. "No, I don't mean meetings, Sam. I mean *talk* talk."
The familiar flush of anxiety stole over Sam at the allusion to the most forbidden of subjects. "No," she said shortly, "not really."
Janet sighed. "I think you should."
"Why?" Sam snapped, more irritated than the situation deserved. Why the hell was it any of Janet's business?
Another pause. And then, with a guilty wince, Janet leaned closer and said, "I think he could do with a friend right now."
"A friend?" Sam echoed. "What about Daniel?"
"He's in Chicago," Janet pointed out. "And Teal'c's off-world."
Sam took a deep breath. "Look, Janet, I can't. You know why I can't. That's not the kind of relationship we have."
Janet's fork clattered angrily to her plate and Sam was surprised to see a flash of genuine anger in her dark eyes. "So, you're not friends?" she asked in a tight voice.
"Not that kind of friend."
"Then what kind?"
Sam pushed her plate away, glancing around and lowering her voice before she answered. Thank God the place was practically empty. "You know that I care about him, but I can't let myself get too close. It's just not worth the risk."
Leaning across the table, Janet quietly said, "I think it might be. Talk to him, Sam. Please."
The urgency in her voice caught Sam's attention and ignited a little flutter of unease. "He is okay, isn't he? I mean... Is he okay?"
Janet pursed her lips. "You know I can't discuss a patient's case."
Her eyebrows rose. "Patient?" Janet said nothing, just shook her head slightly and sat back in her seat. "Janet - is he sick? My God, is he...?"
"No," Janet told her shortly. "There's nothing wrong with him. Physically."
Sam felt herself relax a little, until the weight of Janet's final word sank in. "Then...what?"
Janet was shaking her head again, rising to her feet. "I can't say anything Sam, other than go talk to him. As a friend. That's not against the regulations, is it?"
"No," Sam replied quietly, staring at her cooling food. "I guess not. But..." she looked up into her friend's face, "it's still hard. You know?"
A beat of sympathy passed through Janet's eyes. "Yeah, I know. But he needs someone, Sam. And I think you're all he's got."
***
Jack had finished for the day, and was contemplating going home without much enthusiasm. All that awaited him there was silence and a nameless anxiety that kept the adrenaline flowing all night, sabotaging sleep and leaving him feeling drained, irritable and sorry for himself in the morning. It was always the same this time of year. He was alone all year, but at Christmas he knew what it was to be truly lonely. There was no one there, no one who cared enough to be there for him. Not even Carter, not anymore. He sighed and rose to his feet, pushing the weary thoughts to one side along with the papers on his desk.
But just as he was reaching for his jacket, he heard a familiar tap on the door. And, as always, his heart lifted a fraction, before dropping back into the familiar pattern of disappointment and regret. Steeling himself, he sat back down and called, "Come in," as he collected together the papers sprawled across his desk. It gave him something to look at other than her.
The door opened and Carter stepped inside. "Sir, hi," she said with that mix of trepidation and determination to which he had grown so depressingly accustomed. "Do you have a minute?"
"Sure, Carter," he sighed, glancing up at her for a moment. "What do you need?"
He was about to look away again when he saw her frown and shift nervously. It caught his attention; Carter was never nervous. "I, um," she began, "I was...wondering...."
Jack couldn't prevent hope from rising unbidden in his heart. "Wondering what?" he asked cautiously.
"You're okay, right?" she blurted, although it sounded more like a statement than a query. "I mean...if you weren't, you'd tell me, right?"
He blinked, unsure what to make of her words. "I don't know," he replied honestly, although her unease nurtured his silent hope. Was she worried about him? After all those months of silence, did she still care enough to notice?
Carter frowned. "You don't know if you're all right?"
"I don't know if I'd tell you if I wasn't," he corrected. "Why do you ask?"
She shook her head. "Janet said I should talk to you."
Hope died. Janet said...? So this was a mercy mission? Fraiser had no damn right talking about him to her, or to anyone else for that matter! Angrily, he tapped his papers together sharply on the desk and dropped them into his in-box. "I see," he replied, turning back to his PC and shutting it down.
Carter gave an odd, nervous laugh. "She made it sound like you were practically suicidal...."
He froze at the word, shaken. Suicidal.... In an instant he was back in Charlie's room, the cold dead-weight of the gun in his hands and his future nothing more than bleak darkness. Suicidal.... How could she say the word as if it was a joke? Her careless words hurt beyond belief. Carter, of all people! Didn't she know...? Didn't she damn well know...?
"Sir? Are you okay?"
With a massive effort he kept his voice calm. "I'm fine. You can tell Fraiser that I'm fine."
"Right," came the relieved reply. "Sir, I know it's tough this time of year, but we still....."
"I said I'm fine," he snapped, dangerously close to the edge. He rose to his feet, almost shaking with the strain of swallowing his shock and pain. "I'm gonna go home, and stay there until the New Year. I'll be fine."
Carter nodded sympathetically, but looked like she wanted to bolt. He almost wished she would, but she didn't. Instead she reached into her pocket and took out a small envelope. "Merry Christmas, sir," she said, handing him the card. He took it woodenly, but couldn't find the words to answer her incongruous offering. Suicidal.... "I, um, I put my cell number inside," she told him seriously. "In case you wanted to...talk or something. I'll have it with me at Mark's."
"Okay," he nodded, slipping the card into his pocket unopened. He'd rather call McKenzie!
"Well," she said, still nervous, "I'd better get going. I need to pack and I still have gifts to wrap." He just nodded again, his emotions creating such a pressure in his chest that he was struggling to breathe normally. "You're sure you're okay, sir?"
"Sure," he lied, knowing that if she wanted to see the truth it was right before her eyes. But she didn't, of course. She wanted to believe his words, despite the naked lie, because it was so much easier that way.
"Okay." She gave him a bright, forced smile and a little nod as she turned to leave. "I'll see you in a few days, sir."
He almost laughed; she obviously couldn't wait to get out of there. "Yeah," he replied with a sigh. "You do that. Merry Christmas, Carter."
And then she was gone and he sank back down in his chair and dropped his head into his hands. He'd never felt so lonely in his life.
***
It was with not a little relief that Sam stuck on the last bow and wrote the last tag. She stretched, and cracked a yawn as she glanced at the clock. Nine-thirty. How could it be nine-thirty? Looking at the small pile of gifts she shook her head - an hour and a half to cover them all in garish paper. What a waste of time.
As she gathered up the presents she congratulated herself on already having packed her bag for tomorrow. The last thing she felt like doing now was packing. In fact, the only thing she did want to do was crawl into bed and sleep. It had been a long day. A long year, if she was honest with herself. A long year full of hiding and repressing and ignoring. It couldn't be good for the soul.
The telephone trilled suddenly, startling her, and she frowned as she jumped up and went hunting for it. Probably Mark, she guessed, double-checking the flight times. He was always so methodical. Drove her nuts.
"Yeah, hi," she said when she at last found the phone in the kitchen. "It's Sam."
"Sam - what the hell did you say to Colonel O'Neill?" The voice was sharp and angry. And it was Janet's.
"Huh?" was all she could muster in response.
"This afternoon," Janet rattled, "what the hell did you say to him? Did you tell him I thought he was suicidal?"
"I...no," Sam said, thinking back. "No...I .... Oh. It was just a joke...."
"A joke!" Janet choked. "Jesus, Sam what the hell were you thinking?!"
"It's just an expression," Sam protested as she walked slowly back into the living room. "He knew that."
Janet laughed darkly. "Oh, I don't think so. Or I wouldn't have had him storming around my office questioning my professionalism and threatening to report me to the Medical Ethics Committee!"
Sam dropped down onto the sofa in astonishment. "What? He wouldn't...."
"He was pissed, Sam. Jesus. Suicidal? Why that? Why the hell did you have to say *that*?"
Something dropped dully into the pit of Sam's stomach as the underlying meaning of Janet's words hit home. Feeling suddenly nauseous, Sam asked, "My God, he's not is he? Suicidal?" Jesus! How could she not have seen that?
After a long pause Janet said, "No. He's not. Of course he's not. *I* wouldn't allow him on active duty if he was anywhere near that state."
The subtle emphasis wasn't lost on Sam. "*You* wouldn't?" she asked, frowning down at her socks as she thought about Janet's words. "But someone else would...or has, right?" The pieces slid together like cracked ice and she closed her eyes against the realization. "God.... Abydos. Right after Charlie died."
"Let's just say it was a poor choice of joke, Sam."
"Shit."
Through the phone-line she heard Janet sigh as her anger dissolved. "I thought you would have known about it."
Sam sank back against the cushions and pressed a hand over her eyes. "He never talks about it." He never talks about anything, she added silently, not to me. Not anymore.
"He should," Janet told her quietly. "I really think he should."
"So what should I do?" Sam asked her. "Call him? Apologize?"
"No!" Janet barked. "I'm already in enough trouble - don't do anything. He'll know I've talked to you..." Then she relented a little. "Talk to him when you get back from Mark's, after Christmas."
Sam stared dully at her almost-packed bag in the hall; she felt like she was running out on him. "I feel terrible," she confessed, pressing a hand over her stomach where her guilt was coiling uneasily. "I've just made it worse, haven't I?"
Janet sighed again. "I don't know. He was really pissed with me, but he had a right to be. I was out of line talking to you about him."
"You were just trying to help."
"So were you."
But Sam wasn't so sure. Had she really gone there to find out if he was okay, or simply to make herself feel better? Had she actually wanted to talk to him, or had she just wanted to hear him tell her he was okay? In her heart, she suspected the latter. Because talking to him would have meant acknowledging to herself, and to him, that she still cared. And caring about him was dangerous; it left her vulnerable and confused. So it had been easier to keep her
distance, both literally and figuratively, just as she had done all year. Only now she was beginning to realize that her strategy for self-preservation may have done some unforeseen collateral damage; the price for her professionalism may have been their friendship.
***
To Matt it seemed that the blast of cold air that followed the man through the door lingered around him long after the door had been firmly closed against the wintry night. He watched the man from behind the bar as he hesitated on the edge of the crowd, snow dusting his graying hair and the shoulders of his jacket. His face didn't give much away, but there was a subtle tension around his eyes that told Matt he was here to get wasted. He'd seen the look many times, especially at this time of year.
After a moment's hesitation the man walked straight up to the bar, with an unconscious self-assurance that screamed military. He settled himself on a stool, but didn't lose his jacket. And then, without looking up but somehow knowing that Matt was watching him, he said, "Double whiskey, no ice or water. And set up a tab."
"Yes, sir," Matt replied, but he kept one eye on the man as he fetched the drink. For a moment the man just sat there staring down at his hands, then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a Christmas card. He slid it out of the envelope without looking at the front and immediately opened it. A bitter smile flickered across his lips as he read it, before he cast it carelessly onto the bar just as Matt was setting down his drink. The man swallowed it in one and said, "Just keep them coming."
Nodding, Matt fetched a clean glass. But curiosity demanded that he take a peek at the discarded Christmas card where it lay half-open on the bar. What looked like a cell-phone number was scrawled on the inside cover, but all that was written inside was, "Best wishes for
the holiday season," and it was signed, "Carter." That was it. With a shrug, Matt turned his attention back to the whiskey, wondering why something so bland seemed to cause the guy so much pain.
***
Darkness. The soft, oblivious darkness of sleep. Sam snuggled deeply beneath the covers, retreating from the irritating sound that was beginning to penetrate her unconscious mind.
Bleep, bleep.
She burrowed deeper and pulled the covers over her ears.
Bleep, bleep. Bleep, bleep.
What was it? Sounded familiar...
Bleep, bleep. Bleep, bleep. Bleep, bleep.
Cell phone!
Sam sat bolt upright, heart racing with the flood of adrenaline. Cell phone. Middle of the night. SGC. Trouble..... She jumped out of bed and stood for a moment trying to pin down the location of the phone.
Bleep, bleep. Bleep, bleep. Bleep, bleep. Bleep, bleep.
Jacket. In the hall.
The floor was cold under her bare feet as she dashed out of the bedroom and pulled her phone out of her jacket pocket, visions of foothold situations or worse filling her head. "Carter," she barked as soon as the phone was at her ear. The line was bad, fuzzy. There was lots of noise. It sounded like...a party.
"Hi, um, is this Carter?" asked an unfamiliar voice.
"Yes," she frowned. "Who's this?"
"My name's Matt. I'm sorry to disturb you so late, Ma'am. I'm calling from Laura Belle's."
Shaking her head at the change of tack, Sam said, "What? Laura who?"
"Laura Belle's - it's a bar, Ma'am." There was an awkward pause, and then, "Um...do you know a Colonel Jonathan O'Neill?"
Sam felt her heart skip. "Yes," she replied. "Why, what's happened?"
"Oh...it's just... Well, he's here and he's in pretty bad shape. I was gonna call a cab, but they wouldn't take him because he's kinda uncooperative.... He's pretty out of it and your number was in a Christmas card he had, so I was wondering if...."
Sam closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose in a sickly gesture of guilt and anger. "I'll come get him," she told the young man on the phone. "Where are you?"
"We're at 734 North 19th Street," Matt replied with obvious relief. "And thanks, I appreciate this. There was no way he was getting home on his own and I really don't think he should stay here any longer."
"No," Sam agreed quietly, "Thanks. I'll be about half an hour."
As she hung up she let out a long sigh and just stood for a moment, toes freezing on the cold floor. Passed out in a bar? This wasn't the Jack O'Neill she knew. But she was beginning to think she didn't know the man at all.
***
It was after two in the morning by the time Sam pulled up in the parking lot, swinging in next to the colonel's truck. There were a couple of other cars there, but not many. Most normal people, she reflected bitterly, were tucked up in bed. She winced at the blast of frigid air as she opened her car door and pulled her coat tight around her throat. He was going to owe her big-time for this. However depressed he felt, getting her out of bed and dragging her halfway across town in the snow on - what was now - Christmas Eve went way beyond the call of duty.
The bar was huge, but mostly empty now. A couple of pool tables filled the far end and there had obviously been live music in one corner. But the band had long since packed up and a juke box was quietly playing "White Christmas," its saccharine sentiments incongruous with her mood.
"Sorry, Ma'am, we're closed," a sharp-faced woman told her, stopping her sweeping of the floor the moment Sam stepped inside.
"I've come to pick up Colonel O'Neill," she replied as she glanced swiftly around the bar. "Matt called me."
The woman nodded towards the bar just as the kid behind it started in her direction. "Ms. Carter?" he asked.
"Yeah," she replied as she stepped over the broom and headed into the bar. "Is Colonel O'Neill okay?"
Matt nodded. "He's over here," he said. "I at least got him to sit at a table. I thought he was gonna pass out or something."
As Sam followed she saw the colonel with his head on his arms face down on a table. He was out of uniform and his leather jacket lay slung on the table at his side. He didn't move an inch as Sam approached. "How much has he had?" she asked as she crouched down to try to take a look at his face.
Matt shrugged slightly. "A lot. Whiskey. Came in and started drinking doubles, didn't stop all evening."
Sam flashed him an irritated glance. "And you didn't stop serving him?"
"He had a tab," Matt grimaced, and then in a lower voice added, "and he's a hard guy to say 'no' to."
"Humph," Sam replied, although she could well imagine O'Neill in command mode intimidating the hell out of the kid. Turning back to him, she said, "Colonel. It's me. It's Carter."
No response. She tried again, louder. "Colonel O'Neill. Wake up. Come on, sir. Time to go."
He stirred a little and mumbled something into the table. Sam sat back on her heels. "I've never seen him so out of it," she confessed. "It was just whiskey?"
"That's all he had here," Matt assured her. "I served him all evening."
Getting to her feet, Sam reached out and jostled his shoulder. "Come on Colonel, shake a leg."
He lifted his head vaguely and blinked, squinting in the light. "Carter?"
"Yeah. Come on, your ride's here."
"I need another..." he slurred, and then his head dropped heavily back onto his arms.
"Colonel!" Sam snapped, shaking him more roughly this time. "Come on. It's the middle of the damn night - I want to go home."
"So go," he said, his voice muffled through his arms. "I'm gonna stay...."
"Like hell you are," she snapped, and then with a nod to Matt said, "Help me get him on his feet."
With considerable effort, and no help whatsoever from O'Neill, they managed to pull him upright, although he sagged heavily against Sam as she struggled to keep him on his feet. "Now walk," she ordered him.
"Don't wanna go home," he slurred, lurching back towards the table. Only Matt's swift response kept him from falling and taking Sam with him. "Too quiet," he added as Matt propelled him upright again. "Too quiet at home...."
"It's meant to be quiet," Sam reminded him as she started to tug him into motion. "It's night. Most people are asleep."
To her surprise he laughed at that, although it was a miserable laugh. "I know they are," he slurred. "Everyone's asleep 'cept me."
"And me."
He looked at her then, blinking blearily, and stopped. "Carter? That you?"
"Yeah," she sighed, suddenly affected by something she saw in his eyes; she couldn't tell it if was despair or hope. "Come on, sir. Let's get you home."
***
Sam had wavered between taking her own car or driving the colonel's truck, but in the end had opted for her own car on the grounds that she didn't want to be stranded at his house and that she needed to be at the airport by midday.
She just prayed he wouldn't throw up. And, thank God, he didn't.
But it was almost three by the time she'd maneuvered him into his house and up the stairs towards his bedroom. The cold air had done little to sober him up, and Sam knew for sure that when he woke up the next day the whole evening would almost certainly be one huge black hole in his memory. Which, she reflected, was probably just they way he wanted it.
"Okay, sir," she said as they at last entered his bedroom. "End of the line."
He sank onto the bed the moment she let go of him, flopping backward with his hands over his eyes. "I'm drunk," he told her with a hollow laugh. "I'm so fucking drunk....."
"Yup," she agreed, standing and watching him for a moment. "You gonna be okay, now?"
He didn't move, other than dropping his hands from his face. "Sure," he mumbled, but his voice was softening into sleep. "I'm always okay...."
Sam doubted that, but didn't argue the point. As she watched, his eyes slid shut and his face relaxed as sleep claimed him. Then, for a long moment she just stood there, staring at his pale face, aged by a sadness that was so obvious she was surprised she'd missed it before. It was a hard time of year to be alone. Something squirmed inside her with an uneasy swell of guilt, but she repressed it. This wasn't her fault. This was because of Charlie, and as much as she might want to help him through it she couldn't. The regulations defined the nature of their relationship and to go beyond that definition would spell disaster for them both. She knew that and as well as he did. She felt bad that he was so miserable, but there was nothing she could do to help. There was nothing she was allowed to do.
Her reasoning was flawless, but did little to ease the fist that tightened in her chest as she watched him lie passed out in a heap of drunken misery. And so, to distract herself from his emotional needs, she decided to deal with the physical ones instead. O'Neill was flat on his back, which could, she reasoned, be dangerous if he threw up. So, using every ounce of her professionalism, Sam dragged him fully onto the bed and rolled him over into the recovery position. She wedged a pillow under his head, pulled off his jacket and shoes, and threw a blanket over him before standing back to admire her work. Better.
"Goodnight, sir," she wished him quietly, before she left and headed downstairs. She was almost at the bottom when something caught her eye in the living room. The lights were still on and across his coffee table she saw a mess of papers, but among them she found herself staring at a bottle she instantly recognized as having come from the infirmary. Its cap was off and it lay on its side with the contents spilled over the table. Curious, Sam hesitated and then walked slowly into the living room. Sitting down on the sofa, she picked up the bottle and read the label written in Janet's scrawl, "Tamazapan: one to be taken at night as required. Seven days. Do not take with alcohol."
Sleeping pills. Who'd have thought? She scooped up the pills and dropped them back into the bottle, wondering if the Colonel had taken a couple of these as well as the whiskey. It would certainly explain why he'd been so slammed. She did a swift count and saw that only five pills remained, but the bottle was dated December 23rd. "What an idiot," she muttered to herself. But as the words left her mouth her eyes began to register what it was that sprawled across the coffee table. Papers. But this wasn't work, this was personal. She glimpsed letters, some in O'Neill's hand and some in one she didn't recognize, exchanging words of love and longing through long absences. She saw photos, children's drawings and many other tiny momentos. And on top of them all she saw a Christmas card. It was made by childish fingers, covered in glitter and glue, with a smiling snowman on the front. With a hand that trembled, Sam reached out and picked it up. Inside was written, "To the best Daddy in the World, Merry Christmas! Lots of love from Charlie" and beneath the barely-legible words were maybe twenty X's covering most of the card.
The clamp she'd felt in her chest all evening twisted into real pain as her imagination pictured O'Neill sitting there, sifting through the detritus of his family life. Was it any surprise he'd sought escape in the bottom of a whiskey bottle?
Still battling that cramping pain in her chest, Sam carefully gathered all the letters, drawings and papers together and stacked them at the far end of the table. She couldn't stand the idea of him seeing it all laid out there in the morning. Then, with a sigh, she rose to her feet. "I wish I could do more," she said aloud, but the silent room offered her no forgiveness as she turned her back on it and slowly headed for home.
***
The world was still spinning when Jack awoke, his head throbbed and his stomach sloshed in an unpleasant counterpoint. He made it to the bathroom, barely, and after emptying his stomach lay with his face pressed against the cool floor tiles and tried to remember what the hell had happened.
He remembered a bar. And whiskey. He remembered Carter's painfully impersonal Christmas card hammering home exactly how alone he was, and not just at Christmas. And then he remembered more whiskey. And more. And then...nothing. Although, somewhere in that nothingness he had an impression of gentle arms holding him. His treacherous heart whispered that it was Carter, but that made no sense at all. She was on her way to Mark's and certainly wouldn't have been in
Laura Belle's.
After an indeterminate period of time, but long enough for his innards to have settled enough to risk movement, Jack pushed himself to his feet. Pain lanced through his head, and he groaned out loud as he pressed his fingers against his temples and stumbled through the bedroom towards the kitchen. Advil. He needed Advil. And water. He felt sandpaper dry, inside and out.
It was only after he'd swallowed the pills, downed three glasses of water and promptly thrown them up again, that he saw the note. It sat on the kitchen counter with his car keys placed on top. He struggled for a moment while his hung-over eyes tried to focus on the neat writing: "Colonel, your truck is in the parking lot at Laura Belle's. I hope you're feeling better. Take care, Carter. P.S. You probably shouldn't drive until the evening."
He winced and picked the note up for a closer look. So it had been Carter. She must have brought him home and poured him into bed. God. He screwed his eyes shut, mortified that she, of all people, had seen him in that state. What the hell would she think of him now?
***
Sam scanned the list of departure times before she found her flight, satisfied it hadn't been delayed. Gate six. She hefted her carry-on bag over one shoulder, tucked her boarding pass into the back pocket of her jeans, and headed for the line at the security point. She took out her cell phone as she walked, but there were no messages. Not that she expected O'Neill to call, but she couldn't help wondering if he was okay. Perhaps she should call Janet? No, bad
idea, she decided. Neither Janet or O'Neill would thank her for that piece of interference. Still, she'd feel happier if she knew he was okay. Sleeping pills and alcohol could be a dangerous combination. Maybe she shouldn't have left him alone? What if he hadn't woken up? "Stop it!" she muttered crossly. "He can look after himself." And even if he can't, she reminded herself silently, it's not your job. It can't be.
Sam slowed as she joined the end of the line, glancing down at the twenty or so people ahead of her and then at her watch. She still had plenty of time. In front of her stood a woman of maybe fifty-five. She was short and petite, with close cropped gray hair, and was wearing clothes that were just a shade too young for her. Sam hoped she'd tackle middle-age with as much aplomb - it wasn't so far away, in a strictly numerical sense.
The woman sighed and checked her watch, before turning around with a rueful smile. "I suppose we should be grateful that they're being so thorough," she said, nodding towards the line.
"Yeah," Sam agreed. "It's reassuring."
The woman nodded. "Heading home?" she asked, appraising Sam's casual dress with what seemed to be a mildly disapproving eye.
"To my brother's," Sam explained.
"It's nice to be with family for the holidays," she agreed. "I'm going to my son's this year. He lives in L.A. I miss not having a white Christmas, but it's worth it to see the grandchildren."
Sam smiled and glanced down towards the security point. A harassed mother was having a hard time getting her stroller collapsed and into the x-ray machine, while balancing a distressed toddler on one hip. Sam shuddered and looked away; perhaps it wasn't so bad being single after all.
"Your husband isn't with you?" her neighbor asked.
"I'm not married," Sam replied. The toddler had now burst into an all-out scream that was beginning to grate on her already thin nerves. Why the hell didn't the woman just stick a pacifier in its mouth, she wondered irritably.
"That's a shame," the woman persisted, apparently oblivious to the noise.
"Not really." Sam's reply was a little sharper than she'd intended as the screaming toddler threatened to snap her usually long temper.
"But there's someone you're leaving behind here?" the woman continued. "Someone special?"
Forcing herself to think around the noise of the bawling child, Sam frowned and said, "What? No. Nothing like that."
The woman raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really?" Then she nodded to the phone Sam held in her hand. "You look like you're waiting for a call."
Sam glanced down and stuffed the cell back into her jacket pocket. "A friend," she replied curtly. "He's not too well, that's all."
Mercifully, at that moment the child decided to fall silent and shortly afterwards the line began moving again. Her inquisitor turned around and began to fuss with her bags, leaving Sam to her own irritable thoughts - and the suspicion that her bad mood might have less to do with the inconvenience of travel, and more to do with her concern for O'Neill. She hoped he was okay. If only there was something she could do to help him....
"Ma'am?" the security guard interrupted her thoughts. "I'll need you to switch off your cell phone, and put it, any jewelry, watches, and loose change, in this tray before you walk through the metal detector...."
***
Jack sat on the sofa staring at the neat pile of all his most painful and personal possessions, wondering why Carter had seen fit to tidy them away. He wasn't sure if her interference made him happy or angry. He barely knew what he thought about her anymore. But one thing he did know was that he owed her an apology, which was why he was sitting there with her crumpled Christmas card in one hand, and his phone in the other. . He glanced up at the clock and realized that she was probably already at the airport, maybe even on the plane. If he was lucky she'd have her cell phone switched off and he could leave a message. Taking a deep breath he dialed and held his breath as the phone rang twice. And then, "Hi, this is Sam Carter. I can't take your call right now. Leave your number and I'll get back to you."
Jack let out a long, relieved breath and then started to panic as the phone beeped at him and demanded that he speak. "Ah, Carter. Hi, it's O'Neill...."
***
The noise of the airport was unsettling; it made Sam antsy as she sat and waited for her flight to be called. She just wanted to get on the plane and go, to immerse herself in the whole Christmas thing and leave behind all the unsettling feelings that had been plaguing her since yesterday. Twenty minutes. God, she couldn't wait!
Across from her the woman with the toddler was sitting quietly now, reading to the child who seemed quite content as he sucked on his thumb and cuddled something that had been loved beyond recognition. It may have been a teddy. Sam found herself smiling slightly at the image as a man, the father, came and joined them. "They didn't have diet," he said, handing the woman a soda.
"As long as it has caffeine," she replied with a roll of her eyes.
The man smiled and reached over to rub the back of her neck. "He'll probably sleep on the plane."
"I hope."
"Here," he said, lifting the child from her lap. "I'll take him for a while."
The woman sighed, "Thanks, Jack."
Sam found her heart jumping painfully at the coincidence, and in her mind's eye she suddenly imagined Sara and the colonel together with their child. It was a side of him she barely knew, she realized. The casual intimacy of family life was something she found difficult to reconcile with the hard-bitten man she knew. He'd lost a lot when Charlie had died, and she wondered if he could ever rediscover that side of himself. She wondered if he even wanted to.
"It's almost enough to make me broody again," a voice said at her side. Glancing over she saw it was her well-dressed acquaintance from the security point.
Sam gave a thin smile. "Not quite."
"I said almost," the woman replied. "I prefer being a grandparent; you get to hand them back at the end of the day."
Hand them back.... Sam's mind returned to the Christmas card on Jack's coffee table. No one should ever have to hand their child back.
"My son has three girls," the woman continued. "Fifteen, ten and five. Can you imagine the noise! He loves it, of course. Not many men get to be the center of the universe for that many girls at once. Girls always have their fathers twisted around their little fingers, don't they?"
"I guess," Sam replied.
"But then, the father-son relationship is always unique," she carried on with a sigh. "My son and my late husband were very close, especially when he was a boy. They'd do everything together." She eyed Sam for a moment and said, "Military?"
She blinked. "Um, yeah."
"No time for a family, I suppose? My daughter's the same. She's spending Christmas skiing with her boyfriend, then she's off to Brussels for a six-month secondment. Of course, I think she's missing out...."
As the woman talked on, Sam's attention shifted inwards. No time for a family? It made her sound so self-absorbed. But the woman was wrong; it wasn't a question of time, it was a question of timing. It was impossible to consider at the moment, of course, even if she had
been in a stable relationship. Which was also impossible, at least with the man she wanted.
She sighed, and it must have been audible because the woman at her side suddenly asked, "Is he married?"
Sam's eyes widened. "What?"
"Your friend," she clarified. "Is he married? Is that why you can't be with him for the holidays?"
A flush crept over Sam's cheeks, although she was unsure if it was anger or embarrassment. Married? Jeez. "We're just friends," she told the woman, scowling down at the pages of her book and trying to make sense of the suddenly slippery words.
"Really?"
Sam was silent again. If she was honest with herself she wasn't even sure they were friends, not any more. The past year stood between them as cold and unyielding as the forceshield on Apophis's ship, and she didn't know how to breach it. Or even if she should. "It's complicated."
"Kids?"
"No," she shook her head. "Nothing like that. This is just the way it has to be."
"Says who?"
Sam sighed and gave a bitter little smile. "Says Uncle Sam."
The woman frowned. "They can't stop you caring about someone."
She nodded slowly at the plain truth the woman spoke; they couldn't stop her from caring, but they could sure as hell stop her from acting like she gave a damn. And in that, she realized, they'd been all too successful. Her hand slid unconsciously into her pocket and closed around her cell phone. Maybe she should call him before she got on the plane, just to see how he was doing? That wouldn't be wrong; she'd just make sure he'd woken up okay. Pulling out her phone, she realized she'd left it switched off since the security checkpoint. Her finger was poised to dial when she saw the blinking icon that told her she had a message, and her heart gave a little lurch.
With impeccable timing the PA system chimed into life just as Sam pressed her phone against her ear. "Good morning ladies and gentleman," the announcement began, "American Airlines flight 2838 to Los Angeles is now boarding at gate six...."
Blanking out the noise, Sam concentrated on the small voice on the other end of the phone. It was deep and gravelly with the aftereffects of too much whiskey, but it was unmistakably the colonel's. "Ah, Carter. Hi, it's O'Neill," he began with profound discomfort. "Look, I just wanted to say sorry about last night.... I don't exactly remember what happened, but...I know I didn't call you. Um, at least, I hope I didn't. God, if I did, I'm sorry. Anyway, look, I guess I just wanted to say sorry, and thanks for coming to get me. You, ah, you have a great Christmas and I'll see you when you get back."
Sam let out a long breath as she lowered the phone from her ear and dropped forward, arms resting on her knees as she gazed pensively at the floor. He sounded flat and embarrassed. Unhappy, without a doubt. Janet's words of the previous day jumped unbidden into her mind: 'He needs someone, Sam. And I think you're all he's got.'
The speaker system crackled again. "We now have pleasure in boarding passengers in rows 21 through 56." All around her, people burst into motion, children fussed and parents hefted too-heavy bags towards the gate.
But at her side, her companion was motionless. "Was that him?" she asked, watching Sam with sharp, pale eyes.
Sam glanced over and nodded. "Yeah."
She said nothing for a moment as she too began to gather her bags together and rose to her feet. Then, turning to Sam, she said, "There's a piece of advice I got from a teacher at high school, and I've tried to live my life by it ever since: 'you only regret the things you don't do.'" She smiled and gave a little shrug. "It works ninety-five percent of the time, and you don't want to die with regrets." With that she headed for the plane, leaving Sam sitting alone, clutching her phone and wondering what the hell to do next.
***
The hot water drummed on Jack's head, soothing and comforting to body and soul. Steam filled the bathroom, cocooning him from the world beyond. He wished he could stay there forever, lost in the physical sensation and not having to deal with the emotional tangle in his chest. But he knew that would be impossible, and that he just had to get through the next few days as best he could.
With a sigh he turned off the water and shivered in the sudden silence. His house was always so quiet, and this time of year reminded sharply him how much he hated living alone. Christmas was about nothing if it wasn't about family. And his silent house felt like a mausoleum next to the bright lights of Christmas shining in his neighbors' windows. He hated living alone, and he'd never had to do it until he returned from Abydos to find his marriage in pieces. He hated it, but he wasn't surprised. He didn't even enjoy his own company, so it was hardly surprising that others felt the same way.
Stepping out of the shower Jack dried himself slowly, not bothering to wipe the condensation from the mirror. He had no desire to look at his hung-over face. He rubbed his hair dry with a towel, leaving it standing in spikes, and pulled on a shirt and sweatpants before padding out into the cool, dry house. He was half-way towards the kitchen when someone leaned on the doorbell and stayed there for what seemed like minutes. The ring drilled into his still-delicate head, prompting a wave of irrational anger. If it was goddamn carol singers....
***
Sam stood on the doorstep, shivering. All the lights were on, but she'd been ringing the doorbell for more than ten minutes without an answer. What the hell could have happened to him? His truck wasn't in the driveway, but that didn't mean a thing since they'd left it at the bar the previous night. Maybe he'd taken a cab to go fetch it? Or maybe he didn't want any visitors? Or maybe he was passed out somewhere with a lethal overdose of sleeping tablets and whiskey. Dammit!
She pressed the doorbell again, leaving her finger on it for a good thirty seconds. "Sir!" she called, banging her fist on the door. "Colonel O'Neill....!"
Suddenly the door was flung open, to reveal a very disgruntled looking O'Neill in a t-shirt and sweatpants, with wet hair and a towel around his neck. "What the hell...?" he began, until he
realized who was standing on the porch. He blinked, frowned and shook his head as if to clear it, "Carter?"
Relief temporarily overcame her nerves. "Sir, thank God!"
He was still shaking his head in surprise. "Watcha doing here?"
"Oh," she nodded, abruptly remembering of the awkwardness of the situation. "Um...." She picked up the bag of groceries she'd brought, and smiled nervously. "Mind if I come in?"
Silently, he stepped back and opened the door wide enough for her to pass. "Thought you were supposed to be at Mark's by now," he pointed out as she headed past him and into the kitchen.
She grimaced slightly at the reminder of the awkward phone-call earlier in the day. "Yeah," she agreed, "I kinda changed my mind, I guess."
Depositing the bag amid the used coffee mugs and discarded Advil packets on his kitchen counter, Sam returned to the living room. "So," she said, watching him watch her with an expression that could only be called suspicion.
"So," he replied warily. "Fraiser put you on suicide watch?"
At once angered and guilty at the comment, Sam bit back the sharp retort and simply said, "I'm here because I want to be."
He moved farther into the room and sat down, but he didn't relax for a moment. "Why?" he asked.
Damn, he wasn't making this easy. "Because.... Because it's Christmas and I thought you could use the company."
His face lost all expression, but his eyes glittered darkly. "I don't need your pity, or anyone else's, Carter."
She nodded at that, acknowledging his fears even if he was way off the mark. "It's not pity," she assured him. "I could use some company too."
"Right," he replied dryly, and abruptly stood up again. "I appreciate the thought, Carter," he said, heading towards the front door. "But I'm not good company at Christmas, so I think it would be best if....."
"I don't have anywhere else to go," she said, remaining stubbornly still in the middle of his living room. "I don't want to spend Christmas alone."
O'Neill shook his head. "Then maybe you should head on down to Mark's?"
"No," she replied, folding her arms in a gesture of determination she didn't entirely feel.
His eyebrows rose. "No?"
Sam stuck out her chin. "Christmas is a time to be with people you...care about. And I...." Oh, God, she couldn't believe she was going to say this! "I...care about you. Sir."
For an instant he reacted; there was a flash of hope deep in his eyes and his whole body seemed to stutter. But it was only a flash, and when he spoke his voice was stiff. "Could have fooled me."
Sam winced at the hurt in his voice. "I know," she said quietly, taking a step towards him. "I know I've been distant. I didn't mean to be, but..." She shook her head and raked a hand through her hair. "I'm sorry. If I hurt you, I'm sorry. I just didn't know how to handle this. I didn't know what to do." Taking a deep breath she sighed. "I guess I still don't."
He gave a soft grunt of laughter. "Well, that's something I never thought I'd hear you say."
She smiled weakly. "First time for everything."
After a pause O'Neill spoke again, in an unusually vulnerable tone. "What did Fraiser tell you yesterday?"
"About you?" she asked. "Not much. But..." She hesitated for a moment, but figured he deserved the truth. "But she did tell me that I needed to open my eyes and see what was going on." Taking another step closer, she fixed him with a serious gaze. "You're not happy."
He shrugged, but made no attempt to deny it. "It's Christmas."
Remembering Charlie's Christmas card her eyes strayed to the coffee table, his must have followed hers because he said, "I put them away."
"I can't imagine how difficult it is for you, sir."
"No," he agreed. And then, with what looked like considerable trepidation, he added, "And this year's worse than usual."
Worse? "Why?"
He licked his lips, uncomfortable. "Well, I guess because...I feel more...alone than usual."
Sam's stomach tightened at the confession. "Because of me?"
He nodded. "Yeah."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "God - I've haven't been much of a friend, have I?"
"You did what you had to."
But Sam shook her head. "No, I did what was easiest. I knew it was wrong to feel the way I felt, but I couldn't stop myself. And it was so painful, I just pushed it away, ignored it. Buried it." He was watching her intently now, every muscle tense, and his eyes so dark she could see the light from the kitchen reflecting in their depths. "I'm afraid I might have buried our friendship too."
"You know I never expected anything to happen, right?" he said then, his gaze still unwavering. "Even after the Jonah/Thera thing... I never for a moment expected that you'd want to change things between us."
There was an anxious sincerity in his voice that plucked painfully at her heart. "I know," she assured him immediately. "I know you didn't. And I never felt that you did. It was myself I didn't trust."
He nodded, but he was still watching her intently. "So, what changed?"
This was the crux of it, and if Sam had had a good answer she'd have given it to him. Instead she just said, "A lot of things, I guess." She sighed. "I suppose I realized that I'd spent so long thinking about what I couldn't feel for you that I'd forgotten what I could, and then I realized that you might need a friend right now and that....well, that I'd like to be that friend. If you want me."
His gaze didn't flicker for a moment as he repeated her words. "If I want you....?" He shook his head. "I can't remember wanting anything else."
She felt her heart skip dizzily. "Then I can stay?"
"I should warn you, I hate turkey." He smiled slightly.
"Good," she replied, shrugging her jacket from her shoulders, "I brought steaks."
Shaking his head, as if he couldn't quite believe what was happening, O'Neill stepped back to let her past him and out into the hallway, to hang up her coat. But he didn't move away, and when she turned back around he was standing right there. They both stopped, held motionless by the charged silence until he reached out and touched her arm, "Sam?"
His use of her first name made her smile. "Yes?"
"You know you don't have to do this."
She nodded and tentatively covered his hand with her own. "And you know I want to."
"I guess," he replied, although she could still see some doubt in his eyes.
And so, with a bravery that surprised her, she reached out and pulled him into a warm hug. "Friends?" she whispered as his arms tightened around her.
"Always," came the husky reply. "Always, Sam."
She smiled, feeling the warmth of his embrace mingle with the warmth in her heart. It felt like coming home at last, after too long out in the cold, and she just closed her eyes and enjoyed the precious moment of intimacy. I'll always be here for you, she told him silently. And from the way his arms drew her even closer, she knew he understood her silent promise. "Merry Christmas, Jack," she breathed softly, brushing a kiss against his cheek.
For a long time he said nothing, but he held her so tightly she could feel his heart hammering in his chest. And at last he spoke, his voice a cracked whisper, "Not quite merry yet, Sam. But it's getting there. It's getting there."
~End~
Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story, but even if you didn't I'd love to hear your comments at: sallyreeve@blueyonder.co.uk
Happy New Year!
Story Notes: Email: sallyreeve@blueyonder.co.uk
Spoilers: General for season four and five, no specifics
Archive: SJA and Heliopolis. Anyone else, please just ask so I can find you!
Notes: Better late than never, I hope! This is an attempt at both a Christmas story and a possible explanation for why Sam and Jack suddenly seem to be friends again in the second half of season five. (I know Christmas didn't really occur between "Wormhole Extreme" and "Proving Ground", but in my little world it did!). Thanks, as always, to Erika and Lynn for previewing this for me, to Ann M. for helping me break through that pesky block, and to TL for sending comments when I know he has better things to do!
I hope you all enjoy it, and may I wish everyone a happy and peaceful 2002.
The whole story is posted on my website: http://uk.geocities.com/mystories_uk
Spoilers: General for season four and five, no specifics
Archive: SJA and Heliopolis. Anyone else, please just ask so I can find you!
Notes: Better late than never, I hope! This is an attempt at both a Christmas story and a possible explanation for why Sam and Jack suddenly seem to be friends again in the second half of season five. (I know Christmas didn't really occur between "Wormhole Extreme" and "Proving Ground", but in my little world it did!). Thanks, as always, to Erika and Lynn for previewing this for me, to Ann M. for helping me break through that pesky block, and to TL for sending comments when I know he has better things to do!
I hope you all enjoy it, and may I wish everyone a happy and peaceful 2002.
The whole story is posted on my website: http://uk.geocities.com/mystories_uk
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 ]