My day started pretty early. It's Tuesday, which means PT day. I got up around five-thirty, threw on my shorts, tee shirt, and running shoes. Somewhere before five-forty-five I decided not to go to the gym, so at five-fifty, I hit the sidewalk running.
I can't honestly say that I've ever cared for running as a sport. While I've always enjoyed my time alone, I've always felt it better used doing research, reading, or even writing. Running gives me time alone -- but it's time alone with my own thoughts. That's something I've never really enjoyed.
When I first started running, I was fifteen and still in JROTC. I was still trying to figure myself out and my place in the world… especially after my mother died. I thought a lot about her then. I guess you could say she kinda haunted me. I thought that maybe, if I were like her, Dad would love me.
The hours I spent running in formation my freshman year at the Academy -- left, left, left, right, left -- my mind had to have *something* to keep it from going numb. The result was hours of internal therapy. As a result of my freshman year, I came to a realization: I was Cadet Samantha Carter… not Mrs. Jacob Carter. Never would be. At the Academy, I had found a place I belonged, and it was time I tried being myself.
These days, after twenty years of endurance, I find my thoughts wandering inward again. This time, though, they do not concern my mother or my father. They gravitate toward Colonel Jack O'Neill. And *not* in a platonic sense.
Similar thoughts followed me into the shower at seven this morning, after my run was completed. As I reached for the soap, I paused, my eyes falling on the slender bottle of shower gel resting on the ledge. That, too, had been bought in a moment of assertion while out with Cassie and Janet.
"It's a very light scent," Janet had said. "I'm sure no one would really notice."
"I'm sure I know someone who would," Cassie offered. Janet promptly elbowed her, tossing a motherly warning glare.
What Janet didn't know was that I was thinking the exact same thing. And was still thinking it as I walked up to the cashier.
As I smoothed the gel over my body working up a lather, I tried to banish the thought from my mind.
***
Eight-thirty finds me here, in the lab, with Colonel O'Neill, as he squints into the stereoscope, pretending he's interested in our latest mission findings.
He's leaned over the stereoscope, clad as always in his BDUs. He's chosen the olive drab today -- as I have and, while I prefer him in desert tan, I find myself admitting the ODG doesn't look too bad.
My eyes trace his profile, taking in the features so familiar now. There is a slight growth of stubble on his chin, though I can smell from his after-shave that he shaved only this morning. Looking over his nose, my eyes drift to the crow's feet formed at the corners of his hazel eyes. The impressions deepen as he squints more, adjusting the lens focus. They are deep and coarse, weathered by years of sun, sand, and squinting at my scientific explanations.
As my gaze takes in the closely cropped, greying hair at his temples, I find myself rambling. I want nothing more than to reach out and run my fingers over it, through his hair and study the finer features of his face up close and personal. I put some of those grey hairs there and I want to be close enough to count them all.
To keep from reaching out, I wind my fingers together and focus my attention on finishing the explanation. "Make any sense, sir?" I ask. I can feel my knuckles turning white as he blinks and looks up at me. From five years of experience, I can tell by his expression he hasn't heard a single word I've said in the past ten minutes. My heart sinks as my mind screams, "Thank God!"
"Not really," he admits. "But as long as *you* understand it, I'm good."
"Okay." Suddenly out of sorts, I frown and turn. I have a meeting with Janet at 9, and I decide that now is just as good a time as any to go. Especially since Jack clearly hasn't heard a word. "I've gotta go set up a meeting with Janet."
"Oh, hey, Carter?"
I pause halfway to the door, looking back at him. "Sir?"
"That…stuff…you're wearing," he says. "That new?"
I fight back the smile as my heart surges back to its place in my chest. Clearing my throat, I answer, "Yes, sir."
"What do they call it?"
I hesitate. The shower gel doesn't have a name, just "Tranquility Shower Gel." My eyes dust the floor and I feel my cheeks begin to burn from the attention. A smile fights its way to my lips. "For you," I reply.
I can't see his expression as I turn back toward the door… but his silence is proof enough I have *him* thinking for a change.
***
Sam by Becca Ramsey
Story Notes: Parting Shot: rcramsey@mindspring.com
ARCHIVE: SJA, Heliopolis, and anyone else who asks first
AUTHOR'S NOTES: There are two POVs for this story so far: Jack and Sam. Jack, characteristically, is a man of few words. Sam, on the other hand, got a little long winded. After reading through this a few times, I decided to leave the differences in length.
Thanks to Katt and Sue for beta reading. =)
ARCHIVE: SJA, Heliopolis, and anyone else who asks first
AUTHOR'S NOTES: There are two POVs for this story so far: Jack and Sam. Jack, characteristically, is a man of few words. Sam, on the other hand, got a little long winded. After reading through this a few times, I decided to leave the differences in length.
Thanks to Katt and Sue for beta reading. =)
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 ]