In the darkness, someone sneaks.
Creeps.
Prowls.
Skulks.
Away from the closed front door. Down the short entryway. Into the living room, past the kitchen, not stopping for a few minutes in front of the TV or a couple bites of turkey sandwich.
Sneak, sneak, sneak.
Into the hallway; he knows exactly which room, even though he shouldn't know, couldn't know, has no right to know. The door is slightly ajar, and through the narrow crack, a cool radiance escapes. She must not have closed the curtains completely, and the moon is full.
Good. All the better for him.
Creep, creep, creep.
The door makes no noise as he eases it open, and his feet on the carpet are equally silent. After the blackness that blanketed the front of the house, the moonglow seems almost too bright. The curtains, as he suspected, are more than half open. He frowns. She really should close them before she goes to bed, he thinks. You never know what kind of weirdoes might be going around the neighborhood, peeping through windows.
He, of course, is NOT one of those weirdoes. He would never stoop to simple peeping: and when you can pick locks, why should you have to?
She's in bed, and she hasn't stirred. She's a light sleeper, but he's gotten really good at being quiet, especially in familiar territory. And even though this room isn't exactly familiar - he's been in it once, and only for a few minutes, helping her carry something from the house to his truck - he can imagine that it is. He feels that he's home, finally home, after more than two years.
But it's only a brief respite. He can't stay. He shouldn't even be here now, but he couldn't stay away.
She's alone in the bed. On her side, facing the window. The light falls on her face.
Jack stops prowling. Something inside him aches so badly that it won't let him take another step.
The last time he saw her, he was trying to explain why he had retired, why he was going away, why he could never see her again... all without violating the rules of the deal. They could be watching, they could be listening, and they had specifically said that if Carter, Teal'c, Jonas or Hammond got any inkling, had any meager suspicion that he wasn't leaving of his own volition, the agreement would be terminated... as would Carter, Teal'c, Jonas and Hammond.
God, she'd been angry, with herself as much as him, because he could see how hurt and disappointed she was and knew she resented that grief. She'd been rude, she'd brushed him off, she'd said more than a few things she'd never been able to while under his command... and then she'd walked away. Maybe expecting him to follow, maybe not, but certainly expecting him to stay.
She'd been disappointed there, too.
Only one week after he'd left Colorado Springs, he'd sneaked back to his house under cover of night. It wasn't to retrieve anything - the only thing he'd left in that building had been memories - but simply to be there one last time. To soak up those memories one last time. And he'd thought to check the mailbox. He was surprised to find an envelope there, surprised that they hadn't already been by to clean him out... but there it was. A letter.
From her.
Apologizing.
Saying other things she hadn't been able to say while under his command... only this time they hadn't been rude.
He could have gone to her that night. He could have whisked her away, explained the situation to her, asked her to go into exile with him. And she might have. But it wouldn't have been fair to her. It wouldn't have been right to make her make that choice when there was so much that they hadn't even said to each other, face to face...
Besides, he'd thought, one day he would be able to come back.
And here he is. He's back. He just had never expected that he would have to stay away so long. And he might not even be back now, if he hadn't heard through the grapevine - well, by spying and stealing and eavesdropping - what was about to happen.
She's being promoted tomorrow. Lieutenant Colonel. And while that's cool enough, the real significance is that it means they're going to kick that Colonel Wilson - his 'replacement' - to the curb. They're giving Carter command of SG-1. Finally.
The world will be as it should be.
Only he won't be there.
He can never be there again.
Can't be there for the ceremony. Can't pin those brand new silver oak leaves to her uniform. Can't watch her step through the Gate as an SG team leader for the first time. Can't wait anxiously for her to come back safe.
Bastards.
Can't go home. Can't see his friends. Can't let them see him. Can't let her see him. Can't talk to her, because he knows he wouldn't be able to keep from telling her everything if she asked. And of course she would ask.
Eventually he would have left the Air Force - again - but he'd never thought that his retirement would be anything like this.
Goddamn bastards.
He should have been expecting the tactic. He shouldn't have been surprised; it was the same they had used on Hammond. Only this time he was the target. This time Maybourne wasn't exactly available for a bail out, and Kinsey wasn't available to blackmail. Jack was on his own.
And he couldn't risk calling their bluff.
Yet he had risked this.
Not for any great cause, not even for her.
For him.
Without quite realizing it he had crossed the room - crawl, prowl - and now was carefully lowering himself to the ground beside her bed. This was an unexpected development. He hadn't intended to stay. He'd just wanted to make his delivery... and look at her.
Well, he's still looking at her. Just closer.
And then he's touching her. She was turned towards him, bare arms on top of the quilt. Bare arms, bare shoulders. Long hair; she's been growing her hair again. It's at that weird in-between stage where she must have to pin it up every day. And he finds himself touching that hair, the slightly curling ends. Gently. Too softly for her to feel. Then the face that that hair frames. Just the pads of his fingertips against her cheek, watching her sleeping expression carefully, waiting for it to change, waiting for her to wake.
It doesn't. She doesn't.
And even though it's her life on the line... he feels a sense of disappointment. A part of him wants her to wake, to take the situation out of his hands, to look at him like he remembers... or like he's imagined.
Her breath still comes deep and even. Her lips are slightly parted. He finds himself staring at them.
Finds himself leaning against the edge of the mattress.
Finds himself kissing her.
Gently. Too softly for her to feel... maybe. Just brushing the corner of her lips with his own, holding his breath, closing his eyes, wondering why, knowing why, wanting to cry, wanting to laugh, doing neither, just putting his lips against hers.
She stirs, and he starts. Pushes back, managing not to jostle the mattress too badly. He looks down at her, expecting to see her looking up at him like he's fantasized, blue eyes luminescent in the glow from the window. In that instant between looking and seeing, his hopes and desires, his wants and needs and the repressed reasons he came all flicker in front of his eyes. He sees her waking, seeing him but not speaking, pulling the quilt back and letting him slip in next to her, letting him hold her, letting him hold her, letting him make love to her...
And then what? What? Wait for her to fall asleep so he could leave her for another... how long? Come to her in the night, screw her and leave her without a word, without an explanation, not knowing where life would take either one of them afterwards, just one night and a lifetime of wondering, worrying, loneliness.
Yet he still would, if she let him, if she wanted him. He so would.
But her eyes are still closed. She's merely moved in her sleep, maybe sensing his presence, maybe not. But now he realizes that he's both ice cold and sweating at the same time. Wondering where his brain is. Wondering why he's here, why he's doing this to himself. He puts his head against the mattress for a second, only a second, trying not to shake, determined not to make a sound, holding himself down, locking himself up. Then he pulls away, stands, looking down at her as though half convinced that she isn't real, not sure if any of this is real, sick to his stomach and to his heart, homesick and lonely but just as scared of confronting the past as returning to exile.
She looks so peaceful.
He swipes the back of his hand across his eyes and tries to breathe.
The glow from the moon is still too bright. He feels exposed, naked. Trapped. He moved towards the door... then freezes.
He did come here for a reason, after all, even if it was only a flimsy pretense of one.
He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a small zip-loc bag. Inside, two silver oak leaves click and clink together. They aren't old-looking by any stretch of the imagination, but they aren't shiny-new, either. They're his, the insignia that was fastened to his uniform when he became a Lieutenant Colonel... several ice ages and at least one continental shift ago.
He opens the bag, takes out the small pins, and places them on the nightstand beside her phone. It's not that he expects her to wear them - or even keep them, for that matter - but he'll sleep easier if he thinks that, in some small way, he had a minor part in this milestone in her life. Tomorrow she'll wake up, and she'll see them... and she'll hopefully think of him. Think of him and know that he cared enough to come.
The only thing she can't know is that he cares enough not to stay.
He pulls the curtains over her window, well aware of the weirdoes creeping and prowling and skulking through the world, and then he leaves.
He won't see her again for another year.
The end
Story Notes: Thanks to Erika for the read-through. That said... any errors are my fault
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 ]