In the darkness, someone sneaks.
Slinks.
Lurks.
Waits.
His eyes open, adjusting from the utter blackness of sleep to the comparative light of his motel room. He doesn't stir, doesn't move, just silently surveys the room. There isn't much to see. Four walls, a desk, a chair. Shadows creeping and growing and living in the spaces between, unfazed by the meager glow of the streetlight that seeps in through the window.
There's no moon tonight. The lunar surface is just a thin silver splinter, cold and distant.
The gun is on the nightstand next to him, but he doesn't reach for it. He's already decided that he's imagined the noise. He's not just a light sleeper these days, he's a paranoid sleeper; the smallest sound wakes him, and especially on this night...
He closes his eyes. He won't go to her. He won't.
It's what he came here to do, but he won't.
He remembers the man on the street. The man who had made eye contact. The man who had winked at him.
They know he's here.
He should have left immediately, gone back into hiding and done it noisily, obviously so that they could see he'd been properly frightened away. But damn it, they've already chased him away from his home and his friends and everything else that ever meant anything to him; it's not fair, it's not right of them to deny him one little night in Colorado Springs.
They're probably at Carter's house now, though. Outside, huddled in some unmarked van. There's probably another such vehicle at Hammond's house, at Jonas and Erika's apartment, and near enough to the base to catch Teal'c if he leaves. They're just waiting for him to try and make contact so they have to reason to bite him in the ass. It goes without saying that the phones are tapped, that Carter and Jonas' computers have been hacked, and that there are probably listening devices positioned in every room of their homes. They're just waiting for him.
He wonders if they found out about last year... if they knew to lavish special attention on him on this date in particular, or if he's not as good as eluding detection as he had hoped. If that's the case, if they know, then he's lucky that the others are alive at all.
Slowly, he closes his eyes. If it's one of them, there's no point in going for his gun, because if it's one of them and they've come here to kill him, they would have done it already. They would never have even allowed him to wake. In the morning he would have been just another dead body in a seedy hotel room, sans identification, probably sans face depending on what kind of ammo the assassin preferred.
A nameless, faceless corpse.
A cheery thought to fall asleep to.
***
Only a few minutes later - or hours, he isn't sure, all he knows is it's still dark out - he opens his eyes again. He feels vaguely disoriented, but not at all afraid even though this time he knows, KNOWS he's not alone in the room. No one near the door. No one in the chair.
Someone in his bed.
He hasn't gone to bed with anyone in a very long time, and last he checked, this evening had not been an exception to that rule.
Yet here she is. Laying on her side, staring at him.
He should be stunned, shocked, should feel the onrush of a heart attack from the sheer surprise of it, but all he can do is stare back and, after a slightly hysterical pause, loudly whisper, "What are you doing here?"
Not what he imagined would be his first words to her in over three years.
No answer. For a while, she just looks at him. Like she's trying to refamiliarize herself with his face. In the buttery light that filters through the window, he can see just enough of the lines and curves of expression. It's blank, calm in a way, but her eyes are sad.
"I was waiting for you," she says finally. She sits up slightly, slipping her hand underneath her cheek. Using her elbow to prop herself up. More of the light finds her face and shoulders. She came to his bed wearing all of her clothes, including that leather jacket he always liked so much.
He's becoming less and less certain that this is actually happening.
"Waiting," he echoes, not sure what she means. Wondering if he should actually be expecting dreams to make sense.
"Tonight," she clarifies. Her voice - so familiar, so goddamned wonderful in his ears - overwhelms him. Previously cars had rushed past his window, noisily displacing air. Previously the toilet in the adjoining bathroom had gurgled nastily to itself. Previously the people in the unit above him had been making all kinds of noise dragging furniture - or maybe bodies, who knows - from one end of the room to the other and back again. Previously a thousand small sounds had flitted here and there. Now there's only her voice in the darkness.
"Tonight," he repeats, unable to move, unable to think coherently. Her hair is longer than it had been when he'd seen her last. It's pulled back in a short ponytail, but tiny wisps have worked their way out. Curling blonde tendrils frame her face, but even that fails to really soften her appearance. Jack realizes that, as much happiness as he should he feeling right now, he's actually more afraid than anything.
Afraid of her proximity.
Afraid that he's going to wake up alone.
Any minute now.
There's no change in her demeanor. It's eerie. "I thought if there was any chance of you coming back," she says throatily, "it would be tonight."
He doesn't know what to say. Obviously he'd meant her to know about his visit last year. The insignia had been his calling card. A message of sorts. He would have been disappointed if she hadn't realized who had visited her -- not that he had ever expected to know one way or another. But he'd left nothing to indicate that he'd planned to come back. He'd only decided on it a few weeks ago.
And then he'd decided against it this very day. Unforeseen circumstances.
Still, he's here. She knew he would be. Somehow.
"It's dangerous for you to be here," he says tightly.
He doesn't even ask how she found him. If this is a dream, she won't have an answer, and he doesn't want to know right now.
"Why did you leave?" she asks. For the first time he thinks he detects a catch in her voice.
"I can't tell you that." The answer is automatic. It's truth. Fact. If she's real, she's in danger. They know he's in Colorado Springs. As hard as he tried to avoid a tail on the way to the motel, they might be here. They might be watching him. There might be a bug in the room or a laser mike aimed at the window.
And while they may forgive Carter's visit, telling her will be as good as killing her himself.
He expects her to argue, to press the point. He doesn't expect her to lean against him. To slide her hand across to his shoulder for leverage. To kiss him, kiss him hard and fully and demandingly. The coolness of her jacket seeping through his T-shirt, the warmth of her lips leaving no room for argument. He recovers quickly - good reflexes, Jack - and returns the kiss, taking it further, holding her closer. This clinches it, he thinks, tasting her, exploring the texture of her skin.
Not real.
She slips out of the jacket.
Not possibly.
She pulls herself further across his body, all but settling on top of him. He's still beneath the sheets, and she's on top of them, but that fact seems increasingly less important.
Her pants are leather too.
*So* a dream.
She pulls her face away. His tries to follow, but his neck won't stretch like that, so he falls back onto the pillow, breathing hard.
Her hands, resting against his arms, now move up to his face and neck.
"Why did you leave?" She lowers herself again, her lips brushing his neck, her breath against his ear.
He groans softly. Partly out of irritated frustration. Partly out of... another kind of frustration. "Hell of an interrogation technique."
"Just tell me."
"I didn't want to."
"Please."
"It wasn't my idea."
"Going away?"
"They said they were going to kill you otherwise."
"You believed them."
"Didn't have a choice."
"God..."
Their voices clash and jumble, words running together, soft sibilants, slurred murmurs, their attention elsewhere.
Her shirt follows his into a puddle of fabric on the floor.
Leather parts with skin easier than he might have thought.
He pulls out her ponytail and runs his fingers up through the tresses as they fall around her face and his. He feels a strange coolness against his chest and realizes that she's still wearing her dogtags. They must have been tucked into her shirt.
Seeing them gives him a strange feeling. Although he was given the chance to move all of his belongings out of his house, everything vaguely associated with the SGC had been left on base. The dull metal, the rubber edges bring back some very odd, very conflicted memories, emotions. And as sexy as it is to see Carter wearing nothing but her military identification, the sexiness of it has a disturbing bite.
She seems to notice his preoccupation, to sense the reason for it. She pulls the tags over her head, and as she sends them in the same direction as their clothing, she smiles. And the smile - warm but still anguished - breaks through the surreal quality of the moment. Widens the chinks. Pulls his doubts to the surface.
"What are you doing here?" he asks as the tags fall to the floor.
"When you never came, I decided to come looking."
"Dumb."
"I made sure I wasn't followed."
"What? How did you--"
"I didn't know for sure."
"You suspected."
"I've had a lot of time to think about it."
A pause, one they're both eager to fill. Jack wonders if he ever has dreamed so vividly before. The smell of her skin, her hair, the warm weight of her body on his, the hot path of her hands, the unique curves and dips and swells of her legs and back and breasts. But that one smile has changed so much. When he first kissed her it was because she kissed him. Because he's a man. A lonely man. Because it was an opportunity he couldn't pass by. When they took their first steps towards undressing it was because it seemed the normal thing to do. The natural thing. An expected progression of events. A well-plotted fantasy. But seeing that smile, that tenderness, that affection, changed things. It changed him. He can't say how or why. He just knows he hasn't been smiled at like that for a very long time.
A smile of need. Of want. Of caring. He hadn't realized how much it meant.
"Why are you here?"
"Because you are."
***
He wakes alone, and in confusion.
She's not here. Not only that, there's no sign that she ever was here.
No forgotten article of clothing. No note on the nightstand. The sheets are rumpled, but that's not proof.
He wants proof, damnit.
He supposed it doesn't matter whether it was a dream or not. Whether she left while he slept to avoid the pain of goodbye, or she was never here to begin with. Either way it was one night. One incredible night, in his head or in reality. Not just incredible because of what they received, but what they gave. What they felt.
He can't remember feeling anything so deeply since the last time he saw her sleeping face.
It's as though he's been underwater for a year, has surfaced for a single breath of air before diving under again.
It'll be another year before he takes his next breath. And likely he'll never find out about the small, rubber-edged tags the cleaning lady will discover under the bed a few hours from now.
Story Notes: A sequel to "March 27, 2005', which is available on my website, www.allisnow.com
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 ]