Title: What
A Man’s Gotta Do
Author: brandifer
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Category: Skirts the line between gen & UST
Pairings: S/J
Spoilers: Set directly after the end of “Shades of
Grey” but there are no
spoilers for it.
Season: 3
Rating: E for Everybody
Content Warnings: none
Summary: Actions don’t always speak louder than words.
Disclaimer: I make no claim on anything related to Stargate. Just
borrowing my
favorite fictional people, thank you very much.
Author's Note: Almost-virgin writer warning. :) I
was bitten by this rabid plot bunny at the posting of the Wednesday
Short challenge on the GateShip group mailing list, but at over 900
words it's a ficlet. Thanks to Rowan and the gang for letting me play
anyway.
~*~
Pausing at
the
top of the ramp, Jack felt Sam brush past him on her way to the bottom.
By the
time Daniel and Teal’c came through, she had already handed
her pack and weapon
to the tech and was standing at field rest in front of the general.
With a deep
sigh, Jack headed down to join her.
Eight days
and
two brief missions after his return, she still wasn’t
speaking to him. Well,
technically she was, but not really.
Eight days,
a
few hundred tight-lipped yes-sirs and dozens of sharply executed
salutes; his
patience had been folded, spindled and mutilated.
He’d known bringing them back from beyond the breaking point wasn’t going to be easy. He’d known it was going to take time. Hell, he’d forged into territory of asshole-ish behavior uncharted even in his bad old days. This was to be expected, he had thought.
Thing is, he
had hoped he’d be wrong. He had hoped that she’d
listen to his story and the
light would dawn and she’d be all prickly at him for a day or
two. Then they’d
all have a beer together and it would all be over.
He’d
hoped
she’d be a man about it.
He was now
fully
aware what an idiot he’d been, a complete dumbass son of a
bitch. The one time in all
these years it would have been prudent to remember that by God,
she’s a woman,
and he’d blown it straight to hell.
The
abysmal look on her face when he had finally pierced
her armor that day in the corridor had been replaced by a look he liked
even less. Now she wore a mask
so rigid and vacant that she could have been a mannequin. A wounded,
pissed-off
mannequin.
When she
bolted
from the debriefing too fast to decline Daniel’s invitation
to burgers, Jack
snapped. The inevitability of what he had to do next was a heavy burden.
~*~
Jack had
taken
his time with the boys, burgers and beer, not wanting to arouse any
suspicion
or end up with witnesses. Checking his watch he decided he’d
waited long
enough. The late hour and the element of surprise would get his foot in
the door;
the rest was up to him.
Sam’s
porch
light nearly blinded him when he triggered the motion sensor. Three
tries at
the doorbell, and suddenly a figure in yellow flannel peered through
the door
glass.
Shock made
her
swing the door wide. “Sir?”
“Are
you busy?”
A short huff
and rolling eyes were his only answer as she allowed him passage and
closed out
the cold night air. In the dim glow of leftover porch light and the
half moon
of a nightlight she stood, tightly wound and beautiful.
“I
thought
about flowers.” He blurted.
Confused
blue
eyes met warm brown.
“I
thought
about chocolate,” he shrugged and took a step toward her, “and wine. But I
knew you weren’t falling for
that.”
She showed
no
sign of hearing him speak.
“Sam.”
He
ducked his head for a moment before meeting her eyes again.
“I’m sorry.”
Her breath
caught and her fingers flexed.
He held a
hand out
toward her and she eyed it warily before returning to his face. One
more step
brought him so close she stopped breathing. “I really
am.”
Finally, he
grasped her fingers and tugged her gently into his embrace. For a few
heartbeats she remained unbending to his entreaty, her body resisting
his chill
with one of her own. A long moment later her resolve crashed so hard he
could
hear it. Her arms lifted, her head bowed to his shoulder and his world
righted
itself at last.
“I’m
sorry,
Sam.” Peppering her hair with tiny kisses, he breathed her
in. “I’m so, so
sorry.”
She clung to
him silently, breath hitching, grasping at the back of his shirt.
Rocking
together, hands swept over backs, cheeks brushed and heartache eased.
He willed
her to feel his regret, desperate to begin winning back her trust and
replace
that desolate look in her eyes with warmth again.
Leaning
slightly away, he took her face in his hands and looked directly into
her
bright eyes. “I am sorry.”
He
whispered.
A solemn,
wide-eyed nod told him all he needed to know.
Pressing his
lips
to her forehead, he rocked her in his arms a moment longer, and dared
one more
kiss on the corner of her mouth, stepping away before she could return
in kind.
One hand
squeezed her shoulder lightly, then trailed down her arm, brushing a
thumb over
her knuckles before letting go. Reluctant to break from her until the
last
possible moment, he stepped back to the door, eyes still locked on her
face. Lifting
a palm in silent farewell, he reached back to turn the knob and slipped
out.
He was
halfway
back to his truck when he heard the deadbolt slide home. Hoping for one
more
glimpse of her, he turned back toward the door and was rewarded by her
shy
smile through the window.
Spirits
soaring
and grinning like a fool, he climbed back in the truck and set off into
what
had become a beautiful night.
~*~