Steady as she goes

Summary: You do realize that all the men you've ever loved have had names beginning with J? Sammie, baby, you have two choices. Either you make one hell of a life change, or you learn to explore the alphabet. Sam/Hansen, eventual SJ.
Season: Not long after Desperate Measures, Season 5 spoilers
Rating: PG-13 swears, implied sex, nothing too scarring.
Disclaimer: I own nada. No copyright infringement intended.
AN: Alright, I'll be honest. I'm pretty awful with "techno-babble". I have a feeling I'm going to get seriously humbled by reviewers. But I'd still love to hear from you! I'm going to edit/redo this chapter later on with the help of a beta.

"Break a vase,
 and the love that reassembles the fragments is stronger
 than that love which took its symmetry for granted when it was whole."

-Nobel Lecture, Derek Walcott

Chapter 1

It's sitting on your doorstep when you arrive home. You stumble over it as you open the front entrance, catching yourself by the doorknob as you trip and swing forward with its entry, paperwork flying everywhere. You taste blood from the inside of your cheek. God-fucking-dammit.

You grit your teeth and hope your neighbors missed out on your failed trapeze act. But in this neighborhood, that prospect is doubtful. You stare up at the long branches creeping out from beyond the eaves of your roof, sharply cut off by the ceiling. You can discern that motionless sense of time swell in your chest and break with your pulse, as you lie flat on your back with your legs splayed out on the porch feeling like an idiot. Winter means shorter days, and you blame the dark evening for your lack of foresight.

'Steady as she goes', you think, blowing out a breath.

The hard poke in your back serves to remind you of your current position. You grunt and roll over, instinctively collecting your papers as you toss a bitter eye at the large parcel you tripped over. A battered corner of the carton had been squashed by your weight. It stands at attention like a misshapen building, its sad figure resonating with your hurt pride. You freeze as you recognize the name on the return address, papers crumpling in your fists.

Jonas Hansen.

So this is what it feels like to have a stroke.

'Inhale, exhale, Carter.'

Why, oh why, did Colonel O'Neill have to order you to leave Cheyenne Mountain with the threat of forcible removal? You could have been in your lab now, pouring over infinitely fascinating off-world gadgets before finally waking up the next morning with alien imprints on your cheek and arms sprawled on your desk. But oh no, instead you get to deal with the ghosts of dead boyfriends past. What a fantastic way to spend your Friday evening.

'You son of a bitch'.

Old feelings surface and spill, raging through your veins in a blinding heat. Five goddamn years and he still couldn't leave you alone.

'Get up Carter'. A car engine down the streets startles you, and you swiftly gather your papers and the box to make a swift entrance into your empty house, forgetting the keys still hanging from the lock. You press your back against the door, listening to the faint click and ensuing silence.

Jonas.

All you can remember is how he used to hold your wrists together and refuse to let go. How he'd order you around and throw out phone messages from friends you hadn't seen in years. How furious he was when you accepted that life-changing transfer to the Pentagon, the thousand subtle ways he attempted to keep you in his control, your proper place in that fucked up structure in his head. Your own achieved rank in his perverse chain of command.

You find yourself at the far end of the living room; unable to remember the steps it took to achieve the distance. You flick on a lamp, curling up on the couch, unsurprisingly yet again at the far end. Left of centre. Under the bright yellow glare of the light bulb you can read the return address far more clearly. From: Estate of Jonas Hansen.

Well that would make far more sense. You breathe out a shaky laugh, for a moment you wondered if he was actually out there, alive, some unfortunate consequence of solar flares or parallel universes. Working for SG1 has taken the element of surprise out of many aspects of your life.

You pick at the tape, ripping it apart and flinging open the overlapping edges. The first thing you see is an envelope, your name etched in black ink on white parchment. The handwriting is instantly recognizable, but your attention is grabbed by the slip of matte paper behind it.

And cue mental breakdown.

Why did it have to be that picture?

Sam Carter, are you actually shaking?

You can see there are dozens among dozens of photographs stacked under it, a few photo albums you barely recognize from times long gone. You hate this picture, this very one. You should have burned when you had the chance. With shaking hands you lift it out of its perch, flipping it over.

Sammie and Jonas, The barn at Annie's orchard in Steuben, Maine. July 13, 1990.

Annie shot it before you even knew she was there. Jonas had his back to the camera, the silhouette of his long legs leaning against a wall. He was staring at you. You can still hear the buzzing of cicadas in the green of the tall bushes beyond, the feel your dress sliding imperceptibly up your thigh as you swung back and forth. You remember thinking nobody existed in the world at the moment but you and your secret.

You realize in a bitter stab of betrayal that it was Annie who sent this to you. You think that if she truly loved you she would never do such a thing to torment you.

But you recognize the handwriting.

Annie Hansen. You haven't thought about her in years. Which is strange, all things considering. She was going to be your mother-in-law.

You can see her in your mind, her blonde hair streaked with grey, her fair skin absolutely consumed by freckles. You remember she had a laugh you could hear three counties away. You remember her wistful smile as she played with the car radio. You remember her long hair spread out on the porch drying in the hot sun. You remember her dazed expression when you explained what an Ellipsoidal universe was. You remember the day you showed her your engagement ring, when she enveloped you in her arms and closed them tightly about you, swaying you lovingly in the warm sunshine streaming into the kitchen. You remember having to bite back tears, missing your own mother.

That said you have to admit to yourself that Annie Hansen wasn't remotely similar to your long-passed mother. You like to think that they would have been friends, despite being two fundamentally different women with drastically different social classes and political agendas. But Annie was a shade off of reality, and your mother had always depended on stability.

You never knew quite how Jonas came to be who he was with Annie as a mother. She was a former southern-belle turned teenage divorcee turned pot-smoking self-enlightened life coach. Last time you saw her she had just finished a sabbatical in South-Asia and had insisted on wearing a brilliantly colored sari in the dead of winter.

If lunacy is a proven inherent trait, Jonas certainly received it from his mother, Annie.

She was the one who showed you how effective talking to one's plants could be.

To say Jonas was 'embarrassed by his mother' would be an acute understatement. He was absolutely mortified by her. He had every reason in the world to be, she justified it often enough with her various antics.

Such as the time he was called out to collect her in the middle of the night when she wandered the streets singing what appeared to be Zoroastrian chants in the suburbs.

The time she went to Australia and came back with an English accent.

The time Jonas was called to active duty and she cut his brake line to protest the war.

The time you woke up in the middle of the night to find her taping glow-in-the-dark stars to your ceiling.

Eccentric was one way to put it.

But despite all their fundamental differences, all embarrassing moments aside, one absolute truth remained. Jonas Hansen was a mama's boy. He put up with her admirably, because he unconditionally and assuredly loved her more than words could ever say.

The fact that such a world-weary soldier lovingly put up with such a flamboyant mother made him all the more dear to you, and somehow that much more attractive. He loved her, and he stuck by her through each and every embarrassing scenario she could conjure up. You forgot how much you miss Annie.

You remember his embarrassed shrug upon introducing you to his mother. A heat rises in your belly, an ache thrums in your chest.

You swallow, feeling like maybe you're drowning, which inevitably makes you think about how you met him, and you can feel that watery sting in your lungs. You can feel those strong arms pulling you to the surface, coughing in the bright light.
You're too tired to have to deal with these memories.

You flick open the envelope, pulling out the ivory letter. The box drops to the floor, the photograph springs face up.

Dearest Sammie,

I make no apologies darling, for that nickname I know you despise. But as you must know, "Sam" is far too commonplace these days and I fear I lack the flair for originality and apparently, as my ex-husband puts it, "good taste". In any case, I will always remember you as that bright-eyed baby-faced little girl who captured my son's heart and who I once chased out half-naked with a broomstick. I'm so glad I gave you another chance after that unfortunate incident at catching you in bed with my only child. I trust you to understand my regrettable reaction to those events.

You cringe. Once you think you've successfully repressed a memory, another one successfully finds a way to come back to bite you in the ass. In written-form no less.

I'm sure your own father must have undergone a similar experience…

'Yea', you snort, like you ever told him about Jonas. Dad was on the no-call list for a good many years.

…which of course makes for delightful laughs when one thinks back on these things.

Well I suppose, as they say, there's no point beating around the bush. I miss you. Terribly. I've even named my cat after you. I expect you to take that as a compliment. I've spent the last five years giving you the space I truly felt you deserved, my dear, after all that drama you underwent with my son. You're the daughter I've never had, and I stayed away because I was worried that you'd blame me for Jonas' fatal shortcomings; Lord knows I blame myself enough.

A swell of affection rises in your chest; you did love her like a mother once.

I miss my son, Sammie, I miss him so much that sometimes I imagine him here, alive. Some mornings I can hear him moving around in the kitchen, or watching a hockey game. Those moments I feel paralyzed with hope, most often fear. And then all I can do is stare at the wall and remind myself that I have to breath, to get out of bed, to continue my life with a ghost at my heels.

It has taken me a long time to acknowledge the role I played in his downfall, I was never a perfect mother. And throughout the process of learning to forgive myself I have come to recognize his own part in the failure that was his life. I think of you, and your vain attempt at fixing him. I don't mean to chastise you darling; I've never faulted you for leaving Jonas. I just want you to understand what it is I've come to learn. Everything that went wrong with Jonas, he did it to himself. Despite our differences on the subject, he was a good soldier. He served his country admirably and sadly did not receive the appropriate resources to help him cope with the consequences. But that was not our fault, Sammie. I understand the Air Forces 'official' position on the cause of death as being an accident, but whatever the truth may be concerning his death I have no doubt he had some hand to play in it.

Astonishingly, you feel defensive of him, Jonas wasn't that bad. He wasn't always like that. Controlling. You weren't that much of an idiot either. You could have done more.

I have decided that the most important thing I can do for myself is to heal. Easier said than done, I know, but I'm tired of feeling like I'm in an unescapable void. I must start anew. Hemingway once said "The world breaks everyone, and afterward, some are strong at the broken places." I will never be a whole woman again, not with my son gone. But I'm willing to try. I'm willing to grow, and to become strong once again.

You feel something hitch in the back of your throat. Oh Annie.

I sold the orchard Sammie. Too many ghosts. I've moved to Oregon, I suppose for the change of scenery. I know I'll be content here. I live two steps away from the beach, the stars are brighter than I've ever seen them, and best of all I have yet to gain the reputation of "crazy cat lady". Hopefully come Halloween I'll actually receive some trick 'or' treaters instead of having that privileged designation of having the only house on the community blacklist. I'm very excited Sammie. I've even begun plans on a haunted house complete with zombies, spaghetti brains and homemade quicksand. Do children get heart attacks?

'Yep', you think fondly, 'crazy as a loon'.

It only took sixty years, but I finally feel like I can settle down. Though I will always challenge the conventions surrounding normalcy, I aim to find and accept a portion of it. I've sold almost all the remnants of my past life, donated all of Jonas' childhood items to charity. I'm successfully minimizing all of my possessions, be it transitory or of sentimental value. Jonas had given me these photographs after you called off the engagement for safekeeping. I can't throw these away, Sammie, they're not my memories. I don't mean to hurt you by springing all of this on you so many years after the fact, but I figured if you were brave enough to leave him, you'll be brave enough to put these pictures to rest.

I wonder if I'll be embarrassed after sending you this, I haven't revealed so much about myself in years.

Here's my new address in Cannon Beach, Or. I hope to one day see you soon. There's a beach out here with your name on it Sammie.

With all my love, Annabelle Hansen.

She never really was the same after he died. She had been broken.

You sit back, your fingers absently tracing the raised ridges of the letter.

'Steady as she goes', you think, blowing out a second breath.

You don't hear the voices outside, the soft laughter and feet crunching on the ground. You close your eyes.

You try to stop the memories.

You had forgotten.

Every summer he'd take you to the mountains, and in the mornings you would drink tea by the crocus lilies and make love every night by the firelight, naively dreaming of your futures. If you close your eyes you can still feel that scratchy blanket being pulled off your bare shoulder, his stubble taking its place, the warm glow of the fire blazing in his eyes. And you would lose yourself, again. The heat of desire simmering in long drawn out sighs of anticipation.

You screw your eyes shut, trying to erase it. Trying to focus on his arrogance, his ego, all the annoying aspects that had given you the courage to leave him. But in the corner of your eye you see the photograph of a young girl in a summer dress gently swinging on a tire in gold-lit barn, watched by the lean shadow of a faceless man. It taunts you.

You don't know why you feel so sad that the orchard has been sold. It's not like you had any intentions of ever seeing it again. It was just, like an encapsulation of happy memories, now dead. That part of your life is being cut away, and you're surprised to see yourself still clinging to it.

You sigh, drawing your knees upwards and gently falling to the side, resting your head on the armrest. Your toes knead the cushion, and you stare blankly at the letter. Rescuing it from your fading grasp.

He made you laugh. That's what you remember most about him in the early days. You could have a piss-poor day at the Academy, get caught in a thunderstorm when your bus never showed, be followed home by a creepy guy at nighttime and by the time you plopped down on that springy, torn mattress, he'd still manage to get you to the point where you'd be trying desperately to catch the slobber let loose as you laughed your life away.

You haven't laughed like that in years.

"Carter!"

The door bursts open, and you jump in surprise, momentarily angry at the interruption.

The moment disappears like a cut thread, frayed edges floating away.

Jack.
Pissed off.

What the hell?

TBC.

very likely probably certainly to be edited later on. A reviewer made a really good observation that Annie Hansen's letter wasn't really written in the style of her character, so that especially will be reworked later on.