"Dawning"
Sequel to "Drowning"
It's been six months since you tried to kill yourself, and you're miserable.
Your sessions with Dr. Young are often incredibly difficult; you feel sometimes that she's ripping you apart in order to put you back together.
You expected that, over time, you'd start to feel better. But there were days you thought you couldn't feel any worse. On those days you'd call Dr. Young, because she insisted, and you'd have to talk.
You were starting to hate it, all that talking.
You ask her one day why you still feel so badly. She eyes you closely. "Sam, I told you this wouldn't be easy."
You sigh and nod, slumping back into your chair.
"But I want you to study how you're feeling very closely," she says. "Are you thinking about trying to kill yourself again?"
No, you say.
"Do you feel that despair, that lack of hope?"
You shake your head.
She smiles. "Sam, we're trying to break down a wall – that wall you've hidden behind for thirty-odd years. I wish we could snap our fingers and fix all that; but we can't. It takes work."
Work. One of Dr. Young's favorite words. You roll your eyes and sigh dramatically and she laughs and shoos you out of her office, saying she'll see you soon.
She screams at you for an hour, then leaves, slamming your front door so hard that one of the panes breaks.
You cry; you'd been crying ever since she'd shown up.
You'd known it was going to be hard but . . .
You collapse onto the couch sobbing, thinking you'd never felt this guilty, or this hurt.
You cry.
"Sam. Sam!"
Someone's shaking your shoulder – you look up. It's O'Neill.
"What the hell happened?" he demands, indicating the glass on the floor in front of the door.
You sit up, grabbing a tissue from the box on the coffee table.
"Cassie," you say, trying to keep your voice from breaking and not quite succeeding.
"Oh, shit," he says softly, sitting beside you. "Where is she?"
You tell him she went back to school. He asks you why.
"Because she hates me." And you burst into tears again and he draws you against him, holding you as you cry.
Soon Daniel and Teal'c will show up. When she'd called earlier in the week, leaving a cold message on your answering machine telling you she was coming to see you this weekend, you'd panicked.
Afraid to be alone with her, you'd planned a kind of welcome home party. It was, if you were honest with yourself, more of a 'I'm sorry I tried to kill myself please don't be mad' party. But she'd seen right through it; too smart and too angry to fall for it.
It had been easier with your father.
When he'd finally been able to get through the Gate to see you he held you; you talk and talk, words stumbling over themselves as you try to explain why you did what you did. He nods and listens and when you're done he tells you that he loves you.
You ask why he's not mad.
"Sam," he says. "I'm a soldier, for Christ's sake. I've seen this thing a dozen times before, unfortunately."
He sighs. "Sam, out of the men who were in my company when I was in Vietnam, two killed themselves while we were on our tour of duty; two others waited until we got back. Another tried, but his wife stopped him, thank God, and he's enjoying his grandchildren today. And that's not even including the guys that drank themselves to death."
He looks at you. "War fucks with your head, Sam. And I know what you're going through at the SGC; hell, I'm out there on the other side, doing the same thing. And it's WAR."
He takes you in his arms again. "I'm just glad Jack showed up that night. And that you're getting help. I believe in you, Sam, you'll make it through this."
You nod into his shoulder and he asks if you want him to stay longer. You sigh and say yes, then say no, knowing the T'okra need him.
You stop him before he leaves to head back to the mountain; Selmak hadn't said a word since you'd seen them; you ask your father why.
He smiles and takes your face his hands. "He doesn't understand this, honey. One thing the Goa'uld and the T'okra have in common is their love of life. Why do you think they take host after host?"
Of course, you think.
"Besides, you've pissed him off, and scared him, too. He doesn't like the thought of losing his little girl."
You snort, thinking your Dad is using Selmak to hide behind. "The T'okra don't have little girls," you say a bit sarcastically.
A flash of eyes and that voice. "This one does," says Selmak and you're still crying as they drive off.
At first, Janet's parents had refused to let Cassie visit you or even talk to you after you'd tried to kill yourself. You'd begged, pleaded, reassured them you were getting help and that she would be totally safe with you for a weekend.
They'd finally relented; saying that she could do whatever she wanted. You sigh with relief, and call her a dozen times and leave a dozen voice mails, and wait.
She never calls back, and she never shows up.
You're hurt, and the thought of her is never far from your mind.
You continue your work with Dr. Young; months of talking and homework, for Christ's sake, and a LOT of crying. It's hard; the hardest thing you've ever done. And some days you feel awful, worse even, you think, than when you actually slit your wrists. Other days aren't quite so bad.
Gradually, you really do start to feel better, even though you know you have a long way to go.
When she feels you've addressed the majority of the past issues that are part of a very complex problem, Dr. Young brings you into the present.
"Pete," she says. "Jack, Daniel, Teal'c. Cassie."
What about them, you ask.
"First, I want you to figure out how you feel about each of them, especially in relation to your suicide attempt. I want you to write letters. Get a giant notebook, pick one of them, and start writing. Just let it all out, a stream of consciousness thing. Don't censor yourself, because you aren't going to show them these letters; just write."
You nod, thinking you can do that.
So you buy a notebook and you sit and stare at the blank pages and you decide to start with Daniel; that should be easy enough and it starts off great but before you know it you're cursing him – cursing his stupid Ascension and the fact that he chose to leave you, knowing he'd never see you again and you rage about how much that hurt you –
You stop and re-read it. Then you tear it up and throw it away.
Teal'c's is easier; full of love and admiration and gratitude and you actually consider giving it to him, but you can't give him a nice letter and not give Daniel one so you rip that one up, too.
Pete's letter starts off nicely; he'd been nothing but supportive during the past few months and you thank him for that and you tell him how much you care for him but then it starts to veer off, too, and you're telling him he's moving too fast for you; you need your space, you need a lot of space; then you're saying maybe you shouldn't see each other anymore because he's such a nice guy and he needs to be with someone who loves him back. . .
You sigh and crumple that one up.
Then Jack. You sit and think for a while, you remember things, you feel things – then you start to write.
You write for a long time, and finally admit to yourself the truth, and it scares the hell out of you.
Now you just have to decide what to do with it.
Cassie's letter is full of apology, love and reminiscence.
You remember last year when she started at the University of Colorado.
Your nerves had been on edge; worried about her classes, worried about her social life. God, you think, so much to worry about. The day she leaves, you have a long talk about sex; you tell her that you hope she'll make wise choices. But, you tell her, you know how these things can go, and you hand her three boxes of condoms, twelve to a box.
"God, Sam," she says, grinning. "What do you expect me to do, fuck the entire football team?"
Mortified. You're mortified. You close your eyes and sigh. "Where do you learn these things?"
"Mmm," she says. "If I were you, I'd blame the media."
She's still grinning, a familiar glint in her eye.
You decide to have a talk with O'Neill in the morning.
He's in his office with Daniel and Teal'c and you interrupt; standing hands on hips and ask him what kind of language he'd been using around Cassie.
He looks taken aback and little guilty. "Oh," he says. "You know. The English language. A little Spanish. Hey, Carter, we've gotten some recon in on –"
You glare. He sighs. "I . . . cuss on occasion," he says defensively. "Why?"
You tell him about your conversation with her the night before; hoping to make him feel appropriately guilty.
"The entire football team?" he asks. "God, Carter, how many did you give her?"
You flush. Thirty-six, you say.
O'Neill whips around in his chair, back to you now, and he's LAUGHING.
"Dammit, Jack!" you say and Daniel interrupts.
"Jack," he says. "Sam was just being responsible. I mean, Cassie IS an attractive girl; for all we know the entire football time COULD ask her out."
You flush even more brightly and O'Neill turns and says "You might be right, Daniel, but if that's the case then 36 isn't even enough to cover the entire roster."
"Oh," Daniel says. "And what about the basketball team?"
"And does not the University of Colorado have a baseball team?" says Teal'c and now you're embarrassed and pissed AND on the verge of laughter but you're damned if you'll give in.
"That's right," says Daniel. He turns to you. "Sam, we'd better send a care package; 36 condoms aren't going to be nearly enough . . ."
You leave when they all start digging through their pockets to donate to the 'Cassie Condom Cause,' their laughter follows you down the hall.
Bastards, you think, not without affection.
You're still weeping; O'Neill sitting on one side, Teal'c on the other, Daniel on the floor, head resting on your knee. Marge and Homer, now more than half-grown, compete for space in Teal'c's lap.
The three of them had become even closer to you than they already had been; since your suicide attempt they were over every week, to play cards or watch a game or just sit and bullshit – being surrounded so closely by all three of them was not an unfamiliar feeling these days.
They talk and pat you and give excuses about why Cassie did what she did but you can't stop crying, you cry for a long time, then finally Daniel says "Enough, Sam."
He'd been patting your bare foot but now he grabs it and starts tickling and you shriek, sending both cats scrambling for cover, and you jump and kick but then he grabs the other and is tickling both now and you can't help it, you start laughing; then all three of them are all over you fingers in your ribs and sides and feet and you're screaming now with laughter and struggling to get away and they finally release you and you leap off the couch and stumble away from them.
You glare. They're all three grinning like fools. "That's not fair," you say sulkily.
"Worked, though," says Daniel, smiling.
You sigh. "Pizza and beer in the kitchen," you say and Daniel and O'Neill stumble over one another, thirsty and hungry, only to be beaten by Teal'c who vaults gracefully over the back of the sofa. You smile. Good men. Good men and good friends.
You hope they leave enough for you.
They stay a long time; you know they're still worried about your state of mind.
The four of you eat and drink and watch whatever's on and they tell you about work, making you laugh with stories about Walter and Siler and their ongoing fight over which was better: The original Star Trek or the Next Generation.
And when you find your gaze sliding to O'Neill, his eyes are always there to meet yours. Sometimes he's smiling faintly, most of the time he's unreadable. You wonder.
Finally you convince them that you're fine; you'll be all right. You start to shoo them out one by one and as O'Neill, the last to leave, heads for the door he says he'll see you Monday.
What's Monday? you ask.
"Oh, did I forget to tell you?" he asks innocently. "You're back on duty."
You shriek and throw your arms around him.
You'd been evaluated by four psychiatrists; two Air Force, two civilian; jumped through psychological hoops you didn't even know existed and then were told to wait.
And you'd waited. And waited.
And now finally . . .
He holds you, a little longer than necessary you think, or maybe it's your imagination, then he grabs your arms and pushes you just far enough away so he can see your face. "Now, don't get too excited," he says. "It's probationary – no missions."
You're disappointed, a little, but even seeing your lab again excites you.
He smiles. "You're getting that spark back."
"What spark?" you ask.
"That spark in your eyes," he says, then kisses you on the cheek and is gone.
At three o'clock in the morning you're startled by the feel of someone climbing into your bed. You're about to roll out and grab your gun when you hear her.
She's crying.
"Sam, it's me," she says, shoving disgruntled cats out of her way and crawling up against you and sliding her arms around your neck. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, I was just so scared . . ."
And you hold her tightly and stroke her hair and the two of you talk softly until dawn begins to break, then you sleep. She sleeps in your bed the next two nights, then returns to school.
You feel better, just a little.
You ease back into work; initially reading mission reports and getting caught up.
You're self-conscious at first and keep your sleeves pulled down low; O'Neill has said that no one knows who didn't need to know; and that as far as everyone else is concerned you'd been on medical leave and that was that.
No one looks at you like you're crazy so you start to feel more at ease, diving deeply into your work and catching up with your friends and wading into Siler's and Walter's Star Trek/ Next Gen debate by voting for Voyager and they hoot and shout you down and you pretend to pull rank and remind them who they're talking to and they call you ma'am and apologize and skulk out of your lab.
Daniel and O'Neill laugh their asses off when you tell them this.
You chafe a bit when you see Daniel and Teal'c go through the Gate with other SG teams but you try to remain patient.
Someday.
Dr. Young asks you about the letters and you tell her, going through them one by one.
She nods. "It sounds as if you've come to a crossroads in a couple of your relationships. Pete and Jack."
You nod and look at your lap.
"What do you want, Sam?" she asks.
You gather your thoughts.
"In an ideal world, I want to be able to break up with Pete without hurting him," you say. "And I want to be with Jack."
You sigh, knowing these are both impossibilities.
"Pete obviously cares about you," she says. "I don't think you can't get out of that relationship with hurting him."
You nod, tears starting.
"And what about Jack?"
You look at her. "Well, I don't know if he feels the same way, for one thing. For another, it's against regulations – a relationship between us could ruin both our careers."
"So you're afraid of rejection, and of losing your job."
"I'm not so much worried about my job than about his," you say. "He's worked so hard and come so far . . ."
"You could tell him how you feel without necessarily starting a relationship."
You shudder at the thought.
"Well, Sam, do what you think is best – but take into consideration that you need to be fair to yourself, and to the people who love you."
She leans forward.
"Consider all the possibilities, and then think. You've told me that from now on you want to live life with as few regrets as possible."
You nod.
"Consider those regrets."
You see him the next day; he arrives on your doorstep that evening.
You smile and let him in and he falls on the couch and turns on your TV.
You look at him, puzzled, his mood seems odd, he's distracted. You ask him what he's doing here.
The cats have leapt into his lap.
He looks up at you. "Oh, I just came to see the girls," he says. "And you."
You're surprised.
"Get me a beer, would ya? I'm kinda loaded down here," he says, indicating the cats who are rolling on him like he's catnip.
So you do, and you order Chinese food, and you both watch TV, not talking much.
"I cried that night, you know," he says out of nowhere.
Your face burns and you hate that you did that to him and you stare down at your wrists where the scars are still visible.
"For the first time since Charlie died, I cried."
Your stomach drops. You don't know what he wants you to say.
"Look at me, Sam."
You do.
"I'm not saying that to make you feel guilty. I just wanted you to know . . . that I care, I guess, I don't know." He sounds suddenly uncertain.
He looks down at the cats, petting each in turn, then he turns back to you, eyes bright.
"Today's Charlie's birthday," he says hoarsely and your heart breaks and you shoo the cats away and hold him tightly and he cries, silently, tears on your neck.
It doesn't last long and he leaves soon after, thanking you and giving you a fierce hard hug.
And your heart breaks again as you watch him leave.
That night you make your decision, praying it's the right one.
"Actually, Sam, I've seen this comin' for a while now," Pete says.
You stand before him nervously, tears in your eyes. You apologize over and over.
"Stop, Sam," he says, grabbing both your arms. He smiles. "Yeah, this hurts, but I'll be okay, especially since I'm sure now that YOU'LL be okay."
He slides his arms around you and hugs you briefly.
"Sam, I'll always be there for you, this doesn't change anything," he says. "This is one instance where I want the old 'let's just be friends' adage to actually apply. Okay?"
You smile and nod and cry and help him pack, and you wave as he drives off into the night, wondering if you've made the biggest mistake of your life.
By the time Pete leaves, it's midnight. You sit staring at the letter you'd written to O'Neill, wondering when and if you should give it to him.
You feel so vulnerable – everything you've ever felt or thought about the man is in there.
Finally, at around one o'clock, two glasses of wine have given you the courage to make that call.
You wait, afghan over your legs, gnawing on your fingernails until you finally hear the knock at the door. You wouldn't be so desperately nervous if you had a better idea of how he felt.
Well, you suppose, you're about to find out.
You fling the door open, throw the letter at him without saying anything, and rush out to sit on the porch and wait.
It's 30 degrees and your feet are freezing because you're barefoot and you sit with the afghan over your head, your face burning as you remember what you'd written, what he's in there reading right now.
Like how you hate it when he cuts you off when you're trying to explain something; how sometimes he infuriates you when he takes unnecessary risks; how you like the way his eyes look when he's angry and how you're still pissed about the incident with the Ancients. He's reading about how hurt and angry you'd been about Laira and didn't he know how fucking HARD you'd worked to get him home? He's reading about how you lied about the whole Zatarc thing and that it had NOT been okay to just leave all that in that room; and what is fucking WRONG with the Air Force, anyway? He's reading about how you'd never laughed as hard as when he and Teal'c switched bodies; he's reading about what a great commander you think he is and that you KNOW something happened when the SGC was looping and just what in the hell was it? He's reading about how you like his hair and his leather jacket and the way he's come to trust you with just about anything; he's reading about how sorry you are about Charlie and how you wish you could fix that for him. He's reading about how you feel you could trust him with your life, that you would do anything in the world for him, that he's the most self-satisfied jerk you've ever had the displeasure to meet and that you love him more than anyone on the face of the earth or off it; that you love him so much it hurts.
He's reading all this, among other things.
It's a long letter.
The door opens finally and you cringe and you hear his knee crack as he eases himself down beside you.
Close.
Beside you.
Silence.
"So," he says, tone carefully neutral. "Dr. Young made you do the letter thing, too."
This is the last thing you're expecting and you groan and hide further under the afghan.
"And you like my eyes when I'm pissed."
You're silent.
"I could go around pissed all day if that'll turn you on . . ."
You make a kind of mffff noise of complaint and elbow him in the ribs, hard.
"All right, I'm sorry," he says and you're absolutely infuriated at the sound of laughter in his voice and you stand, about to stomp back into the house when he stops you.
"Stop, Sam, please. I'm sorry, I'm just no good at this . . . stuff."
You sit. As far away as you can get.
Finally, he starts to talk.
"Do you remember that mission with the lizard guys?"
You think. "PXZ-101?"
"No, the BIG lizard guys."
"Oh. PXW-209." You look at him warily. "What about it?"
"That first night we had to camp out," he says, his voice taking on that story-telling quality that it did sometimes. "And we had a fire, a big one. Teal'c had watch and you and Daniel were talking, some kind of deep, philosophical thing that went way over my head –"
"NONE of that goes over your head and I wish you'd quit pretending it did!" you say, exasperated.
He groans. "Fine, it doesn't go over my head. And I'll deny it if you tell anyone I said that. But it DOES bore the hell out of me."
You sigh.
"Anyway, Daniel said something, I don't remember what, and you laughed. A real laugh, from deep down. And I watched you, I watch you a lot, you know, and the first I thing I thought was how beautiful you looked."
Your breath catches.
"And the second thing I thought was how badly I wanted to do that for you."
You're puzzled. "Do what?"
"Make you that happy; make you laugh like that."
"What are you talking about? You make me laugh all the time – "
"No. No, not like that. When you're with Daniel, you're different – you're smiling all the time, talking all the time, you're both all touchy-feely and all that crap."
"Are you saying you're jealous of DANIEL?"
"No. I'm saying I'm jealous of the way you are when you're WITH Daniel. With me . . . with me it's like you've drawn an invisible line – you'll go this far and no further. As if getting any closer to me is . . . wrong or something."
"You're my CO," you whisper. "It HAS to be that way."
You hesitate and he sighs.
"Doesn't it?" you ask.
He edges closer to you, pressing up against your side.
"Sam," he whispers. "If I hadn't been so concerned about what a relationship between us would have done to your career I . . ."
"What?" you ask softly.
"I would have . . . I would have gotten you away from here – I would have kissed you so hard it hurt and made love to you until I couldn't move anymore. I would have snuck up behind you in your lab and smelled your hair; I would have asked you up to the cabin over and over again until you finally said yes; I would have taken you out for a drink and ran my hand up your thigh underneath the table . . ."
Your breath is coming faster now.
"But you didn't . . . because of my career."
"I know you love your work, Sam. I would never, ever be the reason that you lost it."
You wipe your eyes; you didn't realize you'd been crying.
"And what about your career?"
"Sam, the Air Force is all I know. And I like what we do. But, in reality, I wouldn't die if I had to give it up."
He sighs, leaning back on his forearms.
"I have no fucking idea how I've gotten this far. And as much fun as all this is . . ."
Silence.
"Jack," you say. "I've learned a lot since I slit my wrists."
You can almost hear him wince.
"I love the SGC. But it doesn't DEFINE me anymore."
You pause, trying to gather your thoughts.
"After this last incident with the Ancients; and after all the work I've done lately trying to figure out who I am and what I want – I've discovered that there is ONE thing I want more than anything in the world, and I don't care how much it costs me."
He stills.
"And after reading that letter, I think you know what it is."
He's quiet for a long, agonizing moment.
"You want this? You sure it's okay?" he asks, hoarsely.
You nod. "I just didn't know if you wanted it anymore."
"Goddammit, Sam. It's all I've ever wanted."
He reaches out a hand and you grab it; and he drags you inside and he plops down on the couch and you notice he's got bedhead and barefeet and you scold him and he says what do you expect, you called me at one o'clock in the morning and then he's trying to pull you on to his lap and you insist you're too big and he fights with you and gets you into the position he wants and pulls the afghan over you both and your head is on his chest, underneath his chin.
You listen to his heartbeat for a while.
He's so warm.
Then he moves his lips to your ear and he talks for a long time; and you laugh and cry and sigh and murmur agreement at all the things he's wanted to say all these years; then he starts to say things that make you shiver and his breath in your ear is hot and he keeps talking and you actually start moaning, softly, clutching his shirt tightly and his voice deepens and his mouth is on your neck and his hands on are your body. You gasp as he reaches up beneath your pajama shirt and somehow he has you prone on the couch now and you simply cannot believe how much you want him; it's an ache indescribable.
He finally kisses you.
He tastes just like you'd always imagined, and it's a deep kiss, a wet kiss, and now his groans are driving you crazy and you think you're going to die –
You fling yourselves away from each other, panting.
You look at him and smile. As much as you love the way his eyes look when he's angry, the way they look when he wants you is even better.
"Wait?" he asks, panting.
"Yeah," you answer. "Just for a while."
He sits back, pulling the afghan over his lap. "What the hell," he says. "It's been eight years. I can wait a little longer."
You laugh and lie against him and he pulls the afghan over you both, pulls you tight against him, and you sleep.
At first you're hideously nervous; afraid somebody's going to be able to tell just by looking at you that something's going on.
He's been over every night for dinner, and maybe a movie or a game. A lot of the time you just sit on the couch talking until he jumps all over you, making you giggle and groan and finally push him out the door, despite his protests. And he understands, even though he complains teasingly and has his hands all over you at every opportunity.
You're just not ready, not yet.
And at work, you're on tenterhooks, at least at first.
But no Klaxons have sounded and no stern-looking men from the Pentagon have descended and there is no tension between you, even though he does take the occasional chance to sneak up behind you and smell your hair.
Things seem to slowly return to normal; or close as it gets to normal in the SGC.
Then one day you're given the all-clear; full-scale missions starting next week.
You jump in delight and race home to tell Homer and Marge.
At three o'clock in the morning, you're startled by the sound of someone climbing into bed with you.
"Sam! Don't shoot! It's me!" comes a whisper near your ear.
"Cassie?" you say, sleepy and disoriented. "I didn't know you were coming home this weekend."
"Yeah, well, I had a lot to – hey, who's that?"
You stiffen. "Uh, no one," you say and you try to kick her out of the bed but she's reaching across you with her hand.
"Jack!" she says.
"Mmmf," he says, face pressed into the back of your neck.
"What are you doing?"
"Mmmfling," he says.
"What?"
God, you can't believe this. Mortified. You're mortified. You're going to die of sheer mortification.
"He's sleeping, Cassie, now get the hell out of here!" you hiss. "I'll be there in a minute."
She laughs. "Okay," she whispers and clambers out of the bed and rushes out of the room.
You groan. He laughs into your neck and you elbow him and he pins you down and kisses you lazily.
You groan again, for a different reason this time and even though you don't want to you wriggle from beneath him and slide on your robe.
"I'll be back," you say.
"Hurry," he says in tone that makes you shiver and you slip from the room.
You find her in the laundry room, cramming the washer full of clothes, not bothering to sort them. She looks up and grins.
"Cassie, I –"
"Stop it, Sam. You're not setting a bad example or putting ideas into my head."
She reads your mind, sometimes.
She comes to you and squeezes you tight.
"This is GREAT! And about time. You know I love you, and you know I love Jack."
You smile, cutting yourself some slack. "Yeah. I love him, too."
"Okay, then. All good."
She goes to her bag and rummages through it. "Here," she says. "You might need these more than me."
And with an evil grin she tosses you three battered boxes of condoms, all still unopened.
You slip back into bed quietly, not wanting to wake him up if he had fallen back asleep.
You needn't have worried.
He slides back atop you with ease and grace and kisses you slowly; a long, sweet, deep kiss that you can feel all the way down to your toes.
He breaks away from you. "Did you lock the door?"
You snort and whisper yes and he says good and you lose yourselves in each other for the second time that night, although a lot more quietly than usual.
You wake with the light and start to ease out of bed. He clutches at you and groans and makes sleepy noises of complaint and you kiss him briefly and tell him to go back to sleep and he grunts and rolls over and burrows as deeply under the covers as he can.
You smile.
You shower and make coffee and start to make breakfast, then decide to wait after looking at the clock. Neither of them will be out of bed for another two hours at least.
You take your coffee out on to the back deck into the cold of the early morning and you breathe deeply and think about what a beautiful day it is, dark clouds looming low and snow threatening.
Finally, you hear both bedroom doors slam simultaneously and you start breakfast, hiding a grin as they both come shuffling down the hallway, wearing identical grouchy, just-woke-up scowls, arms crossed tightly.
He comes up behind you in the kitchen and wraps his arms around your waist and buries his face in the back of your neck. "Good morning," you say and he grunts in reply and then is off to stake his spot on the couch.
You hand them their coffee, his black, hers heavy on the sugar.
"Game on?" he asks curtly.
They are NOT morning people.
"Not yet," you say and toss him the remote which he catches without even looking and he turns on ESPN Gameday and mutters something about Lee Corso being an asshole and Cassie grunts in agreement and you roll your eyes. You'd given up on the language thing long ago.
You hand them each a plate and they eat in silence then put their plates on the coffee table and you come to clear them away but he grabs you by the wrist and forces you to sit on the end of the couch right next to Cassie and he somehow manages to fold himself up enough so that he can lay down with his head on your thigh and he grabs your hand and brings it up against the back of his neck in a silent demand for a massage and you comply and he grunts in what you assume is appreciation. On your other side, Cassie has laid her head on your shoulder and seems to be falling asleep again.
You smile and watch ESPN, then frown. Lee Corso really IS an asshole.
There's a knock on the door and you move to answer it but he won't let you go. "Come in!" he bellows, startling you and Cassie and scaring the hell out of the cats.
You'd debated for weeks whether or not to tell Daniel and Teal'c; you were worried about getting them into trouble if anyone found out. Jack argued that they would want to know, hell, they probably knew already and this was something you didn't want to have to hide from your friends, especially on your down time.
Finally, one night when all of you were over at Jack's you'd told them. They'd exchanged sly smiles.
"What?" you demand.
"We wondered when you were going to tell us," Daniel says.
"You knew?" Jack asks.
"It has been quite obvious, O'Neill."
You start to panic and Daniel notices and motions for you to calm down. "He means obvious to us, because we know you both so well. And the looks you been giving each other lately – may as well take out an ad in the newspaper."
You stare at him, shocked. He grins and devilment enters his eyes. "Oh, yes. You, Sam, with your 'Oh, Jack' looks." He reaches for falsetto and simpers and bats his eyelashes and you protest.
"I do NOT look like that! Or . . . SOUND like that! Or . . . you know what I mean!"
He ignores you. "And you, Jack," he says, pointing at him with his beer bottle. "The things YOUR looks were saying . . . I can't even repeat it in polite company." He shakes his head in mock disapproval.
"Daniel," Jack says, voice taking on that dangerous tone. "Care to figure out what I'm saying right now?"
Daniel studies him for a moment before pretending to be shocked. "Jack O'Neill!" he says. "Is that any way to talk to your friends?"
They enter and Cassie jumps up to greet them, hugging each in turn and, suddenly awake, starts babbling about school and her new friends and how the football team is doing.
Daniel listens, nodding, taking the dishes off the coffee table because he's as anal about things like that as you are and you mouth thank you and he mouths you're welcome back before going to wash up. Cassie has Teal'c cornered and is talking a hundred miles a minute and he listens with interest, asking all the right questions, and you marvel at his ability to be this way with her.
Daniel returns from the kitchen to stand in front of the television where the game has finally started, deliberately blocking Jack's view. Jack says nothing but scowls and waves one arm broadly trying to get him to move. Daniel surveys you both, looking thoughtful.
"Now this looks cozy," he says. "How can I get in on the snuggling action?"
Jack's arm stills. "Daniel," he says warningly.
"Maybe if I just go around here-"he says, circling the coffee table toward Jack's end of the couch and Jack raises one foot ready to boot him in the chest but he's too slow, Daniel's clambered on top of him. He howls in protest and struggles mightily but Daniel's got both his arms pinned and is saying "Come on, Jack, where's the love?" and the KISSES him on the forehead, sending you into hysterics and you hear Cassie shrieking and making kissy noises and you can feel Jack wriggling and hear him cursing and finally he headbutts Daniel and they both say 'ow!' and Daniel retreats quickly.
"No need to get VIOLENT," he says, rubbing his forehead. "I'll just get the love from THIS end of the couch."
Jack grumbles and readjusts himself, head again against your thigh.
Daniel slides down next to you, grinning. He puts one arm around your shoulder and tries to slide the other across the front of your waist but Jack bats it away. He tries again and Jack again flings it away. This continues for several minutes before Jack grabs his wrist and gives him a vicious Indian burn, causing Daniel to yelp and reach behind you to smack Jack as hard as he can on the back of the head.
You call a halt, saying they're bruising your delicate flesh. They both snort in disbelief but they stop.
Daniel looks at you innocently. You shake your head and grin back. "He just woke up," you say.
"I know."
"You shouldn't mess with him when he's just woken up."
"I know." Evil grin.
"I'm right HERE!" Jack says, one arm flailing. "I can HEAR you!"
You start massaging his neck again to distract him. He groans and mashes his face into your thigh to allow you easier access.
You shake your head.
Daniel grabs your other hand, looking at your scars. He rubs a thumb across them and you don't flinch like you would have even a month ago.
"They're fading," he says, smiling, and you nod.
He looks at you closely. "You look happy. Are you happy?" You smile and say yes, never been happier and he smiles back, looking satisfied. "Good," he says, kissing you on the cheek.
You feel Jack heave a heavy sigh. "Teal'c," he says. "Did Daniel just kiss Carter?"
Smile at that – he still hasn't decided on Sam or Carter, he's been using both, sometimes in the same sentence.
"Indeed," Teal'c replies. "He did, O'Neill."
"With tongue, too," says Cassie helpfully and you're about to yell at her when you hear Jack heave another sigh and you bolt, knowing what's coming.
Before you've even cleared the couch Jack has Daniel in a headlock, dragging him into the center of the room while Cassie cheers each, alternately, and Teal'c shouts out hand to hand techniques. Jack is trying to get Daniel to say uncle but Daniel, laughing, even though his face is red and his glasses are falling off, refuses.
"You're so possessive, Jack," he huffs, struggling to free himself. "Could it be that . . . oof . . you're threatened by a better looking . . . OW! . . . YOUNGER man?"
Oh, Jesus, you think, covering your eyes. Oh, Daniel. That will NOT go over well.
And it hasn't. When you open your eyes Jack is grinding one side of Daniel's face into the carpet and manages to have bent both his wrists backward.
"Now, Daniel. Do you WANT to go to work with rug burns all over your face? What will everyone think?"
Daniel catches his breathe before answering.
"That I had a really good time this weekend? Ow, OW okay okay! I give!"
Victorious, Jack releases him and moves to join you on the recliner, but not before Daniel punches him hard on the shoulder then leaps across the couch and pulls a giggling Cassie in front of him as a human shield. Jack just points warningly and collapses beside you.
"Shit," he says, breathing heavily. "These days I'm getting beat up more at home than at work."
He turns to you. "Did I hear Daniel say you look happy?"
You nod, smiling slightly.
"And did I hear you say you are happy?"
You nod again.
"Good. No one ever tells me I look happy. Even when I am happy."
You grin. "Oh, I've seen you look happy a time or two."
He looks at you for a moment. "Fine. This is me looking happy. At least as happy as it gets while I have all my clothes on."
You shush him and he smiles, then slides down in the chair so he can rest his head on your shoulder, knee across your thighs, and watches the game. Soon he's relaxed into you and is breathing deeply and you know he's asleep. You rest your chin on the top of his head and look around the room. Daniel and Cassie are lazing on the couch, talking a lot about nothing much. Even Teal'c is relaxed, slumping slightly in his chair with cats all over him. He catches your gaze and smiles and winks, and you grin.
Then you turn your gaze to the sliding glass doors and gasp. It's snowing, the first snow of the season, and heavy, fat flakes have covered your back yard. You see your cat's grave, the place where you cried and bled and tried to die, and it's made soft and clean by the falling snow. You think of what you've been through and how, incredibly, it's somehow all come to this, and you're glad to be alive.
At least until Daniel yells 'Snowball fight!' and Jack has taken a direct hit to the face and Cassie has shoved a handful down the front of your shirt and you shriek, then sigh.
Some things never change.
You hope.
And you streak out into the snow to exact your revenge.