Disclaimer: This story is written for entertainment purposes only and no profit is made with this piece of writing. All the recognizable characters are property of their lawful owners whom I have nothing to do with.

Rating: K+

Pairing: Sam/Jack

Timeline: All you really need to know is that this is a future!fic. When I wrote this, my idea was that Jack retired at the end of season 8 and cut out all communication with Sam. This story takes place 24 years later.

Summary: When they finally got their chance, he said it was too late for them and walked out of her life. Twenty-four years later she comes to his cabin, determined to prove him wrong.

A/N: A little something that came to me while I was struggling with some longer stories. Oneshot.

There he is, sitting on the dock, holding a fishing rod and a bottle of beer. That stubborn son-of-a-bitch is still as predictable as ever.

I may have a visual now but it's still a long way until I actually reach him. I hate to admit it but I've become old somewhere along the way and that last grenade blast fifteen years ago didn't really help the situation. Walking is slow on a good day, like this one, and simply painful and bordering impossible on a bad one.

"I thought I might find you here," I say in a way of greeting when I'm finally standing right behind him. Either he's gone deaf already or he's extremely good at pretending he didn't hear me approach.

"Sam," he says with a little nod before he turns his gaze at the fishless lake again. "Long time no see."

I sit down in the empty chair next to his. I don't care if he has a guest and I'm intruding. I'm past getting embarrassed about things like that.

"Sam?" I ask. "That's new. What happened to Carter?"

He shrugs and takes a sip of his beer. "Figured you'd be married by now."

"You know my track record. They all die before we get to the altar."

Well there's only been one since we last saw and technically he's not dead, just laying in the hospital in vegetative state after a horrible car accident twelve years ago. But I'm not gonna bore him with the details now.

"Why are you here?" he finally risks the question I came here to answer.

"To tell you you're an asshole."

Well that's only part of the truth. No, actually that is the truth. But a lot more interesting question would be why I'm here now.

I lost two close friends just weeks apart. One for a long, horrible disease, one tripped on her way to work and cracked her skull. As I wrote the date of the funeral to my calendar, I realized it was exactly six months to my 60th birthday and I made the decision I'm finally old enough to admit I miss him.

So I packed a bag and took off. It's about time to sort out a couple of things with him and I'm not going to leave until I get an answer. Well, if I'm completely honest, I'm not planning to leave at all.

"Could have told me that on the phone," he shrugs. Another sip of beer, another readjustment of the fishing rod.

"Yeah," I admit and steal his beer to take a gulp. I really shouldn't drink with the painkillers I'm on nowadays but I really don't care. "I wanted to say it face to face for a change. Had a hunch you wouldn't answer my calls."

"You might have been right about that."

I wait a beat and a second one before I blurt out the most important thing I need to get off my chest: "I never stopped loving you."

"Carter…" he sighs and it feels so good to hear the name roll off his tongue like it always did. Lazy but strong, almost a command, almost an endearment. There are shivers running down my spine and I resist the urge to chuckle because I'm months away from turning sixty yet this man makes me feel like I'm sixteen again by just saying my name. Damn, I've got it bad. I wonder how I managed to stay away all these years.

"Sir," I reply with familiar ease and observe how he draws in a breath, obviously struggling with memories just like mine.

"It's too late, Sam," he says and I immediately notice the use of my first name.

It's funny, really. Usually people use first names when they feel close to someone but with us, they are a safety barrier we put up between us, alienating us from the past. It used to be different, though. First name basis used to be something forbidden, something we thought we'd never get to have. Now that it's all we have, we cling to the decades old titles. It's a complicated mess but it's ours and I'm not ready to give up on it, not yet, not ever.

"You said that twenty-four years ago," I remind him. "You were wrong then. What makes you think you're any more right now?"

"Simple statistics. We haven't seen for over twenty years. If we weren't too different then, we sure are now."

"Or time could have smoothed some rough edges." It sure has for me. I've stopped worrying about appearances and saying the right thing. When you've been through as much as I have, both years and experiences, you start to realize the things you thought were important aren't really that important at all. You come to see your own mistakes more clearly, too. My biggest one was to let him walk out of my life.

"We'll never know," he says like it's his final word but I'm having none of that today.

"What exactly is it you're fighting against?" I know he's stubborn but there was a time when his opinions were based on something other than the pure joy of being stubborn.

"I could be happily married with twelve kids for all you know." He's still staring at the lake, refusing to look at me.

"Are you?"

"That's not the point," he mumbles.

Well, at least he's as juvenile as he ever was. God, the man is close to 80 years old now yet he still refuses to grow up. This is the point where a normal human being would turn around, upset that her fantasies and reality aren't matching. But not me. I got rid of the illusions years ago.

I was so angry at him for years. I kept going through all his faults, every single annoying habit of his, trying to convince myself it was better this way. But somewhere along the way, I realized it was those faults and annoying habits I missed the most.

Surrounded with people who talked all the time, I found myself missing his silences that told me more than any words ever could. I had managed to convince myself his inability have serious discussions was a big flaw but when a date spent half of our dinner complementing my looks and outfit, I realized Jack would only need to smile at me the certain way and I felt like the most beautiful girl in the universe. I realized that he wasn't silent because he didn't want to talk. Sometimes he just didn't need to.

Whenever I was stuck in a boring meeting, I always expected someone to pull out a yo-yo or start doodling something on the margins of the top-secret documents. Jack's antics might have been childish but I found myself missing them. At least back then I could toss him the familiar "Yes, it's boring but you need to behave, sir" -look which allowed me to admit the meeting was boring without losing my credibility.

He probably was right about that part that our relationship wouldn't have worked twenty-four years ago. Too many expectations, too much pressure to make it perfect after the years of building up the tension.

He walked away without giving us a chance, just because he was scared of screwing it up. And I let him. It only took me a couple of years to forgive him because I knew he was right but despite that it took more than a decade after that to forgive myself.

"The point is," he starts and hesitates a moment before he continues: "The point is that you have no right to just waltz in here and… Hell, I don't even know what you're trying to do."

"We're getting old," I state the obvious and he finally turns to look at me.

"Some more than others. Geez, Carter! Did you borrow a sarcophagus or something?"

You look nice, would have done just fine but no, of course he has to wrap the compliment into an insult, too. But in some twisted way, that's what tells me he means it.

There's no reason to look that surprised, though. It's not like I haven't aged. My hair is turning gray slowly but surely and my face is full of little wrinkles that seem to get deeper every week. This morning when I looked in the mirror, all I saw was the years we wasted, carved on my skin. They're not bad years, far from it. Just not great, either. I hope tomorrow I see something else.

Jack's hair has gone from gray to white but at least he still has hair. I was expecting to find a bald man. Out of the two of us, I think he's the one who doesn't look like his age. He doesn't have that many wrinkles, really, but his skin looks different now, older somehow.

He's gained some weight but so have I. It's hard to stay active when every step shoots pain and agony through your body.

"There's one thing I hate more than the thought of dying," I say and this time it's my turn to stare at the lake.

"Dying alone?" He sounds bitter and I wonder why. Maybe he thinks I'm only coming to him because I couldn't get anyone else. The irony is that I couldn't make it work with anyone else because all I wanted was to come to him. I might not have admitted it, even to myself, but it was always there.

"Dying with regrets," I correct.

I swear, if he says It's too late again, I'm going to strangle him. I never wanted a picket fence and two children with him, that wasn't what I was expecting. I simply wanted to wake up next to him, knowing we were free to be together. I wanted him to be there when I'm happy, I wanted to get drunk with him when I'm sad. I wanted to see those brown eyes get hazy and unfocused right before he falls asleep.

I should probably tell him all this and I will, one day, if he lets me stay and gives me the chance to explain. I know this is all going backwards because he's the one who walked away yet I'm the one who's apologizing. No, not apologizing, explaining.

He's silent for a long time and I don't bother talking, either. I've said pretty much all I came here to say. Well there's one more thing left but I know he's gonna get to that question soon enough.

And there it comes, minutes later: "What do you want?"

"The truth." I shrug. It's not such a difficult thing to ask for, really. "Do you love me? Did you ever love me? If you say no, I'm gonna leave right now and you won't see me ever again." Part of me wants to promise I'll say something nice in his funeral but that might be bit too cruel.

"And if I refuse to lie to you?"

I should probably be relieved to hear that but in a way I always knew so it doesn't really matter.

"Then you're stuck with me. Unless you can give me a good reason why I should leave anyway. And don't say statistics. I thought we had a deal I'll worry about the math."

"I'm no good," he grunts.

"And you think I am? Every single man I've ever cared about ends up either dead or brain damaged. Except you. You're my exception. Maybe I'm yours."

He mumbles something I don't catch but then again, I'm pretty sure they weren't words anyway.

"And don't you dare to say I can find someone better. I don't care. I don't want someone. I want you."

We sit in silence for a long time again. I can hear the wheels turning in his head. It's funny, really, because I used to be the one who overthinks everything. I've learned to simplify things over the years and apparently Jack has learned not to jump headfirst into situations.

"Fine," he finally grunts.

"Fine?"

"You can stay. Guest room is full of junk so you're either stuck with me or you take the couch."

"I'm too old for couches." Well, not all of me, just the left leg and hip.

"Fine," he sighs. "I don't know what you think you'll get from this."

I reach over the small distance separating our chairs and cover his hand with mine. "This," I say softly and squeeze his hand. "I'm not asking you to marry me. All I want is to breath the same air with you and know we're being honest for once."

"OK," he nods and flashes the familiar boyish grin at me. "I can manage that much."

He pulls his hand from underneath mine, puts down his fishing rod and reaches to take his cane.

"The knee?" I ask as he struggles to stand up.

"Both of them," he says and offers his hand to help me up. "But one is worse than the other."

I nod and smile my thanks to him.

"What's your story?" he asks as soon as I take a couple of steps and he sees my limp which was just made worse by the sitting.

"Grenade shrapnel. Shredded my thigh pretty badly. Had to replace my left hip, too."

"Guess you were right," he mumbles. "About us getting old."

I pick my bag from the end of the dock once we get that far. It's surprisingly light considering I came here to stay. I probably forgot something very important but I think I'll be just fine.

"And you were right back then," I say as we slowly walk towards the cabin. "About us. About the chances of us screwing it up."

"Then what the heck are you doing here, Carter?" he grunts and opens the front door.

"I realized I'd rather fail spectacularly and at least know we tried than just fade away with the what-ifs."

"Yes, well… We always had bit of a thing for suicide missions," he mumbles as he makes his way to the kitchen and loads the coffee maker.

I chuckle a little and shake my head. You can never blame that man for being a romantic. But then again, I think I've had my share of dinners in candle light. I prefer his dry sense of humor and the old cookies he fishes out of the cabinet to constant compliments and overpriced steaks any day.

I help him set the table with the familiar ease of working together. It's been twenty-four years since we even saw each other yet it's like we can read each others minds as we grab the cups, plates and other things from the cupboards, two crippled soldiers suddenly moving smoothly in the confined space.

"I missed your smile," he blurts out when we've been sipping our coffees in silence for a while. I automatically smile and he nods. "Yep. That one."

There's something about his expression that says it's more than that. He didn't just miss my smile, he missed making me smile.

I missed everything about you, I want to answer but that's too much of a cliché.

"I missed the ease of this," I say instead. "My life has been full of people to talk with," I explain. "But I never found anyone with whom to be silent."

He nods and I know he understands. That's the beauty of this, whatever this is.

"And I missed your eyes," I finally say with a cheeky grin because a girl is allowed a certain quota of cliches after all these years.

Jack fills our cups and without asking I drop two sugars in his cup while he adds a splash of milk in mine.

That's when I know we'll be just fine in the end.

A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope I'll get my inspiration back and manage to finish something longer soon. Reviews are always appreciated. :)