Falling Is Like This
by Whyagain

She knows the steps by heart. She counts them, feels them pulse in her fingers. She knows the rise and fall of the ground almost instinctually. She only feels primal in the mornings.

The entrance bustles.

The SF doesn't leer at her as she hands him her ID. Others stand to the side as she travels down the corridor, never looking at her. She doesn't have to feel pretty. It's easy going.

The elevator creaks and moans, plummeting towards the center of the earth. She just happens to work there. She used to like to think of herself as working with gravity, holding things together. But now she feels like she's falling.

She's never fallen.

A man grabs her shoulder. She doesn't lay him out; she knows the fingers. He smells like weak coffee and stale books as he rambles. She can't make out the words, but she's sure--whatever it is--it's been waiting thousands of years to be rediscovered and could wait another ten minutes.

"Daniel," she sighs.

"Right, no touching. Got it." He removes the obtrusive hand looking typically unabashed. "Well, good morning and I'll let you have your coffee."

She's had about all the coffee she can handle. She's one cup away from never sleeping again. She doesn't need coffee and she doesn't need gravity.

The lab air smells stagnant. Everything in her life is stagnant, but no one seems to notice. She drops her bag on the desk. Nothing goes flying and she considers that a good start to the day.

"Major Carter."

The winking lights and sounds of clinking metal must have given her away. She should have known better than to try to hide in here.

"What's up, Teal'c?" She doesn't feel like talking.

"Daniel Jackson has informed me of his need to speak with you as soon as possible." He looks amused, but it's hard to say.

"Yeah, I talked to him already this morning. Thanks, though." She smiles and she can't be sure it's not a lie, but he nods and walks away.

She breaks a torch and losses five screws. There is an infinite supply of screws, but it's the principle of the thing.

Lunch looks undercooked and burnt all at the same time. She cleans her tray and heads to the gym. She beats a dummy painted with a thousand different faces, all imagined. She sweats and doesn't cry in the shower.

Janet told her to suck it up.

She's sucking it up; she doesn't need to be at work. Something tells her it's the right thing to do. She does the right fucking thing all the time and that's the problem.

She fears she's not terribly useful at the meeting. They're talking about gravity. They're talking about that time they almost died and what they could learn from it. Those scientist don't know the first thing about death, and they all know it's the truth. They don't seem to mind being safely packed in reinforced concrete walls every day. If they don't mind, how can she? she wonders.

But she fears she's falling.

She can't place what's different when she returns to her lab. But that's the thing. Nothing's ever different. The status quo is all she knows.

"Carter."

She feels her pulse jump. She's made this the best part. In the darkness, she can almost imagine his mouth on hers, his hands touching her. She needs to be touched.

She flips on the light, surprised he didn't do so already.

"Sir."

"Whatcha doin'?"

She hates his obvious discomfort and praises its convenience.

"Nothing, sir. Just . . . tinkering."

"You make those lab boys upstairs wanna kiss your . . . feet again?"

"No, sir." She doesn't feel like smiling, although she knows she should. He's trying to be light, after all. "I didn't actually say much."

"You know, they're a lot calmer when they don't think they're in the presence of a god."

"They're all just as smart as I am, sir, or else they wouldn't be here." They were smarter, in fact. They didn't seem to be falling. No one else did.

He's quiet, but not still--never still.

She doesn't scold him for touching her project. She doesn't chide him for his silence. She doesn't even think of it.

"You know, you don't have to be here on your day off."

"Neither do you, sir."

He shrugs, but doesn't answer. She knows that's not what he's here to talk about. He's here to ask her something. She already knows her answer.

"So, uh, Carter."

He seems to think that's a sentence. She doesn't want to prod him, but she knows her role. The script seems the same every time and it's never very difficult to memorize.

"Sir?"

"You've been rather . . . distant lately. You wanna talk about it?"

He looks almost frightened, like a doe or a rabbit or some other ridiculously effeminate animal. She doesn't laugh, although their situation is comical in a classical kind of fucked up sense. Nothing about this is funny, however, archetypal or otherwise.

"Not really, sir." Her distance really isn't up for debate.

"May I ask what it's about?"

"Just tired, sir." She tries her best to sound earnest, and it's not completely a lie. She is tired. She's tired of a lot of things.

"Right." His eyes dart around the room, almost screaming for escape. She knows she should be hurt by his unease, but she can't help being touched by his rough attempt at nobility. She never expected anything less.

"Anything else, sir?"

"No, Carter."

She knows he's displeased, can tell by the way he's not looking at her, but she can't tell him she's falling. How could she even begin?

"Glad we had this talk, sir."

"Sure, Carter. Anytime."

She watches his form saunter down the hall feeling a twinge somewhere in the region of her chest. She should have known better than to show it. She should have known better than to feel it.

But falling is so strange.

Janet told her to suck it up. Janet told her every day, her eyes darting from her to him and back. She knew. Somehow, she knew. Janet knew before she even knew herself. Janet told her to let it lie.

If there is one thing she is good at, it's lying.

She decides it's time to go home.

She gets into the elevator and feels heavy. Even as she rises, she's falling. She tries to fight it, but she finds herself heaped on the metallic floor, the elevator halted somewhere between her beginning and her end.

It's really getting ridiculous now.

Her limbs won't move. Her eyes blink. She stops breathing.

She realizes what falling is all about.

The phone rings and she hopes it's god.

The SF asks her if she's all right and she's not sure how to answer.

"Hm?" She realizes he's been calling "Sir?" into the receiver for the better part of thirty seconds. She hates being "sir."

"I asked if the elevator was broken and if you needed assistance, sir."

His voice is small and she wonders how old he is. Is he old enough to know falling? Is he wise enough to understand? She decides not to tell him.

"No. No, everything's fine," she answers distractedly.

"Yes, sir. If you're sure."

She doesn't reply. She ascends.

She doesn't remember driving home. She doesn't remember unlocking the door or dropping her keys into the porcelain dish. All she remembers is falling.

It's like falling, this feeling.

She throws herself onto her bed without any semblance of routine. She honestly can't remember what any of it's about anymore.

It's all his fault she's falling. It's all his fault and she blames him every bit. It isn't like her. This isn't a bit like her.

And she wonders who this new woman is, this woman who would fall. She wonders how she arrived here with such a cliche. Maybe it was just gravity. Maybe she shouldn't fight with gravity.

It's all so odd because she usually avoids such confounding metaphors. She believes in speaking words--in frank expression. She also believes in no expression at all.

But now she's falling.

And she figures that changes her. It changes her even if it doesn't change anything else. She fears it will.

She fears falling will damn her. She fears falling won't save her. And her paradoxical nature compels her to fear everything all at once.

She never used to fear, but falling is like this.

And maybe that's all right.

Maybe it's enough to know and maybe it's enough to fall alone. It has to be enough.

And she still hates falling and she still hates gravity, but now she understands why. And the why was killing her.

*~*~*~*~*

whyagain
january 2007

*~*~*~*~*

"And we can't fight gravity on a planet that insists that love is like falling and falling is like this." Falling Is Like This, Ani Difranco

Superhero
by Whyagain

Bang.

Stance. Align. Brace. Squeeze.

Bang.

She sees herself differently now. She's not so sure she wants to know this new person, this woman.

Bang.

She was never all that good with women and things haven't changed. She still doesn't see the point of different Phys-Ed classes and locker rooms. There's not much there that can surprise her.

Bang.

Reload. Snap. Lock.

She holds her gun differently. She's sure they will notice.

Bang. Bang.

She was never much for the Smith and Wesson, either as a sidearm or general target, but the range isn't made for MP90s or ZATs. Hell, she can annihilate a tree trunk at 200 yards and stun twenty Jaffa at half that. What good is a twelve-round clip?

If falling was like guns, she could just shoot him and get it over with.

The women's locker room is empty. She figures the men's is, too, on a Sunday afternoon. She could have been at the gym, but the base's range called to her. She doesn't remember if she's washed her hair, so she washes it again. The industrial soap smells like chlorine and toxicity.

She cleans her gun on her dining room table. She doesn't worry about losing the pieces or having them carried off by miniature hands. She sets the barrel next to her spoon. She's having soup from a can.

She repeats drills. The pieces come together and separate easily in her hands, her eyes locked onto a spot on the wall. She can't look; she doesn't cheat.

She never believed she had a reason for a gun in her own house. The neighborhood is well enough, the community elderly and/or connubial. They water their lawns and play bridge on Saturdays. They hate blacks and Jews and Arabs and Mexicans that don't do their chores. It is an American suburb.

She never kept a gun on her night stand or under her pillow. She never saw any reason for it.

Now she does.

She feels like she needs it all of the time. Like a fix, she pulls it from its holster or rubs her wrist over its resting place at the small of her back. She needs it now.

She's no superhero.

Her soup grows cold as she dismantles and reassembles the pieces of her security. She's not hungry and it tastes like cardboard.

She wants a piece of chocolate, which is why she never keeps any in the house. She substitutes her stomach for a tub of scalding water and a handful of bath salts. She forgoes the Chardonnay.

Her skin turns red at the slightest pressure. It's always that way. She hates that kind of weakness.

She reaches for her gun and not the towel as she steps out of the tub. Security doesn't come in the form of a robe and slippers. It's not that simple anymore.

She doesn't feel comfortable in her tank and cotton pants. She doesn't feel comfortable in her white socks. She wants to wear her boots to bed, but brushes her teeth a few extra minutes to quell the urge. She scrubs her face and breathes through her mouth.

She scoffs.

She used to be a superhero.

She wakes sometime in the night with a start and a gun clutched in her convulsing hands, remembering bits of an awful nightmare. There was a fundamental truth imparted, she knows, but she falls asleep and forgets to cry.

The day comes too early and she wishes she could find a phone booth.

She takes her Honda and a studded leather jacket to work. She doesn't feel any more confident with a pea shooter strapped to her ankle.

The SF guarding the door studies her as she hands him her small armory. She places two guns, a clip, and a box of ammo in his little basket and wards him away with her stare. She doesn't remember why they have a metal detector.

Her lab is dark and she reaches in to turn on the overhead lights before entering. She hasn't done that since she was three.

She works on a suit of body armor. She works on a motherboard. She works on a useless light and backs up her hard drive. She forgets her appointments.

When a child masquerading as an officer comes to retrieve her, she threatens him with a dead staff weapon. She locks herself in after he leaves. She thinks about hacking into the mainframe and turning the cameras off, but she goes back to taking her cup warmer apart.

“Carter.“

The intercom winks at her.

“Hey, Carter.“

She doesn't open the door, but can't help going to it.

“Yes, sir?“

“Lemme in, will ya?“

There's no debate. She's used to orders, at least.

“Carter, Thompson says you didn't make the egghead meeting.“ He looks around the lab at the strewn remains of her mug warmer, Doctor Roberts' laptop and two desk lamps. “What's up?“

“Working, sir.“ She tries to hide the soddering iron and a pile of ashes.

“Something important?“

“I think I had a breakthrough with the Goa'uld energy sources that power the staffs and ZATs.“

“Oh. Is that why you killed Roberts' computer?“ He picks up the case and she wishes he wouldn't act so damn clueless all the time.

“Needed the parts, sir. I'll make him a new one.“

“Carter, Selman told me you waved a staff weapon in his face. And Wesler from upstairs told me you were packing this morning. You wanna talk or something?“

“Nothing to talk about, sir. I was just engrossed. Didn't want to be interrupted. I'll go apologize to Selman.“

She moves to leave not bothering to address his other inquiry. That was none of Wesler's damn business anyway.

“Carter, hold up a minute.“

“Sir?“

“You're sure you're okay? Nothing you want to get off your chest or anything?“

“I'm fine, sir.“

“Because you've been acting . . . quirky for the last few weeks. Nothing you wanna say?“

“No, sir.“

“You sure?“

“Positive, sir.“

She doesn't go to apologize to Selman.

She wants to leave. She wants to take her badge and her gun and fly somewhere far away. She wants to find her phone booth and stop this spiral.

She goes to the infirmary.

“Hey, Sam. Something wrong?“ Janet's separating tools into piles.

“Wrong? No. Everything's fine.“ Everything always has to be fine. Janet reminds her of that. “Just needed to get out of the lab for a little bit.“ She figures no one will look for a crazy woman in the infirmary. “Need help with anything?“

“Actually, no. Things have been pretty slow, what with Sergeant Siler on vacation and all.“ She smiles. It's such a strange sort of intimacy. “So what are you taking a break from?“

“Power sources.“ She tests a scalpel's edge against her finger. It slices the skin and she wonders why she's bleeding. It's such a small wound to bleed like it does. It doesn't hurt enough to bleed.

“Sam!“ Janet's by her side in an instant with a sterile wipe and a bandage. She wonders if she flew there; it seems impossible for her to be there always with medical supplies on hand like her grandmother had tissues and butterscotch candies.

“Sorry,“ she murmurs, pulling away before Janet has the chance to bind her cut. “I only came here to help,“ she says at the door.

The jogging trail is empty, probably because it's raining, or because it's a quarter 'til one in the morning. The streets are empty as she runs past the homes and families dotting the suburbs. But she doesn't like to dwell.

She wishes she could fly above the clouds to see the stars. But she can't anymore.

She figures she's falling because of gravity--because she was flying. But at some point she stopped. And now she's falling.

Her feet pound the pavement and carry her all the way into town. She stands beneath a flickering neon sign weighing her options. She figures she has nothing to lose.

She's sure she's not slurring as she tells the man behind the counter she needs more beer. He give her a small smirk and fills her mug from a dirty spout.

Somehow, her shoes are off and she's wobbling atop a pool table singing . . . something.

She used to be a superhero.

The bartender comes over and tells her he'll call her a cab if her ride doesn't show. She tells him she didn't drive. Somehow, that made all the sense in the world.

But she finds herself being guided out the door, a hand placed firmly on the small of her back.

“Where's your car?“ a voice whispers in her ear.

She tells the voice proudly that she didn't drive.

“You walked here?“ asks the voice.

She responds with some variation of, “I ran.“

She doesn't want to ask the voice if it's her conscience; she honestly doesn't want to know.

She can't be sure, but the voice seems to lift her into a very large truck. It's hard to keep from leaning back, and then it's hard to do anything at all.

Something inside of her recognizes the water stain on the corner of her ceiling. She feels the shock of a cold washcloth on her forehead and realizes she's laying down. She hopes she's not drooling.

“Hey. Welcome back.“

The voice is there and she's glad, but can't say just why.

“Here. Drink this.“

The voice hands her a mug of tomato juice and she smells coffee being brewed somewhere. She hopes she doesn't vomit.

“Water,“ she groans. “You're supposed to drink water.“

“Well, I'm glad you're aware of that. But that right there has massive amounts of salt. Salt helps you retain water. Now drink.“

Hands brush hers to push the mug to her lips and she comes close to spilling it.

Oh.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

She jumps up, dislodging the cloth and a blanket, and fumbles her cup. But her head reels and she find herself falling.

“Easy, Carter. Easy.“ He eases her into a sitting position, saving the drink from certain doom.

“Shit.“

“Come on, Carter. I've been here all night. You gonna wig out on me now?“

“Time?“ she croaks.

“Oh, I don't know. It could be somewhere around . . . eleven.“

“Shit,“ she breathes. “Oh, shit.“

If all her senses were intact, she would be furious with him. But, as it is, she doesn't have enough capacity to be as mortified as she should be.

“What--why--“ She can't find the proper question. She fears there isn't one.

“I got a call from Bernie. Said you downed five shots in ten minutes and it didn't look like you were gonna stop any time soon.“ He leans back against the front of her couch, pushing the coffee table away.

She's too humiliated to speak.

“I thought I'd find you more in the mood to talk about what's really bothering you.“

Blessedly, she knows the answer to this one.

“I'm fine, sir.“ She remembers the sir. She tries to always remember her sirs.

He scrubs his face with his hands like it hurts him. Maybe it does. She can't quite mind right now. “Jesus, Carter. I pull you out of a bar at two in the morning, sopping wet and stone drunk, and you're gonna tell me you're fine?“

What can she tell him? That she's falling? That she lost her super powers and is having a hard time adjusting to living like a mortal?

“Sir, I don't want you to take this the wrong way or read into it or anything, but I can't tell you.“ That actually doesn't sound half bad. It's a sentence, at least.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?“

She doesn't tell him he's yelling. He probably isn't, but her ears ring like he shouted into a megaphone.

“It means . . . It means it's taken care of. It means it won't be a problem anymore.“

He keeps rubbing his forehead and she's sure he can't have the headache she does, but doesn't want to downplay it.

“It means I won't let it affect me again.“

She can tell from his look that he didn't want the military response, the recorded mantra. She knows he was trying to be a friend, taking her home, laying her down, letting her sleep it off, but they can't be friends.

She feels she should tell him, explain to him, that they are colleagues--teammates. She wants him to understand that this profession, this life and death stuff, excludes certain things. She needs him to know she's doing this for everyone.

But how can she explain? And then she knows.

“You're a superhero,“ she says.

It makes all the sense in the world to her, but he walks out. And she figures that's better than having to shoot him.

*~*~*~*~*

whyagain
january-february 2007

*~*~*~*~*

“'Cause I used to be a superhero. I would swoop down and save me from myself. And you were like a phone booth that I somehow stumbled into. And now look at me. I am just like everybody else.“ --Superhero, Ani Difranco

Joyful Girl
by Whyagain

She isn't in the habit of watching for soccer balls.

She passes the same school every morning. Sometimes she slows down and sometimes she doesn't, but she always passes it. The roads don't give her much choice.

She's never had a problem with soccer balls.

Baseballs, dodge balls, basketballs and others have stopped her, but never a soccer ball. So she finds it startling and almost radical that a black and white ball rolls out in front of her car.

She forgets to stop.

She hits the breaks only after the feels the jog. She hadn't realized she could pop a ball with her car, but she's not so astonished it happened. She's more taken with the ball.

A child scrambles over the gate to meet her as she retrieves the flattened object from beneath her tires. He is quickly joined by what she can only assume is a teacher.

“I'm sorry,“ she tells the boy, the dead ball sagging in her hands.

The teacher-slash-teenager smiles and tells the boy as much as her that it's all right--that they have lots of fun balls to play with. The boy doesn't look quite convinced.

“I'll buy you a new one,“ she tells the boy. “I promise.“

The teacher tries to tell her it's not necessary, but she can't justify leaving those wide blue eyes without swearing to return.

She wants to.

She lingers on the elevator when the doors slide open. She knows there's nothing she can do for the ball now, but she's stuffed it into her bag and towed it all the way to her lab anyway.

She sits it on her desk next to a stack of reports Sergeant Siler left for her. It slumps and she can't help but smile a little sadly before she begins shuffling through her work.

She tries not to look at it as she reads. She tries not to think of its little owner. She tries not to worry about it, but she runs her fingers over it as she leaves for the Mess.

Daniel is pitching the deflated ball between his hands when she returns.

“What's with the ball?“

She thinks about taking it from him.

“Good afternoon, Daniel. Nice to see you. How are you today?“ she stresses instead.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. I'm fine. What's with Wilson here?“ He doesn't sound apologetic and is not looking at her. She can't decide if either is a good sign.

She sighs. “I ran over it on my way to work this morning. There was this boy . . . and I couldn't just leave it there.“

“Uh-huh.“ He doesn't really seem all that interested and that baffles her, but she can't say why. “So, uh, how are you?“

She smirks, incredulous. “Fine?“ She doesn't mean for it to sound like a question; it just happens.

“Yeah, because you've been acting a little strangely lately and Jack's been kind of more abrasive than usual the past week or so . . .“

She gets the distinct impression Daniel's not listening to her and won't hear anything she says. She knows he has this effect on some people, but she's never felt it herself. She wonders what's changed.

“. . . and I thought I'd ask you about it first.“ He smiles at her. “But I asked Jack first. And he was less than forthcoming, to say the least. So. Here I am. Asking. Waiting. Checking.“

His direct manner doesn't surprise her, but his words do. She knows better than to show it.

“Is something going on, Sam?“

Her name startles her more than anything.

Is that her name? Is that still her name? It's been so long since she's been anything but soldier, airman, major . . . Carter. She can't be sure she's still Sam. She can't be sure she ever was.

“Nothing's wrong, Daniel. Just tired, is all.“ She hangs her head and hopes he takes it for fatigue and not guilt. She wants her ball back.

“You're sure? Because, if you wanna talk, I'm here.“

It perplexes her that all those girls on all those planets fell for him. His simper pisses her off.

“Yeah, Daniel. I'm fine.“

“Okay. If you're sure,“ he sighs. “All we have to do now is figure out what's wrong with our Colonel.“ He pauses and sincerely looks at her for the first time. “You're sure you don't know? I mean, nothing happened between you two, right?“

She wonders exactly what he suspects and almost wishes there was something to fear. “No, Daniel. Can't help you, but I wish you luck,“ she tells him, finally retrieving the forgotten ball from his grasp.

“Okay, well.“ He hurries out the door, looking as if he'd come upon an amazing idea. She hopes it's something ancient and nothing serious as she watches him scamper down the corridor.

The smoke detectors screech and flash as she tries to wave the fumes into the hall. The sprinklers shower her in a false downpour and her keyboard shorts out before she has time to turn them off. The files will probably be ruined.

A pair of SFs arrive with extinguishers, but she waves them as much as the smoke away with a metal pan, a sizable hole burnt in the center.

“No fire,“ she coughs. “Just smoke. Lots of smoke.“

They nod and scamper off, hopefully to halt the chaos from another computer terminal. Without thinking, she dashes back inside to grab her ball. It's not singed, but it does smell. She can't figure out why she did it, other than she wanted to.

Janet wraps her hands in gauze and tells her to be more careful.

“That's the second time in as many weeks I've had to patch you up,“ Janet sighs.

There's a Siler crack in there somewhere, she knows, but decides it would be in bad form to say--since she's all about form.

“Are you okay, Sam?“

Janet's looking at her with the same look Daniel had plastered to his face and she feels close to losing it.

“You were acting strangely last Monday and I didn't see you Tuesday. Were you sick?“

She hadn't been sick, not the kind of sick Janet meant--the kind Janet could fix. She had been some kind of sick, she figures.

“Yeah, I was.“

“Colonel O'Neill didn't show up Tuesday, either.“ Janet's not looking at her as she speaks.

She knows what the other woman must think. But it's too obvious. It isn't anything close.

“Janet--“

“You don't have to explain it to me, Sam. I know.“

She doesn't remember her response. She doesn't remember a whole lot of anything anymore. Somewhere, she lost herself, but she can't remember where.

It doesn't strike her as odd when a man approaches her outside of the third sporting goods store she's visited within the hour. The lack of soccer balls doesn't surprise her, either. It's just one of those days.

“Hey! Hey, you dropped this!“

She turns to see an over-large male holding a leather billfold. She tries not to scoff as she turns away.

“Hey!“ he yells, catching up to her and grabbing her wrist. She doesn't mean to, but the brawny man is on his knees, his arm twisted awkwardly behind him.

She gasps and drops his hand. She covers her mouth as she watches him rise and dust the dirt from his khakis.

She's about to apologize when he grins. She knows he must see the confusion in her eyes, because he roars with laughter. She tries to sink away.

“I am so sorry,“ she whispers, still staring at the laughing man.

“It's all right,“ he chuckles, finally getting a hold on himself. “It's been a long time since I've been publicly humiliated by a pretty woman.“

“I am so sorry,“ is all she can say.

“I take it this isn't yours, then?“ He smiles and waggles the brown wallet. She shakes her head. “Well, then, I take my leave.“

And he does, wading through the ring of people they attracted. So she drives off to the next store. It's all she can do; it's all she wants to do.

The little boy is waiting for her at the fence, his teacher eyeing him from the playground. She smiles as she reaches into her bag and hands him a brand new soccer ball.

He bounces the ball on his knee a few times, then breaks into a wide grin. The ball placed firmly under his arm, he tears off toward a crowd of children who seem shocked by the appearance of his new friend, or maybe just his new toy. He doesn't speak. He doesn't need to.

And then she knows. She knows there are things that happen and things she can't change. She knows her duty and she knows her place in it all. She knows some things are unclear and some things are writ in proverbial stone. She figures gravity is just a part of life. But she knows what she wants to do--feels it more strongly than ever. And that's all she can control.

“You didn't have to do that.“ The teacher is in front of her again.

“I wanted to,“ she replies. “I really did.“

*~*~*~*~*

whyagain
february-march 2007

*~*~*~*~*

“And I wonder if everything I do I do instead of something I want to do more. The question fills my head. I know that there’s no grand plan here. This is just the way it goes. And when everything else seems unclear I guess at least I know.“ Joyful Girl, Ani Difranco

School Night
by Whyagain

She's decided to stop falling. She plants her feet firmly on the ground, willing the rest of her to follow suit. She knows her duty.

The flickering rhythm of her television lulls her to sleep five nights in a row because she doesn't feel like sleeping. She feels like jumping from a building, just to see if she can fly.

She knows she can't.

Her little revelation of self came too late, or maybe too soon. She knows what she wants. She supposes she's always known, but now she feels it. And there's not a damn thing she can do about it.

Except fight.

Something inside of her always knew it would come to this. She is a fighter by design more than disposition. She's trained all her life for a battle, and now she has one.

She never imagined her fight would be with gravity.

She fears she doesn't have the power anymore, not for something like this.

She feels there used to be so much more to her. Now she looks inside herself and finds things she wishes she could have.

Or have back.

She wants it back. She wants it all back.

It's muggy and her tent is cramped. She'd kill for a cold shower or a snowstorm or even a cup of ice chips. She knows this is no way to live. She knows this is how it has to be.

They almost never do this. They try to leave and come back. No one really looked forward to this diplomatic excursion, but they are twenty miles away from the gate and they all dreaded the trek more than the heat. So she dutifully pitched her tent with the others.

But now she can't sleep.

She can't tell if it's the suffocating heat or the buzzing of insects or the lack of the television's white noise, but sleep isn't an option open to her, even after a full day of negotiations and a good bout of insomnia prior to the mission. Then again, neither is wandering around on an alien planet an option.

The colonel took first watch.

He put Teal'c on second and Ellis from SG-12 on third. He still isn't speaking to her. She can't quite blame him; she knows this is how it has to be.

She feels she ought to tell him.

She tried earlier, but her eloquence failed her entirely. Jack O'Neill understands Burns as Goa'uld, but not the parallels between himself and a comic-book superhero. She doesn't entirely understand herself, but she figures that shouldn't make a difference.

The tent sways.

She needs to relieve herself, but the colonel is still on watch. She's been doing her best to avoid him, and, with him doing the same, they almost never meet alone. She doesn't admit she's missed his company. She can't do things like that anymore.

She hears Daniel's light snore coming from her right and Teal'c's stoic silence from her left. She takes comfort in the fact that some things never change.

Finally she can't take it anymore and slowly unzips the flap of her tent. The shadowy figure doesn't turn, and she sneaks off to the latrine.

“You should not go out alone, Major Carter,“ Teal'c's voice greets her as she returns. She doesn't see the colonel.

“I started my watch early so that I might speak with you. I heard your . . . sleeplessness.“

Neither statement seems to be a question, so she silently stumbles over to the seat he offers on his log. It strikes her as odd that she rests her weapon nonchalantly between her legs, feeling the strap pull at her shoulder. She can't say why.

She knows Teal'c will reveal his reasoning sooner or later, so she waits and listens to him breathe. She doesn't feel much like talking.

“Jaffa women are taught to fight.“

She half-sees where he is going and hunkers down for the long hall with a small sigh. She doesn't believe she can stop him and is too exhausted to try.

“They are trained to defend their homes and their children and their lands in the name of their god. They are indoctrinated with the same notions of honor and duty and pride as any Jaffa and believe them with the same vigor. They are not, however, allowed to join the equivalent of your military.“

“Teal'c--“

Somehow, she's heard this all before.

“Many believe it is a liability to allow women to take up arms. There are many arguments toward reasoning, the majority of which I have learned from the Tau'ri. I have been witness to many battles, a number of them brutal and bloody, and many slaughters just as gruesome.“

“And is a battlefield any less disturbing than a ransacked town? Is men lying beside men any less frightening than men lying beside women? Do women not have as much of a right and reason to fight as men?“ she demands. She's been through this conversation and she's angry she should have to prove herself to one who should think her worthy by now.

“I do not question their right or reason or ability. You yourself have taught me that, Samantha Carter.“ He smiles in the dark and she feels her ire ebb.

They sit like that for a moment. She feels the other shoe about to drop and waits.

“Do you believe that a successful team must have specific attributes?“

She pauses, unsure of the question more than her answer. “Yes. Yes, I do.“

“Do you believe that every member of a team has an obligation to see that those attributes are maintained?“

“Yes,“ she answers again.

“Samantha Carter, I joined SG-1 so that I might begin to fulfill what I see as the most paramount of all objectives. The Goa'uld must be destroyed at all costs. I left behind everyone I knew and loved so that they might one day be free from Goa'uld oppression. I feel it is my duty and my calling to defeat the Goa'uld.“

He pauses and she takes the chance to look timidly around for any sign of eavesdroppers. She feels more than foresees the chagrin that must inevitably follow Teal'c's speech.

“I feel that I must attempt to remedy an affliction which has befallen our team and poses a threat to the success of our objective. I would not mention it otherwise.“

His breathing seems to slow, as does time.

“Do you believe you are meant to fight the Goa'uld?“

“Yes, of course--“

“Then fight. This life comes with no pleasures until the Goa'uld are extinct. You cannot indulge in any sort of luxury, even so seemingly innocent as this.“

“'Luxury?'“ she shrieks, jumping from her seat. Someone turning in his tent brings her back to her surroundings. “You think this is a damn 'luxury?'“ she whispers hotly. She's not sure they're talking about the same thing, but she figures he's offered himself to it.

“Make no mistake, Samantha Carter. I do not wish for you to be unhappy. I do not wish to deny you what you seek, nor do I feel I am capable. I only wish to apprise you of our situation, and the effect it is having on our productivity.“

She gets stuck on the word “productivity” and doesn't know quite what to do. So she continues to squat on the log, mouth agape and excuse-less.

“The Tau'ri military contains much of the same culture the Jaffa have. You believe in loyalty and honor, valor and pride. You believe in self-sacrifice and justice. You fight for your country as we fight for our gods. But the Jaffa do not put the same stock in love. Filial love, maybe, but not eros.“

She sees herself through Teal'c's eyes and knows he will be her grounding rod. She knows how she must seem to him, but she can't find the words to apologize.

“Men aren't robots, Teal'c,“ she sighs. “But I know my duty. I know how to keep fighting. It's the right thing to do and I won't let something like this be my excuse.“ She smiles cruelly. “I've never quit anything in my life.“

“You have a duty to yourself, as well, Samantha Carter. The battle with the Goa'uld would be sorry to lose you.“ He stands with a secret smile. “You may take the remainder of my watch. Goodnight,“ he says abruptly and disappears into his tent.

She listens to Teal'c return to his tent, knowing exactly his purpose. Teal'c is the only one of them with a straightforward motive and she appreciates that.

She knows her duty.

She watches the woods carefully. They had decided to forego the town's offer of putting them up for the night in favor of camping out in the adjacent woods. Soft beds and warm fires would have made them complacent, or so the colonel believed. SG-12, used to taking such conveniences, protested the change in grumbles and mumbled complaints, but, in the end, caution won out. They had enough members for two-man shifts, but the colonel, aware of SG-12's attitude, decided to give them a break.

She wishes he hadn't.

Woods are always dark, unfriendly, and alien, but tonight she feels it even more. A weariness more than exhaustion or fatigue creeps into her bones and she feels like falling.

But she knows her duty.

She hears a sound behind her and finds her barrel leveled at the colonel's chest.

“Sir,“ she breathes, clicking the safety into place.

“Carter.“

“Out for a stroll?“ she asks. She knows he isn't.

“No.“

“Couldn't sleep?“ she tries again.

“I guess,“ he mutters.

She offers him Teal'c's old seat on the log. They sit and she can't help feeling more alone.

“How much of that did you hear?“ she says finally.

“Oh, pretty much all of it.“ He's noncommittal and it makes her furious.

They sit in silence for long moments, watching the darkness through the trees.

“I'm sorry, sir,“ she says finally.

“For what, Major?“

“For hurting the team,“ she answers simply. She doesn't apologize for her little luxury. She can't.

The dark doesn't change, but it shifts.

“I know,“ he says.

It's not an admission and it's not an admonition. But it's something. And she needs something.

*~*~*~*~*

whyagain
march-april 2007

*~*~*~*~*

“What kind of scale compares the weight of two beauties, the gravity of duties or the ground-speed of joy? Tell me what kind of gauge can quantify a nation? What kind of equation could I possibly employ?“ School Night, Ani Difranco

So What
by Whyagain

She wants to believe this doesn't make her.

Cassie takes her rook.

“Check.”

She wants to believe she's as complete as she's always been.

“Sam, check.”

She moves her king. She knows Cassandra will win in two turns.

“You're not paying attention,” the young girl accuses, knocking over her king. “I've never beat you so fast.”

It's not her fault. She wants to believe she tried.

Doctor Lehman takes the screwdriver from her hand and backs away. He doesn't seem to trust her with sharp objects. Three of her fingers are already bandaged from a piece of a broken mug, an errant tack, and a misplaced laser saw. She doesn't remember being clumsy.

The truth is, she doesn't care. She doesn't feel it anymore. She knows that should worry her, but it doesn't.

He passes her on her way to lunch. She doesn't stop talking animatedly to Doctor Rushton. She doesn't raise her eyes or hand to greet him. They just pass and she doesn't know if he smiled in her general direction or not.

She can't care.

Janet meets her for her post-mission check-up a week later. The other woman stares pointedly at her as she takes her blood. She doesn't know what the doctor hopes to find other than blue irises.

“All right, everything looks fine. You are not a Goa'uld, at least,” the doctor shrugs and tells her an hour later. She smiles and begins to collect her clothes.

“Sam,” she starts, wielding her chart like a shield.

“Janet?” She hopes her voice is friendly as she rounds on the other woman. She hopes she's intimidating, as well, but it's hard in a cotton medical robe.

“I--I wanted to give you some advice,” she says, pacing.

“Oh?”

“I wanted to give you some advice. Woman-to-woman, you know. And I know it's hard for us to talk and be friends when we're coworkers--officers--, but I don't think that should matter. Do you? I mean, it does, but it doesn't. It shouldn't, at least.”

The usually tacit doctor rants without a breath. She wonders why. “I--”

“But I wanted to talk to you, to tell you that, even though you don't think I could possibly understand, I do. I understand.”

“Jan--”

“There are so many things I wanted to tell you and ask you and let you tell me . . . And I wanted to give you some advice,” she stops and looks up. “But now I'm not going to.”

“Why's that?” she asks lightly.

“Because I know what this is costing you. I know what you need right now is a friend, not an interloper or a therapist--God forbid. But, I just wanted you to know that you can talk to me. Nothing will go beyond this room. I swear it.” The smaller woman looks at her pleadingly, as if searching for acceptance, or at least confirmation.

She can't give either.

“Sam--”

“It's all right, Janet. It's really all right.”

And it is.

The fuse blows with a resounding crack and a shower of sparks. She is making brownies at midnight. They will surely be ruined.

The twenty-four-hour grocery doesn't have brownies in a box. They have brownies in a bag and by the sheet, but she can't fathom changing tradition. She buys three fuses and a cupcake pan. The cashier looks at her like she might not be real. She's not sure she isn't.

The trees flash by in the glare of her headlights. She forgets how dark it can get. She forgets a lot of things.

He's speaking to her again, but it's not the same. This different sort of conversation, it's not good enough. She fears it will never be good enough.

He's reserved, and he's never reserved. It's painful to think it's because of her. She wants to believe this is just the natural progression of things.

She knows differently.

There's nothing natural about her reticence.

But she can't care. She needs to believe this doesn't make her. She never asked for this. She never asked for gravity. It just happened one day. It just happened to break her.

And she's falling.

The car grinds to a halt on the soft shoulder.

She said she wouldn't. She knows she can't.

Her fingers are halfway to typing his number when she slams the cel closed and sends it hurtling toward the passenger-side window.

No.

When it comes to her time with Jolinar, she doesn't remember the whole experience with terrible clarity. She can't remember being controlled from within. She figures this is how it must feel.

She knows she's missing a fundamental truth. She's searching for something, some little axiom to make everything all right, to tell her the way things are. But it eludes her and she can't quite figure out how she feels without it.

She retrieves her phone from underneath the seat. She only has to dial one number. She knows the other woman will know instinctively what she cannot say.

“Janet--”

The ceramic mug is warm in her hands as she sips politely. She's really not thirsty and nothing could convince her to enjoy vanilla tea at one o'clock.

“Thanks, Janet.”

“It's not a problem, Sam,” she says, taking her own seat on the couch.

The doctor sports a terri cotton bathrobe over a colorful set of pajamas. Her bookshelves are filled with medical journals and ribbed volumes. The couches look mysteriously like Ethan Allen, but she can't mistake the sudo-Crate-and-Barrel décor as a rather conspicuous rebellion against her Martha Stewart upbringing. But it would be impossible to hide her inclination for a homey space. Cassie's school books are strewn over the coffee table and there's something that looks ominously like gum plastered to the carpet beside the floor lamp, something that obviously escaped the doctor's meticulous eye. She knows the other woman knows how to live. She wishes she knew half as well.

The pair sit in silence, watching their tea grow cold.

“You could always talk to him, you know.”

She's startled by the words, by their implication.

“You think I don't have the whole picture, but I think I have a good chunk of it figured out, Sam.”

She gapes at the other woman's knowing glance. She can't help it.

“You haven't told him, have you?”

She shakes her head. “Not really. I mean, not . . . really.”

“You haven't told anyone.”

It's not a question and it spurs her into speech.

“How can I say it? How can I begin to voice something I don't fully understand--something I can't control? How can I ask him about something that will never happen?”

“You don't know that--”

“Yes. Yes, I do, Janet. It will never happen--I will never let it happen. This--” she reaches for the magnitude “--all of this is too important.”

The doctor is silent for a moment.

“It's true. It's not just your jobs and your ranks, but it's the fate of the entire planet that's at stake. Let's be honest, sometimes the fate of the entire galaxy falls into your hands. Billions--trillions--of lives . . . It's unspeakable.” She falls into muteness. “But sometimes, it's things like this that are too important.”

“Janet, I don't think--”

“What makes us different, Sam? What makes us human? Is it our genes, our chemistry? or is it something else? I'm inclined to believe that it's something else entirely. You've seen the examples for yourself. You know what kind of evil is out there, and you've seen the good, too. It's those differences that set us apart.”

“I can't. I . . . can't.”

How can she explain? Her conversation with Teal'c put it into harsh but genuine perspective. She knows her duty and she's not about to shirk.

The other woman sighs. “There is another option.”

“Yes?” she pleads, grasping at straws.

She shoots a sly smile. “You could just fuck him and get it over with. It's not like it could be as great as you're playing it up to be.”

There's a beat before she starts to laugh. There's another before she realizes she's not stopping, and another tells her she can't. She knows she can make it home, now.

The door to her lab glides open with ease. He's not waiting for her. She knew it would never be that easy.

She finds him in his quarters, tossing a ball against his wall.

Bounce.

“Carter.”

Bounce.

He seems unsurprised, but she's always had a hard time telling.

“Sir.”

“What's up?”

Bounce.

“I wanted to talk to you about something,” she starts, trying to catch his eye.

Bounce.

“It's actually kind of important.”

Bounce.

“Sir, could--could you maybe put the ball away? Please?”

Bounce.

“Sorry, Carter. Can't.”

Bounce.

“May I ask why?”

“Yes.”

Bounce.

“Why?”

Bounce.

“It's my safety mechanism. It's like my stress reliever. Like those little sand-filled balloons with the smilie faces on the fronts? Yeah, this kind of works like that. You see--” Bounce. “--this way--” Bounce. “--I can focus on this--” Bounce. “--instead of whatever mumbo-jumbo-doohicky geek-talk you've come to bug me to bug Hammond about.”

Bounce.

In one swift move she steps forward and intercepts the ball before it can reach his spot on the bed.

“It's kind of important,” she tells the floor.

He sits up slowly, rising without meeting her glance.

“Okay . . .” He's apprehensive in a moment, eyes darting around the room, finally settling on her. “What's this about, Carter? Not, I take it, quarks?”

“No, sir.” But her mouth goes dry and she can't hold his gaze. She searches for something--anything--to prove her point and on a whim snatches his hand in her own.

Her eyes seek his and, when they meet, she tries to send to him all the things she can't bring herself to say.

“Don't you ever wonder--”

She drops his hand and turns away as soon as she hears the latch hitch. She fears she's not quick enough.

“Hey, Jack, I found . . . Whoops.” Daniel stands gaping in the doorway.

“Yes, Daniel?”

“Uh . . . Nothing. Never mind. We can do it . . . later. Yes. Later,” he says, backing out of the door.

“You were saying?” he says after the latch clicks back into place.

But the moment's gone and she knows it. She feels something ominous in Daniel's timing. She feels she made a mistake in trying now, this way.

“Carter,” he sighs, dropping back onto the bed. “You think I can help you, but I can't. The sooner you realize that, the better.”

She half-understands what he's trying to tell her, but she needs something more. She knows he senses it and he gives it to her by voicing the words for which she's been searching all day.

“Duty has no sympathy.”

*~*~*~*~*

whyagain
april-august 2007

*~*~*~*~*

“Subtract out the impact, and the fall is all you get.” --So What, Ani Difranco

Overlap
by Whyagain

She feels bones cracking beneath skin as she pulls herself from sleep. It's dark as she looks outside. Her alarm won't go off for another hour and she feels it's time for a run.

Other Saturday morning early birds pass her with their dogs and their iPods. She waves back to the other runners who gesture to her. She knows what it's like.

She's used to this sleeplessness. She always has been. Somehow, she thinks it's been bred into her genes and she's not complaining. It's useful. And she doesn't let useful things go to waste.

Her hair is still wet from the shower when she enters her lab three hours before everyone else. She doesn't believe in wasting time, either, and there's always something to do.

The desk is strewn with files, screws, notes, and a half-finished report on last week's mission to P35-710. She feels at home instantly and plucks a pencil from the top drawer, thinking vaguely of aluminum alloys.

She's hungry by ten and shuffles off to the commissary, seeking something other than the military's ominous excuse for orange chicken.

“Sam.”

Daniel's voice startles her when she returns, toast and jam halfway into her mouth. She doesn't jump and she doesn't drop her napkin. She thought this moment was coming.

“Daniel.”

“I've been looking for you.”

It sounds almost like a threat and she's suddenly wary of her gentlest friend.

“I've been here. Toast?” she offers, holding out her napkin dotted with blackberry jelly.

He looks as if he might yell, but he only shakes his head. He sighs and rises from her chair. He's looking at her light she might be on her deathbed.

“Daniel?”

It seems enough to shake him out of his reprieve.

“Sam,” he starts. “I wanted, first of all, to apologize.”

“Apologize? Why?” she asks, pulling her own chair over after seating him in the one across the room.

“For Thursday.”

Her hope that he came to talk about something other than his impudent entry into her almost-conversation with a certain colonel is dashed upon the cold concrete. She figures her hope for toast is also gone, so she places her breakfast on her desk as well.

“Oh, well,” she manages.

“I kind of have a habit of walking in at the wrong moments, don't I?”

“But we love you for it, of course,” she says, wincing. “Bad timing is kind of your specialty.”

He's smiling kind of sickly and she wonders if he realizes how it makes him look. She figures he doesn't.

“But you weren't interrupting anything.” She's decided denial is her best defense. She knows the steps too well to stumble.

“I wasn't?” he asks, incredulity painted onto his every aspect.

“No, of course not.”

“What were you doing in Jack's quarters, then?”

“We were just talking.” Her voice sounds completely normal and she smiles to herself.

“About what?”

“You know what, Daniel? I don't even remember. Like I said, it wasn't anything important.”

“Really? So you sought him out in his room and closed the door to tell him something you don't even remember?”

She doesn't really have an answer for this, so she sits and contemplates shoving a whole piece of cold toast into her mouth to avoid speaking. But she figures it would be just her luck to choke, and she doesn't.

“Sam, is there something you want to tell me?”

Talking to Daniel used to be like talking to Janet. They'd both smile and listen and pat her on the back. But she never intended to tell anyone this. She told Janet because she didn't have a choice. She fears Daniel's reaction, his disappointment. Janet thought he would be the most understanding of her situation, but she's not so sure. She can't take that chance.

“No.”

“Sam, you can tell me. If there's something you need to get off your chest, I'm not going to tell anyone. I promise.”

She has a searing sensation of déjà vu.

“Daniel, there's nothing to tell.” She knows she's lying through her teeth. She knows he knows, as well. The thing is, that would work with anyone else.

But not Daniel.

“Did you ever think that I might already know? that I might have already guessed?”

Between Daniel, Janet and Teal'c, she's starting to get the hint that she's not a very good liar. She knows it's just too bad for her that she can't stop.

“Guessed what?”

“About you. About what you're trying to hide. About what you're trying to deny.”

“Daniel, I already told you--”

“And I don't believe you. Are you trying to insult me? I'm telling you I'm trying to help you, Sam.” He looks close to tears and she wants to shut his eyes forever. She doesn't need his pity and she doesn't need him standing over her shoulder.

“I don't need help, Daniel. I don't need anyone's help.”

“Yes, yes you do. You need help because you don't have the whole picture.” He's about to say something else, but the sudden flash of triumph in his eyes infuriates her.

“Why? Why do you want to help me? I've done nothing but harm since this started, and I can't make it stop. I've tried and I've tried and it doesn't work. I can't make it stop and it kills me. So I've decided to let it lie. Just let it lie. Can you help me with that?” She feels she's lost it a little, but Daniel looks at her like she might have suggested a game of pin-the-tail-on-the-bull.

“Is that what you really want, Sam?”

“Yes, Daniel, that is what I really want.”

He's quiet, but he doesn't make a move to leave. She doesn't care. He could sit in her lab all day and she would do her best to paint him into the wall if he insisted.

“Don't you think,” he starts after a time, “that we guessed already? and that we're happy for you?”

“Who? You? Teal'c? Don't make me laugh. I've already had this conversation with him, thanks very much, and he feels just like you'd imagine he would.”

He looks hurt that she would confide in Teal'c over himself, but he recovers quickly.

“I'd imagine Teal'c would want you to be happy.”

“Daniel, it's not about me being happy. It's not about me at all. It's about SG-1. It's about what we do.” She sighs. “It's about duty.”

The word hangs in the air like it does every time she has to admit it to herself. She knows Daniel doesn't understand. He doesn't understand like she does, like the colonel, like Teal'c. They are warriors. But she can't explain it to him. She can't even explain it to herself.

“You don't think you could have both?” he asks finally.

“Has the last month or so been any indication?”

He looks solemnly at the ground, a signature pout adorning his lips.

“Exactly. It can't go both ways, Daniel. And I know what's more important.” She sighs again. She knows she shouldn't, but she's got to make him understand. “I made a mistake last Thursday night. I slipped. But, in that moment, I learned. I saw what it might do, what it might become. I saw it in his eyes and I can't let it happen.”

“What is it you thought you saw?”

“I saw his disappointment, his fear. I saw the things I already know and decided in a rash moment to disregard.”

“You know what? I think you saw what you wanted to see because that's not what I saw.” And he's looking at her through defiant eyes she rarely sees on him.

“I don't want to know what you saw, Daniel. I don't care. It was a mistake,” she stresses.

“Have you even thought about him, though? I mean, what it's doing to him. You're not in this alone.”

She feels something like hope flit across her face before she dashes it with a firm thought. She decides this has gone far enough.

“This is my problem, Daniel.” But he's not listening.

“You don't know, do you?”

His surprise suddenly irritates her. She just wants to be left alone, away from Daniel and away from gravity.

“Daniel--”

“Have you even stopped to think that you're not the only one, Sam? Did you ever even consider it?”

“Yes, I have. And it's . . .” She's about to say “impossible” when she stops. She doesn't want it to be impossible. “It's not plausible.”

“You really don't know, do you? Sam--”

“Daniel, I don't want to hear it!” She's standing and glaring down at his placid face. She'd give anything to deck him, but she can't move. She knows Daniel's miscalculated before. She knows it, but she can't shake the implication. She can't help from slipping just a little.

“He hasn't told you.”

Daniel's words chill her senses.

Obviously she doesn't know. She doesn't know because he hasn't told her. And there must be a reason for that, a reason she's not keen on investigating.

“You've got to tell him, Sam.”

She's frozen. Wild conjectures collide with one another in her mind, destroying her conventionally ordered thoughts. She wants to fly away from here. She wants to kick Daniel out of her lab and out of her head, but she can't marshal the will for either.

“Sam--”

“Get out.”

She's not sure he's even heard her until the shock wave passes his eyes.

“Get out,” she repeats a little louder.

He looks as if he might continue, but closes his mouth and rises from his chair.

She realizes he has no idea of how hard this is for her. She realizes he's only trying to help. Neither stops her from hating him.

“Sam, you never know how much time you have--”

“Just go.”

She doesn't recall a conversation ever lasting longer. She doesn't remember ever wanting to throttle any of her friends as she wants to lash against Daniel. She knows it can't be possible for her to hate her friend, but she can't be sure.

She can't remember the rest of the day, but she's sure she's been ordered out of every lab on base. Doctor Rickman threw her out twice. She doesn't remember eating, but she doesn't feel hungry as she enters the elevator at ten forty-five.

She doesn't mean to, but she's in her car, head full of Daniel's words. She doesn't mean to, but she's parked in front of the colonel's house instead of her own, cursing Daniel's presumption. She doesn't mean to, but she's frozen on his porch in the dark.

She never wanted this.

He answers her knock in a faded gray t-shirt and jeans. He's been drinking. Good.

“Carter.”

He doesn't hesitate as she steps inside. He doesn't pull back when she reaches for him. He doesn't resist as she removes his shirt.

The Sunday sun breaches his gossamer curtains and falls into her eyes. She can't remember sleeping through sunrise since she was young.

She untangles herself from his limbs and his sheets and collects her discarded clothing, but allows herself a moment to study his still form. She loves his feet. She's realized she's never seen them before and she feels she's crossed some sort of great divide. He doesn't stir and she likes it that way.

She's in her car and halfway to her own house before she allows herself to recollect. She's decided Janet was right. She does feel better.

*~*~*~*~*

whyagain
august 2007

*~*~*~*~*

“I build each one of my days out of hope, and I give that hope your name. And I don't know you that well but it don't take much to tell either you don't have the balls or you don't feel the same.” --Overlap, Ani Difranco