The Promise After A Battlefield
The Promise After A Battlefield
by Jean
Summary: This is the final part of this series. I hope you have enjoyed it!
Category: Romance
Season: any Season
Pairing: Jack/Sam
Rating: 13+
Warnings: none
Author's Notes: As this was amongst the first of my fics to be archived, it is posted under the author name Jean. Any future stories will, however, be posted under my latterly-adopted pen-name of 'Sandwiches'. Sorry for any confuzzlement!
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story was created for entertainment purposes only. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).
Archived on: 03/01/06
She watches his long fingers tap out a rapid rhythm on the steering wheel as he drives her home.
She knows it is not a sign of nervousness or irritation in Colonel Jack O'Neill, USAF. It's just him. It's what he does. It makes her smile as she tries to determine what tune he is hearing in his mind.
A sudden flash of inspiration and she speaks, a little dryly. "The Macarena, Sir?"
He looks at her askance for just a moment before turning his eyes back to the road ahead. Trust Major Samantha Carter, USAF, to work it out. She does that a lot. She is sooo smart. It makes him smile as he moves to defend his choice of mental muzak. "Problem with that, Major?", he asks, lightly.
Despite her acute discomfort as the movement from the engine reverberates through her cast, her grin could light up several major cities with light to spare. "It's the Macarena, Sir."
He huffs. "Yes, it is. And don't you be giving me the 'idiot look', Carter." He glances at her again, briefly. "Yes, that one! For your information, in Dannyspeak, I happen to think that the Macarena will, in the future, be viewed as a cultural high point in human evolution."
She winces as the truck turns the corner into her street, but still snorts in derision. "Really, Sir?"
"Yes, Carter," he says in the voice he reserves only for five year olds and humorously insubordinate subordinates. "Thor told me so."
She almost chokes and when she speaks again, she is almost squeaking in disbelief. "Thor? When? How? Thor?"
He chuckles, lifting one finger to tap the side of his nose. "Need to know, Major. Need to know."
They pull into her driveway.
-----
Getting her into the house is proving exhausting and not a little humiliating. She finds the steps up to her house impossible to navigate on crutches and in the end he lifts her over threshold, despite her protests about his injured shoulder. She can't help but smile, though, at his offhand, muttered comment as he carries her, his breath gasping and movements awkward, through the doorway.
"Not exactly how I'd pictured this, Carter."
She pretends she hasn't heard him.
He is so right, though. It isn't how she's pictured it, either.
-----
Having, seriously uncomfortably for both parties concerned, virtually dragged her up the stairs, he stands outside the open bedroom door, looking determinedly away, as she struggles to change into comfortable sleeping clothes, ready to assist her if the task becomes too much.
But it isn't.
The sigh he utters when she manages to manoeuver herself under the covers is full of both relief and regret.
She feels it too.
It makes her smile.
-----
She is very drowsy now. The events of the last day or so have made it more clear than ever to her that her best friend, 'Napoleon' (she had been so embarrassed when Janet had told her about her outburst on the way home!), is an outstandingly good source of all sorts of outstandingly good medicine. The almost unmanagable pain in her ankle had, a short time after a few pills and a glass of water from the Colonel, receded to a dull ache. He is sitting next to her on the bed, his long legs stretched out. He is talking to her, about hockey, she thinks. But she is very tired. So she simply listens to his voice, not the words, but the tone, and finds herself drifting off to sleep, comforted by the fact that he is just there.
-----
He watches her as she slips into the relative comfort of sleep. Looking down, he momentarily allows himself the luxury of watching her face in repose. He loves doing that. Offworld, he does it every night time minute that he has to spare after ensuring the safety of the team. Her face is always soft, almost childlike as she sleeps. Now that she can no longer hear him, he changes tack, losing the hockey and continuing to speak. "I thought I'd lost you out there, Carter. Sam." He feels a wave of bitterness that he can't call her by her given name when they are in any kind of company, or even when she is awake. He goes on. "That hurt. I thought I'd lost you. I...I cried. I did. Me. I don't cry, but I did. I thought you were gone. From me. I thought you were gone." His voice starts to break, but he reins himself in. "Don't ever be gone from me, Sam. Please. That battle hurt too much." He reaches out to touch her hair, but pulls his hand back before he does something that may lead to another something that is against the regulations of the USAF. 'For God and country', he thinks, a little wryly. Instead, he watches her at rest.
-----
She begins to sweat and her arms start to twitch. He recognises the signs immediately. An imminent nightmare. He speaks again. "It's OK, Sam. You're home now. You're safe. We got you back. You're OK. I found you." As she seems settle just a little, he decides this is an ideal opportuntity to tell some lighthearted home truths. It doesn't matter what he says, she won't hear it anyway and after all, the important thing is that he is talking. "Gotta say, Sam, you were snoring when I found you. Can I have you up on some sort of charges for that? Pretty sure I can, you know. But I won't, you know that. Damn old fool that I am. Ok, you were unconcious and some might consider that a valid excuse, but just one look from your baby blues and I'll be all, 'No, it's OK, Carter, it doesn't matter.' As for you telling the Doc about her little nickname, that I may or may not have had a hand in the making of, you soooo owe me. And whilst we're at it, could you please stop with the tank tops? Because can you say distracting? I mean, it's really, really hard to guard a perimeter when the view in the region of your chest is sooo much better. I..." She starts to snore, her nightmare averted. He starts to smile. His work here is done. He watches her so closely as her nose twitches. It is adorable. When her mouth slowly opens onto the pillow, as she starts to drool, for crying out loud, he finds himself dropping a gentle kiss onto her forehead, completely without thinking.
Then her eyes snap open.
A sudden burst of energy bolts through him as his eyes are caught, as they are trapped by hers.
He winces. "Er, goodnight, Sam..um, Carter?"
"Tank tops, Sir?"
He can't look away. Her eyes are burning with amusement and maybe something else, too.
The Jack O'Neill patented voice of boyish innocence belatedly kicks into gear. "Tank tops. What about them?"
She reaches a hand out, softly placing it on his arm. "Just nice to hear they're still a problem."
His gaze pierces into her. "No reason for that to change."
She suddenly looks uncertain. "It's been a long time since the room, Jack."
He loves the sound of his name on her lips. It is so rare that she says it. But he loves it.
"Not too long now and not too long for a long time yet, Sam. I'm waiting. I'll keep waiting. That I can promise you."
They both smile.
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Jean
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The Promise After A Battlefield
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As this was amongst the first of my fics to be archived, it is posted under the author name Jean. Any future stories will, however, be posted under my latterly-adopted pen-name of 'Sandwiches'. Sorry for any confuzzlement!Site Navigation
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