She never expected to be looking down his gun, though. Never expected his eyes to be so cold, for his face to be so calm as he did so.
She felt like she was stuck in time. For a very long moment nothing happened and she didn't know what to do, what to say. She didn't know if she would be quick enough to disarm him, she wasn't sure he wouldn't pull the trigger the second she moved.
He didn't look angry and she hated that, it made her nervous because she knew that under that façade he was furious and he was about to break completely right in front of her eyes. She didn't know what to do with that. What to do with this man, this moment. She opened her mouth but decided against speaking, she didn't want to push him over the edge, cause him to snap and pull the trigger.
There was no coming back from a bullet in the brain.
He wasn't moving, just aiming the gun at her head and staring directly into her eyes. She couldn't help but stare back at him and she couldn't move either. She was transfixed on his eyes that were so dark and cold, nothing like the man she knew. The man she cared about.
She wanted to run. Run away and hide from the gun, from those eyes. She wanted to try and disarm him, knock the gun from his hand, break his arm. She wanted to do something, but she couldn't.
She knew he would pull the trigger; he wanted to pull the trigger. He was just waiting to do so and she had no idea what he was waiting for. She just knew that as time went on there was no escape because the second she moved she wouldn't be able to move fast enough to dodge the bullet. All she could so was blink and she was surprised he was allowing her to do that.
Those eyes told her he wanted her dead. He wanted this.
Her vision was focused entirely on him. His eyes, his face, his gun. Everything else was grey around her, blurred and fuzzy and unimportant. She hoped for a distraction but she didn't think it would come. She didn't think it would help because his entire focus was on her too. He eyes, her face, her position at the end of the gun.
She'd been sure she would die in the field or, if she was lucky, old and grey in her sleep. Not at the hands of a man she cared so deeply about. A man she loved. She couldn't find a reason why. As he stared her down she couldn't fathom why, oh, why he wanted to pull the trigger. She wasn't the enemy, she was Sam, the woman he cared about, the woman he loved.
Unless that was the problem. What was that saying? It's a fine line between love and hate. Had he crossed it? Did he hate her so much that he wanted her dead?
She was never going to get her answer because she was never going to be able to ask the question. Her mind was running a mile a minute but the world around them had stopped completely and he was just staring and staring and staring and BANG.
_________
She screamed. Long into the darkness before throwing herself to the side. He had his arms around her before she could fall out of bed. She heard his voice in her eat, soft and soothing.
"It's okay, you're okay, I'm here."
She was still on the very edge of the bed, his arms around her, holding her close to him. He was so warm. She opened her eyes then. Bullets did not have this effect; this was not what happens when you die.
This is what happens when you have a nightmare and your fiancé is there to catch and comfort you.
"It's okay Sam."
She turned in his arms and he helped her back onto the bed so she was lying fully on it again.
"You had another nightmare," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. He began to rock her back and forth like he had done before. Countless times before.
"Yeah." She looked at him, relieved to see warm eyes looking at her.
"Want to talk about it?"
She went stiff in his arms and he stopped rocking her.
"No." She said sharply.
The answer he expected, the answer she always gave. She was never going to talk about her nightmares because all she ever dreamt about was General O'Neill pointing a gun to her head about to pull the trigger and she didn't know why.