Summary: Jack ponders over that one word that upset him so much.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to MGM, Gekko, whoever…just not me.
Spoilers: After the events of 'Beneath The Surface'.
Author's Notes: Short. Probably more sentimental than it should be but I had a bad day and needed cheering up! Feedback, of course, would be very much appreciated.
You know how sometimes all you really want to do is just wallow in your own self-pity?
It's not often that it happens. I mean, in my line of work, in the job that I do you can't get bogged down in self-pity whenever something bad happens. Something bad seems to be happening most of the time in what I do, and you deal with it.
You have to.
Add to that...I'm not the kind of person who wallows in self-pity. I hate it when I see someone feeling sorry for themselves when they should be out doing something about it, not wasting precious time moping, whining, and basically thinking too damn much.
But sometimes...every now and then...I feel sorry for myself. And in some damn bizarre, sick and twisted way...I like it.
Which is exactly why I hate myself at the moment.
So I'm moping and whining. Mostly internally of course - I don't talk to anyone about this. There's no one I really can talk to about this.
I mope, I whine, and I think.
Big mistake. I should never think too much. Everyone knows that.
Everyone knows something's up. Oh sure - they don't know exactly what's up or why it's up - but they know for sure that something is, and they've been treading very carefully.
But then, I guess that makes sense. She's the only one who might have some idea as to what's bugging me.
I wish I could ask her if she does know for sure, but I can't and that bugs me even more. It's not something we can discuss. We both know that, even though we never talk about it we know we can't.
Does she ever think that this is all just a big waste of time? Does she ever think that the fact that we're both trying to ignore it just isn't working? Does she ever think how frustrating it is to not be able to forget about it?
Does it ever bother her that - as bad as it gets - she's still quite capable of doing her job?
Why do I mope, whine and think?
All because of one little word. One Goddamned word. Three letters. That's small, you'd agree with that, right? One syllable, three letters...
Okay, I'm not getting into charades here.
Maybe I should. Maybe it'd be easier.
Maybe that way I'd never have to hear her say "Sir," again.
She's said it a thousand times before. She must have. And I've accepted a hundred times before that that's fine and dandy, absolutely fantastic, wonderful, a heartfelt gift, a complete...
...load of crap.
I think I've got a headache.
This is what I get for thinking too much.
That's her fault. She makes me think. I don't like it.
It had to be a difficult one, didn't it? Someone so far out of my league that I can't even see straight. Someone so damn intelligent that I'm in awe at half of the things that come out of her mouth (that is - of course - when I'm not spending time trying to sneakily stare at that mouth). Just about the only woman at the SGC that I can't get involved with.
Although, admittedly, there aren't many women at the SGC.
You know, when she was Thera she wasn't any different than how she is now. You could argue about a kind of freedom, an openness that she doesn't have here, but the point is this: no matter who she was, what memories she did and didn't have, restricted by regulations or not...we still drift towards each other. Even through the regulations here I know that.
I guess that says something. Something important. No matter who we think we are or what the situation is...
Her voice. Thera/Sam/Her.
I don't turn. I don't even look at her. I still face my locker as I speak.
There. That sounded normal.
"We're ready to go whenever you are."
Oh, that's right. P3X something something something...the MALP had been sent through. It was safe, apparently unpopulated, and readings indicated possible high levels of Naqadaah fresh for mining.
A perfect mission.
"Okay," I tell her, trying to look like I'm looking for something in my locker. "I'll be in the gate room in five."
I know she's staring at me, curious, and it's hard not to turn around. I guess that Black Ops training was never intended for situations like this, but it's beginning to pay off.
Thankfully, she leaves quietly without saying anything else.
She'll be in the gate room shortly, frowning, wondering. Then I'll stroll in smirking broadly, happy, chipper, and make some crack about Teal'c's tattoo or Daniel's allergies, and even though she knows she shouldn't, she'll laugh.
That's something I do have.
Because for someone like me - someone who has killed, will kill, fights, protects, argues, talks politics and wages wars for something he believes in - the most important thing to someone like me, at this moment in time, is making whoever the hell she is laugh.
I hate myself.
When I leave the room a few moments later, the door of my locker is dented with the fresh imprint of my fist.
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