"In another's eyes, I'm afraid that I can't see, this picture perfect portrait that they paint of me, they don't realize, and I pray they never do, cause every time I look I'm seeing you..." ~ Trisha Yearbook with Garth Brooks, "In Another's Eyes"
I realize now that it was a mistake. But not all mistakes are bad, right? I can't think of any famous examples at the moment, but there's got to be some points in history where good things happened out of shear dumb luck.
Like how, as I strip off my dirty uniform and step into the empty showers, I am 'conveniently' able to forget that Sam is married.
Like how she's able to escape Hammond, Daniel, and Teal'c's detection and 'mistakenly' enter the locker room.
Like how she 'accidentally' locks the door from the inside before disrobing.
I'm turned towards the spray of the water and don't hear her approach; a cold hand on my shoulder makes me jump and turn.
"Sam..."
It's the last word I utter for some time, because as soon as the name passes my lips, I find myself quite occupied. Part of me thinks I'm dreaming... and prays that I never wake up.
She leans up and kisses me - our third encounter since she's been married... this is bad - and I return the favor wholeheartedly. Again, risk plays a big part in the fun... we should SO not be doing this. Besides, there's other entrances to the locker room that she may not have covered, and people with keys, people who could saunter in and see Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter sharing a shower head. The hot water's created some amount of steam, but our faces would be plenty recognizable.
And I don't care.
Apparently, neither does Sam, and I'm not about to argue. I'm becoming light-headed, and it's either because of the warm, moist air or her wet, naked body pressed insistently against mine. Two guesses and one doesn't count.
We stumble a little and I stutter back, beneath the spray, which catches Sam instead, right on her head, drenching her. She doesn't seem to mind, using the fact that I'm caught against the tile wall to her advantage. Personally, I can only take this macho stuff from her for so long, and I grab her arms, spinning her around so that SHE'S the one who's pinned, between the wall and me. Looking into her blue eyes I can tell she knows exactly what I want, and that she wants the same thing. I'm getting that light-headed feeling again. "Sam," I whisper hoarsely, water running down my neck and back, steam enveloping us. "It's... we CAN'T."
"We can," she corrects breathlessly.
"What if we get caught?"
"We won't."
Despite the heat, her insistence makes me shiver. "Sam, you're MARRIED."
"I love YOU."
I'm caught totally off-balance. "You're just saying that," I accuse.
"Do you think that's something I'd just SAY?"
She's right. It isn't. I hesitate, and then lean down and kiss her gently. Water dribbles down my face. I want to say 'I love you, too,' but I can't, I just can't. Not until I know that this isn't one of those lustful, in the heat of the moment declarations. "We can't," I repeat. The hot water's starting to run out. Seven-plus billion dollars to run this joint and I can't even get fifteen minutes of hot water. Sam closes her eyes and tenses. She thinks I'm rejecting her. "Not now."
She opens her eyes.
"We're off for the weekend," I remind her. "If you still feel this way Saturday night, call me, and... we'll talk."
"I don't want to talk," she informs me. "And I don't want to wait that long."
I grin. "You think I do?"
She seems to see the humor in the situation, and smiles tightly, nodding. I take a step back and let her pass, heading back to the lockers. "I guess I can finish cleaning up later," she says flippantly. I watch her shapely figure recede, and quell a momentary urge to call her back. I DON'T want to wait that long. But I don't want to make a mistake, either. Not a bigger one. If I could have made a bigger one.
Saturday.
I return to my shower. The stall feels empty and cold without Sam.
----------
Saturday, eight o'clock, and still no call. I try not to feel too sorry for myself, and sit down in front of the television. Isn't there supposed to be good TV on during the weekends? Someone should inform the producers. What a load of--
The doorbell rings.
Still growling at the TV Guide, I cross the room and answer the door, without a second thought as to who could be standing on the stoop. Sometimes I really am an idiot.
It's Sam.
She's standing there in jeans, a blue blouse and a denim jacket, with a bottle of wine in one hand. "I didn't feel like calling," she says simply.
I let her in, and take the proffered bottle. "Trying to get me drunk?" I joke.
"It'd take more than one bottle," she reminds me, and she's not kidding. Between everything that's happened to me over the last four years or so, I've worked up a remarkable tolerance for alcohol.
But this feels good; feels normal. She's not jumping all over me, no, but she's here and with booze, and in a pleasant mood. I pull the cork out while she grabs two glasses. I pour, and then we take our drinks to the sofa. Sam takes off her jacket and tosses it over a chair, and for a moment or two, I marvel over how beautiful she is. Maybe it's the blouse bringing out the color of her eyes, or the light from the television on her hair... but there's something about her... something that's making her positively radiant tonight. Cheesy, yes, but so very true.
We sit in silence, pouring another cup of wine apiece but leaving the bottle a quarter full. Sam rests her head on my shoulder. We watch a feel-good CBS drama, the one about the guy who gets tomorrow's newspaper, and then Sam reaches over to where the remote sits on the armrest, and turns the TV off.
"I don't feel any differently," she says softly.
"Me neither."
"What does that mean?"
"I... I'm not sure."
Silence hangs like an executor's axe.
"I'm not supposed to feel this way about you," says Sam finally, looking straight ahead, avoiding my eyes. "Because of the military, because of Rick, because... because..."
I understand her better than I've ever understood anyone, ever. There's all these reasons, all these huge reasons, and yet they don't change anything. It could be that our getting together would cause an atomic disaster, a nuclear winter, a tsunami, an earthquake, summer without air conditioning... and it wouldn't change a thing in my heart.
Hearts and heads, however, don't get along well, and need to be forced into negotiation. What happens if we do this? We could get caught. Court-martialed. Split up or tossed out. Fined. Something.
And what about PEOPLE, all the people we'd affect? Rick, for one. Jacob. Mark. Daniel, Teal'c, and Hammond. What would THEY think of us, for having this affair, for doing these things when we know well that we shouldn't? Forget Romeo and Juliet. At least they didn't work together in a covert government operation to save the world. They could forget, run away, just be in love.
"I love you," I say simply, surprising myself. "And right now, that's all that matters to me. I just wish... that it hadn't taken this long to figure out."
"So do I," she whispers.
I cup the back of her head with my hand and kiss her. She lets me push her down onto the couch. Our legs tangle, our lips mingle and mesh almost playfully. This is different. This is more than lust. We're not drunk, but it's drunken and slow, soft and broad, testing and tasting and gentle. Every time I touch her skin I do it reverently, delicately, smoothly. I take my time. I enjoy it. So does she.
I love the sensation of her against me; it's hard to say but it drives every memory of Sara out of mind. Sara... and Rick. And Jonas, and Martouf, and that Nareem guy, and every other man who's shown the slightest interest in my Sam. Because right now, she's here with me. For me. A part of me.
And when she tenses, and moans "Jack" against my shoulder, it's not because that's what Rick calls me. It's because she loves me.
The End