Chapter Text
She never assumed that the simple bombing downtown would disrupt their lives in such a personal way. Cameron’s injuries are an aggravation not only Tomin shooting him, but of his plane crash as well. In two years, he’s managed to extensively injure the same area of his body detrimentally three times.
While the doctors managed to fix the damage, their skills are no match for the Goa’uld healing device which unfortunately, even though it belongs to her, still remains under the mountain.
So his week, while he tries to work from bed, from home, moving through the short hallways half-bent in order to alleviate his pain, is parsed by daily visits from the physiotherapist—a man charged with teaching Cameron’s destroyed muscles, nerves, and bones how to walk again, ironically paid for by the military because of his years of service and apparent free health care—something she still doesn’t entirely understand—despite the air force ignoring each of their many requests to simply borrow the healing device.
Her loving husband tries to remain the same, tries to treat her with the same respect she told the doctor was ever present, but with his body constantly in pain and his mind dealing with the limitations his body now has, his attitude changes.
He tries to be patient with her when she doesn’t understand why he doesn’t want her present for his physiotherapy appointments, instead imploring her to take a walk.
She learns the neighborhood more precisely, walks through the park by herself enjoying the silence of the snow, reliving memories she’d long forgotten. Still somewhat missing what it was like to wear a tailored coat around her large stomach bursting with life.
For the first time in her life, she feels truly alone.
Has always been in the company of someone, whether it was her intention or not, whether it was her wish or not, someone has always been beside her in this life, Cameron being the first that she can remember she openly welcomed.
Knows that his change in attitude isn’t his fault, that his injuries, not only to his body, but to his mind and his reputation, have crippled him in more than one way, have made his optimistic outlook and his kindness towards her curdle.
At night, when she has prophetic visions, ones he still isn’t sure are entirely true—she’s lived through so many of these ‘dreams’ that she can trace the corridors of an Ori vessel she’s never set foot on. That she can recognize men she’s never met as they bow before her, pledging their allegiance to her in order to destroy or convert a galaxy of nonbelievers—Instead of waking and trying to comfort her as she’s grown accustomed, even if he’s simply waiting in bed for her to return from the shower, which is more steam than water, he now remains asleep.
She doesn’t know if it’s due to the medications he needs to take, which also sap much of his strength and make him nap frequently, or if it’s exhaustion from continuing to work remotely, offering suggestions to movies based on his military experience—but he grows weary of her waking him at night and sapping his sleep.
When she bolts awake, sweat dripping between her breasts, trying to catch her breath because she felt the heat, smelled the smoke of the burning flesh, taking careful steps to examine the carnage, not that she enacted, but that she supported and called for through vicious words and invoking her wrath through thousands of Ori-worshiping men, he no longer calms her.
Instead of rubbing her back gently, of holding her to him and promising her, that it was just a dream, that he and she working together would never let that happen, he turns over and groans for her to go into the other room if she’s going to keep making noise.
That’s why she plans to leave.
Wouldn’t mind exploring Earth more, since she’s only been privy to this town and Antarctica, but knows it’s a dangerous gamble, that this government still has a close eye on her despite declaring her free, and that her attempt to leave, won’t get her very far before they restrain her and most likely detain her again.
Would he even search for her?
She intends to circumvent her capture by paying a visit, arriving emptyhanded and declaring her want only of passing through the fabled stargate in order to slip back into the galaxy unhindered. That perhaps she could make a life for herself on some other planet, without having to consider how her actions effect others, without having to be paired up to someone who has different concerns than her.
Perhaps it is her time to be alone.
Doesn’t intend to write him a note, but she doesn’t want her leaving to affect his healing, so moments before his physiotherapy appointment, she sits at her vanity, and scrawls, not flourishing any words, being direct and imploring that she still loves him, but that it’s best for both of them if she leaves.
Ponders over her decision one last time while staring out into the backyard. The clean-cut lawn laying dormant under a foot or two of pristine snow, untouched by man or nature. The birdhouse, bought in memorandum of their daughter, still hanging empty despite changing the seeds several times, not one bird visits.
When she turns to leave out the front door, Cameron is standing in the kitchen, using the counter to help him balance out his weight so it doesn’t land on the injured portion of his body. He’s in sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt, his face a little red from exertion, but her note clutched in his fist, digging into the counter.
“Cameron—” she begins, careful of his attitude, of his penchant for lashing out with words—attributes she’s witnessed before in men which always evolve animalistically. There is little distance between angry words spitting out of a man’s mouth, and the quick lash of his fist.
“The physiotherapist’s son is sick.” Gritting his teeth, he aligns himself more to the counter, correcting his bad posture and standing straight, as straight as she’s witnessed him do during military ceremonies where he has to march out on stage and salute a superior, where he wears a navy-blue suit adorned with all the accolades his country has bestowed on him for giving up his mobility three times.
For giving up his daughter.
“I came in to tell you, and I found this instead.” He unfurls his red fingers, letting the crumpled piece of paper loose on the counter.
“I thought—” she pauses, not wanting to make her fleeing his fault.
There are times when neither of them is easy to be around, where the other is so on edge that a pencil rolling off a table can set them off into a frenzy. Moments where it’s best to just be left alone. But now it seems like she’s more of a hinderance than she is a positive in his life. Like she’s another responsibility he has instead of a partner.
“I didn’t want to be—”
“Vala—” she sees the muscles in his legs twitch, the shaking of his arms as he tries to support his weight on limbs that we’re meant to. “Please—don’t.”
The words strike her, as she half expected his hands—expected the respect he’s always shown her to wane into control, into authority.
Doesn’t expect his emotions to be so bare, so unchanged.
“If you go, I have absolutely nothing.”
The tears in his eyes rival her own as they stare at each other through the expanse of the small kitchen. The one where he makes her pancakes in the morning when she asks.
Where they both stare out at an unused bird feeder.
“I thought I was a burden.”
“You’re not a burden. You’re my everything.”
All he has to do is reach his hand towards her and she’s attracted to him like magnetism. She wraps her arms around his back, setting her chin on his shoulder. His hand is hot on the small of her back, holding her to him. The skin on his face is wet from tears or sweat, but when it rubs against the side of her neck along with his beard, she laughs and kisses the side of his face, holding him tightly.