Chapter Text
It occurs to Sam that she might have a problem after spending the last two days staring at a dying succulent instead of doing actual work. The colonel had gifted the thing to her almost a year ago – something about ‘livening up’ the place.
(“Plus major,” he says, one hand on her shoulder and the other bringing the spiny thing up to eye level, “You can’t kill a succulent.”)
So of course, she killed it.
Sort of.
It got knocked over somehow and then maybe stepped on or else crushed under something heavy and now several of the leaves were brittle and brown, aesthetically unpleasing and serving only to add an air of sterility to the already lifeless environment to which she’s dedicated years of her life. She grabs for a portable lamp to try and revive the thing – maybe it needed more light in this dark, windowless room, or perhaps she wasn’t watering it enough even though she wasn’t supposed to do that every day.
(Or maybe she should stop bothering because it was only a stupid plant and she had a terrible track record with these things.)
The colonel should have gotten her something useful, like a backup charger since she’s always misplacing them in her clutter or a pack of Twix bars to nosh on while traversing some alien planet. Naturally she’d find a way to kill an unkillable plant.
Regardless, there was other stuff to focus on right now - gate logs to skim over or the trinkets picked up by SG-8 on the planet whose name was eluding her at the moment. SG-1 was still on stand-down while the colonel was healing the hole in his arm and Sam was – well, supposed to talk about her feelings or something. Mackenzie had this annoying tendency to want to discuss stuff she’d rather keep buried. Sure she’d been kidnapped, held hostage, drugged. All of those things had happened to her before – maybe not in that exact order, or on this exact planet, but, but –
I’m great, she tells him. Fine. Amazing, even.
(She’s been staring at a dying plant for two days).
He questioned her on why she hasn’t left the mountain in almost a week. There’s no reason to, she responds - there’s food here and a bed and all of her gadgets. That didn’t seem to be a satisfactory answer, but pressing only made her dig her heels in further.
I can leave whenever I want. There’s nothing stopping me.
Sam brushes a finger against the leaf of the succulent, dry and crisp to touch, and sighs. Maybe her little green friend needed actual sunlight instead of the artificial stuff. It couldn’t be healthy to be stuck down here all the time.
(“Have you talked with anyone outside of your team since you’ve returned?” Mackenzie asks her).
“Carter?”
She wonders how long the colonel’s been standing in the doorframe. His arm was still in the sling, probably dealing with some residual pain from the dug-out the bullet fragments Maybourne had gifted him.
“Do you need something, sir?”
“Just checking up.”
This feels like a trap.
“Getting antsy?”
“Antsy? Me?” He takes a few steps forward, reaching for one of the trinkets brought back by SG-8.
“I don’t know if you should be touching that, sir. I haven’t had a chance to look at it yet.”
“Oh?” he raises a brow, twisting the device in his hand. “What is it you’ve been doing down here then?”
She eyes her succulent. “Monitoring gate activity logs,” she finally responds. “We’re seeing a bit of lag with the dialing program and I think I’ve found a way to optimize the codebase.”
“Right,” he says.
“I’m trying to improve the speed of communication between our computers and the Stargate,” she continues, doing a poor job at maintaining eye contact.
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home?”
“Sir?”
“Home,” he repeats, firmer now. “You know, the place people go to when they’re not at work. Rumor has it you haven’t touched real grass in almost a week.”
She bites a lip. “Neither have you, sir.”
“Our lovely doctor Fraiser has kept me holed up in the infirmary, major. I don’t believe you’ve been awarded the same luxury.”
“No sir.”
He pulls a stool over, taking a seat across from her. The room went quiet, as though he was waiting for her to continue talking. She had no real desire to, instead grabbing whatever activity log was closest and pretending to be invested in the contents. Maybe then he’d go away. He got bored easily, after all.
“You’ve been staring at the same section of the paper for well over a minute,” the colonel says, and she huffs. “Is there something you need?”
“Well, I’d like to get out of here.”
“I don’t believe anyone is stopping you from leaving.”
“I’d like you to come with me,” he says, and Sam looks up. “Sir?”
“You know,” he gestures towards the door. “Out there. Out of the mountain.”
“I’m busy with – ”
“Ack,” he cuts her off with a wave of his hand. “SG-1 is on stand-down, major. Didn’t I order you to get a life?”
“I have a life,” she argues. “And I will go home eventually. I just have some things I need to finish here, that's all.”
For a second he just looks at her, and his gaze makes her want to sink into the floor. She hates it when he does that – the scrutinizing thing. She half expects him to start going off again about her lack of social life, but he instead scoots in a bit closer. “Are you okay?” he asks.
No, she wasn’t expecting that.
Are you okay?
Nobody ever really asks her that. Of course she’s not okay – she was kidnapped in broad daylight, drugged and experimented on like she was nothing more than a piece of flesh. The word victim burns at her tongue. Victim. So now she spends all her time in a dark room staring at succulents. She eats her Jell-O and talks with the psychologist and tries sleeping with little success.
Are you okay?
Screw that. SG-1 was on stand-down and it was none of his goddamn business what she does in her free time.
“I’m fine,” she bites out.
“You’re lying.”
“I – don’t know what you want from me, sir.” The words come out faster and harsher than she wanted them to. He’s not the one she should be mad at. He’s the one who searched for her, who rescued her from unscheduled brain surgery, who got himself shot in the process. “Sorry, I didn’t mean– ” she fumbles an apology, but he shakes his head.
“I want to go grocery shopping,” he says.
“What?”
“I haven’t been home in two weeks, everything I have in the kitchen is probably moldy. Well – except the frozen stuff. I think there’s a pizza in the freezer, I don’t know. But I want to go grocery shopping.”
“What does this have to do with me, sir?”
He cocks his head, adjusting his position on the stool. “I want you to come with me,” he says pointedly.
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Definitely a trap.
“As I said before, I have work to do – ”
“And you can do all of that fun dialing whatchamahoosit later,” he interjects. “I have a bum arm, Carter. I could use the help.”
Sam averts her gaze, suddenly finding more interest in her hands than the man in front of her. There was no logical reason she couldn’t leave the mountain – she’s off the clock technically and didn't need to be here. Daniel had left the state earlier this week for some archeological conference and Teal’c was off planet visiting Rya’c. So for now it was just her. Well, her and him, the colonel – the one who had gotten himself shot because she was unable to defend herself. But the thought of going up there again, outside with all the people – the strangers, it left a bitter, twisted feeling somewhere deep in her gut that she wasn’t able to describe.
It felt like danger.
It felt like fear.
And Sam never felt less deserving to hold her title of major than she did right now.
“Carter?” the colonel prods, and she blinks, lifting her gaze. Right – she forgot to respond. Except for the fact that she didn’t really know how to.
Logically she should go. Face her fears. Reintegrate herself into society instead of embracing the hermit life. And she won’t be by herself this time – the colonel was with her, despite the injury. Not everyone on the outside was out to get her, to hurt her, to rip away her autonomy in a fucking parking lot due to the whims of a sociopathic billionaire with a god-complex.
It’s fine. It’s fine.
Logically, she should go. Emotionally? She wanted to throw up.
The colonel was still looking at her, she realizes. Waiting for an answer but not continuing to press her until she was ready. He knows exactly what he’s doing. The Cheyenne Mountain rumor mill must have been working overtime to reach the infirmary – whispers about Major Carter’s abduction and sudden reclusiveness, the rare cafeteria sightings and rumpled slept-in clothing. She doubts if any of this was actually about grocery shopping. But that wasn’t really the point, was it? This was about her, about the concerning behavioral patterns that were just enough out of the ordinary to trudge down here during their impromptu vacation and drag her out by the (proverbial) hair.
Logically, she should go.
Logically, she’ll be fine.
(Logically.)
Taking a breath, she eases herself off of the stool and holds her hand out. “Are you coming?” she asks.
He smirks.
It takes about two minutes before she starts to think that this whole endeavor is actually a bad idea. She never quite realized just how many people work in this facility, guarding inaccessible areas or wandering through corridors, and yet their existence in her field of view makes her stomach go all tight and her fingers curl themselves into fists. She’s being paranoid, she knows this, but the rest of her body hasn’t caught on to that yet, and every signal is telling her to run run run far and fast in whatever direction the other people weren’t.
Breathe.
The tightness in her stomach seems to have moved to her chest, grabbing at her lungs and squeezing hard. The colonel brushes a hand against her elbow, just light enough to remind her he’s there, and it makes her feel marginally better. “You doing alright?” he asks casually.
“It’s – hot in here,” she says back, eyes fixed on the door in front of her. It opens blissfully empty – thank god, and she rests her head against the back wall as the elevator jolts upwards. This was the farthest she’s made it since coming back here. Since she almost –
“You’re looking a bit flushed, Carter,” he observes.
“Yeah,” she says, or maybe mumbles. Sam wipes a hand across her face, brushing away the strands of hair sticking to her forehead. It was just long enough now to be an annoyance. The colonel doesn’t pry, but does step closer to her when the elevator stops to let more people in. There really wasn’t that much space in here, was there? It was small. Confined. Tight. No place to run. To hide. To escape –
Breathe.
This is stupid and her reactions unjustified. She’s not in danger here – she works with these people, dammit. So why did it feel like there was a weight sitting on her chest? The seconds pass achingly slow, and she squeezes her eyes shut as she tries to control her breathing. It really didn’t feel like there wasn’t enough oxygen in this damn room. They do eventually make it outside, the air crisp against her face and neck. It’s better, she thinks, given there’s more space out here than in there. Less people. Just – cars. She likes those.
“You driving?” the colonel asks.
“Sir?”
“You know I normally would, Carter. But, well -,” he tugs on his sling.
“Right, um. I…yeah. It’s fine.”
Fine being entirely relative. She might be spewing word vomit but she’s pretty sure she hasn’t lost the ability to operate a motor vehicle. Particularly one she’s fixed up with her bare hands. It takes a few minutes for them to locate said vehicle, it’s been a while since she’s parked it, but she finds comfort in the familiarity of the thing.
“Where to, sir?” she asks, and he quirks a grin.
Sam had to admit that it had been a while since she’s been to a farmers market. The place smelt of dirt and car exhaust, bustling with people wandering about with arms full of bags or kids or various containers of what she presumed were vegetables of some kind. It wasn’t really the type of place she expected the colonel to go to on a regular basis, but it was close enough to his house, and outdoors, and it was probably a good thing that he was at least making an effort to include healthy things in his diet, which is more than can said for her.
Sam of late didn’t feel a particular inclination for food at all. Jell-O sometimes, when the cafeteria had it. Maybe a salad. A few candy bars she had stashed away. It wasn’t good, or healthy, and she could feel her pants getting just loose enough for Janet to prevent her from going back in the field when all of this was said and done. So fine. She could go grab some carrots or something, prove to the colonel that she was okay and maybe find a way to revive a dying succulent. Piece of cake.
(God, there were a lot of people here.)
“You coming, Carter?” the colonel asks, elbowing her in the side. “I was thinking we could go for the tomatoes over there.”
Tomatoes. Right. She’s pretty sure she likes those.
“Do you come here often, sir?” she asks, and he shrugs with his good shoulder. “Not as much as I probably should. But the food is fresh, and it supports the local farmers. You know.”
“Not really.”
“Yeah – well. I presume you don’t go food shopping very often, do you?”
“I – ” she stops, racking her brain. She picked up some eggs from Walmart a couple of weeks ago. Some boxes of noodles were on sale. A 24-pack of Aquafina. She rarely cooks, never having learned how to - her mother died before she got the chance to teach her. And her father was a lost cause in the kitchen, so ramen noodles and cereal were the staple of her late teen years. Of course, she never really grew out of it in her thirties either – maybe she was also a lost cause. And to think she had little in common with her father.
“ – no,” she finally mumbles, and she swears she could see his lip twitch at that.
“Too busy with the, um,” he waves a hand. “Quarks.”
“Something like that, sir.”
She grabs a basket and they head over to where the tomatoes were, squished right between what looked like a colorful array of peppers and some green stuff that was probably lettuce, or maybe kale. They grab a few of the juiciest looking ones, and she thinks that maybe she could do this after all. There were plenty of kids here, mothers and fathers and vendors and – well, witnesses. And the colonel, of course, who was currently wandering off towards the cauliflower section. Sam couldn’t quite follow him over there – too little room to maneuver with the basket, but it’s fine. She’s fine. Maybe she should go get some stuff for herself anyways. Janet would be thrilled. And it would be an opportunity for her to – well, what exactly? Prove to herself that she doesn’t have a problem? She made it here, didn’t she? She’s outside the mountain and interacting with the wider human populace like a normal person. Like a person who wasn’t recently kidnapped from a parking lot that very much resembles the one outside. Gritting her teeth, she makes her way over to the fruits area.
She’s fine.
It wasn’t exactly quieter over here, not with the kids running about and bumping into crates and other objects, but it was somewhat less crowded than the rest of the market given there was room to actually walk. Sam finds herself in front of some jars of…something. Jam? Preserves? What did she even need this stuff for anyways? She wasn’t home enough to justify buying anything here, not when it would almost assuredly go bad before she had a chance to eat it. She grabs for one of the glass jars – strawberry, she thinks, and tries making out the label.
“The grape one is better.”
There’s a man beside her. Tall, dark, mid-thirties. There was a kid thrown over his shoulder, toddler-aged if she had to guess. “At least,” he continues, “my kids like the grape one better. Put it on their toast every morning.”
Sam swallows nervously, fighting the instinct to take a few steps back. He’s just being friendly, she tells herself. His kid was gnawing on some kind of fruit clenched between sticky fingers. “I’m not a fan of grape,” she manages to get out.
“Really?”
She shrugs, placing the jar back on the shelf and reaching for another. Maybe if she looked busy he’d leave her alone. This one was more orange-ish in color – peach, she presumes. What were you even supposed to do with this stuff anyways? And where was the colonel? It was getting louder over here, the gaggle of kids seemed to be playing some form of hide and seek amongst the various fruit stands and weren’t making any effort in talking at a normal volume.
“Peach is good too,” he says, readjusting the kid clinging around his neck. “I use them for thumbprint cookies. You heard of those?”
“No,” she responds stiffly. A child runs past her, then another, fruit and dirt and dry leaves crunching under their shoes as high-pitched squeals fill the air. It makes her head hurt.
Smile widening, he takes a step forward. She takes a step back. “Oh, they’re great,” he says. “They’re like these little – um, shortbread cookies. They have a little indentation in the middle that you fill with fruit, or chocolate, or something else.” He raises up his thumb, and she takes another half-step backwards. “The name comes from the way you press your thumb into the dough. You can use a spoon, too. But what’s the fun in that?”
A tomato whizzed past her head. She could hear boxes or crates or something else heavy tumble to the ground behind her. Another fruit-like object was thrown from the other direction.
“You doing alright?” the dark-haired man asks her. “You look a bit nervous. I don’t bite, I promise.” The glass jar felt heavy in her hand. Like lead. She felt like she was sinking into the dirt. “I’m fine ,” she says tersely. “It’s just – loud. Is all.”
“Oh yeah,” he chuckles. “The kids get bored sometimes. My son is around here somewhere.”
Of course he is.
Another tomato goes flying, and then there’s more shouting, followed by wailing. Someone must have gotten hit in the face. She wanted to leave.
“Yeah. Well – it was nice meeting you,” she says hurriedly, turning around. But there were too many people, too many children still running about, and she barely makes it forward a step before one of them knocks right into her. A bigger one – maybe nine or ten years old, and heavy enough to take them both down. Her jar of peach something-or-other didn’t survive the fall, cracked open by a sharp edge and the contents spilled onto her shirt sleeve and grass beneath her. The boy was sobbing now, smelling sickly sweet of peaches and clutching his arm as an adult woman – presumably the mother, rushes over. It takes her a few seconds to realize her hand was throbbing. Sticky and red. Blood, presumably. From a stray shard of glass.
She really wanted to leave.
Breathe.
But she couldn’t even do that. Her chest wouldn’t move, wouldn’t intake any oxygen, it hurt – the squeezing feeling was back with a vengeance. And these people – these strangers, were congregating now, staring at her, closing in and trapping her in place. You’re not there, she tells herself. You’re safe. You’re free. They can’t hurt you. They won’t hurt –
“Are you okay?” She thinks it was the dark-haired man who asks her this, but the words seemed garbled, far away, like they were being spoken underwater. And everyone in this ever-increasing crowd won’t shut up. Staring and whispering and getting closer and closer and –
“Let me help you – ” he’s talking to her again, and suddenly there’s a hand on her arm, squeezing her, trapping her, and for a second - just a second - she’s back there again. There. In that room. Freezing cold and smelling of death and antiseptic. Wrists crushed under restraints and mind dulled with drugs and body half dressed as they touch her, inspect her, talk of cutting her open and poking inside her brain. They can talk at her and point at her and stare at her all they want, but she can’t let them grab her, squeeze her, restrain her like she’s their goddamn property. Not now. Not again.
She’s hauled to her feet, dirty and sticky and hurting, and there’s still fingers wrapped around her wrist – fingers belonging to Adrian Conrad’s, tightening against her skin. Taunting her. She drives a fist straight into his face, feeling the crunch of bone and cartilage break against her knuckles.
And all hell breaks loose.