Recognition 8-1-06

Author: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Season: Between 8 and 9

Spoilers: New Order, Gemini, Threads

Pairing: None

Category: Missing drama scene, after S8, before S9

Summary: Carter tells O’Neill the real reason she left the SGC; a gentle little fic about friends and reality and owning up to your misperceptions

Disclaimer: Stargate is owned by all kinds of important folks that don’t include me; I’m just borrowing the characters, and will return them; This story, however, is mine, and may not be posted without my consent.

Author's Pledge: Honest and accurate information allowing the potential reader to make an informed choice on whether or not to read this fic

Author's Note: Thanks to Cokie for the beta; thanks to all those who feedback-- it's always appreciated

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Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter straightened her shoulders and stepped up to the doorway of the general’s office. Raising her hand to knock on the door, she paused for a moment and studied him. She hadn’t seen him for over a month now, while she’d been away.

General Jack O’Neill sat at his desk, the phone held to his ear, listening intently. Over the eight years she had known him, his hair had gone from brown to gray to in places almost white; his face had taken on new lines that lent it a handsome maturity, aging gracefully like fine wine; his tall frame was still lean, the shoulders square; the brown eyes were intense and lively, but, as always, concealing.

He was still, in his own inimitable, totally oblivious way, the handsomest, sexiest, most charismatic man she had ever met.

Steeling her resolve, Sam knocked.

His head turned and he looked at her, a smile brightening his face, his free hand rising to beckon her into his office. "Yes, Sir, I understand, but--" he spoke into the phone, his eyes rolling. "I know, General, however--"

She stepped into the office, and stood waiting for him to finish the call. Her eyes roamed over the room. He hadn’t changed it much when he’d taken over from General Hammond. Mostly, just the pictures had changed—the wall was covered by photos of a much younger Jack O’Neill in a flight suit, sitting in the cockpit of a fighter jet, standing beside an F-16, smiling, his arms around his buddies. Over on the sideboard, there were personal pictures of him and his late son, the boy he still mourned and whom she had never met. The Jack O’Neill in those photos smiled in a way Sam had never, ever, in nine years, seen her CO smile, and knew neither she nor anyone else ever would. That part of him, the part of him that had known real joy, had been buried along with his son.

He put the phone down and stood, smiling, his welcome genuine. "Carter? Long time, no see."

After more than a year since his promotion, she still had to fight not to call him Colonel—after all, he’d been her team leader for seven years. Her CO, mentor, inspiration and object of her desires--- oh, Sam, don’t go there. "General."

He looked at her, his chin raised in a questioning stance, "What’s up?"

"Sir, I need to talk to you."

He waved an arm expansively. "My door’s always open."

God, she even loved the sound of his voice, the way he could, when he made the effort, sound so friendly and caring. And she knew he did care, in his own unique way. "I know, Sir. This is, ah, it’s, I’d like this to be off the record, if it could. It’s personal."

His reaction was immediate, his body language shifting, the smile fading, his shoulders tensing, the open expression closing down. Even his tone of voice changed. "Carter? Haven’t we--" he waved a hand in the air, "been through all of this?"

No, she thought, we never have. He never liked personal talk. Every time she’d tried to have a personal conversation with him, in all these years, he’d invariably pushed her away, politely, but decisively. Just the same way she’d brushed off men like Ambassador Joe Fuson or Agent Malcom Barrett, she suddenly realized. "Really, Sir, I," she stammered, flustered by him, as by no one else. "No, Sir, we haven’t."

This time, seeing him in a new light, she was noticing all the clues she’d always, before, completely missed. Things like the way he was still standing behind his desk, using it like a barrier to keep her at bay, watching her warily, a bland façade carefully hiding his real expression.

Speaking quickly, before she lost her resolve, she let the often practiced words tumble out. "Sir, I owe you an apology."

"An apology, Carter? For what? You had permission for leave."

She realized he was being purposely obtuse. "I know that, Sir, and I appreciate your patience."

"You lost your father," he said, kindly.

He didn’t mention the rest, thank God, about how she’d broken off her engagement to Pete Shanahan. "Losing Dad did make me think, Sir."

"You’re always thinking, Carter." His gentle smile was back. "God help us all the day you quit."

She *had* quit thinking, she knew that, and she knew he knew that, and it was embarrassing. She’d quit thinking back on that day when she’d been confronted by the replicator version of herself, and on that day, God, she felt her face turning red with humiliation, when she’d shown up on his doorstep and discovered he wasn’t home alone. "I was thinking of personal things, Sir. And how badly I’ve handled them."

"Oh?" his tone was non-committal, his body language still wary as a cornered cat.

Sam straightened her shoulders, standing tall, eyes glued to the wall behind him because she couldn’t look at him or she’d never manage to say what she needed to say. "Sir, while I was on leave, I was seeing a doctor."

Concern flashed across his expression. "You’re okay?"

"Oh, yes, Sir, I am. It wasn’t a physical problem," she stopped, risking a glance at his face and catching his bewildered expression. "It wasn’t a regular medical doctor. I, ah, Sir, I spent time with a, a counselor; a psychiatrist, a private doctor, not military," she explained hurriedly, knowing he would understand why. She didn’t have to tell him the black mark such an act would put on her record. Officially, no, it wouldn’t; that was Air Force policy. But honestly, in the closed world of the military, where toughness counted, unofficially, it would be forever seen as a dangerous flaw, a limitation, and most especially, a sign of weakness. There would be whispers of unfitness, of inability to cope, of unspecified ‘issues.’ "I needed to talk through some things."

O’Neill nodded. "Dealing with the death of your dad."

His tone was somber. She was sure he was thinking of the dark time in his own life, when his son had died. "Yes. And with—with my engagement to Pete, about the real reasons why I broke it off."

The change in him was more subtle this time, but it was still there, the tightening around his mouth and eyes, the way, without moving, he drew further away from her.

"Sir, what I wanted you to know was, I spent a lot of time thinking about my— my relationships. Jonas Hansen, Pete Shanahan, you. What I wanted from the men in my life, or at least what I thought I wanted. Doctor Riordon made me look at myself and realize that I’ve been searching for a perfect man and a perfect relationship and that’s an unachievable fantasy."

His eyes were focused on her face.

"I’m a scientist, and I love science," she realized she was twisting her hands, and forced herself to stop, "and science is about perfection and predictability. One plus one equals two, always. I like that. It’s important to me, that orderliness, that certainty. And I was looking for that in my relationships. I wanted order. I wanted perfection. And no one can live up to that. I projected what I wanted onto them—and you. I somehow made you into the perfect," she ignored his derisive snort, "version of the man I wanted, irregardless of what you are." She stopped, aghast at what she’d just said. "I didn’t mean that the way it sounded--"

"I’ve known I’m not perfect for a very long time," his voice was still quiet, his gaze drifting over to look at the picture of him with his son.

"For what I did that day, last year, showing up on your doorstep like a teenager with a crush, for that, Sir, I apologize," she finished, glad the words were finally said, so that she could stop obsessing over them.

"No harm done."

"Thanks to you. I could have ruined both of our careers, if you hadn’t stopped me."

He said nothing, looking straight at her.

Sam squared her shoulders. "You should have been harder on me, Sir."

"I didn’t want to hurt you," he said gently.

"I was tough enough to handle it."

"None of us are as tough as we pretend to be," he said very quietly, his eyes once again slipping over to fix on the picture of his son.

The silence stretched, and finally, she was the one who broke it. "Sir, I just want you to know that I deeply regret some of the things I said and the way I acted--"

"It’s okay, Carter. No harm, no foul." There was a wryness to his grin. "And it was good for my manly ego," he confessed softly.

She looked down, then raised her eyes to meet his gaze. There was fondness and friendship in his eyes, a gentle warmth. "I hope we can still be friends, Sir--"

"Always, Carter," his smile was back. "Friends; always were, always will be."

----The End----