Technicolor

Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Episode: None

Season: 7, and also pre-SG the movie

Spoilers: None

Category: Drama, romance

Pairing: Jack/Sara, Sara/Other

Summary: Sara recalls her romance with Jack when she must make a difficult choice

Rating: PG

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: Don't own ‘em. Love 'em though.

Author's Note: 4/30/04

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

"So? Did he? Did you?" Cindy Nolan was barely across the threshold into her best friend’s office before the questions were flying. "Let me see it..."

Sara O’Neill, seated behind her desk, raised her face slowly.

"I want all the de…." Cindy stopped mid-word. The woman before her did not look like someone who had become engaged the night before. She looked more like someone who was about to cry. And there was no bright shiny new diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand.

And yet, Cindy knew for a certainty that Bill had bought her the ring, and planned to give it to her last night. She’d helped him pick it out. In fact, she’d been the one who’d set them up on that blind date, all but dragging Sara out of the house to meet the quiet, gentle widower who worked with her husband. Cindy stepped in and pulled the door shut behind her. "Oh, no, what happened? Don’t tell me he didn’t…"

Sara could only shake her head. "Nothing happened," she answered softly.

"Nothing? As in, he didn’t propose?"

The tall blonde was staring at her hands, fiddling with a pen. "He did. I didn’t accept."

"What?" Cindy was shocked. Sara and Bill had been dating for over a year now. She’d seen them together often, and for the first time in the three years she’d worked with the tall, sad eyed, blonde, she’d seen Sara look happy and relaxed, enjoying Bill Emerson’s company. "You two are so perfect for each other…"

Tears welled in Sara’s eyes.

"What did he do?" Cindy demanded.

Sara wiped furiously at her eyes. "I told you, nothing. It was a wonderful proposal. Romantic. He brought me roses, and got down on one knee and asked me to marry him."

"And you said no? What is *wrong* with you?"

The first tear leaked out of the corner of Sara’s right eye, rolling down her cheek, tasting salty on her lips. It had been the kind of sappy, romantic proposal a woman dreamed of. So much more romantic than the other one she’d gotten, all those years ago. "I couldn’t…"

"You couldn’t what? What is wrong with you? Bill is a great guy… kind, funny, attentive, smart. He’s got a great job. Sure, he’s no Brad Pitt, but who is? Sara, if I wasn’t married, I’d be chasing him from here to Texas."

"I know."

"So?"

"So," Sara looked down at her desk, looked down at her hands, at the long slender fingers, devoid of jewelry, as they’d been for the last seven long, lonely years. "I guess I’m not ready."

"Not ready? Since when? You are alone and lonely, you’ve told me that yourself. You wanted someone in your life. You’ve told me how much you like Bill…"

"That’s the problem. I like Bill…"

"But?"

"But…" Sara echoed, unable to say more.

"But?" Cindy demanded.

"But I don’t… love… him."

"I don’t understand," Cindy was staring at her friend, her face a mixture of confusion and concern. "You don’t love him?" Suddenly, she realized the obvious. "Oh, no, you’re still in love with your ex, that mysterious military guy." Cindy had never met Sara’s former husband. Didn’t want to, from what Sara had let slip. True, it was only rarely that the subject had ever come up, and she’d never said much, but Cindy knew that whatever the mysterious Jack O’Neill had done to her friend, it had been awful. Irredeemable. Something to do with the death of their only child. Cindy had never pried at Sara’s quiet sorrow, hoping that someday her friend would feel comfortable enough to open up and say more. Now, however, it was time. Sara needed to get her feelings out in the open, get over that jerk who’d left her, start over with someone who cared about her, who would treat her the way she deserved. "You divorced *him*, right?"

"Yes," Sara answered quietly.

"You’ve been divorced how long?"

"Seven years."

"Seven years? And you’re not over him?"

Sara sighed. Over Jack O’Neill? She’d spent all last night thinking about it. Bill’s proposal had been flattering and sweet, he was a dear man, and she liked him, she really did. But she’d never even had to think about her answer. The word no had just come to her lips, spoke itself, without any thought on her part.

"No."

After she’d said "No," he’d looked so disappointed. Hurt. Devastated even. Afterwards, she’d gone home, alone, and to bed, alone, in her too big, too quiet house, worrying about paying the bills. Worrying about the future. Worrying about growing old alone. She’d had dreams once, of spoiling her grandchildren, and spoiling Jack, too, once he retired, and they’d be free to do all the things they’d talked about doing together ‘when they had time.’ That time had never come. She sighed again. "I guess I’ll never get over him."

"He must has been something…"

"He was. He is."

"So tell me. Maybe you can talk him out of your system. But not here. Let’s go to my place."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

An hour later, the two women were seated at Cindy’s kitchen table, coffee in front of them.

"So fill me in on this dark man from your past," she ordered.

"He wasn’t always so dark, before…" Sara stumbled over the words, even after all this time, "before we lost Charlie. Jack was funny. He could make me laugh, like no one else ever could. He made me feel loved, every day. Not that he told me he loved me, but he would do thoughtful little things and not tell me. He just, I don’t know, from the day I met him, I knew he was someone special. One of those guys who walks in the room, and he’s in technicolor and everyone else is suddenly in black and white, you know? Not just his looks, though God knows he was the handsomest man I’d ever met, but charming. He had this smile that lit up his whole face, and sometimes, he’d get this sad, wistful little boy look that made you want to hug him. And when he hugged you, you’d swear you’d never been hugged by anyone before."

Sara sighed. "I still miss those, his hugs, his arms around me, and his hands, he has the most remarkable hands…" She shivered.

"And?"

"I knew he, I knew those hands, those hands I loved, that loved me, killed people…"

"What? He was Rambo or something?"

"No. When we first met, he was flying jets. But then he got to be friends with a Special Ops guy and he took the training just to prove that he could I think, and he loved it, loved the deep, dark, mysterious missions. Jack was…is… a huge adrenaline junky."

"So that’s why you left him, because of his job?"

"No. I wasn’t happy about his work, but he was so close to retirement."

Sara took a deep breath, and plowed on. "When Charlie died, Jack… left. Not physically, not at first. He was there, but who he was, was gone. It was like he was soulless. He never cried. He never put his arms around me. He was afraid to touch me but more afraid I think, that I’d try to comfort him."

Looking down at her untouched coffee cup, she went on. "Because he thought he didn’t deserve it. He blamed himself. He’ll always blame himself, and I can’t absolve him of that. No one can." She sat back on her chair, fingers playing with the rim of the coffee cup. "I needed him so much, and he needed me, but he was this silent, cold rock, like his whole heart had been turned to stone. Jack was never one to talk, never, and it used to drive me crazy. But I never knew how silent he could be, until it was just him and me and our grief and his guilt. The house wasn’t big enough for the two of us."

She took a deep breath. "I didn’t want to leave him. I just couldn’t live with him anymore, not with that wall between us, not remembering how good it used to be.Not that things were ever perfect. They never were. He was gone so much, so often. And lord knows, when he *was* home, he wasn’t an easy man to deal with. Stubborn. But he laughed. He had the best laugh. And he was different. I never knew what he was going to do."

"How did you meet him?"

"My best friend Judy had a crush on this Air Force officer, and she’d drag me along to these parties they had, wild parties, drinking and smoking, they’d go on all night.

"The first time I met Jack he bowled me over. Literally," Sara laughed. "We were at this house that a punch of pilots were renting. Sort of like a frat house, only worse. Judy pointed him out to me, saying how cute he was. Which he was. But what I saw was this obnoxious drunk, draping himself all over the girls, when they weren't trying to crawl onto his lap. I figured him for one of those guys who assumed he was God's gift to women. The hot jet jockey who can do no wrong type."

Sara looked across the table at her friend. "I wanted to leave, but Judy didn't, so I wandered around for a while feeling awkward and out of place, and finally went looking for a quiet place to stay out of the mess. And then this guy came down the stairs, tripped and landed on me. Sloppy drunk, red-eyed, hands all over me, slurring his words when he tried to apologize... I ended up walking home.

"I didn't go anywhere with Judy for months, I was so mad at her. But finally one night she talked me into going to this bar, near the air base. She was still chasing Robbie, and I guess I was tired of staying home, so I went with her. The place was actually pretty quiet, people shooting pool and a few dancing. Judy and Robbie started talking, so I sat at the bar all alone, wishing I hadn’t let her talk me into another wasted night.

"And then this guy came up to me...."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The bar was dimly lit, the jukebox playing something low and slow. The couples on the dance floor were draped all over each other, shuffling to the slow rhythm of the music. Sara sipped her drink and lit a cigarette, drawing in the smoke slowly, exhaling and watching the dense little cloud float away.

She was bored. Judy was on the other side of the room, talking intently to Robbie. There wasn't anyone else there that she knew. Sighing, she realized this had been another mistake. Maybe she'd have to start looking for men at church or something.

Suddenly, a hand landed on her shoulder, squeezing it in a too-familiar way. "Well, hello there honey."

Sara turned as a tall, handsome man sat down on the empty barstool next to her, his hand sliding down her arm until his fingers were suggestively close to her breast. She fidgeted, sliding away. Something about the guy made her feel acutely uncomfortable. Maybe the cliched come-on. Maybe the too-slick hair and the too-bright smile. The stranger leaned in closer, the scent of his after-shave cloyingly intense. "So what's a sweetie like you doing sitting here all alone?"

"I'm not alone, actually. I'm here with a friend."

The man made a show of looking around. "I don't see anyone. But I'll keep you company," his hand had once again slipped downward to brush across her breasts.

He was pushy. Scary.

And suddenly, out of the blue, there was mister cute and falling-down-drunk, except he wasn't drunk this time. He slid gracefully onto the bar stool on the other side of her, his hand moving up onto the bar to cover hers possessively.

The hand felt warm and strong and oddly comforting.

Mr. Cute was staring at the stranger. "She's not alone. She's with me, bud." There was a warning note in the quiet voice.

Cute’s brown eyes bored into the blue eyes of the stranger. For a long moment, it was a standoff, the two men staring each other down like gunfighters on a dusty western street.

Sara held her breath, frightened.

Mr. Cute looked scary. She was sure she’d seen a look like that before, probably on a wanted poster down at the post office.

Suddenly, without a word, the stranger stood up, nodded at her and left.

Quickly, Sara pulled her hand out from under the cute guy’s incredibly long slender fingers, unconsciously stiffening her shoulders and moving back, unsure if her rescuer was better or worse than the jerk he'd just rescued her from.

The alpha male glare was gone, replaced by a dazzling boyish, shy smile. "Sorry, I'm not usually the Sir Gallahad type. But that guy's trouble."

"And you're not?"

"Oooh, beautiful and smart, Miss…?"

"Sara. Sara Richardson."

He waved a hand at the dance floor. "How about..."

"Thanks, but no thanks, I've had quiet enough of Lothario's tonight..." Sara grabbed her purse, standing, ready to leave.

"Hey, wait, please..."

"Look, mister..."

"Jack, Jack O’Neill, two L’s..."

"Look, Jack, I appreciate the gentlemen routine but..." and then she stopped because something flickered across the handsome face, the smile dimming momentarily, a hurt look that she somehow knew was genuine, that changed him from a cocky young stud full of himself to someone who was lonely and maybe even a little bit scared, and would never, ever show it.

In that moment, though he didn’t know it, she was his.

"At least let me give you a ride home," his voice was softer, the brown eyes looking bright and boyish. "I promise, I’ll keep my hands to myself." He stuffed them in his pockets.

Sara recalled the electric touch of his hands on hers, and she had a sudden vision of what that touch could do to her. "Ah, okay. I just have to let my friend know I’m going." Sara waved across at Judy, who grinned.

"Ah, that’s her, the one with Robbie?"

"You know Robbie?"

"Sure. We’re in the same squadron."

That made her feel better, more comfortable about leaving with someone she didn’t know. She didn’t know why, but something about this guy left her feeling confident that she could trust him, that the gentleman act wasn’t really an act at all.

They stepped out of the heat and smoke of the bar into a cool, clear Colorado night.

She shivered.

Quickly, he pulled off his leather jacket and draped it around her shoulders.

After a moment’s hesitation, Sara pulled it close, burrowing into its warmth, inhaling the scent that clung to it, leather and after-shave and smoke and something else distinctly male.

Side by side, they walked across the parking lot, his hands still studiously thrust into the pockets of his faded blue jeans, pushing up the hem of the black sweater he wore.

God, he was handsome, she thought, watching him out of the corner of her eye as they walked, gravel crunching underfoot.

His car was parked at the far end of the parking lot. Except, he didn’t have a car, he had a motorcycle, a big, shiny Harley Davidson.

"You’re going to freeze to death riding like that," she told him, offering his coat back.

"No," he answered gallantly, climbing astride the bike. "I’ll be okay."

"Flyboy bravado?" she said with a laugh.

"O’Neill bravado," he answered, smiling, extending a hand to steady her as she threw a leg over the bike. She scooted up close behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist, and he threw a grin back over his shoulder at her. She damped down the urge to turn and run.

"Hang on tight," he told her, turning the key. His long legs stretching out to the sides, he tipped the big machine upright, kick starting it. The engine caught with the distinct throaty roar of a Harley, and she tightened her grip around him.

This is nuts, she thought.

And suddenly, she didn’t care.

Something about him made her trust him.

He maneuvered the big bike out of the lot and onto the street with practiced ease. She had the distinct impression he was going slow so he wouldn’t scare her.

"You okay?" he called back through the rush of the wind.

"Yeah. Doesn’t this thing go any faster?"

It was the right thing to say to him. His grin melted into a full-blown smile as he gunned the big bike down the highway, guiding it surehandedly down the twisting, turning road.

It was terrifying.

And exhilarating.

She threw her head back and laughed.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

All too soon, they were on her street, and she was pointing out her house, hoping her Dad wasn’t still awake.

Jack pulled the machine to the curb in front of the two-story, the throaty rumble of the engine quickly dying away. Reluctantly, Sara unfolded her arms from around his waist and stepped off the bike, feeling suddenly shy. It had seemed so natural, so warm and comfortable, sitting on the bike, pressed tightly against his back, her hands wrapped close around his slender waist, her face buried against the warmth of his broad back.

"That was nice," she said awkwardly. "Thanks. For rescuing me, and for the ride home."

He was staring down at the ground, the toe of his black boot digging at the grass. "It’s still early. We could," he raised his eyes momentarily to meet hers, shyly, then looked down again as he shrugged, "go for a walk or something. Over there. In the park."

Her heart hammered. Should she? Did she want to? Did she dare to? He was cute, and tonight, not drunk. But she couldn’t forget that dangerous look she’d seen pass between him and that slimy Lothario in the bar.

"You don’t have to or anything. Just, if you want to." He raised his eyes once more, shyness replacing the bravado, that intensely earnest look that had touched her earlier reappearing, turning her resistance from hard as rock to butter-soft.

"Sure," she heard herself say before her brain kicked into gear.

He reached out his hand, offering, and she stared at it a moment before putting her fingers inside his.

His touch was electric, his hand warm, the long fingers wrapping themselves firmly but not too tightly around hers, offering her the option of keeping her hand there or pulling away. Not forcing, asking.

She felt her heart pounding.

Keep cool, Sara, she told herself, keep cool. Yeah, he’s cute but he’s one of those adrenaline junky, wild-man pilots.

Although the bike ride had been fun.

And she hadn’t felt anything but safe.

And she was pretty sure you could spell charisma O-n-e-i-I-l.

And she thought that wide, laughing mouth looked very kissable.

And good lord, those brown eyes were the most incredibly sexy things she’d ever laid eyes on.

It was all she could do not to giggle.

"What?" he asked her.

She looked up at him.

"What were you just thinking?"

"That you’re probably trouble."

He laughed. "That’s what everyone says."

"Are they right?"

"Usually," he conceded.

He stopped, turning to face her, a questioning look on his face as he took a step closer. His free hand reached up to trace the line of her throat, from collarbone to chin. In the second before she closed her eyes, she looked into his, close and intense and smoldering. She thought she could drown in their depths.

Letting go of her hand, he ran his thumbs along the delicate bones of her jaw, then slid both thumbs upward to brush across her lips.

She felt giddy.

Dizzy, actually.

She hadn’t known what to do with her hands, but suddenly she found them on his chest, not pushing him away, just there, steadying herself. Beneath her fingers, she could feel his heart beating a staccato rhythm under the soft cotton of his sweater.

Breathe, Sara, she told herself as he bent his head down to hers, his hands sliding back to cup the back of her head as his wide lips brushed across her own.

Soft as a summer breeze, the feathery contact made her knees go weak.

When she didn’t pull away, his lips pressed harder against her own, demanding more, his tongue flicking in to tease her tingling lips.

Her own lips parted slightly, tasting him. His breath was salty, tasting slightly of smoke and faintly of beer and something very rich and masculine and primeval.

Being this close to him was intoxicating.

She wanted to stay there, forever, near him, touching him, touching even more of him, but that little voice of sanity in the back of her head was screaming at her.

She listened and pulled back, her lips feeling hot and swollen.

He looked disappointed, hurt even, as he straightened, licking his lips.

Her heart did a flip-flop, but she kept herself focused firmly on the warning messages her brain was sending.

"Sorry," he said softly.

"You don’t need to be. That was nice."

"Nice?" the hurt look was back.

"I just don’t, usually, on the first date," she was stumbling over her words. "Not that this was a date or anything just, I don’t know you."

"We can fix that," he suggested optimistically. "I can do real dates. Tomorrow night?"

Her head told her to tell him no, but she couldn’t.

She nodded, and he reached out, hands on her waist, swinging her around as he planted a chaste kiss on her cheek.

…that was how it started.

She’d fallen head over heels for him the first week.

He’d charmed her with his sly wit and his tender kisses and the first time he’d hugged her, really, truly hugged her, she’d been overwhelmed. He'd proved to be a dizzying combination of macho warrior and shy little boy; someone who scared her half to death and made her feel warm and safe and comfortable, all at the same time.

He was always moving, always doing something, preferably something fast, reckless, even dangerous. He was the definition of the Type A personality she'd heard described in her Psychology 101 course at CSU.

They went dancing, hiking, rock climbing, and in the third week he took her skydiving.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

The ground training wasn’t scary at all, not with Jack watching, giving her encouraging grins and thumbs up signs. She had always been pretty athletic. Actually, it was sort of fun, jumping off the little platform attached to the harness, practicing the rolling landing.

It had all seemed innocent enough and easy, and then the instructors, three other students, and Jack, fully geared up himself, had gotten onto the little plane. Suddenly her heart was pounding frantically.

She reached for the security of his hand. "Jack…"

"I’m going to be your jump partner."

"You?"

"I’ve probably got more jumps than they do," he whispered in her ear, pointing at the instructors. He started telling her about his first day of training, but she wasn’t listening, couldn’t seem to hear him over the roar of the wind from the plane’s open windows, and the anxious pounding of her heart.

Finally, the lead instructor motioned for them to stand. He checked Jack’s jump gear, and Jack checked hers, and then they were strapped together to buddy jump, shuffling closer and closer to the door.

Sara’s mouth went dry. She couldn’t do this, she couldn’t do this, this was nuts. No one in their right mind jumped out of a perfectly good airplane.

And then his hand was on her shoulder, squeezing, offering reassurance. He was smiling, his deep brown eyes alight with excitement. "It’s a piece of cake," he whispered in her ear. "I’ll take care of you. Promise."

In for a penny, in for a pound. She had to trust him now.

They jumped.

The air buffeted her, but a quick touch of his hand on her shoulder was steadying. The first moment of sheer terror retreated to bearable levels because she didn’t feel out of control, she didn’t feel like she was falling too fast. Of course, she was sure that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with Jack.

Jack, who was laughing. She could hear him, despite the wind, and feel his joy.

Able to breathe again, she tried to remember everything she’d been told. Spread eagle, arch your back, feel the wind.

Terrifying and invigorating, all at the same time.

When he pulled the chute, she was jerked harshly upward, the straps of the harness pulling on her shoulders. She looked up, seeing the canopy deploy, catching a dizzying glimpse of Jack’s delighted smile as they drifted lazily toward the ground.

The ground was quickly getting closer. She felt Jack tense as the field below suddenly seemed to be rushing up at them.

"Easy!" he shouted at her. "Drop and roll!"

She bent her legs slightly, telling herself to relax, and then they hit, harder than she expected, tucking her shoulder, Jack’s weight pushing her forward into a roll, the two of them falling together.

She was alive.

Back on terra firma, and in one undamaged piece.

Sara laughed, suddenly delighted, proud of herself, knowing Jack was going to be proud of her.

Disentangling each other, they fell into each other’s arms. He was trying to kiss her, but their helmets bumped and they were both laughing as the instructors walked over to congratulate her.

That night, still on the adrenaline high of what they’d done, they made love. He turned out to be a surprisingly gentle lover, slow and passionate, exploring her body as she explored his. His hands searched out her most intimate places, those long, delicate fingers touching her in ways she’d never been touched before.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

After leaping out of an airplane with him, taking the plunge into marriage had seemed simple.

Though of course it hadn't been.

They almost didn't make it down the aisle. They'd broken up when he was sent on a long-term deployment in Turkey, her heart broken because, the night he came to tell her he’d be gone for two years, he also told her that it was okay with him if she saw someone else while he was gone.

She didn't think she'd ever see him again, she hadn't heard from him for almost a year, no answer to her desperate letters, no phone calls.

She kicked herself for being such a fool, to fall for him, to let herself be dazzled by his good looks and his passion for excitement and his boyish charm.

He probably had a girl in every town.

She swore off men, and settled down to finish her degree.

And then, one night, there he was at her doorstep, the shy grin back on his face. No explanations, no apologies. Just "Hi, let’s go for a walk."

After a whole year's silence, she didn't want to see him.

He wouldn't take no for an answer, even after she slammed the door in his face and hid inside the house.

The next morning, he was still there. She’d opened the door and almost tripped over him, lying sprawled across the porch, waiting for her, his hair sticking up all over in untidy spikes, a stubble of beard on his chin, his clothes rumpled. God, how could he look even more handsome all grubby and dirty than he did any other time? He stood and stretched, his back cracking ominously.

"That’s not the most comfortable place I’ve ever slept," he said with a groan as he turned his stiff neck right and left.

She ruthlessly suppressed the surge of compassion she felt at the sight of him. She didn’t want to see him. She didn’t want to get involved with him again. She didn’t want anything to do with him. She didn’t. No, she didn’t. She’d made up her mind. No Air Force guys, no military guys, never again. Steeling her resolve, she started to push past him.

"Sara…" He reached out a hand to her shoulder.

His touch sent shivers down her spine. Why did he have to do that to her? Why did she react that way, her courage turning to mush at the sight of him? "I have to go to work," she insisted, desperately.

"Take the day off."

"I can’t." She pulled away, starting down the steps, all but running to her car.

He followed her, all the way to her vehicle, climbing in the passenger side as she struggled to put the key in the ignition.

"Jack, get out."

"No," he answered, stubbornly.

She turned to glare at him. "What do you want?"

"You," he whispered. "I missed you."

She laughed. "Oh right, when you left for Turkey, you were the one who said we should see other people…"

"Did you? Are you?"

"That’s none of your business." But she hadn’t, because after Jack O’Neill, everyone else seemed dull and ordinary.

"I didn’t see anyone else," he declared.

"Riiiight," she answered, skeptically.

"Cross my heart and hope to die, Sara, I’ve been a saint for the past year…"

"As if I’d believe that blarney, O’Neill."

"It’s true."

She believed him, God help her, she actually believed him. "Then why didn’t…" she hadn’t had any cards or calls, nothing.

"This is the first leave I’ve had, and all I wanted was to see you. I had to borrow the money from the guys to pay my way…"

It was as close to pleading as she’d ever heard from him, as close to admitting he cared for her. But how much? She wanted to hear him say the words, say that he loved her, because she thought he did, but she wasn’t sure. "Why should I take you back, after all this time?"

He shrugged, looking away.

If only he would say it.

"Because I’m obsessed…"

He couldn’t quite say the word, the four little letters, strung together that meant everything to her.

Disappointed, she turned back to starting the car, driving to the coffee shop where she worked part time. She parked the car in the alley behind the building, climbing out wordlessly.

"Sara? Hey?"

"Jack, I’ve got to get to work."

She went in the back door, rummaged around in the little coat room, hanging up her jacket and putting on the little apron. By the time she got out in front, smiling an apology at Eddie, the cook, for being late, Jack was already seated in the first booth by the front window.

She ignored him, filling coffee cups for the men already at the counter, taking orders for bacon and eggs and the Tuesday morning special of steak and potatoes.

Sara had turned to pick up a plate of waffles covered in crème when Eddie stepped away from the grill. "Hey, I think that guy up front wants to order," he told her, pointing toward Jack.

"No, he doesn’t," she answered without looking, taking the plate and slapping it down on the counter in front of one of the Rosebud’s morning regulars.

"Hey, miss, how about some coffee?"

She turned to glare at him.

"Better get it," Eddie told her.

"Yeah, sure." She stalked up front.

He sat, grinning up at her, holding out his empty coffee cup. "I really do need the caffeine. And that steak and egg plate looks great."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

He hung around all day, drinking coffee by the gallon, beckoning her over for countless refills as the morning rush cleared out and the quiet mid-morning hours passed slowly. She refilled napkin dispensers and salt and pepper shakers, set out new bottles of ketchup and clean sets of silverware, all the while trying to ignore him.

Finally, glancing at the clock, she saw it was 11:40. The noon rush would be starting soon. Eddie was giving her dirty looks, like he blamed her for the guy hanging out in the prime booth by the front window.

Sighing, she tallied up his bill and carried it up to set on his table. "Pay at the counter. Then you need to go, before Eddie throws you out."

Jack looked from her to the grill cook, glaring at him. "Sara," he reached out his hand to grab her wrist.

She jerked it away. "Don’t."

"Please. I need to see you. I’ve only got," he glanced at his watch, "another 24 hours…"

"You came all the way from Turkey for two days?"

"I had a 72 hour pass."

"Jack…"

"Please," he said it again, looking up at her, the hurt shining in his eyes. "At least talk to me before I have to go back…"

Knowing it was both the right thing and the wrong thing to do, she gave in. "Okay, I’m off at 2:30."

He flashed her a brilliant smile, jumping up to kiss her.

She turned her head so the kiss landed on her cheek instead of her lips.

He grinned. "Two-thirty," and he was out the door, whistling.

Without paying the bill.

Sighing, she dug change out of her pocket and paid for his food and the coffee.

She was surprised that he didn’t come back to the restaurant. When her shift ended, she shed her apron, retrieved her coat, and stepped out the back door, wondering where he’d gone to.

He was sound asleep in the backseat of her car.

She cut her classes that afternoon, and spent the day with him, and the night, too, tucked safely in his arms. Damn the man, but he could wrap her around his little finger without even trying.

"When will I see you again?" she asked.

"I’ve got another year overseas," he told her, wrapping strands of her shoulder-length hair around and around his longer slender fingers.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

But he hadn’t been gone a year.

Three months later, he was back.

"How?" she asked.

"I, uh, signed up for some training. Got 30 days leave that way."

"Training?"

"Florida."

He hadn’t told her what the training was, and he never did tell her that he’d given up flying for her. Of course, it turned out the training was Special Ops, and it turned out he loved that even more than being a jet jockey, though he never said it in so many words.

Just like he never said that he loved her.

But he showed her, over and over again.

So she’d gone to Florida with him, and then moved back to Colorado Springs when he was re-assigned there.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

They developed a routine, of long lonely weeks or months when he was away on missions he never told her about. And then, often unexpectedly, he’d reappear, sometimes bruised and battered, other times strangely quiet and needy of her comfort. The time they spent together was passionate, totally involved with each other.

She found it hard, this bipolar relationship. The parts of her life seemed as distinctly different as day and night, the bright times when he was there, the dark lonely times when he was gone and she was alone with her worries for his safety.

But in the end, when his proposal finally came, she accepted it, and all that went with it, because she couldn’t walk away from him. When he finally did pop the question, sort of, it was, of course as flip and off hand and unplanned as anything they did.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

They had just finished dinner. Dishes put away, she joined him on the couch, snuggling in under his arm. He had the hockey game turned on, which was okay with her, because her Dad had played, long ago, and she’d learned an appreciation of the game from him.

Suddenly, Jack turned down the sound on the TV. "I’m getting a new assignment next week," he told her.

Oh, so that was what had been bothering him all through dinner, not her cooking.

She sighed. This roller coaster, of him there and gone, was something she didn’t think she’d ever get used to. "Where this time?"

"South America. But it shouldn’t be so long. Tours are shorter, not like when a fighter squadron is deployed."

"Isn’t it dangerous there?"

"It’s dangerous everywhere."

She sighed.

"If things go well, it means a promotion. Which means I could afford a family, you know, a wife, kids. You, me, a house with a picket fence…"

She sucked in a breath, waiting for more.

He was studying the floor like he’d never seen linoleum before.

"Jack…"

He raised his eyes to her, expectantly. "So? Would you?"

"Would I what?"

"You know, you and me?"

"Is that a proposal?"

"A what?"

"Proposal? Of marriage?"

"Guess so."

"You guess so? Now *that’s a romantic way of asking me."

"Well, you know."

She sighed. "Yes, I know you. I think." She paused. "There is something I have to know first. Do you love me?"

"Why else would I ask you to marry me?"

"Do you love me?"

"What do you think?"

"What I think isn’t important. I need to know what you think. I need a straight answer. Just this once."

"Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"You know, yes."

Sara rolled her eyes, realizing this was the best she was going to get.

And deciding it was enough.

She accepted.

Looking back on it now, with all the clarity of hindsight's 20/20 vision, she knew it was the best decision she’d ever made, and the worst, because their life together would be filled with the most incredible highs and devastating lows and in the end, only sorrow and darkness and despair.

And yet, no one stood a chance of matching up to him.

Can’t live with him, can’t live without him.

Technicolor, when the rest of the world was black and white.

Maybe, just maybe, she’d find another man to love.

But there’d never be anyone like him.

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

"So I think you ought to tell him," Cindy’s coffee cup was empty.

"What?" Sara asked.

"Tell him that you’re still in love with him."

"He knows."

"You’re sure?"

"Yes. Kind of. I think. But I don’t know about him."

"You’ll never know if you don’t talk to him."

Sara shook her head. "He doesn’t ever say much…"

"Then you talk for him." Cindy stood, looking down at her friend. "Go see him. Make up your mind."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

So here she was, standing at his front door, her heart pounding, terrified to ring the bell, terrified not to.

She was taking a deep breath, her hand lifting toward the button, when the door opened.

He was dressed in jeans, a gray t-shirt with the blue Air Force logo, athletic shoes, and a black leather jacket, like the one he’d worn that first night he’d given her a ride home and kissed her in the park. The face was leaner and lined, the eyes still dark and vivid, the hair she’d loved to run her hands through cut short, the soft brown gone a chiseled and amazingly attractive gray.

For one stunned moment, a look of surprise, and, she thought, pleasure, raced across his features, and then the mask slid quickly back in place. "Sara?"

Now that she was here, she didn’t know what to say. All the words she’d planned to say to him had completely fled her brain. "Hi."

"Is something wrong?"

"No." Nothing that hadn’t been wrong for the past seven years.

They stood, awkwardly facing each other.

"I’m sorry," she stammered finally. "You’re leaving to go somewhere, I shouldn’t have come."

"I wasn’t going anywhere that can’t wait," he opened the door wider, inviting her in, pointing toward the left, where two steps dropped down into a living room.

The house was so very him, she thought, seeing the light streaming in through the full length windows that formed one wall of the living room. Earthy, masculine colors. Leather couch. Tasteful, understated, nothing garish or too bright. Nothing personal, either, she thought sadly.

As she turned the corner, she saw them.

Pictures.

A group shot of his old Special Ops team, the familiar smiling faces of Frank Cromwell and their CO John Michaels and Eddie Washington.

The recent picture of a baby she didn’t recognize.

A picture of Charlie.

And there, on the wall, the same picture that graced her own wall, the last O’Neill family picture… Jack, Charlie, and her.

She turned from the photo, to him, to the look on his face that told her more than he would ever say with words, and then his arms were reaching out, surrounding her, pulling her in against his chest.

Black and white blossomed into technicolor.

(The End… or maybe, a new beginning…)