Happy (Early) Birthday Beatrice Otter!
A very Happy Birthday and Many Returns of the Day for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
beatrice_otter. I am posting this a bit early because I am leaving for a week of vacation on Saturday, and Friday is going to be an impossible blur of packing and organizing, with the last and busiest day of swim teaching and added out-of-town offpring added to the mix. I'll be lucky if I remember my name let alone your birthday then! Oh, and since you follow many, many fandoms, you also should know this: Like my icon, it's SG-1.
Title: Mysterious Ways
Season: Anytime after Sam Carter returns from Atlantis
Spoilers: Only for deaths in Sam's and Jack's pre-series families.
Warnings: Ummm... Probably not the fic of choice for a hardcore atheist.
Synopsis: Your emotions, like your sins, will find you out.
An aside: I can never hear the quotation "Your sins will find you out" without thinking of my daughter's tale of listening to a substitute minister giving the sermon in his rich Oxbridge British accent, and saying dramatically "Your sins will find you...[dramatic pause for effect]...OUT!" She had an immediate vision of her sins, garbed rather like a grim reaper, knocking on her door, and muttering darkly "Drat! She's out again!" The image is vivid and contageous. I can't seem to find the passage quite as threatening as it is intended to be anymore!)
Mysterious Ways
The small niche, with its statue and bank of votives, some lit and flickering randomly, was nothing like those Sam remembered from her childhood, but the smell of hot wax was deeply evocative, and she made the sign of the cross from muscle memory, and mumbled the words that came with little conscious attention. It was only when she attempted to express herself with words beyond those learned by rote that she became fully aware of where she was and with that the full weight of the moment, the sea change in her outlook crashed upon her like a mighty wave, and it was all too much too soon, and she couldn’t breathe. So many memories long packed away and compartmentalized from her childhood. So many questions and uncertainties. So much bitterness and anger poisoning long dark years. Kaleidoscopic images: Her mother genuflecting as she passed the altar, lace pinned carefully on her blond head, rosary and prayer book in her kid gloved left hand. Her father stiff and solemn at her First Communion, but still somehow radiating pride. Father Monahan, with his paper-skinned shaking hands, and sour breath, shaking his head, his rheumy blue eyes sorrowful at the enormity of her carefully detailed eight-year old sins. And now this new and puzzling impulse that had brought her here on this day, for no clear purpose, and with no clear understanding of why.
Suddenly she could not bear to face this moment and this place alone. The walls seemed to be closing in, and the ghostly traces of incense and the thick smell of the wax were robbing the air of its oxygen. She needed to get out. She needed to get home. To be in the safe haven of his arms before the wave breached her defenses, and some thirty years of unfelt emotions drowned her. She stumbled to the door and burst through, but not without having automatically genuflected and made the sign of the cross as she crossed the center aisle. The morning air was clear and cool, and she took great gulps of it, before moving slowly to her car and slipping behind the wheel.
She was never afterwards quite able to remember the drive home, although she could remember clearly the feeling of desperate and tenuous self-control as she made her way back, trying not to let her distraction endanger herself or those few other drivers out on the roads this early on a sleepy Sunday morning. Pulling in the driveway, she put the car in park, and not stopping to retrieve the keys or even close her door, she rushed the door, and ran for the kitchen where she knew she would find her husband. There, at last safe in the haven of his arms, she let it all crash over her, and burst into great gusting tears.
Jack had held her patiently, tenderly, and without question or interruption. He had taken a moment to reach out and click off the burner, and then he had returned to gently stroking that hand gently across the ripple of her longer hair in its single braid and down the length of her back, again and again. The only sounds were Sam's muffled sobs, and an occasional quick sniff from Jack, as he dealt with his own running nose. When Sam wept, it was only rarely, and never for long. In a matter of minutes, she took a final shaky breath, and pulled back, looking into Jack's eyes, suspiciously bright, and soft with sympathy. She loved this about him, that tough Jack O'Neill hated to see her in pain so much that her tears could make him tear up with her. If she didn't want to worry him, she needed to explain.
"I got the syrup, but on the way back, I was passing Our Lady of the Snows. I haven't been since Mom..."
Her voice failed her, but no further words were necessary. Jack's eyes told her he understood.
"I haven't been since..." His voice started rough, and trailed off into sandpaper.
"Charlie," she whispered.
He nodded.
"I couldn't go in, and Sara couldn't stay away." His voice was still scratchy, but now under his control. "Even when she wasn't lighting candles there, she was praying at home..."
He closed his eyes, hiding from her pity, and recited:
‘Loving Father,
the sleep of death has robbed us
of our sweet child.
Thank you for his short life with us
and for holy baptism
that confirms our hope in you
and promises a fond reunion
in the heart of our Blessed Savior,
who is our resurrection and our life
through all eternity.
- AMEN.’
All I could do was ask myself what 'loving Father' could make Charlie pay for my sins."
There was no answer to his question, so she just ran a hand slowly up one arm to his neck, and then reached out with her thumb to run it slowly in circles across his still-stubbled cheek.
"It was an accident," she offered.
"Yeah," he admitted, but not without regret. "Pancakes while they're still lukewarm?"
She accepted the change of subject.
"You microwave them for a few secs; I'll get the syrup from the car."
After the pancakes, and the bacon, as they were sipping their coffees, Jack asked, "Ya wanna go to the eleven o'clock?...Together?"
Sam looked at him. He looked calm. Peaceful.
"What's changed?" she asked.
"I have you." he replied.
She slipped her slender hand into his large one, feeling the warmth and the solidity. With him by her side there was nothing she could not face. Even hope.
beatrice_otter. I am posting this a bit early because I am leaving for a week of vacation on Saturday, and Friday is going to be an impossible blur of packing and organizing, with the last and busiest day of swim teaching and added out-of-town offpring added to the mix. I'll be lucky if I remember my name let alone your birthday then! Oh, and since you follow many, many fandoms, you also should know this: Like my icon, it's SG-1.Title: Mysterious Ways
Season: Anytime after Sam Carter returns from Atlantis
Spoilers: Only for deaths in Sam's and Jack's pre-series families.
Warnings: Ummm... Probably not the fic of choice for a hardcore atheist.
Synopsis: Your emotions, like your sins, will find you out.
An aside: I can never hear the quotation "Your sins will find you out" without thinking of my daughter's tale of listening to a substitute minister giving the sermon in his rich Oxbridge British accent, and saying dramatically "Your sins will find you...[dramatic pause for effect]...OUT!" She had an immediate vision of her sins, garbed rather like a grim reaper, knocking on her door, and muttering darkly "Drat! She's out again!" The image is vivid and contageous. I can't seem to find the passage quite as threatening as it is intended to be anymore!)
The small niche, with its statue and bank of votives, some lit and flickering randomly, was nothing like those Sam remembered from her childhood, but the smell of hot wax was deeply evocative, and she made the sign of the cross from muscle memory, and mumbled the words that came with little conscious attention. It was only when she attempted to express herself with words beyond those learned by rote that she became fully aware of where she was and with that the full weight of the moment, the sea change in her outlook crashed upon her like a mighty wave, and it was all too much too soon, and she couldn’t breathe. So many memories long packed away and compartmentalized from her childhood. So many questions and uncertainties. So much bitterness and anger poisoning long dark years. Kaleidoscopic images: Her mother genuflecting as she passed the altar, lace pinned carefully on her blond head, rosary and prayer book in her kid gloved left hand. Her father stiff and solemn at her First Communion, but still somehow radiating pride. Father Monahan, with his paper-skinned shaking hands, and sour breath, shaking his head, his rheumy blue eyes sorrowful at the enormity of her carefully detailed eight-year old sins. And now this new and puzzling impulse that had brought her here on this day, for no clear purpose, and with no clear understanding of why.
Suddenly she could not bear to face this moment and this place alone. The walls seemed to be closing in, and the ghostly traces of incense and the thick smell of the wax were robbing the air of its oxygen. She needed to get out. She needed to get home. To be in the safe haven of his arms before the wave breached her defenses, and some thirty years of unfelt emotions drowned her. She stumbled to the door and burst through, but not without having automatically genuflected and made the sign of the cross as she crossed the center aisle. The morning air was clear and cool, and she took great gulps of it, before moving slowly to her car and slipping behind the wheel.
She was never afterwards quite able to remember the drive home, although she could remember clearly the feeling of desperate and tenuous self-control as she made her way back, trying not to let her distraction endanger herself or those few other drivers out on the roads this early on a sleepy Sunday morning. Pulling in the driveway, she put the car in park, and not stopping to retrieve the keys or even close her door, she rushed the door, and ran for the kitchen where she knew she would find her husband. There, at last safe in the haven of his arms, she let it all crash over her, and burst into great gusting tears.
Jack had held her patiently, tenderly, and without question or interruption. He had taken a moment to reach out and click off the burner, and then he had returned to gently stroking that hand gently across the ripple of her longer hair in its single braid and down the length of her back, again and again. The only sounds were Sam's muffled sobs, and an occasional quick sniff from Jack, as he dealt with his own running nose. When Sam wept, it was only rarely, and never for long. In a matter of minutes, she took a final shaky breath, and pulled back, looking into Jack's eyes, suspiciously bright, and soft with sympathy. She loved this about him, that tough Jack O'Neill hated to see her in pain so much that her tears could make him tear up with her. If she didn't want to worry him, she needed to explain.
"I got the syrup, but on the way back, I was passing Our Lady of the Snows. I haven't been since Mom..."
Her voice failed her, but no further words were necessary. Jack's eyes told her he understood.
"I haven't been since..." His voice started rough, and trailed off into sandpaper.
"Charlie," she whispered.
He nodded.
"I couldn't go in, and Sara couldn't stay away." His voice was still scratchy, but now under his control. "Even when she wasn't lighting candles there, she was praying at home..."
He closed his eyes, hiding from her pity, and recited:
‘Loving Father,
the sleep of death has robbed us
of our sweet child.
Thank you for his short life with us
and for holy baptism
that confirms our hope in you
and promises a fond reunion
in the heart of our Blessed Savior,
who is our resurrection and our life
through all eternity.
- AMEN.’
All I could do was ask myself what 'loving Father' could make Charlie pay for my sins."
There was no answer to his question, so she just ran a hand slowly up one arm to his neck, and then reached out with her thumb to run it slowly in circles across his still-stubbled cheek.
"It was an accident," she offered.
"Yeah," he admitted, but not without regret. "Pancakes while they're still lukewarm?"
She accepted the change of subject.
"You microwave them for a few secs; I'll get the syrup from the car."
After the pancakes, and the bacon, as they were sipping their coffees, Jack asked, "Ya wanna go to the eleven o'clock?...Together?"
Sam looked at him. He looked calm. Peaceful.
"What's changed?" she asked.
"I have you." he replied.
She slipped her slender hand into his large one, feeling the warmth and the solidity. With him by her side there was nothing she could not face. Even hope.