The End Of The World

by The X-Woman

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/asx/xwoman/endworld.php
Summary: She wished Jolinar had just let her die. But she was too ashamed to admit it

It wasn't the memories that assaulted her at night, in her sleep, the memories that were not her own. It wasn't the fact that she hadn't spoken to Jack O'Neill since two weeks after it happened, because it was he that she blamed solely for the creature's death. It wasn't even that the only one she seemed to be able to communicate with was Cassandra since it happened, even though she spent her nights in Janet's bed. It wasn't even the cutting in the bathroom; the deep, aching slices she carved into her flesh to numb the pain that Janet would examine in the aftermath wordlessly, treat and wrap, with nothing but a look at Sam, a begging look, asking why do you do this to yourself, I'm not a psychiatrist, damn it, and I don't know how to help you.

What it was, ultimately, was that she didn't want to be helped. The realisation to her that Cassie's smile, holding Janet, the fucking sunrise in the morning: none of it made her want to live.

She wished Jolinar had just let her die. But she was too ashamed to admit it.

They excused her from duty indefinitely when she tried to hit O'Neill. She felt justified; what kind of bastard could look her in the eyes as she left the infirmary and actually ask if she was "okay."

"Fuck you." Was her reply. "If you had believed me, none of this would have happened."

What hurt most was that he hadn't listened to her. The image of him walking away as she begged for him to believe haunted her. She was too familiar with the image of him walking away from her.

So when he didn't reply she tried to hit him, and ended up with herself pinned to the floor, his body pressed against her. She bit and screamed at him, words escaping from her mouth she should have never said to her commanding officer. And then she sobbed; grasping at him, asking him why he never fucked her, if he had only fucked her maybe, just maybe, things would be okay right now. If he had only wanted her, maybe he would have believed her, and maybe Jolinar wouldn't be dead.

She lost consciousness almost immediately after Janet sedated her in the hallway and took her away, so she did not see Colonel Jack O'Neill cry. She had not seen the pain in his eyes at the disgusting, pitiful creature his second in command had become; the creature, he convinced himself, he made her become.

She hadn't talked to him since.

And fucking Janet was a whole other story. It was a desperate attempt for Sam to understand the situation, after she accidentally found out that Janet and O'Neill had been sleeping together since they met. The idea of her best friend in the arms of the man she most hated made her physically ill, and their first time was violent and hungry, although Janet would never admit that Sam damn near raped her. She couldn't bring herself to, because she wanted to understand Sam's pain, and she had dreamt of it happening anyway... and how could something that you wanted to happen have been forced? It hurt, yes... it hurt like hell, but for Janet, the first time always did.

But for Janet and Sam, the hurting never stopped. The first time was physical. But every time after that, Janet felt her chest constrict and her body ache and both she and Sam cried themselves to sleep on opposite sides of the bed.

The End of the World was Sunday, when Cassie went off with a friend to church and Sam needed Janet more than ever. She attacked her lips on the couch and pressing her against the cushions, ignoring Janet's yelps of objection as Sam pulled away her clothes with disregard, tearing her lover's favourite shirt in the process and biting teeth and nails into her skin, revelling in the smaller woman's whimpers of pain. Sam's fingers pushed inside Janet with no rhythm, pounding in and out of her, tearing skin with her nails and making Janet moan in a sick mixture of pain and pleasure that she wanted to escape more than anything. Her eyes squeezed shut, refusing to meet Sam's gaze, and when she came forcefully it was a sickened convulsion, accompanied with a breath that was Jack's name, elicited by a memory or a plea for help.

Sam pulled back, her fingers covered in the barest amount of metallic crimson, and she stared at the weakened women laying on the couch, clothes in disarray, red hair a bloody halo around her head. It was in that moment that Sam stopped kidding herself, and knew that what she felt for Janet was not love. Not because Janet wasn't important to her, not because there was anyone else Sam wanted more.

It was just the simple fact that Sam knew she was no longer capable of love.

"Don't hate me, Janet."

Eyes remained closed. There was no reply.

Cassie slept upstairs that night while it happened, as Sam held the kitchen knife to her wrist as Janet watched.

"I can't save you, Sam," she admitted, her voice hollow and weak.

"I don't want you too." Sam dragged the knife across her skin as the blood seeped, staining the ivory skin.

"Why are you doing this? To punish me? To punish Cassie? We're the ones that have to clean up the blood in the end."

Sam pressed harder as she cut, her eyes locked on Janet's, the only sound in the room their laboured breathing and the patter of blood as it kissed the linoleum.

"I loved you so much." Janet whispered, wincing as the blood fell.

Sam let the blade slide deep within her. "I never asked you to."

Blinking away tears, the redhead looked at the other woman, steeling her eyes.

"Go to hell, Sam."

When she fell to the floor, bathed in the warmth of her own blood, she didn't know how it would end. She didn't want to know, didn't want to know the choice Janet would make to let her live or die.

All she knew is that Janet was correct. She would go to hell, as people who are incapable of love did. Regardless of whether she lived or died that night, she would be in hell forever, trapped by her own anger, her own regret, her own realisation that when Jolinar died, she had as well, and with her all of her hopes and dreams and wants for happiness.

It wasn't the memories that flooded her mind as her breathing began to shallow; it wasn't the memories of Jack O'Neill's sadness or Janet Fraiser's unforgiving eyes in those final moments of regret. It wasn't the cold understanding that her only feeling was that of the searing liquid that painted her chilled skin.

What is was, ultimately, was that as her vision faded, the final image was of Janet, leaning over her body, face blank and body still, but her eyes were filled with tears, and Sam knew that Janet had loved her. She wondered if it was possible to die in peace.

Sam's eyes fluttered shut.

Janet remembered their times in bed, the feverish lovemaking and in the end the feeling that a hand constricted her lungs and squeezed them breathless, making every gasp as painful as the first. She knew now that the pain she felt was Sam's, and the only way to escape that pain was to let Sam stop breathing.

So she did.