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MYSTERY MAN
If there’s one thing Malcolm Barrett dislikes more than anything else about his job, it’s the never-ending avalanche of paperwork required at the end of an operation. Getting shot at—even as infrequently as that occurs—seems more preferable to him than the mind-numbing dullness of paperwork. He’d rather be cooped up in the van on an endless stake-out than sitting at his desk typing a report, if his two-finger method can actually be called typing. He sighs and awkwardly pecks out “Ba’al”; he really should have listened to his high school counselor when she’d suggested he take typing instead of drama.
The pinging of an email entering his inbox is a welcome distraction and he sits back and stretches before clicking his mouse on his inbox. His heart skips a beat—much to his chagrin—when he sees the sender, Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter. Malcolm pauses, the cursor arrow hovering over her name, his index finger twitching on the mouse. He’d been thrilled to work with her again on their latest operation, hell, he’d even gone so far as to send Daniel Jackson into the hotel after Ba’al instead of her just so he could spend time with her. And to what end?
“So, you're single again?”
“Not exactly.”
High on the euphoria rushing through his veins when she’d confessed she’d broken up with her fiancé, his crash and burn with her reluctant reply was immediate. Her ‘not exactly’ wasn’t exactly what he’d wanted to hear. He’s a successful, reasonably handsome man who’s good at his job and believes in what he does. Hell, the worst thing his ex-wife ever had to say about him was that he was ‘boring’. And if he’d been too boring for Jessica, maybe he was too boring for Samantha Carter as well.
Self-preservation dictated that he give up carrying a torch for someone who isn’t the least bit interested in him before he makes an even bigger fool of himself. But the part of him that’s hopelessly infatuated with her doesn’t seem to care; even to the point of turning down his sister’s never-ending attempts to set him up with one of her numerous—and available—friends.
The arrival of another email finally breaks through his inertia and he clicks on the one from Sam. It’s a just an email, he reminds himself, quickly gleaning the few pertinent details from her brief report on the events in Seattle, with more to come later. There’s no better time than the present to get over her; she’s long gone from the DC area and the likelihood of their working together, while not non-existent, is slim to almost none. Filing her email away, he tries—mostly unsuccessfully—to block the image of her beautiful blue eyes, blonde hair and smiling face from his mind and starts adding the additional information to his report.
The minor additions turn into an entire revision of his report and it’s almost seven o’clock before Malcolm finally leaves the office. There are still a few hearty—or foolish—souls working away in their offices, but he doesn’t linger; the security guard stationed at the exit gives him a desultory wave and then Malcolm’s outside. In spite of the later hour, the heat and humidity of the late summer evening slams into him. He pauses and out of force of habit, makes a quick survey of the familiar surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary; a few men and women dressed in business suits heading towards the Metro or the parking garage, dodging the more casually dressed tourists and the occasional street person or two that seem to populate the streets of the city.
In deference to the heat, Malcolm loosens his tie and the top button of his shirt, heading towards the parking garage. The light turns just as he reaches the corner and he stops; now that he’s out of the shadow of the office building, the still bright sunlight beats down and there’s a brief flash of light from across the street. He squints and shades his eyes; it’s only the sun glaring off the glass doors of local watering hole across the street when they open. The light changes to green and on an impulse Malcolm doesn’t really want to investigate too closely, he veers away from the parking garage and heads into the bar.
After the heat of the outdoors, it’s almost cold inside and the light is so dim, he can barely see. But his eyes quickly adjust; the bar isn’t crowded at all and ignoring the practically empty expanse of open stools in front of the bar, he easily makes his way towards a back booth. The waitress is there almost immediately, a testament to the dearth of customers. She’s all smiles and casual flirting, and even though his brain is still full of Samantha Carter, he summons up a smile and plays the game for as long as it takes to order a beer. She walks away; young, slim and attractive and he wonders tiredly when he became so obsessed with a woman he can’t have that he can ignore an attractive one.
The waitress returns with his beer and another smile, but a few more customers have filtered in and she doesn’t linger. He takes a big swallow of the cold brew, savoring the taste and the subtle feeling of relaxation it brings when he suddenly sits bolt upright. Standing just inside the front door of the bar is Samantha Carter. For one wild minute, Malcolm thinks he’s hallucinating her, he thought she was hundreds of miles away, back in Colorado at the SGC. She’s not in uniform, from a distance it almost looks like she’s wearing the same clothes she had on when she was transported from right in front of him to Seattle. And he thinks maybe all of his dreams have come true and he’s going to get a second chance when she smiles and seems to look his way; and even from across the dark bar, he can see the happiness in her face.
His heart almost beating out of his chest, Malcolm starts to stand up, only to sink back down—unnoticed, he hopes—when she crosses to the bar running across the front of the room and kisses the sole person sitting there before sitting down on a barstool next to him. The man’s back is to him, but he’s wearing the unmistakable blues of the Air Force. Malcolm’s mind is racing, trying to identify the man, but he’s too far away and it’s too dark for him to see his rank insignia, about the only thing he tell about him is that he has gray hair. He wants the man to be some old friend or colleague of hers that she’s met for a drink since she’s in town, but the kiss doesn’t really give credence to that particular theory, nor does the casually intimate air that surrounds them.
Sinking back into the booth, Malcolm takes another drink of his beer, barely tasting it. Even though it feels like pure torture, he can’t keep his eyes off the couple. He’s not sure he’s ever seen her looking so relaxed and happy and he wishes he was a better man, the kind that could be happy because she’s so obviously happy. What he is however, is almost insanely jealous, not of Sam but of the man with her. Malcolm thinks he could die a happy man if Samantha Carter ever looked at him the way she’s gazing at the man.
He’s not sure whether it’s an act of cowardice or self-preservation, but he hunkers down in the booth and prepares to wait them out. Even though he’s dying to know the identify of her mystery man, he doesn’t want to have to put on some act when he’s introduced to the luckiest man on the planet. Malcolm somehow manages to finish the beer and then a second one that he doesn’t remember ordering while the couple linger over their drinks—a beer for the man and some kind of elegant looking martini for Sam.
Just when he thinks he’s going to escape notice, Sam stands up and looks around the bar; she leans over and says something to the man and then starts walking his way. Malcolm sinks further back into the booth and stares studiously at the empty beer mug in front of him, heaving a sigh of relief when she disappears down the corridor to the bathrooms without seeing him. Now’s his chance and he looks around almost desperately for the waitress, who is nowhere to be seen. Deciding to just leave the money on the table, he pulls out his wallet, fighting down the unexpected panic when the only cash he has is a five dollar bill and a few ones. He either waits or goes to the bar to pay and since he doesn’t think he can sit there and watch her with her mystery man for a minute longer, he makes his way to the bar.
There are more people sitting there now, men and women, laughing and chatting or just watching the baseball game playing on the television over the bar. Ignoring everyone except the bartender, Malcolm hands over his credit card and waits impatiently for the man to process the transaction. Sam’s ‘friend’ is sitting a mere three barstools away, his back to him and his eyes on the baseball game. Malcolm still can’t get a good look at him, but now all he really cares about is getting out of the bar unnoticed. And he almost makes it; quickly signing the credit card receipt, pocketing his credit card and receipt, he prepares to slip through the modest crowd and out the door when the man suddenly turns and looks right at him.
“General O’Neill!” The name of Sam’s mystery man escapes from him involuntarily.
O’Neill frowns slightly and then his features relax. “Agent Barrett, right?”
“Yes, sir.” Malcolm replies automatically, his mind reeling. Samantha Carter’s mystery man is Jack O’Neill? He’d heard the rumors, hell, who didn’t hear those kinds of rumors? But he hadn’t given them much credence, especially when she’d gone and gotten engaged to Pete Shanahan. But it was almost like a veil had been lifted and it all suddenly made sense—and Malcolm was enough of a realist to know he’d never stand a chance against Jack O’Neill.
“Haven’t seen you around here before,” O’Neill comments. “But then I’ve only been in DC a few months.”
“My office building is just over there,” Malcolm offers, waving his arm in the general direction of the front door.
“Ah well…small world and all that.” O’Neill pauses and there’s an awkward silence; Malcolm starts to edge closer to the front door when O’Neill suddenly smiles and stands up, blocking his way. “Sam, look who’s here? It’s Agent Barrett.”
In the moment before he turns around, Malcolm wishes that either the earth would open up and swallow him whole or someone onboard the Prometheus would magically transport him somewhere far, far away. But neither happens and he turns around, forcing a smile to his face.
“Malcolm,” she says, squeezing in next to O’Neill and linking her arm with his. “It’s good to see you.” Her smile is genuine and Malcolm can’t help but respond to her warmth.
“His office is just over there,” O’Neill says.
“I remember,” she replies. “Are you here by yourself?” she adds, looking around as if expecting to see him with someone.
“Ah, no…I just stopped in for a quick drink,” he replies a bit too quickly. “Paperwork makes me thirsty.”
“Doesn’t it,” O’Neill comments dryly.
“When did you get back to DC?” He was striving for casual, but when a slight frown creases her brow, he’s afraid he sounded…accusing. He doesn’t miss the sideways look she shares with O’Neill, who merely gives a brief shake of his head.
She smiles again and it seems to Malcolm that she holds onto O’Neill’s arm just a little tighter. “Just yesterday,” she finally says. “There were a few loose ends that needed to be tied up.”
Malcolm recognizes the subtle snub and doesn’t take offense; he’s been in the spy business too long. And if he decides he wants to know, he has his sources in the Pentagon. Besides, he’s found out what he really needed to know. “Well,” he says before their impromptu meeting gets anymore awkward. “I really must be going.” He turns to O’Neill. “General, good to see you, sir.”
And Sam…he lets his eyes linger on her, not caring that O’Neill is watching. Malcolm reaches out and takes her free hand with both of his. Her smile is tender and he really wishes this wasn’t goodbye. “It was good to work with you again,” he says. Stepping close, he presses a kiss to her cheek and murmurs, “I’m happy for you.”
In spite of his envy, he is happy for her. And in the instant before he releases her hand, he feels the gentle squeeze and she whispers, “Thank you.”
He glances at O’Neill, the older man looks surprisingly undisturbed by the whole scene, in fact the expression on his face might actually be one of understanding. Whatever it is, Malcolm knows better than to extend his goodbyes and with one last nod at the couple, he heads out the door. The sun is almost gone and the heat is just as stifling, but Malcolm feels curiously lighter than he did before entering the bar, as if a great weight has been lifted off his shoulders. And maybe that’s exactly what has happened…and just maybe when he gets home he’ll call his sister and finally let her set him up with one of her friends.
THE END