Retribution

I'm afraid I have no idea who made this cover, but I love it. Thank you so much!

Disclaimer – MGM/Gekko/Double Secret own them.

Set in season six, after ‘Abyss' but before ‘Prometheus'. A good general knowledge of the show would probably help, but you definitely need to know about the events of ‘Cold Lazarus', ‘The Gamekeeper', ‘The Devil You Know', ‘Beneath The Surface', ‘Chain Reaction', ‘Abyss' and ‘Paradise Lost' to understand everything.

Author's notes: This was the fic from hell. I mean really. So there are people to thank. Pretty much everyone who read this when I started posting it as WiP. Sorry it took so long.

Anna, for kicking my ass, and kicking it hard.

Michelle, for being...well...Michelle. And for never stopping the mockage.

Nellie. Nellie, Nellie, Nellie. What can one say about Nellie? She is Greatness. *smooch* You have her to thank.

Anyone who encouraged, bugged, or moaned at me. Thank you.

There's a contradiction in the series about just how well Jack and Kawalsky knew each other – but I'm going with the ‘they were good friends for ages' view.

Use of {} indicate flashbacks. Use of {{}} indicates a flashback within a flashback *g*.

FYI, the town exists, the motel doesn't – although there is a hotel there. I decided not to use that for my own reasons ;)

Feedback for this puppy would most definitely be loved.

The car was already there, Bliss realised as he casually glanced around the corner of the building. He shouldn't have been surprised – she was good at what she did; probably as good as he was – it was just that he'd always preferred to be the first one there.

Still, it didn't change the plan, and he took the opportunity to study her for a few minutes. She was standing near the front of the blue Volvo, a map spread out across the hood. She constantly frowned, sighed, and fidgeted, occasionally trying to fold up the map that was usually too big for one person to handle.

Looking for all the world like a woman lost on the way to somewhere.

He knew better.

It was mid-afternoon and as was usual for this part of Canada at this time of year, it was cloudy. Not dark, heavy clouds, but cloudy nonetheless. Still, the sun was making a half-hearted attempt to get through, and had he been the type who ‘communed' with nature he might have made a point of appreciating that.

Pulling his hands out from his jacket pockets, he moved away from leaning against the building and began crossing the street.

She soon noticed him, rubbing a hand over her short blonde hair.

The last time he'd seen her, she'd been a brunette.

"Hey, can you help me?" She asked, pointing to various different roads as she spoke. "I know *that's* Sullivan, and that's Redford, and that's Wright...but where the hell is Smithson?"

Bliss moved to the front of the car, and looked down at the map. "It would help if you had this the right way up."

She lifted her hand up to her mouth, ‘amazed' at her own stupidity. "God, how embarrassing."

"Don't worry about it," he assured her, turning it himself, and picking up what lay beneath the map as he did so. "Here," the index finger of his left hand pointed to the road on the map, as his right hand shoved into his jacket pocket, depositing his pick up. "You wanna go back a few hundred yards and take a left."

"I can't believe I missed that," she muttered, before sighing. "Mom was always useless at map reading. Guess I picked up her genes, huh?"

Her jokes had yet to improve. "See you later, Merriweather."

It was as he was turning to go that she spoke with exasperation – just as he knew she would.

"For God's sake!"

Pausing, he pivoted to smile at her. "What? The exchange has been made. I see no need for you to play the lost tourist part any longer."

The exasperation gave way to humour, as she chuckled and shook her head. "I guess I keep hoping you'd change – but where would the fun be in that, Bliss?"

"Uh uh," he warned. "What did we say about surnames last time?"

"Fine, fine," Merriweather rolled her eyes. "*Charlie*."

"Much better. And stop worrying, Victoria! There's no one here who can see or hear anything; I made sure of that." With the technology he'd gained over the last few years, even a parabolic would be useless.

Studying him silently, one hand leant against the hood and the other pressed against her hip, she narrowed her eyes as if she were debating something with herself. Apparently reaching a decision, she pushed away from the hood and purposefully walked towards the closest car door. "Well, as long as you insist on changing procedure, I might as well make a departure myself." Swinging the door open she reached inside, causing Bliss to automatically reach for his weapon, though he didn't pull it out.

Climbing back out of the Volvo holding a file folder in her left hand, she pouted. "Charlie, I'm upset. You don't trust me."

"I don't trust anyone." He reminded her, eyeing the folder but trying to look like he wasn't.

"True." She conceded, then proceeded with business. "I came across something a few days ago I thought you might like. I know for a fact that it relates to something you're interested in – although I still haven't figured out *why* you're so fascinated." Merriweather smirked, obviously having a very good idea indeed why he was so fascinated with it.

Whatever it was.

Bliss pondered over the folder and the unexpected turn of events. It had to be good; she knew better than to even tempt him with bad or uninteresting information. The folder was nothing special: made out of beige card and probably containing a few sheets of paper, maybe a photograph.

But he had no idea what it was for. "What do you want?"

Lowering the folder, she smiled again. "Why Charlie, I'd be giving this to you as a gesture of good will. To reassure you that I'd like to continue doing business with you for a *very* long time."

Good will? In his experience, good will came with a very high price tag. "Thirty per cent?"

"Forty."

Ouch. "Done."

Lifting up her arm she handed the folder over and moved to the front of the car. Picking up the map she neatly folded it up within in seconds, and threw it into the passenger seat as she climbed behind the wheel. "By the way," Merriweather said as she started the engine, "you're gonna wonder why you didn't find out about this earlier. The truth is: I don't know. I figure I got lucky stumbling across it; either it was misfiled or wasn't destroyed when it was supposed to be. In any case, that's all I can give you. And while I'm here," she abruptly changed subjects, "what do you think of the hair? I need a new look soon."

Bliss liked it. He really did, but he was too busy thinking about the folder now tucked underneath his arm. "I'd go for redhead next time. Matches your temperament."

He'd always preferred blondes himself.

The trip back in his own car had been uneventful, and he reached the motel within thirty minutes. Unlocking the door he stepped inside his room, and did a quick sweep of the area.

Old habits died hard.

Once he'd confirmed with his own eyes and ears that he was alone, he placed his pick up in its hiding place then settled on the edge of the bed with the folder.

The only interesting thing about the journey to the motel had been the folder. It'd sat on the seat next to his the entire way, drawing his gaze constantly, sometimes to the detriment of his driving. He could have opened it up anywhere, but it was only at the meeting point and in this very room that he felt safe enough to do so.

Wondering what great revelation was forthcoming (and realistically, would it be that great? There wasn't much that surprised him anymore), he flipped open the folder.

"Shit."

He recognised the layout. He recognised the name.

And as he lifted the first sheet of paper up, he recognised the picture underneath.

"Shit!"

Merriweather had been right – why the hell hadn't he known about this? Sure, it was before his time, and it didn't relate to the people he'd worked with directly, but this was big.

Maybe not in the grand scheme of things, but for that thing he most definitely *did* have an interest in, this was big.

Bliss' last remaining morsel of conscience quivered: that one piece of him that could be affected by the sarcastic, brilliant, geeky, alien bunch of them.

His plans changed. Leaving the country early tomorrow for his original destination was out of the question. He had to get to Colorado.

He had a delivery to make.

Jack was exhausted. Completely and utterly exhausted. It wasn't even as if he'd been fighting a Goa'uld, countless Jaffa, or repeatedly tortured to death.

No, today he'd faced his greatest adversary yet: mud.

The MALP readings (sometime after the MALP had stopped sinking) had quite happily informed them that P2R 418 was chock full of mud. There were gallons of the stuff. But, his team had encountered mud before, and they certainly knew how to dress and how to prepare themselves.

They'd been wrong.

Carter had theorised (didn't she always?) that maybe this mud was of a different composition than the mud they were used to encountering (there were different compositions of mud?), and suggested she'd run some tests when they got back to the SGC.

Jack had merely dragged his latest boot-full of slimy stuff forward, only deriving the very slightest of pleasures from the fact that Jonas had just fallen front first, performing the kind of belly flop any tourist on vacation would be proud of.

They were back on Earth now, and had showered vigorously. Four times.

They'd given their verbal report – which didn't amount to much – and while they were still in the briefing room, Jack had asked the General why it was that SG-1 always seemed to get the muddy planets.

Hammond had said something about ‘karma'.

But at this precise moment in time, he was opening the front door and stepping into his house. Hammond didn't want a written report – which wouldn't amount to much either – until tomorrow, so Jack was taking the opportunity to go home, sleep, and recharge his batteries.

Maybe even *over*charge. His knee was playing up, his back was complaining, and the less said about his feet, the better.

Closing the door he flicked on the light switch, and descended into his living room. Slipping off his jacket he cast it onto the sofa, and stepped around the-

Coffee table.

Jack paused, wary.

There was a folder on the coffee table, and he certainly hadn't put it there.

Instantly on edge he moved, backing up to the closest wall and taking in the immediate area. Realising that nothing else was out of place and cursing his lack of a weapon, he silently stepped up into the kitchen, pulling a knife out of a drawer.

He moved again, boots softly padding against the carpet as his old training kicked in, searching the house. Bedroom, spare room, bathroom, closet; every possible space was investigated for any sign of disturbance, but when he came back to search through the washing machine he had to admit he was getting desperate.

Concluding that whoever had left his little package had long since left, Jack returned the knife to the drawer and soon found himself sitting on the sofa, staring at the folder.

There'd been no evidence of a break in, although he really hadn't been expecting to find any. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing, and Jack already had a name that was at the top of his list of suspects. He couldn't know for sure, not yet, but it seemed the most likely.

He knew he should contact the SGC. Any normal person would contact the police or maybe ignore it altogether, but given the fact that he worked at a top secret facility – *the* top secret facility – they really should be informed that someone was sneaking into his house and leaving strange little gifts behind.

But...

What if it was something he didn't want them to see? He couldn't imagine anything in his personal life that was worth blackmailing him over in order to keep it a secret (and the one thing that did briefly pop into his head was instantly dismissed because it wasn't much of a secret anyway).

Well, the answer was simple. To satisfy his curiosity he'd have a quick peek at the contents of the folder – clearly whoever had left it behind wanted him to study it – and as soon as that was done he'd call in the SGC.

Simple.

The folder was unassuming, normal.

Reaching out a hand he grabbed the bottom right hand corner with his thumb and index finger, and flipped the folder open.

The first thing that jumped out at him was the post-it note. Yellow in colour, it was stuck across the top sheet of paper, the words ‘Trying to find out more' written across it in black ink. Nothing else.

Now Jack had absolutely *no* doubt who'd left it behind.

During his reading of the note he'd spared a cursory glance to the paper behind it. The basic format was familiar – he knew what kind of information was held in this folder – but he still wasn't sure what it related to.

Increasingly intrigued (what the hell could he want him to see?), Jack carefully peeled the post-it note off, revealing the name that'd been obscured.

And in that moment, as the optic nerves in his eyes took in the printed text and relayed that information to his brain, everything changed.

Everything.

He stood, needing to move, needing to understand, his mind racing as he stopped being careful, roughly holding the folder in both hands, moving, turning pages, seeing the photograph, catching his breath, eyes burning as he tried – and failed – to *understand*.

No. No. He couldn't believe it. He *refused* to believe it.

Not after all this time...

And just as suddenly the need to move was gone; his body giving up as it let itself fall backwards towards the table, not caring if it held his weight or broke into a dozen dangerous, wooden pieces.

It did.

"So, how was it?"

Sam fondly rolled her eyes at the incessant curiosity in her friend's voice, but indicated at the same time that she should sit in the seat opposite hers.

Janet promptly did.

They'd been in the commissary for a while now, sipping coffee while reading over paperwork.

Or, at least Sam had been there for while. Janet had just arrived – and there was no mistaking the subject she intended to talk about.

Thinking back to the previous evening, Sam pondered over her opinion of the ‘date'. "He was nice."

Wincing immediately, Janet lifted her own mug of coffee to her lips. "Ouch."

"Ouch?" Sam queried, having to wait until her friend finished drinking to get a response.

"‘Nice?'" was the eventual reply. "Nice just about sounds the death knell for any form of relationship."

"That's not true," Sam argued instinctively, not knowing why.

"*Really*?" Janet continued, obviously wanting to get some off of her chest. "How did you once describe Narim to me?"

Her silence was answer enough.

"Uh huh," Janet pressed on as if she *had* spoken her answer. "And did you have a relationship with him?"

More silence.

"Especially considering the fact that there was certainly the opportunity..."

Even more silence.

"I rest my case," She concluded, lifting her mug as if to emphasise her point.

It wasn't often the fact that Janet knew her so well got on Sam's nerves, but this was beginning to be one of those times. "In any case, I wasn't in the best of moods last night – that mission was exhausting, even though nothing actually happened. I almost didn't go out at all."

Janet mulled over her words, pursing her lips together. "I guess that *could* distort or influence your opinion of him. Of course you realise there's only one way to know for sure, right?"

"Second date?"

"Second date," Janet confirmed, as they clunked their mugs together.

It was something worth celebrating. The words ‘second date' had passed neither of their lips for the last six years. There'd been a few first dates but for various reasons – lack of time, lack of chemistry, saving the Universe – they hadn't gone much beyond that.

"So..." an all-too-innocent MD began, after they'd lowered their mugs and sat in a happy silence for a while, "does anyone else know you were on a date last night?"

Sam's gaze flicked towards Janet, but her eyes were suspiciously lowered towards her coffee. "No," she answered carefully. This was something Janet knew better than to bring up directly, rarely at all. "And I don't see why anyone else *should* know."

She was saved from any kind of lecture or knowing gaze when Jonas literally bounded into the room, drawing everyone's attention. She was the only one he acknowledged, eyes widening as he saw her – evidently she was who he was looking for.

"Sam!"

The coffee, the mug, the commissary – all of it was forgotten as the familiar trickle of fear worked its way along her spine.

She knew who this related to. She *knew*. "What is it?"

She was right.

"It's Colonel O'Neill."

It wasn't as bad as she'd feared. She was standing in General Hammond's office – having been brought there by Jonas at the General's request – listening to what he knew about the Colonel's situation.

Apparently it wasn't much.

"Security confirms he hasn't reported in today. No one's seen him, and I'm not getting a response on either his land or cell numbers. I take it you haven't heard from him?"

"No, sir." Sam shook her head, swallowing. Though initially relieved that they didn't actually know anything had happened to him, that same doubt was now preying on her mind.

Sighing, Hammond began reaching for the phone. "Then I'm going to have to send someone-"

"Sir," she interrupted, stopping his hand just short of its target. "I'll volunteer to do it. Unless you have any objections..."

"None at all, Major," he sat back in his chair, lowering the arm. "In fact, I'd prefer it if it *was* you. That way if it transpires that Colonel O'Neill has managed to get himself into a predicament, I know I can count on you to be discreet."

Despite her concern Sam found herself smiling, appreciating his humour. "Yes, sir."

"In that case, you're dismissed."

Nodding, Sam was already moving towards the door. "I'll contact you as soon as I know something sir."

"Thank you, Major. I'd appreciate that."

She didn't bother trying to rationalise her decision to volunteer, despite the fact that rationalising and dissecting most of her encounters with him seemed to be a favourite activity of her brain. She'd long ago had to accept the fact that she thought about him a hell of a lot more than was appropriate.

She did, however, like to think that she was good at hiding it.

Expertly rebuffing Teal'c and Jonas' insistent pleas that they join her on her sojourn to the Colonel's house, she quickly found herself driving away from Cheyenne Mountain, grateful that she didn't have to ‘do' not-caring in a confined space for a prolonged period of time.

Not that the drive to his house was particularly long, but when you were more aware of people's eyes on you than you should have been, it tended to feel as if someone had been messing with the natural flow of time.

She was surprised the Goa'uld hadn't tried that yet.

Throughout her journey, she was constantly on the lookout for breakdown trucks at the side of the road, or the flashing lights of an ambulance. She was only slightly relieved when she parked outside the Colonel's house, having encountered neither. At least then she would have *known*.

Not bothering to lock the door she stepped onto the path in his front yard hoping it was something stupid; that he'd just slept through his alarm.

Then it was something she could make fun of, tease him about. It would be the first time since they'd met – discarding injury or illness – that he hadn't reported for duty on time.

Though it seemed he liked to play it fast and loose with the rules, she knew he had a great deal of respect for the work and the man they served under.

Having reached the front door, she knocked loudly, twice.

Nothing. But the door was definitely locked, and she chose to take that as a good sign. "Colonel?" She knocked again. "Are you there?"

Still receiving no reply and unable to see anything of significance through the windows, an idea came to her and she pulled out her cell phone. Dialling the first number stored in its memory, she soon heard the sound of his phone ringing – but there were definitely no sudden movements in the house, no shadowy figure cursing and stumbling as it thumped about in search of the incessant noise.

Terminating the call, she dialled the second number stored in its memory and pressed her free ear against the door.

Within seconds she could hear his cell phone; it was faint, but it was definitely there. The fact that she could hear it at all probably meant it was in the hallway or living room.

So, that confirmed it. His truck was there. For whatever reason he was unwilling or unable to answer phones that were quite clearly in perfect working order. There was only one thing left to do.

She had a key. They all did, although Jonas had only received his a few weeks ago (and even then it was grudgingly, at her persuasion).

This would, however, be the first time she'd ever had to use it.

Digging out the key ring she'd shoved into her pocket after climbing out of her car, she quickly located the key that would get her into his house – a key that, even she had to admit, she knew a little too well.

No longer hesitating she put it in the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

There was nothing that said anything was wrong, not initially. She couldn't see him, but at least he wasn't sprawled out on the floor with a head injury. Closing the door, she began moving towards the living room. "Colonel?"

Spying his jacket across the sofa (he'd made it home, then) she stepped around the matching chair...

The table. The coffee table she'd rested a glass on more than once was in pieces. Heart thumping she bent down, rapidly scanning the shattered fragments with her eyes.

No blood.

That didn't calm her down.

"Colonel!"

Placing her weight on her knees she propelled herself up, well past caring being careful anymore. "Sir!" The kitchen, nothing there, pivoting, searching for any indication of where he might be; running back past the front door and along the hallway, throwing open the bathroom door and reassuringly seeing no body on the hard floor, stumbling into the bedroom-

Feet. Sticking out from by the left side of the bed.

"Oh God," she whispered, wrenching her hand from the door handle and falling to her knees beside him, almost grabbing his neck for a pulse.

There was no obvious sign of injury, but-

Pulse.

Allowing herself one shaky breath she closed her eyes, before forcing them open and gently tapping his face. "Sir?"

He stirred, groaning, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by the smell of alcohol. Turning away instinctively, she noticed everything she'd missed in her desire to reach him.

He may have been lying on the floor, but he wasn't the only thing; there were a few empty beer bottles, a nearly empty whisky bottle, and what seemed to be scattered pictures of-

"‘arter?"

Her head snapped back round to look at him, watching as his flickering eyes tried to focus. They were so red they were almost raw. What the hell happened? "Yes sir. I'm here. Are you all right?"

"That's a," he shifted, and immediately put a hand to his back, "Ow! Matter of opini...oh..." His eyes began to widen as if he'd suddenly remembered something. "Oh, *God*."

What?! "Sir?"

Ignoring her, probably not even aware of her, his right hand reached up and obscured most of his face. "Oh, God, it's *real*..."

She'd never seen such naked emotion on his face, never. Even when they'd been trapped on Apophis' ship on other sides of the force field, it didn't even compare to this. Knowing no other way to reach him, she gently touched the hand covering his face. "Sir? What's real? What happened?" Her stomach felt like it was simultaneously being pulled apart and squeezed together, desperate for something to do that would help. She didn't even know what the problem was.

He didn't respond verbally, merely shaking his head, staring at nothing.

Something caught her eye; something she hadn't seen before because he'd been lying on it. A file folder.

Wondering if it was connected to whatever had upset him so deeply, she picked it up, opened it, and frowned. She recognised the name, of course, and immediately had no doubt that this was responsible for his current state – but still didn't know *why*. "What does this mean?" she asked, holding the folder up, trying to draw his attention.

It worked, just not in the way she expected.

"This has *nothing* to do with you!" he yelled, yanking the folder out of her hand and trying to get up. Obviously his back was still complaining, because his groaning continued.

Shocked but determined, she easily caught up with him, blocking his exit from the room and doing just as he had – yanking the folder out of the hand.

"Carter..."

"I don't care, Colonel, if you bring me up on charges. I'm not leaving this room until you tell me what happened."

"You don't understand." He looked like he was about to fall over. In fact, he looked terrible.

"So explain it to me."

"Carter!"

She wasn't giving up. "What does it *mean*!?"

Shaking, defeated, gasping, he gave her the answer.

And nothing was the same.

In his mind he saw it: the one memory he'd re-lived more than any other.

{He jumped out of the car, eager to leave the work and the job behind. Unusually it'd only been eight hours since he'd last been home, but he hadn't even seen her that morning.

Watched her, certainly, while she slept.

But at work today he'd been tied up with mind-numbingly stupid superiors, official reports and red tape - disproving the theory that their work was supposed to be both unofficial and free of red tape.

So, he was more eager than ever to see her.

Sitting on the steps in the front yard, Sara saw him arrive but didn't move, instead waving coyly. He didn't know how the hell she could even *look* coy after everything they'd done and been through together; he just loved that she had the ability.

Tugging off his cap he leapt heroically up the steps, grabbing her into a bear hug as he let his car keys slide to the ground. She squealed and soon the bear hug turned into a real one as they touched, sighed, kissed, and he began nuzzling at her neck.

God, she was beautiful. Before he met her he never would have thought he'd turn into one of those mushy, kissy-kissy husbands - and while he wasn't *quite* that bad (some habits died just too hard), he was erring dangerously close.

"I missed you," one of them murmured, earning a similar reply from the other, Jack marvelling at the highlights the sun brought out in her hair.

And his return home was about to turn even more perfect.

"Look what came home today," she told him, drawing his attention to something she'd managed to hold onto all along.

Charlie. A picture of his son. Their son. It still amazed him - though sometimes less so when Charlie did something worthy of being grounded. Sighing happily, he held onto the right side of the photo with his hand. "It's great." He really had to congratulate the school photographer for taking such great pictures. Not that he ever would, but it was a nice thought. That was the kind of thing she always did. "Where is he?" The perfect end to this imperfect day would be baseball.

"I don't know," she mumbled, frowning as she glanced around, as if just noticing his absence. "He was here just a few minutes ago..."

He was about to smile, about to hug her, about to say he'd go find him when-

The noise.

Echoing through the house, and into the yard.

The noise.

No, no, pushing his body up, no.

Sara, screaming. "CHARLIE!"

Propelling himself off the steps and onto the gravel, crunching footsteps, leg muscles screaming, yanking open the door and thundering up the stairs.

The noise.

"Charlie!"

The noise.

Careening around the top of the stairs, knowing there was only one place the noise could have come from, thumping into the bedroom.

There.

Charlie. Gun. Blood.

His gun. Blood.

Blood.

His eyes locked on the weapon lying next to Charlie, obviously having fallen from his grasp.

Oh God...

Medical training previously used only on secret operations, now used on his son. "Call an ambulance!" Reaching for a pulse; finding one that was faint; hideously faint.

No coherent answer from Sara, backing into the corner of the room, in shock, hands over her face. "No, no, no, no, no, no..."

They didn't have *time*!

"Get the car keys!" Pulling Charlie into his arms as if he weighed nothing - and for those few moments, he really didn't - ignoring the blood as it stained his clothes, his skin, ungracefully clumping down the stairs, nearly losing his balance, tumbling out of the house.

Sara, back to reality, appearing behind him, grabbing the keys off the step and fumbling with them as she moved to the car; pulling the door open and climbing inside, Jack putting Charlie with her, his shirt red now, "Keep pressure on the wound!"

Taking the keys, slamming the door, running to the driver's side, jumping in, starting the engine and pulling away.}

Only that wasn't what'd happened.

The information in the folder proved that Charlie hadn't been playing with Jack's gun, that he hadn't accidentally pulled the trigger, than it hadn't suddenly gone off.

That wasn't what'd happened.

His son had been murdered.

"N-no," she stuttered, her voice a pitch higher than usual, suddenly comprehending everything else, even if she couldn't comprehend what he was telling her - the alcohol, the photographs, his eyes...if he really thought Charlie had been murdered...

God, oh *God*. With eyes that were suddenly moist she took a step towards him, not knowing what to do. How could she possibly help him through this?

Saying nothing he stumbled away, the back of his legs hitting the end of the bed causing him to fall backwards towards the mattress, landing ungracefully on the soft material. A shaking hand went up to his face again.

"Tell me," she pleaded, bending then kneeling in front of him. Trying to hold his gaze, trying to tell him without actually *telling* him that whatever this was, he wasn't alone. "What's in the folder that proves he was..." She couldn't even say it. "...that it wasn't an accident?" It hovered in the air between them, held up in her right hand. The information that had caused what he'd re-built of his life to come tumbling down.

She was concerned, for a while, that he wasn't going to respond; that he was going to retreat to - evidently - how he'd been after Charlie had first died, if Daniel's description of him was to be believed.

Feeling the first few tears break free on her face she ignored them, tentatively resting her left hand against his leg.

He didn't, as she'd feared, pull away, wince, or yell at her.

Instead, he began to speak.

They were almost a whisper, forced out on each breath, evidence of his pain...but they were words.

"In my earlier...work," a sigh: deep, resonant, "I did some..." He lowered his head even more, further behind his hands, muffling his words. "...distasteful things. But that was the work. They were the *enemy*." His head lifted suddenly, away from his hands, surprising her. "And it wasn't kids! It was *never* kids!"

"Of course not," she murmured uselessly, feeling the familiar burning sensation at the back of her throat as she rubbed his leg. It was more contact than they'd shared in a long time, but how could she not offer some kind of comfort? Paltry as it was.

She doubted he even realised.

Wild-eyed, he seemed to be looking at something that didn't exist. "When we were assigned a 'mission', that," he gestured towards the folder she was still holding, "that was the folder we'd get. The exact same layout; I know what it means, Carter!"

"Wait, wait," her hand moved from his leg, grabbing the arm he'd begun gesturing with. "I know this is something you're not going to think rationally about, but all you know for certain is that your son's name is in this folder, *indicating* that he was targeted. But just because he was targeted it doesn't mean that they went through with it. And for all you know, this could be a set up! Maybe someone *wants* you to think he was murdered!"

"Why? What son of a bitch would do that?!"

Sam didn't flinch. "I don't know. But we're going to find out. Now get up," she ordered, following her own instruction as she got to her feet, still holding onto his arm.

He resisted, staring up at her. "Why?"

"Because for however long it takes to figure this out, I don't want to be standing next to a man who stinks of alcohol. Move." Deciding she'd probably gone too far out of the bounds of their professional relationship - but not taking back the words - she held his gaze, glare for glare.

Again he didn't respond, but at least he stopped fighting.

Balancing their weight on the balls of her feet, she pulled him up and led him out of the bedroom, briefly along the corridor, and into bathroom. She didn't need to flick the light on - there was more than enough filtering through the opaque window - so she carefully stationed him next to the washbasin. Once assured he wasn't going to fall over without her support, she picked up his toothbrush, squeezed a wedge of toothpaste onto the bristles and handed it over to him.

He stared at it, glumly, but eventually held onto it and began half-heartedly brushing at his teeth.

She was busy while he brushed, searching. Though she'd been in there a few times before, she wasn't intimately familiar with her commanding officer's bathroom. Spying a small cupboard in the far corner ('far' being a relative term) she began rummaging through its contents, quickly finding what she was looking for.

It was as she was there, with her face stuck inside the cupboard, that she allowed herself a moment to close her eyes, to lose control, to lean against the wall and feel her heart constrict painfully.

And then she was done.

"Found it!" she announced, pushing away from the wall, closing the cupboard door and wiping the back of her hand over her face. By the time she reached his side he was rinsing his mouth and spitting the contents out, carelessly throwing his toothbrush at the back of the washbasin.

Sam said nothing, holding up the razor and shaving cream.

The Colonel shook his head. Obviously his limit had been reached. Teeth brushing was as far as he was willing to go.

Sam knew better, lowering the toilet seat lid and pointing to it. "Sit." She knew him well enough to know that when he snapped out of this initial phase, he'd be glad he didn't have that obvious sign of apathy.

He glared, sighed, and hesitated, but eventually sat.

She began immediately, trying *not* to look at his face while she applied the shaving cream. She hadn't had a lot of experience doing this. A few times with Mark when they were growing up and the occasional boyfriend...but it had been a lot longer than the six years it'd been since she'd had a relationship since she'd done this.

However, showing no fear seemed the best bet - even though, once again, he didn't seem to be seeing anything at all - so she didn't pause, didn't hesitate, hoping like hell she wouldn't end up slicing his jugular.

Not looking at his face while she was shaving him was even more difficult than not looking at his face while she was applying the shaving cream. In the end she gave up completely, acknowledging that it would only make her job harder.

That close, she couldn't help but scrutinise every part of his face. His eyes were still red-rimmed and bloodshot, and it seemed the wrinkles that had always lined his face were deeper now than they had ever been before.

And she couldn't help but ponder over the man whose face she was shaving. He'd always been proud - sometimes too much so - always insisting that he could do everything himself despite people telling him otherwise (usually Janet, she had to admit). To see him sitting there now, silently letting her shave his face instead of yelling that he could 'do it himself, for crying out loud'...it was frightening.

It was as if he didn't care anymore.

She only grazed him a few times, though she swore loudly in her head each time she did.

He barely winced.

When she was done, she pulled the hand towel from the hook on the wall and quickly rubbed it over his chin. "Can you get dressed?" The rest of the sentence was left implied: by yourself?

Blinking, coming back to where he was and what was happening, he looked up at her. "I don't need a babysitter."

"Then stop acting like you do." Yeah - definitely over the line, but it was necessary. So she might as well keep going in that vein. "And I swear to God," she leant towards him, determined that he wasn't going to be as he'd been before. "If you do *anything* stupid I will personally follow you into the afterlife and talk wormhole theory to you for eternity. Now, go get dressed. I have to fix us some food, and call General Hammond to let him know you're not feeling well."

Unsurprisingly he said nothing, but he did at least leave the room under his own power.

Paranoid, she hovered by his bedroom for a few seconds; worried she was going to hear the sound of a weapon being loaded. She had no idea if he'd ever been suicidal at any point in his past, but it wasn't worth taking the risk.

When enough time had passed that showed if he was going to do it he would have done it already, she started walking away from that end of the house.

By the time she reached the kitchen, she was sobbing.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jack stared at the pair of socks he was holding. He heard her sobbing. How could he not?

He'd gone that far, at least. Had reached the drawer, opened it, and pulled out the socks. He was just having trouble putting them on.

The noises she was making faded, leaving him alone with the sounds of the house. If he listened carefully, he could hear them; water running through the pipes, the slight hum of the light he'd turned on - even though it was completely unnecessary.

The low murmur of her voice as she spoke to someone. Probably Hammond.

When he heard her voice again several minutes later, it was louder and much, much closer: "Get dressed."

The command prompted movement, his brain responding to the ingrained training. Pulling off his old socks he tugged on the new ones, then slowly began peeling off his clothes.

And with every sliding movement of fabric, raising of arms and pulling at clothes, his anger grew.

How *dare* they plan to kill his son.

How *dare* they make a folder about him.

How *dare* they even think of robbing him and Sara of their lives.

This was how he was going to survive this, to get to the answers. Ignore the grief and concentrate on the hatred.

Whether someone was playing him or not, he would find the answers, and he would deal the punishment accordingly.

By the time he was fully dressed, he was ready.

Finally comprehending some of Carter's earlier words he made his way to the bathroom. His face was still sore from her earlier ministrations - she didn't have what he'd call a gentle touch - but at least the stubble was gone, and he cupped his hands beneath the running water and splashed it over his face.

Letting that suffice as a 'wash', not caring that the water drenched the neck of his shirt, he rubbed roughly at his face with the hand towel. Acknowledging that smelling nice would be more of a help than a hindrance, he even went as far as using deodorant.

But that was it.

Returning to his bedroom he pulled a travel bag out from the back of his closet, chucked it onto the bed and began throwing things in. Clothes – not particularly caring if they were creased or not – money, passport should it be necessary, basic hygiene items (requiring several return trips to the bathroom), and then back to the closet again. Reaching up to the shelf approximately a foot above his head, he blindly reached for what he knew was there.

The shoebox.

Keeping the lid firmly shut he pulled it down, and rubbed off the thin layer of dust that had collected on top.

It'd been a while. Longer than it used to be.

He moved over to the bag but although it wasn't full up, there was enough inside that meant the box wouldn't fit. Rather than having to carry two things about with him he simply removed the lid and turned the box upside down, roughly emptying the contents into the bag.

Throwing the empty box onto the floor, he only realised where it'd landed when he walked straight across it.

That didn't stop him.

Stretching up to the shelf again, he removed what had been beneath the box. Blowing off the dust that had collected just around the edges, he thrust the document into the bag and hastily zipped it up.

And then there was one thing left to do.

Purposefully walking towards the bedside table he yanked the small drawer open, and picked up the gun he wasn't supposed to own. Checking that it was loaded he shoved it into the waist of his pants, picked up the bag, and left the room.

Creeping quietly along the corridor, he saw that his jacket was hanging up in the hall - she must have done that. Silently thanking her - because he had to admit, he wasn't about to do it in person - he pulled it off the hook, cracked open the door, and slipped out of the house.

She was going to be pissed; there was no doubt of that. But he couldn't wait any longer - he had to go *now*, and the things he would probably have to do while he was gone...

She shouldn't be there for that.

Holding both the bag and his jacket in his left hand, Jack fumbled about in the pockets with right. As he reached his truck he found the keys, pulling them out and immediately sliding the car key into the lock, granting him access.

Throwing the bag and jacket to the passenger side he climbed in, closing the door and starting the engine with a familiarity bred from time.

Except nothing happened.

He turned the key, trying again.

Still nothing happened.

Cursing, he popped the hood and all but kicked the door open, stomping to the front and propping the hood up. There was no obvious sign of damage, and the last thing he wanted to do at the moment was call in some mechanic.

Then he saw it. And frowned. Someone had disconnected-

He heard a thump, and felt the vehicle rock. Peering around the side of the hood, he looked inside.

She was sitting behind the wheel.

Muttering, he reconnected the wire and slammed the hood shut. "Get out."

Carter just held his gaze.

Striding towards the door he pulled it open, repeating the order. "*Get* *out*."

She didn't budge, instead issuing an order of her own as she stared straight ahead. "Get in. God only knows how high your blood alcohol level still is; I'm not letting you anywhere near the wheel of a car for another twenty-four hours."

He was so *not* in the mood. "Look, I *get* that you're trying to be nice-"

"I'm not being nice, I'm being practical," she finally moved her head, looking at him. "The chance of you succeeding in whatever it is you have to do is greatly increased by having back-up. Now either you drag me out of this thing or we start moving."

Dragging her out was tempting, and his hand was halfway to doing that when he managed to divert it to rest against the top of the car, suddenly all too aware of the moistness around his neck. "I don't want you with me."

Flinching she nonetheless held firm, once again staring straight ahead, her hands clutching onto the steering wheel. "You're not doing this alone."

The set of her chin, the expression on her face, the tension in her body - everything screamed the fact that she was *not* giving in on this.

"Fine," he growled, slamming the door shut just for the satisfaction. Stalking to the passenger side he went to sit down, only to realise he was going to have to move his own bag and jacket. And... "What's this?" he asked, picking up a plastic container that looked like it was holding-

"Food," she responded, bringing the engine to life as he carelessly shoved everything to the floor space around his feet. "Figured you hadn't had any for a while, so I prepared some and found the container in one of your cupboards. Eat up." She pulled out of his driveway and onto the road. "Something tells me you're going to need the energy."

They stopped off at her house first, so Sam could pick up a few things. She literally dragged him out of the truck, still not trusting him not to drive off without her. In the end he stood petulantly in her bedroom, half-leaning against the wall with his hands by his sides as she ransacked her room for clothes and anything else that'd come in useful.

Barely five minutes later she was done and they left the house, closing the door behind them.

As she stepped into the truck she passed her bag to him, letting him do whatever he wanted with it. That consisted of shoving it onto the floor with everything else. She didn't know how he had any legroom left at all.

Starting the engine she slid her seat belt on, then made sure he did the same before speaking. "Where we headed?"

He was staring out the passenger side window, eyes concealed - as was typical - behind black sunglasses. He could have been staring at the park she lived across from, at the children playing there; he could have been completely unaware of them. "San Francisco." No 'Frisco. No nicknames. Just what it was called.

She could see that the neckline of his top was damp. "Do you have a map in here?" Sam started reaching for the glove box, but was stopped by his voice.

"I know how to get there."

"Been there before?" She had herself, but a *long* time ago. She knew the general direction (it wasn't far past Nevada, and they'd certainly been *there* enough times) and could probably find her way without too much trouble, but things'd be a lot faster and accurate if at least one of them knew the way.

"No." He still wasn't looking at her. "But I know how to get there. Head for the I-25. It's not the shortest route, but it is the fastest."

She wasn't sure she believed him about not having been there. He'd always seemed like the kind of man who'd been *everywhere*, and San Francisco was hardly in the furthest corner of the planet. And there was something about his tone of voice...but that wasn't the kind of thing to push him on. Not today. The other issues she had to force were far more important.

Pulling away from the sidewalk she headed West - it'd be easier to get onto the I-25 that way - and spent most of her time (probably too much, considering the fact that she was driving) unobtrusively studying him. Little had changed since they'd left his place, and she really didn't expect it to.

Both hands were extended forward, firmly holding onto his legs just above the knees, fingers digging into his jeans.

That said enough by itself.

The first hour passed mostly in silence.

When she wasn't sneaking glances at him from the corner of her eye, she was thinking. She still couldn't believe the fact that she could believe it; that she thought it entirely possible that either someone had murdered Charlie, or was making it look like he'd been murdered. Given the Colonel's previous line of work - which admittedly she didn't know much about, but she knew enough to make some educated guesses - it seemed only natural that he'd make enemies. But obviously, he'd never expected any of those enemies to come back to haunt him. More than likely, anyone he did consider a serious threat to him or his family would have been behind bars or...not.

It was hard, sometimes, reconciling the things that she knew he'd done with the man sitting next to her now.

Actually, that wasn't exactly true. The man sitting next to her now seemed capable of absolutely anything.

But the man he was normally; the man who was just *waiting* for the next opportunity to say something funny, who watched The Simpsons religiously, who loved kids because he was nothing more than a big kid himself, who'd do and say anything just to try and evoke a smile from her (she wasn't stupid)...

How could they be the same people?

Yet they were.

She'd seen shadows of it before. The rare occasions when he mentioned Charlie or Sara; when the rocket had been destroyed on Katal.

But they were the blips. They were the abnormal behaviour.

Or so she'd chosen to believe.

It was frightening to think that the man who wouldn't even look at her now was who he *really* was, hidden beneath the child-like exterior.

Realising she was depressing the hell out of her herself, she rapidly yanked her mind out of that train of thought. Sitting around moping wouldn't accomplish anything. Obviously he had a lead - why else were they going to San Francisco? - but she had nothing. Unless...

"Where did you get the folder from?" Sam couldn't believe she hadn't asked before. In her defence, she had been swept away by recent discoveries.

As predicted, he didn't look towards her. "It was on my coffee table when I got home."

Coffee table...well, that explained what happened to *that*. She said nothing, letting him talk.

"I don't know who left it there."

She didn't believe that, either. "But you have a theory?" She couldn't help it - she expected a quip. Some line about theories being her thing, her area of expertise.

That wasn't what she got.

"Yeah. I do."

That was all.

Sighing, she held tighter onto the wheel. This was going to take some getting used to.

"You should let me drive."

Trying to force back a yawn and not entirely succeeding, she blinked heavily and shook her head. "No." The journey, as expected, had not been particularly interesting. Frankly she'd always found the constant roll of the road decidedly hypnotic, and as she'd already been at it for...her eyes couldn't even focus on the clock on the dashboard; that couldn't be good...a while...

"You're obviously tired."

"No, I'm no-o-o..." The 'not' turned into her biggest yawn yet, and she muttered internally at the fact that she needed sleep at all. It was incredibly inconvenient.

"Yeah, I can see that."

Sitting up in her seat, she was determined to clear her head as she changed lanes. "Your blood alcohol level is probably still way too high."

"I wouldn't worry about. I'm pretty sure those ten cups of coffee you forced me to drink at the last gas station have ensured that I'll *never* get drunk again."

Had this been any other day, she probably would have grinned wryly. As it was she stared at him, pondering. That was the closest he'd been to his normal behaviour since she'd sneaked into his house.

Then it came to her, as he yet again kept his face turned away.

This was an act. This was him trying to sound normal as a means to an end - to get his way.

Instinctively she wanted to rebel against his suggestion, but she really had to admit she was exhausted. After the mission yesterday and the date last night, she'd ended up feeling like she'd barely slept at all. And it was catching up with her.

Though her mind wasn't conceding defeat her body most definitely was, so at the next safe place to pull over she did so.

She still wasn't stupid, though. She watched him as he looked at her expectantly, obviously waiting for her to climb out of the truck.

That wasn't what was going to happen. "Get out," she told him. "And walk around the front."

Comprehension clouded his face and he angrily pushed open his door, feet aiming towards the tarmac. As he followed her instructions she unbuckled her seat belt and shifted over to the right, moving into what had previously been his seat.

As she struggled to find room for her feet amongst all the junk on the floor, he stepped up into the driver's side, slammed the door shut, and clicked on his seat belt. It was dusk now, so he even removed his sunglasses.

He still wasn't looking at her for any length of time. "Nice to know you have faith in me." He muttered, as he turned the ignition.

Fighting back another yawn, she found herself leaning against the door. "The moment you regain faith in yourself is the moment you don't have to worry about me believing in you."

Snorting, he rolled his eyes, watching the traffic until he could pull out. "Deep."

"Truth," she rebutted. It wasn't quite what she'd been hoping for, but at least he was talking. "We should find a motel in a few hours." The seat she was on was *much* too comfortable. "That mission yesterday was just as tiring for you as it was for me, not to mention the..." God, what was she going to say? 'Psychological toll'? "...events today. It's going to add up."

He said nothing at first, waiting until he was back on the road. "I'm not tired."

Neither was she. She had to keep telling herself that. She had to keep an eye on him; make sure he didn't do anything stupid.

She wasn't tired.

She wasn't really asleep; she was conscious enough to know that much. Yet she wasn't quite awake, either. She'd spent the last few hours in a kind of daze; trying to stay awake while her body stubbornly informed her that she really needed to rest.

Her body kind of won out. It had managed to close her eyes, lean her head back and leave her mouth hanging wide open, but her mind kept ordering her to stay awake so she hovered, somewhere between consciousness and unconsciousness, a state that seemed to go on forever, ignorant of time.

Until...

"Carter?"

Mind jerked her body, stirring, but she didn't open her eyes. Body was much too sleepy so it folded her arms closer across her chest.

"Carter."

It was closer, whatever it was. Body lifted up an arm to bat it away, only for mind to scream 'WAKE UP!' when something grabbed the arm.

Gasping she flipped open her eyelids, sat straight upright and tried to pull her arm away from whatever was touching her.

It was him. He was touching her.

Grabbing was more accurate.

Relieved, she tried to calm her pounding heart rate. "Sorry! I...you startled me." That was putting it mildly. And she was only beginning to realise that her heart rate wasn't lowering - which may or may not have had something to do with the fact that he was still holding onto her left wrist.

And that he was looking at her - *really* looking at her - for the first time that day.

Disturbed by the fact that she couldn't actually see his face because of the shadows (which confirmed two things: that it was definitely night time, and she somehow seemed to know that he was staring at her even though she couldn't see his eyes), she decided against any sudden moves. "Um...where are we?" She cast a gaze to the right, not surprised when she didn't recognise anything through the windows.

"Carlin."

Her head whipped back round. It couldn't be... "Carlin?"

"Small town; won't take us too long to reach Reno from here once we start driving again."

Her mind was still stuck on the name. "That was what Daniel was called..."

He moved suddenly, pulling away and releasing the arm. Obviously the reference to Daniel and *that* place was enough to ruin what had almost been a normal conversation.

Swearing at herself - it was becoming a habit, she mused - she wiped what she realised was drool from the side of her mouth and stared at her hands. "What are we doing here?"

He pointed to something out of his window, and she followed the finger's angle of trajectory to see a flashing neon motel sign.

"Ah."

Evidently he was tired, though he'd yet to admit it. Also evident was that this was scarcely more than a one-motel town, but it'd do.

Standing in the reception office, he pressed the button marked 'service'.

Yawning, it was all she could do stay on her feet. Even kind of passing out in the truck hadn't been particularly restful. "What time is it?" She asked, not having the energy to even look at her own watch.

"Late," he responded, pressing the button again. "Or early, depending on your point of view."

Just as he was about to press the button a third time, the door behind the reception desk opened, revealing a tired looking but spry man who had to be in his sixties. Maybe even his seventies. Despite the fact that he'd obviously just woken up, he made an effort.

"Well, hello there! Sorry about the wait; not often we get someone this late at night."

"Yeah, uh, sorry about that," Sam felt compelled to offer an apology. "Didn't think we'd be stopping."

"I understand," he smiled generously. "The journey doesn't seem quite so long until you start it. Now, I take it you want a room?"

"Please." She nodded, almost feeling like she was wilting right there and then.

"You're lucky; the yearly convention's in town. We only have one room left."

Thank God. "We'll take it. Don't care what it costs."

Amused, he turned and pulled a key from the various hooks impaled on the wall to the left of the door he'd come out of. "Right you are. Number 14. Now," he picked up a pen and handed it to her. "Let's get your details."

She should have been laughing. She should have opened the door, seen what was in the room, and laughed.

Or maybe make a nervous excuse and leave.

This wasn't the time or place for that, from either of them.

As the first one in she let him do whatever the hell he wanted with the door - at this point he could leave it open for all she cared - she barely remembered to unzip her jeans and pull them off before falling into the double bed. Changing clothes be damned, it was far too much effort. She'd sleep in her bra if she had to.

Vaguely remembering that she'd be sharing the bed with him, she mustered just enough energy to move to one side.

He moved around, flicking on a light but she didn't complain – now that she was in a bed, she could sleep through anything.

Or so she thought.

She didn't actually manage to fall asleep until he slowly lowered his body onto the bed, sighed heavily, and lay down next to her.

In his dreams, he was back with Ba'al. Stuck in a never-ending memory of orange and black, of losing his sense of equilibrium, of begging - pleading - to die.

Just to die.

Just to stop it.

And then the dream changed. It wasn't a memory anymore; it was something new. Something vastly more terrifying.

Ba'al had his son.

Charlie was marched into the room the same way he'd been each time; two angry Jaffa at his side, ensuring there was no chance for escape. It hadn't stopped Jack trying, of course - frequently hitting one of them in stomach or stomping on their feet, but he never escaped for long.

Not in that place.

Charlie, without his father's training or strength, didn't have a chance.

Held into place against the gravity wall, Jack might as well have been strapped down. His arms stretched out in a pitiful reach before being forced back again - he'd realised long ago that the gravity holding him in place was higher than Earth norm.

"Charlie..." Helpless, he could only watch as another gravity wall materialised on the opposite side of the room, and Charlie was released onto it.

His body thumped against the dark metal mesh, but he was his father's son; he immediately began turning himself over, fighting against the gravity even though he had no idea what was going on. Obviously recognising the man 'facing' him, he spoke. "Dad?"

It was a voice Jack hadn't heard in over seven years.

Some part of him knew that it couldn't really be Charlie, that this was just a dream, but that part was insignificant compared to the other part of him; the part that was pulling against invisible restraints, that was trying to get free, that was trying to stop *this* from happening.

Not Charlie. Not again.

It was useless.

Ba'al, who'd been watching from the side of the room and now moved up to his 'stage' in slow, measured steps, finally spoke. "As you can see O'Neill, I have methods that will extend your torment even further."

Even in his dreams the Goa'uld were a cliché.

"I'll tell you anything. *Give* you anything," he spat, silently pleading for something, any sign that he might have reached Ba'al's host, that the guy might have had some control like Kendra had.

Nothing. Not even a flicker of remorse. Merely a smile. "You have nothing new to give me, O'Neill. Do you not remember sharing with me the secrets of the Tau'ri and the Tok'ra?"

Turning his head away, Jack frantically scanned his memory. No...no, that wasn't how it happened... "I got away. I escaped before I told you anything..." It wasn't true. It couldn't be.

"You told me about Kanan," Ba'al continued, unimpressed. "You told me where I could find your friends." Nodding slowly to the Jaffa - an obvious signal - he waited as they activated a door and it slid open to reveal a woman with short blonde hair.

As she stepped inside she wore the same kind of smile Ba'al did, and Jack knew instinctively that she was a snakehead. She was dressed in a dark red outfit, not entirely dissimilar in style to the one the *other* woman with blonde hair had been wearing.

Carter walked up the steps to join Ba'al.

No. No. He refused to accept this. Not his son, and not the person he trusted more than anyone else.

It. Could. Not. Be. True.

Finishing her steady climb she swivelled to face him, the smile on her face only growing bigger, her voice disturbingly distorted. "Do you know who I am?"

The urge was to fight. "Not Carter, that's for damn sure."

Pleased with his response, she chuckled, before turning to face Ba'al, lifting up a small metal box he was sure she hadn't been carrying before.

"Thank you, my beloved," Ba'al drawled the words, letting his voice linger over the last one as he rubbed the back of his right hand gently across her face. No doubt for his benefit, Jack thought darkly, even as he berated himself for getting distracted from his son. He began his attempts to free himself with renewed vigour, but as anticipated his struggle revealed no weakness in the field holding him in place.

Ba'al meanwhile, had opened the box Not Carter was holding up, and extracted a knife. A very familiar looking knife. Studying it carefully, he then apparently changed his mind, holding it out to her. "Would you like to do it?"

Her eyes - *those* eyes, the ones he'd stared at so many times - widened with joy. "My Lord...thank you for this honour."

"It is nothing," he declared, as if what she was about to do wasn't important.

Jack knew better. "Don't do this Carter!"

Ignoring him, the box suddenly disappeared as she took the knife in her hands, and walked towards the edge of floor closest to Charlie. "Hello little boy," she all but purred. "Did you know that your father's a very bad man?"

Charlie shrugged, as if this was no big discovery. "He already got me killed once."

"Twice." She corrected, lifting the knife up until the gravity pulled it towards him.

"Carter!"

She let it go.

He woke gasping, nearly sobbing, hands desperately reaching for something he couldn't find. "Charlie?"

She was next to him, whispering, murmuring, stroking. "It's okay, you're okay."

It was daytime; he knew that much. Maybe even the afternoon. But he didn't know where he was. The sunlight was trying to force its way through beige curtains hanging over a window he didn't recognise. "Where am I?" Fragments of the dream still clawed at his mind, murky colours blending around memories of faces.

"Safe." She replied, rubbing a hand along his left arm.

He caught a glimpse of her just for a moment - blonde hair and blue eyes - and he immediately pulled away, turned away, trying to hide. "I can't see you." Lying on his right side, he stared at a table he knew he should recognise, but didn't.

"Why not?" Her voice was gentle, half-existing, almost as if she wasn't there.

"Because..." Jack closed his eyes. "Because I have to tell you something, Sara. And when I do, you're going to hate me again."

She was quiet for a long time, unknowing of the effect her silence was having on his already shaky disposition. And when she did eventually respond, it wasn't at all what he expected.

Shifting on the bed (he didn't even wonder why they were on a bed; it simply *was*) she moved closer, pressing her body against his back and wrapping an arm around his waist. "I know, Jack. And I don't hate you. I could never hate you. It wasn't your fault."

The pain didn't leave. It never would. But a pressure lifted from his chest as he savoured the long-missed contact, and he found himself turning, burying his face into her neck and clutching at her body.

She didn't pull away. She didn't push him away.

She simply held him.

Whispering, murmuring, stroking.

Sam kept talking long after he fell asleep again, finding the sound of her own voice and the cadence of the words reassuring. If these things kept happening, she was going to need some comforting herself soon.

Her unrehearsed litany continued unabated, the words making absolutely no sense for all she knew as she re-lived what had woken her: the Colonel thrashing about on the bed, calling out for his son.

She didn't know what kind of nightmare he'd been having (though the subject seemed obvious), but it'd been clear that even when he became aware of her, he hadn't really been awake. Or at least, not free from the nightmare.

So she'd played along; been the person he needed her to be for the second time. It was getting easier.

She would have assumed otherwise.

And, she had to admit, as sorry as she was that he was going through this, she was appreciating the simple human contact. It'd been a long time since she'd shared a bed with anyone that wasn't out of a need for survival or due to over-enthusiastic memory stamping.

Just to lie in bed with someone - yes, preferably a man - and feel bare legs rubbing against each other, a warm body pressed against hers, the reassuring sensation of his steady breath passing across her skin...

It was something she'd missed.

Sure, had it been a common occurrence it probably would have been a little irritating. Soon she would have been arguing about personal space, about not wanting to suffocate from the way his arms wrapped around her, about telling him that snoring really *wasn't* endearing...but it wasn't a common occurrence, and the fact that it was him...

She finally paid attention to what she was actually saying.

"...it's okay, you're gonna be okay, I love you..."

The hand that had been slowly and gently rubbing his side stopped moving just as the words she was speaking did.

She knew it was true; had known for a while, so it wasn't a big surprise.

She'd just never said it aloud before, not even to herself, and somehow that made it significant. Not that she'd ever say it to him at all if he was aware of anything, she mused as she tried to hold back a half-chuckle that was in danger of turning into a sob.

Now was *not* the time to open that incredibly complicated can of worms.

Deciding that the building pressure on her bladder just wasn't going to go away - and she really needed to move anyway - she began the laborious process of getting out of his clutches *and* the bed without disturbing him.

She managed it eventually (military training came in useful on occasion), although not without leaving his body spread across most of the bed and his right leg nearly hanging off the edge.

Silently moving away from the bed, she padded barefoot into the bathroom and closed the door as quietly as possible. When it was done she stayed there for a while, resting her forehead against the painted surface.

Eventually telling herself that she was going to have to move she did just that, walking to the washbasin and turning on the water. Rubbing and washing the sleep out of her eyes, she left the water running as she rested her hands on either side of the basin and stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Her eyes followed a single drop of water as it travelled down her face.

What the hell was she doing?

She should phone General Hammond, let him know that they'd be gone for a while - or maybe it was too late. By this time...she glanced at her watch, something else she hadn't bothered to take off before she'd fallen asleep.

11:03.

By this time there was probably someone from the SGC at the Colonel's house already, looking for him, searching for her, and all they'd find would be the broken coffee table.

She should call them.

So why wasn't she?

Not bothering to dry off her face, she opened the door just a crack and peeked into the main area of the room.

He was still spread eagle across the bed, although he had shifted slightly so he wasn't as in as much danger of falling off. The covers were mostly off, bunched up at the end of the bed, he was snoring quietly, and in the vague orange glow provided by the light pushing through the curtains, she could see his hair sticking out in a hundred different directions.

And she found herself smiling.

Reassured that she was doing the right thing, and realising that she was going to need her bag (he must have carried them in because she really didn't remember bringing her own), she sneaked back into the bedroom and bent down to pick it up.

He stirred.

She froze. Then, realising she was being ridiculous, she stood up.

He stirred again, this time his left hand moving to rub his eyes as his head lifted up from the pillow. "Carter?"

"I'm here." She stepped closer to the end of the bed, letting her bag fall to the floor.

Apparently finished with the rubbing, he blinked heavily before his eyes widened as he took in her appearance. Then rubbed his eyes again. "*Carter*?"

She glanced down at her body, still barely covered in only her shirt and her underwear.

Oh, right. Resisting the urge to pull at the hem of her shirt, she tried to find a comfortable place to rest her hands, only to discover no such place existed. "How did you sleep?"

He pushed himself further up, sitting. "Pretty crappy, I think. Of course that's not helped by the fact that I have *no* idea where..."

And there it was. The moment that he remembered.

That had to be the worst thing of all. Those few precious moments when he first woke up, and didn't remember.

The last of the covers tangled around his feet were kicked away as he smoothly moved to sitting on the edge of the bed. He was clad in a white shirt and what looked like a pair of boxer shorts.

Pursing her lips together, she picked her bag back up. "I'm going to use the bathroom."

He stared at the floor. "Sure."

Sighing internally she retreated to the bathroom and finally took care of the pressure on her bladder.

Worried about leaving him on his own - and about the fact that she hadn't thought to bring the car keys into the bathroom with her - she settled for a quick wash, rather than a shower, before almost jumping into a new set of clothes.

A quick use of toiletries later and she was back in the bedroom, preparing herself for the fact that he might not be there.

He was. And he was fully dressed - in what looked suspiciously like the clothes he'd been wearing the day before.

Dumping her bag next to the bed, she sat on the edge and began reaching for her boots. "It's all yours."

Acknowledging her words, he moved towards the bathroom but paused in the doorway. She only realised when he spoke, making her look up from her boots.

"I'm not gonna leave you behind, Carter."

Sam stared at him, her shoelaces burning against her fingers as she pulled them tight. It was pointless saying anything, but the words came out anyway. "You're not?"

His head lowered, just slightly, and when he spoke it was with just a glimmer of the sarcasm she'd grown so accustomed to.

"I'd have thought you'd have figured that out by now."

And then he stepped forward, shutting the door.

Something was bugging her, he knew that much.

They'd settled up at the motel (he'd had enough cash on him - didn't want to risk using his credit card) and were back on the road. Under normal circumstances he probably would have noticed a lot earlier than he actually did, but eventually even his hearing paid attention to the fact that she was playing with some keys. Probably her own.

She was fiddling.

Which was strange. Carter didn't fiddle. For as long as he'd known her, she'd always seemed comfortable in her own body. He'd never once seen her exert nervous tension through his own personal favourite means.

She did other things.

So without moving his eyes fully from the road, he found himself speaking. "What's wrong?" Even to him his voice sounded brusque.

She jerked her head round to look at him, surprised - he could see that much. "It's nothing."

Jack had to swerve suddenly, avoiding some ass who seemed to think he belonged in two lanes simultaneously. When they'd avoided an accident and the maniac was some two hundred feet ahead, he spoke again. "It's obviously not nothing. I've had to listen to that damn jingling noise for the last ten minutes - and I have to tell you, it's really not improving my mood. What's wrong?"

"It's stupid," she sighed.

She really had to stop this 'vague' crap - it wasn't helping his mood either. "What is?"

"It's my keys," she admitted as if it were a huge revelation, looking down at the pieces of metal in her hands. "I forgot about them and found them in my jacket pocket a while ago."

Wow. *This* was a fascinating story. "*And*?"

"And I just remembered I left my car unlocked when I parked outside your house. See, I told you it was stupid. It's hardly the most important thing to think about at the moment."

He was not going to feel guilty; he couldn't afford to feel guilty. Just the anger. "Don't worry about it," he said, moving the truck closer to a red van in front of them. "It's not like I live in bad area."

"Where are we going?"

The abrupt change of topic startled him, and he stopped avoiding her gaze. "San Francisco."

She shook her head, displeased. "You know that's not what I meant. Where are we *going*?"

"To see an old friend, all right?" Turning away, he muttered under his breath. What was her problem?

"How old? How do they relate to what's happened?"

"I used to work with him. In the...old days." He didn't like thinking about 'the old days'. He certainly couldn't hide from the things he'd done, but he could avoid them as much as possible. "I'm hoping he knows or saw something and doesn't even realise it."

Carter was clearly unimpressed. "That's *it*? That's your great plan?"

"Well what would you suggest?"

"I don't know," she gestured towards the front of the truck. "Maybe try and find out where the folder came from in the first place."

"I told you, I already know. And there's no point in rushing him because he's trying to find out everything he can."

"Well that's good to know, although it might be nice if you'd thought to mention this earlier!"

"My mind wasn't exactly focused on mentioning it earlier!" Dammit! What the hell was going on? She was his constant. In the middle of who knew what kind of hell, he could always rely on Carter to *be* Carter.

Spying an upcoming gas station, he flicked his gaze down to the fuel gauge, sighed heavily, and began to move into the right lane.

"Where are we going?" she demanded accusingly.

"We need some gas. That okay with you?" He eked some satisfaction from the fact that she said nothing as they began to edge towards the forecourt.

Parking next to the closest pump, he turned off the engine and all but leapt out of the truck, slamming the door behind him. All the while as he moved - filling the tank, going to pay, grabbing a few things to eat and drink (including a diet soda), ignoring the worried look on the face of the guy behind the counter - he talked to himself. What the hell was her problem? He certainly didn't remember doing anything to piss her off.

Then stepping out of the building, he stopped.

He could see her from here, sitting in the truck, staring down at what were presumably her hands. She didn't seem angry. If anything she seemed...sad.

And he knew. He didn't know how - but then he didn't know a lot - but obviously his brain had weighed all the information it'd obtained on Sam Carter over the past six years and reached a conclusion.

Jack started walking, knowing exactly what to do.

She still hadn't noticed him even when he reached the window. He had to raise his full hands and knock heavily against the glass.

Surprised, she lifted her head and rapidly opened the window.

"Here," he told her, shoving his arms inside the truck and letting the contents of his hands land against her lap before giving her a chance to say anything.

"Uh, thanks."

"You don't need to do that."

"Do what?" she asked absently, focusing on her lap-full of consumables as her hands tried to stop them slipping off.

"What you were doing earlier. It's not necessary."

Her hands stopped moving, letting a drink thump heavily to the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Uh huh. "Face it Carter, you've been busted." She still wasn't looking at him. "I knew something was up; I'm usually pretty good at knowing when I've pissed someone off - as rare an occurrence as it is."

Clasping her hands together, her arms formed a semicircle around the remaining food, drawing it closer to her body. "Did it at least work?"

"That's not the point."

"So it did distract you."

"Carter-"

"I'm just trying to help."

"I get that. But I'm already pissed enough as it is. I don't need you adding to the load, even if it is part of an attempt to get me to forget about Charlie for a while. Just be *you*."

She shifted, a bag of chips rustling beneath her hands. "Is that gonna be enough?"

Stupid question - and from her, no less. Did she really need to ask that? Instead of answering, he nodded towards her lap. "I got you a soda, although I suspect that's what fell to the floor earlier. If I were you I wouldn't open it for a while."

He wasn't looking forward to this. It was a couple of hours past lunch, and they'd just parked outside the house. Jack hadn't moved yet although it couldn't really be called hesitating, because he *had* only just stopped the truck.

"Am I coming with you?"

He made sure his shades were on straight as he opened his door. "Yeah." No way was he facing this alone.

Waiting until she was out and the door was shut, he locked up the truck and began the walk along the path in the front yard. It seemed taken care of but not especially well groomed, which fit with what he knew about the man he was visiting.

With a few more steps he was at the door, Carter standing next to him.

He didn't do anything.

She spoke. "If you don't press the doorbell, I will."

Responding to just the prompt he needed, he lifted his right arm and extended the index finger.

Whoever he was, he was definitely surprised. As the door swung further inward and his eyes widened, Sam made a quick visual study: fifties, a little over six feet, short, curly grey hair, pale skin and his right hand resting on a metal cane as his left held the door open.

"Jack?" he asked, obviously amazed.

The Colonel nodded tightly. "Tom."

"Hot damn!" he exclaimed, surprising Sam when he suddenly propelled himself forward (quite impressive for a guy with a cane) and grabbed her commanding officer into what could only be described as a bear hug.

She was even more surprised when the Colonel returned it. Not as enthusiastically of course, but he certainly didn't jerk away, patting what was looking more and more like a very *good* old friend on the back.

Pulling away, Tom's grin was huge. "It's great to see you! You look good, if...a little... pissed..." He hesitated, his smile transforming into a frown. "This isn't a social call, is it?" He finally glanced towards Sam, though his gaze didn't stay on her for long, instead lingering on the folder she was holding.

"No," the Colonel confirmed.

Sighing, Tom nodded heavily and shuffled backwards. "You'd better come in." Indicating for her to precede him, the Colonel stepped into the house behind her, closing the door.

Sam took the opportunity to have a quick look around. Tom's home seemed comfortable and warm, although not especially lived in.

"Please, take a seat." He told her, indicating towards the living room.

"Thanks." Moving in, she sat on a beige two-seater, mildly surprised when the Colonel sat next to her.

Walking confidently with the cane, Tom lowered his surprisingly sturdy-looking frame into a matching chair about six feet away.

"How's the hip?" The Colonel asked, shifting further back on the sofa, the small talk obviously paining him – but he did it anyway.

"About as you'd expect," Tom grunted as he tried to get comfortable. "On the upside, I have a physical therapist that looks like she came right off the set of Baywatch. And speaking of women..." This time he was definitely looking at her.

Even before the Colonel introduced them, Sam knew without a doubt that this man was military, retired or otherwise. She wasn't even sure she bought the Baywatch story.

"Major Samantha Carter, meet Colonel Thomas Franklin - retired."

Sam smiled at him, nodding. "Pleasure to meet you sir."

"Likewise Major," he responded, before looking at 'Jack' again. "So I see the grey has finally caught up with you."

He didn't say, "Ah, you know." He didn't grimace. He didn't run a hand through his hair. He simply shrugged, and uttered a single word. "Yeah."

Tom's frown was almost big enough now to take up two foreheads. "Look...before you tell me whatever reason it is that you're here, it really is good to see you at someplace that isn't a funeral. Last time we didn't really get a chance to talk, and the time before that...well, I can understand why you didn't say anything."

"I wasn't even aware of anything, Tom." His voice was so incredibly tired and though Sam felt for him, she couldn't help but be confused. Two funerals?

Obviously one was Charlie's, but...

"Something tells me you're confused."

Dragged out of her thoughts, Sam realised Tom was addressing her. "I am, but it's okay." She didn't really require an explanation, despite her inquisitive nature. That wasn't why she was there.

"It's usually me who's the confused one," the Colonel muttered. "Makes a nice change."

She almost smiled.

Tom didn't, instead looking between the two of them. "I mean no offence Major, but..." He spoke to the Colonel. "Can I talk about this in front of her?"

"She can be trusted," he argued softly, even as Sam was trying to decide if she should feel offended or not by the fact that they were ignoring her presence, despite Tom's warning.

"Does she have clearance?"

"She can be *trusted*."

Apparently satisfied, Tom nodded and looked back at her. "Good. Sorry about that. If you wouldn't mind, there's a photo album in the second drawer down of the table in the hallway."

"Uh, sure." Obviously he wanted her to get it so she placed the folder on the arm of the sofa, stood, shrugged towards the Colonel, and headed out to the hallway. It didn't take long to locate the table, although it was at the far end of the hallway near the kitchen, and it was really more of a desk than anything else.

Tugging the stiff drawer open, she removed the album then had to use her hip to close it again. When she walked back into the living room, the book pressed closely against her chest, Tom abruptly stopped whatever he'd been saying but acted as if he hadn't been saying anything at all.

"Ah, there you are! Good, good, give it here."

Complying, she handed over the book and watched as he rested it on his lap and opened it up. He flicked through a few pages of photos - apparently he'd had brown hair in his younger days, and it looked as though he'd never married or had children - before stopping at a page that held what looked like a typical vacation picture. Trees, a mountain, some snow...

Peeling back the see-through film protecting the photographs, he picked the 'vacation' one up and turned it over.

There was a small picture attached to the reverse.

"That photograph isn't supposed to exist," he said as she half-listened; fascinated by the picture she was taking from his out-stretched hand. "But back then, there were a lot of things that weren't supposed to exist. We all have one. Or at least...we all *did*."

Sam was beyond comprehending anything that anyone was saying at that moment: her entire attention focused on the five men she was looking at. They were all wearing green fatigues, black woollen hats - much like the ones Colonel O'Neill still favoured - and she instantly recognised three of them. Shaking her head, she spoke. "How long ago was this?"

*His* voice responded. "'81."

Amazing. She knew the two of them had a history, but... "I didn't realise you and he went back so far together."

"I can hardly believe it myself sometimes."

Now it was Tom's turn to be confused. "You knew Charlie?"

*Charlie*? Oh! Charles Kawalsky, not *Charlie* Charlie. And how the hell did he know which man she was talking about? Unless... "Yeah. I did. Are the others-?"

"Dead," Tom confirmed, glancing at the Colonel again. "Jack and I are the last two left."

That was depressing, but she tried not to think about it, instead focusing on the picture again. Obviously they were a team of some kind, though she suspected the work they'd done had been considerably different to the work the Colonel did now on SG-1.

She studied the faces from left to right, scrutinising each one and especially his - he looked so young! When she reached the faces she didn't recognise, Tom pointed to each one.

"Captain Rob Bateman, and Colonel Jonathan Michaels. He was...ah, I guess you could say he was our leader. He and Rob bought it on the same mission in '82."

A vague recollection made her lift her head, and she saw that the Colonel was lowering his.

Tom kept speaking. "Obviously as you knew Kawalsky you know that he's gone...never did get a straight answer about what happened to him."

She stared back at the photo, not seeing it. "Yeah; it was very strange."

"Well," Tom plucked the photo from her grasp and put it back in its hiding place, thumping the album shut. "As nice as this trip down memory lane wasn't, that's not why you came here."

Holding her breath, Sam closed her eyes and waited for the Colonel to speak. It didn't take long.

"No. It's not."

When she opened them again, he was holding the folder out to her.

Understanding, she took it from him and passed it onto Tom - but didn't relinquish her hold until he looked up and met her gaze.

"We need to know if you heard or saw anything - anything even slightly unusual - that might have been connected to this."

Nodding, he pulled it out of her grasp as she let go, and slowly opened it up to read the contents.

Up until that moment, Sam wasn't sure that she even liked him.

The reaction wasn't what Jack had been hoping for, but it all honesty it was what he'd been expecting.

"You've gotta be shitting me."

Tom's fingers fluttered towards the first sheet of paper, then skittered away, as if afraid to touch.

"*Please* tell me you're shitting me."

Jack said nothing; still sitting on the sofa, still hiding behind his shades – which didn't seem to offer protection as well as they used to, he thought – still feeling ashamed. He and Kawalsky had been the ‘babies' of the team, and ridiculously he felt that way now.

She spoke, her voice wavering. "We're not."

"Jesus..." Letting the folder fall to the floor he pushed himself up, resting the weight on the cane as he left the room – probably to find the kitchen.

Surprised, Carter began to stand.

"Carter."

Pausing barely a foot from the sofa, she turned back.

He didn't look at her. "Don't worry. This is just the way he...deals." The exact opposite of the way he dealt with this kind of crap. It was the reason that, when Tom got angry, they'd been relieved he was on their side. It was also the reason he hadn't really been cut out for a career in the ‘normal' military.

The noises started. The first one sounded like a glass being thrown against a wall.

Carter, who'd re-taken her seat, sat up straight and stared at the doorway. Jack nearly jumped out of his skin. It'd been the same when Charlie had first died. For months afterwards whenever he'd heard a loud noise – didn't matter *what* kind of loud noise – he'd re-live it all over again.

Just like now.

The noise.

He tried to ignore it.

The noise.

He tried to ignore it, but it wasn't working. His skeleton wanted to dive out of his body.

The noise.

His hands moved; his right clutching onto the arm of the sofa, the left digging into the end of the cushion he was sitting on.

The noise.

He had to get out of there. He had to get out of there now, because if he didn't, it was going to happen.

The noise.

He...

Her hand.

Her right hand. Sliding on top of his left.

The noise.

No, no, he had to pull away, he had to leave the house, or it was going to happen.

Her hand tightened around his, lifting it away from the sofa as she turned towards him, her right knee pushing into the cushion as her left arm wrapped around him, pulling him closer.

The noise.

He had to stop her. He didn't *do* this.

He never had.

But he didn't jerk away, didn't object, didn't yell at her to leave him alone...his body simply kept going in the direction it was being coaxed towards, his arms finally moving to wrap around her, his head finding its way to her shoulder.

This was pathetic. This was really pathetic.

He wasn't sure how they came off – maybe he'd even removed them himself – but as the sunglasses tumbled from his face, his body silently began to shake.

If there was one thing he hated about his job, it was this. His line of work meant that, no matter what you did, at some point you were going to have to perform some kind of physical activity.

It'd been his primary reason for losing weight.

Take now, for instance. Right now, he was running. Not away from someone but after someone – which was definitely a preferable set of circumstances. They had no idea they were being followed of course – that was something else you developed in his line of work – and a car would be much too obvious.

So running it was, combined with frequent rapid disappearing acts, whenever his target turned around.

The guy was paranoid – with good reason apparently – but he walked with confidence, almost arrogance. As though, despite the fact that he kept looking over his shoulder every five seconds, no one could ever surprise him.

Misjudging a step, Bliss nearly went over on his ankle. Dammit, he had to be more careful. Silently cursing he made up for the lost time, even as he continued cursing himself for getting this far involved. The result wouldn't benefit him; he would gain nothing, yet...here he was.

Avoiding a pile of dog crap on the sidewalk that someone had neglected to clean up.

This wasn't the brightest moment of his career.

Finding him hadn't been either. No, that had been luck, plain and simple.

The NID file on Jack was one of the biggest on record. Getting to see it again to double check the details – he'd seen it enough times when he still worked for the NID – and to see what had been added since his departure had cost him another favour.

Nowhere had there been anything about his son having been a target...not that he genuinely expected to find anything. There was nothing that indicated it'd been a NID mission. Hell, even the layout of the folder had been in the style of Jack's old ‘company'.

But there was nothing to stop someone from copying that style.

In any case, even if the NID were involved there was no chance it would have been an official mission. Rogue all the way.

There was no way to be sure of anything. So many companies, so much backstabbing, so many secrets...this was why he loved the work. It could just prove to be inconvenient at times.

With nothing else to go on (Victoria was so far out of the country she might as well have been on another planet, and none of his other contacts knew anything) he'd read, and re-read, and *re-read* Jack's file, looking for something, anything out of place. Anything that shouldn't be there.

It was on his third flip through that he noticed. Really noticed. Something had been bugging him since his first read-through, but it wasn't until the third that he realised what it was.

So he'd made a few checks, a few phone calls, and had eventually come to the conclusion that something strange was going on. And while he had no way of knowing if it in any way related to Charlie, the word 'strange' usually meant 'bad'.

And it definitely related to Jack, so it was worth investigating.

They were barely five hundred yards from the rendezvous now, so Bliss slowed to a jog, then a stroll. Though no one else was expected at the meeting, and hopefully didn't even *know* about the meeting, Bliss had been tracking his target from his hotel to ensure that no uninvited guests would be arriving.

As it was, it seemed no one was following him at all. Well, apart from Bliss.

Catching his breath, Bliss dug his hands into his jacket pockets, grabbing the reassuring feel of his weapon with his right hand.

They were there now. In typical clichéd behaviour, Bill was sitting on a bench. He saw Bliss almost immediately, and tried to stop his eyes registering surprise even as he studied his surroundings.

No one else was there.

No witnesses.

It was as Bliss had planned it.

And Bill seemed to know that. "You're my meeting?" He knew better than to use a cover story; there was no chance of anyone overhearing. Bliss had taken care of that, too.

"Sorry to say, Victoria couldn't make it." He sat down to Bill's right, half-turning his body towards him on the bench. It was a blatant lie.

"We both know she was never going to be here. What's going on?"

Shrugging, Bliss pretended to let his attention wander. "Nothing really. I just have one question for you."

"And what's that?"

Bliss studied him again. He was getting old – sixty-two – but the good ones lasted. They always did. Until they screwed with the wrong guy. "How are you doing, Bill? Or should I say...Jack?" Or as he preferred to think of him, Jack Mark II. Even if he had come first.

Jack's eyes widened.

Bliss fired.

Five humiliating minutes later they finally moved apart – and that was only because they had incoming company.

They pulled away from each other in silent agreement as Tom stumbled into the room. Carter had produced his shades from somewhere so Jack quickly shoved them back on, trying not to wipe his face.

Evidently she didn't much care about herself, openly brushing away her tears.

Either way, Tom didn't seem to notice – or particularly care. His eyes were wildly scanning the room, disbelieving. "Do we have any proof that *that*," he gasped for breath, pointing towards the folder, its contents still sprawled across the floor. "actually happened?"

Between them, where Tom couldn't see, their hands clutched together. "No."

"Right," his free hand rubbed his hair as he thought, disrupting the mass of curls. "So all we really know is that someone made a file about Charlie. Not even when. Even if there were any dates in it, they could easily have been faked."

"Yeah, we've been over this already, Tom." He badly needed a tissue. "I gotta use your john." Pushing away from the sofa he dragged her with him – they were still attached, and he wasn't quite up to letting go yet. He did, however, make her wait outside while he took care of his problem. It was ridiculous, but even after that melodramatic break down on the sofa he didn't want her to see him blowing his nose.

It was simply too...ordinary.

When he came out of the bathroom and they both went back into the living room, Tom was sitting in his chair, staring at the floor and the paperwork lying there. His head was in his hands. "I wish to God I knew something, Jack, but I don't. I don't know a damn thing." Jack had already figured that much out. "This uh, work you're doing now. Deep space something..."

"Radar telemetry." Carter offered, standing next to him in the doorway.

"Right," Tom scoffed, clearly disbelieving. "You create any enemies? Anyone who'd wanna see you suffer?"

Where to start? The list was depressingly long, but thankfully most of them lived off world. "A few. But I got someone looking into that already." Truth was, he didn't know what the hell he'd be looking into. He still didn't know if he even trusted him. But it was a lead.

And he'd had about all of Tom that he could take. It'd been easier when the guys'd still been around. Between the five of them there was a kind of buffer area, but Thomas Franklin was more than any one person could handle alone.

Something moved. Jack realised it was Carter's hand, tightening on his. They must have joined up again when he'd left the bathroom and he hadn't even realised.

He wondered, sometimes, if she could read his mind.

They made their excuses to leave. Carter retrieved the folder. Jack pretended that he hadn't just been crying on her shoulder. Tom apologised for the lack of information, offered to help in any possible way...and made a suggestion:

"Have you seen Barb?"

Jack's hand froze as it touched the front door, inches away from freedom. He'd been doing his best to even avoid thinking about her. He had enough guilt as it was. "No." He didn't turn back. "You think she knows something?" It seemed unlikely. She'd been in no way connected with the work her husband had been doing, and even if – against all the rules – he'd ever told her anything about the work, he'd died long before Charlie had even been born.

"No," Tom replied, confirming his theory. "But you should see her, Jack. It's important."

He closed his eyes, dissatisfaction wedging beneath his skin. "She still in ‘Frisco?"

"Of course," the shrug was almost audible. "Why do you think I moved here?"

The dissatisfaction spread. "Thanks, Tom. See you later." Grabbing the lock, he flicked it open.

"Jack?"

Frustrated, he turned back. "*What*?"

Tom was staring at his hand – the hand that was firmly grabbing onto Carter's. "Did I miss something?"

Jack followed his gaze: from his hand to Carter's, along her arm and up to her face.

She simply sighed.

"Not a thing," Jack muttered as they left the house together. "Not a damn thing."

The journey to wherever 'Barb' lived was, unsurprisingly, covered mostly in silence. Neither one of them had much to say after what had and hadn't happened in Tom's house.

Well, that wasn't true. She had a lot to say, but knew better than to say it - for the moment. Sam knew without having to ask that he was desperately embarrassed by his breakdown in the living room, but there was a strange kind of dichotomy to it. On one hand he didn't want to admit it'd happened, on the other he kept touching her.

Specifically, holding her hand.

With anyone else or at any other time it could have been considered sweet - but that wasn't exactly something Jack O'Neill could be described as.

He wasn't holding it now, of course; he was concentrating on driving, and about twenty minutes after they left Tom's place, they pulled up outside what was presumably Barb's house.

As he turned off the engine and unbuckled his seat belt - still wearing those sunglasses - Sam studied him. She couldn't help but wonder that in the current situation, if this Barb wasn't likely to know anything about what'd happened to Charlie, why were they going to see her?

Friendship and history aside, there were much more important things to consider.

Maybe he knew something she didn't. In fact, he probably *did* know a lot of things she didn't, but she doubted this was one of them. Still, she held her tongue for now, deciding to give him a few hours of grace.

But only a few.

Exiting the truck she joined him on the sidewalk, slightly surprised and vaguely disappointed when he didn't grab her hand again, instead walking straight through the front yard and pressing the doorbell - quite a difference to his arrival at Tom's.

Some thirty seconds later, as he was starting to look through windows, the door crept open - obviously on a safety chain. Pale blue eyes, surrounded by wrinkles, peered around the edge, widening when they saw who was standing there. The door slammed shut, the chain rattled, and then the door was flung open.

Obviously 'Barb', the woman then grabbed the Colonel with a ferocity that even rivalled Tom's greeting.

"For crying out loud, what are *you* doing here?" she demanded into his shoulder.

He returned this hug hesitantly, which Sam took to mean that he cared about the woman even more than he cared about Tom. Had she been some twenty years younger, Sam might have allowed herself the luxury of feeling jealous.

Stepping away, he smiled at the woman he'd just been hugging. In the middle of all of this, he had a smile for her. "Glad to know you're happy to see me, Barb."

"Shut up," she ordered, slapping his arm, then focusing her attention on Sam. "Who's this?" Not one for beating around the bush, apparently.

Sam let him do the introductions - and blinked when he left something out. "Barbara Michaels, meet Sam Carter. Barb was married to my old boss; Carter is...a friend."

So, no mention of her rank, but still using her surname. "Pleased to meet you Mrs Michaels." Sam extended her hand.

"Barb," she insisted, shaking firmly.

"Sam."

Smiling, Barb released her grip. "Well, you two come inside. It'll be dark soon."

The shower had been pure heaven - it'd seemed like forever since she'd last had one, but eventually Sam resigned herself to the fact that the hot water wasn't going to last forever, and glumly turned off the mother of all power showers and grabbed a towel.

Barb had insisted not long after they arrived that they were absolutely spending the night - she wouldn't hear of anything else. Sam had been ready to speak up, about to explain that there was something they urgently needed to look into (he still hadn't told Barb why they were in San Francisco), when he'd disrupted her plans by agreeing.

Stunned, all but spluttering, she'd rapidly accepted Barb's kind offer of a shower if only so she could get away from him to think for a while.

The shower had soon stopped any thinking at all.

But after she stepped out, began drying off and contemplated getting dressed, her mind was buzzing once again. What the hell was he doing? She had a suspicion, but it was something she was only going to bring up when they were alone together.

Pulling on semi-fresh clothes from her bag (Barb had insisted on taking anything dirty and promised to have it all clean before they left the following morning), and basically leaving her hair as it was after a quick brushing, she flicked the bathroom room light off and opened the door.

Woah. She hadn't even realised, but dusk had definitely settled in. Rubbing a hand along the wall, she eventually abandoned her quest for the light switch instead allowing her eyes to adjust to the dim hallway. Following a faint cast of light to the end of the hall - and knowing that it led to the stairs that in turn led downstairs where they were waiting, she paused as she heard voices.

She was at the top of the stairs now; the voices filtering up from the living room. She shouldn't have paused. She shouldn't have eavesdropped. But she couldn't help it.

"What's wrong?" Barb.

"Nothing." Ha. Apparently she knew that too. "Bull."

"I...I can't talk about it anymore today. I need..."

"Peace?"

A sigh, heavy. "I guess." No doubt his internal sarcastic-ometer wanted to comment on the cheesy statement.

"Does she give you that?"

An even heavier sigh. "I doubt *anyone* can give me that. But at least she already knows about it."

"Does she? Does she really know everything, Jack?"

A long pause. "Yeah."

"She's military - did you think I wouldn't notice?"

"Not really."

"Then why didn't you tell me?"

"Don't know. Just didn't." Resigned. Almost hopeless.

"She reminds me of Sara."

"I know."

"She likes you."

"I know."

Sam breathed at the top of the stairs.

"Though you wonder like hell why she does."

"Oh yeah."

Having heard much, much more than enough, Sam made a point of walking loudly down the stairs, into the light. Turning into the living room she mustered what, under a magnifying glass, might have been considered a smile. "Hey. That was great, thanks."

"No problem." Barb smiled.

He didn't even look at her as she sat on the sofa next to him, suffering a bout of déjà vu. It was like Tom's house all over again - Barb sat just a few feet away, on her own chair.

Silence fell, until Barb was the one to break it. "Why are you here?"

He didn't even blink. "You tell me. Tom sent us."

Her gaze lowered, then flicked towards Sam before flicking away again. Sighing, she said it: "I have cancer, Jack. The type and placement makes it particularly difficult to operate on, and I've decided against chemotherapy."

Oh, God. That was not what she'd been expecting to hear at all, and as terrible as it was, Sam couldn't help but feel for the Colonel. This on top of a couple of already spectacularly shitty days...

His Adam's apple moved. "Why?"

"I've had a good life, even if John was taken away from me too early. I've wanted for nothing - the money you've sent ensures that. I've always had friends, people who care about me - even if some of them stopped visiting," the reproach was obvious. "And I'm getting old, Jack. You know what chemotherapy does, and..." Losing some of her bravado, she glanced towards a picture on a table a few feet away. It was definitely one of the men from the photograph Sam had seen at Tom's. "...I want to see my husband again."

Though it was debatable as to whether that would actually happen, Sam couldn't fault her for it. A phrase similar to something Linea had said ran through her mind - if Barbara believed she'd see her husband after she died, who was she to tell her otherwise? She had no proof that she wouldn't. She had no proof either way.

Her life had to be particularly strange if she thought something that a mass murderer had said made sense.

He finally moved, leaning forward. "I'm sorry."

Smiling, Barb shook her head. "It's not your fault."

"I know. But you don't deserve this."

"Few people ever do."

Barb suggested dinner then, trying to lift the mood. Though Sam nodded and answered and spoke when appropriate, most of her attention was focused on the Colonel. He'd taken the news of her cancer surprisingly well.

She suspected that in actuality, he hadn't taken it in at all. She wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been desensitised to anything that didn't involve his son.

Night soon blacked out the sky completely, and though it hadn't been a particularly long day, Sam could feel exhaustion settling in. Without needing to be asked Barb showed them to where they'd be sleeping.

"This," she declared, after taking them upstairs and into a room Sam hadn't seen yet. "is the spare room." There was one bed, but it was just large enough for two people. "Now I don't know if you want to share, or one of you can have the sofa-"

"We'll share," Sam interrupted, making the decision and not looking at him as she turned away to retrieve her bag from the bathroom. When she returned to the spare room he was standing next to the bed, having placed his own bag on top of it and rifling through the contents.

Having found whatever it was he needed, he brushed by her in the doorway, obviously heading towards the bathroom.

He did, however, pause before leaving completely. "Do me a favour."

"Sure. What?"

"Don't pretend you're doing this for your own benefit."

Watching his receding back until it was gone completely, she flopped onto the bed, next to his bag. Intrigued by something peeking out, she pushed the flap back.

It was a picture of Charlie. In fact, it was several pictures of Charlie, various paraphernalia that had probably belonged to his son, and what looked suspiciously like a coroner's report.

"It was after that he stopped coming."

Shocked, Sam whipped her head up to see Barb standing in the doorway. "He used to visit?"

"Often," she nodded. "All three of them. I think he felt responsible for me or something after John died." Letting her gaze linger on the pile of unruly photos on Sam's lap, she smiled sadly. "I don't think I ever saw him as happy as he was then."

It was madness that Sam was jealous of a woman he was no longer married to. "He's not big on making himself happy."

It was of no surprise to either of them. "In his mind, why should he deserve to be?" Barb didn't ask about the photos. Didn't ask why that, after all this time, he was carrying around so many pictures and mementos of his son. She just accepted it. "I'm going to head off to bed myself soon. If you need anything, feel free to help yourself."

"Thank you, Barb. Really. I appreciate it. And not that he'd ever say it, but he does to."

"I know," the smile returned, not quite so small, and she drifted out of the room. Sam began moving, putting the possessions back in his bag, getting changed into her nightclothes and, after switching off the light, climbing into bed.

She didn't try to sleep. She lay on her side, facing away from the door, eyes wide open.

Maybe ten minutes later he returned, and Sam listened to the noises; something rustling in his bag, the rasp of the zipper on his bag being pulled, a long, weary, heartbreaking sigh.

And then the covers being thrown back, and then him climbing in beside her, dressed – evidently – in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, his arms immediately seeking her out and pulling her towards him, Sam turning in his hold until she was half lying on top of him, resting her head against his chest.

"Tomorrow," she whispered. "Tomorrow we contact your friend and find out if he's discovered anything." She knew he said his friend would contact them if he had anything, but it was better than what he was doing at the moment.

Running.

He wanted to know. He wanted to find out if someone had really done this to his son, who was responsible, and who deserved a preferably violent and drawn-out death.

But part of him...didn't.

Didn't want to know the truth. Didn't want to know if his marriage had been destroyed for entirely the wrong reasons. Didn't want to know if he'd pissed someone off enough that they'd settled on a little vengeance.

Sam understood. She did. But she couldn't afford to let him do it.

He didn't say anything in response so she hugged him tighter, told him how sorry she was about Barb, and offered what little comfort she could.

There were worse ways to wake up.

Jack spent the better part of an hour watching her lying next to him. Her brow was furrowed and she muttered occasionally, as if even in sleep she couldn't stop thinking long enough to relax.

She didn't mutter when they were off world. He'd watched her then, too, and she slept silently and comfortably. Well - as comfortably as she could get, depending on what kind of surroundings they had when they *were* off world.

Considering everything she'd been through, everything she'd had to endure, she was remarkably free of emotional baggage. Maybe it was because, a majority of the time, she actually dealt with what she was feeling; or at least didn't suppress it as severely as he did.

He knew this about himself. It just wasn't easy.

Most nights, he only slept soundly because he was exhausted.

But right now *she* wasn't sleeping soundly. Was that his fault? It may have been egotistical, and the list of things that were his fault seemed to go on forever, but what else could it be? There was nothing else going on in her personal of professional life that could be responsible.

Although...

He knew about the date.

She hadn't said anything, of course. None of them had - probably thinking they were protecting him. It was both thoughtful and patronising. Did they really think that after all this time, he hadn't got used to the idea of her being with someone else?

It wasn't a particularly nice idea, but whatever made her happy - with someone else or not - would keep him satisfied.

And maybe, just maybe, he drew a little solace from the fact that, so far, none of the 'relationships' had lasted.

And he seriously doubted this new guy would have caused so much consternation after just one date.

He really should think about her more often. If he concentrated, it stopped him thinking about Charlie. It stopped him thinking that Barb was dying.

There. That was his own fault. Because he'd thought about them, the not quite relaxed, not quite peaceful feeling had been eradicated entirely.

He couldn't let himself be happy.

But wasn't that right? Wasn't it the anger that was keeping him going? Driving him, forcing him to take action? She'd been right the previous evening, that much was certain. Finding out if someone had actually killed Charlie...

{The noise.}

For a while, he'd been able to remember it without re-living it. For a while, he'd even managed to forget sometimes.

But he felt it creeping up on him, what had been unofficially described in the past as an 'episode' - because of course a man who'd been cleared as fit and able to travel through something called a Stargate with a nuclear bomb...well he didn't have 'episodes', now did he?

It'd been a long time since his last one, since before the mission with the bomb - the mission that had, apparently, 'cured' him - but it wasn't a feeling he forgot.

No. Not here. Not with her.

He tried to stand, crawl off the bed, but his body was already shaking, refusing to support his weight. Goosebumps sprang up all over his skin, and breathing became increasingly difficult. The room grew blacker, but he knew it wasn't the night advancing (if anything it should have been the other way around) - his eyesight was blacking out.

Oh God oh God oh God...

Knowing that there was no way out of this, that he simply had to ride it out, he tucked his body up into as small a space as possible - not a good idea at his age, but the only way he knew to get through this - and lay on his side, grasping onto his calves.

Oh God oh God oh God...

He shivered, muscles straining, muttering...

Something touched his head.

He yanked away, but something else was touching his shoulder, then his arm. He tried to fight against it, but in his current condition it wasn't much use.

He didn't un-tuck his legs – not only did he refuse to, but he simply couldn't – but whatever was touching him moved closer to the upper half of his body, enveloping him, forcefully prising the hand from his leg until it found something else to clasp onto...

Oh God oh God oh God...

He was gonna hurt it. His hands were tighter, tighter, his body shaking...

It didn't move away.

The next morning he told her how to contact Maybourne.

Barb didn't have a computer, though she did direct them to the nearest Internet café she knew about. So after Jack said goodbye (while Carter waited outside) and promised to visit again after all *this* was settled – though Barb still had no idea what *this* was – they left.

In the truck Carter didn't even mention the previous night, and Jack was incredibly thankful. His humiliation couldn't be anymore complete.

Sara had never been in much of a mood to be there when his ‘episodes' used to occur, but he could hardly blame her. He had, after all, killed their son.

And he'd slept on the sofa long before leaving for the first Abydos mission – and that was only when he wasn't in Charlie's room, unable to escape from the memory, and just as unable to grieve.

Like last night.

Swallowing against the burning sensation in the back of his throat, he was damned glad that a) he was wearing shades again, and b) she was driving. Something told him he'd have to have a great many ‘chats' with McKenzie before he'd be cleared for gate travel ever again.

Whoopee.

In the end it took them just under twenty minutes to reach the café. There was a small parking lot nearby but there were a few spaces available, so Carter pulled into one and after opening, shutting and locking, they went inside.

Discovering the Internet charges from a kid who looked like he hadn't even hit puberty, Carter bought an hour's worth of time and led the way to a computer that wasn't being used.

After ensuring it was definitely online, she stationed herself in front of the keyboard – he was in a swivel chair next to hers, vying for a view of the screen – and asked the question:

"Do you know the bulletin board address?"

It was the *only* Internet address he knew.

He told her.

She tapped it in, and as they waited for the page to load, an advertising thing popped up, letting them know about cheap, *cheap* cell phone rates.

And he remembered.

He'd deliberately left it turned off, but it'd been in his inner jacket pocket the entire time.

Pulling it out, he stared at his cell phone. He wondered how many messages were waiting for him.

Without thinking, he turned it on.

Carter spoke. "Okay, it's loaded. What do I type...what are you doing?"

Suddenly feeling guilty, he jerked his head up. "Uh...I was just..."

"They can trace you through your cell phone," she said. Not angry, not reproving; just telling.

He knew that. "I just thought..." He glanced down at it again. "...wow, can anyone even *have* that many messages?"

Intrigued, Carter peered to look at the small screen. Her eyes widened. "Wow is-"

It rang.

Jack recognised it. It wasn't the ‘you have waiting messages' or ‘you have waiting voicemail' ring. It was the ‘you have a call right now so answer the damn phone' ring.

Carter's gaze held his when he looked up. "Do you know who it is?"

No number was being displayed, but it definitely wasn't anyone he had in the memory; he had a caller ID thing. And all the number's he had in the memory were the only people he'd be expecting to hear from right about now.

He answered, adopting a fake accent that sounded decidedly unlike any accent at all. "Hello?"

The voice was urgent. "Jack!"

The tension didn't ease, even though he recognised the voice. "Barb? What is it?" Carter inched closer, trying to listen in.

"There's...there's some guy here, Jack. Says he has something for you."

'Some guy?' "Who is it?"

"I've never seen him before, but he says his name's Butch."

Within seconds, he was out of the building.

It was putting it incredibly mildly to say that she was growing increasingly worried about him. She'd hoped that his breakdown in Tom's house had been some kind of break*through* - the first indication that he was really starting to grieve for what happened to his son, accident or not.

It seemed to be just the reverse, judging by whatever it was that happened last night.

She could still feel the pain in her side, where his fingers had dug in.

Right now she was watching him; clutching onto the wheel, seemingly unaware of anything except his truck and the road, when earlier he'd been all too happy for her to drive.

When she'd asked him exactly what Barb had told him, he'd said one word - "Butch," - and didn't deviate from his mission to get back to Barb's house at the fastest possible speed.

Naturally, the drive back took half the time of the drive away.

As they skidded to a halt a few dozen feet away from Barb's driveway, Sam saw why they couldn't pull into the driveway itself - there was another car there.

The Colonel didn't even turn off the engine before he jumped out of the truck, running onto the sidewalk, through the front yard, and lifting a hand in preparation to bang on the door.

It wasn't necessary.

By the time he reached the door it was already opening; no doubt Barb had heard the truck pull up.

Except it wasn't Barb.

Sam - who up until that point had been chasing after the Colonel - managed to stop just short of actually running into his back, her mouth all but hanging open. "*Maybourne*?"

Smiling calmly, he didn't seem in the least bit surprised to see her - but then, why would he be? This was, after all, the kind of situation he seemed to specialise in. "Major. Always a pleasure."

And she knew. "You gave him the folder."

"I did."

"Show me," Colonel O'Neill interrupted, breathing heavily, never breaking his gaze from Maybourne.

Nodding, Maybourne stepped out of the house and as he did so, Barb stepped out after him.

As both men walked towards what was apparently Maybourne's car, Barb grabbed her arm. "Sam, what's going on? This man turns up and says he's a friend of Jack's...but neither of you seem particularly happy."

"It's okay," Sam patted her hand. "He is a friend." Kind of. "He's helped us out before, but I suggest you stay here for a moment, okay?" No way was she going to let Maybourne show the Colonel anything while she wasn't there, so as soon as Barb nodded Sam broke away to join them.

They were at the rear of the car; Maybourne was just turning his key in the lock. Sam came to a stop next to them, and whether he wanted it or not, her hand zeroed in on the Colonel's and held tightly.

The trunk popped open.

Sam's mind raced through everything that could be in there - a body (alive or dead), more folders, anything that could qualify as evidence...

And then she saw what was inside.

"Oh my God."

Jack's brain didn't short circuit.

His eyes didn't widen, he didn't step back in shock, he didn't try to desperately figure out why he was now staring at someone who was supposed to be dead (and not only dead, but seriously decayed by now); he didn't shake his head in disbelief.

Nothing surprised him anymore.

So as he looked at the man lying in the trunk of the car, all he did was frown.

Carter obviously recognised him despite that photograph having been more than twenty years old; her hand tightening on his in what he guessed was an instinctive move. "Oh my God. But...he died. You *saw* him die."

That was true enough. He'd watched him get hit, had pulled his body to safety, had literally *had his blood on his hands*...but it couldn't have been real. None of it.

Nothing was as it seemed. Nothing. "Apparently," now he managed a blink, "it didn't really happen." His brain was starting to wake up, to connect things together. Had that entire operation been a set up?

{"Take care of Barb for me."}

They couldn't have known about it. He refused to believe that the others could have known about it.

Maybourne started speaking, with what could have been the most sincere tone he'd ever used. "The fact that he's alive doesn't necessarily mean that he was involved with what happened with your son, but...well, you gotta admit it's pretty damn suspicious."

Yeah. Yeah, it really was.

He couldn't automatically assume that John had anything to do with Charlie's death...oh hell, why *couldn't* he? Maybourne was right. Just being alive with suspicious enough. "How did you find...?"

"I've had a few dealings with him in the past. After I supplied you with the folder and begin digging around in *your* past to try and find something that might explain the folder, I came across a photograph of one Colonel Jonathan Michaels - though I prefer to think of him as 'Jack'. Even if that's not the identity I'm personally familiar with. Guess I'm fond of the name," he grinned broadly, a grin that rapidly diminished when he saw Jack's decidedly un-amused reaction. "In any case, my information told me that he used to be your CO. My information also told me that he should have been dead. That, coupled with the fact that he's one of the few people who would understand the contents of that folder...well, he seemed a safe bet."

Up until the moment she peered around the edge of the trunk, Jack could have sworn Barb hadn't even been there at all. "Who is-?" Her voice broke off as she saw him. "Oh my God, *John*?" She moved forward, shoving Carter out of the way.

Something in her reaction brought Jack out of his stupor. He lifted his head, stepping towards her as he pulled his hand free from Carter's. "Barb-"

"He's dead," she shook her head in disbelief, eyes wild as she stared down at her husband. "He's been *dead* for twenty years!"

Carter took over, stepping closer. Her hand first rested on Barb's shoulder; then her arm went all the way around. She began talking, reassurances and promises to find the truth, doing what she could to comfort her. Soon enough, it turned into a fully-fledged hug.

It was a frankly surreal situation. Watching Barb and Carter hug, while his former boss and possible murderer of his son was out cold in the trunk of a car driven there by his former nemesis and current 'friend'.

And then the weirdness went up a notch.

Carter collapsed.

A stunned Barb called out his name but he was already kneeling down, reaching for a pulse and closing his eyes when he found one. Thank God. That too on top of everything else...he doubted his sanity would ever return. "What happened?" He demanded, trying to figure out ways to make Carter comfortable even as he glanced up.

Only to see the front end of a gun pointing at him. "I did." Barb smiled, as she fired.

Jack didn't even have time for a moment of relief that it was apparently a tranq gun. He managed to see a blurred image of Maybourne fighting for the weapon, but as Jack was already on his knees, before long the top half of his body keeled over, impacting against the ground, completely obscuring his vision.

Maybe some things *could* still surprise hi-

There were several things Jack hated, but that groggy as hell 'I've just woken up after being drugged by a former good friend' feeling was currently topping the list. Blinking heavily he tried - and failed - to keep his eyelids lifted for more than one second.

It wasn't easy.

But he was pissed, so he knew he'd succeed.

When he eventually did, there wasn't much he could see. It felt like he was wearing glasses with a seriously screwed prescription - blurry and stomach-churning vision assailed him. Still, as he hadn't really eaten much for the last couple of days - and he had to know what the hell had happened to Carter - he'd forced himself to keep his eyes open.

He had no idea where he was, but the familiar sensation of wood against his body and rope against his wrists told him the important details - he was tied to a chair. Under the likely assumption that he was being watched, he very slowly and very slightly moved his head in different directions, trying to give the impression he was moving in his sleep.

His vision was still blurred, but there was a definite blonde-coloured *something* to his right. He'd lay good odds that it was Carter, and from what he could make out she was in much the same position as him.

"How'd you sleep, Jack?"

O-kay. There was little point in doing the pretending anymore. Giving up the pretence, he lifted his head up and opened his eyes as wide as he could. Details were still beyond him, but the voice he knew very well. "You don't have cancer, do you?"

Barb's amusement was evident in her voice. "What makes you think that?"

"The fact that, right now, you don't seem in the least bit surprised at the fact that your husband's alive. The fact that you drugged the three of us. The fact that I'm tied to a chair. If I had to guess, I'd say that you knew about John all along but you got sick of all the secrecy. Either he had to come 'back' to life or-"

"I had to die too," she finished. "I'm sorry you got tangled up in this, Jack, I really am. It's just that no one can know he's alive. No one."

Jack snorted, but then his head pounded and he decided not to risk doing that again. "And what about the people he works for, whoever they are? I'm sure they know who he is."

"Probably," she agreed. "But the truth is, they couldn't care less about who he is just as long as he gets things done. You do. Though to be honest, I don't fully understand why this Maybourne guy brought him here anyway." As she spoke she gestured to her right - Jack's left – causing him to turn his head to see what was probably Maybourne, also tied to a chair.

That was the moment he realised where they were - in her house. Somehow, he expected to be somewhere very far away. "Where's John?"

Turning her head to the left, Barb nodded towards the doorway. Jack duly followed her gaze, wincing when he saw the blurry form of John.

Right. Ah. He probably should have noticed him before then. "John," he said. "How you doing? Looking good - if a little out of focus. I guess the rate of decay for flesh just *isn't* what it used to be."

"Jack," he greeted, walking further into the room, although even to Jack's impaired vision he was a little unsteady on his feet. No doubt, though he was now up and around, he was still feeling the effects of the tranq Maybourne had given him. "It's good to see you." He paused a few feet away, and appeared to smile. "Really."

He sounded sincere. But whether he really *was* sincere or not didn't really matter - only one thing mattered. Jack tilted his head back, blinking heavily. He was definitely feeling more alert now, but decided that playing up just how drugged he was could only help.

He asked the question.

"Did you kill my son?"

A rapidly more in-focus John lost his smile. "No Jack. I didn't kill Charlie."

It couldn't be. No. He'd made his peace - or at least, he thought he had - with what happened to Charlie a long time ago. Had accepted that it was largely his responsibility. But even now, the idea that he could *blame someone else for Charlie's death*...

Oh God. *God*. What kind of father was he?

And that was the precise moment he stopped feeling sorry for himself. He had a job to do, a mystery to solve. "What about the folder? If you didn't kill Charlie, why was there a folder?"

John shrugged, turning away and slowly pacing around the room. "Made any enemies lately?"

Ha. It was practically his profession. Not that he was about to admit it. "Maybe."

"Any of them in a position to know about your past, the work you did?"

Kinsey immediately sprang to mind - with his NID contacts, God only knew the information the guy had access to. "Maybe." But even so...something about this just didn't seem like Kinsey's work. He had no doubt he was capable and would probably even arrange for it to look like his son had been murdered for whatever reason, but still...

And he knew the reason.

He'd worked with him for years - had largely been trained by him. They'd worked together, nearly died together, and despite John's behaviour now had been pretty damn good friends.

So he knew something was...amiss.

"There's something you haven't told me."

Having been facing away as he paced, John turned to face him too quickly, and from the looks of thing was immediately struck by dizziness. Stumbling, he reached out for Barb who immediately grabbed hold and helped him sit down on the sofa. "Thanks." He said gratefully, tugging her down to sit next to him before addressing Jack again. "You wanna know why I 'died' in the first place."

It was John's assumption but, for now, it was one Jack'd run with. "Sure."

He shrugged, as if it were the simplest story in the world. "They wanted me to go under. Way under. Even further than we were. As 'secret' as our work was supposed to be, there were still always bureaucrats who were trying to pull the strings, trying to make things happen that really weren't worth our while. Putting obstacles in our way."

"So you faked your own death?"

"With their help." He nodded.

Jack really did feel incredibly stupid. "I wrote the report on that mission." He'd been the one to tell Barb, because he didn't want it to be some impersonal stranger. Because he'd promised what he'd thought was a dying John that he'd take care of her.

"I'm sorry about that, I really am," he said. "But that's my point. The kind of work we did together...it was supposed to be secret, but there were always reports, folders, records. Always the opportunity for someone to stumble across something. The work I left that to do...there's none of that. No papers, no confirmation. Anything that's given to me is immediately destroyed. Hell, your friend Maybourne only found me because he got lucky, not because of a paper trail."

Upon consideration, Jack decided that, you know - he really didn't want an explanation. He didn't even want to know how long Barb had known John was still alive (though he refused to believe she'd known along - no one was *that* good an actress). "What now?"

"Now?"

"Well, now that you've done the evil bad guy thing and shared your nefarious history, you can't keep us alive. Especially if - as Barb says - no one can know you're still around."

John sighed. "I have faith in you, Jack, even if you don't. Let's say, for example, I was to introduce something into Major Carter's system. Something that's completely untraceable and harmless, yet when mixed with something else has quite...chronic results."

Jack's hands formed into fists beneath the ropes. "She has nothing to do with this."

"Ah, I disagree, Jack. Out of all the people who could have come with you on this 'journey', you chose her. And I know you, very well. That means something."

"Actually," he rebutted. "She wouldn't let me go without her."

"Which is just as significant."

Maybe. He hated it when bad guys made sense. "Look, regardless of who she is and what she is, she has nothing to do with this." Okay, too many is'. And she knows the work. It's not like she's gonna run off and blab to someone." Which wasn't exactly true. It wasn't that Carter couldn't be trusted - he trusted her more than anyone - but the fact remained that as soon as humanly possible, they really would be blabbing about John.

Or hopefully, exacting a nice piece of revenge. He didn't buy John's story about having nothing to do with his son for one second.

"You know the work too, Jack. You know I can't take any chances." Standing up and seeming to be surer on his feet, John left the room without explanation.

Leaving Jack and Barb as the only conscious people in the room.

Perfect.

Unfortunately, she spoke first, sitting in the furthest corner of the sofa. "Please don't say 'don't let him do this'."

"Why not?" He asked. "Drugging. Kidnapping. Threatening murder. Is this part of the wonderful life you want to keep with your 'husband'?"

"It'll be different later," she insisted. "When we leave. It'll just be the two of us, together."

"Really?" She really bought that? "And what happens if you bump into an old friend. Purely by accident. Completely unexpected. What happens to them then?"

Her lips set into a determined line, and Jack had a feeling she was definitely trying to stop any ambiguity from showing. "I appreciate everything you've done for me this past twenty years. Even after I discovered John was still alive your support was...touching."

Oh, ick. He wasn't dignifying that with a proper response, but another thought sprang to mind. "Do you know about Charlie? If he did anything?"

Barb shook her head vigorously. "I'm telling you Jack, he didn't do it. He didn't touch a hair on your son's head. I know there are a lot of things he'd do...has done." The emotion showed, fleeting. Fear. "But not that. Never that."

Anything further was stopped from coming out when John walked back into the room, carrying what looked like one of Fraiser's favourite toys. Correction: one of Fraiser's favourite *pointy* toys.

Barb let him keep that in the house?

Jack spoke, knowing who it was intended for. "John..."

Grunting a little, John lowered to his knees besides Carter. There was no sign of her waking anytime soon; body limp, head slumped forward.

Jack actively struggled against the ropes binding him to the chair now, giving up the pretence that he hadn't regained his strength. "*Dammit*, John."

Having obviously already drawn whatever the drug was into the needle elsewhere, John now tested it, pushing the plunger slightly, both men watching - one with satisfaction, the other with dread - as tiny droplets formed from the end of the needle.

Calmly, as if he wasn't about to inject something potentially life threatening into Carter, John began tugging up the right sleeve of her shirt with his free hand. "Just doing it to ensure your co-operation, Jack." He spoke as if he wasn't even paying attention to what he was doing.

Only once had he felt more impotent, so completely unable to act. It was a horrifying, terrifying feeling. The rope burned against the bare skin of his wrists.

The needle descended towards Carter's arm.

"*John*!"

And then two miraculous things happened.

She head-butted him.

Sam had to admit, it'd been pretty damn close. But then really, it had to be to make it convincing. If he'd seen any sign of her moving too early she would have blown her own cover. And yeah - so the head-butt hadn't been particularly pain free for her either, but at least she had the advantage of knowing it was coming.

John, thank God, had no idea. That became rapidly clear when he yelled in agony, cursed loudly, and fell back onto the floor.

The Colonel's opinion also became rapidly clear. "Nice!"

That was when she moved. Knowing the Colonel would also seize this opportunity she threw all her weight to the right side and, with some effort, managed to tip over the chair. She could have argued that it was her knowledge of certain mathematical equations that helped her accomplish it (and certainly, should the Colonel later ask that was definitely the explanation she was planning on giving). Realistically however, it was just luck that as she landed on her side with an "Oof," she also heard the crack of the wooden chair as it landed at just the right angle.

Well, technically the wrong one. But for her purposes? Perfect.

John was still howling on the floor. From the looks of things she'd broken his nose (shame) so even as she tugged at the rapidly loosening ropes around her, she focused her gaze on the only person right then who was any immediate threat - Barb.

She'd heard all of the Colonel's conversation with her, and was hoping that what had sounded decidedly like second thoughts - to her ears, at least - would keep Barb at bay. As it currently stood Barb was still sitting on the sofa, gaping, as if paralysed.

This was good news.

Sensing movement to her left she could tell the Colonel was also working at freeing himself (though she knew that instinctively anyway), but her attention was drawn away from him when her skin was introduced to some *lovely* new splinters. Cursing under her breath she winced and angled her head around, trying to see just what was-

Something clicked.

Sam immediately knew what it was, her head swinging back round to find John on his knees, clutching at his nose with his left hand. His right hand was holding a gun.

She didn't know where he'd got the weapon from (Barb? Hidden in his clothes somewhere?), but something told her that this time, it didn't hold tranquiliser darts.

Breathing heavily and sounding like he had one hell of a case of the flu, he glared at her. "I really didn't want to kill you."

Rolling her eyes, Sam tried to convey disdain while lying on her side with wood sticking into her back. "Oh, you're just *oozing* sincerity."

The bang, when it came, was not unexpected.

It did, however, seem to come from the wrong direction.

The door burst in, and within moments the room was swarming with military personnel, aiming their weapons at all four of them.

Where the hell had they come from?

"Hey, hey!" the Colonel objected. "We're not the bad guys - *they* are!"

There was no direct response to that; instead one member of the team spoke to John, holding their gun scant inches from his head.

Which was just as well, because John's weapon was still scant inches from *her* head.

"Lower the weapon."

John said nothing, nose still streaming, eyes watering. He continued to glare at her.

She held his gaze.

"Lower the weapon, now, or we will disable you."

Still no movement. Apparently even the thought of serious injury or death wasn't enough to dissuade him.

And then the Colonel spoke.

"John, if you don't put the gun down, I'll personally ensure that there won't be enough of you left to fill a sandwich."

Not moving his focus from her, John replied. "Thinking of moving into cannibalism, Jack?"

"Only if you make me."

Sam's gaze flicked around the room - to the Colonel, worried, a frown deeply imbedded into his forehead; to Barb, shocked, showing her hands were empty to the man pointing a gun at her; to the rest of the team, all of them aiming at John; and finally back to the man who did actually have the choice over whether she lived or died.

It was...odd to think that this was how it might happen. She'd told the Colonel once before that if she died, she wouldn't have any regrets. For the most part, she still felt the same.

For the most part.

But then John's index finger slipped away from the trigger. His arm lowered. The gun thudded to the carpeted floor.

The response was fast. Two members of the team swooped, 'escorting' Barb out of the house (part of Sam wondered what was going to happen to her. The other part just didn't care). Someone finished untying her to help her stand, and she finally got those splinters out of her back.

By the time she turned to face the Colonel he was also free, in the middle of a murmured conversation with the apparent leader of the team (no doubt discussing exactly how the hell they knew to be there). Eventually there was nodding, and many glances sent towards John, who was being kept on his knees with his hands pulled behind his back by the remaining three team members.

And then the man the Colonel was talking to gave him his weapon.

A shiver ran up Sam's spine as he held the gun firmly in his right hand, as he slowly, methodically, walked over to John. As the team members watching John backed away.

As the Colonel pointed the gun, pushed John back onto the floor, and fired. Missing his head by millimeters.

When he spoke, still pointing the gun, it was with a fake-calm tone she knew *extremely* well.

"Did you kill my son?"

Eyes still wide from the gunshot (probably a little deaf in the closest ear, too), John said nothing.

"You think you have any rights?" the Colonel continued. "You don't exist - as far as anyone outside this house is concerned, you haven't existed for a long time. So I'm wondering," he leant closer, bending down, "is anyone going to miss a man who's been dead for the last twenty years?"

Struggling to sit up, blood from his nose caking his face, John spoke. "Jack, you can't-"

"I *can't*?" He laughed, a sound so completely abnormal that Sam was actually scared of what he was going to do. "I can do anything I fucking want to, John. My son's dead - possibly murdered. I've probably lost my job by now. And here I am, standing with my gun to the head of my old boss. Life doesn't become any clearer than this."

That was it. Something had to be done - now. Something with impact. So she said it. "Jack?"

He swung around instantly, automatically raising his gun to chest level.

She wasn't afraid. "What? You're gonna shoot *me* now?"

He paused. Blinked. Shook his head. "No. No, of course not." The gun lowered, a little, his finger sliding away from the trigger.

She nodded towards what she supposed was part of a special ops team. "Let them take him away. Something tells me that whatever happens to him isn't going to be pleasant, given the fact that technically he's already dead. You don't need to do this."

A sardonic grin flittered across his face. "I tried to kill myself once, did you know that? Sat on the bed in Charlie's room, and put the gun to my head. The only thing that stopped me from firing was the fact that Sara walked in."

Sam's breath caught in her throat, suddenly finding it impossible to get out. She knew it must have been terrible of course (that was the understatement of the century), and Daniel had told her how insular he'd become. But even so, she hadn't actually known that he'd been suicidal.

But it made sense.

A hideous amount of sense.

"My life is nothing but death. My son dies. Kawalsky dies. Daniel dies. And that's not even mentioning the incidentals along the way. I nearly kill myself, I kill countless others. I kill you. And that..." He paused, shaking his head. "If I can do that, I am capable of *anything*."

Something snapped. Not anger, or frustration. Restraint. "So you're *whining* because people die? How funny - I hadn't realised that before." She took a step towards him, almost enjoying his obvious confusion. "You think you're the only one to lose people? I'm not belittling the death of your son, because that's something no one should have to go through. But people die. You *know* this. That's what life is. We live, we die, and we try to make sense of what happens between." She paused, just a few inches from him now. "And as for you killing people? This is the Air Force. This is the military. You knew what combat would entail when you signed up. If you can't cope with that, maybe you shouldn't have joined in the first place." Oh yeah - she was so getting her ass fired. "No, it's not always easy. I still have nightmares occasionally. But it's a part of who I *am*."

The gun was hanging completely by his side now. "I need to *know*."

She knew what he was talking about. "Why? You told me once that you'd come to terms with the fact that he was gone." Sitting by a lake after destroying Thor's ship, waiting to go home, discussing life, death, and the stuff between. She pointed towards John. "And you know him, Jack. You know his training. Even if he was responsible, he's not going to tell you anything."

His head had lowered, his gaze...not really focused anywhere in particular. "He was my son, Carter."

"I know," she whispered, taking the last step, her right hand touching his left arm: her other hand moving to clasp the gun pointing towards the floor. "I know he was. But this is your life, Jack. You have to live it."

Something in that did something, the gun slipping from his grasp. Quite frankly relieved, Sam took it from him, before passing it to one of the team and nodding at John. "Get him out of here."

Nothing more was said. John was unceremoniously hauled to his feet, doing nothing more than glaring at them before he was led away.

And it was just them. Them.

"All of this," he said quietly. "All of this, and I still don't know anything."

She could understand his point. To have risked so much, to have all the feeling's about his son dredged back up again, and to not have any answers...she could see how the whole thing would feel kind of pointless.

Yet, even though she was a scientist, used to getting definitive 'yes' or 'no' answers, she was beginning to learn that life didn't work the same way.

The hand still holding his arm squeezed tighter. "Do you have to?"

The noise he made sounded remarkably like a snort. "This coming from the woman who could teach Albert Einstein a thing or two."

She knew he was avoiding the question. She knew he didn't know if he'd ever be all right. But she smiled anyway. "Hardly, Jack."

"I used to think about that."

Sam blinked. "About what?"

"You saying my name."

It was absolutely ridiculous after everything they'd been through that she blushed. But she did. "Oh." Way to be coherent.

"Never thought it would be when you were talking me out of blowing my old boss' head off."

"Gotta admit," a voice from a person they'd completely forgotten about said. "That's not especially romantic, now is it?"

Oh, *perfect*.

"Go back to sleep, Harry."

Afterwards, Sam wasn't aware of very much.

She knew that hands had touched her, examined her; that a light had been shone in her eyes by someone who wasn't Janet.

She suspected she may have actually growled at anyone who tried to get her further than ten feet away from him.

But she was bonelessly, unrelentingly tired.

Someone mentioned something about triangulation of the Colonel's cell phone, but Sam didn't care, so, so grateful when someone else took care of his truck and the two of them collapsed into the back of a black SUV.

They didn't talk about what was or wasn't going to happen when they got back. Whether they'd still have their jobs or whether he'd be declared fit for duty. Whether he'd have to see MacKenzie for the rest of his life.

In fact, they didn't say anything at all. She simply held his hand, put her head on his shoulder, and fell asleep.

The journey back to the SGC, at least, involved a few hours in a plane. Jack was about as sick of staring at tarmac as he figured a person could get, so he figured the plane wasn't such a bad deal.

Though part of him suspected he would have done the same during any type of journey home - staring silently out the window, seeing nothing.

Of course, he started reconsidering the plane being a good deal when he walked through the first security checkpoint at the mountain to find Teal'c and Jonas waiting for them.

He wasn't sure he was ready to see anyone he knew so soon.

But there was no censure, no judgement. He should have known.

"O'Neill, Major Carter."

"Colonel, Sam."

Carter was standing next to him; the SF's who'd escorted them from the helicopter to the entrance having dispersed as if they'd never been there.

"It's good to see you two are okay," Jonas continued. "You've had us all worried for a while."

Jack probably should have apologised, but he didn't say anything.

Neither did Carter.

Teal'c did. "O'Neill, General Hammond has been informed of the fact that you were recently drugged. You are both to report to Dr Fraiser, and then you will proceed alone to his office."

Yeah. Like he hadn't seen *that* one coming.

The infirmary hadn't changed.

Which was stupid, really, because he shouldn't have assumed it would have. He hadn't been away all that long, but it some ways it felt like forever since he'd last been here, fearing what kind of nasty medical procedures Fraiser was gonna subject him to this time.

Now? Now he just sat compliantly, doing whatever Fraiser asked.

There were a few murmurs of conversation, and the ones he realised were meant for him he answered as well as he could. Mostly, though, it was Fraiser talking to Carter.

"You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm not the one you need to worry about."

Teal'c and Jonas were there of course, hovering, but he was even less inclined to communicate with them. Truth be told, he did actually feel kind of...guilty, about leaving them out of it so entirely.

But then he hadn't even planned for Carter to join him. There hadn't been any plan at all.

Just the need.

There were more words - readings, numbers, biology...

"I guess he didn't take into account that the naquadah in your blood stream would counteract the drug, and you'd wake up earlier than expected."

"Well I suppose it's conceivable that he didn't know anything about the Stargate program. He never mentioned it."

And eventually...

"You're free to go, Colonel."

Oh the irony.

He told the truth. All of it. About finding the folder, Carter joining him, travelling to Tom, then Barb. Getting the message from Barb and then - on one of those hunches that he just couldn't explain - leaving his cell phone switched on.

Hammond told him it probably saved their lives.

Given the top secret nature of their work, ever since they'd disappeared he'd had teams out looking for them - one of them near the San Francisco area. Back at the base he'd already had people on watch for any kind of activity they could trace from both of their cell phones, and as soon as there was...the rest was, well, history.

It became clear, however, that Hammond was concerned. Though he believed Jack's story (there was some good news, at least), he wasn't sure how much of the story was going to fly with his superiors - even despite the fact that they had Barb and the apparently 'dead' John Michaels in custody.

Their fates hadn't been discussed. And he knew that they weren't going to be discussed.

Somebody else's was.

It was something he hadn't wanted to consider.

"It doesn't look good, Jack."

He stood ramrod straight to attention, barely holding back from saluting. "I know sir."

"You were both AWOL. At the same time."

"I know sir."

"Clothes and passports were taken. For all intents and purposes, it looked as if the two of you had-"

"Run off together?"

"Yes." Hammond sighed, flicking through the wealth of paperwork spread across his desk. He seemed to have accumulated several novels' worth since they'd been gone. "Even though I knew neither of you would do something that stupid, the evidence against you was..."

"Not good?"

The General looked up at him. "To put it mildly. Given the SGC's unique status, we've been shown a great deal of leniency in the past - things happen here that just don't happen anywhere else. But there will be an investigation Jack, and even considering the motive...I don't think you're going to escape this one unscathed."

That wasn't exactly news. Since the moment he'd been told to go the General's office he'd known that the shit was about to hit the fan. That didn't, however, stop his throat from tightening.

"What about Carter?"

Hammond held his gaze. "I don't know, Jack. I really don't." It was what he didn't say that came through loud and clear - purely because of her gender, just the suggestion that she may have run off with him...

He closed his eyes. "I told her not to come with me. She wouldn't listen." But since when was that a surprise? "I didn't *want* her to come with me."

The General's reply was so softly spoken, that his eyes immediately opened again.

"Didn't you Jack?"

He knew the answer to that. They both did. But he said what he could. "Not at the expense of her own career." Even if it had been her own choice. "I didn't want her to come because of that...but she's *Carter*."

This time, it was what *he* didn't say that came through loud and clear.

Jack sat outside her house in his truck, deliberating. He probably shouldn't have been off base without notifying anyone, though Hammond had said nothing about him not being able to leave. It just seemed to make sense that after the events of the last few days, he probably shouldn't go missing for any amount of time.

Jack O'Neill had never been much for making sense.

So he sat there, deliberating. The need to talk to her was overwhelming, but what exactly was he going to say? He didn't know if there was anything he *could* say that she'd understand. Not that she was stupid - far from it - but it was just...

Answers. He needed answers. But something about the way this entire thing had gone told him he was never going to get any.

Yet something had...shifted. He didn't know how, or why. All he did know was that if there was one thing he could count on, it was that Carter usually knew what she was talking about. This *was* his life and he *was* going to do whatever the hell he wanted to do with it.

He wasn't whole; he wasn't perfect. But he was Jack O'Neill.

So he may not have known what he was going to say, may not have had any explanations or proof for her.

But she had a right to know.

Opening the door, he stepped out of the truck, and walked towards Sara's house.

The guys were great, they really were. It was just that they were also kinda of...irritating.

After she'd given her verbal report to General Hammond (not long after the Colonel's), Jonas and Teal'c had invited themselves over to her place, apparently assuming she'd want the company.

She hadn't had the energy to say no.

And yes, after an hour or so she did start to feel a little better - but only a little. There was just too much noise and smell and *people*.

So flicking the TV over the weather channel, she excused herself under the pretence of needing to use the toilet.

He found her, as she suspected he would, standing in the back garden staring up at the moon.

"Major Carter, do you wish us to leave?"

Her arms were folded across her body, her fingers digging into the skin. "No, of course not." Man, that sounded lame even to her.

"I do not believe you are being truthful." He paused, and may have stepped closer. "If there is something you wish to discuss..."

God, she loved him so much - he was so undemanding. Always leaving it up to her. "I've never told you how much I value your friendship, have I, Teal'c?"

Nothing ever seemed to faze him. As always, he took it in his stride. "Not to the best of my recollection."

Sam grinned deeply, sincerely feeling the warmth that'd been missing. "Well I do. Very, very much."

"And I yours, Major Carter."

She turned towards him, to find him also staring up at the moon, the vague light reflecting gently off his skin. As if sensing her gaze, he spoke.

"I stand by my earlier statement."

She knew that. She did. And she knew that both he and Jonas must have been dying with curiosity about exactly what'd happened (all she'd given was a brief, sketchy description - they'd find out another time); but the only person she wanted to talk to, wanted to make sure was okay, was the only person who wasn't here.

The only person who, especially now, especially after leaving together, *couldn't* be here.

She felt like she'd been holding everything together for so long...

"Major Carter?"

Blinking back tears, she lifted her head again. "Teal'c?"

"Will you be leaving the SGC?"

It'd been her choice, her decision. And given the same circumstances, she'd do it all again.

"I don't know."

The guys left not long after. When they returned to the house Teal'c announced it was time to leave, and though Jonas groused about missing the forecast for tomorrow in their area, Sam knew he was a lot more observant than he seemed to be.

So they cleaned up, said a few goodbyes - there were even a few hugs (Jonas seemed hesitant about his, which surprised her).

And then there were gone, leaving just her. Alone.

No noise. No people.

And she was suddenly unbelievably lonely, having turned the lights out, standing in the middle of the living room with the remote control in her hand, her thumb over the power button.

For some reason, she suddenly remembered that she had to go find her car.

And then the doorbell rang.

Almost relieved for the interruption she threw the remote onto the sofa and headed towards the front of the house, flicking on lights as she went.

She knew it was wrong the moment she opened the front door to find him standing on her porch.

When he didn't say a word, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.

When she turned, walked away and - knowing he was following - began to pull off her clothes.

When they didn't talk about the SGC, or what had happened, or what was likely to happen in another day, week, or month.

It was very calm and quiet when they reached the bedroom; sitting on the edge of the bed to remove boots, pants, socks. The awkward things that somehow, right now, didn't seem quite so awkward.

She still knew it was wrong when they climbed under the covers together, naked.

When he pulled her towards him, his flesh warm against hers, familiar in a way it shouldn't have been.

When it was right.

When he whispered two words...and she finally, finally, began to cry.

EPILOGUE

He had a theory, of course. A man in his position always had to have theories.

In this particular theory, someone overseeing the Stargate project before it became a 'program', feared what would be there waiting for them if they ever made it work. If they ever made it to the other side.

So they needed a good man. A man who would get the job done, who would be willing to wipe out absolutely anyone or anything that got in his way. That got in their way.

A man who was not just willing to die, but *wanted* to. Was practically *begging* to.

Not that he knew this theory was correct, or that it could be proved. And any more digging about would certainly direct attention towards him that he didn't want right now.

But he had a theory.

As for how Victoria came across the folder in the first place? He supposed it could really have been an accident. Or he supposed that someone wanted her to find it, wanted it to find its way back to Jack. There were a few people who weren't on Jack's Christmas card list who could make that happen.

And as for him?

He sighed in despair at the present situation. Well...not so much the situation.

More his reaction to it.

He'd been outside her house for hours (as if he didn't have anything better to do than stalk one Major Samantha Carter). He'd watched as Teal'c and Jonas - the new guy; hadn't met him yet; seemed to smile a lot - accompanied her home. As the pizza delivery guy had arrived (ah, the classic cure for depression), and inside they'd probably eaten junk food and watched bad TV.

Then he'd seen them leave. Had seen Jack pull up later, get out of his truck, and then all but run up on to her porch. Had seen Carter open the door and say nothing as Jack stepped inside. Had watched as the door closed and then, a few moments later, all the lights went out.

Charles Bliss had felt...contentment. Anything more than that he simply refused to acknowledge.

Of course, knowing them they weren't actually getting up to anything in there. No, they'd be too busy 'comforting' or 'being friends' - rather than just doing the sweaty like any other normal human being.

But since when were either of them normal?

Realising that he was *actually* hoping they'd get it together, this time he literally snarled in disgust at himself, started the car, and screeched away from the curb.

He had a doorway to research. And he'd been spending way, *way* too much time with these people.

~FINIS

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