Legs tucked up neatly and arms folded in close to her body, Janet Fraiser's eyes are open and she isn't sure why.
She should be asleep. She can see her alarm clock, glowing on the nightstand. It's two am. Why is she awake? She's on shift again in four hours. She should be asleep.
Then she hears movement, somewhere off behind her, and goes rigid. Intruder, her mind says, cold fear gripping at her. What should she do? Keep still, hope they don't notice her? She hasn't moved yet. She might not have been seen. Or should she leap up, throw her faith to her newly refreshed hand-to-hand training, and hope she can take whatever is in the room?
In the time it takes her to consider the possibilities, she feels a weight press onto the bed. Four weights, actually, from the way the mattress shifts. They move closer, and she hears a familiar rustle of BDU fabric. Something large, firm, and warm drops down behind her. She rolls over.
Sam is half-heartedly curled up behind her, eyes closed and hands tucked protectively by her chest. She's fully dressed, right down to the boots. She shifts a little, bringing her legs a bit closer, then settles. A moment passes, and then her shoulders tremble.
"Sam?" Janet questions, reaching a hand over to touch her arm. Sam sighs at the contact.
"Sorry," she murmurs, voice slurred with fatigue. "Didn't mean to wake you."
Janet's brows draw together and she rolls the rest of the way over. Sam's upset. There's at least one tear track on her cheek. She brushes at the glistening lines with a thumb, pushing away dirt and grime. "Mission?" she questions.
Sam curls into herself, just nodding, and Janet sees her shoulders shake again. She wriggles down on the bed, glad she'd long since abandoned the much-too-warm blankets, and wraps her smaller body around Sam's. The major's arms slip beneath hers and Janet feels large hands clench at the thin fabric of her nightgown.
She doesn't ask what happened. She doesn't ask why she's upset. She just holds her. It isn't the first time Sam's crawled into her bed – or the first time she's crawled into Sam's – in the middle of the night, looking for a warm body. No matter whose turn it is to cry, the other is always willing to comfort.
Sometimes, neither of them cry. Janet likes those times, when Sam's there just to be there. But she doesn't mind times like these. They're part of life, life with Sam, and they're an excuse to hold each other.
Someday, she hopes, she won't need an excuse. That moments when Sam's there just to be there will be all the time, and holding each other will be part of life.
Life with Sam.