It took him a while to find her in the dingy light of his dark closet. He pushed coats and jackets away, orienting himself by the sounds of her ill concealed retching. He finally found her in her white dress, hugging her own knees, and weeping like a child. He sat down opposite to her, his knees cracking and protesting.
"Carter?"
She looked up at him, eyes full of tears, and in the isolation of the dark closet and the weight of the moment, what was left of old protocol and formality briefly melted away, just long enough for his hand to grace her tear soaked cheek.
"Sir, I don't know what to do."
Her words hung in the silence. Jack shifted.
"You don't marry some schmuck you don't want to marry." He said abruptly, not meaning to be quite so succinct. Sam's wet eyes opened wide.
"At least, that's what…people… say…" Jack faltered.
Sam giggled.
"That's great advice, sir, thanks." She managed about half of a smile, and a little twinkle was back in her eyes.
"You, colonel Carter, are a filthy liar."
Jack's mock sternness had no effect, not that he thought it would. Sam suddenly tensed up.
"Where is he?" She asked, and Jack knew who she meant.
"Pete?" He asked rhetorically, " he left, and I ordered the rest of them to go away too."
Sam shook her head as she smiled vaguely.
"They're not in your chain of command," she reminded him gently.
"Carter, no one is, I'm retired. But this is my property, so I still have power here."
Silence fell. Jack felt Sam's nervousness but had no idea how to help her. He'd never sat in his own closet before, comforting the would-have-been wife of another man.
"Can I stay here?" Her question punctured the still air.
"Of course."
His answer came naturally and immediately, as did Sam's peck on his cheek. They might still stick to old nicknames and titles, but their friendship had evolved after Jack retired and moved back to Minnesota from Washington DC. She'd occasionally peck him on the cheek now, they hugged as a greeting, and their banter was more relaxed.
"Help an old man to his feet, Carter, my knees are disintegrating as we speak."
Sam huffed slightly as she got up and offered Jack a hand. As her dress billowed out to the floor in all its white tulle grandness, she angrily bit back tears at the reminder of what didn't come to pass. Jack saw her eyes well up, and held her hand steadily.
"Hey," he said softly, "soldiers don't cry."
Sam chortled.
"Soldiers are full of shit, sir," she responded, "probably because they never cry it out."
Jack nodded slowly, not knowing what to respond to such an eloquent summary of their professional hazard number one: Bottling it all up.
"I'll fix up the guestroom," he said, rather proud of his fairly natural sounding segue, "and if you need anything…"
He didn't get to finish his sentence.
"I know," she said, the words carrying a million unspoken ones, "I know."
Jack sighed at the despondent look on Sam's face, wanting to magically wipe it away in exchange for the regular, perky, and smiley Carter that he knew.
"Thanks Jack." She said quietly, as she squeezed his hand slightly.
Jack smiled at her.
"Always." He responded.
And he meant it.