u This fanfiction takes place during the first 2 seasons or so. Sam is still a captain. /u

u A/N: /b English is not my first language - not even my second one - so humor me and pretend not to notice mistakes. Thanks. ;)

b Disclaimer: /b The characters are not mine. No copyright infringement is intended. All publicly are the property of their respective owners and I'm not related to them.

b Fiction Rated: M /b

i Jack O'Neill's house
10:23 p.m. /i

I can smell ozone in the air, so I breathe deeper, as if it's going to give me the guts to keep moving.

It's the second time I've been here and I'm as nervous as a schoolkid on her way to the new school.

Maybe it's because I want to keep professional and, well, visiting your C.O.'s house is quite personal. Or maybe that's just an excuse and the real reason my legs are trembling right now is because Daniel reminded me that today is his son's death anniversary.

I remember when I found out about it. I'd know the man for months and he never said anything, so I couldn't imagine what was happening.

But, today... I didn't even need him to say anything.

Yes, I've come to know a bit of his habits, we work well together, we understand the other's looks in field. But, still, we don't do much outside of work. I don't think we're supposed to anyway.

It was obvious that the Colonel wasn't okay today, but I didn't expect him to say so. He never does.

I could tell by the bad tension lingering is the air, his constant silence. He didn't argue with Daniel, he didn't complain about the trees or teased me for techno-babbling, as he says. He spent the whole mission looking at the ground.

And it scared me.

So, when General Hammond asked me to come and make him sign his report, I hesitated. That's why I tried to think of a reason not to come. But there was no use: I was the only SG1 member still there.

So I cross his street, then I knock at his door.

No answer.

My hands are shaking, I notice. Damn, there's no mistery: you go in, he signs it, then you go home. You'll do as you were ordered.

Simple, right?

I sigh, sadly. As if it's that easy.

I try again, one more knock. Still nothing.

Maybe he's at some bar. Good, then maybe I should get going.

Maybe he's home but just don't want to answer the door. Better, yet. I won't be the one to bother him.

Or maybe he's not even listening to my knocking. Maybe his mind is wandering away.

I can't stay here. But I can't go away either. I was told to do it.

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by the sound of a glass breaking. I don't know exactly what it is, but it comes from his house and I'm curious enough to follow it.

Damn, why am I making this so hard? Since when have I become so emotional?

There's a deafening silence as I walk towards his back yard to find him sitting on the ground, holding a Jack Daniel's bottle with both hands. A Van Dyck cigar box lies on the floor and I can't help but see several photographs, a wedding ring and a boy's shirt.

I'm taken by compassion and concern for him.

It's a heart-breaking scene. I bet he hasn't eaten anything today. His face is marked with fatigue. His clothes are all creased. Without even realizing it, my eyes are welling up with tears that I have to fight to keep from falling.
It's so dark I can barely recognize his face, his eyes are pitch black, two empty beers lie forgotten on the floor.

I make some noise but he doesn't move just yet.

Suddenly, though, he looks at me in the eye. He says nothing, he doesn't even blink his eyes. So, I try again, feeling that he's looking at me, but not really seeing me here.

"Colonel?"

His broken voice kills me a little bit inside, the second his answer left his lips: "What are you doing here, Captain?"

"I, uuh..." All of a sudden, I forgot why I'm here. What am I supposed to say? Any possible answer sounds stupid. "The General sent me here because uuh... You forgot to sign your report, sir."

I feel ashamed and out of place. The man need his space, for God's sake.

"Couldn't it wait until Monday?" he says, coarsely, not looking at me.

"No, sir. He said he was ordered to send the reports to D.C. until Sunday, sooo..."

"Do you have a pen, Captain?"

I pass him both the paper and the pen. He's trembling too, though he tries to control himself, and I wonder where's that O'Neill military bravado. It's unfair to him and I know it.

His handwriting is barely recognizable but he doesn't really care at the moment. My eyes can't stop watching the scene in front of me and I don't know what to do, where to put my hands: my pockets, my hips, my back... I don't really know what I'm doing here.

He gave me all back. Done. My job is done. I'm free to go.

Right?

"You can go now." His voice is raspy as he says it, reading my own thoughts.

I say "Mhm," but don't make a move to leave.

"Uuh... Have a nice uuh... See you..." I don't finish what I'm trying to say, because I don't really want to say anything stupid.

He just looks at me like that, like the time has just stopped and I feel my heart sore, unable to walk away. What is it that makes me attract to this man?

I don't know for how long I stand here, just looking into his eyes as he looks into mine.

He hasn't said anything, does he want me to go? Does he want me to stay? I don't even know what I want myself.

Finally, he breaks the silence, after taking a mouthful of whiskey: "Need anything else, Carter?"

I consider what to answer. My mind is blank, my feet won't move, my tongue is tied.

I stay where I am, looking at him, wanting to offer him the right words.

I shouldn't be here. I'm his 2IC. I should get away as fast as I can. I should pretend I never saw this yet unknown side of him.
And my mind fills with rules, regulations, reasons why this is all wrong.

But, when his eyelids fluter closed for a few seconds, I feel there's nowhere else I'd rather be.

Yes, he's my C.O. but right in front of me I see a man. Just a man with a broken heart. And there's this voice inside my head telling me there's nothing wrong with being friends. It will help with the team dynamic, right?

And, as the little soldier's voice inside of me falls to silence, I find myself with the courage to do what I feel is right.

"Carter?", his unanswered question seems to bother him now that the air is tense and awkward.

He looks up and I hold his gaze. His expression is unfathomable to me. But still I say: "Can I stay a little longer, sir?"

"I'm not much of a big company right now, Captain." - the takes another gulp. "In case you haven't noticed." sarcastic, of course.

I reply softly "We don't have to talk. I just want to stay here awhile."

He shrugs, trying to find the exactly sentence that will make me go away, leave him alone. Maybe he doesn't want me to see him like this. But, when I see his shoulders relax, I know he doesn't have the strength enough to give excuses.

I sat by his side and then I look at him closely, studying his face, his pain. It's possibly the first time I've looked at him with no shame.

He sighs and lowers his gaze, hiding his face in his hands. He sounds so tired...

I think of a thousand replies, but they're not what he wants to hear, nor what he needs to. And I don't know what to say either.
I know I don't have to say anything, but I do it anyway, giving up to the urge to talk.

"I wish I had the right words to...", he stops me, then.

"You don't have to say anything, Carter. Believe me, nothing can make me feel better right now." I understand that and I wish I could show him how much I did.

"I was thinking that maybe you could make me feel better." he questions me with his eyes, finally meeting mine, so I keep talking. "I know we are very different, sir, but I'm not the type who talks a lot either. Some things get stuck in here (I indicate to my head) and if I don't talk, I suffer more."

He looks surprised, maybe he thinks I go for the cold kind of woman, but he also seems to understand what I mean, so I go on.

"When my mom uuh..." I hesitate, feeling my throat constrict. So I study his profile once again, as if it will bring me comfort. And, I don't know why exactly, but it does. "Mark stopped talking to me like he used to and my dad, well, dad was never home. He blamed himself, we all did, somehow. I felt cold all the time, no matter how hot the weather was. There was never anyone to help me or talk to me about that and when there was I push them away."

He knows what I'm talking about and he sighs heavily, looking straight ahead. Part of me can't believe he's sitting here, listening to me. Part of me is questioning why it feels so right.

I continue.

"And then there was Jonas. And I wanted so much to have a family again that I made myself believe that he was the one. But he wasn't. And all the while I kept thinking of the things I lost when my mom went away: faith, innocence, certainty... So I gave up. My life became my work."

I feel his eyes on me. Studying me, questioning me, asking me a thousand things like 'What does it have to do with it, anyway?' but I keep talking. "Then I stopped blaming my father, blaming myself for everything I did wrong."

I finally say what I'm here for. "It's not your fault."

His hands are probably clenching into his side as he's fighting his own battle. He's looking down at his shoes, ashamed.
But closely next, his eyes search mine, trying desperately to make some kind of connection, to make me understand. "I'm not comparing what or how we feel. I'm just..." My voice is barely audible. "I'm just saying that I can't understand exactly what you feel, sir. I can't say I really want to." He apreciates my honesty with one bitter smile. "But I can imagine it. And I'm so sorry."

His eyes are misty with tears and all I can do is reach out and take his hand in mine. I am afraid for a moment that this will seem inappropriate but it just feels like it's the right thing to do. He accepts the gesture and we sit hand in hand, silently.

I feel pain, worry, and guilt running through his veins. I want to vomit. I want to take it away from him.

Damn, what is it that I'm feeling for this man? I'm afraid to find an answer, so I leave it like that and do what I do best: repress.

The silence is opressive and I feel his look burning my skin, so I look back at him.

His heart is breaking, I can almost see it and feel the memories that fills the back of his mind and the pain of his stomach.
His eyes look guilty and they betray the calm of the mask he usually wears.

His husky voice sounds almost unknown to me and I shiver as he says: "Sometimes I wake up and still think he'll come knocking on my door, asking me to play baseball with him. But then I wake up from the daydreaming and I realize that I'll never see him again."

He looks at me, dead in the eye, then he lower his eyes and study the small hairs on his forearm. "If you'd met, he'd like you. He was that kind of kid you know." he shoots me a smile that takes my breath away "He played with the new kids in school, shared his games, he was always smiling, laughing at my jokes..."

"He was nice to the girls, uh?" I say, smiling too.

"Yeah. And I was so proud of him." His throat makes a deep sound as he clears it. "I still am. He'd have been a great guy. So much better than me. And I can't help but..." he stops, visible suffering, and I say.

"He'd have been just like you. And I'm sure I would have liked him too."

He stares at me and I bit my bottom lips, suddenly feeling like I said more than I'm supposed to.

"I still miss him so much and it makes me insane. And then I remember... I remember that it wasn't just about Charlie. She wasn't the same woman anymore... Sarah was unhappy, I made her unhappy and I promised that I wouldn't and..."

He grabs a picture of his son and holds it to him, as if clinging to it will bring him back to life. His eyes are drowned in hot tears, tears that would never fall in front of me. But I hear cries of grief trying to escape from his throat.

God, I want to protect him. I've never felt that before in my whole life.

He grabs the tiny shirt and says "I can still smell him. Even after all these years. It still hurts."

I raise my hand to touch his thigh carefully.

"Don't do this to yourself." He didn't reply. He just opened his eyes and examined the hand I placed on his left thigh.

I look into his brown eyes and realize things that I'll never understand, things between father and son. I have to right to say what I just did. I don't know what he's feeling, I've never felt that kind of pain that no man should ever feel. But I say it anyway.
His grief is so loud, his fears screaming that he was never a good father and that he'll never see his son grow up, that he won't have to stay up late.

I can almost hear his head blaming himself, telling him how he had been capable of abandoning his own son.

He isn't the type to cry. He's the man who shatters silently. And so I bit my lip once again, trying to suppress the sob that is threatening to escape my body.

I know how he wants to be comforted and I want to be the one to give it to him. He doesn't want my tears, nor need my pity.

But I allow my tears to stream down my face since I can no longer control my body and I'm surprise to see a few drops falling into the ground. But they're not mine this time.

"Samantha," he whispers and I look at him, somewhat startled. My mouth half-opens, but the words are left unsaid, they fail me this time. My eyes half-close, but my tears fail me, as well.

He's just a man and I'm just a woman now. There are no rankings.

I approach him without even thinking. I put my right arm around his back and I caress the muscles I find there.
He turns to me and holds me like the world is going to end right now. I don't care if my bones are going to hurt later, because the emptiness I've felt since - well, since forever, is gone. I try to concentrate on a logic explanation, but when his right hand holds my head in place and sobs... I can't think racionally.

"Thank you." His voice muffled against my neck. I can feel his grief in the tears that soak my body.

"I'm so sorry." I have said these words to him before, but never have they felt so wrong. No words will bring his son back to him, no words will take away his anger at the loss.

He doesn't reply in words, simply holds me tighter.

I sniffle when my tears begin to subside. I can feel his hands burning my back and I feel guilty. One of his hands drift up to my head, his fingers weaving in my hair.

I turn my head to the side, burying my face in his neck, smelling him, and I fear what's next.

"You should go."

"Yes. I should."

We stay a little while together, almost merging as one.

I get up without looking at him as I whipe my tears from my face, trying to muster all the control I can.

"Are you going to be okay?" a stupid question, but there was nothing left to say.

"Yeah." He holds my hand tighter and I answer by squeezing his back.

I feel bad about leaving him here on his own. But... But... What can I do?

How much longer will I stay? What else will I do?

I'm afraid to discover that this man attracts me more than I'm willing to understand.

It doesn't make it any easier, though.

"See you monday, Sir?"

"Sure, Carter."

Back to Carter and Sir again.

I release his hand and turn away, the huge knot in my throat making it almost impossible to breathe.

I look at him one last time as we understand each other, as we silently define our boundaries and limits.

He watches me leave, expecting me to leave him alone with his low self-steem, but wishing that I'll stay here with him all night.

He knows I can't.

I know that too. I also know he would never ask.

So I walk away, hoping to face a different pair of eyes on Monday.

I still don't know who Jack O'Neill is. Not exactly.

But I feel like his pain is mine.

And I feel my heart beat faster, as I finally realize that I've come to know such a rare man.

Well, he's... He's not just a handsome 40th something, nor a stubborn, arrogant Air Force Colonel. I thought I had figured him out.

But, no, he's much more than that.

And the thought itself scares the hell out of me.