A/N:Set somewhere throughout season 8, a "what would have happened if…" kind of situation. To everybody waiting for my "The Arms Of Death" fic to be updated – I haven't forgotten about it. I've had a death in the family and so I really only feel like punching out oneshots, like this.

Beginnings And Endings

Sam glared at the small plastic stick in her hand. The pink ridges along its handle infuriated her, even before the moist slip on the end rang that word out into existence. Positive. She threw it in the trashcan beside the sink, stomach churning as it fell to rest among the four other plastic life-changers – a flurry of pink and that word.
She glanced around her bathroom. The sink was cluttered with make-up, perfumes she never used, hairbrushes that were long overdue for a clean, and the pharmacy's entire supply of dove moisturizer. Without reconsidering for a moment, in one swift movement she swept the entire contents into the trash, and left the room without a glance behind her.

She cried later.

***

Twelve weeks later.
***

She sat in the chair opposite Jack's desk, picking at her nails absentmindedly as her hands rested on a moderately noticeable rise across her stomach – an addition she was quite affectionate of, though she'd never tell him that.
Jack walked in briskly, his body brushing against her lightly as he shuffled past and sat in the chair he'd had to requisition since Hammond's repossession of the previous one.

"What's this?" he asked without looking at her, his eyes instead on a piece of paper she'd placed there earlier.

"Notice," she said, and watched the confusion run across his face as his brow furrowed and he leaned forward, "I'm pregnant." Jack looked at her, stunned. She resented the way his eyes drifted to her stomach, as if trying to catch her out on a lie.

"I didn't know you and Pete were…"he trailed off, searching his desk for something to explain what this all meant.

"We weren't," she explained, "It just… happened." Her eyes fell to her hands.

"How long?"

"About fourteen weeks." She looked up at him. His eyes were full of regret and understanding and hurt that she didn't want to acknowledge. She wasn't Sam and he wasn't Jack, she was Colonel. Carter and he was General O'Neill. It had to be that way, especially now. She fought tears, and he cleared his throat. They didn't look at each other again.

***
A few months later.
***

Sam had discovered that balancing a bowl of cereal on her ever-growing abdomen was a very effective way to do multiple things at once. She sat on her couch, flicking through channels on the television with one hand, other hand occupied by one of those cryptic crosswords she hated but couldn't stop herself from completing, cereal poised atop a sizeable bump. When the phone rang, it took her several measured rocks back and forth to gather the momentum that propelled her off the couch and into the kitchen, where she'd left the cordless.

"Carter," she said.

"Sam," Pete. A knot in her stomach tightened, but she pushed it away where tears, regrets, stolen moments and forgotten realities lay hidden. "Want me to pick up some dinner?"

"Sure," and after a moment, "And some of that ice cream you hate."

"Lemon Crush? You're kidding me."

"You know I've been craving it for days now," she sat on the couch again, muting and un-muting the television in rapid succession.

"Fine, I'll be home soon." She sighed relief when he hung up.

***
A month after that.
***

Sirens. Lights and people prodding at her sides. Sounds and voices that she couldn't understand. Movement. Hurried beeps from somewhere above her. And then pain. Pain. She lurched forward, suddenly screaming, tears streaming down her face, and hands were forcing her back down. It was as though a million white-hot knives were carving at her insides, trying to shell out everything that was there. She writhed against the hands and suddenly she felt calm flooding over her. Release, and she relaxed, succumbing to unconsciousness.

A hand held hers tightly. She was lying down, steady beeps emitting from machines that she couldn't see behind her. The bed was soft, and the hand was constant. She returned the pressure as she slowly opened her eyes and blurry shapes came into view.
She was in the infirmary. Her bed curtained off, and Pete sitting beside her, holding her hand. She stifled a surge of disappointment. When he noticed her movements, he suddenly stood and raced beyond the curtains – to summon doctors, she guessed.
Sam moved her hands to her baby, wondering, fearing, noticing the gauze wrapped around her abdomen. She knew it was pointless, but she tried to feel the baby's breath inside her, tried to feel its heartbeat, willed with everything she had to feel something other than dull pain.

Dr. Lam suddenly appeared, followed by Pete who took his seat, grasping Sam's hand again.

"Hey," Lam smiled, "How're you feeling?"

"Tired, little sore," Sam responded, "What happened?"

"Well we're not entirely sure. The baby was in quite a bit of distress-"

"Is it-" Sam was afraid to ask the question.

"He is perfectly okay," Lam said, relieving Sam's tension immeasurably, "But I'd like to keep you here for a few days to be safe." She nodded and exited.

Sam looked at Pete, smiling, "He." Pete kissed her hand, eyes red from tears, clearly exhausted from worry.

"He," he said. And they sat there, imagining the possibilities of the future, a son – Sam already had a name, it felt effortless, as if the universe had been waiting for her to conceive this child all along, and already knew who it was and who it would be.

***

Sam watched Jack enter the enclosure hesitantly. He stood at the foot of the bed, watching her intensely.

"You gave us quite a scare," he said quietly, eventually taking Pete's seat beside her.

She studied the lines on his face, fraught with pain and the experience of a seasoned soldier. She watched him watch her, regret and need pooling at the pit of her stomach. (Or maybe that was just the hormones, she thought.)

"I never thought…" she began, finding his eyes too much for her and chose instead to study the IV in her hand. "I always thought that when I ever had children…" she felt the surge, and it took all of her will power not to cry, not to look at him and let him see her, not to see him, it took everything she had not to feel this moment. "It would be with you."
She couldn't do it, couldn't look at him and feel everything she was feeling. Tears clouded her vision despite her efforts.

"Me too," she heard him whisper, and looked at him then. Surprised to see tears in his eyes, lines framing his beautiful face, love was there. She blinked, and tears fell. She felt her heart physically aching.

"Come here," she whispered, reaching her hand toward him. He held it without hesitation, his thumb drawing circles on her delicate skin. They held each other in hand and in their eyes, wishing, and feeling guilty for regrets and moments they never got to share.

She heard Pete outside, suddenly, talking loudly with one of the nurses. Jack went to release her, but she held him tightly for one last moment, telling him everything she prayed she'd had the courage to years ago, telling him things he already knew, all in the pressure her hand applied to his, in her eyes that searched his for a miracle. Slowly, she released him, and moments later Pete entered the small space.

They greeted each other stiffly, Jack rose and moved to the opening in the curtains, turning at the last second, "Goodbye, Sam." He offered her a weak smile, which she returned, and then he was gone.

The end.

A/N:Thank you for reading. To everybody waiting for my "The Arms Of Death" fic to be updated – I haven't forgotten about it. I've had a death in the family and so I really only feel like punching out oneshots, like this.