She didn't do death well. Never had.
She'd hoped at one point, after all she'd seen and done, that she would be able to overcome the obstacles of grief; to mourn with dignity; to move on without regret. Her heart continued to prove that that simply wasn't possible.
Her memory was completely shot. Whether by choice or because of a combination of age and the environment, she didn't know, and it frightened her. She supposed it would've been easier for her subconscious to eliminate unnecessary and extraneous memories, so she could fit in the data required to get them off this ship. She had come to think of her aging mind as a machine, of her aging body as a useless vessel.
There were many things they could manufacture that their bodies consumed without question. However the lack of a true sun and truly fresh air had taken its toll on their bodies in ways they hadn't anticipated. It appeared they'd aged their bodies much more than two decades, and it showed in how they carried themselves.
The depression hadn't helped matters either.
The ship had been like a godsend from its inception, even more so upon Thor's arrival. Now it was their eternal curse, one she could only hope she'd never live to see the end. Because of the bubble, when the energy beam finally did reach their ship, they would experience a slow, methodical death by fire and radiation until the Asgard core was destroyed. The bubble would be eliminated, and real time would return. But, she theorized, they could essentially be left in purgatory, alive and tortured, for years before that happened.
It would've been so much easier to simply materialize an empty syringe – or perhaps six – and end it all.
But it wasn't their way, and never would be. There was a cause that mattered far more than their welfare. Lives were at stake on the planet down below. The Ori were still a threat. They would soldier on.
Life. Wasn't that what she was willing him to do? To live, even though he'd surpassed all of their expectations?
The predicament was different, but the result was the same. And the way he coughed as his final breaths rattled in his chest conjured up memories she'd been more than happy to delete from her mind long ago.
She'd lost her father once, when she'd been unable to fix him, to do anything about it that final time. Their luck had run out. It seemed she only had one chance to save her father; not two.
Over the years, in the man lying – dying – before her, she'd found an unexpected paternal encouragement to continue onward. He defended her when the others were frustrated; quietly, and sometimes verbally, supported her when she wanted to give up. His gruff nature was a cover for his own feelings of despair, and sometimes when she looked him in the eyes, she could literally feel his fear and regret.
Somehow she knew he wasn't afraid for himself; he was afraid for them.
He regretted all that they would miss out on.
She didn't recollect much about the events of 20 years ago beyond the moments right before they descended into Hell. Memories of Freedom, as she'd so sarcastically called it in her mind, had eluded her, jumbling up her memories until it was unclear what belonged where.
But she remembered a professional distance that they both had maintained. He had replaced two men whom she'd respected greatly, had willfully replaced her command even with the full intensions of recalling her back to her team. She had come back from a lab in Nevada in a bit of a whirlwind, acting as if she had all the answers to the galaxy's problems.
Perhaps they'd mildly resented each other at some point, for reasons neither was willing to address. Later, she grew to respect him, he grew to fully trust her insight and leadership. And in one year, she'd been confident that he was the right choice for the job. She always wondered if the feeling was mutual.
Now he lay dying. She was unable to fix him, to do anything about it. His luck had run out.
Lt. Colonel Samantha Carter didn't do death well. Never had.
"You've been an anchor for me – for all of us, sir," she whispered into the silent room. "I don't know what we're going to do without you here to keep us in line."
General Hank Landry chuckled for the first time in days, if not weeks, and immediately regretted it. But his small smile remained as he slowly turned his gaze to the grieving colonel. "If I'm not mistaken, Colonel, you're 62 years old… I think you'll be just fine without me."
"You know what I mean, sir," she continued, her voice cracking. "We're in this together. It wasn't supposed to end this way. When I… When I vowed to get us off this ship, I vowed to get us off alive. All of us." She tried to smile, but it didn't reach her eyes. "With all due respect, sir, you're kind of ruining my plans here."
Hank sighed. "Sam… If I'm going to die, I want to make one final request of you." He paused to breathe. "Can I do that?" Sam merely nodded.
"I don't want you… to continue beating yourself up over… what's happened." He took another deep breath, his remaining vestiges of energy depleting with each passing word. "I know it's in your nature, and I know you've gotten away with it for 60 years… but I need you to let it go. Just… let it go."
So she did. Every emotion she'd kept under wraps for so long, the guilt, the anger, the sadness… Sam let it go as barely contained sobs wracked her body.
She thought of Cassie, and all that she would eventually miss in the young women's life. Though only a fraction of a second would have gone by outside the time dilation bubble, their death was still imminent. And Cassie would mourn their deaths hundreds of years from now. She desperately wondered how much more loss one young soul could take, and Sam hoped that she'd turn to Jack for comfort - even if they both would deny that they needed it.
She couldn't quite figure out how he would take the eventual news that they were dead. Too much time had passed, and they'd all gone their separate ways two years before. Sam didn't know him as well she felt she ought to anymore – in fact, none of them did - but she didn't dwell on it. She did, however, wonder if he'd grow to regret his professional distance as much as she and the guys had all along. Then again, a part of her knew he already did.
And she thought of the others. They didn't deserve this. They deserved so much more…
Snatching a tissue from her pocket, Sam tried to get a hold of herself, and failed.
"Stop it," he ordered.
She shakily inhaled. "I can't, I'm sorry."
"It wasn't your fault," he said for what had to be the hundredth time. "We all would've died long ago, if you hadn't done what you did." He'd meant it before, and he meant it now. He only hoped she'd believe him this time…
Sometimes, when he looked into her eyes or into Vala's, he saw the hopeful eyes of his little girl, nearly 40 years before.
Hank recognized long ago that that loss, that ever-present need for their fathers, was the one thing the three women had in common. And he'd made it one of his duties to be there for Vala and Sam, even when he could no longer be there for his own daughter.
Perhaps then he thought, on that ship, through those women, his penance would finally be paid.
It hurt to know that Carolyn would have to move on. But moving on was necessary for survival. Hank firmly believed that.
Slowly, he moved an unsteady hand to grasp Sam's, and she met him halfway. He wanted to say more, to tell her that they all had to be anchors for each other; to remind her that the others would follow her lead if she merely took the reins; to encourage her to open up to them, even when it hurt …
Instead, he merely uttered three words: "Don't give up."
They were enough.
Sam gripped his hand one last time in parting as he drew his last breath, and stood up to leave, her body spent. Leaning onto the wall for support, she hit the button to release the door, knowing that he'd be there waiting for her in the hall. He always would. He always knew.
She grabbed hold of Teal'c's solid frame with the intent of never letting go. He understood and squeezed her tighter, willing the pain away. It was his silent promise that they would get through this. She nodded silently. He was right. No matter how long it took.
She didn't do death well. Never had.
And she'd be damned if she had to do it again on this ship.