She might never have been so scared before in her life as she was sitting there in front of Jack O'Neill's house, but Lieutenant Colonel Samantha Carter had known fears beyond most people's worst nightmares and had overcome them. It was time for fear to stop ruling her personal life as well. What she wanted to say - what she needed to say - was just too important. She'd made that mistake before which was, after all, how this whole mess got started. She understood that, finally, now when it was nearly too late. She couldn't let her fears keep her from having this conversation. Not this time.

Her eyes tracked his back as he walked away, drifting closed only after he'd left the infirmary. Her head hurt. She needed to sleep. She still wasn't thinking clearly.

But that was just an excuse. She sighed in disgust at her own inability to focus. At the moment, she wasn't entirely sure what she had wanted to say to the colonel, but she knew it certainly hadn't been 'nothing.' 'Nothing' didn't half express the gratitude she'd felt upon waking up and finding him there at her bedside or her relief at knowing she was back at the SGC, his mere presence conveying a sense of well-being deeper than she could possibly make him understand. And "nothing' didn't tell him how good it made her feel just to have him there next to her, simply being Jack, trying in his rather comic yet completely endearing way to make her feel better with offers of yo-yos and magazines.

Still she tried to remember. To fight through the pain and confusion. Because it felt important. Crucial. And in her mind, as if from far away, she could almost hear… That song… And the eerily disembodied giggle of that enigmatic child… bringing back the memories of…

Jack. Talking to Jack. And… She smiled, remembering the kiss, as if anyone could forget that kiss.

Only it hadn't been right; it wasn't Jack. She couldn't kiss Jack, not ever. Her smile evaporated almost as quickly as it had come. Because - God help her - there were far too many moments like the one in her dream when she wanted nothing more desperately than to just give in. To lose some of that infamous Carter self-control and just do it. Reach across the lab bench, or the conference table, or the space between their sleeping bags, grab him, and just let herself go.

She knew she never would though. Not in reality. The cost was too high.; the risks were too high. She had too much to lose; they all did. But it was more than reputation and career. The tenuous balance of friendship and camaraderie they'd managed to find after deciding to leave any deeper feelings safely in the room all those years ago, despite representing only a fraction of her desire, was at least something. And any confusion her hallucination might have produced had been neatly cleared up the moment he'd questioned her use of his given name.

His 'Excuse me?' still rang like a claxon in her ears. Amazing how two little words could cut like a knife. Or maybe that was just the headache. But, no. She knew it wasn't. Because if she'd had any doubt - any at all - about how he viewed their relationship, or about how he viewed her, he'd effectively squashed them with those two words. Even awakening from days of sleep, even suffering as she was from a major concussion, confused and disoriented, she couldn't even have that one little word. Couldn't have 'Jack.'

So her question was answered without having to be asked. She could keep her colonel and mentor and friend and not have to take the risk of trying for more and losing it all. And she could move on - she could find a new dream and a new hope for happiness elsewhere.

And if the pillow next to her cheek was wet, it was only because the concussion had weakened her self-control. She'd be fine. She always was.

Only, of course, the concussion was long gone, leaving her with no excuse for the tears which still wet her pillow in the silence of the night.