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SGCSGC

THREE WEEKS LATER

Jack signed the bottom of the page and pushed it across to Colonel Mason. He promptly opened another sheaf of papers and tapped the signature field. Jack only barely restrained his sigh and scribbled a facsimile of his name.

Mason apparently had the hearing of a bat because he raised his eyebrows. "Sir?"

Jack shoved the papers back and idly fiddled with his pen. He eyed Mason and considered if he really wanted to answer that question. His XO was approachable enough, pleasant, open… but he wasn't Carter, Daniel, or Teal'c. He wasn't a friend, just a colleague, and Jack was painfully aware of his position as base commander. He was The General now and that came with expectations, unspoken rules, expectations of decorum and propriety. Even though Jack had never bothered with those things before he couldn't help acknowledging that dumping his issues and doubts on his staff not only wasn't appropriate, it could be dangerous.

For every crisis the SGC had weathered under General Hammond, for every near miss and close call SG-1 had experienced, Hammond had never let on how he'd felt. He'd remained the calm, confident, assured commander whose mere poise and faith in his people had buoyed spirits and determination around the base.

Jack had no idea how Hammond had done it. Almost two months into his command and he felt utterly depleted. Worn down by the worry when a team didn't return on time, stressed over the approval of every mission that didn't seem quite right but that he had no real reason to scrub, hopelessly guilty whenever someone got hurt. He'd led people into battle before. He'd led Daniel, Teal'c, and Carter straight into death, into hell, but he'd never felt quite like this. Because all those other times had been orders; though getting them home safe rested squarely on his shoulders, the fact that they were in that situation at all hadn't been his responsibility.

"General O'Neill?" Mason remained in his chair. The question had morphed into concern and the lack of dismissal kept him seated.

Jack leaned back and allowed a full sigh to pass his lips. He dropped his pen and clasped his hands over his stomach. He realized how reminiscent it was of General Hammond's mannerisms only once he'd assumed the position. "What did you do during the war, Colonel?"

Mason shifted and Jack recognized it as the quick assessment of what he could say, wanted to say, and what Jack was cleared to know. "I commanded a wing."

He'd know that much – and more – from Mason's file. But his service history wasn't really what Jack wanted to talk about. He nodded in acknowledgment and dropped his eyes to his fingernails. "How many people did you lose?" He glanced up, aware his question would be touchy for anyone. No one liked losing people, and no one liked talking about it.

Colonel Mason's expression flickered through several emotions before it settled on forced detachment. "Too many." He looked away this time and slowly licked his upper lip in thought. "Even one is one too many." His eyes scanned over Jack's face quickly, as if Mason was trying to judge if he should keep talking. Apparently he decided he should. "And even when we do everything right it's sometimes still unavoidable."

He'd heard this speech, he'd given this speech to officers under his command. It was what he'd expected Mason to say and while hearing it reaffirmed what he'd been telling himself to get through the day – and nights – it didn't fix shit. "And sometimes it's nothing but senseless." It passed his lips before the words even formed in his mind.

Mason's mouth slid open in automatic response but then his entire body tensed. Like he'd abruptly reconsidered the wisdom of voicing his response. He remained stiff and Jack almost laughed at the expression; Mason didn't know him well enough to realize Jack didn't stand on ceremony and understood knee-jerk reactions better than most. At his slight nod Mason relaxed – marginally – and spoke, "I was… under the impression that you backed the war, sir, and everything it stood for." It came out precisely phrased, carefully avoiding Mason's own opinions.

Jack's expression contorted; his eyebrows drew together at the memory that flashed in his mind. "I did. I do. I support this country's right to defend itself in whatever way necessary. I accept that when you're on foreign soil, holding a position, taking a position, people die." He was conscious, in that far off way, of his increased volume, that he'd leaned aggressively towards Mason, the desk and his ruined knee the only things that kept him seated. But he couldn't reign it in. "What I don't accept is some kid barely able to shave stepping in the wrong spot and getting blown to hell!"

He blew out a harsh breath and thumped back in his chair. One hand raised and rubbed at his temple, just over a persistent pound. He didn't know where that had come from. No, that wasn't true. The longer he'd spent back at the SGC, exposed to the mission and purpose of the command – protecting the plant – the more he'd thought about the war. About the dead, the disfigured, the innocent. Everyone who died at the SGC did so for a reason; a clear and defined purpose that was greater than them and worth it. By his estimation, they were lucky if one in five who'd died during the war had been worth it. And those numbers were crap.

"I think I've lost my taste for this," Jack said softly. He looked up at Mason who thankfully appeared collected and relaxed. He understood now what Carter and Daniel had felt, that look they'd both had in their eyes. They'd both been as furious and indignant at the attack as him. Even Teal'c had felt it. Fighting back had been the only response. But every senseless death, every drop of innocent blood that got spilled in the fog of war had rubbed their souls raw until they couldn't accept it anymore, couldn't do it, couldn't be around it. Jack dragged his hand over his face and felt ancient beyond his years.

"You're dismissed, Colonel."

Mason popped to his feet. He snapped off a crisp salute, the return to procedure probably a relief. "Yes, sir." He swivelled on his heel but stopped at the door.

Jack noticed. "Yes?"

Mason's hand flexed, his fingers restless with indecision. "I just wanted to say that you're not alone, General." He caught Jack's eye, nodded once, and then slipped into the corridor.

Jack tilted his head back, weary at the thought of the entire afternoon. He turned and looked at the pictures on the credenza behind him. SG-1 in the early days, Carter a newly minted Major. Despite what Mason said there was a chasm between him and the rest of the base that made him very much alone. And in true Jack O'Neill fashion he'd alienated the few people he could truly talk to.

SGCSGC

Sam stared at the buttons on the handset and then at the phone number. Her thumb hovered over the first digit for a long series of heartbeats. Her eyes slipped closed; her hand fisted on the phone before she dropped it onto the table in disgust.

"Something wrong?"

She jolted at his voice and looked over her shoulder. Mark stood in the patio doorway; the lights from the house backlit him and obscured his features. "No," she said. Sam returned her gaze to the backyard, bathed in twilight.

Mark slid the door closed and settled in the chair opposite her. His eyes swept the table then lifted to her face. "Still haven't managed to dial?"

She pushed down the slight surge of irritation at his intrusion. He genuinely wanted to help and more surprisingly, he had. Knowing he was around, that he'd sit and listen and ask just the right questions – usually – had soothed so many raw edges. That he'd persisted when she'd all but ignored him had reminded her that she wasn't alone in the world, that she couldn't just drift off into nothing and nowhere without it mattering. For awhile she'd been stunned by the realization, so different from her existence for almost two years. He'd pulled her from her funk.

Sam rested her head on the chair and looked at the sky. Only a few stars managed to show through the lights of suburbia, scattered and dim in the sky. But they still captured her attention and imagination.

"Sam?"

She looked at him briefly because she'd forgotten the question. Her eyes caught the items on the table and reminded her. She sighed and gathered her thoughts. "It's frustrating. I want to work. I want to do something… useful. And I know there are companies we –" Sam stumbled over it, a brief white hot flash of pain in her chest, but she shook it off because she'd chosen to leave and damn it, it shouldn't hurt this much. "That the military contracted out to in the past. I know all I have to do is call General Hammond and he'll give me names."

"But?"

She rolled her head to the side and met his eyes. She could do that now, look at him and not feel like she should see condemnation. "But when I think about going back to that kind of work – the labs, the people, the projects – even though it's not military, not weapons, it… it makes me want to drink." The last bit came out slowly, her eyes on the bottle that sat at the far end of the table.

Mark had seen it. Mark who had challenged her drinking, who'd all but called her an alcoholic. But he hadn't because he hadn't been around her enough to know, at least not then. He hadn't said anything since she'd moved in with them, but then Sam had been careful about it. She didn't drink around the kids, didn't let them see her stumble off to bed. And that very consideration on her part, that careful modulation of her behaviour so as to not tip him off had convinced her. She wasn't a fall down, black out drunk, but alcohol had become her companion, her go to when things weren't quite right. Mark hadn't said it, but she'd thought it about herself.

She was an alcoholic, and she needed help.

"Stay right here." He squeezed her shoulder as he passed.

Sam blinked and turned to watch him. Her brow furrowed and only as he stepped back onto the patio did she realize she'd spoken that aloud. As he sat beside her, a clump of papers and brochures in his hand, something loosened in her chest.

"I've been doing some research."

SGCSGC

Daniel slid the four textbooks onto the single semi-clear corner of his desk. He lunged forward when a stack of papers teetered backwards and caught them, barely. "Okay." After some creative one-handed manoeuvring he stabilized the stack and stepped backwards. "What a mess."

Spring semester started three days ago and his office looked like a total disaster. He'd decided it was the accelerated nature of the term. At least, he hoped that was the reason and his office wouldn't always look like this.

"Doctor Jackson?" A knock accompanied the voice.

He turned, half expecting it was a student, and reached for the half open door. "Office hours aren't– oh! Cynthia."

Cynthia Pearson smiled. "Are we still on for coffee?"

Daniel blinked and ran through his schedule in his head. "Coffee… was that today?"

She chuckled and nodded. "Yes."

"Okay." He glanced at his desk and decided the thought of not dealing with it right that moment was incredibly appealing. "Okay, let's go." He grabbed his jacket and followed her into the hall.

"How are you settling in?"

"Uhh…" He had no idea. He felt like he'd barely managed to keep his head above water.

Apparently, Cynthia read all this and more in his stuttering. "Don't worry, it takes a couple weeks to find your legs but once you do things will be much smoother."

"Is that a promise?" He pushed open the door and squinted into the sun. The best coffee shop, according to the faculty, was directly across the quad. He'd managed only one trip so far since it was a decent eight minute walk, which meant grabbing something between back-to-back classes wasn't possible.

"Not a promise, just experience."

"Well, I hope you're right. I'm so scattered right now I feel like I'd misplace my head if it wasn't attached."

"Spring/summer is the worst time for new faculty to start. It's so hectic, even for old hands like us."

Daniel smiled and nodded. He liked Cynthia. She'd sort of taken him under her wing and acquainted him with the Languages department. He appreciated it more than she probably knew. Because she'd familiarized him with the campus, the administrative staff, and other faculty, he felt much more at ease than if he'd been left on his own. It had allowed him to focus totally on figuring out the curriculum and lesson plans.

"How are your classes going?"

"Well, I feel a bit sorry for my Latin students. It's complicated enough without a professor who's never taught it before."

"It's beginner, isn't it?"

"Yes."

"You might be more comfortable with advanced students. That's when they start reading texts and focusing on translation."

Daniel nodded. He'd thought the same thing. His French and Russian classes were advanced which meant he didn't have to figure out how to teach foreign grammar and structure. He enjoyed those classes much more.

"Honestly, though, you'll probably always have a fair number of Latin classes."

"Oh?" He tilted his head towards her, interested to learn about the inner workings of the college.

Cynthia nodded. "Most of the professors who are qualified to teach Latin are actually in the department of History and Classics. Most of their time is taken up with those courses."

Daniel pulled open the coffee shop door and gestured her ahead of him. "That makes sense. I'm sure once I get some experience I'll get more comfortable."

"I have no doubt."

He followed her in and marvelled at how normal the entire exchange had been.

SGCSGC

Sam stopped at the curb and stared across the street at the building. The door stood propped open by a chair; a few people drifted in and out while more mingled on the lawn. "I don't know about this."

Mark stepped up beside her. He grabbed her fingers. "Why not?"

She scanned the people; their short haircuts and straight shoulders gave them away even if she hadn't known. "I don't think the military group was a good idea."

"It's still Alcoholics Anonymous, if that's what you're worried about. I checked this out before I suggested it. They don't expect you to disclose anything about your service, what branch you were in, nothing. They just work on the assumption that everyone who walks through their doors has military service as a frame of reference."

She turned away from the building. Her stomach felt unsettled; her palms felt slick with sweat. This was making her more nervous than facing down Jaffa ever had.

Mark tugged on her fingers. "We're here now, we might as well go in and listen. That can't hurt, right?" He ducked his head to catch her eye. "Right?"

"Right." Sam nodded. Sitting and listening felt totally innocent. No one would force her to speak if she didn't want to. She swallowed with difficultly.

Mark circled in front of her and held her shoulders. "Listen, I'm not going to force you to do this. Whatever you do, whatever you decide, I'm with you. But I really think this is the best option. Even though your experiences are your own these people have the best chance of understanding what you went through. What it's like to do something you don't agree with because it's duty." He paused and studied her face. "You decided to be here, Sam, you asked for my help. This is the only way I know how to do that, and I can't help thinking that if you walk away now, you won't come back."

Sam closed her eyes and drew several deep, measured breaths into her lungs. Her heart settled and she nodded. He was right. She couldn't avoid this, couldn't hide from it. It needed to be faced head on. With courage. She opened her eyes. "Okay."

He smiled. "Okay."

Together, hands clasped, they turned and walked across the street.

SGCSGC