A/N: It's a little early yet, but I need the distraction. My car was hit at one a.m. by a drunk driver last night (it was parked and I was asleep in my house. No injuries!) and I spent my day off getting it towed and procuring a rental. So not fun.

Now, you guys will either love this one or hate it. Feel free to let me know either way!

Enjoy!

Jack closed the front door silently behind him. The house was dark, as it should be after midnight, and he navigated the stairs with expert precision, despite the heaviness in his heart. His first mission had been a success, but it hardly felt like it.

He and Kawalsky had been attached to a seasoned team under the command of Major Frank Cromwell, and even by their standards it had been rough. The good news was that they had approved his and Kawalsky's permanent assignment to the team. The bad news—Jack wasn't sure he wanted it.

Easing the bedroom door open, images of rifle scopes flashed across his vision. For a harrowing moment, he was back there, creeping through a dusty compound and stumbling into surprised expressions. His weapon's muzzle flashed. In that instant, the memory was so strong he could feel the cloud of misted blood spray his skin.

Nausea gripped him, and he opened his eyes. He wasn't there. He was home. Fighting the lump in his throat, he stripped to his boxers and ever so carefully levered himself onto the bed. He slid up behind Sam, spooning against her. Without a second thought, his arms wrapped around her, pulling her against him.

Sam was warm, solid and real. She sighed at his touch, rousing just enough to murmur a sleepy "hey" as she settled closer against him. The scent of her made his tears spill over, silent and unnoticed by the woman he held.

His callused hands smoothed over the bare skin of her arms. She was freshly washed, the fragrance of her soap lingering in his nose. But her cleanliness only darkened his heart. He'd scrubbed and scrubbed, and his hands might reek of lemon freshness, but he knew the truth. They were stained, soaked in blood and drenched in death. He smeared the taint across her spotless skin with every touch, every caress. He dirtied her just by being here.

But he couldn't help it. He couldn't pull away, not even for her own sake. He clung to her like a drowning man reaching for a life raft. She was his rock, his anchor in the surging sea of chaos that threatened to swamp him. She was his light in the darkness, leading him home.

Sam had saved him once. When he was a bitter kid riding a tractor with a bum knee, she'd come into his life and given him direction like nothing else ever had before. At the time, he hadn't realized how much she'd saved him. But now, so many years, so many experiences later, he could see with perfect clarity that without her, he would have thrown the towel in long ago.

He could only hope she was up to saving him all over again, when all was said and done.

Sam leaned back against the kitchen counter, lifting a cup of coffee to her lips. Her eyes rested on the green seabag resting against the wall by the front door. After a week at home with her, Jack was on his way back to his command, back into danger. Her work on Project Giza had helped take her mind off her worry, but this past week had brought it back into sharp awareness.

She'd been glad for his surprise visit, at first. But then she'd seen the changes in him, the shadows he tried to hide from her. And then she'd realized why he'd been allowed home for so long. A reprieve. A taste of what he was fighting for.

The man of her thoughts stepped into her line of vision. Jack moved sedately, his usually broad motions tempered by a darkness that dulled his gaze and left him looking… listless. It didn't sit well on him; he'd always had an aim, a purpose. He always had a presence about him that told the world he was exactly where he wanted to be—wherever that was at any moment in time.

Now he approached her, almost wary. "Hey," he greeted.

Sam sat her coffee on the marble countertop behind her. "Hey."

His thumb brushed his nose, as if it could hide his anxiety from her. A brusque sniff traveled between them, further communicating his discomfort. "Ah… I, uh…. I need to talk to you about something."

She nodded. "Okay."

Long, slow strides brought him closer to her, his gaze solemn and fixed on hers. Warm hands cupped the curve of her shoulders, and as usual a tingle of thrill coursed through her, easing some of the tension that gripped her.

"We've had this… thing going for a while now," he said. She nodded, knowing exactly why he had a problem putting a label on it.

She'd run into the same problem, trying to explain to Catherine exactly who it was she kept waiting for a call from. Somehow, 'boyfriend' could never find its way from her mouth. They weren't even dating—they hadn't been on a real date in close to a year. But the inadequacy of such labels came in the intensity of what she found in him. 'Boyfriend' sounded too temporary, and 'dating' too casual; she was committed, and they were a done deal.

Jack took a deep breath, his fingers trailing along the back of her arm with a feather-light touch. "I want to make it permanent. You know… Official."

Heat crept up her neck, her heart suddenly pounding. "Jack…"

"I know, we haven't really talked about it, but it's something… " He swallowed. "Something I want." His hand reached into his pocket, pulling out a tell-tale velvet box. "You and me, Sam, we're a done deal as far as I'm concerned. I want to marry you."

The hinged lid lifted, but before anything within could sparkle in the light of day, Sam's hand covered his. Jack's eyes widened at the pressure she put on his fingers, shutting the box with a snap that seemed to physically rock him. Brown eyes blinked, startled and shaken.

"I don't, Jack."

"You don't…" He blinked. "What?"

"I know you're more than just a pilot," Sam whispered, voicing her suspicions aloud for the first time since he received his commission. Jack said nothing, but the shadow that fell over his gaze—the shadow she'd been glimpsing all week, when he thought she wasn't looking—confirmed the words she spoke.

"Sam… I—" He cut himself off abruptly, his unease multiplying tenfold. The silence that followed seemed to stretch forever. Finally, he retracted the black velvet box, his eyes shuttering in self-defense. "I understand," he finally delivered, short and clipped.

"Actually, I'm not sure you do," she countered, catching his hand tightly in hers. He froze, somewhere between pulling away and turning back to her. "I'm not looking to put you in a difficult position, okay? I'm not asking you to confirm or deny anything."

That made him turn, finally, to look at her. "But I know what you do is dangerous—more dangerous than anything else in the world. And I know that I don't want it to be the reason you propose."

"It's not! Sam, I love you—"

"I know that," she assured him. "And you know that I love you. But I will not marry you so that you'll feel better about dying in the line of duty. I don't want you to die content, knowing that at least you've managed to get a ring on my finger."

Jack's eyes hardened. "So you want me to die alone and unhappy? Is that it?"

"No! I don't want you to die at all! I want you to fight to come home! I want you to do everything in your power to come home, to live out the rest of your life with me. Because I don't just want marriage—I want forever, Jack. I want always."

For a long moment, Jack didn't say anything. But he was listening.

"I already know you're the one for me, Jack," she declared. "I've known that since I was sixteen years old."

The smile she offered was watery, her lips quivering. He moved closer, his urge to comfort her as instinctive as breathing. She accepted his offered hand, clasping it in both of hers, never letting her eyes leave his.

"And while I know we'll exchange vows one day," Sam continued softly, "it won't be now. Not while you're on the front lines, in danger every single time you walk out my front door. Because 'til death do us part won't mean shit if death could take you away from me at any moment."

Her heart ached. Hurt played out across his features, so raw that it nearly knocked the breath out of her. Guilt clawed at her, urged her to take it back. Jack wanted this—the first thing he had ever admitted to wanting from her. But she couldn't do it. Not now. Not when she'd seen the agony her mother had faced, every time her father had gone overseas.

"So hold onto this," she said, tapping the box gently. "Because as soon as you're safe off the front lines, we'll walk down that aisle together. I promise. And in the meantime, you just keep coming home—okay?"

Jack didn't say a word. His features were dark and carefully inscrutable. Sam's heart pounded, but no longer in excitement. She could see him fighting the urge to pull away from her. She fought the tears rising in her throat as his hands left her arms, leaving an icy void behind. But Sam let him have the room to make his own decision. She was on the ledge—he could either leave in anger, bitter and resentful of her, or he would accept it, accept her, and still come home the next time.

But when he turned back to face her, she couldn't stop the tear that escaped, trailing down her cheek. Jack's sharp gaze saw it, and his features instantly softened. Suddenly he was her Jack again, the encroaching darkness evaporating like so much smoke.

He reached for her, gently capturing her hand as he stepped closer. Callused fingers massaged her palm, moving to her ring finger. Jack regarded the bare skin, tracing it with a fingertip.

"You promise?" he asked, his voice roughened by his own building tears. "You promise you'll let me put a diamond on this finger?"

She nodded, breath hitching. "Yes. But not right now. Not like this."

Brown eyes gazed at her, warm with trust and hope. "But some day?"

"Some day. Any day, when there's a better chance of you living for the next fifty years than there is of you falling in the line of duty."

His lips tightened, almost saying something but seeming to think better of it. For long, silent moments he simply breathed, the base of her finger still held gently between his.

"I can do someday," he murmured finally. "So long as you promise that it'll still be there when all this is said and done."

She closed the distance between them, and he let her. Her chest pressed against his, and his body curled around her, embracing her even though his hands remained on his. His warmth spread over her, and her tension bled away.

"I promise, Jack. I'll always be waiting."

He nodded, accepting her promise with the gentle warmth that was distinctly him. With a pensive look in his eye, he tucked his chin against his chest, his fingers working at the beaded silver chain dangling from his neck. He removed a single stamped dog-tag, and pressed it into her hand. Its mate remained where it was, safe and secure.

"Jack…"

"Take it," he urged. She opened her mouth to protest, but he continued too swiftly. "This is my promise, Sam. So long as you wait, I'll keep coming home." He offered a small smile. "These two," he motioned to the tags, "they're a pair."

Tears swelled once more, a lump rising in Sam's throat. An unspoken, unacknowledged fear abated in her chest, and suddenly she could breathe again, though she couldn't remember when she'd stopped. His words were simple, but like Jack, they communicated a depth of emotion that continued to take her by surprise.

Sam nodded, her chin quivering as she tried to fight the tears building in her eyes. She sniffled, then silently cursed herself for it. She nodded. "Okay," she whispered. "Deal."

His arms reached around her, pulling her closer. He buried his nose in her hair, his lips ghostly against her brow. When he spoke, his voice rumbled through her, the words coming low and clear. "Always?"

The single word was both solicitation and an offer of its own. Making sure her offer was still on the table, while letting her know he was all in.

She smiled into his shoulder: so was she.

"Always."