A/N: Good news! I've busted through my block! I've been churning out chapters like crazy! I'm not going to go overboard with updates and get myself in trouble, but I will post this one in celebration.

Enjoy! Woohoo!


Sam shifted in her sleep, hovering in the netherworld between slumber and waking for a long moment. She floated, slowly becoming aware.

Something had changed.

She reached out and found the space next to her empty and cold. The information was absorbed without comprehension, and she drifted off towards sleep once more before she froze.

Jack.

She bolted upright, panic icy in her veins. Her first instinct was to call out, but her throat locked up, strangling her into silence. No. No, no!

Tearing free from the sheets tangling around her legs, Sam launched from the bed, her feet barely touching the carpet as she flew from the room. A glance at the dark upstairs hall drove her fear home, blasting through the lump in her throat.

"Jack!" She rushed down the stairs, palm squealing against the banister as she went. "Jack!"

Sam hit the hardwood with too much speed and she slid until a dark figure stepped out of the shadows. A shriek scraped from her vocal cords as she collided with a solid chest. Arms flailing, she struggled against the arms holding her tight, terrified until she recognized the voice trying to calm her, felt the heartbeat beating against Jack's ribs.

"Sam, Sam! It's me!" He reached out to flip on the overhead lamp, and light blazed through the darkness. Brown eyes searched hers, gleaming in alarm. "What is it? What's wrong?"

Sam stumbled back a step, chest burning with panic and exertion. He let her, but kept his hands on her shoulders. The warm contact pulled her further from her haze, and Sam felt her heart start to slow. She reached up, grasping his wrist tightly. His skin was soft, scorching under her own chilled fingers. Swallowing heavily, she fought to control her breathing.

A quick scan told her that Jack was visibly fine. No cuts, no new bruises to join the ones yellowing around his eye. Nothing bleeding, nothing broken. He was alive. His pulse thrummed beneath her fingertips, reassuringly steady despite its quickened pace, no doubt a result of her cry.

"Sam? What happened?" Jack pleaded.

"N-nothing…" Sam blinked, hating the stammer that caught at the word. She shook her head, trying to hide the blur of tears in her eyes. Another step back gave her the distance she needed to make something up. "I, uh, I was just coming down for a drink."

To prove her point she padded into the kitchen, busying herself with pulling a glass from the cupboard and filling it with water straight from the tap. The bitter taste of fluorine reminded her that she'd put a filtered carafe in the fridge just last night. Too late now. She gulped the tepid water, trying not to feel Jack's eyes boring into her back. As if he couldn't see straight through her thin attempt at a brush-off.


Jack stepped jerkily up to the island that stood between him and Sam. He'd been woken three hours by a violent nightmare, one from which he'd come out swinging. Even now, his throat still felt raw, like he'd been screaming in his sleep. It had been a miracle that Sam hadn't woken then; he'd quickly gathered himself up and out of bed before his quaking limbs could rouse her.

It wasn't the first time, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. But this was the only time, to his knowledge, that Sam had risen from a nightmare of her own. "Sam…"

His attempt to bring her attention back to him was answered by the faucet turning on once more, refilling her glass. He saw her hand shaking, belying her distress. He approached her, reaching out to put a hand on her hunched shoulder.

"Sam, please… Talk to me."

Her head tilted, her long hair shifting against her back. She was on the verge of telling him to go fly a kite. When Samantha Carter said she was fine, she was fine. But apparently she'd forgotten that he could read her like an open book.

He slid his hand down her arm, tugging ever so gently on her elbow to turn her towards him. His heart broke at the sight of the tears in her eyes. "Samantha, c'mon…"

"I thought you were gone," she said, wiping at the tears starting to spill. "I woke up, and the bed was empty, and—I thought—I thought this had all been a dream. That you were still gone and I… and I was…"

That she was still alone. Sam didn't say it, but Jack could see it written all over her features. The bright edginess in her eyes, the lips twisted in fear. Between the loss of her mother, of Geordie, her broken family… It was a miracle she hadn't cracked yet. And on top of all that, he'd nearly left her too.

His throat seized. "C'mere." He pulled her into his chest, wrapping his arms around her.

She came with a sniffle, burrowing her face against his neck. Her tears were hot against his skin, her hands digging into the back of his shirt in desperation, clinging. "I'm here, Sam," he murmured softly, stroking her hair. "I'm not going anywhere, I promise."

But even as he tried to comfort her, he couldn't help but wonder if maybe she'd be better off if he did disappear.


A few mornings later, Sam paused in her routine of getting ready for work. Seeing her turn towards him across the counter, Jack set aside his coffee and met her gaze. She was so hesitant, so nervous that his teeth ground together. Sam wasn't hesitant. She didn't used to be. Now she was hesitant, but only around him.

"Jack…" She paused, and Jack felt impatience steal over him. He shifted uncomfortably, hoping to hide his displeasure. "Have you, um… Have you thought about seeing someone?"

"Someone like who?" That's right, O'Neill, play it dumb. As if he didn't know she meant 'someone' like a shrink. Someone who would ask him about he'd seen, what he'd done, what had been done to him.

The idea of spilling his guts to a stranger—to anyone—made him want to vomit. The only thing keeping him from doing so was Sam's continued efforts to verbalize.

"Ummm… You know, a psychiatrist. A professional—"

"Do you think I need to see a shrink?" He'd intended it as an honest question, but it shot out from his mouth like a bullet from a gun, a sharp accusation that took her aback. Turn the tables on her. Anything to pull her focus away from her. If she looked too hard, she wouldn't like what she saw.

"What?" She pulled back, shifting uneasily. "I—no, Jack, that's not what I meant—"

"Then how did you mean it?"

Her cheeks flushed, and she looked down at the countertop. One finger traced a lonely pattern against the marble. "I noticed you haven't been sleeping well. That's all."

"It's the meds," he lied crisply. "They make it hard to sleep, okay?"

Sam blinked, her lips pressing into a pale, thin line. She was trying hard not to cry. Guilt flooded Jack at the realization, washing away his terror-induced temper. He sighed.

"Look, Sam, I—"

"I'm going to be late," she said quickly. Jack glanced at the clock, and saw she was still an hour early. "I have to go."

"Sam, wait—"

But she was already gone, escaping through the front door with her bag slung hastily over her shoulder. The door shut behind her, leaving Jack alone in a house that was suddenly chill.

Dammit. What the hell was wrong with him?

He knew what was wrong. He was still there, still in the desert. Every time he opened his eyes he had to convince himself that Sam was real, that he wasn't simply hallucinating. He was trying to be someone he wasn't—someone he used to be, but couldn't manage to be anymore. It was all he could do to keep Sam from joining him in his nightmare. But if he wasn't careful, he'd push her away so far he'd lose her for good.