A/N: These chapters are meant to be missing scenes/POVs to stories I've sort of mentally sketched. Also, they don't take place in chronological order. Kyle's rank is mentioned explicitly (at least once) in each one, so that should tell you when it takes place. In case you haven't guessed, Kyle's sub-service uses the USN rank custom. Here it is, with USAF equivalents in parenthesis. This should help.


Ensign (2nd Lt.), Lt. Junior Grade (1st Lt.), Lt. (Captain), Lt. Commander (Major), Cmdr. (Lt. Colonel), Captain (Colonel)

Sam squinted against the bright mid-afternoon sky as she pulled off her helmet and slipped on her sunglasses. It felt strange to be wandering around outside the mountain this time of day during the workweek, but she was searching for something. Slowly, she scanned the parking lot of the bar, tapping a thumb on her Indian's throttle as she looked. This was the fourth place she'd been to, and Sam was starting to get worried. She by no means knew every bar in Colorado Springs, but she'd bet that he would stay away from dives. This was the last nice place she knew.

Finally, her eyes lit on a familiar champagne-colored Jeep. It figured he'd be in no shape to ride his bike. Sam knocked down her kickstand and dismounted. She pulled her ponytail tight as a crisp gust of late fall air blew over her; the last of the scattered gold leaves swirled around the brick veneer of the bar/restaurant. The heels of her riding boots clicked softly as she strode over to the door and stepped inside. The bar was a converted mill house. The place was a two-story sports bar, with pool tables on the second floor; monitors were decked everywhere. She didn't come here too much—the place could be loud, but this time of day it was pretty tame.

The bartender was polishing a glass but waved a free hand at her. Sam smiled and returned it as she stepped up to the hostess' station. The young lady smiled brightly. "Just one?"

Sam smiled and pulled her glasses off. "Actually, I'm looking for someone. Dark hair, brown eyes," Sam shrugged, "military…"

The hostess smiled knowingly. "Sure. Follow me." She snagged a menu and led her toward the back corner of the restaurant.

Sam spied a dim booth ahead, with a boot sticking out from one side and propped up on the other. She stopped the hostess short and took the menu with a smile, saying she wanted to surprise him. The hostess grinned and told her someone would be by soon. Sam cautiously walked up to the booth and tossed the menu on the unoccupied side. "Is this seat taken," she asked. Kyle was staring down at a plate of onion rings and a tumbler of neat scotch. He leaned back and withdrew his boot, letting her slip into the opposite side of the booth. She peeled off her leather riding jacket and tossed it into the corner of the opposite seat, joining Kyle's flight jacket in a pile.

For a moment, Sam watched him watch her. The web of scars crisscrossing his face was beginning to fade to a pink web; his eyes were still dull and faded, reduced to only the color he'd been born with. Not that she had a problem with the color—his eyes looked that way unless you were staring straight on for awhile or knew what to look for—she just wasn't used to it. The slightly wicked, coppery glint was replaced by an empty malice, staring at her from across the table. "Ma'am," he said by way of a greeting. He reached out took a small sip of his scotch. He seemed to relax a bit, the harshness leaving his eyes… empty. It took a lot of what Sam had to stand her ground.

She smiled slightly and folded her hands in front of her. "I wanted to see how you were doing. You left the mountain a little quickly today." Given the sheer audacity of the question, Sam was positively amazed she said it with a straight face. A waitress came by and Sam ordered a Diet Coke. Rand took a nip from his; Sam traced the rings of wood on the table until after the waitress had returned with the drink and left again.

Kyle set down his tumbler and glared into her eyes. "Get the short straw, did we? Thought that was Hailey's shtick."

She cracked a grin at the reference to her protégé, the man's diminutive 2IC. Jennifer despised the short jokes. She watched him slowly crumple a napkin. "I pulled rank. CO's prerogative."

He stared into the bottom of his scotch. For a while, she thought he hadn't heard her. "That's been a little while."

"Old habits die hard."

He just sat and pushed his glass around. "Don't worry. I'll take my two weeks and be back, right as rain." The bitterness dripped from his mouth even as he tossed back the remainder of the scotch. "What do you want, Colonel?"

So he was deflecting was he? Okay. She could do this. She had practice. "Oh, for crin' out loud, Kyle." She leaned her elbow onto the table and threaded her fingers through her hair. "You left the mountain without saying a thing to anyone. I'm not expecting you of all people to gush, but I am expecting you to give a damn about the people who have been waiting for you to come home for the past two months." There was no way she was actually angry with him, but she needed to keep him talking, keep him from shutting down and shutting her and everyone else out.

His eyes creased a bit as she shattered through some of the defenses he'd built. "What do you want to hear, Sam," he hissed, "want to know what it was like?"

Sam pressed her eyes closed and remembered Brightman's briefing last week, a few days after they'd found him. The silence in the room was deathly. Doctor Brightman paused as she entered the room, a stack of folders in her arms. With a quick blink, she made her way around the table ponderously, looking each person in the eye as she doled out the files; the four former members of SG-1, and the current three that weren't in the infirmary on life support. Emma sank into her seat and launched into the essential details, plowing through the first sentence as quickly as possible. "His blood work shows at least five individual goa'uld protein markers." Her ears seemed to stun, not absorbing much verbatim for a few moments.

Emma began detailing the current status of his injuries. The extent of the scaring made it impossible to accurately determine the true number of symbiotes he'd had implanted and, somehow, fought off. His natural healing abilities were slowly resurfacing; it was leeching the massive amount of naquadah out of his bloodstream. In a few days they would be able to take him off the respirator. He would make a full recovery. There probably wouldn't even be any permanent scars, physical anyway.

General O'Neill listened as he flipped through the file, becoming paler by the page. That alone was enough to catch the attention of the others in the room. His own experiences as a captive made him a barometer for this kind of depravity. Dr. Brightman seemed to be watching him carefully, as if waiting for him to come to some particular part.

After a pause she made a noise, as if to speak. Unfortunately, her voice failed her and she clenched her hands for a moment. Daniel turned to her and inched a bit closer, adding his strength to whatever anonymous burden she carried. Finally, Brightman looked up, the perfect picture of medical detachment. The whole affair was less than ten seconds long, but it was enough to brace the entire room.

Jack spoke softly, as if to spare her the need to elaborate. "Sarcophagus," he speculated. Brightman's eyes looked from him, down to the file in front of her. Sam watched Jack continue to scan the remaining pages. No one else had bothered to touch the paperwork.

"From what we can tell, he was captured for experimentation. Captain Rand was subjected to a series of tests designed to fully document his genome, anatomy, physiology and threshold tolerances; pain, heat, and cold. According to the data on the crystals we recovered, whenever the Captain succumbed to a particular test, he was revived in a sarcophagus." Emma's fingernails plied the papers in front of her. "However, his ability to heal himself increased his tolerance to these experiments—dramatically." She whispered the last word. All eyes fell on Jack as he slowly closed the folder. Sam hadn't thought that the breadth and possibility of suffering was something that could surprise let alone visibly sicken Jack O'Neill anymore. Sometimes she hated being wrong.

The waitress set her drink down and they waved her off. "I haven't forgotten, Sam." Sam opened her eyes and looked at the man sitting across from her, Jack's last word from that meeting echoing like a nightmare. "Vivisection…" She swallowed hard and watched the map of agony on his face, in his eyes. He had already suffered so much in his lifetime; he didn't deserve this, not by a long shot. What was it with the men in her life? Sam felt her eyes soften a touch.

She'd been Kyle's team leader for two years, his supervisor for four, and his friend for almost as long. She had helped train this man. What made that different from the dozens of others was that he'd already come to her with experience, and had given as much as he'd taken. Later, when she'd earned his trust, he'd given back much more. And when that happened, he'd never failed to be there for her.

Samantha was deeply proud to take some credit for what he'd become in the past few years—professionally and personally. If that made her possessive… well, then so be it. Maybe it was selfish; maybe it was ego, maybe a few too many late nights in the lab or horror-flick missions with him walking point for her or someone she cared about. The age difference would have been scandalous but… damn it if she didn't think of him as one of her own. In every way but the biology, he was her flesh and blood and she was certainly known to mother him occasionally. That usually annoyed him to no end. "Yes, motherActually—maybe that was why she did it most of the time. Most of the time. Sam fought to hold his gaze as her mind raced and retreated from her present train of thought. "So. Going surfing?"

His eyes dropped to the table. "Too cold. Can't snowboard either—no snow at Monarch yet. Might just go to Disneyland."

Sam bit her lower lip lightly. "Are you sure?"

Kyle munched down an onion ring and tossed a ten-dollar bill onto the table. "Sure about what?"

Sam polished off the remainder of her soda, drinking it down to ice melt. Well, here goes nothing. "Do you think it's a good idea for you to be alone right now?"

He stared back at her blankly for a moment before tossing over her jacket and pulling on his. He took his time, straightening the notched banded collar on the jacket. "Why break a trend, Colonel," he asked flippantly. "See you in a couple weeks." He turned to leave the booth.

"Kyle." With bitter inquisition, he stopped to look at her, his arms perched to push him to his feet. She had no idea how to say what she was thinking, feeling. Both of them had a hard time with that kind of thing. She wasn't sure she should; could say it even if she knew. Fortunately, with him she never had to. Emma had told her that with him as weak as he was, his ability to sense people was limited to touch for now. She'd never had cause to be this direct with him, but he really needed a solid kick in the ass now. She rolled her hand into a fist and pushed it across the table toward him. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow and she looked down at her fist, encouraging him. Kyle dropped his arms and turned back toward her.

Like running into a fire against instinct, she stoked all the feeling she'd tucked away a few minutes ago, letting it overwhelm her. He stretched out two fingers gingerly, stopping just short. His fingers, his whole hand was so thin, gaunt and streaked with fat, fading scars. She hadn't noticed until now. She pushed her hand the rest of the distance, touching his fingers to her knuckles. Like a circuit completed, he flinched almost instantly, closing his eyes as he sorted through her feelings. After a moment, his eyes fluttered open. There was a wealth of emotions there, most of which she rarely saw him display openly. Sam cocked her head to the side and felt a tear spill down her cheek. With a heavy sigh, she withdrew her fist and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear.

She watched Kyle's shoulders sag by a degree. Samantha stood and crossed to his side of the booth. Standing on one foot, she poked him in the thigh with the toe of her boot, nudging him over. Satisfied, Sam dropped into the seat next to him. He was just staring at his palms; those burns must be painful, even now. There was no going back after showing him that and she didn't have the benefit of being able to sense his reaction. Maybe it would have been better not to have laid that bare; even with only an emotional impression, he surly would have gotten almost all of it. At the very least, for whatever it was worth, she had his attention now. "You shouldn't do this alone. You don't have to."

"What do you suggest," he asked quietly.

"First, promise me you'll stay in town. Then, leave the cash and follow me; Jack's barbequing. Or… he's trying to; Daniel's 'helping' so…"

Kyle chuckled. It was harsh and raw, but genuine. "Hey. Thanks," he said, bumping her shoulder. There was a lot he wasn't saying. He wasn't better; not by a long shot. But, maybe now he could get better. Sam wasn't naïve. She knew that things would never go back to the way they were. There would be some long days ahead; but each of the people around him could help in a different way, now that he'd let them.

Sam smiled, watching his posture. It struck a familiar chord with her, driving out an old memory, an old promise; one she meant to keep before it was too late. One thing she'd learned from Daniel—the hard way—was not to pass up the chance when it came. This had been a close one. She put an arm across Kyle's shoulders and leaned in, whispering softly. "I love you, kiddo." She felt Kyle freeze, then shift. Sam smiled to herself; some things just don't change. He didn't know that yet, though.

After a long pause, Kyle turned and squeezed her back, whispering to her, "You too, Mom." They separated with a fast squeeze. Sam wiped her eyes and she saw Kyle pinch the bridge of his nose. "Let's get going before someone from the base sees how pathetic we are."

Sam sniffed. "God, that's all we need."

"Bad for you, worse for me. The next time I yell at a Marine, I'm gonna hear 'Wanna watch Steel Magnolias, sir?' I have a reputation to keep."

Sam laughed a deep cackle. "I won't tell if you won't."

"Nah. You're still the toughest lady I know."

"Barbeque, flyboy?"

Kyle lifted his boot and gave her a gentle shove out of the booth. Sam slid easily to her feet. Whoops; she'd stiffed Kyle for her soda. She pulled out her wallet and dug out three dollars. She turned to drop them on the table, when someone at the table next to them took a flash picture. The bright light blinded her for just a moment.