Her house seemed unfamiliar. She was so used to strip lighting and pre-fab blocks of concrete that the pleasant light blue and white colour of her living room wallpaper seemed offensive to the eye after over a week of endless repetition: grey, grey, grey. The man slumped in front of the television was wrong; too short, too stocky, too young, too healthy.

She felt strong, as if the touch of O'Neill's lips had conferred onto her some of the vitality that had kept him alive through the most horrendous catalogue of alien-inflicted injuries.

"Hey."

Pete's response floored her. He remained slumped in his chair, voice flat. No hug, no kiss.

She put her keys on their hook.

"Hey."

"I didn't make you any dinner. Didn't think you'd be back." There was an element of bitterness in his voice.

"I'm sorry," she faltered, trying to remember the mantra she had chanted in the car: Strength. Determination. Resolution.

"Yeah."

She sat down gingerly next to him. "Pete... we need to talk."

He looked at her for the first time, fierce anger burning in his eyes, so unusual it scared her. "Too right! Nine days, Sam. Nine days!"

Normally by now guilt would have prickled. Now she simply found herself getting angry. "A man was dying!"

"A man? Just a man to you, is he? Say Jack and have done with it!"

"What?"

"Jack! Always, it's always Jack! I know he was hurt. I know you were helping him by giving blood, God knows why it had to be you, but for Christ's sake Sam! It's a forty minute drive! Couldn't you have come home once?"

"He could have died!"

"For the whole nine days he was critical?" His voice was loaded with scepticism. "I don't believe that!"

She opened her mouth to argue but found her voice died. No, to say Jack had been critical for the whole nine days would be a lie. Since her last transfusion two days ago he had been stable, if unconscious. Even Daniel had slept at home three nights of the nine. Teal'c had spent a day off-world on a mission of some urgency concerning free Jaffa. He'd returned straight to O'Neill's bedside, of course, but he hadn't tried to make it to the infirmary after being ordered away for the sake of his own health. "He's my friend," she whispered.

"No." Pete's voice was hard as stone. "No. Not just a friend."

"Just what are you suggesting?" she found herself shrieking, half in shock that he had guessed, or noticed.

"That there is something going on between you and Jack O'Neill! Don't insult me by suggesting I wouldn't notice!" His sudden thunderclap of rage made her flinch as he shouted back at her. "You... you seemed so distracted, so miserable before your hen night. And after. Then there were those little jaunts out. And I thought maybe, maybe I was wrong or... or overreacting, or something. And you... you cried. When you thought I was asleep, you were crying. I told myself maybe it was nerves, or something from work, or Janet or... anything! Anything apart from me!!"

His face had crumpled as he had spoken, looking as if he might cry, but suddenly it twisted again, mouth rearranging itself in a sneer. She simply sat, stock still, in shock.

"And then when he gave you away... when he gave you away.... I knew, Sam. I knew by the look on his face. By the way you avoided him at the party. Then he stormed out when we were dancing. I knew! You talk in your sleep and you say his name!"

She could not think of a reply. He rushed on.

"So I spoke to Cassie-"

"You spoke to Cassie?"

"Yes!! Who the hell else was I supposed to talk to last week? I asked her some stuff-"

"Asked her?!" Carter leapt to her feet. "You asked Cassie stuff? That poor kid has been through more than you can ever imagine and you put pressure on her to-to..." Words failed her.

She was sure Cassie would have said nothing incriminating, but the idea that Pete had pressed her for such information was stomach turning.

"What else am I supposed to do! And she said... well, she said nothing. But what she didn't say spoke volumes!"

"Oh, infer what you want!" Carter snapped.

"Damn right I will! You've betrayed me, Sam, deny it all you want but I know. And I can't think what I've done to deserve it and I am angry and I need you to explain." His voice was softer now, almost dangerous. "I need to understand if I can ever forgive you."

"I don't want your forgiveness!" she spat back, the image of him questioning Cassie still too strong in her mind to prevent herself.

"So you admit that there is something going on?"

She stood up violently. "Stop asking!" she shouted, making as if to move away.

He grabbed her shoulders. "IS THERE SOMETHING GOING ON?"

Her ears were ringing from the ferocity of his yell. His eyes burned into hers, his hold on her shoulders painfully tight. "Let go of me."

"Tell me," he returned, lessening his painful grip on her shoulders but refusing to let go. "You're my wife, for Christ's sake, tell me."

There was an infinite pause.

"Yes."