Sweat stung his eyes as a dull pain throbbed in his chest and lower stomach. He could feel her eyes upon him and he concentrated on lifting up one leg, moving forward, putting it down again, ignoring the aches.

"Very good!" she declared, clapping her hands together.

It would have been a relief to collapse back into his wheelchair, but it would have jarred his aching body too much; so with the uttermost effort he gently lowered himself back down into the seat, extremely grateful when his own legs no longer had to support the weight of his body.

He hated the physio-room more than any other on the base.

Doctor Brightman gave him a rare smile. "You're making excellent progress. If you continue to recover at this rate you could be home within a week."

He nodded, too exhausted to speak. He wiped his forehead, unsurprised to find his hair was soaked with sweat. She regarded him for a moment, and then nodded to the orderly who proceeded to wheel him back to the infirmary.

Daniel was lurking in the doorway, looking mildly embarrassed to see O'Neill being pushed along. He fell into step beside the chair, apologising.

"Sorry Jack, I thought you'd be finished by now...." Everyone was well aware of O'Neill's hatred of being seen in the wheelchair, of being pitied.

O'Neill waved his hand vaguely. "It's not a problem."

"How are you feeling?"

O'Neill shrugged and winced. "Better. Brightman says I might be home in a week."

Daniel's eyes widened behind his glasses. "That soon?"

"I hope so."

He lay awake, eyes closed and feigning sleep, the bleeping of the infirmary machines hidden behind the curtains around his bed so familiar to him now he no longer even heard them.

For the first time he was not simply too exhausted to do anything other to fall into a sleep so deep he might as well have been unconscious. He found his thoughts returning to their well trodden paths.

Carter.

What had she meant by her kiss. That they were friends again? Something more? He doubted the latter, but also wonder whether he could cope with the former.

Again, the sense of bitter loss and hopelessness rose within him, choking him. His chest seemed to fill with a curiously heavy feeling and he felt like crying.

Why? Why can't I have what I want?

The thought shocked him slightly, scared him. He did not want to think of Sam Carter in terms of possession, of want. But he did want her, in every conceivable way. He wanted her at his side throughout the whole of what remained of his life; in the field, at the briefing table and, if he was honest, in his bed.

He frowned, tears welling behind his closed eyelids as he remembered kissing her, of being lead from her bathroom, of undr-

"Jack?"

His reddened eyes flew open, his first panicked thought was that he was hallucinating.

She was standing at his bedside, the curtains closed behind her, looking even more awkward than was normal; entwining her fingers around one another. She was still far too thin and pale...

"Carter?" he murmured, trying to unstick his throat. "What are you doing here?"

"I haven't seen you for a few days," she lied, "I wanted to see how you are."

"I'm fine," he replied in a hoarse whisper, "Why are you really here?"

She smiled slightly, almost in desperation, and pulled up the chair always left near his bedside for one of the three members of SG-1. She reached across the covers and took his hand. Shocked he simply lay watching her fingers as they clasped around his. He gave her hand a small, comforting squeeze and tried to ignore the rapid beating of his heart.

"Pete and I are getting a divorce."

Her statement floored him completely and the reply he had been about to make died on his lips. "Uh?" he managed, scattered brain-cells valiantly trying to regroup.

She looked away. "Pete and I... we're divorcing," she repeated.

Gently, he removed his hand from hers, ignoring her panicked look. He pinched the skin on the back of his other hand so hard he yelped. He raised an eyebrow. "Okay... maybe this isn't a dream."

She took his hand again. "Jack..."

He wished his stomach wouldn't lurch when she said his name so softly. He was becoming uncomfortably aware of the proximity of their entwined hands to his groin. He pulled her hand up to his chest.

"I'm sorry. I just... I don't know what else to say so I make a bad joke."

She smiled again. "I've known that for a very long time."

"Uh. Why?"

"Why what?" she asked, confused.

"Why are you divorcing?"

"Oh." Her smile faded again and she flushed slightly. "I.. Uh. Pete confronted me about the nine days I spent here and I... I told him about what happened the night you...we...uh..." she trailed off in mute embarrassment.

"Oh," he responded, having the decency to look away from her crimson face. "So...?"

"I. Um. I've kind of being living with Cassie for a few days while we take stock of things, I mean, the house is technically mine but I was gonna sell it and split the profits-"

"Staying with Cassie?"

She bit her bottom lip. "Yes."

"With Cassie... at my house...?"

She could only nod.

"Oookay," he said; the streak of clownish theatrics in him over-expressing his unease at the situation.

She closed her eyes momentarily. "I-I'm really sorry about that. It was very late and I couldn't think of-"

"I don't mind," he interrupted, "It's just... a bit weird to think of you living in my house when I'm not there."

There was a pause and O'Neill felt his gaze dragging back to their hands.

"I just wanted you to know," she murmured.

"I'm glad you told me."

There was another, longer pause. He stared at their hands, trying to cajole his reluctant brain into thinking, into providing him with something else to stay. Nothing was forthcoming.

A stifled sob made him look around sharply. He swore under his breath. "Carter... Don't cry."

"I'm sorry Jack," she said, releasing his hand and burying her face in both of her own, "I just.. I feel I've made too many mistakes to put right. I've hurt both of...I mean, you and Pete. And I was trying so hard not to hurt either of you."

Her misery overcame her, silent sobs wracking her body. He lay for one frustratedly awkward second, and then forced his reluctant body to throw off his sheets and swing his legs out of bed. He enveloped her in his arms, ignoring the sharp pains from his ribs and hugged her, kissing the top of her head. "You do feel better," he whispered, "Eventually. Less guilty, less responsible."

She swallowed. "I always forget... forget that you..."

"Yeah," he said, cutting her off before the memories he worked so hard to bury resurfaced. "I know what it's like to feel like a betrayer, a cause of other people's pain."

She withdrew from his now tear-soaked chest a little. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Everybody cries. There's even a song about it."

She smiled again, a chuckle escaping her lips. There was a beat of silence.

"I love you Jack."

He inhaled sharply and coughed, trying not to have a choking fit. "...Love me?"

Her shoulders sagged slightly, as if he had given the wrong answer. "Yes," she said, almost defiantly.

"Oh." He drew back a little more, so that he could look her directly in the eye. "Good."

"Good?"

"Good."

She felt the corners of her mouth tugging into a smile. "Oh... good."

"Because... I love you." It felt good to finally say it, in a way that was not tempered with the realisation he could soon lose her, and any chance to say the words again.

He kissed her, without any feeling of guilt, or loss, or sadness. He kissed her, and it felt like being seventeen and in love for the first time again, just as it always had, and he felt a tremendous sense of relief that this was still so.

I love you. I could get used to saying that.