Too Strong Part 10 of 11

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Jack tried to focus on the report in front of him, but his head was six floors up in the infirmary . . . where Sam had been moved back to the morning before.

Doc Brightman had reported first thing this AM that she had slept through the night without incident, and that all her chemical whatever and brain wave readings were back to normal. Sam was drained, physically, and it would take a day or two for her to rebuild her strength. Time for her self-inflicted wounds to heal.

But she was back.

So, why did he feel like crap?

In his career, he had certainly done worse things than trick a fellow comrade into thinking a lie was the truth to get what he needed. Hell, he had even done it to Sam more than once, when ordered to. But this . . . this had left a bad taste in the back of his throat since yesterday afternoon. Like he had vomited and forgot to rinse out his mouth.

Jack tossed his pen across the top of his desk and pushed back, coming to his feet. He'd just go for a walk . . . wander the base for awhile . . . and should he just happen to end up on Level 21, well, he'd just stop in and see how she was doing. Yeah, that sounded good.

Sam opened her eyes when she heard the scrape of metal chair legs pulled across the concrete floor towards her bed. She was on her side, her hands folded beneath her chin, and smiled when Jack sat down bringing himself eye level with her.

"Hey," he said with a lopsided smile.

"Hi," she whispered. Her throat was still raw and sore from her screaming and overall abuse over the last few days.

Jack retrieved the cup of iced cranberry juice that sat on her bedside table and held the straw up to her lips. Sam lifted her head enough to draw in some of the cool, refreshing liquid then laid her head back down.

"Thank you."

"How you feeling?"

"More tired than I can remember being in a long, long time."

"Not even after that week on P4X-2 . . . 23-"

"239. No, sir. This beats that week, hands down."

"Well, another couple of days and you'll be fine."

Sam sighed and smiled. She was already bored half out of her mind, but was honestly too tired to push the doctor to let her go. Right now, just lying here sounded very, very good.

"My father left this morning . . ." she said after a few moments.

"Yeah, but he said he's coming back next week. Something about a meeting you set up that you needed to talk to me about?"

Sam shook her head against the pillow. "Not today."

Jack arched his eyebrows. "Okay. Whenever. You know where I am."

Sam focused on Jack's face, and noticed the way he wouldn't quite meet her gaze. He fidgeted with his hands, his left leg bouncing on the ball of his foot. She reached out, and he immediately turned his hand so their palms slid together and wrapped his large, strong fingers around hers.

"You did what you had to do, Sir. If it hadn't been for what you said – what you did – I don't think I would have made it back." Thick emotion choked her and she tightened her hold.

Jack shifted forward, enveloping her hand between both of his.

"I hated it."

"I know."

He did meet her stare then, and her breath caught at the dark intensity behind his eyes. "Do you remember?"

"The last few days?" Sam nodded. "Every minute. I think I'll be having nightmares about those voices for the rest of my life."

She saw the flash of anger as a muscle jump along his jaw.

"But, Jack. More than the voices and the terror, I remember you. I remember you keeping them away. I remember you fighting for me. And when the nightmares come, that's what I'll remember the most."

Jack's gaze shifted from her eyes, settling momentarily in the vicinity of her lips, before he looked away completely. He leaned forward and pressed his lips to the back of her knuckles, then bent forward and rested his forehead on their joined hands.

"General?"

Jack sat up, but didn't release her hands quickly like she expected. Instead, he slowly let his hands slip free from hers and he leaned back. "Yeah, Walter?"

"There's a phone call for you, Sir." He looked from Jack to Sam. "It's a Peter Shanahan, Sir. He's rather angry, and demanding to speak to you. He says he has left several messages for Colonel Carter and has heard nothing, and wants to know what is going on."

"No one called him?" Sam asked.

"I was busy," Jack said in simple answer.

"Sir . . . "

"I'll take care of it, Walter."

"I should talk to him," Sam said, shifting to sit up.

Jack stood, his hand firmly on her shoulder. "You'll do no such thing. Rest. I'll talk to him." He squeezed her shoulder gently, his hand sliding down her arm to apply another gently squeeze to her fingers, before leaving the infirmary with Walter.

Sam rolled her head on the pillow, closing her eyes tight against the burning tears behind them. But every time she closed her eyes, she remembered . . .

Not the slithering, whispering voices that demanded she do things her heart just would not allow. Not the terror that chilled her blood and drove her to the point of insanity.

She remembered his touch. The way he smoothed her hair and caressed her cheek until the voices were mere faint whispers in the shadows. The way he never hesitated to take her in his arms. Sleeping with her cheek on his chest . . . slipping into rest to the gently, steady lub-lub-lullaby of his heart.

Sam threw her arm over her eyes to disguise the tears from anyone who walked by.