"Your son?" Sam repeated, startled.

"Yes."

"Charlie?"

His eyes, which were already so bleak, turned sad.

"Unless there's another one somewhere that someone's hiding from me."

His eyes were sad but his voice was bitter, and Sam knew that despite his claim, he was angry about not having been told about his real father – although that obviously wasn't the worst of it.

"I'm sorry, sir… I didn't…"

He shrugged, and turned away from her, unwilling or unable to meet her gaze. He didn't want pity. Not even hers. Especially not hers.

"No reason you could have…"

Sam hesitated, definitely uncertain, now. But she decided that she might as well continue the conversation – or he was going to be moody for much longer. Talking things out helped, whether he liked it or not.

"What about him?"

Jack didn't turn around. Instead he went to the window and pushed the curtain aside, looking out. Sure enough, it had started to drizzle. He could see the rain falling in the light from the streetlight across from the hotel. It fit his mood so perfectly though that he couldn't even think of anything sarcastic to say about the city rusting away.

Sam walked over to stand beside him, looking out the window as well, but her complete attention on her CO. She'd never seen him looking so vulnerable and demoralized before and it was daunting and depressing at the same time.

"What about him, sir?" She asked again. "What did she say?"

Jack shook his head, and she saw a tear trickle down his cheek. At first she'd thought it was the reflection of rain on the window, but there wasn't really any doubt what it was.

"Jack?"

He took a deep breath, a ragged, deep breath, and tried to swallow around the lump in his throat.

"She… um…"

He reached up with an impatient hand and wiped away the tear, just now noticing it and hoping she hadn't – although he knew she didn't miss much.

"It's nothing, Carter…"

Small hope that she'd just accept that and leave, and he knew it even as he said it. But he had to try.

"She what?" Carter asked, ignoring him. "What could she possibly know about your son that you didn't?"

"Charlie was a wizard," Jack said, softly, leaning his forehead against the cold glass of the window and not looking at Sam. "She knew that – and I didn't."

"He what?"

"He was a wizard," Jack repeated. "She knew and I didn't. He knew, and I didn't. He hid it from me…"

"What?"

"He was a wizard – or whatever they call them… or he was going to be – or could have been – or… whatever…"

"How… how would she know that?"

Sam couldn't really be surprised by the information. If Jack O'Neill was, indeed, a direct descendant of one of the most powerful wizards in the wizarding world's past, then it was obviously possible that the ability could have been passed through the generations.

"She watched him… they were going to send us a letter…" he shrugged, still looking out the window, although another tear had traced a trail down his cheek and he hadn't wiped it away yet.

"Really?"

He nodded, looking so sad that she wanted to hug him and tell him everything was okay. Of course, it wasn't; Charlie was dead, and O'Neill had been living with the guilt from that for a long time. But she'd never seen him look so broken-hearted.

"He must have been a remarkable little boy…"

Another tear fell, and she felt guilty for forcing him to relive such painful memories. She hadn't, of course, known what it was that had been bothering him so – and never would have brought this subject up if she had – but now she couldn't leave him like this, because it was her fault.

"He was."

She hardly even heard the soft whisper – even in the silence of the room – and the two of them were silent for a long time, just staring out the window at the rain. Finally, though, Jack spoke again, and his voice was filled with a longing that made her ache.

"Minerva told me that Charlie would have gotten hold of my gun no matter what I had done to keep him from it… I guess he was already able to do magic…"

She reached out and rested her hand on his back, uncertain what to say, but trying to think of a way to make him hurt less.

"Precocious."

O'Neill nodded, and another tear followed the first down his cheek. Immediately another fell, and Sam couldn't stop herself. She pushed him gently back and placed herself between him and the window, pulling him into her arms.

He hesitated for an instant, frozen, but only for an instant. Then his restraint crumbled, and he sagged against her, his head coming down on her shoulder and his arms going around her as he started to cry.

Sam held him tightly, giving him all the support she could as he mourned for his lost son – and cried out the guilt that had always plagued him for allowing it to happen. When her legs grew tired, she simply guided him over to the bed, sitting down and pulling him down with her. Jack didn't even notice. He'd bottled up the pain for so long that when the dam finally burst, it was doing so in full, and he hadn't cried like this in… well, he couldn't even remember. But it'd been a long time.

"I've got you," Sam murmured softly, over and over as she rocked him gently. Occasionally she'd stroke his back or his hair, but all she really did was hold him. And she was still holding him when he finally cried himself to sleep against her, emotionally spent and physically exhausted.

Shaking her head to find herself in such a position, she moved away from his side, lowering him to the bed in as comfortable a position as she could manage. She pulled his shoes off, covered him with a blanket and debated staying with him until he woke up. Deciding that wouldn't be comfortable for either of them, however, she left the room silently, turning the light off and closing the door behind her.