(Psst! This is the second half of the second part.)

Alea Iacta Est

Part II

Reassurance

"Fruit Loops, Corn Pops, or Coco Puffs?"

"How 'bout Grapenuts?"

"How 'bout no."

"Cheerios?"

"Honey Nut?"

"Deal."

Jack tossed the box into the already laden cart and started down the cereal isle once more. Wrinkling his nose in mock distaste as Sam plucked a box of flavored oatmeal from the shelf and placed it in the cart, he muttered, "MRE's taste better than that stuff."

Smiling as she elbowed him lightly in the ribs, she replied, "At least they don't all taste like chicken."

"Yeah, these taste like saw dust. Big improvement."

She rolled her eyes at him and threw a box of apple cinnamon NutriGrain bars on top of the Cheerios, turning when he gasped in disapproval.

"Would ya stop with the healthy crap already?" His deep brown eyes sparkled at her, belying his irritation. "The point of vacation is to sit around, relax, and rot your teeth with junk food. Health nut, whole wheat, ultra-healthy junk totally goes against the standards of your average vacationing American."

Pulling a box of chocolate-covered, chocolate chunk granola bars to her chest, she raised her eyebrows, staring at him in feigned indignation. "These better?"

He grinned, wheeling up beside her to pluck the package from her fingers. "Much. I knew you could get the hang of this." She smiled wryly up at him and pulled her navy blue sweat jacket tighter around her body as she fell into step close beside him, their arms brushing against each other every so often.

After he had taken her hand earlier, she had fallen into a more peaceful sleep only to awaken naturally as the truck bounded into Silver Bay. They were now at a small grocery store stocking up on necessities for the next weeks; finding they had many similar tastes—breakfast food excluded—took them by surprise. When Sam had passed the vegetable section, Jack had expected her to bag several heads of exotic lettuce. Instead, she had come back with a one pound bag of baby carrots and small head of cauliflower.

"What? No green stuff?" He had asked, legitimately surprised.

Wrinkling her nose, she replied, "I hate green stuff." After holding up her obviously not green vegetables briefly in point, she stowed them in the cart. Shrugging her slim shoulders, she added, "It's a texture thing."

They had since perused most of the store and filled the majority of their cart with sundry foodstuffs, as well as two cases of Honey Weiss, and various cleaning supplies and paper products. After topping the load off with two cases of Pepsi, one regular, one diet, Jack turned a satisfied eye to his companion. "Well, Major, I would say this mission has been quite the success."

She cocked her eyebrow at him playfully. "Agreed, sir."

"Shall we proceed to get the hell out of here?"

"Sounds good to me, sir."

Snatching a candy bar from a passing display case and showing it pointedly to her, he muttered, "This sounds good to me."

Rolling her eyes at him for the umpteenth time, she smiled in spite of herself. "What was that you said about rotting your teeth out?"

He smiled at her comment as he began unloading their selections onto the conveyor belt. "It's all part of the vacation experience, Sam." Shrugging, he added, "Besides, I brush my teeth. When I remember."

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"What are you getting?"

Jack's eyebrow quirked, augmenting the brilliant spark that lit his eye. "Something dead, cooked, and on a bun," he quipped. "A bacon double cheeseburger. With onion rings and extra pickles. No green stuff."

His companion's menu fell several inches then, revealing her eyes set askance at him. "You're a pickle person?"

"Yeah, I'm a pickle person." Narrowing his vision slightly as Sam perceptibly shifted from doubt to wonderment, he asked, "Is there something wrong with that?"

Shrugging, she glanced up at him briefly before returning to her perusal of the menu. "I just never took you to be a pickle person."

"Are you a pickle person?"

Involuntarily her nose wrinkled in disgust and her body was riddled with slight abhorrent tremors. "Hell no! Much too salty. Besides, they make me physically ill."

"You allergic to cucumbers?"

"Only my taste buds. They start foaming and convulsing. It's not pretty."

He smiled wryly at her dead-pan delivery, his sarcastic rebuttal abruptly eclipsed by their waiter's appearance. The young man smiled warmly at them, his pen hovering inches above the notepad in his hand. "Good afternoon. I'm Brent, I'll be your server. Are you ready to order or do you need a couple more minutes?"

Jack glanced from Brent to Sam, his pleasant expression and ease evaporating when he observed her hunched shoulders and cautious, persistent stare boring into the plastic casing of the menu. Squinting at the top of her head, the only part of her visible as she effectively barricaded herself behind her laminated fortress, he beckoned her, attempting to maintain an air of nonchalance. "Sam? Honey, do you know what you're getting?" His gentle inquiry elicited no response from her; he felt surely that his use of an endearment in public would garner a glare at the least.

Looking up quickly at the waiter, Jack flashed him a brilliant smile while his foot searched under the table for his companion's ankle. "I guess we need a few more minutes, Brent."

Casting a wary glance in Sam's direction, the young man nodded, his consternation replaced with his requisite waiter's charm, and began turning from the table.

"No," Sam piped up suddenly, her eyes and face reinstated with their typical ease. Jack had located her foot, her sandals having been shed upon their being seated, and had begun to gently massage the area around the bone protrusion at the base of her ankle with pad of his big toe. Apparently the contact had been enough to snap Sam out of her reverie. Flashing both men a thousand watt smile, she added sheepishly, "Sorry. I get kind of wrapped up in these decisions."

Brent shrugged, waiter's smile still firmly in place, and clicked his pen against the back of the notepad. "Not a problem. So, what can I get for you two today?"

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Sam heaved a great, relieved sigh as she watched Brent's retreating reflection in the portrait glass hanging on the wall opposite her. His appearance had caught her off-guard; he came from out of nowhere, from somewhere behind her, his sudden presence unexpected and disconcerting. Entwining her fingers tightly in her lap, her back still curved slightly from the sudden onslaught of panic, she began to roll her head forward, stretching the taunt muscles of her back and neck in an effort to alleviate their swelling tension. Jack's foot shifted then against hers under the table; she opened one eye under an eyebrow arched in curiosity. Seeing the concern etched blatantly across his face, she stopped stretching and focused on a small spot on the carpet just beyond his right shoulder.

"I didn't…expect him to be there," she said timidly after enduring a moment of his subtle, silent inquiries. "Just took me by surprise, I guess. I'm okay now. Thanks." Offering him a small smile that actually reached her eyes, she started slightly when he held out his hand for hers, his steely expression startling her into cognizance of the implications of what she had just said. Hesitantly placing her hand in his, she forced herself to meet his gaze, her penitent air settling around them like sand.

He said nothing, communicating all that needed to be said through their distant, yet surprisingly intimate contact. I know better, his eyes told her. You're not okay now. And you won't be for awhile. After a few precious moments, Jack spoke, his words soft and low amongst the clatter of knives against porcelain. "I can see the knots in your shoulders from here. I don't suppose you'd be up for a back massage later, huh?"

Lips upturned in a small, thankful smile, she nodded. "I would like that," she replied, her muscles easing at the mere thought of his strong, supple hands kneading away the accumulated tension in her back and neck.

Squeezing her hand, he smiled warmly at her. "Good." He released her hand and took a short swig of his Pepsi before asking her, "Have you been able to remember anything else?"

Air rushed audibly into her lungs; her body melded into the corner of the booth as she brought her knees up to cradle her chin. "No," she answered quietly. "I've, uh, actually been trying to forget what little I do remember."

"Good luck with that."

She glanced at him sharply. "What do you mean?"

Jack merely shrugged. "Just what I said. Good luck. You'll need it."

Her eyebrows furrowing, she raised her head somewhat before eyeing him suspiciously. "Is this some of that infamous Jack O'Neill sarcasm?"

"What? You can't tell the difference by now?" Jack smiled wryly at her. "I'm disappointed."

Sam narrowed her eyes at him, obviously quite disgruntled at his continued air of nonchalance, and released his hand. "If there's something you want to say to me, I would appreciate hearing it straight out instead of listening to you dilly-dally around the point."

Eyebrows arched in surprise at her outburst, Jack sat back against the booth and regarded her unabashedly for several moments. Finally, he said, "Don't try."

"What?"

Leaning forward to rest his elbows on the table top, he absently began chasing the ice around his glass with his straw. "To forget. Don't try," he repeated. "It's not worth it." He began to draw the dark liquid half-way through the straw, stop the suction with his finger, lift the tube from the glass and then release soda back against the ice. Repeating this several times in the dearth of her continued conversation, he added, "It's better to talk about it. Get it off your chest." He winced, remembering the events of the previous night, and dropped the straw back into his glass. "Sorry," he muttered. "Bad choice of words."

But Sam did not notice his faux pas. She had become silent once again, staring intently at the grain of the mahogany table top. As he opened his mouth to speak again, she murmured, "I don't know how to do that."

"Don't know how to do what? Talk about it?"

She nodded. "Yeah. I haven't really talk talked since my mom died. Dad wasn't big on conversation."

Silently consenting this point, Jack racked his brain for suggestions. Finally, he decided on,
"You could tell me what you remember. Let me know what goes on in your dreams. What you think about when you zone out on me."

"You said I didn't have to talk about '275 if I didn't want to."

Jack winced. "Yeah, about that. I've rethought what I said." Leaning towards her, he reached out and placed a gentle hand on her knee, eliciting a slight start from her small frame. Her eyes wide and painfully vulnerable, she stared him, silently begging him not to continue. He did anyway. "I'm not going to harp on it, Sam. I won't make you talk if you're not ready." Sensing her continued hesitance, he added softly, "And it's all right if you're scared. I wou—" Catching sight of their waiter heading towards them armed with a tray bearing their meals, he stopped mid-sentence and uttered, "Brent's on your six."

Her eyebrows furrowed momentarily before her mind connected 'Brent' to 'waiter' and 'waiter' to 'impending intrusion by an unknown male.' By the time the young man had woven his way through the spattering of tables and patrons, Sam had adequately prepared herself for his arrival, and even offered him a gracious smile as he placed her grilled chicken sandwich and French fries in front of her. After ensuring that the couple had everything they required to maximize their enjoyment of their meal—and thereby maximize his tip—Brent left them to begin his standard rounds of the restaurant.

Eyeing his cheeseburger greedily, Jack spread his napkin across his leg, muttering, "Thank god for leave." A smile broke across Sam's face as he took a huge bite out of his burger, leaving tell-tale dabs of ketchup and mustard at the corners of his mouth. Looking up as she chuckled softly, he managed, "Wha?" around his mouthful of food.

"Your lunch left a little something…" she said softly, smiling as she reached across the table to whisk away the excess condiments with the corner of her napkin. "There."

"I was saving that," he protested with mock indignation, his mouth still quite full. "Condiments are precious, ya know. How often do we get the luxury of ketchup out in the field?"

Sam grinned and conceded the point as she dunked a pair of her fries in their "luxury" condiment. "We can raid a McDonald's for ketchup packets on the way back to base."

His eyebrows rose appreciatively. "Now there's a thought." Smiling slightly with satisfaction as he watched her polish off the fries in her hand and then tuck into her sandwich, he picked up an onion ring and, after dousing it thoroughly in ketchup, shoved the entire thing into his mouth, relishing the its salty sweetness. "Oh, yeah," he said. "So much better than MRE's."

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"Almost there, Sam," Jack muttered as yet another pained gasp issued from between her lips. "Just around this grove." The road was in disrepair, more a collection of potholes and washboards than actual gravel. Every dip in the road jostled Sam's injuries; she was dully aware that several of them were unnaturally warm, indicative of superficial infection. She would need assistance to re-bandage them and she was loathe to ask Jack for that help, despite his previous respectful dealings with her nakedness.

"And here we are," Jack said with a flourish. "Hotel de O'Neill. Complete with electricity, running water, AC, and a deck-side stream perfect for fishing and throwing your second into."

"Hey now," Sam warned, unbuckling her seatbelt. "There will be none of that on this trip. This second doesn't swim in mucky streams unless the fate of some planet is hanging in the balance and she's getting paid."

"If I give you five bucks can I throw you in?"

"Tempting offer, but no. Sorry."

"Dammit," Jack muttered under his breath. Smiling as she slapped his arm good-naturedly, he said, "Let's get the groceries and the rest of our stuff in and then I'll give you the grand tour."

"Actually," she began hesitantly, hating having to even ask her impending question. "Before that tour, I was wondering if you could give me a hand, um…re-bandaging. I'm a little worried about infection."

His eyes widened somewhat. "Infection? I slathered each one with antibiotic cream. They hurt that much?"

Sam nodded. "And they feel a bit warm."

"Damn," he muttered. "Yeah, okay." Jack parked the truck and turned it off, handing her the keys after he had pulled them out of the ignition. Holding up a well-worn bronze key, he said, "That'll get you into the cabin. The bathroom is through the living room and across from the bedrooms. I think there's some first aid stuff under the sink. Go see what you can dig up and I'll get the groceries in."

Nodding her agreement, she exited the vehicle and made her way up to the front door. The key turned easily in the lock and door slipped silently open to reveal a dark, pine-scented room, quite large by cabin standards.

"Switch is to your left," Jack called from the path, his arms laden with their purchases. After filling the room with a dim, soothing light, she crossed through the living room—the "quite large" room—and found both the bedrooms and the bathroom without a problem. Taking a deep breath, she turned the light on in the bathroom and was surprised by its spaciousness. Two sinks and a wall-to-wall mirror filled one end of the room while a toilet and a shower—easily large enough to accommodate two—filled the opposite end. Two adults could easily co-exist—well, co-attend-to-hygiene—in the space that remained.

Shifting her attention to the cabinet under the sink, Sam located all of the required materials for dressing her wounds and placed them on the counter. "Found everything all right?" Jack asked from the doorway. Startled, she spun around, her hands upraised defensively and her breath quickening before she realized who was behind her. Sighing audibly with relief when she saw him, she closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the countertop trying to regulate her breath. "Sorry 'bout that," he muttered sheepishly as he gently embraced her being mindful of her sore breasts, and then placed a delicate kiss on her forehead. "You okay? No aneurysms or anything?"

Silently she shook her head and wound one arm around his waist, drawing him closer. "You're sweaty," she murmured against his shoulder; when she did not withdraw from him, he figured the comment was an observation, not a chastisement.

"Yep," he smiled. "We bought a lot of food." As she looked up at him, he continued. "And I'm an old guy. Old guys sweat."

"You're not old," she reproved, smiling slightly. "You're older, but you're definitely not old."

Jack grinned. "Oh, older. Well, then I feel much better."

"You're welcome," her voice indicative of a broad smile.

They embraced for several minutes, Jack eager to offer her as much comfort as she needed, before he tenderly rested his cheek on the top of her head. "You ready to have a look at those cuts?"

She stiffened against him, but nodded after several brief moments. Disengaging himself from her embrace, he patted the countertop and she obligingly eased herself onto it. She had shed her sweatshirt in the truck and was now seated before him in a white long-sleeved shirt and a pair of loose-fitting denim overalls. Comfort had been her main goal when she had dressed this morning, he knew, but even so, she looked adorable. Right now, however, sitting on his cabin's bathroom counter, she looked adorable and terrified. He had been surprised when she had asked him to help her bandage her wounds; but he could not help but also be a little pleased. Still, she was nervous—painfully so.

"How do you want to do this?" he asked her softly, gently brushing a stray strand of hair out of her eyes. He watched as she drew a deep breath and slowly, her hands trembling, unfastened the button clasps of her overalls, the straps falling limply away from her shoulders. As she reached for opposite sides of her shirt to pull it over her head, she gasped, her face pained, and immediately pressed her arms protectively over her breasts.

Placing a gentle kiss on her forehead, he held her head to his chest for a moment until the tension eased from her body. Wordlessly, he collected the hem of her shirt in both hands and gingerly brought it up and over her body, his hands keeping the fabric clear of her injuries. He winced as he saw the bruises, still rough shades of purple, mottling her skin, but quickly jumped into action as he took note of two splotches of blood that had seeped through the beige material of her bra.

Grabbing a hand towel from a drawer beside him, Jack unfurled it and placed it against her chest. Recognizing his intent, Sam held the towel over her breasts as he wrapped his arms around her and gently unhooked her bra. He drew the straps over her shoulders and held the towel in place for her as she removed the garment completely, her eyebrows furrowing slightly as she caught sight of the two small bloodstains.

"Is my shirt stained?" she asked softly, peering around him to look at the fabric.

He shook his head. "No. I don't think it got that far."

Nodding, she placed her hand over the towel, releasing Jack to ready the necessary materials. Finally, he saturated a cotton ball with alcohol and turned back to her.

"Ready?"

Again, she nodded and shifted the towel over right shoulder, exposing her left breast. Startled by his low whistle, she glanced up and saw his eyes widen as he surveyed the damage. "Well, two of them bled through four layers of gauze, but the rest don't look too bad," he said softly as he whisked the cotton ball across the cuts he had left bare and silently fumed as he caught sight of the bite mark rounding her breast's swell. After depositing the used cotton in the garbage can, he gently cupped her cheek and directed her eyes into his own. "I'm going to have to touch you in order to get the bandages off and put new ones on. Is that all right?"

Closing her eyes, she sucked her bottom lip between her teeth and nodded slightly. When his hand did not leave her face, but instead asserted a gentle, insistent pressure to look up, she obliged, curious. The warmth that spilled from Jack's eyes caught her off-guard, yet alleviated some of her built up fear.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he whispered earnestly. "Well," he amended, "not on purpose anyway. Ripping off bandages always sucks." He smiled as she chuckled weakly at his attempt at humor. Caressing her cheek with the back of his fingers, he continued softly, "Just remember that it's me."

Placated by the light spark of determination in her eyes, he turned back to her breast and started to ease one of the bandages from her flesh. Attempting to evade both the cuts and the bruises proved difficult, but Jack managed the operation having only to apologize once in response to her sudden gasp. He acknowledged to himself the beauty of her body despite its unnatural thinness as he studiously cleansed her wounds, and cursed for the umpteenth time the alien doctrine that had driven her to the injuries. Pained, he realized that the two deepest cuts would leave serious scar tissue in the wake of their healing…that they probably should have received professional medical attention. However, something told him that she would be adverse to the idea and immediately dismissed it. Instead, he asked the same question he had that morning, hoping this time for a better reception.

"Have you remembered what made you do this?" The question was quiet, almost tentative, asked while he smoothed antibiotics over her wounds and gently covered them with gauze. Standing upright, he scrutinized her for a moment—she was lost in thought again, her eyes distant, shadowed by unspoken fears—and then softly brushed her hair away from her face, his hand rounding the back of her head to encircle the nape of her neck. His other hand gently tipped her chin up to look at him; he saw her eyes but her eyes did not see him. Dilated pupils hid what remained of her crystal blue irises and the faint spark he had detected minutes before had now vanished.

Tracing the line of her jaw with his fingertip, he whispered her name in an effort to coax her back into time with him. But she did not respond. Sighing, he wrapped his arms around her bare shoulders and gathered her comfortably against his chest; he slowly rocked her from side to side, all the while whispering encouragements and dropping light kisses on the top of her head. He was about to scrap the idea of redressing her other injuries and instead carry her to the master bedroom when he felt her tremulous intake of breath.

"I felt them…" she began, her voice like an echo. "…all over my body…I couldn't get away…th-they wouldn't let me get away." Tears began descending from her eyes in small rivulets, the immensity of her pain augmented by the soft tapping of the salty fluid against his skin as they fell from her cheekbones. Her arms tightened around him, her body racked with tremors and her nails digging desperately into his skin as if yearning to crawl into the haven of his very being.

"I wanted to scream," she continued, her tone flagging somewhat as she delineated her weaknesses. "…but…but I couldn't. Couldn't breathe. I couldn't run, couldn't fight…god. I just wanted them to stop…touching me." Suddenly she thrust her body away from his, her hands gripping his upper arms tightly and her eyes pouring wildly, madly into his own. "God! They shouldn't touch me…shouldn't—make them stop!" Pupils widely dilated and surrounded by tears, she gazed at him helplessly, her emotional nakedness rending his heart. "Please make them stop…I can't…Please…" The entreaty spilled from her lips over and over again, her voice hushed and near breaking.

Summoning his resolve, he gently took Sam's trembling face in between his hands, her own descending from his upper arms to cling frantically to his wrists. He watched her watching him, her throat convulsing harshly as she swallowed, momentarily breaking the rhythm of her mantra. "Sam," he said softly, resisting the urge to hold her against him until this waking nightmare passed. "Sam," he repeated when she failed to respond, his voice a bit louder, more authoritative. The hushed plea ceased its repetition, apparently shocked from her consciousness by his tone, and every pore, every measure of her energy affixed itself to him, to the words formed by his tongue, lips, and teeth.

Brushing his thumbs lightly across her cheeks, he whispered, "They are not here anymore."

Immediately her face crumpled painfully and fresh tears pooled across her blue irises. "Yes," she whispered hoarsely. "Yes, they are…"

"No," he said firmly, his grip intensifying on her face, causing her eyes to widen slightly. "No, they are not. It's just you and me, Sam. Just you and me." He paused, consciously loosening his grip and softening his gaze. Raggedly, she drew two deep breaths, attempting to reconcile his words with her beliefs. "You're remembering them, baby. And, god, I know it hurts, but that's all they are. A memory. Just a memory." Slowly pulling her against his chest, he enveloped her in his arms. When he spoke next, his voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but held every ounce of confidence he could muster. "They can't hurt you anymore. You're safe, all right?" He felt her nod slightly against the fabric of his shirt and gently kissed her tousled hair. "You're safe."

As the reality of his words dawned partially on her fear encrusted consciousness, Sam's eyes welled up again, reconciled this time in a span of uncontrolled, unabashed sobs. She was safe. Here, in Jack's arms, she was indeed safe.

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Jack did not know how long they had spent in the bathroom and frankly he did not care. He did care about the gradual lessening of Sam's sobbing into infrequent sniffles and her mental return to reality. Fully aware of her state of undress, he located the hand towel that had been relinquished at some point and, slowly pulling away from her, placed it again over her chest, covering her nakedness. She accepted the cloth gratefully, holding it against her body with a trembling hand. Stepping away from her to rip off a length of toilet paper, Jack handed it to her, remaining silent for a moment as she blew her nose.

"You want to take a shower while I get the rest of our stuff in?" he asked, his voice still hushed. "It might help."

She shook her head slowly, unable to look at him. "No," she answered, matching his tone. "I don't want to…" she trailed off and shakily drew a deep breath before continuing, her voice nearly inaudible. "I don't want to risk a repeat of last night."

"Ah…" he muttered, suddenly understanding her reticence. "How about a bath? You can leave the door open; I'll be just across the hall getting stuff put away." When she did not answer, he cupped her chin in his palm and tenderly directed her to face him. "Remember—you're safe. It's just you and me and I'm not coming in unless you call me, all right?"

"Will you?" She asked suddenly, an earnestness flickering against her pupils.

His eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "Will I come if you call? Of course I wi—"

"No," she interrupted him, placing a settling hand on his chest. "I mean, will you…" She trailed off as her uncertainty became more apparent. Biting her lip, she looked away from him, embarrassed suddenly by her own desire.

"Will I what, Sam?" Jack probed, curious at to what prompted her sudden change of demeanor.

Glancing back up at him, her eyes pleading, she asked softly, "Will you stay with me? I-I don't want to be alone right now."

The confusion that had settled along his frame evaporated only to be replaced with surprise at her forthright request. Stilling her immediate retraction of her appeal when she detected the change in his expression, he said simply, "Yeah. I can do that." Bending to place a light kiss on her forehead, he added, "How 'bout you run the water and I'll quick get our things in from the truck?"

She nodded, a slight, relieved smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Okay," he affirmed, cupping her jaw affectionately before withdrawing from her. "There may be some smelly, bubbly stuff under the counter. You might have to dig for it." He smiled at her before adding, "I'll be back in a second."

Again, she nodded, returning his smile. Sighing as she watched him leave, she eased herself off of the counter and, after shedding her overalls and underwear, crossed the bathroom to the tub. After wiping the porcelain down with the hand towel Jack had given her earlier, she adjusted the temperature of the water before turning back to the cupboards to look for the "smelly, bubbly stuff."

The sight of her reflection stopped her cold. Normally her blue eyes shone with a pleasant amalgam of warmth and determination; now they stared back at her, red-rimmed and lifeless, like bloodshot, milky orbs hanging limply from swollen sockets. And her skin was much paler than she remembered; her face was speckled red and pulled taut across the brittle bones of her nose and cheeks. When had she begun to age so?

Choking back a violent flux of bile in her throat, she stared hard at the bruises dotting her neck and shoulders; the outline of their fingers along the curves of her breasts, the vicious ridge of purple teeth marks that marred the crest of her skin. The lacerations their memory had driven her to unconsciously to inflict upon her swells; frantically she tore at the bandages, needing to see the wounds themselves under this new light and amidst the storm of her gathered bruises. She grimaced at the pastiche, failing to respond when blood beaded and began to trickle down her right breast.

At her last appointment, Janet had said that they had faded, that her contusions were healing "nicely." But there was nothing remotely "nice" about them—disgusting purple and green souvenirs driving her memories into the light of a horrid reality. It did happen. Here was the proof. And there it was again, along the ridge of her ribs—when had they begun to show?—and there again, along the concavity between her hipbones, and lower still. On the flare of her hips, the soft, inner portion of her thighs, and—

—and—

And within the delicate folds and depths of her body, much farther beneath the surface of her skin than any discoloration. Their bodies had marked her own, had plunged their sin deep within her, spilling the seed of their transgressions into her very flesh…and then they had left her for dead.

And she had let them.

…but she was no Christ, no savior of any race. The Christ had merely been beaten, ridiculed, crucified—that she could handle. That had definite, quantifiable terms by which to calculate the various equations of misery. But this—living with this…she had let them…

A white terrycloth towel suddenly draped around her shoulders, casting off the machinations invoked by the sight of her own nakedness. A warm body stood close behind her, gentle hands coaxed her around, and then she was enshrouded by the heat and scent of—

"Jack," she whispered, resting her head sullenly on his chest.

"That's right," he returned, his voice hoarse, distant. "I'm right here."

Too soon the sanctuary of his embrace lessened and he was looking down at her. He touched her face, his thumb caressing the delicate curve of her cheekbone just below her eye. And then he kissed her forehead softly and murmured, "Come on. Your bath's ready." She silently followed him, allowing him to remove the towel and help her into the blessedly soothing water.

How long she lay there, soaking the pain out of her weary limbs before Jack began to tenderly cleanse her body, she did not know. But his touch did not scare her, it did not burn her flesh the way she imagined such intimacy might. Even when he gently cradled each of her breasts in turn and cleansed her wounds she did not shudder; nor did she feel discomfited when he drew the cloth in slow, soothing circles up the soft skin of her inner thighs to the apex of her legs to gently wash what they had so horribly abused.

"I'm sorry," she whispered against the background of water dripping from the cloth as Jack lifted her wrist out of the bath to cleanse the healing rupture caused by the cuffs.

Jack stopped his ministrations, and looked at her askance. "For what?"

Eyes fixed stalwartly to the ceiling, she softly specified her apology. "For being weak. For letting them hurt me. For not finding another way out of that mess." She drew a deep breath, and then decisively continued. "The team's inactive because of me. It's my fault."

"Whoa," he said, his eyes wide in disbelief. "Sam—this isn't your fault. They didn't give you a choice."

"Yes," she spat venomously. Then, shocked by her admission, she quickly withdrew her arm from his grasp and pulled it tightly against her body, her eyes downcast and shamed.

Narrowing his eyes under his growing suspicion, Jack tentatively asked, "Yes, it's your fault or yes, they gave you a choice?"

The bathwater began quaking around her body as she succumbed again to slight tremors, her face a crumpled mass of indiscernible emotion. Her chest heaved sporadically several times before she murmured, "They gave me a choice."

His heart skipped frantically, searching for a regular beat as her words echoed within his head. After clearing his throat in an effort to clear the parchedness of his mouth he asked, "What did they say?"

Around the slight tearless sobs that shook her body, Sam managed to whisper, "They told me that I could either participate willingly or they would let me go and…" She stumbled over her own words, earnestly wishing she had never broached this subject with him. Summoning her strength, she finished, "…and they would kill you and Daniel. Use your blood in the place of mine." Hugging herself tightly, she murmured, "I couldn't let that happen, Jack…I couldn't let them hurt you…"

Jack's eyes fell closed under the weight of her admission. Her sacrifice had ensured their survival. Dammit. Opening his eyes, he reached for her trembling body and effortlessly pulled her into his arms and out of the bath, heedless of the water falling in gentle streams from her wet skin. Righting her long enough to wrap a large bath towel around her shoulders and hand her another, smaller one, he silently picked her up again and carried her to the master bedroom where he gently settled her onto the bed. He sat down next to her, plucked the extra towel from her grasp and began tenderly drying her hair. She sighed and relaxed slightly as he massaged her scalp and concomitantly toweled her off.

This was not the response she had been expecting. She had been expecting him to agree that it was her fault, to be repulsed by her presence, and to throw her out of his cabin while hurling slanders at her from his doorstep. She had not expected this continued tenderness or this unmistakable love.

"They didn't give you a choice, Sam," he reiterated as he pressed the towel against her neck and face.

Immediately, she opened her mouth to protest. They did give her a choice. They did. Give. Her. A choice.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, silencing her with a single uplifted finger. After a moment, he resumed drying her body before continuing, "That was not a choice. They forced you into that room, Sam; they forced you to lay there while they raped you—"

"No," she cried, clasping her hands over her ears and rising from the bed. As she rose, the towel about her shoulders fell and ensnared her feet when she attempted to run, sending her careening to the floor in a great, bony heap of tears and blood. As she lay panting on the floor, she felt Jack's hands gently extricate her feet from their terrycloth confines and then drape the towel over her naked body before running his hand slowly across her back. His ministrations did nothing to calm her nerves this time, and she shakily pulled away from him, crawling out from under his hand to curl up in a ball beneath the towel. "It wasn't rape," she whispered at last.

Jack's jaw dropped and he stared at her openly. "What?" he managed. "Of course it was ra—"

"No!" she exclaimed desperately, aching for him to understand. "No, it wasn't. Not really. It's only rape if you don't consent." Huddling further into her terrycloth cave, she muttered ashamedly, "I consented."

When he did not say anything further, she continued, anguish lapping bitterly in her tone. "Don't you see, Jack? Don't you get it? I let those men take me. I allowed it to happen. They wanted my body and I let them take it from me like…" She trailed off, hating to say it, but needing to hear it, "…like some kind of whore."

Her breath caught in her throat as Jack sidled up beside her, his eyes flashing venomously, his face clearly radiating his incensement. Taking her chin firmly in hand, he whispered fiercely, "Don't you ever, ever say that again."

"But—" she began.

"No, Sam," he said firmly, placing a silencing finger over her lips, the blaze suffusing his pupils lessening somewhat as he continued. "You listen to me. A choice between the death of the people you love and giving your body over to be used is no choice at all. They forced you to participate, they forced you into submission, and they forced themselves on you like a pack of animals." Taking her face between his palms, he whispered, "If you're to be blamed for anything, it's for keeping me and Daniel alive."

She shook her head, freeing her face from his hands, and stammered, "B-but—"

He cut her off. "Did you want them to take you? Did you want them to force themselves into your body? To tear you apart? Did you want to feel their hands on you--"

"No," she asserted, visibly horrified by his vivid description of the attacks. Caught up in her own memory, she said, "N-no, I didn't, but they didn't give me a choice—"

"Exactly," Jack whispered, cupping her cheek tenderly in his palm.

Realizing the headiness of her admission, she looked up at him, her eyes brimming with unshed tears. Releasing a breath she had not been aware of holding, she sagged against the wall behind her, her own slight weight suddenly too much for her to bear. Jack leaned over her and gently kissed her forehead prior to gathering her again into his arms and depositing her gingerly on the bed.

When he stooped to kneel in front of her, he caught sight of blood dripping down the curve of her right breast and silently excused himself to the bathroom. When he returned seconds later, his arms bore the elements necessary to cleanse her open wounds. She did not object when he removed the towel from her shoulders and wrapped it about her waist, allowing her that modicum of privacy. Gingerly sweeping an alcohol-damped cotton ball across the weeping lacerations, he murmured platitudes to her as she gasped at the sudden, brilliant stinging sensation.

"It's all right," he whispered as he spread antibiotic cream across the injury. "Just a few more after this." Affixing a gauze pad across the wound, he delicately cupped her breast in his hand, mindful of its fragility, and held the pad in place with his thumb. "I'm not going to hurt you," he murmured while deftly taping the bandage in place. Repeating the procedure for each wound that required the attention, he made certain to keep his manner studious, to keep the intimate contact to a minimum.

After dressing her wounds, he retrieved a bottle of lotion from her bag—white ginger and amber—and knelt before her, silently asking her permission to further soothe her aching body. When she nodded her consent, he smiled reassuringly at her and tipped a small circle of the cream into his palm. A delicious and spicy scent permeated the air as he massaged the lotion into her shoulders and arms, taking great care to keep his touch light over the surface of her contusions. After he had finished on her upper body, he gave the same treatment to her feet and legs, his hands traveling only half-way up her thighs, but massaging her feet and calves thoroughly with his strong, calloused hands.

When he had finished, he looked up at her, her eyes dim and half-lidded, her features slackened and quite heavy. Brushing a damp tendril of hair away from her eyes, he leaned up towards her and placed his lips tenderly against her forehead. After withdrawing from her, he leaned his forehead against hers for several moments before rising to climb onto the bed and setting the lotion beside him. Wordlessly, he softly grasped her upper arms from behind and tugged her back towards him. Directing her to lay before him on her stomach, she complied willingly, her eyes slowly drooping closed as she melted into the soft cushion of the mattress.

He combed her hair away from her face with splayed fingers, his thumb lingering tenderly on her temple. Reaching around behind him, he located the bottle of lotion and tipped a generous amount into his palm, warming the cream between his hands before spreading it gently across the canvas of her back. He smiled as she relaxed visibly under his calculated strokes and her muscles gradually eased of their tension. Several minutes later he was rewarded by her slow, deep breaths and the slackening of her jaw, signifying her lapse into sleep. Nestling a kiss on her cheek, just below her ear, he whispered, "Sleep well," before carefully rising from the bed and draping an extra blanket across her slumbering body.

As he went to exit the room, he cast one long look over his shoulder at her, sighing heavily as the impending challenges loomed ominously overhead. Two months. It was not long enough, yet, at the same time, the length of several eternities. For the first time he was forced to admit that she might not make it, that she might indeed succumb to the machinations of her inner turmoil.

But, for now, she was asleep. Blissfully, painlessly asleep.

---------------------------------------------------

Sam awoke with a start, the layout of the room unfamiliar and disconcerting. Blearily blinking back sleep, she surveyed the area for any sign of her current location. Duffle bags on the floor. Burgundy curtains disallowing the freedom of the sun's waning light. A wooden four-poster bed. And the smell of…pancakes?

Jack's cabin. She was in the master bedroom of Jack's cabin. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, she fell back against the comforter, suddenly mindful of her state of undress. Self-consciously, she crept out from underneath the blanket, located one of her bags, and rifled through it until she found the articles of clothing she was after. Simple white underclothing and socks, a pair of heather-gray sweatpants two sizes too big, and a large blue hooded sweatshirt. She pulled her underwear on, noting with a frown that they sagged more than they should and, after trying in vain to painlessly don her bra, decided that the garment was not necessary in light of her chosen outfit. Tugging on the sweatpants, she drew the string as tightly as she could and tied it off, the material draping shapelessly from her hips, and then pulled the sweatshirt over her head.

The result was a shapeless, formless version of herself. Perfect.

After her feet were nestled snugly into the welcoming warmth of her socks, she ran her fingers idly through her hair before trotting out to the living room. The image of Jack standing over the stove, spatula in hand, attending to pancakes flitted through her mind and she smiled; she would sneak up behind him, wrap her arms around his waist, pressing herself fully against his back, and then—

She stopped and listened. He was talking, she realized as she placed the gentle reverberation of his voice, muffled in the expanse of the cabin. Creeping silently towards the kitchen, she suddenly felt a wave of nausea overcome her as he heard him speaking tiredly into the receiver.

"—not entirely unstable. She has her moments.— I don't know, Janet. It's only been a couple of days, but—It's okay. Don't worry about it. I'll tell her.—No, there's no problem with that. I got plenty of room. I'm sure you'll fit on the loveseat. – I try. – Well, it's about damn time. He should've been here for her from day one.— I know, I know. I'm sure she'll be glad to see him.— Yeah, I'll tell her.— Sleeping.—Yeah, we had a pretty hellish afternoon.—Listen, I'll tell you more about it tomorrow. I have to flip my pancakes. And, just for the record, I resent being grilled about Sam.—I know it was, but I don't have to like it.—Yeah, yeah. You go, dig. See what you can find out. My cakes are burning. I'll see you tomorrow."

Sam heard him heave a heavy sigh and place the phone back in its cradle. Swallowing mightily and clenching her fists to slow the infuriated tremors she knew were inescapable, she slowly advanced the doorway, leaning against the jam as she watched him turn pancakes onto a large plate and place it in the warmed oven. Keeping her eyes trained on him for several more moments, she finally announced her presence.

"Who was that?" The icy sting was more apparent in her voice than she cared to admit, but she was too devastated to care.

Jack spun around momentarily, smiling when he saw her. "Hey you," he said, oblivious to her question. "How was your nap?"

Ignoring his inquiry and attempting to control her anger as she stared smoldering holes in the back of his shirt, she repeated, "Who was that, Jack?"

"What?" He turned towards her again, his face etched with confusion. "Who was what?"

She narrowed her eyes, unable to determine if he was being facetious or genuinely ignorant. "On the phone. Who were you talking to?"

"Oh," he muttered as his expression dropped. Sighing, he leaned against his fisted hands on the countertop before answering her. "That was Janet. She was wondering how you were doing."

"She's been using you to keep tabs on me, hasn't she?" Her voice was low, trembling with bits of escaped fury that itched to be set free in its entirety. "This whole time…"

"Whoa," he said, his eyebrows arched and palms raised to quell her impending diatribe. "Let's get one thing straight. Janet's in your corner, all right? Janet, Hammond, hell, even Roberts—they're all fighting for you." He sighed as he watched her, her face unchanging, impervious to his explication. Finally, after running his fingers tiredly through his hair, he muttered, "Dammit…" and then proceeded with an explanation, his voice low, almost sorrowful. "Hammond just got word from Washington. According to the results of your psych eval, you shouldn't even be on the roster at the SGC anymore, but Hammond cut a deal with the brass because he knows you, knows what kind of an officer you are, what kind of a person. If at the end of these two months, you're declared psychologically fit, you'll be cleared to return to the SGC…"

Swallowing harshly, she astutely observed what he failed to mention. Hesitantly, she asked, "SG-1?"

His head hung limply from his neck at her question and it sapped all of his reserve strength to look her squarely in the eye, his own misting slightly. He slowly shook his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

No…

The room began to tumble horribly out of synchrony with the rest of reality and Sam grabbed frantically at the door jam to keep herself upright. Numbly she was aware of Jack advancing towards her and, while her first instinct after such a shock was to push him away, she lacked the strength to do so. Instead, she fell heavily against him, her breath coming in faint, rapid gasps that only served to increase her disorientation.

"Breathe," she heard him whisper against her hair as he slowly lowered them both to the floor and gently maneuvered her fully into his arms. Massaging her back in slow, soothing circles, he whispered, "Breathe, Sam. Come on. It's all right. Just breathe."

Pulling away from him slightly, she gazed up at him, her eyes wide and horrified. "All right!" she managed. "Tell me how this is all right."

"Hammond's fighting for you right now, Sam," he told her, brushing his thumb across her cheek. "Janet's finding out everything she can about how to help you—"

"She'll be here tomorrow," she said, her voice tinny even to her own dulled ears.

"Yes," Jack affirmed, pressing a kiss to her head. "But it's not a test, Janet's not the enemy, here. She's your friend and she's just trying to help you through this and get you back into the SGC."

She nodded against his chest, but her thoughts were heady with the impending destruction of her career. Numbly she asked, "Who else is coming tomorrow?"

"Well," he drawled slowly, carefully. "Daniel, for one. And…" He bent closer to her in order to gauge her reaction. "…Dad. Dad's coming to see you." He paused, unable discern her feelings on the subject. "He was able to get away from the maze of Tok'ra politics and wanted to check up on you."

She drew a shaky breath. "Does he know?"

"Uh," he began, attempting to clear his throat. "Not…yet," he admitted, but hastily continued, "But he will when he gets here tomorrow. You won't have to tell him anything you don't want to."

"That's why he hasn't been to see me," she realized, the fact causing a brief cold spurt to shoot down her spine. "No one told him."

"Oh," Jack said quickly, "We sent word, believe me. As soon as Hammond knew what happened, we sent a message. But," he sighed. "Apparently no one felt obligated to call him away from his mission."

"It wasn't that important," she muttered bitterly. "Not important enough to warrant his immediate attention."

As much as he despised the Tok'ra, Jack was rather fond of Jacob and felt compelled to stand up for him in light of her disparagement. "Hey," he murmured softly, cradling her head against his shoulder. "It wasn't Dad's fault. No one on their side told him."

"Yeah," she muttered. She stared dully ahead for several moments before rising from Jack's embrace and shuffling slowly over to the stove where his forgotten pancakes lay, steam wafting from their rapidly burning edges. Deftly flipping them, she handed the spatula to Jack who had risen and now stood behind her. "Your pancakes are burnt," she told him plainly before moving to the refrigerator, pulling out a beer, and making for door to the deck.

He watched through the bared window as she slumped wearily into one of the deck chairs and absently twisted off the top of her bottle before taking a long pull from the golden beverage. While alcohol certainly was not something she should indulge in at present, he'd be damned—literally and figuratively—if he was going to tell her that.

--------------------------------------------------------------------

She sat on the deck for hours, unaware of the setting of the sun, nursing her beer, and thinking. Under normal circumstances thinking comforted her; her brain was analytical, precise, calculating. It came in handy on the job when ideas required immediacy and quick results were key to survival. Now, however, thinking only served to heighten her melancholy. If luck elected her worthy, in two months she would be rewarded with a laboratory position in the SGC. If it skipped over her, well, then, the future seemed…like no future at all. At least, not the one she had imagined; not the future her brain had analyzed and calculated, weaned for every possible flub or mistake.

She had been so damned careful, careful for years. Careful so that she could climb to where she was right now—or had been before the mission to '275. She might as well resign her commission, give up on her chances of a successful military career. And why not? The military had obviously given up on her. They had kicked her off of her team, disallowed her future field work, and effectively squashed any career goals she had had beyond her current rank.

Fuck the military.

"Nice night."

The comment took a moment to register in her current self-pitying state. Glancing up at her companion, she shook her head in an attempt to clear it. "Sorry?"

"The night," he said, lowering himself into the chair beside her. "It's…nice."

She nodded, indulging his observation, and took a sip from the bottle held loosely in her hand. Resisting the urge to grimace, she swallowed the bitter, luke-warm liquid and stared out at the lake and the full moon reflected brilliantly in the gently rippling water. He was right. It was almost…peaceful. However, a light, repetitive tapping beckoned her attentions after a moment. Glancing over at Jack, she noted his typical restlessness was tonight augmented by his continual drumming of his fingers along the arm of the chair. "What?" she asked, her tone sharper than intended.

"Huh?"

She scowled. "You want to say something," she said, edging on exasperation. "Just say it."

"Oh," he muttered. After a second he cleared his throat and, staring out at the lake, said, "Janet said she wants to…check you out. See how you're doing physically. Run some tests."

Wearily, she set her bottle down on the deck. Supposing she should be angry, but not having the strength required to facilitate that degree of emotion, she replied, "She wants to or she's supposed to?"

"Sam…" Jack sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Janet isn't—"

"I know, I know." Huddling deeper into the folds of her sweatshirt, Sam dismissed his protest. "Janet isn't the bad guy here. I know. You've said that."

"She's only trying to help you."

In spite of herself and the current situation, Sam chuckled. "Trying to help me what? Get my life back? I think the military's already had the last word on that one."

"Sam, there is more to life than the military." Jack's voice belied his frustration. "I've been trying to get that through your head for the past four years."

"And for the past four years I've been trying to tell you that the military is my life," she retorted softly, but not without a hint of bitterness. "Career military means just that."

"Well…maybe it's time for a career change."

"No!" Sam cried, suddenly suffused with previously pent up anger. "If I'm going to change my career then I want to be the one deciding that and not some paper-pushing, soft-assed, brown-nosing little bastard who thinks that he can take one look at an eval and play god!"

"I agree with you," Jack answered quietly, reaching around her chair to pluck her abandoned beer from the deck. "But they're authorized to do just that." After taking a swig of her beer, its warmth apparently not affecting him, he continued, "And they are giving you a second chance to return to the SGC."

She sighed as she silently conceded his point and rested her head resignedly against the back of the chair. "God, I hate them," she muttered.

"Who?"

"Oh, pick someone. I'm sure I'll be able to think of a reason why they should be bombed, gassed, or otherwise destroyed."

Jack raised his eyebrows appreciatively and whistled softly at her uncharacteristic sadism. "Wow. Dem's fightin' words."

She offered him a half-smile before furrowing her eyebrows and leaning forward, her hand outstretched towards the beer he had stolen. "Give that back," she demanded, gripping his knee for greater leverage as he pulled the bottle out of her reach.

"What? This?" He asked innocently, tilting the bottle slightly.

"Oh, don't give me that," she chastised clambering out of her chair and triumphantly plucking the bottle out of his hand. Impulsively and in need of the reassurance, she settled down across his lap, muttering, "Jack O'Neill, innocent. Ha." With that, she tilted the bottle against her lips and downed half of the remainder. "Here," she said, handing him the beverage. "I don't want anymore."

Chuckling, he accepted the proffered bottle and drained it quickly, letting it drop to the deck before lacing his arms carefully around her waist as she sighed contentedly and snuggled closer to his warmth. "You know," he said after a moment, choosing his words quite carefully. "This does open up some options."

"What does?" she asked, stifling a yawn.

"The brown-nosing, paper-pushing…" He faltered momentarily. "What else?"

He heard her smile. "Soft-assed."

"Right," he said, remembering. "Anyway, the soft-asses playing god. Their…decision, unfounded as it may be, it opens up some options."

"Jack…" She warned and started to pull away from him, but he held her fast.

"Ah!" He exclaimed, as she turned to face him, her eyebrow arched in suspicion. "Hear me out."

She sighed. "I'm listening."

"Good." Suddenly in the light of her scrutiny, nervousness found crevasses in his plan and slowly edged in towards his adam's apple. Swallowing the sudden lump, he found that he could not look at her and instead directed his gaze to her hands resting limply in her lap. Idly tracing a line around her fingertips, he cleared his throat and continued softly. "It, ah, opens up options that the military itself didn't allow…before. Working relationships and military ranks…" he glanced up at her and saw her watching him, tears brimming the rims of her eyes, and slowly trailed off. "…they don't matter anymore…"

Tears falling freely, Sam bent towards him and planted a long, loving kiss on the prickly skin of his cheek before resting the crown of her head against his temple. Softly, she whispered, "Do you still want me? After everything that's happened?"

Rounding her jaw carefully with his hands, he gently pulled her head away from his to look into her eyes. Seeing the fear and uncertainty resting in their crystal depths, he tenderly drew her mouth to his own, his fingers weaving into her hair as he incrementally deepened their kiss in an effort to alleviate her doubt. She responded hesitantly at first, but as his tongue softly probed her lips, meekly seeking entrance, she did not deny him; wrapping her arms around his neck, she pulled him close, reveling in this new passion, this new blessed confidence.

It was he who ended the kiss, wary of pushing too much on her too quickly—wary of pushing her at all. Breathless, he rested his forehead against hers before stroking the soft skin of her cheek. "You are…everything…to me."

A broad smile stretched slowly across her lips as fresh tears started rolling slowly down her cheeks; but as she contemplated the full implications of a relationship her expression faltered. Staring down at her hands, she whispered, "I can't—I mean, there are some…things I won't be able…to do…yet." Drawing a deep breath, she turned to him and placed a silencing finger over his open mouth. A small smile returning to her lips and a degree of her sadness evaporating with the admission, she added, "But that doesn't mean I don't want to."

Grinning, he pulled her close and said, "Well, that's somewhere to start, isn't it?" She nodded against his shoulder and pulled her legs up and over the arm of his chair, drinking in his warmth and drugging scent. "I won't push you," he said after awhile. "But you need to tell me..."

"I will," she assured him softly, reaching up to gently caress the dark line of his stubble. "Somehow I'll make sure you know."

He nodded and tightened his arms around her, content to simply hold her in the stillness of the north woods. When she shivered against him, he gently ushered her out of his lap and silently took her hand before leading her into the cabin and into a night of peaceful, uninterrupted rest facilitated by the amalgamated warmth of their interwoven bodies.

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