Thanks for the reviews! I hope you enjoy the story, and ...yeah... :)

Warnings: sadness. :(

I wake up in an infirmary bed, aching all over. My headache is still present, and although it's not quite as bad as before, I know better than to do so much as raise it off the pillow. My forehead also feels tender, and I know if I were to look into a mirror, I'd see a sunburn-like rash on my forehead.
I hear the tapping of heels on the floor, and open my eyes when the sound stops at my bedside: Janet, of course. She smiles slightly when she sees I'm awake. "Hey, there," she says quietly. "How are you feeling?"

"My head hurts," I say, and am surprised at how raw my voice sounds.

Janet fusses with the pillows and blankets, avoiding looking directly at me. "I'm not surprised," she says. "The hand device you were subjected to is known to give recipients headaches, fatigue, and other widely varied symptoms." I nod: the last time a hand device was used on me, I used a sarcophagus soon after (the main intent to heal the gaping hole in my shoulder, but it apparently fixed the results of my run-in with Klorel as well.).

Janet's doing the super-tactful thing around me. I wonder if she knows how much I remember about what happened. There is a point, of course, at which I'm drawing a blank, but I know that Sha're's dead.

This fact, and the reminder that Janet has unwittingly given me, cause an ache entirely unlike—and yet even more painful than —the things for which Janet is treating me. But right now, I'm too tired to care. I find my eyes closing by themselves, and surrender to Hypnos, god of sleep.

Then next time I wake up, my headache is a little better. I shift, trying to get into a more comfortable position, and soft hands help. I turn to see Sam next to me.

"Hey, Daniel," she says softly, gently. "How are you feeling?"

I blink up at her. To tell the truth, I don't know. My head's feeling better, yes, but my heart…

How cliché, an acidic voice says. Whining again. Just get on with your life, will you. I shove that voice into a corner and stomp on it like it's a cockroach.

Sam's still gazing at me, waiting for an answer to her question. "Okay," I say quietly, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to explain what I'm thinking.

She nods, accepting what I say even if she doesn't believe it. She pats my arm. "We've been worried about you," she says.

What a waste of time, I think. Worry about something else; anything else: I'm not worth worrying about.

I'm surprised at my thoughts. Of course, I don't like people to fawn over me, but I haven't felt unworthy of others' concern for a long time.

I smile awkwardly, knowing that Sam wouldn't understand how I'm feeling, but knowing also that she'd try as hard as she could to do so.

It's easier not to say anything. Sam knows this much: she's been in distressing situations as well, and can see what I see but choose to ignore. Talking is the only way I'll be able to get on with my life, but putting my feelings into words is still too much for me.

She doesn't push me.

I'm sitting up in bed, back against several pillows carefully placed by overzealous nurses, when Teal'c walks into the infirmary. His head is held high, back even straighter than usual. He strides to the foot of my infirmary bed, and bows deeply, much more than usual.

He looks straight into my eyes, and starts to speak. "Daniel Jackson, is there not some form of human ritual by which I may ask your forgiveness for what I have done?"

I blink, hard, as déjà vu overwhelms me momentarily. "Is there not some form of human ritual in which I may ask your forgiveness?" Teal'c is blocking the elevator, desperate to get me to do something—yell, scream, cry, beat him up—just not this civil coldness.

I blink. The elevator door opens. "No," I answer, screaming inside, but cold and civil on the outside. I walk past him. I never want to see him again: he killed my wife. Inside, the niggling feeling that I am responsible for her death. But I refuse to hear it.

"No, Teal'c," I say, a lump forming yet again in my throat. "You don't need to ask my forgiveness."

Teal'c is confused: he killed my wife. If I were a Jaffa, I could demand his death as payment, and I know Teal'c would willingly pay that price if it meant I would feel better for it. "I am responsible, Daniel," he says. "I will freely do anything you ask of me."

I clench my jaw, determined not to cry again. I've been doing entirely too much of that lately. But despite my determination, tears leak out of my bloodshot eyes. I squeeze them shut and shake my head at Teal'c while pressing my palms into my face.

I pull my knees up to my chest, and hug them, head buried, and cry. I start a moment later, when I feel a large hand on my shoulder. "One who cries," Teal'c says, "shows he is passionate and caring. It is an honorable thing, Daniel Jackson, as you are an honorable man."

"I don't—" I start, but my voice is muffled. I lift my head to look at Teal'c, wiping tears off my cheeks with the back of my hand. "I don't want you to do anything for me, Teal'c," I say. "I don't blame you."

Teal'c bows again. "This I know, Daniel," he says, "but I wish you to know that I fired upon Sha're only to save your life. She was a very brave woman, as you already know, and I admire her courage greatly, as well as your own."

I nod, unable to think of anything to say. Unspoken is the thought that if I had blamed Teal'c for killing Sha're, I'd also have to blame him for saving my life, and Sha're wouldn't want that. And wouldn't that make her death worthless?

General Hammond stops by. He expresses deepest sympathies, and says if there's anything he can do—

And bows his head, statement unfinished. I nod in understanding, and the General walks away.

Two weeks to the day after Sha're's death, I am allowed to go home with Jack. I am silent in the car, and as we eat Jack's gourmet Campbell soup dinner.

"You and Sha're ever think of having a kid?" Jack asks, after dinner. We're sitting in his living room, me stretched out on his couch and him in an armchair.

I ponder the question, looking around at the familiar room as I do so. It's a comfortable room, with blue paint on the walls and a gray carpet. A beautiful but functional table sits in the middle of the furniture, which consists of my couch, Jack's armchair, and a third chair, which is being used as storage for our coats at the moment. On the mantelpiece are pieces of Jack's life, in chronological order: on the left are pictures of him graduating from the Air Force Academy, and grinning with teammates who are now dead, or working behind desks. On the right side are pictures of his latest team, with me and Sam and Teal'c. There are also a few pictures of Janet, General Hammond, and other friends of Jack's on base. In the middle are pictures of a perfect life with his son Charlie and wife Sara. An interesting fact about Jack and Sara: despite being divorced, and never calling each other usually, they have gotten together for Valentine's Day each year since Charlie's death. They're still deeply in love, despite the unfixable rift Charlie's death made between them.

Every Valentine's day, when Jack's talking with his ex-wife, I sit at home and have a glass of wine. I dedicate it to my wife.

Sha're died two weeks ago.

"Not really," I say in answer to Jack's question. He looks up in surprise: he thought I'd decided not to answer, or forgotten completely. "It was a given on Abydos that we'd have children eventually," I continue, "So we didn't actively plan it or anything. I just assumed we'd have a kid one day, but…" I trail off. Jack knows what happened next: he was there, after all. Sha're was captured by the goa'uld Apophis. Three years later, she died.

In front of me.

"She has a son," I hear myself saying.

Jack gazes at me, not knowing where the conversation is going. To be honest, I'm not exactly sure myself.

"Harcecis," I whisper experimentally.

"What?" Jack asks. I don't know if he didn't hear me or didn't understand me, but it doesn't matter.

"Nothing," I say. "It's nothing."

Thanks for the reviews, everybody!

If you haven't left a review, how about you do that now? There's a little button at the bottom left of the screen; and you click that. And leave a review. It's very easy. Even a 'yay'. Or an 'I barfed, it was so bad.' Anything. Please. I'll love you forever.

This used to have a third chapter, in which I started to explore Daniel recovering/deciding how to tell Jack about the harcecis, but it's been a couple years since I started it, and that chapter only made the story incomplete. To be honest, I think it works better like this, so.. voila! You can imagine Daniel explaining the harcecis, and you'll probably do a better job in your brains than I did.

-Emilie :)