You've got a good point, beverlycat.

(Saying any more than that would give something away, sorry –sheepish smile–)

Mornings and Love Part 25

Sam was awakened unbelievingly slowly – she almost began to wonder if she were in a dream still. Then she realized what was waking her: the slight thrashing of someone on the bed. Someone that wasn't her.

Jack.

She forced her eyes open. Somehow during the night they'd shifted to opposite sides of the bed. Jack was way on the right side, jerking and muttering in his nightmare. She knew it could only be a nightmare…

Careful to avoid his inconsistent flailing arms, Sam scooted closer to him and sat up, putting one hand on his shoulder. Jack's head jerked again, an almost fearful grunt escaping his lips. "Jack," she whispered urgently. "Jack. It's all right. Jack."

Her attempt to wake him was fruitless; he seemed to be trapped in his own mind. Sam didn't want to think about the many different horrors he could be revisiting. Many of them she and SG-1 had faced right along with him, but others… Who knew what things he'd been forced to do or seen during his black ops days?

Suddenly Jack awoke with a shuddering breath. Sam had to hand it to him; most nightmares she'd had in the past had sent her screaming when she woke. "Jack?" she asked again, cautiously.

Jack looked at her. He was still panting heavily. His gaze left her eyes and trailed down her body to her mound of a belly. "Shit," he muttered.

"Jack, are you okay?"

He thrust out from under the covers and walked around the bed and out of the room, ignoring Sam's wide-eyed stares and questions.

Sam scowled determinedly and got up, too, following him all the way to the door. She pulled it open again and leaned against the doorway, watching him walk down the sidewalk.

"You know," she said loudly when he nearly turned the corner. He hesitated, lingering to hear her words. Perhaps he was expecting an, "I love you. Never forget it," or an, "I'm sorry," or, "Please, talk to me?" but it wasn't what he was going to get.

"I don't know which to be more shocked or hurt at first," she continued, "the fact that you'd get drunk and force me away physically," she tapped her already yellow-tinting bruise, "or that you'd run away from me all too soon after that. Am I really such a monster that you'd think I wouldn't care about whatever those nightmares hold – or that I'd shun you or hate you because of it?"

It might've been a low blow, but Sam knew he wouldn't leave her if she expressed guilt or blame for it.

"Sam," he said softly, jogging back up the sidewalk, swiftly and stealthily. He stopped just short of hugging her, eyes once again shooting down at her stomach.

"You don't have to tell me," she whispered. "I just want to be here for you. You're not alone, Jack. I'll always be here for you, so long as I draw breath. Just…let me."

Jack's eyes met hers again and he nodded wordlessly.

Sam took his hand and led him inside. She pulled him down onto the couch with her, and he squirmed slightly, sitting, but moving a little farther away from her. She tilted her head at him, confused.

"Want some coffee?" she asked. He shook his head and rubbed his face with both hands, his hands pausing at his eyes a little longer than she would expect. Was he wiping tears? Discreetly, to keep her from noticing.

"I'll be right back," she said, and felt his eyes on her as she walked into the kitchen. Maybe he didn't want coffee, but they both needed something to keep their hands and mouths busy until one of them was ready to speak. She walked out a few minutes later with two slightly steaming mugs; she handed him one as she sat down beside him again, respecting the boundary he'd wanted to place between them, though she still didn't understand it.

Jack took it with a slight frown, but the frown smoothed from his face. He didn't argue or take it back, but took a sip. His eyes widened and he looked at her with surprise as he swallowed.

"Hot chocolate?" he asked incredulously.

Sam gave him a small smile. "Chocoholic rule number one: chocolate might not make everything better, but it's the best somewhat-comfort food out there. Or drink, in this case," she said, waving her hand between their mugs.

He offered her a withered smile, his eyes not smiling along with his eyes. He seemed to say, "Thanks for trying."

They sat in silence for a long while. Sam kept stealing glances at the clock – 1400, 1403, 1409 – then at Jack, from the corners of her eyes. Every once in a while he'd take a sip, then a few moments later she would. It was a slightly uncomfortable pattern, but they both rested into it.

After a while, Jack spoke. "I wouldn't blame you if you hate me," he said softly.

Sam looked at him sharply. "Why would you say that?" She sighed inside, but knew that the fairytale ending to that last chapter of their lives could not go on.

"Don't bullshit me, Sam. Ever. What I did was horrible, uncalled for. I could've hurt you way worse…or the baby…"

She frowned. "Look at me," she commanded with the voice of authority. He looked, slowly, as though expecting her to hit him. "Jack," she said firmly, "if I thought there was any chance of you hurting me, or our baby, I would've fought you. And I would've won, too, hands down." He started to argue, but she waved his attempt away. "You're a force to be reckoned with, Jack. You're strong, intelligent, and resourceful; that's just without your firearms. But Jack – you were that drunk."

"I did hurt you, though!" he said dispassionately. "I bruised your arm – threw you against a car!"

Sam didn't smile or laugh, but said slowly, "Jack, I won't lie to you. Usually when a man does that, he'll find himself with a mouthful of earth and my foot on his butt. I'd like to say that Hansen was a prime example, but then again, I didn't handle myself too well with him.

"But never mind that," she continued fiercely. "You of all people know that I've been through tortures, illnesses, and alien incidents that most people wouldn't even imagine. You think a bruise is going to hurt me?"

Jack hesitated. "Then what about when I threw you against the car?" he asked. "I threw you so hard – the impact had to hurt!" Regret etched across his face.

She smiled, amused. "You were drunk, Jack."

"So you keep reminding me," he mumbled, eyes shifting around the room.

"My point is," she said, "you didn't hurt me at all. My arms blocked the fall and the impact. It was a pretty weak attempt."

"So…I didn't really hurt you at all?" he asked, traces of relief creeping in his eyes.

Sam replied, "A little hurt on the inside," she tapped her heart with a finger.

His face went downcast again. "Yeah…" he said softly, either not knowing what to say or not knowing how to say it.

"Jack," Sam asked, "is that what your nightmare was about? Hurting me?"

Jack's eyes once again visited her stomach. "Not just you."

Sam's eyes widened in understanding. "Our baby," she said softly.

"Yeah," he said again, nodding sadly. A moment passed, then he said, "Charlie was there, too. You…you were both staring at me, with the most accusing, hate-filled eyes…And I had to hear that gunshot over and over…" Jack was trembling now.

Oh my god. She'd forgotten about Charlie until now – crap! "That was why you were so…" she said, with increasing guilt. She couldn't find the right words to finish.

He reached over and took her hand, threading his fingers in hers and squeezing. "I wasn't able to be there for Sara," he said quietly. "I was away on a mission when she found out she was pregnant. She sent dozens of letters but none ever managed to reach me. They'd told her they could pass it on to me, but they never did. I returned to find her six months pregnant."

Sam put down her mug and reached up to touch his cheek softly, her touch just a whisper on his skin. He looked at her. "Then I was away for another mission a month later. I missed my son's birth. I want… I want so much to not mess this up. I'd been so careful with that damned gun for all those years. He was seven when he… Why didn't I just put the damned gun away?"

The pain in his voice was almost unbearable for her. Sam hated seeing Jack in such pain, such misery. Had she caused some of it? She hoped not, but felt she must have.

"You'll always ask yourself that." He looked up, rather surprised. She gave him a watery smile. "You'll always ask, 'What if I'd just…' and, 'Why didn't I just…'. Just like I'll always ask, 'Why hadn't I just stood up to Hansen during our engagement?' however brief it had been. 'Why had I let him walk all over me, beat me physically and emotionally?' We'll always ask these questions. If I'm right, you never go a single day without thinking about him?" He nodded to confirm her suspicions. "That's okay. But you don't have to let it control you."

"I didn't," he said softly. "Up till now. I didn't for a very long time."

Sam knew he'd been suicidal on the very first trip through the Stargate. She also knew he came back a whole different man. To what extent he'd changed, or why, she didn't know.

She squeezed his hand. "I know." Unable to contain herself any longer, she dropped his hand and wove one arm around his shoulder, her other arm weaving across his chest to meet it, and she gave him a sideways hug. A second later he returned it, embracing her like he was afraid to let go.