Beauty In The Broken
Crackle
Searching.
The world around her morphed from forest to briefing room to cavern to desert sand. It was there—no, there!—shifting, writhing, fading, exploding. She ran towards it, her arms outstretched, but it slipped away. Again—again—again—always just out of reach. Like a rainbow on mist, or a reflection on water. Just beyond her grasp—haunting her—around the next corner, or through the next doorway.
He was everywhere and nowhere. The Colonel, or Jonah. One man, then two, then one again. Smiling at her from across the furnace rooms, or past the mineral burns. Studying her as he sat at the briefing room table. Holding a sleeping Jake—holding her after she'd rescued him from Hathor's cryo-tank. Listening as she ranted about her meeting with Brenna—or grumbling about Maybourne and Kinsey. Not listening as she explained the complex science behind emerging wormhole theory, but watching her just the same, focused. On her.
Quietly urging her forward with his intense gaze and quiet smile.
Come here, Sam. His hands, his body tugging at her. C'mere.
Run! Her feet slipped on grass, on tile, on mud, but she scrambled onward, only to find he'd evaporated.
There—just beyond the rise, the wall, the window—there. . . there.
Searching. She ran—sprinting through sand, splashing across rivers, boots pounding on concrete and down meshed metal ramps. Darkness—then light—then darkness again.
Run!
She collided with stone. A wall. The side of a cliff, or a cave, or a ship.
Janet was there, compassionately disapproving. Cassie and Daniel, too. Teal'c with his intense, knowing visage. And a dark-eyed child skipping along a rough-hewn rock trail, being chased by phantoms, or fairies. Laughing, dimpled, and wise.
"What if it's amazing, Sam?" He asked, reaching for her across a void—across time and space and reality.
She came to a ledge—a precipice, overlooking a chasm that plunged into darkness. He was on the other side, gently reaching—reaching—urging her forward. "What if it's amazing?"
And she prepared to jump—her body coiled to leap—every muscle tense and ready. Her heart raced, her breath caught in her throat. Toes gripping the edge, she braced herself to soar—
Falling. Falling. Falling.
Fallen.
—-OOOOOOO—-
She came awake all of a sudden, and completely.
Rubbing her eyes, Sam pressed her face into her pillow, groaning quietly into its softness. Damn. Damn it all.
She squeezed her eyes closed again, taking slow, deliberate breaths, imagining herself pushing water over the edge of a bowl with each exhale. It was a relaxation strategy she hadn't needed to use for years, but that she'd resorted to practically every morning since -118.
Once her heartbeat had slowed, she rolled over to look at the clock on her nightstand. It was after seven.
"I'll see you in the morning," she'd said. As she'd closed her door, she'd turned in her doorway and seen him. It had been a raw moment, visceral and real. His entire being a vision of either extreme relief—-or soul-deep resignation.
For hours she'd lain awake—-wondering which it had been. For just as long, she'd resisted the pull towards his room. To have him so close—well, foolish didn't quite describe how she felt.
"Stay." She'd said. "Stay."
The invitation had been the height of hubris. Arrogance in the extreme that she could have him so near and still maintain a modicum of control over her wild thoughts. That she could quell the constant ache of her memories.
When exhaustion had finally claimed her, she'd slept fitfully. The dreams had faded in and out—an odd amalgam of her existences—of Sam Carter and Thera. Her visions had been different this time. Not the heated physical tumult of before, but rather a frantic search for something she was missing.
Even a first year psych student could have interpreted the theme.
Frowning, she sat up, looking at the clock again. Usually, Jake was awake and ready to eat long before now, but she hadn't heard him fuss. She'd never needed the baby monitor that had made its way into the shopping cart at Baby World. It still sat in its box on her desk in the front room. Years of sleeping in alien forests and military installations had given her the ability to sleep lightly, and sleeping with a baby in the next room had only heightened that talent. For the past six days, she'd jerked awake with each movement the child had made, and each coo or cry had found her at the crib's side.
But she hadn't heard him last night. At all.
Sam kicked back the covers and scooted off her mattress. She'd showered after leaving the Colonel in the hallway the night before, throwing on an over-large t-shirt that she'd dug out of a drawer before falling into bed. The floor was chilly under her bare feet, but she didn't bother trying to find her slippers. She'd never gotten into the genteel habit of slippers and robes, anyway. Living alone, it didn't seem worth the hassle.
A quick trip to her bathroom took care of her needs. She ran her fingertips through the mess of her hair, and quickly brushed her teeth before heading back into her room.
Opening her door, she padded down to Jake's room, but the crib was empty. His dinosaur sleepers were folded up neatly at the end of the changing table, and the lid to the wipes container was open. She walked over and closed the lid, then picked up the dirty clothes and headed back out to the hallway.
The laundry closet doors gaped wide. On the dryer, her clothing was folded in neat stacks next to an empty laundry basket, while the shirt and khakis that the Colonel had been wearing the night before had been hung on a hanger and suspended off the wire storage racks over the appliances. She tossed the pajamas into the empty basket, then paused at the other door in the hallway.
It was ajar, but the room was deserted. The bed was still perfectly made—just as she'd left it the morning before when she'd finished with the chore. On the nightstand were his wallet and keys. The magazine had been ejected from his Beretta, and both were sitting neatly on the top of the dresser. His boots sat at the base of the chest of drawers, perfectly aligned. Military precision.
Frowning, she headed for the kitchen, but stopped just short of entering when she heard his voice.
"The key to a good pancake is the batter. Not too thick—not too thin. Lumpy is okay, but not too lumpy."
He was mixing something in one of her larger bowls. He'd pillaged her cupboards for ingredients—containers of flour, sugar, and baking powder littered the countertop next to him, along with a carton of eggs and a gallon of milk. She needed to buy more—the jug was more than half-way gone.
She hovered just on the other side of the archway, pressing her shoulder against the wall. She could see him at her island, just past the stove. Obviously, he'd found the drawers with Jacob Carter's clothes that Sam had alluded to the night before. The thin cotton pajama bottoms he had on fit him fine around the waist, but the Colonel was just enough taller than Sam's father that the legs' hems hovered a few inches above his ankles. His torso was bare—he'd either removed or eschewed the t-shirt she could see hanging over the back of one of the kitchen chairs.
Jake was seated in his high chair, lounging as he watched the Colonel work. He'd obviously eaten—his little face still bore the evidence of rice cereal and what appeared to be applesauce. A dish towel around his neck had been put to use as a bib, and there were socks on his feet. Scattered across the tray, an assortment of kitchen utensils served as toys—plastic measuring spoons, a rubber scraper, and the small flat whisk Sam used for scrambling eggs.
He was so enthralled with O'Neill's instructional diatribe, however, that he was ignoring all of it.
"Now, this would taste better if your mom would buy real milk instead of this skim stuff. Hell—even one percent would be an improvement. But your mom is a special kind of stubborn." He paused in his monologue, scooping up some batter with his whisk and letting it dribble back down into the bowl. "See that? Perfect. Not too thick. Not too thin."
He'd already turned the stove on, and found her little skillet. Setting aside the bowl, he sliced a pat of butter off the cube he'd found in her refrigerator and slid it from the knife into the heated pan with his thumb.
"Some people use that cooking spray stuff, but butter is better." He gestured with the knife before laying it down and opening a drawer and withdrawing a ladle and—-after a little digging—-a long-handled spatula. "You've got to make sure that the pan is nice and hot so that you get crisp edges, but a soft middle."
"Ba-ba!"
"That's right, kid. You're getting it." Jack grinned down at the baby, who grinned back.
"Ba. Ba-ba." Jake kicked his stockinged feet, bobbling up and down a little in the chair.
Jack made a little motion with the spatula. "That's true. But sometimes you've got to wait for the good stuff."
"Ba! Ba-ba-ba."
"Trust me. Don't let the gray hair fool you. I'm imparting some vital wisdom here."
Jake waved his little fists in the air and squealed, grinning wide as O'Neill smiled back. They were two of a kind. Matching expressions. Matching brown eyes. Matching dimples. Matching wild bed-head hair.
And there was that thought again—that little sigh in the back of Sam's heart. What if?
Damn. She swallowed against the need that rose up in her center.
What if? Oh, if only.
"Ba!" Jake's little toes curled as he lifted himself up in the chair, straining against the restraints. "Ba-ba!"
"I know. I probably shouldn't have called your mom stubborn." He held his hand over the skillet for a few seconds. Apparently, he'd judged it to be hot enough, because he traded the spatula for the ladle and skillfully spooned four circles of batter out onto the pan. "But I'm not the only one who thinks that. We knew a guy once—this Mongolian warlord blowhard. He called your mom—and I quote—'beautiful, but difficult'. I've got to say, he was a pain in the ass, but he really had her pegged."
"Ba." Jake frowned, wrinkling his nose and banging on the tray with his palm.
"You're right. He was a jerk. See? I knew that you were a smart kid." The Colonel took up the spatula again, motioning towards the skillet with it. "Now, turning the pancake is where a lot of people make their mistakes. You have to wait until the edges are kind of bubbly, but the middle is just barely congealed. Otherwise, you overcook the whole damned thing. These are just about right."
He expertly flipped each one, then stepped back to wait. O'Neill had moved just enough that Jake could see beyond him and towards the arch where Sam was standing.
The baby squealed and banged on the tray, bouncing up and down in his seat. "Ma-ma!"
The Colonel's head whipped around in her direction. He hadn't known she was there—that much was evident by the way his eyes widened when he saw her. He smiled—a sheepish tilt that quickly morphed into something more intimate. "You're awake."
"Apparently." Ignoring the odd twinge that surged through her at the scene, Sam moved into the kitchen, stopping just to the side of the stove. Going up on her tiptoes, she angled a look at the skillet. The pancakes did, indeed, look perfect. "Have you been up for long?"
"An hour or so." He shrugged, lifting the edge of a pancake with his spatula. "Jake and I have been hanging out."
"I'm sorry. I didn't hear him." Turning, she leaned back against the island, crossing her arms over her body. "I would have let you rest."
O'Neill stepped backwards, reaching into exactly the right cupboard for a couple of plates. "No big deal, Carter. I was already up."
He was nearly as familiar with her kitchen as she was. Comfortable working in the small space, and with her utensils. As if he belonged there. Or something.
Worrying at her lip with her teeth, she watched as he lifted the cakes off the skillet and laid them on one of the plates. She thought of the pristine bed in the guest room. "Did you sleep at all?"
He stalled a while, concentrating on adding more batter to the skillet. "About like usual. You?"
"Same."
Glancing her way, he lifted a single brow. "Dreams or insomnia?"
She shrugged, smiling a little. "Yes?"
"Yeah." He took up the spatula again. "Me too."
Sam opened her pantry door and found a bottle of syrup. From the fridge, she took a jar of strawberry jam. Squeezing past the Colonel, she put the items on the table, and then went back for silverware. Once she'd laid the forks and knives on the table, she leaned over and kissed Jake on the head. "Good morning, little man."
"Ma-ba!" The baby reached for the whisk and wrapped his fingers around the wires. Holding it aloft, he kicked his feet again, squealing in triumph.
Sam couldn't help but smile back. "I see you fed him breakfast."
"Yep. He had cereal and a bottle. And a jar of applesauce."
"Wow. He was hungry." Sitting in the seat next to Jake's high chair, she busied herself with wiping off the worst of the guck remaining on his cheeks and chin.
"I couldn't find a bib, so I improvised." He pointed at the dish towel with his pancake turner.
Carter leaned to see the back of Jake's neck, where the towel had been secured with a large plastic clamp. "A chip clip?"
"There's now duct tape on your rice cake things." He checked the underside of one of the batch on the skillet. "Like I said. I improvised."
"No matter. It worked." Sam undid the makeshift bib and took one final swipe at Jake's temple with the towel. "I'll bathe him later."
"The kid likes his food." The Colonel sounded rather proud of that fact. "Nothing wrong with that."
"Maybe he's going through a growth spurt."
O'Neill snorted. "According to the records that she brought through the mirror, he's already in the top of his age group for height and weight. If he grows much more, he'll be a giant."
There was no need to elaborate on who 'she' was. "You looked at the medical files?"
"Some of it." Jack shrugged. "I got curious."
"The genetic stuff?"
"The genetic stuff."
"I went into the SGC the day you guys left for Montana. I brought home a few of her other files, but I also brought home some copies of tech specs for the X-301."
O'Neill flipped the pancakes, then looked at her. "Teal'c and I are supposed to test drive that one next week."
"Yeah, but I'm a little concerned." She absently toyed with the measuring spoons on Jake's tray. "There's a blip in one of the control relays."
"A blip?"
Carter lifted a shoulder in a way that she hoped was nonchalant. "Just something I'd never noticed before. I've had some extra time to really check it out this week, so I did. I thought that I'd pay Cassie to come babysit tomorrow after school so that I could go into my lab and run some simulations."
He carefully stacked the last of the pancakes on the plate and turned off the gas on the stove. Looking around, he grimaced. "I forgot to make coffee."
"You also forgot to finish getting dressed." Sam hadn't meant to say anything—but everything about the situation seemed so—well, so normal. The comment had slipped out casually—as if this weren't anything but what it seemed. Or rather—as if they were exactly as they seemed.
As if they were a normal family having a normal Monday breakfast in their cozy, normal little home in Colorado Springs.
She could feel the color rise in her cheeks, and ducked her chin to look at the table, only to see nothing but skin below the hem of her own t-shirt. Belatedly, she realized that she'd also forgotten to finish getting dressed. She hadn't even put on shorts, let alone a bra. And if one were trying to figure out who had more actual fabric on their bodies, O'Neill would win handily. "I'm sorry, Sir. I don't know what that was."
He didn't say anything as he snagged the milk jug with his free hand and carried it to the table. Sitting, he put the pancakes between them, then handily dragged the high chair around so that they were all facing each other. Jack, and Jake, and Sam. A found family, of sorts. Or, at least, one that could be found.
If she allowed it to be.
"Sir, I—" But she had no idea what she ought to say, so she simply stopped trying to say anything. Too late, she realized that up until a moment ago, they'd simply been Jack and Sam, without rank or position coming between them.
He hesitated before pouring a generous helping of syrup on his breakfast. The only sign that something was amiss was the way his jaw worked, tightening and relaxing rhythmically as he stared down at his plate. "There's nothing to apologize for, Major."
"I shouldn't have said anything—drawn attention to—" She shook her head. "This is all just so—"
Damn it. Now it was even more awkward, and her babbling wasn't making anything better. If anything, it was worse, now, dredging up memories of a bleeding Brenna in her ugly little office, and orange tunics, and Jonah's face as she'd reverted to the honorific, as she'd dragged them back to reality.
"Sir."
He'd looked like it hurt just to hear it. Let alone repeat it. "Sir."
"For the record, I had a shirt on." He used the fork she'd put on the table to spear a stack of pancakes and put them on his plate. "Jake and I had an argument about whether strained carrots were a breakfast food. I said yes, but then he spit them at me, and I changed my mind."
Softly, Sam said, "Oh."
"I don't think it's salvageable, so I'd planned to replace it." He nodded towards the chair where the shirt had been banished. "I didn't think your dad would want a t-shirt that had been stained with saliva, formula, and root vegetables."
"He is a fastidious sort."
"The man is damned picky." O'Neill lifted the plate and offered it to her. "How many do you want?"
What the hell. The comments about the skim milk and stubbornness had hit their mark. She picked up her fork and snagged four for herself, then reached for the jam.
Picking up the milk, he frowned at the table, then set it back down again. "Damn."
"What?"
"I forgot cups, too—"
"I'll get them—"
But he'd already stood, snagging two juice glasses out of another cupboard and striding back to the table. He reached around her to put her glass in its appropriate place, then ruffled Jake's hair on his way to his own chair—a gesture so natural that it seemed as if he'd been doing it for ages. As he sat, light coming in through the kitchen window highlighted the thick round scar on his left shoulder, and another across his right bicep.
"What are these?"
"Dunno. Just weird marks I've always had." Jonah looked down at where her fingers were tracing around the marks on his body. "I've never really thought about them."
"When did you get them?"
He shrugged, not so much uncaring as uninterested. "They've just always been there."
Thera squinted through the dimness, drawing closer for a better look. They'd finally finished with the ventilation retrofit, and had stayed behind when the rest of the crew had left for lunch. There was no point in trying to get to the dining area early. Kegan always made certain that there was no bread for Thera regardless when she got into line.
And then Jonah had reached for her and kissed her, and Thera hadn't cared about lunch anymore at all.
"It looks like you've sustained some pretty severe injuries." Scooching upwards, she probed a little more, before smoothing her palm along his bare chest, the hair there roughing against her skin.
"I don't think so." Jonah reached over and examined the hard ridge of the scar on his bicep. "Not that I can recall, at least."
Thera leaned in, pressing her lips to the puckered mark on his shoulder. She tasted salt, and smelled the herby soap they made in the factory. His skin was slick with a light sheen of sweat—his mixed with hers. But she didn't mind. She loved it. She loved him.
"I hate the thought of you being in pain."
"I hate the thought of being in pain." He'd found that amusing, his teeth flashing white in the dark of the shadowed duct when he'd smiled. "But since I truly don't recall ever having been in any pain, well—let's just say they've been there since I was born."
"Born?"
"People get born, don't they?"
She'd had to think about that. The science behind that seemed hazy, at best, and hidden deeply in her mind, as if it had been purposefully buried. "I guess they must."
"I mean—that's why we've been forbidden to do this. That's why there are rules and regulations." His hand made a random gesture in the air above them, indicating where they'd ended up after having broken those rules. "So that too many people aren't born."
"Sure. I know that."
Didn't she? There was that haze again. A fog lying thick over the knowledge that she was certain existed somewhere. "Still. Haven't you ever wondered who birthed us?"
She'd asked the question more to herself than to him. But it didn't matter. He'd rolled towards her and claimed her mouth again, his hands wandering along her body, gathering her closer. Then closer still.
And after he'd kissed her cheek, and chin, and tugged gently at her earlobe with his teeth, she'd forgotten all about scars—both physical and those hidden in her memory. She'd simply given herself over to this man who made this place bearable. The one who gave her meaning.
"Carter?" His fingers were soft on her elbow.
Startled, Sam sucked in a shaky breath. She'd jumped at his touch, shaken from the memory—or vision—or haunting. Cursing lightly under her breath, she covered her eyes with her palm.
"Where'd you go this time?"
Damn it all straight to hell.
"I'm losing my mind, Sir." She whispered the words. "I'm losing my damned mind."
"Was it another memory?"
Sam nodded, tightening her fingers at her temples. "I can't shake them."
"Tell me about it."
Not a chance. Dropping her hand to her lap, she hazarded a look at the Colonel. "I don't think that would be a good idea."
"Why not?"
Sam rolled her eyes, the meaning of her expression neither subtle nor hidden.
He responded with a fleeting sort of frown. Sad, maybe. Or poignant.
"Last night, I dreamed about the first time. Remember? The ventilation retrofit? The coolant leaked, and you got sprayed in your eyes." He leaned back in his seat, a forkful of pancake left abandoned on his plate. "We didn't have any water, so I mopped you off with my shirt."
She nodded. "Ironic, given our current situation."
That elusive dimple of his flashed in his cheek. "Luckily, Jake here woke up and I went in and rocked him back to sleep. I rocked us both back to sleep, actually. I ended up spending the night in the chair."
That explained the un-slept-in bed. "It's comfortable."
"It is." He picked up the measuring spoons from Jake's tray and wriggled them a little, engaging the baby's attention. His goofy grin was for the baby, but his words were for her. "Which was a good thing. Especially since what I really wanted was to find a different bed to sleep in."
What was there to say to that? Nothing. Because this conversation couldn't happen. Shouldn't happen. She should end it now—cut off communication. Play it safe. Maintain that damned status quo.
But she was an idiot, so she responded anyway, meeting his gaze. Clear blue to warm brown. So honest that it hurt. "I'd have let you."
Jake won the silly little round of tug-of-war, coming away with the measuring spoons. The Colonel sagged against the back of his dining chair, his pose one of bleak acquiescence. "I think I know that."
Of course he did. He was a grown man—he'd been married for a decade. He knew the signs. Sam lifted a shoulder, more in self-consciousness than embarrassment. "Except that it's—"
"Shark Week?"
"Shark Week."
"Daniel calls it the Red Scare."
"He does not."
"True story. He told me once that Sha're was—shall we say—high strung?—during that time, and not being from Earth, she didn't understand English. So, he named it the Red Scare."
"Unbelievable."
"I swear it's true."
"Anyway."
"Anyway." He tilted a look at her. "It's not just you. I can't shake it, either. And sometimes I think that I don't want to."
She was going to lose herself in the depths of his eyes, in the way his voice wasn't so much a tone as it was a touch. She felt caressed by it, worshiped, somehow. As if he draped his words atop her body in obeisance.
In the air, the smell of pancakes, and strawberry jam, and the cloying aroma of syrup hovered, but Sam could also catch hints of burning mineral, and herbs, and his sweat—their sweat. The way it had been a few moments ago in her vision, or waking dream, or slow descent into madness.
"Sir—I—"
"Ba-ba-Ma!" Jake was done being ignored. Wriggling in his seat, he kicked and smacked his hands on the tray.
With a half-shrug, the Colonel raised his fork and pulled the pancakes off the tines with his teeth before tossing it back onto his plate and reaching for the clasps of the high chair. Swallowing, he lifted the baby out, grimacing at the mess still clinging to Jake's romper and hands. "You, little man, are kind of gross."
As O'Neill carried the boy to the sink, Sam took a few bites of her now-cold breakfast. Then, she followed in their wake, grabbing a fresh washcloth from the drawer as she went.
"I swear. I've done more laundry in the past six days than I did in the preceding six months."
"Wait until he's a toddler." Jack turned the faucet on, then shuffled aside so that she could get at the water with her rag. "Charlie—my Charlie—used to go through five or six sets of clothes a day. It drove Sara crazy."
Sam wrung the worst of the water out of the cloth and went to work on Jake's face first, and then his neck.
"Ba! Ma." Jacob reached out and grabbed her hair, laughing as she tried to dodge his grasp. "Ba!"
"Looks like you'll need another bath, too." O'Neill took an appraising look at her head. "Now you have applesauce and cereal in your hair."
"I walked around with sweet potatoes all over the back of my blouse the day before yesterday." Sam scrubbed at the baby's hands. "If the kid's cute enough, people tend to overlook that kind of faux pas."
"Ma-ma." Jake extended his now-clean hands towards her, clenching his fingers in and out, in and out. He wanted her, now. "Ba!"
"Look, buddy." Easily, Jack rotated the kid in his arms, so that they were facing each other. "You need to work on some new consonants. How about—p? That way you could say potato, or panda."
"According to the book I've been reading, one of the first few consonants that most babies acquire is d."
Still looking at Jake, the Colonel nodded approvingly. "D is a good one, too. You could say demolition. Or decoy."
"Duck starts with d."
"Dragon." O'Neill made a face that Jake found hilarious. He waited for the giggles to subside before continuing. "Or dog. You'll like dogs, kid. They're the best people I know."
Sam rinsed the rag, and then her hands, draping the washcloth over the center span of the sink as she reached for the hand towel. Once she was finished, she leaned back against the counter, absently fussing with the baby's romper—straightening the collar, checking the fit. Working up her nerve to say what came next. She had to clear her throat. "Or daddy."
The air had shifted again. The Colonel's expression turned pensive as he turned his attention from Jake to Carter. "There's that."
"Because I think that he'd like that, don't you?" She peeked up at him from beneath her eyelashes. Coy without premise. Uncertain rather than flirtatious. "He already adores you."
"Yeah." Husky. His tone had dropped what seemed like an octave. When he answered, it was low, and buffered. "I think I'd like that, too."
"Okay, then." What had been decided, Sam had no idea, but at least it was a way forward. They were close again, with the baby sandwiched between them. "I'd better go change him."
"I'd better go find a shirt." Levity. It was his go-to when things got too much.
It was a little awkward, switching off while they were so near, but somehow, Jake ended up in her arms rather than his, and she ended up in Jack's.
It was a hug. Simple. Warm. Soothing, if truth be told. He felt strong and vital and solid next to her, with his arms around her, his skin warm against her cheek, and his beard rough where it rubbed at her temple. "We'll figure all this out, okay?"
"I know."
"And we'll figure out the whole sleep thing, too."
Sam wasn't as optimistic about that one, but she nodded against his shoulder, anyway.
"And I think I've found that shirt I need." His fingers tweaked at the back of the collar of Sam's tee. "I thought I recognized it. You stole this from me on that moon we went to. The one that rained all the time."
"The one where we found those monstrous dragonflies?"
"And the rodents that bounced."
"I'm pretty sure they were marsupials. Similar to kangaroos."
"They looked like giant rats."
"Anyway." She chuckled, leaning back to look down at her top. "I'll wash it and get it back to you."
One corner of his mouth lifted in what would most kindly be termed a leer. He waggled an eyebrow. "Don't bother. It looks better on you anyway."
She swayed a little as Jake nestled into her body, his thumb finding its way into his mouth. "Thank you, Sir."
"For what?"
"For everything. For breakfast, and being here for me. For waking up with Jake." She rested her chin on the baby's crown, shifting his weight as he settled into her arms. "For not treating me like I'm wild-ass crazy."
"You're not crazy." He shook his head, suddenly serious. It only took a breath for him to turn his head and press a kiss to her forehead, his fingers threading up into the hair at the nape of her neck. "And we will figure this out."
"Figure what out?" A new voice had entered the fray. Shrewd and judgemental and more than a little caviling. A horribly familiar voice. One that Sam had known since she was Jake's age. Or younger.
What the hell? Sam froze, looking up at the Colonel as horror flooded through her entire being. What the actual hell. What was he doing here? How in the name of all that was holy was he here?
Jack swallowed, his lips thin, his expression hard. He breathed a curse as he stepped backwards out of the embrace and turned half-way around.
"Seriously, Sam. What the hell is going on here?"
Jacob Carter stood in the archway leading into the kitchen. He was dressed in non-descript BDUs, apparently retrieved from the stash that Sam kept for him in her lab at the SGC. His expression was beyond angry. Livid. Apoplectic. Seething.
"Dad—there's an explanation."
"For this?" Jacob threw his hands wide. "For you standing there in your underwear? And Jack half-dressed—and why the hell are you wearing my pajamas?"
"Jacob—"
"Dad—just calm down."
"Calm down?" Jacob's eyebrows rose precipitously. "Calm down?"
"Jacob. What seems to be the problem?" Yet another voice. A new circle of hell to explore. A new pair of eyes glaring into the tableau. Another face that seemed to drain of color at the same time that understanding dawned.
General Hammond stood in the entry hall, just behind Jacob Carter. His car keys dangled from his hand, as if he were paused in the act of stowing them in his pocket. "Colonel O'Neill. I did not expect to find you here."
"Neither did I, Sir." O'Neill braced himself against the counter top. "Expect to find you here, I mean."
"Don't get cute with me, Jack." Hammond's tone clearly indicated he wasn't in the mood for humor.
"I swear by all that's holy, Samantha Carter." Jacob's hands were steepled at his waist, the overhead lights bouncing off his bald head as he shifted from side to side. "I need an explanation. Why is he here, and why are you like that, and where the hell did this baby come from?"