So many of you have been so kind with comments, reviews, subscriptions and favorites—and I've been concentrating so much on writing (and that whole pesky 'real life' stuff) that I haven't answered you.

So, first of all—thank you! I truly am grateful for the support! And second—I promise I'll take a moment soon and respond.

I appreciate all of you so much!

Beauty In The Broken

Crucible

Rush hour.

She'd been stupid and had taken the freeway.

Well, not stupid, really. Just too frantic to consider options. But the longer that she'd sat amidst the endless lanes of people trying to make it home from work, the calmer she'd gotten.

And the more humiliated she'd become.

If they didn't think she was crazy before, they were all certain of that fact now. The worst part of the whole situation was that Sam didn't even know exactly what had happened. One minute, she'd simply been concerned, and the next she'd been absolutely—mortifyingly—terrified.

Sam Carter, who had always kept strict control over her emotions, her actions, and her responses. She, who had been implacable in most arenas of her life. Sam Carter: suddenly gone ten ways from Sybil.

Sam parked in front of her house and turned off the engine. She'd eventually stopped crying, and so had Jake. The ride home had been quiet after the first few miles, and the need to focus on driving had given her brain the opportunity to relax.

She pulled the key from the ignition, reaching for the diaper bag in the seat next to her. It only took a few minutes to get out and rescue Jake from his car seat. He'd forgiven her, apparently, giving her a silly grin and blowing a spit bubble at her. Charming.

The house was quiet—-exactly as she'd left it a few hours earlier with her father in tow. The stroller sat in her formal dining room turned office, bottles were upside down in the dish rack, and Jake's high chair was still at her kitchen table.

In the sink, the griddle still needed to be washed, some faint residue of pancake batter still clinging to the edges. She'd left the syrup on the table, and the soiled shirt remained where O'Neill had left it over the back of the chair. When she'd cleaned the counter earlier, she'd missed some flour on the edge of the island.

Had it only been today? Had it just been this morning when they'd stood here in this space and felt like a family? When she had stood next to the sink in his arms and thought that there was a chance at something more?

She could still feel his morning beard under her fingertips as she'd kissed him in the hallway.

"I'm sorry," she'd whispered.

He'd smiled at her. "I'm not."

She'd blown all of it straight to hell. Twice. Once as she'd embarrassed them both at breakfast, and again just over an hour ago when she'd probably convinced the entirety of the SGC that she was, indeed, insane.

She half-expected to see white-coated brutes crash through her door wielding a straitjacket.

Tossing her backpack onto the counter, she cuddled Jake close, breathing a kiss against his hair. He patted her cheek, reaching for her nose again. He always thought it was funny when she dodged his fingers.

"I'm so sorry, little man." She felt the heat again, in her eyelids, the rush of tears building. "I'm sorry that Mom is losing her mind."

"Ma. Ba-ma." He poked her in the eye, and frowned when she yelped. "Ba!"

But the pain had ironically stopped her tears, so—she'd call it a win.

"Are you hungry?" A quick glance at the clock on her oven told her that it was well past dinner time. She took care of the basics first, walking Jake into his room for a clean diaper, and then letting him roll on the carpet with his toys in the living room until she'd prepared his cereal and sweet potatoes.

Normal. This was normal. She was normal. Right?

She used the chip clip again to attach a clean hand towel around his neck and secured him in the high chair. He barely breathed between bites, and she had to make more cereal.

A bath came next. Bubbles. Splashing. She'd bought a rubber boat the other day in the grocery store, and Jake batted at it with soapy hands, getting everything else wet in the meantime. Sleepers, then a story. Animals dancing in a barnyard again, only Sam heard O'Neill's voice in the back of her mind as she'd read it. It was better that way.

He'd wanted down again after the story—-too much time being cooped up in someone's arms or in his car seat. Jake liked to be free to wiggle, thank you very much. Sam put him down and simply watched him for a while. Watched as he wriggled this way and that, and as he worked on perfecting his nascent crawl.

It wasn't quite bed time, so she let him play. The dishes needed doing, and yet another load of laundry needed to be started. Sam threw a load of whites into the washer, filled the dishwasher, and then peeked in on where Jake was lying on his back, his little feet pumping upwards as he gummed the toy dog.

She was in the kitchen warming water for his bottle when the doorbell rang.

She ignored it.

It rang again.

And again. Then, the knocking began.

Muttering a curse under her breath, she screwed the top on the bottle and squished down the nipple with her finger, shaking the formula as she walked down the entryway.

Taking a deep breath, she opened the door.

"Sam!"

"Cassie?" The teenager was the last person she'd expected to see standing on her porch.

"Is he still up?" Cass was practically bouncing up and down. She had a bag in her hand, which she brandished with a little flourish. "I brought him a new toy. Oh—and Mom's got sustenance."

"He's in the living room." Stepping aside, Sam let her pass, watching as Cassie hurried through the doorway and down the hall. Turning back towards her front porch, she waited as Janet made her way up the front walk.

"So?"

Sam set her jaw, leaning against the door frame. "So."

"I brought food." Janet had a bag of her own—she climbed up the steps and raised it so that Sam could see. "Cassie chose, so it's decidedly unhealthy."

"And probably laced with Lithium."

Janet's mouth twitched in a semblance of a smile. "Maybe just a sprinkle."

Sam stepped aside, gesturing with the bottle. "Come on in."

"I take it you haven't put Jake to bed yet." Fraiser paused midway down the hall. "I was hoping that Cassie would have a few minutes to play with him. She's talked about little else since dinner the other night."

"He's still awake." Sam closed the door and flipped the deadbolt. "He slept part of the way home, so he's not really tired yet."

Janet's gaze was frankly assessing. "And you?"

"I didn't sleep at all." Sam looked down at the bottle. "I was driving."

"You know what I mean, Samantha."

Oooooh. The full name. She was really in trouble. Carter grimaced. "I don't even know what happened. I feel so foolish, Janet."

Fraiser stepped closer, reaching out to touch Sam's arm. She spoke quietly, so that her words wouldn't travel. "Will it help when I tell you that it's hormonal?"

"No."

"Because in this case, it really is." She looked down at Sam's hand, examining the puncture mark left behind by the IV. She prodded the bruising a little, but seemed satisfied that no more damage had been done. Letting out a little sigh, she returned her gaze to Sam's face. "And everyone is very concerned about you."

Sam turned the bottle this way and that in her hand, watching as the liquid bubbled and sloshed. "I thought that you might have sent the SFs to haul me back in. I was expecting tranquilizers and restraints."

Janet smiled—a one-sided thing that made her look younger than her years. "Those are still in the car."

Sam grinned at that, then followed as Janet made her way into the kitchen. "So, how bad was it?"

"Your dramatic exit?" Fraiser set the bag on the counter and started pulling out foam containers.

Back to the euphemisms. Sam put the bottle on the counter and opened one of the boxes. Tacos. "I guess you could call it that."

"Well, the General was quite upset. Not angry—just worried about you. He blames himself for your reaction." She opened a different box, then peeked at the one in front of Sam and switched the two. "The chicken chimi is for you, the tacos are Cassie's."

"I'm not really hungry." Sam closed the lid, pushing the box aside.

"You're going to eat." Narrowing her eyes, she put on her best 'doctor' face. "According to my records, you've lost four pounds since you came back from 118."

Damn. Sam opened the box back up, glaring down at the chimichanga. "It wasn't Hammond's fault."

"Of course it wasn't." Janet bustled around, pulling out paper goods and silverware. She pushed a napkin towards Sam and then handed her a fork and knife. "Eat."

Obediently, Sam cut into her meal. Taking a bite, she chewed thoughtfully. As she swallowed, she cut off another bite. It was good—and she was actually hungrier than she thought she was. "And Daniel and Teal'c?"

"They wanted to set out after you, but Colonel O'Neill had already left. Daniel decided to stay at the SGC with Teal'c in case you came back."

"Go back?" Snorting around another mouthful of her meal, Sam shook her head. "I can't do that."

Janet's fork paused in mid-air. "Eventually, you'll have to, Sam."

"How? How can I possibly go back there?"

"Well, if you don't, you'll be AWOL." Janet poked at her chile relleno. "So, there's that."

Sam hesitated for a moment. "I was kind of hoping that you'd give me a medical discharge."

Laying her utensils down on her plate, Janet dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. "You know that this is going to get better, don't you? That you'll get better."

"I don't know that." And she didn't. She'd lost some of her hopefulness over the past year or so. Some of her faith. Not in a religious sense—but rather her faith that things would work out in the end. And despite how often the Colonel had tried to instill more optimism into her, she couldn't help but feel that she just wasn't destined to ever feel whole again. "I can't see how anything can possibly be normal again. How can anything ever get back to the way it was?"

"It won't." Janet sidled closer, her voice lower now—more intimate, because Cassie sat just on the other side of the couch. "You have Jake now. You're a mother now. And, now you know how it can be between you and him."

She meant O'Neill. Not Jake. Sam stared down at the counter, at the fork and knife in her hands. At the green onions and sour cream garnishing the top of her chimi.

More earnestly, now, Fraiser continued. "Nothing will ever be the same as it was. Would you ever want it to be? If you got back to normal—whatever the hell that was—you'd be going backwards. When you break out of your old habits, your old routines, that's when you grow as a person. This choice you've made to parent this child will change you. But that doesn't mean that it can't be for the better."

"I just feel so lost. Like I'm not myself anymore."

"Part of that is the situation. It's terrifying to take on something so new. It's such a huge responsibility! But think about how you'd feel if you'd given him up." Fraiser's hand touched Sam's arm again. "How did you feel this afternoon when you thought that the Colonel wanted to take Jake away?"

She felt the cold again, the horrifying, angry chill from earlier. Even knowing that she'd been influenced by some wacky medical issue didn't make it less agonizing. "I would have done anything to keep him."

"And you kind of did."

"Hey, Sam?" Cassie popped up on the other side of the couch, peering over the island into the kitchen. "He's rubbing his eyes. Can I give him his bottle and put him to bed?"

"She's been practicing." Janet smiled. "She can't wait until you let her babysit."

Sam wiped her hands on the napkin and picked up the bottle. "Sure, Cass."

Cassie picked up Jake and carried him into the kitchen, making the rounds as first Janet, and then Sam kissed him goodnight. Taking the bottle from Sam, she disappeared down the hall and into the nursery.

As soon as she was out of earshot, Janet went on. "And I think that part of this hopelessness you're feeling is that you don't see any path to being with the Colonel."

Sam shook her head. "I don't see how it's possible."

"It's possible. And about the other situation," Janet leaned forward against the counter, fixing her focus on Sam. "Your medical issues will get better."

"It's been weeks, Janet. I don't feel any better, and I'm certainly not sleeping any better. And the visions—or memories—or whatever the hell they are—they're really screwing with my head."

"Well, I have a theory about that." She scrunched up her nose. "About how to fix it. You're not going to like it, but I'm pretty sure that it'll work."

Sam's only response was to raise her eyebrows.

Janet took that as an invitation to continue. "Oxytocin is produced when a person shares in close, personal, physical relationships with other people."

"That's why they call it the 'love hormone'."

"I feel fairly certain that oxytocin was the primary hormone fed to you on P3R-118. Keeping the people there feeling happy would have helped to keep them from searching for comfort the old fashioned way. It would have helped to prevent fraternizing amongst the Workers."

"Except that it didn't." Sam tilted a knowing look at her friend. "At least, for two of them."

"True." Janet returned to her dinner, sawing off another bite with the side of her fork. "But those particular Workers had a leg up on the situation. They weren't lily-white virgins, for one."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"My team and I examined many of the workers while we were relocating them to that other planet. I took their histories so that we could deal with any health concerns. None of them—not one—indicated that they had any sexual experience whatsoever."

"And, if they didn't know what they were missing—"

Fraiser drew a little circle in the air with her fork. "Then, they didn't know what they were missing."

"But some of the workers did know." Taking up her own fork again, Carter stabbed at her chimichanga. "Two of them, at least."

"Jonah and Thera. Not only did they have experience, but they already had feelings for each other. Without their memories, and with the added hormonal stimulation, the urges would have been more than they'd been able to handle. Nearly impossible for them to resist."

"Here. Let me." Jonah shimmied off his tunic, turning it inside out. Finding a clean spot, he raised it to wipe at the fluid dripping from Thera's forehead. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Just get it off my face." She'd squinched them tight as soon as the coolant had started spraying, jumping backwards out of the way. Thera felt his fingers on her cheeks, holding her still as he mopped at her skin.

"Did any get in your eyes?" His hands were soothing against her body. Calloused, but gentle.

"I don't think so." Thera leaned into his ministrations. It felt good, to be touched—as if there were something she'd been missing—-waiting just beyond this moment. She couldn't ever remember reacting this way to anyone—or anything. It was a new sensation. A rush of something novel and beautiful.

"I think I've got it all." He took one last swipe at a spot on her cheek, then dropped his hand. "All good?"

Thera opened her eyes, slowly—-cautiously.

Jonah was close—closer than he needed to be. Workers usually kept their distance from each other—maintained space. It was the custom as well as the rule.

But Jonah—-his fingers bracketed her jaw, his thighs were hard against her own. For the first time, she noticed details—his unique scent, how deep his eyes were, the sharp lines of his lips, the strong shape of his jaw.

And his chest—bare—muscular—-strong. A light dusting of hair spread across his pectorals, winnowing down to nothing at his waist. She wondered what it would feel like beneath her palms. Just like she wondered what the stubble of his jaw would feel like against her lips.

He spoke again. She could feel it as well as hear it. "Is that better?"

"Yes." Barely more than a whisper. "Thank you."

"Anytime." Husky. Raw. The timbre of his voice had changed. He glanced down at the tunic in his hand, then dropped it to the floor. Shifting on his feet, he drew even closer, if that was possible, his palm drifting from her cheek to the curve of her neck. His breathing was stilted. Shallow. His tone quiet. "It is my honor to serve."

She smiled, suddenly wary. Suddenly shy. She tilted a look up at him from beneath her lashes. "Are you sure that you've only just arrived in this sector?"

"Yeah."

"I feel like I already know you—" She shook her head in wonder. "Only, I know that we've just met."

His eyes darkened. Confused maybe—or just finding realization. "I don't know about that—I only know that I want you."

Thera frowned up at him, questioning everything she thought she knew. "I don't know what that means."

"I. Want. You." Lower, now, his hand on her shoulder, his thumb tracing the line of her collar bone. "You make me—-"

"What?" So good. His touch filled her. She felt whole, complete for the first time. "What do I make you?"

"Damn it." His hands shook slightly as he looked down at her, searching her face. "You make me want more."

Thera raised herself up on her tiptoes, gratified when his other hand fitted itself to the small of her back. She passed her tongue over her lips—then pressed upwards, brushing her mouth against his bearded jaw, sighing at the corner of his lips, relishing the rough feel of him. So different against her own smoothness.

More. She wanted more, too.

Sensation. Pure thrill. It was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. Like liquid heat had welled up from deep within her and flooded her entire being. His breath was warm against her temple, his hands firm on her body. And then he took her lips, nudging her mouth open with his thumb on her chin. He tasted her, learned her, teased at her until she responded. Until her fingers had tangled in the hair at his temple, and explored the broad planes of his chest. Until her body was pressed so closely to his that she could feel his heart thrum against her sternum.

"I need you, Thera." He kissed his way down her throat, nipping gently at her earlobe, her temple, at where her pulse throbbed just under her jaw. His hands rose to knead at her back, at her waist, and then lower, where her hips curved beneath her tunic. "I need you."

"We shouldn't be doing this." Spoken against his mouth, her hands skimming his waist, his back, pausing at the waistband on his trousers. Her last coherent words before she'd given over to his touch.

"Just let me touch you, Thera." His hands worshiped her, soothed her. Knew where she needed him. "Let me—"

"Sam?"

She'd dropped her fork. Sam blinked down at the half-eaten meal in front of her, at the melted cheese, at where her utensil had ended up in the styrofoam lid.

"Sam?" Janet reached out and touched Carter's cheek. "Come back, Sam."

"Damn it." She'd practically sobbed the words.

"Another one?"

Dumbly, she nodded.

"We've got to fix this, sweetie."

"How?"

"By removing the stimulus."

"Not Jake."

"No." Janet's hair bounced around her ears as she shook her head. "The other stimulus."

The answer was obvious, but painful. "The Colonel."

"Yes."

She'd known. She'd known that this was the solution. Sam was smart enough that she'd expected this. But it still hurt.

"For how long?"

Here, Janet faltered. "As long as it takes. A few months, at least."

"How far away do I have to stay?" She pushed away from the island, backing up towards the opposite side of the kitchen. "And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?"

"Far, Sam." Janet closed her own box, crossing her arms in front of her. "The farther the better. You two can't seem to be within any normal proximity without ending up too close. I'll work it out with Hammond and the SGC. You can go on a medical leave of absence. Learn to knit. Golf. Read something that doesn't have to do with wormhole theory or quantum physics. But you need to get away from him, and he needs to stay away from you."

"I don't want to. I want—-" She felt childish, as if she wanted to stomp her feet and rage at the sky. Hell. What she wanted was exactly what she couldn't have. But Janet knew that.

"Once your hormones regulate, I believe that your sleep patterns and mental state will return to normal. And then you two can try again. Decide what you really want from each other."

Sam smiled, but the expression felt a little bitter, even to herself. "You're basically sending me to rehab."

"Cold turkey, sweetie." Janet raised a hand and smoothed Sam's bangs off her forehead. "But it'll be worth it in the end."

"Hey—Sam." Cassie's excited voice came from the foyer. "Look who I found loitering on your porch."

She didn't even need to look to know who it was. Rolling her eyes, Sam glared up at her ceiling, as if help would come from the heavens.

She really needed to put a bigger lock on her front door.

—-OOOOOOO—-

"Jake's already in bed."

She'd spoken as soon as the door had closed behind the Fraiser women.

"I figured." O'Neill turned slightly, nodding in the direction of the front door. "They left quickly."

"I'm pretty sure it's a school night."

"Okay." He hadn't moved from where he'd stopped just inside her kitchen. "Sure."

Sam flicked a look at the Colonel. He was still in his BDUs. Still wearing his boots. He obviously hadn't gone home once he'd left the Mountain. "Did you follow me here?"

A single crease briefly dented his cheek. "I lost you on the freeway. It was a mess."

"It was."

"I actually beat you home, but I stayed on the other side of the park until you got inside."

"Stalker." She'd meant it as a joke, but it flopped.

He sank his hands into the pockets of his jacket. "I was worried about you."

"I know." Sam turned back towards the counter and started to clean up the remains of her dinner. Janet and Cassie had taken their boxed meals home with them, packing up as Janet had lectured Sam on the importance of finishing all of hers. She'd promised she would. But both of them had known that was unlikely.

"Are you feeling better?"

She slipped the styrofoam box into the fridge, closing it and crossing to the sink to rinse her hands. "Janet assures me that I'm not actually insane. But I'm not sure I believe her."

"She's pretty convinced about the hormone thing."

Drying her hands on a nearby hand towel, Sam nodded. "The theory makes sense, Sir."

"But?"

Of course he'd know that there was a 'but'. She weighed her words carefully. "But I'm not certain that it can be fixed as easily as she thinks it can."

"Oh?"

"Janet's theory is that time and distance will calm things down. Give our bodies time to regulate the excess hormones, and everything will eventually return to normal."

"Time."

"Probably a few months. Maybe more." Sam leaned back against the edge of her sink. "It's all guesswork."

"So we work in different units for a while. Split time with Jake." Jack lifted a shoulder in a lazy kind of shrug. "Avoid seeing each other unless we have to."

"I don't think that's what she meant." Scuffing her foot on the tile, she schooled her features. "I'm pretty sure that there's more to it than that."

He took a step forward, towards the island. His expression hardened a bit. "Distance."

"Cold turkey, she said." Sam's smile lacked humor. "Like rehab."

Scrubbing at his cheek with his palm, he paced towards the couch, then back again. He stopped near the archway, facing the wall, his eyes focused on the floor. "Are you going to do it?"

"I think I have to." Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. "I think we have to. If we want to be normal again."

"What is that? Normal." He'd said the word like an epithet. "There's no way to know that it'll work."

"No."

"But there aren't many other options."

Sam mulled it over for a moment before shaking her head. "I can't live like this, Sir. I'm falling apart."

"Carter—I know you think you're broken. That something inside you is busted." Turning, he approached her, his dark eyes burning. "I've been watching as you've been hit time after time lately, and you've tried so hard to get back on your feet. It's been hard to watch."

Her answer was quiet. "It's been hard to experience."

He stopped a few feet away from her, just to the side of the island. Too far away to reach for her, but close enough that she could see the striations in his irises. "I know. And I'm sorry."

"I don't know what else to do." Sam's breaths were stiff, and shallow. Like the fear that simmered just beneath her surface. "I asked Janet for a medical discharge."

"You don't need that."

"I should probably just retire."

"Damn it, Carter." Harsh, acid—his tone said more than his words. Sucking in a breath, Jack turned away again, raking his fingers through his hair. "You don't need to retire."

"What if it doesn't work? What if nothing helps and we still can't get rid of it? What if these visions—-or whatever the hell they are—keep haunting me?"

"And what if they don't?" He stepped closer, leaning his hip against the counter. "What then?"

What was he getting at? Sam canted her head to one side. Questioning. "I don't understand, Sir."

"What if you go away for a while. Get everything back in check." He traced the beveled edge of her countertop with his fingertip. "And you come back stronger than ever."

"That's not likely."

"Just roll with this, Carter."

She nodded slowly. "Okay."

"What then?" For the first time, he sounded unsure. As if he were treading ice so thin that he was hearing the cracks.

"I don't understand."

"What happens when everything is better?"

"If that happens, then I guess I'll get back to work."

His hand flattened on the countertop, then he pulled it into a fist. "Just like that."

"What are you asking, Sir?"

His expression hardened, his mouth tight, his jaw clenched. Turning, he started pacing again. To the couch, to the fireplace, stopping to look down at the toys on the floor. "So, we'd just go back to what we had before."

"I'm sure that the General would put me in a new unit, but—"

"I tendered my resignation to Hammond this morning. After what happened this morning."

"What?" Pushing away from the sink, Sam straightened. "Why would you do that?"

"Chain of command, Carter." He pushed at the jingle ball with the toe of his boot. Bending, O'Neill picked up the stuffed dog, twiddling it back and forth in his hands as he stood back up. "Because we're still technically in the same chain of command."

And that meant that they were still subject to the rules against fraternization. Carefully, Sam pushed back. "What are you saying, Sir?"

"Nothing important, apparently." He crouched down again, picking up toys and books and tossing them into the basket. "Not a damned thing."

She walked past the island, stopping just behind the sofa. "Did he accept it?"

The stuffed dog went into the basket last. The Colonel shook his head. "No."

"Good." Sam's fingers found the tufted edge of one of the cushions.

"Is it?" Jack stood, spearing a look at her. When she didn't answer him, he took another step. "Is that what you really want?"

Her heart sank. So, that's what he'd meant. When he'd said that he'd take that bullet. He'd end his own career for hers.

She finally understood. The status quo. What they had before. That's what he was asking. Whether she wanted to go back to how things had been before P3R-118. Before Jonah and Thera and mind stamps and secret meetings in private places. Before Jake and pancakes and stolen kisses in hallways. Before knowing that things could be different.

Is that what you really want?

What I really wanted was to find a different bed to sleep in.

I'd have let you.

Damn it. She couldn't get lost right now. Pushing away the memory, she answered as forthrightly as she could. "I don't know what I want."

"I don't believe that."

"Are we really going to have this conversation?"

His lips thinned. "I think we need to, Carter."

"I'm not sure I trust myself to have it now."

"Why not?"

"I don't—"

"Damn it straight to hell, Carter." He turned away, towards her mantel, gripping the stone with both hands. His knuckles were white against the stonework. Shoving himself away, he whirled around. "Just talk to me!"

Involuntarily, she took two steps backwards, colliding with her bar stool. She barely felt the impact. "I don't know what you want me to say!"

"Why don't you try the truth."

"What truth?" Backing up further, she pushed at the stool until it skittered sideways, and she came up hard against the breakfast bar. She was stalled—literally and figuratively. "The truth that I'm terrified that I'm never going to get back to normal? That I'm overwhelmed with the idea of being someone's mother? That my life has been completely upended? That regardless of all these things that I'm feeling—regardless of what I want or what I need—that there are still threats out there that we haven't solved—our planet is still at risk. Which truth do you want me to talk about?"

"Us, Carter." Bare. His answer was as artless and stripped as hers had been. "I want to talk about us."

"Is there an us?"

"What the hell does that mean?" He took two steps forward, until he was standing in the middle of the area rug. "What have we been dancing around all these years? You know damned well that there's something here. What happened on 118 would never have happened if there weren't an 'us'."

"Really?" Sam reached back, bracing her hands on the counter behind her, heat rising in her cheeks. "Because we've never once spoken about this. We've never actually said the words."

"I have." Brutal. His candor sliced through the air. "Several times. In that damned room with Anise, for one. And it was pretty evident on the ice planet how I felt. Haven't I been showing it lately? Haven't you seen?"

She had. Of course she'd seen it. Like Daniel had said—-anyone who was really paying attention would have seen what was clearly there. But there had been so many moments over the past four years when she'd thought—no—she'd known—-something, only to have it snatched back or had to watch it evaporate before her eyes.

"Yes. Maybe. But to what end?" She laughed—an acerbic sound that almost hurt. "So that we can tiptoe close to an actual resolution only to run away again?"

"I'm not running, Carter. Not this time."

Dropping her head, she cursed out a breath from between clenched teeth. "What do you want me to say?"

"Tell me what you want."

"What do you want?" She was desperate—practically begging—but she was beyond caring about pride or decorum.

"Damn it, Sam." His jaw tensed, his lips thin and tight. "What I want doesn't matter."

"How can it not matter?"

"Because it's immaterial to your decision."

"Shouldn't I be able to make that assessment on my own? Shouldn't I be given all of the pertinent information?"

He was angry—and hurt. His dark eyes seemed to have only grown darker. "You really want to know?"

"Yes. I think you owe me that much."

"Fine." He turned away from her, hands steepled at his waist, his chin dropped down towards his chest. Surrender, perhaps, or simply resignation. Regardless, his entire body—his entire being—seemed suddenly vulnerable. "I want you."

"Me?" She snorted. Decidedly indelicate, verging on the crass. "You've had me, haven't you?"

"I want you, Sam." He made a three-quarter turn back towards her, without really looking at her, aiming his words towards the room itself. Or maybe the refrigerator, or the counter top. Or the universe. "I want to marry you. I want to be able to come home to you and touch you. Kiss you whenever the hell I want. I want to fall asleep at your side every night, and wake up next to you every morning. And maybe this makes me a raging sexist pig, but I think I might want to make a few more of these baby things with you. The thought of you carrying my child—my child—well–damn—I—" He couldn't continue, but merely shoved his hands into his pockets and angled himself away.

God help her, she had to know more. Gently, she pushed him onward. "You what?"

It took a long, long time for him to answer her, and when he did, his voice was unnaturally calm. "I think it might actually be nice. I think that it would be pretty damned awesome to make a life—to be a family—with you."

There really was only one question left to ask. When she finally summoned up the gumption, her voice quavered. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would it be awesome to make a life with me?"

He did turn to look at her, then. His expression was something she'd never seen before—bare, and aching, and raw. As if the past years of glib masquerade had simply fallen away, leaving him completely exposed. "Are you going to make me say it?"

"No." And she meant it. Except— "Except that I might need to hear it."

"Geez, Sam."

So she held her ground and asked again. "Why?"

His boots roughed slightly on the carpet as he took a few steps nearer, as his body relaxed into what she immediately recognized as his battle-ready stance. Odd that he was more fluid during a fight than he was during peace. Odd that he was more at ease while he was feeling attacked. "Why do I need you?"

"Please, Jack."

"Because I love you." So soft. He'd spoken so softly. Without pretense, or sarcasm, or artifice. "Because I've loved you for years. Practically since the moment we met. And it doesn't have anything to do with alien hypnosis, or hormones, or the sudden appearance of a child. It has everything to do with who you are. And who you make me want to be."

She couldn't respond. Not with how her throat had grown tight. Not with how her entire body had stilled at hearing his words.

He walked slowly to her. Across the rug, around the couch, nearer the kitchen island, his boots scuffing a little on the hard surface of her tile.

His nearness should have been intimidating, but Sam ached for it. Needed the strength of his body—-of his presence. Of his faith. In her? Maybe. But mostly just his faith in what was possible.

What if it's amazing?

He stopped right next to her. Just close enough that he could hear her whisper.

"I don't understand how you can feel that way. I mean—I'm kind of a pain in the ass. And I'm really not very lovable." Shaking her head, she delayed looking up at him until she couldn't stand not to see him anymore. And then, the honesty in his eyes nearly killed her.

"Sam."

"I just needed to know that I wasn't alone. That you felt about me the same way that I feel about you."

"How could you not know?"

"It's just not obvious. Even my dad says I'm difficult. I'm stubborn. I'm a perfectionist. And at the moment, I'm weak and indecisive and—"

"Can you stop?"

She fell silent, chewing absently on her lip.

He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and withdrew an object. Small—barely larger than a shot glass, the cup was made of simple white porcelain, decorated with seemingly random slashes of gold.

"I've been meaning to give you this. I've had it in my truck all week." He held it up, showing it to her. "My father brought this back from his last tour. The Japanese call it kintsugi. They find something that's damaged, and they put the pieces back together using gold, or even platinum, to seal the cracks. Their philosophy is that the item is then made more valuable for having been repaired. That the fix, so to speak, makes it more beautiful."

He extended it to her, and, after a moment, Sam took it. The little cup was warm in her hands—infused with heat from having been in the Colonel's pocket. It felt solid, smooth, and fine beneath her fingertips. She turned it back and forth, fascinated as the gold sealing the cracks in the porcelain shimmered in the lamplight. It was exquisite. Lovely. Almost painfully beautiful.

"That's you, Carter. You break. And then you patch yourself back together, and those experiences add to who you are. And hell—you were pretty spectacular to begin with. But now? Now you're a work of art."

"Sir. I—-" but there was nothing else she could say. No way to say what she was feeling, because there were no words that could express bone-deep awe. She leaned into his body, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. Needing this—needing him.

His hand came to rest at the nape of her neck, his fingers splayed through her hair. "So, just think about that, when you're off doing this whole 'cold turkey' thing."

She tucked the cup tightly in her hand, pressed to her chest between them. Her body was nearly flush against his—-and she felt a surge of need. Not for something sexual—but for this kind of sweet intimacy. Need for his touch at the back of her neck, and how his other hand immediately came to rest at her hip. Need for the easy strength of his form, of his assurance that things would turn out okay.

She'd told her father that Jack O'Neill felt like home. This. This is what she'd meant.

Turning her head, she spoke against his shirt. "I have to go. I'm going to leave the Springs. I'll take Jake and just go."

"I know." His answer was hoarse against her hair, his fingers tightening on her body.

"I'll miss you. So much."

Desperately, is what she'd meant. Painfully. Achingly.

"Yeah." He looked down at her face, studying her as if he were etching a memory. After what felt like an age, he swept the pad of his thumb along the line of her cheek and then sighed. "Me too."

Pulling away from her, he backed up the few steps towards the arch. He shoved his hand back into his pocket and came back up with the keys to his truck. He frowned down at them before returning his gaze to hers.

"Okay, then."

"Okay."

With a long, last glance at her, he turned and strode down the hallway towards her front door, drawing it wide and exiting onto the porch. In his haste, he didn't close the door behind him, and it swung wide.

It had grown dark since Janet and Cassie had left. Night had fallen fully, deep and dark, and quiet. Sam hadn't turned on her porch light, and the only illumination came from a streetlight across the way at the park. Putting the cup on her counter, she hurried after him, stepping onto her porch just as he'd reached the hedges at the edge of her property.

"Sir!"

He stopped, then slowly turned to face her. "Yeah?"

Sam descended the stairs, striding down the walkway towards him. The streetlight was gleaming off the silver in his hair, and the shadows made his deep-set eyes seem bottomless. She shivered slightly in the cold, but didn't care. She came to a halt right in front of him, her breath making little puffs in the night.

And oh, his smile. Easy, languid, knowing. He bridged the gap between them and took her face in both hands, lowering his head and claiming her mouth in a hard, sweet kiss. Grinning against her lips, he pulled her close, his arms gathering her against his body. "This is not what 'cold turkey' means, you know."

She rose up on her toes and kissed him again, softer this time, deeper. Her palms cupping his jaw, her fingers relishing the roughness of his stubble against her skin.

He angled his body to get more of her, his hands firm on her body, pressing her fully against him, thigh to thigh, hip to hip, chest to chest. As if he wanted to meld with her and share actual space. One more kiss. Feather soft—and then he pulled away just enough to meet her gaze. "Come back to me. Okay?"

"I will." She nodded, and then fully felt the mountain autumn night when he released her. Felt the chill as he turned away from her and moved past the hedges and headed down the street.

She folded her arms around herself—bracing herself against the cold. The wind bit through her light sweater, numbing her nose and her bare feet. But still, she couldn't tear her eyes away from him, watching as he strode purposefully down the street and towards the truck he'd parked in front of a neighbor's house. He turned back once to look at her—and then he fit the keys into the lock and she lost him behind the opening door. He was briefly illuminated by the lights in his cab, and then by the dash as the engine came to life.

She was still trembling as the SuperDuty pulled away. As the tail lights faded into the darkness, swallowed up by distance, and by traffic, and by the night. As he left her behind, trembling in the dark. And she couldn't have said whether her shivers were because of the cold, or if they were because she'd never felt so completely alone.