Beauty In The Broken

Millefiori

She'd never actually been called to the Principal's Office, but she imagined that this is how it would have felt. Nerves. Trepidation. Guilt. Resignation. Not just one but myriad feelings tossing themselves around her core—like kernels of corn in a hot-air popper. A poet might have said that she had butterflies in her stomach.

But she suspected strongly that her butterflies were explosive.

Sam hesitated outside the General's office. The door was slightly ajar, and she could see him sitting at his desk, reading through some paperwork. Taking a deep breath, she rapped on the door with her knuckle, waiting until he'd looked up before cracking the door further and moving half-way across the threshold.

"Sergeant Harriman said that you were ready for me, Sir."

"I am." He nodded, collating the papers he'd been reviewing and setting them aside. "Please come in."

Sam stepped fully into the small office, pausing just inside.

"Close the door, Major."

"Yes, Sir."

Hammond interlaced his fingers, placing them on the dark wood of the desk before him. He studied her for a moment before nodding towards the chair on the opposite side of his office. "You may be seated, if you'd like."

She glanced toward the chair, but then took a step away from it. "No, thank you. I think I'd rather stand."

"All right. As you wish." Hammond held her gaze for a beat before inhaling sharply. "How are you feeling? Doctor Fraiser has been keeping me apprised of your medical situation, and has officially given you the all clear."

"I'm back to my own self, General."

"And how is that baby of yours?"

"He's perfect, Sir." Sam smiled—a real smile. Thinking about the little boy at home always did that for her. "I think he's cutting a new tooth, and he's working on walking."

"Walking? He's still pretty young for that." Hammond shook his head, the overhead lighting catching on his bare crown. "The earliest that one of mine walked was at ten months. But her sister held off until she was more than a year."

"Janet says that Jake was born on Fast Forward. He's an independent little thing."

"Little?" Hammond grinned. "That boy is a moose."

Sam looked down at her feet, biting back a grin. "Yes, he is."

"But you aren't here to talk with me about Jacob, are you?"

"No."

"I thought as much. Let's get to it then." Hammond straightened in his chair. Reaching to his right, he picked up a piece of paper that was lying there. He took a moment to look it over. "I spoke with Colonel O'Neill today. He didn't say much, and I was left with a distinctly unsettled feeling."

"Sir—I—"

"Let me finish, Major." His voice had changed to something less conversational. Not accusatory, but certainly interrogatory. With a final glare at the sheet of paper, he held it out to her. "He also gave me this. I think that you might find it of some interest."

Biting her lip, Sam stepped towards the desk, taking the page from the General's hand. It took effort to focus on the words printed upon it.

General Hammond:

I find that I am no longer capable of maintaining the kind of objectivity and impartiality required to continue as Major Samantha Carter's commanding officer.

I hereby request to be transferred out of Stargate Command immediately, or permitted to retire without delay.

With respect,

Colonel Jack O'Neill

"This is the second time in two months that Colonel O'Neill has attempted to retire. However, it's the first time that he's given any kind of reason—such as it is—for wishing to leave the SGC." He paused, watching her with eyes that were frankly assessing her. "I tried to talk him out of it. In fact, I tried to get him to talk to me so that I could understand what's been happening around here. But he was determined. I had my administrative assistant draft the paperwork for his retirement, and he has signed it."

Sam bit her lips together until they ached. Her breathing had become stilted—tight and choppy, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. The paper felt leaden in her hand—heavy, and stiff. It almost hurt to hold it—as if the burden born upon the page was infusing itself into her fingertips.

"Colonel O'Neill didn't elaborate, even though I asked him to."

"Have you processed the request? Sent it to the Pentagon?"

"I asked him to take some time to reflect upon it. I requested that he use his considerable problem solving abilities to find a way to work around whatever issues he has with you."

"I don't think that's possible, Sir."

"So, I take it that you are aware of what he has still refused to disclose?"

Carefully, Sam stepped closer to the desk and laid the page on the glossy surface. Her fingers trembled the slightest bit as she straightened the paper on the blotter. Without taking her eyes off the words, she nodded. "Yes, Sir."

He hesitated for a breath before pressing her again. "And does this have anything to do with the scene that I witnessed a few months ago in your kitchen?"

Numbly, Sam nodded again.

"I figured as much." Leaning back in his chair, Hammond's face softened. "Why don't you sit down, Major?"

The chair was right behind her. Sam merely sank into it, folding her hands and resting them on her lap. "First of all, Sir. Let me assure you that the Colonel and I have always acted honorably and within the guidelines and regulations of conduct for officers in the Air Force."

"I believe you, Sam." Hammond canted his head to one side, his eyes intent upon her. "To be honest, I've known for a long time that something more was happening between the two of you than was purely on the up and up. Any idiot could see that there was a decided partiality there. I was confident, however, that your ranks and training, combined with your inherent honorable natures, would prevent things from getting out of hand."

"They did." Sam passed her tongue over lips that felt impossibly dry. "Until they didn't."

"You mean, until those ranks and that training were taken away from you."

"Yes, Sir."

"Jonah and Thera." Hammond scratched at his temple, remembering. "Weren't those the names that you were assigned by Caulder and his people?"

"Yes." Sam nodded. She could see Jonah in her mind's eye. Orange quilted jacket, omnipresent stubble, and that ridiculous cap that he'd explained was a holdover from the mines. They'd worn them to keep the worst of the dirt out of their hair. Not a vision—thank god—just a fleeting memory. "They were."

Hammond exhaled tightly. "I'm not going to ask about what happened there between you and Colonel O'Neill, Major. I think that I've got a fair idea already."

Of that, Sam was sure. She simply waited for him to continue.

"And upon your return from that place, you were almost immediately encumbered with a child to raise. Add to that the medical challenges, the insomnia, and the other issues that you were having, and it's little wonder that you kind of lost yourself a bit."

Sam looked up at the General. His face wasn't judgmental or harsh—just concerned. She didn't know what she'd been expecting, but it hadn't been kindness. "May I speak freely, Sir?"

"Of course, Sam."

"I don't think that I was lost." It was like a revelation—the moment the words formed on her tongue, she knew that they were true. "I think that this entire situation has allowed me to discover things about myself that I really didn't know. To recognize what I really want out of life."

"Oh?"

"Colonel O'Neill doesn't need to retire, or to be reassigned elsewhere. I'm requesting permission to resign my place on SG-1. I believe that I could be more useful performing research on and developing new technologies. That way, my schedule would also be more favorable to raising Jake."

"Are you requesting a transfer to Groom Lake?"

"If that's what's necessary, Sir." She met him in the eye. "Then, yes."

"And what about Jack?"

"He could stay at the SGC and retain leadership of SG-1." She flexed her hands, chafing her palms against the rough nap of her BDU trousers. "The Colonel seemed to be satisfied with Major Bledsoe's performance on the team. He could be the new fourth."

Hammond's smile was careful and guarded. "And the two of you would no longer be within the same chain of command."

With a little shake of her head, Sam smiled. "No. We wouldn't."

Hammond sighed, the sound betraying the weight of the moment. "I don't enjoy the thought of splitting the two of you up, Major."

"I don't believe that it's possible for us to continue working on the same team, Sir." Sam ducked her chin, focusing again on her hands, or her boots, or the floor. "It would be too—much—for me."

For a long, long time, the room fell quiet. The computer tower hummed under Hammond's desk, and beyond the closed doors of the office, it was possible to hear personnel as they went about their duties and machines as they worked. Bootheels on concrete, voices echoing in a corridor, the elevators as they rose and fell.

Understanding, as it stretched between two people.

"It's a hell of a thing, isn't it? The attributes that made you work so well together on SG-1 are the same qualities that make it impossible for you to continue being on the same team." He seemed to mull that over for a few moments before shaking his head with a harsh kind of chuckle. "But that isn't what I meant. You see, I'm a bit of a romantic at heart, Sam."

She wasn't sure that she'd heard him correctly. Slowly, she lifted her head and looked at the General. "Excuse me?"

"I hate the thought of breaking up a family. And while I'm aware that we sign on for deployments and the such, I'm confident that we can arrange something that would provide an opportunity for the three of you—you, Jack, and that baby of yours—to become just that. A family."

Sam had to clear her throat before she could reply. "Sir—I—"

"But besides that, the truth is—we need you. Both you and Colonel O'Neill. Strategically, the two of you are necessary for the security of the planet." Hammond shifted in his seat, rubbing the top of his head with his palm. "While you've been away, Major, we've systematically been testing people for the Ancient gene, and haven't found any other matches. And while we haven't made our way through the entirety of even the Air Force personnel on this base, we had hoped to find more than we have."

"Well, we know that they're out there. Statistics and probabilities based on the other similarities between our realities dictate that Doctor Carter's findings would hold true to what we should expect to find amongst our population as well."

"Regardless, until we actually find some of those people, you and Jack are all that we have." He leaned up again, balancing on his forearms on the desktop. "The weapon in Antarctica is the single most important piece of technology that we have encountered because of the Stargate program. Losing either of you would be a huge blow to not only the SGC, but also to humanity. And that's a hell of a bargaining chip in your hands, Major."

"I'm not sure what you're saying, Sir."

"I'm saying that you should let me research some options. I'm sure that we can arrange things in such a way that we can keep you both under both of our respective roofs."

She was stunned. She had to force her response past the sudden tightness in her throat. "Thank you."

"Until then, I'm placing you on leave. The pair of you, actually. As of this moment, Major Carter, you are no longer a member of SG-1, nor are you under the command or leadership of Colonel O'Neill. I do not expect you to return to the SGC until three weeks from today, which would be—-" he checked the calendar on his desk— "December the eleventh."

"Okay."

"That should give you plenty of time to find a preacher." He pilloried her with a stare. "Or make this permanent in some way."

"Understood."

"And I will not be putting through the Colonel's retirement paperwork." Hammond stood, tapping a fingertip on the resignation letter still sitting on his desk. "You can tell him that when you see him."

"I will, Sir." Sam rose, but her feet felt as if they were encased in concrete. "If he'll listen."

Hammond's eyes narrowed. "Things have gone a little awry, have they?"

"A bit."

He looked down at the desk, and the framed pictures that he had sitting near the phone. With a little smile, he picked one of them up. "Have I ever told you about my late wife?"

"SuEllen. She was a teacher, wasn't she?"

"Home Economics. They used to teach that sort of thing in school back in the day. She quit when the children came along. We were already married before you and I met back in 1969."

Sam folded her arms, waiting.

"She was my rock—there for me when I returned from Vietnam. She helped me through the worst of it, and I couldn't have had a better champion. She was remarkable. Even as difficult and hardened as I'd become." His voice turned into velvet, soft with memories. "We used to go on dates every single week—without fail. She especially enjoyed romantic movies. And since I loved her, I pretended to enjoy them, as well. One Friday evening just before Lisa was born, she dragged me to see the latest blockbuster, a movie that everyone was raving about. It was called 'Love Story'."

"I've heard of it, Sir."

"Then you probably remember the tag line—or whatever you'd call it—the line that everyone quoted. 'Love means never having to say you're sorry.'" He smiled, letting out a cynical little laugh. "SuEllen couldn't even wait to get out of the theater before she started in on how stupid that line was. She was smart like that—intelligent—no nonsense. She saw the inanity in some of the trite, pedantic things that people say and do. Her other gripe was that thing about loving something and setting it free. You know—if it was meant to be yours, it'd come back. Or some such drivel."

"I'm familiar, yes."

"Well, SuEllen hated that one, too." He looked back up at Sam, appraising her frankly. "So, I'm going to give you some words of wisdom from one of the best women who ever breathed."

Sam merely waited, rapt.

"Love means saying you're sorry whenever you need to. And if, by the grace of god, you're able to find love, you fight like hell to keep it."

—-OOOOOOO—-

He hadn't been at his home.

His driveway had sat empty, and not a single light had been on in the house. Sam had lingered on his porch trying to figure out where to look next until one of the neighbor kids had jogged over to inform her that Jack had loaded up his truck several hours earlier and headed out. It looked like he'd been intending to do some fishing.

That information, a phone call to Pete Shanahan, one visit to a car dealership and two days of driving had brought her here. To a small, cozy-looking cabin next to a small, sketchy looking half-frozen pond amidst tall, old-growth trees that currently gleamed silver with snow in the hazy light of dusk.

She'd made good time. Jake was, even at this stage in his young life, a seasoned and accomplished traveler, and had taken the long trip in stride. Sam had stopped every few hours to change diapers, let Jake wiggle outside his car seat, and check her maps. He'd fussed every once in a while, but she'd kept a ready supply of new toys for those moments, reaching behind her to drop them into his seat. Each one had bought her another twenty or thirty minutes of driving before she'd needed to stop again.

They'd stopped for the night in Burwell, Nebraska, where Jake had been the toast of the little dining room in the Bed and Breakfast she'd found. First light had them heading up N State Highway 11 towards Butte.

Myriad little towns, flat roads, and two-lane highways had flown past them. It had snowed, and then sleeted, and then snowed again. Everywhere she'd stopped, the weather had been the main topic of conversation.

"More snow than we've seen this time of year in a decade."

"Usually dry as a bone at Thanksgiving."

"Little lady like you shouldn't be traveling alone in weather like this. Especially not with a baby."

A few hours ago, she'd stopped at the Kingston Minimart for groceries before transitioning from the 27 to the 19. The 19 had morphed into Rosewood, which had somehow become Quinn, which had turned Sam around so much that she'd ultimately had to stop and ask for directions at the Silver Creek Community Church. Sam and Jake had interrupted an early Thanksgiving lunch potluck that the church's congregation was hosting for their senior citizens.

Jake's dimples and Sam's multitudinous apologies had charmed Melba ("Like the toast, dear.") Anderson into hovering over Carter's oft-folded and unfolded map with a pencil. She'd kindly marked the rest of the directions to the provided address. According to Melba, twenty-three years in the records department at the Lake Maria State Park Office ought to come in handy from time to time, or what the hell was even the point? Sam had tucked the rest of her cash into the donations box at the back of the reception hall in gratitude. What the hell was the point, indeed?

Once off the main roads, she'd only gotten turned around twice. In her defense, whatever signage had existed in the area was either covered in the recently fallen snow, or had long-since faded into illegibility. It was only by sheer luck that she'd driven further down the last unpaved lane—intending to pull a u-turn—and had instead happened onto his driveway.

His truck was parked directly in front of the porch. The big Superduty had been instantly recognizable even with the top half covered in fresh snow and the bottom half covered in dirt and mud.

Jake was sleeping. Again. Sam let the engine run, mostly because the sun was dipping, and along with it, the temperature. She sucked in a cleansing breath before pulling at the latch and pushing the door open.

The cabin lay silent in the snow. The tree branches shushed above her, but other than that, the only sounds were her own feet in the snow, and a sharp noise that rang—clear and precise—from behind the cabin, in the direction of the pond.

At first, she thought it was the report of a gun—small caliber, low-grain—but then she placed the sound. Metal against hardwood. Someone was chopping wood.

It was cold. A light wind whirled around her—insinuating itself past the wool of her coat and the denim of her jeans. Or maybe, she was just nervous—unsure what to expect now that she'd finally found him. Regardless, she had to quell a shiver.

Carter tugged the coat more tightly around her, securing it with the belt. Screwing up her gumption, she trudged through the snow around the front of her car before veering to get around his. She came around his front bumper and turned toward the porch.

"Carter?"

He was standing on the far edge of the porch, several pieces of split firewood under one arm. Despite the cold, he was in jeans and a henley. No coat—only a thick flannel shirt that wasn't completely buttoned. His boots were coated with snow and mud, a few days' worth of stubble frosted his jaw.

"Sir."

He grimaced, stepping towards the outer edge of the porch and leaning against one of the support poles. "Where's Jake?"

"Asleep in his carseat." She motioned over her shoulder with her thumb in the general direction of her car. "It's been a long day."

"New wheels?"

Turning slightly, she glanced at the big Ford Excursion. She'd bought it on her way home from the Mountain Monday evening—when she'd finally decided what her plan had to be. She'd done as her father had told her to do, and written a check on the account they shared. It had been faster to pay with cash rather than wait to deal with financing and trade-ins. She'd pay him back the first chance she could. The SUV seated eight, with plenty of room for strollers and groceries. That meant something, didn't it? The kind of vehicle ofmeant for the possibilities she was still hoping for.

"I figured that my Volvo wouldn't make this trip."

"And the Indian wasn't made for car seats."

She bit back a smile. "No. It wasn't."

"How in the name of all that's holy did you find this place?"

She sucked in a breath. "Pete Shanahan and Melba Anderson."

His expression asked the question that his mouth didn't.

"Melba lives in Silver Creek. She was kind enough to help me with the local directions."

"And Pete?"

She chewed on her lip for a bit before answering. "Pete's a detective, so I asked him to look up the real estate records."

He leaned over and deposited the firewood at his feet, brushing dust and grime off his hands. His eyes were dark—narrowed on her from the shadows under the eaves. "So? Now that we know how you're here, why are you here?"

There was that tightness again. Sam cleared her throat, glancing up at him as he stood there in the shadow. "That morning."

"Which morning?"

"The one after you left. The one after you told me to grow up."

"Carter—I—"

"Please, let me finish."

His tongue passed over his lips, and he nodded at her with an exasperated little sigh.

"I went into his room that morning. He was standing up in his crib, babbling. You know how he does that. When he noticed that I'd come in, he just—lit up. He gave me this huge smile, with those dimples of his, and he looked so happy to see me. So I picked him up, and he grabbed my nose and gave me this ridiculous kind of gross open-mouth kiss on my cheek, and he patted me and said, 'Mama'."

"Mama."

"Yeah." Sam shrugged, completely incapable of hiding the smile that the memory evoked. "And I just—haven't ever felt like that before—at least, not before he came to us. He didn't want me to be anything. Didn't want me to solve anything. Didn't place expectations on me. He just grabbed my nose and called me Mama. As if seeing me was the best thing ever."

"Sam—"

"Have you ever felt that? Just—pure happiness? Like all of a sudden, you're just whole? Like there's nothing else in the world that you need in that moment other than that moment?" She looked away from him, down—towards the snow caking her boots—hugging herself, as if she could collect the memory and infuse it into herself. "I've never felt that before. But I never, ever want to lose that."

He didn't answer. He merely shook his head, standing like a statue with his shoulder pressed against the wooden support post.

"So I got him dressed, and we went out into the kitchen, and I put him down to play while I got his breakfast ready, and he found that little memory block thing that I made while I was in Carlsbad. There are pictures of you in it, along with Janet and Cassie and some others. And whenever he found the pictures of you he'd squeal and clap and say, 'Dada!'"

If anything, his expression drew even more inward—he was pulling away. Emotionally, maybe, even if he hadn't moved so much as an iota physically. Self-protective, or something.

"And he tried to touch your face. Like he does when you're holding him—you know how he does that?—except that it was a picture behind plastic on a stuffed cube—and not you."

"No. It wasn't me."

"And it should have been." She shoved her hands into the pockets of her coat. She could barely feel her fingers now—or her toes. Although that damned familiar heat was building up behind her eyes again. "You should have been there with us."

He pushed away from the post, mirroring her stance by thrusting his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The light hit him differently, now, highlighting the gray on his head, and his chin. Emphasizing the angles of his nose and brow and jawline. "Carter—what are you saying?"

"I spoke with General Hammond. We hashed things out."

"What kinds of things?"

"I told him that I needed to be reassigned."

"To a new SG team?"

"To a new unit." She took a step towards him, stopping a few feet away from the single step that led up onto the porch. "A new command. I'll be working under the auspices of General Bermudez."

Both eyebrows lifted at that. "Groom Lake?"

"But my lab will still be at the SGC." It hadn't taken Hammond as long to arrange things as she'd thought it would. When she'd called home from the Bed and Breakfast in Burwell, Janet had told her of the newest developments. Tugging her coat more tightly around her body, she nodded. "Research and development on the power core for the Antarctic weapon."

"And you're okay with that?"

Yes. She was more than okay with that. "I'm very satisfied with the new assignment."

He hesitated. Whether it was out of uncertainty or anticipation was unclear. But when he was ready to ask the next question, he moved forward until his toes were flush with the edge of the front porch. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why would you request to be reassigned to this different command?"

"Well, so that I wouldn't be under the auspices of your command, for one."

He stepped towards the next support pillar, his boots hard on the wood. "I no longer have a command. I've retired. Again."

She scrunched up her nose, squinting a little at him through the evening light. "Your retirement hasn't been either submitted or processed."

"You did that?"

"It wasn't me. Hammond shelved it."

"Why the hell would he do that?"

She shivered a little. The wind was kicking up. "He says that you and I are both too important to the program to just let go."

"We are, huh?"

She shrugged. One-shouldered, wry. "Apparently."

"The genetic stuff?"

"The genetic stuff."

He grunted a little, looking away from her towards the forest. Off into the distance, over the roofs of the vehicles next to the cabin and into the trees. "So, why, exactly, have you engineered this change in our positions?"

"I guess I just figured out that I have some new priorities."

He sidestepped along the edge of the porch. "Oh?"

"Yeah."

"What sorts of priorities?"

"Well, Jake, for one." She threw a gesture backwards, towards the Excursion. "Being home for him."

"Yeah."

"And then there's the possibility of something else. Someone else. Something more." Playing it casual, she stepped up onto the step just below the porch. She kicked her boot against the edge, dislodging some of the snow before looking back over at where he stood, a little more than a yard away. "A family. A future. Or, at least, the possibility of one."

"And this is what you want?"

"Yes." So, so desperately. Her voice broke a little, and she had to clear her throat again. "This is what I want."

"Why?"

She looked over at him, close enough now that she could see his lips twitch in response. Could see how his pupils had expanded, how the tautness around his jaw had eased. She smiled a little—hesitant. Self-conscious, as she asked the question he'd once asked her. "Are you going to make me say it?"

"No." He shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving hers as he threw her own words back at her. "Except that I might need to hear it."

Sam came closer—up onto the porch itself. It creaked under her feet, but that barely registered before she'd focused on him again.

He stood as if he'd been frozen there, his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his breath making sharp little puffs in the cold afternoon air. Barely more than a whisper, his voice prodded her. "Why, Sam?"

If she breathed deeply, she'd be touching him. He was warm, and solid, and she wanted nothing more than to feel his strength against her. Her heart pounded within her, nearly as loudly as the still-idling engine of her SUV.

"Because I love you." She could barely breathe—it was too much. Too much to bear and to bare, laying her heart out there for him to accept or reject. Giving him everything she'd been holding back from him. She forced herself to keep looking at him, meeting his gaze. "I love you. And I might want to do that whole family thing you talked about. With the babies. And the life together."

"Are you sure?"

Her nod was immediate. "Yes."

He pulled his hands from his pockets. "Because I won't let you take it back. I won't let you go."

"I was hoping you'd say that." She bit her lip. "Because I need you. More than I've ever needed anyone. And that's probably really selfish and really childish, but I can't help it. I need you."

Only a beat. Half a moment passed before he touched her, before his fingers caught at and then tugged on her coat. And then he was urging her gently to take that last step to him with a gruff, "C'mere."

And then he'd found her. Found her waist under the wool, dragged his touch up her body until he framed her jaw and bent to find her mouth with his own. Until he'd urged her lips to part and he was tasting her, taking her, drawing her closer to him until their bodies were nearly melded—chest to belly to thigh.

He drew back a little, raking his hands through her hair before taking her lips again. Gentler—this time—less desperate. Slower. Sweeter.

Sam went up on her tiptoes, wrapping her arms around his shoulders, skimming her tongue across his lips to urge them apart again. She wanted it all. Everything. Right now—as soon as possible. Her hands on his nape, his hair coarse against her fingertips, his cheek rough against her own, his body hard, and insistent, and strong.

He kissed his way up towards her temple, and then down to her throat, nibbling at the spot Jonah had found under her jaw before absorbing her shivers and returning to her lips. "Say it again."

But she already was forming the words—against his mouth, her hands on his cheeks. "I love you."

Little more than a groan, and he'd gathered her against him, enveloped her in his heat. "You're shivering."

She pressed her nose against his neck, shivering, laughing a little as she answered. "It's freaking cold out here."

"Then let's get you two inside."

—-OOOOOOOO—-

Canned soup. Crackers. Formula in a sippee cup for Jake, beer for the adults. Sam fished the pertinent bits out of a portion of the soup and let Jake go to town in his high chair, picking up bits of chicken, noodles, stewed carrots, and peas with his chubby little fingers. It was a trick Heather had shared. Once Jacob had discovered "real" food, he'd stubbornly refused to eat anything else. And tonight, canned soup was as real as it got.

Jack had bathed him while Sam set up the portable crib in the spare room. Earlier, as she'd been foraging in the kitchen for dinner fare, Jack had unloaded the Excursion. He'd deposited all of their gear near the front door, and laid their boots to dry next to the fire. During Jake's bath, Sam had redistributed things where they belonged. Jake's things in the spare bedroom, and Sam's things in Jack's.

When they'd emerged from the bathroom, Sam had just finished putting the sheets on the little foldable mattress. Jake's hair was still damp, but his fuzzy sleepers would keep him plenty warm.

"We need to get a real crib up here." Jack reached for the blue blanket, tossing it over Jake's head. The baby giggled and pulled it off, sending his already messy hair into overdrive. "He'll be too big for this one eventually."

Sam laid another quilt over the side of the portacrib. "We'll probably need to do a bunch of things."

Leaning over, Jack put Jake down on the floor. "Daytime childcare."

"I've got that covered." Sam reached into the duffel she'd packed for Jake and pulled out a stack of diapers and a container of wipes. Laying them on the bed, she stepped back. "Francie. You'll like her."

"Okay. What about houses?"

"What about them?" Sam watched as Jake crawled towards the dresser and reached up to toy with the knobs on the drawers.

"Yours or mine?"

She looked over at him with a little smile. "Let's worry about that later."

"Okay." He walked over and leaned against the dresser as Jake used some of the drawer pulls to leverage himself to a standing position. "Damn. He's really getting the hang of that, isn't he?"

"He's a busy little cuss." Reaching back into the duffel bag, Sam rooted around for a book. She'd gotten to the bottom of the bag before he spoke again.

"How about his last name?"

She straightened, turning to look at him. "His what?"

"His last name." Jack gestured down at the baby. "He still doesn't have one."

"I thought we'd already decided on that."

"Uh, no." Jake had turned towards Jack, grasping the leg of his jeans and shuffling over towards him before losing his balance and falling onto his well-padded rear. O'Neill bent over and lifted the baby, tossing him a few inches into the air before catching him close in a bear hug. "You, little man, need a last name. Don't you?"

Book in hand, Sam rounded the crib and headed for the door. "We've already decided this, Jack."

"Oh?" He fell into step on her six, following her into the living room and sitting beside her on the couch. Settling Jake on his lap, he looked over at the woman at his side. "When did we decide that?

Leaning over, she grazed his cheek with her lips, then whispered in his ear. "When you asked me to marry you."

Jake went right to bed after his story, snuggling down with his blanket and his thumb, humming himself to sleep. Sam had started cleaning up while Jack rocked him, doing their few dishes and wiping off the countertops. She was unpacking the cooler she'd brought from the Springs when Jack exited Jake's room, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Food?"

"I figured you hadn't planned on us, so I brought some extra sustenance." Sam brushed some ice and water off the bottom of a gallon of milk and extended it to him. "Fridge, please."

He flicked a look at it and grinned. "Whole?"

"Heaven forbid that I should sabotage your pancakes with skim."

Eggs, cheese, vegetables—canned and fresh. More soup. Coffee. Condiments. Sour Cream. Lunch meat. Bread, crackers, and chips came out of a bag on the counter. Jack stowed them away–pantry, cupboard, and fridge.

"Turkey." Jack turned to put the cold cuts into a drawer in the refrigerator. "Appropriate."

"I've got some ciabatta rolls around here somewhere. Since tomorrow's Thanksgiving, I thought that might suffice." Sam scooted the ice around, assuring herself that the cooler was, indeed, devoid of any more food. "We can celebrate properly with Teal'c and Daniel when we get home."

"Yeah. I kind of told Teal'c that he was on his own this year. We'll have to rectify that." He turned towards Sam, closing the lid of the cooler and scooting it aside with his foot before leaning back against the edge of the sink. "I'll empty this out in the morning."

Drying her hands on a towel, she folded it and hung it over the handle of the dishwasher before turning to lean her hips against the counter. "So."

"So."

Lifting a brow, she smiled at him. "Now that you've finally got me up here at your cabin, what are you going to do with me?"

Jack pushed away from the sink, moving slowly across the kitchen towards her. "I don't know. I've got some board games."

She pretended to consider that. "No."

Another step closer. "We could read."

"Mmmm. No." Just the slightest shake of her head.

"Gin Rummy?" He stopped right in front of her.

"Boring." Sam touched the flannel of his shirt, flicking at a button. "Jack?"

"Yeah, Sam." His hand settled at her waist.

"Please kiss me."

And being the gentleman that he was, he complied.

He'd kissed her before—but not like this. Not within her own life, her own name. Not when it would lead to something that would cause her world to shift cataclysmically. This time, she wasn't Thera, and he wasn't Jonah, and she knew precisely who she was and what this would become.

She leaned into him, steadily, melting against his heat. Close enough that her thighs met—straddled his. Her palm rose to rest on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart, testing his response when she soothed a touch across his body and her fingertips teased at his nipple.

His sharp inhale made her smile.

"Damn it, Sam."

Smiling, she did it again—more deliberately. Then, she leaned in to press her lips against the side of his throat, just under his jaw, flicking her tongue at his skin. She breathed him in, filling her senses with his scent, his feel, with the taste of him.

Her fingers ventured downward, tugging at the shirt tucked into his jeans, pulling the hem free. She leaned back a little, watching him react as she touched his waist, as she laid her palms on the heated skin of his abdomen.

His breathing hitched a little, and his hands fell to rest on hers. "It's time, Sam."

"Yeah." She nodded. "Past time."

He somehow knew that she needed to lead this—watching her as she unbuckled his belt, sliding the leather free, reaching behind him to deposit the belt on the counter. As she trailed her hands back up his body, feeling his chest, his shoulders, his biceps. As she fitted her hands to his jaw and leaned up into him to press her lips against his.

Soft, so soft. A touch, a hint. Then more sure, urging his lips to part, sighing as his tongue found hers.

He tugged at her body, propelling her towards the back of the house, down the hall towards his room—their room. Where her suitcase lay on the floor next to his dresser, her toothbrush stood next to his in the cup near the sink, and she'd already placed the kintsugi cup on the nightstand next to the clock.

He kissed her again at the threshold, as she pushed the flannel off his shoulders and let it land in a heap on the floor. As his fingers found the hem of her sweater and inched it up her body and over her head. As she sucked lightly at his earlobe, tasted the pulse point at the side of his neck, and ducked her hand under the henley to smooth at the hair on his chest with her fingertips.

His hands skimmed down her sides, resting at her hips as he breathed—brokenly—rawly—against her temple. "You know, Sam, we've never done this in an actual bed."

"It's okay." Sam pushed him backwards, deeper into the room. Towards the piece of furniture in question. "I'm confident that we can figure it out."

(The End. Although, there's probably an epilogue here somewhere, if y'all aren't sick of me and this storyline yet. . . Let me know. Thank you again for coming on this trip with me. I appreciate you all!)