Title: 9.4 Seconds (One of the Many Lives of Samantha Carter)

Rating:MA

Warning: Dark Fic, Mirror Universe, Angst. Discussion/Memories include a previous Suicide attempt, and remembrances of torture and being a POW. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Cussing, And two mind-bleaching Squicky pairings, so keep your Clorox wipes handy if you decide to brave this story.

Geek!GirlSamantha was seen in Ripple Effect. She was the quiet one, wearing glasses in the scene with the multiplicity of Carters. This is her story.

Pairings:

Geek!GirlSamantha and her Colonel.

Vixen!Janet and most of the SGC.

Family!Man!GeneralJack and Mrs.General!Sara.

My apologies for any typos. My betas seemed to have overdosed on the mind bleach and have run screaming for the hills. I think that's a compliment?

We left Geek!Girl having spent a fortune on new clothes to entice her Colonel, while the Colonel is returning to his lonely home. Meanwhile, Janet is feeling like a woman scorned.

First thing George Hammond did upon entering his home, his own private sanctuary, was to try and see it through the eyes of a stranger. How would Samantha see his house?

A shrine, a mausoleum.

First of all, it was pristine, almost painstakingly so, as he always took his boots off in the entrance way.

And there were the photos. The photos! Oh God, the photos!

There was a large picture of Angie in a silver frame, smiling, right next to the table where he put his keys, as it was the last thing he looked at before he went to work, and the first thing to greet him when he came home. That picture was picked up, but carefully so not to smudge the glass and then he went upstairs.

He didn't have a lot of furniture, and the rooms were rather empty. A few pieces of artwork were on the wall, including one that his daughter had drawn when she was in high school. That was most assuredly staying up.

On a coffee table next to the couch, two pictures of his family on vacation, a half dozen or so from his daughters' wedding, three from his own, four pictures of him holding his grandchildren, beaming like an idiot, thinking how life was beautiful, and an absolutely glorious black and white picture of Angie, her long black hair undone, barely covering the essentials, looking sexy as hell, wicked as all get out and curvy voluptuous as she had been carrying their first baby under her heart. She had convinced him to take that photo of her with one of those new fangled 35 mm cameras, and then he had to find someone he trusted on the base to process it as it was too racy to take to the local drug store. He had brought a smaller version of that particular pose with him to 'Nam and it had kept him warm on many a cold, lonely night.

Biting his lip, he tried to weed out the pictures. Angie's sexy photo had to go, the vacations pics could go, the pics of him and his daughters at their wedding… well, they were staying up, though he sternly limited himself to two photos for each girl. His wedding photos definitely needed to be put away, but damn it, shouldn't he keep one up?

Baby photos of the grand kids? They had to stay up.

But what about the one where Angie was pinning his Lt. Colonel rank insignia on him? She was as bald as he was in that picture, because she had just completed her last round of chemo and was in remission. They were grinning like fools at each other, he, delighted that the woman he loved was in remission, Angie, thrilled, that her husband had been promoted to a lite colonel.

Should that stay up?

It had to stay up, but maybe… not there…not next to the couch… maybe… damn it! Not in his bedroom!

So he went through his house, and soon the bed in the "Shrine" was covered with photos. Neatly arranged, as it would be too disrespectful to treat them otherwise, and he realized that his hands were shaking. The pics were really nothing more than colored pigment on paper, he couldn't touch the people in them, couldn't rock his granddaughters to sleep or kiss his wife on her lips but those cherished photos symbolized so much more because it was all that he had physically left of them.

God damn, when he had first listened to that song, Bookends, by Simon and Garfunkel, he had thought Simon's voice was the saddest thing he had ever heard. Little did he realize that in a few short years, he'd be living the lyrics.

Time it was, and what a time it was, it was
A time of innocence, a time of confidences
Long ago, it must be, I have a photograph
Preserve your memories; They're all that's left you

"I don't want to you to think that I put you in here, as though I'm ashamed of you."

His voice rumbled loudly in the stillness of his empty home, so much like his empty life, full of remembrances of his dead.

"I just don't want to scare her away. I hope you all understand. I'm so lonely. I'm so goddamn lonely, and I think of all of you every day, every hour, every goddamn minute… but I'm tired of being isolated. The boys at the base treat me like I'm a headcase, a side show freak, and she's been polite to me. She seems really decent and a really sweet girl. I was thinking about being down right wolverine mean to her because of who her daddy is, but I can't."

"Maybe… she might develop a fondness for my old carcass, and she'll have lunch with me in the lunchroom. I'm so weary of being treated like I have the plague."

He wiped the tears from his eyes. He never allowed himself to cry, at the most, he allowed himself a few tears, because George Hammond knew that once the walls came down, he would never be able to stop crying.

"If me dying in Iraq would have kept you all alive, I would have willingly done it. You were the ones that kept me alive in that damn prison. I never though you'd all be gone when I got out," his voice broke and he wipe away more tears.

"Angie, I'm not planning on marrying the girl, nothing like that, but I miss talking to someone who can actually answer me. Please, please, please, girl, understand. I'm not betraying what we had. What we had Angie, goddamn it, was rarer then hen's teeth, but I ain't got nothing now. Just a fistful of medals and a grief so profound, that it dogs my step every damn day."

"Angie, Angie, darling. She ain't nothing like you. You'd never put up with Jonas and his shit. Plus your Papa wasn't anything like Jacob. He was damn proud of you, that he had such a strong-willed girl."

George then sat on the floor of the shrine, his back against the wall. He was holding onto a well-worn teddy bear, and he then pulled a tattered baby blanket over him. He was shaking something fierce, and he tried to stop, trying to remember the assorted coping mechanisms he had been given over the years. When he had first agreed to Janet's illicit proposal, he had gotten this anxious and disturbed. But his uneasiness over the possibility of replacing his soulmate with Janet had quickly passed when he realized that their relationship would only be the most superficial of liaisons.

A pity fuck.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Wham Bam, Thank you, Ma'am.

Sorry about keeping the boots on. Hope they didn't make a mess on your comforter.

But this had the potential to go further, and he knew that if actually allowed her behind his emotional barricades, Samantha Carter could hurt him far easier than Janet Fraiser could ever dream of doing.

"Living is easy with your eyes closed," he whispered.

Samantha was playing with her hair, wondering if she could actually do something with it, and she was just about to decide it was a hopeless cause and throw her curling iron as a sign of defeat, when her phone rang. She ran to the phone, neatly sidestepping two unopened boxes, and vowed that one day soon, she'd get unpacked.

Maybe it was George!

The caller ID said it was her parent's number, so she quickly hoped that it was her mom, rather than her father. To her delight, it was her mom, so she curled up on the couch. Maybe if she was really lucky, her mom would be in a good mood, and she could get some advice from her about life, men, sex….

"How's your new job, honey?"

"It's wonderful, Mom!" Samantha admitted, not bothering to keep the excitement from her voice. "It's a challenge and everyone's been really nice so far. And… please don't tell Dad… there's someone in which I'm interested. Kinda. Sorta."

"Why shouldn't I tell your father?" Her mom asked in concern. Her tone turned motherly and disapproving over Sam's lack of faith in her father. "He only wants you to be happy and not to make the same mistakes we did."

"Well, the guy is a little bit older than me, and he's in the military… I just don't want Dad getting snoopy," Samantha pleaded. "You know how he got with Jonas."

"Ah… yes…," her mother sighed as she remembered that mess all too well. "I won't mention it then, but if it gets serious, you need to tell your father. Now, what rank is he?"

"He's a Colonel," Samantha admitted. "A full bird Colonel."

Being a military wife for so long, her mother did a quick mental sum of the various ranks and that realized that the youngest Sam's new friend could be, was at least ten years her daughter's senior.

"He's more than a little older than you, unless he advanced up the ranks quickly. Was he married?"

Her mother, a stern Catholic, frowned on divorce.

"He's widowed," Sam explained. "He does have kids, but they died in a car accident."

Samantha phrased it that way, because she couldn't imagine saying that Hammond didn't have kids. Not after remembering how he had stuttered and stumbled over his words when he talked about them.

Her mother was appropriately sympathetic, "How horrible!"

Then her mother asked her questions about her new friend, and the two of them had a real mother-daughter conversation, the type of conversation Samantha had often wanted with her mother, and that had been in all too short supply when she had been growing up. Well, it wasn't her mother's fault. After her mom's horrible car accident when Samantha was twelve and all the time her mom had spent in rehabilitation hadn't been conducive to mother-daughter bonding.

In fact, it had been her father that had to explain the facts of life to her. Her first period had arrived early; she had been thoroughly not expecting it and her father had to calm her down and explain to her that it was normal and part and parcel of being a woman.

That talk had consisted of a rather embarrassed Samantha trying to hide under the table while her dad bluntly explained everything, including how to put a rubber on a banana. She had been completely mortified, especially when he made her practice with a banana. He had bought a bunch of bananas, and a box of condoms, and she had practiced for what seemed an eternity until neither the rubber nor the banana broke and the banana was jauntily sporting a raincoat.

"Don't get pregnant and ruin your life, Samantha," he warned her. "Your mother and I have high hopes for you. You'll get somewhere…make something of yourself. Explore your options, not like your mother and me."

Oh God! She hadn't practiced that since, and George had promised that they'd be using them! And while she was completely inexperienced, she had a damn good idea that it would be different trying to put them on George. That was another thought! Should she go out and buy them? What size? She read Cosmo, she knew that it was always a good thing to be prepared at all times for the possibility of having sex, but she still hadn't actually bought any condoms to put in her bag. After all, didn't they have an expiration date?

"How long have you been seeing him?" Samantha's mom prompted Samantha when her mind wandered and she had been quiet for far too long.

"Today was the first date," Samantha shyly admitted, hoping her mom wouldn't be too caustic.

"Oh! Samantha…. One Date! You seem… a little too enthralled by this Colonel, Samantha," her mom commented. "One date and you've got such a crush on him. Be careful, dear."

"He's been really nice, Mom," Samantha explained. "He's a gentleman, Mom. He knows that I'm still a virgin…"

"That's nothing to be ashamed of, it proves that you have good morals," her mom protested. "Why does he know that on your first date? Did he get fresh?"

"I told him, Mom. George says that he won't push the issue with me," Samantha explained. "You know how Jonas was."

"A bit like your father in that matter," her mother said softly.

Sam knew that her mom didn't mean to say that so she could hear it, so she ignored it.

"I told him right away so he'd know how I stood on that issue. He said that while he'd love to be intimate, he wants to wait until I'm ready," Samantha explained. "George is a real gentleman, Mom. He's so different from the others."

"Just be careful, Samantha. Please, I want you to find someone to be happy with, but be careful," her mom pleaded. "You know how those men in uniform can be."

They chatted for a little bit longer, Sam told her mom to give her father her love, and then they said their goodbyes.

The next morning, George promptly arrived at her front door, and the way his icy blues eyes lingered over her was almost like a physical caress, so he seemed to heartily approve of her new outfit, with a shirt that flashed a little bit of her cleavage, a cute jean jacket and a nice pair of jeans that showed off her trim figure. Samantha found herself unexpectedly awkward with him, as she spent far too much of her time after she had spoken to her mom on the internet researching about a certain subject that she had been too embarrassed to mention to her mom. Her investigation had been informative and rather frighteningly educational, but still a bit of a shock. Her dad had never informed her that some women were able to put condoms on their lovers with just their tongue.

Samantha glanced at the older man next to her, with his stone face and ramrod straight posture, and tried to image geeky little her doing that to him with her tongue without him laughing. She immediately flushed and looked away. Hammond put his hand on her face and made her look at him.

"I'd give you a penny for your thoughts, but I think I might end up blushing as I'm just a shy boy from Texas," he drawled.

Samantha was pretty damn sure that no shy little boy from Texas had even smirked like THAT though.

"Do I get a good morning kiss at least?" George asked sadly, complete with a fake alligator tear.

"Yes," she agreed quickly, perhaps a little too quickly, as he quirked a half smile.

Again, he insisted on an unhurried kiss that deepened slowly as he guided her through it, and his deliberate, leisurely kiss made her desire to bang him on the front lawn.

In front of the neighbors!

She didn't care if the entire block watch saw them! Because that would mean people would know that Samantha Carter wasn't a frigid virgin!

When they finally broke apart, she realized that George was supporting her and that she was leaning against him.

"Someon's knees got a little week," George teased her as he kissed the top of her head.

"Lack of oxygen," she immediately retorted as truthfully, she was feeling a wee bit dizzy. The world hadn't moved when they kissed, but she had definitely gotten off balance.

"Should I take you to see Fraiser?" His voice was dripping in concern, but Sam could tell her was amused by her quip.

"I need more mouth to mouth, as I'm still feeling dizzy," she insisted. Sam pulled him closer towards her, and George shook his head. He put his finger over her mouth and rubbed the outline of her lips.

"You're never going to get to the range at this rate," he reminded her.

"So, you'll let me play with your gun today?" Samantha asked a trifle bit giddily.

Instead of George's expected dry and slightly risqué response, George bit his lower lid and then shook his head.

"Samantha," George put his hands on her shoulders, and squeezed them. "I know yesterday I flirted with you…"

She felt her blood run cold, and her unease must have been easily apparent to George, as he carefully rubbed his hand against her face.

"No, let me finish, dear. Yesterday, you held a broken gun that will never fire a round. Today, you need to focus on your weapon completely and utterly. Carelessness with firearms is inexcusable, Samantha. People can get hurt or even killed by people being reckless with firearms. In my stay at Camp MentalSnap…"

He easily overrode her protests, "I can call it that, because it's what is, what it was and what it will always be. During my stay at Camp MentalSnap, there was an Air Force officer who didn't lock his gun up one night. He always locked it up but one night, he was tired, got distracted and the gun wasn't put his gun safe. His son, Charlie, found the gun and he ended up blowing his head off. When Jack found his son's body, he realized that Charlie was dead because he didn't put his gun in the safe, and he snapped. Jack tried to kill himself with that same handgun."

George took a deep breath before continuing shakily, "I've lost my entire family, Samantha. If you get injured because you failed to comprehend how truly dangerous a firearm is, I won't be able to handle it. I hate teaching the rooks for that reason. Because one of these days, they'll get hurt, crippled or killed, and it might be because I didn't teach them something that they needed to know, or one day in class, they decide to daydream about the Archimedes screw and I didn't feel like bringing their minds back to class. I don't think I'll be able to handle the guilt, Samantha. Please take this seriously today."

"I will," Samantha promised. "I promise, I just like… flirting… with you."

Oh God, she knew that she was fuchsia. Her cheeks were radiating heat like she had third degree sunburn!

"Really?" George questioned her. "You like flirting with this old dog?"

She chewed her lip and shook her head in affirmation.

"Samantha… you're always so bashful. I know Jonas hurt you… maybe not physically, but emotionally and mentally he injured you, so you're apprehensive about revealing too much of the real Samantha to me. Trust this battered old warhorse when I promise you that I won't ridicule you. Talk, Samantha. Talk to me, I live in a world of silence…" George paused and then ran his finger down her cheek.

"Tell me what you like, Samantha. It's part of dating, you know, talking, to get to know someone," he reminded her. "So feel free to talk about anything."

"What should I talk about?" Samantha questioned.

"You," George insisted. "Tell me about what you like, what you don't like…"

"I like it when you kiss me," she blurted, her face turning rosy.

And to her delight, he kissed her again.

They reviewed gun safety, the required stance, hand grasp, trigger pull and assorted other gun related issues until the two of them got to the range. Much to Samantha's disappointment, he made damn sure to keep his hands to himself during the drive there and their conversation completely non-risqué. George checked them into the range, paid the fees and reminded her of what she needed to know.

"What's Rule # 1?" He quizzed expectantly.

"All guns are loaded, always," Samantha rattled off easily. "Even if I believe that that it's not loaded, it is. Rule # 2 is 'Don't point at anything you don't want to fire at.' My finger will remain off the trigger until my site is on the target and the final rule is always to be aware of my target and what is beyond it."

"We'll be doing dry fire for a bit, for you to practice everything. When I'm happy, we'll move up to live ammo," he explained.

He paused and then held out a small box to her.

Samantha Carter gave him a quizzical look and he explained, "Yesterday, I noticed the gun you were using really was a little too large for your hands. Put your hand against mine."

He held up one of his hand and placed it against hers. His hand was slightly larger than hers.

"Your hands are a little smaller, so I thought this gun might work better for you. Try it, if you like it, and it fits, you can have it. You'll just have to get all the permits first," George explained. "It's a Berretta. Hasn't been used in a while, but I cleaned it up and checked it out last night. If I remember rightly, the recoil is a little less than the one with which I normally practice. Take it."

He pushed the small, locked metal box into her hands.

"I'm serious, if it's a good match, you can have it," he insisted. "I don't use that particular gun and I never have. It's just sitting in my gun safe, and it could use a good home."

Damn him for a fool, but Samantha was misty eyed over his offer to gift her the gun.

"Was this Angie's?" she questioned carefully, as though she was afraid to scratch a barely healed scar. "It was, wasn't it?"

"I gave it to her before my first overseas deployment," Hammond explained slowly.

Last night when he had taken the gun out of the safe, wanting to clean it and check it out, he had just hoped she would take it, without having to explain who had originally owned the gun. "She was pregnant with our first child because she wanted a part of me just in case I didn't come home, so I got her the best damn gun I could afford since I wouldn't be home to protect her and the baby."

"I can't take it, George," Samantha protested.

"Take it," he insisted. "It's been sitting in the gun safe since Angie and the girls died. Nobody else had the combination to the gun safe, so I know that Angie was the only one that used it. Angie's third cousin was using the safe as a plant holder and vowing one day to find a locksmith to get it open. I can't use the gun, it doesn't fit my hand. I also won't use it, because I gave it to her as gift. I certainly won't sell the gun, so try it out. If it fits your hand, and you like the feel of it, it's yours."

"George…"

"She's not gonna mind, Samantha. I think she'd like her gun to go another woman, rather that sitting in my gun safe and never being used. Try it, ok? I also spoke to the staff here, and you're going to try a couple different guns, different makers, different models and different calibers. You're going to wrap your hands around a Glock, a Kimber….."

She was staring at him, with her blue eyes all misty. Damn it, he was just offering her a gun, not an engagement ring!

"Did you teach Angie how to shoot?" Samantha asked.

"Hell, no! Angie's mother had taught her how to shoot when Angie was twelve. Teaching your wife to shoot is a good way to end up in divorce court," George then barked a laugh. "Fact is I don't know if I should be teaching you now, but for now, we'll have to deal with it. Understand, I will come down very hard on you."

Sam blushed slightly, and he struggled not to laugh.

"Because I don't want you learning any bad habits, so I will yell and curse you out if I think you're doing something stupid. Don't get angry at me, ok? I just want to make sure that you live another day."

"I know that, George," she insisted.

Grip, Stance, Sight Alignment, Trigger Control. Grip, Stance, Sight Alignment, Trigger Control. Grip, Stance, Sight Alignment, Trigger Control. Grip, Stance, Sight Alignment, Trigger Control.

All of George's instructions went through her head like a whirlwind and she whispered the instructions to herself as she carefully aimed the Beretta at the target. It was odd; how Hammond's late wife's gun had fitted her hand as though it was made just for her. The Glock was a bit too uncomfortable, the Kimber too much of a stretch but the Beretta…

She gripped the gun, checked her stance, aligned her sight and just before she pulled the trigger, she thought of the last time she had fired a gun. Her father had been absolutely disgusted with her technique and Samantha felt her muscles begin to nervously, instinctively quiver. She pulled the trigger, jerkily and not in the smooth way Hammond had instructed. The Beretta's recoil was not as forceful as her Dad's .357 magnum but it still rocked her slightly.

Looking at the target, she saw that her aim had gone low and to the left. For all her troubles, she had missed the target and her injured wrist was paining her again.

Unconsciously, Samantha tightened up and waited for Hammond to go ballistic as her father would have done. Instead, he tapped her on the shoulder, shook his head and then motioned for her to empty the gun. She did so quickly, and when she handed him his wife's gun and the magazine clip, he just took the ammo and motioned for her to leave the range.

When they were in the hallway outside the range, he removed his protective ear muffs and shook his head. Carefully she removed hers, and she waited for the screaming to commence.

"That was a goddamn perfect example of everything going straight to hell, Samantha. You were positioned right, your stance was good, your grip was excellent, then you flinched while you fired the gun. What happened? Why'd you decide to flinch? What were you thinking when you pulled the trigger?" His voice echoed slightly in the empty hallway. "Did you re-injure your wrist?"

Carefully he took her wrist in his large hand, and he began palpating it carefully. She gasped slightly when she felt the slightest twinge of pain and he shook his head.

"You did, didn't you, so no more firing range for you today," George insisted. "But seriously, why did you flinch? Was it because your wrist hurt? I warned you about overdoing it, and possibly re-injuring it."

"No, it was after the gun recoiled, I tightened up and my wrist got jarred. It's nothing serious," Samantha insisted. "Let's go back on the range so I can try again."

George wasn't easily detoured from finding out why she had decided to demonstrate the picture perfect example of FLINCHING and so he asked her again, what had happened.

"I thought of my father actually," Samantha explained shortly, not wanting to rehash what had happened.

"Were you aiming for him?" George quipped after a long pause.

She refused to answer THAT question, and she sighed. To her surprise, George didn't push the issue, instead he gave her time to compose herself.

"Do you know my father?" Samantha finally asked, afraid that George would answer in the affirmative. "Major General Jacob Carter?"

George paused to think, as though going through a mental rolodex of all the Air Force personnel he had dealt with through his long career. Then he shook his head.

"No, can't say that I know him," he answered in a strangely bleak tone. "Can't say that I do."

She grimaced and George shook his head again. He put his hand on her shoulder and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

"Samantha, don't let yourself be limited by your previous experiences. Your father and Jonas seemed to delight in squashing you. Seize the day, Samantha. Decide what you want to do, and go for it," George explained. "Now what do you want, Samantha?"

"I want to learn how to shoot a gun," Samantha stated firmly. "I want to be able to defend myself, and I want to prove that I can do this!"

"Are you trying to prove it to yourself? Or to your old man? Who probably is close to my age, so I shouldn't call him that," Hammond dryly remarked.

Her shoulders slumped and she stared at the floor. "Both, actually," she admitted. Then she looked up at him, and shamefully admitted, "And you."

"Me?" George protested, his voice sounding sincerely surprised. "Why do you think you have to prove yourself to me?"

Because you're the first guy whose treated me decently.

Because you admit that you want to have sex with me but you're willing to wait.

Because you're so much like my father in some ways that maybe by getting your approval, I could get his.

Because you're so unlike my father in other ways.

Because when you kiss me, you make me feel special, like I'm not a geek girl who got stood up at her high school prom.

Because you offered me the gun you gave your wife, and I want to prove to you that I'm worthy of it!

Because I've spent my entire life trying to validate myself as a person to anyone and everyone, and you're the first man whose hasn't belittled or denigrated me.

"I keep telling you, you don't have to prove yourself to me," George reminded. He put his hand on her face, and then deliberately, he ran his fingers down her neck. The sensation was ticklish and pleasant and it gave her butterflies in her tummy.

Hammond stared at something for a moment, and then he looked into her eyes. George appeared perplexed, yet he was wearing a bad boy smirk.

"Well, actually, it appears you do have to verify something for me, after all, Samantha Carter," George informed her in a very serious tone.

"What?" Samantha asked, trying not to voice her concern about his stern demeanor. What had she done now?

"Are you wearing matching camo?" George questioned softly, as his finger tugged at her bra strap that was peeping out from her shirt. "I've been seeing little flashes of camo straps all day, and I really am fixated on verifying that you're completely regulation."

She got really flustered then, and she couldn't help but cringe.

"I'm sorry, dear. I thought if I made a naughty quip, you might relax a little," George's voice radiated sincerity. "Maybe I should get one of the instructors here to take over your training. I'm obviously getting you flustered. Completely my fault after yesterday."

"No," Samantha protested. "I trust you, please don't get someone else."

"Siler's probably the best one," he decided. "He's got the Small Arms Expert Marksmanship Ribbon and he's steady and even-tempered. Just if he starts talking to you about the latest pool he's running, ignore him else you'll lose that new fancy shirt you're wearing. I'll talk to him tomorrow, but for now, I think you've enough range time. I really don't want you ruining your wrist."

Samantha attempted to protest that she was fine, but he put his index finger over her mouth.

"I don't want you getting injured because of my negligence, I would be exceedingly distressed if that happened," he reminded her. "It's time for you to put the gun away, Samantha. I won't let you take target practice until Janet Fraiser clears that wrist. That's an order."

On the way back to Colorado Springs, George made sure to stop as soon as possible and buy ice for Samantha's tender wrist. Actually he went into a small supermarket and he bought a bag of frozen peas and a wash cloth. From personal experience of far too many injuries to count, frozen peas worked just as well if not better than an ice pack, because it would be flexible and malleable around her injured wrist.

Poor Samantha, she was sitting in the passenger seat, visibly dejected and no doubt mentally cursing herself for flinching when she fired the gun. It was completely his fault, as he was the one instructing her and he should have realized that Jake's lack of finesse would have emotionally traumatized his daughter. Damn it, he had gotten too cocky! Foolishly he had thought she had managed to shake off Jake's abuse as Samantha had been doing so damn well! She knew how to handle the gun, had a good grip on her pistol, had followed the gun safety rules to the letter and damn it, she had seemed comfortable using Angie's gun yet she had flinched when she had fired it.

Her self-confidence was in the cellar, as she had been almost monosyllabic from when they left the range. Samantha had insisted that she was fine, that she could continue practicing but his deliberate refusal to even consider the matter as open to discussion had left Samantha blaming herself.

He got back into the truck and handed her the peas and the wash cloth.

"Put the cloth on your wrist and then put the peas on top," George instructed. "So hopefully when we get back to Colorado Springs, it'll be around one. What do you want to do for the remainder of the day?"

Samantha applied the peas to her wrist and then settled back into the passenger's seat. She was staring out the window when she finally decided to answer him.

"Take me home, please," Samantha bleakly requested. "Thank you for wasting your time with me today."

"Time is never wasted when it's with you, Samantha, let me assure you of that. Now I made reservations for dinner for five. It's a Thai place," he explained, trying not to voice his disappointment. "I was hoping maybe you'd want to come over to my place."

Samantha turned to look at him, with those sky blue eyes that were such depthless pools, so full of self-contempt. It was obvious that she believed that she had screwed up royally today and wanted to lick her wounds in private.

"I rented a movie, "StarMan", it's got one of the Bridges boys in it, Beau or Jeff, and it's sci-fi. I've got a big couch, and we could cuddle. Maybe I could sneak a few kisses, get a little fresh, only a little, not too much…" He put a little wheedle into his voice, hoping to coax her into not retreating into the safety of her apartment.

"Only a little fresh?" Samantha questioned softly.

There was a glint of amusement in her eyes, chasing away her self-doubt and distress, and her mouth was almost crinkled into a slight smile.

"You know, maybe I could nibble on your ear," George suggested cautiously. "Maybe I could try to get to second base…Naturally; since you're a lady, you'd be horrified by my boldness and threaten to slap my hands."

Samantha bit her lip and then looked up at him.

"If I let you go to second base, and I didn't stop you, would you try for third?" Samantha whispered.

"Yes," George spoke in an intense, soft voice. "And after I kissed you everywhere, and thoroughly worshipped every single inch of you…. I'd want to run home. But you know that I won't try for home without certain signals from the third base coach."

"I'm not into base ball," she admitted. "I'm not sure what signals for which you'd be looking."

"There's three signals total. There's the most important one, Stop/Stay, which means I carefully touch third base. Slide, which means, I slide into third base, and that's a great of fun yet a little messy for both of us."

"And what's the third?" Samantha questioned.

"Ah… that's the best one of all. The crowd is yelling, the coach is telling me to go home, and I do my best to get home. But you know, sometimes when I try for a grand slam, I'll get tagged out before I get home. You know what happens then?"

"You must get angry about getting tagged," she whispered.

"No… I don't, because I got to third base. Maybe the third base coach thought I was better than I actually am; there are a thousand different possibilities why I got tagged out before I reached home. And while I'd like to get a grand slam, because hopefully there will be a hell of a lot of hoot and hollering and high fiving when I get a grand slam, getting a triple is nothing to get angry about. Especially for an old man like me."

"And sometimes, I don't even get on first. I strike out, do a pop up fly or do a bunt, so I end up taking one for the team. But I don't get angry. I don't get mad. Do you know why?"

"No," Samantha admitted. "I don't know why you wouldn't get mad. Don't you want to score? Isn't that what every man wants?"

"Well, yeah, I do. But some hotshots forget that there's a team effort involved. What's best for the team is what's important. I'm secondary to the team's greater good. It's enough to be in the game. I keep telling you, this will happen at your speed."

"George…" Her voice was quite shy and hesitant and then she paused. Samantha bit her lip, and she ran her fingers through her hair. Then she gifted him with a very shy smile.

The only time he had seen that specific smile before was when Angie had decided that he was going to do the honors. And then, as now, he had to put to voice what his partner was too afraid to ask.

"Darling, do you want me to try for a home run today?"

Samantha Carter blushed and nodded her head.

"Let's get you home, then," George decided. "I think I know a shortcut."