AN: For those of you who were confused by the ending of the last chapter, Sam was not crying. She was thinking to herself that if Daniel were upset, she wouldn't automatically think it was a bad scene. Take a look back at Sam's reaction to Daniel during the mess on Argos in Consequences (the story that comesbefore this one): she's upset at the fact that he allowed Jack to get drugged and seduced by Kynthia. That issue was unresolved as of the end of Consequences, and is still unresolved. I didn't make a big deal of it, though so I'm not surprised people forgot.

AN2: Writing has slowed to a crawl on this story for a variety of reasons. This is why I don't post a story until I've got a large chunk of it already written--if I posted stuff the second they were done, there would be no updates for a long time, at this point.

Jack paused, frowning. Was that clicking he heard? As in, Sam's laptop? He put the dish he was holding in the dishwasher and straightened up, following the sound towards their bedroom. Sam had said she'd be working on unpacking her stuff and getting it put away. She was pretty much done, but she was a perfectionist and liked to futz with things to make sure they were perfect. He'd been right about the honey-do list; under her orders, he'd already finished unpacking all the boxes in the house that he'd simply never unpacked when he moved in, and now she was talking about things like paint, and wallpaper, and curtains, and accessories, and furniture, and the garage, and … stuff. He'd already told her he'd paint, but he didn't do wallpaper.

He eased the bedroom door open all the way. Sure enough, there was Sam, stretched out on the bed with the lap-top in her lap. He walked in, quietly but not overly so, and was so not surprised when she didn't look up. Well before the virus and her pregnancy, Jack had figured out that once Sam got involved in her work, a herd of rampaging elephants was needed to draw her attention. It was a good thing in a lab, less so in the field, though as far as he'd seen she could control herself in the field. Not that she'd have much opportunity for that, now, and he suppressed a twinge of guilt.

He glanced over her shoulder. Sure enough, it was work. He wasn't sure exactly what it was, but it wasn't a computer game. "Sam," he said, poking her in the shoulder. "Are you being a bad little girl?"

She didn't look up. "Jack, please don't interrupt. I just had this idea about how we can speed up the computer's corrections for stellar drift. I obviously don't have the program on my laptop—not enough memory or speed—but I'm doing some rough modeling."

"That's good," Jack said, slightly exasperated. Did the woman never turn her brain off? Didn't she get tired? He sure did, just from hanging around her. "But I'm sure you can take care of it tomorrow. At work."

Sam finally stopped typing, though she kept her gaze fixed on the screen. "Jack."

That didn't sound good. "Yes?"

"Give me that piece of paper."

Her flat tones and still face did not bode well. "What … piece of paper?" Was that the grinding of teeth he heard?

"That damn agreement."

Okay, she was pissed. And he was pretty sure she'd cut out some other swear words, there. "Why?" he asked, knowing he was taking his life in his hands.

"So I can tear it up! I'm not some two year old who needs to have her toys taken away!"

Now she was looking at him, and, oy, she was hopping mad. "Um, Sam, I'm not treating you like a two year old," he said in his absolute most soothing voice.

"Yes you are," she said. "You're telling me where to go and when and what to eat and I'm sick of it! I did live on my own for 31 years before you came along, and I can damn well take care of myself! I know I'm a workaholic compared to most people, but I'm damn good at my job and I don't push myself too hard."

"I know that," Jack said, sitting down on the bed next to her. "But your body's not the same now. You need more rest and more food, and so does the baby." He put a hand on her thigh, gently, feeling her tense up. "You are fully capable of taking care of yourself. Problem is, when you get wrapped up in some problem or other, you forget to. I'm just here to remind you."

Sam stared fixedly at her computer screen. "I know you're only trying to help," she said in an even voice. "But if you keep on like this, I'm going to have to kill you."

She sounded … disturbingly serious. Since he didn't want to wake up dead one morning, Jack figured it was time for a compromise. "Okay, but you do need to learn how to relax a little. Take time off. Kick back. Have fun."

"Jack this is fun for me," Sam said, looking at him. "I love my job. I love being a scientist. It's like," she paused biting her lip, "it's like doing crossword puzzles. Figuring stuff out from clues. Except when I solve a puzzle, it matters. It's not just some game. That's … the best feeling in the world." She gave him a half a smile. "Especially this," she said, patting her computer. "The stuff I've been doing at the SGC recently is interesting, but I'm a theoretical physicist, not an engineer."

"What's the difference?" Jack asked innocently. He knew what the difference was, but he figured keeping her talking was safer than trying to talk himself. At least he was guaranteed not to say the wrong thing, no small consideration.

Sam shot him a look that was half exasperated and half amused; he wasn't sure how much she'd bought into his whole dumb routine, but if she had doubts, she was willing to play along. He liked that. He'd been polishing this act for decades. "A theoretical scientist of any kind works on, well, theory—mathematics, equations, things like that. An engineer works with machines and other complex physical objects, designing them, building them, repairing them." She'd gone into her lecture mode; Jack figured that meant he was home free.

"Now, when you're trying to reverse-engineer alien artifacts, a solid grounding in theory is very helpful. And a working knowledge of engineering helps when you're trying to prove your theory. And I do have a broader range of engineering and scientific background than most civilian theoretical physicists; the Air Force likes to move its people around, and you get put on projects where they need people, which sometimes means you end up in areas that aren't your specialty. But it's still … frustrating, sometimes, having to be an engineer instead of an astrophysicist. This," she patted her laptop, "this is what I went to school to do. Well, the stellar drift part. The computer programming is more of a hobby."

"Ah." Jack said, nodding, trying to look clueless.

Sam took his hand. "Jack, I'm at home, curled up on my bed. I had a good meal, and did some other stuff. Now I want to work on a puzzle. I am going to work on it. It will be much easier if you don't hassle me, but either way, I'm going to work on this tonight."

Jack nodded. He didn't like it … but she was right. Even if he could make her do what he wanted, she'd never forgive him. "Okay," he said. He gave her hand a squeeze and stood up. "I'll be finishing up in the kitchen if you need me."

Two nights later, Sam shut the front door guiltily behind her as she glanced at the clock. It was almost 2230; Jack would have a fit if he'd known how late she had worked that evening. But as SG-1 was off-world, currently, she didn't have to worry about him mother-henning her. Sam was determined to use the time to catch up on things she had been forced to let slide with Jack scrutinizing her work hours. It meant she'd have to work longer hours than she was used to—even for her, a fourteen-hour day was unusual—but it would be worth it.

She tried to brush off a bit of resentment. It wasn't Jack's fault she was pregnant, and Sam recognized that she needed to take better care of herself. But, God! She'd had the best job anyone could imagine, on the top off-world team. She'd devoted years of her life to bring the whole Stargate Program to life, and years preparing herself to be on it any way she could think of. The amount of sexist BS she'd had to wade through just in the day-to-day life of an officer was huge; she'd had to put up with even more to qualify for the original mission, only to be turned down in the end by West. Now, she finally had what she wanted, she'd been living her dream, but her body had betrayed her. She hadn't done anything Jack hadn't, but he was able to keep his off-world status while she was stuck in a lab buried under a mountain. It was galling. She knew Hammond had had no choice but to reassign her, and if he'd had someone capable of replacing Jack he'd have probably done so just out of general fairness, but that didn't help.

She tossed her keys on the table by the door and got herself some juice from the kitchen. She eyed the beer Jack kept in there; a cold one would really help take the edge off. But no, she couldn't, because her body wasn't her own at the moment. Sighing, she closed the door and went around the wall to the living room, flopping down on the couch. She should be in bed, but she needed to unwind a little, first. Flipping the tv on, Sam surfed through channels for a few minutes before turning it off in disgust. Nothing on at ten-thirty at night, apparently, at least nothing worth watching.

She was lonely and her back hurt, but Jack wasn't there to give her a back-rub, because he was offworld. Where she would be if it weren't for the thing growing inside her. Sam prodded her stomach, just barely beginning to round out a little, and made a face at the thought of what she'd look like in five months' time. Ick. And maternity wear. BDUs actually weren't so bad, but she'd never seen any maternity wear that looked nice, and she was not looking forward to it.

Finishing her juice, Sam stood up and stretched. It didn't help, much, but it was the best she could do. A blinking light caught her eye; there was a message on the phone machine. She prayed it wasn't Dad. He could be difficult to deal with, and she just didn't have the energy to even listen to him at the moment. Sighing, she hit the button.

"Jack? This is Michael. If you're there, please pick up. I need to talk to you. If you're not going to pick up, please call back. And if you don't know my number, Sarah does. I'm in better contact with your ex-wife than I am with you. Anyway, call me."

Sam frowned as she listened to the message. Even if she had his number, it was too late to call. Besides, she'd never met the man; it would be better if Jack called and talked to him. A couple of days wouldn't matter. She debated about finding a pencil and paper to write the message down, but decided against it. She just wouldn't delete it, and remind Jack to listen to it when he got back. Yawning, she went off to bed.