Scrutiny

She'd fled.

There was no other word that described her self-conscious, desperate hurtle towards the elevators and the surface.

She'd passed through the final checkpoint and emerged into the mid-morning sun. Disoriented, she'd entered the parking area, found her Volvo. Automatically, she'd reached for her keys.

And then she remembered. She'd been driven home the night before with Simmons and his men. Her keys must still be on the entry table, along with her wallet and purse.

Sam sat down on a curb in the parking lot. Her body screamed in exhaustion. She'd been awake for how long? At least twenty-four hours. And it wasn't like she hadn't pulled all-nighters before—but the weariness she felt extended further than her bones, or muscles. Her fatigue had crept into her soul.

There had been the confrontation in Hammond's office, and then the surreal, uncomfortable drive to her house, sandwiched as she'd been between Simmons and O'Neill. She'd entered her home as if breaching an enemy stronghold, and left it through that homemade wormhole.

And then Orlin had been shot, and she'd held his hand as he'd died. Ascended. Maybe there was a difference. She really didn't care. It had just resulted in the same thing—one more person she cared about who'd left her.

Sam moaned and dropped her face into her knees, folding her arms protectively around her head. She threaded her fingers through her short hair, pulling on the strands, grateful that it hurt. At least she could feel something. She'd been numb since the moment she'd entered Hammond's office and looked at O'Neill.

And he'd evaded her gaze.

Something inside her had shriveled—some hope, maybe, or faith. She'd realized that the blind trust she'd had in her team, in her Superior Office, had been misguided. Misplaced. That she'd been fooling herself all along.

A sound near her made her open her eyes. Through her cage of arms and knees she could see a pair of shoes. Tiny, sensible, low heels.

Janet.

"You okay, Sam?"

But the Major could only shake her head. No.

Janet looked around briefly before lowering herself to the curb beside her friend.

"'Not okay, Doctor', or 'It sucks to be me, Janet'?"

Only a real friend would have understood what that meant. The Major lifted her head and turned her face towards Dr. Fraiser. "It sucks to be me, Janet."

Dr. Fraiser's face softened into an expression of motherly pity. "I heard. I'm sorry I wasn't here when you got back this morning. I would have kept you in observation so that Dorkface Simmons couldn't get at you."

Sam couldn't help it. The corner of her mouth lifted slightly. "Dorkface. That's good. Appropriate."

"So." Janet paused before venturing on. "What exactly happened?"

"I told you he was at my house."

No need to ask who 'he' was. Sam had mentioned Orlin once to Janet. She hadn't told the doctor much because Sam hadn't wanted to make her responsible if everything went south. And right now, everything had journeyed so far south it was in Antarctica. Jan frowned and scooted closer, linking her elbow with her friend's. "I know. I didn't tell anyone."

"I know, Janet." Sam nodded. "They were supposed to take the surveillance equipment out of my house."

"I thought they had taken it out."

"They left some in. At least one camera. I think they tapped my phones. There were listening devices all over. Nothing that I could see." She wiped at her nose with her hand. "Janet—they have me on tape with him. They were spying on me."

"Holy Cow."

"And the thing is—he knew."

"Who, Orlin, or Colonel O'Neill?"

Sam grimaced. "Both. Orlin knew that they were trying to capture him. So he bought some stuff on line with my credit card—"

"How'd he get that? You always keep it at home."

"That's where he's been for the past weeks. My home." The implication was clear.

"But you hide it—I know how you feel about using it—you're such a buzzkill at the mall."

Sam shook her head and smiled—an anemic smile, but a smile, nonetheless. "When he first came, he told me how his people—his race—share themselves with each other. He said it was more like sharing their essence."

"The glowy thing." That was the one thing Janet had known—the reason Sam had been sure her visitor wasn't malicious.

"The glowy thing. He said he wouldn't read my mind—but now I'm not so sure. I think he may have seen more than he let on. Like where I hide my stuff."

"Or, he just looked around until he found what he needed."

Sam nodded. "Whatever it was. He ordered titanium, some fiber optic cabling—other materials—and he built his own 'Gate. Special Forces surrounded my house and tried to take him in, but he escaped back to 636. I followed him—trying to make things right. Simmons and his men think I'm complicit in something bad. Something wrong."

"And what does the Colonel say?"

"Simmons?"

"No, Sam. What does Colonel O'Neill think?"

Sam broke again. She bowed her head again, tightened her lips. She didn't have to say anything. Janet knew that her friend had been broken.

"Oh, Sam." Janet disengaged her arm from the Major's and reached around, pulling her close. "I'm so sorry."

Only Janet and Teal'c had been present during the Za'tarc testing. Only they knew what had been said. And even though Sam hadn't said anything else about it—couldn't say anything else—Janet wasn't stupid. She'd read through the reports, seen the private glances, allowed them to stay together in the infirmary when she shouldn't have. She'd obviously hoped that they would figure out a way. She'd said more than once that the Colonel and Sam needed each other. They were so much alike—they understood what it was like to be who they were, doing what they were doing. So much time was being lost because of honor, and stubbornness. Janet respected their nobility as much as she scorned their pigheadedness.

"He didn't even try to defend me.

"Oh, Sam." Janet repeated. "What did he say?"

"He said he'd given me orders to gather intel—which he had—but Janet—it was so contrived. And he wouldn't look at me."

"He must have had some reason."

"What reason could there be to have lost faith in me? What have I done to him to deserve that?"

"Nothing. You don't deserve that at all."

But Sam knew that something was missing. "So what do I do?

"Go home." Janet rubbed Sam's shoulder gently. "Go home and get some sleep. I can call in a prescription, if you need it."

Sam let out a strangled laugh. "That's what I was trying to do. My car is here, but I am sadly lacking in keys."

Janet grinned sadly. "I'll give you a ride." She stood and offered her hand like she would have to Cassie. "Come on."

----OOOOOOO----

Her house didn't feel like her own anymore.

She'd returned home to find it locked up tight. Sam had borrowed a pair of tweezers and a paper clip from Janet's purse to break herself in.

Once inside, she'd walked through each room, examining. She'd expected worse—thought she'd return to see her home in a shambles, her belongings strewn about. In reality, everything sat mostly where she'd left it—just skewed. The computer monitor sat a few inches off kilter, her butter graced the wrong shelf in the fridge, her toothpaste cap faced down instead of up in the holder on the counter. It didn't feel right—as if it had been violated. Simmons' men hadn't been careful in their searches. There were holes where wires had been removed from the drywall, and her drawers had been inserted in the wrong slots. The silk wrapped emerald had disappeared from where she'd hidden it in her underwear drawer. The thought of Simmons rifling through her lingerie had nearly made her vomit.

And every possible trace of Orlin had been erased. Even the spare toothbrush she'd found to give him after he'd retaken human form, the comb, the few clothes she'd bought him, the quilt and pillow he'd folded neatly each morning and left on the couch in the living room—all gone. Sam could only assume they'd been collected for testing.

So she'd sat on her bed and stared at the walls. In the corner across from her bed, an ugly scar marred the drywall where a camera had once been mounted. It looked like a metaphor, somehow. Of exactly what, she had no clue.

She felt as sullied as the house. The fact that her integrity was in question was worse than the thorough search her home had endured. That O'Neill had turned his back on her was incomprehensible. She had no explanation for his behavior—his disregard for the trust they had built during their years together. She'd replayed every conversation of the past three weeks over and over in her mind, and still could not come up with any answers.

It was as if something just suddenly changed—a switch flipped.

Things had been fine when they'd first arrived on 636. When she'd awoken from her faint, it was if her entire world had suddenly shifted. Even Daniel had been strangely distant—and he still hadn't called to see how she was. Did he share this newfound distrust of her with the Colonel? She didn't know. Only Teal'c had been unaltered in his treatment of her, and Teal'c himself was still trying to find a footing after his experience with Apophis and the Rite of Mal Sharran.

And now the house lay silent around her—oppressive. It smelled different, looked different, felt different. She'd lost this sanctuary—this haven. She didn't belong here, anymore, either.

Overwhelmed and weak, she collapsed sideways on the bed. And the rest of the tears that she'd so successfully hidden from Simmons, from Janet, from the Colonel finally surfaced, trailing silently down her face to soak into the quilt.

----OOOOOOO----

Sam woke suddenly, sitting up too quickly. Dim light filtered in through her sheer drapes—she'd slept for several hours, at least. Her body felt stiff, sore, and wasted. She stripped off the BDU shirt that she still wore and toed off her boots. Standing, she unfastened the top button of her pants, and reached for the hem of her t-shirt.

"Carter."

Sam whirled to see Colonel O'Neill in her bedroom doorway. He wore civvies—jeans and a crew-neck sweater, and held a glass of water and some pills in a pharmacy bottle.

"What are you doing here, sir?" She knew she sounded accusatory, brash. She cleared the sleep out of her throat and redid the button at her waist, reached for the BDU big shirt.

"Doc Fraiser sent me over with these." He held up the bottle and shook it lightly. "She was afraid that you might not be able to sleep."

"You can see that wasn't really an issue, sir."

"Yes, well." He shrugged. Taking a single step inside the doorway, he placed the pills and the glass of water on her dresser. "There you are."

A comment that meant exactly nothing. Sam stared at the pills warily. "How did you get in?"

"Door was open."

"I'm sure I locked it."

"Really?" His brows rose slightly. "Odd."

Silence fell, heavy, meaningful, guarded. There wasn't anything to be said between them that was light, or pleasant. "I'd like some privacy, sir. And I'm all right. I don't need a sitter."

"Yes. Well, Doc Fraiser asked me to keep an eye on you, and since I can't just leave the one here, I guess I'll hang around for a bit."

"No disrespect intended, sir," Sam took a deep breath and looked him straight on. "But I really don't want you here."

His mouth tightened, his eyes narrowed. The Colonel studied her for a long, painful moment before shifting himself towards her slightly. "There are things we need to discuss."

"Here? In my house?" Sam smiled, but it was mockingly bitter. "Did you authorize more surveillance, sir? No—you're probably wired."

"It's not like that, Carter."

"Oh really?" She shook her head. "How can I be sure of that?"

O'Neill turned his head to the side, avoiding the directness of her gaze. "I need to explain."

"You don't trust me anymore, sir. I get that. What I don't understand is why you didn't come to me—why you didn't talk to me."

"Simmons left this morning. This whole—thing—with him is over. You've been cleared."

"And that's supposed to make everything just peachy again?"

"I didn't say that."

Sam ran an exasperated hand through her hair. "You're not going to leave, are you?"

The Colonel reached out and adjusted the bottle of pills he'd placed on the dresser, reset the glass of water. Sam knew those signs—he had something to say. She knew him well enough to know that he wouldn't leave until it had been said.

"I still don't want to talk here, sir."

He studied her intently, drumming his fingers on the top of her bureau. Finally, he folded his long fingers into a fist and rested it next to the glass. "Then get showered—get changed. We'll walk."

He thumped his knuckles on the dresser and turned, catching the door handle with his fingertips and closing it silently in his wake.