Colonel O'Neill had never thought he'd have Sam's brother on speed dial, but that had seemed fairly innocent. Digging up Mark Carter's number and adding it to his phone didn't mean he had to call. He tried eventually, of course, but it went to a disgustingly cheerful answering machine after the fourth ring. He hung up.

Four days later, he caught himself driving to her house instead of his own. Though he didn't know when she would get back, he figured he might as well stop in – having been through it himself, he knew that coming home to a fridge like a petri dish was no fun at all. And his ex-wife had always told him it was the little gestures that mattered… like clearing the mold out of the fridge.

He pulled up behind her car in the driveway – Janet, he figured, had taken her to the airport. Without saying anything to any of them. He liked the woman, generally, but this whole secretive tack she'd taken was not sitting well with him or the rest of SG-1. He couldn't help but feel that there was something huge they were missing – that Carter had grown another head or had her DNA screwed with or… or was dying.

He was good at finding worst-case scenarios. He always had been.

Killing the engine, he shuffled through his key ring and pulled out Carter's. He unlocked the door and stepped inside and stopped dead.

Her keys were on the table. Next to her purse. And her cell phone.

There was no way she'd have left town without those, no matter what shape she'd been in.

"Carter?" he called softly, starting a slow tour of her house. "Carter, it's me. I didn't know you were here." The front room showed no evidence of life, nor did the kitchen – no dishes on the counter, food undergoing a slow metamorphosis in the fridge. A blanket in the living room was pooled on the couch, not folded in its usual place, but that was hardly proof. "Carter… are you here?" he asked, unsure.

He finally found her in her bedroom, curled in the fetal position. Aside from the fact that she was no longer covered in blood, she looked even worse than when he'd found her on that planet. She was deathly pale and thin, skin hanging off her tiny frame. And though she was pretending to sleep, the weight loss made it impossible to hide the tension in her muscles. What the hell had Janet been thinking, letting her out?

"I know you're awake," he said softly.

She didn't move.

"You lied to the general. To us."

Her face crumpled.

"We want to help you, Carter."

She shook her head. "Please, sir. I just want to be alone." Her soft voice was hoarse and thick from not speaking.

"You've been alone for days. It doesn't look to me like that's so much workin' for ya." He knew it was irrational, but he was a little angry – not at her, but at the running and the lies. They were supposed to be a team – and when it all hit the fan, they were supposed to depend on each other, and everyone – Doctor Fraiser, General Hammond, and apparently even Carter – seemed to have forgotten that. "When's the last time you ate something?"

She shook her head again.

"What does that mean, Carter?" The irritation seeped through that time, and he felt bad when she winced. He pushed it away and lowered his voice. "Come on, I'm gonna make you some dinner."

She didn't move, and he sighed. "Carter, that wasn't really a request. You have to eat. Get up."

When she still didn't move, he searched desperately for a new tactic. He couldn't – wouldn't – touch her; he feared it would only drive her further away, but he had to get her out of bed somehow. "I'll get you anything you want," he offered, "and you've gotta be hungry. What sounds good? Mexican? Italian? Ice cream?"

"Sir, stop, please," she moaned.

"I could go for some Rocky Road." As malnourished as she probably was, he figured calories of any sort would go a long way. "Or just chocolate. Plain chocolate, or with chocolate syrup, or –"

"Oh, God," she interrupted and sprang from the bed, one hand on her stomach and the other clamped firmly over her mouth. She rocketed past him and around the corner into the bathroom.

He stared after her for a second, then blew a slow breath out of the side of his mouth. "Crap." Grabbing the glass from her nightstand, he followed her as the toilet flushed. Sam was half-kneeling, half-lying in front of the fixture, her face flat against the cool tile of her tub, covered in sweat and shaking uncontrollably. He filled the glass with water and dampened a washcloth, then knelt silently next to her, and this time, she was too weak to even think about pulling away.

He gently wiped the sweat from her face and neck before helping her take a small sip of water. Once he was reasonably certain she wouldn't throw up again, he guided her to her feet and shakily back to bed, sitting against the headboard. The food, he supposed, could wait.

"You wanna talk about it?"

Miserable, she pulled her knees up to her chest and closed her eyes. "Please, sir," she whispered. "Just go away."

"Listen." Jack sat near the foot of the bed, giving her space but willing her to look at him. "I know… things suck right now, but it's gonna be okay." He wanted to kick himself. Why was he such an idiot? "It, um… I always feel lonely after… something like this. Like no one really gets it.

"I, uh, went to a seminar once on PTSD. The not sleeping, getting sick… you need to talk to someone, Carter. And I'm here. I mean, I've been through it, Carter. I understand."

"You have no idea," she muttered.

He stared at her for a moment, shocked. "Have you… Have you met Baal? Or forgotten when I told you about the whole POW thing? What do you mean, I-"

"I'm pregnant."

The words came out of nowhere, and it took him a long, blessed moment before the meaning truly sunk in. Rage hit him like a wall, combining with disgust and pity to form a vicious cocktail in the pit of his stomach that made him want to vomit, too. He knew what had happened out there, but this – this was irrefutable proof of something he wanted desperately to ignore.

From the bed, Carter looked at him expectantly, concerned, but he didn't have an answer that he could put into words. Finally, he stood up and walked out.

Shocked, hurt, Sam fell to her side on the bed as the sobs began again, and she wept bitterly into the pillow. She had imagined a thousand reactions to those words, and he had just done what she'd feared the most. She was broken, dirty, damaged, and no one – no one – wanted her.

"Carter. Hey, Carter," Jack's voice soothed from the side of the bed. "Hey, stop that." He was still leery of touching her, but he needed her to look at him.

When she did, her red eyes showed surprise. "But I thought you –"

"What?" He couldn't stop himself this time, and one hand came up to push her damp hair back from her face. "You thought I left? Carter, I would never, ever leave you."

She pushed herself back up to sitting, and the colonel took a seat next to her. "But you…"

"I probably shoulda said something, huh?" But he didn't explain, and they sat stiffly next to each other, awkward as two teens on a first date. Seconds turned to minutes, then hours, and he just hoped that his presence was doing her some good, because he had no idea what to say to her.

"You took it better than I thought you would," she said finally. "Better than I did."

"Huh?" he glanced at her, but she was still avoiding his eyes, and he resorted back to staring at the opposite wall.

"The news."

"Oh." He bit his lip. "I'm trying not to think about it."

"Oh. Sorry."

"No, that's not… I mean… If I think too hard about… how – and why – I'm gonna march back through that gate and kill 'em all," he confessed. "So I'm just thinkin' about… what it is."

"I don't follow, sir."

He opened his mouth, not quite sure what to say, but a knock on the door came to his rescue. Unfortunately, Sam didn't feel the same way – her eyes immediately went wide again, and she drew her knees up a little tighter.

"It's not food," he promised.

"I don't want them here." She turned away from him, her cheek flat against the wall, and he quickly rounded the bed to look her in the face.

"I need you to trust me, okay? Can you do that? Please, Carter."

Her eyes slid closed, and she didn't answer.

"I'll be right back," he promised.

Tears silently escaped from her hollowed eyes and trailed down her face and neck. She had trusted him, had finally let him in…and he'd called someone else. Violated her privacy. Wasn't she enough of a freak show already?

The nausea threatened again, and Sam stumbled back to the bathroom on weak legs, collapsing in front of the toilet and retching violently. She was surprised but too ill to react when strange but gentle hands pulled her hair away from her face and easily pinned it back.

"Wow," a female voice said softly, "You've got it bad."

Sweating, shaking, gulping for air, Carter pushed herself away from the toilet and looked up. She squinted through blurred vision to find Colonel O'Neill's ex-wife kneeling beside her. "Mrs. O'Neill?" she gasped.

"Call me Sara, please." She was older than Sam remembered, but her smile was just as kind. She took a coffee mug off the bathroom counter and handed it to the younger woman. "Drink this – it'll help."

Carter sniffed it and made a face, and Sara chuckled. "I know," she said. "It's vile, but it works. My mother used to make it for me."

Sam took a tentative sip and cringed, but she took another sip, then another and another until the mug was empty. Sara put the empty mug back on the counter. "Better?"

"I… yeah," Sam said softly. "Thanks."

"Good. Now this one." She handed her a glass of water, and Sam took it gratefully. "Small sips," she ordered. She reached past the younger woman as she drank and turned on the water in the tub. "And next is a nice warm bath. It does wonders."

Sara held out a hand with a gentle smile, and Sam accepted.

~/~

"You can stop pacing now."

Jack whirled around at the sound of his ex-wife's voice. "Sara."

"She'll be down in a minute. She's getting dressed."

"Sara…" He rubbed a hand across the hairs at the back of his neck, an action she knew signified deep anxiety. "I didn't know who else to call."

"How about her mother, Jack? That's what they're for," she insisted softly. "I know you said she was attacked, but surely her mom would want to be here, even if Major Carter doesn't want to tell her what happened."

Jack shook his head. "She's dead. And even if I could get in touch with him – which I can't – her father wouldn't be much help."

Sara sighed. "No husband, no parents… That would be rough on anybody. And she's not in good shape. She's very lucky she hasn't lost it, Jack. She should be in the hospital for this."

"I don't know if I'd say lucky. And she won't go. Besides, our CMO just released her."

Her mouth fell open a bit at that. "Clearly, they didn't take into account her state of mind."

"Yeah." That was a serious sore spot with him, and he would be taking it up with ol' Doc Fraiser. "Clearly."

"You should have called me days ago."

"I didn't know it was this bad." He glanced over her shoulder and straightened. "Hey," he said softly.

"Hey," Sam mumbled back from the steps. Her hair was wet, and she wore big, scrubby clothes, but some of the color had returned to her cheeks.

"Major, do you feel up to some crackers? Toast?" the older woman asked gently.

"I am a little hungry," she confessed. "But I don't think I have any."

"I brought some," Sara told her easily. "Why don't you sit?"

Sam made her way slowly to the couch and sank onto it. She looked tiny, as though it could eat her, and Jack watched her from the doorway with concern. "Thank you," she told Sara as she took a plate of saltines and a cup of tea from the older woman. "I'm sorry he called you all the way out here."

"I'm not. You shouldn't go through this alone."

"I'm not-"

"Yeah, yeah, Jack," Sara said with a smile, casting a glance at her ex. "Jack has never felt morning sickness or swollen ankles or tiny kicks to the kidneys. It helps to have someone who's done it."

Sam stared at her hands. "I don't know if I can," she whispered.

In the corner, Jack tensed, and Sara shook her head at him, willing him to stay there. Added pressure was the last thing this girl needed. She put a wrinkled hand over Sam's smaller ones. "I think… that if you really wanted to end this, you'd have done it already."

Her head fell, eyes closed in shame. "I thought about it. I think I… wanted that."

"And that's okay. This was never your choice."

"But I can't. I can't do it. I..."

Sara slid off the couch to kneel in front of the younger woman. "Then things are pretty simple, huh? You're having a baby."

"But I don't… What if I can't…"

"Honey, there's not a woman in history who's thought she was ready for this. That's why you have nine months to get ready."

After a moment, Sam nodded.

"Good," Sara said. "Then we're agreed. So as of right now, you have to accept that there's a tiny life completely relying on you for its existence. So I'm going to make you some real food, and you're going to eat it. Right?"

"Right," she agreed softly.

Sara patted her hand as she pushed herself to her feet. As she passed Jack, she smiled at him, and for the first time in a long time, he thought everything just might be okay.