Extra Socks and Specialty Cheese

"Hey."

Carter jumped a little, looking up at him with a self-conscious sort of smile. "Sir."

"You're alone."

She'd been there for a while—a fact evidenced by the four glasses of water neatly placed just so upon paper coasters on the table. Beyond that, she'd apparently moved on to organizing the condiments. She'd arranged the creamer cups, sugar packets, and tiny tubs of jelly in neat rows, lined up the various syrup varieties, and straightened the menus in the plastic box attached to the wall at the far end of the booth.

O'Neill had caught her in the middle of doing something involving the salt and pepper shakers—he'd noticed one in each of her hands, as if she'd been playing with them. In her fingers, the cut glass containers seemed magical—capturing the sunlight coming through the window next to the booth and refracting it in sharp shafts across the table.

But she noticed him noticing, and she bit her lip and put the tiny glass bottles back down. Folding her hands on the table, she exhaled. "Not alone, Sir. You're here."

"Apparently."

"Where are Daniel and Teal'c?"

Jack looked around. The restaurant was crowded—far more so than usual. People—families, mostly—filled every single chair and booth, and he'd walked past a whole passel of folks sitting on benches or milling around outside the door who were still waiting to be seated.

It was their usual Sunday morning spot—exactly halfway between Jack's place and the Mountain. Carter had done the calculations once—of all the diners in the Springs, The Golden Griddle was the only one she could find that was almost exactly equidistant from where each of them lived.

She'd said it just like that, too. Equidistant. All geeky and math-y and stuff.

Sure, the pancakes at The Golden Griddle were too spongy to be considered fluffy, the coffee resembled pond sludge, and the service was usually slower than a pregnant three-legged rhinoceros, but hell—it was equidistant. And if equidistance made a certain Major happy, well then, equidistance is what she got.

But he digressed.

"I haven't seen them." Jack slid into the booth across from her, careful not to disturb the little tableau she'd organized on the table in front of her. "I'm kind of surprised that they aren't here yet. Daniel called me over an hour ago to let me know that he was leaving to pick up Teal'c."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why'd he call you?" She busied herself picking up the sugar packets and putting them back into the clear plastic organizer thing where she'd placed the menus in such perfect order. "Does he always call you before we meet for breakfast?"

O'Neill thought about it. Reaching out, he nudged a few of the jelly tubs in her direction before picking up his glass of water. "Most times. I think that he thinks that I'll be late if he doesn't remind me."

"Ironic."

It was, really. He swallowed before following up. "Because he's always the one who's running behind?"

"The man is rarely on time for anything."

"He'll be late to his own funeral."

She considered that as she worked on the stacking creamer cups in the proper compartment. "Well, to be fair, he had an excuse for being absent from that last memorial service we had for him."

He smiled—more because of her than due to the topic of conversation. She'd turned her entire attention to her task again, her expression the same one she wore whenever she'd been given a complex piece of alien tech to sort out. Intense. Focused. Enthusiastic.

Beautiful.

He really wasn't supposed to notice that part, but damned if he could help it.

She just was. And he just did.

He was a man, after all—neither too old nor too decrepit for such things to register on him. Or, apparently, strong enough to ignore it. And try as he might, he couldn't seem to get past the fact that, over the past three years, she'd gotten under his skin in a big, bad, beautiful way. She stirred up something within him that had been dormant for a very, very long time—something that he'd barely even remembered existed. Joy. Or contentment. Or need. Or something.

Something that felt good. Hell—something that he could feel at all.

He'd forgotten how to do that at some point along the way, and this woman—all five-foot-nine inches of blond, blue-eyed, smart-as-hell, kind, tough, eagerness—had wriggled her way through his hard-ass armored shell and reminded him what it was like to care about something.

Or someone.

And damned if he hadn't looked forward to assigning her those tasks more and more recently. If anything else, having her entire focus on some random doohickey had given him long moments in which he'd been able to indulge himself in simply watching her.

Which was dangerous, and stupid, and probably hellishly creepy, but there it was. He'd been unable to stop himself. She drew him to her. Like magnets. Or moths. Or tornadoes. Or some other simile about things being inexorably attracted to things that they'd be better off avoiding.

Spending a few weeks stranded on a planet together hadn't helped. After they'd 'Gated off the Beliskner and Thor had been beamed away, there hadn't been anything to do except wait. The situation had been—relaxed. And easy. And he'd learned that she was different when she wasn't constantly trying to prove something. She was prone to teasing, and sarcasm, had far too many opinions about movies and books, and she really—really liked to giggle at the stupid crap he said. The best part? She knew some gloriously filthy jokes.

P3X-234 had been hot—'summer in Minnesota' hot. Long, humid days and cool, short nights—but blessedly free of the hordes of Midwestern mosquitos. They'd camped near a wide, shallow stream, digging a fire pit that they'd lined with rocks gleaned from the shoreline. Jack had caught a few fish, Teal'c had hunted up some pretty tasty rabbit-like things, and they'd scoured the woods for berries and other edible vegetation.

But when they weren't working at survival? More often than not, he'd found her lying in the tall, soft grasses, barefoot, with her pants rolled up, stripped down to a t-shirt that she'd tied up around her ribcage, one arm flung over her eyes, the other bent behind her head. Just—being.

Those had been the best times. The ones when he'd plunked himself down next to her and they'd spent long hours talking quietly about the inconsequential and the unprofound. When she'd looked at him with unguarded eyes. When he'd looked back from outside rank and duty.

That's when he'd fallen. When he'd realized just how well and truly screwed he was.

As if she could read his thoughts, she flickered a look at him, up from under her eyelashes—a secretive, intimate sort of smile just teasing at her lips. He had no idea what to do with that sort of look. No idea what—if anything—it might mean.

So, like the coward he was, he tilted his head downward and tried to act as if he hadn't been wondering what it might be like for those fingers to be working on him and not paper packets filled with Sweet-n-Low. But lately, trying to command his own imagination had proven as achievable as herding cats.

And he still hadn't answered her. He'd gotten lost in his own head again. Damn it.

"Well yeah." His voice cracked. He had to clear his throat to continue. "Given that he was being held captive by that gill-faced guy and all."

She nodded. Slowly—her eyes steady on him. And he wondered—in a moment of madness—what she was thinking when she looked at him that way.

If she might be remembering something important. Something like what he'd been remembering.

But she only nodded—that smile fading. Faltering. "Exactly."

Damn it again.

Jack used his finger to poke at the heavy paper coaster beneath his cup, watching as the condensation gathered on the thick glass. "Anyway. I don't know where he is."

"Probably stuck in traffic."

"Maybe." Jack looked around again. "Or stuck in this mob. What the hell is going on in here today?"

"Right?" Carter bit back a smile. "I have no idea, but it's crazy."

A pair of familiar figures caught Jack's eye, and he craned his head to watch as Daniel and Teal'c dodged and weaved their way towards the table. "Speak of the devils."

"Hey." Daniel stopped at the edge of the booth, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it onto the bench beside Jack. "Sorry we're late. Teal'c was doing his hat thing."

The hat thing. Jack glanced up at their Jaffa friend, who was wearing a baseball cap today. Where he'd managed to find one that fit his gigantic noggin was a mystery, but at least it covered the entirety of the First Prime tattoo. O'Neill watched as Teal'c sat down on the bench next to Carter. The hat was blue and had the Rockies' logo on it.

"That is not entirely true, Daniel Jackson." Teal'c tilted his head in that way he did. "I was fully attired when you arrived at Cheyenne Mountain. It was you who insisted that I select another hat with which to conceal the mark of my enslavement."

"You had on a beret, Teal'c."

"Which is a hat."

"You had the beret on wrong. It's not supposed to look how it looked."

"How did it look?"

Daniel squinted up at the ceiling as he made some random motions around his head. "Like something out of a Gene Kelly nightmare."

Jack's eyebrows rose just a tidge. "Isn't that how all berets look?"

"Anyway." Daniel stretched across the table and snagged a menu from the plastic box. "What is everyone having?"

"We always have the same thing, Daniel." Jack hadn't bothered with a menu. "Carter always gets her healthy stuff, while we order something that's actually edible."

"What I get is edible."

"Which is what?" Daniel flipped the large laminated card over, reading it with a slight frown. "I don't remember."

"I always get an egg-white spinach omelet with a fruit cup." She had that tone in her voice—equal parts patience and resignation. As if she were reasoning with toddlers. "And you three always get the Grand Ol' Griddle."

Daniel pressed his lips into a tight line as he perused the large laminated page in his hand. "I'm just thinking that I might want something different this time."

"Why?"

"Why what, Jack?"

"Why get something other than the Grand Ol' Griddle?" Jack reached over and plucked the menu from Daniel's fingers. Making a cursory scan of the thing, he slid it back in front of Daniel. "You already know that you like the Grand Ol' Griddle, so get the Grand Ol' Griddle."

"Will you stop saying 'Grand Ol' Griddle'?" Daniel's eyebrows slung low behind his glasses' frames. "It's obnoxious."

"Guys." This time, her tone was decidedly less patient.

Thankfully, the arrival of their server spared the toddlers whatever she had planned for them.

"Hey, guys. I'm Leon. I'll be taking care of you this morning." The waiter was young—mid-twenties. College-aged. Good-looking in a long-haired pretty-boy kind of way. He lifted his order pad and clicked his pen open as he surveyed the table. "Sorry for the wait. As you can see, we're a little nuts this morning."

"Yeah." Daniel looked around, indicating the full dining room with his index finger. "What's going on in here? It's a madhouse."

"It's the holiday." Leon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "It's always busy on Mother's Day."

Mother's Day.

Well, of course. Jack sent another look around the place—more aware this time. Families—dads, kids, moms and grandmothers. Flowers, gifts on the tables, cards. Corsages on lapels and wrists. Normally, the tables at The Golden Griddle were decorated with cheap vases holding fake flowers. Today, however, the flora was real. Daisies, and some purple things, and those annoying white weeds that shed tiny bits of fluff all over everything. Baby's butt. Or boots. Well—he knew it was baby something-or-other.

Shifting his attention back to his own table, Jack scanned it for a vase. He hadn't noticed one when he'd arrived, and no wonder. During her organizational frenzy, Carter had deposited it on the ledge next to the window. Behind the plastic box that held the menus. Out of sight.

Huh.

"I guess I hadn't realized that it was Mother's Day." Daniel grinned. "Hazards of being an orphan, I guess."

"Sorry, man." Leon actually sounded sincere. "That's gotta bite."

"Oh, well." Shrugging, Daniel made a careful project of scanning the menu before heaving out a giant sigh. "You know what? I'll just have what I always have. The Grand Ol' Griddle. Only—instead of bacon, can I have sausage?"

"I would also like to order the Grand Old Griddle." Teal'c's eyebrow disappeared under the edge of his blue ballcap. "With extra bacon, please. And an additional pancake."

Leon's pen flew against the surface of his order pad. "Gotcha. And you, Sir?"

O'Neill sat back against the back cushion. Indicating Teal'c with a nod, he aimed his words at Leon. "Same as my friend in the hat."

"Extra bacon? Add the pancake?"

What the hell. It was a holiday. "Sure."

Leon noted that before leveling a look at Carter. "And you, ma'am?"

"The number four. No butter. Fruit cup on the side." She stowed her menu in the plastic box. "Coffee for these three, Diet Coke for me. And could you please bring out some fresh cream? And some honey for the pancakes. The big guy here doesn't like syrup."

"Sure." Pausing, Leon raised his pen again and jotted down his notes. "You know—breakfast is free for Moms today. We have a special strawberry crepe plate that a lot of the ladies are enjoying."

Those blue eyes flew wide, and an odd, pained look washed across her features. "Oh—but—I'm not a—"

Leon stopped her floundering with a grin that made him look even prettier than before. "But, if you don't like crepes, your omelet and fruit will be on the house."

"That's really not necessary." Carter faltered a little further, her voice thready and meek. "I'm not a mother."

"But you could be, right? I mean—like—eventually."

Jack glared as Leon smiled at her, a lazy affair that came across as more than a little flirtatious. As if he could envision himself helping along with that 'eventual' process. The little fink. Brave little fink, too, given the group sitting at the table.

"Not any time soon."

Leon raised an eyebrow at Carter, angling a little across the end of the table. "Even if you're just keeping your options open. It still counts."

She'd gone pale, except for a rush of color on her throat. With a slightly hysterical glance towards the ceiling, she shook her head. "Please don't bother. Not for me."

"Gotcha." With a nonchalant shrug, Leon closed his order book and tucked it into the pocket at the front of his half-apron. "I'll be back with your drinks."

Well, that wasn't awkward at all. Jack watched as Leon disappeared into the crowd, then looked over at Daniel, who was tearing the paper away from his straw, seemingly oblivious to what had just taken place. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Carter start playing with the stack of paper coasters next to the salt and pepper shakers, caging them in her fingers and then lifting them and letting them fall back to the table as if they were poker chips.

"What is Mother's Day?"

Naturally, Teal'c had asked the question. No doubt a compendium section of the 'Earth Culture 201' course he'd set himself on.

Jack sighed, sneaking another peek at Carter. She'd winced. Again. He kept his tone light. "It's a day set aside for people to honor their moms."

"Should children not honor their mothers each and every day?"

Daniel frowned, his mouth pursing into a little 'o' before he sucked in a deep breath. "Well, yeah. But this is an official day where people show their moms how much they love and appreciate them."

"In what manner would children of the Tau'ri honor their mothers in an official capacity?"

"Breakfast. Or any meal, really." Jack wriggled his fingers towards the scene playing out around them. "Cards. Flowers. Presents."

"I used to make stuff for my mom. Necklaces out of macaroni that I'd painted, or origami flowers." Daniel's expression turned a little nostalgic. "She kept them all. After she died, I found all the things I'd given her in a box in her travel locker."

"Me too." Carter nodded, a slow, hazy smile playing at the corner of her lips. "My mom kept everything we'd made for her. I still have it all somewhere. My dad hung onto it even after Mark and I moved out."

Teal'c's dark eyes narrowed. "Such items do not seem enough to pay women back for all that they sacrifice on behalf of their children."

"It's not like we were paying anything back, Teal'c." Daniel took a swig from his glass of water. "The point is doing those things in recognition of the sacrifices that moms make on behalf of their children. She appreciated me thinking of her and taking the time to make her something."

"'It's the thought that counts'." Jack raised one shoulder as he toyed with his coaster. "At least, that's the cliche."

"Did you construct jewelry made of food for your mother, O'Neill?"

"No." Jack leaned back in the booth, tracing the wood grain of the tabletop with his finger. "My mother wasn't the noodle necklace type."

"What type was she?" Daniel peered at him from over the tops of his glasses.

"She was just a mom, Daniel." He hoped that his tone, more than his words, would end it there.

But the archaeologist was not going to be deterred. "You know—I've known you for years and I don't think I've ever heard you talk about your parents."

There were reasons for that, but Jack wasn't about to broach that particular subject. "Nope. You haven't."

"Three coffees and a Diet Coke." Leon had returned. He offloaded the drinks from his tray onto the table, then took four neat napkin-wrapped bundles and piled them at the end of the table. A plastic bear full of honey was next, and a miniature jug. As soon as he'd placed the last item, Leon tucked his tray beneath his arm and slipped back into the crowd.

The interruption could not have been more welcome. For a moment, all conversation ceased as Teal'c and Daniel distributed drinks and utensils. The respite, however, was short-lived.

"Major Carter." As he unwrapped his knife and fork, Teal'c inclined his head in Sam's direction. "Why would you not wish to receive a complimentary meal in observance of this day?"

"I'm not a mother, Teal'c."

"I don't know about that." Daniel chuckled. "You take care of all of us pretty well. You're like the team mom."

She gaped at him—her mouth opening, closing, and then opening again—not unlike a trout. Or a grouper. The color on her throat crept up towards her jaw. "What do you mean by that?"

"Granola bars. Kleenex. Clean socks. Allergy pills." Ticking items off on his fingers, Daniel smiled. "I don't know how you do it, but you always seem to have extras of every single thing I've ever forgotten packed in your gear."

"That is true, Major Carter." Teal'c rested his forearms on the table as he spoke. "There have been many times when we have needed a particular item and you have produced it from your pack."

"That doesn't make me a mom."

"It is, however, demonstrative of your nurturing nature."

"It just means that you guys need to make better packing lists."

Daniel went to work on unfurling his napkin. Tugging his spoon free, he set the rest of it down. "But you've got to admit that it's a very 'mom' thing to do."

"I'm too young to be your mom, Daniel."

His eyebrows rose precipitously. "Big sister, then."

"Which is, by definition, not a mom."

Teal'c's deep voice lowered, becoming more serious. "Do you not wish to become one someday?"

Carter raised her cup to her lips, taking a long swig of her drink through the straw. It seemed to take her a long time to swallow. "What—a mother?"

"Yeah." Daniel leaned forward, peering at her with wide eyes. "Don't you want to have kids?"

"Well—maybe." Her eyes flickered towards O'Neill for the scarcest of beats before she reached for the straw that Leon had brought for her soda. "But it's probably not in the cards for me."

"Why not?" The blue cap created an odd shadow on the Jaffa's face as he turned his full attention to the woman at his side. "Is it because of your lack of a mate?"

"Yes, Teal'c." There was that hysterical note again. That fleeting little giggle that said less about humor than about discomfort. She took her time taking two packets of sugar out of the container next to her. Sliding them down the table towards Daniel, she shrugged. "You kind of need that whole 'mate' thing in order to become a mother."

"That's not necessarily true." Daniel shook down the sugar. "Lots of women have children without being married. There are sperm banks now. You can go and choose a daddy like you would a specialty cheese."

Looking up from her glass, she rolled her eyes—just a little—and sighed. "True. But having a kid wouldn't really be possible right now. Not with what we do."

"But you would?" Jack cleared his throat. Damn. He hadn't intended to say anything. He hadn't even known he wanted to ask the question until he was actually asking it. Still, he waited before looking at her—staring instead down at the black sludge in his coffee cup until the last possible moment when he raised his eyes to hers. "If you weren't—doing what we're doing? You'd want to have kids?"

"Maybe?" So, so blue. She held his gaze for a full beat before tilting her chin downward and focusing back on her own drink. "I don't know."

"I mean." Daniel reached for the miniature jug that Leon had deposited next to the honey. "Why else are we doing what we're doing? If not to make it possible for motherhood to happen?"

The sunlight coming through the window caught at the gold in her hair. It made her look like she had a halo—like a Madonna in some long-lost painting by one of the Masters. And motionless—she sat so, so still—ramrod straight with her hands folded in her lap. Poised there as if she were attempting to disappear into the background. Or the seat of the booth. Or waiting for an Asgard beam to whisk her away.

Jack tore his eyes away from her and refocused on his cup, trying not to figure out what any of it meant.

"Indeed. We fight for life to continue." Teal'c addressed them all—not just Carter. "Mothers are necessary for that goal."

"For the record, Sam." Daniel poured enough cream into his coffee to make it drinkable before going at it with his spoon. "I think you'd be an amazing mother."

"Daniel Jackson is correct." Teal'c's generous lips curled upwards as he looked at her. "You would indeed birth and raise strong, intelligent offspring who would be valiant in their efforts to protect this world."

"Thank you, guys." The color had finally reached her cheeks, brightening her expression as she looked at each of them in turn. "I appreciate the sentiment."

Still, she looked more than a little relieved when Leon arrived with their meals.

—-OOOOOOOO—-

"Why don't you ever talk about your parents?"

By some fluke, he'd parked his Super Duty close to her Volvo. Daniel had found a spot closer to the restaurant, but on the other side of the parking lot. They'd all said their goodbyes at the door before heading off in separate directions.

"I talk about my parents."

"No, Sir." She'd fallen into step next to him just like she always did. Only—slower. More measured. Not the fast pace they usually took in forests on alien planets, but rather the kind of stroll that normal people might take through a mall, or a park. Looking up at him, she shook her head. "You have never mentioned your parents. The only thing you've ever said about either of them is what you said at the table back there. That your mom wasn't the noodle necklace type."

That bit of information had been true. His mother hadn't been that type. Jack shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. It was warm out—he shouldn't have even worn the thing—but the pockets provided nifty receptacles for hands that really, really wanted to touch things that they shouldn't.

"My mother wasn't like yours or Daniel's, Carter." He could feel her eyes on him. Knew that she was studying him. Not expectant—just patiently curious. "She didn't even want to be a mom in the first place."

Her expression shifted subtly—not becoming pitying or sad—but rather filling with simple understanding. "Is she still alive?"

"No." He shook his head. Because it was Carter, and because she hadn't asked, he glanced at her before deciding on telling her the truth. "She drank herself to death while I was in college."

"I'm sorry."

"It was a long time ago."

"That doesn't make it suck any less."

No, no it really didn't. They stopped—watching as a car backed slowly out of its space and into the lane. It was only when they'd started walking again that he continued. "So, no. She wasn't the noodle necklace type. She was the Grey Goose and carton of Virginia Slims type."

It took a dozen steps before she spoke again.

"My mom smoked menthols." Sam smiled. "But only when my dad was deployed. And never inside the house."

"Did your dad know?"

"About the cigarettes? I think so." Carter adjusted the strap of her purse on her shoulder. "But nobody ever said anything about it. I always hated that she smoked at all—but especially that she did it behind his back. No matter what she did, she still smelled like smoke right after. It made me sneeze. And it always felt like I was keeping secrets from my dad."

"You were closer to him."

"In some ways." Angling a look towards the sky, she frowned, a tiny crease forming above her nose. "In other ways, no."

"Because a girl always needs her mom."

"Yeah." She sucked in a strange sort of breath. Like a reverse sigh. "Even when they're imperfect."

Another car pulled suddenly out in front of them, and Jack dragged his hand from his pocket to grab her arm. The motion was completely unnecessary—Carter had better reflexes than most of the people on the planet—but Jack still found himself holding on to her a bit longer than he needed to, tugging her close, then putting his hand at the small of her back to keep her there.

It was that damned compulsion again. The same one that made him want to lie down in the warm grass next to her. The one that made him want to be near her. The one that made him want to protect her—which was ridiculous because she could one-hundred-percent take care of herself.

Jack had to force himself to start forward again once the car had pulled away. Even so, she moved right back into place next to him as they walked. Drifting even closer as they went—closer than full packs and weapons would allow off-world. This wasn't simple companionship. This felt like—more.

Her arm brushed against his, the back of her hand warm where it touched his own. When she spoke again, she leaned in and nudged his shoulder with a wry sort of giggle.

"Specialty cheese."

"Excuse me?"

"I was just thinking about what Daniel said about choosing specialty cheese."

"Yeah." Jack grunted. "That was weird."

"He has a point, though." Carter stepped over a puddle in a small pothole. "It's a new world."

O'Neill pressed his lips together as he pondered that. As he screwed up his courage to ask. "Is that what you'd want?"

"What? Having a kid with specialty cheese?" Easier, now. Her smile carried none of the panic it had earlier. The rest of their breakfast conversation had been more benign—she'd relaxed into it enough that, when Jack had insisted on paying for everyone, she hadn't even argued. And now, that lightheartedness had stuck around. "No. It's not."

"At least it's an option."

"But it's not ideal, is it? And not how I'd want to do it." They'd reached her car, stepping between it and a dilapidated Honda parked next to it. She leaned back against the side panel of her Volvo. "I'd want to do things the traditional way. I'd want my kid to have both a Mom and Dad. I'd want to have two or three so that they'd have someone to play with. A cute little house. That whole picket-fence thing. Maybe even a dog."

Oh, lord. The images that rose—unbidden—in Jack's mind. Carter—no—Sam—holding an infant. Chasing a rambunctious red-headed toddler around the park. Reading a story to a little girl wearing footie pajamas whose eyes were bluer than the South Pacific. Packing lunches. Chore charts. Sitting on the couch folding laundry while watching TV. Christmas stockings on the mantel. Trick-or-Treating on Halloween. Birthday candles.

Mother's Day. Breakfast in bed with clumsy clay vases and bedraggled daisies and inedible toast made by grimy little hands. Noodle necklaces and handmade cards decorated with crayon and finger paints. And her. Everywhere. Always.

What was it that he'd figured before? That he was well and truly screwed? Well, hell. That had been an understatement.

He nudged at a loose bit of asphalt in the road with the toe of his shoe. "For the record, I think that any kid would be lucky to have you as a mom."

Carter scrunched her nose up, exhaling roughly. "Not that it's likely to happen."

"Why not?"

A car rumbled past, and she took the opportunity to consider her answer. "We live a half-step away from Armageddon at any given moment, Sir."

"Yeah. So?"

"So, with what we do, and who we are," she looked up at him, capturing his gaze with her own. "It just doesn't seem right to bring a child of my own into this world. Hell. Even thinking about adopting Cassie seemed self-serving when—well—when I'd just have to leave her for work all the time."

He understood what she hadn't said. What she couldn't say—not with people walking past them. Not here, in this parking lot, surrounded by normal people doing their normal things on a normal Mother's Day.

None of these people had any idea just how precarious their situations really were. The luxury they had of celebrating, of living normal lives—hell—of marrying and having children and raising families—was just that. A luxury.

But damn it—the thought of that rowdy red-headed kid—of that blue-eyed little girl—would haunt him to the end of his days. He closed his eyes, chasing the images back into the recesses of his mind. Back where they belonged—along with whatever other idiotic fantasies he'd been allowing himself to entertain lately. Shoved them back into the 'impossible' section of his soul, where he kept the stuff that mattered. Things that he shouldn't even begin to dream about except in those long, deep nights when he found it futile to even attempt sleep.

When he spoke, his voice was rougher than before. "Well, Daniel was right about one thing."

"What's that?"

"About your ability to take care of the rest of us."

"It's really nothing, Sir."

"It's not nothing." He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "You do take care of the rest of us. We need to do more to let you know that you're appreciated."

For the longest time, she simply stood there, worrying at her bottom lip with her teeth, looking down at the pavement, or the wheel of the Honda behind him, or at his shoes. "You really didn't need to pay for everyone's breakfast, Sir."

"Ah. But it would have looked weird if I'd only paid for yours."

"Okay." As if she'd understood exactly what that had meant—and maybe she did. She was pretty smart, after all.

"Anyway." He tried for casual levity. "We do, you know."

"What, appreciate me?"

"Yeah."

She did look at him, then, smiling a crooked, perfect little smile, a single dimple denting one cheek.

And damned but if she wasn't actually seeing him. Seeing right through him. Seeing those things—those parts of him—that he kept carefully hidden from the rest of the world. And damned again but if she didn't understand them. Value them.

There it was again—the easiness of -234. The sweet, warm whatever that had filled him as they'd lain in that soft grass and talked about everything and nothing. That singular feeling that he'd finally found something that he hadn't even known he'd lost.

"Regardless." She pushed away from her car, edging closer to him. "Thanks for breakfast."

"Anytime."

She was only a breath away from him—all it took was a single step for her to be close enough that she could tip upward on her toes and press a kiss to his cheek—one hand coming to rest on his bicep while the other rose to cup his face.

It was light—ethereal—barely a kiss at all—her lips hazing gently on his skin, her thumb arcing softly against his smooth-shaven jaw. She lingered there—hovering for a breath before kissing him again. Not on the cheek, this time, but at the corner of his mouth. Almost—almost—something more than friendly.

"I appreciate you, too, Sir." So, so low. He felt her whisper, a warm caress against his skin. "Just so you know."

Somehow, his hands had found her waist, measuring the perfect curve of her body as he steadied her. At least, that's what he'd tell himself later, when he replayed this moment in his mind.

She felt vital against him—strong and ebullient. And when she drew back just enough that she could peer up at him, he could see how her eyes had dilated, how her pulse had leapt, how her lip paled as she worried at it with her teeth. Could smell her—she'd put on perfume this morning. Or maybe it was just soap. Or just her. Whatever it was, it filled him.

And then, it was over—she stepped back and away, pulling free from his hands and dragging her own from him. Reaching into her purse, she withdrew her keys. "I'd better get going."

"See you tomorrow." Words forced past the tightness of this throat.

"Bright and early." A quick twist of her wrist and she opened the door. It only took a moment more before she was in and the Volvo was purring.

He stood there next to the Honda until she'd left the lot.

—-OOOOOOO—-

"Bring him here."

She'd barely whispered the words. Her voice was gravely—filled with sleep, and resignation, and the bone-deep joy that seemed to flow out of every part of her lately.

Quite the mix—one that not even he had expected when their lives had taken this particular turn.

Jack adjusted Ben on his bare chest, re-situating the baby on the cloth he'd draped over his shoulder. One hand held the kid steady against his body while the other made heavy, rhythmic 'thwacks' against the baby's back. The pediatrician said that Ben was a chunky little thing—eight weeks old now and at the top of the charts—but he still felt tiny in Jack's hands. It had been a long, long time since he'd carried a newborn. Hell, since he'd done this whole 'Daddy' thing. And to be honest, he was still getting used to it all.

But burping? That was guy stuff. If anyone could teach a son to belch like a pro, it was Jack O'Neill.

A fact that was proven by the baby a moment later when he erupted against his daddy's shoulder.

Jack craned his head to look at Ben's face, using a corner of the cloth to wipe at the traces of milk still glistening around his lips and cheeks. In an impressive display of dexterity and finesse, he moved the baby into the crook of his arm and traded the 'thwacking' for a gentle side-to-side sway.

"I was going to put him in the basin thing."

"Bassinet." Sam rolled her eyes—just a little—before smiling up at him. She was on her side in their huge bed—still lying in the same position in which she'd nursed the baby. While Jack had been working on dislodging Ben's extraneous gasses, she'd tucked all her bits back into her nursing bra and fastened it up. "But there's no point. He'll just be hungry again in eight minutes and we'll have to get up again."

She was right. But still—

"You said that you didn't want to do that whole co-sleeping thing."

Yawning, she peeped up at him from beneath her bangs. "That was back before I understood the whole 'no-sleeping' thing."

Okay. Shuffling forward, he stopped at the edge. Balancing one knee on the mattress, he leaned over and situated his bundle in the center of the bed, directly between where he and his wife slept. Then, he carefully laid himself back down. On his side, facing Sam, who had gone back to gazing adoringly at their son.

Which was fine, since Jack just figured that it gave him the opportunity to gaze adoringly at the both of them.

He thought about it from time to time. The distance he'd journeyed. More than a decade before, he'd walked through the 'Gate the first time being ready and willing to die. He'd deserved death—he'd been sure of it. There was no redemption possible for someone who had done the things he'd done. Been the man he'd been.

And now?

Her. Here. This. Them.

Not redemption—but another chance at it. As if some burst of cosmic fate had deigned to descend upon him and make him whole.

The room was dark—except for the light of the moon filtering in through the sheer curtains at the huge window and the miniscule rays of the nightlight in the hallway near the nursery. Sam had put myriad of the little gadgets around the house during the weeks leading up to the delivery. She hadn't 'nested' as much as 'mission planned'. Not that they really needed any of the extra illumination anymore. Jack was pretty sure that both of them could do all this blindfolded.

The little guy had been voracious lately—so much so that he'd wanted to eat every hour on the hour. Sam hadn't even made it out of bed this last time—she'd simply adjusted things so that the baby could nurse and she could doze at the same time.

A tactic that had, apparently, failed, since she was currently still awake while Ben had fallen back to sleep—full as a tick and happy as a clam. Not that she seemed to mind—she'd turned her entire rapt attention upon him—fiddling with the collar of his little sleepers and smoothing down the softness of his hair. Using the tip of her index finger, she traced the delicate line of his eyebrow, the fullness of his sweet squishy cheek, the slight quiver of his chin.

And the look on her face—pure, unadulterated wonder. As if she were watching the creation of a new galaxy—not simply counting her son's breaths.

Jack loved these moments—the quiet ones. The times when he could just indulge himself in watching her. Not creepy anymore—not wrong. Just a husband, madly in love with his wife, who was enthralled with the tiny human that they'd created together.

On her nightstand, the clock flipped over, catching Jack's eye. Two in the morning. Which meant—

"Happy Mother's Day." He'd whispered it. No sense in waking the kid up, right?

She hadn't heard him—or hadn't been paying attention. Her eyes flickered in his direction once she'd realized he'd spoken. "Hmm?"

"It's Mother's Day." Jack rolled onto his back, reaching awkwardly up and behind him for the pull of the drawer on his nightstand. His objective was right on top—small, and velvet, and easily grabbed with just thumb and index finger even at the odd angle in which he'd bent his body. Torquing himself back towards her—hello, neglected abdominals—he reached over the slumbering infant and set the little box on the rumpled sheets next to her. "I got you something."

"What is it?"

"Thus the purpose of the box. For the opening." He smiled at her. His smart-ass smile. The one she liked best. "And the revealing."

"I wasn't expecting anything. I'm barely even a mom yet." She frowned—more at the box than at him—shifting on the bed as she dragged her other hand out from beneath her pillow. Levering herself up onto one elbow, her gaze rested on him before she flipped the lid open. The sound she made—something between a gasp and a squeak—startled the baby, who jerked and whimpered once before settling back to sleep. Sam waited for him to sigh before working the necklace out of its velvet nest.

"It's not noodles." Jack balanced his head on his fist. "But I thought you might like it anyway."

She raised her hand and dangled it in the air, watching as moonlight sparkled off the little pendant on the gold chain. "Jack—it's beautiful."

No—she was beautiful, but he wasn't going to argue with her. "It's Ben's birthstone. I figured you'd want something simple."

But she'd already sat up and pulled her hair over her shoulder, threading her hands behind her neck to put the necklace on. The chain wasn't long. Jack had imagined it exactly right. The pendant—a tiny ring set with the correct stone—rested perfectly in the hollow between Sam's collarbones. She lifted a hand and touched it, looking over at him as she lay back down and nestled her head into her pillow. "It's perfect."

Jack took the box and set it back on his nightstand. Turning back towards her, he mirrored her pose, facing her with his head on his own pillow with the baby between them. "If you decide you want something else—"

"Nope. You chose just right." Her hair shushed against the cotton pillowcase as she shook her head. After a moment, she stretched her hand out and fitted it around his jaw. "Just like I chose the right cheese."

Okay. Jack frowned. "You should probably go back to sleep. You're delirious."

"Don't you remember?" She crinkled her nose, her fingers soothing along his cheek, his temple, her skin cool against his. "It was years ago. We went to The Golden Griddle in the Springs for Sunday breakfast. The four of us."

He did remember. Spongy pancakes, coffee like motor oil, and a pretty-boy waiter who'd had the stones to hit on Sam while Jack had been Sitting. Right. There. "And it just happened to be Mother's Day."

"And Daniel told me that I didn't have to have a man to be a mom." She teased at his hair, running her fingertips through the coarse mess. "He told me that I could just go to a sperm bank."

"Like you were choosing a specialty cheese." Jack chuckled—quietly—flickering his gaze towards the sleeping baby before speaking again. "You see? That's the kind of stupid-ass thing that always made me wonder about Daniel."

"Why?"

"Because why would you go to one of those places?" Jack feigned innocence. "You know—when you could just sleep with me?"

"You're ridiculous."

"Hey—you're the one calling me cheese."

"Not just regular cheese, Jack." She used her scientist voice. The one she employed while giving reports on very important things. "Speciality cheese."

Her smile was luminous. Brighter than the moonlight coming through the window. Brighter than most suns. Jack thought—not for the first time—that harnessing the power of her smile would solve the world's energy crisis. At the very least, it infused him with a certain amount of heat, and that worked, too.

Damn, but he was lucky.

"So, what kind of specialty cheese am I?"

She pretended to think about that, narrowing her eyes and pursing her lips. "Something good. Asiago Romano. Or maybe Manchego."

"Not Gorgonzola?"

"Why Gorgonzola?"

"It's fun to say." He demonstrated, accentuating each syllable. "Gor-gon-ZO-la."

"No. Not Gorgonzola."

"Why not? That's some fun cheese right there."

"But it's a soft cheese." Sam squinted at him, her expression turning into something just this side of a leer. "I like my cheese like I like my men. Hard and well-aged."

He actually snort-laughed at that, eliciting another startled squawk from Ben. He had to wait for the baby to settle again before responding. "Smart ass."

But she'd turned thoughtful again, and somehow he knew that she was thinking about things past. Other moments they'd teased like this, other times they'd shared quick, intimate flashes of understanding. When a fleeting touch—a single look—a quick smile—was enough to keep the hope alive.

"Sometimes, I just can't believe that this is all real." Sam traced his cheek—then his bottom lip—with the pad of her thumb, something wistful dancing across her features. Lowering her hand, she curled it around their sleeping child. "That you and I are together. That we made this little miracle."

"That you, the smartest human in the history of ever, decided that you wanted to marry a shrub like me?" He raised a brow, his hand finding hers where it wrapped around Ben. "No. I can't believe it."

"I'm serious, Jack."

"Me too."

"I mean—think about it. Years ago, when we weren't even supposed to think about each other this way. When we weren't allowed to want—this." She yawned—her eyes drowsing closed before she breathed out another little sigh. She was losing the battle to stay awake, edging closer and closer to sleep. "Back then—could you ever have imagined that this is how we'd end up?"

"No." He tucked a stray piece of long hair back behind her ear. It was his turn, now, to touch her. This woman who had made life possible again. "No. But I hoped."

So, so tired. Her eyes were closed now, her breathing slowing. "You did?"

"I hoped like hell."

She was drifting. Caught in that ephemeral place between sleep and wakefulness. Jack watched as she relaxed more fully into the bedding, as the fingers around Ben fell slightly open. As she yawned again—wider this time, hidden behind the back of her hand as her body fought the exhaustion.

"Jack?"

"Mmm?"

"Just so you know." She sucked in a deep breath, her eyes still closed, her body so, so lax under the covers. "I am definitely the noodle necklace type."

"I know."

Several more long moments stretched in silence before she mumbled again. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

Another yawn. And all she could muster was a whisper. "I hoped like hell, too."

Good lord, what that did to him. His hand found her body beneath the sheets. "Go to sleep, Sam."

But she already had, nestled deep into the softness of their bed, one hand curved protectively around Ben while the other was curled under her cheek, with his gift glittering at her throat. Beautiful even in—especially in—sleep, with her lips parted and her eyelashes dark arcs upon her cheeks, and her hair spread out like a river of gold on the pillow.