February 2014

Sam slips in quietly and eases the door shut behind her. Her heels come off immediately, allowing her to pad across the apartment's hardwood floor in silence. The low murmur of the TV is the only sound in the apartment, but she knows better than to take that as a sign that Jack's awake.

His bad habit of falling asleep in front of the TV has gotten worse since the surgery. The painkillers aren't doing much, barely even taking the edge off the discomfort that he actually admitted ranked as a nine on the O'Neill Pain Scale. It's hard for him to sleep. Lately he's taken to dropping off when exhaustion forces it, and more often than not, that happens in front of the TV.

Sam's learned to assume he's asleep, lest she disturb what little rest he's able to grab here and there.

As quietly as she can, Sam sets down her briefcase and shrugs off her jacket. After a long day of meetings, the last thing she wants to do is wear her dress uniform for even one more minute. The comfiest pair of beat up old sweats she owns are calling her name, but first things first. Sam creeps down the hall, careful to avoid the creaky floorboard between her room and Jack's. She pokes her head through the door, hoping she'll find him asleep.

Instead, dull brown eyes meet hers. He looks absolutely awful, pale face lined with pain and dark circles ringing his eyes. Sam's heart goes out to him. She hates that there's nothing she can do to make this better for him. The surgery will alleviate a lot of his knee pain in the long run, but the price is a whole lot of intense pain in his immediate future.

"Hey," she greets. She keeps her voice soft and gentle, a tone she's always used when visiting her teammates in the infirmary. "How are you feeling?"

Jack grunts, non-committal, and averts his eyes, returning his attention to the TV.

Sam knows better than to accept his behaviour as a dismissal. This is O'Neill Avoidance Tactics 101 and she'd aced the course a long, long time ago. Crossing the room, she perches on the edge of his bed. A hand on his forehead confirms that he's not running a fever. He's definitely feeling lousy, but it's normal post-surgery lousy; no signs of infection so far.

"Did you manage to get any sleep today?"

Jack shifts uncomfortably, trying and failing to bite back a hiss of pain when the movement jostles his heavily bandaged knee. "A bit," he hisses out through gritted teeth.

"That's good." Sam rakes her fingers through his hair, nails lightly grazing his scalp. "Did you eat?"

A head shake this time. "Not hungry."

"I can order Mexican from that place that makes guacamole to order."

Another head shake.

"When are you due for your next dose of painkillers?"

Jack's eyes slide over to the clock on his nightstand. "Three more hours."

Sam winces in sympathy and works her hand through his hair again. "Maybe I should give Doctor Waters a call. There might be something stronger he can prescribe..."

"There's not," Jack grunts. His lips quirk in imitation of a smirk. "I called this afternoon."

"I'm sorry," Sam says, and she is. It takes a lot to keep Jack down like this. She knows how crummy he's got to be feeling to stay in bed for four days running.

"Not your fault."

Strictly speaking, that's true. But Sam knows for a fact that one of the many knee injuries that made the surgery necessary was sustained covering her retreat through the gate on a mission gone south. It's enough to make her feel at least a little responsible.

"Do you want anything?"

"Company?" Jack asks hopefully.

"Sure," Sam agrees easily. After all, it's the least she can do. "Let me change first?"

"Yeah."

Sam runs her fingers through his hair one last time before leaving. She changes quickly, uncharacteristically leaving her discarded clothes lying on the floor. A quick swing through the kitchen to pick up a fresh ice pack and two tall glasses of juice, and then she's back.

The glasses take up residence on the nightstand, amongst a number of empty water bottles Jack's drained throughout the day. She hands over the ice pack, leaving it up to him to position the little blue and white bag where it will do the most good.

"Can you slide down a little?"

Jack nods and, with a grunt and a pained grimace, slips a few inches farther down the bed. Sam plucks the pillow from beneath his head and stuffs it up against the headboard. Before Jack can protest, she gets into position, pillowing his head on her thigh.

"Is this okay?"

He squirms a little, making himself comfortable. "Yeah."

Her fingers find their way back into his hair. Sam lets her attention wander to the TV, where the Simpson family is up to their usual antics. Nails tracing absentminded patterns across his scalp slowly help Jack relax. As time ticks by, Sam can feel the tension leaving his body and slowly but surely, he melts into her.

When his breathing evens out, she snags the remote from his limp fingers and turns off the TV. She'll be stiff and sore tomorrow, but it will be worth the minor discomfort to see Jack get a good night's sleep. She'll stay, acting as his human pillow all night, if need be.

It's the least she can do.