Disclaimer in chapter 1

17

Jack joined Charlie at the kitchen table, watching his son dig into a huge bowl of cereal. Lucky Charms, he thought. If it weren't for Lucky Charms I'd have no luck at all . . . . Okay, he was seriously sleep deprived, he realized. Switching lyrics to a bad country song? He couldn't deny the cereal reminded him of Sam. hell, everything reminded him of Sam. Brushing his teeth, making coffee, lying in the now too-large bed. And most of all, the paint cans resting on the counter, bright yellow splotches on the lids.

"Jeeze, Dad. You look like hel. . .crap," Charlie said around a mouthful of cereal. "You get any sleep last night?"

Jack dug the heels of his hands into gritty eyes. "No. You?"

"Not a lot." The silence stretched between them. After a moment, Charlie spoke up. "Uncle Charlie will find her," he stated with certainty. He'd always idolized his namesake, and Kawalsky's failure simply wasn't an option for his son. Jack wished he could be so sure.

"Yeah," he agreed, for lack of anything else to say. Jack's hands encircled the milk carton, looking as if he were going to strangle the container. "You think we can put her picture on a milk carton or is she too old?"

"Dad. . . ."

"Right," he said releasing his grip. He should eat something, he knew, but the thought of food made him nauseous. The worst of this situation was how hauntingly familiar it was. This is how it felt after Sara, he thought, and fought to remind himself this wasn't the same situation at all. There'd been no doubt Sara was gone. There was nothing to indicate Sam wasn't coming back to them. What did it matter? his mind spoke to him, Fear and loss tasted and felt the same regardless.

"You should eat something, Dad," Charlie admonished, concern in his brown eyes. Jack was about to make some quip about who was the parent in the room, but decided against it. Charlie was worried about him and it was belittling to be flippant about it.

With a sigh, Jack rose, taking a bowl from the cupboard, noticing it was half the size of his son's. Still, it seemed too large. Reaching for a spoon, he felt as if he was moving in slow motion. Like he was moving through water. He could see the surface, but just couldn't reach it.

Retaking his seat, Jack reached for the box of cereal, pouring a small amount into the Simpson's bowl Charlie had used as a child. Bart's head at the bottom was barely covered, but at least it was something, right? He portioned the milk and dug his spoon into the sugary shapes, scooping up a marshmallow comet, feeling his throat constrict.

Comets. They'd talked about comets. Had it only been the night before last?

They were lying in bed, Sam's head on his shoulder as she helped him support the oversized picture-laden book of Hubble space images. They talked about what objects he'd observed through his telescope, and how comets were one of his favorite phenomenon. For some reason, Sam had taken the comment as a license to give him a discourse on the physics of comets. He listened politely for as long as he could before gently shaking her shoulder, telling her not to suck all the fun out of it. Her mood had changed instantly, and he chastised himself for not letting her ramble. It was all she had, he realized, and he shouldn't have been so impatient with her.

He'd tried to apologize and pull her back, but she'd sat up, back to him, legs dangling over the side of the bed. She'd told him how O'Neill had often accused her of "sucking the fun" out of wondrous events and it was difficult to hear the familiar words coming from him. She explained it was nothing against him, but it always reminded her that she wasn't from this "here." Which made him feel angry over her whole contention of alternate universes. Their moment of closeness had evaporated, and he cursed himself as she grabbed her robe, exiting the bedroom.

He'd found her on the sofa, paging through a magazine she wasn't looking at. Again he'd made a stab at apology, but she just gave him a sad smile, assuring him once more that it wasn't him. She'd tried to convince him it was natural they'd have periods of miscommunication in their new living arrangement, and to not take it personally, just as she was trying not to.

Jack stared at the garishly colored marshmallow floating in the milk, remembering he hadn't sent her off to work with an "I love you." What he wouldn't give to have the moment back.

"Dad? Are you okay?"

Jack cleared his throat and wiped the dampness from the corner of his eye. "Yeah. Uncle Charlie will find her," he answered with more conviction than he felt.

"You sent all those pictures," Charlie reminded. "I don't think he would have asked for them if he didn't think he had a chance of finding her."

Jack smiled weakly at his son. "You're right. Maybe studying deep space radar telemetry is bigger stuff than I thought." Charlie stood, taking his bowl to the sink and rinsing it out.

"I gotta go, Dad." Jack looked up at the clock, thinking Charlie was just going to make it to school before the bell rang. He himself had called in sick. There was no way he could concentrate on teaching with Sam missing. Jack felt Charlie's hand on his shoulder.

"You gonna be okay? 'Cause I could. . ."

"No way, Mister," Jack said with false joviality. "You're going to school. I promise I'll let you know the minute I hear anything." Jack watched Charlie, considered his options, and decided to seal the deal. "You can take the truck."

"Really? But what if you need it?"

"I'll manage. Get moving, Kiddo or you're going to be late." Charlie gave him one more worried look before grabbing his backpack and the keys Jack extended to him. Charlie really needed to be in school, Jack thought. He needed the distraction. If only he could find one that would work for him.

A/N-I forgot about Daylight Saving time, so I'm running late. I'll post chapter 18 this afternoon. Thanks for reading!