Things Owed - In the Line of Duty

Technically, I suppose this might not quite fit the normal theme of this series, but it just felt right, so here it is. I never once thought that Sam could have bounced back as quickly as it was inferred that she did after her experience with Jolinar. In the last scene, when Sam turns and looks at Cassie, I didn't feel like she was on the road to recovery. Seriously-did ANYONE?

So, here you are, an alternate ending/episode tag to "In the Line of Duty".

-OOOOOOO-

"There's been no improvement?"

"Not that I can see, Sir."

"I thought that you'd said that it seemed like she was coming around."

"I can't explain it, General Hammond."

Fraiser's voice seemed too quiet, too uncertain. Jack wasn't used to hearing her like this - as if she didn't know what to do. Normally, the doctor seemed larger than life and twice as bossy, but today, she just sounded lost.

He was standing beside the open door to the infirmary. He'd been heading in to see the Captain, but had come to a sudden stop when he'd heard the voices. He'd stuck his shoulders on the wall of the hall when he'd recognized them.

"I'd hoped that bringing Cassie would help her - bring her back to the present, but she just retreated back into her depression once Cass went home."

"Has Doctor MacKenzie been in to see her?"

"A few times, actually." Fraiser groaned. "Sam wouldn't discuss anything. In fact, she turned over and faced the wall and wouldn't even look at him."

"Well, that's hardly helpful."

There was a pause, and then a little exhale - something halfway between resignation and sadness. "She won't even talk to me, Sir."

"How about the members of her team? Have they been here?"

"Constantly. All of them have been around." To her credit, Doc Fraiser stopped herself before she added the implied 'underfoot'.

"And does she respond to them?"

"Sort of." She'd shifted her position. Her voice sounded slightly different, coming from a different angle. Jack tried not to crane his head to hear better. "She smiles. She nods. Then she casually mentions that she's tired and they leave to let her sleep. But she doesn't sleep. She fights it. Unless she's medicated, I'm not even sure if she can, Sir."

"What do you mean?"

"She has nightmares, Sir. Not the normal kind. They're more like night terrors - she needed to be sedated through the last one, and restrained." Her heel clicked a little on the cement floor of the infirmary entrance. "To be honest, I can't even imagine what she's dreaming. Or whose dreams she's having. The dreams might be coming from the remnant psyche of the Tok'ra symbiote, and I don't think it's a huge leap of logic to assume that those memories would probably be vastly more disturbing than what's stored in her own subconscious."

"Good heavens above."

Jack's eyes closed, his head tilting down toward his boots. They'd had some downtime, waiting for Carter to recover, and he'd come into the Mountain this morning intent on finishing some paperwork. Or doing some paperwork. Or, hell - starting some. That was seeming like a gray area lately. At this point, he was so far behind that he was pretty much screwed one way or the other. Bless Daniel and his freakishly good memory - culling the depth's of Jackson's recall was the only way O'Neill didn't end up creating most of the more boring parts out of thin air.

Swiping his palm over his clean-shaven jaw, Jack raised his head to glare at the glass in the window across the hall from his spot. He could see himself in the reflection, or at least a wonky view of himself. If he squinted, he could see the ghostly figures of Hammond and Fraiser in the dimness of the hallway, too. Appropriate, in light of Carter and how she was living lately - in and around shadowed glimpses of a distorted reality.

No wonder she couldn't sleep.

He hadn't known. Couldn't have imagined how bad it had gotten for her. Over the past year, he'd come to the conclusion that his 2IC was like a Super Ball. Tough and tenacious and sturdy. Throw the girl down, and she'd bounce back up twice as high, ricochet around for a while, and probably take out your favorite lamp in the process.

In the hall behind him, Janet was speaking again. "I'm honestly not sure where to go from here. I'm hesitant to release her, but being here might be the worst thing for her, since it's filled with the memories of what happened. I just really don't want to send her home alone."

"And we can't force a companion on her. Or a guard."

"But being here, Sir." The Doctor hesitated, unable, or unwilling to complete the thought. The subsequent pause spoke volumes.

"I know." The General's feet shuffled on the cement. Something he said was lost within the noise.

"I don't want to send her home without knowing that she's stable. That she's not going to do something that might make all of this worse."

"Do you think that's likely?"

A long, long mulling noise. And then a pause. "To be perfectly honest, Sir. I don't know what to think. She's not responding like I thought she would. She's not acting like herself."

The General grunted a little. "Does she even know who she is, anymore?"

"I think so." Janet sighed. Again. "At least, I hope so."

General Hammond sighed along with her. The silence fell - a long gaping chasm of a pause that swelled with the things they'd left unsaid. "I wish you had better news for me."

"So do I, Sir. Believe me."

Hammond's shoes made a grating sound on the concrete floor, and Jack lurched upright, taking several long strides back from whence he came before pivoting and shoving his hands into the pockets of his BDU trousers. He briefly entertained the notion of whistling - but that would have been an uber-cliche, so he merely walked as casually as possible back towards the corner he'd just vacated.

The General emerged from the hallway slowly, his expression one of deep thought. At some point, he'd dispensed with his service coat, leaving him wearing the light blue shirt of his service dress. Without the coat's fortidunal padding, Hammond's shoulders slumped noticeably, weighed down as they were with this latest crisis.

Not the for the first time, Jack thought how much he didn't envy his CO. Being out in the midst of fire was different from directing people to head into it. And now, with Carter's recovery uncertain. . .

"General Hammond."

Stopping, the older man raised his head and looked at him, his mouth settling into a distinct frown. With a tiny nod, he acknowledged the Colonel. "Jack."

Jack gestured towards the infirmary's entrance with two fingers. "I was just heading in."

"Going to see Captain Carter?"

"That was the plan."

The General crossed his arms across his broad torso. "I've just had a talk with Doctor Fraiser about her, Colonel."

Feigning ignorance, Jack canted his head, then raised his brows. "Oh?"

"It's not looking good."

"'Not looking good'." Jack pressed his lips together, rocking backward slightly on his boot heels. "As in, how, exactly?"

"She's not recovering as quickly as we'd hoped." The lights in the corridor winked off his shiny scalp as he shook his head. "In fact, it doesn't seem as if she's recovering at all."

Pulling his hands out of his pockets, O'Neill stepped closer. "Give it a bit, General. She'll come around."

"We hope."

"She's strong, Sir."

"I know that, Jack. And you know that." Hammond tilted a look at the Colonel. "But does she?"

Damn it. Jack's gaze fell back downwards, to where his hands had balled into fists at his sides. "Sir, I - "

The General lifted a hand, clasping Jack's shoulder. "Go and see what you think, Jack. But we may have to make some fairly tough decisions going forward." And, with another shake of his bald head, he strode past the Colonel and disappeared down the hall.

From the looks of things, Carter was the only patient. Always a morphing oddity of movable gurneys and semi-permanent hospital beds, today the main body of the infirmary was largely open and un-partitioned, devoid of anyone needing medical care. Empty cots marched in neat rows along walls, and the equipment and supply carts sat quietly clumped together in the furthest corner of the large area.

Except, of course, for the single curtained apartment next to the nurse's station. Although it could have been empty, too, for all the life that emanated from it.

Which was exactly none.

Clenching his jaw, Jack walked across the room, stopping when he reached the fabric creating a wall around his teammate. He listened for a moment, then inserted his hand into the opening, pushing the curtain open just enough to look through.

She was lying on her side, her back to him, the slim curve of her body seeming even more slight clothed in the thin fabric of standard hospital garb, the single sheet pulled up to her waist. From his vantage point, Jack could see her hands, one folded under her chin, the other lying palm up, hanging halfway off the bed.

Childlike.

Pulling the drape closed behind him, Jack stepped into the partitioned room. For a moment, he just stood there, watching her. Perfectly still, she barely even seemed to be breathing. It wasn't possible to tell if she was awake or not. Conscious or not. Alive. Or not.

Bracing himself, he moved across the room and grabbed the rolling chair that sat to one side of the darkened monitors. Shoving it over towards the bed, he rounded the foot of the bed and came up on the other side, sitting himself down on it and scooching forward towards that hand, so poignantly still.

Her eyes were open, but dim. Faded, somehow, like the tints of a centuries-old painting. They reminded him of how she'd been in the cell as he'd spoken with the Goa'uld. Her usually luminous face had been drawn, and pale, and lifeless. Whatever made Carter beautiful wasn't her skin, or cheekbones, or her graceful features - it came from deep within her. It was her thoughts, her intelligence, her very nature that made her so damned tempting. Jack wasn't a particularly spiritual man, but he had to admit that this whole episode had made him a believer in the concept of a soul. Whatever had been utilizing the Captain's body, speaking through her, acting through her, had not been Sam Carter.

She was still in there. Somewhere.

O'Neill leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees.

"Hey, Carter."

She didn't look at him.

Taking a moment, he studied her. She was breathing - shallow, but steady. Her lips were chapped. Dark circles bagged under her eyes, and her hair lay dank and unkempt around her face. A bandage marred her inner arm where they'd inserted the IV, another on the back of her other hand. Apparently, the fluids and medications were no longer necessary, because she was no longer sporting any tubing or catheters.

"Carter." A little louder, he reached out and touched her hand. Cold. No response. "Sam."

A blink. Her eyes flickered towards his, holding his gaze for a second or two before retreating.

"We need to talk, Carter."

She lowered her lids and turned her cheek into her pillow - trying to hide?

Jack sighed and leaned in even more closely. "So, things are mostly back to normal. Daniel's working on figuring out the historical ramifications of the Tok'ra people that you were talking about. Teal'c has been doing a lot of the Kareeming thing."

One lid raised enough that he could see her look at him. She wet her bottom lip with the tip of her tongue.

"Kel-Noreen. Kem-something, right?" He shrugged. "Anyway, we're all just waiting around for you to decide that you're ready to go out with us again."

She made a fist with the outstretched hand, then relaxed it again.

"Doctor Fraiser's really getting kind of worried." He watched as her eye drifted closed, and then both of them opened again. "And so is General Hammond."

She looked at him, then focused down her arm, at her hand, staring at it as if it were a new appendage that had simply sprouted from her shoulder.

"And so am I." He nudged her fingers with his own. "Hey. C'mon. Look at me."

It took a moment, but she angled a look at him, her lips pressing together in a thin line.

"I didn't believe it - the Tok'ra." O'Neill's fingers made another brush along her knuckles before dropping back down to his knee. "When we talked. In the holding cell. It wasn't you talking, I know it wasn't you."

Her eyes made a lengthy perusal of his face before shuttering a little again, her brows lowering.

"I knew that something was off with you as soon as we came back through the 'Gate. And then you were acting so weird during the briefing. Talking to Teal'c that way. Acting - how you did towards me. I should have known it was more than post-mission crap."

Sam's mouth opened, and then closed, her nostrils flaring. A wrinkle marred the bridge of her nose. She was working on something, trying to reach - something. Jack looked down at his hands, big and rough and capable of accomplishing most things. Except fixing this.

"I should have believed you. Maybe we could have done things differently." The corner of his mouth tilted upwards wryly. "Except that it wasn't you talking, right? It was a Goa'uld. We couldn't have known what side it was on. But I'm sorry that we didn't catch on sooner. That's on me. You have me to blame for this."

Closing her eyes, Sam turned her face into her pillow, smothering what sounded like a sob.

Not able to help himself, Jack scooted closer, extending a hand to touch her arm, to bring her attention back to him. As soon as she'd looked at him again, he spoke. "But we need you to come back. To fight."

"Fight what?" Barely more than a whisper, her voice seemed to startle Sam as much as it surprised Jack. Sending her tongue back across her lips, she took a deeper breath before settling her cheek into the pillow again. "What am I supposed to be fighting?"

"I don't know." Slowly, Jack shook his head. "I don't know what you're going through."

"I don't even know what I'm going through." Sam's eyes rolled a little, swimming before coming back to focus on the Colonel. "I'm still not even sure what happened."

"Well, you're not going to get any answers by shutting everyone out."

She snorted, frowning. "You're one to talk."

"I've done my time on a couch, Captain." He sat up a little, leaning on his palms rather than his elbows. "It helps."

She raised a brow.

"Okay, okay." He ducked his chin. "Sometimes. Sometimes, it helps."

"It's just that I can hear him. Her. It." Closing her eyes again, Carter shifted her position, drawing herself closer to the edge of the bed, rolling almost onto her stomach. "Whatever. It died screaming."

There was nothing he could say to that, so he simply watched her until she was ready to continue.

"I could see intentions. Memories, desires, knowledge. I knew it wasn't malevolent. It wasn't here to harm us. I could have explained, but it wouldn't listen to me. It suppressed me. Buried me. I was helpless. And it was so scared."

"It wasn't your fault."

She shrugged, then pressed the palm of her hand to her forehead. "I guess. But I'm still the reason it died."

"The assassin did that, Carter. Not you."

"If I'd been able to process things better - "

"Then you both would have been dead."

"If -" She stopped, covering her lips with her hand, as if she could stop the thoughts by halting the words.

"Carter." O'Neill reached out and took her hand, prying it away from her lips. "You can't do this to yourself."

"I didn't do it to myself." She was back to whispering. "I had no choice."

"I know, Carter."

But she'd started talking, and didn't seem able to stop. "I was just trying to help that man, and then I was - gone. And I begged it to let me go, to leave me, but it wouldn't listen. And then, one by one, I watched as the people I trust, and work with, and love - those people slowly pulled away from me. And then they looked at me like I was a monster."

Jack's jaw worked methodically. He watched as her countenance changed, lost a little bit more. Hardened.

She looked straight at him, haunted. "You looked at me like I was a monster."

"Carter, I - "

"I trusted you."

"You're not making any sense." Jack could feel himself slipping, knew he was losing control of the conversation. "You can't accuse me of not trusting you when it wasn't you we were actually dealing with."

But she wasn't listening. She'd retreated into her memories. "You should have known I was in there."

"I did know. I just didn't know how to reach you."

"So you just gave up."

He stood, shoving his hands into his pockets. "I didn't - "

"So, why should I fight anything when nobody else will fight for me?" Bitter, terse, her words fell like dross between them. "What is there to fight for?"

"Carter - "

"Sir, would you please leave?" She rolled over, tucking herself up into a ball on the bed, childlike. "Just go."

He took two - three - steps towards the curtain's juncture, stopping halfway through the opening. "For the record, I didn't give up." He turned, just enough to see her form on the hospital bed. "I'll never give up on you, Carter."

He waited for a while before leaving, but she didn't so much as sigh in response.

-OOOOOOO-

Fraiser had released her, then taken her home.

Hammond had let him know, and then asked Jack to check in on her over the long weekend.

"I'm not sure that's the best idea, Sir." He'd stood in the General's office, arms crossed over his sternum, frowning. "She was pretty clear that she wanted nothing to do with me."

"You know what she's going through better than most people, Colonel." Hammond leaned back in his chair, his gaze contemplative. "I know some of the things you've needed to recover from. I think that you, as her CO and mentor, are probably in as good a place as any to be able to offer encouragement and help."

Her house lay quiet in the deepening shadow of the evening. Carter's Volvo still sat in the parking lot at the Mountain, so the little red Accord in the driveway probably belonged to Fraiser. Jack had parked his Superduty on the street across from the house, eliciting a few appreciative whistles from a group of kids on skateboards in the park there.

Apprehensive, he considered the house for a few moments before reaching over and grabbing the bag that sat on the passenger seat. Steeling his resolve, he cranked open the door and stepped onto the rail, then down to the asphalt, swinging the door shut behind him.

He hoofed it quickly across the street, then slowed as he made his way up the walk. Four steps up to the porch, and then he paused again when he raised his hand to knock on the door. He was saved from having to exert the effort when the door swung open.

"Colonel O'Neill!"

Jack looked down at his greeter. "Doctor Fraiser."

Janet's eyes narrowed. In one hand, she held a medium-sized purse, in the other, a set of keys. "What are you doing here, Sir?"

"Hammond asked me to check up on Captain Carter."

"We've only been home for a little over an hour." Fraiser glanced over her shoulder, then made a shooing motion with the hand that held the keys.

Jack took a step backwards, allowing the doctor to exit, closing the door behind her. "I wasn't sure when you'd left the Mountain."

"Yeah. It hasn't been very long." Janet grimaced. "The thing is, I'd arranged for Cassie to hang out with a friend after school today, but the friend just started throwing up. Now, it's probably just something she ate, but honestly, the last thing in the entire world that I need is to get sick, so I need to go pick her up and take her to home to get ready for bed."

"And Carter is - "

"She was getting changed when I got the phone call. Could you just stay here until I can get back?" Brows furrowed, the Doctor cast him a look that neared pleading. "I would owe you - huge."

"You'd owe me." Jack lifted his free hand to scratch at a spot behind his ear. "I guess that might come in handy eventually."

"So, you'll stay? I'm hesitant to leave Sam here alone."

"Go." He threw a nod over his shoulder. "Take care of Cassie."

Janet reached out and patted the Colonel's arm with the hand that still held her keys. "Thank you so much, Colonel."

"No problem." He stepped towards the door, as Janet pulled her purse over her shoulder, watching as she shook through her keys to find the right one.

"I'll be back as soon as I get Cassie settled." Her heels made quick work of the steps down towards the walk.

"Take your time." But she was already halfway into her car.

The door swung open quietly, and O'Neill stepped through and had it locked behind him without a sound. He headed down the entry hallway, past a few darkened rooms, towards the kitchen, where lights burned brightly.

It was empty. Looking around, he placed the bag on the counter top and turned around, shrugging out of his jacket. Simple, practical, the house was exactly how he'd pictured Carter's house to be. More home than showcase, utilitarian, but comfortable. He laid his jacket over the seat of a barstool, standing awkwardly in the silence of the room.

From somewhere, he could hear water running - a shower. Making a slow turn, he pinpointed the location of the bathroom, then took a few steps towards it, down a little hall until he could see an open door. Her bedroom.

Pivoting, he walked back down the hall, making a quick examination of the pictures on the wall. Mom, dad, two kids. Dark haired son and a blond little girl with eyes as blue as the sky. Little League, soccer, basketball, the four of them standing next to the railing of what appeared to be a lookout at the Grand Canyon. Sam at various science fairs, holding trophies as big as she was. And then it was just three of them, not smiling as brightly as before, their postures disjointed and awkward without the gentling influence of Mom.

Abruptly, the shower turned off, and Jack tore his attention away from the photographs and hoofed it back down to the kitchen, coming to a stop in front of her refrigerator. His heart broke a little. The entire thing was covered with pictures of Cassie, paintings she'd made, drawings. Even a science test from Cassie's school, a gigantic '100%' in the corner next to the girl's name.

"Janet?"

Whirling, O'Neill took a step backwards, and then another when Sam walked into her kitchen.

Her hair was damp, finger combed off her face. She'd thrown on a t-shirt - too big, it gaped over her collarbones and the hem reached to her knees. Which were bare, as were her feet. Droplets of water from her hair had made little dark splotches on the shoulders of her shirt.

Whatever life had been restored to her by the shower fled as soon as she recognized him. "Colonel."

"Janet had to go get Cassie." He gestured towards the front door. "I was just coming to check on you when she was leaving, so she asked me to stay for a few minutes."

"Check on me?" Carter glared at him. "I don't need a babysitter, Sir."

He shrugged. It was all he had to say on that topic.

"Okay, then." She walked forward, one brow raised high. Moving past O'Neill, she grabbed a water bottle off the counter and then retreated back into the hallway. "I'm going to bed. So, you don't have to stay, Sir. I'll be fine."

"Carter."

She stopped, but didn't turn. "I'm tired, Sir. I'm just going to sleep. I'll be fine."

He drew in a bracing breath, steepling his fingers at his waist. "Well, if you don't mind, I'm going to hang around here until Ol' Doc Fraiser gets back. I promised her I would."

She looked down at her water bottle, one shoulder shrugging the tiniest bit. "Whatever, Sir. But don't feel obligated." Her feet barely made a sound as she padded down the shadowed hallway towards her room. A neat 'click' told him she'd shut her door.

Out of habit more than curiosity, he checked his watch. It was nearly seven o'clock in the evening. O'Neill took the few steps necessary past the fridge to look down the hall. He was just in time to see the light under her door disappear, and hear the unmistakeable sounds of her crawling into bed.

His brow rose. Well, at least she was actually going to try to get some rest. That was something.

It didn't feel right to turn on her TV with her trying to sleep, so Jack meandered around, checking the locks on doors and windows. Once he was sure that the place was secure, he slid the Beretta from the holster at the small of his back and laid it on the counter next to the bag. The house wasn't large - but it wasn't small, either. A large formal living room sat at the front of the structure - a quick glance at the pristine pillows and perfect upholstery told him it was seldom-used. At the far end of it sat a large dining room table that seemed slightly out of place. Another few steps told him why.

She'd repurposed the formal dining room into an office of sorts, with desks and multiple computers and endless bookshelves. Most of the publications were scientific in nature; text books and collections of published studies. But one section of shelving was devoted to fiction. Mostly classics - Heinlein, Tolkien, a whole anthology of Shakespeare, Austen, Hemingway, among others - orderly hardbacks marching down the wooden planks like legions of perfect soldiers, their spines unbroken and fresh. Up on the top-most shelves were a few well-worn paperbacks that had his brows edging upwards. He reached up and pulled one out to see a large, heavily-muscled guy on the front emerging from what looked like a waterfall. Jack glanced at the author's name before settling the book back into place. Apparently 'Laura Kinsale' merited more actual reading time than 'The Lord of the Rings'. Interesting.

Turning from the library, he scanned over the computer gadgetry, knowing that he wasn't allowed to touch any of that stuff. It was all turned off, anyway. No way to even play Space Invaders or Solitaire.

He made his way back through the kitchen to peer out the French doors that led into the back yard. There was a small patio back there, and a decent spread of green grass that extended out towards a neatly whitewashed fence. Moonlit, now, he realized that during his tour the sun had finally set completely. He turned his wrist and checked his watch again. Seven-thirty.

Sighing, he crossed back towards the fridge, taking the liberty to open it in search of a drink. Water, milk, juice of some sort. Diet Coke. Way, way in the back, behind a sad little baggie filled with broccoli, there were a few cans of light beer and some girly wine stuff that didn't appeal. With a little grimace, he snagged a soda, then closed the door and walked back around to where his jacket lay across the stool.

He'd just gotten his finger under the pull tab when he heard the sound.

A moan - or a whimper. Coming from down the darkened hall.

He set the can down on the counter and walked softly towards Carter's bedroom door, stopping a few feet shy. There it was again, only stronger, now. A mewling sound, strangled and pained. A few seconds later, it came again, punctuated by a cry.

Frowning, Jack reached out and touched the door knob, then let go. It could just be a normal average dream, right? A few times, off-world, she had been known to talk in her sleep. Sure, it was usually scientific calculations, but there it was. He turned back down the hall, but stopped when the cry turned into a keening wail.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Within moments, he'd made it to the kitchen, retrieved his package, and then returned to Sam's door. The cries were louder, now, more vehement. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, he gripped the knob, and then turned it and pushed the door open.

She lay in the center of the bed, on her side, facing the door. Her eyes were wide open, terrified but vacant - O'Neill could tell immediately that she wasn't really awake, but instead living in the midst of some subconscious torment. Cautiously, he entered the room, but she didn't seem to notice him, even when he stepped towards her nightstand and set the bag down next to her landline phone.

She was muttering, speaking rapidly in what sounded like Goa'uld. He'd heard Teal'c and Daniel conversing often enough to recognize the basic structure and sound of the language even though he hadn't bothered learning much of it. He'd have to fix that. It'd be supremely handy to know what she was saying.

She moaned and thrashed a little, one hand gripping her quilt and dragging it to cover her face. She jerked, and then bent backwards, a gutteral scream forcing its way out of her mouth, muffled slightly by the fabric she'd pressed there. After a moment, she lowered the quilt, panting, glaring at a point past him, over his shoulder. Terrified of something that only she could see.

"Carter." O'Neill hesitated, then reached out and touched her shoulder. "Hey. Carter."

Sam jerked again, away from his touch, her eyes flying to his face. "No more, please."

"Of course not." He lowered himself to a crouch, putting himself in her frame of vision. "Whatever you want, Sam."

"It hurts so much." Apparently hit with another wave, she let out another cry, the sound ripping through her. With a huge effort, she backed away, scooting towards the opposite edge of the bed. "I'll do whatever you ask, just please. Stop."

"Then wake up, Carter."

Her eyes closed as she curled herself into the fetal position, a strangled sob emerging from her throat as tears rolled down her cheeks. Her moment of respite was brief, however, as another wave of pain overwhelmed her, and she screamed again, writhing, contorting on the mattress, her sheets tangling around her legs as her cries filled the darkened room.

Jack leaned over the bed, balancing on one knee as he extended his hands to grip her arms. "Damn it, Carter. Wake up!" He shook her slightly, then lifted a hand to her face. Gripping her face, he forced her to look at him. "Look at me. I'm not the assassin, Carter. It's me."

Her eyes widened, finally - finally - seeing him. Carter gasped, then lifted a hand to touch his face. "Colonel?"

"You were dreaming."

"It was - " She broke off, swallowing the rest of her words, sucking in a deep breath as she covered her face with both hands. For a long time, she just laid there, fighting to control her breathing, her body. "It was bad."

"I know. I could tell."

"I want to sleep. I'm so tired. But every time I close my eyes, all I can see and hear is - " She paused, swiping at her eyes with her fingertips. "All I feel is pain."

Jack rolled backwards, sitting on his bent leg, watching while she regained some composure. Saw when she failed and her body heaved in a sob, turning in on itself. This time, her tears were for a different kind of pain. A kind he knew all too well.

He'd been there, he'd felt this, more times than he cared to count. Not the whole alien part of it, sure. But how many times had he awoken in a cold sweat, the memories of his own screams echoing around him? Sara had only been there for a couple of episodes, but still, he'd been mortified, embarrassed that she'd seen him weep like a child. He hadn't trusted her to understand that certain things remained, even when the mission was over. She hadn't known the nightmarish things he'd done to deserve the terror he dealt with in his sleep.

Besides, Sara would have pitied him, and that would have made it so very, very much worse.

Jack shifted again, turning around so that his back rested against Sam's heavy wooden headboard. Gently, he touched her, nudging her until she'd scooted up, until her body was on par with his. Carefully, he steered her around, pushing her until she was cradled against his chest, his left hand holding her steady. With his right hand, he reached into the bag he'd brought, withdrawing the device it held. He placed it on the bed-side table and turned it on.

"Here. I brought you something." Glancing downward, he jostled his shoulder a little, forcing her attention to him. "Look up."

"Sir?"

"Look up."

She obeyed the order, tilting her head back so that she could see the images swirling slowly on the ceiling. It was almost instantaneous, the transformation in her face. From hunted pain to wonder. From despair to hope. Memories supplanting each other in her mind.

Jack watched her watching the display, reveling in the peace settling over her features. Damn, she was beautiful. Puffy eyes, swollen lips, flushed cheeks and all. Despite his best intentions, his gaze wended its way downward, past the t-shirt she wore, to where her bare legs peeped out from between the tousled sheets. He wondered stupidly if she looked this way at other moments, lying in the moonlight, after having wrestled with sleep.

Things surged that shouldn't have. He closed his eyes and breathed deeply, but all he could feel and smell and sense was her.

Whoa. Bad idea. He ripped his attention from her body, tried to ignore the way she felt relaxing against him, the way her arm had draped itself across his abdomen, directly above his belt. Tried to quell the urge he had to throw in the towel and find out if she felt the same madness that he did. He forced himself to remember that she'd just emerged from a dream-scape Hell.

With a little sigh, he tapped her shoulder with his fingers, more for his own benefit than hers. Change of subject, right? "Remember? You told me that I should look at it whenever I needed to recall why we're doing what we're doing."

"I remember." She nestled closer, her body stretching against his, a tentative smile playing at the corners of her lips as she watched the planets and moons and galaxies shift and morph above. "It's beautiful, Sir."

O'Neill wondered if she had any idea what it was doing to him. This was stupidity, to stay here, but he couldn't bring himself to leave, either. She was finally drifting in a good direction, her body completely lax against him as she started to succumb to her exhaustion.

"So, I'll leave it here, and you can have it while you sleep."

Instantly, she stiffened, her fingers tangling in his shirt. "No - please, Sir." She didn't look at him, but turned her cheek into his chest, burrowing closer. Her next words were slurred slightly. "I'm so tired."

She was afraid of the nightmares returning.

His lips thinned, and Jack crossed his long legs out in front of him, settling in for the long haul. "Okay, then. I'll stay until Janet gets back."

But she'd already drifted off to sleep, her tousled hair a golden cloud against his shoulder, her breath warm against his chest. Her fingers still wrapped tightly in the fabric of his shirt, one of her legs making its way across his, her knee pale and smooth in the ambient light of the moon.

Stuck in this exquisite torment, he took a deep cleansing breath, moving just enough to get more comfortable against the headboard, throwing his right arm as a quasi-pillow behind his head. He angled his eyes up towards the ceiling, where a new galaxy had just begun to whirl.

-OOOOOOO-

He came awake all at once.

Sunlight streamed in through her window, bathing the room in a warm glow.

He'd slept, his body sloughing downward until he was lying on the bed rather than sitting. Carter had only snuggled closer, wrapping her left leg across both of his own, her t-shirt hiked up past her thigh. Her face pressed against his throat, her lips teasing at the spot where his pulse beat. Somehow, her left hand had insinuated its way underneath his shirt, cradling his bare ribcage, while her right hand curled under her chin. His left arm had made its way around her shoulders, his fingertips dipping beneath the wide collar of her t-shirt. And the rest of her, abdomen, hips, the fullness of her - hell - everything - rested in full contact with his body. She was essentially draped across him like a blanket.

And damned if that freaking side arm wasn't a problem again.

He closed his eyes, willing his body to behave itself, but knew he was already lost when Sam's thumb made a sleepy arc on his ribs, grazing his nipple. He hadn't shivered like that since Antarctica.

It took everything he had to slip out of her embrace, disentangling himself from her sleep-warmed limbs and easing himself off the bed. Even then, he stood there, trembling, wanting desperately to climb back in. He flexed and then fisted his hands, steeling himself to do what might turn out to be the hardest thing he'd ever done.

Walk away.

Because even though he'd remained fully clothed - right down to his boots - it had still been the single most satisfying night of sleep he'd ever experienced.

She flinched a little, her hands testing a little at the sheets, as if she were looking for him, before sighing and nestling back into the mattress. She'd returned - even sleeping, Jack could tell that the disjointedness she'd suffered because of the whole Goauld fiasco had left her.

He drank his fill of her, committing the scene to memory before stepping towards the hall. Backing a few feet away, he turned when he'd made it to the door, then headed out into the kitchen.

The soda still sat on the counter, unopened, his weapon gleaming nearby in the early morning sunlight. Rounding the island, he headed for the Beretta, but stopped short when he reached it.

The note was written on a pink Post-it, in purple ball-point pen. Lifting it between two fingers, he absorbed it, more than read it.

I really hope you know what you're doing.

It wasn't signed.

"What's that?"

She'd entered the kitchen behind him, her bare feet quiet on the tile floor. Naturally, Carter had spied the note in his hand.

"Nothing. Just a note that Doctor Fraiser left me." He shoved it into his front pocket, then reached for the Beretta.

Her lips widened in a silent "Ah."

Efficiently, he checked the gun out before slipping it into his holster. Then, he pulled his jacket off the barstool and over his arm.

"You're leaving." What was the tone in her voice? Regret? Resignation? Her smile was real, but sad, somehow.

Sometimes, honesty was the only way to go. "I think I need to."

"Yeah." She shrugged, still managing to maintain a noncommittal posture. "Probably."

"So, I'll see you later. You're back tomorrow, right?"

"Yes." She took a few steps backwards, just enough for him to see her wrinkled t-shirt, the tousled hair, the look of utter satisfaction that blessed her face. Looking down didn't help, as his field of vision was filled completely with those slender, perfect legs, muscled and strong, and the ridiculously sweet sight of her bare feet on the cold tile. "I'll be there."

"Good." He nodded, once, then moved past her, towards the door. He'd almost reached it when she spoke again.

"Sir?"

He half-turned, his hand on the latch. "Yeah, Carter?"

"Thank you." She made short work of the hallway, her long strides bringing her to a halt just behind him. Her long fingers threaded their way through her hair. "Really. I haven't slept that deeply in - well - in ages."

Jack couldn't help the half-smile that emerged. "Me either."

"So, I appreciate you coming over, even though I was kind of a brat about it."

"Captain, that's what I'm here for."

Her lovely eyes narrowed. "Um - technically not. But I know what you mean."

"Well, regardless." He returned his attention towards the door, and its lock and latch. With a flick of his wrist, he had it unlocked, and the door was ajar. "Next time, it might be better - "

"To call someone else?"

"Yeah. That." He pulled on the handle, side-stepping into the doorway. "Anyway."

"I'll be fine, Sir."

The sun blared through the open door, illuminating her from the riot of tangled gold down towards her solid, yet feminine, bare feet on the tiled floor. Jack sighed - he couldn't help it. She was strength and ferocity and passion, warmth and intelligence, all mixed with a hint of vulnerability. In another life, another world, another career, he'd shut the door again and turn the lock. He'd take her hand and lead her gently back down the hallway, past the kitchen, and into her bedroom. He'd slip the t-shirt up her body, his fingers trailing along the pale perfection of her skin, learning the lithe play of muscles beneath. He'd lean down and bury his face in the space between her shoulder and her neck and he'd breathe her in, making her part of himself. He'd taste her, learning her with lips and tongue. And then he'd figure out how far this went, this thing that seemed to shimmer between them like a mirage in the heat of the desert. But as it was. . .

Well, hell.

"Yes." His smile was lacking, he knew. But it was pretty much all he had. "Yes, you will be."

Her hand rose in a simple wave. "'Bye."

"'Bye."

It took more effort than he could have imagined to take those steps across her threshold, and the sound of the door closing behind him was actually painful.

And later, sitting on his deck with a Guinness dangling from his fingers, he wondered who owed whom, after this particular scenario. Whether perhaps they'd come out even, both benefitting from the experience, from each other.

Or whether they'd both simply lost everything.

-OOOOOOO-

Extra points to you if you can discern which book Jack pulls from the shelf. Laura Kinsale is one of the best authors out there, in my humble opinion. She doesn't get nearly the attention she should because she writes romance and not high-faluting-mumbo-jumbo.

The book referenced here is (quite possibly) my favorite book ever.

But if my kids ask you, my favorite is Pride and Prejudice. Ha ha. See? I'm guilty, too.