Hey, Dear and Beloved Readers!

Fanfiction dot Net has changed their email notifications policy. If you "follow" a fic and have NOT opted in to their email policy, you will NOT get emails notifications about story or author updates. You need to go to "settings" in your user profile to "Opt In" to receiving emails.

Also: For those of you following my 'Things Owed" series, I changed the order of the chapters in order to follow the order of the episodes. Thus, the most recent chapter in that fic is actually Chapter 14, "Point of View". So, if you received a notification that Chapter 16 was updated, that chapter is probably one that you've read before. Go back and few chapters and you'll find something new. :)

Thank you!

# # #

Knocked Up

I put out a plea for fluffy/funny/fun fic ideas on Twitter and this was the one that grabbed me.

Kind of silly? Yes. Entertaining? I hope so. Fluffy? Absolutely.

But it's me. And this is my fic, so there might also be a few heartstrings tugged upon.

I make no promises—this one is happening all on its own.

# # #

"So, what are you and Sam doing this weekend?"

"Not much. Cassie will be here until Wednesday." Tucking his briefcase beneath his arm, Jack dug deep into the pocket of his trousers for his keys. "I think that they're hoping to go out for dinner tonight. As far as I know, the rest of my schedule is otherwise pretty free."

"I'm jealous." Something squeaked in the background—probably Daniel's ancient desk chair. "Vala wants to paint the guest bedroom this weekend."

He'd hauled that ratty chair all the way from Colorado Springs to their house in Virginia. Once he'd finally left the SGC, he and Vala had headed East to get back to Daniel's first love—digging up old stuff.

Only, instead of using shovels and trowels in some Egyptian desert, the venerable Doctor Jackson spent his days in the basement archives of the Smithsonian, where he spent his time examining items that none of the other egghead doctor types had ever been able to figure out.

Obviously, one thing that the man hadn't yet deciphered was the fact that he needed a new desk chair.

Jack retrieved his keys, joggling them until he'd pulled up the correct one. "Does she know that you're allergic to all that chemical stuff?"

"She assured me that my job would be keeping the twins out of the room while she does the actual painting." Daniel heaved a sigh into his phone. "Which means that I will be chasing two of the cutest little hellions around for two days all by myself."

"Well, if you need me to, I can call in SG-7 to help out." Anchoring the briefcase to his side with his arm, he leaned forward to insert the key—only to have it jam halfway in. "They're the ones that Landry calls in when they need to negotiate with terrorists."

"You're funny, Jack." The answer read as sarcasm—although Daniel's chuckle didn't seem all that forced. He'd relaxed lately. Fatherhood had been good for him. "Regardless. We'd love to see Cassie while she's here."

Jiggling the key in the lock, Jack swore when his briefcase started to slip out from under his arm. He clutched the case to his body with his elbow, letting the key hang in the lock while he hiked the bag back up closer to his armpit.

Only to feel it slide right back down.

Damned fancy slippery monkey suit.

"Hold on, will you?" Sliding the still-open phone into the pocket of his jacket, he grabbed the handle and bent to set the case at his feet before retrieving the phone from his pocket. With his now-unencumbered hand, he was able to efficiently turn the lock and open the door and return to his conversation. "Sorry—I was having an issue with the front door."

"Still haven't fixed that tricky lock, huh?"

"I keep hoping Sam will take an interest in it."

And of course Jackson came to the correct conclusion. "But she's still on Sabbatical, and isn't interested in fiddling with doohickeys."

"I'll have you know that she likes my doohickeys just fine."

Silence. Then a strangled, "Ewwwww."

"Anyway." Jack frowned as he slipped through the doorway and laid the briefcase on the entry table with a loud 'clunk'. "According to the cryptic message she left on my voicemail earlier, she and Cassie are out shopping. And last night, over their respective gallons of ice cream, they mentioned manatees."

Daniel paused, an odd tone in his voice when he spoke again. "They're going to an aquarium?"

Aquarium? What the—? Jack rolled his eyes. "No—the fingernails. With the paint and gossip and stuff."

"Oh—manicures."

"Those." Using the heel of his shiny shoe, he closed the door, then flicked the deadbolt. "They have all this girly crap planned. Toes, and giggling, and massages, and who the hell knows what else."

"So, no doohickeys."

Turning halfway, Jack glared at the door and its offending locking mechanism. "Nope."

"Well, don't lose hope." Daniel chuckles. "She's bound to get bored eventually."

"I'm actually kind of surprised that they're not home yet." Tossing his keys next to the briefcase, Jack flipped on the entryway light. "I expected them to be waiting for me when I got here."

"Well—enjoy the quiet." Another squeak sounded in the background—although this one seemed to have come from a toy rather than a decrepit piece of furniture. "Just a minute, Jack."

Jack tugged at his tie, holding the phone to his ear as he wandered down the hall and into the kitchen. It was dark in the house—lights off, shades and drapes drawn. Quiet, too, but for the drone of the air conditioning units and the hum of the refrigerator.

On the other end of the line, however, that was not the case.

"Squeaky dog! Yes—I see him, Zoe." A pause—then more high-pitched jabbering, followed by Daniel—only an octave or so higher. "Smoochies? Do you want me to give him smoochies?"

Giggles, and an excited squeal as Daniel made some exaggerated kissing noises followed by some inexplicable growling. After another spate of laughter, Jack heard what sounded like a whole platoon of tiny soldiers hotfooting it barefoot across the wood floors in the Jackson's stately Colonial fixer-upper.

Because of course Daniel would never buy something that wasn't a few centuries old—not even for a brand new life.

"Are you done smooching Squeaky Dog?"

"Zoe is obsessed with that thing." A somewhat wry sigh made its way across the line. "But at least it's better than Ava's fascination with the Oracle of Amenkhemut. I've had to pry that out of her chubby little fingers at least five times in the past few days."

"I thought all that stuff was supposed to stay in the vault."

Daniel breathed out a groan. "Let's just say that Vala had to do some extra testing on it."

"Goa'uld stuff, huh?"

"Oh, yeah." The chair squeaked again. "The crazy thing is that Ava was actually able to make it glow. Just a fizzle, but it was disconcerting."

"I thought that Goa'uld tech was only supposed to be used by people with that protein marker thing."

"We're still trying to figure it all out." A resigned tone eked through his words. "And in the meantime, I've now put it under lock and key."

"Until your wife teaches your spawn how to pick locks."

"Hey—let's save something for after their second birthday, okay?"

Jack laughed, tossing his tie onto the kitchen counter. "Well, I'll make sure that we get together before Cassie leaves. I'm sure she'd love to see the twins."

"Isn't she studying to become a pediatrician?"

"Last I heard, that's the plan." Jack worked at the top button of his dress shirt. "But Sam said something about how she needed to work things out since she's broken up with Dumbass—"

"Devyn."

"Whatever." He started working at the next button. "He called off the engagement, and now Cassie apparently has some big decisions to make."

"Sounds ominous."

"I'm only here for moral support and ice cream runs. There's been a lot of foul language and crying. The male gender has been horrifically maligned, and I sleep with both hands protecting my pertinent bits. It's been awful."

"Cassie and Devyn were together for how long?"

"Three years." Jack counted in his head. "They met in their junior year of college, and they've just finished their first year of med school, so—yeah. Three years."

"Ouch." Daniel hissed through his teeth. "That's rough."

"Anyway. Once I figure out what the plan is, I'll let you know."

"Sounds good. Oh crap—here's Zoe again." Jostling—Daniel had bobbled the receiver—and then the sound of moist, heavy breathing assaulted Jack's ear followed by a mumbled curse word and a distant, "Call me later, Jack!"

And then there was silence.

Flipping the phone closed, Jack slipped it into the breast pocket of his shirt and looked around his empty house. He'd bought it while Sam was on Atlantis—having grown tired of the condo he'd taken as a bachelor pad when he'd first arrived in DC. Too many neighbors. Too few trees. Too little Sam.

But hey—at least she'd finally agreed to share his name while they'd worked at figuring out how to share an actual residence.

The wedding had been quick and quiet—taking place in the sparse few weeks between receiving their new assignments and actually having to report. Neither of them had wanted to make a big deal about it—they'd invited only their closest friends and Mark and his family. The 'getting married' part of the equation hadn't been nearly as important as the 'finally being able to be together' part.

Between her deployments, they'd started to make plans for the future—planting a few roots here and there. He'd looked around for months before finding this place—a good sized house on a wide expanse of acreage on the outskirts of Arlington. More bedrooms than they needed, but Cassie was bound to visit more and more as time went on, right? Mark, Melissa, and the kids had come for a visit six weeks ago—after Sam had finally gotten settled—and it had been useful to have places in which to stash everyone.

Shrugging out of his jacket, O'Neill tossed it over the back of one of the counter-height chairs at the breakfast bar before emptying his pockets of his wallet and spare change. Flicking on the light over the island, he unbuttoned his cuffs and pushed his sleeves up.

He was hungry. An early-afternoon meeting had dragged on right through lunchtime, and subsequent appointments had further kept him from eating. By the time he'd gotten a break, it had been almost time to go home—and he'd thought there had been dinner plans, so he'd been disciplined and not grazed on the munchies he kept in his desk drawer. But the dinner plans were, apparently, on hold—if not outright abandoned.

He also had to pee. Or rather—'use the restroom'. With a little grunt, he traipsed down the hall towards the head—er—powder room. He'd never been too big on niceties—even now that he had to schlub around with the bigwigs. Sam was working to sand off his rough edges, though. Now that she was living with him full-time, she seemed determined to civilize him.

Not that he minded. She was rather hands-on in all her endeavors, which suited Jack just fine.

Quickly, he used the facilities, then zipped up and flushed. Flicking on the faucet, he reached out blindly for the soap, only to end up knocking the decorative pump thingy clean off the counter top with the back of his hand.

"Damn it." Frowning down at his dripping hands, he leaned to one side to look for the pump bottle of soap—but it wasn't on the floor, nor behind the toilet. He hadn't heard it shatter on the tile—it must have landed in the trash can. "Well, crap."

The garbage can was new—one of Sam's most recent additions, along with the ornate soap dispenser, a plethora of embellished hand towels ("They're for guests, Jack."), the framed art she'd positioned on the walls, and the hand-painted plate that held decorative pressed soaps.

Naturally, said receptacle was full. He'd intended to empty the trash tomorrow.

Bending over, Jack took a closer gander. Kleenex, mostly. Plastic packaging from something, wadded-up paper towels. He leaned nearer and moved the top layer aside only to find more tissues. A discarded gum wrapper, a heavy glossy mailer, used-up lip balm, a catalog.

Picking up a clean-looking mail circular, he pushed the tissues away from the walls of the can trying to find the damned soap bottle.

An old comb—a broken pair of sunglasses and a completed crossword from the paper—a wad of hair obviously cleaned out from a brush. Ewww. Using the circular, he prodded at the other side of the can, only to dislodge something that had been wrapped in still more tissue, sending it to clunk against something vaguely metallic beneath.

Bingo.

Gritting his teeth, Jack shifted the contents of the can aside with the heavy cardstock mailer, then reached into the void for the soap. Except it wasn't all that was down there. The first thing he grabbed wasn't the soap at all—but rather a weird, elongated piece of plastic. It was around six inches long and an inch or so wide with a textured bit of plastic—a cap?—on one end. Squarish—it reminded him of the thermometer the infirmary people had always jammed into his mouth—and when he flipped it over, sure enough, he saw a tiny screen on the flat side.

A tiny screen in which were two clearly delineated pink lines rather than numbers.

Proof Positive Pregnancy Test.

The words were printed in scrolling text across the thickest edge of the thing—right next to two informational legends of the tiny screen. One had two lines in it with the word 'Pregnant' above it, while the other only contained a single line. Beneath that picture, it read, 'Not Pregnant'.

He checked the little window again. Yup. Two vivid, clear lines.

So—whoever had taken this test was—

Holy crap.

Suddenly wary, Jack set the test on the counter, then reached back into the breach for the soap dispenser. Quickly, he put it back from whence he'd dislodged it, gave it a few pumps to lather up, and finished his powder room business.

Taking his life into his own hands, he even dried his hands on the guest towels.

The bit of plastic on the countertop drew his gaze again. Those two lines glared out at him from that little window. Those two very meaningful lines.

Someone was certainly knocked up. He was fairly certain it wasn't him.

Frowning, he tapped at the plastic casing with his finger. Maybe the lines would go away—like a drawing on an Etch-A-Sketch. Nope. He tapped again, a little harder, but nothing changed. And again. But no, everything remained remarkably stable.

So, someone was, indeed, pregnant. Pregnant. With child. In the Family Way. Knocked up. Baking the proverbial bun in the proverbial oven.

Holy Crap. The mind boggled.

Cassie. It had to be Cassie.

Young. Engaged to be married until a few days ago. She and Devyn had even been living together. Both smart, driven people, both with lucrative careers ahead of them—it would make sense that they would figure that they could get a jump start on the whole 'family' thing.

Or maybe they'd just gotten careless. That had been known to happen before. It would make sense that they might have allowed things to slip a little, what with school and work and the rigamarole of planning the wedding. A missed pill here, a busted rubber there, and voila! You're a parent.

Right? Maybe that's what this visit was all about. The wedding had been called off. Maybe Cassie was deciding what to do now that Dumbass had decided that his future lay elsewhere. Alone and pregnant? Of course she'd seek comfort and support from the closest thing to a mom that she had—Sam.

Sam.

Only—

It could be Sam. It was possible. She'd only been back on Earth for eight weeks, but there had been plenty of the kind of activity that could—and frequently did—result in the sorts of lines so distinctly notable within that damned tiny window. Only a few days ago, she'd laughed quietly against his throat and whispered something about how they were making up quite nicely for lost time. It hadn't been a complaint—just a rather accurate observation. In fact, Jack had awakened her a few hours later to make up for some more.

But Sam had seemed completely content to plan for that future of theirs as just that—theirs. Never—not even once—had either of them mentioned the possibility of adding anyone else into the mix. And to be honest—Jack had been selfish enough lately about his time with her that the thought of sharing his incredible wife with anyone more needy and demanding than he was seemed more than a little distasteful.

Besides. They were a little too old for this kind of thing, weren't they?

Correction: HE was a little too old for this kind of thing. Past middle age. Pushing ever closer to retirement. For all intents and purposes, he was old. Probably too old to be quite as randy as he actually was.

Except that he'd had no—um—performance difficulties whatsoever with all that sex they'd been having. All that amazing, mind-blowing, other-things-blowing, boisterous, intense, remarkably satisfying sex—

So perhaps he wasn't too old after all.

Jack scowled, glancing up at the mirror. The bathroom lights accentuated the gray in his hair, and he could swear that he'd acquired a few wrinkles since the last time he'd looked at himself. And he'd put on a few pounds since he'd been chained to a desk. Damned time and its cruel progression. Damned desk, too.

He would know, wouldn't he? There would have been signs that his wife was pregnant. Wouldn't there?

Sure. If he'd been looking for them. Which he hadn't.

Reaching out, Jack grabbed the little plastic stick and shoved it into his pocket. Pivoting, he strode out of the bathroom, down the hall, and towards the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, he rounded the landing towards his own bedroom, his long legs eating up the distance. Through the double doors, past the bed and into the giant bathroom—flicking the light on as he aimed himself towards her side of the expansive bathroom cabinetry. Crouching down, he opened the door to peer under the sink.

It was the one thing that he hadn't been able to buy without her. He'd known what brand of shampoo and body wash she'd preferred—purchased her lotion and face cream and toothpaste prior to her leaving command of the Hammond. He'd prepared the place for her return the best he could—feathered the nest, so to speak.

But there was no way in hell that he could have guessed which of those supplies she'd needed. He'd tried—standing in the feminine hygiene aisle at the grocery store for long enough that a few women had given him a rank sort of side-eye—tsking at the weirdo reading the tampon labels. In the end, he'd conceded defeat and left with only his groceries and a case of Heineken.

Which had all turned out okay. Sam hadn't needed any of that stuff immediately upon her return to Earth, and she'd taken care of buying it on her own a few days later. He'd watched her stash her supply under her side of the sink.

Which is where it still sat—the box opened, the contents jumbled, but not noticeably depleted. How many of those thingamajiggers did a woman usually go through each month? It varied didn't it? It's not like there was a quota or anything, right? Right?

Still—an open box was a used box, wasn't it? So, she hadn't not needed them, had she? He paused, thinking back over all those nocturnal (and not-so-nocturnal) activities they'd enjoyed so thoroughly together over the past two months. Had there been a break of any sort in the action? He honestly couldn't remember one.

Regardless—Sam was taking precautions. She'd picked up her preferred that-time-of-the-month contraptions at the pharmacy when she'd picked up her birth control pills.

The pills.

Shutting the cupboard door, Jack rose (damned creaky knees) and leaned across the sink to open the medicine cabinet. The sleek gray plastic container was right where he'd seen it last—on the middle shelf next to Sam's face cream stuff. When he reached for it, the outer case felt cool, and flimsy. Slightly rough where the textured plastic had been stamped at the factory. It fit easily in his hand—smaller than his palm.

He stared at it for a long beat—reluctant to cross this particular precipice. This was one of those privacy things, wasn't it? She was his wife, but she was also a strong, capable, independent woman who deserved her own space. Deserved to keep some things to herself—

"Jack?"

Oh, damn.

He could see her in the mirror, standing in the open bathroom door with a quizzical look on her face. Her eyes were narrowed—her lips pursed up a little. She was wearing jeans and a silky tank, and there was something different about her hair. Lately, she'd taken to pulling it back into a messy ponytail when she was puttering around the place. Right now, it tumbled around her bare, sun-kissed shoulders in a riot of easy waves. His mouth went a little dry, imagining what his fingers could do with those curls—

Clearing his throat, he tried to smile. "Hey, Sam."

He managed to keep his voice from cracking, at least.

His wife's expression was inscrutable. "What are you doing?"

Turning to face her, he flickered a look down at the gray disk in his hand. "Uh—just looking for something."

"Something?"

"Drugs. Some medicine—or whatever." Technically, it wasn't a lie. And if he really stretched things a little, his next statement wasn't, either. "Just something for a headache."

The corner of her delectable mouth tilted upwards. Moving into the bathroom, she nodded towards the package he was holding. "You're going to take that for a headache?"

"I was thinking about it."

"That's not the best idea." Sam plucked the container from his hand edging around him to stow it back in the medicine cabinet next to the face cream. Taking out a different bottle of pills, she handed it to him. "Ibuprofen. This will help your headache."

"Cool." Jack glowered down at the medicine. "Thanks."

She studied him for a moment. "Did you just get home?"

"No—it's been a few minutes."

"Did you still want to go out for dinner?"

"Dinner?"

"Yes, dinner." That amazing dimple of hers teased in her left cheek. "That meal that comes after lunch and before ice cream."

"Sure. Of course."

"Then you might want to get changed." Sam reached up to tweak his collar. Her hand felt warm, even through the heavy fabric of his shirt. Lifting slightly into him, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "Only—wear something nice. Cassie wants to go to this fancy place her friend told her about."

"How fancy?"

"Shirt with a collar, slacks rather than jeans. You could put on that crew-neck sweater that Daniel and Vala got you for Christmas last year. Or a sports jacket." Stepping backwards, she aimed herself into their shared walk-in closet. She undid the button of her jeans, shimmying out of the well-worn denim as she continued. "I'm just going to throw on a dress and some sandals."

He shouldn't just stand there—watching her. But he couldn't help it. She was perfect. Slim, muscular, fit. Rounded in exactly the right places in exactly the right amounts. Long legs, and shapely arms, and she'd taken to lying out on the deck during the afternoon wearing the tiniest little bikini. Tanned. So very, very perfectly gloriously golden.

She tossed the jeans into the laundry hamper, and then shucked off her top. She was wearing regular underwear—not the seductive, slinky stuff. Cotton panties and a simple bra. When she turned just right, Jack could see her abdomen in a perfect silhouette against the clothes behind her. Flat. Mostly. Maybe a little more rounded than the last time he'd really paid any attention to it.

But then, she had been eating a lot of ice cream lately.

"What?"

What, what? Startled, Jack dragged his gaze upwards with an articulate, "Huh?"

She was frowning at him, standing there nearly naked in the closet. "What're you looking at?"

"Nothing."

"You were looking at me."

"Right."

"So, I'm nothing?"

Shaking his head, Jack cleared his throat. "No—I was just—looking."

She reached out and grabbed the dress she'd wanted, letting the hanger dangle from her fingers. Her eyebrows rose—somewhat precipitously. Her voice held just the hint of a challenge. "Why?"

This time, he could be completely, utterly, totally honest. "Because you're beautiful and perfect and I'm the luckiest shrub alive."

She did that thing where she bit back a smile, ducking her chin in an attempt to stop her cheeks from turning pink. With a little shake of her head, she rolled her eyes, making a scoffing noise in the back of her throat. And then she pulled the hanger free from the dress, peeking up at him from beneath her lashes, her expression something so completely ephemeral that Jack could no more have interpreted it than he could have translated Shakespeare into Goa'uld.

Holy hell. He was well and truly screwed. But then—he'd known that as soon as she'd marched into that first briefing more than a decade ago and started prattling on about reproductive organs.

A strangely prescient utterance, given the current circumstances.

Suddenly, that bit of plastic in his pocket felt like a leaden weight.

When he could focus again, he noticed that she'd already slipped the dress over her head and was fastening the buttons up the front. With several deft movements, she tied the belt. Then, choosing a pair of sandals off the shelf, she dropped them to the floor and shoved her feet inside before heading back out towards the bedroom.

"We'll wait for you downstairs."

"Hey, Sam?"

She turned at the door, her skirt swirling around her calves. "Yeah?"

He braced himself—inhaling deeply before barreling ahead with it. "Is there something you need—or want—to tell me?"

Surely she'd say something, right? Surely she'd tell him if she'd taken a test and found out that everything about their lives was going to change? That something momentous—even more so than spaceships and aliens and instantaneous interplanetary travel—was imminent?

But those cerulean eyes only widened the scarcest bit before she gave her head a little shake. "Not really. Why?"

So—it wasn't her. She wasn't the one who'd taken the test. If it had been, she'd have taken advantage of the moment. She'd have said something.

And suddenly, Jack started feeling a little empty. As if he'd been promised the possibility of something amazing—only to watch it evaporate before his very eyes. Like a partial rainbow that fades into the storm.

Despite the hollow feeling that settled deep in his gut, he nodded. He thought he might have smiled. "No reason."

She pointed at him. "Don't be too long, okay?"

Yeah. Okay.

# # #

"Men are idiots."

"Yes." Sam's voice was only just loud enough to be heard. "Yes, they often are."

Cassie sniffled again, and then groaned—the sound was guttural even muffled by the furniture and the drapes.

And the fact that Jack was hearing it from around a corner.

He'd dressed quickly—tossing his uniform over the back of a chair to be dealt with later before choosing dress pants and a blue Oxford from the closet. He dithered about the sweater thing—jackets were more confining, but it was harder to divest oneself of a pull-over in public. He'd learned that the super-snooty-hoity-toity places around here didn't mind if one took off the jacket—as long as the jacket was present when one was seated by the host

Sports jacket, it was.

He'd kicked off the shiny General shoes in favor of some new-ish loafers, run his fingers through his hair, and checked his teeth for schmutz before calling things good. On a last, ridiculous impulse, he'd grabbed the dusty bottle of cologne that Sam had given him the Christmas before she'd left for Atlantis, giving himself a solid spritz.

He'd nearly left the bathroom before he caved, turning back and retrieving the plastic stick from his uniform pocket and tucking it into the pocket of his trousers. Why? Who the hell knew?

The fact that the stairs were carpeted meant that he'd descended without either Sam or Cassie realizing that he was there. And, hearing their quiet voices—paired with Cassie's sniffling—he'd stopped just short of the living room.

"Things were so good, Sam. I mean—I know I told you all this before, but they really were."

"I know, sweetheart."

"He said that he just grew apart from me. That we never spent any time together anymore. But how were we supposed to do that? We had a different class schedule, different disciplines, and different study groups."

At the very least there wasn't any active crying anymore. All Jack could hear now was the sniffling.

"I'd already booked the venue. Paid the non-refundable deposits." She sounded angry. "I spent some of the money I got after mom died."

"We'll replace it. Jack and I will make sure you don't take a hit financially."

"Devyn should pay me back. He's the total asshat that broke up with me." Cassie flumped back against something soft—probably the couch cushions. "I gave the ring back. He should sell that and make things right."

"What about the dress?"

"The dress." Cassie groaned. "I was planning on returning that anyway. It didn't quite fit anymore."

"Now that—" Sam's voice trailed off into nothingness. Obviously, no other information was required. They'd discussed this before.

"Yeah." With a long sigh, Cassie took a while before continuing. "But now that the wedding's off, I guess that it doesn't matter anymore."

"There are other considerations, Cass." Sam's tone had taken on a more serious tone. "Have you thought about what you're going to do about—"

Another long pause, broken only when Cassie sighed yet again. "About that?"

"Yeah."

Cassie groaned—more resignation than exasperation. "I can't keep it, Sam. I'll have to get rid of it—or whatever."

"That isn't your only option, sweetheart."

"It's the only one that makes sense, Sam." Panic—just a little—tinged her tone. "It's just too much right now. With school and work and everything. How am I supposed to take care of it all by myself?"

"I'm sure we can figure out something."

"But you and Jack are all the way out here and I'm all the way in Colorado. It's not exactly a convenient trip."

"Do you want to keep it, Cassie?"

Small. Her voice sounded small. And just the tiniest bit hopeful. "I do. Like—a lot."

"Then it's settled." Sam's words had taken on a distinctly 'Colonel' air. Commanding. Firm. Decisive. "I'm taking some time off. For the next little bit, I'm free to help out as much as you need."

For a long time, the only sound was the quiet ticking of the clock in the kitchen. Jack took a quick glance around the corner, bracing a hand against the railing of the staircase. He'd guessed right—they were sitting on the couch—closely. Sam had her arm around Cassie's back, and the young woman's head was resting against Sam's shoulder.

She tilted her head up to catch Sam's eye. "You'd do that for me?"

"Cassie—Jack and I are here for you in whatever way you need us to be."

"Even for that?"

"Especially for that."

Jack took a deep breath—exhaling slowly.

So—it was Cassie. Sam being pregnant was one thing—but Cassie? Young, pregnant, dumped, and alone? That was quite another. Obviously, Sam knew about everything. Based on the short-hand nature of their conversation, it was clear that they'd spent the day discussing it already.

Equally as obvious was the fact that Cassie wasn't ready to tell Jack about any of it. But really, that didn't matter. It was fine. He could do covert. He would just be supportive in the background. The strong silent type. He'd been the closest thing to a father that Cassie had had for more than half her life. He'd be damned if he stopped being that for her now.

Cassandra Fraiser had already been through too much in her young life without having to face this monumental challenge alone.

It was time for Jack to step up. It was Dad time.