Mazes and Masks

Chapter Two

X X X

"Halloween is not what it used to be."

It was the first time he'd spoken to her in over an hour.

She'd arrived late, having gotten caught up in a tricky transmission adjustment on the Indian. Once she'd realized the time, she'd rooted around in her wardrobe for something to wear, pulling on the only thing in her closet that looked even remotely like a costume.

At the school, she'd stood uncertainly on the track around the football field until a teenager dressed like a fairy had pointed her towards her assigned post. Sam had grabbed the bucket of candy she'd been handed and made her way through the gauntlet—past vendor booths and carnival games and treat stations—dodging kids in every conceivable kind of disguise—until she'd arrived at her goal.

At first, she hadn't realized what it was—the stacks of baled hay—or was it straw?—had reminded her of the course where she'd instructed Cassie in the finer points of paintball two summers before. But then, she'd seen the sign hanging off the goal post, and it had made more sense.

The A-MAZE-ing Race!

The thing was huge—medium-sized bales of straw stacked five-high in neat rows. The outer walls stretched the width of the end zone and extended all the way to the fence on the other side of the track. Directly in the middle of the front section, a pair of openings in the hay bore signage distinguishing the entrance from the exit.

And directly between them had stood the Colonel.

"I'm sorry I'm late, Sir."

She wasn't sure what she'd been expecting from this volunteer stint at a high school fall festival—but one thing should have been obvious. She should have known that Cassie would pair her up with the Colonel. If she'd been thinking—instead of wallowing like a wretch—she'd have prepared herself for the possibility. Instead, his presence had been a shock to her system.

And damn it—he looked good. Totally recovered; one hundred and eighty degrees from how he'd looked in the infirmary as he'd battled the infection and fever. She'd tried not to pay attention at dinner the other night, but here, not noticing had been impossible.

The funny thing is that they'd gone the same route, costume-wise. He was wearing close-fitting jeans, a plain white t-shirt, and the leather jacket that she instantly recognized from their jaunt into the past. He'd even covered his graying hair with that funky, embroidered skull cap he'd found at that street fair outside St. Louis. It was the same flea market where she'd found the beaded choker she'd fastened around her throat before she'd left the house tonight.

He'd frowned at her before reaching out to take the bucket she held. If he'd recognized her clothing, he hadn't broadcast it. "No problem, Major."

"I got involved with a project and lost track of time."

Pacing back to the entrance of the maze, he'd plunked the bucket down next to another one just like it. Straightening, he'd tossed a half-shrug in her direction. "It's always something, isn't it?"

She'd had no idea how to take that. Clearing her throat, she'd tried again. "I should have called."

"Why? It's not like we're on duty."

"Still. I shouldn't have been late."

His lips had thinned, and he'd looked off into the distance—past her—through her—into the melange of humanity milling about the place.

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing, Carter." He'd sighed, his dark eyes flickering to her skirt, her lace top, her boots, the bohemian jacket she wore—before meeting her gaze fully. "Let's just get to work."

Squeals of excitement and the approaching rumble of footsteps had them falling into action—counting heads, taking tickets, keeping vigilance for trouble—as the kids hastened into the maze. As the kids had emerged from the labyrinth, she'd tossed candy into bags and pillowcases and buckets shaped like pumpkins. Every once in a while, someone had gotten stuck in the maze, and the Colonel had left his post to go in for the rescue operation.

Things hadn't felt exactly normal—but they'd been close.

They'd fallen into a familiar rhythm, knowing instinctively what the other needed—doing what needed to be done—without any overt communication. For the first time in nearly a month, things hadn't felt like they'd been one step away from implosion. And maybe it was the venue—it was hard to hold a grudge while surrounded by people having such fun—but Sam thought that maybe he was moving past whatever had made him shut her out.

The fact he'd finally said something not quasi-mission related felt like a ray of hope.

Sam sent him a sideways look before following his focus out into the main body of the festival. Cassie's event was a roaring success—crowded and loud and boisterous. Little kids abounded—trailed by moms and dads with even littler ones in their arms or packed into strollers. Preteen middle-schoolers ran hither and yon in giggling, rowdy packs. And teenagers filled everywhere else—some volunteers like Cassie and her team—and myriad others just there for the candy and fun.

It wasn't trick-or-treating in a neighborhood with houses decorated with spiderwebs and carved pumpkins, but it still seemed pretty Halloween-y.

"Sir?"

O'Neill gestured out into the crowd. "Most of these kids aren't even wearing costumes. It's all just fake blood and clothes that look like they wore them while wrestling bears."

Sam reassessed the scene with a more critical eye. The Colonel's observations had merit. The littlest kids had mostly been wearing traditional costumes—she'd dropped hundreds of pieces of candy into buckets and bags being wielded by pirates, wizards, vampires, princesses, and superheroes. She'd asked some—or their moms—about the costumes she hadn't recognized, learning about characters from current kids' TV shows. Blue and Steve. Rolie Polie Olie. Kipper. A friendly construction worker named Bob.

The teenagers, on the other hand, all seemed to have burst out of various and sundry horror movies. Zombies. So. Many. Zombies. Others had come dressed as victims of zombies—or refugees from a nuclear apocalypse—ragged and disheveled, with eyeshadow bruises, and synthetic scars. And then there were the vampires that looked as if they were participating in some sort of beauty contest—all brooding and swoonworthy. It didn't make any sense to her, but then, she had no idea what the 'norm' was for these kinds of things anymore.

"I guess that's what counts for a costume these days, Sir."

"So it seems." His expression relaxed into a grim kind of smile. "Although I kind of miss the traditional stuff."

Sam considered that for a moment. "What kind of traditional stuff?"

"Monsters, sports heroes, astronauts." He paused, searching his brain for other common seasonal themes. "Witches. Werewolves. Knights in shining armor. You know—the usual stuff."

"I've seen some of those here and there."

"A few." He made a sound deep in his throat before shaking his head. "It's all so commercial now. I've seen at least a dozen kids in the exact same costume. There's no creativity."

"Not even the bear-mauled zombies?"

"Mmmm." He raised a hand to scratch at his jaw. After a moment, he spoke again, his voice more than a little halting. "My mom always made me a costume when I was little. A sheet with two eye holes cut out, or long strips of cloth wrapped around and around like a mummy. Flannel shirts stuffed with straw to be a scarecrow. Once I hit eight or so, I started stealing a pair of my old man's army fatigues out of his trunk and hitting the streets as a commando."

Sam could imagine it. Pant legs and sleeves rolled up, a tactical tool belt cinched at the waist. A lanky kid with red-blond hair beneath an olive drab army cap cruising around from house to house shouting 'trick or treat!' at the top of his lungs. She bit back a smile. She'd have liked to have seen that. "I'm sure you looked very tough."

"Not even a little. I was a scrawny little Irish kid. All raw bones and bad attitude. There was nothing tough about me." His tone was self-deprecating, but a smile ghosted across his face at the memory.

A horde of middle schoolers came laughing out of the exit, and Sam took a few moments to toss candy into their bags before watching as they ran back towards the main carnival games. The crowds were thinning now. A glance at her watch told her that the event was nearing its close.

She threw a glance in the Colonel's direction. "Eventually, though, you grew into it, right?"

He turned his head to look at her, studying her for a moment before taking an inward breath. "My dad left before I could. I came home from school one day and he was gone. He took it all with him."

Sam hadn't known that. But then—he'd never spoken about his childhood. He'd never trusted her with that much of him. Wincing slightly, she exhaled. "I'm sorry."

"Mom didn't make any more costumes after that." Matter-of-fact. Blunt. His voice betrayed no emotion whatsoever. It was as if he'd convinced himself that it didn't matter. "She had to get a job. Then another. She didn't have time to be making costumes. You know how it is."

She did. Sam inclined her head in what might have been a nod.

At least—he seemed to take it as one. "So, that year, she went and got me one of those costumes in a box. You're probably too young to remember them. They had these awful molded plastic masks."

Sam's lip twitched. "With the little elastic band that held it on your head?"

"Yeah—only the metal tabs on either end of the band always slipped through the holes in the mask and the whole damned thing went sailing off your face every three minutes."

He was smiling—well, half a smile, at least—with his mouth curving upward and his left dimple making an appearance. For a moment, it looked like he was going to say something else, but a whole passel of little kids converged on the entrance and the moment was gone. He turned his full attention towards the children.

Sam watched as he gathered their tickets and waved them into the maze. Once the noise had died down, she edged closer towards him. "One year, I wanted to be Wonder Woman."

His eyebrows rose at that. "Oh?"

"All the girls wanted to be Wonder Woman. I mean—who wouldn't want to be Wonder Woman?" Chagrined, Sam winced. Hearing a group of kids nearing the exit, she reached down to grab a handful of candy. "Anyway, my mom bought me the costume—the one in the box, like you were talking about. Cheap plastic. Terrible, terrible mask. It was barely even wearable—I could hardly breathe through that slit at the mouth and there weren't any nose holes. The eye holes were in the wrong place. It wasn't recognizable as Wonder Woman at all—it looked like some weird, melted, chunky cow with a tiara. Regardless, I dressed up in it and felt like I was so cool."

"How old were you?"

"Nine." She shrugged. "Almost. I wouldn't turn nine until December."

Five or six kids suddenly burst out of the exit, crowding around Sam to get their treats. As they ran back towards the carnival games, she glanced over to see the Colonel watching her. Waiting for her to continue.

"Anyway. I got my trick-or-treat bag and got ready to go out with Mark and his friends."

"You didn't have your own friends to go out with?"

"I wasn't—" She paused, searching for the right words. "I wasn't popular. I was a little too intense for most kids."

"You? Intense?" He smirked. Not unkindly—just in that way he had that was both teasing and familiar. "You don't say."

Exhaling a sharp, strangled sort of laugh, Sam bent and snagged a piece of candy out of the bucket. Tearing the wrapper with her thumbnail, she started to peel it away. "Anyway, my dad saw me in this sheer piece of plastic with this god-awful mask on and proclaimed that his daughter wouldn't be caught dead wearing it out in public and made me go change."

"So, no Wonder Woman."

"No Wonder Woman. But I didn't have another costume." She worked the bit of chocolate free from the packaging. "I ended up borrowing my mom's lab coat from her days as a biology lab tech in college. Then, I put talcum powder on my hair and face."

His eyebrows furrowed as he quizzed that one out. "Einstein?"

"What?"

"Were you dressed as Albert Einstein?" He twiddled his fingers towards his head. "Bushy white hair—lab coat—scientist. Einstein."

"No. But close." Sam grinned, a little sheepishly. "I was Madame Curie. I thought that the baby powder would make it look like I was radioactive."

He actually laughed at that, throwing his head back until it hit the hay behind him. He ran his finger beneath his eye, wiping away some schmutz as he shook his head. "Only you, Carter."

"Well, you're not the only one who was confused." She looked down at the bucket, kicking at the base of it with the side of her boot. "Nobody knew who I was. I finally got tired of explaining it and just told everyone I was a dentist."

"Dentists are scary."

"I wasn't. Not even a little."

"At least you got candy, right?"

"Mmmm." She'd taken a tentative nibble of the chocolate, and waited to answer until she'd swallowed. "Some. Mark and his friends had dressed up in their football uniforms, and they looked cool. Nobody really paid attention to this weird kid trailing behind them dressed like a dead physicist. It was weird. I was weird. After that, I guess I just figured that Halloween wasn't my thing."

"And yet, here you are."

She tucked the rest of the treat between her lips, chewing thoughtfully. Sucking a bit of chocolate off her thumb, she shrugged. "I'm just here to help Cassie."

"Ah." O'Neill turned back towards the thinning crowd. Leaning back against the straw wall between the exit and entry points, he folded his arms across his chest as he watched as moms and dads rounded up their kids and started towards the exit. "Well, all things considered. It hasn't been a complete cluster."

Sam took the opportunity to study him. He'd relaxed a little here amongst the families and kids and fun—seeming nearly as approachable as he'd been before the incident in Seattle. Certainly more so than he'd been at his birthday dinner. Just now, leaning casually up against the straw bales, he looked like any other guy volunteering at any other fall festival to help out a young friend. He looked—normal.

Younger, even. Which was ridiculous, really, but there it was. His expression had lost its edge—softened a little, his mouth less tight, and his jaw unclenched. And when his gaze had landed on her, he'd actually seen her—not merely looked through her or past her like he had in the days after Seattle.

"For the record, Sir." She eased herself towards the hay bales, edging around the bucket at her feet. Resting a shoulder against the wall, she lowered her voice. "I've been wanting to tell you that I'm sorry."

It took him a moment to answer. When he did, his expression was cautious. "Sorry? For what?"

The straw felt rough and prickly—even buffered as it was by the thickness of her jacket. Pushing herself upright, Sam brushed some dregs of the hay off her sleeve. "I know you're angry with me."

"I am?"

"Apparently. You've been—distant—ever since the situation with Conrad."

He absorbed that, his face impassive. "And you think it's because I'm mad at you?"

"Well—I did get you shot."

He paused, making no effort to hide how intently he was studying her. His eyes had darkened, though, leaving his face shuttered. "I'm not mad at you, Carter."

She'd been rehearsing the speech in her head for weeks. Even so, she stuttered at the start. "I—I just—"

"Hey, guys! Maze people!"

They turned in unison to see the fairy from the front entrance jogging towards them. She slowed a few feet away, tugging at the elastic bands holding her wings on her shoulders as she came closer, and wiping beads of sweat from her temple.

Slightly out of breath, she stopped a few feet away, glancing between Sam and the Colonel. "We're missing a kid."

O'Neill pushed away from the straw wall. "What?"

"A kid." The fairy reached up to adjust her tiara before gesturing towards the opposite side of the field with her thumb. "We have a mom at the front entrance who's missing her kid."

Sam dropped the candy wrapper into the bucket before stepping towards the teenager. "How old of a child?"

"Seven." She sucked in a deep breath before continuing. "A little boy. Brown hair, brown eyes. He's dressed like Spiderman, complete with the mask. Apparently, he likes to wander, and somehow got away from his mom while she doing something with the little sister."

The Colonel made a quick recon of the surrounding area, immediately stepping into mission mode. "Where have you looked?"

"We have people checking out all of the various stations, and we've locked down the exits. Cassie's with the mother, and she's all her captains out to look in specific places. She told me to ask you two to check out the maze and the surrounding area. She said you'd know what to do."

"Of course." Sam was already moving backwards towards the maze's entrance. "Tell Cassie that we'll call her cell phone if we find him."

"Okay." The fairy adjusted her wings again, backing away as she talked. "And if you don't find him in there, go to the haunted house. That's set up in the gym, and there's a ton of places to hide in there."

"Sure." Turning towards Sam, O'Neill indicated the opening on the right. "I'll take the entrance. You take the exit and we can meet in the middle."

"Yes, Sir." Her skirt swirled as she hustled through the opening.

Sam hadn't ventured through the maze yet. She'd assumed that it would be fairly straightforward, but quickly realized that the designers had been determined to make things challenging. Narrow corridors. Towering stacks of straw. Dead ends and U-Turns. She got turned around half-way in and found herself back at the beginning. Cursing softly, she remembered a trick she'd heard about as a kid and placed her right hand on the wall next to the exit and kept it there as she set forth again.

Right. Left. Right. Right. Dead-end—but she followed it around, keeping her hand on the rough straw wall as she continued onward. Deeper in, the hay bales blocked out some of the event lighting, and the passages grew increasingly darker—shadowed, and mysterious. She took three more turns—four—until she rounded a corner in the furthest section of the maze and was surprised to see a tiny scarlet blotch tucked into an alcove between two stacks of hay.

Holy crap. She'd found him.

Sam approached slowly, bending down to peer at the figure.

Red suit. Black lines artistically placed to look like webs. The kid's mask sat askew on top of his head, probably due to the fact that he'd shoved it up to wipe at his nose with the sleeve of his costume. Dark brown eyes stared out at her from the corner, accompanied by an impressive sniffle. He had chocolate on his nose and chin, and tears had made twin clean trails down his otherwise dirty cheeks. More than a dozen empty candy wrappers littered the ground around him.

"Hi." She smiled. "Are you Spider-Man?"

The kid hesitated, then nodded. He rubbed at his tear-stained chin again with his sleeve.

"I think your mom's looking for you."

Without a word, the kid raised a hand and tugged his mask back down over his face.

Okay. Her smile faded.

Footfalls in the straw strewn on the grass had her looking up—hopeful for a reinforcement better equipped to handle a grumpy kid on a sugar high.

Sure enough, the Colonel rounded the corner and stopped short. His eyes instantly surveyed the situation, landing on the little figure huddled against the wall. He sounded as surprised as she'd felt. "You found him."

"I did." Sam kept her voice low. "He doesn't seem to want to talk to me, though."

O'Neill considered that before casually walking over and lowering himself to sit next to the little guy. Heaving out a sigh, he rested his arms on his upturned knees and looked at the kid. "Hey."

But Spider-Man remained stubbornly silent.

"My name's Jack." Leaning closer, he bumped the child's shoulder gently with his elbow. "What's yours?"

Nothing.

"Listen. My friend and I are here to help you. But we can't do that unless you let us."

Sniffle.

Sam took a step closer, tucking her skirt around her knees as she crouched down at the kid's feet. He was wearing red sneakers, and every time he shifted, they lit up. She tapped the toe of one with her index finger. "Those are some pretty cool shoes. Are they what Spider-Man wears?"

Instantly, the mask got shoved back up to reveal the little dirty face. "Uh-uh. Spider-Man wears boots that are part of his Spidey-suit."

"Oh." Sam flickered a quick glance in O'Neill's direction before catching the child's gaze again. "I don't know much about Spider-Man."

"Is that because you're a hippie?"

"A hippie?" Smiling, Sam shook her head. "No. I'm actually in the military."

"You're a soldier?" He couldn't have sounded more unconvinced if he'd tried.

"She's a good one, too."

The kid turned a narrow eye on the Colonel. "Are you a soldier, too?"

"Yep."

"Then why aren't you dressed like soldiers?"

"Because we dress like soldiers all the time." Somehow, O'Neill managed to make that sound like a perk. "But it's Halloween. So, tonight, we're wearing costumes."

Those wide brown eyes made quick work of sizing up O'Neill before taking a closer look at Sam. "Those are your costumes?"

Sam nodded. "Yep."

"It just looks like regular clothes. My Aunt Gwen wears clothes like that and my mom says it's because she's a freaking hippie." The kid narrowed his brown eyes at Sam. "Mom says that Aunt Gwen needs to grow up instead of trying to live in the past."

Oh, the irony. Looking down at her skirt, Sam traced the seam curving between the denim and copper velveteen with her fingertip. She hadn't chosen any of her clothing at that flea market—Jenny had done those honors. Sam had been drawn to a rack of pencil skirts and sweater sets, but the younger woman had dragged her back towards the more bohemian garb. Sam—being Sam—had resisted being dressed up as if she were going to tell fortunes at a carnival, but she'd gradually caved to Jenny's sweet, idealistic insistence.

Ultimately, Jenny had been right—they'd needed to jive with the gaudy, rather wonderful, converted bus they were driving across the country. There was no point in dressing in fatigues whilst hiding amongst the peaceniks.

But while the disguises had been necessary, they'd also allowed for a certain lapse in their normal military rigidity. Sam had found herself having to remind herself that she was playing a role. That they really weren't the people that they were purporting to be.

Daniel with his scholarly vibe and overwrought German accent. Teal'c with that ridiculous wig and bell-bottoms the size of Chulak. They'd both dived right into their parts with a certain earnest enthusiasm. It had taken Sam a bit longer, but she'd gradually embraced being feminine. After a while, she'd even begun to enjoy the skirts and flowers and chunky beaded necklaces. It had been enjoyable to be 'the girl' for once.

The Colonel had jumped into it all the most completely—almost gleeful as he'd morphed into character. He'd relaxed into the experience, somehow retaining command while not being officious about it, taking on the persona of everyone's cool older brother.

Except to Sam, for whom he'd presented himself as something notably not brotherly. It was his protective instinct, she'd told herself. His concern for her safety—and the success of the mission—had forced him into acting as something of a boyfriend. Not that he didn't trust that she could take care of herself—but it wasn't expected for a woman to be as capable of it as Sam was. It might draw undue attention were she to level every guy who catcalled or propositioned her—times being what they were, and all.

So, they'd played up that part of the act, as well. Long hours tucked up next to each other in the back of the bus, the nights sitting next to the campfire looking up at the stars. Talking about anything and nothing. Reminiscing about things they'd remembered from the sixties and early seventies—or simply sitting next to each other watching the country roll by through the windows of that fanciful, ramshackle bus and not saying anything at all.

It had been—nice. More than nice. And Sam had frequently needed to remind herself that it wasn't real.

Even if it felt as if it were.

"What if we don't get back?" She'd asked him late one night. Daniel had fallen asleep on the only bed, and Jenny sat reading on the floor behind the driver's seat. Teal'c was driving, with Michael riding shotgun.

The Colonel had stretched himself out on the sofa, boldly resting his head in her lap. Smiling, he'd sighed as she'd traced the embroidered motifs on his cap with her finger.

"Then we'll live out the rest of our lives here." He'd answered. His brown eyes had met hers fully—deliberately. "Find some place to hole up and just—live."

He hadn't seemed too heartbroken at the prospect.

But they hadn't had to find that place to hole up. Sam—and General Hammond—had brought them back to the present. And after she'd gotten home from the Mountain, she'd removed the raiment of nineteen sixty-nine and washed it. Then, she'd hung it up in the furthest reaches of her closet and tried not to think about the latent symbolism of that.

She hadn't put them on again until this evening. Only to find the Colonel had done the same thing.

As if he could bear her thoughts, he played with one of the zippers on his leather coat while he kept the conversation rolling. "Aunt Gwen sounds like fun."

Surreptitiously, Sam reached into the pocket of her jacket. Pulling out her cell phone, she opened the device, scrolling through her messaging app until she found her ongoing text conversation with Cassie.

Luckily, the kid didn't seem to notice. He scrunched up his nose and sniffled again. "She smells funny. Like moldy trees, or dead plants, or something."

"Ah." A faint haze of recognition passed across the Colonel's features before he schooled his expression into something benign. "What's your name, buddy?"

The child sighed. Kicking his heel against the turf, he watched as the little lights flickered on the bottom of his shoe. "Sam. It's short for Samuel."

"No kidding?" O'Neill gestured at Carter. "That's her name, too."

Those big brown flew wide. "You're named Samuel?"

Sam shook her head. Pressing a few more buttons on the keyboard, she sent the quick text message off to Cassie and flipped the phone closed. "People call me Sam, but it's short for Samantha."

"Oh." Samuel swiped at his cheek with the back of his hand, then sniffled again. "That's a girl's name."

The Colonel regarded her steadily, studying her again—his eyes direct, yet inscrutable. "That's because she is a girl."

"She's—like—way older than a girl."

Sam snorted. "Thanks, kid."

"You're right." O'Neill passed his tongue across his lips. "She's a woman—not a girl."

Little Sam narrowed a look at said woman before leaning to whisper conspiratorially to his new friend. "She's kinda pretty."

The Colonel grinned outright at that. "You've got good taste."

Sam didn't know whether to feel flattered or affronted, so she merely rolled her eyes and remained silent. At the very least the child wasn't crying anymore, so she guessed that was probably a win.

Samuel eyed O'Neill again. "You said your name's Jack."

"It is."

"Is that short for something?"

"It's short for John." Relaxing back against the straw wall, he stretched his legs out in front of him and folded his hands in his lap. "My real first name is John."

"Jack's not shorter than John."

"No." The corner of the Colonel's mouth edged upwards. "But it's a lot cooler."

The kid's face communicated his skepticism, but he seemed willing to accept the explanation. "Did you start calling yourself that?"

"Nah." Shaking his head, O'Neill picked at a spot of something on his jeans. "I got it from my old man. I used to get in trouble a lot, and he'd get mad and call me a jacka—"

"Sir."

At her quiet correction, he instantly changed course. "Jack hole. He used to call me a jackhole."

Little Sam's expression reeked of confusion.

"Anyway." Carter ducked her chin, catching the boy's gaze. "Is there a reason that you're hiding out in here instead of out there having fun?"

Those brown eyes narrowed significantly. "Lily."

The Jackhole frowned. "What—like the flower?"

"No." Samuel worried at the mask in his hands. "My little sister. Lily. She wanted to get her face painted like a stupid princess. So my mom dragged us over to the face painting place, but the line was—like—so long, and I didn't want to wait because I wanted to go to the haunted house."

"You're kind of young for the haunted house."

Little Sam glared at Samantha. "That's what my mom said. She said that Lily wouldn't like the haunted house, so we'd go to the fishing game after the face painting place."

O'Neill's response came immediately. "Fishing game?"

"Yeah. It's like this lame thing where you throw a string over a wall and you fish for prizes."

"Fishing is lame?"

"Well, yeah. Fishing's totally boring."

Sam could help flashing O'Neill a quick smile. "Boring, huh?"

His answering smile was an easy, intimate thing. So wholly reminiscent of how things had been before Seattle that it made Sam ache.

"Hey—fishing's great."

"Cooler than the haunted house?"

"Damn straight. Fishing's the best. Haunted houses are spooky and make you get all scared."

"That's what my mom said." Samuel's pout deepened. "She said that she didn't want to be up all night with me cause I'm having nightmares."

"Nightmares can be pretty creepy."

"Only babies have nightmares."

"Hey, there, young man." O'Neill lowered his brows, suddenly serious. "Everyone has nightmares sometimes."

"Even soldiers?"

"Especially soldiers." The Colonel shifted against the straw wall, repositioning his leg so that the toe of his boot brushed against her skirt. "I've had some doozies lately."

"Really?"

"Yep."

"How come?"

"I lost something." That boot tilted towards her—more completely beneath the hem of her skirt. Whether it was by design or accident wasn't clear. "I lost something super important to me. It took me too long to find it and I was afraid I wouldn't get it back."

With total solemnity, Little Sam nodded. "I lost the lightsaber from my Darth Maul action figure last week. I know what it's like."

"It sucks, doesn't it?"

"Totally."

Jack shrugged—pretending nonchalance, maybe. Or just trying to steer the conversation. "So, that's why I'd rather go fishing than to a haunted house. I don't want to get the crap scared out of me and then have nightmares."

"You would?"

"Absolutely." Nodding, O'Neill caught her eye again—briefly. A fleeting look before he returned his attention to the child. "In fact, I just got a new fishing reel for my birthday from a friend. It's super cool and I can't wait to try it out."

So, he had opened the gift. Sam bit her lip, glancing down to where his boot was half-covered by the fabric of her skirt. He'd appreciated it. That was something, at least.

But little Sam wasn't going to allow some dumb fishing gear to further preempt his story. His eyes went wide as he sucked in an exaggerated breath. "Anyway. It took—like—forever at the face painting place, so I figured I'd just go to the haunted house by myself instead of waiting."

Dragging her eyes away from O'Neill, Sam refocused on the child. "So how did you end up in here?"

His little chin quivered—just a bit. "I guess I kinda got lost."

"Understandable." The Colonel nodded, his tone gently commiserating. "There's a lot of people here."

"And they're mostly taller than me. I couldn't see where I was going and a bunch of older kids seemed to know where the good stuff was, so I tagged along with them, and—" he sighed again, his little shoulders drooping. "And then I got stuck in here."

"You have a lot of people worried about you." Sam offered a tentative smile.

"My mom's probably super mad at me."

"It might seem that way." O'Neill nudged the kid with his elbow again. "But many times, when people really care about other people, it might seem like they're angry when they're really just worried. Those two things can seem a lot alike."

"You think?"

"I do."

Sam reached out and took Samuel's hand. Giving it a little tug, she urged him to stand. "So, fellow Sam. Your mom and little sister are outside the maze. I'd love to meet them. Would you introduce me?"

Gathering his feet underneath him, Samuel stood. His butt and legs were covered in straw, and his hands were even dirtier than his face, but at least he'd stopped sniffling. He bent to reach for a tote bag that presumably held his candy before looking up at Sam with a look so completely full of guile that his design was unmistakable. "I'm—like—super tired."

The Colonel's cheek dented as he gave the kid a one-sided grin. "You are, huh?"

"My legs feel all wobbly, too."

The little conman. Sam raised a brow before exhaling lightly. "Do you want one of us to carry you?"

It was as if Oliver Twist had spawned anew in Colorado. All Little Sam needed was a bowl of gruel and a gritty grifter to teach him out to pick pockets. His eyes flew wide, and his chin actually quivered as he gave her a tenuous grin. "Gosh! Wouldya?"

Passing a glance in the Colonel's direction, she took the kid under his arms and hefted him up. Like the superhero whose uniform he wore, he instantly attached himself to her—skinny little arms around her neck and his legs wrapped around her midsection. He was lighter than she'd imagined he'd be, but then—she really didn't have a frame of reference for children. She bounced him once just to situate him more comfortably against her and then turned to look at the Colonel. "Ready?"

"Well come on, then." O'Neill snagged both the treat bag and the mask from the kid, waiting for Sam to head back into the maze before following into step behind her. "Let's go."