AN: During and After The Lost City. When Jack is describing death during The Lost City Part 1 he says, "Goodnight, my someone, goodnight." The Music Man feels pretty out of character for him to be watching, but hey... I didn't write it.

Also, the man seriously has a lot of house plants.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" Jack asked. Carter had her jacket sleeves rolled up, and her hands in his kitchen sink. General Hammond, Teal'c and Daniel had just left after the impromptu pizza party.

"Just cleaning up. It won't take long, and then I'll get out of your hair," she apologized.

"You really don't have to do that." He hadn't invited her over to... well, he hadn't invited her over, but that wasn't the point.

"I might as well do it now instead of coming back after..." she looked up at him from the sink, and he saw an ache etched into the lines on her face. "Just after."

"You won't have to do that," he assured with absolutely no confidence. He hoped that didn't come through in his voice though. It wasn't exactly that he was afraid of dying. It wasn't the first time he had faced the possibility, but the anticipation was brutal. For all of them. For her.

"What? Is Sara going to drive down here and do it? She won't even be allowed in the house until we sweep it anyway." Sam returned her attention to the plate she was abrading, refusing to look at him. Her voice was getting that edge to it that he hated. It was the one that meant she wasn't okay.

"Carter..."

"I don't even know who's going to tell her. I mean, is she your—"

"Carter, stop," he barked, and with a hand on her shoulder he turned her around to face him. She was upset, obviously. Jack wasn't thrilled with the circumstances himself. Gently removing the plate from her hand, he set it on the countertop. "C'mere." She didn't hesitate, just wrapped her arms around him, and buried her face in his shoulder. If this was it, he was going to make it count. He pulled her close under the cover of comforting her. It was a valid cover. He could still feel her trembling slightly from the tizzy into which she had worked herself, but she held onto him as if her life, or maybe his, depended on it.

Sam knew she should have told him when she had the chance. She still should, but she couldn't say anything right now. She remembered another time she stood in this kitchen with him, his arms wrapped around her and her heart broken. It was right after the Za'tarc testing. Martouf was dead, or as good as, by her own hand, and she knew. She had been sure that the only way to keep Colonel O'Neill safe was to stay together as a team. It was the one difference between her and all of the others who had lost him. She had kept her distance to avoid the end result that so many other Samantha Carters had encountered—loving him, and then losing him.

But the distance hadn't really helped. She did love him. And now it was looking very much like she was going to lose him. A fresh wave of tears hit her, and she turned her face into his neck. He didn't say anything. He just held her tighter and slipped a hand into her hair. With each stroke of his fingers, she heard what he didn't say. It's going to be okay. I'm not giving up. We'll figure it out together. This isn't the end. We are gonna get out of this. You have to believe me.

She wanted to believe him. A hundred other times he had been right, but this time it was harder to shake off the negativity. He hadn't wanted to do the feelings thing today. She had come over prepared to talk about what was happening, but he didn't want to. It wasn't that she didn't understand it, but she didn't think she could pretend for him anymore. Maybe it was time to let him go on pretending that everything was fine on his own. With a herculean effort, she let him go. Not strong enough to let go all at once, she moved away by degrees, stepping back slowly, reluctant to let go of the connection, but knowing that she didn't have a choice.

"Sorry, I don't know where that came from, I just..." she rambled drying her cheeks and sniffling. "I should get going. I'm sure you want some time to yourself."

"Stay," Jack whispered with a thumb to her cheek. She had missed a tear drop. Sam froze at his request, unsure how to answer. She knew she shouldn't stay. It wasn't safe, but how could she say no? She watched his eyes follow his thumb across her cheek bone and down to her jaw where the tear had fallen, then he traced its track back up until his eyes met hers again.

"If you want to, that is," he added quietly, clearing his throat.

"I would, but... I don't think I can be fun anymore." Jack smiled a little at this, and let his hand drop from her face.

"You have other redeeming qualities."

"Ah yes, my egghead crown."

"I was gonna say you've got a killer pair of legs, but your egghead thing also applies," Sam let out a huff of amused surprise at his joke and/or compliment. She could never tell which he meant, but she was too tired to agonize over it tonight.

"Okay. I just need to make a phone call." Sam had been wondering how she was going to make it through a weekend with Pete feeling how she did now. No amount of bluffing would convince him that she was happy to see him or happy in general. Then he would ask her what was wrong, and of course she couldn't tell him. Well, ya see, Pete, my Colonel had an alien database downloaded into his brain, and he's about to die because we can't reach the Roswell Greys to get it out. Also, I love him rather inappropriately, so I'm not handling it very well.

"Listen, if you've got other plans—" he continued, offering her an excuse.

"No, it's nothing important," she answered as she plucked her phone from her purse. "Just give me a minute."

"Sure," Jack watched her step outside onto his deck, and wondered grimly who she was calling. What plans was she going to reschedule with someone who wasn't going to be dead in a week? He had no right to wonder, but whoever they were, Jack was glad that he ranked higher than they did on her list. She looked lighter somehow when she stepped back inside. The sunshine could do that sometimes.

"Movie?" he asked.

"Sure. I'll even let you pick."

"Is that pity I detect?"

"If I say yes, do I get to pick?"

"No."

Sam had rearranged his furniture when he came back from the bathroom, making his couch cut through the living room at an angle.

"Feng shui?" he asked.

"Popcorn. One bowl is more efficient, and you can't see with the couch sideways," she explained. Though really they both could have seen just fine if she could have suggested that she snuggle up against him with her back to his front.

"A bowl? How positively decadent." Yes, it would have been decadent, she thought, to settle between his spread knees and pillow her head on his chest. He would probably still be fidgety, but that was fine. Maybe he would put those fidgety fingers to use on her.

"You like licking the butter off your arm from the bag?" she asked him, forcing herself to focus on the conversation.

"Maybe. Don't judge. And at worst, it would be wrist. I've got bigger hands than you," he appended holding up a paw spread wide to demonstrate his point. Sam didn't really need the visual aid. She was well acquainted with the size, shape, and capabilities of his hands from years of observation and daydreams.

"No argument there." Jack narrowed his eyes and touched the back of his fingers to her forehead.

"No argument? Zero? You feelin' all right?"

"Funny," she replied, looking up with nearly crossed eyes at his hand.

"Yeah. Funny," he answered with something approaching a grin, before collapsing onto the far end of the couch. Sam settled herself on the other end and set the bowl between them. Thirty minutes into The Music Man he decided he didn't mind the angle so much. He could watch her instead of the screen this way and she would never know. She had shed her jacket and shoes, and had her bare feet and calves tucked up under her on the couch. It made him just a touch proud that she had only gotten comfortable once everyone else had left.

Goodnight, my someone
Goodnight, my love
Sleep tight, my someone
Sleep tight, my love
Our star is shining, it's brightest light
For goodnight, my love, for goodnight

"This song really isn't about dying, you know," she observed as Shirley Jones warbled to the man of her literal dreams.

"So. What's your point?"

"So, it doesn't really fit with all the other death cliches—pushing up daisies, meeting your maker..."

True love can be whispered from heart to heart
When lovers are parted they say
But I must depend on a wish and a star
As long as my heart doesn't know who you are

"Well, there aren't a lot of great choices for death," Jack excused himself for the misapplication.

"Alternatively..." Sam began.

Sweet dreams be yours, dear, if dreams there be
Sweet dreams to carry you close to me
I wish they may and I wish they might
Now goodnight, my someone, goodnight

"We could just figure out how to keep you alive," she finished with a look back to him. "Then you wouldn't have to think of a song for it."

"Possibly your best idea yet." Jack could see her dipping into sadness again with a crinkle of her brow before she looked away back toward the screen. He knew that what he wanted would probably skirt the boundaries of honor. But he was dying, and she was sad. Fuck it. Jack moved the popcorn bowl to the table, and with a gentle tug on her elbow he drew her attention.

"What are you doing?" She asked as he pulled her closer.

"C'mere," he asked. She easily complied, scooting to the middle of the couch and dropping her head onto his shoulder. He wrapped his arm around her and gave her a squeeze before he felt her hand take hold of his where it rested on her shoulder. Jack turned his face to the top of her head and absorbed her scent, letting her hair tickle against his nose. Her bare knee was resting against his thigh where her skirt had slid up, and he knew what he would be watching tonight instead of the movie.

"I know we've made it through a lot of things, but this one... Jack, I'm scared." Jack would say it was against his better judgement, but the truth was that there was no judgement involved. It was pure impulse that caused him to drop a kiss into her hair and squeeze her fingers. Maybe later he would analyze her use of his name, but for now, he just needed to hold her like this.

"I know. Me too."

Sam let herself into Colonel O'Neill's house and hung her purse on the hook on the back of the door. The last time she had been here, she had been with him, and now he was gone. No, not gone. He was asleep, she reminded herself. It had only been a few days, but she missed him. She didn't want missing him to be her life.

Stepping down into the living room, she smiled a little. He hadn't put the couch back after their movie night. She moved it back, and picked up a throw pillow from the floor and tossed it onto the couch. As it flew through the air, she smelled his scent waft from it, and closed her eyes. Steeling herself for all sorts of these little difficult moments, she squatted down to stick a finger in the soil of the potted plant beside the couch, then the one on the ledge.

"You'd think as long as he's known you guys, he'd be a little more concerned about leaving you on your own," she told them before walking down the hall to check the hanging plant. "It's okay," she told it. "I've got your back, even when he's abandoned you." The ficus by the basement banister was fake. She had figured that out the first time she had done this for him. There was something nagging her though.

When his clone had showed up at the SGC, she thought she had noticed a plant in the bedroom, but she wasn't sure. It felt like an invasion of his privacy to go in there, but she didn't want to leave any of them out. She needed to check on a few other things while she was here anyway—laundry, dishes, moldy refrigerator contents, trash. Turning the handle with decisiveness and projecting objectivity, she entered his bedroom. The bed was unmade, but not overly messy. Stepping closer, she saw the indentation in his pillow where his head must have been the last night he had slept here. She pulled the blanket up, but she couldn't bring herself to plump away that indentation.

Shaking her head against the thought, she turned around looking for a laundry hamper, but didn't see it. She stopped in the bathroom, and then checked the closet with no success. Going down to the basement she saw it empty and sitting next to the dryer. She popped open the washer and dryer and found a wrinkly but dry load in the dryer. She filled the hamper and carried the clean laundry back up to his bedroom, then made her way to the kitchen.

The fridge didn't look too bad—just some leftover pizza and beer. The dishes she remembered she had done the night she was here, but the empty sink seemed to indicate there hadn't been any new ones. Glancing to the countertop she did a double take, and her efficient 'get shit done and don't think about it' attitude disappeared. The plate he had taken from her when he had pulled her in to hold her was still sitting there with a folded piece of paper on its white center with her name—CARTER—right in the middle of it.

Sam breathed in deeply, biting her lip between her teeth as she reached out for the paper. Unfolding it, she read the few lines that he had written to her.

THANKS FOR WATERING THE PLANTS.
THEY SAID THEY LIKE YOU BETTER ANYWAY.
EVERYTHING ELSE SHOULD BE IN ORDER.
GOODNIGHT. SWEET DREAMS.
J

She had been doing a pretty good job of holding it together, she thought, at least until now. She took her note with her to the living room and looked up at the couch that she had put right. Suddenly, right was wrong. She set her note down on the coffee table and moved the table and couch to set the way they had on the night she had sat here with him. The song they had squabbled over was still in her mind. Goodnight, my someone, goodnight. Sam knew she wasn't his someone by any standard. Sweet dreams to carry you close to me. It had been hard to follow that order to leave Antarctica with Jack still there. He hated Antarctica, and even though he was in stasis she hated to leave him there. She hated to be away from him.

Sam lay on her side with that pillow that smelled like him under her cheek, and with closed eyes she breathed in deeply. He wasn't gone, she reminded herself, as she held her breath. They were going to get him back; it was just a matter of time. Breathing out slowly, she opened her eyes and read his note again from afar. That song wasn't about dying, after all. It was oddly appropriate for what had ended up happening. He couldn't really have known when he wrote her this note, or maybe he had subconsciously, somehow. She appreciated that he hadn't signed it off with "goodbye," but mostly she appreciated his signature— J . Practical and succinct, just like he was, but it hadn't been signed by Colonel O'Neill. Jack signed this note.

Sam remembered her last moments with him. He hadn't been 'the Colonel' or even 'Sir.' He was Jack. It wasn't the Colonel she would grieve for if they couldn't get him back, it was Jack. The careful persona she had built for him in her mind was a joke in that moment. She had thought that by keeping professionalism and titles carefully in place, and never letting herself think of him as Jack that she would somehow protect herself. But it didn't matter. It wasn't the Colonel that was dying. It was Jack. It wasn't the Colonel that she loved. It was Jack.

And as she looked into the stasis pod, the translucent barrier between them, she remembered another time they had been on opposite sides of a barrier. He wouldn't leave her on the other side of that force field then. And maybe she hadn't wanted to believe at the time that what he felt for her was as real as it seemed from his confession, but now that she was the one faced with leaving him behind, she understood. She would rather die herself than lose Jack. Now that she was feeling it herself, she knew what it meant. He had loved her. All those years ago, he had loved her while she was still trying to figure out and fight what she was feeling for him.

Sam turned her face into the Jack scented throw pillow and took another deep breath, filling her lungs and her mind with him. Holding his scent deep within her, she made a promise to herself. She was finished with holding back from him. Maybe they wouldn't ever get a chance to be more than they were now, but the hold he had on her ran deep. Maybe he had stopped loving her and moved on. She had moved on too, sort of, but she hadn't been able to stop loving him. And now she accepted it. She never would. If she would love anyone else in her lifetime, it wouldn't be because she stopped loving Jack. It would only be because she had made room to love someone else alongside him.