For the first time since she'd been thrown off her motorcycle, Samantha Carter sat upright. Propped up in her hospital bed, the weight of her body pressing against sore muscles and battered ribs, she had a marvellous view of familiar concrete walls and a recruitment poster for the medical service. Her bruises had deepened overnight, a tapestry of purple and blue streaking her arms and torso, stark against her pale skin. Her throat ached fiercely, a raw reminder of the bile she'd retched the night before. Even breathing was an ordeal, each inhale a shallow, measured effort to stave off the sharp pain that radiated through her ribs.

The tray of food on her bedside table remained mostly untouched. Janet Fraiser, clipboard in hand, stepped into the room with her usual air of calm efficiency. Her gaze swept over Sam, taking in the frailty of her posture and the barely contained grimace she wore with each movement.

"Good morning, Sam," Janet said gently as she approached. "How's the pain today?"

Fingers fidgeted with the edge of the blanket draped over her lap as Sam hesitated. "It's… better than last night," she said softly, though the strain in her voice betrayed her discomfort.

Janet gave her a small, understanding smile as she set the clipboard aside. "I'll take 'better' as progress," she said, stepping closer to check the monitors. "But let's be honest—you're hurting, aren't you?" The decision to lower the morphine dose that morning had been deliberate—despite the steady breathing rates, the morphin level had been shockingly high; Janet balancing pain relief with the possibility of addiction and Sam's lucidity. While the adjustment meant Sam could think more clearly, it also left her grappling with sharper pain.

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. "Breathing's hard," she admitted, her voice rough. "And my throat… it feels like I swallowed sandpaper."

A frown tugged at Janet's brow as she instinctively adjusted the oxygen tubing beneath Sam's nose. "Not surprising, given the vomiting episode," she explained gently. "I'll get you something soothing for your throat after breakfast. For now, let's see if we can get you to eat a little. You need the energy."

Sam's gaze drifted to the tray on the bedside table. Plain oatmeal and weak tea sat there, innocuous but unappealing. The very thought of swallowing anything made her stomach churn. "I don't know if I can keep it down," she admitted quietly.

Lowering herself to sit on the edge of the bed, Janet's voice carried a steady reassurance. "We'll take it slow. A few spoonfuls to start, no pressure. Small bites, and we'll stop if it's too much."

With a sigh, Sam nodded. Janet reached for the spoon, scooping up a small amount of oatmeal. She held it out patiently, her gaze steady as Sam hesitated. After a moment, Sam opened her mouth, accepting the spoonful reluctantly. She swallowed with effort, grimacing as the food slid down her tender throat.

They mixed small bites with sips of tea, long pauses interrupting them. Sometimes, Sam just needed a moment to breath and swallow against the pain. Janet's presence was steadying, her quiet words of encouragement easing the anxiety that churned alongside Sam's nausea. After half an hour and less than half the small bowl of oatmeal, her palms felt clammy and her hands shook, despite not even raising the spoon herself.

A light touch on her arm conveyed reassurance. "Good. Just one more," Janet encouraged, her voice calm and steady.

This time, Sam nearly spat it back out. Several times she swallowed against nothing, the sludge still sitting in her throat. Her heartrate picked up and she felt like she'd choke again. Already Janet leaned over to grab an empty emesis basin when it finally slid down her throat. Low shallow breaths rasped over her lips and Sam shook her head, her voice hoarse. "I can't… not right now."

"That's okay," Janet said quickly, setting the oatmeal aside. "You did really well."

Exhaustion pulled Sam back against the pillows. Breathing felt shallow, every movement a stark reminder of the trauma her body had endured. "It's so hard," she murmured, her words barely audible.

A hand rested lightly on Sam's forearm, Janet's voice low and filled with quiet resolve. "I know it is. But you're making progress, even when it doesn't feel like it. One step at a time."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and stifling. Sam's gaze drifted upward, unfocused, as if the answer to her unspoken questions might be hidden in the plain white ceiling tiles. Shadows from the nightmare still clung to her thoughts, their edges sharp and unforgiving. She closed her eyes briefly, trying to push them away, but they refused to leave. Everything felt too much—her body, her mind, even the air pressing down on her chest.

In the corner of the room, Janet shifted, the clipboard cradled in her arms like a shield. "I'll check on you again in a little while," she said, her voice gentle but firm, breaking the stillness. "You need to rest."

The words didn't register at first. A beat passed before Sam stirred, her hand trembling as she reached toward the edge of the bed. "Wait." The rasp in her voice was painful to hear, barely more than a whisper. Her body convulsed in a harsh cough that left her gasping, and Janet was beside her in an instant, steadying her.

"Take it slow," Janet murmured, lowering her gently back onto the pillows. Sam winced, the strain of even that small movement evident in her furrowed brow. She fought for breath, her chest rising and falling in uneven jerks.

"I … Janet …can you please …" The plea came out strangled, her words fractured by the effort it took to speak. "Don't go."

Pulling a chair closer, Janet lowered herself into it. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, making it clear she wasn't going anywhere. She needed Sam to feel calm, to speak without the fear that Janet might leave mid-sentence. "I'm here. Take your time."

The oxygen mask sat on the tray nearby and Sam kept breathing through her mouth instead of her nose. Janet gently tugged the cannula away and then offered the mask. After a moment's hesitation, Sam reached for it with her good hand. The mask wavered in the air, her fingers shaking so violently she couldn't keep hold of it. Janet caught it before it slipped, guiding it gently back into place, fixing the straps. Sam drew a few breaths, her eyelids fluttering closed as though even that was a relief.

The faint wheeze in Sam's breaths gripped Janet's attention, a sharp reminder of how precarious her condition had become. Shallow and laboured, each inhale carried a growing risk of pneumonia. Janet bit the inside of her cheek, her chest tightening as she silently catalogued every symptom. Fatigue and the persistent struggle for air painted a picture that was becoming all too clear.

Focusing on her role as a steady caregiver, Janet buried her worry beneath a calm exterior. Stress would only make things worse, and Sam didn't need to see how Janet's thoughts raced, ticking off potential complications.

"My stuff," Sam rasped finally, her voice muffled behind the mask. "My jacket, my pants… you know, just my stuff." A flicker of hope brightening her exhausted face.

The question lingered, delicate yet insistent, and Janet hesitated, her thoughts momentarily scrambled. A flicker of uncertainty crossed her features before she carefully responded. "Sam… about your clothes. They didn't make it."

A heavy silence settled between them. Sam's brow furrowed, her confusion giving way to slow realization. "Didn't make it?"

"They were too damaged," Janet said softly. "After the accident, and with surgery… they had to be cut away. Normally, personal belongings are placed in a bag, but I didn't receive anything when we brought you here. It's possible they're still at the hospital where you were treated."

The slight furrow in Sam's brow deepened, and Janet leaned in, her hand brushing lightly against Sam's forearm, her voice softening. "I'll look into it for you," she promised, her tone soft but resolute. "We'll do everything we can to track them down. But your clothing had to be cut away so they could treat you. Do you understand? We can go and buy you a new jacket once you're well enough again. Promise. We can have a girls' night. You, me and Cassie. We'll find something nice for you."

The faintest flicker of hope appeared in Sam's eyes before exhaustion dulled it again. Her hand fell limply to her side, trembling slightly from the effort of holding the mask even for those brief moments. Watching her patient struggle to process the information, the weight of her emotions clearly pressing harder than she let on, Janet felt her own chest tighten, her empathy battling with the need to stay professional.

"Oh," Sam murmured, the sound hollow. The word carried more than loss; it held something deeper, quieter. Something breaking.

"It's okay to feel overwhelmed," Janet said, her tone steady and kind. She reached for Sam's arm but only touched the cast.

The reassurance barely registered. Sam's thoughts drifted elsewhere, back to the night of the accident. She wasn't thinking of the crash, or the pain, or even the chaos of the hospital. Her focus narrowed to something small, almost insignificant: the piece of paper she'd tucked into her jacket pocket.

The bar that night had been dimly lit, a rare escape from the grind of endless missions and sleepless nights. She hadn't gone looking for company, just a hearty meal, a quiet drink and a moment to breathe. But then Mel had appeared behind the bar. Mel, with her easy smile and kind eyes. Mel, who had leaned on the counter and asked Sam what she wanted—not just to drink, but in that moment.

And then there had been Daniel and her panic and Mel. Mel being perfect, being protective. Being there. Slipping into the booth next to her, teasing and warm and so steady as she'd listened to Sam's story. They'd talked for hours. They'd kissed. Mel's lips on her, warm and gentle. It hadn't been a date, Mel smelling of stale beer and smoke and the bar and somehow that made it even more special.

Sam could still feel Mel's hands on her waist, the way her thumb had brushed against the fabric of Sam's jacket. She had been the first person in a long time to make Sam forget the weight of her responsibilities, if only for a little while. She'd felt seen, understood, her walls crumbling bit by bit as the night wore on. When the bar emptied out, and Mel leaned in to kiss her, it felt like electricity sparking through her veins.

When Mel had slipped her a piece of paper with her phone number scribbled on it, she had felt like she were on the top of the world. "Call me," Mel had said, her voice low and warm. "I'd like to see you again."

Now, the thought of that number being gone felt like a punch to the gut. Sam hadn't had many moments like that in her life, where she allowed herself to just be—to be seen, to be wanted. And now it was gone, lost in the chaos of an accident she could barely remember.

Her chest tightened as she realized she wouldn't be able to call Mel. By the time she recovered enough to go looking, Mel would likely think she hadn't been interested, that she hadn't cared. The thought of Mel moving on, assuming Sam didn't want her, hurt more than she'd expected.

A tear slipped down her cheek until it ran into the rim of the plastic mask. When something touched her, Sam flinched, pain ricocheting through her entire body and making her groan. It had only been Janet, adjusting the mask and wiping away the tear before it could dry to a sticky line of salt.

"I'm upping your morphin dose again, Sam," Janet said, stepping to one of the machines. She'd tried to avoid it; hoping to keep Sam more lucid so her brother could see her. Janet glanced at the watch hanging above the door. Mark, as he'd asked her to call him after a few days, always arrived at 10:20am. As a civilian not affiliated with the Stargate, his access was strictly limited, starting at ten o'clock and lasting until three o'clock in the afternoon. Already a gracious accomodation, Janet knew. Still not enough for Mark Carter who showed the same mulishness that had saved his sister's life time and time again for her refusal to give up. In a worried brother, however, it came out in muttered derision against military regulations that had not endeared the man to the airmen and airwomen accompanying him each day.

A muffled sigh came from Sam, a half-struggled answer to the fading of pain that came so swiftly with the morphin dripping into her IV.

"It's okay," Janet said, leaning in with a furrowed brow. "You're allowed to feel overwhelmed. This isn't easy, and you don't have to push through it alone."

A shaky smile tugged at Sam's lips, though she didn't trust herself to speak. Words felt impossible—how could she explain that the tears weren't just for the pain but for everything the accident had stolen from her? For the dreams now slipping further out of reach?

The silence stretched, and Janet seemed to interpret it as quiet agreement. A reassuring squeeze of the arm followed. "Try to get some rest, Sam. I'll be back in a few minutes, alright? I just want to make sure you won't run out of medication."

A nod was all Sam could manage, her teeth pressing into her bottom lip to keep the fresh wave of emotion at bay. The warmth in Janet's smile didn't waver as she stepped back, allowing space without prying.

The soft click of the door shutting behind her left Sam alone once more.

Alone, Sam let herself cry, silent tears slipping down her face as she mourned what she had lost—not just the slip of paper, but the connection it represented. The possibility of something more. Something better.


The rag slid across the bar in smooth arcs, the faint squeak of polished wood filling the quiet space as the door creaked open. Late enough for the after-dinner lull but too early for the late-night chaos, Mel expected to see a regular slipping onto a stool. Instead, a man she vaguely recognised walked in. Not a stranger, but not a familiar face either. He eased onto a stool near the middle of the bar, his movements heavy, his demeanour frayed at the edges.

The suit he wore was slightly rumpled, the tie hanging loose around his neck. Shadows beneath his eyes hinted at more than a restless night. Mel set the rag aside, grabbed a coaster, and slid it across the bar. "Evening. What can I get you?"

A deep sigh escaped him as he ran a hand through his dishevelled hair. "Whiskey. Neat."

"Coming right up." Reaching for a glass and the bottle, she stole a glance at him. His gaze was unfocused, locked somewhere in the middle distance, his jaw clenched tight. The uneven tapping of his fingers against the bar added an anxious rhythm to the quiet room.

The glass slid across the bar with a soft clink. "Rough day?" she asked, keeping her tone light. She'd barely slept, staring at her phone, wishing it would ring. Wishing for Sam to call her. To not know anything about how she was doing left an empty hole in her. Love at first sight was utterly rubbish and yet, here she was, simping over a woman she'd met once.

A bitter laugh broke from the man across from her as he raised the glass. "You could say that. More like a rough decade."

The response didn't surprise her. Silence tended to be her best ally in moments like these, so she busied herself with the napkins, arranging them into a neat stack. The faint clinking of glasses in her hands filled the void, leaving space for him to decide whether or not to speak.

After a sip, his muttered words broke the quiet. "My wife left me. Packed her things while I was at work and left a goddamn note."

Mel paused, her gaze lifting just enough to meet his for a moment before dropping back to the glass she was wiping. "That's a lot to come home to," she said, her voice even, offering neither judgment nor false cheer.

His next laugh was sharp, anger laced into the edges. "No kidding. Fifteen years. Fifteen goddamn years, and she's just… gone." He shook his head, staring down at the amber liquid in his glass. "I don't even know what I did wrong."

Leaning on the bar, Mel kept a careful distance, close enough to seem approachable without intruding. "That's a lot to deal with," she said gently. "I'm sorry you're going through it."

A defiant glare met her words, his glassy eyes daring her to pity him. "Sorry doesn't fix it. Doesn't explain why she didn't even give me a chance to—" His voice cracked, and he turned away sharply. "She just walked away."

A slow nod from Mel acknowledged the pain in his voice. "Endings like that are hard. No closure, no chance to talk it out."

He finished his whiskey in one quick motion and held up the empty glass for a refill. "Yeah, well, what's the point? She's probably already with some other guy. All those years, and maybe she never really…" The sentence hung unfinished as he stared into the glass. "Maybe she never really loved me."

The quiet clink of a fresh drink sliding toward him broke the silence. Mel's movements stayed steady, her voice calm. "Or maybe she did, but she didn't know how to say what she needed. People don't always leave because they didn't care. Sometimes they're scared, or they just don't see another way."

A scoff escaped him. "You talk like you've got it all figured out."

Her faint smile softened the sharp edge in his tone. "Not all of it. But I've heard enough to know people are complicated. Doesn't mean what she did wasn't wrong, though. But then, I don't know her—or you—well enough to say she wasn't right either."

"Fuck you!" He spat, glaring at her over his whiskey. "You're saying maybe it was my fault? You don't even know me, and you're sitting there saying she might've been right to leave?"

Mel didn't flinch. She knew a bat just two paces next to her and he'd have to get over the counter first. "I don't know her or you," she said instead. "But I know people are complicated, and sometimes it's not as simple as who's wrong or right."

Fingers tightened briefly around the glass, his gaze fixed on her with anger flaring momentarily before burning out. A weary sigh escaped. "You've got some balls, saying that to my face."

The muscles in Mel's back relaxed along with his hand and she threw the obligatory dish towel over her shoulder. "Figure you've had enough people telling you what you want to hear."

A low chuckle, heavy with exhaustion, rumbled out as he shook his head. "You might be onto something. Hell, maybe I was a shitty husband and didn't even realise it. Worked too much, forgot what mattered. Maybe she just got tired of waiting for me to notice."

Giving him a little more room, Mel leaned back slightly, her tone soft but steady. "It's hard to see what's wrong when you're in the middle of it. Doesn't mean you can't figure it out now."

His focus shifted to the amber liquid in his glass, tension melting from his shoulders as he slumped forward. "Yeah… maybe. Doesn't fix it, though. Fifteen years, and now it's just… gone. A pile of furniture and an empty house. What the hell do I even do now?"

"For now, maybe that's all it feels like," Mel replied, her voice thoughtful. "But fifteen years means you built something. Even if it feels shaken up now, you're still here. That matters."

The bitterness in his expression eased for the first time, replaced by a glimmer of something softer. "You're good at this. Listening, I mean. I guess that's what bartenders are for, huh?"

A small grin tugged at her lips. "It's part of the gig. That, and making sure your glass doesn't stay empty for too long."

Thin hair fell from its carefully curated combover when he laughed darkly and shook his head. "Thanks for not giving me some 'just move on' crap. People think it helps, but it doesn't."

"Not really my style," Mel replied lightly, easing back to give him space while still keeping the conversation open.

They settled into a more comfortable silence, Mel occasionally checking on him as she served other patrons. Before he left, he paid his tab, leaving a generous tip. As he stood, he hesitated, looking at her.

"Thanks. For not… judging. I needed someone to hear me."

Mel nodded, her tone warm. "Anytime. Take care of yourself, okay?"

He nodded, his shoulders a little less heavy as he walked out into the night. Mel watched him go, then turned back to the bar, quietly tidying up for the next customer. She found herself staring at the seat next to the one this man had occupied. Sam's seat, as it had somehow become in her mind. If she just knew what she could do …


Please review!

I know Samantha is in the hospital for a long time and I am afraid it will be a few more chapters yet. But we're getting there, as you might have seen in this chapter. What are your thoughts? Are Sam's struggles getting boring or is it fine so far?