Beauty In The Broken

Vitreography

"We're making progress."

"We?"

"Me and him." He'd put a careful emphasis on the 'him'.

Maybourne. Quelling a sigh, Sam glared up at the ceiling. "Together?"

"Yes, Ma'am."

"How much longer?"

"I don't know." His voice was intentionally blank. "Several days at least. Might be a week."

Sam closed her eyes, settling back into the mattress. It felt too big—too cold—with Jack gone. She'd taken to hugging his pillow close when she'd tucked herself into bed at night, hoping that his smell would help her rest, but it hadn't alleviated the emptiness. She'd just ended up tossing and turning until sunrise when Jake started babbling and bustling around in his crib.

"Oh."

"But things are okay."

"Good." She meant it. Really, she did. But she'd only really feel it when this entire situation was resolved and her little family was back together under one roof.

Sam yawned, rubbing her eye with the back of her hand. Damn, she was tired. Work. Worry. Juggling her research with the seemingly impossible task of slowing down the project. Being constantly vigilant about everything she saw and heard in the Mountain. Keeping up with Jake and his endless energy. All while constantly fighting against the need to throw up.

Even now, in the familiar comfort of her bed, her stomach lurched a little in response to some phantom odor. Only too late did she remember that she hadn't remembered to put a glass of water on her nightstand. Sometimes drinking something helped to quell the nausea. Most times, it didn't.

The phone hadn't woken her up. If she were being honest, the late-night call seemed more like a blessing than an imposition. Most importantly, hearing his voice brought her a little peace. Vague, random text messages were one thing—actually speaking with her husband was another. Adding to that, his call gave her an excuse to be awake at the godawful hour of—she squinted at the clock on her nightstand—two-eighteen in the morning.

At the very least, speaking to him was better than what she'd been doing for the past few nights since he'd left. Come home from work, feed Jake dinner and give him his bath. Read a story, sing a song and tuck him into his crib only to end up lying in her own bed, restless and agitated, staring up at the ceiling or out the window into the night.

"It's slow going, but we're making progress." It sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as well as her.

"That's what you said." Sighing, she shifted in bed, rolling onto her side. In the darkness, the moonlight shone on the fine porcelain of the kintsugi cup, gleaming off the gilded seams and making the white ceramic appear to glow. "I'm glad, Jack."

"So, we're on a little road trip. Heading to see some of his old friends."

"Where are you?"

"Somewhere in the middle."

Of the country.

Of course. He didn't want to say too much. The phones were probably bugged, and Sam hadn't turned on the disrupters. From the noise in the background, she could tell a little about the place from which he was calling. Traffic. Large wheels on asphalt. Shoes—boots, maybe—scuffing on pavement. The low mumble of people around the squeaks and groans of doors opening and closing. Random chings and rattles—a cash register. Old school—not one of the new electronic ones.

Shivering a little in the early morning chill, Sam snuggled further down into the bed and tugged the covers up over her shoulder. She could envision where he was—a random truck stop or quirky convenience store on the side of some lonely stretch of midwestern interstate. If she closed her eyes, she could even imagine that she could hear the big diesel engine of his Super Duty rumbling in the background.

How long had it been—three days? No—nearly four—since she'd heard him toss his bag into the back seat before slamming the door shut. The huge engine had sounded even louder than normal in those hours before dawn—before the neighborhood had awoken and its residents had started milling about on bikes and in commuter cars and school buses. He'd left her still in bed, skimming her lips with a kiss as he'd whispered his goodbyes. They'd planned it that way to make it more difficult for a surveillance team to figure out that he was leaving. Inconsistency had always been a strategically sound device.

Still—it hadn't made it any easier for Sam. Being left behind was always worse than doing the leaving. It wasn't the first time she'd cringed as she'd remembered taking off for California as he'd stayed alone in the Springs. She'd forever feel a little guilty about that.

"How are you feeling?"

Sam searched for the right words in response. She didn't want the NID to know about the pregnancy at all—much less before she'd even told her family and friends. Settling on something suitably vague, she squinted into the dark. "Still queasy."

"That sucks."

"It'll pass."

He hmmmed into the phone before continuing. "How's Jake?"

Despite it all, Sam smiled. Their little boy was her one bright spot—her main reason to keep her faith in all of this. It almost seemed impossible to remember life before he'd entered her life—their lives—not to mention believe how much he'd changed it. And the notion of missing out on what he'd brought her was unthinkable. "He's such a little pill. Mischievous as hell. Entirely too smart for comfort. Absolutely perfect."

Even with the dichotomy, Jack sounded amused. "What's he been up to?"

"Well, today we went to the grocery store."

"That doesn't sound all that bad."

"I had him in the seat of the cart, and he was playing with my car keys." Reaching out, Sam dipped her index finger into the kintsugi cup on the nightstand and withdrew the chain holding the other Sam's wedding rings. The gold felt cool in her hands. "I'd parked the shopping cart next to the counter while I was having the butcher cut me some meat."

"You and steak. A true love story." He chuckled into the phone, well aware of her protein cravings. So far, beef had been the one thing she'd been able to eat and keep down with any predictability. "And?"

"So, I'm standing there watching the butcher wrap up some sirloins and I hear this little squeal." She grinned, twining the chain around her hand and letting the rings dangle in the air above her face. "I look around and there's this young woman standing right next to the cart glaring at Jake. Her face was bright red and her eyes were huge."

"What happened?"

"Your son, that's what happened." Sam couldn't help but groan. "The girl had been looking at the chicken or pork or something in the display, and squeezed between our cart and the counter. Jake got bored with my keys, apparently, and thought her butt looked more interesting."

"You're kidding me."

"I wish." Snorting, Sam covered her eyes with her fist. The gold felt warmer now—heated by her own touch—and heavy where it rested on her forehead. "The little booger just reached right out and grabbed one cheek with each hand."

The man didn't even try not to sound entertained. "The little charmer."

"I guess that's one way to characterize him."

"Was she cute?"

Sam's brows flew high. "Why would that matter?"

"Hey—the O'Neill men are blessed with both natural charisma and great taste in women." He sounded entirely too smug for his own good. "We can't help it. It's in our genes."

"Yes, well—" Sam scrunched up her nose, rolling her eyes. "You'd better keep all that charisma in those jeans, mister, or you'll find yourself being replaced by a porterhouse."

He coughed, damn the man, sputtering in an attempt not to laugh out loud. Self-preservation at its finest.

Something—probably an eighteen-wheeler—roared to life in the background, making it impossible to hear anything for a moment. Once the vehicle had moved past, Jack cleared his throat. When he spoke again, his voice was lower—more intimate, somehow, and all traces of humor were quelled. "How are things there?"

"The same." She lifted her free hand, watching as the rings swung back and forth, catching the middling light seeping in through the drapes. It was too early for dawn, but her back porch light was still on. She chose her words carefully. "Work. Laundry. Daycare. Diapers. Same old thing every day."

"And the other stuff?"

In the Mountain. She knew him well enough to interpret that question with precision. "I'm handling it."

"Good." More noise in the background—engines revving, a cash register ringing, muted conversations, and hearty laughter. And something closer to the receiver—fabric shushing—a stunted squeaking—as if he'd tried to enclose himself deeper in the phone booth. "I wish I were there, Sam. You know that, right?"

"Yeah. I do." A rush of something indefinable washed over her. Warmth—longing—yearning. She closed her eyes, settling her hand on the quilt covering her abdomen. They'd agreed not to divulge too much, but Sam didn't care just then. She needed him to know. Needed to give him one more reason to finish this. To be careful. To come back home to her. She let out a careful breath before whispering into the phone. "I love you, Jack."

It took him a while to answer, but when he did, his voice sounded even more distant than it had before. "I miss you, too."

XXX

"How are you doing?"

Of course Janet would know what time she'd arrive at the Mountain. Sam smiled as she pulled her bag from the passenger seat and closed the door. Locking the SUV's doors, she drew the strap over her shoulder and turned to face her friend. "Rough. This entire situation stinks."

"It does." Giving Sam a once-over, Janet raised a single, meaningful brow. "You look a little green around the gills, Major."

Sam resisted the urge to roll her eyes, but only just. "I'm fine, Doctor."

"Are you eating?"

"Yes." It wasn't a lie. Still, Sam winced and groaned as she came clean. "Then I throw up and get to eat again."

"Hopefully, that will get better in the second trimester."

Sam grunted as she started walking across the tarmac. "That would be nice."

"And how are you sleeping?"

There was no good answer to that, so Sam merely moved faster, angling between two sedans and around a motorcycle parked on the other side.

Sensible heels scuffed the asphalt as Janet hurried along until she'd caught up. "I'm just worried about you. You need to take care of yourself."

"I know that." At the other woman's wry snort, Sam grew more earnest. "I do."

The parking lot was mostly empty this far from the front gates. Months ago, when she used to ride her Indian or drive her vintage Volvo to work, she'd preferred to park closer to the Mountain's entrance. But since she'd graduated to a larger vehicle, she found it more suitable to park on the outskirts of the lot, where she had more room for the Excursion.

Yet another way in which her husband had influenced her. He'd been parking in the outer reaches of the employee lot for years. With a wry sigh, Sam made a quick scan of the area, if only to satisfy herself that they were truly alone before tilting a look at her friend. "It's just kind of difficult lately. With—everything."

She knew what Sam wasn't saying—was smart enough and familiar enough with current events to read between all the lines. Janet's expression shifted a little, moving from clinical to something akin to motherly. "Is he okay?"

"Jack?"

"Yeah."

"I think so." Shortening her strides, she let Janet fall in alongside her. "He called early this morning, but he couldn't tell me much."

One dark eye narrowed speculatively. "Do you really think that the NID is listening in?"

"Yes. Probably." But honestly? Sam wasn't so sure. It had just been a hunch in the first place, and there had never been any confirmation of any of her suspicions. "No? I don't know."

"What's that mean?"

They dodged past a badly parked minivan and emerged out into the next lane. Taking a quick look to her right and left, Sam headed across the aisle, only to pull up short between an ancient 15-passenger van and a vintage, tricked-out Cadillac. She waited for Janet to stop next to her. "It means that I don't know anything. I've never been able to confirm that we're being surveilled. I don't know how much of all this is in my head, and how much is actually happening."

"Except for the incident with General Hammond's granddaughters." Janet's dark hair swung across her jaw as she tilted a look in Sam's direction. "We know that happened."

"True." Sam adjusted the bag over her shoulder and crossed her arms across her chest.

"And we know that Colonels Samuels and Torres are working together."

Sam nodded, scuffing her boot on the asphalt. "But we aren't so sure about Bauer."

"Bauer." The doctor's tone went beyond dubiety or question and hurtled straight into disgust. "That man is a menace."

Sam stilled. "Oh?"

"I walked into the infirmary last night and found him sitting at my desk." Janet tucked her hair back behind her ear. Her lips drew thin as she gave Sam a brittle look. "He immediately stood up and sputtered about how he had been looking for the budgetary requirements he'd asked me to supply, but I'd already submitted the documentation that morning."

"And he'd received it?"

"I gave it directly to Walter." Janet shook her head, looking past Sam and towards the entrance tunnel. "And then I watched him enter the paperwork into the official log and place it squarely in the center of Bauer's desk."

"Maybe he didn't see it?"

"He was in meetings with Colonel Samuels all afternoon. He had to have known that the file was there."

"So what was he doing at your desk?"

For a long time, the little doctor simply stood there, rocking a little from side to side on her feet. Finally, she heaved a huge sigh and worried at the button on the outer pocket of her coat. "I don't know."

"Did you check your computer? Your cabinet? Surely something was out of place that gave you some clue as to what he was doing there."

"Nothing. My computer was still locked, and nothing looked amiss in my drawers." Shrugging, she raised a hand in frustrated surrender. "I was about to check my patient records, but then Sergeant Morrison was brought in with a broken ankle. I spent the rest of my shift stabilizing him and preparing him for transport to the Academy Medical Center for surgery."

Sam sifted through that for a moment. "Would you know if someone's been snooping around in your files?"

"There are other doctors and personnel with access, Sam. Stuff gets shifted around and rifled through all the time. There's no telling what he was looking for—or what he may have found."

Damn it. Sam rolled her eyes heavenwards, glaring at the clouds soaring overhead before muttering a more Jack-like curse. "So there's no way to know for sure what he was after."

"No." Tilting her chin down, Janet squinted up at Sam. "I wasn't even going to mention it, but then I got to thinking about you and Colonel O'Neill."

"About us? Why?"

"Well," Janet's tone went low, even as one brow rose. "There's information about certain delicate conditions in my files that isn't yet common knowledge."

Specific information she and Jack hadn't even shared with her family. Hell—stuff they hadn't even told Teal'c and Daniel yet. Sam bit her lips together, studying the asphalt beneath her boots. "And if General Bauer knows about the baby—"

"It's something else that the NID—or whoever is behind all this—can use against you."

Damn. Squinching her eyes closed, Sam rubbed at the bridge of her nose with her thumb and index finger. Double damn.

"Sam?" Janet's tone had shifted from conspiratorial to clinical. "What's wrong?"

"It's just a headache."

"Probably caused by stress, worry, and lack of sleep."

Nodding, Sam peered down at her friend. "Yeah. Probably."

Moving closer, Janet touched Sam's cheek with the backs of her fingers. "You don't have a fever, but like I said before, you look terribly pale."

"I'll be fine, Janet."

Taking Sam's arm in her hand, Janet pressed her thumb into the skin just behind Sam's wrist. "Not to mention a little dehydrated."

Letting out a rough exhale, Sam reclaimed her hand. "I'll drink a bucket of water today."

"Maybe you should go home. Take the day off."

Shaking her head, Sam readjusted the satchel on her shoulder and motioned lamely towards the personnel entrance. "I can't. I've got some things to do here."

"You know—you really do need to sleep, Sam."

"I know."

"And all this stress isn't good for the baby." Those keen dark eyes flickered downward towards Sam's abdomen. "Maybe you could embrace a hobby. Find some way to take your mind off all this."

Unbelievably, Sam chuckled at that. "Knitting."

"Excuse me?"

Sam tilted a look at her friend. "A few months ago—right after Jake came through the mirror—you told me to take up knitting."

"It's a perfectly acceptable pastime."

"Can you actually imagine me knitting? Elbow-deep in yarn? Fighting with needles and hooks?" Incredibly, she could laugh at that. "I'd probably end up tangling myself up so tightly in the ball that I'd die there, alone and fuzzy. Done in by wool and hubris."

"Okay—so fiber arts may not be your cup of tea." Janet smiled. "But you need an outlet, Sam. Something to occupy your mind and give it a break from worrying about everything else."

An outlet. Sam frowned. Ironic really. She'd always used work as an outlet to take her mind off her otherwise empty life. But suddenly—work felt like the threat and not the escape. "I'll try, Janet."

"Good." Leaning forward, the little doctor touched Sam's elbow. "And I'm here for you. You're not alone in any of this."

"I know."

"Okay, then."

Sure. Okay.

Maybe if she kept telling herself that, she'd believe it.

XXX

"You look tired."

It was Daniel, this time. He'd been waiting for her, leaning against the wall opposite the door to her lab holding his omnipresent cup of coffee.

Steeling her stomach, Sam stopped a few feet away. "So I've heard."

"Janet?" His eyebrows surged upward as he raised his cup to take a sip.

"She met me topside in the parking lot." Sam zipped the back pocket of her bag and slipped her car keys inside. "She gave me a lecture about sleeping, drinking plenty of water, and getting enough to eat."

"None of which you're doing at the moment." Daniel's expression turned more brotherly. "What with Jack gone, and with everything so—"

Sam watched him search for the right word. Being a civilian, though, he probably wouldn't find it—however talented a linguist he might be. So? She figured she'd help. "FUBAR."

"Foo—what?"

"Fubar." Sam adjusted the collar of her jacket, surreptitiously breathing through the thickness of it to mitigate the smell wafting from Daniel's cup. At his questioning look, she clarified. "It's an acronym. F-ed Up Beyond All Repair."

Daniel smiled over the rim of his mug. "That sounds like a Jack-ism."

"Not really." Sam shook her head. "It's a military thing."

Raising a single shoulder, Daniel sent her a narrow look. "Which is one dialect I'm still learning."

Glancing around, Sam hazarded a step closer, lowering her voice. "Aren't you supposed to be organizing the artifacts up in the storage units on Level Seventeen?"

Daniel turned, leaning against the wall in an air of practiced nonchalance. "Bauer has ordered all the uncataloged specimens to be delivered to my office."

"What? When?"

"The stuff started appearing a few days ago, but I didn't think too much of it. Now, I'm starting to think he's trying to bury me alive." Breathing out a haggard chuckle, Daniel rolled his eyes. "The entire room is filled with crates and boxes. I can hardly move around in there to get anything done."

"But that accomplishes their larger purpose."

"Getting rid of me for a while." The corner of his lip rose in a wry grin. "Little do they know that I've been wanting some time off to do all this anyway."

"Yes." Sam glanced past her friend towards the end of the hallway, where a pair of SFs had appeared around the corner. "It's all part of our evil plan."

Following her gaze, Daniel fell silent, waiting to reply until the airmen had passed them by and disappeared at the opposite end of the corridor. "Except for the 'doing it alone' part."

"I thought you had a team assigned to help you."

"Team." Daniel snorted. "A few non-coms barely out of high school. They can't even read cursive, let alone Sanskrit."

"What about Nyan?"

Behind his glasses, Daniel's eyes narrowed. "Haven't you heard?"

"Heard what?"

"Samuels has decided that Nyan and the few other intergalactic refugees we've got on staff have more value providing information than they did in their other jobs." Daniel lowered his voice further, stepping even closer to be heard. "He's got them up on Level Twelve where they've set up an interrogation room."

"Those people have already told us all they know. And they did it willingly."

"Right? Nyan says they're being treated well, but—" his voice trailed off meaningfully.

Sam glanced down at her feet, where her boots were dark against the smooth concrete floor. "Well, hopefully it's temporary."

Shrugging, Daniel gestured with his cup again. "Hopefully."

Heavy footfalls sounded in the hallway behind her, and Sam caught Daniel's eye in an unspoken question.

"Speak of the literal devil." His voice was barely audible over the sound of the approaching steps. "And that, my friend, is my cue to leave."

Sam straightened, watching Daniel pivot and hurry off down the corridor before turning to face the newcomer.

"Major Carter."

"Colonel Samuels." She kept her tone light. "Good morning."

"I would have expected to find you hard at work, Carter." Samuels' nose twitched as he drew himself up, thrusting out his chest by clasping his hands behind his back. The overhead hall lights glistened off his slicked-back hair, highlighting the spots where bare scalp showed through the strands. He was pale—pasty, really—and the desk job had allowed him to grow a little pudgy. Not enough that he'd flunk a fitness test, but certainly enough that it showed. His second chin barely cleared his collar as he looked down at her. "Given how far behind schedule your team has fallen."

"We've run out of naquadah on which to experiment, Sir." Technically, it was a lie. There were samples in the lock-up. She'd just labeled them as something else and fudged the lab sheets to correspond with the ruse. If someone were to check, there would be none of the element in the cages. Sam reached into her pocket for her badge and lanyard. Angling around the Colonel, she stepped towards the lab door and swiped the keycard. "General Bauer assured us that he was going to speak with the President about extending our deadline until a reliable source for the material could be found."

Samuels snorted before following her into the darkened room. "That won't be necessary, Major."

Settling her satchel on her desk, Sam cast a wary glance in the Colonel's direction. She took a careful breath, forcing her features into a bland expression, before asking, "Oh?"

He stopped just on the other side of her desk. Picking a sample slide off the table in front of him, he turned it between his fingers before reaching out to flip the switch on a desk lamp. "Colonel Torres will be taking care of the task of acquiring the naquadah we need."

Sam focused on Samuels' hands as she weighed the implications of that. "Colonel Torres isn't trained for off-world operations."

"That's not your concern, Major." Samuels put the slide down and made his way around to her side of the table. "If you hadn't already noticed, you're on the scientific team now. You shouldn't concern yourself with anything tactical."

Biting her lip, Sam looked away from him—off over his shoulder to where the clock ticked on the far wall. It was past eight—the others would be here soon, along with all their myriad smells and inane chatter. She'd taken to arriving earlier than the rest of the team—enough so that she could accustom her overactive nose and stomach to it all gradually rather than let it hit her all at once.

But nothing could help her stomach Colonel Samuels. His presence made her nauseous in ways that the pregnancy couldn't. Whenever she was near him, it always felt as if her skin were crawling on her bones—trying to keep itself—and her—away from the man. It was only her training and experience that allowed her to answer him past the thick taste of disgust in her throat. "Yes, Sir."

"Anyway. In the interim, you'll answer solely to me." He extended a hand and picked up the single personal item at Sam's workspace. Turning it in his hand, he studied it, his lips curling upward. "Yours?"

Sam tried not to flinch as she watched him, not trusting herself enough to answer his stupid question. Of course it was hers. The object wasn't fancy—nothing more than a small ceramic picture frame she'd bought at the drugstore. She'd finally gotten around to slipping a picture into it last week—a candid shot that Daniel had taken on the big day. The three of them together at the makeshift altar—Jack holding Jake on one arm, his other wrapped around Sam's waist as she'd gazed up at the two of them. She was laughing—big, unladylike, and inelegant—at something she couldn't now recall.

When Daniel had handed her the developed prints, she'd sat staring at this one for several long moments, struck by the look on her face—and on Jack's. She hadn't remembered the moment—but she could feel it again as she looked at the image. She'd never felt so alive as she had then—had never imagined feeling such pure, perfect, unbridled joy.

"Your wedding day." Samuels' teeth flashed in a cagey grin. "I'd have loved an invitation to that."

"It was small." Sam kept her tone careful. "Friends and family only."

The Colonel tsked, tapping the glass in the frame with his index finger. "I thought we were friends, Sam."

Friends? Good lord, no. But wisely, Sam merely shrugged in response.

"How is your husband handling retirement?" He'd drawn out the pertinent words—husband and retirement—his tone intentionally sardonic. Leaning closer, the Colonel placed the picture frame next to Sam's keyboard. "Knowing the man, I'm sure he's going a little stir crazy."

"He's fine."

"Oh come on, Sam. You can't tell me that he's going to be happy sitting at home changing diapers for the rest of his life."

"He loves spending time with Jake."

"Cooking? Cleaning? Mommy and Me classes at the Y?" He exhaled, the sound a high, tight, sort of sigh—like an engine winding down. "A man like Colonel O'Neill won't be satisfied with that. My prediction is that he's already taken off up to that cabin of his. Fishing, right? Wasn't that his thing?"

"Jack has many interests."

"And where does he like to go these days?" Samuels' eyebrows flew high. "I'm quite the angler myself."

Sam looked down at her desktop—at the pens and pencils in their metal cup and the notebooks she'd lined up in a neat row between the filing trays and her computer monitor. Samuels was, indeed, fishing—attempting to winnow information out of her without her realising it. Idiot. What a moron. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she touched the back of her chair with the tips of her fingers before looking back up at the Colonel. "Oh, here and there."

"Quail Lake? Penrose-Rosemont? He's got a place up north, right? Somewhere in Minnesota?" His eyes narrowed. "Come on, Sam. Surely you can give me a hint."

"He doesn't like to disclose his lucky spots, Sir. You know how protective fishermen are about that kind of thing." Sam opened the bottom drawer of her desk and fit her bag inside it. Sliding it closed, she tossed him an innocuous smile. "With your permission, Sir, I really need to get to work."

For a long time, he merely looked at her—his expression morphing from artful affability to pallid frustration. Even in the dim light of the room, Sam could see his jaw working—teeth clenching and unclenching—as his nostrils flared wide.

In the corridor outside, voices and footsteps echoed against the concrete walls, announcing the imminent arrival of the rest of the team, but the Colonel still didn't move, or drag his focus off her. It wasn't until Jenkins flipped the overhead lights on that Samuels shot one last, thin look in Sam's direction before turning on the toe of one shiny shoe and striding out the door.

XXX

Jake sighed around his thumb, hugging his blanket tightly as he wriggled down further into his bed. His eyes were closed, and his lashes fluttered against his cheeks as he settled. His hair—still damp from his bath—curled around his ears and the upturned collar of his jammies, glinting red-gold in the nightlight's glow.

Sam stood quietly next to the crib, waiting until she was sure he was asleep before backing up towards the door. It took all of her tactical skills to swing the door closed without it startling Jake awake. Even so, once she'd managed it, she lingered in the hallway for several minutes to make sure she'd really gotten away clean.

The squeak was a new thing—discovered earlier this morning as she'd entered the room to get the baby dressed for the day. And Jake had really noticed it first, scampering back to his room time and again while Sam was dressing for work to shove the door back and forth in order to hear it "talk" to him.

"Dor pawk." He'd pointed at it whenever Sam had come to haul him back into her bedroom. "Dor pawk pawk."

She might have left him to it—but the image of him swinging the door open and shut over and over had morphed into pictures of his little fingers becoming pinched between the door and the hinges or being crushed in the jamb, and she'd nixed the noisy door as a suitable plaything.

"Yes. The door is talking." Yet again, she'd hefted the kid onto her hip and traipsed back into her bedroom, mourning the days so few weeks before when little Jake couldn't manage door handles. She'd set him down next to the toys she kept near the bed and turned the lock, only to hear his little feet pad across the floor back towards the door.

"Mama! Dor pawkin, Mama!" He'd shouted and stomped as she'd dried her hair—cried as she'd applied her makeup, slapping his little palms against her bedroom door. He hadn't calmed down, letting out insistent shrieks through hiccups and sniffles until Sam had finished her routine. "Dor! Mama! Dor pawk!"

Freaking stubborn advanced Ancient genes.

He'd been difficult at day care, too. So much so that Francie had cast a wary glance at the little boy as Sam had been packing up his stuff. She'd rubbed her burgeoning belly as she'd waited in the entry, a not-so-subtle reminder that her daycare days were ending soon. And maybe Sam had imagined that the door had slammed behind her as she'd walked down the driveway to her SUV. Or maybe not.

Dinner had been simple—boxed mac and cheese and buttered corn out of a can. Jake had made a maddening game of it, eating one noodle for every three that he tossed over the edge of his high chair's tray. She'd spent half an hour scrubbing the cheese off the tile floor and rug before it could solidify.

In the meantime, he'd entertained himself. Made a game of throwing his toys over the fireplace screen into the ashes there. Emptied the cupboard where Sam kept the Tupperware, and slid several of the lids beneath the refrigerator. As she'd probed for the lids with the broom, he'd upended the fern Sam kept near her desk, giggling with glee as he sank his hands into the rich, damp potting soil and smeared it on the hardwood floor.

Swallowing a curse, she'd traipsed back into the kitchen for the broom and dust pan, only to catch a whiff of something—the remnants of Jake's dinner, probably—that overwhelmed her senses and sent her running for the toilet. She'd spent the next few minutes sitting on the bathroom floor, cursing her traitorous stomach, the makers of smelly quasi-cheese, and the universe in general before the baby had joined her there and started trying to climb into the bathtub.

During his bath, he'd waited for Sam to turn to prepare his diaper and pajamas before grabbing the bottle of baby shampoo and emptying it over his head. He'd squealed as the soap had drizzled down his face and coated his lips and tongue. She'd drained and refilled the bathtub twice to rinse him off and clear out the suds.

Wet, soapy, and exhausted, she'd picked him up to take him to the sofa for story time, only for him to squirm and whine and fight until she'd given up and put him in his bed.

It was the first time she'd made him cry himself to sleep—and she'd spent the entire tantrum standing in the hallway wiping her own tears away and missing Jack so much that her entire body ached. She'd only come back into the room to make sure that he truly was asleep before closing his door for the night, and even then, she stood—aimless and limp—in the hallway unsure what to do next.

Seven days, he'd been gone. Seven days, and she wasn't sure that she could make it to eight. It was too early for bed. She had no idea what was on TV nor any desire to find out. Even if she could bear the thought of working, she was too tired to actually do it.

Janet was right. She needed an outlet—a hobby.

Turning, she padded into the back of the house towards her bedroom. Their bedroom. Sometimes, she still slipped up. Moving around the bed, she picked up the towel she'd tossed to the floor that morning, shoving a few toys out of the way into a corner. It was crowded in here now—with Jack's stuff crammed next to hers in the closet and dresser. Surely, she could organize things better. That was a hobby, right?

Slippers. One of her running bras. A toy car that had somehow become stuck in the leg of a stray pair of Jack's boxers. Sam fished the items out from under the bed and put them in their appropriate places before moving to clean off the nightstand. A few wadded-up tissues. A bottle of eye drops. Not one but three water glasses. Her cell phone charger. Lip balm. A pencil and small spiral notepad. Jack's keycard and military ID.

The kintsugi cup.

The glasses clinked as she laid them back onto the bedside table. Sinking down onto the mattress, Sam reached for the small piece of pottery, taken again by the beauty of the gold gleaming in the cracks. Inside, the chain, the rings, and the other Jack's dog tags chinked softly against the porcelain as she turned it in the light. And another bit of gold and sparkle—her own wedding ring—shone from within. Deepest blue surrounded by icy white fire.

Fishing it out of the cup, she slid the ring her Jack had given her over the knuckle of her ring finger, pausing to admire the way it looked. For whatever reason, she still wasn't comfortable wearing it at work, which meant that she rarely wore it at all. It was stubborn pride, probably. She knew how people were still talking and loathed the thought of giving anyone more ammunition. The presence of Bauer and his merry men was only making the gossip worse.

Out of habit, she upended the cup and caught the rest of the cup's contents in her palm. Smiling, Sam thought of last October, and the moment that Heather had made the connections. Of the sight of Jack appearing in Mark's living room, reunited once again with Jake. Of the cabin, and how he'd finally taken her into his arms.

She thought of standing in the living room of this house, in front of her little mantel, exchanging vows with this man who had become her world. And then later, lying in this bed, making different vows. Deeper. More intimate. More true.

Damn. The tears were threatening again. Rising, Sam dumped the jewelry back into the cup and stood, tucking the bit of pottery back where it belonged before gathering up the water glasses in her hands. Rounding the side of the bed, she paused at the foot of it as another memory arose.

"Do you have some embarrassing cousins that you're not telling me about?" She'd meant it as a joke.

"Probably." He'd looked away from her, his expression growing darker. "But I also have a sister."

Rebecca. Becky, wasn't it? Sam frowned down at the quilt. There had been a man's name, too. Patrick? Paul? No—Phillip—and a mention of possible children. New Mexico. Farming-something and a place called Gallup. Jack had last seen his sister after the death of their mother.

It didn't take long to make her way into the kitchen, or to fit the glasses into the dishwasher. The house lay quiet and peaceful around her as she went into her office, where she sat at her desk and rummaged around in her personal papers until she found it.

The file folder sat sandwiched between the leather cases holding her graduate diplomas. Pulling it free, Sam pivoted around to turn the desk lamp on before laying the manila folder on the desktop and opening it.

Certificate of Marriage. State of Colorado. Date, witnesses, officiant. Signatures in blue ink against the cream-colored page. They'd fumbled to find a pen, finally sending Cassie to dig through the kitchen junk drawer. With a wry smile, Sam set the certificate aside, thumbing through the other pages in the file. The receipts for their wedding bands. Jake's manufactured birth certificate. Sam's own birth certificate—typed on a half-sheet of decorated parchment emblazoned with the raised stamp of some long-forgotten notary. And then Jack's. Plain white. Tattered and worn, it was larger than Sam's, printed landscape orientation on a full sheet of paper. The handwriting was faded, but still legible..

State of Illinois, Cook County,

Vital Statistics Department

Report of Birth

Jonathan James O'Neill

Date of Birth–October 20, 1952

She skimmed the page—birth weight, eye color, baby's length, parents' place of residence—until she found what she was looking for.

Father's Full Name—James Francis O'Neill

Mother's Maiden Name—Marion Rose Duffy

James and Marion. So—normal. Odd that the names seemed familiar when she'd never heard them before. When her husband had never once mentioned either of them in the four years she'd known him.

"We can find her, if that's what you want." She'd made the offer softly, unsure what he'd want.

His answer was just as quiet, but sure. "I think I need to."

Could she even do it? How would someone research this sort of thing? Pete had helped her with the property archives so that she could find Jack's cabin. That task had proven relatively easy, since they were considered public records. But how did someone find a person? Especially when she'd promised not to involve the police officer in the search?

Sam squinted at the page again, studying the snippets there. Date. Occupation. Building address, apartment number, hospital name, and precious little else. It was like searching for the proverbial needle in a continent-sized haystack.

But what the hell. Janet had told her she needed a project. Something else on which to focus. Something to fill her time until this current situation had passed. And Sam had never shied away from a challenge.

James Francis O'Neill and Marion Rose Duffy O'Neill. Rebecca. Phil. New Mexico. Names and places and hints. Breadcrumbs.

It wasn't much, but it was a start.