Mark Carter stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter as he double-checked his daughter's soccer bag. Cleats, shin guards, and water bottle were all there, just like a training jacket and a small towel. Ever since Abby had sat silently in his car after she had forgotten her shin guards and had not been able to play in an important game, Mark always checked. He never wanted to see the embarrassed, dejected look in his daughter again. Not for something so simply.
The house hummed with the kind of happy chaos he had grown to treasure. His son, Ethan, was sprawled on the living room rug, deeply engrossed in building a towering Lego fortress. Every now and then, he called out for help, and Mark would shout back an enthusiastic, "On it in five minutes!" knowing full well the fortress would probably be completed before he got there.
From the stove, his wife, Beth, gave him a warm smile, stirring a pot of spaghetti sauce. "You've got time for dinner when you get back, right?" she asked, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face.
"Wouldn't miss it," Mark replied, zipping up Abby's bag with a satisfying snap. He crossed the room, pressing a quick kiss to Beth's forehead. "I think Ethan's going to need backup before that Lego thing collapses, though."
Beth laughed softly, the kind of sound that still made him feel lucky even after all these years. "He's determined to fit an entire parking garage inside it this time."
"Ambitious kid," Mark said with a grin.
"Dad! Let's go!" Abby's voice rang out from the hallway, where she was already pulling on her jacket, her ponytail swinging. She had the same kind of energy he'd had as a kid—always moving, always excited about the next thing.
Mark gave the bag one last glance before handing it off to her. "All set, superstar?"
"Yeah! Let's go before we're late!" Abby's face lit up as she grabbed the bag, her enthusiasm contagious.
"Alright, alright," he teased, grabbing the car keys. "Don't want to make your adoring fans wait."
This was the life he'd built—maybe not glamorous, maybe a little routine at times, but it was his, and it was good. His job as a data entry specialist wasn't exactly thrilling, mostly working with spreadsheets for clients and staring at endless lines of numbers, but it paid the bills and, most importantly, let him be home in time for dinner, soccer practices, bedtime stories, and Lego fortresses. Being here for his kids and his wife, for all the small but meaningful moments, was what mattered most.
As he opened the door, he caught sight of the calendar pinned to the fridge. His eyes flicked over the dates, landing on a small note scribbled next week: Sam's birthday.
The warmth he felt moments ago dimmed. Sam. His sister. He hadn't seen her in years. Not at Christmas, not at Thanksgiving. Not even for Ethan's last birthday party, where he'd saved her a chair that stayed empty. Mark couldn't even remember the last time she'd been over to their house to spend time with his family.
A familiar bitterness crept in. Sam had made her choice—the Air Force, the mysterious, high-stakes career that left no room for family. Her work consumed her. Did she even have a life outside of it? He doubted it. She'd missed so much—so many milestones, so many ordinary, wonderful days like this one.
Still, he knew he'd call her, like he always did. It'd be a short conversation, filled with awkward silences and stiff exchanges. They'd hang up, and the distance would remain, but he'd call.
"Dad!" Abby's voice broke through his thoughts. "Let's go!"
"Coming!" he called, shaking his head.
Just as he stepped outside, Beth's voice stopped him. "Mark, wait!"
He turned to see her standing in the doorway, her face pale and worried. She held the cordless phone tightly, her knuckles white.
"It's for you," she said, her voice unsteady. "It's...a general."
The words hit him like a punch to the gut. Generals didn't call. Let alone civilians. If a general called, that could only mean bad news. His heart dropped along with Abby's soccer bag as he reached for the phone, dread spreading through him. It could only mean one of two people—Sam or their dad.
Taking a steadying breath, he brought the phone to his ear, trying to pull himself together. "Hello?" he said, bracing for the news that could shatter everything.
Mark held the phone tightly against his ear, his knuckles white as calm, steady voice filled the line, a slight southern drawl twanging in each syllable.
"Mr. Carter," the voice began, "this is General George Hammond. I'm calling in regard to your sister, Captain Samantha Carter. I regret to inform you she was in a serious motorcycle accident early this morning."
The words didn't register at first, bouncing off Mark's mind like distant echoes. "An accident?" he repeated, his voice hollow.
"Yes, son. She's currently in surgery at Memorial Hospital in Colorado Springs. Her condition is critical."
The world tilted beneath him. For years, he'd feared this phone call—just … not like this. He'd imagined it would come with polished words about duty and sacrifice, some cold military officer telling him his baby sister had died a hero in some classified operation he'd never be allowed to know about. But a motorcycle accident? That wasn't how it was supposed to happen.
"How—why—" he stammered, barely able to form words. "Why are you the one calling me?"
Hammond's voice remained steady, a reassuring anchor in the storm Mark's mind had become. "The paramedics found her service tags on her, son, and the hospital contacted us as her commanding officers. I offered to call you personally. I thought it'd be better to hear it from someone who knows your sister, instead of letting the hospital try to track you down."
While the gesture should have meant something, all Mark could focus on was the cold, numb feeling spreading through his chest. "You said she's in surgery?"
"Yes," the reply came over the phone. "The hospital staff told me they're doing everything they can, but her injuries are severe." There was a pause, a weighty silence before Hammond added, "They also mentioned that decisions might need to be made, depending on how things go."
Decisions. The word hung in the air, sharp and cruel. Mark's voice cracked when he spoke again. "You mean life-or-death decisions."
"I won't sugarcoat it, son. Things are serious. But Captain Carter is one of the finest officers I ever had the opportunity to lead. She is a fighter. And I have yet to find a problem she can't solve. If anyone can pull through this, it's her. I'm not giving up on her. And neither should you."
Mark had moved back into the joined living and dining room without noticing. Now, he grabbed the back of a chair, steadying himself. He couldn't picture Sam lying in a hospital bed. It didn't fit the image he had of her—strong, unshakable, the stubborn kid who never let anything beat her.
Fingers tightening on the phone, his voice shook as he asked, "Have you contacted our dad? He should know about this. He'd want to know."
"Dad!" The yell came from outside and Mark waved at Abby, needing to hear what the general said.
On the other end of the line, there was a pause, just a beat too long for Mark's liking. When Hammond finally spoke, there was a hint of hesitation in his tone. "No, Mr. Carter, I haven't contacted your father."
"Why not?" Mark stayed with the conversation. "He's a general, surely you have his contact information. I assure you whatever stupid important meeting he has can be interrupted so you can tell him his daughter is dying. That Sam might die!"
Ethan jerked up, staring up at his father with wide eyes and Mark cursed himself for raising his voice. Over the table, he caught Beth's gaze and nodded to their son and Beth moved to kneel on the carpet, picking up Lego in an attempt to distract Ethan.
"I don't know what your father has told you, Mr. Carter," General Hammond spoke, "but General Jacob Carter retired from military service several months ago. He's no longer an active member of the United States Air Force, and as such, we have no jurisdiction or requirement to track his whereabouts."
The words hit like a slap, leaving Mark reeling. "He retired?" he asked, incredulous. "What are you talking about? If he retired, why didn't anyone tell me?"
"That's a question you'll have to ask your father," Hammond replied, calm but unyielding.
"Fine," he muttered, the bitterness clear in his voice. "Then I guess it's on me to deal with this alone. Just like always."
"I know this is difficult, Mr. Carter. I assure you, we're doing everything we can for your sister. She's in good hands."
Thoughts too tangled with anger and worry, Mark stayed silent. Jacob Carter had vanished from his life, just like Sam. And now, Sam was lying in a hospital bed, fighting for her life. Mark's chest tightened, the weight of it all nearly unbearable. He opened the hallway cupboard and pulled out a duffel bag, determination setting in.
If he couldn't rely on anyone else, then it was up to him to be there for his sister.
"Thank you for calling me," he managed to say, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Of course, son. I'll make sure you're kept updated. If you need anything, anything at all, don't hesitate to reach out. Dr. Fraiser will be on-site shortly, and I'll have her keep me informed."
Mark nodded numbly, then realised Hammond couldn't see him. "Okay. Thanks."
There was a moment of silence, then Hammond said, "We're all praying for her, son. She's important to a lot of people."
With no words to respond, Mark simply muttered a faint, "Yeah," before the line went dead.
He stared at the phone for a long moment, the world around him fading to a dull blur. Abby's voice drifted in from the driveway. "Dad? Are you coming?"
Slowly, Mark set the phone down, his hands trembling. His mind raced, filled with images of Sam—the kid who used to follow him around, the awkward teenager who'd grinned widely when her science fair project won first place, the girl who'd blushed when Julia Williams waved at her from across the street, the confident woman in her crisp Air Force uniform. And now, the sister he hadn't spoken to in months, lying in a hospital bed, her life hanging by a thread.
"Mark?" Beth's voice brought him back to the present, her hand resting gently on his arm.
"She's hurt," he said, his voice breaking. "Sam's hurt bad."
Beth's face fell, and she pulled him into a hug, her arms wrapping tightly around him.
"I've got to go," he said finally, stepping through the small hallway and into their bedroom, opening the chest of drawers. "I need to be there."
Mark's hands trembled as he shoved clothes into his duffel bag, barely registering what he was grabbing. A t-shirt, socks, his razor—they landed haphazardly in the bag as his mind raced. He needed to get to Colorado Springs now.
"Beth!" he called over his shoulder, his voice sharp with panic. "Get on the phone, call the airline. See if there's anything leaving for Colorado Springs tonight—anything. I don't care what it costs."
His wife nodded, already heading to the phone station where their phonebook rested next to the phone on its cradle. She shot him a look filled with equal parts worry and determination before grabbing the phone and flipping open the worn Rolodex for airline numbers.
"Dad?" Ethan's voice broke into Mark's frenzied thoughts. He looked up to see his son standing in the doorway, his Lego fortress forgotten in the living room behind him. Confusion clouded the nine-year-old's face. "What's going on?"
Before Mark could answer, Abby stomped into the house, her soccer bag slung over one shoulder and her expression set in frustration. "Dad, we're going to be late! You said—" She stopped abruptly, her eyes narrowing as she took in the chaos.
Mark dropped the shirt in his hand and moved to Ethan, grabbing his shoulders gently but firmly. "Come here," he said, his voice thick. "Abby, sit down too. Both of you."
Directing both back into the living room, Mark sat Ethan on the couch. Abby hesitated, her irritation fading as she glanced between her dad and her brother. Finally, she slung her bag down and sat next to Ethan. She huffed and crossed her arms, showing a hint of the difficult teenager she'd soon be. Damn it, Abby looked so much like Sam had at that age.
Heart beating rapidly in his chest, Mark knelt in front of them, his hands resting on Ethan's knees as he looked between his two children. He swallowed hard, his throat tightening as his emotions threatened to spill over.
"I just got a phone call," he began, his voice wavering. "From the Air Force. Your Aunt Sam...she was in an accident. A bad one. She's hurt, and she's in the hospital."
Abby's mouth dropped open in shock. "Aunt Sam?" she whispered.
Meanwhile, Ethan's small face crumpled instantly, his eyes welling with tears. "Is she going to die?" he choked out, his small hands swiping at his cheeks as the tears spilled over.
Stomach roiling at the question, Mark squeezed Ethan's shoulders, trying to steady his own trembling hands. "I don't know, buddy," he admitted softly. "She's in surgery right now. The doctors are doing everything they can to help her."
Abby's eyes darted to her father's face, wide with disbelief. "But...she's Aunt Sam. She can't...she can't just—" Her words faltered. Mark swallowed. His children had good memories of Sam. Of the birthday science kits, the books about space and atoms, the quiet moments where Sam would lean over her shoulder when she came for a visit, explaining the wonders of the universe with infinite patience.
Blinked rapidly, Mark struggled to hold back his tears, but his mind betrayed him with images of Sam from the last time he'd seen her. Two years ago, in the dead of winter, she'd spent hours outside with Ethan building a snow castle. He remembered her cheeks flushed with cold, her laughter carrying on the wind as Ethan pelted her with snowballs. She'd looked so happy, so free.
But then his mind jumped to the fight that had shattered the visit. He'd brought up her job—again. He wanted her to leave the Air Force, to stop risking her life for something he couldn't even understand. She'd gotten defensive, like she always did, and before he knew it, they were shouting at each other, their words sharp and cutting.
The fight only stopped when Abby and Ethan had come into the room, their wide eyes filled with confusion and fear. They'd both forced themselves to calm down then, but the damage was done. Sam had said a stiff, tight-lipped goodbye to her niece and nephew, hugging them tightly before grabbing her coat and storming out.
And now she might...no. He couldn't finish the thought.
Ethan sniffled loudly, his small voice breaking the heavy silence. "But she's my favorite," he sobbed, his hands clutching at Mark's shirt.
Moving without thought, Mark pulled his son into a hug, wrapping one arm around him as he reached out and rested a hand on Abby's shoulder. "She's my sister," he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. "I know how much you both love her. I do too."
Abby nodded, her face pale but resolute. "She's going to be okay, right, Dad?"
There was no reassuring answer that wasn't a lie, but he forced himself to meet her eyes. "We're going to do everything we can to help her, okay?"
Again, Abby nodded, tears brimming in her own eyes now.
From the kitchen, Beth's voice called out, trembling but clear. "Mark, I found a flight. It leaves in two hours."
With a deep breath, Mark released Ethan and squeezed Abby's shoulder one last time. "I need to pack, and then I'll go," he said softly.
He stood, his legs feeling like lead as he turned back to the duffel bag. His children watched him silently, their small faces etched with worry. Mark's heart clenched again, but he pushed the feeling down. There wasn't time to fall apart. Sam needed him, and he wasn't going to let her down.
Mark Carter adjusted the strap of his carry-on bag, scanning the crowd of drivers and greeters at the small Colorado Springs airport. He'd called Hammond back from the airport, needing to make sure he headed to the right place once he got to Colorado Springs. Through the years, he'd gathered enough experience with the armed forces to know how quickly things could change and he could just imagine him getting to the hospital only for Sam to have been moved to some military base instead. However, Hammond had told him he'd send Sam's team to pick him up and so Mark now looked around.
Two men stood near the edge of the crowd, holding a hand-scrawled sign that read, in uneven block letters, "MARK CARTER". Their demeanor stood out as much as the poorly done sign. Both wore military BDUs, but while one man had a sharp, square-jawed bearing, the other looked slightly out of place—hands jammed awkwardly in his pockets, glasses perched on his nose, and an air of quiet curiosity.
Mark squared his shoulders and walked toward them. As he approached, the square-jawed man raised his eyebrows and smirked. "Yeah, you've gotta be Carter's brother. You've got the look."
Mark stopped in front of them, taken off guard. "The look?"
"You know," the man continued, gesturing vaguely at Mark's face, "the whole... Carter thing. Smart, kinda intense, but also, like, perpetually one sarcastic remark away from trouble? Runs in the family, I guess."
Caught between amusement and irritation, Mark blinked at the man. "And you are?"
The man straightened and stuck out a hand. "Colonel Jack O'Neill. Carter's CO." He nodded to the man beside him. "And this is Daniel Jackson. He's—well, he's Daniel."
Daniel gave a friendly, apologetic smile as he shook Mark's hand. "It's nice to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances."
"Yeah, same," Mark said, eyeing them both. O'Neill's energy was almost disarming, but the tightness around his eyes betrayed a deeper worry. Jackson, on the other hand, radiated a quieter, almost academic warmth. Mark was struck by how different they were and yet how natural their partnership seemed. "Sam mentioned you once or twice, Colonel," Mark added, recalling a vague memory.
"Hopefully good things," O'Neill quipped, though his smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "C'mon, let's get moving. Got a car waiting outside. You travel light, right?"
Mark hoisted his bag slightly. "Yeah, I wasn't exactly planning for a vacation."
"No kidding," O'Neill said as they started toward the exit. "Look, I know you've probably got a hundred questions. First thing, she's stable, okay? The docs are good, and they're keeping a close eye on her."
Some of the coiled tension he'd suffered through on the plane dripped away. She was still there, still breathing. He nearly shook with the knowledge.
They headed outside. The sun had set and it was late at night by now, the air chilled in the spring but clean and fresh. Slightly behind them, Jackson walked and took in everything around him like a tourist. "You're not military," Mark guessed.
Jackson smiled faintly. "No, I'm a civilian. Archeologist. Linguist."
That … was not what Mark expected. What the hell did an archeologist and linguist have to do with Deep Space Radar Telemetry? With working for the military in general? It made no sense at all.
A snort sounded before O'Neill answered. "Resident brainiac. Him and Carter understand each other's technobabble, so we let him stick around."
"And I keep you from insulting half the galaxy," Jackson countered, his tone light but pointed.
"Details, details," O'Neill said with a shrug, leading them through the glass doors to the brisk evening air outside. Darkness had begun to settle over Colorado Springs, the last streaks of sunset painting the sky in faint orange and purple hues. The city lights glimmered in the distance, a reminder that life carried on even as his world felt momentarily suspended. The military car—a nondescript dark sedan—was parked nearby. O'Neill gestured for Mark to take the front seat, while Daniel slid into the back.
As Mark buckled himself in, the faint scent of motor oil and coffee mingled with the fresh, cool air that clung to the vehicle's fabric seats. O'Neill, in the driver's seat, adjusted the mirrors and cast a quick glance at Mark. "Comfy enough?" he asked, his voice casual, almost too casual.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Mark muttered, not really meaning it. His chest felt tight, a dull ache of worry pulsing in the back of his mind.
The car rumbled to life, and they merged onto the main road. O'Neill tapped a rhythm on the steering wheel as he drove, the streetlights casting fleeting, golden patterns across his face.
The silence stretched uncomfortably until O'Neill cleared his throat. "So, uh, Mark, where are you staying?"
Pulled from his thoughts, Mark looked over. "Staying?" he echoed, realizing he hadn't given it a single thought. "I don't know. A cheap hotel, I guess."
"For crying out loud," O'Neill muttered, shaking his head. "A cheap hotel. You're Carter's brother. You're not staying in some dump."
"I'm not picky. I just need a place to sleep."
"Yeah, yeah," O'Neill said, waving a hand dismissively. "Here's an idea: stay at Carter's place."
"Her place?"
"Yeah," O'Neill replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "It's not like she's using it right now."
While true, the nonchalance in his tone had Mark stiffen. "Even if I wanted to, I don't have a key."
O'Neill scoffed loudly, throwing a glance at Daniel before focusing back on the road. "Well, that's easy. I'll just give you mine."
The words hung in the air for a moment, and Mark's jaw tightened. "You have a key to my sister's house?" His voice was sharp, his anger bubbling just under the surface.
O'Neill didn't even flinch. "Yep."
Anger and incredulity flared in equal measure and Mark's jaw dropped. "Why does her superior officer have a key to her house? What the hell is going on here?"
Sighing dramatically, O'Neill rolled his eyes. "Calm down, big bro," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "It's not what you're thinking. Not even close."
Mark bristled, turning to glare at the Colonel. "And what am I supposed to think?"
"It's practical," O'Neill replied, glancing briefly at Daniel as if inviting him to weigh in. "Look, we're a team, okay? And a damn good one. We all have keys to each other's places. I got a key to Carter's house. So does Jackson, so does Teal'c, so does Fraiser. And in turn Carter's got keys to our places, the whole nine yards. If one of us is busy or… stuck in a hospital bed, someone else can buy groceries, check the mail, whatever."
Against his will, Mark's anger faltered, replaced by confusion. He turned to Daniel, who had been quiet up until now. "Is that true?"
Daniel nodded earnestly. "It is. We all help each other out. It's… not what you're thinking."
The words had Mark relax slightly and the Colonel grinned. "Told you."
"And of course there's Cassie and since we all take care of her at times, having keys really makes things easier," Daniel added, smiling as if that explained things.
Mark's brow furrowed deeper. "Cassie? Who's Cassie?"
The words hung heavy in the car. O'Neill cursed under his breath, shaking his head. "Oh, for crying out loud," he said again, this time with a sharper edge. "How bad is your relationship with your sister that you don't know about Cassie?"
Something in Mark's stomach dropped. Guilt flashed through him and he felt his cheeks warm. "I—" He hesitated, struggling to find the words.
"Cassie's like family to her," Daniel said gently, his tone softening as he glanced back at Mark. "She's… Sam's unofficially adopted kid, in a way. It's complicated, but Sam loves her like she's her own."
That took Mark's breath away. Cassie. He'd never even heard that name. Since when did Sam have an unofficially adopted kid? Dear God! That couldn't be true, could it? He felt a pang of something—regret, shame, maybe both. "I didn't know."
"Yeah, no kidding," O'Neill muttered, though his tone lacked real bite.
They drove in silence. The Colonel turned left onto East Platte Avenue. In the silence, the ticking of the turn indicator sounded overbearingly loud. At the next sign, Mark saw Colorado was only another four miles. Not far, he told himself, clasping the strap of his duffel bag. Ten minutes and they'd be at the hospital. Maybe another five to reach Sam's room. He glanced at his watch. Sweat pooled on his palms.
"Look," O'Neill said, "you don't have to like me, or Jackson, or this whole key-sharing thing. But Carter? She's got a hell of a lot of people in her corner. You might want to think about why you're not one of them."
Blinking into the darkness, Mark didn't answer. His stomach clenched with everything that had been said so far and his eyes burned. So many things he'd apparently missed. So many things he didn't know. Cassie. It could impossibly be true! Sam didn't have a kid, had she? She would have told him!
The weight of it all hung in the air as the car sped on through the darkening landscape, the distant hum of traffic and city lights blurring together, but nothing could shake the feeling that Mark's world had irrevocably shifted.
"So," O'Neill began after a beat of silence, "how're Ethan and Abby doing these days?"
Shock travelled through Mark yet again and he turned sharply toward the Colonel. "You...you know my kids' names?"
From the backseat, Daniel let out a quiet snort, leaning forward slightly. "We've heard all about the epic snow castle Ethan and Sam built a couple of years ago. She said it was practically a fortress."
O'Neill chimed in with a chuckle, eyes on the road but his tone light. "And Abby? Oh yeah, Carter mentioned how she totally trashed the other soccer team last season. Showed 'em who's boss. From what I hear, she's got that classic Carter energy—unstoppable."
Mark stared at them, caught between confusion and something softer. He could barely remember mentioning those things to Sam during one of their stilted calls, but apparently, she had shared them with her colleagues. The thought that she'd cared enough to talk about his kids—their lives—left him momentarily speechless.
"I, uh...I think I might've told her that on our last call," he said quietly, his voice trailing off as uncertainty crept in.
Daniel nodded, his tone gentler now. "Yeah, she said she'd talked to you recently. I think it was when we were...uh, out in the field. It was raining nonstop, and everyone was miserable. She started telling us stories about her nephew and niece to cheer us up. It worked."
The mention of the field caught Mark's attention, pulling him momentarily from his thoughts. "Field?" he asked, glancing between the two men. "I thought you all worked on Deep Space Radar Telemetry. What's that got to do with the outdoors?"
O'Neill's hands gripped the wheel a little tighter, though his expression remained light. "Well, you know," he said, voice edged with a practised nonchalance. "Someone's gotta set up the antennas and telescopes. Strangely, they always seem to put those on mountains. Real fun in the rain, let me tell you."
Something about the way O'Neill spoke—his tone, the faint flicker of something unreadable in his gaze as he kept his eyes firmly on the road—made Mark's gut twist. It felt too rehearsed, too surface-level. The excuse hung in the air like a poorly constructed lie, though Mark couldn't quite put his finger on what was off.
The darkened cityscape rolled past the window, the neon glow of fast-food signs and convenience stores blurring into streaks of light. Mark sat back, uneasy but unwilling to press further. Instead, he let himself focus on the rhythm of the car's movement and the occasional hum of the engine.
Daniel shifted in the backseat, clearing his throat. "You know, Sam... she told us about the fight you two had," he said, his voice tentative but genuine. "I'm glad you came, though, despite how rocky things were between you."
Mark's eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, locking eyes with the archeologist for a moment before snapping back to the road. His jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the worn strap of his bag as the words hung in the air like a weight. "I'm not sure what Sam told you, but that's none of your business." The words came out more harshly than he meant. "She's my baby sister, damn it. Of course I'm gonna come."
Daniel shifted uncomfortably in the backseat, visibly regretting the words, but O'Neill gave a low chuckle, easing some of the tension. "Hey, we've all been there," O'Neill said, his voice unbothered. "Family fights can get ugly. And not being able to tell them what we do? Can get complicated. But in the end, you are one of the ones who's here despite that. Not that normal, sadly. You and Carter may not always understand each other's lives, but it doesn't mean you don't care."
The support almost made it worse. The acknowledgement that Sam cared. Mark stared straight ahead, the weight of his own thoughts pressing down on him, though the Colonel's nonchalance did little to ease his anxiety. The mention of their fight—Sam storming out of his house, their words still hanging in the air after all this time—hurt in a way that Mark wasn't prepared for. And yet, as much as that pain had settled in his chest, he couldn't ignore the truth that Daniel and O'Neill weren't wrong. For all missed birthdays and all the disappointments and all the fights-Sam was still his sister.
"Yeah, well," Mark muttered, his voice quieter now but still edged with frustration. "She's not just some soldier. She's my sister. And I'll be damned if I'm not here for her, no matter how much we don't get along."
The car pulled up to the front of the hospital, the headlights casting long shadows across the parking lot as Mark stepped out, feeling a strange sense of disbelief settle in his chest. The air was cold, but the weight of everything happening made him feel hot, sticky with sweat.
He had only just gotten off the plane a few hours ago, but it felt like days. His heart hammered in his chest as O'Neill led the way into the building, Daniel following closely behind. The sterile, clinical scent of the hospital was overpowering, and the bright overhead lights made everything feel too real.
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