Truth Or Consequences - I

It couldn't have been 'rottener' timing if Sam had planned it. Who was going to lead SG-1 on this sensitive mission involving the Asgard? Teal'c? Daniel? Not that they weren't capable; they certainly were, but so far nothing official had come down sanctioning either one of them was being put in the driver's seat. She groaned when she thought about Jack being out of the question. His days for going off-world were, for all intents and purposes, on hold. It was not as though he didn't want to go, he did, but so often conditions at the SGC put the kibosh on that.

"Just let me die, please," Samantha breathed into the stillness of her bedroom which felt as though it had become an inferno. Man, was it hot, as though it had been set on fire! More accurately though, it was she who was burning up. She shuddered to think what her fever was now, and feeling as though she had one foot in the grave didn't help--no indeed.

Craning her head off the pillow, she cracked her eyelids open, feeling groggy as all get-out. She was seeing yellow, literally. Her body felt bruised all over, like one big open wound.

Maybe pouring a little more OJ into herself might help, she thought grimly. What a throat...she felt as if she could spit cotton bales. Refusing to knuckle under to her debilitated condition, she forced herself up onto bended elbows. Her head swam the way it did whenever she had more than one drink on an empty stomach. She wondered if this current wave of nausea was ever going to end.

Like a radiator with a broken valve, she wheezed, then croaked, "It just keeps getting better." She sniffed up what felt like a torrent of slimy mucous. It had nearly slid out her red nose; (Rudolph would have been jealous). Before making a play for the juice, Sam decided that perhaps a little zany comedy might help take her mind off how lousy she felt. The remote was lying next to the half-filled glass of OJ. She patted the portion of the blanket nearest to the nightstand and went for the channel surfing device.

'Lucy,' her all time favorite comedy, was on TV Land; it was a marathon. Sam smiled, seeing what episode it was. Lucy was the stooge for the 'Slowly I Turn' routine. The madcap redhead was about to get clobbered with the puffy waterbottle, sneakily-produced, when Sam heard her doorbell.

"Oh, great," she gritted out, peeved, wondering who it was. Sam glanced at the set to see Lucy taking seltzer full in the face. The doorbell interrupted again. She knew it couldn't be Pete. He was away for two weeks, attending a conference it was mandatory he attend. She had come down with the flu a little over three days ago, telling him so over the phone. He'd made the offer to take care of her, but she wouldn't hear of it, convincing him he must do no such thing.

She would be fine. It was just a measly old flu bug, not bubonic plague. When she had spoken those brave words, she'd meant them. But now, since she felt like death reheated too many times over, she wasn't so sure. Maybe being under supervised care was not the silly idea it had seemed at the time.

'...Door going once...door going twice...three times... Whoever it is they're persistent, I'll give them that...'

With a Herculean effort, and then some, Sam swung her legs off her rumpled bed. Grunting as she strove to stand up, once she was, she thought how lying down again was a great idea. But, no. Apparently, her caller was the never say die type.

Unsteadily, she set off for the front door, unsteady being the operative word. She felt that her legs might give out at any moment. She sneezed mightily and stained the front of her robe, which she had managed to shrug on, with the OJ she had downed at the last minute.

"Damn..." she said to herself, and to whomever was making a nuisance of themselves, "I'm coming, I'm c-coming..."

'...But if I die in the attempt,' she thought wildly, '...maybe then you'll stop chiming the living chime out of my door!'

Tottering like a stumblebum, Sam lurched her way to the front door as though the floor was glazed with ice. Not bothering to see who it was first, she unlocked the door, turning the knob with a shaky hand. She opened the door a crack. Squinting up at the casually-dressed person, Sam, sounding alarmed, said, "S-sir..." A gripping wave of nausea washed over her.

"My God, Carter," Jack O'Neill pronounced as though passing weighty sentence, "you look like hell!" Before his subordinate had time to blink, he wedged himself through the door.

Since he always seemed to coax the banter from her, despite how horrible she felt, Sam rejoined, "T-th-hanks, sir. Nice o-of y-you to..." Her hand flew to her mouth as though it had a mind of its own. Sam's eyes bugged, and she prayed she could keep whatever it was that was dying to come up, down. "Notice-oh--NO!" It was the last she managed to pump out before her legs buckled, falling out from under her.

"Carter!" O'Neill bellowed, acting fast so he could catch her. He had never seen her looking quite this bad, and he had seen her looking close enough to it too many times before. He barked her name several times, but when he stopped swearing, he realized his diehard, trooper, with the best head on her shoulders he had ever known a soldier to possess, had fainted dead-away.

Reality socked him; hit him full force like a brutal sucker punch he never saw coming. Samantha Carter was golden, meaning so much to him. Sure, he could think these fine things about her, but telling her how he felt...that was like volunteering to have another snakehead inserted into him.

He bulldozed past the powerful, endless reasons why they could never be together in the sense that he wished they could be, and he it boiled down to this: She needed him now, in sickness. Her intended out of left field was MIA. That left him, Jack 'for cryin' out loud' O'Neill here for her in the crunch, case closed. They were better than good together 'in the crunch.'

"For cryin' out loud, Carter, when you get the flu, you sure as hell don't mess around."

As he studied her, lying unresponsively in his arms, he considered how his promotion was a two-edged sword; commanding had its savory moments, even if they tended to be few and far between. He hated watching her departures through the gate; that sucked through and through. He died a little every time it was incumbent she went off-world without him. Until she was well again, he was sticking with her...

... ... ... ...

"Wh-where am I?"

"In bed..." Jack squinted at her. "What? Doesn't it feel familiar?"

Her mind contracting, Sam blinked herself into better awareness, which felt as though it took ages. Her bedroom seemed aglow with the softest light which was comforting. For a crazy second, she thought she was going through the 'Gate. So much shimmered before her watery eyes.

Going by herself, though? Where was everybody, Teal'c, Daniel...the man on temporary loan from SG-11? What was his name again? It wasn't important right now. Sam looked around until finally, when her eyes alighted on the general, her facial expression went awry.

"Okay, I know, I know. What can you expect from having next to no sleep?" He hallowed out his cheeks. "Welcome back, Colonel..."

"Sir?" she said, sounding as though she was giving reality a run for its money. "What?"

Touched by her confused frown, and tone, he came forward on the chair he had pulled up close to the bed. "You were out of it for a little while."

Her face mirrored how out of it she still felt. "How long?"

He pulled on his chin and wryly said. "Not long. Not long enough to consider calling an ambulance."

"Glad to hear it."

"Although..."

"Although what?"

"You say some way colorful things when you're under."

"So do you, sir," Sam said, liking the way her observation reddened him.

"Okay, okay, I never said I didn't have a vivid imagination."

"That you do, sir, that you do."

"Or..." He shook his head and muttered, "Never mind."

"Did you say something, sir?"

He hadn't meant to frown, but he did. "You know, we're so off-off duty..." Then sheepishly, he admitted, "Okay, at least you are. I'm not, officially. Things are kind of slow at the SGC, at least for now. If anything breaks while I'm gone, they'll contact me so I'm patched in." He patted his waist where his cellular phone was attached. Sam looked more skeptical. "What?" he asked.

"Sir, uh, I appreciate the visit..."

"Need anything?"

"Can't think of anything, unless you have something that helps knock this bug out of me in a day," Sam said wishing he really had something just like that.

"Wishful thinking, Carter." He was whisking those famous search and locate glances around her room again as though he had gone into reconnaissance mode.

"Are you looking for something in particular?" Sam asked.

"I'm not seeing a humidifier."

"That's because I don't have one."

Jack's scowl came, deepened, then went. "Check. I'll go get one."

"It's really unnecessary," Sam contended, sounding wheezy. "Heating up a pan of water would basically accomplish the same thing."

"Right, but you're in no shape to stand at the stove with your face over a pan of boiling water. Bringing it in here is just plain messy, and there's the risk of scalding."

"I guess you have a point, sir."

"Damn right I do." He looked like a man who had scored two points when he saw a fleeting look of resignation grace her countenance. 'No matter how nice holding you over it, despite your being as sick as a dog, would be,' he thought for a randy moment. Promptly, he blinked. Like a malcontent, he wondered why he kept torturing himself.

The man she had chosen, the man she wanted, which definitely wasn't him, was thousands of miles away. Carter was engaged, had even had the crust to tell him about it. The best he had offered was to look at her as though she had grown two heads. As though it was inconceivable she could have fallen for another guy.

Mind reading was a myth. When had he ever voiced how he really felt about her...them...their being together...as if there was any chance they could be?

Chance? What chance?. What could a man who regularly shied away from his true feelings exactly say, anyway? 'Carter, you can't marry the cop. You owe it to yourself and me to give me a shot...to hell with the rules and regs...'

Jack's eyes tracked over to the T.V. and he stared at the screen as though suddenly captivated by the inane commercial.

"Ummm, uh, sir? Are you feeling all right?" Despite her own striken condition, she recognized a look of uneasiness when she saw it.

"Yeah, Carter, I'm fine. Peachy." As he had thought before...why did he put himself through this torture? There would never be a *them.* That was that--period, final. He warned himself that if he thought along those lines again, he'd give himself a good, swift kick.

He was her superior, no fratinization in the ranks, never, ever. A wild thought made him momentarily giddy. 'I could always retire...' He raised a hand, as if waving the nutty notion away. 'What makes you think she'd want a sulky retiree on her hands in the first place?'

Better he continue with his cursory medicinal inventory. He had risen from the chair and was standing beneath the lintel of her bedroom door. "You got Tylenol?"

"No Tylenol. Advil." Sam crooked her thumb at the nightstand.

He had not seen the bottle, wondering how he could have missed it. "How many have you downed so far?"

A coughing spell, a fierce one gripped her.

"Got cough drops?"

"No." She struggled for breath. "Don't have an-."

"I'll get some."

"--eee." She regained her breath. "I'm due for more Advil," she coughed out.

He watched her reach for the bottle on the nightstand that could have been bigger since it was cluttered with all things meant to be in easy reach. Sam shook out the recommended dosage and downed the tablets without any liquid to wash them down.

"I'll be right back," he told her, her bathroom the destination he had in mind. When he returned, he held a washcloth in his right hand.

The familiar feeling of being much too hot ganged up on her. It was as though O'Neill had read an invisible thermometer with her reading indicated. Sam made reference to that fact as he placed the damp, cool washcloth on her forehead.

He made a face she had seen him make countless number of times. "You're really hot, Carter..." He knew he shouldn't, but he couldn't resist. "And unlike most times, that's not in a good way." Muzzy, Sam gave him a subdued look. "Okay, okay, that was dumb." He made sure the cloth stayed in place, then told her, "I won't be gone long."

"I bet." She was cranky and felt justified about it, but she resisted the urge to vent. The flu usually ran its course in about ten days. Sam hoped her recuperaton would take much less time. She spearheading this diplomatic mission, her first, which involved going before the Asgard council, was crucial. It came down to wanting to be at her best, and now certainly wasn't it. Her ongoing investigations had overturned vital and time-sensitive information that could be of critical value to their diminutive allies in their quest to defeat the Replicators. The insidious nemesis had gained considerable ground lately.

"Was that tone I detected, Carter?" O'Neill asked, his own pert.

"Sorry, sir..."

"For cryin' out loud, Carter, don't apologize. I make a lousy patient too, in case you never noticed."

"I just hate being sick...and especially now. With so much with the Asgard at stake."

Jack never altered too far afield, treating most circumstances with his business as usual flair, as though it were second nature to him. Sometimes he wished he could switch it off, but it was hard. There had been just too many years and some very tough times.

For her sake, he'd try. "While I'm gone, concentrate on..." He glanced at the current episode of "I Love Lucy" airing. "I know you've seen this one more times than I can count. Try imagining Lucy in that vat with grapes up to her hips. Puts a whole 'nother slant on the antics."

"How's that, sir?"

"Just do it, Carter, I have confidence you'll see what I mean." He advanced on the bedroom door to leave, but halted abruptly, semi-turned and commended, "Oh, and..." He displayed a grin that was goofy for him. "Nice bed..."

"Why, thanks, sir." Sam smiled, and waved him out of the room with a tissue, newly-soggy, in hand. "Bought it last week. They delivered Wednesday."

"Ah, just in time to christen it as a sickbed with a beaut of an illness. Good planning..."

"Not really, sir." And sounding crestfallen she called after him, "I hope the Asgard might show a little patience until I'm over this."

"Carter, I wanna lock your front door." She heard him say this from far away, and she imagined him turning the doorknob several times. "Got a key lying around someplace nearby?"

"Under the doormat, there's a loose piece in the plank. There're two on a single loop. They're wedged in there," she said, straining her voice. Her throat really hurt.

She saw him in her mind's eye rummaging for several minutes until he exclaimed, "Eureka. Okay. Got 'em." Before locking the front door, O'Neill replied, "Oh, and Carter, leave the Asgard to me. I'll see what I can do. I got connections."

"Thanks, sir."

"Hey, no sweat."

... ... ... ...

Less than an hour later, Jack was back with all the trimmings he thought would have Sam a-okay again in record time. The chicken-vegetable soup, purchased at a local eatery called, 'The Beanery,' he poured into a saucepan that looked brand new. Reheating the soup didn't take long.

It was nearly 5 o'clock, but considering the time of the year it was, the afternoons darkened early. Jack entered Sam's bedroom bearing a laden tray. The soup, some saltines and a steaming mug of tea were at her disposal.

"I'm not really hungry, sir..."

"You're not supposed to be, you're sick remember?" He placed the serviceable tray with its four stubby legs before her with a self-satisfied smile adorning his face. "Eat as much as you can and what you don't finish you can have tomorrow."

"All right, sir."

A diffidence came over him, as affecting as a change in the weather. "Any time you'd like to call me O'Neill, feel free."

"Excuse me, sir?" It struck her then that in all these years, working side-by-side with the CO, it had never occurred to her to address him as anything other than, 'sir.' When she did refer to him as O'Neill, there was always his rank smack-dab in front of it.

"If you could manage calling me O'Neill, you're welcome to," he reiterated.

Who was this man? Sam couldn't help but wonder.

This was far from being the first time in all these years of duty she had been laid low by a cold or some exotic strain of the flu. Why was he personally perpetrating the doctor routine, complete with quite a versatile bedside manner?

Oh, well...why over-analyze his concern, especially when it felt kind of nice in a dizzying sort of way.

Picking up the soup spoon, dipping it into the savory, aromatic stock, Sam sighed. The growling was coming from her stomach, and O'Neill couldn't help but smile. Well, she hadn't eaten in over a day. She was relieved not to feel nauseaous. Maybe she could eat most of the soup and keep it down, she hoped. She'd try, anyway.

"Well, uh, I sort of thought that since we aren't SGC-side, you could drop the rigid formality." O'Neill put up his hands as though fending something ridiculous off.

"Uh, ah, maybe later, sir," Sam remarked, putting enough of the right spin on her reply.

"Hey, it's only a suggestion, Carter. Nowhere near being an order."

Sam ate. In fact, the more soup she eased down her throat, the more she wanted, and in no time she finished it all.

Jack sat in the same chair he had pulled up, watching her sip tea which she liked even better than the soup. It was called 'Breathe Easy,' composed chiefly of echinacea and elderberry. She was on her second mug, and the brew was easing her congestion tremendously. The 'Lemon Myrtle Echinacea Throat Coat' helped relieve the dreadful soreness in hers.

Jack got to his feet, preparing to remove her empty bowl, but before doing that, he ambled over to the deluxe humidifier he'd purchased to make sure it was set just so.

Not only was the tea good for her throat, it was making her very sleepy; she could barely keep her eyes open. Jack returned to the bedside and removed the tray. What was left in her mug, he inspected, and seeing that there wasn't much left, decided he would take it away too. He'd make more later.

"'Night, Carter," O'Neill muttered. Looking away from her to lay his eyes on the set, he decided she looked very young when she was drowsy. While he balanced the tray with one hand, he turned off the T.V.

But Sam wasn't as out of it as he thought. She opened her eyes wide enough to see him leaving. "'Bye, sir,...and thanks...for all you've done. When you let yourself out, just leave the keys where you found them."

"Who says I'm leaving, Carter?" He lingered near the bedroom door.

"Aren't you?" Sam tried sitting up a little more, but found she just didn't have the energy.

"No, not."

"Why not?"

"Just in case you need anything during the night, I've decided to bunk in your living room, on the couch."

"But, but, sir...you don't have to stay. It's really unnecessary. Totally unnecessary."

"Not in the mood to argue, Carter, but...let's say I was as sick as you are, sicker even, and Daniel and T' were unavailable. You'd do the same for me, am I right?"

"Sure, sir, of course, in a heartbeat."

Heartened, Jack took the selling down a notch. She would never know how gratifying that was to hear. "So there's your answer."

"It's not a very comfortable couch, sir," Sam said, sounding pragmatic. "Trust me on that."

"Still trying to get rid of me?"

"No, sir," Sam said quickly.

O'Neill rolled his eyes, but in a humoring sort of way. "If I can sleep on rock, in the core of a planet that singed my eyebrows, Carter, I think your couch'll be a real improvement."

"Whatever you say, sir." The resignation was in her voice again. "It's really unnecessary for you to go out on a limb like this, but since you are, I appreciate it. I really do."

There had been many gripping moments in their SG-1 history together when the strong urge to give her a bear hug had come over him. This was another one of those times. Covering though, he said, "For one night, I'll survive." He threw her that universal look of his, the one that brooked no further discussion. "Now, do what you were doing a minute ago. Go to sleep."

"Is that an order, sir?" Sam tweaked.

"You want it to be one?" Jack said, not meaning to make it a challenge. He waited for her answer, but when none came, he began heading out of the bedroom.

"Sir..."

"Yeah, Carter?"

"There's a blanket in the hallway closet," she helpfully supplied.

"Thanks. Now sleep. And that's dangerously close to being an order."

"Got it, sir. 'Night, and thanks again."

He grunted an acknowledgment and closed the door behind himself, leaving it partially open. Before bedding down, he went to the kitchen, wanting to wash whatever he had dirtied during her meal's preparation.

While he worked, the thought kept hitting him that her house was great, functional, but had that homey touch that felt just right. Why hadn't he ever asked her out to dinner, a real date, he thought suddenly. Sure, doing so diametrically opposed the no frat. policy. Conveniently, he reasoned that grabbing some fast food at the local MacDonald's could hardly be considered a serious date...for teens, sure, a hands down yes. But for two adults void of preconceptions, hardly.

A host of thoughts along those lines assailed him as he put finishing touches on getting her kitchen back to the way it had been before his coming along to upset its order.

Now, sooner, rather than later, she was going to become Mrs. Peter Shanahan, and there was nothing he could do about it. What was he supposed to do anyway? She'd made her choice, and he, the newly- appointed CO of the SGC wasn't it. He cared about her, Lord did he ever, but caring wasn't enough.

And the Air Force stood in their way...

Yeah, things were complicated, and that was the epitome of an understatement if there ever was one.

For a crazy second he wondered if asking her not to marry Shanahan was something he had the balls to do. Evaluating that their unspoken relationship was such that it could have stood the test of time, Jack shook his head; Carter deserved more...so much more.

Daniel was forever throwing hints, big obnoxious ones, but complacency was like quicksand. You didn't know you were sinking fast until you were up to your neck in it.

Teal'c, the strong, silent type he couldn't help being, would say it all with those penetrating stares and wordless gestures that spoke volumes whenever he was in the middle of one of their interludes. When they'd throw each other those secret little looks and nudges they thought went under everybody's radar. Everybody's but the Jaffa's and Daniel's too.

He could respect Sam, rely on her, even worship her from afar, and nobody got hurt. Yeah, sure, nobody but he. Clearly, by accepting Shanahan's proposal, she needed more, more than he had ever even hinted at that he could give her. Who was he, Jack 'better to leave things stat. q.' O'Neill, to deny her the happiness she so richly merited?

Blame her? He'd be one selfish hard-bitten bum if he did. Mutual admiration only went so far.

What could he offer aside from his quirks, off-color jokes, dyed-in-the-wool cockiness and a temper that was more a trademark than a trait? His Sam...he jumped a little involuntarily, having thought of her as his, but deep down, wasn't she, really?

Yet, still and all, she deserved far better, and she would soon have what she dearly deserved. Wouldn't she?

The Air Force had been home so many years now, filling many voids. But, there were some it could never fill; he knew that. '...Can't have everything...' he rationalized, still wishing he could somehow get to have Sam despite it all. Samantha Carter was the best of all worlds, but there was no way she could ever be in his on a full-time basis no matter how hard he wished otherwise.

He'd be her friend until the day he died, and consider himself incredibly fortunate for having known her in the first place. She, the most brilliant woman on the planet, in his book, who never talked down to him, although he gave her ample ammunition for doing so. She was the only scientist he loved, a peach of a person, worth mints. She gave gorgeous blondes a sterling reputation and she knew *his* name.

The blanket had been where she said it was supposed to be. He spread it out and sat on the couch; Carter had exaggerated. The sectional felt fine. He slipped out of his hiking boots and got comfy, or as comfy as his belaboring mind allowed him to get.

The final thing that served as a Goa'uld's advocate was the nagging thought that he was too old for her anyway. Mid-life crisis took on a whole new meaning when Samantha Carter was the context. It wasn't as if she made him feel his age, on the contrary. It was, however, his knowing how much younger she'd make him feel if she were his, and that was the corker.

"Maybe I should just get it over with and retire," he murmured to himself as he began drifting off. That goofy grin reached to his eyes, he yawned, and his mind dipped in and out of thoughts that made sense, then no sense whatsoever.

The ones that didn't overwhelmed him. "Then, I'd ask Sammy to marry me--Sammy NOT Laira--nobody else. She substituted for the woman I really love...my Sam. We'll live happily ever after...one never-ending honeymoon...have a mess a kids...teach 'em to fish, and they'd love it..."

The muscles in his face went slack and his mumbled words were replaced with light snoring.

... ... ... ...

Close enough to 3:30 a.m., he was broken out of dreamland by loud, insistent cries coming from Sam's bedroom. He awoke with a start, forgetting for a moment just where he was. Whose couch was this? Daniel's? It certainly wasn't Teal'c's. When it gradually dawned on him that he was at Carter's, and it was her voice blaring like a klaxon, he sprang to his feet and bolted for her bedroom.

Tearing the door open, he heard her caterwaul as though she were embroiled in what sounded like the fight of her life. "KEEP AWAY FROM ME! NO-NO-NO-NO!! I WILL NEVER BE HOST TO THAT!!!"

Bounding over, determined to get to her as fast as he could, O'Neill soothed, "Easy, Carter, easy."

"JACK!" she cried.

The general froze, his eyes drawn to her face like magnets. He dared not breathe. So...he was 'Jack' in her dreams.

"Jack, don't leave me--please--don't!"

"I'm here..." He paced himself, argued against it, and said, "Carter," instead of Sam. "I'm going nowhere without you."

Her desparate pleading made his heart pound. He dimmed the light after putting it on. As he did what he could to comfort her, he had a hard time wrapping his mind around the how many nights she must have had like this, reliving ghastly nightmares, realer than anyone should have to endure. Leave her? He'd never do that, even when she belonged to another man. Samantha Carter and he traveled a common path.

"Carter..." He said it again, more firmly than before. "You're safe, you're safe. There aren't any Ghouls within miles." There'd better not be, he thought. He ran his hand up and down her arm. "No fear. I sure as hell won't let anything happen to you. Ever."

"Colonel?" she said, breathing heavily and huskily. His voice had tapped her conscious mind, despite calling him by his former rank.

Definitely back in the bad, old times, O'Neill assessed, giving her torso a firm squeeze.

"SIR--THEY WANT US FOR HOSTS!"

"I'm sure they do, but not today, Carter," he said softly. With that Breathe Right breath strip straddling her nose she looked a comic sight that endeared her to him as never before. "The Ghouls don't get us today..."

"I DON'T EVER WANT ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE THINGS IN ME EVER AGAIN, FOR AS LONG AS I LIVE!!"

"That makes two of us, Colonel." O'Neill touched the bridge of her nose just above the breath strip, and held her tighter. Instinctively, his arms had gone around her. Holding her close just felt right, and for once he was more than sure it wasn't one of his dreams.

Slowly, she quieted. Better alertness was trying to establish itself. "Colonel, sir?" She took a long breath. "Me, sir?"

"Yeah, Carter, you. Really wake up, okay? See where you are."

Sam raised herself away from his chest in increments, and when she realized she had had herself pressed up against her CO, who wore a resolute expression, she did a doubletake. "No Goa'ulds?" She still looked bleary-eyed, giving him an odd look.

"No, Carter, no snakeheads. Would I lie about a thing like that?"

"No, sir, you wouldn't," Sam said with confidence as her guide. But, thinking to test him, she continued, "Unless your Goa'uld was manipulating you."

"Damn it, Carter, so help me--you were dreaming!"

"Oh..."

"Not the first time, either, I'm guessing. The remark was devoid of pity even though he felt a twinge of it. "I know how it goes," he leveled. Following an awkward pause, he stood up from the bed.

"I-I'm sure you do, sir." Sam looked him squarely in the eye, and in a rush, felt the weight of all the experiences they had weathered during their long tour of duty frought with unearthly dangers. She wanted to, and knowing she could was empowering, nothing to feel strange about. He was the truest of friends who had her respect many times over. There were no hidden agendas nor the recriminations that normally went with them. "Uh, sir..."

"Yeah?"

Leaving the bedroom, that's what the look in his eyes told her he had every intention of doing. "Jack," Sam said firmly, although there was a hint of tentativeness attached, "you don't have to go back to the couch. You could stay with me, if you'd like. I'd like you to."

"And you think you should have me in here...just in case." Jack sniffed, looking all circumspect, and wondering if she thought he had his P-90 to stuff under either pillow for sakekeeping.

"Only if you think so." Sam settled herself beneath the covers again, waiting, pleased to think that for once he seemed not quite so sure of himself. "I think so. Your being here is comforting."

He eyed the immediate surroundings, primed for making a judgment call. "Guess I should go pull the couch in here then."

The corners of Sam's mouth curved upwards. "Don't be silly."

"Silly?" Jack chided in mock protest. "Me? You must have me confused with Hammond's son-in-law."

"Silly. You. Climb aboard." She threw hinting looks at the side of the bed where she wanted him to put himself.

"Now wait a minute, Carter..."

"Sir?"

"You're sure about this?" he asked warily. Yeah, she was sick, but that was moot. Sleeping side-by-side in separate sleeping bags on a planet carpeted by endless savannahs was one thing. She and he in bed together was unchartered territory they shared in common.

"A problem for you, sir?"

The open and honest look on her face at this unholy hour of the morning clinched it for him.

"The only problem is the one you're going to have as soon as you hear me snore." So saying, he laid himself down as deliberately as he could as though he were stepping into a rowboat. "How's that?" Not only was this bed nice to look at, its mattress had to be a Sealy Posturpedic. Actually stretching out on one was far better than some sales pitching commercial hawking one.

With her left hand, Sam reached over and patted a small section of his ribcage. "Like a security blanket in case my ridiculous dream is recurring."

"It won't come back."

"Oh no?" She did her best to stifle a yawn. "Is that a personal guarantee?"

"Not quite, but close enough. Now, go back to sleep, Carter, before the sun comes up."

"Yes, sir. 'Night, again."

"'Night, Carter..."

"And thanks..."

"You thank me again, I'll--"

"You'll?"

"Stay put and count sheep for ya. Now, close your eyes, Carter, and yeah, I'm making it an order."

"Thanks, sir." Her giggle was modest, but loud enough to be heard.

Jack cleared his throat, and began, "One sheep...two sheep...three sheep..."

Sam closed her eyes, listening to him count. It was a very comforting sound if ever she heard one. She guessed at what he may have been thinking, since he was always thinking...something.

Was it weird, he, stretched out on her bed, she lying beside him? It wasn't as weird as she might have thought under different circumstances where being healthy was a given. It was nice, having him here with her like this, and she thought how nice it would be...

As Sam drifted off to sleep, she asked herself The Question. The question that refused to go away. Its persistence was wearing her down.

'...What am I going to do about what I promised to do with another?...'

It wasn't as though she hadn't thought about why she was marrying someone else, when the man she really wished it could be was the man lying beside her right now. What? What? What?

There was no Goa'uld threat, she embraced again, as thinking fuzzed; he had assured her there was none. '...I love you, Jack...always will...' looped in her addled mind, and she squeezed her eyes tightly shut.

'...You're marrying Pete because, unlike Jack, you can...'

He kept his eyes open until her light snoring began lulling him to sleep. There was something irresistably peaceful about the gentleness of her breathing in and out. If put on the spot, he would have never described it as snoring that could drive one racing for a pillow to smother it.

'...I'll love you till the day I croak, Samantha Carter, and don't you forget it...ever...'

Talk about a security blanket he thought, as his restless mind finally succumbed to unconsciousness.

... ... ... ...

End Part I