The Tears of Spring

by

moon_n_star

 

 

148.

 

The number constantly surprised her.  It should be higher, she reasoned, at least in comparison to the others, which ranged from 194 all the way to 245.  But, no matter how many times she recounted, the number doggedly stayed the same. 

 

Its obstinacy particularly bothered her today, though, on the fourth – and, hopefully, final – day of her captivity.  True, this wasn’t the stereotypical prison; the people were friendly and helpful, and the food made up in nutrition what it lacked in taste.  But, it was a prison, nonetheless; her body jailed in a cell of machines, strangled with various wires and tubes that barred her escape ... not to mention a warden she dared not cross for fear of her wrath, although even she admitted the warden only had her best interests in mind. 

 

Laying almost flat in her bed, at station three, Sam counted the marks overhead – again – her mind eager, almost desperate even, for a distraction.  Usually, she would tally the ceiling’s pockmarks out of boredom, committing each result to memory for the next – and, arguably, inevitable – time Sam found herself confined to the same bed … knowing full well that Janet, ever the overprotective yet efficient doctor, would forbid any activity that remotely resembled work while Sam ‘rested’ in the infirmary.

 

Out of boredom, usually ... but not today.

 

Today, the dutiful scientist counted repeatedly, her critical eyes roving the ceiling over and over; each result the same, the unchanged number tripped through her mind, until the counter reset and started all over again. 

 

To count, you see, was a distraction, and distraction was an art she’d mastered long ago.  It normally involved a brain activity of some sort, like a mathematical equation or a random study.  It involved something mindless, tedious, and perhaps quasi-scientific, and she’d used it on a number of occasions.  It was a reserve, a reliable cache she clung to in times of chaos, in times of emergency ... in times like now. 

 

For, despite her best efforts, memories of recent events hadn’t eluded her completely; the recurrent tingling in her body, an unbounded network of spurting synapses stretching from her fingertips to her toes, saw to that.  No, this time, distraction had not spun its normally impenetrable web; instead, for the past four days, every now and then, a solitary thought would leak through its sticky net, halting her redundant – restless – count with its brute force.

 

Hatred.

 

An emotion she, truly, had never felt before, and certainly not with such intensity.  But, she felt it now, its presence as painful as the tingling that throbbed across her body, as fiery as the molten blood flowing like lava under her skin.   

 

The emotion was forceful – pungent – and Sam feared it; she feared its power, its reasons for being ... and she feared its implications.  For the focus of her hatred wasn’t external; it wasn’t geared toward someone, or even some*thing*, regardless of what the Entity had done to her body. 

 

No, the object of her hatred was wholly internal ... the object was her.

 

Something had changed; a brittle line had snapped within her, erupting a floodgate of thoughts and emotions that all led to one conclusion. 

 

She hated herself.

 

It had been building for some time – for years – busting out at the seams until, eventually, it exploded.  Had Sam been paying attention, had she not turned a blind eye like she generally did to most of her emotions, she would have seen the telltale signs.  But, just as typical, it took a catastrophe, an almost-deadly tragedy, to slap her into awareness.  And the truth hurt, its sting more callous and fierce than that of a thousand bees.

 

Sam Carter was mortal.  *She* was mortal.  And that fact terrified her more than any army, more than any Goa’uld, ever could.

 

But not entirely.  For Sam Carter, the soldier – Sam Carter, the Air Force Major – did not fear death.  She had looked straight into its bloodcurdling eyes, with courage and dignity, on more than one occasion. 

 

Nor did the soldier dwell on her humanity; it was an idea, a concept, she scarcely thought about, if ever.  Because, she couldn’t; she couldn’t do what she did every day, as part of SG1, if she feared death, if she saw it lurking behind every corner.  To think that way would be dangerous, not only to herself, but also to her team.  It was her duty, and her privilege, to serve her country, even to her death.  And Sam Carter, the soldier, never shirked her duty ... not once.

 

No, Major Samantha Carter did not fear death. 

 

But, for Samantha Carter, the mother ... death paralyzed her. 

 

For it wasn’t *her* mortality ... it hadn’t been for eight years.  Except, it had taken eight years – *eight* years – and a jolt of electricity from a zat to realize. 

 

And she hated herself for it. 

 

Sam hated that, for years, she placed her daughter on the backburner while she traipsed across galaxies, knowing that with each mission – with each new adventure – the danger mounted higher and higher.  And, yet, she continued, heedless to the consequences of that danger, heedless to the consequences for her family, for her daughter. 

 

She hated that, for the past eight years, she’d repeatedly figured out the impossible, single-handedly breaking the known – and sometimes unknown – laws of science; and, yet, despite all her supposed intelligence, she missed the most basic, the most fundamental law of humanity. 

 

Or had she? 

 

Perhaps, Sam sighed ... perhaps, unconsciously, she had known it all along. 

 

For there were dark, wintry nights, Sam remembered dimly, when her daughter would be sleeping soundly – peacefully – in her room, and Sam would be sitting in hers, her body rigid – frozen – by one thought. 

 

Mortality.

 

And it horrified her, haunting her like a shrieking wraith, shooting through her defenses like an armor-piercing bullet ... its paralysis petrifying and complete.   

 

She remembered how it pummeled her heart, mercilessly whipping and thrashing at her conscience, until it expelled her from the lonesome room, driving her feet forward – faster ... her clumsy hands clutching frantically at her daughter, pulling and clinging her sleeping body tightly against her chest until the pounding subsided.

 

Her conscious mind had hidden these memories, though, stuffing them into the cosseted closet of unconsciousness where it hoped that, like a plant deprived of light, they would wither and die.  Only when she opened her mind, only when the nuts and bolts that operated her watertight machinery of professionalism grounded to a halt, did she remember ... did she *allow* herself to remember. 

 

But, no matter how faint, nor how hidden, the faded memories now mocked her, fowling the air with the stench of truth.  This time, though, she breathed it in – deeply – all the while her resistant lungs choked and suffocated on the repugnant air until there was no more fight within her ... no more hiding ... no more excuses. 

 

And then, while lying motionless in her bed, her body confined to her remedial cell, the poison had cleared, evaporating like fog on a harbor; and, through its dissolving mist, she saw herself – her life, her choices, her character – displayed flagrantly like a plastered ad on a billboard ... and she hated what she saw.

 

Selfish. 

 

If these memories existed, if she *had* previously realized the danger she put herself – her family – in, what did that say about her as a mother?

 

Dishonorable.

 

Honor and duty.  For god and country.  What of her responsibilities, her duty, as a mother, a title – a role – she cherished more than any other?

 

Cowardly. 

 

What of her daughter, a person she loved ... protected ... treasured? 

 

Heartless.

 

A daughter she thought she would do anything for? 

 

Unfit.

 

A daughter she would die for?

 

Were these any less than her duty to her country?  Any less than the goals and ambition that propelled her, that she longed for – aspired to – for so long ... goals she so fiercely worked toward?

 

Sam knew the importance of her work; she knew that, no matter how dramatic it sounded, the fate of her people, her planet, hung in the balance.  Countless times, Sam told herself that she fought for this reason, that she fought for her country, her loved ones ... her daughter.  Their safety, more than anything, urged her on – strengthened her – when all else looked bleak and hopeless.   

 

But, none of this, regardless of their truth or nobility, subtracted from the fact that she risked her life every day, that each time she stepped through the gate may be the time she wouldn’t return home. 

 

And the thought that she, a woman who’d known all too well how it felt to lose a mother, to cry for the loss of someone so dear – someone so irreplaceable – until her parched body caved from emptiness, could knowingly – willingly – do that to the single-most important person in her life abhorred her.

 

And that was it, what had changed.  Sam could no longer hide from the realization; she could no longer deny it, or suppress it to the dungeon of her unconscious, burying it under lock-and-key.  She could no longer hide from the truth, because Sam Carter didn’t hide, Sam Carter never quit ... and Sam Carter would never fail her daughter. 

 

Something had to change.   

 

“And how is my best friend doing today?” 

 

The warden ... right on cue. 

 

The petite doctor nipped past the privacy sheet enfolding the bed, nimbly lifting the paperwork that drooped from the footboard before moving toward Sam’s side.  It was the first time that day Sam had seen Janet, a shocking notion considering how late Sam *thought* it was.  A bit on the protective side, Janet typically watched over her patients like a hawk, regularly monitoring their condition and shooing away anything – or anyone – that would hinder her patient’s recovery.

 

Not that Sam required her constant medical attention.  After many – *many* – tests, Janet had declared Sam healthy, having found no trace of the Entity within her, nor any side effects its invasion may have induced.  At least, not physically.  Her mental health, however – her emotional wellbeing – was a whole other ballgame.

 

Janet had recommended to General Hammond that her stay in the infirmary be extended to rule out any psychological repercussions from her ‘experience,’ or so Sam suspected.  Not that Janet had indicated any such thing to Sam; but, she’d been around this command long enough to know the ropes, to understand how things in the mountain – and the people within it – worked. 

 

Sam didn’t blame them; in fact, in Janet’s position, she’d probably do the same thing.  The notion that she was probably right was also not lost on her.

 

“I no longer qualify as your best patient?”

 

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way,” Janet returned agreeably, “but you’re in here far too much for my liking as it is.  I wouldn’t want to give you any more encouragement.”

 

Sam thrust herself up into a sitting position, her limbs shifting agitatedly, her fidgeting body engaged in a wasted battle against the hard mattress in a fruitless search for comfort.  Finding none, Sam surrendered with a grimace; the infirmary beds were obviously designed for function, and not for comfort. 

 

“When are you letting me out of here,” she asked, her words pitched a bit coarser than she actually intended.  “Sorry,” Sam added, her shoulders shrugging apologetically at Janet’s surprised look.  ”I’m just a little bored, I guess.”

 

“Only a little?”  Janet’s smiling eyes quickly contacted Sam’s before returning to the clipboard clenched in her hands.

 

Most patients disliked staying in the infirmary; and, some, Janet recalled affectionately, were better than others at publicizing their dislike.  But, she never personalized it; Janet understood – sympathized, even – with their discomfort, knowing full well that, in all likelihood, she’d feel just as uncomfortable, especially if the old cliché about doctors making the worst patients was true.  “Well,” she continued, her eyes intently studying the paperwork before her, “judging from your chart, I’d say you’re ready to go home.”

 

“Finally.”  Sam breathed, the word dribbling from her lips abruptly.  Janet looked up, again surprised by her uncharacteristic shortness; and, again, Sam shrugged it off.  “I can’t wait to see Emma.  How’s she doing?”

 

The mere mention of the girl’s name bloomed a smile on Janet’s face.  Emma seemed to have that effect on people, Sam noted; similar to a modern-day Pollyanna, the enchanting girl possessed a natural ability – an almost uncanny knack – to brighten the darkest mood.  Of course, always the proud mother, Sam supposed she was perhaps a tad biased where Emma was concerned; she supposed every mother was when it came to their children.  But, since she’d been told the same from practically everyone who knew Emma, Sam had just assumed it to be true.

 

“She’s concerned about you, of course,” Janet added, her serious words contrasting the smile that still softly teased her lips.  “But, I think the Colonel is keeping her plenty occupied.”

 

The Colonel?  Well, that was news to her.  Emma was staying with Colonel O’Neill?  Why hadn’t she known that?  Why hadn’t anyone, above all Janet, the person who had seen Sam everyday, who had been asked about Emma on each and every visit, said anything?  It wasn’t like she’d been unconscious the past four days. 

 

Of course, it did explain why she hadn’t seen him, why he hadn’t visited her, not once, since her admittance.  His absence hurt; but, she understood, because she remembered.  Sam remembered everything – every action, every conversation – that occurred during her body’s occupation.  Downloading her consciousness into a computer and back hadn’t erased any of her memories, or dulled her senses.  Quite the opposite, in fact.  Like sunburned skin, Sam felt everything with an acute sensitivity; each sensation, each memory, hit her with such a force, with a magnified potency, unlike anything she’d experienced before.

 

As such, Sam knew what O’Neill had done, what he’d been forced to do to stop the Entity within her.  The fault was clearly hers; she couldn’t pretend otherwise.  She still believed, though, that she’d been right in extending the proverbial hand to the cornered Entity.  But, in her stubbornness, through her unquenchable scientific curiosity, Sam had given him no other choice, no other option, but to do something that – regardless of whatever existed between them – must have been painful. 

 

So, he avoided her, too angry because she allowed herself to be captured – too pissed because she’d ignored his contention that they blow it up – to even look at her. 

 

Or, so Sam had thought. 

 

Instead, O’Neill surprised her by looking after her daughter, by going way beyond his call of duty to take Emma under his wing, temporarily bestowing the care and attention she couldn’t.  But, even though his generosity melted her heart, even though her heart burst with affection and gratitude, Sam felt nothing but shame.  Shame because she had thought less of him.  Shame because, had she been half the mother she’d thought she was – half the mother she thought she should be – his generosity wouldn’t even have been necessary.

 

“Oh,” she recovered poorly. “I thought she was staying with you and Cassie.”

 

Janet nodded.  “Well, that was the original plan,” she agreed, her arms wrapping around the clipboard, applying enough pressure so that the paperwork hugged her chest.  “But, the Colonel offered and … well, you know how much she loves him.”  Then Janet paused, her eyes squinting as if deep in thought, her volume lowering as she spoke.  “And I think she’s missed him.  She mentioned the other day that she hasn’t seen much of him lately.”

 

Sam winced at the words, allowing a minute, but highly uncharacteristic, tremor to slither through the cracks of her cemented expression, a defense constructed of a steamrolled granite that typically deseeded any reaction – any emotion – from seeping through its microscopic pores and breaching its surface.  “No,” she answered quietly, “she hasn’t.”

 

Emma hadn’t seen the Colonel; neither of them had, actually, outside of work.  Because things had changed between them the past few months, between Jack and Sam, an irreversible – an unfixable – cleft that altered their world, their relationship, turning it upside down and skewing its axis. 

 

The tension had always existed between them; a tension that had pieced together like patchwork from their initial meeting, a tension that had continually exploded like a concerto of fireworks whenever together.  A flirting as playful as a budding pup, a magnetism as powerful as any gravitational pull, the tension always existed, surviving each skirmish, each argument.  They had never intended this to happen, had never expected their relationship to reach this frail, and wretchedly heartbreaking, deadlock.  Their rapport, their relationship, as inevitable as it was impossible, had shadowed them the past four years; but, like any fertilized seed, it cultivated, growing with each year, with each mission, with each moment together. 

 

But, the development was unseen – the evolution undetected – by the two people who excelled most at inhibiting their emotions, who flourished at placing their careers, their duty, before themselves and their personal needs.

 

Until now, when it had crept up on them like a thief in the night.  Until it had exploded, coming to a head in the past few months.  Until it was impeded by the very thing that had brought them together in the first place. 

 

Force fields, Tok’ra technology, memory stamps – each and every one combined to make it that more painful to be around the other, to make it that more dangerous.  Each of them, and all of them, had forced their hand, bubbling their repressed emotions to the surface, ripping the scab off a wound neither knew – or, at least, neither acknowledged – they had. 

 

So, it ended, all of it: the backyard barbecues, the holiday get-togethers, the outings to hockey and baseball games.  With the separation enacted – the partition constructed – the invisible shield drew a line that divided the professional from the personal, prohibiting anything in between.  And, unfortunately, her daughter was caught in the crossfire, a casualty to a cold war of feelings and regulations, of love and duty. 

 

But, despite the pain it caused, despite how much he meant to Emma – despite how much Emma meant to him – Sam knew it was for the best.  They both did.  But, it was painful, and horrible, because O’Neill loved Emma.  Anyone with eyes could see it.  Like an elixir of youth and happiness, Emma erased all lines of pain from his face, all lines of guilt, making him appear years younger.  And his smile, the smile that Sam loved so much, but saw so little, the smile that had melted her heart a million times over, was ever-present when he was around Emma.  He was Jack when he was around her.  Not the Colonel, not the soldier, but Jack, the person.  And, that, along with their pseudo-domesticity of the past years, was the very reason the separation was necessary.

 

Necessary, but nevertheless heartbreaking.

 

“Besides,” Janet continued, oblivious to Sam’s unease, “what are we compared to street hockey and paintball?  I mean, she sees us all the time.  Plus, I think she wanted his help with the supplies.  And with me being here all day, and the fact that Cassie isn’t allowed to drive for – oh, say – the next hundred years, I suppose he was the next best thing.”

 

Ah, Sam thought amusedly, the accident.  Although it had happened over two months ago, the incident still lived on in infamy; so much so that, anytime Cassie even remotely hinted about the car, or driving, Janet always jumped in to remind her of the last time the teenager had been behind the wheel.  To Cassie’s credit, she backed down each time, too remorseful or too embarrassed to press the issue any further.  Her penitence wouldn’t last much longer, though, if Sam knew Cassie, especially since, in Sam’s opinion, Janet had completely overreacted.  Nonetheless, the remembrance of that day, and the memory of Janet’s reaction, brought a much-needed smile to her face.  “It was a fender-bender, Janet.  It wasn’t even Cassie’s fault.”

 

“True,” the doctor acknowledged, her eyes once again retreating to the paperwork held near her chest.  “However, there wouldn’t have been an accident had she not been driving the car, which, by the way, she didn’t have permission to drive in the first place.”

 

And, so, Sam conceded the fight, throwing in the towel after recognizing Janet’s obstinate tone.  No, Sam thought, Cassie wouldn’t be driving anytime in the near future.  Warehousing the argument for another day, Sam decided to change the subject.  “What supplies?” 

 

A flush tinted Janet’s cheeks, a blush colored not from embarrassment or bashfulness, but from downright frustration, as if she’d accidentally – stupidly – let something slip.  Her head appeared to lower, sinking down as if she could literally duck the question.  Janet knew something, something Sam was evidently not meant to know.  And *that* only served to pique her curiosity more.  “Janet?”

 

“Okay,” Janet caved, darting her guilty eyes around the drapery-enclosed bed before resuming her explanation.  “But you have to act surprised.  Emma’s throwing a little party for you today.  She’s invited everyone, designing the invitations herself.  She even convinced Colonel O’Neill to hand them out,” she added with a laugh.  “I swear that girl has him wrapped around her finger.  I think he’d do anything for her.”

 

That thought – those innocent and heartfelt words – immediately wiped the smile from her face, because Sam knew, without a doubt, that it was true.  “I’m glad somebody would,” Sam muttered miserably.

 

“Sorry?”

”Nothing,” Sam replied, literally shaking off the question with a bob of her head.  “So, when did you say I’m getting out of here?”

”Soon.  I first have to finish your paperwork.  And, then, I have to find Daniel so he can drive you home.  Now,” Janet barked, directly severing the argument she knew Sam would submit, “before you say anything, it’s all part of her master plan.  Daniel has been instructed to distract you long enough so that everyone arrives at your house before you.”

 

“Sounds like she covered all angles,” Sam slipped through a proud smile.

 

“The makings of a master strategist.”  Sharing her smile, Janet’s hand gently touched Sam’s, conferring a light squeeze – a reassuring and caring gesture – before back trotting from the bed.  “Get some rest while I finish your paperwork.  Wouldn’t want you to miss your own party.”

 

Ugh.  Considering recent events, and recent revelations, Sam was in no mood for a party; but, like it or not, she was getting one.  For her daughter’s sake, Sam would fake it; she’d put on the proverbial happy face, setting all her dismal thoughts aside, cramming all her self-loathing – all her self-bashing – into a room and sealing the door behind it.  She could do this; all she needed was a distraction.  So, pushing back, Sam reclined her body against the rock-hard bed and looked up, again, to the ceiling.

 

 

******

 

Jack O’Neill was a sucker. 

 

It was a simple, and rather obvious, fact, at least to him; but, one that both relieved and saddened him. 

 

Relieved for he thought that part of him – the part that would walk through hell and high water, that would battle even Sokar himself, just to see that look of utter joy, of utter happiness, on his son’s face – had died years ago, as many things had.  But, standing here, trapped in a prison all his own not thirty miles from the mountain, a prison with few redeeming qualities, he knew that it hadn’t.  No, it was alive and kicking, and thriving in full force. 

 

Saddened for he was here freely.  Jack hated malls, with its multitude of distractions and parents who used strollers more as battering rams than as transportation for their children.  Yet, he stood here willingly, patiently even, but not to see her look of happiness, her look of utter joy, at least not completely.  No, he was here, waiting tolerantly outside a gift shop, motionless as hoards of people whizzed by him, out of guilt.

 

It was an emotion he knew too well, one that lingered within him, a constant companion to his fragile heart.  And, there, underneath his chest, it lay, resilient and callous, like a fault line under the earth.  A few days ago, the dormant crack had moved, again, detonating a tremor that quivered through him, that splintered his chest, the scattered remains of his heart lost in its boundless rubble.  It wasn’t the largest quake he’d experienced, but it had certainly gone off the scale.  Even now, his eyes were clouded by the dust and smoke from its wreckage, the wreckage he had caused. 

 

But, he’d escaped its destruction, however narrowly, and now fought – bravely, determinedly – through its haze of guilt.  He fought for her – for both of them – for the two people who had reawakened him, who had rekindled the fire in his dispirited heart, who had restored his faith when everything – and everyone – had seemed hopeless and lost to him forever. 

 

He watched her now, standing at the mouth of the store, her eyes lit with enthusiasm as they perused the various shelves before them.  Emma reminded him so much of her mother, more and more with each passing day; they had the same smile, the same charm, the same eyes.  Eyes so resplendent with youth, with innocence – with life – that he found it hard to look at her, to meet her animated eyes with his own.  For, no matter his defenses, no matter his expertly disciplined features, in his eyes, he could not conceal what lay beneath; his eyes were so expressive, so dark, the vestiges of his battle-torn life, a scarred canvass that told of harsh battles and of heartbreaking loss. 

 

Could she see, he wondered?  Could Emma see what he’d done, what he’d almost done, to her?  He’d almost taken away her world, all that she had and loved.  With two shots – two unavoidable, two deliberate shots.

 

No, Emma would never know, the events of the past few days as classified as any other in his military life.  She would never have known, even if it hadn’t worked out.  And he would’ve had to look at her, look into her grief-ridden eyes, knowing that he had succeeded in destroying the one person she – the one person they both – loved the most.  For he made a vow long ago, on a dark and serious night, a promise to Carter that, should anything happen to her, he would look after Emma. 

 

Jack had been surprised, to say the least, at her request.  Surprised that Carter had not already asked Janet, an arrangement Jack thought had been cemented long ago.  Surprised to learn that, should anything happen to Carter, Emma would go live with Mark.  Not that it wasn’t logical, or right; Mark was a relative, after all.  But where was he?  Where was he in Emma’s life?  In the time since Jack had known Carter, Mark had never visited, had never cared enough – at least, in Jack’s eyes – to be around, to get to know his niece and see what a truly amazing person Emma was.  He’d never been there to share in her accomplishments, or to comfort her when she was ill.  Emma deserved more than to be carted off to a virtual stranger.  He just wasn’t sure that he was that ‘more.’

 

So, he’d rejected her request, first by laughing it off, underplaying it as a joke.  It had been a long, and rather painful, mission they’d been so proficiently drinking away that evening, which made him question their state of mind, a suspicion bolstered by Daniel, who, sprawled like a living room rug in his car, was too drunk even to move in from the cold.  But, Carter had been serious, deadly serious; and that, more than any coffee – more than any bucket of ice-cold water splashed into his face – had sobered him, instantly.  His rejection became more vehement then, his mouth quickly sputtering, laying out all his reasons – articulate or not – against this proposal, against it being him, on the table.

 

Quietly, she listened, outlasting his ramble with a look of serene patience, of absolute knowledge.  Patiently, Carter waited until he stopped, until his lips no longer moved, either out-of-breath or out-of-argument; then, she spoke, eloquently, determinedly.  In the end, Carter had won out, winning him over, not with her passionate arguments, but the reason that went unsaid, the unspoken argument that whispered faintly in her striking eyes. 

 

That two people with no one else in the world would need each other. 

 

Jack had no response to that; he couldn’t fight against it, because he perceived its truth, its logic.  Defeated, he agreed, promising to always be there for Emma.  But, it was the other promise, the other vow he made that night, that he intended to keep.  Despite his promise to adopt Emma in Carter’s death, he silently vowed that it would never come to pass, that Emma would always have her mother, that Carter would always come back, no matter the cost. 

 

And that was the irony, that it had been him who almost killed her, that the one sworn to protect her against all odds would be the one to take her life.  But, either through amazing skill, or amazing luck – or both – it had worked out.  Carter had walked away, and he’d spent the better part of the past few nights thanking whatever god there was that this girl still had a home.  All was right again ... it had to be. 

 

“Okay,” Emma excitedly cheered, raising her young hands before him, each holding a small packet of what looked like confetti.  “Which one do you like?”

 

After one quick glance at each hand, Jack’s eyes immediately caught hers, his eyebrows jerking up in question.   

 

“It’s for the table,” she explained.

 

“*That’s* what took you twenty minutes,” Jack drawled, his eyes widened in feigned exasperation.  “Confetti for the *table*?”  The concept boggled Jack’s mind – torn paper as a table dressing?  With anyone else, he would’ve run into that store and brashly ordered them to choose something.  But, he didn’t, he wouldn’t; not with her, and certainly not today, no matter how ridiculous the concept seemed to him. 

 

“It’s important,” Emma replied.  And, with that, she did it.  She smiled – that big, heart-melting, Carter smile.  It was a dirty trick, but one Emma knew would work. 

 

And it did, every time. 

 

So, without another word, without any fuss, Jacked pointed his finger at one of the packets, without having looked at either of them.  But, when her smile brightened at his choice, he knew he’d chosen right.  Flinging his wallet from his back pocket, Jack’s fingers slipped inside its pouch, retrieving enough money for her to purchase the darn thing.

 

Shortly after, Emma curled her arm around his, adding an equal balance for his other arm that shouldered the weight of her purchases, as they walked through the mall, finally making their way back toward the exit nearest his car.  And they talked; or, really, Emma talked.  But, occasionally, Jack got in a word or two, mostly inserting a joke, or a tease, here and there.  Normally, their conversations weren’t so one-sided; but, today was different. 

 

His pace quickened, their walk a little brisker than before, as they hit the crux of the mall.  Jack knew that nothing he could say, or probably do, could distract her from the many distractions all around her – what was it with women and malls, anyway?  Yet, he tried, hoping that their accelerated pace would blur her view of the stores as they passed by. 

 

“Wow, look at that!”

 

It didn’t work.

 

His feet immediately stopping, Jack’s face fell forward in defeat, his eyes actually cringing at the notion of pacing around yet another store.  A glimpse at his watch warned of the late hour; he realized that they needed to leave, now, or miss the party, the one *they* were throwing.  So, knowing instinctively, but also from experience, that she’d long since departed his side, he entered the store, determined to get her out before she got started, not to mention do any more damage to his wallet ... not that he minded that.  Jack knew he’d do anything for this little girl if she asked.  Besides, it was only money, after all; what else would he do with it? 

 

“Jack,” Emma exclaimed, beckoning him over just as he crossed the entrance.  “Look at this!” 

 

A telescope.  Now *that* caught his attention.  Wow, indeed.  The thing was beautiful, and much fancier than the one he had at home.  His smile soon joined hers, his excitement mounting as he took in all its gadgets and gizmos ... until he realized why they were here, and why they should be going. 

”Can I help you with something?”  A man questioned as he stepped up to his side.  Decked in a royal-blue top and khaki pants, the outfit just screamed salesman. 

 

“Uh, no, thanks,” Jack declined politely, moving back from the telescope and pulling Emma with him.  “We were just leaving.”

 

“But, Jack ...”

 

“We’ll look at it some other time, Em,” Jack assured as the pair strode out of the store.  “But we’ve gotta go.  Remember the party, your mom coming home ... any of this ringing a bell?”

 

“Yeah,” Emma conceded, the word released on a heavy sigh.  “It would just be cool to have.”

 

“Well, I think you better ask your mom about that first.”

 

Sensing the homestretch was near, Jack breathed the figurative sigh of relief, but, nonetheless, maintained their quick strides.  Emma, however, was quiet ... too quiet.  That alone should have alerted him, should have tipped him off that something was brewing.  Carters were rarely silent, and they never – ever – gave up without a fight.   

 

“Don’t you think it’s strange,” Emma started, her voice lowered in timidity, “that mom being an astrophysicist and all doesn’t know a thing about the stars?” 

 

Jack said nothing at her question, just stared straight ahead, his eyes on the goal, planting his feet firmly in front of him, one step at a time. 

 

“But, if we had a telescope, she’d have to learn,” Emma continued despite his silence, her confidence growing with each syllable, her argument unfolding as planned.  “We could put it on the roof.  And, then you could come over, and sit on the roof with her, and teach her.”

 

His feet halted, grounding to a full stop, his body twitching with indecision.  He knew what she was doing, knew she was manipulating him, using his one vulnerable spot to talk him into buying it. 

 

But, what an image. 

 

Dark nights ... (his feet pivoted) ... alone ... (turned back toward the store) ... with Carter ... (walking slowly, cautiously) ... on her roof ... (his steps now faster, more assertive) ... under a blanket of stars? 

 

He was sold. 

 

So, without a word, they retraced their steps toward the store.  Jack again retrieved his wallet for what seemed like the hundredth time that day, knowing as he did that, when it came to this girl, to either of the Carter women, he was thoroughly – and completely – whipped. 

 

Yep, Jack O’Neill was still a sucker.

 

He just hoped her mother wouldn’t kick his ass for it. 

 

 

******

 

The ride to her house was longer than usual, thanks to Daniel’s proficient driving. 

 

And quiet. 

 

From the moment they left the mountain, silence had hypnotized the car, guzzling every morsel – every scrap of sound – in its path, like the ravenous night devouring the day.   

 

It seemed to follow her nowadays, the quiet.  It had stalked her every visitor in the infirmary – every passerby – each person walking on eggshells while around her, as if fearing that their words would instigate an emotional avalanche. 

 

But it hadn’t stopped there. 

 

No, the silence shadowed her, its emptiness trailing her like a black cloud, tracking her every movement like a bloodhound.  It left nothing in its wake, nothing for her to do but think.  And so she spent the drive, staring out the window, her unfocused eyes blurring the trees and houses that whirled by, slurring the suburban backdrop into an abstract painting. 

 

Vaguely, Sam knew they’d passed this street before, at least once, her patient driver touring the neighborhood, especially careful not to pass her house, as he generously followed the orders of an 8 year-old girl.  But, Daniel did so kindly, and without complaint, knowing how much it meant to her daughter.

 

The ground just beyond the window looked lifeless, its skin dyed the color of a burnt brown – flat, blistered, and devoid of any life, of any flavor.  She felt just as dead, just as limp, as the fruitless branches, the destitute lawns.  A helpless prey to the predatory winter, the earth wept for its release, for its parole from the frost and ice.  It tolerantly waited for its reprieve, patiently pining for the advent of spring with its feathery rainfall and its choir of resuscitated flowers.

 

Sam, too, longed for spring, wishing her eyes could rain like the clouds, their shower dusting away the ashes of winter, and leaving in their place the seeds of hope and forgiveness.  But they wouldn’t, their surfaces as dry, as deadened, as the wilted trees. 

 

“Sam,” Daniel muttered softly, a tinge of concern tempering his voice.  “Hey, you okay?”

 

With her mind impounded in a puzzle of emotions, the standard response – I’m fine – jumped instantly to her lips.  It answered the question, and yet said nothing; a perfect riposte to someone who felt so much, but revealed so little.  It was impersonal.  It was comfortable.  It was easy.  

 

But she wasn’t fine ... far from it. 

 

It was then that she denied the instinctive response, slapped it down with the ferocity of the memories, of the emotions, that surged within her.  It was Daniel sitting beside her – Daniel asking the question – a person, a friend, whose opinion she valued.  With Daniel, she could forget the military; she could close her eyes on the regulations and the norms that held in all feeling, girded all emotion, like a rigid corset. 

 

And so, because she wanted to say it, because she *had* to speak the words aloud, she rejected the usual reply, replacing its detachment with honesty.  “Yeah, just … do you think I’m a good mother?”

 

“What,” he spluttered, his foot slipping off the gas, “are you serious?  Sam, you’re the best.”

 

“I’m not there for her, Daniel,” she answered quietly, her body skating slightly forward as the car decelerated to a slow crawl.  “Not like I should be.” 

 

“That’s … that’s ridiculous.”  The response immediately sprang forth, not missing a beat, his sincere words both steadfast and reassuring.  It was typical Daniel.  And despite herself, despite her dismal mood, his sincerity elicited a brief, yet heartfelt, smile.  “You’re there for her,” he continued.  “She loves you.  Sam, what’s this all about?”

“I don’t know.”  The smile now evaporated, her eyes remained steadfastly glued to the window as she spoke.  “It’s just ... growing up without a mother, it’s important to me that I’m there for her.”

 

“Yeah,” he replied, a soft-spoken sigh that was both sympathetic and knowing.  His grandfather had done the best he could; Daniel knew that now.  But he also knew how it felt to lose a parent, an unending pain he wouldn’t wish on anyone.  “Well,” he started again, his tone still above a whisper, “I think you can rest easy, Sam.  I mean, Emma’s a great girl, and she loves you.  You’ll always be together.”

 

"Yeah."  The affirmation sounded weak, even to her own ears.  But, her emotions too raw, her mind too muddled, Sam just couldn't manage convincing right now; she was too busy trying to convince herself.    
 
They would be together.  They *had* to be.  It was the very reason, the only reason, she was doing this, considering the one thing she'd never considered before, the one thing she never thought she'd do.

Resignation.
 
The word blinded her, its meaning, and all its implications, blaring into her eyes like a bright light in the dark.  But she dared not argue, dared not fight it, despite the stark fear foaming like acid in her stomach.  Because she knew it was right, knew that it was the right thing to do.  Now, she just needed to accept it.  But, for a person who devoted so much of herself to her career, that was easier said than done. 
 
When she pitted the pros versus the cons of resigning her commission, though, weighed the positive against the negative, the positive had won hands down.  Her daughter, of course, was atop the list: knowing Emma would be safe, that she would have a mother who was there for her – a mother who could attend her school plays, or nag her awake every morning for school, who could tuck her in every night.  She wanted it, wanted all of the tedium – all of the monotony – all of the trivial, run of the mill facets that made up a normal life.  She wanted a life with her daughter, so much so that she was willing to sacrifice the one thing, the only dream, she’d ever known. 

 

Emma's name wasn't alone in the positive column, though.  Another name, one she rarely used, hadn’t used, for several years, lay right underneath, its presence there equal parts nervous, and equal parts electrifying.  Just the mere mention of it thrilled her, cocooning the fear within her stomach, and turning it into butterflies – wondrous, mind-blowing butterflies that flittered upward, stimulating everything in their path, their breeze invigorating her recovering body.

 

It was forbidden, dangerous ... wrong. 

 

But not anymore. 

 

For if she resigned, if she no longer served in the Air Force – no longer served on SG1 – it wouldn’t be wrong.  It would no longer be forbidden, no longer needed to be repressed, or sentenced to the dungeon.  They could pull back the curtains and let the brilliant light of the sun stream in.  They could unlock the doors, open the windows, and let it breathe, let it live. 

 

No more repressing.  No more Colonel, or Major.  No more ranks or regulations. 

 

Just Jack and Sam and Emma. 

 

A family.  A real one.

 

Okay, so they had to date first, get past the barriers constructed between them over the years.  But she knew, with a knowledge so imbedded within her, that it would work. 

 

She just knew. 

 

And that thought, the idea of something so wanted, so craved, being unleashed, and alas cultivated, was enough to erase her misgivings.  Oh, she’d miss it, miss the excitement, the adventure, even the danger.  She knew herself well enough to know she couldn’t pretend otherwise. 

 

“I think we’ve given them enough time, don’t you?”

But, it wasn’t everything, and it certainly didn’t define all of who she was, as a person.  There were other things in life she valued, she needed.  And those things, just like anything else in life, didn’t come free. 

 

Except, finally, it was a price she was willing to pay. 

 

Oh, she’d be gaining something in return, too.  And that thought, the thought of a new life, a new adventure, one she never thought she’d see, was enough to cheer her gloomy spirits, to perk up her dismal mood and prep her for the party she hadn’t been ready for only a few minutes before.  A new life with her daughter.  A shot at real happiness with the man she loved. 

 

Maybe it wasn’t such a horrible exchange after all.

 

“Yeah,” she answered, abruptly peeling her eyes from the window, noticing for the first time the day's pulsating sunshine, “let’s go home.”

 

 

******

 

Rounding the familiar corner, at last, Daniel maneuvered the car alongside the curb, parking it on the street facing her house.  He smiled at her warmly as they exited the car, the two of them walking, casually, up her driveway.

 

The usual parade of vehicles lined the street, not a one out of place, a passing glance of the neighborhood revealing no evidence, no sign, of the welcoming party waiting behind her front door.  Emma certainly had thought of everything, Sam thought, prompting yet another proud smile.

 

Nearing the porch, Daniel straggled behind as Sam pulled the house keys from her pocket.  With eyes attentive to each step, she couldn’t help but spot the flowers contouring the porch stairs, the ones Emma had planted last spring, the ones that deviated from the other plants in its neighborhood.   

 

Just like her mother, Emma enjoyed all things science.  She was never one to take the backseat, never content to simply watch from the sidelines.  No, the young girl loved rolling up her sleeves and diving in, questioning everything, her mind both curious and adventurous.  Emma loved learning, loved reading, loved to experience everything.

 

They’d been shopping at the local home store last year, with Emma pushing the cart and Sam navigating through the aisles, when she’d noticed it, the last pot on the then vacant shelf.  It had been the last pot for a reason; with drooping leaves and brown-speckled petals, the plant had obviously seen better days.  Emma, nonetheless, wanted it, begging her mother to buy it.  When asked why, the young girl responded, “Because no one else wants it.”

 

Emma had planted it that day, grabbing her mother’s gardening tools from the shed the second they returned and, having already decided on the best position, placing the flowers into their new home.  She did everything herself, from checking whether it had enough water to talking to it, a trick she’d learned from her mother.  And, she always did, always greeted it, whether coming or going.  Just last week even, Emma had, very excitedly, told it about making the final rounds of her school spelling bee. 

 

It hadn’t happened overnight, but through hard work and a tender, loving care all her own, Emma had, single-handedly, nursed the plant back to full health.  And, now, it was the brightest plant of the bunch.

 

With the key turned, Sam paused, casting a questioning look to the friend behind her.  At Daniel’s nod, she returned her eyes to the door, her lungs taking a deep breath, her mind inwardly preparing for the surprise behind the door.  Letting out her breath slowly, Sam swung open the door. 

 

“Surprise!” 

 

To her credit, Sam truly acted stunned, her eyes blinking at the word shouted by the dozen or so people crammed along her narrow hallway.  It wasn’t a large crowd, but a more intimate one, a group composed of her closest friends, of her family.

 

“Wow, I … I’m stunned,” she stammered, her shoes stumbling over the entrance, her feet inching bit by bit into the filled house.  “Is this for me?”

“Indeed it is, Major Carter.” 

 

Since opening the door, Sam’s eyes had been restless, anxiously searching for one person, running on full speed as they skipped from one face to the next, her smile growing with each familiar one.  Until she spotted Teal’c, his pointed party hat, undoubtedly given to him by Emma, instigating a full-blown grin.

 

“Wow,” she drawled, her eyes, and her lips, unable to hide their amusement.  Teal’c, however, made no excuse or apology, choosing instead to raise his eyebrow in response.  But, the smile twitching at his mouth quietly conceded the silliness of the party favor, even though he made no attempt to remove it.  

 

“See,” a voice interrupted, one Sam recognized instantly, the word echoing from behind Teal’c.  “I told you she wouldn’t suspect anything.”  Emma then stepped around him, her cheerful face a welcome sight to Sam’s sore eyes. 

 

Sam capitalized on the still moment, allowing her eyes to search over her daughter thoroughly, to see for herself that Emma was indeed okay.  She was wearing her lavender dress, the one they’d bought over a month ago.  Emma typically dressed casually, practically, seldomly straying from her characteristic uniform of jeans or shorts.  As such, it had taken Sam by surprise that day in the store when Emma had picked out the dress, and surprised her even more when Emma wanted to buy it.  Sam never thought she’d see it on her, but bought it for her just the same. 

 

And she looked ... beautiful. 

 

Sam wondered then, not for the first time, how she’d gotten so lucky, how she’d been so blessed to have her.  Oh, it hadn’t felt that way at the time, some eight years ago when she’d heard the two most shocking words of her life – “You’re pregnant.”  Stunned didn’t even begin to describe how Sam Carter felt that day, the ride from the doctor’s office back to her apartment a complete blur. 

 

Depression soon reared its ugly head, depression combined with denial, a concoction that smothered the weeks that followed the disturbing news.  Her whole world had collapsed that day, or so she had thought; she thought everything – her life, her career – was over, that everything she’d worked so hard for the past years had ended at the snap of a finger.  At one point, she’d even tried denying the truth, denying the reality, telling herself that the doctor had made a mistake. 

 

It had to be.  They had always been careful, after all; Jonas had always taken the necessary precautions.  In those few weeks, Sam had replayed every night, recalled every time they’d been together, trying to remember if there had ever been a time when they’d let passion overtake them, when they’d let their emotions rule over their logic.  Alas, her search came up empty.  No safe sex practice was foolproof, she knew, but she just couldn’t imagine how it had happened.     

 

Time had proven her wrong in the end.  And, ultimately, the seeds of truth and acceptance had bloomed, strengthening in her mind and heart with each new day, with each inch added, slowly but surely, to her expanding waistline. 

 

Eventually, too, it had opened her eyes, forcing her to realize the diseased relationship between herself and the father-to-be, to reach the unpleasant conclusion that their home, the one they were soon to create together, was an unfit, unhealthful place to raise a child – their child – *her* child.   

 

When she had left, when she’d broken all romantic ties between them, Jonas had kicked and screamed and had raised all hell for several days, ringing her phone constantly off the hook and filling her answering machine with persistently long messages. 

 

And, she’d almost believed it, almost thought he truly had been sad, distraught even, at her departure.  But, she knew better, despite his compelling attempts.  Sam had seen the look on his face when she’d finally told him the news.  She had expected shock, expected him to need several days, weeks – months even – to adjust.  Sam had never expected, though, to see anger or rage or resentment.  But, they were there, brutal and raw and absolute.  And on that day, and the days to follow, Jonas made no attempt to hide it. 

 

2:14 a.m. on a September evening – morning – a time when Sam should’ve been asleep.  Instead, her eyes had started, her sleepy eyelids crawling open, their sight glued to the machine resting on her nightstand, listening from her pillow to a very pissed, and a very drunk, Jonas raging from its speaker.  Accentuated by the loud music, the hoots and hollers, from whatever bar he’d been calling from, his ranting lasted for several minutes until, the unintelligible message apparently finished, he hung up, leaving only the blank dial tone to wail through the quiet room.   

 

And, with that, he disappeared. 

 

She never saw, or heard from, Jonas again until his sudden reappearance at the SGC over three years later.  They’d brushed by each other in the hallway during his short assignment there, had caught glimpses of the other here and there throughout the mountain.  But, no more than a few words passed between them, their dialogue never digging beneath the surface, not once broaching the only string left between them. 

 

He’d acted as though Emma had never even existed.  And that, above all else, had infuriated Sam to no end, that he never – not once – acknowledged his daughter existed, that he never once asked about her, about her wellbeing. 

 

But, considering how things had ended months later, given the events on ____, Sam had, later, chalked his behavior up to insanity, admitting that he’d been in a bad mental state, and probably had been for some time. 

 

Sam mentally shook herself, forcing herself out of the past and into the present, her eyes smiling into the young girl before her.  Funny how someone so unexpected, Sam thought, someone so very unplanned could turn your world around; how something so precious could spring from something so unhealthy. 

“Your plan was most effective, Emma Carter,” Teal’c said with all seriousness, as he pretty much said everything.

 

“’Your plan,’” Sam repeated, her eyes riveted on her daughter, her legs bending to level their heights.  “You did this?”

 

Emma shrugged her shoulders.  “I had a little help,” she countered, her eyes flittering to O’Neill. 

 

Following the girl’s gaze, Sam found the man in question and ... smiled.  He’d worn his favorite jeans, his characteristic flannel and tee – he’d obviously dressed for comfort.  But, despite the circles rimming his eyes, the shadows either from lack of sleep – which, considering he’d been watching Emma, she supposed was probable – or from something else entirely, he looked incredible. 

 

He’d stepped up from the back, but his hesitant body still lingered behind, maintaining a safe distance so as not to intrude.  Jack’s shoulders shrugged slightly at Emma’s words, but his eyes remained fixed on Sam, his gaze unflinching as he held her eyes with his own.     

 

Her breath caught in her throat, her lungs suddenly incapable of drawing it in or blowing it out.  Amazed by the depth of emotion, by his open display of feelings – relief, guilt, love – she drank it in, wanting so much at that moment to tell him, to make everything known.  She wanted to tell him she was leaving, resigning from the Air Force, leaving to concentrate on her family – the one she had, and the one she wanted. 

 

And she would, she’d tell him everything, but not here, and not now.   

 

And so she broke from his stare, her eyes returning to the girl before her.  But, although she’d moved hers, his eyes remained solely on her. 

 

“Are you okay?”  The worry in her daughter’s voice, the seriousness in her eyes, broke Sam, the need to hold her, to ensure Emma – without words – that she was alive, that she was okay, swept through her then with overwhelming urgency.

 

“Come here,” Sam murmured, her arms instinctively reaching out and wrapping around her daughter.  “I’m fine,” she replied, matching her daughter’s seriousness, wanting to leave no doubt in her mind as to its truth.  “I’m even better now that I’m with you.”

 

“I missed you, mommy.” 

 

The whispered words breezed into her ears, and into her heart, her arms immediately clutching tighter, pulling her daughter further into her embrace, her eyelids pinching together to block the onslaught of tears emerging from within.  “I missed you, too, Emmie,” Sam responded, her voice finding strength despite the emotion clogging in her throat. 

 

They lingered in the embrace, neither of them backing away or making a move to end it.