Hostage Situation

Part Two

The bright sun was warm on Teal'c's back as the helicopter circled away, the noise of its blades fading into the background of the city sounds.

At this moment, however, he had no opportunity to savour the experience. His senses were alert for trouble as his team-mate picked the lock of the door that opened into the central stairwell of the building in which the Goa'uld had taken the hostages. He could not sense any danger, but that did not mean there was none.

However, the lock tumblers clicked elegantly in the lock without any trouble presenting itself. Major Carter reached for the handle easing the door open. O'Neill had scanned the door and found no signs of explosives wired up to the hinges or handle, so Major Carter had begun to pick the lock.

There had been uncertainty regarding whether the upper entrance to the central stairwell would be guarded. The Goa'uld were arrogant enough to believe that the only way into the building was up from the ground, but the host of the Goa'uld who had once been O'Neill's companion would not.

Down on the ground, Daniel Jackson was waiting for their signal - the double click that O'Neill was sending through their communications system even now.

Words would echo too easily in the empty stairwell, rather like the slight noise of their footsteps as they made their way down the stairs to the appropriate office level. Their boots were special soft-soled ones to muffle the sound of their steps, but they were unable to completely silence their footfalls.

As they made their way down the cold cement corridors, they kept an eye out for anything that might be used to monitor this stairwell. They had gone down four flights and found nothing unusual. The signs indicating the floors and those warning people to hold onto the red metal railing were the only bright spots of colour on the walls of the stairwell.

Then, on the fourth flight down, they spotted a small box sitting on the floor, no larger than a brick, opaque and unattached to anything.

O'Neill's hand signals indicated retreat, but Major Carter paused. With a signal of her own, she pointed down at the box, and then began making her way down the stairs towards it. O'Neill's expression indicated wary acceptance of her actions, and he followed her a few steps behind, his gun pointed above and over her head, ready to protect her should an unexpected situation arise.

As she leaned over the box, doubtless the better to observe the item, there was a sharp buzzing noise and she jerked back. The fluorescent blue crackle where her head had impacted the force shield left them in no doubt that the Goa'uld had taken precautions to ensure that nobody would intrude upon his domain. Major Carter winced and rubbed at her forehead, but signalled that she was okay. Carefully, she knelt down and did something to the box, then nodded, as if to herself, and signalled retreat.

The retreat up to the rooftop was swift and made in silence, and they emerged into bright sunlight, blinking. As the door swung shut, his team-mate slipped a flexible sheet of plastic between the 'tongue' of the door lock and the door jamb, allowing it to close, but preventing it from locking. "Sir, I can bring the force shields down."

Her announcement was unexpected, and one which caused both team-mates to stare at her. "I thought you said we didn't have the technology..." O'Neill began.

"The box on the floor is the source of the force shield phase modulator, sir. If you notice, it was set up so that people couldn't escape upstairs, not so people couldn't come downstairs. It's a simple hinged lid and opens easily - I can access its inside functions, which is something that hasn't been possible in previous encounters against force shields."

O'Neill blinked. "So you think the Goa'uld didn't figure anyone coming in from the roof?"

"Possibly, sir." Major Carter was prudent enough to be non-committal.

"And you're sure you can bring it down?"

"Yes, sir." There was no hesitation in her voice, just a certainty that she had the pieces to the puzzle and knew how everything was going to fit together.

O'Neill didn't pause. "What do you need?"

Ten minutes later, Daniel Jackson reported that the package was on their way towards them. "Um...but there's a problem..."

"I don't want to hear it, Daniel."

"Well, you're going to encounter it soon enough, so I might as well tell you now. And I want you to know that I had absolutely nothing to do with it."

Consequently, when Detective Shanahan arrived with a naquadah reactor and a combination-locked box some ten minutes after that, three very distinctly annoyed members of SG-1 met him.

Teal'c assisted the unloading of the reactor without a word. O'Neill, by contrast, had many words to say to the detective, among them, "Which part of 'No' did you not understand, Detective?"

And Major Carter's greeting was terse. To cover the anger she felt at the man's interference, she immediately focused on the reactor, taking up the other end to Teal'c and leading the way back over to the building into which they had gained entry. Her pace was so swift that Teal'c found himself walking somewhat faster than was customary even for a man of his stride.

"I can carry that for you, Sam." Teal'c lifted an eyebrow at the offer. It was well-meant, but unacceptable to Major Carter in her present state of mind.

"It's fine, thanks." And without a further word to her boyfriend, she helped lug the reactor to the fire exit door.

As she pushed the door open, O'Neill took the reactor from her. "You take point, Carter." They'd already discussed their actions, including the placement of the reactor and her actions, in order to avoid making more noise than necessary.

Unfortunately, they now had the presence of another among them.

"Erm... So what am I doing?"

Both Teal'c and Major Carter looked to O'Neill.

"I don't know why you're even asking what you're doing," he said, acidly. "You can't seem to do what you're told."

Detective Shanahan flushed. "I'm here now, you might as well use me."

O'Neill glanced at Major Carter who returned his gaze without expression. If Detective Shanahan appeared annoyed by Major Carter's lack of response to his behaviour, then she was not doing anything to alleviate his anger. "Okay. We're going in. Carter's bringing down the force shield, we go in quiet." O'Neill's eyes were black with intensity. "You are backup. You stay backup." There was a deadly softness to his voice that even the detective recognised.

O'Neill was a man with a mission, and any man who got in his way would suffer the consequences.

"Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Carter, Teal'c, let's go." O'Neill depressed the button of his radio. "We're going in, Daniel."

Daniel's voice echoed in their earpieces, "Got it. Sending in the clowns. I mean, the troops."

Major Carter grinned and Teal'c's mouth quirked as O'Neill retorted. "Funny, Daniel."

SG-1 moved with the well-oiled precision of a team who'd worked with each other for a long time. Teal'c felt a twinge of pride as Major Carter bent down beside the box and flipped it open. She'd explained the science of it to them as they waited on the roof. "The force shields are generated by naquadah-powered cells, and the power output is transferred to an oscillator which produces a controlled waveform. Since we have access to the power output, we can overload the system with a pulse generated from a naqadah reactor."

"Won't that be dangerous?" The question had come from O'Neill.

"Maybe a little. I can control how much power is in the pulse so the shield will overload and short out. The only thing I don't know is whether it's just one shield, or all of them."

"Educated guess?"

Her smile had been impish. "Well, we could send the SWATs in and see if they make it to the top."

Now, Major Carter's hands moved swiftly over the panels and wires of the force shield generator now, connecting and disconnecting the wires from each other. Over her shoulder, she made the signal for her team-mates to move back, and they obediently backed up the stairs. Without looking back to see if they'd obeyed her, she raised her left fist and counted down the numbers over her shoulder. 5...4...3...2...1...

The shield came down, a thin, blue, horizontal line that descended until it hit the floor. Major Carter reached past the point where the field had been before and signalled the all clear.

O'Neill and Teal'c were down the stairs moments later, following Major Carter as she paused at the door. Her P-90 was up and in place, ready for action. O'Neill took up his own gun and nodded at Teal'c, who swung the door open.

Beyond lay the silent reception area for the Incom Tech Group. The computer on the desk had long since switched to a screensaver, the brightly-coloured letters scrolling across the black screen with repetitive intensity. The chair had been pushed back, discarded by its occupant.

It had been early in the morning when the Goa'uld hosted by Michael Stambaugh entered the building and took the personnel of the Incom Tech Group hostage. He had chosen his time well. The only occupants of the office had been the receptionist and five personnel, including the managing director and Sara Mulholland.

Now, the reception area, and the office beyond were silent. Their study of the offices of Incom Tech Group had shown a reception area, two general office areas and two individual offices, one for the managing director and one for the sales director. Based on phone traces, the Denver Police Department had determined that Michael Stambaugh had set up his headquarters in the offices of the managing director.

The office seemed far too ordinary to have witnessed the events of the morning. Teal'c could appreciate the irony of what the Tau'ri considered the mundane and the insane, side by side

Teal'c glanced around this first office area. Six doors opened into various other areas of the office. Three were open. A glance in showed them to be a lunchroom, a copy room, and a storeroom. One was a door with a frosted covering that led out to the elevator corridor. One led to the inner office. And the sixth...

From behind it, Teal'c heard the faint murmur of voices, the low mutter of restless men and women. He beckoned Major Carter over. "The hostages."

She nodded and knelt down by the door. The back of her hand rested briefly against it. Then, when nothing happened, she tried again, placing her hand on the wood for a little longer. Moments later, she had her lock picks out and was working her way through the small metal tumblers.

Behind them, Teal'c heard Detective Shanahan's whisper, "What are they doing?"

"Hostages," O'Neill said, succinctly. "You're taking them downstairs and getting them out. They'll be disoriented and afraid, you'll have to take them all the way down."

"Why can't...?"

The locks clicked, and the door swung inwards on silent hinges.

Beyond, a dozen men and women climbed to their feet, varying expression of wariness on their faces. Only one face showed relief.

Sara Mulholland stepped forward. "You're with Jack, aren't you?"

"Yes, ma'am." Major Carter stepped back from the door and brought her weapon up, training it on the door to the inner office as O'Neill went in to reassure the hostages.

"Colonel Jack O'Neill, Air Force. We're here to get you guys out of this place." He spoke in low tones and indicated the SWAT team members. "Including you guys. You go up to the roof, across the walkway to the next building over, you get the civilians down to the ground through the fire exit and get back to your command. Do not come back here, do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars."

"The shields..."

"They're dealt with. All you have to do is get them out of here." He indicated Shanahan, "This is Detective Shanahan of the Denver Police Department. He's going to show you the way. Question time is later, let's move out, folks."

O'Neill's tactic of giving the responsibility of the hostages to the SWAT' teams was a master stroke. the SWATs would recognise the importance of removing Stambaugh's leverage and leaving SG-1 behind to deal with Stambaugh.

Then O'Neill's former wife paused before him. "Jack?"

"Talk later, Sara," O'Neill told her. But he took the hand she'd half-stretched out to him and squeezed it. "Not now."

She bit her lip and nodded, but her eyes ranged over his face. "You look well," she murmured, and walked quickly away.

Teal'c dropped his gaze and chose to look elsewhere rather than at O'Neill's face. There had been moments, he knew, when O'Neill had questioned where his job was taking him. More than once, O'Neill had contemplated 'throwing in the towel' and leaving the SGC, perhaps for a different kind of role, or simply to retire and sit by his lake without fish. The reminder of the life which had died with his son would be painful to one for whom the concept of family and belonging was so strong. After all, O'Neill's belief had been enough to weld together four disparate individuals into a team of friends who complemented and compensated for each other.

His gaze fell on Major Carter, who was telling Detective Shanahan to go down with the hostages as O'Neill had instructed him and not to return.

"...Sam..."

"Just go, Pete," she told him, shortly. When he opened his mouth, she put her hand over it. "Go."

Somewhat to Teal'c's surprise, Detective Shanahan left. His demeanour was like that of a dog with his tail between his legs, but he left.

Moments later, SG-1 was left with only the emptiness of the room and the silence of the computers. They silently congregated around the door to the inner office. O'Neill clicked a pattern on his radio to inform Daniel Jackson that the hostages were released, and another to say that they were going in.

"I hate being ground crew," Daniel Jackson grumped. The peevishness was no less real for being light-hearted, but his subsequent words left no doubt that, no matter how irritated he was, their friend did care. "Good luck, guys."

Then with a nod from O'Neill, Teal'c kicked in the door, and then they were inside.

*

Recollection would paint the situation in fragments, her consciousness focusing on one detail as the rest of it blurred.

The doorjamb was flimsy office construction, nothing more than plaster and light wood. It gave easily beneath the force exerted by the booted heel of a two hundred and fifty pound Jaffa. The splinters hurtled outwards, chunks of plaster spiralling off like little asteroids and sending up a cloud of white dust.

Sam was in and peeled off to the left of the room as Teal'c peeled off to the right, before she realised that the Goa'uld was watching them.

He sat on the desk at the back of the room, his knee hooked over the corner, swinging his foot like a man who had all day. Perhaps he did.

As he lifted the weapon he held in his hand and pointed it at Teal'c, the scientist in her once again absently noted the excess energy of the discharge as it formed the electric blue sine waveform around the central blast. The friend in her winced in sympathy and pain as Teal'c collapsed to the floor. The soldier in her lifted her gun, even as the zat moved through the arc towards the Colonel.

The zat discharged, even as she fired on him. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Colonel collapse, but had no time to attend to him as her P-90 chattered. Around Michael Stambaugh, the surface of the personal body shield coruscated gold and white, and she saw the ruby gleam in the palm of his hand and the glint of the ribbon device wound around his left hand, even as his right aimed the zat at her.

Zatfire earthed itself in the partition behind her as she ducked, and she looked desperately for an escape. Common sense was telling her that she couldn't go up against him armed with only a P-90. Not when he had a zat gun and a personal force shield.

She needed more.

She didn't have it. Not here.

Sam needed an exit.

Two steps towards the entrance to the office, she realised that the entrance to the office ran in a direct line with the aisle. If she used that door, she would be presenting Stambaugh with a perfect shot on the way out.

She spun so hard on her heel that she nearly twisted her ankle. As it was, it gave her an uncomfortable twinge, and she winced. But nothing hurt when she put her weight down on her foot and she crouched down in worn loop pile carpet as her mind scuttled through alternatives.

There was no sound from Stambaugh - where was he? Sam wasn't sure whether she should risk taking a look, but if she didn't know what he was doing...

Automatic fear swamped her as Stambaugh stepped over the Colonel's arm and into the gap between the rows of desks. Her military training cried, Run! Her scientific side said, Wait!

The zat was pointed directly at her. One shot and she'd be down like the Colonel and Teal'c. Two shots and she'd be toast. She was trapped. Nowhere to run, nowhere to go. No useful weaponry, no backup.

If she'd been the type to swear, she'd have sworn.

A quick glance at her surroundings showed her no feasible way to get out of his line of sight before he could shoot her. One side of the office was a window with the balcony. The SWAT captain had been thrown off that balcony to his death; there was no escape there. The other side of the office was a frosted glass window that ran along the width of the building and led to external restrooms.

But just because escape wasn't possible didn't mean other options weren't available. Possibilities sprang up, twisting and writhing in permutations that adjusted to provide a solution as soon as a problem was presented.

It was exactly like picking a lock with tumblers; work through the problems one by one until each one was matched and the lock lay open.

Unaware of her thoughts, the Goa'uld spoke, no longer bothering to disguise its voice. "My host was in doubt that you would come, Major. The prejudice of your kind against the female gender has always been both help and hindrance."

She could shoot and run now. But curiosity held her back. Daniel held the opinion that information was power, just as much as a firearm, if not more. "Why?"

"My host has a personal grievance with Jack for the destruction of his marriage; however, I have a personal grievance with you." It smiled.

Sam's mind worked frantically, trying to think of any Goa'uld she might have pissed off recently - or not so recently. As her mind flickered in and out of her memories, she slowly changed the angle of her gun so it pointed towards the ceiling, while keeping her hand on the trigger. To Stambaugh, it would hopefully look like she was just slacking off her grip, and he wouldn't think anything of it...

Then Teal'c rose up from between the desks on the other side of the room, a dark fury that lunged for Stambaugh. His attack provided the perfect distraction for the Goa'uld.

As it turned, Sam took the opportunity to fire upwards, at the plastic light cover above the Goa'uld. The falling shards did what she'd planned for them to do; distract the Goa'uld enough to give her a few precious seconds to make her escape and get the help she needed.

The chatter of her P-90 seemed louder than anything else except the drumbeat of her blood running through her veins. Glass shattered, cracks webbed out from the holes in the glass partition, and the toes of her boots dug into the carpet as she ran for the weakened glass pane and crashed through.

She let her shoulder take the brunt of the impact, and rolled down and over. A zat blast hit the upper edge of the hole she'd made, and she sprang to her feet and sprinted for the stairwell, her boots pounding against the carpet-covered concrete of the floor. Just before she reached the stairwell, instinct made her jerk to the left, away from the fire exit door.

Ozone crackled around her as the zat blast missed its target and earthed itself harmlessly into the wall. Then she shoved the fire door open and headed up to the roof.

Five flights, six flights, seven flights... She lost count of how many stairs she'd climbed, so the door to the roof was a surprise when she reached it. Outside the sun was bright and hot, and it clearly illuminated the face of the man coming towards her.

Which part of 'no' did you not understand, Detective?

"Sam? You're okay?" Pete made to touch her, but she evaded him.

"I'm fine." Now that she was up here, she had only one goal; get back down there and help her team-mates. As she strode over to the second box Daniel had sent up to them, she unclipped her P-90 and flipped the safety catch on. Her firearm would be of no use against Stambaugh.

"Where are the Colonel and Teal'c?"

"Stambaugh has him. Hold this." Sam handed him the P-90 and he took it.

"He's a Goa'uld, isn't he?"

"Yes," she answered shortly. The second box was a suitcase with an electronic lock combination. The lock combination was input and she opened the lid.

Fight fire with fire.

The graceful elegance of a ribbon device gleamed up at her from its foam padded resting place. Inside, a hot, raging fury was beginning to burn as she pushed up her sleeve and fitted the ribbon device over her hand. Her fingers slipped neatly into the fingertips of the device, adjusting the chains that linked the fingertips to the device on the palm and the spiralling ribbon of metal up her arm.

Her body tingled, the naquadah in her bloodstream reacting to the naquadah compound in the ribbon device. It was her gift and her curse, this ability to use the Goa'uld devices, and she both loved and feared it. But it had come in handy before and it would again.

Someone stood in her light, and she looked up.

Pete jerked back. "Isn't... Wasn't the woman at Daniel's house...?"

With a sudden pang, Sam recalled that his authorisation to know about the project hadn't included authorisation to know about her possession by Jolinar. "She was wearing it."

He couldn't hide the naked fear that chased across his face. "But you, you're not..." He took an automatic step back as she flexed her fingers around the crystal in the centre of her palm.

"No, I'm not," she said evenly, refusing to let him see how much his distaste disturbed her. "But I can."

And then she was up and headed back towards the stairwell.

"Wait, Sam! You can't just..."

She turned on him, and he stopped dead. "I can just," she told him quietly. "And I will just." Anger and a little resentment bubbled inside her, and she closed her hand into a fist. The ribbon device was most powerful in the application of emotion, channelled through the user's will. She wasn't entirely sure she was capable of controlling what was inside her right now, but she was determined to end this, here and now. And, as Pete regarded her, more than a little nervously, Sam guessed that the sheer grimness of her determination was frightening to her boyfriend, who'd never seen this side of her before, after all.

The Colonel's words rang in her head. You keep that part of yourself separate from them, and you deal.

"Sam..."

"You've already ignored more requests and disobeyed more orders than I want to count, Detective Shanahan," she said, choosing to use her persona of the military Major. "So I'm not going to tell you what to do; just what not to do." She lifted her gloved and fisted hand and felt a twinge of shameful pleasure at his fear. "Don't get in my way."

The Colonel was still down there, and in her absence, Stambaugh's Goa'uld would take its frustrations out on him. Major Sam Carter couldn't afford that.

"You don't have to do this - the SWATs are coming in..."

She saw the black-suited figures, dropping out of the helicopters hovering over the building next door. Send in the clowns, Daniel had said, half-joking, half-serious. All she did was repeat her warning, "Don't get in my way, Detective." The formality helped. This was a professional situation, and she was a professional soldier. That he didn't understand her as 'Major Carter' wasn't her problem.

Her team needed her to be 'Major Carter' and for them she would do what she had to do.

The stairwell door closed shut behind her, effectively cutting off the question of who was going to follow her. Without either the key or a set of lock-picks, neither Pete, nor the SWATs would be able to easily come after her.

Which suited Sam just fine.

The hard concrete beneath her boots was the harsh cold of her resolve, a solid, immoveable centre in the core of her being. The cold of the air of the stairwell permeated her will, freezing it in ice. Even the once air-conditioned corridors of the office seemed warm as she walked through them, on her way to confront Stambaugh and the Goa'uld that possessed him.

Sam paused as she approached the door to the first office, however a quick glance showed nobody there.

The door to the second office was slightly ajar, giving Sam an aural insight into the room, even if she couldn't actually see into the place.

It sounded bad.

Someone was breathing heavily, his inhalations laboured and slow. As Sam drew near, she winced as hard metal battered soft flesh with a meaty thump.

"So, Jack? Did Mary lie?"

The voice was human, not Goa'uld, and it resonated with hatred as something squelched unpleasantly. The Colonel gave a muffled moan of agony.

"Did you fuck my wife, Jack?" Michael Stambaugh asked, brutal with both his words and his fists. "I can't seem to hear you..."

Sam heard the crack of bone against bone, and the Colonel grunted. The sound was choked, as if even the voicing of pain was an agony that required outlet.

Stambaugh - or the Goa'uld that controlled hm - was torturing the Colonel, and taking pleasure in the act.

The thought ignited a rage within her, boiling swiftly. The rage was born of her frustration with the sneers and doubts she'd felt upon her through the day. It swept forth from deep within her soul, obliterating the barriers she set upon herself, the control she prized so dearly, and the restraint she usually practised.

All of it, gone in an instant.

And as her rage met the cold ice of her will, the pressure built within her, like steam in a kettle, like the coiled power of a spring.

Then it burst and the torrent swept her away.

*

Carter had come back.

It was something to focus on other than the pain that seared up his thigh, other than the piercing agony of breathing. He thought a rib might be cracked.

Jack had endured a lot of pain in his life; this was just one more to add to the collection. It never stopped hurting, though.

And she never ceased to amaze him - or terrify him.

Stambaugh's Goa'uld didn't have a chance. The instant he saw Carter, the ribbon device wrapped around her hand, Jack knew the Goa'uld was dead. The Goa'uld just didn't know it yet. Carter was unforgiving of herself and of her enemies when roused.

The creature looked up and raised its own device - but in defence, not in attack. Jack had a moment to feel surprise, before pain exploded in his leg. Stambaugh's Goa'uld had dug its fingers into his injured thigh. He bit his teeth down and ground them together, trying to control the noises that threatened to escape from his throat. Never let them see they get to you.

He heard the ripple of power that threw the Goa'uld back. He felt the Goa'uld's fingers dig into his already-wounded leg, and yelped before he could shut his mouth. His nerves were afire with agony, strong as pleasure, pure as pain; but beneath it all, he could feel tendrils of fear curling around his heaving chest with inexorable ice.

Carter had thrown the Goa'uld halfway across the room, and her expression was a mask of brittle fury, cracking around the edges of what little composure remained. Blue eyes bored into the Goa'uld's eyes, as though daring it to challenge her, to come up against her and be destroyed.

He'd always feared this part of Carter. She was beautiful and amazing, and yet terrible and fearsome; partly for being the woman she was, and partly for being what Jolinar had made her with two days of possession.

Jack trusted her, without a doubt. Whatever Jolinar had done to her, the creature was no longer in her. She'd asked terrible things of him, and he'd asked terrible things of her; and Jack could see little that might change that in the future. But that trust made her no less terrifying when she moved out of the role of the soldier Jack knew and began to be a soldier whose mind he didn't know.

She only spared a moment to meet his gaze with quick concern before she stepped over him and continued on to the Goa'uld. Jack understood the logic of her action; the enemy must be defeated before the wounded could be seen to; but a part of him yelled, 'Get me the fucking hell out of here!'

The Goa'uld said something to her, perhaps trying to plea-bargain.

Carter had no mercy on him.

Jack heard and felt the reverberative shockwaves of her action rather than saw them. There was a sickening crack, the sound of bone and flesh giving way beneath concussive force.

The gasp from the door came from not one mouth but many.

Five pairs of eyes stared at Carter, varying degrees of horror and loathing in their eyes: four SWAT personnel, geared up, armoured, and weaponed; and one police detective, half-crouched in the corridor, looking at his girlfriend in shock.

"Holy shit!"

It was nothing more than a whisper, but Carter heard it, and whirled on her heel. Her eyes were nearly black, the iris swallowed up by the pupil. Jack felt another frisson of fear. This time the terror was not of Carter, but for Carter.

Something had snapped within her, whether the stresses of having her professional capabilities doubted, or the use of so much power in the ribbon device, or something else, Jack didn't know. What he did know was that anything that might antagonise her right now was not a good idea. She was teetering on the brink, but not over the edge. Not yet.

Until one of the SWATs raised his gun.

The man was in shock. He'd come to deal with a man who'd killed one of his colleagues, and found himself facing an Air Force Major who wasn't fully in her right mind. He did the worst possible thing he could have done.

He raised his gun to take out the perceived threat to himself and his team.

"Don't!"

The cry wasn't Jack's.

Shanahan had seen the gun rise and slammed the muzzle away even as the man fired at Carter.

Jack's nape prickled as he felt the personal shield assert itself from the ribbon device. Each bullet produced its own net of concentric circles against the background of the gold against it, before it rebounded back with equal force, causing the SWATs to yelp and duck as the bullets came back at them.

He felt a sudden, sharp pain in his thigh as at least one of the rebounds embedded itself in the muscle there, but Jack was watching Carter. Her hand rose and the force from the ribbon device rippled out over his body and into the bodies of the men she perceived as a threat to her.

Bodies slammed against the partition wall between the two work areas. Men cried out as they were flung back like rag dolls to land in the office beyond. Shanahan crumpled against the wall, struggling to hold back fear and a wince of agony.

Carter lifted the ribbon device again.

Her next blow would kill. And this time, the death would not be a Goa'uld and his half-crazed host, but men whose chiefest mistake had been to underestimate her.

Death was a hard price to pay for ignorance and idiocy. And Carter didn't deserve that weight on her soul.

Jack opened his mouth to speak.

"Major Carter, you do not wish to do this." Teal'c's words rang through the room, hoarse and spoken with effort.

She shuddered, but her hand didn't lower from its raised position.

Teal'c repeated his entreaty. "Major Carter."

Jack ignored the splintering misery of his leg. He blocked out the body-jarring-pain of his cracked ribs, the slow-growing burning in his stomach. He took a slow, deep breath, holding it against his body's painful betrayal, and said the only thing he could think of to say.

"Hey, Dorothy."

Her head jerked down to look at him, and he met her gaze and saw the madness there. He didn't flinch back from it. Jack knew where she was; he'd been there himself and it was a dark, terrible place. But he'd come back. She'd come back once before. She could do it again.

"Sam." The appeal was personal and they both knew it. He never used her name these days, having long ago trained and taught himself to think of her as Carter. Still, this time, she needed to know he saw her as a person and not as a soldier. She needed to be reminded of who she was.

And she was reminded. Jack's insides unclenched a little as her hand dropped down to her side and her gaze focused on him, blue eyes wide with horror.

As he met her eyes, pain suddenly regained its hold on his senses. His body was on fire, the nerves screaming for a relief that they weren't getting. The world spun around him, and Carter with it. Jack shut his eyes as nausea rose. If he spewed now, he'd choke on his own vomit

When he opened his eyes a moment later, she was on her knees beside him, doing something that he couldn't see. As he tried to lift his head, his ribs protested and his abdomen howled. Her hand eased his pain-frozen shoulder down, the metallic fingers of the ribbon device pressing into his flesh in gentle warning. "Don't move, sir."

She sounded subdued.

There was nobody else in the room, he realised. Just them. He must have fallen unconscious from blood loss or something. He tried to catch her eyes, but she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she kept her focus on his leg as she slipped something under his thigh and tied it off. Jack winced as the pressure prompted a bundle of nerves to protest, but managed, "Where...is...everyone?"

"Teal'c's called Daniel. He's sending in a medical team to see to you, and a team to pick up the body and get it back to Cheyenne."

Jack tried to glance over at where the SWAT team members had been, but she answered his question before he even asked it. "Teal'c and Pete persuaded them not to arrest me. They're being taken down to get checked out."

She was definitely subdued, without her usual ebullience.

"Carter."

Her body stiffened, as though she were facing a blow, but her eyes slid to his and held them, bravely.

She'd always had an expressive face, and Jack had learned to read it over the years. Every smile, every look, the way she tilted her face or angled her head as she worked; it all had meaning. And while Jack O'Neill might not be much good at languages, he did know how to interpret Sam Carter. He'd had seven years of near-daily practise.

She was having the most trouble with the guilt, he surmised. She'd come very close to totally losing it, and only her team-mates' intervention had stopped her from adding several more deaths to the one she already had on her hands. Carter controlled herself - sometimes too much so. Losing it would be utterly unacceptable in any case. Losing it in such a way that endangered the lives of others...

It would be a long time before Carter forgave herself.

He didn't have the words, because Jack O'Neill was not a man of many words.

She was Carter, and she would always be Carter to him. No matter what.

He moved his fingers enough to touch the back of her hand. The skin beneath his fingers was soft, and the touch was more of a caress. Jack didn't know if she'd respond; Carter had always been irregular that way, sometimes she'd respond, sometimes she wouldn't.

This time, she did.

Slowly, her cold fingers slipped into his warm ones and curled tight, seeking and giving reassurance. And Jack held her hand until the medical teams came to take him away.

*

"Major Carter?" The voice was mature and smooth, hesitant to interrupt, as though aware that she didn't belong here.

Sam looked up from the despatch form she was reading and met the steady blue gaze of the Colonel's ex-wife. "Mrs. O'Neill. How are you doing?"

The woman winced, smiling, "I go by Ms. Mulholland these days, but 'Sara' is fine. I'm okay." She glanced back towards the community centre. "A little shocked, but they've done the first round of counselling already..." Sara trailed off. "How's Jack?"

Sam had known the question would come up sooner or later and had an answer ready-prepared. "He's been taken to a medical facility to have his wound seen to," she said. "It's just a basic wound."

Sara O'Neill neé Mulholland smiled, ruefully. "The definition of a gunshot wound as 'basic' is one that still takes some getting used to," she admitted, "Even after being married to him for years..." She sighed, and her stance shifted subtly. "Is there any chance I...I could get in contact with him? We haven't spoken in years and I thought..."

Especially after today, Sam thought to herself. "Ms. Mulholland, I can't guarantee that you'll be able to get in and see the Colonel while he's healing..."

The older woman was nodding. "I understand that. But if I leave you with my card, can you at least make sure Jack gets it? Tell him I just want to catch up, make sure he's okay." She slipped a small white rectangle out of the handbag that hung from her shoulder. "Will you do that?"

Sam took the business card. "I can give it to him. What he does with it..."

"Oh, I know," Sara assured her. "You just have to give it to him." She paused. "Thank you for coming in to help, Major. I gather you were the one who dealt with Mike?"

Somehow, she managed not to flinch. "Yes."

"Well... Thank you." Sara glanced over her shoulder. "I should be getting home. Please don't forget to give Jack the card?"

"I won't."

Sam watched the older woman walk away, then tucked the business card in one of her vest pockets. The conversation with Sara had disturbed her a little, on more than one level. It was hard to accept the gratitude of the woman when things had so nearly gone all wrong.

Picking up the black biro from the clipboard, Sam scrawled her signature at the bottom of the despatch form, authorising the removal of the shield technology to Area 51. She hailed one of the airmen packing the truck, and with a quick nod and a muttered thanks, he took the clipboard with the form and was gone.

The cold metal body of the communications van made her acutely aware of the throbbing headache that had just begun in her skull. It was something she definitely didn't need on top of the aches and pains of her body and her mental state.

She'd refused to be taken to the SGC infirmary when the medical team turned up, citing that there was nothing physically wrong with her. Doc Warner had given her a suspicious look but left it and Teal'c had raised an eyebrow but not pushed the point.

Sam was grateful for that, anyway; when Teal'c got an idea in his head, he was well-nigh immoveable. There was too much to do for her to be carted away to be checked over.

Besides, she didn't want to think about what she'd done in the building, and she didn't want to think about the Colonel.

Sam pushed away the memory of the rage that had flooded her system when she saw the Colonel being tortured. She put away the recollection of the awful vengefulness that had swept over her as she realised she was invulnerable. She blocked out the knowledge that she had killed a man who, if not precisely innocent, hadn't been entirely at fault for what happened.

The world was fading to the blues, purples and greys of twilight around her, and another SGC truck was packing up to drive by her. Somewhere around, Daniel was on his cell phone and calling the infirmary to see how the Colonel's surgery was going.

Against her back, the metal of the van cooled her blood and eased the headache a little. It was the first moment of quiet she'd had since she'd settled down to work in her lab this morning.

It seemed like it had been days ago, so far distant was the memory of the tests she'd been running this morning when the call came through; the Colonel's voice simply saying, "We've got a situation. Briefing in ten minutes."

Where Stambaugh had got his Goa'uld was still not known, but, with the body to dissect, the SGC might be able to work out an answer, or at least theorise one. Why the Goa'uld had claimed a personal resentment towards her was also not known, and it was something that a dissection wouldn't reveal. Not all the answers were given to questions asked.

Still thinking, Carter? Sam almost smiled at the Colonel's voice in her mind. Almost. She was tired and a little heartsick. The adrenaline had long since faded, and if she could find a nice, dark hidey hole in which to lie down and sleep for a while...

The door of the community centre opened, and voices filled the cooling night. Sam heard the familiar gruff tones of the SWAT commander and the various timbres of the men who'd gone into the building to take down Stambaugh and found themselves facing off an Air Force Major instead.

There was no point in avoiding them; it wasn't as though she had anywhere to hide.

It wasn't as though she had anything to hide.

The SWATs had been told that Stambaugh had gotten hold of classified experimental technology, and that Sam's knowledge of the technology had made her able to defend against it and take the attack back to Stambaugh. Daniel had been the one to elaborate on the explanation Sam gave Commander Andrews and Chief Geraldton several hours ago, and he'd done a good enough job that if the SWATs didn't believe the explanation, at least they weren't openly sceptical of it.

The Commander's eyes slid right over her; she hadn't expected much else. Several of the SWATs avoided her gaze, keeping their sights firmly on where they were going. Most glanced at her, nodded once, brief and curt, and walked on. One regarded her, paused, and came over. She watched him walk towards her and kept her expression impassive.

"Major Carter."

He had dark eyes and hair and she judged him to be about her age. There was no insignia by which to judge his rank, so she settled for a generic honorific. "Sir."

"What you did in there..." He paused, searching for the words.

Sam felt her insides squirming. This was one of the men who'd been sent in after SG-1. He'd witnessed her lose it. Her team-mates were one thing; she had enough history with them to know that they understood her position, even if they didn't always endorse it. This man had none of the history she had with her team-mates; she had no idea of what he might do or say.

He was still watching her, eyes slightly narrowed, when his mouth quirked a little in a smile that was part-admiration, part-ruefulness. "Remind me never to make you mad, Major." He tipped her a little mock-salute and a one-eyed wink, then walked after his colleagues without looking back.

Sam stared after him. The comment was something she'd have expected from the Colonel, or maybe Daniel when he was in one of his wryly humourous moods. She'd be despondent over some matter or another, and one or the other would come in and get her out of it. The Colonel was more effective at the technique than Daniel, but they were both pretty good.

This man's comment worked in exactly the same way that something coming from them would have worked; it lifted her spirits out of the darkness and gave her a little bit of encouragement. Just a little bit, but enough.

The respect and the light teasing that came with it... It meant a lot, even coming from a stranger. Especially coming from a stranger.

She shook her head and glanced around, wondering where Daniel and Teal'c were. She wondered where Pete was.

"Sam?" As if her thoughts had summoned him, he appeared around the side of the van.

"Pete." She regarded him remotely. It was safer to be distant right now, especially after today. "How are you?"

He shrugged casually, "A bit sore."

Sam winced. "Sorry." She'd been so caught up in her anger against Stambaugh, so involved in her own invulnerability, she'd hardly noticed the men she'd thrown away from her with the ribbon device. Only the Colonel's intervention had stopped her from becoming a monster.

"Bit of a flat apology," he said, regarding her with something she'd never seen in his eyes before: wariness.

"You aren't exactly giving me a warm welcome," she retorted, then bit her lip for the outburst. Now was not the time to confront Pete about this; not when she was already tired and short-tempered from the stresses of the day. Especially not when he was the source and cause of more than one of her stresses of the day. "Look, I'm tired. I'll speak to you later, Pete."

"Later, when?" Pete asked. "Later as in tomorrow, later as in next week, later as in never?"

She stared at him in disbelief. "If you're going to be like that, it'll be later as in never," she snapped back.

Now he looked contrite. "Sam... It's been a stressful day. You've been so busy with that job of yours..."

"I have responsibilities, Pete. Just like you do." And all day long, you've been trying to persuade me out of them...

Briefly, her memory flashed a scene and setting at her. She was in a coffee shop, early in the morning, and Pete was suggesting she call in sick and run off with him for the day. She hadn't then. She wouldn't now.

There were some things that were stronger than desire or lust or even love.

"Then maybe you should take a break from it," he said, stepping a little closer. "You're always working with this job... I never know when I'm going to see you. And it's dangerous."

"And yours isn't?" Sam pointed out, already suspecting she knew what the answer was.

"That's different."

"Pete, my job is dangerous. It's always been dangerous. It always will be dangerous..."

"Then maybe you should find something else to do, Sam!"

Not this again! She gritted her teeth. It was the end of a long day, and there were many things between them; too many to bring up now. "This isn't the time to talk about this," she said, aware that the night carried their arguing voices further than she liked.

"No," he agreed, surprising her with his acquiescence. "But you're due for some vacation time - you said as much a month ago..." He looked hopefully at her as his voice turned persuasive. "We could go away for a couple of days, just you and me. Maybe out to Vegas, get one of the honeymoon suites...?"

There was a certain attraction to his suggestion, but something in Sam held back. "I don't know, Pete. I'd rather..." She just wanted to stay home and not move a muscle. Sit back on the couch and watch something mindless, read through some of the latest astrophysics publications. Something quiet and low-key. Down-time. No glitz and glitter, excitement, thrills and spills, just the peace and quiet of gardening in her backyard, or sitting back with a book by a river in the middle of woodlands.

"Oh, come on, Sam," he cajoled. "It'll be fun..."

The thing was, it would be fun, at least while they were there. But then she'd go back to the mountain and feel as though she'd spent two weeks at work without a day off, unrested. In Vegas, the space around her wouldn't be her own and she couldn't make it her own. And even if she stayed home, as long as Pete was around, her space wouldn't be her own either - it would belong to him and the things he wanted them to do.

"I don't think... Not this time, Pete," she muttered, uncomfortably aware that he was moving into her mental space, and just as aware that she was mentally backing away. Was this the way this relationship had always worked or was this a recent thing?

Perhaps she'd just been alone so long she'd grown accustomed to being accountable to nobody and no-one but herself and her team. Perhaps she should just give him what he wanted and make things easier on herself than arguing about it with him.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

Behind Pete, the door of the centre opened and Daniel strode out, clearly agitated. Teal'c was half a stride behind him. "Sam! There's been a complication in Jack's surgery. We're headed in now. Paul is willing to give us a ride to the airbase. He's calling in a chopper now to take us back to the mountain..."

Everything else suddenly seemed secondary.

Complications in surgery were never good. And the Colonel wasn't a young man anymore... Sam took one step towards Daniel, and stopped as Pete's hand landed on her arm. "Look, Sam, I'll give you a ride there and we'll talk on the way. How's that?"

And suddenly, Sam found herself in a quandary.

On one hand, she wasn't up to dealing with Pete Shanahan at this particular moment. After today and everything that had happened, she didn't want to talk to him at this moment. Except that she also wasn't used to denying him his requests; more for the sake of peace than anything else. Giving an outright 'no' to his pleas was out of the question, because he'd be hurt and she'd have to tiptoe around him for days. She'd learned that much in the four months they'd been dating.

A little part of her observed that he had her trained very well. Who knows what hoops you'll be jumping through in another few months, Sam!

She banished the little voice before it could send any more poison her way.

God, she was tired!

"You won't have access to the airbase," Daniel said, neatly stepping into the conversation after giving her a single penetrating glance. "And it'll take too much time to explain to the guards. We'll get Paul to drive us."

"Sam?" Pete looked at her with his best puppy-dog eyes.

She shook her head, fortified by her team-mate's decision. "I'll... He's right. I'll go with them," she said as Daniel and Teal'c jogged towards Davis' SUV.

Sam paused, uncomfortable with him even after the crisis, with no eyes on them. Hurt gleamed in his eyes, and in apology, she leaned in and gave him a brief kiss, but pulled away as he tried to deepen it. "I've got to go," she said, hurriedly. "I'll call you later."

Pete was still standing there as they drove off, a hurt expression on his face.

*

Dr. Daniel Jackson was not always considered one of the most tactful people in the SGC. When he was on a burn about a favoured topic, it was hard to get him off it. As Jack had pointed out, more than once, Daniel was a stubborn sonovabitch when he put his mind to it.

Of course, Jack was one to be talking about stubborn sons of bitches.

They were in the back of the chopper before Daniel broached the subject that had been bothering him all day. "Are you happy with him, Sam?"

He'd wanted to ask the question as they drove out to the airbase, but didn't want to approach the topic with Paul in the car. Major Davis had been a good friend and ally to SG-1 through the years, but this was family stuff and private.

Daniel did use discretion when it suited him. It just wasn't the type of discretion people always wanted him to use at that exact moment.

"What?" She turned, looking at him as though he'd sprouted feelers and tentacles.

"Are you happy with him, Sam?"

"Yes." The answer was defensive and automatic, and Teal'c's eyebrow rose as he looked at Daniel.

Daniel didn't need a translation for that one. Samantha Carter will not appreciate your interference, Daniel Jackson. And he knew quite well that Sam wouldn't appreciate his interference. Except that it wasn't about 'interference' as far as Daniel was concerned. It was about his friend and how this relationship was affecting her personally.

Jack wouldn't say a word. In a way, Jack said nothing because he couldn't afford to say anything. When it came to Detective Pete Shanahan, Jack generally kept his mouth firmly shut, whatever he might have liked to say. Sour grapes were never a nice thing.

Teal'c wouldn't say anything. At least, he wouldn't until it got to the point where Sam asked him to step in - which was about as likely as a cold day in Netu. Teal'c was a firm believer in letting people make their own mistakes as much as possible and having them learn from the experience. Sam was a firm believer in keeping her team-mates and friends out of her love life.

Daniel was a firm believer in learning from experience - both your own and others', so you didn't end up making the same mistakes and complicating everything.

And, if today had been any indication, Shanahan simply didn't have a clue when it came to Major Sam Carter and not Samantha Carter.

Sam was looking at him with raised eyebrows and an expression of exasperation. He met it with his most defenceless look. "Okay," Daniel told her simply. "I just want you to be happy, Sam."

"And you don't think that I know what makes me happy?" Yes, she considered that he was interfering in her business. Daniel considered that he was making her think about this relationship - something that she didn't seem to be doing much.

"I think there are things you haven't dealt with in your relationship," he said gently. "Including your job and how much your professional standing means to you."

That was the core of the matter after all. He and Sarah Gardiner had originally split over that painful point. He'd been more interested in his career than in her and, in the end, she'd decided it wasn't worth waiting around for a man who preferred studying the dead to living with the living.

"I can't tell him what we do, Daniel," Sam protested. "He doesn't have the authorisation..."

"If you did tell him, would he still understand that you need to do what you do?"

Sam looked away and didn't answer the question. Maybe she didn't even know the answer.

Daniel wasn't blind. He'd seen Shanahan's glances and frowns all day. He'd looked up from the notes on Michael Stambaugh and found Sam and her boyfriend in the middle of a terse disagreement. And he'd heard the whispers and mutters from the SWATs and the Denver Police. It was amazing what you heard when you stood still and listened.

Shanahan had started off possessive, and gone from there to demanding, especially when the SWATs and Police started goading him with comments about Jack and Sam.

Daniel could understand possessive. Sam was a beautiful woman and there was no doubt about that. But there was a difference between being possessive and acting possessive, and Daniel rather thought Shanahan had crossed the line with his demands to go on the insertion team, and his requests for Sam to stay behind.

As for the comments about Jack and Sam...

Daniel knew how the relationship between his friends looked. It looked pretty damning on the surface. But Daniel was willing to bet every archaeological find he had studied on the SGC project - including the Stargate - that nothing had actually happened between his friends. Ever.

He just knew.

Shanahan had no worries on that score. His jealous reaction was understandable, though. Jack and Sam had a rapport that Daniel had envied himself, at times. It wasn't entirely an emotional link, but in operational situations, one would look at the other and they'd just know what the other was thinking. Daniel had always figured it was a military thing.

As far as emotions and feelings went... Well, Sam was dating Shanahan, right? That had to count for something, surely!

But Shanahan's apparent inability to accept that Sam could handle herself and such circumstances - an inability that both the SWAT and, to a lesser extent, the Denver Police had shown in today's hostage situation - was troubling. Like his interference in the Osiris stakeout, when it came to Sam's professional capabilities, the man had no faith in her. And that had to hurt. No, Shanahan hadn't witnessed Sam in action, but surely he'd seen enough of the character of Sam Carter to know that Major Carter was a formidable force?

Maybe not.

Daniel suspected Sam hid that part of herself from her boyfriend, keeping it tamed down, showing him the woman Shanahan wanted to see, not the woman she was.

Living a lie was a terrible thing to do to yourself and someone else. Just look at Jack.

Daniel watched Sam as she stared out the window at the twinkling lights of the city they were leaving. No, her love life wasn't his business, but as one of her friends, her happiness was. And Sam, while enjoying some of the advantages of a significant other, was not enjoying other aspects of the relationship.

He wasn't above interference where he saw it as necessary.

As he watched, she turned and met his gaze and diverted the topic. "Did they say what went wrong with the Colonel's surgery?"

He accepted the change in topic; he'd pushed her far enough for the night. "No. Just that they went into surgery for the bullet and came out, and then discovered some complications that required them to go back in."

"It might be internal bleeding," Sam said as her expression grew troubled. "I think the Goa'uld was using him as a punching bag..."

Daniel winced. Punching bag would do it, and internal bleeding was a tricky one to find. They didn't always know where the bleeding was happening and it could be happening anywhere... "We'll find out soon enough."

He stared out at the world beneath him, at all the twinkling lights and the people and houses and shops and cars they represented. Up high in the darkness, he could see nothing but the twinkle of lights in the sweeping black velvet night. So many people living out their lives with no concept of the Goa'uld or the work SG-1 had done or would ever do.

So much darkness in the world and only a few candles to light the way.

They flew on, through the night.

*

Sam fumbled with her keys beneath the light of her porch.

A long, hot shower, and then her bed for a few hours before she went back in to the SGC to check on the Colonel.

Not that he'd be aware of her presence. It had taken the doctors nearly an hour to find the source of the problems; a hematoma near the kidney. During that time, SG-1 had been checked out by various orderlies, ordered to bed by General Hammond and fallen asleep on various infirmary furniture while they waited for the operation to finish.

Teal'c had even snapped a photo of her and Daniel sleeping against each other. The flash had woken them up to the news that the Colonel was in a stable condition. He'd be off the team for over a month, and grumpy as hell, but after recuperating, he'd be fine. Fit as a fiddle and ready to take the team out through the wormhole again.

As she shoved her keys into the lock and opened the door, Sam paused. There was a light on in her living area. She'd been pretty sure she'd turned everything off before she left this morning. Cautiously, she shut the door behind her, trudged along the corridor, and slid open the door to her living room.

Candlelight greeted her, small tea-lights set around the dining and coffee table; soft music playing in the background, and a small nest of bedding that had been set down on the floor of the living room. A small box of roses sat on the table next to two wine glasses.

Pete got up from the couch to greet her, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Hey, Sam," he said, approaching her slowly, his arms open for a hug. "I thought you might like to wind down a bit after everything that happened today."

Sam stared at the setup, almost too shocked to return the embrace he gave her. When she didn't respond to his overture, he pulled back, "Sam?"

It wasn't that she wasn't glad to see him, it was just that...she wasn't glad to see him.

She'd thought she'd made herself clear, earlier, when she left the community centre with her team. She'd call him later, deal with the issues between them later rather than after the long, tiring day. Had she said that? Or was that just implied?

Whichever it was, he'd pre-empted her, giving her no space to find her footing and consider the situation between them. It was a familiar complaint.

Pete's actions might be sweet, but they were highly unwelcome as far as timing went. She was tired, grumpy, and not inclined to deal with him right now at the end of a long day.

Which said something about their relationship right there.

Sam opened her mouth to ask what he was doing here - an inane question, it was blatantly obvious what he was doing here - and stopped.

The day's events had compressed all the issues and problems and regrets about her relationship with Pete into a hot, hard ball of aggravation and dropped it into her stomach.

It wasn't just the day's stresses, either; it was a cumulative aggregation of the months they'd been dating. From Pete's inability to understand the importance of her professional work, to the way he didn't seem to be able to permit her personal boundaries. From the way he was charming and polite and lovely and sweet, but beneath it all lurked the memory of words said in anger, and sulks worn in peevishness. From his greeting this morning to the setup this evening...

Abruptly, Sam realised why she'd fallen so easily into her relationship with Pete.

She'd been here before.

The man had been much the same; handsome, with a magnetic personality, and a way of charming you over to his point of view. The younger Sam had followed Jonas Hanson like a star in a binary system followed the black hole its companion had become. And, like a black hole, Jonas had sucked away the edges of her personality, moulding her likes and dislikes to his preferences, overruling her desires and persuading her towards his own.

How galling to discover that, in ten years, her essential taste in men hadn't changed.

Sam looked at Pete, seeing the smooth, soft lines of his jaw, the growing expression of hurt on his face as she failed to respond to his overture. She sighed, audible in the silence, and bent forward to blow out the tea-lights on the table before she straightened and addressed him.

"Pete, we have to talk."

*

Alone again.

Sam sat in the silence of the infirmary and stared at the Colonel's serene visage beyond her laptop screen.

Freedom was a strange feeling.

The fact that she felt free at all was damning testament to her relationship with Pete.

In the end, she'd found she didn't want to stay home after all. So she'd showered, collected some journals she'd wanted, and driven in to the SGC, ignoring the raised eyebrow of the evening guard at the gate of the complex.

But her lab had seemed too quiet, the gentle hum of the background mainframes failing to comfort her as she looked over the work she'd been doing that morning, before the call came in. So she'd descended to the infirmary, ignoring the duty nurse's startled look, and setting herself up beside the Colonel.

He was stable. The nurse had assured her of that. She'd checked through the charts while the man stood by, watching her with a little disbelief as she confirmed what he'd told her. Seven years of travelling through the Stargate, hundreds of injuries, and dozens of infirmary stays meant Sam had a more-than-passing acquaintance with the infirmary and the charts that listed a patient's state of body after operation.

There was nothing wrong with the Colonel that time and rest wouldn't fix now.

So she let him rest and tried to write up a report on the day.

She couldn't think straight.

She didn't want to think about the day and everything that had happened in it. Even the most basic of descriptions, shorn of emotionality, made her stomach squirm uncomfortably.

When Pete and the SWATs surprised her, she hadn't been thinking at all. She'd been reacting on a hair-trigger. If it hadn't been for the Colonel's intervention, she would have killed those men and done it without thought of right or wrong or any remorse.

Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. For those minutes, she'd been invincible, capable of doing anything without consequences. She'd forgotten morals, tenets, ethics; the only measure of right and wrong had been her desire to inflict destruction and her ability to channel her will.

She'd come so close to becoming a monster. Again.

There was a reason she'd never practised using the ribbon device. General Hammond had initially suggested that she might like to try working with it, but Sam had resisted the suggestions and he'd never made it an order. The kind of power the device gave her could too easily become an addiction, and Sam had been afraid she wouldn't be able to stop, so she never started.

In spite of her heavy jacket and the warmth of the infirmary, Sam shivered a little. The silence of the infirmary seemed oppressive, and was only broken by the breathing of the man sleeping off the anaesthetic.

The surgeon had removed two bullets from his leg, one lodged dangerously near to the femoral artery. The torn muscle tissue would heal, but the surgeons weren't sure how well. Only time would allow them to determine the extent of use he'd have when it healed.

Pete had only been trying to protect her; but his actions had gotten the Colonel hurt. The last time he'd interrupted, trying to 'protect' her, he'd gotten himself hurt. She'd been willing to overlook his ineptitude the first time, but the second time...

Her eyelids lowered over her eyes and she winced. She was tired, and all she wanted was to sleep, but she was still too wired to do so. The confrontation with Pete had been...confrontational. And difficult.

Now, to top the day off, Sam Carter was single again.

Disappointment was bitter in her mouth as she stared at the screen before her. She'd pinned so many hopes on her relationship with Pete, only to discover that what she'd seen in him wasn't what she wanted in him. And she felt like an idiot for not seeing the similarity between Pete and Jonas Hanson before.

Back to square one.

This time, she'd do it with her eyes wide open and wary.

Still, she supposed as she sat back and watched the Colonel breathe, it wasn't the first time she'd become monofocused on something. Her problem had always been that she drew a straight line from her present position to her goal and refused to deviate from it.

The words of an old college friend rang in her brain. The shortest distance between two points is always a straight line, but life isn't a straight line, so trying to live that way is stupid. Sophie had been studying astrophysics, too, but she dabbled in philosophical studies and always loved the really deep discussions about the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.

This time, Sam would make sure she was enjoying the journey and not just going for the goal.

It wasn't as though she was the only one living with loneliness around here, she supposed. At the end of the day, the Colonel went home alone. So did Daniel. So did Teal'c.

Playing intergalactic explorer was a lonely task.

So was keeping watch.

Sam sat in the chair by the Colonel and studied his face, seeking something else to focus on other than the failures of her love life and her own self-loathing at her near-corruption today.

His usual tan had waxen undertones, but the peace of the anaesthetic had smoothed out some of the lines of his face. His eyelashes seemed oddly dark against the livid shades of his eye hollows, and the wide, thin mouth was drawn at the corners. Not a young man anymore, but a fascinating, intensely complex man for all that he lacked the youth the world so fanatically pursued.

"..."

For a moment she couldn't imagine what was making the noise, a faint rasping sound that underpinned the beep of the machines. Then she met the dark eyes, their drowsy gaze focusing on her.

"...Carter..." he managed, his lips half-forming around the syllables of her name.

"Sir." She sat up in her chair and leaned over him, wondering if she should call the nurse back. It was usual for post-op patients to wake up several hours after their operation, but Sam wasn't sure whether or not he was in pain and needed more painkillers slipped into his IV. His expression showed no sign of pain, only a slight dazedness that might have been the remnant of the anaesthetic's effect on his consciousness.

"You're...here..." he managed, and her fingers slipped, unbidden, into his right hand, curling in his palm.

"Yes, sir," she murmured. "I'm here."

His mouth curled in the faintest of smiles as his eyelids slipped shut again, and she felt a wave of tenderness, unstoppable, wash through her, body and soul, as his fingers tightened just a little around her hand. He slid back into the peace of unconsciousness and his hand remained in hers.

Sam decided not to call the nurse, and, instead, eased herself closer to the bed so she could rest her head on its edge, by his chest, and listen to him breathe.

She wasn't entirely alone.

* End *

CHARACTER NOTES: For the character of Pete Shanahan, I extrapolated on the base of what the writers of the show gave us in the episode 'Chimera' (obsessive, paranoid, manipulative, and inept) and simply didn't smooth everything over with a 'no harm, no foul' at the end.

FEEDBACK: Appreciation is adored, flames and pick-aparts are ignored, criticism is considered but I writes 'em the way I sees 'em and if you don't agree, you don't agree. Them's the breaks.