He always thought that, of the two of them, she'd be the first to go. So this is a surprise.

"Shit. Ow. Hurts, goddamn it."

She has tears in her eyes, on her lashes. He thinks maybe it's a surprise to her, too.

"Hold on, sir."

Maybe he's just so familiar with being the one who survives that he can't picture it any other way. Not that he wouldn't have willingly given his life for, oh, many good causes over the years. Not that he hasn't come so close to death, on occasion, that he could practically smell the wood of his coffin. But somehow, against some pretty damn impossible odds, he's always survived. Maybe that's led him to delude himself about his own invulnerability. Maybe, though, deep down he expects to lose that which he can't live without.

"Ow, ow, ow, cut it out! Leave it be, for god's sake!"

She keeps messing about with haemostatic bandages, elevation, pressure points, when all he wants is to lie still. Her field medic skills were never much to write home about. He's not really ungrateful - they've saved his life, and his limbs, in the past. He'd just rather not experience them when he knows they're useless.

"I'm sorry, sir - please, just hang on. Teal'c will be back soon."

Her voice keeps cracking. No way Teal'c can make it back in time with medical supplies, doctors, rescue... It's too far to the Stargate and back. He recognizes this wound, knows that he's bleeding out too fast. She knows it, too. He's going to die on another world, a billion light-years from home.

"Could be worse," he says, apropos of his thoughts and not their conversation. She understands, though. She could always read him.

"Don't you damn well die on me now!" she says, angrily.

She'll be okay, though. There's no one left alive here to hurt her. He shivers. Not long, not long... He grabs for her free hand, the one not applying pressure to the artery that, oh so efficiently, is pumping the blood from his body. Her hand is warm - or he's cold - and slick with his blood. It's getting harder to see her, harder to focus. He knows what this is. And he knows what he wants to say - what he should say, maybe. But if he does say it, she won't hear just the words - what she'll hear is him giving up hope. He doesn't want those words to be sullied. He focuses on her face, trying to convey everything through his eyes, instead.

She could always read him. The tears in her eyes overspill. "I know, Jack, I know," she whispers, brokenly, and tugs her hand from his, putting it to his face. He presses into the warmth. God, he's cold.

"Always," he whispers, instead. "Always, Sam."

She muffles a sob, and leans forwards, kissing him desperately. Their first proper kiss. He wants to put a hand up to the back of her neck, into her warm, golden hair, to pull her closer, but he can't seem to summon the energy. He's so tired - and cold. He lets her kiss him, revelling in her warmth, her softness, her taste, her smell.

His eyelids are heavy. He can't crack them open, when she lifts her head. He feels her breath on his face. "Jack? Jack, please..."

"Sam," he murmurs. He wants to pull her closer, but his arms are too heavy. He's sleepy. She smells nice. How did they get here? Are they in bed? He lets go of the momentary puzzlement. Lets it all go. It feels like he's floating. Drifting...

"Jack," she says, and he tries to focus his mind, open his eyes, but it's all so much effort. She's saying his name, over and over, and something about... holding on? He feels something touch his face - wet. Damn, but his leg aches. "I love you, Jack."

His heart stutters with the power of hearing that, and with the force of his love for her in return. A smile tugs at his lips. She loves him. And he... he's so tired. He'll take a rest, and then he'll say it back. Watch her eyes when he says it. Wide blue eyes. Maybe she'll smile at him. That'd be sweet. After he's had a nap. A brief nap... and then... Man, she smells good...

---

THE END.

She was eating peanut M&Ms when she died. That's his last memory of her. She was tucking into the pack - she'd stolen it from his pocket - and she glanced up at him, a twinkle in her eye, and then

he woke up in the infirmary. It was three weeks later, and she was dead.

They waited for him to wake up before they held the memorial service. He wishes they hadn't. He'd've stayed asleep if he'd known. He wants no part of it. He refused to speak, and he doesn't really care what people thought about that. He stood there, silent, in Dress Blues and a sling, feeling everyone's eyes on him. All he remembers of the service is thinking that peanut M&Ms didn't make much of a last meal. He'd have a good steak, some wine, some kind of chocolate cake for dessert, with cream on top. He had the whole meal planned by the time they sent her coffin through the Stargate.

They said it was instant. She wouldn't have known what hit her - she wouldn't have had time to feel any pain. He's not convinced they're telling the truth, not convinced they know what the hell they're talking about, but he chooses not to dig too deeply. He doesn't want to know. He's not so sure he wants to know anything, anymore.

People have tried to talk to him. He feels slightly guilty about his behaviour, but they should know him by now. If they've taken offence, if they're no longer his friends... well, the roaring, ragged black hole inside has sucked most of his emotions away, and he can't find the energy to care. Daniel and Teal'c were the last to go, of course. They fought the hardest, provoked him, prodded him to break down, break through, whatever. He had a slanging match with Daniel - Daniel won, but Jack was crueller - and a glaring match with Teal'c - no prizes for guessing who won that. Eventually they too had to admit defeat. Now they've left him alone, thank god.

They'll probably try again, but he's prepared to fight them off. He's done this before. Last time, he obviously wasn't thorough enough - they burrowed through the gaps in his defences, cracked him open, made him feel again, made him trust, made him think that he might have a chance at happiness, at a future. This time he knows better.

He's contemplating oblivion. He hasn't yet worked up the energy to do something definite about it, like putting a gun to his forehead or driving off a cliff. He's not sure he ever will. He feels so very old. He feels like a wind-up toy that's running down. He'd like to just... stop.

He sleeps a lot. He eats when the mood takes him, which is pretty infrequently. He's been craving peanut M&Ms, but his hands shake too much when he tries to buy them. He also drinks when the mood takes him, which is far more often. He's kept himself relatively showered and shaved - it's something to do. Sometimes he forgets what he's doing halfway, though, and goes about with half a beard until he runs a hand across his face and realizes. And he broke the mirror. Seven years bad luck.

The house is a bit of a mess.

He's not been back to the Mountain. He doesn't plan to go back, either. If they want him, they'll have to come get him. They can go on saving the world without him. It's not like he was the brains of the operation.

He sort of wants to go back to the Alpha site, just to... he's not sure. To see for himself that they haven't just missed something, perhaps. But that's not going to happen - they've relocated what was left of the facility to a new Alpha site, and that planet's now off-limits. He still doesn't completely believe that she's really dead - that the body they found wasn't a clone or something. Maybe she's still out there somewhere, hurt, waiting. It's not impossible, given their jobs, and, after all, he never saw her die - not that he remembers, anyhow. His dreams taunt him cruelly with endless variables, formulae for a happy ending - clones, androids, false memories, Gamekeeper-type simulations... At first, in the cold light of day, they seemed unlikely, but he's beginning to lose that conviction. When he broached the subject with Daniel and Teal'c, they looked at him like he was losing it. He admits, if only to himself, that it's a distinct possibility.

He's not yet let himself think about Ba'al. He just... can't. He doesn't have the energy for that amount of emotion.

He knows himself well enough to realize he isn't dealing with this very well - or at all - and the reasons for that. He's seen other deaths, of course - people he was close to, most notably Daniel (although that sort of lost its force after the first few times). But this is different. This is as bad as Charlie - worse, even, because living on after Charlie used up all his ability to recover. He has nothing in reserve to deal with this. And the one person who might have got him through is the one person whose absence is now destroying him, slowly but surely.

If their time had ever come, if he'd ever had a chance to say the things he wanted to say to her - and he still wants to say them - would that be better or worse? He doesn't know. He never will. The black hole inside gives a sharp twist at the thought of 'never'.

He was lucky. He knows this, because the doctors told him so. His wounds were severe, but he was miraculously flung behind a table by the force of the first explosion, which protected him from the worst of it. But he doesn't remember being lucky. He doesn't remember being dug out. He doesn't even remember the bomb going off. All he remembers is that packet of peanut M&Ms, and the twinkle in her eye. And then... nothing.

Maybe tomorrow he'll go buy himself a nice steak, and a bottle of wine, and some chocolate cake. With cream on top.

---

THE END.