* * *

My fingertips are blue. The nail beds, especially, have turned the alarming shade of a new bruise, although I cannot feel them. 'This can't be a good thing,' my brain muses, so I stick my hands in my armpits. It's not much warmer there, though, because I'm sitting on my CO's roof wearing nothing but a thin sweater and jeans. Did I mention it's snowing? It is snowing, beautiful white crystals drifting lazily down into the lamplight like dust motes. I can barely see them now because my eyelashes are nearly frozen shut, and it would take too much energy to blink. The flakes are everywhere, in my hair, like lead weights, holding me down, holding me here. Here, in this house, this town, this planet, this place. Here is the last place I want to be. Janet knows that, Jack knows that, they all know and they all worry. I hate myself for it. They're grieving too, why do I dwell on the past and add to their concerns? But I can't, I try, I try, but I'm still here, still breathing, still shivering up on the roof getting covered in snow on Thanksgiving night. A sob escapes my lips, the moisture settling on my nose, which is already dripping from the cold and the tears. I bury my face in my knees, shaking silently, listening to the oppressive quiet of the snowflakes. It's broken, though, by the creaking of rungs on the ladder, and for one wild moment I know it's him, hope it's him, would give anything for it to be him, but the illusion is shattered by the appearance of my dad's bald head. He pulls himself onto the little homemade observatory platform, his frosty breaths clouding the clear air. He sits down next to me wearily, closer than usual, probably to conserve body heat. Neither of us speaks for a moment, just watching the snow.

"What's up?" I ask reluctantly, my voice rather rough because my nose is stuffed up.

"I should be asking you the same question," he replies, looking at me with a half-grin playing about his lips. "Like what you're doing up on Jack's roof when there's a turkey inside just dying to be carved?"

I laugh softly at his corny jokes and sniffle a bit. Emboldened by mild hypothermia, I take a quick, ragged breath before confessing, "Dad, I just can't stop thinking about him."

But that's not the truth. What I can't stop thinking about is how he died, horrifically, slowly, alone. How I wasn't there when he needed me most. Hot tears slice through the frost on my cheeks.

"Sam, oh God, don't cry..." He pulls me into his arms like the child I never was and I sob into his chest. Why? Why did he have to die, why wasn't I there, why him, why now, why me, why? I cry until my throat is raw, my eyes swell shut, my heart bleeds. Then slowly, slowly the cuts begin to clot, the wounds scab over, and I'm so exhausted that I just let the comfort of sleep wrap itself around my aching body.

* * *

I wake up the next morning on Jack's couch, covered in a mound of blankets. I'm not sure when I learned to separate the professional from the familiar, but now we're on first name basis outside the SGC. Figuring it best not to ask how I got from the roof to the living room and into a pair of sweatpants, I slide out from under the covers and wiggle my feet into a pair of slippers considerately left nearby. Wrapping an afghan around my shoulders, I shuffle into the kitchen where Jack is making scrambled eggs.

"Hey there sleepyhead," he greets me, and gives the eggs another poke with his spatula. "You missed the turkey. Specifically, you missed Teal'c carving the turkey."

"There are always leftovers," I point out. "And pictures?" He nods, with his tongue clamped between his teeth as he concentrates on flipping the eggs onto a plate.

"Cassie brought her digital camera. She's getting pretty good with all that technology stuff." He pins me with an accusing glare. "Might you have something to do with that?"

"Who, me?" I ask innocently, eyeing the eggs, the smell reminding me that I haven't eaten properly for some time. Jack adds two pieces of toast and a fork to his creation and places the plate in front of me. I dig in and mumble a 'thanks' around a mouthful of eggs. Swallowing, I take a smaller bite this time, watching his attempts at easy over quickly degenerate into scrambled again. An amusing and creative string of curses always seems to accompany his cooking.

"Where is everybody?" I let the fork flop down and grab a slice of toast.

"Janet took Cassie home at about 11 last night, leaving us with very strict orders about your health. Your dad went home with Hammond, very reluctantly I might add, at about the same time, because as you know he absolutely, positively had to leave early this morning. Teal'c's in the guest room and Dan..." His voice trails off and our eyes lock. Breaking away, I blink rapidly and trace a grove in the tabletop with my finger. He clears his throat and goes back to frying eggs. "Anyway, Dad says bye and all that. He told me to give you a kiss for him. Unfortunately, I doubt he really meant it."

I manage a half-hearted giggle before it turns into a sigh. "I'm sorry," I tell him sincerely, and he cocks his head to one side and stares at me quizzically.

"For what?"

"For...everything. For being such a pain in the neck."

He waves his spatula dismissively. "Don't worry about it. Perfectly normal. Even MacKenzie says so. Plus, you were only a little frozen, all we had to do was pop you in the oven with the turkey and crank it up to 300."

I pause, then smile and lick the jam off my fingers. "Thanks."

"For what?"

"For...everything. The food, the defrosting, the bad jokes."

"Bad?" He clutches at his heart dramatically. "Bad jokes?"

"Well, not bad, per se..."

"You wound me, Sam. Ya know, Daniel always got my jokes, maybe he was just way smarter than you."

I gasp, and he meets and holds my gaze. A few tears splash onto the remainder of my eggs, but I finally let my face crack into a shaky smile. "Yeah, he was."

He nods slowly and busies himself with the coffee maker. The drips echo through the kitchen, and a few minutes later he hands me a steaming mug. I take a sip and notice it's Daniel's favorite, caffeine included. We haven't made it since his death, but now it just seems right. I wipe my face with a napkin and cradle the warm cup in my hands.

"I wish Daniel was here."

"So do I, Sam. So do I."

* fin *