A/N: This seems to have become the longest Campfire yet – how odd considering that this proved to be especially difficult to write. I really wanted a Sam story but Jack kept poking his head in. My thanks to Leiasky and Kathryn Shadow for their beta work and comments. Your efforts made this a much better story, ladies. Thank you. I do enjoy reading your feedback and comments. Thank you.

Set following Seth.

Balance

Sam shifted uncomfortably on the low couch. The movie was still playing but the volume on the TV had been lowered after Daniel dropped off to sleep. She tilted her head and studied him, their archaeologist-cum-soldier. She was proud of him, she realized. Justifiably so. Since becoming a team a little over two years ago they'd all changed so much, but she was sure it was Daniel who'd changed the most. He'd been so . . . innocent . . . when she'd first met him on Abydos. So eager and welcoming. Then later, so . . . lost. Her heart ached for him still, knowing that he—despite outward appearances—still desperately missed his wife. She, Sha-ré, had now been gone for nearly two years longer than Daniel had been married to her, but Sam knew he still mourned.

If only rescuing Sha-ré from Apophis' grip could be as easy as had been rescuing young Tom Levinson from Seth's cult. They'd researched it, found his compound, done a standard recon, gone in and . . . job done. Well, job done after stepping on some federal toes, but . . . job done, typical SG-1 style. Only . . . Sam suppressed a shudder. Okay . . . so it hadn't been that simple. She shook her head and surveyed the darkened room. Daniel had nearly melted into the large leather chair in the corner, his head lolling ungracefully to one side and his snores slowly increasing in volume. Teal'c had long since moved into the small den off of the living room, claiming the need for kel-no-reem, leaving her on one end of the couch and O'Neill on the other. Glancing again at the screen, Sam saw that Dorothy was slowly falling asleep in the large meadow, having strayed from the yellow brick road. Watch it, Dorothy, she thought. The path's there for a reason.

After a while she sighed again and finally gave up on the movie. Gathering a handful of empties, she headed toward the kitchen, noting that despite his having chosen his favorite movie for team night, O'Neill was dozing on his end of the couch. Sam moved through the kitchen with a familiar ease, more comfortable here, truth be told, than she was in her own. She left the overhead lights off, choosing instead to feel her way in the near darkness. She poured out the remainders in their bottles and set them in the recycling bin at the end of the counter. Crossing her arms across her chest, she stepped closer to the large sliding glass doors, wishing it was warm enough that she could slip out and look at the stars. Not that there would be any to see. Sam leaned forward and pressed her head to the glass and watched the rain continue to pour down from the heavens, her breath fanning out to steam the glass near her nose and mouth.

She'd always loved the rain, but . . . not tonight. Tonight she could have used some bright and beautiful stars. She'd been looking forward to some quiet time. To losing herself in a book. Or a bubble bath. But the Colonel had had other ideas.

Sam slowly lowered her arm, staring in stunned amazement at the body of Seth where it lay crumpled against the subterranean wall. She looked down at her hand, her gaze almost bemused as she realized that she had done this. With just the power of her mind, she'd . . . Oh my God! She'd killed him. With just a . . . thought!

Sick with the dawning realization of the power she held—quite literally—in the palm of her hand, Sam fumbled with the Goa-uld hand device, desperate to remove it. She turned to find O'Neill's equally stunned gaze on her. She watched as his glance flicked past her to the remains of the centuries-old Goa-uld. His eyes were wide as he met her gaze, his voice tinged with awe.

"Hail, Dorothy."

At his words, Sam's world crumpled. Oh, God. How . . . how could she have done it? She was no better than . . . them. They who used these things—and she finally yanked her fingers free—for the torture and subjugation of others.

"Captain." O'Neill's voice jarred her, rubbing against her already raw nerves. "Let's get the rest of these people out of here."

And just like that, Sam turned it off. She shoved the fear, anger, revulsion down . . . deep, deep down, as far as she could. She had work to do.

She could hate herself later.

The mop-up was left to the feds and O'Neill had wasted no time in getting his team back to Cheyenne. Once there he'd declared tonight a 'team night' and practically ordered them all to his place.

"Carter? You okay?" O'Neill's low voice pulled her from her from her memories.

Sam sighed softly and rocked back onto her heels, realizing she was cold in the dark kitchen. She had no idea how long she'd been leaning against the patio door, but her forehead, when she lifted it from the pane, felt like ice. She turned to find him leaning in the kitchen doorway, his hands in the pockets of his cargo pants, shirt as rumpled as his hair, and his white socked feet explaining why she hadn't heard him approach. She offered him a wan smile she wasn't sure he would even see in the darkened kitchen and nodded. "Yes, Sir. I'm good. Just . . . you know."

O'Neill stepped closer, his eyes not leaving hers. Sam slipped her own eyes closed as he neared her, afraid of what he might see when he got close. She half-turned away from him and returned her attention to the downpour outside. Trying for a light tone, she said, "It's really coming down out there."

"It is." O'Neill moved to stand next to her, his arm brushing hers. "I'd hoped to light a fire outside tonight." He paused, and Sam felt more than saw him turn to study her. "I thought you might . . . well, I thought it'd be nice."

"It would have been." Sam's voice was barely a whisper in the darkness, not enough force behind it even to steam the large pane of glass shielding them from the blowing elements outside.

"Carter."

Sam bit back a small sob, the gentle concern in his voice doing more to breach her defenses than any commands or loud words ever could. She fought another wave of fear and self-loathing, clenching her jaw with an effort to keep it all in. She sucked in a long breath, trying to regain control of her suddenly raging emotions. God, she'd killed today with just her mind! What else could she do? What other abilities had Jolinar left her? Or taken from her? Determinedly keeping her gaze fixed sightlessly on the sheets of rain rippling in waves against the window, Sam hid her eyes from his. As afraid as she was of what she could now do, she was more afraid of seeing her feelings reflected in O'Neill's gaze.

It was bad enough that she was afraid of what she could do, she didn't think she could bear it if he was afraid of her too. His words, spoken mostly in jest, as they'd stood over Seth's body, had taken on a life of their own in her mind. Sam was convinced that he—and perhaps Daniel too—were wondering if someday she'd turn her newly discovered powers on them. Or worse.

O'Neill blew out a loud breath, startling them both. He reached out and wrapped a warm hand around Sam's elbow, pulling her away from the window and toward him. "Sam. Let's go."

Her mind tangled in a swirling whirlpool of out-of-control emotions, Sam didn't protest as he led her back into the living room. Once there he gently pushed her down to sit on the cushions he'd piled in front of the couch. When she was seated he picked up a worn quilt and wrapped it around her from the front, tucking it behind her, pinning the fabric between her body and the couch.

The Colonel stepped over to the fireplace and Sam saw that he'd lit a roaring fire while she'd been in the kitchen. She slowly blinked and looked around, realizing that she and the Colonel were alone in the room.

"Daniel?"

"I asked Teal'c to help him into bed. He's out cold in the guest room." The Colonel stood for a moment, absently ruffling a hand through his hair as he gazed down at her. "Don't move," he ordered gently. "I'll be right back."

Sam nodded and turned her attention to the fire, appreciating the effort he'd taken to light it. The bright flames chased away the lingering chill on her skin after spending so much time against the patio doors. Snug under the faded quilt she felt herself begin to relax. For the first time since they'd returned from Montana she felt the maelstrom of her thoughts begin to settle.

O'Neill returned with two steaming cups in his hands. As he eased down beside her, he handed her a large white ceramic mug, his fingers trailing along hers as she took it from him. The lettering on the side was fading slightly from repeated washings, but the words, "It's Not Exactly Rocket Surgery," never failed to bring a slight smile to her lips. O'Neill had presented her with the mug on her birthday last year and when she'd accidentally left it here after the party, he insisted she use only that one whenever she was here.

"Tea?"

"Hot chocolate."

"Even better. Thanks."

"No problem." O'Neill leaned back beside her, sipping a drink Sam knew would be coffee, despite the lateness of the hour. Finally he asked her, "You gonna tell me what's going on in there?" He waved vaguely toward her head.

"Sir?"

The Colonel faced her and set his mug aside. He turned and rested his elbow on the couch seat behind him, his hand dangling down and barely brushing her shoulder. "C'mon, Carter. You've barely looked at me since we got back this morning. You were short with Dad, downright rude to Daniel, and you didn't eat much tonight, despite forcing me to order a pizza with, and I quote, 'extra sliced tomatoes and fresh basil.'" He paused and shuddered dramatically, then tapped her on the shoulder, silently asking her to turn to face him. "So, using my stunning powers of deduction I have to eliminate the possible causes for your . . . upsetness. The company, the food, or the movie. Can't be the company," he quirked a small smile at her, and she could see he was doing his best to be charming. "The food's the same as it always is, and nobody can dislike this movie. It's a classic." He shrugged again. "Gotta be something else, then."

Sam sighed and tried a little prevarication. "Actually . . . yes. I mean, no, Sir. It's the movie. I've always hated this movie."

"You're . . . you . . . what?"

From the expression on his face, Sam didn't think she could have shocked him more had she announced that she was leaving the SGC to join the Church. Offering him a slight smile, she continued, glad her distraction seemed to have worked. "The Wizard of Oz, Colonel. I've never liked it." And now I really don't like it, she added silently.

"What's not to like? You've got munchkins, a lost little girl with great sidekicks, a rainbow and . . . and . . . even a dog!" O'Neill's indignation was clear as he stared at her disbelievingly.

"And flying monkeys, scary guards with spikes, evil witches who lock you up . . . " Grimacing apologetically, Sam shrugged.

"Oh my."

"What can I say, Colonel? I've never understood its appeal. I've never really even seen the thing all the way through. When I was a kid I would duck out when the flying monkeys came on."

"Tonight you left when they all said, 'Hail, Dorothy,'" O'Neill said quietly, his dark eyes intent on hers, all lightness gone from his tone.

"I . . . I thought you were asleep."

"Nah." Now O'Neill shifted his arm along the couch cushion to let his hand drop to her shoulder and stay there. "I'm sorry, Carter. For saying that to you. I was just so . . . damn. What you did . . . " He shook his head and looked away.

Oh shit. Shitshitshitshit. I knew it. Sam panicked and started babbling, and she scrambled to reassure him. "I know, Sir. I'll try to get control. I won't let it get out of—"

"Oh hell, Carter," O'Neill interrupted, whipping his head around. "I know that. I'm just—" He stopped suddenly and stared, his focus so intent that it unnerved her. "Oh." He lightly shook the shoulder beneath his hand to get her attention. "For cryin' out loud, Carter. Is that what's been eating at you? You think I'm afraid that . . . that I'm afraid of you?"

Sam, her blue eyes suddenly filling with tears, could only nod. Where before she'd been afraid to meet his gaze now she didn't want to break that link with him. Sam felt his hand tighten again on her shoulder and she found that she needed that connection with him to continue. Her voice barely above a whisper she said, "You should be."

"Are you nuts?" Clearly angry, O'Neill swiveled his body around to face her completely, startling her as he grabbed both of her shoulders and yanked her around to face him. He immediately gentled his movements when she flinched and pulled back. "Jesus, Sam. How on Earth could you . . . oh crap. You know, for someone so impossibly brilliant you sure can get it spectacularly wrong sometimes." He released her and leaned sideways against on the couch, resting his arm on the cushions and dragging his fingers through his hair in frustration.

Sam forced herself to relax as she mimicked his pose. She sat with her legs folded between them, her left arm resting on the couch and her right warm from the still-blazing fire. The quilt had slipped off of her shoulders at the Colonel's sudden movement and she made no move to adjust it. Between the fire and the hot chocolate she was warming up fast. That and the proximity of a certain Colonel, she thought, but quickly shoved that aside. Sam watched as O'Neill unclenched his hand to retrieve his coffee. Deciding he wasn't going to be making more sudden moves anytime soon, she retrieved her hot chocolate and continued sipping, giving him time to say what he clearly wanted to say.

"Sam." O'Neill carefully set aside his coffee again, clasped his hands together, and deliberately placed them in his lap. He waited as she placed her own drink on the coffee table and then met his gaze. "I. You. Damn it. Carter, how the hell could you think I'd ever be afraid of you?"

She could hear the frustration in his voice rapidly giving way to anger. She didn't want him mad at her, she needed him to understand. Swallowing hard she looked away, struggling to articulate what had been strangling her all day. Pushing the words past the lump in her throat she muttered, "I . . . I killed him, Colonel."

"And?"

Sam frowned. That wasn't what she'd expected him to say. And, she realized, he was right. It's not like the man whose compound they'd infiltrated was the first man she'd killed. But . . . that was different. That was battle. Today was . . . was . . . it just was. Clearly she hadn't explained herself because he didn't get it. "Colonel. I killed him . . . with my mind!"

"No you didn't."

Sam's double-take would have been funny had they been talking about something lighter. She shook her head slightly, not sure if she'd heard him correctly. "Yes, I did."

"No. You didn't."

"Sir." Sam stopped and frowned at him. Now she understood what Daniel felt like during one of his and the Colonel's infamous conversations. "Yes. I. Did." She enunciated each word clearly, some of her own anger leaking through the fear. She tapped her chest. "I was there."

"So was I." The Colonel leaned forward and tapped his own as he spoke, then reached and enfolded her hands in his. "Carter. I'll be the first to admit that you have one hell of a mind. But," he held up a finger to stop her protest. "Your mind . . . amazing as it is, isn't what killed the Goa'uld." He squeezed her hands. "It was the hand-device that did the killing." O'Neill stopped and then tried again. "Look, Carter. If you had been holding a gun and decided to kill him, would that be different than what you did today?"

"Of course it would."

"How?"

"Because I . . . because the . . . deadly force . . . I used would have come from gun, but not my mind." She had to make him see the difference.

"But, when you're holding a gun, it's your mind that decides to tell you to squeeze the trigger."

"Well, yes, but . . . " Sam trailed off, nonplussed.

"So . . . how is that different?"

"It . . . it . . . it just is, Colonel.

"Carter. You . . . through Jolinar . . . you've been . . . changed. You've been given a new . . . weapon, if you will. Another way for us to fight back. It wasn't your choice, and it wasn't your fault. But it happened. What you do with what you got is up to you."

"Colonel." Sam bit her lip and dropped her gaze. She bit back the tears that threatened to spill over. "I have no way of knowing just what my experience with Jolinar has done to me . . . permanently. Today was just one example of what she left in me. What she made me. Who knows if I'll ever have . . . well, who knows?" She finished lamely, and looked up at him again, refusing to think about the many, many things she didn't know about Jolinar's effect on her body.

"Carte, I hate what happened to you. I hate that one of those snake-heads got to us. Got to you." He closed his eyes for a second, clearly reliving his experience with the Tok'ra possessed Carter. This time it was Sam who squeezed his hands in support. "But . . . there's nobody else on this planet . . . .hell, Carter. In this galaxy that I'd trust more with that kind of power. That kind of knowledge."

"Thank you, Colonel." Sam whispered. "But . . . "

"Ah!" Again he held up a hand to stop her. "No 'buts,' Carter. None." He tightened his grip on her hands and lifted them off of her lap, running his thumb over her knuckles on before releasing them. "You're not alone, you know. You don't have to 'control it,' as you said . . . not on your own. We . . . me, Daniel. Teal'c. Fraiser and Cassie. Hammond. Siler and what's his name, the gate guy?"

"Harriman."

"Really? I always thought his name was Davis. Anyway, yeah, him too." He smiled at her and turned again to face the fireplace. As she, too, turned he leaned forward and added another log. Catching her eye again he spoke softly, his expression serious once again. "I know it happened to you, Sam, and I'm not trying to make light of that. Really. But . . . you need to understand that none of us are afraid of you. Or what you'll do with your new . . . superpowers. I'm more afra . . . " O'Neill stopped and cleared his suddenly husky throat. He tried again to speak and again had to stop.

Sam bent forward and caught his eye. "You're more afraid of . . . what, Sir?" It was dark in the room, the only light coming from the fireplace. For a brief second Sam was certain she saw the shine of tears in her CO's eyes, but just as quickly dismissed the possibility. "Colonel? You okay?"

"Yeah." His voice gruff, O'Neill spoke again. "Carter. Let's consider this," he gestured toward the fireplace, "one of our campfires, okay?" When she nodded he continued. "I . . . I know this is over that line, Captain, but . . . "

"But?" Sam leaned back again, her arm brushing his. She let herself enjoy the brief contact. After all . . . this was a campfire, wasn't it? Sort of?

"You'd tell me, wouldn't you?"

"Tell you?"

O'Neill looked uncomfortable and for a moment Sam forgot her own fear and worry, concentrating instead on him. She wasn't used to seeing him at a loss for words. Affected confusion sometimes, but never truly unable to form words.

"If you . . . " He stopped, then gave a brisk shake of his head. "Never mind."

"No, Sir. Remember? There's no 'never mind' allowed. At least not at our fires." She lifted her knees up and turned her head to rest her chin atop them, her eyes fixed on his. The fear and anger that had shadowed her since she'd killed Seth seemed to be fading.

It helped, she realized. Helped to talk about it, and especially with him. The fact that he'd reacted so strongly to her idea that he'd be afraid of her . . . his natural and honest response had more of an impact upon her than just the words. It also helped that talking about it with him brought up something about which he was concerned. That gave Sam something on which to focus, something outside of herself.

That's what they did for each other, she suddenly realized.

He kept her from losing herself. He . . . he anchored her. Sure, Janet, Daniel, Cassie, and Teal'c were there for her, but what she felt for O'Neill went beyond that deep friendship—that love of family—to something more. Something almost concrete for which she could reach and hold onto when she felt she was drowning, as she was now.

From the day her father had walked in, his face a mask of grief and sorrow, to tell her that her mother was dead, Sam had been on her own. Her coping method for anything truly stressful had always been to escape inside of her own mind, to close herself off from the outside world and concentrate instead on the theoretical. The impossible. Lately, however, she'd found it harder and harder to return to the real world. It was often easier just to keep the outside world out and focus her brain on what so many would never understand.

Now, though . . . she studied his profile as he looked away and turned his attention to the fire. For the first time in her life Sam realized that she really didn't have to do it all alone. Others had told her that and meant it, she was sure. But . . . sitting here, perched on pillows in front of a couch, a blazing fire in the fireplace and a well-loved quilt covering her, it became real for her. He was offering a hand, it was up to her to reach out to take it.

Sam suddenly felt as if her world had opened up. Like a burst of light and sound she found herself overwhelmed by the realization that of all of the people in her life—past and present—it was this man, the one man she should never want, who would be her balance. To provide her with that all-too-necessary grounding to the world in which she must function.

Overwhelmed by it all, Sam slowly breathed in, taking in the scent of the burning wood mixed with the smells of the Colonel's home. The homey, slightly dusty aroma that was always so comforting to her, overlaid by the closer, stronger layer of his aftershave hovering so near. She glanced around, amazed that the room was as it had been before. A fire still burned brightly in the fireplace, the tumultuous storm outside still blew rain in waves against the large picture window, and Colonel O'Neill still sat beside her, still lost in his own thoughts. A small muscle twitched along his jaw, betraying his own internal struggle and she found herself suppressing the urge to reach out and caress that tenseness away.

Sam inhaled again and closed her eyes to steady herself. She had realized something profound—about herself and about the importance in her life of the man beside her—and despite that newfound knowledge, she realized that outwardly nothing had changed. He was still who he was and she who she had been when she'd arrived. An Air Force officer capable of more terrible things than her government had ever dreamed. Sam slowly blinked her eyes open and found herself looking into his tawny brown gaze. Yes, she was the same Sam Carter who'd walked in the door. Now, however . . . now she didn't have to be alone, not if she didn't want to.

It was up to her.

Suddenly, Sam wasn't afraid anymore.

But . . . how to take that hand? How . . . Head still resting atop her knees, Sam could see him still thinking hard about something. Maybe it was as easy as responding in kind. "Sir? " Sam prompted him softly. "You gonna tell me what's on your mind?" Her words were an echo of his earlier request to her, conscious mirroring of his reaching out to her.

When O'Neill spoke, his words were low, his tone uncertain. "Sam, I would . . . you'd tell me, you know, if you find out any more things? I mean, that Jolinar did to you."

"Why?" She felt him sigh against her cheek, her head rising and falling with his movement.

"How about 'just because'?"

"Um . . . no. I don't think that's a reason, Sir."

"Oh."

"Then . . . can you live with 'because it's . . . you're . . . important to me'?"

Long, quiet moments slipped by as Sam turned his words over and over in her head, the quiet sincerity in his voice slowly working to still the dissonant thoughts in her head. As her thoughts settled she took a mental step back and looked at the two of them—him seated with his back to the couch and his eyes on the fire, she beside him, watching him—for a moment she felt almost as if she were across the room observing an experiment. Regardless of their own understanding that these little fireside interludes shouldn't happen—couldn't happen—they seemed to happen with surprising regularity. And, Sam knew, in spite of the innocence of their current positions they'd be hard-pressed to justify this, or their growing comfort with one another, to those who made it their business to care. Her Colonel's words echoed through her thoughts, "Then . . . can you live with 'because it's . . . you're . . . important to me?"

Sam slid sideways to slowly and carefully rest her head on his shoulder. O'Neill kept his hands in his lap, but she felt him lean into her slightly. Shifting a little, she rubbed her cheek against the rough fabric of his shirt until she'd found the best spot. She took a deep breath and slowly let out a long, quiet sigh. And, as she sat curled up beside him with her head atop his shoulder and her bent knees resting against his, safe from the storm raging outside and the smaller one within, Sam decided. "Yes. I can live with that."

End.