Disclaimer: I do not own any recognizable characters.

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For Andrea.

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As he disentangled the tiny chubby fist from his finger and set the happily gurgling baby boy on the floor, Jack knew the grief would never fully fade.

The words had begun to slip from his mouth so effortlessly that the gravity of them had taken a moment to sink in. Closing his eyes, Jack rolled the words soundlessly over his tongue, savoring the feel, remembering the same words he'd spoken a lifetime ago.

"My favorite boy…"

The phrase was a favorite among fathers and their only sons. Jack had learned the words from his own father, the utterance bringing back memories of summer and baseball. As a father, Jack had murmured those very words into his own Charlie's ear on many an occasion.

He'd press his lips to his boy's cheek, then grasp the child at his small shoulders, leaning in to whisper into his ear, "My favorite boy…" well aware of the tremor of excitement that would pass through the young man to hear such praise from his father. Jack had felt the same secret thrill himself on the rare occasions when his father had praised him so openly.

Standing in the middle of the room, Jack took a few steps back from his baby boy, feeling like an impostor. He'd almost said the sacred sentence aloud. The words had died on his lips, unuttered, but that didn't matter because he'd already said them in his mind.

What did that say about Charlie? About the boy's memory? How could Jack forget for the few brief seconds it took to form that special thought?

Fingers to forehead, Jack filtered through memories of Charlie, testing the strength of the imprint the boy had left on his mind. Still there: the whisper of brown hair against his jaw as Charlie tucked his head in under Jack's chin for a hug.

That youthful cry of excitement when Charlie had opened his most-anticipated gift on Christmas day.

Wet kisses from a baby Charlie. The arc of a baseball against blue sky and the thud of its impact into a tiny mitt. Angry, stomping feet heading down the hallway. The image of a tongue tucked between teeth during intense concentration.

The memories were still there.

Jack couldn't understand. If the memories were still there, how he could affront Charlie's place as his firstborn son by forgetting?

He was still pacing when his wife came in.

Her observant blue eyes went to Jack's tense form, took in the trembling hands, and then saw the baby lying on the floor, waving happy fists. "Jack?" Her voice was full of alarm. She was rushing across the room and scooping up the little one even as Jack tried to reassure her.

"No, Sam … he's fine." Jack searched for the words to explain how he was feeling and they just weren't there. He gazed at her helplessly, arms limp at his sides. "I can't …" The sentence trailed off into a huff of frustration.

Her eyes searched his. Eying his empty hands, ineffectively flexing in the open air, Sam wordlessly held their tiny son out in Jack's direction. 'Here,' her expression said.

When Jack didn't move, she pressed the baby to his chest and Jack felt her lift one of his useless arms, bringing his empty hand to cup the back of baby Jacob's head. His other hand automatically followed, cupping the baby's rounded behind, cradling the infant's tiny form to his father's body.

Little Jacob relaxed into Jack's touch and Sam pulled her hands away.

Eyes still locked with Sam's blue ones, Jack let his body sway to the ancient pace all parents find in their soul. Back and forth, Jack rocked on his heels, soothing the small boy with the motion. In mere minutes the rhythm had lulled Jacob into a slumber, a tiny cheek pressed firmly against Jack's shirt, his body relaxed in Jack's big hands. Before long, Jack found the tension in his muscles had dissolved as well.

Raising the gaze he hadn't realized he'd dropped, Jack met his wife's eyes again, finding nothing but kindness in their blue depths. This wasn't the first weak moment she'd witnessed.

Jack remembered the first frissons of panic he'd felt, just seconds after his son's birth. He and Sam had opted to remain in the dark regarding the sex of their child, ostensibly as a surprise -- but deep-down, Jack knew he didn't want to know because the idea of having another son terrified him.

It had been announced in the delivery room, "You have a son!" and Jack had taken several stumbling steps back, pulling his hand from Sam's damp grasp. He had prepared himself to be a father again, but realized too late he hadn't been ready to have a son.

Leaning over and reaching for her husband, Sam had taken hold of his hand between hers and looked him deeply in the eyes. She'd brought his hand to cup her flushed cheek and had pressed her lips to his palm. "We have a son," she'd whispered, and Jack had felt the smile against his skin.

His eyes had fixed themselves desperately on his son -- his son -- in the arms of the doctor at the end of the bed. The gentlest of squeezes from Sam's hand and Jack had been able to nod at the man. The doctor had stood and silently offered the tiny swaddled bundle, extending the boy in his arms toward Jack. Seemingly of their own volition, Jack's own arms had lifted to accept that tiny life as his own.

Gazing down at the tiny face, he'd been startled at how wise the deep blue eyes seemed. The acceptance and the adoration he saw there on his young son's face had warmed a part of Jack's heart he hadn't known was cold.

Sam knew the depths to which Jack O'Neill's grief ran, though neither of them ever voiced it aloud. She'd seen Jack standing in the dark above the tiny bassinet, watching the baby sleep. She'd heard the crack of his voice when he'd remembered how Charlie's hair had stuck up in back just like Jacob's, and she'd stood wordlessly by while Jack tried to swallow the silent sobs by sheer will alone -- her hand on his arm, anchoring him like a lifeline while she drew soothing circles on his skin with her thumb.

Losing a child was something one never came back from. Jack never forgave himself for the oversight with which he'd robbed his son of life, but somewhere over the years, Jack had learned to occasionally forget it had ever happened.

However, moments of remembrance and recognition had now threaded themselves back into a corporeal life and Jack could no longer afford to forget.

Tucking his chin to his chest, Jack buried his nose in the fuzz on Jacob's small head, breathing in the baby's essence and reminding himself that life has to go on.

Touching his lips to his son's sleeping form, Jack knew he should never be able to forget. Closing his eyes and tightening his arms around the tiny boy on his chest, Jack felt Sam's comforting hand at his shoulder and wondered if perhaps -- someday -- he might eventually begin to forgive.