Was there anything he hated more than paperwork?

O'Neill grabbed the sheets out of the printer behind him and slammed the folder shut. Well, maybe the Goa'uld. Maybe. And surprises. The bad kind that came up in the middle of missions, definitely.

Most recently he'd developed an certain antipathy for commanding Generals who decided to take a few days off and leave him in charge.

Not that he begrudged Hammond the leave time. If he had two of the cutest granddaughters in the world he'd probably be requesting leave every other week to take them to Disneyland. Kayla and her big sister Tessa deserved some quality time with their grandfather. He threw the folder into Davis's in-box with deliberate carelessness.

It just - galled him - when Hammond announced both the leave and the temporary promotion with that shit-eating grin all over his face. The General knew exactly how much he hated being put in this position.

It wasn't the commanding part the bothered him. Making decisions that affected people's lives; that affected the course of Earth's relationships with the rest of the galaxy; the life or death decisions; the end-of-the world kind of stuff; that was easy. No problem. Bring it on. The more the merrier.

No. What torced him was all the damn paperwork.

Seeing the look on their temporary commander's face, the SF's jumped nimbly out of the way, saluting smartly, as O'Neill stormed down the steps to the Gate Room.

"Status?" He barked at the General's aid, Sargent Walter Davis, seated at the monitor. He knew the status well enough, it just gave him a charge to ask.

Davis winced, but, used to Colonel Jack O'Neill's moods, answered evenly. "SG-9 just made scheduled contact from their diplomatic mission to P3C-451, Sir. And SG-6 and 3 are due back tomorrow morning."

"Great. I'm outta here, then. You know how to get a hold of me." Davis nodded, his attention on his screen. O'Neill turned to go and tossed over his shoulder, "Oh, and Sargent, that..." And here he had to stop and remember that he was, temporarily, in charge. "That important quarterly personnel report is on your desk."

"Yes, Sir." Davis called after the Colonel. He glanced at Sargent Siler next to him and rolled his eyes. The other man grinned before they both turned back to the Gate diagnostic Major Carter had ordered before leaving for her own down time.

Everybody on base, from the newest SF to General Hammond, respected Colonel O'Neill. He was the best. He and his team, SG-1, always found a way to turn a defeat into a victory. The aliens they'd met and formed alliances with trusted his word before anyone else's. And they always - always - came back. Heck, Colonel O'Neill had even been dead and brought back from it more times than Davis could remember.

And everybody knew to steer clear of him when he'd been doing paperwork. The newbies always had to be clued in, and the General had made that Davis's job. Colonel O'Neill could come back through the Gate fresh from a hellish fire-fight with the Goa'uld and be practically cheerful, but after less than two hours of forms and mission reports, he'd be as snarly as a cornered dog.

Davis sent a nasty thought in the direction of his CO, two star General George Hammond, for leaving on vacation the week that the base quarterly reports were due. It made Davis think longingly of a possible apocalypse. Colonel O'Neill would at least be in a better mood.

O'Neill's infamous mood hadn't improved much by the time he negotiated Base security up to the parking lot. He sat behind the wheel of his pick-up and thought about what he was going to do that evening.

It would be a solitary pursuit, no matter what he chose. With Hammond off-base and him in the hot seat, the rest of SG-1 had some well-deserved leave. Major Samantha Carter, his blond and lanky second-in-command, had jumped on her motorcycle and headed off to spend some time with her brother and his family in San Diego. Teal'c, was on some planet or other with Bra'tac recruiting more Jaffa for their Rebellion. A busman's holiday digging up a Native American village in the Montana backwoods had been Daniel's choice for a vacation.

They'd all deserted him. Cheerfully, it had seemed. So he was on his own. He turned the ignition with a snort of disgust. Okay, fine. He'd just do something without them. Perfectly aware that his thought had sounded childish - and quite okay with that - he drove through the Base security gate and back towards Colorado Springs.

He didn't want to stay on-base. He was there enough anyway. Home, with a solitary beer and video games was too depressing. O'Malley's was a possibility. He could have dinner, play some pool, shoot the breeze with the regulars. But he didn't really want conversation in a well-lit, noisy, happy place.

He wanted dim and smoky, with a surly waitress in a short skirt and high heels who'd ignore him. He wanted a jukebox that played bad country western music. He wanted a place where the beer was watered and the whiskey wasn't, and the food definitely wasn't vegan or fat-free or even healthy.

What he wanted was - a dive. Oh, yeah.

He found what he was looking for not too far off his usual way home. From the outside at least, The Getaway had all the makings of a superior dive. The neon palm tree on the sign flickered fitfully in the evening twilight, on the verge of going out completely. Blue-painted clapboard siding was peeling nicely. Tinted windows protected the public from the immoral goings-on inside.

When he turned in the parking lot he sighed in relief. Harleys, banged up trucks, rusted sedans, and not one yuppified SUV crowded together on the gravel. In fact, his own extended cab Ford looked a little out of place as he parked it between a muddy jeep and a small herd of choppers.

He pulled open the slab front door with its porthole window and paused just inside to let his eyes get used to the dimness. Well, no country western music, and it wasn't nearly smokey enough, but a satisfying quiet pervaded, a hum of conversation broken by the crack of pool balls connecting and the clink of glasses.

It was a two-level dive. The upper level where he came in was backed by a long, gleaming mahogany bar that was probably an antique. Off to the left was the door to the kitchen, and several busy pool tables. Leather vests and tattoos, probably belonging to the herd of choppers, dominated the pool games. Perfect.

The lower level, much to his dismay, opened to his right out onto a bustling outdoor deck. Inside and out, the tables were nearly full. Damn. At least the waitresses had acceptably short skirts.

There was a small stage on his extreme right, empty at the moment but for a piano and stand-up bass. He could only hope that a really bad cover band was scheduled for tonight. That would make up nicely for the lack of a tinny jukebox.

He made his way to an open stool at the end of the bar farthest away from the pool games. A nod at the bartender, a huge black man with a head as bald as an egg and a loud Hawaiian shirt that looked big enough for a normal man to wrap around twice, had a beer sliding across the wood in his direction.

He sipped the cold brew appreciatively and settled in, pulling the hand-lettered menu closer. A pair of old men two stools over argued about baseball as he decided on dinner.

The Getaway was apparently a theme, with the food tending towards island and south-of-the-border fare. One of the short-skirted waitresses - Kelli, with an 'i', and unfortunately cute and perky - brought him a bowl of tortilla chips and took his order for a Volcano burger and fries.

The menu promised the hamburger was hot enough to grow hair on your tongue. He hoped so. He'd pay for it tomorrow - his stomach wasn't nearly as young as his mouth thought anymore - so it had better be worth it.

He was well into his second beer and surprisingly good mouth-searing burger when the argument started. One biker thought the other had scratched and the argument quickly degenerated into personal and familial insults, and menacingly raised cues. Friends of both men shouted impartial encouragement and suggestions from a safe distance.

Jack was just considering whether he should step in when the bartender slapped down a hand the size of a small dinner plate, making glasses and tortillas dance little jigs up and down the bar.

"You two!" Mr. Bartender had a voice that matched his body and it easily broke into the shouts. Jack's eyebrow went up in unconscious imitation of Teal'c at the broad Jamaican accent. "I tol' ya two: No more fightin' or ya won' come back here no mor'!" He pointed at one combatant, then the other, both managed to look guilty. "Now, ya settle it, or ya get out!"

The two men shared a look and then the smaller, looking sheepish - or as sheepish as someone who weighed an easy 350 could - replied. "Hey, Tommy. Don't get yer shorts in a wad. We was just havin' a discussion."

The bartender, Tommy, snorted. "Well, den, ya best be havin' a civilized one, or I'll haf ta come over dere an' bash your fool heads togetha'." And that was that.

Jack was disappointed. He wouldn't have minded a good bar fight, especially the mood he was in. Though the beer and the food were working their island magic and he could almost drum up a 'later, mon!' attitude. O'Neill watched as Tommy worked, keeping his bartender's eye on the former 'discussion' group and occasionally directing a muttered comment their way.

Tommy soon reached O'Neill's end of the bar. His plate and empty glass were swept away efficiently and the bar swiped clean with a rag. He took way O'Neill's empty chip bowl and began to fill it. "So, mon, ya wantin' another round?"

"Sure. Why not?" Why not, indeed. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.

Tommy slid the chip bowl back at him. A glass was set under the tap. "Ya stayin' for the show, den, mon?"

"Show?" O'Neill questioned casually, stuffing a fresh chip in his mouth. Could a bad cover band really be called a show?

"Ya, mon." The big man glanced up at the clock over the bar which showed a few minutes to nine o'clock. O'Neill's glass followed the chip bowl. "Anna, she be startin' any time now. Ah, she got da voice of a nightingale, an da face of an angel, dat one. I t'ink you gonna be pleased, mon." Tommy left to answer a hail from down the bar.

O'Neill took a sip from his glass and pondered whether or not he really wanted to stay. Annaprobably had a voice like a screech owl and the face of a homely horse. He was feeling pretty good after three beers and a good meal and didn't want to spoil his mellow. The Getaway might not be a dive, but it had worked, none the less, in lifting his paperwork mood.

While he was thinking about leaving, the lights came up on the little stage and the musicians, piano, bass, and guitar, sat down and tuned briefly. When the singer came out, he re-thought his position on going home.

She worked her way through the tables nearest the stage, greeting several people that she obviously knew. O'Neill sat back in his stool and watched one of the most gorgeous women he'd seen take up her place on stage.

She was tall, with long, gypsy-dark hair that lit up with fire under the lights. He wasn't close enough to tell the color of her eyes, even though they were enormous. Straight nose and a wide, generous mouth topped a curvy body covered by a clingy black dress. The trio started to play some bouncy Latin tune, she smiled a heart-stopping smile at the short burst of applause.

Jazz wasn't really his thing. It was okay, he supposed. At least, he didn't have anything against it, though it was usually classical music or opera that he put on at home. Yet when she started singing he decided he could become a fan.

"Night and day, you are the one. Only you beneath the moon, and under the sun." She had a voice like whiskey and moonlight. Dreamy, yet perfectly clear. A style that made him think she might be singing only to him. Even the bikers stopped playing pool and leaned on their cue sticks, listening raptly.

The applause at the end of the song had him shaking himself out of her spell. He took a gulp of beer when he found his mouth was bone dry. Okay, that was quite enough of that. As her set went on he tried to listen more critically, but he kept finding himself staring with his mouth hanging open.

At the end of an hour, she announced a fifteen-minute set break, and left the stage. Not to retreat to her dressing room, but to make her way through the crowd towards his end of the bar.

He felt a jump of anticipation and unfamiliar nervousness in the pit of his stomach. Stupid, O'Neill! She's not coming to talk to you! The voice in his head berated him. She did direct an impersonal, excuse-me smile his way as she stepped up to the bar next to him. He froze solid.

"What do you think, Tommy?" She hailed the bartender, who grinned at her as he filled a glass with water.

"Hey, girl. You really cookin' tonight!" Tommy handed her her water and she downed half in a single drink. Tommy refilled it automatically.

"Thanks." She turned so her back was to O'Neill and she could survey the room. He gulped reflexively when he saw how far down her dress dipped. "It's a good crowd tonight."

"Dey come ta see you, girl. You jes' keep it up." Tommy wiped the bar with his rag as she saluted him with her water glass. The bartender moved off and Anna reversed her turn, sweeping a mildly curious glance over O'Neill as she returned to the stage. He gulped again when he was sure she was out of earshot, and found he could move.

Get a grip, Jack! It was a good thing she hadn't spoken to him. He would have babbled like a teenager. How pathetic was that?

It was bad enough he hadn't had a date, let alone sex, in - a long, long time - but the first beautiful woman out of an Air Force uniform he laid eyes on had his glands working overtime. It was worse than pathetic. It was - humiliating.

With a self-deprecating sigh he signaled for his check and got the heck out of Dodge. But Anna stayed on his mind. Through the night in incredibly erotic dreams, and the next day at the Base.

Even paperwork didn't drive her out completely. The de-briefings of SG-6 and SG-3 occupied him for a short time, but he all-too-soon found himself sitting in his truck, preparing to drive home for the day.

Home. Tonight he was going home. He'd catch up on those episodes of The Simpsons he'd taped while on SG-1's last mission. He'd put on his most disreputable - and therefore, most comfortable - pair of sweats, nuke a frozen dinner and set up in front of the TV and zone out. Yeah. That was the plan.

Twenty minutes later, he found himself parking in The Getaway's lot. Just a beer and dinner. That was all. He just wanted to try their Jamaican Pork Sandwich and coleslaw. He wouldn't even stay until nine o'clock. Yes, he'd be damn sure to be out of there before nine.

Yet when the lights came up on the stage he was still at the bar, a fresh beer dripping condensation onto the lacquered wood. It wouldn't be the same tonight, he was sure. Maybe it wouldn't even be her. But, of course, it was.

When she came to the bar for her water at the set break, he managed a smile in return. He'd found out from Tommy that her name was Anna Jordan, and she had a standing gig at The Getaway four nights a week. He now knew she'd been singing there with her trio for a year or so. She'd shown up on Tommy's doorstep one day out of the blue, with a demo CD, and asked him if he'd like to increase his client base.

Tommy had told him, in his own inimitable fashion, that many nights now - especially those nights Anna performed - were often standing room only. She'd been an economic boom in a few short weeks, and Tommy was ecstatic.

O'Neill left again after the first set, unconsciously humming a tune from her performance. He refused to feel embarrassed the next day when he caught Davis staring at him in amazement.

Okay, so he was humming! A guy had a perfectly good right to hum whenever he wanted, didn't he?

He had no idea that Davis was amazed because the Colonel had just finished all the quarterly reports two days early. Without busting any innocent SF's down to privates for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And the Colonel had told him to 'Have a nice day' when his temperamental, temporary commander had left for the day. Weird. Totally.

This time O'Neill didn't even try to rationalize why he ended up at The Getaway. Tommy had his beer on the bar before he eased onto his usual stool. The pulled-beef burritos were as good as everything else he'd eaten. He thought it might be a good idea to take an extra turn in the gym the next day. Too bad Teal'c was off-world. A good sparring match with his muscular friend was guaranteed to work up a sweat and work off the pounds.

He listened and watched Anna's first set with more attention. He'd heard three hours of music from her and didn't think there had been a single repeat to any of her songs. She didn't use music and O'Neill wondered how many she knew. People who performed for a living might as well be aliens, as far as he was concerned. Why would any rational person want to get up in front of a group of strangers and do - anything?

She came for her usual glass of water. She wore a long black skirt tonight with a white cropped top that exposed an interesting expanse of midriff. Emeralds sparkled at her ears, throat and wrists. O'Neill was aware she was looking him over with a measuring gaze. Taking a deep breath, he met her eyes.

Green. They were as green as the jewels she wore.

She had nerve, he had to give her that. She didn't flinch, but gave him a half-smile and a raised eyebrow. Taking another sip from her glass, she spoke to him. "So. Tommy says you've been asking about me."
"Just curious." He was glad he could answer her sounding relatively normal. "Didn't mean to offend you."

She smiled a whole smile at him. He blinked at having the full wattage turned on him for the first time. "I'm not. As long as you're not going to serve me papers or slap a pair of handcuffs on me."

He thought a pair of cuffs might be interesting, but not until they knew each other better. "Hadn't crossed my mind."

She seemed amused, as if at some inner joke. "You're new here."

"Just got lucky, I guess." Jeezus, Jack. Say something. "Umm... The food's really good." Oh, that was intelligent!

"Hmm." She appeared to agree. "Tommy's wife, Belle, does the cooking."

"His wife?" Typical Mutt-n-Jeff relationship apparently. The woman he thought was the cook was more petite than Carter, with a voice that would have done a drill Sargent credit when she called out ready orders.

"Um-hm." Anna responded to her name being called from the stage by her piano player with a casual wave. "Well, back to the salt mines."

"Yeah. Uh... Break a leg." She gave him a final smile and moved off. He gave himself a mental kick in the pants. "Uh... Look." He called after her. "Can I buy you a drink or something?"

She paused, looking back at him with another serious appraisal and a private smile. "Maybe, Flyboy. If you're still here when I'm done working."

He nodded. "I'll be here."

She returned his nod and went back to the stage. Tommy exchanged his empty beer glass for a full one without asking. Jack interpreted the bartender's glare as a warning. "All dis time she bin here an' no body ever allowed ta buy her nuttin', mon."

"It's just a drink." Sheesh, it wasn't like it was any big deal, he thought. His track record with relationships wasn't that stellar. Most likely she'd be kind and let him buy her a drink before never speaking to him again.

It was midnight when her final song was sung. She stayed on stage while members of the audience came by to chat with her. Then she talked briefly with her back-up musicians while they packed up their instruments. By the time she slid onto the stool next to him, most of the crowd had cleared out. There was nobody left at the bar, and only two couples at the tables below.

Tommy stood nearby, ostensibly drying glasses. However, Jack observed him dry the same one three times in a row before Anna had leaned back and kicked off her shoes with a sigh. "Whatchu want, girl." He asked almost belligerently.

"Jamison's. A double." She answered unperturbed by Tommy's attitude. Jack raised two fingers to indicate he'd take that as well. She gave him that measuring look again and he wanted to squirm in his seat. "So what's a nice Flyboy like you doing in a place like this?"

"Why Flyboy?" He countered. Tommy banged their two shot glasses down in front of them and remained there, arms crossed as if daring one of them to tell him to leave.

Anna picked hers up and held it under her nose, sniffing the bouquet like the whiskey was fine wine. "A good Irish whiskey should smell like Ireland, don't you think? Kind of peaty and green?" She sipped and savored before swallowing.

"Don't you think this conversation would get a lot farther if we both did something other than ask questions?" Her laughter sounded exactly like the whiskey tasted on his tongue, smokey and mellow. Of course, it was the whiskey that made his stomach jerk like that and not her laugh.

"All right. Flyboy. Tommy says Marines. I say Air Force. So who wins the twenty bucks?" She seemed at ease and Jack hoped she was. This was as much success as he'd had with a woman lately.

"Why do I have to be in the military?" She wrinkled her nose and glanced up. "It's the haircut, isn't it?" She nodded with a chuckle, taking another sip from her glass. "You win. Air Force. Colonel Jack O'Neill, ma'am. That's O'Neill, with two L's. There's another Jack O'Neil with only one L. He has no sense of humor."

She held out a hand to Tommy, who went to the till and got out a bill, slapping it on her palm disgustedly. "I never win dis bet, mon. Girl's always right." He left to help his wife at her call from the kitchen.

The other two couples had departed and the waitress, Kelli, moved quietly below cleaning up, Jack and Anna were effectively left alone. "Call me Anna. You didn't answer me." She continued at his questioning look. "How'd you end up in The Getaway, Colonel? We don't get many from Cheyenne Mountain."

"Like I said, I was just driving around and made a lucky guess. I was actually looking for a dive."

She seemed to appreciate the necessity. "A few months ago, this place would have been right up your alley. Tommy's made quite a few changes recently." She pointed out the remodeling that had added the stage and the deck off the back of the bar.

"He gives you all the credit for that."

Anna shrugged, uncomfortable for the first time. "I helped a little."

"So what are you doing here?" It was her turn to not understand the question. He'd thought about this a lot the past two days. "Look. You're way too talented to be singing in some former dive in Colorado. You should be... I don't know, in New York or someplace where more people hear you. You obviously don't need the money." He indicated the shining gems that dripped from her ears and throat. If they weren't real emeralds, he'd eat them. "That means you've chosen to be here. Only two reasons I can think of for that - are you running or hiding?"

He didn't think she was going to answer. He'd been outrageous and knew it, and he waited for her to toss the rest of her whiskey in his face and storm off. Instead, she sipped thoughtfully before setting her glass down precisely on the wet ring on the bar. "You're very clever, Colonel."

"It's Jack." He answered, taking a gulp from his glass that made his eyes water.

She bit her lip and ran a finger around the rim of her glass. "Let's just say I had a bit of family trouble." Her eyes, green as glass they were, flickered to his and away. "Whether I left, or whether they kicked me out depends on which side of the door you're on. New York is the one place I do not want to be."

He opened his mouth to pry further but was stopped by something in those green eyes. Sadness? Regret? He wasn't sure, only that the look was entirely familiar to someone who had seen it in his own mirror more times than he could count. He took another bracing gulp of Jamison's.

"What about you, Colonel? Jack." She corrected herself before he could, having recovered quickly. "Any family in the area?"

"An ex-wife, otherwise no. My folks passed on years ago." He'd been two days shy of thirty and on a covert mission in the Philippine jungle when a car crash had taken them both. His then-wife Sara had arranged everything. He'd missed the funeral by three weeks.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged a shoulder. "Don't be. It was a long time ago." And a more recent death had hurt him more. Oh, God, Charlie... The pain came in a wave that flowed in a well-worn path. No parent should have to outlive their child. He tossed back the whiskey that remained in his glass and hissed at the burn.

"Well, aren't we a happy pair?" Anna followed suit with her drink. Her dark-fire hair jumped around her shoulders as she shook off the whiskey punch. "What else shall we talk about? The death penalty? Acid rain?"

They talked, about quite a few things. They laughed about a few things more. Yet Jack found he was dissatisfied. She was very adept at talking and saying very little. She seemed to consider every word, checking every phrase before it was said to make sure it was only what she wanted to say. He'd actually found out more about her from Tommy.

He'd been doing top-secret, classified missions for so long it was a reflex for him to dodge personal questions about himself, and was as guilty of keeping himself from Anna as she was from him.

Tommy came out of the kitchen at one a.m. and interrupted their laughter. "Hey girl, we gonna close now. You be careful walkin' home." He started putting chairs up on tables with a lot of clattering.

"You walk home every night?" Though Jack tried to be a civilized man, he couldn't help feeling protective about women. Carter had nearly elbowed him in the teeth the last time he'd opened the door for her.

"Um-hm." She fumbled for her shoes on the floor. When she looked up and saw his concern, she continued. "It's not far. It's one of the reasons I've chosen to sing here, as a matter of fact."

Standing, he tossed down some bills on the bar. "I'll give you a ride, then."

"Not tonight, I think." She held up a hand to stall his insistence. "I'll be fine. And I need the walk after the whiskey. By the way, thanks for the drink." She gave him one of those squirm-inducing looks he was becoming familiar with. "Next time you feel like buying me one, let me know. See you."

"Okay. Yeah. Sure. Uh... See you." She was already half-way back to the stage, and with a wave goodbye to Tommy, she disappeared behind the black curtain. He felt like high-fiving someone. She sounded like she wanted to see him again.

What was wrong with her?

He returned Tommy's farewell, making his way to his truck, now the lone vehicle in the lot. Maybe it was the double shot of whiskey that was fuzzing his brain, though it usually took at least a bottle before he felt this foggy.

She wanted to see him again!

When Anna came around from the back and crossed the street he thought briefly about following her home, then decided it was too stalker-ish. She said she'd be fine. Go home.

Okay, okay.

He went home, but he didn't end up sleeping much that night.

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The next day seemed to whiz by.

No more paperwork, for one thing. He gave a pilot's briefing on the new X-302. Had a radio conference with Major Brown updating his diplomatic mission. Spent two productive hours beating up - make that, sparring with - unsuspecting SF's in the gym.

He managed to keep his temper when Colonel Chekov, the Russian liason, made another stab at demanding that a Russian soldier be attached to SG-1. He was particularly proud of the fact that he only called Chekov an idiot once during the entire discussion.

He was starved and in an extremely good mood when Tommy hailed him in the doorway that night. A beer and two fish tacos later, he was still flying high.

"Ya know, don'tcha Jack-o mon, dat tonight's Anna's night off?" Tommy sported a sly grin as he pulled Jack another beer.

"Her night off?" He'd never even considered that she wouldn't be there. His mood dropped into his boots. "Well, uh... Yeah, sure I knew it." He tried to recover under the big man's laughing gaze. "I'm just getting addicted to your wife's cooking, that's all."

"Ya, mon. I be sure to tell 'er." Tommy laughed openly as he went to take a newcomer's order.

Crap. What day was today, anyway? Working underground, and on his screwy schedule, tended to confuse him about which day of the week it was.

The same two old men who'd occupied the bar stools next to him every night helped him out by cheering at the baseball game on the TV over the bar. As he watched, the network logo came on the screen advertising Sunday Night Baseball, fading into an athlete's foot remedy commercial.

Sunday night. Anna sang at The Getaway four nights a week. Which were probably not Sunday, Monday, or Tuesday. Crap.

Knowing he couldn't very well leave after telling that whopper lie, Jack resigned himself to spending another hour with his beer before he could make a graceful exit. During that time, he let himself relax, watch the game, and get drawn into the old-timer's on-going argument about the Rockies.

By the time Tommy asked him about another round, the hour and more had passed. Jack left feeling only a little foolish.

He told himself he wouldn't go back the next night. Anna wouldn't be there. There wasn't any reason he shouldn't go home. Yet he found himself, on his usual stool, eating a plateful of Belle's Jerked Chicken, and suffering under Tommy's amused grins.

Tuesday night - he was forcing himself to keep track - he deliberately went to O'Malley's. And found himself somehow dissatisfied with a place he'd always found perfectly acceptable.

O'Malley's was a - young - place. Lots of yuppies, lots of Base personnel, families with kids. Loud pop music over the din. Bright lights and blaring sports programs. Service was slow, and to top it off, his steak was over-cooked and his beer was warm.

He went to work with a sense of relief Wednesday. Not only was Hammond due back in only one day, but his team would start to reassemble. His life would get back on even keel. Back to normal. No more time for The Getaway. No more room for beautiful, green-eyed mystery women.

Teal'c arrived through the Stargate in early afternoon, fired up from his and Bra'tac's successes in recruiting rebellious Jaffa.

It always made the Colonel look twice when Teal'c wore his "native clothes." The enveloping robes made Teal'c seem even more alien than the symbiote he had carried in his gut.

Jack spent an enjoyable afternoon listening to Teal'c's adventures and watching him get the obligatory once-over from the medical staff. Not that Teal'c ever got sick. Junior had seen to that. It was the one thing for which Jack had to be grateful to a Goa'uld. Now, the tretonin Teal'c took every day as a substitute for the symbiote seemed to be as effective.

Teal'c's newly acquired need for sleep coincided with Jack's desire to leave the Base. He didn't want to invite Teal'c to accompany him, and didn't want to examine why too closely, so he dealt with it the way he dealt best with things like that - he ignored the subject.

A glance at his watch told him he was later than usual. Anna would have already started. He jumped into his truck with more enthusiasm than he'd had in weeks.

Getaway, here I come!

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He wasn't here.

Anna stopped herself from scanning the crowd yet again. He was not here tonight. His usual bar stool was empty. He wasn't at any of the tables. Not here. Not tonight.

Well, then. Good. That was just fine. The one thing she didn't need at the moment was a man like Jack O'Neill. Any man, but especially Jack O'Neill. He had complications written all over him. She didn't need - or want - complications in her life.

He was in the military, a career man in an organization whose goals were diametrically opposed to the way she was raised and what she believed. He was secretive about what he did and who he worked for. He was opinionated, sarcastic, and conservative with a healthy dose of chauvinism added in the mix. Complicated.

Anna let the song she was singing roll through her without really thinking about it. She wasn't giving her best tonight. She knew it. Her musicians knew it. And it was all his fault.

Where was he?

She didn't care. Really. She'd only spoken to him that one time, that one drink, an impulse on her part. Because she was trying to learn to follow her impulses, she hadn't taken a day - or two - to mull it over, meditate on the possible outcomes, practice possible dialogue scenarios. Goddess, she was pathetic.

It didn't matter that he didn't want to follow up on her carefully casual invitation to do it again. She didn't want to anyway. Did she? Besides, she had no way of knowing how to deal with an audacious Air Force colonel. Nothing in her former or current life would help her cope with this impatient, restless man who always played the game his own way. And she didn't know the rules in the first place.

There was just something about him. Anna could picture in her mind the way he watched her, and firmly refused to acknowledge any panic caused by his dark, intense eyes. It was like she was the only thing he was concentrating on. And when she'd finally worked up her nerve to speak to him, she found he had a sense of humor, an intelligence she appreciated, and an inner sadness that touched her.

She hoped she was mature enough that she wasn't influenced - too much, at any rate - by how physically attractive she found him. Strong, tall, and handsome, with an engaging grin and guarded eyes. His hands - why did she always notice a man's hands? - square-palmed, long-fingered, just beginning to be touched by the age that was sitting so well on his lined face.

He would have to be one of those men that became more attractive as they aged. And he'd started out looking pretty good.

Damn him, anyway.

She missed her entrance cue for the next song and had to endure an exasperated and disgusted look from her piano player as he repeated the intro. Come on, Anna. Pull yourself together.

She almost missed her cue again when she looked up and saw him stride into the bar. Stifling the jump of pleasure, she sleep-walked her way through the song, watching his every move.

He returned Tommy's wave, tossing his black leather coat on the back of his bar stool. The two old regulars next to him - Joe and Walter, though Anna had yet to sort out which was which - must have made a comment because he laughed and said something funny back. He parked his -very nice - butt onto the stool and picked up the beer Tommy set in front of him. And he turned to look at her.

She knew - precisely - the second he focused on her. It was an awareness that ran down her spine to quiver in the pit of her stomach. She wasn't prone to stage fright, but she was sure that she now understood it. And she knew - exactly - what he was looking for.

Stalling for time between songs, Anna reached for the glass of water at her feet and slowly drank. If she acknowledged him, if she said yes to the unspoken question he was asking, she was opening herself to all those things she'd just told herself she didn't - couldn't - want.

But wouldn't she be missing all the things she did? Wasn't that why she'd left her home, her family, in the first place? Because they only wanted her to do what they told her to do. What wasright. What was safe. What was necessary.

Because she wanted to live her own life, take her own risks. Find out what it meant to be Anna. Who that person was, and if she even liked her?

She'd learned so much since that day so many years ago when she'd left New York. About herself, about living. She hadn't believed how long she'd let them keep her - captive. And now.... If she didn't take this chance....

Taking a calming breath, Anna set down her glass and straightened, meeting his gaze across the crowded bar. Her nod and slight smile seemed to be what he was waiting for. He raised his glass in her direction and swivelled his bar stool around to attack the plate of food Tommy had just set there.

Well. That was that. She hoped she'd made the right choice. She hoped she could live with what came next. Because Jack O'Neill wasn't the only one with secrets.

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So she stayed that night and let him buy her another drink. And the next night. And the next. Tommy acting as chaperone and bartender. Neither Jack or Anna was aware how much they were learning about the other through their casual conversation, heated discussions, and sarcastic remarks.

Jack discovered that much of what he'd thought of as secretiveness was Anna's lack of self-confidence. She was so self-assured and professional when she performed that it seemed absurd that she wouldn't be that way in dealing with people. Him, in particular. He was so - harmless.

She was still very close-mouthed about herself. Jack found he learned more from what she didn't say, than by what she did.

She didn't like to be touched. She didn't shake hands, she avoided friendly hugs.  She was warm and vivacious. She was reserved and shy. She could match him drink for drink yet more often than not chose club soda. She loved jewelry. And clothes. But hated shopping. She ate like a logger, but never gained an ounce that he could tell.

She had one of those photographic memories and remembered even the smallest details of things she read and seen. Her repertoire included not only jazz standards, but pop tunes, rock and roll, even some of his classical favorites. She not only sang, she also played piano, and she said she played the harp.

And Jack discovered one other very important fact as he watched her finish up her last set Saturday night: He could, if he let himself, very easily fall for this woman.

As if in response to that thought, the skies overhead, which had been cloudy and threatening all day, boomed a loud clap of thunder. Jagged lightening flashed across the windows of the bar, and the rain started. Not in some little pitter-patter, but a gully-washing torrent.

The room cleared as the crowd swept out the doors with shouts of dismay and astonishment when they became instantly drenched. Jack watched them scurry across the parking lot in the intermittent light with mild contempt. It was just a little rain, after all. It wasn't even cold.

Anna seemed to take her audience's desertion in stride. Instead of coming to sit next to him, she went to one of the windows and looked out, watching the thunderstorm sweep across the city. Jack took his beer to stand next to her.

She was hugging herself, her arms wrapped around her, smiling in appreciation. "Isn't it wonderful?" She said to him with child-like simplicity.

"Yeah, it's a pretty good one." He took a thoughtful drink. "Hope the lightening doesn't start too many forest fires."

"Rain falls. Lightening strikes. Fires burn. It's all a part of the cycle, Jack." She had a way of speaking sometimes that reminded him of Daniel's friend Oma Desala. He didn't understand either of them. "I'm going to get soaked tonight, I think."

"No, you're not." On this he was clear. There was independent, and then there was stupid. "You're not walking home in this." As if to emphasize his point, a huge fork of lightening jabbed the dark overhead, followed by the loudest thunder boomer they'd heard.

"The lightening doesn't scare me and I don't mind getting wet." She challenged.

"I do." He up-ended his glass and drained that last of his beer. The empty made a sharp sound as he set the glass down on a near-by table. "I'm giving you a ride home tonight."

"Jack...."

"Anna." He mimicked. "I'll get my truck."

"I can walk across the parking lot." She hefted her bag onto her shoulder and made for the door.

"No." When she opened her mouth to protest he put up a hand to wave off her objections. "Ah. Ah, ah, ah." She was angry. Her eyes were glinting and the muscles in her jaw twitched as she bit down on what he was sure was a good cussing out. God, she was beautiful. He pointed at the floor. "No. Stay here." She crossed her arms, looking mutinous. He met her furious gaze calmly and pointed down again. "Stay."

They glared at each other in a furious battle as he slipped on his jacket, even brown to cutting green. He pulled up the windbreaker's hood and strode out the door into the storm.

Okay, add arrogant and stubborn to the list of Jack O'Neill's complications. Though she admired the way he walked unperturbed through nature's fury. His long strides were confident and purely masculine, eating up the ground. Even as she cursed his pigheadedness, she had to admit he was a pleasure to watch.

When his truck pulled up in front of the door, she ran out and jumped in, settling herself huffily into her seat and glaring at him again. To her added irritation, he just smiled and put the truck in gear, easing out to the street. "Which way?"

Anna's directions were terse over the rain's roar. The more she pouted, the more Jack liked it, which made her pout even more. The lightening was moving off though the rain still fell in sheets when she had him pull over outside a large Victorian on a corner lot about 15 blocks from The Getaway. A light shone through the gloom illuminating the wrap-around porch, spilling faintly into the cab of the truck.

Grabbing up her bag she made to get out. "Thanks for the ride." Though it didn't sound much like a thank you.

"Hey, wait a minute." He stopped her with a hand on the strap of her shoulder bag. He was very careful not to touch her. "We, uh... didn't get much of a chance to talk before we left."

"Oh, really?"

Damn, she was still mad. "Yeah. I, um... Well... I..." He scratched a hand through his wet hair and risked a look at her.

"That certainly was an interesting discussion. We'll have to do it again sometime."

Oh, she had the sarcasm thing down, all right. She made a grab at the door handle. He engaged the automatic locks. "Anna."

"Jack, let me out of here right now or I'll..."

"Just wait, okay? I'm not too great at this." Now he rubbed at the back of his neck, aware that she had subsided to watch him warily. "I just wanted to tell you..."

He didn't even know if he should tell her. But it was time for him to get back to work. Hammond had taken back the reins of the SGC, and the extra four days he'd given Jack as a bonus were up. His team had re-grouped and was on the rotation to start routine re-cons tomorrow.

"What?" She asked, still short with him, but he knew she was curious now. Too curious to let him get out of this.

"Look. I'm..." Oh, for cryin' out loud, Jack. "I'm going to be... Out of town... For a week or so. On business."

"Business. You mean deep space radar telemetry business?"

She hadn't believed their cover story either. They really needed to work on that. "Yeah. Deep space radar telemetry." He answered, looking her in the eye with a straight face. "I, ah, just wanted to tell you, you know, 'cause I'm not going to be around for a few days and I won't be at the Getaway and I'll be gone and..." He trailed off, wincing at his own juvenile stupidity.

"You just wanted to let me know." It seemed she'd lost her mad. Jack shrugged in response and she gave him one of those long, squirmy looks. In the end she seemed to come to a decision. "Thank you for telling me. I would have worried."

"About where I was?" Woo hoo! Yes!

"Yes. But also..." And now it was her turn to be uncomfortable. To look away.

"Also?" He prompted. The rain was still beating down, isolating them in the truck cabin. She shrugged and he clearly heard her swallow.

"Also... I would have wondered if I'd... Done something wrong." She didn't look at him. Couldn't. Damn, she hated being so insecure about how to act with people. Okay, that was enough of making a fool of herself tonight. "Thanks for the ride, Jack. Can I get out now, please?"

He sighed a quiet laugh at both of them, looked at her with a half-smile. "Not quite." He reached out to her, stopping short of skimming his fingertips across her slanting cheekbone. Her eyes widened, he didn't know if it was with fear or not. "Anna." He thought he felt his fingers tingle. "I don't know exactly when, but I will be back. Okay?"

She smiled at him. Not her full-wattage performing smile, not her let's-be-friends smile, not the one that laughed at him, but a sweet, shy one that he hadn't seen before. It felt like a gift. "Okay."

He broke the humming contact by snicking the door locks open. "Get inside now."

She nodded and pulled at the handle, but turned back to him before climbing out. "Jack. Be careful. Please." She said to him seriously.

"Always." He nodded towards her front door. "Go on."

She slammed the door and made a run through the rain up the walkway and steps to the cover of the porch. He watched her fumble for a minute for her keys and then the door swung open. She stepped through and hesitantly turned back, waved, shut the door behind her.

He smiled into the darkness as he gunned away from the curb.
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