Chapter 3

"The sky of my homeworld was once blue, filled with the cries of Apalla gulls as they dived and soared over the deep green of the Prasian Sea, gold wings folded to plunge beneath the calm waters, searching for food."

Colors painted across Daniel's inner eye, bright and beautiful. The serenity of the placid waves, the feel of the wind on his face as the birds passed close, salt spray on his lips making him smile.

The voice, soft and rich, surrounded him. "In my childhood I would sit and watch them for hours, fingers sifting the dark brown sand, sculpting it into towers, the sweeping lines of the Diami hills, the tufted ears of my pet lieri. I find that I miss those hours of simple solitude, alone beneath the darkening sky, thoughts drifting with the languid waves."

Daniel released the vision and opened his eyes.

"Life beneath the ground affords little opportunity for solitary contemplation, for the life of the soul. Although our numbers dwindle, friends and lovers disappearing daily through the Chappa'ai, never to return, the tunnels are full of sound – jarring."

Per'sus stood beside him, one hand on the bed next to Daniel's hip, seemingly casual. If not for the slight tightening at the corners of his eyes and the pale shade of his lips, Daniel would believe the Tok'ra High Councilor was completely recovered, casually sharing fond memories of easier days. He nodded towards an empty chair in invitation, relieved when Per'sus carefully lowered himself to perch on the edge.

"You miss solitude? Being alone?" Daniel asked. The Tok'ra were never alone, not even in their own minds.

A sudden smile brightened Per'sus's usually controlled features. "Not in the sense you mean. I would not give up my blending for anything, Doctor Jackson."

"Daniel."

He tipped his head in pleased acceptance. "Daniel. But the bustle of those who surround me with their well-intentioned concerns and crucial demands – well, the endless coastlines of my homeworld are a pleasant daydream."

Daniel leaned forward to hug his bent knees. "How long has it been since you were there?"

The Tok'ra shook his head. "Since the first years of our blending. Even though I was young, Per'sus was already quite advanced within the hierarchy of the Tok'ra. His time has always been filled with duty, with more tasks than there are hours in a day, as your people would say."

"Oh," Daniel raised his head, blinking. "You're – you're the host? I'm sorry, I don't know your name –"

"Tymon."

"Tymon – 'a reward; an honor.'" Daniel translated the Greek-derivative; he couldn't help it. He felt the rush of heat to his face. "Sorry –" he began.

Tymon laughed quietly. "It is quite all right. My parents had been saddled with eight daughters before I arrived. I believe my father named me in an eruption of relief and gratitude."

"Eight older sisters," Daniel laughed with him. "It's a wonder you got any time to yourself at all."

Tymon's eyes were pale blue, smiling. He looked years younger as he relaxed into the infirmary chair that was usually left for Jack. His features were softer, less the stern diplomat, more a hesitant acquaintance reaching out for friendship. Sharing something of his soul. Daniel leaned his cheek on his knees, feeling the pull of professional inquiry ebb into personal curiosity. This was … nice. Pleasant. Just two people talking without fear of misunderstanding or the feeling that every word, every glance, was charged with ill-concealed mistrust.

"Ah, yes," Tymon leaned forward, gaze darting carefully towards shadowed corners, as if to share a secret, "I was quite fast on my feet in those days, and knew exactly where to hide to avoid the household chores that seemed to fill my sisters' world." The smile turned playful. "A skill Per'sus and I have honed to near perfection since our blending."

Eyebrows rising, Daniel couldn't help leaning towards him in response. "You, the Great High Councilor of the Tok'ra, hide?"

"Don't you? Daniel Jackson, the Great Translator and Diplomat, Opener of the Earth's Stargate?" He tsked under his breath. "Surely you have found a place within your own tunnels to secrete yourself away from time to time."

"Oh, believe me," Daniel's lips twisted wryly, "I'm not in that great of a demand." Not lately, anyway. No impromptu dinners out or movie nights with the gang for quite a while. Not much interest in culture and history – not when the focus was on finding the ultimate weapon. "No, no, I'm pretty safe in my office." He crooked two fingers in the air. "'Translation emergencies' are pretty rare."

Tymon frowned, confusion narrowing his eyes and Daniel realized his mistake. "Oh! I mean, not until the treaty negotiations. Earth's alliance with the Tok'ra is the most important item on everyone's agenda right now," he hurried to explain. "The President doesn't come here, well, ever, so-"

A large hand rested gently against Daniel's upper arm. "Daniel. Please, be at ease." The smile was back. "I was simply surprised that someone with your background, with your impressive list of accomplishments and skills, is not constantly barraged with demands on your time."

Daniel let out a breath. "Don't get me wrong – I'm busy. Teams are always bringing videos and photos of off-world finds, samples of writing, artifacts, or recordings of alien languages, my desk is –"

"Forgive me, Daniel." Tymon's eyes widened, his free hand gesturing towards the four walls, the mountain, the SGC. "I meant no disrespect. I guess I don't really understand what you do here. What your role consists of."

Me neither. The words popped into Daniel's mind automatically. He fought to keep that light, comfortable atmosphere, struggled to hold onto the feeling of easy relaxation.

"I expected the warriors – the soldiers. Those who have the responsibility of giving difficult orders and those who follow them. And scientists. Administrators such as myself, experts in strategy and tactics. And those who work to provide the necessities of life for those who risk lives and souls to protect your people." His eyes warmed. "I did not expect you, Daniel."

"You knew of SG-1…"

"Of course." Tymon leaned backward, allowing his fingers to brush along Daniel's arm as he retreated. It was less a movement made to deliberately place space between them – Daniel would have recognized that move anywhere, he'd seen it so much lately – and more an act of ease, a giving in to contentment. "From Selmac, from Anise, from poor Lantash – or, rather, from their hosts – I've learned much of SG-1, of the irreverent Colonel O'Neill, the clever – and beautiful - Major Carter, the formidable Teal'c," the half-smile on his face was playful, "and of you."

"Oh." Daniel lowered his eyes. His team - they were amazing. Brilliant. Brave. Teal'c would be welcomed on any SG team, the epitome of strength and courage. Sam – would she stay on base? Take another team? Devote herself to research? They'd be foolish to transfer her – she was needed here. And Jack. Second in Command. Daniel shook his head. He didn't understand all the ins and outs of the frat regs, but could they both stay? Or would this tear not just his team apart, but the entire SGC?

And that left Daniel with … what, exactly?

Tymon's voice was suddenly perplexed, frustrated. "Your wary military, your careful politicians, your eager scientists and outright distrustful officers – they have their counterparts on Vorash. But, you. I have nothing in my broad experience of human interaction to compare with someone like you."

Daniel looked up, squashing his instinctual urge to hear the Tok'ra's words as insults, to pile them up with recent evidence that his usefulness was in question. He took a deep breath and listened.

"You are a scholar, true – we have scholars. But they are protected, living not on a working base such as Vorash, but hidden away on safer planets out among the stars. Our Tok'ra history, the bloodlines, the genealogies of our few families and our fewer converts," Tymon shook his head again, "we do nothing that would risk the knowledge that they keep."

Families? Converts? Daniel's mind filed the new information away with the scraps of Intel he'd garnered during the negotiating process.

"And yet your people expose you," the sheer disbelief was blatant on the Tok'ra's face, "a man who possesses the knowledge of countless cultures, their languages and rituals, and has the character and openness to approach those who are truly alien with honesty and fortitude, they expose you to the very evil they are so determined to keep from their homeworld."

Daniel adjusted his glasses, trying to resist meeting the High Councilor's description of him with bitterness. "Would you have me stay behind? Hide behind our iris and the walls of this mountain instead of facing our enemies? Doing my best to do whatever was necessary to fight the Goa'uld?" He couldn't help it, couldn't keep his voice from rising, his words from snapping out in unconcealed anger. He would not hide away, no matter what. No matter who wanted him to. He'd fight for a team placement. If transferring to the base was what General Hammond was hinting at -

"No – you misunderstand." Tymon reached out again, but let his hand fall to one knee as Daniel bristled. "I know you have fought, you have stood proudly against the evil of the Goa'uld. It was you and Colonel O'Neill who defeated Ra – one who was, it was thought, untouchable. You dived into Ne'tu itself to rescue Major Carter's father."

Daniel nodded, arms crossed protectively over his chest.

"I suppose I am trying to reconcile your collection of gifts and talents with those from the Tok'ra, and, to state it simply," he shrugged as if excusing his faulty words, "I am unable to … nuwaaq … to place you." He huffed, frustrated. "I do not know-"

"Categorize."

They turned, watching Teal'c move forward into the pool of light cast by the lamp behind Daniel's head. As hard as stone, as big as a house, and as quiet as a cat – that was Daniel's teammate.

"Thank you, Teal'c," Tymon sighed. "'Categorize.' Indeed." He shook his head ruefully. "You simply do not fit, Daniel."

Ouch.

"Daniel Jackson fits well within SG-1. Perhaps better than any other."

Thanks, Teal'c. Daniel flashed a grateful smile at his stalwart friend. He was surprised by the sorrowful, guarded expression on Tymon's face when he turned back.

"Forgive me. I did not mean to offend," the Tok'ra stated, pulling his shoulders back, sitting rigidly upright on the edge of the chair. The diplomat was back.

"You didn't," Daniel was quick to reassure. "Tymon. Honesty shouldn't offend. A great Earth poet once said, 'The highest compact we can make with our fellow is - Let there be truth between us two forevermore.'" He didn't want the diplomat, the High Councilor, all stodgy and correct behind his inoffensive mask. He wanted the one who shared memories of his homeworld, who talked about his eight sisters and grateful father. Please.

The Tok'ra eyed Teal'c warily, as if uneasy with the idea of honesty within the Jaffa's hearing.

"Teal'c." Daniel plucked at his wrinkled and dusty pants, his stained shirt. "Would you mind getting me my uniform from the locker room?" He glanced towards Tymon, reminding him of their tentative connection. "I think the time for my 'diplomacy suit' is over."

Teal'c's half-closed eyes were bright, taking in the casual proximity of the Tok'ra leader, raking over Daniel as if to convince himself of his complete recovery. He moved a step closer, leaning over him protectively. "You are sure, Daniel Jackson?"

Daniel heard the distrust, the scolding, accusatory tone. The ghost of Shaunauc hovered here, her murder too close to allow any sense of trust between Teal'c and the Tok'ra. Daniel didn't blame him, no, not at all. But, Daniel needed this, needed friendship. Comfort. Connection. Especially –

"I'm sure. Please – if you wouldn't mind?"

The Jaffa bowed regally and turned to go. Daniel felt the weight of his condemnation until long after he'd disappeared beyond the doorway. That Daniel was comfortable within the regard of any Tok'ra, let alone the Tok'ra leader – it must feel like betrayal to his righteously furious teammate.

But vengeance had never been Daniel's way. And this simple offer of friendship – of a deeper, more personal connection – it poured balm on some of the fiercest of Daniel's aches, filled in some of the emptiness. He turned back to Tymon, relaxing back into the pillows beneath him.

"Tell me more about your homeworld."

oOo

Changing into civvies, tossing a few things into his duffle while the SF loomed over his shoulder, Jack had locked up his emotions – and his regrets – tighter than a fellow Irishman at closing time. The SG-1 badge on the sleeve of his uniform could glare all it wanted, the blue-eyed man in the team photo tacked to his locker door could try to catch his eye, the familiar smells and sounds of the base around him try to slip behind his protective, emotionless armor. But it was that last sight of Daniel - flat on his back on a medical gurney being rushed out of the 'gate room – that churned his internal bulwarks to mud. What the hell happened? Why had Daniel collapsed? Was he okay? Alive? Ready and able to kick Jack's ass into next week for his stupid, stupid, completely stupid antics?

He stood and flung the duffle over his shoulder just as the locker room door burst open. Teal'c's eyes were narrowed dangerously, his face dark with rage, mouth turned down in the habitual grimace of his first years on SG-1.

The SF stepped forward, one hand raised. Brave guy, Jack thought, as Teal'c simply glared at him and then walked directly to Daniel's locker, eyes sliding away from Jack's face as slick as fingers on a greased pig. He slammed the metal door open and reached inside, his back to Jack – the SF – the entire world, probably.

"Daniel Jackson has been healed by the Tok'ra, Per'sus, and requires his uniform." He spoke to the folds of blue cloth fisted in his hands. "Per'sus has insisted that he be allowed rest before the treaty is finalized."

"Sir, I have to ask you to cease speaking with Colonel O'Neill. He's-"

The big guy cut off the SF with one eyebrow. "I was not speaking to O'Neill."

"Oh. Well, then … thank you, sir." The poor kid nodded and stepped back, swallowing loudly.

Yeah, thanks, T. Jack blew out a breath and headed for the door. Fingers just touching the handle, the deep voice behind him brought him up short.

"If I were speaking with O'Neill, I would tell him that he must return to duty swiftly, letting go the foolishness of his recent actions."

He could feel dark eyes boring into his back, drilling down to the heart of him. Jack shivered.

"And, if he does not," the locker door slammed, the sound too final, too heartbreaking, "the future for this world – and for those closest to his heart – will be bleak, indeed."

Jack didn't turn, he didn't give in to the sudden, intense pressure to sideswipe the SF, ignore Hammond's orders, and find out exactly what Teal'c was talking about. The Jaffa's cryptic message lodged like unexploded ordinance in his ribcage and Jack knew – he knew – Teal'c could only be talking about one thing. One person.

Daniel.