The days were getting progressively shorter and colder. She had spent the morning at the stargate interpreting MALP readings, adjusting instruments and making calculations on the seasonal cycle of the planet. In the afternoon she helped carry bricks. Since she had to calculate the exact moment of sunset she went back to her instruments and then to their camp to prepare the evening meal. O'Neill labored without rest; he had to make up for all the time lost and the work destroyed by the rain. For weeks now he had been working day long and into the evening until he could no longer see. She heard him return, heard the splashing of the water as he washed off the mud, she heard him climb up the rock face and sink into the sleeping bags.

"Have something to eat. It's not great but it's hot."

But when she turned to look he was sound asleep.

She let him rest for half an hour but knew that all this physical labor and lack of adequate food had taken a toll on him. His body, although always slim, now was mostly skin and bone. The muscles that he needed to build the shelter were in danger of being absorbed by a body starved for nutrition. She woke him and saw by his hands clutching his back and soft moan as he tried to rise that he was hurting. While he ate she mentioned that Doc Frasier had sent a medicated cream for sore muscles and suggested that she rub some on his back.

"I can do that myself Carter."

But like most men he couldn't seem to reach half his back. She suggested that he take off his shirt and lie down on the sleeping bag. She massaged the lotion into his sore and knotted muscles. The groans of pleasure were her reward and so began a nightly ritual, a short nap, dinner and a massage that put him right back to sleep. After a few nights, all his former resolve going straight to hell, without prompting he took off shirt and pants lay down on the sleeping bag and she would massage weary calves and thighs, then sitting astride his hips rubbed the small of his back, up the center, shoulder blades, upper arms and ended with the back of his neck and shoulders. Whatever elicited the most groans of pleasure got the most attention. She massaged until he slept and then she crawled into the sleeping bag beside him, absorbing his warmth and slept.

There were nights when the touch of him elicited sparks in her she didn't know how to handle. His scent, his bare skin, the touching, rhythmic rubbing overwhelmed her. She knew that she should stop but the pleasure she received was one of the few joys left to her. All else was cold and hunger and loneliness. She shed all of her clothes before sliding in along side him and awaited what the night or the morning would bring.

The morning was frigid. As he woke he became aware that under his hand was the velvety softness of bare skin. As usual they had found one another in the chill of the night and she was cuddled in his arms. She awoke to his brown eyes searching her face for understanding, for permission, for desire. He lifted her hand and kissed the inside of her arm, from wrist to elbow, then placed her arm back under the covers to keep her warm. He leaned over her. He kissed her shoulder to the neck then up her neck to behind her ear. He excused himself and got up and left. She was so confused – did he change his mind, was he giving her an out to change her's, was that all he wanted. He needed to relieve himself, at least that was he excuse to himself. He was so confused. No, that wasn't right, he knew what was what and this was so not right. How did he let it get this far. They were on mission, on a goddamned mission. They were off world and he had let thing get out of hand. It was his duty, his job as commanding officer, that's right he reminded himself, officer and a gentleman and he was seducing her, allowing himself to be seduced by their proximity, their situation, his failure as an officer and a professional. He wasn't a goddamned teenager, he could control himself. They weren't abandoned, they were just in a tight spot and were awaiting rescue. But what if, what if they would die here, no one to find their bones, just some cheesy wreath sent through the gate, a few muttered words and life goes on. Who would really give a shit, who would know if they took some comfort in one another? He would know and she would and maybe that's all that really counted. He went for an early morning swim and resolved to zip up the sleeping bags separately. What was that called – the near occasion of sin – well he had to stop it and apologize. Probably apologize in advance. Somehow he knew that he would be in a foul mood for days to come, or subdued and withdrawn. Jacob, where are you?

She felt so embarrassed. Had she been rejected, had he come to his senses, had he been distracted by something, anything else? Her self confidence was at an all time low. She felt unloved and unlovable. Maybe he thought of Pete, thought that she wasn't free, but she had cut that loser free months ago. She had been too ashamed to let anyone know. No, she knew what this was all about; it was pure O'Neill, a man of honor and duty, an officer and a gentleman. And that in fact was the man she loved. So they would survive. But when they got home they would have to have a conversation, an honest one. One were they could plot their future, if there was one.

Alternate ending
(After relieving himself he returned to their sleeping place and got back into the bed. She moved close to him, so very cold from the brief excursion. She stared into his eyes and tentatively touched his face. She kissed him until he kissed her back, she kissed him until he caressed her body, she kissed him until he groaned with desire, she kissed him until there was no turning back.)