"Thank you," she replied instantly, instinctively.

"For what?" he asked, nonplused, looking at his feet.

"For understanding. I didn't think you'd make it this easy..."

He filled his cheeks with air and let out the breath. "What else is there to do?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. But thank you for not doing it." She hesitated for a moment, and then kissed him lightly on the cheek.

The memories danced in his alcohol-fuelled, disturbing dreams; mingling reality and fantasy. At one point he was holding Carter in his arms, and then she was snatched away; the lingering warmth of her lips on his a tantalising reminder that was still haunting him when he opened his eyes.

A gap in the curtains meant the sunlight from outside had infiltrated his bedroom, playing on his face. He wondered what time it was, and groped for his alarm clock.

The door to his bedroom opened. He protectively pulled the blankets up higher as Cassie entered, bearing a tray. "Coffee. Breakfast," she stated simply, plonking the tray on his knees. "You look terrible."

"Thanks," he replied, his voice hoarse, "You shouldn't have... you don't have to..."

"No, I don't but I wanted to," she informed him, smiling slightly. She waited until she had reached the door before she asked the question, electing to hover nervously half-in and half-out of the room as she awaited his answer. "Bad dreams?"

He sipped his coffee before answering. Cassie was a terrible coffee-maker. It tasted frankly poisonous. "What makes you say that?"

"You were talking in your sleep," she informed him, matter of factly, "Shouting actually."

He nodded. "Bad dreams."

She pursed her lips, as if considering saying something other than what she eventually settled for: "Daniel's downstairs."

O'Neill groaned. "Tell him to save the... whatever... for later." He didn't think he could face another question and answer session with wannabe-psychologist Jackson.

She shrugged and he regretted giving her the order; as if she was an airman on his base. "Forget it. I'll tell him myself."

He waited until she had descended the stairs before moving the tray and lurching out of bed. He dressed inattentively, drained the rest of his coffee (wincing at the grainy texture of the last dregs) and thumped his way downstairs.

"Hi," said Daniel, waiting for him at the foot of the stairs.

O'Neill groaned and held his aching head. "Morning Daniel."

"Actually, it's more sort of mid afternoon..."

"Whatever. Why are you here, anyway?" O'Neill cut him off brusquely, stalking into his living room and forcing the archeologist to follow him.

"I just thought you might like someone to talk to-"

"Nope. I'm fine."

Daniel closed his eyes briefly. "You don't think-"

"No."

His eyes snapped open. "Jack, stop being an ass. You have to talk to her."

O'Neill's face screwed up in anger. "I don't have to do anything," he spat back, an unpleasant look in his eyes.

Daniel's temper broke. "Oh, for God's sake Jack. Fine! Fine! Just sit around and mope and do nothing. Like normal."

"I do NOT mope!" O'Neill yelled back, standing up furiously before regaining control of his temper.

Daniel's own face had taken on a sour look. "I didn't come here to get shouted at, Jack. I want to try and help--"

"I don't need your help!" O'Neill found himself shouting back.

"Evidently," Daniel returned, standing himself. "See you on base, Jack."

O'Neill didn't move from the sofa until he heard the door slam shut. He thumped the arm of his sofa as hard as he could and then buried his face in his hands.

"He's right you know," a soft voice said and he raised his head.

"I'm sorry Cass," he began, having forgotten she had been in the kitchen throughout the entirety of his heated exchange with Daniel.

She quieted him with a wave of her hand. "He's right. You need to talk to her."

He bit his tongue in an effort not to snap the terse reply back at her. She sat down in the chair Daniel had vacated and he sighed.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

He shook his head, unable to say the words that burned in his brain to anyone else.

Because I'm scared it meant a hell of a lot more to me than it did to her. Because if I see her then she'll tell me it doesn't matter, that we were drunk, that it was stupid. And yeah, I was drunk but it did mean something and it does matter.

Because he wasn't that kind of man, never would be and never could be. Jack O'Neill didn't talk about feelings, he buried them, dealt with them. He didn't break down and cry, to be comforted by a young woman who was so much better at understanding these things than he was; however much he wanted to.