O'Neill cursed his stupidity and forgetfulness, and tried subtly to distract himself with the remnants of his Chinese take-out. On screen, Eowyn sang a lament for her deceased cousin. He chanced a glance at his companion's face. Carter was absorbed in the film, a frown creasing her forehead and her lips pressed so tightly together they were white.

"A Simblemynëë. Ever has it grown on the tombs of my fore bearers. Now it shall cover the grave of my son. Alas that these evil days should be mine– "

He stood up, too violently.

She looked up at him, surprised. "You okay?"

"No parent should have to bury their child."

Her gaze flickered back to the screen and understanding dawned. She hit the pause button as he sat back down, filthily angry with himself for making such a scene, for ruining everything, again with his stupidity an–

She touched his hand tentatively, not knowing what to say. "Do you... do you want to talk about it?"

He sighed heavily. "I'm sorry. I... I don't know why I..." He stopped. "Yes. But... there's nothing to say..."

"I'm sorry, Jack." she murmured, her eyes overbright.

She embraced him, instinctively, wrapping her arms around him and as the sobs began ripping themselves from his chest. He wept into her shoulder, hating himself for his weakness but unable to stop. A deep grief was being drawn out of him, like a poison. She kissed the side of his face, holding him until the heaving of his shoulders slowed and stopped and he drew away, wiping tears from his cheeks.

"Don't you dare apologise," she warned him, "Don't you dare." His hand was still clasped in hers.

He dropped his gaze to their entwined hands, moving his fingers so they were knitted together. He swallowed. "Thank you."

"You don't have to thank me. I've... I've always wanted to be a friend to you," she said, a tear of her own slipping down her cheeks. "Wanted to... to be there for you, in a capacity greater than your subordinate. Like Daniel is. And Teal'c."

He kissed her, unthinkingly, the taste of salt a bitter sting in the sweetness of the gesture. "I know," he said, "Me too."

She turned the TV screen off with the remote. "Do you... um.. Do you want to... talk?"

"Talk?"

"I mean, life the universe and everything kind of talking. We've never done that. Not... Not properly." She shook her head, embarrassed. "Forget I–"

"No. I want to talk."

"Oh good."

"Talk about what?"

She closed her eyes and sighed. "Well, now you say that I can't think of a topic of conversation."

"Why did you split up with Pete?"

Ouch. Score one, Jack O'Neill.

"Why did you split up with Kerry?" she shot back.

His eyes widened. "Kerry? I... I... She dumped me because I was in love with another woman."

"In love?" she murmured, voice faltering slightly.

He wished he could take back the words, words that had obviously shaken her. But why regret them? They were truthful.

"In love," he repeated hoarsely.

"Then," she said, hesitantly, "Then you understand why I split up with Pete. Because I was... in love... with another man."

He wasn't aware of drawing closer to her, but suddenly his nose was bumping against hers. "In love?" he whispered, his mouth so close she felt his lips brush her own, his soft breath on her mouth.

She kissed him in reply.

He realised they had ended up lying full length on her sofa for a second time, the weight of his body pinning her to the soft seat. He kissed her again.

Her hands were resting on his shoulders; she found there was an indefinable thrill in their breadth, the hard muscle and bone beneath her fingers and his shirt. He was thinning as he aged, she realised, the body hidden from her was a battle-scarred and battered one, hardened by a harsh life.

Shanahan had been stocky, well muscled, certainly, but possessing a... a softness that betrayed donuts shared on stakeouts, a physique obtained in a gym and rarely tested in the field. A teddy-bear softness, she supposed, comforting and pleasant...

...But not possessing the sexuality of the sharp edges and roughness of O'Neill.

There was something infinitely more desirable about his dangerousness, his darkness. The kisses he gave when not thinking were far more demanding and fierce than Pete's, than any man she had ever kissed. He was far colder, holding so much more inside him than Shanahan, who had worn his heart on his sleeve. O'Neill hid so much from everyone; there was always a tantalising hint of the tumultuous emotions that raged inside him, but trying to extract anything from him than bitter cynicism and anger was notoriously difficult. The fact that she aroused so much passion in a man who's emotions often threatened but rarely did break an egg-shell thin veneer of calm was exhilarating.

He was her equal, in a way she sensed Shanahan could never have been. His love had been hard-won, borne of respect and appreciation of her considerable natural talents as well as a healthy dislike of her science. He loved her in spite of their differences, loved the parts of her that were a broken as he was, the parts of her Pete had never known. He had seen her kill men who had thought their cause as righteous as her own and did not judge her for it. He was not afraid to show his anger to her and would not look for forgiveness even in wrong: he was as stubborn as she was.

She had thought Pete and Jack were similar, she realised, as his fingers wound themselves into her hair. Now she realised Pete was a mere shadow of Jack, a dilute and sanitised version of the man she had loved for almost as long as she had known him.

She realised he was staring at her. "What?" he asked, his voice rough.

She smiled lazily, a grin she unthinkingly copied from him. "Nothin'"

He trailed kisses from her earlobe and down her neck to where the hem of her tee shirt interrupted the smooth scoop of skin. "Life the universe and everything, eh?"

He wasn't going to move, she knew; he was enjoying lying on top of her far too much. So was she, for that matter. It was... a gesture of the newfound closeness they had only recently achieved, tinged with lust but mostly fashioned from comfortableness with one another.

"Mmm," she replied, "Shall we start simple?"

"Sounds good to me."

"Hmm. What was your... childhood ambition?"

He shrugged. "Didn't have one."

"Oh come on..."

"I wasn't exactly a... a Sam Carter at school."

She snorted with laughter. "You were a rebel without a cause?"

He kissed the end of her nose. "Sounds about right. I used to spend most of my time skipping classes, smoking and stealing cars."

"You sound like the kind of boy I hated." Her brain caught up with her ears. "Stealing cars?"

"Yeah."

"Wow."

"Do you hate me now?" he asked, only half-joking.

She shook her head. "What made you join the Air Force?"

"The lesser of two evils."

Her eyes widened in shock. "You could join up or go to jail?"

"Like I said, I wasn't exactly a Sam Carter at school."

"You don't know what I was like," she said, prodding him.

"I can guess."

"Go on. Be kind."

"Hmm. I think you were one of the talkative intelligent types. Not one of the nerdy geeks who sat at the back and said nothing. One of those kids that was always annoying the teacher with awkward questions. You were going to be an astronaut, the first woman to go and do something amazing in space."

"Good guess," she conceded.

"And you achieved your ambition," he added.

"Yeah... I guess I did."

"I bet falling for your old and crotchety CO didn't figure anywhere in those plans," he said softly.

"As falling in love with a science geek didn't figure in yours," she reminded him.

He chuckled. "I'd never call you a geek. You're too good a soldier for that."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

It seemed an appropriate time to kiss her again. He was so absorbed in the feel of her lips on his, the way the movement of her tongue against his coincided with his stomach turning somersaults, that he didn't notice she was unbuttoning his shirt at first.

"Hey," he said, taking her hands in his larger ones. "Whatcha doin'?"

She gave him a grey look, the kind he thought he had the monopoly on.

"Sam..." he said, his resolution fading as she kissed his throat. She slid her hand underneath his half-open shirt, her callused thumb tracing the line of his oblique muscles. It was a quirk of his body, that he'd always found the effect of such an action to be the complete tripping of the switch controlling pretty much all of his mental capacity.

He responded by kissing her, pushing downwards against her with no selfless concern for her comfort. He felt her mouth move under his, grinning.

He could guess the cause.

"It's my sidearm," he began.

"I swear," she finished, smiling.

"Just so we're clear on that."