AN: Thanks for the comments! Please keep them coming!

Chapter One
A few hours earlier

You know, I've always been confident. Blame it on my dad. I'll never forget that day when I was almost three when I tied my own shoes for the first time. Hell, my older brother wasn't even tying his shoes yet, but there I was, having taught myself something important. My father made the hugest fuss over me for that. I remember the way he squatted down in front of me and gave me a tight hug and then put his hands on my shoulders and told me that I was the smartest person in all the world. I believed him. He was my dad. Would he lie? Of course not. So by the time I was three, I was fairly certain that there was nothing in the world I couldn't do.

Thirty some years of believing it has resulted in my actually proving on several occasions that, if not the smartest, I am damn near close to being the smartest person on Earth. I've made rearranging the laws of physics to suit my needs my own personal quest. And let's not forget the sun – the one that I blew up – because I'm that good. Most people would not endeavor to blow up a sun and few of those that did would actually be able to do it. But I did.

I try to be modest and I succeed for the most part. And when I don't, I fall back on the dimples. Because they always worked on dad too. I'm cute. It's a fact. I don't often use it to my advantage, but I'll admit, there have been a few times that I have – like when I was in school and a little short on cash when I'd bat my eyelashes at some unsuspecting teenage clerk who would blush furiously and let me go without paying full price.

But really, for the most part, I'm a good girl. I only use my brain for saving the world, and occasionally for fixing appliances, and I don't mercilessly quash the free will of men by exploiting my looks. The only thing that's really come out of knowing that I'm smart and pretty is the confidence that comes with knowing I could probably take over a good portion of the galaxy if I wanted. Provided of course, that I didn't have to kill anyone to do so, unless they were truly evil, and I'd have to do it without using force, because that's just wrong.

At any rate, I'm confident. When someone asks me to do something, no matter how impossible, I usually just say ok. Sometimes I'll hesitate and say it can't be done, but no one ever listens, least of all Colonel O'Neill. If I hadn't been overly confident when I met him and I'd survived that first meeting when he'd tried to shake me, he would have succeeding in doing exactly the same thing my dad had years earlier. He gets that same awed look on his face when he sees me sometimes… well it's all I can do not to be full of myself when someone as fabulous as Jack O'Neill thinks I'm the greatest thing since sliced bread.

Unfortunately, having been confident and unflappable all my life, I suddenly find myself in a terribly awkward position around Colonel O'Neill. I can't talk to him. I'm afraid to talk to him. I'm afraid to look at him. Two weeks ago, Loh'ran's marvelous wonder drug regressed me to three years old. Which would have been fine, even as I conquered the SGC with my dimples, except that, for reasons that made perfect sense to me at the time and are unfathomable to me now, unless I'm being honest with myself, I pretty much spent the entire time I was three in Jack's arms. Or clinging to Jack. Or crying for Jack. Or professing my love for Jack. Or asking Jack to marry me.

It would have been bad enough if I didn't remember it. But I do. And although it's contrary to my nature to admit I've made a mistake, I fear this is one of those few times when I made a mistake. I never, ever should have told him that I remembered it. But I was still a little confused and my brain wasn't quite as quick as my body to transition back to adulthood and I was more than a little floored at the way Jack had been ogling me when we were in the armory and I was dressed only in his t-shirt. So I flirted with him, reminding him that he owed me a slinky.

He'd insisted on taking me to dinner. We'd gotten all dressed up and driven to a fancy restaurant that was so far out of town the only reasonable explanation for us going there was so that there would be no witnesses to the fact that we very much appeared to be on a date. I was in a great mood and he was obviously quite thrilled to have me back as a grown up. We had a fantastic time. It was hands-down the best date I've ever been on. He walked me to my door and I was a little tipsy from the wine and the adrenaline rush of such a perfect night and he smelled so great and he was smiling and so utterly handsome and I had every intention of inviting him in. And see, that's where the confidence got me in trouble. Because I was sure that he'd be putty in my hands.

His hands were on my waist and he was gazing at my mouth and I never even doubted myself for a second. I put my hands on his chest and fairly purred an invitation to stay in a voice I've never once had not work.

If he was surprised, he didn't show it. He simply leaned in like he was going to kiss me. He had to have known I thought he was going to kiss me – he was leaning, after all – and he did, in fact, kiss me. On the cheek. He smiled at me, a perfectly polite, disinterested smile that I almost slapped him over. Then he spoke.

"Night, Carter." His voice was so even and normal and nonchalant.

I'd never been so hurt or confused or surprised. But mostly, I'd never been so furious.

And I'm sure that much was clear, because his eyes widened a little – quite a revelation for Jack, really – and he backed halfway to his truck before he dared turn his back on me.

He's spent two weeks acting perfectly normal while I've spent two weeks feeling like I've completely lost my grip. I'm reeling, although I'm not sure which I'm having more trouble with – the fact that I was wrong or that fact that he was the one who proved me wrong. I realize something scary: if he's immune to my charms, then I'm exactly what he's made it so clear that he doesn't like – just a brainy scientist that gets on his nerves.

I'm suddenly acutely aware that it might not just be him that I'm wrong about – maybe it's everything. Maybe I've been an insufferable, self-centered bitch all this time without even realizing it. Maybe my place on SG-1 isn't so secure. Maybe the SGC doesn't really need me. Maybe I'm not really as smart as I've always thought. And I just can't get over the fact that I threw myself at him – my CO – and he wasn't tempted, not even for a second. That was certainly the last thing I ever would have expected. Maybe I'm not even cute after all.

I drop my face into my hands. Oh, please let me die now. I think I've developed a panic disorder. Every time I hear footsteps, like I do now, I become irrationally afraid – because I'm certain it's him and I'm too mortified to face him. I tell myself that it's not him; it hasn't been him in two weeks, because for all his acting normal, he's studiously avoided me this whole time. I calm myself a little, focusing on breathing normally. I realize there are no more footsteps and I relax.

"Are you all right, Carter?"

I yelp. I jump. I clap my hands over my eyes as if somehow that will make him not be there anymore.

"Carter?" His voice is getting closer and I force myself to stop hyperventilating, if only because that will make me pass out and then, God forbid, he might actually try to catch me.

"Yes, sir. I'm fine, sir." I catch myself talking in a much higher pitch than usual and try to bring it back to normal. "You just surprised me, sir." There, that sounded normal. Ish.

He doesn't quite look convinced, but apparently, I'm not all that good at reading him as evidenced by the incident I'm trying to pretend didn't happen. After a painfully long moment, he shrugs. "What are you up to?"

"Work, sir."

"You've been doing that a lot lately."

"It is my job, sir." I know he's trying to catch my eyes, so I don't let him. "I'm really very busy, sir." I turn my attention back to my computer and come to the horrified realization that I haven't been working for a long enough time that the monitor has powered off. That couldn't possibly have escaped his notice. I feel my face burning as I flick the mouse, typing random characters to fool him. He's silent. He's staring at me. I bite my lip, reminding myself that ignoring him is the fastest way to get rid of him.

A good ten minutes later and I'm staring at seventeen pages of random characters. I pause, scanning over what I've typed as though I were really checking my work, and discover that buried within the lines of nonsense, the phrase 'go away' has appeared innumerable times. Score one for the subconscious. Unfortunately, I'm tired of pretending to type and I want to go back to staring at the wall and seriously thinking of how I can build a time machine to fix this mess I created, but I can't give up the working act now because that would be accepting defeat. Admitting that I was wrong and accepting defeat are two entirely different things. I'm trying to take one step at a time here.

So I turn to him with my most respectful, yet haughty, look. "Was there something you needed, sir?"

One side of his mouth curves up in an unbelievably sexy grin. "Why? Am I distracting you?"

My eyes involuntarily narrow the slightest bit, but I still smile. "Not at all, sir. I just know how you get bored so easily and I don't imagine you've really got nothing better to do than stand here."

Apparently he's not quite willing to accept defeat either. "Want to grab some lunch?"

"I'm not really hungry." At least it's the truth. The very thought of eating makes my stomach turn.

He pulls out a stool and sits down. "Ok."

Now I know that Jack O'Neill is a smart man. Sometimes I think he's actually smarter than me because he has the sense to hide it and playing dumb seems like such a great way to get out of things to me. So I know he's not really as unaware of what's going on in my head as he's pretending to be. And it just makes me angry.

I turn back to my computer and pound out another page of gibberish. My face is still red, though among the embarrassment and the anger and the frustration, I can't really be sure exactly which is to blame.

"Are you feeling ok, Carter?"

"Yes, sir, I'm fine." My clipped tone and angry keystrokes really should warn him off, but then again, he is doing this on purpose. I shouldn't be surprised when I feel his cool hand against my forehead, but I am and I jump back a foot. "What are you doing?"

"You look flushed. Are you coming down with something?"

"That's ridiculous, sir. I never get sick." Which is true.

"Then why are you all red?" He's smirking and I think he's just pleased that he thinks he's caught me in a lie. But then I see him turning slowly, his eyes lazily making their way to my computer.

He so cannot find out I just typed eighteen pages of 'iairubahpoiah' to avoid actually having to deal with him. That's somehow more embarrassing than trying, and failing, to seduce him. I boldly reach past him to slap the top of my laptop closed. "Come to think of it, I could go for something to eat."

His eyes remain on the now closed computer for so long I'm really afraid he's going to open it back up because he knows I'm tying to hide something and I'm doing a very bad job of trying to hide that I'm trying to hide something. But then he looks at me and the intrigue disappears behind a smile. "Let's go."

AN2: Just for the record, before everyone freaks out :) keep in mind that it's me, guys and everything will be ok! Trust me… explanations are forthcoming!