"Tonight's the night, Daniel."
The archaeologist finished rolling up his MRE wrapper and cast an uncertain glance at his team leader. "Or we could just sleep under the stars. They're beautiful."
"It's gonna rain," Jack said.
"Captain Carter said it wasn't," Daniel shot back.
One finger pointed to the line of clouds in the distance. "Captain Carter may have been wrong."
"I said the humidity was low, Doctor Jackson," she spoke up from the other side of the fire. "It wasn't likely to rain then. That doesn't mean a storm can't roll in."
"The time has come," Jack reiterated. "Learn how to set up the tent, or let all those books get wet."
"I will assist you," Teal'c offered.
"Oh, this should go well," the colonel said dryly. "I'd help. Really. But nature calls."
They'd set up camp between the ruins and the treeline, and he headed for it, ignoring Daniel's protestations. He could hear the other two men – one frustrated, one cool and collected – trying to figure out the fabric and supports as he clicked on the flashlight and stepped into the forest. He didn't have to go far; there was a cluster of bushes with some sort of tasty and probably lethal berry a couple of feet in.
Even through the trees, Jack could see them bumbling with the tent in the fading light, and he wondered briefly why he'd done this to himself – put an alien and an archaeologist on his own team. Fought for them, even. He'd created an unholy mess for himself. And he had no one to back him up – not really – because his fourth was a woman. And a scientist.
Just one. He just wanted one other gun-loving, ass-kicking, beer-drinking soldier like himself. But no. No, he'd created the universe's oddest team for himself (and Carter. She wasn't his doing), and he was gonna have to live with that. Some day the two of them would figure out how to set a damn tent.
As for the last member, she still sat by the campfire, mostly in profile, picking at her food. She did that more than he'd like, if he were honest. She had a nice figure – he couldn't complain about that at all – but he always carried this niggling concern that she was about to pass out on him from lack of calories. He just hoped it would happen some day they weren't running from a horde of Jaffa. And when it did, they were gonna have a talk.
He zipped his pants and stepped back toward the campsite as she took one last bite, wrapped up the rest, and stuck the garbage back in her pack. She emerged with something he couldn't quite make out in the gray of dusk, but it became pretty obvious when she twisted off the cap, shook it into her palm, shoveled the contents of her hand into her mouth, and took a drink. He debated just filing that away, keeping an eye, but had to walk right past her, anyway.
"Twist something?"
She jumped, more startled than she should have been. "No. I, uh..."
He was ninety percent certain he knew what was in the bottle, but she was one of those psychotic type-A overachievers, and they did crazy things. The last thing he wanted to add to his gaggle of misfits was a speed freak. He held out a hand, and she put the container in it without a fuss.
Ibuprofen. Fine. "Again, I say: twist something?"
"Just a little sore, sir."
He nodded. "But not an issue?"
"No, sir."
"Good." Glancing up at the clouds, he said, "Well, if we plan to sleep anywhere but in the rain tonight, you and I should probably give them a hand with that tent."
"Yes, sir."
He didn't miss the grimace as she got up.
