A/N: Warning for an expletive in this one. Also, bit on the long side, sorry.

It's already dark, because he deliberately chose to arrive late as a way of shortening the evening. Jack doesn't often come to this kind of thing, but Petersen and Frobie deserve this and he feels it's only right he shows his face. Besides, SG-1 got back from P43-812 yesterday and the team isn't scheduled to go off world again for another two weeks. There's no real excuse for him not to be there. If he were in a more analytical frame of mind Jack might ask himself why he'd rather be at home alone with The Simpsons, a beer and a hot dog instead of spending a Friday night celebrating at a bar with people most would consider his friends, but the closest he'll come to answering that question is to blame it on his age.

That's not the real reason, though.

It's dangerous, this territory, and all the more so because already he knows what it will contain.

The bar's off the 115, a long, low shed with ample parking in a lot lit by a fizzing overhead sign that's seen better days. When he pulls in he notes that many of the vehicles already there are ones he's more used to seeing outside Cheyenne Mountain. It's not until he's out of his truck and crossing the lot towards the entrance that he sees what else is there: a sleek black form crouched low against the tarmac, wheel arches catching the cast white light in gleaming little highlights, the proud curlicue of its name arching over the gas tank. Despite his best intentions he can't stop it, the wicked little spark low in his stomach at the realisation that Carter's already here, and that she came on her bike.

Yeah. Dangerous territory.

It's his own fault. At first, he'd shut everything down in the wake of that staff blast he'd taken out on 422. It had worked, too, for a time. They went on as they always had, pretending they were nothing more than colleagues, that neither of them had ever looked at the other and felt a spark, that they'd never wondered what if…

But then they'd had to deal with the whole za'tarc debacle, with Anise and her damn Tok'ra lie detector machine. If he'd been smart, he would have ordered Carter out of the room while he was forced to bare his soul. Then again, if he'd been smart, he would have taken himself far, far away while she did the same. They might still know the substance of it, but hearing the words… that was something else. Something illicit and almost euphoric, but ultimately frustrating in its own way.

The real kicker, though, the real reason he curses himself as an idiot, is that kiss he stole, the one she'll never remember and that he'll never, ever tell her about, back when time was a circle and he was going slowly insane. Everything will go back to the way it was, Daniel had said. No consequences. And that was true, to an extent. No big consequences, no huge ramifications. But what Jack hadn't taken into account was the smaller ones, the ones that woke him up night after night in a cold sweat as he remembered in dreams, over and over, how her body had felt as he'd held her against him, how it had felt to kiss her and feel her kiss him back, how she'd wrapped an arm around his neck to pull him closer, a little hum reverberating in her throat, as if the fact that Hammond was standing right there had completely slipped her mind in the heat of the moment and that perhaps, if…

Gah!

Yeah. He'd been an idiot to imagine that one kiss would have no consequences, and now locking it all away again isn't just difficult, it's damn near impossible.

Even from across the lot, he can tell that the evening's well underway. Stargate Command may only take the best of the best, but that doesn't mean to say the best don't know how to let their hair down when the opportunity arises. Besides, there's been a genuine sense of collective joy in the corridors of the SGC following the news filtering out that Cal and Jen had tied the knot. No fanfare, no engagement, no big wedding. They just picked a day when they were both on leave and got it done, and this impromptu hoe-down has happened mainly at the behest of their SGC colleagues. It's probably a welcome reminder, Jack thinks, that even for the likes of them, even in the face of a raging war, happiness – a little touch of human normality - is still possible. He hopes it'll be enough to get the two of them through the tough times, because it's inevitable that there will be many to come. As it is Cal's already had a couple of close calls with SG-11 and it's only been six months since Jen and the rest of SG-18 were trapped off world for three weeks after a Jaffa ambush that cost them two team members. Every time either one of them goes out they have no way of knowing if they'll ever see each other again. But, Jack supposes, that's the whole point. No time like the present, seize the day, why put off until tomorrow, etcetera, etcetera.

Inside, the place is crowded and noisy. The bar is in the centre of the room, a dropped floor with booths and other seating around the outside. Jack pauses on the entrance step, scanning the gathered crowd. Most are out of uniform, but there are a few personnel kitted out – either they've just got back from a mission or they're stopping off to show their faces before shipping out. Jack spots Petersen in the middle of a group of SFs and heads over.

"Colonel!" Petersen exclaims, when he sees Jack coming. "Sir – it's good of you to come."

"Just wanted to offer my congratulations, Captain," Jack says, as the two men shake hands.

"Thank you, sir." Petersen beams and Jack can remember that feeling, how often in the first few months of being married to Sarah he'd find himself grinning for no reason except that he was married to a woman he loved. "I feel very lucky."

"You are very lucky," Jack tells him. "Don't ever forget it."

"No sir, don't intend to."

"Where's Frobie?"

Petersen points to the opposite side of the bar. "My wife's over there," he grins again. "Damn, it feels good to say that."

Jack smiles as he follows Petersen's look. Frobie's leaning on the bar, sandwiched between Fraiser and Carter. The three women seem to be in the process of downing a shot of tequila each, egged on by several nearby airmen.

"Okay," Jack says, to Petersen. "I'll catch up with her later. I'm going to get myself a drink. What's your poison, Captain?"

Petersen names a beer and Jack makes his way to the bar, spotting Daniel and Teal'c deep in conversation in front of the taps.

"Jack," Daniel says. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to show. Glad you did – Sam owes me ten bucks."

He glances over at Carter, who is in the process of sucking the guts out of a quarter of lemon. "She bet against me, huh?"

"Guess she doesn't know you as well as she thought she did."

Jack smiles grimly and yells his order to the barman. Then he looks in Carter's direction again and this time she's looking back with an expression that's entirely neutral and yet still screams trouble at him from twenty paces. She's wearing a close-fitting scoop-neck red top, nothing fancy, but it's clinging to all the curves he's always tried to pretend she doesn't have. She's done something different with her make-up – her lips are darker and her eyes are smudged with smoke. She's still licking the last of the lemon from her lips, there's a high colour on her cheeks and even from this distance the blue of her eyes is piercing. She offers him a small smile and Jack feels his insides turn to liquid heat. Sam Carter could wear a muddy sack and she'd still be gorgeous, but tonight – and he's aware the term is inappropriate, but it's nowhere near the worst of what's just flitted through his mind – she's hotter than the fucking sun. And that's without seeing the leather pants he's guessing she wore for the sake of the bike.

He nods hello at her, smiles, and then immediately turns his back, deciding two things: one, that the drink he's just been handed is the only one he'll have tonight until he's safely back home and two, the current distance between them will not close. Not even an inch.

Jack turns his attention back to Daniel. "Well," he says, "I'm only here for one – I'm on my way somewhere. So hey - maybe she only owes you five."

He delivers Petersen's beer and talks a little with the younger man, congratulating Frobie when she appears beside them.

"Thank you, sir," she says, happy and flushed, which might also have something to do with the tequila she's just knocked back. Her husband wraps his arm around her, kisses her temple.

Jack leaves them to it and mingles a little, chatting here and there. He has to make conscious effort not to look in Carter's direction and he's careful not to drift to that side of the bar. Maybe if he didn't want to talk to her so damn much he could risk it, but as it is, right now it's the only thing he wants on Earth so for sure it's the one thing he can't do. He nurses his beer for half an hour, half-listening to the conversations around him, and then heads back over to Daniel and Teal'c to tell them he's on his way.

"What, already?" Daniel complains. "You've only just got here."

"I told you, I've got somewhere to be," Jack tells him.

Daniel raises an eyebrow. "I don't think I've ever known two people able to lie to themselves more successfully than you and Sam."

Jack's heart does a sick backflip in his chest and he has to stop himself looking around to see who else just heard what he did. "Excuse me?"

Daniel shakes his head, reaching for his beer again. "She's gone too. Said she had work she needed to get on with."

"Right. Well, she probably does. She's got that new probe going out first thing next week, that survey she wants to do of P9C-372. Maybe she's not happy with it yet."

Daniel nods, swallows more beer and says, "That must be it, Jack."

There's something in his friend's tone that doesn't sit well, so Jack makes his goodbyes and departs. Technically, of course, since Carter's gone there's no reason he shouldn't stay, but now he's really not in the mood. He tips a nod to Petersen and Frobie, slaps a few shoulders and backs, and then he's up the step and out of the door.

Outside, the air is cool, the first taste of a Colorado winter drifting on a stiff night breeze that makes him glad of his battered leather bomber. Jack pauses to take a breath, scrubs a hand through his hair, and then makes for his truck. He's gone no more than two paces when he sees something that stops him dead.

Carter's straddling her bike, motionless, her long legs stretched out to touch the rough concrete of the lot. She's caught in the pool of light from the old fluorescent sign, bathed in stark white, all shadow and shade. Both hands hold her crash helmet in her lap, but she's making no move to put it on. Instead her head is tipped back and she's staring up at the stars beyond the artificial glare. She's biting her lip in that way she does when she's trying not to let something out, but it hasn't stopped the tears he can see trailing down her cheeks. They catch the light, glinting sharply like miniature supernovas, and Jack swears he can feel them, all of them, every single one, detonating one after another beneath his ribs. She's beautiful and she's alone and he knows without a doubt that she's leaving the party early for exactly the same reason he is and there's not a damn thing he can do to make it better for her. For either of them. He can't even tell her that he knows.

He stands there, motionless, wondering what to do, but a second later the quandary is taken out of his hands because she jerks her face around, eyes wide, and sees him. There's a split second of silence and then:

"Colonel," she says, turning her head and swiping hurriedly at her face.

"Major."

She nods sharply, once, looking down at her helmet as she bites her lip again. There's another silence and he can't move, because if he does he might not be able to stop himself walking until he's right there with her, inside that white pool of light.

Carter wipes her face again. "God, this is stupid," she says. "I'm happy for them. I am."

"We all are."

"It's just…"

She trails off and he should leave the rest of that sentence to silence, but what Jack hears come out of his mouth is, "It's just what, Sam?"

She makes a sound in her throat and it's not that far away from the sound she made when he kissed her in that speck of time that she'll never remember, and it's almost enough to make him lose it.

"Is that all it takes?" she asks, her voice not much more than a mutter, though it carries to him across the empty lot as if she had whispered it into his ear. "Different teams?"

He knows what she means and despite himself his heart flutters at the inference. Petersen and Frobie met on SG-15, but once they'd told their commanding officer about their desire for a relationship they'd both been transferred. Jack knows the whole story, because Hammond has asked his opinion about what to do. Barrel of laughs that meeting had been, given Hammond's knowledge of the za'tarc incident.

He's trying to work out how to answer, because it's not that simple. They aren't Petersen and Frobie, who are both Captains, and SG-1 isn't SG-15. "I do know this, Carter. You are irreplaceable to SG-1."

She throws him a look that's more fire than pain and then she says, "Wish I had that special ops way of switching it all off, just like that."

They stare at each other and he's this close to showing her just how badly he's failed to switch 'it' off, this close to striding the twenty paces between them and running his hands up the leather on her thighs, this close to lifting her clean off that bike and hiking her up against the nearest wall so he can press his lips against her neck and then lower, lower, until his teeth are tearing at that top. Maybe he would have done it, too, if not for the door behind him opening when it did.

She flips the helmet over her head and does it up with one swift movement. A second later she's kicked the bike into life and she's gone.

He thinks about going after her but knows even as he's thinking it that he won't. He already knows that by tomorrow morning she'll want to forget everything that happened on this particular battlefield and God knows it'll be better for them both if they do. Besides, better that she continues to think that the stone she can see on the surface is rock all the way down. Jack's relieved, really, that he's managed to maintain it. He thought his façade was as transparent as glass.

He rubs a hand over his face and heads for his truck. I've got to squash this, he thinks. I can't let myself love her. I can't.

He's lying to himself again, of course. He knows it's already too late.

[TBC]