Dwelling Place of Demons

Chapter 2

A desert is a place without expectation.

—Nadine Gordimer

"Sit."

Glinda pointed towards the vinyl couch, then grimaced as Ba'al settled himself in the newly-reupholstered recliner she herself had come to favor.

"Glinda?" William closed the door behind them, taking yet another glance at the emergency lights strobing just outside. "What on earth is going on?"

Ba'al grinned, leaning back in the chair and giving a shove with his foot to start it rocking. "Yes, Pinky. Or is it Mrs. Pinky now? What on earth is going on?"

"I believe it is incumbent upon you to mind your manners." She huffed. Just a little. "And my married name is McBean, Sir."

"Sir?" Eyes flaring, the Goa'uld seated in her recreational vehicle smiled even more broadly. "Sir? I seem to have received a promotion."

"Glinda." William touched her elbow, drawing her attention away from their unwanted guest and towards himself. "Who is this man? Why did you bring him in here rather than let him deal with the fire department or police?"

Dear heaven. What a mess.

She'd hurried them all inside—shooing the Goa'uld ahead of herself as she'd made long strides towards the side door to their conveyance. Glinda was not certain why she felt it necessary to hide Ba'al from the authorities, only that she knew that it was what General O'Neill would do.

Oh, lawsy days. Now she was thinking like General O'Neill.

Now that she'd secreted him away—bringing him into her own temporary, mobile home—she wasn't quite sure what to do with him. And oh, dear, what a sight she must be.

She smelled like smoke—and something else—fuel, or chemicals of some sort. Her nightgown clung to her, damp from the firefighters' hoses, and she was fairly certain that her hair resembled that of a famous Austrian physicist. Grime and dirt caked the bottoms of her feet, and, when Glinda raised the hem of her nightie and looked down, the tops, as well.

Ironically, Ba'al seemed to have fared better in the turmoil. His clothes were rumpled, but not even singed around the edges. And as for his hair—well, perhaps the serpent within him could make certain that not a single strand was out of place? Regardless, he did not appear to have only just escaped becoming something more commonly viewed on a rotisserie spit. He looked as if he'd spent a long evening in some dark gentlemen's establishment rather than performing fisticuffs with ruffians and watching as his home burned to rubble.

"Glinda?" Once more, William's voice prodded in her ear. More insistent, this time, and a bit more loudly.

Glinda was loath to turn her back on the alien in her La-z-Boy, so she sidestepped back at an angle until she could look at her husband and their ersatz guest at the same time. Really, there was nothing else to do but tell him the truth. "William. Do you remember all those papers that you were required to sign?"

"You mean—back when Jack caught us—um—in his office?"

Making out like randy teenagers. That's what his pause had censored from his question. With a sigh, Glinda nodded, only just managing to keep herself from rolling her eyes. "Yes. Then."

"Am I to gather that this man is involved with all of that outer space science fiction stuff?"

"He's an alien, William." Glinda folded her hands primly before her, an attempt at gravitas—however futile. "His name is Ba'al."

"Ba'al." Bean's lips quirked upwards. It seemed that he felt it absolutely necessary to repeat the name. "Ba'al?"

"Technically, madam, I am not an alien." Ba'al leaned forward in the chair, straightening his finely-tailored jacket. "I was created here on your planet."

"Created?"

Glinda's sigh deepened. "Not in the biblical sense."

William's expression drew into a wary pause as his quick mind worked that through. "Are you saying that this person is a clone?"

"Of a pernicious alien being." Winnowing a glare in Ba'al's direction, she pulled herself up to her full height. "Over a year ago—before Ben was born and you and I met, Samantha and I were taken prisoner by one of his brethren. He and a few other clones forced the Colonel to repair a particular piece of equipment."

Ba'al lifted a hand, making a pointed examination of his fingernails. When he spoke, he sounded almost bored. "A feat which even the estimable Colonel Carter found impossible to accomplish without my help."

"Your participation was minimal at best. Samantha could have completed the task without you."

"Not possible."

"I assure you, it was." Glinda narrowed one eye at the Goa'uld. "Samantha Carter is capable of any number of remarkable feats!"

"I admit to having a certain fondness for the woman. She is rather formidable in her own way—and far too beautiful to have hitched herself to one such as O'Neill.." Ba'al busied himself with polishing the button at the front of his suit coat. "The fact remains that a female of the Tau'ri is still no match for either my prowess nor my intellect."

William leaned in to ask, "Tau'ri?"

Glinda lowered her voice to explain. "It is a term used for those humanoids originating from Earth."

William's keen eyes darted between her and their guest. "So, you and I are Tau'ri."

"Unless you hail from some planet other than this one."

"And Ba'al is—"

Glinda allowed her eyes to drift closed for a moment as she organized the information she'd gleaned through the years. She worked her mouth around the unfamiliar syllables, mimicking as best she could how she'd heard the Colonel pronounce it. "A Go–ah–oold."

"That's a mouthful."

"I believe that there is an apostrophe." Returning her attention to Ba'al, she sniffed a little. "Regardless, I assure you that the hero of the day was Samantha, and not the man currently befouling our furniture."

Ba'al smoothed the cuff on his sleeve, flickering a look up at Glinda with a quiet snort. "Not possible."

Bean's eyebrows rose. "Oh? She's pretty good with all that technology stuff. Helped me fix the running computer of this rig. Saved me a few thousand at the dealership."

"I possessed a specific set of formulas without which she could not have calibrated the control crystals." Ba'al paused in his personal grooming. "Your darling Glinda would not be here with us this morning if it were not for me."

Outside, the lights on the fire trucks continued to strobe, but the effect was being rather muted by the rising of the sun. The smell in the outside air felt bitter and acrid in Glinda's nostrils—even through the filtration units of the impressive recreational vehicle—and the constant thrum of the engines and radio equipment on the other side of the thin-paneled walls was at once oppressive and distant.

As was the speculative look her husband was currently giving her. "Glinda?"

There was nothing else to do but tell him. Despite it all, Glinda floundered just a bit with the 'how' of performing that act. Where to even begin to explain such a thing? "She managed to fix the device, a fact for which I will always be grateful."

"What thing?"

"The sarcophagus." Ba'al's expression denoted bemusement. The ridiculous scoundrel was enjoying this.

"Sarcophagus?" Bean's mouth tilted upward. "You mean like in Egypt with mummies and pyramids and King Tut? That kind of sarcophagus?"

"In this case, it is a piece of technology. The Goa'uld use sarcophagi in order to regenerate themselves in the case of injury, age, or illness." With a hapless little shrug, Glinda groaned. "During our adventure, I was unfortunately rendered rather less than animated. Samantha was able to repair the sarcophagus and use its healing properties to rectify my situation."

"'Less than animated'? Your wife had expired, Mr. McBean. Kicked the proverbial bucket. Bought some farmland and taken up residence." Bemusement had turned to pure enjoyment. "She was dead, my good man. My sarcophagus returned her to the land of the living."

William's eyebrows soared. "Dead?"

Glinda nodded, biting her lip. "Quite so, I'm afraid."

"Wow."

"Anyway." The Goa'uld clone waved his hands in a gesture of supreme dismissiveness. "None of that is paramount to my current situation."

"Which is?" William asked the question, stepping forward nearer the center of the tiny room. "What's going on here?"

Ba'al eyed them both, sizing up William before returning his gaze to Glinda. He worked again at his sleeve, then ran his fingertips along the pressed crease in his soot-tinged slacks. "I believe that you should probably call your boss."

—OOOOOOO—-

"You have who in your Winnebago?"

"Technically speaking, it's not a Winnebago, Sir." Glinda held the phone closer to her ear in a vain attempt to keep the conversation private. "It's a Fleetwood."

"Pinky."

The word wasn't so much a warning as it was an order. Even across the phone connection, Glinda could make out that distinction. She glanced towards the unlikely scene in the living room of her Fleetwood where her husband made bland, facile conversation with a Goa'uld. She'd retreated into the tiny hallway between her kitchen and the bedroom to make her call, leaning back against the door that led to the lavatory in an attempt at privacy.

"It's Ba'al, Sir." Glinda ducked her chin. "I'm sure of it. He happened to be staying in the same motor coach park as we, and his trailer was lost early this morning in a massive conflagration."

"What's going on, Jack?" Sam sounded only slightly less sleepy than did O'Neill, a fact obvious even across the distance and wireless connection.

"It's Ba'al." The General lowered his cellular device, not bothering to muffle it. His conversation with his wife was clearly audible, if a bit indistinct. "He turned up in Vegas and has hitched himself to Pinky's honeymoon."

"Ba'al?"

"Ba'al."

"Ball!" Ben, now, with one of his favorite words. "Ball!"

"Hush, kiddo." Oh, so patient. But then, O'Neill had endless quantities of that commodity with his son. "Hey. Why don't you go find me your Woobie?"

Glinda could hear a squeal, then footsteps hitting the floor and scampering away. After a little bit of fumbling, the sound of the call seemed to expand.

"You're on speaker now, Glin." Samantha's voice was more distinct, now. "What's this about Ba'al?"

"William and I reserved a space at a motor home park just outside of Las Vegas for the night. I woke up earlier this morning to a disturbance outside and found the trailer home across the way from us going up in flames."

"Are you okay?" The General sounded genuinely concerned. "Were you harmed?"

"No, Sir. We all escaped without injury." Despite it all, Pinky found herself smiling into the phone. The dear man was worried about her. Bless him. "Three men burst out of the vehicle before it was completely engulfed. They were fist-fighting while yelling to-and-fro. After more fisticuffs, two of the men made a hasty escape, but the third remained behind."

"What did you do?"

"I approached the third man and encouraged him to seek safety away from the flames. That was when I saw his face clearly."

"And it was Ba'al?"

"It was indeed, Samantha." Glinda shoved at the curl that always bobbled disobediently over her forehead. "I was quite astonished to recognize him."

After a pause, O'Neill ventured to ask, "Is he the same one that you met before?"

"I'm certain he is."

"How can you be sure, Pinky?"

She had been prepared for this question. Her answer was quick. "He immediately knew me, Sir. He remembers our past acquaintance. The kidnapping, the sarcophagus—all of it. What happened between the two of us on the farm in Virginia. The conversation that he and I had. I'm sure it's him."

After a rough sort of groan, Jack exhaled. "I'm assuming that officials of some sort are at the scene of the fire."

"They are. Although, I believe they may have completed their work here. It sounds as if some of the emergency vehicles might be leaving. Still—I felt it expedient to usher the Goa'uld into our motorhome post haste, General." Glinda peeked past the angled kitchen cabinets to see her husband and the clone in a quiet, wary stalemate. "I didn't think that you would want him to be taken into custody or questioned by the authorities."

"No. No, that would probably not be the best idea."

Tiny, quick footsteps thwacked against the floor behind them, and a 'flump' registered across the line. Ben hadn't taken long to find his favorite toy—a large, stuffed likeness of a creature made famous by a popular older science fiction movie trilogy. From what Glinda understood, the Wookiee had been a birthday gift from the O'Neills' friend Teal'c. Ben's inability to pronounce the actual name of the beast?—alien?—character?—had resulted in the nickname.

"Woobie!"

"Wow, mister. That was fast." The General paused. "Now go find—uh—that other toy—the—damn. Sam—what was that other one's name?"

"Which one?"

"The toy with the—thing. The blue thing."

"Which thing? He's got a bunch of toys with things."

"Damn it, Sam—the dangly thing."

"Bombo." Glinda supplied the correct word with a little frown. "It's the blue elephant toy. He has a hat with a tassel."

"Bombo! The damned hat tassel thing." The General swore under his breath before moving away from the cellular device to speak quietly to Ben.

The Colonel spoke into the resulting quiet. "What does he want, Glin?"

"Ba'al? To be honest, I'm not certain." Another hasty glance into the living area assured her that nothing nefarious seemed to be occurring at that exact moment. "He iterated quite forcefully the fact that he wishes to speak to the both of you. That he will not divulge his information to anyone else."

"Only us, huh?" Another low epithet crackled across the line as O'Neill rejoined the conversation. "Where exactly are you?"

With a subdued, relieved sigh, Glinda stepped back out into the kitchenette. She'd already prepared for this, spreading a map of Nevada out on the diminutive counter top. "Las Vegas, Nevada. We're currently parked in a cozy Recreational Vehicle site on the north side of the city. I shall forward you the pertinent information via text message."

"North Las Vegas. That's near Nellis, Jack."

A pause, then the General grunted. It was his 'thinking' noise. "If we hop a transport, we could be there in no time."

"It's several hours at least from the East Coast, Sir."

"We're actually in Colorado at the moment, Glinda." Samantha chimed in. "Since you were honeymooning, Jack and I decided to take a few weeks' worth of leave. It's been a while since we spent some time together."

"We're here staying with Cassie." Something in the background sounded as if he'd shifted on a sofa or a bed. "We'll see if she won't mind babysitting Ben for a few days."

"In the meantime, Glinda. Keep Ba'al out of sight. As soon as you're able, head to Nellis. I'll leave orders that you be allowed access at the front gate. We'll call as soon as we leave."

"Yes, Sir."

"Oh—and Pinky?"

"Yes?"

"Be careful." A hardness entered the General's tone. "He may be a suave, smooth-talking son of a bitch, but he's still a Goa'uld. Don't trust him."

"Of course not, Sir."

"We'll see you soon."

—-OOOOOOO—-

"I shall require new attire."

"No."

"New trousers, then." Ba'al stood, motioning down at his clothing. "These are singed, and the odor is foul."

"Indeed they are, and indeed it is." Glinda turned off the burner of her tiny stove, using a kitchen towel to move the teapot from the stove to the trivet on the tiny dining table. William had brewed a pot of coffee to accompany their breakfast—but Ba'al had refused to drink it. Luckily, Glinda had always enjoyed a morning cup of tea, and had thought to stock the pantry of the Fleetwood with a decent variety of flavors. Currently, she was rethinking sharing it with the Goa'uld. "However, General O'Neill admonished me to keep you out of sight of the authorities and within my own, and so here you shall remain."

"Look." Raising a foot, he bobbled it around a bit. "The soles of my shoes are completely detached from the uppers. I can't be expected to trudge around in these. It's inhumane."

"Inhumane." With a sound that was half-chuckle, half-scoff, William pushed away from the wall of the vehicle. Skewering the Goa'uld with a steely glare, he nodded downwards at the current topic of conversation. "They're dirty, busted loafers. Hardly something worthy of being called a human rights violation."

"These are Merlonis." Ba'al's eyes flew wide. "Bespoke from Milan. Specially fitted to my foot and made for my stride by a master craftsman. They're hardly something that you can pick up at the mall."

"Well, then, we'll stop at Walmart on the way to the Air Force Base." Bean was starting to enjoy himself. "We'll get you some Keds."

"I have more suitable footwear in my vehicle."

"Which is rubble." Bean cocked an eyebrow. "Wet. smoldering rubble."

"Look." Using his finger, Ba'al separated the cheap metal miniblinds shading the window in the dining area. "The emergency forces have vacated the scene, now. I should go see if there is anything that I can salvage from my abode."

"It's a total loss, Ba'al." Snorting, Bean took a few steps over in the direction of the table. He spared a glance out the window before reaching for his tea. "What do you expect to salvage?"

"Things."

"Things?"

"Yes. Things." The Goa'uld slid into a seat at the table. "There are things inside that vehicle that I need. Things that are perfectly capable of withstanding a small, semi-devastating fire."

"Semi-devastating?" Glinda set a teacup down on the table in front of Ba'al. "I'm not sure that you have a true grasp of the meaning of that particular prefix."

Ba'al rolled his eyes. "You humans are so short sighted."

"Watch it, there, friend."

Glinda looked over at her husband. She'd known the man for more than a year, now, and had never heard that particular tone in his voice. Come to think of it, she'd never seen him in this particular bearing. He'd always been a gregarious, happy sort of fellow. It was what had attracted her to him, to be truthful. She'd been drawn to the open, honest ease with which he related to nearly everybody.

But just now, he seemed different. Edgier. Harder. If Glinda were being quite frank, he reminded her of a certain General for whom she worked, and of whom she'd grown most particularly fond.

Oh, good heavens. How had she never seen it? Both intelligent, stubborn, military men. Both having suffered difficulty and loss. Both possessing great passions and deep sentimentality. Both natural protectors. No wonder William and General O'Neill had formed a mutually approbative, if wary, camaraderie. The two men were cut from eerily similar cloth.

That was a thought to be thunk, for sure.

And all of a sudden, Ba'al's estimation of Mr. McBean seemed to be altogether different than it had been in the previous moment. That was certain by the way the Goa'uld lowered his chin, focusing on the steam rising over the rim of the practical, inexpensive teacup on the table in front of him. "I realize that I am in no position to make demands, Sir."

William didn't even blink. "No. You are not."

"But I really must insist that I be allowed to return to my vehicle for a few moments." The Goa'uld's dark eyes settled on William. "I only ask for the time I need to find the items without which all of this will have been in vain."

"All of what?"

Ba'al's eyes glowed—the flash nearly lost in the brightness of the morning sun. "All of everything."

—-OOOOOOO—-

Admittedly, Glinda had not been the principal packer of the Fleetwood. In the days leading up to the start of their Grand Excursion, William had taken charge of assuring that the large Recreational Vehicle was in optimal working condition. He had also mapped out their course of travel and made arrangements for sites in which to park the beast.

Glinda had been tasked with the purchasing of supplies. Food, bedding, and toiletries. Dishes and cookware, small containers of salt, pepper, and other spices. It had become something of an enjoyable challenge for her—finding accouterments small enough to fit into the confined space yet large enough to serve their varied and sundry purposes. She had only expected to be preparing, cooking, and serving the two of them, and had only bought sufficient quantities of specific items to last a day without having to wash the dishes.

Four towels. Four washrags. Four hand towels in the bathroom. A few more in the kitchen. Four plates. Four cups. Minimal utensils. Some to use, and a some to have waiting fresh when needed. For contingencies, she'd stowed some extra linens in the large storage spaces beneath the bench seating at the dining table along with a few extra quilts and pillows. Other than that—she'd gathered whatever toiletries and incidentals she considered necessary for comfort and hygiene and laid them in the pile next to Bean's front door.

William had taken charge of packing everything else. Maps and guide books in the gigantic glove box in front of her seat, tools in the large empty spaces beneath the rig. Folding chairs and tables and even a sturdy rug for outdoor lounging occupied a rack welded to the back of the vehicle, just above the tow hitch where they were dragging their car. Above the galley kitchen, lanterns, candles, matches had been stacked neatly. Since they had not required the use of such items, Glinda had not delved too deeply into the supply.

So, it came as quite a shock when her husband—the man she had married—this sweet, silly, convivial, grandfatherly chaplain—reached into a random space beneath the driver's seat and withdrew a cannon.

Well, not a cannon, per se. But a weapon of sufficient size and power that it made quite an impression on their erstwhile guest. Even contained as it was in a sleek leather holster, the thing appeared quite capable of inflicting considerable damage.

Slinging the rig over his shoulder, William withdrew the gun and checked it over. Flicking the safety off of the pistol with a quick movement of his thumb, he checked the magazine, assuring himself that it was loaded. Another motion of his hand readied the beast to fire. "You have to go back to your rig?"

"I do, indeed, Sir." Ba'al narrowed his eyes at the gun. "If you do not dispense with me first."

Bean grinned like the kindly old Grandpa he was. A kindly old Grandpa with a Howitzer. "I'll go with you, friend."

"I would really much rather it be your wife who accompanies me."

Snorting, William shook his shiny head. "Not a chance."

"Perhaps I should go, William." Glinda flipped the faucet to the 'off' position, reaching for one of the aforementioned hand towels. Giving her hands a quick swipe, she folded the nubby fabric in half and laid it on the counter. "After all, it is I who has prior experience dealing with aliens and their paraphernalia."

For several long beats, William studied her, his gray eyes darkening as he considered. Finally, he straightened, adjusting the fit of his shirt beneath the leather straps of his holster. Not a threat—but something close to it. "We'll all go together."

And with that, the matter was apparently settled.

Ba'al hesitated, then stood, brushing down his jacket and tugging at his sleeves. Smoothing his well-trimmed facial hair with his fingertips, he motioned towards the door. "Shall we?"

Out the door, around the front of the RV—like some strange, quirky parade. Glinda felt more than slightly conspicuous in her nightgown and slippers, her hair sticking up like a recalcitrant hedgehog, and her face still pinkened by the heat from the fire. Ba'al strode behind her—elegant, yet bedraggled—the Grizzabella of the Goa'uld. Bean brought up the rear, tall, and lanky, every bit the Colonel with his steely eyes and ready hands.

The rest of the park lay in quietude. Whatever attention had been garnered by the fire had receded back into the rigs and trailers. Breakfast for some—more sleep for others. Surely a decent number of the residents had slumbered through the entire incident. This was Las Vegas, after all. Sin City—where most everything happened in the wee hours of the morning, and abruptly ended at dawn.

Water from the firetrucks still puddled in the street, making its way slowly towards the outer edges of the road and into the gravel lining the trailer sites. Glinda picked her way through the worst of it all, past the spot where she'd watched the Goa'uld tussle with the two large men, around the sagging, broken remains of the stairs which had led into his abode, aiming towards the back of the burned-out motor vehicle.

There was nothing left. Drooping framework, blackened metal stays, and melted siding. In the middle of the wreck, what had been kitchen cabinetry tilted drunkenly, charred beyond belief. Bubbled plastic beyond showed what might have been a table. A vinyl sofa. The toilet facilities. Broken and warped windows. Ash and devastation and horror.

All in ruins.

"There is nothing left, Ba'al." Glinda was surprised to find herself saddened at his loss, compassion being the last thing she would have expected to feel. "I'm so sorry."

But her alien companion had ducked down at the back of the beast, squatting low in the rocks to look underneath his ruined home. "I need a tool—a pole or a stick."

Bean looked around until he found a piece of metal that had sheared off the motor home at some point during the conflagration. Pulling it free of the wreck, he handed it to the Goa'uld. "Will this work?"

"Indeed it will." Ba'al leaned to one side, resting his weight on one knee and extending his other leg for balance. Angling his arm deep beneath the rig, next to one of the burst and melted tires, he probed for something with the rod. "It should just reach."

William unbuckled the holster from his shoulder. Shrugging it off, he handed the gear to Glinda. With a swipe of his foot against the ground, he cleared away the worst of the gravel before hunkering down next to Ba'al. Now bent over double, Bean peered underneath the still-warm body of the ruin. "What are you looking for?"

Ba'al moved towards the tire, ducking his head to look under the vehicle. "A chest. Smallish—about the size of a shoe box."

"Bespoke Merloni-size shoebox, or New Balance from Costco?"

How the man could smile at such a time was beyond Glinda's grasp, but there he went, grinning like a loon. She glanced over to see Ba'al's lip twitch in response. Oddly, it made her feel better about the entire situation. Her husband had spent his entire professional life counseling people in crisis and defusing volatile moments—Glinda realized with a start that he was attempting to initiate a relationship approaching something like trust with the Goa'uld. Certainly—it was an uneasy trust with a cannon at the ready, but it was a sort of mutual regard all the same.

Ba'al muttered something in a wholly foreign language before glaring over at Bean, digging around beneath the vehicle with the metal bar. "Do you see it?"

"I don't see—wait. Over there." William slung low, balancing on his hands and feet in the plank position. "Go to your right another foot—nope—too far—there. There."

"I feel it."

"How is it sticking on there?"

"Brackets of my own design." The Goa'uld squinted in concentration, moving the metal rod just so—forcing a metallic chunk—and then another. With one final thrust, a dull thud sounded beneath the burned-out rig, accompanied by the gritty slide on metal on gravel. "It was imperative that the chest stay hidden, yet be available when I needed it."

"Ah." With a little grunt, Bean reached beneath the wreckage and stretched out his arm. "One of the brackets is still cradling the box. If you hook it with the pole—"

"Like that?"

William's tall, lanky form and natural athleticism was on full display as he sought the prize. Pushing himself further under the vehicle, he groaned as he reached—extending his arm to the fullest before making a triumphant exclamation and hauling himself backwards and back into the light.

"Geez Louise, friend." Pivoting on his hip, William ended up on his rear end with the item on his lap. "This sucker is heavy."

"It's nothing but a box." Glinda stood back a little way, clutching the heavy gun to her chest. In all honesty, she'd expected something rather more impressive than this. Gold, perhaps. Or even one of those clever safe-type boxes she'd seen advertised on the Home Shopping Club. The kind with the hidden hinges and nifty combination dials. This was none of that. It was just—plain. Dark gray metal with a hint of blue sheen—and nary even an alien marking to distinguish it. "Not remarkable in any way."

"But it's a heavy box, Glin." Bean turned it this way and that, the muscles in his arms flexing with the effort. "Maybe it's buried treasure. Gold ducats. Strings of pearls."

Ba'al's dark eyes gleamed as he rose to his feet. Shaking the dirt off his clothing, he reached for the chest, lifting it up and tucking it under his arm. "It is far more valuable than strings of pearls, Mr. McBean."

"Oh?" Bean stood, reaching a hand out for his weapon. "Then I can't wait to see it opened."

"But I feel it best that I do that only once we have united with General O'Neill and the lovely Colonel Carter." Cradling the box close, he nodded in the direction of the Fleetwood. "For now, we should vacate this place as soon as possible."

Glinda nodded, taking a last look at the burned-out hulk of Ba'al's home before turning back to focus on her husband. His countenance was careful—benign, but wary. His cool gray eyes met her green ones with a speculative gleam before he stepped close and took her hand in his own.

"This isn't quite the honeymoon I'd planned, Glinda McBean."

"This isn't quite the honeymoon I'd imagined, William McBean."

"Well?" He shrugged, raising her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the backs of her knuckles. "I guess that's what I get for marrying a girl with the coolest job on the planet."

"All part of your master plan, I suppose."

"Darn straight."

And his smile. Dear, heaven, what it did to her insides—all sweet and knowing and swoonworthy. But there was a mission to complete, and a Goa'uld standing near with a box filled with heaven-only-knew what, and a General and a Colonel traveling to meet them all.

Swallowing a sigh, Glinda tugged on her husband's hand as she started them all back towards their rig. "Onward to Nellis."