Things Owed

Out of Mind / Into the Fire

Part One

Written in honor of Ship Day 2023

"Sir."

Jack looked up from his slide. He'd nearly finished wiping it down when he'd heard the exterior armory door open. He'd expected to see Bingham or one of the other weapons handlers. Instead?

"Carter." Despite himself, he smiled. It shouldn't feel so good to see her. It should just feel—normal.

But nothing was normal anymore. Not after she'd found him—drunker than a two-legged stool—on his star-gazing perch a few weeks ago. Not after she'd guided him inside and out of the frigid rain, gently undressed him, and tended to his wounds.

And sure as hell not after he'd slept on her lap, waking with his face nuzzling her hip, his hand tucked under her thigh. Her fingers had still been threaded through his hair, even though she'd long-since lost herself to the oblivion of sleep. He'd lain there for far too long— awake, warm, and wanting. Trying to memorize the moment—the sound of her breathing, the shift of her muscles beneath his cheek, the way the morning light teased at the dark fringe of her lashes.

He'd feigned sleep as long as he'd been able. Right up until the point when he'd turned his face against her body and considered doing more than just lying there. Until the moment he'd wondered how far she'd let him go if they were both awake, and warm, and sober. That was when he'd forced himself to disentangle her hand from his hair and go take a cold shower.

But he'd wanted to stay there with her just that badly.

As for normal? Nothing felt that way anymore. Not after that night—and most certainly not after this last mission—where she'd refused to leave him behind. Even after he'd been snaked by Hathor and frozen like a Goa'uld-damned popsicle.

That still made him a little nauseated to think about. For the past few nights, every time he'd hovered at the edge of sleep, he'd suddenly been able to feel the needle-sharp teeth pierce the skin just below the base of his skull. Phantoms now—the cryo-chamber had prevented the symbiote from taking over. But sometimes, phantoms were just as terrifying as demons of the flesh and blood variety.

Then there were the other memories he'd been attempting to suppress. Memories that he'd been shocked to find more haunting than the snake. Curves beneath a draped silvery blanket. Creamy shoulders and sleep-warmed skin. Blue eyes flying wide when she'd seen him—the feel of her hand on his arm as she'd whispered his name. The compulsion he'd felt as she'd changed—to take just a peek—

But he'd kept his eyes on the wall, glaring down at the unconscious guard, imagining—well, just imagining. Feeling like a complete skeeze and hating himself for wanting.

And the weight of her against him in the alcove alongside the hall, the feel of her lips against his palm, her body—hips, back, shoulders—vital and vivid where it pressed upon his own. He hadn't had time in the moment to internalize what had happened between them—but since their return?

Well, he'd thought of little else.

Jack frowned against the memories, watching as Carter laid her Beretta on the counter next to him. "I thought you'd be long gone by now."

She shook her head, reaching into a cubby and pulling out a cleaning mat. "I got caught up in some paperwork. And then I figured I might as well deal with my sidearm before heading out."

"You clean your own weapon?"

"Of course." As if she were surprised at the question. Rolling the mat out, she busied herself with assembling the cleaning kit. "I like doing it."

"Ah." With a little nod, Jack looked down at the barrel grease on his hands. "Makes sense, since you're a perfectionist."

She busied herself with ejecting the magazine of her weapon, but she couldn't quite quell the look she sent his way—part confusion, part something edging right up to hurt. She'd frowned, catching at her bottom lip with her teeth. When she racked the slide, it felt personal.

Jack cringed inwardly as he watched her remove the slide, and then the guide rod. Her movements had become infinitely more precise, her fingers moving on the metal like a perfect, practiced dance. And, like everything else she did these days, seemingly hypnotic. More so, since he knew how that dance had felt on his skin. It took effort to look away, to force himself back to his own task. "I didn't mean it like that, Carter."

Two more moves—three, and she'd gotten the hammer free. Laying it neatly next to the rest of the components, she titled a look in his direction. "Like what?"

"Like you took it."

"How did I take it?"

But they both knew. He'd teased her often enough about her inability to cede control of certain things. Seating the slide in its run, he coaxed the assembly home. "I'm just saying that the highly trained and efficient on-base armorers would be more than happy to take care of it for you."

"I know that."

"Then why don't you let them?"

She narrowed a glance at him, taking special care to notice his own newly reassembled gun on the table in front of him. "Why do you clean your own weapon?"

"Well." He lifted the heavy weapon, checking the slide, the locking mechanism, and the safety. "It's a Walther."

"So?"

"And these yahoos—"

Those blue, blue eyes narrowed at him. "You mean the highly trained and efficient on-base armorers?"

"Those yahoos," he lifted a corner of his mouth in a smile. "Mostly work with Berettas and the odd 1911. They're not as accustomed to the finer pieces of machinery."

"And your Walther is special somehow." More statement than question. And more than a little snarky, if truth be told.

Swiveling on the stool, he pointed the gun towards the floor and racked the slide with a satisfying 'schlick'. "Oh, yes."

"Whatever, Sir." She rolled her eyes at him—not even bothering to hide it, either. Picking up the bottle of solvent, she flipped the lid open. "I guess that I just like doing it myself. I feel as if I should take care of my weapon like it takes care of me."

Like she took care of everyone around her. Benadryl and energy bars for Daniel, a steady supply of candles for Teal'c's Kel-norim. Chess and chick flicks with Cassie on Saturdays. Although, that was for Doc Fraiser, too. Carter spending time with Cassie gave Janet a few hours of time to herself.

And as for him? He thought about her hand in his as he'd driven to Cromwell's house. Not to mention other moments she'd been there for him over the past few years. Standing shoulder-to-shoulder with him at the railing overlooking the holiday events at the mall. Sitting at his side in the planetarium sharing his popcorn. On her knees next to the cryo-tank holding him as he'd shivered himself back into his humanity.

"You know, I still owe you for saving me back there."

Her cheeks went a little pink as she looked across the table at him. "Where? Back in Hathor's stronghold?"

"Yeah."

"I didn't save you, Sir." Carter fitted a cleaning patch to one end of her barrel, shoving at it with the slide rod. "You saved me."

"When?"

"When you found me, disconnected me from the sedative they were giving me, and then knocked out the fake doctor guy."

"That was minor, Captain." Jack seated his magazine, sliding it home with the heel of his hand. "You kicked ass out there. You handled Makepeace like a pro. Talked him into letting you go back into the palace against mission protocol. Then, against express orders, you circled back to get me out of the deep freeze."

"I nearly got myself killed." Carter shook her head—self-recrimination being her go-to. "Letting her get me with that hand device."

"But you didn't get killed."

For several long beats, she simply worked at her task, carefully wiping at the glistening metal. After what seemed like an age, she met his eyes. Clear, bright blue to deepest chestnut. "Well, anyway. I wasn't going to leave you behind."

"I wasn't going to leave you behind, either."

"So."

"So?"

"So, what?"

His lips curved upward. "Who owes whom in this scenario?"

She'd anticipated his train of thought. Because of course she had. Sitting quietly for a moment, her fingers made quick work of wiping off any lingering solvent before she lifted a shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Maybe we just owe each other."

Flicking the safety 'on', Jack laid the Walther on the table. "Maybe."

Lifting the barrel, she aimed it towards the light and peered through it as if it were a scope. Apparently satisfied, she reached for a cloth as she threw a glance at him. "Tell you what. We'll buy each other a beer and call it even."

"A beer, huh?"

"A beer." She reached for the slide. "I'll buy you one and you buy one for me."

"Tonight?"

"Do you have something better to do with your evening?"

"No." And the sad thing was that he didn't. Not a damned thing.

Besides. Even if he had plans—he'd have canceled them for this. He was able to admit that to himself even as he recognized just how pitiful that was. Just how much of an issue it could become. But then—all those grandiose plans he'd had for building certain walls hadn't panned out, either. So? Issue be damned.

"No." He repeated himself. Just to drive home the point that he was pathetic.

"Neither do I." She finished with the slide and set it aside. "Well—I told Cassie that I'd drop by for a few minutes. After that? The night is free."

Jack turned his wrist and took a quick gander at his watch. "Six-thirty?"

"That works." Sam reached for the barrel grease. "Pike's Place?"

Public. Big. Loud. Beer and pool and live music on Fridays. Decent food and easy ambiance. The kind of place where nobody would look askance at two co-workers—colleagues—friends, even—sitting down for a drink together. It was perfect.

"Sure." Slipping the weapon into his holster, he stood. "See you there."

—-OOOOOOOO—-

He was late.

Only a few minutes, but it was enough that he'd wondered whether she'd waited. Jack let the door swing shut behind him, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light inside the bar. Outside, it was already dark—the neon signs and shaded overhead lighting inside the establishment seemed bright by comparison.

He'd expected a crowd—but the place was inordinately packed. Old and young and everything in between. Jeans and suit coats and even a few uniforms here and there. The bar itself skirted the wall to his left, its counter lined with people. To the right, a low half-wall separated the main space from the game room, where more people crowded around pool tables and dart lanes.

With a little groan, he pushed his way into the mass, scanning for a familiar blond head. Skirting the crowd around the right side, he made a quick study of the pool tables, but found no joy. Same with the dart boards.

Muttering an epithet, he angled himself through the center of the horde, pushing his way past tables full of laughing patrons to make a thorough recon of the bar. Nothing.

Pivoting again, he made his way to the back of the place, where a hallway to the left of the counter led to the restrooms. Past that, an archway opened through the back wall, leading into a large room. Darker. Quieter, and bare but for a modest platform holding a few random stools and a microphone. Even though the stage lights were on, the thing was empty. The tables facing the stage sat vacant.

Except for one.

She'd plunked herself down at a table near the stage, nursing what looked to be a diet soda. She'd changed her clothes since leaving the Mountain, her green BDUs replaced by jeans and that leather jacket that he saw in his dreams. On the table in front of her, pretzel sticks marched along in a neat row. She'd obviously gotten bored waiting.

"Are you sorting those by height?"

She looked up at him with a self-conscious grin. "Maybe."

"I'm sorry I'm late." He swung around to the chair on the other side of the table. "I got caught in traffic."

"From the Mountain?"

Shrugging out of his jacket, O'Neill draped it over the back of his chair before sitting down. "I ended up running an errand first."

"Oh?"

Her pretzels took up the majority of the table. She'd scooted everything else—condiments, coasters, drink menu—off to the far side. He picked up a plastic stand that held a laminated sign—Pike's Place Plays! Weekly Trivia Challenge!—fiddling with it as he looked at her. "Have you ever been to StarFix?"

"That telescope shop downtown." Picking up a pretzel, she raised it to her mouth, stopping short before taking a bite. "Thinking about getting a new rig?"

"I might have to. My casing's cracked, and one of the lenses is shattered. It's old enough that it's probably not worth fixing."

"It's too cold for it up on your roof, Sir."

"I know." He leaned back in his seat, twiddling the plasticized card back and forth. "To be honest, I should have brought it down months ago, but I got lazy. I haven't had much time for stargazing lately."

"What with work and all."

Yeah—saving the world every week was really cutting into his 'me time'. Except that he'd rather be out there on some alien planet with her than up in his loft alone. Damn it. "So—what's up with Cassie? You said she wanted to see you."

"Ah." The Captain's expression relaxed. "She needed me to explain some stuff for her physics class. And she found a site on the internet she wanted to show me."

"Site?"

"It's an online forum. A chat group for people trying to restore old motorcycles." Picking a pretzel out of the bowl, she turned it over and over in her fingertips. "I've been trying to find a new gear assembly for my Indian, and the shift forks are pretty much shot."

"Did you find what you needed?"

"Yes, actually." Lifting the pretzel to her lips, she hesitated. "I'll just have to save up a little."

A movement at the arch caught Jack's attention, and he looked up to see a guy walking towards the stage carrying a microphone. He passed their table with a smile and a quick wave before stepping on the platform. Plugging the cord into the wall, he connected the handset into the stand, and then made his way back into the main bar.

When Jack turned back to Carter, she was studying him, an odd expression playing on her features, that damned pretzel paused against the full swell of her bottom lip. As if she were caught in time, contemplating the mysteries of the ages. Or contemplating him—an idea that made him feel—things.

When she finally did speak, her tone seemed softer. "Do you miss it?"

"What? The stargazing?"

"Yeah."

Did he? Not that it really mattered, in the grand scheme of things, but he nodded anyway. "Yes. I do."

"I have access to the big scopes at Las Brisas. I can also get you into the inner sanctum at the Pike's Peak Observatory, if you want. Past the touristy stuff."

"I'm not a professional like you, Doctor." Smoothing his thumb along the card, he shook his head. "I like my roof just fine."

Her cool blue gaze swept over him as she tapped the pretzel against her bottom lip. With a deliberate breath, she turned her attention back to the table top. "So, the other night—"

Jack ran his tongue along the inside crease of his lips. "When you found me up there?"

"Notably not stargazing."

Jack looked down at where his hands rested on his thighs. "Yes. Then."

"Were you already drunk when you climbed the ladder?"

He hadn't ever intended to talk about it, but what the hell. She'd saved him that night—yet again. Not so much his life, although he had actually been in true danger of freezing to death—but she'd ministered to his soul. It only seemed right to be honest about the whole thing. Besides—she was the only one that had the right to ask. "Somewhat."

"And?"

He pressed his lips together before speaking again. "And I had some more once I got up there."

"Okay."

"It wasn't as bad as it looked." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He set the sign back down, straightening it in its plastic base as he thought back to that night—and to the next morning.

She'd stayed for breakfast. It had been awkward for all of three minutes—what with him not having bothered to finish getting dressed, and her looking all deliciously rumpled. Despite the breakfast sizzling on the stove, it had been her smell that had lingered in his nostrils—persisting past the point of prudence.

But he'd fought his way around it. Finished cooking. They'd chatted over the eggs. Talking about nothing of consequence. Not work, or the past, or even the future. Just—talking. Being. Enjoying each other's company.

When she'd finally left, he'd put on his coat and climbed back up into his loft. It had taken two trips to bring all the empties down—empties he'd assiduously not counted. But that's when he'd noticed the cracks in his telescope. He'd moved aside the tarp to get some bottle caps wedged beneath and found the damage.

"Sir?"

He'd gotten lost in the memories, damn it. Shaking his head, he circled back to where he'd left off. "Some of the bottles were only half-full when I started."

It seemed to be enough to assuage her curiosity. With a subdued nod, she slipped the pretzel between her lips and picked up her glass.

"For the record, Carter, I'm not a drunk."

She swallowed, then took a sip of her soda and swallowed again. Her eyes met his full-on. Without hesitation. "I didn't think you were."

"That's because you haven't known me all that long."

"But I know you now."

For several long, thick beats, he just looked at her—studying how her eyes gradually grew darker, her expression relaxing under his scrutiny rather than growing tighter. How she didn't back down from it.

Over the past few months, something had shifted between them—understanding, maybe, or perception. And he realized suddenly just how much this mattered to him. How very, very much her opinion of him meant. It was at once disturbing and liberating to acknowledge.

He cleared his throat, ripping his gaze away from hers—only a little abashed that he was the one to break the moment. "Okay, then."

"Okay."

Jack reached out and stole one of her pretzels, popping it into his mouth. It was stale, but satisfyingly salty. He swallowed and then made a random gesture in the direction of the bar. "Have you ordered?"

"Just the soda." With a swift, efficient motion, she swept up the pretzel sticks in her hands and deposited them back into their bowl. "I didn't want to start until you got here."

"Great. First round's on me." Pushing back from the table, he started to stand. "What do you want?"

But before she could answer, another movement at the arched entrance of the room caught her attention, and she looked towards it. And then—unbelievably—she went pale, cursing sourly under her breath.

"Doctor Samantha Carter!"

Footsteps clunked on the wood floor, and Jack glanced up to see a tall man making his way towards them, his arm draped across the shoulder of a petite woman. They were both younger than he was—Carter's age, probably. Good-looking in a banal sort of way—with her abundant makeup and his perfect tan. She was holding a nearly-empty wine glass, while a bottle of domestic swill dangled from his fingers.

And they obviously knew the Captain.

"Doctor Metcalfe." Carter's lips drew into a thin smile. Standing, she nodded at the newcomers. Her fingers clenched into fists briefly before relaxing in a process too precise to be anything other than deliberate. "Doctor Greer."

Metcalfe stopped just short of the table, tossing a dismissive look in Jack's direction before returning to Carter. "Holy cow! It's been what—five years?"

"Something like that."

"And what have you been up to?"

"Oh, this and that." Carter's shoulders rose in a stilted shrug. "Working on various projects. You know how it is."

It was strange to see Carter so—what? Uncomfortable? Out of her element? Discombobulated? Two years ago, when he'd met her, the Captain had struck him as hyper-driven and endearingly over-eager. Like a well-trained puppy determined to make a good impression. Still—it wasn't as if she were a naif—he'd read her file before they'd gone through the 'Gate. The swagger she'd displayed during that first briefing had been earned. Captain Samantha Carter's record read like a manual for the perfect officer on the rise.

Inside the Mountain and in the field, she'd graduated in a way—maturing from that young officer seeking approval to a self-assured badass. He'd grown to rely on her. Trust her. Need her.

As for lately? Well, lately he'd started seeing her in whole new ways. More personal and less 'personnel'. And even though the commanding officer in him knew how fully inappropriate this relationship he was nurturing was, the man in him had found something worth the risk.

Someone worth the risk.

Someone who was currently giving off some very iffy vibes.

"Carter?"

She turned and found him—her eyes flying wide as if only just remembering that he was there. Something played across her face—something beyond uncertainty. Not fear. Something closer to annoyed ambivalence. "Sir."

"Sir?" The woman seemed to just have realized that Jack was there. She turned in his direction, raking him over with a keen eye. "Wait—Sam. Is this one of your military buddies?"

It was almost imperceptible—her growl. Her bottom lip tightened as she ducked her face on another epithet. Someone who didn't really know her would have missed it. But when she lifted that stubborn, determined chin again, her expression was once again carefully bland.

"Doctor Brock Metcalf, Doctor Ashley Greer, this is my friend Colonel Jack O'Neill."

Standing, Jack leaned across the table, extending a hand first to Ashley, and then to Brock. "Pleased to meet you both."

"Yes, well." Doctor Greer shrugged, her hand limp when it touched his. "Of course."

"What the hell are you doing here, Sam?" Metcalfe crossed his arms in front of his chest, his eyes making a thorough perusal of the Captain. "I thought you were off deployed in some god awful dump somewhere away from modern society."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you've dropped off the face of the earth. You never contact any of us anymore. Your name is never mentioned in any of our old circles." Metcalfe's gaze turned sharp. "You haven't published in ages. What—three? Four years?"

Carter's smile slipped—just a bit. "Not quite that long."

Doctor Greer's eyes flickered in the scarcest hint of a roll as she made a noise that could have been a chuckle. Sipping at what remained of her wine, she swallowed before adding, "Ages, Sam. You might as well be dead."

"I don't have to live by the law of Publish or Perish, Ashley." Carter's tone was carefully concise. "I'm not ensconced in academia, so it really doesn't matter anymore."

"You're not anywhere these days." Metcalfe snorted, bouncing forward slightly on his toes as he raised his bottle. He smiled—not in a good way. "So, by your own logic, you really don't matter anymore."

Hissing out a breath, Jack made a quick study of the Captain. She was still pale, except for the color that tinged her ears and throat. Wary—feet wide, hands deceptively loose at her sides. Sharp eyes and thin lips curved into a half-smile that only just revealed the dimple in her left cheek. Fight or flight.

Jack looked down at where his boots were dark blotches on the wood floor, pressing his lips together against the smile that threatened. The last time he'd seen his Captain look that way, someone had died. Painfully.

These two, however, didn't seem to recognize the dangerous waters in which they currently waded.

Especially not Doctor Metcalfe, who rolled his eyes and casually let his free hand wander down to rest on his companion's backside. "Well, do I lie?"

"Don't be mean, Brock." Ashley giggled, leaning into her boyfriend. "He's just being a jerk tonight, Sam. Don't mind him. He's always like this when he gets his game face on. Talking smack."

"Game face?" Carter's brows rose as she lowered herself back into her seat. "What game are you playing?"

"Don't get him started. I beg you." Ashley groaned—her wine sloshing wildly as she gestured at her companion with her glass. Pulling out the chair closest to Sam, she plunked herself down. "This trivia thing that seems to be everywhere. As soon as Brock figured out that they give cash prizes, he's been insisting that we hit every bar we can whenever we visit a new city."

"I'm unbeatable." Brock preened, rocking back on his heels. "I haven't lost a game yet."

"You're also humble." Jack lifted a brow.

Grinning, Metcalfe stepped towards the last available chair at the little table and settled himself into it. "Hey, old man. Just being honest."

Old man? O'Neill cast a sidelong look at Carter, but she was assiduously avoiding his eyes. Pasting on a careful smile, he went back to Doctor Metcalfe. "So, other than working a side gig at beating everyone in bar room trivia, what are you two doing here?"

Brock's brows steepled as if he were contemplating "We're here at a conference at UCCS. I'm presenting a paper on string theory, and Ashley's moderating a panel on—botany something—what was that again, Ash?"

"The ethics of the manipulation of phenotypic traits in pervasive non-indigenous plant life."

Jack's eyebrows rose. "There's an unethical way to modify weeds?"

"Who the hell knows?" Brock laughed. "That's why they're having a panel about it. Anyway, there's a reception tonight at the university, but who wants to hang out with a bunch of pretentious associate professors schmoozing for tenure?"

"Nobody, am I right?" Ashley giggled, raking her hair away from her face with her perfectly manicured fingers. "So, of course he asks around and finds out that this place hosts trivia nights, and offers the biggest prize. And since Brock's still paying off student loans, but really loves his BMW and expensive shoes, here we are."

Jack glanced down at the table, reaching out to touch the laminated half-sheet that he'd been playing with earlier. "Here you are."

As if on cue, a large shape emerged from the wall of people in the main bar and sailed through the archway. Jack watched as a pair of male staff members pushed a huge whiteboard on wheels towards the stage. Behind it, a waitress followed along, bearing a handful of colorful, laminated pages. Once the whiteboard was situated correctly, she began sticking the pages on the whiteboard in neat rows and color-coded columns.

Obviously, they'd performed this operation before. As Jack watched, the team made quick work of lighting the platform, adjusting the microphone, and rearranging the tables near the front of the stage. By the time the girl was done with the cards, patrons from the bar out front had started to trickle into the back room, finding places at tables and spots to lean up against the walls.

Brock pushed his chair back from the table. "And that's our cue. Stick around if you want to see my genius unleashed on the poor plebes of Colorado Springs."

Ashley stood, grabbing her glass. "It should be fun!"

"Attention, please!" One of the male crew tapped on the mic. "If you're interested in signing up for Pike's Place Plays, please see Trudy at the counter. So far, we've only got one team, and we've gotta have at least two tables to hold the game. Remember—the grand prize hasn't been won for a while, and has rolled over into a nice little kitty of a thousand bucks!"

Cheers erupted through the bar, and Jack hazarded a glance at Sam.

She had that look on her face. The same one she'd worn when she'd challenged Turghan and stared down Kinsey. The one present as she'd bantered with Kawalsky and Ferretti during that first briefing so many months before. The same one he'd imagined on her face when she'd refused to come up out of the missile silo and leave Cassie behind. The look that meant she was in it to demolish everything in her path.

Damn it.

"Carter!" It was louder, now. Jack had to raise his voice even as he bent closer to her. "I'll go get our drinks. What do you want?"

It was when she leveled her cool, blue gaze on him that he knew for sure. You didn't live in each other's pockets day in and day out for years on end without knowing. You couldn't go into battle with someone without knowing. You didn't sleep on a woman's lap—let her undress you, let her tend to you—

Hell—you didn't cling to her as tightly as possible just to feel warm again—sink against her in order to feel wholly alive again—bury your face into her neck just to smell her—without knowing what that particular look meant.

"Another diet soda."

"That's it?"

"That's it."

Not a beer. No white wine. No fancy, girly drink with fruit and an umbrella. No alcohol to dull the functioning of her glorious brain. "Are you sure?"

"Oh, hell yes, Sir."

Aw, crap.

—To be continued. . .

—-OOOOOOO—-

"Fifty bucks."

"Yikes." Carter took a sip of her soda, cringing a little as she squinted at him. "I'll pay you back."

They'd taken their seats at a tall bar table at the front of the room. Across from them, at an identical table, Brock and Ashley sat, heads close, discussing something seemingly important. The rules, maybe, spelled out on an index card taped down on the tables. Or strategy. Or their own startling pretentiousness.

Jack had pushed his way to the bar, found Trudy, and tossed two bedraggled twenties and a pair of fives in her direction before ordering his Guinness and Carter's Diet Coke. Trudy couldn't have looked more happy to jot his and the Captain's names on her clipboard and pocket the entry fee. There had been no other patrons brave enough to dive into the fray.

"I'll take it out of your share of the winnings." O'Neill leaned forward, balancing his forearms on the table. One of the whiteboard guys had placed a silver bell on their table. The kind that cheap motels and hairdressers kept on their reception desks. "So. Do you think we can beat them?"

"Oh, yes." She rolled her eyes. "Brock Metcalfe is one of the biggest dicks on the planet. And I've known some big dicks."

Despite it all, he snort-laughed at that. "You have?"

Color rushed back into her cheeks, one of which creased into a deep dimple when she grinned. "You know what I meant, Sir.

"Right."

"Anyway. Brock and I worked together at the Johnson Space Center in Houston for a year or so while we were doing our post-graduate work."

"You met this big dick at Johnson?"

She raised a single eyebrow in an expression so reminiscent of Teal'c that it was a little startling. "Sir."

Clearing his throat, he tried to gloss things over. "At Rice, right?"

Nodding, she ran a finger along the polished silver base of the bell. "He was a TA for a physics professor, and Ashley was one of his undergrad students."

Jack scowled. "Well, that's creepy."

"That's what I said." A smirk curved the corner of her mouth. "But then, I always thought that he was a big—"

"Dick." He was being helpful, right? Providing the right word for her.

"Yep. That." She raised a single shoulder in a shrug as she tucked a strand of hair back behind her ear. "And so, I wasn't surprised."

"So—do you think that we have what it takes to beat him?"

"Oh yeah." Carter slipped out of the jacket, turning enough to drape it over the back of her chair. Bracing her elbows on the table, she went on. "I've got the science and math covered. You're pretty good with grammar and books and stuff, and unless Daniel was talking out of his butt, your Master's degree is in History, right?"

He was a little embarrassed at how long it took for him to realize she was still talking. Even more ashamed at his response. "Mmm-hmm."

But really—it was all he had. He'd seen her in civvies. Jeans, mostly, or demure sweaters and those little frothy skirts she seemed to favor. This was different. No demure sweater, no innocent skirt—she was wearing some sort of top that dipped low in front, with straps that tied around the back of her neck leaving her shoulders and most of her back bare. And her jeans—fit so snugly that he wondered how she could sit—slung so low on her hips so that when she moved, her lower back and abdomen were exposed. Holy hell.

It was nothing, right? She was a grown woman. Grown—mature—adult—fit—lithe, and willowy, and curved in all the right places. It was nothing. Her clothing was suitable for this place. And her perfume—a little spicy, a little sweet. Totally perfect for the situation. A bar, for heaven's sake. A drink with a colleague. A friend. Nothing more. Right?

But despite his best efforts, he instantly saw her back in that damned fortress again, bare on that damned table with only a flimsy silver blanket for cover. Sitting up on that bed, the ambient light making her skin glow like fresh cream. When he'd disconnected her tubing, he'd bobbled around a bit, his hands grazing against things that they shouldn't have.

Softnesses that they shouldn't have grazed.

Holy hell. Damn it all.

"So, I think we'll be okay. As long as they don't pull some crazy-ass stuff out of the blue."

"Don't worry about it, Captain." Forcing his eyes away from her, Jack picked up his beer, taking a measured sip before going on. "We can hold our own."

She met his eyes fully—assessing him with that remarkable, unnaturally blue gaze. After what seemed like an age, she leaned in to nudge his shoulder, her cheeks dimpling into a blinding grin. "Then, I think we've got this, Sir."

Up on the stage, a good-looking dude in an improbable, but dapper, tuxedo had taken up the microphone. "Welcome to Pike's Place Plays!"

Cheers. Applause. The entire patronage of the bar seemed to have crammed itself into this dimmed back room.

"I'm Gary, your emcee for the evening. As you know, as the prize kitty gets bigger and bigger, the questions get harder and harder, so we are in for a tough one, people!"

Whoops and hollers from all around created a deafening cacophony in the close room. Jack resisted the urge to protect his aging ears by sticking his fingers in them.

"Meet our contestants!" Suit Guy waited for the cheering to abate before continuing. "At the blue table, we have a pair of first time Pike's Place Players! Visiting from their home in Cambridge, Massachusetts, please welcome MIT Professors and Future Nobel Laureates Doctor Brock Metcalfe and Doctor Ashley Greer!"

Carter rolled her eyes, and Jack heard her mutter an incredulous, "As if."

But the crowd seemed to take it at face value, if the applause was any indication. Once it quieted, the emcee continued. "And at the red table, we have another pair of newcomers. Hailing from right here in Colorado Springs, please welcome Jack O'Neill and Sam Carter!"

As the crowd clapped again, O'Neill took another bracing swig of his Guinness. Across the way, Metcalfe and Greer were throwing daggers in their direction, a fact that was being assiduously ignored by his partner. Carter's attention was intent on the white board, as she read the titles on the cards of each column of colored tiles.

"As you all know, Pike's Place Plays is a simple game. Twenty-five questions, each worth a hundred points. Whoever hits the bell has to answer the question, although you may consult with your partner. Wrong answers lose you a hundred points, so it's better not to hit the bell if you don't know the answer."

Jack glanced over at Carter. She was completely focused on the emcee, intent on each and every word. Jaw set, eyes narrowed, leaning forward in her seat, her fingers curved atop the table as if she were playing the piano. Battle-ready.

"Five categories. Five questions each. Whoever ends up with the most points at the end of the round gets the opportunity to play for the Mother Lode. No need to phrase any answer like a question. We're not anal retentive."

Laughter, and then the crowd shushed itself back down as Gary indicated the board with a flourish of his hand. "For tonight's game, we have 'World Class Heroines', 'Guys with Beards', 'Cruising', 'Counting the Weighs', and 'Dingo Lingo'!"

"'Dingo Lingo'?" Jack scowled at the board. "'Cruising'?"

"I think they're plays on words, Sir." Carter nodded towards the neat arrangement of cards. "The category title names give us a clue as to what the questions will be about."

"I got that." Reaching for the bell, he centered it between them on the polished surface of the table. "They're just kind of dumb."

"Well—it's a bar, Sir."

As if that were the right answer. But Gary was talking again, so Jack didn't argue the point.

"In accordance with house rules, Trudy gets to choose the first category. First team to hit the bell gets to answer. If you get it right, you get to choose the next question. If you answer it right, we'll toss the card in your basket. Someone will add them up at the end of the round, and whoever has more, wins."

Easy enough. Jack leaned into the table, resting his forearms on the table, his hands light.

Gary grinned. "Ready?"

"Trudy! Trudy! Trudy!" The crowd chanted, stomping their feet on the hardwood floor.

From the bar, a surprisingly strong voice yelled, "Guys With Beards!"

Trudy had spoken. The game was on.

Gary reached out and plucked the first card from the appropriate column, flipping it over to see the clue. Pausing dramatically, he read, "This Austrian neurologist is better known for his second job. And no, his beard did not make him look Jung."

Ashley's hand hit the bell first. "Sigmund Freud!"

Gary tossed the card into the Blue Team's basket before taking the next card off the board. "This famous bearded man once said, 'Avoid popularity if you would have peace'."

O'Neill plinked the bell. "Abraham Lincoln."

"Correct!" And Gary reached for another card.

Ding!

"ZZ Top."

Ding!

"Brigham Young."

Gary pulled the last card of the column from the board, pausing dramatically. "This bearded man was crowned King of Germany in 936. He also held the title of Holy Roman Emperor."

Jack's hand went for the bell, but a loud 'ding!' from the other table stopped him. Looking over, he saw Metcalfe throw a superior sort of look towards him and Carter.

Raising an eyebrow, Brock sat up straight, tilting his head in a show of exaggerated swagger. "I believe the bearded man you're looking for is Henry the Second."

Gary groaned, shaking his head. "I'm sorry, Blue Team. That is incorrect."

Over at the other table, Brock deflated noticeably, sagging even more when his girlfriend whacked him on the shoulder with the back of her hand.

"Red Team?" Prodding a little, the emcee angled himself towards their table. "Do you have a guess?"

Carter leaned in close, her hair tickling his cheek. "Sir."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know the answer?"

"Yep."

"Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure."

In a quick move, she picked up his hand and used it to hit the bell.

"Can the Red Team save it?" Gary stepped toward their table, striking a dramatic pose. "What's your answer, Jack O'Neill?"

Sitting back in his chair, Jack scrubbed at his jaw with his knuckles. "Otto the First was crowned King of Germany in 936, and became the Holy Roman Emperor in 962. He is known for sealing contracts by swearing an oath upon his glorious beard."

And with that, another card ended up in the red basket.

The crowd clapped at the completion of that category, and Carter squinted briefly at the board before choosing the next. "World Class Heroines."

Ding!

"Sojourner Truth!"

Ding!

"Lady Bird Johnson!"

Ding!

"Mary, Queen of Scots!"

Ding!

"Joan of Arc!"

Ding!

Three cards made it into the blue basket this time, and only two in the red. Carter glared over at the opposing team as she swirled her drink around with the straw. "Supermodels shouldn't count as heroines."

"Dunno, Captain." Jack hadn't been able to quell his grin when she'd missed that particular answer. But at least her error hadn't put them behind. As things stood, they were tied. "Cindy Crawford is pretty damned heroic, if you ask me."

Her answering glare was impressive. She'd make a great General one day.

But there was no time to dwell upon that, since Brock had already made his choice for the next category. "Gary, we'll take 'Dingo Lingo'."

Jack raised his beer to his lips, taking a sip as Gary perused the clue. Setting his glass down, he laid his hand, palm down, on the table.

"First question. What is the German word for 'dog'?"

"Hund!" Brock, of course. Naturally, he overemphasized the first syllable and made it sound all phlegmy.

Jack waited for Gary to file the card and pick up a new one. "Spanish?"

Ashley was lightning-fast on the bell. "Perro!"

"French?"

Brock got this one. "Chien!"

"Sobaka!"

"Inu!"

Three cards ended up in the blue basket, while Jack had claimed the last two—Russian and Japanese—for the red.

Tossing the last card into the appropriate basket, Gary raised the microphone again. "Choose the next category, Red Team."

Jack nudged Sam's elbow with his own. "Go ahead. You decide."

"Are you sure?"

"It's your game, Captain Ahab." He tilted his head in the direction of the opposite team. "This guy is your white whale."

She considered him for a moment before turning back to look at the board. After a beat, she pointed at the column at the far end of the board. "We'll take 'Counting the Weighs'."

Nodding, Gary reached for the first card.

Ounces of beer in a half-barrel keg?

Sam hit the bell as she calculated her answer. "One thousand nine hundred and eighty-four."

And another card hit their basket.

Unfortunately, Brock knew the accurate measurement of a bushel—both American and British—and Ashley managed to land a lucky guess as to how much the Statue of Liberty weighed.

How many British stone make up a long ton?

Ding!

"A hundred and sixty." Carter danced a little in her seat as Gary added the card to their basket.

The emcee pulled the next card, shifting his attention between the two tables. "How much wine comprises a Buttload?"

Even Jack was surprised with how quickly he hit the bell. "One hundred and twenty-six gallons."

The crowd erupted into laughter and applause as Gary tossed the card into the appropriate basket.

"And we're down to the last category, ladies and gentlemen!" Indicating the final phalanx of cards on the white board, Gary motioned for quiet in the room. "As of right now, the score is tied at a thousand each. Still on the board is the game's surprise bonus question. And remember, the winners get to walk away with $100. Or they can risk it for a chance at the Mother Lode. Are we ready to play?"

A wave of applause rippled through the place as Gary took a deep breath. Yanking the first card of the last column off the board, he waited for the noise to die down before raising his microphone. "For the game's final category, we have 'Cruising'."

Pausing, he made a dramatic scan of the room before raising the card to read. "In which movie does Tom Cruise say, 'You had me at hello?'"

Ashley got this one immediately, whacking the bell with her palm. "Jerry Maguire."

Gary raised the next card. "'Talk to me, Goose.'"

Even Jack had seen this movie. His fingers hit the bell. "Top Gun."

Gary did his best Nicholson for the next quote. "You can't handle the truth!"

Brock's hand came down hard on the ringer. "A Few Good Men."

"'I'm an excellent driver.'"

Carter's hand flew to the bell. Ding! "Rainman."

Gary yanked the card off the board and flipped it over. He scanned it, then lifted it up into the air. "Wouldn't you know it? The final question of the game is our Pike's Place Peak!"

Carter frowned, leaning in to mirror Jack's position on the table. She turned her head towards him to mutter, "What the hell's a Pike's Place Peak?"

As if he'd heard her, Gary elaborated. "Red Team—since you're the ones who chose this card, you get to decide whether or not to answer it. There are two parts to this question—you must get them both correct to collect the points. If you pass on it, the Blue Team gets a chance to answer and win the points. Got it?"

"Sir?" Sam looked over at O'Neill. "How well do you know Tom Cruise movies?"

"I don't know. About as well as the next guy."

"Enough to go for it?"

Scowling, he dipped his head closer to her. "We're still tied, aren't we?"

"Yeah."

"And if we miss it, then we lose the game." Absently, Jack scuffed at something on the table with his fingernail. Fiddling with crap always seemed to help him strategize. "If we pass and they get it right—"

"Then they win."

"But if we get it right, then we win."

She worried at her lip for a beat before responding. "I'd really like to take this guy down a notch, Sir."

"Deflate the big dick?"

Unbelievably, she giggled at that, tilting towards him so closely that her cheek pressed against his arm. "Exactly."

"Well, then. Let's go for it."

Carter gestured towards the emcee. "We'll answer it."

The crowd 'oohed' a little, then fell quiet as Gary stepped closer to the red table. The place was nearly silent as he raised the card to read. "This early Tom Cruise movie features the line, 'Stay gold, Ponyboy.' This line is in reference to a poem. Name the movie, and recite the poem."

Beside him, Carter faltered, then groaned out an epithet. "I'm clueless, Sir. Do you have any idea?"

Raising his beer, Jack took a bracing sip. After a moment, he swallowed and set the glass back down on the coaster. "I've never seen the movie."

Another curse—this one crude enough that Jack's ears burned. "But I've read the book."

Her eyes turned luminous. "Do you remember the name of it, Sir?"

He did, actually, but sometimes they changed the names from book to movie, right? And as for the poem—well, they were in a bar. Reciting poetry wasn't exactly conducive to fostering his 'tough guy' reputation.

"Red Team." Gary tapped the card against his microphone. "What is your answer?"

All he'd wanted was a beer. One beer. And here he was, about to recite a freaking poem in front of a bar full of rowdy drunks.

Groaning inwardly, Jack was acutely aware of every eye in the place on him. Of her eyes on him. She was close, looking up at him from beneath lowered lashes—breathing shallowly, her bottom lip captured tightly between her perfect, white teeth, her hand splayed on his leg. Her expression was one of cautiously hopeful expectation.

Damn it. Jack let out a harsh breath. "The quote is from 'The Outsiders'."

"That's correct." Gary's brows rose. "And the poem?"

Quiet, but for the far-away drone of the jukebox. A series of dull 'clicks' echoed through the air—no doubt people playing pool. And other noises made their way through the crowded room—the 'clunk' of glasses hitting the bar and the sliding scuff of chair legs against the wooden floors. Footsteps. Low chatter.

With a resigned look at the ceiling, he began. "The poem is 'Nothing Gold Can Stay' by Robert Frost. 'Nature's first green is gold. Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf's a flower; but only so an hour. Then leaf subsides to leaf. So Eden sank to grief, so dawn goes down to day. Nothing gold can stay.'"

Oh, so subtle. Her fingers tightened on his thigh, her palm warm through the thick fabric of his jeans. She'd squeaked a little upon inhaling, but hadn't exhaled—like a sniper waiting for the shot.

"Correct!" Gary held the card up into the air, flicking it with his pinkie as the crowd erupted again. "Red Team, you've crushed your first Peak and won the game!"

Across the way, Brock pounded on the table with his fist, rising to his feet while Ashley glared over at them with narrowed, steely eyes.

Jack looked back at them for a minute, resisting the urge to smirk. There was no sense poking the bear. Especially since the bear was already shoving his way through the spectators on his way out, his girlfriend trailing in his wake. As the door swung closed behind them, a few members of the crowd booed.

Regardless, judging by the raucous applause rebounding throughout the rest of the bar—and the congratulatory shouts coming from all around them—he and Carter had ended up as crowd favorites.

"Let's hear it for the Red Team!" Gary shouted into the crowd, who answered with a resounding cheer. "Jack O'Neill and Sam Carter—take a bow!"

But she was already up on her feet, grasping his hand to haul him up, too—pulling him close to wrap her arms around his body, her breath warm against his neck, her skin soft under his fingers. She was bright—vivid—pure—a veritable ball of energy as she bounced a little in his embrace. As she reached up on her toes to press a kiss to his cheek.

"Hot damn!" Laughing—she rocked a little against him—pressing her perfect form heavily against his chest and thighs. "You did it!"

No 'Sir'. No 'Carter'. No barriers of rank or duty. She felt alive beneath his palms, and Jack couldn't help but wish—-damn. Wish for things.

But Gary wasn't one to linger. He only waited a moment for things to settle before raising the microphone again. "Now—who's up for the Mother Lode?"

"Mother Lode! Mother Lode!" Chanting again, accompanied by heels on the hardwood floor and palms smacking against denim-clad thighs. "Mother Lode!"

Jack hazarded a look at Carter, still pressed against his side with her arm draped around his lower back. She'd grasped his belt loop with her finger, and braced her other hand on his abdomen. And, oh, lord—that smile.

Dimpled-deep—flashing bright—joy-inducing—that smile, as her body, her scent, the feel of her enveloped him.

Which was making things—interesting. Too interesting.

Jack reached around and caught her hand up in his own, threading his fingers through hers and sidling just enough away that he could think clearly. Discretion being the better part of valor, and all.

"So?" Gary narrowed an eye at them in speculation. "Are you taking the money, or are you going to try for the Mother Lode?"

"What do you think, Carter?" He angled his words down directly into her ear.

She glanced down at their joined hands, her thumb sweeping an arc across his knuckles before raising her face to his. "It's a thousand dollars, Sir."

"If we win."

One bare shoulder rose. "Half of that's a good start towards my shift forks and your new telescope."

"It is."

"And it's bragging rights." Her smile turned coy. "You know—against all kinds of—"

"Big dicks?"

She laughed again, turning her face into his shoulder.

Aw, what the hell.

"Hey, Gary!" Jack raised his free hand. "We'll take the Mother Lode."

"They're taking the challenge!"

More cheering met the news. The girl at the white board dug some more cards out of another basket. Gathering them into a neat stack, she walked towards where Jack and Sam were standing. At the table, she fanned them out, face down, in her fingers as she presented them to the Red Team.

"Sam." Gary had called the place to order again. "Choose a card."

Carter selected one in the middle, handing it to Gary when he gestured for it. Her fingers tightened in Jack's as they waited for the emcee to give them their question.

Drama. Such drama. Gary had the entire bar enthralled as he brandished the card, turning it to and fro. Teasing them all, drawing things out. "Are you ready?"

"Yes!" The crowd shouted in unison, except for one rowdy boy at the back who let out a whoop. "Hell, yes!".

"Are you sure?"

The question was directed to Jack and Sam, but again, the crowd delivered the response. "Yes!"

"Okay. The category is Religion." Gary took a deep breath before raising the microphone again. "This ancient Egyptian goddess represents fertility, romance, dance, and song. She is often depicted wearing a sun disk with cows' horns on her head."

Oh, for the love—

Their hands hit the bell at the exact same time.

—-OOOOOOO—-

He'd never been much at wrapping gifts, so the box sat in his entry way for several days before he decided that he wouldn't bother even trying.

Besides—she was still in San Diego with her father making amends with her brother. He didn't expect them back until the weekend.

He had only been back from Seattle for a day or so before he'd figured out what to do with the stack of twenties he'd brought home from Pike's Place. She'd insisted on giving him his fifty bucks back along with his half of the winnings, so there had been a crisp ten on top of the pile of cash.

He'd wandered around Starfix for a few hours before leaving empty-handed. What he wanted cost more than he was willing to spend—even with the trivia windfall. He really didn't need a new telescope. He'd been truthful with her when he'd said that he didn't have much time for stargazing. As much as he loved it, it wasn't something he couldn't live without.

But for her? The distraction that the Indian provided was vital. For his Captain, flying low and fast—wild against the wind—hell-bent for leather down some deserted mountain road restored something integral to her soul. She needed it.

She'd been too long without it. He'd known that just by looking at her after they'd cleared the cult compound. Seth's death had cost her—bits of herself had flowed through that hand device as she'd blasted him to hell. Bits that she'd likely miss.

They'd sat across from each other on the plane back to the Springs. The tightness in her expression—the dimness in her eyes—her terse silence—all had borne testimony to the fact that she was haunted by what she'd done.

Death up close was uglier than long-distance killing. More personal. It hit different nerves. Jack knew this as well as some people, but a hell of a lot better than most. He'd felt the blood pulse over his arm after he'd slit a man's throat, absorbed the shudder of a bullet hitting a body he was using as a shield. He'd strained to hold the garotte tight as his target had fought for life. Not quite the same as what Carter had done to the Goa'uld with the hand device, but similar enough that he'd felt her anguish. Knew the loss of innocence—or grace.

So? He'd waited until she and Jacob had driven away before showing up on Janet and Cassie's doorstep and asking about chat groups. He'd had to add a few hundred to the stack of twenties, but he was confident that it would be worth it.

He'd do—he'd pay—anything to bring her smile back.

Jack adjusted the phone on his shoulder. "So, when will you be back in town?"

"Soon."

He'd called her on her cell. Just to touch base, he'd told himself. Not because he missed her. He only wanted to check in on his team. He'd call Teal'c and Daniel later. Wouldn't he? Sure.

Standing in the entry way again, Jack stared down at the box where the antique parts gleamed dully in the dim evening light. With his finger, he traced the sharp round end of a shifter fork. The guy he'd bought it all from had assured him that the parts were original. He'd even thrown in a few extra bits, just because O'Neill 'seemed like a good guy'. Jack tapped at the main section of the gear assembly before speaking again. "How's your brother?"

"Fine, when I last saw him."

"Aren't you staying with him?"

A pause stretched through the connection as she hummed a little. "Not at the moment."

Leaning back against the wood-paneled wall, Jack scuffed at something in the carpet with the toe of his boot. "Where's your dad?"

"I just sent him through the 'Gate." Carter paused. A faint 'clunk' made its way across the line, followed by a scraping sound. "Apparently the Tok'ra sent a message to Hammond that he and Selmak were needed back on Vorash."

"So, you're back in the Springs?"

Silence, and then a sharp breath inwards. "I'm—uh—actually on your front porch."

With a little frown, Jack took the few steps to the front door and depressed the latch. Swinging it wide, he stared out into the darkness, letting the hand with the phone receiver in it drift down to swing at his side as his thumb found the 'end' button. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She was in civvies again—jeans and a sweater the color of the ocean. Her hair was different—pulled back from her face with some kind of silver band and arranged into artful waves that glowed golden in the porchlight. He'd never seen it like that—so obviously feminine that it was jarring. Still, she was pale. Thinner than he'd remembered. Drawn.

Whatever resolution her father had reached by finally confronting the past had not done the youngest Carter quite as much good.

Shifting on her feet, she flipped her phone closed with one hand while raising a familiar-looking carton in the other. "I still owed you that beer, Sir."

"Carter—"

"And I wanted to give you something else." Stepping to one side, she gestured towards a huge box she'd dragged up to his door. "I got you this."

"Carter—" He shook his head, scowling more than he'd meant to. "You didn't need to get me anything."

For the barest of moments, she just looked at him, then dropped her gaze to the box at her feet, the carton of bottles in her arm. Cursing beneath her breath, she turned away from him. "I'm sorry—I presumed—but—this was stupid. I'm sorry, Sir. I'll go."

"No, Sam." Jack shook his head as he tossed the phone onto the little table next to the entry. Stepping backwards, he pushed the door open wider. "Come in."

She thought about fleeing—that was evident by the way her eyes flickered back towards her car. She pressed her lips together, her brows knitting low over the bridge of her nose as she weighed her options. And finally—finally—she turned back to face him.

It was like a weird dance. Carter slipped past him, using her free hand to grab the door as Jack stepped outside to get the box. After a little shuffling in the narrow hallway, they both ended up inside. Carter locking the door behind them as Jack carried the package into the living room.

Stopping on the far side of the living room, she turned slowly until she was looking at him again. "I should have called before coming over."

Jack laid the box on his coffee table. His lips twitched. "We were literally just on the phone."

"You know what I mean, Sir." Sam wrapped her arms around the beer as if the carton were a lifeline. "I should have asked permission instead of just dropping by."

"Why?"

"I don't know." Stepping backwards, she paced a little, her gaze touching on the clock, a painting, the pictures on his mantel. The bottles in the carton clinked against each other slightly as she moved. "I shouldn't be here, right?"

He tried to make a joke. "There's no rule against it."

But her expression turned a little wary. "Isn't there?"

And damned if Jack could interpret any part of that. He was suddenly both unwilling and unable to even try. In the end, he tried for the barest bit of clarity. "Why are you here?"

She shook her head with a breathy groan. "I was just—at odds tonight. Dad was in a hurry to leave. Some big Tok'ra emergency or something. We'd just gotten back from California and I didn't want to go back to my house. It's too—quiet."

"And quiet is bad." Even Jack wasn't sure whether that was a statement or a question.

"Quiet is quiet."

And oddly, that made perfect sense.

Rounding the edge of the coffee table, Jack stopped a few feet away from her. "Do you want a beer?"

Another breath—something closer to a laugh, this time. Looking down at the carton in her hands she scrunched up her nose. "I don't know what I want, Sir."

"I have some sodas in the fridge." He gestured randomly towards the kitchen. "I might even have a bottle of wine in there."

"No." Her hair gleamed again as she shook her head. "Thank you, though."

"Water? Vodka? Chocolate milk?"

For whatever reason, that made her smile. Bending, she laid the carton of Guinness on an end table before turning back to the carton he'd carried to the coffee table. "So—I got this for you."

It was large—a few feet wide and half again as tall. White cardboard with no markings on the outside except for the ubiquitous 'fragile' symbol. It hadn't been terribly heavy when he'd lifted it, just unwieldy. She'd probably had to take two trips from her car to get it and the beer to his door—all while she'd been on the phone with him.

"I was wandering around downtown San Diego with my sister-in-law, and I saw this in the window of a specialty shop." She extended a hand, running the tip of her index finger along the outer edge of the package. "It made me think about you. About—the bar and the game. And us."

Us.

O'Neill pressed his lips together at that. Too much was encompassed within that one tiny word. Too much to tackle tonight. So, instead, he tackled the box. "So, what is it?"

One eyebrow rose, and the corner of her lip tilted upwards. "You'll have to open it."

Reaching into his pocket, Jack retrieved his pocket knife. Deftly, he flicked it open, then stepped around between the couch and the table. A few swipes with the blade, and he was able to fold back the upper flaps.

The first thing he saw was white styrofoam, and there, on top of the packing material, sat an owner's manual.

A telescope. She'd bought him a telescope.

"It's a good one, Sir." Taking the manual from the box, she opened it, pivoting until she was standing beside him. She flipped through several pages until she got to one with the specs. "Much more advanced than your old one. It's got next-generation optics, and computer-guided positioning. You can hook a laptop up to it and get precise images of the sky, as well as capturing photos that you can save to your hard drive. It's solid—bigger than the new portable ones, but I didn't think that you wanted to haul it around. If you did, I could take it back—"

"No." It felt—strange. To be so understood by someone else. To know that she'd been walking—a thousand miles away—and seen something that made her think of him. It was humbling, and raw, and sweet—when he had never thought he deserved to feel any of those things again. When he wasn't the kind of man who allowed himself to feel those things.

Or to feel at all.

Damn. Just—damn.

Folding the blade, he tucked it back into his pocket before turning back towards the entryway. His long legs carried him up the steps and into the hall, where he grabbed the box he'd been staring at earlier and hauled it down into the living room to sit on the coffee table next to the telescope.

"I got you something, too."

"You did?" Carter frowned, glancing from him to the box. She laid the book she held back into the telescope box. "What is it?"

"It's—stuff." Lame. He picked up one of the chunks of metal he'd bargained for, turning it this way and that in his fingers before handing it to her. "I think that's one of your fork things. Or, it might be the gear shift thing. I don't really know, to be honest."

Carter held the hunk of metal in both hands—almost reverently—as if it were grand and remarkable, or wondrous. Her thumb swept across the smooth surface of the piece, and she smiled—actually smiled—as she gazed down at it.

When she spoke, she sounded—prayerful. "It's a shift fork."

"There's more in the box. The guy from the chat group told me he'd just stripped a junker and salvaged what he could. There's also a speedometer and some wiring. And he said something about stamped plate emblems for the gas tank."

"You did this for me?"

And it was amazing to him that she didn't already know. He'd do anything for her.

"It's just a box of old parts, Carter." But he had to shove his hands into his pockets so that he didn't reach for her. "It's not the holy grail."

Tilting forward on her toes, she peered down into the box, rummaging a bit before looking up at him. "This must have cost you a fortune, Sir."

So, so blue. More clear, now—less clouded by hurt. Less haunted. And the way she was looking at him—as if she'd had some sort of revelation. As if she'd finally found something she'd been searching for. Something that had nothing to do with an antique Indian.

He had to clear his throat to speak. "Probably about the same as that telescope."

She did smile, then. A little wryly, but for real. Carefully, she placed the shift fork back into the box, wiping her hands on her jeans. "Well, I don't know what to say."

Jack grabbed the carton of Guinness off the coffee table. "Say you'll stay for a bit. Help me set up the rig."

"Sure." Automatically, she reached into the carton for the manual. "But only if you promise to come help me with the bike."

"Sure." He went up into the kitchen, shoving the carton of warm Guinness into the fridge and grabbing a few cold bottles from the shelf. When he got back to the living room, she was studying the scope's manual, sitting on the couch—precisely where she'd sat weeks before—when she'd soothed him to sleep with her hand in his hair.

He tried not to remember how it had felt, busying himself instead with popping the caps off the bottles. Lowering himself onto the sofa next to her, he handed one to her.

She was careful not to touch his fingers. "Do you want it back up in your bird's nest?"

"What—the telescope?"

Nodding, she took a tentative sip of the beer, grimacing a little as the dark, yeasty brew touched her tongue. Looking around, she shoved the bottle into the recess between the arm of the couch and the cushion. "I mean—I'm assuming you built it expressly for that purpose."

"Yes." O'Neill ducking his chin, he pretended to study his thumbnail. "I did."

"It's still kind of cold for it up there just now."

"So we'll set it up in here and move it in the spring." He made a random motion in the air, indicating his living room. And somehow, his arm ended up draped behind her on the back of the couch and his feet ended up resting on the edge of the coffee table. "You can try to teach me all that computer stuff you were jabbering about."

"Of course, Sir." She settled more deeply into the couch, pulling her feet up underneath her and scooching closer. The manual was just large enough to spread neatly between them—half on her leg, half on his, with the spine cradled between.

"So." Looking down, he watched as she ran her finger along the page. Skimming, more than reading. But he knew that she'd go back and internalize the whole damned booklet later. As she worked, he settled his bottle on the arm of the sofa, holding it in place with his fingers. "What do I need to know?"

"See?" She indicated the first page. "This lists the specs. The next few pages are basics about how telescopes operate. And from there, it blathers a little bit about focusing, but you already know most of that. The internals for these things are all pretty much the same."

"Okay." And he tried—but couldn't quite keep himself from touching the spun gold of her hair, from teasing at the curls that she'd coaxed into the short strands. He couldn't stop his hand from testing the feel of the sea-blue sweater, just to see if it was as soft as it seemed. And he sure as hell couldn't seem to force himself to move away from her on the couch. It felt too—right.

But she'd stopped reading, her hand flat on his thigh—with the glossy pages of the booklet in between. Somehow, she'd ended up leaning against him, her shoulder tucked beneath his outstretched arm, her body flush against his. After what seemed like an age, she angled a look in his direction without meeting his eye. "What are we doing, Sir?"

He ran his finger along the smooth, cool surface of the beer bottle. What were they doing? Sitting on his couch, the night swirling sweet and close around them. Warm—thighs pressed tightly against each other and knees bumping. The softness of her sweater teasing at the skin of his forearm, and her hair only a finger's breadth away.

They were sitting. Just sitting. Trying not to do more than sit.

When he spoke, the words felt like gravel. "We're having a beer, Carter."

"Just having a beer." Her answer sounded just as rough—just as unsure.

And for a long time, they simply sat there, on his sofa. Jack taking random swigs of his beer and Carter avoiding his gaze—staring down at a page that she surely wasn't reading. Just—sitting.

Until finally she sighed and nestled closer, her head coming to rest on his shoulder, her body relaxing against him with a silent sigh.

Where she stayed long after the moon had slipped low in the sky, and the first haze of pink glistened just over the eastern horizon.