The Score
Set
She knew precisely what she was doing, damn it.
She'd internalized and perfected the use of strategy over the past decade—learned the lessons he'd taught her first as her CO and then as a mentor and colleague.
Now? She was using those skills to gain a decided tactical advantage over the man she'd married.
And she was good at it—far better than he'd ever been. She knew precisely which tacks to take. Which buttons to push—which moves would cause the most damage. Exactly how she could gain the upper hand and come out on top.
He was going to lose this contest—whatever the hell it was—in spectacular fashion.
But he'd enjoy every last minute of the game.
XXX
"And you are?"
The woman regarded Jack with an expectant half-smile, her pen poised over a neatly-stapled sheaf of papers.
She was pointy—ears, nose, eyebrows, chin. Thin-lipped and slightly built, with brown hair slicked back into something akin to a helmet. Even her dress was angular—black fabric in harsh lines that seemed more like a cage than clothing. And her glasses—enormous plastic frames with lenses as thick as the glass in the presidential limo.
Jack should know. He'd taken a ride with the Commander in Chief just last week. But on her? Well, the enormous spectacles—coupled with the aforementioned angularity of her general person—gave off the vibe of a perpetually perplexed ferret.
"Sir?"
"O'Neill. That's with two Ls." He'd arrived at the desk alone, having lost Sam to the restrooms just inside the foyer. The drive had been longer than he'd anticipated—exacerbated by heavy rush hour traffic and the age-old struggle to find a space in the parking garage large enough for his beast of a truck.
Instead of standing outside the ladies' room, he'd opted to hurry this thing along and check in. Glancing down at the guest list, Jack watched as the docent—the name tag on her dress read 'Lucinda'— flipped through the pages until she'd found the appropriate section in her alphabetized roster.
"Doctor Bernard?"
"No."
"Ambassador Franklin?"
"Nope." He rocked back on his heels as he helpfully provided, "General Jack."
"Oooh. A General." Lucinda's eyes widened, and those thin lips curved into an overeager smile. "How exciting."
Well, not really, but okay. Whatever moved this along, right? Jack smiled back. He hoped it appeared genuine. He was supposed to be behaving himself, after all.
"We don't get a lot of generals here in Egyptology. They normally head straight on over to Air and Space. Something about vroom-vroom velocity and torque or something." She'd wriggled her fingers in the air like quotation marks, and she was now looking at him as if he were cheese. Or chocolate.
Or something else delectably edible.
"Maneuvering." Lucinda's eyes went wide as one spindly finger made a gesture that verged upon the obscene. "Thrust."
Wincing inwardly, Jack kept his expression purposefully bland. "Okay."
It wasn't really a question, but Lucinda took it as an invitation to chat. "In fact, the last general we had in here was Fariq Omar Gamal, who was sent as a special envoy from Cairo to look over the exhibit."
"Oh." This time, Jack was careful not to raise his tone at the end. There was no chance whatsoever that his response should warrant further chatter.
But Lucinda just kept right on talking anyway. "He was very impressed by my translation of the Femi Ritual tablet found in the Hatshepsut burial chamber."
"Mmmm."
"That's the sixteenth dynasty. Did you know that Hatshepsut was a female Pharaoh?"
"I did not."
"A formidable woman. Strong and fierce. The kind a real man needs." Lucinda blinked a few times, cocking her head at an angle as her mouth positioned itself into something slightly suggestive. Even her teeth were sharp. "If you'd like, I could show you the tablet."
"Ummm—"
One eyebrow rose practically up to the helmet. "It's all about the passionate, sensual rites and rituals performed during the Pharaoh's fertility cycles."
Jack opened his mouth, just to shut it right back up. He wasn't touching that with a ten-foot anything. No, sirree.
The woman seemed to take his hesitation as a challenge. Reaching across the table, Lucinda dragged her nails across the back of Jack's hand. "I mean—since you're here all by your lonesome and all."
Egads.
Klaxons. He swore he could hear klaxons. And, while he'd promised his wife that he'd be magnanimous and social, the last thing he needed was for Sam to find him embroiled in inadvertent flirtation with the first human he'd encountered at this shindig.
"Not alone. Not I. Here, I mean. I'm not alone here." That had come out too loudly. Clearing his throat, Jack squinted down at her and began again. "I'm actually here with someone."
"Oh?" Lucinda shifted back and forth in her seat, glancing down at her roster before returning her narrow gaze back up to him. "You don't have a plus one listed."
"A wife. My wife. One of those formidable chicks you were talking about." Which was a hell of an understatement, really. Jack tilted his head in the direction of the restrooms. "She got her own invitation. She's not a plus-one kind of woman."
Lucinda, naturally, believed none of it. Her face said that just as clearly as the faint 'Mmm-hmmm' that arose from somewhere deep in her gullet.
"She should be along soon."
"Should she really?" The docent looked at him over the tops of the frames in a manner so freakishly like Daniel that Jack decided they must teach the technique in tight-ass school.
He made a random gesture at the pages still in front of her. "You'll find her on your list under 'Carter, Samantha'."
"She didn't take your name?" Lucinda couldn't have looked more disapproving had she tried. "Interesting."
But before he could rebut whatever snarky assertion was about to be made, he was saved by a voice.
"Jack?"
He'd missed her footsteps, but a hand at his waist had him turning to see that the wife to whom he'd been referring had arrived.
Her azure eyes took in the scene, switching from Jack to the docent and back to her husband before she leaned into his side. "What's going on?"
"Look, Lucinda." Jack let out a grateful sort of breath, pointing in the right direction. "It's her. She. Here right now. She, who is my wife."
"Hello, Lucinda." Quelling a scowl, Sam instead dimpled into her most dangerous kind of smile. "Yes. I am, indeed, his wife."
"His wife. Well, of course you are." The woman gave Sam a narrow, frigid scan before returning to study her pages. Her long, bony finger stopped midway down the first column. "Colonel Samantha Carter?"
"Or Doctor." Sam straightened, raising a single brow as she leveled a decidedly superior look at the docent. Her smile cooled. "I'm not picky."
Well, that was a blatant lie, but Jack wasn't going to call her out on it. Not when she'd worked her hand up under the back of his coat and her fingers were flitting in and out of his back pocket. Not when the last time he'd seen Sam wear that particular expression, lots of stuff had gotten blown to hell.
"Ah. Well, anyway." With a terse movement of her wrist, Lucinda checked a box before tossing the pen onto the table. She reached into the large basket next to her, rifling through the badges there until she found the right ones. Smacking the tags down, she glowered back up at both of them. "General O'Neill. Doctor Carter. Welcome to the Smithsonian."
XXX
"Here, Jack."
Handing him his name tag, Sam looked down at the front of her dress as she held her badge aloft. "Where do you think it should go?"
"In the trash?" He was only partially kidding.
"On this side?" Sam smoothed down the fabric on the right side of her dress, trailing her fingertips along the generous swell there. Peeping sideways at him, she touched the tip of her tongue to the corner of her mouth as her hand meandered to the opposite side. Sliding an index finger along the V of her neckline, she played with the edge of the fabric, pulling it slightly agape. "Or over here?"
He caught a glimpse—a hint—a mere, misty shadow—of what lay beneath that navy-blue dress. A wisp of cerulean lace shimmering brightly against her summer-kissed skin. And curves. Hollows. Softness. Freckles sprinkled like snowflakes along her chest.
Jack knew precisely how those freckles tasted. How they felt against his tongue. And, damn the woman, she knew that he knew how they tasted. And now her fingertips were skimming lightly just beneath her collar bones—up her throat—towards her ear to tuck away a disobedient tendril, knowing that he knew how soft that hair was, too.
All as she gazed steadily at his mouth.
Good lord. She was trying to kill him.
Jack swallowed past the dryness in his throat as he watched her corral the escaped curl. When he could finally speak, he sounded like he'd reverted forty-five years back into puberty hell. "Does it matter?"
"Not really, I suppose." She removed the paper from the back of the thing and extended the sticky part in his direction. "Why don't you do the honors?"
"Me?" He'd squeaked. Actually squeaked.
"Sure, Jack." One tawny eyebrow rose. "Unless you don't want to."
And miss an opportunity to touch her? Fat chance. He might be hopeless, but he wasn't an idiot.
Tucking his own tag into his breast pocket, he glanced down at the badge she'd handed him, noting Sam's name scrawled boldly across it in elegant calligraphy. Swoops and whirls and sharp points on the pertinent bits—all of which fuss seemed a little ridiculous for what was, in essence, a sticker.
Still, his hands felt like gigantic mitts on the tag, and naturally, he managed to fold the corner down on itself with his thumb before he got it facing the right way up. Muttering a curse, he turned towards his wife, making a cursory scan around him. They were alone at the outskirts of the exhibition hall, thankfully, and the only other person watching was Lucinda from behind her roster and obscenely large spectacles.
"She was flirting with you, you know." Sam positioned herself just so, rolling a shoulder back and angling something—um—else in his direction. "You got that, right?"
"I was trying not to notice." Just like he was trying not to think about the soft, full glory that lay just beneath that flimsy layer of navy blue. Gingerly, he placed the tag on a point equidistant between her shoulder and that something, tapping lightly on the slick paper to tamp it down. "She really isn't my type."
"And what is your type, General O'Neill?" Sam plucked Jack's name tag out of his pocket, deftly removing the backing and surveying his suit jacket—ostensibly deciding upon the ideal location for it. She moved closer, near enough that the toes of her sandals edged between the shiny ends of his dress shoes.
When he looked down, her skirts obscured everything south of their waists, and he could see just a bit down her neckline. When she breathed, stuff shifted down there, giving him another tantalizing glimpse of soft skin and ice-blue lace. And of course, his traitorously puerile mind envisioned what he couldn't actually see, imagining—um—everything.
What was his type? Hot, holy damn.
"Jack?" She peeked up at him from beneath her lashes, her expression expectant and not just a little coy.
"Right there." Jack pointed at his chest—where the fruit salad normally decorated his uniform coat. "Put it right there."
Sam bit her bottom lip between her teeth, taking inordinate care in placing the name tag just so, dragging her fingers across the breadth of his chest with precisely the amount of pressure needed to stir memories of other times she'd touched him thusly. And, oh, the innocence in her expression when she captured his gaze again. There was a cliche that described it, wasn't there? Something about felines feasting upon canaries. "Like that?"
He didn't have to check. Hell—he could barely breathe as he willed his brain and body back from the brink. "Sure."
She looked over her shoulder, to where the exhibition beckoned just beyond a pair of decorative panels. "Well, then, I guess we should go in to the reception."
Jack snagged her skirt with his fingers, tugging gently. "Not yet."
"No?"
"I believe that you owe me something, Colonel Doctor Carter." Jack indicated the table behind them with a tilt of his head. He dropped his voice further. "I was nice back there."
"Yes." She nodded, giving frank consideration to his words. "Yes, you were. And very patient."
"So?" Jack reached for her, splaying his hand at the small of her back and urging her closer. "What does that get me?"
This time, her smile wasn't evil at all. It was sweet, and thoughtful, and a little wistful as she laid her palm against his jaw. Sighing, she caught his eye. "Oh, Jack."
"What?"
Patting his cheek, she shook her head. "It's going to take a lot more than that."
XXX
The atrium of the building looked like something out of a movie.
Ornately decorated ceilings soared over richly-carpeted floors and heavy glass display cases. Intricately-carved pedestals held all sorts of what Jack felt sure was very important, historically significant crap. The walls had been draped in velvet swags framing the items exhibited there—including one ginormous slab of limestone that had been hauled out of some warehouse and anchored in place with cables the size of tree limbs.
Just inside the doors, a pair of museum docents stood with name tags and brochures, while crisply-suited wait staff mingled through the melee with trays of drinks and canapés. Next to an understated bar along the western wall, a string quartet played quietly in an elegant tableau. Fanning out from that, a few dozen high tables with spindly, fashionable chairs provided a logical boundary between the common area and what appeared to be a hallway leading to private offices or the scientific labs.
At least, that's what Jack thought. He'd been doing a lot of glaring at that hallway over the past thirty minutes, thinking it would make a logical place to retreat, should the situation warrant. A good place to hole up and wait until this whole circus was over. He'd been plotting his strategic withdrawal ever since Sam had abandoned him at the entrance and sashayed her way across the exhibition hall to meet up with Vala and her gaggle of well-dressed guests.
Jack was still thinking about how she'd moved—easily, loosely. Not her normal, efficient march, but rather a sultry sort of stride that had sent her skirts swishing around her ankles and her body swaying along to some unheard music. And her hips—well, suffice it to say that when Jack had vowed on their wedding day that he'd always watch her six—he hadn't meant it in quite that way.
But damn. 'Provocative' wasn't strong enough a word. Mesmerizing. Hypnotic. And the miracle was that he was required to look out for that enthrallingly shaped rear for the rest of his life.
He was a lucky, lucky man.
A fact he'd tried to remember through the aggravating encounters he'd had since she'd left him to his own devices. At first, he'd actually aimed himself for that hallway and the possibility that he could hide out for a while—but Sam was the vigilant type, and no doubt she'd consider such a withdrawal less strategic than cowardly.
Consequently, he'd diverted course for the bar, instead.
A path which had taken him into the heart of the gathering—directly through a veritable horde of people with whom he'd been forced to interact.
At first it was pained smalltalk with not one but three blue-haired matrons who had chattered over and around and through each other before fluttering off in search of hors d'oeuvres. Harmless. Sweet, really, in a befuddled way. But he'd looked up just in time to see Sam observing the encounter, an inscrutable smile curving her lips. She'd raised her chin and angled her body forward so that her bodice gaped just enough to remind him of blue lace and freckles.
After that, he'd been waylaid by a pair of high-society muckity-mucks with more money than sense. Jack had shaken hands and smiled at the appropriate moments as they'd casually let it slip just how much they'd donated to the museum through the years and how they would never expect a wing to be named in their honor. Naturally. He'd been cordial. Congenial. Nice, even, as he'd excused himself and walked away. And sure enough—his wife had caught the exchange, acknowledging it by crossing one leg over each other in just such a way that her skirt slid upwards to reveal a generous portion of her shapely thigh.
Since then, he'd been inundated with a steady stream of scientists, politicians, and hangers-on. Ever aware of Sam's cool blue gaze following his every move, he'd managed to inure himself from any conversations more intimate than breezy tidbits about the songs being played by the quartet and the prowess of the staff slinging drinks behind the bar.
Not that he'd had a chance to form an opinion on those skills yet—the crowd at the counter was four-deep at least and moving more slowly than continental drift. At this rate, Pangaea would be fully reintegrated before he could get a beer. Glaring down at his shoes, he sighed and contemplated escape for the three-thousandth time.
"Which part of the exhibit is yours?"
Jack looked to his left to see a man wearing at least three different variations of tweed. Brown tweed jacket paired with trousers of a questionable green. Even the man's glasses boasted printed gray tweed temples.
Jack would have bet his second star that herringbone britches lurked beneath the checked wool trousers. Short and rotund, the guy had a schnoz that reminded Jack of that cartoon bird from the cereal boxes. Wisely, Jack focused on the man's impressive eyebrows, instead—dancing like a pair of inebriated bottle brushes above the rims of his glasses. "Excuse me?"
"The funerary masks are mine. Pulled them myself from a dig north of Abu Simbel. Rare, you know. Superb condition. Beautiful paint." The gentleman's cheeks had gone all rosy, so delighted was he with his contribution. "I really do think that the smaller of the two was meant for Nefertari, but Doctor Jackson thinks otherwise."
Jack kept his expression carefully bland. "Oh?"
"Well, it wasn't found with her sarcophagus. But that doesn't mean that it wasn't intended for her. Looters, you know. They toss things around from time to time."
"Indeed, they do."
The little man thrust his hand in Jack's direction. "I'm Doctor Hayworth Scruggs."
Jack hadn't asked, but it seemed rude to ignore the guy. He gave the proffered hand a decisive shake with a muttered, "Jack O'Neill."
"Mine's the funerary masks exhibit. That's my specialty. I'm a double PhD in Egyptology and Archaeology. I'm out of Oxford via Stanford via Leídan." Those bushy eyebrows lowered conspiratorially as Doctor Hayworth Scruggs leaned in. "You know. The real ones."
Real ones? Jack kept his tone light. "As opposed to—"
"Staties. Community colleges." He rolled his eyes with a groan, the nostrils of his gigantic schnoz flaring. "Mail order grad degrees. Online diploma mills. The dregs."
The dregs? Well, that seemed harsh. Jack squinted down at the man, thinking about the wall behind his desk at the Pentagon. His own diplomas hung there, framed by Walter back at the SGC. His secretary at the Pentagon had arranged them all artistically around a shadowbox holding an American flag. He liked the display well enough. It looked official, somehow, without being too ostentatious.
And really—it's not like he'd had the luxury of being picky about his education. He hadn't been connected enough for the Academy—he'd worked his way through the University of Minnesota, managing to graduate a semester early. His Master's had been earned from another state university in Chicago—accomplished partially through correspondence courses while he'd been stationed overseas or recuperating in hospitals between deployments.
He thought about telling the little dillweed precisely what he thought about preachy tweedy-birds on their ivory perches, but another memory—a vision of light blue scalloped lace atop golden summer-blessed skin—had him glancing across the room to find his wife again.
He wasn't surprised to catch her staring back at him. Watching him, really. By the look on her face, it was also obvious that she'd correctly interpreted the situation and was anticipating his response. Schooling her features into something vaguely disapproving, she dropped her hand to her neckline, tugging the edges together in the middle.
Point made.
She was most definitely keeping score—and damned if the woman couldn't do that kind of math in her pretty little head. So, in the end, he merely nodded and offered a weak, "Ah."
Scruggs rocked back on his heels. "I mean—where did you graduate from?"
All that education and nary a clue about prepositions. Jack clenched his jaw once—twice—before responding. "That's classified."
"Classified?" Scrugg's eyebrows floated upwards. "Well, that sounds intriguing."
Quelling the thousand smart-ass retorts that roared through his head, Jack gave the man a tight smile. "It really isn't."
"Jack!"
Oh, thank the lord. Turning in the direction of the voice, Jack watched as Daniel came to a stop at his side.
"Doctor Jackson." Scruggs' chin rose, and he looked down his considerable beak at Daniel with a frosty, "Good evening."
"Hayworth." Daniel had always been proficient at this particular game. His smile was patient, but genuine. "Are you prepared for your presentation?"
"I am always prepared, Doctor Jackson."
"Good." Removing his glasses, Daniel angled them up towards the light, presumably checking for smudges. "They're just about ready up there. I didn't want you to feel rushed."
"Oh, my." Scruggs turned to look towards the front of the room, where a podium stood on a raised dais. "Is it that time already?"
And without another word, he'd skittered off to lose himself in the crowd.
Jack was almost afraid to ask. "Presentation?"
"Just a formality. We're introducing the department heads to the donors and special patrons. Explaining our mission. Thanking people for their money." Daniel smiled, his eyes flaring wide. "The usual."
"Ah."
"But I saw that you'd been cornered by Doctor Scruggs, so—" He trailed off with a shrug and slid his glasses back onto his face.
"Thanks." Jack looked over at his friend.
He was dressed in fashionably loose khaki trousers, a white button-down shirt, and boots notably not of the combat variety. He'd eschewed a tie, leaving a few buttons open at the collar. He looked like the archetypal rakish adventurer—although the brown leather blazer seemed a bit ridiculous. And speaking of movies—
"Where's the fedora?" O'Neill cocked a brow. "And the bullwhip?"
"Too much?" Daniel cast a sheepish grin down at his garb. "Vala chose the jacket. She thought it was quite dashing."
Jack gave him another quick look. "It's quite—something."
Fidgeting with the placket, Daniel straightened his lapels before huffing his cheeks out in a rueful sigh. "We need to drum up more enthusiasm over this project. And, as the new director of the archaeology department here, we decided that I should—"
Jack picked up where Daniel had trailed off. "Look the part?"
"Yep." Daniel nodded, folding his arms across his chest. "That."
"Well, you succeeded, Indy."
Chuckling, the younger man looked pointedly across the room. "I'm sorry I didn't get over here sooner. I know you hate these things."
Well, that was an understatement the size of a Tollan's hubris.
But rather than indulging in all the smart-assery that tickled at his larynx, Jack reminded himself to behave himself. Be good, Jack. Positive. Sociable. Non-threatening. Dignified. Continue on as he had been for the better part of the past hour. That wasn't so difficult, was it?
And really, so far things hadn't been terrible. He hadn't started any wars or blood feuds. No newly-sworn vendettas. No alien incursion. As of yet, nobody had ended up dead or in tears.
As an added bonus, his wife was smiling at him again, so O'Neill figured that he'd put the evening into the win column. Pasting a bland sort of smile on his face, Jack shrugged. "It hasn't been too bad. I've met some people. Mingled. Chatted."
"Chatted?" Daniel's eyes went wide, and his mouth tightened into a skeptical pucker.
Jack tucked his fingertips into the pockets of his jacket, adopting what he hoped to be an air of cool nonchalance. "I've schmoozed."
"Schmoozed?" He drew out the word until it was almost comical. "You?"
"With actual people, too." He squinted off into the distance as he recalled their names. He'd memorized them just to prove that he'd been fulfilling his part of the bargain. "Scruggs—but you know that one. Some old ladies who seemed really nice. And, of course, Mister and Missus Fartley."
"Bartley. They're some of our biggest donors."
"So they said." Jack surveyed the room before him in quasi-triumph. "You're welcome, by the way."
Jack had been at the museum several times over the past year. He'd been the one, after all, to ease the way for Daniel to take the position there. Daniel's lack of recent employment history, combined with a notable dearth of timely academic publications, had raised more than a few eyebrows around the place. Jack and his contacts within the Department of Defense had concocted an extensive vitae for the good Doctor Jackson, fleshing out the empty spots with believable—and now, verifiable—fictions, complete with plausibly classified reasons as to why he hadn't published or lectured in public in nearly a decade.
It had helped that the place had needed the fresh influx of federal funding that came with having a permanent position filled by an archaeologist and academic of Daniel Jackson's caliber who had also spent the last ten years working under deep classification in parts of the world where his skills could be used in plausibly covert capacities. Jack had quickly learned that loosening government cogs with government grease usually worked to keep the bureaucratic wheels turning.
That, plus the fact that the place had a basement full of artifacts that other geeks—er—qualified doctors of archaeology—had never quite been able to figure out, had made the difference. Already, Daniel had found a veritable plethora of junk that might be the key to figuring out other junk. Stuff that only someone with experience outside the proverbial box might be able to decipher.
"Yes, Jack." Daniel's voice was droll. "I couldn't have done any of this without you."
"And now that I've done my part for god and country, I'm taking a break from being the social butterfly and just standing here doing some people-watching."
"Social butterf—" Wisely, Faux Indy decided to stop talking right there. His face did that thing it did when he had a billion things to say, but knew that Jack probably had a gun stashed somewhere.
It took Daniel a beat or two to find a new topic of conversation. "So, Sam and Vala seem to be enjoying themselves."
Jack found her again—not that it was much of a challenge. He'd hardly been able to keep his eyes off her as she'd moved around the room. That haphazard golden bun immediately drew his eye—like a flame enticing some hopeless moth. Deep in conversation with Vala, she'd turned in his direction, now, and was holding her water in one hand as she gesticulated with the other. At exactly the right moment, she looked to see him watching her. And there was that Cheshire smile again as she took a sip—then made a slow, deliberate pass over her lips with the tip of her nimble tongue.
"Apparently." Damned if the squeaking hadn't returned and a hitch in his breathing signaled a new level to this delicious hell. If he was still alive at the end of this evening it would be an honest freakin' miracle.
Gah.
"Vala's happy to have Sam back in town." Daniel glanced at Jack. "She and Sam were pretty close before Sam was reassigned to Atlantis. Vala's been bereft while Sam's been away."
Not nearly as bereft as Jack had been, but it would probably have been pathetic of him to say so. Instead, he merely nodded and made a random grunting noise.
"Speaking of which." Daniel folded his arms across his chest, redistributing his weight on the balls of his feet.
"Whom."
"What?"
"Whom." Jack supplied the correction again. "You were going to say something about Sam, weren't you?"
"I was, as a matter of fact."
"Well, she's notably a 'whom', and neither a 'which' nor a 'what'."
Daniel looked up at the impressively high ceiling. Or, he could have been rolling his eyes. It was really a toss-up. For a supposed linguist, the man had no respect for proper grammar.
Regardless, he sighed loudly before continuing. "Speaking of Sam."
"What about her?"
All serious, now. There was none of that annoying little brother thing going on when he leaned in to ask, "Is she okay?"
Well, that was a question. Jack shoved his hands into his pockets, looking across the room again to where his wife was settling herself onto one of those ridiculously posh high chairs. She must have felt his attention on her, because her azure gaze found him unerringly, a slight smile creasing her cheek.
She looked okay. Better than okay, actually. Beautiful—gorgeous—scaldingly hot—but that was always the case, wasn't it?
So yes. She looked fine. Not as if there were anything wrong, per se. Scowling, Jack gave his wife another thorough gander before turning back towards Daniel. "Sure. I guess. Why do you ask?"
"Nothing." Daniel shook his head, taking his own surreptitious assessment of Sam. "Nothing. Just that she seemed a little out of sorts earlier."
"Out of sorts?" Jack's brows rose. "How so?"
It took Daniel a few beats to formulate his response, and when he did, it wasn't convincing. "I don't know. She just seemed—off."
"Off." More to himself than to his friend. Jack let the word—the meaning of that word—settle in his gut. Where it rankled, naturally. Off.
"Indecisive." And, naturally, Daniel felt the need to elaborate. He shrugged a single leather-clad shoulder. "Like she's adrift."
"Adrift?"
"You know. A rudderless boat on the ocean. No anchor. Crashing waves. High seas. Adrift."
"We're in the Air Force, Daniel." Jack folded his arms across his chest. "Not the Navy."
"Regardless." Letting out an exasperated breath, he sidled closer. "She's always been so focused on her work—planning out her next steps. I didn't get the idea that she's got anything on the books for the near future."
She didn't, as far as Jack knew. At least—nothing other than more of what had happened earlier with the shower and the soap and the sudsiness—
But there was no way in hell he was going to chat about that with a guy who was dressed like he was going after the Holy Grail. In the end, he merely shook his head on another low grunt.
"I did happen to overhear her and Vala talking earlier." Daniel pursed his lips, giving Jack a narrow glare. "It was—interesting."
That sounded ominous, but Jack tried to sound blasé when he asked, "How so?"
Daniel threw him a searching sort of look, as if he were calculating possible outcomes or guessing likely reactions. With a little quirk of his lips, he finally just blurted it out. "Are you really considering it?"
Jack felt himself go still. "Considering what?"
"The baby thing."
Well, damn. Jack faltered, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers only to pull them back out again. He had to remind himself not to curl them into fists. Force his face not to glower.
They'd only just had that conversation.
And really—it hadn't even been a conversation. More like a shared moment—early into the hazy pink of morning a few days after she'd returned. They'd been lying in bed—tangled up around each other, their heartbeats still erratic, sweat still glistening like dew on her shoulders and his chest. She'd been teasing the hair on his forearm with her palm as he'd been exploring her curves with his fingers and lips.
"Have you ever thought about doing it again?" Quiet—her words little more than a tickle in the early morning light.
"Doing what?" He'd smiled into her hair, inhaling the musky, sweet scent of her shampoo. Her taste had still graced his tongue, her body thrumming with life beneath his palm. Running his hand up her body, he found and cupped a pertinent bit, leaning in to kiss the nape of her neck as his thumb swept across her softness. "Making you make that noise again? Yes. As soon as is humanly possible, in fact."
"No." She'd breathed out a laugh, rocking forward to press her cheek against his wrist. It seemed to take forever before she continued—and when she did, she didn't look at him, focusing instead on the coral shadows whispering through the sheers on the window and hazing on the sheets. "About having another child."
He'd stilled—suddenly serious. Wary, even, when he'd been fantasizing about this very thing for years. But he hadn't thought that she'd ever considered the prospect—and he'd never wanted to ask for something she had no desire nor inclination to give—
How could he ask that of her? With her name at the top of all the most prestigious lists? Her accomplishments bandied about, garnished with shades of awe? With her career on a trajectory so wildly grand that she'd eclipse him sooner rather than later?
A child—his child—their child—would slow all that down. Bring it to an ignominious standstill, in fact. How could he ask her to give up promotions and honors for something she'd never once expressed any interest in pursuing?
He'd sighed against her skin. "Is that what you want?"
She'd taken her time in answering. "I don't know. Would you want it?"
"It would complicate things. Change everything."
More quietly, now. Softer than the light filtering in through the window. "Is change a bad thing?"
How to answer that? What could he possibly say, when the thought filled him with equal parts dread and exhilaration?
And so, in the end, he'd just explored the slim, perfect column of her neck with his lips and tongue as his hand had drifted down—down—down—towards other pertinent bits until she'd melted back to writhe against him again—her breathy sighs serving as accompaniment to the dawn.
She had been quieter since then. Well—not quiet, exactly. More like reticent. Reserved. Pensive. He'd had no idea how to interpret any of it—and renewing the conversation hadn't felt right, either. She hadn't said she wanted a baby—but neither had she said she didn't. And she'd stopped him each time he'd reached into his nightstand drawer, whispering that she wanted him as close as possible for as long as she could have him before making him forget that nightstands and drawers ever existed in the first place.
Demystifying the woman was a job for the sapient. Not for a broken down general too besotted with his wife to think straight even on a good day.
In the end, Jack had decided that all of it had more to do with her need to decompress from command than anything else. Maybe she'd been exploring her options—brainstorming directions and possibilities. Letting her imagination wander. And when she hadn't been spitballing before dawn, she'd turned inward, spending her days in a self-imposed sort of reflection. It had been the same during the few weeks' leave she'd had between her stint on Atlantis and being assigned command of the Hammond. She'd just needed some time to herself, he theorized—time to sort things out. To ponder quietly.
Not that she'd ever been a blabbermouth before either of those assignments. That title had usually fallen on Daniel.
Who just kept right on proving why, his voice insinuating itself into Jack's thoughts..
"Jack?" He'd perfected that tone over the years. Probing. Gentle but insistent.
And Jack was left to shrug helplessly, shaking his head as myriad ridiculous answers made a jumble in his head and clogged up the back of his throat. "Dunno, Daniel. Don't you think I'm kind of—"
"Set in your ways? Stubborn? Obstinate?"
Well, that answer came far too immediately for Jack's liking. Casting a cool glower at his friend, Jack raised a brow. "I was going to say 'mature'."
"Isn't there some adage about old dogs and all that?"
Jack snorted. "You know how I feel about cliches."
"Yes. I do." Daniel's face relaxed. "But I also know how you feel about Sam."
And there was that. Even though he'd never said the actual words in Daniel's presence, it was no secret that Jack would do anything for his wife. Daniel had been there—he'd watched it all. He'd lived it with them—quietly supporting, enduring, and grieving for his two best friends through the interminable years of duty and longing and angst. Nobody had been more thrilled than Daniel when they'd finally stood before a preacher and made things official.
"She deserves to have it all, Daniel."
"True."
"She deserves to be happy."
For a while, Daniel simply let that hang there between them before he responded. "So do you, Jack."
Well, that was debatable. Jack's eyes found her again. Alone, now. Sitting at her table, toying with her empty water bottle as she studied the tasteful centerpiece. Her expression appeared almost carefully bland. Thinking again. Ruminating. Brooding.
"You both deserve the happily ever after stuff, Jack." Daniel's voice softened, somehow still audible above the rolling din of the crowd. "The universe owes you two that much, at least."
"Her, Daniel." Jack tore his eyes away from his wife, focusing on something else. The crowd, or the huge limestone slab, or the crowd still at the bar. "The universe owes it to her. She's the decent one around here, not me."
"Ah." Because, of course he'd been able to read Jack's reaction for exactly what it was. He was the only one who knew just who Jack had been once upon a time. Just what demons he'd expunged and which ones still lingered. The lenses in Daniel's glasses flashed as he looked away. "Well, like I said, Sam just seemed in flux, somehow. Like she's looking for something. I was just wondering if you were aware of what that might be."
Across the room, she seemed to sense that she was the topic of conversation. Shifting on her seat, she drew herself up straight, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin before turning her cerulean gaze on him again. Lord, she was beautiful. And so very, very much too good for him.
"Anyway." Drawing the word out dramatically, the aforementioned blabbermouth rocked forward on the toes of his boots. "If you're up to it, there are some people I'd like you to meet."
"Why?"
"Why what?"
"Why would you like me to meet them?"
"Because you're here as my guest." Daniel's brows rose precipitously. "And because I've told them about you. Remember? You're my cover story."
Ah—they were back to that.
Motioning towards a passing waiter, Daniel grabbed a glass of amber liquid off the man's tray, thrusting it into Jack's empty hand. "Here. You're going to need this."
"Why?"
"Pamela! Roland!" Daniel waved at a couple as he spurred Jack towards them. He eased back into his typical broad grin. "This is General Jack O'Neill. Jack—meet Doctors Vincent and McDougall."
Pasting on an acceptable smile, Jack sighed and settled in for another inning of the game.
To be continued. . . .