Rating: NC17. Slash, Jack/Daniel, Daniel/Paul Davis. Angst.

Spoilers/Warnings: 1-4, including Broca Divide, Singularity, Matter of Time, Into the Fire, Foothold, Hundred Days, Shades of Gray, Crystal Skull, Nemesis, Small Victories, The Other Side, Divide and Conquer, Tangent, The Curse, Serpent's Venom. Warnings for graphic m/m sex, bad language, bad judgment and bad timing.

Summary: Relationships change.

Notes | Disclaimer

There were some days when it just didn't pay to get out of bed, Jack reflected, and unfortunately, today was turning out to be just such a day. In spades. It had started out like any other day when SG-1 was earthside and between missions. He'd spent the better part of the morning catching up on paperwork and finishing up the mission report from their most recent gig, a straightforward and downright boring mineral survey on P3R-461 completed two days earlier. He'd been winding up the report and contemplating tracking down Teal'c to see if he wanted to do a bit of sparring in the gym, when the summons came to report to General Hammond's office.

A summons to Hammond's office was not, in and of itself, any reason to be alarmed. As 2IC of the SGC and senior team leader, he interacted with the General virtually every day he was on base, so he was hardly surprised that Hammond might have need of him. It wasn't until he arrived at Hammond's office proper that he realized his day was about to take a drastic turn for the worst. He rapped on the doorframe of the open door, requesting permission to enter when his eyes fell on the figure sitting across from Hammond.

Daniel.

Jack's gut tightened and he felt a sudden rush of adrenalin, a classic fight or flight impulse. Daniel's presence clearly indicated that this was not going to be a standard commander to 2IC conversation and suddenly all kinds of scenarios rushed into Jack's mind to explain Daniel's presence, none of them good.

"Come in Colonel," Hammond beckoned, snapping Jack out of his anxious reverie. "Take a seat."

"Sir." Jack acknowledged as he entered to room, his posture tense and wary. Jack sat in the proffered chair, giving a tight nod and a somewhat mumbled "Daniel" to the room's other occupant. Daniel's return greeting was every bit as stiff and uncomfortable, redolent with the awkwardness that pervaded all of their interaction of late.

"Well, now that you're both here, we can get down to business." Hammond began. "I'll make this as brief as possible. The Pentagon has been paying close attention to our activities over this past year. That's nothing new, of course, but with recent developments, notably the death of Heru-ur and the sudden reemergence of Osiris, they are increasingly concerned about the state of affairs out there and want to form a better idea of the kinds of threats faced by the SG teams when they walk through the gate.

"To that end, they have requested the presence of members of field units to come to the Pentagon for a series of meetings to discuss the specific dangers you face out there and to consider possible strategies, resources, and additional personnel that might help in future missions."

Jack was getting a very bad feeling about where this was going and his suspicions were confirmed moments later when Hammond shifted his gaze, looked directly in Jack's eyes and said, "I've decided to send you and Dr. Jackson as our representatives to this meeting."

Shit!

"Sir..." Jack began, hoping against hope that he might be able to wangle his way out of this but knowing that it was damned unlikely. He got no further than that one, plaintive syllable before Hammond cut him off.

"Colonel," he said, his voice soft, but firm, "not only are you the team leader of SG-1, the flagship team of this command, you are also the 2IC of this facility and the senior team leader. In that capacity you have played a singular role in developing and training new teams. Many of the current team leaders were selected on your recommendation. Frankly, colonel, I'd say you are without question precisely the man they need to talk with."

"I don't see why I would be needed, seeing as I'm a civilian." Daniel offered tentatively, obviously as desperate to escape the impending schmoozefest as Jack himself.

Jack couldn't help but think that that was a very good point. Once again, Hammond had his response formulated and articulated before any real protest could be lodged.

"On the contrary, Doctor, it is precisely because you are a civilian that your input is important. I don't have to remind you that there was a certain degree of...resistance to the idea of including civilian specialists as part of what were conceived of as military field units. Over time, however, that attitude has changed, in large part due to your participation. The Pentagon recognizes that our civilian personnel bring unique skills that complement those of the military personnel, skills that have proven invaluable on numerous occasions." Hammond explained. "And like Colonel O'Neill, you have recommended people to participate in this program in your capacity as a senior civilian consultant."

Jack was suddenly uneasy, smelling a potential set-up. If the Pentagon types were looking for scapegoats....Jack glanced over at Daniel who appeared to be every bit as wary and as skeptical as himself. Hammond rushed to put their minds at ease. "I have been assured that the conference has been organized by persons favorable to this project and its current direction. The goal is to find ways to make it function even better and to keep out people as safe as possible."

He opened his mouth once again, but before he could speak, Hammond continued. "Jack, you know as well as I do that while this program has some staunch supporters, the President first and foremost among them, it also has its detractors. There are those who consider our goals to be too benevolent, too...soft. Those individuals advocate a more aggressive approach. They want advanced technology and they don't really care what they have to do to get it. These meetings could be instrumental to the ongoing success of this facility and its future. This isn't some kind of punishment," he explained, quirking one eyebrow in Jack's direction before continuing. "Quite the contrary. I have selected the two of you because of your proven commitment to this facility and to the ideals the SGC stands for. I'm counting on you, gentleman, and I know we couldn't be in better hands."

Jack swore silently to himself. Hell, after a rousing speech like that he knew he had no choice but to go to DC and make nice with the suits. He hated that, hated it with a passion, but there was no way he would let Hammond down, not with so much riding on this. He snuck a glance at Daniel, seeing the same mixture of frustration and grudging acceptance in his expression. Daniel hated politicians almost as much as he did, but like Jack, he knew what was at stake here and he would do whatever was necessary for the good of the SGC.

Hammond smiled, clearly recognizing their silence as a sign of acquiescence. "Here are your briefing packets," he said handing each of the men a thick, laminated folder. "It includes an outline of the meetings planned, your itinerary and travel arrangements. You leave tomorrow afternoon."

"Tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow?!"

Jack and Daniel shared a quick stunned glance before focusing their attention to their commanding officer. "Sir," Jack began, a new protest forming in his mind, "I thought we were scheduled to go to P9X-544 tomorrow?"

"That mission has been postponed for the time being. I'm sure you agree that this is meeting in the Pentagon is far more important."

Jack's eyes narrowed in suspicion. A briefing packet? A sudden invitation to the Pentagon? No, that didn't add up. The boys in DC didn't do anything spur of the moment. Hell, Jack was fairly sure they scheduled taking a piss a week in advance. This could mean only one thing: Hammond had set them up. This seemingly impromptu meeting had probably been planned months ago and Hammond had waited until the last minute to spring it on them to guarantee there was not way for them to weasel their way out of it by doing something inconvenient like going on a mission or getting laid up in the infirmary, or getting killed, all of which sounded more appealing than this trip to the Pentagon.

Jack spared another glance in Daniel's direction. The younger man was frowning, his forehead creased in concentration. Yep, Daniel had figured it out as well. They'd been set up, well and truly, and there wasn't a damn thing they could do about it. Jack could almost admire Hammond's deviousness were it not for the fact that he was the one who had to suffer because of it.

"The meetings will begin on Wednesday morning and will continue for three days. Your next mission briefing will be on Tuesday morning at 1100 hours." Hammond smiled again, a soft, almost paternal smile. "I know you'll do this facility proud. Good luck, gentlemen. Dismissed."

Daniel fairly bolted from the room making a beeline to his office where he could bitch and vent in private. Jack heaved himself from his chair in front of Hammond's desk and walked slowly to his own office. 'Three days with bootlickers, pencil pushers, sycophants and policy wonks.' His gaze drifted down the corridor in the direction of Daniel's office. 'And three days alone in DC with Daniel.' Jack sighed and ran a hand through his graying hair. No doubt about it, this was definitely one of those days when it didn't pay to get out of bed.

***

Jack adjusted his headphones to fit more comfortably over his ears before jabbing at the channel selection button in his armrest, trying to find something more bearable than the "hot new sounds" currently assaulting his eardrums. He finally found the soothing strains of "Pelléas et Mélisande" He turned up the volume and settled back to enjoy a bit of Debussy as he considered his current predicament.

He was glad they had flown commercial rather than by military transport and was more than a little surprised the bean counters were flying them business class. It certainly made things a bit more bearable, he reflected, taking another sip of his Scotch. Jack couldn't help but smile wryly at the thought of how impatient he'd become with conventional air travel. When you could cross light years in the space of seconds, the five-hour flight from Denver to DC seemed annoyingly long by comparison. But if the flight itself was relatively pleasant, the same couldn't be said for the company.

He glanced for what felt like the hundredth time to the man seated next to him and reflected on how different this trip was from others they had taken together over the years. Daniel was absorbed is reading a book, not some diverting, frivolous paperback by Tom Clancy or Stephen King, but a real honest to God book; hard-backed, heavy and filled with weighted, serious words. Nothing new in that, of course. What was different this time around was the complete lack of conversation. Daniel had barely said two words to him since the staff car had arrived at Cheyenne Mountain to take them to the airport. They had exchanged the obligatory greetings, a casual comment or two about the weather and that was it. Daniel remained cool and distant, seemingly unperturbed even as he refused to meet Jack's eye.

This was the current state of affairs between the two of them. They existed in a constant state of tension, moving through an interpersonal minefield of long, painful silences barely relieved by brief, awkward and completely superficial conversations. The connection between them that had once been so strong, so sure had eroded to the point of being virtually non-existent. Where once there had been trust, there was now wary resentment and bitter hurt. And worst of all, Jack knew it was all his fault.

There were some lines that were never meant to be crossed, some risks that should never, ever be taken. Jack had always considered himself a smart guy, someone who knew the dangers of getting too involved. He knew, he understood, but still he'd done it. For one night he had put all his rational, reasonable concerns aside and had crossed the line, given in to reckless insanity and now he was left struggling through the wreckage of a ruined friendship.

His mind cast back to that fateful, disastrous night, much as it had so many, many times over the course of the succeeding eight months. While most memories tended to fade with the passage of time, this one did not; everything about that night, every detail, every word, every taste, scent and touch was captured with disturbing clarity, etched with the precision of a laser...

// It had happened just after that whole business with the crystal skull that had shifted Daniel out of phase. Had it not been for Nick who had the unexpected ability to communicate with Daniel thanks to his own encounter with a similar crystal skull twenty some years before, Daniel might have been lost to them forever, doomed to wander like a ghost, lost and aimless and unacknowledged.

They had all been elated to have him back within the fold once more. It felt like another miracle of the kind that only SG-1 could mange to pull off. Sam had clung to Daniel, wrapping her arms around him as if she would never let him go again. Hammond had clasped his shoulder warmly pronouncing "its good to have you back, son," while Teal'c had nodded, his usual gravity lightened by the broad smile tracing his lips. Even Janet had been unusually effusive, hugging him, then shooing the rest of the team away so that she could examine her patient. After a very thorough examination she had pronounced him exhausted and dehydrated but otherwise physically fit. She'd asked if someone could take him home, and Jack had volunteered without hesitation.

On the drive home Jack had watched his companion from the corner of his eyes. Daniel had been silent and withdrawn ever since his release from the infirmary. He was slumped against the car door, his body half turned away, the seatbelt twisted, as if trying to pull away and retreat further within himself. Jack studied the other man's features reflected in the glass of the car window. Daniel's face was pale and expressionless but his eyes were strangely haunted. Jack wasn't sure precisely what had caused the anguish residing in his gaze, whether it was the stress of his recent ordeal, the stark fear of being lost and alone, bereft of human contact and comfort, or the joyous rediscovery and the subsequent repudiation of his wayward grandfather.

For his part, Jack couldn't understand Nick's decision, could not comprehend someone casting aside the bonds of family, the solid reality of flesh and blood in favor of a quest for something as intangible as knowledge. He couldn't understand how Nick could have inflicted such a hurt upon the eight-year old Daniel and he certainly couldn't understand how he could do it again to the grown-up Daniel. Daniel said he understood, but Jack had his doubts. Nick's return and departure had to have opened up old wounds, ones that ran so deep that Daniel had never so much as alluded to them in the three years they had known one another. Daniel guarded his secrets jealously, and his private hurts had always remained just that: private. Jack had come to realize that it wasn't modesty or introversion or a vague fear of dependence that dictated his reticence, but rather an unwillingness or even an inability to cope with his personal heartaches. He kept them buried deep, hidden from the light of day and completely removed from the realm of words where Daniel resided because there was no other way for him function. Seeing Nick only to lose him once again must have savaged those wounds anew.

So Jack had taken Daniel home to offer him the comfort of warmth and silence and hard liquor. As they sat before the blazing hearth in Jack's living room drinking whiskey and watching the shadows play in the darkened corners of the room, Daniel had begun to speak, haltingly at first, as if he had somehow forgotten the skill, and then with greater ease, his tongue loosened by the warmth of the liquor within his belly and the fire beyond. Daniel spoke of the feelings of abandonment that had haunted him in the wake of Nick's rejection, the confusion and anger of a lost little boy that had never been fully laid to rest despite all the rationalizations his adult self could muster. He spoke of the bitter resentment at Nick's scorn of his theories, another repudiation, as grievous as the first. And he spoke of the fragile understanding that had blossomed between them before Nick stepped out of his life once more, possibly for the last time.

Jack had refilled Daniel's glass, the amber liquid gleaming in the firelight. He didn't speak himself, recognizing Daniel's words as a long overdue and much needed catharsis. He remained silent and let Daniel speak, safe in the knowledge that he wasn't alone, that he didn't have to carry the hurt by himself.

Then Daniel had spoken of what it had felt like to be out of phase, to be surrounded by people and yet be completely and utterly alone within their midst. It was the loss of the sense of touch that had disturbed him the most, he'd confessed. Daniel would reach out his hand, and it would simply slip through solid matter, sliding through concrete and steel and flesh and bone as easily as a fish through clear water. It had been terrifying, walking the corridors of the SGC as a wraith. It had dredged up so many other painful memories from his childhood, the hours spent in the offices of Child Services as harried social workers complained and fretted and worried about what to do with little Danny Jackson, completely oblivious to, or simply uncaring about, his presence in the room. He'd been a wraith then too; alone, unacknowledged and untouched, drifting through the foster care system like so much flotsam carried along by a strong current. No one had touched him then either, he remembered. Everyone had been so circumspect, so reserved and so bewilderingly different from his demonstrative parents. Gone were the showers of kisses and cuddles that his mother bestowed upon him, gone were the tickling and the bear hugs and the piggyback rides that his father loved to give. Touch became something proscribed. Over time, he had trained himself to survive without it, at least until Sha're had come into his life and had taught him anew the wonder of it.

Jack watched and listened as Daniel spoke, his voice soft and low, just above a whisper. The haunted look was back in his eyes and Jack felt a pang at the sight of it. The younger man looked so small and so terribly vulnerable right now, his shoulders slumped and head bowed, his now empty glass clutched in both hands. He hated seeing Daniel like this, he couldn't stand the grief and the loneliness that clung to him like a shroud. Without thinking, Jack reached out to touch Daniel's face, his fingertips trailing down his cheek, along his jaw, lifting his chin so their eyes could meet. Daniel's lashes were spiked with unshed tears that glittered in the soft light. So much hurt in that gaze, so much longing. So much love.

It was then that the madness took hold of Jack. His right hand moved to cup Daniel's cheek, his thumb lightly brushing his cheekbone and then he leaned in to kiss the other man. Daniel's eyes widened for a heartbeat, then they fluttered closed, his chin tipped forward in silent invitation.

The first kiss was a simple thing, a fleeting touch of dry lips, a soft exhalation of warm breath. Nothing more. Jack pulled back slightly and then shifted forward once more. This time the touch was lingering, as Jack pressed his lips more firmly against Daniel's. Daniel's lips were so soft, yielding and molding to his own. His tongue flickered out, lightly tracing the lush lower lip, reveling in the softness, the sweetness of it. Daniel's lips parted in response and Jack's tongue slid inside, gliding across teeth and palate, winding around the other man's tongue.

The second kiss was poignant and achingly sweet. Jack could taste the whiskey lingering in Daniel's mouth, feel the slight rasp of stubble against his cheek, smell his sweat and the faint scent of his aftershave an the stronger scent of the liquor he had drunk. Daniel's arms had reached up, sliding around Jack's shoulders, his hands winding into the thick hair at the back of Jack's skull, deepening the contact. Jack's cheeks were damp and he suddenly realized that Daniel was crying, tears of grief or joy or release, he didn't know but Jack's heart lurched in his chest. His arms instinctively tightened, pulling Daniel's pliant body against his own, crushing the younger man in his embrace. He released Daniel's mouth and traced the salt trails of tears along his cheeks with reverent lips and tongue, murmuring between soft kisses, "Danny, Danny."

It was like a mantra, or the soundtrack to Jack's personal madness, he didn't know which and he frankly didn't care. In this moment in time, there was only Daniel, nothing else existed or mattered. Jack wanted more, he wanted all of him. His kisses became fevered, desperate, his lips moving across his jaw, down his pale throat, tasting the salt on his skin tinged with the flavor of smoke from the fireplace. Daniel arched his neck in response, sobbing his need as Jack quested for more skin. His hands began to tug at Daniel's shirt, his sudden dizzying hunger overwhelming the last shreds of control and common sense. He could hear Daniel's soft moans, the sound of his own name gasped out between rasping breaths. He couldn't stop now, he didn't want to.

They pulled at one another's clothes, grasping, greedy, needy hands ripping and tearing and tugging until both bodies were exposed to the flickering firelight. Jack lowered Daniel to the floor, tenderness warring with urgency and then he lowered himself until he was stretched out above him, his weight braced upon his elbows.

"Beautiful," he whispered his voice full of wonder, as he nuzzled behind Daniel's ear. "You are so fucking beautiful, Daniel."

Daniel shivered in response to the touch and the words. He reached up and twined his hand in Jack's hair, pulling his head down into another kiss, this one searing and breathless as Daniel tried to consume him completely. Jack's hands began to caress Daniel's body, moving in long, sweeping strokes down his ribcage, his exposed flanks, his thighs. Daniel began to move beneath him, his body writhing. His legs slipped apart, allowing Jack to settle between them as he swarmed over Daniel's body in a flurry of lips, tongue and teeth. Daniel moaned and bucked upwards and Jack could feel the younger man's erection pressing into his belly, even as his own lay throbbing and weeping against Daniel's.

They began to move together urgently. There was no rhythm just driving need, and a hunger that could only be sated by the other. Sweat slicked bodies slid and pulsed together, limbs tangled, sighs and moans were traded like kisses as they raced towards completion. Jack knew it couldn't last. No sooner had the though passed through his mind then he felt the exquisite tightening in his balls that signaled the onset of orgasm. He bucked his hips, grinding into the body beneath him and then he felt Daniel stiffen and cry out, his semen spurting between them.

Daniel's climax triggered his own. He sobbed out Daniel's name, burying his face in the other man's shoulder as he came. He clung to Daniel as his body rode the aftershocks of pleasure, feeling Daniel's body vibrating and trembling beneath him.

They lay like that for a long time, sprawled and tangled, sweating and gasping and wonderfully satiated, the only sound their harsh breath and the occasional pop of wood from the fireplace. Finally Jack lifted his head to gaze at the flushed, tear stained and thoroughly contented face of his friend. He opened his mouth to speak, having no idea what he would say, but there was no need. Daniel simply raised a finger to his lips and shook his head, a sweet, tender smile tracing his bruised lips. "Later," was all he said before closing his eyes and drifting off to sleep.

Jack lay nestled against Daniel's chest, listening to his heartbeat, feeling the warm puffs of air against his neck before succumbing to slumber, the single word "later," floating through his mind like a promise and a benediction.

***

Jack awoke with a start. He and Daniel were still lying sprawled and tangled on the floor in front of the fireplace. The fire had long since died out and the room was now chilled and dark, illuminated only by the slivers of moonlight that stole through the crack on the drapes. He'd roused Daniel who awoke dazed and disoriented from a combination of slumber, alcohol and intense sex. He'd pulled the other man to his feet and guided him to the bedroom, tumbling him down to the bed left unmade from the night before. There was a full moon that night and the room was bathed in silvery light, like hoar frost at dusk. Jack found himself casting a fond and proprietary gaze to the man spread naked and willing before him, his body pale in the moonlight spilling through the gap in the curtains. They made love again on the rumpled, wrinkled sheets, kissing and touching at leisure, building the arousal by degrees until Daniel was insensate with desire and Jack wasn't far behind. He took Daniel in his mouth then, a new experience, but one he had enjoyed. They came again crying one another's names and it was so good, better even than the first time. Daniel lay curled up in his arms, his moist breath ticking the hair on his chest as he slept, lulling Jack, pulling him along. No words had been spoken, not yet. Daniel was right; that was for later.

But "later" proved to be an elusive thing. They awoke the next morning, tongue tied and awkward. The spell from the night before had dissipated, like dew burned away by the heat of the rising heat of the sun, and now they felt absurdly shy with one another. Now that "later" had arrived neither man could find the words that needed to be said. By mutual, silent consent they left it aside for the time being, both of them understanding that this was but a temporary reprieve and that soon they would need to address what had transpired the night before. But despite the awkwardness, there was a lingering warmth, a profound intimacy from what they had shared. It buoyed them up, leavened their step, and brought a fierceness to their gaze. It bound them together in a way they hadn't been before and Jack found himself...disquieted by it, unnerved by the intensity of what he was feeling, even though he could not put a name to the emotion as yet.

Somehow they could never seem to find the right moment. It was almost as if forces were conspiring against them, though in that corner of his own mind where Jack refused to allow lies and half truths he knew it was largely his own fault. He was unsettled by what had happened and every time the memory resurfaced, every time he found himself alone with Daniel, the sensation of unease and disquiet increased. Jack would ruthlessly push the memory away and find excuses not to be alone with Daniel. It was cowardice, he knew, but he reasoned that he shouldn't talk to Daniel until he had he sorted it all out in his own mind and understood what it was he was feeling.

For three days he managed to evade his friend and his own jumbled emotions and then fate tossed yet another curveball his way. A passing airman had found Daniel sprawled on the floor of his office, unconscious. Daniel been taken to the infirmary where a quick once over had revealed a burst appendix. He's been whisked off once again, this time to emergency surgery as Jack and the other members of SG-1 paced the corridor, tense with worry and a fear that grew with each minute that passed. Jack was in a daze. How had this happened? How had Fraiser missed this, especially given the extremely thorough examination she'd given Daniel just days before? He paced the corridor, his hands fisted so tightly his knuckles turned white as the anger and confusion and fear mingled together and swelled beyond reason.

Finally Dr. Warner had emerged from the operating room, weary but satisfied that the surgery had been successful. It had been a close thing, Warner had confirmed. Had he not been on base, had he not been found when he was, had Dr. Warner been unavailable for surgery...the possibilities raced through Jack's mind and another, more horrifying one had surfaced. They had been scheduled to go off world the next day. What if Daniel had collapsed then, at a point where they were hours from the gate and millions of light years from medical assistance? Jack's blood suddenly turned to ice in his veins as the full horror of what could have been washed over him.

They would have lost Daniel. He'd be dead right now, gone, beyond aid or redemption and the thought was too terrible to contemplate. Jack had walked out, leaving behind a bewildered Sam and Teal'c. He needed to think. He needed to breath. He needed to move.

He ran.

After a sleepless night spent wrestling with ghosts who refused to grant him respite, Jack had returned to the SGC. Hammond informed him that SG-1 was on stand down while Daniel recuperated from surgery, a much needed and long overdue rest for them all, the general had supplied. Jack had simply nodded his acknowledgement and then had turned on his heel making his way to the infirmary.

There he found Daniel, looking pale and fragile but very much alive and Jack's heart lurched in his chest, relief warring with the bone chilling, gut wrenching fear of nearly losing him forever. Daniel had offered him a watery smile and tried to shift himself upright, the smile transforming into a grimace. They had talked, or at least had tried to, the words and sentiments stilted, the emotions tripping them up, putting new distance between them. 'Too soon,' Jack thought. It was all too fresh, too raw. Once he's had a bit of time to sort through it all, he and Daniel would talk, really talk, just as they'd promised.

But there was no time, and "later" somehow became "never." Jack had been spirited away by a desperate Thor in need of his help. Soon he was joined by Sam and Teal'c as they struggled to battle the nasty techno bugs, keep Earth safe and stay alive against all odds. And they'd succeeded. Thor's ship was destroyed taking with it the techno bugs and the Alpha gate and they were now stranded millions of light years from home. But they were alive and suddenly Jack found himself with the one thing he hadn't had before: time. Nine days worth of time during which he had nothing to do but think as he lay wide awake, gazing up at an alien starscape, reflecting on Daniel's brush with death and his own as well.

And during those nine days he came to a conclusion: what had passed between he and Daniel was wrong. Completely and utterly wrong in every conceivable way. Jack had been right at the time. It was a madness, a fit of temporary insanity brought on by loneliness and grief and a desperate need to give and receive comfort, but nothing more. There was nothing between he and Daniel, nothing beyond the simple bonds of friendship and camaraderie, like those that existed between he and Teal'c.

But more than that, Jack wasn't gay. He was straight, dammit, always had been and--this one alcohol induced aberration aside--always would be. Daniel might be gay or bi, or whatever in the hell they called it these days, but he wasn't. He liked women, was attracted to women, women like Carter: smart and beautiful, soft and yielding to the touch. Not men, not Daniel. Daniel had been...confused. That's all. He been confused and distraught over losing Nick once more and had turned to Jack for comfort. It was the kind of things friends did for one another. But there was nothing more. No. Never had been and never would be. Daniel would come to understand in time. He was a smart guy. He'd get over it. He'd forget all about little indiscretion, put a lid on his crush or whatever in the hell he thought he might be feeling for Jack and they'd...move on. Get back to normal once more.

Jack had found his resolve tested the moment he stepped foot back on the ramp of the SGC. It had all been so clear in the moments before he's walked through the gate, his decision made, but now, now he felt uncertainty creeping in. Daniel was standing there waiting for him--for them--to return. He was pale and gaunt and the dark smudges beneath his eyes spoke of his own spate of sleepless nights, but his smile was radiant and his relief was so palpable Jack could feel it wind its way around him like a warm blanket. His first impulse was to race down the ramp and grab the younger man in a fierce embrace, but he squashed the impulse immediately, holding firm to his resolve to maintain his distance. He flicked a glance in Daniel's direction and then turned away to speak to the general. From the corner of his eye he saw Daniel's expression falter, saw the confusion in his eyes, the slight frown creasing his forehead. Jack felt a keen ache at the sight of it but he steeled himself against it and continued to address the general. 'It's all for the best, Danny,' he reassured himself.

He had hoped that Daniel would take the hint, let them do this the easy way, but of course that was impossible. This was Daniel they were talking about, after all. 'Complicated' was his middle name. It wasn't Daniel's fault, of course, at least not completely. When Jack had returned he'd kept his distance, remained cool and aloof. He wanted to let Daniel down as gently as possible and keep from giving him any false hopes. Problem was, you could never predict which way Daniel would go. At times he could be so in tune, so sensitive to every intonation, gesture and nuance that Jack would have sworn the guy was telepathic if not downright prescient. He would seem to understand exactly what Jack wanted to say without him having to utter a single word. But at other times he could be as dense as mud and it took all of Jack's strength not to break down and start drawing stick figure diagrams in the dirt for the suddenly and inexplicably ignorant linguist.

And of course this was one of the occasions when Daniel decided to be obtuse. He was bewildered by Jack's seemingly sudden change of heart, he couldn't seem to fathom that things had changed between them and that Jack didn't want anything more than his friendship, despite all the evidence that Jack had laid out before him. Daniel would just stare at him with the hurt in his eyes and the pain of it ripped through Jack, rending him, flaying him open. So he hardened his heart, building up walls, thick and impenetrable, like the ones he'd built after Charlie died. Still it wasn't enough. Daniel refused to give up, to give in. He kept reaching out to Jack, and Jack came to realize that it wasn't enough to keep Daniel at bay; he needed to push him away and keep him away for both their sakes.

It hurt, it hurt like hell, but Jack firmly believed it was the best course of action. Where once there were warm, bantering jibes, there was now derision, and remarks as cold and cutting as a surgeon's scalpel. But still it wasn't enough. Jack scorned Daniel publicly, told him to shut up in front of strangers in the desperate hope that humiliation would work where repudiation had not. And still it wasn't enough. They would fight and squabble and tussle like pit bulls but Daniel wouldn't walk away. Jack would feel Daniel's eyes upon him watching, always watching.

Jack finally came to understand that Daniel was still in love with him, or at least thought that he was in love with him. It wasn't that, of course. Not love. Daniel was lonely, he'd needed someone and Jack had been there. It was a schoolboy crush, nothing more and nothing could ever come of it because Jack wasn't interested in Daniel, wasn't interested in men at all. Jack O'Neill was a dyed in the wool, card-carrying heterosexual. How could Daniel even think Jack would switch hit when there was a woman as beautiful and desirable as Carter right under his nose.

And suddenly Jack began to think long and hard about his 2IC. Jack wasn't blind; he'd always recognized that Sam Carter was an extraordinary woman; brilliant, clever, gorgeous and damned resourceful. A hell of woman by anyone's standards. And Jack found himself giving Carter a second look and then a third. He smiled at her and she smiled back and there was...sparkage. Not towering inferno, flames of passion type sparkage but a kind of warm, flirty feeling when they looked at one another and engaged in a bit of lighthearted banter. He liked Carter, liked her a lot and he could see the feeling was mutual. This was normal, he thought. They might be two officers in the USAF but they were also a man and a woman. It was only natural that they might feel an attraction. This was good. This felt safe.

And in the end, all of Jack's efforts had finally paid off. Daniel no longer reached out to Jack. He no longer watched him, his eyes full of hurt and recrimination. He no longer harbored any foolish romantic delusions regarding Jack O'Neill. It was over at last; the madness had abated and Jack could move on and so could Daniel. But in the final tally Jack realized that the price of this freedom was nothing less than Daniel's friendship. And it was only after it was broken, irretrievably, irreparably broken, that Jack understood that was the one thing he could not bear to live without. //

Jack shifted in his seat, the cushions suddenly as uncomfortable as his own line of thought. They couldn't go on like this, he thought. He couldn't stand the distance anymore and the estrangement was hurting them and the rest of the team in the bargain. He had to find a way to make this right somehow and begin to rebuild his shattered friendship with Daniel.

When Hammond had dropped the bombshell about the meetings at the Pentagon, Jack had cringed inside at the thought of spending three days in close proximity to Daniel. In the past eight months they hadn't spent three hours together, let alone three days, if they weren't off planet and on a mission.

Jack found himself reflecting on Hammond and his motivations on sending the two of them together on this little non-pleasure jaunt to DC. Yes, it could have been exactly as the General had described it, a round of meetings that were vitally important to the future of the SGC and that required the presence of the best and the brightest--or at least most senior members--of Hammond's command to be successful. But he wouldn't have put it past the old man to try and acquire two targets with a single payload. Hammond wasn't dumb; he had to have noticed the tension on the team, or more specifically between Daniel and himself. He and Daniel studiously avoided one another on base and on the few occasions when necessity forced them together, like mission briefings and debriefings, their interaction was kept to a bare minimum. No banter, no good-natured ribbing about hockey or rocks or the most recent episode of the Simpsons; no chuckling or rolling of eyes.

And then, of course, there were all of Daniel's 'temporary reassignments' to other teams. Ostensibly they had been necessitated by the shortage of archeologists/anthropologists/linguists with field training and clearance to go through the gate. However, they had also conveniently served as a kind of release valve to keep the tension between Daniel and himself from boiling over and causing irreparable damage.

'No,' he thought to himself. 'Hammond knows, he's always known. This little outing is his way of giving us time to try to work things out on planet and off base.' It was a good strategy, actually. Maybe a change of scenery and some enforced quality time was what they needed to get back on track. Not for the first time, Jack admired Hammond's thoroughly devious nature. 'Well, there's a reason the man has those stars on his shoulder boards,' Jack observed silently, 'and its not for his skill at barbeque.'

Jack leaned back in his seat once more, taking the final swig of his Scotch. For the first time in months the possibility of a reconciliation with Daniel seemed a real and tangible thing rather than a foolish, desperate wish. Jack closed his eyes and offered up a quick prayer to whatever god watched over aging Air Force colonels and forlorn archeologists and hoped that it wasn't too late to make things right between them once again.

***

Major Paul Davis, the Pentagon liaison to Stargate Command, walked into the Arrivals' lounge at National Airport, glancing at the bank of screens denoting the arrival of incoming flights. He frowned. Flight number 872 from Denver to Washington was delayed. He walked over to the counter to ask one of the airline representatives about it. She smiled brightly and informed him that there was the storm front moving in from the Rockies that was forcing some planes to shift their flight pattern, but she assured him that the Denver flight would only be about forty minutes late. He smiled his thanks and moved over to one of the tall windows overlooking the tarmac, his body unconsciously adopting the position of parade ground rest that had been drilled into him by years in the service.

He was here at National for a very specific purpose: to greet Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Jackson and to give them a final briefing regarding the meetings that would be taking place at the Pentagon over the course of the next three days. As he stood watching the planes rising and descending in a strangely beautiful dance of mechanical flight, Paul allowed himself the luxury of memory, letting his mind drift and wander back in time

There were days and events would always stand out in his memory. Some of them were filled with pride, like the day his high school track team won the regionals or the day he graduated from The Air Force Academy with honors. Some of them were poignant and bittersweet like the day they buried his friend Ted Richards, just three days after his eighteenth birthday, a tragic victim of a drunk driver, or the day his mother told him she had been diagnosed with breast cancer. Some days were meaningful in very private ways, like that day when he was seven years old and his father took him to see an air show at Langley, or the day he lost his virginity under the bleachers with Cindy Mortenson. All of them contributed in some unique way to making him who he was today, in forming his heart and mind and outlook on life.

But then there were the days that would change his life forever in ways that he had never imagined possible even a day before. Chief among them was the day he first laid eyes on the Stargate and his world expanded to accommodate an entire galaxy. But that day was momentous for another reason: it was also the day that he first met Dr. Daniel Jackson...

// He had been stationed at the Pentagon for a little over two years. A third generation Air Force officer, he had risen through the ranks quickly due to family connections (which he himself had never called upon) a sharp, flexible mind, and a skill for diplomacy. Unlike so many of his classmates at the Academy, he hadn't dreamed of a career on the front lines. Paul had no illusions about his abilities; he knew he wasn't cut out for the field, that wasn't where his real strengths lay. He did, however, have a genuine knack for politics, a shrewd understanding of people and policies that had proven to be an invaluable asset in the hallowed halls of the Pentagon. It was those skills that had led him to be assigned as an attaché to the offices of the Joint Chiefs of Staff and eventually to his current assignment as the primary liaison between the Pentagon and Stargate Command.

He remembered the day he was summoned into the office of Colonel Avery, a member of General Ryan's staff. The colonel's assistant had ushered him into the room with an exceptional solemnity and Paul knew then that something momentous was about to occur. He wasn't disappointed. Colonel Avery had offered him a thick binder marked 'classified,' and had then proceeded to introduce an appropriately awed young officer into the most amazing-and most carefully guarded-secret in the country, if not the world: the Stargate. He had recognized immediately the singular honor that he was being accorded. Not only the knowledge of this extraordinary program but the opportunity to liaise with them to play a role in its continued existence was truly a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he had leapt at it with complete enthusiasm.

For the next several weeks he pored over mission reports, briefing notes, personnel lists, budgetary requests, anything and everything associated with the day to day workings of the Stargate Program. Within these documents, he found the old adage was true: sometimes truth *was* stranger than fiction. Within the confines of the SGC, a seeming handful of men and women were leading an existence that was truly larger than life. He read tales of triumph and tragedy, of heroic sacrifice and grievous loss. Some of the reports had heartened him like the account of the creation of a vaccine that had overcome the Touched virus that had plagued the people of the Land of the Light for generations; others had saddened him deeply like the loss of SG-7 and the entire population of P8X-987 to a deadly plague unleashed by the ruthless Nirrti. He learned of encounters with other races: the gentle and peace loving Nox, the haughty Tollans, the benevolent Asgard, and of course, the cruel and arrogant Goa'uld, the enemy and bane of humankind.

But always there at the center of it all was SG-1, the flagship team of Stargate Command. It was evident right from the start that they were a unique and extraordinary group of people: a twice retired, former Special Ops Air Force colonel; a theoretical astrophysicist, former military brat and Air Force captain; a civilian archeologist cum anthropologist cum linguist; and an alien warrior turncoat with a larval Goa'uld incubating in his gut. He couldn't have found a more disparate group of people if he'd tried, but their amazing track record was proof enough that they had meshed as a team. He had read their reports with all the rapt fascination of a child, awed at the hurdles that they had overcome. Skin-of-their-teeth victories, miraculous resurrections, the repulsion of a full fledged attack against the planet Earth, it seemed like something right out of one of those old Flash Gordon serials, but for SG-1 it was just another day at the office.

It was clear General Hammond, the facility's commander, had a special fondness for them, and Paul could certainly understand why. They were a pretty amazing bunch. But of all of them it was Dr. Daniel Jackson who intrigued him the most. An intellectual maverick who had bucked the established system of academia and had been ostracized for daring to voice unpopular and seemingly heretical theories. Paul suspected that in years to come, when the Stargate Program was no longer classified, Dr. Jackson would be heralded as a kind of latter day Galileo, persecuted and cast out for speaking the truth. These unpopular theories had led to his rather spectacular fall from grace; grants rescinded, job offers retracted. Homeless, friendless, aimless, until Catherine Langford had recruited him and offered him the chance to prove his theories right.

And he had been right. Within two weeks Dr. Jackson had unlocked the riddle of the Stargate, a mystery the best minds in the military had been unable to decipher after two years of intensive study. Yet here he was, scholar, heretic and genius, who in the space of days had found the answer with nothing more than his quicksilver mind and an uncanny intuitive sense. As a rule Paul didn't consider himself someone who was easily impressed, but Jackson had indeed impressed him and he'd never even met the man.

That was to change just a little after three months following his appointment to the role of official Pentagon liaison to the SGC. It was after the near cataclysmic disaster spawned by a newly formed black hole on P3W-451 that had not only killed Major Henry Boyd and the rest of the newly formed SG-10 but had almost destroyed Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado and potentially the entire planet. Not exactly the most auspicious circumstances under which to meet the men and women with whom you will be liaising, but it did provide a rare opportunity to see these people at work. They had shown, once again, the incredible tenacity and the very unique abilities that had allowed them to prevail in the past. General Hammond's loyalty to his people, his rock solid belief that they could and would resolve the situation, Captain Carter's brilliant and rather unconventional-and ultimately successful-solution to the problem, Colonel O'Neill's exemplary courage under fire and his decision to undertake action which would in all probability take his life whether it worked or not. The gambit had succeeded, and against all odds, Colonel O'Neill had survived the blast, though Colonel Cromwell had not. It was another loss, another death in the name of galactic exploration, but in light of the other possible outcomes, it was one he could accept.

When General Hammond returned to Cheyenne Mountain, Paul had accompanied him. Though he had only been assigned to the SGC three months prior and had never stepped foot in the complex, obscurely he felt his place was there. When it was all over and the dust has settled along the floor of the Gateroom, Paul was there to help with the cleanup and observe the men and women of the SGC as they worked with fierce determination to restore normalcy to this most abnormal of places.

They had been walking along the halls of the SGC, making their way back to the Embarkation room and discussing the necessary preparations for the creation of a replacement iris when suddenly they crossed paths with a figure approaching the T-junction.

"Dr. Jackson!" Hammond called.

At the pronouncement of that familiar name, Paul looked over and was rewarded with his first sight of the elusive Dr. Daniel Jackson. His first thought was that the image formed in his mind from the various reports and personnel files didn't correspond with the man standing before him. He'd known Dr. Jackson was young, that he'd been something of a boy genius and the darling of the archeological community before his fall from grace. He knew his age-32-and his appearance from the information in his file, but his first impression was that Dr. Jackson was very, very young, an impression that was reinforced by the longish hair and ill fitting fatigues that gave his the appearance of a boy dressing up in his older brother's clothes.

His second impression was of a very keen mind. Despite being startled by the general's sudden summons, Dr, Jackson was already studying him, gauging and assessing. Paul could practically see the gears turning and the synapses firing within those vivid blue eyes. That he had expected; Dr. Jackson's psych profile confirmed a very shrewd mind and all additional evidence had proven that he was every bit as brilliant as he was reputed to be. Still, Paul was a bit disconcerted to find himself the object of the young doctor's intense gaze. It was unnerving indeed and he made a mental note to himself to never earn this man's ire.

The third impression, and the one that he would never share, was that Dr. Daniel Jackson was an exceptionally handsome man in addition to being young and brilliant. It made for an enticing package, but it also raised the stakes and at this point in his career, Paul wasn't sure he was willing to take the risk. At least, not yet.

"Dr. Jackson," General Hammond interjected, capturing the young doctor's attention once more, "I'd like you meet Major Paul Davis. He's recently been named as the official liaison between the SGC and the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon."

Paul was surprised to see Dr. Jackson's lips thin slightly and his eyes become guarded at Hammond's announcement. By all accounts Dr. Jackson was generally open and garrulous by nature. This sudden wariness seemed out of character until Paul remembered that Dr. Jackson had had some less than pleasant encounters with other members of the military outside the SGC, most specifically personnel from Area 51. He would have to clear up that misconception as soon as possible.

"Major Davis, this is..." Hammond began.

Paul put on his warmest smile and extended his hand to the hesitant young man. "No need for an introduction, general." Daniel had taken his hand and Paul shook it with enthusiasm. "It's a great pleasure to finally meet you Dr. Jackson. I'm very impressed by the work you've done on behalf of the SGC.

"Thank you," Daniel responded, his tone carefully neutral.

"I was especially interested in your ideas regarding the information your team discovered on P3X-972, Heliopolis, I believe you called it. And your supposition that it was a meeting place between four alien races was a provocative one. And," he said, his smile becoming wider, "one that was apparently correct given the information that Colonel O'Neill provided from his encounter with the Asgard following your visit to P3R-272. It's a shame that Heliopolis no longer exists. It would have been a subject of invaluable study."

Jackson's expression had changed from one of wariness to mild disbelief. Paul resisted the urge to laugh out loud, fearing the young man might misconstrue such a response. "I may be military, but I do understand that the...'meaning of life stuff' is every bit as important, if not more so, than any military advances we might gain because of the Stargate. And I'm not alone in that sentiment, Dr. Jackson."

By now, Jackson's expression had thawed completely and he was smiling himself, a rather shy, winsome smile that was thoroughly engaging, and if he were to be completely frank, utterly devastating. "It's...good to hear that."

"It's true, I assure you, Actually, I would very much like the opportunity to talk with you a bit about your work before I leave. I'm hoping to use this visit to get a sense of how the SGC works. You can only learn so much from reports and briefing notes," he explained.

"Oh! Yes, I'd be happy to meet with you. Oh...um..."

Paul couldn't help but notice the way the man stuttered when flustered. This enthusiastic Dr. Jackson was so different from the closed off, apprehensive man of just moments before. The transformation was startling.

"...I was just on my way to the infirmary to see how Jack, I, uh, mean Colonel O'Neill was doing." Jackson explained.

"Well perhaps we could accompany you." He turned towards Hammond. "General?" he inquired.

Hammond smiled, his expression so paternal Paul almost expected the general to reach out and pat Dr. Jackson on the head. Clearly Dr. Jackson was well liked within the facility. "That's an excellent idea. Shall we?"

Dr. Jackson smiled at the general before turning back along the path he was traveling when they first met. It wouldn't be until years later that the full weight and meaning of that impression was finally driven home.

They talked casually on the brief trip to the infirmary. Dr. Jackson explained that he had been off world with SG-7 surveying the remains of a Goa'uld temple. Unfortunately, when the wormhole generated by the Stargate locked in on the black hole forming near P3W-451, it became impossible for any other off world activation to take place. SG-7, along with SG-4 which was also on an away mission, found themselves stranded millions of light years from home, with no way to even get word to or from Earth. For five days they had tried to reach Earth without success, until they finally connected.

"That must have been nerve wracking," Paul put to the other man.

Jackson shrugged. "Well, it wasn't exactly fun, but we hadn't exhausted all of our options. Once we confirmed that our DHD was functioning by dialing another address, we knew the problem was on Earth. Not much we could do on our end. If push came to shove, we could have gated to P3X-797 until we could finally make contact."

Paul wracked his brains trying to remember which planet carried that designation. He drew a blank. "P3X-797?"

"The Land of the Light," Jackson provided as the left the elevator and turned the corner.

"Ah. Forgot that one," he explained with a wry smile.

Jackson smiled back. "That's quite alright. It's hard to keep track of them all even when you've actually traveled there yourself. Names would much easier to remember than computer generated binary codes." As he said this last, Jackson flicked a sideways glance and a sly smile at Hammond who simply snorted softly in response. Obviously this was a long standing, but amiable quarrel and this casual exchange told Paul more than words could about the tenor of the relationship between Hammond and the people under his command. It was a good sign, a very good sign indeed.

Two more turns along the corridors of the SGC brought the three men to the entrance of the infirmary. This area of the facility was considerably quieter than the other areas they had passed. At present, only a handful of beds were occupied by personnel sporting relatively minor, non-threatening injuries. Dr. Jackson moved unerringly to a bed at the far side of the room and Paul and the general followed.

Even without Dr. Jackson's lead, Paul would have been able to identify Colonel O'Neill without hesitation. O'Neill had something of a reputation for being cantankerous and contrary and he was living down to the reputation in spades. At present, he was arguing volubly with Dr. Fraiser, the CMO of the SGC.

"Aw, c'mon Doc, I feel fine. There's no reason for me to be stuck in here."

To her credit, Dr. Fraiser didn't back down from the force that was a crotchety Colonel O'Neill. She held her ground, responding in a cool, professional manner. "Colonel O'Neill, you are exhausted and dehydrated and are suffering the after effects of a very serious concussion. You will be staying here until I clear you to leave. Now, you can rest and recuperate under your own power, or under sedation. Your choice."

O'Neill scowled at the petite doctor, but wisely held his tongue. Dr. Fraiser moved away from the colonel's bed, nodding her head at the three men who were approaching.

Dr. Jackson was chuckling. "Well Jack, I see you're being your usual genial self. Haven't you learned yet it's not wise to argue with the lady with the needles?"

O'Neill brightened immediately at the sound of his voice. "Hey Danny boy!" he greeted the younger man. "Nah, she loves me. Its all a clever ploy to keep me nearby."

Jackson snorted. "That concussion must be worse than we thought. I think it's making you delusional."

Now it was O'Neill's turn to snort in response. "Well, that's nice. Mocking the aged and the infirm."

"Always glad to be of service."

Paul watched this exchange with wry amusement. Obviously these two men were close. They bantered so freely, each giving the other back as good as they got. The teasing immediately came to a halt when Hammond spoke up.

"Colonel O'Neill, its good to see you awake and alert enough to be terrorizing the medical staff."

"Well just doing my part to liven up the place." O'Neill rejoined cheekily.

Hammond smiled indulgently at his 2IC. "Colonel, I'd like to introduce you to Major Paul Davis. He's serving as the official liaison between the SGC and the Joint Chiefs of Staff at the Pentagon."

"Major," O'Neill said, nodding slightly as he spoke. His tone was bland but his eyes were sharp. A soldier to the core, O'Neill's first response was to assess any new threat to ascertain whether it was friendly or hostile. His expression clearly stated that he was withholding judgment. For now.

Paul saluted the superior officer before once again donning his warmest smile. "Colonel O'Neill, it's a pleasure to meet you, sir. I've heard a great deal about you."

"Well, ya know, you've gotta be careful who you listen to," O'Neill remarked, his voice adopting a lazy, arrogant drawl.

"I can assure you sir, I've heard nothing but good things."

"Well, see, there ya go." His smile was cocky, but there was just a tiny edge of something slightly dangerous, a warning left unspoken, but present, nonetheless. Message received and understood, sir. Colonel John "Jack" O'Neill was not a man to be underestimated or taken lightly. Ever.

Paul wasn't offended, well not too much. He'd met men like O'Neill before; field officers who had little tolerance for officers like himself, "pencil-pushers" and "desk jockeys." They were men of action, sharp, decisive men who hated politics on principle. What O'Neill failed to realize was that they were not necessarily at cross-purposes here. They could be allies rather than antagonists if O'Neill was willing to meet him halfway.

Hammond was frowning slightly, obviously not approving of his 2IC's rather flippant remarks, but amazingly it was Dr. Jackson who brought him to heel.

"You're just pulling out all the charm today, aren't you Jack?" the younger man observed with the mildest of censure.

Interesting. O'Neill looked almost sheepish at the reproach. Almost. Still it was more of a capitulation than either Hammond or Fraiser had been able to obtain from the irreverent colonel. And suddenly Paul was reassessing the relationship between the two men. He flickered a covert glance at each of them in turn. Friends? Yes. Close friends? Indisputably. More than friends? He watched them as they interacted, observing the gestures, the tone of their voice, the light, fleeting touch of Jackson's hand on O'Neill's arm. He felt suddenly, inexplicably excluded, though there was absolutely nothing improper or untoward about their actions or speech. And then he felt a twinge of something else, something he could only identify as jealousy. 'Well, it looks like I'm not the only one to fall under the spell of Dr. Jackson.' And as he watched the two men smiling and joking, for one brief moment Paul Davis would have given anything to be Jack O'Neill.//

Paul glanced at his watch and then at the screens displaying information regarding arrivals. Still no Flight 872. He sighed before shifting his gaze back to the window, his mind drifting once more into reminiscence.

// Months went by before Paul had the opportunity to return to Cheyenne Mountain. Unfortunately, when he was summoned back to the SGC, it was under dire circumstances. Three quarters of SG-1 was MIA and presumed dead, while the fourth surviving member lay in the infirmary in a coma. There was no sign of the missing team members, and all indications pointed to the Goa'uld as being responsible for their disappearance.

The loss of SG-1 was a terrible blow to the SGC, not only because of the security breach it presented but also the devastating effects on morale. SG-1 was seemingly indestructible, their unofficial motto "No permanent deaths." Paul understood how grievous this loss was, but it was his responsibility to help the SGC remain strong in the face of this crisis.

When Colonel Makepeace returned to Earth with news of the team's capture and imprisonment by Hathor, Paul found himself torn between relief and caution. While he personally applauded Hammond's dedication to his people, he knew the general was taking a horrible risk by committing the resources of his entire command to the rescue of three of his people. He had no choice but to voice that assessment which the general promptly ignored. 'Major, you've got a lot to learn about how we do things around here.' No, Paul understood perfectly. He wanted SG-1 back every bit as much as Hammond did, albeit for somewhat different reasons, but his first duty was to his superiors at the Pentagon. As much as he hated doing it, he would do his duty, regardless of the personal cost. He just hoped the reckless gambit succeeded.

Hammond's strategy did pay off. SG-1 was back home, safe, more or less in one piece and with one hell of a story to tell. Davis was in the control room when the Stargate had burst to life and the IDC confirmed the return of the flagship team. A dozen figures had straggled through the wormhole, dusty, battered, exhausted, but wonderfully, amazingly alive, though he couldn't help but notice they had returned two men short. He had sighed, knowing that those were the risks in any R & R mission, but still the loss would be mourned. He watched as a few handshakes and backslaps were exchanged before Dr. Fraiser directed them all to the infirmary with her usual mixture of exasperation, professional decisiveness and genuine concern. He'd left them alone, knowing they needed some time to get settled in, checked out and generally re-acclimated after their absence from the SGC.

Finally he made his way to the infirmary to welcome back the wayward team. As he stepped in the door, he experienced a flash of déjà-vu. It was his first visit all over again. Once again, Colonel O'Neill was bickering with Dr. Fraiser while Dr. Jackson gently chided him for his rude behavior. He remained standing on the far side of the room, studying them as unobtrusively as possible. They fell easily into their established roles of cantankerous colonel and demure archeologist, playing to their audience with practiced ease. Their banter flowed effortlessly, bespeaking long experience and a world of affection.

There were some differences from the last time he had witnessed such a tableau. This time Dr. Jackson was a patient rather than a visitor; Paul could see a heavy white bandage wrapped around his right thigh peeking out from beneath his hospital gown as he dangled his legs over the side of his bed. His hair was shorter than before, the cut almost military in nature, and his glasses were missing, though he suspected they had gone AWOL rather than having become obsolete. For his part, the colonel looked remarkably similar, though there was more gray creeping in at his temples and perhaps a few new lines of stress around the eyes and mouth.

But these differences were superficial ones, surface gloss and nothing more. The true change was in the tenor of the exchange itself. There was...more. That was the only word that even came close to explaining it. The gazes were more intense, the smiles a bit more fond, the words a shade more amiable. There was another layer of richness and warmth there, nothing too obvious and he doubted anyone around them who knew them and worked with them on a daily basis could see it. But to him, an outsider, an observer by nature and duty, it was apparent.

Were they lovers, he wondered. Had they crossed that line from friendship to physical intimacy? Impossible to tell given the depth of affection that already existed between them. Paul found the notion to be unsettling. He looked over at Dr. Jackson again, noting the warmth in his eyes as he gazed at O'Neill and felt his stomach clench. Ever since that intense, but all too brief encounter with Jackson months before, Paul had found his thoughts drifting to the brilliant young man more often than strictly proper. He found himself studying SG-1's reports more closely than before, searching out any mention of Dr. Jackson's name. He paid special attention to the quarterly progress reports issued by the departments of archeology, anthropology and linguistics, the departments nominally headed by Jackson. And he did a little digging as well, learning more about Dr. Jackson's early life and career, topics mentioned but hardly exhausted in his personnel file. Paul had shaken his head inwardly. 'You've got it bad, Paul.'

He was fascinated by a man who didn't even know he existed and who apparently was already spoken for.

He sighed. There was nothing to be done, nothing he could do unless the situation changed between Jackson and O'Neill, and somehow he doubted it would. Plastering on his warmest smile, Paul moved forward, walking towards section of the infirmary where the four members of SG-1 resided.

"Welcome back SG-1. It's good to have you home."

His visits fell into a pattern after that. Every few months he came the SGC for a regular meeting or on those thankfully few occasions when a crisis arose that required the involvement of the Pentagon. He always saw Dr. Jackson on those visits, as well as O'Neill. He had quickly noticed that where one was the other was not far behind. They were inseparable, it would appear, and Paul had to steel himself before every visit to Cheyenne Mountain knowing he would once again have to see what he privately coveted but knew he could never have. Dr. Jackson always greeted him courteously, O'Neill somewhat less so, but the disdain the colonel had shown on their first meeting had been replaced with respect, which for a man like O'Neill was a genuine compliment.

The worst part of any visit, of course, was seeing them together. The casual, easy affection that marked their relationship grated to no end, but Paul wrapped himself in an armor of professional decorum, clinging to an unassailable commitment to duty to pull him through. Neither man ever knew, or ever even suspected how he felt, and he was determined to keep it that way.

There were, unfortunately, the occasional hiccups and glitches. His face still went warm with embarrassment when he remembered his behavior on the occasion when the SGC was nearly overtaken by a hostile alien invasion force attempting to gain a foothold on Earth. He and O'Neill had succeeded in freeing themselves from the strange harnesses that held the personnel of the SGC in some kind of coma like stasis. He remembered how the door had opened to reveal Daniel Jackson waving a sidearm with a look of genuine relief on his face. Still a bit disoriented by the effects of whatever the alien contraption had done to him, Paul's guard was down and he found himself smiling openly at the young man while the ever wary O'Neill trained a gun on him. When the young man had reached up and disengaged the device on his chest, revealing Major Carter who had been cloaked in the illusion of Dr. Jackson, Paul's face had fallen, his disappointment a tangible thing. Fortunately, both O'Neill and Carter had been too focused on the problem at hand to even notice, but Paul was humiliated by the memory of his lack of control and swore he would never allow such a slip again.

The first time he saw Dr. Jackson without O'Neill was when the colonel was stranded on Edora. Those three months had had a marked impact upon the entire facility. The mood of the SGC was subdued, as if the colonel was the vital spark that gave it life and sound. Everyone had shown signs of the strain. General Hammond had been grim, a perpetual frown etched in his forehead. Teal'c had been even more somber and closed off than before. Major Carter had been manic, living on adrenalin and desperate hope as she frantically tried to construct a piece of alien inspired technology that might not even work once she managed to build it.

But most poignant of all was Dr. Jackson. He had carried about him the ineffable air of a grieving widow: forlorn, heartbroken, and yet dignified in the face of an insurmountable loss. Still reeling from the death of his wife only months before, everyone seemed to understand how devastating this additional loss would be to the already emotionally fragile man. Everyone at the SGC from the general down to the lowest airman had been most sympathetic, treating him with all the care and consideration usually accorded to a spouse awaiting news of a loved one MIA. Paul was moved to see how everyone rallied around one of their own, though he doubted Jackson even noticed as he moved through the halls of the SGC in a daze. Jackson's distraction was like a punch to the gut as Paul came to realize that from even millions of light years away, O'Neill's hold on Jackson's affections was absolute. It would take more than physical distance to ever separate the two.

The first time Paul saw a discernible crack in that relationship had come shortly afterwards, following the highly covert sting operation developed by Hammond and O'Neill in order to shut down a ring of technology thieves stationed off world and working under the direction of Colonel Maybourne. The whole incident had been a political nightmare. Fingers had been pointed, heads had rolled. Maybourne had taken the fall, though everyone had known he had been working under orders from higher up. The SGC had succeeded in ending the operation, assuaging the fears and suspicions of their alien allies enough to restore diplomatic relations, but on the home front the situation was still messy.

Paul had been sent to Cheyenne Mountain to consult with General Hammond and offer the congratulations of the Joint Chiefs of Staff on a job well done. But soon after arriving he realized that things weren't exactly normalized at the SGC either.

He'd entered the briefing room, nodding to General Hammond and the four members of SG-1 and immediately sensed a tension so palpable it could be cut with a knife. The five people seated at the table were all stiff and clearly uncomfortable and seemed unable to make eye contact, but as the meeting progressed, it was increasingly apparent that Dr. Jackson and Colonel O'Neill were the epicenter of the tension. He watched them, carefully noting Dr. Jackson's rigid, glacial composure and Colonel O'Neill's barely restrained frustration. Dr. Jackson's speech was precise and eminently professional, but whenever it turned towards O'Neill the tone became chilled and cutting. In contrast, O'Neill seemed discomfited and uncharacteristically silent. He spoke only when spoken to and seemed to be shooting pleading looks towards the archeologist which he very carefully ignored.

Something had happened, something personal, that had caused a rift between the two men, and whatever it was, it was a doozey. Paul suspected it had to do with the sting operation, some personal fallout that hadn't found its way into the official reports submitted to the Pentagon. Whatever it was, it had all the markings of a major lovers' tiff. And for the first time since meeting Dr. Jackson, hope rose up in his chest.

The next time Paul came to Cheyenne Mountain, it was in response to a crisis. He'd been awakened at 0300 by the ringing of his phone and two hours later he was on a plane winging its way to Colorado. The situation that greeted his arrival was grave indeed. Colonel O'Neill beamed up to the Belisknor, the flagship of Thor, the Supreme Commander of the Asgard fleet; O'Neill's terse report that the ship was overrun with some strange technological creatures, known as Replicators and that the ship was currently on a heading straight for Earth; O'Neill's request for ordnance to try and prevent its arrival; Major Carter and Teal'c beaming up with the weaponry to offer the team leader any and all assistance they could on what was, in all probability, a suicide mission.

Paul had been stunned breathless but he quickly regained control of himself. 'Saving Earth. Just another day at the office for SG-1.'

Except of course, for the one member of SG-1 who remained behind. In Hammond's brief and thoroughly business like report he mentioned that Dr. Jackson had undergone an emergency appendectomy some 36 hours previous, otherwise he surely would have joined his comrades on Thor's ship. Paul refrained from asking 'How is he?' knowing that Dr. Jackson's personal health was a minor concern at the moment, but it didn't stop Paul from worrying.

Paul found out for himself an hour later when Jackson, looking wan and incredibly fragile, entered the command center and took up the post next to his. Seeing the other man's pallor and exhaustion and the slight gauntness of his cheeks, Paul couldn't help but wonder what Dr. Fraiser was thinking, letting him out of the infirmary in his current state. But then, Paul knew. He remembered how Dr. Jackson had looked during the three months O'Neill was stranded on Edora: lost, forlorn and utterly devastated, not simply because of O'Neill's absence but more because there wasn't a damned thing he could do about it. The sense of helplessness had been overwhelming. And this time it was even worse because it wasn't just O'Neill who was beyond his reach, it was his entire team. If the worst should happen, if this time SG-1 couldn't scrounge another miracle from their bag of tricks, Jackson would truly be alone. He felt a sudden, sympathetic pang of grief for the man. He understood. Jackson was here because he needed to be here.

And when the Stargate itself suddenly shimmered and vanished, it was inevitably Dr. Jackson who first recognized the import. 'They're going to use it to escape!' Jackson had surmised, his words ringing in the sudden silence of the control room. Jackson's enthusiasm was contagious; Paul could feel a sudden hope flare. It could just work. No, it *would* work because it had too.

A few minutes later the ship dropped out of a controlled entry and they received visual confirmation of a fireball over the Pacific that crashed into the ocean some four hundred miles off the coast of California. The control room was quiet, eerily so in the wake of the announcement. Thor's ship had crashed and they had no way of knowing whether SG-1 was alive or dead. The crisis was over; now the waiting would begin.

Paul had turned to his right to offer words of assurance to Dr. Jackson, but the platitudes died unspoken. Jackson looked beyond pale now; his face had taken on a grayish cast and his lips were pressed tightly together in what was surely a grimace of pain.

"Dr. Jackson?" Paul queried softly, his hand reaching out to touch the other man's elbow. He could feel the fine tremors racing through the other man's body. The adrenalin rush that had kept him going, that had helped him focus, had obviously dissipated, leaving the archeologist weak and trembling with exhaustion.

"Would you like to go to the infirmary?" he asked, again keeping his voice soft and reassuring, reminding himself that this man had received something of a shock on top of major surgery less than two days prior. The slight nod he received in response told him all he needed to know about the state the other man was in and Paul suddenly remembered that they had been in the control room for several hours without reprieve. Certainly any pain medication that Dr. Jackson was receiving had worn off by now. He felt a swift, but familiar, flood of admiration for this man who put his own concerns aside for the good of his team. It hardly came as a surprise, but still it was rather humbling to see first hand.

Paul moved closer and helped the other man to rise, noting his grimace deepen and his eyes close momentarily. He placed an arm around Jackson's waist to steady him and then began to direct his shuffling steps towards the door. General Hammond looked at them concerned, but Paul simply shook his head, receiving a sympathetic nod of understanding in return. Dr. Fraiser would be apprised and awaiting their arrival. No doubt a wheelchair or a gurney would have hastened their progress, but Paul knew instinctively that Jackson would rather be spared the indignity and make his way under his own power. It was a small thing, but it was the least that Paul could do.

Fraiser was waiting for them, fussing and frowning and Dr. Jackson accepted it all without uttering a word. Paul stood in the doorway watching as the archeologist was settled on a bed and a sedative and long overdue pain medication was administered. He remained until Jackson's breathing evened out and he drifted off into slumber. And he remained and watched a few precious moments longer before finally leaving the infirmary to return to duty.

He was sitting at Dr. Jackson's bedside when the other man finally pulled himself out of his exhausted and drug induced sleep. Paul watched as the lashes fluttered and the eyes opened, blinking several times before finally focusing.

"Major Davis?" he croaked, his voice raspy.

"Hello, Dr. Jackson. I was hoping you'd wake up before I had to return to Washington," Paul explained with a gentle smile.

"News?" Jackson's eyes were sliding closed and then fluttering open once again. He wouldn't remain awake for long, Paul realized.

"No, not yet. Naval recovery teams have been sent to deal with any wreckage and we've already sent word to Area 51 to arrange for the Beta gate to uncrated and shipped here ASAP. General Hammond is seeing to it personally.

Jackson smiled at that, his eyes slipping closed, before opening and gazing at him once again. "Thank you."

Paul basked for a moment in the warmth that those simple words of gratitude engendered. He smiled again before continuing, "I have to return to the Pentagon and give the Joint Chiefs a full report of what is going on. General Hammond has promised to let me know as soon as we receive word. I just wanted to make sure you were alright before I left."

Jackson nodded. On impulse, Paul reached out and placed his hand on top of the other man's and gave it a gentle squeeze. "They're alright," he reassured, "they're alright and they'll be coming home soon."

Jackson nodded once again. "Thank you," he repeated as his eyes closed once more and he succumbed to the sedative's effects.

"They'll be alright," Paul whispered fiercely, "and so will you."

With that, he extricated his hand, rose up from his chair and left the infirmary.

***

Nine days later found Paul once more ensconced in the depths of Cheyenne Mountain as they found themselves confronted with the aftermath of the destruction of the Belisknor. The situation was already bad, and it looked like it was about to get worse. Not only did they have to cope with the global ramifications of a UFO exploding and then crashing in Earth's atmosphere and the dicey political consequences as the Russians hurled accusations of US involvement in the loss of one of their submarines, but worse, far worse, they were facing the very real possibility that one or more of the Replicators had survived the crash and were attempting to gain a foothold on Earth.

Going toe to toe with an irate O'Neill was not among Paul's more enjoyable responsibilities. While he agreed completely with the colonel's argument that the Replicators posed a grave threat to Earth and needed to be dealt with extreme prejudice, he was keenly aware of the rather volatile situation confronting the Pentagon. The Russians were already suspicious of their cover story of a dangerous chemical spill and nuking the sub in international waters would have severe political repercussions. A no-win situation either way. It was days like this that made Paul yearn for a quiet assignment, maybe a listening post in Antarctica. But he was here and he was needed and he would do whatever was necessary to salvage this dangerous situation.

And so it was that Paul found himself on his second flight of the day, this time winging to San Diego along with a cadre of SGC personnel. He glanced at the faces around him: somber, focused, determined. The people of the SGC were the crème de la crème of the armed forces, selected for their unique skills, their resilience and their competence, and in a situation such as this one it showed. Their professionalism was like a balm to his soul, buoying him up in the face of truly dire events.

As he sat hunched over on a bench of the USAF carrier, Paul's eyes unconsciously sought out another figure: Dr. Jackson. Jackson was seated between the petite figure of Dr. Fraiser and Sgt. Siler. Paul was mildly surprised that he wasn't seated anywhere near Colonel O'Neill who was further down the bench huddled between Teal'c and a younger airman Paul didn't recognize. Paul frowned at that arrangement, so inconsistent with their typical behavior. Even more disconcerting was the way Jackson seemed to be watching O'Neill. There was an intensity in that gaze but also something raw and a little bit sad. O'Neill for his part did not look in Jackson's direction at all, preferring to engage in conversation with Teal'c instead. Had something happened between them? When he'd last been at the SGC Jackson had been almost desperate with worry for his comrades but now O'Neill seemed strangely oblivious to the younger man's concern.

In retrospect Paul would come to understand that this was where it all began to fall apart between the two men. It wasn't until later that he would find out precisely what had gone wrong, but even at this point Paul could see the sudden, gaping distance that had sprung up between the two men as Jackson watched O'Neill with wistful eyes and O'Neill ignored and rebuffed him in return. It was painful to watch, but Paul also recognized that perhaps his opportunity had finally come.

Once they arrived, the entire operation proved to be more complicated and more dangerous than initially imagined. O'Neill, Teal'c and two other airmen entered the sub, only to discover it had been overrun with Replicators which retaliated violently to the incursion of the SGC teams, leaving both Stephens and Baker dead. The one bright spot was the intelligence gained from their foray: the new 'techno bugs' were vulnerable. A second controlled excursion, focused on the original surviving Replicator, should be successful, or so they hoped.

So O'Neill and Teal'c went once more into the breach. The plan seemed to be going off smoothly, that is until all hell broke loose. The two men were trapped and the sub was trying to break free of its anchor line and make a run for open waters. In a matter of minutes a previously contained situation had spiraled out of control.

At the command center they sat in stunned silence, watching as O'Neill and Teal'c desperately tried to escape and found every avenue of egress cut off and the Replicators began to move and swarm over the two men with relentless determination. Paul felt his gut clench at the sight, struggling for control as waves of horror and helplessness crashed over him.

And then O'Neill gave the order to blow the sub. It was the right decision, the logical decision, the tactically sound decision. And yet Paul found himself hesitating. He flicked a glance at the man seated next to him. Jackson was desolate, his face like a war zone. Paul felt his insides twist even further at the sight of the archeologist's obvious grief as he listened to Jackson and O'Neill exchange what could be their final words. O'Neill was begging Jackson to blow the sub, to deliver the coup-de-grace and spare him the terrible fate of being torn apart by a swarm of Replicators, even as the distraught Jackson fought to delay the inevitable. It was terrible, it was horrible. It was the most moving thing Paul had ever witnessed.

When O'Neill gave him the order to blow the sub, still Paul had hesitated. It was a direct order from a superior officer; more than that, it was the right thing to do. But Paul found his eyes searching out Jackson's face one more time. Jackson's heart was breaking, it was there in his eyes for all to see. This could very well destroy him and Paul ached for the other man's impending loss, even as some small and petty part of him recognized that O'Neill's death might provide him the chance to claim what he had so long coveted.

Before Paul could say the words, Jackson acquiesced and gave the approval himself. The order was given and the torpedoes were launched. A hush came over the command center, broken only by Siler's voice as he tracked the progress of the torpedoes. Paul looked once more at Jackson and promised himself he would be there for him, that he would give the archeologist all the support he needed to get through this terrible loss. Paul flatly refused to consider his own motivations or his own feelings on the matter. That was for later.

And then suddenly Daniel's expression changed. He smiled, his face radiant like the sun breaking through a bank of storm clouds. "They're OK," he stuttered. "They'rrrr...They'rrr...Ther...they're OK!" he finally stammered out, pointing upwards, as Paul was treated to the sight of a linguist completely robbed of speech by uncontainable joy.

Paul clapped him gently on the shoulder, relieved for the sake of the other man, even as a tiny bit of his heart silently grieved for his own lost opportunity. //

Paul was shaken from his reverie by the slightly tinny sound of a female voice announcing the arrival of Flight 872 at Gate 17. Leaving behind his own indulgent thoughts, Paul walked purposefully towards the designated gate.

By the time he arrived, the first passengers were filing out the exit doors and Paul soon spotted two familiar figures in the flow of bodies. He moved forward to catch the attention of the two men who immediately shifted direction towards him. He snapped a quick salute.

"Colonel O'Neill, Dr. Jackson. Welcome to Washington, sirs."

O'Neill, in typical fashion offered a picture perfect salute in return, the effect of which was somewhat dampened by the slight scowl he was wearing. 'Ah, so not a good flight,' Paul thought. In contrast, Dr. Jackson gave him a warm smile and a warmer handshake, as he murmured his own words of greeting.

O'Neill's scowl deepened.

'Oh, yes, this is going to be fun,' Paul mused. Putting on his brightest smile, he gestured to the two men. "If you'll follow me, sirs, there is a staff car waiting to take you to the hotel."

If he'd had any doubts as to the current status of the relationship between the two men, they'd been quickly laid to rest. Dr. Jackson was pleasant as always, engaging him in conversation as they walked towards the parking lot, while treating O'Neill with a cool and perfunctory manner that might appear to an outsider as professionalism but which Paul understood was much closer to disdain. O'Neill simply trailed behind them, glowering like a thundercloud. And Paul knew that finally, after two long years of waiting, his chance had finally come.