Archive of Our Own ^beta

The Program's been running something over eight years now. She's been with it a bit over nine. Since back when it was Project Giza. The only people who have been involved with the Stargate longer are Sammy and Catherine. And maybe Ernest in a sort-of way.

The Goa'uld have been defeated. She's still trying to get her mind around that. The Goa'uld and the Replicators -- the ones in this Galaxy at least -- are all gone. And the Goa'uld, the enemy who have defined her life for almost a decade, who destroyed her sister, her family, her adopted world, who shattered her life in so many ways, have had their power broken forever.

Hard to believe.

It's not that her life is over, but from Day One the mandate -- at least in the military mind -- of the Stargate Program has been Find The Tools to Fight the Goa'uld. And now they don't need to fight the Goa'uld any more, because for the first time in at least twenty five thousand years, the Goa'uld are no longer a threat to anyone. The Jaffa are free. There are still a few Goa'uld out there, but Anubis killed a lot of them and the Replicators killed more. The Jaffa have been doing some mopping up as well. She gathers, from what little intelligence they've gotten, that there are bloody purges going on among the Jaffa worlds. Soon, she knows, Teal'c will want to leave, to help his people grasp their freedom.

He came to Earth to help them fight the Goa'uld, and the Goa'uld Empire is gone. She knows she ought to be glad for him, but when he leaves -- and he will leave; it's only a matter of time -- it will break up SG-1.

She's kidding herself, though. SG-1 is gone already. Has been for a year. Since Jack stepped up to be General and run the SGC. So it will just be her and Sammy left on the team. And Cassie is going off to college in the fall, and Sammy is talking -- only idle talk so far, and only to her -- about giving Cassie a more settled environment for that. More settled than Sammy being on a Gate Team. Because since Janet died, Sammy is all that Cassie has left. They've become very close.

When Jack stepped up, he never assigned them a new fourth. When Teal'c leaves, and, later, when -- if -- Sammy leaves, he'll have to staff-out the team; bring it up to full strength.

SG-1 with new members. It happens to other teams. Constantly. She can barely remember how many versions of SG-2, SG-4, there have been. But SG-1 has been immortal. She wonders how Jack will feel, sending an SG-1 composed of unfamiliar faces out through the Gate. How has he felt, this last year, sending SG-1 through the Gate and staying behind?

They haven't talked about it. Not really. He's joked a bit. She knows how he feels. He'd really rather still be out there. She's not quite sure why he took the promotion, in that case, even though Sammy explained it to her. In the military, it's up or out: if he hadn't taken the promotion, he probably would have been "very strongly encouraged" to retire within the year, because the military doesn't love mavericks, no matter how many times those mavericks have saved the world. And they would have gotten a second-best -- a distant second-best -- to head up the SGC.

Bauer was a nightmare. Elizabeth had her moments, but fortunately the Gate was shut down during her entire tenure as head of the SGC. They'd never have survived her learning curve. Jack? Well, the Teams all love Jack, and the SGC is surviving him, even though he's not the administrative type and never will be. Somehow, things get done anyway (mostly, she thinks, thanks to Walter.) And it's hard to fault their success rate under his management: he's not only saved the world one more time, he's saved the Galaxy. She knows he hates playing General, but... what else could he do? He could have retired, of course. Only in his fifties. Quite young enough to take on a second career, though it takes more imagination than she has to imagine Jack O'Neill in the private sector. Or he could have gone home to Minnesota and spent the rest of his life fishing, as he's often sworn he wanted to.

Either way, she'd never have seen him again, would she?

She tries to ignore the cold clutch of dread the thought always brings, because some day it's going to come true.

Nine years and some odd days of Jack O'Neill. She's quite certain that she loves him. She thinks he might love her. She was more certain of it once. But dailyness has a way of eroding certainty. He could have changed his mind. Or she might have misunderstood him. She was only guessing -- hoping -- anyway. She sighs, shaking her head. Simon didn't want you. Skaara didn't want you. You aren't the sort of person people want to settle down with. Always best to resign yourself to that up front.

In which case, anything else will come as a happy surprise. There have, actually, been one or two of those in her life. More of the other kind, though.

She thinks about last weekend. They'd just ... not ... gotten back from Ancient Egypt (the science involved in The Mission That Wasn't still makes her mind hurt) and Jack insisted that they all go up to his cabin in Minnesota. Just the four of them.

So they did.

First time she'd ever been.

It was good.

Minnesota summer. She'd taken Teal'c's reports into account and packed accordingly. Lots of DEET. Jack had seemed a little preoccupied, though it had been good to get him away from having to be General. A leader, always. Not really much of a bureaucrat. Some times, this past year, they've barely gotten by.

He's been even more preoccupied since he got back.

"You doin' anything?" he asks, wandering into her office, just as he has nearly every day of her life for the past almost-a-decade. And the familiarity of it makes her smile inside, because it's still Jack, even though it's General Jack now, and, yes, it's obvious that she's up to her ears in work.

But she stops and looks up at him. Wondering what he's going to say. If he's going to say. Not like he exactly brought all his problems to her, back in the day. But he brought her the big ones. I need answers, Indiana, he'd say. And she'd half-kill herself trying to find them for him.

She knows he's had something on his mind for the last few weeks. She wonders what.

"Nothing much. You want to go for coffee?" she asks.

"Nah, I'm good. I just wanted to... You know this whole General thing..." He stops, looking awkward and uncomfortable.

What about the 'General thing'? Why is he talking to her alone? Why not to her, Sammy, and Mr. T together? When he was thinking about taking the promotion, he talked it over with them all together.

"They must think I'm good at it. Anyway, they want me in Washington. General Hammond's retiring."

General Hammond heads up Homeworld Security now.

"Washington? For how long?"

"It's a permanent reassignment. I'll be leaving the SGC."

She stares at him, really unable to believe what she's hearing. She tries reassembling the words in every possible combination she knows, but she can't make them say anything else.

Jack is moving to Washington and leaving them.

Leaving her.

And he stands there and says it so casually, his face giving nothing away, as if he's come down to her office to announce that a MALP has sent back the universe's most boring telemetry but they still need to go check it out, day after tomorrow, get your gear together, Indiana...

But he's never going to be doing that again.

"When do you go?" she asks.

"End of the week. There's kind of a hurry. I've already told Carter and T. Walter knows. I guess I'll have to make some kind of general announcement."

"You should." Half the Gate Teams will still be away when he leaves, though, coming back to a change of command. "Who will be replacing you?" Her voice is formal, distant, neutral. Eight years ago she would have squalled in shock. The years and the sequence of unbearable losses have made her quieter under the immediacy of pain. She tries to negotiate first, before she lashes out.

"Washington let me choose the guy. Major General Hank Landry. He's a good man. We've known each other for a long time. I think he'll do a good job here."

"Then I guess we'll all look forward to meeting him. Well, good luck in Washington, Jack. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

He looks caught between indignation and surprise, and she plays back her own words in her head. Enjoy it? Of course he won't. He'll hate it. Jack hates Washington.

Then why take the job?

She's trying to come up with words that will untangle her meaning, a way to say what she really meant, but Jack is already in motion, saying something about Walter and reports, and then he's gone and she hasn't quite managed to open her mouth.

She sits back down at her desk, thinking that crying would be a good idea right about now. But she hasn't really cried since she was eight, and she's out of the habit.

Jack is walking out of her life, just as casually -- if perhaps not as angrily -- as he walked into it.

They're over without ever having been. And it isn't fair that it leaves her feeling so desolated, as if the bottom has dropped out of her world and there's no point to anything any more. In cold hard fact, the last nine years have been an anomaly. Most of her life has been spent alone, in one way or another. You might say that things will be returning to normal.

Eventually she manages to get back to work.

"You're still here."

Sammy has come in to find her.

"I know." Translation, research, writing reports. All soothing activities. She doesn't have to think about what she knows.

"It's Twenty-hundred."

It's been years since the military way of telling time baffled her. The Egyptians, after all, invented the twenty-four-hour clock. But she still converts it in her mind: eight o'clock at night.

"Isn't that a little late?"

She props her chin on her hand and looks at Sammy. "In another twelve hours I'll be late for work, so it hardly seems worth going home at this point. And we don't have a mission tomorrow."

"I was really shocked when he told me, too."

She gives up trying to be evasive. "Sammy, what's he going to do in Washington?"

Sammy shrugs. Comes over and sits down. "His job. Homeworld Security is a Cabinet-level post; oversight for the SGC, Area 51, Atlantis, and Space Command. If someone like General O'Neill isn't in charge of it, we could all be in real trouble."

"Because our funding could be cut?" she asks mockingly, even though she shouldn't be one to throw stones. Academics spend half their time scrounging for funding, and god knew she'd groveled to enough grants committees in her time; she and Simon and Steven and Robert and all the rest of them.

"Dani, it costs more than eight billion dollars a year just to run the SGC. A quarter of a million dollars each time we activate the Stargate. Not one penny of that can appear anywhere in an official budget. There's a lot of pressure in Washington to take the Program public. I'm pretty sure that's part of the reason behind General O'Neill's transfer. The President wants him there so he can tell war stories to the funding committees, persuade them to back off."

Dani thinks about that for a moment. "They're going to parade him like a dancing bear."

Sammy nods, wincing. "Pretty much."

And he knows. He must. The man's not stupid.

General Hammond was always a peacemaker and a diplomat. Under his aegis, the SGC ran on invisible wheels. He managed -- barely -- to keep everybody happy: the Pentagon, the NID, the President, even Congress. And, more often than not, the men and women under his command.

With Jack, nothing runs smooth, because he's always been more interested in kicking ass than kissing it. His priorities are the Teams, the Pentagon, and the President, in that order. He thinks Congress is composed of a bunch of useless idiots and he actively hates the NID. In Washington he'll have to work closely with both. To protect the Teams. Without his Team there to protect him.

She takes a deep breath.

"So. There going to be a going-away party?"

Sammy looks faintly relieved, and Dani isn't sure why. "Oh, yeah. Friday night. At the General's house."

Last time she'll be here.

The house is actually, already, sold. To a military family stationed at Peterson. Yet another added unfairness. Jack not giving her the chance to say or think or really decide if she'd be the one to buy the house, because she's been living in that rented loft for years, and Sammy's been nagging her to put her money into a house for just about that long. And now she guesses she might not after all.

Why did Jack wait so long to tell them? Long enough to interview and brief his successor. Long enough to sell the house, to handle a hundred details. To tell Sammy and Mr. T he was leaving before he told her. By only a few minutes, but he still told them first.

The house is filled with his friends, all come to congratulate him on his promotion -- he's to become a Major General; that's another star -- and his new posting. Many of them don't know what it is, except that it's in Washington. But Colorado Springs is a military town. People are used to uprootings and upheavals. There are jokes that Jack is overdue for one, having lived here for twenty years. He takes it all in good grace.

General Landry -- their new master -- is here as well. Still looking a little sandbagged by it all. It's been less than a week since Jack told him about the Stargate. He took command this afternoon; next week will be occupied in formal meetings with Team Leaders and Department Heads. So she and Sammy will both enjoy the pleasure of his company.

She tries to be moderate in her drinking and sticks strictly to beer, when what she really wants to do is have too many Scotches and blot out everything she sees. She thinks she's doing a good job, but when she goes to leave, Jack takes her keys away from her anyway.

"Oh, come on, Jack!" she snaps.

"You're way over the limit, there, Indiana. Come on. Teal'c can drive you home."

Once he would have just told her to stick around and sleep it off.

"Oh, god, anything to make you happy," she snarls.

Teal'c drives her home in a companionable silence. They go up to her loft and wait while a driver comes to return him to the SGC. There's nothing, really, to say.

When he's gone, she breaks out the Scotch and pours herself a drink. Sits in the living room staring at nothing in particular, trying to wrap her mind around the idea of Jack leaving. Though, really, in every way that matters, Jack is already gone.

Monday. General Landry is loud, boisterous, and military. Convinced that stating his desires loudly enough and often enough will get him what he wants. Likes to yell. Convinced a woman's place is in the home and in the wrong. Can be persuaded out of both convictions with enough time and energy: his daughter is the new CMO. Many people don't find it worth the trouble: he's divorced.

Doesn't like long complex explanations and doesn't like to listen. Annoying traits in a line officer. Frightening ones in the General commanding the SGC. General Hammond always listened. And she knew Jack well enough to make him listen. Neither case is true here.

The first thing General Landry does is put SG-1 on stand-down for an indeterminate period. He isn't General O'Neill, and they aren't at full-strength. Also (so he tells them) after reviewing their mission reports, it appears they've been running flat-out for longer than any of the other field units, and need serious downtime. While they're on stand-down, he'll consider who he's going to add as their fourth.

He doesn't say 'as your new leader' but she and Sammy are pretty sure Sammy won't be left in command of SG-1. Which just sucks. Jack always meant Sammy to have SG-1 if -- for some reason -- he couldn't lead it any more. She's been with SG-1 since it was formed. She has more field experience than anyone else in the SGC. And she's had command.

Still. The General's word is law.

Sammy immediately puts in for permission to take her accumulated leave. She's got quite a lot of it. Months, actually.

"So what are you going to do?" she asks Sammy.

She's sitting in Sammy's kitchen. They're alone; Cassie is at the Mall with friends. It's a fortnight and odd days since Jack has left. SG-1 hasn't been through the Gate once.

Summer. Her favorite season here in the Springs. Once a time for backyard barbeques at a house she'll never see again. Jack would cook (more or less), Sammy would bring potato salad; Dani would always bring the dessert because it was something you could buy. Frisbee. Horseshoes. Croquet. Never again.

Teal'c's gone back to Chulak.

He might have stayed longer -- if Jack hadn't left, if they hadn't been put on stand-down -- but those things were sort of the final straw, the proof in Teal'c's mind that his work at the SGC was over. Finished and complete.

He'd sort of stunned General Landry when he'd gone to him and told him he was leaving. She supposes General Landry thought Teal'c was a permanent fixture at the SGC. She'd known better. Teal'c had only come to help them defeat the Goa'uld. Now the Goa'uld were gone and Teal'c was leaving, too.

The General had given his permission, of course.

So Teal'c had called Jack and said goodbye, and packed up all of his things that he wanted to take -- after eight years, there was quite a lot -- and gave away the rest -- and they threw a party for him and he Gated through to Chulak and she drove home and thought about getting drunk but since she had to go to work the next day she just broke most of her dishes instead. That was Wednesday and now it's Saturday and Sammy has put in for extended leave and Dani's asking her about her plans.

"Thought I'd take Cassie on an old-fashioned road trip. We could drive across the US. Go to Washington. I could show her where I used to work, visit the monuments and the museums. We could drop in on General O'Neill; give him that stuff Teal'c wanted him to have. You want to come along? We could rent a camper, do the whole Women Who Run With the Wolves thing."

"No, I've got plenty to do here." What would she say to Jack, anyway? Goodbye? She's already said that. Anything else she might possibly say he doesn't need to hear. She's said it, anyway.

You may have five thousand years, Nem, but I don't. I'd rather die than live the rest of my life alone down here. I'd rather die than live the rest of my life without seeing Jack again, Nem.

I won't leave you again, Jack. He'd been dying beneath the ice in Antarctica. He'd thought she was Sara.

This is nice, isn't it? I mean, we've always been together, right, Jona?

Carlyn, I may not be able to remember anything else, but I sure as hell remember that. You and me. Jona and Carlyn. And the memory-stamp that made them willing workers in the underground plant. It could change their memories -- for a while -- but not their personalities. Not their feelings.

He knows everything he wants to know.

But that's always been true anyway about Jack.

"You sure?" Sammy sounds doubtful.

"Oh, trust me. Besides, who'd water your plants if we all went?"

Sammy grins at her.

Jack's gone -- almost a month now -- Teal'c's gone -- Janet's dead. It's been a year and a half and that still hurts.

And she helped bundle Sammy and Cassie into the car here in the last week of June -- early morning on a Saturday, and they're hoping to beat the traffic -- with Sammy making an idle comment about hoping they get to DC in time for the fireworks and Cassie saying that her birthday presents are on the kitchen table and don't she dare open them early, and begging to be allowed to do the first leg of the driving, and Sammy laughing and giving in, and it's not until they drive off, and she's standing on the sidewalk with Sammy's housekeys in her hand, thinking she'll go in and make herself a pot of coffee -- Sammy owes her that much, for getting her out of bed at this ungodly hour on a weekend to see her off -- when it hits her.

Her birthday's in about ten days -- July 8th -- and there won't be anyone here for it.

She sniffles on her way into the house, and then sneezes violently. Not self-pity. Allergies. Lam -- a couple of years younger than Dani is, actually, and a damned impressive CV -- hasn't reminded her about her allergy shots, and she suspects she's overdue.

Janet always reminded her. Of course, Janet had allergies, too.

When Janet died, Sammy took up the slack there. Because Brightman did her best, god knew, but she hadn't been able to be mother and sister and best friend and wailing wall and everything that Janet Frasier had been to them all, and to her credit, she didn't try. She'd settled for doing her damnedest to keep them all alive. And she had -- at least -- flagged Dani's chart, because nobody with more allergies and special conditions was on a Gate Team, because generally the Air Force preferred its SG Teams to be healthy instead of brilliant.

She was healthy. If not asked to inhale in the presence of growing things. Or eat a really short list of things (none of which were native to Earth, more or less). Which is all beside the point. The point being that she's gotten used to being looked out for and watched over by friends who became closer than family. And they're all gone now. So she'll have to take care of herself again.

She'll be fine.

Sammy has cleaned out her kitchen pretty thoroughly, but there's still coffee. She makes herself a pot and does a last check through of the house.

Windows closed, faucets off, plants all in good order. Cassie's room all neat and tidy. She remembers Cassandra arriving on Earth, a terrified child of twelve. Cassie's eighteen this year. Graduated High School a couple of weeks ago. Already accepted at UCLA.

Groom Lake -- Area 51 -- isn't that far away.

She takes her coffee and goes back to the dining room. Her birthday presents are there. She finishes her coffee and takes them home.

And opens them immediately, of course. She's never had any self-control when it comes to presents, and sees no reason why she should wait. Besides, who's going to know? Cassie's is a pink T-shirt (far too tight) that says, in glittering letters "This is What 35 Looks Like."

Well yes, in fact, it will. This birthday marks the halfway mark of her allotted threescore and ten. Though apparently, if she can believe the glimpse she got of her own far future -- and Cassie's -- she'll live to be somewhat older than that.

Why, Dani, I almost didn't recognize you with your glasses...

Cassie must have been at least ninety there. With the geriatric techniques of the future, maybe even older. She doubts she was -- will be -- still alive when future-Cassie gets the glimpse of her past-self. Cassie's eighteen now; ninety is a bit more than seventy years away. But she didn't look or act like someone greeting people who'd been dead to her for forty (or fifty, or sixty) years when she met them in the shrouded Gateroom.

So perhaps they live to make old bones.

At least -- with Cassie in DC for her birthday -- she can say she wore the shirt and quietly lose it. It's pink, just to begin with. Sammy's gift is far more appropriate -- a nice bottle of Scotch that's old enough to vote. Maybe she'll open it tonight.

Her eyes are watering (allergies) to the point that tears are actually trickling down her cheeks. She gives up and heads off in the direction of the SGC infirmary. After she's had whoever's on call shoot her up, she might as well try to get some work done, too.

It's all that's really left, after all.

Ten more days pass.

Nyan remembers her birthday, which hurts. Because nobody else at the SGC does, which leaves her feeling hollow. But it's just a matter of deaths and transfers and leaves of absence removing most of the people who knew when it was. And, obviously, all of the people who care. Because, oh god, was she expecting a card or a call from Jack? He's obviously moved on. New post, new life.

And there should be a hundred things in her life more important than the fact that she isn't important to someone whose signals she's obviously misread, but the fact is, this one thing is standing in for all the other times in her life when, oh, she can bridge the gap between cultures and even form a bond between two species, but somehow she can't quite manage to connect with her own.

Sammy and Cassie call, of course. She thanks Sammy for the Scotch -- virtuously denying having opened either of her presents before this morning -- and thanks Cassie for the t-shirt. Cassie insists she wants a picture of Dani wearing the t-shirt. Dani says she'll work on figuring out how to get one taken. With luck, she can work on that unsuccessfully until the t-shirt has a tragic accident.

Sammy says she's had a lot of time to think, and to talk to Cassie. That she's going to request reassignment out to Area 51. They've been wanting her to head up R&D there for years. She'll be close to Cassie's school; only a few hours away. They'll be able to get together on weekends. And it will be every weekend, because Sammy will know exactly where she'll be. And on what planet.

It's a good idea, Dani tells her. Cassie definitely comes first, and it is only for a few years. She can either rent the house here, or sell it. But either way she doesn't have to rush. It's only July. Cassie doesn't start school until September. True, Sammy says. She sounds relieved that Dani has taken this so calmly, but why shouldn't she? She's known it was coming ever since Dakara fell. Sammy goes on to say that she and Cassie had dinner with Jack a few days ago. Dani nods to herself. That was also only to be expected. Of course Cassie would want to see her Uncle Jack while she was in Washington.

Sammy tells Dani that Jack -- General O'Neill -- is doing well, settling into his new post. Dani says she's glad to hear it. It's what you say, after all, and it's not as if she'd wish for anything bad to happen to Jack, now or ever. Only good things for him, forever. She just wishes she'd been what he wanted. That she could have been.

When she hangs up the phone, she thinks of gunshot wounds.

Usually, going through the Gate, the weaponry they faced was either very primitive or very advanced. Spears or phasers, as it were. So when she was hurt, she usually came home with a flint knife sticking out of her -- that happened more than once -- or with a faintly-radioactive burn of often unknown origin -- which has happened too many times for her to like to think about it. But -- once or twice -- she'd been shot with a good old fashioned bullet. Jack had even shot her once.

The thing about a gunshot wound is that it doesn't hurt at first. At first you feel the impact -- as if you've been struck -- but no pain. Next -- and it can take a while -- numbness and either heat or cold, as nerves embedded in damaged tissue attempt to make sense of what's going on. Last, finally, comes the pain, as the body realizes there is nothing it can do. Not repair, not control -- no way to overcome or work around the attack and invasion. The only thing left for the body to do is to wail in terror, acknowledging the damage. She thinks she's worked through the impact and numbness stages of things now, because her life hurts so much that she can't breathe.

First Jack, then Teal'c, now Sammy. All gone. And so, later that day, she goes up to General Landry's office and resigns from SG-1.

She supposes he tries a number of things to get her to change her mind. Or maybe he doesn't. She has no idea because she isn't listening. She's waiting for him to tell her she can go. And he finally does.

Off SG-1. Still head of AA&T, though.

For the moment.

Happy Birthday.

She goes home directly from Landry's office. No messages waiting for her there. She decides that it's time to take a good hard look at her life. That takes about two seconds.

She doesn't have one. Her entire existence has been defined by two things. Work -- which for the last nine years, in one way or another, has been The Stargate Program -- and Jack O'Neill. Jack has dumped her -- which is not quite true, as you'd have to pick somebody up in the first place to dump them -- and the Stargate Program has fulfilled its basic function. Her basic function, to prove that Earth civilizations were nurtured and founded by aliens from outer space, is something she will never be allowed to fulfill. At least not until the Program goes public, something it shows little sign of doing in the immediate future. When it does, of course, her reputation is made. She'll have fame, riches, power. She wishes she could work up more interest.

She's probably just tired.

Ought to take a sabbatical year. Ought to do something. It's her birthday, after all. The first day of the rest of her life.

She contemplates her future as if it were something she could see, a view down a self-reflecting hall of mirrors. And what she sees doesn't so much frighten her as depress her utterly, because at last even scholarship doesn't seem to be enough.

She goes off to the bedroom and starts to take off her clothes.

She hasn't done the bar scene this way in quite a while -- certainly not since before Jack made General -- but she remembers how. The delicate undergarments, meant -- eventually -- to be seen. The fragile, uncomfortable shoes.

The dress. It looked bizarre when she bought it and it looks bizarre now. She wonders if it's out of style, or if it's one of those things that never goes out of style because it was never in. She supposes she should buy another one if she's going to go back to doing this. But this will do for tonight.

In the bathroom she outlines her eyes in black and liquid gold, paints the lids with the same vivid lapis as the fabric of the dress. Paints her mouth the same deep red as pomegranate seeds. There's a symbolism in that.

Kiss me and come to Hell.

When she's done she puts what she'll need in a tiny purse: cash, keys, lipstick, credit card, driver's license, ID. Maybe she won't be able to find anyone to take her to bed tonight, but at least she can go out and get drunk.

She goes and does what she has always done. Rents a hotel room downtown; her usual hotel in fact. Has them park her car for her. Puts her keys in the hotel safe. She has dinner at the hotel, then walks to a nearby bar. She's been here before.

It's two hours later in DC than it is in Colorado, so Hank called him around sixteen-thirty Central, which meant eighteen-thirty Eastern and he was finally about to roll out of his office and back to his temporary apartment, but the call came in on his private line, and there weren't a lot of people with that number.

So he picks it up and it's Hank and about five minutes later he finds out that Indy's picked today to resign from SG-1. Leaving SG-1 with precisely no members, because Carter told him a couple of days ago that she was going to request a transfer out to Area 51 to keep an eye on Cassie during her freshman year. Which O'Neill privately thinks is a good idea, though not the best thing for Carter's career. But she's a Light Colonel and only in her thirties; a few years as head of R&D and then a transfer back to a line unit should see her make Full Colonel; with a little luck she'll be a General before she's fifty. And then maybe next head of the SGC. Having R&D on her resume will come in handy in that case.

Which has precisely nothing to do with Indiana leaving SG-1.

He glances down at his desk calendar and sees that today is her birthday. Crap. He'd meant to call her on her birthday. He'd forgotten it was today. He'll just have time to get out to Colorado by 2300 if he can catch the right ride.

On the way to Bolling he calls her office, her loft, and her cellphone, and gets no answer from any of them.

He calls Nyan's office, and is told she left an hour ago.

He calls Carter's house, just in case she's talking to Carter's plants. No joy there, either.

He climbs aboard the plane.

He's pretty sure now that he knows where she is, and what she's trying to do.

She isn't sure what's wrong with her tonight.

A number of men have offered to buy her a drink, and she's turned them all down. And really, her standards are pretty low for this sort of thing. Bathed and breathing is about as much as she asks. But she's kept saying 'no.'

If she doesn't want this, what does she want?

That ship has sailed.

One more drink. It's almost eleven. The bartender's been remarkably patient with her, but then, she has tipped well. She'll go back to the room -- too tipsy to drive -- and sleep it off. Go home. Go back to her transcendentally pointless life.

"Buy you a drink?"

She turns on the barstool, body reacting before mind, preparing to brush off one more unintentional annoyance, but then she sees him and she just ... stops.

Because Jack is here.

She stares at him, mind completely blank with shock. But she finally manages to nod.

"Happy Birthday, Indy," he says, as the bartender sets down their drinks.

"What are you doing here?" she says, after a moment.

And he's seeing her dressed like this. She'd never wanted any of them to know that she did this.

"Wanted to take you out to dinner on your birthday. Tried to call you. Nyan said I missed you at the Mountain. Should'a called earlier."

But General Landry hadn't called you yet to tell you I'd resigned from SG-1, had he, Jack? It's a little late for dinner now, but I have an idea. We can go back to my hotel room and really celebrate my birthday. You'll like it.

And beneath the spiteful serpentine thoughts, suddenly the memory crowds in, of Jack, naked, in another transient bed. Hathor beneath him, above him. The scent of sex. Hathor's triumphant laughter, Jack's low gasping groans.

"Why don't we get some air?" Jack says, seeing her face. He tosses a twenty on the bar and takes her elbow, walking her out of there.

It's July, but it's late. The air is cool. She feels a little better. Hathor retreats. Hathor only surfaces in her mind when things are bad. Or, of course, when she has sex. Which she does anyway. It's irresistible. Like banging on a sore tooth.

"Too much to drink?"

"I've had more."

"You want to talk about it?"

About what, exactly? she wonders. He doesn't know about Hathor; she kept that secret at the peril of her sanity. And he's been gone for five weeks without so much as a phone call. She can't imagine what they have to talk about.

"Let that braying jackass do his own dirty work," she says venomously.

There's a moment of silence.

"And we're talking about...?"

"Never mind." She quit SG-1. General Landry complained to Jack. Jack is here. It makes perfect sense in her mind. "I don't see why he thinks he wants me on SG-1, or any Gate Team for that matter, but you know, Jack, you can't always have what you want." She can't have what she wants.

"No," Jack says, "you can't."

They're in front of her hotel now.

"So why'd you quit?" he asks.

"I just don't want to--" She stops. Go out there with anyone else? Go out there any more? "It was getting old," she says.

"Come on," he says. "Let's get your keys. I'll drive you home."

Sitting in the passenger seat of her Jeep -- all checked out of the hotel, and she never even got up to her room -- it occurs to her that Jack knows way too much about this particular habit of hers. But at the moment she's just grateful to be going home, especially since apparently her subconscious has decided she's never going to have sex again.

He parks. She gets out. He escorts her up four flights of stairs and unlocks her door.

"C'mon in," she says. He follows her inside.

She kicks off her heels the moment she's inside the door. Picks them up and walks off to the bedroom.

When she gets back ten minutes later -- having washed her face and changed into a set of sweats -- Jack is standing in her kitchen making coffee.

"No cake?" he says, when she comes in.

"As if anybody gives a damn that it's my birthday," she snaps. Was her birthday, actually, because the clock ticked over past midnight while she was washing her face. "Actually, Sammy got me a nice bottle of Scotch, and I'm pretty sure I owe you a drink."

"Beer'll be fine."

She hooks him one out of the fridge, and by then the coffee's done and she pours herself a cup.

She's certainly not sober, but she's far from truly drunk. Somewhere around 'reckless', a state followed by 'ripped' and on the way to 'impaired.' She hopes to stop here, though. With the aid of a couple of pots of coffee, and maybe some food. She's got the number of the all-night pizza place on speed dial.

"So why are you really here?" she asks him, frowning faintly. If there were a drop-dead crisis at the SGC, he wouldn't be hanging around her apartment, even if he'd stopped to pick her up. Although, in the state she's in, she certainly wouldn't be let to go through the Gate.

"Told you. It's your birthday. Actually, I forgot it was today. Then Hank called, and said you were quitting SG-1. I figured a raincheck wouldn't cut it."

She walks out of the kitchen and sits down on the living room couch.

"There was no SG-1 to quit," she says when he follows her out. "Sammy called this morning to say she was transferring out to Area 51. So that left me. The General might as well put together a whole new team. Better that way. And... while we're on the subject of old and new..." She stops. Takes a deep breath. Decides to forge right ahead.

"You've moved on, Jack. New job. New life. There's no need to ... overextend ... yourself keeping up relationships that no longer serve any useful purpose."

There's one good thing he can say for the last month (eternity) in Washington. Without it, he'd never have been able to figure out what Indy just said.

At least she's here to say it to him.

Fortunately she's a creature of habit. She was in the same hotel as usual, and not in her room. That meant she still had to be at a bar. She was in the third one he checked. Still alone. And not as drunk as she could have been, although there were a few moments there when he was sure that she was really going to embarrass herself. Hasn't exactly given him a good answer to why she quit SG-1. Except maybe she has.

'There was no SG-1 to quit.'

She's always enjoyed working with other Teams on loan-out. Sometimes for months. But that's different. Your own Team is your family. He guesses she's lost enough families now that she just doesn't want any more new ones.

And now that he's gone to Washington she expects him to dump her and act like a stranger. When -- for the first time in eight years -- he doesn't have to. Because the Fraternization Guidelines no longer apply between them. They're not on the same Gate Team. He's not her Commanding Officer in any capacity, civilian consultant or not.

He isn't her boss.

He probably should have said something sooner, but Homeworld Security makes the SGC look like a rural backwater. He's in way over his head and there's nothing to do about it but keep paddling, because if he doesn't, he's not the only one who's going under. It's the SGC, Atlantis, Area 51, and the whole damned Starfleet. His short days are twelve hours long, and he's going to pay for this little side-trip, but he was worried about her.

He's always worried about her. He was never so relieved as when he heard that Hank put them all on an open-ended stand-down. Stunned as hell to see Carter turn up in DC and find she'd taken the summer off. He was sorry to miss the chance to see T off in person. But they'll catch up.

"So I hopped an F-16 to come out here and cut you loose?"

"I don't know how you got here," she says with pugnacious reasonability.

She leans back into the couch, clutching her mug and closing her eyes. He can read her body language so clearly, and it would be funny if it weren't so painful. She's pretty sure he's here to tell her to stop making trouble, and she thinks that's unfair. So she doesn't want to listen to anything he may have to say. He crosses the room and sits down beside her on the couch.

"Ever heard of the Fraternization Guidelines?"

She opens her eyes and regards him warily; he's surprised her. "Officers can't date enlisted men," she says slowly.

"Nor can officers date officers separated by too many degrees of rank. Nor can officers date officers that it would otherwise be okay to date if they're in the direct chain of command, because of the possibility of undue influence. And that's just the start of a very long set of rules and regulations. For instance, me buying you that drink in the bar?"

"Was illegal?" she sighs bitterly.

"Six weeks ago," he says. "Not tonight."

She regards him, puzzled.

"You work at the SGC. I work at Homeworld Security. We're no longer in the same chain of command. So if I wanted to say something to you, there wouldn't be any military reason not to say it any more."

She lowers her head.

She can feel Hathor in the room with them.

It's always that way, though usually she doesn't mind. That makes it worse -- that she doesn't mind -- because Hathor's in her, under her skin, waiting to hurt any man she takes to bed the way Hathor hurt Jack.

And she's willing to do it. Has done it over and over, although they never seem to notice. For years.

"I'm not worth it," she says quietly.

She smiles at him, because apparently he flew all this way basically to say 'Happy Birthday' to her in person and that was sweet. And to tell her that those damned guidelines and regulations don't matter any more. That he can finally say and do whatever he wants.

It seems he's still fond of her after all.

Too late.

Tonight made her really realize that. Seeing him in the bar. Thinking of him that way and feeling Hathor under her skin.

It's really been too late for years, but it's not as if it was something she could bring up to him first. And she'd always hoped, even when she hadn't been quite sure what she was hoping for.

"My decision," he says. He takes her hand, unwinding it from around the coffee mug.

She shakes her head. "You remember Hathor?"

"She's dead," he says quickly. Looking uncomfortable, because he hates all Goa'uld on principle, but Hathor he hates with a personal passion, for what she did to both of them.

And he doesn't know the half of it.

No one does.

"She, um..." It's hard to talk about something she doesn't really understand. And has never really spoken of. "She made me, um... dysfunctional."

She finds that she's clutching Jack's hand tightly, and her eyes are blurred with tears.

"You said. In your report," he says quietly.

"Oh, god, I lied," she says comprehensively. "I didn't tell all... I didn't want anyone to know that--" she stops. Blinks. Feels tears spatter against her cheeks. "I was there the whole time. For what she did. To you."

He doesn't really remember Hathor's visit to the SGC. What happened to him, he's pieced together from reports. Carter's. Frasier's. Indy's. His own memories are fragmentary. Like nightmares.

The whole time?

The thought that anyone saw him in the sack with the snakehead really bites. But apparently Indy did. And said nothing. Lied, in fact. To him, to Hammond, to Carter. To Frasier. It means that Hathor tortured her right in front of him. Did her best to kill a member of his team. And he did nothing to protect her.

"I'm sorry," he says. Protecting her was his job, and he failed.

She shakes her head. "Not your fault. But with the ... permanent ... after effects ... I'm ... not really worth the time."

That's the second time she's mentioned after-effects. He knows she can't mean the ones they know about, but he doesn't know what she does mean.

But she's given him a few clues, over the years.

Catherine Langford recruited her for the Stargate Program -- then called Project Giza -- while she was teaching in Berkeley. She'd gone there following a spectacular meltdown at the Oriental Institute, including a breakup with her fiance, Simon Gardner. Gardner was her last serious relationship. Ever, in fact.

Not that there hadn't been a few damned unfortunate incidents over the years. Because she is small and pretty and will always go charging right in, wanting to talk to whatever they meet on the other side of the Stargate and find out what it's thinking about. And sometimes it's not thinking about very much at all besides what she'd look like naked.

But after Hathor, she'd started hitting the bars every few months. Picking up men for one-night stands. Taking them back to a local hotel. Never seeing them twice. It had shown up immediately on her security review, of course, so he'd known about it, but it hadn't been a problem. She'd been careful and discreet. Fairly soon he was able to predict her pattern. Stressful mission? Indy would be off to the bars as soon as they had downtime. If it had been a male teammate, he'd have thought nothing of it. But this wasn't the kind of thing women did. Of course, Indy wasn't like most women. Like any other woman he knew, actually. Even Carter.

"What happened?" he asks.

"She played games," Indy answers, her voice flat. "With you. With me. I've tried to make it go away. Tried to forget. I can't." She drains her cup, sets it aside.

She lied to protect him. Not even that. Just to spare him.

"You should have said."

"And drag you through the mud for no reason? She was gone. I thought it was over."

"You could have told me."

She looks at him, her eyes wide with misery and stunned pain, and he realizes, no, she couldn't. Because it was after P3X-866, after Nem had taken her and convinced the rest of them that she was dead.

After he'd realized he was falling -- had fallen -- in love with her.

And there was nothing he could say, because he was her Commanding Officer. And if he said a single word, if anyone guessed, the least that would happen would be that she would be removed from SG-1, and SG-1 was looking for Skaara. Looking for Skaara was the whole reason she was there, back at the beginning.

She might have been given a desk job. Or, worse, been posted to another SG Team, one that wouldn't keep her safe. And so he'd said nothing. Even though he knew -- after 866 he knew -- that there was no point looking for, waiting for, a change in her feelings toward him. Because that change had come so long ago that he'd never even noticed it.

And they'd worked together in silence for the next seven years.

He kissed her, once, in a time loop that she doesn't remember.

Jona told Carlyn he remembered having feelings for her.

He told her -- under za'tarc duress -- that she was more important to him than someone under his command should be. He doesn't know what she said in response to the same questions. She'd looked at him, and smiled, and spoken to Anise in Goa'uld. It was enough. She'd been cleared.

He pulls her toward him -- she's stiff, but unresisting -- and puts both arms around her. And she lies there against his chest for a few seconds, starting to relax, then struggles free and runs to the bathroom to throw up.

It takes her a while, but he stays where he is. He knows her well enough to know that's what she'd prefer. Eventually -- she's cleaning up; he hears water running -- he goes into the kitchen. Fresh coffee for her. Coffee for him. Looks like it's going to be a long night.

She comes back out. Damp. Clean clothes. Smelling of toothpaste. Zeroes in on the coffee. "Happen like that every time?" he asks.

"You sound like MacKenzie."

"Curious." He can't imagine why -- or how -- she'd keep going out to bars if this is what happens.

She shakes her head. "No. This only happens if I... try to get close to... somebody I... care about."

"So... Carter? Teal'c?"

"If I were trying to have sex with either one of them, Jack, then yes, I might have a problem. I've never actually thought about it."

"So... me."

"Yeah."

And it's out in the open at last. But right now, that isn't helping things much.

"Indy, we've touched plenty of times." He's hugged her. Even kissed her in the real world -- chastely, on the forehead. Held her hand in the Infirmary. Slept beside her offworld. All since Hathor.

"On those occasions my thoughts were pure."

The dry sarcasm in her voice makes him smile, even though she's telling him things he'd rather not hear.

"So you can..."

"Have any man I don't want. Yes."

She's always been good at cryptic. But right now she's being fairly plain. He knows what it's costing her to hang herself out to dry like this. He always accused her of babbling -- and she has -- but she's never really talked about anything personal. He's known her for nine years, and unless he'd read her security file (which he has), he'd know nothing about her that hadn't actually come out in the course of a mission. Which is the only reason she's ever mentioned Simon Gardner or Nicholas Ballard. Or that she was orphaned at the age of eight, and saw her parents killed right in front of her.

"It took me a while to figure it out," she adds.

"So," he says.

She looks wearily amused. Exhausted. Unhappy. And he'd like to kiss her, comfort her, and he realizes -- really understands -- that all it would probably do is send her running for the bathroom again.

Hathor screwed them both royally, in all senses of the word. Mostly for her own entertainment; it's pure luck that Indy didn't die in that room. And they didn't realize it for years. Because of the rules they'd had to live by.

"Don't tell?" she asks.

He nods. She's lived with this for seven years. It's never affected her work.

"When do you go back?" she says.

"I'd better call," he answers.

He finds that he can get a flight back out of Peterson leaving at eight. A car can be here to pick him up around seven. With one thing and another, he'll be at his desk more or less on time.

They finish their coffee.

"Why don't you get some sleep?" she says. She gestures toward the bedroom.

He shakes his head. He doesn't want to leave her like this.

"I'll be okay," she says. "I'm going to sit up for a while." She pushes her glasses up and rubs her eyes. "I'm glad you came, Jack."

He'd always meant to come back for her when it was all over. If he didn't die, or she didn't. All down the years, it had been in the back of his mind: that someday it would be possible. They would be possible.

"We're going to fix this," he says firmly.

"Not tonight," she says.

When he gets up to leave, he finds her curled up asleep on the daybed in her office. He brushes the hair back out of her face, kisses her on the forehead. She doesn't stir.

She wakes up, and knows before she moves that Jack is already gone. Back to Washington and his strange new life.

Jack has spent the night in her bed. Too bad she couldn't spend it there with him. Couldn't even let him touch her.

What she wants, what she almost did last night, what Hathor did all those years ago swirls together in her mind. Her heart races, and she feels weak and ill. She takes several deep breaths, willing the sensation to go away.

Didn't just dump her.

Cares.

Better for both of them, she thinks, if she'd been right in the first place, and he'd dumped her without a backward glance. At least that way he'd never have known or cared what's happened to her. And she wouldn't have known so ... explicitly.

She shouldn't have told him. Wasn't really thinking clearly, she supposes. Hard to think of a way around it, really, though. When he was telling her they no longer had to lie and evade and avoid each other. That they could ... touch.

Only they can't.

She isn't even quite sure they can even talk.

Jack's never been big on talking, anyway.

It's a workday. She's late. The first day of a life that doesn't include SG-1, because there is no SG-1.

There's plenty of work. A couple of briefings to attend. Translations to work on. She emails Sammy and gets a call from her a few hours later.

"You resigned?"

"Hey, I'm still here. And there wasn't all that much of SG-1 to resign from. Maybe I'll join another Team sometime. Right now I think I'd like a break."

"So how was your birthday?"

"Memorable. Jack stopped by to say hi. We had coffee."

"I... um... General O'Neill came to Colorado?"

Sammy sounds as if she has a lot of questions she'd like to ask. 'Don't ask, don't tell?' Apparently it no longer applies. But she's kept this secret for so long -- in the beginning, even from herself -- that old habits of secrecy and misdirection assert themselves without conscious thought. Besides, what could she say? That she falsified a critical mission report seven years ago and has been living under Goa'uld influence ever since?

That wouldn't go down well.

"He does know where it is," she points out. "So... how much longer am I going to be watering your plants?"

"Oh, maybe a couple of weeks? We thought we'd spend a few more days here and then go spend a couple of days in New York City before coming back."

"Say 'Hi' to Jack for me if you see him." Tell him I love him and I miss him and I want to be with him.

She doesn't say that.

She writes Jack letters. Long ones. Handwritten. She sends them to his apartment. (Later, to the house he buys. He doesn't mention it; but then, he never answers her letters anyway. She finds out about the house through a COA card.) They're nothing much, her letters. Nothing personal. Boring, in fact; even she acknowledges that. She writes about the weather and Sammy's plants and new methods of carbon-dating.

He sends her a postcard of the Pentagon. He's written 'Having wonderful time wish you were here.' A few days later another one comes. The Washington Monument, this time. There's a chess move written on the back. Nothing else.

She goes home that night, sets up the board, makes the move he's sent her. Considers. Makes her own move. Buys a postcard of Pike's Peak on her way to work the next day. Writes out her answer and mails it. They play chess by mail.

She continues to write letters which he never answers. She doesn't mind. It's her way of keeping him with her.

August.

Sammy's decided to sell her house. She asks Dani if she wants to buy it, but Dani says no. She's feeling unsettled these days. It occurs to her that this would be a really good time to take a step back from the SGC and consolidate all those research projects she's been putting off for, well, years. There are books she's been making notes for, and even if the only people who will ever read them would have to have atmospherically-high security clearances, they still need to be written. That Goa'uld lexicon and grammar, for example. The one for the Ancient language, skimpy and necessarily incomplete though it will have to be. She really ought to go to Atlantis to work on that one. Maybe she will.

Someone else can run AA&T for a while. Amelia Mertz has been her best assistant for years, since Robert died. Cautious, thorough, and entirely qualified. No Gate experience, but that isn't a prerequisite.

By the beginning of September, Sammy is completely gone.

September brings new excitement to the SGC. SG-1 is being reactivated. Lt. Colonel Cameron Mitchell arrives at the SGC. Of course, he thinks he's coming to join SG-1.

He's an F-302 pilot. Went down in the battle against Anubis' fleet over Antarctica. He's been in rehab ever since. Wanted a Gate Team posting, and was told he could have his pick. Asked for SG-1. Has just finished Special Group Orientation and Training, which was done at the Alpha Site this year. Went there on Daedalus, so this is actually the first time he's been in the SGC since his F-302 orientation. Expected to be joining The Legendary SG-1 as their new fourth. Was more than a little stunned to find out it was ... gone. And that Landry expects him to pick and lead a new team.

She gets all this as he stands in the doorway of her office, hands jammed in the pockets of his BDUs, a little too nervous to come all the way inside, talking fast, very earnest. He's regarding her hopefully. Expectantly. There's a faint hint of the South in his voice; North Carolina, she thinks. He's about her own age. An officer and a gentleman. Top Gun.

And she ought to like him. Cameron Mitchell is the kind of man it would be easy to like. She's seen dozens like him come -- and go, and die -- over the years. And all she can think of is that he's being given SG-1 and the past is being erased. Troy built on top of Troy until the original has been obliterated too thoroughly for archaeological resurrection.

"So I was sort of hoping you'd agree to come back, Dr. Jackson. I could sure use your experience on my team."

She smiles. "No." No, I won't participate in this destruction. It's hard to imagine that she'd follow his orders, anyway. He's talked about her experience. She'd be more likely to give him orders. She's sure that wouldn't work out.

It's not that she gave Jack orders. She just refused to follow his. They argued.

Mitchell blinks. She hasn't given him the answer he was expecting. Wanting. Counting on, she thinks, more than he's admitting to himself. "Aw, c'mon. You know you're going to miss it out there." He walks into her office now, glancing around at the artifacts scattered over every surface. The history of SG-1.

"Actually, I'm going to be taking a leave of absence." She's just definitely made up her mind. "There are a number of important research projects I've been putting off for years. I think now is a good time to get started on them."

He gives her a 'you can't be serious' look. For Mitchell it's all new. Something to go to, not from.

"I'm sure you won't have any trouble putting together a great team, Colonel Mitchell," she says gently. With three other people.

"I came here to learn from the best," he says quietly.

"This is Stargate Command, Colonel," she says. "Everyone here is the best. If you'd like, I'll be happy to recommend an A/T specialist for your team before I go."

"I wanted you," he says.

"Well, you can't have me," she says, more sharply than she means to; her life is in disarray but it's not his fault. "I'm sorry. I just... I've made other plans. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a meeting with General Landry and I have a few things to finish up here before I go."

Landry yells.

She's been yelled at by experts. Jack yelled a lot in the beginning, as a matter of fact. And General Landry doesn't have a snake in his head, and isn't trying to kill her. That's a plus.

She points out that she isn't resigning. Doesn't want to resign. Wants, actually to do a lot of vital work for the SGC, work she's been putting off for years in order to save Earth out on the front lines. And now she's got the time to do it.

"This is about Mitchell, isn't it?" Landry says at last, and she's pretty sure she's won.

"Mitchell?" she asks, trying on her best wide-eyed expression. It is and it isn't. Mitchell's arrival is only another signal that the past is becoming a foreign country, a planet without a Stargate. Lost to her. "No. I'm sure he'll do fine. But I've resigned from SG-1."

"You're going to break that kid's heart," Landry says.

"You know, General, if something like this is all it takes, he's in the wrong place."

Landry sighs. "All right, Dr. Jackson. Write up your proposal and I'll approve it. Give me an idea of how long you'll need."

The rest of my life.

"Certainly, General. I'll have it on your desk by the end of the day. I think Dr. Mertz would be a good choice to take over the Department."

"I'll take that under consideration. Dismissed."

She spends the rest of the day writing proposals, reports, and recommendations. The evening writing a letter to Jack. This one contains actual news. Though Landry may have beaten her to it with another phone call. If he has, she doesn't hear.

Ten days later she's well on her way to having her office packed up. She's going to work at home. Quieter. Fewer interruptions. (Less chance of somebody trying to drag her through the Gate for one little thing.) She's had lunch with Mitchell a couple of times. He keeps staring at her as if force of will can change her mind (yeah, good luck with that), though to his credit, he hasn't asked her to come back again. Finding out that SG-1 doesn't exist has been nearly as much of a shock for him as losing it was for her, but it's not quite a bonding experience between them. For Mitchell, she's an icon, and the idea that she can be iconized is oddly distancing. He still hasn't picked his team -- he's been given that opportunity -- and she wonders what he's looking for. She wonders if it's something he's going to find.

And Jack has invited her to dinner.

At the White House.

He called.

"Heard you're leaving."

She'd picked up her office phone thinking it was Sammy. Nobody else she could imagine would be calling from an outside line. But it's Jack.

"Not exactly. More of a long-term research project." Which he knows perfectly well, as he's gotten her letter by now. She wonders, actually, if he reads them.

"Ah. Come to dinner."

Well, that's a little vague. "Your place?"

"The White House. I've got a ... thing. The invitation says I can bring a date." He sounds hopeful.

"You want me to go to dinner with you at the White House?" A date? She's going to be his date?

"Well, we were going to go out to dinner on your birthday, and..."

And look how well that turned out. "Sure. When?"

"Next week sometime. Can you get away?"

"I'll be out of here by then."

"I'll have my secretary send you the details. There's... stuff."

"I'll see you then."

She hangs up and immediately calls Sammy. Because she knows what to wear to negotiate a treaty with the Tollen, but not what to wear to a formal dinner at the White House. She spends the next week doing a kind of research she's never done before. On her own culture. At the end of it, she feels prepared to navigate her way through a formal dinner in the proper ritual dress for the occasion. She's also moved out of the SGC and has steered her course through the farewell dinner, an event only slightly less fraught than the dinner in her future. She's promised to be on-call in event of earth-shattering emergency -- or even a difficult translation.

Her apartment is crammed with the boxes from her office. She may need to move again to make space for it all, or put some of her things in storage, but that's a problem for another day.

She flies to Washington. Jack meets her at the airport, and helps her retrieve her massive suitcase from the luggage carousel.

"You used to travel lighter," he complains, setting it on its wheels.

"Formal dinner," she reminds him. "You wouldn't believe how much stuff that requires. And I thought I'd stay a few days. There are a couple of archives I'd like to consult, and--"

"Later," he says. "If we don't get out of here now, traffic's gonna be backed up for miles."

"You're going to be caught in it anyway," she says. "My hotel's downtown, and by the time you drive me there and back again--"

She knows where he's living. Her letters go to a Maryland address these days. Not a long commute by Washington standards.

"Thought you could stay with me. Plenty of room. Lots of guest rooms."

She's done it before. Done it since Hathor. She should be safe. She won't give Hathor any more than she has to.

"Sure."

The house is enormous; a two-story red brick Colonial with a three-car garage that swallows up Jack's new SUV and manages to make it look small. She walks in the front door and is, frankly, stunned. Brass. Cherry. Hunt tables. Queen Anne. Hunting prints.

"What-- I-- What?" she sputters.

"Some woman came in," Jack says dismissively. "I didn't have enough furniture."

"You live here?" It looks like a stage set for someone else's life.

"I don't see it much."

Foyer. Living room. More alien furniture, but there's a nice fireplace, at least. All much too neat.

"Got a cleaning lady," Jack explains, catching her look.

There are pictures of ducks on the walls.

Upstairs it's a little better. Jack's old furniture is in his study -- his photos, his medals, and his pictures. The living room couch from the house in Colorado Springs.

"Got rid of some stuff that didn't fit in with Natalie's 'vision,' Jack says, sounding amused and disgusted. "But that couch is comfortable. Spend most of my time up here, anyway."

"Who the hell did she think you were?"

"She has no idea. Here's your room."

It's as formal and impersonal as a hotel room. She thinks she may be the first person to ever sleep here. Other than, perhaps, George Washington. Four-poster bed. Colonial theme. Everything in shades of white and blue. Print of Washington Crossing The Delaware over the bed, just in case she happens to forget what city she's near.

"It's ...nice," she says doubtfully.

"Well, there's no in-room bar, but there's beer in the kitchen."

"Yeah. I'll just unpack first."

"I'll be downstairs."

She does unpack, because she's worried about wrinkles in that damned expensive dress she's bought to wear tonight. The closet is full of wooden hangers. There's an attached bath.

She plugs in her computer to charge it and takes a minute to cancel her hotel reservation -- there's a even desk, just as if this were the expensive hotel room it so much resembles -- but after she's done her cursory unpacking and minor on-line housekeeping, she tiptoes down the hall to find Jack's bedroom. Breathes a sigh of relief, because it hasn't changed, aside from being about three times the size of his old one. Messy, filled with bookshelves and his old furniture. His kayak and telescope are still here. She stands in the doorway for a moment, just looking, then goes downstairs.

The table in the formal dining room can seat at least fourteen. More cherry. Hutch and breakfront. The room looks 'decorator-done' but unfinished. She doubts Jack spends much time in here. She goes through into the kitchen. Huge. Gourmet. Sammy would be in love. Black granite everywhere, stainless steel appliances. Oak cabinets. A breakfast nook. Pots and pans hang over the preparation island in the center of the kitchen. Possibly more of 'Natalie's vision.'

Jack is sitting on a stool at the counter -- there's a Great Room that opens off the kitchen -- a long-neck in his hand. He gestures toward the refrigerator. She goes and gets herself a beer. There isn't much in the fridge besides beer and takeout. But that's nothing new. She takes her beer over and leans against the counter, watching him.

He looks tired.

Always hated paperwork and bureaucrats. Never wanted a desk job.

Here he is in Washington.

"Some house," she says.

He shrugs.

"Why'd you do it, Jack?" she asks, staring down at her beer. She hears him sigh.

"Well, ya know, when the President asks you to do something, real nice, it's kinda hard to say 'no.'" There's a pause. "Hammond was retiring."

"I know."

"Somebody was going to be in charge of Homeworld Security."

"I know."

"Homeworld Security signs off on the SGC's budget."

"I know."

"They want to cut it."

She looks up at him, startled.

"By half."

"Half? That would be..."

"Four billion dollars. More or less."

"We can't run on that." There'd be cuts. Massive ones. They'd lose half their Teams. Maybe even the Alpha and Beta Sites. There was a proposal for a Gamma Site on the table when she left. That would go too.

"So I'm here."

"Can I help?"

The words are out of her mouth before she even knows she's going to say them. But this isn't Jack's kind of fight. She knew that months ago. How is he going to persuade a bunch of bureaucrats to let them keep their funding now that the Goa'uld are gone?

He tips his bottle back, finishes his beer. "Want the tour?"

"Sure."

He didn't answer her question.

The house is huge. And really only half-furnished. There's a downstairs library -- as large as the living room -- with built-in bookshelves. The shelves are empty. She groans.

"I'm just going to... Ship all my books here," she says weakly, looking around.

"Yeah, I know. It's a sin to waste shelf space."

"I'm going to have to move, I think. Now that I've brought all my books and stuff home from the SGC, I don't have enough room."

"You always were a packrat."

"And you aren't?" It's an old argument, one neither of them is ever going to win.

More rooms -- one obviously meant as The Official Study. French doors open out onto a brick terrace. An immaculate lawn sweeps off into the distance.

"A-a-and... you have a gardener, too?"

"Probably. Lawn gets cut, bushes get trimmed. Staff takes care of it."

"The General's staff." She opens the French doors, walks out onto the terrace. It extends all across the back of the house. Steps lead down into the garden. "You ever barbecue out here?" She doesn't see a grill.

"Haven't had time. I'm being encouraged to have a few dinner parties. Get to know people."

She looks at him. He's serious. "Fine china and the best wines?"

"That's how they do it in Foggy Bottom."

"You'd better hire a caterer."

They tour the upstairs. Six bedrooms. He's converted one into a den and office (having seen the downstairs, she understands why). Two have been done up in hotel modern. Two are still full of boxes from Colorado. The other is the Master Suite.

'Suite' is definitely the word for it.

She hadn't actually seen all of it.

It's two connecting rooms. The second one can be set up either as a second bedroom -- assuming that Mrs. General doesn't want to sleep with her husband, Dani supposes -- or as a dressing room. It's currently empty.

The closets are larger than some apartments she's had.

And the Master Bath? Well, she's always been rather proud of the one in her current loft. But this one has a technologically-advanced shower, a Jacuzzi tub that could seat four, heated towel racks, and a sauna.

"At least the job comes with perks."

"Perks," he echoes. "You want to finish that chess game? Because I'm thinking it might go faster now that you're here."

It's October now. They've been playing for months. "Sure."

"Want another beer?"

"Not enough to hike all the way back down to the kitchen for one."

He grins at her. "Fridge in the den."

"Perks."

They finish out their game -- it takes a while, but she beats him -- and by then it's time for her to go and get ready for their big evening out. She's done a couple of trial runs. She's always believed in proper preparation.

He waves her off. "Looking forward to this."

"You always did enjoy watching me make a fool of myself, Jack."

"Hey, I'm going to be the one in the monkey suit."

She laughs, and goes to change.

It's good to see her again. Good to have her here.

He hates his job.

He told General Hammond once that he'd done some damned distasteful things. Nothing like this. Nothing anything he's done in his life has prepared him for this.

Writing reports and giving testimony? He can do that. Not his favorite thing, but he's capable of it, when pressed. He's done his share of time behind a desk. You don't make Colonel without logging a few hundred thousand hours of chairborne time. And he spent the last year flying a desk at the SGC.

It didn't prepare him for Washington.

Washington is all about making nice.

And he supposes he could even learn to do that, in time, except for the one little thing that nobody bothered to let him in on, which is that in Washington, the work day doesn't stop when it stops. There are after-hours parties to go to, and everyone expects General O'Neill to show up with someone on his arm. If he doesn't, they'll be more than happy to provide someone.

The Head of Homeworld Security is expected to have a social presence in Washington. Which means having a political hostess. Which is something that -- apparently -- the Pentagon forgot to set him up with. He's talked about it a little. Mostly to George. George had a political hostess. Apparently a strictly political relationship; she was an old friend of his late wife's.

O'Neill doesn't have any old friends in Washington. And the way the women are eyeing him just makes him ... nervous. But it's being made clear to him that he needs someone to throw dinner parties for him. Soon. Even to appear with him at the cocktail parties and gala evenings that are apparently part and parcel of his new job. To which -- if he does not want to spend the entire evening being subtly and not-so-subtly propositioned -- he'd better show up as part of a set. It's been Kerry Johnson a couple of times. CIA Analyst who did the security review of the SGC last year. And if he doesn't want it to be Kerry Johnson permanently, he'd better not call her again.

He doesn't want it to be Kerry Johnson. He knows who he wants. Wants her in all the ways there are, but apparently that's impossible. And maybe she doesn't even want this. God knows he wouldn't wish this on his worst enemy.

But he couldn't resist asking her to come to Washington.

And she did say 'yes.'

He's waiting at the bottom of the stairs when she comes down, walking carefully because she's in high heels.

He thought she might pick black. It's safe, and he knows she doesn't know much about clothes. Half the stuff he faxed her was from the White House Office of Protocol about what to wear. But she's wearing a brown velvet dress. She doesn't look like a cheap pick-up in a bar. She looks just right.

"I know this is all right," she says, seeing him. "Because I did research on-line and hired a consultant."

"You hired a consultant?"

"Not my field. She took me shopping. Cost more than the damned dress."

"Well, I hope you bought more than one."

"No, but I took a lot of field notes."

"That's my girl."

She's always liked surprising Jack. And the look on his face when he sees her come down the steps in four thousand dollars worth of designer label dress and accessories is worth all the mad scramble and humiliation it took to get here. Her makeup is subdued and appropriate. She's even wearing earrings. They pinch, of course, because they're clips, but it's only for tonight.

She juggles the small satin evening bag as she tries to pull her velvet evening wrap higher on her shoulders; it's slipping. Jack takes the bag from her hands and pulls the wrap firmly into place, then hands it back. He obviously knows about these things.

Well, he's been married.

"Ready?"

She nods.

"Let's go."

The evening passes off smoothly. President Hayes is a huge fan of SG-1, so he's delighted to meet her in person. She even gets to dance with him. Or maybe that should be the other way around.

"Dr. Jackson, I wonder if you'd be willing to fulfill a long-held fantasy of mine?"

"Here, Mr. President?" They're in the middle of the dance floor.

"Say something to me in Goa'uld. I've always wondered what the language sounds like."

She thinks for a moment, says something softly in his ear.

"And that means?"

"I am looking forward to conquering your planet."

He looks surprised.

"There, ah, aren't a lot of polite things you can say in Goa'uld, Mr. President. The Jaffa dialect is a little more flexible."

He laughs, and people turn to look. "General O'Neill's a lucky man, Dr. Jackson. I hope we'll be seeing you here again."

Lucky? She doesn't understand. "I look forward to it, Mr. President."

"What was that about?" Jack wants to know.

"I told him I was looking forward to conquering his planet." There's nobody else within earshot at the moment.

Jack raises his eyebrows.

"He wanted to hear something in Goa'uld."

"Ah. So… not actually...?"

"Probably not."

Everyone wants to know who she is -- or, to be absolutely precise, what her relationship to Jack is. There's a subtext here she has no difficulty deciphering. Is she going to interfere in their plans for General Jack O'Neill? Well, yes, she'd like to do that, actually. Just on general principle. She's just having a little trouble figuring out what they are.

Just what are their plans for Jack? And why does her presence or absence matter to them?

"Everybody was staring at you tonight," she says, once they're in the car, driving home. The first thing she does is take off her earrings. The second is kick off her shoes. She'll have to put them back on again later, but not for at least an hour.

"They were staring at you," he answers absently. Not flirting -- he's never done that -- but deflecting her point.

"Yes. Because I was there with you. As if that made me some sort of ... threat. Which is certainly unusual. Why should the fact that I was there with you make me so interesting? Nobody there knew who I was."

"Hayes did."

"You're evading the question."

"It's complicated."

"This is Washington. Everything's complicated."

"Yeah."

"They want you to do something you don't want to do, don't they?"

"Something I can't figure out how to do."

She leaves it at that. He's obviously not ready to talk about it. And it sounds big, and important, and it worries her a little. Because the people in that room tonight -- some of them, anyway -- were as dangerous as any Goa'uld they've ever faced. And they're the people Jack has to deal with every day now.

Alone.

They get to the house. She manages to walk in gracefully, feet back in the shoes that cost her almost a quarter of a paycheck. Her feet hurt, but they've hurt nearly as much after a long hike, and there've been plenty of those.

And she's worn stranger costumes.

"Drink?" he asks, as they enter the kitchen.

"I've got to get out of these clothes. And wash this paint off my face. But then, yeah."

"You've got paint on your face?"

"No, Jack, my eyelids are always purple."

She changes -- feeling more like herself in chinos and a sweater -- and wanders out of her bedroom, barefoot.

"In here."

Jack's in his upstairs study, and the Scotch is already out.

"You might consider living downstairs sometime," she says, sitting down on the couch.

"Too far to walk." He's changed too, into a sweatshirt, jeans, and battered deck shoes, an outfit she's seen him in a hundred times. He hands her a glass.

She sits on the couch. He sprawls, feet on the hassock, Puccini on the stereo. Sips Scotch.

It's two hours earlier here than it is at home, but it's been a long day that started in Colorado, and she's been to the White House and danced with the President since. But it's also been almost a year since she spent a quiet evening on Jack's couch, drinking his Scotch, the two of them just being quiet together.

They talk, just a little, about the evening. Apparently it's a more common thing than not for him. Parties and receptions are a new feature of his life.

"You know," he says finally, pouring a third Scotch, "this isn't what I expected."

"Dinner parties?" she asks, half-guessing.

He grins. There's no humor in it.

"What is it you can't figure out how to do, Jack?" she asks softly.

He waves a hand, a sketched gesture of irritation and defeat.

"This was supposed to be... something I could do." He sounds exasperated. "But there's this whole ... thing. I'm supposed to ... uh. Like tonight."

She is fluent in the obscure half-silent dialect that is Jack O'Neill. He's supposed to show up at social functions -- like tonight -- with a suitable escort. A female escort. And -- probably -- he needs to have a hostess for that dinner party he's supposed to throw. Somebody who knows a little bit more about protocol than she imagines Jack knows.

"General Hammond didn't..." she says tentatively.

"He had an, ah, friend," Jack says uncomfortably.

General Hammond had a political hostess. And Jack obviously needs one. Or something. That explains the looks she was getting tonight. Because a lot of people want to take him on, or take him over. And Jack doesn't want to be taken. He's been here six months, after all, and he's still unattached. If someone did these things -- the things he needs -- for him, he would owe them favors. Jack is scrupulous about paying his debts. And being beholden to the people here is something he obviously does not want to be. She understands that. They've never really understood the SGC here in Washington. Nobody could, who hadn't been through the Gate. Faced the Goa'uld.

She knows a lot about diplomacy by now. Enough to know this would be something entirely different. The sort of thing she'd hated most back in her academic days: pointless parties and socializing. But she could learn. And it wouldn't be pointless. Because it is apparently a vital facet of Jack's new job. And Jack's job is to keep the SGC safe.

"Jack?"

"Hm?" He seems half-asleep. She knows better.

"I could stay in Washington."

He didn't seem to be moving before, but now he goes very still.

"I learned to go through the Stargate. To serve on a Field Team. I can do this."

"Can't ask you."

"I'm offering."

He sighs, staring out the window. "You're supposed to be writing a book."

She makes an amused noise. "Several of them. It's going to take a while. Years."

"Years?" He sounds surprised. He sits up, looks at her quizzically.

"Hey, I'm not dashing off a sleazy romance novel. Years. Yes. I will probably still be working on them long after you retire to terrorize the nonexistent fish in Minnesota. I could do it here."

"What about your ... stuff?" Meaning: won't you need to be near the SGC?

"My 'stuff' -- as you so quaintly put it -- is sitting in boxes in my loft at this very moment. And like I say, I'm probably going to have to move to a bigger space."

"The SGC?" Meaning: what about your work there? Translations, going through the Gate?

"I've told General Landry I'm available in case of emergencies. I can commute. Or they can send stuff to me here. I mean, it's not as if it's likely to be anything other than translation. Unless... you had someone else in mind." Meaning: have you picked someone else for the job I'm offering to do?

If she'd only been able to take him to bed, she wouldn't be having to work so hard to persuade him now. Would she?

But she couldn't. Can't.

"No."

"Then...?"

"It isn't fair to you."

"For god's sake, Jack, there's been damned little in my life that's been fair since I was eight years old," she snaps. "Maybe I'm not the best possible choice for the job, but I've negotiated treaties with the Goa'uld, the Tollen, the Nox, the Tok'ra, and the Jaffa Free Nation. I served as Lord Yu's lo'tar. I can throw a damned dinner party and go to a few receptions with you."

"Go to bed," Jack says. "It's late."

He doesn't give her any more chance to argue her case. He gets up and walks out, leaving her alone in the room. She sighs. Stubborn damned man. He needs her, though. She hopes he'll admit it.

He stares at the ceiling for a long time, wondering if he's cruel and selfish enough to let her throw her life away this way. He was willing enough to do it when they were both on SG-1, but somehow that was different. All in the service of God and Country, so to speak. Except he's not completely sure he believes in God, after Charlie, and it was always about much larger issues than just one country. It was always about Earth, the whole damned place, even though she never did believe he saw the larger issues. She said he was parochial, convinced that only America mattered. And sure, he always thought America was the best, but he never lost sight of where it was. On Earth. So you had to save the whole place, and any place you saved so many times, well, you ended up caring about the whole thing, whether you'd started out caring about it all or not.

Which wanders from the point.

Sometimes -- one or two times -- going through the Gate was a big glorious adventure. It was frequently exciting -- the threat of death is always exciting -- and there were moments that were just plain breathtaking. And most of it was necessary.

A lot of what he does now is necessary. None of it is a glorious adventure. Or breathtaking. Or exciting. It's boring, when it isn't ... worse than boring. And he's surrounded by nasty-minded petty dictators -- in the cases of the politicians. And their wives; an alien species. (If they'd sent them through the Gate against the Goa'uld, the Goa'uld would have been defeated years ago.) How can he ask her to live here, deal with these people on a daily basis?

He hasn't asked. She's offered.

She doesn't know what she'd be doing.

"Jack, what was I doing at sixteen?"

Saturday morning -- afternoon, really, because even with the time-change, she's slept late; it's after one o'clock Eastern before the need for coffee gets her out of bed and down the stairs. He's home. A day off, he tells her; weekends are usually free -- if he brings paperwork home -- but there's often something he has to attend on a Saturday evening. Not this one, though.

And he's told her, gently, that her services will not be required in Washington. She thinks she knows why. He doesn't want to trap her in this hellhole. He's sure she doesn't know what's involved. He wants to preserve her innocence. Probably all three.

There's a monster television in the common room -- that's new -- and he's watching baseball. She's made coffee and scavenged through his refrigerator, before settling for bread and butter. Apparently there's no pizza delivery nearby, because there was no pizza in the fridge. She'll check later.

"Ah... college?" he guesses.

"Right. And at 25?"

"You'd just joined Project Giza."

"At the end of the year. For most of it I was still at Berkeley. So... almost ten years on more than half a dozen college campuses, from student to professor. What do you suppose they do there, Jack?" The innocence in her voice makes him suspicious. It always did. He looks at her, eyes narrowed, the television forgotten.

"They play cut-throat politics, Jack. That's what they do on college campuses. Or had you forgotten I got kicked out of Academia for being politically incorrect? First the Oriental Institute, then Berkeley?"

He's still watching her, saying nothing.

"Now, I admit that doesn't do much to make my case for being useful to you here. I wasn't very good at political games. But I'm not a stranger to them. Political infighting won't scare me and it won't hurt my feelings. I know that -- here -- the stakes are higher and the people are ... less nice. And occasionally they actually try to kill you. But people have tried to kill me for the last eight years, and I'm still here."

He shakes his head slightly. He's still saying 'no.' Doesn't like saying 'no.' Doesn't want to. Is still saying it.

It infuriates her.

"Play a game with me, Jacky Boy," she says. "Pretend it's my birthday, and you flew out to Colorado. You picked me up in the bar, and took me home, and -- instead of me spending the night throwing up in the bathroom -- you took me to bed. Would that make a difference now?"

He looks as shocked and unsettled as if she's stripped off her clothes in front of him -- that, and more than a little disapproving.

"You'd had way too much to drink, Indiana. Your virtue would have been safe."

"Oh, I don't think so. I can be very persuasive. And it wasn't that much."

"You were drunk off your ... head."

"My ass. Don't mince words. I'm told it's a nice one. I'm told I'm more than adequate in the sack. In fact, I'm told I f--"

"Trying to prove something here?"

"If we'd been shagging like donkeys for the last three months, would that make a difference now?" she asks mercilessly. He won't answer, but she knows the answer anyway. Yes. If they'd been having an affair, and she'd offered to come and act as his hostess while she worked on her books, he would have accepted without a thought. Made a joke, maybe.

"All right," she says evenly. "Take me upstairs."

"That isn't funny," he says sharply.

"It won't be fun, either," she answers, admitting the truth they both know. "But I think I can get through it. And if that's the only way you'll have me here, I'll--"

She doesn't get any farther than that, because he's up off the couch, arms going around her. Protecting her from the anger, the pain, that makes her say those things. Trying to protect her from the fact that they're true.

It's neither romantic nor erotic -- associations she could not (literally) endure for the monster they would awaken in her psyche. But she and Jack were always friends, even when they were enemies, and seeing him need her, and refuse the help she could give him, is tearing her apart.

It always did.

"I won't leave you alone here," she says simply. As if she's speaking of abandoning him on an alien world under enemy fire.

"All right," he says finally, sighing against her hair. "When can you get here?"

"I'll need to find an apartment," she says. More work and she doesn't know the area. And she's heard that Washington is expensive.

"Live here," Jack says.

She stares up at him. He's managed to shock her. He leans over far enough to kiss her on the forehead.

"You would've," he says.

If things had been different. If Hathor hadn't slipped a joker into the deck.

"I will," she says.

It takes her ten days to move. She manages it that fast thanks to the fact that she's half-packed already and the Air Force does most of the work. She tells Sammy, of course. That she's moving to Washington. That she'll be acting as Jack's political hostess. She'd forgotten that Sammy spent years in Washington after she graduated the Academy, and understands far more than she puts into her email. Sammy phones her and they talk for hours. It comes out very quickly that she'll be moving in with Jack.

"He's got room," she says inadequately.

"I've heard about that house," Sammy says.

Many things are left unsaid. She thinks Sammy guesses some of them, but not all. Nobody could guess the real truth.

Her first week in Washington -- she thinks of it as that, though she lives in Silver Springs, Maryland -- she attends a cocktail party, an Embassy reception, and a performance at the Kennedy Center.

The house is still full of boxes and furniture crammed in every which-way, but she knows the job she came here to do. She didn't stop to unpack. She went clothes shopping. And so she has a proper outfit to wear to each one of these events. And more, stockpiled. Plus suitable ladylike clothing to be seen by daylight in, should something come up.

She consulted the clothing expert again while she was back in Colorado packing to move. The woman didn't even blink when Dani told her she was moving to Washington to become the social adjunct of a two-star General and needed a suitable wardrobe.

To prepare for that, she also spent hours on the phone with Jack's XO, Terence Foster, discussing nothing more esoteric than every social function the General had been to since he arrived in Washington. She thinks that will give her a good feel for the sort of events he regularly attends. On the basis of that, Claudia Graves is able to tell her what she needs to buy, and show her examples of appropriate costume. Dani memorizes suitable quantities, suitable fabrics, suitable colors.

The Kennedy Center thing is contemporary opera. Excruciatingly boring. They both fidget.

"Why the hell are you here?" she whispers, holding up her program so that nobody can read her lips.

"Senator Warren Wellsley is on the Homeworld Security Commission, which has been set up to review the Department of Homeworld Security to decide whether there is a need for it, or whether its functions can be assumed by other offices."

"Oh, for crying out loud!"

"His wife's Vietnamese. Name's Ngo." He's consulting -- unobtrusively -- a tiny slip of paper with notes that Terry has given him.

Terry Foster (Colonel) is the anti-Jack: a real Kentucky Colonel, deadly only in a drawing room, and so damned glad to see her show up to take charge of his General that he nearly kissed her the first time they met in person. He would never say a single word out of line. The things he loudly doesn't say are illuminating enough. Unfortunately, he's on Jack's staff, not hers, because after one scant week here, she's pretty sure she could use a native guide to Looking Glass Land.

"I speak Vietnamese."

"Thought you did. I'm supposed to convince Senator Wellsley to leave Homeworld Security alone. Somehow."

"Invite him to dinner."

"Ah?"

"Not tonight. Have Terry call his office tomorrow. You're giving a dinner party next month. I'll tell you later." Even though the music is loud, and discordant, they really should pretend to pay attention.

Senator Wellesley is a big fan of modern opera. He's pleased to see General O'Neill here. The fact that Jack has come to see something he has absolutely no interest in may be the thing that saves the Department of Homeworld Security. This is how the game is played.

Dani stands and chats with Madame Ngo. Madame Ngo is surprised and pleased that Dani speaks Vietnamese, and compliments her on her accent. They discuss gardening, which is Madame Ngo's hobby. Dani's understanding of gardening is academic, due to her allergies, but she is well-read. She knows about ornamental, medicinal, and food plants, and their history.

Madame Ngo invites her to come and play bridge. The bridge club meets on Wednesday afternoons. Dani thanks her kindly for the offer, but says she does not know how to play. Madame Ngo says she will quickly learn. Dani does not even hesitate before accepting. If the Senator is an important man, then the Senator's wife is an important conduit of information into the world through which she and Jack now must move.

The interval is over. Both couples return to their seats.

"What was that all about?" Jack asks.

"Got an invitation to go play bridge with Madame Ngo next Wednesday."

"You work fast."

On the way home, she explains to Jack about the dinner party. She's hoping to set an early November date, to avoid conflict with the Thanksgiving Congressional recess, but even if she can't, he should be able to put together a nice Pentagon table. It will indicate he's making an effort, and either way the timing will mean it isn't too politics-heavy. It will also indicate that Chez O'Neill is open for business, as it were, and he should expect to start receiving a lot more invitations to private homes. Those will need to be reciprocated, and he should expect to throw at least one big cocktail party at the house in December. And possibly expect to do something about Thanksgiving, though she isn't sure what yet. His social circle is yet to be established.

"Indy," he groans, "I ... can't ... keep track of all this."

"Don't worry, Jack, I can," she promises. "That's why I'm here."

Three weeks later she's mostly-unpacked. Her books are in the library and in the downstairs study, which she has filled with her bookshelves. Her pictures and artifacts are scattered through the house, doing a little to take the edge off the unremitting English Hunt and Ducks. Her family silver is in the dining room hutch, along with a few pieces of Roman glass and Egyptian alabaster. The house is just a bit overcrowded now, and that after she got rid of half her furniture in Colorado.

Her bed is in the other half of the Master Suite. It's a Queen Size bed and it's nearly new. Mission style headboard to match the other pieces of her good furniture, which are actual antiques. And there was no place else to put it.

She isn't sure she dares contemplate sleeping in it, but at least it's here.

The house has an attic. A lot of her furniture is up there. Some of his. A few of Decorator Natalie's choices, rejected in favor of Dani's furniture, because her pieces -- her family's furniture -- are quite good, really.

She sold her Jeep in Colorado. She's bought a Volvo here. It's more suitable.

The dinner party is a success. Seven couples, including the Wellesleys and Terry and his wife. Everything is catered; there's a bar set up in the living room; the den and the study (filled with classified material) are locked.

There's nobody at the table -- at least the principals -- who don't know what Jack does, or what he used to do, though a lot of them are vague on the details. Their spouses don't know anything at all -- or aren't supposed to know, though frankly Dani suspects that's past praying for. Washington leaks like a sieve.

There's a fire going in the fireplace, and they gather there after dinner. A couple of hardy souls go out to the terrace with post-prandial tobacco. It's actually a little too cold at this time of year, but she's put up electric heaters. It's warm enough to sit out there even in a light sweater. She's tested it. A profligate waste of energy, but she won't allow smoking in the house. Still, it's important to keep their guests happy.

From some remarks she overhears, some of the people here assume she's Jack's wife. Not that surprising that she wouldn't be immediately with him when he came to Washington. Half of them know she's involved in the Stargate Program, after all. It's reasonable to assume that she had professional obligations to finish up before she could join her ... husband.

Those that assume those things do so simply because they don't have all the details. Don't know that both she and Jack were SG-1. And that even to tell him she loved him would have been impossible.

In fact, she hasn't told him yet.

Though she told Anise once, to save his life and her own. He was there, but he doesn't know. She spoke in Goa'uld. The machine didn't care, so long as she told the truth.

"What did you feel, Dr. Jackson?"

‹"I felt as if I were already dead. I tried to get him to leave, and he wouldn't. I knew he was going to die there because he wouldn't leave me behind, and I couldn't bear it."›

"And why is that, Dr. Jackson?"

‹"Because I love him. I am in love with him."›

Both statements are true, and have been for many years, but she has never told him so.

Which is as it should be, for when he retires and has no more need of her, there will be nothing to hold them together. Though without Hathor there could have been.

She has her work. She has this job. He needs her now. That will do. The future is, literally, unimaginable.

Taking care of his social life takes up more of her time than she thought it would. There's intelligence-gathering, and an increasing number of occasions upon which she must meet with Washington Wives. They greet the information that she has a Doctorate in Archaeology and is working on a book with polite disinterest; Doctorates and Masters' are not uncommon in this group, which surprises her, though they tend to run toward things like Economics and Political Science. There are one or two in History, though in modern periods and disciplines such as European History. A foreign country, as it were.

Their interests now are their husbands' careers. Considering how much work she's putting into Jack's, she'd hardly call it a life of empty-headed frivolity, but wouldn't it be a lot easier for everyone if they all just stopped doing this and the day's work got done in the office instead of under the table?

She supposes not.

So she plays bridge once a week -- badly, but apparently that's all right -- and joins the 'right' health club -- and, god help her, a book discussion group that meets once a month on Friday morning at a Starbuck's in a suburban mall because gosh, doesn't everyone want to get out of the house and do a little shopping?

She does not make the mistake of underestimating these women, or thinking that they're her friends, or taking them at face value.

She briefs Jack Saturday afternoons, when she joins him at the club for brunch. Terry let her know which Country Club was the appropriate one to join, and she told Jack to join it. She attends as his guest, since she is not his wife. He plays golf there now on Saturdays -- fortunately, he actually enjoys golf. He's threatening to teach her. She says that if he tries, she'll make him learn bridge. He looks more relaxed these days. And she has half the week to work on her books.

Terry thinks Jack should hire a cook/housekeeper. He takes most of his meals at work, but she has to shop and provide her own meals, and it takes up a lot of time. A cook/housekeeper could do the shopping, coordinate service staff, and actually ... cook.

Tempting.

It's two weeks after her dinner party, the end of November -- Thanksgiving -- and they're at the house of one of Jack's Pentagon cronies for the day. It's after the meal, and the gathering has fissured, predictably, along gender lines laid down sometime around the New Stone Age, with the men having shambled off to watch football in the den and the women gathering in the kitchen-cum-great-room to gossip and become expansively drunk. The festal meats and their adjunct dishes have already been tidied away by a discreet staff, and dessert is still to come.

She's holding a glass of sherry in her hand. She hates sherry, but her hostess doesn't seem to be able to remember that, and has been plying her with sweet wines all day. Just as well; she'll keep a clear head and have a nice stiff drink when she goes home.

"I never can remember," the woman is saying now. "Do you go by 'Dr. Jackson' all the time, or do you use 'Mrs. O'Neill' sometimes? For, you know, social occasions?"

It's such a mind-bogglingly stupid question that she answers it without thinking. "I go by 'Dr. Jackson' all the time. Because, you know, Jack and I aren't married."

"I screwed up today, Jack," she says later.

"Ah?" Jack says intelligently.

Their own fire. Their own living room. And even though both are his, she's put enough work into them that she feels a proprietary interest in them.

"I told Mrs. General Cindy Lou that we aren't married."

"General Vidrine's wife?"

"Our hostess. Yes. Who asked me when I went by 'Mrs. O'Neill.' And I told her there were damned few occasions, owing to the fact that we weren't married."

"And this would be a problem because...?"

"Well, the military's traditional conservativism..." Washington's traditional conservativism.

"Let Foster worry about the military. You worry about my social life."

They navigate the pitfalls of the Holiday Season. There are parties to attend, ritual obligations to discharge. They are invited back to The White House for another party. They throw a large party of their own (cocktails, canapes, and the whole house is decorated for Christmas).

Jack is making cheerful noises about getting away to Minnesota for a week between Christmas and New Years'. The town will be dead as a doornail then. She can stay here and work on her book. She already has her New Years' dress, and they have their invitation, because New Years' was locked into their schedule weeks ago. Meanwhile, she has no desire to go off to someplace as cold as he says Minnesota is in winter, and tells him so, but promises to come visit the cabin again in summer. He says he'll bring her up there in July, then, for her birthday. Carter and Cassie too. Keeping things safe.

She drives him to the airport on the day after Christmas. She got him Simpsons' action figures. He bought her the Ark of the Covenant. Typical. At least it was full of chocolate.

He kisses her on the cheek as he gets out of the car. It's automatic and natural, and she doesn't have time to react before he's opening the back door of the Volvo and grabbing his bag. And then he's walking away and the car behind her in the Loading Zone is flashing its lights and she's moving on autopilot.

He kissed her.

In a husband-y 'Goodbye, honey, I'm off for a fishing trip with the boys see you in a week' way.

Where the hell did that come from?

He probably kissed Sara that way a million times.

Oh, god, it was nice.

It's what she wants. The deepest thing, underlaying all the rest. Trapped in The Gamekeeper's virtual reality, only she and Jack were accessible to him. And he was able to trigger reenactments of the pivotal events in their lives, the ones they'd most like to change. In Jack's case, you'd think it would be Charlie's death. Oddly, it isn't. It's something that comes earlier. East Germany, 1982. A mission that went wrong, one of his first Black Ops. There was bad intel, and everyone but Jack was killed. She thinks there's even more to it than that, but he's never said.

Her pivotal event was her parents' death. The one thing she has always wanted to change. Because it took away the only thing she ever really wanted. Her family. She's never managed to gain, or build, or keep another one. Kasuf and Skaara are dead and Abydos is gone. SG-1 is gone. Nick is on god knows what plane of reality, off with the giant aliens. Simon has been de-snaked -- teaching at Cambridge these days -- but that hardly means she's going to tumble back into a relationship with him again. There's just her, taking care of the head of Homeland Security. Playing house, for a while, in a strange way. Playing 'Let's Pretend.'

January starts oracularly. Jack kisses her and she throws up.

Jack flies back in early afternoon on New Years' Eve. He's bouncy and chipper, the Minnesota drawl more pronounced, as it usually is after he's spent some time there. They drive home. He asks what she's been up to. She says she hasn't been out of the house all week -- which is true. She buried herself in her work and let Mrs. Rivera feed her and strip the house of Christmas decorations. It was nice.

Having Jack back is nice too.

The party is in Georgetown. Ultra-formal. Heavy-hitters. Their invitation came through Madame Ngo. Warren's commission is still fact-finding, but it's fairly clear which way he'll jump. She gave Madame Ngo an antique Buddha from her collection. Sixteenth century. Southeast Asian. From Annam. Now called Vietnam. She knew, she said, it would look lovely in Madame Ngo's parlor. It does, of course. Certainly it wasn't a bribe.

There's an orchestra and dancing -- they manage to avoid it -- champagne and an amazing buffet. She nurses a couple of glasses of champagne through the evening, and takes mental notes on the buffet. Jack will have to give another dinner party soon. Maybe a buffet...

At midnight, they ring in the New Year and go home.

New Years' Day. Tomorrow Jack goes back to the office, and she resumes the fraught pavanne of the Washington Adjunct. Terry has stopped by with a pile of vital files and memos, and Jack has spent the day reading them, drinking beer.

Mrs. Rivera isn't here on the weekend, but she leaves the freezer fully stocked. Jack usually handles the cooking. He's actually the better cook of the two of them. Dani gets impatient or distracted, and the food suffers.

Today he bangs on her study door when the food is ready. Lasagna. He's made garlic bread too.

He's got something on his mind.

"How much longer are you planning to keep this up?" he asks over dessert.

"Keep what up?" she asks. Half her mind is still on the chapter she's been working on today. Grammar and syntax. It won't stand on its own; it needs a supporting essay. Cultural context.

"This Stepford Wife stuff. When are you going to ... go?"

She looks at him and really focuses on him for the first time today. "Oh, I don't know, Jack. When are you leaving Washington?"

He raises his eyebrows at her.

"I'm going to stay until you don't need me anymore," she explains. Patiently. Because reading memos and work documents all day has obviously fried his brain.

"Doing this?"

"This is what you need me to do," she points out, starting to feel irritated. They've had this conversation once. She gets up, collects her plate and his, and goes over to the dishwasher.

"It's a waste of your time," he says, following her.

"My time to waste," she says. Apparently they are going to have the whole conversation over again. The same one they had in September. She shoves the dishes in among the dinner ones. "Do we have to do this every three months? Like the Team physicals? You need this. I'll do it. I'll do it until you don't need it any more."

"I don't see why you should." He's followed her over to the dishwasher.

She just looks at him in amused disgust. You'd last two minutes here without me, idiot. And I'd die if anything happened to you.

He's watching her face, the way he always did when what she was saying didn't make any sense and he was trying to pick up a clue.

And suddenly something changes. Everything changes. She's not sure which of them moves first. But he kisses her. And she wants him. She -- wants -- him. She presses her body against his, her mouth against his, the need to have him kindling in her so hotly it makes her shake.

And then suddenly Hathor is there in her mind.

She turns and runs.

She manages to make it as far as the downstairs bathroom before throwing up everything she's eaten all day. She waits for the spasms to subside, for Hathor's laughter to go away, but they don't. It feels like the onset of food poisoning and madness combined -- because she's lived so close to him for so long, and wants him so desperately.

She has a prescription for heavy-duty tranquilizers; Dr. Brightman prescribed them for her nightmares. She gets up the stairs to her room. Finds the bottle and swallows two.

They don't stay down very long.

"Indy? You all right?"

Jack is outside the door. She hears the worry and self-recrimination in his voice.

"Be fine," she says, though her voice is hoarse and shaky. "Got some pills Sally gave me. I'll be fine."

She isn't, though. This time is worse than the last. Far worse. She spends hours throwing up, her mind cycling back over and over to that horrible day, until she's too weak to stand. She doesn't bother trying to take her tranquilizers again. They'd be back up within seconds. There's nothing left in her stomach to bring up. All there is, is aching cramps, and dry nausea, and the ghost of Hathor's hand groping within her body, bruising and tearing. The images play out behind her eyes and she feels revulsion mixed with desire, because she knows and loathes and will never admit that she wanted to be in Hathor's place, that day. And feels -- with tangled logic -- that somehow she has become Hathor.

As twisted.

As evil.

Tainted.

And if that's true, then surely it's also true that she's the one who tortured Jack. And if he finds out, he'll never let her touch him again. It makes no sense, but by now she's utterly exhausted; dehydrated from the spasms of vomiting and every time she tries to drink it just triggers a new round of sickness. She lies on the floor of the bathroom covered in towels to keep warm -- the bedroom, with its blankets, is too far to go -- and thinks she may actually die here.

Eventually exhaustion and numbness bring unconsciousness.

When she wakes up, she's in bed. There's a bitter medicinal taste in her mouth. The tranquilizers are on the bedside table. She wonders how Jack got a pill down her while she was unconscious. She's terrified that he'll send her away now. So much so that she actually manages to convince him that she's fine when she sees him that evening. It's the truth: she is. Her little problem only arises when she's feeling ... wanton. And it's hard to feel amorous when you're terrified. For him as much as of what decision he'll try to make.

She spelled out the whole deal back in July.

And he forgot.

He loves her. He knows she loves him. They're here playing house. Half of Washington already thinks she's Mrs. Jack O'Neill. Foster's hinted -- very strongly -- that it would be a good idea to make it legal. He actually isn't sure how she'd feel about that. There's a difference between love and marriage. He doesn't know how long he'll be in Washington, though apparently Homeworld is safe and it looks like he's stuck with it for the duration. Retirement at the end of his 30 is more than a few years away, and it isn't a given that he'd have to retire then. Some don't. So that means years here -- if he's lucky, because any other posting will be a demotion, and he hates to fail. And by now she knows what's involved. It will only get worse. And the conversation he'd meant to have about that got out of hand and he'd kissed her. And she'd kissed him back. And everything went to hell.

He'd thought it would be like the last time. But it just went on and on. She mentioned tranqs, but he knew they weren't going to stay down. Finally -- when he didn't hear anything at all from the other side of the door for too long -- he risked opening it. And she was lying on the floor, unconscious.

Call a doctor? Even one the SGC signed off on? And say what? That he'd kissed Dr. Jackson and sent her into convulsions because of something a Goa'uld had done to her seven years ago? And oh by the way, she'd never reported it...

She'd spend the rest of her life in prison if she was lucky. As a specimen at Area 51 if she wasn't.

They've lied for each other before; that isn't a problem. But right now she needs help. If she wakes up again he doesn't know whether or not it will just start all over again. Exhaustion can kill, and he doesn't know her little problem well enough to know if it's ready to let go yet. All he knows is that it's worse this time than last.

You can get a pill down somebody who's out cold if you crush it and mix it up with something sweet; if you sit them upright and are careful, they'll swallow instead of choke; old lesson from his Black Ops days. He'd used brandy and maple syrup. He hadn't even had to crush the tranquilizers, only open the capsules. He'd fed her the mixture spoonful by spoonful, praying she wouldn't wake up before she was thoroughly drugged. Then he'd cleaned her up and gotten her into bed.

He left the office early that day. She was up and around when he got home. A little hollow-eyed. Absolutely determined to stay. In the last six months he'd managed to forget what a stubborn pain in the ass she could be. But she certainly manages to stand in the middle of the living room and ... lecture ... him at the top of her lungs for forty-five minutes about why her presence is -- still -- both vital and possible.

So he caves.

He just won't touch her. Ever. After what happened, he isn't likely to forget again.

Maybe the Tok'ra can help. It's too damned bad that Jake is dead. But Dani likes the Tok'ra. And maybe one of her books is about them. Hank could send her through the Gate to talk to them, and she could do a little extra research on the side. Because this time was worse than the first time, and what if it keeps getting worse?

They're on eggshells around each other for the next ten days. Jack is afraid even to be in the same room with her, which makes their social round more than a little awkward, though they manage. He's blaming himself, though the fault is hers, not his. She knows they're going to have to have some kind of showdown, and is dreading it, when she gets a reprieve. General Landry needs her back at the SGC. It's urgent.

The Gatebuilders are a race they call The Ancients. For reasons that make absolutely no sense to anyone, their language seems to be a derivative of Medieval rather than Classical Latin. Well, actually, it made a little more sense once they discovered that the Ancients had time-travel, and seem to have influenced Arthurian mythology (but before that, it drove her absolutely crazy for years). Anyway, fifty million years ago there was an enormous plague that wiped out all life in the Milky Way Galaxy. Including the Ancients. To save themselves, some of them fled to Pegasus Galaxy, where they built a magnificent city called Atlantis. She'd been going to go on a relief mission to Atlantis last year, with General Hammond, in the Prometheus. She'd been going because she's the only one who is even halfway fluent in Ancient. It's a maddeningly-subtle and complex language, and though half the time she isn't quite sure she has it right, she's still better at it than anyone else -- on Earth or in Pegasus. In the Prometheus, she'd only have been away about six months.

But they never got there. Prometheus was hijacked by an alien -- probably -- soldier of fortune named Vala, who told so many different stories about why she wanted the ship that Dani isn't sure if any of them are true. She also told a number of different stories about why -- of all the Prometheus' crew -- she kept Dani on board when she ringed the rest of them aboard her dying ha'tak. Dani's physical charms. Bounty money. Someone who could give Vala the operating codes for Prometheus. A hostage. Someone to talk to. A need for her professional services as a translator and linguist. All or none of them may have been true, and they never got a chance to find out, because Vala escaped.

And now Vala's back.

Vala ran into an SG Team offworld and swore she needed their help. Specifically, Dani's help, because she had acquired an Ancient tablet which needed translating. All Vala will say about it is that it talks about Earth. Vala refuses to give it up. She's sure that treasure is involved. She insists on coming to Earth and meeting with Dani personally to help with the translation.

Colonel Mitchell -- who still hasn't picked a team (which is odd, but it's General Landry's call, after all) -– has met with Vala and seen the tablet. And Mitchell has brought Vala and the tablet back to the SGC. And General Landry has sent for her, because Amelia's looked at it and thinks there's a chance it's the real deal.

She explains all of this to Jack -- by phone -- as she packs.

"I really don't see why I can't work on it here. It'll probably take me about a week to pry the thing out of the greedy bimbo's hands, and then I'll be back here. Treasure! Not what the Ancients tended to be interested in, in my experience."

"Well, be careful," Jack says.

"At least she probably isn't going to hit me this time."

"Yeah. You'll have Mitchell to watch your six."

That's an odd thought, but she knows -- now -- that Mitchell is at the SGC on Jack's recommendation. "Right. I think my driver's here. Gotta go."

She walks into the SGC, and it's as if she's never been away. Except, of course, for the fact that Mitchell meets her at the elevator and escorts her to A-3 quarters -- she's come directly here from the airport -- instead of to the Women's Changing Rooms.

"I had a set of BDUs laid out for you, Dr. Jackson," he says. "General Landry would like you to report to the Briefing Room as soon as you're changed."

"Enjoying Vala?" she asks. He blushes, and she decides that Vala probably hasn't changed much at all.

"Danielle! How good to see you! Now can we finally get started so I can get my treasure?"

The woman would be about Dani's height if not for the high heeled boots; with them, she's several inches taller. She's dressed entirely in black leather. Like a Tok'ra embracing the Dark Side of the Force. Or a Goa'uld who's decided to go in for moderation. Everything is skin-tight, though. And the fetishwear top leaves little to the imagination. Same as before.

She's pacing the Conference Room under the watchful eye of several SFs. The rest of them -- her, General Landry, Mitchell, and SG-13 (the Team Vala originally ran into) -- are seated at the table. There's a large silver box in the middle of it.

Dani looks at Mitchell. She knows he's read all of SG-1's mission files. She wonders what Vala told him to make him decide to bring her through the Gate. She wonders if any of it was true.

"What treasure, Vala?" she asks, trying not to sigh.

"The treasure on the tablet that you're going to read for me!" Vala says happily. She prances around the table and leans over Dani from behind, wrapping her arms around Dani's neck.

"Don't -- touch -- me."

"You are just so adorable when you pout. Isn't she?" But at least Vala moves.

"Tell me about the tablet. Where did you get it?"

"Oh, we can talk about that later." Vala flounces away and drops into a seat beside Mitchell. She puts a hand on his knee. He removes it. She puts it back.

"General?" Dani asks hopefully. Maybe he'll order Vala shot.

General Landry waves toward Dr. Balinsky. SG-13 made the initial contact with Vala. He gets to his feet and runs it down for her -- first contact, who said what, what they did.

"Oh for heaven's sake!" Vala bounces to her feet again and pounces on the box. Opens it. "Just translate this so we can go get my treasure!"

She thrusts a tablet into Dani's hands. Dani looks at it for a few moments.

"I don't know where you ... stole this, but you got ripped off. It's complete gibberish."

"It's written in code," Vala says loftily.

"Well, I can't crack this in a few hours. I'll have to take it back to--"

"I know the cipher," Vala interrupts.

She knows the cipher? "Then why do you need me?" Dani asks, very slowly.

"Well, reading it is one thing, understanding it is another. The individual I got this from assured me that the treasure it describes is here on Earth. Now, I could have come by ship and looked for it myself, but I know nothing about your fair planet ... other than it seems to have a rather interesting, if somewhat limited, gene pool." Vala smiles brightly at Mitchell. Mitchell is pretending she isn't there.

"All right."

"We've set up a temporary office for you down on 18, Dr. Jackson. You and Miss ... Vala can work there," General Landry says.

Dani just hopes this is worth it.

Vala squeals with girlish glee and picks up the silver case. She reaches for the tablet, but Dani clutches it to her chest. It's hers now.

She goes back to her temporary quarters and gets her laptop. It has most of the reference she'll need on it. When she gets down to 18, Mitchell, two SFs, and Vala are waiting in her temporary office. Vala seems taken with Mitchell; maybe that means she'll leave her alone, but Dani doubts it somehow.

"Now tell me the cipher," Dani says.

"First," Vala says, "I want to be sure I'm going to get my fair share of the treasure. We should discuss terms."

"Oh, for crying out loud! There is no treasure! We've never found any Ancient treasure! I have no idea what's there, but I'm pretty sure it isn't gold and jewels."

"But what if it is?" Vala demands.

Dani locks eyes with Mitchell. He shrugs. No help there.

"Look, I can either translate your stupid tablet, or we can talk about this and you won't get any answers you like."

"Fine," Vala snaps. She slams her case down on the table beside the tablet.

Dani picks up the tablet and walks over to the blackboard. The first thing she needs to do is copy it out. Then she'll need Vala's key. "This is going to take a while," she says, already entranced by the new puzzle.

"I guess I could go for coffee, then?" Mitchell says.

Dani waves absently. It would be nice if he'd take Vala with him, but she doubts the woman would leave.

"I know we didn't part on the best of terms, Danielle, and you know, I really feel dreadful about that, so I decided, when I knew I'd be coming to see you again, that I really ought to bring you a present, and -- do you know the Egyptian Goddess Nut?"

Vala is babbling again. Actually, Vala hasn't stopped. Dani is mostly tuning her out. She's asked what the tablet is worth several times. Dani keeps telling her she doesn't know. It has no intrinsic value. She's asked Vala if she's willing to sell it to them, but Vala isn't. She wants her share of the 'treasure.'

"Not personally."

"Well she -- at least the Goa'uld she -- used to marry just ever so many people, and she'd give her groom a set of matching bracelets. Well, half a set, anyway. So I thought I'd give you one."

She feels her wrist lifted, and as she looks up from the blackboard, something cool and metallic locks around it. She yanks her hand out of Vala's grip. There's a wide gold band covered with Egyptian motifs locked around her wrist. It matches the one Vala's wearing.

She pulls at it, but she can't remove it.

"You're not my type. Take it off."

"Can't do that," Vala says happily, brandishing her own now-braceleted wrist. "The key is safely hidden on the other side of the Stargate. Until I remove them, we're bound together in a rather permanent way. And I intend to be sure I get my fair share of the treasure."

Mitchell's been sitting in the corner of the office, reading a book and doing a good job of staying out from under foot. He gets to his feet, looking from her to Vala, not yet sure how much trouble this is. At her expression, he walks slowly toward them.

"Lock her up," Dani says to the SFs. There is no damned treasure.

"That isn't going to work!" Vala says as the SFs drag her out.

"Out!" Dani says.

Vala is snickering as she's escorted out, and Dani doesn't figure out why until later. She decides to go get coffee before seeing what they can do about cutting this thing off down on 19 -- and for that matter, now that Vala's locked up and she's got the tablet, she doesn't see why they shouldn't just take detailed images of it, give the original back to Vala, and send her off with some naquaadah for her troubles. Or ... not.

Mitchell joins her for coffee. Vala's in a security cell. General Landry's on his way to talk to her. That should be fun for both of them.

Mitchell apologizes for not managing to stop Vala. "Not your fault, Colonel," she tells him, turning the bracelet around her wrist. It feels odd. "I just wonder where she was keeping them."

She's on her way down to 19 with Mitchell when she passes out. She comes to in the Infirmary. Teal'c is there. She's been unconscious for fourteen hours. So has Vala.

Vala told General Landry that they were Goa'uld bracelets before she passed out. Vala was wrong about the bracelets. They aren't Goa'uld marriage bracelets. They're Goa'uld prisoner transport bracelets, something called kor mak. And they work on both of them equally, something Vala didn't expect. Dr. Lee is pretty sure that the two of them can't go more than 100 feet apart for more than half an hour or they'll die. General Landry called Teal'c back from Dakara to see if he could help, but Teal'c knows nothing more about the bracelets than what he's already said. They've tried cutting them off while she was unconscious. Dr. Lee broke several blades. The only other thing he can suggest is removing her hand and reattaching it with microsurgery.

No.

Vala still refuses to remove them until she's received her 'half of the treasure.' Vala's possessions are thoroughly searched again. Nothing that could possibly be the key is recovered, but they're all taken away from her anyway. She's moved to a room next to Dani's. In her quarters, Dani calls Jack.

"So what have you been up to?" he asks.

"I've been linked by Goa'uld technology to Vala, who wants to be sure that the SGC doesn't stiff her of her cut of the so-called buried treasure. There's these bracelets. If I'm away from her for more than half an hour, things get kind of ... ugly."

"'Ugly' as in...?"

"Coma heading for death."

"Here's a thought. Take off the bracelet."

"Won't come off without the key. She's hidden the key somewhere the other side of the Stargate. I guess the first thing to do is translate the tablet she brought, and find out what's there. I... guess I'm going to be here a while."

He sighs. "Remind me to thank Mitchell for bringing Vanna back to the SGC."

"Vala. And it's not his fault the woman's crazy."

"Uh huh. Keep in touch."

"Try to stay out of trouble."

The tablet doesn't actually say where the 'treasure' is. But it's signed, and the name is Myrddin. Merlin. Which means Avalon. They know where Avalon is. Glastonbury Tor. With the Prometheus' long-range sensors they can find out if there's actually an Ancient outpost there. She takes the information to General Landry. Based on what she tells him, General Landry approves an exploratory mission to, well, England, to see if the cavern is there, and if they can reach it. He puts Mitchell in charge of the mission. Dani goes because it's an Ancient Outpost. Vala goes because neither of them wants to die. So it's Mitchell, and her, and Vala, and Teal'c (who does not have to return to Dakara just yet, and who obviously wants to keep an eye on her), and Mitchell is thrilled to the point of distraction - which worries her - to be heading into the field with two of the members of The Legendary SG-1. Vala is pouting because she's not being let to wear her own clothes.

The Prometheus beams them up from the Conference Room. It takes them about twenty minutes to achieve geosynchronous orbit over the Isle of Avalon. Slightly longer to confirm the presence of a chamber ten miles beneath the surface of the Earth. They can beam down. But they aren't going for Vala's hypothetical treasure. They're going because of the possibility of finding an archive of Ancient knowledge here on Earth. And so they go.

The key to activating the outpost is structured as a series of tests. And if Vala could keep her hands off anything that glitters, passing them would have been business as usual. As it is, they almost get Mitchell killed. However, she figures out Vala's kleptomania in time, Mitchell takes back the Ancient coin, and suddenly the entire cavern is full of treasure.

Vala was right after all. Gold and jewels.

Several hours later the place is also full of geeks from AA&T packing the stuff up to move. Vala is lying on a heap of gold coins, pouring more over herself. She's wrapped herself in every piece of jewelry she can. Mitchell has made a remark about Scrooge McDuck, which neither Vala nor Dani understands.

Dani's found a book on the history of the Ancients. Who weren't always called the Ancients. Once, a long time ago, they were called the Alterans. And they didn't evolve here. They came here from somewhere else. Another galaxy. Vala wants the book, of course. She's smart enough to know that it's worth more than everything else in the room combined.

"You can't have it," Dani says. The thought of giving someone like Vala something like this is just ... scary.

"I can't have the book, I can't have my treasure -- well, you can just whistle for getting these bracelets off, then!"

"If you think I'm going to stay linked to you for the rest of my life--"

"You'll like it. I think you're awfully cute."

She hates being called 'cute.'

"You know," Dani says, "I think we should work something out. And I think you need to remember that we're both linked by these bracelets. It might not be a really good idea to upset me." She stares at Vala until Vala's smile fades.

They go back to the SGC, and spend several fruitless hours attempting to convince Vala to call it a day and give them the address of the planet where the key to the bracelets is. Vala is insisting on her 'cut' of the treasure. She wants the book. She's willing to settle for an astronomical amount of weapons-grade naquadaah, something which -- even if they had it -- General Landry wouldn't turn over to her. He thinks a spell in solitary confinement will convince her to cooperate. Never mind that it also means a spell in solitary confinement for Dani, since she can't go more than a hundred feet from Vala for more than half an hour.

She wants to go home to Washington. To Jack.

She has dinner with Vala in Vala's quarters -- the very best meal the Commissary can lay on, including wine -- to try to convince Vala to Be Reasonable. The SGC is certainly willing to compensate her for her troubles. But they don't have any weapons-grade naquadaah. And they're not turning over any part of the cache of Ancient artifacts. If Vala can come up with something else, Dani will be willing to try to negotiate on her behalf. There must be something else she wants.

That's pretty much the last thing Dani remembers.

She wakes up tied hand and foot, lying on the pel'tac of an al'kesh.

"Hello, sweetie! Back among the land of the living, I see!"

"What the hell...?"

"Lovely things you have in your Infirmary. And completely tasteless in any common beverage, did you know? After you nodded off, I just tossed you over my shoulder, collected my things, climbed up to the surface -- bit of a hike, that -- and signaled my ship. I sent it to Earth on auto-pilot when I knew I was coming for a visit. Always a good idea to have an alternate means of transportation, I always say. Especially since I found out you keep your Stargate in that hole in the ground."

The SGC, it has been said many times, is designed to keep people out, not in.

"You kidnapped me."

"Oh, I prefer to think of it as expanding your options. Besides, you wouldn't have liked it very much if I'd left you behind."

"Neither would you. What do you want, Vala?"

"My treasure. You stole my treasure from me."

Dani sits up with difficulty. They'll look for her, of course. But the al'kesh undoubtedly has a cloaking device, so they'll be looking for her on Earth. They're probably light-years away by now. "Well, strictly, it wasn't your treasure. You stole the tablet, the treasure was on Earth, and I did most of the work. But it's just money."

Vala stares at her as if she's lost her mind. She's back in one of her black leather costumes again. "Says the woman who's obviously never missed a meal in her life."

"You don't know a lot about me, Vala. But my point is, it's only gold and jewels. It's only useful for what it can buy. So... what do you want to buy with it? Because, you know, there might be easier ways to get what you want..."

Vala continues to stare at her, as if she can't believe what she's hearing. "How do you know what I want?"

"I don't." Dani sighs. "That's why I asked you."

"And what is it you want most in the universe, Danielle?"

Jack.

"I'm only telling you that if my other choice is death, Vala."

She can't fly the al'kesh, she gets no chance to send a message to anyone who might be able to rescue her, and she can't ring down to a planet with a Stargate and escape while she's wearing the kor mak anyway. Vala takes her clothes away, and entertains herself by forcing Dani to wear Vala's idea of suitable clothing for space pirates. It's the least of Dani's humiliations, as Vala is also apparently convinced that Dani is an interstellar sex kitten just dying to succumb to Vala's charms. Which she certainly isn't. But apparently, if Vala can't have a share of the treasure, she'll take Dani as her payment.

While it's not the worst captivity she's ever suffered, it's certainly the most maddening. Vala never shuts up.

Weeks pass.

It turns out that Vala's story about having been a former Goa'uld host is true. She used to be host to the Goa'uld Qetesh until the Tok'ra freed her several years ago. She's planning to return to the planets in Qetesh's domain to impersonate Qetesh and loot them for treasure, and she expects Dani to help. Dani is to impersonate her lo'tar.

Dani thinks they've made a couple of stops already while she's been locked up. She thinks the key to the bracelets is now hidden somewhere on board the ship. She doubts she'll find it. She has no idea what it looks like, just to begin with. And no idea of how to operate it if she does get her hands on it.

They arrive at their first stop. Vala is decked out in full Goa'uld regalia, with a voice modulator to give her The Voice. They ring down to the temple on a planet that Vala says was Qetesh's throneworld -- Qetesh was obviously only a minor Goa'uld -- and soon enough, a bunch of Jaffa-wannabes come running. Humans, but with Jaffa staff-weapons. They're confused and surprised to see her. Vala's been gone a long time.

Dani senses trouble. Vala doesn't seem to. She goes barging right in with a complete disregard for nuance and consequence. She, Qetesh, has returned. Naturally, there will be a feast.

"Vala, something's not right here," Dani whispers.

Vala is seated on Qetesh's throne. Dani is kneeling at her feet, something Vala is getting way too much enjoyment out of. That, and the fact that Dani has had to hand-feed her throughout the entire feast. There's a long very boring play going on right now, in honor of 'the god's' return.

"Quiet," Vala whispers back.

"Vala, I was Lord Yu's lo'tar. I know about Goa'uld courts. Trust me, these people aren't acting the way they ought to be."

"Shut up," Vala says.

There's nothing else Dani can do but obey. But she's right. At the end of the play, the room fills with warriors with torches and weapons.

The village headman comes forward. "Kill them both!" he says. "This is not the False God Qetesh! The day of the False Gods is over! The Tok'ra have told us so! Qetesh is dead!"

Crap. She springs to her feet, blocking their shot at Vala.

"Wait-wait-wait! What you say is true. This woman is not Qetesh. She is a thief named Vala. She, like yourselves, was the victim of Qetesh. She was Qetesh's host, and if you know the Tok'ra, you know that to be host to a Goa'uld is a terrible thing for the victim. And yes, she has come here to deceive you, but surely that does not deserve death?" At least they aren't going to shoot immediately.

"Who are you?" the headman asks suspiciously.

"My name is Danielle Jackson. I am Tau'ri. From Earth."

"We have heard of the Tau'ri. For your part in liberating us from the False Gods, you may go. The woman Vala must remain."

"Well, actually, I can't do that," she says.

"Oh, come over here," Vala says irritably.

"Not now, Vala."

"Yes, now. Unless you want to die right here."

She looks back. Vala is fumbling in her impressively-cantilevered cleavage. She pulls out a small red scarab, runs it over the kor mak she's wearing. It pops open, becoming a rigid strip again. Then Vala reaches for Dani's wrist. Dani holds it out automatically. Vala runs the scarab over Dani's bracelet. Dani feels a strong tingle. The bracelet pops off. She's free.

"Run along," Vala tells her. There's no expression on her face.

Dani turns back to the headman. "Look, she deceived you, yes. But no harm has actually been done. Let us both go."

It isn't that easy. It takes her three days of arguing to win Vala's freedom. It reminds her of another planet, another time, when she fought for Teal'c's life in a ritual called Cor-Ai. They want to judge Vala for what Qetesh did to them.

There's more going on here than just their (perfectly reasonable) hatred of Qetesh. Since the fall of the Goa'uld Empire, most of the former Goa'uld worlds now resemble the less-attractive Third World countries of Earth. Half of the Empire was delighted to be freed of Goa'uld tyranny and raids after Dakara fell. The other half is incapable of surviving in freedom. And the SGC is too small -- and face it, Earth's culture is too primitive -- to prop up the culture and economy of thousands of worlds, some of which they barely know about. Qetesh tyrannized these people, worked many of them to death, and exploited them, but without her, they're starving. And these people don't know how to work their Stargate. That was a secret 'the god' held closely.

She wins at last; first forcing them to hold a trial called a Mal Doran (apparently Vala named it after herself), and then convincing them that Vala has been as much a victim as they were. She makes them see that Vala is not Qetesh.

And then she teaches them how to use their Stargate. Gives them the addresses for lush, fertile, uninhabited worlds. They can go to any they choose to start new lives. They don't have to stay here to work the mines for a master who no longer exists. She gives them other addresses. Addresses with settlements. They can take Qetesh's horded treasure to those worlds, trade for the things they'll need to start a new life.

Vala, predictably, is furious.

"That was my treasure!" she says, the moment they're back aboard the ship.

"It was Qetesh's treasure, and I just spent the last three days establishing that you're not her so could you please just shut up and leave me in peace for a change?"

"You are so annoying," Vala croons, attempting to put her arms around Dani. "Is it any wonder that I love you so?"

"That's been said before, and I doubt you do, and get your hands off me," she says, attempting to untwine herself from Vala. It's difficult. "I've told you before. You're not my type."

"And what is your type? Mmmm? The toothsome Mitchell?"

"God. No."

"Teal'c, then? Lovely bit of Jaffa?"

"Oh for crying out loud, Vala!" She does manage to push her away then, and stalks to the other end of the pel'tac.

"Temper, temper. Why didn't you use the Stargate to go home?"

"Because I haven't got my GDO. I can't."

There were other destinations she might have tried. But the lo'tar costume she's wearing involves a sheer kilt and a gold lame bandeau top, she doesn't have her glasses, and the Galaxy is just a little bit unsettled for her to think jaunting around it dressed like that is a really good idea. Even to Chulak, from what she's heard.

"So you think I'm a better bet?"

"Are you going to take me home?"

"Is that what you want?"

"Vala, what I want, I can't have. So yes, take me home. I'll see that you're paid for your services."

Vala is stalking her again, like a damned cat. And her back is up against the bridge bulkhead now, and she's damned if she's going to run.

"You saved my life down there," Vala says, and for once there's no attitude in her voice and no little-girl games. She just sounds ... puzzled.

"Yes."

"I took the bracelets off so you could go. And you stayed and saved my life. Even though I'm a Goa'uld."

"You're not a Goa'uld. You're a host. A former host, actually. It's not the same."

"Isn't it?" Vala sounds bitter. At least it's an honest reaction.

"My brother was a host." And she carries Hathor's ghost within her forever.

"Is he dead?" Vala asks bluntly.

"He is now. Anubis destroyed his planet. But the Tok'ra freed him before that, and he went home and lived happily among his people. He married. He had children." Dead. All dead.

"Last I saw, Earth was still there."

"My brother and my family were from Abydos. Iunu."

"Oh yes," Vala says softly. "Qetesh remembers that. She ran away after that. She went back to my homeworld to hide. That's how she got caught."

The host retains the memories of their life as a Goa'uld host, and remembers every interaction with the symbiote, even after they're separated. Simon does. Skaara did. "I'm sorry you have to remember," Dani says.

Vala shrugs. "Some days are worse than others."

"Yes," Dani says unwarily.

"You were never a host," Vala says. She looks at Dani sharply. "I'd know."

After Jolinar, Sammy always knew. "You're right. Never mind."

"No, tell me. I want to know."

"We all want lots of things."

"And you said that what you want, you can't have. So why don't you tell Auntie Vala what it is? You saved my life. I might be feeling generous enough to get it for you."

Vala is back to being a pain in the ass.

"You can't. Now if you don't mind, I'm going to go put on some decent clothes -- at least what passes for decent in my new wardrobe. If you're actually feeling generous, plot a course for Earth."

"What do you want most, Danielle?"

"I'm not going to tell you."

"Dani-e-l-l-l-l-l-e…" Vala whines. She plops one hand on the bulkhead on either side of Dani's shoulders and stares down at her. "One little secret? Because we're friends?"

"We're not friends."

"You saved my life."

"You'd be surprised at the lives I've saved."

"Ooh! Tell me some!"

"And the Goa'uld I've killed."

"Well at least you can tell me those."

She sighs and begins to list them: Apophis, Seth, Osirus, Ra, Tanith, Imhotep, Cronus, Hathor...

"Qetesh served Hathor. That was before my time."

Dani wonders how she knows. Vala should remember what Qetesh did while it inhabited her body. Not what it remembered from before. But there are no hard-and-fast rules about Goa'uld and their hosts.

"Considering that Ra sealed her up in a sarcophagus for her crimes, it probably was, yes." She doesn't want to talk about Hathor. Doesn't want to think about Hathor. It hurts.

"So Hathor was imprisoned on Earth."

"Yes."

"You must have let her out."

"We're not talking about this."

"Well, you have to have let her out. How else could you have killed her?"

"Some archaeologists let her out, down in the Yucatan. She killed them and then she used the Stargate to escape." She pushes away from Vala and goes to her cabin.

"Did you have a lover?"

Vala won't leave her alone.

"Several. When? Why?"

"I told you: Qetesh served in Queen Hathor's court."

She's lying on the bed, staring at the ceiling. Vala has walked into the cabin and is standing over her.

"But there's someone you love best. You can't touch him, can you? Whoever you love best? Hathor's dead and you still can't touch him."

She doesn't know where Vala has developed this bizarre insight into her personal life, but she doesn't intend to let it go any further. She rolls over onto her face, trying to shut Vala out. "Why are you doing this to me?" she mumbles into the mattress.

Vala sits down on the bed beside her. "You saved my life, and you don't even like me. They would have killed us both if you failed, and you still stayed." There's a pause. "It was one of her favorite games."

They aren't having this discussion. Time to change the subject. "Vala, what's the money for?" she says. Games. Two can play at this one.

"I want to be safe," Vala says softly. "If you're rich enough, you're safe."

Safe. Loved. There's nothing else to want, really, is there?

Dani rolls back and takes Vala's hand. "Money won't make you safe." She looks up at Vala. "I can help you," she says. "But you have to trust me."

Even in the darkened room, she sees suspicion and terror flare in Vala's eyes. Vala is afraid; it took Dani a long time to understand that. Everything else is an act. A defense against fear.

God help her, she understands Vala.

And so she speaks quickly and persuasively. Teal'c was First Prime of Apophis when he took sanctuary on Earth and became a member of SG-1. With Dani's support and backing, Vala can come and live on Earth as well. Vala has a lot to offer -- her knowledge of the Galaxy, of its peoples and customs. She'd be an invaluable resource.

"You'll have to stop stealing things. And abide by the laws of Earth. But on the upside, they'd pay you money. A salary that you wouldn't have to steal. You'd have an identity. And the protection of the SGC."

"You'd never do that."

"I give you my word."

"They wouldn't want me," Vala says flatly. She still wears the face that Qetesh showed to the Galaxy for countless years. Like the people Dani has just rescued her from, everyone Vala meets will take Qetesh's crimes for hers.

"I'd convince them that they did. And hey, I've seen the way Mitchell looks at you. He hasn't picked his team yet. You might even be able to join SG-1." Continuing the tradition of alien refugees on SG-1, if General Landry agrees.

"Your pathetic little costumes lack sex appeal."

"Vala, you'd have sex appeal in a hazmat suit."

"I'll think about it."

"What about taking me back to Earth?"

"Oh, all right. We just have to make one other stop first."

"Vala-!"

"Just one little stop, sweetie. A short one."

Vala kisses her on the cheek and walks out.

"Where are we?" Vala wouldn't tell her where they were going or why. Typical.

"A Goa'uld laboratory."

Suddenly a force field picks Dani up and slams her against a wall hard enough to drive the air from her lungs. She's pinned. Can't move. "Vala?" She hears the panic in her voice.

"Hush, sweetie. It'll all be over soon. Trust your Auntie Vala."

"What? What will be over soon?"

"I'm just going to burn out part of your brain."

"What? No!"

"Now, see, I knew you weren't going to agree to it, and rather than having a long discussion about it, I figured why not put you into the force field first and have the discussion later?"

"Vala, please--"

"Danielle, this is really for your own good."

"No it isn't!"

Vala is rummaging around in various drawers, obviously looking for something. "What's his name?" she asks.

"Who?"

"Your lover."

"I don't have a lover! Vala, please, can't we discuss this? I like my brain the way it is!"

"No, you don't, sweetie. Not after what Hathor did to it. We both know she did something, you know; your Colonel Mitchell is awfully sweet, but I'm afraid he's not terribly discreet. And I'm afraid that what she did is irreversible. So those bits just ... have to go."

"Oh, my god. Vala, don't do this."

"You won't lose much. You just won't remember her. So if there's anything you need to know, you'd better tell me now, so I can remind you of it later."

Vala is holding a glowing blue crystal in her hand. Goa'uld technology. Something Dani has never seen before.

"Vala!"

She's afraid, the way you're only afraid of crazy people. People who won't listen, won't care....

"Tell me now."

"Hathor came to the SGC and enthralled all the men but her nish'ta didn't have any effect on the women so we fought her off and she escaped but she captured SG-1 a couple of years later and Jack killed her it's all in our mission files please Vala--"

Vala is standing right in front of her now. "I just hope I remember how this works... What's your lover's name?"

Dani shakes her head silently. Jack. It's Jack. He's never been her lover. Tears are streaming down her face, and she can't move. Vala is about to kill her. Worse. Destroy all that she is.

Vala kisses her softly on the lips and presses the crystal to her temple. The pain is incredible. And she's there. In the room, with Hathor.

With Jack.

Screaming.

So much blood.

"Tell me all about Hathor," Vala says brightly, bouncing onto the bed.

Vala has the most bizarre ideas of suitable early morning conversation. Dani rolls over in bed with a groan. She has a splitting headache. "Oh, god," she moans.

Vala helps her sit up and shoves a glass into her hand. Dani's head hurts so badly she drinks it without thinking, which is never a wise thing to do with the things Vala hands you. But the pain subsides.

"Hathor?" Vala repeats.

Dani groans again. Her head feels stuffed with sawdust. "She's... the Egyptian goddess of fertility, music, and inebriation," she says after a long pause. Suddenly she remembers. The Goa'uld lab. The blue crystal. She stares at Vala, mouth hanging open. There's something else she ought to remember, but she can't.

"Hathor is a Goa'uld Queen," Vala says. "Well, was. You said she took over your SGC once, but you fought her off and she escaped, and later you killed her. And she hurt you, but I fixed it, and aren't you glad?"

"You tricked me," Dani says slowly.

"Well, I didn't think you'd go along with it if I didn't," Vala says with maddening reasonability. "People always get so upset when you tell them you're going to burn out part of their brain."

"You burned out part of my brain?" Dani yelps.

"See? But you won't miss it. Trust me. And you don't really want to know why, and I'm not going to tell you. And now we can go back to Earth."

She's been gone for over two months.

They spend several hours in nearspace orbit convincing people that they are who they say they are. She thought it was better than just showing up on the ground at Peterson, even though the cloak on Vala's ship would have let them do that. But too many people would have seen them if they landed without security precautions in place. Not a good way to start what she hopes will be Vala's new life.

One of the people she talks to from orbit is Jack.

"Indy?"

"Jack."

"So it's Jack, is it?" Vala asks, sounding interested.

"Shut up, Vala." Did she tell Vala about Jack? When?

"Still makin' friends?" Jack asks.

"Oh, yeah."

"Been gone a while."

"Is he cute?" Vala, again.

"He's a General."

"She the one who kidnapped you?" Apparently Jack can hear both of them. Great.

"Pretty much."

"How's that bracelet thing working out?"

"Got them off."

"So... you coming home?"

"Soon as I finish up at the SGC."

"And she's got a lovely surprise for you ... Jack."

"Vala!"

The debriefing at the SGC takes a week. A lot of that time is spent convincing General Landry that Vala Mal Doran will be an asset to his command, but Dani has given her word, and she keeps her promises.

She leaves out the part about the Goa'uld lab and getting her brain burned, because after all, she's trying to convince General Landry to recruit Vala. And it's not like it's something that's going to happen twice. (And if she mentions it, she's afraid the post-mission physicals and reviews will go on forever.) In the end, he agrees. And so does Vala.

She spends some of that week reviewing the mission files on Hathor. She remembers nothing. The fact that Hathor mutilated her comes as a ... shock. But it awakens no memories. They are well and truly gone. Everything else seems to be in working order, though. It is an odd feeling, those gaps, but her memories have been tampered with before, in other ways. Eventually, she knows, she'll stop noticing. Apparently that this is something she needs to mention to Jack, for some reason. She doesn't know why. He will, though.

Vala knows, but is refusing to tell her. Her idea of a joke.

At the end of the week, Dani flies back to Washington. Jack meets her at the airport. She expects a hug, but he's standing several feet away and won't come closer. She can almost figure out why. It seems that this is something else to do with Hathor. Puzzling, that the memory-chains associated with Hathor would extend so far into the present. She frowns.

"Something wrong?" Jack asks, looking worried.

"I've got a lot to tell you," she says. "And it looks as if you've got a lot to tell me."

They drive home. She's relieved to note that everything looks familiar. There are more gaps in her memory than she expected. It was supposed to be just things around the time of the two mission files associated with Hathor, and -- so it appears -- it isn't.

"So," he says. Upstairs in the den. Settled in, all comfy. But he's in a chair on the other side of the room, looking at her like she's an unexploded bomb. And the reason for that is buried in one of her memory gaps.

"I seem to have a little problem," she says.

"Ah?" Now he's looking really wary.

"Well... Vala. She was host to the Goa'uld Qetesh, who served in Hathor's court -- several thousand years ago -- and so -- um, at this point this is all second-hand information for me -- apparently she -- Vala -- figured out that Hathor did something to me -- I don't know why the subject would have come up -- and she fixed it. But that involved burning out several parts of my brain, so I--"

"I-- Hold it. Wait. Back up. She burned out your brain?"

"Yeah, that's what I said. She didn't give me a lot of choice at the time."

"And that means...?"

"I don't remember anything having to do with Hathor at all, and that seems to be a lot more extensive than it ought to be, because I have no idea why you're sitting on the other side of the room staring at me like that."

There's a long pause while Jack thinks about that.

"You don't remember ... her?"

"Hathor. No. I read the mission files while I was at the SGC, but there wasn't anything there that would really explain this, and I didn't want to ask about it. And I seem to have a lot more, um, gaps in my memories than the times around our two contacts with Hathor. I don't know why."

"So Vala cured you?"

"Of what?"

"You were having ... flashbacks. Ever since then."

"Oh." That would at least explain why there are gaps all the way down to the present. She shakes her head. She's missing something here. "Is that why you're all the way over there?"

He sighs. "Indy, remember your last birthday?"

"I resigned from SG-1."

"And then?"

She doesn't remember anything after that.

"New Years' Day?"

"Terry stopped by..." Nothing after that. "And then I went to the SGC." Ten days later. She looks at him with panic in her eyes. He comes and sits down next to her. But at the other end of the couch.

"Some of it'll probably come back. The rest of it... I came to visit you on your birthday. And you told me Hathor had futzed with your mind. All I know is any time I tried to kiss you, you'd get sick. You said it happened any time you tried to get ... close to someone you ... cared about."

There's only one person she cares about that way. "You tried to kiss me?"

"Twice. The second time you damned near died."

"Vala said she fixed me," she offers in a small voice.

"Not taking the chance," Jack says firmly.

"At least you want to kiss me," she says unhappily, flopping back on the couch.

"Don't push it," Jack warns.

She settles back into the role of General O'Neill's virginal adjunct. He's made excuses for her absence. Difficult when he had no idea if she'd ever be coming back. Now a cover-story is created and circulated; research trip to the Middle East.

The Director of the NID sends her flowers. Jack was never quite sure they hadn't taken her, and they're glad to be off the hook.

March becomes April. More of her memories return, settling in around the Hathor-gaps. She doesn't know what it was like before, but now she wants Jack and seethes with frustration. Not on the same Gate Team. Not in the same chain of command. No reason why not. Except that apparently a kiss nearly killed her once, and he's afraid to risk it, no matter what Vala's said. Nice that he cares so much, but it's driving her crazy.

She hates rejection; she always has. But it's okay, she tells herself, if he rejects her. He just needs to know that she's okay. She won't break or shatter. Hathor is really gone. Then he can make an informed decision. Or at least stop worrying.

He'll never make the first move.

Friday night. She drove into the city to meet him. Reception. High heels and earrings. Spent the evening being called 'Mrs. O'Neill' again, which is more annoying now that she wants the perks that go with being Mrs. O'Neill, one in particular. It's after midnight when they finally get back. She left her car in the city. She'll ride in with him on Monday and pick it up.

They share a nightcap and decompress from the social round they both hate. At least he's stopped being quite so skittish around her. But something in that void of lost-forever memories must have truly terrified him. Well, he never likes it when she dies. Or almost-dies.

Afterward, she takes a long hot shower, gathering her courage. Waits an hour until she's sure he's asleep. Goes down the hall to his bedroom.

He's awake before she's quite under the covers.

"Get out of here."

"You're going to have to touch me to throw me out. And I'm naked."

He starts to roll out of the bed on the other side. She flings a leg over him, straddling him. She has him pinned face-down in the bed; not exactly erotic, but she's pressed up against his back -- he sleeps in boxers and a t-shirt -- so it should count.

"Are you trying to kill yourself?"

"I'm proving a point." She rests her chin on his shoulder and simply lies there. Seconds pass. Nothing happens. "See, Jack? I'm fine."

"Move, will you?"

She rolls away. He turns to face her. They're lying on their sides, facing each other. The room is too dark for her to see anything, but she can feel his body heat.

"See, if you don't want me, that's one thing, but being afraid that I'm still ... not right ... that's a whole different..." She stops. He's running his hand down her side, over her ribs and up over the curve of her hip.

"Still fine?"

"Still," she says. Aside from feeling horribly embarrassed at what she's done.

He rolls onto his back. Thinking. Lets out a long sigh, which tells her he was more than a little shaken. And that she must have been spectacularly unfine before.

She wonders what she told Vala, and when. And why. For some reason, she can't remember. It's hard to remember the details of every conversation she had with Vala anyway. The woman ... nattered.

"Going to stay?" Jack asks. Here, he means. In his bed.

She hadn't thought that far. "Well, I, well, it's your bed, and--" And she's made her point.

"C'mere."

She moves over tentatively toward the center of the bed. He puts an arm around her, easing her snug against his side. Her heart is beating so fast she feels lightheaded. Her memory is still spotty and probably always will be, but that doesn't mean she doesn't know how long she's yearned to be right where she is now.

He leans in to kiss her, finding her mouth by touch. Is this what nearly killed her before?

"Still?"

"Oh. Still."

And still and still and still.

She wakes up in the morning alone in the bed. Jack's an early riser and she isn't. Besides, he has a standing golf date on Saturdays. He's probably already gone. She finds her robe laid out across the foot of the bed, puts it on, and goes down the hall to her bedroom. Everything's changed now. She's not quite sure whether to be happy. She thinks she could be. Can be. It depends on Jack.

The thought makes her smile ruefully. More than a decade ago, even while still sick in love with Simon Gardner, she'd fought tooth and nail against becoming an adjunct to his life and his career. Now she's fought just as hard to become an adjunct to Jack's. She's moved across the country. She wears bizarre costumes. She's taken up hobbies she doesn't like and is cultivating people she can't stand. All to promote Jack's new job.

But Jack's job protects the SGC. And the SGC protects Earth. A continuation of her old job, really. And she loves Jack far more than she ever loved Simon. Jack is far more worthy of love. She has loved him since Abydos, she suspects. That's just about all of her adult life. Not able to say -- to touch with intent -- to kiss -- until now. And now, what matters is whether Jack ... panics. Because he's always been ambivalent about her being here at all. And he sometimes gets the oddest idea of chivalry. Protecting her from the wrong things.

She showers and dresses and goes downstairs.

In the last four months Indiana has put him through hell without even trying. To be fair, some of it wasn't her fault. First she nearly dies. Again. He'll share the blame for that.

Then back to the SGC and shackled to an interstellar smuggler with a set of Goa'uld bracelets. Bad enough. But then a week later the two of them ... vanish. And nobody knows where to look -- because they didn't go through the Stargate -- and if they're somewhere on Earth, one little slip-up, separate the two of them for long enough, and they're both going to be dead. And he'll probably never know. His only consolation is that if the NID does have them, they'll probably listen to Indy. So they're probably both still alive.

They search for weeks. Hank's best guess is that Vala got the two of them off Earth somehow, but it's only a guess. And two months after Indy vanishes, she's back. With Vala. Hell-bent on convincing Hank to give the woman a job at the SGC.

But at least she comes home. And tells him that Vala burned out parts of her brain as a sort of farewell gift. So she doesn't remember that snakehead bitch Hathor. Or what she's had to live with for the past seven years. Or a few other things. Like her last birthday. Or the last time he kissed her and what happened afterward.

It's not that he can't bear to touch her. It's that he's afraid to, no matter what Vala's told her. (Not the most trustworthy source of intel, when all is said and done.) He knows Dani's impatient. He knows she's going to push things.

He just wasn't expecting last night.

He's not sure whether her timing is lousy or perfect. She caught him pretty much off-guard, and all he could think of while she was wrapped around him was that if she got sick again he was calling the SGC, and damn the consequences. He couldn't lose her twice. Whatever the fallout, he'd make it go away. He had the clout for that.

But nothing had happened. Nothing bad, anyway.

She can be bossy, aggressive, arrogant, and a real pain-in-the-ass. In professional matters. Or something she considers important enough to push for. Otherwise? Surprisingly diffident. Alternating between hesitant and oblivious, as if she's either afraid she's going to overstay her welcome, or just doesn't want to know the worst. He'd like to spend a long time convincing her she could never overstay her welcome. If he plays his cards right, he'll get the chance.

No golf today. He's got more important things to do.

She comes downstairs. The coffee's been made, and is still fresh. His golf clubs are still here. He's outside.

April is a far more forgiving month in Maryland than in Colorado. The cherry trees are in bloom, and everything's already green. He's wearing jeans and a battered sweatshirt, surveying his domain. Not much in the way of gardening to do, with the groundskeepers. Just as well, as he has no time. But she knows he misses ... pottering.

She walks over to him. He drapes an arm around her shoulders. She leans a bit of her weight against him. Still fine.

"So," he says.

"So," she agrees.

She wonders what summer will be like here. Sammy says it's horrible. Very humid. She'll have to make sure there's a dehumidifier in place to protect her books.

"Foster thinks we ought to, ah, regularize the arrangement," Jack says. He isn't looking at her.

'Regularize the arrangement.' Make it legal. Marry. Terry's been hinting at that to her almost since she arrived. Not exactly her call, though. The one time she broached the subject to Jack, back in November, he hadn't really seemed interested. But it would be easier and more appropriate and she knows that Washington is conservative. And Generals aren't expected to be 'living in sin', even in the twenty-first century.

And she wants to marry Jack O'Neill. It's archaic and unreasonable and reactionary of her, but she does.

"So he's indicated," she says neutrally. "At least you'd be able to kiss the bride."

"Important," Jack agrees, equally blandly.

Silence for a while.

"Big step," Jack says.

"You don't have to do everything Terry wants, you know," she says, taking a deep breath. "I'm not leaving, no matter what. You already know that."

"Then ... let me. Marry you."

It takes her a moment to realize what she's heard. She stares up at him, and he's looking down at her. Not sure of her response. She nods, still trying to find her voice. "Yes," she finally manages to say.

This is what thirty-six looks like. Satin and pearls and lace. A veil and a train. A July wedding in high Washington style.

Sammy and Cassie arrived a week ago to help her put the finishing touches on it -- and to celebrate her birthday. This was the month they'd all been supposed to spend some time at the cabin in Minnesota together. Maybe next year. (Getting married takes precedence, Sammy and Cassie agree.) And July was the absolute soonest she could pull it off: twelve weeks is whirlwind speed by the standards of the sort of event she's foredoomed to arrange. Apparently it can take up to three years. However, someone once said that time is money. And the reverse is apparently true as well: money is time. If you spend enough money, you can condense three years into three months.

When Sammy and Cassie arrive, they stay at the house. They take the guest bedrooms. She's moved into the master suite long since.

Sammy wasn't all that surprised when she broke the news to her about the engagement and impending wedding. Apparently Vala Mal Doran has no sense of discretion at all, though whatever she's said, while horrible to contemplate, has apparently not been enough to get Dani arrested for errors of judgment, omission, or commission in her checkered past. She doesn't know what it is, and doesn't want to know, though apparently the gossip has flown at least as far as Area 51. At any rate, Sammy takes the news in stride. And is helpful, in the weeks that follow. She and Cassie agree to be attendants. Sammy provides opinions on Dani's dress. Sammy cannot entirely protect her from Vala, who holds a bridal shower in absentia -- apparently someone has explained the custom to her -- and ships the presents to her. Dani would give a great deal to know which of her so-called friends at the SGC came up with what. She'd take them off the guest list. She's pretty sure which item in the box is Vala's. She just can't imagine where the woman got it. She dismembers everything she can into unrecognizability and throws it out. The rest of the items she hides in the attic.

It costs -- Sammy told her once -- a quarter of a million dollars each time the SGC turns on the Stargate. She hasn't spent quite that on her wedding, but the amount she has spent -- the bride pays for the wedding, and she's cleaving to tradition -- makes her quite ill when she thinks about it. The most exclusive wedding planner in Washington, vital to get everything done in time. The dress. The reception hotel. The caterer. The guest list. And thank god for Terry. Between her and Jack, they'd come up with about twenty people they wanted to invite. (Of course, Jack had wanted to have the wedding in Vegas, while she'd thought The Land of Light would be a nice choice.)

It was Terry who pointed out, with his usual tact, that while their (long overdue) wedding was, of course, a joyous time, it was also an important social occasion, which meant, even in Washington's off-season, a political occasion. So he had a short list of appropriate invitees, if the General and Dr. Jackson didn't mind...?

Six hundred at the church. A thousand at the reception. A small wedding, of its kind. And one of the more profound shocks of this whole surreal experience is discovering that Jack is, nominally, Lutheran. She registers china, silver, crystal patterns. At least the next time they throw a dinner party they won't have to rent all the tableware.

And the day is here at last.

"Are you all right?" Sammy asks her for perhaps the seven-hundredth time.

"Fine," she says automatically. "I'm fine." She's terrified. The rehearsal was three days ago. Jack clowned his way through it. Not much of a ritual, compared to some she's gotten through on the other side of the Gate.

Oh, god, she's forgotten her lines.

"You'll be fine," Sammy says reassuringly. Cassie grins at her. There's a knock at the door. Sammy opens it. General Hammond is there. He's retired now, but here to walk her down the aisle. He's said she can call him 'George' now. She can't imagine doing so.

"It's time," he says. "You look lovely, my dear."

Sammy folds the veil down, covering her face. The bride is veiled on Abydos, and once she thought she would marry there. General Hammond holds out his arm. She steps forward. Takes it. Sammy and Cassie precede her out of the room. She moves in careful lockstep down the aisle. Jack and Teal'c are waiting for her at the altar. The church is packed. Strange, the difference a year can make. This time last year? The week after her birthday. And things were about as bad as they could get.

They reach the top of the aisle. Sammy and Cassie have already moved off to their positions. She glances to one side and nearly stops dead. Vala is sitting beside Colonel Mitchell and General Landry in the first pew. Vala catches Dani's eye and smirks encouragingly.

Oh, god, what is Vala doing here? She remembers sending General Landry an invitation, and Colonel Mitchell, but Vala? Only years of practice keeps her moving. She steps forward and takes her place beside Jack. She has no idea what promises she makes to the minister, or for that matter, in what language. She hears a quickly-stifled whoop behind her when Jack kisses her at the conclusion of the ceremony. She looks down. The rings are heavy on her finger. They turn, and proceed back down the aisle.

"Oh, thank god, that's over," she says, as they walk down the aisle.

"Not quite," Jack says. "Reception."

"Mitchell brought Vala," she says helplessly.

"I noticed. Guess we have to keep her away from the wedding gifts."

"In what she's wearing she won't be able to hide very much." She groans, contemplating the possibility for disaster. "I can't believe he brought Vala," she says again.

"I guess she wanted to see how it all worked out," Jack says.

Dani gives him a look of utter betrayal.

"Time to make our grand exit."

It's bright outside the church. The limousine is waiting. Confetti is thrown -- the upscale replacement for rice. Mitchell is holding onto Vala very firmly. Her outfit -- miniskirt, boots, corselet and transparent skin-tight jacket -- is barely decent, and almost the color of her skin.

Well, at least it isn't black.

She didn't want formal wedding photographs, he didn't want a formal receiving line. They both got what they wanted. But the point of a reception is still to ... receive.

President Hayes wasn't able to attend the wedding for security reasons, but he stops in to the reception (hardly a stretch for the Secret Service, considering the rest of her guest list). He's delighted at their marriage, and congratulates them both. Invites them to return to the White House again soon. Claims the traditional kiss from the bride.

"Now it's my turn!" Vala announces, as Jack is walking President Hayes out. Just when Dani thinks she's safe. Because the last time she saw Vala, she was prowling around the gifts table, entranced by all the shiny sparkly things. Vala grabs her and spins her around and kisses her rather thoroughly, and Dani's too stunned and too tangled up in the archaic ritual dress to do much more than wriggle for at least five seconds, until she can find her footing and yank herself free.

"It's traditional," Vala says happily.

"Well, now we know why you didn't want to come back to SG-1," Mitchell says. He's standing right behind Vala. Looking pleased with himself, as if he's figured out the answer to a riddle.

She doesn't know what to say. That wasn't the reason and it was, and even on her wedding day -- all secrets over forever -- the idea that other people know is still something she doesn't expect. She locks eyes with Vala. "I hope you're treating Colonel Mitchell better than you treated me."

Vala preens. "Oh come now, Danielle. It can't be all bad. You've got your Jack now, haven't you? Tell Auntie Vala -- is he all that you hoped for in bed? Because I'd hate to think, after all I've done for you, that--"

"Vala!"

Vala shuts up, but it's obviously only a temporary reprieve. Dani makes the most of it. She looks at Mitchell. "Take her away. Get her drunk. Do something."

Mitchell is looking past her.

"Problem?" Jack asks.

"No," Dani says desperately.

Vala opens her mouth again. Mitchell clamps a hand over it. "No problems, sir," he says.

"Good," Jack says.

"Come on, Sunshine," Mitchell says to Vala. (Not removing his hand from her mouth.) He walks her firmly away. She's trying to say something, but it's muffled. Thankfully.

"I'm doomed," Dani groans quietly.

"I don't think so," Jack says. "Mitchell's resourceful. And he knows better than to piss off a General's wife."

A General's wife. That's her.

"C'mon," Jack says. "I think we're supposed to dance now."

So they do.

A couple of hours later she goes upstairs to change. They're actually getting a honeymoon out of this. Not long. Only a few days. But time alone, away from Washington. Just them.

The wedding planner -- there for all of it, to make sure everything ran smoothly -- helps her out of her dress. It will be packed, now, and stored away. Another archaic ritual custom, though there will be no daughters to hand it down to. She'll never have children. She supposed she'd had years to get used to the idea ... before. But it's recent information now, and now everything's different. So it hurts, when she lets herself think about it. She won't think about it. That, at least, she has years of practice at. Not thinking about things.

She changes, quickly, into clothing suitable for a fishing cabin in Minnesota. After a day spent in a corset and satin slippers, it's a relief.

"I see someone has left you a present." The wedding planner picks up the flat silver box from the bed and hands it to Dani. It was tucked carefully under the going-away clothes.

There's a card. The handwriting isn't Jack's. Just in case you ever need them. She waits until the woman leaves before opening the box.

Inside are the two kor mak. And the key.

Vala.

Dani shudders faintly, closing the box quickly again and putting it into her purse. She's not quite sure what to do with them. She supposes Vala means well, but she's already bound to Jack more tightly than any pair of Goa'uld bracelets could ever manage. Nine years of sleeping and waking. Of going through the Gate. Of facing death together. And now, a new life together. She picks up her purse and her jacket and heads for the door.

There are some things it doesn't hurt to think about at all.