Gigi Sinclair

Paul Davis knew it was going to be a bad day when, instead of waking up to the soothing tones of Vivaldi or Debussy, he was wrenched out of sleep by the shrill shrieking of his clock radio's "alarm" function. He leaped out of bed and switched off the noise, but not before the occupants of the neo-Georgian townhouse next door, a couple of lawyers, banged on the connecting wall. Paul knew there would be a strongly worded note on Barnes and Noble faux-antique notepaper under his door when he got home.

Things didn't improve as the morning progressed. He got stuck in traffic, and, as he was pulling into his parking space, he accidentally bumped into a post, spilling coffee on his lap, putting a small but obvious dent in the front of his Mercedes and embarrassing himself in front of the guards, who watched impassively while he sorted through all of his uniform pockets for his ID card, only to remember he'd left it in the car.

When he finally got to his office-closet, really-in the bowels of the Pentagon, there were fifty-seven new e-mails waiting for him. Not bad, considering he had left the office thirteen hours before, but twenty-four of them were marked "Urgent", fifteen were "Very Urgent" and four concerned things Paul knew were supposed to have been dealt with a week ago. Despite that, he opened the message from Daniel first.

Daniel Jackson had a distinctive way of talking, a kind of absent- minded professor, scattered but always informative verbal wandering that finally, after a long, circuitous journey, arrived at the promised destination. It was endearing, in a way, when they were talking face to face, but Paul loathed it in e-mails. He read Daniel's mission briefings. He knew the man could present clear, concise information like a four-star general with thirty years of field reports under his belt, but Daniel didn't talk the way he wrote. And, when it came to Paul, Daniel wrote the way he talked.

After skimming through three long paragraphs that had little bearing on anything, Paul found Daniel's point. While he appreciated Paul's offer, Daniel wrote, and while he certainly held Paul in very great esteem, respected him, thought they had a lot in common, etc., he couldn't become "intimately involved" with anyone while there was still the possibility they would find his wife. Paul could easily imagine Daniel's embarrassed blushes and nervous stammering as he read the ending: "I sincerely hope we can continue to see each other, since I highly value our friendship."

Paul wasn't entirely surprised. Asking Daniel out had been a vague attempt at developing one of those relationship things everyone seemed to have except for overworked USAF majors with high-profile, top-secret portfolios and senators to answer to. Paul liked Daniel, a lot. Paul didn't meet many eligible men he could trust, and he was attracted to Daniel, in a vague sort of way. At the same time, he'd known Daniel was off-limits, and he knew who had prior claim on him. It wasn't Sha're, whatever Daniel might be telling himself.

With the briefest of sighs, Paul closed the message and moved onto one of the "Very Urgent" ones that he knew was actually urgent. He forwarded it to the appropriate person, adding a couple of pithy comments of his own, and with a sense of smug satisfaction, dumped it in the trash as the telephone rang.

"Davis."

"Major Davis, it's George Hammond." He couldn't remember Hammond ever using his first name.

"General Hammond. What can I do for you?" And why can't you get one of your own people to do it?

"I need you to come to the SGC right away."

"Why?"

Hammond hesitated. "I can't tell you that over the phone, Major."

Paul frowned at his screen. Why people persisted in sending their office supplies requests to him, he had no idea. "This is a secure line, General."

"I need you here right away."

Paul looked at the stack of e-mails, not to mention the old- fashioned files in his in-tray. "Sir, I'm really very busy at the moment. If you could give me some idea what you need, perhaps I could do it from here."

"No!" He sounded strangely adamant. "I gave you an order, Major. I expect to see you here by the end of the day."

"Yes, sir." Paul hung up, then dialled again.

He arranged a flight for 1300 hours, which should have left him enough time to take care of the most urgent of the urgent business. The rest, he thought, he could do on the plane and at the SGC, if Hammond's mysterious problem wasn't too serious.

That was the plan, at least. Of course, like everything lately, it went awry. By 1230, when he was supposed to be getting ready to board the plane, Paul was still in his office, trying to track down a binder of budget considerations that had somehow gone astray between here and the White House. He was also trying not to explode.

"What?" He snapped, at the sound of a knock on his door. There was a pause, and the door inched open to reveal, of all people, Daniel Jackson. "Daniel?" Surprise replaced Paul's frustration, at least temporarily. "What are you doing here?" Daniel was in civilian clothes, a checked shirt, slacks and sunglasses. "Is something wrong?"

"Just thought I'd drop in for a visit," Daniel smiled. "We're actually here to get Sam."

"Major Carter?" Hammond hadn't mentioned she was in town.

"There was a chemical spill," Daniel explained. "She's delusional. She came here to try and convince Maybourne aliens had taken over the SGC."

"Oh." Paul blinked. "Has it been cleaned up?"

Daniel nodded. "It's fine now. We just need to convince her we're not possessed."

"We?" Daniel blushed a little. "Jack's downstairs with Maybourne. We're meeting Sam at a café in a few minutes." Colonel O'Neill. Of course. Wherever Daniel went, the lamb was sure to go. Although, Paul thought, more of a wolverine than a lamb in this case. "Listen, Paul, um, about that e-mail, I…"

"No need to explain, Daniel." Paul gave a small, tight smile. "I understand perfectly."

"I knew you would." Daniel took a step towards Paul. To Paul's astonishment, he found himself suddenly enveloped in a strong hug. Automatically, Paul hugged back. It had been a long time since anyone had hugged him, and he was so surprised he barely felt the sharp pinch of a needle entering his backside.

***

Paul came to with a headache and the smell of rubber in his nose. He looked around, trying to get his bearings, and realized he was hanging in what appeared to be an adult-sized Jolly Jumper suspended from some serious cables.

"What the…"

"Who's that?" Someone hissed.

"Major Davis," Paul replied automatically, looking down at the rubber suit that encased him. The last thing he remembered was hugging Daniel in his office in DC. Daniel, he remembered, had talked about a chemical spill at the SGC. Did that mean he was hallucinating?

"Colonel O'Neill." That answered that question. That man had no place in his subconscious, not like this.

"What's going on?" And where was Daniel? "How'd we get like this?"

"You're asking me?" Paul saw O'Neill pull on his harness. Well, he thought, yes, I am. Since you are the one who supposedly knows what was going on.

The door clanged open and Paul put his nose back into the foul- smelling rubber, hoping it wasn't latex. He was allergic to latex, one of the reasons he supposed he should be glad he didn't have time for sex anyway.

Paul watched as Janet Fraiser pushed in an unconscious airman on a gurney. She wasn't alone.

Fraiser ran the airman through a machine that reminded Paul, bizarrely, of some of the Play-Doh contraptions he and his sisters had played with as children. When the airman came out the other side, he wasn't divided into spaghetti strips, but he was encased in the same kind of rubber suit as the rest of them were wearing. Paul stared, fascinated, as Fraiser then affixed a small metal button to one of the armoured (at least, Paul assumed they were armoured. Those could, he thought, just as easily be their bodies) aliens. Instantly, the airman reappeared, in the place of the alien.

It took Paul a moment to figure it out, but it was soon clear it probably wasn't Dr. Fraiser who had just transformed the airman. And it probably hadn't been Daniel who'd hugged him in his office.

When she'd gone, Paul started to look for a way out of the suit. The headband felt like it was attached with Superglue, and, since he didn't want to rip off any more skin than was strictly necessary, he left it on for the time being. Feeling around, Paul noticed he was attached to the suit by a heavy clasp, like a parachute harness. He fiddled with the clasp until it released, and he fell to the ground.

"You found it." O'Neill glanced back at him.

"Sir," With a final pull, Paul ripped off the headband. "If there's another Fraiser, my guess is there's another you and me walking around, too." Daniel insisted O'Neill just played dumb, but Paul wasn't so sure, and now wasn't the time to be taking chances.

Although, Paul had to admit the colonel had a point when he asked: "Then why are we the only ones awake?"

"Maybe a malfunction." Or maybe, the universe saw an opportunity to make this experience even more stressful for Paul than it already was, and hated to pass up the chance. It wouldn't be the first time.

Paul headed over to what looked like a piece of equipment, but, since it wasn't a computer, a photocopier or a multi-line speaker phone, he had no idea what to do with it. By the time he turned back around, O'Neill was climbing a ladder next to the hanging Dr. Fraiser. "Colonel, what are you doing?"

"Trying to wake her up."

Insubordination was still a court-martiable offence, no matter what the circumstances, so Paul remained polite. "Do you think that's such a good idea, sir?" He trusted that, from his tone, the colonel would surmise it was not.

"It's an idea," was O'Neill's answer.

Great. Paul glanced back, but the door remained closed. He expected sirens and alarms to go off when O'Neill pulled the headband from her forehead. He was disappointed when there was only a soft high-pitched whine that stopped when O'Neill hastily stuck the headband back on.

"Did you hear that?" Paul whispered, the beginnings of fear in his stomach. He was combat-trained, but most of the battles he waged were psychological. It was a long time since he'd physically fought anything tougher than a stapler, and this was starting to creep him out.

Jerking his head for Paul to follow, O'Neill ducked behind the door. Sure enough, it opened a moment later, and Paul had the unexpected experience of seeing O'Neill flatten Fraiser with a single punch.

It only got more bizarre. "You hold her." The alien playing Fraiser wasn't heavy, but O'Neill handed her to him so abruptly, Paul was caught off-balance and had to sit down. He propped her in front of him, while O'Neill started to frisk her.

"A nice alien like you's gotta…" He grinned triumphantly as he pulled out a sidearm. "Hello."

"What about the other thing?" In Paul's opinion, the guns were the least of their worries. While the aliens were wearing the button or whatever that was, there was no way of telling who was on their side. If anyone still was.

"The other thing." O'Neill looked uncomfortable. If it had been Daniel instead of Fraiser, Paul thought, O'Neill probably would have had his shirt off by now, and his pants just to be sure. But the idea of him and O'Neill undressing an unconscious Daniel, in alien form or not, was not a helpful one, and Paul pushed it quickly aside. "She's just an alien," O'Neill seemed compelled to remind himself and Paul, before taking a deep breath and unbuttoning her shirt.

Sure enough, the button was there. Tentatively, O'Neill removed it, and right away, Fraiser dissolved into one of the big, copper- coloured aliens they'd seen earlier.

Reflexively, Paul backed away and O'Neill drew the gun.

"That's an alien all right," O'Neill concluded. "Why don't you find something to tie it up?"

Paul would rather have found a good stiff drink. Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself that he dealt with aliens all the time. Who, after all, had single-handedly arranged accommodation for the System Lords when they'd come to talk with the oh-so-wonderful Colonel O'Neill? Who'd co-ordinated the meeting? Who'd made sure they had fucking water in the carafes, for God's sake? Paul could do this, he told himself. He was competent. He was cool. He was confident.

At least until the door opened again, and Paul found himself beside a Mexican standoff between O'Neill and someone who looked like Daniel.

"Hello." O'Neill sounded relaxed, but from his vantage point, Paul could see the sweat on his forehead. Thank God, he sighed. He wasn't the only one.

Maybe-Daniel, on the other hand, seemed calm, if a little wary. "Colonel?" And there was the giveaway. Daniel never called O'Neill anything other than "Jack." Surely O'Neill knew that?

"Yes?" Or maybe not. Paul tried to signal to him, but O'Neill was too busy staring at the alien in front of him.

"It's you?" The alien asked, obviously not taking any chances on hurting one of its own kind.

"Yes."

Paul shifted, wondering if he could catch it off-guard and disarm it. The alien glanced briefly at him, then said: "It's good to see you." It glanced past O'Neill's head, blinking in shock at the sight of the hanging people. "Oh my God."

OK, Paul thought, that was going a little far, but maybe not all of the aliens knew the mechanics of the operation. He worked with enough fossils in the Pentagon to know it was perfectly possible to be a respected general and still think a mouse was something women screamed at and a server was the person who brought you coffee in the officers' mess. There was no reason why the aliens should be different.

"I figured they had to be keeping you alive in order to access your minds," the alien continued.

"Whoa, hey." O'Neill interrupted. "Who are you?"

"Sir?"

O'Neill gestured impatiently and with a distracted, "Sorry," that did, Paul had to admit, sound Daniel-like, the alien reached into its shirt and transformed itself.

"Major Carter?" Paul wasn't sure whether that was more disturbing than Daniel turning into an alien, but it was certainly more surprising.

"Oh." O'Neill lowered his weapon. "Well, in that case, it's good to see you, too."

Carter nodded, barely glancing at Paul. "Every one of the people in this room has been duplicated by the aliens, sir."

"I noticed that."

"The procedure didn't work on me or Teal'c. We escaped, but Teal'c's been captured."

Paul glanced at O'Neill. He knew from Daniel, as well as from the Air Force gossip mill, that O'Neill was psychotically protective of his teammates. Knowing that Teal'c had been taken by the aliens put a whole new spin on the situation.

"Where is he?"

"I don't know. I haven't had time to find him, sir. Look, Colonel Maybourne's forces are moving in soon."

"Maybourne? How'd he get here?"

"I called him."

Paul blinked, trying to bring a fuzzy memory into focus. Daniel had told him Carter had contacted him and they were meeting at a restaurant…no, a café.

"Willingly?"

To Carter's credit, Paul thought, she didn't joke around. "Colonel, in twenty-nine minutes those forces are going to break down the front door and shoot anything that resists. We need to get our people disconnected."

Twenty-nine minutes. Paul had pulled off an impromptu four-way international summit, with live video feed and professional interpreters, in less.

"I pulled that headband off Fraiser, and her evil twin came running," O'Neill told her.

"Well how did you two get free?"

Carter glanced at Paul, which he took as a cue. "We just woke up."

Carter considered this, a frown crossing her face. "It must have happened when I killed you."

"I'm sorry?"

"I killed the aliens impersonating both of you on the plane."

Well, Paul thought, at least he'd made the flight after all.

"And they don't know you did this?" O'Neill asked.

"I don't know, sir." Carter glanced upwards. "There's a specific tone that, if sustained, will disrupt these devices. The machine's in my lab."

"Go." O'Neill ordered. Nodding, Carter changed back into Daniel and Paul, hoping that the mental scars from witnessing that would eventually heal, said:

"Sir, we're going to need more weapons."

"Armoury." O'Neill led the way.

As soon as they arrived, O'Neill flung open one of the gun lockers and asked, "You up for this, Major?"

"Yes, sir."

"Cause if you're not…"

"I am, sir." Paul repeated, definitely. It was true. Daniel-the real Daniel-needed his help. And besides, he'd decided, a few aliens were a piece of cake compared to a few politicians or, scarier yet, two hundred conference delegates who hadn't got the rooms they wanted, the food they expected or the freebies they felt they deserved and were consequently out for blood.

O'Neill nodded and handed him two weapons. "Head on back to twenty- three. Keep an eye on our people."

"Yes, sir."

When he got there, Paul positioned himself just inside the doorway, the position they'd been in when O'Neill hit Fraiser. Then, his finger on the trigger, he waited.

It didn't take long. An airman Paul didn't recognize woke up first, blinking in confusion. "It's all right," Paul called, in his most reassuring voice. "You'll be OK."

"Major Davis?" Hammond looked up suddenly, the motion causing him to swing on his harness. "Is that you?"

"Yes, sir, General."

"Would you care to explain what the hell is going on?"

Paul shifted the gun. "It's a long story, sir."

And an even longer briefing.

When Hammond finally dismissed them, Paul stayed behind to discuss his upcoming scheduled visit. When Hammond told him to put it in an e-mail, Paul didn't argue. Instead, he headed for the nearest telephone. He needed to arrange transport back to DC, and, since the alien who had helpfully brought Paul's body along for the ride had apparently forgotten to bring his photo ID, Paul had to hope security would be forgiving and remember his face. He doubted the whole "alien stole my body" thing would go over well.

He went to an office he often used, near the briefing room but far enough off the beaten path to offer some privacy. He opened the door without knocking, and immediately regretted it.

O'Neill and Daniel were locked together, kissing deeply while O'Neill's hands roamed over Daniel's back. Daniel's hands were on the colonel's shoulders, not moving but apparently holding on, his fingers bunched in O'Neill's uniform. Paul flicked his eyes up to the camera in the corner, and wasn't surprised to see that it had been disconnected. By the "aliens," no doubt.

Paul considered coughing. It would serve them right, he thought, making out in public without even locking the door. But he didn't want to embarrass Daniel, and he knew Daniel would be beyond embarrassed to know Paul had caught them. Instead, showing the discretion for which he was renowned in Washington, Paul backed out, silently shutting the door behind him.

It wasn't silently enough, apparently. Paul went to another office and had barely picked up the telephone when Daniel appeared in the doorway.

"Paul."

"Daniel." Paul hung up the receiver. "Are you all right?" He was flushed, no doubt from embarrassment. Or maybe something else.

"Fine." Daniel cleared his throat. "Are you, ah, heading back to Washington right away?"

"Yes." Paul smiled grimly. "But don't worry." He wouldn't tell anyone. He cared about Daniel, and, whatever Paul's personal opinions, the world needed O'Neill too much for him to rat them out.

"Oh. OK." Daniel gave a confused little frown, and Paul was once again amazed at how out if it he could be. Wondering if Daniel even knew the extent of the trouble he could be in, Paul continued:

"You know what I mean." "Right," Daniel agreed uncertainly. "Anyway, I, ah, I wanted to say, if you, um, didn't want to make the trip back tonight, you could, ah, stay with me. At my place."

It was Paul's turn to frown. "Aren't you staying with the colonel?"

"What?" Daniel looked genuinely surprised at the suggestion. Maybe, Paul thought, there was more to him than met the eye. Or considerably less.

"He certainly looked like he was expecting it, Daniel."

"Do you think so? Why would he be?"

Paul shook his head. "Thanks for the offer, but I don't think so."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"Very." Now more than ever. Bad days aside, Paul loved his career, and the last thing he needed was to become part of some kind of bizarre triangle involving his superior officer and a genius civilian consultant who was either a borderline social moron or the best actor outside the Royal Shakespeare Company. "Good night, Daniel."

"OK. Bye." Blinking and frowning to himself, Daniel wandered away and Paul turned back to the telephone.

***

"Is that enough, sir?"

"Just one more, Daniel." Jack murmured against Daniel's mouth. It was as soft as he'd imagined, with just the right balance of sweetness and strength.

"Sir." Daniel's hands slid down to Jack's chest and pushed him away. "We could get into trouble."

"I know." Reluctantly, Jack pulled back. "I know." It was why he'd never done this with the real Daniel. Why he never would do it, even if Daniel hadn't been hot for Major Poker-up-the-ass Davis.

Reaching into his shirt, Daniel disconnected the button and turned back into Carter. Sighing, Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Thanks for that, Carter."

She gave him a small, almost sympathetic, smile. "No problem, sir." Glancing behind her, she inched forward and lowered her voice. "I don't suppose you kept the one you took off Janet?"