Gigi Sinclair

Daniel hated faculty get-togethers. This was mostly because, like every other university, the faculty of Colorado State hated each other with a passion bordering on insanity.

Professional jealousy, personality conflicts, and speciality snobbery were a lethal combination. When Daniel had been dismissed from Harvard, he had thought that one of the good things about being downgraded to Colorado State would be a friendlier, more laid-back staff. He couldn't have been more wrong. If anything, the jealousies were pettier, the snobbery more pronounced here than in any of the Ivy League schools Daniel had worked with.

In the five years he'd been at Colorado State, Daniel had attended half a dozen faculty meetings, and no social occasions. It wasn't hard to avoid them: this was the first social soirée the faculty had held in over a year. Daniel would have gladly skipped this one, as well, but he didn't really have a choice.

Instead, he stood near the buffet table in his best tweed jacket, glass of wine in hand, and waited for it all to be over.

Of course, it couldn't even begin without at least one of the two guests of honour, both of whom had yet to put in an appearance. Paul was going to be late, Daniel knew. A debate had gone long, and he'd only just managed to catch the plane out of DC. Daniel didn't know what this Jack "Colonel" O'Neill's excuse was, but Daniel hoped it was a very good one. Like he'd caught a terminal disease and wouldn't be able to make it after all.

Daniel knew he shouldn't think like that, but he couldn't help it. He took a long drink from his glass, and when he came up for air, he saw Dr. Carter standing in front of him in a white blouse and unadorned, knee-length black skirt. She only needed a wimple and a crucifix to complete the nun look.

"Where did you get that?" She asked, pointing at his glass. Daniel indicated the bar, run by some fresh-faced, brown-nosing graduate student. "I'll be right back." Carter disappeared, returning a moment later with the largest alcoholic beverage Daniel had ever seen, apart from that one time Paul had taken him to a Washington Generals game.

"They didn't offer me that size."

Carter smiled. "You have to know how to ask, Daniel." She batted her eyelashes. "Besides, I know the bartender. He's got a dissertation defence coming up in a couple of months."

Daniel smiled. Dr. Carter was one of the least offensive of the staff. A hopeless know-it-all of course, like all of them, but at least she didn't openly deride his theories. She was an astrophysicist, but Daniel knew from experience that being in a different field didn't necessarily disqualify people from feeling qualified to judge his ideas.

"Where's Paul?"

"He'll be late. I don't know where the other guy is."

"I believe Mr. O'Neill has just arrived." Dr. Murray, comparative religion, appeared at Daniel's side. Like Daniel, Dr. Murray (no one seemed to know his first name) was popular with the students and less popular with the staff. The professors couldn't quite get their heads around a six-foot, five-inch, unmarried and apparently celibate comparative religion teacher who wasn't adverse to a little football game on the main quad.

"Where?" Carter swivelled her head towards the door.

"Have you heard of this guy?" Daniel hadn't, but then he wasn't an avid reader of the sports pages.

"Janet loves him. I promised I'd get her an autograph."

"Dr. Fraiser could not attend herself?" Murray asked. Carter shook her head, still staring at the door.

"She had a stack of resident evaluations to finish."

Sure enough, there was a brief commotion at the door and a grey-haired man, looking distinctly uncomfortable in a dark Versace suit, appeared, accompanied by two large, discreet-looking men in black. Typical arrogance, Daniel thought scathingly. As if anyone was planning to assassinate an ex-hockey star in the faculty club of Colorado State University. Paul didn't even travel with bodyguards, and he'd received dozens of death threats since he started his campaign.

"Mr. O'Neill." The university president, Dr. George Hammond, stepped up. Daniel actually liked Hammond. He was one of the least irritating of his co-workers. Hammond smiled and offered O'Neill his hand. "May we thank you once again for your generous donation."

O'Neill shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah, sure. You betcha." One of Hammond's daughters, a generously endowed youngish blonde, led the guests in a rousing round of applause. O'Neill looked even more uncomfortable.

"What did he do?" Daniel hissed at Carter, as he clapped obediently. Carter looked at him.

"Don't you read your email?"

"Not unless it promises me free porn or a chance to enlarge my penis." Carter choked on her wine. Murray looked at them quizzically.

"Are you not satisfied with the size of your penis, Dr. Jackson?"

Murray had a naturally resonating voice. It didn't help that the moment Murray asked this was the same moment the applause ended, so the question boomed across the faculty club. Even O'Neill glanced in their direction. Daniel, his face burning, tried to disappear into his glass as Hammond, frowning a little, led O'Neill and his entourage over to a table.

"Serves you right," Carter snorted, as the people around them restarted their own conversations.

"I believe Mr. O'Neill has made a significant financial contribution to the hockey program," Murray informed him. Great, Daniel thought irritably. Just what they needed. More money for sports, and who gave a damn about academics? It was only a university, after all. Daniel looked at his watch and wondered how long Paul would have to stay, if he ever arrived.

***

"I'm sorry?" Jack said blankly. "Could you repeat that?"

"I said, so you're Dr. Jackson's boyfriend?" The small, white-haired woman beamed up at him.

"Uh, no. I'm Jack O'Neill."

"Oh, yes." The woman didn't look too disappointed. "The football player."

"Hockey, actually. Ma'am."

"Yes." She nodded, as if that was what she'd said. "I voted for you. I don't care what the bridge club says, in my book a gay Democrat is better than a straight Republican any day of the week." Jack blinked, unsure how to reply to that. Before he had to, the president, Hammond, came up and put a hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Ah, Mr. O'Neill. I see you've met my mother." Hammond gave her an indulgent smile. "Quite the hockey fan, aren't you, Mother?"

"I don't blame you, you know," Mrs. Hammond continued, turning back to Jack. "Dr. Jackson's one hot tamale. I wouldn't mind a piece of that ass."

Hammond cleared his throat, his bald head turning beet red. "I think that's quite enough crème de menthe for you, Mother. Come along, now." He hustled the still beaming old lady away, leaving Jack alone. Well, except for Ferretti and Makepeace, of course.

Jack hated the bodyguards, but they were part of the deal. It wouldn't be so bad if they were actually there to guard his body, but Jack knew their real purpose was to keep him from making an ass of himself and, by association, of the NHL. He would have liked to tell them where to get off, but he had no choice. Now that his usefulness as a player had ended, if the NHL was going to permit him to stay on as a "goodwill ambassador", then, it had been made clear from the very start, Jack was going to have to play by their rules. Just as he had since he was nineteen years old.

He would have given it all up in a second, but there were only so many things an ex-hockey player with no education and no experience of anything other than hockey could do with the rest of his life. And this one was better than any of the alternatives Jack could come up with.

Jack glanced around the room. A big black guy who reminded Jack of a bruiser who used to play for the Red Wings was standing next to a tall, reasonably attractive blonde woman in a godawful outfit, and a tweed-wearing guy in glasses. For a moment, Jack wondered if he should go up and try to start a conversation with them, or with someone else, but that idea died quickly. He was just a thick-headed hockey player. He wouldn't have anything to say to these people, who probably read more books in one weekend than Jack had in his entire life.

Not, Jack thought, that they were completely superior. He bet none of them, to take a random example, had ever had sex with three groupies at once. Except maybe for glasses-boy over there. Jack could see him being attractive to a certain kind of academic female.

Although, apparently, those females were in for some disappointment if they thought glasses-boy was going to reciprocate. Jack watched, disbelieving, as a familiar-looking man in a suit swanned up behind glasses-boy and put his arms around him. Instead of punching him in the face, like, Jack thought, any reasonable red-blooded American would do, glasses-boy actually turned in the other man's embrace and kissed him on the cheek.

Jack thanked God he didn't have one of those cat food hors d'oeuvres in his mouth at the time. He would have redecorated the worn-out maroon carpet. As he stood, gaping, Jack realized where he had seen glasses-boy's "friend". Late at night, when the pain in his knees was keeping him up, he sometimes resorted to watching C-Span. That man was always on, and he always put Jack out like a light. (D) Colorado, the human NyQuil. Jack struggled to remember his actual name, but didn't have to.

Dr. Hammond went to the podium and after tapping the microphone, said: "I see both of our special guests are here, so we can get the evening underway." He smiled. "Without further ado, may I present Congressman Paul Davis and Mr. Jack 'Colonel' O'Neill!"

The academics applauded as Jack went to the podium. Congressman Davis smiled politely at him, and Jack wondered if he should offer his hand or something. Before he could, Davis turned smoothly to face the audience. "Thank you very much. It's always a pleasure to come here." Jack barely kept himself from snorting immaturely at the double entendre, but Davis didn't even seem to notice. "I believe that the Colonel here joins me in saying that Colorado State is where the future lies. It is through the generosity of people like the Colonel that our football program…"

"Hockey," Jack interrupted. Davis frowned a little, but corrected himself.

"Hockey program is able to survive, to ensure that both the minds and the bodies of our nation's youth are developed to their full potential." He smiled (the smarmy shit, Jack thought) at the applause that followed his declaration. Jack wondered if he should say something, but obviously no one expected him to. Hammond took back the microphone as soon as Davis gave it up. Jack wondered if he should be offended-he was, after all, capable of making a speech, and had practised one for this occasion-but then he realized he didn't really want to talk in front of these people. Hammond thanked them again, Davis grabbed Jack's hand as a flashbulb went off, and it was all over.

Jack watched as Davis went back over to his lover, putting an arm around the man's waist and leaning in to unashamedly nuzzle glasses-boy's neck. Quickly, Jack turned away from that disgusting display, his eyes landing on Ferretti and Makepeace. "Come on," he grunted. "Let's go."

***

"Mm. Good evening, Mr. Speaker." Daniel grinned into Paul's mouth as his lover pushed him onto their bed and landed on top. Daniel put his arms around Paul as Congressman Davis got to work on Dr. Jackson's neck.

"Missed you, babe. You think you could quit your job and come to Washington?"

"And do what?"

"Stay in bed and wait for me to come home."

"That would be boring," Daniel complained, even as Paul's tongue followed his fingers into the collar of Daniel's shirt.

"I'm sure you could think of some way to entertain yourself." Daniel yelped as Paul bit his collarbone and retreated just enough to rip off Daniel's shirt. "And I could fulfil my favourite fantasy."

"Oh, yes?" Daniel smiled fondly at his lover, reaching up to run a hand through Paul's hair. "What would that be?"

Paul bit his lip and looked down at Daniel with big, desire-darkened eyes. Daniel's breath quickened. Three years together, and Paul could still turn him on at the drop of a hat.

Or, preferably, the drop of some other articles of clothing.

"You and me and the Washington Monument," Paul admitted, as he threw his boxer shorts onto the bedroom floor and got to work on Daniel. "Of course," he continued, stripping Daniel efficiently as always. A legacy, Daniel thought, of Paul's former career in the military. "We don't need to go all the way to Washington to see a big, hard erection."

"No," Daniel agreed, as that very thing was freed from his underpants. "We've got twice as many right here."

When they had first met, Daniel and Paul had been leading very different lives. Daniel had not yet been labelled a loony, and was lecturing at Harvard half of the year and spending half on prestigious, fully funded digs in Egypt. He'd come to Washington to consult on an Egyptology exhibit, featuring the work of Howard Carter and the American Egyptology fad of the 1920s, being mounted at the Smithsonian. Entirely by chance, he had run into Paul in a little, out of the way coffee shop.

Daniel wasn't the kind of guy to do that kind of thing, but since the coffee shop was small, and since he would rather have died than go down the street to Starbucks, Daniel asked if he could share Paul's table. Paul agreed, and they started talking. He was very impressed when he learned what Daniel did, and Daniel was equally impressed, if a little intimidated, when he learned that Paul worked at the Pentagon.

They kept in touch via email for over a year after that. Paul stood by him when Daniel was fired, and even helped him move to Colorado. Apparently, Paul had lived at the Air Force base near Denver for a few years before going to Washington, although Daniel hadn't known that. A few months after Daniel started at Colorado State, Paul decided he was tired of not asking and not telling and quit the Air Force.

It took Daniel by surprise. Although you wouldn't know it from his theories, he was a conservative man. If he'd been given the choice, Daniel would have preferred not to rock the boat, to stay at Harvard and live quietly and peacefully. It would never have crossed his mind to voluntarily give up everything, the way Paul had: he'd only done it because he couldn't retract a theory he knew was right.

Daniel didn't understand it, but he admired Paul's strength. He offered his friend a place on the couch for a few weeks when Paul arrived in Colorado Springs with no job and nowhere to stay. Slowly, Paul had migrated from the couch to Daniel's bed, and a few weeks had become a few years.

Daniel couldn't remember ever being happier. He loved Paul, Paul loved him, and everything was wonderful. Until Paul decided to run for Congress.

Paul chose to break the news on Valentine's Day, as they sat in what Daniel called the 'breakfast nook' and Paul called the kitchen, eating Paul's heart-shaped pancakes and trying not to acknowledge that Daniel had completely forgotten the holiday.

"Someone needs to represent us, Danny."

"Who?" Daniel asked, looking up from his pancakes. "Outcast archaeologists and ex-Air Force officers?"

"Gays."

Daniel winced when he said it. "Paul…"

"I know you don't like thinking about this kind of stuff, but it's important. We need to have a voice." Daniel had a voice. He used it every day when he gave his lectures. And sometimes, his students even managed to stay awake.

"Do you have to…I mean, couldn't you…" Daniel didn't even know what he wanted to say. He just knew he didn't want to open this particular can of worms.

"I'm not hiding anymore, Daniel. I want to do this, and I want to do it my way." He gave Daniel one of his big-eyed, soulful looks. "I need to show those narrow-minded military SOBs that I'm worth something as I am."

"You are worth something, Paul. You're worth a lot."

Paul grinned. "Now's my chance to prove it."

Daniel had to stand by him, of course. He was there through all the highs and lows of Paul's campaign, most of the time not knowing whether he wanted Paul to be elected or not. In the end, it wasn't up to him. To the disgust of right-wing talk radio commentators from coast to coast, Paul soundly defeated the Republican incumbent, although, Daniel had to admit, that may have had something to do with the Republican's extreme corruption.

Daniel was by Paul's side at the victory party, and a photo of him and Paul locked in a passionate embrace, titled "The Congressman and the Professor" appeared in the newspaper the next day. Someone, Daniel suspected Carter but had never been able to prove it, cut the picture out and stuck it on the faculty lounge billboard, with the caption: "Dr. Jackson tries some aggressive lobbying."

The hardest thing to get used to was Paul being away from home. At first, when he came back, Daniel tried to rearrange seminars and cancel lectures to be with him, but that had soon proved impractical. His students didn't mind a skipped lecture or two, of course, but Daniel's research time was sacred. Now, when Paul came in from Washington or when Daniel got a few days off to go up there, their professional lives went on as normal. In private, though, there was a lot less conversation and lot more action between them, to make up for all the time Paul was on one side of the country and Daniel the other.

They had one of these exhausting, busy nights after the reception. The next morning, Daniel dragged himself out of bed, poured the entire contents of the coffee pot into the extra-large travel mug Paul had given him last Christmas and got into the car.

The first unpleasant surprise of the day was finding a GMC truck parked in his space. Scowling, Daniel parked three blocks away and was seriously considering taking his souvenir sarcophagus letter opener to the truck's paint work, when he stepped into the Humanities building and came across Jack O'Neill staring forlornly at the building directory. His goons were hovering behind him, looking around like a couple of Secret Service agents on a presidential visit to Israel.

Ignoring them, Daniel pushed the elevator call button and took a long drink of coffee. The doors pinged open and, as Daniel was about to step inside, the other man said:

"Hey, buddy, could you give me a hand?"

Daniel briefly considered pretending he hadn't heard, but it wasn't in his nature to be rude. It was, however, well within the Daniel Jackson boundaries to be crabby, which he was. Especially after two hours of sleep and half a gallon of coffee that hadn't helped much at all.

"What do you want?"

"I'm looking for the rink."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "That's on the other side of campus." O'Neill looked blank. Daniel sighed heavily and pointed at the doors. "Out those doors, turn left, past the astronomy and earth sciences building, take a right by the library, and it's on the other side of the student's union building."

O'Neill blinked and stared at the floor. "Do you think you could, I mean, if you're not too busy…"

"Actually, Mr. O'Neill, I'm very busy."

"Oh. OK." O'Neill took the sunglasses off the top of his head and put them over his eyes. "I guess I'll find it."

Daniel raised his mug to his lips, then saw it was empty. "Oh, all right. I need more coffee anyway."

It was a crisp fall day on campus. At times like this, Daniel could almost imagine he was back at Harvard. Then he saw the mountains and the Birkenstock-wearing law students, and remembered where he was.

"I know your friend," O'Neill said suddenly.

Daniel glanced over at him. The bodyguards were walking a discreet distance behind, checking out co-eds as they went. Daniel could only hope no one made an attempt on O'Neill's life while their attention was otherwise engaged. "Which one?"

"You know." O'Neill turned red. "Davis."

"Oh." Daniel frowned a little. Everyone knew Paul, and Paul loved it, more than Daniel would have expected him to. "OK."

"I'm not a Democrat," O'Neill continued. "I haven't voted since Reagan. I mean, I'm not a nut or anything. My dad's pure Minnesota militia, he lost his marbles years ago. But your friend," O'Neill rubbed the back of his neck. "He's pretty good. At that talking stuff."

"Thank you?" Daniel phrased it as a question, since he had no idea if it was an appropriate answer. O'Neill seemed satisfied with it, anyway.

Daniel was hoping they'd make it past the astronomy and earth sciences building unmolested, but it was an unfulfilled dream. They were right in front of the steps when Carter came out, blinking in the sun, a sheaf of papers in hand.

"Daniel! Wait up!" Daniel ignored her, but she caught up to him anyway. Her pinched scowl turned into a dazzling smile when she saw whom Daniel was with.

"Mr. O'Neill! What brings you here?"

"The team wanted me to help 'em out at practice."

"That's so generous." Carter gushed. O'Neill didn't seem to mind. He appraised Carter the same way his bodyguards had appraised the co-eds, and Daniel wondered if he should just leave them all alone together.

"He's looking for the rink," Daniel explained, as a precursor to making his escape.

"I'd be delighted to show you," Carter replied.

"Good. Then I can get back to work." Daniel turned.

"Take this with you," Carter thrust a sheet of paper at him. Daniel looked down to see the dreaded phrase "The Astronomy and Earth Sciences/Mathematics Department Annual Joint Professor Auction."

"Oh, Sam…"

"Suck it up, Daniel," Carter commanded, before simpering delicately in O'Neill's direction. "Not all of us have our own personal fundraiser on the other side of the kitchen table."

"I did it last year."

"And I went to your stupid toga party."

"It was a Papyrus Party."

"And I shoved myself into that Cleopatra costume for it. You owe me one." Carter turned back to O'Neill. "I still have the dress. Of course, it shrunk a little in the wash…"

Daniel shook his head and turned around. O'Neill tore himself away from Carter long enough to call: "Thanks, buddy!" After him. Daniel grunted. Carter was going to have to get him some good coffee, Ethiopian at the very least, if she wanted him to participate in that humiliating meat market. Again.

***

Jack knew women. He was no Wilt Chamberlain, but he'd had his share of groupies, as well as a few serious girlfriends. And then there was Sara. Well, come to think of it, maybe he hadn't known her as well as he could have. She'd liked the life of a professional athlete's wife, but when Charlie was gone and Jack's knees gave out, there was no reason for her to hang around, and she took off.

But Samantha Carter wasn't a Sara, or a groupie, Jack could tell that right away. She was very smart woman, and while that would usually have scared Jack off, she wasn't pushy about it. She knew stuff, but she didn't treat Jack like an idiot because he didn't. She knew who he was, too.

"My dad and I used to watch you when you played for the Black Hawks."

"Oh, yeah?" Jack grinned. "You look much too young to have been born then, let alone watching hockey."

The woman giggled.

Too soon, they arrived outside the rink. She said: "Well, Colonel, I guess this is it."

"Call me Jack." He'd never cared much for the nickname, which he'd been given during his brief tenure as captain of the Vancouver Canucks. Apparently, some of the team had taken issue with his style of leadership. It hadn't hurt them any. They'd made it to the Stanley Cup semi-finals.

"And you can call me Sam," Dr. Carter replied, smiling. She was a very beautiful woman, Jack thought, not for the first time. So why wasn't she stirring the usual feelings in him?

They looked at each other for a long moment, then spoke at the same time.

"I guess…"

"If you're not…" Sam laughed and Jack gestured.

"Ladies first." To her credit, Jack thought, she didn't respond with 'age before beauty.' Instead, she said:

"If you're not busy next Saturday, why don't you come along to the fundraiser? It'd help us out, and it's only five dollars to get in."

"What is it?" Jack asked, then realized that might sound uninterested, so he added: "I'd love to come."

"It's a professor auction. It's silly, really. A bunch of students put bids on their professors."

"Sounds kinky."

Sam laughed. "Could be. I think most of them just end up getting the professors to clean their dorm rooms or give them an extension on a major paper or something. Last year, one of Daniel's students made him give her three extra weeks to hand in her end-of-term project." If that was all she'd thought to get out of Daniel, Jack thought, then the nation's youth was in a sorry state.

Jack didn't know where that thought had come from, but it seemed best to dismiss it. And say, "Are you up for purchase, Sam?"

Sam blushed. "No, I'm really more of an organizer."

"Too bad." Jack winked. "Next Saturday? See you then."

Sam was speechless which, Jack had to admit, made him feel pretty good about himself.

"I wish you didn't have to go." Daniel tightened his arms around Paul's neck, in an attempt to keep him from leaving. He knew it was futile, but that didn't stop him from burying his face in Paul's shoulder, breathing in the cologne he only wore when he was travelling or schmoozing, which was a good deal of the time.

"Oh, Danny." Paul hugged him back, planting a kiss in Daniel's disarranged hair. He always booked his flights back for early in the morning, partly so Daniel didn't come to the airport and prolong the departure and partly because they'd originally thought it was going to be easier. It wasn't, but both Daniel and Paul were creatures of routine. "I'll be home for Thanksgiving."

Daniel moved back. "That's nearly two months away."

Paul smiled. "Canadian Thanksgiving?"

"I'll consider it." Daniel glanced at the clock and nuzzled Paul's neck. "Phone me tonight."

"You bet. And I'll email you at work." He leaned in and kissed Daniel on the mouth.

"Don't let Kinsey get to you," Daniel advised, as he pulled away. He knew it wasn't a picnic for Paul in Washington. There were a lot of senators, Republicans and Democrats both, who thought he was an embarrassment to the American electoral system. One of the worst was Kinsey, who had no qualms about coming up to Paul in the hallways of congress and telling him to go home to San Francisco. To which Paul always innocently replied, "I represent Colorado Springs, Senator."

"I won't." Paul rested his forehead against Daniel's and sighed. "And now, I really have to go."

"I know. Bye." Paul picked up his suitcase and left. Daniel lay in bed, looking at the ceiling, until he heard Paul close the front door behind him. Then he got up and headed for the shower.

Daniel could scarcely believe it when, once again, the truck was parked in his space. This was beyond ridiculous. He got into the elevator, fully intent on calling the campus parking patrol when he arrived at his office.

The steam that was gathering in his skull began to vent out of his ears when Daniel arrived on the fifth floor and saw Murray and Jack O'Neill loitering in front of his office door.

"What can I do for you, gentlemen?" Daniel clenched his teeth and hoped his tone conveyed that he didn't want to do anything, that, in fact, he would much rather that they leave immediately. The one good thing, as far as Daniel could see, was that O'Neill's bodyguards weren't around. Which meant that, if Daniel had to resort to his jujitsu, he could do so without ending up in a bodycast.

Murray replied for them both. "Mr. O'Neill wishes to obtain advice concerning Dr. Carter."

"Carter?" Daniel blinked. "Why?"

"It is my belief," the professional O'Neill interpreter continued, "That Mr. O'Neill wishes to pay court to Dr. Carter."

"Pay court?" Daniel repeated stupidly.

"Yeah, you know. Date her." O'Neill clarified, grinning. Daniel found that extremely unnerving.

"Why?" He pushed up his glasses as O'Neill stared at him.

"Have you seen her? No offence, buddy, but not all of us guys get off on congressmen." He snorted, and Murray glanced his way. "Are you inferring that Dr. Jackson's choice of mate diminishes his masculinity?" Murray asked. "If so, I would wish to inform you that amongst many cultures, notably the samurai of feudal Japan, sexual relationships between males were expected and encouraged." Good old Murray. Daniel smiled at him and turned back to O'Neill.

"Don't you think she's a little…" Daniel frowned. "I mean, aren't there some cheerleaders or, you know," he racked his brains. "Waitresses you could date?"

O'Neill frowned. "You trying to say I'm not good enough for her?" In a word, Daniel thought, no. But it was Murray, as usual, who smoothed things over.

"Dr. Jackson is merely concerned for Dr. Carter's wellbeing. I have often observed that their relationship is more like that of siblings than close friends."

"Oh." O'Neill looked mollified, if only slightly. Daniel couldn't have cared less. The sooner O'Neill and Murray got out of here, the better. Then he could warn Carter.

Only, Daniel had the sinking feeling Carter wouldn't want to be warned.

"Well, I can assure you, Dr. Jackson," O'Neill continued, smirking a little as he echoed Murray's precise tone, "My intentions are honourable."

"That is well, Mr. O'Neill," Murray replied solemnly. "If they were not, Dr. Jackson and I would be forced to do you grievous bodily harm." O'Neill looked a little taken aback, like he didn't know whether Murray was kidding or not. Daniel knew he wasn't. He didn't have to. If O'Neill did anything to hurt Carter, Daniel would put his jujitsu to good use for the first time since Paul's campaign.

When Murray and O'Neill had gone, Daniel let himself into his office. Shoving a stack of half-corrected essays aside, he sat at his computer. Paul had already sent him an e-card, and Daniel smiled as he looked at a picture of a sad-eyed puppy above the words 'I miss you.' He put the card in the recycling bin once he'd read it, and was about to go back to the dismal essays-three of the ones he'd read so far had quoted Budge, for God's sake-when he had a better idea.

It wasn't hard to find information about Jack "Colonel" O'Neill. There were a few dozen fan sites devoted to him alone, along with information on all of the sports-oriented sites Daniel surfed through. Apparently, O'Neill had played with eight teams in a nineteen-year career, which had ended five years previously, not because he was getting old but because he had severely injured both his knees. From what Daniel could tell, O'Neill had been a good player. He'd played right wing (an irony which was not lost on Daniel) and had scored 362 goals in his career. Daniel couldn't really tell, but it seemed like a lot. He'd also served 1277 penalty minutes.

One of the fan sites offered a video clip of one of the fights that the Colonel had apparently been known for. While it downloaded, Daniel glanced half-heartedly at the essay on top of the pile, found three grammatical errors, five spelling mistakes and two grave errors of fact on the first page, and gave up.

O'Neill was wearing a black and yellow jersey in the clip, his name and the number one on the back. As he skated towards the bench, a player in a white jersey entered the frame and hit one of the other black and yellow-wearing players from behind. That player fell to the ground. O'Neill turned around and, without any kind of preamble, took off his gloves and punched the opposing player in the face. That man joined O'Neill's teammate on the ice, and the video clip ended as all hell broke loose. On the website, underneath the video link, there was a quotation: "My teammates are like my family. You screw with them, you screw with me. And you really don't want to screw with me."

Daniel closed the browser and turned back to his essays, not sure whether that made him feel better about O'Neill dating Carter.

***

Jack wasn't a great computer expert. He could check his email, of course, and he had a few choice Internet sites bookmarked, but that was about it. But he'd had a lot of experience with women and, all that experience told him if he wanted to get into Sam's academic robes with a minimum of fuss, he was going to have to get Dr. Tight-ass on his side.

It took him a while to figure out how to track down Dr. Daniel Jackson of Colorado State University, as opposed to, say, Dr. Daniel Jackson's Veterinary Practice of Melbourne, Australia, or Dr. Daniel Jackson Orthodontics of Sudbury, Ontario.

Once he narrowed it down, Jack found there was no shortage of information about 'his' Dr. Jackson. Jack read, fascinated, about his brilliant Ivy League career, lecturing at Princeton and Harvard and working on major digs in the Valley of the Kings (which, at first, Jack thought meant Los Angeles.)

Jack read about Daniel's controversial theory that the pyramids had been built by extra-terrestrial visitors, which seemed, to Jack, like the kind of thing you'd read on the front page of a tabloid while you were waiting to pay for your groceries. Daniel believed it, though. So much that he'd lost his job at Harvard, lost his prestigious digs, and had ended up at Colorado State because he refused to take it back. Jack couldn't help but admire him, just a little. You couldn't knock a guy who gave it all up for his principles.

Jack admired him even more when, just before he had to get ready for a Special Olympics luncheon, Jack came across a short article, published five years earlier in USA Today.

"An American citizen, Sherry Jackson, has been found dead at an archaeological dig near the village of Abydos, Egypt. Jackson, Egyptian-born wife of Dr. Daniel Jackson of Harvard University, dig supervisor, was reported missing Monday. Authorities have ruled the death as accidental."

So he hadn't always been queer. That made Jack feel a little better about things. Jack had known a Sherry, too. She'd been one of the die-hard groupies; if Jack remembered rightly, she'd even had his name and number tattooed on her chest. While he was pretty sure Daniel's wife and his groupie weren't one and the same, their shared name gave him something in common with Daniel, and, feeling much happier, although he couldn't have explained exactly why, Jack went to put on his suit.

***

"I look ridiculous, Sam." Daniel turned around in front of the mirror in the hastily-set-up backstage changing room.

"No, you don't. You look hot," Carter assured him, adjusting her dress. It was a silky red number quite unlike anything Daniel had ever seen her in, or even anywhere near.

Daniel looked at the worn jeans, the white T-shirt and the black leather jacket Carter's wardrobe department had found for him. "I don't know. I don't look very professor-ish."

"Look. The point of this is to raise as much money as possible, OK? And you're going to bring in a lot more dressed like that, trust me." She held up a digital camera. "Now look sexy. I promised Paul I'd send him pictures."

Daniel self-consciously struck a pose, one hand on his hip, what he hoped was a sexy smile on his face. Carter barked.

"That's it. Woof woof." She smiled and pushed the button. "Come on, baby. Show me some skin." Daniel laughed in spite of himself, leaning forward a little and sticking out his tongue.

"Jeez, Dr. Jackson. That looks real academic." Daniel looked up, directly into the sunglasses-covered eyes of Jack O'Neill.

"Jack." Carter beamed at him, turning around and snapping a picture.

"What are you doing here?" Daniel straightened his jacket and smoothed down the front of his jeans.

"Daniel!" Carter snapped, then turned the beatific smile back on O'Neill. "Jack's here to help with the fundraiser."

"Are you up for auction?" If he was, given the proclivities of the students, Daniel knew O'Neill would probably bring in enough to fund Carter's department for an entire year. Which might, Daniel thought hopefully, mean he himself would be off the hook.

"Nah, just a spectator. Although I may be convinced to make a bid or two." He grinned at Carter, who giggled. Daniel had never thought of Carter as a big giggler, but the incidents had been increasing exponentially since Jack O'Neill had arrived on the scene.

"Why don't you go get a seat out front, Jack?" Carter suggested. It was the best idea Daniel had heard in a long time. "We'll get started in a few minutes."

"Can't wait." With one last grin, and what Daniel interpreted as a condescending look in his direction, O'Neill ducked through the curtain. Carter stared after him.

"He's old enough to be your father, you know," Daniel informed her.

Carter rolled her eyes. "He's only eight years older than me."

"Well," Daniel countered, "He seems like the precocious kind."

The first lot up for auction was Dr. Janet Fraiser, who didn't have time to attend personally but promised to honour the winning bid. Which was made by a group of bleary-eyed interns, who pooled their money and came up with five hundred fifty seven dollars. When Carter, as auctioneer, asked what they were going to claim as their prize, they replied, in exhausted unison: "A night off!"

Dr. Murray also got a lot of bids. His winner, a bespectacled girl with straight, mousy hair and a plaid skirt, paid three hundred and fifteen dollars for the honour of a private tutorial on creation myths in Native American, Eastern, and traditional Western religions. Murray nodded regally, seemingly satisfied with that, and took his seat. A couple of other professors took their turns, and then it was Daniel's.

Just as he had done in their five-minute, pre-show rehearsal, Daniel stepped onstage as Carter announced: "Lot number thirteen, Doctor Daniel Jackson. Archaeologist, linguist, babe." She smiled innocently as Daniel balked. "Don't let the brilliant mind fool you: he enjoys playing Bingo, watching NASCAR and creating political controversies!" The audience howled appreciatively, even as Daniel frowned.

The first bid was from, as Carter coyly put it, an "unnamed telephone bidder in Washington DC." Paul, along with a couple of C-students Daniel recognized from his Anthropology 105 class and a shapely brunette Daniel didn't know, quickly got the bidding to five hundred dollars.

The students soon dropped out. Daniel felt himself relax as Carter's associate with the cell-phone indicated that Paul had bid five hundred twenty. Casting a glance in the man's direction, the brunette pushed the bidding up to five hundred eighty.

"Six hundred!" Paul's spokesman countered, as Daniel entertained himself with thoughts of how Paul would claim his prize. Last year, it had been a romantic weekend in the Rockies.

"Seven hundred!" The brunette shot back, looking at Daniel and running her tongue over her brightly-painted lips.

"Eight hundred!"

"Nine!"

The man with the cell-phone was obviously engaged in a conversation with Paul. Daniel couldn't believe it when he shook his head. Cheap bastard. Well, he was in for a surprise if he expected Daniel to put out next time he came back to Colorado.

"Bidding stands at nine hundred dollars." Daniel could practically see the dollar signs in Carter's eyes. "Nine hundred. Going once. Going twice…"

"One thousand." There was a gasp from the audience, as they all turned around to see where the bid had come from. They weren't the only ones who were interested. Blinking against the lights, Daniel peered into the audience and saw Jack O'Neill casually reclining on one of the hard plastic chairs.

"One thousand dollars to Mr. O'Neill," Carter repeated. The brunette scowled and glanced down at the chequebook in her lap.

"One thousand one hundred."

"One thousand two."

"One thousand three."

"Oh, let's just get this over with." O'Neill sighed. "Two thousand, five hundred and eight-five dollars." She looked daggers in O'Neill's direction, but the brunette didn't make a counter-bid. "Going once, going twice…Sold, to Mr. O'Neill for the very generous sum of two thousand, five hundred and eighty-five dollars! Thank you, Mr. O'Neill." Carter practically batted her eyelashes. "What are your plans for your prize?"

O'Neill shrugged loathsomely. "We'll figure something out."

Carter laughed. "Next up, lot fourteen. For those of you who prefer a mature man with not one but two vibrant personalities, Dr. Jacob Carter fits the bill…"

***

Jack had been planning on taking Sam for dinner after the auction. That meant it was a date and not an official NHL function, and the bodyguards didn't come with him on dates. They didn't care if he screwed up on his own time.

Jack had made reservations at a swanky French restaurant he thought she would like, and he was pretty sure she wasn't going to turn him down. To seal the deal, though, he'd donated a couple of grand to her department, and had saved her "brother" from the clutches of that predatory woman for good measure. And Jack had no doubt just what that slut would have asked for if she'd got her hands on Daniel.

When he went backstage, Jack found both Daniel and Sam standing in the dressing room, Sam looking foxy in that red dress and Daniel still wearing the leather jacket. Jack had to admit, for a guy, he was looking pretty foxy, too. For a guy.

"I can't believe Paul dropped out."

"Come on, Daniel. He's generous, but why would he shell out two thousand bucks for something he can get for free?"

"But anyone could have won me! I don't think that…woman," he shuddered before he said the word, "Wanted an autographed book or a lecture on ancient Roman irrigation systems."

Sam turned around and saw Jack. "Well, you're lucky Jack was there to save you."

"Anything I can do to help." He smiled at them both, but mostly at Sam. Of course.

"We can't thank you enough," Sam gushed, as Daniel avoided his eye. "That'll help the department so much."

"No problem. But if you wanted to really thank me," he put on his sexiest voice. Daniel rolled his eyes. "Come to dinner with me."

"I think I can manage that, Jack."

"You up for it, Danny?" Jack asked.

Daniel looked taken aback. "What?"

"The more the merrier, right?" At least for this part of the evening. Then, once the ice was broken, Daniel could go off home and he and Sam could get to know each other a little more…intimately.

"I don't…I mean, why…"

"Come on, Daniel. Jack did win you, after all." A smile showed Jack he'd been right. Like that Murray guy had said, Sam felt protective towards Daniel, in a big-sister kind of way. With (D) Colorado back in DC, Daniel would have been going home alone, and Sam was grateful Jack had asked him along.

Yeah, Jack smirked. That was him. Mr. Sensitive.

Daniel hesitated, pushing his glasses up his nose. "I guess…is this all you're going to ask for?"

Jack shrugged. "I got a garage that needs cleaning out, but that can wait till later."

The maitre d' tried to make a stink about finding a table for three, but Jack slipped him a fifty and, all of a sudden, something opened up right near the window.

The menu was all in French, which gave Jack pause for a minute. But Sam looked up at him through her eyelashes and said: "If you don't mind, Jack, I think you'd enjoy this one," and pointed to one of the items. She didn't say it in a snobby way, just like she was helping him out. He ignored Daniel, who was rolling his eyes again, and said:

"Whatever you recommend, Doctor." Sam blushed.

"Then I'd go with le cul de cheval," Daniel put in. "Seems like the kind of thing you'd be most familiar with."

"Thanks, Daniel." Jack smiled. He really wasn't so bad, for a queer. Semi-queer, anyway, Jack corrected himself, remembering Sherry. Daniel yelped suddenly and bent down to grab his shin. Sam looked back at Jack and, blinking innocently, said:

"Don't pay any attention to him, Jack."

He didn't. For most of the meal, Jack talked to Sam. Daniel sat on the other side of the table, looking bored and picking at his coq au vin, a name Jack would have made some choice comments about, if he'd been there with his hockey buddies instead of a lady and a semi-queer.

Daniel perked up a bit when the post-dessert coffee arrived. Sam glanced at the gold watch around her slender wrist and said, genteelly: "Oh, shit! I can't believe how late it is. I've got a lecture at eight tomorrow."

"Couldn't you just cancel it?" Daniel suggested.

"No, Hammond's supposed to drop by. Wouldn't look good to be caught sleeping in." Sam looked at Jack. "No matter who I was caught with."

Jack leered. Well, well. He guessed it was true what they said: sometimes, the smart ones were the horniest. Jack wouldn't know. He'd never slept with a really smart woman, although he'd been with quite a few horny ones.

"Would you mind dropping me off at my apartment, Jack?"

"No problem." Jack gestured for the bill.

"I'll take a taxi," Daniel informed them.

"Why? I can take you, too."

"My apartment's on the other side of town."

"So's mine. I'll drop you off after I drop off Sam." Unlike some of his more hard-headed hockey buddies, Jack wasn't afraid to be alone with a queer. Well, Jack amended, maybe he would be, if the queer was Murray or someone, but not when it was Daniel. Daniel was harmless. That, and he had a boyfriend. Jack wasn't egotistical enough to think that everyone, regardless of gender or marital status, was going to hit on him. Not since he turned into a grey-haired old man, anyway.

They squished into Jack's truck, Sam between Jack and Daniel. When they got to her apartment, Sam glanced over at Daniel, who obediently got out and held the door open, his eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

"Thanks for a great night, Jack."

"I'll come by and drop off the cheque tomorrow," Jack promised. She smiled, gave him a peck on the lips, and left.

Jack and Daniel rode in silence, broken only occasionally for Daniel to give directions. After about fifteen minutes, Jack blurted:

"I read about Sherry." Daniel said nothing. At first, Jack wondered if maybe he hadn't heard. But then, still staring out the window, Daniel said:

"Sha're," so softly, Jack had to strain to hear him over the strains of Travis Tritt. Jack only listened to country when there was someone else in the truck. He had an image to maintain, and he'd learned early in his NHL days that no one respected an opera lover.

"Pardon?" He turned down the radio.

Daniel glanced at him. "My wife's name was Sha're."

"Sure. That's what I said." Daniel sighed. Jack cleared his throat and thought about aborting the conversation, but he'd started it with a purpose. He continued: "Anyway, I'm real sorry about that. I know what it's like to lose someone in an accident."

"It wasn't an accident." Daniel's voice sounded strange. "Sha're was raped and murdered."

"Oh. Jeez." Jack didn't know what else to say. "But the cops said it was an accident."

Daniel shrugged. "They have their own families to protect. Of course they're not going to cross the Goa'uld." Daniel didn't sound angry about it, just resigned, which Jack couldn't understand. If someone had raped and murdered his wife, even Sara, he wouldn't have rested until the guy's head was on a spike in Jack's front yard.

"Goa'uld?"

"Egyptian Mafia. This is my place," he pointed at a small bungalow. Obviously, neither Daniel nor (D) Colorado were raking in the big bucks. "Thanks for the lift."

"No problem." Daniel opened the door. Jack felt like he should say something more, so he added: "Sorry about Sherry." Daniel slammed the door, and Jack drove away, feeling like an idiot.

When he got home, he pulled on a T-shirt and boxers. He headed for bed, but he couldn't sleep. So instead, he went over to his computer, logged on to the Internet and looked up the Goa'uld.

***

Daniel had a hard time sleeping. He knew exactly why that was, of course. Damn Jack O'Neill for bringing up what Daniel tried, if not to forget, at least to repress.

He had loved Sha're, eventually. Her family often worked as porters on Daniel's digs. When Sha're showed up one day, bringing lunch for her father and brothers, Daniel was immediately bowled over by her beauty. Of course, he never would have expected to speak to her, let alone have any kind of relationship with her. When, later that afternoon, Sha're's father came to him and asked:

"You like my daughter?"

Daniel had absently replied: "Oh, yes. She's very pretty."

"She is a virgin," the man continued.

Daniel blinked. "Oh. Um. Good for her." Daniel turned back to his dirt, and, smiling, the man went off to assist another of the archaeologists.

The next day, Sha're, wearing a white gown that made her look even more ethereal, showed up again. This time, with her father and brothers by her side, she came up to Daniel, who was dusty, sweaty and, he could tell, stinking to high heaven.

"Dan'yel." She smiled shyly at him. A little puzzled, Daniel wiped his forehead and smiled back.

"Hi."

"My daughter wishes to marry you," her father interpreted for her. "It would bring great honour to our family." He smiled expectantly. Daniel moved his mouth, but no words came out.

"Dan'yel." She repeated.

"I don't think…"

The man's eyes darkened. "Sha're is not good enough for you?"

"No, it's not that. It's just…" Daniel didn't know why he was objecting, really. Beyond the fact that he had just met this woman and knew nothing about her. "Maybe we should go out for dinner or something first."

"If such is the way of the Tau'ri," her father agreed amiably. It had taken a lot of time, and three archaeological seasons, before Daniel had figured out this was a local expression for non-locals.

That evening, Daniel and Sha're went to a restaurant in the city. It wasn't the best date Daniel had ever been on, but it wasn't the worst, either. They conversed in Arabic, and it came out that Sha're's father had "suggested" she offer herself to Daniel.

"What do you want?" Daniel had asked.

Sha're blinked back at him. "You are a very kind man, Dan'yel. I would be honoured to serve you."

"That's not what marriage is about," Daniel countered, blithely ignoring all local cultural customs for the first time in his life. "It's a partnership." Sha're considered this.

"Then I would be honoured to be your partner."

Soon after, they were married. Daniel had never been happier. And then, barely a year into their marriage, he'd buried her.

"Look, Danny, baby, I'm sorry, OK? But if you want to go to Egypt for four months next year, there's no way we could give Sam two grand."

"That's not the point, Paul." Actually, Daniel didn't know what the point was. He was pissed off at everyone, and, as usual, it was Paul who got the worst of it. "You don't know what kind of sickos were there. I narrowly escaped being assaulted so Carter could have an extra telescope."

"Come on, babe," Paul wheedled. "You know Carter. She would have taken care of you."

"I don't need taking care of! I need a partner who gives a damn about me!" There was silence on the other end of the line. Daniel felt a surge of guilt and sighed. "I'm sorry, Paul." He rubbed his eyes under his glasses. "I'm just in a bad mood." He thought about mentioning Sha're to Paul, but he never liked hearing about her. Daniel could understand that. He wasn't too fond of hearing about Paul's exes, either.

"That's OK," Paul consoled quickly, sounding extremely relieved. "Hey, I know what'll cheer you up. I'm coming into town on Friday."

"This Friday?" Daniel glanced at the 'Secrets of the Sphinx' calendar.

"Just for the weekend. There's a big debate on Monday. But there's something I want to talk about in person."

On that cryptic note, Paul hung up. Daniel looked back at his computer, and contributed exactly three words, 'In ancient times', to his latest journal article he knew no one would publish, before there was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

"Hey." The door opened and Jack O'Neill sauntered in.

For a moment, Daniel wondered how he had possibly filled in his time before he met O'Neill. Then, stifling a sigh, he said: "Mr. O'Neill. What can I do for you this time?" He subtly emphasized the 'this time', but it seemed lost on O'Neill.

"I told you, call me Jack. Or Colonel, but I prefer Jack."

"All right." Daniel agreed. There was a lengthy pause. "Is there something I can do for you, Jack?"

Jack turned a bizarre shade of red and fixed his glance on the bookshelves behind Daniel's desk.

"That's cool." He walked around and picked up one of the bookends.

"Nefertiti," Daniel replied. "It's a reproduction of a famous bust." Normally, Daniel wouldn't have a mass-produced piece of crap like that anywhere near him, but it had been a birthday present from Paul. And having it in the office meant he didn't have to look at it at home.

"Yeah, she looks like the kind who'd have a famous bust. Her ass was probably pretty well-known, too." Jack sniggered.

"Jack, I'm actually rather busy. I think Sam's on her lunch break…"

"Yeah." Jack replaced Nefertiti and went back to staring at the floor. "I wanted to say, I read up about those Goa'uld, and I don't think it's fair they get away with whatever the hell they want just cause no one's got the balls to stand up to them."

In the face of this outburst, Daniel could do nothing but blink and try to figure out what Jack was talking about.

"You did research…on the Goa'uld?" Daniel wasn't sure which part surprised him the most, the research or the subject of it. "Why?"

Jack didn't raise his eyes from the floor. "Cause I know what it's like to lose someone, and it's even shittier when it happens like that." He looked up suddenly. "Well, I guess I'd better go find Sam. Talk to you later."

Daniel watched as he made his way towards the door. When Jack had his hand on the doorknob, Daniel said: "Wait." Jack turned around. Daniel swallowed, suddenly unsure. But he could hardly say, "Well, see you later," so instead, he said: "Want to go for coffee?"

***

When Daniel asked him for coffee, Jack was pretty sure they wouldn't be going to McDonald's or Krispy Kreme. He figured Starbucks. Daniel looked like a Starbucks kind of guy.

Jack was surprised when Daniel pulled up in front of a tiny place between a second-hand bookshop and one of those kooky new-age stores with crystals and beads in the windows.

"What's this?"

"The best Moroccan coffee outside of Casablanca." Daniel shut off the engine. That was another surprise. Jack had thought Daniel would drive a Merc or a BMW or something like that. He was a famous professor, after all. Instead, he had a Volvo with rust in the wheel-wells. "They have regular coffee, too."

Jack frowned. "Hey, I can be adventurous." After all, he'd lived in Vancouver for two seasons, and he'd tried sushi at least three times.

"OK." Daniel led him inside.

It was darker than Starbucks, with big chairs and what looked like a massive bong in one corner. For a second, Jack wondered if he should be in a place like this. The NHL could be pretty uptight about stuff like that. Then he decided he didn't care, and sank into one of the chairs.

Daniel came over a few minutes later, two thimble-sized coffee cups in his hand.

"Jeez, Daniel, I asked for a 'small'." Jack griped, as Daniel handed him a cup.

Daniel smiled, which made Jack feel unaccountably good about himself.

The coffee was bitter, but not bad. They sipped in silence for a few minutes, until Daniel said: "What did you find about the Goa'uld?"

Jack shrugged and set his empty coffee cup on the low table in front of them.

"They're a mean bunch of motherfuckers." Daniel smiled again, a little sadly this time. "One of the Big Cheeses is a chick called Hathor, and she wants to get even bigger."

Jack felt strangely proud to be telling Daniel about this. It was like, he thought, he was back in elementary school, trying to impress the teacher. He'd always been fond of impressing the teacher. Especially, Jack reminded himself, Miss Marks, his fifth grade teacher. She'd been stacked like a lumberyard. "They've been running the show in Egypt for years, but I figure if a bunch of decent people could get themselves organized, they could get rid of 'em once and for all." "It's not that easy, Jack."

"I know. I never said it'd be easy," Jack countered. "But it could be done." He had no idea how, but Jack had never let details like that get in the way.

Daniel stared into his little coffee cup. "They're more dangerous than you think. Sha're's not the only one I lost to them." He swallowed. "There was a…colleague of mine. Sarah." Daniel paused a little before he said 'colleague', and Jack assumed this meant Sarah was more than a colleague. So, Daniel was two-thirds straight. Which was pretty damn straight, after all. Jack smiled, before he realized this wasn't a smiling moment. "She was kidnapped by the Goa'uld. I don't know if she's alive or dead."

Now that Jack knew Daniel was practically straight, he reached across the table and gave him a reassuring, manly slap on the back, the kind of thing he'd give a teammate who'd just been cross-checked into the boards. Right before he nailed the guy who'd done the cross-checking.

Daniel flinched a little. "Paul doesn't know why I keep going back there. He thinks I should stay away, but I can't. He doesn't understand that."

"I do." It was, Jack thought, the same reason he'd kept playing hockey in the very same arena where Charlie had been killed. Because focusing on his work was the only thing that kept him sane.

Daniel looked up suddenly, and, for a second, Jack noticed he had blue eyes. Like Sara. He couldn't remember the last time he'd noticed the colour of a man's eyes, if he ever had. He was usually too busy blackening them.

Daniel stood up suddenly. "We should get back. I have a lecture at one."

"OK."

When they arrived back on campus, Daniel took off right away. Jack wandered over to where he'd parked his truck, his mind whirling. By the time he shifted it into gear, he was already planning how he was going to convince the NHL they needed to offer hockey to the underprivileged masses of Egypt.

He was nearly home by the time he remembered he'd forgotten to visit Sam.

"So what do you want to talk about?" Daniel asked, as soon as Paul stepped in the door Friday evening.

"Patience, Danny," was his infuriating response. He bent to kiss Daniel on the forehead and said: "Get dressed, babe. Something nice. I got us reservations at Puccini's."

Throughout dinner, Paul remained stubbornly close-mouthed about what he'd come halfway across the country to discuss. When they'd finished, Paul drove up near the top of Cheyenne Mountain, from where there was a wonderful view of the city. There were a handful of other cars parked there, and Daniel remembered this spot had a reputation as the make-out point of Colorado Springs. Mortified by the thought that he might see one of his students, or, worse still, that one of his students might see him, Daniel moved the sun visor down over the window and turned to Paul.

"What are we doing here?"

Paul smiled—a little nervously, Daniel thought—and rubbed his palms on his thighs. "There's something I want to ask you, Danny."

Daniel felt himself tense. Which was completely stupid, so he forced a smile and said, gently: "What's that, Paul?"

Paul cleared his throat. "You and I…I mean, we've been together a while now, and you know I love you." He coughed. "So I was thinking, why don't we, you know." Daniel didn't know, but he had a sinking suspicion. "Get married?"

Hypothesis confirmed. He looked at Paul, who was smiling hopefully.

He loved Paul, like he'd never thought he'd be able to love anyone after Sha're. Paul had been a focal point in his life when Daniel needed one, first as a friend and then as a lover. He was a great guy, the best. But Daniel didn't want to get remarried.

"What does the party think about this?" He knew it was selfish, but Daniel wanted Paul to say it didn't matter what the party thought, that Daniel's opinion was the only one that mattered. Instead, he said:

"They don't mind. They know I want to push the issue of gay marriage the next time we're in power. Everyone knows you and I are together, anyway. They don't think a wedding will change my popularity."

"So, this is a political thing?"

"No!" Paul shook his head vehemently. "No, Daniel. I love you."

"I love you, too," Daniel admitted.

"So, does that mean…" He looked so hopeful, Daniel didn't have the heart to let him down.

Anyway, he thought, for once the Democrats were right. What difference would it make? He and Paul already lived together, most of the time. They took vacations together, he visited Paul in Washington and Paul had even come out to Egypt once. They were already partners. Getting married wouldn't change any of that. It wouldn't change anything.

At least, that was what Daniel hoped.

"All right, Paul." Paul's response was worth it. He threw his arms around Daniel, accidentally hitting the horn in the process. So much for keeping a low profile. Daniel hid his face behind his hand as the occupants of the next car peered out their window and Paul fumbled in his jacket pocket.

"I guess that means I can give you this." He held his hand out to Daniel. Daniel looked down and picked up the silver ring, engraved all the way round with hieroglyphics. Which read, unsurprisingly, Daniel Paul, the end of one name blending into the beginning of the other.

"It's…"

"I had it made in DC," Paul put in. "It's platinum." It was beautiful. And expensive. Suddenly, Daniel understood why they hadn't been able to give Carter a two-thousand-dollar donation. He plastered a smile on his face and put the ring onto his left hand.

"Thanks, Paul." He kissed Paul lightly. When Paul leaned in for another, deeper, kiss, Daniel put a hand on his shoulder and said: "But I'm too old to make out in a car, so let's go home."

***

It took a week of meetings and cost-analysis for Jack to convince them that it would be a great PR exercise if the NHL were to build a temporary rink and offer skating lessons and hockey sticks to the poor kids of Cairo.

Jack could have done it in three days, if not for Maybourne, a prick who'd been a useless defenceman and was even more useless board member. "Why Egypt?" was his question. "I mean, I think poor Africa, I think Ethiopia. Remember Band-Aid? Wasn't that Ethiopia?"

Jack gave him a look that would have shut anyone else up, and probably sent them running for cover. Maybourne just said: "Or India. I think we could do big things in India."

"Egypt's got the pyramids," Jack replied. The other boardmembers considered this. Jack moved in for the kill. "I mean, kids in donated hockey gear posing in front of the pyramids? That'd be a million-seller. What the hell recognizable is there in Ethiopia?"

"We'd have to do a cost-analysis, of course."

"Of course." Jack gave them his most gentlemanly smile. And, just to show he was a team player, he added: "And if this goes well, Maybourne can set up a branch program in India."

Two days later, Jack was informed they were sending a committee on a fact-finding mission to Cairo, to make contact with a couple of schools or youth organizations that would get on board. A little more wheedling convinced them to add Jack's name to that committee, and Daniel Jackson's, while they were at it. After all, they were going to need an Egyptological expert to help them make those contacts.

Jack couldn't wait to tell Daniel. He was in a lecture when Jack got to the university, so he waited in the hall outside Daniel's office, looking at a poster advertising some visiting lecturer and trying not to hop.

Finally, Daniel came around the corner, his glasses slipping down his nose and a box full of books and assorted papers falling out of his arms.

"Hey, Daniel." Jack stepped forward automatically. "Let me give you a hand."

"Hi, Jack." Jack took the box out of his hands, and Daniel searched through his enormous keyring for the office key.

"Jesus, Danny, how many keys do you need?" Daniel glanced at him, frowning a little, as he selected the right one and shoved it into the lock.

"As many as I have." As he turned the doorknob, Jack noticed a new ring on Daniel's left hand. There were symbols on it, including a bird-like thing that Jack, who had seen both "The Mummy" and "The Mummy Returns", recognized as a hieroglyphic.

Jack wondered if he should mention it. He didn't usually talk about what guys were wearing, and he wondered if the one-third of Daniel that wasn't straight might take it the wrong way. On the other hand, it didn't look like a normal ring. Jack had a Stanley Cup ring at home, and he loved it when anyone asked him about it, because it meant he could talk about that great game. The last one Charlie had attended. Well, second-last.

Figuring that, if this was the Egyptology equivalent of a Stanley Cup ring, Daniel would want to talk about it, Jack said: "That's cool," and pointed to the ring.

Daniel glanced at his hand and blushed a little. "Paul gave it to me."

Jack's first reaction was revulsion, but he pushed that down. Two-thirds straight, he reminded himself. And a hell of a lot more admirable than a lot of the hundred-percent-straight guys Jack knew.

"Oh, yeah?" Jack was pleased with how casual he managed to sound. "It your birthday or something?"

"No." Daniel went around behind his desk, and Jack set the box down on the floor. "It's an engagement ring."

Jack was seized by a sudden, violent coughing fit. All he could do was try and expel his lungs while Daniel looked concerned and patted him on the back.

When he regained some composure, Jack straightened his shirt and, determinedly, continued that vein of conversation. "I didn't know that was legal round here." Daniel retreated back behind the desk. "It's not. We're going to Hawaii. Probably at Christmas."

"Oh." Jack fidgeted uncomfortably. "Well, congratulations." He was rewarded by a shy smile, and, just to prove that he wasn't a complete ass, Jack added: "Invite me to the stag night, OK? That's somethin' I gotta see."

"Would Carter let you out?"

"Carter?" Jack frowned.

"Yes. Sam. Your girlfriend."

"Oh." Jack rubbed the back of his neck. "I haven't…we kinda…With one thing and another…Haven't you spoken to her?"

Daniel shrugged. "It's getting close to midterm season. Everyone's busy."

"Well, that kinda fizzled out." Mostly because he hadn't called her since he'd dropped off the cheque for her department. Honestly, it had just slipped his mind.

Daniel's eyebrows went up. "That's too bad."

"Hey, I've got something to tell you." Before they could head too far down that road, Jack remembered the reason he was here. "How'd you like to go to Egypt for a week?"

"What?"

He explained about the NHL's sudden desire to bring hockey to the slums of Cairo. "The good thing is, I thought we could do some scouting out. Of the Goa'uld."

"What?" Daniel repeated, like Jack had just suggested he put his tongue on an outdoor goalpost. In the middle of winter. "I've seen enough of the Goa'uld to last me a lifetime."

"I know. But I figure, if we see what's going on, maybe we can, you know. Figure out how to stop it." It sounded pathetic even to his own ears. "I mean…"

"You mean you want to go and take on the Goa'uld like you'd take on an opposing hockey team. I hate to be the one to break it to you, Jack, but they aren't the…Pittsburgh Penguins." Daniel crossed his arms over his chest. "They won't give you penalty minutes. They'll just kill you. If you're lucky."

Jack blinked. He'd been expecting Daniel to be pleasantly surprised, enthusiastic, maybe even grateful. Like he should be.

"What the hell's your problem, Daniel?" He asked, frowning.

"My problem? I don't have a problem, Jack. You're the one with such an overinflated ego you think you can solve a centuries-old problem by showing up with an American flag and a goddamn hockey stick. Of course, I don't suppose it's entirely your fault. The way this country treats professional athletes, it's no wonder you think you're God Almighty."

"Hey." Jack bristled. You could insult him, many people had, but he drew the line at insulting professional athletes. "I'm just trying to help you out here, Daniel. It wasn't my wife who got raped and murdered by these bastards. Course, you seem to have moved on pretty well, so maybe you don't care about avenging Sherry."

Jack knew it was the wrong thing to say. He understood perfectly. If someone had questioned his devotion to Charlie, he'd have ripped them a new one, and an extra for backup. He wasn't surprised when Daniel said:

"Get the fuck out," although the language was unusual. Jack would have expected him to use a more genteel expression. Kindly remove yourself from the immediate premises, something like that.

"Look, Daniel…"

"I said, get out, Mr. O'Neill. I have nothing to say to you and now that Sam's broken up with you, thank God, you have no reason to be anywhere near here."

Jack sighed. "I just…"

Daniel picked up his phone. "Hello, Campus Security?"

Jack held up his hands. "OK, OK. I'm going." He left the office, hoping things went better in Egypt. And that there were a lot of diplomats on the team, because apparently, Jack wasn't one.

***

"So, I was thinking."

"Yes?" The phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder, Daniel dried his single plate and replaced it in the cupboard. There was a repeat of a biography of Alexander the Great on the television, muted so Daniel could pay attention to his lover's voice. Or at least try.

"Christmas Eve wedding on Maui, New Year's Eve honeymoon in Thailand?"

Daniel laughed. "Should I supply my own Bangkok jokes?"

"I'm working on a collection as we speak."

Grinning, Daniel leaned against the kitchen counter. "What will we do in the week between?"

"Oh," Paul's voice lowered. "I'm sure we can figure something out." Daniel felt a stirring in his crotch at the mere words. No doubt about it, he thought smugly. He was completely in love with the guy. There was nothing to worry about on that front, no sir.

"I miss you, Paul."

There was a moment's startled silence on the Washington end of the line. Usually, Paul was the one who said things like that, and Daniel was the one who said things like:

"Don't worry, Daniel. I'll be back in two weeks."

Suddenly, it was far too long. "I want to come to Washington."

Another pause. "You know I'd love to see you, babe, but I'm in meetings all this week. Anyway, I have an expense account. You don't. With the wedding and everything…"

"Of course." He was right, Daniel knew that. "I just really feel like seeing you."

"Oh, babe." Paul sounded touched. "I love you."

"I know." Daniel sighed. "I was thinking about Sha're today." Actually, after Jack had left and Daniel was no longer completely incensed, he'd been wondering if maybe there was something in what he'd said. Not that he didn't care about Sha're, but maybe that he'd moved on too soon.

Another pause. The biography went to commercial, and Daniel watched as a man silently explained how he'd cured his athlete's foot. "Sha're's dead, Daniel."

"I know."

"And I know she'd want you to be happy." It was a meaningless platitude. Paul had never met Sha're. But since Daniel knew Paul couldn't offer anything else, and since he didn't even know what he wanted to hear, Daniel said:

"I love you, too."

Paul's voice dropped another few notes. "Know what I'd like to do to you right now, Danny?"

Daniel shifted against the counter and lowered his voice seductively. "I wouldn't mind finding out."

***

Working from memory, it took Jack a while to find Daniel's place. He parked on the driveway, next to that rusty Volvo, and rang the bell.

The curtains were drawn, but Jack could see there was a light on in the living room. If it hadn't been for that, he might have given up.

Finally, the door opened.

"About damn time, Daniel," Jack complained amiably, because he was here to patch things up. It was only then he noticed that Daniel was red-faced, out of breath, and looked like he'd just thrown on his clothes. Unless he had a home gym he hadn't mentioned to Jack, it was obvious what he'd doing

"Oh, shit." Jack winced. "Sorry, man. I didn't know, I mean, I didn't think Davis was here…" Quite unbidden, explicit images of Daniel and Davis flashed through Jack's mind, and his face burned.

"He's not," Daniel answered, quite calmly, all things considered. Obediently, Davis disappeared from Jack's imaginings, to be replaced by Daniel. Alone. Enjoying himself.

The burn in Jack's face grew even more acute. He stood, fervently wishing the porch would collapse beneath him, until Daniel prompted:

"Was there something you wanted, Mr. O'Neill?"

"Yeah." Jack couldn't remember what it was, but he knew it had been something. "Right. Egypt." Yes, that was it. Egypt. "I'm sorry about what I said. I know how you feel about Sha're. And you have to come. I told the NHL you would."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "Well, in THAT case…"

"Anyway," Jack continued, regaining a little composure, "You owe me." Jack had remembered that as soon as he'd stormed out of Daniel's office.

"What?"

"I bought you. Twenty-five hundred dollars' worth."

Daniel gave him a look that Jack supposed was meant to be scathing. He remained unscathed. "You have got to be kidding."

"Nope," Jack replied pleasantly. "The plane leaves on Saturday. See you then, pal." He turned around and headed back down the steps. Daniel sighed heavily behind him. Jack couldn't resist it. He glanced over his shoulder. "Oh, and Danny, you know, you didn't have to open the door."

***

Jack was used to travelling, he'd told Daniel. It had taken some strident convincing on Daniel's part for him to understand that packing for a five-game NHL road trip was not like packing for a weeklong trip to Egypt. Especially not if one of the purposes of said trip was to collect intelligence on the Goa'uld.

But Jack was willing to learn. He didn't exactly understand why he should bring extra sunscreen instead of his Game Boy and his yo-yo, but if Daniel told him to leave it, he did. And he was good about it, in a snarky, sarcastic way. If it hadn't been for the ever-present, unspoken humiliation of Jack walking in on his first ever attempt at phone sex, Daniel could almost imagine being friends with him.

For the third day in a row, Daniel drove directly to Jack's after his last lecture of the day. He'd already arranged for Murray to administer his midterm exams the week he was away. When he'd asked what Murray wanted in return for this favour, Murray had just said:

"When the time comes, Dr. Jackson, I know you will perform a comparable service for me."

Daniel promised to bring him back a Great Pyramid of Giza bookmark.

Daniel parked on the street in front of Jack's place and rang the bell. From inside, he heard Jack call: "Come in!" And Daniel went inside.

Jack's house was much bigger than his and Paul's, but it was crammed with more stuff than even they, confirmed packrats they were, had managed to accumulate.

Jack was nowhere in sight, so Daniel made his way to the living room. He sat on the couch, beneath a framed, autographed photo of the 1991-92 Detroit Red Wings and next to a truly hideous throw rug, covered in silkscreened pictures of Jack in his various team uniforms, that had apparently been a gift from an elderly fan in Poughkeepsie.

Glancing down, Daniel saw a pile of papers on the coffee table in front of him. On top was a new-looking passport. Daniel glanced through the doorway to the kitchen. Jack was nowhere in sight, so Daniel picked up the passport and opened it.

The photograph inside was a typical passport picture, and as such made Jack look like he'd recently been arrested for the indecent assault of a farm animal. Next to the picture was a birthdate, more recent than Daniel would have thought, and the name Jonathan O'Neill.

Daniel sat back, surprised. Jonathan. He liked that name, much more than he liked 'Jack'. Jack sounded like an itinerant vagabond. Jonathan sounded intelligent, classy. Honourable. Like, Daniel thought, the kind of guy who would go several tens of thousands of miles out of his way to avenge the murder of a woman he'd never met.

"Whatcha doin', Daniel?"

"Nothing." Daniel replaced the passport and sat back, trying to seem nonchalant.

That plan went out the window when he glanced up and actually saw Jack-slash-Jonathan.

He had obviously just emerged from the shower. His grey hair was damp and his skin was flushed, and he was wearing sweats and a shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest.

Daniel felt like he'd been hit by a freight train. Oblivious, Jack sat in an armchair across from him. "How's it goin', Danny?"

He had no idea. He loved Paul. He was engaged to Paul. He'd never even looked at another man, or woman, for that matter, since Paul had moved in with him, even when Paul was in DC.

Now, instead of having sensible adulterous feelings, for someone like Mustafa at the coffee shop or Janice in Crypto-Zoology, or even Murray, for God's sake, Daniel was apparently suddenly hot for a just-showered ex-NHL star.

"Earth to Daniel." Daniel looked up to see Jack smiling at him. It did nothing to help his sudden confusion.

"Yes?"

"You looked a little spaced-out, there."

Sex. That had to be it. Paul had been gone for ten days, and, apart from that one interrupted attempt, Daniel hadn't done anything in that time. Sure, he was used to long dry spells, but he wasn't a sexual camel. The sight of Jack had just come at a bad time. The feelings were just a biological response to the sight of an attractive body, that was all. A biological response to a well-defined, in-shape, attractive, alluring, incredibly sexy body.

Daniel gulped for air and squeaked: "I'm fine, Jack."

***

After more than twenty years in professional sports, Jack, as he liked to say, could sleep anywhere except his own bed. Airplanes posed no problem. He was reclining in the first-class seat, in the middle of a very sweet dream involving Tammy the flight attendant, a packet of peanuts and the complimentary drinks cart, when he started awake to find Daniel's head in his lap.

Well, not in his lap, exactly. It was more on his knee, as Daniel reached over him and fumbled in Jack's footwell. Nevertheless, it was the closest any man without a degree in sports medicine had ever come to that particular area of his body. Jack was astonished at how un-nauseated he felt.

"What the hell?"

"Oh, sorry, Jack." Daniel sat up, readjusting his glasses. He had a crumpled copy of the in-flight magazine, the one that promised an in-depth, exclusive article on hop farming, in his hand. "I finished my books."

"I told you, you should have brought a crossword puzzle. Or maybe one of those invisible ink books they were selling in the airport," Jack complained, because talking was as good a way as any to distract himself from what may or may not just have occurred.

Daniel snorted. "I prefer not to completely waste my time on activities designed for morons."

"OK. You enjoy your in-flight magazine, then."

Daniel smirked, but opened the magazine. Jack looked out the window, saw nothing more interesting than clouds, and turned back inside. He had a Tom Clancy in his carry-on bag, but he didn't feel like reading it. He wanted to talk to Daniel some more, but Daniel looked really interested in the magazine. Jack sighed pointedly and stared over at Maybourne, who was sitting with one of the other board members. Doing a crossword puzzle.

"Did you lose your wife?"

"What?" Jack glanced at Daniel. He had folded the magazine neatly and was looking at Jack with interest.

"Did you lose your wife?" Daniel repeated. He spoke quietly, but not in a whisper.

"No. I know exactly where she is." A condo in Santa Barbara, with a real estate agent called Nick.

"I thought…" Daniel furrowed his eyebrows, and Jack was hit with a feeling he didn't recognize, and didn't want to analyze. Instead, he stared at the seat in front of him. "You said you knew what it was like to lose someone…"

"Sara and I are divorced," Jack explained. What the hell. It wasn't like everyone else, including their ex-neighbours, the NHL board members, and anyone who had ever undertaken a five-minute conversation with Sara, didn't already know. "My son is dead."

"Oh, God." Daniel sounded genuinely upset. Jack looked over at him, then back down.

"Happened six years ago. He came to see my last season opener."

"With the Colorado Avalanche," Daniel put in.

"Yeah," Jack replied, a little surprised that Daniel knew that. It was why, when he'd given it all up a few months later, he'd decided to settle in Colorado. The middle of nowhere, but as good a place as any. And while he didn't exactly like staying in the last house Charlie had lived in, he couldn't bring himself to sell it. "He was sitting in the bleachers behind the bench." Where Charlie always sat, in his Jack O'Neill jersey, with a chilidog and a jumbo-sized Coke because his mother had stopped coming with him years earlier. "It was a freak accident."

Even now, Jack had nightmares about it. They weren't as frequent as they used to be, but they were still there.

It was the end of the second period. Some goon had been trash-talking Jack since the start of the game, but hadn't had the guts to do anything about it. If they hadn't been down three-one, Jack would have sacrificed the penalty minutes and taken him out first, but he couldn't. Instead, he was doing what he always told Charlie to but never did himself, skating away from the jerk. Which meant Jack saw everything perfectly.

The clock was running down, and a rookie forward from the other team flicked a slapshot at the net seconds before the buzzer sounded. It sailed over the net and ricocheted off the glass behind the goal.

Some days, Jack couldn't remember his Social Security number or exactly how many siblings he had, but the sight of that hockey puck was irrevocably burned into his brain. It flew off the glass and into the crowd. Jack didn't look to see where it went, and a second later, the buzzer sounded and he went into the dressing room.

Down there, he heard one of the defencemen say the puck had hit a kid in the crowd.

"There's a kid who just paid his college tuition," another of the players joked.

Jack thought of Charlie, briefly, but he dismissed the idea and went back to icing his knees.

The intermission went on longer than usual. Just as Jack was getting seriously anxious to get back out there and take out the ass who'd been hassling him, the team's general manager came into the dressing room.

Jack knew what the man was going to say before he said it. It was one of those strong gut feelings he sometimes had, but he still hoped, for a fraction of a second, that he was wrong. He wasn't.

He got out of uniform in record time, and the GM took Jack to the hospital in his rented opening night limousine. Jack still didn't know how long the manager had stayed there. The minute Jack saw Charlie lying in the emergency room, his boss disappeared from his mind. He didn't even think about Sara until she showed up at his side, wearing a black dress and smelling suspiciously formal for someone who was supposed to be having a quiet night at home.

That was the least of Jack's concerns. Charlie's brain damage was severe, and three hours later, with Jack on one side of his hospital bed and Sara on the other, he slipped away. Sara went home and cried. Jack went home and put a nine-iron through the window of a car.

"I'm so sorry, Jack."

Jack snapped out of it and looked over at Daniel. He was looking back, actual tears in his eyes.

"Yeah, well." Jack coughed. "It was a long time ago." He craned his neck down the aisle, snapping: "Hey, what's a guy gotta do to get a glass of champagne?" at the nearest beleaguered flight attendant. Daniel went back to his magazine.

***

As a scientist, Daniel always found it painful when he had to give up a favourite theory. But it would be irresponsible to cling to a pet idea after evidence proved it wrong, and so, with great reluctance, Daniel had abandoned the idea that he liked Jack because he was lonely and horny.

He soon replaced it with another, more plausible theory. He liked Jack, he decided, because he was nervous about marrying Paul. Cold feet rather than blue balls. He didn't want to get married to anyone, he'd known that since the moment Paul had proposed, but he didn't want to hurt Paul. And, since he could think of no situation in which he could call off the wedding and keep a good relationship with Paul, Daniel didn't have much choice.

He still got a sharp, guilty thrill as he sat across the table from Jack in the meeting room of the Cairo Hilton, watching Jack twirl a pen and cut down the other hockey people, especially the one named Maybourne, with a few choice words. When Jack dropped the pen, it rolled across to Daniel's side of the table. He handed it back, brushing his hand against Jack's. The thrill was more pronounced. Jack, of course, was entirely oblivious.

After the latest meeting, during which Daniel had once again completely failed to convince a group of minor government officials that an NHL kids' camp could be the best thing to happen to Cairo in the last couple of millennia, Jack said: "Meet me in the bar in ten minutes. I need a drink."

Daniel complied. It wasn't like he had anything else to do.

Daniel ordered two beers from the bartender and chose a table close to the door, so Jack didn't have to wander around looking for him. He wondered, idly, if this new attraction to Jack was harmful, but then, it wasn't the first time he'd had a vague, pointless crush on a straight man. And Daniel was sure that was all it could be. Sure, Jack had proved more sensitive than he'd originally thought, and that story of how he'd lost his son brought tears to Daniel's eyes, but they had nothing in common. It was an infatuation, that was all. Daniel hadn't thought it was something he'd experience again, especially not when he was thirty-six years old and engaged, but it was nothing to worry about.

Daniel looked up as he sensed someone behind him and saw a shadow on the faux-marble pillar in front.

"Jack?"

"Dr. Jackson." It wasn't Jack. It was one of the government officials, a particularly irritating red-tape aficionado named Youssef Abdellatif. Daniel had met him several times when he was grappling with dig applications and the apparent reluctance of the Egyptian government to let any of their artifacts, or even pictures of them in some cases, out of the country.

"Mr. Abdellatif. What can I do for you?" To the dismay of Jack's friends, Abdellatif had made it eminently clear that he wasn't about to do much for them. Not without a substantial bribe, anyway.

"Mr. Maybourne has requested you rejoin us in the meeting room."

"Again?"

The man shrugged. "I have spoken with my superiors." As if that explained it. Daniel stood up, taking the beers with him. He didn't know if it was strictly professional, but he knew Jack would be annoyed at having to go into yet another meeting. A little beer might ease the situation.

Daniel sighed, wondered just when he'd learned to predict Jack's moods, and followed Abdellatif out of the bar.

By the time he realized they weren't heading in the direction of the meeting room, it was too late.

Ten minutes. That was what Jack had said. Just enough time to make a mad dash to the Little Right Wingers Room. A day of long meetings and good complimentary coffee would do that to you. Jack didn't know how Daniel managed it. Must have a bladder the size of a goddamn hot air balloon, he thought, because it was easier to speculate about Daniel's bladder size than the size of any other part of his body. Jack zipped up and rinsed his hands under the brass faucet.

Jack wasn't queer, that went without saying. Nevertheless, he had said it, repeatedly, in the locker room, in bars with his buddies, and at Sara's family reunion, where he, newly engaged and gung-ho to impress the soon to be in-laws, had come across her queer-gay, Jack corrected himself, that was the right word-cousin Leon. In a dark corner of Grandma Sullivan's basement, where he'd happily gone to get more beer.

Jack had left that family reunion with a less-than-stellar reputation. Sara had left with her family's pity. Leon had left with a black eye. Later on, after the divorce, Jack wished he'd taken advantage of Leon's unsubtle offer, and a few other, more appealing, offers he'd gotten during his brief period of faithfulness to Sara. But that was just spite, and the new knowledge that Sara's period of faithfulness to him had been non-existent.

Jack couldn't identify the strange, uncomfortable feeling he'd started getting around Daniel, but he was pretty sure it wasn't spite. He didn't know what it was, and he didn't like to spend too much time thinking about it. All he knew was that, when he'd told Daniel about Charlie, Daniel was the first person who'd ever looked at him with real empathy. Not pity, not sympathy, but empathy. Jack knew the difference, despite what the 'Sports Illustrated' interviewers had always said about his lack of eloquence. And, while he didn't let words like 'interest' or 'jealousy' set foot in his mind in reference to Daniel, Jack had to admit Daniel's empathy didn't make Jack any more inclined to vote Davis in the next election.

Jack wiped his hands on his pants and went through to the bar. He scanned the room for Daniel, and was a little surprised when he didn't see him. Well, he thought, guess his bladder's not that big, after all.

Jack went up to the bar and ordered two American beers, making sure to emphasize the 'American.'

"I believed you had a meeting," the barman said, surprising Jack. It still surprised him when foreigners spoke to him in his own language. It also made him vaguely embarrassed that he couldn't speak theirs.

"Yeah. We've been in meetings all day."

"Your friend," the man continued. "He returned there."

Jack frowned. "What?" Why would Daniel go back to the meeting room? Jack, who was used to long bureaucratic meetings, had nearly gone stir-crazy after five hours in that place. Dr. "Don't Fence Me In" Jackson had looked about ready to stab someone with his cheap hotel pen.

"Mr. Abdellatif came to fetch him."

Abdellatif. Jack tried to remember which one that was. Absently, he thanked the bartender and went over to the meeting room. It was empty, as he'd expected.

Jack took a deep breath. There was, he reminded himself, no reason to panic. Danny was probably in the john or upstairs changing or off making fun of the people buying King Tut T-shirts in the gift shop. Again. Jack would find him.

Not pausing to wonder when, exactly, he'd started calling Daniel 'Danny', even in his own mind, Jack started his search.

He didn't find him. He did, however, find Maybourne in a T-shirt and sweats, heading down to the pool with a gym bag in hand.

"Have you seen Jackson?"

Maybourne looked at him. "Why?"

Of course, the irritating bastard couldn't give him a straight answer. "Because he's my red-hot sex god and I need a fix of Daniel-lovin' before I go back to sticking pins in my balls to keep myself awake in one of those oh-so-scintillating meetings."

Maybourne narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to determine if Jack was joking or not. Rolling his eyes, Jack clarified: "Because I'm trying to find him, genius."

"Last time I saw him, he was getting into a truck out in the parking lot." Maybourne continued on his way to the pool. Or tried to. Jack stepped in front of him.

"What?"

"He was getting in a car. With one of those bent bureaucrats. He looked drunk or something."

"Daniel?"

Maybourne shrugged. "They guy had to kind of heft him in the car."

"How did you see all this?"

"What is this, O'Neill, the fucking Spanish Inquisition?"

Jack couldn't help himself. He grabbed Maybourne by the T-shirt and pushed him up against the wall, right under the "Ice Machines Located on Floors 3, 5, 7, 9, 11 and 14" sign.

"You want to see the Spanish Inquisition? Just keep it up." Maybourne swallowed. He actually looked a little pale, which gratified Jack immensely. Then he realized what he was doing, and that the eyes of everyone in the lobby (including the desk clerks, the bellboys, and a family of five in Bermuda shorts) and let Maybourne go. "Why didn't you stop him?" Jack hissed, clenching his fists at his sides to keep himself from landing one in Maybourne's face.

"He's not my problem." Maybourne rearranged his shirt, rubbing at his neck indignantly. "And neither are you. The 'New York Post' was right. You're insane."

"The 'New York Post' said that about me?" Jack didn't remember hearing that one. It gave him a strange sense of pride. He wondered if Daniel would like to know that.

Thinking of Daniel brought him back to the point. Maybourne stalked off and Jack went to find his friend.

***

Jack had the most wonderful mouth Daniel had ever experienced. Soft but demanding, passionate with just the right amount of aggressiveness. Daniel gasped as Jack bit down on his shoulder, his eyes flying open. He jumped up when he saw that mouth in question did not belong to Jack.

At least, he tried to jump up. He succeeded only in bucking a little, and looked down to find he was shackled to a slab.

"Ah, Dr. Jackson." The woman who had been sucking on his body stepped off him. She was dressed in a heavy robe, and had long, reddish hair and an unusually deep voice.

Daniel's stomach seized, and he strained uselessly against his shackles. "Hathor."

"We did not expect to see you here again," Hathor smiled fondly. "How fortunate for all of us."

Shit. Daniel closed his eyes and opened them again, hoping that would wake him up. It didn't. He was still looking at the schizophrenic organized crime leader who had been behind the murder of his wife.

"Now," Hathor continued, running a manicured hand down Daniel's bare chest. He didn't know where his shirt and pants had gone. He was just glad that, for the moment, he had been allowed to retain his boxers, although from the look in Hathor's eyes, he didn't think they were going to last long. "Let us finish what Sha're prevented." Daniel felt a sharp sting on his chest and glanced down to see a line of blood trickling between his pectoral muscles.

He leaned his head back on the cold metal beneath him. And Jack wondered why he hadn't wanted to seek out the Goa'uld.

***

"Look, Captain…" Jack squinted at the nameplate on the man's desk. "El Adl, I don't give a shit what you're 'permitted' to do, I want you to find this son-of-a-bitch. It's your fucking job."

El Adl looked at him impassively, like Jack was a pedantic old lady who had complained about his dog fouling the grass.

"Mr. O'Neill, as I have said, things are done differently here than they are in…America." He made the word sound like an insult, which did nothing to improve Jack's mood. "Look, Captain, we can appreciate your situation…" This was Simmons, the lawyer the NHL had insisted on sending along with him, mostly because Ferretti and Makepeace were back in the States. It had been assumed Maybourne and the others would keep a short enough leash on him.

Simmons had spent the last two hours trying to keep Jack from causing an international incident, and Jack could see his resolve was flagging. A couple more bureaucratic roadblocks, Jack thought, and Simmons would be causing international incidents along with him.

"It was the goddamn Goa'uld, wasn't it?" Jack demanded. Captain el Adl's already-thin lips became even thinner.

"The Goa'uld do not exist, Mr. O'Neill. Whatever problems you may have in America, in Egypt…"

"Oh, right." Jack snorted so vehemently, he hurt his sinuses. "The Goa'uld don't exist, and Sherry Jackson died in an accident. Bullshit."

El Adl didn't ask what he was talking about, although Simmons looked pretty interested. "While I was not part of the investigation into the American woman's death, I can assure you that the police did everything possible…"

Jack was getting very tired of this, especially when was convinced ever passing minute brought Daniel closer to joining Sha're in that pointless death.

"Look, if you're not gonna do anything yourself, fine. Just tell me where I can find these bastards, and I'll get Daniel back myself."

El Adl seemed to consider this, but only for a moment. "And then, when you return to America, I suppose you will go on the television and tell Barbara Walters all about the incompetent Egyptian officials…"

"No Barbara Walters." Jack promised. "Not even Larry King."

El Adl looked between them. Jack decided to seal the deal. "But if you don't, I'm gonna sit right here," he pointed to the carpet in front of el Adl's desk. "And my friend over there," he indicated Simmons, "Is gonna have every media outlet in the world here within half an hour. Even," he raised a threatening eyebrow. "CNN."

"The village of Abydos is a known hideout of the Goa'uld. I cannot tell you anything more."

It was better than nothing. Pausing only to slap el Adl on the back, Jack headed back to the parking lot, the lawyer close behind him. They were halfway out of Cairo before Jack realized they were going to need a map.

***

Daniel tried to concentrate on good memories.

He thought about Sha're, working on the dig, teaching Daniel things he'd never known about the history of her culture. She could have been a great archaeologist, if she'd lived long enough.

He thought about that picture of Paul in his dress blues he'd emailed Daniel before he left the Air Force and before they were, technically, going out. Daniel would never have wanted Paul to stay where he was unhappy, but that uniform…Daniel still had the picture on his desktop at home.

He thought about Jack. For someone he'd known only a few weeks, Daniel was amazed he had a good memory concerning Jack, but he did. The way Jack had looked when they'd landed in Cairo. To be honest, Daniel had been a little worried how he, son of the Minnesota militia who had never been outside North America, would handle it. He was great. When Daniel's luggage was nowhere to be found, Jack had flirted with everyone at the baggage claim desk, a strategy Daniel would never have tried but which found the lost luggage in record time. Then, when they stepped outside into the Egyptian sun-and the Egyptian smell—Jack put on his sunglasses, looked around, and pronounced: "Sweet."

Daniel wondered what else Jack would find 'sweet'. And if Jack would let Daniel show him some of his personal favourites.

While they distracted him a little, none of these memories made Daniel feel any better about what was happening. Finally, Hathor got up and left him alone. He knew better than to think it was over, but he enjoyed the temporary reprieve.

Until Hathor came back with a snake in her hand.

The Goa'uld were famous for their 'snakes', something Jack hadn't mentioned when he was talking about his Internet research. Daniel didn't want to bring it up. Filled with a cocktail of the most powerful drugs known to humankind (like what you would get, an older archaeologist had once explained to Daniel, at a Deadhead potluck dinner), if the 'snake' didn't kill you right away, and it often didn't, it altered your mind irreparably. The Egyptians who worked on the digs were full of horror stories about people who had 'taken the snake' and ended up murdering their families and destroying their villages.

"Now, Dr. Jackson." Hathor smiled back at him, holding the snake in front of her. Daniel had never actually seen it before. Always fascinated by antiquities, even when the antiquity in question was about to kill him, Daniel noticed it was actually a textured metal box, with fangs and what looked like rubies for eyes. "My friend here is in need of a host. Do you think you will be able to oblige him?" She opened the box and lifted out a syringe. Daniel was reminded of Janet Fraiser in flu shot season, wielding her needles like sabres.

Daniel bit his lip as Hathor approached. He wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of flinching, or even of looking away. He stared into her empty, deranged eyes and waited.

His last thoughts should have been of Paul, or Sha're, or even Carter and Murray. Instead, they were of Jack.

***

Even with the map, it took them an unbelievably long time to find Abydos. Jack was frantic by the time yet another little settlement appeared on the horizon and Jack said: "Is that it?"

Simmons, who had been looking increasingly uncomfortable, squinted at the incomprehensible map and said: "I think so."

It didn't matter. It was Jack's last chance. It had been more than two hours since Daniel had left the hotel, and Jack knew time was running out. He threw the car into 'park' and jumped out, sprinting across the sand to the nearest house.

It was only when a suspicious-looking man appeared at the door that Jack remembered these people didn't speak English.

"I'm looking for the Goa'uld," he said, figuring that would be pretty universal. It was. The man slammed the door, narrowly missing Jack's foot.

He knocked again. The man yelled something at him from the other side of the door. "Look, buddy." Jack yelled right back. If he'd had time for nostalgia, he would have been transported back to his days of arguing with referees. "I'm not fucking Goa'uld myself. My friend Daniel was kidnapped and if we don't find him…" Jack trailed off. He didn't want to think about what would happen if they didn't find Daniel. Not finding Daniel wasn't an option.

There was a brief discussion on the other side of the door. Finally, it opened, this time revealing a middle-aged woman in a tattered dress.

"Dan'yel?"

"Yeah!"

The woman narrowed her eyes. "Dr. Jackson?"

"That's the one."

"You are Paul Davis?"

"No." Although this time, Jack wasn't quite so offended to be mistaken for Daniel's boyfriend. "I'm Jack O'Neill. And it's kind of urgent, so if you don't mind, we'll skip the small talk…"

Only she didn't seem to want to. "Dan'yel is with Paul Davis. If Dan'yel is in danger, why is Paul Davis not here?"

"That's really a big question, ma'am." And a significant part of it was how a woman in the middle of nowhere knew about Daniel and Davis. "And I don't have time to get into it right now…"

The man snapped at the woman, and she snapped right back. In English. "No. They took Sha're, they will not take Dan'yel." She looked back to Jack. "I will show you to the Goa'uld."

"Great."

"You will require assistance," she continued.

"Yeah. I guess." Truth be told, Jack hadn't really thought about what he was going to do once he got there.

"I shall gather them for you." The guy didn't like that, but the woman put him in his place with a few well-chosen words. The most popular seemed to be 'Sha're.'

Ten minutes later, Jack and the stunned-looking lawyer were in the middle of a small, pitchfork-carrying mob.

***

For an ex-hockey player, Jack had impeccable timing. Hathor had the syringe poised at Daniel's neck, and Daniel was trying to lie still because he thought things were probably going to be painful enough without breaking the needle off in his