The suit's Italian. All black, sleek and well-tailored, cradling the breadth of his shoulders and the line of his back. The cufflinks are polished silver, tiny flashes that catch the light as he lifts his glass, smiles. Small talk, a dozen damn languages, charming each of the IOA delegates in turn. Jack's been trying to nail down this agreement about the SGC's autonomy for weeks; they're down to the wire now, and he's pissed too many people off. Daniel used to ask why 'linguist' meant 'diplomat'. He hasn't asked in a while.

Bits and pieces of conversations drift across the room; Jack's not specifically trying to listen, but he's still too used to keeping sight of Daniel at all times. How good to finally meet you, Dr. Jackson and so good to see you again and a pleasure, I've heard so much. Daniel doesn't laugh, but he smiles, lips tipped up, head tilted down, fingers twining around a champagne flute to occupy his hands. He needs a haircut; it's starting to curl up a little in the back.

Jack hates winters in Washington. The room's too stuffy; the heat's too high. He'd step outside to get some air, but it's snowing. The roads are going to be a bitch getting home; DC drivers don't know what to do with a little bit of precipitation. He offers this observation up to the liaison who's keeping him company, but the man's distracted by something across the room and Jack's met with nothing more than an absent hum.

It's okay; Jack's distracted, too. Daniel is saying something to one of the delegates from China. Jack is too far to hear anything but the rise and fall of his voice, but it's probably in Mandarin anyway; Daniel likes to practice. He's wearing his ambassador's smile, the one that looks so soft and open until you notice it doesn't go past the lips. Jack can't remember what the real one looks like. Daniel's gotten too practiced at hiding it.

Everyone in Washington has known for a long time: Dr. Jackson won't lie to you. Major Davis had explained it, years ago, the first time he'd suggested they buy Daniel a new suit and drop him in a room of politicians. People trust Daniel. It's something in the eyes. Everyone can tell Dr. Jackson is too busy inside his own head to waste time on playing the game.

Jack watches the cool dispassionate sweep of Daniel's eyes across the room, and thinks of the man (so impossibly young, his hair still falling in his eyes) who'd faced Kinsey down over a briefing table, words tumbling free, doing everything but calling the man an idiot and a liar to his face. The story'd gotten out, of course. They always do. Washington's a town with a long memory and your reputation gets handed down over political generations, like a myth, like a fairy tale. Everyone in Washington has always known Dr. Jackson argues for doing the right thing.

In a knot of people, Daniel turns, as gracefully as a ballet dancer, to place his empty glass on a passing waiter's tray. Jack's a man with a long memory, too. He remembers the kid in the baggy BDUs who could find the one exposed root in all the damn forest to trip over. The currents of conversation carry a few words to his ear; Daniel's talking about the constitutional convention on Dakara. Small talk, heroic stories, nothing more, except for the way his eyes keep tipping to the Chinese ambassador whenever he mentions Teal'c and Mitchell nearly dying to give the Jaffa nation their franchise.

Good to know he hasn't lost the snake-baiting instincts, Jack thinks, and lifts his glass a fraction in unnoticed salute. At least he can still read that.

When the heat finally climbs into his nose and his throat, Jack keeps himself from tugging at his collar and steps out onto the veranda of the reception club. It's still snowing, and the potted trees are huddled near the doors, like they're trying to crawl in from the cold.

The footsteps behind him are softer than they used to be. Quiet, contained. Daniel has two flute-stems cupped between the fingers of one hand; the moonlight catches the edge of his glasses, and he blinks away the snow that falls behind their lenses.

"I hate these things," he says, as he hands Jack his drink.

"Yeah," Jack says. "Me too." The champagne was poured a long time ago; the bubbles are nearly gone by now. He drinks it anyway.

"We've got Chapman and Abilev. LaPierre will come around with another nudge, if nobody else gets to him first, but he's going to need a few days to think it was his idea. Shen's not budging, and I don't think she will. And for God's sake, keep Woolsey out of my hair and out of the way for another three days if you don't want to lose all the ground we've gained."

Jack nods. "Good work," he says. At least Daniel's saying 'we', not 'you' and 'I'. The snow's made it warmer than it was yesterday, when the air was so sharp it made the back of Jack's throat feel like it was frosting over whenever he breathed in. He's always found it weird how snow makes the air more bearable, like the weight of it cradles the heat close into the earth.

"Let's go home," Daniel says. His fingers ghost across the small of Jack's back, quickly enough for it to be an accident if any of the representatives inside are looking. "Do you want to leave first, or should I?"

"You can. If I go first, you'll be stuck making small talk for another hour."

Daniel nods. The rules are second nature by now. Instinct, misdirection, sleight of hand. Everyone knows Dr. Jackson can't lie; it's why he'll always be Jack's secret weapon. The snow clings to Daniel's shoulders as he moves back inside to start tendering his regrets, and he lifts one hand to brush it off. He's cleaned his glasses of the dirt they always seem to carry, and Jack can see his eyes clearly through them: hard, glimmering, blue like ice.

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