The bedroom is warm enough that Daniel isn't chilly at all, for the first time in a very long time. His skin is damp, but not clammy; the room smells like sex, like the scents of man and woman. Cammie's body, next to him, is solid and comfortable, and he can't stop himself from threading his fingers through her hair.

She makes a soft, sleepy noise, happy and sated, and rolls over; the line of her back stretches out, luminous in the low light, smooth and unmarked along her shoulderblades and shading down to a red and angry mass of scars beneath. The scars startle him. He's not used to seeing them yet.

Yet.

That implies there will be a time when he will be used to seeing them, implies that this is not a one-time happening, implies that his presence in Cameron Mitchell's bed -- which is not only her bed -- may be welcomed again in the future. He's not sure how he feels about that. He's not sure how he feels about any of this. Might be I'm imagining this, she'd said, but I know I been hinting and it seems to me you haven't been backing away, so I just wanted to tell you, if you've been thinking what I think you've been thinking, the answer's yes.

And he had been thinking what she'd thought he'd been thinking. Not loudly, not often -- but in the past few weeks and months he's spent in her presence, he's come to realize that he doesn't know how anyone could look at Cammie and not be attracted, how anyone could spend ten minutes in Cammie's presence and not be fascinated by her. And he'd looked at her, his mind racing -- what do I do, what can I say -- and he'd said I don't know how -- and she'd said it's all right, I do.

Her hand had been warm in his as she'd welcomed him into her bedroom, and her skin had been warm beneath his as she'd welcomed him into her body, and he'd realized, pressing his face against her breasts, that it's been three months since he first set foot on Earth again and yet it feels like he's known her for years.

It hadn't been perfect. Too many monsters in his head, waiting to rise up, for him to ever relax that last bit of guarded defense he knows he's going to carry for years, if not forever; too many physical dangers for her, for him to be able to treat her as anything other than spun glass waiting to shatter beneath his touch. But it had been warm and gentle and loving, and he'd thought of Sha're, of Teyla, and then -- finally, blessedly -- he'd been able to think of nothing at all.

But comfort can't last forever. Beside him, Cammie's breath has slipped into the slow, even sound of sleep, halfway between breath and snore. He strokes a thumb over the soft skin behind her ear, thinking that this should be awkward. He doesn't do this; they've never had a conversation about what they are to each other, what they want to be to each other. They haven't made any promises, spoken of any feelings. He's hardly inexperienced when it comes to making love to a woman, but always before, he and his partners have had agreement if not commitment. It should be awkward. He should be wondering what's going to change when Cammie wakes; he should be wondering what this will mean for them, worrying that tonight's lovemaking will change the tenor and tone of their friendship. He isn't. Cammie, he thinks, defies should. For the first time in months, he doesn't feel anything but calm.

He still can't sleep. And he's pretty sure he knows why.

Once he's certain that Cammie is sleeping, that he won't disturb her if he gets up, he disentangles his hand from her hair as gently as he can and rolls over (and over, and over, and over -- the bed is enormous) to climb out the other side. It's only a minute's work to find his pants; she'd directed him to leave them thrown over the chair sitting by the bedside. He doesn't bother putting on his shirt; it's warm enough in here. She'd turned up the heat earlier that night, as soon as --

Go on and think it. As soon as JD had left.

Because that's the sticking point; that's the thing he keeps stubbing his mental toe upon. JD. Her partner; her roommate; the other person who sleeps in this bed. Daniel still doesn't understand it, and he thinks he never will. He's spent endless hours in this house, and they've been quiet and peaceful and full of ease, until the moments when he looks at JD and suddenly sees Jack (Jack-not-Jack) and none of this makes sense.

He keeps his footsteps quiet as he lets himself out of the bedroom, but he knows better than to try to silence them entirely. Knows better than to move too slowly, too deliberately. Jack's advice. Attempts at stealth wake people more quickly than the normal sounds of movement, because an attempt at stealth means there's a reason to be stealthy. So many of his little lessons, the ones he knows so deeply that they've become second nature by now, come from Jack, so long ago. Once upon a time.

Once upon a time was a long time ago.

He knows his way around the kitchen by now. Enough to dial up the lights a little, set the kettle on the stove to boil. (Coffee would be nice, but he's enjoying the way he feels right now, languid and just a little bit mellow, his body quiet and his mind nearly so; he doesn't want to risk ruining the feeling by adding caffeine.) There are cookies in the cookie jar. There are always cookies in the cookie jar, unless JD's been at them again.

And it all comes back to JD again, over and over; JD is a presence in this house just as strong, just as vivid, as Cammie is. Partners. If Daniel begins a relationship with Cammie -- if he allows this relationship he has already developed with Cammie to continue -- he will be confronted with JD at every turn. Just like he has been. Sometimes he thinks that even they don't know where one of them ends and the other one starts.

And as Cammie might say, speak of the devil and the devil comes calling. Just as Daniel's settling himself down at the table with his mug of tea and a napkin full of cookies -- he'd mentioned two weeks ago that the chocolate lace cookies were his favorite, and now there's an abundance of them in the cookie jar -- the front door whispers open, closes again. He fights the automatic impulse to bolt upright, get his back against a door, defend -- but there's the clatter of keys hitting a table, a muttered curse, the bleep of a keypad. He tells himself to be sensible. This house is open and welcoming, warm, cozy. That doesn't mean it isn't secure. He knows who designed the security here.

A minute later, JD wanders into the kitchen. Daniel hadn't seen him dress to go out; after that first night, JD's been careful not to shock Daniel with his appearance, with his habits. JD disappears after dinner, some nights, and doesn't come back by the time Daniel leaves, and they haven't had a single conversation about where he goes and what he does and why he does it. The two of them have both been careful not to upset him. So careful.

Tonight, JD is wearing leather again, black leather pants that cling tightly through his legs and torso. His shirt is red, high-necked, long-sleeved, just as clingy. As Daniel watches, he unbuckles the leather cuffs and tosses them on the counter; the metal fittings clatter as they hit the stainless-steel surface. Daniel is suddenly painfully aware that he's wearing nothing but a pair of pants.

"Hey," JD says, his back to Daniel, casual and unconcerned. "Herself out cold, I presume?"

The surreality of the whole situation strikes Daniel, hard. He and Jack had ribbed each other occasionally about an encounter here and there, but they'd never really talked about it, never shared tales of conquests and locker-room gossip. (He wonders, now, how much of that had been because Jack hadn't felt able to tell him about -- but no, he's promised himself he won't think about that.) It seems wrong for Daniel not to tell JD -- he knows, knows, that if he is to conduct a relationship with Cammie, it's entirely on JD's sufferance; he knows, from seeing, how close they are and how tightly they're bound -- but he doesn't know how to say it. Doesn't know how JD will react.

So he takes the path of least resistance, and just says, "Yeah."

JD nods. "Figured she would be. I'll wake her up in a little bit and make sure she takes her last dose for the night. Unless she did before you two --"

Daniel can feel his fingers tightening on the mug of tea he's holding. Sitting half-naked in the kitchen, Cammie asleep in the other room. Maybe it is obvious. Maybe it's just that JD and Cammie have a freakish telepathy that apparently works when one of them is out of the house and the other is unconscious. "No," he hears himself saying, and astonishingly, his voice is even. More even than it should be. "No, she didn't."

He's not sure what kind of reaction he's expecting from JD, what kind of response he thinks should be appropriate. All JD does is nod again. "Figured," he says. "For the record, you gotta be careful about that. She's fucking awful at remembering her meds, and you don't want to hear her spending the next three days bitching about how much she aches."

When JD turns away from the counter, wanders over to open the refrigerator, Daniel can see the lines of eyeliner underneath his eyes, hazy and smudged. JD's lips are red and puffy, and his eyes are lidded. Looking at him, noticing the extra bit of slink and slide in JD's walk, Daniel thinks: I'm not the only one who --

"I don't mean to --" he starts, and then stops himself. None of this will come out right. No matter how he says it. "You. Her. I don't want to hurt her. I don't know what I'm doing."

Unspoken, the corollaries. I don't want to get between the two of you. I don't want to cause problems for the two of you. I don't want to ever be in a situation where she has to choose between me and you, because I know which way she'll choose, and I don't think I can bear to go through that. The depths of his feelings surprise him. He's lived with betrayal both mundane and esoteric for the greater part of twenty years, and his personal life has always been an afterthought and usually been an inconvenience, and this is the first time in longer than he cares to think about that he knows it is possible for him to be hurt.

He feels selfish, thinking about it. But he already knows that Cammie has the power to hurt him. He's not sure how it happened, or when it happened. But looking at JD, wanting with all his strength to make sure that everything is going to be all right, he knows that it's the truth. Somehow, without him noticing, he's come to care about her. More than he has about anyone in a long damn time.

JD opens the cookie jar. Then changes his mind and brings the whole thing over to the table, slides up onto the stool across from Daniel. Daniel winces as JD folds his legs up into the lotus position, settles himself like he's getting ready for the long haul. JD takes a cookie, pushes the jar a little closer to the middle of the table. It's a sharing gesture. A good sign, Daniel thinks.

"You're worried about me, don't be," JD says, around a mouthful of chocolate chip. "Last I checked, she doesn't have my name tattooed across her ass. Just keep doing what you're doing. She'll let you know if you're fucking anything up. She's pushy like that."

It could be mockery, but it's not. It's affection. Love.

Daniel closes his eyes. (Easier, to talk to JD without the visual input, without the little voice in the back of his head that sees JD in leather and eyeliner and thinks that something's so wrong, that the ostentatious ornamentation of his body sparks issues thought long-buried.) "I don't have any idea what I'm doing," he repeats. Feeling helpless. Feeling -- something, something so wide and vast that it frightens him, something unfamiliar and strange. This situation is like nothing he's ever known before, and he knows that it would be equally awkward for anyone, not just him.

When JD goes to sleep tonight, it will be on sheets that Daniel has dirtied. And neither of them seem to think it at all unusual. Daniel has known (has lived with) cultures so radically different from any experience he ever knew that he'd thought no possible practice could shock him, could unsettle him. And this doesn't shock him, but this is the textbook definition of 'unsettled'. He supposes it's different when the unsettling comes through a culture you thought you knew.

Then again, the last few months have proven to him: if he ever understood America, ever understood Earth -- once upon a time -- that time is long gone. So he lets it go. Makes himself let it go. If they aren't worried, if they aren't awkward, he won't let himself be either. If they want to treat this as normal practice, Daniel will take his cues from them.

When he opens his eyes again, JD is looking at him, penetrating and fierce like he's trying to read Daniel's mind. Daniel only catches the look for a second before JD drops his eyes, reaches for another cookie. "Just go with it, Daniel," JD says, and in that one instant, memory surges, roles reversed: JD the one arguing for tolerance and acceptance, Daniel the one protesting that things shouldn't be the way they are. It makes him shiver, despite the warmth of the kitchen. Then it's gone again.

"Let me just get my clothes out of the bedroom," Daniel says. "I bet you probably want to go to sleep."

JD snorts. "And then I'd have to sit through a half-hour lecture tomorrow morning about how I kicked you out of the nice warm house and into the cold cruel world. Thanks, I'll pass. We'll put herself in the middle. Serves her right. C'mon."

He unfolds himself and slides out of the chair. Daniel opens his mouth to protest -- he hadn't expected to spend the night, hadn't even entertained the thought of the possibility -- but JD's already striding out of the kitchen, turning his head back to see if Daniel's following. And it's late, and the thought of getting back in his car and driving across town to his cold and sterile apartment is more than he wants to deal with, and in the end it's just easier to close his mouth again and follow JD down the hallway.

Cammie has rolled over onto her stomach. JD crosses the room to the armoire, pulls a pair of boxers out of the top drawer. Holds them out to Daniel. (Doesn't throw them. JD doesn't move too quickly in Daniel's eyesight, doesn't throw things, doesn't ever make a motion that isn't studied and calculated and telegraphed. Daniel doesn't know if it's JD's habit, or if it's a special dispensation to avoid triggering his little problem, but either way. It helps.) "Spare toothbrush under the sink," JD says, his voice little more than a whisper. "You take the left side."

Daniel takes the boxers. They smell like fabric softener. The room still smells like Cammie's skin.

When he gets out of the bathroom, JD has stripped out of his clothes. He's wearing another pair of boxers, and Daniel thinks it's deliberate, thinks that if he weren't there, JD would be naked. He's kneeling on the bed, next to Cammie, a handful of pills cupped in his hand and a glass of water on the nightstand. One of his hands is stroking down Cammie's back, and Cammie is making tiny grumbles of protest.

"Yeah, yeah," JD is saying, still low and soft. "C'mon, Mitchell, just awake long enough for the pills."

Cammie makes another unhappy noise and rolls over onto her side; she flails out a hand, blindly, and JD puts the pills into it. She puts them in her mouth and swallows. JD presses the glass of water into her hand to follow; she leans up on one elbow and drinks, without opening her eyes, spilling more onto the sheets than she gets into her mouth. Daniel watches, feeling awkward, feeling like he doesn't know what to do or where to go.

"Atta girl," JD says, and rescues the glass before she can spill any further. He looks up to Daniel, nods to the space on the other side of Cammie. An order, as clear as any order he's ever given (but JD has never given Daniel any orders -- no, don't think, don't think about it).

Daniel takes a deep breath, tries his best to set the awkwardness aside, and climbs in. Fits himself along the length of Cammie's body (warm and soft and strong and beautiful). Cammie makes another sleep-noise and rolls back over onto her stomach. A minute later, she throws one arm over Daniel's side, and her fingers skim over the small of his back. The noise she makes then is satisfaction.

So much of this is about reminding himself that he doesn't know what to expect, so he isn't precisely startled when JD leans over to the control switches beside the bed, dials the lights down to nearly nothing, and then, instead of stretching out on Cammie's other side, returns to kneeling. His voice comes out of the dark. Daniel can't see his face. It's easier that way. "Give me your hand," JD says, and none of this is familiar, but none of this is threatening either and that's why Daniel does.

JD's skin is warm. Warmer than Cammie's. Considerably so. For a fraction of a second, Daniel thinks JD just wants to hold his hand, just wants to touch -- but no. JD turns Daniel's palm over, places it on Cammie's skin, along her spine. Daniel can feel scar tissue beneath his fingers. He'd been so careful not to touch.

"This is what you have to avoid," JD says, and Cammie sighs out a breath, and JD slides Daniel's hand down further, along the knots and knobs of scars and memories, along the curve of Cammie's magnificent buttocks. "This is the muscle line you have to rub, afterwards, or she won't be able to walk tomorrow. Like this."

The ridges of Cammie's muscles, beneath Daniel's hand, are tense and taut. JD pushes Daniel's hand down against Cammie's skin. More firmly than Daniel would have. Next to him, warm and comfortable, Cammie makes noises like sex and happiness. JD curls his fingers over Daniel's, presses Daniel's fingers into the lines of Cammie's body's tension, and Daniel rests his face against the side of Cammie's shoulder, closes his eyes in the darkness, and just lets himself breathe.

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