A/N: So, uh, I guess I meant that this chapter would be comparatively quicker in coming.

Part Fifteen

There's a brief silence after Dalton gives in and asks why exactly Carter came to find him and Jay—at least, Carter hopes that the silence is brief enough for it not to be obvious that she's quickly trying to come up with a response that isn't essentially: I was getting twitchy.

She settles on saying 'I was thinking we could find some more time to discuss your assignment here.'

Neither man fills the pause Carter leaves there.

'If,' she prompts, 'there's anything more specific I need to be told first?'

She lets the silence this time linger. Anything else she might add would only become increasingly unsubtle questions about why they were here. Carter feels like she's pursued that line of questioning more or less to a dead end already (she feels, in fact, like she's been doing absolutely nothing else for days straight).

For that matter, this line of questioning, now, is going to be treading over much of the same ground (in fact, she isn't about to admit, this isn't much of a very different line at all). Carter suspects all three participants know it, even if they'll not mention it (but she's certain that two of them realise she's stubborn enough to force the repetition until she finds the right tangent to reach her answers).

Dalton answers first. 'To be honest,' he says slowly, 'I doubt I can be much help with that. Specifics of practically any sort have been a little hard to come by since I was given at least my assignment.' The captain slants a sideways glance at his suddenly-solemn companion (a shift in demeanour that might, Carter thinks, suggest she at least isn't completely wrong in nagging at this), and adds, 'Most days—including so far today—Jay seems to know more than I do about what's going on.'

The admission surprises Carter a little. It shouldn't; Dalton had intimated almost exactly the same thing just the day before yesterday.

And yet—the captain seems to do his best to maintain professionalism. Conceding blank ignorance twice over doesn't to Carter's mind quite fit that demeanour (despite what Carter acknowledges are fairly trying circumstances). True, she isn't nearly foolish or hypocritical enough to condemn the man for not knowing everything about the situation, or about Jay—but she's also a superior officer whom Dalton has only just met. He's gambling a little on her character, has been for all these past couple of days—or maybe Dalton is following Jay's lead, and gambling on him.

'Then you're in good company,' she tells Dalton, matching his tone and getting a quirked barely-there smile in acknowledging return.

It's somehow small comfort to hear (again) that at least it isn't only her being left out of the loop. Everyone else seems to expect that it will be Carter who finally finagles her way into information and their confidence in her is flattering but frankly she feels it might be a little misplaced. She's certainly well practised at working under the pressure of a crisis situation, it's true. But this isn't quite the same as using her brain to save the world (solar system, galaxy, universe, the problems always seem to increase by whole orders of magnitude as she goes) on a time deadline.

Of course, no matter what her objective chances of success, Carter's regardless going to apply all her talents and luck and dogged persistence in the pursuit of answers.

And the question that she really does need an answer to, preferably now, is the one about to exactly what work she can feasibly put Jay and his parole officer. But Carter's asked that already, too, and been neatly (frustratingly) sidestepped. Asking point-blank for ideas isn't likely to work (although she isn't devoid of her own, and frankly Carter would anyway like to avoid that particular lapse in overt grown-woman-and-commanding-officer initiative). But, really, Jay could at least fill in some of the edges for her; could let her know what about him (his presence here, his existence in general) is genuinely classified, and what he simply doesn't want known.

Carter looks at the parolee in question. She doesn't bother, this time, with repeating her request for some solid, specific data; she just waits.

'You think I was sent here with anything straightforward as direct orders?' Jay asks. His tone is dry and just barely flavoured with tired, familiar exasperation (and there is something in his words, Carter thinks instinctively, something about orders and direct and straightforward that she is hovering on the edges of interpreting). 'Like I said before, the brass is paranoid. So they want me in another galaxy: far, far away from Earth and out of the way.'

He's stated it baldly enough that it's probably true (because, Carter admits, she has to trust in something and she doesn't want to believe he will lie outright to her face). It's at least consistent. But Carter isn't fool enough, or green enough, to think that this is complete candour—or, for that matter, complete.

Because she's had a few extra hours for her thoughts to mull over the matter, now. And so she's managing to see far too many aspects of this endeavour that aren't quite lining up straight. A mound of little inconsistencies (and her very strong gut instinct), all of which seem to add up to Jay going almost out of his way to attract attention. Something's going on, and Carter doesn't know what, much less why—not the symptoms, not the cause, not any of it (and it's wearing more on her patience with, it sometimes feels, every passing minute).

She doesn't know if this—the entire situation, with her unanswered questions, and Caldwell's questions, and Dalton's, and the rumours undoubtedly thickening around the city—is some gambit of her superiors', or of politicians she doesn't know. She doesn't know if the trouble Jay is stirring up (because he is, and it's at least three-quarters deliberate, Carter knows it) might be part of that hypothetical gambit, or his own sideline expression of discontent (because if nothing else, he's made it blatantly clear so far that he's unhappy about something, and very possibly multiple things).

And so Carter's left guessing how she should react. She can't balance how she technically ought to act with how she wants to act if she doesn't have the data. Her default decision of acting by gut instinct is only going to supplement anyone else's list of inconsistencies.

It has occurred to her that maybe the right question in any case is: to what work she should be seen to put Jay and Dalton.

Because if this is staged, then she's a player too. And because this isn't her first time treading these metaphorical boards, Carter's pretty sure that she'd like a script sooner rather than later (and a few other minor matters cleared up—who the audience is, for instance, or the major cast members).

She starts over with the simplest point: 'I can't help but notice you've avoided giving out a surname to anyone.'

Jay says, 'Yeah.'

When no elaboration is immediately forthcoming, Dalton looks a little weary (Carter thinks that she probably does, too). Monosyllabism is an immensely irritating mark of recalcitrance. It's a little sad that she's so experienced in the phenomenon.

Dalton opts to be helpfully blunt: 'And do you prefer we both keep following your lead, there?'

Jay half-shrugs. 'Yeah,' he repeats. He pauses, flicks his eyes over to Carter, and adds, 'Please.'

She hesitates a moment, gauging the potential for drawing out some other conciliatory scrap of data by holding off on Jay, and then nods at him. 'And if someone asks directly?' she asks. 'Obfuscation and stonewalling?'

Jay gives a little. 'You don't have to bother with being subtle about it,' he says.

Carter can read between the lines this much: subtlety is about the last tactic Jay wants. Refusing to admit to a surname seems a petty rebellion in the face of authority and common courtesy both (petty, at least, to someone standing on the outside, someone not Carter, someone who doesn't already know that a choice in his own identity might be a freedom sharp-edged and not readily relinquished). It is blatant, and unashamed, and entirely deliberate, when he could as easily give a fake one.

He's stirring the pot.

'Oh, subtlety,' Dalton murmurs. He is, Carter thinks, very carefully refraining from rolling his eyes.

'What?' Jay asks. He doesn't quite bother trying to look innocent (although he almost manages to sound genuinely confused, if only Carter hadn't heard O'Neill say it so many times before in just that tone).

Dalton pretends at his own ingenuousness (expending just as little effort). 'Are we talking subtle like C4, or subtle like a crashlanding? Or have we downgraded again to just cussing out everyone in earshot?'

Carter smirks (there are, she thinks, many reasons why she wants some answers from this pair, and one of them is undeniably sheer curiosity).

Jay scowls. 'Any sort of subtle you like, Dalton.'

Dalton frowns at his charge, shares a glance with Carter, and says dryly 'I'll just keep right on following your lead, shall I?'

'If you want,' Jay returns.

Carter sighs quietly at them both, and tries to lever the conversation back onto its tracks. 'And how about any other questions that get asked?' She is deliberately vague; Carter would appreciate knowing what questions Jay thinks might crop up every bit as much as she would appreciate knowing how she might answer them.

Jay shares a glance with Dalton, seems to mull it over for a minute, and gives Carter no real clues. 'Much the same,' he replies eventually. 'Feel free to be obvious about not knowing the answers, or not liking the answers, or whatever. And redirect them our way.'

'Our way?' Dalton asks pointedly (he is, Carter thinks, taking increasingly frequent opportunities to get his digs in at Jay this morning).

Jay looks exasperated. 'My way, then.' He narrows his eyes at the captain, and adds: 'You say that like you've never made anything up about this gig.'

Dalton, bland and polite, says, 'I have no idea what you're talking about.' A carefully-timed pause later, he adds, 'I was only declining to broadcast classified information.' Another slight pause, and then he looks at Carter and admits, 'I was never told what parts were classified in all this. So I erred on the side of caution.'

'He lied about nearly everything to nearly everyone,' Jay translates (needlessly).

'Misled, maybe,' Dalton disagrees. 'Which is not worse than blatantly telling everyone different lies. And, can I remind you again, I wouldn't need to lie if anyone had bothered telling me the truth.' There are faint remnants of bitter injustice lingering unhappily in his tone (unless Carter is projecting).

Carter's troubles in dealing with this mess within Atlantis are sounding as though they might be simple, compared to what is apparently a tightly drawn and deeply tangled knot on their home planet. And whether that knot has actually been left behind on Earth? Does Atlantis have that much luck?

Also, this conversation seems to be going in circles, just a little. Spiralling in and around (and around) an avowed mutual lack of concrete knowledge.

A little cautiously (because, superstitiously, she doesn't want to frighten away the hope of an answer), Carter asks, 'What were you told? Initially?'

'Very little,' Dalton says emphatically, seemingly on complete automatic. He regroups a little, and then elaborates. 'Really, ma'am, I didn't get any more actual detail than you did, the other day. There was more paperwork, though. And some entirely insufficient warnings about the sort of trouble I was about to land in.'

'I never got any warnings,' Jay says.

'But somehow,' Dalton replies, 'I think that I needed them more.' He turns to Carter, and adds, deadpan, 'I was being warned about him, you see.'

Carter avoids a smile, and says, equally dry, 'Did it help at all?'

'Less than you'd probably expect, ma'am.'

Jay frowns at them both.

'In seriousness, though,' Dalton continues, 'this assignment wasn't very orthodox even before the revelations about alien life. There was a learning curve.'

Carter imagines that there certainly had been, and says something to that effect aloud.

A moment of silence later, Captain Dalton ventures a slight non sequitur. 'You're being very trusting, ma'am,' he says, sounding like he's testing the waters (although, Carter thinks, it might be coming a bit late in the conversation for that). 'More than most commanders would be. With us foisted on them.'

Compliment or insult? Carter wonders.

'Are you complaining?' Jay asks, disapprovingly.

'No,' Dalton tells him quickly, and then repeats himself to Carter. 'No, Colonel. Sorry.' He turns back to Jay and says, in the tone of someone continuing an argument, 'And I'm not trying to jinx anything.'

'How many commanders have been untrusting when you're foisted on them?' Carter puts in lightly.

Dalton hesitates, and admits, 'Usually the foisting is more a case of us stumbling into the middle of trouble and then learning that it's someone else's actual jurisdiction.'

Carter can believe that, actually. 'While also under house arrest?' she asks.

'Enforcing the house arrest was always kind of a token effort,' Jay says. 'For on paper, you know.'

Captain Dalton doesn't look like he agrees with that interpretation. It had likely been Captain Dalton who'd had to face reprimands when that house arrest had failed to be enforced (although really, Carter thinks, surely even the most stiff-necked superior should have the sense to ease up a bit on the reprimands in this particular case).

'Anyway,' Jay adds, a touch more seriously, 'I never had anyone define the terms of it to me.' He pauses, grimaces, and continues, 'And they did seem pretty changeable. When it was anyone not me doing the changing.'

Carter looks to Dalton.

Dalton shrugs a shoulder. 'That,' he says slowly, 'is not entirely untrue. The, uh, house arrest was enforced,' he continues, glancing semi-irritably at Jay, 'but the perimeter—or the location, or both—sometimes varied.' He pauses for a second, and then adds, 'I was usually told after the fact.'

This really is sounding more and more like a dire mess, to Carter's ears. A complete absence of any real communication—of orders, of intel, of anything—to even those who inarguably need to know it is no way to run an operation (this is, of course, a summation of events that assumes Carter is currently being given valid intel).

'Were you, either of you, told how any of that was supposed to translate to Atlantis?' Honestly, Carter can't quite recall if this has come up already; it should have, they've had discussions on this general theme, but "should" means little enough really.

Jay makes a dissatisfied face that probably (but, Carter should remember, not necessarily) means no.

Dalton's expression is not noticeably happier. 'No,' he says. 'Only the standard orders: keep eyes on him, don't let him wander off, stick with him when he does, and etcetera, etcetera. There weren't any specifics.'

'So an accurate translation, then,' Jay mutters.

'To be entirely honest,' Captain Dalton continues slowly, somewhere between diffident and confiding, 'my orders never even mentioned so much as anything about disallowing offworld access.'

Honest?

Maybe. But it also doesn't quite agree with what else had been said: that Jay's movements were supposed to be not only continuously monitored but strictly curtailed as well. In that context, the allegedly-allowable offworld access seems a little contraindicated. The Captain, Carter suspects, might just be repeating the letter rather than the spirit of whatever orders he might have been given when back on Earth (because Carter knows that he certainly hasn't been given any while on Atlantis).

Her suspicions might be a little unjust. There is a measure of camaraderie between the pair, yes, no matter Dalton's position of (presumable) authority over Jay. But beyond banter between men who must be in company nearly every minute of their waking days, Dalton has done nothing to make him seem less than professional in the instances that matter (Carter admits that she might be a little biased about which instances matter—thus far, she's not seen all too many).

Carter hasn't really any justification to assume that Dalton might be fudging the contents of his orders here (and, just quietly, she knows better than to assume that a bit of careful blurring is always and inevitably heinous). But, well, Carter isn't simpleminded: Dalton probably also wants to go offworld himself. He just won't come out and say so (see: professionalism).

In summation: Carter is quite sure that her expression is a little disbelieving.

Jay shrugs. 'Whatever else, we were assigned here. And this is your command.'

This smells of more letter-not-spirit of those hypothesised orders he may or may not have been technically given, at least not officially and on paper, and which Carter herself certainly doesn't know about. It also smells just a little like manipulation. But, dammit, it's true: this is her command. Carter can make the judgement calls that she sees fit to enforce. She can almost pretend that the lack of any concrete information on which to base her judgement calls is inconsequential (it isn't, she knows, but then she has to make a decision anyway).

And besides, she's inevitably compromised, here, because Carter (and surely also everyone else) knows that she is predisposed to trust O'Neill. This can never be a genuinely balanced judgement, not even if she did have more than her instincts alone to help her make the call (and she's only thinking in circles, now, talking herself out of trusting her own decisions, this is ridiculously unhelpful). Technically speaking, Carter has not yet received any orders at all: it had been Jay to tell her that she now needed to act as his parole officer, which is (suspiciously) unorthodox any way she looks at it.

Carter can't contravene orders if she hasn't been issued them. She would still much prefer to know them, of course, because then she could choose to break them with a full understanding of what that choice will mean. She prefers to take responsibility for her own actions. The consequences won't only be visited on her, whether she follows Jay's lead here or not (and heavens above but she is operating in the dark).

But this is her command. And she does trust him.

In the end, she only nods at the two who have helped to dump such a pretty mess into her already-crowded lap (there's no use in subjecting anyone else to her tortured thought processes). There are few enough questions left that she might ask that could be of any immediate help here (and never mind for the moment all the other questions that she has). And Carter has just about settled on her solution anyway, clichéd though it might be.

'Well, seeing as you're both here anyway,' she begins, 'how do you feel about consultancy?'

Dalton looks politely interested about the idea (which is probably, Carter will readily admit, showing much more interest than is warranted for the stock-standard vague catch-all phrase). 'Consulting about what?'

Carter shrugs. 'I'll practise my unsubtle obfuscation skills some more, if anyone asks.' And someone will ask, probably in very short order, because it's the obvious question (and no one in Carter's command is nearly so obtuse as to miss it). Then, because Dalton has already asked, Carter says, 'Come by my office tomorrow, and I'll dig up a report on something that wants an expert opinion of some sort.'

As far as value in cover stories goes, this one is skint broke and ranks somewhere well below even "deep space radar telemetry". But with a judicious bit of blithely avoiding specifics it should at least tide them all over for the moment. And, although Carter doesn't intend to mention this part aloud, she is saved the time and effort that would be needed to construct anything like a solid story (which would honestly probably only also fall through, nearly as quickly, because again: no one here is that obtuse).

Not to mention that Carter also doesn't actually want to lie to her people by anything more than omission—and this way, her omissions are as blindingly obvious as all the other little deceptions that are being pushed to the fore, with equally few attempts to even pretend at hiding it. There might even be a chance that Atlantis' people will recognise the clear falsehood for the deliberately poor lie it is, and leave the mess be for a while (Carter somehow doubts it, though).

Neither Dalton nor Jay questions her decision, anyway.

But she does catch Jay smirking and very loudly not saying anything about lies-Carter-has-told, transparent-or-opaque (Carter raises an eyebrow and prudently says nothing aloud about lies-O'Neill-has-told).

And then, because Carter is nothing if not persistent, she asks, 'Is anyone on Earth going to want to ask me questions about what you're doing while here? Politicians, I mean, or whoever you might have upset recently?'

Dalton's pause seems to indicate some serious contemplation. 'I shouldn't think so,' he says eventually. He looks at Jay.

Jay shrugs. 'Out of sight, out of mind,' he offers.

Right. So whatever reaction he's trying to provoke is meant to come from Atlantis' population, not from anyone back on Earth hearing of all their antics. Well, that's at least a smaller number of people involved, all of whom Carter already knows (otherwise, she knows, this new inference is not especially helpful).

And there's another problem, too, now that she thinks of it. Carter sighs. 'So is there any requirement for reports in this parole situation? Paperwork? Or should I assume that everyone on Earth is pretending that none of this is happening?'

'Don't look at me,' Jay says, far too lightly. 'I'm just the parolee. Being kept isolated and in the dark is pretty much a standard, right?'

Dalton winces.

This discussion, Carter complains to herself, really is going in circles of ignorance.

Clara has long since stopped even pretending to concentrate on her laptop, and is instead glaring ferociously at nothing in particular. Because, really, what?

What is actually going on here? Have higher-ups on Earth seriously tried turning Atlantis—Atlantis—into some sort of pseudo-house arrest arrangement? Without telling anyone? Not even the woman actually in charge of the city? Because that's kind of what it's sounding like. Except for the part where it doesn't make any sense, because surely even the far-away higher-ups would have brains enough not to do something like that. Especially when one of those higher-ups is presumably General O'Neill, who is—well, who's General O'Neill, and Clara doesn't honestly think he'd let Atlantis get that raw of a deal. Not if there was any choice in it, or even any wiggle room.

Not to mention the part where Colonel Carter sounds like she might be illicitly collaborating with an unknown criminal apparently considered dangerous enough to get chucked off Earth entirely. And the parole officer. All still without seeming to know what their game is.

Which doesn't really sound to Clara much like the Colonel. Because, come on, even if Clara hadn't known her from Atlantis these past few months, Colonel Carter had been on Earth's flagship team. She wouldn't blindly, trustingly connive with random criminal strangers who might threaten her people.

So obviously something else is going on. Obviously. Except it still kind of looks like the Colonel isn't sure what that "something else" is, either. And maybe even the random strangers also don't know either, except that they're being weirdly suspicious about it all and Clara isn't sure that she really trusts a word out of either of their mouths.

This might, Clara thinks, all be getting a little out of her depth.

But she's the one listening to it. And her colleagues are surely going to want as in-depth a report as she can possibly manage. So, obviously, she'll have to do her best with what she has—even if, as she abruptly realises, what she has is clearly missing a chunk where Clara had tuned out of the conversation in favour of her own spinning thoughts. Something else about paperwork, maybe? Or official lies? Maybe Clara will leave that particular intelligence-gathering feat out of her recount, later.

In the meantime, though: eavesdropping, redoubled.

'Don't like bureaucracy? Or politics?' Captain Dalton sounds like he might commiserate.

'I prefer it when people talk in straighter lines,' Colonel Carter says, and the tone of her voice suggests that the words are accompanied by a pointed glare. One of the others on the balcony laughs, softly, but it sounds more wryly understanding than anything else.

And it's a fair enough comment from at least Clara's perspective, because she could certainly do with a few less cryptic statements to give her a clue as to what exactly is being talked about, but the Colonel seems to be managing alright. Of course Clara should probably, she thinks upon reviewing that thought, be less peeved about not understanding a conversation she isn't actually a part of.

'Paranoia,' Jay says lightly. He adds, 'The walls have ears.'

And that, Clara thinks, sounds exactly like her cue to leave.

Maybe this time she'll actually be able to find the mess hall this time around, and some people available to listen to gossip and pass on rumour—Ashleigh Pietersen would be a good bet, queen of the rumour mill that she is, or maybe Chrissy Furneaux—and, most importantly of all possible concerns, coffee.

Carter narrows her eyes, watching her companions' expressions carefully.

The walls have ears?

It's an eminently accurate, relevant point to make, and the only possible quibble Carter can make is that whatever ears might be listening belong to Atlantis personnel. And even then, keeping whatever information Jay has in his head safely out of the rumour mill is a not-unworthy goal (while at the same time remembering, of course, that the other half of that goal consists of attempting to transfer Jay's information to Carter's head, making the task considerably more difficult).

In the event, she doesn't argue Jay's point.

It would be nice to think that potential eavesdroppers are the only reason why Jay is refusing to give up any information of actual substance. Somehow, Carter isn't sure that they are. Trusting that Jay has reasons beyond habitual paranoiac secrecy isn't particularly reassuring, though (because how bad must this be that O'Neill can't tell Carter the truth?).

Dalton isn't arguing either. A brief shadow had passed across his face at Jay's words, a flicker of emotion smoothing into passive calm quick enough that Carter cannot even be sure of naming it. But it isn't an argument (and is probably, Carter discerns, quite the opposite).

Alright, then.

'So we'll have to find somewhere without walls,' she says carefully.

Captain Dalton doesn't visibly react; nor does Jay, really, except maybe for something in his eyes. But, Carter suspects, she's probably on the right track. Now she just needs to figure out what is meant, precisely, by a place "without walls" (because Carter at least isn't meaning it entirely literally), and how to arrange it so that they wind up there. Preferably soon.

And she can't help but think this is all becoming badly convoluted. Why is it that she'd so much prefer to deal with the soul-sucking space vampires than the cloak and dagger games of her own home planet? At least the former danger does her the courtesy of being clear and present (and it doesn't risk her career to put a bullet into it).

'And in the meantime, we freeload on your command?' Dalton sounds a little dubious.

'I think,' Carter replies, 'that I can trust you both to use your own best judgement.' Theirs can't be so much worse than hers, anyway.

And if they have been simply offloaded onto Atlantis, for no more reason than having irritated someone sufficiently highly-ranked, then freeloading is honestly the inevitable consequence. Of course—to be equally honest—if this pair of men are genuinely only in this galaxy to freeload, then Carter will be conscripting them to Atlantis' benefit whenever she can manage it (which she plans will be imminently and often). Frankly she plans to conscript them even if they aren't here to freeload.

So really, even if ambiguous consultancy is meant to merely serve as a convenient cover story, it should also be something much like the truth. Carter isn't entirely sure that she is managing to convince herself, here (almost; but not quite). This is hardly the worst situation that she has ever faced—not in the past decade, not even in the past year, perhaps not even in the past month—but it is certainly getting to her on a level to which threats to life and limb haven't inured her (because, Carter doesn't quite yet want to acknowledge, this now is an emotional level, and personal, at least as much as it is anything else).

The conversation fades out.

Over the water, the puddlejumpers are still being put through their paces. Carter's eyes follow them, as they turn in smooth curves interspersed with the occasional tight corkscrewing spin. Puddlejumpers aren't the most graceful of vessels, really, but it hardly matters; they make Carter remember why she had wanted to join the Air Force (space, and flight, and discovery, and she'd still not imagined anything like this, all those years ago).

And now that she is where she is, of course, she can't spend all of her time gazing at the miracle of flight (oh, Carter thinks wryly, the burdens of command). She has to spend at least some of it gazing at supply requisitions, administrative blather in triplicate, endless reams of scheduling that is inevitably derailed by crises, and—and, actually, maybe Carter should make a proper, careful study of her schedule of upcoming missions.

Jay had been dropping some rather heavy-handed hints, earlier; Carter isn't entirely unaware that maybe they had been about something beyond (or, rather, in addition to) a basic yen for 'gate travel. With a few hours' hindsight, that early-morning interception of SGA-9 looks rather staged (albeit perhaps only from Carter's paranoid perspective on the scene). It's something else for her to think on, anyway.

Not that Carter doesn't have enough problems to distract her, of course. Some of those problems, she has abandoned to moulder in her office once today already (not to mention the ones that she'd left there in all the preceding days, because honestly a timely completion of paperwork is never anything short of a miracle). And Carter does, in fact, have a work ethic. Even when it comes to drudgery like the stuff in her office. These are, after all, the responsibilities that she has accepted.

It's only that the warm sunlight makes the prospect of moving seem unenviable. Dalton, with his eyes slitted half-closed, is either meditating or dozing. Carter can't quite blame him (she needs more caffeine in her system, she thinks). But, all appearances aside: responsibilities. They all have them (even if, and Carter is only slightly jealous, it is possible that the men's jobs, for right now, really do involve lazing in the sun).

She pulls herself together, straightens from her lean against the balcony, makes her excuses to the men, and (with a last glance at the puddlejumpers, across the water) takes her leave.

Carter doesn't quite make it back to her paperwork, though, despite all her best intentions (or, well, they're at least good intentions). Her path somehow diverts itself to entirely the wrong level of the city, whereupon Carter's well-honed sixth sense for muted panic unfurls itself and she winds up supervising a series of controlled microscopic detonations (because of course the alien artefacts have deadly failsafes in case of microwave oven contamination, because why wouldn't they).

Carter tries for her office again, after that, but instead finds herself being fervently informed, wholly unprompted, that the biological labs have everything in their purview entirely under control, that their new postdoc is only in the infirmary because he'd fallen from a ladder, that their less new postdoc is only in the infirmary because of an unrelated mild frostbite incident, that the virulent fungus story is still only a rumour, and that the chemistry labs need to probably mind their own business. And, also, that they'd like a new centrifuge for reasons that have absolutely nothing to do with any alleged violations of workplace health and safety.

A handful of carefully sideways questions later (because, look, Carter can do subtle sometimes) and it turns out that there probably isn't anything severely the matter, suspiciously spontaneous specific denials aside. Doctor Truloff, on the other hand, happily redirects Carter's attention to what he deems the actual problem, which is apparently funding. Carter suggests that he submit some paperwork (and if he can find a way to convince their budgetary overlords, she will be dutifully impressed), and escapes the lobbying with the aid of Truloff's long-time (and long-suffering) research assistant.

And then, of course, when Carter does indeed finally reach the confines of her office, it's already occupied.

This, she thinks, is getting to be frustratingly habitual.

She is quite obviously not going to get any work done any time soon.

'Colonel Carter,' says Sheppard, stepping away from his place leaning against the wall.

She musters up a polite smile in response (and if the expression's a little weary, Carter thinks that she can probably be excused).

And somewhat despite herself, Carter sends up the hope that no one's been manufacturing excitement, because she suspects they're already embroiled in quite a bit of trouble. And it's most likely trouble with multiple sub-plots and red herrings and twist endings, because there had certainly been something substantial in Jay's earlier self-directed jibe about natural talents for finding trouble.

'What can I do for our flagship team?' Carter asks.

...tbc...