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Sam remembered the exact day it started because it happened to be her 30th birthday.
They were sitting around a campfire on P2Y-558, chomping down on lukewarm MREs and trying to keep the planet’s neon-green ‘crabsters’ (the Colonel’s appellation) from overrunning their position, when Daniel had reached into his pack and emerged with a delightfully crinkly bakery bag. Back then, they were still new and shiny to each other, still trying to figure out one another’s moods and motivations, buttons and backstories, still learning how to function as the four agile limbs of what would become the well-oiled machine that was SG-1, so Sam had hesitated a full five seconds before speaking.
“Can I mooch one off of you?” She’d called, watching him bite into a gooey, chocolatey cookie, his eyes falling shut as he savored the mouthful in a way that bordered on indecent.
He'd smiled at her, in that mischievous way of his, and passed the bag and that had been her first taste of those famous chocolate walnut cookies he loved so much. After finishing the first one, Sam had tactfully let slip that it was her birthday, prompting Daniel to give up his last confection in a display of gallantry. The Colonel then set off a flare and launched into a jaunty rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’, joined halfway through by Daniel. Teal’c, very much new to their strange Tauri customs, had sat silently by, without so much as a raised brow to color his expression. As far as birthdays went, that hadn’t been in the bottom ten.
On their very next mission, while breaking for lunch after a rocky 8-mile trek, Daniel had casually handed her a little box of lemon drop cookies, like she’d requested them. Sam had been touched, not just because of the goodies, but because Daniel had somehow remembered the one time she’d mentioned liking lemon. It was funny... half the time you talked to him, you wondered if he was listening, especially if the conversation concerned the mundanities of life. But then there were the times when, three months after the fact, he would recall every minor detail of a rambling, caffeine-fueled midnight conversation they’d had, down to the name of her high school chemistry class rival. Those cookies had been the best thing she’d eaten in weeks.
From there, it took off. It wasn’t a weekly, or even bi-weekly, thing, but it happened often enough to become ritual. They’d be hunkered down behind massive boulders waiting for backup, or stretched out in a leafy clearing waiting for night, or sitting in a stone chamber waiting for the natives to make up their minds, or spread around a Tel’tak cargo hold waiting for a fight, when Daniel would dig into his pack and emerge with some fragrant delicacies for the team to share. Sam had been the impetus for the tradition, but after the first three or four times, the Colonel, with all the subtlety of a grizzly bear, had made it clear that he expected a little something too, and once the three of them were partaking, Teal’c joined in, hesitant, at first, but quickly turning into a critic.
Daniel liked changing things up; sometimes there were cookies, sometimes cake, sometimes rolls or danishes or tarts, and sometimes cupcakes or croissants or doughnuts. They’d even had tiramisu during one memorable dusk dinner spent on a windy ledge. There’d be grumbling at perceived bad hauls, and whenever Daniel was empty-handed, Colonel O'Neill would voice his displeasure, but it never occurred to the rest of them to take turns. After their first year or two together, their roles were well established, and no one showed any interest in revisiting them. Daniel, for his part, seemed to enjoy playing their patissier.
And the ritual served more than just to feed them; it helped smooth over all those little fissures that inevitably emerged between four very different people shouldering tremendous loads. Jack liked cake, so after each time he and Daniel went at it, after whatever tiff they'd had ran its course, Daniel would show up with four slices of red velvet or tres leches or plain old chocolate cake, and Jack would give him a twitchy smile, and Daniel would reciprocate with a twitchy smile of his own, and Sam would relax for the first time that week, catching Teal’c’s eye. They ended up eating a lot of cake.
Teal’c preferred fruit in his pastries; he liked to wax poetic about the tang of a cherry, or the sweetness of an apple, or the way a sugary glaze perfectly complimented a blueberry’s acidity, or how the floral tones of a peach would pair well with Chulakian Gar’nak’mul wine. After Sha’re’s death, Daniel went half a dozen missions without stopping by a bakery. But when he finally did, he got strawberry tarts. They all pretended not to notice the way Teal’c choked up that night.
Sam wasn’t one for favorites; she enjoyed variety. Her tastes varied with her mood. She and Daniel rarely clashed, so he was rarely in a position to pick out conciliatory croissants for her, but what the others didn’t know was that Daniel always got her something extra anyway. It would be small; maybe new cookies or a brownie, occasionally some fancy chocolate, and he’d leave it in her lab, or slip it into her pack while they were gearing up, or hand it over while they trekked two by two. She treasured those gifts for what they were. He was shy and clumsy about it, but he loved doing for others and Sam loved him for that. Loved that he knew how and when to cheer her up, loved that he was safe, loved that he saw her and loved her for more than just her mind.
And then they went to Langara and found naquadria and lost 25% of themselves in the process.
After Daniel turned into a wisp of light, Sam fled and ended up in the armory where his pack was still waiting to be unloaded. She sank unceremoniously to the floor and rifled through it, freezing when she hit upon a bakery box. It was full of cake; cake they’d never eat, cake Daniel would never share with them, cake he’d never buy again. When she found another bag, this one containing three pumpkin spice cookies, Sam wept into the rucksack, the smell of cinnamon and nutmeg overwhelming her. Three days ago, she’d settled beside him in the mess hall, sniffed, and made an off-hand comment about craving pumpkins. She had just gotten her period. Daniel always seemed to know.
He was never gonna buy her another treat, never gonna laugh at one of her physics jokes, never gonna cheer her up just by being close, never gonna make her feel special just because again. She wept for him because he’d suffered, because he kept losing but never stopped searching, because he’d tried so hard and never had much to show for it, but mostly she cried for herself and what she’d lost. Daniel was dead and Jack was shutting down and Teal’c wasn’t him.
With Daniel gone, the tradition ended. Nobody dared take his place, not in any way that mattered.
Months later, Sam wandered into Colorado Sprinkles, mostly by accident, and stood staring at the displays, recognizing a dozen things they’d had over the years. She ended up buying chocolate walnut cookies, and a slice of strawberry shortcake, and a blueberry turnover, and lemon squares, ignoring the odd look the cashier, a round-faced girl ten years her junior, was shooting her. Sam didn’t want to know, didn’t want to answer questions.
The pastries burned a hole through her pack as they explored P48-99V, as they had brunch and later dinner, and as they headed back through the gate, empty-handed. She ended up giving them all to Siler, except for the cookies, which she ate mindlessly, cracking up at the thought of Daniel laughing at her from on high. He’d always had an odd sense of humor. Suffice it to say, she hadn’t stopped by Daniel’s bakery again, hadn’t visited any bakeries, period, unless you counted the mess hall and its meager offerings.
Then they went to Vis Uban and discovered their amputated limb and wondered whether it was too late to replant it.
He was a stranger, an alien wearing her friend’s face, but then he voiced concerns about who he’d been, and Sam felt the first stirrings of hope. That hope was almost crushed when he asked about them, but she held onto it because this was Daniel. If there was the slightest chance of getting him back, she’d hold onto whatever tendrils of faith she could conjure up.
In leaps and fragments, he came back to them. He’d show up in her lab at half past three in the morning, with a serious case of bedhead, talking a mile a minute about some remembered conversation from another lifetime. He was Daniel, but he was different. Rough where before he’d been smooth, bold where before he’d been reticent, edgy where before he’d been placid. But Sam was willing to overlook all of that. She gave him room to remember, gave him time, and space, and heaps of understanding, and slowly, he evened out, turned into the man she remembered. There were still discrepancies, but they were softer, less frequent; no longer threatening or hurtful, just an addendum to Daniel’s already extensive list of quirks.
And there were good things too; he was more comfortable in his own skin, for one. And he was present in a way he hadn’t been before. Before, he always seemed to have one foot out the door, always enforced a degree of distance whenever they’d get too close, but now he embraced life for life’s sake, and all of them along with it. When Sam finally made sense of the change, she hummed her way halfway through Led Zeppelin III before realizing she was doing it.
But there was still an undercurrent of uneasiness in her gut that she couldn’t name; could barely pin down long enough to recognize its existence. It finally hit her, as she and Daniel ate dinner in a dome on a decaying planet; he hadn’t picked up his bakery habit again. She felt foolish as soon as she identified the cause of her disquiet. In the grand scheme of things, Daniel not buying them goodies was stupidly small, a mere bagatelle, not indicative of any fundamental lapse in his memory or in their relationship. It was the kind of thing he could’ve stopped doing at any point without causing much of a stir. Once she identified the cause, Sam figured she’d put the matter to rest. But it kept nagging at her.
Then they almost lost Daniel again, his consciousness smothered to accommodate a dozen others, and Sam forgot all her petty misgivings. Watching all those strangers manifest in his body hit a little too close to home, reminded her what a miracle it was that he was back at all. They had a team dinner that night, and she sat next to him, too busy relishing his realness, his physical and emotional proximity, to worry about anything else.
And then, on their very next mission, while plodding along an endless beach, he dropped his pack on the sand and knelt, unlatching the outer pocket. Teal’c and the Colonel, already twenty yards ahead, trudged on, growing smaller and smaller.
“Here... got these for you,” he said, getting back to his feet and handing her a creased bakery bag. Sam felt the tears welling up before she even peeked inside. It was those same lemon cookies he’d bought nearly six years ago. She met his eyes - the same kind, intense, brilliant blue they’d always been - and dropped her own pack in favor of hugging him, cookies still clutched in her right hand.
He returned her hug, enveloping her in a way he never had before, like he finally knew he belonged. Sam bit back more tears. Daniel's arms were bigger, more muscular than they used to be, but they were his arms and they were around her, and he tucked his chin over her shoulder the way he always had, and when she pulled back, he smiled, and it was the same dimpled smile he’d directed her way a hundred - a thousand - times before.
“God, Daniel, you have no idea how much I’ve missed this,” she muttered. “Never again, okay?”
Daniel didn’t hesitate. “I don't plan on going anywhere.”
Then he hoisted her bag and helped her get it on, stashing her cookies in the side pocket just like old times. The Colonel and Teal’c finally looked back and stopped, motioning out of hearing range. Daniel waved back, throwing in a couple of confusing gestures of his own, just for kicks. Sam laughed, feeling lighter than she had in two or three years. She helped Daniel get his own pack situated and then linked her arm through his as they set off again.
“So what else didja get?”
He smirked, watching their boots break fresh sand. “Little bit of everything.”
End