A/N: I have to give credit where credit is due… this idea was triggered by a fanfic by Sue Corkill, who writes in the Stargate: SG-1 fandom.

It's just a little bit of sappy, February 14th fluff

DISCLAIMER: Don't own 'em. Thinking the coup isn't necessary now, but still ready, willing and able to stage it should the need arise.

That Time of Year

Jordan looked at the stack of reports in front of her. She squared her shoulders and reached for the top one. It was "that time of year." That day to be exact. Never really her favorite day. A manufactured holiday, she always thought.

Sure, she did.


Last year could have been different, probably should have been different, but… she didn't want to dwell on that. And this year? She tapped her pencil against the file folder's still-closed front. No, this year it just wasn't right either.

Maybe next year.

Or the year after that.

Or… she opened the file and began to read through it. Damn, she disliked Ivers. She felt like the hall monitor in grade school, the one who reported the kids who tried to sneak out to the bathroom or bring cookies back from lunch or commit other such juvenile sins. She'd never liked being the hall monitor and she still didn't. Who was she to be examining Macy's work? Bug's work? Sydney's work? This was something Switzer should be doing – she'd probably volunteered to be the hall monitor!

As if conjured by Jordan's thinking of her, the woman could be heard in the hallway. "Three minutes. Not a second longer."

There was a murmured reply and then Jordan's door opened. She looked up. "Hey, Nige."

He grinned, a bit desperately, she thought. "Hi. Um…" he looked around. "No plans? No swanky dinner and a nice bottle of wine? No well dressed, hunky man?"

She spread her hands out. "Nope, just deli take-out, crappy break room coffee and these rather boringly attired folders." She shrugged. "Ivers and his witch hunt."

"Ah." The Brit nodded. "Well, then, how about you come with us?" His grin widened.

Jordan's brows arched. "Us?"

He nodded, rapidly, and began to blink; it was almost a tic. "Me. And…uh… Kate."

"Ummmmm… I… um…gee, Nige, thanks, but I think I'll pass." She bit her lower lip. "Wouldn't want to… intrude."

"Oh, no…no." He glanced down the hall. "We're actually – errrr- looking at cars."

"Nigel, Nigel, Nigel," she teased. "That's rather sudden, isn't it?"

He paled. "NO! It's – No, really, it's not what you're thinking. Oh, never mind. Just… enjoy your paperwork and – and if I don't come back… please make sure she doesn't feed my kidneys to Binky."

With that he closed her door and was gone, leaving a mystified Jordan in his wake. After a full minute of staring at the doorway, she shook her head. Sometimes she thought she had Nigel figured out. Then there were the times she knew she never would.

Jordan worked steadily for an hour. She made dutiful notes and, despite her loathing of the task, did find the science interesting. She decided she'd go through one more folder and then take a break and have that deli take-out and crappy break room coffee she'd told Nigel about.

A skittering sound against her door jarred her. It had sounded like… mice. She shuddered, thinking of that rat on her shoulder in Las Vegas. Yes, she, Jordan Cavanaugh, could face down armed psychos, venomous defense attorneys and even the occasional Jehovah's Witness at her door, but rodents of any sort were not her style. Something about their little feet…paws…claws…whatever. And those tails. Ugh.

Then she heard it again. And realized mice don't run on doors and this sound had definitely been going across her door. She knew she'd have to investigate. Her curiosity would do her in otherwise.

She got up and, just for safety's sake, grabbed a medical dictionary. After all, maybe it was some mutant mouse with Spiderman-like abilities to run on the doors and walls.

What she found in the hall surprised and confused her even more. In the dim, after-hours light, something small and silver gleamed. She knelt and picked it up. Silver tinfoil and a small white tissue paper flag met her eyes. Her forehead wrinkled in wonderment. A Hershey's Kiss? What on earth was it doing here? Because she worked in the morgue and had had to face down one than one armed psycho, she had her suspicions, so she picked up the item. She could test it in the lab.

Then she noticed it. Another one, a few feet further along the hallway. And beyond that, another. And another.

A path of them. A little silver path in the low light. She did the only thing she could do – she followed it, picking them up as she went.

It led to one of the small storage rooms interspersed like cells in a honeycomb. The door was ajar and there was a note taped to it. The note had her name on it. Her curiosity and growing hope overwhelmed any paranoia she might have felt. She took the note down and read it.

I'm kissing the ground you walk on.

She couldn't help but grin as she pushed the door open.

"Took you long enough," he said, his voice soft, but with an edge of anxiety to it. His blue eyes glowed in the low light from a single, low wattage bulb that gleamed overhead.

Jordan stepped into the room and shut the door. "Only about five years."

He took her in his arms and buried his face in her hair, letting himself think of that last time he'd done that. A year ago. "Happy Valentine's Day, Jordan," he murmured, letting his lips brush over the tender flesh below her ear.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Woody," she returned, turning her head, seeking his mouth with hers and finding it. From her hand spilled a wealth of silver foil-wrapped chocolate kisses. The real thing was far better.