I wonder who Daniel thinks he's fooling with that wide-eyed look of innocence. "What do you mean 'what'? You're sitting there, drinking that coffee concoction—"

"It's not coffee, Jack." Daniel holds the cup at arm's length and examines it like a precious artifact. "*This* is Chantico."

"Coffee," I grouse, pointing at the cup. "It says Starbucks right there in big print."

"Yes, Jack, but you, of all people, should know by now *never* to judge a book by its cover." The bastard winks at me. Hell, I'm guessing I'm never gonna live down that geek comment of eight years ago.

Daniel takes another sip and a look of pure orgasmic bliss slides over his face. Eyes closed, head tilted back, even his mouth is slightly open. Hey! I know that expression and I'm suddenly a tad upset that something besides *me* can drag Daniel down to that level.

"Ummm, Daniel?"

"Hmmm?"

With his eyes still closed, he rotates his head in my direction. He's sitting on the loveseat, I'm on the couch. We're at his house, which means, because of the limited space here, even though we're on different pieces of furniture, we're still within touching distance of each other. Near enough so that with very little effort I can knock my competition right out of his hands. I even raise my hand to do so, but think better of it when Daniel opens one eye.

"You wanted something, Jack?"

I rub my hand over my clean shaven cheeks. "What's with the beard?"

"Ahh, right."

A beard. Daniel's orgasm face. Some stupid drink. Where the hell am I? If I had taken a trip through the Stargate instead of being in Washington for seven days, I'd have sworn this was an AU.

Daniel strokes his chin, his short nails produce a scratching noise as they run against the grain of his beard. "Ya like?"

Do I like? It's a bit straggly. Redder than I thought it would be, and he looks older. "It's a different look for you. What made you—"

"I haven't a clue," he admits.

"So you're walking on the wild side, now?"

"You bet. While the cat's away, the mice will play." He makes a show of tugging up his shirt. "Wanna see my pierced nipple?"

"You didn't! Did you?"

"It's just a beard, Jack."

Crap. I'm disappointed, 'cause, surprisingly enough, the idea of Daniel and a pierced nipple is a bit more appealing than the beard.

Daniel raises the cup to his lips, bends his head back and drains the last of the drink, his Adam's apple bobbing in an attempt to garner every last drop. He even peers into the cup to make sure it's completely empty.

Daniel pouts. You heard me. Pouts at the cup, like it's gonna magically fill when it sees his bottom lip and puppy dog eyes. And he's even sighing. That's right, sighing over the cup.

"It's empty, Daniel. Get over it. I mean, it's just coffee."

"You don't get it. It's not coffee." He palms the empty cup. "It's Chantico."

"Okay." I sit back on the couch, make myself comfortable, then wave my arm at Daniel. "You have my full attention, enlighten me, what the hell is it?"

"Chocolate."

"Chocolate? You're drinking chocolate?"

"Yes. I bet you didn't know that for more than ninety percent of chocolate's fifteen hundred year history, it was consumed as a beverage."

Only Daniel could take something as simple as an offering on Starbucks' menu and lecture on it. "No, I didn't *know* that. So, you're drinking fifteen hundred year old chocolate?"

"Well, yes and no. Yes, I'm drinking chocolate. But no, this cup isn't fifteen hundred years old. The *idea* of drinking chocolate is—"

"I get it. The idea is over a thousand years old." I have visuals of all the perky helpers in Starbucks melting Hershey bars, cackling madly at the price they're gonna charge unsuspecting customers.

"I think you need to taste it."

"The cup's empty."

"There are ways around that."

"An ascended trick that Oma's left you with?"

"Has nothing to do with ascension."

"Then how the hell am I supposed to—"

Daniel places the empty cup on the table, moves over to the couch then kisses me. "Oh." I lick my lips, then lean into him and lick his lips. "Chocolate."

"Yeah," he sighs. "Chocolate."

"Tastes good."

He kisses me again. "Tastes great, Jack."

Through his tee shirt, I tweak his nipple, wishing he truly had gotten it pierced, then nip at the red, straggly beard sprouting around his lips, amazed to find it also tastes like chocolate. Damn, even secondhand, this stuff tastes fantastic.

"You know," he whispers, his fingers ghosting along my groin. "The name Chantico comes from the Aztec goddess of hearth and fire."

"Fire?" I whimper, as I feel my own fire, which has absolutely *nothing* to do with a drink from Starbucks, fill my balls.

"Fire," he echoes, his voice low and gravelly in my ear. "Chantico was said to provide homes with warm comfort and heat for cooking."

"Heat. Yeah, definitely heat."

He rubs his newly acquired beard along my neck and in the future we're going to have a talk about telltale burns his facial hair is going to leave in its wake. But for now, I'm stuck on heat, comfort and wondering how late Starbucks is open.