Cam wasn't sure exactly what had made him snap at the last; Daniel had been teasing, needling all day, and normally he could take it - could dish it right back out without breaking a sweat - but not today, apparently, and he had Daniel bent (willingly, so sweetly) over his desk before he even knew what he was doing. They'd frozen like that for a split second, the temptation to just say 'the hell with it' overwhelming, and Cam couldn't honestly say he would've been able to back off, could've kept to his job and good conduct if it hadn't been for Vala choosing just that moment - her usual impeccable timing - to walk on in. The delighted noise she made was actually about the only thing that let him wrench enough control back to let go, to step back shakily behind his desk, because he knew just how bad she wanted to watch, and that meant it was really, really something he should not be doing right then.
Jackson had assayed a rare flush and made his excuses, and Cam didn't even have to look at him (or Vala) to know exactly where he was heading. And damned if he wasn't tempted to follow him anyway.
Cam's sitting at his desk, trying to stop his knee bouncing and pretending like he's not digging the nails he doesn't have into the smooth varnished wood by Vala's leg, because ever since Jackson lit out of there like his tail was on fire she's been perched there. He can smell her (perfume, well, the cologne she swiped from somewhere and wears like a tailored
suit, that plus skin and heat that all rolls in together to make him want to roll over and beg), and driving him crazy that she won't leave.
"Vala, what do I have to give you to get you outta my hair for two hours?" It's only not a plaintive whine because Lieutenant Colonels in the United States Air Force do not whine. Much.
Luckily, one thing Cameron Mitchell has no matter how frustrated is an exceptionally good reflexive response, and he's got his hand over her mouth before the second syllable or her reply is even audible, just shaking his head at her.
"Oh no, that's not on the table till we're home. C'mon, what'll it be? Sam's eBay password? The number of Sergeant Siler's broker? Jackson's new credit card number? Hell, my gold card?"
"That will do nicely, Cameron," she purrs, plucking the plastic neatly from between his fingers (it'd be more impressive if he wasn't damned sure she'd have got it out of his wallet herself if she'd wanted to and that she probably had the number memorised already anyway), dropping a dramatically noisy kiss on the side of his face before bouncing out the door.