Timothy O'Neill stared blankly at the image of Miguel's mother on the vidphone. "You want me to do what?" he demanded in astonishment.

"I want you to get Miguel to do a self-portrait for me," Elena Ortiz repeated patiently.

"But... why not ask him yourself, Mama?" Tim protested feebly.

"I have done," Elena assured him, "many times. He keeps making excuses, or offers me some other painting. He has done a portrait of everyone in the family except himself. I am becoming a little impatient."

It was on the tip of Tim's tongue to ask if Miguel had painted Ricci, but he stopped himself in time. He couldn't help but feel curious about Ricardo Ortiz, Miguel's younger brother and someone Tim hadn't even known existed until recently. Knowing how close and loving a family the Ortiz clan was, he couldn't begin to imagine what sort of crime would necessitate so total a banishment. The one time he had mentioned Ricci's name, Miguel had closed down so tightly that O'Neill had been terrified he had damaged their friendship beyond repair. That crisis had passed, but Tim had taken the warning seriously.

"So what makes you think he's going to listen to me?" he asked a little plaintively.

"Because you are good at nagging him," Mama said calmly. "Also, you live under the same roof and he cannot avoid you."

"That's not very nice," Tim objected. "And I don't nag him!" he finished indignantly. Mama Ortiz simply continued to smile at him and Tim sighed and sagged in defeat. "All right, all right. I'll see what I can do," he agreed helplessly.

"Thank you, Tim. I appreciate your help." With another smile and a blown kiss, Elena Ortiz signed off, leaving O'Neill to wonder just what he had gotten himself into this time.

Miguel Ortiz eyed O'Neill suspiciously as the American stacked up the dishes and vanished into the kitchen. He was up to something. Both paranoia and the strange sixth-sense he shared with the lieutenant told him that. Ever since Miguel had come back to the apartment that afternoon, Tim had been acting like a cat on hot bricks. He'd even cooked one of Miguel's favourite dishes for dinner, even though Tim wasn't that crazy about peppered penne with chorizo or chayote. That was a dead giveaway that O'Neill was trying to soften him up for something.

Suspicion became certainty as soon as Miguel saw the dessert. "Chocolate cheesecake? You don't like chocolate cheesecake!" he protested when Tim deposited the dish in front of him.

"You do," O'Neill pointed out. "Besides, I don't dislike it."

"All right; what are you after?" Ortiz demanded as he helped himself to a healthy slice. Shop-bought, he noted, but one of the better and more expensive brands, so whatever this crisis was, it had blown up too quickly for Tim to make the dish from scratch, as he usually preferred to do.

"Do I have to be 'after' anything?" O'Neill asked in hurt tones.

Ortiz paused and grinned at him. "Lay off the 'woe is me, I am unappreciated' tone, Tim. You know the longer you leave it, the more tangled your eventual sales pitch becomes, and then I get impatient trying to work out what you want me to do. Just tell me and I promise not to explode."

"I don't think you'll explode," O'Neill said slowly. "To be honest, I'm not sure how you're going to react."

Miguel paused in mid-chew, then swallowed and gazed at him curiously. "Sounds serious," he commented lightly. "Come on, out with it."

O'Neill took an audible deep breath. "Mama Ortiz called while you were out," he began.

"Mama called? And I missed her? Damn!" Ortiz swore in irritation. "I'd better call her back," he continued, abandoning the cheesecake. He paused in confusion when O'Neill reached out to snag his arm. "What?"

"Um, she called to talk to me."

"To you?"

O'Neill winced at the flicker of hurt which came down the link before Ortiz could catch it. The Cuban was extremely close to his family and had been consistently frustrated in his attempts to get back to Cuba to visit them, either work or circumstances constantly getting in the way. He wrote regularly, but rarely called, finding it difficult to cope with hearing their voices but not being able to touch them.

"Stop that!" he said sternly. "I don't mean she wouldn't have spoken to you if you'd been here. It's just that the main reason she called was to ask me to do something." He sighed with relief as the pressure on the link was immediately released. It was doubtful that Miguel even realised what he had been doing.

"And this has something to do with me?" Ortiz asked suspiciously. "What did she tell you?"

"She wants you to do a self-portrait for her," O'Neill blurted out, then braced himself for any explosion.

Ortiz stared at him blankly for a moment, then groaned and put his arms on the table, resting his head on them. Tim frowned, tasting the link cautiously, but found nothing beyond embarrassment and a faint irritation.

"Miguel?"

"What did you tell her?" Ortiz growled. "Did you promise her anything?"

"Er... not exactly." When Miguel lifted his head to gaze at him fiercely, Tim shook his head frantically. "No, I didn't. I just said I'd see what I could do. What's the big deal, Miguel? I've seen you paint all kinds of stuff. What could be so difficult about a self-portrait? It's not like you'd have any trouble with the sitter!"

"That's not the point!" Ortiz snapped. "I wish you hadn't said anything. I thought she'd given up on the idea."

"Am I missing something here?" Tim asked in growing bewilderment.

"Tim, I can't paint myself," Ortiz explained patiently. He glared when Tim laughed in disbelief. "I mean it! Don't you think I haven't tried to give Mama what she wants? I just... can't. It always turns out wrong."

"I don't believe you," O'Neill said firmly. "You can draw me, can't you? Anyone who can make me look like I belong in a tuxedo should be able to paint his own ugly mug. You probably tried to paint something too ambitious. Just do a rough sketch and see how it turns out. I'll even do the dishes and make us some hot chocolate," he coaxed.

Ortiz gave him a resigned look, then shrugged. "The only way you're going to believe me is if I show you," he observed. "Okay; I'll get my pad and pencils."

"I believe you." O'Neill examined the tenth sketch Miguel had produced and shook his head in disbelief. "If I didn't know you'd been trying your best, I'd swear you were doing this deliberately!"

Ortiz took back the sketch O'Neill had been examining and gave it a depressed look. "I don't know why it happens," he admitted. "I've even tried sketching from a photo, in case it's something about the immediacy of looking in a mirror, but it turns out just as badly. I can't explain it, Tim, but it's why Mama hasn't received her portrait."

"It has to be something psychological," O'Neill mused. "I mean, you can paint and sketch anything else - up to and including certain draconic manifestations! - so it's not as if your face is beyond your abilities."

Ortiz smiled faintly, then frowned again as he tore up the sketch angrily. "I just wish she wouldn't go on about it so much," he muttered. "I paid to have my photo taken last year, so it's not like she doesn't have anything to hang on her wall."

Tim grinned at the memory of that occasion. Miguel had been under the impression that all he had to do was trot into the studio, sit still for a couple of seconds and then wait to collect the finished print. Having endured the kind of torture involved in a formal photograph portrait, Tim had known better and had come along as moral support. And, if truth be told, to prevent Miguel from murdering the photographer when the subject of make-up arose!

"A photo isn't the same, Miguel," he pointed out patiently.

"At the amount of money that damn picture cost me, it should!" Ortiz grumbled.

"Anyway, that photo was of you before you let your hair grow out," Tim continued. "You know Mama never liked your Navy Look."

That earned him a silent snarl and an eloquent look. For the first few years Tim had known him, Miguel had been fighting a running battle with his unruly hair, frantically trying to keep it under control in an effort to conform with regulations. The interim period while seaQuest II was being rebuilt had led to a lot of changes, both personal and professional, but Miguel had ended up with a more natural hairstyle which he had been delighted to discover he would be allowed to keep.

"So I'll go and have another photo done," Ortiz snapped. "I can't paint myself, Tim. I've told Mama that, but she just thinks I'm being awkward!"

"Perish the thought," O'Neill murmured, then gave a snort of laughter as he got another glare for his pains. "I still wonder why you can't, though," he persisted as he watched Ortiz gather up his art materials. "Why this one thing you can't do? It smacks of some psychological block, if you ask me."

"Which I didn't," Ortiz retorted irritably as he took his things back into his room. "If I'm ever insane enough to be psycho-analyzed, Tim, I think I'll stick to a professional, thank you very much. It's just something I can't do. Don't go making some big deal out of it."

O'Neill said nothing but he was in a distinctly thoughtful mood as he settled down with the latest poem he was translating from the Chinese. No matter how indifferent Miguel might claim to be, Tim knew that he would be feeling guilty about letting Mama Ortiz down. It wasn't as if Elena made a habit of asking her younger son to do something for her. Indeed, most of the time she was trying to stop Miguel from sending chunks of his salary back to the family. The days when they had been so desperately poor that every cent counted were long past, but Miguel still kept diverting a large proportion of his earnings to the family.

After a while, Tim realised that he had been sitting and staring at the same line of Chinese calligraphy for the last fifteen minutes without taking it in. He sighed and shook his head, looking around to see where Miguel had got to. Soft echoes of music coming from the Cuban's room reassured him. If Ortiz had been playing rock music, Tim would have known that there was some kind of problem, but hip hop was a pretty neutral choice. It didn't look as if his interference had created a problem, but it didn't alter the fact that Mama wanted a portrait and Miguel was upset because he couldn't deliver. Now that he had been involved, it was up to Tim to do his best to sort things out.

So what to do? He'd already been thinking about it for a while and he hadn't the faintest idea of what to do. He did know that sitting here wasn't getting anything achieved. Closing his books with a sudden decisiveness, he decided that a little physical activity wouldn't go amiss. Yelling to Miguel that he would be out for a while, Tim left the apartment and trotted down to his motorbike before the Cuban could emerge and start wondering if he was up to something. He had no idea where he was going, only that he needed to be going there.

A couple of hours later and Tim shut off the engine and gazed thoughtfully at the beach house he had found himself pulling up outside of. He didn't think it was a coincidence that he should find himself at Savannah's place. No matter how uneasy and confused he might be about the Russian telepath, he knew that she was close to Miguel and had been inside the Cuban's mind. If anyone could tell him why Miguel couldn't paint himself, it would be Savannah Rossovich, and this way he didn't have to go through the complication on involving Levin. Jacob meant well, but he could be such a pain at times.

He stayed where he was for a little longer. He still wasn't absolutely certain how he felt about Savannah, or even where he stood with her. She always treated him with the utmost friendliness. Heck, on two occasions she had been a hell of a lot more than friendly! Tim still couldn't get over the fact that Miguel hadn't been the slightest bit jealous when he knew the Cuban was genuinely attached to her. Even if he didn't seem to realise it. It did make things a lot more complicated, though; at least it did for him.

The sound of the door opening distracted him and he looked around to see Savannah gazing at him in amused exasperation. :Are you going to stay out there all day?:

O'Neill smiled a little weakly and got off the Beast, pushing it a little way further up the drive. "Sorry. I guess I was just trying to gather up the courage to call." It was no use prevaricating where Savannah was concerned; she always knew when you were lying.

Rossovich shook her head in exasperation. "All this time and you still think I'm going to eat you? Come on in. I have iced coffee and some pineapple gateau inside, just waiting to be eaten. You can tell me all about your latest problem while we do just that."

That was why he trusted her where he didn't any other telepath, Tim realised as he followed her inside her home. Unlike the others, Savannah actually waited until she received permission before she yanked information out of your mind.

"So what can I do for you?" the Russian asked once she had provided them both with a large mug of coffee and a slice of pineapple gateau which Tim personally considered would give even Ortiz pause.

"I want to ask you something about Miguel," Tim explained as he tucked in.

Rossovich immediately looked curious. "You need to ask me something about Miguel?" she echoed incredulously. "You know him better than anyone on the planet!"

O'Neill gave her a self-conscious look. "Not the way I need to know him to answer this question," he disagreed. "It's difficult to explain," he continued, thoughtfully licking some cream off his spoon. "I know Miguel, yes, but it's on an instinctive level, rather than a conscious one. When I know he'll react a certain way, it feels like the way I know that I will react a certain way. I don't have to think about it; it just is."

"And now you've come up with a problem you can't solve that way?" Savannah prompted.

"Yeah. It involves the way Miguel paints, and since I can't paint for toffee...." He swiftly explained the problem to Savannah and then stared at her in bafflement when she began to laugh. "What? Why is it so funny? Do you know why he can't paint himself?"

Rossovich gave him a look of pure mischief. "Of course - and so do you."

"No, I don't," O'Neill protested. "I told you, that's why I came to you. When it comes to painting-"

"It's not about painting, Tim," Rossovich said in amusement.

"It's not?" O'Neill gazed at her in befuddlement. "I thought it was."

"No, it isn't. This is about creativity and how a person sees himself. You're just as creative as Miguel is, aren't you, just in a different sphere? Miguel paints and you compose music. He dabbles in poetry and you mess about with lapidary."

"How did you know about the lapidary?" O'Neill demanded darkly.

"I admired Serina's hummingbird necklace," Savannah admitted. "She told me that you had made it for her for her eighteenth birthday. It's very beautiful, Tim."

"Uh, yeah." O'Neill turned a delicate shade of crimson. "I don't do it all that often, but it's nice to work with my hands. Makes a change from doing things with my mind."

"Now, tell me something. Why don't you sing your songs with Mystery?"

"I can't do that!" O'Neill said in horror. "I'm a songwriter, not a singer."

"But you can sing," Savannah pointed out. "You have a pleasant voice. I've heard you. Surely you could sing along with the others?"

"No." O'Neill's tone brooked no argument.

"Why?"

He blinked and gazed at her in confusion. "Why are we talking about me? I need to know about Miguel."

"All right, I'll take pity on you," Savannah said in amusement. "The reason why Miguel can't paint himself is the same reason why you never sing your songs in any other company other than your friends. Neither of you are creative in order to make yourself more attractive or more popular to others. You are perfectly comfortable with yourselves and your creativity is spontaneous and self-fulfilling, not used as a means to bolster your self-image."

O'Neill blinked and gazed at her doubtfully. "I'm not sure I follow you," he eventually admitted.

"Let me put it another way. Do you write songs solely to give to Mystery? Did you always see yourself as one of the composers for a famous band?"

O'Neill gave an incredulous laugh. "No way! It was pure accident that I got hooked up with them and I only send them about half of the songs I compose."

"Would you stop writing music if Mystery was to break up?"

"No chance. I'd go crazy if I didn't set the stuff down! If I can't, it just keeps buzzing around my head until I give in. What has that to do with Miguel painting? He doesn't sell his paintings."

"And does he only paint things which he knows he can give to people? Does he tell everyone he meets that he paints?"

"Savannah, you know very well that he hides his paintings!" O'Neill protested. "When I put some of his stuff on the walls in the apartment he nearly had a heart attack! Kept whimpering that people would see them!" He shook his head in bewilderment.

Having seen the kind of artwork Ortiz could produce seemingly without effort, Savannah could understand Tim's bewilderment. She was the proud owner of two Ortiz originals - one a study of Common dolphins cavorting around a reef and the other a portrait of herself in a fantasy setting - and she had virtually had to prise them out of Miguel under threat of torture! The Cuban's unshakeable belief that he was little more than a fairly talented amateur was either charming or frustrating, depending on the circumstances.

"And this still doesn't help me with my problem," O'Neill continued, looking mulish.

"Miguel can't paint himself because he doesn't see anything worth painting when he looks at himself," Savannah said baldly. "Just as you don't see yourself as good enough to sing or play your own music to strangers or show off the pieces of jewellery you make," she said pointedly. "When do I get to see some of your creations?" she demanded.

"I don't keep them," O'Neill stuttered. "I usually have a specific person in mind when I create them so I give them away once I've taken a photo of them. You've seen one of them. Mama Ortiz is wearing the raven set I made for her in the painting Miguel did of her that's hanging in the apartment."

"You did that?" Savannah did her best not to drool. "That is gorgeous!"

"Mama liked it too," O'Neill admitted with innocent pleasure. Then he frowned as he considered what she had said. "I think you're right," he murmured after a while. "Miguel's never really happy with anything he paints. He's so certain that he's not very good, that he hasn't got it right, that he really needs someone to tell him that it's good before he's willing to believe it. When he paints a portrait of himself, he's telling himself all through the process that it's not working, that it's not very good, so of course it isn't. Damn! I need some way to divert him, to take his mind off what he's doing....."

"I'd be happy to oblige, but I don't think he'd get much painting done," Rossovich said mischievously, then giggled as Tim reddened. "Why, Timothy, what did you think I was talking about?"

O'Neill glowered at her, but he was beginning to get used to being teased by the elegant blonde and he treated her comments the way he would Miguel's. "Thanks, but no thanks," he said dryly. "I haven't got over the last time you decided to help me out by distracting him."

To his surprised delight, this time it was Savannah's turn to blush. "Yes, well, I wasn't prepared for the result I got, but I can't say I regret so much as a second of it. If it hadn't been for the two of you, I would have ended up as another crime statistic on the evening news."

Now it was O'Neill's turn to look away, mildly embarrassed by the look in her sapphire eyes. It was a little awe-inspiring to elicit that kind of response in a person normally as poised as Savannah. True, finding yourself the prisoner of a madman who intended to rape and murder you was enough to shake anyone, but Tim still wasn't all that clear on how he and Miguel had managed to track her across Oahu in time to save her. He was grateful they had, of course, and the emotional repercussions didn't embarrass him the way he had assumed they would, but he still wondered how it had all happened in the first place.

"You've thought of something," Savannah observed an instant before Tim got to his feet and turned to go.

"If you're right, I know how to get beyond the block," Tim agreed as he grabbed his weatherbeaten leather jacket and shrugged it on. "Miguel did something similar when he wanted me to play a composition I didn't think was suitable for anyone else to hear." He paused and gave the Russian a dazzling smile. "I've just remembered that I swore I'd get even with him and now I'm going to get my chance! See you around, Savannah, and thanks for the cake and advice."

Rossovich watched him roar off on his Orca-patterned bike and smiled to herself. Only Tim could see solving a personal problem for someone as payback for a practical joke played on him! Really, her life had been so dull before she had encountered seaQuest and her fiercely individualistic crew. Dull and lonely, she reflected ruefully, contrasting the then with the now. When the most paranoid and skittish Hatchling she had ever known started dropping by for her advice, she knew she was finally accepted.

Now all she had to do was work out a way to ask Tim to make her a piece of jewellery as beautiful as the two examples she had seen!

oooOooo

"Tim?"

"Mmmm?"

"Why are we getting drunk?" Miguel's grasp of the English language had degenerated beyond repair a few drinks back and he couldn't be bothered to concentrate on resuscitating it. Since Tim was every bit as fluent in Spanish as he was in English, it was never a problem.

O'Neill gave him an insulted look and drew himself up to his full height, weaving dangerously before he caught his balance again. "We are not getting drunk!" he averred forcefully.

"We're not?" Ortiz considered this statement from his relaxed slouch on the floor of the lounge. Then he laughed softly. [Maybe you're not, but I am!] he snorted.

"Rubbish. You're just a little.... relaxed, that's all," O'Neill insisted.

Ortiz did his best to smother a yawn and eyed his friend with sleepy good-humour. "If I get any more relaxed, I'll fall asleep," he warned. "I like this drink you've made, though," he said.

"Good, 'cos I made it up in honour of you," O'Neill told him.

Had Ortiz been less drunk, that statement would have been greeted with considerable derision and dark suspicion. Miguel was a good-humoured and affectionate drunk, though, so he simply beamed at O'Neill benignly. Tim - who was nowhere near as drunk as Miguel, due to a judicious switching of drinks - decided that this was the best chance he'd get. If Miguel got any more inebriated, he would have no interest whatsoever in painting, being more inclined to fall asleep.

"Are you my best friend, Miguel?" he began. As he'd expected, Miguel rose to the bait immediately.

"¡Ya lo creo!" the Cuban protested. "Why do you ask?"

"I need to ask you a big favour," Tim said carefully.

Ortiz gestured expansively. "De acuerdo."

Tim gave him an exasperated look. "You don't even know what it is, yet!" he protested.

That earned him a casual shrug. "No hay ningún problema," Ortiz said complacently. "Whatever you want, you get."

That kind of attitude has got you into more trouble than I care to remember! O'Neill fumed to himself, momentarily diverted. Then he caught himself, seeing the vague spark of sobriety flicker in his friend's eyes. Now was not the time to undo the evening's work. "I want you to do a painting for me."

Ortiz gave him as suspicious a look as he was capable of under the circumstances. "Not another self-portrait!" he protested anxiously.

"Oh, no, nothing like that," O'Neill soothed, mentally crossing his fingers and toes. "I want you to paint me, but I want you in the picture as well." He held his breath and :leaned: a little when he felt Ortiz hesitate in confusion.

"But.... if I'm in the picture-,"

"Purely as something for me to react against," O'Neill interjected hastily. "I always feel so uncomfortable and stiff when I'm just sitting and letting you draw me."

"You usually say you feel like murdering me," Ortiz persisted in vague suspicion.

"That as well," O'Neill agreed in amusement. Miguel's frequent stalking sessions in order to provide his sister with sketches and paintings to drool over was a recurring bone of contention between the two of them. "But will you do this for me? As a special favour? You can always paint yourself out afterwards and substitute a rock or a tree or something."

"That's true."

Ortiz seemed powerfully struck by that idea and Tim breathed a silent sigh of relief when the Cuban carefully got to his feet and disappeared in the direction of his bedroom. Now all he had to do was hope that his original theory was correct and Miguel would be able to paint himself accurately if he only thought of himself as a prop which would be removed at a later date. After that, it would simply be a case of removing his image from the canvas and Mama would have the portrait she had waited for.

oooOooo

O'Neill awoke to the realisation that some alien fiend had ripped his head off of its shoulders during the night and used it for a baseball playoff. At least, that's what it felt like. He lay where he was for a while, trying to get up the energy to prise open eyelids which appeared to have been superglued shut, then reluctantly decided that he was going to live, no matter what his head told him.

Opening his eyes led to a momentary setback until he realised that he hadn't succumbed to some strange visual injury but was actually trying to focus on the rug which he was currently face down on. That led to the ticklish manoeuvre of trying to turn over, but once the resulting vertigo and intense nausea was beaten into submission, he managed to sit up and look around himself.

Ortiz was curled up into a ball a few feet away from him, hugging the life out of one of the throw cushions and grumbling faintly under his breath. Realising that meant the Cuban was a few minutes away from waking up in much the same state as he was in, Tim hastily racked his brains in an effort to remember whose fault this recent binge had been. Ortiz tended to be a belligerent hangoveree, unlike Tim, who usually started off demanding the last rites and then got really depressed. He was on the verge of nailing down his last coherent memory when he shifted position slightly and caught sight of the canvas propped up against the coffee table. His hangover was forgotten in the blast of sheer, unbridled, totally unprofessional and over the top triumph which resulted. He'd been right!

Giving the growling Ortiz a wary look, Tim inched his way over to the painting, careful not to touch it and smear the fresh paint. The closer he got, the more detail he discovered and he wondered a little wildly if they had been drunk for a hell of a lot longer than a single night. Miguel must have painted at light speed to get all this done! The best Tim had hoped for had been a preliminary sketch which the Cuban could then use as a base for the portrait proper. Instead he was faced with what looked like a completed project.

Tim was used to Miguel painting him so as to make him look totally unlike himself, but this was pretty good going, even for the Cuban's overactive imagination. For one thing, Miguel had dispensed with the glasses, and Tim was startled to see how fey he looked without them. In the portrait, he was standing just behind Miguel, his arm resting on the Cuban's shoulder, and he was looking down at his friend with an expression of mischievous amusement which had Tim's lips curving into a smile without his realising it. He'd used just such an expression when he'd either caught Miguel about to do something outrageous, or was, himself, about to do the same. He'd been painted wearing his favourite black T-shirt with the Lassen-style design Miguel had done for him one Christmas, and his battered brown leather jacket was slung over the chair set to one side.

After the initial intrigued look at himself, however, it was Miguel's image which Tim focused on and he breathed a silent sigh of relief. This was Miguel. The Cuban had his head tilted to one side, glancing up at Tim with that look of sly delight which meant he thought he had put one over on his friend. The longer he looked, the bigger O'Neill's smile got. Every detail was perfect, with the added bonus that the painting captured Miguel's spirit as well as his physical appearance. The denim shirt with the Minoan designs embroidered on it had been a gift from Serina, and Tim remembered how impressed he had been when he'd learned she had done both the layout and actual embroidery. Then, of course, he had spent the next six months fending off her unsubtle attempts to measure him for a shirt of his own.

A snuffling snort from the direction of Miguel brought O'Neill around in time to see the Cuban flail his way into a more or less upright position. He sympathised with the anguished whimper Ortiz promptly gave as he screwed his eyes up tight. Tim's fast metabolism meant that he was already regaining a measure of his equilibrium and as soon as he got some liquid in him, he would be well on the road to recovery. If past experience was anything to go by, Miguel wouldn't be so lucky.

"Whose fault was this?" Ortiz moaned. "Do I murder you or shoot myself?"

"Neither," O'Neill said cheerfully as he made his way to the kitchen. "It was a mutual decision."

"You should know better than let us make mutual decisions," Ortiz grumbled as he crawled towards the couch. "We always regret it."

"Never mind. It meant you got over your artistic block," Tim soothed as he returned with a pitcher of orange juice and two glasses.

Ortiz accepted the glass he offered and eyed him as warily as someone who was currently allergic to sunlight could manage. "Huh?"

"Ah, I see you're up to your usual standard of witty repartee," O'Neill observed wisely. Then he ducked as a cushion hurtled in his direction. "Ah-ah, Miguel. Violence is the last recourse-"

"-of someone who has to live with a smartass who recovers from a hangover faster than they do!" Ortiz snorted. "Let a man die in peace, will you?"

"Drink your orange juice and savour your artistic triumph instead," Tim laughed. He went across to the painting and brought it across for Miguel to look at. "See? I told you you could paint yourself if you really tried."

Ortiz choked on the mouthful of orange juice he had just taken as he got his first look at the painting. "What the hell... when did I paint that?" he spluttered in amazement.

"Last night, or maybe this morning. I'm not sure how long it took you," Tim replied thoughtfully. "Isn't it great? Mama will love it, once you've airbrushed me out."

"Are you nuts?" Ortiz squawked. "If anything's going to be airbrushed out, it's going to be that pathetic attempt at a self-portrait I've done. You look pretty good," he said thoughtfully, tilting his head to one side. "Maybe I could paint in a rock, or something, and then send it to Mama. She'll love it."

"Mama will love the portrait of you," O'Neill said firmly. "No, you don't!" he yelped as a determined-looking Ortiz made a grab for the canvas. "Promise me you won't paint yourself out, first."

"Don't be stupid," Ortiz snapped. "I can't send something that bad to Mama. Give it here and I'll send it to her once I've altered it. Tim!" he yelled in irritation as O'Neill danced back out of reach. "Give me the painting."

"Uh-uh. Not until you promise me," O'Neill said firmly. "Miguel, promise me.... oh, hell!"

He abandoned all attempts to reason with Ortiz as the Cuban lunged in his direction. Dancing to one side, O'Neill pushed his friend even further off-balance with a foot as he lunged past. Then he made for the door, barely pausing to grab the car keys on the way out, tripping the door lock as he went. By the time Ortiz managed to get to his feet and sort out the lock, Tim had made it to the car, put the portrait in the back and was pulling out of the drive. He flicked a look in the rear view mirror in time to see Ortiz leaning over the balcony and shaking his fist at him. No doubt there had been a suitable soundtrack to follow, but fortunately he was too far away to hear it. Right now he had a safe house to find.

oooOooo

Savannah paused in the act of making coffee and :listened: in astonishment as O'Neill broadcast his approach with all the finesse of a sumo wrestler jumping the queue at a cafeteria. Then she caught the fuzziness to his thoughts and the faint imprint of pain around the edges and smiled understandingly. Tim could never retain control of his emerging abilities when he was drunk and he tended to be unwittingly :loud: while suffering from a hangover. Setting the percolator going, she went to greet him.

"Twice in as many days," she observed in amusement. "I'm honoured." Then she noticed the canvas he was carrying carefully.

"It's a painting," O'Neill explained breathlessly. "Can I come in? I parked a couple of blocks away but he could still come by and see me out here."

"He? You mean Miguel? Tim, have you and he been quarrelling again?" Rossovich demanded in exasperation as she allowed him inside and closed the door.

"Of course not! We've just had a.... difference of opinion," O'Neill mumbled. Then he gave her an indignant look. "And we do not quarrel!"

"And Mount Vesuvius indulges in the occasional seismic rumble," Savannah said wryly. "Come on; the coffee's in this direction."

"Oooh, good," O'Neill purred as he trailed after her.

"So what's with the painting?" Savannah asked once she had poured some coffee and supplied him with a chocolate biscuit or three.

"I took your advice about Miguel," Tim explained around the current victim. "The trouble is he wants to paint himself out now he's sober."

"He did a self-portrait?" Savannah exclaimed. "Can I see?"

"Um, it's not exactly a self-portrait," O'Neill said nervously. "I figured that, if you were right, Miguel needed to have something else to focus on, so I got him to paint the two of us. Trouble is, he wants to keep my bit and paint out his, which is the exact opposite of what I intended."

Savannah rolled her eyes. "Why am I not surprised? Can I see?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Here." The Russian stared at the painting he handed her in total silence for a long moment, then she pulled in a deep sigh. "What? What's the matter?" O'Neill demanded nervously. "Don't you agree that it's worked? I thought it had worked!"

Realising that he was genuinely panicking, Savannah was quick to soothe him. "Of course it worked, Tim. Didn't I tell you that you know Miguel better than anyone? The reason I was silent was because I was thinking that this painting captures the both of you, perfectly. You can't paint yourself out of this portrait, any more than Miguel should paint himself out. It's perfect the way it is."

"Do you really think so?" Tim demanded, his eyes wide with astonishment. "I thought he made me look far too good for it to be realistic."

Rossovich smiled gently at that little example of Tim's self-effacing modesty. "No, I think he's captured you perfectly. Will you take a little advice from me?" He eyed her a little doubtfully, but nodded slowly. "Send the painting as it is to his mother. Don't alter anything."

"But Mama wants a portrait of Miguel, not one with me in it!" O'Neill immediately wailed.

"Let her be the judge of what she wants," Savannah said firmly. "Tim, Miguel sees himself best when he's reflected in your eyes. I know you find that difficult to believe, but it's the truth. Take yourself out of this painting and you destroy its focus. Anyone who knows the two of you will understand that as soon as they see it. Send it as it is and let Mama take the decision."

"Well, okay, but I can't send it yet. I have to wait until the paint is dry and Miguel's going to be looking for it. I figured this was as safe a place to hide it as any. Would you mind keeping it for a little while?"

"Not only will I keep it, but I will package it up for you and send it when the time comes," Savannah promised. "I have a price, though."

Tim immediately looked wary. "What kind of price?" he demanded suspiciously.

"I want to take a copy before it goes off to Mama. I won't keep it if it turns out she objects," she continued when O'Neill immediately looked alarmed, "but I want at least one copy of how it looked as an original, just in case I'm wrong and she does decide to alter it. No-one else will ever see it, Tim," she wheedled. "Pretty please?"

"Oh, all right," Tim muttered ungraciously, "but if Mama objects, you promise to destroy it?"

"I promise. Now, would you like to stay for brunch, or do you think the Cuban Intelligence Agency will home in on you if you stay too long?"

O'Neill swore and bolted the last biscuit. "Damn! I forgot about that! I have to go, Savannah. Thanks for your help!"

He shot to his feet and, without thinking, planted a hasty kiss on her cheek before charging for the front door. Rossovich sat where she was for a time after she had heard the front door closed, her hand on her cheek and the faintest expression of surprise on her face. Then her eyes drifted towards the painting and she smiled slowly. At least, if all went well, she would soon have the two of them on her bedroom wall to savour.

oooOooo

The tone of the vidphone interrupted O'Neill on the middle of his plans for the design of Savannah's necklace. Swearing under his breath, he yelled for Miguel to answer it, then remembered that he had muttered something about doing some gardening. It was nearly a month since he had delivered the painting to Savannah for safekeeping, but the Miguel still went on about it and both Krieg and Westphalen had commented on being asked strange and leading questions by the Cuban when they had reported back for duty. O'Neill had simply heaved a sigh of relief that Miguel had assumed he wouldn't go near Savannah unless he was ordered to.

The sight of Mama Ortiz on the screen effectively brought his wandering mind back into focus. "You got it?" he demanded.

Elena nodded, her eyes shining. "It arrived yesterday, by special courier. Tim, you didn't have to spend that much money to get it to me so quickly."

"You've waited long enough," Tim said firmly. "Now, I know it's not what you wanted, but I thought-"

"It is exactly what I wanted," Elena interrupted firmly.

"-that you could.... huh?" O'Neill floundered to a halt and stared at her in surprise. "But you said-"

"-that I wanted a self-portrait of Miguel. Yes, I know," Mama said impatiently, "but I was going to ask for Miguel to paint you as well, afterwards."

"Of course." Elena gazed at him in confusion. "You didn't think I would miss you out of the family, did you?"

O'Neill opened his mouth but no words came out. He knew that the Ortiz family had adopted him unofficially, and he had revelled in the open affection they so unstintingly lavished on him. To have it stated as a given fact, though, was enough to bring a lump to his throat.

"Tim? Querido, are you all right?" Elena demanded in concern.

"I'm... I'm fine," Tim managed after clearing his throat hastily. "I'll go and get Miguel, then you can tell him that you like the portrait, okay?"

"All right." There was still a faint hint of concern in Mama's eyes as he went to tell Miguel that his mother was on the phone, but Tim doubted if he could explain what he felt without seeming a complete idiot.

"What do you want?" Miguel demanded as he appeared at the foot of the steps leading up to their first-floor apartment.

"Mama's on the phone," Tim began, then ducked to one side and flattened up against the wall as Ortiz charged up with a fine disregard for anyone else's life and limb. Chuckling to himself, Tim remained outside for a few minutes to give Miguel some privacy, then went back in when he heard his name being screamed. "You bellowed, your imperiousness?" he inquired sarcastically.

"You sent that painting to Mama?" Ortiz demanded incredulously. "I told you not to!"

"No, you didn't," O'Neill replied tranquilly, going over to stand beside the Cuban and smile at Elena's image. "You just said you wanted to paint yourself out."

"And you ignored me."

"Damn straight I did. I told you you could paint yourself and you did. You might have decided it wasn't good enough, but I didn't see why Mama had to wait even longer for what she wanted. Anyway, you like it, don't you, Mama?"

"Indeed I do, Tim," Elena said warmly. "So does the rest of the family."

"There you are, you see," Tim said triumphantly to Miguel.

"So do the neighbours...."

"Eh?" Both Tim and Miguel chorused.

"...and the friends Esteban had staying at the time...."

"Whoa!" Tim stuttered, feeling Miguel's panic echoing his nicely along the link.

".... and Serina's friends all think the two of you are very handsome and want to meet you when you come back home for leave....."

"Aargh!"

"...and seeing that shirt has reminded her that she never got around to measuring you properly for the one she promised you, Tim, so she wants to know seaQuest's itinerary so she can see if she can meet you at some point to fit you up...."

"I'll bet she does!" Tim wailed.

"... so all in all, I think the painting has been a great success, don't you?" she finished cheerfully. She gazed out to where the two of them were exchanging looks of mutual dumbfounded horror and laughed out loud. "My two brave boys," she said with affection. "Hurry home, muchachos. The portrait is nice, but I much prefer having the real thing." She signed off and both of them stood and gazed at the blank screen for a moment.

"This is all your fault!" Ortiz growled, swatting O'Neill on the arm.

"Hey!" O'Neill said indignantly. "If you'd done as Mama asked then I wouldn't have had to get involved. Is it my fault you're an idiot?"

"Me? An idiot? You're a fine one to talk!" Ortiz looked around a little wildly and pounced on the nearest cushion.

"Now, Miguel," O'Neill protested, backing away warily as he took in the militant gleam in the Cuban's eye. "I was just trying to help Mama out."

"Yeah? Well, who's going to help you out, hermano?" Ortiz asked, then gave a war-whoop as he pounced.

With a yell of mingled delight and alarm, O'Neill hurtled off in search of a cushion of his own.

-o-o-o-OO-o-o-o-