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“Hey,” Jack barked from where he hung off of the door frame of Sam’s lab decked out in his Class A uniform.
“Ja—” Sam began before catching her own mistake. Jack ambled in, dropping his cap on the workbench. “General. I didn’t know you were in town.”
“‘Jack’ is fine, and Landry needed a little hand-holding. Couldn’t find the stapler.”
“That's probably because you took it with you to Washington,” Sam reminded him with a conspiratorial grin.
“Would you," Jack looked around behind him and down the hall before hitting the switch to shut the door behind him. “Keep your voice down about the stapler, would ya?”
“Haven’t you heard? You can do whatever you want now,” Sam teased.
“Does that include kissing my favorite Lieutenant Colonel in her lab?” Jack asked stalking toward her and adopting her teasing tone.
“Depends. You talkin’ about me?” she smiled.
“Wise guy. Is that a ‘yes’?” he asked, crowding her against her workbench with a hand on either side of her until she was leaning backwards, his affectionate smirk looming over her.
“It’s not a ‘no,’” Sam relented and snaked her arms around his neck.
“Close enough,” he concluded.
Sam held on tight when his arms wrapped around her, and her mouth found his, slow and lingering on each indulgent brush of his lips. They had just seen each other last weekend so this kiss didn’t feel quite as much like a reunion. It was more comfortable than desperate, more familiar than novel. But it still didn’t take long to move from comfortable to possibly inappropriate on base even with the necessary waiver. Reluctantly, Sam allowed him to retreat with a final reaching taste of his lips.
“Well, well,” Sam tsk’d as she ran her fingers through his hair. “You can do whatever you want.”
“Almost,” he answered with raised brows. “There are some things I had in mind that need to wait until after dinner. Or before, actually. I’m open-minded, but they probably shouldn’t happen here. On this table.”
Jack paused, testing the sturdiness of her workbench with a shove.
“Or against that door,” Jack nodded toward the lab’s blast door that he had recently closed, sealing them away from the rest of the base.
“Not that I mind, but what are you doing here?”
“You don’t like surprises?” he smirked over her.
“If you're the surprise, then yes, I do. But why now? I thought I was supposed to fly to you next weekend.”
“Didn't wanna wait. Finish up here. We’ve got dinner reservations,” he informed her, leaving no room for discussion as he released her and picked up his cap.
“What if I’m busy?” Sam challenged crossing her arms.
“You’re always busy. In demand. Very important. But you also have to eat, so I thought it would be fun to do it together tonight.”
Sam considered arguing some more, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to do it when Jack had materialized into her weekend like a wish fulfilled.
“Fine. I just need a few minutes.”
“Hurry it up. No offense to the United States Air Force, but I’m taking you home to change first,” he gestured toward her BDUs.
“What about you?” she asked, sending her eyes on a journey from head to toe of Jack in his dress blues.
“What? You don’t like it?” Jack asked with a hand to his torso. “I always thought blue was my color.”
“No, no, it’s good, I just—”
“I’ve got a bag in the car. We can just be people tonight instead of uniforms.”
“My favorite,” Sam agreed, and set about closing down the lab because apparently, she had a date.
“How dressed should I get?” Sam asked, slipping into the bedroom with Jack in tow. “I mean, how fancy?”
“No jeans. Something kinda slutty would be good.”
“Is that the official dress code?” she asked from in front of her closet door.
“If I’m in charge it is. Oh, skip the red.”
“I thought you liked me in red.”
“I do. Just not tonight,” he answered and kicked off his shoes, tucking them under the bed that he would hopefully be sharing with her tonight. She had forgotten to ask how long he could stay.
“Okay,” Sam agreed without understanding and pushed one of her favorite red dresses to the side, landing on some more subdued options. “What are you wearing? I don’t want to clash with you.”
“Carter, nobody is going to be looking at me.”
“Just call it one of my quirks. Humor me.”
“Grey, I think.” Jack unzipped his bag, peeking inside. “Yep. Grey.”
Sam smiled shyly and turned away from him back to the closet. She loved the way grey looked on him with his silvered hair. Before she heard him approaching, Jack was behind her, hands warm against her biceps and lips soft against her jaw.
“Wear whatever you want, Sam,” he instructed roughly. “I won’t be looking at the dress.”
Sam inhaled, attempting to draw breath back into her lungs. Jack wasn’t a romantic kind of guy. After witnessing eight years of his practical, logical approach to the world, she had gone into their relationship with her eyes wide open. But sometimes, his rough, direct approach did more for her than any sonnet ever could. It was him, and for better or worse, he was who she wanted, roughness and all.
“Promise?” she asked, pulling his arms around her waist and wrapping herself in his hug.
“Cross your heart,” he answered, slipping his hand upward to draw a criss-cross over her chest.
Sam shivered under his touch and scrunched her eyes tightly against the rush of unnamed emotions that were introducing themselves into her being.
With a soft lingering series of kisses to her neck, Jack loosened his hold on her body but not on her mind. He stepped back, and with a staccato pop of his hand against her ass, he gave his directive.
“Pick up the pace. I don’t want to lose our reservation.”
Sam glared back at his smirk for the uninvited smack, but as usual his glee was undeterred.
“What? You want a turn?” he asked, turning his back and raising the blue tail of his jacket with his teasing grin thrown over his shoulder at her.
Reaching for the nearest ammunition, Sam grabbed yesterday’s t-shirt from the laundry hamper and chucked it, landing it squarely across his smug face.
“Mmm,” he teased. “My favorite perfume. Why you wearin’ that one for Mitchell?"
“Don’t worry. I don’t think he’s a fan of the scent of twelve hours in the lab with no lunch.”
“Huh. Just me, I guess,” Jack concluded as he stripped, starting with his jacket. “Anyway, why didn’t you eat lunch? I specifically told that kid to make sure you ate lunch. It was a condition of your reassignment to SG-1.”
“You know, I want to think that you’re joking, but at this point, I’m fairly sure you’re not.”
“Oh no. I’m serious. Keeping your body well nourished is a top priority for me.”
“And why is that, I wonder,” Sam asked, hand finding her hip.
“Oh, no reason, other than that I prefer that you not be weak with hunger if I happen to make a surprise appearance for dinner.”
“And not that I mind, but why are you here?” Sam pressed again, turning to him with a medium blue halter dress in one hand and a light pink wrap dress in the other.
“Missed you,” he smiled and set his tie and pin on her nightstand.
“Uh-huh. I can tell when you have something up your sleeve. Which one?” Sam asked as she wiggled a dress in each hand for him to choose for her.
“Blue,” he answered easily and unbuttoned his cuffs to show her. “Check. Nothing in my sleeves.”
“I’m not even going to laugh at that. Work harder next time.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he smiled and dropped a smiling kiss against her cheek. “I’m gonna shower. You’re welcome to join me.”
“Do we have time?”
“For a shower? Yes. For what you’re thinking? Probably not.”
With a wink, he tossed his shirt onto the bed and disappeared into the bathroom.
Sam wondered to herself as she undressed and followed him into the bathroom if she would always find him to be this odd mixture of endearing and irritating. It really was ideal as far as she was concerned.
“O’Neill,” Jack told the host at the downtown establishment. Exposed brick covered the walls, and that fact alone made this place a surprising pick for him. In the back of her mind, Sam could hear a sarcastic ‘I think the bricks are supposed to go on the outside’ in his voice.
The aged host took his time finding their reservation as his finger skated down the page, but finally he stopped, and his face lit with the discovery.
“Ah yes. General and Mrs. O’Neill. It’s a delight to have you with us this evening.”
A gentle squeeze of Jack's hand on her waist stalled the ‘actually’ that was moments away from falling off of her lips. He was right. There was no need to correct the old gentleman. Sam could pretend to be Mrs. O’Neill for the night. Hell, she might even enjoy it.
It wasn’t as if the idea had never crossed her mind. They had considered the option before he had left for Washington, but it seemed too soon. And getting married on paper just to skirt the regs didn’t feel right. They had kept everything on the level for eight years, and neither one of them felt good about breaking that streak.
Claude, the distinguished elderly host led them to a too small table in the corner, and if Sam had been seated, she probably would have fallen out of her chair in surprise when Jack pulled out an empty chair for her and waited for her to take her seat.
“Thank you,” she offered with a suspicious glint in her eye. It wasn’t that Jack wasn’t thoughtful. He was, but he also knew she could take care of herself and anyone else under her command. These delicate gestures weren’t something she was used to from him. But she didn’t exactly hate it.
“You’re welcome, Mrs. O’Neill.”
And she didn’t hate hearing that from him either as Jack seated himself across from her, looking thoroughly pleased with himself in that same way that he had when he told her that their waiver had been approved and that they wouldn’t need to fake a wedding to be together.
In an unexpected twist, it had been their failures rather than their successes that had garnered the approval. Jack had pointed to the Replicators and the trust he had put in her instead of trusting his gut to demonstrate that their relationship status didn’t matter. The failures that led to the mistakes—the feelings —were already a problem. Jack’s judgement was compromised whether they were ‘together’ or not.
It was a big gamble, but Jack had always been a betting man. And this double down had a big payday. Some decisions involving the SGC now required additional oversight, but that was a small price to pay, and objectively, it was also probably overdue.
“Where did you find this place?” Sam asked as she looked around the crowded dining room. It was at capacity, every seat filled with couples old and young, and every single woman seemed to be dressed in red or pink. Kind of weird, but it wouldn’t be the first memo Sam had missed about fashion. It didn’t matter. She was happy with the way she looked in the blue that Jack had chosen, and it looked complimentary next to his grey jacket and white shirt.
“Uhh, Walter, actually. Apparently, Mrs. Walter is a big fan. Why? No good?”
“No, it’s great, it’s just,” Sam paused, noting that Jack didn’t quite seem like his cocky self now that the evening was underway. “Well, it just doesn’t seem like your kind of place.”
“Yes, it is missing a bit of ambiance. Toss some peanut shells on the floor, and you’ll be in business.”
Sam smiled broadly at the proposed solution and leaned forward, arms crossed against the table.
“They really should have consulted you. They’re obviously struggling,” she noted with sarcasm, and Jack returned her happy grin with a flash of his eyes downward to her chest.
Sam didn’t mind him looking, but she wasn’t used to being quite so on display. Sometimes she forgot how different a little move like crossing her arms would be in a low-cut halter dress compared to her usual standard issue t-shirts.
“So, without the peanut shells, why’d you pick this place?” Sam asked, sitting up straight and flipping her menu up to conceal her body from him.
“Special occasion,” he answered shortly, and she looked up again trying to figure out what he was talking about. “You really don’t know what day it is?” Jack asked skeptically amused, and Sam panicked. Had she missed a birthday or anniversary? Surely, they hadn’t been together a year already. Just a little over six months.
“Of course, I know what day it is. It’s Friday, February fourteenth.”
“Uh-huh. And?” Jack led her, and finally it all came together—the surprise visit, the ban on the red dress, the fancy date night manners. Jack O’Neill was a closet romantic.
“Valentine’s Day,” she finally concluded and closed her eyes to hide from her own embarrassment.
“Yes, Mrs. O’Neill,” Jack teased, and Sam opened her eyes to glimpse the happy expression in his eyes that was always present when he had to remind her of everyday things because she had gotten absorbed in some riddle or problem. “Although, it sounds like we could have stayed in and ordered a pizza.”
“No, no. This is,” Sam loved him for tonight even if she was just now figuring it out. “This is great. No pizza. Please.”
“Okay,” he answered quietly, and looked down at his menu. Sam had the vague idea that he might be embarrassed now, and that would definitely be her fault.
The waiter took their order and filled their wine glasses, leaving them alone again.
“Can I be totally honest with you?” Sam asked, not sure if she was approaching this the best way.
“That's the idea, yes,” he answered as if the answer were a foregone conclusion.
“Even if I knew what day it was, I still might not have figured it out. No offense, but Valentine’s Day doesn’t really seem like your cup of tea."
“None taken. And it’s not, but you are definitely my cup of tea. What about you? Are you and Cupid pretty tight?” Jack asked and hid behind a drink from his wine glass.
“I don’t know, actually,” Sam shrugged her bare shoulders. “I never really...” Faltering and not wanting to talk about past relationships, Sam pivoted. “I really like this Valentine’s Day so far.”
“Good. Me too,” Jack agreed, looking slightly more comfortable now.
“You didn’t want me to wear red?”
“For tactical purposes of course,” he explained. “I have to be able to pick you out of a crowd.”
“Mind your friendlies.”
“I probably don’t tell you enough how grateful I am to not have to explain these things to you.”
“Just one of my many irresistible charms,” Sam teased and set her elbows atop the table—manners be damned.
“Yes," Jack agreed with a smile and an open perusal of her visible charms. “And they are many.”
Sam was sure she was blushing, but she refused to be shy. It wasn’t the way he was looking at her that brought the rose to her cheeks though. They had both done plenty of looking, plenty of touching. But hearing about it was sort of rare.
During their meal, as was nearly inevitable, talk turned to work, but Sam found it comforting. She needed to share everything with him, including this part of her life. He listened patiently while she gave him the unabbreviated version of her latest problem, his chin propped in his palm and a satisfied expression in his eyes.
“So, what do you think? Any ideas?” she finished eagerly, awaiting his reply.
“Have you tried reversing the polarity?” he suggested, and Sam let her anticipation deflate into amusement.
“Look, Mrs. O’Neill,” he began again, and Sam felt an odd, aching longing for the familiar ‘Carter’ that should have been there instead. “You know that I love you, and also that I think you’re the most fascinating woman on a number of planets—all of them that I’ve been to, in fact—but I only knew 25% of the words you just said, and I’m pretty sure that a third of those mean something different to you than they do to me.”
“Sorry," she answered, recognizing the barrier that existed between them. “Thanks for listening.”
“Any time,” he agreed easily.
“Did you have any questions?”
Sam knew Jack understood more than he thought he did, and she was confident that with enough back and forth he could learn it.
“Just, uhh, one actually,” he answered, suddenly interested in the placement of his dessert fork.
“General, Mrs. O’Neill,” the waiter interrupted. “Your souffles.”
“Thank you,” Sam answered with a polite smile.
“You’re quite welcome, Mrs. O’Neill.”
“I feel like a fraud,” Sam remarked under her breath to Jack as the waiter left the table. “I should have just told Claude the truth when we first got here.”
“Something wrong with the name ‘O’Neill’?” Jack asked feigning offense.
“No. It’s a fine name.”
“Wanna keep it?” he asked without any further explanation, and Sam could almost hear her own blinks as she studied his unwavering face. Finally, she decided that he couldn’t mean it.
“You shouldn’t make jokes about that.”
“Who’s joking? I mean, I’m not proposing right now, I just thought it might be a good conversation to have.”
“Oh,” Sam finally breathed, and wondered what her response meant for the direction of their conversation. “I always kind of thought I might keep my own name if I got married.”
“So, you don’t like the name ‘O’Neill,’” Jack concluded, sitting back in his chair with his face unreadable.
“I didn’t say that, I just... you’re really serious about this?” They weren’t really talking about a name, and they both knew it. This was bigger than a name.
“Aren’t you?” Jack asked, and the tension bled out of her shoulders.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Jack, but you’re not exactly fling material.”
Sam meant that only in the sense that a taste would never be enough for any woman in her right mind.
“Yes, it’s serious for me,” Sam assured him. “I guess it’s just timing, isn’t it?”
“We love each other. We know way more than we probably should about each other. What are we really waiting for here, Carter?”
“I don't think I have a good answer for that.”
“And you don’t really have to take my name. You’ll always be ‘Carter’ to me anyway.”
Strangely, Sam found that she preferred it that way. What had probably begun as a way for him to keep his distance had somehow become an endearment. Not when he said it in that frustrated ‘hurry it up’ sort of way, but still, even that brought back some great memories.
“I don’t know. It sort of has a nice ring to it,” Sam fished as she finished her souffle. “Especially the ‘Mrs.’ part.”
Jack’s gratified smiling eyes met hers, and Sam reveled in the assurance that she was the cause of his happiness.
“You're absolutely right,” she declared.
“I am?"
“You are. There really isn’t any sense in waiting as long as it’s what we both want. That is, if... do you want to get married, Jack? I mean, we could just accept that we’re stuck with each other for life.”
“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to. Do you? We could just hang out for the next fifty years or so.”
Sam smiled at the man who gave her every opportunity to escape. He was unlike anyone she had ever been with, allowing her every freedom she could want. Maybe that was why she found the idea of freedom from him so wildly distasteful.
“Generally, no. I’d have to say that the idea of marriage doesn’t really appeal to me.”
“And that’s fine,” Jack told her, but Sam saw his mask slip over his face. “The important thing—”
“I wasn’t finished,” Sam took back control. “Marriage generally, not really. Marriage to you, specifically? Hell, yes.”
“So, not just a 'yes'?”
“Hell, yes. I want to be married to you, Jack.”
“Cool,” Jack answered with a quiet smile.
“So, what now?”
“I think we get the check now.”
The giddy feeling stayed with Sam through the next minutes as Jack paid for dinner and walked her to the car—some black government rental instead of his truck. With only a brief pause for an innocent kiss, Jack held her door and settled her into the vehicle.
“Excuse me,” Jack offered as he sat behind the wheel and reached across her, popping the glove box. His fingers clutched something small, black and cube-like, and Sam’s butterflies took flight. She couldn’t tell if he was retrieving from or depositing to the glove box, but either way, he stopped when she laid a hand on his arm. Given tonight’s conversation, that velvet box could only be one thing.
“Jack?” she asked, looking from his hand to his face. He had been proposing to her earlier.
“Should I hang on to this a while longer, or do you think you might want to keep it yourself?” The black box did a little wobble in his fingers where he teased her with it.
Sam’s surprise quickly turned to a shy smile, but just as she moved to reach for the closed box, Jack retreated.
“You know what, you don’t want this. I’ll just keep it for you, and you can let me know if you ever want to wear it.”
“I want to wear it,” Sam told him, but the words came out more softly than she had hoped.
“Now?” Jack asked.
“Yes, please.”
He was smiling now, and it was obvious he was going to make her work for it when he stuffed the box into the hip pocket of his pants.
“You think I’m afraid to go in there?” Sam asked as she unbuckled herself and slid toward him across the bench seat, her fingers worming their way into his pocket.
“I sincerely hope not,” he said as she withdrew the small velvet box. She held it, looking at it carefully.
“Are you going to make me put it on myself?”
Sam’s fingers weren’t as steady as she would have liked, and there was a real possibility that she wouldn’t be able to put it on without his help.
“Uhh, no, I could... here,” Jack gestured for her to turn over the ring, and despite his teasing, Sam could see that he was nervous too. That was pretty much the name of the game with Jack O'Neill. He was equal parts irritating and endearing. Well, maybe not quite equal. Sam watched his fingers pluck the ring free from its velvet nest before he cleared his throat quietly and licked his lips.
“Sam,” he began capturing her eyes. “Carter,” he added with a grin. “Or should I call you ‘Mrs. O’Neill’?”
“I wish you would,” she smilingly chastised him, growing impatient with his lingering.
“I love you, and I’d really like to be married to you. If you think you would like that too, would you please wear this sparkly hunk of carbon on your finger?”
“Yes, please,” Sam answered, not restraining her giggle as she held out her hand and watched him slip his ring onto her finger.
“Looks good on you,” Jack's pleased grin whispered in the dark.
“I think so too.”
Sam’s cheeks began to ache from the intensity of her joy, and indulgently, she slipped her newly adorned hand over Jack’s cheek. The diamond caught the light of the street lamp outside, and there was something beautiful and unbelievable about seeing a ring on her finger next to Jack’s soft eyes.
Sealing their agreement with a kiss, Sam relaxed into the familiar with Jack—talking in a way that was more native, more shared than any words could ever be. Absorbing his love through their kiss, Sam returned it, willing him to feel what he and this night had meant to her. With a startled realization, Sam’s mind altered course. There was something she hadn’t said to him all night that she probably needed to say in light of developments, so she released him with a succession of reluctant kisses.
“I love you too, Jack.”
“I know,” he grinned, brushing back her bangs. “You’re sure I can’t talk you into the ‘Mrs. O’Neill’ thing?”
“Is it important to you?” Sam asked, realizing that she probably should have already known the answer, but at least she was asking now.
“Honestly? No. You sure kiss like Mrs. O’Neill though, and that’s really all that matters.”
“I bet I can do more than kiss like Mrs. O’Neill,” Sam disclosed with a soft lingering kiss to his lips. “Care to find out?”
“Yes, please.”
Sam had really just been alluding to what would happen between them in celebration after they made it home, but she couldn’t help but wonder if she had opened the door to doing other things like Mrs. O’Neill instead of like Sam Carter. Marriage was just one of the things that she had never seen herself doing, but maybe there were more possibilities to which she could open herself. Even if there weren’t, this one was way more than enough.