Part of the In Bed series, though it doesn't necessarily follow any of the others in chronological order. The full series can be found on my website (link available on profile page).

The bacon spat and Sam jumped, feeling the sting of hot oil on her wrist as she yanked it away. Too slow, as always seemed to be the case with bacon. Smiling briefly but dismissing the thought of what that implied for Jaffa speed or accuracy, she fiddled slightly with the heat knob. Leaving that, she reached in again with her fork, hooking a piece and flipping it. It sizzled, steam wafting up toward her and making her mouth water. She glanced at the clock.

Seven forty-nine. She had eleven minutes, she figured. She'd turned off the alarm clock, but suspected that thing had enough safeguards to undergo a full-force hacking and still ring. Nonetheless, it had originally been set for seven and so far, there had only been silence from upstairs.

So far, so good, then.

Sam sipped her coffee, then picked up the spatula to bother her pancakes. Just about done, she decided, and lifted them carefully off the pan. Opening the oven and taking half a step back to let the rush of hot air escape, she deposited the small stack into the waiting dish. With a quick count, she closed the oven again. There were seventeen already made, and about a cup left of batter. Twenty in total, probably. A good number.

Three minutes later saw her draining the bacon fat and transferring the pancakes to another dish. She set it, and the bowl full of hot and delicious-smelling bacon, on a tray, along with maple syrup, two stacked plates, cutlery, and glasses. Looking in the fridge, she retrieved the carton of orange juice, then eyed the tray speculatively. Deciding that while it might fit, she would never get it upstairs intact, she put it back in the fridge and returned the glasses to their cupboard, opting instead for two mugs of the coffee she'd thankfully had enough thought to leave on the heat. That done, she smiled, pleased with herself, and then, with a deep breath, lifted the tray and headed for the staircase.

Somehow, by some miracle, she made it up without dropping anything. From there, she was practically home free. She padded down the hall and, nudging the door open with her hip, into the bedroom. It was blessedly silent, just enough sunlight filtering through the orangey curtains to cast the room in warm hues. The bed, messy with the comforter piled haphazardly over the remaining occupant, looked dubious as a resting spot for the tray, and Sam nudged some papers out of the way on the desk instead. Leaving it there for a moment, she smoothed out a spot on the bed and brought the tray over.

Carefully, she sat next to it, watching the level of the coffee in the mugs with eagle vision. Only a slight change in angle. Good. Taking it for marginally safe, she leaned sideways, resting on her elbows and just watching.

A sleeping Janet Fraiser, she reflected to herself, had to be one of her favourite sights of all time. Half-sprawled and half-curled up, with her hands folded immaculately by her chin and her hair mussed, she was absolutely adorable. Beautiful. Irresistible.

And, if it wasn't for the precarious state of equilibrium the tray was currently in, Sam wouldn't have resisted.

But considering she'd deliberately abandoned her own Sunday morning sleep in to spend nearly an hour preparing breakfast, Sam resisted. She wasn't about to ruin it all by dumping coffee and maple syrup on the pristinely white duvet.

So, giving one of her elbows the job of supporting her, she reached a hand out to trail along the doctor's exposed arm. She stirred slightly, face pressing into the pillow and a mumble of something probably foul escaping slightly-parted lips. Sam grinned and let her fingers dance along the dip of Janet's waist until her arm's reach ran out, then returned to her face to brush some of the curling strands away from her cheeks. Her hand stilled, tucked into her hair, and her thumb moved lightly over her temple.

"Janet," she said softly.

There was a vague, bleary moan, and then, "Sam?"

"Hey," Sam smiled. "Good morning."

"Morn—" Janet began, then paused. Her brows twitched, eyes still closed. "Is that bacon I smell?"

Grinning again, Sam retracted her hand and lifted a piece of crispy, wonderfully fatty, fried pork towards Janet's nose. This time, the moan was nowhere near vague. Her eyes opened, and she rolled halfway onto her back. "You made bacon?" With a wide smile, she accepted the piece as Sam brought it to her mouth.

Sam nodded. "And pancakes. Sit up and let's eat before they get cold. I'm starving."

Janet chuckled, stretching. As they returned to her sides, one of her arms reached towards Sam. "C'mere," she said, a smile still quirking one side of her mouth.

Sam let herself be pulled forward, forehead leaning against Janet's. "I told you recently that I love you?" the doctor questioned.

Sam grinned and reached the rest of the way, lips meeting Janet's for a brief moment. "If you hadn't," she said, teasing lightly and pulling back just enough to rest their heads together again, "Would I have made you breakfast in bed?"