Winter in Washington D.C. permeated every bone, every muscle in Jack O'Neill's body. More snow could be found in Colorado, and he used to think Minnesota was even worse, but here the frozen air could cut through him until it was all he could think about. As of yesterday, the city had seen its first snowfall of the season, and the blanket of white extended to his little corner of Northern Virginian suburbia.
Jack counted his lucky stars that it was the weekend. He could stay at home and shovel out his walkways instead of trying to battle his way through the panic of East Coast drivers in a snowstorm. Jeez. One would think none of them had seen snow before. But in the large scheme of things, being home was a bitter blessing.
In Colorado, a few years ago, he might have gone inside after he was done shoveling. He would stomp his boots off, peel his coat away from his shoulders, and give Sam a surprise hug from behind as she not-so-sneakily heated some cocoa. He'd help her finish, then usher her into the family room to sit in front of the fireplace. They might talk over the crackling of a fresh fire, or they might just sit in silence, but at least they'd be there, together.
So Jack took his time in the snow, prolonging his return to the empty house. Sam was a million lightyears away, commanding the Hammond, and wasn't due back for another two months. Jack understood the distance, and appreciated the duty that urged her to accept the billet. On days like this, though, he felt the separation stung too deeply.
He was so intent on taking his misery out on the densely packed snow that Jack didn't see the flare of bright white light in his home. He didn't see the shadow moving back and forth across the windows, busy with purposeful intent. Jack only turned to go inside when the pale grey light of day began to fade, and his gloom was reflected in the world around him.
With frozen fingers, Jack opened the door and shouldered his way inside. He stomped the snow from his boots and shook off his coat. When he shucked it off, he didn't bother to hang it up proper—it lay in a puddle on the floor, right next to his kicked-off boots. With a miserable sniff, he turned deeper into the house, only to freeze when his eyes locked on a familiar silhouette.
"You're going to pick those up, right?"
Sam flicked on the light with her elbow, revealing a saucy smirk and a steaming mug in each hand. There was no uniform in sight; instead she wore a comfortable sweater and well-worn jeans. In his eyes she was the picture of homey comfort, with her long hair pulled into a lazy braid over her shoulder, and in an instant the bone-numbing cold dissipated.
Jack rocked back on his heels, then swaggered towards his wife. His hand came out of his pocket, reached up with a mind of its own and cupped the soft curve of her cheek. Sam's grin grew to match his, and Jack waited until their noses were almost touching before answering her teasing query.
"Yeah," he murmured huskily. "Later."
Their lips crashed together, and Jack's skin heated with her warmth. He was complete once more, and with her in his arms, there was no more room for the cold.