It's not like I don't have thirty other, better things to finish. But there's this.
Major Doctor Samantha Carter was, without a doubt, a little bit neurotic. The kitchen had been due for a deep clean for three solid weeks – the whole house was behind – and scrubbing the counters was immensely satisfying.
There was nothing to scrub off, of course. She was three weeks behind because she'd been deployed or stuck on base in crisis or taking care of Daniel and his sprained ankle or… or… or. She'd only managed to sleep in her own bed four or five nights in that time – and those had consisted of parking the car, taking a shower, and passing out until her alarm went off. So there was no reason to scrub so vigorously that she was breathing a little hard and her forehead was damp, because she hadn't used the kitchen in a month. But she was doing it anyway. Because she liked it.
If that made her a little crazy, so be it. At least she had a clean house.
Finished with the island, she turned to the stove and gave it the same treatment. Beside the kitchen, the laundry thumped away – her sheets and shower curtain in the washer and all her towels tumbling dry. Her bedroom had already been dusted, vacuumed, and the mattress rotated; the living room had gotten the same treatment (sans mattress). The upholstery was still on her list, along with both bathrooms and the guest room… but they would have to wait. She had just enough time to finish the kitchen before SG-1 showed up for movie night.
Or not. Someone rapped on the door, and she called, "Come in!" as she rinsed the rag and her hands and then tossed the (not at all dirty) dishcloth into the laundry room before swiping her hands dry on her jeans. Pleased enough with her progress, she stepped around the kitchen island just as Colonel O'Neill hit the end of the hallway and stepped into view.
She was the one who'd been interrupted, but he looked almost startled, eyes wide. Ignoring the odd expression, she greeted, "Hey. You're early."
"I'm not that early," he protested, making no move toward the counter or fridge despite the case of beer he held.
"What?" He was looking at her in the strangest way, his gaze glued to her face as he blinked at her. "Do I have something in my teeth?"
To her surprise, that made him chuckle. Closing his eyes, face tipped to the floor, he pinched the bridge of his nose.
God, he was strange sometimes. "So… Daniel's bringing Teal'c, I take it?" she asked, trying to drive some real conversation with him.
"Yup," he told the floor simply.
So much for that. "Star Wars again, you think? We may need more beer, if I have to sit through that for a fourth time. And I hope Daniel grabbed some tiramisu with dinner."
He smiled. And then he laughed a little again, rubbing at his closed eyelids. "Carter."
"Yeah?"
It took a moment, but his head finally came up, and when he opened his eyes, they were dead set on hers. "You know I'm a laissez-faire kinda guy," he told her, "and far be it for me to tell you what to do in your own house. If you're okay with it, I'm the very last guy to complain. But are you sure – and I mean really, completely, one hundred percent certain – that you want to continue this conversation before you go put on a shirt?"
Only the last word really sunk in, and she was already glancing down before she remembered getting sweaty while vacuuming and tossing her tank top on the dresser.
And a millisecond after that, she remembered that all her normal bras were in the hamper to be washed later. So all she was wearing was gray and black lace.
"Oh, my God." She threw her hands up to cover herself, found that woefully inadequate, and grabbed for the dish towel. It looked ridiculous, but she didn't care as she rushed past him toward her bedroom.
His gaze rolled to the ceiling, offering her a little bit of privacy despite the grin he couldn't quite squelch. "Yeah, that's what I thought," he muttered as her bedroom door slammed closed. Glancing at his watch, he made a mental note that fifteen minutes early was too early as he stuck the case of beer on the (very clean) counters and shuttled eleven of them to the fridge. The twelfth he opened, flicking the lid toward her recycling bin. It landed on the counter a foot away, and he left it.
Flopping onto the couch, he grabbed her television remote, even though he knew she only had a few channels. He was going to need entertainment for the next ten minutes or so – until backup arrived. Not for distraction when Carter emerged from her room (although that was going to be only slightly more awkward than trying not to embarrass himself while she stood in front of him in lacy underwear), but because he was fairly certain she wouldn't emerge until Daniel and Teal'c showed up, and Jack was going to spending that time alone. And that was probably for the best. For both of them.
He settled on a show about fishing, sipped his beer, and hoped they'd be on time.