Yet Another Threads Story...
A/N; Laughter is good for the soul. Laughing at oneself is good for the ego. Written by JenniferJF and AstraPerAspera for Shipsgiving 2009 on the GateWorld S/J thread and dedicated to all S/J writers everywhere. We'd also like to apologize in advance, as we have clearly finally lost it completely.
----------------
Pete lay sprawled on the tattered sofa well into the seventh hour of the Hallmark Channel's Barney Miller marathon. Empty beer cans lay scattered on the floor. He'd get around to picking them up. Eventually. Maybe when he finally go around to pitching out the pizza boxes. And the half-eaten Chinese take-out. And the small mound of empty KFC buckets and their soggy biscuit box companions. Maybe there was a reason his jeans were feeling a bit snug lately after all. Not that it mattered. Not that anything mattered without Sam.
The ringing of the doorbell pulled him out of his gloomy musings. He glanced at his watch. Eleven pm?
Who could be ringing his doorbell at this time of night? He reached instinctively for the .38 revolver on the coffee table and tucked it in the back of his jeans with a grunt. A cop could never be too careful after all. Flipping on the front porch light he squinted through the peephole. He felt his heart skip a beat. Two. He pulled back, rubbed his eyes and looked again. What was she doing here?
Fumbling with the deadbolt he yanked open the door. She looked up into his eyes...those great blue limpid pools glistening in the semi-darkness.
"Sam?"
Her name barely left his lips before she was in his arms… After a long endless moment he hoped might go on forever, she pulled back slightly from his embrace.
"Uh.. Pete?" she asked quizzically.
It took him a moment to recollect himself enough to ask, "Yes?"
He could tell she was trying her best not to glance downwards as she asked, "Is that..."
Understanding dawned on him. "No," he explained, chuckling despite himself, "That's my sidearm."
She blushed, then, as she realized the implications, asked, confusion clouding her beautiful blue eyes, "Side arm? In your own home? Why?"
He shrugged, hoping he didn't look as uncomfortable as he felt. "Oh.. Nothing."
She laid one gentle hand on his arm, silently encouraging him to speak, "No, please tell me. What's wrong?"
"Well… For some time now, I've been receiving.. Well. I guess you'd call them death threats."
She was truly alarmed now. "Death threats?"
"Yes. Phone calls in the middle of the night. Demanding I stop seeing you or.. Well… You know…"
Just then, with a screech of tires, Jack O'Neill's large pick-up truck pulled into Pete's driveway. The salt-and-pepper haired general slipped from the cab and, in a few quick strides, had joined them at the door.
"Listen, Potato," he began. "If you think for one minute I'm going to let you…"
Sam interrupted the irate Air Force officer. "Sir… I told you…. Let me handle this."
Now Pete was growing concerned. "Handle what?"
She turned to him, "Pete.. There's something you need to know. I love Jack O'Neill. I have loved him for a long time. I will always love him. It wasn't until we were sitting over my father's dead body that I finally had the time to contemplate just how much.
"So, you see, I can't marry you. You can't marry someone when you're in love with someone else."
And with that, she turned to Jack O'Neill who opened his arms to her. "C'mere," he said.
She stepped eagerly into Jack's embrace and, right in front of Pete, planted a Big Honkin' Kiss on him. A kiss which Pete was afraid would go on all week.
Until finally, the kiss did end, and the happy couple headed back to Jack's waiting truck. As they walked off, Pete couldn't help overhear their conversation. "Come on, Sir. Let's go up to the cabin and start making babies."
"Will there be cake?"
"Yeah, sure. You betcha."
"Then, sure, Carter. But can we name all the girls Grace and Janet? And all the boys Jacob and Charlie?"
"But, Sir, what about Daniel?"
"Daniel… Is he stilldead?"
"I think so, Sir… depends on where this is in the A plot…"
"Well, then, Carter… of course we'll name some Daniel!"
Pete hung himself that night. And no one came to his funeral. Not even Mark, who realized he liked Jack O'Neill a whole lot better, anyway.
-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Thankfully, of course, none of that ever happened…
Happy Shipsgiving!!