Title: Colder Weather
Author: DizzyDrea
Summary: She knew she deserved more—her father would have told her that had he still been alive—but she just couldn't help herself where he was concerned.
Rating: M
Spoilers: Pretty much anything through Season 9 is fair game, though nothing specific
Author's Notes: I love the Zac Brown Band. This story was inspired by their recent single Colder Weather. I heard it this morning and immediately this story popped into my head. Takes place between Seasons Nine & Ten. Be warned: neither Sam nor Jack comes out looking too good in this story.
Disclaimer: Stargate and all its particulars is the property of MGM, Gekko, Double Secret, Acme Shark and a lot of other people who aren't me. I am doing this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

~&O&~

The car rolled to a stop in front of the modest house. Jack O'Neill killed the engine, but instead of getting out, he just sat there. He still wasn't convinced this was a good idea. But then again, he'd never let that stop him before.

He'd talked to her a few times over the last month, and she'd always asked when he was coming out for a visit. And as usual, he'd give some excuse or other for why he wouldn't be coming. He'd held out as long as he could, but eventually he'd give in to the pull and flown out. He hadn't called to tell her he was coming, but he'd checked the schedule to make sure she'd be in town. And then, if things went the way they usually did, he'd be gone by morning.

He wasn't proud of it. He knew she deserved better, but she'd always welcomed him into her home and her bed without complaint or reservation, so he found it hard to stop.

He finally gave in to the inevitable and climbed out of the car. He trudged up the front walk, and rang the doorbell before he could talk himself out of it.

Moments later, Sam Carter pulled the door open and let out a slight gasp at the sight that greeted her.

"Jack!" she exclaimed, taken completely by surprise at his arrival.

Jack O'Neill quirked a brief smile at having outfoxed the uber-brilliant Doctor-Colonel Carter once again. His eyes swept over her, taking in her casual-comfy jeans and sweater, and her slightly mussed hair. He never could resist this side of her…or her, if he was being honest.

"Sam," he said.

"When did you get in?" she asked, continuing to leave him stranded on her doorstep.

He was dressed much as she was, so she had to know this wasn't an official visit. And he knew he wasn't doing a good job of hiding the look in his eyes—the longing, the need. He caught the shiver as it ran up her spine, causing a similar thrill to travel his own.

"A little while ago," he said, answering her with a slight cringe. "Mind if I come in? It's a bit cold out here."

"Come on in," she said, standing aside so he could brush past her.

Snow had begun to fall outside, but inside it was toasty warm. He sighed with relief. He hadn't been sure he'd be able to beat the storms—the one that had just dumped two feet of snow on Colorado and was currently headed for DC, or the next in line, bearing down on The Springs.

She slid past him, heading for the kitchen and the coffee he could smell in the air, but he had other ideas. He took her hand, tugging her back to him, the hungry look in his eyes enough to confirm any suspicions she might have had. And so, instead of the kitchen, she changed directions and led them to her bedroom.

Once inside, and with the door safely closed, he pulled her to him, clinging to her tightly as his lips found hers. She shivered again. He knew what his kisses could do to her; what they always did to her, and he shamelessly used that. They quickly shed their clothes, leaving a trail of discarded items behind them as they moved towards the bed.

They made love without words, as if one sound would shatter the silence and break the spell. With moves born of long experience, they sought to bring each other as much pleasure as they could. Finally, when they couldn't wring one more ripple of pleasure from their spent bodies, they collapsed back onto the mattress, Sam curled around Jack as he lay prone, the covers pulled over them to ward off the chill.

"I'm sorry," Jack said as he dropped a kiss on Sam's head.

"Sorry for what?" she asked.

"I didn't even say hello," he said, sighing. "Or ask how your day was."

Sam chuckled. "It's okay, Jack. I love you. I'm not gonna complain."

"You're too good to me," he said, kissing her head once again.

"I probably am," she said.

He cringed at her admission, though thankfully she couldn't see it. She'd never been afraid to tell him how she felt, after years of bottling it up. He'd never said it back, but she seemed not to need it. He needed her; that he knew without doubt. And maybe he even loved her. But he always left her. He couldn't help himself, really. He could no more stay with her than he could live without her. It was a vicious circle that he couldn't seem to find a way out of.

And he wasn't sure he wanted to.

"Have you eaten?" she asked a while later. She seemed not to notice that he'd gone silent. Or she'd just ignored it.

"No. I drove straight out here from Peterson."

"'K. I'll go pull something together," she said. She pushed up out of bed, leaning down to drop a kiss on his lips. "Feel free to grab a shower if you want."

"Why bother?" he asked, a smirk on his face. "I'm just gonna get sweaty again."

"Think so, do you?" she asked.

"Yep." He winked at her, then rolled off the bed. "Now, where are my boxers?"

"Don't ask me," she said, grabbing up her clothes as she headed for the bathroom.

"Why not? You were the one who took them off," he reminded her as he scanned the floor. "Aha!" he exclaimed in triumph.

Sam laughed as she redressed. She splashed some water on her face and ran a brush through her hair, though she didn't need to. Even mussed, she was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever known.

She sidled past a boxer-clad Jack on her way out of the bathroom. He leaned in for a kiss, savoring her taste as he explored her mouth once more.

"You keep that up and you're not gonna get dinner," she told him when he finally pulled back.

"Right," he said, quirking another smile.

He moved into the bathroom as Sam headed back to the kitchen. He splashed his face with water, then stared at his reflection in the mirror. The face that stared back was accusing, calling him every name in the book for what he was doing.

"Shut up," he muttered.

He pulled his clothes on and ambled out to the kitchen, noticing the supplies already laid out. "Spaghetti, huh?"

"That okay?" she asked as she dumped the noodles into the pot.

"Fine by me," he said. "Want some help?"

"You wanna pull the salad together?"

"I can do that," he said. At her disbelieving look, he smirked. "I do live alone in DC, Sam. No cook, so I can starve, live on take-out, or cook for myself."

Sam smiled, shaking her head. "You've been a bachelor too long if you know how to cook."

"Maybe," he said. He deftly sliced up the tomato and cucumber Sam had laid out, then moved on to shred some lettuce.

They worked in companionable silence, shifting in and out of each other's space with an ease born of years of working together in the field. When he'd finished with the salad, he moved on to setting the table, then he popped the cork on a nice California Cabernet that her brother had sent her a while back.

They sat down to dinner, the conversation moving from small talk to SG-1's most recent mission to Cassie's studies. Anyone listening to them would have thought they were an old married couple. Jack knew it was an illusion. He let her see only what he wanted her to see. Enough to keep her interested, but the important parts he kept to himself.

He was a bastard for doing it; he knew that only too well. But he had to protect his heart. He couldn't bear to lose another loved one. And while he couldn't resist her, he could at least mitigate the damage.

Or so he told himself.

They cleaned up the dishes together; he washed and she dried. She'd offered him a cup of coffee after dinner, but as soon as the last dish was put away, she was swept off her feet instead—literally—and carried to the bedroom, where Jack proceeded to do things to her that sent her soaring into orbit once again.

Later—much later—he listened as her breathing evened out and she dropped off into slumber. He knew what would happen next: he'd wake early, well before her alarm. He'd slip out of bed and take a shower in the guest bathroom, so as not to disturb her. He'd make a fresh pot of coffee, then fill one of her travel mugs and head for the mountain, where he'd leave it—empty of course—on her desk with a note of thanks.

He was never sure himself what he was thanking her for, but if she thought it was for the night they spent together instead of just the coffee, well, he wasn't going to disabuse her of that notion, as long as it kept the peace. No matter how much his conscience might hammer at him for it.

...continued...