A/N: Alright, here's another piece about young Sam, I guess it could be considered a very, very loose sequel to Cookies. It's quite angsty, but I hope you'll enjoy it.

Oh, and Happy New Year everyone! :)

Giving In

"Where's my sweater?!... MARK!!!" Jacob Carter heard his daughter yell angrily as she stormed out of her room and ran across the hall, shouting threats at her younger brother.

Jacob lifted his head from the paperwork he'd been trying to complete in his study and carefully listened to the exchange between his kids. He could hear Sam's agitated voice going up and down, as she painted vivid images of various techniques of torture that she was planning to inflict on her brother, occasionally interrupted by a teasing response followed by a series of muffled thumps.

At times like these, he missed his wife the most. She'd always known exactly what to do at situations like this, she could make the kids listen to her and, more importantly, to each other. He'd never had the kind of patience it required and usually ended up yelling at them while they would still yell at each other. Therefore he'd long ago given up on trying to settle their disputes at all and decided to let them deal with it themselves. He knew they wouldn't listen to him anyway.

Sam was fifteen, in her freshman year in high school, but way ahead of all of her classmates, so it had been decided (well, the school counselor had made the suggestion and he'd just signed the paper) that she would skip a year and continue with the sophomore students as of next month. He supposed she was okay with it; she hadn't said anything, after all. But, he realized with sadness, it wasn't like she spoke to him much about anything. In fact, they hardly talked at all. At mealtimes, she would usually say something about school and her newest science projects, but since he hardly ever understood what she was talking about, he would only nod and say something along the lines of: 'That's good, Sam.' But at least she would say something.

With Mark, it was much more complicated. At the age of thirteen, the boy was just starting his rebellious period, which in this case had only been made stronger by Mark blaming Jacob for his mother's death. With a sharp pang in his chest, Jacob remembered the painful conversation he'd had with his son after the accident almost a year before. Mark had said things to him that no son should ever say to his father, hateful words of accusation mixed with angry sobs that shook the still childlike body of his twelve-year-old boy. Since then, they had barely exchanged a few words; they had somehow managed to avoid basically all forms of verbal communication, in fact, they would hardly look at each other even during those rare moments when it was impossible to do without words. And those exchanges were brief and awkward, reduced to short, matter-of-fact sentences muttered quietly under their breaths.

BANG!

Jacob's thoughts were interrupted by a loud thud, as the door of Mark's room slammed shut, followed by rapid thumps as his son ran past his door into the living room, shrieking with mock fear. The door flew open again, hitting the neighboring wall with a sharp crack, and Jacob saw a smear of blue and yellow fly past his office door.

Sam continued shouting angrily. "You little…"

"Whaaat? You afraid your lova'boy not gonna like you?"

Loverboy? Lover-boy? WHAT?!?

There was a shriek of laughter followed by yet another set of thuds and muffled screams.

That was it.

Jacob stood up and headed into the living room, wearing his best don't-mess-with-the-Colonel look.

The moment he stepped into the room, Jacob witnessed the most unusual sight. There, sprawled on his stomach on the couch was his son, face red with agitation and twisted in a strange mixture of delight and pain. One of his arms was stretched forward over the edge of the couch, holding a bundle of pink, while the other was twisted behind his back and held firmly in place by Sam, dressed in a pair of blue jeans and a white bra, kneeling astride his lower back.

"Give. Me. The. Sweater." She said coldly, tightening her grip on Mark's wrist. He groaned but didn't relent.

"What's going on here?" Jacob barked.

Both kids froze for a fraction of a second and then quickly jumped to attention, looking like first-year cadets. Jacob studied them intently, taking in their rapid breathing and flushed faces, as well as his daughter's rather inappropriate attire. His frown deepened as he looked pointedly at his son.

"Mark, give that sweater to your sister," Jacob finally said icily.

Mark snorted scornfully and turned to leave, throwing the sweater carelessly in Sam's direction.

Sam caught it and she and Jacob remained standing in the living room in silence, avoiding each other's eyes. Finally, there was a loud thud as Mark slammed his door shut that had Sam jump uneasily.

She hastily pulled on her sweater and brushed her hair back into order with absent grace that she wasn't even aware of, but which made Jacob's heart twinge painfully. She was so much like her mother. Every day, she grew more and more to the likeness of his beloved wife. He studied the delicate features, which still bore sings of childish softness, but already held the promise of future feminine beauty, her flushed face, framed with long golden hair, and the deep yet bright blue of her eyes, emphasized by her unusually long eyelashes. Wait. Those eyelashes had never been quite this long and curved. Was she wearing mascara?

The crease on Jacob's forehead deepened.

Sam, uncomfortable because of her father's scrutiny, let her gaze flicker around the room, desperately searching for a spot to focus on. Eventually she gave up.

"I… uh… I should…" she stammered, waving her hand towards her room and turning to leave.

"Sam."

Her shoulders hunched down a little, but she straightened up again as she turned to face him.

Dammit. Now what? Once again, he wished his wife could be there to handle the situation; she had been so good with this girl stuff. How did one talk to his teenage daughter about relationships and dating, when he barely knew how to talk to her about normal, everyday stuff.

Sam raised an eyebrow in curiosity.

He took a deep breath. You can do it, man.

"Sammie," he tried to sound soft and failed miserably. Instead, his speech automatically switched to military mode. "Who's this guy you're going out with?"

Sam ducked her head and her cheeks grew even redder, if that was possible. After a moment, she lifted her head and answered, never looking Jacob in the eye.

"He's a friend."

"That's it?" God, why did he have to sound like he was interrogating her? "That's all you're gonna say? Who is he? What's his name? Is he reliable?"

Sam exhaled slowly, setting her jaw stubbornly, and cocked her head to squarely meet his gaze.

"His name's Mike, he's a sophomore and yes, he is reliable," his daughter's blue eyes were now full of resentment.

Mike.

Sophomore... that's how old? Sixteen?

A sixteen-year-old guy named Mike, reliable? I don't think so.

"Sam, how long have you known this guy? I mean, have the two of you…" he trailed off, realizing that he'd entered dangerous ground. Crap!

Okay, now she was positively blushing, the color of her neck and face even darker than that of her sweater.

"No!" she blurted out.

He sighed with relief. No, of course not. She would tell him if something like that happened. Or would she?

"Good. I mean…" Wrong again, man. "I just… I just-uh- want you to…uh… be careful... You know… around guys…"

The doorbell rang.

Sam froze and stared at her father, neither of them moving.

The doorbell rang again, impatiently.

Jacob watched as his daughter jumped a little and brushed past him towards the door, avoiding his look again. He stood there, with his back to the front door and listened as Sam greeted the guy and told him that she was ready to go.

Jacob turned around and made for the door. There, he saw his daughter, his little Sammie, standing next to a tall, brown haired guy, who, in Jacob's opinion, was looking a little too appreciatively at her.

"Sam," Jacob said icily. "Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?" he stressed out the last word.

Sam gave him a stern look. "Yes, dad," she answered, her tone matching his. "This is Mike Parker, Mike, this is my father, Colonel Jacob Carter."

The guy smiled nervously and extended his hand. "Colonel? Wow. Nice to meet you, sir."

Jacob took the boy's hand, sticky with sweat, and shook it briefly. Reluctantly, he had to admit that his handshake was firm and solid, something he'd learned to appreciate in men. But not when those "men" dated (ugh!) his fifteen-year-old daughter.

"So," Jacob made no effort to sound casually. "Where are you going with my daughter?"

His question made the boy uncomfortable and Jacob was more than pleased to see his self-assured image waver. "We…uh… We were going to have some ice cream…Sir." He added belatedly, reminding Jacob of one of his green lieutenants.

Ice cream? Jacob was about to continue the interrogation when he caught his daughter's pleading look. Dammit, he could never resist those baby blues. Not even when giving in meant her going on a… date.

"Okay," he relented, but then added in a tone that may have had tinge of a threat in it. "But you bring her home before nine."

For a moment, Jacob thought the boy was going to salute him. "Yes, sir. I mean I will…Sir."

This time, Jacob only gave a sharp nod of acknowledgement.

"Bye, dad," Sam said, turning towards door that Mike held open for her.

"Goodbye, Colonel."

Jacob closed the door and through stained glass watched the distorted shape of his little girl walking away with her friend.

*

Liked it? Hated it? Either way, please let me know.