*
*
*
Crap, crap, crap, crap, Sam thought, desperately trying to read her own handwriting. Did that say...? No. No, that was a 'D' surely? Or maybe an 'n'?
God, never before had she hated writing things by hand so much. Never before had she realized just how illegible her handwriting was either. It wasn't as if she wrote a lot of things out at the SGC - everything was done on computer (it was far easier to triplicate things, for one).
"What are you doing? Growing roots?" one of the other waitresses demanded in irritation, pushing past Sam and shouting her order at one of the bar staff, then sticking the list to the board.
Sam sighed internally and made an educated guess. She leaned over the bar, grabbed someone by the scruff of his collar and informed him of her order. He frowned at the last order (the one she had made up based on what it had sounded like). "A what?"
"Oh, take this. See if you can make it out," she snapped, handing him her list.
She ran into the kitchen next, grabbed a couple of bread baskets and pushed back through the still-swinging doors. Table eight demanded another bottle of wine, and table nine was *really* pleased to see her; they were ready to order.
Determined to get it right this time, Sam poised her pen over her pad and carefully wrote out their order. It took longer but at least she wouldn't get called into the kitchen for an explanation.
And her feet were starting to hurt.
"Table six wants to see you," someone called out to her.
That might well be - Sam didn't even know where table six was. She'd only found them by accident the last time. Scurrying into the kitchen, she looked at the layout board, running her eyes over the table numbers. Sam had been given a group of tables in the normal restaurant area - she was, after all, a junior waitress and therefore had to rise to the hallowed ranks of 'senior waitress' before she could serve the VIP guests in the VIP area.
Finding table six (bizarrely, nowhere near tables seven or five), she hurried over there and apologized profusely, whipped out her notepad and pen for their orders.
So far, Sam hadn't seen anything remotely unusual in the business. Ms Vautour had made an appearance as soon as all the tables were full - she'd greeted the occasional 'guest', coolly shaking their hands and murmuring, and then had made her way through the frosted double doors to the VIP area. She hadn't emerged since and Sam imagined she was probably dining with the guests in there.
The majority of the guests were male - there were a couple of women around but they appeared to be fairly uncomfortable in their surroundings.
Though what they were uncomfortable about, Sam couldn't figure out.
The restaurant looked really normal to her. In the sense that it didn't look too... alien. Tables, tablecloths, candles, dark red walls and gold mirrors and gold framed paintings (gold seemed to be a running theme with the Goa'uld). The bar was ornate, with vases of lilies at each end, and the staff - both the male bar staff and female waiting staff - were dressed in black. The men were, luckily, allowed to wear pants while Sam and the other waitresses were stuck with.....
She couldn't help it - she glanced down and winced.
It was *the* tiniest skirt man had ever seen. She hadn't bent over all evening, even though her left calf was currently itching like crazy.
The menu was clearly expensive - it didn't even have prices on it - and was written in French with no English explanation underneath. The majority of the guests had no idea what they were ordering - and Sam was thankful that the meals had numbers by their descriptions or she'd really be in trouble. She couldn't speak French, let alone write it.
Maybe the Colonel should have got the job instead of her.
Thinking of the Colonel, Sam recalled that she had yet to call him and it was nearly eleven. She delivered her latest order to the kitchen and quickly popped into the staff room. Thankfully, it was empty - she knew some of the staff took their break at eleven exactly so she didn't have much time. She unlocked her locker with the key tied around her wrist, pulled out her cell phone and called the Colonel's phone. She hung up after three rings and then shoved her cell back into her locker and slammed the door closed, just as someone walked in.
"You're not due a break," the woman said sharply, eyeing Sam suspiciously.
It was the same woman who had chastised her for taking too long at the bar. "I was just... checking my phone," Sam said, unable to come with a good excuse.
She raised a dark, perfectly arched eyebrow. "Waiting for an important call?"
The sarcastic tone reminded her of the Colonel. "You never know."
"Are you an actress?"
Sam blinked. What? "An actress?" Why would she think that? Did she *look* like an actress?
The woman shrugged and walked over to the sink, plucking a glass from the shelf and turning on the faucet. "Some girls get jobs here because of the VIP guests."
"They do?"
"Yeah. We get a lot of famous people here."
"Really?" Why? Sam wondered. It wasn't *that* great. "Who?"
"Actors, directors, writers. They fly out."
Sam's brows lifted. The VIP guests had an entirely separate entrance to the normal guests so she hadn't even seen anyone. "Did this place always get famous clients?"
Sipping the water, the woman shook her head. "Never. Though I only got employed a few months ago. But then, so did most of the staff because a few months ago Ms Vautour fired all of the old staff. She was closed for several weeks while she had the place redecorated. It used to be... really tacky. She's really made some big improvements."
'She' hadn't. The Goa'uld had. "Is she nice? I haven't spoken to her much."
The water was poured swiftly down the sink. "You'll just have to wait and see. We ought to get back to work." She abruptly swept past Sam and pulled open the door.
*
"Daniel. Get the remote."
"What? Why do I have to get the remote?"
"Coz Carter's sick, that's why."
From her position on the couch, the Colonel's blanket up to her chin and suede cushion under her cheek, Sam grinned at her CO. "Thanks, sir. Nice to know that if I wasn't sick, I'd be getting the remote."
"Only because Daniel's usually asleep at this stage."
Grumpily, Daniel slid off the end of the couch and picked the remote up from the coffee table. "Who put it there, anyway?" he grumbled, throwing it at Colonel O'Neill and then returning to minding Sam's feet for her.
Feeling another sneeze coming on, Sam turned her head to the back of the couch, her nose tickling. Typical, the contrary reaction refused to commence once she'd fully prepared herself for it and she was left with that irritating feeling of missing out. She reached between her side and the back of the couch, instead, and plucked up another tissue, blew her nose thoroughly without her arms even leaving the warmth of the blanket. The waste basket had been placed conveniently to her left so she just dropped the used tissue over the edge of the couch and then settled back.
"Jack, please, no," Daniel said the moment the Colonel flicked channels to a hockey game.
"Aw, come on. I've just had an hour and a half of mummies and sand - can't I have ten minutes of this game?"
Grudgingly, Daniel gave in and the four of them lapsed into quiet.
"O'Neill," Teal'c said suddenly, "I do not consider myself proficient in this type of recreation, but I recall...."
"Teal'c. Not a word."
Sam frowned at the screen. She was also by no means a hockey enthusiast, though she took a passing interest in the game now that she knew Colonel O'Neill, but there was something really familiar about this particular game. They had actually watched a hockey game as a group yesterday and she could have sworn.... She closed her eyes, her brain hurting from too much thinking.
Suddenly, Daniel snorted. "Jack."
"Oh, crap. What do you want to watch next then?"
"We could turn off the TV and go to bed. It is half past eleven and Sam really should be resting."
"I hate sleeping when I'm sick," Sam muttered thickly, not looking forward to trying to sleep. She'd been dozing in and out of consciousness all day, first on her own couch at home, and then on the Colonel's. "I hate being sick."
"Which is why you're here," the Colonel pointed out, getting up to turn the TV off. He came to stand next to her as she lay on the couch and she looked up at him dopily. He smiled and one of his hands reached down to touch her forehead. "You're still a little warm."
She didn't think he'd ever touched her as much in their entire relationship. If she didn't feel like crap, she would have enjoyed it far more. As it was, her hair was lank and dirty, her face was unwashed and she was quite sure she smelled of the syrups she'd been downing at regular intervals. "I feel cold."
"Bed, then. Come on."
Making a complaining noise, she allowed him to help her to stand - and found, much to her dismay, that she actually needed the help - and Daniel picked up the blanket from the floor. The Colonel kept her hands in his and started backing towards his downstairs spare room, his eyes on her face the whole time. He clicked his heel on a side table and swore, making Sam giggle. "I can walk there by myself," she told him, not really wanting him to take her word for it.
''You know it's more fun for me this way. I never get to see you all pathetic and full of snot."
"Colonel!"
Daniel and Teal'c, carrying the various medicines, tissues and blankets that they had earlier gone out to get for her, groaned.
"Get a move on, Jack."
Colonel O'Neill bumped against the door, released one of her hands to reach for the handle. "You guys are no fun."
He pulled back the covers on the bed while Sam stood out of the way. Teal'c folded the blanket onto the base of the bed and Daniel arranged the bottles and packets of pills on the table. When they were done, Sam climbed into the bed, shivering at the cool sheets. She grinned at the three of them. "Thanks, guys."
"Need anything else, Carter?"
"Glass of water?"
"I will get it," Teal'c said, smiling slightly at his teammate, and then leaving the room.
"Cuddly toy? Night-light?"
She gave him a dirty look. Well, as dirty as she could manage when halfway through the urge to sneeze overwhelmed her and she hurriedly turned her face into the pillow. "*ACHOO*"
"Good one," Daniel applauded. "I would kiss you goodnight, but you're revolting."
"I'll get you back," she sniffed pathetically, reaching for her tissues. "Night, *space-monkey*."
The Colonel chuckled. "Night, Carter. Sleep well."
"Doubt it, but thanks, Colonel."
Teal'c deposited the glass of water where she could easily reach it. "I hope to find you improved in the morning, MajorCarter." He placed a light hand on her head affectionately. "Good night."
"Thanks, Teal'c."
The three of them left the room, the Colonel closing the door.
Okay, Sam reflected. So a girl could do much worse.
*
The bed was empty when she got back to the apartment. She called out his name softly as she closed and then locked the door behind her. When he didn't respond, she felt irrationally angry and kicked off her horrible shoes a little more forcefully than was necessary.
Her arches screamed as she let her feet be flat on the ground for the first time in several hours, and she made her way mincingly over to the bathroom. It, too, was empty and she wiped off her makeup, muttering unsavory things about him. Her clean face looked back at her crossly, and she realized it was probably unwise to lose her temper with him when - if - he came back. She would just go to bed and tell him all in the morning.
Having decided that, and having changed into her sleepwear, Sam realized that the bed was infinitely more preferable to the couch. Decisions, decisions...
The bed it was then.
Her bones sighed as she stretched out on the mattress. God, that was good... One by one, her tired muscles relaxed themselves. It was almost painfully comfortable.
Which was why, seemingly minutes later, Sam furiously punched out at whatever was trying to wake her up.
"Carter, Jesus!"
She groaned. "Sorry. But, please, leave me alone."
"It's six in the morning, Carter. I am not going to sleep on that couch any more. Move over."
"No."
"Fine."
The bed dipped, and a dark shape loomed behind her firmly closed eyelids. Then, as her sleep-deprived brain finally snapped into action, she sat upright. "What the hell are you doing?"
"I'm six-three, Carter. The couch is five-ten at the most. You're the one with the brain; do the math."
She watched him roll onto his side, his back to her, and snapped her gaping mouth closed. "Where've you been?"
"Tell you in the morning."
"It is the morning."
"Carter!"
"Okay, okay, sorry." She slid down under the covers once more, also turning her back on him, but extremely aware that if she shuffled backwards a couple of inches their bodies would touch.
That thought alone was unreasonably appealing.
For several minutes, Sam lay on her side, staring at the bedside table. He was warm, half-dressed and very, very close.
Sighing, she sat up and slid her legs out of the bed. The couch it was, then.