Author's Note: Haha! I didn't even realize I was putting an 'e' on the end of Claus! That's what I get for watching the Santa Clause 2 so many times in the past couple weeks. I'm not going to go back and change it, but I'll try to keep from doing it again! Good catch!

OOOOOOOOOOO

Ah, what was he thinking? He knew better than to invite Carter someplace with just the two of them. There was always so much tension between them. Not bad tension, because it wasn't like he didn't like her. Boy did he really not not like her! And he sometimes wondered just how much she didn't not like him. He knew the spark was there – and hadn't she admitted it with that little machine attached to her that one day? As much as he'd been forced to admit that he had more feelings for her than he should have. But they'd agreed to keep that in that room, right? So there shouldn't be any reason for the tension every time they were alone. And yet, it was always there, as far as he was concerned.

"Sir?"

He was jerked out of his thoughts by her voice, soft and nice – although it was lightly laced with concern at that moment.

"Sorry, Carter," he apologized. "I was just…"

"It's okay." She gave him a smile – looking so damned cute in that Mrs. Claus outfit – and patted his leg lightly with her left hand. "How did you do tonight? You looked like you were having the time of your life."

Jack smiled.

"I was. Did. I knew I'd do all right with the kids, Carter – contrary to how I act with everyone else, I actually like kids."

"But you didn't want to…"

"Because of afterwards," he told her, passing a closed restaurant and heading for another one that the team frequented. He'd seen far more closed places than he'd expected. People had to eat on Christmas Eve, right? "I figured I'd start brooding and not be able to stop."

He'd done that before. And it had taken something fairly big to snap him out of the depression that had followed. Like being recalled from retirement to join the Stargate team.

Sam realized that she probably knew why he'd asked her to dinner, then, even if he might not realize it. She was his distraction. It was going to be her job – even though he hadn't asked her to – to keep him from brooding. And she didn't mind. Feelings for him aside – and didn't they always have to be aside? – she didn't have anything to do that night, anyways. Mark and his family had gone to his wife's family's house for the holidays, and her dad was off God only knew where. She would have just sat at home alone and done a little brooding of her own. He could be her distraction as well, this way.

"I understand, Sir," she told him. She did. "We'll just have to keep you occupied so you don't have time to start brooding."

He glanced over at her, and then back at the traffic around him. There wasn't much, but he didn't want to wreck into anyone. Wouldn't that be a crappy way to spend Christmas Eve?

"Thanks, Carter…"

She smiled, and they drove to the restaurant in a fairly companionable silence – with just a little tension. It was closed. All the lights were off, and the parking lot – which was usually bustling – was empty.

"I don't think we're going to find an open place to eat…" Sam said. The whole town looked deserted.

Jack looked down at himself, and then over at her, realizing that they were still in costume, and the absurdity of it all caught up to him and he smiled.

"What a sad state of things the world has come to when Santa Claus can't get his wife a proper meal on Christmas Eve…"

Carter's smile was an echo of his own, and she chuckled softly.

"Let's go back to my place, Sir. I'll feed you."

"You sure you want to do that?"

She looked at him quizzically.

"Why not?"

"People might talk. You know… the neighbors would probably wonder what the heck you were doing keeping Santa all to yourself on Christmas Eve…"

She smiled; it wasn't often he teased her, and she kind of liked it.

"We could go to your place and let your neighbors do the gossiping, but as I recall, you don't keep food in your cupboards, and I don't want a mustard sandwich for dinner."

"I wouldn't give you a mustard sandwich," Jack told her, pulling out of the parking lot and aiming the truck for her place.

"Really?"

"I'm out of bread…"

OOOOOOOOOO

"Watch your step until I get a light on…"

Jack held completely still, preferring not to trip over anything and stood in the doorway until she managed to find the light switch. A second later the hallway light came on, and he squinted as he was suddenly blinded.

"Jeeze…"

"Sorry," she smiled at him and pulled him into the hallway so she could shut the door. "I thought I left the porch light on."

"Must have been too excited to get dressed up in your elfsuit."

"Something like that." She said, her blue eyes cheerful. "Take your boots off, will you? I just had the carpet cleaned."

She'd already stepped out of her own boots and was walking into the living room, the Santa robe dragging on the floor behind her.

"What do you want to eat, Sir?" she asked heading into the kitchen. "I can make an omelet, or we could have grilled cheese and soup."

He slipped out of his jacket, hanging the red leather jacket – and all the padding – up on a coat hook, then walked in his sock feet into the kitchen as well, leaning against her counter and shrugging.

"Whatever you want to make, just let me know what I can do to help."

She opened the fridge, and pulled out a block of cheese wrapped in a zip-lock baggie.

"Grate that, will you? We'll have omelets."

"Yes, Ma'am."

He took it from her and started rifling through her cupboards, looking for a cheese grater. Sam came over and reached over him, the motion bringing her right up against his shoulder, her warm body pressing against his – even though the motion was completely innocent. Jack felt a sudden rush of heat that had nothing to do with the temperature in the kitchen, and held his breath until she pulled down the grater and handed it to him, unaware of the effect she'd just had on him.

"Thanks."

She gave him an odd look, wondering why he suddenly seemed breathless.

"Sure thing." She stepped back to the fridge to pull out the eggs. "Peppers? Onions?"

"You're the chef, Mrs. Claus. You decide." His voice was still a little off-kilter, but it wasn't as noticeable, now, although at the moment, he was forced to keep his back to her. "I'll eat anything you put in front of me."