Filling the Spaces

Hockey

Cassandra Fraiser

Fake Dating

"So, are you married?"

"No."

"I didn't think so." The woman shook her head, her hair swishing around her chin. "I've noticed you around here from time to time, and I've never seen a ring."

Oooookay. Jack narrowed a look over at the interloper. "Some married guys don't wear rings."

"True." She was attractive, in a well-coiffed, well-dressed kind of way. Bleached blond hair, just a tidge too much makeup. Her jewelry was both flashy and real. Over forty, but not wanting to admit it. She scooted closer to him on the metal bleacher, the heels of her expensive shoes scraping against the metal step. "But it's still more common than not."

Whistles on the field drew everyone's attention, and a low murmur spread through the stands. A flurry of shouted instructions came from the coaches on the sidelines, with one in particular arguing with the umpire who had blown the whistle. Players hustled to their positions for a penalty stroke.

"So?" She leaned in towards him. "Which one's yours?"

Good lord. Even her perfume was intrusive. Leaning to the opposite side, O'Neill scanned the field for a moment, finally nodding towards the furthest edge of the field. "Number fifteen. Right midfielder."

"Ah." The woman brightened. She had a fleck of lipstick on her right incisor. "The Fraiser girl. Are you the father?"

"Nope."

"Mom's boyfriend?"

Date Doc Fraiser? She'd insist on flashing that eye flasher thing in his eyes every night before bed. And dollars to donuts there'd be big honkin' needles appearing at exactly the wrong moments. "No."

Even closer, now. He could see a faint line in front of her ear where her foundation hadn't been blended correctly. Like high tide marking the sand.

"I'm Angela." The woman turned towards him, extending a hand. Her nails were more than slightly reminiscent of talons, long and polished until they gleamed in the afternoon sun. "Angela Longsworth. Of the Denver Longsworths."

"Hi, Angela." Jack hesitated. Why did it seem like a trap? He'd been trapped before. He knew all about traps. This seemed like a trap. Despite his better judgment, he shook the proffered hand, letting go almost immediately. "I'm Jack."

"So, Jack." Angela angled herself towards him. "What do you do?"

"As in—for work?"

"Yes, silly. For work."

She'd tittered. Jack had never heard a woman titter before, but he was pretty certain that's what she'd done. He focused on the field, picking Cassie out of the crowd of field hockey players making its way down towards the opposite goal. "I'm a military man, Ma'am."

"Ooooh. So, what does that mean?"

"What does what mean?" He thought he'd been fairly clear.

"You being a military man." The talons made finger quotes in the air.

"Well, I'm a man."

"Obviously."

Wide eyes sized him up at that one. Jack sat up straighter. "And I'm in the military."

"Which branch?"

"Air Force."

"Oh? I hear that's one of the good ones." She said it enthusiastically. As if they were talking about breeds of cat or headache medications.

Jack tried to figure out exactly how to respond to her, but was hampered by movement on his other side.

"Angie, you little minx, you."

A new voice clamored in Jack's other ear. Another woman climbed over the bleachers behind him, plunking herself down on his other side. The newcomer was practically identical to the first one, only her hair was a carefully expensive shade of red.

So—not just a trap. This was an ambush.

"Have you finally made contact, Angie?" Red laid a hand on Jack's arm, dragging his attention her way. "She's kind of our ring leader. We've been trying to suss you out for a while, mister."

Jack swallowed, longing for his P-90. "We?"

"Angela, Tiff, Betsy, and me." Red laid her hand against her own sternum. Her nails were identical to Angela's. She jerked her head slightly ahead and down to their left where two other women peered up at them with thinly veiled interest. "I'm Therese."

"Hi, Theresa."

"No–not Theresa." She shook her head, her earrings swinging beneath her lobes. Her teeth were lipstick-free when she smiled. "Therese. It's French. Therese Hackett."

"Of the Paris Hacketts?"

His joke fell flat. Even so, both women were now peering at him as if he were far more interesting than he really wanted to be. Like a new offering at their favorite cafe. Or carrion. Or a possible sacrifice at some near-future single women's revenge ritual. He had a strange sensation that either of them would pounce at any moment.

"It's just that you're kind of an anomaly. A nice, normal-looking single gentleman of a specific age at one of these things. You know how it is."

"Who says I'm normal?" Jack's brows rose. And who the hell ever said that he was nice?

Another whistle broke through the conversation, and Angela and Therese both looked toward the field, yelling their kids' names and clapping. Their responses were automatic. Pavlovian. Creepy.

"Well," Her motherly duties dispensed with, Angela turned back towards Jack, touching him on his knee. "You wouldn't be here cheering for that Fraiser kid if you weren't nice."

That Fraiser kid? Wait just a cotton-picking minute—

"Jack—I've been looking for you."

He'd missed her entering the complex. She'd obviously brought the Indian. She was in full leathers; body-hugging, tight, soft, delicious leathers—right down to the chunky boots she favored when she was on her bike. Her hands were occupied with a tray from the concessions stand—sodas and popcorn nestled in their individual cardboard sections. Fresh-faced, natural, her hair was wind-mussed gold, glowing in the late-day sun like a tousled halo.

She was the polar opposite of the women on either side of him. She was perfect.

Still—Jack?

"Have I missed much?" Carter stopped just to the side of Angela, glaring down expectantly at the woman. Her expression flickered between battle-ready Major and Biker Chick. Fun, with a hint of assasin. Sexy as hell. "I tried to get here sooner, but they made me lock up my sidearm before I could come in."

Therese's eyebrows rose sky-high. "And you are?"

"With him." Carter grinned. It wasn't friendly. "Now scooch."

Angela looked towards Jack—surprised, shocked, annoyed—her eyes wide and not just a little hysterical. "Do you know this woman?"

"I do." Jack peered up at Sam. Despite his surprise at seeing her there, he was intensely relieved that she was, indeed, there. Still, he wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to do. "She's my—"

Friend? Co-worker? Wildly off-limits subordinate? Nightly fantasy?

But he shouldn't have worried. Carter was handling it.

"Angela?" Her eyes were icy. She slid past Angela's feet, her boots heavy on the metal bleachers step. Leaning over, she plunked the concessions fare on Jack's lap. "Your name is Angela, right?"

"Angela Longsworth. Of the Denver Longsw—"

"Yeah. Whatever." Sam's gaze flickered between the blond and the redhead. Now that her hands were free, she slowly unzipped her riding jacket, revealing a white tank top underneath. "I'm with him. Have been for a while."

"You should probably know that he said he was single."

Jack watched as Sam shrugged out of the jacket. Toned arms, cut biceps, slim waist, just a hint of a bruise on her right shoulder where she butted her weapon. And, well, everything um—else. So. Damn. Freaking. Perfect.

And while he wasn't supposed to notice all of that amazing faultlessness, he was just a little fixated on it all the same. Hell—even Angela, Tiff, Betsy and Therese were fixated on the Major, and they ostensibly didn't even swing that way.

"I'm missing the game." Sam's smile broadened, her dimples cutting deeply into her cheeks. "And you're in my seat."

The two women glared up at Sam, their eyes sharp and narrow.

But Biker Chick Sam cared not a whit. Her tawny eyebrows lifted a tidge. "Scooch."

So, Angela and Therese scooched.

Skedaddled. Vamoosed. Flew the coop. Their high heels clonking against the metal stands as they decamped back to where Tiff and Betsy were still half-heartedly watching the game between glances back up at Jack.

Sam pivoted on her chunky boot heels and lowered herself to the seat beside O'Neill. Laying the leather jacket on the bench on her other side, she surveyed the hockey field, scanning the players for Cassie.

"She looks good out there."

"She's had a great game so far." O'Neill shifted, finding the warmth of her leather-clad thigh strangely comforting against his. "She scored a goal early on, but the other team has been guarding her closely."

Sam reached into his lap for some popcorn. "You might want to put your arm around me, Sir."

"Excuse me?"

"Are you going to continue coming to Cassie's field hockey games?"

"Of course."

She squinted over at him. "Do you want those women to continue flirting with you?"

Is that what that had been? Flirtation? It had felt like a full-frontal assault. "Not really."

"I've seen their kind before, Sir. Last year, when Cassie played soccer, a group of harridans just like that wouldn't leave this nice single dad alone. They were relentless."

"Didn't he want to be pursued? Some guys like that."

"His wife had just left him. The divorce wasn't even final. He wasn't ready to date again." Sam shrugged. "Eventually, he started hanging out with Janet and me just for protection."

"It's been a while for me, Carter. I haven't studied up on modern mating rituals."

"Well, Sir." She swallowed, reaching into his lap again for her soda. "You're in their sights. You're their target. That makes you the prize catch. They won't stop until one of them has landed you and you're being ceremonially scaled and fileted."

He actually shuddered. That thought was terrifying. "That sounds horrific."

"Then you need to sell this." She sent him a sideways glance, from beneath lowered lashes. "If you want them to leave you alone, you need to make us believable."

"Okay."

Where to start? He'd spent so many years endeavoring not to touch her that doing it now, on Earth, in public, was terrifying. Jack looked over at Carter, but she'd turned her attention back to the game, her quick eyes following the action on the field.

Exhaling slowly, he looked around at the other spectators. Moms and Dads, siblings, grandmas and grandpas. One couple sat a few rows down in front of them, the husband doing just as Carter had suggested—his arm draped around his wife's lower back.

The man had what looked like a rubber band around his wrist. Jack had seen something like it before—some religious types had been selling the same sort of bracelets outside the Safeway the other day. Just like those bracelets, four capital letters were emblazoned on this band.

W. W. J. D.

And while he knew full well to whom the 'J' on the band was actually referring, something else—someplace else—someone else tickled in the back of his mind.

Raw minerals spitting sparks and fire. Dark, cold tunnels, dank, recycled water, common sleeping rooms. And a spot behind the ventilation processor on the second level where nobody else ever ventured. Long hours spent working out exactly how the plucky, optimistic engineer with the fathomless blue eyes had liked to be touched. Jonah hadn't had a single qualm about discovering Thera—hadn't struggled to figure her out in the least—and he'd only been trying to survive a glacial apocalypse.

Jonah had never been actively pursued by one of the Denver Longsworths.

So? What would Jonah do?

Jack leaned back a little, careful not to upset the tray on his lap. Carter was close enough that he could feel the muscles in her thighs as she tensed and relaxed along with the game play. Her arm brushed against his, her shoulder nearly flush with his own.

A quick glance down and to the left assured him that yes, the Harridan Squad was still watching. Taking a deep, surreptitious breath, Jack moved the tray to the bench beside him and, literally taking his life into his hands, he reached over and curved his hand around Carter's thigh.

She looked down at his hand, then sideways at him, a single dimple making a lovely little divot in her cheek. "That's a hell of an opening salvo, Sir."

"You said to make it believable." He raised his other hand, using the back of his index finger to trace a hint of a line down her bare arm. "I'm just following orders."

Was that a hitch in her breathing? He checked, but her expression was benign. She was well-trained. She wouldn't betray the game if she could help it.

He squeezed her thigh, then reached over and took her hand in his. His thumb made a wide, deliberate arc on the side of her hand. He could feel the calluses of their trade on her palm, a little roughness against his own as he lifted their joined hands and feathered a kiss on her knuckles.

Her eyelids fluttered, but still, she appeared focused on the game, watching as Cassie's team made a play for a goal, only to be blocked at the last moment. The other team's center midfielder took the ball downfield and drove it to a forward, who passed it laterally to another player to score a goal. Groaning, Carter tightened her fingers around his, looking down at their hands, at the spot where his lips had touched her skin. "Are you really sure that you want to get this believable?"

"It was your idea, Major."

And he honestly couldn't tell whether her shrug was in resignation or challenge.

On the field, the whistle blew again.

"Offsides." Carter pulled her hand free, applauding and calling out encouragement towards the field. "Atta girl Cassie! Head on a swivel!"

With a final clap, Carter straightened on the hard metal bench, craning her head to watch as the players ran down towards the goal at the opposite end of the field. Her posture seemed expectant, somehow. Like she was waiting for his next move.

All right, then. Jack stretched his arm around her lower back, catching her belt loop with his thumb and testing the leather on her hip with his fingers.

She leaned into his body with her customary nudge. "That's believable."

"But boring."

"It's what couples do, though, isn't it?"

"Depends on the couple." O'Neill dragged his hand off her hip and meandered up her back, teasing slightly against her spine, rubbing tiny circles with the pads of his fingers until he'd reached the nape of her neck, where soft skin beckoned just under the fringe of her hair. He brushed her fingertips at her hairline, using his thumb at the base of her skull. She leaned back into his touch with a slow exhale. Just like she had all those many months before—when she'd responded to his hands from within a different name. When they'd actually been a thing rather than just pretending to be one. "Some couples are more interesting than others."

He knew she liked this. Jonah had figured that out early in their tenure under the ice city. And Jack remembered exactly where to put just the scarcest hint of pressure—just under her ear—

There it was. He bit back a self-satisfied smile. This time, he had definitely heard a hitch. And felt the delicate shiver as it made its way down her body.

So, he did it again, and then ventured just a bit further when she sighed out the slightest hint of a moan, leaning in to ask, "Everything okay?"

"That may be a little too believable, Sir."

With a wry smile, Jack hazarded a glance back down towards the Harridan Squad. "I'm still not sure they're buying it."

"Sir—" But she quietly moaned again as his fingers made their way back down her spine, massaging gently as they went. "Holy cow. You have no idea how good that feels."

"I think I do." Jack dug in at a particularly tight spot. "I can feel a knot right there."

"I was bent over an electron microscope all day." Her eyes drowsed shut, and she reached over to brace herself with a hand on his thigh. "I got this horrible crick in my neck after the first hour and it's just gotten worse since then. If Janet hadn't reminded me about this game, I'd already be home soaking in a hot bath."

Jack filed that image away for later. Because. Gah.

He'd just started in on Sam's lower back when the umpire called an equipment time out. A player on the opposing team had broken her stick. The players huddled up in their respective teams while the affected forward raced to the sidelines for a replacement.

Jack shifted on his seat, turning and extending his leg on the step behind him. Bracing his other foot on the opposite side, he rested his hands at Carter's waist and applied just a hint of pressure. "Swing around."

"What?"

"Pivot a little." He gently pushed at her hip. "Let me get a better angle."

"Sir—"

His voice came out harder than he intended. "Just let me do this for you, Carter."

She hesitated for a beat, then made a quarter turn. Cocking one leg on the bench in front of her, she planted the other foot on the metal plank below and scooted backwards until his hands halted her movement.

He started massaging again just as the whistle signaled play to resume on the field below. Thumbs towards her spine—kneading deep, thorough swaths up and down her back. Her head fell forward, exposing the elegant column of her neck and nape, the strong, vital curve of her shoulders, and the darker strands of gold beneath the sun-kissed blond of her hair. Intimate. Profoundly so for people like them.

"You didn't forget."

"Forget what?" His fingers paused momentarily as he leaned closer to hear her.

"The mines. Or whatever. The power station under the domed city."

She'd figured out his methods. Damn that brilliant brain. Jack grimaced just a little as he started massaging again. "This isn't our first rodeo at this whole 'couple' thing."

"Hmmm." Carter leaned back into his touch, deepening the contact. She seemed to struggle internally for a moment before continuing. "Do you think about it much?"

Yes. Constantly. But Jack wasn't about to be transparent about that. Wasn't about to reveal just how much those weeks had changed him. "From time to time."

Her hand settled on his knee, and she tightened her fingers against the denim of his jeans. "Yeah."

What that meant, he couldn't begin to guess. But then she reached behind her and found his hand, pulling it in front of her as she levered herself backwards until her back was flush with his chest. She rested the back of her head against his shoulder, melting into his body.

"Carter—"

"I miss it sometimes." Tilting her chin diagonally upwards, she caught his gaze.

And it was both courage and foolishness that made him nod. "Me, too."

She threaded her fingers through his, squeezing gently as she rested their joined hands on her abdomen. "I've wondered if you did."

O'Neill didn't know what to say to that, so he just ducked his head until his cheek was resting against her temple, and he could breathe her in. He pulled away just enough to look down at her. "Well, now you know."

She turned her face towards him, her eyes huge. "Kind of sucks, though, right?"

Jack pressed a kiss to her jaw—lingering a bit this time—his palm flattening against her rib cage as he wrapped his other arm around her midsection. "Yeah. Kind of."

Something had changed. It wasn't just the light—although the sun now sat precariously low in the sky. The parklights had started to hum, getting ready to glow bright, but it wasn't that. The change wasn't in the wind that had picked up out of the east. Or the game—where down on the field, the opposing team had lost the ball back to Cassie's, eliciting a fresh, new energy in both the action and the crowd.

It was both old and new, now. This—whatever it was—that had been seething between them for years. But now—here on Earth, on their own world, their own space—with her body resting solidly against his chest, her hair catching the stubble on his jaw. Her smell. Her vibrance. The way her body moved in concert with his—as naturally as if they'd always sat like this—been like this. He tried to stop himself—but failed—and ended up dipping down to brush his lips against the curve of her neck, inhaling as he teased his way up towards her ear. As he wished that he could take her home and—well, damn.

Oh, if only. If only.

"Sir—" Her voice was shaky. Uncertain. For the first time, she'd lost the Biker Chick confidence and radiated something else—something poignant—loss, maybe, or sadness.

He paused, sucking in a deep breath before raising his head and looking down towards the field. Too far. This had gone too far. Swearing softly, he set his jaw, cursing the Harridan Squad, and fate, and his own stupidity. Damning the universe itself, which had seen fit to present him with the most interesting, enticing, intoxicating woman in existence, only to make her explicitly off limits.

"I'm sorry." He started to push himself away. "I'm—"

But Carter suddenly unfolded herself off the bench and stood—just as the crowd around them surged to their feet. Jack followed suit, turning to look down at the game, watching as Cassie raced downfield towards their opponents' goal.

Dodging, weaving, she took it more than halfway before passing the ball to the left inner, who passed it back to the left forward. That player hucked the ball back towards Cassie, who evaded two more defenders before taking a firm position and hitting the ball directly through the goalie's legs and into the goal just as the umpire's whistle ended the game.

Cheers erupted around them, kids and adults jumping up and down in excitement. Sam raised both arms above her head, whooping, bouncing a little as she watched Cassie's team gather midfield for their celebration.

"Good girl!" Carter clapped wildly, her boots heavy as she jumped a little on the metal bleachers. She pivoted, stepping closer to O'Neill. "Did you see that?"

"I did."

Such joy. Her smile was luminous—wide and bright and dimpled and beautiful. Her eyes shimmered, so blue that the sky seemed colorless in comparison. Such unabashed, pure joy. Joy infused through her to him, when he hadn't felt anything in months.

Jack stepped backwards, seeking distance—seeking refuge—seeking to flee when what he needed in that moment was to share in what she was feeling. To reach for her and bring her close and absorb as much of her as he could.

But that would have been the height of stupidity. Not here. Not now, not with the feel of her supple muscles still on his hands, the taste of her, her smell still toying with his senses. Not when he'd remembered what it had been like to be with her—to be able to be with her, without rank and honor and regulations getting in the way.

"Sir?" Her hands were stretched towards him—she'd been about to hug him.

'Sir'—son of a bitch.

Sir, when what he wanted—when he couldn't have what he wanted. Couldn't even admit to wanting what he wanted.

He swore again. Bitterly, taking one—two—steps towards her and taking her into his arms, drawing her close enough that he could feel her heart beat even as he could feel her hesitation.

"Sir—I—"

"Shut up, Carter." But he didn't mean it. He didn't. All he wanted was more. More of her. More of this.

Her expression changed, morphing from happiness to something different as she stilled in his arms, as her hands gripped first his forearms, then his elbows, before smoothing up his biceps to rest on his shoulders. She knew where his mind was—that was obvious by how she trailed her fingers across his collarbones, his throat, before cupping his jaw and tilting up to press her mouth to his.

And then he was lost. Lost in her. In the feel of her lips softening against his, opening beneath his, her tongue tentative and subtle and sweet. Jack's hands rose from her hips to her sides, his thumbs brushing her rib cage, his fingers testing the supple strength of her body even as he tasted the wonder that she was.

She whimpered against his mouth—or maybe that was him—as she rose up on her toes and pressed herself more tightly against him. Her hands raked through his hair, cupping the back of his head, folding around him as she braced herself against his larger form.

She was soft, and hard, and eager, and tentative. She was sweet and tough and feminine. She was life. She was eternity. She was everything.

Everything except his.

It broke him a little, reminding himself of that. He kissed her hard, deep, his hands rough against her body even as he mourned that he'd have to let go—let her go— "Sam." Her name was both beautiful and devastating.

She pulled away for a breath, touching his lips with her fingertips before leaning in for more, nipping at his mouth, his chin, his jaw, the tender skin beneath his ear. Pressing her forehead against his as she fought for breath. As he fought for control, with her still so close to him that he felt as if she'd become part of himself.

"Get a room, buddy!"

The shout broke through their haze, startling Jack into raising his head to find the source of the voice. He found it—a few rows up and to the right of them, a guy a decade younger than Jack with a passel of kids surrounding him. Their round faces radiated keen interest in the scene playing out just below, while the man's expression was full of decided annoyance. Casting the man a wry smile, Jack lifted a finger in apologetic salute before enfolding Carter in his arms and turning them both to face the field.

Sam tucked her face into his neck, breathing out a giggle. "I can't believe I just did that."

"You may have been right." He spoke against her hair. "That may have been a little too believable."

"I don't think you'll have a problem with those ladies again, though." She squinted up at him, a crinkle forming above her nose. "So—bright spot?"

Jack flickered a glance down to where the Squad stood at the bottom of the bleachers. Tiff and Betsy were chatting animatedly with who appeared to be their children, but Denver Angela and French Therese were openly staring up at where Jack and Sam stood.

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"I'm sorry." She pressed her hand against his chest, testing the fabric of his shirt. "That was—"

"Stupid?"

"I was going to say foolish—"

"Dude. Seriously?"

That voice, they both knew.

Separating, Jack wheeled around to see Cassie making her way up the steps to their right, carrying her gear bag over her shoulder.

Her face was aglow with unveiled interest. Stopping a few feet away, she threw her ponytail back over her shoulder as she twiddled a finger between the two of them. "What's this?"

"Celebration." Sam patted O'Neill's chest, pulling away. "We were just so excited that you won the game."

"So, you started making out?"

O'Neill frowned. He hoped it was convincing. "We weren't making out."

"Do old people call it something else?" Cassie had perfected the snotty teenager act. "Because that looked like you were making out."

"We got caught up in the moment."

"Heck of a moment." Her eyes flew wide. "Because holy crap, people."

"Come on, Cassie." Carter looked over at Jack. She smiled as she stepped away from him and dipped down to where her jacket still lay on the bleacher bench. Folding it over her arm, she reached for the bulky gear bag. "Let's get out of here."

"I'll take it." O'Neill snagged it instead, tossing the wide strap over his shoulder. "C'mon."

Down the steps, he followed Cassie and Sam, listening as they chattered about the game, and Cass's goals, and the team's win. Jack couldn't help but notice how Carter moved—easy and confident—or how flushed her cheeks were. How bright her eyes were. How often she glanced back at him, her expression unreadable.

"Anyway. Do you want to get some dinner?"

They'd reached the front gate. Jack could see the Indian at the end of the first parking lane, on the opposite end of the lot from his huge Super Duty. He guided them out and alongside the chain link fence, where they stopped and turned towards him.

"Naw." Cassie answered Carter with a shake of her head. "Jack can just take me home. I've got some homework that I need to do before bed."

"Your mom said she'd be home as soon as she could."

"She texted me." Cassie held up her phone. Passing a glance between O'Neill and Carter, she pursed her lips a little, squinting. "You know, my mom is super excited to hear about the game."

"I'm sure she is."

"And all of the awesome stuff that happened at the game."

The little twit was too smart for her own good. Jack broached the subject first. "Yeah, Cass. You're going to have to pretend that you never saw that."

"Like—amnesia?" She pretended to consider. "I didn't do too well in eighth grade drama class."

Carter bit her lip, hazarding a glance over at O'Neill before looking back at Cass. "How about if I get you that bike jacket you've been wanting?"

"And the boots?"

"And the boots." Sam's blue eyes narrowed. "And this Saturday, I'll take you up to the reservoir and let you drive her up the side trail."

"By myself?"

"I'll be on the back."

Cassie pretended to have to think about that. She squinted again, glancing first at Sam and then back at Jack. "You know that this is a hockey field, right?"

"Yeah. So?" Jack squinted back.

"But it's not a tonsil hockey field." With a shrug, Cass tossed her ponytail again. "Does this mean that I can blackmail you two for the rest of ever?"

"Smartass." Jack smiled down at his favorite little mercenary. Dipping into his pocket, he came up with his keys. He dropped them into Cassie's outstretched hand. "Go get in the truck."

With a grin and a nod, Cassie retrieved her gear bag and headed into the parking lot.

"You know, she's going to hold you to the whole reservoir thing."

Sam looked down at her boots, scuffing her toe against something on the sidewalk. "I know. It's okay. She's sixteen. I was planning on teaching her how to ride next year anyway."

"Ah." Jack reached out and plucked Carter's jacket off her arm. "Here."

Turning, Sam let him help her put the leather jacket on, swiveling back around as she fit the zipper together and tugged it half-way up. "You know—"

"Carter—"

With a hinted smile, Jack started again. "I'm sorry. For what happened in there. I let things get out of hand, and I shouldn't have."

"I was the one that kissed you first."

"But I should have—"

"Should have what?"

Shaking his head, O'Neill shrugged. "I don't know. Should have been stronger. More disciplined."

She dragged her gaze away from his face, then, looking off over his shoulder towards the field house, or the mountains beyond. Towards something indefinable in the distance. "You know, Sir. Sometimes I think that we need these little moments of weakness. I think that they're a reminder to us of why we do what we do."

Despite himself, he smiled at that. "Tonsil hockey is a reminder?"

"Sure. Tonsil hockey's good for all kinds of things." She smiled back. "But seriously. We're fighting to save humanity, right? But what happens when we can't remember what it feels like to be human?"

Jack leaned back against the metal fencing, watching as she edged closer, until she was inches away from him.

"Sometimes, I miss being down in that underground city so badly that it hurts. We were fighting for humanity there, too. But down there, we could at least feel things. Be things. I could reach out and touch you if I wanted to. When I needed to. And sometimes, I just need to. You know?"

He did. As if to prove it, he settled his palm on her hip again, his thumb burrowing beneath the bottom of her jacket to brush at the softness of her tank top. "I do."

"I still need that from time to time." She leaned into his touch. And then, in a spate of pure madness, she tilted up again, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth—not even a kiss, really, but the promise of one. And then she readjusted, brushing her lips fully against his before drawing back to whisper. "Don't you?"

He ducked his chin, meeting her forehead with his own. "Sam—I—"

"Don't apologize." She shook her head. "Don't. I'm not sorry for what I feel. I'm not sorry for what I want. I'm just sorry that it's taking so damned long to get to a point where we can—well, you know."

Yeah. He knew. He exhaled heavily. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"And we'll do that whole amnesia thing. Where we revert to just being teammates again, and I go back to just being your subordinate. And we'll make believe that our lives are normal, and that we don't have to pretend like we're regular people in a relationship at a kids' field hockey game just so that we can remember what it feels like to be human every once in a while." Somehow, she didn't sound bitter. Her tone was forbearing, maybe, filled with resignation. But not bitter.

O'Neill, on the other hand. Well, his tone was decidedly acidic. "Yep. That."

"Okay, then. Tomorrow."

"Hey, Carter?"

"Yeah?" She'd moved away, but stopped when he'd called her.

"Thanks for saving me earlier. From the Harridans."

"No problem, Sir." This time, her grin was genuine. "I've always got your six. Besides. You've saved me plenty of times."

"Good night, Carter."

"Good night, Sir."

And then she stepped away from him, flashing one last smile his way as she pivoted to step off the sidewalk. Looking both ways, she fished her keys out of her pocket as she strode across the asphalt, making her way to the far side of the first aisle towards her Indian, disappearing into the crowd.

He needed to get to his truck. Needed to get Cassie home. He needed to run to the grocery store, do some laundry, shower, and head to bed. He needed to sleep.

But later, when he was staring up at his ceiling, alone in the quiet darkness, he thought about how she'd felt in his arms. How warm she'd been, how supple. Recalled the taste of her, and her unique scent—a perfect blend of leather and gunpowder. And he wondered if she was right. If it was okay to be weak every so often. Okay to need. Okay to look at her and wish that things could be different. Whether all that really made him more human, and whether succumbing to that humanity made him more capable of saving it.

Because he needed that these days. Faith, or whatever. Conviction. Certainty. Needed it to the depths of his ruined soul. He needed to believe what she believed. That this task they'd been given was achievable. That they could win this battle. Could save everything.

And maybe, just maybe, when all was said and done, that he might still be worth saving