Again I find myself just wanting to thank you all for your attentions to this story, and for your reviews. I'm an unapologetic Sam/Jack shipper (could you tell?), but this stretch of episodic time has always bothered me. I have to settle all this in my own mind, and I appreciate you all coming along for the ride. I'm always open to reviews, so feel free to click on the little button. I do try to maintain canon, but that doesn't mean that there's stuff off screen that we don't see—right?

And thusly I justify the stories in my head. . .

Passing Fancy

"They're going to have to reschedule." Jack stood in front of his locker, his khaki pants zipped but not buttoned, pulling on a white undershirt.

"I don't think so." Daniel had finished his shower first. But then, he didn't need to shave as frequently as O'Neill. Something to be said for being pre-pubescent.

"I do."

"I don't."

"I do." Jack ran his fingers through his hair and called it good. "They're going to have to postpone."

"No, they're not."

"Yes."

"No."

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-uh."

"Daniel—how are they going to have this bash? She just spent most of the day aboard a cargo ship, tied to a crate. Now she's going to get all dolled up for a party? Get real."

"Ah—but you're underestimating the symbiotic relationship that exists between women and their social events." Daniel had his locker door open, and was carefully parting his still-wet hair while looking at himself in a little mirror. He was wearing a crisp white dress shirt and had on a tie without any cartoon characters adorning it. His black slacks had creases marching neatly down each leg, and his soft leather shoes gleamed with a fresh polish.

"Psshht." The General waved a hand—a hand that was currently only partway through a sleeve. The rest of the shirt flew around him, whacking at his back. "Carter's not like other chicks. She's going to reschedule."

"Bet you she doesn't."

"Daniel, she's all bruised up. Didn't you tell me that she had to fight—like—three guys?"

"With her hands tied behind her back." Daniel added proudly. "She kicked some major Trust butt." He combed one last time, turned his head from side to side, fingered in some gel, then spritzed on a little hair spray.

O'Neill stared at him, disgusted. As Daniel reached for cologne, Jack grunted.

"What?" Daniel asked, applying the liquid generously.

"Primp much?"

"I like to make a good impression."

"On who, The Village People?"

"So says the man who is planning on wearing that—" he gestured to the wildly colored Aloha shirt that still hung from only one of O'Neill's arms, "to an engagement party."

"What's wrong with this shirt?"

"It defines the popular phrase 'Fugly'."

Jack considered that for a minute while he pushed his other arm through the loose sleeve and started to button the shirt over his white undershirt. "Okay—I give up—Fugly?"

Daniel used the finger quotes this time. "F-ing ugly. Fugly."

"Oh, pshaw. It's a classic." Unzipping his pants, O'Neill tucked the shirt in, then re-zipped and adjusted his belt. "You can't go wrong with Hilo Hattie's."

Daniel hadn't given him the look in a while, but Jack was strangely comforted when the scientist dusted off his expression that clearly stated, "Jack, don't be an ass."

O'Neill grinned inwardly. Seeing the look made him feel a certain amount of relief. He supposed that it had something to do with the fact that Daniel had been incredibly supportive over the past few months—supportive to the point that he hadn't been nearly as judgmental, overbearing, and politically correct as he normally was. Daniel's looking down his spectacled nose at O'Neill showed that he felt Jack was progressing. Maybe the worst of this funk was over.

"Hilo who?" Daniel did a verbal double take.

"Hilo Hattie's. One of the most famous purveyors of Aloha shirts and Muu-muus in the beautiful islands of Hawai'i."

Daniel fastened on his watch, took a last look in the little locker-door mirror, must have been satisfied, and closed his door.

"Yes, well, it's not appropriate for the event. Nor for the locale."

"It's at O'Malley's, isn't it?"

"Didn't you read the invitation?" Exasperated, Daniel made certain the lock was secure before turning to face the General.

"Yes, I read the invitation." Jack put his hands into the pockets of his pants. He pursed his lips, then flattened them, then pursed them again before asking, "Not at O'Malley's?"

"The Broadmoor Resort." He picked up a suit coat from the bench next to him. Shaking any wrinkles out, he carefully draped it over his arm. "Dress jackets are required."

Jack looked down at himself. He looked perfectly acceptable, he thought. No camouflage in sight. But still. . .

"The Broadmoor, huh?" Okay, so that place was pretty fancy.

"Resort, yes."

"Well, crap." Jack muttered. "What idiot chose to have it there?"

"Pete, I guess."

O'Neill grimaced deeply, and nodded. "Figures."

----OOOOOOO----

Even Teal'c was wearing a suit. Jack wondered if it had come from the Home Shopping Network as had Teal'c's Juicemaster. He'd chosen a black fedora for the evening, pulled down low to cover his First Prime tattoo.

Daniel had offered to drive, but Teal'c stubbornly refused to fold himself in half in order to fit into Daniel's Prius, so they took the General's Super Duty instead. After a quick detour at Jack's house so that he could change, they took Highway 115 north to the 29, and then turned west toward the resort.

Jack tossed his keys to the valet as they entered the golf course club house.

The room was large, and it felt larger because of the open patio doors and wide outer deck. Even so, the sheer quantity of people made it seem oppressive. Daniel made a line straight for where Carter stood with Pete. Jack let him go. He hated crowds like this, and even though he knew at least half of the people, he still suddenly felt uncomfortably alone.

Teal'c stopped next to him. "Are you feeling unwell, O'Neill?"

"Nah, T, just looking for a place to hide."

"You are comporting yourself as a coward, then."

Jack turned to face the Jaffa, scowling. "A coward?"

"You do not wish to face Colonel Carter and her chosen mate. I believe that makes you a coward." Teal'c's eyebrow rose until it nearly disappeared beneath the brim of his hat. He paused, redirecting his attention to the crowd. "At least in these matters."

O'Neill huffed. "I can't believe you just said that, T. I thought we were pals."

"We are indeed friends, General O'Neill. I believe us to be as close as brothers. However, when you agreed to accompany Daniel Jackson and me to this event this evening, I assumed you had made your peace with Colonel Carter and her prospective husband." He started forward towards Sam and her fiancé. "Apparently, I assumed in error."

And with that, he made his way through the assembled throng.

Left alone, Jack scoped out the room. To his left, the patio doors led onto the open air deck. A pianist played a Steinway in a little cove to his right, and the open bar sat just beyond. Directly in front of him, the crowd waved and flowed around the couple of the hour. O'Neill looked longingly at the bar, but turned away instead. It would be a crutch, and he didn't like being propped up.

Jack debated for a few seconds, and then sighed. He was a coward. For all of his advances lately, he still couldn't see himself happily congratulating them. He cast a long look in their direction. Pete stood on Sam's right, one arm possessively around her shoulders, his hand dangling casually, as if she were just another girl. That right there was enough for Jack to turn away.

Samantha Carter was the last woman in the world who deserved to be taken lightly.

He spied an empty table out of the corner of his eye and wended his way toward it. It sat at the edge of the action, right where the open patio doors folded back on themselves. He sat down, and then spent the next twenty minutes or so glaring at anyone who tried to join him. From his vantage point, he could see pretty much everywhere in the room and on the patio. And even though he cursed himself for his own weakness, he found himself watching her.

She wore a pretty dress—that was the first thing that was wrong. It was sage green, with these floaty little sleeves and a tie at the waist. It had flowers on it. It made her look too young—and something else—Virginal? Pete had his arm around her shoulders, still, and was holding a domestic beer in the other hand. He was using it to gesture with. He was gesturing a lot. Jack guessed that it wasn't his first one of the evening.

Carter was smiling, chatting, engaging people, but underneath it, O'Neill could see strain on her face, fatigue in her eyes. At one point, Pete put too much weight on her, and she winced. She'd been hurt in all that Trust bashing, he realized. Deep down, something surged.

A waiter glided by, silently placing a goblet of water on his table. Jack looked up at him from underneath furrowed brows, and the server hastily beat an exit. Left alone again, he took a sip of water and then sat playing with the goblet, trying to quell the flood of protectiveness he had no right to feel.

"I know! I keep telling her to not stand up so straight, but she's military, you know, so she's used to standing at ten-hut, or whatever they call it."

"She's such a pretty girl, but not terribly feminine, is she?"

The voices were coming from over Jack's left shoulder, from just beyond the door onto the terrace. Two women, older women, were standing at the opening. He could just see their outlines in his peripheral vision.

"Well, what do you expect from military?" The first voice was higher pitched, and carried a trace of the South. "Nobody goes into the military thinking it's charm school."

"I'm surprised you're okay with this." This accent sounded more western—California, Jack would have guessed. "I certainly would have my doubts about a female soldier."

"Well, she did wear the dress that I picked out for her, so I guess there's hope there."

"And doesn't she look lovely? So sweet."

"Yes, like I said, she's pretty enough, but she walks like she's going into battle. And she doesn't talk very much. My Peter is so gregarious, and she's very shy. I just would have wished for more for him."

"Isn't she a scientist of some sort?"

"Something having to do with space and radar—she didn't say much about it." The voice carried a shrug—the implication that it didn't interest the speaker.

A waiter passed his table again, on his way out the door, and Jack could hear the tell tale clink of glasses being exchanged on the tray. The ladies were refueling.

"I can't imagine having the challenge that you're up against, Maureen."

"I know. Making her presentable before the wedding." A longsuffering sigh exploded forth from Southern Belle. "Peter has been taking on so much of the planning. She's been busy with her work—"

"Well that will have to change once they get married." California exclaimed.

"I don't think she's the housekeeping type. We went over to her house this afternoon when she wasn't there to drop off the dress, and the place was in disarray. I would have expected a military type to be more organized."

Jack seethed. This afternoon when she'd rushed back from Trust ship, the last thing on Carter's mind had been tidying up. She'd been trying to prevent the deaths of millions, attempting to return the 'Gate, and figuring out the Trust's plot having to do with symbiote poison and VX rockets. But of course she should have put out new potpourri beforehand. How careless of her. His seething turned to contempt.

"How did the two of them meet?"

"Her brother introduced them. You know that Peter had some trouble after high school. Mark Carter was one of those friends that helped him through. I suppose that Peter's being a police officer makes their relationship easier. He understands that type."

"But she is pretty."

"Yes. There is that." Unconvinced. That's what the voice really said.

"At least you'll have beautiful grandchildren. Beautiful tall grandchildren." They laughed together airily.

"Well, I should probably check on the caterering." Heels clipped against the deck flooring outside, and then padded on the carpeting inside. They passed right in front of Jack, who watched them go without moving his head. Pleased with themselves, dressed to the nines, they breezed through the crowd without noticing him. Not that they would approve of him, anyway.

He refocused his attention on Carter. Pete had moved away from her and was heading towards the bar again. Sam watched him go, and then bit her lip, glancing around the room. She smiled at a well wisher, and then searched the crowd again. Finally, her gaze found the General, at his solitary table. She peered over to the bar where Pete was chatting with the tender, then held up a hand in a brief wave to Jack. He waved back. She shrugged, indicating the crowd. He gave her a half hearted, two finger salute. And then Pete returned, and she looked away.

O'Neill stood abruptly and walked out of the room onto the terrace. The cooling night air had chased many of the guests back into the dining area, and Jack found himself a secluded spot at the edge of the terrace, outside the glow of the lights. The noise was dimmed a bit. He could breathe out here. He could hear his own thoughts. He could try to quell the urge to—what—grab her and take her away like a caveman? They'd done that already. It hadn't been fun.

"Do you mind if I join you?"

Her voice startled him. He turned to see her standing in his section of shadow.

"It's your party."

She hesitated before throwing a look over her shoulder. She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth. "I don't feel like it's really mine. I didn't plan any of it."

"I could have guessed that."

An awkward silence passed. "I should leave you alone. I'm intruding." She moved as if to leave.

"Carter."

"Yes, sir?"

"Stay." He indicated the nook he'd found. "I think that anyone would want to escape that crowd."

"I suggested O'Malley's, but Mrs. Shanahan wouldn't hear of it."

"You call your future mother-in-law Mrs. Shanahan?"

Carter grinned. "She's kind of scary."

"I know. I heard."

Sam shivered involuntarily.

"You okay?" He watched as she hugged herself, rubbing at her exposed upper arms. "Cold?"

"A little. I had a different outfit planned—but then Pete's mother—" She lamely faded. "Then I wore this."

O'Neill shrugged off his suit coat and handed it to her. "Here."

"I couldn't sir—"

"Take it. That's an order."

Sam regarded it, her tired eyes clouded. "I'd prefer it not be an order, sir," she took a deep breath. "I would prefer it just be something nice that one friend would do for another."

O'Neill watched her closely. He couldn't read her well for once—he didn't know exactly how she was feeling other than cold, tired, and pressured. He figured that was enough. He didn't want to add to her load. "Then take it—one friend to another."

"So we're friends again?"

"We've never stopped being that, have we?" He tried to smile benignly. "Alternate universes aside."

She shrugged and cocked her head. "I've just felt something different from you lately. Like you don't want me around anymore. It must be a General thing."

"Take the damn coat, Sam."

She held out one elegant hand and took the jacket. Their fingers brushed, and Jack had to force back images of a certain jogging trail, a certain other moment of feeling. He watched as she put the coat on, wrapping it around her slim body, her fingertips barely peeping out of the sleeves.

"Holy Hannah." Sam closed her eyes and settled into the warmth. "That's nice."

Jack watched as she revived a little. She didn't like being cold—there had been more than one time off world when she'd snaked his jacket or an extra shirt from his pack. A few of those shirts he'd never seen again. Sometimes, he wondered exactly where they were.

"Better?"

"Yes, thank you."

The night descended around them again. They tried not to look at each other, but failed. Finally, Carter met his eye. "I wouldn't be here."

"What?"

"'I wouldn't be here.' That's what you said. I got it right, didn't I? That you weren't interested in—us—any more?"

Jack's throat closed around any words he might have been able to say. He stared at her dumbly, hands in his pockets, perfectly still.

"Because I've been thinking that I misunderstood you. That's the only reason I can figure for how weird it's been. Between you and me."

"Carter, I—"

Steps sounded behind her, and a hand clamped down hard on her shoulder. Jack saw her try not to grimace in pain.

"Sam! Where have you been? It's time for toasts." Pete half turned her with pressure on her shoulder. She staggered slightly before catching her balance.

"Hey there, calm down, Shanahan. She's had a rough day."

"She's fine, Jack."

O'Neill inclined his head slightly, and narrowed his eyes. "I mean it. She's had a tough few days. Take it easy."

Pete raised a hand and pointed at Jack from around his bottle of beer. "Dude—you're not my boss. I can take care of my girl."

"Pete." Sam laid a hand on his arm. "Come on. Let's go and do the toasts."

For the first time since he'd joined them, Pete really looked at Sam. "Hey, Baby, what are you wearing?"

Baby? Jack fought the urge to dry-heave.

"I was chilly. The General loaned me his jacket."

"You should have come and found me. I would have loaned you mine."

"It's okay." Jack tried to sound friendly. Blow it off, he thought. He waved a hand randomly. "I don't need it."

But Pete reached out and flicked at the jacket's lapel, pushing it off her shoulder. "Give it back to the man, Sam." He smiled widely, nodding, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "He needs it, right General?"

Sam shrugged out of the coat and handed it back to Jack. She was struggling to keep the peace, trying not to make a scene. Already people were peering out the doors at them—Pete's ability to regulate his volume had decreased as his insistence grew.

"It's a jacket, Shanahan." Jack was proud of himself—that his voice maintained its lightness. "Not a big deal."

"Pete, come on. Let's go inside." She'd clearly never seen this part of her fiancé before. She caught O'Neill's eye. Silently between them passed an apology, a plea for understanding.

Jack folded the coat over his arm and tried to move past them, but Pete took a step toward him and grabbed his arm. He pulled the General close, and looked up at him. "She's with me now—you got that, old man?"

But Pete had gone too far, and Jack could take no more. Silently, he placed a hand square on Pete's shoulder and shoved him into the wall. Pete landed with a thud, and Jack pinned him there with a forearm across his upper chest, crowding Pete even further with his much larger body. He didn't speak, he merely glared down into Pete's face. The younger man's expression changed slowly from arrogance to fear as his struggling didn't do so much as loosen the General's grip. His breathing became quick and shallow. Still, O'Neill merely held him to the wall and pilloried him with a look.

"Sir." Sam spoke softly from behind them. "Sir—what are you doing?"

O'Neill ignored him.

"Jack, please."

O'Neill's eyes dipped slightly, then returned to bore into Pete's face. He leaned harder briefly, dipping his head to speak directly into the other man's ear. "Do we understand each other, Son?"

Pete let out a tortured breath. "Yes, Sir, we do." He swallowed hard, then gasped deeply when O'Neill suddenly let up on the pressure and stepped away.

Jack didn't look at Carter as he walked away, but he paused as he passed her. "I'm sorry, Carter, for everything. For misunderstandings." He glanced meaningfully over at Pete.

He didn't wait for a response before striding through the assembled spectators, down the steps of the deck, and into the darkness.

He wouldn't have liked anything she had to say, anyway.