Passing Go

"Do you think that Goa'ulds fart?"

She stirred next to him. They were laying on his couch, him on the bottom, her splayed half across him, halfway on what was left of the cushions. As comfort went, it wasn't great—as wonderful went, it was perfect.

"What?" She raised her head a little and peered at him. The wounded look was almost gone from her eyes.

"Goa'ulds. Do you think that they fart?"

"What in the name of all that's holy would make you ask that?"

"I asked Daniel a while ago, but he didn't know." He also hadn't wanted to discuss it, but Carter didn't have to know that part of the story.

She sighed, a move that further melded her body to his, and he decided right there and then that he liked it when she sighed. "Goa'uld farts. Holy Hannah, sir. Sometimes I wonder what goes on in your head."

She hadn't quite been able to get rid of the 'sir' yet—but then it had only been a little while. And sometimes, the 'sir' was endearing. Like when she'd said it at certain moments the night before. Certain really good moments. He'd suddenly found the 'sir' damn sexy.

And besides. He was still calling her 'Carter'—sometimes in those self-same good moments—so he figured it was okay. A rose is a rose, and all that.

"I think it would be a natural bodily function, but Daniel thinks that the snake would regulate digestion so that the passing of gas wouldn't be necessary." His fingers were making lazy circles on her shoulder—her bare shoulder—the most toned shoulder he'd ever seen or felt—with the softest skin in the history of shoulders. She had an almost permanent light bruise on the right one where she butted her combat weapon when she fired it. Somehow, that made her even more perfect.

Jack could almost hear her start thinking. "Well, my guess is that the symbiote would regulate and moderate some basic human processes—but I know for a fact that Dad used to let loose from time to time after he joined with Selmak, so my bet would be with farting Goa'ulds."

He grinned. And then, just because he could, he kissed her.

----OOOOOOO----

They'd stood on the patio for what seemed like hours—but in reality it had only been a few minutes. He'd gathered her into himself, held her close until her shivers had subsided. He remembered laying his cheek against the side of her head—feeling the silken thread of her hair against his skin. She'd spread her hands on his chest, then slid them down to rest at his waist. He'd lowered his head to the crook of her shoulder and inhaled her essence.

She was tall—he always forgot that about her. But then, they almost never stood like this—body pressed against body. Her eyes were almost at his level, and when he raised his head from her throat, he found her looking at him.

She studied his face, his eyes, his mouth. She drew a hand upward and lightly followed the scar hidden in his eyebrow. "I've never asked how you got that." She spoke quietly. "There's so much I don't know about you."

He swallowed, and then quirked that eyebrow. "You know the most important thing."

"What's that, sir?" She'd tilted her face up, her eyes still damp.

"That I'm yours."

Her hand stroked his temple, his jaw, fingertips lightly traced the line of his lips—a shadow of a smile on her own.

"I can't believe you'd still want me. I know I've hurt you."

"Isn't there a saying about bridges and water?"

"There is, but that would be a cliché." She smiled for real—that heartbreakingly beautiful smile that made him grateful that he was a man. "And I do know how you feel about clichés."

"Yes, well. There's another saying about spilled milk and crying."

She ran her tongue along her lips, and then framed his face with both hands. "I want to know something else about you." She said quietly, before raising herself up on her toes and pressing her lips to his.

He opened his lips and breathed her in, tasting her deeply, before she broke away. "I won't be able to stop—if we start this." Carter's hand had found its way into his hair, her fingers threading through the silver strands.

"Then we'd better go inside." He'd grabbed a handful of her sweater and led her there.

----OOOOOOO----

He supposed that her sweater was still where he'd dropped it—somewhere in the hall. They'd eventually ended up in his room, fumbling hands desperate to get at belts and buttons and closures. He knew a few of those buttons had wound up under his bed.

Right now, she was dressed in his clothes—one of his Air Force tanks and a pair of flannel pajama bottoms that a great aunt had mailed him years ago and he'd never worn. She'd never looked better.

And she'd never felt better. Draped across him like the most perfect blanket in the world.

"Although I suppose that the Tok'ra wouldn't meddle with human functions as much as a Goa'uld would. So, maybe Goa'ulds wouldn't need to whiff as much."

He snorted.

"What?"

"You just said 'whiff'."

"So?"

"That's the lamest euphemism for farting that I've ever heard." He couldn't help it. He started laughing.

"It's perfectly acceptable, as euphemisms go."

"No it isn't."

She used both hands on his chest to push herself upright. "There's no reason to laugh at me."

"Oh." He nodded in mock solemnity. "There's reason."

She reached up and grabbed the pillow that he'd stuffed between his head and the arm of the couch. Raising herself, she threw her leg over him and sat on his thighs. She whacked him with the pillow, which only made him laugh harder.

So she fought dirty. She leaned down and caught his mouth with her own, capturing his laugh, quelling it with a sudden rush of need. She shifted positions and ended up bumping noses with him, then smiled as his hand cupped the back of her neck and drew her back down to him. Several long, long minutes later she raised her head as his fingers did wonderful things on her back.

"I know something else about you." She flattened her hands on his stomach.

"What's that?" His attention was with tracing each of her vertebrae.

She leaned down over him and whispered in his ear. When she came back up, he'd raised a brow and was looking at her with new respect.

"Darn straight I don't need a bathtub." Levering himself with one leg, he flipped over and she ended up on her back on the area rug between the couch and the coffee table, with him looming over her. "Not when I've got a perfectly good floor."

----OOOOOOO----

He'd woken up to sun streaming through his windows, and a golden tousled head under his chin. He couldn't tell where her limbs ended and his began, and he thought it was the best possible way to wake up. So he drifted back to sleep so that he could wake up that way again.

The second time he opened his eyes, she was looking up at him, her elegant fingers idly memorizing his collarbone.

"Any regrets?"

"Why would I regret anything?" He'd been genuinely puzzled at the question.

She shrugged, looking up at him warily. "I don't know. I don't seem to have the best track record with men."

"Maybe you've been with the wrong ones."

"Maybe." Non committal. She licked her lips.

"Carter, you can't take this back." He turned onto his side, so that they faced one another, her head still pillowed on his arm. "I won't let you."

"I'm just saying—now you know. The mystery is over."

"What I said was true, Sam. Always."

She'd pulled the sheet up to her chin. "I just can't believe we're here. Like this."

"I can't believe you're finally going to go fishing with me."

"What are you talking about?"

"You promised—last night." He'd raised a hand and pushed some tangles behind her ears. Her short hair was impossibly messy. He'd only seen it this way after all-nighters off world, or after a nasty firefight. He decided he liked it better this way.

"No, I didn't." She batted at his hand.

"Yes, you did."

"When?"

"Somewhere between the 'oh, yes' and the 'more, more'."

And she'd smiled again, and turned the best shade of pink, and hidden her face behind the sheet. "I did not ever say that. Any of that."

But then his fingers wandered and eventually she found herself not saying it all again.

----OOOOOOO----

"What do you think about mucus?"

"I take it we're still on about the Goa'uld gross stuff?"

"Mucus."

"Boogers or phlegm?"

"Phlegm?" His eyes widened. "I hadn't even considered phlegm."

They'd returned to the couch, him sitting, her lying down with her head on a pillow on his lap, her feet crossed up on the opposite arm. He had one hand on her bare arm, the other in her hair.

"Because boogers, they've got. Niirti wiped her nose once."

"When was this?"

"She had me in that machine of hers, and I saw as she wiped her nose."

He hated thinking about that machine. Even today, some years later, those times he'd almost lost her filled him with dread.

"Maybe it just itched?"

She shook her head. "Nope. She wiped her nose, then wiped her hand on her dress. Boogers."

"Eeew." Jack grimaced. "That's kinda icky."

"Phlegm, now." She yawned widely, covering her mouth with the back of her hand. "Sorry—phlegm, now. I've never heard a System Lord cough."

"Me either."

They sat in thoughtful, companionable silence until Carter broke it.

"Yu burped once."

"Really?" His hand stalled where it was combing through her hair. "A real belch or just a little one?"

"It was a good one. Daniel told me about it—it was after they ate those symbiotes in that space station. When Daniel was under cover."

"And Lord Yu the Great belched?" He resumed his rhythmic administrations to her hair.

"What was it you said once? Better out than in?" Her eyes drifted shut. "Mmmmn. That feels nice, sir."

He smiled down at her. She was confusing him with Shrek. She must be tired, still.

And no wonder. She hadn't slept much the night before. Part of it was his fault—their fault. And part of it had been the nightmare that had racked her around two a.m. She had started breathing quickly, rapidly muttering about hiding, about the prototype. He knew immediately she was back at the old Alpha Site, running from the Super Soldier. He'd pulled her close and held her until the dream had faded.

And now she was sleeping quietly again. He watched her, a smile tugging at his lips. He had to remember this—capture each of these times in the album in his head. In a few short weeks they'd be separated again—not by rank this time, but by geography. He needed to take these minutes as he could get them, and commit them to memory.

The house sat quietly around him—silence only enhanced by the gentle breathing of the woman sleeping on him. For now, satisfaction blanketed him heavily—they had both fulfilled whatever physical needs had been driving through them. The only restlessness he felt now was the desire to make this—this new reality they'd found—permanent.

He'd been silently running ideas through his head. But how did one propose to a woman who had just bid goodbye to a different prospective husband, a team, and a father all within the space of a few days?

His own eyes drifted shut, only to open a few minutes later with a sound at the front door. He turned his head to see Cassie standing on the step in the entry way, her face beaming.

He raised a finger to his lips. "Don't wake her up." Even his whisper was too loud.

Cassie quietly crossed the room and sat on the edge of the coffee table. Her voice was as quiet as his. "How long has she been here?"

He tweaked his eyebrows. He hadn't even considered Cassie during the long, eventful night—his entire focus had been on Sam. Sheepishly, he rolled his eyes.

"All night?" Cassie was too quick for him. He couldn't hide anything from her.

"All right. Yes. All night."

Cassie grinned wide, her eyebrows rising suggestively. "Does this mean that the two of you are—"

"Apparently."

"Hot damn!"

"Cassie." Jack tried to sound disapproving, but she'd learned the phrase from him, so it came out a little lame.

Sam stirred. She stretched and smiled, reaching up to touch his face—as if to assure herself that he was still there. She stilled though, and then drew her hand back self consciously when she noticed the third party on the coffee table.

"Hey, Sam." Cassie wriggled her fingers.

"Hi, Cass."

"So I guess you two got your heads out of your butts."

Sam smiled. She moved to sit up, but gave up and just stretched like a cat, settling back onto her pillow. "I guess so."

"So what's next for you two crazy kids?"

Sam turned her head to look at Jack, who shrugged. "You're the genius, Carter."

The genius grinned. "Well, I will be in Nevada."

"You will."

"And there's this city there."

"The one with all the Elvises?"

"That's right." She patted his cheek as she would a child's. "And you've got some time off, and so do I."

"That we do."

"So I figure we could go there for a few days."

"Hang out."

"Relax."

"Meditate on the Goa'uld and their bodily functions."

"Get hitched." The hurt sadness that had clouded her eyes for weeks had fled, leaving a hopeful radiance. She caught his gaze, "And then I was thinking about this cabin I've heard about. And doing a little fishing."

Jack smiled, then ran the backs of his fingers down the perfect line that was her cheek.

"Well, spank me rosy."

"That could be arranged, too, sir."

"Oh my crap—people—there are rooms for this sort of thing."

They'd forgotten about Cassie. Both of them turned their attention back to her.

"I wanted to see you two together—I didn't want to see you two together, if you catch my drift." She pushed her hair, which now had streaks of what looked like glitter in it, behind her ear. "I'm glad this is happening here and all, but—geez."

"Oh, this bothers you now."

"It's a little surreal." Cassie pointed out.

"I walked in on you and Craig in the same position."

"But we're young—older people aren't supposed to just—go for it."

Jack tried to look innocent. "So, it would bother you if I just lay one on Carter right now—right here—say—like this—" And he bent slightly to demonstrate, tipping Sam's head back and claiming her mouth.

But he demonstrated too well, because he got lost somewhere along the way, lost in the feel and taste and wonder of the woman on his lap.

And neither of them heard the soft 'click' of the front door as Cassandra passed through it and closed it gently behind her. They didn't remember she'd even been there for a long, long time.