It all began innocently enough on a lazy Saturday morning in their kitchen. Jack sat at the table, engrossed in the newspaper, while Sam, still adjusting to life post-Atlantis, skimmed an article she had brought back with her. The unexpected turn of events—her removal from command in Atlantis and the subsequent decision by the IOA to replace her with Richard Wolsey, leading to them living together for the first time since their marriage—had brought about a period of adaptation.
Jack's foot casually played with Sam's bare calf under the table, a silent acknowledgment of the newfound domesticity they were navigating together. With breakfast concluded and time on their side, they reveled in the luxury of being together.
Jack's amused laughter suddenly pierced the quiet ambiance, drawing Sam's attention from her reading.
"What's so funny?" she inquired, her eyes still on the article before her.
Setting his paper down, Jack raised an eyebrow and shared the source of his amusement.
"The police found a guy in Iowa tied to a chair in his kitchen," he began, a grin playing on his lips.
Sam, momentarily distracted from her journal, looked up, intrigued.
"And?" she prompted.
"He was left there by his wife," Jack continued, the smile lingering.
Sam waited for the punchline.
"Why?" she asked.
Jack crossed his arms, maintaining the mischievous grin.
"He complained about her cooking skills. So, she drugged him, tied him up, and left," he explained.
Sam, attempting to suppress a smile, returned to her reading.
"His wife left him there because of cooking complaints?" she questioned, expecting a joke.
Jack shook his head.
"No joke. It's right here in the paper," he said, pointing to the article.
Curiosity getting the better of her, Sam reached for Jack's paper and perused the story.
"He didn't complain about her cooking. He said she tried to poison him," she corrected, raising an eyebrow at her husband.
Jack, undeterred, maintained his playful demeanor.
"He's alive, so bad cooking," he quipped.
Sam, trying not to smile, set the paper down.
"So, you're saying if she were a good cook, he'd be dead?" she questioned, eyeing him.
Jack, attempting to divert the conversation, cleared his throat.
"It's just a silly article, honey," he said sweetly.
Sam interlaced her fingers, fixing him with a pointed look.
"You didn't answer my question," she pressed.
Feigning innocence, Jack cleared his throat once more.
"I don't remember what it was," he claimed, hoping to escape the scrutiny. Meanwhile, his foot had retreated to safer grounds and was now resting on the floor next to the other one.
Unconvinced, Sam began drumming her fingers on the table—a sure sign, Jack had learned, that trouble was brewing.
"I don't believe you," she declared warningly.
"Fine, so she was a terrible cook, and he was an idiot who couldn't escape from some ropes," Jack finally admitted.
Sam looked at him silently for a moment, contemplating which aspect to address first. Taking a deep breath, she decided to begin with the cooking.
"If the article is accurate—and we know they can lack precision—he complained about an attempted poisoning. Poisoning can be done in various ways and disguised in food. It's not necessarily a result of bad cooking," she pointed out.
Jack swallowed hard; she had entered lecture mode, and that was never a good sign unless they were in bed, which they weren't. And in there, that was a lesson to be learned.
Future discussions about newspaper articles should always be taken while in bed.
Preferably naked, Jack silently noted in his brain.
"I said it was a stupid article, honey," Jack tried again, attempting to steer the conversation away.
Sam raised a finger, silencing him.
She hadn't finished.
"As for the ropes, if properly tied, a person cannot get out of them, as you know from experience. I recall quite a few instances where you were tied and unable to escape," she said, giving him a pointed look.
Now that Jack couldn't stay quiet.
"Wait a minute," he interjected, sitting straight in his chair. "What is that supposed to mean?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Sam crossed her arms, her gaze fixed on her attractive husband clad only in a white T-shirt and blue sweatpants.
"Are you suggesting I couldn't have escaped from those ropes?" Jack questioned with an indignant tone.
Sam smiled.
"Not if I was the one tying you up," she calmly replied.
Jack swallowed; the conversation was veering into unexpected territory.
"I was taught to get out of situations like that, Sam," he warned.
She smiled even more.
"Is that a challenge, honey?" she asked in the sweetest voice—one he liked to hear in different circumstances.
Against a better judgment, Jack decided to bite the bullet if he had been given proper thinking on the subject.
"Bring it on," he declared with confidence.
She gave him her mega-watt smile, and in that moment, Jack knew that whatever the outcome, it was well worth it. She got up and quickly left the kitchen.
Sam had ventured into their basement, rope in hand, nervously toying with it as she returned to find still Jack seated on one of their kitchen chairs.
"Are you sure, Jack?" she asked, her gaze fixed on him.
"Of course. You laid out the theory; now I have to correct it with practice," Jack replied confidently.
"And if you fail?" Sam inquired, still fidgeting with the rope in her hands.
"I won't, sweetheart," Jack assured her, displaying his smug demeanor.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
"I'm very good at this, Jack," she warned, a reminder of her proficiency in the skill.
Yet, with his years of training and confidence, Jack was undeterred.
"Go on, give it your best," he urged her.
Sam sighed, conceding, "Very well, stay still," as she began methodically tying him to the chair. They aimed to replicate the scenario depicted in the newspaper's lone photograph, with Jack's hands securely bound behind his back and each leg expertly restrained. As Sam finished, a bead of sweat traced down her forehead.
"Done," she declared, stepping back to admire her work.
Jack tested the restraints, acknowledging her skill.
"So now what?" he asked.
Sam rested one hand on the table, her gaze fixed on him. Swallowing hard, she instructed, "You try to get out."
"Any way I can?" Jack inquired, already contemplating black ops maneuvers.
"I hardly believe the Iowa man knew that smashing a chair would make it easier to get out of those ropes, Jack," Sam retorted, knowing his inclination too well.
Jack grinned.
"Come on, honey, I had to try," he said with a mischievous smile.
Sam crossed her arms.
"See if you can get out like a regular guy. No black ops training," she demanded.
Jack narrowed his eyes.
"That would be very difficult to do, Sam. It's ingrained in my mind and body."
Sam pondered momentarily, realizing he was right; eradicating that instinct from him would be challenging unless he was sufficiently distracted. A naughty thought crossed her mind. Looking at him all tied up in the middle of their kitchen, she wet her lips. It could work. It could work just fine.
"Jack, honey," she began, touching his shoulder.
All thoughts of escaping the ropes evaporated from Jack's mind as he felt her hand gently rest on his shoulder, her face drawing nearer.
"What if your mind was distracted with other things?" she whispered sensually into his left ear, teasing his earlobe with slow, deliberate movements.
Jack swallowed hard, a low groan escaping his throat.
"That...that wouldn't be fair at all," he managed to utter as her lips hovered inches from his neck.
Sam's hand began to caress his nape, and he couldn't help but close his eyes, surrendering to the intoxicating moment.
"Are you suggesting that you can't compartmentalize, General?" she inquired, her lips still tantalizingly close to his ear.
Jack opened his eyes to meet hers. She was pure mischief when she wanted to be.
"I can compartmentalize just fine," he asserted, licking his dry lips. "But fair warning, Colonel, when I get out of these, and I will get out of these, you'll regret those words," he added, his tone intimate despite the circumstances.
Sam bit her lip, a mischievous glint in her eyes.
"Then start working on it, General," she suggested, allowing her fingers to play with the hairs at the back of his neck.
The challenge hung in the air, promising a different escape that had nothing to do with ropes.