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Store Bought

The box was brown.

Square. Plain. Nondescript, but for a discreet bakery logo.

A far cry from the festively-decorated platters and pans arranged into an elaborate tableaux upon the tables. With a little grimace playing at the corners of his mouth, Jack made a cursory examination of the other offerings with their hand-printed placards.

Chocolate Crinkles.

Grandma's Gingerbread.

Thumbprint Cookies.

MaryAnn's Sugar Cookies.

Peanut Butter Morsels.

Ginger Snaps.

Pumpkin Rolls.

Cathedral Windows.

Chunky cookies and paper thin ones. Gingerbread men with candy for eyes and buttons and licorice laces. Chocolate squiggles, sugar snowflakes, fruit fillings, and plain shortbread. Unpronounceable pieces of art that looked as if they'd been carved, rather than merely cut. Powdered sugar. Meringue. Sprinkles. So many, many sprinkles. Enough frosting to caulk the men's showers.

And then there was the plain brown box.

The tiny card standing in front of it had been pulled out of the SGC's brand-spanking-new laser printer an hour or so before. Right around the time that Carter had shoved the box at him and told him where to stick it.

In the literal—not the colloquial—sense.

He hoped.

But then—one never knew about Carter these days. Things had been a little off ever since they'd gotten back from Netu. She'd been quieter than normal. Withdrawn. Less likely to smile, and more likely to hole up in her lab alone. In some ways, the injury she'd sustained the next week when the SGC had been infiltrated by aliens had been a blessing. There'd been a good reason to stand down for a while. Give her some time to heal. To regroup, maybe.

Obviously, she hadn't spent that time in the kitchen.

Jack's mood darkened. Nothing fancy decorated that little card. Just the words "Chocolate Chip" in 24-point Times New Roman and a neat, knife-sharp fold at the top. Jack had handed both the box and its identifying marker over to the appropriate member of the activities committee, who'd regarded the box with a cool glare and then given him a pained sort of smile. Jack hadn't thought twice about her reaction. He often had that effect on women.

He'd wandered back into the Mess a few minutes ago—just to scout out the spread. The place looked as if an elf had exploded in it. Christmas decor lay thick upon every conceivable adornable place. Wreaths and garlands hung on the walls, and red and green plastic tablecloths had replaced the usual blue cloth ones. In the center of each table sat a miniature Christmas tree, complete with ornaments and lights, and multi-colored glowing bulbs draped in artful swags from the ceiling.

Some enterprising soul had even suspended mistletoe from the door frame and several of the light fixtures. Regulations be damned.

The majority of the personnel still on base appeared to be present, too—most wearing some form of festive attire. Funny holiday sweaters, headbands with jingle bells or antlers, and Santa hats seemed to be everywhere. Every seat at every table was taken—and still more folks mingled between the tables and around the outer edges of the Mess. Some held mugs—preferring to stick with the Mess's sludgy coffee rather than risk it with whatever was in the punchbowl at the other side of the room.

Happy chattering filled the air, completely drowning out whatever music was being piped in through the base's ancient sound system. It had been a rough few weeks, what with everyone on base being duplicated and strung up from the ceiling like pinatas. Hell. They were still painting and patching up the walls from when the aliens had detonated in the 'Gateroom. The crew and staff were all due for a little diversion. It was Christmas. Or—at least—almost Christmas. The day before Christmas Eve. Christmas Eve Eve. Or something.

Jack scooted his way to the wall just inside the entryway—slipping behind the main body of revelers. Looking around, he found Hammond, standing on the business side of the cookie table next to Walter and his omnipresent clipboard. A quartet of civilians hovered nearby—Jack recognized them from the administrative offices. Probably the founding members of the Cookie Committee. The portly madam to whom he'd handed the box presided over a display a few feet from the cookie table. Paper plates, cups, and napkins. The necessities.

A scan around the room told him that Carter hadn't arrived yet, nor had Daniel. He had no idea whether Teal'c was done with his meditation or not—but no swarthy tattooed foreheads could be seen above the crowd, either. Frowning, Jack scratched at his chin, then looked back at the plain brown box. Something felt—wrong. What it was, he couldn't have said. Undone. Looming. Off.

Just—wrong.

"Who brought the bakery cookies?"

"One of the officers, I think."

Jack ducked his chin, angling an ear towards the speakers. They were standing right in front of him. Non-coms—young enlisted men with shiny new stripes. He was pretty sure that he recognized one of them from the MALP Bay. Or maybe it was maintenance. It didn't really matter where they worked on base. Only that they were apparently unaware that one of the most officer-y officers in the whole damned mountain lurked just behind them.

Which explained why they just kept right on running their yaps.

"From an SG team?"

"Pretty sure it's SG-1." The airman cocked an eyebrow at his friend. "Kimberly told me that she saw O'Neill hand the box over to Joy."

"Isn't that—like—against the rules?" This one had a dark crew cut and looked as if he were fresh out of puberty.

The other one was older. A little ruddy and freckled, with hair that was a shocking shade of orange. "Do those muckity-mucks ever actually play by the rules? You know how it works. They bark and we all jump to attention."

"But still. Store-bought cookies." Dark hair snorted. "And not even fancy ones."

"Right? Chocolate chip? Those don't even register as Christmas cookies."

"They should get disqualified."

"Totally." Red shoved a spindly hand through his hair, then tried to mitigate the damage with some squirrely little primping. "But you know they won't."

"Of course not. They're the CO's favorites."

Don't register? Disqualified? What the hell?

"It's not like it's a contest, right?" Jack hadn't meant to ask the question. The words came out of his mouth nearly as soon as they'd popped into his fron.

He'd only heard about this shin-dig in passing yesterday—as he'd wandered the halls looking for something to do or someone to bother. He'd passed a bulletin board near the infirmary and been intrigued by the colorful flier.

First Annual Cheyenne Mountain Christmas Cookie Extravaganza!

Someone had gone crazy with the clip-art, plastering the page with candy canes and other festive crap. Times and dates and other words had been artfully arranged on the page—but he'd ignored most of the persnickety bits.

Cookies, he'd eat.

Festive holiday parties that required him to actively participate? Hard pass.

He hadn't thought about it again until he'd run across Hammond later that afternoon. The General had strongly encouraged O'Neill to make certain that SG-1 was represented on the table.

Strongly.

The General repeated himself a few times, in fact. Each iteration slipping more deeply into his native Texan drawl.

Even Jack knew that the old man meant business. There must be cookies.

So, he'd done what any wise superior officer would do in such a situation. He'd delegated the job. Daniel had already left the Mountain by the time he'd finished with Hammond, and Teal'c had been in kel'norim-land for most of the day—so, he'd wandered into Carter's lab and assigned it to her.

She hadn't argued or even flinched. She'd merely glanced up at him from over her microscope eye-thingies and blinked.

He'd taken that as a 'yes.' And then, he'd mentally checked the whole damned thing off his list.

"Didn't you read the flier?" Dark Hair threw his head back in overexaggerated exasperation. He didn't look at Jack before snorting. "It literally says it's a contest, bro."

Red passed a broad smile towards his friend, tilting his head diagonally backwards to add, "Yeah, Dillweed. Don't you know how to read?"

Jack's brows rose precipitously. He took a moment, watching as the two non-com-nitwits grinned snarkily at each other before clearing his throat. "That's Colonel Dillweed to you, Sergeants."

Instantly, the two airmen whirled around, then took involuntary steps backwards before pulling themselves into overwrought attention. Jack could practically hear their asses clenching.

"Beg your pardon, Sir." Red spoke first, his cheeks nearly as ardent as his hair. He swallowed heavily before sucking in a pained breath. "We didn't know who we were speaking to, Sir."

Jack crossed his arms across his chest, glaring at each airman in turn. "To whom."

Dark Hair's eyes narrowed. "Sir?"

"That sentence should have been, 'We didn't know to whom we were speaking.'" O'Neill dragged it out, relishing their discomfort just a little too much. "I could explain about prepositions and direct objects, but I'm pretty sure it'd just go over your heads."

"Yes, Sir." Red swallowed again—more tightly this time. "We're sorry, Sir."

"Of course you are." Jack frowned. "But you were saying something about the flier?"

"The contest, Sir." Dark Hair jerked his head nervously towards the table behind him. "It's a homemade cookie competition."

Jack mulled that over before scowling. "Why?"

"Why what, Sir?"

"Why is it a contest?"

"Dunno, Sir." Red shrugged a single shoulder. "It just is."

"I'm pretty sure there was a memo, Sir." Dark Hair offered. "It got sent last week. Something about providing some holiday cheer for the staff who'd been assigned to work holiday shifts. That's when I called my mama back in Oklahoma and asked her to send me a batch of her special Chocolate Reindeer Chow."

There were chocolate reindeer? And they produced chow? Jack frowned. That sounded singularly unappetizing.

"Anyway, Sir." Red barreled ahead. "Each team or division was supposed to represent by submitting a batch of cookies to the contest."

"So, your Caramel Bison stuff—"

"Chocolate Reindeer Chow, Sir."

"Whatever." Jack rolled his eyes—just a little—before nodding towards the dessert-laden tables. "That's your entry into this cookie competition."

"I'm proud to be representing my team in the MALP Bay, Sir." Red pulled back his shoulders, standing a little taller. His ruddy cheeks plumped up a bit as he smiled.

"I'm sure you are, Sergeant." With a narrow glare, Jack nodded. "Well, good luck."

"Thank you, Sir."

They'd said it in unison, both young airmen standing there as if glued to the linoleum. Even as other party-goers jostled around them, they just—stood there. Obviously, they needed a push.

"Shoo." With a random wave of his hand, O'Neill dismissed them, barely even watching as they fled towards the opposite side of the room.

He could still see it—the brown box amidst all the festive dross at the front of the room. Even from his position, he could make out the logo on the front of the box, directly beneath the cellophane-lined window. No wonder the committee member had frowned at him. She thought he'd been trying to pass off bakery cookies as homemade.

"Colonel O'Neill."

How Jack had missed Teal'c arriving was a mystery. One minute he was staring at a box, and then next, the large Jaffa was settling in next to him against the wall.

Biting back another frown, Jack nodded at his friend. "T."

"I was unsure what to expect from this event."

"You and me both."

Teal'c's countenance reflected interest along with vague amusement. "However, this Cookie Extravaganza has been, thus far, most enjoyable."

Jack's brows lifted. "Oh really?"

"I was asked by General Hammond to assist him in tasting and assessing each of the entries." He cocked his head to one side with a smile. "Some of them were quite flavorful."

"What were 'quite flavorful'?"

And now, Daniel. Scooching past a bevy of white-coated scientists wearing matching Santa hats, the archaeologist came to a halt in front of Jack. He'd donned a colorful sweater for the occasion—green with white and red stripes. Even his glasses had embraced the holiday, his lenses reflecting the lights blinking around the place.

"The cookies, Daniel Jackson." Teal'c's smile broadened. "General Hammond requested that I act in the capacity of a judge."

"Why you?" Daniel's eyes widened. "I mean—no offense, but you don't know anything about Christmas cookies."

"No offense taken." The Jaffa inclined his head in that way he had. "General Hammond mentioned something about my palate, and how it is neither biased nor over accustomed to such delicacies. He felt that my unfamiliarity with the offerings would be a benefit in choosing the entry most deserving of honor."

Jack looked down at his boots. They were shinier than normal—unsurprising, really, given the fact that they hadn't been off-world since the whole situation with the foothold situation a few weeks ago. He'd considered heading up to Minnesota for the holidays—but with Carter still banged up from her run-in with one of the aliens and her father having recuperated in the infirmary only to immediately head off into the universe again, he'd decided to stick around.

The fact that neither Daniel nor Teal'c had factored into said decision didn't mean anything. Nope. Nothing at all. At least, that's what he told himself when he caught himself thinking about her. Because—really—he shouldn't be. Not as often as he did.

He scuffed at the floor with the toe of that shiny boot, willing himself not to ponder the significance of that fact. Or, perhaps, just pondering the significance of her. Just how much she filled of his pondering time these days should be—um—pondered.

"I'm sure it was an added bonus that you don't have to worry about all those additional calories." Daniel grinned, folding his arms across his chest and rocking back on the heels of his loafers. "There are a lot of cookies up there."

"Indeed there are, Daniel Jackson." Teal'c sent a measured look in the direction of the table. "The General and I shared each competing cookie. He consumed one half, and I consumed the other."

"So?" Daniel scrunched up his eyebrows, casting a pointed look in Teal'c's way. "Which one was the winner?"

"That information is not for me to disseminate."

"Ah." Daniel pivoted, backing into place between Jack and Teal'c. "So, Jack? What kind of cookie did we enter?"

Jack scowled. "Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Nothing." Lifting a single shoulder, Jack tried to play it off. "I asked Carter to bring some cookies in, but she went to a bakery instead of just making some."

"And?" Clearly, Daniel was just as ignorant as to the actual parameters of the event as was Jack.

"And it's supposed to be a homemade cookie contest."

The light dawned. Daniel's eyes widened as his lips pulled into a tight 'o'. "And if she purchased the cookies, then they can't be part of the competition."

"Right."

"Why didn't she make the cookies?"

"I don't know, Daniel." Jack sent another look around the place, but no familiar blond head could be seen. Maybe she wasn't going to come at all. That bothered him more than it should have. "Maybe she doesn't know how to bake."

"Doesn't know—" Daniel snorted. "Who doesn't know how to bake?"

"Lots of people, I'm sure."

"Baking's easy. You follow the recipe and shove it in the oven and—voila! You've baked."

"There's more to it than that, Daniel." Not that he was an expert, but Jack could handle himself around a mixer. Hell—he even owned a set of measuring cups. And spoons. And actual ingredients, rather than dough one squeezed from a tube.

"Not much more. I mean—even I can bake."

"Oh really?"

"I make a mean snickerdoodle."

"I'm not sure that's something to be bragging about there, buddy."

"I'm just saying that it's not that difficult."

Jack glared past Daniel just in time to see Carter walk through the doorway. Like O'Neill, she'd left her festive garb at home. Dressed in BDUs and her normal boots, the only nod she'd made to the holiday appeared to be a little extra color on her lips. Gloss. Or stick. Or something. Not that he noticed.

Pausing, she looked around until she'd found her posse, aiming herself in their direction with a sparse, wan smile on those shiny lips.

"Hey, guys." Not ebullient, but not morose, either. She'd shoved her way through the crowd until she stood in front of her team.

Daniel gave her a quick once over before speaking. "Hey, Sam. Merry Christmas Eve Eve."

"Merry Christmas what?"

"Christmas Eve Eve."

It felt incumbent upon O'Neill to point out reality. "That's not a thing."

Just as Daniel felt it needful to be contrary. "Sure it is. The day before Christmas is Christmas Eve, so it follows that the day before Christmas Eve is Christmas Eve Eve."

"So, yesterday was Christmas Eve Eve Eve?"

"Sure—it's—"

"Major Carter." Teal'c's voice rose above the fray, effectively quashing further quibbling. "You appear to be feeling better today."

"Yeah." She raised a hand to touch her ribcage, a little less gingerly than a day or two before. "I think I'm just about healed up."

"Good. Great." Daniel ducked his chin, eyeing her over the rims of his glasses. "So, Sam."

Damn it. The Bespectacled One was gearing up to do his annoying thing. Jack could feel it in his bones. "Let it be, Daniel."

"Let what be, Colonel?" Carter cast a fleeting glance at Daniel before returning her gaze to O'Neill.

But Jackson was clearly not going to do as he'd been told. "Jack here was just telling us that you don't know how to bake."

Shaking his head, Jack gestured in Daniel's direction. "I didn't say that."

"Yes, you did."

Damned Daniel and his big blabbermouth. Jack narrowed his eyes at the younger man with a meaningful raise of his eyebrows. "No, Daniel. I didn't."

"You did so."

"I did not." Clipped. Over-enunciated. Jack's voice was sharp enough to be heard clearly over the melee of humanity in the room.

"I asked you why she'd bought cookies, and you said—and I quote—" Daniel squinted towards the ceiling, as if he needed to forage around in his memory for the exact right reference. "'Maybe she doesn't know how to bake.'"

Carter turned towards Jack, her cheeks a little paler than they'd been a few moments before. "Why would you think that, Sir?"

"I didn't."

"It was a direct quote, Jack."

"All right." With a groan, he rolled his eyes. "I was merely postulating a theory as to why you went to a bakery for the cookies rather than—you know—"

Jack shrugged, his voice trailing away.

Those blue, blue eyes regarded him steadily for a little too long before she turned away. Before she threw a quick look at the table and the brown box, then scanned Teal'c—then Daniel—before returning to peer at Jack again.

"Rather than what?"

Jack O'Neill had learned a few things over his forty-odd years of life. Cooking. Laundry. Basic survival skills. How to install a bathroom faucet. What to do with a busted tent zipper. How to change out the transmission in a 1967 Mustang with a basic 289-cubic inch V-8.

One thing he'd never figured out was how to interpret that face. The one that Carter was making right now. The mixture of indignation and disbelief that edged closer to hurt than fury. He clamped his lips shut and looked away, shoving his hands deep into his pockets to keep from reaching out to touch her. Because his first instinct was to hug her—and that instinct was as sure as hell wrong.

"Rather than what, Sir?" Her tone was right there, too—on an edge he'd never even heard before. "Rather than take the time and effort—not to mention the mess—of baking cookies for an event that I wasn't planning on attending and didn't even know about until the day before it was supposed to happen?"

"Come on, Carter."

"You ordered me to bring some cookies, Sir." Her expression had turned tense—the fine line of her jaw sharpening as she hissed a breath inward. "I brought cookies."

Okay. Jack clenched his jaw for a beat before inclining his head. "I didn't mean it like that."

Her clear blue eyes widened. "Then how did you mean it?"

"Carter—I—"

Daniel stepped closer. "Sam—"

But she ignored both of them, her lips thinning."For the record, it's not that I can't bake—it's that I don't bake."

"Carter—"

"I hate baking. Despise it, actually. And you would know that if you'd taken the time to ask me, rather than automatically assign the kitchen chores to the girl."

O'Neill opened his mouth to respond, but before he could, an electronic squawk echoed through the sound system, followed by a collective groan from the assembled throng.

"Okay, people. Settle down." Hammond tapped at the microphone, waiting as the crowd quieted. "Let's get this shindig started."

A smattering of applause rippled through the room, but O'Neill barely heard it, so focused was he on the Major. She'd gone still, her body radiating a nervous sort of energy that he'd only seen right before they'd entered a combat zone.

"Hey, Sam." Daniel's voice had gentled. "It was a joke. We were just being stupid. We're all sorry."

But Carter merely smiled—for the first time in ages, actually—but the expression lacked any sort of humor and didn't reach her eyes. With a slight shake of her head, she stepped away. And even though Daniel moved towards her, it was too late.

She'd already pivoted towards the door and fled.

X X X

"Sir."

She wasn't expecting anyone—much less him. That much was obvious by her tone as well as the slight frown she gave him. "What are you doing here?"

She hadn't strung lights on her eaves, or even stuck a wreath on her door. Her porch light wasn't even on—leaving her little house a dark space between the holiday extravagance of her neighbors.

Jack glanced over her shoulder into the depths of her house. The front hallway was dark, but lights glowed just beyond the arch between her formal dining room and the kitchen. "I just thought that I should check up on you."

A little wrinkle formed just above the bridge of her nose. "Check up on me?"

"After the thing today." He sucked in a bracing sort of breath before exhaling. "The cookie thing."

Something undefinable flared across her features. She drew the door open a little wider and leaned against the jamb, pulling her sweater more tightly around her body. Even in the darkness, the blush creeping up her cheeks was visible. "It's no big deal, Sir."

She looked wary—cautious. As if she were contemplating a new bit of alien technology. As if she were trying to formulate a strategy. As if she were deciding whether to believe him.

Jack pressed his lips together as he studied her for a moment. "I'm pretty sure it is, Carter."

Her street wasn't busy, really. Her little house sat in the center of a quiet street across from a modest park. It was one of the older communities in the Springs. One of the simple, affordable neighborhoods that had sprouted up after World War II. What it lacked in decent parking, it made up for in tranquility.

He'd been there several times over the past few years—most recently while her father had been staying with her after the near-disastrous events on Netu. Jacob had spent a couple of days in the infirmary—preferring to recuperate near his daughter rather than travel back to Vorash. He'd spent a full week Earthside before the Tok'ra leadership had summoned him back.

Near the end of that week, Jack had figured that the father/daughter bonding time was probably running its course, so he'd headed over to the Carter abode bearing pizza, his chess set, and a case of Heineken. He'd casually invited himself in for the evening.

He'd hoped that Carter would have used the opportunity to take a break from caring for her father—get caught up on anything she'd been neglecting—take some time for herself—but she'd simply planted herself on the couch next to Jacob and watched the game. To her credit, she'd only kibbitzed a few times—gently nudging her father to move a specific piece or make a certain play in order to extend the match. Between them, the Carters had beat him, but just barely.

It had felt—good. Supremely right to be in her space, in her life. More comfortable than it should have been, at least. He'd felt her eyes on him more than once—quietly assessing or simply watching. Which it was, he wasn't certain, and it didn't matter. But whenever he'd caught her at it, her cheeks had turned pink and she'd immediately looked away.

Just like she was refusing to meet his eye now.

"We lost, just so you know."

Carter seemed very focused on the precise positioning of the sleeves on her wrists. "Oh."

"Siler's wife made these peanut butter chunk things that were dipped in chocolate."

"Mmm."

"They were pretty good."

"Oh?"

"Well, at least Teal'c and the General thought so."

"But then—you know how Teal'c feels about nuts."

Stoic. Her lip might have twitched, but that was unconfirmable.

"Legumes, actually." He had to think about that a little too long, endeavoring to ignore her keen blue gaze. "Peanuts are legumes."

She didn't even bother responding to this, merely standing in the doorway with her sweater gathered around her like armor. There went her jaw again—clenching and unclenching in a steady rhythm.

Jack contemplated her for a moment—taking in her stance—how she was balanced on the balls of her bare feet as if preparing to flee. At how cautious her eyes were. At the paleness of her lips and cheeks, even as angry color crept up her throat.

He inhaled sharply. "For the record, I didn't ask you to make the cookies because you're a woman."

She didn't meet his eyes, glancing instead off into the distance—at his truck on the street, maybe, or the park beyond. Her body was telling him more than her words—she wanted him to leave. She was supremely uncomfortable with his presence here, on her front porch with the night already thick around them and the air feeling thin and cold on their skin.

Nevertheless, she didn't shut the door. That boded well, didn't it?

"I only asked you because I didn't want to do it. Hammond was busting my chops about it, and I just wanted to foist the job off on someone else."

She worried at her bottom lip with her teeth, peeping up at him from beneath her eyelashes. "Oh?"

"Daniel had already left, and it's not like Teal'c has a kitchen."

"No, he doesn't."

"You were still in your lab, so—" he trailed off with a shrug.

"So you saddled me with it."

"I didn't know about your rather vehement aversion to baking, or I would have just done it myself."

She met his eyes—steadily searching as if trying to divine the truth. Finally, she just asked. "Really?"

"I swear." Making an attempt at a smile, Jack took a small step towards her. "I may be an ass, but I'm not a complete jerk."

She tilted her head downward, biting back a smile. It seemed to take her a while to find her words, and when they came, they emerged softly. "You're not an ass, Sir."

It was his turn to pause. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I'm sorry."

She didn't respond immediately, nor did she look at him. But all of a sudden, she surprised him by straightening and sliding the front door wide with a smooth movement of her foot. Without a word, she backed into her house, leaving the door open in a tacit invitation.

An invitation that Jack shouldn't have accepted, but did anyway. He stepped through the doorway and into the narrow hall of her entry, closing the door behind him.

Carter watched as he shrugged out of his jacket before making a random wave towards the kitchen. "Can I get you something? Coffee? A beer?"

"No." O'Neill followed her movements as she made her way into her kitchen. He stopped next to the kitchen island. "Thank you."

"Whiskey?"

Tempting. But he tilted her a smile and shook his head. "No."

She'd settled in for the night—that much seemed apparent by her clothing. Not quite pajamas—but soft and form-fitting. Tights—the kind that some women wore to the gym or yoga—and a knit shirt over which she'd flung a thick, floofy sort of cardigan. Her feet were bare—high-arched and pale against the heavy tile of the floor.

"I was just reading." She nodded towards her couch, where a book and a steaming mug sat on the end table. "If I'd known you were coming, I would have cleaned up a little."

Jack suppressed a smile at that. The place was spotless, but for a few plates stacked on the counter next to the sink. Even the book was neat—a novel, surprisingly—rather than a textbook—hardback, with the dust cover still pristine. If he squinted, he could read the title. Sense and Sensibility. Austen. Interesting.

"I wasn't sure what to expect." He laid the jacket over the back of the nearest bar stool. "I was a little afraid that you'd meet me at the door with an uzi."

She pretended to consider. "I don't actually have one of those. A twelve-gauge? Now, that might have sufficed."

"You would have been well within your rights."

The lights over the kitchen sink glinted off her hair as she shook her head. "I must have seemed like a lunatic."

"No." Jack backed up a step. "You had a point. I handled it badly."

"We both did."

"So, there's that."

"There's that."

The kitchen island stretched between them like a chasm. A bulwark between warring factions. A neutral zone for peace talks, perhaps. Or, maybe, just a kitchen island between two people who had already perfected the art of putting up walls.

Jack pressed his lips tightly together and backed up a few steps, making a cursory scan of the room. "No decorations?"

"Decorations?"

"Yeah." Jack wandered into the little sitting room, taking in the couch, the hearth, and the area rug. The book, and the rapidly cooling mug, and the absolute dearth of anything even remotely festive. "No tree. No tinsel. No baubles."

"Baubles." She'd taken a different route, around the opposite end of the island and past the dining room table. Coming to a halt on the rug, she followed his gaze around the room.

"Ornaments. Stockings. Lights."

"There really isn't any point, is there?" With a quick shrug, she reached for the mug. Cupping it between her palms, she looked at him. "It's not like there's anyone to see it."

"You'd see it."

"But it's just me."

"Don't you deserve to be festive?"

Her eyebrows rose slightly. "Is your house decorated?"

Ah, touché. Jack felt himself give her a sheepish grin. "Point taken."

"Sir—"

"I should go—"

They'd spoken at the same time, then stopped themselves immediately to retreat back into unsteady silence.

Jack raked his hand through his hair, then tried to mitigate the damage with a few random moves of his fingers. Finally, he gave up, looking sheepishly back over to find her watching him. Her eyes had lost the haunted look from earlier, and glimmered a little in the ambient light of the lamp on the end table.

Amused. She looked amused. Even her voice had eased. "Stay."

"I really didn't want to impose on you." Glancing downward, he studied where his boots made thick shapes against the plush nap of her rug. "I just came to apologize."

Taking a sip, Carter savored the liquid, watching it swirl in her cup. She was preparing herself to say something. Jack knew her well enough to know that much. So, settling back on his heels, he simply waited.

When she was ready, she swallowed, then dabbed at the corner of her lips with her thumb. "It was the cookies."

"Cookies?"

"It's the first thing I saw when Martouf put that thing on me."

"You remembered cookies?"

"Yeah, I did." Carter lifted the mug to her mouth, but didn't drink this time, merely inhaled as the steam wafted up towards her face. "The day that my mother died, I was waiting for her to take me to a club meeting. There was an astronomy group that met at the library every Thursday evening. I'd volunteered to bring treats that night. My mother was supposed to be home in time to help me decorate the cookies and take me to the library."

But she'd been killed in an accident instead. Jack hadn't ever heard the whole story, but he'd gathered the pertinent bits and pieces as he'd watched Carter sort through her past in the hold of the cargo ship.

"When she didn't come home, I rolled out the dough that she'd made and cut the cookies." Her face had gone paler, now. More drawn, her eyes cloudy. "By the time my father got home, I'd just finished baking the last pan."

And even though he was fairly sure where Carter was going with this, he knew she needed to say it, so he simply waited for her to continue.

"I was—just standing there. In the kitchen. And he told me that she was dead." She looked down at the liquid in her mug. "I still had oven mitts on."

That was the thing about loss. You remembered the mundane more than the profound. He could still recall which shirt he was wearing when he'd learned his own mother had died. The exact color of Sara's handbag on the day she'd told him she was leaving. The precise shade of the roses next the house the day—

Anyway.

He had to clear his throat to respond. "I'm sorry."

"The thing is—I blamed myself for years. If I'd been less concerned about the damned cookies as I was worried about the fact that she hadn't come home, I might have been able to save her." Pacing towards the fireplace, Carter caught his gaze. "I could have contacted my father. I could have reminded him that he needed to go pick her up, then she wouldn't have gotten into that cab. If I hadn't been so focused on the cookies, my mother would still be alive today. If. If. If."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know that." A single dimple dented her cheek as she flashed a sad smile at him. "I do. Intellectually, I know that."

"But emotionally, it's a harder sell."

"I was thirteen." She did take a sip, then, taking her time with the process. "Everything's an emotional hard sell at that age."

Jack worked his way through that, watching as she took another long draught and swallowed. "And so, you associate baking cookies with losing your mother."

Carter nodded. "I know it doesn't make any sense. But it's funny how the mind works. Memories are formed with neural pathways within the brain. Those memories are archived in sequences—and specific stimuli will activate the appropriate neurons and cause you to re-experience those events to varying degrees."

"And that little disc thingy that Martouf used on you—"

"It was very, very effective." There went that melancholy smile again. "It brought it all back. I could smell the fresh cookies—feel the heat of the oven—just as acutely as I could feel the pain of losing my mother."

Outside, he could hear cars passing on the street, and a dog barking somewhere in the distance. The refrigerator was humming, and the furnace had kicked on again. Even though darkness had fallen, he could see that the wind had picked up outside—the trees outside her kitchen window were flailing in the gusts.

Turning, she settled her cup on the mantel, carefully situating it just so. But she didn't face him, staring instead at the mug—at the painted motif of a cat wearing a Santa hat. "But it's all jumbled up in my head now. My past. Her past. My memories and hers—they've all become meshed together."

"With the Tok'ra's." Jack said the name carefully. "With Jolinar's."

With a slow nod, she lifted a hand and tucked her hair back behind her ear. "And sometimes it's really difficult to differentiate whose past I'm remembering."

"What do you mean?"

Her cheeks pinkened up again. "When I couldn't get to her memories, Martouf prompted me to think about a specific night that he and Jolinar had shared."

"Right." He'd bristled, listening to the Tok'ra lead Carter through it. Even though Jack had no right to resent it, he had. It had seemed more than a little self-serving for the guy to take Carter to such a personal, evocative memory, rather than one that was more benign. "That had to have been weird."

"It was—utterly bizarre to see it all so vividly." Carter folded her arms again, leaning back against the mantel. "The thing is—it seemed like my own memory, and not hers. Even now—I can feel what she felt for him. The passion. The devotion they shared. Even though I'm not attrac—"

But she stopped herself, fading into an awkward silence.

Jack looked down at the hearth. And further down, to where her bare toes made indentations in the rug. He'd wondered—even though he'd tried not to. Ultimately, it wasn't any of his damned business who she wanted, but he hadn't been able to help but wonder just how far the regard that Carter felt for the Tok'ra went.

And then he was ashamed at how relieved he was that she didn't return Martouf's more-than-obvious feelings for her. He had no right having any kind of opinion about what she felt for anyone else. No business feeling anything about her at all.

She didn't seem to notice his consternation, starting up again with a grimace and a harsh sigh. "Anyway. I honestly can't remember if some things happened to me or if they're her memories that now exist in my head. It's hard to distinguish her life—her experiences—from mine."

"And you can feel it all—just as if you'd actually lived it."

She stood silent for a moment, her mouth tight, her eyes shadowed. Finally, she looked up at him. "I don't know how she survived what she went through there. I could barely endure the memory of it. And now I have to live with all of it in my head."

And Jack had scarcely been able to bear her screams. He still heard her when he went through the mission in his mind. Could still see the tears that she'd rushed to swipe away. He still fantasized about putting that rat bastard Bynar into a sarcophagus just so that he could bring him back to life and kill him again.

When he spoke, he was careful to modulate his tone. "I hated watching you go through all of that again, Carter."

Her expression fell a little, turning melancholy. Or just contemplative. "It's the job, isn't it?"

No. No. Not that. Recon—sure. All that science-y stuff that she did—yes. Confronting the enemy and killing off alien bad guys—absolutely. Having a stranger's life essentially downloaded into one's brain? Suddenly being inundated with feelings that weren't one's own? Being forced to relive someone else's torture?

No.

But it was their reality, wasn't it? It was what happened to people who did what they did. "I guess."

"Just before you came into my lab, I had been talking to my brother."

"Mark." More for his own benefit than hers. He often had to ground himself when she was talking. Following her light-speed brain was tough on a good day, let alone after a long one.

"He and Heather—that's my sister-in-law—were at a wedding and ran into some friends of ours from high school." She made her way to the couch, turning and sitting next to the Austen novel. Picking it up, she fanned through the pages with her fingertips. "One friend in particular."

"Mark's older than you are, right?"

"By a few years." Carter touched the tassel on the bookmark. "And he and all of his jock friends used to hang out at our place. Dad was gone all the time, and—well, you know."

He did. With their mother gone, their place probably became the party house—the gathering place. "There wasn't much supervision."

"Dad was out of town overnight for something once, and Mark and his friends were over. I had the hugest crush on one of his baseball buddies—this guy named Gregory. Greg. He was cute—and really nice. And not an idiot, which was refreshing."

"Not stupid is a perk." Taking a few steps across the carpet, Jack stopped to smile at her. "Not that I'd know, though."

She rifled through the pages of her book again. "So, one thing led to another one night, and Gregory and I ended up out in the backyard alone together. I had a telescope back there, and he asked to see it."

He could see it—a young Sam Carter twitterpated by an older boy. He'd seen pictures—she'd been beautiful even as a teenager. Not gangly or awkward, just—fresh and real. She'd probably gotten overexcited by the telescope, jabbering about apertures and focal ratios. Eager and ardent and entirely unaware of how bright her eyes would have been—how irresistible her smile would have seemed. How completely enthralling she was when she let that astounding intellect out to play. If he'd been that kid—

Well, hell. He sort of was that kid.

Which was kind of the problem, wasn't it? He glared down at his feet again—hoping he wasn't giving too much away. "He probably wasn't as interested in the telescope as you might have believed."

She smiled at that—a private thing, a sweet thing—as she twirled the silky strands of the tassel around her index finger. "I'd never been kissed before."

"And Greg—"

And Greg changed that. That much didn't need to be iterated to be communicated.

The color on her throat finally reached her cheeks. Looking down at the book, she shrugged. "Anyway. Mark was talking about him, and I started thinking about that night, but I couldn't remember it anymore. At least—not how I used to be able to."

For some reason, he had to ask. "What could you remember?"

"Martouf." There was that little line between her eyebrows again. She passed her tongue across her lips, lingering a bit in the corner as she mulled things over. "And Jolinar. The first time they—were together. No matter how hard I tried, I could only remember them."

Oh. Jack's eyes flickered to her face, taking in the discomfort there—however hard she'd tried to hide it. "That's—confusing."

"I like Martouf, but I don't feel the same way about him that Jolinar did. Still, I can feel how she did about him, and so it feels as if I ought to feel that way about him." She raked her fingers through her hair, her frustration evident in her movement. "And now, whenever I try to recall my own past, I get hers. Their history. Their firsts. All the baggage that they have. It's as confusing as hell."

"Understandable."

She covered her eyes with both hands, groaning into her palms. "And now I'm boring you with my crazy."

"No."

But he could tell she didn't believe him—even with her face still obscured by her hands. She radiated discomfort—shoulders arched inward and her head bowed, and the blush creeping up towards her temples.

And the hysterical little giggle that escaped as she lowered her hands. "You don't need to be here to listen to me babble, Sir."

"I'm always here when you need to babble, Carter." Even Jack was a little taken aback by how sincere he sounded. How much he actually meant it.

With a faint groan, she peered up at him, studying him before closing her eyes for a beat. "I must sound like I'm going nuts."

No. Not nuts. Just someone struggling to cope. But he knew that she wasn't going to let herself off the hook quite so easily. She held herself to too high a standard to believe that she should grant herself a little grace.

Despite his better judgment, he crossed over and lowered himself onto the couch next to her. "When I was a kid, my favorite person on the planet was my grandfather."

Her fingers made another pass across the pages of the book, only to curl around them as she listened.

"He was a total badass. Grizzled, you know? Not educated—didn't even make it through the seventh grade—but he knew everything. Could make anything—fix anything." Jack smiled, remembering. "I used to go to hang around with him whenever—"

She was watching him, her eyes impossibly clear—impossibly blue. Completely still, she merely waited.

So, Jack trusted her with the truth. Unvarnished—when he usually offered himself clothed in carefully concealed half-truths. "I'd go to his place when my parents were fighting. Or when my dad was drunk. It happened a lot. And usually at the same time."

"Your grandfather was a safe place for you."

"Something like that." Sighing, he glanced at her before continuing. "He used to take me up to his cabin during the summers."

"The one in Minnesota?"

"It was his. He built it. He let me help with upkeep and additions—right up until the time I went to basic."

"Like an escape. Or a sanctuary."

Of course she'd understand. Jack smiled gently—scooting forward on the sofa cushion and bending forward to brace his elbows on his knees. "Anyway. We were up there one summer, and it was hot. Hotter than normal, and there hadn't been rain for weeks. I was around seven or eight—maybe older. I don't know."

Carter leaned forward, mirroring his pose, except she propped her chin on her upturned fist.

"We were down on the pier, and Pops was teaching me how to cast with his reel." Looking down at his hands, he noticed the scars—the signs of his trade. Nicks and cuts and the dark shadow on his right palm that testified that he'd hit the range that day. He hadn't completely scrubbed the gunpowder residue away. He flexed his fingers for a beat. "We were both sweating and ornery, but far in the distance, I could hear a rumble."

"Thunder."

Nodding, he met her gaze. "You can't see approaching storms sometimes up there. The canopy is pretty dense. Directly overhead, the sky was clear, but the air had suddenly turned thick, and there was a smell that I couldn't quite identify."

Of course, she'd anticipated where he was headed. "Like wet dirt."

"It's called petrichor." Jack straightened, picking at a bit of something unidentifiable on his knee. "It's the smell that rain makes in dry places. Like the desert."

"Or like Minnesota during a drought."

"Pops knew that it meant rain—but he didn't clue me in. We kept fishing as the thunderstorm got closer, and stayed out on that damned pier as the sky got dark and the clouds opened up and dumped on us." He smiled, the memory washing over him like the tide. "We got soaked, but Pops kept telling me that fish bite better in the rain, so we just stayed there on the pier."

Her eyebrows quirked upwards. "At least you weren't hot anymore."

"There was that." O'Neill flickered a look in her direction before focusing on his hands again. On his thumbs, and the veins on the backs of his hands. The coarse hair there, the shape of his palms. They reminded him of his grandfather's hands—a thought that was at once profound and depressing. How the hell had that happened? When had he gotten this old?

Regardless. "It was one of the greatest afternoons of my life. For years, whenever I smelled that smell—that petrichor—I was instantly transported back to that rickety dock, sitting next to my Pops, casting our lines into that pond and listening to the rain fall."

"That's really beautiful, Sir." Turning to face him, she drew her legs up onto the sofa, tucking her feet underneath her. "I'm sure you cherish that memory."

"I do." Scrubbing his jaw with his knuckles, he sat up straight. "I did."

She frowned slightly as she cocked her chin to one side. "Sir?"

"In Iraq, the prison was this stone and mud building at the base of a mountain. There was nothing but desert around it for miles—defendable, but remote. There were five of us, all in separate rooms that were only around six by eight. Barely enough room to move around, let alone get comfortable. No windows, dirt floors, and a pallet on the ground for sleeping. They gave us two buckets. One for clean water, and one for—" he hesitated, searching for a nice way to say it. "For not clean water. If you got them mixed up, you died faster."

He tried not to get lost in the past—but he could feel it closing in. Feel the darkness reemerging. It was always this way when he thought about his time in captivity. It was the main reason why he never spoke about it.

But it was worth it, right now. Sharing this—sharing this with her—was worth it. If only to show her that he understood—at least a little—what she was going through.

"The roof was a roof in name only. It was corrugated steel sheeting, and rusted through in enough places that I could see straight through it into the sky. I'd spend most nights staring up at the stars and trying to figure out the constellations and follow the movement of the planets."

She shifted on the couch, draping her arm across the back, drawing his attention to the color of her shirt, and the way it draped across her collarbones. The sleeve of her sweater was too long, reaching past her wrists to tease at the backs of her knuckles. Her fingernails were clean—unpolished, short, and neat.

Jack looked back down at his own fingers again. Focusing on hers was dangerous—because focusing led to imagining, and his imagination had him teetering on the edge lately. "It was hot, and dirty, and miserable. After a while, it didn't even register how bad you smelled, because everyone smelled like warm ass all the time. Initially, all I wanted was to feel clean, but that wasn't possible. You got only so much fresh water—and if you used it to bathe, you'd have none to drink. Besides—I'd broken a few bones landing hard, and when they hauled me into the cell, they didn't bother splinting anything, so all I could do at first was lie there on that disgusting mat and look up."

It only took a tiny reach, and she was touching him. Just her fingertips on his upper arm, but it was enough to let him know she was with him. He glanced over at her—grateful that her expression wasn't one of pity or sorrow. She just looked expectant. Accepting. As if she knew he needed to tell the story and she knew that she could handle hearing it.

"One afternoon, I'd managed to drift off to sleep, and I started dreaming about home. About my Pops, the cabin, and the pond. About better times, you know?"

She nodded. She did know.

"At first, I thought it was part of my dream. The smell of rain—petrichor—was so strong that it woke me up. I recognized it immediately. I knew that a storm was coming. And for a second, I was happy about it. I was back on that pier, sitting next to Pops, and things were good."

"But they weren't."

"No." Jack shook his head, his jaw tight. "Once I remembered where I was, I tried to move the clean bucket into position so that it could collect fresh rain water, but I just managed to tip it over. I scooted as far as I could under what was left of the roof, but that was useless. When the storm hit, it hit hard, pouring down rain for what seemed like hours."

Her eyes had turned dark, now. Not clouded, but deep. She shook her head, the lamplight catching at the bronze in her hair. "That had to have been awful."

"Eventually, the storm passed and it stopped raining. But by then, everything was sopping wet and musty. The pallet was disgusting and even more filthy than before, and the dirty bucket was now completely filled to the brim. It smelled like death itself. Between that and the pain, I constantly needed to vomit." Jack swallowed—as much out of reflex as out of need—as heat seared its way up his throat at the memory. "I still couldn't move much, and just lay there on that wet mattress for the next week and watched as mold grew in the spaces between the stones in the walls."

"Oh, Sir." Practically a whisper, her voice soothed across the distance.

"After I walked out of that desert, I spent more than a month in various hospitals. Had a few surgeries, some rehab. I'd lost around forty pounds and had some infections in my feet and legs. Once they released me, I came here to the Springs for more treatment. Sara drove over from her parents' place in California to be with me, and we rented a little house near the Academy." He inhaled slowly at the memory. Some of it still felt fresh, even though it had been years since he'd even thought about all this. "It was August, and it had been a hot, dry summer. One night, I grabbed a beer and hobbled my way out onto the back patio, and suddenly—there it was."

"Petrichor."

"It was overwhelming." He swallowed again, clearing his throat against the tightness there. "All of it came flooding back. Mixed up—like you were talking about. The cabin, and my grandfather overwritten by mold, the wet floors, and the lack of water. The hunger. The torture. The screaming. I could hear it all again, could feel it all again, as if I were still there in that godforsaken hovel on the edge of hell."

"Good lord." More than words—a prayer.

"I threw up. Couldn't stop shaking. I felt so ashamed of myself. So—weak."

"You aren't weak, Sir." Her voice was stronger, now—earnest. "Not now, and not then, either."

"Broken, then." He smiled at her—but not out of humor. Wryness, self-deprecation, maybe, but not humor. "Damaged. Crazy."

"You are none of those things."

"To this day, I can't smell rain without thinking about my Pops and that damned Iraqi prison. The memories are intrinsically linked. I both hate that smell and I love it."

Outside, it was dark—even with the distant glow of her neighbor's lights. Quiet, this late at night, but for the sound of branches tapping against her kitchen window and the hazy whisper of the wind.

And intimate. Desperately so, with her fingers on his sleeve and little but truth lying between them. And something else—something shared and deep and secret. Something he couldn't have defined, and probably shouldn't even try.

"I didn't tell you all that so you'd feel sorry for me." Mentally shaking himself, Jack stood, taking a few steps towards the fireplace. It took him too long to turn, and when he did, he had to force himself to look at her again. "I just wanted you to know that you're not alone. That I understand."

"About memories."

"Stinking neurons and crap—the little bastards."

She breathed out what might have been a chuckle before unfolding herself from the sofa cushions and rising. "Yeah. Those archived sequences get you every time."

"Damned stimuli. Doing all that stimulating stuff." Jack watched as she smiled—as she brushed her hair back behind her ear. She seemed different. More approachable, somehow—a notion which intrigued him as much as it terrified him. The thought of approaching Sam Carter in the ways he'd been imagining lately would land him in the brig.

Scowling, he looked away—past the island into the kitchen, where that damned branch still teased at the window over the kitchen sink. "Anyway. I just think it'd be nice to be able to pick and choose memories. Which ones we keep and which ones we get rid of."

She mulled that over for a second before relaxing into a puckish smirk. "Kind of like going to the bakery and choosing a box of donuts. You could select which ones you wanted, rather than just getting random ones. That way, you'd get all the frosted and cake donuts and not the gross custard ones."

"Or better yet—" He couldn't resist it. Lifting an eyebrow, he pushed the teasing a little further. "You could get cookies."

"Funny." But she'd smiled again, anyway. Swiping at the rug with the ball of her foot, she slipped her hands into the pockets of the oversized cardigan she wore. "Or maybe we could just make new memories. New firsts. Figure out how to overwrite the negative experiences with better ones."

"I'll let you get right on that." Jack couldn't quite quell the smile that teased at the corner of his mouth. "After all—you're the resident genius around here."

"Yes, Sir." A dimple flashed in her cheek. "Still, that's a better assignment than baking."

Silence fell again—not as thick as before. Not tense. Easy, in some way, that he'd never felt while alone with her. Shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans, he rocked back on his heels. "I guess I'd better go."

"Right. I won't keep you any longer." She nodded, sidestepping past the couch and back into the kitchen. She let him retrieve his jacket, standing near as he slipped it on. Following him down the entry hall, her bare feet were nearly silent on the hardwood floor. "Thank you, Sir."

He paused with his hand on the latch. "For what?"

"For coming over." She'd stopped a few feet away, pulling that damned fluffy sweater around her body again. "For sharing with me. And for listening to me."

"I meant it, Carter." The doorknob felt solid in his hand. "I'm always here for you."

She nodded—gently. "I know."

He should go. But then, he looked past her into the warm, golden glow of her living room—pristine and unadorned and plain. It looked—lonely.

"So—Christmas is day after tomorrow." It was dimmer here—quiet and close enough for her to hear him past the gravel that had settled in his throat. "What do you say that we get the team together and have dinner?"

"Here?" Sam glanced backwards over her shoulder. When she faced him again, her eyes were huge. "I'd like that. I'm sure I could find an open store tomorrow and pick up a ham or something."

"Potatoes."

"Vegetables." One tawny eyebrow edged upwards. "Maybe some of those cookies you keep ordering me to get."

"How about pie instead?"

"That sounds like a party."

And, all of a sudden, festive holiday parties that required his active participation didn't sound all that bad anymore.

"I'll call Daniel in the morning and we'll make arrangements. Get a tree. We'll bring it here tomorrow with some lights and ornaments." With a quick movement of his hand, Jack opened the deadbolt. "We can teach Teal'c all about decorations and stuff. Give him a real Earth holiday experience."

"Play some games."

"Watch some movies." He depressed the latch and swung the door open. Stepping past the door onto the porch, he kept talking. "Make a time of it."

She moved after him, following as he stepped through the doorway. Just at the lintel of the door she stopped, with her bare toes just over the threshold. "That sounds really nice, Sir."

"Okay, then." With one last look at her, he turned again, making his way down the step and onto the front walkway.

He'd parked across the street—bringing his big truck to a stop just to one side of the park entrance. Aiming himself towards it, he reached into his pocket for his keys. The wind had kicked up—sharp and biting against his face. Too warm for snow, but abrasive and chill, nonetheless. And the smell—someone had a fire going, and he could make out just a hint of—

"Sir!"

Her voice stopped him again and he pivoted on his heel, watching as she padded outside, across the porch and down the steps, then trailing in his wake down the walkway.

"Jack!"

Jack? He glanced down at her bare feet, then looked back up at her face. "Go back inside, Carter. It's freezing out here."

She stopped in front of him—close enough that her sweater brushed against his chest. "Do you smell that?"

With a frown, he inhaled. Fresh—cold. The air carried the tangy hint of minerals and the promise of moisture. But before he could fully process it, she'd tilted up on her toes and cupped his jaw in her hands.

He went still. "Sam—"

But she'd already kissed him. Soft. Uncertain—her mouth pressed gently against his own. Tentative at first, then bolder, as her body moved against his and her tongue tested the crease of his lips. At his hesitation, she pulled back, peering up at him—at his throat, his mouth—before meeting his eyes. Luminous, fathomless blue as she skimmed his cheek with her fingertips. The lights on her neighbors' eaves limned her hair with an otherworldly glow, making her appear ethereal.

And her voice sounded as fey—little more than a whisper between them as she ran the pad of her thumb along his cheek. "New memories, right?"

Dear lord—yes. Jack muttered a curse beneath his breath before bending towards her, before framing her face with his hands and pulling her closer. No innocent touch, now, as he met her lips with a force he'd been trying to keep contained for longer than he cared to admit. Ever since he'd first tasted her in the locker room years before, when he'd struggled to reclaim clarity through coursing, blind need.

But now—here—the need wasn't blind. It was warm and sweet and tasted like chocolate. Chocolate, when he'd thought her mug had held tea. He could taste it on her lips, upon her tongue as his own swept boldly against it. As her hands moved upon him—one tangling in the hair at his temple and the other sliding under his jacket to splay against his chest.

And damn, her sweater was soft—but not nearly as tempting as her body where she'd pressed herself to him. Thighs and belly and breasts and hips melding against him as her hands tested at his shoulders, his back, his chest. As she withdrew from his mouth and found his throat with her lips, as she tasted the pulsepoint on the side of his neck, then higher, tugging gently at his earlobe before finding his mouth again.

"Damn it, Sam." Growled. He'd growled it at her ear, running his tongue along its delicate outer curve, past the demure earring in her lobe and down to her cheek, her throat, the soft, soft, satiny glory just beneath her jaw where he nuzzled her until he could feel her entire body quiver.

Back to her lips, urging them wider. Delving deeply into her mouth, swallowing her sigh as his hands moved down her form to measure the curve of her hips, his fingers digging into the softness of her shape, the buttery smoothness of her leggings—-so close to how he'd imagined what lay beneath them. He lifted her gently against him—bringing her closer—closer still—until it was unclear where he ended and she began. Until they breathed in broken unison, between kisses, between deep, long movements of tongues and hands and teasing nips from teeth as around him swirled that smell—the dusky, fecund smell of imminent rain.

She shivered, but not from the cold. Moaned again into his mouth as his hands made their way to the small of her back and then up—up beneath her sweater to find the glorious curve of her waist, her sides, the strong line of her back. He could feel her breathe—roughly—her ribs expanding as she sucked in oxygen between kisses, as she threaded her arms around his neck and raised herself against him, hot and hard and intentional as her teeth found his bottom lip and tugged gently. As she sucked in a haggard breath, taking him in—breathing him in—as if trying to take a part of him into her soul.

"Petrichor." Soft, against his lips. The word felt more than heard.

It took him a moment to interpret what she'd said. Impossibly, Jack grinned, taking her lips one more time—softly—sweetly—before raising his head and tucking her beneath his chin, gathering her against him as if trying to protect her from the world. Ridiculous, really, when she could kick the world's ass. Still—he bent close and buried his lips in her hair. "You and your overactive stimuli."

Her hands slid up and back and down again, settling around his waist and tightening. "So now you have a new memory, right?"

Or the start of brand new nightmares. Jack grinned against the silky strands of gold. He'd be dreaming about this moment for the rest of his damned sorry life. Willingly. Happily, even though the memory of it would haunt him. "You could call it that."

"Maybe it'll forge a new neural pathway. Give you back the pond and your grandfather instead of—"

Instead of hell. Instead of anguish and pain. So, all things being equal, he said, "Maybe it'll give you good ol' Greg back."

"I don't want Gregory back." Her breath was warm against his throat—as soft as her voice. "You're much better at this than he was."

"You said you couldn't remember him."

"Maybe that's because he was so forgettable."

"Ah." Well, hell. This was going to get complicated.

She stayed there, flush against him, for another beat before sighing again. And then she was letting go and backing out of his arms and away from him. Her lips were swollen, rosy and lush. Nearly as pink as her cheeks, and the skin above her collar. And her eyes—no longer clouded. No longer hurt—just bright and fresh and clear.

As she took him in, her shoulder rose in a half-shrug. "I shouldn't have done that. I should probably apologize." But she didn't sound at all apologetic.

"It was for science, right?" And if he were being honest with himself, he wasn't the least bit regretful about anything but having had to stop. He wanted to take her hand and drag her back inside. Light a fire in that hearth and turn the lights off and find out just how soft that sweater—her carpeting—how soft she really was. Just how far all this would go. What other first memories could be made this evening, with the wind in their hair and the night all dark and chill around them.

But he stepped backwards, instead. Taking the distance in a few intrepid strides. Back towards the hedges around her property line and something close to wisdom, pausing only to glance back at her and say, "I'll see you tomorrow, Carter."

"Good night, Sir."

She had to be freezing, but she didn't move. Not even when he sent her a rueful smile and started walking again.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could still see her as he moved diagonally across the street towards his truck. As he released the locks and pulled the heavy door open and climbed up into the cab. As he primed the engine and turned the key, letting the beast roar to life.

There she stood, watching him. With the neighbor's Christmas lights gleaming in her hair and her toes curled against the pavers, and her eyes nearly black in the shadows. Watching—arms folded across her body—as he buckled his belt and adjusted his seat and turned off the radio.

And he only saw her move once he started to drive. As he shifted into gear, he glanced over to see her heading up towards the house, purposeful and lithe and sure. And it wasn't until the door had closed behind her that he noticed that it had started to rain.