The Score

Game

"Sam!" Jack glanced down—yet again—at his watch. "Are you ready yet?"

"Just a minute!"

At least—that's what he thought she'd said. He'd only barely heard her from the closet—her voice muffled by the closet door and the multitudinous layers of clothes hanging on the racks in there. Coats and uniforms and BDUs—not to mention the copious quantities of civilian gear Sam had added to the mix. When she'd finally gotten off the Hammond, she'd officially moved all of her stuff from the storage unit in the Springs into his house in Alexandria.

Their house in Alexandria. Damn it. He kept doing that. But then—this whole 'living together in the same building, city, state, continent, planet, and solar system' thing was still a little novel to both of them. Regardless, it was a house he'd purchased under the mistaken belief that it possessed ample closet space. Hell—the realtor had remarked more than once that the walk-in closet in the master suite was sufficient in size that it could double as an office, nursery, or a home gym. A boast that didn't take into account Sam's propensity to hoard clothing, apparently.

Not that he was complaining. Having his wife living in this house—filling that closet—sharing this bathroom—sleeping in the giant bed just through that door—was the best damn thing that had happened to Jack since—well?—ever.

Even if she was going to make them late.

He turned his wrist and took another peek at his watch.

"Sam!" To his credit, he only yelled a little.

She'd ducked into that massive walk-in right after she'd finished with her coiffure. He'd already finished dressing by that point. Slacks, dress shirt, sports jacket and all. He'd even run an actual comb through his gray hair as she'd scrunched some sort of product through hers. Then, she'd put some sort of muffler thing on the business end of her hair dryer and gone to town.

To be honest, the long hair still perplexed him a bit. She'd started growing it out during her last months with SG-1, letting it go completely while she was in command of Atlantis. Jack had always assumed that she'd kept it short through the years because it was easier to deal with that way. When she'd landed Earthside with it swinging half-way down her back, Jack hadn't complained. After all, his wife was sexier than anyone—or anything—he'd ever seen even before she'd stopped chopping her hair. And now? Well, damn.

Hot, hot damn.

The only worry he'd had was that it would take her longer to get ready. Being a 'no-fuss' kind of guy himself, he'd appreciated that same quality in his bride. Years of living out of packs and racing through alien forests at the drop of a hat had him a little spoiled, thank you. He'd envisioned hours of brushing and curling and futzing with the new 'do that would then translate into hours of wasted 'Jack' time. Luckily, that hadn't been the case.

She threw it up in a ponytail for errands and grocery runs. While they'd been cleaning the house last Saturday, she'd twisted the length of it into a braid secured at the end with a clip. And Sunday morning, she'd gathered it up in a loose knot at the back of her head which she'd anchored in place with the pencil she'd used to complete the crossword puzzle.

But Jack liked it best loose and free—tumbling around her shoulders in perfectly haphazard golden waves looking as if she'd just stepped off the beach. The style suited her—as did the tan she'd acquired during the long, hazy days of summer. While he'd been off attending meetings or in his Pentagon office reviewing mission reports and budget requests, she'd been laying out on the back deck in that teeny little bikini she'd bought, reading smutty romance novels and sipping diet sodas.

He wasn't complaining. She deserved the down time. Sam Carter hadn't taken more than a few days' leave since he'd met her—even their honeymoon had been nothing more than a weekend at the cabin—and it had been too chilly for bikinis in Minnesota.

So cold that they'd spent most of the three days in bed. That kind of activity had been better than any book—at least in his mind—and he'd made sure to memorize every detail of every activity as closely as he'd been able. Those memories had lasted him through the long, lonely nights while she'd been deployed elsewhere.

But now she was home. And, after nearly two full months of her lazing around doing next to nothing during the day and them both doing pretty much all of everything during the nights—they had finally dragged themselves into society and made plans.

With a capital P.

A Party. At the Smithsonian. With Daniel and Vala. A soirée, of sorts, requiring all manner of fancy-schmancy clothes and schmoozing and palavering and the kind of primping that made certain women linger too long at the mirror and in closets and in showers.

Okay—the shower thing was his fault. He probably should have left her in there alone. But—geez. Give a guy a break. He'd become so accustomed to missing her that having his wife so available—and soapy—and wet—seemed downright providential. Passing on that opportunity would have resulted in the immediate revocation of his Man Card.

Sighing, Jack passed a longing look backwards at said shower before turning back towards the still-closed closet door. "Sam!"

"I'm coming!" The door swung open, and she emerged. Clothed, now, carrying a pair of strappy sandals in one hand and holding her dress closed with the other. She walked to the vanity again, dropping her shoes to the floor next to the cabinetry before tucking the edges of the dress more tightly around herself and securing the whole arrangement with a bow tied at the waist.

Jack looked again. Wait—a bow?

A bow. Modest—simple. Not too big. Set off-center, perched jauntily over her right hip. He knew that bow. Hell—he knew that dress. Navy blue floaty fabric garnished with tiny white specks that might have been flowers. It had a V-neck and loose, fluttery sleeves that skimmed the tops of her shoulders, and a gauzy skirt that flowed nearly down to her ankles. She'd worn it out to dinner a few weeks ago when they'd gathered to celebrate General Hammond's birthday.

That particular occasion had merited such simple, casual elegance. But Jack had been told that this party with Daniel and his hoity-toity museum folk had necessitated togs of a more sophisticated nature.

Jack narrowed his gaze at Sam. "So—what's with the get-up?"

"What get-up?"

He twiddled his fingers in her direction. "That get-up."

"What?" Sam turned to peer at him, her eyes wide. "What are you talking about?"

"The dress. Or whatever." Jack made no attempt to hide his frank inspection of her. "That outfit you're wearing."

"What about it?" Turning back to the mirror, she smoothed the skirt of the dress down over her sides and hips, swaying back and forth a little to watch the dress move around her body in the reflection. "Is there something wrong with it?"

"It's old."

"It's not old." She frowned into the mirror, catching his gaze in the glass. Picking up a little pot of makeup, she worked the lid free. "I've had it for a few years, but it's not old."

He shoved his hands into his pockets and leaned backwards against the shower door. "But you went shopping with Vala earlier."

"I did. So?"

"So—and pardon my ignorance here—what was the point?"

"I just wanted to go to the mall. I was tired of my clothes. I haven't been shopping in ages, and Vala offered to show me some good places." She grabbed a big poofy brush and dabbed at whatever time as in the pot she was holding. "And it's not like there were department stores on Atlantis."

She had him there. Jack shook his head. "No. There aren't."

Tapping the brush against the side of the makeup container, she quirked him a wry smile. "Nor did we run into many trendy boutiques while I was commanding the Hammond."

"I guess not." But still, he frowned.

She paused, the brush angled towards her cheek. "What's wrong, Jack?"

"You said that you were craving something different to wear." He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully, trying to recall her precise words. "You said you were desperate for something new and adorable."

"And I was."

He contemplated that for a moment. "And yet, you're wearing an old dress."

"It's not old, Jack. I've had it for a while, but I've only worn it a handful of times." She continued with whatever she was doing with the poofy brush until she appeared to believe it complete.

Not that Jack could really notice any difference. She was beautiful, with or without all that crap on her face. Still, she seemed satisfied—enough so that she tucked the brush into a cup thing she'd placed there last week and moved onto a different little cosmetic container.

"Huh." He tried to sound convinced.

A ploy she clearly saw right through as she heaved out a tiny sigh. "I was tired of—am tired of all my clothes."

"Okay."

She met his eye again, picking up another, smaller, brush. "I just wanted something—different."

"And yet you aren't wearing it."

Her only answer was to heave another sigh before dabbing something powdery on her eyelids—something pale that glistened just a bit. As soon as she'd laid the base coat, she reached for a different tiny container that held darker stuff. Spackle, probably. Whatever it was, she needed yet another little brushy thing to layer it on.

"Hey, Sam?"

"What?" Blinking a few times in the mirror, she turned her chin this way and that to observe the results of her efforts. It seemed to be alright, since she tossed the tiny container into the waiting basket and pulled out a tube.

"I thought this whole exhibit opening shin-dig was supposed to be fancy."

"It is."

"I put on a suit."

The corner of Sam's mouth lifted up in a semi-smile. "I can see that."

"So, naturally, I assumed that you'd be wearing something more—"

"What, Jack?" She'd unscrewed the lid of the tube and was loading up the wandy-thingy with black junk. "You assumed that I'd be wearing something more—what?"

Tactics had always been his strong suit. But diplomacy? Not so much. Pulling from all his past experience, Jack scoured his fron for exactly the right—most situationally appropriate and acceptable—words to arrange in a strategic way. "Something better."

It became immediately apparent that those words weren't the right ones when both of her eyebrows rose upwards. "Better?"

"Shiny. Or frilly. Fancy. Oomphy—" he waggled his fingers in her general direction with a hapless shrug. "Or something."

For the longest time, the only sound was the faint snickity-snick of the wand moving up and down inside the tube of black stuff.

When she finally spoke, her tone had gone up a notch. "For the record, Jack. I did buy a new dress for tonight. It was red. Strapless. Short. Mid-thigh-short. Kind of low-cut, too. Lots of leg and a decent amount of boob."

Red? That sounded promising. And legs and boobs? Boy, howdy—

Images burgeoned in his head, but he put the kibosh on that direction of puerile thought rather quickly. Experience told him that he would most likely have embarrassed himself. Not to mention that he'd have ended up needing another—much colder—shower, and they were already running behind schedule. Swallowing, he focused on the soap dispenser next to the toothbrush holder. And the brushes. Nothing sexy about toothbrushes, right? Or the tile backsplash. It needed some grout touch-up. That was a mood-killer right there.

"Okay."

"But do you know what wearing something like that is like? You're constantly tugging and pulling and adjusting things. You're worried that the top is going to gape wide when you're leaning over the bar to get your drink, or that the skirt is slowly edging upwards and you end up mooning the entire place when you wave at a friend or give someone a hug."

Tugging. Adjusting. Gaping. Good heavens. And mooning—just damn.

Jack cleared his throat again, frowning at the toothpaste, now. And the glass jar full of floss pick thingies. And the random bottle of aspirin near the jar. Nail clippers. Hairspray. Didn't that stuff kill the ozone layer? Nothing sexy about global warming, right? And acid rain was a definite downer.

But his plight seemed completely lost on his wife, who just kept right on doing whatever it was that she was doing with her ebony goo.

Blinking, she leaned closer to the mirror to dab at her eyelashes again. "The underwear involved in that kind of number is complex. The less dress there is, the more fortress-like the foundation has to be. Especially at my age. It's like trussing up a sagging building."

"You're not saggy." Of this, he had first-hand knowledge.

"But I'm not as firm as I used to be. I got a little lazy on Atlantis, and commanding the Hammond was a slog. It felt weird to work out in the gym in front of all of the crew, so I didn't. I haven't been running in ages, and I can't stand yoga or any or those frou-frou classes at the Y. I tried their kick-boxing class, but they asked me not to come back."

Jack frowned. "Why?"

She rolled her eyes, the wand paused mid-stroke. "Because, apparently, the people who run the place don't expect the students to actually fight back."

There was a story there. Ouch. Jack scratched at his nose to hide his proud smirk. "Oh."

She screwed the lid back on the tube thing and tossed it onto the counter before tilting back towards the mirror for some last minute futzing. "Consequently, I'm not quite battle-ready, so to speak. Vala, on the other hand, has been doing Pilates and some sort of ballet thing. You could bounce a quarter off her ass."

Jack winced at that image. The only ass in which he took any interest at all was the one so nicely pointed at him at the present moment—which was indescribably phenomenal. Dragging his gaze back up from said ass, he met her eyes in the mirror again. "You look great, Sam."

She bit her lip, ducking her chin on a smile as she caught his eye in the reflection again. "Regardless, I didn't want to have to worry about being self-conscious tonight. I bought some things other than the red strapless number, so, I'll just go with them."

Jack took another careful scan of the woman he'd married. Navy blue dress. Teeny white flowers. Bow. They'd already discussed the fact that none of that was new. He'd seen all that makeup before—and her jewelry was the normal stuff she usually wore. The same simple pendant he'd given her for their first anniversary and the diamond studs she'd inherited from her mother. Wedding rings. Watch. All simple, tasteful pieces with which he was already familiar.

His eyes flickered down to the sandals resting next to her on the little rug. "Shoes?"

"Huh?" Lip gloss, now. Something too red to be pink and too pink to be red. Not too glossy. She pressed her lips together and looked at him in the mirror again. "What about shoes?"

"The shoes? Are they new things?"

She squinted at him—probably endangering the black stuff she'd just gooped on her eyelashes. "Are my shoes new?"

"Are they the new things you bought when you went shopping?"

"No. Why?"

He threw an innocent look in her direction. "I just didn't recognize them. I thought they might have been what you picked up today."

"No."

"The makeup?"

"What is this, the third degree?"

"No. I'm just wondering what it is that you bought new."

"Is it the money?" She checked her teeth in the mirror before turning around to face him. "Are you worried that I spent too much?"

"Of course not." Jack shook his head. Pushing away from the shower, he shoved his hands into his pockets. "You know I don't care about that kind of thing."

"Then what's your problem?"

"No problem." He summoned up some chutzpah, shrugging a single shoulder. "I just thought it was interesting that I have to get all dressed up in this monkey suit and tie and shiny-ass shoes, and you're going in something which is notably not fancy."

Her blue, blue eyes fixed on his brown ones, a dangerous smile flirting around the corners of her lip. The dimple in her right cheek hinted at a dent.

She inhaled sharply before speaking. "Not fancy."

"Not suit-fancy, at least. Not soiree-, gala-, exhibit opening-fancy. I mean, we're supposed to be all dressed up, right?"

"Huh."

Obviously, she still wasn't understanding him. Jack pointed helpfully at his chest. "I mean look at me. I'm wearing a tie."

Again, she merely looked at him. "You are."

"And you're the one that wanted to go to this hoity-toity shindig in the first place. You said that you wanted to go out and do something different. You said you were bored with hanging around the house and wanted a night out. Something special. That's what you said. Remember?"

She tilted her chin downward in what might have been called a nod. "You're right, Jack. I did say all of that."

"And yet, according to all that folderal you spouted at me earlier about making a good show for Daniel's sake, you're dressing for comfort rather than style."

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"So—do you see the issue?"

She glanced down at the rug beneath her and angled a foot into a sandal. Slipping it on, she shifted her weight so that she could repeat the process with the other shoe. Finally, she looked back up at her husband. "Not really."

"Not really."

Jack watched as she gave each foot an experimental wiggle, then turned back towards the mirror. She was annoyed. That was clear by the way she was smiling. No teeth, no dimples, just a tight line that barely edged the corners of her lips upwards. He squinched his jaw tightly as she took one last look at herself in the mirror—assessing the reflection with the same practiced objectivity that she gave new bits of alien technology or whatever part of her motorcycle engine that was giving her fits.

She turned first one way.

And then the other.

And then nearly backwards, angling her chin over her shoulder to see what she looked like from behind.

"I think I look okay except for one thing—" stepping closer to the vanity, she pulled the drawer open and dug around until she found a gigantic claw-like clip. Sticking it between her teeth, she started yanking and working her hair until she'd twisted it into some sort of weird, oddly sexy mess at the back of her head. Holding it with one hand, she used the other to secure it all in the clip. "There. Now I'm ready."

"You're sure."

It had been a statement, not a criticism, but Sam seemed to take it as a challenge, of all things. Whirling around, she approached him, stopping a breath away, close enough that the hem of her dress flurried around his calves.

"I can tell that you don't really want to go tonight."

Might as well get it all out there, right? Jack sighed. "Not really."

"But we promised Daniel and Vala that we'd be there to support our friend—the man who saved our lives more times than we can count. Your best friend, Jack. The man who literally opened the universe for us, who had our back for more than ten years, and who is finally getting to try his chops at legitimate academia."

"True."

"And yes. I've purchased something—shall we say—special that I was hoping to share with you this evening."

"You did?"

"I did." She worried at her lip with her teeth, blinking slowly as she chose her words. "And it's teeny-tiny and super cute."

Jack raised his eyebrows. "Oh yeah?"

Her finger, now, tracing a faint line around a button on his shirt before slowly—slowly—wending its way up towards his collar. "And I'm assuming you'd like to see it."

"Yes, Ma'am." His voice had gone all crackly. Jack had to clear his throat to continue. "I surely would."

Peeping up at him from beneath her lashes, she lifted a single brow. "So, we'll make it a game."

Well, that sounded promising. "A game?"

"A game. Throughout the night—if you behave yourself and play nicely with all the geeks—" that finger found the skin of his neck, tickling upwards. And, damn the woman—she smiled when he broke out into the most goose-pimply of goose-pimples. She knew full well what she was doing to him. "If you schmooze, and make small talk, and listen when all those nerdy scientists are blathering on and on about the protodynastic burial rituals of the Girzeh civilization—"

The who-za whatsits? He was tingly. Why the hell was he tingly? He shouldn't be getting turned on by a simple touch anymore, should he? Should he?

They'd been hitched for the better part of a half-decade, damn it. He'd counted her eyelashes, for heaven's sake. He could map the freckles on her back by memory. He knew her—every part of her—just as intimately as she knew him. So, why the hell did that finger make him feel like a teenager finally reaching second base?

And if she could make him tingle everywhere with just the scarcest promise of seeing what it was she was hiding—then—just—gah. The latently sensual promise in her voice was enough to make him agree to whatever it was she was offering. And still, for all of his age, wisdom, and military prowess, he heard himself squeak a little when he responded. "I can schmooze. And I got lots of practice over the years pretending to listen when you and Daniel used to drone on and on."

"I know, Jack. I believe in you." She smiled, brushing the pad of her thumb along the sharp, clean-shaven edge of his chin. "And if you are very, very good tonight, I promise I'll make it all worth your while."

Jack caught her hand in his, lowering them both to lay flat against his chest. It was the only way he could continue thinking properly. "What does that mean?"

Her eyes gave him a speculative gleam as one brow rose. "I'll give you hints."

"Hints?"

With a sly shrug, she feigned a lackadaisical air. "A flash of this. A glimpse of that. Like hide-and-seek. Or a scavenger hunt."

Jack's brows rose. Hints? Flashes? Glimpses? That could get—interesting. Especially since, in his altogether too juvenile mind, he was seeing quick teasing flickers of leg and shoulder—splashes of tawny, sun-kissed skin—that might allude to what teeny tiny delicious little delicacies she was hiding underneath that demure navy-blue dress. "I can be good."

"Oh—I am well aware." She tilted up in those sandals, pressing a kiss to his jaw. "You can be very very good."

"So—it's like a game."

"More like a challenge."

"Is there a prize?"

Her only answer was a lazy sort of shrug that was more of a promise than anything else.

Jack tightened his hand on her fingers, reaching out to lay his other hand on her hip. "How do we know who wins?"

And then she smiled that smile. The one that never failed to send him reeling. All full, sweet lips, white, perfect teeth, deep dimples, and glittery, gleaming, azure eyes shining bright and gorgeous and real. The smile that promised bone-deep, blissful, lethargic satisfaction. That smile.

"Oh, Jack." Tilting up on the toes of her sandals, she leaned into him, her lips hovering over his. "If you do really well, I can assure you that we'll both win."

It was Jack's turn to smile, just before she rose on her toes and pressed a quick kiss to his mouth.

So? Let the games begin.