Making the Most of It
by ALC Punk!

It wasn't the grandest hotel, but it wasn't a rat-infested fox-hole, either. And for that, she supposed she should be grateful.

Swinging the leave together had been difficult -- even married officers in training had to adhere to certain rules. No going AWOL, for instance. It sometimes amused the hell out of her that, here they were, 21 (going on 80), and they were still bending to the whims of commanding officers, rules, and regulations.

Of course, Sam Carter the second was still the stickler she'd been when she first walked into Cheyenne Mountain. Although, she had gone for a different doctorate this time around. She was working towards engineering. It was Jack O'Neill the second (rarely a stickler for rules, or so he claimed) who was going for his astrophysics medal. Not that there were many astrophysicists in the Navy. There were lots of engineers, though, so Sam felt somewhat at home.

Not, of course, that anywhere would have felt at home three years before. Even now, it took some getting used to.

Jack's arms were home.

The sentiment was sappy, but she allowed it. They were married, after all. It was allowable for her to lust after him, want to pin his ass down and make him scream. And if he turned the tables on her, and made her scream? She was also amenable to that.

Oddly, their wedding had been in Vegas.

Eighteen years old, blonde, blue-eyed and dressed in white (which Jack smirked about and said she didn't deserve), Sam had felt very much the innocent as she stood at the altar in the midst of the glittering church. Sam was sure that, the first time around, at 18 she'd wanted hearts and flowers and a chapel filled with love. Not rhinestones, champagne showers, and a red shag carpet that made her nearly fall over when it snagged her heels.

Elvis gave the bride away.

And she was pretty certain that she'd liked that almost as much as she would have liked her father giving her away. But he was a lifetime away (and maybe another galaxy away).

Jack was playing with her hands again. It was something that seemed to fascinate him, and she wasn't sure why. His fingers flexed around hers, passing one hand back and forth between them in something that might have been pat-a-cake. The hotel room was silent except for one or both of them shifting on the bed, the first round of sex over with for the moment.

"Do you regret this?"

The question was asked with a suddenness that made her shift to look up at him. "You ask that a lot." In the half-light from the breeze blowing through the curtains, she couldn't see his eyes.

"Well, I like hearing the answer."

Logical. "Jack, would I be here if I did?" Her fingers slid through his, threading them together.

"Yes."

"Fine." She rolled her eyes and moved so she was straddling him, her eyes meeting his. "I don't regret this. Except sometimes, when I can't do things I want to."

"Like buy beer?"

"Yeah." A flicker of a smile touched her lips. "Not that it's a problem anymore."

"True." He released her hands, and his traced a path up her sides and he drew her down onto his chest. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too."

Sam sometimes wondered, when she was learning new things in school (things she couldn't disprove because the SGC and her lab were far away), why he never seemed to fully believe her. Then she'd remember that he hadn't had a choice. And she would then wonder if he would have done the same for her. She never asked.

Instead, she shifted and spoke against his collarbone, "How long do you have leave for?"

She could see the grimace in her mind, but didn't look for it. "I'm scheduled to report for duty at 0800 hours tomorrow morning."

"Darn."

"Yeah."

"Ghant will have your hide if you're late."

"Yep."

Sam shifted, reaching down between them. "So, Mr. Carter, I suppose we'd better make the most of the time we have."

"That's a cliche, Mrs. O'Neill." He pointed out before his breath let out in a strangled gasp.

"So it is." She raised her head and smirked at him.

"Right." A hand tugged at her shoulder, and she shifted upwards to kiss him.

If someone had told Samantha Carter ten years before that she would be having sex with Jack O'Neill in a hotel room in the south of France, she might once have scoffed. Now, though, she was living the reality.

And it was hard to scoff when she was riding him so slowly that she was driving them both insane until his desperate hands grabbed her hips and tugged.

"It still grates, doesn't it." He asked when they were recovering; his voice was still breathless.

Sam didn't move from where she'd collapsed against his chest. "Jack?"

"Hrm?"

"What grates?"

"The whole --" he flopped a hand feebly, and she felt a slight pride at tiring him out this well. "-- having to go back to basics, deal in technology that is so far below what you were using back -- there."

"Oh." She considered this, one finger lazily tracing random computations on his chest. "Yes."

"Ah."

"Not," she shifted again and sighed, "that I don't love you, Jack. But I miss the technology, and the toys. What I don't miss is locking everything up in a room six feet underground and pretending that I was happy that way."

"Oh."

Sam smiled and kissed his chest, "What brought this on?"

He was quiet for a while, one hand slowly stroking her hair (slightly longer than normal, although Petersen would probably put her on report soon if she didn't get it chopped back), then he shrugged. "I just... wondered."

"I'm not going to go anywhere."

The hand in her hair stilled, and he let out a sigh. "Good."

"Besides the whole part where I love you, you ass, I also wouldn't have anyone else who understood me." She poked a finger into his side and moved to sit up so she could glare at him.

"Good." He repeated, then rolled, taking her with him so that he was pinning her to the bed. "Because I don't want to share you. Ever."

"Wasn't planning on it." She slid her free hand down his chest.

He dropped his head to her shoulder and growled, "Carter..."

"What?"

"I might be younger, but even *my* recovery time isn't this fast."

Sam smirked at him, and stroked a finger along his side. "Pity."

"Yeah. And I am not an ass."

"Yes you are."

"Am not."

She narrowed her eyes, "Jack, I'm not going to argue with you."

One of his free hands strayed across her breasts. "No?"

"Nope."

"Good. Because I want to have sex with my wife until I have to report back for duty in less than eight hours."

A thrill slithered down her spine. Maybe she was being too girly, but there was something about Jack O'Neill calling her his wife that always buried her feminist principles and made her want to giggle. Instead, she wrapped her hand around him. "Go to it, flyboy."

"Yes, ma'am." He raised a hand and saluted.

And if it was slower, if she was more careful as she kissed him, her hands imprinting finger-marks down his sides, neither of them commented on it.

-f-

Final note: Yes, yes, the Mr. Carter/Mrs. O'Neill thing is fast becoming a kink of mine.

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© 2005 ALC Punk!