1. Blue JellO Is The Best

A/N: . . . on phone) . . . no sir, I don't own any part of Stargate SG-1 . . . yes sir I thought I should notify you of the fact immediately . . . yes sir . . . yes sir . . . no sir . . . of course, sir . . . thank you sir . . . I'll do that sir . . . Goodbye Mr. President. (click) Oh hello! I . . . uh . . . didn't see you there!

A/N2: Set sometime in Season Four, just because I like the original team best (Jack, Sam, Teal'c, Daniel, Janet, General Hammond, Walter, Syler, etc). BiteMeTechie's "100 starting lines" prompt from the When Plot Bunnies Attack forum, Line #105: "Blue Jell-O is the best..."

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Blue Jell-O is the best.

I'm not kidding, it's seriously the best dessert the commissary has to offer.

Colonel O'Neill disagrees.

He likes the pie.

Maybe it's a two-way split.

But as I'm sitting here, trying to clear my mind from the latest overwhelmingly complicated new alien technology I've been trying to figure out, all I can think is, _man this is great Jell-O_.

This sort of freaks me out, since the last time I thought food was this good, we all had Urgo in our heads, but since I haven't had an off-world trip in a few days and Janet says I'm healthy, I don't worry too much about it.

Dammit, it's 0530 already, I should've been at the lab an hour ago if I'm going to have any chance of figuring this device out before the next mission.

I hurriedly scrape the bottom of the goblet for the last remnants of the heavenly stuff, then grab my coat and head for the elevator. When I reach my level I wait impatiently for the doors to open, then power-walk down the corridor to my lab.

What the . . . how the hell did my door get locked? I left it closed, but I only lock it when I'm going off-base, because Felger sometimes needs some of my equipment for one of his "experiments," a.k.a. he just wants another excuse to talk to me. I mean, it's cute and all, but it gets annoying very fast.

Getting back to the door. This shouldn't be locked, I was only away from it for an hour and a half while I ate, and I've got the only key . . . wait . . . it's not in my pocket . . . there's something veeery familiar about this . . .

"Hey Carter, whatcha doin'?"

Of course.

Shoulda known.

Silently berating myself, I turn and force a smile at my dear commanding officer.

"Hi, sir."

"Working odd hours again? I've told you, it's not healthy," he admonishes.

I shrug. He makes a tutting sound.

"How much sleep have you gotten in the last week?" he asks, like he's a kindergarten teacher quizzing a student on quadratics.

I shift my weight a little. He raises his eyebrows at me. Dammit, he knows me too well.

"Enough." I evade the question with the skill of years' practice.

"Define 'enough.'" Damn he's good!

"Enough for me to do my work" ...pause... ". . . or it would be if I could _get into my office_."

Now it's his turn to lower his gaze and shuffle his feet. I smile triumphantly, "You wouldn't happen to know anything about that now, would you sir?"

". . . erm . . . no, Carter, I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," he says with a cheerfulness so fake it's nauseating. I roll my eyes and hold out my hand expectantly. He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "D'oh," and fishes my keys out of his pocket.

Taking them from him, I smile and say "thank you," in the same cheerful tone he used, and let myself into the lab.

He follows, wearing an expression like a kicked puppy. Luckily, being both a sister and an auntie, I happen to be immune to big brown eyes . . . although his are really very nice . . . my god those lashes are gorgeous! Whoa, hey, back up there Sam, snap out of it before he notices.

"You okay Carter?"

Oops. Busted. Quick, fake a breakthrough!

"Um . . . yeah . . . I mean yes I am, I was just thinking about this . . . uh . . ." Aah, stall, stall, invent a doohickey, uhh, got it!

" . . . Total Destructive Interference Modulatory Generator. I think I know how to fix it!"

I start to rant about faulty mercury-plated sensor equipment, using as many long words as possible. His eyes immediately glaze over, and his face pales around the third sentence containing the phrase, "using Matthias's theoretical ideals, of course." Whew! I'm safe.

Taking pity on the poor guy, I stop explaining and lead him over to a chair. He sits down, still looking a bit shellshocked, but refuses my offer of water and shakes himself out of it.

"Anyway, Carter, I've been thinking," Uh-oh. Alert the media. "You've been working an awful lot lately," Tch, understatement of the year. ". . . and I think it's about time you got a break, don't you?"

Here we go again. Same old story. He says I'm working to hard, I say no I'm not, he says you never have any fun, I say this _is_ fun, he says not as fun as fishing, I make some dumb excuse not to go to Minnesota with him, blahdee blahdee blah. Sheesh. You'd think he'd be tired of this by now.

I grimace and tilt my head, looking longingly towards the pile of work on my desk. Something tells me I'm not getting to that for a while.

"Sir, we've been over this," I try, but he cuts me off.

"I know we have, Carter, and all that's going to happen is I say you're working too hard, you say no you're not, I say you never have any fun, you say this _is_ fun, and then I say fishing's better and we get into a long, convoluted argument over the lack of aquatic life in my pond."

Creepily accurate as that may be, I'm NOT going to get sucked into that today.

"Yes, sir, I know that," I try again, but no dice.

"Carter, don't make me make you, I'll order you if I have to." Since when can fishing be an order?

"Fishing can be an order if I think you're under too much stress." Okay, now that was downright insane.

"But I'm not under stress! I'm enjoying working on my projects!" I protest, but this really seems to be a "make Carter have fun no matter what the cost to humanity" day.

"Projects, schmojects. Come on, grab your stuff, I'll meet ya at the surface in five." And before I can object again, he's gone.

Damn that man.

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A/N: And there it is, the first chapter of Of Course You Know, This Means War. Next chappie is written, so's half of three. This should be a fairly short 'fic, I'm thinking five or six chapters, but if I have too much fun writing it it'll be longer.


	2. Let The Games Begin

A/N: Part two of Sam's little revenge plot.

A/N2: Thanks to the five who reviewed the last chapter: **Briar Elwood**,** Karma-k2**,** Natters**,** blvdgirl**,and **VisualIDentificationZeta** - sorry I didn't reply guys, but the server's still being slightly funky so it didn't tell me you reviewed . . . grrr . . . thanks all for the positive inputs!

A/N3: I hear _nothing_, I know _nothing_, I own _nothing_!

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I decide to be grumpy all morning.

During the entire drive to my house I stay silent and sullen. Colonel O'Neill keeps trying to get me to talk, but after receiving only grunts and shrugs in return he shuts up.

We stop at my house, I glare at him, and he says, "I . . . think I'll wait here."

I nod and mutter, "Smart choice," before getting out of the truck.

On my way up the front walk I hear him shout, "And don't go runnin' out the back, Carter, if you're not out here in fifteen minutes I'll send in the dogs!" I can hear him chuckling as I growl an obscenity and let myself in, slamming the door behind me. It's not fair he can tell what I'm going to do, I mean seriously, it's . . . ungh.

I throw some clothes into a duffel bag and grab some toiletries from the bathroom. As I turn off the lights in the living room I look longingly towards the back door. I sigh in annoyance. He's probably serious about sending the dogs after me, damn him, so I might as well just make this as painful as possible for him so he'll send me home sooner.

Hey. Painful. Hmm. Many possibilities there. . . . I check my watch. Still five minutes before he gets mad. I drop my gear in the front hall and run into my library/study. I go up to the bookshelf and look at the covers of the books. A Brief History of Time . . . right . . . brief is totally the word that comes to mind . . . Lord of the Rings . . . Hitchhiker's Guide . . . dammit _why_ didn't I alphabetize this like I said I was going to last year?

Ah, there it is, The Secret Garden. I pull the book halfway off the shelf and a section of the wall behind me squeaks open. I really should oil that hidden door. I shove the book back into its original position and open the secret door fully.

Inside is a closet about two meters deep and one across, where I keep all my valuables and stuff I don't want people to know about. My favorite teddy bear from when I was five, my security blanket, pictures of my mom, the remnants of my first chemistry set, and . . . ah_hah_. My practical joke kit. There will be pain. Oh yes. There _will_ be pain.

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After closing my secret lair back up and tucking the . . . ahem . . . new items in my duffel bag, I leave the house and lock the door. I put a bounce in my step as I walk towards the green truck, and throw my stuff in the back with a smile. I get in the passenger's side, buckle my seat belt, and am choosing a CD to listen to before the Colonel realizes I'm back.

"Oh! There you are! I was about to come lookin' for ya, I thought somethin' had happened." Poor schmuck, he has no idea what he's in for.

"Nope, nothing happened, so what're you waiting for, let's go!" I say cheerfully. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye.

"What, did you just have some chocolate or coffee or something?"

I shake my head happily. "No, why do you ask?"

He looks at me with his mouth hanging open for a minute, then shakes himself, closes it, and turns the ignition key. "No reason . . ."

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The flight is unremarkable, although I have to fight the urge to grin like an idiot every five seconds. Colonel O'Neill still hasn't figured out what's made me so damn excited to go fishing. I keep catching him looking at me and the expression on his face is to _die_ for. His eyebrows are slightly up and he's got these crinkles on his forehead like he does whenever he's trying to listen to Daniel give a report, and his mouth is slightly open, like a fish out of water. Sigh. Poor guy. I wonder how long he'll last.

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Two hours later, we're in a rental car driving up this incredibly bumpy road to the "secret cabin" and it's actually getting easier to pretend I'm having a good time! Hunh. Anyway, we're here now and we're unloading our stuff. Well, my stuff. Colonel O'Neill didn't bring anything. I guess all he needs is already in the cabin.

I guess I was right, because when we go in the door, I see a well-furnished room, with a nice fireplace and a comfy-looking sofa, and fishing rods on a rack on the wall. Colonel O'Neill shows me my room - it's nice and spacey, big bed, fluffy rug, good view, the works. His is down the hall, same layout plus pictures on the bedstand, one of our team and one of Charlie.

I unload my stuff and go out to the kitchen, where the Colonel is checking supplies. I know where his room is, and I know where his clothes are. Now all I have to do is wait for my chance . . .

"Hey Carter I think I'm gonna go up to the rangers station, tell 'em we're here. Last time I forgot to and they came bustin' in with guns, I guess they figured somebody broke in and was squattin'."

"Okay sir, I'll just be reading or something."

"I said to have _fun_ Carter."

"Yes sir."

And I think opportunity just bashed down the door.

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A/N: Tune in next time for the beginning of the fun!


	3. Under What?

A/N: Have I mentioned that in the long run this _will_ be blatant Sam/Jack? Don't worry. They'll get there. Eventually.

A/N2: Big hugs and cookies to: **VisualIDentificationZeta**, **TubaPrincess** (love your penname), and **Natters** for reviewing the last chapter!

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I'm humming when he gets back. I decided to forego the reading, and just did a little . . . let's say it was under-cover work . . . oh boy . . . he'll never know what hit him.

"Hey Carter, you want a brewski?"

Brewski. Yep. We're in Minnesota all right.

"Sure sir."

"And cut it out with that 'yes sir no sir three bags full sir' crap." Ahhah. Operation Bug-The-Hell-Out-Of-O'Neill, Stage Two, you have a go.

"Yes sir."

"Now what did I just say?"

"You said, 'now what did I just say' sir." Oh man, this is too easy.

"No, about the 'you calling me sir' thing."

"Oh, yes sir, what about it?" 

"Carter . . ." Okay he's getting there . . . 

"Yes sir?"

"I . . . you . . . wha . . . hunh!" Poor guy. I really should go easy on him. Oh well, old habits and all . . .

"I'm sorry sir, what?"

"Don't call me that!"

"What sir?"

"Yes!"

"What sir?"

"Exactly!"

"I'm sorry sir, what?" Now I'm glad my dad made me listen to all those Abbott & Costello routines.

"DON'T CALL ME SIR."

"Oh okay Colonel. Jeez, all you had to do was ask."

As the steam pours out of his ears, I smile innocently and hold out my bottle.

"You look like you could use a drink . . . sir."

--------------------

That went well.

Operation BTHOOO'N, Stage Two, was a complete success. Using skills garnered from a life-long passion for Vaudeville, I was able to run circles around him logically (as always) and by the time I was done with him, he was as confused as a hamster in a lion's cage. Poor guy. Ah well, that's what happens when you get between me and my work.

Time for Stage Three.

Stage Three is in two parts, one of which I have already set up (while Colonel O'Neill was at the ranger's station). However, it's time-sensitive, so I'll just wait patiently in front of the fire playing cards with him. I've decided to let him win the "sir" battle, it'll give him a false sense of security. Those always come in handy.

After a few hours of Deuces, which for some reason I seem to be proficient at . . . hunh . . . wonder if it had to do with my stint in Vegas . . . anyway, I'm lying in bed with the light out, waiting for the fun to begin.

"YEARGH!"

I smile. Houston, we have lift-off.

I wait an appropriate few seconds, then jump out of bed and run down the corridor. My bedroom attire was chosen specifically for this stage. I knock on his door and call out, "Sir? Are you alright?" He pulls the door open to find me in silk boxers and an army-green tank top that he should find very familiar. The look on his face is absolutely priceless.

"Carter! Uh, yeah I'm fine, uh, erm, did you scream?"

Nice comeback, I'm impressed that he can think that straight. I shake my head slowly, then make a joke out of it, "Maybe some camper just ran into Bigfoot or something, eh? G'night . . . Jack."

I walk nonchalantly back to my room, putting just the _slightest_ sway in my hips. As I re-enter my room I look back. He's standing in his doorway, slack-jawed and dazed, and I have to stuff a fist into my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

I shut my door but stand there, listening intently until I hear his door close, then I punch the air gleefully and head for bed. I think I'll sleep better than the dear Colonel tonight, mostly because I'm alone and he's got three very realistic plastic spiders in bed with him, along with an assortment of sand and small rocks. Oh and don't forget the itching powder.

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A/N: Teehee. And that was just the first part of Stage Three! Oh the possibilities are endless...tune in tomorrow! Or the next day. Or next year. Sometime.


	4. The Revenge of the Coffee

A/N: Last night, itching powder. Tomorrow, the world! -laughs in a very spooky imitation of freddy kreuger- no seriously.

A/N2: Thanks to my reviewers for chapter 3: **ismisesteph**, **TubaPrincess**, **Briar Elwood**, **Whirlwind-2005**, **Natters**, and **Karma-k2**! Thanks guys! You rock!

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I'm up bright'n'early the next morning, well rested after a spider-free sleep, and I'm making scrambled eggs in the kitchen when Jack shows up. He looks tired.

"You look tired, sir. Bad night?"

He grunts in reply. Oh well, maybe he's just not a morning person.

He grunts again, this time it sounds a bit like "coffee." Perfect. Stage Three, Part Two, here we go.

I putter around the coffee machine for a minute, although in reality I've had it made for about ten minutes. I warm it up and pour it into a green mug with a loon on the side and hand it to him.

"There ya go, sir," I say cheerfully. "enough caffeine to wake the dead."

He smiles gratefully as he takes the mug from me, and downs half of it in one gulp. I smile in satisfaction. My special blend (one part caf to three parts decaf plus one part of some stuff I order from Vancouver) is the only coffee I've found that actually makes you tireder but tastes like caffeine. You get a nice high for about fifteen minutes, but then it sort of drains your energy and you just kind of fade away.

Sighing happily, I eat my breakfast, then suggest to the Colonel that we go for a hike. He's beginning to perk up now, and agrees whole-heartedly. We don our combat boots and head out of the cabin.

"There's a trail up that way that goes to the top of the mountain, there's a killer view at the peak."

I nod enthusiastically. For this stage, the more strenuous the hike, the happier I'll be. I stretch my legs while Colonel O'Neill grabs his camera, and we're off.

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Approximately twelve and a half minutes into the hike, Colonel O'Neill starts to lag. _Yes_. It's all going according to plan. At sixteen minutes, he pulls himself over to the side of the steep trail and sits down on a tree stump. He puffs out his cheeks and blows his breath out slowly.

"You okay sir?" I ask innocent as ever.

"I mean, Colonel O'Neill."

He's still glaring.

"Uh . . . Jack."

He stops glaring. "Yeah, I'm fine . . . _Sam_ . . . just a little out-of-breath. Guess I wasn't in as good of shape as I thought, eh?"

I laugh with him. "It's okay, sir . . . uh, Jack, another five miles and we can start back to the cabin."

He pales.

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Twelve and a half miles later, we're back at the cabin. I'm feeling good, it's nice to get in some mountain air and exercise once in a while, but I think the Colonel's not doing so well. He stumbled into the bathroom twenty minutes ago, turned on the shower, and hasn't come out since. I'm considering checking up on him, maybe in the second outfit I packed specially for this occasion, but I hear the water turn off now so I guess that'll wait for tomorrow. Giggle.

He comes out, toweling off his hair and dressed only in pajama pants. I watch him for a minute. Like hell he's not in shape, that was just the caffeine leaving his system. He doesn't exactly have a six-pack, but he's definitely fit. Luckily I can keep watching, he's way too tired to even notice he's only half-dressed.

"Night Sam," he yawns as he heads for his room.

I smirk and ask in fake confusion, "But it's only 7:30, I thought maybe we could play some more poker?"

He laughs humorlessly. "Oh I think you've won enough of my money already, Major. I'm tired, see you in the morning. Don't forget, we're going fishing tomorrow."

I smile at him. "Looking forward to it sir. Sure you won't just have one more cup of coffee?"

He grumbles, but I bat my eyelashes at him, and when I see his resolve weakening, I put the final nail in place.

"It's decaf," I say in a sing-song voice, like a kid trying to stay up on New Year's. Just ten more minutes? Pleeeeeeeeease?

He relents. "Alright, one hand of poker and a cuppa joe. _Then_ I'm headin' in."

Happily I get up and pour the coffee. He drinks it, I deal the cards, I let him win this time, he goes to bed, and I laugh out loud. I can, because he won't be hearing anything for about eight hours. That coffee was decaf alright, but with the added benefit of a couple of crushed sleeping pills. Not enough to hurt him, just enough to keep him nicely out for a while.

Grinning madly, I turn all the clocks back to their original time, 9:45. Giggling softly, I go to my room, get in bed, and turn out the light.

Tomorrow morning'll come, all too soon.

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"Time to get up Jack! Come on, up'n'at 'em! Let's go! Wake up, Colonel, hup two, hup two!" Oh man. This is too much fun. It's five AM and I'm shaking the Colonel to wake him up.

Nothing's happening, so I resort to Plan B. I rather like Plan B. It involves me wearing a skimpy red camisole top and my black silk boxers, and getting . . . cozy . . . with my CO. _Oh_ yeah. Plan B is good.

I snuggle up to Jack, tickling him under his chin, and say "Wake up sleepyhead," in my most bedside . . . uh . . . bed . . . ish manner. For some reason this works better than the drill sargeant routine. Go figure. Anyway, those gorgeous chocolatey eyes open blearily up to meet my gaze. Since the DeathCoffee™ is still in effect, it takes him a few seconds to connect the dots, and even when he does, his only reaction is, "Carter?"

"Yes Jack?"

"'S this a dream?"

All part of the plan.

"Yes honey."

"Then why are you still wearing clothes?"

He falls back asleep. Chuckling hard, I get out of bed, change into my fishing gear, and shake him again. This time it works, and he groans. Encouraged, I lean over and whisper in his ear, "Wake up sleepyhead," and again it works its charm and he opens his eyes.

"Carter?" Here we go again.

"Yes Jack?"

"Is this . . . oh, uh, nothing."

Snigger. "Come on sir we've gotta get out there pretty soon if we want to catch anything." Now he sits up and rubs his eyes.

"Hunh?"

"Fishing, sir. Remember?"

"Oh . . . what?"

I guess he's still pretty out of it.

"Let's go sir, we should get an early start."

He grumbles, but reaches for his gear and I leave him to it. When he finally emerges ten minutes later, I'm out on the pier hooking unfortunate nightcrawlers onto my lure. He stumbles out of the cabin, not even noticing my greeting, picks up a rod and casts it like it's a reflex action.

I don't think he's actually awake yet.

To test this theory, I start rambling about childhood fishing trips with my dad. He inserts grunts here and there, but I can tell he's not really paying any attention, so I decide to get creative.

"And then after the Tok'ra saved me from the interstellar purple elephants, Martouf and I got married and we've had three children in the last year. They're named Schmendrick, Ava, and Jack."

That got him.

"Wait what!"

"Yeah, we named the third after you, because you've been such a great help in our marriage, you were best man at the wedding, remember?"

He looks lost. Wonder why.

"Carter . . ." he starts.

"Yes sir?"

"You do realize that there are no fish in this pond, don't you?"

"Oh of course sir."

"Then why the hell are we out here at six in the morning freezing our butts off?"

I shake my head, like a teacher explaining something to a slow learner.

"Because, sir, the experience of fishing is what matters, correct?"

"Well ya but-" I cut him off.

"And when you go fishing at a regular lake, you hafta wake up early and freeze your butt off, correct?"

"I guess, but-" Again I cut him off.

"So we have to pretend this is a regular fishing trip to get the effect!" I finish brightly, having successfully proven my point. He scowls at the pond. Hmm. I wonder if . . .

"Ya know sir, I had the strangest dream last night,"

"Mm?"

"Yeah. You were in it,"

He starts. Ah, so he does remember. "Oh yeah?" he asks. I can tell he's faking unconcern by the way he suddenly seems very interested in his shoelaces.

"Yeah," I continue. "It was weird; I woke up and you were there in the . . . room . . . with me," I carefully omit which _part_ of the room. ". . . and you said, 'Good morning sleepyhead' or something like that," I pause to observe the effect I'm having.

He's intently staring at a worm that's wriggling near his shoes, but I see a fleeting smile flash across his face. Something inside me melts. I'm stalled for a minute, trying to snap myself out of it but not really wanting to, then I recover myself by thinking _oh well, at least I can comfort him after I terrorize him_. The thought strengthens my resolve to have him groveling on his knees by the time I'm done with him, so I smile evilly and ask, "Did _you_ have any interesting dreams last night . . . sir?"

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A/N: Like I said. Blatant Sam/Jack. You have been warned. Next chapter should be up . . . um . . . semi-soon . . . maybe . . . if you're lucky . . .


	5. The End

A/N: And here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for, the chapter of SHIPPING! Woohoo! Bit longer than the last few as well. Anyway, there's definitely something-for-everyone-a-comedy-tonight in here, and you don't even hafta squint to find it! Score!

A/N2: Apparently I offended a few people with the pranks Sam's been pulling. People have said that she's taking it too far, that she's being vindictive, that she's being horrible to him for no reason. What I say is, that's not what I meant, and if you take it all at face value it's really not that mean, she put itching powder in his bed for God's sake. Not really the worst prank I can think of. And I also clearly stated that he knows what she's doing, and letting her do it anyway because he wants her to have fun. It's all in there. Anyway. Don't like, don't read. 'Nuff said.

A/N3: Thank you to **Briar Elwood**, **Whirlwind-2005**, **Flatkatsi**, and **Karma-k2** for reviewing chapter 4!

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It's the last day of our short vacation, and for some reason I'm actually not glad to be getting back to my work. I mean, I'm glad, but these last few days of pranking Colonel O'Neill have been really fun. I sigh in regret. As soon as we get back to the base, I won't be able to do anything to him. At least, nothing _permanent_. Or smelly. Dammit.

I'm sort of starting to get a sneaking suspicion that he knew I was going to try to get back at him, and that I would have fun doing it. In fact, I'm pretty sure he _did_ know, because I noticed in the glovebox of his car some anti-itching cream that _definitely_ wasn't there the last time he gave me a ride to the base. Hmm. Veery interesting . . .

"Carter! Help!"

I turn to the window and look outside, just in time to see Colonel O'Neill running for his life down the trail. Looking behind him, I see a swarm of very angry-looking bees following close behind.

Evil grin.

Stage Four has begun. Right on schedule, too, I note as I look at my watch. There'll be just enough time after this one to thoroughly confuse him with the romantic dinner I've got planned.

He's running in circles now, trying to stay ahead of the flying devils, screeching his head off for help. I move to the window, making sure the screen is firmly in place, and shout at him, "Jump in the pond!"

He spares a glance in my direction, and I'm sure he thinks I'm completely nuts. Hey, it's been said before, it'll be said again.

"Just do it sir, they won't be able to go in after you and sooner or later they'll go away!"

Apparently he's desperate enough, because on his next circuit he heads directly for the pier. Doing a wonderful cannonball that would have got a perfect 10 from any self-respecting judge, he sends a kawoosh of water up in the air, and at least half of the bees are caught in the splash. The rest, seeing what happened to their brethren, quickly decide that it's not really worth it, and buzz off.

Smirking widely, I walk outside, after first disposing carefully of the anti-bee-repellent my brother invented years ago. It's some sort of combination of honey and bee pheremones, I'm not sure of the exact ingredients, but apparently it works.

Since the only indication that the Colonel is underwater is the small stream of bubbles emanating from somewhere in the nether regions of the pond, I pick up a small rock and heave it gently into the pond.

This inspires a series of much larger bubbles coming from the submerged figure of my commander, and after another two (slightly heavier) rocks follow the first, he comes up, sputtering and rubbing his head. Oops. Guess I hit him. What a shame.

"WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT FOR!" he yelps, thrashing about to get back to the pier.

I shrug nonchalantly and answer, "The bees are gone, I thought you might want to know that is all."

"So you felt the need to tell me with _rocks_!"

I grin impishly. "Thought it might get the point across."

He gives me the "no, really?" look and clambers out. He squelches over to the cabin, not even bothering to wipe his feet, and heads straight to the bathroom.

I wonder what he'll think when he finds a complete set of clean, dry clothes in there waiting for him?

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After spending an hour in the shower, he finally emerges. This time his hair's already dry. I wondered where my blow-dryer had got to . . . anyway, he looks a bit happier than when I saw him last, a look which increases as he smells what's in the kitchen. He comes closer, sniffing hopefully, but I brandish my spatula and he backs off.

"Um . . ." he starts, craning his neck to see what's on the stove. "What's cookin', Carter?"

"Something good that you won't get any of if you don't stay in your room until I tell you to come out," I threaten. Poking him with the aforementioned cooking implement, I herd him into his room and start to close the door on him. He blocks it with his foot.

I glare up at him and he shrinks.

"I was just wondering how long I'd hafta stay in here," he says in a small voice.

I smile insolently. "As long as it takes you to pick the lock," I say as I shut the door, locking it securely from the outside. Apparently it takes a minute for this to register, but then I hear the pounding begin.

"That'll just make you go hungry sir," I call to him, walking back to the kitchen. "Oh, and don't bother trying the window, it's sealed shut."

Hearing expletives from the other side of the door, I start to whistle and continue cooking.

--------------------

After a while he quiets down. He's probably thought to look for something to pick the lock with. Too bad his lock-picking set has gone . . . ahem . . . missing. So have all the bobby pins, pens, safety pins, and paper clips I could find while I was rummaging around in his room. Oh well.

"Car . . . uh . . . Sam? Feel like letting me out?" I hear a voice call. Without turning, I yell back, "Do you want me to finish dinner or not?"

He shuts up.

My respite is short-lived, however, as he starts getting creative.

"Hey Carter!"

I roll my eyes.

"What, sir?"

"I gotta pee!"

I laugh. "You're telling me that you spent over an hour in the bathroom and you still have to pee? Try again, sir."

He doesn't. Luckily he's learned, over the years, that the way to get me to do something fast is to leave me the hell alone. So he can be taught. Good.

After I finish the preparation and plattering, I dust off my hands and look around to see if there's anything I've forgotten. Food, check. Candles, check. Firelight, check. Champagne, check. Oh! That was it.

I rush to my room to change. Less than a minute later, I reappear, putting on my earrings. I step across the hall and unlock the door. No response from inside.

I knock. "Jack? You ready for dinner?"

I hear movement. A minute later, an annoyed-looking Colonel Jack O'Neill opens the door . . .

. . . and the confusion (a.k.a. Stage Five) sets in.

His jaw drops farther than I would have thought possible, and he starts making little moaning sounds. I wonder if it's the dress. Hm. Wouldn't have pegged him as a halter-top guy. Go figure.

I step back so he can come out. He's wearing the clothes I left out for him (yay) and I was right about the khakis, they're just . . . him. The black long-sleeve shirt works quite well too. I think I must be grinning stupidly again, but since he is too, neither of us cares. He gulps, then remembers his manners and offers me his arm.

"Shall we?"

I nod and link my arm gracefully with his. We walk out to the living room, where the coffee table is lighted with candles is set for two. Gesturing for him to sit down, I move to the kitchen to get the food.

When I come out with it, his eyes widen even further. I resist the urge to tell him he looks sort of like what we're eating.

"You made . . . oh god . . . you made," he stammers, then gets up as I put the platter down. "I may have to marry you," he says reverantly.

I laugh. "I'd be okay with that," I start to say, but am unable to finish as I'm pulled into a bone-crushing hug.

"Uh, Jack? Air?" I squeak, and he lets go.

"Sorry. It's just . . . wow . . . I mean . . . you made _gefilte fish_."

I blush. "Yeah, I didn't know if you liked it or not . . ." I trail off. He's looking at me funny again.

"Carter, I was raised in Minnesota. You get shot if you don't like gefilte fish."

"Yeah I sorta figured."

He pulls me down to sit next to him on the couch, still smiling like an idiot. We eat the fish, which is actually quite good, although definitely an acquired taste. After dinner we sit and watch the fire in silence, just happy to be with each other.

As the fire dies out I look up. He's fallen asleep, his head lolling on his shoulder. I carefully reach down to the other end of the couch, trying not to wake him, and grab the quilt that's folded on the arm. Pulling it over the two of us, I settle down against his chest. His arm moves to hold me, although I think he's still asleep.

I'm as completely happy as I've ever been, but I know that this won't last. Tomorrow we'll have to go back to the base, and we'll be back to "Major" and "Colonel" instead of just Sam and Jack. I wonder how many more of these moments we'll have.

"Sam?" a sleepy voice murmers.

"I'm here Jack." I whisper.

"Good. Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You know I love you, right?"

Keep smiling. Believe it'll last. "I know, Jack."

"And you love me?"

"Always and forever."

Pause.

"Will you wait for me?"

Slightly confused, I nod.

"I mean, will you wait for me to resign so we can be together?"

Ah. I see. Smile again. Maybe it will last.

"I will _always_ wait for you."

"It might take a while," he cautions.

"I don't care. I'll wait."

I can feel him nod, and can tell that he's relieved.

I have to ask. "Will you wait for me?"

I know he's frowning confusedly.

"Yeah, of course I'll wait for you. I'll wait for as long as it takes."

"Good." I get up. "Then I'll be right back."

He smiles at me. "I'll be here."

And I know that it's all true.

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A/N: -sniffles- oh gawd there I go again . . . -grabs near-empty box of tissues- Okay I'm all right now. Sort of. Just to clarify, there _will_ be an epilogue for this, hopefully up in the next coupla days. Anyway, this chapter should satisfy all you Sam/Jack shippers out there (you know who you are) and if it doesn't, then you're still reading too much into it. It's all there. Just let it come out.


	6. Or Is It?

A/N: Okay this is the long-awaited (even though I only posted the last chapter two days ago) epilogue. Loose ends are tied up, hearts are broken, poker games are won and lost, Jell-O is eaten, you know, the usual. Enjoy!

A/N2: WPT fans, don't be mad at me, I have no idea how to play the game, I admit it, I'm a bad person, I'm sorry. Review it anyway!

A/N3: Thanks so much to everyone who reviewed, all the comments really made me change my perspective on writing. For the people who were bold enough to state their minds, I applaud you. That takes serious guts. One reminder: This was based on BiteMeTechie's "100 starting lines" from the WPBA forum. She is a source of constant inspiration for me and deserves hugs and chocolate. THANK YOU TECHIE!

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"Morning, sir," I say cheerfully as the Colonel walks into the briefing room. SG-1 doesn't have a mission yet, but General Hammond wanted us to regroup after our vacation anyway. Teal'c and Daniel apparently didn't do much, just translated a bunch of tablets that've been sitting in storage for God knows how long.

Daniel's looking out the window at the 'gate, and I think Teal'c is meditating.

Either that or he's dead. His eyes are closed and he hasn't moved for a while.

My attention is brought back to the present by the sharp sound of cards shuffling. I look over at Colonel O'Neill, who is holding a Bicycle deck and raising his eyebrows.

"Hold 'em?" he asks the room.

Teal'c opens an eye. "Indeed."

Daniel moves from the window. "Sounds good."

I nod. "I'm game," I say as we spread out around the table. Jack does a few shuffling tricks, then begins to deal.

"Hookay, lady and gentlemen, the game is hold 'em, the stakes are . . . how about the paperwork we give to Hammond?"

A round of nods.

He continues his schpiel. "Aaand the cards are dealt, do we have a score-and-bet-keeper for the game?"

Daniel brings out a pocket notebook.

"Wonderful. Ante is one day's paperwork. Loser takes all."

He expertly flips some cards over. "There's the flop, looks like it's a possible royal wedding, with the–" he looks at me, "–with the King and Queen of Hearts. The eight of clubs is along for the ride."

Peeking at my hand, I keep a straight face. Hmm. I wonder if he stacked the deck. Wouldn't put it past him.

The betting goes around once, twice, three times and call. The final cards are down: Ten of Hearts and Deuce of Spades.

Daniel smiles triumphantly. He always did have a horrible poker face. He raises his bet, "Four weeks' paperwork," and smugly turns over his cards. Seven and Three of Hearts. Poor guy. He has no idea who he's dealing with . . . er . . . he has no idea who dealt him . . . wait . . . there's a pun in there somewhere . . . oh well.

Jack folds. Teal'c looks at his cards, then follows suit. All three are looking at me expectantly. I sigh dramatically.

"Well, Daniel," I start. His smile widens. "It looks like you'll be awfully busy for the next four weeks," I coutinue. His smile drops.

I place my hand on the table. "Nine . . ." look up at the proud smile of the man I love ". . . and Jack of Hearts."

"And the lady wins the hand with a King-high royal flush! Sorry, Danny boy, looks like she beat ya."

"Indeed," Teal'c puts in. "It appears that Major Carter has acquired great proficiency in hiding her emotions."

I hold back a giggle. Across the table Colonel O'Neill does the same.

We play a few more hands, and when Daniel is in debt to the tune of two and a half years' paperwork, Colonel O'Neill decides to cut him some slack.

"Okay, Daniel, if you beat us down to the commissary, we'll take our paperwork back."

I nod and Teal'c inclines his head.

Daniel looks wild-eyed from face to face for a minute, then springs up and dashes downstairs. The Colonel and I laugh, Teal'c indulges in a rare smile, and the three of us make our way leisurly downstairs.

When we get to the mess hall, the first thing we notice is Daniel standing outside the door, bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily.

"Nicely done, Spacemonkey," Colonel O'Neill says, clapping him on the back and walking into the cafeteria. Teal'c follows, inclining his head with a, "That was undoubtably a record of some sort, Daniel jackson."

I go in too, tell him, "We took the elevator," and turn nonchalantly away from his red, disbelieving face.

Teal'c and Colonel O'Neill are at our customary table, debating who would win in a fight, Dark Helmet or Luke Skywalker. I break it to them that they're mixing theiir metaphors, and add that anyway Leia would kick both of their butts.

I walk away before they make any pitiable efforts at refuting this bit of unrefutable fact, and head for the dessert tray. I'm in a good mood. The team's back together, I can work on my doohickeys, I'm loved by the most wonderful dork on the planet or off, and I officially have the best poker face in the SGC.

I think this calls for Jell-O.

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A/N: Tadaaaaa! My second multi-chapter 'fic! AND IT'S FINISHED! Woohoo! -is proud of self-

A/N2: Has anyone else noticed that Teal'c never nods? Same with Teyla in Atlantis. They always "incline their heads". Weirdness.


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