They each had a donut while Sam poured Diet Coke into a plastic cup and Jack rifled through the fridge and pantry, gathering potatoes and carrots, an onion, and a bottle of red wine. He tossed her a package from the freezer and said, "Here, defrost that, would you?"

She caught it and turned it around in her hands. "What is it?"

"Meat," he answered.

"Well that's helpful. What kind?"

"Beef, for stew."

"You know how to make beef stew?"

Jack straightened up from the fridge and kicked the vegetable drawer shut with his foot.

"I'll have you know, the cabinet full of mac and cheese and Top Ramen notwithstanding, I actually can cook. You're just lucky enough to be here on a day when there's food in the house."

Sam blinked at him for a moment. "You're going to cook for me?"

"No, I'm going to cook for us. Man does not live by donuts alone."

She grinned as she tossed the package in the microwave and found the defrost setting. "Not something I thought I'd ever hear you say."

"Just don't tell Teal'c."

Sam had a huge smile on her face by that time. Her eyes were warm and affectionate, genuinely pleased, genuinely relaxed and happy.

It was a good look for her.

"So who do you like in the game tonight?" Sam asked.

"Jersey," Jack answered.

"Are you kidding?"

She sounded baffled, so Jack turned to give her his full attention. "No. Why?"

"Well, first of all," she began, and Jack winced. Multiple points. He was so screwed. "The Devils haven't scored first all season," she went on, "and look how Tampa Bay is playing. They learned their lesson after last season. Brad Richards is playing with more confidence and he's not the only one. Lecavalier is better. So are Martin St. Louis and Fredrik Modin. And besides, Jersey is just boring. They can't find the net."

Jack was almost openly laughing by the time she got done. "And here I didn't think you paid attention to the games."

Sam ducked her head and looked a little sheepish as she opened the microwave to fuss with the package inside. "If I'm hanging out with you guys all winter, we're watching hockey. So I see it."

Jack was suitably impressed. No wonder he was in love with her. If he was good enough for her, that would just about make everything perfect.

They worked side by side in the kitchen for a while, peeling and slicing. She had lovely capable hands, and when she was standing almost shoulder to shoulder with him, it was safer to focus on them than on anything else.

They got everything into the crock-pot and set it on high. As she wiped her hands on a paper towel, Sam asked, "Could we start a fire?"

Jack frowned. "Are you cold?" It was late September in Colorado Springs. Jack had been living there long enough not to really feel the cold anymore. Sam was wearing a gray sweater over her jeans and he had thought she would be warm.

"I'm a little chilly," she admitted. "It's officially fall now. As it gets dark a fire would be nice."

"Sure," Jack said, ignoring the part of him that was questioning the wisdom of a warm meal, alcohol, a donut-induced sugar high and a warm, crackling fire. "I'll go bring in some firewood."

"I can help," she said.

"No, how about you go find out how much kindling is still in the box and let me know if there's enough?"

"Okay," she said, brightly.

(0)

The living room was full of signs that Jack O'Neill lived here – an empty beer bottle on the coffee table, kicked-off hiking boots at the bottom of the stairs, the sports page casually strewn over the couch. Sam checked the old wooden box on the hearth and found it full of strips of dried pine. Then she took the empty bottle to the recycling in the kitchen. She refreshed her cup of Diet Coke, picked out another donut (despite knowing she was going to regret the extra calories when she hit the gym the next day), and returned to the living room. She put his boots out of the way and picked up the paper, folding it back into some semblance of order.

When he came back inside Sam tried not to stare. She'd been trying and mostly failing to not stare all day. From the spot she had claimed in the corner of the loveseat there was a perfect view as he bent over to stack firewood, smooth worn-out jeans molded over perfect glutes.

Catching her breath she looked away quickly. It would help if her CO wasn't incredibly striking from just about any position – tall and lean, with a face that was always young and full of mischief in spite of the spiky, graying hair. Funny, charming – god, he'd had the twenty-something with the pixie haircut and lip piercing at the donut shop giggling two seconds after starting to order; the same girl who had been slightly put out by Sam's very sensible donut selections.

"Game doesn't start for another couple of hours," he said, after getting the fire going to his satisfaction. "Movie in the meantime?"

"Sure," she agreed.

"Die Hard?"

"Yeah, that works," Sam said. Nothing horribly romantic – just a hero doing everything he could to reconcile with and save the woman he loved. She distracted herself by kicking off her shoes and curling her legs under her while Jack found the movie.

"Or you know, we could watch Beaches." He commented, looking through a box of old VHS tapes.

Sam snorted as she tried to swallow, and Diet Coke went up her nose. She coughed for a moment as he watched anxiously. Her face felt hot suddenly and she was sure she was blushing, for no good reason whatsoever. "Die Hard is fine," she said, setting her cup on the coffee table and wrinkling her nose at him.

He went into the kitchen and came back with the box of donuts and a beer. To her relief he sat down in the single chair across from her, balancing the beer and taking a bite of half the cherry fritter.

The sunshine outside began to dull, fading behind gathering storm clouds. A few minutes later, there were the sounds of rain hitting the roof and deck and the wind rustling the trees along with the fire snapping and crackling. Sam grabbed a throw pillow and put it under her head, stretching out on the couch. When she glanced at Jack, he was watching her with an expression of warmth in his brown eyes.

There was nothing like Jack's house, like being surrounded by 'Jack-ness'.

A long while later she said, "I always forget this is a Christmas movie."

"I'm not sure it exactly qualifies as a Christmas movie," Jack answered. "It's not exactly It's a Wonderful Life. It happens on Christmas Eve and that's about it."

"Well he does reconcile with his wife at the end, that's very Christmas message-y," Sam observed, sitting up and reaching for her soda.

Jack looked away from the screen and said, "After two hours of him kicking the shit out of terrorists? Who cares if they reconcile? The payoff of the movie isn't the thing with his wife. It's John McClane dropping a bad guy off a skyscraper. But he does write 'ho ho ho' on a dead guy's shirt, so there's that."

This time she didn't quite have the cup all the way to her mouth and when she laughed, soda went everywhere. "Oh, crap," she said, sitting up all the way and watching as liquid dripped off her sweater and onto her jeans.

"It's okay," he said, getting up. "Stay there."

He vanished into the kitchen and returned with clean dish towels. He bent over her, his face a combination of amusement, concern and guilt. Sam was pretty sure she could watch his face forever.

"Your jeans are…wait. Here." He started patting her thigh with a towel and then stopped, pulling his hand back. "Here….maybe you should." He handed her one of the towels and then knelt down to begin mopping at the couch. "I didn't mean to make you spill stuff."

"It's okay," she said, dabbing at her sweater. "You'd think I'd be used to you by now."

Jack paused, with his face much too close to hers, looking at her intently. "I don't want you to ever just get used to me," he said, softly.

It was so dazzling that all Sam could do was freeze, hyper-aware of everything – the rain, the fire, the movie playing in the background, Jack breathing, the warmth of his body and the way he smelled, clean and sharp.

She didn't quite know what to do when Jack put a hand on the back of her neck and pulled her closer. There was the slightest hesitation and then they were kissing.

Jack's mouth was soft and undemanding, touching hers with tender care, and it was so peaceful, so blissful, that for a moment Sam didn't register what was really happening.

She'd always thought that when they finally kissed it would be sudden and spectacular, with thunder and fire and tears. This was just soft and wondering and almost surreal.

When they stopped they rested forehead to forehead for a moment and she put her hand on his wrist and squeezed.

He was waiting for her to say the next thing and she finally did.

"Sir," she whispered.

Jack's breathing stopped for a moment and then he exhaled on a weary, resigned sigh that somehow had a hint of rueful smile in it too. "Sir."

"Yeah," she said, with deep regret.

Jack leaned back, took the towel from her and said, "I'll go get you a dry shirt."

"That'd be nice," she said.

Jack got up and as he left the room, Sam thought that there was so much she should say, so much she should tell him. She started to call his name and it stuck in her throat because she could never quite make 'Jack' slip out of her heart and into the air. She started to speak to him and stopped because she couldn't stand the look of surrender and loss she'd see in his eyes.

She sat back on the couch and took a long breath as the tectonic plates of their relationship rocked and shifted and resettled. She thought she knew what was happening, but it couldn't happen now. It might be true love but even if it was, it would have to wait. If it was true love it would not be denied.

Jack came back into the room and gave her a plaid flannel shirt that looked fairly new. She stood up and took it from him with a grateful smile. Their fingers brushed with a tiny sizzle of recognition.

As she went to the bathroom to change Sam thought, Yeah, it's probably true love.

And if it was, eventually it would win. Because true love would never take no for an answer.

(0)