a/n: Found this sitting in a box labelled 'crime show clichés.'

The Kyyrtolli are a developing society, and despite having made some progress towards controlled combustion, they still use weapons similar to crossbows. Which, for some inexplicable reason, they have painted a soft baby pink.

Sam would laugh, but as projectiles whiz past her face, she's more concerned with avoiding them.

It was something stupid and inconsequential, as usual; one moment they were all chatting peacefully with a group of locals in a big noisy tavern, then apparently one of them – she's still not sure which one – bumped into someone very important, someone else yelled, someone threw a glass, and before they realized what was happening, the tavern was in a full-scale riot, and a group of guards from the council hall next door came running, yelling at SG-1 to stop and face their punishment. For…whatever it is they did.

Daniel and Teal'C had managed to duck out the front door before it was blocked; they took off through the town square, and they're presumably already back at the Gate. Sam had raced out the back with the colonel, ducking under a line of drying herbs and flowers into the fading twilight.

The two of them run through the town, ducking through the streets, and Sam has the sinking feeling that they're heading in the wrong direction. The town is between them and the Stargate now, and they're going to have to find a way to swing back around, despite the armed guards chasing them.

"Sir," she gasps out, doing her best to stay right at his heels. "Sir –"

"Crowd up ahead," he calls back. "Might be able to lose 'em."

He catches her hand and pulls her into an alley, and they end up in the marketplace, a strange, crowded twist of carts and stalls. There's enough foot traffic that they might be able to blend in, thanks to the fading light as the sun lowers.

He pulls her towards the wall, pausing to scan the area. Looks like the guards are still trying to get through the alley. If they can lose the guards long enough, they can double back to the gate.

"Drop your kit," he murmurs, tossing his hat to the ground, shrugging out of his jacket. She's confused but does what he says, unclipping her pack, unzipping her own jacket.

He pulls her hat off her head, rough and impatient, and tosses it with everything else, and she catches her breath. What on earth –

He backs her up against the wall, tucked into a little niche between two buildings, and she stumbles a little. His eyes are fixed on hers, dark and penetrating.

"Carter?"

It takes her a second to process what he's asking, and in a blinding flash of clarity, she knows.

She knows exactly what his master plan is.

It's the worst plan. It's awful. But she doesn't have a better one.

Oh.

She swallows hard. "Okay."

The word's barely out of her mouth before he leans in to kiss her.

The shock of it sends her senses haywire, and it takes a moment to come back to herself.

But the colonel doesn't hesitate, doesn't falter. He kisses her rough and demanding and a little impatient, pinning her between the wall and the hard line of his body.

Heat and adrenaline bloom through her veins, and she can't breathe, can't think, can only wrap her arms around him and hold on, because he's devouring her like he's spent hours thinking about doing it and the thought sends a shot of pure arousal through her blood. There's nothing staged about it; he nips lightly at her bottom lip, soothes the sting with his tongue as he presses her back against the wall.

She shouldn't be reacting this way but she can't help it, her back arching, mouth opening under his, hot and willing and eager. When she sighs and slides her hands through his hair, he groans, a deep, low sound that vibrates against her and makes her shiver.

He finally breaks away from her mouth and Sam gasps for breath, but he doesn't go far, leaning in to nuzzle her throat, and oh, this might actually be worse.

"Can you see them?" he rasps into her ear. His voice is low, strained, dark, and she has to stop herself from rolling her hips into his.

"Yes." His lips brush against the sensitive skin of her throat, and she sucks in a sharp breath. "They – oh – they're on the other side – of – of the street."

"All right."

The nip of his teeth at her throat makes her gasp, and the fleeting thought runs through her mind that out of all the places they've gone, all over the galaxy, they've never had a mission that ended up quite like this before.

Sam blinks rapidly, keeping her eyes trained on the little band of dark-clad guys nearby.

"Almost clear?" His voice is nothing more than a growl, heat against her skin, and holy shit, this is doing it for her in ways she's never even imagined.

"Almost."

"Okay."

Rationally, she knows, it's a ruse, just something to make them blend in, and the more convincing they are, the safer they are. The harder he pushes his hips into hers, the more effectively they're tucked against the wall. The more his body covers hers, the less likely it is they'll be recognized.

The more his tongue traces her mouth, the safer they are.

He's definitely not enjoying it. That's certainly not the telltale heat of his sidearm she's feeling. And she certainly isn't enjoying it, either. She's focusing on the situation.

Watching for an escape.

"Okay, Carter." His lips brush against her ear with every word, and she swallows hard, gripping handfuls of his shirt. "As soon as they're out of sight, we grab our stuff and run. Okay?"

"Yes, sir."

Is she imagining it, or is that the slightest pressure of his thigh between her legs, pinning her back harder?

Sam bites her lip, flexes her hands against his shoulders, and takes a deep breath. Almost out. Almost safe. She can keep it together.

She's a professional.

Sure enough, the guards duck into another alley with their pink crossbows, and they both grab their gear and bolt across the marketplace.

They're out of the town in minutes, stopping only to put their jackets and packs back on, and they continue on through the forest. Daniel and Teal'C are waiting beside the Stargate, and within minutes, they're stepping through the wormhole back to Earth.

Post-mission medical checks are usually routine. If there are no injuries or odd conditions to report, the process is a smooth one; Janet has it down to a science.

Of course, this mission didn't end up being so routine.

Sam leans into Janet's office. "The nurse said you wanted to see me. Something wrong?"

"Your results are fine. Nothing out of the ordinary."

That doesn't really answer the question. "So?"

"So." Janet closes Sam's folder, tosses the chart onto her desk. "Do you want to tell me what really happened on that planet?"

Sam freezes. "What do you mean?"

Janet folds her arms. "I know a hickey when I see one, Sam."

Sam flushes hotly, cursing herself for what must be the world's most obvious reaction. "Janet –"

"And since you very pointedly didn't explain it, either you don't know how it got there, or you do know, and you just don't want to talk about it."

As usual, Janet Frasier is entirely too observant for her own good.

Sam knows how obvious it is when she blushes – like hickeys, another peril of being so fair-skinned – so there's no point in denying it. "It's not what you're thinking."

"So if I take a cast of the colonel's mouth, it won't match the marks on your neck?"

Oh. Well…it's exactly what she's thinking, then. "We were trying to get out of the town. There were guards chasing us. We ducked into an alley, and we had to blend in."

"By rounding first base and eyeing second?"

"That's not –"

"Sam." Janet waves a hand. "Honey. I'm not trying to get you in trouble. A minor skin irritation with no further complications isn't going to stick out in a medical file. But I'm not stupid. I've seen the way you two look at each other."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're a terrible liar." The doctor sighs. "Just – think about it. Really think about it. Okay? Beyond that, it's none of my business."

"Fine." Sam can't bring herself to resent Janet. She's right, after all. "Thanks."

"But next time, tell him to keep it where your shirt covers it, okay?"

"Janet!"

Before their scheduled debriefing with Hammond, Sam ducks into her lab to look over a tech report that came in while SG-1 was off-world. She's only halfway through the first page, though, when she hears a tap at her door, and she looks up to see Colonel O'Neill.

"Sir?"

"Carter." He eases the door shut behind him, and she knows why he's here. "You, ah – you all right?"

"Fine, sir."

"Good. Good." He shoves his hands in his pockets, looking at a few different spots around the room, like he's trying to figure out a safe place to look. His entire posture is profoundly uncomfortable, and as much as Sam feels the flush of soft, lingering embarrassment over the eager way she'd responded to his mouth and hands and body on hers, she knows that right now, she's the steady one here.

He finally takes the empty seat across the table from her. The silence stretches on just a beat too long, and she decides to give him a nudge. "Is there something you need, sir?"

"I want to apologize."

"Sir –"

He waves off her protest with one hand. "What I did was unacceptable, and if you want to make a formal complaint, you have my full support."

"Sir." Sam blinks, shakes her head. Tries to figure out exactly what she's trying to say. "I appreciate the thought. But I'm not angry at you."

"You should be."

"Sir, you kissed me." He freezes at that, and she feels a soft blush coloring her cheeks, but she continues. "I know why you did it. I wasn't complaining. It worked, and we got out. You even had the presence of mind to stop and ask before you – just –"

"-dove in?" he finishes for her.

"Yes, sir."

He nods slowly, looking down at his hands. Sam holds her breath. They both know she's oversimplified it just a little. He didn't just kiss her. He pinned her up against the wall and stuck his tongue down her throat and sucked at her pulse point and made her whimper, and there's no way around the fact that it was a profoundly sexual experience that sent blood rushing to entirely inappropriate anatomical areas. For both of them.

The colonel still looks uneasy, and she can't bear to think about him wallowing in guilt over this thing that she already knows they're not going to mention in their reports. "Sir, if it were anyone else, I wouldn't have just accepted it blindly. But it wasn't."

His eyes flick up to hers, guarded, cautious. "What are you saying?"

"I know you, sir." She holds his gaze, clear and steady as she can. "I trust you."

They're not going to talk about it. They're not going to acknowledge the fact that they both enjoyed it, and they both know it, and in any other world they'd end the day by going home together and doing it again. But this time in a bedroom. With no crowd and no clothes and no stopping.

"So – are we okay?" His question is hesitant.

"Yes, sir." She nods. "If we weren't, I'd tell you."

"Good." He glances at his watch. "Briefing in ten."

"Right."

She switches off the light and closes her lab, falling in step beside him in the hallways. The colonel clears his throat. "So – Doc Frasier cleared you, right? Because she was acting kind of weird during my physical."

Sam smiles ruefully. "She wanted to know how I ended up with a hickey."

He lets out a cough. Stops. Turns to stare at her. His eyes fall to her throat.

"Oh." He gives her a soft, crooked smile, the kind that makes her heart stumble in her chest and her cheeks get warm. "Oops."

"Yeah."

They fall silent, walking side-by-side, finally reaching the elevator, waiting patiently as the car descends to take them to the briefing room.

As the doors slide open in front of them, he turns to her.

"So how about those pink crossbows, huh?"