Pairing: Sam/Paul
Rating: PG-13
Codes: C/P. Davis, O'N, OC, J
Category: Het, Romance
Summary:  A lot is riding on a game at Carter's place

"But I WANT to go—" came the slightly belligerent tones of one touchy colonel. They echoed in the office a bit louder than they should have, and Rose winced. She carefully came around the desk and leaned a hip against it, looking with exasperated adoration at the long lanky man with his boots up on a stack of folders marked CONFIDENTIAL.

"Jack, it's just a football game—what's so special about this one?"

"If it's at Carter's, then there'll be good eats—dips and potato skins and stuff—" he rumbled up at her, his hands laced behind his head. "And probably some decent beer, since she wouldn't be caught DEAD serving Black Label—"

Rose sighed. She moved closer, and reached out, sliding her hand to O'Neill's knee, giving it a squeeze. He looked down with interest.

"Jack darling, I've NEVER used sex as an enticement to get my way—" she began carefully. He smirked.

"—Yet---"

Her hand slid higher up his thigh, her nails tickling slightly; O'Neill worked his jaw back and forth, fighting off the urge to pounce.

"—But I'd MUCH rather stay home—I can whip up any dips you like, bring you whatever you'd want to drink—"

Amused and slightly aroused, O'Neill stared at Rose speculatively.

"Throw in the cute little French Maid costume?"

"Jack—" She warned, a pink blush blooming over her face. He arched an eyebrow at her, waiting. She looked down at her hand on his thigh. O'Neill sighed, regretfully.

"Green Salsa dip, those little cheesy toast things, little smokies on toothpicks—really looking forward to Carter's--"

"All right, all right!" Rose rolled her eyes, giving in, "The costume too—"

"Ah merci ma petite chou—" he chuckled, trapping her hand with his own, "So on second thought I may have to stay home with the hired help—"

"A cold? I don't HAVE a cold—" Daniel protested mildly as he carefully turned over the clay mask in his hands. Joanna waited until he reluctantly looked up at her.

"No, it's called a little white lie. A falsehood told for a greater purpose—in this case, to aid and succor Carter's love life." 

"By leaving her alone for the game?"

"By leaving her alone with PAUL for the game," Joanna patiently pointed out as if this should be obvious. Generally Daniel was quicker than the average man at picking up subtext, but he seemed to be a bit dense at the moment.

"So what's it worth?" he replied, looking up at Joanna sharply. She shot him a glare in return realizing he'd lulled her into a trap. Daniel grinned sunnily.

"Worth?"

"If I pass by the chance to go, I'll be missing out on a pretty nice spread—I've SEEN what shows up when we do a potluck. I think my co-operation could be insured if I was culinarily compensated. At least two meal's worth. Say, YOUR chicken Marengo and Rose's pot roast—"

Joanna reached over and punched Daniel on the bicep, which was hard under her knuckles.

"You little Machiavellian schemer! You talked to Jack, didn't you?"

"Yes I did, and please don't hit me anymore—" he grinned, dodging. "All I'm saying is that while I agree that Sam could certainly use a relationship with someone who'll live through it, I don't see why I have to forfeit eating to help her out."

"Did anyone ever tell you you're a sneaky little—"

"Two whole dinners, that's the deal on the table here—side dishes and dessert too, or I might not come down with anything by Sunday—"

Joanna rolled her eyes, annoyed but determined to carry through the agreed-upon plan. She nodded slowly, crossing her arms as Daniel went back to studying the mask.

"Fine—for the price of two COMPLETE dinners, will you contract a cold, conveniently on Saturday night?"

"Absolutely," he mused, examining the chin of the mask carefully, "You know, if you upgrade the dessert from say cookies to chocolate cake, I COULD come down with the flu—"

Joanna sighed.

Sam listened to the microwave count down to zero and held her breath, watching the cheese puffs browning through the window. Her earlier fears about running out were somewhat eased, regretfully, by the phone call she'd gotten a few minutes earlier. She'd figured that the colonel had gotten a better offer on how to spend his Sunday, and felt sorry for Daniel, who'd cancelled through a bout of coughing, but this latest abandonment disheartened her. She'd even offered to go get Teal'c and Joanna, but was assured that while Triple A was on the move, it might take a while.

When the timer dinged, she pulled the plate of puffs out and took a moment to study her reflection in the glass door.

"So it might be you and Paul alone for a while. No big deal—" she announced to her pale staring face. Point of fact it WAS a big deal and she looked at her teeth, trying desperately not to care.

It was confusing, and Samantha Carter didn't LIKE things that were confusing. She much preferred untangling issues and cutting to the heart of them, laying matters straight. Physics was that way; Mathematics and Astroscience were by their very natures defined in black and whites with no hazy areas.

But this—thing—with Paul reminded her of the close up dots of a printed photo in a newspaper, a jumble of little points of black and white all muddled up until you pulled back far enough to see the picture clearly. The only trouble Sam admitted to herself was that no matter where she stood these days she couldn't see ANYTHING clearly around Paul Davis.

Sam gave a deep sigh. Perhaps the time had come to have a talk with him, before they both waded into things too deep to get out of. She'd been guilty of leading him on a bit if she was honest, and it was probably better to nip it in the bud.

On this depressing note, Sam trudged back to the living room, trying to ignore the TV and Chris Berman's predictions of a Washington blowout. The doorbell rang, and she dragged herself to answer it.

"Hey—" came a low familiar voice. Sam fought against the little wriggle of pleasure in her stomach as Paul stood on her porch, holding a Tupperware container and smiling at her. Sam grinned.

"Can't let you in unless you take off the sweatshirt—" she commented smartly, noting the maroon and yellow Redskins emblem hiding behind the potluck dish he held. Paul shook his head with determination.

"I can just take my homemade cheesecake elsewhere then I guess—"

"Cheesecake?" Sam didn't mean to whimper, but she did. "Homemade?"

"Every bite—" he purred, pressing his advantage by gently waggling the container. Sam caved like the sandcastle she was; Paul brushed by her triumphantly.

"Hurry up so the neighbors don't see I let a Skins fan in—" she grumbled, hiding her smile. She glanced up and down the street, mostly for show, but looking for familiar cars. Nothing.

"You DO know your team hasn't got a prayer don't you?" Paul called to her as she closed the door and made her way to the kitchen. Sam watched him unscrew the cap from a Coors and take a sip, then sigh a little. She shook her head at his offer of one, keeping her gaze on him. Paul gave a quick smile.

"Worried?"

"Yeah, but not about the game," she began softly. Paul dropped his gaze down to the open mouth of his bottle, his shoulders tightening in response to her serious tone. He sighed.

"Yeah I knew THIS was coming—" he muttered gently, running a hand through his short dark hair. Slightly annoyed, Sam moved closer to him, frowning.

"What was coming?"

"Oh come on—the damn ‘let's be friends Paul' discussion you're about to launch into," he snapped, turning his dark green eyes to meet hers. "Come here—"

 Startled, Sam let herself be tugged into his arms; they wrapped around her warmly. With a low soft sound of pleasure she leaned against him, savoring his heat.

"Am I that predictable already?" came her muffled voice as she pressed her face to his shoulder. Paul smiled into her hair.

"No, but I'd be pretty foolish to think you never harbored a doubt or two about us. Come on Sam—we're two career officers who've seen and done a lot of things we can't share with the rest of the world. That doesn't make it easy to develop relationships with anybody."

Sam shifted her face, looking up at his gentle smile, feeling flushed.

"Most of the time I'm so busy I don't really think about it—" she confided, "But sometimes—those lonely trips to the store, or at three in the morning—"

"You want somebody there—somebody who understands because they KNOW, not because they've heard," Paul finished for her. Sam nodded quickly. Paul drew in a breath, and then took her by the shoulders, holding her off at arm's length.

"Cut you a deal here, okay? We can talk about this all you want, hash it out, IF---"

"—If?" she cocked her head, blue eyes wide and slightly suspicious despite her smile. Paul waggled his eyebrows.

"—IF your team wins." 

As he strode into the living room, chuckling, Sam stood for a second, open-mouthed.

"Hey!" she protested.

The sofa seemed big when it was just herself, Sam mused, and much smaller when Paul was draped all over it. The various goodies were all within reach, sitting on the coffee table, and each of them had a beer they were nursing. It was only the second quarter, and already both teams had scored, been penalized and had turned over the ball twice. As a commercial for Hertz ran, Sam glared at Paul.

"Your team's owner thinks he can BUY a Super Bowl win—" she accused. Paul shrugged and glanced around, a hint of mischief in his expression.

"Perks of being young, rich and ambitious I guess. Where IS everyone? Not that I mind the arrangements just the way they are, but I thought this was a party."

"Colonel and Rose are unavailable, Daniel's sick, Teal'c and Joanna have car trouble and Janet got called back to the Mountain—" Sam recited gloomily, helping herself to a cheese puff. Paul mulled this over a moment, and then tapped the remote he held against the arm of the sofa.

"And that doesn't strike you as maybe a little bit—"

"—Suspicious?" Sam finished, glancing over at him. They both blushed, Sam going pink as she shook her head slowly.

"Oh God! Those rats---" she muttered in a tone that promised dire revenge on the three women involved. Paul said nothing, his grin wide and amused, keeping his gaze on the screen where a drive for a touchdown was in progress. Sam reached for the phone, and then hesitated.

"Better idea—tell them I was a no-show too. The guilt will eat them up," he offered absently. Sam heaved one of the little sofa pillows at Paul but he batted it away, yelling at the screen.

"It was IN! God, that ref's totally BLIND!"

"What?"

Curiously, Sam caught the replay of the pass, watching as the Redskins receiver landed tantalizingly close on the line of the end zone. Simply to rile him, Sam announced,

"He's out. It's pretty clear to ME."

"In," Paul insisted fiercely.

"Out."

"In."

"Nope. Out."

 When Paul turned to glare at her Sam batted her eyes and began the chant, "Outoutoutoutoutoutoutout—"

Paul settled for flipping her the bird, making her laugh so hard she dropped her second cheese puff.

"Oh THAT was mature of you, Do-Right!"

"Bite me, Nell baby—Johnson was TOTALLY in and you KNOW it," he grumbled with no real malice at all.

The ruling went against the Skins, giving Sam a chance to rub it in further, and the two of them settled on opposite ends of the sofa, hooting and catcalling both at the TV and each other. At one point Sam draped her feet in Paul's lap, lounging lazily. The score was close, within a single touchdown all the way up to halftime; the announcers were considering a possible Washington upset in the making when Paul shook his head.

"Never happen—last season Lily cleaned up on betting against the announcer's predictions. Made enough to take her dad to Atlantic City."

Sam shot him a sympathetic look; the ex-fiancee was still a sour subject for him despite his light tone. She knew all about Lily Ibarra and her cavalier treatment of Paul, the official sanitized version from him and the grittier salacious one from Rose. Apparently Ms. Ibarra had hadn't considered being engaged any deterrent to indulging herself with a congressman. Paul had let her keep the ring but was determined to gain custody of her dog, an Australian terrier named Max. Having met Max, Sam was definitely on Paul's side.

Sam reached over and squeezed his fingers; he squeezed back, an embarrassed smile crookedly crossing his face.

"Let's change the subject, huh?"

"Sure. Want to play catch?"

Reaching down Sam fished out a football from under the sofa cushions and waved it, flashing the Broncos logo shamelessly at him. It worked; Paul laughed and nodded, rising off the sofa and reaching a hand to help her up. They made their way to the back yard.

"Cold—" he remarked, flexing his arms a bit, his breath a puff of white. Sam trotted to the end of the yard, dodging around the lone leafless tree there and nodded.

"More of a bite in the air here—when the seasons change you can really FEEL it."  

"Different from DC—" Paul added absently, sending the football soaring in a slow arc her way. Sam snagged it, firing it back low and straight, a gutshot that made him grunt a little.

"Ow!"

"Throw it like you MEAN it, Paul—" Sam warned him with a smile. He growled a little, but his next throw was a powerful pass driving deep into her hands. Sam laughed, and cut across the yard, sending it back. For a while they tossed the ball between them in the easy athletic way of two people in tune with each other. Sam liked watching Paul move, liked seeing him search for her, calculate distance and aim with clean precision. He moved in a loose and lanky way, a tall man comfortable with his own hands and feet.

A sense of quiet joy tinted her moments with Paul, Sam realized with soft surprise, a warm appreciation for good things like football and jokes and not having to say things with words. 

The ball slipped out of her grip, bouncing in the cat wiggle way of all footballs to roll under the hedge. Paul laughed.

"Another Washington victory, ladies and gentlemen—"

Sam stuck her tongue out, blowing a loud raspberry, then dropped on all fours to fish the ball out. The ground was cold under her bare hands, seeping through the knees of her jeans as she tried to locate the football. It eluded her, and she muttered under her breath, scratching her hands on the branches as she groped around.

"Need help?" 

"Might be nice—" she countered. Paul strode over and dropped on all fours next to her, his longer arms sweeping under the hedge.

"Think I've got it—" he announced, fishing out the slightly muddy ball.

 At that point, purely on impulse because he wasn't expecting it, Sam pounced on him. The ambush was almost successful; Paul gave a grunt and nearly went down as Sam flung herself across his back, trying to force him to the ground. Gamely he turned on her, grabbing her waist and making her squeal.

"No illegal tackles—" he chided, rolling with her, the ball forgotten for the moment. Sam refused to admit her surprise attack hadn't succeeded, mostly because the sudden nearness of Paul hit her in wave to the senses. The feel of his arms around her, the scent of his skin made her grind her teeth in an attempt not to whimper. She struggled, but Paul had a good grip around her and better leverage; with relative ease he managed to flip the both of them away from the hedge and across the frozen grass, landing on top of her and breathing down into her startled face.

"That was too easy—you LET me win—" he hoarsely announced, stunned as well by their sudden physical proximity. For a long second they both froze, startled and unwilling to retreat from this new level of connection.

Sam had never realized Paul's eyes were so green, or how long and dark his lashes were. Fascinating too was the warm welcome weight of him pressing down on her in oooooh, just the right way. She gasped a little and Paul tried to shift, but Sam clung more tightly.

"Oooof--You're a BIG guy, Do-Right—" she managed to blurt out, grinning crookedly. Paul tried to smile back but belatedly his body responded, hard and eager to the lithe form under him.

"Yeah, listen, I don't want to crush you, Nell baby, but—"

Sam ignored him, preferring to hang on for the moment and relish the feel of his big frame on hers. True, her ass was freezing against the cold ground, but other parts of her were heating up nicely, thank you, and from what she could feel friction-wise, particularly around the region of her hips and most certainly HIS hips the sacrifice was WORTH it. Sam wriggled experimentally. Paul groaned.

"None of that—" he muttered half-heartedly, even as his hips rocked forward with definitely masculine enthusiasm. Sam snickered.

"You LIKE me. THAT way—" she accused, wriggling again to make her point.

 Or rather his.

 Paul dropped his big hands on either side of her shoulders to brace himself and gave her a patient, incredulous look.

"You're just figuring that out NOW—tell me again HOW many degrees do you have in rocket science Samantha Carter?"

She laughed, long and loud at his exasperated tone, and the ebullient joy of sheer physical attraction flooded her from her throat down, sizzling through her chest and hips. Sam let her hands slide around his neck, touching the warm skin under the collar of his sweatshirt, savoring the heat there.

"I didn't realize—" Sam confessed softly. "That is, I hoped—you know, there was a mutuality to it and it wasn't just ME, um—feeling---"

Paul bent down as she spoke, and pressed his mouth very deliberately to the soft curve of her cheek, just under her ear. Feeling the heat of his skin, the incredible softness of his mouth on such a vulnerable spot made her arch up helplessly against him.

"No, not just you—" Paul reassured her, his voice slightly strained, "--And before your butt freezes to the ground or I crush you, we ought to get up—"

They took their time doing it, hanging onto each other, reluctant to move out of their embrace. Sam felt the giddy rush of adrenaline through her chest, the flashes of chill and flush that she knew showed on her face as well. Paul looked as overwhelmed as she did, but managed a smile as she linked her arm in his and pulled into the house again through the back door.

The second half of the game passed in an odd, timelessly weird way, with neither Sam nor Paul actually interested in it at all. They resumed their positions on the sofa, but touched each other constantly, shifting from hands to intertwined legs to pressed shoulders without missing a beat. It was if having given each other permission to make contact meant they were making up for months missed. Sam found herself hungry, ravenous in fact, and ate a good number of the cheese puffs and corn chips as Paul took his time with the ham rolls.

"Two minute warning—I don't think your team's going to get on the board again, Sam. Yeah, this game's pretty much over—" Paul predicted with satisfaction. He had her feet in his lap and was rubbing her insteps through her thin socks. Sam was limp with boneless pleasure, but she roused herself enough to shoot him a dirty look.

"When the average play only is four to eight seconds long, that still means twenty plays or MORE—plenty of time to get within field goal range at the very least."

"A field goal isn't going to cut it—your Broncos need a touchdown to tie and go into overtime—" Paul pointed out reasonably. Sam didn't want to admit the truth of his words and settled for something dangerously close to a pout, making him laugh.

"Ulterior motives for your team to win?" he asked quietly, not looking at her. She shot him a glance, remembering his words from the kitchen.

"Maybe—" she conceded reluctantly. Paul gave her feet a last squeeze and reluctantly scooped them out of his lap only to reach and pull the rest of her into it. Sam stiffened.

"I'm not the lap-sitting type—" she protested, feeling silly. Paul ignored her and wrapped his arm around her, pulling her back against his chest and whispering in her ear.

"Shhh, watch the game."

Reluctantly settling back she tried, acutely aware of Paul behind her, around her—

Under her—

And all of a sudden Sam's entire concentration shifted with lightning speed from the living room and the game to Paul's warm strong thighs and intriguing presence between them. She flushed again, wanting to squirm, fighting the urge and settling for a gentle shifting.

"Paul—"

"Focus—" he chided softly, "Your team is on their last drive and need to score NOW if they want to tie this up—"

Sam looked up at the quarterback threw a pass in a long lean pulse only to have it intercepted by a Skins player who made three yards before being brought down. The time ticked away and the whistle blew leaving the score at Washington 21, Broncos 14. She blinked. Paul tightened his arms around her waist.

"So that's IT?" she bleated, distressed and yet warm and achy too. Paul laughed low.

"That's it, end of game. The Skins go against the Falcons next week and in the meantime we eat cheesecake."

"But the talk—our discussion—" Sam protested, craning over her shoulder to look at Paul, who shrugged.

"The deal was that we would talk if your team won. Since they didn't, then we don't talk about our relationship," Paul told her patiently, looking steadily into her eyes. "At least not for the moment. We just live it, Sam."

"Live it?" still bewildered, she let herself be deposited on the sofa as Paul got up and stretched. He nodded, holding a hand out to her, pulling her up again with enough strength to bring her up against his body.

Easily, naturally Sam slipped her arms around him and sighed. Paul made a soft pleased sound.

"You're incredibly bright, babe. A genius by anyone's standards. I appreciate your need to structure your world and make sense of chaos, but reserve the right to consider the two of us and how we relate to be outside of that compulsion. Don't think, Sam, just—feel."

Paul's low and urgent tone did as much as his words, and Sam rocked against him, a flare of heat racing over her chest. He sighed.

"I have to carry this back with me tonight and make it last for the next three weeks."

"But I thought you were going to be here for another two days—" Sam looked up at him. He shook his head.

"The Joint Chiefs have a whole new agenda to co-ordinate with Homeland Security, and naturally the Gate is one of the top issues on the list. I'm on the eight thirty hop to Lackland and DC once I leave here."

Sam bit her lip; accepting bad news was a fact of military life. With a nod, she gently let go of him and walked to the kitchen, reaching the silverware drawer and fishing out two forks, noting with dull pain that it was already seven forty. Paul pulled the cheesecake out of the fridge and set it on the counter. Sam watched him cut two neat slices out of it, noting how big his hands were.

"Don't look so depressed—I'll be back by the second week of February you know," he told her as he handed her a plate. Dutifully she took it, letting her fingers stray over his as she did so. Paul smiled.

"I know, and it's not really that long, but—it is," she groused into the cheesecake.

"So I take it that means you'll miss me?" Paul asked softly, also staring into his cheesecake. Sam turned her wide blue eyes up at him, her crooked grin suddenly bright.

"Well yeah. The truth is I've gotten a little—used to having you around. You go with my furniture—" she teased. Paul laughed at that. 

They finished the cheesecake and wandered around, both of them compulsively cleaning up, delaying the inevitable goodbye. Sam kept her tone light, and forced her mood to match, but it was difficult. When Paul pulled on his coat and grudgingly moved to the front door, she fought the sense of panic in her chest.

Paul very gently hugged her. Sam looked up, drinking him in, feeling her skin prickle with tension. Her glance overhead took in the small dried twig dangling over her doorframe; Paul's followed it and for a moment they both silently contemplated the desiccated mistletoe.

"Paul—" Sam gulped in a high, strained whisper, "—kiss me---"

His eyes darkened. Moving slowly, as if she might be frightened away, Paul gently cupped Sam's face in his two hands; his big palms warm against her cheeks. Sam trembled, the hot bubbles of joy and relief flooding up through her body. She barely had time to blink when his mouth pressed to hers in a sweet, deliberate press. Paul's mouth was soft, his kiss controlled and hinting at power; hot desire surged through Sam.

Swiftly, her lips parted, tongue lapping at the seam of his hungrily as she slid her arm around his neck. Paul groaned, the sound muffled slightly as his mouth opened under the eager assault of hers. Tongue met tongue in a lovely wet kiss flavored with cheesecake and heated by urgent passion. Sam closed her eyes, focusing on the magnificent taste of Paul of the heat of his lips, the teasing slow slide of his tongue against hers.

Sam swayed, unsteady on her feet until Paul unhurriedly drove her back against the doorjamb, pinning her there in a manner that indicated he wasn't in any hurry go. He pulled back fractionally, smiled and bent to kiss her again, harder this time. Sam moaned. Her nipples ached, rubbing hard against her sweatshirt, and her hips shifted restlessly until Paul cupped them in his big hands.

"Sam—" he breathed, his tone low and strained, "My gorgeous, sexy Sam—"

With a little low sob she launched herself at him, mouth on his again, taking charge the kiss in lovely slurpy fashion, delighted at his strong fervent response to her dancing tongue. In the back of her mind, Sam realized that THIS was what Paul had meant in his plea to simply live the relationship—this uncluttered sensual freedom stretching from their first smile to this glorious kiss.

Gradually common sense returned by degrees to them both; Paul regretfully pulled away, catching his breath, his hands squeezing her hips.

"Wow—" he sighed, pleasure lighting his eyes. Sam agreed, her hands straightening his collar in slow caressing fashion. She gave a long sigh.

"This means a lot."

"Yeah, it does—" Paul agreed, kissing her nose. She laughed at the soft tickle of it and stood straighter, drawing courage from his empathetic look.

"So. You'll be back in three weeks, and that's good. We can maybe get together then—" she plowed on, trying for a nonchalant tone. Paul laughed at her bravado. He leaned down and pressed his lips, hot and damp on her ear.

"Sam, I want you. I've wanted you for a very long time, babe, and in three weeks I'll be back if you want me."

Not trusting her voice as that dark sweet statement swirled into her ear, Sam nodded vigorously, clutching Paul tightly and letting her body language roar agreement. He laughed again, a shy hint of relief in his tone and pressed a last lingering kiss on her warm mouth.

"I HAVE to go. I don't want to."

"I understand. Three weeks, Paul—" Sam reminded him, promised him. 

He smiled, trotted down the steps and lightly ran to his car. Sam stood watching him drive away until even the rear lights were gone far down the road.

She smiled, and slowly took her Broncos sweatshirt off.