Suffering In Silence.

So here I am, stuck on what can only be accurately described as the 'Date From Hell' with officially the most boring man ever to have walked the Earth.

Remind me to kill Janet tomorrow. This was entirely her idea after all. She decided in her *infinite* wisdom that after...a few...years of being single I was in serious need of a date.

Yeah, right.

'Cause *Janet* lives in one big social whirl.

Nice, Carter. When in doubt, revert to sarcasm and bitching. The thing is, she's probably right. It's been so long since I've had a social life that I think maybe I've forgotten how to flirt. So she set me up with this guy whose name

Okay, not entirely true. I occasionally flirt with my team mates - well, Daniel and the Colonel at least. It wouldn't I'd feel right flirting with Teal'c; but then I don't think even Marilyn Monroe would know where to begin with a challenge like that.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Mr Congeniality here. For the last three hours, nineteen minutes and twenty-three seconds he has talked - continuously - about himself. Throughout dinner he was so busy telling me about the wonders of being a Pharmacologist that he didn't even stop talking during mouthfuls. Euch! *Someone's* mother neglected to teach them table manners. So, anyway, after smiling politely and nodding until I thought my head was going to roll right off my shoulders and into his Spaghetti Carbonara I just tuned out. Started thinking about other things.

Better things.

Okay... I started thinking about the Colonel.

It's really not my fault! It's not like I want to have - let's just say, less than professional - thoughts about my Commanding Officer. I joined the Airforce to do a job, and I do it. In fact, without wanting to sound too much like my Anally Retentive dinner companion, I think I do my job well. Otherwise, why would they have promoted me?

Now there was a day to remember. I've always wondered what the Colonel was going to say about me in his speech. I'm certain it would have been highly professional and full of praise - but I would also put money on him mentioning our little jaunt to P3X 595. Somehow I doubt he will ever let me forget that little indiscretion.

Damn. My date's looking at me funny. What the hell is his name? Note to self: when next on a date and your mind wanders to thinking about another man, *try* not to sit staring vacantly, with a goofy smile on your face.

Right, need an excuse. Make eye contact and say something intelligent.

Like what?

I think I've just discovered that I have a 'dumb blond' side. My mind has gone completely blank. And for someone who calculates topological configurations of multiple dimensions in their sleep, I find that somewhat surprising.

Okay, maybe not in my sleep, but I do think about stuff. A lot.

Too much. He's still staring at me. Damn, for the first time in over three hours he's actually closed his mouth for a minute and is expecting me to say something.


'Sorry. Please continue.' Nice. I smile and nod encouragingly and - Thank God. He's off again.

Over the course of this evening I've spent more time checking my watch than actually listening to - whassisname. And quite frankly, I'm running out of reasons to look my wrist. I agreed to a late dinner date because we only returned from P4C 645 this afternoon. To be honest, I was kind of hoping for a minor injury that would get me out of this. No such luck. So, as was agreed by Janet, he picked me up at twenty two hundred hours and we came straight here. Unfortunately for me, it being a Saturday night means that this restaurant doesn't close until two, and I'm stuck here.

I manage to sneak a glance at my watch again whilst he's beckoning the waiter over. One forty-five. Fifteen minutes 'till certain freedom. I hope I make it that long without stabbing him with my dessert fork.

Shit. The waiters here and they're both staring at me questioningly. What the hell was the question? I look at the waiter pleadingly and after batting my eyelids he takes pity on me and gives me a hint.

'Perhaps the lady would like to see the dessert menu before making her decision?'

Dessert! Yes! I know what the question was!

I smile in relief, mentally calculating a bigger tip for my saviour and refuse the menu. No way I'm staying any longer than is absolutely necessary.

I decide to push my luck a little further. 'In fact, it's late, and I really should be getting home soon.' *Please* tell me my date has taken the hint.

He has. He's refused the dessert menu and has asked for the cheque! Yes! FREEDOM!!!

Okay, must remember to contain the overwhelming joy within and instead I smile demurely at my soon to be ex-date.

So, after nearly ten minutes of him arguing with the waiter over the cost of one bottle of white wine, I surreptitiously backhand the waiter a ten-dollar tip and we're in the car. Under normal circumstances I would have practically orgasmed over this guy's wheels. A nineteen seventy-six Oldsmobile Cutlass Coupe. Nice. But these are most definitely not normal circumstances, and I seem to spend most of the journey continuously removing his wandering hand from my knee, whilst mentally willing his foot to floor the accelerator.

No such luck. After an agonising half-hour we finally pull up outside my house and...

Wait a minute...

I know that truck.

Okay. I'm pretty sure that one of two things is happening here. Either; A) I'm having more *very* badly timed fantasies about my commanding officer or B) Colonel O'Neill is outside my house.

At two thirty in the morning.

In the rain.

On a school night.

Okay, not a school night, but the rest seems to be true. So, doing what any normal woman would do when confronted by the beginnings of one of her wildest fantasies, I panic, then ignore him. My date meanwhile, has rushed (okay, stumbled) over to my side of the car and very gallantly opened my door. Maybe I misjudged him a little.

Or not.

When I accepted his hand to help me out of the car, it seems I made a rather large mistake. Now it has become apparent that I may require a few tools from my garage to extricate my hand from his.

Oh God.

He's going to try and kiss me, isn't he?

And in front of my Colonel.

Uh, I wonder if Apophis might feel the need to launch his assault on Earth right about now?

Apparently not. But that's okay, my overworked brain has just managed to come up with a plan. As the greasy mook leans in for a kiss with his sloppy mouth I quickly turn my head and get a large wet one on my cheek. Ha! Got ya, you slimy geek! Foiled by your own fiendish logic!

Yeah. Must stop playing Dungeons and Dragons with Daniel (Don't ask).

So anyway, off goes the date, muttering something I probably wouldn't want to hear, and I...

...have no idea what I 'm supposed to do now.

Okay, here's the situation as it currently stands. Colonel O'Neill, the man I am secretly in love with, not to mention my commanding officer, is sitting in his truck, outside of my house, having just seen me return from a date.


Things could be worse...I have no idea how, but I'm pretty sure they could.

Thing is, as I think about it, it's actually really quite romantic. He must have known I wasn't home 'cause I left my kitchen light on, and I only do that when I'm out. Supposedly it deters burglars. I saw it on America's Most Wanted.

So knowing I wasn't home, he must have been here some time. Waiting for me.



C'mon Sam. All you have to do is go over there and ask.

No problem.

Actually, minor problem. My feet seem to be sticking to the concrete, and my heart is about to go AWOL from my chest. I'm not even gonna mention what this is doing to my libido.

Yeah. Too much information. Sorry. So, anyway, giving myself a mental shove, I slowly walk over to the truck as he opens the door, gets out, and leans casually against the hood. From this distance, I could have sworn he was posing for the new 'Loaded' Magazine cover. Pretty damn sexy.

Once again my brain is overthinking the situation, and as I look at him I come to the realisation that I don't want to know why he's here. I'm just *really* glad He is. So much so that when I finally reach him, I just fall into his arms.

After a moment's hesitation he folds his arms around me and hugs me back. Definitely feels nice. Like something straight out of a trashy romance novel. He smells good, a mixture of Whisky and something else...something purely Jack O'Neill.

We stay like that for about a minute, then we break apart and, realising that this would be a bad time to talk, I just turn around and go into the house. As I close the door behind me I lean heavily against the frame and listen to the sounds of the engine roaring to life as he pulls away.

Whatever he wanted to tell me can wait until morning, I decide as I get ready for bed with a smile that's threatening to crack my face.

Can't wait 'till tomorrow. Janet's gonna love this one.