Title: Levi Strauss Was a God
Disclaimer: Now, if they were mine, would I be writing? I think not. It would be me, Jack, and a private beach. Alas, it was not to be.
Spoilers: Season 9, somewhere.
Author's Notes: Special thanks to Ayiana for the beta read, as always.
Jack was going to kill her.
Sam surveyed the disaster area that was the master bedroom and sighed. This was so not what she'd had in mind for her day off. It should have taken an hour, tops. That was four hours ago.
A local charity was doing a clothing drive, and Sam had convinced Jack it would be a good thing to help out by donating. Not only would it help them get a little more organized, but it was for a good cause.
The "Sam needs more closet space" cause, that is.
To Jack's credit, he had attempted to help. For about five minutes. When she'd started muttering to herself and flinging clothes into various mysterious piles, he'd quietly slunk out of the bedroom. Thus far she'd heard the lawnmower running, the hedge trimmer, and the chipper/shredder. It had, however, been quiet for a while. She suspected she'd been ditched for a lounge chair and a cold beer.
She took a few moments to recall the categories of the various mountains now occupying the floor (and bed, and dresser, and chair), and then squared her shoulders and dived in. After another hour, everything staying had been relocated to hopefully permanent homes. The closet was divided evenly between them, 65 percenthers, 35 percent his. (All she'd have to tell Jack is that there were equations involved, and he'd agree just to shut her up.) The drawers were allocated in a 3:2 ratio. Everything was organized by clothing type and by color, from light to dark. It was a masterpiece.
Jack's boxers were even alphabetical by cartoon character. She was particularly proud of that (though she knew Jack would bluntly question her sanity).
A stray bundle of denim peeked out from under the bed, and she picked it up, discovering a well-worn, velvet-soft pair of Levi's. They had to be Jack's but they were way too slim to be anything she'd ever seen him wear. His preference these days was baggy and wrinkled, or anything the complete opposite of the dress blues he was forced to wear at work.
Curious now, she went outside and found Jack, as she suspected, sprawled on a lounge chair in the sun, a hat over his face and a bottle of Guinness dangling precariously from his fingers. He was clad only in a pair of grass-smudged khaki cargo shorts, and his skin was already darkening in the sun.
Sam absently chewed on her bottom lip, and debated the merits of jumping him then and there. God, he was gorgeous. And all hers.
His voice was low and gravelly, as if he'd been dozing. He lifted the hat off his face, and peered at her with sleepy brown eyes.
She grinned. "Just admiring the view."
He grunted and rolled his eyes, never quite understanding what it was she found so fascinating about him. He sat up and stretched, wiry muscles rippling under tan skin.
She nearly swallowed her tongue.
"Whatcha got there?" He pointed to the bundle in her hands.
She shook her head as if to clear it and took a deep breath. Oxygen was a good thing, and she'd had far too little of it during the last couple of minutes.
"Are these yours? I found them while I was cleaning." She held up the jeans for his perusal.
He eyed them a moment, then shrugged. "Yeah. Haven't worn them in years, though. They were my bike jeans. I'd wear them when I took my old Harley out."
The picture of a younger Jack O'Neill, clad in the Levi's, a white t-shirt, and a battered leather jacket astride a Harley flashed through her mind, and the mental image took away her ability to breathe again.
She held out the jeans and smiled hopefully. "Would you put them on?"
The look on his face was an odd combination of horror and amusement. "Sam, I don't think they fit anymore. They're just jeans, anyway."
That was the wrong answer. She stepped closer and dropped the jeans in his lap, then smiled sweetly. "Please, Jack?"
That tone of voice and that smile usually got her whatever she wanted from him. It was a weakness he refused to admit to, and one she tried to limit exploiting. Only on special occasions.
The possibility of Jack O'Neill in skin-tight denim was definitely a special occasion.
He sighed and muttered something, and then took the jeans and stood up. "Well, c'mon, then. You might have to help me. That is, if I can get them higher than my knees."
She stifled the giggle of sheer glee that threatened to bubble out, and followed him in a more or less dignified manner back into the house and into their bedroom. She had no doubt those jeans were going on. Jack worked out more now than he had as CO of SG-1. Exercise was now his main energy release valve while in Washington. He'd even gone so far as to have his secretary schedule it, and it was as sacrosanct as his phone calls to Colorado. Talking to his wife and blowing off steam kept him sane and relatively mellow. His coworkers and bosses had learned, rather quickly, that a mellow Jack O'Neill was a more or less cooperative one, and life was easier for all concerned.
He'd already stripped the cargo shorts off on the way to the bedroom, and was shimmying out of his boxers when she caught up to him. "Those jeans require briefs," he explained. Jack O'Neill was standing in front of her, naked. Explanations for said nakedness were so not necessary.
He opened his underwear drawer and froze. "Sam."
She was busy admiring his six and missed the warning tone of his voice. "Hmm?"
"Sam, stop staring at my ass and explain what the hell you did to my underwear!"
Ooh. She noticed the tone that time. Oops.
"Oh. Um… The briefs are in the back, by color, since you don't wear them that often. The boxers are in order, alphabetical, by cartoon character. The Simpsons are organized by last name, then first. Simpson, Bart, followed by Simpson, Homer."
He blinked, and then gave her the look she knew she'd get. "I married a freak," he declared.
His statement was softened by the fact that he was standing there naked. She could forgive a lot when presented with such a scenic view. She merely grinned. "Yep."
He shook his head and grabbed a random pair of briefs out of the drawer, then pulled them on with a sigh. "Okay, gimme the jeans."
She'd had him naked, and now said nakedness was being covered up, at her request. There was something so wrong about this.
With only a minimal amount of grunting and cursing, the jeans slid on. Nimble fingers fastened the button fly with practiced ease, and, finally, he stood up and faced her.
They were tight in all the right places, to the point of being virtually painted on. His long, lean legs seemed to go on for miles. Unable to speak, she merely circled her finger at him, indicating he should turn around. Again, another eye roll, but he did as she asked.
She was intimately acquainted with this man's ass. She'd groped it, pinched it, grasped it, and on a couple memorable occasions, bitten it. It was one of her top three favorite Jack body parts.
But the things this pair of jeans did to said ass…
She nearly snarled with displeasure when he turned back to face her. "Uh, Sam, I'm sure you're enjoying this, even though it baffles me as to why, but I think these jeans are going to severely impede my ability to father any future children we might want if I leave them on much longer."
She frowned unhappily. "Don't care." She really, really wanted them to stay on for a while.
He tried to shove his hands in the pockets, but they were too tight to even do that. "Look, how 'bout if I wear them for our anniversary next month?"
Her eyes narrowed as she considered this. Finally, she nodded. "Okay."
He sighed in relief. "Thank God."
She made no move to help him as he peeled himself out of the jeans. She did, however, help herself out of her own clothes. He was no sooner out of the hated briefs when a well-placed shove sent him sprawling atop the bed.
"Uh, Sam, not that I'm opposed to being mauled here, but I have been out in the yard all day. I hosed off earlier, but…"
"Oh. Okay, then. Do with me what you will, Mrs. O'Neill."
As she attacked that one spot at the base of his throat she liked so much (favorite Jack body part number two), one last coherent thought flitted through her mind.
Levi Strauss was a god.