A/N: Kissing in closets. How... original. Unbeta'd, so all mistakes are mine own. Written for the December challenge, 'kissing,' on the sjeveryday livejournal community. Fluff, then angst, then some more fluff. Lots of kissing. Seems to be a running theme in my fic, now I think about it.

The first time it happened was shortly after the incident with the arm-bands, but before the zatarc detector. Her first thought - stupid and inane and unprofessional, so perhaps she'd instinctively known she wasn't in any real danger – was that someone must have unscrewed the light bulb, because the storage closets didn't have 'off' switches. It was pitch black when the door snapped shut, and she was still trying to regain her balance and gain some night vision.

And then - bam - his mouth was on hers.

There were lots of other men on base, and certain Air Force standards. They all had short hair (aside from those who didn't have any hair at all). Most of them were taller than her. There were plenty who had strong arms but weren't too muscle-bulky. At any given time, likely more than half would be wearing BDUs. But out of all those identifiers, only one had this particular smell – not a scent, exactly... more just the smell of his skin.

She was abruptly reminded of a time, about a year ago, when he'd pulled her close, hugging her, desperately cold, desperately glad to be alive, and he'd smelled of whatever weird chemicals the Goa'uld used in their cryogenic freezing process, but underneath had been that smell, and she'd wanted to taste his skin so badly that her mouth watered.

What was she doing? She should be fighting this supposedly unknown assailant! She shouldn't be falling willingly when he gave a tug, and sighing against his mouth. She shouldn't be wrapping her arms around him and running her fingers through his hair (so soft - must be good genes, because his shampoo was generic, and she wasn't sure if he even used conditioner). She shouldn't be pushing against him so fiercely that he stumbled back against the shelving. She really shouldn't be opening her mouth to the invading press of his tongue - or if she did, she should bite down rather than tangle her own tongue with his. And she certainly shouldn't be doing this.

He sucked in a sharp breath through his nose as she twisted her hips, and his hands tightened almost painfully at her shoulder and waist. He flipped them so his heavier body crushed her against the wall. Shelves dug into her hips and back. There were a million rational reasons why she shouldn't be doing this. And one irrational reason why she should.


She tilted her head, and one of his hands came up to cup her jaw, his long, agile fingers sinking into her hair. The other hand ran across the small of her back, hovering, obviously wanting to travel lower but not daring to push his luck. The kiss slowed from a frantic pressing and re-pressing of lips to a leisurely, deep, thorough exploration, until she was breathlessly aware of every inch of clothing that separately them, and the heat of his hands on her body.

And suddenly it was too much.

But they were in sync with this as with everything else, it seemed, because his muscles tensed, and he pulled back, their lips separating with a liquid 'pop' – just an inch or so away, close enough for his nose to brush hers with every rapid breath. For a moment they stood there, as close as they could get whilst still clothed. She felt as though electricity was skittering through her body, just under her skin. Then he leaned to the side, and whispered, low and sweet:

"Five minutes."

She closed her eyes against the sensation of his breath tickling her ear. And he was gone in a flash of low light from the hall. She made no attempt to watch him go, to confirm his identity. It was unnecessary.

For the next couple of weeks, she slowed whenever she passed That Closet, but it didn't happen again, and he gave no indication by word, look, or deed that anything had occurred. And then came the zatarc testing, and the confessions at zat-point, and she stopped lingering, determined to put it behind her.

A few months later, and she was wearily making her way from the locker rooms - after a long-needed shower - to her lab, to see what had accumulated during her absence, when a strong hand snaked out from a different closet, and dragged her in. She fought, this time, because she knew what this was and she couldn't. do. it.

"No!" she hissed, struggling, but his arms wrapped around her, and just held on, and there were no lips, no fevered kisses, and she went abruptly limp against him. She couldn't do it - but oh how she needed it. Needed to touch him. He leaned back, and she went with him, too tired – both physically and mentally – to fight any more. He lowered his head into her neck, and breathed a heavy sigh, and she blinked back unexpected tears, gripping his shirt tightly in her fists. "It's not fair," she whispered into his collar. His head shook in silent response. She closed her eyes, and allowed herself one moment of weakness, one moment to breathe in his smell – he'd showered, too, evidently – and remember.

Even when she didn't know her own name, she'd loved his smell. Underneath the grime, and the sweat, and the gritty, metallic smell of heavy machinery, they'd been the same people. She knew now that it was a fundamental truth about them. Whatever the time, place, situation – they still had this.

He pressed one brief kiss to the side of her head, through her hair, and rubbed a comforting hand across her back. "Sorry," he whispered. She nodded acknowledgement. Sorry. He was sorry, she was sorry, it was a sorry situation – but they had to grin and bear it, suck it up like good little airmen.

His cheek was against hers, freshly-shaved, his nose tucked against her ear, and she was abruptly back in the depths of an industrial complex with the one thing that made her existence bearable. Enviable, even. His hand stilled, and she knew their wordless connection was in full effect. "Don't," she whispered, knowing that, in another few moments, they'd be beyond stopping. He swallowed, his breathing suddenly unsteady. Nodded once.

"Five minutes?"

She nodded, and closed her eyes at the almost unbearable feeling that ripped through her as he let go, and slipped away. Five minutes later, the trembling in her hands had almost subsided, and she slipped out of the closet and carried on to her lab pretending nothing had happened. She was becoming an expert at that.

It happened one last time. She'd been out of the infirmary for all of two hours, when she was grabbed from behind and dragged backwards into the gloom of yet another closet. She felt unpleasantly antiseptic and slightly sticky from being in the infirmary, and her throat was sore from the intubation, but he didn't seem to care. She hadn't the energy to fight, and nor did she want to, but his lips were fierce and unrelenting – almost angry.

No, definitely angry. He trailed fast, hot kisses down her neck, and bit her shoulder, hard.


The sharp pain gave her energy, her own anger flaring up suddenly and irrationally to match his. She shoved him back against the shelves, knocking things over and not caring, grabbing his hands and pinning them with her own. She was kissing him back before she knew what her body had decided, gripping his wrists tightly enough to leave bruises. She didn't care.

Somehow he wormed free of her grip. His arms wrapped around her head, pinning her in place with just enough force to suggest she'd get her neck wrenched if she tried to escape. They buried themselves in each other, fighting with lips and tongues and hands to get closer, and she couldn't breathe, didn't want to breathe... had to breathe.

She pulled back with a gasp, and he growled – actually growled – and pulled her up against him so he could nibble the tender skin of her neck. She shuddered, and moaned involuntarily, every pore tingling. She felt alive. And oh, this wasn't anger.

His hands were on her back, and the temperature shot up perceptibly when she realized they were under her top, touching bare skin. She felt as though she'd just spent months in a sensory deprivation tank, and this was her first real connection with something outside her own body. She needed that touch – she needed his hands, running across her back, one thumb caressing just beneath the clasp of her bra. Needed it too much.

She pulled her own hands out from their autonomous voyage up the back of his own shirt, startled by how close she was to losing control. But his tongue was tasting the hollow at the base of her throat, and she was humming with desire...

Her hands, disobediently, had been drawn back to the addictive sensation of the smooth skin of his back under her palms. She wrenched them back yet again, and ducked her head into his, nuzzling against his neck in an attempt to gently fend him off. He wasn't willing to let go so easily. She swallowed, hating herself for doing this, but...


It was one word, barely even a whisper, but he stopped abruptly. Froze against her, body suddenly taut with tension. She tried to soothe it with a platonic hand down his back, smoothing his rumpled shirt.

"I know," she whispered. "I know."

His hands withdrew from under her clothes, body still tense. He withdrew from her completely, stepping back until he was as far as he could get in the enclosed space, and she wanted to protest, to pull him back, to carry this through to its natural conclusion. She held herself still by sheer force of will. "I..." he began, but didn't seem to have any conclusion. He reached out one hand, and ran it gently down the side of her face. "You better go first this time," he whispered, voice wry. "I'm not gonna be presentable for at least five minutes."

How he could joke, she didn't know. She wanted to cry. She grabbed his hand, and held it against her cheek for a fleeting moment, and then let go, and fled the scene, feeling like a criminal. Which, in a way, she was.

That had been too close for comfort. They didn't do it again.

Six years later, and his presence was no longer familiar enough to stop her natural reaction to being grabbed and dragged into a closet.

"Ow! Dammit, Carter-! It's me!"

She froze, arm back and wound up for a punch. "Jack?"

He was, she presumed, rubbing his arm in the dark of the closet. "Of course Jack! You been getting dragged into closets by anyone else lately?"

She ignored the jealous note in his voice for the complete idiocy that it was. "What're you doing here?" She didn't need light – she could feel the look he gave her. "Aside from the obvious. I thought you were in Washington. Does Landry know you're here?"

"No. And I intend to keep it that way for as long as possible," he retorted.

She was beginning to understand. A slow smile crept onto her face. "Ohhhh. So you're just here to...?"

His voice was suddenly closer, deeper, warmed with a smug smile. "Yeah. For old times' sake."

She chuckled. "You're so romantic."

He wrapped his arms around her, and kissed her forehead. "Well, you know." Kissed her nose, and her body was beginning to wake up and pay attention. "I do my best." Kissed her lips, light and tenderly. Jack. Jack was here. With her. In a closet.

She ran her hands up his side and over his shoulders, relishing the chance to touch him. It'd been two weeks since they last saw each other, and that was fourteen days too long. "Kiss me, you mad fool," she ordered, cupping her hands around the base of his skull and rubbing his ears with her thumbs. He moaned with pleasure, squeezing her in his arms until she could hardly breathe. She'd discovered – embarrassingly soon after his transfer to Washington - that he had extremely sensitive ears. But it was only fair, because he'd already known about her neck. He leaned closer...

And there was a loud thumping on the closet door. The cheerful voice of their favorite archaeologist rang out. "Sam? Are you in there?" Sam groaned, and buried her face in Jack's neck. How had he known? "Vala said she saw you go in there," called Daniel, answering that question. "But she's probably pulling my leg, so..."

Sam grumbled against Jack's skin. "It's times like this I wish he'd Ascend again," she muttered.

"Five minutes, Daniel!" Jack yelled.

There was a long, startled pause. "...Jack?" asked Daniel, tentatively.

"Daniel," acknowledged Jack.


"Daniel: Five. Minutes."

"Oh. Oh. Okay. But don't make me come after you. I need Sam's help on this device from 227, and you've got the rest of your lives to neck in closets."

Retreating footsteps at last signaled they were being left alone, and Sam smiled against Jack's neck. "The rest of our lives," she murmured, dreamily, "to neck in closets." She sighed happily.

"But only five minutes right now," Jack pointed out.

And they proceeded to make the most of it.