Title: Jack O'Neill Is Too a Toy

Author: Andraste

Category: Missing Scene/Romance

Disclaimer: Not mine, but I promise to put them back when I'm done.

Spoilers: Memento Mori (S10)

Author's Note: In an attempt at emerging from my months-long exile, I decided to polish up some long-completed, but never posted, stories. Might as well make myself useful somehow, anyway.

"So… No pants, huh?"

Sam rolled her eyes and stifled a long-suffering sigh. The man waded through reams of paper on their latest run-in with the Trust, and what does he focus on? Cam's attire, or lack thereof.

"Was he totally naked? 'Cause the whole handcuffed to the bed with Twinkie filling all over his face thing had to be embarrassing enough."

"Jack…" She reached into the fridge and grabbed a beer. Seemed she did that a lot when talking to him on the phone. She loved him dearly, but he drove her nuts sometimes.

Okay, a lot. But still.

"He had his boxers on. Actually, he wears those boxer brief things. They're pretty cute."

She was so going to pay for that, but riling her husband up was one of her joys in life.


"Daniel's wearing them now, too. Teal'c still prefers regular boxers."

There was a very telling silence on the other end of the line. Sam sipped her Guinness and smiled smugly.

"I'm sure there's a perfectly logical reason why you know what kind of underwear your male teammates prefer."

Really, who needed Reality TV when she had the infinitely more entertaining Jack O'Neill Show to provide amusement?

"Jack, you know what we go through. We've seen each other in all kinds of dress and undress. You think the guys don't know that I have a preference for decidedly non-regulation Victoria's Secret?"

He cleared his throat. "I'd really rather they didn't…"

"Besides, I work with three gorgeous men. I'm not blind, you know. I don't ogle them or anything, but if I just happen to be presented with an occasional scenic view, I'm not going to look away."

"Sam… I feel I need to invoke Rule Number Five here."

Apparently, after over a year of marriage, he hadn't learned that Rule Number Five had absolutely no sway over her. As soon as they'd both said "I do," he officially became her plaything, rule or no rule. And Sam was very, very fond of her toy.

"Did I mention I found the cutest boxers online the other night? You should get them in a couple days. I expect you to model them for me next time I see you."

"Oh, for crying out loud… I'm not your toy, and I'm not a doll for you to dress up!"

Ooh, he was sounding a bit testy. She supposed she should feel mildly guilty, but considering how often he managed to piss her off, it was only fair. She adored him, but he really could be a pain in the ass sometimes. Payback was a bitch.

"You forgot one thing, Jack."

"What? Sparkly high heels?"

She snorted. Interesting mental image, that. "No, Jack. If I dress you up, I get to undress you, too."

There was a choked cough. "Oh," he managed after a moment. "So you're not trading me in for a newer model?"

She sighed. They really needed to work on his self-esteem issues. "Jack, if I haven't killed you or divorced you by now, it's not going to happen. Though really, at the moment, I'd love to be able to reach through the phone and smack you upside the head."


She snickered. Her reassurance seemed to be working him out of his little snit. "You want kinky… Wear the boxers when I see you. Just the boxers. I'll give you more kinky than you know what to do with."

She could practically see his eyebrows hit his hairline. "Sweet…" She heard a voice in the background, and Jack's muffled reply. "Listen, I gotta go. IOA's out of paper clips or something."

"Well, we can't have that." She grinned. "Love you."

"Love you too."

"Oh, and Jack?"


The smug look returned. "I'd take experience over youth any day. There's something to be said about a man who not only has exceptional equipment, but the experience to use it to its full potential."

She hung up before he could say anything, and then lifted her bottle in a silent toast.

Score one for Samantha Carter O'Neill.

Jack practically pounced on the package the minute he walked in his front door at home. He sliced into it with his Swiss Army knife and ripped the box open before tearing into cellophane.

And then he laughed, long and hard.

The boxers were light blue; with a brief-clad Homer Simpson proudly sprawled on both the front and back of the shorts, and the words "Love Machine" in bright red letters.

He couldn't have loved his wife more than he did at that moment. And yeah. He'd give her the "experience" of her life next time they were together.

He was, after all, Jack O'Neill: Love Machine.