Milk Carton

Rated T

Disclaimer – hey, if you want this, you can have it.

Summary - It's morning in Jack's house. Another domestic life tidbit.

Author's Note - Came to me at 2 in the morning and just wrote itself out in about 10 minutes. Wouldn't let me sleep till I wrote it out, either. Thanks to everyone who's been giving me feedback, you guys are great.

**

It was 11AM on Saturday morning. A storm was raging outside, giving the house a grayish hue to it.

Which was perfect.

Jack threw his blanket sideways and sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. Glancing behind him through sleepy-hazy eyes, he made out her shape on the bed. She lay on her back, mouth half open, one hand thrown over her head on the pillow, the other clutching his. She was sound asleep.

He got up and quietly made his way to the adjoining bathroom to relieve himself.

That done, Jack padded down the stairs, avoiding the one that always creaked when it was stepped on in a vain attempt to keep as quiet as he can so she can sleep. He made his way to the kitchen. Not bothering with the light, he pulled the refrigerator door open and stood gaping at the contents – two six-packs of Guinness, two eggs, a pasta from last week that may or may not have begun growing hair.

He grabbed the carton of milk from the fridge door, unscrewed the cap and tipped the carton to his mouth with one hand, his other still holding the fridge open. A sip of the cold white whole milk slid down his throat, and then another and another.

"Jaaaaaack…"

Jack froze. Then he lowered the carton slightly so the liquid doesn't spill on his chest. He didn't put the carton away. The whine-like use of his name sound so familiar. It had absolutely no relation to the moan that turned out to be his name the night before, and yet sounded so…

Oh.

Sara used to say his name like that when she'd catch him drinking from the carton. It was not a happy memory.

He chanced a glance at Sam.

She was leaning against a set of drawers in his kitchen, her hair messy from sleep (and his hands, probably), she was wearing his "Whose your daddy?" Homer Simpson tee-shirt, and one sock. Even through the haze of sleep that still clouded his mind she looked beautiful.

He lowered the milk carton.

"Pass me the orange juice," she said.

He pulled the Tropicana extra pulp (he bought especially for her) from the door and passed it to her.

She unscrewed the cap and threw it absentmindedly on the counter. Tipping her head back she lowered the mouth piece to her lips and too one long swig. And then another and another.

Jack grinned at her and tipped the milk carton to his lips again.

He was still holding the refrigerator door open.

The next morning when she came to find him in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator drinking milk out of the carton, the orange juice was already on the counter, uncapped.

No glass.