For the purposes of this drabble, I have decided that Sam "claims" Colorado as home. Most military families move a lot, so it's probably not possible to figure out where she actually was born and raised. I looked at a bunch of fansites and other informational archives and never could find a reference to where she really was born, so I just decided on something.

Hey—it's just a drabble. Go with it.

Pass Interference

"So, who's playing?"

"Patriots at Jets."

"Who's winning?"

"No one, yet. It just started." Sam looked over her shoulder to where her husband stood just behind the couch.

Hands shoved deep in his pockets, he eyed the television as if it were about to divulge the secrets to the universe for a moment before frowning down at her. Still slightly bleary-eyed from his Sunday afternoon nap, he blinked a few times before returning his focus to his wife. "I didn't think you liked football."

"Oh, I do. Here and there." Sam shrugged, motioning to the book on her lap. "In and around other things."

"Why don't you have the sound turned on?"

"Because I'm reading."

"And watching the game?"

"Sort of." She shifted on the couch as he rounded the coffee table. Leaning closer to the couch arm on her side and settling her book on her other leg, she looked up and waited.

Sure enough, he sat right next to her, his hand resting automatically on her right thigh. After a moment, he looked sideways at her. "Only sort of?"

"Well, I read a chapter, and then reward myself with watching a play or two." She lifted her hand and showed him the cover of the book. "You can see why I'd need to do it that way."

The General scanned it and blanched. "McKay?"

"He wrote his own book on wormhole theory." Sam's mouth twisted in what could only have been described as a smirk. "He said that mine wasn't thorough enough, and that there were certain parts that were not only oversimplified, but also factually inaccurate."

"So much for professional courtesy."

Sam snorted rather indelicately. "Rodney McKay is neither professional nor courteous."

"Proletarian and obsequious?"

Cheeks dimpling, Sam shook her head. "Jack, be nice."

His hand tightening on her thigh, Jack nudged her with his shoulder. "Hey—you started it."

"I know! I know." She slammed the book shut and tossed it onto the end table to her left. "I need to be nicer to that doorknob."

"Why? He'd only think you were hitting on him." Jack considered, and then presented his theory in all seriousness. "Then he'd make a move, and I'd find out about it, and then I'd just have to hurt him."

"So, basically, you're telling me not to be nice to him?"

"Right." Jack nodded. "You'd be doing him a favor."

"Because if he hit on me, you'd go all alpha-male and hurt him?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to."

"And yet, you're smiling at the prospect."

And he was. Widely. With an air of satisfaction that lit up his face like a child's at Christmas. Briefly, he gazed off into the distance, a lofty little glint in his eye. "Oh, yes."

"Down, boy." Sam answered his smile with a low laugh and a roll of her eyes. Covering her husband's hand with her own, she threaded her fingers through his and gave a tiny squeeze. "Just watch the game."

He squeezed back. "Who's playing again?"

"Patriots at Jets."

Jack lifted his right arm and laid it across the back of the sofa. "Go, Jets."

"Really?" Sam's brows lowered. "The Jets?"

"No?" Jack motioned to the screen with a haphazard motion. "Don't tell me you're a Patriots fan?"

"Who isn't a Patriots fan?"

"Why would you root for New England?" He looked lost. "Aren't you a Colorado girl, born and bred?"

"So?" Sam lifted one shoulder. "Just because I'm from a specific state doesn't mean I have to root for their team."

"So, no Broncos?"

Sam's eyes widened. "Eeew. No."

"Why not?"

"John Elway?" Her nose wrinkled. "Kyle Orton? No thanks." She stilled for a moment, head tilted in thought. "Although Jake Plummer—possibly—before the beard. He was much better when he played for Arizona State. And Brian Griese—maybe."

"Maybe for what?" Jack ran a hand through his hair. "Griese was only there for a few years. And he kind of stank. He had good percentages, but he couldn't convert in the end zone."

Her eyes grew huge. "But he was cute."

Oh, the silence. Jack absorbed her words before he turned to look at his wife. She was grinning, white teeth bright in the afternoon light.

Clearing his throat, he gave her his best 'General' look. "Cute?"

"Mm-hmm." She nodded. "Cute."

Both eyebrows rose, now. "And Tom Brady?"

"He's cute, too."

She observed him work through that, watching as his face went from befuddled to incredulous, to slightly offended. "You watch football for the guys?"

"Of course." She set her chin. "Why else would I watch it?"

He cleared his throat. "For the age-old sense of battle? For the historic do-or-die struggle of powerful men with a goal? Strength combating intelligence?"

Giving her head a little shake, Sam squinted at her spouse. "Uh, no."

He looked appalled. "Seriously?"

"Seriously."

"And passing yards?" Jack's voice cracked just a tad. "Rushing, tackles, touchdowns, offensive lines, special teams—"

"Don't really care." Sam gave another one-sided shrug. Holding her hands out in front of her, she framed the players on the field with her outstretched fingers. "For me, it's all about the big, strapping guys in the tight little pants."

"I don't know whether to feel disappointed or a little excited by that."

Sam glanced to the man sitting next to her. Black t-shirt, jeans. Bare feet propped on the coffee table. Gray hair splayed twenty ways from Sunday in a bed head so profound that she was slightly astonished it wasn't acting on its own accord. And it really needed to be either ruffled up some more, or smoothed down.

Her fingers twitched.

Sam turned herself on the couch, raising a hand to her husband's shoulder. In a lithe motion more testament to the skill and persistence of her yoga instructor than anything else, she swung a knee over to straddle his lap. Ignoring his swallowed "oof", the Colonel captured Jack's gaze with her own, deliberately spreading her palms flat against his chest. Leaning close, she squiggled around a bit to get comfortable, then paused, running her tongue slowly along her bottom lip. His breathing had suddenly turned erratic.

She cocked a brow. "Still wondering?"

"Yes." He tried to look serious. Tried to control his higher mental functions. "Decisions, decisions."

She twisted her body around to glance at the television before turning back to frown at her husband. "The Jets just scored again."

His chuckle danced under her palms. Suddenly, he raised both hands and framed her face, pulling her close for a kiss that lasted well through the commercial and twenty-two yards into the kick-off return. Thumbs warm against her cheekbones, he tasted the corner of her mouth before meeting her eyes again. "And the extra point?"

"It was good, crapnabbit." Sam nodded, scowling a little. "Right through the uprights."

"That takes skill."

Her brash exhale signaled her disdain. "They got lucky."

"Ooh." He looked wistful. "That doesn't happen too often."

"More so for some teams than others."

He kissed her again—lingering—pulling away only long enough to whisper against her lips. "Sam."

"Yeah, Jack?"

"Just so you know." His fingers made a lazy sweep on her throat, her shoulder. "I'm definitely not disappointed."

He brushed her lips once, then twice, before she put a breath's distance between them.

"Jack."

"Yeah, Sam?" His fingers were in her hair, now, and edging downwards. His eyes shadowed when she shuddered.

"Just so you know." Sam paused. Leaning forward, she lifted a finger to tease at Jack's bottom lip, while a languid, private smile teased at her own. "You definitely are getting lucky."