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Just trying to keep everything organized, or something. ;) Three comment fics written for the clicheathon.  All cliche and kind of silly and unbeta'd.

Best Laid Plans (Sam/Jack)
Sam connects the final circuit and a bank of green lights flash into life. “Interesting,” she says, pulling the draft schematic towards herself to add in the final detail to the drawing. She reaches for a pen only to come up empty handed.

“What the-?” she says, looking up. The small cup that usually houses all of her pens is empty. She stares quizzically at it for a moment before pulling open the drawer she keeps her backup supply in.

Empty.

She tries a few more places, even digging into the bottom of her purse (admittedly one of the least organized parts of her life), but doesn't find a single writing implement. Hell, even the dry erase markers from her white board are gone. It’s impossible that this is just a coincidence.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. If she’s been dragged into Cam and Vala’s prank war, there is going to be hell to pay. She doesn’t even consider Daniel or Teal’c as suspects, both having learned never to involve her in such things a long, long time ago. Pretty much ever since the Mentos incident.

Sam smirks to herself. Physics is fun and useful in all sorts of ways.

She’s pretty sure Cam would know better though. And this is nowhere near sophisticated enough to be Vala’s handiwork.

Sam eyes the bank of green lights on the now softly humming piece of alien technology. She supposes it’s always possible that the device ate her pens. Maybe it’s a wormhole generator that only affects writing implements. Designed by greedy scribes of some long dead society.

God, she really needs to get out more.

Shaking her head, Sam resignedly walks out of her lab, heading towards the nearest storage closet to replenish her supply. She pulls open the door and starts wandering down the shelves, her eyes skimming for her particular favorite kind. As she nears the end of the first row, she hears a slight scuffle of sound from behind her, someone grabbing her from behind.

She reacts without thinking, spinning around and lifting her arm in defense, the heel of her hand colliding solidly with her assailant’s nose.

“Carter!” he exclaims. “What the hell was that for?”

Sam blinks, looking down at the man doubled over in front of her. The man who should be a few thousand miles away in Washington. “Jack?” she asks. “God, I’m sorry. You startled me!”

He looks up at her with streaming eyes, both of his hands held up to his nose. “I think you broke my nose,” he complains.

“I did not,” she says, pulling one of his hands away so she can see the damage. She knows she only put enough strength behind that hit to stun, maybe make his eyes water, but nowhere near enough to break anything. He should have known better than to sneak up on her, anyway.

“That really hurt,” he says, but she can tell he’s just milking it now, trying to look as pathetic as possible.

“Maybe you should go to the infirmary,” she suggests.

Jack straightens up, suddenly looking much better. “Uh, no, really. Not necessary.”

She grins at him. “Glad to hear it,” she says. “So, is there a particular reason you’re hanging out in this storage closet or are you just hiding from something?”

His eyes dart behind her and she turns slightly to see a stack of pens and pencils piled on a shelf. Her pens and pencils.

“Um. Surprise?” he says.

Sam’s grin widens. “Ah,” she says. “This has all been a vast conspiracy to lure me into a storage closet, huh?”

“Maybe,” he concedes. “But frankly, I think you killed the mood.”

He’s so cute when he’s petulant. “Should I go out and come back in again?”

“No. What a waste of a perfectly good plan,” he says. Sam lifts an eyebrow at him and he grimaces. “A nearly perfect plan,” he concedes.

“Maybe we could just try that hello part again?” she asks, stepping closer to him.

“Only if we can skip the physical violence.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she promises, sliding her hands up his arms.

“Hi,” he says, reaching for her waist.

“Hi,” she echoes, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Jack leans closer, but stops annoyingly short of actual contact, his lips hovering near hers. “Just make sure to be careful of the nose-.”

“Jack?"

“Yeah?”

“Could you please shut up and kiss me already?”

He smirks at her. “You sure know how to sweet talk a guy, Carter.”

She’s going to have to hit him again, she’s almost certain of it.

International Flirting Week (Sam/Jack)
Jack follows Carter into the briefing room. “Oh, come on, Carter. Just admit it, you were impressed.”

She crosses over to the coffee maker, pouring herself a cup. “I admit no such thing,” she says, but he doesn’t miss the smirk on her face.

“Oh, yeah,” he says. “That was convincing.”

She shakes her head, biting her lower lip as she looks away and he feels a swell of pride. She’d so been impressed. He leans against the table, moving just a bit closer to her. Patting her on the arm, he says, “No worries, Carter. You’re not the first person unable to resist my mad skills.”

She raises an eyebrow at him and he’s forced to think over what he’s just said. “Um…what I meant to say…”

Carter pats him on the arm, mimicking his gesture that in retrospect is a little patronizing now that she’s turned it back on him. “I think I know exactly what you meant, sir,” she says, leaning into him with a gleam in her eye that does very, very strange things to him.

Jack grins back at her, but before he can come up with an appropriately witty remark, there is the sound of someone loudly clearing their throat. He turns to see Hammond seated at the head of the briefing table (when had he gotten here?), giving Jack a look he translates as ‘Care to explain yourself, Colonel?’

“Um,” Jack says, shuffling a few steps away from Carter. “It’s International Flirting Week, sir?”

Next to him, Carter slaps a hand over her face.

Jack shrugs. “What?”

Into each life a little rain must fall. Convenient, huh? (Sam/Jack)
The entire situation is ridiculous. It wasn’t supposed to rain, for one thing. One moment Jack was walking the perimeter with Carter in bright sunlight, and the next, they were hit by a rainstorm that appeared from absolutely nowhere, so much so that he suspects aliens are behind it. It makes sense. Added to the misery of being soaked to the skin before they could even manage to pull out their rain gear, the comfortable 65-degree temperature plummeted to some number Jack doesn’t even want to hazard a guess at. He peers out from the ledge they are currently huddled under, noting that it is at least warm enough that it’s still rain rather than sleet.

Small favors.

Jack shudders, tucking back against the dry wall behind him, burrowing down into his jacket. He’s lucky enough to have nice, thick Minnesota blood, but Carter had been turning blue within minutes of the rain starting. He claims that as the reason he ordered her inside this makeshift shelter rather than trying to get back to where they’d left Teal’c and Daniel, who are no doubt still blissfully bone-dry. Bastards.

From the opposite corner of the little cavern, Jack can hear Carter shuffling around, probably trying to find a comfortable position. He stares at her through the gloom. She looks miserable.

He’s wedged about as far away from her as is humanly possible, even though that means there is a persistent drip splashing against the bill of his cap. It’s not that he’s scared of her or anything. It’s just that it hasn’t been that long since the incident on P4C-027 and he’s sort of promised himself to be way smarter about tight, confined spaces and, well, touching Carter—at all. He’s been doing very well up until now. Stupid rain.

Carter shifts around again and he’d swear she’s being deliberately distracting if not for the fact that he can actually hear her teeth chattering all the way from his side.

Did he mention how ridiculous this situation is?

“Carter,” he snaps, annoyance unintentionally sharpening his voice as he moves further into the center of the cavern. It’s not like he’s asking her to snuggle, for God’s sake. This is about conservation of body heat and not getting his ass kicked by Janet for bringing Carter back with pneumonia. Pure motives have got to be worth something, right? “Get over here before you freeze to death.”

She doesn’t wait to be told twice, sliding across the space and up against his side. He automatically lifts one arm as she comes closer, dropping it across her back and settling the emergency blanket over them both. He doesn’t think he’s imagining that the temperature jumps by at least five degrees just through proximity.

There. That’s much better, right?

He can so do this.

Only then she sidles closer like some heat-seeking missile. She turns her face into his neck, her fingers creeping inside his jacket, and she’s pressing up against his side with her--.

No, not even going to think the word. Not even going to acknowledge it. Nope. They might as well not exist. Comrade in arms, moment of distress, survival tactics. That is all he will focus his mind on.

Definitely not snuggling.

He rubs his hand briskly up and down her back with what he considers completely platonic neutrality. He idly counts to one hundred and then two hundred, just because he can. Not because he feels the need to focus his mind elsewhere. Nope.

By the time he’s reached three hundred, she’s stopped shivering.

“Better?” he asks. Does his voice really have to sound that hoarse? Surely it’s just the cold. Yes. That makes perfect sense.

If possible, Carter moves even a little closer. “Yes, much,” she says, nodding slightly and now he can’t ignore the feel of her breath against his neck.

He peers out the opening. “The rain’s probably going to let up soon,” he says, more hopeful than well informed.

Carter cranes her head away from his neck long enough to look outside. As if to call him a liar, there’s a perfectly timed flash of lightening. And then it starts to rain even harder.

Dammit.

Carter turns her face back against his neck, shifting her weight as if trying to find a more comfortable position, her hand sliding around his side, skimming across his ribs. It’s getting really warm now. Friction, after all.

God, this was a bad idea. Pneumonia isn’t all that serious, right?

He doesn’t realize he’s started muttering vague obscenities about alien planets and stupid unexpected rain and the need to keep his teammates, you know, alive and all, until Carter says, “Sir? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. Peachy. Why wouldn’t I be?” It’s possible he sounds a little too insistent.

“You just seem…tense,” she says, one of her hands squeezing his arm in what is probably meant to be comforting. Only it’s not.

Not snuggling.

He notices he has his hand twisted in the blanket, the crinkling sound of the material being compressed filling the small space. He lets go of it. Only now he has a free hand and has to decide where to put it. He considers sitting on it. It seems the safest course of action, after all.

“I’m fine,” he repeats, but he’s not really sure for whose benefit anymore.

Carter smiles then, and the only way he knows this because she has her lips pressed against his neck.

“Oh my God,” he says, something finally clicking into place, like that totally forcibly innocent tone she’d just used on him. He should have picked up on this earlier. “You are totally messing with me, aren’t you?”

She looks up at him, her mouth coming perilously close to brushing against his jaw. “I have no idea what you are talking about, sir,” she says, all perfect and polite, only she so does know because she’s got that evil glint in her eye that is almost more sexy than the fact that she is plastered against him--. No. Not going there.

He considers making her get the hell back on her own side of the cave.

“You did this on purpose,” he accuses.

She’s grinning now in that certain way that she has to know makes him a little crazy. After all, he’d proven that back on P4C-027, hadn’t he? Though, to be fair, that was mostly his fault. But he’s not thinking about that right now.

Carter pokes him in the arm. “Are you saying I somehow made it rain?”

She makes it sound ridiculous, but he’s seen her do way crazier things than make it rain so they could have an excuse to snuggle. No. It’s not snuggling. It’s conservation of body heat. Or at least that is what his report will read. Just like last time.

And the time before that.

And that other time--. Damn. This was becoming a pattern with them. A quite nice pattern. No, not nice. Wrong. He tries to refocus on his well-intentioned promises about tiny spaces and not touching Carter, but she’s still grinning up at him and completely against his own will, he’s grinning back at her.

She’s got one strand of hair sort of plastered to her forehead and that just can’t be comfortable, so he helpfully brushes it aside for her. Her grin widens.

“Oh, hell,” he mutters, his arm tightening around her, pulling her closer. Traitor. “How many days did we make it this time?”

Carter doesn’t even have the decency to pretend she has to think about it. “Seventeen.”

Funny, it felt like a lot longer. Carter lowers her head back to his shoulder, and he rests his cheek against her hair. Okay, so maybe it is snuggling. A little.

She’s smiling again.

Jack starts counting to a hundred.

And if his hand somehow finds its way to Carter’s, he’s claiming fear of frostbite.