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Sam and Jack Challenge: Just what do the Scots wear beneath their kilts?

Author's note and warning: I know. I know. The Scots and Irish people are completely different. However, I couldn't resist this challenge and the chance to write a humorous story. A true Scot will find lots of holes in my story in regard to various Highland games, but, heck, it's fiction. I'm uncertain whether I got the name of some of the contests correct, but if not, you at least get a general idea of what I mean. I hope you all enjoy.

Archive: S&J RA, Heliopolis. All others please ask first.

I told you all I was going to whip out an answer to the challenge. I hope you like it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Sherrill

"I can do all things through Christ which strengthens me." Phil. 4:13


Blowin' In the Wind By: Sherrill C. Martin



"SG-1, your team is on stand-down for the next 48."

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Captain Sam Carter pushed a strand of her limp, blonde hair out of her eyes with a very dirty hand and smiled wearily. Unaware that she was being watched closely, Sam closed her eyes briefly and almost fell asleep right there in the de-briefing room. Someone gently kicked her shin under the conference table and she jumped guiltily.

"Sorry, sir!" She said quickly as she snapped to attention.

"It's okay, Captain," Jack whispered to her as he leaned close to her ear. "The general dismissed us five minutes ago."

A quick glance around the room confirmed Colonel O'Neill's words. Dropping her head into her hands, Sam groaned aloud.

Jack grinned. "That would have gotten everyone's attention."

"Sir, I'm tired and dirty, and if you say anything more I may just have to defend myself," Sam said, only half joking.

"Yeah," he snorted. "You, and what army?"

Leaping out of Sam's reach, Jack hurriedly left the room before she could conjure up the energy to physically attack him. Halfway out of the room, he though better of leaving and swung back around to shoot another verbal attack her way. He was brought up short at the bedraggled look to his normally fastidious captain. Taking pity on her, though he would be the last one to ever admit that, Jack pivoted on his heel and continued his retreat from the room. He couldn't resist one last salvo just as he walked out the door.

"You really should hit the showers, Captain," he muttered as he watched for signs of retaliation. "You look like something the cat just dragged in!" Deciding that discretion was, indeed, the better part of valor, Colonel O'Neill took himself off down the hallway, but not before he heard Sam's growl and the scrap of furniture being shoved aside. Shooting a wary glance over his shoulder, Jack broke into an all-out run when Sam tore out the doorway in search of her tormentor.



~*~



Jack had been right, though Sam would never, ever tell him so. She felt nearly 100 percent better after having had a shower and brushed her teeth. Two days on a tropical planet, up to their ears in mud and slime was not her idea of a fun time. Of course, Daniel had been in hog heaven with all of the artifacts they had stumbled upon. Sam giggled when she realized what she'd been thinking. They had all resembled hogs digging around in that mud.

Picking up her dirty fatigues with two fingers, Sam quickly dropped them into the hamper in the locker room. She hoped that they would merely burn the things, for there was no way she could ever wear the clothes again. Stepping out of the locker room she reached out and switched the pink flag, that hung from wall, with a blue one. She couldn't remember who had come up with that annoying idea to indicate when female personnel were in residence in the locker room, but the idea had stuck and she supposed she could live with it, begrudgingly.

"Hey, Sam!" Daniel Jackson had sauntered up behind Sam then came around her to stand practically dancing in front of her. "You wanna come see the stuff we brought back?" He invited, sounding for all the world like a little boy with new toys.

"Daniel, as much as I love ancient artifacts and the mysteries they hold, I am going to go home and go to bed for the next 36 hours. Then, I am going to get a haircut and maybe," Sam stopped for dramatic effect, which was lost on Daniel. Raising her short, ragged nails for his inspection. "I may just get a manicure, too." With a decided nod of her head Sam continued on down the hall, leaving an indifferent Daniel shrugging his shoulders and heading in the opposite direction in search of Teal'c.

If only she'd had a couple more seconds, Sam was sure she could have made it safely out the door of the base and onto a transport bus to take her to her car in town.

"Sam!" Jack called from down the long hallway. Hurrying to catch up with her, Jack fell into step as Sam continued on down the hall without saying a word. "You still mad?" He asked, sounding a little hurt.

Cutting her eyes to look across at Jack, Sam had to stifle a laugh when he poked out his lips and pretended to pout. Almost of its own volition, her right arm shot out and punched him in the upper arm.

"Ouch!" Jack cried out, grabbing his arm.

Half alarmed that she had done such a thing to her commanding officer, Sam rashly decided to continue with the playfulness that Jack had instigated. Tossing her nose in the air she pretended to ignore him as she walked a little faster.

"Won't work, Captain," Jack called from behind her. When she totally ignored him, Jack doubled his stride until he was, once more, by her side. "It's raining outside and if you keep your nose in the air, you'll drown." He grinned as he watched her attempt to control her own smile. "Either that, or you'll step into a mud puddle and mess up all that work you've done on yourself since we got back from the pigsty."

A giggle escaped, but was quickly corralled and shoved back down her throat. Turning her head to the side, Sam picked up her pace until she was practically running.

"Hey!" Jack jogged to keep up with her. "How are you going to explain a broken nose from smacking into a wall?"

Stopping dead in her tracks Sam grinned when Jack's momentum carried him past her and into SG-3 as they were stepping off the elevator. For a minute Sam thought he was going to bowl them over like a bunch of bowling pins, but they managed to right themselves good-naturedly and continued on their way with murmured hello's as they passed Sam.

"Nice move, Captain," Jack accused her when she walked over to stand beside him to wait on the elevator car.

"Colonel, I did not know that SG-3 would be coming off of that elevator," she said in defense.

Holding up both hands as if to fend her off, Jack grinned. "Hey, hold on! I was only kidding." He shook his head sadly. "Touchy," he muttered softly beneath his breath.

Rolling her eyes to the ceiling Sam prayed that the elevator car would come quickly. She was studying a minute crack in the ceiling and wondered if the mountain had suffered through an earthquake when Jack's words broke into her revere.

"Excuse me, Sir?" Sam said, shaking herself mentally as weariness settled back over her all of a sudden. She turned tired eyes toward Jack, unaware that she looked as worn-out as she felt.

"Ooh, well, I was asking if you'd like to come with me to a 'Highland Fling'," he repeated. "But, I can see that you're tired."

The elevator doors opened and Jack waved a hand toward it in a chivalrous gesture for her to precede him. Sam stepped inside the car and moved to the back of the elevator to lean against the wall.

"What, exactly, is a 'Highland Fling'?" She asked sincerely.

"Ah, Lassie," Jack said with a Scottish lilt. "'Tis the most fun ya can have in a skirt."

Sam looked at Jack as if he'd lost his mind.

"Skirt? I'm not going to wear a skirt to anything that has the word 'fling' in it," Sam muttered as she glanced up at the floor indicator to see how much longer it would be.

"Oh, you don't wear the skirt. I do."

That did it. Sam edged into the corner of the elevator car, keeping a wary eye on Jack, as well as the floor indicator and prayed that the elevator would skip a few floors.

Watching the wariness cross Sam's face, along with her attempt to melt into the wall of the elevator, told Jack that Sam had misunderstood him.

"I'll be wearing a kilt, Carter," Jack practically growled. "Haven't you ever heard of one before?"

The breath Sam released held all of her fear and concern for the colonel. Moving just marginally away from the back of the elevator, she smiled slightly, though it didn't reach her still-wary eyes.

"And why on earth would you be wearing a ski... er, kilt, sir?" She asked as the elevator reached the top floor and the doors opened. Walking out of the elevator she turned to face Jack as he stepped out behind her.

"I'll be wearing the colors of the clan," Jack admitted quietly.

"Oh?" Sam was intrigued now. She had never pegged Jack O'Neill as a traditional man. Suddenly she very much wanted to attend the Highland Fling with him. Secretly, she wanted to find out just what was worn beneath those kilts.



~*~



The day dawned brisk and sunny. Perfect weather for tossing the stone and caber. Sam put the finishing touches on her light makeup, then pulled a thick jacket on over her fisherman's knit sweater and jeans. The doorbell rang and Sam grabbed up her keys and hurried to the door.

"Well, sure and begorra!" Jack exclaimed when he saw her outfit. "Sure and you look as if you'd just stepped from the moor."

"I sure hope a moor is a good thing," Sam said with an uncertain smile.

"Come on, Sam. Lighten up. If you keep this up you're going to have a major headache by the end of the day." Jack turned smartly and offered his elbow. "Shall we?"

It was at that point that the wind caught the tail of Jack's long coat, revealing his knee-length white socks, complete with large, fuzzy tassels. Jack quickly flipped the coat back in place and glanced sheepishly up at Sam.

"All right," she said, crossing her arms over her chest to indicate that she wasn't going to move an inch. "Let's see the entire outfit." When he hesitated, she reached out both hands and pushed the coat aside. Issuing a whistle through her teeth, Sam grinned as the wind teased the hem of the kilt, revealing a pair of scarred knees. "Begorra indeed!"

"Cut it out," Jack grumbled as he snapped the jacket front back together, tying the belt tightly together in order to keep it there. "Man, that wind is cold."

"Ah, now you see what we women have to endure," Sam said as she turned to close and lock her apartment door. "Perhaps men should have to wear skirts all the time," she joked as she and Jack walked arm-in-arm down the front steps to his Jeep.

"Kilt," Jack said quickly. "Men don't wear skirts, remember?" He opened her door for her, waited for her to get comfortable, then gently closed the door once more.

"Whatever you say," Sam mumbled as he moved around to his side of the Jeep.



~*~



By the time the Jeep pulled into the makeshift parking lot in the grassy field, the wind had built into a stiff Nor'wester and the caber-toss had been called off. However, several dozen men were standing in line for the stone throw, the wind playing havoc with various shades of kilts and tassels.

"Sir," Sam began.

"Sam, we're off-duty," Jack reminded her. "Call me Jack, please?"

"Jack, are you sure you want to do this?" She asked softly, inclining her head toward the flapping kilts on the field.

"Ah, Lassie," he purred. "As if you haven't always wondered what was beneath the kilt."

The blush that covered Sam's face told all. Jack chuckled at her discomfort. Then, with a gentle, playful tap to the end of her nose, he opened the door and jumped out of the Jeep. Coming around to her side, Jack's playfulness had lessened somewhat. Opening the door he grinned unabashedly.

"Hmm, I'm beginning to build a whole new respect for ladies everywhere," he muttered as he offered a hand to help Sam out of the Jeep.

"Oh, come on, it can't be all that bad." Sam smiled as Jack took her cool hand in his and led her toward several large, gaily decorated tents.

"Bad enough that I'm going to introduce you to the fine art of Scottish cuisine, which just happens to be inside those tents." Hurrying Sam across the field amidst the catcalls and whistles of the contestants who recognized him, Jack quickly ushered her inside the first tent.

"Jack, me boy. Welcome!" A short, round little man hurried over to greet them, his hand holding a strange-looking pastry, seeping with brown gravy. "Ah, and who have we here? A new lassie?"

It was Jack's turn to turn red as he quickly shook his head at the little man. "Michael Shannon, may I present Ms. Samantha Carter." Jack shot Michael an evil glare. "Sam, this big-mouthed, no-good, son-of-a..."

"Jack," Sam warned quietly, then turned to offer a hand to Michael. "Pleased to meet you, sir."

"Sure and she's mannered, too." Michael grinned, his old face wrinkling so much that his eyes were nearly lost amongst the folds. "Welcome to the Highland Fling, me dear. Care for a pasty?" He asked, holding up the noxious-looking thing in his hand.

"Oh, no thank you, sir." Sam took a slight step back from the gravy dripping down Michael's hand.

"Excuse us, Michael," Jack said, noticing Sam's uneasiness. "Sam and I are going to nose around a bit. We'll catch up with you later." Taking Sam's hand in his own, Jack led her around to the many booths set up in the tent and offered her various delicious-looking tidbits of food. By the time they had sampled their way around the tent, Sam was sure that she had gained ten pounds.

Time after time they had been stopped and Jack had introduced Sam to everyone. Sam knew that there was no way she could ever remember all of the O'Shea's, McMartin's, McMurray's and Shaunessy's, so she merely kept her mouth full of whatever food was handy.

"Say, Jack, when are ya goin' to show yer girl how far ya can throw the stone?" Michael Shannon was back, slipping between Sam and Jack and gesturing toward the entrance of the tent.

"Michael, have you been in the ale again?" Jack asked the little man with a good-natured smack on the back. Michael staggered forward from the healthy blow, then caught himself and turned to grin at Sam.

"Don't be lettin' him keep ya in the tent," Michael told Sam, then ducked a mock punch thrown at him by Jack.

"Oh, you might as well show me what he's talking about," Sam said with a sincere smile at Jack. "I've had about all I can stand from in here." She placed a hand on her flat stomach and gave it a resounding pat. "See? Full to the top!"

Jack shook his head. He didn't mind the caber-toss because the large, telephone pole-sized log did a good job of holding the end of the kilt down in blustery weather, but the stone throw was merely sadistic, in his opinion. Why, even without the wind to bare a man's nether regions to the elements, the simple whirling of the pre-throw spin caused the kilt to lift practically to a man's hips.

"Come on, Jack. Let's go throw a rock," Sam goaded, intentionally miss-pronouncing the contest.

"Tossing the stone," Jack automatically corrected as he took her hand again and led her back out into the wind. He had left his coat in the Jeep and now wished that he hadn't as the wind swept up his bare knees and whirled around beneath the kilt. "Let's get this over with and then on to the ale tasting."

Sam hid a grin beneath her hand as she stared blatantly at the number of knobby knees and hairy legs around her on the field. She had the strongest urge to burst into laughter, but quelled it when the next contestant bent down to lift a boulder into his arms. She stopped short, dragging Jack to a

stop beside her.

"You have got to be kidding?" She muttered to herself, though Jack thought she was talking to him.

"Welcome to the stone throw," he said with a nod of his head.

"I'll bet Janet could make a mint off of hernia repairs alone with this crowd," Sam stated matter of factly. "Not to mention what she could do for frostbite..."

Jack shot Sam a dirty look, then walked over to get into line for the contest.

"Here ya go, Lassie," Michael said from beside Sam. She jumped, startled that such a rotund man could be so quiet on his feet. He had brought her a folding chair in which to sit in while she waited for Jack's turn.

"Why, thank you, sir," she said gratefully.

"Would you care for a pint o' ale?" Michael inquired with a suspicious smile.

"Jack said we would go there next," Sam explained, hoping that the little man would find someone else to hang around with. Her wishes were not to be heeded.

"Ah, but a small bit o' ale wouldna hurt ya," he insisted, then turned quickly on his heel and was off across the field before Sam could utter another word.

With a shrug of her shoulders she turned her attention back to the contestants, most of who were quite burly, compared to Jack O'Neill's slender, muscular build. She shook her head to banish that thought. It was bad enough that she thought he was the best looking colonel in desert fatigues. Now she had to contend with the image of him standing in the wind wearing a clan kilt.

Michael returned and pressed a thick mug into her hands. It was hot to the touch and Sam smiled her gratitude to him. She was slowly going numb from the cold wind that promised snow by night fall. Drinking deeply of the thick, bitter ale she began to watch the contestants with a different eye. As the she drew closer to the bottom of the mug, she began to notice the different colors of their kilts and the height with which the kilts flew as the men spun to through their boulders. Pressing a replacement mug into Sam's hand, Michael stood beside her and cheered his friends and foes alike. He had stopped throwing the stone years ago, but it didn't stop him from cheering the others on. When Jack stepped up to the circle Michael reached over and clapped Sam on the shoulder, making her spill her drink.

"Awww, Micshel, look what you did," Sam slurred, then clapped her hand over her mouth when a very loud burp issued from her. "Xcush me."

With a deftness belied by his size, Michael quickly removed the mug from Sam's hand and tossed the rest of its contents on the ground. Jack was going to be very, very angry with him for giving his girlfriend this ale. Darting a quick look around to be sure he wasn't observed, Michael leaned down and whispered something in Sam's ear.

"Wash for wha?" Sam practically shouted as she looked around for Michael, who suddenly seemed to have disappeared. "Micshel?" Sam's attention was drawn back to the field when Jack's name was announced and he bent to lift his stone. Watching him intently Sam was mesmerized by the rippling thigh muscles that were revealed when Jack bent his knees to wrap his arms around the stone.

Picking the stone up with a grunt, Jack took several steps around in the circle, then let the stone fly. Watching the stone hit the ground, then roll a few feet, he wasn't aware of the woman doubled over in the chair across the field until he turned back around. Concerned for Sam, he raced across the field to her side.

As he neared her Jack thought he heard her sobbing into her hands covering her face. Coming to a stop by her side, he placed a comforting hand on her back and leaned down to speak to her. The strong odor of ale wafted up to him. He shot an angry glare around at the men and women gathered around Sam.

"Where is he?" Jack growled, his hands balled into fists at his side.

"Ah, Jack, I'm thinkin' that yer lassie will be needin' to lie down fer a bit," Mary Shaunessy offered as she stood watching Sam become boneless and begin to slide toward the ground.

Jack caught Sam just before she hit the ground. Lifting her into his arms he strode across the field and bundled her into the Jeep. Taking one last, quick look around for Michael, Jack got into the Jeep and started the ignition. Turning the heat up as high as it would go, he lifted the hem of his kilt and prayed that the heater would warm up soon.

"So, that's what's beneath a kilt?" Sam giggled from the seat beside him, her eyes on Jack's bare legs.

Dropping the kilt quickly, Jack looked up to see that Sam was grinning broadly, a twinkle in her eye.

"It's tradition," he muttered, his face turning redder than an apple.

"Seems a bit extreme what with the cold wind and all," Sam said between giggles. The warmth of the heater, along with the after effects of the ale were making her sleepy. With a jaw-popping yawn, she snuggled her face into the seat with a soft smile. "I would think that you'd at least have put on a pair of skivvies," with that she drifted off to sleep, the smile still in place.

Jack shook his head. What do women know about kilts, anyway, he thought to himself. At least he didn't think he'd spoken out loud.

"We know enough to wear skivvies beneath them, along with pantyhose on a cold, windy day."

With a last giggle Sam turned around in the seat and leaned her head against the passenger window and drifted back to sleep.



The "End"




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