Samantha Carter growled when the ringing phone interrupted her calculations. Phones and base eight math were not a good combination.
Unfortunately, she had never been able to ignore a ringing phone. With a heavy sigh, she snatched up the receiver. "Carter."
"Whatcha doin'?"
Oh, fabulous. Major General Jack O'Neill, Head of Homeworld Security and a five year old trapped in an adult's body, was bored. Out of long habit, Sam moved her more delicate equipment out of reach before recalling that he was now miles away. And that she was in her own house. "Working, sir," she said pointedly. "You?"
"Don't think I didn't get that subtle hint, Carter," General O'Neill replied. "So ... ya get my latest fax?"
Oy. Since their respective transfers less than a month previous, he'd been torturing her on a regular basis with the resumption of the crossword war. Not just any old crosswords, though. Crosswords that seemed to hone in specifically on the areas in which she had less interest - history, art, literature - and in which he had suddenly seemed to become some kind of savant.
"Carter; stop rubbing your forehead, take some aspirin, put that laptop away and go through the crossword with me."
Okay; now he was getting spooky. Sam's hand dropped guiltily from her forehead. "How did you ...?" she spluttered.
The General chuckled. "I've known you a long time, Sam - coming up nine years."
Sam growled again. "Now you're making me feel my age," she complained.
Another chuckle came over the line. "Your age? I can barely remember bein' your age," he shot back. "You seem to forget; I'm nearly old enough to be your father."
"Only if you were extremely precocious." Sam noted absently that the 'sir' and 'Carter' seemed to have gone out of the encounter. "Were you extremely precocious?"
"So not tellin'," Jack said.
There was a knock on the door and Sam rolled her eyes. Coming up for nine at night and some idiot was still trying to hawk things? Well, they could forget it; she wasn't in the mood to humor them.
Instead, she reached into her pocket and dug out the battered crossword. "I'm stuck on 19 down," she admitted then wondered if a smirk could translate through a phone wire. If anyone could manage it, she thought, Jack O'Neill could.
DING-DONG.
DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG. DING-DONG.
Another growl emitted from her throat.
"Carter; were you growling?"
"Yeah," she said. "Some moron's leaning on the doorbell. I suppose I'd better go answer it. Hold on."
"Kay," he replied amiably.
Sam put the phone on silent then went to the door, muttering imprecations about the soon-to-be-dead doorbell-leaner. "What?" she practically snarled.
"Wow." Brown eyes blinked rapidly at her. "Love you too, Carter."
Jack O'Neill was standing outside her doorway. Dressed all in black and hair sticking up insanely from the damp.
He looked fabulous.
"Jack?" she squeaked. Still no sir, she noted.
"So; stuck on 19 down?" And now she could see the sexy smirk pulling at his lips.
She grabbed him by the collar and hauled him into the hallway. "Shut up, you smug SOB," she said, and fastened her lips to his.
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