Smug SOB.
That should be the man's middle name.
John J. Smug SOB O'Neill.
It had been several weeks since the crossword from hell and they'd declared a temporary truce.
But then, about a week ago, he'd brought in another crossword and offered to go triple or nothing.
There really was a fine line between love and hate.
Not that she loved him. Not at all.
Yeah, right, Sam; you just keep telling yourself that.
Clutching the completed crossword tightly, she rapped on her CO's door. "Sir?" she called.
Nothing.
She turned the handle and was spectacularly unsurprised when the door opened. For someone with an almost supernatural sense for danger out in the field, he was charmingly lackadaisical about his home security.
"Sir?" she called again.
Still nothing.
And now she was worried. She'd called him earlier, and told him she'd finished (with a bit of smug SOB in her tone), and he'd demanded proof. Told her to 'haul ass' (his words; the man was such a charmer) to his house ASAP.
She opened her jacket and removed her Beretta, looking for burglars or other miscreants. Or any of the long list of people who Jack O'Neill had pissed off during his life. Of course, if there were burglars, miscreants, or pissed-off people, they'd know she was here by now.
D'oh!
Nevertheless, she walked stealthily around the small, surprisingly charming house. Then got to his bedroom.
She was a red-blooded woman and he was an attractive (okay; really attractive) man. Of course she'd wondered what his bedroom was like. It seemed she was going to find out.
Ignoring the girly squee-ing coming from somewhere in her brain (maybe she was spending too much time with Cassie), she opened the door and walked in.
She was not prepared for what she saw.
Jack O'Neill in black knitted jockies, one gray sock and battered Air Force Academy tee shirt, with headphones clamped to his ears, singing and dancing.
Badly.
She was torn between admiring his muscled six so nicely displayed for her benefit and hysterical laughter at his performance.
The hysterical laughter won out.
The man jerked around then his eyes went wide and he ripped the phones off his ears. "Carter!" he exclaimed, blushing.
He blushed! God, he was adorable.
Sam waved her hand feebly, trying desperately to swallow her laughter. "S ... sir," she got out. "You ... you didn't come to the door."
"Ah ... yeah," he muttered. "You're kinda early."
"You did say ASAP," she reminded him, her blue eyes widening innocently.
"Carter?"
"Yes, sir?"
"How much to never tell anyone about ...". He waved his hand at his attire - or lack thereof.
"Oh, you couldn't afford it," Sam retorted.
"Samantha ..."
Oooooooooh, the full name.
She blinked and forced herself to focus. "Mmmm ... yeah?"
"You're evil," he told her.
Sam snickered. "But you love me, anyway."
"Yep."
And the man gave her the biggest smug-SOB smirk in his entire repertoire when she nearly swallowed her own tongue.
She loathed him.
Yeah, right, Sam; you just keep telling yourself that.
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