Disclaimer Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

Jack O'Neill was a man on a mission.

He pushed his chair back from his desk and got to his feet, doing his best to ignore the audible popping of his spine. Who woulda thought that flying a desk would be harder on his body than ten mile hikes and sleeping on the ground?

He walked towards the open door, stopping short when Walter appeared in front of him. Every damn time.

He needed to get his office swept for bugs. There was just no freaking way for Walter to know every single time Jack dared to leave.

"General, sir, I've got some reports-"

"Later," Jack interrupted.

"Sir?"

"It'll keep. I'll be back," Jack said, pushing past him in a manner some might call rude.
Jack didn't let it bother him. Rude was certainly the least offensive four letter word he'd ever been called.

He strode out into the hall, ignoring Harriman's petulant groan. His legs made short work of the narrow corridor. He summoned the elevator, impatiently bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waited.

The door opened and he stepped forward, only to take a quick step back when he nearly crashed into Doctor Brightman. "General, I was just coming to see you," she said.

"Really? You know I don't do needles anymore."

She frowned, obviously not getting the joke. "Yes, sir."

He stepped into the elevator and sighed, motioning for her to join him. "What can I do for you, doctor?"

"Sir, I was just going over our supplies and I noticed some discreapancies," she reported.

"What kind of discrepancies?" Jack asked, dreading what she was going to report.

Was someone stealing drugs? Covering up for some hidden illness or stealing specimen cups or-

"-but we should only have five hundred in stock."

"What?" Jack asked, ashamed to admit that he'd tuned her out.

"We should only have five hundred tongue depressors and we have over five thousand," she repeated.

"Tongue depressors?"

"Yes, sir. The flat wooden sticks that-"

"I know what they are," he interrupted. "You're telling me that we have a few-"

"Thousand."

"Thousand more little wooden sticks than we should have?"

"Yes, sir."

"And this is important how?" he asked as the elevator stopped.

"Our inventory is wrong, sir," she said slowly, her tone that of a mother lecturing a very small, very slow child.

"I'll be sure to let the President know," he said as the doors started to close.

"General?" She stuck her hand in the door, making it open back up. "What am I supposed to do with them?"

"Have a craft day. Make caramel apples, build little log cabins," he suggested, turning his back.

"Sir?"

"I don't care, Doctor," he said, turning back to face her. "I know." He snapped his fingers. "Make yourself a desk."

He turned and hurried down the hall, now even more intent upon his goal.

"General!" Carter's voice cut through the air.

Jack groaned. What the hell was she doing on this level? She should be up in her lab doing…something labby.

"Carter?"

"I was hoping to catch you." She hurried to catch up, falling into step beside him. Damn her long legs.

"Well, you did," he said, deliberately picking up the pace.

"Right. I was wanting to get your permission for something." She effortlessly kept up with him and he fought the urge to stick out his foot and-

"It's Monday and Tuesday of next week and it's only in Denver. Since I'll be speakinig, there's no registration fee but it would be nice if I'd get reimbursed for the room and -"

"Denver?" Jack stopped, particularly enjoying when she kept walking for about three steps before realizing that she'd left him behind. She turned back, frowning at him. "Sir?"

"Denver?"

She smiled. "I've been invited to speak at a seminar next week and I need to get your permission to go. SG-1 doesn't have a mission and I was just going to be working in my lab anyway so-"

"Fine," he interrupted. "Just…put it on your calendar and send me a memo."

"I did."

"You did?"

"Two weeks ago. You never signed off on it."

"Ah. Consider it signed. Have fun," he instructed.

"Thanks, I will. You know, sir, this is the first time in six years that I've-"

"I'm happy for you. Gotta go." He turned on his heel and started back down the hall, his impatience growing with each step. How the hell had Hammond managed-

"General?" another voice called.

Jack growled under his breath. Next time he was hitting the armory and getting a gun.

<><><><><>

Twenty minutes later Jack finally reached his goal, pushing the door open with a flourish.
"Jesus, Jack," Daniel said, frowning as he zipped up his pants. "What are you trying to do, give the whole hall a show?"

"You!" Jack stalked towards his friend, taking perverse pleasure in the startled look on his face. "You are so full of shit!"

"Not any more," he said dryly. "What'd I do?" Daniel asked, backing away.

"You can do whatever you want," Jack quoted, snarling the words. Daniel frowned. "Tell me how I can do whatever I want when it takes me thirty minutes to get to the bathroom!"

~Fin~

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