Yet another drabble inspired by yet another comment on Gateworld.

Hope you don't mind.

"His hands." The lieutenant giggled over her sandwich. "Have you seen his hands? Long fingers—you know what they say."

"I know." The taller companion grinned, eyes wide. "Big hands, big—"

The lieutenant, a dark haired girl shook her head. "No, Ruthie, I think that's big feet, big—"

"Well, whatever." Tall Ruthie shrugged. "Too bad he's our boss."

"Too bad he's a General."

"Too bad he's going to DC."

Sam took their silence as an opportunity to sneak another peek at them.

She'd been reading the paper when they'd arrived—killing time before a meeting with some muckity-mucks from Washington. She'd opened the pages wide in order to read an article she'd found half-way interesting, and then left it that way when she'd overheard the conversation coming from the next table over. And now, even when she'd long-since lost interest in the article, she was using the paper as a shield, merely folding down a corner just enough to put faces with voices.

"You know, Blevins doesn't think he's cute at all."

"What does she know?" Dark Hair sneered. "She only likes pretty boys."

Tall Ruthie groaned, leaning back in her chair. "If I have to hear one more word about Doctor Jackson—"

"Yeah." Dark Hair smiled, resting her chin on her hand. "She's got it bad for the geeks."

"I like my guys with a little experience, thank you." Ruthie sniffed. "History always looks good on a man."

"Ooh—experience. And think about it." The lieutenant, a blonde, leaned conspiratorially over the commissary table. "He's been through so much. I bet he needs some comfort from time to time."

"Aw—you're probably right." Tyra leaned her chin on his fist with an exaggerated sigh. "Just imagine—he might have nightmares. I know I would."

"Waking up in a cold sweat."

"Pulse pounding."

"Heavy breathing."

"Just needing someone to hold him."

They all sighed together in perfect harmony. Like some eerie sort of Stepford acolytes.

"I'd comfort that."

"In a heartbeat."

"Without question."

"Oh my gosh, yes." Tall Ruthie lifted her hands to futz with her hair's moorings. "Because even though he's old, he's still hot."

"Not to mention the whole 'General' thing."

"What is it about a guy with stars?"

"So much cooler than eagles."

"And that hair!" Blonde leaned back in her chair, waving a carrot stick. "I just want to—" she spread her fingers and gesticulated into the air, making a little growling sound in the back of her throat. "You know?"

"Smooth it."

"Comb it with my fingers."

But Blondie, apparently, had other ideas. "Lick it."

"Okay—chica." Tall Ruthie giggled. "That's just gross."

Tyra apparently agreed. "You'd probably get a hair ball."

"You're probably right." Blondie sighed. "But it'd still be hot."

"Sometimes I worry about you, Trish." Tyra picked up a salt packet and chucked it across the table at her friend.

Blonde Trish moaned, picking up the packet and waggling it between her fingers. "But he's still just so freakin' cute."

"And those hands."

"Those fingers."

"Let them do the walking, baby."

"Can you imagine?"

"I do. And have. Frequently."

"Too bad he's going to DC."


"Totally sucks."

She'd had enough. With a quick roll of her eyes, Sam uncrossed her legs under the table, simultaneously folding the paper and laying it next to her empty coffee cup. Standing, she reached for her briefcase and made a big deal about making sure that everything was in order. There were times she was grateful when she was required to wear her dress uniform. She was fully aware that, thusly clad, she looked all kinds of fine.

Walking towards the group, she reached their table and stopped, catching each young officer's eye in turn.

They blanched in unison. Carter hadn't even known that was possible.

"You know." She drew out her pause, one tawny eyebrow lifting. "It's not a good idea to discuss vastly superior officers when you're not completely aware of who might be listening."

The three young women turned a few distinct shades paler.

"So, in the future, I'd be careful of what you say, and where you say it. And above all—who might be around while you're saying it." She gave them all the once-over again before turning towards the door.

A few steps away, though, she gave in to temptation and turned back. Recapturing their attention with a steely eye, she laid her unladen hand flat on the table and leaned in to skewer them again with a look.

"And just so you know, ladies. It's big feet. And yes, he has them. And hell yes, it matters."

And then she rapped a single knuckle on the laminate surface, turned smartly on her sensible, shiny heel, and strode away.