Paperwork.
I hate it.
I have never hated it more than when I had to pretend.
To be General O'Neill, when I really wanted to be Jack.
When I had to pick up a pen and start to look at a page instead of where I wanted to look, at her.
Because if I looked at her any more I wouldn't stop.
I would just toss it all up and suggest we go out to dinner to O'Malley's to celebrate the end of the replicators.
Or maybe back to my place for pizza and a drink.
"Is that all?"
Like it was anyone else in there.
Professional.
Cool.
Impersonal.
Never mind how the look on her face quickly became confused, and she almost crept out.
Feeling a door slam between us as effectively as if I had slammed it in reality.
Leaving me grinding my teeth and almost punching a hole through my desk in frustration.
Leaving me sitting there feeling like a heartless bastard.
When my heart was really breaking.
.
God, I hate this job.