Title: Washington Worries

Title: Washington Worries

Author: Sam938

Summary: Washington receptions just aren't Jack's cup of tea. Especially when the President, the press, the Russians and various and sundry riff raff are involved. And, of course, who knows who else might crash the party.

Classification: S/J. RST. Established relationship. Some adventure.

Spoilers: Now an A/U. Set at the beginning of season 9.

Archive: Please ask. This has not been posted before in any location.

Disclaimers: Don't own them, didn't create them, and this is purely for fun and not profit.

Status: NOT complete. Four chapters to date, those written in 2005 or 6. I'm hoping to refurbish and finish while working on a longer tale also not yet posted. Multi-tasking - r -us.

Feedback: Yes, thanks! I'd very much appreciate it. It'd help the finishing part… grin. I do love working under pressure.

A/N. A whole bunch of research was done to verify the setting of this. There is a Blair House; it does seat 75 for dinner; it is the small w h, used for receptions. The Ritz is in Georgetown (although the interior decorating is mine.. .grin). The protocol for receptions Jack describes is actually correct; or if it's wrong, I have interpreted docs incorrectly. Yeah, I checked… love this stuff. Half the fun of writing anything is the research into very odd questions. (Yeah; I know. Odd duck stuff there.) Thought I'd post this part of this unfinished tale, just for fun, given that RDA was looking so elegant at the Continuum preview. Yeah, ok. Enough of that. Cough. On with the tale.

1.

Sandra Peterson stared down from her vantage point at the top of the grand staircase of the Georgetown Ritz-Carlton into the hall where the reception had just begun. She grinned at the scene. Elegance personified. The room was glittering; the company both distinguished and decorative; the music perfectly in synch with the ambiance. There were nearly two hundred in attendance, a full house for Washington.

It was going to make for great copy.

She wasn't going to admit that to Harry Cook, though-- the official "behind the scenes" organizer of events of this type. It might just go to his head. Not to mention that that kind of admission would set an unfortunate precedent. If the Press actually started complimenting White House PR, who knew where it would lead.

"Not bad, Harry. But it's also too bad that you couldn't use Blair House."

Harry glanced at her and then shrugged. "Only seats 75 for dinner."

She didn't buy that for a minute as a reason for moving the event away from the accepted "white house for receptions with a small 'w and h'", even though she knew it was technically true.

"Ok, uhuh, sure. Look, what's the story? If not Blair, and the problem's just the size of the event, why not throw a certified, signed, sealed and delivered official State function at the White House? Why here? You have to admit that using the Ritz for a state sponsored reception is, well, weird. "

Harry shook his head in exasperation. "Sandra, there's nothing going on. Quit sniffing, because there's no dirt. It's just politics as usual. This event is supposed to be a joint celebration; not just one sponsored by us. That's why no White House digs, and why we didn't use Blair. And that's why both the President and the Ambassador were in the receiving line. This is neutral ground.

"And let me tell you that it wasn't easy to set up this little do. The White House wanted understated elegance that would send the right message about the successful conclusion of the negotiations. Low key, but star studded, with the perfect combination of glitter and power to take it out of the ordinary politico scene and into promo that would make it worthy of press attention."

He paused and then swallowed. "Did it work?"

Sandra smiled, scanning the room, and gave him a bit of a bone. "Oh, yeah. I can do something with this. With any luck, my editor will deem it page one copy and it'll go AP. That good enough for you?"

Harry relaxed and then smiled. "I think the President would appreciate that."

She glanced around the room once again, identifying VIPs and local Washington celebrities.

"Must have been tough to find all the 'decoration'. The politicos aren't exactly easy pickings for 'beautiful people.'"

She looked around with interest. Harry had managed the impossible. He hadn't pulled out the "Hollywood types"; given the seriousness of the event that would have been too tacky for words. She sighed. Too bad. If he'd made that mistake, it would have been good copy. Still, he had managed to stack the room with unknown, at least by her, but elegant 'decoration'. Nice touch.

She sighed, looking for something, anything, to work with. Then she grinned. "Harry, my friend, it looks like you had to pull a few worms out of the woodwork." She gestured toward the end of the room, by the bar. "Isn't that Adrianne Warner? I haven't seen her at one of these soirées since she insulted the First Lady. Still, she is elegant."

He sighed. "Yeah; elegant and uninvited. I wasn't that desperate. She came with Ambassador Rankin. Given the situation, I couldn't turn her away."

"Now that's interesting."

"Sandra, this little ditty is, as I have said repeatedly, about the successful conclusion of the Russian-American negotiations related to the new Homeworld security measures, whatever the hell they are. No sordid gossip stories, for Gods sakes. You're the Washington Post, not the Daily. If you were, you wouldn't be here."

"Well, hell, Harry, you have to give me something of human interest. Otherwise, it won't get read. And on another note, where are all the uniforms? I thought the military types were supposed to be here with .. uhh...in force."

"Funny."

Sandra grinned. "You know what I mean. No blues. No greens, tans or even purples for that matter."

"That was at the White House's request. Didn't want the military making a strong visual statement. So, tuxes. I had a hell of a time convincing a few of them, especially O'Neill."

She smiled, remembering that O'Neill had been one of the potential human interest stories she'd hoped to use as back up if nothing else materialized this evening to get the story press. "Yeah, O'Neill; the newly appointed supposedly military genius hero type heading up the Air Force's Homeworld strategy. It will be useful to finally get some ops of him. Until now, he's been so classified no one's gotten a good look at him. That might sell."

She was trying to be polite. Air Force Generals as selling points? Not a chance. Not a chance in hell. She turned back to scan the scene, hoping for more dirt, political and/or personal. Either would work.

She stopped suddenly. "Uh... Harry, didn't you warn your 'decorations' to stay away from the President and the Ambassador?"

"Yeah, why? I can't see them from here. What's going on?" He moved over to where he had a better view of the floor.

"One of them isn't obeying orders. There's definitely a 'decoration' monopolizing the President. I mean, look at that body, not to mention those eyes. Tall, deliciously distinguished, well, not like any politico type I know of. And I do know 'em all. You're in trouble, Harry. The President isn't going to be --"

"Sandra."

"What?"

"That's Major General Jack O'Neill."

"That's O'Neill?"

"Yeah."

She couldn't stop the grin. "Oh, god, sometimes I love this job. You've definitely got AP with this one, Harry. Possibly world-wide."

If possible, Harry turned even paler than he'd been before. "Stop. This is about the negotiations, not the military. And you saw O'Neill's bio. I sent them all. He doesn't like publicity and most of his career is classified anyway."

"Well, Harry, that's just tough. He's the new kid on the block now and he's gonna have to deal. Of course, with that packaging I'd be glad to provide some instruction on how he should handle the press. "

"Sandra, pull back the claws. He's married. You know that."

"Yeah, I read that. Some sort of genius scientist, right? Rumor has it she'd have won the Nobel three times over if her work wasn't classified. Of course, that's rumor for you. Astrophysicist, in the military, no less."

She smiled, thinking. " Gotta be a dog, with that pedigree. No wonder she's stationed in Colorado. You know, Colorado is a long way away from..."

"Excuse me."

Sandra looked back cheerfully at the 5'9'' blonde 'decoration' that had just arrived and interrupted her conversation with Harry. She sighed regretfully as she noted the perfect figure and features. The woman would make great copy. Too bad she was just an ornamental.

Still, maybe she could be used as background filler. And at least the blonde's taste was excellent; midnight blue pencil thin dress, long sleeves with a coweled neckline that displayed precisely the right amount of front, back and leg. Matched her eyes as well. The hair and makeup were perfect for the occasion. The woman had style.

The dress finally clicked. "Versase."

"Excuse me?"

Sandra repeated herself, wondering how bright the lightbulb was behind the façade. "Versase."

When the blonde looked confused, Sandra made a sweeping motion towards her dress. "The designer of your dress," she commented patiently, deciding dim didn't even begin to cover it.

"I have no idea. I liked the color and the cut. I'm sorry to interrupt, but I thought you said you knew where General O'Neill was."

Sandra gestured obligingly in the General's direction. "He's the eye candy with the President, honey. Look, as friendly advice, I know he's the latest ... uh... 'Mystery on the Mall', but as Harry points out, he's taken."

"Oh, that works for me. Besides, I thought I heard you say she was a... umm...unattractive."

"Don't know for sure, she's late. But those brainy military types... well."

"I see. Well, then, I think I'll take my chances."

Sandra noted suddenly that Harry had turned a bright shade of red and looked ready to choke.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry."

Sandra watched, amused, as Harry actually did finally choke.

She looked back at the blonde with renewed interest. There had to be something in there, even if the lightbulb was off, if Harry was going all red.

"This is Sandra Peterson, from the Washington Post. Sandra, this is --."

The blonde broke in. "It's alright. You must be Harry Cook."

He shook his head.

"I'm sorry I'm late. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll let the General know I'm here." With that, the blonde headed purposefully down the main staircase.

"Sandra, you ass."

It finally clicked. She grinned, delighted. "Was that...?"

"Colonel Doctor Samantha Carter O'Neill."

Sandra positively glowed. "Oh god, I really, really love this job. Harry, you've definitely made AP worldwide."

"Damn it, Sandra."

"Fabulous. Harry, I love you. We just broke the military mold. God, what a story. He's handsome, distinguished; she's brainy and beautiful; and there's enough mystery about them both because of the classified stuff to make for -- damn, Harry, you're looking at the new military poster kids of the decade."

"Sandra, just leave it alone. And for god sakes, they're not 'kids'. They're highly decorated and respected military officers. "

"Hell, Harry, you think I don't know that? Just stop for a moment and think."

When Harry looked ready to bolt on her, she tried wheedling. " C'mon, stop and think about it. They're a high class act. It's gonna sell big time. And what makes it even better is that with all the mystery surrounding their careers I can probably safely infer in print that they've saved the world a few times or something equally as good."

She continued, thinking aloud about how to set up the story to generate the largest audience. "And then there's the romance angle - when did you say they were married? I thought you couldn't do that in the military."

"That was a special situation that -"

She waved the away the conditionals that he was beginning to spout with her hand.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever, Harry. Your opinion's not important to the story. Theirs is. And I'll get it out of them eventually. The point is that the whole thing's what fairy tales are made of. It's gonna be big. "

"Damn it, Sandra. This is not what I brought you here for."

"Yeah. I know. But that's your problem, not mine. "

"Don't do this."

"They're public figures, Harry. I can do anything I damn well please, as long as it isn't libelous, of course. I am, as you mentioned, the Post, after all."

"That's not --"

"Did you or did you not invite me here to make this shindig noticed?"

"You were invited because you were the only reporter at the Post group who's fluent in six dialects of Russian, as well as Polish and Czech."

"Harry, it's boring to have to repeat myself. Did you or did you not invite me here to get this shindig noticed?"

"I-yes."

"Then let me do my job the way I see fit. I'll see you later. I have some photos to take." She looked around carefully for the best vantage spot. "What's with the... uhh... 'waiters'?"

"What?"

"There." She pointed in sequence to three of the exits, where men in what she quickly dismissed as rental tuxes were stationed.

"Hell if I know. The FBI's in charge of Security, thank god."

"Well, that's not standard FBI garb. Tuxes, rental admittedly, and bad rental at that, but tuxes are not the FBI norm."

"Who knows? Who cares? Maybe it's them, maybe it's part of the catering staff, monitoring activity. Not my problem. And if you know what's good for you, and for me, you'll stay away from them."

"Not a chance. They've got the best seats in the house. I don't suppose you can..." she watched as his face turn to stone, "No. OK, I'll just follow Colonel O'Neill and 'off we'll go into the wild blue --."

"It's Colonel Carter. Didn't you read the bio? She doesn't use O'Neill professionally. Damn it, Sandra, if you're going to do the story, do it right."

"Just checking to see if you're listening, Harry. Of course I read it...that was in the notes. Something about not confusing the riff raff about who's ordering what. Now, of course, that does make one wonder about the kind of orders an astrophysicist would be issuing."

"She's a Colonel, Sandra." She grinned, Harry's eyes burning a bullet hole in her back as he sighed and she ignored him, heading down the staircase purposefully after the Colonel. Yep, Harry was definitely right. "The Press is always a pain in the ass." She saluted the comment, grinning, even though he hadn't voiced the words.

TBC…