Nearly 24 hours went by before Sam thought about General O'Neill. And then it was at probably one of the worst moments for her to be thinking about him. Pete Shanahan was kissing her, his hands up the back of her shirt. And she had been fully prepared for all of the implications this entailed until it occurred to her that she could accidentally say something to the General. When... Her cheeks heated as Pete began kissing his way down her jaw.

Great. Now that she'd thought about it, there was no way that it wouldn't happen. Suddenly, her already complicated life was twice complicated. Damnit.

"Uh, Pete." Her fingers tangled in his hair and she tugged slightly. All desire to have sex had just flown out the window. The mere thought of having the General say something (while on one level being strangely erotic, but she wasn't supposed to think of that sort of thing) was enough to make her want to run far far away and never come back. Suddenly, the ability to talk to him telepathically was not nifty and amusing. It was nothing short of like being trapped in a cell she couldn't get out of.

"Hrm?" Her lover pulled his mouth from her neck and blinked at her. "What is it?"

"I hate to sound cliche, but I've got a headache." A big one, and his name was Jack O'Neill.

Pete blinked at her. "You want me to make you some tea?"

"No, um, actually, I hate to cut our day short, but do you think you could go back to your hotel?" Oh, wow. That had come out horribly.

"Sam? Are you ok?"

"I'm fine." She met his worried look and forced a smile onto her face. "I just feel really tired suddenly. It's a good thing I'm off for a few days. I've probably been working too hard."

"On that deep space radar telemetry." There was only a slight trace of sarcasm in Pete's voice. He'd learned long ago not to push her about her work. Even though he knew part of it was about top secret weapons research -- the Pentagon had refused her one request to tell him about the stargate. Sam had long since stopped being upset about that. It was classified, and the sooner he got used to her not telling him anything, the better. He moved away and picked up his jacket. "I'll call you later, all right?"

Glad that he wasn't pushing, that he was giving her space she suddenly desperately needed, Sam nodded. "Thanks. And I'm sorry."

He caught her face between his hands and smiled softly, "It's all right, Sam." He kissed her gently. "You just get lots of rest, take your vitamins, and eat a hearty meal."

::The condemned ate a hearty meal.:: She thought morbidly. Too late, realizing she'd thought it at the imaginary Jack O'Neill, who was beginning to not be so imaginary. If there really was telepathy. Or she was just going insane.

::Getting executed without me, Carter?:: Jack sounded distracted.

::Sorry. Random thought.:: She locked her front door and leaned her forehead against it, suddenly as worn as she'd claimed to be. ::Won't happen again, sir.::

::It's all right, Carter.:: There was a pause, and she could almost feel his attention shifting to her. ::You sound sad.::

::Just thinking.:: A strange smile crossed her lips and she backed from the door and wandered into the kitchen, looking for the bottle of wine left over from Janet's wake. She hadn't ever planned to drink it, but now seemed like as good a time as any.

::About?::

::We need,:: She popped the cork expertly and poured a glass. ::Guidelines.::

::Ah.::

She downed two glasses in quick succession. ::I was hoping this would go away, you know. That it was some strange side effect.::

::Think we should tell the Doc?::

A head shake, but then she remembered he couldn't see it. ::No. I... I don't think anyone should know, sir. There are too many people who would use it as an excuse for -- something.::

::Ah.:: She couldn't tell if he caught her reference to the regulations, and how this could affect them, or if he was thinking about other things. ::The NID, for instance, would be interested.::

::Yes.::

::So... what guidelines?::

Another glass downed swiftly, and then she paused to sip at the fourth. It wasn't a particularly good wine, but it was better than nothing. And she really didn't want to go shopping right now. ::I don't know, sir. How do you put guidelines on telepathy that you can't control and don't understand?::

::And want to go away?:: It was a guess, his voice sounded tentative.

Yes. No. Maybe. The wine was working on a mostly empty stomach, and she could swear a pleasant haze was beginning to color her vision. ::I... can't answer that, right now.:: Frustration filled her, and she downed the last of the glass and went to pour another, and found that there was only half a glass left. ::Damnit.::

::Carter, I want to continue this, but I've got to deal with Davis for a while. He and the Pentagon are on my back about some reports that were supposed to be faxed three weeks ago.:: Frustration that matched hers echoed in her brain.

::You're still at work?:: It was nearly seven. He should have been home. She could shove her irritation to the side for now. Really.

::A General's work is never done.:: The sarcasm was dry.

::Good luck, sir.::

::Right. And we're continuing this later, even if I have to wake you up. Got it?::

::Understood, sir.:: Resisting the urge to throw the wine bottle against the wall (it wouldn't shatter anyway), Sam set her glass in the sink and the bottle in the recycling bin. Later. Even if she was asleep. Right. That should be one of the guidelines right there.

--

Sam stared up at the ceiling in her room, pondering. The alcoholic buzz had warn off around midnight, and now she was simply tired. And unable to sleep.

::Carter?:: He sounded tired, even from here. And she suddenly wondered if this was because they had all deserted him. He had a whole new set of priorities and responsibilities, and very few people to help shoulder the burdens. Instead of having her and Daniel and Teal'c to rely on, he had Walter and secretaries and accountants.

Jack had never been fond of the latter two. ::I'm still awake.::

::So. Guidelines?::

::No talking unless it's work-related, and generally only if there's an emergency situation where it's required.::

::So, only if you've been kidnaped by the NID, then.:: He sounded smug.

::Pretty much.::

A sigh. ::So I can't mock the people I deal with day in and day out?::

::Probably best not to.:: It was almost like having him right there. Again, she wondered what would happen if, say, she were in the middle of having sex with Pete and... ::And maybe we should think of a way to, uh, knock.::

She was sure his eyebrow was up. ::Knock?::

::Something like the poking -- but... like a tap on the shoulder?:: She considered and then reached out.

::Gah. Not painful, but weird. Carter, that could be more distracting than you randomly talking to me in the middle of the afternoon.::

::Ah. Well, how about we just say, "Hi. You busy?"::

::That's so... mundane.::

::Sir, we're speaking telepathically, I don't think it's mundane at all.::

::Fine, fine.:: A yawn. ::Go to sleep, Carter.::

::That an order, sir?::

::Do I need to make it one?::

::Good night, sir.::

::Good night, Carter.::

--

Over the next two weeks, the SGC as a whole was slightly intrigued to find that General O'Neill and Colonel Carter seemed to read each others' minds more than ever before. Sometimes, it seemed as if they didn't even have to speak to know what the other was going to say (although Sam had quickly insisted that they speak ideas aloud, as it wouldn't be fair to everyone else). Dr. Jackson worked on the translations from the temple (they'd gotten most of it photographed before the energy surge knocked them out) with the help of some of the linguists, and Teal'c. So far, they'd narrowed down that it was an obscure goa'uld dialect that had died out about ten thousand years before.

SG-1 went on three missions, two of which ended perfectly fine, one of which ended with them running back through the gate with the natives chasing them. The General always seemed to know when they'd be back, too. Arriving in the control room about two minutes before the gate would dial.

Walter, especially, began to attribute it to the fact that it was SG-1.

Except that the General also did it when a certain Lieutenant Colonel was seconded to SG-3 for a rescue mission involving the Tok'ra. In fact, he paced, muttered, and cursed for the full two minutes it took for the gate to connect to them and told Walter not to close the iris. Seconds later, the Colonel, her father, and a troop of free jaffa several Tok'ra and SG-3 came tumbling through.

The General closed the iris himself, palm slapping down before Walter could react to the end of the parade on the ramp.

Later, Walter would relate to Siler that the General then did the weirdest thing ever. He simply turned and went back up the stairs to his office. He didn't tell the team in the gateroom to head for the infirmary, or when their de-briefing was (Walter scheduled it for 1700 hours). Normal procedure would have been for him to do all of that.

"Maybe it's telepathy," Siler suggested with an indifferent shrug.

Walter frowned. HE was the only one allowed to have any sort of telepathy, damnit. That was the only way he kept ahead of the ever-distracted General. "I hope not. That could..."

"I don't think it's with everyone," interrupted Siler. He paused, and said, his tone almost careful, "Just with... one person."

"One...?" Thinking about it, Walter felt his eyes widen. "One. Oh. OH. You think...?"

"No. I don't think. And neither should you." Siler poked at the circuit board he'd been soldering.

"Right." Giving a decisive nod, Walter went back to his paperwork. "No thinking."

--