“Don’t take it
personally, Daniel,” I say gently. “I WAS a Special Ops
colonel.” All I get for my trouble is a haughty sniff. “You
handled that asshole like a pro,” I praise lavishly, “he’ll have to
threaten us standing up for DAYS.” Daniel thaws enough to shoot
me a shy little look that makes the roof of my mouth go dry. Not
as dry as his, unfortunately. It says a lot about both of us that
while I’m trussed up like a chicken, Daniel is the one they
gagged. I will be killing the individual who did that the instant
my hands are free and the fucker is in my sights, just for the little
trickle of blood marring the currently sullen pout. I admit they
were driven to gagging Daniel and the goon in question only smacked
Daniel AFTER Daniel bit him hard enough to make ME yelp, but still, the
asshole laid hands on my Danny, and he IS going to die for it.
Meanwhile, Daniel is
loftily ignoring the gag and giving me attitude because while I’ve been
tied up in some kind of hawser that looks like it should be mooring
something at a dock side, Daniel has merely been handcuffed. I
can tell from here he thinks this is insulting and elitist, kind of a
professional goon to goon ‘I’m gonna kill you anyway but man you got
cojones’ respect kinda deal. As opposed to just being an amateur
enthusiast kicking you in them.
We don’t know who
these people are, but given Daniel was requested by name, and in his
private life he is the kind of man who drags you away from a date to
grocery shop for an elderly neighbour and a cat that makes him shudder
convulsively every time you mention it, I’m guessing this isn’t
personal. Given the IQ around this van, which Daniel probably
quadruples all by himself, and is actually making me look pretty good
too, I’m guessing these goons are, or maybe were, Marines. If he
hadn’t been so ticked off about the handcuffs, I’m sure Daniel wouldn’t
have been so hard on them. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel
and he really isn’t one to mock the afflicted. Unless he’s ticked
off, then the afflicted have to gag him to shut him up.
I’m not sure what to
say to Daniel. Torture is NOT, thank Christ, something I’ve had
my kids exposed to all that often, and I don’t know how to tell Daniel
that the only reason I’m not dead on the sidewalk outside his building
is that I’m clearly earmarked for the ‘leverage’ role in the upcoming
torture extravaganza. Whatever they have in store for Daniel,
he’s going to need all his faculties and probably all of his fingers,
which means there isn’t much they can do to him physically, so they’ll
be doing it to me and making him watch. As for what happens
after, well, I’m holding on to the fact Daniel is unique and you don’t
kill unique. I’m not. Unfortunately, Daniel thinks I
am. He thinks my life is worth as much as his. Is worth
his. It’s not. Not when we’re talking market values.
I’m only worth what I’m worth to Daniel, what I can be used to make him
to do. It is going to hurt him like crap when he realises I am a
convenient piece of meat to these people and nothing more. And
since the van has just stopped, I’m guessing that’s going to be very
soon.
The van doors are
wrenched open abruptly and someone palpably higher up the food chain
peers in. He seems quite taken aback when he sees me, fetchingly
attired in my hawser.
“Untie the man so he
can walk,” he snaps.
There’s a certain
quality of silence outside the van suggesting the goons aren’t in any
hurry to do any such fucking stupid and, give me half a chance, fatal
thing. I hear some muttering, then the man looks back into the
van for a moment, gaping at me incredulously.
“ALL of you?”
There’s a little
more muttering, even quieter than before.
“He’s an
ARCHAEOLOGIST.”
Way to go, Danny!
The new guy resolves
the situation by clambering into the van and pointing his gun at
Daniel’s head. He stares me down. “You won’t make any
trouble, will you? Not with my gun at Dr Jackson’s head.”
Daniel chokes
harshly behind the gag and I stiffen. The man immediately stoops
to loosen the gag and pull it free. Daniel curls his lip.
“You’re not too
bright, are you? You people asked for me by NAME. Suddenly,
after all this effort, I’m expendable, just so you can get Jack to walk
like a good boy? Or maybe you could threaten to shoot JACK if he
won’t walk like a good boy? I admit I’m new to the torture thing,
but how do you escalate from there? If you don’t walk, we shoot
you. If you don’t sit on your chair, we shoot you. If you
don’t, for example, give us the access code to the top secret
underground bunker where the nuclear weapons are stashed, we’ll, what,
smack you on the nose with a rolled up newspaper and revoke your TV
privileges?” Daniel asks witheringly.
The man looks dazed
by the eloquent flow of gentle scorn. I almost feel sorry for
him. Daniel has a mind like a steel trap, a razor-sharp tongue
and more backbone than anyone I know. These people don’t know who
they’re messing with, and they haven’t even gotten to me yet. My
name used to mean something in these circles.
Daniel grins at
me. “Jack, think you’ll make it to the house without killing
anyone if they untie you?”
“I’ll definitely be
killing someone if they don’t,” I say chattily. “Specifically
that dead guy with his gun at your head. That alone gets him
bumped straight to the top of my To Kill list.” I could KISS
Danny. He’s grasped rule number one. Control. He’s
just twisted a situation in which we are basically choiceless into one
we’re controlling. We aren’t, the guy with the gun is, but the
guy with the gun has lost sight of that for now. We got the ball
and it’s up to us not to drop it. “Hey! Dead Guy! You
wanna pick up the pace, here? MacGyver starts in fifteen.” I
scowl at him. “You DO got cable, don’t you?”
I’m cuffed to a
chair. Daniel is cuffed more loosely to the chair next to
me. We’re in a huge, oak panelled office, or maybe library.
Daniel is checking out the book titles every time he thinks I’m not
looking. Dead Guy is behind the huge oak desk doing his level
best to threaten us, but he’s a minion and Daniel didn’t need a word
from me to know the sooner we meet Mr Big the sooner I can threat
assess and we can deal, so Daniel is handling the situation in his own
inimitable style.
“You don’t look
ANYTHING like that guy in MacGyver, Jack, so get over it,” Daniel snaps.
“Dead ringer,” I
insist smugly.
“He’s got stupid
hair.”
“So do – oh, yeah,
very clever,” I snarl. “Smart-ass.”
“Bad hair wannabe.”
I’ve probably got
seconds to live if the incendiary noises from Dead Guy are anything to
go by, but hell, I’m going out in STYLE.
Dead Guy storms out
from behind the desk and backhands me, HARD, across the face, snapping
my head around. “If there’s a beer in it, Dead Guy, I’ll turn the
other cheek,” I say lightly when my ears stop ringing.
“You see, Dr
Jackson? If you don’t co-operate it won’t be you who
suffers. It will be Colonel O’Neill.” Dead Guy punctuates
the threat by belting hell out of my other cheek, so my head snaps
towards Daniel. The brief moment I’ve got to look into Daniel’s
eyes gives ME pause and he loves ME.
“Aah, I hesitate to
point out the flaw in your logic,” Daniel says crisply, “but as I’m not
the one you’re hitting, what do I care?”
“You’re breaking
your tender heart over my plight,” I point out helpfully, getting
another slap for my pains.
“If you say so,”
Daniel acknowledges politely.
Dead Guy looks so
baffled I almost feel sorry for him. It’s almost impossible to
torture someone effectively when you’re relying on psychological
torture and the intended victim is merrily debunking every goddamn
threat you make. I admit, this is a new one on me, but as the
designated punch bag, I’m going with the flow. Every minute
Dead Guy is talking to Daniel he isn’t hitting me and that’s pretty
much all Daniel can do for me. He’s doing great so – SHIT!
Shit! SHIT! That fucking HURT! Seeing STARS, here!
Dead Guy shakes his
hand to loosen it up and strolls over to put the TV on. “You
wanted cable, O’Neill? I’ll give you cable.” Dead Guy keeps
on trucking ‘til he hits one of those godawful evangelical
channels. Then he smirks and leaves us.
Ah. The old
sleep deprivation ploy. They’ve tuned the TV to something
insanely annoying, turned it up and left us. They must have a
video camera I can’t see, maybe sound. Every time we nod off,
they’ll come back in here and wake us up.
Daniel waits about
thirty seconds then sets up a holler that brings Dead Guy back.
“Would you mind
turning up the volume? Jack wants to come to Jesus.”
Snarling, Dead Guy
tunes the TV to some weird-ass documentary channel.
“Great!” Daniel
enthuses, “I missed this when it was on. Would you mind, Dead
Guy? You’re blocking my view.” He manages a look of relief
quite artistically from what I can see out of an already swelling
eye. “I thought you were gonna leave us with Showtime or, God
forbid, one of the sports channels running.” Daniel actually
manages a shudder.
Sport is what we get
when we get Dead Guy gone.
“Sorry, Jack.
I tried,” Daniel cringes away from the onscreen - for want of a better
word - action.
Fucking CURLING.
“Keep it down,
okay?” I hiss. “They’ll have video, could be wired for sound.”
“Are you okay?”
Daniel asks tenderly, his face showing the strain suddenly.
“I’m taking comfort
from the fact we will never top this as a first date,” I say
lightly. My face feels like an elephant trod on it and these guys
haven’t even gotten warmed up yet.
“Are these people
military?”
“They were, I don’t
know what they are now. They want your expertise, that’s the only
thing we know for sure.”
Daniel sags for a
moment.
“This is about you,
Danny, don’t forget that. You can push them a hell of a lot
further than I can, they can’t hurt you too much if they need
you. You’re doing great so far, but ease up on the out and out
wisecracks. Dead Guy is already lashing out at those, so let’s
keep him on his toes.”
“Keep changing
tactics?” Daniel asks intently.
“Exactly.
Every minute you keep them talking is a minute they’re not beating the
ever-living shit out of me.” I’m touched by the brisk, emphatic
nod. Daniel is most definitely with me. I might wish we
were both back at his place making out in a bubble bath, but I actually
wouldn’t want anybody but Daniel in this with me. Nobody’s mind
works the way his does.
“And a minute closer
to rescue.”
“Whadda you
care? You’re not the one they’re hitting,” I grin.
“Ja-ack!” Daniel
protests. “I was hoping he’d – “
“Hit you instead?” I
suggest gently. “They need you, Danny, so they won’t do too much
damage. They can’t replace you if they break you.”
“They need you too,
for leverage,” Daniel whispers fiercely. “That’s something I can
use against them.”
I think it’s
supposed to work that they use it against him, but he’s on a roll here
so I let that one pass. “I do not know why it took me so goddamn
long to notice - “ I mouth ‘I love you’ at him and he sighs and mouths
it back – “I’m a dead ringer for that guy in MacGyver.”
“Apart from the
hair. And the height. And the lisp.”
“LISP?”
“It’s sweet.”
“Just watch the damn
curling.”
“Lisp?”
“Jeez, Jack, let it
rest, will you?”
“Lisp?”
Daniel shoots me a
scorching look. “You have a minor problem pronouncing your
sibilants.”
“I don’t lisp.”
“You lisp when you
SAY lisp.”
“I do not.”
“This is not a
personal criticism. When we pronounce sibilants, the air passage
is narrowed to produce a friction noise. You don’t really lisp,
Jack, I mean, it’s only in the very broadest sense. It’s just
that you pronounce your sibilants in a narrower, more hissy manner than
is the norm,” Daniel explains kindly. “And it’s really cute,
although the rest of you is looking less so by the second.”
I match my beloved
glare for glare. “I have hissy sibilants?”
Daniel hangs his
head abruptly. I think I the little shit just used the word
‘adorable’ in my hearing. A tad on the trembling side, what with
all those suppressed giggles, but recognisable. Like the torture
isn’t enough? I’m losing all respect here.
The door bangs open
abruptly and we have company. A bright new day has broken, and
here we have a bright new torturer to greet the dawn with us.
They’re spoiling us. This one is a tall, cadaver of a man in a
Brooks Brothers suit. Going all out for palpable menace, making
with the sinister silence, the shark eyes and the slow, deliberate
movements. With the knife. He gets in Daniel’s face.
With the knife.
Daniel sits
heroically relaxed, eyeing the guy thoughtfully as the guy leans in and
whispers something in his ear. With the knife.
“I spy with my
little eye another soon to be very Dead Guy,” I singsong.
Daniel grimaces up
at New Dead Guy. “No. No, sorry, you pretty much had me until
that,” he says critically. “You were building up the menace
beautifully, shaking in my shoes there, but that last one was a threat
too far. If you do that, then I can’t do whatever the hell it is
you want me to do, and if you back-pedal and say you meant to do that
to Jack, well it’s anti-climactic to say the least. Wanna take it
from the top, Other Dead Guy?”
Okay, not
‘New’. I’ll go with the flow. Other Dead Guy opens his
mouth –
“What is it with you
people, anyway?” Daniel challenges, “Why can’t you just ask
outright? You’re wasting an awful lot of quality kidnap time on
amorphous menacing and unspecified threats, and every minute that
passes is a minute closer to Jack killing you. I think you should
take a time out, re-think your strategy, get back to us when you can
offer something a little more creative in the way of persuasion.”
Other Dead Guy tries
again –
“It’s really
embarrassing for Jack, you know? Being kidnapped by
amateurs. If our positions were reversed, you’d be spilling about
the first time you jerked off in junior high right about now.”
Crap. Losing
it. I’m losing it. Lisping AND giggling. This kidnap has
just been one kick in the butt after another for my self-image,
although I’m doing better than Other Dead Guy. He looks dazed and
helpless. He’s not, he’s got the knife, but he’s not using it and
this suggests to me he has ORDERS not to use it. Mr Big must be
squeamish, ‘cause Other Dead Guy isn’t using it on me either.
“I have to say,
having seen both of you, I think I prefer Dead Guy. At least his
heart was in it. You’re actually quite boring. I mean look
- ” Daniel shrugs at me. “Jack can hardly keep his eyes open,
here.”
I yawn cavernously,
smirking. “Why don’t you run along and send in someone with
matching shoes?” I drawl. Other Dead Guy doesn’t actually look
down but I think I have a moral victory there, particularly when the
idiot looks helplessly up right at the now no longer hidden camera.
“This is fucking
IMPOSSIBLE,” he growls at Daniel. “If it was up to ME, I’d be
cutting your boyfriend’s fingers off right now.”
“Boyfriend?”
Daniel and I snap indignantly as one.
“BOYFRIEND?” The
horrified howl of betrayal draws all eyes to the door.
“Mr Big?” I ask
incredulously.
Mr Big stiffens to
his full height, which in his case isn’t saying much.
“Dr Jackson!”
Mr Big hovers protectively at Daniel’s side, shooting me hateful
looks. If I had a moustache, I’d twirl it.
“Arthur,” Daniel
acknowledges, wincing.
“You KNOW this guy?”
I demand.
“Arthur was a
student when I was at the Oriental Institute,” Daniel sighs. “He
already had a doctorate in complex systems architecture. He
audited my courses for fun.”
“Fun?” I ask,
disbelieving. Arthur has desperate psycho stalker oozing from
every sweaty pore. Computer geek. I can TELL. He
isn’t wearing glasses with one arm taped on, but he SHOULD, and that’s
WITH the Armani threads. “Don’t tell me. You thought the
student/faculty fraternisation rules were a bastard too, right?” I ask
Arthur wearily.
“Dr Jackson and this
– this – lummox?“ Arthur sputters, “They’re NOT. No – no way!”
Other Dead Guy is
perversely starting to enjoy himself. He glances to me. “I
get paid regardless,” he mouths, shrugging. I shrug back.
Fair enough. “They friggin’ ARE,” he snaps at Arthur. “The
good doctor here could get ARRESTED for talking about hockey like
that. The colonel here was feeling NO pain, a couple of my guys
had to lie down after, and I know I’ll never look at my stick in the
same way as long as I live.”
“Which won’t be all
that long,” I say lightly as Daniel blushes to the roots of his
hair. This is what we get for having aural sex in a room with a
video view. I merely asked Daniel to explain to me the difference
between simile and metaphor, and he chose to give me hockey as a
metaphor for doing it. What’s the problem? It’s not like we
weren’t up already. And wide awake.
Arthur looks
sorrowfully at Daniel. “How could you? I’m WAY smarter than
him.”
“Yeah?
Well? I’m TALLER,” I snap. Arthur gasps. I sneer at
him. And I’m prettier too. I just hope I’m not about to
get deader. “I’m sorry I was short with you. That was
really low. I’d like to think I was above stooping to your level.”
Daniel scowls into
Arthur’s apoplectic eyes. “If you hurt him I would NEVER forgive
you,” he says emphatically. “EVER.”
“Never ever
ever. With bells on.” Other Dead Guy scowls at me. I
ignore him. I’ve got bruises. I’m entitled to the
attitude. “Cut to the chase, Arty.”
“Doctor Simmons to
YOU.”
“Sure thing, Arty,”
I say equably.
“NEVER,” Daniel
snaps. “Just tell us what you want, Arthur.”
“I have an
artefact,” Arthur nods to Other Dead Guy and he swaggers out of the
room. Arthur sits behind the desk, dividing his time between
openly drooling over Daniel and eyeing me with murder in mind.
“This geek was a
student?” I ask Daniel casually.
“He had no aptitude
for the subject at all. I could never understand why he kept on
coming to class. I had to spend so much time going over the
basics again and again it was affecting my own research. I went
to the Dean about it, but Arthur had donated a lot of money to the
research programme – “
“No. Don’t
tell me. Let me guess?” I drawl. “His research topic of
choice being the writing systems of the earliest Egyptian dynasties,
which by some bizarre coincidence just happened to be the topic of your
second doctoral dissertation.”
Daniel nods
reluctantly. “There was even funding for fieldwork, but given the
conditions attached, I raised the money myself.”
“Sharing your
sleeping bag? Naked translation?” I lick my lips
lasciviously. “Pith helmet?”
“Ja-ack,” Daniel
blushes again. “Robert didn’t like Arthur. In fact he – “
“Grasped this idiot
was trying to get into your pants, dragged him outside and beat the
shit out of him?” I smile sweetly at Arty. I’m glad Daniel is the
loving and forgiving type or Rothman’s would be one name I’d never dare
to mention. Ever. I never liked Rothman. It was
petty, I know, but I was jealous and I was not the only one.
Carter’s nose was thoroughly out of joint too, and Teal’c’s eyebrow
went into overdrive whenever Rothman got within ten feet of him.
Pathetic, huh? We hated the fact Daniel was two timing us with
someone who knew what he was talking about at the time. WITHOUT
having to look it up.
Daniel’s hot denial
falters. “Actually, I do remember him hollering something about
the Dean being a pimp with a PhD, but he refused to elaborate when I
asked him about it.”
He did?
Rothman? I was just yanking Arty’s chain with that crack.
Rothman thought people were ‘too recent’, he wouldn’t have picked up on
the subtext any more than Daniel did, even subtext as frigging blatant
as Arty’s, unless - “What the hell did you do?” I glare at Arty.
“ASK Rothman to help you get in Daniel’s pants when the bribery didn’t
get it done?” I demand. He couldn’t have. Arty flushes and
looks anywhere but at Daniel. Arty - He did! He fucking did
just that. I gape at the loser, incredulous. I don’t
BELIEVE it. “Oh, ya DIDN’T!” I shake my head at Arty.
That’s - Jeez, that's SAD. “Christ, you must have been
desperate,” I say pityingly.
Daniel looks at
Arty, shocked to his cotton socks. Bless. Arty seems to
have difficulty meeting Daniel’s eyes.
All in all, I’m
taken aback when Other Dead Guy turns up with a box he’s carrying as if
it’s going to go off in his face like a grenade. He slides it
onto the desk and makes like a tree.
“Shit. I take
it all back, Arty,” I say brightly as Arty opens the box and reverently
places a velvet-covered something on the desk top. “Here I was
thinking you were just some pathetically obsessed psycho stalker
wanting Danny to get your rocks off and you had a – “ Arty whips off
the velvet with a flourish, “ - paperweight the whole damn time.”
SHIT. Where the HELL did he get THAT fucker from? And
here’s me without my Geiger counter. We left the only one that
works back with those giant aliens, right? That skull was a one
shot deal, right? This IS a paperweight? RIGHT? All
these questions and more I can’t ask and Daniel can’t answer.
“What’s the
provenance of this artefact?” Daniel snaps.
Er - what I said.
“It was found on a
dig in Belize,” Arty says dreamily. “I know Dr Ballard was the
expert on this thing, but he’s not YOU.”
He’s not here,
either.
Arty’s eyes are
glowing with admiration and the sort of love you can expect between ten
year old girls and the eight by ten glossies of whichever ‘one hit
wonder’ they’ve got plastered to the bedroom wall that week. I
think I’m gonna throw up.
“They can do wonders
with cubic zirconia these days,” I admire.
“This,” Arty fondles
his precious find, but he’s thinking of Daniel, I can tell from the
drooling, “is identical to the Ballard skull in the Smithsonian.
It MUST have the same properties as that skull.”
Daniel turns to me,
flushed and guilty. “Jack? Is this a good time to tell you
Arthur believed implicitly in my theory the pyramids were built by
aliens?”
We are SO screwed.
“I got a certifiably
crazed comedic kidnapper with a crush, a crystal skull, and an ET
fetish,” Jack bitches. “I could die from the embarrassment alone.”
“At least we’re in
more salubrious surroundings,” I suggest brightly. I think I’m
alone in that assessment. “You didn’t stop bitching about that
chair the whole time you were in it, Jack. The whole
night.” When he wasn’t bitching about his hissy sibilants.
“Are you suggesting
that by being chained to the wall in a frankly worrying bedroom I have
traded up in ANY way?” Jack demands crisply.
“I got a bed out of
it.” My little joke falls flat as Jack’s face freezes.
“That is one of the
most worrying things about this room. The only thing it’s got
going for it is that it doesn’t have a frigging camera.” Jack says
flatly. “And that in itself is worrying.”
I sigh and prop my
chin on my hands. With only my ankle chained, I can move pretty
freely around this large, comfortable bed, the one that has Jack so
freaked, but he’s chained flat to the wall by both wrists and he is Not
Happy. “Why?” Jack shoots me a look so old-fashioned it’s
practically Neolithic.
“If I had a tush
like Arty’s I wouldn’t be waving it for the camera either,” Jack growls.
“Oh? OH!
You think Arthur wants to – here – but - but YOU’RE here!”
Jack looks grim. “While you – while you WATCH?” Jack looks
even grimmer. Aah, Jeez. I was freaked enough at the
prospect of getting naked and sweaty with Jack and the whipped cream,
and I happen to be in love with Jack. I can’t begin to comprehend
Arthur in that context.
“Which reminds
me. What exactly were you up to all alone with Arty this
morning? We talking naked archaeologist in pith helmet fetish
here?”
“I merely examined
the skull. Arthur was a perfect gentleman throughout.” Jack
radiates scepticism from every pore. I sigh. Arthur was too
busy angsting over the fact I won’t be wearing white at the wedding to
molest me. I didn’t correct his misconception in any way.
In fact, I gave him the distinct impression Jack and I were fucking
like bunnies every chance we got. “I’ve examined the skull
THOROUGHLY, Jack,” I insist, deciding to steer clear of deep
conversational waters for a while. Jack has been through enough
already, and there’s worse to come. “It may look similar to the
skull Nick found, but that’s as far as it goes. It’s almost
flawlessly manufactured, but it isn’t carved from a single piece of
crystal. It is just a ‘paperweight’. And it almost
certainly isn’t from Belize. Maybe Taiwan,” I joke. It
falls flat. “Whoever sold Arthur that bill of goods took him for
a ride. Some con artist found out about his obsession, cooked up
some tale about a lost temple, and sold him that paperweight for more
money than he’ll ever admit to paying.”
“While I sincerely
hope that Arty got taken for a goddamn FORTUNE, that information is of
no material assistance in this situation whatsoever,” Jack snaps.
“We’d be better off if the goddamn thing did work, since we don’t have
any way out of here and Arty has his little heart set on transporting
off to La La Land with the linguist of my dreams. The guy is
WHACKO.”
“We can think of a
way to escape,” I suggest. Even if the skull was like the one
Nick discovered, it wouldn’t do us any good. The conduit only
worked between the temple in Belize and the one on P7X-377. It
just seems petty to point this out when Jack is wallowing in being
pissed off at life, the universe and me.
Jack glowers at
me. “I’m chained to the goddamn wall, here, Daniel, and don’t
tell me it’s coincidence YOU’RE chained to the bed. Neither of us
is going anywhere.”
He mutters something
I don’t quite catch. “What was that? Something about
coming?”
“It was nothing.”
“But – “
“It Was Nothing.”
“You’re obsessing,
Jack. I don’t believe Arthur would – not while YOU were – not for
a second, but I CAN use his attraction against him. I could – “
“No.”
“But – “
“NO.”
“If he had the hots
for you, you’d do it,” I complain.
Jack ignores the
real issue, which of course is HIM, and launches into another diatribe
about my tactical skills. Or lack thereof. He won’t admit
that he’s freaked because he wanted our first date to end in hot sex,
and there’s a slight – a minute - possibility it will end in sex, just
not with him. I’m not suggesting I actually sleep with Arthur,
just make encouraging noises, get him alone and bop him one. Jack
has been very insulting about my self-defence skills, mostly because
he’s totally fixated on the idea that Arthur will boff me before I can
bop him. Jack won’t admit to that either.
“I just need a few
minutes with the phone, Jack,” I sigh. “Long enough to reach the
SGC and allow George to trace the call and our location.”
He can’t actually
argue with the logic of that, but he can sit there giving me
hell. Which he is what he’s been doing for the past two
hours. Arthur won’t allow anybody to lay a finger on me – except
him, obviously – and was in fact quite cross with the goon who hit me,
and is docking some of his pay in consequence. I won’t allow
Arthur to allow the goons to hit Jack again, even though they
apparently had a schedule drawn up and are quite put out they’ve been
denied their payback privileges. I’ve examined the skull as best
I can without access to Sam’s toys and I’m currently making Arthur
sweat for the results. We’ve been fed and watered, nobody is
actively hitting us and Jack has received some cursory first aid at my
insistence. Things could be worse. I just have to drag
Jack’s mind away from all the ways he’s obsessing on them being
worse. I can TAKE Arthur. I know I can. I’m six
inches taller than he is for a start, even though Jack is pretty sure
I’m lighter. He made a few snide comments about Teal’c being
lighter too, but that’s just classic displacement activity, designed to
throw me off the scent of Jack’s irrational response to the situation.
“You’re jealous,” I
accuse.
“Of ARTY?
That’s INSULTING,” Jack denies, superbly disdainful.
“And true.
You’ve always been this way.”
“I have not.”
“You have. You
wanted to exterminate the Touched with extreme prejudice for – er –
touching. You hated Hathor with unreasoning, unwavering
passion. You refused to accept the technology was the ONLY thing
Omac laid on me. You loathed Shyla from the moment you laid eyes
on her. Ke’ra INFURIATED you even when you thought she WAS
Ke’ra.” I take a deep breath and plunge on. “You gave
Zipacna and Anise hell just for having the temerity to be on the same
planet as me. I’m not even STARTING on the whole Unas thing;
those images kept me awake for a WEEK the first time you sidled up to
me and started asking how we passed the time in the cave. ‘Did he
show you his etchings?’ Prick.” I glare at Jack. “I still
can’t believe I was dumb enough to say yes to that one!”
“Sucker.” Jack
winks at me. “That stinky monster thought you were completely
frigging edible and you can’t deny it.”
“Not the way you
mean!” And I think we’re wandering off on a tangent, which is one
of Jack’s specialities. “I had to endure frenzied interrogation
over both Sarah AND Steven, and poor Paul knew going in he wasn’t
likely to survive if he couldn’t outrun you,” I say haughtily.
“Bringing us right up to date we have Connor the alleged waiter, and
the Colorado tradition of hot-tubbing, in which, according to you, it
is apparently accepted practice to drown the owner of the tub.”
Another annoying thought occurs. “And while we’re on the subject,
you OBSESSED over my safety in Hadante AND on Netu!”
Jack glowers
sullenly at me. “Crap!”
“Your possessiveness
borders on the pathological, Jack, and that’s before I’m even sleeping
with you.” I glower right back at him. “And actually,
thinking about the Touched virus, I don’t believe for a SECOND you were
threatened by my going to see Sam in the Infirmary, not when you’d
already had your chance to propagate the species in the gear-up room
and you fought her off. Biological imperative, my ass! In
fact, the more I think about it, the more certain I am my ass WAS the
imperative.”
Jack’s face is
twitching.
I roll peevishly
onto my back. “You didn’t like Ra either.”
“Anything else?”
Jack asks unsteadily, snorting with laughter.
“Yes,” I murmur
silkily, “Don’t think for a second I don’t know what’s going on between
you and Thor.”
This wasn’t quite
what I intended. Terrace. Plaid blanket. Wicker
basket. Smoked salmon. Champagne. Strawberries and
cream. Warm sunshine. Babbling brook. Carefully
cultivated English style cottage garden. Armed goons.
Arthur’s hand on my thigh. And the cell phone.
I’m tolerating the
hand on my thigh and Arthur wheezing over me with the strawberries
because it has the goons backed off to a respectful distance and the
cell phone is in my sights. I’m aware of one or two sneakily
sympathetic looks from the goon who put the gun to my head, even though
he’s the one I later bit, and I really hope Arthur didn’t hear that
crack about Beauty and the Beast. He’s touchy about me and Jack
as it is, without his own thugs dissing him.
Jack is
pathologically obsessive about me, and, God help me, I think it’s cute.
Arthur is a little
scary. I keep shuddering away from the idea that Arthur scoured
the globe for some astonishing, irresistible alien-related find and
gift-wrapped it in a kidnap because he couldn’t stand the thought I
might still say no. I’ve tried to tell him as gently as possible
that a gun to the head is no foundation for a lasting relationship, but
he’s not hearing me. I think it’s my thighs. They had a
similar effect on Jack when we were in La Crêperie last night,
and he couldn’t keep his hands off them either. They’re helping
me now, because the goons are studiously averting their eyes from the
sight of Arthur molesting me, and Arthur is so far gone he hasn’t even
noticed I’ve edged up to the basket and eased the phone into a
convenient fold of the blanket by my hip. I’ve surreptitiously
programmed in the number, one careful digit at a time, the volume is on
maximum and I just need to hit send. There’s some ambient noise
and given the wheezing and my thighs and all, I’m sure Arthur didn’t
hear the tinny greeting from the phone.
Now I just have to
work out how to get ‘Dr Daniel Jackson’, ‘Arthur Simmons’, and as much
information about our location as possible into the conversation.
I think I may need to let Arthur’s hand roam into an area Jack ordered
me to keep off-limits on pain of, well, words failed him for what the
pain would actually be, but I grasped it would be pretty painful indeed.
“I wish I’d given
you more credit for accepting my theories about aliens building the
pyramids,” I begin. My theory wasn’t any such thing, but even Sam
can’t keep track, so I’ve given up correcting people. “I regret I
didn’t sufficiently appreciate that Dr Arthur Simmons believed that I,
Dr Daniel Jackson, was correct.” I shamelessly flex my thigh
right in Arthur’s face just to get past the awkwardness of that
sentence. The ‘doctor’ will help narrow down the computer
search. “I was perhaps a little harsh in rejecting the support of
someone who had technically been one of my students at the Institute.”
Arthur’s name will definitely be on the Institute’s student database.
“I would have FULLY
funded your research, Daniel,” Arthur assures me earnestly, copping
another feel hard enough to bruise. “I would never have made you
give up your work just to be with me. You would never – you WILL
never have to worry about funding again. I’ll be with you,” he
breathes huskily. “I’m HERE for you. Right here.”
Jack is going to
kill me right after he kills Arthur.
“I was fighting the
odds, Arthur,” I say sadly. “I should have known no one would
believe me. Budge is a clueless bastard, but he’s still the
recognised authority on Egyptology.” It doesn’t hurt to verify,
even though they’ve probably been scouring the airwaves since my first
distress call. “I don’t know why they keep reprinting him.”
This is true.
“He’s a fool,”
Arthur assures me passionately.
“I’m sorry about the
crystal skull, Arthur. It won’t do what my grandfather claimed it
would,” I say sympathetically. “You do know he was never able to
prove his claims, never able to recreate the ‘teleportation’ in a
controlled environment? This skull is beautiful and rare,” and a
FAKE, “but it isn’t like the Ballard skull in the Smithsonian. It
wasn’t carved from a single crystal. I could have told you that
if you’d just asked me. You didn’t need to kidnap me and Colonel
O’Neill.”
I slip my hand
cautiously over Arthur’s. He’s roaming far and wide here,
and I still need more information for the folks back home. George
will be beating every bush by now, looking for any property registered
to Arthur Simmons, but Arthur is a very rich guy. He came from
money if I remember correctly, and he’s made a lot more. “This is
a beautiful spot, Arthur. It just seems wrong to be out here
looking at all this pastoral splendour when Jack is chained to the wall
in the bedroom.” I sigh and look pensive. “The view is nicer from
out here on the terrace than it is from the second floor. The
terrace is south facing, and the bedroom faces East. The estate
is lovely, though, whichever direction you look in. And so
peaceful. I can’t hear any traffic noise at all.”
“You like it here,
Daniel?” Arthur asks eagerly.
“Oh, yes. I
couldn’t make out the architectural detailing of the house last night,
what with being handcuffed and gagged in the back of the van and all,
but the Gothic architecture, and particularly the delicacy of the stone
tracing, is stunning. So few true Gothic stone mansions were
built in this country. They were truly the preserve of the rich,
since the construction required the services of a stone mason.
Was this your parents’ house?” I ask casually. I don’t need to
ask him for the address. Five minutes after Sam hears the name
‘Arthur Simmons’ and with the information I’ve given her to narrow down
the search to the correct Arthur Simmons, she could probably tell what
colour underwear he has on. I just need to narrow the search a
little further so they come HERE. First. If the SGC have to
kick down the door of every property Arthur owns, this could take a
while. And it may be cowardly of me, but I don’t want to be
forced to find out the colour of Arthur’s underwear first hand.
Arthur nods.
“This house was always my favourite.”
“Does it have a
name?” I prompt. “It looks like a house with a name to me,” I
praise.
“Alnwick House,”
Arthur admits shyly, inquisitive fingers heading purposefully for where
the sun don’t shine. I pin his hand flat to my thigh and can’t
decide whether things get better or worse for me when he lifts my hand
to his lips and licks it in a manner which reminds me irresistibly of
Mrs Lewicki’s cat.
Jack is chained to
the wall so he can’t pounce on me physically, and the wait until he’s
sure the guards are out of earshot almost kills him.
“Well?
Well? Did the little prick touch you?” Jack snarls.
“No. Just his
hands.” Best not to mention the lips or the tongue.
Jack growls, a low,
menacing rumble deep in his chest.
“Robert was right,”
I observe dispassionately. “The Dean was a pimp with a PhD.
I was able to keep the line open to the SGC long enough to pass on
Arthur’s name, some specifics about him being a doctor and an ex
student of mine, and some stuff about our location, like the name of
the house and a description. That should be enough, right?”
“That’s enough,”
Jack agrees curtly. “You did good.”
“So now we wait for
rescue?”
“I hope.”
“Arthur needs
psychiatric help,” I sigh.
“Ya think?” Jack
asks scornfully. “He’s completely frigging whacko. You can
leave that stuff to the general. How about that place Nick was
in? The hospital in Oregon? God knows, they’re used to
dealing with this particular obsession. Crystal skulls and
aliens, and that’s not even touching the whole stalker thing.”
Jack looks edgy and
depressed. “I’m sorry you’re having to sit here tamely, waiting
to be rescued,” I sympathise.
“Not as sorry as you
will be,” Jack grins suddenly.
“You’re right!
Dammit, I dropped Connor’s phone number. No hot tub!”
“Bummer. I got
a bath tub,” Jack offers, grinning.
“Duck?”
“Squeaky.”
“Ferrari?”
“Better. Four
wheel drive for that quality ‘making out in trees’ experience.”
“Great ass?”
“Nine out of ten
housewives prefer it,” Jack gloats.
“I lost those phone
numbers too,” I sniff.
“We won’t have long
to wait,” Jack says calmly. “We weren’t driven for more than a
couple of hours away from the Springs, and Hammond won’t hesitate to
scramble choppers to get here quicker.”
“I remembered to say
how many goons there were. The four who jumped us, Dead Guy,
Other Dead Guy and Arthur.”
“That’s good,” Jack
praises. Then he looks at me seriously. “What’s bothering
you?”
“It’s just – the
whole thing is so stupid, Jack. I don’t want our friends put at
risk for these people. The goons did everything wrong and I don’t
want – I just don’t want anyone to die here. Including them.”
“Nobody has to die,
Daniel,” Jack says soothingly. “These guys were hamstrung by the
fact the guy paying them has a crush on you the size of the
planet. They know how the game is played, they just weren’t
allowed to play it. They’re not gonna panic and do anything
stupid, and our guys certainly aren’t. Hell, if I saw Hammond
swooping out of the sky screaming ‘Yee Haw!’ I’d quit on the spot
myself. No scarier sight than Hammond in his cammos.”
“I thought you were
more scared of Janet?”
“I’m not scared of
Janet Fraiser. She’s a pixie with a stethoscope and a Napoleon
Complex.”
“She’s a ‘pixie’
with a temper, a gun, and a physical with your name on it, and I’m
going to tell her you said that,” I say gently. “But that won’t
bother you because you aren’t scared of her, are you?”
“Can we get back to
the point, here?” Jack snaps, ignoring deliberate provocation, mostly
because he is scared of Janet.
“You think these
guys will surrender?” I ask hopefully.
“Actually, I’m
pretty sure they’ll haul ass the minute they hear the choppers.
They’re not gonna go to jail for Arty Simmons and they sure as shit
won’t die for him,” Jack says confidently.
“Yeah?”
Jack’s smile lights
his face. “Yeah.”
“What about Arthur?”
“I think – you can
take Arty.”
“Oh.” Jack
obviously thinks Arthur thinks I’m worth going to a psychiatric
institute for.
“Have I mentioned
how well you’ve handled all of this? If not, I’m doin’ it now,”
Jack praises his boots.
“Do you own any
shoes?” I ask curiously, eyeing the boots.
“What? I’m
going for the tender moment, here,” Jack bridles indignantly, “You
gotta pick now to discuss footwear?”
“You only seem to
wear boots and sneakers. Do you own any shoes?” I persist.
“You wear plaid
shirts, so I wouldn’t aspire to any sartorial opinions if I were you.”
“What?” I
snap. “At least I own shoes!”
“Well, whoop de
doo! You also own a Volvo.” Jack scowls at me. “A
BEIGE Volvo. What is it with that? You not only drive the
most boring car on the face of the Earth, you have to go the whole hog
and have the most boring colour too?”
“I’m not
compensating for anything,” I murmur dulcetly.
“Excuse me?” Jack
asks crisply.
“I drive a beige
Volvo because I do not need my car to do my talking for me.”
“What, exactly, is
that supposed to mean?”
“You know what it
means.”
“Maybe, but I want
to know what YOU mean. Define ‘compensating’ as it pertains to my
car.”
“It’s a dick with
four wheel drive.”
“Better, kid?”
“Better,” I agree,
chin once more propped on my hands and Jack’s soft eyes fixed on mine.
“Laughing yourself
sick is better than crying like a baby, trust me on that. I’ve
done both.” Jack freezes suddenly, lifting his head, listening
intently.
“They’re coming?”
Jack nods
sharply. “You. Over the side. Cover. Now.”
We’ve argued back
and forth about this, but the ‘colonel’ is adamant and proving we can’t
work together as lovers while the lover part is still a technicality
isn’t at the top of my priority list, so I’m slithering to take cover
behind the bed with as much good grace as I can muster while Jack has
to just sit there right in the line of fire. I’m trying not to
think about sitting ducks or fish in barrels or – he’ll be fine.
Fine. I’m also not mentioning the thing Jack hasn’t been
mentioning, which is that I’m the civilian and therefore the hostage of
choice, and not just because of Arthur.
The roar of rotor
blades fills the air, followed by window after window shattering.
Jack nods approvingly. They’re not wasting any time landing, just
rappelling straight down and in through the windows as the helicopters
hover above the house. Moments later desultory shots ring out.
“Sporadic small arms
fire,” Jack snaps. “I’m guessing we’re using CS gas. Drive
the goons out where they can be picked off. Er – surrender.
You know what I mean.”
“I do indeed.”
He means picked off.
I hear footsteps
pounding along the hallway towards us. Jack stiffens.
“That’s not Carter
unless she’s put on weight, and it’s not Teal’c unless he’s lost a few
pounds, so I’m guessing we’re about to be in the shit here,
Danny. Heads up.”
“Down.” He
says we, but I’m guessing he means me.
The door slams back
on its hinges.
“Other Dead Guy,”
Jack acknowledges coldly.
“Rise and shine,
Doc, going for a little drive, just you – “ I feel the bed jerk hard
and the next moment Other Dead Guy is straddling me, wrenching at the
lock on my ankle – “and me. And if you give me any shit, I WILL
shoot your boyfriend.”
“Just get the fuck
out of here,” Jack hollers. “Leave Daniel.”
“No can do,” Other
Dead Guy snaps, yanking me to my feet, up on to the bed and over.
Guess they’ve had
enough experience of Jack not to risk getting anywhere near him,
chained to the wall or not.
“You’re DEAD you
FUCKER! You HEAR me!” Jack rages as Other Dead Guy drags me away
from him. “DEAD!”
“Got your hands full
there, Doc.”
So do you,
pal. I’m sick to death of everyone assuming that just because I’m
an archaeologist I’m totally helpless in these situations. I may
not be Jack or - or even Janet, but I can take care of myself, and I
plan to. Other Dead Guy is hauling me away from the fighting at
the front of the house, towards what I presume are the kitchen
stairs. Like George would have left the back door open?
Like I said, these people are STUPID. I’m not exactly assisting
in my own kidnap here, in fact I’m letting myself flop in Other Dead
Guy’s arms so he’s almost carrying me along. Progress is so slow
I can still hear Jack bellowing ever more outrageous death threats and
demotion threats if Sam doesn’t hurry the fuck up with the keys.
“Keep this up and I
may decide you’re more trouble than you’re worth,” Other Dead Guy
snarls.
“More trouble than
you went to, to fetch me in the first place?” I ask chattily.
“You’re right. I’m sure the general will just LET you stroll out
the back door, no harm no foul. No hostage, no frigging chance,”
I sneer.
“You’re a mouthy
little fuck. You and O’Neill were made for each other.”
A truer word was
never spoken and we’re coming to the stairs, which from the looks of
things have a blind turn, which means that gun at my temple will have
to be pointed down the stairs and away from me while Other Dead Guy
checks it out. Which means that blind turn is the perfect place
to slam this bastard against the wall with everything I’ve got.
We stumble down the stairs together, awkwardly, since I’m doing my best
to be a dead weight, make him sweat on that turn, so the pistol will be
swinging out and away the moment we reach it. Any moment, any
moment, any – NOW. As the gun swings out I throw my weight
forward, feel his one-armed grip slip a little, instinctively, we’re on
stairs here, drive my forearm hard into his gun hand, pin it against
the wall as I ram my elbow deep into his solar plexus. Hear the
whoosh of expelled air with grim satisfaction, breaking the slackened
grip to stumble down a few steps, turn and punch him in the balls as
hard as I can. He jerks forward, howling, which is the perfect
time for my knee to meet ‘n’ greet his face. Not exactly out, but
most definitely down, so I snatch up the gun and bolt up the stairs
three at a time to get back to Jack, who looks anything but gratified
to see me.
“Jack!”
“What the hell!”
“Thanks,” I snap,
blatantly eyeing the pistol and tugging speculatively on the
chains. I won’t, but he doesn’t know that. In fact, he
thinks I’m going to.
“Daniel! Sir!”
“CARTER!” Jack
eyes me and the pistol and my thoughtful tugging on the slack in the
chains with visible alarm. “HURRY!”
“DanielJackson!
O’Neill!”
“Easy, Danny, easy,”
Jack soothes, “Just put the gun DOWN.”
So I’m not very
nice. So sue me.
“Daniel!”
Jack stiffens
alarmingly. “DAVIS?” he snarls. “Sonova – “
Jack has to choke
the tirade down as we’re interrupted by a very welcome and very loud
chorus of relieved ‘Daniels’ and a stampede of booted feet. Sam’s
bearhug knocks me on my ass so hard she’s having to hold me up.
“Daniel! I was
so worried!” she murmurs into my shoulder. I don’t even flinch
from the MP5 propped against my other shoulder, though a distressed
bleat from Jack has ‘Major Carter’ back with us and backing off from
strangulation range. Just.
“DanielJackson!
Are you injured? I have caught this one. He is
insane. He was alternately cajoling and threatening the crystal
skull to take him away from this madhouse,” Teal’c has a somewhat
battered Arthur dangling from his grip. “The irony did not escape me.”
“He needs help,
Teal’c, he’s sick,” I say at once. “Delusional.”
“Shoot him.”
Everyone glares at
Jack.
“What?” he gives a
fetching little shrug of his chains.
“Let me help you up,
Daniel,” Paul says warmly, suiting actions to words, he and Sam taking
a hand each. Jack’s freezing disapproval suggests he thinks they
fuss for an unnecessarily long time once I’m up, but I quite like
it. I beam at all my friends. Janet is tsk’ing and sighing
over Jack’s rakishly battered face, Sam and Paul are hovering
solicitously, firing questions they aren’t giving me time to answer,
Teal’c is tying up Arthur and George is storming in through the door,
very definitely in full cammos, ‘Yee Haw!’ written all over him.
He strides over and clasps me warmly on the shoulder.
“Dr Jackson.
GOOD to have you back with us, son. Hell of a job, there.
Well done.”
“Am I in the ROOM
here? Is ANYBODY going to ask how I am?” Jack complains bitterly.
“Colonel. I
see it takes more than a little kidnapping to sweeten your temper,”
George greets Jack jovially.
“Ah, you know
me. Take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’. I can take a lot
more than THEY could dish out,” Jack brags complacently.
“OW! Jeez!” he howls, glaring balefully at Janet.
“Hold still!”
“Daniel,” a small
voice calls.
“What is it,
Arthur?” I ask him gently.
“Dump that arrogant
asshole, Daniel, please,” Arthur pleads tearfully. “I don’t care
how big his stick is, or what he thinks he can do with your puck, he’s
no good for you.”
“Janet, it isn’t
kind to leave the poor man suffering like that,” Jack emotes nobly into
the paralysed silence, “Sedate the shit out of that whacko, and get
back to me.”
Janet gives Jack a
long, steady look that doesn’t bode well for his next physical, but
fortunately, her medical assessment concurs with Jack’s re the whacko
thing, though not the precise terminology, and she duly sedates Arthur.
“Colonel?” George
asks coolly.
“Just taking Daniel
through one or two of the finer points of hockey, Sir, just to while
away a few of those quality sleep deprivation hours,” Jack says
plausibly, radiating ‘hail-fellow-well-met, nothing to ask, nothing to
tell, just move it right along, Sir’ dishonesty from every pore.
“I’m sure the tape
will verify that,” George beams at Jack with gentle malice.
“Tape?”
“The building is
secure, we have seven prisoners and no casualties on our side. I
suggest we wind this up and take it back to the SGC,” George ushers
everybody out, including Teal’c, who’s carrying Arthur, then he
follows. We stroll down the hallway companionably, Sam and Paul
on either side of me.
“VERY funny!” Jack
hollers. “Will SOMEBODY get me OUT of these things?”
“I didn’t even know
Volvo made a convertible,” I admit chattily. “And ‘beige’ was
harsh. More of a grey.” That doesn’t seem to help. I
try to think of one single occasion on which I’ve let Daniel drive me
anywhere, and the only answer I can come up with is ‘nuts’. “Nice
car.” It is. Surprisingly sporty and turbo charged.
Even with the top down the car is amazingly quiet. I think this
classy little number cost a shit load more than my Explorer.
Daniel is
right. He doesn’t need his car to do his talking for him, mostly
because Daniel looks fabulous in his sunglasses and the grey turtleneck
ribbed sweater making his huge eyes shine so incredibly blue, and I
couldn’t get away with jeans THAT tight when I WAS his age, let alone
white jeans.
I look like hell and
I know it. Can’t even blame the bruises dotted here and
there. Some days I look like I’ve lived every single day of my
forty five years, and today is one of them. I look lived IN;
every grey hair, line and wrinkle thrown into harsh relief by the
bright sunshine that makes Daniel looks sinfully good. Who am I
kidding here? The genius is drop-dead gorgeous.
“How are you
feeling?” Daniel asks softly, shooting me an anxious look.
“A full twenty-four
hours of rest in the Infirmary did me the world of good,” I say
sourly. “I swear, Janet slipped me a Mickey somehow.”
“I checked in on
you, over and over, but Janet was starting to eye me with that stress
counselling look she gets, you know the one. I love you but - ”
Daniel shrugs, embarrassed.
I pat his knee
gently, touched by the love thing, especially on a day when I look how
I feel. “I don’t blame you for bolting, Daniel. This new
guy is into aromatherapy from what I hear.”
“Essential oils and
massage.”
“Massage?” I snap,
stiffening.
“Ja-ack,” Daniel
warns.
“I’ve no objection
to a little oiling, a little massaging, not between two consenting
adults, and just so long as we don’t come out the other end smelling
like flowers,” I offer broad-mindedly. Its occurred to me that
Daniel, being the sensitive, in touch with his feelings type, might
actually be into this stuff. He can be into anything he likes,
provided he’s into it with me. “You may need the massage.
First chance I get, I’m teaching you to skate.”
“What? Um,
why?”
“Back there in the
tree. At the start of this date. You said you’d never been
on skates.” I want to ask why, but suspect the answer may be
something like foster parents don’t have that much money to waste on
the new kid on the block, and the kid probably asked for books with
every spare dime he was offered, so he never got around to
skates. Had to have a bike though. Every kid has a
bike. “You like riding bikes?”
“Meg had a
bike. When I was ten or so. She used to sit me on the
crossbar and pedal all over the neighbourhood. It was fun.
She had no fear. Loved to freewheel down hills. It was one
of her life’s ambitions to get a speeding ticket on that bike, but she
never made it,” Daniel grins.
So I can add a bike
to the skates I’m getting for him. I want to ask more about ‘Meg’
but instinct tells me not to push. To be honest, nobody who knows
Daniel has a frigging CLUE why he was never adopted. Why only
foster parents? Daniel is the original low maintenance guy, and
he learned that way back, learned to hit the ground running.
Learned to threat assess and get along with anybody and never say
anything but ‘fine’ when you ask him how he is. Being clever and
liking books are NOT sins before God, not then and certainly not
now. I just have to accept that this amazing guy who loves me
comes with his own library. I’ll get some shelves built in the
spare room and once he’s spread out and made himself at home, then we
can start poking through the emotional baggage.
“We need to go to
the bookstore,” Daniel announces.
“We do?”
“We need a book.”
“What the hell for?”
“You just want to
hold hands and cuddle in bed tonight, that’s fine by me. I was
hoping for some sex, though,” Daniel says crisply.
“I can say with the
fullest confidence your hopes will be fulfilled,” I assure him
firmly. “As often as I can manage.”
“Only if we know
what we’re doing.”
“Just put your lips
together and blow,” I say facetiously. “You’ve never been with a
guy?”
“Neither have you!”
“That was a
question, Daniel, not an accusation,” I say patiently.
“Oh.
Okay. We still need the book.”
“A how to manual?”
“Exactly.”
I sigh as Daniel
hangs a right when he should have taken the left to get us to his
place. This route will eventually takes us to Pikes Peak Avenue
and - “Beth Anne’s, right? Is that WISE?” She only supplies
the base with most of Daniel’s books, the transactions completed with
requisitions and invoices I sign. Now I have to stroll in there
and buy a book – or knowing Daniel’s thorough approach to research,
books plural – all with graphic adult content. Even the least
suspecting clerk would figure out what we had in mind. Two
nervously sweating guys, gay sex manuals – you don’t have to be a
Jackson or a Carter or even an O’Neill to figure that one out.
And given one of the nervous guys is young, sweet, drop-dead gorgeous
and probably making with the big blue eyes, while the other one isn’t,
guess which one will be coming off as the pushy
pervert-come-sugar-daddy in the relationship? Oh, joy.
I’m still thinking
about the joy as Daniel parks the Volvo and we take the short stroll
around the corner to the bookstore. He’s walking so close to me I
feel the heat of his arm against mine, and occasionally the brush of a
thigh. I’m getting a little fixated on the thighs. And the
jeans. If I gotta get books to get in those pants, I’ll buy every
book they got and a goddamn bookcase to put them on.
Daniel’s face is
brightening up. He LOVES books and he loves bookstores. He
loves to read, gets completely lost between the covers. We’ll see
what we can do about broadening his repertoire, covers-wise. He
gives me an indulgent look when I hold the door for him. I think
he thinks I’m being all olde worlde courteous, but Daniel has never
seen himself from the rear. I’m feeling no pain watching his ass
swaying along in those sprayed-on jeans. I wonder if anyone ever
got caught in Beth Anne’s committing lewd acts with archaeologists in
the relationships section? After meeting Connor, I wouldn’t be at
all surprised.
I glance around
casually. Nice store, if this kind of thing turns you on.
Cosy alcove. Stone fire place. Sofa. Antique
chairs. Books. Lotsa books. Books everywhere you
look, on every surface And tootsie rolls. Mmm.
Blood sugar definitely dropping a little, here. Might just mosey
on over and –
“Sir?”
Clerk. The
clerk is between me and my tootsies. “You’re here for the book
signing, sir?”
Nice girl, nice
eyes. Nice tootsies. Can see ‘em. Big bowl.
Bigger crowd. “Absolutely.”
“Here you go then,”
she beams, placing a book reverently into my hands.
I casually glance
down at the cover. Then I blink and look again. ‘Passion’s
Raging Storm’. This seems unlikely even with THAT cover, sheesh,
talk about adult content right there, so I cautiously open it and read
the intro. ‘Half-Comanche and the son of an English earl,
Harvard-educated Brit Hand could break wild horses while talking to
them in four languages. He's a man with temperate needs--and the
flame-haired temptress that runs his new-found household is anything
but temperate. Yet from their first meeting, Brit realizes that she's
the woman that has the power to unlock his wild side’. I’ll just
bet she does. And the name of this flame-haired temptress?
Antoinetta? Give good ol’ Brit three pages and she’ll be – I knew
it. Toni. I need my tootsie roll. I need this
book. And I need to meet – I check the cover - Jocelyn Flemyng.
I grab my tootsie
roll and work my tush – my jeans aren’t up to the same standard as
Daniel’s, but the tush does it for me every time - through the crowds
of housewives surrounding – “Jocelyn?” It doesn’t seem
likely. He’s got the most spectacular beard I’ve seen outside of
ZZ Top.
‘Jocelyn’ grins up
at me. “Hey, I’d tell you to pull up a chair, but if you hide
that ass the crowd could get ugly.”
“Jack,” I say,
grinning, holding out my book.
“You willing to
share? I’d kill you for that tootsie roll. Although, from
the looks of things, someone already tried.”
“Be my guest, and
it’s a cliché, but you should see the other guys,” I offer
graciously. “Er - Jocelyn?”
“Jesse.”
“What were you
before you became Jocelyn?”
“Roughneck, but my
wife hated me being off-shore all that time so I quit the rigs and went
for – “ Jesse glances behind me to his adoring public, looking a little
self-conscious, “- hysterical historical porn. Pays the
bills.” He shrugs, embarrassed. “Usually my wife Em
pretends to be Jocelyn for me at these shindigs, but she’s over there,
molesting that tall drink of water you breezed in with.”
I look over my
shoulder and see a tiny, plump woman plastered to Daniel in the
‘relationships’ section, talking his ass off. Em must be good
people like Jesse is good people, because Daniel doesn’t seem to mind
one bit.
“Lucky bastard,”
Jesse grins.
“Tell him something
he doesn’t know,” I smirk.
Jesse chuckles and
writes something into my book with a flourish, eyeing Daniel with great
amusement the whole time.
When I turn the book
and check, all it says is ‘WOOF!!!’. “Profound,” I gush, ‘awed’
by the innate genius of this undeniably insightful literary gem.
“I’m denying ALL
responsibility for chapter seventeen. That one’s purely down to
Em. She was on a tear. What could a mere husband do?
Now get outta here before she lures that boy out to some tacky motel
and makes him scream. I’m guessing that’s your job.”
“You know it,” I
grin. I’m already turning to chapter seventeen as I make my way
back through the crowd. I hear a loud call of ‘sucker’ from
behind me, but let it go. Too busy with – Brit thrust it
WHERE? On horseback? I DON’T think so. That’s not –
NO way! And no, no, I’ve never heard it called THAT before.
When I get within
earshot of Daniel and his adoring acolyte, still snorting derisively
and obviously enjoying the hell out of chapter seventeen, I hear Em
describe Daniel as a hunka burnin’ love, which doesn’t surprise me one
bit. Em likes a little side-saddle action.
“Ooh! Better
and better!” Em enthuses, hazel eyes sparkling up at me.
“I’ll never look at
horse whispering in quite the same way. That Brit is quite the
cunning linguist,” I say solemnly. “By the way, Jesse is hitting
the tootsie rolls hard back there. Lives could be lost.”
“What? He’s on
a damn diet! He KNOWS he’s not supposed to – grr – turn my
back for a SECOND!“ Em storms off into the crowd.
“This is a cool
bookstore. We will definitely call again.” I smack Daniel’s
curious fingers away from my book. “You’re too young for this
stuff, but if you’re good, I’ll read the best bits out to you.”
“Thanks,” Daniel
pulls a face.
“You got what we
need?” I glance down. “FOUR books?”
“I know.”
Daniel eyes the shelves pensively. “It may not be enough.
Maybe THIS one – “ he reaches out.
I get a good grip
and yank him away. Only a spineless coward would leave his lover
to pay for these all alone at the counter, but unfortunately for me,
Daniel treads on my foot and pins me to his side before I can make a
break for it. The clerk is the exact same nice girl with the nice
eyes. Pulling her face a little.
“What?” Daniel asks
mildly.
“I’d recommend ’Come
Out, Come Out, Wherever You Are’. These are all good choices for
the mechanics, but that one has some excellent stuff about handling
emotions and the relationship side of things. You know?” she asks
brightly.
We don’t know.
“Instead of having
one emotionally constipated, distant, uncommunicative lump in a
relationship you have two,” she says sweetly, grinning. “Words to
live by.”
Oh.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Thanks, Jack.”
“Did you remember my
toothpaste?” Daniel asks, delving into the bag before I can stop
him. He freezes and looks up at me wide-eyed. “Were they
having a sale?”
I slip into my seat,
looking around edgily. “You didn’t read that chapter,” I say
defensively.
“I know it was
called ‘Lube, Lube, Lube’, Jack, but that didn’t mean you had to rush
out and buy three of everything!” Daniel folds the bag, hands
moving crisply. “And you’re assuming a lot.” He’s blushing
again.
“I’m ASSUMING that
twelve year old store clerk thought I was either up for a gay orgy or
was just a typical guy with a shopping list!” I snap. “I bought
three tubes of toothpaste and three Twinkies too, so lighten up.”
Daniel starts to
chuckle as we pull away. “I don’t think that helped, Jack.
Really.”
“Yeah, well,” I
shrug. “Dr ‘Gay Karma Sutra’ Jackson didn’t seem to want his
toothpaste badly enough to go in there and get it himself, not if he
had to get the other stuff too.” I pause. “That’s a good
book, by the way. I skimmed. Maybe a little advanced, but
it helps to set goals.”
Daniel is still
chuckling, which is – well, it’s nice. Nice to see Daniel having
fun. Fun with me, and all we’re doing is driving back to his
place, panicking about the mechanics of what ‘Come Out, Come Out’
refers to coyly as intimate relations.
“So what’s the
plan?” Daniel asks.
“Take out.
Read up. Make out. See if we can’t get up to Foreplay
Fantasies before we hit the hay,” I say cheerfully. “Which
reminds me. We need to make a grocery run.”
“You’re not licking
anything off me,” Daniel says firmly. “We’re going straight home.”
I know for a fact he
has homemade ice cream at home and licking will indeed be the fantasy
in the Foreplay Fantasies segment of make out. Chocolate cherry
truffle ice cream licked from Dr Daniel Jackson’s navel. Now
that’s motivation.
I delve into the
book bag for ‘The Ins and Outs of Gay Sex’. “This is a good
one. It’s got pictures. Step by step stuff. Er,
you’re still dead set against that whole chapter nine thing?”
“Yes.”
Just my luck.
I’ve never given a blowjob, and it turns out Daniel has never received
one and isn’t keen to make a start. Definitely a situation
calling for show, not tell, but not until I’ve got his brains puddled
out his ears from chapter twenty three of ‘Men Loving Men’ and he’s
feeling more amenable to experimentation.
How hard can it be
to find washable ink and the right kind of brush?
“It’s GOT to be in
there somewhere,” I mutter helplessly.
“Want me to read
that part out again?” Daniel offers anxiously.
“No, no. I
know. Grab that one – no - the other one – “ I call as Daniel
shuffles the pile of books he has spread out on the pillow.
“’The Joys of Gay
Sex’? Pfffft,” Daniel snorts. “Promises.”
“Turn to page
eleven, you know, the anatomy chapter,” I instruct. I’m dying of
embarrassment here. You could hurl me naked and blindfold at any
woman who got her kicks that way and I could find her happy button in a
heartbeat. I have Daniel sprawled willingly and wantonly beneath
me, desperately leafing through reference books because I can’t find
his happy button with both hands and a map. I reach down
carefully and kiss his sweat-sheened nape apologetically.
“Relax, Jack,”
Daniel sighs. “’Come out, come out’ says not every guy gets the
same kind of pleasure from intercourse, and it’s just your luck I seem
to be one of them.”
“We can’t do it if
we don’t both enjoy it,” I tell him firmly, kissing his nape again, and
kind of nosing into his hair while I’m here. “You smell
good. How come it took me five years to figure out you smelled
good?”
“You’re an idiot,”
Daniels murmurs distractedly, thumbing briskly through ‘Ins and
Outs’. “That feels nice, don’t stop,” he arches his neck to give
me better access. “This is my fault, Jack,” he admits
ruefully. “I insisted we should try things out as we went instead
of waiting until we had those foreplay chapters down cold.”
“The goddamn things
are like cookbooks, Danny. Beat to a peak. What the fuck is
a peak? Fold in the eggs. How do you fold an egg?”
“Massage the
prostate,” Daniel sighs again.
“Want me to – “ I
start to ease my ludicrously over-lubricated finger free of Daniel,
free of this heart-stoppingly arousing silky heat and oh, momma, the
TIGHTNESS of him. I didn’t even know I wanted this, and now I do,
it looks like I gotta want and not have. I can’t – I won’t have
intercourse with him if it’s just something he patiently endures for my
sake. In fact, I’m hoping right now I’m a natural bottom, because
otherwise our sex life is going to stay resolutely soft-focus.
“Leave it,” Daniel
instructs. “We’re dealing with a medical fact here. I’ve
got the damn gland – “
“I just can’t find
it,” I admit ruefully. I’d offer to reverse our positions, but
something tells me it would take Daniel about a nanosecond to hit pay
dirt and have me screaming from the ceiling. So I just focus on
Daniel. He does smell amazingly good. A warm, herbal smell
from whatever he uses on his hair, and it’s weird how I never noticed
how soft his hair is either. Now I’m looking I can see how soft
it is, can feel it gliding against my skin and over my lips when I kiss
him just there, that little sweet spot at his nape that makes him
shiver and – “Danny!” SHIT. What did I DO? “Christ, did I
hurt you? You screamed!” I freeze, he’s quivering with
shock and whimpering into the pillow. What did I -
stroking. I was just stroking him, inside, relaxing him and – “I
found it, right?” I ask hopefully.
“Oh, yes.
Yes,” Daniel’s voice is muffled in the pillow and the books.
“Yes. I’d say so. Um-hm. NO question.” Daniel
raises himself up and sweeps the books onto the floor. “I’d like
to just kiss for a while, please.”
It takes us a few
minutes to untangle ourselves and reconvene side by side, Daniel tucked
in my arms and my hands on the glorious lush curves of his ass.
“Got a little ahead of myself there,” I apologise remorsefully.
“No, no. It
was GOOD. Really good. Can’t wait to get back to it, in
fact, but I really want to kiss you right now,” Daniel admits, eyes and
smile a little shy.
“Kiss away.”
Daniel does things
his way. Kissing to him means touching my jaw with trembling
fingers and tracing the sharp angle all the way across before slipping
down to my – regrettably – lined throat. He delicately traces the
outline of my Adam’s apple and leans in to lick the hollow at the base
of my throat.
“Great kiss.”
“Just getting warmed
up.” His palms are resting warm over my cheeks, long, elegant
fingers splayed out, dancing lightly over my tingling skin. The
brow is also a little lined. The eyes are a little baggy.
The eyebrow does have that annoying scar and the two tone do. He
goes back to the eyes, which are still baggy.
“I love your eyes,”
Daniel murmurs, kissing both of them solemnly, sensitive fingertips
ghosting against my lashes. “Especially when you look at me like
this. It’s not just the colour, it’s not even when they go puppy
on me, pleading and begging for more – “
“Begging?”
“Okay.
Whining.”
I bare my teeth at
him.
“It’s that
softness. The warmth. Nothing as warm as brown eyes,”
Daniel murmurs dreamily, gently skimming his lips over every bruise on
my face, and finally nipping at my nose in case I think he’s gone soft
on me or something.
“Brown?” I wait in
vain for anything more. “My lover the linguist gazes deeply into
my brown eyes and comes up with – brown. Not velvety. Not
chocolatey. Not even coffee. Brown. Inspirational
pillow talk by Dr Jackson. The linguist, lest we forget, clearly
at a loss for words.”
“Too awed by your
beauty to articulate,” Daniel snaps, tender cheek cupping translating
to a painful grip on my ears.
“Try hazelicious.”
“Wh-what?” Daniel
stammers, gamely choking down some kind of strong emotion, which I
suspect from the quivering lips is laughter. “Haz – haz – I can’t
even SAY that word! What the HELL have you been watching?”
“Like I couldn’t
come up with that line on my own?” I huff.
“No.”
“Shit.”
Daniel stares
thoughtfully into my eyes, turning my head gently this way and
that. “No,” he says eventually. “No, I think you’re being
overly harsh with that one.”
I open my mouth to
ANNHILATE him so of course he chooses that exact moment to lick my
tongue, and the treacherous little bastard rolls over and dies,
shamelessly hanging out my mouth and begging for more. I will
never win an argument with Daniel if my own hormones keep ambushing me
so persistently. Daniel’s tongue just curls around mine and he
doesn’t raise a protest when I lure him into my mouth. Best case,
I can work up enough suction to get him to let go of my ears. I
don’t think ‘all the better to steer you with’ was the exact ear line
from the nursery rhyme, even if my lobes are on the generous side.
THIS, this is
kissing. Curled up on Daniel’s huge bed, with the late afternoon
sunshine warming the room, all the peace and privacy we could
want. Slow, deep, delirious kisses. The subtle play of lip
shifting over lip as first I lead the kiss, then Daniel, angling for
the sweet spot, that perfect spot where we can linger, stroking
drowsily. Sweet, drugging kisses, and that warm herbal Danny
scent rich in my nose.
Seems like the
easiest thing in the world to stroke skin as well as tongues, both of
us. Not pushing. Not rushing. Too many ways to
describe how soft Daniel’s skin is. Sappy ways. Let me
count the ways. His skin is soft like my eyes are brown. I
tease a nipple, feel an answering touch, thanking ‘Ins and Outs’ and
chapter three, ‘cause I never really knew nipples did THIS, not to
guys. Not just to him, me too, makes your body thrum and ache for
more. Ache low and deep. Heats the blood. Stirs.
Yeah. Stirs and swells.
Hands gliding lower,
down over taut, flat abdomens. His is flatter, mine more deeply
ridged with muscle. Look into his face now, flushed, excited,
eyes closed and he’s close. Can’t get closer to me. I’m not
too lived in for Danny. Just about right in Danny’s closed eyes,
in his willing mouth, in the shaking fingers circling my navel and
slipping down to coarse hair, hesitating, learning that texture as I
stroke his thigh, feel the heat of that, trace the long, lean muscles
and baby fine hairs. Around and onto his ass, filling my gloating
hands. Can’t wait. Can’t wait to be buried in that ass,
deep inside him. Can’t wait, but will.
Daniel’s back.
I never knew how tight and knotted muscles got from reading, muscles he
can’t reach, but I will. Reaching, rubbing them now, feel him
sigh and arch into my hands. I’ll be sure to do this for him.
His nape. I
keep coming back to his nape, with hands and lips, teeth and
tongue. Perfect nape. My favourite part of this gorgeous
body clinging hard to mine. Don’t even know why with so much to
choose from. Just love that nape.
Daniel’s hands love
my back, fingers working deep into my muscles, testing the differences
between us. Broad and heavy, here. Long and lean, admiring
hands seem to say. Fit just right.
“Aah, Jack,” Daniel
sighs, nuzzling into my shoulder.
Hey, if he’s
talking, he’s breathing; if he’s breathing, we’re kissing.
Teasing a little. Tongues flicker and dart, jab against teeth and
retreat, licking over and over sensitive tips and gliding in, settling
again into that sweet spot, into the slow, sinuous glide of tongue over
tongue and palette.
Hands slipping down
now, all the way down, onto slick, hot, fervent flesh, twitching and
throbbing beneath careful, unaccustomed fingers. Too big, too
strong, not my own. Not my touch or my rhythm, awkward.
Begin again, each mirroring the other’s movements. Single finger
tracing a line down the shaft from base to tip, focus on my finger on
him, not his on me. I grin. Sounds easy. Too many new
sensations here. Calluses rasp over sensitised skin.
Holding a pen type calluses, maybe a little roughened from the way he
rests his hand on the butt of his pistol. Roughened from using
the pistol I guess I put in his hand. If he’s feeling what I’m
feeling, my skin on him must be like barbed wire.
Slowly sliding
tongues, slowly stroking fingers circling testicles, lifting gently,
cautiously, holding warmly cupped. Resting. Kissing now,
deepening, steady thrusts into his mouth for the moan that comes just
there, just that spot. Not a spot in any book, just what I’ve
learned, like Daniel’s scent and Daniel’s nape.
There’s heat, here,
growing heat and pleasure, heavy and roiling low in my gut, demanding
more. Wants it hard and fast and rough. Trembling in hips
that want to rock and thrust. What? Am I a kid, I can’t
wait? Daniel can. He wants to. He wants to love like
this. He wants this slow burn.
We each wrap one
hand around a sullen, straining shaft, let the weight rest in one
cupping palm. Squeeze gently, pull a little, let go. Good
time to grab the oil, which, yeah, big laugh, I bought three of too.
“Nirvana?” Daniel
chuckles at the oil.
“We aim to please.”
“You do. Get
back here and kiss me.”
I do. I
certainly do. We warm the oil between our palms and massage it in
to eager, greedy hardness, sliding hands up and down, slow and
luxurious, sharing warmth and pleasure, deeper and stronger, spreading
with every stroke. Hands learning a new rhythm now, Daniel’s hand
on me moving differently to mine on him. Pulling my skin tight,
finger tormenting the tip, brushing over and over, making me arch and
curse. Laughing into my mouth, and easing back into the
stroking. Learning I like that cycle of tension and
relaxation. Provoking pleasure. My hand on him is steady,
lulling him in languid, lingering strokes, drawing pleasure from
him. He’s letting go, losing himself, flowing into the pleasure
I’m giving him, and the sharp pangs of pleasure his gripping and
gliding give me.
Every inch of skin
is sheened and slick with sweat. Breath is harsh and
panting. The kissing deepens, roughens to sharp stabs and lunges
of greedy tongues and nipping teeth. I want to let go, want to
drive into Daniel’s maddening hand, have him pump me hard and quick,
jerk me to climax. Want to, but won’t. Forty-five years and
a lot of miles on the clock have to be good for something, and they
are, they let me do this, let me pleasure him like this, revelling in
every moan and arch, drawing this out for both of us, gentle pleasure
rippling, so intense it’s almost pain, white behind my eyes, almost
unbearable, this slow burn, yes, burning us up as we tense and labour,
driving hard into one another, into strong, hard, straining hands, heat
exploding out in wave after wave.
Daniel’s scent is
rich in my nose. Herbs. Heat. Sweat.
Semen. Daniel’s skin is soft and he’s clinging to me, trembling
in every limb, face flushed and sated, eyes wide open and slumberous
with satiation. I can think of a million ways to describe
the blue of his eyes. Sappy ways, all of them. Daniel’s
eyes are blue. Daniel loves me. He just showed me how much
he loves me.
I lean in close and
kiss his lips, sweet lips, sweet kiss. Sweet man.
“Love you, Jack.”
I smooth the damp
tendrils from his brow, cup his cheek. “Daniel, I love you too,”
I say gravely. “But there’s something you should know.”
“Can’t we just lie
here and bask?” Daniel sighs into my shoulder.
“It’s about me and
Thor.”
“Prick. Tell
me again WHY it is I love you?” Daniel groans. “And Jack? There’s
something YOU should know. It’s about you and Hammond. And
hockey.”
FINIS
Back to Part One
Feedback makes the difference between writing
and posting; please contact me at biblio@jd-divas.com
|
Download a printer-friendly PDF version of the
story