Woody

SUMMARY: Jack tables the idea of starting a new relationship.
CATEGORY: Humor, total spoof, making fun of show, not to be taken seriously
TIME: Season 9
SPOILERS: Through Origins in Season 9
WARNINGS: Slap (This is an entirely new type of pairing, neither ship nor slash)
PAIRINGS: Jack/briefing room table
RATING: PG-13, maybe R. If you have to ask your mother, it’s R
COMPLETED: August 2005
AUTHOR’S NOTES: Dedicated to Gategrrl and Moonyshade after a discussion about Stargate’s rather bizarre fic labelling and warning system

THIS IS A SPOOF STORY. IT CONTAINS JUVENILE SEXUAL INNUENDO. YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED. OR TEASED, DEPENDING ON YOUR POINT OF VIEW.

Teal’c was going to be fine – no surprise there. Mitchell was going to be fine. Carter was fine, all tucked away in her little lab where he would never again be in a position to drag her out and make sure she still remembered what sunlight felt like on Earth. Daniel was fine, but then he’d been dead and fine before. Yep. Everybody was fine.

Without him.

And here Jack sat, feeling sorry for himself. He was like a hundred million years old, some old fossil of a colonel in a star-spangled general’s uniform, going to meetings and getting his memos and – hell – generating memos and brunching with Pentagon types. He’d never thought he’d miss being held captive by Ba’al, but at least then Daniel had taken an interest in him. Not that Daniel hadn’t been nice and friendly at lunch… it’s just when Jack had joked about no longer even having enough chutzpuh to want to eat his gun, Daniel had murmured I know solemnly and taken another bite. Then he’d asked Jack if he thought the steak had been done with olive oil.

It was twenty-one hundred, and most everyone had gone home for the night. And here Jack sat in the briefing room wallowing in self-pity. God, he even missed this place, this room… this table. The world’s ugliest two-toned table, and he missed it. Missed staring at reflections in its surface while Carter droned on about anomalies in subspace nether regions. Missed scratching donut glaze off the polished wood after the Geek Brigade had commandeered the room to solve some massive problem or another. Missed the sound it made when he tapped his finger on it. The feel of it rising up to meet his fingertips, too. That gentle slap of wood on flesh.

Well, what the hell was stopping him? Tap. Tap. Yeah, oh… yeah, he liked that. Tap. Oh, that was it.

And he missed the smell of the damn thing. The smell he’d noticed every time he’d put his head down on it. Breathed against it. God, it was like your old desk in school – symbol of torture and old friend rolled up in one. He folded his arms on the table and lowered his head face-down. Little bits of light snuck through under his arms and between wrist and elbow, and it was like a little cubbyhole, a little hideaway – shelter from a cruel and boring world.

He inhaled. “Oh, god,” he mumbled, stunned at the assault of memories. Daniel announcing – even as he figured it out – that the Goa’uld were posing as gods. Carter insisting she didn’t need downtime after passing out on Planet Orlin. Thor beaming down for a visit when they played Guess Who’s Coming To Dinner with Yu, Nirrti and Kronos. Teal’c reading tabloids. He breathed again, and remembered Hammond’s infinite patience and spine of steel, Carter’s infinite blab blab blab, Teal’c’s infinite strength and Daniel’s infinite Danielness, and it didn’t escape his attention that none of the memories it brought back were from his year as a general at the SGC.

He wanted what this table represented. He wanted back what he’d shared with it. He wanted back what it had witnessed. God damn it, he wanted back his team, his family, and he wanted it so bad he could taste it.

Taste it?

Tentatively, experimentally, he stuck out his tongue slowly, further and further until it connected – just barely. He pulled the organ back into his mouth and swirled it around, letting his tastebuds give him the full briefing. Nope – not enough to tell anything. He tasted again, only this time he planted his tongue firmly on the tabletop and… moved. One simple stroke. Nnnnn-lunh. Then… swirls. Round once… unnnhh… round twice… then he retracted his tongue again and let himself really taste it. Hmm.

A hint of bitterness, but he didn’t mind the taste. And the feel of hard, cold, solid wood against his tongue was surprisingly sensual. He licked again, quick but powerful strokes, and then he started with the swirls again. Nuhhh… nuhhh… nuhhh… Oh, god, that felt good. And so right. And so home. And so bad, because the table was making him think of everyone who’d ever sat here and touched it and tapped on it and breathed on it, and that felt naughty.

He leaned forward… and discovered an even better angle. Oh, yeah! He aimed his tongue straight down, and thrust it hard against the tabletop. “Ehhhh… ehhhh…” he moaned with each thrust. “Ehhhh… oh, yeah…”

“Jack?”

Jack sat up so hard his chair tipped over.

“Jack!”

He was still in the chair, but lying on his back. With Daniel looking down at him. “You, uh… you all right?” Daniel asked.

“Damn cheap chairs,” Jack muttered, in flagrant denial of the fact that they were indeed fairly expensive and sturdy chairs and he’d never heard of one of them tipping before. He tried to roll his ass out of the chair, but he was trapped in its arms. By its arms.

Daniel reached for the top of the chair and tried to lift it up and get a grip on it, but that only pushed it forward on its rollers – further under the table. “Er,” he commented.

“Oh, that’s helpful,” Jack snapped.

“I don’t suppose you can get your knees behind your ears?” Daniel asked.

Jack shot him a withering glare – or under the circumstances, probably more of a withered glare. “No. You?”

“Hold on,” Daniel said. “Lift up your head and shoulders.”

Jack complied, and Daniel reached under his arms, got a grip on him and started tugging. The chair came with.

“Can you sort of step on the bottom of it with your foot?” he asked, grunting as if under great strain.

“Yes. And I don’t weigh that much.”

“It’s the angle,” Daniel explained breathlessly. “I don’t have much room to work here.”

“Thought that was your specialty – tight spaces.”

“If you want to wait, I’ll go get some tools and chip you out of the chair.”

“Funny. Pull.”

Daniel pulled, and after much grunting and panting, Jack was able to get back to his feet. He straightened his jacket and looked to Daniel for confirmation that he looked okay.

Daniel nodded, but looked worried.

“What?”

He shrugged. “Your face is red.”

“So’s yours.”

“So maybe we shouldn’t leave the room just yet,” he said in that tone that managed to be suggestive and academic at the same time.

Right. Two guys leaving an empty room late at night, red-faced. Not such a good idea. “Ah.”

“Yeah.”

“So.”

“So,” Daniel agreed. “So what were you doing when I…”

Jack raised his eyebrows, daring Daniel to doubt him. “Sleeping. I was asleep.”

“You were…”

“Asleep.”

“You fell asleep on the briefing room table? What, for old times’ sake?”

“Something like that.”

“And was it good?”

“Daniel?”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

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~ by betacandy on April 23, 2007.

One Response to “Woody”

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