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icarusSo, this at some point had a story to it, but for now it's just a vignette.
Jack casually spun the steering wheel, glorying in the nice, spring morning, windows down, a breeze brushing his hair -- and the last six days were out of sight, out of mind. Free from the SGC at last.
With rank came hassles. He knew that going in. But he'd never planned to have his weekends so consistently screwed up. Delegate, everyone said, delegate.
Hell. He noticed there weren't any volunteers. The first to tell him how to do his job were the fastest out of the room.
He turned down the lazy curving suburban streets, passing the buzz of hedge-trimmers and the green smell of yard work. Something else he needed to delegate these days -- and soon, before the neighbors complained. He adjusted his sunglasses in the rearview mirror and decided to take a little side-street, out of his way, but -- yep, there it was. Guess who parked in the wrong spot again. Mrs. Kiley was going to leave another note on the windshield. He sped up a little as he passed the shitty blue Izuzu.
Sure enough, the flag was up on the mailbox. Their little signal.
Even without that, senses he couldn't explain but didn't question told him the house had a warm, occupied feel to it, even as he pulled into the driveway. He hoped somebody had thought to pick up some groceries, because there was no way he was going out again. No. Way.
He tossed his hat on the seat, sighed as he locked the door and tried to forget everything that had to do with Generals, whining Tok'ra, Gou'ald alliances gone south, Pentagon budgets and all that annoying stuff. The worst part was he couldn't even blame his predecessor like anyone else would: General Hammond had done his best.
Knock it off, O'Neill. Leave it all at the front door.
Uniform buttons undone as he came up the walk, well, that helped. So did finding the door unlocked, and the smell of stale coffee. He shifted his sunglasses to the top of his head.
He snorted at the mess in his living room. A pair of over-sized sneakers kicked off in front of the TV, a jumble of papers around a laptop in the kitchen, folded newspaper on the floor. Predictably a book was left open on the arm of the couch, and two more stacked on the cushions. Jack was used to the multi-book habit. Not that he understood how anyone could read more than one book at a time.
Annnd… down the hall, a towel slung over the shower curtain. Jack peered in. Another book stuffed in the magazine rack.
The usual jacket on the bedroom doorknob.
Who needed the mailbox flag, when you could follow a trail of undomesticated Daniel-crumbs all the way to the bedroom?
Daniel was sprawled on his side, which meant he was only cat-napping or reading, 'cause he usually slept in a ball. He turned over at the soft squeak of the door, blankets sliding and exposing a broad bare shoulder.
Glasses still on; so it was reading. Daniel had that sleepy, bedroom-y look.
"Oh, hey Jack…." he mumbled.
"Told ya not to wait up." Jack sat down on the end of the bed and tossed his uniform jacket onto a chair, draped over Daniel's clothes. His shirt followed, and it felt soooo good to toe off his shoes.
"I didn't."
Jack let the lie pass. This is what a turtle feels like, he thought, taking off its shell. Jack stripped down a faded gray t-shirt and underwear, leaving his pants on the floor.
"Not intentionally, that is." Daniel rubbed the back of his head, distracted. "There was just… so much to do. And I certainly get enough peace and quiet around here now."
Jack motioned for Daniel to move over and scootched under the covers. "Was that a complaint? That sounded like a complaint."
"Well, no, not exactly…"
"-- a complaint requires a form LC-4175(b)," Jack said in tired autopilot. "And be sure to file it in the shit-can. Save me the trouble. Right next to the Tok'ra's and the usual cafeteria whining…." He pulled the covers over his head.
"Yeah, the cafeteria." Daniel took a breath as leaned up on an elbow. "Since, now that you're the boss, I wonder if you could do something about… that…." He caught Jack's death glare, and gave him his smug tight-lipped smile. The really annoying one. "… never mind."
"Don't joke with me, Daniel. You have no idea how many guns I have hidden away in this room."
"I've found four, so far." Daniel blinked at him. "And no sane man keeps grenades in his bedroom."
"They're perfectly safe if you leave the pins in." Jack shut his eyes and snuggled into the sheets, lashes dark against his worn face. He curled up towards the warm spot Daniel had left, and the weight of Daniel's arm draped over his waist. Mmm. Nice.
"Way more than four," he couldn't help adding, with a smile.
"I feel so much… safer." He chuckled to himself as he felt Daniel scan the room, looking for more possible hiding places.
Even if I don't have time for a whole story, at least I can write a scene here and there.
Jack casually spun the steering wheel, glorying in the nice, spring morning, windows down, a breeze brushing his hair -- and the last six days were out of sight, out of mind. Free from the SGC at last.
With rank came hassles. He knew that going in. But he'd never planned to have his weekends so consistently screwed up. Delegate, everyone said, delegate.
Hell. He noticed there weren't any volunteers. The first to tell him how to do his job were the fastest out of the room.
He turned down the lazy curving suburban streets, passing the buzz of hedge-trimmers and the green smell of yard work. Something else he needed to delegate these days -- and soon, before the neighbors complained. He adjusted his sunglasses in the rearview mirror and decided to take a little side-street, out of his way, but -- yep, there it was. Guess who parked in the wrong spot again. Mrs. Kiley was going to leave another note on the windshield. He sped up a little as he passed the shitty blue Izuzu.
Sure enough, the flag was up on the mailbox. Their little signal.
Even without that, senses he couldn't explain but didn't question told him the house had a warm, occupied feel to it, even as he pulled into the driveway. He hoped somebody had thought to pick up some groceries, because there was no way he was going out again. No. Way.
He tossed his hat on the seat, sighed as he locked the door and tried to forget everything that had to do with Generals, whining Tok'ra, Gou'ald alliances gone south, Pentagon budgets and all that annoying stuff. The worst part was he couldn't even blame his predecessor like anyone else would: General Hammond had done his best.
Knock it off, O'Neill. Leave it all at the front door.
Uniform buttons undone as he came up the walk, well, that helped. So did finding the door unlocked, and the smell of stale coffee. He shifted his sunglasses to the top of his head.
He snorted at the mess in his living room. A pair of over-sized sneakers kicked off in front of the TV, a jumble of papers around a laptop in the kitchen, folded newspaper on the floor. Predictably a book was left open on the arm of the couch, and two more stacked on the cushions. Jack was used to the multi-book habit. Not that he understood how anyone could read more than one book at a time.
Annnd… down the hall, a towel slung over the shower curtain. Jack peered in. Another book stuffed in the magazine rack.
The usual jacket on the bedroom doorknob.
Who needed the mailbox flag, when you could follow a trail of undomesticated Daniel-crumbs all the way to the bedroom?
Daniel was sprawled on his side, which meant he was only cat-napping or reading, 'cause he usually slept in a ball. He turned over at the soft squeak of the door, blankets sliding and exposing a broad bare shoulder.
Glasses still on; so it was reading. Daniel had that sleepy, bedroom-y look.
"Oh, hey Jack…." he mumbled.
"Told ya not to wait up." Jack sat down on the end of the bed and tossed his uniform jacket onto a chair, draped over Daniel's clothes. His shirt followed, and it felt soooo good to toe off his shoes.
"I didn't."
Jack let the lie pass. This is what a turtle feels like, he thought, taking off its shell. Jack stripped down a faded gray t-shirt and underwear, leaving his pants on the floor.
"Not intentionally, that is." Daniel rubbed the back of his head, distracted. "There was just… so much to do. And I certainly get enough peace and quiet around here now."
Jack motioned for Daniel to move over and scootched under the covers. "Was that a complaint? That sounded like a complaint."
"Well, no, not exactly…"
"-- a complaint requires a form LC-4175(b)," Jack said in tired autopilot. "And be sure to file it in the shit-can. Save me the trouble. Right next to the Tok'ra's and the usual cafeteria whining…." He pulled the covers over his head.
"Yeah, the cafeteria." Daniel took a breath as leaned up on an elbow. "Since, now that you're the boss, I wonder if you could do something about… that…." He caught Jack's death glare, and gave him his smug tight-lipped smile. The really annoying one. "… never mind."
"Don't joke with me, Daniel. You have no idea how many guns I have hidden away in this room."
"I've found four, so far." Daniel blinked at him. "And no sane man keeps grenades in his bedroom."
"They're perfectly safe if you leave the pins in." Jack shut his eyes and snuggled into the sheets, lashes dark against his worn face. He curled up towards the warm spot Daniel had left, and the weight of Daniel's arm draped over his waist. Mmm. Nice.
"Way more than four," he couldn't help adding, with a smile.
"I feel so much… safer." He chuckled to himself as he felt Daniel scan the room, looking for more possible hiding places.
Even if I don't have time for a whole story, at least I can write a scene here and there.
Yay! More Icarus fiction.
Date: 2004-11-01 10:59 pm (UTC)