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paianPrompt: Stargate SG-1, Jack O'Neill/Cameron Mitchell, numbing
A triangulation from As You Were and Under Wraps
Alert: Other pairings in background
760 words
Shoot First, Send Flowers Later
Jack shouldn't be so pissed to find that it's Mitchell who's just elbowed up next to him. It's pretty satisfying when Mitchell glances idly over and pulls up hard -- satisfying that he wasn't recognized from the back, can still blend into a dive-bar crowd in an Air Force town even with two stars permanently skewering the bones of each shoulder; satisfying to see the guy fight the reflex come-to-attention twitch. But Jack was pissed when he walked in here, and it's SG-1's old haunt, his SG-1's old haunt, and seeing the FNG walk up to the bar, his bar, their bar, sticks instantly in his craw.
Yeah, he thinks, knocking back the shot of bourbon he's been nursing because he really shouldn't hit the hard stuff when he's pissed, shouldn't have come here. The liquor goes down with a numbing burn. It doesn't help, much, but he catches the barman's eye and taps the rim of the glass anyway.
"Let me get that, sir," Mitchell says, and swipes his wallet from his ass pocket. Flips it open and parts the billfold.
The motion draws Jack's eye, and as Mitchell thumbs out a twenty to toss on the bar, he sees the flash of foil imprinted with a leering Space Alien face in garish green.
A novelty condom. He gave a box of them to Daniel as a gag gift for Christmas.
Could be Daniel handed them out to half the SGC for a laugh. Could be Mitchell snagged one sometime when the team was over for takeout and a movie. But Daniel's been bitter and evasive since Jack showed up this afternoon, and he knows the signs. They're old signs. He thought they were past that shit. Daniel can do what he likes. If he feels remorse it's his problem to deal with. But Daniel likes to cut off his nose to spite his face, and Jack won't put up with his passive-aggressive guilty crap, so Jack's here, in their old dive-bar haunt ... and there's only one way to find out.
"So you nailed the archaeologist lately?" he says, when he has his fresh shot and he's clinking glasses with Mitchell's frosty beer mug on some lame toast to ... christ, he didn't really say 'exploration,' did he?
The answer's immediate and unmistakable, the numb freeze of the expression, the flicker in the eyes. Mitchell feels his own face give it up and doesn't even try to answer. He swallows his mouthful of cold pisswater and puts the mug down on the bar, then turns, full-on, to Jack. Prepared for whatever Jack will dole out.
"Answer the question, Colonel," Jack says quietly, because making him say it is the punishment.
"No, sir," Mitchell says, blue eyes steady. "More the other way around, sir."
Jack's hotel room is empty -- his gear's at Daniel's -- and it smells like carpet cleaner and industrial laundering. The wallpaper's textured, probably printing little floral clusters on the skin of his palms. Mitchell's wearing the Roswell rubber. When Jack says "harder" and "deeper," they're genuine orders, and Mitchell snaps to obey. Gotta hand it to him -- he's good. Jack can never get Daniel to give it to him this hard.
If it were anybody else, he thinks.
If it were anybody else, it'd be him doing the fucking, because they don't give their asses to anybody else. If it were anybody else, he wouldn't have a problem with it to begin with. He wouldn't be numb down into the pit of his gut, knowing what a mistake he made giving up that team, knowing now that he might have been giving up Daniel too.
He shoots when the burn of the drilling impacts finally spikes up to overload. His come drips through the decorative foliage towards the carpet.
"Come on, Colonel," he says in a warning growl. He can still feel the burn; he won't be satisfied until he can't feel his ass.
Mitchell doubles the force and speed, an impressive, grunting animal display, then gasps "Sir, fuck, can't," and wrenches out. Jack twists around, swearing, and steps away so that Mitchell can straightarm the wall while he finishes coming into the condom he's fisting himself to keep on.
There's no bourbon in the minibar. Jack pours an airline bottle of Dewar's down his throat while Mitchell dresses and leaves. If he's gotta feel the burn, at least this way it's at both ends.
He wipes the wall down and drops an extra few bucks for housekeeping before he goes home.
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comment_fic. Prompt from karmageddon.
A triangulation from As You Were and Under Wraps
Alert: Other pairings in background
760 words
Jack shouldn't be so pissed to find that it's Mitchell who's just elbowed up next to him. It's pretty satisfying when Mitchell glances idly over and pulls up hard -- satisfying that he wasn't recognized from the back, can still blend into a dive-bar crowd in an Air Force town even with two stars permanently skewering the bones of each shoulder; satisfying to see the guy fight the reflex come-to-attention twitch. But Jack was pissed when he walked in here, and it's SG-1's old haunt, his SG-1's old haunt, and seeing the FNG walk up to the bar, his bar, their bar, sticks instantly in his craw.
Yeah, he thinks, knocking back the shot of bourbon he's been nursing because he really shouldn't hit the hard stuff when he's pissed, shouldn't have come here. The liquor goes down with a numbing burn. It doesn't help, much, but he catches the barman's eye and taps the rim of the glass anyway.
"Let me get that, sir," Mitchell says, and swipes his wallet from his ass pocket. Flips it open and parts the billfold.
The motion draws Jack's eye, and as Mitchell thumbs out a twenty to toss on the bar, he sees the flash of foil imprinted with a leering Space Alien face in garish green.
A novelty condom. He gave a box of them to Daniel as a gag gift for Christmas.
Could be Daniel handed them out to half the SGC for a laugh. Could be Mitchell snagged one sometime when the team was over for takeout and a movie. But Daniel's been bitter and evasive since Jack showed up this afternoon, and he knows the signs. They're old signs. He thought they were past that shit. Daniel can do what he likes. If he feels remorse it's his problem to deal with. But Daniel likes to cut off his nose to spite his face, and Jack won't put up with his passive-aggressive guilty crap, so Jack's here, in their old dive-bar haunt ... and there's only one way to find out.
"So you nailed the archaeologist lately?" he says, when he has his fresh shot and he's clinking glasses with Mitchell's frosty beer mug on some lame toast to ... christ, he didn't really say 'exploration,' did he?
The answer's immediate and unmistakable, the numb freeze of the expression, the flicker in the eyes. Mitchell feels his own face give it up and doesn't even try to answer. He swallows his mouthful of cold pisswater and puts the mug down on the bar, then turns, full-on, to Jack. Prepared for whatever Jack will dole out.
"Answer the question, Colonel," Jack says quietly, because making him say it is the punishment.
"No, sir," Mitchell says, blue eyes steady. "More the other way around, sir."
Jack's hotel room is empty -- his gear's at Daniel's -- and it smells like carpet cleaner and industrial laundering. The wallpaper's textured, probably printing little floral clusters on the skin of his palms. Mitchell's wearing the Roswell rubber. When Jack says "harder" and "deeper," they're genuine orders, and Mitchell snaps to obey. Gotta hand it to him -- he's good. Jack can never get Daniel to give it to him this hard.
If it were anybody else, he thinks.
If it were anybody else, it'd be him doing the fucking, because they don't give their asses to anybody else. If it were anybody else, he wouldn't have a problem with it to begin with. He wouldn't be numb down into the pit of his gut, knowing what a mistake he made giving up that team, knowing now that he might have been giving up Daniel too.
He shoots when the burn of the drilling impacts finally spikes up to overload. His come drips through the decorative foliage towards the carpet.
"Come on, Colonel," he says in a warning growl. He can still feel the burn; he won't be satisfied until he can't feel his ass.
Mitchell doubles the force and speed, an impressive, grunting animal display, then gasps "Sir, fuck, can't," and wrenches out. Jack twists around, swearing, and steps away so that Mitchell can straightarm the wall while he finishes coming into the condom he's fisting himself to keep on.
There's no bourbon in the minibar. Jack pours an airline bottle of Dewar's down his throat while Mitchell dresses and leaves. If he's gotta feel the burn, at least this way it's at both ends.
He wipes the wall down and drops an extra few bucks for housekeeping before he goes home.
comment_fic. Prompt from karmageddon.