I’m
trained
to withstand mind games and various forms of torture, really I am.
I’ve had
years of instruction and God knows enough practical application to hold
out
against all sorts of inhumane treatment, mental and physical.
But
she’s
killing me here, using nothing more than a suit, a pair of shades and a
wad of
gum.
It’s
embarrassing. If I get any stiffer I’m liable to start
pounding
the underside
of the briefing table at this rate, and don’t think for a
minute
she doesn’t
know it too--that smirk is SO damned obvious in its smug assessment.
Rose knows
full well what’s happening to me, and eating it up with a
spoon.
How did
this all start? When she walked into the room, duh. Rose never NEVER
just walks
anywhere, no she saunters, swinging her hips with just a hint of sexpot
to her
stride. I’ve watched those hips for months, fantasized about
holding them close
enough to grind against them, pulling them closer in far more urgent
applications, if you get my drift. It definitely started with the hips,
baby.
Then she
encased them in a little black skirt, topped with a little black
jacket.
Emphasis on little, kids. I’ve heard statements from
Teal’c
that were longer
that her outfit. Being a civilian, she’s got the freedom to
wear
whatever she
wants to the mountain, and today, that freedom included a chance to
flaunt some
serious leg. I bet the checkpoint guys got neck cramps tracking her
down the
hall—God knows I would have.
Okay, so
the little black suit is definitely high on Jack’s secret
list of
personal
yummies. Nothing wrong with that—Rose looks hot in black;
makes
her freckles
look exotic, makes her blue eyes crackle, if you take the time to look
up that
far. Did I mention the suit is form fitting? Did I mention my damn
slacks are
too, now?
So Rose
has
the suit on, saunters in, and she’s also got—hold
the
phone—shades on. Meltdown
number two. I can’t explain it—for some weird
exotic
reason, the fact that her
eyes are hidden behind thick black glass is enough to move me out of
yellow
alert and straight into code red. Women in shades are always slightly
intriguing, but Rose in sunglasses is enough to flame broil my libido.
Hothothot—how soon is this damned briefing over and
where’s
the nearest closet
I can drag her into? The others are going to come walking in at any
minute, so
Jack’s gotta be a good boy for now, but Jesus give me
strength,
it’s gonna be a
loonnng meeting.
Rose. In
the black suit. In shades. There may be about three brain cells that
aren’t
focused on this, and those three are very lonely.
I want
to
make a crack about her being a woman in black, but before I can, she
leans over
the table, giving me a nice eyeful of the suit’s low neckline
and
blows a
bubble.
Ah shit!
This is NOT covered by the Geneva Convention or the Human Rights
league! A big
luscious pink bubble gum bubble ballooning out of those wet lips, the
soft hiss
of her breath—I’m getting dizzy. Must be because
all 6
pints of my blood are
trying to make it into my crotch. A faint scent of strawberry wafts
over to me
as the big bubble pops.
“Got
a
problem, Colonel?” she murmurs in a low, oh so taunting voice.
A
problem.
Oh yeah. A big honk’n problem I intend on correcting as
ruthlessly and
immediately as possible.
“Your
ass
is mine, woman—“ I growl under my breath as the
door behind
her opens. She
pulls back with another little smirk and takes the seat opposite from
me as the
kids and Hammond come in. Maybe they can sense the tension, but all of
a sudden
they’re a little uncomfortable.
Gee, let
me
think—could it be the raging hormones radiating off of me?
It’s
also
fascinating to see that everyone else is having some trouble focusing.
Daniel’s
squirming like a kid who has to go to the bathroom. Teal’c is
blinking about
once a minute—twice his normal speed there. Even Sam is
starting
to fidget with
her pencil, twisting it in her fingers. Rose turns to stare at the
other woman
and the tip of a pink tongue comes out to wet her upper lip—
Who
moaned?
Somebody at this damned table moaned, just under their breath.
Shit, I
think it was me.
Carter’s
blushing, so help me God, actually blushing. This is getting out of
hand. The
only person seemingly unaffected is
What is
the
man, a eunuch?
I mean
pardon me, but Rose is up on her stiletto high heels, the black suit
clinging
to her gorgeous torso like it was sprayed on, and those shades and that
pouty
mouth, and—
The door
opens and Maybourne the Maggot steps in. He takes one step, sees Rose
and
wobbles a bit. Honest to God, he actually staggers, not that I blame
the
shit-sucking weasel. He’s pale.
“Colonel
Harry Maybourne—“ Rose rumbles in a menacing purr.
“You’re late.”
He has
no
clue. Not a fucking clue how to react to a dominatrix glaring at him
from the
front of the debriefing table. Rose turns her dark lenses on him and he
quivers
like a rabbit. I can see his damned nose twitch, and even though
he’s got
eagles on his shoulders, he’s blushing.
Frankly
I
feel like kicking his ass through the top of his skull. I’m
not
possessive, not
at all, but unless he rolls his tongue in, I’m going to reach
over and snap it
like a window shade.
“E-excuse
me—“ he tries to take charge, but Rose, bless her
evil
little heart isn’t about
to let him. She taps her high heel and gives a noisy sigh.
“Obviously
you have no idea who I am, Harry.” She begins menacingly.
“
Let’s correct that,
shall we? I am the appointed security advisor for SG1 from the
Department of
External Services. Call me Professor MacGyver.”
Whoa, a
professor? Well La di da--From where I’m sitting,
it’s
obviously a degree in
intimidation, not that I’m opening my floodgates of pity for
an
asshole like
Maybutt. Rose has crossed her arms and is keeping her icy glare on the
NID rep
like he’s a naughty schoolboy in need of a good paddling.
Oh damn,
I
didn’t need that
image.
She
shifts
those wicked hips and sighs, looking around the room at all of us.
“Obviously
this can wait. General Hammond. I suggest you finish briefing the team
while I
take Harry here to my office and have a little chat with him.”
“Certainly,”
She
stalks
out with little Maybunny trailing helplessly behind her; the door
slams,
cutting off my view of the two finest Asses on
“For
crying
out loud—you wanna clue us in on what that
was all about,
sir?”
Okay, I
don’t mean to sound so cranky, but we’re due
through the
gate in one hour, I’m
still hard as hell, and the very galling thought of Maybourne in a tiny
office
closet with slinky black Rose is making me grit my teeth.
“Consider
it a subject not open for discussion at this time, Colonel.”
NOW
I’m
pissed. It’s one thing to be out of the loop, but when the
loop
involves Rose
getting into hottie mode for a droolrag like Maybourne, I am one
decidedly
unhappy camper. Color me psychotic, kids.
“All
right,” Daniel murmurs, “But I hope
Rose’s eyes are
going to be okay.”
Ah
Danny,
Danny, the clue bus took off without you again, didn’t it? I
scowl at him, but
Carter catches my look and has the temerity to nod slightly.
When
will
this briefing END?
Out the
door, down the hall, around the corner to the elevator, ride to the 36th
floor, out and down the hall, cut to the left—New
record—made it in under two
minutes. Panting a little, yes, but it’s not all exertion,
let’s be honest
here. I grab the knob and knock and turn all at once, not gonna give
Rose a
chance to say no, not in—
“Was
there
something you wanted, Colonel?”
Ohhhh
baby.
She’s leaning back in her chair, long legs up and crossed on
the
desk.
Maybourne is sitting on the edge of the guest chair, swallowing
nervously and
for once I can’t blame him--I mean, shit. When your whole
line of
vision runs
from sweet creamy thigh to a high heel dangling seductively off
stocking
covered toes, the average male brain turns to mush.
Was
there
something I wanted? Grunt. Point. Look for club--Speaking coherently is
hard.
Getting thoughts in logical order is hard. Lots of other things are
hard right
now, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give
Maybastard any
chance to know
that.
In the
iciest tone I can muster, I hiss out,
“SG1
is due
to the Embarkation room in less than twenty
minutes—“
She
blows
another bubble, big and wet and pink, and if I clench my jaw any
tighter I’m
gonna give myself a root canal. Oh Rose is going to pay, and pay dearly
for this
day. She will be lucky if either of us can walk—
“Oh
I’m not
going this time, Colonel. Harry and I have a few more things to
discuss. I’m
sure you and the team will carry on just as well without
me—“
It’s
too
much. The legs, the shades, the bubble gum--As efficiently as I can, I
yank
Maybourne out of his chair and stuff him out the office door, hissing,
“May
the
professor and I have a moment--?”
Like he
had
any sort of chance to say no, dumb bastard.
I turn
back
to her highness the ultrabitch, and even though there’s a
desk
between us, I’ve
got long arms and a lot of frustration. She’s got agility and
petiteness, so
we’re evenly matched for this chase around the desk.
“Get
a grip
Jack!” she commands, spitting out her gum and dodging me too
easily.
“I’m
trying
Goddamn it!”
“Just
back
off and let me do what I need to do, okay? You’ve got a
planet
waiting, and
I’ve got a skanky toad to placate, so just calm down
and—“
Ah yes,
snagged her—once Rose gets talking she’s easily
distracted.
It’s not that simple
to drag her over the top of the desk, but I know she doesn’t
want
to make any
noise and have Maybutt come dashing back, so she lets me haul her in.
Ahhhhh
yeah, come to poppa . . . mmmmmmmmmm, that mouth is deeply luscious and
strawberry flavored, and damn that tongue’s always worth
chasing
. . . want
her, want her want
her—
She
still
has the sunglasses on—Jesus, I didn’t think I could
get
any stiffer.
It’s either gonna be a quickie throwdown, or SG1 gets to go
through the gate
with Jack the Ripper—
“Mmmmmph!
Jack stop! Not. Now!” she growls at me. I love growling
women.
Growling women
in shades, with about three inches of skirt—
Oww—she
means it—she’s peeling back my fingers practically
to the
wrist now, and some
of the pain receptors are reporting back that this is Not Fun.
“When?!”
I’m licking her ear, I know the right spot, and
she’s
writhing like an eel.
Nice to know this is a two-way thing.
“I
don’t
know! When you get back, okay? Tonight, after my dinner with
Maybourne—“
Oh no.
Nononononono. Whoa tilt stop, do not pass go, collect two hundred
dollars or
run with scissors. No dinner with Maybourne. NO. Particularly in the
suit. He
is not getting steak along with my
cheesecake—
“Wrong.
You
are not
going to dinner with the Maggot—“ I insist,
in my most
threatening voice. It would be a whole lot more effective if I
weren’t right in
the middle of trying to get my hands up her skirt. Rose shifts a knee
up,
resting it just under my cojones, so I know she’s serious.
One of
us is gonna
face charges in a moment—a court-martial for attempted rape
on my
part, and
criminal charges of cold-cocking a colonel for her--it’s a
hell
of a stand-off,
ladies and gentlemen, broken only by a rap at the door.
“Colonel
O’Neill it is time,” comes Teal’s
rumble.
Shit—if
it
had been anybody
but the Monolith I might talked them into
going away
and have gotten some, but Nooooo, now Jack has to got through the gate
with his
own staff weapon still undischarged, damn it.
I hope
to
God there’s something that needs killing on the other side of
that wormhole
today.
Reluctantly
let the black widow go after one last tasty suck on that wriggling
tongue. I am
pleased to note that she’s as hot and bothered as yours
truly,
even though
she’s trying to pretend she isn’t. Fat chance--the
other
half of the room is
now steeped in runaway estrogen. For that alone I should take a victory
lap.
Preferable Rose’s, but the Gate awaits. I decide on the
tactical
retreat,
slipping my own shades on, moving swiftly to open the door.
Maybitch’s
there, mouth open so wide you could sink a regulation size basketball
into it.
I’m tempted to blow him a kiss and truly freak his pea-sized
brain, but I can’t
crack the grim set of my jaw at the moment.
Dinner
with
the Maggot. If he so much as breathes on the woman behind me,
someone’s back
iris is gettn’ closed for good. Yes, I’m an
unconscionable
bastard—so what else
is new?
***
***
***
Damn
planet. Picture if you will a quiet woodland, devoid of anything
remotely
interesting. Same rocks, same trees, and same squirrelshit
we’ve
seen on dozens
of previous planets. The kids are wandering, making it a point not to
be in my
proximity—nice to see those survival skills kicking in at
last,
even for boonie
boy Daniel. He’s not as far afield as Carter who is making a
concerted effort
to be out of the Grumpy Bastard Zone, so I walk over to him.
He looks
up, guilessly and I frown.
“Hey
Jack—not thrilled to be here, huh?”
The
glare I
shoot him is roughly 3400 degrees centigrade, but he refuses to turn
into a smoking
crater. Or shut up, apparently.
“So
what’s
up with Rose? Did she go to a funeral today?”
No, not
yet, Space Monkey, but I’m looking at a potential Dearly
Departed
right now.
Daniel studies a clump of dirt like it’s the key to the
meaning
of life and
keeps talking. I start fingering the trigger of the P90. Even across
the field,
Carter sees this and shakes her head.
“I
mean,
she was really . . .” Daniel is struggling. The
world-renowned
linguist is
trying to grapple for the right word. Lemme help you out,
Dannyboy--Hot. Try
Hot. Try salacious or totally friggin’ doable, right there on
the
debriefing
table, woof!
“—Out
of
line,” I growl, taking pity on the little bunny foofoo in the
cammo hat. Daniel
shakes his head, unaware that he’s tap-dancing through a
minefield at the
moment.
“—No,
just
different. A lot more forceful. I have to admit it was great to see the
air go
out of Maybourne’s sails—“
And
straight up his ass, apparently. I have no doubt that at this moment,
if slinky
black Rose told him to wear a clown nose and sing the final solo of
Aida he’d
be doing it. I don’t even want to contemplate how close I’d
be to doing
it. I grunt, which Daniel takes as some sort of agreement.
“Hey!
You
think she did it on purpose?”
This
innocent little question brings me up short for a moment. Is it
possible? Would
Rose deliberately combine three harmless little erotic factors into a
megaton
libido bomb?
The
correct
answer for those of you playing along at home is yes. The
woman’s
sweet and
modest, but under it all she’s got a ruthless streak from
here to
Abydos,
second only to my own of course. No question about it, she did it on
purpose.
I give
another grunt and check my watch. Just how freaking long does it take
to
collect water dirt and air samples? Come on
Carter!
“Because
if
she did, then there’s got to be a
reason—“ Daniel
charges on, rolling with his
theme, leading it like a damned wagon train over the rocky terrain of
my
current mood. My finger tightens ever so slightly on the trigger again,
and Carter
is scurrying up, brows drawn together in total disapproval. Reluctantly
I back
off.
“I
mean
let’s think about this—Cui bono, right Jack? Who
benefits?”
Who
benefits? Right now it’s that toe-sucking Mayboil
who’s
benefiting, at my
damned expense I might add. I DO NOT want this conversation to
continue. Daniel
muses on, oblivious.
“Maybe
she’s feeling a need to assert herself—“
She can
assert herself as much as she likes, as long as it’s naked
and
under me. Soon.
Carter
taps
my elbow and flinches. Must be the charming smile I flashed at her.
“Sir,
we’ve
got about as much as we need—I think we’re ready to
go—“
And not
a
damned minute too quickly. We’ve been here for six hours and
that’s about three
hundred and sixty minutes too long. I lead them back to the gate, and
no my
pace is not too fast, even though Daniel and Teal’c are
jogging
and Carter’s
flat out running to keep up.
Wimps.
“Geez,
Jack, in a hurry to get home?” Daniel puffs disapprovingly.
I’m not going to
dignify that with a response since Carter’s smirking and even
Teal’c looks as
if he’s faintly amused at something.
“Dial—“
Daniel
does
sulkily, but I don’t give a damn—he
hasn’t had to
carry these indigo clankers
around today.
Whoooshsplish
we’re back rah rah. We get the usual prod and nod from Damnit
Janet, hit the
showers and we’re outta here. Thank God Hammond’s
waived
the debriefing until
tomorrow.
Currently
I
have plans for debriefing of a different sort involving myself and Ms.
BubbleYum, and woe be to the little pisspot who gets in my way.
It’s
after
eleven by the time I get to a certain townhouse, and by the lack of
lights I
come to the fully irritating conclusion that she’s not home.
The
lack of lights
better damn well mean she’s not home. Since I have a key,
letting
myself in is
not a problem. Making myself comfortable on the other hand—
Let’s
leave
the hands out of this. Tempting as a quick little rubdown might be, my
frustration fuels my annoyance so beautifully it seems only right to
keep it
simmering until the Queen of Sin makes it home.
Halfway
through my second beer I hear the car drive up. A quick peek through
the
curtains brings good news and bad: Rose is home and Maybarf is with
her.
Shoot
him
now or later—choices, choices.
Point of
fact though, Rose dismisses him on the porch with an imperious wave of
her
hand. She tucks the doggie bag into his moist little paws and murmurs
something
I can’t quite hear to him.
I
recognize
the low luscious tone she’s using though—that ultra
sexy
one that bypasses the
brain and heads straight for the groin. Mayboff is gonna be spanking
Hank
before he gets to the highway, oh yeah, and I’m a man divided
as
I stand there
inside the door. Rage and lust are throbbing through me, albeit in
different
sections of my anatomy. The door opens, I poise to pounce—
“Don’t
you dare!”
she growls.
What
more
invitation does any man need I ask you?
In the
O’Neill lexicon, ‘Don’t you
dare’ clearly means
‘Do me right here and now, Big
Boy’ and I’d be remiss to pass up such a definite
summons.
Rose squeals and
makes an attempt to dodge, but hey, that Special Ops training is
clearly just
for occasions like this. Well this and a few other things too, but I
digress.
Frankly,
this is where Rose gets hers.
Tight
grip,
kisses, no time for breathing, breathing is for wimps. Sucky slurpy wet
kisses,
all over your face kisses, oh yesssss.
“Jack
you
bastard . . .” she’s panting while I continue the
assault
on Mission Objective
one, Little Black Suit.
“This
is a
Donna Karan original!”
“Kiss
it
goodbye, Rose, it’s history—“ I wheeze
over the
satisfying sound of shredding
fabric. Somehow I’ve managed to drag her adorable little ass
over
to the living
room and fling her on the sofa. There’s just enough light
from
the open front
door to see the panic in her eyes.
Sweet.
Despite
my
crappy knees, I leap and do my best impersonation of an African lion
bringing
down a gazelle.
It’s
actually an aging Air Force Colonel bringing down a hapless Security
Advisor,
but what the hell—
“Damn
it,
you are such a frigging Neanderthal, Jack!”
“That’s
right, talk dirty to me—“ I grin back. I can afford
to be
smug--I’m on top.
Oh damn
this woman under me is beautifully upholstered. Curvy, soft, and so
much lovely
skin under that annoying fabric. I’m aware of her pounding
her
hands on my
back, but it’s minor, really. She’s gotten into the
kissing
now, and suddenly
I’m the one having some trouble breathing. Her throat,
succulent.
Her
collarbones, completely edible, her big firm round
chest—you’d think nothing
short of a tactical nuclear strike could distract me at this point, but
sure
enough those hips start grinding, and suddenly Jack is In Trouble.
It
always
comes back to the hips, doesn’t it? Those hips are gonna be
the
death of me,
and I am so completely looking forward to it.
“Fine—bring
it on, flyboy—“ comes her throaty taunt. Rose has
her
tongue in my ear, and I’m
frantically yanking at clothing--hers mine, somebody’s
let’s just get naked
here—
Fumbles,
scattered buttons, oaths, and then that gloriously throbbing moment
when push
truly comes to shove. Nothing matches it. Nothing every will--that slow
first
thrust that simultaneously sets every nerve alight, that shoves a
sobbing
grateful groan out of your throat as you reclaim your personal
commitment to
the identity of Alpha male asserting what’s clearly his.
See, I
can
be a sensitive man, damn it. Parts of me are incredibly sensitive at
the
moment, mostly those bits buried deeply in the succulent she fiend
under me.
Rose writhes. I cannot help but love a woman who wriggles. And moans.
Particularly my name along with nasty descriptive praise as I pound
away. Oh
God--I can’t grit my teeth and think of hockey scores much
longer, but Rose
being the darling little slut that she is rockets past me in the orgasm
express. Seconds later, having done my courteous stint in the ladies
first
department I gratefully follow, bellowing like the naughty love beast
that I
am.
Hey—she
called me that, all right?
Sated,
saturated and smiling, I manage to get us reversed on the
sofa—no
mean trick in
itself since we have not parted company so to speak. Rose is light, and
comfortable, and in a better position to deal with anybody peeking in
the open
door, right? I mean, considering the noise we just made, I’m
sure
the homeowner
association rep is probably on her way over to read us the CC and R
code while
I hide under my blanket of satisfied woman.
Damn it,
I
must love her. I’m sleeping on the wet spot.
***
***
***
For the
record, I’m not at all the sort of man who snuggles. Or
indulges
in blowing
raspberries on tummies, or demands to know who’s your
daddy—
Unless
severely provoked into it by means of incredibly good lay.
At that
point Kate O’Neill’s little boy is completely
shameless,
God forbid any other
member of SG1 ever discover this fact. I mean, I do
have a
hardass
reputation to defend and uphold. This merciless reputation would not be
enhanced by the knowledge that said heartless bastard is even willing
occasionally to haul his hairy ass out of bed and make breakfast for
the victim
of his lust.
This is
not
one of those mornings, thank God. I can smell bacon, pancakes and
coffee as I
start to wake up, and yeah that big shit-eating grin is mine of course.
Not
only have I gotten laid, I’m gonna get fed too—life
doesn’t get much better
than this. Climbing out, I scrounge for the sweats I’ve left
here
and work my
way downstairs to find the sweetheart of SG1 flipping flapjacks.
Women
with
spatulas are sexy, but dangerous to pounce on, as my smarting forehead
will
attest. Rose refuses to mix sex and cooking—one of the few
quirks
that annoys
the hell out of me. I sulk and take my coffee to the table only to find
it
covered with files and papers. She snorts.
“So,
Caveman, having trouble clearing off the table?”
I sneer
at
her back and sweep a pile of the stuff off to settle myself in. Good
golly—parts of me are a tiny bit sore this
morning—mostly
rug burns and
scratches. Rose drops a plate in front of me, and sits across from me,
munching
on toast.
Could it
get any more freaking domestic? I expect Daniel to come loping in and
demand an
advance on his allowance, or Carter to waltz by on the phone talking
about boys
for crying out loud.
Rose is
giving me that speculative look and I snort—no point in
sharing
this bizarre
fantasy with she of the shredded suit. She waves the crust of bread in
her hand
at me.
“Maybourne.”
“Please!
I’m eating!” God, like I want his
image in my head
this early in the
morning. Rose plows on relentlessly.
“I
got
access to his psych file: Classic example of repressed Oedipus complex
compounded by secondary fetishes and control issues,” she
announces brightly,
like I should applaud. I glare at her over the mug.
“So?”
“So
I
talked to Hammond and asked for a chance to do a little
experiment.”
A bulb
overhead clicks.
“The
whole
kitten with a whip thing—“ I manage. Rose beams at
me.
“Bingo.
If
I hit him right in the psych lims, I figured I might have a chance of
keeping
him distracted from SG1 business. Hammond was the only one who
knew.”
“So
the
whole thing was a ploy to get the Maggot to leave us alone?”
I
finally process
this information through a mouthful of pancake.
“Pretty
much,” she admits, snagging some of my bacon. I give this all
the
due
consideration it deserves and drive to the heart of the matter.
“That’s
my
bacon.”
“—And
judging by the day I had yesterday I’d say it
worked,” Rose
continues. “He’s
pretty easy to redirect.”
“I’ll
bet—“
I’m scoffing, not liking the memory of Maybugger zeroing in
on
Things Too Damn
Good For the Likes of Him.
Rose
snickers, such a cynical sound for this early in the morning.
“Gee
Jack—I
should have cross-referenced your file before I started—it
might
have saved you
the eight hundred dollars that suit’s gonna cost to
replace.”
I choke.
The coffee’s hot, that’s it—never mind
that Rose is
snorting now, waving the
scrap of bacon like a baton.
“Yessireebob,
eight hundred, and that’s not including the tailoring and
pressing, Colonel
O’Neill—“
“Okay,
okay,” I grumble. It’s not the money
here—I’ve
got that—it’s the gloating
attitude. Rose has found one of the Jack O’Neill switches. I
knew
she knew
about the gum—I was stupid enough to tell her about that one
myself—don’t
ask—but the others?
She
shoots
me one of those evil glances and I’m curious and worried.
“So?” Gee
I’m so witty in the mornings—a
regular
freaking Noel Coward sometimes.
“So—wanna
tell me about your repressed fascination with being dominated by
forceful
women?” Rose laughs into her coffee cup.
Oh yeah,
like she doesn’t have a secret weakness herself, the cunning
linguist. To
wit---Three phrases in any foreign language and this woman is syrup in
the
hands of the speaker. It doesn’t matter what you say, since
she
can’t speak any
of them—just direct them at Rose in the right tone of voice
and
she’s yours.
So far
she’s succumbed to my German, and my woeful Italian.
I’m
beefing up on Latin
and Farsi for the coming months, with plans to use the latter in a
rousing game
of The Special Ops Commando and the Grateful Hostage.
I smile
dangerously. “Nein.”
“Oh
you will
tell me, Jonathon Michael David O’Neill—“
she
commands, rising out of her chair
and mock-glaring down at me.
It’s
an
interesting twist to hear this from a woman dressed not in leather or
spandex,
but fuzzy flannel baby dolls—I love the tone, but the outfit
has
definitely got
to go. I try a little more German to counter.
“Flanell
erhält mir heißen,“ I throw in for good
measure.
Flannel gets me hot—Geez the
things I say--She’s swallowing hard now, especially when I
get
up, move behind
her and rub her shoulders. Yesssss, Jack is on the verge of
Gett’n Some, round
two. Rose is shivering a little, and I can feel the heat.
Moving
in
for the kill, I lean down to her shell-like ear, kiss it, and lay in
the
bombshell--
“Überhaupt
es mit einem hornigen Oberst? “ yes ladies and gentlemen,
that
actually
translates to “ Ever make it with a horny Colonel?”
Oh boy,
that does it—just as she spins and begins to lay some serious
tongue on her
darling of the Rhine, I see three faces at the sliding glass door
watching us,
noses pressed to the glass. Well all of them but
Teal’c’s.
Great—the
kids.
Rose is
looking at me, I’m glaring at the three of them, and damn it,
Carter and
Jackson are laughing their asses off.
Of
course—
Daniel
not
only heard what I said, he just translated it for the other two
Stooges, so
goodbye any chance at dignity this morning, not to mention round two.
Rose pads
over to the door and opens it.
“You
guys
want some pancakes?” she asks sweetly.
They
come
bustling in, and I can tell that they are not going to let this drop,
no it’s
going to be a living hell for the next month, easily. Daniel has piled
his
plate high and plunks down next to me, eyes sparkling as he starts to
shovel in
the pancakes that are rightfully mine, damn it.
“Soooo—“
“So.
The
average lifespan of smart-ass Archeologists is about to drop
significantly—“ I
warn from behind the coffee mug. He shoots me a very amused glance.
“Good
command of German, Jack—“
“—from
where I was standing I could have sworn it was French,“
Carter
shoots, dousing
her flapjacks with syrup and giggling. I look over at Rose,
who’s
loading up
Teal’c’s plate and wincing.
And so it begins---
END