Help Wanted
Title: Help Wanted
Author: ladytalon1
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1
Starring: Aris Boch, Baal clone(s)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate: SG-1 is the property of MGM, and I am making no money from this dubious work of fiction.
A/N: for the phoenix_gate Prompta-Thingathon. Prompt - 133. bodyguard
Word Count: 823
He doesn’t know why he took this job.
Oh there’s the payment, which is nice… but Aris is beginning to think it isn’t worth the headache. He’d never thought he’d end up being the personal guard of a Goa’uld - willingly or otherwise - but here he is…though he’ll always regret not stipulating that he would only be the guardian of just one of them; His usual shrewdness in negotiation had been to no avail when he’d accepted the contract and then found out, almost moments later when it was too late to renege, that Baal had clones.
A lot of them.
And they’d all insisted that because they were technically the same person, he had to guard them all.
Most of the time, they’re all too busy trying to take over the galaxy or expanding their wardrobes to harass him just because they think that they can, but there are always a few of them that are constantly trying to put one over on him. If he were able to reproduce (that’s if the roshna his race is addicted to hadn’t left him sterile), Aris imagines that this is what having children must be like and any pangs for the decimation of his sperm count are lost within an overwhelming wave of relief.
If it’s not one thing with his charges, it’s ten more. And they're identical, too. He’s often joked that all Tau’ri look alike, but learning to tell the clones apart is a job in itself; Aris has had ample time to wonder about the possibilities of simply herding the lot of them into a room and tattooing numbers on their foreheads in lieu of the more traditional Jaffa markings. Every time he turns around there are more of them.
On any other planet but Earth, Aris can handle his job just fine - slouching about and looking mean is pretty much all that's expected of him and it's no real hardship because it makes his task that much easier if the local populace knows just by looking at him that he won't put up with any nonsense.
Earth is slightly different.
There's the whole 'head in the sand' thing that 99.9% of the Tau'ri population have. It's not precisely their fault that their leaders haven't seen fit to inform them that they're not the only sentient life in the galaxy (though Aris has seen plenty of Earthlings that have made him doubt that they're really sentient to begin with), but the scope of their narrow-mindedness is rather…impressive.
If Aris were in charge of just two or three, he could pass them off as identical siblings who happen to love torture and explosives a little too much, but with twenty it just becomes ridiculous. The memory of what had happened when he'd attempted to secure paid female companionship for them still makes him long for a drink.
He digs a finger under the collar of his shirt and an ingenious torture device known as a necktie, loosening the chokehold the suit currently has on his trachea, and gives the room another once-over before turning to the group of Baals waiting just outside the door impatiently. "All clear," Aris says, bowing his head deferentially. "Though I'd keep an eye on that painting if I were all" he does a quick head count "six of you."
One clone swans up to him in what looks to be a ludicrous gold and burgundy bathrobe and tilts his head back in an attempt to make himself look taller. It doesn't work out so well. "Is it dangerous?" Baal demands.
"No, it's just ugly."
Baal sniffs. "Insolence."
"They actually call it 'Modern Art,'" Aris says helpfully.
He finds himself on the receiving end of a sizzling glare and is told to guard the door, so he stations himself out in the hall and smiles at the cleaning staff until one of the building's managers comes around to find out why the maids seem to be too busy giggling at Aris to actually get any work done. "You are a trial to my patience," one of the Baals announce when the door is flung open.
"Just yours, or…?"
"Get in here," Baal snarls at him.
Aris lounges against the built-in bar while they argue over where to send him next, and who has priority where his 'services' are concerned.
"The Halcyon Tower has-"
"No, we agreed that Hammel Technologies-"
"The search for-"
"But the others-"
Sighing, Aris retrieves the flask of roshna from an inside pocket of his suit. There would have to be three of him to be able to satisfy the clones' demands, he muses as he unscrews the cap and takes a drink.
He doesn't realize he's spoken aloud until the others fall silent. "That's not a bad idea," one of them says, and Aris blinks as they begin to converge upon him.
One of these days, Aris thinks, he'll learn to watch his mouth.
fin
Author: ladytalon1
Fandom: Stargate: SG-1
Starring: Aris Boch, Baal clone(s)
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate: SG-1 is the property of MGM, and I am making no money from this dubious work of fiction.
A/N: for the phoenix_gate Prompta-Thingathon. Prompt - 133. bodyguard
Word Count: 823
He doesn’t know why he took this job.
Oh there’s the payment, which is nice… but Aris is beginning to think it isn’t worth the headache. He’d never thought he’d end up being the personal guard of a Goa’uld - willingly or otherwise - but here he is…though he’ll always regret not stipulating that he would only be the guardian of just one of them; His usual shrewdness in negotiation had been to no avail when he’d accepted the contract and then found out, almost moments later when it was too late to renege, that Baal had clones.
A lot of them.
And they’d all insisted that because they were technically the same person, he had to guard them all.
Most of the time, they’re all too busy trying to take over the galaxy or expanding their wardrobes to harass him just because they think that they can, but there are always a few of them that are constantly trying to put one over on him. If he were able to reproduce (that’s if the roshna his race is addicted to hadn’t left him sterile), Aris imagines that this is what having children must be like and any pangs for the decimation of his sperm count are lost within an overwhelming wave of relief.
If it’s not one thing with his charges, it’s ten more. And they're identical, too. He’s often joked that all Tau’ri look alike, but learning to tell the clones apart is a job in itself; Aris has had ample time to wonder about the possibilities of simply herding the lot of them into a room and tattooing numbers on their foreheads in lieu of the more traditional Jaffa markings. Every time he turns around there are more of them.
On any other planet but Earth, Aris can handle his job just fine - slouching about and looking mean is pretty much all that's expected of him and it's no real hardship because it makes his task that much easier if the local populace knows just by looking at him that he won't put up with any nonsense.
Earth is slightly different.
There's the whole 'head in the sand' thing that 99.9% of the Tau'ri population have. It's not precisely their fault that their leaders haven't seen fit to inform them that they're not the only sentient life in the galaxy (though Aris has seen plenty of Earthlings that have made him doubt that they're really sentient to begin with), but the scope of their narrow-mindedness is rather…impressive.
If Aris were in charge of just two or three, he could pass them off as identical siblings who happen to love torture and explosives a little too much, but with twenty it just becomes ridiculous. The memory of what had happened when he'd attempted to secure paid female companionship for them still makes him long for a drink.
He digs a finger under the collar of his shirt and an ingenious torture device known as a necktie, loosening the chokehold the suit currently has on his trachea, and gives the room another once-over before turning to the group of Baals waiting just outside the door impatiently. "All clear," Aris says, bowing his head deferentially. "Though I'd keep an eye on that painting if I were all" he does a quick head count "six of you."
One clone swans up to him in what looks to be a ludicrous gold and burgundy bathrobe and tilts his head back in an attempt to make himself look taller. It doesn't work out so well. "Is it dangerous?" Baal demands.
"No, it's just ugly."
Baal sniffs. "Insolence."
"They actually call it 'Modern Art,'" Aris says helpfully.
He finds himself on the receiving end of a sizzling glare and is told to guard the door, so he stations himself out in the hall and smiles at the cleaning staff until one of the building's managers comes around to find out why the maids seem to be too busy giggling at Aris to actually get any work done. "You are a trial to my patience," one of the Baals announce when the door is flung open.
"Just yours, or…?"
"Get in here," Baal snarls at him.
Aris lounges against the built-in bar while they argue over where to send him next, and who has priority where his 'services' are concerned.
"The Halcyon Tower has-"
"No, we agreed that Hammel Technologies-"
"The search for-"
"But the others-"
Sighing, Aris retrieves the flask of roshna from an inside pocket of his suit. There would have to be three of him to be able to satisfy the clones' demands, he muses as he unscrews the cap and takes a drink.
He doesn't realize he's spoken aloud until the others fall silent. "That's not a bad idea," one of them says, and Aris blinks as they begin to converge upon him.
One of these days, Aris thinks, he'll learn to watch his mouth.
fin