Stargate -- "Say Nothing At All"
written for irana's Seduction Challenge
also written for slash_100, prompt 039: Food
big damn table
You say it best when you say nothing at all.
Say Nothing At All | Prompt 039: Food | PG-13 | 1000 words
“Dinner tonight?” Jack asked from the doorway to my office, and I looked up at him over my glasses, which had slid down my nose a bit more than usual.
“Hockey?” I asked him, and he gave me that shit-eating grin that never fails to bring an answering smile to my mouth.
“Yeah,” he said, coming in and futzing with a statuette from P3B-681 sitting on one of the tables. “You can even pick what we have for dinner,” he tempted even as I stood and carefully plucked the fertility idol out of his hands. He pushed my glasses back up my nose with a look that made my stomach twist, and as usual I couldn’t bring myself to tell him off about it.
“Take-out from Golden Dragon, and you’ve got a deal,” I said after he’d looked at me curiously for a few seconds while I gathered my thoughts, and his smiled seemed to get even wider. “You asked Sam and Teal’c, too?”
“They’re both busy,” Jack said, looking away in a way that made me wonder. “So it’s just us. Game starts at 1900 hours.” I nodded and he sailed out of the office, reminding me not to be late. Like I ever did it on purpose, I thought with pursed lips before getting back to work.
All the same, I kept a careful eye on the clock and was out of the mountain on time, freshly-showered and out of uniform. I drove through the snowbank-lined streets of the Springs, stopped off to pick up beer because Jack never has the kind I like, and pulled into Jack’s driveway next to the truck just as it started to snow again. I scurried to Jack’s door, and he opened it before I could knock.
He was wearing jeans and a black shirt, the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up despite the fact that he always keeps his house around 65 Fahrenheit, grey hair mussed as if he’d just run a hand through it. He was gorgeous as usual, dressed nicer than he usually would for Friday night hockey, and I was glad I’d shaved on a whim before I’d left the SGC. “Sweet, you brought beer,” he said, taking the pack from my nerveless hands. I hung my overcoat in the hall closet and followed him into the kitchen.
The food had already arrived, and Jack handed me a few cartons, two pairs of chopsticks, and a spoon. “That sweater looks good on you,” he said as he loaded beers into one hand and more containers into the other. He wasn’t looking at me when he spoke. I looked down at myself, but I was wearing the same blue cable-knit sweater I thought I’d put on. I must have looked confused, because Jack mumbled something that sounded like “compliments your eyes” as he passed me into the den.
I blinked and followed him. He was futzing with the stacks of magazines on the coffee table, face oddly red, so I just put down the cartons I’d been carrying and sat in my usual spot in the middle of the couch. Finally gathering up the remote, Jack sat down, but rather than sitting in his usual armchair he settled on the couch. He flipped on the game and picked up a carton of rice, ladling shrimp in lobster sauce on top and then digging in. I started into my Hunan beef, watching Jack out of the corner of my eye.
He seemed more subdued than usual, even though his team was winning. “I don’t usually get this, but it’s good,” he said during a commercial for a headache medication, gesturing with his chopsticks at the shrimp. “You want a taste?” I nodded, but before I could scoop some up, he’d loaded his chopsticks with rice and a shrimp. Frowning slightly, I leaned in to take the mouthful, swiping my tongue against the chopsticks to catch any lingering grains of rice. Jack went back to eating as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but there was a heat in his eyes for a moment before he looked away. It was gone so quickly, though, that I was certain I had imagined it.
I wordlessly offered him a bit of my beef during the next commercial break, and the expression in his eyes as he ate from my chopsticks was unmistakable. Unexpected, but impossible to misinterpret. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jack scooped more shrimp into it. “Game’s back on,” he admonished, but he was smiling in a way that was a cross between promising and almost predatory. It made my toes curl.
By the end of the game, Jack was almost plastered against my side; he’d gradually shifted over during the course of the game. Despite his unusual behavior, he’d only had one beer, drawing it out over the entire game. Jack turned off the set as the post-game commentary started and turned to look at me, expression guarded and wary. I opened my mouth to speak, but he rested one finger against my lips. “Don’t,” he said shortly, and I closed my mouth again. He seemed to search my face for a long moment, finger still against my lips, and then suddenly we were kissing.
I don’t know who made the first move and the kiss was quick and almost chaste, but I was still breathless when we pulled away. I started to speak again - I wasn’t even sure what I had in mind to say - but Jack swooped in to kiss me again, effectively silencing me by trying to stick his tongue down my throat. I couldn’t complain. He tasted like beer and lobster sauce and something that was uniquely Jack. We separated sometime later, and I knew I was grinning as stupidly as he was. And, as he stood and then pulled me to my feet before leading me to his bedroom, I knew nothing I had to say really mattered anyway.
Feedback is better than chocolate.
also written for slash_100, prompt 039: Food
big damn table
You say it best when you say nothing at all.
Say Nothing At All | Prompt 039: Food | PG-13 | 1000 words
“Dinner tonight?” Jack asked from the doorway to my office, and I looked up at him over my glasses, which had slid down my nose a bit more than usual.
“Hockey?” I asked him, and he gave me that shit-eating grin that never fails to bring an answering smile to my mouth.
“Yeah,” he said, coming in and futzing with a statuette from P3B-681 sitting on one of the tables. “You can even pick what we have for dinner,” he tempted even as I stood and carefully plucked the fertility idol out of his hands. He pushed my glasses back up my nose with a look that made my stomach twist, and as usual I couldn’t bring myself to tell him off about it.
“Take-out from Golden Dragon, and you’ve got a deal,” I said after he’d looked at me curiously for a few seconds while I gathered my thoughts, and his smiled seemed to get even wider. “You asked Sam and Teal’c, too?”
“They’re both busy,” Jack said, looking away in a way that made me wonder. “So it’s just us. Game starts at 1900 hours.” I nodded and he sailed out of the office, reminding me not to be late. Like I ever did it on purpose, I thought with pursed lips before getting back to work.
All the same, I kept a careful eye on the clock and was out of the mountain on time, freshly-showered and out of uniform. I drove through the snowbank-lined streets of the Springs, stopped off to pick up beer because Jack never has the kind I like, and pulled into Jack’s driveway next to the truck just as it started to snow again. I scurried to Jack’s door, and he opened it before I could knock.
He was wearing jeans and a black shirt, the top button undone and the sleeves rolled up despite the fact that he always keeps his house around 65 Fahrenheit, grey hair mussed as if he’d just run a hand through it. He was gorgeous as usual, dressed nicer than he usually would for Friday night hockey, and I was glad I’d shaved on a whim before I’d left the SGC. “Sweet, you brought beer,” he said, taking the pack from my nerveless hands. I hung my overcoat in the hall closet and followed him into the kitchen.
The food had already arrived, and Jack handed me a few cartons, two pairs of chopsticks, and a spoon. “That sweater looks good on you,” he said as he loaded beers into one hand and more containers into the other. He wasn’t looking at me when he spoke. I looked down at myself, but I was wearing the same blue cable-knit sweater I thought I’d put on. I must have looked confused, because Jack mumbled something that sounded like “compliments your eyes” as he passed me into the den.
I blinked and followed him. He was futzing with the stacks of magazines on the coffee table, face oddly red, so I just put down the cartons I’d been carrying and sat in my usual spot in the middle of the couch. Finally gathering up the remote, Jack sat down, but rather than sitting in his usual armchair he settled on the couch. He flipped on the game and picked up a carton of rice, ladling shrimp in lobster sauce on top and then digging in. I started into my Hunan beef, watching Jack out of the corner of my eye.
He seemed more subdued than usual, even though his team was winning. “I don’t usually get this, but it’s good,” he said during a commercial for a headache medication, gesturing with his chopsticks at the shrimp. “You want a taste?” I nodded, but before I could scoop some up, he’d loaded his chopsticks with rice and a shrimp. Frowning slightly, I leaned in to take the mouthful, swiping my tongue against the chopsticks to catch any lingering grains of rice. Jack went back to eating as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but there was a heat in his eyes for a moment before he looked away. It was gone so quickly, though, that I was certain I had imagined it.
I wordlessly offered him a bit of my beef during the next commercial break, and the expression in his eyes as he ate from my chopsticks was unmistakable. Unexpected, but impossible to misinterpret. I opened my mouth to speak, but Jack scooped more shrimp into it. “Game’s back on,” he admonished, but he was smiling in a way that was a cross between promising and almost predatory. It made my toes curl.
By the end of the game, Jack was almost plastered against my side; he’d gradually shifted over during the course of the game. Despite his unusual behavior, he’d only had one beer, drawing it out over the entire game. Jack turned off the set as the post-game commentary started and turned to look at me, expression guarded and wary. I opened my mouth to speak, but he rested one finger against my lips. “Don’t,” he said shortly, and I closed my mouth again. He seemed to search my face for a long moment, finger still against my lips, and then suddenly we were kissing.
I don’t know who made the first move and the kiss was quick and almost chaste, but I was still breathless when we pulled away. I started to speak again - I wasn’t even sure what I had in mind to say - but Jack swooped in to kiss me again, effectively silencing me by trying to stick his tongue down my throat. I couldn’t complain. He tasted like beer and lobster sauce and something that was uniquely Jack. We separated sometime later, and I knew I was grinning as stupidly as he was. And, as he stood and then pulled me to my feet before leading me to his bedroom, I knew nothing I had to say really mattered anyway.
Feedback is better than chocolate.