Fangfic 2

Hanging With Lestat

by DevilKat

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/asd/devilkat/fangfic02.php
Summary: Jack and Lestat bickering

JACK

It's four in the morning where I'm at; not usually the time of day I'll be sucking down beer unless someone had died. Or, well, if I've driven myself so horny that only alcohol would take the edge off the fantasies.

You know what fantasies I mean? The ones that star a certain blue-eyed archeologist, the ones that happen more and more often of late. I remember studying him inscrutably from across the briefing room table, imagining how he would expire in horror right there in the middle of his cluttered notebooks if he ever realized what sordid acts I performed on every inch of his cute, do-able self on a near-nightly, imaginary basis. Boom! If the boy was psychic, he'd drop like a stone from embarrassing image overload, artifact-babble still spouting from those damnably kissable lips.

Although now that I have all the time in the world to consider it, probably it'd shock him more that I was beginning to start the previously all-X-rated Danny show off with...stranger stuff. Like imagining how it would feel to rub my face into that exasperating fluffy dark blond mop of his. Lick his eyelids, slowly and feather-gently. Wonder what noises he might make if I nibbled, very lightly, just where his throat meets his jawline.

Actually, I guess it was me who was beginning to freak out at the way my lustful visions were turning so...romantic? Took long enough to get used to wanting to do another guy, fer cryin' out loud-now I'm thinking Valentine's Day and soft kisses and engagement rings?

And okay, if ya gotta get technical about it, somebody DID die, though I have my doubts most days whether Jack O'Neill is a somewhat embarrassingly snarky friend or really my worst enemy. The one that's always inserting a foot into my innocent mouth.

Being "undead" (and boy does that description need a revamping) isn't too bad, though. I finally had the balls to tell Danny I loved him. Kissed him, even. All over, in fact. Right in the damn SGC infirmary.

And guess what? He didn't expire at all. In fact I'd have to say he came pretty blazingly to life, not to mention all over yours truly. A Kodak moment.

I'm planning on having others, in the very near future. Shit, I may invest in a Nikon.

But for now I'm sitting here, technically dead, playing chess-losing, of course-- with a legend who's been a doornail lots longer than I have. A gorgeous legend, I have to admit. He's all glossy golden hair and storm-blue eyes; all fire and motion and 150-proof charisma.

Ya know? He doesn't do a thing for me, libido-wise. And his eyes may be blue, but they're nothing like my Danny's.

I'm tossing down the beer not because I'm mourning my untimely death, nor to quell sexy imaginings. I'm guzzling more brew than I really want just so's to annoy my companion by refusing to be all classy and drink the thousand dollar a bottle insipid wine he's putting down like Calistoga.

My whole life has been filled with danger, of one sort or another. But I gotta admit, I'm pushing envelope a little here with the pleasure I get trying to needle Lestat.

He pushes my king over with the fifth or sixth elegant gesture of the long night, eyebrows lifting over those electric-blue peepers with an arch that defines mockery. "You play so badly, O'Neill. I can scarcely conceive of you as a military tactician."

I can't resist. "You mean I suck at it, right? Well, whaddya want, brains or beauty?"

He gives me a Look, and it ain't a smile. Nonetheless, I get the sense from somewhere that he enjoys me. Good thing. Otherwise, I'd be deader than I already am, as in way less conscious. I've been baiting him for weeks.

"If I wanted either, you know who I'd have taken." He sort of drawls it, leaning elbows on the table and cupping his chin in long pale fingers. Tipping a smile up at me that just can't reach innocent on a face like that.

I put my beer down just a little harder than necessary. "Yeah, well, we won't go there, will we?" It's totally fucked, dealing with someone who can read your mind, past and present, like a cheap novel. Probably explains how he beats me at chess, too; I'm not THAT bad.

"Your buttons," he says almost fondly, "positively extrude. But I have no interest in your boy-toy..."

"Hey-hey-hey there, Lestrade, you watch your toothy mouth there!"

"...only in getting rid of those damnable Goats."

"Go'auld, dammit, for the three hundred fiftieth time! Ah, what's the use..."

He's practically purring now that he's got me steamed. He's incandescent, more like the incarnation of a blazing sun than a creature of the night. I can see why I mistook him for a Go'auld himself, at first. And I can see how hard it could be to resist him, if he were really focused on having you.

Fortunately, he's focused on annoying me and I am obligingly hopping mad.

"I do hope," he's saying, "that in between the various sexual athletics I see you're already planning in abundance, you can manage to use some of what I've taught you against these damned Goats. And quickly, if you please. Their presence is really offensive to me."

"Then why don't you hump ass and off them yourself?" I snarl at him.

That elegant eyebrow-lift again; I could really get to hate that. Good thing he's sending me home tomorrow night. "And put you out of a job? No, no. This is your department, O'Neill; I prefer to remain tactical advisor only. Anyway," he says almost briskly, rising and beginning to put away the chess pieces, "as you probably know, I'm trying to stay out of the limelight these days. Writing those books was enjoyable, but misguided...even air force colonels know who I am now." He gives me a mischievous look, then frowns a bit as I look as blank as possible. "Can you imagine if I saved the world a second time?"

"You wrote books, huh? And saved the world? Well, I'll be damned." I'm tickled pink, grinning right into that suddenly watchful face.

"Don't play the illiterate rube with me, O'Neill," he says silkily. "You knew who I was instantly..." He stops, eyes widening almost in horror. Gotcha!

"Didn't read no books," I sing gleefully. Going for the jugular. "I saw the movie."

He's absolutely speechless; with fury I suppose, but I just can't resist pounding that last nail in the coffin, so to speak.

"Tom Cruise did you good," I remark, and salute him with my beer.

He stares down at me for a long moment before starting to smile, and it's the full-fang effect this time.

"You are so going to pay for that, O'Neill," he promises in what's almost a breathy purr. "After you've tried your new skills against our goatish friends."

He smiles at me serenely. "And I do hope your, er, companion at work isn't having as much trouble explaining your disappearance as seems likely..."

Ouch. I'd been worried about that myself.

"...because explaining your reappearance is going to be even more amusing, given all the physical changes, right?" He's just as bright as a toothy button now, the slimeball.

I'm not so worried about the explanation, though.

I just hope Danny...approves.

Next: Teal'c Is Confused