Nothing In Common

by J. M. Griffin

URL: http://www.area52hkh.net/asj/jmgriffin/nic.php
Summary: Daniel and Jack spend a Sunday together at Jack's house.

Jack is such a man's man. He doesn't talk about his emotions. He uses sarcasm to keep people at arm's length. He's crazy about sports and rarely reads a book. His idea of fun is camping out beside a lake, rising at dawn, and fishing all day.

I, on the other hand, am an inveterate academic, a bookworm, a nightowl, and totally obtuse when it comes to sports. We have nothing in common, really, except that we are both men.

We're spending the day together at Jack's house, immersed in our usual weirdness. He putters about getting his fishing gear in order for his next foray into the wilds of Colorado, while I read a cache of journals and books I have brought from my apartment, making notes on yellow legal pads and scribbling comments in the margins of the articles. Jack makes sun tea, shrugging and flipping me the bird when I tell him that is so eighties. I go on-line for a while to check up on what is going on back at the SGC. Having a day off is great, but it doesn't pay for me to get too far behind on what is going on at the Complex. Jack leans over me and snorts.

"Leave it at the office, Dr. Jackson." But he goes and checks his mail, and upon finding a new issue of Field and Stream, happily plunks down on his couch and starts reading. About an hour later, when I log off, he's no longer there and I wonder when he got up and what he's up to now.

I find him on the porch messing with his gas grill. "Steaks tonight?" His eyebrows move up with the question and I find myself staring at the left one, the one bisected by a thin old scar. He won't talk about it...and yes, I've asked. All I can get out of him is that it happened on a fairly nasty black-ops mission with a less than positive outcome.

Jack watches me looking at him and breaks into an easy grin. "Daniel," he says, "stop that, or dinner will never get done."

"But I might," I tell him, licking my lips lasciviously.

He groans, and it's a visceral sound that has nothing to do with steak on a grill, oh no.

I close the gap between us and lick at the corner of his closed mouth. He parts his lips for me and I slide my tongue in. He tastes like tea and a mint leaf from one of the plants growing wild in his backyard. "Yummm," I hum into his mouth and feel his knees buckle for an instant before he pushes up against me.

I love that about him, he's so damn straight forward, but, thankfully, not straight at all.

He pulls away from me. "What? What's going on in that brain of yours?"

I shake my head. "Nothing, I promise, except...the steaks can wait, right?"

His smile is bright. "Right."

Jack's bedroom is big and surprisingly quaint. The bedspread is a heavy quilt his grandmother made. There's a Lane cedar chest at the bottom of the bed, also the courtesy of said ancestry. A picture of his son, Charlie, hangs on the wall over a tall chest of drawers. Another picture of the four of us on SG-1 sits on the nightstand by his bed. There is a big painting of a river hanging over the bed which I tease him about, telling him a "river runs through it." He waxes poetic about fly fishing when I do.

As I watch, Jack sits on the side of the bed and shucks off his tee shirt. His body is whipcord lean, his shoulders surprisingly broad. Scooting back, he divests himself of his sweat pants.

"Come on, Daniel," he complains at me. "Clothes off."

Leaving my tee and jeans on the floor, I clamber over him, my knees straddling his hips. I hold myself up, my arms at each side of his shoulders and look down at him.

His brown eyes twinkle up at me. He's already hard. Hell, he's been hard since we stood by the grill. He lifts his hips, wanting touch, wanting friction. I hold him off with my legs and he laughs.

"So that's how it's going to be?"

But I give in and bring my chest down to his and plunder his mouth again. He puts up with me on top for a while and them smoothly reverses us.

I look up at him. "I love you," I say.

"Yeah," he grins. He doesn't say it back very often and I don't expect him to now.

We kiss again, but suddenly this messing around isn't enough for either of us and he is shoving against me hard, his eyes closed. "Wait," I manage to grind out, "wait, wait."

He takes a deep breath and waits for me to snag the lube from under one of the pillows. I anoint him and he pulls my legs up over his shoulders and enters me in one long slow glide.

I gasp, throwing my head back and squeezing my eyes shut, fighting not to come. He eases back a bit, giving me a moment to adjust, to move away from the brink. We both want this to last. Then Jack moves again, quicky finding his rhythm. Our rhythm. As we rock together, I open my eyes. His eyes are closed again, and a single bead of sweat dots his temple. He's making little sounds each time he moves in me, little puffs, "huh, huh," that I find incredibly erotic. His hands gripping my hips are spasming. He is close, so close. I tighten internal muscles and the huffs become groans. Jack throws his head back, so I see the long slide of his neck, sleek and vulnerable, as he gasps and climaxes, almost silent in his ecstacy, military through and through.

He comes to rest with his forehead on my chest, shuddering slightly as he rides out the aftershocks. He slides out of my body quickly, but before I can protest, his mouth is on me. I am not at all silent as he takes me deep, deep, down his throat, another talent he picked up in the military, based on the few hints he's dropped.

"Jack, Jack," I babble "yeah, like that, so good, so good." I've learned he likes for me to talk during sex, though today I am less than eloquent in the throes of impending orgasm. "Like that, like that...yessss," Picturing how the slender stalk of his neck looked as he gasped and climaxed over me only moments ago, I shoot down his throat.

Afterwards, I fall asleep and when I wake, he is no longer in bed with me. I follow the smells of steak sizzling on the grill. Glancing out the backdoor, I find him sitting on the porch, his feet up on the railing, a metal spatula in one hand. His eyes flick to me and he mouths "love you" at me, then goes back to keeping an eye on the steaks.

I duck back into the kitchen and busy myself making a green salad for the two of us.

After dinner, he'll sit on the couch and watch a hockey game if he can find one being played anywhere on the face of the earth. I'll stretch out with my head in his lap and read that article on a transcription of a clay tablet found recently in what was once Ancient Mesopotamia.

We'll both return to work at the Cheyenne Mountain Complex tomorrow, rested and ready for whatever comes our way.

We have nothing in common, nothing at all, except that we fit, hand in glove. And damned if I know why.

The End