Fashion Statement

Ruffle

DISCLAIMER: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

Fashion Statement

God, I miss Jack.

After so many years of being perfectly content with my own company – well, all right, maybe content's overstating it, but at least used to my own company – why does it bother me so much now to be left alone? I could be using the time for so many worthwhile pursuits – catching up on my reading, report writing, translating, research… hell, even just a newspaper or two. But I can't concentrate on any of that.

All I can think about is Jack.

I suppose it's not really such a mystery. It's exactly because I was used to being alone before… but all that's changed now. You don't miss something you're not used to. I've grown used to having Jack around.

Big mistake, Jackson. You ought to know better than to let yourself get used to something like that. You'll be sorry. You always are.

But it doesn't feel like a mistake.

It feels so natural – Jack being there. I'm used to his company, his conversation – yes, even the wisecracks – his smile, his touch, that look in his eyes that says I matter to him. It's not important what we're doing, I'm used to him hanging around, just being Jack. It took me so long to grasp the simple fact that not only didn't he mind spending time with me, he actually preferred it. Now that we're so comfortable together, being apart is what seems unnatural.

I've even gotten used to him bugging me constantly, not letting me get any work done, always dragging me off to have Fun with a capital ‘F' as defined by Jack O'Neill – which could mean anything from watching a hockey game to building a snowman… or making love hot enough to melt all the snow and ice in Colorado. I wish he was here right now pestering me to get my nose out of a book and into some fresh air, or better yet nuzzling his nose. Damn.

Why isn't he home yet? He should've been back by now. I hate feeling at such a loose end without him.

It's like an actual physical ache whenever he's not around, like a part of me is missing that's only complete when he walks into the room. That sounds so hokey, but it's the best way to describe how I feel.

At least it's better here in his house surrounded by his things. Everything here speaks to me of Jack. I can hear the echoes of his voice in every room, taste the spicy food/tangy beer combination permeating his kitchen, smell the woodsy aftershave lingering in his bathroom, feel the warmth of his arms around me, strong yet encased in the soft leather of his favorite jacket.

Fingering the black leather sends a siren song to my senses, overwhelming me with the urge to wrap myself in Jack's essence. Before the thought is fully formed, I slip my arms into the sleeves and shrug into the jacket. Enfolded in Jack's warmth, I breathe deeply. The peaceful, secure feeling Jack's presence always evokes settles around me.

Might as well forget about work this evening, but there must be something useful I can occupy myself with. Food. Looking vaguely around, I realize the lack of it. If I run out and pick up some dinner, we could stay in instead of going out later. Staying in with Jack has definite advantages.

I'm just grabbing the keys and looking around for my glasses when I hear the door open. He's home.

"Jack!"

*****

"Daniel?"

What is he wearing? A leather jacket? My leather jacket? He looks like a dictionary illustration for the word hot. We're headed for a sizzling leather meltdown here. Holy smoke, Bullwinkle! How can one article of clothing make such a difference in anyone's appearance?

Now I know my hormones have been working overtime because I've been missing him like hell and he's guaranteed to look good to me no matter what he's wearing – or not wearing and that's a whole other look we're definitely going to explore later, but meanwhile getting back on track here, O'Neill – the picture he makes now is so far above good it's getting altitude sickness.

Daniel always tells me I look sexy in that leather jacket. Maybe I'm getting a glimmer of what he means now the jacket's on the other back. Sexy doesn't even begin to cover it.

He looks incredible. He looks like a model in a commercial so hip you can't figure out what it's advertising. He looks like he could give advice to a rock star on how to get chicks. He looks like Bruce Springsteen should be writing a song about his life story on the road as the biker king of cool. He looks like James Fucking Dean, and I have to stop myself on the verge of asking for his autograph.

The rest of his ensemble consists of his new black jeans and a plain matching tee-shirt, but there's nothing basic about Daniel in black. The color nicely sets off the ivory skin over his familiar, oh-so-tasty features. His hair, which looks darker since he's cut it short, glints with gold highlights. From this muted palette, beneath the wings of his eyebrows, shine those blue eyes, clear as the sky and as infinite in their depths of feeling. How does he manage to look tough and yet vulnerable at the same time?

My eyes widen as I note the car keys dangling from his hand. The confused mix of shock, appreciation, and arousal careening through my head (and other body parts) take a back seat to a new concern. "Going somewhere?" I try for bland, repressing the scowl I sense forming on my face. It'd totally ruin the effect of the nonchalance I'm going for here.

"Yeah, I thought I'd bring back something for a relaxing dinner here. Why don't I go ahead while you unwind, take a shower. I'll be back in a flash."

Sure he will. He takes one step out that door and every unattached man, woman, or snake in town is going to be so hot on his trail I'd never see him again if not for being able to follow the melted pavement. He is so not going anywhere without me. Not in that outfit. "You're going out dressed like that?"

"Huh?" Blinking in bewilderment, he glances down at himself. A faint blush dusts the pale cheeks. "You mean your jacket? It was lying around and I, um, put it on because it was, uh, warm." He looks back up anxiously. "I didn't think you'd mind if I borrowed it."

Mind? Oh boy, nope, not a problem, borrow away, you should wear it more often, in fact I'll buy you one of your very own you can wear all the time – at home of course, not in public. You don't want to be causing a riot. Swallowing, I find my voice. "Daniel, you are not going out looking like that." Seeing his baffled frown, I amend my statement. "Not without me anyway."

The frown deepens. "Jack, what are you talking about?"

How can I begin to explain? He wouldn't get it. When it comes to his desirability, Daniel has a blind spot the size of an Asgard ship. Chuck the explanation, I'm a show-not-tell kind of guy anyway. And it's showtime.

"This." Grabbing the edges of his collar, I yank him towards me and plant one on him. His initial startled tensing melts as the kiss goes on. And on. I plunder that delectable mouth and feel him molding himself to my body. Oh yeah, this kiss is the full court press. Sparks leap into action everywhere he touches. God, Daniel, what you do to me. And I'm not giving you a chance to do it to anyone else.

I finally grant him an opportunity to catch a breath as I ease back just a bit, continuing to nibble and taste those perfect lips.

"Jack, thith ith vewy nithe," he mumbles around my darting tongue, "but mmph…?"

I don't let him finish. Renewing the deep kiss, I nudge him backwards, steering him towards the couch. We bump the edge and tumble onto it in a tangle of limbs. Suits me. Daniel's the top choice on my list of people I'd most want to be tangled with. Come to think of it, Daniel's the top choice on my list of people I'd most want to be with stranded on a desert island, stuck in an elevator, mining naked, or any of your other basic hypothetical situations.

Sliding my hands under that supple jacket, I stroke the equally supple muscles beneath the soft cotton of his shirt. He arches satisfyingly at my touch and wraps a leg around mine. One thing about Daniel, once you involve him in an activity, he throws himself enthusiastically into it and gives it his full attention. I endeavor to be the object of that enthusiasm as frequently as possible.

His fingers entwine in my hair as he crushes my mouth to his. Our groins are rubbing enticingly, his body writhing energetically below mine. Hearing his moan above the creak of leather, I lower my hands to his waist to undo his fly, then mine, slipping us both free. At his deepening groan, my own need builds, and I match the urgency of his movements. Cocks clashing, hips grinding, I'm lost in discovering anew the passion that is Daniel. On a surge of release I mark him as mine, and he leaves his mark on me. We belong together, Daniel. Can you understand this is my way of saying that?

I watch the tremors rippling through his muscles as we lie there holding onto each other, slowly returning from the stratosphere. Running my fingers through the short, soft feathers of his hair, I contemplate this man who's insinuated himself so completely into my life and my heart. He's not a model or a biker or a movie star. He's Daniel. I've gotten used to having him around, and I don't want to go back to a life without him.

The glazed look fades from his eyes, and a smile lights them, that smile he keeps for me alone, the one that tells me in his twenty-fourth language how much he loves me. "Jack?"

"Hm?"

"I missed you, too."

He understands.

THE END

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