mockturtle (hellblazer06) wrote,
mockturtle
hellblazer06

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Fic: Stargate: sequel to SNAFU rated [MA] Jack/Daniel part 8

Title: Wild Boys
Series: Stargate SG-1
Status: WIP
Part: 8/2 Sequel to SNAFU
Author: Hellblazer
E-mail address: havisham06@yahoo.com
Rating: MA
Category: Slash Angst Action/Adventure Hurt/Comfort
Pairing: Jack/Daniel
Date: September 2001 - September 2003
Disclaimers: Don't own these characters, MGM, Showtime and the rest do. No copyright infringement is intended or inferred.
Warnings: may contain slash, H/C, violence, m/m hanky panky, sex scenes, drug use, nudity, coarse language, horror, dodgy research, adult themes, general silliness, etc.
Spoilers: Season Three
Summary: Jack and Daniel go native.
Notes: Don't you just hate it when you pick up a discarded character, thinking he's free to use, only to find they want him back again?

-0-

Jack sat lazily playing with one of the clubs he'd taken from the animal men he'd killed, running his fingers over the long serrated rows of sharp animal teeth embedded deeply into the thick bulbar wood to create a fearsome weapon. It was crudely made, yet beautiful at the same time, and so deadly. This club killed in one or two blows, no question about it, and it was designed for no other purpose than for breaking arms and legs, caving in skulls and tearing open bellies. It was a horrible weapon, yet its simple, single purpose for killing up close, Jack respected it, felt its power. If he ever got back to the SGC he wanted to take his clubs back with him, hard won in battle, and hoped Hammond would let him hang them up in his quarters, his trophies of war.

He hefted the club again, feeling its weight, its perfect balance, the handle worn smooth from use. It had probably seen as many battles as he had, yet this fight, for all its death, had left Jack feeling more alive than he could remember in a long while. This had been a fight for life and death, up close and personal, hand to hand combat where really could see the whites of the eyes of the enemies before he killed them. And Jack had killed: he had killed over and over again, quickly and brutally, all his training flowing through him until he was just a vessel for the motions. He'd felt lifted up, pure, like some crazed holy warrior, his blood white hot in his veins. Daniel would tell him it was just an autonomic survival response but Jack had felt, in the heat of the battle, that there was another plane of existence and he had reached it, just for a moment, sweating and screaming and steaming under the blood of his enemies.

He could well imagine the looks of disgust from Sam and the look of curiosity from Daniel if he'd tried to explain what had happened in the heat of the battle. Teal'c would understand, and he was the only one. Teal'c alone knew what it was like to be moving so fast and furious that you were outside of your body, no loner thought, just action.

Jack remembered his battle and he felt good, he felt proud. Every child left alive in the village was there because he'd fought hard and well, and everybody knew it. The gifts of food and trinkets constantly pressed into his hands told of the high esteem in which he was held.

A large part of Jack wished he could stay here, where he didn't have to explain himself, where there were no hearings, no civilian press, no moral complexity. Just kill or be killed. It was simple, and Jack liked simple.

"Hey Jack," Daniel came up grinning, then caught sight of the club Jack was playing with, and backed up a millimetre, watching Jack with that curious look Jack had anticipated.

Daniel, frighteningly intuitive when he wanted to be, had sensed the new brightness in Jack, borne of blood. Jack hadn't become more savage since the little war, he'd just, well, shed the skin of USAF Colonel Jack O'Neill and gone completely native, walking tall and bare chested, his skin now always painted with stripes to indicate his status as a warrior, beads and amulets taken from his kills dangling from his dog tags. He carried only spear and knife with no thought to their last few bullets and their single remaining grenade, saved only for large thundering emergencies. Years of cares and constraints had fallen from Jack and if Daniel hadn't been wildly in love with Jack before, he certainly would be now. There was something primal about Jack, no longer hidden just below the surface, but walking proud and free. Jack was home, and Daniel knew it.

There was a peace, too, with Jack, and for that Daniel gave thanks. Jack was clear of mind and purpose, he was content, and Daniel didn't mind if they had to spend the rest of their lives in their savage paradise, with Jack taking him fiercely and completely every night. Just the thought of Jack burying himself deep inside him brought a light sheen of sweat to Daniel's skin and darkened his eyes.

Jack sensed it, gazed up with wolf hungry eyes and Daniel licked his lips unconsciously. Here there was no right time or wrong time, there was only now. Jack dropped his club, dragged Daniel inside their hut and fucked him hard into the ground, feeling Daniel buck beneath him like a wild thing, biting at his skin, hands grabbing at skin and flesh and Jack stabbing into Daniel so deep he felt like he'd touched his heart. They struggled together, Jack reaching the mountain first, pumping Daniel hard to meet him and they fell into a sticky and sweaty tangle of limbs, breathing fast and feeling so perfectly alive that their skin buzzed at the slightest sensation. Daniel wanted it always to be like this, he never wanted it to stop.

So his heart fell into his boots one day while just ducking in the hut to fetch his journal, when he heard the radio, buried beneath the piles of junk he'd saved or accumulated, spit a snatch of static for a moment, and, just when he'd thought he'd imagined it, buzz with another burst of radio noise and the faint sound of something unintelligible, some brief snapped command, barely recognisable by human except for one trained from experience to understand distorted radio signals.

Daniel felt his life falling away from him like water as he hunted through his pack for the elusive radio, shaking it but unable to make it snap and crackle again. It must have dried out but it still wasn't working properly. Nevertheless he left it on, in case somebody was trying to get a signal (he was fairly sure Jaffa didn't bother with SGC frequencies, though it'd be a good ruse if they did) and dashed out to find Jack, knowing the news would break his heart.

Jack took Daniel's discovery quietly and methodically as Daniel knew he would, discarding his new life as a warrior and resuming his rank of Colonel like shrugging on a coat. He took the radio from Daniel without a word and prised it apart with his knife, tinkering with it until he could send as well as receive, relaying their position, as near as Jack could estimate it, to the rescue team who were armed for bear and hacking their way through the jungle towards them.

Damn Sam and her dogged persistence, because both Jack and Daniel knew who they had to blame for their salvation. Damn Sam for never giving up on them, for dragging them back to their old lives when they'd lost themselves so happily in this new world, forgetting everything that had rigidly bound them, torn them apart. Damn Sam for not just letting them go.

-0-

Jack gritted his teeth for the, well, to be honest, he'd lost count of how many times Daniel had crashed through the undergrowth sounding like a razorback about to charge. Moving quietly through enemy territory seemed more than Daniel could manage.

The problem was that Daniel was completely arsefaced. Jack had wanted to slip away from the village quietly in the dead of night, but Daniel had insisted that would have been very rude to their hosts, and to be fair, Daniel did have a point. Without these scary little guys both Jack and Daniel would have been dead several times over by now.

So a big shindig it was, a huge send off barbecue of roast something, Jack didn't really want to know what, he only knew it was a sweet, juicy meat, with buckets of the local brand of kava being passed around. Jack had pretended to partake, tasting only what wet his lips as he raised his cup, a cup he deeply suspected was an old, hollowed out and polished brown skull. Jack wanted to keep his wits about him, constantly reminded of the skull in his hands.

The local rotgut was so bloody potent that even the little that had dripped onto his skin had burned and tingled and given him a slight buzz.

Daniel was right into it though, tossing the stuff back the way he usually tossed back cans of red bull, the over consumption of which was also known to adversely affect Daniel at times. Jack was no stranger to having to go after Daniel armed with a net and a tranquilliser gun in the corridors of the SGC. Well, sometimes.

Jack was also beginning to suspect that anthropologists were only into their field of study for the vast quantities of quality shit they were required to sample, all in the name of science. Jack had always thought the airforce knew how to party hard, but they were nothing compared to wild eyed anthropologists.

So after the big, big bon voyage party, with Daniel barely able to stand, which was all Jack needed, there'd been speeches, with Daniel barely able to translate, and an exchange of gifts. Jack had bequeathed them his knife, because it was a good knife, and cultural contamination was a moot point at this juncture. He was pretty sure the rescue team, if they made it, were only 20 or klicks away, so Jack would have a knife again soon, and he desperately wanted to meet his rescue party away from this village. He'd seen enough in his time to know a unit of twitchy, trigger happy jar heads would open fire first on a bunch of unfriendly looking friendlies, and ask questions second.

Lastly but not least the chief gave them half a dozen young newly initiated warriors, all aged about ten or eleven, to act as their guides. Jack tried to refuse but the chief would hear nothing of it and in the back of his mind Jack wanted these kids along because they'd know all the bolt holes if they ran into trouble. He had to remind himself that these weren't kids, they were blooded young men. Yet it was a blind spot Jack found it hard to get past. The Charlie factor, Sam called it, when she thought he couldn't hear her: his stubborn refusal to put any child in danger, boy soldier or not, because he had not been able to protect his own son.

So they'd finished packing their gear in silence, without so much as a kiss for old time's sake, before they returned to rules and regulations. Jack was mad at Daniel for drinking himself legless and Daniel for his part was all huffy, almost belligerently so, as Jack kept ripping Daniel’s vast collection of crap out of his bag, only letting Daniel keep what trinkets he could actually carry in his inebriated state. Daniel had given him the full, proper, burn through steel, stop a Goa'uld in his tracks glare, but it was an argument Daniel was never going to win because Jack wasn't going to be budged a millimetre. Safety always came before scientific discovery. It always would because there'd be no papers for Daniel to write if he was dead.

Daniel wasn’t defeated though, crawling out of their hut with armfuls of stuff, and entrusting each of their little guides to carry part of his collection for him.

So here they were, with Daniel crashing through the undergrowth so loudly he was probably scaring off all but the largest predator. The young warriors, like Jack, were equally appalled and amused by Daniel's drunken antics.

Bloody hell, though Jack, he'll fall down a pit and we'll be right back where we started.

The Major snapped his rifle up at the first sight of the alarming native, his hair stuck up in untidy spikes, stripes of war paint trailed over his arms and a red hand print smeared across his chest, sitting over his heart. What made the Captain hold his fire was the sight of the sunglasses the native wore, along with the dog tags that swung from their silver chain and the side armed strapped to grubby, battlescarred BDUs. The Captain's first thought was that some native had scavenged the possessions of a dead man, that thought to be replaced seconds later by a second thought: that he was looking at a dead man, one Colonel Jack O'Neill to be precise, and out of uniform, to put it mildly.

Several rifles clicked in readiness as the bush stirred further to reveal several actual natives and a wild eyed bearded man who burst through the foliage waving his hands.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!"

Daniel ran to stand between the marines and the tribesmen.

Jack glared at him, prayed the marines weren't overly trigger happy and turned his attention to their commanding officer.

"Nice and subtle extraction. And you are?"

"Major Finn, Sir." Finn flicked a glance to the panicked and wild eyed lunatic dancing between SG-3 and the tribe.

"That would be Dr Jackson, I presume?" Finn grinned and Jack matched his grin, relaxing. He liked this guy. Nothing seemed to surprise him. That was a good thing in this job.

"Tell your men to stand down and I'll wrangle Daniel. This tribe, they look scary but they’re friendlies, trust me. They seem to have adopted us."

"Sorry about the delay in getting here."

Jack shrugged. "These things happen. So what went wrong?"

"Something knocked the Gate offline." Finn shrugged. "I had it explained to me, but, well, I'm just here to follow orders."

Jack beamed. He was really liking this guy.

"Daniel," he turned. "Time to go home. Grab whatever you can carry. We're out of here, now, before the natives get restless."

Daniel gave him a pleading look which Jack met with a stern look.

"Daniel, don't make a scene," he warned, fondly but firmly.

Finn watched the anthropologist reluctantly collect parcels stuffed with feathers and who knew what else from each of his little native bearers and start to load himself up like a bipedal packhorse.

"He's really into this stuff, huh?" Finn noted, amused.

"Yes, he is." Jack cut him off in a tone that told Finn only he, Jack O'Neill, was allowed to tease the anthropologist.

The brilliant but notoriously whacky Dr Jackson and the legendary Colonel Jack O'Neill. Finn was beginning to realise everything he'd heard about them was true.

"Daniel," Jack warned.

"Jack," Daniel complained.

With a small vent of frustration, Daniel began unloading himself and thrusting heavy bags at confused marines before taking his place at Jack's side.

Jack shrugged. Daniel obviously wasn’t leaving without his collection of artefacts.

Finn just nodded to his unit to shoulder the extra packs without comment. This was the SGC and they did things differently here. They sure as hell weren't in Kansas any more. Any operation with a high number of civilians was bound to be unorthodox.

"Move 'em out, Major," Jack commanded, and Finn took point, leading the way back to the Gate.

Daniel twisted back to take one last look back in the direction of the village but Jack's hand on his shoulder gently pushed him forward and kept him going.

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