Nothing much going on. Worked hard yesterday but went home early so I could watch Buffy. It was either that or stay and do overtime for free - no thankyou. It was the career day episode, and I know it backwards because I was reciting the lines as I wandered about fetching tea etc before settling. Nearly dozed during it so I threw my buckets on the garden, even though it was cold and misty (yeah, I know, freaky weather) and curled up under the qilt to read. Fell asleep and woke up halfway through Buffy but it was the one with the actual loan shark, the very shark I say the series jumped, especially with the loss of Giles and the whole Buffy/Spike thing which wasn't half as much fun as I'd hoped it would be. Then it was Darla, Darla, Darla so I fell asleep again (sorry Wesley).
As much as you might laugh at me for being a dozey cow, at least I've managed to write lots and lots of Jack/Daniel this morning. I've only stopped because it's time to work, not play. I could have gone on all day if I had the chance. I also managed to back up some pf my pages to cd, cause the cd burner in the office actually works, so that was cool. And there was a cute pic of Ewan and RDA in Hello #748 this morning. How inspiring.
The picture you should see here is presented for my general humiliation and your bemusement. It was sent to me by my dear friend down in Melbourne, taken many, many moons ago in her bedroom. Yep, when I said I had a friend who was an Elvis freak, I wasn't kidding - grin. The two gentlemen in the pic with me are her younger brother and mine. I'm wearing a handmade dress because mother said we were too poor to buy store bought clothes. Personally I think it was all part of her fiendish plot to make me die a spinster - success! We never went on holidays either, instead I had to clean the house from top to bottom and do extra homework. Bitter? Moi? Frelling yes. But back to memories and happier times. Funnily enough I go past the house this pic was taken in every day on the way to work - it's one of the few houses of my friends still standing.
Speaking of mothers and brothers, when mother's away I get moroccan salad for dinner. When brother is away I get rusted mystery cans from the back of the cupboard. Mother, Depression era hillbilly that she is, believes a can ain't bad unless it's swollen. Yikes. She's gonna poison me again, I swear. Now you know why my main forms of diet are either voluntarily going to bed sans supper or a good dose of the runs. Such is my life.
Dear Bro is in the good books this week, in spite of yet another alleged research junket to Melbourne (I haven't had a proper holiday this century, mutter, gripe), because he took the time out to ring me up and see if there was anything I wanted in Minotaur. Frell, yes. If I'd have known he'd have time for shopping I'd have sent him down cashed up.
The magpies and currawongs were in mother's good books, she having discovered they eat mice - I've known that for years, see them hunting, I do, but they quickly regained their black marks by messing about in the garden, digging up new plants in the vegetable patch and digging for the bits of turkey they buried for later over Xmas.
Had to present my passport again. They say we don't live in a fascist society but I'm always having to present papers on account of being in possession of dark hair and eyes. I'm not even swarthy like my friends. I've pale Scottish skin but just being a brunette is enough in these skittish times. If I didn't loathe blonds already with a deadly passion, I certainly do now. Bad enough they get everything handed to them on a gold plated platter but now those Aryan bastards don't have to put up with being searched and questioned just for trying to post a letter or enter one's place of emplyment. Grrr. This sucks, totally.
You are now entering the slash zone. Snippet from SNAFU #2, rated MA for nudity, violence and scenes of a sexual nature.
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 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. 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, and while Daniel would tell him it was just an autonomic survival response, 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 his enemies blood.
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 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 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 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 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 life as a warrior and resuming his rank of Colonel like shrugging on a coat as 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 happily in this new world, forgetting everything that had rigidly bound them, torn them apart. Damn Sam for not just letting them go.
Footnote: clubs like the one Jack has can been seen at The Australian Museum