TITLE: The Trouble with Jack

AUTHOR: Cyn(di)

EMAIL: custardpringle@yahoo.com

RATING: PG for language and evilness by a red shirt (gasp!)

CATEGORY: Humor, suspense

SUMMARY: Jack's stapler fetish is getting worse, and Siler is developing a terrible case of corridor rage. When the two cross, it ain't pretty.

SPOILERS: none

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Despite outward appearances, this story still has no plot, at least as far as I can tell. Feel free to cast votes for who you want to "win" (i.e. Jack or Siler).

BTW: The naquadriah actually is important. (But not until the next story.)

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Sam whirled around and looked at the closed door in bewilderment. A quick experiment showed that it was locked fast. "What the hell is he doing?" she said angrily.

"It cannot be anything agreeable," Teal'c said gravely. "Major Carter, there is indeed something very unusual here."

"And that would be . . ." Sam turned back around to face the rest of the room. "Oh, crap." It was rather difficult to miss the enormous mound of fur taking up most of the office. The neat stack of paperwork that had previously occupied the desk had, unsurprisingly, disappeared.

"Indeed."

Sam checked the wall again, and let out a sigh of relief—at least the phone was still accessible. She reached over and snatched it off the hook, pressing the button that would connect her directly to Hammond's office. "Major Carter here. Sir, this may sound a little crazy . . . but we have a foothold situation in Colonel O'Neill's office."

"I need details, Major," Hammond said sharply.

"Apparently," Sam told him, "we missed a tribble or two last week. This room is full of them now."

Hammond swore softly. "All right, I'll need you in my office right away to come up with a plan to deal with this. We need to be certain they haven't spread into other parts of the mountain."

Seeing Sam's steadily mounting frustration, Teal'c took the phone and answered for her. "General Hammond, we may have some difficulty in meeting with you as you recommend."

-----

"Damn Kelownans," Jack growled to himself as he wandered into Daniel's office. "Can't even make a simple naquadriah delivery without messing it up, can they?"

He looked up to see Daniel standing right in front of him, looking considerably disgruntled. "Jack, what have you done with my stapler?"

"Daniel . . ." Jack spread his hands wide. "I did not steal your stapler. What on earth would make you think that?"

"Hmm, let's take a second and work it out." Daniel screwed his face up in mock contemplation. "Maybe because I know about half a dozen other people on base who are also missing their staplers?"

"All right, fine. So people are careless with their office equipment. So what does that have to do with me?"

"Oh, but it does." Daniel smiled triumphantly. "Because they all told me that, the last time they saw the things, you were messing around with them. And don't come near my desk."

"Oh, fer cryin' out loud . . . So I'm fidgety too," Jack conceded reluctantly, stepping back a pace from the forbidden territory. "But we knew that already. Besides, that doesn't apply to you, does it?"

"Technically, no," Daniel admitted.

"Thank you!" said Jack in obvious relief. "I appreciate your faith in me."

Daniel ignored him. "I said, technically no. I do remember that the last time I saw it was right before you somehow managed to get trapped in here by a swarm of 'rabid tribbles' despite the fact that tribbles are immune to rabies."

"Hey," Jack objected, hoping for a change in subject, "I'm getting old. I'm allowed to exaggerate just a little bit."

"And I haven't seen it since," Daniel finished, pointedly continuing to ignore his friend's protests.

Before Jack could formulate a new defensive strategy, a merciful distraction came in the form of a shrill telephone ring. Daniel, who was closer to the instrument, grabbed it. "Jackson . . . yeah, he's right here." He passed the receiver over. "Sam wants to talk to you. She doesn't sound very happy about it, either."

"Great, more fans," Jack muttered. The smug look on Daniel's face worried him. "Carter? Did you want something?"

"Well, colonel," Sam said (wow, she did sound pissed), "Teal'c and I were wondering if you happened to have an escape hatch in your office. We're stuck in here—the door's been sealed shut somehow."

"Ventilator shaft," Jack said automatically, having made use of it many times himself.

"Not an option, sir. We're cut off from that part of the room."

"Cut off," Jack repeated in disbelief. "It's called a desk, Carter. You walk around it."

A long-suffering sigh echoed over the line. "Daniel didn't tell you?"

"Tell me what?" Jack shot a glare across the room. "Daniel . . ."

The person in question was slowly backing away, doing his absolute best (and failing) to look innocent. "What?"

Jack pointed a finger at him warningly. "Watch it, buster. You still with us, Carter?"

"I'm still here, sir," she assured him. "But so are a couple hundred tribbles."

"Aw, crap. I thought we got rid of those things already."

"Apparently not," Sam said. "General Hammond wants to see you right away."

"And I just got out of there, dammit. Don't worry, Carter, we'll deal with this somehow. Give my regards to Teal'c while you're waiting."

"Will do, sir. Thanks." She hung up, and Jack did the same.

Turning around, he discovered that Daniel had disappeared. No matter—he could be dealt with later. Jack decided he'd better go right away in case Hammond too was angry with him, and consoled himself by formulating complex revenge schemes against whomever he might be able to blame for the current situation.