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: OMG . . . I am so, so sorry to keep you guys waiting this long . . . do you still love me? I had a Model Congress to do last week, so I was getting ready for that, and then I had no time when I was there, and now I have a ton of schoolwork to make up because I missed three days of school.
Fortunately for all our sanities, however, this story will probably be over in another chapter or two.
Current vote count: Siler 4, Arnold 2, Jack 2, Sam 1, Daniel 1. Votes for anyone other than Siler and Jack are being ignored for purposes of this story, but may be used later.
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By now extremely angry, Jack stopped just outside Hammond's office, making an effort to calm himself down before having to confront his superior. One thing was for sure, though: when he found out who was responsible for wrecking his office—just when he'd finally straightened it out, too—that person were going to be one very, very sorry individual.
Taking a deep breath, Jack stepped into the office, and discovered on Hammond's face an expression indicating wrath at least as great as that Jack was currently trying—not very successfully—to hide. Jack hoped that anger wasn't directed at him.
It was.
"Colonel O'Neill," the general said without preamble, "what do you have to say about this?" A thick file folder slid across the desk.
Jack picked up the file, flipped through it, and gulped hard. Hammond had just handed him almost two dozen letters of complaint, each from a different person, and each complaining about him. Specifically, they were all accusing him of having stolen staplers from their desks at some point or another, although this was dysphemistically referred to in most cases as an inhibition of base efficiency.
Flicking briefly through again, to look at the names at the tops of the papers, Jack experienced another tremor of apprehension. Sam Carter, Daniel Jackson, Graham Simmons, both Norman and Paul Davis (did Paul even work on base?), Teal'c, and most recently Leon Siler (wow—the guy actually had a first name) . . . this could be a problem.
Because all their staplers (with the possible exception of Paul Davis's) were currently locked in Jack's desk drawer, which was currently locked in his office with a large number of hungry tribbles and a pissed astrophysicist who could probably pick the electronic lock in her sleep.
And Hammond was still staring at him. "Care to explain, Colonel?"
This was not good.
Nevertheless, Jack somehow managed to maintain a relatively serene façade. "Well, General . . ." He searched desperately for something to say, came up with nothing, and chose instead to simply shut up and see if he could ride out the storm.
"I don't exactly hear you denying these accusations, Colonel. And this is a substantial body of evidence against you. Unless you can disprove the charges, I will be forced to ask you to replace the stolen equipment at your own expense. While this is too petty to merit a court martial, further discipline may also be in order."
"Sir," Jack said desperately, "shouldn't we be talking about the large number of tribbles Carter and Teal'c just found in my office?"
"I'm getting to that, Colonel. Bear with me." Hammond folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "But first: did you or did you not take these people's staplers?"
Jack accepted the inevitable: he was sunk. Might as well be honest at this point. "I needed them, sir."
"Like hell you did, Colonel. You have your own stapler. If it didn't work, you could always have requisitioned a new one."
"That's just the problem," Jack pleaded. "Requisitions involve paperwork. I have so much paperwork to deal with that for the past month I haven't even been able to tell whether or not I have a desk. I finally get it all cleared up, and someone lets a swarm of furballs into my office to eat it all."
"Let me get this straight," Hammond sighed. "You were too lazy to do your paperwork on time, so you stole people's staplers so you could make up for that. And now you expect me to look favorably on that?"
Jack shifted uncomfortably. Well, when it was put like that . . . "Um . . . yes, sir, I do."
"Well, too bad." Hammond reached for a piece of paper and began scribbling a memo. "As I've already told you, Colonel, I want you to return all these staplers to their rightful owners."
"Um, sir—" Jack coughed sheepishly. "That might not be possible. I removed all forms of identification from the staplers upon taking possession of them."
"For crying out loud," Hammond muttered; even under the circumstances, Jack had to suppress a snort. "All right, then, I want you to return the staplers to a common storage area and reimburse all these people—" he tapped the folder meaningfully—"accordingly. I also want you to redo the forms which you did this morning but which have been eaten by the tribbles."
"What about the tribbles, sir?" Jack asked hopefully. "Shouldn't we be finding out who put them in my office?"
Hammond gazed at him balefully. "Considering your recent conduct, Colonel, I'd say you were asking for it." Ignoring his second's stunned gape, he continued, "In fact, I think I'll put you in charge of getting Major Carter and Teal'c out of there and disposing of the tribbles. Dismissed."
Jack worked his jaw up and down until he finally managed to squeak out, "But—sir—I really don't think that's fair."
"Nor do I, Colonel." Hammond, unexpectedly, smirked. "But I think it may prove an excellent deterrent in future from procrastination and petty theft."
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: OMG . . . I am so, so sorry to keep you guys waiting this long . . . do you still love me? I had a Model Congress to do last week, so I was getting ready for that, and then I had no time when I was there, and now I have a ton of schoolwork to make up because I missed three days of school.
Fortunately for all our sanities, however, this story will probably be over in another chapter or two.
Current vote count: Siler 4, Arnold 2, Jack 2, Sam 1, Daniel 1. Votes for anyone other than Siler and Jack are being ignored for purposes of this story, but may be used later.
--------------------------------------------------
By now extremely angry, Jack stopped just outside Hammond's office, making an effort to calm himself down before having to confront his superior. One thing was for sure, though: when he found out who was responsible for wrecking his office—just when he'd finally straightened it out, too—that person were going to be one very, very sorry individual.
Taking a deep breath, Jack stepped into the office, and discovered on Hammond's face an expression indicating wrath at least as great as that Jack was currently trying—not very successfully—to hide. Jack hoped that anger wasn't directed at him.
It was.
"Colonel O'Neill," the general said without preamble, "what do you have to say about this?" A thick file folder slid across the desk.
Jack picked up the file, flipped through it, and gulped hard. Hammond had just handed him almost two dozen letters of complaint, each from a different person, and each complaining about him. Specifically, they were all accusing him of having stolen staplers from their desks at some point or another, although this was dysphemistically referred to in most cases as an inhibition of base efficiency.
Flicking briefly through again, to look at the names at the tops of the papers, Jack experienced another tremor of apprehension. Sam Carter, Daniel Jackson, Graham Simmons, both Norman and Paul Davis (did Paul even work on base?), Teal'c, and most recently Leon Siler (wow—the guy actually had a first name) . . . this could be a problem.
Because all their staplers (with the possible exception of Paul Davis's) were currently locked in Jack's desk drawer, which was currently locked in his office with a large number of hungry tribbles and a pissed astrophysicist who could probably pick the electronic lock in her sleep.
And Hammond was still staring at him. "Care to explain, Colonel?"
This was not good.
Nevertheless, Jack somehow managed to maintain a relatively serene façade. "Well, General . . ." He searched desperately for something to say, came up with nothing, and chose instead to simply shut up and see if he could ride out the storm.
"I don't exactly hear you denying these accusations, Colonel. And this is a substantial body of evidence against you. Unless you can disprove the charges, I will be forced to ask you to replace the stolen equipment at your own expense. While this is too petty to merit a court martial, further discipline may also be in order."
"Sir," Jack said desperately, "shouldn't we be talking about the large number of tribbles Carter and Teal'c just found in my office?"
"I'm getting to that, Colonel. Bear with me." Hammond folded his hands on the desk in front of him. "But first: did you or did you not take these people's staplers?"
Jack accepted the inevitable: he was sunk. Might as well be honest at this point. "I needed them, sir."
"Like hell you did, Colonel. You have your own stapler. If it didn't work, you could always have requisitioned a new one."
"That's just the problem," Jack pleaded. "Requisitions involve paperwork. I have so much paperwork to deal with that for the past month I haven't even been able to tell whether or not I have a desk. I finally get it all cleared up, and someone lets a swarm of furballs into my office to eat it all."
"Let me get this straight," Hammond sighed. "You were too lazy to do your paperwork on time, so you stole people's staplers so you could make up for that. And now you expect me to look favorably on that?"
Jack shifted uncomfortably. Well, when it was put like that . . . "Um . . . yes, sir, I do."
"Well, too bad." Hammond reached for a piece of paper and began scribbling a memo. "As I've already told you, Colonel, I want you to return all these staplers to their rightful owners."
"Um, sir—" Jack coughed sheepishly. "That might not be possible. I removed all forms of identification from the staplers upon taking possession of them."
"For crying out loud," Hammond muttered; even under the circumstances, Jack had to suppress a snort. "All right, then, I want you to return the staplers to a common storage area and reimburse all these people—" he tapped the folder meaningfully—"accordingly. I also want you to redo the forms which you did this morning but which have been eaten by the tribbles."
"What about the tribbles, sir?" Jack asked hopefully. "Shouldn't we be finding out who put them in my office?"
Hammond gazed at him balefully. "Considering your recent conduct, Colonel, I'd say you were asking for it." Ignoring his second's stunned gape, he continued, "In fact, I think I'll put you in charge of getting Major Carter and Teal'c out of there and disposing of the tribbles. Dismissed."
Jack worked his jaw up and down until he finally managed to squeak out, "But—sir—I really don't think that's fair."
"Nor do I, Colonel." Hammond, unexpectedly, smirked. "But I think it may prove an excellent deterrent in future from procrastination and petty theft."
