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: You DO still love me! Yay!
I have no idea how the USAF ranking system works. If Siler's skipped a couple of ranks in his journey upward, please tell me and I'll fix it.
Nevertheless, things seem to have *tear* drawn to a conclusion. Sort of. There are, after all, three stories left in this series . . . rampant evilness is lovely.
--------------------------------------------------
Totally unaware of the chaos erupting around him, Daniel was seated at his desk, deeply engrossed in his work, when the telephone rang. He snatched it up absently, continuing to scribble notes as he spoke. "Hello?"
"Daniel," a tired voice said over the line, "I would really, really love it if you did me a favor."
"Would you now?" Daniel asked suspiciously. "Jack, I'm working here."
"Believe it or not, so am I," Jack snapped. "And I seriously need your help. No joke."
"All right," Daniel sighed. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Jack, just tell me what's going on, okay?"
Daniel could hear Jack's teeth gritting, even over the static on the telephone line. "Siler got hold of a nice big swarm of tribbles, and dumped them in my office, and then locked Carter and Teal'c in there with them. Hammond's decided that I had it coming to me for stealing people's staplers—"
"I knew it!" Daniel interrupted gleefully. "So are you going to give mine back now?"
"Not if you don't help me out here," Jack hissed angrily. "To continue: Hammond's decided I had it coming to me. So now I have to clean up the mess, return all the staplers, and redo all the paperwork the tribbles ate. And Siler's getting promoted."
Daniel stifled a laugh, but managed to keep his voice even. "And what exactly do you want me to do about it?"
"I need you to go on a little field trip down to the storage levels for me and find me some equipment."
"Isn't that Siler's job?" Daniel wondered automatically, and then realized what he'd just said.
"Captain Siler—" Jack choked over the engineer's new rank—"apparently has better things to do with his time. God knows what they are. He said he'd get the things to me 'eventually,' but I strongly suspect he was lying."
"Dammit . . ." Daniel beat his head very quietly against the edge of his desk once or twice, but recognized that unless he did this he had no chance of ever seeing his stapler again. "Fine, I'll do it. What do you need me to get?"
"Not much," Jack assured him dismissively. "Blowtorch, welder's mask, specimen transport cases, maybe a couple of wheelbarrows. And a crane—I know we've got one somewhere."
Daniel's forehead met the desk again: Bam. Bam. "Or I could just get a couple of zats, and you could vaporize them all," he suggested hopefully.
"No zats," Jack informed him desolately. "Hammond was very clear on that point."
-----
Ten minutes later, Jack was waiting impatiently outside his office door. He'd just gotten off the phone with Sam, who had informed him that she and Teal'c were currently following his precedent of standing on the desk and praying. As Jack was trying to decide whether or not this was a compliment, Siler appeared around the corner, dragging a laden equipment cart behind him. "Here's the equipment you wanted, sir."
"Thanks," Jack said, deliberately avoiding addressing Siler by any rank at all.
Mercifully, the engineer simply nodded and disappeared back the way he'd come, although there was a distinct smirk on his face.
Jack yanked the helmet over his head, closing the visor and applying the blowtorch to his office door (dammit, there was a Simpsons dartboard hanging on the other side). His hearing was blocked just in time to miss hearing Captain Leon Siler burst into laughter right around the corner.
-----
Two hours later—an hour and a half after his duty shift would have normally ended—there was nothing left in Jack's office except Jack himself, his very empty desk, a halved Simpsons dartboard, and one tribble.
Jack and the tribble stared at each other for a while.
Or they would have, except that the tribble had no eyes, per se.
But it stared anyway.
"Tell you what," Jack said grimly, breaking the silence. "I don't like you very much. But you knew that. So here's what's going to happen."
He jerked the ventilator shaft open and glanced inside. Just as he'd hoped, there was a branch near the opening that led straight downward. Pretty far down, too, from the looks of it. "Perfect," he gloated.
Jack reached behind him, grabbed the lone tribble, and hurled it down the ventilator shaft. "Take that, furball."
As Jack replaced the grille and dusted his hands off in satisfaction, he suddenly remembered that he'd sent Daniel after equipment that was not longer necessary. And Daniel had not yet reappeared from that expedition.
"Oh, well," Jack shrugged, wondering how much it would cost to get another dartboard. Most likely someone had phoned down to the storage room and told Daniel the errand had been taken care of and he could come back up.
Most likely.
-----
The tribble plummeted down the ventilator shaft and flew out of it again twenty floors down, into a storage room. It landed safely in a convenient cargo net, striking a light switch on the way.
The lights in the room flickered and went out.
"What the—" Daniel, who was already thoroughly lost, looked up in confusion, took a step backwards, and tripped over a newly delivered case of naquadriah.
Daniel sat down hard next to it. "Shit."
Jarred by the impact, the latch on the case clicked open, and the lid jerked upwards a couple of inches.
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: You DO still love me! Yay!
I have no idea how the USAF ranking system works. If Siler's skipped a couple of ranks in his journey upward, please tell me and I'll fix it.
Nevertheless, things seem to have *tear* drawn to a conclusion. Sort of. There are, after all, three stories left in this series . . . rampant evilness is lovely.
--------------------------------------------------
Totally unaware of the chaos erupting around him, Daniel was seated at his desk, deeply engrossed in his work, when the telephone rang. He snatched it up absently, continuing to scribble notes as he spoke. "Hello?"
"Daniel," a tired voice said over the line, "I would really, really love it if you did me a favor."
"Would you now?" Daniel asked suspiciously. "Jack, I'm working here."
"Believe it or not, so am I," Jack snapped. "And I seriously need your help. No joke."
"All right," Daniel sighed. "What have you gotten yourself into this time?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Jack, just tell me what's going on, okay?"
Daniel could hear Jack's teeth gritting, even over the static on the telephone line. "Siler got hold of a nice big swarm of tribbles, and dumped them in my office, and then locked Carter and Teal'c in there with them. Hammond's decided that I had it coming to me for stealing people's staplers—"
"I knew it!" Daniel interrupted gleefully. "So are you going to give mine back now?"
"Not if you don't help me out here," Jack hissed angrily. "To continue: Hammond's decided I had it coming to me. So now I have to clean up the mess, return all the staplers, and redo all the paperwork the tribbles ate. And Siler's getting promoted."
Daniel stifled a laugh, but managed to keep his voice even. "And what exactly do you want me to do about it?"
"I need you to go on a little field trip down to the storage levels for me and find me some equipment."
"Isn't that Siler's job?" Daniel wondered automatically, and then realized what he'd just said.
"Captain Siler—" Jack choked over the engineer's new rank—"apparently has better things to do with his time. God knows what they are. He said he'd get the things to me 'eventually,' but I strongly suspect he was lying."
"Dammit . . ." Daniel beat his head very quietly against the edge of his desk once or twice, but recognized that unless he did this he had no chance of ever seeing his stapler again. "Fine, I'll do it. What do you need me to get?"
"Not much," Jack assured him dismissively. "Blowtorch, welder's mask, specimen transport cases, maybe a couple of wheelbarrows. And a crane—I know we've got one somewhere."
Daniel's forehead met the desk again: Bam. Bam. "Or I could just get a couple of zats, and you could vaporize them all," he suggested hopefully.
"No zats," Jack informed him desolately. "Hammond was very clear on that point."
-----
Ten minutes later, Jack was waiting impatiently outside his office door. He'd just gotten off the phone with Sam, who had informed him that she and Teal'c were currently following his precedent of standing on the desk and praying. As Jack was trying to decide whether or not this was a compliment, Siler appeared around the corner, dragging a laden equipment cart behind him. "Here's the equipment you wanted, sir."
"Thanks," Jack said, deliberately avoiding addressing Siler by any rank at all.
Mercifully, the engineer simply nodded and disappeared back the way he'd come, although there was a distinct smirk on his face.
Jack yanked the helmet over his head, closing the visor and applying the blowtorch to his office door (dammit, there was a Simpsons dartboard hanging on the other side). His hearing was blocked just in time to miss hearing Captain Leon Siler burst into laughter right around the corner.
-----
Two hours later—an hour and a half after his duty shift would have normally ended—there was nothing left in Jack's office except Jack himself, his very empty desk, a halved Simpsons dartboard, and one tribble.
Jack and the tribble stared at each other for a while.
Or they would have, except that the tribble had no eyes, per se.
But it stared anyway.
"Tell you what," Jack said grimly, breaking the silence. "I don't like you very much. But you knew that. So here's what's going to happen."
He jerked the ventilator shaft open and glanced inside. Just as he'd hoped, there was a branch near the opening that led straight downward. Pretty far down, too, from the looks of it. "Perfect," he gloated.
Jack reached behind him, grabbed the lone tribble, and hurled it down the ventilator shaft. "Take that, furball."
As Jack replaced the grille and dusted his hands off in satisfaction, he suddenly remembered that he'd sent Daniel after equipment that was not longer necessary. And Daniel had not yet reappeared from that expedition.
"Oh, well," Jack shrugged, wondering how much it would cost to get another dartboard. Most likely someone had phoned down to the storage room and told Daniel the errand had been taken care of and he could come back up.
Most likely.
-----
The tribble plummeted down the ventilator shaft and flew out of it again twenty floors down, into a storage room. It landed safely in a convenient cargo net, striking a light switch on the way.
The lights in the room flickered and went out.
"What the—" Daniel, who was already thoroughly lost, looked up in confusion, took a step backwards, and tripped over a newly delivered case of naquadriah.
Daniel sat down hard next to it. "Shit."
Jarred by the impact, the latch on the case clicked open, and the lid jerked upwards a couple of inches.
