Die For Me, Why Don't You?



The first time it happened he didn't really notice. Too busy getting throttled as Jack hauled him backwards through the 'gate by his collar, his blood trailing black across the universe and a rhythmic litany of invective and imprecations assaulting his ears before the event horizon censored it.

Jack really didn't like people shooting arrows at them, did he?

By the time the arrows were gone, so was his involuntary response to... well, he wasn't quite sure what. The danger? The pain? Either was possible. He did some research once he was sent home to recover, browsing sites that made him wonder how he'd ever thought that he was uninhibited, and came to the conclusion that he might have a berserker gene or a leaning towards masochism, but neither seemed an adequate explanation for the swell and throb of his cock at that precise, incredibly inconvenient, moment in time.

He'd been achingly hard, trembling with arousal, his breath catching thick and fast in his throat -- and he'd had an arrow in his shoulder and another in his thigh. It made no sense.

The next time through the 'gate he waited, curious and a little expectant as it flared to life, monitoring his reactions.

Nothing.

They explored; met people. Sam threw up silently and discreetly when she discovered what she'd eaten in the name of diplomacy, and Jack learned a truly filthy joke that made the rounds of SGC until eventually, inevitably, someone told it to Jack and claimed they got it online from a high school buddy, at which point Jack went an interesting shade of red and exploded.

And Daniel's cock remained, for the most part, quiescent during the mission and completely so for the return trip.

Once back on base, he found himself replaying the moments before the 'gate opened on that earlier mission, turning them over and over in his head like mental worry beads. Some blurred, some sharpened with repetition, so that the pain, which at the time had been a bright, furious flame, dimmed to nothing because it no longer existed, whereas recollecting the fleeting rub of Jack's knuckles against the nape of his neck had Daniel reaching back to touch the spot, convinced that he could still feel the ungentle press of bone and skin.

Pared down and isolated, the experience amounted to three nuggets sifted from the stream of seconds. The first was his involuntary cry as the arrows pierced him, thunk-thudding into his flesh with a brutal disregard for the sanctity of his skin, invasive and uncaring.

The second was Jack's growl of fury.

Really. He'd growled.

Daniel tried to imitate it, wandering around his office, a weather-eye on the door. He sounded like an asthmatic cat. Not impressive. It could've been the growl. Territorial, angry -- it was part of it, he was sure about that. The reason why he was certain was stiffening and jerking reflexively to attention although it was going to have to wait.

He wanted to know. Jerking off could come later.

The third memory was the rattle and spit of bullets from Jack's gun, coupled with the blood spurting from the chests and heads of the two men who had shot Daniel.

Gun. Blood. Dead people. Two of them. And more arrows arcing towards them from the other attackers, hissing through the air...

"Oh. Oh, God."

"'Hi, Jack' will do."

Daniel turned to see Jack grinning at him from the doorway.

"Very funny."

"Nah, kind of obvious, but what can I say? It's Monday."

Jack sauntered in and sat down in Daniel's chair. "What's happening? You get those translations done yet?"

"Which ones in particular?" Daniel asked, allowing himself to be distracted.

He got a shrug as Jack tossed an eraser from hand to hand and then replaced it an inch to the left of where it had been. "Tell you the truth, I'm just being polite," Jack confided. "It seemed like a safe bet that you were translating something."

"You're bored, aren't you?"

"Ya think?"

"I know."

Jack sighed. "Mondays." He stood up. "Well, that was fun. Let's do it again some time."

He was one step away from leaving the room when Daniel cleared his throat. "Jack -- when I got shot..."

"Which time?" Jack didn't turn to look at him but his hand came up and his fingers drummed against the doorframe, tapping out an impatient beat.

"Arrows. P637 something."

"Ah."

"You killed the guys who did it."

Jack finally turned his head, his hand stilling against the doorframe. "You can't be sure. May have been a flesh wound. Okay, several flesh wounds in vital areas." Daniel raised his eyebrows, refusing to smile. Jack caved surprisingly quickly. "Maybe. Yeah. So?"

Daniel didn't need to close his eyes to see the scene pain and arousal had painted onto the inside of his eyes in red.

But they weren't dangerous, he wanted to say. They were out of arrows, empty quivers slung from their shoulders. You should've been aiming at the men on either side of them. The ones still shooting. You know that and you still --

Daniel looked into wary brown eyes and felt the accusing words dry and shrivel and blow away.

"Nothing. Just -- thanks. You know; for the whole saving my ass thing."

Jack waved his hand airily. "Hey, it's what I do. Kind of like it; call it a hobby of mine."

He met Daniel's gaze, his expression blankly challenging, in sharp contrast to his light words, and then pursed his lips and nodded when Daniel remained silent, as if acknowledging his reprieve.

"Right," Jack said softly. "Catch you later."

His footsteps were unhurried as he walked away leaving Daniel to worry away at what he'd learned.

What he did. What Jack did. Kill people who hurt him.

And now he knew why Jack had been hard, too, their bodies pressed close as Daniel was dragged towards safety, and he wondered which of them was the most fucked-up and why the hell they couldn't use something other than strangers' blood for lube.



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