Zine stories:

'Benedictus' - a novel length Stargate SG-1 slash story, published by Ashton Press for MediaWest 2007. This AU novel won't be online till June 2009, I'm afraid and possibly not even then. 90,000 words is a lot to code.

The alarm going off startled Jack awake, made him flail for the offending clock with every intention of throwing it across the room. Or that would have been the movement, if he'd been alone in his bed, and if there hadn't been a naked professor of archaeology sprawled across him. Daniel was half-awake, blinking sleepily at the fact Jack was moving at all, and Jack suddenly remembered just what had happened between them the previous night. It had all snowballed unexpectedly, from a casual gesture in response to the assistance Daniel had given him to get in here.

And damn, it had been good, better than anything he'd done in a long time. Not that Jack was exactly cutting notches in his bedposts by any stretch of the imagination, so that probably helped, but it had still been memorable.

"What time is it?" Daniel asked, still sprawled. Well, apparently part of him was working, if not his brain or the rest of him. Jack craned his neck to look at the clock. "Tell me it's not stupidly early."

"It's not." Jack let his head drop back on the pillow, wondering how long the calm before the storm would last. He knew better than to expect Daniel, or anyone, could take everything quite as calmly as he seemed to be doing at the moment and could only blame it on the fact he wasn't fully awake yet. "It's oh five thirty."

Daniel made an incoherent noise. Jack didn't even bother to try and figure out what it meant, or to think about why he'd thought it would be a good idea to set the alarm for that time. What had he planned to do? The plane wasn't leaving for a good four hours, it was an hour's drive from his house to Peterson, and unless he was planning to whip up a three-course breakfast for his houseguest he couldn't remember just what had possessed him.

Stuff I'm working on at the moment includes:

'The Night of the Maison Blanche' - a Wild Wild West story, almost done!

"What the hell are you burning in here?" Jim asked, as he pushed the door open. Jim's expression of disgust, Artie decided in the momentary glance he caught of it before a lick of flame at his fingers drew his interest back to the grate, really was a picture that was worth a thousand words.

"Dr. Jeremiah Stabler's Patented Invigorating Elixir," Artie replied. "Mostly molasses, I'd say."

He couldn't remember buying that particular mixture, though Artie knew he had probably picked it up along the way just in case he needed to change role at some point. Fond as he was of playing the snake oil salesman, with all the opportunities it gave him to really get his teeth into a role, Artie tended to steer clear of the charlatans when he was in some other guise, or none at all., so he certainly wouldn't have purchased it as anything other than a useful prop. He resisted the urge to wipe his hand on his trouser leg, instead reaching into the trunk again in search of more material for the fire.

"Love letters, Artie?"

It was the tone as much as the words that drew Artie's attention, making him turn to look at Jim properly this time. The object of his attention seemed to have settled in for the duration, standing with one hip against the galley counter, arms crossed, as he looked down at where Artie knelt by the grate. There was no easy word for the expression on Jim's face - it seemed to flit between amused and devilish - Artie had to swallow to push back the wave of arousal that those expressions caused. Still, it was always safer to look at Jim's face than it was to look elsewhere, especially from this angle.

Unnamed Jack/Daniel story:

There were some things friends didn't do.

Friends didn't let friends drive drunk; they also didn't act on their gut responses that told them there was more to one another than met the eye. Friends didn't take advantage of their friendship just on the off chance they might get the opportunity to fuck their quite probably straight friends.

And that was what he and Daniel had always been, unlikely as it might have seemed at times, right? Friends. There for one another, picking up the pieces after a tough mission. Making cracks about impending eye strain and cajoling one another to do something different for a change.

Jack knew at times recently he'd acted like an asshole. He was pretty certain Daniel knew it too, along with the rest of the team. Carter never said anything - she wouldn't, it wasn't how she was. Teal'c just watched everything, like he always did, and it didn't take a mind reader to see the disapproval in his eyes. For all the stoic Jaffa warrior stuff, at times Teal'c could be an open book.

But it had to be this way. Anything else spelled disaster, pure and simple. There was no room for emotional ties, at least nothing deeper than the already over-complicated ones SG-1's time together had fostered, on a front line team. Emotional ties got people killed, if they were lucky.

'Turncoat', a Teal'c-centric story. Ever thought that Teal'c was accepted by everyone at the SGC just a little too easily? After all, he's technically been a traitor at least twice over...

Once, when he had first joined the SGC, his quarters had been under permanent surveillance, cameras recording his every move. It had taken O'Neill merely a matter of weeks to persuade General Hammond that was unnecessary - at the time Teal'c had been glad of what little privacy that decision gave him, but now it merely left him feeling more vulnerable than he was used to.

The last time, he had known even as he opened the door, the smell enough to tell him just what had happened. Only his knowledge of the SGC's routines had allowed him to strip and replace the sheets without anyone finding out they had been soiled, while the smell had taken far longer to completely dissipate.

This time, his quarters appeared untouched. Not that he had too much in the way of personal possessions to damage. It was only as he closed the door that he saw it, painted on the wall in still-wet paint. Red, like the blood he'd shed in the service of Apophis, trickling down from the bottom of the scrawled 'traitor' to form small pools on the concrete floor.

There was little he could do about this now. Once the paint was dry, the accusation could be painted over, but in the meantime there was no point in delaying his own routine.

Even as Teal'c lit the candles for kel no reem, the familiar smell of the melting wax filling the room and overtaking the reek of paint, he wondered just what it would take to prove his loyalties to the rest of the SGC once more. If he ever could.

This page created by Graculus - last changed 6/1/2009.