nanda’s lament

R, Sam/Jack/Daniel. Takes place in Katie’s In the Wrong Story universe, but is not a canonical part of that universe. Also, Daniel beat Jack at chess in Legacy, but for the purposes of this story I’m assuming Jack was just having an off day, what with Daniel going crackers and all. Thanks: Katie for letting me play in her sandbox and even helping me to do it, Karen and Julie for the betas, and Wiley for the chess beta. Also, many apologies to Teal’c. Poor Teal’c. He’s the sluttiest of them all and he doesn’t get to play. So sad.

Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit.

One of these days Jack is going to have to break down and make a better table.

It’s not as if Daniel is ever going to do it. Carter could, if she cared enough, which she doesn’t, so that leaves Jack. And anyway, he’s the one with the 55-year-old back. He’s also the one who’s been complaining about this for the four months he’s lived here.

The one they’ve got by the couch now is fine for many things. It’s fine for resting feet on, for dumping books on, for writing or eating on while sitting on the floor (both of which apply only to Carter). What it is not fine for is chess. Jack’s spine objects. Strenuously.

He digs a fist into the small of his back again, hoping neither of them will notice. Maybe later he can talk his way into a massage, if he promises to return the favor.

Daniel takes off his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose, staring at the board. Jack looks at the window. It’s only late afternoon, but the sky outside is already dark with the winter rain, and the room is lit by the fire and a bunch of candles. There’s no use in wasting fuel for a game of chess.

“I’m gonna get Carter to rig me up one of those timer things, Daniel.”

“Oh, leave me alone. I’m trying to think.” Daniel hates to lose, but he loves chess. And when he’s playing either Jack or Carter, who are pretty much the only people he ever plays, he often loses. And it often takes a very, very long time.

So Jack has to occupy himself with something, or someone, else. And there’s only one other option.

Carter’s squeezed between the couch and the table, furiously scribbling numbers and lines in what might be a plan to get them indoor plumbing or what might be a design for a warp engine. She’s completely immersed, off in some genius zone far away from them and possibly far away from this planet. She hasn’t said a word or looked up in, oh, forty-five minutes, at least. And while she works, she’s moving her lips in silent thought. Jack might think it was adorable, if he were the kind of guy who thought that kind of thing. But he’s not.

He leans forward to see her more clearly, ignores his back’s order to get out of this position, and balances his elbows on his knees. She doesn’t notice him watching. She never did.

He hears pieces move, looks back to the board, and sees Daniel muttering.

“Okay. That’s it.”

“That’s your move?”

“That’s my move.”

Jack smiles, trying to make it look smug or evil or somewhere in between. He spends a few seconds drumming his fingers on the edge of the board, then captures one of Daniel’s knights.

Daniel swears. Jack chuckles, studies the board for another second, and looks back at Carter.

Just to see what will happen, he slides one wool-socked foot over the floor until it reaches her thigh. She absently pats his ankle, without looking up from the solution to world hunger (which may or may not still need solving), and goes back to work.

Oh, now this — this is entertainment. He taps his toes against her a couple times and gets no response. So he stretches out on the mildewed old couch, lines up his head behind hers, and props himself up with one arm. He tries rubbing light circles between her shoulder blades and gets a “hmmm” in a sort of that’s nice, dear tone. Plan B is blowing on her neck, which makes her swat as if he were a mosquito. It drives her crazy when mosquitoes get in the house.

Jack peers over her shoulder. Nope, still makes no sense. And he’s not sure where she acquired graph paper, either. Sometimes he wonders when she and Daniel knocked over a Wal-Mart.

Wood clicks against wood and Daniel sounds pleased with himself. “Jack. Your move.”

“Queen’s bishop four to king’s knight eight.”

“You didn’t even see what I did!”

“I don’t need to see what you did, Daniel.”

Daniel mumbles, moves the bishop, and then says, “Oh, you bastard.”

Jack leans forward and licks Carter’s neck. He doesn’t usually make the first move on either of them, but hey, that had to change eventually. And he really wants to see what will happen next.

“Jack.” Finally! “I’m trying to work here.”

“I’m not stopping you.” He kisses the same spot. Then kisses it some more.

“I thought you were playing chess?” she says, her voice a blend of irritation and amusement.

“He’s showing off, is what he’s doing,” Daniel cuts in.

Carter tastes like sweat and rain, from chopping wood earlier. “Moved yet, Daniel?” Jack asks.

“No. And I’m never having sex with either one of you again.”

Carter sniggers. “Sure you’re not.” Jack bites her, just a little.

“Jack,” she whines, “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” he says against her skin. She makes a noise she usually reserves for generators that won’t start and fires that are too wet to light. But, he notices, she doesn’t move to the other side of the table, either. He slides one hand under her arm and tweaks a nipple through her fleece. That little sigh means she’s starting to get turned on, he knows it does, but still she tells him to stop.

So he tugs at her shirt and reaches underneath. At this she inhales sharply and, he’s sure, shuts her eyes. And says nothing.

“Jack,” Daniel says.

“King to king’s knight seven.”

“I was going to ask if we were still playing.”

“We’re playing,” Jack says, inching his mouth toward Carter’s jaw. “Just … not chess.” He tucks a thumb under the waistband of her jeans and she whimpers.

Jack can imagine Daniel’s grin. “That couch isn’t big enough for three, you know.”

“Neither is the bed,” Jack points out.

“Who said anything about three?” That’s Carter, who sighs happily as Jack pushes aside her bra to get at the skin beneath. She reaches back and lays a hand on his head, arching towards him. Jack’s back still hurts but it doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Plus, the odds on that massage are getting better by the minute.

“You know,” Daniel says, “if I’d known how slutty the two of you would turn out to be, I might have rethought this whole arrangement.”

Carter’s head turns. “If you’d known how slutty we’d turn out to be,” she says, “you’d have jumped us both three years ago.”

Jack cups one breast in his palm and pulls back to look at Daniel. “Four, I think,” he says.

“Five? Maybe five.” She drags Jack’s head back to her neck, and with her other hand guides his fingers down past her belly.

Then there’s movement, and the sound of the table being shoved aside, and Daniel unzipping the fly of Jack’s worn khakis, and Jack isn’t sure but he thinks Carter’s reached out for Daniel, completing the circle, and then he stops thinking altogether.

“Um, guys?” Carter asks some time later. “You think we could move this upstairs? My butt’s asleep.”

Daniel ceases and desists the very nice things he’d been doing to Jack’s dick. “Fine by me,” he says.

Jack groans. “Oh, you bastard.”

“Hard to walk that way,” Daniel explains, and starts blowing out candles.

“We could’ve at least tried.”

Carter laughs, standing, and reaches out a hand to help him off the couch. “I’m not that old,” he mutters, but he takes the hand anyway. And then Carter’s pulling him to the stairs, and Daniel’s pushing him from behind, and Jack doesn’t feel particularly old at all.

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