Hopped Up


Daniel was hopped up on goofballs. Frasier had a more technical term for it, but Jack liked his better.

So Jack was babysitting. Making sure the patient didn't brain himself in the tub or eat an ant trap or something. Daniel was pretty pliable and obedient for once, and didn't seem interested in eating ant traps.

But there was something just not right about the way he was leaning in the kitchen doorway, his track pants barely hooked on his hipbones, his shirt undone and that new Mark 2 post-descension muscled chest and let's not forget to mention the abs-- Jack reached to grab the kettle before it started to howl. He tried to forget mentioning the abs.

"Nice abs," Jack said.

Say, what?

Jack considered a lobotomy. Then he considered that he probably already had one, hence the brain-mouth breakdown.

"Did you just say, 'nice abs?'" Daniel's eyes didn't exactly have spirals in them, but close enough.

"You're hearing things. It's the goofballs."

"I'm hearing goofballs?"

"No, the goofballs are making you hear things."

Daniel appeared to consider this for a moment. Then he shrugged and scratched his abs.

Jack poured water into the teapot and didn't watch Daniel's fingers moving across his skin.

Reaching up and back, Daniel grabbed the top of the doorframe, then leaned forward and stretched with a satisfied, groaning sigh. Jack counted to sixty by threes and stared at the teabags steeping in the pot.

"Y'know," Daniel began as though a propos of nothing, "these drugs have an interesting effect on the, uh, whatchacallit." He dropped his arms and leaned over Jack's shoulder to look into the teapot. What he saw was probably fascinating to him, too, because he stopped talking and just stood there, breathing on the side of Jack's neck.

Jack gripped the edge of the counter and silently rhymed off all the ways he could kill a man with his left foot. Then he did the right foot and was starting on the right hand when Daniel's right hand slipped inside the back of Jack's shirt. Jack added this maneuver to his list.

"The, uh, whatchacallit?"

"Hmm, yeah, that," Daniel said in a sort of musing half-whisper, which meant--Jack didn't want to think about what it meant, except that his brain and other parts of him were already sidling up to what it meant, grinning. The side of Daniel's hand was nestled perfectly in the indentation of Jack's lower spine, and his fingers were loose and feathery light and his thumb was moving back and forth across Jack's skin like the slowly swishing tail of a cat. The kind of cat that looks like it's sleeping but you can tell it's getting ready to pounce because of the slowly swishing tail.

The tea was getting pretty dark, but Jack couldn't seem to unclench his fingers in order to open the cupboard and get out the cups.

"Hmmm," Daniel hummed again and shifted his weight so that now his chest was pressed against Jack's arm and shoulder. "The abs are good, then?"

"Abs." Jack made an elaborately casual expression for his face and attempted to keep it there. "Sure. Good in combat. Hand to h--"

"Hand." Daniel finished helpfully. His muscles were tensing, the caressing thumb moving just a little faster, more urgently. Jack felt like a mouse. A colonel-sized, busting out of his skin mouse.



He could actually feel his own name as it curled out between Daniel's lips like a wreath of smoke. His fingernails made a scraping sound on the counter. I am so screwed, he thought.

"That's true," Daniel said.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"I'm hearing things." Daniel's mouth was right against his ear. "Apparently."

For somebody hopped up on goofballs, Daniel was pretty smooth on his feet. Slipping between Jack and the counter--somehow Jack's fingers unclenched when Daniel's hand brushed over them--he spun them in a kind of tango turn so that Jack's back was against the refrigerator and Daniel was leaning into him, nose to nose. No escape.

"Uh, I... it's the drugs, Daniel. The, uh, whatchacallit's all goofed up with the..., with the... it's not right." Daniel's chest was about two thousand degrees. Jack was sure he could smell his clothes burning off of him. "Daniel."

"Jack." This time Jack really did feel his name spilling from Daniel's tongue, because Daniel said it using Jack's own breath, sighed it into Jack's mouth while watching him through half-closed eyes.

Holy fuck, Jack thought.

"Hum-hmm," Daniel replied.

"Daniel." He pushed him back and fixed him with what he suspected wasn't a very convincing glare. "The drugs--"

"Wore off hours ago."


Notes:  It's Martha's fault. Her and her goofball kink.

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