He decided it was better not to mention it, but it did make him curious. With Vala around and all, he hadn't figured Jackson for the type who didn't get laid regular, but then he spent a lot of time in the mountain staring at old artifacts. Didn't exactly get out much.
He made it a point to ask Jackson out for a beer, after they got home. Jackson sounded cranky when he turned Cam down, and Cam agonized for a day or two about whether Jackson had thought he'd been asking for more than that beer. He'd thought he'd been perfectly clear about it--"it'd take more than some funky alien paint job to make us act weird with each other, right?"--but who the hell knew what Jackson thought about things like alien paint rituals? Maybe he just wanted to remember it and get it down in his mission reports in peace.
3. For God's sake, don't drink unidentified booze out of a horn. Also: Do not let Jackson drink said unidentified booze.
Jackson relaxed and happy was an unfamiliar sight. Cam liked it--more than he'd admit in public, that was for sure--and he plopped himself down on the ground, elbowing Jackson in the ribs once he got there.
"I can see why y'all like this place," he said. Jackson handed him the horn full of whatever-in-hell, and Cam shrugged and took a swig. It went down smoother than he'd expected; it tasted like a good beer and had an after-the-fact kick like a hit of neat scotch. He expected a cough to come any second; when it didn't, he raised both eyebrows and looked into the horn. "How much of this stuff have you had?"
"Enough," Jackson said. He nudged Cam's shoulder with his own and took the horn back. "Well, not enough, the horn's not empty."
"I can help with that."
"Uh-uh. Get your own."
Cam shrugged and made his way over to the buffet tables, nodding and smiling at everybody he passed--it was nice, for once, to be on a planet full of people who were sane and friendly, and who didn't want to kill them, strip them, steal from them, or sell them into slavery. He managed to find his own horn full of beer-scotch-whatever, and he took it back to Jackson, who stood up--wobbling only a little--once Cam got there.
"Going somewhere?" Cam asked.
"I think we'd better get a tent before they all fill up."
"Sam and Teal'c probably have one--"
"Trust me," Jackson said, and he led Cam off to a tent on the outskirts of the celebration. It was quiet, it was warm enough, there was room for two; Cam took a few long drinks out of his horn, ignoring the way it made the tent spin just a little, and he undid the laces on his boots one-handed, pushing his boots off as soon as he could.
"Oh, damn, that feels good," he mumbled, wriggling his toes. "You don't mind, do you?"
"No." Jackson polished off what was left in his horn and set it aside, unlacing his own boots and kicking them aside. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten a flashlight out, turned it on; most of the light was buried in the blankets, but there was enough illumination to let him keep an eye on Jackson as he drank.
He kept watching Jackson as his horn went from mostly-full to three-quarters full to half-full (a lot less than half-full, now that he thought about it, given the way volume of a cone worked), and at the halfway point he offered it to Jackson again. "You want some more?"
"No," Jackson said, and he moved closer, giving Cam just enough time to think wait, what the fuck before he fucking bit Cam's shoulder.
Cam dropped the horn, booze spilling over the blankets, and jerked away. "Jackson--"
"Mitchell," Jackson said, grabbing Cam by the front of his shirt and levering him onto his back. "So you know who I am. And I know who you are. We're one up on most of the people in these tents."
Jackson was stretching out all over Cam, pushing a thigh between Cam's legs, and Cam groaned, eyes closing. "You are so piss-fucking-drunk," Cam groaned. "And you're gonna hate the both of us in the morning. Get off me."
"Believe it or not, yalatta wine doesn't lead to hangovers," Jackson said, bending his head down and biting the side of Cam's neck.
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Well, You Didn't Make It Easy (2/4)
Date: 2008-01-03 03:52 pm (UTC)He made it a point to ask Jackson out for a beer, after they got home. Jackson sounded cranky when he turned Cam down, and Cam agonized for a day or two about whether Jackson had thought he'd been asking for more than that beer. He'd thought he'd been perfectly clear about it--"it'd take more than some funky alien paint job to make us act weird with each other, right?"--but who the hell knew what Jackson thought about things like alien paint rituals? Maybe he just wanted to remember it and get it down in his mission reports in peace.
3. For God's sake, don't drink unidentified booze out of a horn. Also: Do not let Jackson drink said unidentified booze.
Jackson relaxed and happy was an unfamiliar sight. Cam liked it--more than he'd admit in public, that was for sure--and he plopped himself down on the ground, elbowing Jackson in the ribs once he got there.
"I can see why y'all like this place," he said. Jackson handed him the horn full of whatever-in-hell, and Cam shrugged and took a swig. It went down smoother than he'd expected; it tasted like a good beer and had an after-the-fact kick like a hit of neat scotch. He expected a cough to come any second; when it didn't, he raised both eyebrows and looked into the horn. "How much of this stuff have you had?"
"Enough," Jackson said. He nudged Cam's shoulder with his own and took the horn back. "Well, not enough, the horn's not empty."
"I can help with that."
"Uh-uh. Get your own."
Cam shrugged and made his way over to the buffet tables, nodding and smiling at everybody he passed--it was nice, for once, to be on a planet full of people who were sane and friendly, and who didn't want to kill them, strip them, steal from them, or sell them into slavery. He managed to find his own horn full of beer-scotch-whatever, and he took it back to Jackson, who stood up--wobbling only a little--once Cam got there.
"Going somewhere?" Cam asked.
"I think we'd better get a tent before they all fill up."
"Sam and Teal'c probably have one--"
"Trust me," Jackson said, and he led Cam off to a tent on the outskirts of the celebration. It was quiet, it was warm enough, there was room for two; Cam took a few long drinks out of his horn, ignoring the way it made the tent spin just a little, and he undid the laces on his boots one-handed, pushing his boots off as soon as he could.
"Oh, damn, that feels good," he mumbled, wriggling his toes. "You don't mind, do you?"
"No." Jackson polished off what was left in his horn and set it aside, unlacing his own boots and kicking them aside. Somewhere along the way he'd gotten a flashlight out, turned it on; most of the light was buried in the blankets, but there was enough illumination to let him keep an eye on Jackson as he drank.
He kept watching Jackson as his horn went from mostly-full to three-quarters full to half-full (a lot less than half-full, now that he thought about it, given the way volume of a cone worked), and at the halfway point he offered it to Jackson again. "You want some more?"
"No," Jackson said, and he moved closer, giving Cam just enough time to think wait, what the fuck before he fucking bit Cam's shoulder.
Cam dropped the horn, booze spilling over the blankets, and jerked away. "Jackson--"
"Mitchell," Jackson said, grabbing Cam by the front of his shirt and levering him onto his back. "So you know who I am. And I know who you are. We're one up on most of the people in these tents."
Jackson was stretching out all over Cam, pushing a thigh between Cam's legs, and Cam groaned, eyes closing. "You are so piss-fucking-drunk," Cam groaned. "And you're gonna hate the both of us in the morning. Get off me."
"Believe it or not, yalatta wine doesn't lead to hangovers," Jackson said, bending his head down and biting the side of Cam's neck.