Laying Open

by The Grrrl

Title: Laying Open

Author: The Grrrl

Author's email:

Author's URL:

Archive: Ask first.

Fandom: Stargate SG-1

Pairing: Jack/Paul

Spoilers: Mild spoilers for 4.12 "Tangent."

Summary: Paul takes care of Colonel O'Neill after the events in 4.12 "Tangent."

Notes: Yes, a little detour into Jack/Paul. Because Paul deserves a little smut time, too. A big thank you to the ever-rockin' Kylie Lee, without whom I'd still be glaring at this fic on my hard drive, trying to figure out what the heck I was trying to say.

O'Neill sighed, huddling further into his jacket. Without taking his eyes off the road Paul reached down and turned the heat on, even though it was a warm spring day.

"Thanks," O'Neill said with a small nod, staring out the car window at the cloudless sky.

"No problem, sir." Paul slowed for a red light. "Are you feeling all right?" he asked, then winced. Dumb question. O'Neill had very nearly died by suffocation, as he and Teal'c waited for a rescue. Even though Doctor Fraiser was sending him home, Paul was sure there would be some aftereffects.

To his surprise, O'Neill answer was sincere. "Not too bad, headache's gone." he said.

Paul thought of O'Neill's final transmission to the base. "Headache bad. Send aspirin." Spoken in a voice so weak Paul could barely hear it over the headset. The man had a sense of humor even when facing death.

"Had high hopes for the X-301, though. Would have been damn cool to have one of those babies of our own," O'Neill was saying.

"Yes sir, it would have been."

"That thing really flew," O'Neill mused.

Well, there's always the X-302."

O'Neill brightened. "Yeah," he said, turning to Paul. "Got an inside scoop on that? C'mon, you can tell me. Big honkin' guns on it?"

Biting back a smile, Paul shook his head. "Only the budget. Lots of zeros, sir."

"Aaah." O'Neill leaned back in his seat. "Figures. Big honkin' budget. They damn well better let me fly it at some point. Oh, hey, make a left at this next light."

Paul allowed O'Neill to direct him to his house, winding through the suburbs of Colorado Springs. It was a pleasant enough area, filled with tree-lined streets, lawns fresh and green.

"That's it, right there. Driveway on the left," O'Neill pointed.

Paul stared with interest at the small, one-story ranch set among the pine trees as he turned in to the driveway and braked. Almost a like a cabin, all dark wood surrounding vertical flagstone inlays. Once the car was parked he swung the door open and hurried out, intent on opening the door for the Colonel.

O'Neill was out of the car before Paul was halfway around the hood. "At ease, Major," O'Neill said, amusement in his voice.

Paul skidded to a halt. "Right, sir." He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket, embarrassed. O'Neill was most certainly not an invalid. Gazing at the house, then back at the Colonel, he said, "Well, then, sir, I should be going, unless there's—"

"Why don't you come on in?" O'Neill asked, interrupting him. "Have some coffee? Or a beer?"

Paul couldn't resist the opportunity to see the inside of the man's home. "A beer sounds very good just about now." Maybe not so good given his lack of sleep, but hell, he had earned it. He'd stay only a few minutes. O'Neill was surely tired.

He followed O'Neill into the house, looking about with curiosity. Framed images of planets hung on the walls. A striking photograph of Mars was directly across from the front door. A huge fireplace caught his eye, medals and diplomas displayed proudly on the mantle. Photos lined up on a bookshelf, silver frames reflecting rays of the late afternoon sun. Jack O'Neill's home. It was nicely decorated, yet comfortable and lived-in. Masculine. A reflection of the man himself—easy, relaxed, and charming.

Of course, the man had been anything but relaxed when Paul found him in the infirmary. O'Neill had been demanding rather vigorously that Dr. Fraiser release him, that he was just fine, thank you very much, and would be much better once he got the hell out of dodge. His team surrounded him. Dr. Jackson was patting his shoulder, exchanging sympathetic glances with Major Carter while Teal'c loomed alongside. When Dr. Fraiser finally agreed to release him, Dr. Jackson rapidly explained he had a briefing to attend. Since Major Carter's father was visiting, Paul had promptly offered to drive the Colonel home.

They all turned to stare at him. Paul had been tempted to pull out his driver's license, and maybe his pilot's license, too, just to prove that he really was capable of driving their leader home. He could understand their concern, though. They had all come so closing to losing him. Too close.

"Here you go, Major."

Paul turned and automatically accepted the beer the colonel handed him. "Thank you, sir."

"Do you want a glass? I can do the glass thing, you know."

Paul noticed that O'Neill was drinking his own beer from the bottle, so he said, "No, sir, this is fine." He took a small sip and watched as O'Neill sat down in a comfortable easy chair, stretching out his longs legs with a contented sigh. "I've just been admiring your house," Paul said truthfully. "The fireplace is great."

"It's too bad it's too warm to light it," O'Neill said. "I kind of wanted the place to seem like a cabin. I like to go up north, go fishing, and this reminds me of that. Do you fish?"

"Not really, sir," Paul said. "Where's—where's your cabin?"

He suddenly felt nervous, incapable of making small talk. He covered it up with another sip of beer as he perched on the edge of the couch. O'Neill was sitting in his chair, completely relaxed, beer gripped loosely in his hand as he answered. Paul made appropriate noises, distracted by O'Neill's appearance. Despite his recent ordeal, O'Neill looked damn good. He was a handsome man, as befitting a hero, strong features, fine jaw, wayward gray hair standing up in tufts. He was a man who could cut through the crap, who knew how to see past the bullshit and get the heart of the matter. He didn't mince words. After so many years in DC, it was a trait Paul truly appreciated. Hell, O'Neill was a man he truly appreciated.

"And it looked so damn much like Kinsey that I seriously considered having it stuffed and mounted on a little plaque." O'Neill grinned at Paul, looking impossibly young, and Paul felt his heart give a little squeeze. "But I grilled and ate it instead."

"I think that was just as appropriate," Paul told him. He was not fond of the senator. Few were. Yet O'Neill was the only person he knew, military or civilian, who openly gave voice to his opinion.

O'Neill nodded. "I thought so." He grinned briefly before raising the beer bottle to his lips.

They sat quietly for a moment, O'Neill gazing at the empty fireplace, deep in thought. "Fishing. I could use some down time right about now." His voice held an almost wistful note.

Paul grew uncomfortable, feeling as though he was intruding on the man's private space. "I should probably get going," he said, setting his half-empty beer bottle on the coffee table. He wiped his palms on his thighs as he stood. "Is there anything you need? I have time to run to the store if you do."

"No, no, really Major, I'm fine," O'Neill said, waving Paul away. "Thanks for the lift home."

"Your welcome, sir. Thank you for the beer." Paul started for his jacket, which he'd laid across the back of the sofa, but he hesitated in front of O'Neill. "Listen, sir," said, kneeling. Aware that O'Neill's eyes were on him, he carefully placed a hand on O'Neill's knee. His heart pounded—he was being crazy; this was Colonel O'Neill, for god's sake, but if anyone was worth the risk, it was him. "Are you sure there isn't anything else I can do for you?" Paul asked pointedly, as he had asked men in uniform so many times before. "Anything at all?"

Paul tightened his grip on O'Neill's leg, and O'Neill stared down at his hand, unblinking. Most men, if they weren't interested, would pretend to not understand what Paul was offering—either that, or they really didn't get it. Paul was never sure. He just knew that more often than not, they would pick up on it. It didn't matter if they were straight. Because no matter what their rank was, a mouth was a mouth, and despite the fact that Paul was a man they seemed to have no problem accepting what Paul was offering.

But O'Neill sat there, unmoving, gazing at Paul's hand. The silence stretched. Paul waited, looking at O'Neill, his hand pressed against O'Neill's knee. O'Neill didn't look at him directly. Paul became even more nervous, wondering if he had made a huge mistake, the kind of mistake that could destroy his career. Of course O'Neill was going to call him out on it, ask him what the hell did he think he was doing. That was the kind of man O'Neill was. Paul was on the verge of outright panic, imagining himself cleaning toilets in Alaska, or being assigned to liaison work in Siberia. He took a breath, about to rock back on his heels and wish the man goodnight, beat a hasty retreat, when at last O'Neill shifted in the chair. He opened his legs with a brief nod of his head.

"Sure," O'Neill murmured, his voice casual. Now he looked at Paul, tilting his head a little to the side, eyes unreadable. "If you want."

Releasing his pent-up breath, Paul reached for O'Neill's fly, hands surprisingly steady. Shit, he thought, he was really going to do this. O'Neill's hands got there first, unsnapping his trousers, unzipping. Their hands bumped as Paul slid felt his way inside, running his hands over O'Neill's briefs. O'Neill pulled his arms back and allowed Paul to tug on the waistband. Insinuating himself between O'Neill's legs as he slid O'Neill's pants down. Paul gazed with fascination at all that hair, and then finally revealed O'Neill's dick, nice and red, already hard and just waiting to be sucked.

He cupped it in his hands, heart beating wildly. It was a good-looking cock, long and thick with a sloped, broad head. He bent down and took it into his mouth, slowly, savoring the sensation of a hard cock between his lips. It didn't happen nearly often enough. O'Neill breathed in deeply as Paul sucked, not quite a gasp, but something close. Paul shivered as he ran his tongue over the satiny skin, stretched tight over all that hard flesh. Sucking cock always gave him a wonderful rush. O'Neill tasted delicious, sharp and salty and Paul's own cock stiffened in response. He was doing something illicit, something forbidden. He felt incredibly dirty and nasty and he loved it.

O'Neill's cock got harder as Paul sucked it in deep, eliciting a grunt. He ran his hands over O'Neill's thighs—hard, muscular thighs, thighs of man who strode across strange foreign planets for a living—then began working his mouth steadily up and down O'Neill's shaft. Relaxing his throat expertly, Paul swallowed until his nose was buried in O'Neill's wiry curls. O'Neill smelled of soap and sweat, and Paul wanted to sniff the soft skin behind his balls, wanted to bury his tongue in all the dark places. He wanted to lose himself in another man's body, something he hadn't dared do, not for years. A hard cock in his mouth, the moan of a superior office being not quite so superior—that had to be enough.

And this time the hard cock in his mouth was O'Neill's cock. Colonel O'Neill, his superior officer, sighing with pleasure, sliding down in his seat, straining into Paul mouth just like any ordinary man would.

Paul kept his eyes trained on O'Neill's stomach, on the pale, almost delicate skin, the shadowed navel, the line of hair trailing down. His eyes wandered to the edge of his trousers, the metal zipper glinting in the light. Another sigh caught his attention, and when Paul glanced up he was startled to find O'Neill watching him, eyes half-closed, face lax with pleasure while his hands gripped the arms of the chair. Paul glanced away hurriedly, his face growing hot as he ran his tongue roughly across and then underneath the smooth head.

None of the officers Paul had done in the past had watched him. No, they kept their eyes closed, imagining, Paul always thought, some sultry blonde with big red lips sucking them off, or whatever the hell it was that straight men fantasized about. But O'Neill—he was watching Paul. O'Neill actually wanted to see his cock disappear into Paul's mouth. Even though it made him self-conscious there was something undeniably erotic about being watched like that; O'Neill being fully aware it was him, not pretending it was someone else entirely. The thought made his erection painfully hard.

When O'Neill's breathing quickened, Paul picked up the pace, tasting the first few bitter drops of precome. O'Neill's body tensed. A hand came to rest lightly on Paul's shoulder, then touched the side of his head. He heard a whispered gasp, and then O'Neill came silently. Almost moaning, Paul eagerly swallowed the hot liquid pulsing into his mouth. It was perfect, just perfect, the way O'Neill's cock jerked in his mouth, the sensation of come shooting down his throat, the sound of O'Neill's ragged breathing. Paul couldn't help but feel smug as he worked the last drops out of O'Neill's cock, letting it slide out of his mouth as he licked it clean. O'Neill shuddered, then was still.

Paul glanced up, but O'Neill didn't move. His eyes were closed, the remains of a grimace lingering on his face. Paul readjusted O'Neill's briefs, carefully tucking him back in, then refastened his pants. He sat back on his heels, and still O'Neill remained unmoving, breathing lightly. Paul admired the fine, high cheekbones, the slightly open mouth, allowing himself to think briefly about those lips, ones that usually smirked but also could be firm and straight in anger, but he didn't let himself think any further than that. Because his own cock was aching. The bathroom, Paul decided in desperation. He could sneak off into the bathroom and jerk off, with the smell of O'Neill's cock still on his fingertips. He rose to his feet and tried to carefully step over O'Neill's sprawled legs, but the coffee table was in the way. His foot brushed against O'Neill's shin.

"Going somewhere?" An iron hand grasped his wrist.

"I was—sorry, sir, I thought I'd be leaving—" Paul faltered as O'Neill tugged his arm. He turned, almost stumbling, wondering what the hell O'Neill was doing. The man was relentlessly pulling him closer.

"So tell me, Major, is there anything I can do for you?" O'Neill smiled in a way that Paul had never seen before.

"Sir, I—please, oh god," he gasped as O'Neill's hand had found its way to Paul's crotch, pressing against Paul's painfully obvious erection.

"Oh yeah. I think so. Come here." O'Neill yanked his arm hard this time, and Paul found himself literally falling into O'Neill's lap. He managed, thank god, to land with a knee on either side of O'Neill's body, but his shoulder crashed against O'Neill's chest.

"Sorry, sir, sorry," he said, aghast even though the man took his weight easily. He put a hand on O'Neill's shoulder, righting himself, balancing with his weight on his knees. Before he could say anything, before he could slither off, O'Neill unzipped his pants and tugged down Paul's white cotton briefs, freeing his straining erection. Paul could only watch in amazement, unable to remove his hand from that hard, bony shoulder. He was sure he was going to come the instant he felt the large, rough hand wrap itself around his cock, because, oh god, that was Colonel Jack O'Neill pumping his cock with firm, steady strokes. "Colonel?" he said as it slowly sank into his lust-addled mind: O'Neill knew exactly what to do with another man's cock.

"Take this off," O'Neill commanded, tugging at the tail of Paul's shirt.

"Yes, sir."

Paul, fingers clumsy, began unbuttoning his shirt, gasping for breath. His head was spinning. He was on O'Neill's lap, his lap of all things, and O'Neill's hand was still on his cock. The second Paul finished unbuttoning his shirt, the colonel pulled it off his shoulders, running his hand over Paul's newly bared chest, pinching his nipples as he squeezed Paul's cock. Paul clutched the chair's arms, moaning freely, unashamed by all the noise he was making because it had been so long since anyone cared to reciprocate, so long since anyone had bothered to touch him like this. He was so damn grateful.

"Sweet," O'Neill said, sounding pleased. "You like this." He leaned forward, and Paul felt a hot, wet mouth on his nipple. He had to close his eyes at sharp stab of pleasure, his heart pounding so hard he thought it might explode.

"Yes, yes, yes," he whispered, his mouth dry. He could hardly speak, it was just so astonishingly good. It got even better when O'Neill bit him lightly, little shocks of pleasure all across his chest. Paul thought he might just die right there, from the sensory overload alone. Already at the edge, close, his hips rocking wildly as the pleasure spiraled out of control. "Oh, god, I'm—I'm—" he stammered, trying warn O'Neill, unable to get the words out, beyond speaking. He felt O'Neill move, and he looked down to see O'Neill leaning forward, pulling up his own shirt as he angled Paul's cock. O'Neill wanted it on his stomach. The very thought of it was too much, and Paul came sharply, hips jerking as his climax slammed into his body, spattering O'Neill with his come.

Afterward, Paul slumped against O'Neill, his body trembling, head hanging down, chest heaving, his cock still nestled in O'Neill's hand. Paul decided that life just didn't get any better. Boneless and spent, he suspected he was becoming just a little giddy, especially with O'Neill's face so close to his—he could feel the tickle of hair right up against his temple. If he turned his head just a little, moved it a little closer, his lips would touch O'Neill's cheek. If he dared.

He must have been giddy, because he made the move, turning his head. O'Neill did too, until Paul's lips were up against O'Neill's mouth. It seemed like the most natural thing in the world for Paul to press his lips against that mouth. O'Neill's mouth responded, and then they were kissing, O'Neill's tongue slipping into Paul's mouth, surprisingly sweet and gentle. O'Neill made a contented little noise that sounded suspiciously like there was nothing in the world he'd rather be doing than kissing Paul.

The kiss went on and on. Paul was reluctant to stop, even when things got wet and messy, because O'Neill was a damn good kisser, and really, they couldn't get any messier because Paul's come was everywhere. He hadn't realized how much he had missed this kind of intimacy, stubbly whiskers rasping at his face, a sweaty hand cupping his neck, fingers toying with the hairs at the nape of his neck. Maybe O'Neill missed it too. With that thought, Paul boldly kissed O'Neill's jaw, lips trailing up over his cheek, his eyelids, his forehead, his own hand stealing into O'Neill's spiky gray hair.

At last he pulled back to find O'Neill gazing at him with unmistakable warmth and affection. "Thank you," Paul said quietly, although words couldn't possibly convey the gratitude he felt. And the amazement. O'Neill, of all people. He had never suspected, never dreamed that O'Neill could possibly be the same as he.

"No, thank you, Davis. I needed it." O'Neill shook his head with a huff of laugher. He looked pleased. "But damn, you've got balls, you know that?"

"So do you, sir." They gazed at each other a moment longer. "I didn't know, sir," Paul finally said, growing serious. He wanted to reassure O'Neill, even though it probably wasn't necessary.

"No, you didn't," O'Neill told him. "No one does."

Paul trailed his hand down O'Neill's chest, over his crumpled shirt, touching the streaks of come smeared across O'Neill's stomach. "It's been such a long time," Paul said, "since I've been with anyone. Since I had a chance to be with someone. I just want you to know I really appreciate it."

O'Neill watched Paul's hand moving on his stomach. "I know what it's like, believe me."

Thinking of O'Neill's many years in service, Paul asked bluntly, "It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

"No, it doesn't." O'Neill shrugged. "Maybe someday."

Paul nodded at the unspoken sentiment. He wondered about O'Neill's marriage, whether O'Neill had been happy, whether it was what he had truly wanted. He wondered how much O'Neill had given up. He was more fascinated with the man than ever before, had so many questions he dared not ask. O'Neill's personal life was his own business, and it was going to stay that way. Paul's business was back in Washington. "I should get cleaned up," he said, reluctant to end the moment, but knowing it was necessary.

"Sure. The bathroom is down the hall," O'Neill said, helping as Paul carefully slid off his lap, trying to keep his pants clean. "Washcloths are in the linen closet on the right." His fingers lingered on Paul's arm, giving a little squeeze before letting go.

Once in the bathroom, Paul caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, shirt hanging off one shoulder, pants gaping open. He was amused by his reflection, by the dazed look on his face as he wiped himself down distractedly with the damp washcloth. It would take some time for him to come back down to earth, days for what happened to really sink in. Right now he would allow himself the moment of reverie. Because not only had O'Neill rather expertly jerked him off, hell, that more than blew his mind, but also O'Neill had kissed him. Or he had kissed O'Neill. He wasn't sure which. Paul finished, buttoning up his shirt, tucking it in, patted down his hair. Major Paul Davis regarded him thoughtfully from the mirror. Such a proper and polite young officer.

As he came out of the bathroom, he found O'Neill talking on the phone, bare chested, absently wiping his stomach with his T-shirt. "Okay, yeah, Daniel, get me the usual," O'Neill said. He looked good, his torso long and lean. Paul couldn't help but admire the view. He had just come all over that stomach.

"Get extra guacamole this time, though. You've seen how Carter and Teal'c go at that stuff. I never get any. Actually, I'm afraid to even go near it. Carter gets that look in eye, scares the bejesus out me."

Ah, Paul thought. The team, taking care of their own. Jack O'Neill was in good hands. He reached for his jacket. Time for him to leave anyway, he thought as he checked his watch.

"Wait, hold on, let me ask him." O'Neill dropped the T-shirt and put his hand over the mouthpiece. "Hey, stay for dinner? Daniel's picking up Mexican. Best beef burritos around. They'll be here in about an hour or so."

It was a nice gesture. Polite. "Thank you sir, but no, I have to catch a plane," Paul said.

"So cancel it and stay for dinner."

"It's the last one out tonight," Paul explained.

"Stay anyway. Leave tomorrow," O'Neill insisted.

He was sincere, Paul suddenly realized. O'Neill genuinely wanted him to join them. "I have a meeting with the joint chiefs first thing tomorrow," he explained, wishing desperately that it wasn't so.

"So cancel it," O'Neill answered promptly. "Tell them something came up."

Paul began to smile, because O'Neill was being charming—almost flirty. And he was flirting with him, Paul, of all people. It was enough to make him almost consider blowing off the meeting. And blowing O'Neill. Again. "I really wish I could, sir. But—" he waved his hands helplessly. "I can't."

O'Neill sighed dramatically. He spoke into the phone again. "Nope, Davis says no way—he's seen you eat, and it's so not a pretty sight."

Paul had to laugh, because O'Neill was being outrageous. "Sir," he protested, hoping Dr. Jackson would realize O'Neill was kidding.

"Okay, see you then. Bye—what? Yes, of course, Daniel, bring beer." O'Neill hung up.

Paul pulled on his jacket, patting the pockets for his keys. "Sorry I have to run, sir. I appreciate the invitation."

"It really is good Mexican," O'Neill said. "Not to mention that if you eat enough of those refried beans, you'll have the whole section of the plane to yourself."

"Is that your secret to flying, Colonel?" Paul couldn't help but ask. "Remind me never to sit next to you on a flight."

"Consider yourself warned." O'Neill walked him to the door, then stopped him with a hand to his shoulder. "You really have to leave so soon?"

Something in the tone of O'Neill's voice made Paul's stomach flutter. "I have to return the car, and my flight—yes, I have to go," Paul said, disconcerted by the sudden closeness of O'Neill's bare chest as O'Neill closed in on him. "I wish I didn't," he added, just before O'Neill kissed him. Kissed him soundly, easing an arm around Paul's waist. Paul leaned into his body, the heat of O'Neill's skin burning against his hands.

"I really wish I didn't," Paul murmured minutes later when O'Neill finally released him. He wanted another kiss, he wanted that mouth on his chest, he wanted that mouth all over his body. His fingers traced swirls of hair across O'Neill's chest. He wanted to follow the hair down to O'Neill's cock again. He wanted to get on his knees again. For O'Neill.

"You know," O'Neill said. "I'll be in DC for the damn budget thing. That's what, two weeks from now?"

Paul was startled, even though he shouldn't have been, because he had scheduled the meeting last month and knew O'Neill had to attend. "Yes, sir. You will be, sir."

"Maybe we can get together the night before to go over—to go over—stuff." O'Neill sounded oddly tentative. "If that works for you. You know, with your schedule."

Paul blinked. O'Neill wanted to see him again. "Yes, sir. Absolutely, sir. There are certain reports I really could use your input on," Paul said, making no attempt to hide his eagerness.

O'Neill smiled. "Okay. Good. It's set then."

"Right, sir," Paul said. "Yes. Set. We're…set." Paul stepped back as O'Neill opened the door for him. "Enjoy your dinner, sir."

"It would be more fun if you could stay," O'Neill said. "Next time."

Paul smiled. He had a feeling he was going to smile a lot for the next two weeks. "Yes, sir," he said as he stepped out into the sunlight.

Stargate SG-1 (including all characters and images) is the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. No copyright infringement is intended or should be inferred. This is a nonprofit fan site.

The Grrrl's site is maintained by The Grrrl