Strawberry Ice Cream
a Stargate SG-1 story
by dirty diana
all the mad beta love in the world to sf fan . Who thinks that there's J/D subtext in this story, but I have no idea what she's talking about. Title reference is the Counting Crows, as usual. Well baby I surrender/To the strawberry ice cream/Never ever end of all this love.
She calls his name into the wind, but gets no response as he weaves ahead of her, underneath the lit streetlamps. The sun has been down for barely an hour, the warm air of an Indian summer still clinging to the concrete and seeping up from the ground. Daniel leads Sam by the hand, away from the sounds drifting through Colonel O'Neill's open front door.
"Daniel, we canít."
"Daniel, we can't." His low voice mimics hers, sound trailing after him as he walks.
She frowns, watching his shadow moving on the ground. She's not used to being the shy one. "If the colonel catches us..." she begins.
"Jack's not going to catch us," he says, stopping abruptly and leaning back against the gleaming clean finish of the Colonel's Ford. She stumbles on a pebble, and he reaches out to catch her with one sure hand, arms sweeping around her waist to draw her closer. "Jack is busy telling that story about the time he almost caught the monster-sized bass. That story is at least an hour long."
He's exaggerating, as usual. She smiles. "He might get distracted."
"Distracted?" Daniel repeats. "Jack? From a story about fishing?"
"We could go to your car."
Daniel shakes his head, at the mention of his cramped and cluttered Toyota. "Can't," he whispers into the crook of her neck. "Jack took away my car keys about four glasses of wine ago."
"Oh." His mouth traces her skin, tickling slightly. His skin is warm and flushed, his pupils slightly unfocused as he studies her mouth as she talks. "Four glasses, huh?"
"I guess," he says. "I haven't really been counting."
He lets go of her, thighs and waist still touching, and reaches into his pocket. The Ford doors unlock with a beep and a click.
"Do I want to know how you ended up with those?" she asks him.
"Probably not." He twists the handle, and nods at her with a lopsided half-smile. "Ladies first."
"That's not going to work," she points out.
He frowns, considering the truck's tight front seat. His hand seeks out hers again, fingers tapping a reassuring rhythm in the centre of her palm. "Okay," he says. "You're the physicist."
"I am," she agrees, watching him climb into the passenger side seat, wobbling slightly with each motion. "I guess that makes you the linguist."
"I guess it would," he agrees, as she climbs in on top of him.
Easily he accepts her weight, hands sliding around her waist. Her skirt stretches up the tops of her thighs as she straddles him. "Skilled with tongues, and all that."
"Mmmmn." Daniel's hands trace a path down the center of her back, around the curves of her, across her smooth bare legs. "I've never heard that one before."
"I wonder," she says absently, "how the colonel ended up throwing his own birthday party."
Daniel stops all motion suddenly, with one hand underneath the hem of her skirt. "That's what you're wondering right now?" he asks her.
"Sorry," she says quickly.
He accepts the apology with a gentle kiss at the edge of her mouth.
She sighs, pressing one hand against the leather seat back to steady herself. His hands glide across her skin, between her thighs as she presses against him. His lips brush against hers again, over and over until her mouth finally opens for him.
His skin is already glistening with sweat, her fingers gliding across the blushing warm surface. His hands tug at her hips, pulling her towards him, coaxing her into more contact.
She laughs, breathing just a little faster as the hunger builds, down the length of her spine. "Slow down," she whispers.
"Don't want to," he answers, breath heavy and warm.
She laughs at him again, a sound that echoes in the small space. She can smell his need, salty and warm, mixing with the bittersweet taste of the wine in his mouth.
She puts her head on his shoulder, rocking sweetly against him. With each movement her nervousness is washing away, replaced quickly with damp, urgent need. He eggs her on, matching her in rhythm. She rocks, back and forth, and feels him hard and wanting where they touch.
Inelegantly, he pulls at the elastic at her hips. She raises her left knee so that he can slide the fabric down, kicking him gently in the chest.
He makes a face. "Ow."
"This was your idea," she whispers breathlessly, as her fingers attack the zipper on his khakis. "Stop complaining."
"Yes, ma'am," he answers, and the words drift into a groan as she strokes him with the tips of her fingers.
Then she raises her hips, and lowers down on top of him. She grinds against his, sliding sticky wet together, inhaling the whole musky scent of him as he breathes into her spaces. His fingers are gripping her too tightly, pinching her pale skin as she rides him. Over and over, trapped in a smooth helpless rhythm, until she arches back into his grip and moans gently through parted lips, as she is washed away by the fever.
Daniel moans, thrusting into her, and comes quietly underneath her.
In the silence, they are both still. His fingers brush her hair, at the back of her neck. "We never have time for this," he says.
"No," she agrees, kissing him. Then she slides away from him, her feet in practical sandals hitting the asphalt road. "I should go inside."
"I bet he's still telling the story," Daniel says.
It is loud with laughter when she re-enters the colonel's living room. Sam walks purposefully slow, her thighs damp underneath her skirt.
"Carter!" From his kitchen, Colonel O'Neill's voice cuts easily through the noise.
She appears like a bullet in his doorway. "Sir?"
He looks up at her when she arrives, as if vaguely surprised to see her there. "Does Daniel seem a little out of it to you?" he asks.
She presses her lips tightly together, trying not to look away. "Maybe a little."
"I think someone better drive him home," Jack continues. "Can you do it?"
"Sure," Sam says. "He said you've got the keys to his car?"
The colonel frowns. "Yeah. Maybe you should take my truck instead."
"Sir?" she begins.
"And if it could be clean when you bring it back, Carter, I would really appreciate that."
There is a crash suddenly, the cracking sound of broken glass carrying into the kitchen.
"I'm okay!" Daniel's voice follows close behind. "Nothing to worry about."
The colonel stares at her.
"Jack," Daniel's disembodied voice continues, "have you got any glue?"
"Maybe now would be a good time," Jack adds quietly.
"Yes, sir." She turns away, then pauses quietly in the doorway. "Happy birthday."
"Tell me again. Jack kicked me out?"
She helps him to bed, Daniel's gait becoming more crooked with every step. He clings closely to her, heavy and familiar, as if afraid of falling down. "Sort of."
"That's not very nice."
"You broke his vase."
"Oh." Daniel frowns, his brow wrinkling tightly. "Was it a nice vase?"
"I think his ex-wife picked it out."
"Oh." The frown comes again, lines across his whole mouth. "I can buy him a new one."
"That's what he said." Gently Sam pushes Daniel down into the blankets, bed still unmade from the morning. "You better get some sleep. You're going to be pretty cranky in the morning."
Then she lies down with him, under the cover of his warmth, and is soon fast asleep.