Stargate SG1, attack of the random third string pairing, Siler/Walter
Siler/Walter. You read me. ![[info]](http://www.journalfen.net/img/userinfo.gif)
slashophile and I were talking about SG-1. I'd heard the guy playing Major Davis went all homophobe on slashers at a con, but then she said she heard it was the guy who plays Sgt Davis/Harriman, who we'd never remembered anyone slashing anyways. Which automatically made him t3h gay--methinks the gentleman doth protest too much. I think Slashy said he probably felt left out, or something. So I wrote this. I'm not entirely satified with it, but it's not a complete train wreck I think. The last part would be a better Jack/Daniel fic, dude.
Pretend we’re calling him Davis to place the story in a general continuity, because Davis fits with the conversation leading up to this more than Harriman would.
Disclaimers apply. I can't actually get sued, right?
Garbled music and conversation drifted to Siler as the door opened and another technician stepped into the alley. He had to have been a tech at the SGC—at two in the afternoon they in their exodus from the compound were the only people at the bar—but it took a minute for the shorter, gray-haired man to click with an identity in Siler’s mind. He thought some of the others called him ‘the Chevron Guy.’ Siler thought his name might be Davis.
“Hi,” Siler said, holding his cigarette down by his side opposite the door.
“Got another?” the other man asked and Siler took the crushed soft pack of Camels and a lighter from his breast pocket. “You’re missing quite a celebration,” he said with his first exhale.
“The bartender gave me the mother of all dirty looks for taking one out in there,” Siler shrugged, “and I can’t remember the last smoke break I had time for.”
The other man leaned up against the brick wall and took another drag. “That was really good thinking on your crew back there.”
“Catastrophe averted, all in a day’s work at the SGC.” They shared a smirk. “It was all Carter and those guys, my team and I just did the grunt work. But thanks.” Siler took a last drag and stubbed the cigarette out against the wall.
The other man smothered his out, too. “Thanks,” he said and handed Siler back his pack. They both still stood there. “I haven’t smoked in years.”
“Most people revert to bad habits during high stress situations.”
“Seen the therapist recently, huh?” the other man said. Siler laughed. “During situations I’ll be fine for the most part, but afterwards . . .” He was fidgety. Siler wondered what would make the man so nervous, and then he hoped he had the right idea. “Are you going back in?” Davis asked, shaking him from his thoughts.
Siler considered. “No. I’d rather go get something to eat. Want to come?”
The other man considered. His eyes twitched from the door to Siler to the mouth of the alley. “Where were you thinking about going?”
“There’s a Mom and Pop place nearby. It’s nothing like the East Coast, but their Buffalo wings are almost as good and their hamburgers are great.”
With a nod, Siler and the other man started to the parking lot. “You’re from the East Coast?” the man asked conversationally.
“Yeah. My dad was a steel worker in Pennsylvania. I went to college in New York before joining up. Have you ever been?
“No, I’m from Milwaukee. Except for training I’ve never been stationed in America outside of the Midwest.”
“Is Colorado even considered the Midwest?”
“I don’t know,” he laughed sheepishly. “It feels like it.”
They were standing at Siler’s car. “Feels like Pennsylvania, too.”
“Are there a lot of mountains there?”
Siler shook his head. They looked at each other for a beat before laughing.
“How about you follow me there?” Siler suggested.
The other guy nodded and walked to his car. Siler pulled out his keys and got into his own. As he turned the ignition and started out of the lot when he saw the other car starting towards him, he wondered how drunk they really were.
He lived a fair drive out of town. When it came to the streetlight where a left would lead to the restaurant and to the right was nothing but homes every few miles, Siler turned right. When the man still followed, he wondered what it meant.
His house was a fixer-upper; Siler was almost apologetic for it as they pulled up the driveway.
“‘Mom and Pop place’?” the other man asked with a raised eyebrow when he got out.
“You followed,” Siler shrugged. “I’ve got burgers and a grill. Come on.” He walked up the front steps and around the deck to the grill. He took the bag of charcoal from the side of the house and a matchbook from his back pocket, and went about lighting it up. “Do you like yours done or with one last moo still in it?”
“Bloody.”
After the charcoal caught, Siler smiled at him. “Great.” He took out his keys again and walked around the deck to the front door. “Do you want something to drink?” he asked as he led the way into the house. “The fridge is through the doorway on your right, you can help yourself. The burgers are just in here,” he opened the door on the left and walked into the garage that held only a freezer and a motorcycle.
“Ride much”?
“No,” Siler looked at the motorcycle longingly for a moment. “She’s a fixer-upper. I’m still working on finding an engine.” The man stood in the doorway with a Pepsi in his hand, watching Siler root around the freezer. They bother wondered at what they could be getting themselves in to.
---
Lunch was companionable bantering about sports and a football game on ESPN Classic. Siler brought their dishes to the kitchen sink on a commercial break, and he almost jumped when he felt a hand on his forearm. He could feel the heat from the other man standing close enough to touch at more places but not enough to actually do so.
“Am I wrong?” the man asked, a little breathlessly. Non-specific, he could be asking about half a dozen things, yet Siler knows exactly what he means. “I might be a little more drunk than I thought.” It’s an out—‘tell me I am and this never happened.’
Siler turned off the water and turned around. He was getting a little breathless himself. “That depends on what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking of taking a risk,” a play on an earlier conversation. The whole afternoon had been steeped with innuendo. “If I’m . . . not alone.” The nervousness that was endearing made Siler smile and kiss him.
“Siler,” the man said when they parted.
“Call me Mike,” Siler grinned.
“Walter.”
---
By the time Siler’s motorcycle was more or less running, snow had come and gone and they were in the middle of a beautiful spring. Siler woke alone much earlier than he would have preferred and walked down the hardwood stairs he’d just finished. Nat King Cole was on the record player. As he neared the kitchen, he could hear Davis singing along at almost the perfect pitch from the stove.
Pressing up behind him, Siler swung their hips together in a little half-dance during an instrumental part. “This is an ungodly hour to be awake,” he yawned into Davis’ neck. “I don’t even think the sun’s up yet.”
Davis reached across the sink and pushed up one of the slats on the blinds. “Let there be light,” he said as the sunlight peaked into the room.
“Killjoy.”
“How do you want your eggs?” There was a smile in his voice.
“However you’re making them is fine.”
“Can you get them out for me?” Davis asked as he flipped the bacon he was frying.
Siler opened the fridge and pulled out the carton from the top shelf. “Need anything else out of here?”
“No.”
He closed the door and put the eggs on the counter next to the stove. He walked to the counter with the coffee maker and took a mug from the cupboard above it. “Do you need a refill?” he asked as he poured some of the coffee into the mug.
“No, I’m fine.” He cracked an egg into the pan and it sizzled in bacon grease. “Were you going to do anything today?”
“On our first day off in two months? I was planning on having lots of sex, but if you had something more important to do. . .”
Davis grinned at him over his shoulder. “Get out some plates. Breakfast is going to be done soon.”
slashophile and I were talking about SG-1. I'd heard the guy playing Major Davis went all homophobe on slashers at a con, but then she said she heard it was the guy who plays Sgt Davis/Harriman, who we'd never remembered anyone slashing anyways. Which automatically made him t3h gay--methinks the gentleman doth protest too much. I think Slashy said he probably felt left out, or something. So I wrote this. I'm not entirely satified with it, but it's not a complete train wreck I think. The last part would be a better Jack/Daniel fic, dude.Pretend we’re calling him Davis to place the story in a general continuity, because Davis fits with the conversation leading up to this more than Harriman would.
Disclaimers apply. I can't actually get sued, right?
Garbled music and conversation drifted to Siler as the door opened and another technician stepped into the alley. He had to have been a tech at the SGC—at two in the afternoon they in their exodus from the compound were the only people at the bar—but it took a minute for the shorter, gray-haired man to click with an identity in Siler’s mind. He thought some of the others called him ‘the Chevron Guy.’ Siler thought his name might be Davis.
“Hi,” Siler said, holding his cigarette down by his side opposite the door.
“Got another?” the other man asked and Siler took the crushed soft pack of Camels and a lighter from his breast pocket. “You’re missing quite a celebration,” he said with his first exhale.
“The bartender gave me the mother of all dirty looks for taking one out in there,” Siler shrugged, “and I can’t remember the last smoke break I had time for.”
The other man leaned up against the brick wall and took another drag. “That was really good thinking on your crew back there.”
“Catastrophe averted, all in a day’s work at the SGC.” They shared a smirk. “It was all Carter and those guys, my team and I just did the grunt work. But thanks.” Siler took a last drag and stubbed the cigarette out against the wall.
The other man smothered his out, too. “Thanks,” he said and handed Siler back his pack. They both still stood there. “I haven’t smoked in years.”
“Most people revert to bad habits during high stress situations.”
“Seen the therapist recently, huh?” the other man said. Siler laughed. “During situations I’ll be fine for the most part, but afterwards . . .” He was fidgety. Siler wondered what would make the man so nervous, and then he hoped he had the right idea. “Are you going back in?” Davis asked, shaking him from his thoughts.
Siler considered. “No. I’d rather go get something to eat. Want to come?”
The other man considered. His eyes twitched from the door to Siler to the mouth of the alley. “Where were you thinking about going?”
“There’s a Mom and Pop place nearby. It’s nothing like the East Coast, but their Buffalo wings are almost as good and their hamburgers are great.”
With a nod, Siler and the other man started to the parking lot. “You’re from the East Coast?” the man asked conversationally.
“Yeah. My dad was a steel worker in Pennsylvania. I went to college in New York before joining up. Have you ever been?
“No, I’m from Milwaukee. Except for training I’ve never been stationed in America outside of the Midwest.”
“Is Colorado even considered the Midwest?”
“I don’t know,” he laughed sheepishly. “It feels like it.”
They were standing at Siler’s car. “Feels like Pennsylvania, too.”
“Are there a lot of mountains there?”
Siler shook his head. They looked at each other for a beat before laughing.
“How about you follow me there?” Siler suggested.
The other guy nodded and walked to his car. Siler pulled out his keys and got into his own. As he turned the ignition and started out of the lot when he saw the other car starting towards him, he wondered how drunk they really were.
He lived a fair drive out of town. When it came to the streetlight where a left would lead to the restaurant and to the right was nothing but homes every few miles, Siler turned right. When the man still followed, he wondered what it meant.
His house was a fixer-upper; Siler was almost apologetic for it as they pulled up the driveway.
“‘Mom and Pop place’?” the other man asked with a raised eyebrow when he got out.
“You followed,” Siler shrugged. “I’ve got burgers and a grill. Come on.” He walked up the front steps and around the deck to the grill. He took the bag of charcoal from the side of the house and a matchbook from his back pocket, and went about lighting it up. “Do you like yours done or with one last moo still in it?”
“Bloody.”
After the charcoal caught, Siler smiled at him. “Great.” He took out his keys again and walked around the deck to the front door. “Do you want something to drink?” he asked as he led the way into the house. “The fridge is through the doorway on your right, you can help yourself. The burgers are just in here,” he opened the door on the left and walked into the garage that held only a freezer and a motorcycle.
“Ride much”?
“No,” Siler looked at the motorcycle longingly for a moment. “She’s a fixer-upper. I’m still working on finding an engine.” The man stood in the doorway with a Pepsi in his hand, watching Siler root around the freezer. They bother wondered at what they could be getting themselves in to.
---
Lunch was companionable bantering about sports and a football game on ESPN Classic. Siler brought their dishes to the kitchen sink on a commercial break, and he almost jumped when he felt a hand on his forearm. He could feel the heat from the other man standing close enough to touch at more places but not enough to actually do so.
“Am I wrong?” the man asked, a little breathlessly. Non-specific, he could be asking about half a dozen things, yet Siler knows exactly what he means. “I might be a little more drunk than I thought.” It’s an out—‘tell me I am and this never happened.’
Siler turned off the water and turned around. He was getting a little breathless himself. “That depends on what you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking of taking a risk,” a play on an earlier conversation. The whole afternoon had been steeped with innuendo. “If I’m . . . not alone.” The nervousness that was endearing made Siler smile and kiss him.
“Siler,” the man said when they parted.
“Call me Mike,” Siler grinned.
“Walter.”
---
By the time Siler’s motorcycle was more or less running, snow had come and gone and they were in the middle of a beautiful spring. Siler woke alone much earlier than he would have preferred and walked down the hardwood stairs he’d just finished. Nat King Cole was on the record player. As he neared the kitchen, he could hear Davis singing along at almost the perfect pitch from the stove.
Pressing up behind him, Siler swung their hips together in a little half-dance during an instrumental part. “This is an ungodly hour to be awake,” he yawned into Davis’ neck. “I don’t even think the sun’s up yet.”
Davis reached across the sink and pushed up one of the slats on the blinds. “Let there be light,” he said as the sunlight peaked into the room.
“Killjoy.”
“How do you want your eggs?” There was a smile in his voice.
“However you’re making them is fine.”
“Can you get them out for me?” Davis asked as he flipped the bacon he was frying.
Siler opened the fridge and pulled out the carton from the top shelf. “Need anything else out of here?”
“No.”
He closed the door and put the eggs on the counter next to the stove. He walked to the counter with the coffee maker and took a mug from the cupboard above it. “Do you need a refill?” he asked as he poured some of the coffee into the mug.
“No, I’m fine.” He cracked an egg into the pan and it sizzled in bacon grease. “Were you going to do anything today?”
“On our first day off in two months? I was planning on having lots of sex, but if you had something more important to do. . .”
Davis grinned at him over his shoulder. “Get out some plates. Breakfast is going to be done soon.”
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