Star Sign: Atlantis
An ill-advised Pirates/Stargate:Atlantis crossover fic for viva_gloria’s birthday.
Pairing: JS/JS, Rating: R
Warning: ill-advised crossover fic. With slash.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of it.
Ill-advice: viva_gloria
Star Sign: Atlantis
Something picks Jack up and wallops the seat of his britches, pushing him much further than his dive alone could have reached. Perhaps one of the heathen gods has decided to help out again. That or the shock wave from the powder magazine. Either way, he seizes his chance to put as much distance as possible between himself and the carnage that is maritime law enforcement.
He’s good at this, but his lungs are getting sore by the time he sees the wreck. Not wreck: ruins. Which is odd, but then again, Araucania is earthquake country: ocean and land have a way of changing places.
It’s possible-though admittedly not probable-that he’ll find an air pocket he can sit in until the sailor boys give up and take their little cannons home. Or a bottle. With a broken-off bottle, he could breathe while keeping his head below the surface. If the gods are really smiling on him, he might need to empty the bottle first. He dives to investigate.
Barnacles and other sea beasties have done a good job of pebbledashing the ruins, but Jack can see the place was impressive in its day. Cathedral, that’s the word. Whoever built it had a thing for spires. Also circles, hexagons, and whatever all those other shapes are called. Jack doesn’t have enough air to start on geometry, but he’s intrigued.
Especially intriguing is a kind of rose window containing a perfect circle of rippling water. Only not, obviously. Because Jack’s not so short of breath that he doesn’t know which way is up, and what would the surface of a pond be doing suspended vertically a couple of fathoms deep in the southern ocean?
Of course, he has to go and poke his head through it just to see…
Next thing he knows he’s being sluiced through a tube like a gob of baccy down the scuppers. He makes a mental note not to hold his breath for quite so long next time. Only there won’t be a next time because he’s stayed under far too long already and he’s no idea where he is and no earthly way to get himself back to…
Ow!
“Fuck!” he splutters, with more feeling than intelligibility, as the water slams him into something with corners, and dumps him. He staggers to his feet, ankle deep in seawater and panic-stricken fish, to find himself breathing air once again in a cleaner, barnacle-free expanse of geometry-obsessed architecture. More water gushes through a circular opening, though the man who’s just battled his way to it against the rushing inflow is pushing on shiny panels in an angry, purposeful way that suggests he’s trying to make the thing close. Apparently he succeeds, because the flooding stops, faster than a supernatural storm (and Jack’s seen a few of those).
The man wheels to face Jack, training some kind of a gun on him with a worrying lack of flourish.
Jack, who’s only beginning to draw his own pistol, thinks better of it.
“Won’t do you any good, mate,” he says, only slightly out of breath, and all cheery and relaxed like someone you wouldn’t want to fight if you could make friends with him. “Wet powder.” With that, he pulls out his own gun, making a show of how he’s not in any way thinking about aiming it, and tosses it to the ground at the fellow’s feet. The hand not involved in this performance reaches stealthily for the knife in his sash.
Blam.
A portion of wall slightly-much too slightly-to the right of Jack’s ear crumbles to singed rubble faster than he can jump back.
“Not a problem,” says the man, now training the bloody thing right between Jack’s eyes. “So I won’t be needing your knife, but thanks for the offer.”
Jack puts both hands up and smiles like a very friendly, completely harmless idiot.
“I know when I’m beat.”
“Good. I like that in a prisoner.”
Now that Jack has a moment to weigh things up, he can see that the man’s bloody good looking. His clothes are drab, all-over, woollen things of no discernible shape after their soaking, but dripping and clinging very fetchingly to his lithe, well-muscled physique. Nice eyes, too, if you like that sort of thing. Jack can’t place the voice, but skin largely untouched by tropical sun suggests the British ruling classes, as does the general air of menace and expecting to be obeyed. He must’ve lost his wig in the flood, exposing cropped hair charmingly tousled to point in every direction at once.
It’s a pity he’s so set on murdering helpless pirates.
“Who are you, and how did you get here?”
“Jack,” says Jack, which doesn’t tie him down much, really, but makes a friendly beginning. “And I haven’t the slightest idea. One minute I’m swimming about; next thing I know-whoosh!” He swishes his hands about, but the gun and eyes remain steady.
“Swimming where, Jack? Doing what?”
“Araucania, mate-just off the coast.” If Mr. British hasn’t heard of the place, Jack’s free to invent helpful detail.
“Araucania.”
Damn. Those eyes really don’t give much away.
“What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like Araucania?”
“Just going about my lawful business.”
Jack has a feeling this probably isn’t what people with actual lawful business tend to say, but the guy’s looking at him like… like his trigger finger’s getting itchy. It’s disconcerting.
“Your lawful business, huh?” Killer Eyes takes a few steps closer. He’s clearly not the patient type, and Jack’s best sparkly smiles and eyelash flutters only seem to make him less so.
“I’m a p…”
Bugger. Now he has to think of something lawful that starts with P.
“Pearl fisher! I dive for pearls. Good pearl beds off Araucania, savvy? Famous for it!” (Surely there must be some bloody oysters along that coast somewhere. Who’s to say there ain’t pearls in ’em?)
“Got any on you, Jack?”
Any what? “Oh! Pearls. Sorry, no. Not a sausage. I was just starting out when your archway thingy sucked me in. Got the word Pearl tattooed round me belly button, though. Here. I’ll show you.” He tugs his wet shirt out from under his sash and pulls it over his head.
That’s interesting! Interested, more to the point. Killer Eyes ain’t so cold after all. (Well, Jack did have to push his sash and britches down pretty low on his hips to get the shirt untucked.)
“You should see what’s on me bum.”
He starts working on the knot, but Killer holds up his free hand. (Still pointing the gun with the other, but his aim’s not what it was.)
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“Suit yerself, whoever you are.” Jack shrugs. Then, having prepared the ground, he pounces. “Who are you?”
“I’m John Sheppard,” says Killer, looking distinctly less than deadly, though Jack can’t quite picture him minding a flock of sheep. His eyes keep straying to Jack’s chest, and he’s so noticeably-effortfully-not licking his lips that it makes Jack want to do it for him.
“Jack to your friends, then, is it?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard to you.”
“I knew you were Navy!” says Jack. “Even without the wig.”
Sheppard blinks. “Without the what?”
“Wig,” supplies Jack, helpfully, wondering if the lieutenant colonel has water in his ears from the flood, or damaged his hearing firing his sodding waterproof flintlock. “White, powdered, highly respectable. Though I must say you also look good au naturel, as it were.”
Ha! That is definitely a blush.
Sheppard boy must feel it too because, just at this moment he launches himself at Jack, snarling, grabs him by the throat, and pins him against the wall.
Those geometrical bits and bobs aren’t kind to bare skin, but Jack’s never been one to mind a bit of discomfort provided there are compensations. Compensations such as a strong, handsome lieutenant colonel (Jack’s hazy about ranks, but it sounds important) who’s just discovered the irresistible appeal of one Jack Sparrow. That’s got to be good-with a plausible chance of walking free at the end of it.
“You’re a Gemini, aren’t you?” With Sheppard, even small talk sounds like an accusation.
“What makes you so sure?” hedges Jack. With some people, picking the right star sign can make all the difference.
“Mid-level technology, arrogance, poor personal hygiene, knowing my weak… knowing my weekly routine would bring me to this gate sooner or later.”
Jack’s not sure what kind of astrology this is, but it’s not going where he wants.
“Not Gemini,” he says firmly. “Guess again.”
“What?”
“Y’know. Taurus, Leo…” (He mimes goring and roaring, respectively.) “Virgo?” (Flutter, flutter.) No-this Sheppard’s more of a wild beast man. “I’m going to go out on a limb here, John, and say you’ve got to be Sagittarius.” Speed, danger, rule-breaking. If there’s anything in this star sign thing, Sagittarius is the one for Johnny-boy.
“What? Suddenly you’re the horoscope lonely hearts guy from the Genii Enquirer? Hey! Wait a minute. Those are Earth zodiacs!”
“I can do Chinese ones if you like. I’m a metal-snake-dragon-monkey myself, or so I’ve been told.”
Jack’s brain catches up with his mouth. “Earth? I thought this stuff was up in the sky.”
“Not in the Pegasus galaxy, it isn’t.”
“Pegasus what?”
John’s lost Jack now. But then he’s not looking exactly found himself.
“You’re not from round here, are you?”
Jack has to think about the question more carefully than he usually would.
“Depends,” he says at last, “where here is.”
“Let’s take this slow, huh? Where’s this-what was it?-Araucaria? Where the pearls are.
Jack knows this one. “West coast of New Spain. Down a bit from what the Spanish call the Viceroyalty of Peru, though most people who live there call it something else.”
“You’re from Earth. From the past.”
“I like to think of it as the present.”
Jack’s looking round as he speaks. Geometry; unfamiliar materials; panelling that lights up; guns that work when they’re wet; a soldier with no scars; clothes with odd fastenings… So this is where it’s all headed. Could be worse.
“Figures.” John gulps and shakes his head. “Y’know, sometime soon, we’ll need to get you to my commanding officer and work out exactly where that gate was that you fell through. Just now though…” He stares at Jack, all wide-eyed and breathless. “Welcome to the future!”
Clearly, a line like that calls for a kiss. A kiss with lots of tongues. It turns out John’s good at those-almost as good as Jack. So it’s a while before he feels the need to try his fingers on those fastenings.
They turn out to be easier than buttons, and John’s clothes are soon on the floor. Jack’s sodden sash and britches lace are more of a problem, but John’s wonderfully resolute (especially once he remembers Jack’s knife).
John gasps when Jack drops to his knees and takes his prick in his mouth. You’d think, with his fine looks and his almost too-perfect body, he’d have men and women lining up for the privilege.
“You don’t have to.”
“Want to,’ says Jack, meaning it.
John doesn’t say any more after that, unless you count moaning. Jack’s soon speechless too, even when his mouth’s not full. John’s hands are future-soft, but strong, and he knows how to use them.
Afterwards, John pretends not to look at him while they’re doing up their clothes. But Jack catches him smiling when he thinks his back’s turned.
“I still say you’d be right at home in the British Navy, mate.”
John’s mouth tightens again.
“Not so easy in the US Air Force.”
Jack supposes this will make sense later on.
“Listen up, Jack. You sloshed through the gate. I shut off the water, picked you up-helped you up. And now I’m taking you upstairs for a shower, a meal, and a debrief, in that order. That’s it, savvy?”
Jack grins. “Y’know, you and me are going to get on just fine. You’ll have to elaborate on ‘shower’ and debrief’, but I’m generally happy to see a meal. As to anything else that may have transpired, my lips are sealed-until next time.”
That earns him another smile, which is good, because Jack likes the idea of a next time with his shiny new officer. (Though, if either of the unknown words turns out to be a euphemism for torture, there’s always blackmail.)
“So,” he says. “This future of yours. Does it have rum?”
**
Pairing: JS/JS, Rating: R
Warning: ill-advised crossover fic. With slash.
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of it.
Ill-advice: viva_gloria
Star Sign: Atlantis
Something picks Jack up and wallops the seat of his britches, pushing him much further than his dive alone could have reached. Perhaps one of the heathen gods has decided to help out again. That or the shock wave from the powder magazine. Either way, he seizes his chance to put as much distance as possible between himself and the carnage that is maritime law enforcement.
He’s good at this, but his lungs are getting sore by the time he sees the wreck. Not wreck: ruins. Which is odd, but then again, Araucania is earthquake country: ocean and land have a way of changing places.
It’s possible-though admittedly not probable-that he’ll find an air pocket he can sit in until the sailor boys give up and take their little cannons home. Or a bottle. With a broken-off bottle, he could breathe while keeping his head below the surface. If the gods are really smiling on him, he might need to empty the bottle first. He dives to investigate.
Barnacles and other sea beasties have done a good job of pebbledashing the ruins, but Jack can see the place was impressive in its day. Cathedral, that’s the word. Whoever built it had a thing for spires. Also circles, hexagons, and whatever all those other shapes are called. Jack doesn’t have enough air to start on geometry, but he’s intrigued.
Especially intriguing is a kind of rose window containing a perfect circle of rippling water. Only not, obviously. Because Jack’s not so short of breath that he doesn’t know which way is up, and what would the surface of a pond be doing suspended vertically a couple of fathoms deep in the southern ocean?
Of course, he has to go and poke his head through it just to see…
Next thing he knows he’s being sluiced through a tube like a gob of baccy down the scuppers. He makes a mental note not to hold his breath for quite so long next time. Only there won’t be a next time because he’s stayed under far too long already and he’s no idea where he is and no earthly way to get himself back to…
Ow!
“Fuck!” he splutters, with more feeling than intelligibility, as the water slams him into something with corners, and dumps him. He staggers to his feet, ankle deep in seawater and panic-stricken fish, to find himself breathing air once again in a cleaner, barnacle-free expanse of geometry-obsessed architecture. More water gushes through a circular opening, though the man who’s just battled his way to it against the rushing inflow is pushing on shiny panels in an angry, purposeful way that suggests he’s trying to make the thing close. Apparently he succeeds, because the flooding stops, faster than a supernatural storm (and Jack’s seen a few of those).
The man wheels to face Jack, training some kind of a gun on him with a worrying lack of flourish.
Jack, who’s only beginning to draw his own pistol, thinks better of it.
“Won’t do you any good, mate,” he says, only slightly out of breath, and all cheery and relaxed like someone you wouldn’t want to fight if you could make friends with him. “Wet powder.” With that, he pulls out his own gun, making a show of how he’s not in any way thinking about aiming it, and tosses it to the ground at the fellow’s feet. The hand not involved in this performance reaches stealthily for the knife in his sash.
Blam.
A portion of wall slightly-much too slightly-to the right of Jack’s ear crumbles to singed rubble faster than he can jump back.
“Not a problem,” says the man, now training the bloody thing right between Jack’s eyes. “So I won’t be needing your knife, but thanks for the offer.”
Jack puts both hands up and smiles like a very friendly, completely harmless idiot.
“I know when I’m beat.”
“Good. I like that in a prisoner.”
Now that Jack has a moment to weigh things up, he can see that the man’s bloody good looking. His clothes are drab, all-over, woollen things of no discernible shape after their soaking, but dripping and clinging very fetchingly to his lithe, well-muscled physique. Nice eyes, too, if you like that sort of thing. Jack can’t place the voice, but skin largely untouched by tropical sun suggests the British ruling classes, as does the general air of menace and expecting to be obeyed. He must’ve lost his wig in the flood, exposing cropped hair charmingly tousled to point in every direction at once.
It’s a pity he’s so set on murdering helpless pirates.
“Who are you, and how did you get here?”
“Jack,” says Jack, which doesn’t tie him down much, really, but makes a friendly beginning. “And I haven’t the slightest idea. One minute I’m swimming about; next thing I know-whoosh!” He swishes his hands about, but the gun and eyes remain steady.
“Swimming where, Jack? Doing what?”
“Araucania, mate-just off the coast.” If Mr. British hasn’t heard of the place, Jack’s free to invent helpful detail.
“Araucania.”
Damn. Those eyes really don’t give much away.
“What’s a nice guy like you doing in a place like Araucania?”
“Just going about my lawful business.”
Jack has a feeling this probably isn’t what people with actual lawful business tend to say, but the guy’s looking at him like… like his trigger finger’s getting itchy. It’s disconcerting.
“Your lawful business, huh?” Killer Eyes takes a few steps closer. He’s clearly not the patient type, and Jack’s best sparkly smiles and eyelash flutters only seem to make him less so.
“I’m a p…”
Bugger. Now he has to think of something lawful that starts with P.
“Pearl fisher! I dive for pearls. Good pearl beds off Araucania, savvy? Famous for it!” (Surely there must be some bloody oysters along that coast somewhere. Who’s to say there ain’t pearls in ’em?)
“Got any on you, Jack?”
Any what? “Oh! Pearls. Sorry, no. Not a sausage. I was just starting out when your archway thingy sucked me in. Got the word Pearl tattooed round me belly button, though. Here. I’ll show you.” He tugs his wet shirt out from under his sash and pulls it over his head.
That’s interesting! Interested, more to the point. Killer Eyes ain’t so cold after all. (Well, Jack did have to push his sash and britches down pretty low on his hips to get the shirt untucked.)
“You should see what’s on me bum.”
He starts working on the knot, but Killer holds up his free hand. (Still pointing the gun with the other, but his aim’s not what it was.)
“Thanks but no thanks.”
“Suit yerself, whoever you are.” Jack shrugs. Then, having prepared the ground, he pounces. “Who are you?”
“I’m John Sheppard,” says Killer, looking distinctly less than deadly, though Jack can’t quite picture him minding a flock of sheep. His eyes keep straying to Jack’s chest, and he’s so noticeably-effortfully-not licking his lips that it makes Jack want to do it for him.
“Jack to your friends, then, is it?”
“Lieutenant Colonel Sheppard to you.”
“I knew you were Navy!” says Jack. “Even without the wig.”
Sheppard blinks. “Without the what?”
“Wig,” supplies Jack, helpfully, wondering if the lieutenant colonel has water in his ears from the flood, or damaged his hearing firing his sodding waterproof flintlock. “White, powdered, highly respectable. Though I must say you also look good au naturel, as it were.”
Ha! That is definitely a blush.
Sheppard boy must feel it too because, just at this moment he launches himself at Jack, snarling, grabs him by the throat, and pins him against the wall.
Those geometrical bits and bobs aren’t kind to bare skin, but Jack’s never been one to mind a bit of discomfort provided there are compensations. Compensations such as a strong, handsome lieutenant colonel (Jack’s hazy about ranks, but it sounds important) who’s just discovered the irresistible appeal of one Jack Sparrow. That’s got to be good-with a plausible chance of walking free at the end of it.
“You’re a Gemini, aren’t you?” With Sheppard, even small talk sounds like an accusation.
“What makes you so sure?” hedges Jack. With some people, picking the right star sign can make all the difference.
“Mid-level technology, arrogance, poor personal hygiene, knowing my weak… knowing my weekly routine would bring me to this gate sooner or later.”
Jack’s not sure what kind of astrology this is, but it’s not going where he wants.
“Not Gemini,” he says firmly. “Guess again.”
“What?”
“Y’know. Taurus, Leo…” (He mimes goring and roaring, respectively.) “Virgo?” (Flutter, flutter.) No-this Sheppard’s more of a wild beast man. “I’m going to go out on a limb here, John, and say you’ve got to be Sagittarius.” Speed, danger, rule-breaking. If there’s anything in this star sign thing, Sagittarius is the one for Johnny-boy.
“What? Suddenly you’re the horoscope lonely hearts guy from the Genii Enquirer? Hey! Wait a minute. Those are Earth zodiacs!”
“I can do Chinese ones if you like. I’m a metal-snake-dragon-monkey myself, or so I’ve been told.”
Jack’s brain catches up with his mouth. “Earth? I thought this stuff was up in the sky.”
“Not in the Pegasus galaxy, it isn’t.”
“Pegasus what?”
John’s lost Jack now. But then he’s not looking exactly found himself.
“You’re not from round here, are you?”
Jack has to think about the question more carefully than he usually would.
“Depends,” he says at last, “where here is.”
“Let’s take this slow, huh? Where’s this-what was it?-Araucaria? Where the pearls are.
Jack knows this one. “West coast of New Spain. Down a bit from what the Spanish call the Viceroyalty of Peru, though most people who live there call it something else.”
“You’re from Earth. From the past.”
“I like to think of it as the present.”
Jack’s looking round as he speaks. Geometry; unfamiliar materials; panelling that lights up; guns that work when they’re wet; a soldier with no scars; clothes with odd fastenings… So this is where it’s all headed. Could be worse.
“Figures.” John gulps and shakes his head. “Y’know, sometime soon, we’ll need to get you to my commanding officer and work out exactly where that gate was that you fell through. Just now though…” He stares at Jack, all wide-eyed and breathless. “Welcome to the future!”
Clearly, a line like that calls for a kiss. A kiss with lots of tongues. It turns out John’s good at those-almost as good as Jack. So it’s a while before he feels the need to try his fingers on those fastenings.
They turn out to be easier than buttons, and John’s clothes are soon on the floor. Jack’s sodden sash and britches lace are more of a problem, but John’s wonderfully resolute (especially once he remembers Jack’s knife).
John gasps when Jack drops to his knees and takes his prick in his mouth. You’d think, with his fine looks and his almost too-perfect body, he’d have men and women lining up for the privilege.
“You don’t have to.”
“Want to,’ says Jack, meaning it.
John doesn’t say any more after that, unless you count moaning. Jack’s soon speechless too, even when his mouth’s not full. John’s hands are future-soft, but strong, and he knows how to use them.
Afterwards, John pretends not to look at him while they’re doing up their clothes. But Jack catches him smiling when he thinks his back’s turned.
“I still say you’d be right at home in the British Navy, mate.”
John’s mouth tightens again.
“Not so easy in the US Air Force.”
Jack supposes this will make sense later on.
“Listen up, Jack. You sloshed through the gate. I shut off the water, picked you up-helped you up. And now I’m taking you upstairs for a shower, a meal, and a debrief, in that order. That’s it, savvy?”
Jack grins. “Y’know, you and me are going to get on just fine. You’ll have to elaborate on ‘shower’ and debrief’, but I’m generally happy to see a meal. As to anything else that may have transpired, my lips are sealed-until next time.”
That earns him another smile, which is good, because Jack likes the idea of a next time with his shiny new officer. (Though, if either of the unknown words turns out to be a euphemism for torture, there’s always blackmail.)
“So,” he says. “This future of yours. Does it have rum?”
**