FIC: "Like Your Hands are Off the Wheel" - Sam/Jack. aka The Car Thief AU. R overall. WIP
I have been feeling nostalgic for my early fannish days of the stupid cute OTP, and I have also come to the sad conclusion that there will never be enough time for me to write all the ideas that my brain shunts out. Like the one after the umpteenth viewing of "Gone in 60 Seconds," where Sam Carter is a car thief turned (mostly) honest mechanic who ends up helping Detective Jack O'Neill solve a murder involving her former associates in illegal vehicular activities. So I am going to take a leap off the cliff of making it up and posting as I go.
This is unbetaed, very much a WIP. I promise no schedule for posting. I have only some idea where this is going to go, other than there will be hot sex in a hot car at some point. Not all SG-1 characters will make an appearance. Read at your own risk.
Typos, plot holes, setting error, car nitpicks? Feel free to let me know.
"Like Your Hands are Off the Wheel" - The Car Thief AU. Sam/Jack. R overall. AU. WIP. Title from Oleander's "Hands Off the Wheel"
On his third trip down an industrial stretch of road, Jack finally found his target. The GPS hadn't been much help after Jack spilled coffee on the piece of paper he'd scrawled the address on, bleeding the address number into an illegible mess, and the place didn’t stand out. What he finally found was a single half-moon dome building set well back from the road, tucked in between an abandoned gas station and a burned-out laundromat - the kind of place you only found if you were supposed to know it was there.
A tall, rusted chain link fence overgrown with grass and weeds surrounded the property, but the gate was open. Gravel crunched under the tires as Jack eased his truck in between a beat-up Nova and late model Mercedes. The building at the back of the lot was weathered and rough, the sign proclaiming it as “Carter's Classics” almost indistinguishable from the rust that streaked the corrugated steel siding.
The throb and hiss of an air compressor pounded in time to the wall of music that greeted him as he slid open the bay door and stepped inside. Unlike the exterior, the interior was modern and pin-neat. Jack counted at least four computers, nice ones with large flatscreen monitors, and one wall was devoted to tools, all hung or racked on shelves with military precision. Even the floor was scrubbed, the concrete barely stained. Not really what Jack expected from George's cryptic, "Sam Carter did two years for running with this crowd. Here's the address."
The only car inside was Dodge Challenger up on a jack, with a badly crunched front-end and a well-worn paint job. A pair of heavy work boots stuck out from under it, the toe of one twitching in time with the beat.
"Nice," Jack yelled over the bass of the song, some kind of heavy metal. "Is that a '70?"
The music cut off. "'71," A voice replied from under the car. A moment later the speaker slid out, long legs clad in dirty, ripped jeans that sat low on the hips; tank top rucked up above a taut belly; toned, sculpted arms and shoulders and, wait, breas- Jack yanked his eyes up to huge blue eyes and short cropped blonde hair. A streak of grease followed the line of her jaw, and another smudged across her collarbone. "You can tell by the grille," she said.
“Uh, yeah.” Noting the wry amusement that quirked her mouth, he cleared his throat and tried to salvage his pride. "What's it got?"
"440 six pack. One of only a couple hundred put out with it that year." She reached in the open window and the engine roared to life. "Doesn't look like much right now, but there's a charmer under all this." She cut the engine and leaned, one hip cocked, against the door. "How can I help you? Your pickup isn't exactly my specialty. Or are you looking to buy?"
His confusion must have shown; she jerked her chin at one of the monitors, which displayed the lot out front. Shit. He hadn't even seen the camera. "Actually, I'm looking for Sam Carter. I have some questions."
Her nonchalant pose didn't change, but the tank top did nothing to hide the way her shoulders snapped tight. "What do the police want with Sam Carter?"
"Does it say 'detective' somewhere on my uniform?"
"Doesn't need to." She pulled a rag from her pocket and wiped grease from her fingers. "You wear the badge on your figurative sleeve."
"Right." He pulled out his badge case and flipped it open. "Detective Jack O'Neill."
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
"Like I said, I'm looking for-” The unexpected pronoun sunk in. “Oh." God damn it. The old man and his sense of humor. The jackass. “You're…"
She sketched a mocking bow. "Sam Carter. So, Detective, what do the police want with me?"
"Your help on a case. George Hammond told me to come see you."
She didn't exactly relax, but some of the tension faded. "What does George think I can do for your case, Detective?"
Jack pulled two pictures from his pocket. "Do you know them?"
Carter plucked the pictures from his fingers. Her poker face was one that didn't come naturally - it was practiced, over and over to perfection, a mask that slid into place effortlessly, to most observers, though a second too late to cover the tiny flare of recognition before her features returned to the wary expression they'd held since the conversation took its turn for the defensive. "What happened?"
"They're dead."
She abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing around a partition. Jack sighed, figuring the interview was over, when she came back with a leather jacket slung over her shoulder. "Buy me a cup of coffee and we'll talk."
This is unbetaed, very much a WIP. I promise no schedule for posting. I have only some idea where this is going to go, other than there will be hot sex in a hot car at some point. Not all SG-1 characters will make an appearance. Read at your own risk.
Typos, plot holes, setting error, car nitpicks? Feel free to let me know.
"Like Your Hands are Off the Wheel" - The Car Thief AU. Sam/Jack. R overall. AU. WIP. Title from Oleander's "Hands Off the Wheel"
On his third trip down an industrial stretch of road, Jack finally found his target. The GPS hadn't been much help after Jack spilled coffee on the piece of paper he'd scrawled the address on, bleeding the address number into an illegible mess, and the place didn’t stand out. What he finally found was a single half-moon dome building set well back from the road, tucked in between an abandoned gas station and a burned-out laundromat - the kind of place you only found if you were supposed to know it was there.
A tall, rusted chain link fence overgrown with grass and weeds surrounded the property, but the gate was open. Gravel crunched under the tires as Jack eased his truck in between a beat-up Nova and late model Mercedes. The building at the back of the lot was weathered and rough, the sign proclaiming it as “Carter's Classics” almost indistinguishable from the rust that streaked the corrugated steel siding.
The throb and hiss of an air compressor pounded in time to the wall of music that greeted him as he slid open the bay door and stepped inside. Unlike the exterior, the interior was modern and pin-neat. Jack counted at least four computers, nice ones with large flatscreen monitors, and one wall was devoted to tools, all hung or racked on shelves with military precision. Even the floor was scrubbed, the concrete barely stained. Not really what Jack expected from George's cryptic, "Sam Carter did two years for running with this crowd. Here's the address."
The only car inside was Dodge Challenger up on a jack, with a badly crunched front-end and a well-worn paint job. A pair of heavy work boots stuck out from under it, the toe of one twitching in time with the beat.
"Nice," Jack yelled over the bass of the song, some kind of heavy metal. "Is that a '70?"
The music cut off. "'71," A voice replied from under the car. A moment later the speaker slid out, long legs clad in dirty, ripped jeans that sat low on the hips; tank top rucked up above a taut belly; toned, sculpted arms and shoulders and, wait, breas- Jack yanked his eyes up to huge blue eyes and short cropped blonde hair. A streak of grease followed the line of her jaw, and another smudged across her collarbone. "You can tell by the grille," she said.
“Uh, yeah.” Noting the wry amusement that quirked her mouth, he cleared his throat and tried to salvage his pride. "What's it got?"
"440 six pack. One of only a couple hundred put out with it that year." She reached in the open window and the engine roared to life. "Doesn't look like much right now, but there's a charmer under all this." She cut the engine and leaned, one hip cocked, against the door. "How can I help you? Your pickup isn't exactly my specialty. Or are you looking to buy?"
His confusion must have shown; she jerked her chin at one of the monitors, which displayed the lot out front. Shit. He hadn't even seen the camera. "Actually, I'm looking for Sam Carter. I have some questions."
Her nonchalant pose didn't change, but the tank top did nothing to hide the way her shoulders snapped tight. "What do the police want with Sam Carter?"
"Does it say 'detective' somewhere on my uniform?"
"Doesn't need to." She pulled a rag from her pocket and wiped grease from her fingers. "You wear the badge on your figurative sleeve."
"Right." He pulled out his badge case and flipped it open. "Detective Jack O'Neill."
"What can I do for you, Detective?"
"Like I said, I'm looking for-” The unexpected pronoun sunk in. “Oh." God damn it. The old man and his sense of humor. The jackass. “You're…"
She sketched a mocking bow. "Sam Carter. So, Detective, what do the police want with me?"
"Your help on a case. George Hammond told me to come see you."
She didn't exactly relax, but some of the tension faded. "What does George think I can do for your case, Detective?"
Jack pulled two pictures from his pocket. "Do you know them?"
Carter plucked the pictures from his fingers. Her poker face was one that didn't come naturally - it was practiced, over and over to perfection, a mask that slid into place effortlessly, to most observers, though a second too late to cover the tiny flare of recognition before her features returned to the wary expression they'd held since the conversation took its turn for the defensive. "What happened?"
"They're dead."
She abruptly turned and walked away, disappearing around a partition. Jack sighed, figuring the interview was over, when she came back with a leather jacket slung over her shoulder. "Buy me a cup of coffee and we'll talk."