Not The Nine O'Clock Meeting (Stargate SG1/Magnificent 7 - gen, 3110 words)
And just over the wire...
When I recklessly put up my hand for the SG-1 Gen Fic Day/ Crossover Alphabet Soup, I really and truly had no idea what I was getting myself into, I thought a nice short little thing with the ATF version of the Mag7 boys would be not too hard. After all, they only lived down the road from each other, didn't they?
Err, I was wrong. Mainly, I guess, because every idea I could come up with did either NOT fit the rule that SG1 had to fit canon or was going to be wayyyy too long, complex and {shudder} plotty for my poor brain (I am Not Good With Plots. I have mentioned this before). Anyway, I finally and unblushingly filched something from one of my own memes... and still ended up redoing it several times.
So this is longer than expected and mostly talk; it's also really not a stand-alone, I know there's a lot of unfinished business (and probably at least a couple more stories) at the end, but what the hell, it's Jack O'Neill arguing with, err, an Ezra :) with a heartwarming amount of creative invective (this is Ezra, folks) and a mildly whumped Daniel on the side.
My letter prompt was M. You can probably guess - but I'll mention at the bottom - how I used it.
Not The Nine O'Clock Meeting
"Fecaloid, criminally deficient imbecile with not an atom of so much as sub-standard intelligence between the...."
O'Neill blinked. After several years of listening to Doctor Daniel Jackson when in a full-flown snit, he would have sworn he'd heard all the words that could and couldn't hurt you, but this Ezra Simpson certainly had a way with the vocab...
"You don't talk about Charlie le Guerch that way," he growled.
Simpson, the shady, slippery, over-educated but still small-time criminal who they had been sent to ask a few discreet, 'friendly' questions, glared at him. "Ah'm not," he snarled in a molasses-thick Southern accent. "Ah'm talkin' about you, sir." His glare shifted to Makepeace, who looked like he'd give up his P90 to be able to throttle the man. "Sirs."
"Oh."
Now that, Jack thought, was pretty damn unfair. It hadn't been any of SG1 or SG3's plan (or Hammond's when he insisted that two highly trained units could handle one second-rate shyster) to start an all-in fight in Charlie le Guerch's roadside bar just off the Denver-Colorado Springs highway - they'd just wanted to ask a patron a few friendly questions. Nor had they started the shooting when the police turned up. In fact, he had a hazy idea that Simpson had been involved in all of this... but he'd been too busy trying to haul Carter and Daniel out of the whole mess, and then bolting for the door, to worry about that.
He was planning to blame the jarheads anyway. And the locals.
Oh yeah, and Simpson.
Now the four of them were stuck out here in the decaying half-shell of an ex-hotel, with the sounds of a full-scale riot in the carpark over the road - and the really, really bad country music from inside - still echoing through the evening air. Makepeace was concussed and furious, Daniel had been nicked in the leg by a random slug, Carter and the rest of SG-3 were god knows where (and had better be sending for backup), Ezra Simpson was making their lives hell...
And what the hell did 'fecaloid' mean? He'd have to ask Daniel.
Sometime.
Right now he was more interested in trying to stop Daniel's leg bleeding, and wondering how the hell the guy had gotten hold of what he damn well knew was an SGC-issue gun.
Or guns. He was holding two, both Berettas, and had a Sig tucked into his belt. The fuckin' man was a pickpocket as well, it seemed.
"Look, Simpson, this would never have even happened if you had just listened -"
"The dead - unsanctified or not - will rise from their graves before Ah cooperate with the ephemeromorphous likes of -"
"Look." From behind a wall of Colonels in rather battered mufti, Daniel spoke up, shakier than usual but still with that patented tone of sweet reason that almost always worked miracles... well, except against NID. And Goa'uld. And the odd stinky monster. And lowlifes at Charlie Le Guerch's. "You may not believe it, but we're trying to help."
"Really." Okay, so it didn't work on lowlifes here, either.
"Honestly." Realizing that that was not going down at all well, Daniel hurried on. "And we do realize that we may have interrupted your, umm, business dealings," such as they were, Jack thought, nice way of putting it, "but as Jack said, we just need to know where your friend Maude de Saussure is. Urgently. Really, really urgently."
"As Ah told the noxious creodonts you call your acquaintances -"
"Hey!" Maybe he should let Makepeace throttle the man.
"- I know no one of that name. So why the hell are you still hounding me?!? "
"I vote for Plan B," Jack grunted as he wrapped the makeshift bandage around Daniel's leg. "let's just shoot him till he talks."
Daniel gave him a fuzzy but sarcastic look. He didn't have to say it, Jack already knew.
Simpson had most of the guns.
Shit happens, Jack knew that all too well. But this time, he grumbled to himself, it was all the Tokra's fault.
And Daniel's. And some idiot friend of Catherine Langford's named Wingo, who had an obsession for antiquities and apparently an even bigger one for blondes. And the blonde, Maude... de Saussure or whoever she really was, because Ezra Simpson wasn't admitting anything.
And the goddess Muffie ("Mafdet", he could almost hear his archeologist murmur) whose name was apparently on the Ancient Egyptian jewelry Wingo had bought - probably illegally, according to the SGC's outraged archeologists - and this Maude de Saussure had then acquired from Wingo.
By acquired, Jack meant swindled.
By Ancient Egyptian jewelry, Daniel meant "a pectoral and two bracelets, gold and inlaid stones, probably 8th Dynasty or earlier going by the iconography and stylistic variations," and so on and so on at the usual appalling length, "oh, and the Goa'uld writing on it says something about wrath of the goddess and... I think, no, definitely bringing an eruption of death and fiery despair to worlds without end. Yes, that's probably Goa'uld for a bomb."
And by "the goddess" the Tokra mean... "a minor Goa'uld, scarcely a footnote in their history," in the usual droning, superior way that made his teeth ache, "and probably long dead, but it appears that she was another who did not leave Earth before the Stargate was buried, so the Tokra believe that you must investigate and recover what may only be decoration but may be some form of disguised technological..."
And fuck it, the stuff wasn't even nice-looking.
So they'd put the Air Force's second-best geeks onto finding the woman. They'd been remarkably unsuccessful until one of Wingo's people recalled a phone call they'd overheard, to someone called "mah darlin' boy." Someone else had managed to unearth the call records to a cell phone bought by a two-bit criminal on the very edge of a drug and guns supply ring in Denver - the same two-bit criminal named Simpson who the geeks had located and they'd followed to what had turned out to be a dive to end all dives twenty minutes out of Denver.
They could now hear sirens, the sounds of the brawl over the road breaking up, more shooting.
Nice people this guy spent time with, but that wasn't his problem, he had enough already.
"She rang you."
Pale, simmeringly hostile green eyes stared at him unblinkingly. "Must have been a wrong numbah. Ah told you, ah don't recall it."
Jack guided Daniel's hands to held the rough bandage in place, and rose to his feet... slowly, carefully, shielding the younger man as best he could and trying not to spook the crim with the guns. Not much point in spooking him (fun as though it would have been), even if Simpson seemed aggravatingly unspooked by everything, just irate. He didn't bother going for his own weapon, as even the lousiest of shots would have had him and something told him Simpson was a better shot than they would have guessed.
Simpson was a better everything than they would have guessed. Except as a source of intel.
"Look, Maude was overheard. She called you darlin', Simpson."
"She called the wrong numbah darlin'."
"We don't believe you."
Simpson sighed, rather theatrically, and spread out his hands. "Then - with all due respect -" and oh yes, Jack could hear loud and clear how little that was, "- fuck y'all."
"She could be in danger, you know," O'Neill said carefully. Not that - as far as they knew - there was anyone else looking for the woman, and even if the fuckin' jewelry was explosive, it was unlikely to go boom in the next few days.
He hoped.
And at least Simpson was here, was still here, and was listening, if only for the excuse to argue and insult them. If they could keep him talking till Carter and the others showed up...
"I've little doubt of that," Simpson did seem to like talking. "I'd be profoundly concerned for my own wellbeing if I were her, given the cretinous amateurs after her." He leaned back against the wall and glared at all of them impartially, his opinion on which cretinous amateurs insultingly obvious.
"And okay, you don't believe it, but we are here to help."
"What makes you think I care?"
"She could die, Simpson." Okay, that was a reach.
"I repeat, what makes you think -?"
"You're not a heartless man." Daniel spoke up, faintly but with the usual annoying certainty. "I don't believe you'd want even a stranger to be hurt when she doesn't have to be."
"Really."
"Yes, really. I know and you know that you're lying, you know the woman and I don't think you want her to pay for your mistake."
"Mistake -?"
The drawl and cocked eyebrow were... promising. The man seemed to be cooling down a bit. So Jack put on his best "friendly" face and kept going. "Yeah. Mistake in question being to stonewall when it could cost this Maude big. Look, we're not asking for much - just a contact, a phone number, anything."
Simpson smiled, one of those slow, menacing, shit-eating grins that said the friendly face wasn't working. "I told you, I. Don't. Have. Anything." He glanced down, maybe thinking, maybe... then up again, his green gaze suddenly flat and calculating. "The woman can probably look out for herself, after all, like we all do. But tell me, gentlemen... what danger?"
Jack should have known that would be next. Hell, he had known... "Sorry, can't tell you."
"Because -?"
"It's classified." He saw the look Simpson gave the three of them in their jeans and leather (and yeah, plaid. Daniel. Only Daniel.) and went on doggedly. "Yes really. I could tell you, then I'd have to arrest you and the paperwork's a nightmare."
"You're Federal agents -?" Oh, the derision in the smooth (and now he through about it, less thickly accented) voice hurt.
"You don't think we look respectable enough -?"
"No."
Jack felt he should be vaguely insulted, and knew damn well Makepeace was,
"Forgive mah bluntness, but I've seen third-rate blattoid gunrunners who looked more reputable."
"Blattoid?" This was from Daniel, weak and hurting and a little out of it, but still able to be entranced by a single new word. Jack couldn't decide if he wanted to bang their heads together (without getting shot, not an option) or encourage anything that might distract the lowlife with the guns and the vocab.
"Absolutely no question, young man."
"That's... that's rude. Good but rude."
"No, rude would be a definite improvement," Simpson said casually. "Blattoid, that's truthful. And reluctant as I am to drag this delightful distraction back to the subject at hand -"
Damn.
"But I do have to congratulate y'all on sheer gall. You came here, interrupted my impeccably legal -"
Read, Jack thought, totally illegal, but he kept his mouth shut - it wasn't as if he could couldn't be tactful, after all, at least for a few minutes.
"- engagement with a business acquaintance -"
Shady meeting between criminals in a lowlife hangout.
"- and destroyed several months' arduous work -"
And screw up their disgusting little plans before they even got going, god only knows how.
The other, less tactful but somewhat addled Colonel spoke up. "Yeah like we're really worried about ruining whatever illegal -"
"Makepeace, shut up," Jack would have kicked him if he could. Not that he disagreed, but hell, even a jarhead should have known that wasn't the way to make friends and influence people they needed intel from.
"And that's your idea of helpin'?"
"Umm... well, to be honest," Daniel had that "going to admit to something Jack will wish I hadn't" look on his pale face, "we actually want to help Maude de Saussure."
"I... see."
Jack sighed - that look of Daniel's was never ever wrong - and decided to see if maybe barefaced flattery would work. "You're a bright guy." That and lying, of course.
"Unquestionably." The man still looked pissed, but there was a glint at the back of those eyes.
"And maybe we could cut a deal." And even greed, if it would work. "You tell us a simple phone number, we'll pay you."
"Congratulations - you now do sound like a federal agent."
Jack was now definitely insulted, and this wasn't getting anywhere. Except... except Simpson had the drop on them, and was nearer the door, and was definitely still pissed at the way they'd screwed up whatever he was planning that night (which was probably a good thing, law and order wise, but O'Neill had more important things than law and order to think about. Like Goa'uld necklaces. And bombs). And Simpson hadn't just up and left them, or shot them, or something. He seemed to be waiting.
Jack couldn't help feeling it was because of this Maude de Saussure. The damn man knew who she was, all right. Probably worked with her and no, the Air Force didn't need to know the grimy details.
Stalemate, one of his least favorite games.
He looked down at Daniel, willing his usually oh-so-persuasive linguist to get in and work his oh-so-persuasive skills again, but while Daniel's wound wasn't dangerous, it was bad enough to make him rather unpersuasive... and to suggest that this whole fiasco needed winding up.
Even if both Colonels, even the concussed one, were mentally wincing at the thought of explaining to their General how a few discreet questions had turned into an ex-bar, an all-in-brawl, and a visit to the infirmary... and no answers.
Slippery little lowlife, he was. Way more slippery than he had any right to be...
Simpson lifted his head suddenly.
There was someone new out there. Jack felt it, and a small part of him noted with cold calculation that Simpson did too. Most of the shooting - and the godawful music - had stopped, so the Colonel guessed the local cops were into their clean-up. With luck Carter and the others would come around, before Simpson could do a -
"HEY!"
Ah, crap. That bellow definitely didn't sound like Carter.
He didn't jump. Daniel did, Makepeace (concussed, some excuse but not much) sort of did. Simpson merely tensed.
"THIS IS THE ATF -"
ATF? No time to wonder what the hell they were doing involved in this mess instead of - or alongside - the cops.
"YEAH, THAT'S RIGHT, FEDERAL AGENTS. NOW THROW OUT YOUR WEAPONS AND COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"
Jack saw the man straighten from his slouch against the wall, bringing up the guns to bear on them, and spoke up quickly. "What now, Simpson?"
"I rather think they're bellowing at the establishment across the road," Simpson said helpfully, "but I also think, gentlemen," he went on with that shit-eating grin and a quick, slippery two-step backwards, weapons aimed straight at O'Neill and Makepeace as he did. "That's would be my cue for a dazzling escape."
"Wait!" Jack tried once more. "Look, okay, we screwed this up a bit -"
"A bit? Try utterly, totally, comprehensively, exhaustively, inimitably un-"
"A bit. But we're serious, just tell us where the woman is and -"
"I REPEAT - COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!" Someone outside sounded as pissed as Jack felt. "WE DON'T HAVE TO COME IN SHOOTING BUT WE SURE AS HELL DON'T MIND!"
"Cowboys," Simpson murmured. "Always cowboys. But nevertheless, I believe I need a pressing engagement somewhere else, as it were. Good evening, good sirs, and in the future may I suggest that if you want to impress new acquaintances, you should attempt diplomacy." He paused. "Or email."
Daniel said shakily but doggedly. "Simpson, that is the, uhh, Feds."
"I did gather that."
Makepeace gawked (there was no other word for it, at least none that Jack knew) blurrily at the man who was still subtly edging toward the gaping hole in the wall that had once been a door. "You wanna be arrested?"
"Occupational hazard, but no, and I don't envisage it this time." Simpson smirked. "Well, gentlemen, don't think it hasn't been a charming experience meeting ya'll -"
"It hasn't." Jack simply had to get it in.
"- Because it -" a flash of irritation, "hasn't."
And he was gone.
Crap. Fucking absolute crap. Or as Daniel would put it, "that went well."
O'Neill knew he could go after the man, but he'd be better off getting out there and throwing some classified, top secret Air Force yadda, military weight around at everyone in sight - then collecting up his people and getting Makepeace, Daniel and anyone else who'd been injured back to the mountain and Fraiser's less than tender care.
And they'd just track Simpson down all over again, he knew. Even a small-time hood like that couldn't vanish forever. But explaining this night to the Feds - the cops - and worst of all, the General, was going to be such fucking fun, and they had absolutely nothing to show for it.
Nothing at all.
Well, maybe not nothing.
He looked down at his injured linguist. "Daniel -?"
Makepeace looked across, somewhat less alertly but doggedly "Jackson?"
Daniel looked up. "Uh, yeah?"
The two Colonels spoke almost as one. "What the hell does fecaloid mean?"
Outside, in the warm evening air, the godawful music was muted but still set his teeth on edge.
"Ezra."
The voice was soft. He sighed. "My apologies, Chris. It's all blown to hell, isn't it?"
The lean blond in kevlar shrugged. "Shit happens, Ez. We'll think of something."
"Too many people saw... ah hell, it'll get back to Denver before midnight. And anyway, those people -"
"Who the hell were they?"
"I've no idea, Mister Larabee. But given they were looking for Ezra Simpson, I think it best he departs this or any other life." ATF undercover agent Ezra Standish rubbed his face, trying to shed the small-time loser he'd been for several months. "And I'm sorry, but all this may be necessitate contacting Maude... at once. If, of course, I can even find the dear woman."
"Maude -? What the hell has she done now?"
"As always, Mister Larabee, I'll be the last to know, but those... whoever they were, the ones who ambushed Simpson, they're lookin' for her. Or at least one of her less-than-fondly remembered aliases from my childhood, which I admit I was happily unaware she was recycling." Ezra shrugged. "And much as I am tempted to throw them to the wolf called Maude, unfortunately...."
"Yeah, I know."
"She is mah mother."
-the end... or not-
M = Maude, Makepeace, mistaken identity, and Mafdet.
Oh, and Ezra's insults -? They are all on the web for those who want to look.... the man has a way with words when annoyed, yes. The most outre of them (like, err, the very first word) are lifted from the wonderful Depraved and Insulting English by Peter Novobatsky and Ammon Shea.