Rating: PG, slight slash implications. Jack/Daniel

Spoilers/Warnings: None.

Summary: Why is Daniel's wardrobe, um, shrinking?

Notes | Disclaimer

Cheyenne Mountain Air Force Base
SGC Locker Room
Monday, July 9, 2001, 0643

"Dammit!"

Colonel Jack O'Neill looked up from the bootlace he was currently in the process of tying, surprised by the sudden and rather violent outburst from the man standing two lockers down. It was very rare to hear Daniel Jackson actually curse; in fact, the only times Jack could ever recall hearing such colorful language from his normally even tempered teammate was in the heat of battle, during prolonged stays in the infirmary, or when embroiled in an argument with his-in Daniel's opinion--intractable team leader. Since they weren't currently anywhere near a battlefield or the infirmary, and since Jack hadn't done anything more than grunt hello, it looked like he was about to encounter a fourth category to be filed under the heading of "things that really tee off Dr. Daniel Jackson."

"What's wrong, Daniel?"

"They did it again!"

OK, not exactly illuminating. "Did what?"

"The laundry. They shrunk my clothes. Again. They've been doing it for months now and I can't seem to get them to stop!"

Jack eyed his increasingly agitated teammate. "But they fit, right?"

"Just barely," Daniel responded, obviously working up a head of steam. "I swear, if it weren't for the laundry tags, I'd've thought I got Sam's stuff by mistake."

"No, I'm fairly sure we'd've noticed that, Daniel."

Daniel didn't acknowledge Jack's remark and just continued "I mean what are the doing to my stuff anyway? Running it through extra rinse cycles, or something? If they stick it through any more hot cycles, next thing you know, you'll be seeing my belly button." Daniel waved his wadded up tee-shirt in emphasis. "And why is it only my stuff that seems to be shrinking? All of you clothes seem to fit just fine," he said pointing at Jack's own tee-shirt that hung comfortably on the colonel's lean, muscular frame. "If I didn't know better, I'd think somebody was doing this on purpose!"

"C'mon Daniel, aren't you overreacting, just a tad here?" Jack said, trying to interject a bit of reason into the discussion. He returned his attention to the laces of his left boot that had managed to fall into a small puddle of water on the concrete floor.

Daniel stared at him a moment in mute indignation before sputtering, "Overreacting! Look at this!"

Jack looked up to see Daniel now wearing the offending garment, his hands planted on his hips in an undeniably argumentative stance. "Look at this!" he repeated.

So Jack did. He looked and saw the way the black cotton of the tee shirt emphasized the breadth of the younger man's shoulders, how it stretched across taut muscle and the firm, flat planes of his stomach. Well, there was certainly no mistaking; Dannyboy had definitely been working out of late and was, in fact, looking quite buff.

"Ya know Daniel, I gotta say, I don't really see the problem here."

Daniel was staring at him again, this time in disbelief. "You don't see the problem?"

"Ah, nope can't say that I do. Look, I'll admit the shirt is a bit more... form fitting than it used to be, but it's hardly out there." He saw that Daniel was gearing up for another stage in his rant, so Jack thought he'd make a pre-emptive strike. "Let me ask you this: is the shirt uncomfortable?"

"Well...no, not really."

"OK. Has anyone commented negatively on your appearance, made any jokes or snide comments."

Daniel frowned, that thoughtful little frown that lined his forehead and then worked its way down his face. "Well...no. I can't say that anyone has."

"Have the marines given you any grief?"

The frown deepened. "No. In fact, they haven't said word one to me in months. Though they do seem to look at me a lot..." Daniel's voice trailed off, and Jack decided to cut that train of thought of f before it left the station.

"Well, see, no harm, no foul. It isn't really a problem, Daniel, unless you choose to make it one." Jack added reasonably.

"I guess so. But still..."

"Tell you what Danny," Jack offered, "I'll talk to the guys in the laundry and see what they can do, OK?"

A smile lit Daniel's features. "Thanks Jack. I really do appreciate it." He gave a soft chuckle, not much more than a sigh, but genuine nonetheless. "Maybe I have been overeating. A tad."

"A tad," Jack agreed. "And on that note, I suggest you finish getting dressed. We ship out in..." he flipped the cover off his watch and peered at the display, "twelve minutes."

"Shit!" Daniel frantically began pulling on clothing as Jack left the locker room and headed towards the gateroom. While generals might make allowances for the occasionally tardy archeologist, they tended to have less patience for air force colonels. Jack quickened his pace. He had a telephone call to make before he left.

Jack darted into his office and headed directly for the phone. Punching in the four digit extension, he waited for three rings before hearing the voice on the other line respond.

"Laundry."

"This is Colonel O'Neill. Let me speak with Sergeant Clemson."

"Speaking, sir. What can I do for you?"

"I'm calling about Dr. Jackson's laundry."

"Yes sir?"

"Good work, sergeant. Keep it up!"

"Yes sir, will do."

"Oh, and Clem?"

"Yes, colonel?"

"There's an extra twenty in it for you if you run his shirts through an extra hot cycle next time."

"Yes, sir. You got it."

And with that Jack hung up the phone and strode purposefully to the gateroom, a secretive smile on his lips and visions of belly buttons dancing though his head.

God, I can't believe I actually wrote a fic and moreover that I'm actually going to post it. Yes, I apparently have gone off the deep end. Always saw it coming. Oh, well. At least I'll embarrass myself publicly. That's good, right?