Queer Eye

First Published: February 8th 2004
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack/Daniel
Word Count: 14kb

Summary: The team set Jack up to star in the latest edition of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy."

Jack sighed and clicked off the television, feeling restless and dissatisfied. It was February 14th, so it was hardly surprising that there was nothing on TV but romantic movies and similar mush. Not that Jack had anything against romance. However, it only reminded him of the one person he could *not* afford to be seen alone with today, the only person he actually *wanted* to be with.

There was nothing he would like more than to take Daniel out for a romantic, candle-lit dinner, followed by dancing. Then he would take him home again where he could make lingering, mind-blowing love to him all night long. He really didn't want to have to spend Valentine's Day in the company of his own right hand. Jack's eyes began to glaze over at the idea, but he shoved such thoughts aside.

Jack wandered over to the fireplace and stared miserably at the fifteen valentine cards he had received in his mailbox this morning. Three were definitely from his neighbor's teenaged girls, several more were from the female staff on base. He recognized Sam's handwriting on one and Janet's on another.

Right in the middle of the mantelpiece, however, one plain white card with a small red heart right in the middle caught his eye. He picked it up, smiling as he read the words printed inside.

"A heart is not just for Valentine's Day, it's forever."

He felt a lump rise in his throat as he traced Daniel's words with one finger. God, he needed to be with Daniel tonight, but the risk was way too high.

He ran a hand over his stubble roughened jaw and glanced at the telephone. Suppose they could get away with phone-sex? Daniel loved phone-sex. He was reaching for the receiver when his doorbell rang, jarring him back to reality. He jumped guiltily.

Jack opened the door, and staggered backwards into the hall as five perfectly groomed and disconcertingly effeminate guys pushed past him, all saying hello to him at once. They were closely followed by a camera crew with a sound man in tow.

Jack was immediately shoved back against the wall by a skinny blonde guy who cast aspersions on Jack's ratty sweat pants and faded grey tee shirt. Jack's hand snapped up to capture the man's fingers as he tugged at the hem of the tee. Then his eyes tried to go in four directions at once, following the other members of the strange raiding party.

"Hey, what gives?" he shouted over the racket.

One guy was busily tossing things out of his fridge. He waved a triangle of rock hard cold pizza under Jack's nose. "You have a dozen cans of cheap beer and fossilized junk food in here. How do you expect to impress your friends with that?" he accused.

"My... what?" Jack had noticed the camera crew now and was backing rapidly towards the living room, the blonde guy still insistently tugging at his clothing.

"Hi. I'm Carson, and I can't wait to get into your closet." He grinned, and Jack's eyes tried to pop right out of his head.

"What the fuck?"

He backed into another young man who wasted no time in sinking his fingers into Jack's hair.

"Okay, we'll have to beep THAT out. Hi. I'm Kyan. I do grooming. Well, this won't need too much work, but let me ask you, what products do you use?"

"Pardon me?" Jack asked, his face screwing up in confusion as "Kyan" ran the back of one hand over his jaw.

"Do you moisturize?"

Jack ducked around him, only to find his way blocked by yet another man, this one holding out one of his throw cushions like it was a Goau'ld symbiote. "Jack, these are so yesterday! Where are you shopping? Goodwill? I'm Thom, by the way."

Jack's legs gave way, and he sank onto the sofa, finally recognizing the five men who were ripping his way of life to pieces. "Okay, who put you onto me? Carter? Feretti?" he growled, slapping away the multitude of hands that kept pawing at him.


cut to one-to-one interview: Lou Feretti – fellow officer and friend

Jack is very old fashioned. He's a slob, too. And someone needs to teach him that there are more than two food groups. Beer and pizza are fine, but a man needs Fruit Loops too, ya know?


One of the hyperactive men, the same one who had complained about his taste in beer and pizza, dragged him into the kitchen. He introduced himself as Ted.

"Okay, Jack, I'm going to show you how to prepare and serve a wonderful Valentine's meal for your friends. I need you to remember what I'm showing you here. Think of it as a mission briefing."

"What makes you think I pay attention at those?" Jack asked, wondering what Ted had planned for the mini blowtorch. He was beginning to suspect that Lieutenant Siler might have something to do with all of this.


cut to one-to-one interview: Lt. Dave Siler – subordinate

Colonel O'Neill likes to do his own home maintenance. He spends most Saturdays tackling little projects around the house. Then he spends most Sundays supervising me while I... *fix* whatever he breaks. I have a very big wrench.


"Jack, what is this... Barry Manilow?"

Jack stuck his head through the pass through window in his dining room and scowled at the fifth member of the team, who was currently sitting cross legged on his living room floor, knee deep in Jack's CD collection. He had introduced himself earlier as Jai, but Jack's brain had gone into meltdown long ago and could only remember him as the ‘culture guy', whatever the hell that meant.

"What's wrong with Manilow?" he asked nervously, as Mr. Culture grinned back at him.

"Copa Cabana? And right next to it, Pavarotti singing Pagliacci. Eclectic much?"

Jack's eyes widened in confusion, but he felt a need to defend his taste in music.

"I LIKE Manilow. I LIKE opera."

"You SURE you're straight?" asked the handsome, dark eyed man, with a small assessing smile. Jack ducked quickly back into the kitchen before the camera could film his furious blush.


cut to one-to-one interview: Daniel Jackson – co-worker and best friend.

Jack's idea of good fashion sense is to wear matching socks. I think he's happier in uniform, so he just doesn't care about civilian clothing. He thinks Armani is an Italian restaurant.


Jack reluctantly pulled on his jacket and followed Carson's swaying ass up the hall. He hesitated at the door and watched as the men tutted and shook their heads while moving all his furniture around. "Guys, leave the model Space shuttle where it is, okay? It belonged to my son."

The men paused, looked at him searchingly, and then nodded to each other, seeming to understand on an instinctive level that this was important to Jack. They then returned to their frantic activities.

Jack closed his eyes, afraid to think about what his home was going to look like when he came back.

Suddenly a hand closed on his wrist, and Carson's breathy voice sounded very close to his ear. "Come on, honey, let's get you some decent clothes."

"Fuck" Jack muttered under his breath.

"No, thanks, darlin'. I gave at the office. Maybe later." Jack's startled look was met by a shit-eating grin from Carson.

Some time later, Jack pulled back the curtain and stepped self-consciously out into the waiting area of the most exclusive menswear shop in Colorado Springs. Carson made appreciative little noises in the back of his throat while circling Jack like a well-groomed panther.

"Oh! That jacket and that cashmere sweater together is SUCH a good look for you, Jack. Layering is always very flattering..." He was touching Jack lightly here and there, patting him, clucking at him.

"How much do they cost?" asked Jack, planting his hands firmly on his hips.

Carson rolled his eyes and began fussing again while Jack reviewed all the ways he could kill his entire team without getting caught. First there was the classic ‘claymore induced landslide' scenario, then the always popular ‘close the iris, oops I thought they were in FRONT of me' option.

By the time Jack arrived back home, he was starting to lose the will to live. He carried the gaily-colored shopping bags into the hall and froze. His house was tidy. His house was clean. His house looked like a cover illustration for IKEA.


Eight interminable hours after they had arrived, Jack waved bye-bye to the gaggle of gay guys and closed his front door, leaning his head against the wood and letting out a sigh of relief. Of course the crew had left behind several wall mounted cameras to film how well Jack put his newly found fashion and culinary ‘skills' to use, but at least it was quiet now.

Scratching his head, he stood in his immaculate living room, terrified to even sit on the sofa in case he rumpled or spilled something.

"Fuck!" he muttered under his breath again, giving the camera over the fireplace a self-conscious little look.

He was supposed to cook a meal now for the evil bastards who had set him up for this, because he didn't have a convenient ‘girlfriend' to impress. How sad did that make him look?

He wandered into the kitchen and took a deep breath. Okay, he could do this. He'd faced marauding Jaffa warriors and been snaked by Goau'lds. He'd been tortured and beaten by masters and survived an impacted wisdom tooth, how hard could crème caramel be? Now where in hell was that blowtorch thingie that Ted had shown him?


cut to one-to-one interview: Murray – friend

O'Neill is a most determined individual. I believe he will face this challenge with courage and fortitude. Having said that, I will not eat anything he has prepared. I am on a special diet.


Jack lit the candles on his dining room table and stepped back with a smile to admire his handiwork. He'd followed his instructions to the letter, his hair was bristling with "product", his skin was moisturized, his black trousers and shirt were pressed, and he smelled great. The table was set with his best china, the food was almost ready, and the wine was chilling.

He'd done it! He'd even surprised himself.

Looking up at the camera, he saluted smartly just as the doorbell rang. He took a deep breath and threw open the door, a puzzled frown marring his brow at the sight that met him. He had expected his entire team for dinner, but only Daniel stood there, looking way too hot in a charcoal gray suit and crisp white shirt, the blue of his silk tie perfectly matching his beautiful cerulean eyes. He was nervously clutching a single red rose in his trembling fingers. Jack's eyes flew from the rose, to Daniel's handsome face, looking so nervous but happy, and then back to the rose. Damn, Daniel looked good enough to eat.

"Hey! Where's everyone else?" he whispered, peering around Daniel and down the path.

"We drew straws again," said Daniel apologetically with a little shrug. "And I *lost*... again."

Jack grabbed hold of Daniel's sleeve and hauled him over the threshold before anyone saw him. Standing in the hall, Jack smiled. The smile grew wider. He snorted. Finally he began laughing, tears streaming down his face, and he didn't stop until Daniel had to thump him on the back to help him regain his breath.

This was too much. He and Daniel would be eating a romantic candle lit dinner, dressed to the nines, filmed for the entire world to see. And yet the SCG were not only aware of it, but amazingly had even sanctioned it. Who said there was no fairy godmother?

He idly wondered if he would be able to get away with a good night kiss later.

Daniel dropped the rose onto the side table and sidled past his friend, looking like he thought Jack might deck him any minute. As soon as he stopped laughing.


cut to team back at sudio: "Oh, look, Carson. He's wearing the undershirt like you showed him."

"What a little trouper!"

"Ted, is he doing that right?"

"Gently, gently – there! Perfect crème caramel. He looks pleased."

"Oh, bless him. He's pulling out the chair for Daniel like a real gentleman. How's the hair holding up, Kyan?"

"Perfect! Look, it's shimmering silver in the candlelight. It's a shame he's straight, really. I could fall for a guy with hair like that."

The five men looked at each other and began laughing. Carson wiggled his eyebrows and took a slurp of his wine with a big grin.

"He IS straight right?"

"Don't ask, Don't tell, Carson. Don't ask, Don't tell."


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