Jack wasn't sure why it bothered him so much that he hadn't noticed Daniel was hurt.
He'd turned and walked away and left Daniel there with the robot-that part was all right; it was hard enough to reason with Daniel under the best of circumstances. He'd tried it there in the gateroom, but he wasn't speaking Daniel's language, or at least not the important parts of it, the ones that Daniel wanted to hear. And right after he'd said "I'm sorry," he'd had another little revelation, one of the kind he'd been having for the past year or so.
It was like this: he knew he wasn't sorry. Daniel knew he wasn't sorry. And both he and Daniel knew, knew, that they were right. They both knew it so thoroughly that there was no room left for compromise, no possibility that both ideas could exist together. It was amazing, seeing that, like a physical blow, and neither of them had to say a word to figure it out. Jack knew he'd been right, Daniel knew Jack had been wrong, and what happened exactly when two completely irreconcilable ideas came together?
So he'd turned and walked away, and hadn't even noticed that Daniel's wrist was broken.
He'd gone to the infirmary a couple of hours later, after they'd gotten rid of what remained of the replicators-it was a little unnerving, somehow, to touch those little metal body parts-and checked in on everyone and asked, almost as an afterthought, how Daniel was.
"His wrist is broken," Janet had said, "but other than that he's fine, physically. He should be home by now."
"Good," Jack had said, and gotten ready to go home himself. It was at about that point that he'd started thinking something might not be quite in order.
What kept coming to mind was something that had happened about, oh, two years ago. That winter there'd been what seemed like the worst flu epidemic in recorded history. Daniel had been down with it for four or five days, and Jack had gone over to his place a couple of times. Daniel wasn't the most stoic patient, and had bitched a lot about how Jack was keeping him from whatever work he was supposed to be doing. Also, how Jack was the only one on the team who wasn't sick yet and therefore he had a moral responsibility to stay away from Daniel in case another threat to the planet occurred. "You think your germs are that formidable?" Jack had said. "Well, they don't scare me."
They didn't. They'd played a lot of chess and cards, and eventually Jack had stopped bothering Daniel and let him read about some Greek mountain range, which was presumably important, but he hadn't paid much attention to Daniel's explanation of why. He'd heard, "Well, we've found some very interesting similarities to the ancient cultures of..." and decided that was more than enough. He remembers sitting next to Daniel and reading the sports page and commenting on it frequently just to see Daniel roll his eyes. At the end of the day, Daniel had admitted, "You know, I actually got a lot done. You're more inspirational than I thought."
And that was just the flu. Now, Daniel's wrist was broken and he'd looked up at Jack in the gateroom, crying, and Jack wasn't feeling any particular way about it.
Once he got home, he kept calling Daniel, and Daniel kept not answering, so Jack finally just went over to his place.
Daniel came to the door, still dressed even though it was late by now, wrist in a cast. "Jack," he said, politely.
"Mind if I come in?"
He certainly looked as though he minded, but he moved aside anyway. Once he closed the door he said, still quite politely, "Did you think that maybe I wasn't answering the phone because I don't want to talk to you?"
"The thought did cross my mind, yeah. Look, Daniel-" and he knew then that he should have prepared better, because he had absolutely no idea what to say next.
Daniel was standing about as far from Jack as he could get without being in the next room, his arms crossed across his chest. At about this time last year, they'd just been getting home from the Light planet, and Jack had never been so glad to get back to work. That time, Daniel had come to him. He'd been nervous, walking around Jack's house and touching all his stuff, until Jack had said, "Daniel, what is it that you're doing, exactly?" And Daniel had said, "Look, Jack, um-" and kissed him.
It was a little awkward. Things didn't seem to fit together quite right, but it seemed like slowing down would be a bad idea, so they didn't. And later, Jack had lain stroking Daniel's back idly and looking out his window at the stars. Everything seemed to have shifted so radically that he thought it should feel like he'd never seen them before, but there were the Pleiades, right where they'd been yesterday. And here he was, still sticky with his sweat and come, and Daniel's sweat and come. He remembered thinking, although he knew he was old enough to know better: it can't get any better than this.
And now he would have liked to say again, "I'm sorry." But that hadn't worked before and he couldn't think of any reason it would work now. So he didn't talk; he kissed Daniel, and it was rougher and more desperate than it had been before. For a minute Daniel didn't kiss back, and then suddenly he did, putting all the anger and adrenaline from the day into it; it felt like they were fighting. Then Daniel pushed him away, flushed and breathing hard.
"You just want me to admit I was wrong, don't you?"
"Daniel," Jack said very quietly, "shut up." He knew he was too far into Daniel's space, threatening him physically, but he couldn't seem to move away.
Not breaking eye contact, Daniel shook his head, slowly and deliberately. "Oh," he said. "You going to hit me, Jack?" Because he was going to have to, soon. They were so close their chests were almost touching, both of them panting a little now, and neither of them backing up.
"Do you want me to hit you?" No answer. "That's pretty twisted, Daniel, even for you."
Daniel was trembling hard, furious and, Jack had to notice, really fucking gorgeous. It hurt that he just kept on noticing that even now, when things were so clearly falling apart, and he really did want to hit Daniel. Then Daniel finally looked down, and when he met Jack's eyes it looked like he might cry again. "All right," he said quietly. "Let's do this. But this is it, Jack."
They made it to the bedroom somehow, and Jack grabbed Daniel's uninjured wrist, knowing it was too tight, knowing there would be perfect bruises there the exact size and shape of his fingers, then gave Daniel a hard little shove backwards onto the bed.
It happened fast. Daniel was writhing around under him as they pushed and thrust against each other. Daniel's mouth was against his neck, his throat, and he let Jack feel his teeth. Their legs twined together and Daniel's thighs were squeezing Jack hard. Jack somehow got the lube; he heard Daniel yelp as Jack opened him up, got him ready.
Jack kept watching Daniel's face the whole time, and there was no submission there, not even when Jack slid into him and heard him moan; Daniel pushing back against him every time, not letting Jack set the pace. As he buried himself in Daniel and thrust hard, again and again, Daniel was watching him too, and there was so much fire in him, so much fury, and he bit Jack's shoulder hard when he came. Jack followed him over faster than he would have liked to, and as each spasm gripped him he heard himself whisper, "Please, Daniel. Please," without knowing quite what he was asking for.
Afterwards, Jack got up and went to the window. Daniel was lying on his side, moving restlessly, but asleep. Jack took another look at the stars, tried to see how many forms he could identify. When he turned around, he was startled to see that Daniel was awake and looking right at him.
"Hey," Jack said, and Daniel gave him a little wave. The moonlight made it almost as bright as day, and he could see Daniel's face clearly. He didn't look angry anymore, just sad.
"I guess we need to talk, don't we?" said Daniel.
Jack thought about that. "I don't know," he said. "Do you have something to say?"
"Well--" Daniel hesitated a minute, then said, "Until we started this, I never understood the point of those regulations. But I think I get it now. You can't do both, and we're hurting the team. And, you know, Jack, I don't know why this isn't working. I just know it isn't. And so do you."
Well.
He understood pretty clearly that Daniel wanted him to say that some of that wasn't true. And he did wish he could.
There were a couple of other things he would have liked to have said, too. One of them was, "I love you." They'd said that before; that was kind of easy, now. "I'm sorry," -that was the hard one, because he still wasn't, really, and Daniel would know it. So instead he said, "I think you're right."
And then.
For a while, it isn't so bad, because they're busy; they're doing what they always do. He's glad, genuinely glad, that Thor's all right, and that helps too.
But then, after they get back, there's some downtime that he can't avoid. And what he remembers is a mission that seems to have happened a long time ago. The only memorable thing about this planet had been how utterly idyllic it was. Warm, lots of water and sand, no people that they'd found. No Jaffa.
He doesn't know who it was that brought it up, but what they'd ended up talking about was how they'd like to die, if they could choose.
Teal'c had been predictable. "Fighting to free my brothers and sisters on Chulak," he'd said, looking mildly surprised that they needed to ask.
"Of course," Jack had said formally. "Carter?"
She'd had to think for a while. "I guess it sounds cliché, but old age wouldn't be so bad. In bed, with the children and grandchildren all around, you know." She'd smiled a little nervously.
Then Daniel. He'd taken some time too, looking around at the sky and water and sand. Then-"You know, I don't think it matters as long as it's somewhere warm. Right here would be nice."
Jack had said right away that Daniel had stolen his answer, which had led to a lengthy argument. He'd been thinking, actually, of something he couldn't say. Looking at Daniel, Jack had felt a sudden terrible fondness, a tightness in his chest and throat. I'd like to die at the same time you do, was what he'd been thinking. Or before; before is okay too. I'll tell him that when we get home, he remembers thinking.
Now, he's sorry that Daniel hadn't said he'd want to die like a hero.
He feels that coldness as they're getting into the elevator, and thinks, No. It's not fair that he can't rest, not even now. But he feels that touch against his hair, and some kind of reassurance, as if someone has just given his shoulder a friendly little squeeze. Just saying hello, then, he thinks. That's all right.
And then he really feels it for the first time, and the weight of it comes onto him all at once. He feels about a hundred years old. I'm sorry; he thinks. I'm so sorry. Goodnight, Daniel.
"it seems that things just don't work
most of the time
and when they do it will be for a short time
only.
well, that's not news.
nothing's news.
it's the same old thing in
disguise.
only one thing comes without a
disguise and you only see it
once, or
maybe never."
--Charles Bukowski, from "the last song"