Trade-offs

by Paddy 

Minnesota, 1964

High Flight
Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there,
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue
I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew --
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untrespassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.
-- John Gillespie Magee, Jr.

I did it. Jack struggled to control his face so he could retain his all-important cool. A red A from his teacher on his favorite poem illustrated with his best hand-drawn fighter jet border. The trade-offs, missed TV shows and some street hockey, had been worth it.

I've chased the shouting wind along. That will be me, Jack promised himself, no matter what it takes, I'll be a pilot. I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace. I'll fly forever and no one will ever bring me down to the ground.

Iraq, 1985

Ali-jarah Prison, just north of Baghdad, day 32

I did it. Jack struggles to control his face so he can retain his soul.

He isn't sure if he is still screaming. He thinks he is; his mouth's open, the pain is intense, but he can't hear a sound. No matter, he didn't give them information, didn't give them what they wanted.

He's unable to ease the agonizing strain on his manacled arms because his legs won't hold him. They've fucked up his knee bad. Jack can only hope the guards will carry him back to his cell because he sure as hell can't crawl this time.

On the road to Kifri, day 41

The jolting of the cart sends spears of pain through his back. His neck's too stiff to turn, but out of the corner of his eye, Jack sees a pair of boots. He thinks it's Stewart and he wants to ask about the others, but his throat's coated with sand and even breathing hurts.

Jack doesn't think it matters at this point. 'Your mission is not sanctioned, gentlemen, so no S&R will be authorized. I suggest you succeed.' Black Ops gospel.

They were captured a month ago, maybe more -- he lost some days -- but there are at least 30 scratches on his boot. Jack methodically, deliberately, tamps down the memories of those past days -- the capture, the torture, the violations -- and buries them deep. Jack's nothing if not a master of repression.

These memories are going so far down, they'll never see the light of day again. Not here, not back in the States, should he be so lucky, not ever. Jack stifles a bitter snort of derision. If the cavalry hasn't come after him yet, it ain't gonna happen. So he silently assesses their chances of escape, which seem slim to none.

A goddamned donkey cart is taking them deeper in-country.

Almost to Tuz, day 44

Jack doesn't know where they're headed, but the weather's a little cooler and for that, he's grateful. If he never sees another grain of sand, it will be too soon; hell, he'll never even go to the beach when he gets home. Will put in for assignment on a landlocked base in the mountains surrounded by forests, just to be certain.

That thought ambushes him and he sits up in surprise. Jack's deliberately made his mind blank: no past, no future, no memories of home, no hope. He doesn't appreciate either the unbidden thought or the shock of pain that movement brings. Nor the loss of control.

Jack has always prided himself on having control. Since he was a kid, really. Didn't show fear, even when he was terrified. Didn't submit, not in the face of the most uneven odds. Kept his private desires private.

And since he was a kid, Jack wanted to fly. 'Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth/And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings.'

The air force was his dream, so Jack exchanged his independence for the military, swapped his wild ways for regulations, gave up free thought to follow orders.

Life's a trade-off, he believes, you give up one thing to get something else; nobody can have it all. Too bad, that little rebellious part of his brain pipes up, too bad you gave up a lot and now you've got nothing.

Jack has to remain numb to survive this bleak existence, though much of the time, he's not sure why he bothers. Not one solitary thought about what he survived, what they did to him, lest the darkness consume him. He disciplines himself to think only about escape. He is, after all, the master of control, but that's failing him, just like his body. Unless there's some way to beam him home, he won't get far with his knee the way it is, and unless a miracle happens right now, he won't need to worry about it.

He forces his mind into submission, works at the manacles, and sways with the cart. Anger and fear roil around but won't coalesce into coherent thought. He's not quite ready to die, though it's a near thing some days, and he's not sure how much longer he can live like this.

He falls into the dust when a sniper shoots first the donkey, then the driver.

In an insurgent camp on the banks of the Tigris, day 47

Soldiers crowd around the well where they're chained. Stewart's shaking and his eyes are glazed. He's 24, Jack thinks, on his first mission, now his last. All the simulated prisoner training in the world can't prepare you for the real thing. Some part of him wishes he could offer some words of comfort to Stewart, but, being the master of repression, nothing comes to him.

Negotiations are loud, gestures boisterous, guns brandished. The ragged insurgents who grabbed them off the donkey cart are an unorganized bunch. They appear to be rapidly losing ground to a large man in western dress and a Syrian black-and-white checked head wrap, a ghutra, Jack remembers from orientation. His entourage is better dressed, better armed, and utterly silent.

Then negotiations conclude. Soldiers make way and the Syrian strides over. Expressionless, he nudges Jack and watches with interest the grimace of pain. Stewart makes little fearful bleats. Jack can't help himself; he hates signs of weakness and inches away. The Syrian gives a disgusted smile and spits in the dust. Then, to Jack's relief, he and his crew drive off in jeeps, leavings swirls of dust in their wake.

Relief is short-lived, however, as the insurgents wave around wads of cash, shoot off guns and shout out their joy to the skies. They dance around Jack and Stewart, kicking and hitting, but nothing too damaging. That in itself is worrying.

Twenty kilometers north of Al-Mawsil, day 49

Jack can't figure it out. A day after the Syrian left the insurgents' camp, another group arrived. This time, Jack and Stewart are loaded into a jeep -- still manacled, but no shouting, no shoving, no beatings.

A stop at another camp, a couple more Americans. Private Bucknell, skinny and scared, and Sergeant Romano, big and hiding it better. Good, Jack thinks, regular army. Search and rescue procedures will be in place for them. A little hope surfaces, despite his best efforts to keep it down.

But they avoid Jack's eyes, look at him with hatred when they think he won't notice. After a while, Jack gets it: they're deserters. The army will list them as MIA, not deserters, and search will happen but not as a high priority.

Jack won't allow that frail hope to survive, goes back to working on a plan. Any plan to stave off the darkness.

Village of Rizah, day 52

Jack assesses the village for escape routes as they're unloaded from the jeep. He figures there are several dozen wooden houses, some with satellite dishes, backed up against low hills. A large, grassy common with a well, a fire pit, market stalls lining one edge. Goats, donkey carts, stray dogs, old cars share the streets with chattering women and laughing children. Except for the patrols with Kalashnikovs and the absence of young men, the war hasn't touched this place yet.

Doesn't mean escape's impossible. It's all he's got to keep him from going dead inside.

They're pushed into an old stable with a faint smell of manure and a stronger smell of dope. Thick stone walls. One big room. One door, no inside handle, barred from the outside. A tiny stall on the far end, which Jack claims for his bed by virtue of rank, with a small window, narrower than a man's shoulders. One wide arch, no doors, facing the common.

Jack cautiously edges toward the arch, fingers itching for a gun. He steps out gingerly. It must have once been a little pen but now makes for a nice zoo-like cage. Chicken wire wraps around reinforced eight-foot steel posts set two feet apart, with the wire running up and over to the roof. There's a little pass-through built between the fourth and fifth posts. He tests the tensile strength of the wire and admires how well this prison is built. Then he tamps down what little hope had survived.

Settles in to sit, to watch, to plan. The master of observation rubs his wrists, sore even though the worst of the abrasions have healed. Anything to keep the darkness from swallowing him whole.

Day 60

Another thing Jack can't figure out is why they're being treated as they are.

Each morning, they're shackled and led to an open-air toilet. Every other day, they are paraded out naked and allowed to wash, unchained, in tubs at the edge of the common. Shit, shower, shave -- all in public. Jack supposes humiliation is the intent but he can live with that.

Two meals a day are passed through the small opening in the fence. A couple of nights ago, four blankets.

No beatings, no pain, no demands. Arouses a lot of suspicion in his mind. And he doesn't see any means of escape. Yet.

Inactivity makes them all irritable and irrational. There are military-approved ways to deal, so Jack institutes a morning regime of, well, not calisthenics exactly, there isn't room, but at least moving around and his knee is improving. Provides entertainment for the locals, but does nothing for his men.

Jack should be able to rally them, despite the situation. Brothers in arms, foxhole buddies, the few, the proud, and all that. But he doesn't have this particular skill; he can command men but he can't connect with them.

Jack stops trying and withdraws from them. Stewart sits in the far corner, staring with dead eyes, and Romano taunts the villagers, with Bucknell as his appreciative audience.

During the day, he doesn't think much. Not about being left behind, not about the evermore remote chance of rescue. Doesn't think about home, either; tells himself he won't sully those memories by dragging them into this hellhole, but in truth, just the thought of people watching TV, grilling a steak, making love, walking around free while he's caged like an animal, is more than Jack can bear. In the daylight, darkness obliterates his strength, his heart, his spirit, and is hell-bent on consuming his soul.

At night, Jack can smell forest air and he dreams of his cabin on the lake. His only freedom, his only relief. He'd recite Magee's poem again (Done a hundred things/You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung/High in the sunlit silence), but it would shred his fragile soul. It's all he's got left, so that trade-off's too painful.

Day 67

Jack watches and tracks movements the rhythm of village life, figuring any piece of intel might help.

The old man, Otom, Jack thinks, comes early each morning, just as they're being led to the outhouses. He looks them over and grunts some instructions to their guards. Then, Jack notes with interest, he walks to the far edge of the green. Within minutes, a jeep arrives. It stays only a moment, then drives off in a swirl of dust.

That sets off Jack's alarms. Someone wants them in good shape for something, but not quite yet.

He's taken to napping in the afternoon, when the villagers take their equivalent of a siesta, and getting up in the night. Stewart and the others like it better when he's not around.

At night, he surreptitiously works at the wire, bending it back and forth, but that's not worth much. Jack also digs a hole, filling it back at dawn to hide his activity from the guards. He figures he's down about a foot and hasn't yet reached the bottom of the deeply buried wire. Still, it's better than thinking, then feeling.

Jack tells himself he doesn't care that he lives alone and will die alone. Shit happens all the time and now it's happening to him. Besides, it's peaceful sitting against the wall of the shed, looking up at the stars. Ironic that real darkness eases the darkness in his soul, it allows him to dream of escape. But just that, never any thoughts of home or of what has happened to him here. Those trade-offs take a different toll.

And he's alone, not lonely, he tells himself, ever the master of re-direction. Whatever gets him through the darkness and the night.

Evening, Day 76

There's about another hour of daylight left when the back door opens suddenly and a body is thrust in, all tangled in layers of long tunics and head wrap.

The four soldiers are instantly on alert, but it's Romano who reacts first. His pent-up anger now has a most convenient target.

The first kick connects. 'That hurt, you fucking towel-head?' Romano gloats and kicks him again.

His victim staggers to the fence. 'Saadni!' he calls out.

Romano's on him again, slugging him hard in the gut. As he bends double, Romano's right uppercut spins him around, bouncing his face off the post.

Jack winces, but not much. It's the enemy, after all; why should he care? He does care, however, now that several rifles are poking through the chicken wire, locked and loaded.

'Aah bes!' Otom barks out quick commands and guns are withdrawn but only fractionally. Romano's standing down, barely, willing to ignore Jack's orders if he can get to the man again.

His victim, hurting and breathing hard, straightens up enough to lean back against the fence. He plucks something from his tongue. A small shard of tooth rests on his bloody fingers.

Otom sticks his hands through the chicken wire and pulls the man's ghutra from his head. Blue and white head wrap, Jack later remembers thinking, that's Egyptian.

A boy shakes long shaggy hair from his face and wipes the blood from his chin. 'I'm…,' he stammers, 'I'm Daniel Jackson.'

Early morning, Day 77

Jack lies on a mat in his small stall and listens to the boy snuffling in the dark. He's separated by a thick stone wall from Jack and by the length of the barn from the others.

Random thoughts chase themselves through Jack's mind. From 'what's he doing here?' to 'he's just a kid,' to 'why does he speak their language?', then back to 'he's just a kid.'

He's just a kid. Someone's kid. Someone who should take better care of his kid. Jack would.

Morning, Day 79

The kid never showed his face yesterday, stayed on his mat in the barn, but this morning, it's shower-time. He's first up in the chain gang. Jack's next. That gives him time to wonder about the fading lash marks on Daniel's smooth skin and to monitor Romano's muttered threats behind him.

Daniel's subdued at first, a little discomfited by his nudity. He doesn't know how to school his features into immobility, like soldiers do. The guards harass him a bit, but he handles it pretty well. Jack watches him surreptitiously, figuring any piece of intel might help.

Later in the day, except for keeping a wary distance from Romano, Daniel is genuinely friendly, given the circumstances. Emotions flit across his open face, from fear to relief to hope.

When he forgets himself, he's a talker. To the soldiers watching him with suspicion, to the children who come to gawk at the prisoners, even to the guy who delivers their food twice a day. While the others restrict their meals to only what they can identify, Daniel enthusiastically, unself-consciously, digs in. He describes sambousik through a mouthful of hot meat and pastry, swallows a tin cup of haleeb, which he claims is milk but there are no cows that Jack's seen.

Daniel's relaxed manner and easy chatter might be a cover-up, but it's a damn good one. His presence changes the dynamic for the better; the soldiers aren't quite so rigid or angry. Daniel gives them a way to feel without losing face. He's someone new to relieve the boredom, the fear, the impotent anger, to save them from insanity.

If his parents are diplomats, Jack muses, or ambassadors, or high-powered oil execs or some hawkish politician over here hoping to get his face on the news…, any one of them would be looking for their son. Would do anything to get him back.

And he is here. If they come to get their precious boy, well, they'd just have to take them all.

For the first time in weeks, Jack allows himself some hope. Again.

Three days later, Day 82

Jack maintains his distance, his hard-ass soldier persona. Best to let the boy remain unsure of him. Jack's preferred manner is to keep the world at arm's length; he can't see the sense in any other coping technique. Even if he could, Jack doesn't know how.

Daniel glances at him from time to time, trying to figure him out, but Jack resists. Resists being drawn in by those defenseless eyes, by the vulnerability, by the appeal of that smile. Resists because the trade-off would be too great. He might feel something: human, hope, desire. Something.

He resists but he assesses Daniel closely, alert for any intel. He's formed an opinion already: golden boy, born with a silver spoon, indulged and coddled. He can see Daniel's past, could predict his future: everything handed to him -- no trade-offs necessary.

What Jack misses, in that too-quick-to-judge way of his, is that Daniel's pretty adept at assessing, too.

That night, Day 82

Silence wakes Jack up. The village is almost always quiet at night, but it's the lack of congested breathing that's missing, that jars him awake. Jack arises silently and moves stealthily out to the pen.

Daniel sits against the wall, in Jack's usual space. He glances up at Jack, the one security light on the common barely illuminating him, then quickly looks away, wiping his face on his sleeve.

'Allergies,' he mutters but Jack's seen the tears.

He flinches when Jack kneels beside him, but holds still while Jack tilts his chin up to run his thumb over the split in Daniel's lip. Just assessing injuries, Jack tries to convince himself, but it's more than that. He has to know if he's still human, can still feel anything.

Daniel's tongue involuntarily darts out to trace his chipped front tooth and in the process, touches Jack's thumb. It's Jack's turn to flinch. Fuck.

Jack orders himself to move, but he's frozen in place, his thumb against the boy's lips. Daniel watches him with wide, wary eyes.

With great effort, Jack lowers his arm. 'Go back to bed,' he snarls.

Bewildered at the quick change, Daniel scrambles to his feet and goes, leaving Jack in his black fury.

If he doesn't dig that night, well, it's because he's staring at the stars, tapping his thumb -- that thumb -- against his lips. Life's full of trade-offs.

0100, Day 86

Jack knows what's going on. Daniel's up in the night, too, but timing it to avoid Jack. He doesn't care, but dislikes the fact the boy thinks he's putting one over on him.

He watches Daniel. Two days ago, Daniel scored a battered pack of cards from some children by juggling rocks. Now there are heated poker games at the rickety wooden table, pebbles for betting chips, and even Stewart's warming up to him.

Bad policy, mixing civilians with military. Civilians in hostile situations are usually trouble or dead, but Jack grudgingly admits that Daniel's found a way to fit in.

And Jack's had to revise his initial assessment. Daniel's not a supercilious, overconfident rich boy. There is something underlying his friendliness, an impulsive need to gain everyone's approval, to make alliances. What does Daniel want, what does he need?

Daniel startles that night when Jack silently sits down. He starts to get up, but Jack shakes his head and Daniel settles warily.

'How did you get here?' Jack demands finally, wanting some goddamn straight answers.

Daniel shifts, tucks an unruly lock of long hair behind his ear. 'Well,' he says with a sidelong glance, 'you know I'm not in the army, right?'

Jack gives a sharp bark of laughter, the first in weeks. Before he can recover from that shock, he reaches out to ruffle Daniel's hair. Daniel blinks, then grins himself, split lip, chipped tooth, the bluest eyes.

Get your fingers the fuck out of his hair, Jack harshly orders himself but his hand is tangled and refuses to obey. Get the fuck out.

Laughter, human contact, slowly re-awakening desire. Worse than hope.

Jack retreats back into his rigid shell, welcomes back darkness, his old friend.

'How old are you? Fifteen?'

Daniel bristles with indignation. Yep, Jack thinks, fifteen, maybe sixteen.

'I'm eighteen,' Daniel sputters. 'Eighteen last month.'

In the early morning hours, Jack listens to Daniel's slightly congested breathing. Thinks about what Daniel's told him. Wonders why a grandfather who would spend a tidy sum to send him on this dig before college wouldn't be frantically searching for him now. Ponders the silences between the sentences. Suspects there's much Daniel the talker isn't saying.

1100, Day 91

Days pass and Jack marks each one on his boot.

Escape seems no more possible now that 20 days ago. Or 50 or 75.

They're seriously outnumbered when being moved between barn and outhouse. He still hasn't dug a hole deep enough to clear the wire, nor can he break it by bending it.

Jack's good at military discipline, very good at giving orders, and very, very good at being a cold-hearted son-of-a-bitch. But he finds he has no defense against Daniel's trust, his optimism, his refusal to be put off by Jack's icy demeanor. The way he believes the best of Jack and likes him. Hero worship, Jack scoffs, that's all it is. The few years' age difference seems like a lifetime to both of them.

He should just tell that naïve, entirely-too-trusting kid that Jack's no hero and that they're not going to escape, that the cavalry isn't on the way.

He should, but he can't.

Jack doesn't want to disillusion him, but Daniel's wrong about the likelihood of escape and he's wrong about Jack.

Turns out Jack's wrong about Daniel, too. Daniel doesn't just want a perhaps unattainable future; he wants to take whatever wan comfort there might be now. He trusts that Jack does, too. He's honest about that.

Brash and arrogant, Jack hasn't yet learned that trust isn't a weakness, but instead takes a special kind of courage.

0300, Day 96

'Well,' Daniel says, scratching a design in the dirt, 'it seemed like a good idea at the time. Marcus said it was very Indiana Jones-like. When a guy like Marcus says it's cool, you want to do it so badly. To impress him, you know.'

He glances at Jack quickly, then away. 'Especially if you're me. Marcus was the first guy who, you know, liked me. Like that. At least he said he liked me. We did stuff, you know, just fooling around.'

For a moment, just a moment, the rebellious part of Jack's brain, the part that won't remain blank when that's all he asks of it, gives him a vision of such intensity he actually groans aloud.

Daniel. Hair fanned out across the pillow, a few sweaty strands stuck to his cheek. Eyes half closed. Lips parted, gasping breath. Hands fisted in the sheets. Heels digging into the bed for leverage so Daniel can thrust up into Jack's tight grip. Jack pleasuring him slowly, teaching him how his body responds.

Daniel's voice trails off and unwelcome emotions roll over Jack like a relentless tide. A little (a lot, if he was honest) jealousy at the way Daniel's eyes go shyly soft at Marcus's name. Anger at the stupid chances he took. A deep sadness at the way life could just come up and bite you in the ass for one foolish mistake.

And why all this for a kid he barely knows? Jack can't explain it, even to himself. End of days approaching probably has something to do with it. Lack of anyone else to talk to. But if Jack's honest, it started when Daniel called him by name. For so long, Jack's been 'sir,' or 'O'Neill,' or 'Cadet/Lieutenant/Captain.' Hearing his own first name makes Jack feel human again and he wants Daniel to know Jack the man, not Jack with the soldier façade or Jack with the darkness.

'So, you suspect this guy of smuggling stuff from the dig,' Jack began, moving back to a safer topic.

'Not stuff, Jack, artifacts, relics, things that belonged there or in a museum.'

Jack waves his hand at the details. 'And you say, or, rather, Marcus says, "Daniel, follow that guy in this foreign country, scope out the bad guys, grab the stuff and get back here before anyone notices you're gone." Great plan.'

Daniel tries again. 'You don't understand, Jack. What he was doing was wrong and he had to be stopped. And it's not that foreign a country, at least to me -- I'm not a kid, you know, I can get around on my own. I know this part of the world. A little. Besides, we did have a plan. Marcus told the professor that I was meeting my grandfather in Egypt, so I was covered.'

A deep sigh. 'Of course, the whole thing fell apart. But not,' he adds defensively, 'not before I found where the guy was taking our stuff. I could identify his contacts.'

'Then you got caught,' Jack says softly, thinking of the marks he saw on Daniel's back.

'Then I got caught,' Daniel agrees and starts to gets up, struggling for control. 'The dig's over, Marcus is back at grad school, and I'm here. I don’t think he really cared. It never really meant anything.

'No one's looking for me, Jack. Marcus won't be. I'm out of foster care. Who's going to notice that I'm not at college orientation? My new roommate? And who will be notified? My grandfather? He's as hard to find as I am.'

Jack actually reaches out before he regains control of himself. The need to protect rages strong in Jack, but he's only comfortable doing it from a distance, like from the cockpit of a plane. This up-close-and-personal stuff doesn't come easy.

Too late. Daniel responds by sitting back down and hugging Jack. 'It was stupid, Jack, I know that. But Marcus…. Well, I thought if I did something to prove I wasn't this little geek, he might like me. You know, that way. That what we were doing at night would mean something.'

Jack thinks black thoughts about Marcus taking advantage of this kid's need for affection and acceptance. Which Jack himself certainly is not. If he were completely honest with himself, and he isn't yet, Jack might admit the reverse, that he's the one wanting affection and acceptance just as he is.

'They treat us pretty good here for now,' Daniel mumbles from Jack's chest, 'and the army takes care of its own, right? They'll come for us.'

Sunnily optimistic, even in the dark.

Three nights later, 0230, Day 99

Nights pass in surreal slow motion, Jack's well-being transitory and unrecoverable in the daylight. But at night, he and Daniel sit up to talk and it makes the darkness recede. Death hanging over your head tends to cut the bullshit and the posturing, the denial and the hesitation. Jack sheds his super-soldier armor and feels 18 again, invincible, vital, with the whole world, hell, the entire universe, out there waiting for him.

Despite his vow to repress all memories of home, nights with Daniel take Jack back to his own summer before college. Evenings at lakeside, a couple of six packs, some dope, guys sitting around shooting the shit. A pleasant ache in his balls, the nearness of a friend who would, later when the campfire burned low, slip off into the woods with him.

Ridiculous, given their circumstances, but at night, Jack won't deny himself this fleeting pleasure, this fantasy that everything's going to work out. Sometimes he is the master of delusion.

Daniel's fascinated by him and fascinating to him. It's almost enough to make him forget where he is, that he's going to die soon.

Daniel wants -- longs -- to hear of family life and how Jack chose the air force. Words tumble out of him in response; he wants someone to know him, remember him, mark his passing. For the first time in years, Jack recites High Flight.

Daniel blinks his near-sighted eyes, cocks his head a bit as he does when he's really listening. '"And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings", is that what flying feels like, Jack?'

It's been so long since Jack's flown and he won't ever again, not in this lifetime. That more than any other realization sends Jack into a death spin. Tears fog up his vision and there's nowhere safe to look.

Until his face is held between two warm hands and a safe place to look is right in front of him. As ludicrous as it sounds, Jack feels protected. Protected by this long-haired geeky civilian kid. He closes his eyes until he feels Daniel shift slightly.

Daniel, trusting he's doing the right thing, leans forward. Jack, unable to trust any kind gesture, flinches. But Daniel's slow and gentle and by the time his lips brush against Jack's, he's ready. Daniel soothes Jack like a cool drink after crawling through the desert.

Jack can't remember the last time someone comforted him. Feels damn good and right now, he hungers for it, craves it.

Later, he reminds himself, he must tell Daniel the rules: that he does not kiss guys. No cuddling, no foreplay more than two minutes' duration, no acknowledgement of feelings, no unnecessary body contact, no lingering after the act. Much later. In the daylight, he'll make clear the rules.

At night, in the dark and with no one else awake, they could be alone on another planet altogether, without any rules, and it's saving Jack's soul.

Days 107-109

Finally Daniel's sunny optimism begins to fade, long after the rest of them have given up hope.

Two nights ago, Daniel sat with Jack in the dark. He hugged his legs close to his chest and rested his cheek on his knees, looked past him, but said softly, 'Jack.'

Jack knew what was coming and steeled himself. He didn't look at Daniel, just stared off into the distance himself. He could make no promises, had no words to ease. If Daniel were a soldier, Jack would dismiss him, but he's not; he's a kid too far from home in an ugly situation he won't survive.

'Jack,' Daniel said again, this time a little shakier.

Against all self-preserving macho instincts, Jack slipped an arm around Daniel. Pulled him close and awkwardly rubbed his back while Daniel took the harsh, shuddery breaths guys take when trying not to cry.

Since that night, Jack sits alone, absently rubbing his bad knee. Daniel may be awake but he's no longer coming out to keep Jack company.

Jack tells himself he doesn't care, he's used to sitting against the wall of the shed by himself. And he's not lonely, he tells himself; he certainly doesn't need some starry-eyed kid hanging around. Previous nights were a fluke and Daniel was a chink in his super-soldier armor. Now Jack's back, he tells himself. Whatever gets the master of denial through this night.

The next night, Jack's alone again. Until he goes back to the tiny stall that serves as his bedroom and senses more than sees Daniel wrapped up in his burnoose taking up most of the mat.

He almost turns around and leaves but then he figures, what the hell? They're all going to die in this hellhole, so maybe a little action is the trade-off. He decides on a quick hand-job and is already working up some one-liners to get Daniel out of his bed immediately upon completion.

If pushed, Jack would have to say he doesn't want it that way, but he does want something.

Darkness descends in force. The want overwhelms, becomes a mixture of fear and pain and rage. He doesn't just want to do something, he has to. If he could conquer, subjugate, reassert himself and regain his manhood, then he could defeat the darkness. Only one way seems clear: do instead of being done to, take instead of being taken, claim his status as alpha dog of this pathetic little pack.

If pushed again, Jack would have to admit he's not entirely honest with himself. It won't be completely quell the darkness, but he doesn't know what else to do.

Daniel's expectations are clearly a bit different. He doesn't show fear, doesn't capitulate, doesn't roll over. Turns out Daniel wants something, too.

If pushed a little further, Jack might be honest with himself and admit that lying there in the dark with Daniel snugged up next to him, warm and pliant, is more satisfying than any quick hand-job. The darkness ebbs. He wants what Daniel wants -- warmth and connection and contact-- he just doesn't know to ask.

It's good. In fact, it's goddam comforting as hell to feel another body slowly relax into sleep, to hear breathing deepen, to not be so all alone.

In the yard, Day 112

They don't talk about their nights during the day; in fact, they don't talk much at all. This morning, Jack's watching Daniel watch the guards. He tilts his head, listening, takes longer than usual to wash himself. Something's up.

When they get back from their makeshift baths, Daniel blurts out, 'Someone's on his way and there's going to be a trial.'

The others draw near, demanding more.

'I…, I'm not sure,' Daniel says, 'I'm not real good with this dialect.'

Jack wants to shake him, dread gnawing at his gut. Benign neglect was hell, but it was safe. 'Get on with it. What do you think they said?'

'Crimes of war, crimes against Allah, something like that,' Daniel says. 'To show the world, I think, like it's going to be broadcast or something. The guards are looking forward to it.'

The soldiers in the cage are not. Anger at their own impotence stirs their blood. Romano escalates the name-calling, spitting through the chicken wire, even at the children. Bucknell laughs in a way that's just short of hysterical. Stewart hyperventilates, barely heeding Jack's orders to calm down.

'Jack,' Daniel asks, 'couldn't this be a good thing? I mean, people will see it and know we'll still alive.'

For a moment, Jack's angry enough to lash out at Daniel. Willing to trade those nights of fragile, comforting peace for two minutes of venting all his fury and frustration and humiliation.

Does Daniel think this will be a fair trial? And does he truly believe they won't be beheaded at the end of the 'trial'? Of course they will be. For all Jack's certainty that he is going to die, he suddenly wants to live very badly.

0115, Day 113

Jack thinks about death. He knows he'll die here, has known it for a long time. And for a long time, he thought he'd go down surrounded by people who hate him, even his own men, but now there's Daniel. When the time comes, Jack promises himself, he'll find Daniel's eyes. Take his last breath with the comforting reassurance that someone knew him.

Not only knew him, but taught him things. That's pretty big meaning-of-life stuff, but then a guy gets quite philosophical when the end is near. Crappy trade-off, though, to learn some important things about yourself, then die.

Like this. Jack smiles in the dark. Funny to be sleeping -- really sleeping -- with someone, an activity to which Jack has always been rather adverse, as it involves commitment, connection, caring. Too crowded, too close, too much. Until now.

Daniel shifts and murmurs something indecipherable. Jack rolls over and bumps him gently. Barely waking, Daniel rolls with Jack, then settles against him again, warm and sleepy. He is, by the feel of things, having a very pleasant dream.

Darkness still lurks in the corners. Jack knows this, knows it's risky to feel anything, but he summons every bit of self-control to quash those memories, and turns to Daniel. Jack nudges his knee between Daniel's thighs and lightly rubs. Reaction is immediate: Daniel stretches up against Jack and flexes his hips, humping Jack's leg.

He pulls Daniel's face into his shoulder to muffle the little 'ah ah ah' sounds, slides his hand down Daniel's pants, touches the slit first to slick his fingers. Makes a tunnel for Daniel to push into. Moist breath gusts across his collarbone, making his skin prickle despite the warm night.

Daniel grabs Jack's biceps for leverage, grip tightening in time with his flexing hips. Pushes him down so Daniel can climb atop him. For a moment, Jack panics, wants him off, off. The darkness brings its friends to relive old memories of Jack under a humping body.

But Daniel, unaware and unafraid, touches Jack's face with affection and pleasure. That didn't happen the last time Jack was laid flat, legs spread, and it makes the dark memories fragment and recede. To be safe, though, Jack rolls Daniel onto his back, puts himself back on top. If he had one more hand, he'd loosen his own pants, slide his cock right next to Daniel's and…, but he's waited too long. Daniel goes rigid, takes a deep breath and just arches up hard and long, emptying himself on Jack's belly. Surprisingly strong, this geeky, long-haired civilian kid, who's warm and kind, who's taking and giving without fear.

Jack's just rocking gently against Daniel, enjoying yet another new experience: slow pleasure. This time when Daniel rolls him, Jack is ready. No panic, just a soft sinking down into warmth. He can feel Daniel's smile, moans when Daniel's fingers trace across his chest and down, down. He knows it's coming but can't still a solid thrust when Daniel's wet, slippery mouth swallows him.

He feels a muffled chuckle and smiles himself. Daniel's a warm, confident, generous lover, new to it all, but free with affectionate touches, wanting only to bring Jack pleasure. He makes a world right here on the mat. This shitty stable disappears. So do the fence and the guards and the village, and all the horrendous memories Jack suppresses. Daniel lifts them both up and sets them free. Jack soars, dips, flies, and lands safely in his embrace.

Daniel makes Jack break all the rules. Isn't like it's going to matter, Jack pessimistically thinks. But if he's honest with himself, and Daniel's making him more honest every day, Jack has to admit it's all good: closeness, contact, connection. He's found comfort in this most unlikeliest of places, peace in this most improbable of times.

Day 115

Waiting is making them all edgy and aggressive. It's almost a relief when there's suddenly a buzz of excitement amongst the villagers. Women at the communal cooking fire, chopping vegetables and meat, put down their long knives, the children shriek and run, dogs bark, and the men move toward the far end of the common.

A cool breeze comes down from the hills and stirs the dust. It suits the restless mood. The Americans are edgy, nervous, afraid.

Otom approaches the pen, along with the man who delivers their meals. The Americans lean against it, feigning nonchalance, refusing to be intimidated.

Otom directs a question to Jack. Jack shakes his head. In his peripheral vision, he senses Daniel puzzling it out.

'You are treated well, yes?' the man beside Otom asks, translating the interrogation. 'You are fed, you are clean, yes? You are beaten, no?'

'Yeah, it's the fucking Hilton you got here,' Jack's back, covering the dread-heavy feeling in his gut with smart-ass retorts. 'We're planning to come back next year.'

The man frowns and turns to Otom, translating.

'Jack,' Daniel says, pulling on his sleeve. 'Let me try.' He greets the interpreter in a rather friendly manner. Jack remembers now that they've talked nearly every day.

Communication is halting, interspersed with gestures. Romano crowds Daniel against the fence, demanding more information, faster. Daniel stands up to him pretty well, but Romano's got size on his side. Daniel moves a little closer to Jack and continues.

Jack steps between Daniel and Romano. The shaky undertone in Daniel's voice makes Jack mad. And scared.

Yes, they've been treated well, Daniel relays his side of the conversation. Yes, their clothes are cleaned, their bedding dry, their food warm. No, no beatings, no torture, no deprivation.

'Will you let us go?' Daniel asks the translator, not looking at Otom at all.

Otom explodes in a furious rant.

'Our children, our women,' the translator says. 'Our homes, our lives. You are here to kill us, yes?'

'Fuckin' A,' Romano butts in. 'The sooner, the better. All you sons-of-bitches. Your children, your women. You, you old bastard, you'll be first.'

Jack elbows him back, but it's too late. Repulsed just by the tone, Otom turns away. His interpreter looks shocked, says a few quiet words to Daniel, then follows Otom back across the common. Jack's bad feeling returns ten-fold.

Early morning, Day 116

This time it's Daniel nudging Jack awake. His intent is very clear. Jack's teasing him a bit by pretending to be asleep but Daniel's a most perceptive young man.

A sly hand works itself into the rough cotton trousers they wear when the women take their clothes for laundering. Jack can't hold back a gasp at Daniel's inexperienced but enthusiastic touch.

He waits till he's hard as stone and Daniel's right there with him, then Jack tips Daniel over, pulls down his pants and jerks him off fast and rough until Daniel's panting and incoherent. He loves Daniel's grip on his arms and Daniel's hot breath puffing against his shoulder in an effort to keep quiet.

Hot. Good. Close. With death imminent, Jack doesn't want to wait, but he's going to take good care of Daniel, easing into it -- into him -- slowly. Pleasuring Daniel until he's begging for it. Jack hasn't forgotten how.

Too close to dawn, too near the time the village starts to stir. Damn. Jack decides to give Daniel a little preview and if they don't die today, tonight's the night. Daniel's first and his last.

He neatly flips Daniel over onto his belly and before Daniel can protest, Jack loosens his own trousers and mounts him. Watches his cock slide along Daniel's crevice, bumping up over his tailbone. Hard, red and swollen against tender white skin. Intertwines his fingers with Daniel's to hold him in place, but more, to anchor himself against a black hole that threatens.

Daniel, over the surprise of being facedown, plants his knees and angles his hips up enough that he can move his cock against the mat. Frustrated, stifled moans, it's not enough, and he tries to free his hand from Jack's grasp. Jack chuckles silently and lets Daniel hump the bed a few more times before taking pity on him. Reaching down, Jack encircles his cock. He touches and teases but refuses to let Daniel fuck his hand, just holds him tight until Daniel's breath comes in as please and goes out as Jack.

Pleasure spirals with near-painful intensity and Jack's panting, unable to wait another moment. He's coming and he's taking Daniel with him. Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth. Flying free, no longer here, unfettered by fear or hopelessness or despair.

When Jack comes back to himself, he's lying half-on Daniel and he slides off, grabs Daniel's blue-checked head wrap to clean them both.

'Is it always that good?' Daniel's slow, blissed-out smile fails to hold off Jack's rapidly returning dread.

'It gets better, Daniel,' Jack promises, and wishes he could make more promises and keep them. Or just keep this one.

Daniel blinks and would fall back asleep, but Jack's got a rule. The others might know what's going on and, really, who cares at this point, but Jack's ingrained sense of military protocol requires him to keep up the façade, even under the circumstances.

Daniel rallies and heads back to his mat, probably asleep before he pulls the blanket over him.

Jack lays quietly, listening to the village stirring to life, wondering what is coming today.

Will he be stretched out here tomorrow morning, sated and gratified? Or will he be tortured, hanging from chains, trying to keep his soul intact, or preferably, if Jack is honest, dead?

Later that morning, Day 116

No breakfast. No one approaches. Once again, all activity is on the far side of the common.

Apprehension turns into dread, then escalates to fear, soul-numbing, mind-deadening fear. Jack looks at his men and sees it reflected in their eyes. They're all dressed in the native cotton trousers. Surely, Jack thinks in a moment of irrational hope, they'd be in uniform for a televised trial.

Anticipation makes time drag, but when things start happening, they happen fast.

They stand side-by-side in the yard, manacled, half-naked, angry and afraid. Jack assesses his chances of grabbing a rifle, then running, but the short length of chain makes anything more than a shuffle impossible. Still, it's better than the alternative.

Otom and his entourage walk across the common toward them and Jack's mouth goes dry. The Syrian. A head taller than the others, his western mufti sets him apart, marks him as the man in charge. His crew follow silently behind him, guns at the ready.

Jack hasn't forgotten him, has long suspected the Syrian sent him -- them -- here and will be responsible for what happens next.

The Syrian leans in to confer with Otom. They look over their captives and even from this distance, Jack's skin crawls. He's afraid. Adrenaline pumps him up and his fight-or-flight reflex is in high gear. Wishes fervently that he was dressed, had a gun, was anywhere but here.

They stop in front of the Americans and though Jack's knees are shaking and his heart racing, he does what military regulations demand and steps forward. He senses the startled reaction of the others.

'I'm Captain Jack O'Neill, United States Air Force. I demand you release us.'

Even as the words leave his lips, Jack knows how ridiculous he sounds. So does the Syrian, who sneers dismissively. Whatever he replies causes his silent crew to laugh.

The Syrian slowly, deliberately, gives all the men a long, assessing evaluation. He idly pokes Stewart, carelessly pushes Romano, all the while casting sideways glances at Jack for a reaction.

Jack refuses to rise to the bait and takes no action. He steps forward again, all Top Gun aggressive, recognizing a fellow alpha male's intimidation tactics.

The Syrian spits out harsh, guttural words.

'Fuck you and the camel you rode in on,' Jack responds in kind. Tension ratchets up.

'Jack, let me….' But before Daniel can finish his sentence, Jack takes a half-step to the side and shoves Daniel behind him. Mistake, big mistake.

The Syrian looks, really looks at Daniel this time, then back at Jack. A slow smile. Jack never should have revealed his weakness. Damn stupid. And damn Daniel for drawing any attention to himself.

Then all the protesting in the world won't change the fact that Jack and the others are being herded back to the stable and Daniel's being carried along in the other direction. To who knows what.

Just after midnight, Day 117

Jack blames himself for what's happened. He sinks into a dark hole. Protects himself by not thinking about Daniel and by rebuilding his rigid shell. He is successful at neither.

Laughter and music drift out onto the cool air, the celebration lasting well into the night. Jack can only hope that Daniel is charming the crowd and making friends. And staying safe.

Day 118

Two days without Daniel. Jack demands information from the man who delivers their meals. But he shakes his head, glancing at the guards, who, as far as Jack can tell, aren't paying attention.

'Tell me something, goddammit,' Jack growls and tries to reach through the small opening. 'What's going on?'

The man runs off like there's somewhere else he needs to be. Jack yells after him, but his threats are empty and serve only to emphasize how well and truly fucked they are.

Jack should resign himself but hope won't stay dead.

At night he can smell Daniel on their sleep mat. Daniel's scent is clean and dry, like sand and desert wind. Jack hates sand. Has lost blood, sweat and tears to the desert. But right now, in the dark, Jack makes desperate promises to a god who seems to have abandoned him. He vows to foreswear every pine tree in the forest, to declare his utter hatred of trees now and forever, if only Daniel is returned to him.

Still, Jack could find comfort here with Daniel's clean, sandy scent if his heart wasn't shriveled up in black hopelessness. But he won't allow himself comfort. Ugly memories threaten. He can't and he won't remember. Not what happened to him. If he could, Jack would forget Daniel, too, but those memories are a talisman against the darkness.

Not able to stay in bed another moment, he heads out to the pen to pace under the waxing moon, search the skies, ears straining for any intel. Digging, worrying the wire, trading prayer for despair every few minutes.

In the yard, 0915, Day 119

Other than the absence of Daniel, their routine hasn't changed. They are standing in the big metal tubs, bathing at gunpoint, when Jack goes on alert. Men are cutting across the common toward them.

Suppose I'll die naked and wet, Jack thinks darkly, but the Syrian doesn't seem to be among them. Jack can't imagine he'd miss the Americans' execution. The Syrian's men certainly are excited. They laugh and joke and shove at one another.

Raising his head, Jack prepares to meet death straight-on.

Instead, it's Daniel. Tottering on unsteady legs, eyes going no higher than kneecaps, arms clutching a too-big tunic, torn at the neck.

The world recedes around Jack, fractures into a kaleidoscope view of guards and guns and Daniel.

The men push Daniel towards the tub. One grabs the tunic and pulls. Daniel swallows a cry and Jack actually takes a step toward him. Guns dissuade him. Daniel stands naked inside the circle. His long hair slides forward to hide his face. He hugs his ribs with one hand, covers his privates with the other. Nothing hides the bruises on his arms, his hips.

Jack gulps huge draughts of air. He knows what has happened to Daniel. He knows in graphic detail and with excruciating clarity and through finely articulated memory. Can feel it like it was yesterday. The master of control can't keep those memories locked down. For once, he struggles to retain his stoic façade in front of the guards.

Stewart has no such compunction.

'Jeeeezus,' he blurts. 'They fucked him.'

'Stewart,' Jack hisses, but Stewart's long gone, his eyes dead.

'They fucked him, sir,' he explains to Jack. 'Like a fucking fag. Jeezus, sir, they'll do us next.'

'Stand down, Stewart.'

'No, sir. They'll take us one by one.' His voice rises, panic making it tight and strained. 'I'd rather be dead, sir.'

Jack risks a quick glance at Daniel, notices the tremors. The guards agitate. They don't like Stewart's reaction but so far he's just noise.

'That might be all right for him,' Stewart seems oblivious, just a stream of consciousness; he's not talked this much since their capture. 'But not for us, sir, we're military. Nobody fucks with us.'

He rocks back and forth, sloshing water over the side of the tub. 'He probably didn't care,' jutting his chin at Daniel, 'but, sir, we're men. They can't do that to us…' His voice trails off as he glances around.

As clearly as if he were a mind reader, Jack sees what's going to happen next and makes a futile effort to stop it. 'Stewart, stand down!'

But Stewart is moving. Naked, wet and clearly losing it, Stewart dashes into the common. One guard barks an order and several move toward the soldier. Jack feels a rifle poke him between the shoulder blades, but he stills shouts, hoping to reach some rational part of Stewart's brain before this ends badly.

Guards must be under orders not to hurt him. They circle to herd him back to the barn. Maybe Stewart spots the strategy, maybe he's just got a death wish. Either way, he grabs a long knife from one of the women, holds it to her throat, screaming incoherently. It's not until he draws blood that the guards aim.

Before Stewart can swing the knife again, the nearest guard gets off a clean head shot.

Next

Stiffly, disconnectedly, Jack assumes command, what there is of it. He orders the others, Daniel, too, to stand down and cooperate in going back to the barn.

With barely a glance at the neatly folded clothes placed just inside the door, Stewart's included, Jack points to the pen. Romano, surprisingly, doesn't object, just grabs his clothes and moves; Bucknell's a follower, Jack doesn't give him a thought.

'No contact with the enemy,' Jack warns Romano, who barely nods.

When they're through the arch, Jack closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Military regulations don't cover this particular situation and Jack's not a master of improvisation.

But it's Daniel.

He turns to find Daniel standing just inside the door, shoulders hunched, head down, arms wrapped around himself. Jack steels himself. Remembers that he intends to look at Daniel in his dying moments, but here, now, when Daniel needs him, Jack's equivocating. Disgusted with himself, Jack takes a step.

Daniel flinches minutely, but Jack notices. He stops. 'Daniel,' he says softly.

Daniel's head comes up a bit, but he's still not looking at Jack.

'Go lay down in my bed. You're safe now.' Jack grimaces at his own lie. 'Take your clothes and your blanket. I'll be right here.'

Nodding, fumbling with his bundle of clothes, Daniel stumbles away.

Jack spends the day outside in the pen with Romano and Bucknell. There's not much to say. Talk of Stewart sputters into silence. There's no point talking about escape or the inevitable death that awaits.

From all outward appearances, it's just another day. Jack squats against the stable wall, silently observing, pacing occasionally. But fury boils and rages within. It takes all Jack's willpower to keep from charging the fence, screaming at the guards to shoot him dead. And he's furious with Daniel for stepping up and speaking out, like anyone could deal with these fanatics.

Escape or death, one impossible, the other imminent. Jack can't stop thinking about either. He's ashamed, but it's a relief to think of something other than Daniel. Beaten, afraid, uncertain. So different than the warm, confident Daniel Jack first knew.

Not until he's back in control will Jack dare to get near Daniel. He's ashamed because he's abandoning Daniel in his time of need. Just like the grandfather. Just like Marcus. Jack wants to go to him and apologize, ask for forgiveness. But that requires Daniel to give and Jack's pretty sure he's in no shape to do that.

Jack's accustomed to rage and the need to dominate, to conquer, but this wish to comfort, this feeling of tenderness is knocking him off balance. Jack's alternately exhausted and wired. By the time supper arrives, he could kill if he weren't so tired. The interpreter delivers their meals, as usual. After the dishes are passed through the opening, he glances quickly at the guards, then passes through an additional small bowl.

'For Daniel's…,' he gestures at his neck, his wrists, then makes a vague wave below the waist. 'Two nights, tell him.'

'Fuck you,' Jack retorts in a whisper. 'Fuck you and your two nights. You're not touching him again.'

2315, Day 119

'Daniel?'

'Yeah, Jack?'

'Are you alright? Sorry, stupid question. Ah, I could, you know, go away.'

'No! I mean, no, you don't have to do that.'

'That guy brought supper and I saved yours in case, well, if you're hungry.'

'Uh, thanks, Jack. I'm just tired. Funny, though, I can't fall asleep. I don't know why. I'm just so tired.'

'Daniel, I'll take first watch tonight; sit right here in the doorway. You can sleep now.'

'You'll stay awake, Jack? In case anyone comes?'

'I will.'

…

'Jack?'

'Still right here, Daniel. Go back to sleep.'

0315, Day 120

For the third time, Jack jerks himself awake. He has to sleep, recover from this day and be ready for whatever the next will bring. He shifts to try to rouse himself.

'Jack?'

'Sorry to wake you, Daniel. Go back to sleep.'

'Can't. You lie down, I'll just get up and…' Daniel's voice trailed off and it is screamingly apparent, even in Jack's exhausted state, that leaving this room is the very last thing Daniel wants to do.

'Could you…? I wouldn't mind if…,' Daniel whispers. When Jack doesn't move, he turns away and rolls to his side, as though to get up.

Jack realizes his mistake immediately, but in his fatigue-muddled fugue, he moves too quickly, and Daniel shies away. But comes back, Jack's relieved to see, and resolves to take it slow. He can do this for Daniel. Daniel, who is so much stronger and tougher than he appears, but is right now, after all, a battered and abused kid.

There's a moment of awkwardness.

'I'll, ah, face the door. I wake up fast.'

Daniel nods in the dark, but Jack gets it. He lies down, back to Daniel, facing the door. He's alert to every move. Minutes tick by, then slowly, slowly he feels Daniel. First his body heat, then deep, even breaths, and finally Daniel slowly curls up behind him -- not quite touching, not yet, but here with him.

Jack closes his eyes in relief.

Day 121

Jack finally remembers the little pot of lotion. He's hesitant to care for Daniel's wounds. So far, he's let Daniel determine how much contact they have. He could have put lotion on the bite mark on Daniel's shoulder or on the bruises on his back, but he holds off. Daniel tends to the raw skin on his neck and wrists and ankles and wherever else himself; that will have to do.

Breakfast is long over and there's nothing to do but wait. Daniel sits next to Jack. He's not spoken or looked at the others or at the guards or the children or even at the man who delivers their food. Occasionally, he leans against Jack for reassurance, but mostly he just sits silent and unmoving. Like the rest of them.

It's a endless day, exhausting but uneventful. Jack wants the whole damn mess over with. If they're going to die, then just get on with it. His only regret is Daniel.

That night, Jack waits for Daniel to settle, then takes his place on the edge of the mat, facing the door. Despite their inactivity, sleep comes quickly for them, Daniel using Jack's body as part-shield, part-blanket. Jack has a few minutes before his eyes close to mull over the fact that sleeping -- just sleeping -- with someone feels so goddam good. He never knew and he's grateful as hell he's had the chance to find out.

A slight noise starts to rouse Jack from his light slumber. Daniel thrashes a bit, mumbling. Instinctively, half-asleep, Jack rolls over and pulls Daniel to him, whispering assurances and comforting nonsense.

'I've got you, Danny, I'm right here. You're safe. We're together, just you and me.'

Keeps right on talking even as Daniel's shaking with short, panicked gasps under Jack's weight. Jack continues softly whispering, gently holding, until he feels Daniel's fear slowly ebbing.

Hard to say who's more surprised: Jack, for his heretofore untested capacity for tenderness, or Daniel, who's no longer freaking about being held.

Belatedly realizing that Daniel might not want to be under him, Jack rolls onto his back and takes Daniel with him. Holds Daniel's head on his shoulder so he can hear.

'I don't want anyone's hands on me again,' Daniel whispers.

'No, you don't,' Jack replies, soothingly, rubbing small circles on his back.

Later. 'I hate it.'

'Not the same, Daniel,' Jack murmurs, carding Daniel's long hair through his fingers. 'That wasn't what we had. That was assault.' Rape hangs in the air and they both know it.

'I don't care. I'll never…. Ever. No one's ever going to touch me again.'

"You choose who can touch you,' Jack continues to trace designs on Daniel's back, holding him close. 'You don't have to do anything you don't want to do,' he trails off.

They're not getting out of here alive, so why the false promises? For all he knows, the Syrian will be back in the morning and Daniel will be touched again, without any choice in the matter at all.

Later still, Jack ponders Daniel's declared aversion to touch and his warm body draped over Jack. Figures Daniel makes trade-offs, too.

In the yard, 0900, Day 123

Daniel's not going to make it. His body screams fear, arms convulsively clutching his ribs, his face an open book. Jack tries to keep within arm's length of him at all times. No longer cares what the others think.

'Just wash, Daniel,' he cajoles in low tones, 'we'll be back in the barn soon, just you and me. Finish up now.'

Daniel shoots him a grateful look, steadies his hands a bit and focuses. Jack assesses the area. Everything appears normal: women cooking, marketplace bustling, guards standing around looking bored. What's missing is what's worrying: Otom's inspection and any sign of the Syrian.

Other than that, the day is ordinary. Jack ticks it off on his boot and wonders how many more sunrises he'll see. His stomach's twisted and dread squeezes his heart. Thoughts flutter through his mind but he can't pin them down. He can't be sure of anything. Except Daniel.

He wants to protect him, wrap him up and keep him safe. At the same time, he wants Daniel gone. Curses him for his intrusion into Jack's perfectly happy black hole. Jack could get through this a whole lot easier if he had only himself to think of.

He glares at the boy, who turns to him, naked vulnerability written across his expressive face. Daniel waits uncertainly, will take his cue from the only person in the world he trusts right now. Jack holds his glare a moment longer, but his heart isn't in it. He winks and smiles. Daniel blinks in surprise, then returns the first smile Jack's seen in a while.

How is it the heart and soul are so strong when the human body is so fragile? Jack figures God appreciates an ironic trade-off, too.

He keeps Daniel beside him all day. At supper-time, Jack gets up quickly when the translator comes with their meals, pushing Daniel back against the wall. It's clear the man wants to talk with Daniel, but Jack's looming presence makes him reconsider. Looking nervously at the guards, the man finally whispers to Jack, 'tonight, it might be. Tell him, yes?'

'What's tonight?' Jack snarls, but, spooked by the guards, the man scuttles away.

'What did he say, Jack?' Daniel asks. 'Are they coming?'

'No,' Jack lies, 'not tonight.'

Just past 0100 on Day 124

Daniel looks up at him with absolute trust, smiles as Jack caresses his throat, closes his eyes in complete peace. Never even shudders as Jack's grip tightens enough to squeeze the life from him. Jack keeps one hand on Daniel as he reaches for his gun, presses it against his own temple and pulls the trigger.

They say you can't die in your dreams, but Jack does. He's ascending through the layers of sleep (Up, up the long, delirious, burning blue/I've topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace) when a sharp tick startles him awake. By reflex he's up on his knees, half-conscious.

Daniel sleepily protests being manhandled, but Jack needs to be sure he's not hurt, still caught between his dream and his reality. He gets his answer when Daniel squirms his way over into the warm spot and burrows down. Jack pulls the blanket up over him.

Jack can't get back to sleep, but he might be willing to write off the noise as something from his dream until it happens again. This time he's certain it's at the window. He eases up, belying the adrenaline pumping through his veins, and pads silently to the wide arch. He waits for his eyes to adjust to the moonlight and listens, senses attuned to any intel.

A shadow moves at the fence and Jack freezes, counting on the dark for cover.

'Captain O'Neill? Sir?'

Jack fades back into the dark. Unreal, unbelievable and very unlikely. Despite the incongruity, Jack glances over at Romano and Bucknell, both snoring loudly. An illusion, a dream, frustrated wish fulfillment, that's all.

'Captain O'Neill? Lieutenant Reynolds, sir. If you'd gather your men, sir, we're here to take you home.'

Jack wants to believe, wants this so much, he takes a step forward before he stops for a reality check. The apparition appears to be clipping the fence. Jack flushes hot, feels the prickly humiliation of involuntary tears, which he quickly orders away.

Determined to dispel this ridiculous delusion, Jack marches over to the fence. Which is being cut. By Lieutenant Reynolds.

'Sir, if you would get your men, we need to be on our way.'

Jack looks around.

'We've neutralized two guards and a dog, sir, we're good to go. One civilian, four military -- those are my orders. We have the civilian, sir, so if you would get your men…'

Jack finally snaps to and gets with the program. He nudges Romano awake, quickly explains the situation, then turns away, mind reeling. Rescue. Death imminent, and now rescue. Four soldiers and a civilian. And they already have the civilian.

Where does that leave Daniel? It leaves him right where he belongs, beside Jack. Jack has a funny feeling about this rescue but has no time to entertain it.

'Daniel. Daniel!' Jack pulls him up a little too roughly.

Shaking his long hair back, Daniel blinks at Jack.

'Get up and get dressed,' Jack tosses Stewart's uniform on the mat and grabs his own pants. 'We're blowing this fucking pop-stand.'

'They're…, they're here?' Daniel stammers. 'I thought…, but Bheroo said….'

Again that funny feeling, but again, no time.

'Daniel,' Jack urges him to hurry along. He can hear Romano and Bucknell shuffling into their boots. It's time to go.

'Jack? Am I going with you?'

Jack stops, grabs Daniel's arm. 'What? Of course you are. You're coming with me.' Jack feels slight tremors, so he pulls Daniel in close and strong. 'No one gets left behind, no one. Now, move it.'

Daniel searches for his burnoose in the dark until Jack again grabs his arm.

'You're in the army now, Daniel,' he whispers. 'Put on Stewart's uniform.'

Daniel starts to question, but Jack overpowers him -- there simply is no time. 'Put it on, Daniel, and go with it, unless you want to still be here when the party starts again.'

Everything of Stewart's is a little too big. Jack wonders what Lt Reynolds will think, decides he doesn’t give a crap, and kneels to tie one of Daniel's boots while Daniel does the other.

'Jack?' Daniel whispers uncertainly, their heads close together.

'We'll be OK, Danny, we'll be alright.'

Romano and Bucknell startle at the sight of Daniel in uniform but one look from Jack and they're willing to go along with whatever. He idly wonders what happens to them next. Doesn't care.

As they're running silently through the night, Jack keeps hold of Daniel's arm. Just to keep him close, the master of pessimism tells himself, but really it's because his knees are aching and it's in the forefront of his mind is that he'll be shot in the back. This is all too easy; nothing this good comes without a high price tag.

It's not until they're on the other side of the hill and driving away in a military transport that Jack begins to believe they might be free.

Bheroo's waiting with the rest of the squad at the truck. He gives Daniel a victorious smile. 'They are here, friend, as we hoped.'

Jack's mind reels, re-groups, starts adding up the clues. As usual with Daniel, he suspects there's much more to the story of their rescue than surface appearances. But damn. No guns, no strategy, no overwhelming force? Just a kid and some words?

Their rescuers surround them with whispered cheers and soft pats on the back, but even the subdued celebrating panics Daniel. Jack feels the shivering, so he crowds Daniel into the corner of the jeep and sits close. He half-turns away, but he knows, and Daniel does, too, that he's Daniel's shield. Wishes he had time and privacy, but he'll settle for this.

Might be the last time they'll touch, being back in the real world now, with life's rules and regulations and expectations to conform to. In the dark of night and the rumble of the truck, Jack knows he needs to rebuild his military mindset if he's going to survive back in the world, inexorably erasing from his mind the past few months. That includes Daniel.

It's a trade-off for being free, for certain, and Jack wouldn't have survived much longer, but it's bittersweet. He leans back into Daniel for a few moments more.

Ramstein Air Force Base, Germany, Day 127

Jack's been briefed and debriefed, inspected and interrogated, poked and prodded, commanded, remanded and handed orders. There is a promotion in the near future, possibly a medal, after a mental status assessment or whatever government-speak is for a visit to the shrink. Then he's headed state-side, per orders of General Gates.

He's got another week on base, but he knows, thanks to the general, that Daniel's leaving in the morning.

'Damn fine young man,' the general says, 'despite the hair. Tried to talk him into enlisting, you know, made all the arguments, but he says he wants to try a normal life.'

The general pours Jack another shot and chuckles. 'Nothing more normal than the military, eh, Captain?'

Jack smiles and nods and sits another hour at the officers club, sipping his drink until he gets his answer.

'We're taking extra measures with young Jackson in light of his part in this mission and his situation,' the general leans in, as though sharing a confidence. 'Escorting him to college, see to it that he's settled in, arrange for therapy with the student health center. A damn unnecessary fuss, as I see it. The boy's all right. All we need to do is impress upon him on the way that what he did on his summer vacation is not a topic of discussion.'

As the general regales subordinates with stories of the big one, WWII, Jack thinks about the damn fine young man. Funny how much he learned from Daniel: that sometimes words get the job done, that a skinny, long-haired kid can be as courageous and tough as any seasoned soldier, that humor and a kind touch change the world.

Drop it, Jack tells himself, let it go. The military's taking care of Daniel, better than Jack would ever have guessed. Better than Jack could have done alone. So let it go.

But he can't.

He heads over to the med center.

2130, Med Center Cafeteria

'Doc.'

'Captain O'Neill. I'm afraid you caught me on my break. Would you like some coffee?'

'Quiet night?'

'It is. Just your civilian in the guest quarters.'

'How's he doing, Doc?'

'Captain, you know I can't speak of….'

Turns on the O'Neill charm, the smile, nice to know he hasn't lost that talent. 'I'm not asking for specifics, just want to make sure he's alright. He's been through a lot and I've known soldiers who couldn't handle that.'

'Yes,' the doctor muses, 'he's an interesting young man. Very private. Usually, people that age are the center of their own universes and would like to tell you all about it. Daniel rather keeps to himself.'

Jack nods and smiles encouragingly. If he packs his own mental baggage in reinforced footlockers, he figures Daniel packs his in complex origami boxes that will never reveal their contents.

The medic is bored, sick of the base and very glad for the attention from this handsome soldier. She finds herself talking too much, but can't stop. She wonders why he didn't come in for a work-up on her shift; instead she'll be here all night completing reports in triplicate.

'Mr Jackson says you're a real hero,' she's not above violating doctor-patient confidentiality, which is near non-existent in the military anyway, and besides, the kid's a civilian shipping out tomorrow. 'Says you kept your men together. That you never stopped trying to escape.

'I have to say, Captain, that takes a special kind of man.' She looks up through her lashes at the soldier stretched out the chair, takes in his long, lean form and shifts in her seat. He's got that arrogant confidence and bearing that labels him a jet jockey, but there's an odd sadness, a vulnerability around the eyes that makes him very attractive.

She sits up straighter, desire rising.

'Can I see him?' Jack knows the score and presses his advantage.

Well, that's not an entirely unexpected question and technically, it's after visiting hours, but what the hell. She knows soldiers are a closed society, what with their loyalty, their unwritten code of honor and all. Jack can almost see the wheels turning: she'll turn a blind eye toward this because she is hoping for her own after-hours visit once he's seen the kid for himself. Jack lets her think that. End justifies the means.

The doctor pulls together a platter scavenged from the staff refrigerator and sends him to see Daniel.

Connect, Jack reminds himself in the hallway. Don't be a hard-ass jerk; show your sense of humor, if you can find it. No touching. Well, maybe a manly pat on the back, but demonstrate self-control. You've got your career to consider. Don't trade it all away for one stupid move. Think of it as a military objective: say hello, say something funny to keep it light, say a quick thank-you and get out.

2145, Day 127

'Jack? Jack!'

'Daniel. How you doing?' He looks as young as Jack first thought him to be, in PX-issued blue sleep pants and a new white t-shirt. His long hair shines in the lamplight -- first time Jack's seen it really clean and brushed smooth. But he's limned in exhaustion, his posture cramped, his face haunted.

'Well, let's see. I've got soldiers delivering -- what? fruit and chocolates? -- to me for a midnight snack, luxury accommodations, and a paid escort for my free transatlantic flight in the morning. I'd say I'm at the top of my game.'

Jack barks out a laugh at the words, but it's painful to see how mismatched Daniel's face is with his lighthearted words. He still hasn't learned the art of hiding his emotions, but he's figured out the game, just like Jack: Keep it light, say something funny, never let them see you feel. A quick twinge of pain at what Daniel's lost along the way.

Daniel stands there uncertainly, so Jack gently brushes past him, surveys the small living room, sweeps past the bedroom, Daniel's duffle packed by the nightstand, around to the kitchenette with its government-surplus table and chairs. 'Not bad, not bad.'

He lays the platter down on the coffee table, drops to the sofa and fiddles with the remote. A notebook lies open on the table and Daniel scoops up the pen to fidget with, circling him like a satellite. They shoot the shit for a few minutes, guy talk, until Daniel's comfortable enough to sit down.

It changes then, soon as they're side by side. Familiar, even in this most inappropriate setting. Jack snags a grape to give his hands something to touch. Daniel's hands are busy holding his ribs. His hair slides forward, threatening to hide his face.

Every rule Jack has set for himself falls away. Fuck the army -- this is the kid who saved him. In more ways than one.

'You did a brave thing back there, Danny,' Jack says, slipping his hand under Daniel's heavy hair to caress his nape. 'Brave as any soldier I've seen. I'm proud to serve with you.'

This is hard; Jack's not accustomed to comforting or complimenting but he'll be damned if that will stop him. 'You got us out of there. You saved our lives. If you were military, you'd get a commendation and a medal.'

Daniel shakes his head. 'Not brave, Jack, not even all that smart. I was scared the whole time.' He takes a deep breath, is silent for a moment, then the words just pour out of him.

'At first it was just like with Marcus, that I wanted to do something like in the movies. But I learned my lesson there, I hope. Bheroo is from Syria and he was with the guys who caught me, but he was angry about the looting, so he didn't think I deserved the whipping, but he couldn't very well object. Ashsur, that Syrian at the camp, is a local warlord who was rounding up foreign nationals for ransom or execution to make his reputation. Bheroo was one of the foot soldiers who brought prisoners to small villages until Ashsur decided what to do with them, with us.'

'Daniel, easy.' Jack rubs his shoulders, can feel the tension coiled there. Daniel has to get this out, his words jumble and jam together; he barely pauses for breath. Jack figures the least he can do is listen, but he wants to do more.

Risking a quick glance at Jack, Daniel takes a deep breath and attempts to relax. He's kept so much inside, saying little to the medical team and planning to say even less to any college counselor. Having Jack beside him is such a relief that he can't gather his scattered thoughts to tell a coherent tale. He'll just have to rely on Jack understanding and filling in the gaps.

'Bheroo said he could help. You know I talked with him when he brought our meals and he said he would help because of what I did about the looting. It took him a while to contact anyone and I was going to tell you that he finally did. I wanted to have a better plan than before; know it was going to work before I told you. Then I was…,' and here Daniel's breath hitches. Jack pulls him close.

'When we were separated,' Daniel resumes shakily, painfully open, 'Bheroo saw what Ashsur did to me and knew what he was going to do to all of us, so he speeded things up.'

Jack grimaced. He had blocked out that possibility, figuring he'd just be executed. Jesus. He wouldn't have survived another violation, simply would have lost his mind.

'Then something happened, because Ashsur left camp and that's when I was brought back,' Daniel continues. 'When you were talking to Bheroo, I thought that you were working out the rest of the plan.'

He had been a bastard to Bheroo, Jack remembered. A wonder he didn't blow the whole thing. Diplomacy, trust, cooperation -- a few more lessons he'd take away from his time with Daniel; he prayed he'd be smart enough to follow them.

'I was scared. You saved me. You didn't leave me behind. I thought…, you know, wearing Stewart's uniform was wrong.'

'No, no one's in trouble over that,' Jack assures him, thoughts racing. 'Uncle Sam's glad to have his boys back. We're all going home.'

Daniel looks away and again, Jack feels like a bastard. Daniel has no home to go to, just another strange new place where he'll try to figure out how to fit in.

Scrambling to make it better, Jack says, 'And you, Danny, you're off to college. You'll dazzle them with your brain, knock them out with that high IQ.'

Daniel chuckles in disbelief and leans into Jack. Encouraged, he goes on. 'You'll graduate at the top of your class, fly through graduate school, and become the youngest professor in the history of, where are you going again?'

Daniel actually laughs, as though a burden has been lifted, a connection renewed.

'Then one day, you'll make the most amazing discovery. You'll be famous around the world.' Jack does a lame besotted-girl impression. ''Ooh, that Professor Jackson, he's so wonderful."

'You'll have groupies following you from lecture to lecture, just to hear your brilliant theories. I'll see you on the cover of Newsweek and say, "hey, I know that guy!" and my friends won't believe me, because how would a dumb grunt like me ever know a genius like you.'

Jack's on a roll now. Anything to stifle the crazy impulse to grab Daniel and flee the base. 'You'll find a partner and you'll have a long, wonderful, happy life together. Anything bad that's going to happen to you in this life has already happened. All blue skies from here on out, Danny.'

Daniel looks at Jack fully now, eyes searching his face. Jack could lose himself in that gaze. 'What about you, Jack? What about your future?'

What does his future hold? Jack believes -- fervently hopes -- that he, too, has filled his quota for sadness and pain in this lifetime.

He's got a blonde, blue-eyed, military-approved relationship to get back to, to see if he can live that way. And all the little things he tried to forget in captivity: fishing, good music, cold beer. He's going to buy a house with a big yard. A dog, maybe a pool. Have five or six kids, teach them about baseball and hockey.

But most important of all, Jack will fly again.
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.

And if he has to live a lie again, well, he's accustomed to that. He's just so goddam grateful to have a second chance at any life at all. All thanks to this long-haired, geeky civilian kid.

Jack's a simple man. He knows he doesn't have a creative spark or a scientific turn of mind. He's neither articulate nor eloquent. Words fail him, actions don't. He'll never say what's in his heart, never convey what he truly feels, so he kisses Daniel. Slow and gentle and soft. Actions instead of words.

For Jack, time slows down, sounds muffle, the world shrinks to just here. There's a small voice screaming at this foolish, foolish move he's making, but Jack is the master of suppression.

'It meant something, Daniel,' Jack pulls back to look at Daniel. 'This means something. You mean something.' And he kisses him again.

Yeah, it's surreal kissing Daniel on a military base, but no more so than holding him close in a prison camp. No more so than feeling open and honest. No more so than wanting this -- him -- more than anything, more than flying. Nothing seems real, just he and Daniel in this alien world. And Jack is happy, connected, could live like this forever.

But in the morning, Jack's going to lock this memory down, reform himself to meet military standards, and get busy denying half his soul. Because you can't always get what you want and life is one trade-off after another.

But tonight? For this one brief and shining moment, Jack's going to be totally honest. He wants Daniel to know him, all of him, before he returns to the judgmental world beyond this room. More than that, he knows what Daniel suffered. Knows from personal, painful experience that denying it eats a man alive and there's no easy way to stop it. Knows that will happen to Daniel, too. So he wants to share some of his mental armor.

He can't erase what happened before they met, couldn't protect him in the prison camp, but if he does nothing else, Jack wants to give Daniel something that might safeguard him from the darkness in the future.

And if he's completely honest with himself, Jack wants to try to make the darkness fade a little for both of them.

'I know what happened, Daniel,' he begins gently. Daniel shakes his head, misery outlining his features. Jack holds him until he stiffens and pulls away.

Jack swore to himself he would never admit it, has no intention of ever revealing it to anyone, but it's Daniel, so he says, 'I know what happened to you because it happened to me, too.'

Daniel stills. The refrigerator hums, a jet takes off, the world wobbles like a tired gyroscope. Jack waits, holding his breath. Eyes downcast, Daniel bites his lip, his brow furrowed.

Suddenly Jack freaks and feels like a fraud. What the hell does he know about making anything better? He's never been much good to anyone when it comes to feelings, giving or receiving. Should have stayed away; he can cope with the trade-offs and the darkness, but not this naked revelation. The blackness beckons and Jack turns toward it. Goddam civilian punk. Make him feel something, then sit back and watch him humiliate himself.

He'd get up and go, but Daniel's so close that Jack would have to shove him away. For that, he'd have to touch him and Jack doesn't trust himself right now. There's no safe place to be. Until his face is held between two warm hands and a safe place to be is right in front of him. What he should remember is that he can always trust Daniel. And that Daniel always surprises him.

'I don't want that to be the last time anyone touched me that way, Jack,' Daniel whispers, 'but I can't imagine ever wanting anyone to touch me again.'

Jack decisively gags the little voice in his head that's been screaming at this dangerous situation for an hour. For the first time, there's something he wants more than anything, more than his career, more than flying. He wants to unburden the blackness, both for himself and for Daniel. He'll never have this chance again.

'I don't want that, Daniel, for either of us.'

2320, Day 127

Not a thought for the kitchen chair jammed under the doorknob, the medic down the hall awaiting his return, the general nodding off at the officers club. The world fades away until there's nothing left but Jack and his Daniel.

They're done to their boxers, under the covers, synchronizing breathing, remembering how they fit together. In a lifetime of risk-taking, this is still the craziest thing Jack's ever done. He's never been happier.

Though he's shivering, Daniel's skin is warm. Jack pulls him closer, knows he is afraid. So is Jack, but he wants nothing more than this. Daniel's head rests on his arm, he strokes Daniel's back, occasionally running his fingers through the silky, honey-colored hair. He inhales deeply to imprint Daniel's clean, dry desert scent in his memory.

Daniel slowly stops shivering, although tension remains coiled in his shoulders and neck. Slowly he leans forward and rests his forehead against Jack's collarbone, lays his hands on Jack's chest. Jack first registers the change in breathing, then the dampness. He stops all movement except to cradle Daniel close and rock him gently.

The world slows and waits. Jack loses all sense of time and place. He's always presumed himself to be tough in body and mind. And he is, except with Daniel. Daniel, who constantly surprises him by showing Jack a part of himself he thought long buried or even non-existent. Jack can be kind and giving and comforting, he just needs Daniel to show him how.

Daniel pushes himself back, self-consciously wipes his eyes and tries to speak, but his voice catches on a sob. Jack smoothes Daniel's hair, gently places his thumb against Daniel's lips, and shakes his head.

It's not the time for talking, Jack thinks, and kisses Daniel. Jack thinks briefly of his rules -- no kissing, no holding, no feelings -- and realizes how rules apply to everyone but Daniel. He gets it right; apparently Daniel's done all the talking he can bear and kisses Jack back.

At first, the kisses confirm they are alive, they survived the worst, they will go on. Then they deepen into expressions of gratitude and segue slowly into arousal. Gentle, rhythmic movement, taking pleasure in each other.

Freed from the oppression of a prison camp with the awareness of others nearby and the darkness that was destroying his soul, Jack can take his time, give unhurried pleasure. He recalls his first fantasy of Daniel. Hair fanned out across the pillow; eyes half closed. Hands fisted in the sheets. Heels digging into the bed for leverage so Daniel can thrust up into Jack's tight grip. Jack pleasuring him slowly, teaching him how his body responds.

Jack tilts Daniel's face, nuzzles along his jaw, kisses and nips his neck. Tastes with open-mouthed kisses, breathing in his essence, feels Daniel's cock stirring, lengthening, firming. Daniel shudders and relaxes back into the bed, open and hopeful and so goddam trusting that Jack has to close his eyes to gain some control in case Daniel does not want this.

But when Jack looks at Daniel, he sees fear is giving way to shy, tentative pleasure.

'Beautiful boy,' Jack breathes.

He traces along Daniel's throat, across his collarbone, down to his armpit, where standard issue soap fails to obliterate Daniel's own clean scent. Jack feels Daniel's hands hesitantly land on his shoulders, a touch more erotic than any Jack can ever remember.

Slow and easy, all about Daniel, Jack decides. Different from his usual 'get in, get off, get out' style, but he thinks he can manage. He tracks taste and texture across Daniel's chest and gently suckles his nipple. Daniel's reaction is instantly gratifying and Jack fine-tunes his actions.

'Oh,' Daniel whispers wonderingly, his fingers digging into Jack's shoulders, 'oh, oh, Jack!'

Jack smiles and moves to the other nipple, teasing it with the flat of his tongue before taking it between his teeth. Daniel's hips buck up involuntarily, stay hard against Jack's belly for a moment before falling back.

Didn't do that for him, did you, Marcus, you bastard, Jack thinks smugly, ignoring for the moment that he himself didn't do that for anyone, either. He makes up for it now. Daniel writhes in sweet torment, pushing against Jack, gasping with each new sensation.

Jack finally takes pity and ghosts down Daniel's quivering belly, bypassing his eager cock for the moment in favor of the join between hip and thigh. Resting his forearm across Daniel's rocking hips, Jack indulges, stroking Daniel's legs, paying special attention to where soft hair gives way to down on his inner thighs.

He pushes Daniel's knees apart and insinuates his body between them, slowly slides his way back up Daniel's body. They groan in unison when their cocks meet. Jack can't help himself, he just needs the friction and humps once, twice, before he regains control, then makes love to Daniel's mouth with his tongue.

When he's satisfied Daniel's all right, Jack glides back down Daniel's smooth chest, kissing and sucking and nipping along the way. He grabs Daniel's hand and holds tight as he tips his head and takes Daniel into his mouth.

Daniel stills. So does Jack, just for a moment, but Daniel feels so good in his mouth that his tongue starts stroking and he gently sucks. Daniel's fingers tighten on his and his body coils. Jack thinks he should stop, but then Daniel takes a deep breath, moans and just bucks up into Jack's mouth.

'Oh,' he sighs with wondering pleasure, 'No one ever…' He trails off in another moan. His free hand roves over Jack's shoulder, his neck, his arm, as though to lessen the intensity, but his hips lift rhythmically in time with his panting breaths.

What Daniel doesn't know is that while Jack has been the recipient of many a good blow job, this is the first time he's ever taken another man into his mouth. He struggles with the logistics -- breathing, coordinating hand and mouth movements, shielding his teeth -- but it's worth every effort to feel Daniel's shudders, to sense his passion, most of all to experience this right along with him.

Daniel struggles to close his legs for leverage, to thrust harder, higher, but Jack's solid body keeps them spread. Without losing contact, Jack raises up to sear this image in his memory forever: Daniel's head is thrown back, his face flushed, his long hair tousled across the pillow. Inspired, Jack applies every technique he can remember liking and Daniel goes wild. He stutters a warning, but Jack wants all of Daniel and sucks until Daniel explodes in his mouth.

Jack rests his head on Daniel's chest, listens to his heart pounding, his breathing slowing. If this is all Daniel wants, as far as he's ready to go, Jack's fine with that, thankful he's able to give back to Daniel after being given so much. He's hard, aching, but happy. And a changed man. No longer just a sex partner, Jack has become a lover. A whole new world.

A tug on his hair and Jack looks up at Daniel, still blissfully relaxed. 'Thank you, Jack,' he whispers and Jack stretches to kiss him again. Kissing rekindles the fire. Daniel reaches down to grasp Jack's throbbing cock. Jack pushes into Daniel's hand, can't help himself, he raises up over Daniel, balances his weight on his forearms. Daniel works his cock hard, just the way Jack likes it, and it's enough, just like that and it's enough.

Daniel's hand releases. He stretches to reach in his duffle bag on the floor and the movement nearly finishes it for Jack, who closes his eyes to rein it in. His hard-earned control doesn't last and his hips move against Daniel's warmth. Grabs his hand to put it back where it will do the most good.

But Daniel resists. 'Jack?' he says softly.

With great effort, Jack pulls himself back from the edge and opens his eyes, reminds himself of his vow to stop when Daniel wants. Daniel's frowning. He's chewing his lip, looking anxiously at Jack. Wordlessly, he holds out his hand.

A condom and lube, courtesy of Uncle Sam's deluxe dopp kit, rest in his palm. Certainly not intended for this situation, but a soldier's always prepared. And, goddam, he should be used to it by now, but Daniel surprises him every time.

'Daniel?' Jack can hardly get it out, his throat closed up tight with emotion. 'I don't think….'

'It's all right, Jack,' Daniel says seriously. 'It's extra-large.'

Jack is stunned into immobility. His mouth is open but there's no sound. He gapes at Daniel, utterly and totally flummoxed. The words at first don't register. When the synapses start firing again, Jack bursts into a full belly laugh, therapeutic, healing, even as it upsets his balance.

Daniel takes advantage by tipping Jack over and landing atop him, a small, bemused smile gracing his face. Jack's heaving belly tickles Daniel, his laughter is contagious and Daniel joins in. Just as it begins to die down, Jack gasps 'It's extra large?' and sets off another round of laughter. He tries to catch his breath long enough to choke out, '"You know I'm not in the army, right?" Remember that, Daniel?'

For this brief moment in time, they are just two young men, happy and alive, reveling in that sense of immortality that only youth possesses in abundance. They smile at each other.

Jack rolls Daniel onto his back and hugs him, with heart and soul and full-body contact. Daniel ducks his head shyly, but he spreads his legs to settle Jack more comfortably and traces the muscles in his back. Jack feels powerful, possessive, protective.

Then it turns serious. Every sensation magnifies: the way Daniel shivers when Jack's chest hair brushes against his nipples, his hips involuntarily pushing, the breathless moans in the back of his throat.

Jack's cock swells, demanding satisfaction, but he waits to see if the darkness lurks. The darkness that would rise up and demand Daniel submit, force him down and take him so that Jack can prove to himself he's still a man. He waits, even pushes himself to be sure, but no black hole looms for him. Daniel's eyes are as blue as the sky Jack loves, longs for, lives in most comfortably. He's safe. So is Daniel. Together, they're erasing what happened, healing, replacing it with an armor interwoven with affection and caring.

Jack feels he's long been on the brink and Daniel's recovered already, hard against him again. He messily lubes up his hand, making embarrassingly urgent sounds in his throat, then tries to cover them by whispering to Daniel, reassuring him, but really it's for both of them. He breeches Daniel gently, carefully. Daniel freezes only briefly, then responds with ridiculously flattering enthusiasm.

So hard he's quivering and needing to slow down, Jack concentrates on anything but where his hand is, what his fingers are doing, how his thumb is snugged up under Daniel's balls, softly rubbing. He parts Daniel's lips and tongue-fucks his mouth. Daniel's so open to him, heels digging into the bed to better move on Jack's fingers.

Fumbling with impatience, Jack manages to get the condom on, hissing as the touch of his own hot hand threatens to set him off early. Daniel undulates under him, cock touching his belly with every thrust, his needy moans music to Jack's ears. He tucks Daniel's left leg into the crook of his arm, tilting his hips. It won't allow for deep penetration but the trade-off is how incredibly close they will be.

With his cock poised at Daniel's entrance, Jack imprints this moment on his heart. He knows that this is the last time he'll see Daniel, the last time he'll make love with a man, the last time he'll be this happy. Jack's a master of focus; it's all black-and-white to him, no shades of grey. In his youthful arrogance and artlessness, he can't imagine any other way to live and he resigns himself to it.

He pushes, presses in and holds. It's slow going; Jack whispers reassurances to Daniel, who listens intently, struggling to balance pain and pleasure. With his hips off the bed, Daniel uses gravity to sink down slightly and Jack slips in another inch. Then it's Daniel reassuring Jack that it's all right, he's OK.

Then he's in all the way and they're both trembling, slick with sweat, panting. Daniel's hard cock is trapped between their bellies.

'Jack,' he says, 'please.' Like a plea, like a prayer.

It's not a hard fuck, but instead a compassionate coming together. Jack flexes his hips to thrust into Daniel, but keeps his body close, with Daniel's arms around him. He draws back just enough to see Daniel's face.

'It's you,' Daniel whispers, 'only you.'

Jack can feel the change, feels the tension easing. He pulls Daniel's leg higher and thrusts a bit harder, with gratifying results. Daniel arches up, his passage clamping down tightly; Jack sees stars. Daniel grabs Jack's arms, reaches up for the headboard, then restlessly grabs the sheets, urgently whimpering for release. He snakes a hand in between their bodies to palm his cock, rubbing up against Jack even as he strokes in counterpoint.

Pleasure coils in his gut, flashing to his extremities in blinding, pulsating beams, and Jack can feel his orgasm coming with the intensity of a freight train. He drops his head, pants into Daniel's ear, and urges him on.

'Come for me, Danny,' he breathes, 'come for me. Come with me. Come now.'

Daniel sobs, his hand working fast. 'Oh, yeah, now, Jack, o god, now.'

His leg tightens across Jack's ass, pulling him in closer. His breath escapes in little 'oh, oh, oh's'. His free hand slides up Jack's back and grabs hold of his hair. He bucks up hard and fast, stiffens and Jack's barely conscious of the hot seed hitting his belly, because Jack's pushing up with his toes, using his knees for leverage, wanting in Daniel more than he's wanted anything in his life. In as deep as he can go and it's not enough so he corkscrews his hips. It's his undoing. His balls tighten and later Jack will swear he could feel every molecule, every atom moving, as he came, an experience he believes he'll never have again.

Then the world fades away as he lowers Daniel's leg and just holds him. Daniel cradles Jack's head on his shoulder, strokes his back soft and slow. Peace covers them like a quilt.

0005, Day 128
Jack comes back to himself slowly. Daniel's breathing deep and even, asleep and warm under Jack. He frees himself carefully and heads to the bathroom to get rid of the evidence. Daniel stirs sleepily when Jack wipes him clean, but never wakes. Jack sits on the bed, tying his shoes, the enormity of the risk he took now hitting him over the head. His hands are actually shaking. Stupid, stupid, stupid. But then he looks at Daniel and knows no regrets.

Wants to wake him, but doesn't. Looks around for the pen Daniel was fidgeting with earlier, debates the wisdom of writing a note or in Daniel's journal, but he decides against it. It would be a mistake to leave anything incriminating, but he can't just walk away without saying good-bye. Instead he nestles Daniel's palm in his lap and writes 'you mean something' across it. Daniel's so deeply asleep he barely twitches. Jack folds up his fingers around the message and tucks Daniel's hand under the covers. It's not much; it's a trade-off, better than nothing.

Reluctant to leave, Jack brushes back Daniel's long, silky hair and traces his expressive eyebrows, along his cheekbones, down his jaw line. Daniel sighs and turns to press into Jack's hand.

Jack shuts his eyes and swallows hard. 'Beautiful boy,' he whispers again and kisses him softly.

He shuts off the lamp, gathers up the tray from the living room and quietly closes the door behind him. He braces for both his encounter with the doc and with the rest of his life.

0630, Day 128

Up with the sun because he hasn't slept all night, Jack's rocking on his heels on the tarmac, hands in his pockets, watching the base come to life. Daniel's on one of those departing planes, Jack doesn't know which one, but he's out here for a private ceremony of sorts. Closure.

It doesn't have to be this way. Jack actually is at a crossroads in his life. Perhaps, if he were older, more confident, less willing to ignore his heart, he would realize he could, in fact, choose differently, but in his youthful arrogance, he can't imagine any other way. He sees no alternate routes, only a straight and narrow path.

So he begins the painful process of shutting down. He won't ever reveal what happened to him in captivity, won't refer to that time again, not to anyone. It will mean he denies the good -- Daniel -- along with the bad -- everything else -- but life's a trade-off, he believes. You give up one thing to get another; nobody can have it all. You can only hope, the little rebellious part of his brain pipes up, that what you're getting is worth what you're giving up. Being the master of suppression, Jack shuts that down, too.

Jack orders himself to refocus, but allows one last thought. Daniel helped him realize his better self, showed him compassion, and brought him peace and absolution. If ever he hits bottom, if something so bad happens to him that nothing's enough -- not family, not military, not flying -- he prays he will find Daniel again to save him. It would be a trade-off worth his life.

While planes take off and the sun shines on his face, Jack walks back to the barracks as his hard-ass soldier persona completes its encasement of the man within.