What Are Friends For? (1/1)
What Are Friends For?
All Ages
Genre: General, Friendship (Jack/Daniel), Smarm
Synopsis: Temperatures may change, but some things remain the same.
Notes: Thanks to a ridiculous temperature drop (a change of 40°F/22°C), I've been battling a nasty cold for over a week. What's Cheryl's suggestion? Whump Daniel. Good plan!
What Are Friends For?
First, there was the three days on one of the Tok'ra's ubiquitous desert planets for a translation job the Tok'ra swore was of the direst urgency. Before he'd barely set foot back at the SGC, he was being rushed off to a balmy jungle world to soothe the natives' proverbial ruffled feathers over a social gaffe SG-5 had inadvertently committed. From there, it was on to assist in a search-and-rescue on M7K-248, as he was one of only two linguists at the SGC who spoke Chagatai, the language of the moon-dwellers' Turkish ancestors. Since Doctor Solih hadn't yet been cleared for 'Gate travel, that left only him to suit up in full ECWCS and head out with SG-3.
Once all of SG-12 were accounted for-if a little frost-bitten, Daniel was actually happy to see the infirmary, as it meant a hot shower and a warm bed would soon be his. Chiding him for letting himself be run ragged, Janet finally released him with orders to take the next two days off.
The next morning, he was all too happy to oblige. He woke up with the disconcerting feeling of not being able to breathe properly, coupled with a headache that spoke of too little oxygen. There was a vile taste in the back of his throat, and his chest ached as though Teal'c had used him as a seat cushion. Fumbling his glasses off the nightstand, he dragged himself out of bed, staggered to the bathroom, and spared a moment to squint at the pitiful-looking reflection in the mirror.
"You look like crap," he croaked. The raspy words only served to irritate his throat, and it was an exciting moment while he struggled to keep the spasms in his chest from squeezing his bladder too much. Finally, he'd taken care of business, washed his hands, and scooped his entire supply of Sudafed, NyQuil, and Mucinex out of the medicine cabinet. Cradling the precious packages against his chest, he carried them to the nightstand and deposited them next to the lamp, which he turned on once his hands were free.
Wrapping his arms around himself, Daniel next pulled a heavy antique quilt out of the cedar chest at the foot of the bed at tossed it haphazardly across the rumpled covers. Then, sliding into his favorite fluffy robe and pair of thick socks, he padded out of the bedroom and into the kitchen. A man on a mission, he soon carried three bottles of water, a mug of coffee, and two slices of lightly-buttered toast back to the bedroom on a tray.
Next, he took an extra box of tissues out of the linen closet, tossed it toward the head of the bed, and swapped out the short wastebasket by the nightstand for the larger one from the bathroom. Crawling back under the covers, he ate the toast, drank the coffee, and downed the retrieved medication before switching the bedside lamp off. Suppressing another fitful cough, he burrowed his face into the pillows and begged for oblivion.
Sometime later, he was awakened by a soft exclamation and a hand on his shoulder.
"Geez, Daniel, why didn't you tell the Doc you were sick?"
Squinting in Jack's direction-he couldn't see him in the darkened room, but he knew the voice-Daniel rasped, "Wasn' sick yesderday."
Jack let out an exasperated sigh. "Let's get you to the infirmary."
Feeling his nose give a warning twitch, Daniel turned his head and sneezed into the sleeve of his bathrobe. "Id's jus' a col', Jack."
"A cold? You look like crap!"
"Yep." He tried to nod, but it was too much effort. "Dat's whad happens when you go from hot weadder to col' really fasd." Grabbing a tissue from the handy box, he blew his nose until his ears popped, then lobbed the soggy tissue toward the wastebasket.
"You missed. Ew."
"I'll worry 'boud id lader," he mumbled, rinsing his mouth out with a swig from one of the bottled waters.
"Yeah, like after Doc Fraiser finally lets you out of her clutches."
"Don' need da doc... jus' more sleep. Go 'way, Jack." Rolling onto his side and hiking the covers up to his ears, Daniel went back to sleep.
The need to pee again woke him up after several restless hours, and his growling stomach suggested it had been entirely too long since he'd wolfed down the toast and coffee. Stuffing a handful of clean tissues into his robe pocket, he shuffled out of the bedroom, then stopped in surprise as he nearly collided with a tray-bearing Jack. The same tray Daniel thought he'd left in his room following his meager breakfast.
"Hey, I was just coming to check on you," Jack exclaimed, whirling the tray around and plopping it down on the counter. "How you feeling?"
"Better," Daniel admitted. "What's for lunch?"
"Lunch? More like early dinner."
Daniel squinted at the clock on the microwave. "Oh. So... what's for dinner?"
"'Feed a cold, starve a fever,' my Ma always used to say," Jack answered, pushing Daniel toward the breakfast table. "You didn't feel feverish when I tried to wake you earlier, so I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it's just a cold."
"Told you."
"Aht! Now, as I was saying, Ma O'Neill also knew the best way to fight a cold: homemade chicken noodle soup."
Daniel smiled. "You made me homemade soup?"
Jack preened for a moment, then rolled his eyes. "Who do I look like, Chef Boyardee? You, sir, get your soup from a can. However, it's the good stuff... none of that condensed crap." With a flourish, he set the tray on the table in front of Daniel, and whipped the paper towel off the soup bowl. "Smells great, doesn't it?"
"If I could smell," Daniel agreed, but grabbed his spoon and dug in with gusto. Along with the soup were some saltines with slices of cheddar cheese, and a big glass of milk. During one of his silent forays into the bedroom while Daniel slept, Jack had also retrieved the medicines off the nightstand, and had the pills in a little multi-colored pile in one corner of the tray, which he took with the help of a mug of honey-sweetened tea.
When he was finished, Daniel heaved a contented sigh, then grabbed a napkin when the action triggered a sneeze. "Ugh," he muttered once he'd finally finished blowing his nose. "I hate being sick."
Jack held out the trash can for the soggy napkin. "Nobody likes it, Daniel."
"Yeah? So why are you smiling?"
"Because... well... when I came in and found you breathing funny and sleeping like a log, I thought you'd caught some freaky alien virus, and I was all set to haul you off to the Doc, then spend the next several days feeling useless." Grabbing a dining room chair and turning it around, Jack straddled the seat and crossed his arms over the wooden back. "This, I can do."
"Is that your roundabout way of saying I'm stuck with you for the next few days?"
"What are friends for?"
Feeling warmed by more than just the soup, Daniel smiled.