New Jack/Daniel story: Descant

[destina]

I've been working on this story for more than a year. I actually finished it in September, but I needed to figure out a few things about the story before revising it. It took longer than I expected. *g*

Descant
58K (11,000 words)
Jack/Daniel, explicit; spoilers through season seven, and then more or less AU thereafter
Notes: Many thanks to troyswann and paian for their extensive beta comments and insights, and to sef1029 and barkley for comments on the early drafts.


Daniel rolls his socks into tiny balls and shoves them in the corners of his carry-on. He never cared much about wrinkles or neatness before he left the SGC, but now a sharp appearance is a necessary evil. Consultancy pays well. He has to look the part.

Five dress shirts packed in paper, four of them casual. T-shirts, boxers, socks. Shoes. Jackets and pants in the garment bag. He goes over the checklist in his mind as he has a million times before. What he doesn't take with him, he'll buy when he arrives; what he needs for reference, he'll requisition. He zips his suitcase and pats down his pockets: tickets, wallet, keys, passport. He pulls out the keys and tosses them on his half of the bed. No point in lugging them halfway around the world.

Even in the darkness, he feels Sarah's eyes on him. She's silent, pretending to be asleep. Two years ago she would have packed the suitcase, made him breakfast, talked with him about the assignment, and kissed him goodbye. That was before they realized they'd been on the road to divorce since the day they were married. Now it's all just a matter of time and a few unsigned pieces of paper.

Daniel stops in the doorway, but before he can speak, she turns over. Her back is a long line, a barrier between his words and her willingness to hear.

He closes the door without telling her he's never coming back.

Outside it's snowing, a crisp late London winter. On his way to the airport, he takes a look around at a city still both familiar and strange, a city full of living history, and sees nothing he will regret leaving behind.

It's snowing in Colorado Springs when he arrives, an irony that's not lost on him. In the harsh light of the hotel bathroom, he can clearly see the bags under his eyes. Lack of sleep is catching up with him; it's been two days since he's closed his eyes. He takes the time to hang his shirts and pants in the closet, smoothing out the wrinkles with his palm pressed flat against the fabric.

He settles naked into bed to flip aimlessly through the twelve channels available on the hotel TV, but nothing holds his interest. His eyes are burning from exhaustion. He turns off the TV and sprawls on his back, staring at the ceiling. Even with his eyes open, Daniel recalls particular memories the way he might recall his dreams, fuzzy around the edges, but heavy with emotion. His forte is dwelling on the past.

It's always there, at the cusp of wakefulness; his mind pushes the memory forward, compensating for the way he pushes it away in daylight.

He falls asleep in the middle of remembering.

*****

Daniel had always hated dinner parties. Most of the few he'd bothered to attend had been stilted toward academia and filled with boring conversation about stale theories. Rooms filled with cloying perfumes and cigar smoke, glasses of champagne and cocktails drained too quickly, and always someone asking him about crazy theories no one could bring themselves to believe.

Thus when he arrived late at Jack's, he was only exercising an old avoidance borne of habit, and anyway, Jack didn't seem to mind much. "Am I late?" Daniel asked with a smile, and handed over two bottles of Cristal - nothing but the best for this particular occasion.

"Yes," Jack said agreeably, and pulled the door open wider with his foot so they could both stand in the foyer together. "And yet - if this party was a couple time zones west, you'd be right on time."

Daniel ignored the subtle, gentle jab. "Teal'c here yet?"

"Oh yes. And George, and Davis, and several thousand other people."

"Jack," Daniel said impatiently, but Jack held up one of the bottles as a symbolic gesture of warning.

"Don't start. This...is going to take getting used to. This whole...social thing."

"Well, yes. You're definitely out of practice."

"Says the man who lives inside his office underneath a mountain."

Daniel ignored that, too. "You look..." He struggled for some way to express it. Jack was wearing black slacks and a sky-blue shirt, and it seemed as though...

"Yes. She did."

...Sam had dressed him.

"Uh-huh," Daniel said, and made a left turn down the stairs into the living room, leaving Jack with snow flurries drifting in the open door and melting into water stains on his freshly-shined shoes. He took his jacket off and draped it over his arm, but a minute later Jack took it away and pressed a beer into his hand, and then Daniel was free to work the room.

Sam was wearing a sheer red dress with some kind of flowery print. Daniel thought she'd never looked prettier, and when she threw her arms around him and hugged him warmly, he was sure of it. There were smells of beef and cinnamon in the air, and the noisy chatter of happy friends. Teal'c was sitting in one corner of the couch, staring straight at Daniel with the look of a man in need of a rescue, as Sergeant Siler talked at him non-stop.

Daniel stood in the middle of the room for a moment, smiling and nodding to everyone until he was sure he'd gotten the lay of the room. Then he made his way to the beverage bar and grabbed his second beer. Fifteen minutes after that, he graduated to scotch, and his glass was never empty again for the rest of the night.

*****

On the infrequent occasions when Sam calls him in to do consultant work, her routine of welcome never varies. She meets him at the elevator with a huge smile and hugs him to make up for lost time. They talk about work, mostly, bonding over geeky things no one else was ever interested in, the latest physics theories Daniel doesn't quite get and the boring academia Sam respects, but has abandoned.

Sometimes they scratch the surface of their personal lives, but they never discuss their childless marriages, or distant friendships. They don't talk about what they've left behind.

They have stale Air Force-issue coffee in bland blue mugs and Daniel looks around Sam's office, which is Jack's old office, which was George's old office, before that. The room is full of pictures - Teal'c, Daniel, Jack, Cassie, Janet, George - arranged in a random order on filing cabinets, tacked on walls. Sam's credentials are relegated to a small square of the cold concrete, subtle but present, smaller in scope than the visual evidence of those she has loved. He drinks the stale coffee in its blue Air Force mug and wonders who made it, and if his taste buds have gotten used to better stuff or if Sam's coffee-making skills are getting rusty.

This time, as she talks, Sam leans across her desk and engages him with her warm smile. "I had a message from Teal'c last week. He and Bra'tac are having a hard time dragging the outlying rebel Jaffa into the Nation. He's still struggling to balance politics with truth."

"He was a better diplomat than he is a politician," Daniel says. Teal'c was never much for compromising his principles, even in service to the greater good. An abundance of integrity placed their friend at a great disadvantage in the Jaffa political arena.

Sam nods slowly, then says, "I'm not sure if I told you last time you were here, but plans have been in the works for three more off-world sites. I've been thinking about relinquishing command of the SGC and taking command of the Omega site."

"Oh?" Whatever Daniel expected, it hadn't been this. It's not a sea change; it's a tidal wave. "Permanent off-world assignment?"

"As permanent as these things get." Her eyes never leave his.

"Is that what you want?"

"I'm ready for a change."

"Sam, this doesn't..." He hesitates. "You have a life here."

"I'll get back to it, when this tour of duty is over."

"It's not the same, after you've been gone a while."

"That's the point." Her fingers tap twice on the side of the mug, decisive. He can see she's thought about it, worried over it, and she's come to an endgame. He envies her certainty. "Cassie is bringing the baby over tonight," Sam says, switching tracks. "Come for dinner. I've asked George, too." When her eyes sweep over him, he's sure his secrets are written on the skin, inky dark and indelible, obvious to anyone who knows him well enough to see them. Her expression is carefully still.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."

"And after they've...maybe we could talk a little? Catch up. I've missed that."

When she hugs him, her shoulders shake, and he tightens his arms around her.

*****

Teal'c was staring at him.

This wasn't the first time, nor was it likely to be the last, but Daniel could feel the troubled intensity of Teal'c's gaze following him around Jack's living room. Daniel took a sip of his scotch and turned to meet that look directly. Teal'c nodded to him, a fractional tilt of his head, but his frown deepened.

Turning his back on Teal'c's concern felt like a betrayal, but he did it anyway.

The roast was excellent, the carrots perfectly done. Champagne flowed at the table like water. George Hammond told war stories - literal war stories, from his time behind the front lines years ago, and recently - and told a couple of tales that made Daniel appreciate him in ways he wouldn't have been able to ten years before. They'd all hiked a long trail since then, as Jack would say. Daniel stared at the patterns on the china - when had Jack acquired china? Had he always had it? Daniel had never noticed it before - blue and white, delicate as wisps of wood smoke against off-white clouds.

These were his friends, gathered together to celebrate something that had been too long in coming. Daniel sipped his scotch. His friends. Their friends.

When the meal was over, he picked up his glass and stood, watching Jack at the other end of the table. The half-smile on Jack's face propelled Daniel's words from somewhere in the back of his mind, in the place that still had charm and knew how to use it. A small part of him protested, but it wasn't the part the counted, not at that moment. He had an obligation. These were their friends.

The necessary words came easily, straight from the place of easy grace, but they bypassed his heart. He was just drunk enough to have managed that route, and it hadn't been easy.

"To Jack and Sam," he said, raising his glass. "May you have a long and happy marriage."

"Jack and Sam," the room echoed. The roaring was already loud in his ears when they toasted this inevitable thing, a thing that was so much like what they already were together, a unit formed of comradeship and teamwork and adoration that ran deeper than any blood any of them had ever shared with another living soul. The two of them looked comfortable together, gracious hosts of their own party, ready to buy a home and set up housekeeping and make a life together.

Teal'c was still looking at him, and Daniel had the sudden urge to run away, to turn and bolt from the house, from the scene of the crime, but there wasn't anywhere to go. He was stuck there, frozen in place, a reluctant witness.

*****

The first thing Daniel notices about being in the field again is how uncomfortable he is; the BDUs are scratchy against his skin and the vest is too heavy, even with the new lighter armor. He feels burdened by its negligible weight. P4R-122 is tropical, with trees growing strong in the deep humidity. Purple flowers are strewn over their well-mapped route, and there's a group of obelisks waiting silently for them in a clearing at the end of a 3-klick walk.

"Just like old times," Sam says, smiling at him from beneath the brim of her cap. She hasn't been out in the field in a while, either; she's not as quick as she used to be. Her steps are sure, but more measured, much like his own.

Daniel looks ahead to Lt. Peralta, who is too young, whose quiet gray eyes are not brown, and to Trevon, who oozes arrogance. Daniel knows he was once just as young and arrogant, but he had outgrown most of that by the time he set foot through the gate that first time. "Not quite like old times," he tells Sam, with half a smile.

"There it is," Sam says, pointing. "Peralta, you and Trevon set up a perimeter. Make sure Dr. Jackson can work uninterrupted."

"Yes ma'am," Peralta says, her gray eyes assessing Daniel in two seconds. He wonders if she sees in him the husk of someone who was once important to their program. Mostly he thinks she's trying to decide how much protection he really needs, how much lead time.

In the end, she sets the perimeter 50 yards out. Daniel notices, but distantly. His attention is on the writing covering the face of the obelisk, this most recent mystery, which is tied to so many others. "Ancient," he confirms, and in his mind, Jack cracks wise: I know it's* old*, Daniel, but what does it *say*? He presses his fingers to the cracked stone, tracing the chiseled words on its gray surface, seeking its secrets with a sure touch. "But this is...might be...Furling."

Sam presses closer to him and follows the path of his eyes. "We thought so," she said. "We just weren't sure. It's not quite the same as most of their writing, is it?"

"No. I should have asked before, but is this a cartouche world?"

"It's one of the others."

Once, not so long ago, Daniel had the list of Abydos cartouche addresses partially committed to memory. It has faded from him, like so much else: bits of knowledge released into the wind to make room for more.

After a cursory examination, he sees why they called him in. As with so many other bits and pieces of Furling writing, this one is just a little different, a variation on a theme with few common notes. He studies it for a while. Sam stands nearby in the hot breeze and watches him work.

Eventually he has enough notes and rubbings and sketches and digital photographs to fuel weeks of translation efforts, though he already knows it won't take that long. He suspects Sam knows, too, and was well aware his expertise isn't needed. She's missed him. He's missed her, too.

"Anytime you're ready," he says, smiling. They walk back under the hot sun. He carries no weapon in his hands, just a knife and a Beretta strapped to his body. Like old times, yes. And Peralta takes the rear, carrying the burden of protecting them.

*****

By the time it happened, Daniel was exceptionally, astutely, quietly drunk. He had carved out a corner of the couch and was nursing a triple scotch, his fifth or fiftieth of the night. Teal'c was standing next to him, which Daniel might have found annoying two hours before, and odd an hour before, but now he was just aware of Teal'c's quiet presence, in the way he might have been aware of a warm coat or a loaded Beretta strapped to his side.

The guests were starting to wear out and quiet down. There was a contented hush falling over those who were still in the house, though a few had migrated outside into the freezing snow and were making slushy snowballs in Jack's driveway. He could hear their laughter distantly, like something he remembered from a dream.

Jack loomed in front of him suddenly, then sat down facing him on the coffee table. No smile this time, just an outstretched hand. Daniel wasn't a mind-reader, except when Jack made it so completely obvious. He raised up his ass so he could fish in his right pants pocket and produced his car keys.

"You can stay here," Jack said.

"George can drive me," Daniel said, or slurred; it wasn't as easy to form words as it had been hours before.

"Stay. There's something I want to talk over with you."

Daniel stared at him. This wasn't Jack. Jack didn't talk, Jack wasn't hospitable, and Jack didn't have room in his house for drunk, intrusive house guests. His inability to process this bizarre imposter's invitation was what delayed his answer, long enough for Jack to take the silence as assent. Daniel could almost see the conversation unfurling in its entirety: Jack was going to ask him to be best man, and Daniel would have to agree, because what other choice was there? Where else would he want to be? It was good, and right, and absolutely what he wanted, and...

"I'm in the mood for a diabetic coma," Jack said, and his smile was back. Sam was standing near the window, and she turned toward him, wearing an identical smile that twisted Daniel's heart around inside his chest.

"Cake?"

"Oh, yes. Cake," Jack said. "You want to get the plates, and I'll bring out the good stuff?"

"Yes, sir."

Daniel's head shot up; his eyes narrowed. Sam's cheeks were red, and Jack's face was a sudden blank. Daniel was sure Jack would crack a joke, say something, make it better, because the door was wide open and a thousand bits of sarcasm could be driven through. Instead, Jack got up from the table and rested his hand on her arm, then disappeared into the kitchen.

Daniel put down his drink so gently that the glass didn't make a sound.

*****

There are purple flowers all down the sidewalk leading up to Sam's house. Daniel has a vague memory of planting flowers in the garden of his foster parents' backyard. He had a detached interest in the process of things growing from tiny seeds, but he has always been more interested in what's beneath the dirt than what's growing from it. Once in a while, he pulls out the memory of his foster mother crouching in the garden, planting and picking, culling weeds and ordering things to her own satisfaction. On her knees in the soft earth, she smiled at him and drew him near, and held his hand as she taught him the names of the flowers. None of them had been purple.

Sam's house is as perfectly ordered as he expected. There is no dust anywhere in sight, and even worse, the carpets have been freshly vacuumed. It takes him a moment to realize he really is more of a guest now than an old friend dropping in for dinner; they've been apart that long, and time has stretched the ties between them so that now, they are at opposite ends of the world.

As it turns out, Cassie can't come by. The baby is sick, demanding all of her attention, and she apologizes to Daniel on the phone. In the background, he hears the baby wailing impatiently. Janet would have been so thrilled to see what has become of her girl. It breaks Daniel's heart that she's missing it all, even the cranky wailing. George phones his apologies as well, not ten minutes later, and that leaves Daniel staring at Sam across the center island of the kitchen, in exactly the position he'd feared. Sam doesn't seem to mind, which troubles him.

"It's just as well," she says, smiling at him. "There's so much to talk about, and it's...difficult...with Cassie here."

"Hero worship, still?" he asks, thinking of the way Jack's face lit up when Cassie asked him to walk her down the aisle.

"A little bit. It's understandable." Sam has her back turned to him now, as she dishes out chicken and vegetables, larger portions than either of them can actually eat, to compensate for those who are missing at the table.

Daniel is five minutes into his breast of chicken, and halfway through his green beans, before he's cleared enough food from the plate to see the pattern on the china: gentle blue lines, weaving their way around the far edge of the plate. So Sam kept the china. He takes his fork and traces the sinuous path of blue around in a circle.

"I left the dishes at the house," she says suddenly, and it's as if she's opened her chest, baring her heart to him. He can see the entirety of the past three years' struggle between her and Jack, as clearly as if he knew the details. "When I moved out. But he said he had no use for them, and he wanted me to have them." The shadows beneath her eyes look full and dark, like ripe bruises.

Daniel tries to put himself in her shoes - the reluctant one, the one who isn't ready to be pushed away - and has a hard time reaching that far into the past for empathy. "That must have been hard," he says, and knows it is a lame comfort, but he has nothing else to give.

"You have no idea." It's as if she's taken a pin and struck him through, pushing it deep into a vulnerable place.

"I have some idea." He twirls the fork between his fingers, then resumes tracing the lines on his plate. Past the mashed potatoes, past the carrots, over and through all obstacles, the line continues unbroken.

"You and Sarah?" Already Sam's tone has changed, but Daniel doesn't look up. He just nods. "Daniel, I'm so sorry."

"Don't be. We never should have gotten married. It was a reflex action. It seemed right, at the time, but...I think I always knew it was the wrong thing to do." The sentence slides out like a black ribbon between his teeth, and once it's out he isn't choking on it any longer. His throat opens, for the first time in weeks, expanding with relief at having dislodged this particular secret.

When he looks up in search of Sam's eyes, she is staring at a fixed point on the table between the salt shaker and the basket of rolls. "You sound like Jack," she says, which makes him cringe. "He told me life was too short to keep running down the wrong road." She smiles the bitterest smile he has ever seen. "That's all the explanation I was privileged to receive."

"He's never been much for explanations, Sam." It seems so self-evident, but perhaps not to her; perhaps that's the point, or the problem. His tone is much sharper than he'd intended, and he sets his fork down carefully, mindful of the expense of acting out his irritation.

"There's still so much I want, Daniel. Kids. A life where I'm not the convenient wife."

He nods, unable to bring himself to say any of the soothing knee-jerk platitudes a good friend should say, unwilling to contradict her assumptions about her marriage because he's not certain she's wrong. "There's still time."

"No." She sits back, one hand across her belly, her fingers moving unconsciously over the empty space within. "There's not. Time runs out faster than we can catch up." She's meeting his eyes, but there's something sharp and assessing in her gaze. "Have you talked to him?" she asks.

He folds his hands in his lap, then unfolds them; picks up his napkin and lays it on the table, then picks at its corners. "Not yet," he says, aware how vague it sounds.

"But you're planning to?"

"Yes. I'm planning to." He doesn't tell her about the message on his voice mail, succinct, concise, the first time he's heard Jack's voice in many years: Daniel, it's Jack. I hear you're coming to the Springs. Give me a call when you get here. He doesn't tell her he sat quietly in his desk chair for two hours, his hand on the phone, trying to decide. He doesn't tell her what that decision entailed, or what it will cost them all.

"I always thought..." Sam begins, then stops, leaving the rest unsaid. Daniel doesn't look at her. Can't look at her.

"Thought what?" he says, carefully.

For a moment, the silence seems to indicate she's about to give him an answer, but instead she pushes back from the table and stands, collecting her dish and the salt shakers before heading for the kitchen. Daniel closes his eyes and rests his elbows on the table so he can bow his head onto his waiting hands. Of course she suspected. Daniel had known, too - everyone had known, it seemed.

Everyone except for Jack, but he seems to be catching on.

After a moment, he picks up his own unfinished meal and follows her into her kitchen, where she's crying beside the sink, slumped over, one hand over her face. He takes her into his arms, feeling like Judas about to earn his silver, and rubs her back until her tears have soaked his shirt through. Her hair smells of strawberries and fresh air. He kisses her temple and rocks her gently in his arms.

"I knew," she said. "I knew it wouldn't work, that it wasn't right. I always knew. But I did love him. I do." She separates herself from the comfort Daniel offers, pulling away, stretching their ties even farther. With one corner of the green dish towel, she wipes her face, eradicating her tears, but her nose is still red. "I think...I had myself convinced it was right, even when part of me was screaming that it was a mistake. It was easy to talk myself into being with him."

Daniel nods slowly. With one hand, he cups her cheek, rubbing his thumb gently across the wet streaks on her face. She smiles, a vague approximation of what Sam's smile should be, and catches his hand. "I'm sorry. I know you didn't come here for this."

She's wrong, of course. He came for this, and only this; it's his penance.

An hour later, he sits in the rented car, watching the clouds cast themselves across the moon, then slowly retreat. After a while, a light fog coats the windows and obscures his view. His cell phone is a heavy weight in his pocket, loaded down with unanswered messages. He doesn't bother to check if Sarah's name is among them, because he already knows the answer.

Even while he is dialing, he thinks he ought to feel something - remorse, maybe, or jubilation. But for the length of time it takes to make the call, his heart remains cautiously numb. When he closes the phone carefully and starts the car, his hands are shaking. He puts the car in gear and heads out toward the hotel.

*****

Around three AM, a light sleet began to beat against the west-facing windows of Jack's guest room, not loud enough to wake someone who was sleeping - if, in fact, anyone had been asleep. Daniel hadn't bothered to take his clothes off. Just his shoes, which were half-hidden beneath the edge of the bed, facing out. Waiting for him. He held a pillow loosely in his lap, alternately squeezing it and setting it down.

His ears strained to hear an echo of Sam in the house, the ghostly signs and sounds of couplehood in Jack's bed. His imagination conjured it freely, as it had been doing all night. No effort required. In the dark, with his glasses still on, he could see through walls, through skin, even through pretense. He knew Jack was awake somewhere in the house; he couldn't have said how he knew, but he did. Maybe the same way he'd known countless times when something was wrong on an off-world mission, when one of his friends needed him.

Several hours had passed since his last drink, just long enough for the alcohol to begin worming its way out of his system. The headache it left behind was in its early stages, but he knew it was going to be a monster by the time morning rolled around. He deserved it. And how much of an asshole had he been, anyway? Jack had wanted to talk to him, and desperate avoidance had sent him back to the bar over and over, until he drank himself past pliant numbness into a state of advanced sleepiness. He still wasn't sure if it was Teal'c or Sam who had steered him off the couch and into the bedroom. He'd probably been snoring by then.

He made his way to the bathroom by feel - the idea of turning on the light made his eyeballs throb - and turned on the cold water. Head hung low over the sink, he splashed his face a couple of times and rubbed at his eyes. The heavy tiredness of too much alcohol weighted down his eyes with sand. With one hand, he popped open the medicine cabinet and took out the only item in there - aspirin. Jack never took anything stronger unless he had a gaping wound somewhere on his body, and rarely even then.

Daniel shook the bottle against his palm; three aspirin rolled out. Good enough. He chased them with a swallow of water from the faucet and dried his face on the hand towel. He would have loved a shower, but if he attracted Jack's attention, they'd be having that talk about whatever was on Jack's mind, and he wasn't ready for it. Not that night; not at 3AM. Not ever, maybe. Anything Jack O'Neill actually wanted to talk about scared Daniel to death.

The bed creaked as he settled on its edge and fished out his shoes. Shoes, jacket - damn, that was in Jack's hall closet, and it was too cold to go without it. Well, he'd just have to be quiet. He crept out into the hall and toward the closet, slid the door open, and retrieved his jacket from the hanger without a sound.

"Leaving so soon?"

Daniel dropped his jacket. Jack was silhouetted at the foot of the stairs leading to the living room; Daniel couldn't see his face, but he didn't need to. His tone was sufficiently frosty.

"Couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd..."

"Escape." Jack raised something - a glass - and took a sip from it; the ice cubes within clinked softly. "You thought you'd escape."

Daniel reached down to pick up the jacket and clutched it in front of him like a shield. After a moment, his arm fell to his side, and he leaned back against the wall. "Yeah."

"Come have a drink with me."

At the suggestion, Daniel's stomach turned over. "I've had enough, thanks."

"Glad to see you figured that out."

Daniel winced. He'd heard this tone from Jack before. The heavy sarcasm was just the prelude. Suddenly Daniel was desperate to get out of there. He looked at the door as if something was preventing him from leaving, an invisible barrier made all the more real by Jack's stillness. "Jack..."

"What is with you, Daniel?" Jack took another sip from his glass. "I've never seen you drink like that in all the years I've known you."

"It was a party," Daniel said, though he couldn't even properly muster up a defensive posture. "I can't even remember the last time we had a party."

"I can. It was when we kicked the Goa'uld's collective ass. And you didn't get drunk."

Daniel felt some of Jack's stillness creeping into him like ice. Soon he wouldn't be able to move. "No."

The shadow that was Jack came up the stairs and passed him close, one arm brushing against his chest as he moved toward the kitchen. Daniel stayed where he was, because the wall was warm, secure. Time had slowed down, and he felt as though he was in between two things, not attached either to his own needs, or to his ability to detach from them. After a moment, Jack was back, standing beside him; he lifted Daniel's hand, took the jacket from him and pressed a glass into his fingers.

Daniel lifted the glass and sniffed. "It's water," Jack said. He had a hand on Daniel's shoulder, and shoved him gently in the direction of the living room.

"Jack, I'm too tired to talk."

"But you're awake enough to drive home?"

"I was planning to walk."

"In a storm, at 3 in the morning."

Daniel smiled down at the floor. "Well, it was either that, or steal my car keys, and I thought they were probably in your room. I didn't want to..."

"Sam went home." Jack's back was to him now, as he shuffled around the living room, straightening the pillows on the couch, moving crooked furniture back into place. He switched on a lamp and Daniel blinked against the assault of light.

"She did?"

Jack sat down on the couch and pushed the coffee table back with one foot. "She said it was too weird with you staying in the house."

Daniel cleared his throat, then drank the entire glass of water. For some reason, his face was on fire. "We're all adults," Daniel said, glancing at the front door. He sighed and descended the steps to the living room, then took the chair opposite Jack and set his glass down on the coffee table.

"Well, you know," Jack said, then stopped, and lifted his glass to his lips, where it conveniently blocked anything else he might have wanted to say.

"Jack. I've shared a tent with Sam. I've seen her naked, nearly naked, half naked. I've watched her wake up in the morning and I've listened to her snore. There's not much left I haven't seen."

"And yet..." Jack studied his ice cubes; Daniel studied Jack. And yet. There was plenty Daniel hadn't seen, didn't want to see, but Jack refrained from pointing it out. Which, of course, was why Sam had decided to leave. Daniel felt his face warming again.

"Do you remember the first time we saw her in a dress?" Daniel asked suddenly. God knows where that memory had come from, but he could picture Sam, so exasperated in that bright blue dress, in a tent that smelled of yak fat.

"Vividly." Jack's half-smile was a world away from the cool detachment he'd shown at the time. "I still think fondly of those little seed pearls."

Daniel chuckled. "Those were something."

"I remember the first time I saw you in a dress, too." Now Jack was looking at him, still with the half-smile, and Daniel rolled his eyes.

"Robes, Jack. You know, I thought you'd given up teasing me about that."

"And ruin such a convenient opportunity to bait you? Never."

Daniel ran one finger around the lip of the glass, clockwise, then counterclockwise. "We were all so different then."

"Not really. Just...less cynical. Well - the two of you, anyway. Teal'c and me, not so much."

"No," Daniel agreed. "Not so much." His water was gone, and he had the sudden strange sensation of being without a prop - nothing to hide behind. He and Jack had never been the world's best conversationalists together. It wasn't the focal point of their friendship. There was an acute discomfort lurking just beneath the surface of their superficial chatter, and Daniel desperately wanted to leave, but he forced himself to relax.

"You probably guessed what I wanted to ask you," Jack said. He finished the rest of his glass, then got up and went to the bottle on the mantel. Daniel watched him moving; something was off, out of place. And then it dawned on him: Jack was drunk. Or at least, he'd had more than usual to drink. And not beer, either: scotch - the same kind Daniel had been drinking earlier in the evening. He was walking...astutely. Carefully. Like their conversation.

"The wedding?" Daniel asked.

Jack poured a half a glass of scotch over diminishing ice cubes and went back to the couch. After a moment, he set the glass down and sat forward on the cushions, hands clasped together. "I do need a best man," he said softly.

"I'm surprised you didn't ask Teal'c," Daniel said truthfully, although the question carried an implication he was sure Jack didn't want to address. Teal'c and Jack had the kind of friendship that was based on kinship of spirit; his friendship with Jack was...different.

"I thought about it," Jack said, just as truthfully. He picked up his glass, had a long swallow, then set it down again. His dark eyes glittered in the amber light. "But it didn't feel right."

Daniel nodded, pleased in ways he wouldn't want to articulate. "I'd be honored."

"Good." Jack sat back and put his feet on the table. "Glad that's settled." His gaze was still fixed on Daniel, and Daniel felt a bit like a bug under a magnifying glass; he was going to burn up in the focused light. He took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Headache?" Jack asked.

"It's bright in here."

Jack twisted around, reached up, and switched off the lamp. Instant relief: darkness, profound and quiet. "Better?"

"Yes, thanks." Daniel sighed. "I should go back to bed."

"Given up your big plan of walking home?"

"It's pretty late," Daniel said, without really answering. To his credit, Jack didn't press the issue.

"Good night, then."

"Jack..." Daniel stopped, unsure of what he really wanted to say. This hadn't gone the way he expected. Nothing had gone the way he'd expected the last few months. He felt perpetually off-guard, out of the loop. It was a loop he had helped create, and slowly, he'd been sliding outside the circle. Pushed or jumped, it made no difference; he was still falling off the cliff.

"Daniel."

"Nothing." He got to his feet, and Jack mirrored his action on the opposite side of the room.

"Daniel...you know, you are always welcome here."

"I know," Daniel answered, as though it was the truest thing Jack had ever said. It wasn't, but they could both pretend. He was being handed off to a life without his team, without his friends. There was a future waiting for him half a world away; Sarah was out there, counting on him, but she was not adequate compensation for what he was losing.

He was in the hallway before Jack's hand on his shoulder stopped him, before Jack turned him around. "C'mere," he whispered, and Jack's fingers slipped around the nape of his neck. He enveloped Daniel in a fierce, warm hug. The weight of Jack's body pressed him against the wall; the searing burn of Jack's lips next to his ear and the whiskey-warm feel of his breath against Daniel's bare skin made Daniel shiver, and after a moment, he brought his arms up to hold Jack. Jack's lips parted and touched Daniel's neck softly, the ghost of a kiss, before Jack buried his face in the crook of Daniel's shoulder and allowed himself to be held.

It didn't last long. Jack released him and stepped away. Daniel felt the absence of his body like a permanent change in the space around him. He reached out a hand, touched Jack's chest, felt the solid presence of him there. Then he pushed Jack away, gently. Jack's body swayed back with the momentum of it. Jack nodded; he ducked his head down, and for once, Daniel thought the shadow before him was about to say something, give something up. Make it right.

He was wrong.

"Get some sleep," Jack said, and after a moment, he turned away, toward the deeper darkness at the end of the hallway, where his bedroom door was ajar. Daniel watched him go, watched him push the door open and slip inside, and close the door firmly behind him. When the latch clicked, Daniel started to shake. His breath came quickly, and he pressed his palms flat against the wall behind him, seeking something to steady him.

He laid awake the rest of the night, one corner of the comforter wound around his legs, and stared out the window at shifting light. Just before dawn, he slipped out of the house and into his car, and drove home. That day he packed, and caught a plane to London, and he made it his mission not to think about what had been left behind.

*****

Daniel goes down to the hotel restaurant at 9 sharp. He gets a booth in the back and orders Guinness for Jack, plus a glass of pale ale for himself, and watches the sweat bead on the glasses as the minutes tick by.

At quarter past nine, Jack slides into the booth opposite Daniel and favors him with a genuine smile, all the more brilliant in its awkwardness. "Hey," he says, as if they live around the corner from each other and meet once a week for beers.

"Hey," Daniel answers. In the dim light, Jack's hair shines silver; beneath it, Jack's eyes are dark. He seems the same as the last time Daniel saw him, nearly three years ago. Their conversation will be rusty by now, less sharp than they once were with each other, but Daniel is suddenly sure things will be fine. "It's good to see you."

"You too." Jack picks up the beer Daniel ordered for him and takes a long sip. He appears to study the contents of his glass, the same way Daniel is studying him, with the same eye for detail. Finally, he takes a long slow look at Daniel, from the tips of Daniel's messy hair to the point at which his body disappears beneath the table. "That's an expensive suit," Jack says, one eyebrow twitching upward.

"Yes," Daniel says, and suddenly he itches to be free of it. He lets the jacket slide from his shoulders, then removes and folds it slowly.

"How'd the mission go?" Jack shifts sideways in the booth. His leg brushes against Daniel's as he slides over, and Daniel stretches out toward him, making sure his leg is as much in the way as possible. A smile turns the corner of Jack's mouth. He lifts his glass and takes a long swallow.

"Actually, it was...strange. Familiar, and not." Daniel can feel the warmth of Jack's leg against his own, the hard press of Jack's knee against the side of his thigh, and he licks his lips.

"Yes, well. It's...weird, going back. I try never to agree. But then they offer me money. Lots and lots of money."

"That'll do it," Daniel says, watching Jack's face, and the way his eyes meet Daniel's, steadily, unwavering.

"Long time," Jack said. His hair is combed but mussed, as if he hasn't been able to keep his hands out of it despite his best intentions. Daniel's fingers twitch with the need to sink into it.

"Your letters must have been lost in the mail," he answers, and is oddly gratified when Jack smiles outright and looks down at the table. Daniel's fingers slide down the cool, slick side of his glass as his gaze travels the nape of Jack's neck.

"Listen, Daniel. I'm not good at small talk. Never was, and now - I'm really not."

"Out of practice?"

"Something like that." Jack stretches, and now his hands are on the table, curled at the far edge, just in front of his body. "Fewer things to talk about as you get old."

"You're not old."

"I'm old-er. Semantics."

"Impressive," Daniel says.

"I trot out the big words for company."

"I'm company, now?"

"At least." Jack gives him a measuring look, then asks, "Did Sam break out the china for you?"

"You heard?"

"Oh, yes." Jack takes another, longer sip of beer. "She called."

"I'm not surprised." A cold, uncomfortable sensation clutches at Daniel's stomach.

"As the old saying goes, she has...issues."

"Legitimate issues," Daniel says, and the clutching feeling becomes worse. There are things in his life he'd classify as huge mistakes, and now he's starting to wonder if this qualifies. But Jack is looking steadily at him, and the calm certainty in his gaze is what Daniel was first drawn to, a hundred years and a lifetime ago.

"In the past, now," Jack says. He lifts his chin, as if daring Daniel to contradict him, but that's not Daniel's agenda anymore.

"She expected more from you," Daniel says, because he can't help it. He loves Sam, too.

"She deserved more," Jack says, his agreement no surprise to Daniel. He hears the rest of what Jack doesn't say: she knew was she was getting; she signed up for the full tour; I'm a selfish bastard; I haven't changed; I was never a talker. All the things Sam wanted from Jack, he was prepared to give her, but it turned out they weren't in him to give, and none of them should have been surprised.

In that moment, Daniel wonders if what he wants from Jack is something Jack can give, or if they are going to end up in the same place, at the end of the same rope, aching for missed opportunities. He looks at Jack's face, with its familiar lines, at the cool appraisal in Jack's eyes that shifts to warmth, to a kind of openness Daniel has never seen Jack show to Sam, and he feels his fear uncurl in his belly, settling to a low arousal.

Just then, the waitress appears at the table, bearing her generic order pad and pencil. He meets Jack's eyes for a long moment, then says to her, "We won't be ordering."

"You want the check?" She's a shadow in the background.

"Yep." Jack reaches out and plucks it from her fingers, then places it on the table, weighted down by the base of his empty glass.

Daniel draws a finger through the water pooled on the table. His breath catches in his throat, and it takes two tries before he can speak. "Any plans for the rest of the night?"

Across the table, Jack is reaching for his wallet, and Daniel knows this is the answer, or some sort of answer, and he nods, without saying anything more. Jack tosses a twenty on the table and stands so abruptly that Daniel thinks perhaps he's got it all wrong, that he's assumed too much, and for a moment he stares up at Jack, worried. But Jack is standing there, hands stuffed in the pockets of his leather jacket, a lopsided smile on his face, waiting for Daniel.

Jack walks a pace behind him, easy and slow, as they make their way through the hotel lobby and straight to the elevator. They stand side by side in the middle of the car, backs against the mirrored wall, the railing pressing against their asses. Daniel is hyper-aware of everything: the creak of leather from Jack's jacket; the too-soft elevator lighting; the lingering scent of flowery perfume from the last person to exit the elevator car. He looks down at the toes of his black shoes, visible beneath the hem of expensive black pants - pants he didn't choose, doesn't like and won't ever wear again.

They exit the elevator on Daniel's floor, into a long corridor with soft carpet and bland wallpaper. "Nice hotel," Jack says. Daniel nods and inserts the slender plastic key into the lock, then pushes the door open. In the darkness, as he gropes for the light switch, he is acutely aware of Jack there with him, of the non-verbal things that signify Jack's presence: a light, clean aftershave; the fading smell of a worn leather jacket; Jack's quiet sigh; the heat of his body. Jack seems to fill the darkness around him.

He finds the switch and when the foyer light triggers on above them, a dim circle, he turns to look at Jack. For the first time, Daniel sees just how much silver is in Jack's hair now, and just how deep the lines in his face have grown. He thinks of his own body, harder than it used to be in the early days, but softening with age and lack of field exercise. This is the body he's been planning to offer Jack, and he thinks it might be a substandard offering, now. But Jack is watching him intently, and that low curl of arousal in Daniel's stomach, the one that was waiting to be slowly unfolded, isn't willing to be patient. Something changes in Jack's expression, something that's reflected in his eyes, and his gaze drops to Daniel's lips, then rises again.

"Do you..." Daniel starts to speak, ease them in, offer a drink, but instead he drops the key on the floor; it's jarred from his hand when his back hits the wall and Jack's weight covers him, pinning him there. Jack's mouth is rough and hot against his own as Jack kisses him, and Daniel gasps out loud when Jack's hands find the front of his shirt and tear it open. Daniel grabs Jack's head and pulls him closer so fast their teeth click together, jolting them both. Jack grunts and runs his hands over Daniel's chest, slowing the pace by his even touch.

For a moment Daniel is stunned quiet by the possibilities. He can have Jack, if he wants; he can taste him, sink his teeth into the skin he's seen a thousand times but has never touched, spread his legs and let Jack fuck him, or maybe the other way around. The idea of it makes his breath catch, makes him hard, and then Jack's tongue glides over his own, slowly, inviting him in.

He has the crazy urge to ask Jack what he wants, how he wants this, but Jack isn't in the mood to talk. Daniel knows this without testing the theory. Instead Jack is doing what he does best: he's making his intentions clear by his actions. His hands are still the same: clean, strong, capable. His fingers slip the button of Daniel's fly, and then the zipper, and he cups his palm around Daniel's cock, tracing the rock-hard length of his erection. His thumb circles the tip, not tentative.

Daniel says softly, "Don't. Or I'll come right now."

In answer, Jack makes a low sound in his throat, then pulls his hand away quick as lightning and yanks off his own jacket. He starts to unbutton his shirt, but Daniel catches his hands and stops him, and for a long moment, they just look at each other. Jack's eyes are dark, a little wild, and desire is visible there, so much so that Daniel starts to shake. He stares for a moment at Jack's neck, missing the thin silver chain that used to hang there. Another reminder that they live in a different world, now.

Jack curls his fingers around Daniel's wrist and pulls him, not gently, toward the bed.

They dispose of the bedspread and toe off their shoes with quick motions. Daniel sits down on the bed and starts to ask if Jack wants to use condoms, but Jack's mouth is on him again, his kisses slower this time, almost lazy, but pushing Daniel's lips apart, rendering him incapable of speech. It's not important, anyway. Daniel knows where Jack's been, and where he hasn't, and they have it figured out already. He gives Daniel one push, and Daniel goes easily, falling back onto the bed, his legs spread to accommodate Jack's body, which travels up and over him so Jack can settle between his legs.

Jack is too damn good at this, better than Daniel ever could have guessed, because he knows how to provoke soft moans from Daniel with his fingertips, how to kiss Daniel's lower lip tenderly, then the top, relentless pressure, and his mouth is so warm that Daniel shivers against it. Jack kisses his way down Daniel's neck, a gentle exploration that gives way to tiny bites, enough to make Daniel thrash. He wants Jack's skin against him, and he tells him so by running his hands up Jack's chest, across the coarse hair there, and rubbing the pads of his thumbs against his nipples. Jack draws a sharp breath, and his mouth leaves Daniel's when he says Daniel's name. Daniel shivers again at the sound of it.

After a moment, Jack lowers his body onto Daniel's, his full weight, and Daniel sighs, because it's just right, it's what he wants. He wraps his arms around Jack and holds him for a moment, licking at the bare patch of skin beneath Jack's ear, which is all he can reach. Jack's face is buried in Daniel's neck, and they hesitate there for a moment. Not long enough to reconsider, but enough to get their bearings. Daniel lifts his hips, lets Jack feel the full press of his erection; Jack shifts to bring his in line with Daniel's, and a white-hot jolt of desire courses through Daniel's body.

He shifts again, rising so that Daniel can see Jack's chest, the myriad scars and healed wounds there, the stomach that's still flat and solid. He lifts his head and licks Jack's chest, down the center, where coarse hair tickles his nose, and then swirls his tongue around a nipple. Jack holds himself motionless over Daniel, but then his hips push, deep into Daniel's pelvis. Daniel's head falls back, his mouth open on an oh, and he whispers, "God, Jack. Please get those pants off."

Jack chuckles, and it makes Daniel smile. He licks his wet lips and props himself up on his elbows as Jack sits up, tugs off his pants, then his briefs. Daniel doesn't even try to hide his appreciative stare. It's way too late for that. He looks his fill at Jack's cock, curved and hard, and has a flash of Jack sliding it inside him. He closes his eyes, because he's never been so close to losing control, not since he was a teenager and hadn't mastered his body yet. In that blind moment, Jack's hands close on Daniel's hips, and he pulls off Daniel's pants, then his briefs.

When Daniel opens his eyes, Jack is taking a long, slow look at his body. Not like he's never seen it before, but Daniel knows it was never like this. They tried too hard to make sure never to see. But now Jack's eyes tell the story, as he crawls up beside Daniel and dips his head down, close enough to breathe on Daniel's cock, and Daniel chokes out, "Jack!"

"Did you bring something?" Jack says, his head snapping up so he can meet Daniel's eyes. Daniel tries to focus, though thinking is really beyond him just at that moment, with Jack nudging his thighs apart. He flings an arm back toward the nightstand and gropes for the tube there, then presses it into Jack's open hand. A moment later, Jack takes Daniel in his mouth, just the tip, and then he slides down, nothing but smooth wet heat. Daniel's eyes flutter closed. He reaches out his hand, touches Jack's hair, buries his fingertips in the soft silk of it. That's almost all it takes, and Jack must sense it, because he scrapes gently with his teeth and Daniel arches off the bed, coming so hard his fists clench, and for a moment everything goes dark.

It takes a few seconds for the world to come back into focus, and when it does, Jack is licking his softening cock, slow wet laps of his tongue. His hands are on Daniel's hips, and they're shaking. Daniel reaches for him, making a small noise of impatience, and drags him up so he's close enough to kiss. Jack turns his face, asking a question, but Daniel takes his mouth, answering it. Tasting himself there raises goosebumps on his arms, until Jack smoothes a hand over his skin, warming him.

"Too fast," Daniel said, shaking his head. "I'm sorry."

"Wish I had that problem," Jack said, grinning against Daniel's lips, and with delirious joy, Daniel kisses him again. A push and some leverage from his legs, and he has Jack on his back, the better to see him and touch him. Jack's muscles tense, but when Daniel begins mapping him with his lips, he relaxes, one muscle at a time, everywhere Daniel's mouth touches him. By the time he has Jack's cock in his mouth, Jack isn't quiet anymore; the stoic soldier has given way to something Daniel's never seen or heard, something he's fascinated by. "Jesus," Jack grunts, when Daniel starts giving him head, sucking gently, using his hand as counterpoint. He says other things, too: Daniel's name, laced with profanity, but mostly strange low sounds like pain. Good pain, Daniel thinks, until Jack touches his chin, stopping him.

The exchange between them is silent, a negotiation of sorts, but Daniel knew what he wanted when he walked in the room, and he only hoped Jack would want it too. He settles on his stomach, revels in the feel of Jack's teeth scratching across his spine. He feels the ribbon coiled inside him start to unwind when Jack slips his fingers into Daniel, circling, searching. Words have deserted Daniel. He wants to tell Jack hurry, fuck me, why are you waiting, but he can only press his face into the pillow and moan, and hope Jack knows.

Jack's fingers withdraw and something else nudges in, and Daniel draws his knees up, making a wider place for Jack. Slowly, Jack's filling him, in no hurry. Daniel pushes back in frustration, and Jack takes the hint. One long push and his cock is fully inside Daniel, burning, stretching him. Jack reaches under him, pulls Daniel up to his knees, and back, and the cry that wrenches out of Daniel's throat isn't him, can't be; he has never been this vocal. Jack holds him in place, seated in his lap, one arm around Daniel's chest, and waits for him to stop shaking. Daniel's head drops forward, too heavy to bear, and he's stunned by the feeling of Jack inside him, all the way in, as deep as he can go. He shudders, and just then, Jack moves, a slow thrust, pushing himself even deeper.

Daniel can't breathe, until Jack kisses the nape of his neck, and whispers, "Let go."

After that, it's easy.

They find an erratic rhythm; Daniel tries to match Jack's thrusts, and he tries to breathe, and when he can't coordinate his body any longer, Jack bends him forward and fucks him, reaches around to touch him, and the force of his second orgasm breaks him into tiny pieces. Jack holds him together, though; Jack's arms keep him there, and Jack's heartbeat hammers into Daniel, until Jack shatters into him.

Jack lowers him down and eases out of him. "Oh my God," Daniel says, or moans, it doesn't matter. Jack's hand is on the small of his back, and he strokes his thumb over Daniel's slick skin in wordless agreement.

They don't move again until Daniel rolls to his side and hisses, and Jack scoots behind him, slings one arm over him. His nose settles against Daniel's back, and Daniel kicks the sheet up. They're asleep within minutes.

*****

On Daniel's wedding day, Sha're had made him a gift of an utchat, a carving of a mother cat and her kittens. Bast's eyes looked out at Daniel, promising fertility and many children, and Daniel could still see the marks of chisel and knife, where Sha're had cut the crude figure with her own hands. On the day he married Sarah, she gave him a watch, costly and beautiful, engraved with their names and the date. From that moment, he promised himself he wouldn't compare them, but it wasn't easy to do.

Sarah tried not to think of herself as damaged goods, but she made many comparisons between who she used to be, and who she had become. She asked Daniel questions about the artifacts he'd brought back with him from the SGC: a bowl, from his wedding; the utchat; ceremonial gifts from people who'd shared their knowledge with him; a bottle of champagne from the after-Goa'uld party; a broken hockey stick. He wanted to share everything with her, but she told him he had changed, become someone different than the man she remembered. He made the mistake of thinking she liked those changes, but few who had known him would have recognized him.

For some reason, he thought this wouldn't be an issue, with Sarah, but his perception had been skewed, like the close-angle view of a vast wilderness.

She filled their house with cut flowers and fine furniture, and appreciated a glass of wine in the evenings when they talked about their work, but her face would turn cold whenever he left her to answer Sam's calls. A part of Daniel knew it was because Sam was connected to the things which had wounded Sarah, the things she had chosen to forget.

As a practical matter, Daniel expected marriage to make him useful, to give him peace, but he'd never been the kind of man who thought expensive watches kept good time, and he'd stopped inviting guilt after his second descension. Not much in his life had turned out as he thought it would, but he was certain now he was finished with wedding days, and with paying for the life he'd earned.

*****

When Daniel wakes, the first thing he's aware of is the gentle throbbing pain of a bite where his neck and shoulder join, where Jack's mouth was on him, where his teeth claimed Daniel's skin. There's an ache lower down, in the muscles of his back, in his ass, pleasurable and tied to smooth threads of memory, of Jack inside him. He draws in a breath and smiles, glad down to his core that he carries tangible reminders of the night before.

The clock at the side of the bed shows 5:15, though Daniel translates it to 0515, an ingrained reflex. Sleep still has a piece of his consciousness, but he realizes Jack isn't in the bed with him any longer; the warmth at his back is gone. He has no reason to be awake so early, and neither does Jack. Retirement has its advantages, Jack used to say; he'd told Daniel once he couldn't wait to learn how to sleep in again.

Daniel's chest tightens, muscles twisting into a knot.

The room is still dark, the floor-to-ceiling drapes drawn tight against the morning sun, and Jack is moving around in that darkness. He's as quiet as he ever was on an offworld morning watch, moving in stealth mode so Daniel can sleep on in peace. Daniel swallows hard, eyes fixed on the clock as the numbers shift.

0516.

The bed dips behind him as Jack sits on the other side. The bed stops moving when Jack does, though he doesn't stand up, and Daniel thinks he must be putting on his shoes and checking the room, making sure he hasn't missed anything. Daniel thinks they've known each other too long for stealth maneuvers, that they should be able to say goodbye face to face, but they were never good at that.

Daniel is finished with saying goodbye to Jack. He's done it for the last time.

Once more, the bed shifts, and Jack moves closer to him, stretching out behind him. This time, he slides a hand beneath the sheet and kisses Daniel's shoulder, an invitation to wake. Daniel stirs and turns, and Jack kisses him, heedless of morning breath and stubble. Jack tastes like Daniel's toothpaste.

"You're dressed," Daniel says, sorry the room is too dark to see Jack's expression.

"Got some errands to do," Jack answers. He puts his head on the other pillow and strokes Daniel's hair, cupping the nape of his neck. Daniel says nothing, because nothing comes to mind. He'll think of things, once Jack is gone.

Seconds lengthen into minutes, and Jack still doesn't leave. His fingers curve around Daniel's neck, then slide down to his shoulder. Daniel closes his eyes. Planning for the aftermath has never been Daniel's strong suit. It would be easier to pretend they each want a clean break. He knows his method lacks a certain strategic elegance, but he's out of options, now.

Jack's fingertips trace slow circles beneath the hollow of Daniel's throat. His touch is drawing out the words, pulling them gently out from the places Daniel has hidden them, and Daniel lets them rise. "I left Sarah."

For a moment, Jack's fingers still, pressed firm against Daniel's skin. Then he strokes his thumb over the path and continues, deliberate, steady. "Because of this?"

"No." For Daniel, it does matter, just as it matters that Jack left Sam long before he dialed Daniel's number in London.

In the quiet that follows, Jack kisses him slow and deep, until Daniel can't help but slide an arm around Jack and pull him close. He hadn't planned to, didn't mean to, but nothing has gone as he planned anyway, and it's too late to worry about it now.

Eventually Jack pulls away, puts his feet on the ground. A sliver of light slices in through a crack in the curtains, illuminating Jack's face as he rounds the end of the bed. Jack picks up his jacket, smoothing invisible wrinkles away. "So. You didn't mention how long you'd be staying."

Silence expands inside Daniel. After taking a moment to carefully choose his response, he says, "I haven't made any plans."

Jack fishes in the pocket of his jacket and tosses his recovered prize on the nightstand; it hits the table top with a clink. Daniel squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them, Jack is almost to the door. "It's your call, Daniel," he says, before he floods the room with light from the hallway. Then he's gone.

Daniel rolls over and sits up, reaches for the lamp. A freshly-minted key glitters on the nightstand. He picks it up, holds it until the chill of cold metal fades; he imagines the finish grown dull with age, and a groove worn in the neck where he's gripped it a thousand times. With a small smile, he runs his fingertips over the teeth. In a few hours, once the sun creeps up into the mid-morning sky, he'll pack the few things he brought with him and slip the key into the lock of Jack's front door, and he'll be home.

He switches off the light and slides down between sheets that still smell of Jack, still hold his warmth, a visceral reminder of Jack's presence. He falls asleep in the middle of remembering.

~~end~~

Notes: A descant is a tune (harmony) played in accompaniment to a melody, but separate and apart from it; it may move parallel to the melody, or in oblique or contrary motion. In a descant, all the voices move at approximately the same speed.