Daniel Jackson. Jackson, Daniel.
The words esoteric, suddenly, random sounds and nothing more. Meaningless. Daniel, from the Hebrew, meaning something; you used to know this one. Daniel, from the Hebrew, meaning "g-d is my judge"
You are shattered, and less than, and the night sweats keep you up through dawn. But Janet's finally (sick of you, you want to say, sick of you and you're whining messy shivering corpse) releasing you from the infirmary, and the Colonel's agreed to take you in for a few days. And at least when Jack looks at you, it's not pity in his eyes.
It's darker: hunger, lust, need. It's darker, and his eyes bore into your soul.
You don't have a soul. Not anymore. Not after-
-certain things you don't ever want to think about, ever again, ever.
You are empty, but Jack keeps looking inside.
*
"-elf, Jack, old friend, old buddy-"
He's in the locker room, talking to himself and to the walls, and you can't stop yourself from responding. From trying to figure out what, exactly, he's going on about; it makes you feel more like yourself again, and less like (that monster you were). There are certain things you still can't say, not even to yourself.
"What?"
He looks you over, and you almost feel human again when he says, "you look like shit, Daniel."
"Not looking too hot yourself, old man."
A beat, and suddenly it hits you that maybe he doesn't want this. Want you. And you're fifteen and gawky, all of a sudden, all legs and stuttering and hiding in a Latin textbook. "Jack? If it's too much trouble... I... you don't... have to..." You're not sure exactly what you're saying, but you're desperate to get it out.
"No, Daniel, it's not a problem. I like having you," he says, just a little too quickly, and you try to hold in a smirk. "I mean, I enjoy your company," Jack continues, and you're suddenly a lot less insecure about this whole fiasco. "I'll be in my office," he says, "Just swing by when you're ready to go."
He practically runs out the door. As soon as he's out of earshot, you begin to laugh.
*
You get the idea on the car ride to your apartment. (You first had the idea years ago, the first time you laid eyes on him in fact, but that's a different story.) You decide to go through with it only afteryou've shut the door behind you. When you spot the book.
It's just sitting there, open to a particularly interesting page, on your kitchen table. How can you not grab it, stuff it into your bag?
How can you not?
You picture the look on his face. Wonder what he'll do, if he finds the book. When he finds it.
And he will find it. You're sure of that much, at least, if nothing else.
*
And the ride home is a blur; a tense, flirting, blur, and you barely remember Jack pushing you into his guest room and forcing you to rest. You wake up to the smell of coffee. The smell of the hunt.
He's looking through your bag.
Everything strewn across the floor, tossed in his haphazard attempt to get to the root of you, to the essence of Daniel, and you think you should feel flattered. Would have been flattered, once, before. Instead, you stalk across the living room.
He smells nervous. Looks nervous. Is nervous.
So you say something about cultural texts. Reference guides. You ask him about coffee, and he chokes.
You ask him if he wants to share. You're not talking about coffee.
And, finally, you snap. Crawling across the couch, you push Jack down and straddle his thighs. Smile your most seductive smile, the one you never had before, and ask, "you okay Jack? You seem tense." And, for once, you recognize the cliche and don't care. You rub your cheek against his neck and inhale. And it's too much, or not enough, and you bite into his shoulder.
He tastes like dark roast. Heady and strong and male. He tastes like sex.
And so you fuck him, right there on his couch. Or he fucks you. You fuck each other.
*
And it's all a blur, fucking Jack (being fucked by Jack), and it's like flying and falling and
-not that, anything but that, you refuse to think about that-
your first trip through the Stargate. You kiss him, slow and sloppy, and try to remember to breathe. You never want to leave his couch. Never want to return to the real world.
Never want to-
"How... Daniel, are you...?" He looks so unsure of himself, and you recognize the uncertainty in his eyes. You remember that feeling.
He tastes like coffee ice cream, like mocha, and you kiss your way up his neck.
"I'm good, Jack," you say, "haven't felt this good in ages."
You tell him it's like coffee and ice cream, lying here with him. (Bitter and rich, you don't say, fattening and addictive and wrong. It's a vice, lying here with him, but you don't tell him that.) Instead you tell him it's heat and cold and one after the other, and he kisses you before you finish the thought.
You look into his eyes, and your reflection stares back.
Your reflection stares back.
fin.
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read the original here.
[once more into the fray]