DANIEL
I'm not sure exactly what I'm expecting. I'm not even sure why the hell I'm
here. Well, I suppose that's not true. I want to know more about this guy—this face from Jack's past. Jack's past. I've always been curious about that
particular subject. Who wouldn't be? When I think about the Jack O'Neill I
went to Abydos with that very first time, and compare him with the man I know
now... Well, that other Jack is a mystery to me. I know so little about him—he never talks about what he did before SGC. Oh, I know about the Black Ops
thing. What I don't know, are exactly what kinds of things he had to do to
become the man I originally met. And maybe, just maybe, watching him with
Krycek, listening to him with Krycek, will help me to understand Jack's past.
All of this assumes, of course, that Krycek was actually telling me the
truth. As I strongly suspect that the truth and Krycek have only a nodding
acquaintance, anything is possible here. I get out of the car with a fatalistic
shrug, walk up to the door, and ring the bell."
Jack answers and I immediately recognize the signs of a majorly ugly
O'Neill-type hangover. Reddened eyes, heavy shadows underneath, stare at me
non-committally and he's holding his head oh, so carefully. I want to grin at
the sight, but manage to restrain myself. He steps back and waves me in with
one hand. "Come on in, Daniel."
I hesitate, suddenly overcome with doubts.
That familiar expression of impatience decorates Jack's face now. "Daniel?
You gonna come in, or what?" Crossing his arms on his chest, he frowns at me.
"Look, if you just come over to give me another dose of 'disappointed Daniel',
you can just leave."
I blink and move back a step. When and how did Jack become the injured party
here? He LIED to me, dammit. Denied—right to my face—our friendship. Well,
fuck him and his hurt feelings. I'm here and I'll damn well 'come in'.
"Ah, no, Jack. I want to ask you about something else actually."
"Well get in here, then," he says shortly.
With a shrug, I move past him into the house, eyes automatically searching
the living room for evidence that Krycek is actually here. Not seeing any
obvious signs, I stop in the middle of the room, not sure what to do next. My
eyes wander over the room, studying it as if I've never seen it before,
wondering if I'll find any hints about Jack's past I may have over-looked.
Curious, Jack is the last person I'd have ever though likely to bother with such
a mundane thing as plant care. Yet, obviously he does. All these plants—not
fake as I'd assumed the first time I visited his home—thriving in Jack's care.
And then there are the windows... As careful as Jack is—as downright paranoid
as he can be on occasion—here he is, living in a home with more window than
wall surrounding the living areas. Bright sunlight reflects off of the wood
floor and the gleaming table tops. The guy even dusts. I'm sure I've noticed
this before, just not quite in this context. I suppose that military mentality
of "order and neatness" comes into Jack's housekeeping habits—still, I'm
finding it an interesting facet of Jack's personality. I briefly wonder what
other parts of his personality I've been ignoring, seeing only what he wants me
to see.
Jack watches me for a minute, then sighs heavily. "You want some coffee,
Daniel?" He asks in a curiously flat tone of voice.
I hear a faint noise from upstairs and turn to face Jack. "So, it's true?"
"What? What are you talking about, Daniel?"
"I had a visitor this morning, Jack. He said he was a friend of yours."
The confused and impatient frown on his face eases. "Yeah, Alex told me he'd
been at your place. Sorry about that," he said. "He takes some getting used
to."
I lick my lips, gathering my resolve. "He said you and he were old friends?"
Jack nods then winces at the movement, raising one hand to his head. "Yeah,
we are. Known him a long time."
"You never mentioned him."
An expression eerily reminiscent of that non-committal look I'd seen on
Krycek earlier comes over Jack's face. "No, I didn't," he says flatly.
"Oh." I murmur, looking away from him and frowning in thought. Well, I
can't say I'm surprised by his uninformative answer. He's pretty damned adept
at sidestepping questions about his past. I should know. I have tried, you
know. To ask him about it. Never gotten any kind of an answer, though. Still,
if I watch them together I might pick up a few clues. About any number of
things. What the hell? It's worth a try. Taking a deep breath, I search
desperately for a change in subject. "Did you say something about coffee?"
With a shrug, Jack turns towards the kitchen.
"Jack," comes that husky voice I recall from this morning. Surprised, I turn
to see Krycek standing at the top of the two steps that lead from the hallway
down into the living room. "I'm headed that way. Sit down, I'll make more."
Oh, I don't like this; I don't like it at all. Not that I have any right to
resent this man's presence in Jack's life—but, still, his obvious comfort in
Jack's home grates on my nerves. I watch as Krycek walks down the stairs. I
note absently that he's without his prosthesis. And, under his right arm he's
carrying a bundle of... Laundry?
Once he reaches ground level, Krycek offers me a nod. "Morning, Dr.
Jackson."
I straighten and nod in return. "Mr. Krycek."
Jack snorts. "What the hell is THAT? Doctor? Mister? Jeez, will you two
relax? Daniel, this is Alex—Alex, Daniel." He shakes his head and walks over
to collapse with a groan on the couch.
We both ignore him. Krycek wanders off to the kitchen and Jack and I wait in
strained silence.
After a couple of minutes, Krycek comes into the room and walks over to sit
next to Jack on the couch. How... interesting. He hands Jack a tube of
something, which Jack then proceeds to study closely. Keeping a close watch on
them, I move to sit in the comfortably overstuffed chair by the windows.
After reading the tube, Jack looks up at Krycek and frowns in confusion.
"What?" He asks.
Krycek shifts around on the couch cushions, until his back is turned to Jack.
With his right hand he reaches up and pulls at his t-shirt sliding the hem up
over his back to just below his left shoulder. "That red spot next to my
shoulder blade," Krycek says quietly. "Slap a some of that on it."
Jack grunts and opens the tube. No argument. No significant pauses to let
Krycek know this is an imposition on his so-called good nature. He just follows
directions.
SO not Jack.
Mesmerized, I watch as Jack gently spreads a thin layer of medication over
the reddened area on Krycek's back. Why does it bother me so—to see Jack
touching this man? He's not my property. In fact, he's more that free to touch
whoever he cares to touch. He does that a lot, you know. Touches people. Quite
freely, in fact. Not really in line with that whole 'Colonel' persona he
presents to the world at large, I know. But, there you go, Jack O'Neill, master
of contradictions.
With morbid fascination, I continue to observe this rather strange little
scene. Strange in many ways. First, we have Krycek—a guy who's not the sort
to admit to any kind of weakness—asking for help. In front of me. And then
we have Jack—touching him in what seems to me a pretty darned intimate way.
Asking no questions. Voicing no complaints. NOT normal Jack O'Neill behavior.
And then we have the fact that this is not, by any stretch of the imagination,
the way straight men act towards each other. I don't care how close they are—it's not a heterosexual male thing to... to GROOM each other. Yeah, there are
times when such behavior is not remarkable—in the field, administering first
aid to an injured teammate, in the locker room after a mission—you know, one
buddy helping out another, and, of course, the intimacy of caring between
lovers. But, this is none of the above. We're NOT in the field, Krycek is NOT
a member of SG1, there's not a shower room in sight, and Jack's straight.
Isn't he?
Decidedly unhappy with all of the implications that jump to mind here, I'm
relieved to find my mind wandering to those occasions when Jack has touched ME.
He has nice hands. Long fingers. Kind of graceful. Um, not in a feminine way.
No, definitely masculine hands. And his touch is... well, I've always found it
kind of nice, I guess. Soothing. Warm. Not awkward the way most men are when
offering the comfort of touch. Or support. Or whatever Jack happens to be
offering with his touch at any given moment. My eyes fix on his fingers and the
skin of my back ripples in sympathy as he carefully soothes the sore area on
Krycek's shoulder blade. The well-remembered feeling of—Oh hell, Jackson,
just SAY it—Safe. I always feel safe when he touches me. Can't help but
wonder if Krycek gains the same feeling from the experience.
Downright uncomfortable at the thought of Krycek, irritating and smug bastard
that he is, being offered the comfort of Jack's touch, I clear my throat and
shift in the chair. Still staring at them. Still not happy. Still don't know
exactly why.
I am NOT having a good time here. Not even close. And the longer Jack has
his hands on Krycek, the more unhappy I become. What the hell is taking so
long? It's a simple operation, right? Squeeze out the cream, smear it on the
sore spot ... Not brain surgery, for Christ's sake.
I notice Krycek studying my expression and quickly turn my eyes to the
chessboard on the coffee table between us. No WAY am I gonna let him see how
confused I am right now. I take a deep breath and casually study the chess
set-up, masking my expression pretty darn well, I might add. I'm rather proud
of myself—poker has never been my strong suit. And, I think that Krycek has
probably been banned from Vegas for life. Any card dealer with an ounce of
self-preservation would take one look at that impassive face and hang up his
deck on the spot.
I'm vastly relieved when the operation is completed and Jack pulls Krycek's
shirt down to cover his skin. Then, damned if Alex doesn't send me this
cat-with-a-canary grin and settle back next to Jack. Close enough that their
shoulders brush together.
Jack turns a suspicious stare on Krycek's t-shirt. "Hey," he says, fingering
the hem of said shirt. "Isn't this mine?"
Completely unconcerned, Krycek nods. "Yep. Shorts too. Borrowed 'em—Laundry, remember?"
And Jack, that bastard, shrugs. That's all. Shrugs. Doesn't even seem to
CARE that the man has been riffling through his dresser drawers.
Okay. That's more than enough for the moment. I need time—and space—to
figure out just what the hell is going on here. With them. And with us—me
and Jack, I mean.
"I, uh, I'd better get going now," I mumble, standing up with more haste than
grace.
"Daniel," Jack says, starting to rise from the couch. Krycek places one hand
on his arm, staying the motion.
"Let him go, Jack," he murmurs. "I'm sure Doctor Jackson is a busy man."
The triumphant look he gives me says it all. //He's mine now—go away,
little boy//
I meet Jack's eyes. "I'll ah, see you at work Monday, okay, Jack?"
Jack sighs. "Yeah, Daniel. Monday."
As I leave, I can't shake the image of that damned self-satisfied smirk on
Krycek's face. I have a lot to think about. Like, WHY does the guy bother me so
much? And, exactly WHAT is their relationship? I mean, I've always assumed
that Jack is the quintessential straight guy. But, the way he's acting with
Krycek makes me wonder if I might have been wrong on that score. Which brings
me to another question. Is it possible that I want Jack for myself—in THAT
way?
My head hurts.
Alex
Damn, this kid is almost too much fun to play with. Definitely on a par with
Mulder. I grin happily and nudge Jack with one shoulder.
"What?" he grumbles.
"Your Daniel seemed a bit... put out."
"Will you, for God's sake, STOP calling him that?"
I affect an innocent expression. "Calling him what?"
"Daniel is NOT mine. Never has been, never will be." With that, he leans
forward and grabs the TV remote. "Isn't that coffee ready yet?" He asks as he
rapidly flips through the channels.
Rising, I head in to get him a cup of coffee. His voice follows, "And if
he's 'put out', it's because YOU went to see him this morning. Daniel doesn't
like strangers arriving unannounced in his home, you know. Not many people do.
And, I don't like you turning up in Daniel's home. You had no right to do that,
Krycek."
I poke my head around the doorway and frown at him in mock concern. "You're
sounding a little testy, there, Jack. Headache back?"
"Fuck you, Krycek."
I take that as a yes and bring the bottle of aspirin back with me when I
carry his coffee in to him. He glares at me fiercely, then turns the volume on
the television up a notch. But, I note that he DOES shake out two tablets,
swallowing them with a grimace.
Having found a rerun of an old Stanley Cup playoff, Jack settles into the
sofa with a satisfied sigh. I watch him for a moment, then turn to go upstairs.
"Where are you going now?" He asks suspiciously.
"Didn't sleep last night." I can't resist one last shot, though. "If you
need me for... anything...."
"Yeahsureyoubetcha," he mumbles.
I smile and go on up to catch some much needed rest. I think it all went VERY
well. I played it to perfection, in fact. Normally, of course, I'm not one to
trot his weaknesses out in front of... well, anyone, really. But, hell, I've
done far more embarrassing things over the years in aid of less interesting
causes. Jackson's reaction made my discomfort well worth the sacrifice.
'Course, on the down side, I can't help wondering what Mulder's hands would
feel like in a similar situation—touching me in a caring way rather than with
the violence my very presence seems to bring out in him. FUCK. If only I could
tell him, explain my actions. But, shit, at this point in the game, he'd never
believe me—and if I explained that I've been working for the resistance all
along, he'd be in. No choice—once a person is told about the organization,
they must join. Or die. And, I don't want Mulder dead. So, I do what I can to
help him, steer him in the right direction—sometimes toward information he
needs, other times away from anything that might clue him in to the real
situation. Mulder's a stubborn bastard, you see. And, even if he did join the
resistance, I know him well enough to know that he'd have serious moral
objections to the way we do things. The fucking survival of the human race is
at stake here, dammit—we've all had to do things that will haunt us for the
rest of our lives—but, if we pull it off, defeat the alien invasion, it will
have been worth it.
Somehow, I don't think Mulder ascribes to the old The End Justifies the Means
adage. He's so difficult sometimes—goes off half-cocked, constantly putting
his life in danger. And he's so... so single-minded in his search for that Holy
Grail of his—Truth. God, the man is a pain in my ass. Keeping him alive is
practically a full-time job.
Why do I do it? Well, I guess you could say we have a love/hate
relationship. I love him; he hates me. Not that I ever expect anything to come
of it. No, in truth, I fully believe that he will one day be the death of me.
Until that day arrives, though, I will continue to help him however I can—whether he appreciates my efforts or not.
I'm glad I decided to visit Jack. I need this break. A quiet place. The
comfort of being with an old friend. And, the opportunity to use the SG1
database. I can't help feeling that there's something important hidden in
Kritschgau's files. I have an awful feeling that I—we don't have much time
left. All signs point to the invasion having been moved up. I NEED to analyze
Kritschgau's data—find something to help us in the coming war. And, dammit,
I'm sick and fucking tired of everything I touch turning to dust.
Jack
As I lay on the couch watching TV, I keep finding my mind running a replay of
this morning's visit from Daniel. Something just wasn't quite right about the
whole thing. Alex was... I guess provocative would be the word. And Daniel's
reaction odd. It's just not like him to be so quiet. And that look on his face—I could almost convince myself...
Oh, hell. Dream on, O'Neill. Daniel was NOT jealous. It was his lingering
anger with me combined with his well-justified irritation over Alex's unexpected
visit this morning. His tendency to turn up unannounced can be a wee bit
irritating. Not that Danny is the irritable sort—but I can just see his
reaction to a dose of Krycek doing his impression of the Sphinx. Actually, now
that I think about it, it must have been pretty damned amusing. Daniel trotting
out his friendly greet-the-natives persona, only to find that this particular
native doesn't play nice with others.
Still laughing inwardly at my mental imaginings on how that little meeting
had gone, I fall asleep on the sofa. Not gonna tell you about my dreams. Nope.
Not even gonna THINK about 'em. I did NOT dream that Daniel and I were—nope,
I didn't and that's that. End of subject.
I busy reexamining my decidedly XXX rated dream, when Krycek comes into the
room. "WHAT?" I yell when I hear him come down the steps. "Jeez, Krycek,
don't sneak up on me like that! Give me a fucking heart attack that way."
"Alex," he says mildly before turning and heading into the kitchen. I can
hear him moving around, putting a pot of coffee on, putting his laundry in the
dryer. When he comes back, I'm prepared. Spent that short reprieve thinking.
Not a good idea to let him see how unsettled I am. Best way to deflect his
attention away from me is to direct mine at him.
"So," I say, carefully casual, "tell me about this guy you've been working
with. The idealist?"
Amazing how he does that... his face lost all expression in the blink of an
eye. Interesting. I've seen him do that before—but always in response to a
tense situation. Or, when some fool has made the mistake of thinking that he
knows the man well enough to ask personal questions. Funnily enough, they never
presume to do it again.
Which is it, I wonder? Does his relationship with the idealist constitute a
threatening situation—or, have I actually managed to touch on something so
personal that he feels the need to warn me off of the subject? Well, whichever,
I'm not backing down. Hell, the man is romping merrily through MY life—playing games with Daniel and me—turnabout is fair play, you know.
Avoiding my inquisitive stare, Alex heads back to the kitchen. "Coffee," he
says.
I wait patiently, a small smile on my face. Oh yeah. I've got him now.
Found his weak spot. And I plan to run with it.
Once he's back, coffee in hand, I watch as he settles himself in the
overstuffed armchair. I wait for the perfect moment—and yes!—just as he
takes a cautious sip of the hot liquid, I move in for the kill. "So, this
idealist of YOURS. Tell me about him."
He chokes. "You bastard," he gasps. "You did that on purpose."
I just smile. "Tell me," I say.
"No."
"Come on, Krycek—obviously he means something to you. You'd never have
mentioned him if that weren't the case. Tell Uncle Jack all about it."
He glares at me. "We worked together. I betrayed him. He hates me. End of
story."
Yeah, right. I note that as he's talking about this guy, his right hand
moves up to cup the stump of his left arm. "And what did he have to do with the
loss of your arm?"
Straightening abruptly, he releases his hold on the stump and picks up his
coffee. Takes a sip. All the while avoiding my watching eyes. "He was in
Russia with me when it happened—but we parted company before they took my
arm."
"So, you went to Russia with this guy? Why? I mean, if he hates you..."
Krycek grimaces. "He didn't give me much choice, Jack."
Well now. This IS interesting. The Krycek I know always has a choice, a
back-up plan. The idea of this idealist of his actually convincing him to go
anywhere against his will is almost unbelievable.
"Who is he? How did you end up working with him?"
Restlessly, Krycek climbs to his feet and actually starts pacing. Wow.
Never seen him exhibit nervous energy before. After a couple of turns around
the room, he stops and carefully fixes his eyes on the wall behind me. "He's an
FBI agent. And, for a short time, we were partners."
My mouth drops open. "FBI?"
"Yes," he snaps. "FBI." With that, he walks back to the kitchen. "More
coffee?" He asks as he retreats.
"Ah... yeah. Yeah, sure."
"Well bring you cup here, then—I'm not your maid, O'Neill."
Ah ha. 'O'Neill'. Recognizing that I've pushed him far enough for now, I
quietly join him in the kitchen and doctor up another cup of caffeine. "Hockey
game on tonight," I say casually. "What do you say we order a pizza and just
kick back?"
He nods, and the guarded expression on his face eases a bit. "So, who's
playing tonight?" He casually asks.
"Detroit Wings and Dallas Stars," I answer, matching his offhand tone.
"Should be a good game."
He snorts. "Should be a brawl, you mean."
I smile nastily. "Exactly."
"Jack, Jack," he sighs. "I thought you'd mellowed over the years."
Affronted, I raise my eyebrows and give him my best
how-can-you-say-that-of-COURSE-I'm-still-a-tough-guy look.
He doesn't appear to be impressed. In fact, he laughs at me. I'm amazed.
Don't think I've ever seen Krycek laugh. Still chuckling, he heads in to the
living room and settles himself on the couch. I follow along and sit down at
the other end of the sofa.
As the pre-game nonsense is going on, I'm thinking of ways to weasel more
information about his FBI man out of him. I know that he knows me well enough
to realize that I won't just let the matter drop. Nope—DEFINITELY not gonna
let him off of the hook on this one. I look forward to the challenge.
The game finally starts and I call the local pizza delivery place. We sit
and watch the game, he roots for the Wings, and I take the Stars. Sniping at
each other throughout, we both enjoy the evening. We've never had the
opportunity to just spend time together in a relaxed atmosphere and I find that
I like him—he's good company.
Even if he is a sneaky bastard.
Catalyst II
by Jennie
