Work Text:
The Fight
"Damn it, Daniel -- I said no!" Jack sputtered as he looked across the room at his lover who was studiously ignoring him and continuing his preparations.
"You are not the Colonel here, Jack," Daniel responded angrily. "I'm a grown man and I can do what I damn well please."
"You can't be doing that," Jack huffed, jumping to his feet as Daniel half-knelt, half-fell to the ground. The quick catch of his bottom lip between teeth and the barely suppressed moan did not escape the older man.
Jack rose and stalked over to the kitchen, stopping to loom over his lover. "Are you even listening to me?" he demanded
Daniel looked up, anger, pain, exhaustion, all mixed in his gaze. "I always listen to you, Jack," he said, then returned his attention to the bag he was loading.
"Then why the hell are you still packing?" Jack stood with his legs spread and arms crossed over his chest as he watched the younger man carefully wrap and secure a fragile vase covered with strange markings. His expression grew darker as Daniel turned to pick up the next item and he winced as the younger man stiffened when the movement pulled already sore muscles.
Jack paused, trying to get a grip on the emotions that were raging through him. Behind him, the television droned as the Avalanche scored again, leading the Panthers 3 to 1. He turned his head briefly, annoyed he'd missed the scoring shot, annoyed that Daniel had caused him to miss the scoring shot, annoyed that Daniel was being so damned stubborn and refusing to listen to reason. The whole damned situation was just -- annoying.
He took a deep breath, desperately aiming for calm. He'd almost gotten there, was almost ready to open his mouth and explain. He had it all ready. 'Daniel,' he would say, 'you just got back from an off-world mission with SG-11. You were injured. You're not supposed to be working. You're not supposed to be exerting yourself.' There was more. When she'd released Daniel, Janet had been most insistent that he understood that Daniel needed to rest. Daniel needed to recuperate. Daniel needed to recover. Jack'd had to suffer through Janet's quiet little remark at the end. "No sex, Jack, not for at least a week. Then, you have to do all the work."
He wasn't going to share that little piece of advice with his lover. But he sure as hell wasn't going to watch the little shit pack up all his artifacts and leave -- just because Jack tried to insist that he stop working, stop trying to complete the translations, stop exhausting himself. Just because Jack cared about him and wanted him to actually rest.
And now Daniel was in a snit and wanted to go home.
Cheering broke out on the television again, and Jack turned to look. Another goal for the Avalanche -- they were pounding the Panthers. He suppressed a groan; he'd wanted to see this game. But Daniel hadn't wanted to sit and watch with him. Daniel kept wandering away. Painfully wandering away, as every movement exacerbated the already strained and taut muscles, stressed the multiple bruises and pulled at scrapes and cuts. And by the third -- or was it fourth? -- time that Jack had pulled him away from the damned crate of pottery, Daniel had exploded.
Daniel had exploded then Jack had exploded and then Daniel had limped into the bedroom and Jack had paced. Daniel had come out, pack in hand, and with an apparent calm that disguised the anger Jack knew lay under it, had begun to wrap up the bits and pieces he wanted to study.
When Jack had asked what he thought he was doing, Daniel had told him he was going "home."
Jack ran his hand through his hair and stared at Daniel. "Home" had been right here for the past three months. How the hell could Daniel go "home?" He was already there. Jack rubbed his face again, struggling for the right words, but Daniel was speaking.
"I listen, Jack," he said, his head lifting slightly to gaze at Jack, eyes heavy with exhaustion. "I just don't always agree."
Jack dropped to his knees, reached out gently to take the towel-wrapped bowl from Daniel's grasp and set it carefully back in the crate.
"You were almost killed," he said softly. "I was -- scared." He ran his hand through his hair again. "I still am." He reached out, touched Daniel, his hand resting on the other man's thigh. "You need to rest -- you need to let your body recover. This," he waved his hand at the crate of artifacts, "will still be here when you can sit without hurting. When you can stay awake for more than thirty minutes at a time."
Daniel's shoulders slumped. "I hate this."
"I know," Jack soothed. "But give yourself some time. You were pretty badly banged up. You were dehydrated and half-starved. You didn't sleep."
Daniel smiled ruefully. "I hurt."
Jack nodded and carefully didn't smile. It was the first time Daniel had admitted to any discomfort. He rose and reached down, helping pull the younger man to his feet then opening his arms. Daniel stepped into the embrace, leaning on the strong chest, giving in to his need to rest.
He sighed quietly then looked into Jack's dark eyes. "Guess we had a fight, eh?"
Jack nodded, one hand holding Daniel's chin while a finger stroked his cheek. "We can always kiss and make up." He moved in carefully and kissed him gently, then led him back to the couch as roaring erupted from the television. He sat, settling Daniel into the crook of his arm. A fight had broken out on the ice.
Daniel was cuddling, snuggling in tight against Jack and his eyes were already drooping. "Did you know," he said, voice already slurring with sleep, "that eighty percent of all men think the best way to end..." he interrupted himself with a huge yawn, "...a fight is to make love?"
"Really?" Jack asked as he dropped another kiss on the crown of the head that rested against him. He was rewarded with a soft snore. He lifted his beer, drank, and returned his attention to the fight on the screen.
"That would so revolutionize hockey," he said, smiling down at his sleeping archaeologist.