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Leaning
against Daniel's lab bench, Jack thoughtfully observed the stubborn set
to his friend's shoulders. "How did we get from me not going to
this shindig on pain of death, to you picking out your wardrobe to come
with me?" he enquired politely, frankly surprised how fast he'd got
Daniel from A to Z without getting stalled in arguments around D and J.
Theatrically occupied with
making energetic notes in his journal, Daniel was the picture of
butter-wouldn't-melt demure innocence, always a sure sign he was under
the impression he was being sneaky.
"I want to see you
interacting in your natural habitat," he informed Jack blithely.
"With the rest of your family grouping."
This particular tone always
told Jack he was in deep trouble. Long experience with the
archaeologist had shown him he was going to lose whatever the
argument was, there was no question of that, it was only a matter of
how much time it took and how creatively Daniel would make him suffer
until he threw in the towel. Metaphorically speaking, of
course.
"My natural habitat?
Really?" Jack drawled lightly, obediently responding to his cue.
"You watch those nature programs on Discovery Channel, Daniel?"
"You know I do."
Daniel shot him a quizzical look, knowing Jack was playing him.
"I was at your house just last week. And the week before
that. You whined for hours when I -"
Aware he had the high ground
on this one, Jack neatly headed Daniel off. "You know perfectly well I
was under the impression I was taping a game," he reminded him
pointedly. He owed him some friendly torture on the thorny issue
of TV and VCR remote appropriation but this wasn't the time for such a
fruitful tangent. That particular discussion deserved days
of concentrated attention. "Imagine my surprise when I got?" He
left this hanging invitingly, thanking his Mom and Special Ops
interrogation training for his expertise in the framing of irresistibly
leading questions.
Taking a keen interest in a
particularly compelling passage in a textbook which happened to be
upside down, Daniel cleared his throat slightly. He scowled
malignantly when Jack calmly took the book from him, turned it around
and handed it back with a cheery smile.
"What did I actually get,
Daniel? Hmm?" Jack gently pressed home his advantage as a certain
archaeologist completely failed to meet his eyes. "Hmm?"
"The migration of flamingos
across the salt flats of Namibia." Daniel's tone dared Jack to
make something of this. "You did get to see quite a lot of the
game," he insisted. "I hadn’t accidentally taped over the entire
exercise in sporting futility. You also can't deny you enjoyed
the documentary!" he added accusingly.
"I did not," Jack argued
briskly. "I amiably tolerated it for your sake. Once the
shock had worn off, that is, and I’d broken out my Glen Livet.
Then the Glenmorangie. Then the Glen Farclas. I covered
more Glens in an hour than a map of Scotland."
"It was very dramatic footage," Daniel countered, smiling reminiscently.
Jack had an uneasy feeling
Daniel, a Glen or two behind him in the drinking stakes, could remember
the evening's festivities with aggravating clarity.
"Remember the little
flamingo?" Daniel enquired softly, his eyes fixed on Jack's face,
glinting with evil amusement. "The one with the salt crust around
its foot, falling farther and farther behind? You were
mesmerised."
"I was paralysed with
boredom," Jack firmly rebutted this outrageous accusation. "I'm
not just trained to kill, you know," he reminded Daniel. "I like
it."
Sitting back comfortably in his chair, Daniel looked up at him, nodding understandingly. "Ruthless bastard?"
"Exactly!"
"With no interest whatsoever in the health and welfare of little pink flamingos?"
"They're not even good eating," Jack sneered.
"You did a Mexican wave when
the film crew went back and saved the little flamingo, Jack," Daniel
reminded him ruthlessly. "I distinctly remember that. It
being after the end credits and all."
This was, regrettably,
true. "I was stoned on cooking sherry by that point, out of sheer
desperation," Jack contended with a certain crispness, trying to avoid
any towel-throwing tone to his on-the-ropes voice.
Daniel gave him a sad little shake of the head. "You’ve still got the tape, Jack."
TKO! Shit.
There being no adequate
defence he could mount in the face of incontrovertible evidence, Jack
dragged himself back to his original point. "In those
documentaries, you know there’s always some helpless furry little
mammal right at the very bottom of the food chain? Always on some
predator’s a la carte menu? That’s me!"
"Edible?" Daniel commented knowledgeably.
Jack gave a gloomy nod. "My mother is the Alpha Bitch of the pack."
"You’re not going home because you’re scared of your mother?" Daniel appeared to find this even funnier than the flamingo-fest.
"Did I say scared?" Jack
tried for dignity. "I . Er." He fell a little
short. It was very hard to lie when he was shit-scared of his
mother. Not as scared as he got when Daniel spit in Apophis' eye,
but close. Very close. And unlike Apophis, his Mom was
always with him in spirit. He loved her to death, of course he
did, and tried not to think of her overwhelming mental presence as
being in any way Goa'uld-like. His Mom was all for free-will and
stuff, absolutely, just not in his case.
He had to admit this one was kind of tricky.
It wasn't like he had a lot
of options, here. If he told Daniel he was coming to Chicago
because he looked like, and, according to Doc Fraiser, felt like shit,
and Jack was not about to leave him behind, he wouldn't get him to the
old homestead if he zatted and hog-tied him first. If he asked
Daniel if he wanted to come to Chicago, Daniel would ask why, and fix
those big, blue eyes on him.
Like…now.
Big eyes. Blue. Very. Intense, compelling eyes.
Jack shifted uncomfortably,
the way he always did when he noticed stuff about Daniel. He
seemed to do that. Notice. He seemed to look at Daniel a
lot. There shouldn't be anything wrong with that. They were
tight. Friends. Still. Sometimes, he felt he looked
more than he was supposed to.
They really were
tight. Close. Daniel got Jack to spill his guts.
There was no explaining it. He just did. One question here
would lead to another there and Jack would be right back to Daniel
looking like and feeling like shit. Daniel would insist he was
'fine'. He was always 'fine'.
The only thing Jack could
think of which could possibly lure Daniel to Chicago would be a lie so
outrageous he would not believe it. In his incredulity at the
whopper, he also wouldn't be able to resist it. Of course in this
case the lie was the literal truth, but Jack wasn't about to let Daniel
in on that. He was a Special Ops colonel. Trained.
His Mom had left him some pride.
"Yes," he stated baldly.
"Wuss," Daniel sneered.
Gritting his teeth, Jack let
this go, mostly because he couldn't remember the last time he'd seen
Daniel look as if he were really enjoying himself. It threw him
off-balance. He was supposed to know Daniel. He was never
supposed to be surprised by what Daniel did. Amused, entertained,
infuriated. This thing they had, this friendship thing, there was
a rhythm. They worked at it. Nothing disturbed it.
Nothing should.
"My last family reunion
didn't work out so well." A small stone tablet on Daniel's desk
suddenly seemed to hold the key to the mysteries of the universe, the
sheer concentrated attention it was getting. "Maybe yours will be
better."
There was a long, crowded
silence as Jack choked on his carefully prepped cover story, trying to
tell himself this was for Daniel’s own good, really. The
anniversary of Sha’uri’s death had passed seemingly without anyone
noticing and then Daniel had to lose someone else he was close to, had
to sever another tie to the life he had before he met Jack. Maybe
the last one. There seemed nothing left for him there in the
past.
In Jack's opinion, and the
general's, Daniel was exhausted to the point of collapse. Shit
happened to Daniel Jackson apparently for no other reason than he was
Daniel Jackson. It never let up on him. Which was where
Jack came in. Between Daniel and whatever it was, if he could be,
picking up the pieces if not.
Jack was sure this Sarah
Gardner hadn't meant a lot to Daniel. He'd never mentioned her,
never had anything draw him into bringing her up, never had specific
memories triggered. Nothing. He'd blanked her. She
was a girlfriend, left her behind. A type. Most likely the
reason Daniel went for Linea too. Not too many girls with curls
and minds like whips.
Yeah. A type.
A part of Daniel's past which was gone now.
Jack really wanted to get
Daniel to Chicago. He couldn’t explain the urgency he felt or the
rightness of his determination. He was going to do this.
His family were private to him, never shared willingly with anyone, and
suddenly he wanted Daniel there, wanted Daniel to know roots.
He couldn’t account for this need to tie Daniel down.
Trying to shake off his
weird mood, Jack told himself everything would be just fine and dandy
so long as Daniel never found out he was actually on medical leave, in
Jack’s custody, and under his supervision for the duration.
Spending three days with the folks in Chicago beat the hell out of him
enduring three days of enforced bed rest in the infirmary because he
hadn’t had the sense not to push himself night and day after surviving
the latest attempt to ribbon him into a charred heap.
This was for the best.
"Bring plenty of
sweaters. My folks live in the kitchen and they keep the door and
windows open. You know they don't call Chicago the Windy City for
nothing." What else? "Pyjamas. A gun." Both of
which were essential for Daniel's protection even if he didn't grasp
that at this point.
Daniel’s relish at Jack's
capitulation faltered. "A gun?" he asked warily, trying to work out
where the punchline was coming from.
"My Aunt Ruth will be
there. Trust me on the gun thing. It’s for when you lose
the will to live. It’ll just help out knowing you have other
options." Jack couldn’t control a shudder, consoling himself with
the thought Ruth made him feel weirder than Daniel ever did. When
he was safely ensconced en famille O'Neill, Daniel wouldn’t know what
had hit him, there would be no time for rows and recriminations about
any possible economies with the truth on Jack's part.
"I’ll pick you up at
06:00. It's a direct flight, pretty good. There by
lunch." He headed over to the door, hesitating as another
slightly weird thought occurred. He shrugged, feeling he might as
well salvage something from the general debacle. Thinking
and hoping for the best didn't mean it couldn't all go horribly
wrong. "Daniel? My mother has an aversion to checked
shirts. Just stick with the sweaters, okay?"
Daniel gave him a surprised,
hurt look, which he blanked. "Don’t forget the gun!" he called
out, making a rapid exit. General Hammond was waiting to hear if
his mission was a success, like there was ever any doubt. Jack
really was a bastard, most of all when it was for Daniel's good.
Watching Jack limping out of
his office, doing his utmost to look like a broken man, Daniel had to
admit he was quite looking forward to going to Chicago. He wanted
to see for himself the people responsible for inflicting Colonel Jack
O'Neill on an unsuspecting and, he thought, fairly undeserving
archaeologist.
He was also, maybe, sort of
pleased to be asked along. He and Jack had stopped seeing each
other outside of work for a while there. He still wasn't
sure why. Something about him walking into a room had made Jack
want to walk out of it. It was hard not to be hurt by that and
impossible to talk about it.
For one thing, he wasn't
prepared to have Jack know how much of a hold he had on him.
Hadn't quite been prepared for that himself. He'd never had so
many friends he'd learned to rely on them. Jack, though?
Jack needed him to lean, even a little, and Daniel didn't realise
himself it was as much for his sake as for Jack's until that support
was withdrawn.
He chose not to be
dependent, not to expose himself more than he felt he had, so he said
nothing, only went with Jack's flow. The fighting had made it
easier than he expected to keep his distance.
Jack was better now, though,
open to him again, and he still didn't know why. If it were him
or if it were Jack at the root of it, Jack seemed to be past it now and
acting as if nothing had ever changed between them. Take-out and
TV were back on the menu, any free night of the week . A beer and
a steak. Hanging out. The occasional game of something,
Daniel couldn't get out of. Their usual stuff.
Daniel hadn't quite let it go, though, and somehow, he doubted Jack had. They were both working just a little too hard.
He was pleased about
Chicago. Curious, too. Jack didn't let just anyone in and
the timing, after three years of no more than the occasional fondly
exasperated mention of his folks and the outrages they perpetrated, the
timing had Daniel suspicious.
Jack was tired,
though. He'd almost died out there in space with Teal'c and
somehow it had softened him. He'd actually been pleased to see
Daniel again, all that gut-twisting tension which had so troubled their
friendship gone from him. Things weren't normal, but close, and
this invitation into Jack's private life was a huge gesture. An
important one.
Whatever the game was here, if it helped Jack, then Daniel was more than prepared to play along.
Jack paid off the cab and
did his utmost to glare at Daniel, who was making it difficult by being
bright-eyed and bouncy at him. "You just had to tell everyone,
didn’t you?" he accused him indignantly, cranking up the outrage.
"I never mentioned your
mother!" Daniel retorted, feeling he was on unassailable ground on this
point at least. This was the fourth, or was it the fifth, he was
losing track, this was the sixth time they'd had this exact argument
since they got on the plane. He was pleased to see Jack was
getting so much into the holiday spirit.
"And that requisition you
asked General Hammond to sign?" Jack asked, all gritted-teeth,
saccharine sweetness and light. "Which you handed to him only
after you told everyone where we were going? And why." Much
as it pained him to have to acknowledge such an outrageous abuse of
their whole friendship thing, he had to give Daniel points for
creativity on this one.
"You told me to bring a gun,
Jack," Daniel responded meekly, well aware he was doomed to be the
straight-man but still willing to indulge Jack with a little in the way
of Abbott to his Costello.
"Not a zat gun!" Jack
protested vigorously. Not that the idea didn't have its engaging
qualities, vis a vis Aunt Ruth, an insidious little voice inside had
hoped the general would go for it, but still. "That was
embarrassing."
"I know." Daniel
smiled at him with reminiscent enjoyment. "Why don’t you take
cover in the shrubbery while I get the door, Jack?"
"Ha ha."
"You could just sort of
hunker down." Daniel’s airy gesture took in the impeccable sweep
of velvety lawn and sculpted Alpine shrubbery. Dwarf Alpine
shrubbery. "After all, I can’t be too careful with you, can
I? Not after General Hammond made me personally responsible for
your safety for the duration of this perilous excursion."
And a good time was had by all in the briefing room, including three technicians who had been unable to tear themselves away.
"Careful, Daniel," Jack
warned him softly. "Be very careful. Otherwise I tell Aunt
Ruth to call you Spacemonkey the whole time we’re here and I'll make
damned sure she knows that comes with hugging too."
"Is that a threat or a promise?"
"It's a threat! And
it's a good one. Trust me on that." Jack flicked Daniel's
shoulder irritably. "You're a very annoying man, do you know
that? Stick with the script, already! As my friend and
faithful sidekick, it's your job. When I act threatening, the
appropriate response is for you to act threatened. You owe it to
me"
"I might like your Aunt Ruth," Daniel explained his dereliction of duty. He appeared to feel this was enough.
Jack smacked him in the
shoulder, more than ready to escalate hostilities if he wasn't going to
quit with the situational adlibs.
Daniel had been waiting
patiently for Jack to make a move towards the front door. He
finally realised if he didn’t do something himself, they’d be spending
the night out here bickering, so he stuck his tongue out at Jack and
walked up to the door. Conscious he had no real idea what
he was getting himself into here but still hoping to make a good
impression on the family for Jack's sake, he knocked, very
respectfully.
He waited. He waited
some more. Then he decided they must be out of ear-shot, knocked
vigorously and stumbled forward in shock when the door was wrenched
open, without any warning whatsoever, mid-blow.
He was vaguely aware of a
small figure neatly side-stepping him as he staggered several
involuntary steps and barely avoided kissing elegant black and white
tiled floor.
"Mmm. Nice butt."
Slightly stunned by his
velocity, Daniel turned giddily to find himself facing a tiny, vital
woman with silver gilt hair and laughing brown eyes in a beautiful face
bursting with character. He decided he couldn't have heard that
remark correctly, smiled hopefully at her and held out his hand.
She took it at once, her smile widening.
"Hello," he said warmly. "I'm Daniel Jackson. I'm a friend of Jack’s."
"Well, into every life a
little rain must fall. Come on in, sweetheart." She turned
her hand in his and drew him into the hallway, Jack trailing
reluctantly behind.
"You look just like Jack!"
Daniel blurted out ridiculously, feeling a trifle overwhelmed and
decidedly nervous. "He’s got your eyes."
Neither O’Neill seemed
thrilled by this comparison, weighing one another up in a manner
strongly suggestive of clichéd gunfighters at high noon in
cheesy westerns.
Daniel could only be
grateful they were so distracted because he could not believe he'd just
said that. It wasn't that he'd never noticed how Jack looked, it
was just totally embarrassing to comment on it, especially in Jack's
hearing.
"I see he’s got my hair now, too," Mrs. O'Neill commented dryly, quirking an eyebrow in Jack's direction.
"Mom," Jack said warningly.
"L’Oreal does a good range
for men these days. You should check it out," Mrs. O'Neill
advised her first-born kindly, dimpling up at him, far from adoringly.
"Mom!" Jack hissed.
Daniel had a feeling Jack's
mom had just kicked Jack's ass. In less than, he checked his
watch, a minute. He was conscious of a certain awe at this
brutally efficient dispatch. He also felt obligated to break up
the combat before she verbally disposed of Jack's smoking corpse.
"Mrs. O’Neill?" he interjected, dropping his head with the kind of
submissiveness he automatically accorded a charging Unas.
"Call me Kate," Kate invited him warmly, smiling up at him, once more taking his hand in hers.
Daniel blushed, very
conscious of a Jackian Mack truck-like charm without the obvious
malignant drawback, who was standing by the door glowering
indiscriminately at them both. "Kate, may I?"
"You may, whatever you like,
honey, just soon as you’ve unpacked and I’ve fed you. You look
like you could use a little meat on those elegant bones. Although
I will just say again what a nice bu-"
"Mom!" Jack hollered.
"Lasagne sound good?"
At Daniel’s grateful nod, Kate beamed, giving his hand a small, pleased
shake. Then she eyed her beloved son thoughtfully. "I’ll
rustle you up a salad," she sniffed.
Cursing his mom's unerring
aim for a weak spot, Jack bristled. Despite what his mirror,
assorted security cameras, occasional pairs of his more venerable jeans
and a happy, drunken Daniel might be insisting to the contrary, he was
not getting fat.
"Make yourself useful,
Jack," Kate suggested critically, clearly disapproving of his two
minutes of bone-idle occupancy of her hallway. "Carry the
bags up to the bedroom. Daniel is a guest." She smiled up
at Daniel, whose hand she had forgotten to let go of. "I’m sorry,
Daniel, you’re going to have to share with Jack. Ruth is lying in
state in the spare room and the attic is being remodelled." She
glanced at Jack, her lips twitching as he gathered up stray
luggage. "Fortunately, it’s a queen-sized bed." Kate stole
another little sidelong glance, just obvious enough to piss Jack off
with it. "It’ll be a bit of a squeeze but I’m sure you’ll
manage. If he crowds you, just make him sleep on the floor."
Daniel gave Jack a helpless
look and tried very hard not to laugh as he trudged off towards the
stairs laden down with all the bags.
Kate permitted Jack to reach
the turn in the stairwell. "Doesn’t the Air Force have a
strict weight requirement?" she commented chattily to Daniel.
"You could drop him a gentle hint, you know. While it can all
still be fixed."
They both observed Jack’s rigid back with interest.
"I know he’s getting on a
bit," Kate observed brightly, "but, honestly, he’s going overboard on
the middle-aged spread thing."
Daniel heard a distinct
snarl from the stairs. Kate winked at him, patted his hand, and
ordered him to make himself at home before swaggering off towards what
he presumed was the kitchen Jack had spoken of, her work here
done. Jack had had all the tender mother-son bonding he could
apparently take for the moment.
He intended to follow Jack
upstairs, but came to a halt as soon as he glimpsed the first of a
series of photographs in its severe silver frame. Kate's
face was laughing and young, a tall man with something of Jack in him
smiling dazzlingly down at her and the baby in her arms. In
another, the three were dressed in their best and posed stiffly,
surrounded by people older than themselves. Fascinated, Daniel
slowly made a circuit of the hallway, peering intently at each photo in
turn.
Together, they brought this
normally dead, transitional space alive. There was Jack as a
small boy, his parents each holding a hand, swinging him between them,
his feet off the ground and his head thrown back with laughter.
There were other times, other moods, drawing Daniel to linger. He
saw Jack's looks in Joe's face, his spirit and humour in Kate's
eyes.
Jack wasn't the only child
on these tastefully crowded walls. There were small images of
Jack's son Charlie, faithfully tracking him through each of his years
in school, the sequence beautifully grouped and brutally short, candid
pictures of his parents nestling either side. In Charlie's round
face and long, silken hair, Daniel saw Sara and felt instinctively the
likeness was something Jack loved in his son.
As he climbed the stairs,
the photographs showed the rising age of their subjects, some recent
but all of them formal and posed. He found himself looking for
Jack in all of them, a little surprised by his disappointment when he
realised these weren't necessarily intimate choices. They seemed
to him to be more memories of times and events, markers in the lives of
the O'Neills, too important to be boxed away, maybe too well remembered
to be in any other place in the house. Here they would be seen
every day, glimpsed as the family passed, ready reminders for anyone
who chose to linger. This wasn't the house Jack grew up in, but
those times in Minnesota had a presence here. Daniel wondered how
often anyone took the time to look, as he was looking now.
There would be other photographs, stronger and candid, more precious to the family because of that.
He was hungry for more, a
little disgruntled when an open doorway revealed Jack in a bedroom
dominated by a beautiful abstract stained glass window. When
Daniel went in, he found all the furniture was mahogany, unexpectedly
in the delicate Hepplewhite style, glowing with age and care.
Carefully folded, an antique patchwork comforter hugged the foot of the
huge bed, its intricate cream, navy and wine design mirrored in the
rest of the colour scheme. It was very elegant, very
restful.
Daniel thoroughly approved,
accepting the inconvenient sleeping arrangements philosophically.
He'd shared a tent with Jack on and off for years and was inured to
being snored at, farted on, verbally abused and used as a mattress.
Jack was mechanically
hanging clothes up in the armoire, his spine radiating
disapproval. The silence was glacial. Daniel tried.
He really tried. Then Jack bent down to retrieve an errant
sneaker and Daniel lost it.
Jack wasn’t positive he’d
heard right until he turned around and found Daniel sitting on the bed,
chortling. He was touched, not certain he'd ever heard Daniel
laugh before. He allowed himself a moment or two to savour, then
resumed his allotted role in the family melodrama. "Daniel?
Did you just say something about a wide load?" he asked with exquisite,
freezing politeness.
The stammered 'no' from the bed was not in the least convincing.
"Daniel? Remind me to kill you at our earliest mutual convenience."
"I think I’d better.
You might forget." Daniel’s voice was shaky but gamely trying to
ooze innocence. "What with your advancing years and
ev-ever-everything."
Jack would have retaliated
physically but he knew from experience the furniture wouldn’t take it
and neither would his mom. Revenge was a dish best served cold to
the terminally unsuspecting. He settled in the interim for a
malevolent look.
"Jack?"
"What?"
"About your mother?"
"What about her?"
"I couldn’t help but notice she’s wearing a checked shirt."
"Did you also notice she checked out your butt?"
Daniel looked shocked. "I thought I misheard!"
"Oh, no," Jack
drawled. "Be afraid, Daniel. Be very afraid." He
noted with a sigh that Daniel was still reading from a different script
and refusing to act decently threatened to cue. "Thanks for
coming with me. You’re cute and cuddly and even lower down the
food chain than I am. Fresh meat. She’s going to tease the
shit out of you," he gave Daniel fair warning. He felt obligated
as this was exactly what would happen and it certainly wasn't his fault
if Daniel didn't believe a word of what he said to him. "Now get
your butt off my bed and hang up your stuff."
"Do it yourself, Jack. I’m a guest, remember?"
Daniel stretched himself out luxuriously on the bed, pillowed his head on his arms and heaved a theatrically contented sigh.
Jack kept up the petulant
act until Daniel’s breathing evened out. Then he smiled to
himself and unpacked the rest of their clothes without making a sound,
checking back now and then on Daniel . When he was done, he crept
noiselessly over to the bed and delicately eased off his glasses.
He folded them and put them where they’d be obvious for Daniel to find
when he was waking up, on the bedside cabinet by his pillow.
He went over to close the
drapes, hoping to block out some of the afternoon sun and keep Daniel
sleeping longer. Daniel stirred and Jack glanced back at him,
freezing as he rolled from his back to his side, sighing as he tucked a
hand beneath his cheek. The light framed him and Jack guessed
he'd rolled into that spot instinctively in search of heat.
Jack stood patiently by the
window, waiting for Daniel to settle into deeper sleep before he would
risk closing the drapes. It was somewhat of an irony he was so
practiced with this routine, putting a tricky, pouting sleeper down for
a nap. It had been years, but he still had the knack.
He stayed where he was, his
eyes lingering with the sunlight on Daniel's face. He could track
the lines of experience there, a certain weight he understood from long
experience of combat. Daniel didn't always have that ingenuous
light inside like he used to, there was some bitterness there, and
grief, but his energetic friend still had a capacity for wonder and
compassion which could make Jack's heart skip a beat.
There couldn't be a more
unlikely soul alive to be the friend Daniel was to him, the kind of
friend he'd never truly had, bursting out of every neat compartment
Jack would try to box him in, poking his nose into every corner of
Jack's psyche he wasn't supposed to be.
Daniel broke the rules, even the ones Jack set for himself.
It was damned embarrassing
Jack had been so reluctant to accept their friendship had
changed. It had deepened over time, Daniel needing less of the
blessed protector act from him, less of the big brother, more from an
equal. Jack wasn't good at cutting ties, at letting go of
anything. He wasn't so blind he wasn't aware that he was slow to
adjust, he resisted Daniel's increasingly demonstrated independence in
a way which troubled him. It mattered to him almost more than he
felt it should.
Mostly he thought of the
unquenchable innocence he valued in his innocent friend and had to
watch stripped away layer by layer. As long as Jack had known
him, Daniel had always been capable, but he'd grown to be hard at
times, and dangerous. It didn't fit with his passion for life or
the way he would tear himself apart to help people. Jack couldn't
protect Daniel from that. Sometimes, he saw maturity on Daniel's
face, at others, his failures. The failures, in fact, of both of
them.
Whatever the cause, Daniel's face drew Jack's eyes more and more.
A shadow at the doorway
brought his head around quickly to meet his mother’s shrewd, laughing
eyes. She pulled a face at him and snuck over to the bed.
Jack went over to join her and they stood side by side, looking down at
Daniel for the longest time. Jack knew what had caused the
pallor, the visible exhaustion, but he wondered what his mother
saw.
He'd long believed Kate and
Joe O’Neill together could fix just about anything between them if they
were only given the chance. Hence the road trip, and Daniel’s
incursion into the most private part of his life. Nothing in his
career had ever impacted here. He wouldn’t have done this for
anyone but Daniel. He hadn’t been there when Daniel lost Sarah
Gardner and the last ties to an important part of his life were severed
with surgical precision by Osiris and by the greed of a so-called
friend. Jack wasn't there, worse, he was petty enough to cut
Daniel off when he'd tried to involve him, so Daniel got to be
here.
He nodded at a questioning
look from his mother, and she reached out to tenderly stroke back the
hair from Daniel’s brow. Then they each grabbed a corner of the
folded comforter and drew it up over him. It would be hours
before he woke up. Just in time for dinner.
Jack waited until they were
safely downstairs and well out of earshot before he swept his mother
off her feet into a bearhug. "Well, hello Mrs. Robinson!" he
hissed at her, genuinely aggravated by her atrocious display in the
hallway.
Kate gave him a smug look
and a huge smooch of a kiss. "Nice touch, wasn’t it?" She
then missed severity by a mile as she demanded, "Put me down this
instant. You’ll crack a rib."
Jack put her down, puffing
like a bellows. "Only one of mine, Mom," he said meanly.
"You must've been living on peach cobbler since my last visit.
Oh, and, Mom? Nice butt? Nice butt? I nearly
died. Daniel nearly died when he realised he did hear you right."
Kate gave an evil chuckle as
she led him by the hand into the kitchen, casting exaggeratedly adoring
fifties sit-com mom looks up at him. "I know," she purred. "You
could have warned me! He’s drop-dead gorgeous. I could eat
him up with a spoon. I’ve already told your father he’s sleeping
with number one son while I get to snuggle up with Daniel. I
could do with a sexy boy like him. Brighten things up around
here."
An equally evil, baritone
chuckle sounded at the kitchen table. "Isn’t one enough?
Speaking of which, have you been to see your Aunt Ruth, yet, Jonathan?"
Kate elbowed Jack in the ribs when he failed to respond.
"Ow! Jeez."
"That’s you, Jack. Remember!"
"I’ve never answered to
Jonathan in my life!" What stupidity had led him to enlist his
folks as co-conspirators in the first place? He should only be
grateful he hadn't come home to find them both in costume.
"About time you made a start, then, son. Jack conjures up such images of youthful vigour and - "
"Can it, Mom!" Jack said rudely.
Kate stalked over to the
stove muttering darkly under her breath about ingrates, the sharpness
of serpent's tooths and bosoms. "I get no respect," she
complained.
Joe folded his newspaper and
stood up slowly. Jack waited tactfully until his father had his
cane in hand and was steady on his feet before heading over for a
markedly less exuberant but no less affectionate hug.
"Welcome home, son," Joe
said softly. "From what Kate tells me, you did right to bring
that boy to us. We’ll do for him what we can."
"You don’t mind, Dad?
Never brought work home before this." That was an
understatement. Until Daniel Jackson erupted back into Jack's
life, Kawalsky, his best friend at that point, could've been forgiven
for thinking Jack came out of box this way.
"Well, I understand my role
in this stirring family melodrama is ‘Domestic Tyrant’. Better
brace yourself for some tyrannising, my boy. I’ll be showing no
mercy."
Deciding fighting his
mother's penchant for dramatic embellishment and overblown lily-gilding
would be an exhausting and ultimately futile effort, Jack confined
himself to a wry grin. "Looking forward to seeing you in action,
Dad. Won’t be for long, I guarantee it." It probably
wouldn't be kind to suggest his Dad would crumble and fold as soon as
he laid eyes on the boy. "Daniel is a very bright guy. A
genius in fact," he hinted, tactfully laying the groundwork for a
graceful out for them when they inevitably, and no doubt rapidly, got
busted.
"Genius?" Kate’s inquisitive voice rang clearly out of the pantry.
"Daniel is a Doctor of
Archaeology. And of Linguistics. He speaks twenty-three
languages. With appalling fluency and staggering-"
"Be nice, Jack. So, he’s way smarter than you?" Joe’s voice was amused.
"Much prettier too!"
"Thanks, Mom. Can’t
you even try to behave like a normal car pool kinda mom? For the
sake of my sanity." Jack hesitated. He had a question for
her. "Er, why are we sharing a bed?"
"We figured he could hold Ruth down while you made a run for it," Joe suggested sweetly. "She's feeling frisky."
Jack refused to dignify that
with any kind of response, leaving his father victorious on the field
of verbal battle. Plus, he wanted to see for himself how Ruth was
doing. He was on the shady side of forty and killed people for a
living, and the folks still flannelled him automatically. His mom
still thought he had a bedtime. Ruth at least would tell it to
him straight, at length, and in excruciating detail, if she felt like
shit.
When he was certain Jack didn't have any kind of comeback, Joe smugly retreated to his newspaper.
There was a moment of silence.
Two voices chorused as one, "Archaeologist?"
Kate emerged from the pantry, clutching flour and eggs. "Jack, you did warn him about Ruth, didn’t you?"
Jack squirmed, as aware as
anyone there were limits to his communication skills. "Not every little
thing," he said sullenly. He got identical disbelieving looks
from both his parents. "Daniel expects he'll like her. He's
looking forward to meeting her, in fact," he insisted defiantly.
Kate gestured vehemently to
high heaven. "Sometimes, I find it hard to believe you and I are in the
same damn gene pool, Jack, my boy. He’ll probably take one look
and try to stuff her back in the nearest sarcophagus." She dumped
her ingredients and headed off for more, still muttering darkly.
"Mama O’Neill didn’t raise no fool. Oops. Silly me.
Of course she-" The rest of this embittered pronouncement was
fortunately obscured by Kate delving into the depths of the pantry.
Jack shot a guilty, slightly apologetic look at his father.
"Did you mention ‘The Little House on the Prairie’?" Joe asked sternly.
Daniel was awakened by the
indefinable feeling of being watched. He opened drowsy eyes into
late afternoon sunshine slanting through a gap in the drapes and found
himself face to face with Queen Hatshepsut. The mummified version.
Coal black eyes twinkled out of a wizened face. "Hello, Gorgeous."
Given he was the only one in the room, Daniel didn't feel able to evade this appalling appellation. "Um, hello yourself."
"Ruth," the mummy greeted him, smiling. "Come over here and give me a kiss."
As usual, Daniel found
himself unable to deny his O'Neills anything, decided Ruth was his type
of person, scrambled carefully out from under the hand-sewn comforter
and planted a sound smacker on her nut brown cheek. "You have an
extremely handsome face," he admired with sincere admiration.
"Queen Hatshepsut was a Pharaoh of the 18th Dynasty, a master
politician with enough charisma to kick Egyptian ass for twenty
years. You look remarkably like her."
"Only if she looked like she’d been dead for a few years, honey."
Daniel grinned.
"Is my Jack with you?"
"Oh, yes. He was around here a minute ago." Daniel looked around vaguely.
"A few hours now.
You’ve been sleeping like a baby. Looked like you needed every
minute. Come and see my room," Ruth invited him. "You could
give an old lady a hand, if you like. I’ll keep mine to myself, I
swear to god, no matter what he told you," she reassured him.
Daniel leant support with
alacrity. "He?" He found he was interrogating the top of Ruth’s
head. She was even smaller than Jack’s mother. He escorted
her tenderly out of his room and along the landing to hers, wondering
why Jack had been keeping this amazing lady all to himself when he had
to know Daniel would be…
He stopped in his tracks when he took in the décor in Ruth's room. He turned fascinated eyes on his hostess.
Ruth gave him an evil
grin. "I’m eighty-two, Gorgeous, and my plumbing ain’t what it
used to be. If it’s a choice between the senior citizen’s centre
for bingo, or torturing my only living relatives, well, what’s an old
lady to do?"
Daniel came lightly down the
stairs two at a time and followed his nose to the heavenly scent of
simmering coffee and freshly baked cake. Chocolate cake. In
his opinion, these were fabulous people with a keen grasp of the
essentials of life.
He insinuated himself shyly
into a beautiful, homey kitchen. A huge oak table, which
presently held Jack, Kate and an older man he took to be Jack’s father,
dominated. He smiled in their direction but couldn’t stop looking
around at the room. Gleaming copper pans hung from a rustic pole,
pots of fresh herbs were stacked in the bay window, a comfy couch
heaped with cushions where a reader could catch the light, an
honest-to-goodness pantry side-by-side with a modern range. Not
an ugly appliance in sight. It was the heart of this home.
"Shaker?" he genuinely
admired the exquisite craftsmanship. "I think you’ve got it just
right. Modern in execution, but the classic simplicity is
preserved."
Jack was alarmed at a very
familiar stance. Daniel was going into his infamous lecture
mode. He shot him a repressive look which he completely ignored.
Daniel stroked his fingers
down a silken cabinet door. "The early Colonists and Shakers used
a formula which dates back to ancient Egypt, you know," he said
enthusiastically, unable to resist the urge to torture Jack a
little. He didn't want him getting complacent just because they
were on vacation. "They coloured their furniture and interiors
with a handmade paint made from milk protein, lime, earth pigments and
clay fillers. I’m so glad you went for the traditional finish. It
makes all the difference."
Jack watched without any
surprise whatsoever as another O’Neill went down like a ninepin in the
face of the truly supportive. He knew this would happen.
His father’s smile was ear to ear. So much for the resident
Domestic Tyrant.
Correctly interpreting Joe's
modest look, Daniel took a quick, delighted step forward. "You built
this?" he asked eagerly. "You’re very skilled. All the hard
work this must have taken has more than paid off. I'm no expert
on interior design but even I can tell the texture is perfect."
Joe was clearly gratified, starting the slow haul to his feet.
Jack knew he could rely on
Daniel to get it just right, which he did, chattering amiably on about
the Hepplewhite upstairs without any sign he noticed Joe’s painful
attempt to get up or worse, thought he should rush to help. Joe
hated that kind of officiousness. He had recovered well from his
stroke, better than anyone except perhaps Joe had predicted, refusing
to let his mobility problems impact on significantly on his life and
the hobbies he loved. His workshop was state of the art and he
made full use of all the assistive technology and modified tools he
could lay his hands on.
Jack shuddered as Daniel
made all the right noises. Hepplewhite? Dear god. He
never ceased to be amazed by the inexplicable things Daniel knew.
As soon as Joe was set, he
stuck out a hand and engulfed Daniel’s slender fingers. "Dr.
Jackson," he beamed. "Pleased to meet you, son. Let me just
show you the pantry," he urged, imperfectly concealing anxious
pride. "It’s my best piece, got the idea from, er." He shot a
guilty look at Jack.
"Call me Daniel," Daniel
invited gently. "I know your source of inspiration, Mister," he
correctly interpreted a ferocious scowl and smoothly changed social
gears, "Joe." He waited until he was almost at the pantry door
and Jack had slumped against the table to deliver his coup de grace on
Ruth's behalf. "Speaking of which," he said brightly. "Oh,
Manly?" He could hardly get the name out, it was so horrifically
unlikely.
He watched gleefully as Jack froze, then he failed to die on the spot as Jack’s eyes were so clearly demanding he did.
"Manly, Laura says hello,"
he reported dutifully, hoping he was getting this right.
"She’d like you to go up and see her, as soon as you can. You’ve
been away working the railroads so long."
Ruth was evil.
Absolutely evil. Daniel adored her and knew no hesitation in
signing on as her chief acolyte and devotee. It took a massive
personality with a vast appetite for life to keep Jack O'Neill
helplessly in thrall and Ruth's approach was entertainingly
insane. She enjoyed herself hugely tying Jack into helpless,
seething knots.
There was a fair bit of
unseemly sniggering from the older generation of O’Neills as Jack’s
deepest, darkest secret was revealed, leaving him squirming for their
enjoyment in a familial Kodak moment.
"I’ve never even seen
‘Little House on the Prairie’," Daniel admitted. He'd been
ruthlessly drilled by Ruth to impart the little he had. "The
collection Ruth has amassed is very impressive." Much of it
purchased for her delectation by her die-before-he'd-admit-it besotted
nephew. "Museum quality." He could pay no higher compliment.
Watching his son, Joe was shaking with barely suppressed laughter. "It’s harmless enough and it keeps Ruth happy."
Happy was not quite the word Daniel would've used.
"Very happy," Kate agreed, chuckling malevolently. "Now her best boy is back in town."
Jack had one of those ‘wish
the floor would open up and swallow you whole’ moments. He
scowled after Daniel’s retreating form and was easily able to ignore
the enthusiastic carpentry commentary coming from the pantry.
"He’s a really nice boy,"
Kate sighed admiringly, coming over to sit by him and give him another
kiss. "Just lovely. A credit to-"
"Himself," Jack interrupted
with surprising heat. He gave his mother an apologetic
look. "His parents died when he was eight. He was fostered
after that. He doesn’t talk about it."
"Or about a lot of things, I
think," Kate recognised shrewdly. "Like someone else sitting not
a million miles from here, sulking like a two year-old just because his
great auntie by marriage is delusional and feels him up from time to
time." Then she slapped his reaching hand. "Leave the cake
alone. It’s too close to dinner. You’ll ruin your appetite."
Jack nursed his stinging hand. Kate had reflexes which would make Teal’c get all pensive.
The moment Joe was settled
back at the table, Daniel sat down too. His gaze went straight to
the cake. "Chocolate fudge?"
Hopeful blue eyes cut
through Kate’s resolve like a blowtorch through soft butter. "Can
I warm that for you?" she coaxed, caving without shame or
hesitation. "We have some fresh cream." She peered over at
the formidable fridge, nibbling her lip. "Or ice
cream. A nice scoop of classic homemade vanilla," she
decided. "And coffee too, of course."
Daniel sniffed the rich
meaty scent of the kitchen. "Isn’t dinner nearly ready?
Um." He was somewhat at a loss to deal with this slightly
aggressive hospitality.
Jack watched indignantly as
his own mother gave Daniel an indulgent, ‘got to fill a growing boy’
kind of look, ruffled his hair and trotted off to fetch
provisions. Then she trotted back with the steaming coffee and a
slab of cake which would have choked a starving python. It came
with an ocean of fresh cream and, erring on the side of clogging
Daniel's arteries, two lavish scoops of ice cream.
Daniel applied himself to
the cake vigorously, and after the first few bites, ecstatically.
In fact, he kept closing his eyes and making appreciative "mmm" noises
which he took care to aim in Jack's direction across the table.
Jack wasn’t dumb enough to
think for a heartbeat this meant he had permission to eat cake, with or
without artery-clogging accompaniments. He wasn’t about to risk
it. Bad enough Daniel knew about Ruth’s ‘Little House’ fixation
without having to watch his best friend and erstwhile team leader get
taken out by his own mother.
As ritual humiliation was
heaped upon ritual humiliation, it struck Jack as being absolutely,
utterly gooned out of his tree whacko he could think for even one
second bringing Daniel here was a good idea. His credibility
would not survive this. He knew how susceptible he was and he was
made of much sterner stuff than his folks. Their standards were
so low they even loved him, for cryin' out loud. Not enough to
refrain from sacrificing him in their competitive efforts to entertain
their guest, of course. There were limits to family
loyalty.
The only plus Jack could see was that Daniel wasn't going to know what would keep on hitting him until he was on the plane home.
Daniel serenely ate the most
extraordinary chocolate cake he’d ever tasted in his life, under the
doting gaze of the two elder O’Neills, and the frankly hostile gaze of
the younger. Served Jack right, getting him here under false
pretences.
"Can I paint you?"
He looked up at this, surprised. "Kate?"
She smiled at him, for the first time appearing a little embarrassed. "I’m an amateur artist," she confessed.
"Kate is entirely too
modest," Joe said proudly. "My wife has had quite a few paintings
exhibited in local galleries and even in a special display of work by
local artists at the Art Institute, Daniel."
"I'd like to see your work,
if I may?" Daniel was savouring these revelations. He wondered if
Jack appreciated how fortunate he was in his family. They
absolutely loved him to death or they wouldn't tease him so
relentlessly. He grew up with every rich thing Daniel had lost
beneath a falling cover-stone in New York. "I'm loving hearing about
all your creativity," he confessed shyly. Kate promptly kissed
him.
"What about archaeology,
Daniel?" Joe asked interestedly. "I don't know much more about it
than we've seen on the History Channel."
"Which is peopled by
talentless hacks and their loony tunes populist tabloid fodder," Jack
interpolated cheerfully. "To paraphrase an opinionated archaeologist,
sitting not a million miles from here."
"Jack says the same about C-Span," Daniel chose to share.
"And he's not a doctor of anything," Joe noted.
"To answer your question,
Joe," Daniel decided to draw paternal fire meant for Jack, "My area of
expertise in both archaeology and anthropology is linguistics. My
research specialises in the study of ancient writing systems and
languages. Technically, that's known as philology."
"There is absolutely no need for you to explain what that means," Jack insisted.
"I'd be happy to explain
about philology." Naturally, there were limits to Daniel's
altruism. "In as much detail as you'd like."
"We'd be happy to have you explain," Joe urged, backed up by Kate's vigorous nod.
"Philology is the science of
language," Daniel began in his best 'once upon a time' tone,
smiling. "It's the study of etymology, grammar, rhetoric."
"Rhetoric?" Joe perked up. "I've seen the term here and there but never got what that means."
"Oh, please!" Jack slumped pitifully, groaning.
"Rhetoric is the theory and practice of eloquence, whether written or spoken," Daniel supplied cheerfully.
"Really?" Joe was fascinated.
"Think used car salesmen," Jack said sarcastically.
"Rhetoric is an art," Daniel acknowledged Jack's point. "That of using language to persuade others."
After taking a moment to absorb this, everyone looked at Kate. She preened, graciously accepting the implied compliment.
"I'm fluent in twenty-three
languages, some dead, both written and spoken, but my opportunities for
artistic endeavour outside of calligraphy are limited," Daniel said
with a faint sigh. "I can make accurate sketches of artefacts,
dig sites and architecture, and I do a lot of rubbing." He took a
few appreciative sips of excellent coffee. "Pictograms, runes,
glyphs."
"Backs."
Kate and Joe frowned at Jack. Daniel did too.
"Hey, he never goes anywhere
without his Zips Muscle Rub. The average field archaeologist
spends more time rubbing stiff necks than a physiotherapist does."
They continued to look at Jack.
"They dig stuff up. On
digs." Jack made a little shovelling gesture. "That's why
they call them," he trailed off, apparently sensitive to
atmosphere. "Digs," he muttered under his breath. His
parents looked expectantly at Daniel.
Daniel shook himself and
picked up where he left off. "Plans, whether hand or computer
rendered. Structural representations," he said
dismissively. "I don’t have an artistic bone in my body.
Unlike Jack."
"Jack?" Kate was astonished.
Jack sniffed
disparagingly. He was thinking of withholding his presents as a
protest at his inhumane treatment by the regime.
"He brought you a present,"
Daniel announced. "A bowl he made for you. A peace
offering, he called it. But I guess he managed to successfully
negotiate a truce while I was, um, resting my eyes."
"Snoring like a buzz saw,"
Jack corrected snappily. "He has allergies, that’s all," he added
hastily, as his mother’s fulminating eye suggested he’d better not
criticise dear little Daniel anywhere near her.
"You're not very good at this," Daniel informed them, with a fugitive grin.
"Correction," Jack smirked,
jerking his thumb at the folks. "They're not very good at
this. I, on the other hand, am more than good enough to have got
you to the Windy City in one piece and with the minimum of whining."
"I was lulling you. I never bought that line about your parents being, um," Daniel hinted slyly.
"Your parents?" Kate prodded Jack.
He scowled at her, rubbing his arm.
"Your parents?" she repeated, finger poised to prod again.
"Jack implied you were," Daniel paused for effect. "Difficult."
"Difficult."
"Isn't that kind of pot and kettle, son?" Joe asked dryly.
"Jack's cover story was
pathetic. Every time he embroidered the original tissue of lies,
he contradicted himself," Daniel said unkindly.
"He just thought you’d like
us, and you do, don’t you, darling?" Kate asked him winsomely, feeling
the need to reach out and touch, taking Daniel's hand again.
Jack watched smugly as
Daniel tripped all over his own tongue in an attempt to convince the
folks, yes, indeed, he liked them just fine, even if they were terrible
amateur thespians.
"And you’re happy to be here
with us?" Kate had big brown eyes and she knew how to use them to
devastating effect. "I know we’re happy to have you. Aren’t
we, Joe? Jack?"
Joe happily agreed and Jack
managed a vague, resentful ‘what he said’ grunt. Truly the latest
dumb idea in a depressingly long line of them.
"So can I paint you? Would you mind?"
"Okaaay," Daniel consented cautiously, looking extremely nervous. "Where? Er - how?"
"In the attic," Kate smiled sweetly. "In the nu-"
"Mom!"
"New," Kate went on
smoothly, "fisherman’s sweater I bought for Jack. It’ll be a
little big for you, but that’s just fine. The cuffs will fall
down over your hands." She glanced down at the elegant hand in
hers and smiled. "Did you bring any jeans?"
Looking slightly alarmed, Daniel nodded.
"Yes? Great."
Kate eyed Daniel judiciously, suppressing an attempt to break free of
her finger lock. "Bare feet, I think" she decided. "I’ll
give you the sweater when we get up in the-"
"Mom!" No way was Jack letting Kate romp around the attic with a half naked archaeologist.
Kate scowled at him. "Morning!" she finished with a snap. "If that’s okay with you? Jack?"
"I’ve never posed before," Daniel confessed shyly. "What do I have to do? Will it take long?"
Jack could see Kate was
sorely tempted but she sighed and allowed artistic integrity to force
her into making a tragic admission.
"Not that long, just the
morning. We’ll find the right pose for you, I’ll take some
photographs, rough out some sketches. My work is
impressionistic. I’ll find a suitable backdrop for you."
Her voice trailed off, musing. "A cliff’s edge, by the sea.
Just gazing into the distance."
Daniel had always associated
himself with the desert, never with the sea. He honestly didn’t
know what this image suggested to Kate. Maybe he’d have to see it
to understand.
Jack was cringing.
Daniel poised on the edge of a cliff? Great image to take to bed
with him. This would really help with all the sleep he wasn’t
going to get, what with Daniel’s sinus problems and all.
Daniel suddenly brightened up, shooting him a sneaky look. "Jack’s bowl is impressionistic, too."
"Can I come in?" Daniel peeked around the open bedroom door.
Ruth looked up from her nest
of pillows, responding with a gamine grin and a wave of her TV
remote. She patted the bed invitingly and Daniel sat beside her,
looking over in some awe at the lavish home entertainment centre and
the vast wide screen TV. He was fascinated at the surround-sound
gunfire bouncing off the walls, glancing questioningly at Ruth.
"Look at those muscles," she breathed reverently.
Daniel looked at a confusion of khaki, sweat and dirt, gritted teeth and big guns. "Whose?" he asked, perplexed.
Ruth hit him with the remote. "Zeke!"
"Um." Daniel looked at the flying body parts on screen again.
"You may be gorgeous,
sweetheart, but, damn, you're slow," Ruth sighed. "Him!"
She jabbed the remote in the direction of someone with a bandana tied
like a sweat-band around his brow.
"Did they have a war in California?"
Biting her lip, Ruth hit him again. Daniel winked at her and settled back against the padded headboard.
"That's Vietnamese rainforest," she corrected him with a patronising sniff, as if it were self-evident.
Daniel looked at some
stripped, grimy trees and dry grasses. "Nooo," he said
slowly. "I know Vietnamese rainforest and this isn't it."
"Agent Orange," Ruth insisted defiantly. "Only you can prevent forest!"
"Have you ever seen what Agent Or-?"
Ruth clapped her claw-like
hand over Daniel's mouth. "Will you just stop yakking and suspend
your disbelief, already?" she demanded. "I'm trying to watch,
here."
Daniel took her hand from his mouth and held it gently between both of his.
Ruth, apparently willing to
give him the benefit of the doubt, graciously refrained from wielding
the remote in his direction. She snuggled back into her pillows,
her handsome face relaxing into a broad smile, her sharp eyes
melting. "He's da man," she confided chattily, making a little
'fanning self' motion as her eyes dwelt with fond lust on a large,
muscular body.
Daniel, who'd watched TV
with Jack on any number of occasions, wasn't fooled. He kept his
mouth firmly shut and kept patting Ruth's hand.
"Myron is hot too," Ruth
commented as a fair-haired boy got shot and tumbled to the
ground. "But he looks like he's barely out of high school and I'm
not a total pervert." She gloated loudly when her manly sergeant
rushed to the boy's rescue. "His girlfriend was a complete
bitch. I cheered when they offed her. Always rewind and
replay that scene with the doohickey so she dies slower," she said
nostalgically.
During the commercial break,
Daniel saw the name of the show he was obediently being baffled by,
noted a fat run of videos on the shelves but decided it was a minor
detail, unworthy of comment. Ruth was enjoying some lingering
butt shots and what she described as snugglin', with much winking and
nudging, and he was enjoying Ruth.
He was surrounded by
exquisitely hand-crafted rag dolls of the Little House characters at
various ages, a doll's house replica of the Little House itself, all
the books, the books about the books, the complete video collection,
including reunion specials, embroidery samplers, cross-stitch pictures
of illustrations from the books, sepia reproduction photographs of
Laura and her beloved Manly, as a girl with her precious family, and in
a jointed wooden frame in pride of place by Ruth's pillow, a
handwritten letter from Laura herself in one half, and in the other, a
photograph of Ruth's much-worshipped husband.
Ruth's world had become very
small, with the echo of many losses, but it was a world she filled with
love and passion for all the life her frailty allowed. There was
an unhealed wound where her husband had been, the only children she had
were those she taught, but those spaces she filled too, as best she
could, with Kate and Joe, and her darling Jack. She was a
scrapper, zestfully playing her wicked games and taking great joy in
her small, frequent victories.
Daniel thought she was a very great lady, even if she was a pervert with an unhealthy interest in his thigh.
"You don't talk much, do
you?" Ruth complained as the credits rolled. "Doesn't exactly
make for scintillating company, you know. You'd think a nice boy,
visiting with a tired old lady, he'd put in the effort, offer up a
little in the way of conversation."
She had the same attention span as Jack, too.
"You make your own pasta, Kate? I'm impressed."
"I also grind my own beef," Kate told Daniel happily.
Jack coughed slightly. This was not strictly accurate. His mom had kept him pretty busy while Daniel was napping.
"Jack helped," Kate acknowledged grudgingly.
"I don't see any cartons," Daniel blinked in exaggerated confusion, peering at the pristine kitchen counters.
"Wiseass," Jack complained
lazily, too full of homemade everything to fight, even if he was the
one to make it. "For your information, I pasta'd, ground,
chopped, seasoned, layered and grated. I also mowed, raked,
chopped, weeded, vacuumed and dusted."
"Chopped?"
"Tomatoes, herbs and logs."
"I supervised," Kate winked.
"Criticised," Jack corrected.
"That was a, that was a long nap," Daniel said guiltily, very embarrassed.
"If you slept, you needed it," Ruth shrugged.
"And Ruth should know.
She's an expert napper," Joe snorted, amused. "It's like she
flicks a switch and goes out like a light."
Ruth looked modest.
"Usually when we want her to do something she doesn't want to do," Kate added dryly.
Ruth's sly face said, 'of course.'
"I know the feeling." Daniel shot a bland look at Jack.
Jack held up the ice cream
carton and waved it temptingly. Ruth's face brightened greedily
and she slid her crystal sundae dish across to him.
"You've had enough," Kate warned. "Both of you."
"Cream with that?" Jack enquired as he lovingly nestled a generous scoop of café au lait richness in the dish.
"Mmm!"
"Selective hearing, too," Daniel commented to the table at large. "And knees," he added vaguely.
"My back can also be tricky," Jack reminded him, with an eye to future exploitation of his infirmity.
"Weather and activity contingent," Daniel finished with a grateful nod to Jack.
"Activity?" Joe was curious.
"Pitching tents, digging latrines."
"Ah."
"These kinds of activities only seem to happen to other people."
"Sounds like Jack and high school," Joe snorted.
"Oh, let's not go there," Jack argued at once.
"Let's!" Daniel pleaded, entranced.
"I never really embraced high school," Jack announced as if this was all there were to it.
"Nor did I," Daniel asserted, to everyone's surprise.
"I thought you were a geek!" Jack objected.
"Well, you act the archetypal 'dumb jock'," Daniel countered a trifle coldly.
"Boys," Kate warned them crisply. "Play nice."
"I loved to learn. I
loved to ask questions. I preferred to make up my own mind how I
thought and felt about things," Daniel shrugged.
"A good teacher will foster
talent and originality," Ruth, once a teacher herself, spoke up.
"And always encourage honest endeavour and passion regardless of the
ability of the student."
"Not all teachers are good," Jack said. "Some of them just want more miles to the gallon until they get their pension."
"Not all teachers are
willing to have their assumptions challenged or are prepared to defend
their position," Daniel added. "That isn't about learning, merely
discipline."
"In a perfect world every
child would embrace their education, give all their attention and
commitment and hang on the words of their inspiring teachers," Ruth
said wryly. "This is a far from perfect world. Control is a
necessity and discipline must be imposed to create an environment where
you make it possible for those who wish to learn to do so without
harassment."
"Harassment? That’s something teachers don't necessarily want to see, let alone act on."
"I agree with Daniel on that
one." Jack responded automatically to some hopeful craning
towards the ice cream carton, obligingly sliding it in Daniel's
direction. "Some teachers are also less concerned with
maintaining control than with exercising power. They're the ones
who do the harassing."
"Fear is never conducive to
learning." Daniel tilted the almost empty ice-cream carton
towards Kate and gave her an expectant look. She rolled her eyes,
which he took to be permission to pig out. He shoved his
sundae dish out of the way and launched into an excavation of the
carton. "Whether it comes from the students or the teacher."
Jack grinned as Kate's
eyebrows went up. "Daniel never forgets his point. Doesn't
matter how long you think you've kept him distracted or what you've
distracted him with. As soon as you shut your yap, he opens his
and picks up right where he left off. It's a gift, and a damned
annoying one."
"Were you bullied at school, son?" Joe gently asked Daniel.
"Let's just say I'm not your
stereotypical pacifist," Daniel replied uncommunicatively. "And I
don't care for labels or the people who apply them."
"Ouch," Jack winced, stung by the blunt condemnation and aware it was probably intentional.
"Did I not just hear the phrase 'dumb jock'?" Kate wondered aloud, before Jack could think of anything to say.
"No, you heard the phrase
'acts the archetypal dumb jock'." Daniel was unmoved by the
implied criticism. "Which he does, for reasons no one but he can
fathom."
Jack winced again and
avoided his mother's eyes. "Didn't I say he never loses track of
an argument?" he grumbled. "He calls me an ass, you know," he
complained, looking for allies.
"Only when you act like one,
and even then I don't apply it as a label," Daniel briskly rebutted
this accusation. I say, 'don't be an ass,' not 'you are an ass,'
Jack."
"He has an ass," Ruth said fondly, responding to the only word which mattered. "A great one."
"There are no labels for you!" Jack shuddered. He had an ass, alright. A bruised one.
"Our boy wanted the Air
Force," Joe said with a smile, also keeping track of his original
point. "He always wanted to fly."
"Jack applied himself to
what he needed to get him into the Academy and blanked the rest," Kate
sighed. "High school was a means to an end, nothing more.
PTA was always a minefield."
"Dogs were always my
favourite people." Jack felt this personal philosophy needed no
further explanation. Dogs forever.
"Interesting you chose to exchange one institutionalised closed society for another," Daniel was intrigued.
"No," Jack took instant
exception to this insulting assessment, which was only accurate in
sociological terms. "It isn't. It's simple. I like
having fun. The Air Force is lots of fun."
"It also has lots of rules and regulations which aren't flexible or weather contingent," Daniel reminded him. "Or fun."
"Did I mention the nagging persistence?" Jack muttered out the corner of his mouth to an attentive Joe.
Joe glanced involuntarily at
Kate but heroically refrained from comment. She scowled at him
anyway, knowing an insult when she didn't hear one. "We were
proud of Jack," he hastily changed the subject. "Even though he
loathed high school with every fibre of his being, he turned up most
days and got through it without killing anyone."
"Which is more than can be said for every mother's son in Alida," Kate said proudly.
"Alida? She's
referenced in one of the Belpre Legends from Puerto Rico, the Legend of
the Hummingbird," Daniel babbled out on automatic pilot, perking
up. "It's a very romantic-"
"We do not need to know this!" Jack objected loudly.
"Yes, we do," Kate corrected him. "Romantic?" she prompted hopefully.
"You see what he's like?"
Jack appealed to his father, a sensible man. "You see how
impossible it is to have even the simplest conversation with him
without it turning into this? Pointless crap you don't want to
know and didn't dream existed?" This didn’t have quite the effect he
hoped.
Joe's eye brightened. "You do crosswords, Daniel?"
"No, I'm sorry, Joe, I
don't. Not really. I've spent half my life studying the
written word and I find there's no real challenge for me in a
crossword. It's the same with word games, like Scrabble, unless
you play with Jack's rules."
"Do I want to know?" Kate asked rhetorically, giving Jack a shuddering look.
"I didn't," Daniel assured her.
"I have a Scrabble board in
my closet," Ruth smirked at Jack. "I guarantee I'll kick your
ass, whatever you think the rules are."
"Well, it would make a nice change from pinching it."
Daniel was starting to think
his view of family life was perhaps a tad idealised. Or maybe
just young. Maybe, if they'd lived, he and his parents would have
reached a point where there was so much love and trust, such a deep
bond, it was beyond expression. Except through gratuitous
insults, expert aggravation and tangential, subtly layered squabbling.
He felt out of his depth
here. For the first time, he understood how Jack could feel such
certainty in his identity and his place in the world. He'd never
lacked for validation; there was an affection, a protective empathy and
generosity here Daniel couldn't remember. He was just too young
when he lost it.
It was difficult for him to
imagine a life without walls and defences, an, in his experience,
necessary distance. Jack and his family, they were one, a whole,
so much a part of each other it hurt him, some, to see it.
He was afraid he was falling a little bit in love with these people.
"Why exactly did you bring me here, Jack?" Daniel’s voice was very quiet.
Jack glanced down at his
best friend and bête-noir, currently sprawled all over the
bed. Barefoot. In jammies. Cute, baggy, navy tartan
fuzzy flannelette bottoms which hung low on his hips and a clinging
t-shirt with Road Runner on the front and Meep Meep on the back.
Quite a lot of respectable muscle showed.
His mother had lingered over
her goodnights. He’d finally had to evict her, uttering a
slightly dazed, "Oh yes, bare feet, definitely the way to go," as she
went. It had looked for a while as if force would be necessary.
He was going to insist on chaperoning the arty stuff. He didn’t
trust his dear old grey-haired mother an inch.
If he didn’t know the folks
were spooning up together right now? Sometimes it was impossible
to cope with the fact his parents were still like honeymooners closing
in on forty-eight years of marriage. It made him feel, well,
inadequate wasn’t too strong a word.
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