ONE TOO MANY  BY PHOENIX E

Oh God, this water feels good.  I bruised more than my dignity when I took that header down the temple stairs on 759 this afternoon.  No permanent damage though, unless you count the camcorder.  The less said about that the better.

Mmmmmm. Between the shower massage and the pain pills I’m feeling none.  And you know what, for once in my life I’m going to take my doctor’s advice and go straight to bed.  No sitting up ‘til three AM hunched over a computer monitor finishing a report or going blind trying to puzzle out that last, tricky line of text.  Nope, not me.  Not tonight.  Tonight it’s just gonna be me, my nice big comfy bed and several consecutive hours of blessed oblivion. Yep, that sounds like a plan.

Might as well get started on it right now.  So as loathe as I am to desert my warm, steamy sanctuary I figure almost an hour getting the aches beaten out of my bones by this lovely hot spray is quite long enough. Besides, I’m feeling a little too comfortable, not to mention starting to get a bit sleepy.  No nodding off in the shower, Daniel, it’s time to put your weary bones to bed.

With a regretful sigh I shut off the water, push open the shower door and grope for a towel for my hair. I’m not fond of getting the pillow all soggy so I’ll dry the hair a bit but I’m not going to bother with the rest of me, seems like too damned much work to towel off when I’m just going to toddle a very short distance from here to my bed at which point I’ll be collapsing and sleeping. As I start to walk out of the bathroom briskly rubbing my hair and happily anticipating my imminent collapse once I attain my objective it hits me I’m so tired I’m almost resenting the effort I have to expend getting from here to there.

Sleep.  Need some.  Why is the bed so far away?

I’ve barely cleared the bathroom and am stumbling on my merry way still rubbing my hair and dripping when I emerge from beneath the towel and come face to face with Jack.

Jack is standing in the middle of my living room, swaying.

I’m dripping.  And naked.  And about to pass out from the heart attack I’m having.

“Jack!”  I squeak, rearing back like he’s just bit me, my heart pounding, hyperventilating, so shocked by his unexpected presence it takes me several seconds to remember to rectify my current state of moist un-dressed-ness with the towel I’ve remarkably retained custody of.  My hands are shaking so badly I’m having trouble winding it around my waist, but the time I have to expend concentrating on forcing my fumbling fingers to finally accomplish the task is necessary for me to be able to calm down enough to confront my unexpected company.  Which isn’t proving to be an easy task, the calming down bit, that is, what with utter confusion adding to my current mental chaos.

Jack is here. Jack!  Here?

Here?

Jack?

Jack is the last person I’d expect to be standing in my living room, not that I customarily expect anyone to be here when I emerge from my shower au naturel but especially Jack, especially lately, it’s not as if we’ve been close these past few months, what with the cold shoulder treatment he’s been giving me since…

But there’s no point in opening that old wound again, it hasn’t been easy, but I’ve grown to accept things have changed between us; for whatever reason, Jack has moved on, or lost interest, or found himself a new best friend, all of the above, whatever, it’s all amounted to the same thing, we don’t talk, we don’t hang out, he definitely doesn’t drop by and he certainly doesn’t just appear in my apartment in the middle of the night so pissed he can barely stand.

O God, I just realised – Jack is drunk.  I’ve been so knocked off balance by him just being here snockered or sober I didn’t really see him at first but the swaying, the grinning and the unmistakable eau de brewski fragrance rolling off him in waves…

He’s so marinated his breath is making my eyes water.

Uh huh.  Jack’s had at least one too many.  But that still doesn’t explain…

“Jack, what are you doing here?” I wearily demand of the sloppily smirking drunkard currently putting all his mental energy into trying to prevent his eyes from being magnetized by the tip of his nose.  I can feel my happy fantasy of soft mattresses and warm blankets being swallowed up by the toxic clouds of alcoholic fumes rolling through my living room and I’ll try not to hate Jack for belching on my parade but I’m making no promises.

Jack blinks as if what I’ve asked him is beyond his mental ability to comprehend, which actually might not be too far from the truth given the astonishing level of inebriation he seems to have achieved.

“I can’t remember where I live,” he finally announces, evidently vastly amazed at his ability to articulate.

“But apparently you can remember where I live,” I frown at him, trying to stay mad, but he has this adorable five-years-old bad boy thing going for him right now, you know, the 'awww, who, me?' face put on by the cute little tyke who breaks your window with his baseball and he knows he’s busted, you’ve got him dead to rights and then he does the thing with the big, brown ‘I know I’m bad but you love me anyway’ eyes…and….

I’ve missed you, Jack.

“Apparently,” he proudly announces.  “This is where the cabbie dropped me and I was too – well, too – too – “

“Drunk?”

“Yeah, that – to argue with him.  Danny?”

He hasn’t called me that in ages – I wasn’t expecting it, hadn’t prepared myself for it and the memories of the lost intimacy it stabs me with – not something I really need right now.  Or ever.  I don’t make a habit of jabbing sharp objects into my eyes and being reminded of how much I’ve lost rates right up there in the same category of stupidly pointless hurtful experiences I do not need to subject myself to.

I’ll put some clothes on and drive Jack home.  He can throw up in his own toilet and pass out on his own bathroom floor.  I don’t need –

“Danny,” he says again, his blissful grin wavering, those damned brown eyes wrapping right around my heart.  “I need to sit down.”

I’m a stupid, moronic fool, you know that.   A complete and utter sucker for those irresistible eyes and the whole, complete, outrageous O’Neill package they come with.   A couple of ‘Danny’s and I’m right in there, holding him up, getting him over to the couch and trying to remember where I’ve stashed the spare bedding.

Drive him home and ditch him.  Suuuure you will, Jackson, sure you will.  But I will put something on.  Almost lost the towel a couple of times in the process of getting Jack to the sofa.  Not like it should matter or anything, I mean we are both guys and he has seen me in the altogether before and vice versa but still – I’d feel a little less – vulnerable – with a little more on.  Not to mention the warm glow of the shower has worn off and I’m starting to feel slightly chilly.

Jack is sprawled all over my sofa, grinning foolishly up at me, his eyes glazed, heavy lidded. He’s about thirty seconds from passing out, I’m thinking. If I’m lucky. If he does I won’t have to worry about him.  He won’t move ‘til morning and I can finally get some sleep. But if he doesn’t…

Yeah, better put some clothes on, just in case.

“Just – just sit there,” I instruct him, wondering why I’m bothering.  The condition he’s in, not only is he not capable of scratching his nose never mind getting off the couch, he’s probably going to be unconscious by the time I get back.  Keeping my fingers crossed, anyway.  “I’m gonna – put something on,” I say, waving toward the bedroom.  “I’ll be right back.”

“Danny,” he drawls with a crooked grin.  And then belches.

I wish he’d stop calling me that.

I drop the towel inside the bedroom door, turn on the overhead light and cringe.  Oh God, what a mess. I’d forgotten the way I left this place this morning.  Slept in.  Again.  I was in a bit of a hurry. It shows.  Oh dear.  It looks like it’s time to do the laundry too.  Yeah, definitely time to do the laundry.  Damn. A brief hunt through the dresser drawers for a clean pair of sweats, at least, proves to be a waste of time  – wow, I don’t even have any clean underwear.  Looks like I’m going to have to rummage through my dirty discards for the remedy to my modesty problem.

Damn you, Jack O’Neill, you’re always doing stuff like this to me!  Can’t be bothered with me for months and then when it’s the most inconvenient – tah dah!  And heeerrrre’s JACK!  Bastard.  Selfish, inconsiderate bastard! I should be well on my way to unconsciousness by now, but oh no, thanks to Jack instead of happily sleeping my cares away I’m faced with having to face my dirty laundry.

If this is some capricious deity’s idea of a cosmic joke, well, this is what I look like when I’m not laughing.  Or sleeping, dammit!

Okay, focus, Daniel.  Sweats.  Find some.  Wait a minute, I think  - that pile sort of half under the bed there.  That looks like a good place to start.  We’ll check this one out and hope we get lucky.

I’m on my hands and knees peering under my bed when I get my second shock of the evening.

“Danny?”

Jack. Jack’s in my bedroom.  Odds are he’s still drunk.  I’m definitely still naked.  With my bare ass hoist in the breeze to boot.

When exactly did I lose control of my world?  Stupid question, I’m currently unwittingly mooning the answer.  What I want to know is how in the hell did he manage to follow me in here and why couldn’t he have waited until I at least got some pants on?  And why couldn’t he have managed to do at least one considerate thing since he showed up here soused and unannounced and pass out – out there – where he was supposed to.

And not – aw geez!

I get my head out from under the bed and shoot up in time to see Jack blinking at my ass, a sloppy grin roaming all over his face as he does a spectacular swan dive, toppling forward onto my bed.

And theerrrrre he goes.  Ka-BLAM.

Shit.

Jack is sprawled, drooling and from all appearances finally passed out.  On my bed. Not just on it, all over it, splayed out good and proper, and it’s a pretty big bed, so him by himself occupying most of it is a fairly impressive accomplishment.  As well as excruciatingly inconveniencing.  Typical Jack.  A total pain in the ass even when he’s a sodden, drunken mass. I could almost hate him right now, if I didn’t…

Exhausted and exasperated I plunk myself down on the side of the bed and plop my head in my hands.  I’m a grown man I will not cry.  Some low key whining, surreptitious snivelling, possibly some wailing but absolutely no crying.  

It also looks like I’m going to be sleeping on the couch tonight.  In my own apartment.  

Go on, laugh.  You know you want to.

Ugh, I’m so tired.  I can’t decide what I need to do first, find the sweat pants or the spare sheets but whatever, I need to get moving so I can get some sleep.  Good night, Jack, you bastard.  Enjoy my nice comfy bed and I hope your head caves in in the morning.

On second thought, maybe not, because I’ll be the one stuck having to listen to him bitch and whine about having a hangover.  Unless I do the pre-emptive strike thing and kill him now.  That’d save us both a lot of grief.

Go to sleep, Daniel, you’re delirious.  

“Daaaannnnnyyy.”

I do not believe this!  I’m hearing things, Jack can’t possibly still be conscious.

“Feelings, I got all these feelings…” Jack dazedly warbles into one of my pillows with appallingly tuneless enthusiasm.

Oh God, now Jack is singing.  Badly.  Loudly.

“….I’m such a putz…”

Did I say badly?  An interesting variation on the standard lyric, though.  Oh God, can this night get any worse?

“Go to sleep, Jack,” I wearily beg him.  Not that I think for a moment it’ll do any good.

“Can’t,” he grumbles and heaves a huge sigh.  “Can’t.  Can’t sleep.  Been bad.  Very, very bad.  Oh Danny, I’ve been a baaaad boy.”

“Jack, it’s late, you’re – it’s late, I’m really tired and you’re – “

“I’m shit-faced,” Jack snorts.  “I know that.  Drunk as a punk. Wanna know why?”

No, and I can’t stress this strongly enough.  But you’re going to tell me anyway, aren’t you?

“Feelings!”  Jack announces with vehement satisfaction.  “I got ‘em.  Lots and lots and lots of ‘em.  Bad feelings.  Bad.  Not right.  Not supposed to have feelings for someone you work with.  But I got ‘em.  Yep. I got ‘em and I can’t make ‘em go away.  Tried, you betcha I’ve tried.  Booze does not work, by the way.”

Yeah, I know.

I’m starting to get that tight, sick feeling in my chest like I’m trapped in a box with too little air and I can’t breathe.  He hasn’t said much, not yet, but he’s already said enough to make me more than certain I don’t want to hear any more.  I could tell him a few things about ‘feelings’ as well, if I thought he gave even the slightest bit of a damn.

It’s been a long time since I’ve had any cause to believe he did, and I certainly haven’t heard anything yet to convince me things have changed.

“I care, you know,” he continues to burble, as oblivious as ever as to the effects of his actions, especially where I am concerned.  “More than I should.  Way more.  Too, too much.  Member of my team - care for them lots and lots.  Bad – bad thing to do, Danny.”

And there it is.  The one thing in the world I really do not want to hear about, know about, or have a heart to heart discussion with Jack about with or without the benefit of the booze.

My hair hurts, my back aches, my eyes are stinging, I’m getting a headache.  I want to go to sleep, I wish Jack was anywhere but here but most of all, what I want – I do not want to have this conversation, not now, not ever. I don’t care to know anything about Jack and his ‘feelings’ especially about Sam.  It’s been hard enough to come to terms with it and now I’m mostly past the shock and disappointment and I can almost stand to see them – simpering at each other – still,  I don’t need my nose rubbed in it.  

I’m not that good a person, Jack, and I won’t pretend to be.  Not even for you.

“Did you hear me?” he suddenly demands with petulant brashness after having finally realised I’ve not said a word since he started unloading.

“Yeah,” I manage to get out.  “I heard you.  And I think maybe you should close your eyes and sleep this off before you say something you’ll regret in the morning.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he loudly laments as if he hasn’t heard a word I’ve said.  As usual.  “I’ve tried to get a handle on it – I know I’ve compromised both of us, maybe the whole damned team and what I’ve done – to try and stop – keep away – not fair, mean, even, just making things worse and it’s not enough, it’s not working and I don’t know how much longer I can go on like this.”

He’s hurting.  Really hurting. I’m trying not to listen, but I can’t help it.  I care more than I should, too.

About him.  More fool me.

“You know what’s really funny,” he laughs bitterly, an ugly, nasty sound.  “Probably wasting my time.  The whole thing’s damned hopeless.  Doomed.  Doomed from the start.  After all,” he sneers. “It’s not like they’ll ever – love me back.”

“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think it is, Jack,” I start to say after taking a deep breath. To be honest, I can’t believe I’m saying anything at all, but especially this.  I have to be out of my mind, giving the person I love advice about how to deal with his feelings for someone else.  But I do love him, and I don’t like to see him so unhappy.  Even if helping him means I’ll be helping him into someone else’s arms.

It’s okay, you can say it, I’m an idiot.  But at least I can sleep nights.  That is, when I don’t have drunken, besotted colonels crying into my pillows.

“Oh, I know it’s a one way street, all right,” he continues, his voice scratchy with self-pity.  “I’ve been looking but I haven’t seen…”

“Well how could you?”  I gently try to reassure him.  “I mean, think about it for a minute.  The same reason why you can’t – applies both ways.  I’m sure things aren’t as one sided as you think they are, it’s just – as long as you’re both – I mean if you can’t act on it because of the regs, well then – “

“You think so?” he asks, sounding so pathetically hopeful I feel a little sick.  If I had any brains I’d walk out of this room right now and leave him to stew in his misery, but I can't.

“Maybe if they were no longer an issue,” I start to say to him, feeling light-headed with dread in anticipation of his answer.  “If the regs were no longer a barrier.  What if one of you wasn’t – wasn’t on the team any longer? Then – the team member – who hasn’t been able to show you – because they’re not free to – because…”

I can’t finish.  Fortunately I don’t have to.  Jack might be soused to the gills but remarkably, against all odds he does seem to possess a few functioning brain cells.  I’d be impressed if I wasn’t too busy being heartsick.

“Retire?” he mumbles. “If I that was all it took – what they needed to be able to say – youbetcha.  Wouldn’t hesitate.”

Oh God, he’s not kidding.  This isn’t some ego driven, middle aged crush – thing.  Not if he’d give up SG-1 for her.  He means it – he really loves her.  This is more, way more than I wanted, needed to know.  I haven’t just lost him as a friend, as – well I never had that so I can’t very well claim to have lost it but if he leaves, for her – I’ve really have nothing left.

‘Well, if you’re that serious, maybe you should find out how they feel,” I murmur, blinking furiously.  My eyes are starting to sting and my head feels like it’s going to explode.

“I can’t do that!” he protests, suddenly panicking at the suggestion.

“Why not? How else are you going to know?”

“No, no, no, can’t do that,” Jack babbles, inching closer, reaching out toward me.  I shudder as his fingers brush against the bare skin of my back before his hand thumps heavily back down on the mattress.  “You don’t understand it’s – tricky – and what if I take that chance, put it out there and they don’t feel the same – I could lose everything – no, no,” he moans into the pillow,  “I don’t think I could take it, if they didn’t, if it costs me – “

“And what if they do?” I say, covering his hand with mine.  I know I shouldn’t, I really shouldn’t – touch him.  But I can’t help it.  It’s been so hard to be so close to him for so long, and yet be so far away.  I might not get many more chances.  Once things…change, he’ll be gone.  With her.  I probably won’t see him much after that.

I’m not feeling so hot right now.

“But what if they do, Jack? Are you going to throw that chance away and spend the rest of your life being miserable, never knowing because you never tried – “

He suddenly grips my arm, hard, almost hard enough to hurt.  He’s raised his head slightly, is staring at me intently, his eyes suddenly piercing, full of meaning I don’t quite understand.

“Do I have a chance, Danny?” he asks me, his eyes raking over my face as he abruptly pulls me over onto the bed beside him with a lot more strength than I believed him currently capable of.

“Do I?” he asks again, softer this time as his eyes close, his head drops heavily on my shoulder and his arm flops lifelessly across my chest.

It’s like a knife inside me, to feel him so close, to be lying with him in this false embrace of counterfeit intimacy.  I’ve dreamt of this moment for such a long time and now it’s finally here, irony of entirely appropriate ironies the dream has proven to be just as false and empty as the end of every other hope I’ve foolishly chased after.  He wouldn’t be here – this wouldn’t be happening if he wasn’t plastered because he’s in love with someone who isn’t me.  Someone he doesn’t think he can have.  Or at least, he hadn’t let himself hope he could have, until now.

I wish him better luck than mine.

“Why don’t you ask Sam and find out?”  I whisper, half hoping he’s passed out and won’t hear me.

“Sam?” he snorts and rubs his face against my chest.  “Why would I do that? Don’t think so.  Won’t be bringing Sam into this particular loop.  Could be dicey.  You know – don’t ask, don’t tell – that crap, nope, not talking to Sam.  Talking to you,” he finishes with a small sigh, stroking his fingers up my arm with hesitant tenderness. “Asking…you.”

I’m having trouble breathing again.  One little phrase – just sunk in.

Don’t ask.  Don’t tell.  

He doesn’t want to talk to Sam, doesn’t want to ask her – not Sam, it’s not Sam, she’s not the one he wants, loves, would walk away from SG-1 for.

Not Sam.  Oh God, I’ve been – all this time I’ve had it all wrong.  Looking, but not seeing, listening, but not hearing.

He’s not asking Sam he’s asking…

“You see, it’s like this. I sorta love ya, Danny,” he sighs as he draws in closer to me, moulding his body to mine, sinking into me as he hugs me tighter.  “Lots.  Lots and lots. That’s not just the booze talking – well it is, a little – giving me the guts to say it, but not why I’m sayin’.  That’s me.  The way I feel.  For you. That’s not bad, is it?”

“No Jack,” I choke, my chest so full of joy it’s almost crushing me.  “That’s not bad at all.  To tell you the truth, I sort of love you too.”

“You do?”  I can feel his smile spread like sunshine across my skin.  “You do.”

“Yeah.  Lots and lots.”

“That’s – that’s good.”

I’m still too overwhelmed to do much but lie here and hold him and try to not break down completely and for a time he’s so quiet and still I think he must have finally passed out.

“Danny?”

Oh – still with me.  “Jack?”

“I’d kiss you, but I’m not feeling so good right now. Don’t want to puke on you or anything like that.  Can I kiss you in the morning?”

“Yes, Jack,” I tell him as I gently stroke his cheek.  “You can kiss me in the morning, and every other morning after that, if you’d like.”

“I’d – I’d like,” Jack murmurs as he finally drifts off to sleep.

FINIS