Petty Needs
Plan B. We can do Plan B. In fact, Plan B is one step up from the usual. Of course, Plan B doesn't usually include taking all our big, giant surprise birthday party plans for everyone's favorite archaeologist and turning them into a fancy buffet for a bunch of snake-heads. Well, I didn't plan on missing my own speech at Carter's promotion ceremony three days ago for some face time with a little grey alien, but welcome to just another day at the SGC.
That little 'gate-tech guy with the glasses—Walter—he's pretty pissed. Went to the trouble to borrow all this Greek crap from his friend who does set-dressing for a local theater company—I mean he's got urns and statues and all this gauzy fabric to hang everywhere and now the only people who get to appreciate it aren't actually people and the party's off. Dammit. Walter wasn't the only one who was looking forward to this.
And Teal'c isn't helping. The whole "we do not celebrate the anniversary of one's birth on Chulak" line combined with the traditional Jaffa Stare of Smugness had pretty much squashed my idea of getting those Jaffa muscles to work carrying Greek crap from Walter's u-haul to the newly refurbished System Lord Lounge on Level 20. Geez. Then the big guy officially pooped on the party by marching out of the briefing after telling Hammond he wouldn't "see to the petty needs of the Goa'uld," leaving our birthday boy twisting in the wind. Happy Birthday, Danny, this year you've won the position as cabana-boy to the first-cousins of the snake who made your wife into his sex slave.
So, Plan B it is. We've got two hours reprieve from the general, and permission to take our birthday-boy off base for pizza and presents while the rest of the SGC scurries around converting a Little Archaeologist themed Birthday Extravaganza into a Welcome to Earth and Please Don't Screw Us Masquerade, complete with pyramid shaped piņata. Daniel thinks I'm taking him home to pick up his good suit by way of my place for my dress blues. At least that was the plan. Now Daniel's MIA while Carter and Teal'c are sitting in my favorite booth hovering over a cooling deep-dish and lusting after my, er, Daniel's chocolate cappuccino mousse cake while the timer on our little birthday window of opportunity is rapidly ticking down to zero.
I've looked in his office, the commissary, the infirmary—hey, you never know—and the locker room and no sign of the reluctant celebrant. I've got SG-2, 4, and 5 checking the perimeter, and Hammond and Davis stationed in the control room just in case he tries to make a break for it through the 'gate. Daniel doesn't mind being the center of attention at a lecture or on an alien world among half-naked, spear-toting cannibals, but try to be nice to the guy, even normal, everyday birthday nice, and he suddenly has a dentist appointment. At least he hasn't gone through the checkpoint on Level 11, so he's not wandering around the mountain contemplating the meaning of life. Good. Don't think I could handle one of those discussions today.
Siler found him. Good old accident prone Siler. "He's in the gym, sir." The gym? What the hell is he doing there? Apparently I asked that out loud and Siler was still listening on his end of the phone. "Picking fights sir—you'd better hurry."
Okay. Don't exactly remember how I got here, but I'm in the gym pushing though a three-deep ring of airmen and civvies, the kind of crowd that gathers after school to watch the school bully pick on little Danny four-eyes. Only this crowd is quiet—not shouting, not egging said bully on, kinda shifting their feet back and forth as if they're about to call the principal because something isn't right here. And when I get to the front to look around for my missing geek I gotta agree. Yeah, well, don't you worry, the principal just arrived and he's taking names, kids. I pick out Siler's tall frame and practically lunge at the guy, but he's already holding two hands up to ward me off.
"They didn't hear it from me, sir. Word just sort of spread." Sure it did. Why is the worst place to keep a secret within the walls of the most top secret military base known to mankind?
I can't help it. My eyes are riveted on the action in the ring and I'm stunned to immobility, just like the pack of yahoos I had to push my way through. Nope. No sign of my geek here. That guy who just performed a perfect scissors kick and took all 280 pounds of Marine Sgt. Sandeman to the mat does not resemble the soft-spoken diplomat who not two hours ago quietly agreed to be Cronos, Yu, and Nirrti's slave-for-a-day in any way. Hoo-boy.
Sandeman doesn't seem to know what to do when Daniel backs off to give him room to get up, you can tell by the hesitation in his eyes and the deliberation of his movements. Daniel is red-faced and breathing hard, a slim trickle of blood heading south over his chin from a split lip. But the lights aren't on behind those blue eyes—whatever Daniel's trying to get out of his system is keeping him completely shuttered and withdrawn, hiding behind the soldier-boy we've all done our best to make him into. Let's just say it's not a good look for him.
I step onto the mat and nod Sandeman off. The marine looks relieved, gotta save up the memory of that expression on one of Makepeace's jarheads for later. I can hear Siler shooing people out behind me, a couple of other familiar voices helping. Daniel's only got eyes for me, but there's no recognition in his face. What the hell is he seeing?
"Hey, Danny, I thought we were gonna go get some lunch and pick up our fancy duds for the Goa'uld shindig?" I know better than to try to approach him; don't want to have to make a choice between hurting him and ending up flat on my back. Daniel brushes one hand across his forehead and flings the sweat onto the mat. His hair is plastered to his skull and his white t-shirt is almost transparent with moisture, but he's not registering the pain yet. Oh yeah, there's gonna be pain. I can see the telltale signs of imminent bruises and scrapes in about six different locations that I can see, let alone the ones his shirt and sweats are hiding. If I can get him to listen, to wait just a minute, his body's going to be able to get some of those pain signals through to his adrenaline soaked brain.
He's still stalking around the edge of the mat in sweeping circles, never turning his back, watching for an opening like I taught him when I see the first tremor hit. He blinks and I get my first tiny glimpse of a stubborn archaeologist in those cold warrior eyes. That's it, Danny. Time to come home.
"Jack?"
"Who else?" Going for nonchalant here, I shove my hands into my pockets to keep from grabbing him into a hug.
His right hand slowly reaches to rub at his hip. "Ow."
"Gonna have a shiner, too, I bet," I smile sloppily. Daniel doesn't answer, but fingers his jaw carefully. I take two hesitant steps towards him and finally relax when he doesn't flinch. "Time to hit the showers?" Making it sound like a question lets him believe it's his idea, that he's in control. And I'm thinking that control is exactly what this is about. Making nice with the beings who ripped his life apart is going to take every ounce of control that Daniel Jackson has, and only a guy as strong as Daniel could ever hope to pull it off.
"Yeah, good idea," he murmurs and I follow him off the mat, into the locker room, and back into normalcy. While he hits the showers I call Carter and Teal'c and give them the heads up, leaving them the task of collecting the wardrobe changes we're going to need this afternoon.
Showered, shaved, bruised hips wrapped in a towel, Daniel sits next to me on the bench—quiet, but not in that scary, explosive way. In the Daniel-is-thinking way. That's okay. That's good, that's normal.
"Feel better?"
"Actually, yes," he finally admits. I feel him turn to face me. "Thanks for understanding."
I shrug. "Oh, I understand about needing to hit somebody, believe me."
He tries to smile but the forming scab on his lip stops it a little short. "That, too."
Ah, hell. There's always next year. It's a goal I can live with—keep Danny alive one more year to finally give him that big birthday bash we all want to. I slap him gently on the shoulder.
"Happy Birthday, Daniel," I sigh. Wonder if you can freeze chocolate cappuccino mousse cake?
The End
