Rating/Disclaimer: PG-13 / Not mine, not commissioned, and not intended for defamation of any kind.

Notes: Dedicated to Fry. Because she made it happen, and hopefully her life will mirror its attitude. This is my first SG fic in over a year, I think, so I hope I've still got the touch.

He'd thought in the past that preaching should be left to the preachers. And listening should be left to those who care, or at least who'd understand. But he supposed he'd changed since then.

He was no longer innocent, not by a long shot. Not in a physical or moral sense... he supposed that he was equally tarnished in those areas anyway... but in the sense of experience. He'd entered the world in a naive, messianic bubble; he'd thought the world simply darling.

But after seeing the fish-white underbelly of his profession, his city, even himself... he'd learned that it wasn't all a game. Hell--none of it was. Everyone was a prisoner of everything from religion to contracts to their own agreements with themselves. Nobody was truly free. Wait... prisoner wasn't an accurate term, he decided. It was more like they were all too fucking obligated to take a chance with anything.

And he? He breathed chance and exhaled risks.

This inner circle of drugs and filth and emotional prostitution... it was an entirely different planet.

He considered himself a victim of a strange sort of apartheid. Only his shantytown was a high-class apartment and his Johannesburg was San Francisco. The analogy seemed silly and unrelated to anything he'd ever experienced. He'd never been whipped, beaten, or sold into slavery...

He shook his head and swiveled his wrist, sloshing the cupful of half-melted ice cubes and rum-and-Coke in a lazy whirlpool. A song lilted in and out of his ears as he lifted the telephone's handset from the cradle.

He dialed the number and laid the handset on his shoulder, gulping the last mouthful of the drink with a bit of a hiccup. A congested but cheerful voice answered on the third ring.

"Y'ello?"

He smiled. "Hey, Danny! How are you?"

A small laugh came from the other end of the line. "Fine, as long as you're not calling me to bail you out of prison."

"Screw prison; although I'd probably have a lovely cellmate."

They snickered.

"So, it's been a while since we last talked. How're things in the U.S.?"

"Frantic. You know, I've been busy and overworked. But that's a good thing, because it means I'm still employed."

Darren curled his legs under each other and shifted in the lumpy armchair.

"You know, this conversation is so frighteningly normal. Aren't you glad we can still have normal conversations? I was so worried we'd just fall out of touch or act like an old, divorced couple�"

After a short pause: "Of course we can. We're friends, right? Well, more like newly-separated Siamese twins."

Their conversation continued with an array of, "how have so-and-so been?" and "how's such-and-such project going?" for another twenty minutes. Neither minded the banality, because it was just like being in the same room. And since that had been a while, talking helped to curb whatever strain their friendship had suffered. Darren quickly got to the point.

"So� Danny... the reason I called is� well--I'm getting a few days off starting tomorrow. And what would make my ultimate plan would be to fly down and see you. You and everyone back home. It's been too long, you know?"

Across two oceans and a string of continents, Daniel smiled.

"That sounds great. Give us some time to catch up on all the drama. Bet you'll love that."

Darren giggled. "Drama? I'm so there! I'd better start packing."

"I'd better start barring the windows."

"Ha. There's that drama, speak of the Devil."

"Fuck you and get on the plane."

They laughed, said their petty-yet-sincere goodbyes, and hung up.

Immediately, Darren stood. He'd need to take clothing, shaving kit, portable CD player, perhaps a pair of sandles due to the changes in the climate� his brain rambled off a veritable shopping list of ideas and he finally managed to shut it up. First off, he'd need to call and tell everyone where he was going in the first place.

Or, he thought, I could just let them believe that I've been kidnapped for my own sick amusement.

But he decided that facing imminent death didn't sound like a good start to his plans, and was soon dialing on his mobile with rapid speed and purpose.

***

The airport loomed in the distance, and the butterflies in his stomach were multiplying like horrid bacteria. In the front seat, the Gypsy Cab driver kept stealing glances at the odd little man in the passenger's carriage. And he was quite odd, but perhaps it wasn't too out of character. Going back home was always exciting (even if it was for something like a funeral).

As he was making sure he'd packed everything necessary, it hit him: this would be his first time seeing Daniel in several months. Would they still be okay around each other? Would it erupt into a hideous argument and force him to stay with his parents like the last time they talked? His windpipe suddenly felt quite small, and he felt he was developing motion sickness.

Friend, best friend, Hell--even if just an acquaintance--he liked to know the opinion that people carried of him. Just to make sure that nobody mistook his intentions of was accidentally hurt by his actions or showed him the wrong face� Perhaps what they say is right. You are quite paranoid sometimes.

He huffed aloud.

Not the truth!

Even so, as they turned down the final exit, he couldn't help himself from picking at a loose thread in his bluejeans. So went the life, play by play, of a helpless diva-wannabe.

***

A slight bump in the air woke him in time to hear Liam Gallagher sing "Did you ever feel the pain of the morning rain?" before he unplugged his headphones and sat up. God knew where exactly they were, or what time it was. The sky was growing light and gorgeous and cloudless� he smiled, his anticipation and nervousness slowed by the effects of sleep.

Unable to return to his doze, he watched faint snatches of water vapor and the occasional gull show up inside the blue void outside his window. Even though most of the plane's occupants were asleep, there was a fair amount of commotion, and he plugged the headphones back in just to create some pleasant background noise. He knew not and cared not about who the song was by, just rested his forehead against the window and listened for the sake of listening.

No music should go unheard, he thought. Then added: Wow, that sounded overly poetic for this type of morning.

Slowly, land emerged from the murk. He wondered which continent, but didn't bother asking and knew the pilot wouldn't give an announcement. After all, waking passengers isn't something a major airline would consider brilliant customer service. He chuckled to himself. It was no matter. Land was land, and anything with people was much more interesting to view from 30,000 feet than water.

The sun began to creep back into another day, and he smiled.

That concept excited him. After all, immaturity was something he clung to quite tightly. Without it, most people would be boring individuals. Not to mention he'd hardly be able to deal with them on a regular basis.

Whether he was free, slave, or a pawn in some corporate game� vacation was a time to forget that. He'd broken his chains (which were made of words and paper and advice rather than iron) and escaped Johannesburg. It may not have been for good, but it was for enough time to experience life back where he felt comfortable.

Perhaps it was where he belonged.

In fact, he was certain. This bird of wire and steel was carrying him across the borders and back into his home.

Back to the people he called home.

The run rose over New Zealand, and then over Sydney. He rose to collect his overnight bag.

It was still nighttime in Johannesburg.