Notes:I had intended this to be my entry for the Ancient Obsessions Yahoo list's 'Daniel's Secret' challenge--unfortunately, my class time munched on my writing time, and I didn't get to finish it in time. =/

Friday

"So...are we going in?"

I'm snapped out of my reverie by Carter's hesitant question, fleetingly wondering how the hell I managed to drive here without killing anyone. We're sitting outside O'Malley's, the lights inside the sports bar seeming a little too bright and jovial for my taste tonight. It was my idea to come out here though and even Teal'c was willing to come off base for a while...so I don't want to waste it. "Yeah," I say, forcing small smile. "Sorry about that."

"It's understandable, sir," Carter says softly, and the sorrow in her eyes is still too much for me to face right now. I busy myself with shutting off the truck, wanting to be the last one out for some reason. I trail Teal'c and Carter up to the front door and stop in the open doorway. I can't go in there. "Sir?"

"O'Neill." Teal'c appears right in front of me. "Are you well?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine, it's just...hey, you do just want to grab some Chinese or something and bring it back to my place? I really don't think I can handle the waitresses here tonight." It's a lame excuse, I know, but if you've ever been here, a few of the servers are straight out of 'Legally Blonde'.

Carter and Teal'c don't look concerned though; they actually look relieved. "Yeah, that's a good idea, sir," Carter says. "I was actually thinking the same thing."

"As was I."

And thus ends our shortest-ever pseudo-team outing.

=====

I step out of the way of the door, letting Carter and Teal'c pass with the bags of Chinese food. We ordered way too much, I know, but I can probably live off the leftovers instead of cooking real food for about a week. I do a double take when Teal'c passes through the door, half-expecting to find Daniel bringing up the rear, grumbling without any real conviction about me dragging him away from some important translation. Just another smack in the face courtesy of good old reality when nothing but cool evening air rushes in to meet me.

"I bought, uh...bought some wine," Carter said quietly, "while you two were ordering." She holds up the bottle; Syrah, Daniel's favourite. Carter's eyes are still red-rimmed, as they've been ever since Daniel...well.

"Great," is all I can come up with. "Let's sit down?" It comes out as a question, as if I'm suddenly uncertain whether or not Carter and Teal'c will accept the invitation even though they're already here.

Teal'c, silent as always, leads the way, seating himself on one end of the couch, I take the armchair across from it and Carter takes the other. The other end of the couch is left empty, and looking at that empty spot puts another gouge in my heart. Over the past year we haven't gathered here much, but just like it always does, it feels cold without all four of us together. Carter wordlessly gets up and returns with four glasses, filling each about halfway before remembering. Her hand shakes as she reaches to pour the contents of the fourth back into the bottle, but something rebels inside me and I catch her hand. "Leave it," I say, my voice hoarse. He'd be here, drinking with us--no, he wouldn't. Because if this hadn't happened, none of us would be sitting here--we'd be at our own homes, going about our business as usual, drifting farther and farther apart. I get that twinge again as I contemplate the irony that makes death the thing that brings us together.

"Sir?" I look up and Carter's holding a glass out to me, concerned. Seems she's been calling me for a while. I take the wine, the liquid cool in the glass against my skin. "Sorry," I mutter. Sorry. Just one word; it could have made all the difference in the world.

Carter and Teal'c each hold out their glasses. "To Daniel," Carter says thickly. I join them in the toast unable to speak, surprised when even Teal'c downs the tangy liquor. Lost in our thoughts, we sit silently. I stare at the half-full glass of wine sitting in front of the empty spot on the couch, stare at it hard, as if willing the wine to suddenly be picked up by the hand that should be picking it up; the hand with long, nimble fingers that have wandered over countless artifacts, countless walls, old ruins. Hands that have reluctantly taken up arms to willingly fight a war to save as many innocents as possible, hands that have tugged absently at my sleeve to get my attention, that articulate every word their owner says.

And now, hands that have disarmed a nuclear weapon to save millions of people that I don't even think deserve it, hands that willingly wielded that firearm to shoot out thick protective glass to leap headfirst into his own destruction. Daniel thought they deserved it. He always thinks they do.

"What happened?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does."

"My life is no more important than anyone else's."

How could he have thought that? 'Because he hasn't exactly been treated like it, you ass.' I could only stare blankly--something I've gotten very good at lately--when he said that, dismissed his own worth, not saying the 'Yes it is' that was right at the tip of my tongue.

"I"m really bad at this."

"Yes, you are."

Yes, I really am. But that little forgiving smile, a smile he put on past the excruciating pain he must have been in, told me he understood, he knew what I meant. We've always been beyond words in our communication, a tap of a hand, a simple "Jack?" "Daniel?" could hold a million meanings.

And I stopped caring, pushed him away as he strove to become more like the perfect soldier I thought I wanted him to be. It worked, too--more often than not we found ourselves in military situations, and Daniel's primary skills were shoved farther and farther away. Guiltily I recall the looks of pure joy that he'd have on his face; complete contentment when he could sit or stand in front of million-year old rocks, translating while I harped on over his shoulder. Now he's on the biggest adventure his curiosity could ever hope to conjure up, and the only person I have to blame is myself.

"Do you remember the day we got him back from Oannes?" Carter asked suddenly, smiling. Teal'c nods, I just listen. "He was so exhausted; I think he was going crazy, with all of us hanging around non-stop."

I smile slightly, and quietly point out, "He'd never actually tell us that, of course." It's true; we hung around at his side all night, just to reassure ourselves that he was actually alive and well, not burnt to a crisp in some freak volcanic eruption. He had three overbearing mother hens around him for weeks, and we only got worse when Daniel came to stay with me for a few days. Deep down, too, I think he appreciated the reassurance that he wasn't purposely left behind and actually had people who cared about him.

"I do not believe DanielJackson believed your claim that he won his fight in Hadante," Teal'c says to me.

I shrug. I prefer to believe he won, myself. We never really found out what exactly happened in Daniel's unexpected bout with Vishnoor, but the underdog scenario sits well with me. Sure, it may not seem plausible, but it's one of those preference things.

I notice Carter's fiddling something in her pocket, and point my glass at it. "Whatcha got there?"

She flushes a bit, then reluctantly pulls the object out of her pocket, unwraps the handkerchief it's wrapped in.

Daniel's spare glasses.

I nearly spew my wine across the room. "MajorCarter, why do you have DanielJackson's glasses?" Teal'c asks, sounding aghast. It's like someone robbed his grave or something; those things have been sitting on his desk for days; they've remained untouched, just like everything else in there. Carter ducks her head, shrugs.

"I don't know; I was in his office before we took the mission to save Thor, and when we got back I just...took them." She glances at Teal'c and I, eyes wide. "Do you think I should put them back? I just thought...I wanted to..."

She trails off and Teal'c and I don't make her explain herself, because we understand exactly why she took them. Simple things like a spare pair of glasses--those will likely find their way into the trash. It's something to hold on to. "Don't give them back." My voice is rough; I don't bother clearing my throat. "Keep 'em." Teal'c nods his assent.

"I believe he would be reassured to know you wish to keep them, MajorCarter."

She stares at the glasses, turning them over in her hands, letting the light catch in the lenses before she gently tucks them back in the handkerchief, back in her pocket. "Thanks guys."

---

We spend the next few hours lost in our own thoughts, wondering where we go from here, what we do when we have to report back for duty on Monday. Eventually, Carter stands, gathers up her bag. "I should go, sir. I'll call a cab, pick up my car tomorrow."

"As will I."

The words are out before I can even think about them. "Why don't you stay?" Teal'c barely reacts, but Carter does a double-take. I scrub a hand over my hair, pointing my empty glass at the door for reasons unknown. "I mean, it's just a waste of money if..." Screw it. "I could use the company. I think."

I look down, embarrassed, before I can catch their reactions, but out of the corner of my eye I see Carter put down her bag and sit.

Decision made, I guess. We may need more wine.

=====
=====

Monday

I take a bit of a detour on my way back from the mountain; I haven't been this way since the night after the Reese catastrophe. I turn onto the unusually quiet town street and pull up in front of the towering apartment building, peering up at a specific window. There's a light on; not surprising, considering Daniel was always paranoid of thieves breaking in and stealing his artifacts. Whenever we'd go offworld he'd leave the same light on, no dout coming home to an enormous electric bill, but happily paid it as long as nothing was out of place when he came home.

I hit the familiar button for the eighth floor and step out in the familiar hallway, walk to the familiar door of apartment 8-3. The familiar key burning a hole in my pocket makes my hand shake as my fingers close around it, and I slide it into the lock. It's so quiet in the dim hall, I hear the tumblers snick into place, and my hand closes over the doorknob. I turn and push, leaning my shoulder into the familiar weight of the door...

I step slowly into what, for all intents and purposes, has been a second home to me for nearly six years. I've spent more weekends, more Friday nights, here than I can count--probably as many as Daniel spent at my place. Everything is just as it was a week ago...Daniel's coffeemaker is half-full, and even the few dishes in the sink are familiar, something normal, something that isn't indicative of the passing of this place's owner.

My throat gets tight as I slowly walk through Daniel's refuge, skimming a hand over artifacts I've barely given a second glance before now, but are suddenly the last link any of us have to him. When I turn into the short hallway leading to the bedroom and bathroom, I freeze. Cardboard boxes are piled in front of the bedroom door, empty, waiting to be packed up, to be sent into storage. Angrily I kick the empty boxes aside and open the door.

Inspiration hits and I grab a box, carefully piling artifacts and keepsakes into it. Sha're's picture, a funerary statue, numerous others; I'm not going to let these things simply be tossed into a basement to collect dust.

I don't know what makes me do it, but I kneel on the floor and take a look under the bed, where another box sits, ignored, forgotten. I can see the dust already settling on it, and the old O'Neill nosiness kicks in; I reach under the bed and drag it out, sneezing when it disturbs the dust covering the top of it.

'He'll regret it later.'

My eyebrows lift of their own accord. Who will regret what? The top is taped shut, secured so it won't fall open, presumably, and I'm halfway to tearing the box open--it's one of those plastic-y storage boxes, the ones I always think of them as giant tupperware--when something makes me pause. I don't know what's in the box; I don't know why Daniel's written what he's written on the top of it, who he's written it about...this could turn out to be the biggest invasion of privacy--

But then again, if it isn't me who opens it, it'll be one of the SFs who comes through to take all his stuff into storage. If it's all personal keepsakes, things he doesn't want anyone else to see, he'd never forgive me for letting it fall into someone else's hands. So...I carefully tug the top of the box off.

What I see inside steals my breath. 'He'll regret it later.' I'll regret it later. That's what he said to me: "You can't get rid of that, Jack--you'll regret it. Think about it." Almost four years ago, he said that to me, when I was packing up a bunch of stuff, separating things for Goodwill, for storage at my parents' place, to give to Sara...or to throw out. My breath catches in my throat as I reach in with a shaking hand and pull out the first item--an envelope, with my name, underlined three times. It's sealed, obviously hasn't been open since it was sealed...until now.

'Jack,
I know you told me to leave well enough alone, but I couldn't. I told you you'd regret giving this stuff away, but your stubborn ass wouldn't listen to me...so if you've found this, you've obviously found the box itself, and I can only hope I'm far enough away to be spared your wrath.'

A shudder travels through me, because this letter, dated 1998, has almost, morbidly, predicted the circumstances under which I've uncovered this box.

'Anyway, you'll get over it I'm sure, and then I can move back into Colorado Springs (or just ditch the bodyguards, whatever the case may be). I hope this I really hope this doesn't sound like I'm making light of anything; I just don't want to make this letter all serious and get you even more pissed off at me.
You're probably not going to want to hear this--and this is why I didn't say it to you when you were getting all these things together to throw away--but you've got something special here, Jack. All this stuff, that you call 'trash', or 'worthless'...it isn't--but don't worry, I didn't read anything, or touch anything anymore than I had to go just get it in the box. But I think--at least, I hope--you already know that.
I suppose all I want to say now is, when you see me again, please don't kick my ass for keeping it! I know what it's like to throw things away and then have a case of the 'shouldn't'ves' later on...hopefully, by the time you read this, it'll be years later and your perspective will have changed.
Your friend,
Daniel'

I skim the letter again before reverently folding it, not caring how sappy it may seem to an outside observer, and then I dare taking another look inside the box; my gaze pulled of its own accord to a wad of envelopes, bound together by elestic bands. I actually feel my heart leap into my mouth and my hand is shaking a little as I reach in and carefully pull them out--they're letters; I recognize my own handwriting having written Sara's address--well, what would have been her address at home, and then our address later on--on the front, the mailing address. The return addresses are different on almost all of them; obviously letters from when he'd been away, held up at different bases, in different countries...it's unpleasant, but I can vividly remember finding the letters on the kitchen table after I'd returned from the first Abydos mission. Sara's way of telling me it was most definitely over. She'd had it with the military taking precedence over our relationship; she'd hung on, fought for it for as long as she could...I didn't blame her then, but it didn't stop me from taking the letters and putting them out to be burnt. There was so much stuff to get rid of. I didn't even notice, but Daniel must have taken them, saved them before I could destroy them.

Beneath the letters, something else catches my eye--a dull grey sweatshirt, neatly folded, and when I spread it out I discover it's a child's sweatshirt, with 'US Air Force' emblazoned in blue on the front. Charlie's. He wanted a set of fatigues of his own, but this was the best I could do...and it hadn't mattered to him; he'd worn it 'til I was sure, one day, that it would just disintegrate on his body.

There are a few other things in the box; some photographs that I pretty much wrote off, ticket stubs from hockey games...each and every item I uncover, I wonder a little more why I thought I would ever be able to throw them out of my life. Sara and Charlie were part of my past, and they make up who I am...everything in this box is like a fond look back in time--to a time I thought I wouldn't be able to look back on with anything other than regret.

I think, had I known at the time that Daniel had kept this stuff, I would have kicked his ass--I probably would have lit into him for not minding his own business, for nosing around where he didn't belong. He's right, though--at least, his letter was right--my perspective has changed, thanks to him...his pesky 'foresight' thing has been a thorn in the ass for years--but I'm glad he's still looking out for me.

---

I take one last look around Daniel's apartment, knowing the next time I set foot inside it, it won't look the same. Everything will be in the process of being packed up, shipped to the base, to garages, for storage. A realtor's sign will be slapped on the front window for passersby to see, and in a few months no one will ever be able to tell who this place belonged to. But as I step out the door, lock it up one last time, I give the two boxes under my arm a pat. Yup; as always, he was watching, looking to the future, anticipating. Taking care of everyone other than himself.

I think it's time I returned the favour.

End