Cry for the Moon, by Carrie (PG-13)

[sg-fignewton.livejournal.com]

Rec Category: Daniel Jackson

Pairing: None
Category:  Daniel Jackson, Jack O'Neill, Daniel/Jack friendship, episode related, angst
Warnings: references to canon minor character death, some language
Author on LJ: unknown
Author's Website: Carrie at Stargatefan
Link to Story: Cry for the Moon

Why This Must Be Read:  Reccing another Carrie fic this month, albeit in a different category.  Here's another wonderful author who allows us to see the process of Jack and Daniel's bond through Abydos deepening into real friendship.

Most of this story takes place just after the events of Enemy Within, when Jack is trying to cope with Charlie Kawalsky's death. When Daniel shows up at his home, uninvited, to offer consolation, Jack isn't interested in the slightest. He's angry at how much Kawalsky's death means to him, and resolved never, ever again to allow a teammate to become a good friend.

Hah. Little does he know.

This fic is a gem, because Daniel is not having an easy time getting through. After all, he shouldn't find it easy; he and Jack are still new to each other, still finding their way tentatively towards friendship, and Jack, who essentially pulled the trigger when he shut off the wormhole, really isn't in the mood. Daniel perseveres in the face of O'Neill-at-his-worst, and after some literally physical therapy to break the ice, finally gets invited indoors - both physically and metaphorically.

The final paragraphs of the story shift abruptly to some months down the line, and a pivotal moment for Jack in another episode. I won't spoil it here, because it's that parallel that left me breathless when I read this story. Until that point, it was a simply an excellent, if rather routine, Jack and Daniel friendship story. But with the twist linking the two events, Carrie left me astonished at her keen understanding of Jack O'Neill and the depth of his friendship with Daniel Jackson.

Through the wide-slatted blinds, he watched Daniel repeatedly hammer the blaze orange ball. The other man wasn’t a very good shot, missing two out of three times but the delivery of each was filled with concentrated fervor. Jack looked toward the phone. Daniel let out a particularly noisy grunt. When he moved his attention back to the driveway, he saw the younger man sitting on the ground, knees up, arms propped on them and head hanging. The ball was lying, abandoned, by the net. He opened the door and stood there. He shut it half way. Opened it again.

Then he was suddenly standing in front of Daniel. The archaeologist glanced up, squinting from the sun streaming into his eyes and the sweat gliding down his face. Startlement was clear even behind the narrowed lids, and Jack didn’t know which of them felt that way more. He blinked. What was he doing? Furrowing his eyebrows, he quickly put his sunglasses on and turned his back. Daniel coughed.

"Colonel?" Jack stopped. The rank sounded wrong coming from the archaeologist even though it was right. And it was right. Daniel continued, "Maybe you could, uh, show me how it’s done? I don’t seem to be much good at this."

He turned around and stared at the upturned face, the startlement gone, hurt unveiled. Tangible pain. For some reason, the revealed emotion made anger spike again as if he felt his rights to grieve alone had been violated. Already, he found irritation an all too common occurrence when it came to Daniel. That he couldn’t seem to keep the other man from pushing his buttons, intentionally or unintentionally, only served to rile him up more. Fine. He’d show Daniel how to use a hockey stick properly. Then he’d get rid of him.

"Try to block me," he ordered, stiltedly returning to Daniel’s side.

Picking up the stick, Jack waved impatiently at the goal. Daniel moved unquestioningly, scrambling to his feet and removing his jacket. Jack’s eyebrows automatically twitched; even if he couldn’t claim to know the younger man that well, he knew basic information. Like Daniel’s clearly independent, stubborn mind – when the man wanted something, he wouldn’t let up. And the tendency to think long and hard about an order before actually complying with it was already obvious as well. Aggravating, yet this strange compliance was more so. He retrieved the ball and began with a wicked shot that whizzed right through the archaeologist’s legs.

As when he had been alone, the activity seemed to pull all of his concentration, and he was soon firing shot after mindless shot. Daniel disappeared from his focus so much that Jack didn’t really register the younger man darting back and forth. He vaguely heard their grunts mingling in the air, a distortion of the typical stadium static at a hockey game. Instead of diminishing with every passing minute, his energy seemed to grow impossibly and each swing at the hard ball became more frenzied.

He was pissed.

At Charlie.

At Daniel.

At himself.

At life and death and everythingeverything.

Dull roaring drowned out all other sound, and sweat rained off of him in large droplets. Useless anger, useless means to deal with emotions he still couldn’t fully pin down. On and on it raged until his ears registered something other than the rushing blood, and it was enough to halt him with both arms still slightly raised from his last swing. Lucidity gained a foothold swiftly, eyes jarring back online in time to see Daniel crumpling to the ground even as the pained cry was swallowed by the thud of a body hitting pavement. The orange ball shimmied guiltily away, onto the street once again, where it skulked under another parked car.