Chapter Text
It was a mistake -- coming back, at this time, after this mission, to Chicago.
But going straight home to Winter Park would, Jack felt, have been an even bigger mistake.
He hadn't wanted to go right back there after the busted op, after the depressing debrief followed by the futile, officially ordered R&R he'd gone through the motions of taking, in Germany. See, the thing was, nothing official could fix this. Probably no amount of leave could, either. Not really. It would take a lot of plain old time, and beer, and trout fishing, to take the taste of what had gone down in Pakistan out of his mouth.
Charlie would help. Charlie always helped everything, and he didn't even know it. And Sara would help; eventually.
But not yet.
So, he'd called her from Germany; told her his uncle was back home at his parents' for a visit, which was completely true, and that he was going to hitch a flight there first. She'd understood. At least she'd said she had.
But Chicago had been a mistake. It hadn't helped at all.
It was a stilted, formal sort of family reunion that only served, Jack realized, to put off the more difficult one for a little longer, while making not a damn bit of difference to his mood. So after dinner the second night, he'd spun some fiction about meeting the guys downtown, kissed his mom, and bailed, driving his dad's old truck.
This bar was one he remembered, because it was close to the ball field, but things had changed in this neighborhood. Changed a lot. Or, he had. It had only been six or seven years since he'd been in here last, but it seemed like a much younger crowd, now, all college kids, and the music blasting out over the same peeling speakers was now full of computerized instruments. Nothing like he remembered. Well, it could be worse. At least it wasn't country.
He'd drunk one beer, ordered before he'd fully taken in the changes to the place, and then he'd ordered another, because someone caught his attention, which was why he'd come out. Hoping something, anything, would.
So, sipping his second beer, Jack found himself watching the long-haired, enthusiastic young guy who was holding forth at a table between the bar, where Jack sat, and the barely occupied dance-floor. It looked like a very academic crowd at that table -- lots of jeans and those broomstick skirts Sara liked, but also plenty of wellworn suit jackets. Lots of eyeglasses and earnestness and long dangly silver earrings that hinted vaguely of Central America. None of the women at the table, as far as he could see, was wearing makeup.
They were all celebrating something; hard to say what, but the red-haired guy who had caught Jack's eye kept getting bought rounds of drinks, and accepting, with a very attractive blush, the toasts of his compadres. He had a square jaw, and a ready smile, and yet his smile seemed tentative; the most ephemeral thing about him. It came and went, like clouds over the sun. He was slim, and handsome, and happy without being rowdy, and as the conversation ebbed and flowed around him he seemed most interested in the people, in their words, and not on getting drunk and how that made you feel when you were celebrating. Occasionally he'd get on a roll about something and talk, at length, and gesture, waving long-fingered hands or tapping on the table to make his point. His hair would get in his eyes and he'd impatiently smooth it back. And he had a gorgeous mouth. A kissable mouth.
If Kawalsky had been here, Jack would have felt obliged to focus more on the curly-haired blonde on Red's left, who was hanging on the guy's every word. Or pretending to. There was something about her demeanor that told Jack she was more interested in how people were seeing her, than she was in him, even though it was clearly her boyfriend's party; she was a little too self-conscious for Jack's taste. It spoiled any spontaneity in her vicinity. But Jack was alone, and so he could do whatever he wanted. Once he'd sized up the blonde, he forgot her.
He watched red-headed guy smile, and talk, and sip red wine, and hand off at least two shots of what might have been tequila to the sullen, pouty-lipped guy on his right. The blonde was leaning close, appearing to hang on his every word, yeah, but in the end, she left with Pouty. Interesting, that.
Watching Pouty down the free shots had made Jack think about getting some whisky, but he figured he'd better stick to beer. Since he had to get home later and all. But later seemed a long way away, as long as he had someone this sparkly and attractive to look at.
Finally the enthusiastic guy was swept toward the door with the crowd, saying goodbye, apparently, and Jack allowed himself the secret pleasure of sweeping him up and down one more time, now that he could get a really good full-spectrum look, since the guy was standing. Ugly plaid shirt, slim hips, the obligatory jeans, legs that went on forever, but oh, those lips, those eyes, and then Jack turned his attention to the hockey game on the screen at the end of the bar.
One wonderful thing about hockey. It had nothing to do with Pakistan. Nothing whatsoever.
"Hey, Pat, can I trade these for the largest glass of iced tea you've got?" Enthusiastic Guy was right there next to Jack, at the bar, setting down two beers that departing friends must have pressed on him. "... Okay, then yeah, Coke would be fine.... No, just Coke, please."
The guy was close enough to elbow, looking, at this much-pleasanter distance, sweaty and breathless and just as gorgeous as he had from across the room. He had acquired a jean jacket. And now he was alone.
Jack raised his second beer of the night and said, "You all looked like you had a lot to celebrate over there."
The guy gulped down half his Coke, and came up talking. "Yes, we certainly did." He grinned at Jack as if he'd known him all his life. He brought his Coke over to thunk against Jack's beer, which didn't work very well, as the Coke was in a tall plastic glass, but Jack took the gesture in its intended spirit. "We've pulled down all the grants we need for the next academic year, a paper of mine was accepted to a major high-profile journal, we think we might get to head to Egypt next season, and so in short -- life is good and things make sense."
"All righty then," Jack said, grinning back. The guy's smile was infectious. "Next up, world peace."
"And a pony," the guy agreed, and Jack laughed.
"I'm Daniel," the guy said extending his hand, and Jack couldn't but shake it.
"Jack," he said, and he almost said "Jack O'Neill," just his habit, but he stopped at the first name because something was pinging him, something under the surface that he usually didn't ever look for stateside, because he had what he was looking for at home, when he was home.
And that particular ping, he'd never felt in Chicago before, never, because he'd moved away from here long before he'd known what it was all about. Chicago wasn't ever about this, for Jack. But it was incontrovertible that the vibe he was getting from this guy was the same kind of body language, the same kind of signal, that served him overseas, after certain missions. Only then -- when he was far from home, and he needed something. When he was one of the guys who went months without family, who saw things and did things, together, that they couldn't take home to family. Guys for whom the hookups were anonymous and more than a little desperate, encounters where no one ever announced their last names, and the first names you did get were certainly fake.
The guy was smiling too much, and looking at his mouth, which you would never let yourself do if it was Kawalsky or Boyd. He'd held Jack's hand that little bit too long after they'd shaken, too. Most of all, he was looking too warmly and too intently into Jack's eyes. Ratchet up the intensity any more and it would be a blatant eyefuck. But maybe that wasn't out of place, here, in the neighborhood of the university, in a big city like Chicago. It was a whole new decade now, and America had gotten more liberal, more tolerant, when Jack wasn't looking, committed as he was to a life where the rules were very, very different than they would be here, for an academic in the Second City of the good ole U.S.A. And as the cues piled up, Jack suddenly understood that maybe the thing that would help him forget Pakistan, for real, deep down, to the bone, and would let him go home to Sara in something resembling one piece, was right here in front of him after all.
Jack let his smile curl one corner of his mouth, as he held that intent blue gaze, and then he drained his beer and said, "Pull up a stool, Daniel. You sure you're sticking with Coke?"
"Well, I do have to drive home. Eventually," Daniel said, still with that reckless eager look, and his tone was shading into something that sounded like ... flirting.
"But the night is young," Jack said. "And maybe you'll get lucky, and someone will give you a ride and then you won't have to drive."
"Maybe," Daniel said, and the light in his eyes dimmed, just for a minute, and his face got serious. He was still looking right at Jack. The connection was there; Jack wasn't imagining it.
"Maybe I'll get lucky myself and be the one to get to give you a ride," Jack said, daring, yet his gut told him, had been telling him ever since he caught sight of the guy, that it wasn't daring at all. It was the safest of safe bets.
Daniel's serious expression stayed, for a moment, and then it changed. His face flashed through a half dozen moods, each stunning Jack with its intensity and its, well, nakedness. Daniel showed him surprise, embarrassment, disbelief, lust, shame and finally determination. He turned away and set his Coke down on the bar.
"Pat. Can I have that dark beer you have on draft," he said, catching the bartender's eye almost immediately.
"Two," Jack echoed. He could do dark beer. And flirting. The guy was not only gorgeous, he was intriguing.
"So tell me about this paper," Jack said, when Daniel was contemplating the tall glass that Pat parked between his forearms. He'd let Jack pay cash for their drinks with a calculating, assessing glance that flicked from Pat to Jack and then back down to his glass.
Jack hitched his stool a little closer, so that his knee was brushing Daniel's.
Daniel looked up. And left his knee right where it was, touching Jack's. A small, anticipatory thrill began to gather in Jack's lower back. Soon it would creep up his spine.
Daniel said carefully, "You don't have to pretend to be interested in my paper. 'Cause trust me -- you don't look like someone who's very into archaeology."
"There's where you're wrong. I am interested," Jack returned, keeping his expression open.
"Okay," Daniel said, drawing out the second vowel. "The paper is about competing theories on the correct translation of two types of Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. I take sides."
"Sounds pretty much over my head, but I always like a good controversy," Jack said. The guy was so attractive, yet so self-conscious. Almost too-conscious. Too self-aware. Jack had known guys like that whose mental tendencies made them wash out of parachute training. They literally thought too much.
Daniel smiled, and, taking him at his word, or perhaps looking forward to showing off, plunged in to an explanation. It was almost certainly the abridged and dumbed down version, but it still took the better part of fifteen minutes and most of Jack's beer for Daniel to give him the gist, as well as the sacrifice of three cocktail napkins in the service of Daniel's expository drawings.
The lecture came to an end, and Daniel wadded the last napkin and turned to his neglected beer. "And that's my position. And you've done a bangup job of pretending to be interested in something that I'm certain is not your field. Not even close. What do you do? Engineering? Something in IT?"
"Not even close," Jack echoed, and he found himself about to tell the truth. Something about the changing waves of feeling and enthusiasm on Daniel's face made him want to open up just as much, show just as much. Dangerous. Impossible. "I'm in the military," he said, amending "Air Force" to the more generic term at the last possible moment. Daniel's expression got even more surprised and curious than before, if that were possible. "I fly planes," Jack said.
"Well that explains the haircut," Daniel said, and licked his lips, and that made Jack laugh out loud. "And I suppose," Daniel went on, after Jack had calmed his laughter with another sip of beer, "that if you told me any more--"
Jack's voice, joining his, a fractured unison, "I'd have to kill you."
Making them both laugh. Jack became aware that Daniel's knee was frankly pressing his now, that Daniel was leaning in, and that his beer was gone.
Jack made his voice gentle. "I meant what I said about you getting lucky and getting a ride home."
"Yeah?"
Jack met his eyes squarely. The guy had brought down his poker face. He just looked calm now, giving nothing away. "Or you could take me somewhere. My truck'll be fine here; I parked in the lot with security, down the block. Not on the street."
"I'm on the street," Daniel offered, and then he hesitated, but his knee was warm against Jack's, and it even slid a little along the denim of Jack's thigh, slid a little closer.
"Your place is fine with me," Jack said, still drowning in all that blue, and with the tone in his voice and the words themselves, there was no possible way Daniel could mistake what that meant, what Jack wanted and was agreeing to.
"Yeah, okay," Daniel said, exhaling breathily as he said it, and he looked into his beer glass and seemed surprised to find it empty. He got up and ran a hand through his hair and turned for the door.
Jack put a five on the bar as he got up. Pat winked at him. Jack smiled back. It was disorienting, to be in a place where nobody knew him, where he could pick some guy up in plain sight, in a bar that wasn't even a gay bar, and the bartender wouldn't bat an eye, would obliquely congratulate him. Jesus. He really did ordinarily live in a different world than Chicago, America, 1993.
Daniel was waiting for him outside, and when Jack came through the door Daniel slid his hands into his pockets as he led the way down the block to a little nondescript Japanese car, parked, as he'd said, at the curb. Jack kept close, right behind his right shoulder, closer than he'd have walked with Kawalsky, or any of the guys from the team. The car was old enough that Daniel didn't have a remote to unlock the passenger door. Jack waited, his hand on the door latch. Daniel leaned to pull the lock up for him. As Jack got in, Daniel turned the key. The radio came on with the engine -- the university station Jack remembered. At this time of night it was always old jazz. Jack smiled.
They drove, and Jack watched Daniel's profile, and the sweep of his long hair, and the bands of white light that stretched across his face from the streetlights. They didn't talk. Jack figured at this point there wasn't all that much to say.
They headed into the neighborhoods that bordered the University. Once away from the commercial area of bars and restaurants, traffic abruptly lessened. The waiting, saturated city night seemed to expand around the little car.
Without warning, and without explanation, Daniel turned into the parking lot of an all-night drugstore. Without looking at Jack, he got out and strode up the sidewalk. Jack settled back in his seat and put his hands in his pockets. Out of habit, he scanned the brightly lit vicinity around the car, even turning to look out the back window once or twice, even though what he felt like doing was putting his head back and closing his eyes, letting the anticipation build, while he waited for Daniel. He was sure he knew what Daniel was buying. He hoped he did, anyway.
Very soon Daniel got back in the car. Jack could see the tail of a white plastic sack hanging from the slash pocket of his jean jacket, but he didn't offer any explanation. But after he turned the key he took his hand from the ignition and turned to Jack, and then he was leaning, and Jack found himself leaning, too, eager and surprised.
Their mouths met, skidded a little, caught. Jack reached for Daniel's shoulder. Daniel had hold of his leather jacket's lapel.
The kiss was warm and solid. It seemed more greeting than exploration. It made Jack smile and break into it to nuzzle Daniel's lips a little. When it finally came to an end, it felt so good that Jack didn't want it to stop, so he started another kiss. With a grunt of pleased surprise, Daniel not only welcomed this, but escalated it. He opened his mouth, making everything wetter and deeper. Jack slid his hand around and up and tangled it in Daniel's long hair. The kiss began to make him hard.
Finally Daniel leaned back, still looking curious, still so intent, his mouth wet. He said: "I just wanted to, you know. Before we got to my place."
"In case there was any doubt," Jack agreed gravely.
"Of my intentions," Daniel finished, and flashed him a smile, quick and bright as lightning, and then Daniel licked his lips and raised his eyebrows and took hold of the wheel again. He put the car in gear, backed out, headed for the street. "It sounds so formal and courtly like that."
"Oh, I'm not very formal," Jack said.
"And I'm certainly not courtly."
"A successful grad student who hasn't ever held court? Come on. I bet you could be devastating in your demolition of someone else's stupid theory." Jack kept his voice light, but he couldn't take his eyes off Daniel's mouth. Without really thinking about it he let his hand creep over until he could brush the side of Daniel's thigh. Daniel didn't flinch, but Jack was watching him so intently that he saw it when his eyes creased, just a little, at the contact. Jack slid careful fingers up and over to rest his palm on the big muscle on top, and curl his fingertips toward Daniel's inseam.
Daniel made a little noise. "Maybe you shouldn't do that," he said.
"Ah," Jack said, and took his hand back.
"It's just that it's very distracting. In the good way." Daniel took a deep breath, and Jack watched the street lights flash in his glasses, until very shortly he pulled up in front of a nondescript brownstone in a rather rundown neighborhood.
Jack glanced around as he followed Daniel up the walk to the door. The neighborhood looked familiar -- it had to be within a stone's throw of the University. But it had a been a long time.
Daniel's place was on the second floor, at the back. He glanced at Jack, his face unreadable, as he fumbled for his keys, and then ushered Jack ahead of him. Rock music was drifting in from somewhere, through a wall or a floor, and there was a distinct odor of burned coffee and old wax, and then Jack wasn't investigating the place any further because Daniel was pushing him back against the closed door, getting them chest to chest, and fitting their mouths together again. His glasses were gone and he had one hand pressed against Jack's jaw. He was breathing hard. His lips were cool.
Jack opened to him immediately, tilted his head and let it thump gently against the door, inviting Daniel to get aggressive with the kissing, which Daniel did. Jack's heart started to pound. He slid his hands under the back of Daniel's jacket and worried the tails of his shirt from the waistband of his jeans. The skin of his back was smooth and warm; not furred at all. While the amazing intense kissing went on, Jack explored the contours of Daniel's ribs and spine with one hand, and let the other roam down to see just how tight the top of those jeans really was. When his fingertips wedged under the waistband, reaching for the swelling curve of Daniel's ass, Daniel groaned without breaking the seal of their mouths and shoved a knee between Jack's legs, and all of a sudden there were teeth in his kiss, little hasty nips and bites at Jack's lips. Then Daniel pressed his erection against Jack's own, and sucked. Hard. Jack's hands grabbed, hard, a reflex, his nails scratching a little, and he groaned too.
Daniel pulled back then, his glasses dangling from one hand, and he fumbled the drugstore sack out of his pocket as he turned and then he juggled glasses and sack so that he could jerk himself out of his jean jacket. He dropped it on the floor. Jack almost tripped over it, and then, forewarned, he managed to not trip over Daniel's shoes, which made a trail along with the jacket as he toed out of them, heading single-mindedly across the front room and down his hallway. Jack followed.
Jack had a confused impression of dim light, dark colors, something fabric-y hanging on a couple of the walls, maybe a brick mantelpiece, and books -- books stacked everywhere, on the floor, on the low table, but then they were in the hall and the hall presumably led to the bedroom and this was very, very good.
"You're actually a top, aren't you," Daniel said, over his shoulder. His shirt was unbuttoned now; Jack could see the tails swinging. It made his dick jump in his jeans. He wasn't about to go strewing his own clothes in a strange place, but he slid out of his jacket and crushed it under his arm and started undoing buttons. Nice to know the guy felt as eager as Jack did. Nice that he didn't feel any need to hide that.
"Aren't you theorizing ahead of your data, professor?"
That got him a smoldering glance, and a murmured "Oh my god," and then they were in the bedroom and Daniel snapped on a lamp and turned to him and slid his hands inside Jack's now-unbuttoned shirt, clucking approvingly, and kissed him again. Repeatedly. In the middle of the kissing, Daniel went to work on Jack's fly.
"Pardon my totally inappropriate stereotyping. I don't know what got into me. Why should I assume that a guy who looks like you, Errol Flynn-handsome, and about whom I know three facts, that you know Chicago and that you're 'military' and that your skills include 'pilot', now why should I assume that a guy like you only ever tops, mmm?"
Daniel delivered this speech despite the fact that he was kissing Jack's mouth, and ear, and jaw, and neck, after every second or third word, and by the time he had said it all, they were both naked and arranging themselves horizontally on the unmade bed.
"Oh, let's be clear," Jack said. "I can certainly top if you want me to," and he rolled as he said it, bracing himself over Daniel and biting gently at his throat, sliding his knee between Daniel's legs in his turn, in a spirit of fairness.
"Well, --oh. Oh, god," and Jack had to be just a little bit smug that he could distract the guy like that, a lives-in-his-head scientist type, because Jack had gotten his weight onto one elbow so that he could look down the long cool drink of milk that was Daniel's torso and slide an appreciative grip over his dick.
Which was long and narrow and cut, a little curved, and yeah, hardly any hair on the guy. Not on his chest, not around the base of his dick. Daniel, who had seemingly lost interest in finishing his sentence, arched and moaned and pressed up into Jack's hand, fucking the fist Jack curled around his erection for a few short pointed seconds, and as he arched he brought up his arms, and no, not much hair under there either. The guy could model. If he wanted. Without his glasses, his face looked totally different; more masculine somehow; the long hair a more shocking contrast against his square jaw and high cheekbones. With his eyes closed, he seemed distant. When he turned that laser-blue stare on you, you lost sight of pretty much every other feature.
Jack rolled close again, skin seeking skin, and found Daniel's mouth again. Daniel was pretty much moaning continuously now, and the way he did it, not caring how it sounded, not embarrassed, let something loose in Jack. He rarely made noise in bed, but he did now.
Daniel was getting hard and very wet in his hand. It made him want to taste, though he knew that was stupid.
He pulled back from the deep, deep kissing.
"I don't have to top," Jack said. His voice was hoarse. "We don't have to do that at all. This is really good, just this."
Daniel said something inarticulate that might have been Jack's name, and grabbed him by the shoulders, and Jack flinched, because it was second nature for him to not let people manhandle him, but he braced against his instinct and made himself relax. Through the haze of lust, Daniel glanced at him, and Jack knew he'd caught the redirect. Daniel didn't stop, though. He rolled them, and Jack let him, went with it, and then it was Daniel braced over him, opening his knees to straddle one of Jack's legs, bringing their dicks together, and Daniel was leaning on Jack's shoulders and kissing him until Jack was lost, drowned, oblivious to anything but the taste of this man, the feel of his skin, his weight pressing Jack into the mattress. Jack wrapped his arms around Daniel's ribs and held on.
Daniel pulled back a little, the kiss ebbing, and Jack realized he was panting, that he had a handful of firm ass in each hand and was grinding up while he pressed Daniel down against him.
"God," Daniel said, again, and put his face in Jack's neck, his breath coming warm and fast against Jack's ear. Jack smoothed his hands up Daniel's back. Daniel traced his sideburn, the curl of his ear. Jack shivered.
"You can do me," Jack whispered, turning his head, trying to press his cheek against Daniel's. "I think you kinda want to. I think you like it up there."
"God, what was your first clue," Daniel gasped, and kissed him again, hastily, sloppily. He rolled aside, and reached to the floor, and Jack felt him fumbling with the sack, heard the rustle of plastic and the crackle of packaging.
He heaved up to his elbows so he could look, at what Daniel was doing and at the guy's ass, which, in point of fact, looked as gorgeous as it had felt. Daniel had, as Jack had silently predicted, come out of the drugstore with both lube and condoms. What that said -- that Daniel didn't keep stuff like that around the place, that he'd stopped for a new supply after picking up Jack, Jack could only speculate. He remembered the blonde woman, but he suppressed that right away. Thinking about women was not a train of thought he could afford to pursue just now.
He slid his knee under Daniel's and squeezed Daniel's arm, watching as he uncapped the lube and detached a packet from the strips in the box. Daniel pinned him with a potent look, and squeezed some of the gel into his own hand and rolled in and scooted back at the same time, giving himself room enough to take hold of Jack, and room to watch.
Jack groaned and lay back, grabbing the single, still-wrapped condom out of Daniel's hand as he did.
Daniel's touch was careful and sure, stroking firmly, lingering around the head, twisting a little, so gentle, and then after a while he changed it up, moving down to explore Jack's balls, rolling them, and finally, urging him to open his legs.
Jack turned his head away, to the side, and groped for Daniel's arm, but he followed the quiet suggestion of Daniel's hand on his thigh, and spread for him.
Daniel played with his balls for another moment, then let his fingers drift lower.
"You don't do this all that much," Daniel guessed out loud, stroking with two fingers over that sweet spot under Jack's balls.
Jack moaned, neither agreement nor disagreement, and opened his knees some more. Daniel sucked in a breath, and his finger slid in, cool and slick and so good. Jack turned his head back, pressed his forehead against Daniel's shoulder and pushed against his finger.
Daniel opened him steadily, not rushing but not lingering either, as if what he really wanted was the fucking. And for that he didn't want anything fancy. He turned Jack, when he'd brought Jack to an objective-free, stretched-open peak of ecstasy with his fingers, so that he could fuck Jack from behind, both of them lying on their sides. If Daniel had so much as touched his dick at the end of the prep, there, when he'd pushed three fingers inside and hinted at a fourth, having been generous with the lube, everything sliding and open and painted in a red swollen haze of absolute pure lust, Jack would have come, right then. He was sure Daniel could see how wet he was. But Daniel had resisted; hadn't touched his dick at all, through all that. When Jack could surface enough to snatch a glance at Daniel's face, he could see Daniel riveted, looking at what he was doing to Jack, and looking at Jack's dick like it was good enough to eat.
So, finally, Daniel pulled out, slowly, carefully, both of them gasping, and then he pushed on Jack's shoulder, inviting Jack to turn away and let Daniel take him from behind. Just invited. Didn't insist. Jack shifted to lie on his side, and then all he could do was wait. He thought, disconnected, that he should help, should make the ritual of the condom something sexy, something they did together, but he couldn't move. He lay there, panting and open. Waiting.
When Daniel took hold of his shoulder to brace, and then pushed into him, guiding himself with his free hand, Jack groaned and melted, lifting his hips, pushing back, all lust and no thought, and so wanton, so wanting it.
"God," Daniel said, propped now over Jack, propped against him, easing in and in, slowly, beautifully. Jack scrabbled for the edge of the mattress, found it, braced, and pushed back. His pulse was throbbing in his lips, in his ass, in his dick.
It went on like that for maybe three strokes, in and slowly out, and then Daniel started to talk. His voice was low and rough and choked with passion.
"God, you are so fucking gorgeous. So handsome. No idea that you'd let me do this, no fucking idea. God, you feel good. So good. I want it to be good for you, Jack, tell me what you want, whatever you want. God. God."
" 'S good," Jack gasped. "What you're doing. Slow like that. So good."
"God, Jack, Jack," Daniel said, and he was braced, taut, still holding Jack's shoulder, and Jack knew he was watching; watching his dick disappear into Jack's body, over and over, slow and deep. Jack let the strokes push him into the pillow, let them roll him, and he scrunched his eyes closed and pressed his face into the pillow and dissolved into Daniel fucking him.
After a mindless while, Jack was aware that Daniel was gasping, and repeating his name, and his strokes were getting harder. Jack groped for his own dick, vaguely feeling that he wanted to come when Daniel came, wanted it all to happen together, and Daniel let go of his shoulder to clutch his hipbones with both hands and drive himself as deep as he could, shaking and crying out.
Jack groaned, pressing back, and came all over his own fingers.
It went on a for a long time, the feedback loop between his ass and his dick making everything stronger, longer, more intense. God, it was good like this, when it was good. Jack had had plenty of lousy experiences as a bottom, through the years, but when it was good, when the other guy took his time, let it be gentle enough so that everything got loose and interested -- God. Nothing better.
His breathing had slowed enough to let him lick his dry lips and swallow. He'd probably made a lot of noise. He knew Daniel had. It was like an echo, lingering in his ears. An aftershock of sound. He'd been too distracted to actually hear it in real time, but he had a confused memory of their voices blending, groaning together, there at the end.
Daniel's thighs were still pressed up against his own, and he could feel Daniel's hand, flat between them, carefully pressed against the opening of the condom, probably, being careful even while wanting to linger, wanting not to pull out so soon.
It made Jack smile. He knew that feeling; that reluctance to separate. He groped for Daniel's other hand, which was somewhere in the vicinity of Jack's bottom shoulder, and when he covered it with his own, Daniel grunted. Again, surprise. Jack squeezed his hand.
Daniel exhaled, and Jack could hear him thinking.
"It's okay," Jack said. "Better take care of that."
"Yeah. It's just..."
"Hard to ..."
"Yeah." Daniel carefully withdrew, and Jack closed his eyes and just lay there, waiting again, and he heard plumbing noises through the wall and pretty soon Daniel came back with a warm cloth and wiped him up without a word and went away to get rid of the cloth and came back and pressed against Jack's back again. Which was a surprise. A very, very pleasant warm surprise.
Jack wrapped his arms around the arms that were wrapped around his middle, and said, "Can I catch a few Z's here? Or do we need to go?"
"No, you can sleep a little, if you want." Daniel sounded surprised. Jack tried to put it together; if his surprise was at Jack wanting to stay or Jack assuming he might have to go soon. But very soon Jack was out like a light, clutching Daniel's arms, burrowing into the bed as if Daniel's quilts, Daniel's warmth, were someplace he could actually hide out.
Jack jolted awake, sparked by some internal clock, or the strange surroundings, after the medium-sized nap that resulted in maximum alertness, almost as good as a night's sleep. He could tell immediately that roughly and hour and a half had passed. Daniel was awake. Still pressed against his back, awake.
"God, sorry," Jack said. "You didn't sleep at all, did you."
Daniel's voice was soft and cautious. He still had his arms wrapped around Jack's middle. "You've been somewhere ... bad. Haven't you?"
Jack disentangled himself and sat up. Quickly. "Sorry. Sorry about that. What did I say?"
Daniel put a hand on his shoulder, and Jack let Daniel turn him. Daniel wanted his eyes, so Jack met his now-cautious gaze. "You didn't say anything. Well, you said something, but Urdu is not one of my languages. It was more what you did.... Shivers. The tension in your body when you dreamed."
Their gazes locked. A wave of goosebumps poured down Jack's back. He put his hand where his tags would have been, if he'd been wearing them, and changed the gesture to a clutching at his own elbows. Jack opened his mouth to apologize again, but Daniel squeezed his shoulder. "I'm sorry. Sorry you had to do anything like that. Whatever it was."
Jack swallowed. Then he rubbed his face with both hands. He was way too awake now. He put his hand on Daniel's shoulder, and admired, fleetingly, the smooth chest, the small tight nipples. He leaned over, across their folded knees, and kissed him and Daniel let him, but he wasn't into it. Not like before. Because this was the end of the night and not the beginning, and they both knew it.
"I better go," Jack said.
"Yeah," Daniel said, and he waited while Jack got up and found his way out into the hall and splashed water on his face. When Jack came out of the bathroom, and went back to the bedroom to find his clothes, Daniel wasn't in there. Jack got dressed alone.
Daniel took him to the lot where Jack had left his truck. It wasn't anywhere close to dawn yet; the sky was still black, still pierced by the few stars strong enough to be seen through city lights.
After he stopped the car, Daniel reached for the ignition, but stopped himself and left the car running. He put his hands on the wheel and turned to Jack. He said, carefully, "I can't call you, can I." He didn't make it a question.
"No," Jack answered, and left off the "I'm sorry" that he found was shaping itself inside his mouth.
Daniel nodded, and he looked Jack up and down, one more time, and a hint of a smile touched his lips, and then he looked out the windshield, and Jack got out. Daniel put the car in gear, and Jack watched him drive away.
When Jack got back to his mom's, he parked the truck in the familiar, neatly organized garage with a sense of deja vu, as if he were seventeen again and just getting home from a Saturday night date, still in high school, before he'd been overseas even once, or shot anyone, or watched anyone die, or fucked a guy for the first time, or gotten married. Felt as if it were the first time he'd ever dragged in, in the middle of night, soaked in sex and secrets, carrying someone else's touch on his skin instead of only his own.
He went across the yard and into the house, using his key, missing all the creaking floorboards out of pure habit, no thought required. He was a little concerned about the cigarette smoke and musk that seemed to float like a cloud around him, but if he took a shower now, he'd wake up everyone and that would be rude.
So he stripped to his boxers, and snuggled into his old bed in his old room, which was a sewing room now but which still had a bunch of his stuff on the walls and on the shelves, and he watched the fading fluorescent stars he'd glued to the ceiling when he was no older than Charlie.
When he slept again, it was peacefully and long, and as far as he could tell he did not dream, or say stuff he shouldn't out loud in Urdu, and when he woke, the white morning light was pouring through the curtains, and the house was full of the smell of his mother's coffee and his dad's Denver omelettes.
He lay on his back and stretched, and felt the souvenirs of the night, of Daniel, in his body, and thought, maybe, he could go home. Should go home, now. And on Saturday maybe he could make Denver omelettes for Sara. Sara always loved his dad's omelettes.