brainofck

This is not actually song!fic, despite the title, which popped into my head and seemed so perfectly appropriate. A follow-on to Local Angel.

Also, I realized belatedly, as I elaborated on this AU, that it was wrong to put Sam in the diner. Oh, well. 20/20 hindsight. I don't really need her to be anywhere else, but she *should* be busily being a brilliant astrophysicist and Air Force officer. Maybe we can just pretend that the fact that Daniel works with a young woman named Sam is just coincidental.

Title: August, and Everything After
Author:

muck_a_luck, posting in

brainofck
Pairing: Daniel Jackson/Jack O'Neill
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What happens when you fall in love with a person you will never see again. Follows the events of Local Angel.
Content/warnings: None.
Words: Approximately 5000.
Disclaimer: If anybody is planning a script like this for SG-1, I'm certainly not going to claim any rights to it. However, I'd be delighted to work in a co-writing/consulting/first-reader/advisory-type capacity, with my fee to be negotiated at that time. :D
Archive rights: Absolutely none. My journals only.

muck_a_luck and

brainofck
The Matrix: Spring. The Matrix is located here.

The storms rolled in the next night. Violent thunder; lightening flashing and flickering through the translucent fiberglass roof; more lightening than I had ever imagined; rain pouring onto my house, shaking it. I made shourbet ads and dawood basha salsa hara on the propane stove, with the windows all rolled open, water sliding off the glass and misty droplets passing through the screens of the windows and open front door. The fragrance of the beef and the coriander, the hot oil and the spicy lentils carried me back to my childhood. It was comforting mixing with the smell of ozone.

Belly full, senses overloading on sound and spice and light, the rain energized me, but there was no good place for the energy to go. I spent the night recalling his face, his fingers, his hands, his cock.

I wished I had a picture. I knew I'd forget him.

The system that brought us nightly thunder showers lasted through the month.

In September, I called David Jordan.

"Dr. Jordan is professor emeritus now. He only keeps office hours about twice a month. Can I take a message and have him call you?" the department receptionist asked. She must have been new. I didn't recognize her voice.

"He retired?" I asked, so shocked I didn't know what to say about leaving a message. "Um. Is Sarah Gardner in?"

"No, sir. Dr. Gardner left the department about a year ago."

Now I was very confused.

"What about Steven Rayner? Or maybe Robert Rothman?"

"Sorry, sir. They also left the department. If you could tell me what you need, I could try to find someone who can help you."

"No, that's alright. Could you just ask Dr. Jordan to call Daniel?" She took my number and hung up.

The return call came the next night.

"Daniel? Is that you? Where are you?" I smiled to hear his voice again.

"I told you I needed some time away," I said apologetically.

"Time away!" he exclaimed. "You've been completely out of touch for two years! We looked for you everywhere. Steven was sure you were dead!"

Steven would think that, I thought.

"I wanted to get your thoughts about a project," I said. "Can I e-mail you the prospectus? I'm thinking of applying for a grant."

"Of course, of course, dear boy! But I have to warn you, it'll be an uphill battle. You know academia. I don't have as much clout as I used to."

I smiled again, knowing the unspoken implication was that he would bring every bit of it to bear on my behalf.

Dr. Jordan sighed.

"You three. You broke my heart, you know. Sarah disappeared. Steven went off to work for the Air Force and he hasn't published since. Robert was no replacement any of you, but now Steven has sucked him into Colorado, too, and even he's off the research radar now."

He sighed again.

"I'm sorry, professor. I don't know what to say…" I began, the warm glow washed out of the phone call as I realized that we were probably the reason he had retired.

"Don't be sorry, Daniel. Send me a grant-worthy proposal. Tomorrow is another day."

I hung up the phone with him feeling that I had taken a step forward and a step back at the same time.

In October my chocolate cream pie won the usual ribbons at the Pumpkin Festival. Sam's cherry pie took second place. I traded her one of mine for one of hers and ate the whole thing in one sitting with a large can of whipped topping.

I felt ill afterwards.

He had already faded to a blur of silver hair and intriguing scars in my mind's eye, but I could still see every callous and broken finger nail and nick and cut on those beautiful long-fingered hands.

In November, I spent a lot of time on the phone with Dr. Jordan. The grant committee was intrigued. They were willing to hold their noses and speak to me, and Dr. Jordan was guardedly optimistic that if I was willing to bring him aboard as a partner, the funding would be there.

In November I did a big bake of bread from Menat's recipe. Handed down through her family from ancient Egypt, I stumbled over it in the boxes of my mother's things that were stored in my grandfather's attic when they packed him off to the loony bin. I made it with American bread flour, so it lacked a certain authenticity, but it was thick and chewy and yeasty and I wanted to celebrate. I wanted to feel closer to my childhood. I wanted to imagine returning to the desert soon. The bread was remarkably well-received by the diner's regulars.

In November, I received two phone calls, about a week apart. The caller hung up both times.

When I baked the bread, I had a weird thought that if I traced his name on the bottom of each loaf, maybe I could summon him back. Bread and baking had a certain basic power to it, after all.

In early December, I went to Chicago to meet with the grant committee.

In mid-December, I go the letter of rejection.

I didn't pick up when Dr. Jordan called me and I didn’t return his calls.

The camper was drafty in the winter. I cried into the pillow and wondered if Jack had actually used the gun he claimed to carry in his truck. For the first time in a very, very long time I wondered if I should use the shotgun we kept under the counter.

There was a call on Christmas night.

"'lo?" I slurred into the phone.

There was no answer. Just empty space. It woke me up, had me sitting in the bed.

"Jack?" I asked. I was so sure. "Where are you?"

He hung up. Caller ID brought up the number of a Motel 6 in Arizona, but there was no answer when I called.

On New Year's Day, I was sitting in my booth in the dining room. There was horrible ice on the road, and with the holiday, nobody had been in for an hour or so. My phone vibrated in my pocket.

"How did you know?" he asked.

"I didn't," I replied. I loved his voice, dialect barely there. American English wasn't really one of my areas of specialty. Maybe upper Midwest somewhere. "I just wanted it to be you."

He was quiet.

"Can I meet you somewhere?" I dared to ask finally.

"I don't know," he replied. The cell connection was breaking up. It finally collapsed, Jack lost in an anti-climax of static and road noise.

In January I finally called Dr. Jordan.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly. "I just needed…"

"…time away?" he asked harshly. "Daniel, why can't you let me help you? Grant committees aren't the only places that provide funding, you know. It's a good proposal, and I think I know someone. She's abroad right now…"

"You know how I feel about archaeology hostage to private sponsorship," Daniel began.

"Get off your high horse, Daniel! Until you are an eccentric millionaire – or billionaire, these days – you will always be hostage to somebody for funding, be it grant sources or private sponsors. Do you want to be an archeologist, or do you want to sulk?"

February was a dark month. Kansas is cold, bleak and empty in February.

There was an ice storm. It brought an unusual number of travelers in from the highway, in a more highly excited state than usual, truckers loudly discussing the road conditions where they had been, inquiring about what it was like where they were headed. The guy with the jacked up pickup with the oversized wheels good-naturedly accepted all the jibes and jokes at his expense. The long haul pro sitting next to him covered his tab, Sam told me later.

Late in the evening, the place completely emptied out. Nobody was on the roads now, the ice was still coming down.

"Do you think I should shut down the grill?" I yelled out to Sam, just as the cow bell rang over the door.

I heard him before I saw him.

"I could really do with some good cubed steak and fried okra," I heard a customer requesting.

"Sorry, sir. We haven't had okra on the menu since the summer. The special tonight is crispy fried chicken, mashed potatoes with white chicken gravy, green beans with bacon. Comes with a salad, a coke or tea, and a couple of biscuits."

As Sam gave him the run-down, I was drawn to the kitchen window. I stared at him. I wanted to pull my phone out and take a picture of him. Maybe I would, later, while he slept in the back of the RV. He looked so, so tired. Not ravaged, exactly. But exhausted. Just as haunted as he was when he was here before.

I was elated to see him. I was furious. I was confused and irritated with myself for being conflicted. This was just a guy who had been a good fuck one time. Why had I obsessed over him for months? I wanted to blame it on this place, myself, the life I was living. It didn't distract me from my own thoughts. I wallowed in my own petty egotistical insignificant problems.

"What are you doing here?" I asked him, and the voice I heard was so harsh and bitter I wouldn't have recognized it as my own. Sam turned around, sweet blue eyes round and startled.

Jack sighed. He looked irritated himself. But his voice wasn't bitter, it was resigned.

"Because in the end, I couldn’t stop myself from coming here," he said. "Besides, you wanted it to be me."

Sam was withdrawing hurriedly. She disappeared into the pantry in the back, where she had been doing inventory before the ice had really hit.

"That was almost as long ago as we had okra," I replied. "What makes you think…"

"You make me think," he said. "Feed me, take me to bed. You can punish me with a hate fuck if you want. I shouldn't have come here and I won't stay, but I couldn't stay away."

I brought him the special. I gave him a salad and the Ranch dressing bottle. I brought him a cup of coffee and put in the fresh cream while he watched my every move like he was starving and I was the meal. I noticed that he had timed his arrival perfectly. Eleven was coming up fast. I slapped his check down on the counter and said, "You can pay Sam."

I waved to her on my way out the back door.

I tried to spitefully hope he would fall skating around to my hovel in the back. Instead I just worried.

I showered off the grease and sweat of the kitchen. That was for him, not for me. I didn't touch myself, or open myself.

I brushed my teeth, then pulled out the drawer under the bed and found my second pair of flannel pants. Pulled them on with the clean, blue, sleeveless muscle-shirt that in the summer I wore when I took odd jobs on the farms around.

Then I got under the covers and waited, staring at the ceiling, listing to the ping of the ice against the windows and walls and roof.

He let himself in when I didn't answer his knock.

"Damn, it's freezing in here!" he exclaimed as the screen door slammed open, caught by the gusting wind. He swore again as he stumbled back down the steps to grab it and pull it closed firmly behind him. The front door thumped after it.

"Have a shower," I ordered him. "Brush your teeth."

I couldn't see him well. The only light I had on was the built in reading lamp in the wall by the bunk. I heard him start to move, watched his dark outline in the tiny confines of the kitchen. He found the switch for the light in the bathroom and I caught a glimpse of his long, naked body before he slid the door shut and turned on the water. About a minute later he swore again, loudly, when the last of the hot water ran out. I smirked meanly as the water shut off almost instantly.

It ran again in the sink. Then he stepped out again, slapping the light off and diving for the bed. He was shivering as he wormed in next to me.

"I take it you have no interest in me getting an erection tonight," he squeaked through chattering teeth.

I pulled him in against me and kissed him. He grunted a little when he realized I had clothes on, but he didn't stop the beautiful play of his tongue in my mouth. His chilled hands burrowed under the hem of my shirt and ran all the way up to my shoulders. Our legs tangled together. Soon it was so hot under the blankets that I was sweating lightly, and I didn't care. We kissed and kissedx deeply, softly, passionately, apologetically, kisses saying everything that two strangers in love couldn't really say to each other in words.

He started to get hard, to work his hips subtly. Even though my erection had been gouging him in the hip almost from the beginning I pulled away.

"No," I whispered. "Sleep."

He opened his mouth to protest.

"Daniel," he began. I kissed him hard, rolling backwards and pulling him over on me.

"No," I repeated. "Sleep." I said it more firmly this time. "Listen to the ice and the wind and sleep." His blissful sigh in response was all I needed.

He slept all night with his ear over my heart.

He woke me up sneaking out again.

"I wasn't going to leave without waking you," he said earnestly when he caught me watching him. I believed him.

I got out into the frigidly cold air of the camper. We kissed in the little alcove outside the bathroom that divided the sleeping area from the dining area. He was devouring me. I was trying to crawl inside his skin. The thought of him leaving nearly broke me.

"Promise me you'll call me in one month," I demanded.

He checked his watch.

"That will be the ides of March," he said. "Are you certain that's wise?"

I bent down and fumbled in my jeans for my phone. I set it for the camera and stood, wrapping my arm around his waist. Seeing what I was about to do, he sighed resignedly and helpfully hit the light switch. In the glow of the light from the shower, I took a picture of us together. Me staring at the camera grimly, him smiling sadly and sidelong at me.

The next day, with my weeping dick in my hand, I hated that we hadn't made love before he left. And I loved him so much I wanted to cry and laugh at the same time.

"How can you be in love with a guy you've only met twice?" Sam asked me skeptically.

"I find it's easier to be in love with someone you hardly know," I said.

February was dark and cold, but I knew that March was coming, at least.

He didn't call. He appeared.

I waited all day for him to call me. Coincidentally, I had the day off, so I tried to think about my little ongoing translations. People shipped difficult ones to me. It brought in a little money. I was distracted all day, and as the hours went by, I became more and more anxious. Maybe he wouldn't call because he was a bastard. Maybe he wouldn't call because he had spun out in the ice and died a month ago.

I had the resistance heater under the table running constantly. It wasn't very efficient, but the space it needed to heat was small. The camper was toasty warm. I was spoiling myself on my day off, in a t-shirt and boxers and no socks. When the knock came on the door, I considered not answering, just to keep my wonderful heat inside.

He was standing there, screen door propped against his shoulder.

I'm sure I should have stared at him in shock, but it was too damned cold.

"Get in here, you idiot, you're letting all my heat out!" I said. I grabbed him by the jacket and hauled him up. He laughed in surprise, and suddenly I was wrapped in cold arms, kissing cold lips, chasing his cool tongue with my hot one.

"No gentle snuggling this time," he growled. He was hard already, must have already been erect when he knocked on my door. "I've been thinking about this for months."

"Your own fault," I argued, letting him manhandle me into the back. I wanted to get his coat off, but it was all too complicated and I was flat on my back before I could even figure out how to get past the zipper closure. He was quicker than I would have been anyway. The parka was off fast. He reached into its inner pocket and took out a bottle. He tossed it to me. It was his body temperature, warm in my hands.

"Get ready, this time. Last time you almost took all the skin off my dick."

He said it like a complaint, but the leer behind it was unmistakable.

I ripped off my shirt and kicked off my shorts and had my fingers up my ass before he could get his boots off. I pushed in with two because I like the sudden stretch. Shoes finally wrestled off, he looked up at me and stopped dead, watching me fuck myself. I laughed at him, shoving in up to the knuckles. He swore and shook it off, and finished getting naked as fast as he could, watching me the entire time. I deliberately went light with the lube. He obviously noticed.

"I want you slick and soft," he ordered. He snatched the lube out of my left hand and smeared the gel onto his own fingers. Oh, yeah, not a problem. I grinned at him and gave him space. Two long cool fingers in, all the way out again for more lube. All the way in, oh they were long and delicious, all the way out again for more lube. In and out and in and out and I was getting very frustrated with only two fingers.

"Either give me more or fuck me already," I demanded.

He grinned at me, looking up from where he had been watching his fingers plunder my ass. He climbed up over me and settled on top of me, capping the lube and stashing it under the pillow.

He propped himself up on his elbows and stared down at me. I could drown in the need there.

"I want you to ride me," he said. "I want to see you touch yourself and I want you to shoot all over me. I want to come with my dick so far up your ass you can feel it in your throat."

I surged up under him, and I got the feeling he let me roll us, that if he wanted to Colonel Jack O'Neill could have held me right where I was. It was almost as much of a turn-on as the dirty talk. He laughed, deep and husky and I was grinning down at him, straddling his hips, finding his erection with my hole.

"Oh, yeah," he groaned as I grabbed him and lined him up. Only two fingers stretched, it was a tight fit, but as I had about a quart of lube up my ass, it went in easily. Maybe I winced a little, or was breathing hard. He managed to be concerned through the lust.

"Okay?" he asked me, breathing a little harder himself.

"Pretty much okay," I assure him, and adjusted as I needed to be, I started fucking myself on his cock.

It didn't take much, almost embarrassingly little. I was more aroused than I can remember ever being. He was devouring me with his eyes, arms resting loosely behind his head, hips and thighs pumping easily into my rhythm, and I found the angle for my prostate far too soon and then I was painting him with white streaks.

The first splash hit his chest and chin and he bolted upright, crushing me against him. We were shaking the whole RV as we humped together, until he pulled me back down, rolling us to the side, and we lay there, panting, sweating together.

"This is crazy," he whispered breathily into my hair. "I love you."

All I could do was laugh in response.

"Always easier to love someone you don't know," I huffed back. "We can talk about it again after we've been together a few months. Which adjusting for the actual hours we've spent together, versus the number of hours an average dating couple spends together, I'd say will be in approximately fifteen years."

We lay there quietly tangled together for a while. We kissed, some. But mostly, we lay with our heads on the same pillow, staring into each other's eyes, as if we could know each other that way. I felt like I knew him, even though I knew I didn't. His picture was tacked to the wall by the door out to the dining area. I wondered if he had noticed it yet. He probably wouldn't until he got up again.

"My ass is getting cold," he finally said. At the mention of said ass, my dick perked up a little. He obviously felt it. He raised an eyebrow. "Plenty of lube left in that bottle," he suggested.

"Get under the covers, Casanova," I said, shoving him and sitting up, trying to figure out where all the covers were for my unmade bed. With the quilts and comforters rearranged we settled spooned together with his backside pressed against me. I had to admit his poor butt was cold. He chuckled and wriggled against me as other parts of me started moving against him.

"You know you want to," he sing-songed. He dangled the bottle over his shoulder. Whenever we shifted, the covers breathed out a warm musk of male sex, with the marine smell of the dried semen on our skin, the earthy smell of dark places. It was creating a hormonal feedback loop that was making me harder by the minute. Jack squirmed and shifted until I was nestled perfectly in his crack. I finally caught him and held him tight against me.

"Quit that," I grumbled. "Or I'm going to come before I even get inside."

He went very still.

"I realize that is not an empty threat," he teased. I pinched his nipple hard in response, causing him to groan and buck and I almost proved both our points right there.

He had almost no patience for prep. I was trying to open him, and he was pumping his hips, cursing low under his breath, barely audible, humping against the mattress.

"Come on, come on," he muttered when I felt I had barely worked up to two fingers. He rolled all the way onto his stomach and hunched his knees up under him enough to put his ass enticingly into the air.

Penetration brought more cursing, this time from both of us. He was tight, I even worried first-time tight, but considering how aggressive Jack was in bed, I suspected it was just the lack of preparation. I sank into him and then held him ruthlessly still as he tried to rock me into thrusting.

"If you don't mind," I groaned, shutting my eyes against the view of that long, beautiful body sprawled under me. I tried to bring myself down from the edge by imagining what on earth had caused all those scars. Painful injuries to be certain. Probably earned in combat. I'd have to ask some day, about the tear in Jack's right ribs, healed now, skin rough and whitened after the injury. I slowly calmed my breathing, felt my heart rate settle. Finally felt ready for a gentle trial thrust.

It was so good. I hadn't had a lover in so long. The tight space. The movement of bodies together, driven and controlled by me, moved by someone else, the drive to completion, attempting to hold the line of perfect pleasure for as long as possible, to let your partner precede you over the edge, and the amazing tightening, the flutter of hot pulse, the pouring of self into other.

Jack and I were pounding together, the camper was rocking again. He shouted and I realized he was coming. I pulled his knees out from under him and fell on him, pushing in hard as his hole tightened even more around me with the shift in posture. Everything went white.

My next awareness was of him laughing softly under me. His amusement was shaking me awake. Or maybe that was his attempts to move out from under me. Even as I woke up, he levered me off him, gasping a little as my soft dick slipped out of him. He didn't get up, as I half expected, but turned around and hugged me. I felt drunk on sex. Two really nice orgasms in one pretty short period of time. I smiled at him as he looked me over.

"I have to love your tendency toward petite morte. It's very ego boosting," Jack murmured. His smile was smug.

"Yeah, yeah," I muttered into the pillow.

"So what's for dinner?" he asked.

We ate and went to bed quite early. As I lay next to him, listening to him breathe against my shoulder, I wondered if he had been driving since the last I saw him. I wondered what was in Arizona. I wondered where he lived, when he wasn't on the road.

Two days after he left, I got an early morning call. The caller ID showed Dr. Jordan's number.

"Hello," I answered.

"Dr. Jackson," replied an uncertain woman's voice.

I blinked in surprise.

"Yes," I agreed.

"This is Julia, from the Oriental Institute," she began tentatively. "I'm reviewing Dr. Jordan's phone for recent calls. I wanted to notify everyone that Dr. Jordan passed away last night."

I was stunned speechless. I sat down heavily on the table. It squeaked alarmingly. I stumbled to my feet again, managing to slide into the booth.

"Dr. Jackson?" she asked.

"I'm still here," I replied shakily. "I'm sorry. Is there a service planned?"

"Yes, sir. There will be a memorial, followed by a graveside service on Thursday. I would be happy to e-mail you the details."

"Yes, thank you. I'd appreciate that," I said. I couldn't believe it. David Jordan.

March was even colder and darker than February.

Chicago was 700 miles away. I stood alone at the funeral, the weak March sun shining down, dressed in my only suit. At least it was a good suit.

Professors Boyce and Jenkins from the grant committee stayed on the other side of the room at the department reception after the service. I circulated through a crowd of undergrads who had no idea who I was. Faculty and graduate students were in general avoiding me.

I realized there was no reason to be there.

As I turned to leave, I found myself face-to-face with an older woman, impeccably dressed in a navy suit, wearing a golden pendant inspired by Egyptian hieroglyphs.

"Dr. Jackson?" she asked, not waiting for my reply. "My name's Catherine Langford. You are a very difficult man to find."

"Do I know you?" I asked her bluntly, because I was pretty sure I didn't.

"I'd like to take you to dinner and discuss funding for your intriguing new project."

I just blinked at her stupidly.

One porterhouse and bottle of merlot later, Catherine's driver delivered me to the cheap, probably bed-bug ridden room I had checked into earlier in the day and waited for me to get my things and settle with the motel. Catherine wanted me at her house, to start the process of planning the dig in detail, but I explained how unexpected this was, how I had to set my life in order before I disappeared into the desert. She was sympathetic. I enjoyed a night on a perfect mattress with 600 thread count sheets, then I got into my 1982 Toyota Tercel and drove all the way back to Kansas to give my two-weeks notice.

I left a letter with Sam to give to Jack.

In April, I was home. It might not be the most auspicious time to arrive and start a dig. The sirocco, the khamsin, the hot east winds of spring, were strong this year, bringing sandstorms, damaging buildings. Diggers whispered about dead livestock and disease in the villages, but I leapt with glee into the thick of my work, scouting the site, making the final plans for equipment and supplies. I was staying with old family friends in Cairo. I ate real bread again.

The call came at the end of April.

"Where the hell are you?" Jack's voice demanded.

"Working!" I shouted gleefully into the phone. Every time I got to tell someone new I was ecstatic all over again.

"In Egypt?!" Jack spluttered. I imagined him sitting in the chair on my little terrace, looking out over the recently plowed corn fields. It made me think of caravans, and people who by their very nature couldn't stay in one place.

"Come," I invited him, on a sudden, giddy impulse. My heart was pounding, because I knew what the answer would be.

"Ana Baheb Masr," ^{^[1]} he replied thoughtfully.

That was not exactly the answer I was expecting.

"You have got to be kidding me," I squeaked.

"La. Kef Halak? Ismi Jack. Wein Hammam lirrijal?" ^{^[2]}

I snorted a disbelieving laugh in response. I could tell from the precision of his accent; the perfectly groomed consonants, the beautifully rounded vowels; that he was no casual speaker. He was putting me on with the touristy phrases.

"Baa'ref Arabee Showayya,"^{^[3]} he replied, mock defensively. "I'll be there as soon as I can get a flight to Cairo."

And that was it. The phone went dead.

"I love you," I said to the closed connection.

I looked out over the golden, sand-swept horizon, like I could see the plane flying in right now.

[1] I love Egypt.

[2] No. How are you? My name is Jack. Where is the men's room?

[3] I speak Arabic a little.

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