BTG Zipfic

Wrinkles

by Jb

"What? Finally ran out of checked shirts?"

Daniel ignored both the sarcastic comment and the man who'd just made it, and finished carefully manoeuvring his new top on over his head. Despite his best efforts, his soaking wet hair damped a large spot on the upper back and collar, and as the shirt settled into place Daniel softly swore at himself for not towel-drying his hair. Now he'd have to suffer the wet fabric against his back and neck.

He turned around to face into his cubby, fussing with the collar and then the sleeves of his shirt, so as not to be quite so obvious about purposefully avoiding looking at Jack. Daniel had hurried through his shower, not taking the time to dry himself off as well as he should have, precisely to avoid this very moment. But he hadn't been quick enough. He'd overestimated how long General Hammond would keep Jack behind.

Indiscriminate rustling and thumping noises came from the direction of Jack's nook. Jack dumping his boots and vest onto the ground, no doubt. Stripping off. Getting ready for his own shower. Daniel plucked his comb off the shelf in front of him and dragged it roughly through his hair. Just five minutes; if he'd have been just five minutes... damn it. Water droplets dripped off his hair and flew from the comb, a particularly large one running down his temple onto the side of his face just in front of his right sideburn, trickling it's way on down to his jaw. He ignored it until it wandered onto his neck, then reached up and swiped it from existence. He wished he could do the same to the entire damned day.

There was another noise – a different sort of noise – from behind him. Daniel squeezed his eyes closed for a moment as he realized Jack had stopped rustling and thumping, and had just cleared his throat. No. No, please, not yet. He wasn't ready to hear anything. He really didn't want to have what he already knew irrevocably verified... didn't want to hear or see it outright just yet. Even if Jack didn't actually end up saying anything in particular, even if he just added another stupid jibe about Daniel's choice of wardrobe, it would be too much, because Daniel knew words were not needed to confirm the truth. It would be there in Jack's voice, in his eyes, no matter the words which came out of his mouth. And Daniel wasn't ready; he wasn't sure he could hold his tongue. It was better not to have contact at all with Jack until he knew he could handle it without exacerbating the discomfort between them.

It was not to be, though. "Ah crap; okay, I'll start again. So, Daniel... that a new shirt?"

Daniel felt himself physically flinch at the sound of Jack's voice. He hoped the twitch hadn't been visible. There it was, the godawful bare truth, laid out plain as day in Jack's carefully conciliatory tone of voice. Shit. Brushing imaginary lint off his sleeve, Daniel answered without turning around. "Yes."

"Oh. Well..." There were some faint noises and Jack's voice became muffled, his words intermittently indistinguishable. "It's a... sort of... gruggler... not..."

Daniel frowned and hazarded a quick glance over his shoulder, to see Jack's head and arms just about to emerge from under the t-shirt he was pulling off over his head.. Oh, okay. Daniel faced forward again, working to keep his own voice as neutral as possible. "I'm sorry... what was that?"

"I said..." Suddenly, Jack's voice was clearer, louder... ah shit, it was closer, "...sort of a blue-grey, grey, colour. It's not bad." There was a short pause. Daniel fussed with his shirt again, smoothing the sleeves, and then the front across his hips, trying to ignore the quiet approach of the other man. When Jack spoke again, he was close enough that even the low, almost-whisper was readily audible. "Come on, Daniel. I think you've already got all the wrinkles out."

The unspoken, 'turn around, look at me' hung heavy in the air. Daniel disregarded it. He wasn't ready to look Jack in the eye and see what he knew was there. Wasn't sure he could anticipate nor control his own reaction. He stared at the cuff of one sleeve, picked at it aimlessly. Looked down at his shirt, past the still fully open placket zipper to the expanse of blue-grey over his waist and below. Wrinkles. Small creases in the fabric, even despite his having washed and ironed the new top before wearing it to the base the day before, and hanging it in his cubby when he changed into... into... someone else? No. No, he was still the same person, no matter what he wore... inclusive of full battle gear and blue checked shirts. Wasn't he? It was Jack who'd changed into someone else. Or, had he? Had Jack changed, or had he simply –

Wrinkles. Pressing his fingers against a small pucker of fabric he'd missed ironing out at the bottom of the front placket, Daniel felt the tension in the muscles of his abdomen even through the thick material. Shiwa, Japanese. Wrinkle. Die falte. Crease. Arruga. Kurehe, in... Maori? Yeah. Maori. Folds, creases; ridges which mar appearance, force the eye to divert from it's chosen path. Convolutions. Corruption of harmony. Daniel couldn't hold in the ragged sigh as he softly muttered to himself, "Got all the wrinkles out? No... not all of them." Not ever, his mind silently added.

"Daniel."

He hung his head, fingering the zipper tab. Go away, Jack. Go get cleaned up –  No, not get clean. That'd be asking too much. Have a shower. Never get clean.

There was a light touch on his shoulder. "I meant what I said, Daniel. I'm sorry."

Jack was sorry about the way he'd treated him, yes. Daniel knew that. He also knew Jack actually thought the pseudo-regrets offered at the time had actually addressed that behaviour... that Jack honestly believed he'd tried to atone for openly dismissing and denigrating Daniel. But the truth of the matter was Jack hadn't actually apologized for mistreating him at all, but rather for blindly ignoring possibilities he simply didn't want to face. Wouldn't face, until they slapped him right in it. Daniel wondered absently if things would have gone the same way if it had been far-sighted geeks, rather than racial diversity, to which Alar's people objected. Would he have been simply told to swagger a bit and for God's sake act cool and live with having to squint, in the interests of advancing Earth's technological status?

That was all right, though. It was all right Jack hadn't really apologized for the overt abuse, in of itself. It was even all right – at least for the time being anyway, in the face of something much bigger – that even after over three years Jack clearly didn't have the respect for him nor the trust in him Daniel had fought so hard for and believed he'd finally attained. Had believed. While a major concern, that wasn't the problem of the hour, really. It wasn't that. Wasn't even the purposeful, knee-jerk destruction of thousands of... people, and what came after.

"Okay. Fine. How many times will I need to say it, Daniel? Tell me now. What's it going to take?" There was bitterness, a hard edge, to Jack's tone. The words were accompanied by an unspoken, underlying message that for Daniel to not acknowledge the attempt to set things right between them, right here and now, might just make that task all but impossible. It was pretty clear Jack needed this; he needed it now.

Daniel straightened his shoulders. Right. He knew why Jack needed it now, didn't he? Because before too long, the truth would be common knowledge and Jack needed Daniel to back away, to back down from it. Not to confront Jack on it. Well, fat chance of that happening, Colonel-Sir.

No, that probably wasn't entirely fair. Jack probably regretted doing it, itself, just as much as Daniel censured the act. And anyway, ostensibly Jack was trying to reach him here on a different matter – about having closed him out, having told him to shut up, rejecting both him personally and his attempts to do his job. Well, Daniel had already decided that was secondary. Although it'd matter a whole lot when he had time to deal with it, that wasn't of primary importance right now. Okay. So, if that betrayal wasn't a problem here, then... don't be such an ass. Right? Turn around and say something to the man. And then get the hell out of here before that bigger thing raises it's ugly head.

Daniel felt the air... change. He sensed the hardening and rejection in Jack, just as he felt the light touch withdraw and Jack begin to turn away from him. He rushed to correct the problem he'd created before it was too late. "Jack! Wait..." There, he could say it. Step one accomplished, right? Now, just to force himself to turn around and actually face him, somehow...

"Wait... for what, Daniel?" Jack's voice cracked. "For what? You can't even bring yourself to look at me, can you?" Jack's voice actually cracked?

Taking a deep breath, Daniel turned around. And immediately saw it. Saw the godawful state of affairs burned in Jack's face; saw the truth unassailably, undeniably confirmed in his eyes. Tried to ignore it. Tried to ignore the screaming which erupted inside of him, the inner voices railing and wailing against all things which so defied human decency that this could ever occur. He wanted to tell Jack it was okay, that he knew Jack was sorry about their interpersonal problems, that they'd work them out over time. But he couldn't seem to force anything out of his suddenly far too dry mouth. Wasn't able to unfasten his gaze from those eyes which unwillingly told him in all candour what had happened... what decision had been made, and to what end.

No. No, no, no. He couldn't do this. Not yet. "Jack. It's... maybe we could..." He yanked the half-zipper on his shirt part way closed, halfway up his chest to his neck, and forced out the best he could manage before dropping his head and turning around to gather up his coat and wallet from the cubby. "Look, I know you're sorry about us disagreeing. You don't need to say it again. It's... fine."

Jack moved away, his voice moving away with him, both in volume and intensity of feeling. "Sure, Daniel. It's just fine, right." Matter of fact. Closing up, shutting down. Getting ready for something he didn't want to face, again?

Daniel shoved his wallet in the back pocket of his pants and slid his feet into his shoes. Dark brown loafers, well used. Comfortable old friends, the leather worn and scuffed and wrinkled. Some creases could be good ones. Not all imperfections were necessarily flaws interrupting harmony. Daniel turned, his keys jangling in his hand. These wrinkled old things on his feet were about to guide him along a straight and true path, right to his vehicle. Right the hell on out of here. A more desirable road to travel couldn't possibly exist.

"Yes, it's okay." No. No it isn't okay. Nothing is okay. Voices inside him, screaming, saying it's wrong... wrong, it's all wrong. Damn it. He was out of here. "Jack, I have to go."

He made it to the door, much farther than he'd expected, before Jack spoke again. "And Alar? That's okay too, Daniel?" Jack's voice sounded remote, and far too controlled, as if trying unsuccessfully to hide something. Sounded like a strange mixture of possible curiosity, probable dread, and certain manipulation.

Daniel stiffened and stopped dead in the doorway, one hand still on the knob. Christ almighty. Jack was fishing? About that? Daniel wasn't sure if should feel merely insulted or full-fledged outrage. What did Jack think he was, an idiot? He'd have to be, not to have realized exactly what the order to close the iris had been all about, not to have been able to decipher the look of horrified amazement on Sam's face as she stood on the ramp and stared at the instrument of Alar's execution. Holy crap, Jack really wasn't sure if Daniel knew just what he'd done?

Fuck, if that wasn't the ultimate sign of disrespect for his intelligence in a day full of unpleasant surprises as to his place on this team and in this facility, Daniel didn't know what possibly could be. Oh... wait. Yeah, there was something to top that, wasn't there? Well, damned if he was going to stick around and enlighten Jack on the state of his understanding of that as yet unannounced little gem, never mind his insights into the Alar debacle.

Staring straight ahead, Daniel clamped down on his emotions and willed himself not to feel anything, not insulted nor outraged nor blindingly, devastatingly betrayed, as he stepped forward through the door. He had to get out of here. Letting go of the knob as he crossed the threshold into the corridor, he heard and felt the soft whoomph of the door as it closed behind him. Felt the cool air from the vents above him blow onto his face as he walked. Felt the metal of the zipper in his top brush coldly against his chest. The comfortable old shoes on his feet, the occasional light brushes from passers-by in the narrow hallways... he felt those things. Only those things. Getting out.

He made his way through the maze of corridors and elevators and the inner tunnel, to the outside. To his vehicle. Felt the edge of his keys jabbing into his fist as he stabbed the key at the door lock. Felt his heart beating in his chest. Leaving. Leaving the base behind. Felt his own breath strangling him. Leaving, but damn it, still taking it all, the whole sordid, sorry mess, with him because no matter how hard he tried to deny it, he couldn't help but to feel.

Feeling. Senses, palpation, consciousness, sensation, perception of physical stimuli and emotion. Nope, not him. He was A Rock. No feeling of any kind whatsoever allowed. Un-all of the above. Unpalpable, unsensible, unperceptible... no, that was wrong, somehow? Some linguist he was. Never mind. Unfeeling. Unconscious... hey, yeah, that'd be good; unconsciousness would be great right about now.

Whoa... felt that! Daniel turned to his impromptu, inadvertent companion and gave her as stern a glare as he could muster. She grinned widely at him and wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, not removing her hand. Boy, was she ever drunk. She'd blown passed tipsy, four off-ramps ago. Pissed, plastered, smashed. The young lady was clearly inebriated well beyond control and any sort of good sense. Sense. Sensing... uhhh, no! He jerked his leg away as her hand performed a more aggressive exploration. If she kept this up, he would be A Rock in more ways than one.

The room did a quick flip, and whiskey sloshed over the edge of his shot glass onto his hand as Daniel's barstool did a quick little turn-wobble routine in response to his jerky movement. He put the glass down and licked his fingers, one by one. Yummy. Guess he'd have to extend that prior description of her, who ever the hell she was, to himself. With one important distinction... she, at least, was a happy drunk.

There was a another fumbling tug near his groin, and Daniel reached down and closed his hand overtop of hers. He twirled one hundred eighty degrees on the barstool, depositing her errant hand onto her own lap as he got up to leave. Her face fell. She gave him a troubled, almost tearful look as the rejection set in. He felt bad, guilty, over the abruptness of his actions, but he turned his back on her all the same.

Leaving, feeling badly, again. Leaving somewhere feeling worse than he had when he'd arrived was not a trend he wanted to have continue, but he felt helpless to avoid it. There was really no place he could go where he knew with any certainty he'd at least stay on an even keel. Not even his own private nest, tonight. Especially not with Sam's vehicle parked outside his apartment building, waiting on his arrival. Hadn't been even remotely interested in that. Nope. So he'd opted for going somewhere where he'd hoped at the very least for a sense of detachment, and at best for a release from feeling much of anything at all. What a crock. Who ever came up with the description of alcohol as being mind-numbing obviously hadn't been drinking the same rot-gut Daniel had.

Ignoring the way the room spun slightly, Daniel veered sharply toward the corridor on his left at nine o'clock of the exit, making for the men's room. It wouldn't do to get caught short, sitting in the back of a taxi-cab with his eyeballs floating, half-way home. If Sam was stupid enough to still be there waiting on him, dumb enough to think he'd forgive her anything at all just yet, he didn't want to end up pissing all over her factually as well as metaphorically. The small room was empty of other customers, pitifully dimly lit with two out of four lights burned out, and not especially clean. But, gee, it had an absolutely huge wall-to-wall-to-ceiling mirror above the low counter of sinks near the entrance, just opposite the wall with the three greasy-looking urinals set so ridiculously low as to almost guarantee the choice between trying to avoid back-splash or down-dribble marks on one's legs or feet would be entirely superfluous. Perfect. Money well spent. Why waste valuable cash on light bulbs and Lysol when you could provide patrons with something infinitely more exciting? With just a twist of his head, Daniel could check out his ass while he peed, if he wanted to. Super.

No, definitely, he was not a happy drunk. Sparing a moment to acknowledge the guilt which suffused him at that thought, he decided if she was still there alone at the bar, he'd go over before he left and apologize for being so rude about the way in which he'd said no. He'd thank her for her company – for her easy acceptance and genuine interest in alleviating his sombre mood despite her own obvious worries, for the lilting laugh and smiling eyes which had temporarily distracted him from his grief – and offer to reimburse her for her bar tab. Yes. But, first things first. Daniel walked further into the room on legs which felt distinctly leaden, and eyed the urinals. Before he could go anywhere in public he'd need to pee without leaving stains. Choosing the one farthest to the left for the slightly cleaner condition of the thin, tacky melamine panel to one side of it, Daniel approached close enough to ensure he could lay his hand flat against the only halfway clean spot on the wall, but not be so close he'd risk beginning and finishing on his pants in order to actually hit the bowl.

He unzipped, planted one hand against the wall and leaned forward on it, managed a passable pelvic tilt without falling down, and did his thing. Feeling inordinately pleased over the end result – he was drunk, after all – he tucked up and in, and straightened from his lean against the wall. He heard the door open and close as he looked down, finishing arranging himself. Then jerked in alarmed surprise, almost stepping forward right into the urinal, as a pair of arms snaked around his waist and a warm body pressed up against his back.

"Missed you." She sounded almost happy again, her voice only slightly slurred as she renewed her offer. "You were so nice. Let me do something in return."

Something in return? For...? Oh. Right. She'd been pretty morbid herself when she'd first taken her seat at the bar. She'd quietly downed more than several drinks until he'd offered a bowl of peanuts and she taken an ear instead. It had been all uphill for her from then on. Daniel wished he'd been that lucky. He unhooked her arms from across his belly and eased his way out of her embrace. Turned to look straight at her and marshalled his fuzzy thoughts, hoping he could do this in a nice way. She might be blatantly propositioning him, yes, but that didn't necessarily mean she was a total trollop, and he didn't want to hurt her feelings.

"Thank you, but, no. It's not necessary." Not even desirable. She was a complete stranger. A drunken, complete stranger.

Mind you, wasn't his life just full of complete strangers? Jack, Sam... the general. Yeah, Hammond. Damn that man, setting him up like that. So that he was damned if he did, damned if he didn't. Daniel became aware of his own deep frown and that his face felt like stone, just as he heard her voice again. This time her tone was pensive, her words soft and knowing. Not quite as thoroughly soused as he'd thought?

"Well, I think something's necessary. If I can't make it all go away for a few minutes, like that, then tell me what else I can do to help." Her hands were on his collar sliding down along the open sides of the zipper, along his neck and down onto his chest. She pulled slightly on his shirt, and began slowly walking backward. "You need something. Don't tell me you don't. We both do."

Slightly confused and too conventionally polite even while drunk to simply rip himself from her grasp, he reluctantly followed. She backed up against the counter, then with a smooth move slid herself up onto it while still holding onto his shirt, forcing him to step right up into the scummy edge of the counter. No, clearly not nearly as soused as he'd thought. As she looked up at his face through green eyes which challenged him to dispute what she'd said, and began to toy with the zipper tab on his top, he felt himself becoming angry over the apparent deception. Angry over the possibility he was being used, just as he'd been used by people he'd thought of as his friends. Manipulated by Hammond – apparently with either Sam's blessings or blessed ignorance; one was as bad as the other – into taking on the role of agitator with Jack, so Hammond could continue to disregard his own responsibilities secure in the knowledge there was a scapegoat out there taking the flack for him. Selfishly used by Jack to ferret out a truth which would be exploited to justify wholesale slaughter and assuage Jack's conscience at the expense of his soul.

The anger dissolved into outright misery. They should have walked away. Just... left, as soon as Jack admitted to having any doubts whatsoever, and barring that, certainly as soon as they found out they were all being manipulated by Alar's version of misleading advertising. Just like he should be leaving here, right now. Walk away and leave her to her own demons, to her own needs. How she satisfied them had nothing to do with him. She could sit on a water tap for all he cared. He was through playing as proxy for other people's abandoned morals and mixed-up exigencies. They should have done the right thing; they should have turned around and walked out of there. But it was too late now, wasn't it?

Daniel heard the snick of the zipper of his top as it slowly opened further, and snorted aloud in contempt for his own faulty reasoning. He was still here, wasn't he... just as deluded and self-serving as the rest of them. He wanted to protest, to tell her to lay off him and go get her jollies elsewhere, but just like everything else, there seemed little point. Control was an illusion. He felt warm hands slip inside the fully opened zipper to caress his chest, stretching his shirt in order to brush lightly across him from one side to the other. It was going to get all wrinkled up for sure. Doing the 'right thing' was a joke. He felt himself leaning in to the touch, his upper thighs pressing against the deep edge of the counter. As if they ever could have walked away in the first place, no matter what. A first class joke of epic proportions. The proof was in the pudding. After all, they were going back, weren't they.

One hand left his chest and snaked around under the hem of his shirt to lay flat against his stomach. This wasn't right; he should leave. He closed his eyes. He'd seen confirmation of it in Jack's eyes and heard it in his voice, in the locker room. He'd already known, anyway. Even before that, he'd known. Warmth, a hand slipped in between his waistband and skin. He reached up and grabbed it, stilling it's progress. He'd known it was inevitable the minute he'd heard Hammond say it was too bad they'd had to come home empty handed. She shussed him gently and pulled her hand out of his, guided his own hand to her own chest. He kept his eyes closed against the truth. He felt her slide forward at the same time he felt the pull and heard the sound of another zipper, opening.

"They're going back." It came out as a desperate whisper he could barely identify as being his own.

"Oh? They are?" She didn't know what he was talking about. Couldn't know. Her other hand left his chest, and he squeezed his eyes closed tighter against the handling and intense sensations, against knowledge of the rustling noises and shifting going on in front of him.

"You don't have to go with them. You don't have to do anything you don't really want to do." She didn't know what she was talking about.

Oh. Oooh my. Or maybe she did. Oh! God... she knew, all right. She'd known all along.

Oh God. Rocking, despite himself, an ebb and flow of now intermittent contact against the edge of the counter. He gripped her shoulders. They were going back. But maybe, if he was lucky... maybe the place was destroyed, the gate blocked by debris. Felt moist lips against the base of his neck. Maybe, the enclave breached by the bombs and the air poison. Or, the Breeders not receptive? Maybe...

Mhm, God...

Sure, and maybe MALP's would learn to fly.

Oh! Oh holyfuckingshit...

Well, maybe. God knows, this girl could teach them how.

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