Author's website: http://dmarley.mattachine.com

Disclaimer: Jack O'Neill and Daniel Jackson belong to Glassner/Wright and MGM. Ray Kowalski belongs to Paul Gross and Alliance. They are being used without permission, and without profit. No infringement on the rights of their owners is intended.

Author's Notes: Originally published December 2001 in Dyad 21, available from MKASHEF Enterprises.
THANKS to the beta team of Amy B, Andre, Carolyn, Lizzie, Lucky 13, Mare, and mesnoo, for coming through for me in the pinch.

Story Notes: For the hockey aficionados, the Stars referred to are my own made-up name for Mark Smithbauer's fictional team from Due South, and not the Dallas Stars. With allowances for creative license, this story takes place early in the first season of Stargate SG-1, and during the third season of Due South.

"Passing"
by Dorothy Marley

Jack should have made Daniel come home with him. At the time, it hadn't seemed such a big deal. Jack had an invitation from his Aunt Margaret--or rather, an order--and so he'd offered to take Daniel to Chicago for the holidays. Daniel had thanked him, but said no. Jack hadn't pressed it. Maybe spending the holidays alone wasn't the healthiest thing for a man who'd just lost the person he cared about most in the world, but Jack wasn't so sure that Christmas with Clan O'Neill would be an improvement. Unfortunately, he hadn't thought far enough ahead to consider how much he might need Daniel to get him through the holidays.

"Another beer, sir?"

Jack studied the dregs at the bottom of his glass and nodded. "Sure," he said, and slid the glass back across the bar.

Not that Margaret and Stu hadn't done their best to make him feel at home. Even their son Philip, the obligatory weird cousin, and his wife what's-her-name, were trying to be normal and civil. But they were tiptoeing around him like he was a man who'd just lost an arm, everyone so intent on not pointing out that something was missing that they might as well have shouted, "Jack O'Neill's kid died and his wife left him!" Even Margaret, who normally had all the finesse and tact of a drill sergeant, was treating Jack like a fragile waif, for the first time in all the years Jack had known her actually acting like she was his old auntie.

Shit. Jack took a healthy pull at his fresh beer and stared up at the television set above the bar, focusing on the hockey game again as a distraction from his thoughts. First period, Blackhawks down by three. Great. Merry Christmas.

Well, Margaret didn't have anything to worry about, not anymore. Okay, last year had been tough. Charlie gone, Sara gone, nothing left of his career but the memory of a mission that had, literally, changed his life. This year, the ache where Charlie had been was still there, the days and nights without Sara still lonely and painful. But there were other people in his life now. Other people, and the Stargate. No substitute for what he'd lost, but sometimes it helped fill that space. Sometimes.

He wished Daniel were here. Daniel would have charmed Margaret's socks off, impressed Mr. College Professor Stu, and talked Philip into a coma. Instead, there'd been two excruciating evenings of small talk, no one daring to talk about their own families for fear of poking at Jack's scars, and the discussions of work stopped dead quicker than Jack could say "Classified." None of that, though, would have stopped Daniel. There were times when Jack would have cheerfully accepted a gag for his resident archaeologist, but now, without him, he was beginning to realize how much he'd counted on Daniel to fill in the silences.

"What's the score?"

Apparently, some part of his brain had still been paying attention to the game, because Jack heard himself say, "Three-zip. Twelve and a half into the first period."

"Jeez." There was a scuffle of boots on the floor, and a figure settled onto the stool next to Jack's, despite the half dozen empty spaces that separated Jack from his nearest neighbors. Best view of the television, Jack reasoned. A beer appeared in front of the newcomer without him asking, and Jack was prompted to remember his own, all but untouched in front of him. He took a long draught, then returned his attention to the screen.

"Aw!" Jack shook his head as a Hawks player fired a shot that missed the net by a mile. "Goalie was wide open," he remarked to the world in general. "He should have had it."

Jack hadn't addressed his comment directly at his neighbor, leaving it open, according to the rules of bar etiquette, for him to ignore or answer as he liked. Jack had come there thinking he wanted to be alone, but there were few things more depressing than watching one's hometown team lose and have no one to complain with.

Apparently the other guy felt the same. "This is humiliating." His neighbor waved a hand at the screen, maybe even sounding a little relieved at Jack's overture. "The Stars have sucked ever since Smithbauer got the boot. No excuse for losing to them."

"Thank God the division's getting an expansion team next year. Maybe then we won't look like a bunch of rookies anymore." Even as Jack said it, two of the Hawks players collided hard at center ice, and the puck slid onto the stick of the Stars' captain. That brought Jack's neighbor to his feet.

"Get him! Get him!" he shouted, and it wasn't until he heard his own voice that Jack realized he was shouting along with him.

"Down! Get down!" Jack hollered at the goalie, then subsided in relief as Hackett pounced on the puck, trapping it under his glove and stopping the play.

"About that rookie crack...." the other man said when they'd both sat down again.

"Yeah, I know. Rookies would play better."

His neighbor laughed, and Jack took the opportunity of the stopped game to give him a look. He was younger than Jack, maybe Daniel's age, probably a bit older, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. Young enough to get away with that mussed hair and unshaven jaw, anyway. Like Jack, he was wearing a jacket even in the warmth of the bar, but as he shifted forward to reach for his drink, Jack saw something that made the back of his neck tense. The guy was wearing a gun, in a shoulder holster under the jacket. Then Jack looked again, and saw the unmistakeable gleam of a badge. A cop, then.

Jack said nothing, though, and lifted his gaze to the television again as the game resumed. He was aware of the other guy checking him out, briefly assessing him as Jack had done, and couldn't help but wonder what he was seeing. A graying, middle-aged man with a military haircut, alone in a bar nursing a couple of beers the day before Christmas Eve? Pretty depressing, when he thought about it like that.

Of course, he could hardly go around wearing a sign that said, "Hi, I travel to other planets for a living, ask me how." And is that all you're good for anymore? he asked himself cynically. Face it. You are alone, and you are sitting here in a bar drinking when most guys are home with their families.

On the other hand, following his own logic, the guy now sitting next to him was in the same boat, more than likely. Young, good-looking, and here he sat, sharing bar space with the other losers. Typical cop, probably, married to his job and not much else. Just like you, Jack.

It always seemed to come back to that. No matter how hard he tried to get on with his life, no matter how much he threw himself into his work, into his new life, his new friends, he couldn't ever seem to escape it. Charlie was gone. Sara was gone. One minute, a family. The next minute...all gone.

The referee dropped the puck, and Jack's companion left off studying him and returned his attention to the game. Jack did likewise, determined to distract himself from the familiar path of his thoughts. That's why he'd come here in the first place, right? To forget about Charlie, and Sara, and the damn mess that his life had become.

There was a flurry of activity around the Stars' goal, but then a Stars player lobbed the puck the length of the rink, stopping the play again for an icing call. Jack took another pull on his beer, and his neighbor shifted on his stool. "Let me guess. Navy?" When Jack glanced over, startled, he tried again. "Marines? Air Force? Army?"

"Air Force," Jack finally said. On impulse, he stuck his hand across the space between them. "Jack O'Neill."

A hand met his, strong fingers gripping briefly. "Ray. Ray...." There was the briefest of hesitations, so slight Jack decided later that he'd imagined it. "Kowalski."

The name made Jack start, but he suppressed it, withdrawing his hand from the handclasp without, he hoped, showing any of the sudden flood of feeling on his face. Kowalski didn't seem to notice anything, and Jack felt relieved. "Detective Kowalski?" he asked, hoping to cover up his own discomfiture.

Kowalski looked surprised for about a second, then he glanced down at the badge clipped to his shoulder holster and grinned. "Yeah." He picked up his beer for a swig, gesturing around the bar with his glass. "I don't remember seeing you around here before."

"Visiting," Jack supplied succinctly, and Kowalski nodded, accepting.

"Too bad," he said unexpectedly, but before he could finish that odd remark the game was underway once more, effectively cutting off the conversation. At the next stop in play, though, Kowalski continued. "I usually have to threaten Vic here with severe bodily harm to get him to turn on the television."

"Hey, none of the people I know like hockey, either."

"Huh. Go figure."

"Yeah."

The period was winding down, now, only a couple of minutes to go. There was another rush at the Hawks' goal, then suddenly two of the Hawks were breaking away, heading back up the ice towards the Stars' zone. "Shoot!" Jack yelled, and smacked his hand on the bar as Amonte shot the puck neatly into the net, right past the stick of the defending goalie. "Yes!" Without thinking, he slapped Kowalski on the back.

"All right!" Kowalski sat down again. "Okay, that's better. Only down by two."

While they were waiting for the play to resume, Jack checked his watch again, and was surprised to find that it was almost eight-thirty. He'd been here longer than he thought. No wonder his stomach was starting to complain, wanting something a little more substantial than two beers and a handful of bar nuts. After the period, he promised.

The Hawks won the face-off at center, and Jack felt his body tense as they maneuvered into the Stars' zone again. Pass to the left wing, back to the right wing, then the center, then the left again.... "Just shoot, dammit," Jack told the screen, and as if he'd been heard, the left wing fired the puck right at the net. It careened off the goalie's stick, wobbling up into the air, then Krivokrasov skated up and smacked it into the net. The buzzer signaling the end of the first period went off, and suddenly Jack was watching a one-goal game.

"Yes!" Kowalski said fiercely, nodding his head in approval. "Now that's more like it."

The bartender drifted up to them as the station went to the intermission report, jerking his head at the clock on the wall. "Last call, fellas."

Jack and Kowalski both stared at him. "What the hell's that mean, 'last call'?" Kowalski protested. "It's not even eight-thirty."

"Holiday tomorrow. Early closing."

"Early closing? What's that, some new bar rules?"

Vic wasn't impressed. "No, my new rules. Now, you fellows want another drink or not?"

"Come on, Vic," Kowalski wheedled. "Give us a break. The Hawks are coming back."

"Yeah, well they ain't coming back here." Vic shrugged. "Sorry." He moved away, heading for the two other customers at the end of the bar.

Jack drained the last of his beer philosophically, suppressing a surprisingly strong stab of disappointment. He'd kinda started to enjoy the game, now that there was someone else to appreciate what was going on. Oh, well. If he headed back now, he could catch the last period at Margaret's. Or maybe he could just find another bar.

Beside him, Kowalski slung back the rest of his beer and stood up, and Jack didn't see any reason not to do the same. They ended up walking out of the bar together, Kowalski turning up the collar of his coat as the cold wind outside hit them. It was beginning to snow, and Jack squinted up into the dark sky, watching the thick flakes float down from the darkness. Behind them, the neon light that spelled out the name of the bar flicked off, and Jack turned back just in time to see the lights in the windows go out as well. Kowalski wrapped his arms around himself, tucking his hands under his arms in a strangely familiar gesture. It took Jack a second to place it, then he recognized, with a sobering jolt, the posture as one of Daniel's.

A shake of Jack's head cleared the image away, and he reminded himself, not for the first time on this trip, that Daniel was several hundred miles away, more than likely happily snowed in with a stack of books and the leavings of someone's prehistoric junk heap. Jack didn't need to go seeing him in every stranger trying to keep warm in the cold.

Funny, though, how often he'd thought of him. Jack had told himself that he was looking forward to getting away from the base for a while, having the chance to do something that didn't have anything to do with aliens or space travel or saving the planet. He'd even told himself that it would be good to get away from the team for a bit, give them all some room to breathe and do their own thing for a few days. He sure as hell hadn't counted on missing them as much as he did. And he certainly hadn't counted on finding out that he missed Daniel most of all.

Jack glanced over at Kowalski, pushing Daniel out of his head. "Got far to go?"

Kowalski jerked his head up the street. "Couple of blocks," he said. "You?"

"I'm parked around the corner. You need a lift?" he offered impulsively, and wasn't sure if he was relieved or disappointed when Kowalski shook his head.

"Nah, thanks." Kowalski unwrapped his arms and stuck out his hand. "Well, nice meeting you, O'Neill."

"Likewise." Jack shook with him, then tucked his hands in his pockets. "See you around."

Kowalski laughed briefly. "Yeah. So long." He nodded a last farewell, then turned and started to walk up the street.

Jack watched him go for a couple of yards, then headed for his own car. With the lights from the bar gone, the street was considerably darker, and somehow, suddenly, a heck of a lot colder. Perfect end to a perfect day.

It took him a few moments to pick out his rental car from the other anonymous shapes in the lot, and he made a face as he squeezed his knees under the steering wheel. Next time, he was going to plan this trip far enough in advance to reserve a decent-sized car. Hell, next time he'd drive his own car. Make a trip of it. Make Daniel come along this time.

The knock on the glass of the window caused Jack to jump, and he jerked his head to look. He couldn't say he was completely surprised to see Kowalski's face outlined in the light from the street as he leaned down to peer in the window. Cautiously, and wondering what the hell he wanted, Jack rolled the window down.

"Hey." Kowalski bent closer, his breath frosting in the cold. "I got to thinking, and I was wondering if you'd like to maybe come to my place and finish watching the game. If you wanted to."

Jack first impulse--probably his best impulse--was to refuse. Cop or not, this Kowalski was a stranger, an unknown. Jack hadn't survived nearly a decade in Covert Ops without learning something about trusting strangers. He'd make some excuse, tell Kowalski he had to get home, something. The initial caution, though, must have shown on his face, because Kowalski hastened to add, "I ain't trying to pick you up or nothing. I just figured you might like to see the end of the game."

With an effort, Jack kept the rest of the surprise from his face. Strange thought to have leapt to, and one that hadn't, actually, crossed Jack's mind--until then, anyway. He opened his mouth to say, "No, thanks," stomping firmly on the small part of him that felt a sudden gratified warmth at the invitation. Oddly enough, though, the words that came out his mouth sounded an awful lot like, "Sure. Get in."

He regretted it the instant it was said. This was definitely not part of the plan. Going to a bar, having a couple of beers, and watching the game from the comfortable anonymity of a bar stool, that was okay. Going home with some guy, even a stranger, or rather, especially a stranger, was a risky deviation from the program.

And so what? Since when had he gotten afraid of risks? Jack wanted to see the end of the game, wanted, in fact, to see it in Kowalski's company. Was that such a big deal? *Anyway,* he thought, watching Kowalski walk around the front of the car, you've got a good three inches and twenty pounds on the guy. Comes down to it, you could take him. So long as he doesn't shoot you.

Kowalski wedged himself into the passenger seat, and slammed the door behind him. Suddenly, the two of them were very alone in the close confines of the car, the muted hum of the engine the only sound. They sat in silence while the engine warmed up, and Jack was grateful. He hadn't quite counted on this, on the sudden intimacy of being squeezed in together here, their cold breath mingling in the frosty air. Yeah, right. It would be just his luck if Kowalski was trying to pick him up.

And what if he was? For a moment, Jack indulged himself in the idea. It had been a long time, but Jack could remember the familiar, illicit thrill. Those had been dangerous encounters, fueled by the rush of mutual revelation and spiced with the threat of discovery. Back then, it had been another high, a little more satisfying than nicotine or booze, slightly more fleeting than the surge of adrenaline from jumping. He did know, though, that it wasn't something he ever found in a woman's arms. Not even Sara's.

The thought of Sara was like a cold splash of water, and Jack returned rudely to the present. Unfair, to compare Sara to any of the dozen or so anonymous--and not so anonymous--encounters. None of them, man or woman, had given him what he'd had with her. With them, it had been sex. Wild, exciting, passionate, occasionally mind-altering sex, but still just sex, good while it lasted, but over when it was over. With Sara, it had been love. And the difference between the two was as vast as the empty spaces between the stars. Not that Jack would have turned down either right now.

The car had warmed up by then, the thin sheet of ice on the windshield melted enough that a single swipe of the wipers was enough to clear it away. Jack turned on the lights and eased out of the parking lot, following Kowalski's directions. It had been a nice, diverting fantasy, but now it was time to return to the real world, where good-looking blond cops didn't need to do anything as desperate as pick up aging colonels in bars. And where aging colonels ought to know better.

Kowalski had a good-sized apartment, part of the second floor of a renovated building. The living room was almost the size of Jack's, minus a fireplace or so, and was filled with the kind of eclectic clutter that Jack remembered from his own bachelor days, and still kind of missed.

"Have a seat," Kowalski said, stepping aside to let him pass. "You want a beer or something?"

"Beer's fine, thanks." Jack wandered into the living room, shedding his jacket while he looked around. Nice stereo, decent number of CDs, although the first glance showed him that he and Kowalski definitely had different taste in music. Good-sized television, new-looking like the stereo. The furniture, though, was worn and well-used, not exactly shabby, but at odds with the newness of the other things.

"Here, let me swap you." Jack turned as Kowalski appeared at his elbow with a bottle, taking Jack's coat while he handed him the beer. He hung the jacket on a hook behind the door, then gestured to the sofa. "Sit down and we'll get the game on. Then we can argue about what we want on our pizza."

When the game resumed, Jack did his best to forget his idle musings from the parking lot, focusing his concentration on the action, but it was easier said than done. They were both sitting on the sofa, which at first glance looked more than big enough for the two of them, but the cushions had a distinct sag in the center that seemed to cause anyone sitting on the sofa to ooze slowly to the middle. Jack kept moving away, then after a few minutes would find himself shoulder to shoulder with Kowalski again. Kowalski seemed a little uncomfortable with it, too, joining Jack in moving aside every time they touched, and Jack was painfully aware of the effect that the contact was having on him.

This was embarrassing. He'd come here to watch the game, had taken Kowalski up on his impulsive generosity, and now he was sitting here staring at the television and trying to ignore the feel of the hard-muscled skin sliding against his arm. Dammit, why'd he have to even start to think it? One flash of idle lust, and now he couldn't get it out of his head. *The game, Jack,* he told himself grimly. Focus on the game, clear all that other stuff out of your head.

For a while, it worked. Jack was good at that, tucking the things he didn't want to think about into neat, closed boxes in his head. He had a whole shelf of Inappropriate Sexual Thoughts in there, and one more didn't put a lot of strain on it. All he had to do was sit here, get through the game, and everything would be all right. Kowalski didn't have a clue, and in another hour or so Jack could leave with no one the wiser. It was a good plan, solid in every respect.

Jack should have known. The better the plan, the greater the snafu. Basic law of the universe.

The first problem was Kowalski. As the game went on, he seemed to be getting more and more restless, shifting aside at every opportunity, getting up to go to the bathroom, to get a glass of water, to check on his pet turtle. It was starting to get contagious. The second time he returned from the bathroom, Jack finally brought himself to ask, "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure," Kowalski said quickly--too quickly. "Why?"

"I dunno. You seem a little nervous, that's all." Jack hesitated. "You know, I can go--"

"No." Kowalski caught himself, and went on more quietly. "I mean, no, it's all right."

"Okay."

They watched the game for a little while longer, then Kowalski shifted again, for what seemed like the millionth time, and leaned forward, his eyes glued to the screen. "About what I said back there," he said to the television screen, watching as the refs broke up a half-hearted fight between Chelios and a Stars defenseman. "In the parking lot. That wasn't so cool."

For a second, Jack wasn't sure what he was talking about, then he felt his face warm. Like he could forget that crack about picking him up. Still, he asked, just in case Kowalski wasn't following his one-track mind. "What did you say?"

"You know." Kowalski was still staring at the screen. "About picking you up."

Jack forced himself to be casual, willing his voice to oh-so-smooth blandness. "Hey, didn't bother me. It's cool."

"Well, you know, guy's gotta be careful. I mean, I didn't want you to get the wrong idea or nothing."

"What, that you were Vice?" That got him a laugh, and Jack relaxed a fraction. "Hey, I didn't get mad, did I?"

"No," Kowalski admitted. The way they were sitting, Jack couldn't see much more than the corner of his mouth, and saw it quirk up in an ironic smile. "Guess I was worried about nothing, huh?" Jack only shrugged, even as his mind was slowly turning over the possibilities, wondering where the hell this conversation was going. Kowalski went on. "Another guy might have even popped me one."

"Nah. It'd take more than that. Trust me," Jack added before he thought, and wished at once he'd kept his mouth shut.

For a brief second, Kowalski's gaze flicked to him, then back to the screen. "Okay," he said. "I will."

The game was still three to two, neither team making much of the second period yet. But even as Kowalski finished speaking, the Hawks had another breakaway, Black and Chyzowski barreling through the shreds of the Stars' defense to make an unopposed two-man rush at the Stars' hapless goaltender. Jack was on his feet before he realized, only barely aware of Kowalski's hand gripping his arm, the other man yelling at the screen.

"Shoot!" they yelled in unison, then Jack pumped a fist in the air as Black's shot flew past the goalie's glove and into the net.

"Yes!" Kowalski shouted and jumped, his arm around Jack's shoulders pulling them into a brief, rough embrace. Jack turned to clap him on the back, bringing his own arm up, and suddenly they were standing face to face, arms linked, so close they almost touched.

Jack heard Kowalski's breath leave his body in a startled rush, and Jack himself was having a little trouble with his own oxygen supply. He was acutely aware of the touch of Kowalski's hand on his back, of his own arm brushing the bare skin of Kowalski's bicep. The contact was intense, electric, and looking into Kowalski's wide, startled eyes, Jack knew, with a sharp, clear thrust of intuition, that the electricity wasn't coming only from him.

Their mouths met before Jack was even aware of having made the decision, his lips parting for the frantic thrust of Kowalski's tongue even as he reached to hold him, pulling their bodies together with a jarring rush of pure, fierce desire. Kowalski's arms wrapped around Jack's waist like cables of steel, fingers digging into the small of his back.

Then, it was over, and they were staring at each other in the flickering light of the television, the crowd on the screen still yelling and cheering over the goal. Kowalski looked a tad stunned, like a boxer who'd taken one too many hits to the head, and Jack wasn't sure his own expression was any better. Kowalski swallowed, his throat bobbing as he found his voice at last.

"Honest, I was only bringing you up here to watch the game," he said, and his lips curved up in a smile.

"Screw the game," Jack said hoarsely, and found his mouth again.

They fell back to the couch again, and while before the couch had seemed too small for two men sitting up, now it was suddenly the perfect size for two guys more interested in groping each other than in watching a hockey game. Their mouths locked together, fused in a hot, desperate kiss that neither of them seemed willing to break. Jack couldn't keep his hands off Kowalski, even for a second, and he didn't bother to try. Then Jack's lips strayed for a moment, rasping over the rough stubble on Kowalski's jaw, and he felt the first kick of pure, sizzling desire run down his body, leaving him nearly gasping. God, he'd forgotten how much that turned him on, the feel of the harsh friction under his lips and tongue, warming and burning all at the same time. He dragged his lips over Kowalski's chin again, then turned away from his mouth altogether, kissing and licking over the sandpaper roughness of his jaw until he fastened on his throat, darting his tongue out to lick with delicate, exquisite care at the pounding pulsepoint under his mouth.

Kowalski moaned out loud at that, his hands digging into Jack's shoulders, and Jack found his own hands moving up, sliding under the hem of Kowalski's shirt to run over the warm, smooth skin underneath. Then Kowalski's mouth was searching for Jack's, and they started kissing all over again, groping each other almost frantically, rolling and fumbling on the confines of the couch until they sprawled over it together, arms and legs tangled in an awkward, fierce embrace.

A prolonged roar from the crowd finally sank in under the pounding of his own blood in his ears, and Jack lifted his head to glance at the television. "What happened?" Kowalski panted, his eyes staring up in glazed distraction.

"Game's over. Hawks won," Jack gasped back, and bent down to kiss him again.

"Good," Kowalski said absently, just as Jack's mouth closed over his, and there was no more room for talking. Jack kissed him a little longer, then finally levered himself up, taking the chance to finally catch his breath.

It occurred to him, in the small part of his mind that was apparently in charge of such things, that if he was going to leave before things went too far, now was the time. But even as the thought fizzled apathetically through the responsible sections of his brain, Kowalski's hands fastened busily on the waist of his pants, and Jack decided that the problem wasn't that things had gone too far. The problem, he concluded, as Kowalski tugged nimbly on his zipper, was that things hadn't gone nearly far enough yet.

He gasped out loud as Kowalski touched him, gulping desperately needed air as those fine, strong fingers stroked over his underwear, the touch maddeningly softened by the tautly stretched cloth. Jack's own hand reached out, finding the curve of a thigh and sliding up until he closed his fingers over Kowalski's crotch, groping him unashamedly while Kowalski's palm slid over his own shaft. They touched and stroked each other for a few long, blissful minutes, Jack closing his eyes as the deep, slow burn spread through his body, the temperature going up with each strong caress of Kowalski's hand. It was so good, to feel that warm, firm hand on him, to be able to hold and stroke another man at the same time. To touch someone else the way he liked to be touched, and feel it given back to him, feel the hard pulse of the other man's shaft under his fingers as he stroked and squeezed him.

Before long, though, Jack knew it wasn't enough. He wasn't even touching Kowalski, doing all his fondling and caressing through the thick layer of denim. It was nice, but it would be a lot nicer without his pants in the way. Once Jack had the plan, he wasted no time in carrying it out. He urged Kowalski to sit up, sliding down to kneel in front of him, and had him unzipped and out in no time, shoving his underwear down his thighs to make room. Kowalski moaned out loud, his hips arching up into Jack's touch, his penis lifting eagerly into Jack's hands. Jack stroked him, feeling the long, hard shape swell and lengthen in his palms, then leaned forward and touched his lips to the tip.

Jack's own cock pulsed against his clothes as he kissed Kowalski's, feeling the smooth, warm crown against his lips. God, it had been so long. He brushed his lips over the tip again, learning the shape, savoring the smell of the other man's desire. One more kiss, a reverent press of his lips to the sensitive skin just under the crown, then he allowed himself to taste. The skin was clean and salty under his tongue, the spice of arousal exploding in his mouth as he licked his way slowly around the crown. A pair of hands settled with exquisite care on his head, fingers stroking lightly over the back of his neck, and Jack didn't need any more invitation.

It slid into his mouth with delicious ease, gliding in as smooth and slick as if it hadn't been years since he'd done this. Like riding a bicycle. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste, feeling the glorious little thumps and twitches as he stroked his tongue over the tip, then the whole length swelling and hardening in his mouth as he slid down and began to suck. Kowalski said something above him, but his hands didn't move from their fragile grip, and Jack decided to take that as approval rather than a request to stop. Then Kowalski's hands did move, lifting up to push his own pants down, then tugging at the hem of his shirt, his hips arching briefly into Jack's mouth as he stripped it over his head. Jack let his own hands slide around Kowalski's hips, kneading and caressing the hard swell of his ass, urging him to pump in and out of Jack's mouth.

Jack would have finished it there, would have gladly knelt on the floor and suckled on the warm, delicious cock in his mouth until he'd brought Kowalski over. He was close to coming himself, his own erection straining at the front of his pants, and one more taste of him, one single spurt of him as he came would have been enough. Kowalski stroked the back of Jack's neck, sending another trail of electric arousal down his spine, then he was gently, firmly, pushing Jack away and tugging at his clothes, trying to get Jack to stand up and trying to undress him all at the same time. With Jack's help, it wasn't long before he accomplished both.

Their first embrace was as hard and fierce as their first kiss had been, the shock of their naked bodies touching at last enough to send the fires racing anew down Jack's spine. He ran his hands down the glorious length of Kowalski's back, curving his fingers over his ass, then moved to hold the back of his neck, pulling the other man hard against him. Kowalski's hands were all over him, stroking and touching, taking Jack's breath away with every nerve-tingling brush of skin on skin. Jack's cock was pulsing between his legs, every stroke of the hard, aching length against Kowalski's taut-skinned shaft sending another mind-blowing jolt of desire down his body.

They stood there, groping and kissing, until finally Kowalski began to move them, walking in frantic, blundering stages towards the bedroom, neither of them willing to let go even for the few seconds it would have taken to reach the bed. Jack's skin was burning, his penis on fire with the need for release, but the short, maddening brushes against Kowalski's body weren't enough. He needed more, needed to hold him and touch him and feel the hard, heavy weight of the other man's body on top of his, pinning him down, trapping his cock in the tight, hot space between them. Then they reached the bed, and Jack got what he wanted.

He pulled Kowalski down on top of him as they fell, arching his back in helpless, mindless desire as the other man obligingly straddled him, moving his shaft alongside Jack's in a single, bone-melting stroke of pure delight. They fell into rhythm at once, both of them too far gone to even think of any more foreplay, intent on nothing but the demands of satisfaction. Jack's body filled with wave on wave of sheer passion, his hips rocking steadily to the quick, hard thrusts of Kowalski's body on top of him. There was no thought of making it last, no thought at all beyond the harsh pounding of his cock against Kowalski's. All his painful thoughts and emotions were erased, his problems swept away, every thought, every feeling, every worry dissolving into nothing, vanished until there was nothing left but the pure, mindless need to come.

The orgasm smacked into Jack like the shock of an opening wormhole, blowing him right out of his body for a single, endless moment of explosive oblivion. His body arched up, hips shuddering convulsively against the wonderful, hard plane of Kowalski's belly, his cock spilling into the slick, tight space between them. It was possible that he might even have screamed, but he had no way of knowing over the roaring of the blood in his ears. The orgasm seemed to go on and on, pouring out of him in hard, pulsing waves, each bone-shaking beat leaving him panting and drained and, finally, empty.

When it was over, Jack lay there, feeling Kowalski's breath panting against his neck, matching the gasping heaves of his own chest. He took it for granted that the other man had come, too, Jack having been in no position to notice. They were certainly sticky enough for double orgasms, but at the moment Jack could have cared less. Kowalski rolled off him, flopping to the side with a long, satisfied sigh, and Jack rolled against him, pressing their bodies close while they both came down.

Jack had half-planned on getting up and leaving as soon as it was even remotely polite, but Kowalski wasn't making any "get the hell out" noises yet, and Jack found, after a few moments, that he was oddly reluctant to leave. It was kind of nice, actually, to just lie here for a while, warmly stuck together in the middle of the bed, sweat still trickling between them. They were lying close, but not holding, and Jack felt a vague twinge of disappointment, a niggling sense of incompleteness. Still, he made no move to put his arms around the other man, contented himself instead with the hand that rested lightly on Kowalski's flank.

After a few minutes, Kowalski stirred, turning his head to look across the bed, and Jack unconsciously followed his gaze. He wasn't sure why he was so shocked, but he couldn't help the sick, twisted clench in his guts when he saw what Kowalski was looking at, saw the photograph of him and a woman propped on the nightstand.

"You're married?" Jack was amazed that it came out so casual, and even so he wondered why the hell he was feeling hurt. Not like he planned on marrying Kowalski, but still....

Kowalski started, and turned back as if he wasn't even aware of what he'd been doing. "No," he said, and there was a familiar, quiet pain in the word, a pain that Jack recognized all too well.

"How long you been divorced?" Jack asked, and Kowalski's eyes shot to him, the shock almost comic.

"Not long," he said presently. "Few months."

Jack nodded. "It's been over a year for me," he offered, not sure why the hell he was even bothering, but glad he'd said it when he saw the understanding in Kowalski's face. "Thirteen years."

"Eight," Kowalski countered, the shorthand of the divorced. "I miss her like hell. You?"

"Yeah."

Neither of them said anything for a while, and Jack thought the conversation was over. He was kind of relieved. One thing to go home with a guy and have sex, another thing altogether to end up talking about their ex-wives across the pillow afterwards. But the thing that bothered him the most, he suspected, was how little it bothered him. And how much the words had struck a part of himself he wasn't sure he wanted to explore.

"Did she leave you...." Kowalski made an eloquent gesture at the two of them, his hand sweeping lightly across the places where their bodies still touched. "Because of this? The other guy thing?"

It took Jack a while to find the words to answer, and even then all he could manage was a short, soft, "No."

"Oh. Me neither." To Jack's relief, though, Kowalski didn't pursue the question any further, turning the talk back to himself. "Stella didn't know," he said. "Not that I wasn't faithful. But there was always...I mean, I always knew. I loved her, but there was always this other thing. And since we split, that's all I've wanted."

Despite himself, Jack was getting drawn into the conversation, detecting something in the other man's voice that was almost familiar. "Anyone in particular?" he heard himself asking, and watched as Kowalski's face twisted, his mouth curving in a mix of chagrin and self-mockery.

"Yeah," he confessed. "Guy I work with." He shook his head, his eyes growing distant. "Man. He's something else. I mean, half the time I feel like I'm eating his dust, and I swear I don't understand half the words that come out of his mouth. But then he turns to me, and he gets this look in his eyes, and I think I'd die to have him touch me." His hand moved along Jack's side, brushing with a gentle, sure touch along the length of his now-soft penis, cupping the lax balls in his hand. "Like that," Kowalski said. "Just once."

For a long time, Jack could only stare, the warm palm cupped around him the least of the fractured thoughts spinning through his head. It was all he could do to keep his mouth shut, to not gape and stare and blurt out, "Me, too," in a heedless rush of self-realization. Oh, Christ. He shook his head at himself, his thoughts churning around as he saw, for the first time, what he'd been doing all this week, who he'd been thinking of, even as he'd gasped and sweated and moaned in Ray Kowalski's arms.

"Must be tough," he heard himself say, and saw Kowalski smile again.

"Yeah." Kowalski moved his hand at last, curving his fingers instead over the outside of Jack's thigh, his palm warm and dry on Jack's cooling skin. Jack let it stay there as long as he needed to be polite, then leaned forward and kissed Kowalski's shoulder.

"I probably ought to go soon," Jack said quietly, and Kowalski nodded, seeming unsurprised.

"Okay." Kowalski rolled over, away from him, and Jack got up, feeling suddenly awkward and vulnerable, wishing suddenly he could grab a blanket or a fig leaf or something as he walked naked across the room. Stupid. He'd spent the last hour sweating up the sheets with the guy, and he picked now as the time to get shy.

"Use the shower if you want to," Kowalski told his back as he moved into the living room to fetch his clothes. "There's towels and stuff under the sink."

Jack paused, his pants in his hand. "Okay. Thanks." The last thing he wanted was to stick around a second more than he had to, but he had to admit that a shower was probably a good idea.

He half-hoped Kowalski would join him, if for no other reason than to give Jack a distraction from his own thoughts, but he couldn't expect the man to save him twice in the same night. Especially now that the ugliest truth of all had finally risen to the surface, unhindered by work or pretended impatience or distance or any of the other thousand subconscious strategies Jack had used to keep the truth away for the past six months. It was here now, right in front of him, and it was no use denying it anymore.

He was in love with Daniel.

There. That was it. Not so terribly hard to think after all, was it? And what, he reasoned, was so horrible about it? For crying out loud, he'd thought, briefly, about having sex with nearly every other member of the team, why should Daniel be any different? A harmless fantasy, ready to get tucked right alongside the others on the Inappropriate Sexual Thoughts shelf, there to remain, untouched and forgotten.

Except you didn't say "sex." You said "love." Trying to slip one past your old subconscious, eh, Jack?

Crap. And that was the problem, wasn't it? He'd been thinking about the difference not three hours ago, totting up his list of sexual encounters and measuring them up against his love for Sara, and finding them wanting. But what about Daniel? What he'd done with Kowalski, satisfying as it was, that had been sex. Period. If he ever had sex with Daniel...Jack closed his eyes, not even able to bring himself to go there. Oh, God. If he had sex with Daniel, he'd never get himself back again. And he probably wouldn't ever want to.

Jack finished the shower in record time, drying himself off with a careless disregard for the state of his hair, and yanking on his clothes hastily in the cramped confines of the bathroom. When he came out, Kowalski was still lying naked on the bed, propped on the pillows with his hands laced behind his head. Jack came into the doorway and leaned there, trying to recapture the easy camaraderie they'd had before, hoping that none of his inner turmoil was showing on his face.

"Guess I'd better be going," he said again.

"Okay." Kowalski smiled, but made no move to get up. "Nice meeting you."

Jack forced himself to smile back. "Yeah."

He turned to go, and was almost to the living room when Kowalski spoke behind him. "Hey, O'Neill."

"Yeah?" Jack turned back.

Kowalski's smile twitched into a sudden, warm grin. "Take it easy."

Jack found himself grinning back. "Yeah. You, too." He left, closing the front door carefully behind him.

When Jack got back to Margaret's, there was a note lying on the nightstand beside his bed. He picked it up and sat down, adjusting his eyes to the cramped spikes of Margaret's writing, and felt his stomach lurch as he read the brief words.

"Jack--Daniel Jackson called around seven-thirty. Nothing urgent, you can call him back anytime, he says you know the number. There are leftovers in the fridge. Love, Margaret."

Shit. Jack crumpled the note in his fist, then glanced at the clock. One-thirty. Twelve-thirty where Daniel was, for him that still qualified as early. Before he could talk himself out of it, Jack was picking up the phone and dialing.

"Hello?"

Jack closed his eyes, not sure he wanted to analyze the sudden flood of feeling as he heard that wonderful, familiar voice. "Hey, Daniel. It's me."

"Jack! Hi." Daniel sounded genuinely pleased to hear from him, and a little of the sick knot that Jack had carried home from Kowalski's bed eased away. "I didn't expect you to call so late." There was a brief pause, and when Daniel's voice came back, there was a note of concern. "It's almost one-thirty there. Is everything all right?"

Yeah, fine. I picked up a cop in a bar--or got picked up, the jury's still out on that one--went home with him, watched some hockey, and we fucked each other silly. And somewhere along the way I realized that I wasn't simply a pathetic, lonely divorcee looking for a few moments of oblivion, I was actually a pathetic, lonely divorcee who really wanted to be fucking his best friend and used this other guy as a substitute.

"Yeah, yeah, everything's fine," Jack lied. "I just got in, that's all. Figured you'd still be up."

That got him a smile, or at least the sound of a smile in Daniel's voice. "Yeah, well. You know how it is."

Jack let the silence stretch for a long moment. "Bored out of your mind, huh?"

"You wouldn't believe it," Daniel confessed in a rush. "Everyone's gone away for the holidays. Even Teal'c is doing some complicated ritual thing that I don't think I even want to know about--"

Jack let the sounds flow over him, feeling a kind of happy peace steal through him at the stream of wonderful, familiar, words. "And you're wishing you'd come home with me," he finally interrupted.

"Yes, actually." Daniel paused again. "I watched a hockey game, Jack."

Jack had to laugh. "No. You poor thing."

"I'm serious. I'm losing my mind here."

*You and me both, Daniel,* Jack couldn't help thinking. "Who was playing?"

"I don't know," Daniel said impatiently. "The point is that I watched it." He sighed. "Jack ...." Daniel's voice was suddenly quiet, the jovial, bantering tone gone as if it had never existed. Jack heard him breathe in, then he spoke again. "Jack, I know this is probably not a good time, but ...."

But you miss Sha're. You're sitting there by yourself, watching everyone else go home to their families, and you're lonely and alone and terrified that you'll be lonely and alone for the rest of your life. Been there, done that, Daniel. And Jack knew without Daniel having to even say it, knew as clearly as if they'd had the entire conversation. *No wonder I love him,* he thought wryly, and was mildly surprised to find the pain of the admission dulling already, as if by confessing it to himself he'd healed the unknown hurt of his own denial. But that could wait until later.

"It gets better, Daniel," Jack said, answering the question Daniel hadn't had to ask.

There was a long, ringing silence. "Does it?"

"Yeah," he said gently. "It does." How much better was another story, but neither of them was, he felt, in a mood to be splitting hairs. "I promise," he added.

Daniel sighed over the phone, that one exhalation full of pain, and grief, and, Jack dared to hope, relief. "Okay," he said simply. "Thanks, Jack."

"Hey, what are friends for? Besides picking up their commanding officers at the airport, that is," he added, and felt another wave of relief as that got a laugh.

"Don't worry, Jack. We'll be there." Daniel paused. "It's not the same around here, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah. It's quiet, and peaceful, and no one comes bursting into my lab at all hours--"

Now it was Jack's turn to smile, and the last of the weight lifted from his chest. "Hey, just you wait. After Christmas, I've got tons of stuff planned for you guys. You'll see."

"Oh. Goody. I can hardly wait."

Jack hung up about ten minutes later, feeling enormously better, but more in the way of a man who'd just survived a horrible accident in which everyone else died. Glad to have survived, ready to get on with his life, but knowing that something was profoundly different. In that one second, seeing his own life reflected for a moment in Ray Kowalski's troubles, everything had changed. He was in love with Daniel, and he might as well get used it.

But nothing would ever be the same again.

THE END

End Passing by Dorothy Marley: demarley@yahoo.com

Author and story notes above.