Title: The Long Sleeved Shirt

Show: Stargate SG1

Author: Castalie

Feedback: Much appreciated as you can imagine <g>

Rating: NC-17

Pairings: Jack/Daniel

Status: Complete

Date: 05/23/03

Category: Drama, ER

The Long Sleeved Shirt
by Castalie

I always thought it was funny how the simplest, the most mundane things could bring back the most repressed memories. The ones you had well hidden in some deep recess of your mind-or *thought* you had well hidden. The ones you wanted locked in a box, which you wouldn't ever open on your own volition.

The whole purpose of that box was actually to be hidden and inaccessible. With some luck, you would even forget you had it.

Of course, that never was the case. Not really.

Once again, it was one those little 'nothing' that brought the nightmare back.

Jack and I were finally going home, after a long and annoying mission on a planet where the only flora seemed to be these giant flowers, which didn't actually have leaves but thorns...and not tiny ones like roses had, no, these were big, huge thorns that could have been registered as a lethal
weapon in anyone's book. Well, at least they were in *mine*. Of course, the planet being mostly uninhabited, you didn't find any gardeners to take care of the flowers, and therefore, of those thorns turned spears, and you had them surrounding you. They were *everywhere*. The picture they made was beautiful, I wouldn't try to deny it...but they also were very impressive and quite intimidating.

I guess if I was totally honest, what happened wasn't such a surprise, and it was pretty funny, in retrospect. One of us was *bound* to fumble at some point, and fall in one of those bunch of flowers...and of course, it had to be *me*. To tell you a secret, it was as if Jack was actually
*waiting* for it. I didn't want to disappoint him, really. So I fell.

I could try and explain how the whole thing happened, but it wouldn't lead us anywhere. Let's just say that I lost my footing and took a dive in one long and huge bed of flowers..in other words, I took a dive in a bed of agressive looking thorns. I didn't hurt myself too bad, I just scratched my arms, thankfullly. I was almost immediately saved by Teal'c, who simply scooped me up and sat me on my feet again, thus sparing the rest of me the pain *and* indignation of falling face first in the bed of flowers from hell.

After one unfructuous day of wandering and research, we were able to come home. Of course, Janet chastised me for not looking where I was putting my feet. I was expecting it, of course. I like my routine like any other sensible person, after all. I nodded at her, bit my lower lip, and looked at her through my eyelashes with the predictable result of her agreeing with what I was asking, that is, to let me go home.

Sam had taken some samples from the thorns already, there was nothing poisonuous or remotely dangerous in them, and my allergies were fine. The treatment I was following was perfect, thanks to Janet, so why did she always feel compelled to keep me overnight after such mundane incidents? And after all, it was not as if I actually fell on purpose. I might like it rough with Jack, but that was the only place where I liked to be roughed up. In *bed*... *not* off world. I didn't think you needed to be a genius to understand the difference. But she did let me go, and that was
all that mattered.

We were about to leave the car, when Jack said it. The little thing that resurrected the memories. Just one little sentence, spoken in jest, nothing more.

"Hey, Danny, maybe you should pull down your sleeves. You don't want the DiLucas to think we decided to go natural, and the scratches on your arms are the result of us playing outside."

It should have made me laugh. The DiLucas were Jack's -and therefore, now, * my*- homophobic neighbors. They were in their early-fities, and still hadn't gotten over the shock of having two fags for neighbors-- although I'm sure they wouldn't use such a foul word. They were nice and decent people, after all.

Everything was fine as long as Jack lived alone, but as soon as I moved in, we'd totally lost them. I'm afraid the sinners that we both were didn't mourn their loss. What can I say, bigotry was everywhere, so why not near our home?

We often made fun of our favorite bigot neighbors. I knew it wasn't the most mature reaction we could have, but in the face of such prejudice, you couldn't do a lot. Mocking them, making fun of their narrow minded vision of life, in other word, demystifying their hatred, was the better way of
defeating them. I always refused to let ignorant people's bigotry demean who I was or debase what I had. Jack, unable to kill his neighbors, decided letting go was the best way to react, too. Well, as much as Jack could let go, that is. My lover suddenly developed a taste for making lewd
comments and innuendos in public, well, in our *garden*, to be precise, where he knew he had a captive audience. I loved hearing him talk dirty, I must admit...and this 'oral' play, which for once had nothing to do with sex, always cracked me up. I loved seeing this mischievous Jack in action. I still could pretend to be the more mature of the two while reaping the benefits of *his* playful moods.

So, it should have made me laugh...it didn't. It sent a jolt of cold feeling in me. I didn't stop breathing, I didn't hyperventilate, I didn't yell. It wasn't spectacular at all. I just..froze. I froze for a second. It didn't last more than that, I knew it. I kept on walking, followed Jack into the house, and closed the door behind me with a shaking hand.

The shaking didn't last long either. I willed it to stop and it did. I had a lot of practice restraining my emotions. I knew how to master my fear *and* my reaction to it. It was a skill I learned when I was very young, a skill that had been drilled into me. Some of the lessons you learned during your childhood, you never forgot.

If it had been anyone else, they wouldn't have even noticed my little lapse. But Jack wasn't just 'anyone else'. He was the man I loved, the man who loved me, and the man who knew me almost better than I did myself... he knew all of me...from the inside to the outside. He knew me by heart. He actually was aware of my hidden boxes, and when one of them re-opened by accident, he was the only one who was able to close them again for me.

He looked at me and he *knew*.

He took his jacket off, then mine. He entwined his hand with my own and led me to the couch, where he made me sit. He sat at my side and cupped my cheek. I looked in his eyes, but I didn't really see him, then.

It happened sometimes.

I could still feel, though. And what I felt wasn't rough hands or a hard touch. It was his lips against mine...a careful kiss, almost chaste, with no demands behind it. Then, I was gently and tenderly being pulled down against a familiar and much loved body. I stretched over the couch, and I was able to feel his broad chest under my own, his shoulder under my cheek. His arms went around me, now holding me close, protecting me from the memories. They always overwhelmed me, but his arms, his touch, his presence, were my anchor. I wouldn't get lost with Jack surrounding me like this, he wouldn't let me.

Once the box was opened again, I could only wait for the memories to launch at me, confident in Jack's strength, knowing he would bring me back when I needed to return.

My mind went back to another time, another place. My eyes were wide open and staring at a place in which I lived for what felt like an eternity, and where I discovered that hell wasn't just a notion you learned about in Sunday school.

Being abandoned by your grand-father wasn't the worst thing that could happen to you, seeing your parents being crushed to death in front of you wasn't either; because in both cases, you kept on living, and even if there was something missing in your life, even if at first, it felt like your heart had been ripped open, leaving only a big hole, you soon realized the hole wasn't real...you had your memories of your parents, the memory of their love, they filled it, completed it in a way, so that you could still live afterward...you were still able to love others, and love *yourself*. So, ultimately, you were still whole, there wasn't something missing in *you*.

There were worse things. Silent homes and silent children. Secrets that everyone knew but never talked about. Secrets hidden behind the curtains of a beautiful little house in the suburb, hidden behind clouded eyes and frightened smiles. Secrets that came to life when the lights were switched off, and the bedroom doors were closed. But the truth is, those doors were never really closed. They opened in the middle of the night, and they let monsters enter your room. I realized very early on that monsters *didn't* live under the bed, or hide inside the closets. Oh no, monsters lived in the same house as you did, and hid in plain light. During the day they looked like any caring father, a decent man who was so generous to take in all those little orphans.

But at night, the masks were off, and the ugly truth was finally revealed.

I shuddered as I recalled the unwanted touch on my body, the hated words in my ear, the hot breath on my skin. I didn't understand what was happening, I never understood why it happened, why he did those things to me, to us.

I was nine years old, and all I knew was that nights had become a dangerous and hard place. My worst enemy.

During my stay in that house, nights became alive...they could scare you, hurt you, they made you afraid of the tiniest sound approaching your room. They sometime gave you a reprieve, but it would always start again the next night.

I also learned to hate myself. I was a bad boy...I was a mean little boy, and I knew it. Or else, how could I have felt such relief when I heard him open another door, knowing what would happen to Tim or Julia? How could I hate them when it was *my* door he opened, after all? I hated myself, I hated him, I hated that place.

At nine years old, I was a prisoner, in my home and in my mind. Maybe even in my body, since I couldn't stop the unwanted touch. I wanted to be cuddled and kissed so badly...I needed to know I existed for someone. So maybe it was my fault after all. Tim and Julia were like me...maybe we
weren't normal. Maybe we deserved the pain? How could I understand that everything he did to us was abject, a parody of love, an abberation? He was the God of our universe...he and his wife loved and took care of us, they gave us a home, a family, a sense of normality.

And the days were nice...days weren't dangerous, they didn't frighten me. During the day, the monster was hidden, I could pretend everything was alright, and I liked it. But then, nights came and I berated myself for believing. In my bed, I desperately tried to understand where the 'good
dad' was going when the monster took his place.

I never found out.

Some children wore long sleeved shirts to hide the bruises on their arms. My long sleeved shirts were meant to hide the fingerprint-shaped marks on mine. Those marks were like brands on my skin. His wife always bought us that kind of shirt, giving them to us with her eyes lowered. I remember that she never liked to look us in the eyes. Maybe because the reflection she was getting back made her feel ugly? I never asked. I never wanted to know, anyway.

I hated those long sleeved shirts, but they hid my shame. They protected me from it. My dream, when I was nine, was to live in tee-shirts for the rest of my life. Because one day, I hoped I wouldn't need to hide anything...but when nights came again, the dreams of the little boy I was
were quickly forgotten.

Torn open just as my body was.

Then, one day, we left the house. That's when I decided maybe living in tee-shirt wasn't the best thing to hope for, after all. I decided that what I really wished for was to forget I had actually needed long sleeved shirts once.

So I made that box... I put all those hated shirts in it, and I locked it. I locked it up tight. So why did it kept on opening again? Why? I never wanted it to open.

Never wanted to think about it again, never never never...

Suddenly, I felt something...soft kisses on my cheek, on my temple. A gentle hand roaming over my spine...never going further than the small of my back, another running through my hair. I heard someone calling my name... like a mantra.

Jack...Jack was here...he was all around me, calling me to him, and I knew it was safe to come back, knew I *had* to come back. I looked up from my warm place in his neck, and I finally saw him.

Jack, not *him*, never him.

Jack was smiling at me, waiting for me to come back to myself, to pull back from that dark place where I was swallowed sometimes. "It's okay, baby. You're alright. You're safe."

He showered my face with tiny kisses, anchoring me to the here and now, anchoring me to him.

"That's my Danny. You're back, aren't you? Yeah, you're back." He waited a little more. "Can you tell me what that was about?"

I nodded, but the thing I said wasn't exactly what I planned on telling my lover. "I don't need long sleeved shirts, Jack, not anymore. Never again."

Instead of looking at me like I'd just lost my mind, he nodded too, and kissed me again. "No more of those, Danny. Never. I promise."

I smiled at him, feeling my love for him and his for me. I didn't need to say anything, he knew what to say. He understood, always. He always made things better, or tried to. I just had to trust him...to trust *us*.

I also realized that one day, with his help and his love, I would be able to give up my long sleeved box, once and for all.

Fin