Summary: Daniel’s thinking about himself. Then Jack calls.
Daniel leaned against the frame of the French windows that led to his apartment balcony, cup of coffee in hand. While the radio played Mozart’s Jeunehomme, he thought about what he’d do with the next two days off. He wasn’t used to downtime but Jack had been shot in the ankle by Jaffa weapons fire just as they were going through the ‘gate. Hammond had given them a few days off while Jack groused and grumbled in the infirmary. He’d be sent home tomorrow, which made no sense since he was supposed to stay off the foot. It meant he needed a nanny and Daniel was not going to volunteer. When Jack was injured, he turned into a . . . what was that phrase Sam used? ‘A bear with a sore head.’
Again, what to do with the next two days. He was ordered to do anything but work. But his work was his life, in the SGC or elsewhere. He’d already had his fill of “what’s going on in the world” from the magazines and newspapers he’d picked up on his way to get a morning latte. His coffee had disappeared before he’d gotten home so he was now on his third home-brewed cappuccino.
One of the magazines had had an odd article on grammatical speech. Given that it was one of many forms in his philological milieu, the article had stuck in his brain. “Explain yourself in the third person, present speech,” it had said. As Daniel stood there, soothed by Mozart, his mind tried to do just that. As usual, his thinking went lateral with a touch of complaint.
Not many people understand Daniel Jackson. He doesn’t think like your average person never mind the average man. His mind is upper genius level and he thinks far too fast for his speech to catch up. Due to that, he has a habit to rapid-speak. Part of the reason is also that he explains things to people in-depth rather than summation and used to get interrupted all the time. Now he speaks fast simply to get the words out before surreality sets up house in his head and he has to walk away from whomever it is won’t let him talk.
Daniel’s apartment has sudoku puzzle mags in the trash. Accompanying them are cryptogram mags. He can go through such mags in under an hour and typically works through them while listening to Classical music, usually Mozart. The New York Times Crossword is generally done in under 30 minutes–provided they don’t bore him to death.
When it comes to his career, it isn’t a career. It’s his soul. He’s attracted to the anthro and linguistic sciences the same way an autistic savant can auto-perform singularly amazing tasks. He can pick up a tablet with unknown writing and immediately find patterns in it and compare it to other similar language forms. He’s cracked a few dead languages without telling anyone he’s done it because it’s the Test of it, not the need to brag.
When it comes to friendships, he tries to cultivate them but it’s difficult. He can be charming and friendly, but he doesn’t get people who don’t think the way he thinks. Most people are too slow.
When he met Jack O’Neill, he found someone who thinks like he does–that is, someone who’s extremely intelligent but doesn’t brag it about.
When he met Sam Carter, he found someone else who’s just as intelligent as he is but her frame of mind is in linear logic and she sometimes doesn’t know how to “think outside the box” in the way his own mind naturally works.
When he met Teal’c, it took him a while to work out how the man thinks. But he’s drawn to Teal’c because his mind is locked in a spiritual realm. Everything is packed away under Old School rules and behaviors. He meditates because he has to. Daniel joins him in it because he needs to. It’s the only way he can structure his own mind and to . . . s l o w d o w n.
When it comes to romantic relationships, he’s discovered that he’s bisexual. It’s a natural part of him. But prejudice has forced him to keep it to himself. He doesn’t seek out partners. They usually seek out him. His relationships never last because They Just Don’t Get Him. Past partners have always tried to change him. He would appreciate and love someone if they would only take him As Is. And to be honest, if they were just as intelligent.
Daniel finds himself drawn to Jack O’Neill. Problem is, Jack doesn’t see him until he gets into trouble. It makes no sense so Daniel has decided that relationships are likely not in the cards for him, to use a mystical frame of reference. Maybe there’s someone out there for him but he isn’t going to keep an eye out. He simply can’t be bothered with the hassle of it.
While he could have had his pick, more or less, since getting someone had never exactly been all that hard, it had been alien women who had come after him, each via their own inimitable psychopathic fashion, and only after Kyra-Linea had Jack shown even the slightest . . .
Daniel’s mental essay was interrupted by his cellphone. Frowning, he stared at it first—where it sat across the room on the dining table—then walked over, hoping whomever it was would give up after the third or fourth ring . . . including the SGC. Downtime? Hello?
He turned over the phone. And blinked at it.
Answering, he said, as always, “Jack.”
“Daniel. I need to get out of here. Buy me a coffee and Danish?”
“Um . . .”
Yes, Daniel, eloquent as always.
“You in the middle of someone, er, something?”
Reflexively, Daniel smirked at the phone. “Freudian slip or midlife wish?”
“You know it was just me being a smartass.”
“And I felt it necessary to reply in kind. Where to? That café on Melrose?”
“You mean the one you frequent in a maddening haze?”
“I wouldn’t call it maddening. More like, vengeful.”
“Whatever. Come get me. I can’t drive.”
Daniel caved, as he knew he would. “Be there in twenty.”
“It takes you ten.”
“I have to figure out what to wear to a Rescue Jack From Boredom scenario.”
Jack snorted and hung up.
Again, Daniel blinked. “It would serve you right if I took an hour.”
But it was fifteen minutes, and as he helped a growling bear into his car, and that he found it amusing instead of annoying, it occurred to Daniel that maybe he had found someone. He just had to broach the subject, be ogled at for ten minutes of silence, go through the I’m sort of straight discussion, then feel awkward for about three months while Jack walked on eggshells around him.
On second thought, maybe not. It just wasn’t worth the hassle. Maybe. Sort of. Screw it. Jack could just say no in any number of colorful ways that Daniel could see ahead of time and . . . again. Screw it. You only live . . . once . . . twice . . . thrice . . .
He had the time.