Title: Once

Summary: The degeneration of Daniel Jackson.

Author's Notes: I suppose this is an AU of sorts. Sort of D/J… you'll see what I mean. Also, in order to avoid confusion - for the most part this story travels backwards through time, with the exception of the first section.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything, unfortunately.


Live by the gun, die by the gun, he thought, an insane urge to giggle bubbling up in his throat.

Reaching forward with his left hand, he picked up the whiskey bottle and drank sloppily, spilling some down his chin and the front of his shirt. The neck of the glass was already slick with the result of his previous bad aim, and his military-issue shirt was sticky.

How had it come to this? This time he did giggle, the wet sound coming out distorted and blurred to his alcohol-dulled ears. He knew the answer to that question. It was inevitable, that was all. That was all, nothing special. Nothing to see here, folks! He could almost imagine Jack's voice. He caressed the berretta in his disfigured right hand almost lovingly then slumped back against the wall of his apartment.

"Sir, the immediate area's been cleared. We're good to go at any time."

Staring out at the desert plain which stretched ahead of him, Daniel nodded absently, although the statement hadn't been addressed to him. The bare sand in stretched out in every direction, heat waves swirling up, looking like an alcohol sheen on the inside of a wine glass. The desolation of the place might have been enough to convince some people of the area's safety, but Daniel had been doing this for far too long to assume anything. Even from this distance, he could see the irregularities in the sand, small mounds and shallow holes interspersed with large bare boulders and dry spindly plants. He rested his left index finger gently against the trigger of his P-90, eyes moving restlessly. The rest of the team started walking, and he began to stroll behind them, taking his customary place at the rear.

The new kid didn't look like a bad addition, although Daniel was reserving judgement until they'd gotten through the first few firefights without him doing anything stupid. It was too bad Tom had died – at least Daniel had been sure he knew what he was doing. What was his wife's name again? His mind wandered aimlessly. Mary? Shelley? Something like that. Pretty, he remembered, but not really his type. He'd never talked to her at the funeral, had he? It was those tears – all that smearing mascara and undisguised grief – he just didn't want to have to deal with that. Too bad about Tom though – he'd been dependable, if a bit young.

When had he been young? He could hardly remember. At the beginning obviously. So, so young then. How many years ago was that? He wasn't sure anymore. Too many. But, not enough; not nearly enough to account for the age he felt now.

Trudging along behind the rookie, Daniel kept his eyes up and alert, flickering from side to side in the constant search for, hopefully, nothing. The glint of light against something metal barely warned him, and he could only shout once before throwing himself and the kid behind a large boulder as the energy projectiles flew. Not blue, or orange, but green, so probably not Goa'uld. Like it even mattered who they were – they were trying to kill them and that left little option as to how to respond in Daniel's book. A small voice in his mind attempted to remind him of a time when he once would've tried to talk to them, tried to find a reason for the act of hostility. Angrily, he pushed it away.

Adrenaline rushing through his veins, he popped his head out from behind the boulder, grinning fiercely as he shot at the now-visible aliens. Their weapons sounded like thunder and lightening – like the warning before a storm. Time slowed, blood rushed through his veins, his vision tunnelled and focused. He felt like he was alive, for the first time since the last battle.

"Daniel?" The feminine voice sounded tentative, and the two knocks before had been almost hesitant in their softness. Swallowing, Daniel prepared himself for the intrusion before opening his apartment door. A small smile spread across his face, and his eyes crinkled in what he knew was a convincing approximation of happiness. Sam's tense posture uncoiled slightly in response, and she returned the happy expression with one of her own.

"Hey, Sam, I didn't know you were coming." As he spoke he opened the door wider to let her in, hating himself for hating the way Sam stepped into his personal space as if the boundaries weren't there. Because they weren't there, they shouldn't be there, and that was the problem.

"Hey," she said softly, and Daniel could tell she wasn't sure whether to hug him or keep her distance. Either way, she was too close for Daniel's comfort – just being in the entrance to his sanctuary was almost too much. Not that he would ever let her see that.

In the end, she just ended up passing Daniel by, coming to stand in the middle of his living room. Although her skirt didn't have any pockets she looked like she should have her hands shoved in them, for all the nonchalance she was trying to emit. "I was just.. I was just wondering, if you wanted to talk..? I mean…"

Taking pity on her, he interrupted before she could get any farther. "It's alright Sam." He swallowed and smiled at her again, gently, he hoped. "But really, I'm ok. It's no big deal."

"Daniel..!" The word came out choked, as if she were trying to hold back tears. Once, he would have hugged her.

"I've been cleared by Mackenzie, Sam. I'm fine. I'll be coming back on duty in just a few weeks." Not to SG-1, although he hadn't told Sam, or anyone else, yet. Jack might know.

Her eyes were inevitably drawn to his right hand where sterile white bandages wrapped around his fingers. "You sure you –"

"Sam. I'm fine." A door slamming softly, cutting off the flow of her words like the concrete of a dam.

He must have sounded convincing because she nodded once awkwardly, then stood for a moment before heading quickly back to the door. Her skirt whispered like a sea-foam breeze. "Alright, Daniel. If – if you're sure. Just – if you need to, remember you can always talk to me."

"Always, Sam." He smiled again and shut the door. Never, Sam.

"He's over here! We need a doctor! Get a Goddamned doctor over here!"

What was that noise? No, not again. Nonononono. His thoughts swirled and crashed, like water being drawn over the edge, still trying to resist the inevitability of gravity. The noise was getting louder and the comforting blackness slowly receded, like the tides of an ocean against shards of obsidian rock. They were here again, for pleasure, for pain. No hope, no light, no feeling. Even as he lay numbed, he yearned for real peace. This was his existence now – he just wished he could finally leave it. For good, this time.

He shivered, and he now could feel the cold lifelessness of the stone beneath him. That noise was getting louder. Why couldn't it just leave him alone – couldn't it see he wanted to die in peace? But no, dying wasn't allowed. You can make me scream, but you can't make me cry! He vaguely remembered yelling that out at one point. Stupid, that had been stupid, he should've known better. Pain can make you do anything after too long, and daring them had only made it worse.

A warmth now, against his shoulder, and he wondered absently if it was blood. Something was shaking him – an earthquake, one of his captors? It didn't matter. It didn't matter.

"Daniel? Daniel? C'mon buddy, wake up. Lemme see those baby blues."

Jack..? Nono, just another dream. It hurt so much. There was a pain, in his chest and on it, and his left fingers and wrist were curiously numb in a swelled-to-the-point-of-bleeding kind of way. Broken, weren't they? The fingers on his right hand were even worse, pins and needles shooting through them with every beat of his heart. He knew that if he bothered to open his eyes, he would see them bloody and stumped. Can a sarcophagus grow back bones, he wondered. Maybe he'd find out soon. His insides ached so much he could hardly breathe.

Still, he forced himself to open his eyes. Once, he would've taken the voice on faith, but now… He needed to know. A trick, or…?

Not a trick. He stared then, at Jack's gentle face looking down from above. He could see the pain there, pain for him, he realized. Fear too, and anger. A tiny shred of relief, and he guessed that meant he wasn't dead, or going to die. But what was worst was what was absent. He knew that the hands currently clutching his shoulders would draw him up into a hug, if they could, but never anything more than that. He didn't hate Jack for it, couldn't hate Jack, because he could also see a deep grating regret in that dark gaze, though whether it was for the late rescue, or the unrequited emotion, Daniel didn't know.

And so, finally seeing, finally truly knowing, something inside Daniel snapped, like the tides of an ocean freezing mid-blow to a beach. Then he wept for this sad truth for the first time, and, he promised, for the very, very last.

It was late at night, the festivities were over, the bedroom was dark, and Daniel couldn't sleep. His arm sprawled over his face, trying unsuccessfully to block out the sound of Jack snoring less than a foot away. He felt a deep desire to push him off the bed, poke him, do anything at all just to make him be quiet. It was bad enough, being able to feel the other man's warmth, right beside him, and not be able to do anything about it. The snoring just made things worse. Rubbing his face, Daniel resisted his urge – he was drunk. Anything he said or did now was bound to turn out badly, so he just turned to face the wall instead.

How much more could he mess up, anyways? This wasn't how he'd expected his coming-out to be. He'd always hoped for something dramatic, or that maybe Jack would make the first move. Hopelessly idealistic, wasn't he? Daniel snorted quietly at his own folly, and tried unsuccessfully to quell the tide of his own thoughts, rising to overwhelm him.

He should've known by now, that love wasn't some blissful thing consisting solely of sunsets, rainbows, and happy endings. No, no, love was something harsh and unforgiving – and he'd had no right to expect or even hope for anything more than that. Stupid, he'd been stupid.

Kissing Jack had been stupid. Confessing his undying love had been even stupider. Loving Jack in the first place had been his stupidest act, of course, but it wasn't like he'd planned that.

Not that he'd planned the first two mistakes, either. He'd been drunk. Happily drunk, spending the fourth of July with Jack, at Jack's. Happiest he'd been in a while actually, and things just progressed from there. It was all a blur, really, up until he'd kissed Jack against the kitchen counter, too caught up in the taste of sour beer and steak to realize that Jack wasn't exactly reciprocating. And it had all gone downhill from there.

Jack, a little drunk himself, though nowhere near as far gone as Daniel, had gently, oh-so-gently, pushed him away. Holding him by the shoulders, explaining, patiently, that he was flattered, really, but Daniel wasn't his type. That it was alright, he knew Daniel was drunk right now, and they'd still be best friends in the morning. Then Daniel had all but collapsed, and Jack had led him to his bedroom, to his bed. To show he still trusts me? And Daniel knew that he did, knew that Jack loved him now just as much as he always had, which wasn't nearly enough.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be! It was supposed to be happy, and easy, and wonderful. Some subconscious part of him had been sadly convinced that Jack would love him back, maybe because of that damned sense of idealism and hope that just wouldn't leave him alone.

But, it was ok. He was ok. He'd get through this, because he'd have to. And, there was always the chance… No, no there wasn't this time, but that was ok, because he still had Jack, even if he didn't have him quite the way he wanted him. Preferably naked. Shuttering away the thought, Daniel closed his eyes and tried to sleep. He just had to get through this mission tomorrow, with SG… 12, was it? Maybe 13. Just once this mission was done, then he and Jack could talk it over, not drunk this time, and he'd make it clear that he'd certainly never had any feelings like that for his best friend, he'd been drunk and completely out of his mind and didn't have any idea who he'd been talking to, and even if he did have even one iota of attraction to the older man, he would never, ever do anything that would compromise their friendship.

Unrequited love was a bitch, but he'd get past it. Everything would be ok.


Live by the gun, die by the gun. What had he become?

A monster, a living-dead thing. Something to be pitied, to be hated.

And he did hate himself. He hated himself for being a coward, for running away from Jack. For running away from the possibilities that weren't there, from the overwhelming sense of 'what if' which had seemed to follow Jack everywhere. He'd run away from his friends, from his team. Their sympathy had seemed smothering, even when it was only imagined. He just couldn't keep looking over his shoulder, wondering what they thought, if they pitied him – if the only reason they cared was because he was… broken.

And he was broken, he knew himself well enough to see that, despite what Mackenzie said. Oh, he knew all the psychiatrists' little tricks – it wasn't difficult to tell them what they wanted to hear. It was always good to be a bit difficult at the beginning, though – after all, you don't want to make it look too easy.

But this numbed feeling inside wasn't just the product of the alcohol. No, he'd been living with this feeling for the past five years already. It was familiar… comforting, almost. He didn't want to know what the alternative was, and thankfully, now he never would.

Why was he doing this? He didn't have one simple, logical answer to that question. It was just… he figured he was far enough away by now, that it wouldn't hurt them so much. He couldn't, at first, because he'd known it would tear them apart, but now they were together without him, and happy, and he was hoping they'd see that it really was better this way. He and his hated monster-self finally put out of their misery, and no one ever having to worry about him again.

He dropped the whisky bottle, watching unfocused as it made a dull clunk, then rolled to rest against his leg. The amber liquid inside splashed against the floor and the fabric of his pants, then began to drip slowly from the bottle, hitting wet wood with a rhythm defined by nature and science and nothing at all. Drip-drip drip drip.. drip… drip…… The droplets stopped falling, and Daniel knew his time was up.

Jack, Sam, Teal'c… I'm sorry. A shot rang out through the night, and one man's story finally ended.

Outside, it began to rain.