When will time take away my visits to you?
Anthony Rapp, "Visits to You"

When he softly greeted the nurse, she smiled at him. He let her continue with her checkup, while he sat down in the chair they all knew never to move. The last time they had, they'd seen a side of him nobody ever thought existed. He could see in the stiffness of their shoulders and the tightness of their lips that they were still shaken from it. He found that, these days, he didn't care.

He could sense the nurse assessing him as she assessed her patient, the beep of the monitors and steady inhale-exhale of the ventilator the only noise in the room besides the scratch of her pen. He knew he looked terrible; he had on last night's clothes, not bothering to tidy his hair, and he hadn't shaved since the attack. Finally she finished, and with a parting nod, left the room.

Now it was just him and the comatose man in the bed. He gripped the other man's hand, feeling the warmth seep into his own chilled fingers. He tried not to remember the cacophony of staff weapon blasts and bullets. He tried not to remember period. So instead, he took a book from beside the chair and began to read aloud. Some obscure flicker of hope kept him reading, kept him talking for hours, as if the sound of his voice would lead the other man to consciousness.

When his voice gave out, as it did every few days, he simply sat there, holding the other man's hand, wishing it were him on the bed with the tube down his throat. But then…

He tightened his grip on the unresponsive hand.

But then it would be Jack sitting in this chair, wasting away to nothing, and Daniel would never accept that.

Finally, the exhaustion of dozens of sleepless nights caught up with him, and he fell asleep, still gripping Jack's hand.

He didn't know how long it was when Sam's soft voice and hesitant touch woke him from a dreamless slumber. She was holding a tray with unappetizing food, and he could see in her eyes the strain of keeping calm, keeping rational, keeping him alive. She glanced away quickly and didn't meet his eyes again. Apparently whatever she saw in his own eyes was too much for her to handle. Wordlessly, she handed him the tray. He nodded in thanks he didn't feel, and ate. She only left when he had eaten everything.

Then he was left alone with Jack. Jack, still as death. But not dead, Daniel confirmed, not dead because there was a steady pulse beneath his cold fingers.

Tenderly, Daniel reached out to caress Jack's warm cheek. He remembered the feel of Jack's skin under his fingers, Jack's lips on his own. Then Teal'c was next to him, and he reluctantly pulled back. Time for him to go home. Go home to his empty house, as long devoid of warmth as Daniel himself. He let Teal'c lead him out, not resisting, and when they were in the hallway he mechanically fell into step beside the Jaffa. Not a word passed between them. He had learned not to argue with Teal'c, because Teal'c went to Fraiser and that led to drugs. Drugs led to dreams of fire and pain and emptiness. So he went when Teal'c fetched him, and he spent the night waiting for morning.

Except when they got into the elevator, Teal'c didn't press the button for the surface, instead for the level of Janet's office. Daniel couldn't stir the curiosity to care.

They left the elevator, heading unerringly to Janet and something bitter and dark formed in his stomach, something he recognized as fear. But he ignored it, because he'd been afraid from the moment he saw Jack fall.

Janet was waiting when they entered her office. Her face was bleak but determined. Her brown eyes, when they fixed on him, were shimmering on the brink of tears. Nevertheless, when she spoke her voice was steady.

"Sit down, Daniel," she said gently, leading him to a chair. The fine hairs on the back of his neck were standing up in alarm, but he sat. Teal'c stood by the door. "We need to discuss Jack."

Stirrings of concern shot through his veins. "Is he worse?"

"No," Janet said, but before he could sigh with relief, she added, "But he isn't better."

"He will be," Daniel said. Janet's next comment stunned him into speechlessness.

"No, he won't. Daniel, he won't get better."

"He has to," Daniel protested. Jack had to get better. Jack had to wake up. Jack had to hold him again, kiss him again, touch him again. Jack had to. Daniel refused to allow anything else.

Janet was steadfast, and she repeated, "He won't."

"He has to," Daniel whispered again. "He has to."

Janet's eyes showed the self-loathing as she said, "Jack won't wake up, Daniel. Not today, not tomorrow, not in a week, not in a year. I'm sorry."

Daniel was simply too shocked to do anything but stare. Jack had to wake up. What she was saying wasn't possible. Jack had to wake up. Jack would. Daniel's stricken gaze moved to Teal'c. Teal'c had never told him anything but the truth, even when the truth was painful. Teal'c would tell him. Teal'c would prove Janet wrong. But Teal'c stared steadily back, no emotion in his eyes, his stance tense but neutral. But it was enough. It was enough to tell him that Janet was right.

"Never?" he asked again, just to be sure, missing Janet's wince at his lost, broken voice.

"Never," she confirmed.

Daniel shrank into himself, shoulders hunched, face down, eyes hidden by the glare off his glasses. He wrapped his arms around himself, feeling the cold of his body and beginning to shiver. The flicker of hope flared, and then died completely. He had known, but hearing it out loud made it real. He had known, when Jack went too-still on the gurney half-way to the infirmary, when Janet had shocked his heart back into beating but not his lungs into breathing, when nurses had had to breathe for him in turns before they had the ventilator breathing for him instead. Daniel had known then, but he had chosen not to believe it.

"Daniel," Janet's voice drew him back to the present, the bleak, awful present. "You're listed as his next-of-kin. We need your permission before we—before we can unhook him from the ventilator."

A shiver of denial ran up his spine. Otherwise, Daniel was still. He couldn't give up on Jack, even if Jack never woke up. He couldn't let Jack die.

He was aware of Janet speaking in quiet, rushed tones into the phone, of the door opening and one person entering. He was aware of the delicate, gun-calloused hand on his shoulder, identifying it as Sam's.

"Please, Daniel," she whispered hoarsely. "It's killing you."

Daniel didn't even have the strength to raise his head. He was so tired, suddenly. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to sleep, and when he woke up, maybe this would all be a dream, a hellish nightmare, a memory, and Jack would be by his side with sparkling eyes and movement.

"You don't have to decide now," Janet said. By some unspoken agreement, Teal'c came over to help him stand, and with Sam on one side and Teal'c on the other, he made it to the elevator, the surface, the parking lot, his car. There, he managed to shake off his apathy long enough to croak, "I can drive."

Sam looked at him in concern, Teal'c paused in the act of opening the passenger-side door. When he whispered miserably, "Please," Sam nodded and gestured Teal'c away. Teal'c's eyebrows were raised, his mouth set in a way that suggested his dislike of this course of action. Daniel didn't bother to reassure him; hadn't the energy to. He walked around to the driver's side, opened the door, got in, and started the car. Teal'c and Sam moved off, Sam's hands clenching and unclenching spasmodically, Teal'c a dark rock of non-emotion.

Somehow, Daniel made it to Jack's house—their house, and stumbled into the living room. He had a bottle of something he vaguely recalled buying at liquor store in his hand. He was about to drop onto the sofa when his eyes were drawn as if by some external force to the cabinets above the refrigerator, where Jack kept the gun. He set the liquor onto the coffee table and staggered into the kitchen, stretching to reach the cabinet at the gun. His hand found the cold metal and he pulled it down with a full clip. With deft movements, he inserted the clip and unset the safety. Then, with more steadiness than before, returned to the living room.

He sat down on the couch, unconsciously scooting over to his side and picking up the liquor bottle. He considered it, and then the gun, and then he set the gun down to open the bottle. Once it was open, he picked up the gun again. It felt odd in his hand, too big and too cold and too lifeless, foreign.

He was so tired he could barely think straight. He looked at the bottle, full and inviting but he couldn't remember quite what to do with it. He felt like throwing it, screaming at it, but he didn't want to wake the neighbors and Jack wouldn't appreciate the stain if he threw it. He was too tired to do either, anyway.

Soon, the exhaustion overcame him, and he closed his eyes. One hand held the bottle, still brimming with alcohol. The other held the gun, loaded but unused. Daniel fell asleep, undecided as to what to do with either.