---

These are the things you know…

that a fly ball caught on the outside in the bottom of the ninth at the annual CSPD/CSFD baseball game feels better than a fly ball caught at any other time. That hitting your appliances when they don’t work does nothing to repair them but everything to make you feel better. That beer with your best friend sometimes tastes better than champagne with your wife. That loving and losing isn’t really any easier than never loving at all.

You know, you’ve always known, that you have things left to learn.

--

You see him first at the hospital and almost immediately dismiss him. He’s not your type. Suit, glasses, perfect hair and soft hands. Not the kind of guy to kick back with a cold one for Monday night football. Not the kind of guy who’s always ready for a pick up game with his friends. More the kind that goes to poetry readings and drinks herbal tea and only drinks the snooty imported beers that taste more like rat pee than anything else. The kind that uses words containing more than three syllables.

In short, the kind that you’ve never liked.

He’s walking into T’s room as you’re walking out. He’s reading a chart and everything about him screams “psych ward!” so you when you accidentally bump into his shoulder as you pass you try not to make eye contact.

You can feel his eyes on your back as you scuttle away but you’ve had enough of his type to last a lifetime. Enough of perfect strangers wanting to know how you FEEL all the damn time when they know perfectly well that you just buried your son last month and your wife left and all you want to do is die.

Well. You got over that one.

T was just a probie then, fresh from somewhere else with a smile and the most honest face you’d seen in years. Carter was there, wholesome, femi-nazi fireman, hell bent to prove that girls could do it better than guys.

You know that good friends are there when you don’t want them but need them all the same.

--

You see him the second time after T’s surgery. He’s there in the recovery room with T and Bray and you can’t pretend you didn’t see him. You clutch the plastic fire truck (complete with authentic sirens) closer to your chest, smile nervously. Walking out would just be stupid.

“Daniel Jackson,” he says and his grip is stronger than you’d expected. His hands are just as soft. “I’m a resident psychologist.”

“Jack O’Neill,” you nod. “T’s boss.”

Introductions over, you feel him watching as you joke with T about sick leave and missing body parts. Daniel laughs and dances out of the way with a graceful step as you send the fire truck screaming across the tiled floor.

His hand is warm on your back as he leans in to say goodbye to T and even though it’s stupid, you know you can’t remember the last time (though it might have been junior prom) that someone’s most innocent touch made your heart leap. An hour later, you still feel the strong grip of his hand on yours.

--

He gets your number from the phone book. At least, this is what he tells you when he calls you at the station the next day.

“This is Daniel,” he says. “From yesterday.”

You want to make a joke but you’re not as quick on the uptake and you say “Hi Daniel from yesterday” and grimace into the phone.

He laughs but you know he’s only being polite.

“Listen,” he says, “I was wondering if you wanted to get some coffee. Maybe talk.”

You want to, but you can’t imagine why. The word “talk” coming from a psychologist throws up all kinds of warning flags. “Professionally or non?” you ask.

“Oh, no. Just friends.”

“Like a date?” For a minute, you can’t believe you said that. You can’t believe it left your mouth. You can’t breathe and for a brief moment the question echoes across the static between you. Then he answers and it’s too late to take it back.

“Yeah,” he’s saying, laughing nervously. “Like a date.”

You know, you have to know, that sometimes it’s that easy.

--

“He’s not really your type, sir,” Carter says later. She’s way too loud and you can see that the latest probie is way too interested for comfort.

“I don’t think my shoes have been polished today, probie.” You glare until he flushes and stalks away, grumbling. You turn to Carter, her earnest, puppy dog eyes burn into yours. “Carter, Jesus. Shut the hell up.” But your words have no bite and she only smiles. “And stop calling me sir. You’d think we’re military or some shit.”

She laughs. “As if I’d associate myself with such a gender-biased organization. Being an air force brat was enough for me.” She leans forward and lowers her voice, “so where’s he taking you?”

You glance around nervously, but the probie is off somewhere (presumably spit shining your shoes) and everyone else is watching the game. “He wanted coffee, but I talked him down to beer and pizza at my place.”

She grins, nodding, and you know that she knows.

--

You burp, shoving the empty pizza box off the table with your feet, stretching out enough that your full belly feels less full. More like it could definitely handle another beer. The walk to the fridge is too far, you decide and you squint at Daniel, stretched out beside you.

“Beer?” you ask, thinking you might convince him to get it for you if he accepts.

He waves you off and you decide he’s right, another beer is not what you need.

“Who’s the kid?” he asks, gesturing with his beer at the picture above the tv.

“Charlie.”

He tips his head towards you, asking without asking for you to say more. You know the gesture.

“I don’t want to be psycho-analyzed,” you say, out of nowhere, maybe because you’ve been waiting for him to try all night, but also maybe a little bit because you want him to. Because he listens when you talk about baseball and hockey and things he doesn’t care about.

“I wasn’t-”

“I’ve had enough.”

“Enough of what?”

You hold up your finger, warding off more questions, maybe. Maybe you’re posturing, maybe you’re trying to get him to ask questions. Maybe you finally want to tell someone.

You sigh. “Enough of feeling this way. Enough of feeling like people walk on eggshells around me, wondering if they’re accidentally going to mention they have to pick up their son from soccer practice. That they have to get dinner on the table for the family waiting at home.”

He drops his feet from the coffee table. The tv drones on in the background, some commercial jingle that will be in your head for the next six days. You always know the jingles. “So talk,” he says. And you know it’s suddenly that easy.

“He’s my son. He died.”

Daniel doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer consolation, pity, empty expressions. You knew that he wouldn’t, know that he won’t.

He doesn’t try to understand how you feel because no one can.

That makes it easier, somehow, to tell him, describe to him, exactly the events of that day, the following day, and every day since. A flood of words on a subject that had been empty and desolate. You feel his hand on your arm and you lean in to him, rest your head against his shoulder. You might have cried.

His lips graze your forehead and you know he’s exactly what you needed.

--

The morning sun cuts across his face and he smiles into your hesitant, close-mouthed kisses. His hand cups the back of your neck, his tongue presses into your mouth, brushes against yours. Your breath catches in your throat as he rolls you over and over, tangles you up in sheets and limbs and sunshine.

--

These are the things you’re learning…

that whoever said too much of a good thing is bad for you has obviously never had a good thing. That crying because your son died and your wife left you doesn’t make you less of a man. That love (family, friends, psychologists named Daniel Jackson) might possibly be the only thing worth living for.

And you know, beyond everything else, that sometimes, always, the most difficult beginnings have the perfect endings.