Rain pings off the roof of Jack's truck as he shifts into park. The street is empty, most of the apartments dark. Twenty-three hundred hours is pretty late for this neighborhood.
Daniel's apartment is clearly visible from across the street, nearly every light blazing in the living room. A body, moving like night against the bright lights, draws Jack's attention. Daniel moves out on to the balcony and into the falling rain. Jack cocks his head; Daniel's going to catch cold.
Keys out of the ignition and tucked into his jacket pocket, Jack checks that he has his cell phone. Grabbing the door handle, Jack's eyes flick up as Daniel strips off his shirt, dropping the heavy fabric next to him. He's moved to the edge of the balcony and Jack can clearly see the water glistening over Daniel's chest. Daniel leans his head back—not wearing his glasses—and his body relaxes, tension running off his shoulders with the rainwater. He shakes his head from side to side, and Jack can imagine his laugh, hear it tickling his ear like the time they were rained out on '689. The whole planet turned to sludge and Daniel tipped back his head, letting the water run down his collar and into his socks just because . . . because he's Daniel. There's something about the rain that gets into his head, waterlogs his brain, and makes him act . . . questionably.
Jack's fingers slip from the door handle, the steering wheel jabbing into his sternum as he angles for a better view. Daniel's hands are at his waist and it's only when he drops his head that Jack realizes that Daniel is unzipping his pants.
His breath catches in his throat as he remembers Daniel's pants open and hanging loosely at his waist, narrow hips barely holding up the pants, the scar from when his appendix was removed the only imperfection on taut skin. He gets flashes of that simple stretch of skin at inappropriate times during self-directed hand jobs; it's too much work to chase it away now.
Dropping to the lounge, sitting closer to Jack's side of the street, Daniel's hands glide across his smooth chest, down his stomach, across the planes of his abs, and down into his pants. The motions that follow are unmistakable. The twitch in Jack's pants is undeniable.
Even in the dark, Jack can make out enough to see that Daniel is enjoying himself—Jack can fill in the rest. Cock in hand, pants slipped down just past his hips, Daniel's head presses into the back of the lounge, mouth gasping for droplets of rain. The muscles in his neck strain, desire release, push for something beyond Daniel's skin.
Jack swallows his desire, feelings he's often denied, ignored, projected on to others. He shouldn't be aroused by watching Daniel. Just watching Daniel shouldn't make him feel—like this. Jack's breath comes out shaky when he tries to settle himself. His thumb accidentally slips inside his shirt when he braces a hand against his thudding heart. His own skin feels better than it should.
The street is still quiet, a slight steam coming off the cooling engine of Jack's truck. He's parked under the yellow spill of the streetlight, but the shadows should hide his lap from any prying eyes.
And he just needs to touch himself for a minute. Not because Daniel's doing it, and not because watching Daniel is . . . Jack just needs to touch himself.
Jack snaps open his fly before he can list all the reasons why he shouldn't. His hand is warm on his hot dick, the sweaty palm doing nothing to alleviate the tension, but working as a natural lubricant.
It doesn't take him long to catch up to Daniel.
He's panting, closing his eyes briefly. His face heats as he thinks about what he's doing: getting off while watching Daniel. Jack wants this—wants him—but it's not like there's a choice. Jack can't saunter up to Daniel with a line, take him home, screw him to the mattress, and then wait for more to develop. There's no white picket fence, dog and a yard, or kids in their future.
There's only this, now.
He snorts at himself, "Enjoy it, Jack."
Daniel arches on the lounge, his head coming up off the back when his body relaxes. Daniel's head flicks to the side, and his hips thrust, pushing his dick up into his palm.
Jack's hips thrust in response. He squeezes his eyes closed.
While Daniel's right hand works his dick, his left roams. He pinches his nipples, grazes his hands over his chest, down his arm, and on to his stomach. He hooks his fingers into his mouth, lips closing around the digits, and Jack can feel the pull on his cock, the slick warm wetness of Daniel's mouth, the flick of his tongue over the sensitive skin. Wet fingers trail out of Daniel's mouth, traveling swiftly and with purpose. Jack knows where they're going and quickly wets his own fingers to keep up.
The angle is awkward in the cab, but by reclining the seat, Jack is able to insert a finger into his ass only a few moments after Daniel does the same to himself. It's not a sensation Jack has ever particularly enjoyed, but tonight it feels incredible. Watching Daniel do it to himself, knowing that Jack's actions are merely an echo of Daniel's uncharacteristically erotic behavior makes everything . . . better.
Long fingers clench around hard cocks, pumping the shafts with the force of firing a P-90 and the care of cataloguing an artifact. Their breathing synchronizes and Jack can almost hear Daniel panting, "Almost there." Cold from the cool rain and air—one drenched in rainwater, the other in sweat—they both breathe deeply, holding the air in their lungs as their dicks spasm their release.
Jack's eyes snap open when his held breath gasps out.
Daniel lies on the lounge, one arm dangling off the edge. Fat drops of rain wash Daniel clean, making him natural in ways that Jack longs to be.
Hand fumbling in the back of the cab, Jack finds a roll of paper towels wedged beneath the passenger seat. The paper scrapes over his skin, leaving slightly sticky red marks. He throws the used paper towel to the floor, knowing he'll forget to throw it away later and not quite caring.
Daniel stands, bends, and looks over the balcony, scanning the street. Jack inhales sharply, sure that in a second Daniel will recognize the truck, maybe wave, maybe hug his arms in that self-defensive gesture. Instead, Daniel squares his shoulders and, slinging his shirt over his shoulder, heads back into his apartment. He disappears, heading down the short hall to his bedroom. By the time Jack has his pants zipped, shirt tucked in, seat readjusted, and has slapped his face a few times, Daniel is in the living room again, shutting off lights.
Jack can almost remember why he came over here: no pressing reason, he just wanted the company, a warm body sitting next to his. Now, that need doesn't seem so pressing. Daniel stops in front of the window, turning off a light with one hand, the other ruffling a towel through his short hair.
The keys are out of Jack's pocket, the engine cranked, before Jack realizes he's even made a decision.
His cell phone trills and Jack answers it without checking to see who's calling.
"Daniel?" Jack leans over the steering wheel again, peering up into the apartment. Daniel is standing next to the window, looking down at the street. His hand is cupped over his face, shielding his eyes from the now dim light in his apartment.
"Aren't you planning on coming up?"
Unbidden visions of Daniel spring to Jack's mind: Daniel sweaty and naked on his bed, thrusting up into hands that are not his own, mouth hanging open with Jack's name on his lips.
He squeezes his eyes shut, quickly assesses, cranks down the engine, and lies through his teeth. "I was just straightening my truck. Didn't pull close enough to the curb."
Jack puts his keys in his pocket, but doesn't get out of the car. He can hear Daniel's breathing over the phone, can almost see his breath fogging against the window, like desire misting his vision.
"How long have you been there?" Daniel's voice is steady, but Jack catches something underneath.
"Not long," Jack lies. "A minute? Two?" Long enough for an orgasm, he thinks.
Daniel sighs in a way that seems more disappointed than relieved.
"Some night?" Jack asks by way of conversation. He has to bring this back to normal; he can't keep thinking of Daniel, his head thrown back, chest damp, fingers clenching.
"Yeah," Daniel breathes in a way that makes Jack stiffen. "It's been . . . interesting."
Jack nods. He finally gets the door open and heads across the street, belatedly checking for traffic. "I'm on my way up."
"I know. I can see you," Daniel says. He's still up against the window, towel around his neck, wearing jeans but no shirt. Jack shivers.
At the door to the building, Jack glances up, but can no longer see Daniel's apartment. He buzzes into the building and then hears through the phone the slide of the locks on Daniel's door.
"Jack, you've been here longer than a few minutes."
"Have I?" He climbs into the elevator, feeling a thrill of excitement, a rush of adrenaline like charging through a Stargate.
"The door's unlocked, so you can come right in. Just lock it behind you, okay? I'll be in my bedroom."
Jack smacks his dry mouth before getting out a hoarse affirmative.
The sound of a zipper—being unzipped—and then the near silent swoosh of fabric. Daniel's voice is muffled for a moment, like he has the phone between his cheek and shoulder.
"Jack, I just—I have to know—did you enjoy watching?"
The elevator doors slide open and Jack has to remember to step off, to breathe.
"You looked like you did."
"Daniel. . . ." There's a threat in Jack's voice, a warning, the inevitable conclusion to this fucked-up evening.
"I couldn't really see into your truck, but you, you know, stayed."
There's a pause like a held breath. This is the moment, now. Standing at Daniel's door, Jack has a choice; Daniel is giving Jack a choice.
"Jack?" There's an explanation that's about to follow, an apology, and a way out, intellectual avoidance and repression. Daniel's got a generic speech about the cultural bias against exhibitionism, voyeurism, or homosexuality. It's just like Daniel to backpedal while he's pushing forward.
Jack turns the knob before Daniel can breathe any of it out.
"I enjoyed watching," Jack confirms.
He locks the door behind him and leaves his cell phone on the table, shucking his clothes as he walks down the short hall to Daniel's bedroom—because with Daniel, there is no choice.