Third times the charm, always was, always will be.
First time answering machine, second time answering machine ... third time ... one ring, two rings, three rings ... then ...
"'ello?" A sleep-laden voice answers at the start of the fourth ring, beating the answering machine by half a second.
"Wakey, wakey, Daniel." I take a perverse pleasure in hearing the muffled curse in response to my wake up call, followed by an answering dial tone.
I replace the phone in the cradle, and my eyes catch the time on the bedside clock. I curse at the lateness it reveals ... curse at my lateness. I'm still dressed from yesterday, random thoughts of bringing my laptop into the bedroom to work filter through my brain. Yup, laptop still open and on ... I squint at the print on the screen ... groping on the bed to find my glasses. In my haste, books and papers go sliding onto the floor with a resounding thud, but still no glasses. Deciding at that moment in time, maybe I should get contacts, the type I will never have to remove for sleep or missions or sex or anything. Frustrated, I card my fingers through my hair ... bingo ... my glasses were resting on top of my head.
I position them and glance at the laptop screen as it comes into focus. It reveals rows and rows of "p's" and "l's". I hit the delete key, aware that I obviously fell asleep with my face pressed to the keyboard. I'm sure if I examine it closely, my drool will be lacing the keys.
Closing the laptop, I slide out of the bed, slipping on the pile of books and papers I placed there. The vicinity of my dresser is the only reason I don't end up on my ass. I sidestep a plate of something lying on the floor, thanking the gods that the books and papers missed landing in it as well.
I'm so busy congratulating myself that I trip over the coffee mug sitting on the floor, which spills onto the papers. An Abydonian curse flies from my lips as I grab the coffee soaked papers and begin shaking them. Droplets of coffee fly everywhere, but I refuse to worry about that for now. I gingerly lay the papers on the dresser to dry, shoving the clothes strewn along the top to the floor.
Besides rethinking the contact thing, maybe now is the time to take the General up on the offer of the cleaning services that that are made available to the SG team members. Up until now, I'd refused the offer, never wanting anyone in my home, too many valuable things around ... never wanting a stranger to intrude on this part of my life. Maybe I was a little shortsighted in saying 'no' so quickly as I survey the mess that my bedroom has become in less than 24 hours.
I want Daniel awake and functioning today, at the briefing and offworld. So it is not only because I love Daniel, but also for my own self-preservation, that I am standing hip deep in people at the local Starbucks. I'm racking my brain in a brutal and obviously feeble attempt to try and recall what Daniel drinks. All that comes to mind is the orgasmic sigh he releases when he brings the cup to his lips and ...
"Can I help you, Sir?" I'm broken from my reverie of Daniel and orgasmic sighs by a girl, named Linda, who doesn't look old enough to drive, let alone be working.
"Sir?" she reiterates-I hear complaints behind me from the masses because I am not ordering fast enough.
"I'll have a chocolate chip muffin and one large," wow I think I got it ... "one large ... uh, venti ... kama sutra, hold the milk, extra sweet."
The crowd behind me starts with chuckling sounds and then proceeds to out and out laughter. "What?" I exclaim. "I just ordered a chocolate chip muffin and ..."
Linda gently pats my hand resting on the counter. "I believe you want a Sumatra, Sir."
"Whatever ... yeah that's it." I turn to glare at the crowd who now seem to be hiding their smirks quite well. Package in hand, I hold my head up high knowing that this will be the last time I ever visit a Starbucks for Daniel, no matter how much I love him.
I start the shower, ruing the lack of clean towels and ... shit, soap ... wonder if the general has a service that shops for the SG teams as well. I step into the shower, even before the water has heated up sufficiently. Shampoo ... at least I have shampoo compliments of Sam, who for some unknown reasons sees fit to buy me a bottle of great smelling stuff every time she shops. So I wash and rinse my hair and then proceed to wash my body with the shampoo, convincing myself that the chemical makeup must be the same, praying that my skin is not allergic to this woodland smell.
I'm dripping shower remnants on the bathroom rug, rummaging through a pile of laundry trying to find a towel that is partially clean and dry. Vowing that my next day off will include the operation of a washing machine ... I will not be spending it in bed with Jack. I feel myself grow hard in remembrance of the last time that we spent ... Okay I can do laundry at Jack's house next downtime and kill the proverbial two birds with one stone.
I rub my hair dry and then wrap the semi-wet towel around my waist, cleaning off the steam on the mirror. I lean closer, inspecting my face ... it is there ... blurry, but there ... the imprint of the keyboard. Shit ... Jack will have a field day with that one. I shave quickly, even managing to not nick my face around the imprint of the keyboard. I wipe away the excess shaving cream and throw the towel onto the overflowing basket. Maybe the General can be convinced to let SG teams bring in their laundry to be done by the military. Knowing if I make a presentation in a professional manner, with slides and power point, the General will likely allow at least me to bring in my laundry. So then my downtime with Jack will be ... don't go there, the cognitive part of my brain is relaying to my penis. Too late it answers, as I again feel myself grow hard.
At least I am able to find clean boxers and a pair of pants. A shirt thrown on the floor reveals itself to be in fairly respectable condition. I dress and begin to feel caffeine withdrawal settling in as a headache takes residence behind my eyes. Slipping on the shirt, I retrieve my glasses from the bathroom, cleaning the lenses on the shirt as I tuck it in. Even though the world is being brought into focus ... the headache is still there. I see caffeine and aspirin in my immediate future.
Twenty minutes and counting until Jack shows up at my door. Intention ... gather the paperwork and laptop while coffee is perking. Reality ... bare feet now stepping in ground coffee lying on the floor. In an effort to save time, I ripped open the new bag of coffee with my teeth and watched in horror as a flurry of grounds flew everywhere. No time to clean it up ... needing coffee ... I measure out the required amount, start the pot and go to finish dressing.
I head back to the bedroom wiping my feet on my pant's legs as I walk ... result ... brown specks covering the bottom of my pants. No time to worry about that ... I will change into my BDU's as soon as my ass hits the mountain. No one will even notice. I manage to find a clean pair of socks and slip them on, then shove my feet in my shoes. I grab my laptop and I place it under my arm as I reach for the soggy papers from the dresser. I drop both on the kitchen counter and pour myself a cup of coffee. I am on my second cup when the doorman signals that my ride is here.
I turn off the pot, the lights, throw some food in the aquarium. Grab my coat and my various sundries and am in the car within the required time. I flash a smile at Jack, and eye the Starbucks' bag tucked into the console.
With a sigh, he leans over and flecks something off the side of my mouth. Oh ... stuck coffee grounds. He uses his thumb to wipe something off the side of my face ... I'm thinking either dried shampoo or shaving cream.
Jack sniffs the air ... "Woodland soap, Daniel?"
I nod in agreement. I am covered in woodland from my hair to my toes, but I deem it unnecessary to let Jack know that. He gently fingers the indentation on my cheek, a curious look reflecting in his eyes.
I shrug my shoulders in silent response and stretch my legs out. He eyes the bottom of my pants and my socks. Note to self ... must not pair socks in the dark with no glasses as I see I am wearing one very black sock and one very navy sock with some type of design. I make another feeble attempt to clean off the bottom of my pants. He shakes his head and hands me the bag, containing not only Starbucks coffee, but also a muffin. From his jacket pocket he pulls out a blister pack of aspirin.
He maneuvers the SUV away from my building. I drink the coffee in complete serenity. The caffeine kicks in not only from the two cups I drank in my loft, but I hold in my hand possibly the strongest coffee that Starbucks makes. I take two aspirin and exhale in supreme gratitude as the headache begins to fade.
"It's the little things," Jack replies.
I answer him with a smile, thinking screw the laundry ... I know what I want to do on my next downtime and soap powder and dirty clothes are definitely not on the agenda.
Feedback makes the difference between writing and posting; please contact me at firstname.lastname@example.org