marzipan77 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marzipan77) wrote2011-10-04 11:29 am
marzipan77) wrote2011-10-04 11:29 am
Entry tags:
"Renaissance: N is for Numb"
Title: “Renaissance: N is for Numb”
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
marzipan77
Fandom: SG-1
Pairing: None
Rated: T+ for language and memories of violence
Summary: A series of fics beginning at Daniel’s descent back to Earth from the Ascended Plane. Chapter by chapter, these fics, about 1000 words each, beginning with “A”, will explore Daniel’s attempt to regain his memories, his mortal existence, and his place within the SGC and on SG-1.
Warnings: Angst/Emotional Whump/Memories of Death
Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate, or Jack, or Daniel, or anything but my cats.
Written for the Alphabet Challenge on the Stargate Drabbles List.
Summary: “When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone. I cannot put my finger on it now - the child is grown, the dream is gone.”
Hands – he remembered the touch of these hands. Cool on blistered skin, soft enough to soothe the deep wounds of the spirit, and firm and decisive when he needed a solid connection to hope. These hands that touched him with what should have been unnatural and unwelcome intimacy, that pierced his skin with needles and drew out his life-blood – he watched them blurring quickly in and out of his vision as they moved and danced and the doctor wove words in the air around him. Lying on the narrow bed, bright light bleeding into all of his darkness, he watched her hands. Daniel watched her hands because he did not want to watch her face.
That face now echoed others – light eyes and dark, faces that towered above him or crouched to smile into his eyes. Hair spread in soft waves, short, blonde strands stiff with desert winds, tousled brown in an uncombed mess. Glasses reflecting the soft light of lanterns and candles within a dim, crowded tent. Bright blue eyes wide in panic before they disappeared in dust and screams. Brows wrinkled in dismissal beneath graying, flyaway tendrils.
One finger touched a long thin scar on his side. Two grazed a patch of unmatched flesh on his right shoulder. Daniel closed his eyes as they swept back his hair and lingered along his forehead. Here and there they brushed against him, lighting for a moment as if in recognition, as if greeting old friends. He felt his own hand creeping up to touch the strange, familiar pad stuck to his chest and met warm fingers there. He snatched his away as if burned.
“It’s all right, Doctor Jackson. We’re almost finished here.”
A smile touched his mouth at the habitual lie. Somehow Daniel knew that ‘almost finished’ promised just the opposite. He opened his eyes and recognized the flash of humor in the woman’s dark eyes before the ghost of memory returned and filled him with that deep, yawning emptiness. He laid his bare arm across his eyes, shutting everything out. The rhythmic beeps and sighs of the machinery, the crisp feel of the sheet on his skin, small touches, all smeared into a haze, dulled to a background hum that left him floating, distant, numb.
… a woman’s voice soothed like cool water. “Shh, Danny, you’re okay, it’s just a scratch.”
“Hurts, mama.”
“I know, I know. Here, let mama blow on it. See?”
Gentle fingers wiped the tears from his cheeks and then tilted his chin up. “Better?”
He blinked, squinting up into the searing desert sun, the face above him darkly shadowed but surrounded by a glowing halo of light …
“We’re just about done here, Daniel, but we’ll need to wait for your test results.”
He lowered his arm, frowning. The small doctor had gathered up all the vials and tubes, the thick sheaf of papers that Daniel somehow knew told a long, detailed history of his pain, and smiled quietly down at him. The cloud of confused detachment still seemed thick, cushioning him from more than the physical tenderness. He reached up but his face was dry.
“Maybe you’d like to get a shower? I’ve had Sergeant Siler bring down one of your –” she hesitated, one hand patting a pile of green cloth that lay on an opposite bed, “some clean clothes.”
“A shower?” Daniel sat up, clutching the thin sheet, puzzled to find that the sticky pads had been removed, disconnecting him from the surrounding machines. The tall, dour figure that hovered nearby, gaze carefully averted, deepened his sense of separation.
“I’ll be happy to escort him, ma’am.”
The doctor – Janet, he remembered – nodded and hurried off. The sergeant gestured and Daniel dropped the sheet and followed.
… warm arms wrapped him in a huge, fluffy towel, and he clutched hard to the sturdy, familiar chest that smelled of spice and sweat and home and love.
“You’re going to turn into a wrinkly little bean if you stay any longer in the bath, Danny.” The deep, throaty chuckles vibrated through his bones and he held tight, tighter, suddenly afraid.
“Hey, what’s up?” Large hands ruffled through his wet hair, smoothing it back to try to find his face.
Daniel buried his head, shaking, small fingers white as they gripped as hard as they could. Finally, soft kisses pressed against his head, gentle hands turned down the folds of the towel, hands lifted him to sit atop the vanity, and he emerged and sought the familiar, tender eyes. The light from the open doorway behind him blurred his father’s form to a foggy silhouette, glinting in sparks and shards through his tumbled hair ...
He opened his eyes into the falling water, finding the right pattern and pace in his movements to clean himself, rinse, letting the pounding rhythm work his tense muscles. He turned the knobs and skimmed his hands through his short hair, squeezing the water out to run down his back before he reached for the towel. The clothes fell against his body in familiar folds and sure, certain fingers buttoned, zipped, closed buckles, tugged everything into place.
Moving out through the dimly lit room, Daniel saw that the sergeant stood, his back turned, a phone held to one ear. His gaze was drawn past his empty bed, past the chair that stood at its side, towards the doorway beyond.
He couldn’t say what compelled him, only that he had to go, had to see – he had to find the bonds, the ties that held him to this world, that promised that Daniel Jackson deserved to live and that Arrom could be left to dissolve behind him. Perhaps the numb, hollow cold that had grown around him since those agonizing memories of his own death had been meant to be a shelter, a sanctuary from further pain or hurt, but the fog distorted his memories to hide beloved faces, to veil him from the very things that could give him anchor and weight in this new/old life. He’d chase the pain if he had to – chase it, hold it, draw it deep within him if that was the cost to see the faces in his dreams.
Daniel reached out and slid his fingers along the metal door frame as he passed through. Guilt, dread, failure – nothing he might find could be as wretched and desolate – as lonely - as this numbness.
Author:
marzipan77Fandom: SG-1
Pairing: None
Rated: T+ for language and memories of violence
Summary: A series of fics beginning at Daniel’s descent back to Earth from the Ascended Plane. Chapter by chapter, these fics, about 1000 words each, beginning with “A”, will explore Daniel’s attempt to regain his memories, his mortal existence, and his place within the SGC and on SG-1.
Warnings: Angst/Emotional Whump/Memories of Death
Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate, or Jack, or Daniel, or anything but my cats.
Written for the Alphabet Challenge on the Stargate Drabbles List.
Summary: “When I was a child I caught a fleeting glimpse, out of the corner of my eye. I turned to look but it was gone. I cannot put my finger on it now - the child is grown, the dream is gone.”
Hands – he remembered the touch of these hands. Cool on blistered skin, soft enough to soothe the deep wounds of the spirit, and firm and decisive when he needed a solid connection to hope. These hands that touched him with what should have been unnatural and unwelcome intimacy, that pierced his skin with needles and drew out his life-blood – he watched them blurring quickly in and out of his vision as they moved and danced and the doctor wove words in the air around him. Lying on the narrow bed, bright light bleeding into all of his darkness, he watched her hands. Daniel watched her hands because he did not want to watch her face.
That face now echoed others – light eyes and dark, faces that towered above him or crouched to smile into his eyes. Hair spread in soft waves, short, blonde strands stiff with desert winds, tousled brown in an uncombed mess. Glasses reflecting the soft light of lanterns and candles within a dim, crowded tent. Bright blue eyes wide in panic before they disappeared in dust and screams. Brows wrinkled in dismissal beneath graying, flyaway tendrils.
One finger touched a long thin scar on his side. Two grazed a patch of unmatched flesh on his right shoulder. Daniel closed his eyes as they swept back his hair and lingered along his forehead. Here and there they brushed against him, lighting for a moment as if in recognition, as if greeting old friends. He felt his own hand creeping up to touch the strange, familiar pad stuck to his chest and met warm fingers there. He snatched his away as if burned.
“It’s all right, Doctor Jackson. We’re almost finished here.”
A smile touched his mouth at the habitual lie. Somehow Daniel knew that ‘almost finished’ promised just the opposite. He opened his eyes and recognized the flash of humor in the woman’s dark eyes before the ghost of memory returned and filled him with that deep, yawning emptiness. He laid his bare arm across his eyes, shutting everything out. The rhythmic beeps and sighs of the machinery, the crisp feel of the sheet on his skin, small touches, all smeared into a haze, dulled to a background hum that left him floating, distant, numb.
… a woman’s voice soothed like cool water. “Shh, Danny, you’re okay, it’s just a scratch.”
“Hurts, mama.”
“I know, I know. Here, let mama blow on it. See?”
Gentle fingers wiped the tears from his cheeks and then tilted his chin up. “Better?”
He blinked, squinting up into the searing desert sun, the face above him darkly shadowed but surrounded by a glowing halo of light …
“We’re just about done here, Daniel, but we’ll need to wait for your test results.”
He lowered his arm, frowning. The small doctor had gathered up all the vials and tubes, the thick sheaf of papers that Daniel somehow knew told a long, detailed history of his pain, and smiled quietly down at him. The cloud of confused detachment still seemed thick, cushioning him from more than the physical tenderness. He reached up but his face was dry.
“Maybe you’d like to get a shower? I’ve had Sergeant Siler bring down one of your –” she hesitated, one hand patting a pile of green cloth that lay on an opposite bed, “some clean clothes.”
“A shower?” Daniel sat up, clutching the thin sheet, puzzled to find that the sticky pads had been removed, disconnecting him from the surrounding machines. The tall, dour figure that hovered nearby, gaze carefully averted, deepened his sense of separation.
“I’ll be happy to escort him, ma’am.”
The doctor – Janet, he remembered – nodded and hurried off. The sergeant gestured and Daniel dropped the sheet and followed.
… warm arms wrapped him in a huge, fluffy towel, and he clutched hard to the sturdy, familiar chest that smelled of spice and sweat and home and love.
“You’re going to turn into a wrinkly little bean if you stay any longer in the bath, Danny.” The deep, throaty chuckles vibrated through his bones and he held tight, tighter, suddenly afraid.
“Hey, what’s up?” Large hands ruffled through his wet hair, smoothing it back to try to find his face.
Daniel buried his head, shaking, small fingers white as they gripped as hard as they could. Finally, soft kisses pressed against his head, gentle hands turned down the folds of the towel, hands lifted him to sit atop the vanity, and he emerged and sought the familiar, tender eyes. The light from the open doorway behind him blurred his father’s form to a foggy silhouette, glinting in sparks and shards through his tumbled hair ...
He opened his eyes into the falling water, finding the right pattern and pace in his movements to clean himself, rinse, letting the pounding rhythm work his tense muscles. He turned the knobs and skimmed his hands through his short hair, squeezing the water out to run down his back before he reached for the towel. The clothes fell against his body in familiar folds and sure, certain fingers buttoned, zipped, closed buckles, tugged everything into place.
Moving out through the dimly lit room, Daniel saw that the sergeant stood, his back turned, a phone held to one ear. His gaze was drawn past his empty bed, past the chair that stood at its side, towards the doorway beyond.
He couldn’t say what compelled him, only that he had to go, had to see – he had to find the bonds, the ties that held him to this world, that promised that Daniel Jackson deserved to live and that Arrom could be left to dissolve behind him. Perhaps the numb, hollow cold that had grown around him since those agonizing memories of his own death had been meant to be a shelter, a sanctuary from further pain or hurt, but the fog distorted his memories to hide beloved faces, to veil him from the very things that could give him anchor and weight in this new/old life. He’d chase the pain if he had to – chase it, hold it, draw it deep within him if that was the cost to see the faces in his dreams.
Daniel reached out and slid his fingers along the metal door frame as he passed through. Guilt, dread, failure – nothing he might find could be as wretched and desolate – as lonely - as this numbness.