marzipan77 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
marzipan77) wrote2011-10-05 12:33 pm
marzipan77) wrote2011-10-05 12:33 pm
Entry tags:
"Renaissance: O is for Owning"
Title: “Renaissance: O is for Owning”
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: What did Daniel still own? What did Jack?
Jack stood silently in the VIP suite, hands in his pockets. The box sat expectantly atop the blue comforter, its lid askew, the tape dry and cracked where it had been cut and resealed time after time, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it just yet. He let his gaze wander as he paced aimlessly in the few feet of floor-space around the bed, smiling at the artifacts scattered over every surface, at the things that had found their way to this cold, cement-walled room in such a short time. Objects from the histories of a dozen planets, gifts from hard-won friends, memories – some warm and soft, some hard and cold – and reminders of a life lived – and lost - in exploration, in discovery, eyes wide open.
He fingered the black-sheathed sword that he knew had been hanging behind Hammond’s desk when they’d stepped through the wormhole to Vis Uban, slid his hand over the soft curves of the funeral statue that had been given pride of place within a circle of candles in Teal’c’s quarters, tugged at the lapis necklace that might have once belonged to an alien princess, but, he knew, had been wrapped in tissue and tucked into a pocket on a certain Major’s TAC vest for months. The little round guy had been sitting on a pile of papers on Walter’s desk; the cup covered with shiny stones sat beside a pile of legal pads on a table in the briefing room; the dreamcatcher had been hanging over a particular bed in the infirmary.
But the room was still … wrong. Cold. Stale. Lifeless. It could be a room in the SGC Museum of Alien Junk, lacking only the glass boxes that saved the priceless relics from the touch of sticky-fingered school children on a field trip. They all meant well – Carter, Teal’c, and the General. They all wanted to reach out, to prod a memory, to tie the newly resurrected archaeologist to this place, to them. Afraid if they didn’t, they’d lose him again. Jack glanced back at the box. Not so different from what he was doing himself, maybe.
Daniel needed to find himself again … somehow; Jack knew it. Prodding, pushing – it wouldn’t work. Or, he thought, mouth tightened into a thin line, it might work too well. The blank eyes, face paled to white, fingers clutching at anything close enough to touch – Jack rubbed both hands over his face as if he could erase memories, too, with that simple gesture. Daniel had certainly been flushed with remembrance in the infirmary. Flooded, filled, swamped. Those blue eyes had torn holes in Jack, holes in places that had never really healed. He felt his hands clench into fists. If it had hit him that hard, cranked up the bile in his own stomach, what wounds had those memories reopened in Daniel’s soul?
He closed his eyes for a moment. These things – he turned and raked them all with a searing glance before turning away - these things had been owned by Daniel Jackson. No, Jack shook his head, no, not owned; they’d been cherished, treasured, prized. For their history, their ties to ancient cultures, to alien civilizations with their roots in Earth’s past. A part of his work, a testament to his discoveries, and, after his death … ascension … whatever, they’d been a piece of Daniel that could be seen and touched by the people he’d left behind. Held. Cherished.
Jack sat on the bed, long fingers lifting the lid from the cardboard box he’d had stashed under his bed in his on-base quarters. This one small box held the few things that were owned not by Daniel’s mind, his intellect, his work, but by his heart. He sifted through the worn pages of the only archaeology texts written by Melburn and Clair Jackson and the worn wood of the cheap picture frame that held the only photo of Sha’re. The rough curve of the marriage bowl took shape beneath his hands, the sharp edges of the envelope that held the few papers that had defined a life. On bad days – sometimes on good days – Jack had returned to this box to find his friend.
After a moment he placed the books on the bedside table and propped the picture of Daniel’s dead wife beneath the lamp. Enough. Maybe more than enough. Sha’re’s dark eyes watched Jack accusingly as he closed the box and shoved it under the bed.
“Yeah, I know,” he whispered. More sad memories. If flashes of Daniel’s own death hurt him, evoking the devastating loss of his parents, of Sha’re, would only tear more jagged, deeper wounds in Daniel’s spirit.
“What do you want me to do?” Jack finally demanded of the woman frozen in the contented past when a long-haired geek lived happily ever after with an Egyptian princess. Before the loss of innocence. Before slavery to the Goa’uld. Before the happily ever after turned to blood and sand. He wiped a hand across his eyes. They were a part of Daniel, too, and Jack didn’t have the right to deny his friend these memories.
The phone buzzed urgently on the wall and Jack straightened, frowning.
“O’Neill,” he snapped.
“Sir, Doctor Jackson has left the infirmary.”
“What?” Siler. Daniel’s official shadow. “Are you telling me a recently dead, ascended, descended amnesiac is wandering the halls of the SGC - alone?” Fear and frustration warred for dominance, churning Jack’s gut to violence.
“Sir-”
“Never mind, Siler,” Jack sighed. “Just… find him - quietly.”
He slammed the phone against the wall and yanked the door open, turning for one last look at the stage that had been set for his damaged best friend. Artifacts, memories, the last possessions of an abruptly shattered life. Jack had never been good at jigsaw puzzles. Gluing all those broken pieces together again – the result might not quite match the picture anymore. He shut off the light and closed the door with a soft click.
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: What did Daniel still own? What did Jack?
Jack stood silently in the VIP suite, hands in his pockets. The box sat expectantly atop the blue comforter, its lid askew, the tape dry and cracked where it had been cut and resealed time after time, but he couldn’t bring himself to open it just yet. He let his gaze wander as he paced aimlessly in the few feet of floor-space around the bed, smiling at the artifacts scattered over every surface, at the things that had found their way to this cold, cement-walled room in such a short time. Objects from the histories of a dozen planets, gifts from hard-won friends, memories – some warm and soft, some hard and cold – and reminders of a life lived – and lost - in exploration, in discovery, eyes wide open.
He fingered the black-sheathed sword that he knew had been hanging behind Hammond’s desk when they’d stepped through the wormhole to Vis Uban, slid his hand over the soft curves of the funeral statue that had been given pride of place within a circle of candles in Teal’c’s quarters, tugged at the lapis necklace that might have once belonged to an alien princess, but, he knew, had been wrapped in tissue and tucked into a pocket on a certain Major’s TAC vest for months. The little round guy had been sitting on a pile of papers on Walter’s desk; the cup covered with shiny stones sat beside a pile of legal pads on a table in the briefing room; the dreamcatcher had been hanging over a particular bed in the infirmary.
But the room was still … wrong. Cold. Stale. Lifeless. It could be a room in the SGC Museum of Alien Junk, lacking only the glass boxes that saved the priceless relics from the touch of sticky-fingered school children on a field trip. They all meant well – Carter, Teal’c, and the General. They all wanted to reach out, to prod a memory, to tie the newly resurrected archaeologist to this place, to them. Afraid if they didn’t, they’d lose him again. Jack glanced back at the box. Not so different from what he was doing himself, maybe.
Daniel needed to find himself again … somehow; Jack knew it. Prodding, pushing – it wouldn’t work. Or, he thought, mouth tightened into a thin line, it might work too well. The blank eyes, face paled to white, fingers clutching at anything close enough to touch – Jack rubbed both hands over his face as if he could erase memories, too, with that simple gesture. Daniel had certainly been flushed with remembrance in the infirmary. Flooded, filled, swamped. Those blue eyes had torn holes in Jack, holes in places that had never really healed. He felt his hands clench into fists. If it had hit him that hard, cranked up the bile in his own stomach, what wounds had those memories reopened in Daniel’s soul?
He closed his eyes for a moment. These things – he turned and raked them all with a searing glance before turning away - these things had been owned by Daniel Jackson. No, Jack shook his head, no, not owned; they’d been cherished, treasured, prized. For their history, their ties to ancient cultures, to alien civilizations with their roots in Earth’s past. A part of his work, a testament to his discoveries, and, after his death … ascension … whatever, they’d been a piece of Daniel that could be seen and touched by the people he’d left behind. Held. Cherished.
Jack sat on the bed, long fingers lifting the lid from the cardboard box he’d had stashed under his bed in his on-base quarters. This one small box held the few things that were owned not by Daniel’s mind, his intellect, his work, but by his heart. He sifted through the worn pages of the only archaeology texts written by Melburn and Clair Jackson and the worn wood of the cheap picture frame that held the only photo of Sha’re. The rough curve of the marriage bowl took shape beneath his hands, the sharp edges of the envelope that held the few papers that had defined a life. On bad days – sometimes on good days – Jack had returned to this box to find his friend.
After a moment he placed the books on the bedside table and propped the picture of Daniel’s dead wife beneath the lamp. Enough. Maybe more than enough. Sha’re’s dark eyes watched Jack accusingly as he closed the box and shoved it under the bed.
“Yeah, I know,” he whispered. More sad memories. If flashes of Daniel’s own death hurt him, evoking the devastating loss of his parents, of Sha’re, would only tear more jagged, deeper wounds in Daniel’s spirit.
“What do you want me to do?” Jack finally demanded of the woman frozen in the contented past when a long-haired geek lived happily ever after with an Egyptian princess. Before the loss of innocence. Before slavery to the Goa’uld. Before the happily ever after turned to blood and sand. He wiped a hand across his eyes. They were a part of Daniel, too, and Jack didn’t have the right to deny his friend these memories.
The phone buzzed urgently on the wall and Jack straightened, frowning.
“O’Neill,” he snapped.
“Sir, Doctor Jackson has left the infirmary.”
“What?” Siler. Daniel’s official shadow. “Are you telling me a recently dead, ascended, descended amnesiac is wandering the halls of the SGC - alone?” Fear and frustration warred for dominance, churning Jack’s gut to violence.
“Sir-”
“Never mind, Siler,” Jack sighed. “Just… find him - quietly.”
He slammed the phone against the wall and yanked the door open, turning for one last look at the stage that had been set for his damaged best friend. Artifacts, memories, the last possessions of an abruptly shattered life. Jack had never been good at jigsaw puzzles. Gluing all those broken pieces together again – the result might not quite match the picture anymore. He shut off the light and closed the door with a soft click.