"Renaissance: P is for Possession"
Oct. 7th, 2011 08:11 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marzipan77Title: “Renaissance: P is for Possession”
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?
He wandered the empty halls, hands skimming the smooth, grey surfaces, lingering momentarily on the raised lettering of the signs next to doors closed tightly against him. The colored stripes along the floor and walls drew Daniel’s gaze, and he aimlessly followed one and then another, until his path ended at silver doors where three corridors connected. One hand slipped into his pocket and he frowned as it came away empty. A few moments later his feet led him to darkly shadowed stairs, the metallic clang of his boots ringing strangely in the narrow passage.
The sense of distance seemed to recede as Daniel moved forward, as if his motion solidified the world around him, made him a part of the scene, a piece that fit within this puzzle of silence and uniformity. Without the insistence of those that had collected him from his lonely existence on Vis Uban, no longer drawn by their need or their memories, he was finally going forward, traveling toward something, something that waited for him. A place… perhaps even a home of sorts. His being reached out to search for a familiar aroma, dark and burnt, the texture of rough stone, or the crinkle of thin, musty pages spread beneath his fingers.
He hurried, the thrill of discovery fueling his pace. He knew if he could find this place, fit himself back within it, the memories might come and the man he’d once been might be tempted to return and take possession of it once again. Take possession of this human shell that still echoed with painful emptiness, still rocked with every hurtful memory that came and went with such throbbing swiftness, leaving him afraid and yet aching for more.
Light spilled out into the hallway up ahead and he stopped, unsettled. Too bright – it was too bright. Faint music drifted through the open door, soft, spinning, gathering momentum, and then thinning to repeat an almost recognized melody. His mind followed it, anticipated the next rush of sound and his fingers itched to touch smooth white keys before a strange feeling of irritation, of annoyance, began to writhe in his belly. Daniel frowned, but his feet moved him slowly towards that spark of memory, towards the promise of a place to rest.
Daniel’s fierce grip on the door frame hurt his fingers, dug metal corners into his flesh. No. This was wrong. His stare swept the space, buffeted by foreign shapes and harsh, brutal shafts of brilliance where he’d expected soft shadows and the smell of parchment and ink. He’d expected – he’d needed – to find his fit. But not – not…
“Doctor Jackson?”
Fingers clicked a switch and the music died. Daniel felt his eyes narrow, his gaze stabbing at the pale face above the black shirt where eyes widened with something like dread, like fear.
… “Given the chance, you would deny us this technology?” … another way, there has to be another way … “What’s happening?” … “This device could explode!” … The smell of ozone, wires snapping in electrical bursts, the taste of terror … “Tomas!” … do something, he had to do something, the explosion would kill everyone, all of them, devastate the entire continent … no time, no time … “Doctor Jackson – no! Doctor Jackson!” …
“Doctor Jackson?”
Suddenly Daniel was next to the other man, one hand clamped tightly around his arm. His heart beat thickly, pounding, his breath ragged pants. “No. You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t yours – it isn’t yours!” His throat stung with his own harsh shouting, the man’s skin burned against his hand and he shoved him away and snatched it back, holding it clenched against his chest, feeling the skin blacken and peel.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Doctor Jackson, please…” The man stumbled backwards, out of Daniel’s reach, his face twisted in grief, in remorse, until his momentum was finally stopped by a set of broad shelves holding dozens of small, cloth-covered volumes.
The room seemed to expand and contract between blinks of Daniel’s eyes, first bright and cold, then dark, warm, and inviting. He couldn’t catch his breath and lurched towards a couch that dissolved under his hands. Fingers – whole and unmarked, or skinless and bloody - scrabbled and grabbed for purchase as he fell to his knees. Kind hands held him, guided his head down until he could draw air into his lungs, until his vision cleared and steadied and he could lift shaking hands to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks.
“Are you okay? I’ll - I’ll call Colonel O’Neill or Doctor Frasier. Can you sit up?”
The words flittered quickly past, filled with doubt. Daniel shuddered, pulling himself back from those turbulent memories of death and destruction that danced just out of sight, from roiling emotions aimed at the young man that crouched before him – resentment, anger, pity, loss. He snagged a black sleeve to hold the other man still and shook his head. “No. I’m fine. I’m fine,” he insisted, his voice sounding strangely calm to his own ears. Fine – a meaningless word meant to soothe the hearer, something that was suddenly important, vital, to Daniel.
Hands helped him to a chair and then hovered anxiously as he straightened, eyes closing to shut out the unfamiliar and hideously unwelcome sights. He forced himself to ignore the cries that still rose up within him, shouts and curses, claims of “Mine, mine, mine!” that threatened to drive him back towards unthinking violence, away from control. Whatever he’d been searching for, whatever feeling of home, of belonging that he’d been chasing was not to be found here. The inward cries turned to unvoiced wails and unseen fits of childish weeping.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, flashing a smile without raising his eyes.
“Don’t –” The stifled gasp, a gutteral sound of shock and denial, made Daniel open his eyes.
The young man had been reaching towards him, shaking his head, only to startle to stillness as the tall, silver-haired figure appeared in the doorway. Jack.
“Daniel.” The warm, dark gaze rested on him for a moment before it turned cold. “Jonas.”
A flash of fury scorched across the empty space, directed at the younger man – Jonas – and he flinched backwards. The tall officer drew in a long breath, carefully stuck both hands into his pockets, and leaned against the wall in mock casualness.
“You know, ole Doc Frasier just hates it when her patients disappear on her.” He jerked his chin and Daniel found himself rising, anxious to go.
“Colonel-”
One hand rose. “Later, Jonas.” A trace of unspoken apology lingered after the words.
The military officer ushered him into the silent hallway, one strong hand steering firmly on his shoulder. Daniel turned back, searching one last time, but the warm room peppered with shadows, the taste of dark, bitter liquid, and the sound of a pen scratching against paper was gone. Between the bright light and the earnest anguish on Jonas’ face, the scent of home had vanished.
“It’s okay.”
He searched the eyes of the man at his side, saw the half-smile, felt the hesitant connection. Maybe. Maybe it was.
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?
He wandered the empty halls, hands skimming the smooth, grey surfaces, lingering momentarily on the raised lettering of the signs next to doors closed tightly against him. The colored stripes along the floor and walls drew Daniel’s gaze, and he aimlessly followed one and then another, until his path ended at silver doors where three corridors connected. One hand slipped into his pocket and he frowned as it came away empty. A few moments later his feet led him to darkly shadowed stairs, the metallic clang of his boots ringing strangely in the narrow passage.
The sense of distance seemed to recede as Daniel moved forward, as if his motion solidified the world around him, made him a part of the scene, a piece that fit within this puzzle of silence and uniformity. Without the insistence of those that had collected him from his lonely existence on Vis Uban, no longer drawn by their need or their memories, he was finally going forward, traveling toward something, something that waited for him. A place… perhaps even a home of sorts. His being reached out to search for a familiar aroma, dark and burnt, the texture of rough stone, or the crinkle of thin, musty pages spread beneath his fingers.
He hurried, the thrill of discovery fueling his pace. He knew if he could find this place, fit himself back within it, the memories might come and the man he’d once been might be tempted to return and take possession of it once again. Take possession of this human shell that still echoed with painful emptiness, still rocked with every hurtful memory that came and went with such throbbing swiftness, leaving him afraid and yet aching for more.
Light spilled out into the hallway up ahead and he stopped, unsettled. Too bright – it was too bright. Faint music drifted through the open door, soft, spinning, gathering momentum, and then thinning to repeat an almost recognized melody. His mind followed it, anticipated the next rush of sound and his fingers itched to touch smooth white keys before a strange feeling of irritation, of annoyance, began to writhe in his belly. Daniel frowned, but his feet moved him slowly towards that spark of memory, towards the promise of a place to rest.
Daniel’s fierce grip on the door frame hurt his fingers, dug metal corners into his flesh. No. This was wrong. His stare swept the space, buffeted by foreign shapes and harsh, brutal shafts of brilliance where he’d expected soft shadows and the smell of parchment and ink. He’d expected – he’d needed – to find his fit. But not – not…
“Doctor Jackson?”
Fingers clicked a switch and the music died. Daniel felt his eyes narrow, his gaze stabbing at the pale face above the black shirt where eyes widened with something like dread, like fear.
… “Given the chance, you would deny us this technology?” … another way, there has to be another way … “What’s happening?” … “This device could explode!” … The smell of ozone, wires snapping in electrical bursts, the taste of terror … “Tomas!” … do something, he had to do something, the explosion would kill everyone, all of them, devastate the entire continent … no time, no time … “Doctor Jackson – no! Doctor Jackson!” …
“Doctor Jackson?”
Suddenly Daniel was next to the other man, one hand clamped tightly around his arm. His heart beat thickly, pounding, his breath ragged pants. “No. You shouldn’t be here. This isn’t yours – it isn’t yours!” His throat stung with his own harsh shouting, the man’s skin burned against his hand and he shoved him away and snatched it back, holding it clenched against his chest, feeling the skin blacken and peel.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Doctor Jackson, please…” The man stumbled backwards, out of Daniel’s reach, his face twisted in grief, in remorse, until his momentum was finally stopped by a set of broad shelves holding dozens of small, cloth-covered volumes.
The room seemed to expand and contract between blinks of Daniel’s eyes, first bright and cold, then dark, warm, and inviting. He couldn’t catch his breath and lurched towards a couch that dissolved under his hands. Fingers – whole and unmarked, or skinless and bloody - scrabbled and grabbed for purchase as he fell to his knees. Kind hands held him, guided his head down until he could draw air into his lungs, until his vision cleared and steadied and he could lift shaking hands to wipe away the wetness on his cheeks.
“Are you okay? I’ll - I’ll call Colonel O’Neill or Doctor Frasier. Can you sit up?”
The words flittered quickly past, filled with doubt. Daniel shuddered, pulling himself back from those turbulent memories of death and destruction that danced just out of sight, from roiling emotions aimed at the young man that crouched before him – resentment, anger, pity, loss. He snagged a black sleeve to hold the other man still and shook his head. “No. I’m fine. I’m fine,” he insisted, his voice sounding strangely calm to his own ears. Fine – a meaningless word meant to soothe the hearer, something that was suddenly important, vital, to Daniel.
Hands helped him to a chair and then hovered anxiously as he straightened, eyes closing to shut out the unfamiliar and hideously unwelcome sights. He forced himself to ignore the cries that still rose up within him, shouts and curses, claims of “Mine, mine, mine!” that threatened to drive him back towards unthinking violence, away from control. Whatever he’d been searching for, whatever feeling of home, of belonging that he’d been chasing was not to be found here. The inward cries turned to unvoiced wails and unseen fits of childish weeping.
“I’m sorry,” he muttered, flashing a smile without raising his eyes.
“Don’t –” The stifled gasp, a gutteral sound of shock and denial, made Daniel open his eyes.
The young man had been reaching towards him, shaking his head, only to startle to stillness as the tall, silver-haired figure appeared in the doorway. Jack.
“Daniel.” The warm, dark gaze rested on him for a moment before it turned cold. “Jonas.”
A flash of fury scorched across the empty space, directed at the younger man – Jonas – and he flinched backwards. The tall officer drew in a long breath, carefully stuck both hands into his pockets, and leaned against the wall in mock casualness.
“You know, ole Doc Frasier just hates it when her patients disappear on her.” He jerked his chin and Daniel found himself rising, anxious to go.
“Colonel-”
One hand rose. “Later, Jonas.” A trace of unspoken apology lingered after the words.
The military officer ushered him into the silent hallway, one strong hand steering firmly on his shoulder. Daniel turned back, searching one last time, but the warm room peppered with shadows, the taste of dark, bitter liquid, and the sound of a pen scratching against paper was gone. Between the bright light and the earnest anguish on Jonas’ face, the scent of home had vanished.
“It’s okay.”
He searched the eyes of the man at his side, saw the half-smile, felt the hesitant connection. Maybe. Maybe it was.
