Porn: bringing the bad clichés since...Roman Times at least.
Anyway, in light of how hard I found this (pun not intended), I'm going to try something I've not done before.
One fic: two endings. The main body of the story is PG-13 and there's both a PG-13 ending and an R-rated extended-scene ending. The mild stuff will be in Chapter 1 and anything adult will be continued in Chapter 2.
Title: Once Was Lost
Category: Daniel/Janet
Rating/warnings, etc: PG-13 or R - pick your poison. Spoilers for Fallen. ~1000 or 1500 words.
Summary: Touch memory.
Disclaimer: Stargate is not mine, obviously. No profit is being made and no infringement is intended.
A/N: For oxoniensis's Porn Battle VI, prompt: 'Daniel/Janet, cuneiform'
I know next to nothing about Akkadian/Sumerian symbols, as anyone who does can probably tell. Reference material downloaded here.
Mostly unbetaed since today is Mondaaay and time is ticking.
2009 Blue Moon Award winner.
xxxxx
It will return, they say, these people with guns who smile at him a lot, and he wonders how they know.
When it does, he is running his fingers over a piece of rock in the darkened room they tell him is his office. He realises, then, that it hasn't gone anywhere. It's been there all along. Instead, he is returning, stumbling back towards himself, step by step. He traces the engravings - lines and angular shapes - and suddenly…
…ḫal – almost indistinguishable from double-aš on time-worn stone…
He blinks, the knowledge taking him over. He closes his eyes. His fingertips remember.
…akkadian cuneiform…gír, tilted 45 degrees – tenú…
This is not something Arrom knew.
The smooth edge of the tablet draws his eye and, for a brief moment, he thinks he can smell stale air, dry and untouched by generations.
He smiles and knows he is home.
xxxxx
Language is one of the first memories. More follow, sometimes quick syncopated bursts, sometimes whole unravelling pathways revealing themselves behind his eyelids.
Today he's moving back into his apartment, comfortable in what he is wearing and familiar enough with his friends to recognise their individual styles of humour without pausing anymore. He is Daniel again, almost whole. He is no longer treated as the wayward sheep, except by Jack, and Sam assures him with a grin that this is the way it was Before.
They help him move in, attentive as ever, but a call from General Hammond whisks them away before the job is finished. As the noise of the engine fades, he turns to find a wall-hanging moving towards him, all ochre and desert-dreaming. Bare feet stick out underneath, half covered by too-long jeans, toenails a pale shade of pink. The contrast makes him smile. Janet has stayed to help alone, waving off his attempts to relieve her.
He leads the way upstairs and does battle with the hook on the wall while she goes to fetch the final box. On her way back in, she stumbles over the threshold and he automatically reaches for her as the container hits the floor. Reflex doesn't use reason; he doesn't mean to grip her side as well as her arm, but that's where his hands end up, fingertips curling around her ribcage as well as her bicep. A memory flickers.
She starts laughing into the sudden stillness, presumably expecting to have fallen hard and relieved to find herself still standing.
"Daniel, I'm so—"
"Shh," he cuts her off, not unkindly.
She cocks her head, worried. "I hope there was nothing brea-"
"No," he murmurs absently, lost in the past.
…fingertips tracing a line, a spine, prominent in her hunched position…curling around, under her ribs, making her squirm and turn from her examination to laughingly admonish him…pulling her down gently…stroking, stroking as dark eyes slide shut…
"Cuneiform," he whispers. A revelation.
Her brow crinkles in confusion. "Daniel..?" There's a concerned edge to her voice.
"I broke my…" he hesitates. The term is brand new – absent from his vocabulary seconds ago, now suddenly sprung whole. "…second metatarsal. Before."
She exhales and he closes his eyes. Her voice is soft, aching. "When it was healing, I taught you the names. Pointed them out: metatarsals, talus, cuboid, cuneiform. You laughed and said you'd never forget that one."
He'd forgotten everything, for a while, but he doesn't say so. It sounds too much like an excuse.
They are still in the open doorway, his hands still soaking up her warmth, eyes still closed. Tentatively he moves closer, navigating by feel and sound. He remembers her. Remembers how her head tucks under his chin. Remembers waking up to find he's been holding her hand in his sleep. Remembers her smile, her sharp humour, her quiet determination, her compassion.
She shifts under his touch. He hears the door click shut and then her hand is cool against his cheek. He opens his eyes.
"Daniel," she says and it sounds so different – painted in shades of hope and love. The memory expands, washing over him, revealing a thousand stolen moments. He feels he might get swept away.
"I," he croaks, mouth dry. Want to touch you doesn't seem appropriate. But he does, even though he is already. He needs her to ground him as she used to. He's staring, he knows he is, and she flushes a little under his scrutiny.
"It's alright," she whispers. Her eyes are wide and bright with tears. She presses against him, rising on her toes. Her lips are soft against his. His hand moves of its own volition, tracing her jaw, the shell of her ear, tangling in her hair. He's been here Before; his fingertips remember.
His body remembers too. He knows where her hands and mouth are going to be before they get there. Chest, back, waist. He fits his palms against the bones of her hips and she presses her body to him again. She pulls at his sweater as he breathes in her scent. When she starts on his t-shirt, he stills her hand, catching it and bringing it to his lips. They are both breathless, dizzy with desire and need. Her hair is in disarray and his glasses are skewed.
He repositions them, licks his lips. "We need to—"
"Stop," she finishes. "I know. God, I'm sorry…" she babbles, then crumples a little, eyes averted.
"Slow down."
She looks up at him, full of remorse, and repeats herself, slower.
"Janet, no...I mean—. I don't want to stop." He steps in, smoothes her hair, kisses her forehead. "Just, rewind a little. Start again. Only slower." He smiles, trying to soften the despair darkening her face.
She blinks. "Oh." Slowly a smile emerges, slightly embarrassed. She's rarely shy, he recalls, but she bites her lip now. "I like slow." Her innocent expression doesn't fit with the suggestive words and he finds himself dry-mouthed all over again. He retakes her hand and starts to lead her to the bedroom.
"I know," he replies. She does; he remembers.
