Little Arcadia

By ANBU Kakashi

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Warning(s): J/D slash.

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate SG-1.

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arcadia - noun - "a region or scene of simple pleasure and quiet".

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Maybe death was trailing behind him. Maybe death had latched onto his waist. Maybe death would claim him with a burn mark right between his shoulder blades.

But at the moment, he didn't really care. All he cared about was the pain in his back and knees, the pain that let him know he had once again pushed himself too, too far.

And after a moment the pain was swept away by the adrenaline.

He kept his eyes on the 'gate, kept his eyes on the slight figure bent over the DHD, the figure that meant everything in the world to him.

Daniel.

The sounds of the firefight. The seventh glyph encoded. The 'gate opening. Pushing the buttons on the GDO.

Code. Iris. Get Daniel safe.

Pushing him towards the 'gate.

"Jack, come on!"

Giving cover fire. Adrenaline sloshing around in his veins with each pull of the trigger.

"Jack!"

Turn. Run. Get Daniel safe.

Shoving him through the 'gate. Something hot hitting his back, the small of his back. Who came up with that, anyway? 'Small of the back?'

Danny will know.

Cold. Hurt. But the fire on his back, he could no longer feel it. That was good.

Heat. Ramp. Stumbling, hurting.

General Hammond. At the end of the ramp.

Danny?

Falling. Impact. The ramp was cool under his cheek. Something hot and sticky was flowing down his back.

Danny?

Lifting. Stretcher. Carrying. Darkness.

Danny.

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Father.

An unfamiliar word, one that always mangled itself when coming off his tongue.

Dad.

Equally unfamiliar.

Hate. Hate for the father that he had never known, never seen, never met, but had learned of by listening to midnight confessions as a child.

Mother. Mom. Warm, loving.

Minnesota, wild and wonderful.

Ireland, strange, but familiar.

Standing at the shore. The scent of the sea.

Russia. Cold, weird. He didn't like that place, the land where his father had been born, had been raised in.

Russian. His father was Russian.

Ireland. Warm, fulfilling. Wild too, kind of like the way Minnesota was wild.

Irish. His mother was Irish. Born there, raised there, married there.

His father had been traveling; he'd met his mother; they had fallen in love, gotten married, and she became pregnant.

But "Father," hadn't wanted a "half-breed," for a son. Tried to make her get an abortion. She refused.

He left her, because he didn't want a child. Didn't want a half-breed son.

He left her, abandoned her.

Jack hated him. Hated all Russians.

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Lying on his stomach. Back ached, but not too bad.

What happened?

Tok'Ra hand device -- what?

There was a hand in his. He recognized it.

Danny.

He gripped it as tight as he could.

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Sleep. Warm. Dark.

Danny?

On his back now. He didn't hurt at all.

A warm hand gripped his.

Danny.

Sleep.

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His body clock told him it was night.

He opened his eyes, sat up. The lights had been dimmed. The clock on the wall pronounced it to be 0230.

He heard a shifting noise.

Danny?

A yawn.

A pair of blue eyes greeted him. "Hey, Jack."

"Hey, Danny...."

Arms encircled his neck, and the archeologist was in his lap. A warm kiss, a gentle sucking of his lower lip, a sweet tongue in his mouth.

"I'll go tell Janet you're up...."

Chuckling softly at Jack's grumbles, Daniel slide away.