Paths by Emoryems
Stargate: SG-1
Rating: PG-13 for blood
Warnings: None
Summary: Random writing prompt is where this came from. I actually cannot remember what the prompt was though.
Word Count: approximately 900
Note: These little things are a way to get back into writing after a long time away from it. I've been hanging around in this fandom for quite some time, but this is one of the first pieces of fiction I've written for it. Forgive any accidents?
Disclaimer: ... definitely do not own any part of the Stargate universe.
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When Daniel was young and working on his first PhD he tried to keep his dorm room clean and free of clutter. But with every passing assignment, with each of the many books he acquired of which he had read or was in the process of reading, came into his possession, a small bit of surface disappeared, filling the corners, hiding the sharpness of the straight white walls.
He used to think about tidying the mess and perhaps organizing the bookshelf, but then, in the middle of the 'a's or the 'b's, he would become lost in a title, sitting in the poor attempt of organization on the floor, surrounded by books pulled from the top shelf of an overflowing bookcase. It always seemed to be just one last page, one more sentence.
After a while the attempts became less and less until, one day, when he was writing a paper on the cultural significance of facial scarring and it's regards to the new 'enlightened' perspective, he paused to take a drag of coffee.
Rim lifted to his lips, glasses perched on his nose and pen in one hand, Daniel's eyes swept the room, seeing the piles of books and papers, and old coffee cups with various amounts of brown sludge in the bottom. It was the first time he could remember seeing the mess and not caring.
Odd thing was, two months into his work on his second PhD, he couldn't remember when he stopped trying to pick up the many pieces of his life, let alone his dorm. There was always some assignment or lecture to focus on, sometimes even a shred of a social life, but he was always so deeply involved that he could never have felt his slow descent into a pit built of his own pursuits.
Years later, when he saw the Stargate the first time, the world disappeared around him, the fringes of his vision the end to reality. Not too long after that he was on Abydos, and everything for a long time was good; very good. The sand and his blinding love gave what a room of reference material normally did; it filled the notches, smoothing the edges into a silken flow of days filled with teaching and family.
Sha're disappeared, and he gained a new focus that didn't involve a paper, or a cartouche.
The first time he died on Ra's ship, he didn't have time to think about it, he didn't have time to stop and worry; after all, he was attempting to overthrow a god.
Dying on the Nox Homeworld, awakening among a race of people so attuned to the world, Daniel allowed himself to pull back, see through the eyes of an observer for a small time. He wished he could have done that more.
Almost dying on Apophis' ship, feeling the slickness of blood draining from his shoulder and chest slowly winding it's way beneath his shirt, he had felt a moment of regret, of need. He hadn't been ready to die, had left far too much undone, left too many thoughts hiding under the plethora of papers and books his life was built upon.
Crawling across the floor to the Sarcophagus, feeling the shock overwhelming his body, flooding too little blood back and forth between internal organs and extremities speeding his heart rate and breathing, Daniel hadn't been sure he could make it. Levering up into the healing device with shaking arms, face beaded with cool moisture, he had barely had time to collapse inward before the cell damage and resulting lack of strength pulled a deep blackness over him.
He had never told any of his team-mates exactly how close he'd come to eternity that day, how a moment less and he would have slipped backward, away from any sort of future.
The next night, Daniel had locked the door to his flat, pulled the phone's cord from the wall, and brewed a full pot of his best coffee. Dressed in a pair of sweats, sitting on the floor with his back propped against his couch, he had closed his eyes and stopped thinking. The blankness had been brief, and when he opened his eyes he could see everything clearer, sharper. Deeper.
The next morning when Jack pounded on his door, demanding to know just what the hell he was doing; he'd looked into his best friend's eyes silently, and then smiled and turned back into the apartment, leaving an equally silent and staring Jack faced with an open door.
Jack didn't pound on the door next time Daniel's phone was disconnected. He waited until midmorning the following day and used a key to open the door. He picked up the empty mug from the living room floor and made his way to the kitchen, cleaning out the dregs of coffee from the pot, and making a fresh batch.
Daniel never objected to the mornings spent at his kitchen table, or the oddly comforting bickering that he and Jack shared over a cup of strong black brew.
Now, as he closes his eyes and sees the results of a long fall into wisdom carved into his lids, he understands why he never got through to 'z', and perhaps why he never should have.
End