"A Moving Sea"

By marzipan77

GENish/UST/Angst/Friendship

SG-1/SGA

Missing scenes for SGA "First Contact" and "The Lost Tribe." Daniel's trip to Atlantis is motivated by more than pure research, much more than a desire to find Janus' lab. Is he burning bridges or is he searching for the boundaries of his connections, fingering the bruised edges of his friendships, and craving absolution in discovery?

"Love one another, but make not a bond of love: Let it be a moving sea between the shores of your souls." Kahlil Gibran.

Chapter Three

"We must not interfere. It is the first law – the only law. Without it we are no better than they …"

It was cold – so cold. Eternity was covered over with ice that no human touch could penetrate. Even when the blazing glow of the Others surrounded him, bathed him in the weight of their presence, radiant tendrils burrowing deep into his being to reveal everything he thought – everything he was – still, he was so cold. Empty. Alone.

"Is this Ascension? Is this what we've longed for, what we've yearned for? Is this the pinnacle of existence, this shallow insistence on detachment? This claim of remote superiority?" Daniel spewed his disappointment, his revulsion, to the ends of the Universe, loosing pieces of himself to the ether. "Human tyrants have been doing this for centuries – holding the power of life and death over those they deem 'inferior' or 'lesser,' too apathetic to interfere." Despair crushed his life force into a huddled mass. "Is this all you are – all we are? My god – death would have been better."

"Daniel, you do not understand."

Oma's human face hovered, serene, undaunted, as he'd first seen her on Kheb. Waves of compassion warmed him, suffused him with the utter certainty of her protecting hand, her ethereal fingers brushing his cheek. "Oma," he pleaded, "they're dying. So many … I can't … I can't control the fire, but you …"

Brows thickened, eyes widened, white robes falling into place around the form of Ganos Lal within the bleak Ori prison.

And still Daniel struggled against the tide of their inhuman control as he watched the Ori ships come, the Priors slaughtering hundreds of thousands, enslaving millions. The Doci's power burned his resistance to ashes within him, tearing away every molecule of his existence. "Please. Help us."

She'd paid – they'd both paid. Light and darkness fighting two eternal battles. Daniel's translucent fingers traced the Ancient letters on the Ark, spelled out 'truth' in a script made up of blocks and cubes that so fit the Builders. He'd loosed the light upon the enemy and listened, helpless, as the Doci begged for mercy; he who had opened the Doorway to Heaven had released the hellish beam that had stolen the Ori's followers. Stolen their power. Cast them out into the utter darkness.

The Others surrounded him now, insubstantial forms filled with disdain crowding him, radiating judgment. "You have broken the first law. You have used our own works, buried for millennia, as weapons. You will be cast out, cast down." And then the noise of their hands, clapping, louder and louder, leaving bruises on his soul - their brilliant forms fading to uniforms of blue and green, suits and ties, smiling lips mouthing words that caught at him like rusted hooks. "Congratulations. You've done a great job, Doctor Jackson. Well done, son. You sure showed them."

He tried to get away, to find a way out from the circle of their slapping hands, the deafening thunder of their laughter, smiles too wide, too feral. "We're gathered here to pay tribute to a man who has, with the help of his team, almost singlehandedly destroyed our enemies. Slaughtered them. Reduced them to nothing. Who embodied the complete downfall of their civilization and devastation of their culture."

"No … no! That's not – I didn't -"

"You did it, Danny boy." Jack embraced him, the stars on his shoulders sharpened to points that cut into Daniel's skin, his callused hands crushing him in a grotesque parody of that hug at the base of the ramp that had once warmed his soul. "You killed them all, Space Monkey!"

"No!"

The scream tore from his throat and echoed, throbbing, from the metal walls of his quarters aboard the Daedalus. He tasted sweat and blood, salt and copper. His heart pounded against his chest, shuddered down his bones, his breathing strangled gasps that felt like sobs. Daniel sat on his thin bunk, undershirt soaked, legs tangled in his sheets, his back pressed so hard against the bulkhead that he knew the rivet patterns would be indented into his flesh.

The same dream. It was the same dream, the same faces, the same wounds. The same dream that had chased him from the Mountain, chased him from the Earth, and pursued him into another galaxy. The same nightmare images that pushed him from his bunk night after night to haunt the corridors of the ship. But even here, even within the nothingness of hyperspace, between the stars, beyond their galaxy, Daniel couldn't escape.

His teeth chattered as the sweat dried in the over-cold air conditioning and he drew in his knees, arms holding them hard against his chest, and dropped his head. But the gesture was futile; the memories were behind his eyes, dug in deep, impossible to avoid with darkness or distraction.

From his first step through the Stargate Daniel's had been a hand of destruction. How many had died in Nagada? How many children aboard Ra's ship? Sha're. Kawalsky. And they were just the first in a long, long list. Every drop of blood, every empty chair, every silenced voice laid to rest at Daniel's feet. He'd opened it. He'd fought to keep it open time and time again. He'd stammered out his idealistic rhetoric, lined up his arguments, and flattened their warnings and cautions with his confident, optimistic, conscience-searing speeches, while men and women died and civilizations collapsed to ruin.

And now they wanted to pin a medal to his chest and call him a hero.

The letter from the Joint Chiefs lay pristine, barely touched, within the same inner pocket of his jacket where he'd tucked it the day it had arrived. Daniel had only to read the words once to see them in crisp black and white before his mind's eye, to feel their brutal weight, to be reminded of how very far he'd come from the idealistic dreamer who'd believed that the universe would be a better place because of his enthusiastic – and egotistical – contributions.

He'd watched Sam advance in rank. Was proud to stand beside her and Jack and Mitchell when they earned some of their ribbons; when Mitchell stood pale faced and rigid as he accepted the Air Medal from the President's hands; when Jack had won his stars with just a ghost of a smirk behind his eyes. He did not begrudge his friends their awards. No, Daniel had crawled through the sand and mud right beside them, had watched their sacrifices and losses pile up, and had witnessed the fierce loyalty and courage that was the foundation of their every action.

They were the faces of the American military that tightened his throat and made him stand that much taller when he was at their sides. Sam and Mitchell. General Hammond. Landry and Walter and Siler. Janet Frasier. Dixon and Ferretti and Grogan and even Griff. Not the second-guessing uniforms in Washington, not those who kept close enough to the Stargate program to bask in the rare but brilliant victories and yet far enough away to avoid the fallout from the more frequent failures. Not the people who'd never stood beneath the agonizing glow of a hand device, or tried to reason their way out of an alien – completely, utterly alien – cultural dilemma, or watched men and women and children die of ignorance and violence and hopelessness and knew there was absolutely nothing they could do to stop it.

Daniel's bare feet slapped against the cold decking as he strode towards the small bathroom, his anger streaming behind him like a cloak. The cold water slapped him in the face, splintered the walls of his resistance and broke through his stubborn, blind defiance. Bowed over the tiny sink, fingers gripped tightly in his hair as the drops fell, one by one, to chime flatly against the dull metal, the pain bled away the last of his self-righteousness.

He looked up to meet shadowed blue eyes reflecting the truth from the surface of the dark, dimpled mirror. He couldn't blame the suited and uniformed figures that stood behind the congratulatory words. Daniel gritted his teeth, jaw clenching so hard he thought it might crack. No. In all honesty, looking at it in the cool light of day not the shifting gloom of his bitter self-reproach, he knew they were grateful; really, truly grateful for his work. For the destruction of a powerful race that threatened to murder worlds and force millions into servitude. He couldn't blame them for being blind to the personal losses, never seeing the true and complete devastation that the Ark brought, never looking into the grief-blinded eyes of the Ori's abandoned followers.

Nor could Daniel pretend to hate the 'faceless military machine' while confronted with the faces of his friends and teammates, the men and women aboard this ship, above the blue and green uniforms.

Daniel stumbled back towards his bed, but, at the last minute, turned towards the locker at its foot. He didn't need light to lay his hands on the coat, to find the inside pocket, to define the shape of the two thin envelopes there. He'd meant to take out the letter from the Joint Chiefs, to craft some sort of diplomatic reply, to apologize for his sudden inability to appear at their ceremony citing 'not in the galaxy' as his excuse, but it was the smaller envelope that he found in his hands – still sealed, the name scrawled on its face with enough force that he could feel each stroke and line beneath his skilled fingers.

He fell into the single chair at his desk, elbows propped on the arms, and held it lightly, carefully, as if it was a precious scroll from a long vanished civilization; the only proof left of a culture, a community, a man. Memories, philosophies, beliefs: beyond the relics of flesh and bone, words were the leavings of breath and love, of silences and sorrows, of relationships and family, caught up in time. Forever.

The written word could never be called back, erased, deleted. Daniel should know.

~o~

Sheppard sat slouched in his chair, fingers drawing meaningless patterns on the conference room table as he watched the others file in, puddle together in eddies of twos and threes, and then flow away again to regroup with others. Woolsey, as usual, kept to himself, carefully straightening the files that sat before him until every edge was aligned, every stylus or pen parallel, his lips tightened to a matching straight line in his pale face. The man's discomfort was still impossible to miss; his quick, measuring glances and obvious disdain for Sheppard's more casual style making John want to slump just that much more. He fought the impulse, shifting his weight back in his chair, catching Ronon's eye and jerking his chin towards the Satedan's usual seat, grateful when the big man merely smiled wryly and complied with the silent request. Rodney was still muttering and fidgeting his way around the table, arms full of readouts, notes, his sacred laptop, a napkin-wrapped roll, and a mug of coffee. Teyla must have noticed John's posture and began herding him towards his usual seat between them at John's left. He couldn't help the half-smile that tugged at his lips at the scene, replacing Rodney's six-foot figure with that of a recalcitrant toddler. It looked like Teyla would have lots of practice before Torren took his first steps.

Keller eased past Ronon, leaning over to whisper something out of the corner of her mouth as she made her way to the seat on Woolsey's right. Whatever it was had the muscled warrior leaning back, hands behind his head in an obvious display, eyes half-hooded with satisfaction as he gazed directly across the room at Rodney. Great. More 'Days of our Lives' playing out in the Pegasus galaxy. If the young medic didn't stop leading his two teammates around by the dick, Sheppard would have to step in – and nobody was going to like it. He brushed one hand through his hair and sighed, picking up a pen to make a quick note on the pad before him: "Radio O'Neill re: getting Clone Beckett back ASAP."

"Sorry, sorry." Zelenka's rushed entry drew all eyes to his slight, scurrying figure, wispy hair floating around his head. He stared at the curved table and froze, his head turning back and forth seemingly unable to decide which side would be appropriate. He straightened his glasses and mumbled to himself, finally shrugging and taking the empty seat at Teyla's side. Sheppard couldn't help smiling as the scientist lowered himself gingerly into the chair as if his added weight on one side of the table might make the universe tilt out of alignment.

"What's he doing here? Why didn't you tell me – I mean, I could be working or he could be working, there's no need for half the Science Team to be tied up in these endless meetings unless it's science related." Rodney's voice was rising, his words shooting out faster and faster as he shifted his accusing stare between Zelenka and Woolsey. And Sheppard could tell by the gleam in his eye that he was just getting started. "Is it science related? I haven't heard about anything – shouldn't I have heard if there's a problem? I mean, I would have liked to have had some time to prepare-"

"Calm down, McKay," Sheppard soothed. "I'm sure if you take a breath and give Mister Woolsey a minute he'll tell you everything you need to know."

Rodney puffed out a breath. "Oh, 'need to know,' is it? You would not believe the number of times I've heard that phrase coming from military lips since I first signed on with this project. I thought you finally realized that I need to know everything?" Rodney was getting up steam now, his words clipped and sarcastic, hands gesturing. "How can I be expected to do my job and anticipate how everything could go wrong if I'm kept in the dark?"

"Doctor McKay." Woolsey interrupted the flow of Rodney's tirade, turning it into spurts of almost audible mutterings with a focused glare. "I'm sure that's not what Colonel Sheppard meant to imply."

"Yeah, hold your pants on, McKay. It's a 'briefing,' Sheppard stated slowly. "I thought someone as bright as you would have caught on by now that these things are used to tell us stuff."

"Oh, ha-ha. Yes," Rodney smirked, rolling his eyes. "Well then, what is it?" he demanded, sitting up straight in his chair, hands folded on the table as if he was a teacher awaiting a particularly annoying pupil.

Sheppard lowered his head to hide his smile. Poor Woolsey. He was pretty sure that this wasn't how he'd like his carefully planned briefing to begin. Probably had a nice little speech prepared or something. He glanced up through his lashes at the administrator and noticed the flush just creeping up beyond his collar and the jerky movements of his hands towards his precise notes.

After a moment, Woolsey's mouth crooked up on one side and he sighed. "Very well. Since you ask, Doctor McKay, yes, the news I've received from both the SGC on Earth and the Daedalus does have to do with the Science Department. In fact," he twisted his neck as if trying to stretch out tight muscles, "I'd like you to free up your schedule in anticipation of the ship's arrival in approximately eight days."

"Why?" Rodney drew the question out, clearly underwhelmed by the idea. "And for how long?"

Woolsey spoke up before McKay could get up any momentum. "The length of time required is undetermined, however," he added quickly at Rodney's wide eyed, open mouthed shock, "however, that is precisely why I've asked Doctor Zelenka to join us, so that you could discuss the allocation of resources."

"Okay," Sheppard held up one hand towards his clearly irate teammate and turned towards Woolsey. "I'll bite. What's going on?"

Woolsey clamped his lips together again and dropped his eyes for a moment. His jaw worked as if he'd rather chew up and swallow the next words rather than let them out into the air. "General O'Neill has approved a specific research project, and Doctor Daniel Jackson is travelling on the Daedalus in order to oversee it here on Atlantis."

"Well, that's just great…"

"Who?"

"Was he not once Ascended among the Ancients himself?"

Voices clattered against each other and Sheppard narrowed his eyes, focus turning inward. Something stirred in his gut, a feeling that usually warned him of a storm on the horizon. It felt like more though, this time – restlessness, maybe, or anticipation, but of what he had no idea. He was too good a soldier to ignore it, but he knew he couldn't force it, either. He drew in a deep breath and resolved to run the security teams through their drills, to double-check the internal sensors. His gaze wandered outward, scanning the room, allowing the words and gestures to seep back in, to come back to full volume as he sat silently, watching, waiting, looking for clues in the reactions around him. McKay was annoyed – of course – with an added touch of discomfort behind the obvious anger about adjusting his schedule. There was a history there, something from before John's own time with the Stargate project. Ronon sat, unaffected, radiating bored disinterest, which wasn't surprising. It's not like he'd read any of SG-1's mission reports or felt much of any connection to Earth and Jackson's exploits and contributions there. It made sense that Jackson's connection with the Ancients would fascinate Teyla. She'd have questions for the guy; lots of questions. He saw them all piling up behind eyes that glittered with excitement.

It was Woolsey's reaction that fascinated him. The controlled, restrained, tightly wound bureaucrat was uncomfortable, plucking at his files awkwardly. No, it was more than that, Sheppard realized, sitting back, eyebrows climbing: the man was afraid.

He crossed his arms over his chest. Huh. This should be interesting.