One Familiar Face

By Meredith Bronwen Mallory

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Rating: R

Pairing: Jack/Daniel

Category: Slash

Date: August 27th, 2004

Status: Incomplete

Season/Spoilers: Through mid season five.

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Oiii... After over a month, my muse has finally returned from Japan. (I guess she took the scenic route home. XX) And what does she do to me? She gives me a new story instead of letting me finish one of countless others. ; I'm really uncertain about this piece because its.... well... it's weird. But the bunny has been around since this time last summer, so I guess it isn't going to die any time soon. I'm about a third of the way in to the fic (other chapters are at the beta's), so feedback would help immensely. Seriously, I'll wash your feet and everything. Thanks to Ayashii for the amazingly quick beta, and to my darling Leigh, who is leaving me for college. sniffle Thank you so much for taking the time to look at my story.

-Meredith

"Here in the brave new world's embrace,

I watch the parade begin.

Searching for one familiar face,

and I wonder where I fit in.

How will I know if there's a place,

for me in the brave new world?"

-"Brave New World", Styx

DATE BEGUN: August 27th, 2004

One Familiar Face 1/?

by Meredith Bronwen

Jack dreamt of a white room.

Of the white room, his room at Grandpa's cabin, the stage of all summer evenings and dreams as far back as he could remember. A room so white that it was blue when the sun went down and the shadows crept in, falling across the bedspreads and coloring everything like rain. The roof came to an arch, and Jack's bed was the one furthest from the window, it's mate an empty testament to brothers who'd come a generation earlier. Like no where else, this room was home to him-- but in the dream, it was wrong.

(No, no. It's alright, all of it is right, and you have just forgotten.)

He was seventeen, stretching out his soul in his lengthening limbs, sprawled inelegantly across the bed. The sun was going down over the lake, crickets so loud they were like bells.

"Are you asleep?" he asked quietly. A rustle came from the other bed, the bed that should have been empty, because Jack was an only child and never shared a room. He watched the silhouette of his companion with a smile-- how the other boy's hair fell in his face as he reached for another quilt.

"Obviously not." The voice was well known, comforting, despite the alien context; it was like one of those mirrored pictures, in which you had to find the one thing that was just a little off.

"Cold, are you?" he asked, rolling on his side and lifting up his covers. He could just make out the responding blush in the dim light. "If you go to sleep under all those quilt, you'll sweat yourself to death," he put on his best winning grin, "come in here with me." His-- yes, his friend's blue gaze was at once pleased and embarrassed. The crickets swelled in the long pause that followed, but the other boy finally slid out of his bed, putting only two footsteps on the cool wood floor as he jumped onto Jack's mattress.

"Alright." There was a smile in that half-familiar face, softened by youth and by trust. He felt the other's happiness vibrating in-between his ribs and could not stop himself from embracing the too skinny body tightly. Thin arms came around to hold him as well, and they landed on the pillows with a thump. The other boy said, "John...", but Jack just buried his nose in the soft chestnut hair, tickling a little at the small of his friend's back before curling around him to sleep.

"Doesn't bother you, does it?" he asked, shifting a little under the covers.

"No," he felt more than heard the words. "'Night, Johnny."

This was where the dream always ended, because the dream was wrong and the dream was right-- it canceled itself into nothingness and knocked the breath out of Jack's lungs.

He said, "Goodnight, Danny-boy."

#(#)#

"I think I'm loosing it," Jack remarked conversationally to his reflection as he began to shave. "You know, more than a little bonzo? Because getting old and stuck in the past is one thing, and it's a whole 'nother to..." He eyed his twin with disgust, "Well, you know." The cool and careful bite of the razor helped to lessen the dream's power, so that he could almost believe it didn't matter. Snorting as he wiped away the remains of shaving cream, he nodded to himself, "Yeah, don't matter at all, old son. Just an indicator of my deteriorating mental state.

He listened to the house settle as he ate breakfast, flipping idly through the paper. Maybe he'd just had one turn too many. Time -looping, goa'uld-fighting, gate-hoping-- hell, when you looked at it like that, it was no surprise he'd sprung a leak. Not to mention he'd had his brain probed by the lovely Anise... Freya... whoever the hell she was. Maybe she'd microwaved his gray cells while she was at it; God knew her machine couldn't figure anything to save it's life.

"Yeah, more than I should," he mocked himself. "Keep your eyes on the girl-- pay no attention to the archaeologist behind the curtain." To be fair, Carter wasn't a girl, she was... Carter. Out of bounds, the way certain other people should be. Certain other people didn't follow the rules, didn't stay in their nice little niche of best-friend-surrogate-brother/son. Certain other people had to touch everything in Jack, make him care and want so much it hurt until, a year later, he barely had the comfort of the friendship he'd had before. Jack rolled his eyes and stretch, depositing dishes in the sink and glanced at the clock. "Hi-ho, hi-ho," he whistled, grabbing his keys.

At the corner of Mason and Bijou, Jack was struck by a fresh wave of not-memory, of dream-time feeling; Daniel, laughing against his shoulder, a warm and well-known weight. Brave and skinny and bespectacled.

"Stop it," Jack bit out as the light changed to green, "or you're gonna be seeing a whole 'nother white room, entirely."

But for some time now, Daniel had been in his memory, in places he'd never visited, in times he'd never seen, and Jack could barely swallow down the worry that washed against his mind.

#(#)#

The darkness was familiar now-- so much so that it was no longer a shock to waken to it. Jonathan O'Neill breathed out slowly, fighting the dull sense of panic and disorientation as he leaded back against the cool metallic walls of his cell. He felt stupid for having believed in that brief moment of hope as he rose to consciousness, that perhaps, when he opened his eyes, he would be greeted with the familiar lines and colors of his room in his Grandfather's Minnesota cabin.

'No such luck, John-old-son,' he thought at himself, almost opening his mouth to speak aloud. He swallowed dryly and closed it again-- he had decided early on that he would not give his captors anything; information, tears or his own terror. That's what Pa said, after all-- just name, rank and serial number. John smiled just a little to himself, wishing he had something more than just his name. Time stretched and warped in the darkness of his cell, but John kept his mouth firmly closed over everything he felt, staring into the non-light and feeling along the walls. Curled up in a corner, he felt around in his pockets, comforting himself with the weight of his Swiss Army knife, though he doubted realistically that it would do him any good.

'Details,' he reminded himself, 'keep the details fresh.' He went over them obsessively, looking for some clue he'd missed, some magic cornerstone that would bring logic and reality firmly back into place. It had been summer, and he was seventeen-- such a delicious word, that-- soon to start his Senior year in Chicago. His final year of school was as distant and unbelievable as blacktop wavering in the heat, across the gulf of the summer months. He was aware, vaguely, that the corridors of his childhood were narrowing; an awareness eclipsed by a heady sense of freedom. A summer all alone up at Grandpa's cabin, nothing to do but fish, read comic books and sleep much, much later than his Pa ever let him get away with. Mother off to some conference on Mathematical Theory, Pa still on active duty in Cambodia.

(No one is gonna know to look for me!)

'Stupid kid,' John thought at himself, 'you're seventeen. Have some balls about this.' He'd been on his own alright, relishing the third day of his long, singular summer, riding his cranky old bike into town for some Cola and a chance to chat with someone about last night's game. Sort of whistling, determinedly treading over the bumpy dirt road, being the person he was when no one else was around.

(And then what happened?)

John's laugh sounded strange in his dry throat. 'Well, you see officer, there two big guys-- and I do mean big guys-- jumped me from the woods. Hell yes, I could identify them in a line-up! They had gold tatoo-thingies on their foreheads, big honkin' spear sticks and expressions that told me I was in some serious shit. They looked like rejects from some B movie about the Amazon, yah know? Or that what's-her-face Space Queen that they showed as a double feature back at the Esquire.' He imagined the dubious officers face with some despair, his amusement at his situation purely a ploy to keep from screaming.

'Then they shot me with this laser-thing,' he thought with almost fresh astonishment, 'and I was out like a light. I come to and I'm here-- where ever the hell 'here' is-- in the dark, and they only feed me with they feel like it.' He clenched his fists against his cheeks, roughly, before placing his hands along the line where floor met the wall. No prison was perfect, right? If he could just find a door, or a crack, or something that wasn't this awful, thick nothing...

But he'd been around the small cell at least twice already, and found nothing to give him hope. The food came from somewhere, but by the time he heard the strange buzzing that heralded it's arrival, it was too late to search for where it might came from. All he could do was feel around for the tray, often knocking containers over, shoveling the strangely textured mush into his mouth, too hungry to worry about poison. Occasionally, he thought he heard labored breathing or the sound of sniffles, like an echo of his own despair.

'Pa,' he thought miserably, with little actual direction. His father was a lifelong Navy man, perfectly at home aboard the gray expanse of a battleship, shoulders squared and strong with responsibility. For a moment, John wanted to be small again, so he could be carried on those shoulders, so that he could believe implicitly that Pa would come for him, would come and make the Bad Guys pay. The strike of his own fist against the wall surprised him, and John bit heavy into his lip.

(Don't panic, please don't panic, because I sure has hell know how to start but I dunno how to stop...)

He moved along the wall methodically, blinking against the sting of saltwater in his eyes.

'I'll get out of here. Betcha god damn I will.'

Having almost completed the circuit of the room once more, John sighed heavily. He was tempted to lay down and sleep once more, having no other way to pass the time, but he pushed himself onward. Nothing could have surprised him more than touching upon a texture warm and slightly soft-- he cried out, shuffling backwards a little.

A quiet voice, like a woodwind, whispered, "Who's there?"

"I'm here," he said, searching for the sound. He felt around until he located the texture once more-- the shape of a finger, protruding through the smallest of vents in wall. John swallowed hard, "Please tell me that's still attached."

"Yes." The finger wiggled obligingly-- long and slender.

"Thank God," he said the words with more reverence than he ever had in church. John pressed his cheek to the floor, speaking close to the vent.

"Are you a real person?" the voice asked, laced with caution and a fear John well understood-- he'd wondered, too, what would happen when he could stand the close and the dark and the unknown no longer.

"Of course I am," he said, pretending to be indignant. "I've been all over this cell. I don't know how I missed this."

"Can you see anything?"

"No," John reflexively shook his head.

"It's easy to get turned around in the dark," the voice offered, and John clearly remembered falling asleep for completing his check at least once. The finger pulled back through the vent, but the voice seemed closer-- probably, the other person was mimicking John's position to hear better. "What's your name?"

"I'm Jonathan... John. O'Neill." He felt the barest hint of warmth from his companion's breath; they were close, separated by the wall and the endless black.

"Daniel Jackson. It's nice to meet you," Daniel's laugh was breathless, "I mean, really, really nice to meet you."

"Damn straight," John said appreciatively. "Do you know how we got here?"

A pause, a heavy sigh. "I was on my way... well, home. Billy Allen and Robert Mills were after me, so I wasn't really looking were I was going. I bumped into these two--"

"Really big guys, right? Dressed up like it was Halloween?" John frowned towards the unknown face, "Why were those boys chasing you, Danny?"

For a moment, John was sure the other boy wouldn't answer. Then, "They always chase me, if I don't beat it out of school quick enough." Danny's voice was matter of fact, "I'm a geek."

"Oh," said John, with an understanding that didn't really reach his conscious mind. "But the guys that jumped you-- I'm right, aren't I?"

"Actually," Danny said philosophically, "their garb was surprisingly accurate to early Egyptian costume, but... yeah. They were big. Lifted me straight off me feet by the collar."

"You are a geek," John said, briefly taken aback. The silence from the other side of the vent was thick and maybe a little sour. "Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean nothing by it."

"S'alright, I suppose," a sigh, "I told you."

"Nothing wrong with that, I guess," John tried to be comforting, poking a finger through the vent so that they touched briefly once more. "I mean, now we know these guys have something to do with Egypt, probably. But who from Egypt wants to kidnap a couple of boys?"

"I was born in Egypt," Danny considered, "I can't really think of any reason or organization that fits with this scenario. I mean, I'm not worth much... unless... Are you someone important?"

"Nope," John laughed, "the son of a Naval officer and a Math whiz." The other boy made a sound of understanding. "Do you still live in Egypt?"

"No," there was a hit of sadness in the tones, "Now I live in New York." Danny seemed to think for a moment, and John imagined he could almost hear wheels turning, despite the lack of expression to pin it with. "Have you met the woman yet?"

"What woman?"

"The redheaded one, in the... well, it's not like you can miss her," Danny said uncomfortably.

"She do something to you, Danny?" the other boy bit his lip, hearing more fear than Daniel's local bullies had inspired in the carefully spoken words. The rasp of slightly labored breathing held for a moment before Danny spoke again.

"She touched me," he said quietly. John wedged two fingers through the vent to curl around the nearest one of Danny's he could find. "You know... down there."

John swallowed hard, "Danny... how old are you?"

"Sixteen," Danny said, clearly a little offended. "It's not like I don't know what sex is, but... I don't like what she did to me, even if it was just touching." A deep breath, "I had a foster brother like that, once."

"Your parents are dead?" John asked, instantly clamping his lips together. 'You're a heel' he thought at himself with all the force of a fist.

"Yeah. When I was eight."

"Shit, Danny. If you don' want her to touch you, or anyone to touch you-- that's that," John muttered, feeling a ferocity that surprised him. Daniel's voice shaped kind words-- the kind of voice you hear in temples and halls filled with books. "Some guys say they'll take it from any girl, but... Jesus. How old is she?"

"I don't know, thirty?"

"Perverted bitch. You kick her?"

"She kind of had those guys with her, you know. I'd be a smear on the wall when they finished with me."

"Superior firepower," John said knowingly. "This is crazy. This is really crazy shit."

"I've only seen her once," Danny said almost comfortingly, though just who it was supposed to soothe, John didn't know. "She called me her 'Beloved'." The shiver was in his voice.

"Eww," the other boy sympathized. "You're not even legal!"

Patiently, "Neither are you."

"I will be soon," he replied triumphantly. "And even if you were legal, it'd still be really gross." He thought for a moment, "Do think these people are white slavers? Communists?" He tried to laugh, but couldn't, "Aliens?"

"Dunno," Danny said despondently, "their technology is far superior than anything I've ever seen. I mean, she has this thing like on Star Trek. It beams things in and out!"

"I think..." John fought down a sense of wild, crippling disbelief. "I think we're really outgunned here, Danny."

Spoken with a hope almost dowsed, "What are we going to do?"

"We found each other-- got lucky with that," he tried to be encouraging."

"Yeah," Danny swallowed audibly, "maybe we'll get lucky again."

They lay there, taking comfort in each other's physical presence, for a very long time.

#(#)#

END NOTE: Thank you so much for taking the time to look at this first part. If I could trouble you a bit more to send feedback, I should be dearly grateful.

Plus, I'll give you Teal'c cookies. So who can resist?