Title: Yesterdays
Rating: PG-13
Words: 458
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing: none, really
Warnings: Talk of death, implied character death, angst
Summary: When he thinks of death, he thinks of thundering scores and deafening crescendos.
Notes: This turned out way different than I thought it'd be. For noeden. The challenge was to use the word "finale" and the quote "Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday".

When he thinks of death, he thinks of thundering scores and deafening crescendos. He thinks of the mechanical sound of zat fire and the swish-click of staff weapons opening. He thinks of the staccato pops of gunfire. He thinks of fire and brimstone and pain.

He thinks that his final act will be the grande finale of a twisting, turning drama. He thinks he would go down fighting till the end, trying to save his country, his friends, the world as they know it. He thinks that his death will mean something.

He doesn't think of ice and cold and numbness. He doesn't think of the sharp pain of breathing and the lance of fire that shoots up his leg at every twitch of muscle. He doesn't think he'd die like this.

Even wrapped in blankets, no skin exposed but his face, he can feel the freeze of the ice. He can feel himself descending into indifference. He can feel himself fading away. Not even the static bark of the radio can shake the haze of white from his mind. Not even the sound of her voice can move his ice-heavy limbs.

But her voice morphs, changes into something else. At first he thinks, "Sara?", but no, the voice is too deep. He can't summon the strength to ask again. He hopes the other won't hold it against him.

"Cold, s-so cold," he manages to whisper. He thinks he whispered. He doesn't know. He can't care.

"I know. It's alright. You can sleep now," the other says, his deep, kind voice lulling him. He doesn't hear what the other says next, can only feel burning warm breath against his cheek and know that the other is there with him.

But wasn't she here with him before…?

It doesn't matter.

Then he thinks, Bye, Danny, sorry I never told you…

And the other said it was okay. Said he could sleep. Distantly—it's all so distant now, how could that be him?—he thinks he can't sleep. He has to stay awake. He has to live.

But he's not sure he's alive, he's so numb, can't feel, can't think. And if he's not alive he must be dead. So he can sleep. It's okay to sleep.

A last thought wanders through his mind as he allows the darkness to eat at his brain: Shouldn't've procrastinated with that report…

And then the other's voice, whispering in his head—so like the other, always there, always beside him—, "Procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday."

And the half-thought, We had so many yesterdays, I want—

And then the darkness sweeps him away to something not-death and something not-life, and the thought is never finished, like that yesterday he should have had.