Heat by alyse [Reviews - 1]
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Category: Stargate SG-1 - Slash
Characters: Daniel Jackson, Jack O'Neill
Rating: PG-13
Genres: Angst, AU - Alternate Universe, Episode Related
Warnings: None
Series: None
Word count: 1528; Completed: Yes
Summary: Jonah thinks about heat and dreams during Beneath the Surface.
Spoilers: Beneath the Surface.
Notes: Thanks to Lou for betaing this, my first piece of Stargate SG1 fic.
~*~
I... dream.
Not of mining, like I told him, told them, but I dream anyway. Images, feelings come flooding into my mind and I wonder just how much of what he's told me, what he's tried to convince me of, is true.
I dream. Of him, mostly.
Some of the time he's there as I see him every day. Dirty, unshaven, like the rest of us. His head's tilted to one side and his eyes are hard, assessing me, weighing me up. Challenging.
Sometimes I dream of him and his eyes are soft and he's smiling, just this little smile that barely touches his lips but there's warmth in it anyway. He's clean. His hair is softer, spikier, not clinging to his forehead in damp tendrils as it does when the steam soaks into him. He has dimples. I don't know if I'm remembering this or if it's wishful thinking. Does he have dimples? I don't know. I sometimes think I get a glimpse of them, when his mouth quirks in irritation, but who knows? Who knows anything? I don't.
I don't know - I dream.
I told Therra I thought I remembered feelings - she assumed I meant for her. For Tor I told her, trying to joke while my throat was dry, knowing all the time it was a lie.
I do remember... feelings. I remember fear and anger and rage against... what? I don't remember that. I remember blood and sweat, but I see that every day too, working down here where scrapes and bruises are just part of the daily grind and where accidents are just waiting to happen.
I remember hope and hopelessness. I remember his face; grim, determined, scared.
I've never seen him scared. I'm sure of it. And yet I remember it now and I think, I seem to know, that in spite of that fear he was determined. Strong. I think he was strong for both of us. Maybe. Who knows? More questions than answers, that's the hell of this.
When? Where? Did it happen? Was it real, or my imagination, my wishing? Wanting to hurt him. Sometimes I do. Want to wipe that arrogant lip curl off his face. Want to... comfort. Hold. Bask in that strength, that purpose and let it fill me up, answer all of the questions I have.
Was it in the mines? He asked me what I remembered and that's all that was there - digging. Day in, day out. I did a lot of digging. Was he there? Were we there together? Was he hurt? Was I? Do I remember... something? A cave-in? An accident?
I remember blood and pain and grief. I remember a lot of blood.
I remember anger too, blue eyes flashing, pupils wide and deep and black but I know that look. It's familiar. That's him, day in, day out. Tough, uncompromising, barely banked violence. That's all of us, in some ways. It hangs around this place like a bad smell, the fear, the uncertainty, the rage, just looking for a way out and sometimes there's no keeping it in. Bickering, shoving, fighting.
Needing.
It's our honour to serve but sometimes it seems more like a burden and every now and then that burden grows too heavy to bear. Life here is too short, brutal in some ways, never knowing whether the machines will make it through the next cycle, never knowing whether your efforts are enough to keep off the cold and the snow, to save our people, or whether you'll fail and we'll all be doomed, crushed under tonnes of that merciless ice.
I remember that his eyes can turn cold, colder than any glacier that threatens us when he feels threatened. But how do I know that? Because looking at him now I can hardly believe it. I would never have said that he was cold. Not him. He's heat. Fire not ice. He's raw and earthy and in your face and never quits no matter how much you wish he would sometimes, how uncomfortable his not quitting makes you feel.
I remember the weight of him on me, pinning me briefly to the floor before I fought back, in the kitchen. I knew how to fight back, did fight back and threw him off. I must have learned that in the mines too, but part of me, a very small part of me...
It said 'give in'. It said 'let him win'. It said 'heat and need and fire and that - and he - will keep away the cold you fear'.
Now that's a fantasy, a dream.
I've seen him with Kegan. I've seen the way she looks at him, touches him. There's heat there too. I've seen the way he looks back at her. Need and heat and passion. And part of me, that small part I don't want to know, but can't help but acknowledge in the middle of rest period when all your goddamned demons come out to play because those around you are safely asleep and can't see, that part wants that passion turned on me. Feels that I'm entitled to it somehow. Wants him to look at me with that energy, that life, that need. And is angry when he doesn't.
And in the middle of the night I think that if I let my guard down I'd burn for him the way Kegan does. The way I don't burn, ache for Therra. I want him to burn for me like that too. I want to be the focus of that passion. I want to know it and know I'm alive, feel like I'm living. Just for a while. I want him in my face, snarling, fighting, needing. Needing me the way I'm growing to need him. Want him in my face and... more.
Where does that passion come from? It's rare, so goddamned unexpected in this place where it's an honour to serve. Anger, yes - I've seen it, known it, know it in him. But passion? This passionate desire for life, for truth, for questions? For knowing what is real and what is not? Where does it come from? Where does he get it from?
This place drains us. The mines were hard, monotonous and cold. Here, it's the heat that saps your strength. I never thought I'd ever be warm enough until I was transferred here. Or did I? Is that stray thought mine, or someone else's? Was I ever really that cold?
Damn him. He's making me doubt, question everything. It's what he wants us to do. I don't, not really. Part of me, most of me believes that this is it, that this is all. That I spent time in the mines and was transferred here, to this place of heat and steam and sweat and blood. Of close packed bodies and the ripe smell of hard work and limited water. And sex. No privacy, no... modesty. Just... us. People. Fighting and fucking and... feeling.
It's an honour to serve and there are worse places to serve than this. Colder places. I know that and yet... I don't. Not any more. Not since he made me question, damn him.
I can't sleep. Therra has no such problem - I can hear her soft breathing even over the sounds of the others who share our dormitory. I'm surrounded by people, closed in and trapped by them and even now, even with all this humanity around me, I'm aware of her, tuned into her almost.
But she's not the one I dream about.
I dream of him. I dream of him soft and hard, gentle and rough, coarse and... not. I dream of him smiling, frowning, angry and impassioned. I dream of him working in the steam room, watching the play of his muscles as he strains against rusted levers and that I know, that I've seen. But I dream of him in other places too, watching the sunlight gleaming off his hair, his hands dancing as he talks. I've only seen pictures of the sun, never for real so how do I know that it catches the red highlights in his hair, lights him up? Makes him glow and burn?
I dream of him watching me with fathomless eyes, the colour of the sky I've never seen either. Always watching me, measuring me. Knowing me. Claiming me.
Owning me.
I wanted to be warm, I remember that clearly, wanted the sun and the heat, like he's heat, but I'm so goddamned scared that with him I'm playing with fire.
The End
- Text Size +
Category: Stargate SG-1 - Slash
Characters: Daniel Jackson, Jack O'Neill
Rating: PG-13
Genres: Angst, AU - Alternate Universe, Episode Related
Warnings: None
Series: None
Word count: 1528; Completed: Yes
Summary: Jonah thinks about heat and dreams during Beneath the Surface.
Spoilers: Beneath the Surface.
Notes: Thanks to Lou for betaing this, my first piece of Stargate SG1 fic.
~*~
I... dream.
Not of mining, like I told him, told them, but I dream anyway. Images, feelings come flooding into my mind and I wonder just how much of what he's told me, what he's tried to convince me of, is true.
I dream. Of him, mostly.
Some of the time he's there as I see him every day. Dirty, unshaven, like the rest of us. His head's tilted to one side and his eyes are hard, assessing me, weighing me up. Challenging.
Sometimes I dream of him and his eyes are soft and he's smiling, just this little smile that barely touches his lips but there's warmth in it anyway. He's clean. His hair is softer, spikier, not clinging to his forehead in damp tendrils as it does when the steam soaks into him. He has dimples. I don't know if I'm remembering this or if it's wishful thinking. Does he have dimples? I don't know. I sometimes think I get a glimpse of them, when his mouth quirks in irritation, but who knows? Who knows anything? I don't.
I don't know - I dream.
I told Therra I thought I remembered feelings - she assumed I meant for her. For Tor I told her, trying to joke while my throat was dry, knowing all the time it was a lie.
I do remember... feelings. I remember fear and anger and rage against... what? I don't remember that. I remember blood and sweat, but I see that every day too, working down here where scrapes and bruises are just part of the daily grind and where accidents are just waiting to happen.
I remember hope and hopelessness. I remember his face; grim, determined, scared.
I've never seen him scared. I'm sure of it. And yet I remember it now and I think, I seem to know, that in spite of that fear he was determined. Strong. I think he was strong for both of us. Maybe. Who knows? More questions than answers, that's the hell of this.
When? Where? Did it happen? Was it real, or my imagination, my wishing? Wanting to hurt him. Sometimes I do. Want to wipe that arrogant lip curl off his face. Want to... comfort. Hold. Bask in that strength, that purpose and let it fill me up, answer all of the questions I have.
Was it in the mines? He asked me what I remembered and that's all that was there - digging. Day in, day out. I did a lot of digging. Was he there? Were we there together? Was he hurt? Was I? Do I remember... something? A cave-in? An accident?
I remember blood and pain and grief. I remember a lot of blood.
I remember anger too, blue eyes flashing, pupils wide and deep and black but I know that look. It's familiar. That's him, day in, day out. Tough, uncompromising, barely banked violence. That's all of us, in some ways. It hangs around this place like a bad smell, the fear, the uncertainty, the rage, just looking for a way out and sometimes there's no keeping it in. Bickering, shoving, fighting.
Needing.
It's our honour to serve but sometimes it seems more like a burden and every now and then that burden grows too heavy to bear. Life here is too short, brutal in some ways, never knowing whether the machines will make it through the next cycle, never knowing whether your efforts are enough to keep off the cold and the snow, to save our people, or whether you'll fail and we'll all be doomed, crushed under tonnes of that merciless ice.
I remember that his eyes can turn cold, colder than any glacier that threatens us when he feels threatened. But how do I know that? Because looking at him now I can hardly believe it. I would never have said that he was cold. Not him. He's heat. Fire not ice. He's raw and earthy and in your face and never quits no matter how much you wish he would sometimes, how uncomfortable his not quitting makes you feel.
I remember the weight of him on me, pinning me briefly to the floor before I fought back, in the kitchen. I knew how to fight back, did fight back and threw him off. I must have learned that in the mines too, but part of me, a very small part of me...
It said 'give in'. It said 'let him win'. It said 'heat and need and fire and that - and he - will keep away the cold you fear'.
Now that's a fantasy, a dream.
I've seen him with Kegan. I've seen the way she looks at him, touches him. There's heat there too. I've seen the way he looks back at her. Need and heat and passion. And part of me, that small part I don't want to know, but can't help but acknowledge in the middle of rest period when all your goddamned demons come out to play because those around you are safely asleep and can't see, that part wants that passion turned on me. Feels that I'm entitled to it somehow. Wants him to look at me with that energy, that life, that need. And is angry when he doesn't.
And in the middle of the night I think that if I let my guard down I'd burn for him the way Kegan does. The way I don't burn, ache for Therra. I want him to burn for me like that too. I want to be the focus of that passion. I want to know it and know I'm alive, feel like I'm living. Just for a while. I want him in my face, snarling, fighting, needing. Needing me the way I'm growing to need him. Want him in my face and... more.
Where does that passion come from? It's rare, so goddamned unexpected in this place where it's an honour to serve. Anger, yes - I've seen it, known it, know it in him. But passion? This passionate desire for life, for truth, for questions? For knowing what is real and what is not? Where does it come from? Where does he get it from?
This place drains us. The mines were hard, monotonous and cold. Here, it's the heat that saps your strength. I never thought I'd ever be warm enough until I was transferred here. Or did I? Is that stray thought mine, or someone else's? Was I ever really that cold?
Damn him. He's making me doubt, question everything. It's what he wants us to do. I don't, not really. Part of me, most of me believes that this is it, that this is all. That I spent time in the mines and was transferred here, to this place of heat and steam and sweat and blood. Of close packed bodies and the ripe smell of hard work and limited water. And sex. No privacy, no... modesty. Just... us. People. Fighting and fucking and... feeling.
It's an honour to serve and there are worse places to serve than this. Colder places. I know that and yet... I don't. Not any more. Not since he made me question, damn him.
I can't sleep. Therra has no such problem - I can hear her soft breathing even over the sounds of the others who share our dormitory. I'm surrounded by people, closed in and trapped by them and even now, even with all this humanity around me, I'm aware of her, tuned into her almost.
But she's not the one I dream about.
I dream of him. I dream of him soft and hard, gentle and rough, coarse and... not. I dream of him smiling, frowning, angry and impassioned. I dream of him working in the steam room, watching the play of his muscles as he strains against rusted levers and that I know, that I've seen. But I dream of him in other places too, watching the sunlight gleaming off his hair, his hands dancing as he talks. I've only seen pictures of the sun, never for real so how do I know that it catches the red highlights in his hair, lights him up? Makes him glow and burn?
I dream of him watching me with fathomless eyes, the colour of the sky I've never seen either. Always watching me, measuring me. Knowing me. Claiming me.
Owning me.
I wanted to be warm, I remember that clearly, wanted the sun and the heat, like he's heat, but I'm so goddamned scared that with him I'm playing with fire.
The End