He barely heard the door close behind Colonel Jack O'Neill. He looked back down at the framed picture in his hand. It was the portrait of a woman. "Who is she?" he'd asked O'Neill. "What's her name?"
"You tell me," O'Neill said.
He couldn't do it. He didn't know who she was. He had no idea at all. It was par for the course. He didn't know who he was, either.
"Daniel Jackson," he said. The loudness of his own voice startled him into looking up. All around him were elements of his life, only he didn't remember any of it. None of the books looked familiar. Beautiful artifacts were everywhere, but they didn't evoke anything in him--no sense of recognition, no sense that he'd seen it somewhere before. The room was cluttered but free of dust. O'Neill had saved some of Jackson's things, even though he thought Jackson was dead.
"Arrom," he said next. That had been his name at Vis Uban, where he had been found two months ago, naked, in the forest, in the middle of a stone circle. He had just started to answer to that name when Colonel O'Neill and his team had come through the stargate and told him they knew him. Now he had another name. They had hoped that he would remember when he saw familiar things, and he had too. That's why he had agreed to come with them when they returned through the gate to their home.
Jackson set the picture down and turned away. The woman in the picture couldn't tell him anything. What hurt most were the looks in everyone's eyes. Their eyes followed him. He understood that someone had died and they missed him, and they wanted that man back. But he wasn't that man. He didn't know who that man was. But they didn't understand that. Samantha Carter in particular seemed to want something from him. She'd come to his tent on Vis Uban and asked him to come back with them. The words she'd used when she talked about him had made him wonder if she loved him, so he'd asked her if there had ever been anything between them. He couldn't interpret the look she'd given him back. "No," she'd said, her expressive eyes suddenly wary. "No. Not in that way. We were really, really good friends."
The only one who hadn't approached him on Vis Uban was Jonas Quinn. Teal'c, O'Neill, and Carter had all visited separately. It seemed to Jackson that Jonas Quinn was the only person who didn't seem to want something from him. The man was clearly brilliant. He'd been in charge of inventorying the ruins inside the perimeter the soldiers had established. Jackson had seen Quinn around, totally focused on his task, directing the work of men in the now-familiar green uniforms. They had used imaging equipment to record the writings. Jackson had watched from yards away as Quinn talked with one of the many nameless soldiers, and Quinn had laughed. He had thrown his head back and laughed. He had dimples. Jackson was charmed. It was strange: Quinn was the only one who didn't seem to want something from him, and Jackson found himself wishing Quinn would approach him. It was just perversity, he decided. Jackson had spoken with Quinn only briefly. He couldn't remember now what they'd talked about. Quinn had called him "Doctor Jackson."
Jackson set the picture down carefully. The woman's face smiled at him. He supposed she was beautiful. He stepped away and her eyes followed him, the way Samantha Carter's eyes had. This nameless woman wanted something from him too. He used a finger to gently tip the picture face down on the bedside table. "Sorry," he apologized to her. He moved around the room, flipping through dog-eared books with extensive marginalia, much of it in the same handwriting--his handwriting, he realized. They were in a variety of languages, some of which he could name. Several books were just blank books that he had filled up with his own handwriting and sketches. He picked up artifacts, then set them down. Some of them looked like weapons, some like practical tools, yet others like deities. There were no other photographs in the room.
"Vis Uban," he said. It meant "Place of Great Power." "Uban" was pretty easy . Its link to the Latin word "urbanus," "city," was obvious, although "urbanus" also had connotations of refinement and wit. "Vis" was the more interesting word here. "Vis: power, strength," he said. He knew there was more. He'd seen a Latin dictionary somewhere--there it was. He flipped through. "But also violence, or a large quantity. Used in a military sense, it means troops or forces." He tossed the dictionary down. "Vis Uban--military troops," he mused. He wondered whether the city had housed military troops. Or maybe it meant "Witty Soldier," not "Place of Great Power." Somehow, that didn't seem likely--not pretentious enough. He couldn't look up "vis" because it was an old dialect of one of the Ancient languages, and there wasn't a dictionary. Or was there?
Jackson opened the door to the corridor and cautiously stuck his head out.
"Yes, sir?" a soldier said.
Jackson blinked at him and stepped outside. The soldier looked wary. "Hi there," he said. "Jonas Quinn? I need to see Jonas Quinn."
"This way, sir," the soldier said, coming up behind Jackson.
"No, just point the way," Jackson said, without much hope.
"I'm supposed to escort you, sir," the soldier responded. He shut the door, and there was a faint thud as the lock engaged.
"Let me guess. Security clearance." As in, he didn't have it.
"This way, sir."
"What's your name?" Jackson started down the corridor the way the soldier had indicated. It freaked him out that so many people went around armed.
"Nelson, sir."
"I suppose I should have known that," Jackson said gloomily.
"No, sir."
"Yes. It says it right there." Jackson turned and touched his own breast, indicating the placement of the other's name tag. Somehow, it was symbolic. He couldn't name others, even when they were labeled. Nothing was familiar. He'd been back from--from wherever for two months. Why did they think he would remember now? He had just gotten used to Arrom.
"Yes, sir. Turn left here, sir."
Jackson was thoroughly lost when he knocked on Quinn's door a few minutes later. "I need to talk to him about a translation," he told Nelson. "It might be a while. You don't have to wait."
"I'll be right outside, sir," Nelson said as the door swung open.
"Doctor Jackson," Quinn said, surprised and pleased.
"Can I talk to you?" Jackson said. "I wanted to know if you have a dictionary of any Ancient dialects."
"Sure," Quinn said. "I mean, yes. Come in."
Jackson stepped inside. Quinn eyed Nelson before shutting the door firmly behind him. "My own personal bodyguard," Jackson confessed. "He goes everywhere with me. He's quite devoted."
"Nelson's all right," Quinn said. He waved a hand as he turned to dig through some books, indicating that Jackson should amuse himself. "Make yourself at home. I'm really glad you came by. I want to talk to you about some translation things--if you're up to it, I mean. And you'll want your office back, of course. And--your tools. I was just sorting through things today."
Jackson tuned out Quinn as Quinn rattled on. Quinn seemed enthusiastic but a little nervous. It seemed that this was where Quinn lived. There was a neatly made bed and a nightstand, but mostly there were books. Jackson suddenly realized that he had no idea what time it was. Maybe it was late. Well, he obviously hadn't woken Quinn up. "Do you really have a dictionary of the Ancient languages?" he asked when Quinn ran down.
"Yes and no," Quinn said cryptically, bending over double to view books on a low shelf. "Here." He grabbed a few books and stood up triumphantly. "What were you thinking?"
"Vis Uban, Place of Great Power," Jackson said. "Or possibly Vis Uban, Witty Soldier."
"Oh, Latin, yeah," Quinn said. He smiled at Jackson's joke, and Jackson saw the dimples again.
"I wanted to double-check 'vis.'"
Quinn dumped the books on the bed. "Well, what I have are your notes." He flipped a book open. "You were cross-referencing Ancient terms and compiling a list by site and by context. The meanings of all the words have been inferred." He indicated a page, and Jackson recognized the handwriting. It was the same as the handwriting in the books in his own room. It was his own handwriting. He could read the characters and words, but the thought processes revealed by the notes made no sense to him. "The site implies a date," Quinn continued, warming to his theme. "But it's recursive. Some of the stroke characteristics and diacriticals help us date a site, so sometimes a site has been dated on the basis of the writings, not the other way around. The tendency of some cultures to retain Ancient writings as artifacts or objects of worship has just made it more confusing."
"How much of this is firm?" Jackson asked. He gently touched Quinn's hand, indicating a gloss on the page, and Quinn immediately moved his hand out of the way. Jackson ran his fingers over the black ink. He'd written "GOD DAMN IT" in all caps, put a box around it, and decorated it with incongruous flowers. He was sympathetic. He knew how he must have felt, faced with something that had to be made sense of, only to face utter defeat.
"None of it," Quinn said.
"Well, that's a problem." Jackson shut the book. "I wondered whether Vis Uban was a barracks housing military troops."
"Could be," Quinn said. He thought for a second. Jackson watched curiously. Quinn was shorter than him, round-faced, with messy, dark blond hair and brown eyes. He had an air of intense focus when he was thinking that Jackson liked. And Quinn didn't seem uncomfortable with Jackson, the way O'Neill and Carter were. "I surveyed the site, but I was primarily looking for writing. I wasn't looking for evidence of the culture contemporaneous with the writing. We could do a low-flying scan--you know, from above, using alternative imaging technologies. We could reconstruct the configuration of the original buildings, assuming they aren't buried too deeply. The plan of the buildings should give us a big clue about the original inhabitants."
"Architecture. Yes," Jackson said. It was a good idea. "I'm not convinced. I mean, I don't know about the whole--I actually have a hunch that it really does mean 'Place of Great Power.'" Sometimes the most obvious reading was the right one. "I just wanted to check it out," he finished. He turned and met Quinn's eyes. Quinn was standing too close. "What did you find?" he asked. "I mean, on Vis Uban. Besides me."
"Well, come to the meeting tomorrow and find out," Quinn said. "It's at ten. I'm giving a briefing." He hesitated. "It's classified, though," he added. Jackson got it. He wasn't invited. Quinn tapped the pile of books. "It's all based on your stuff. Everything you left behind--all your notes--I've studied it all."
"And I'm brilliant?"
Quinn grinned. "Yep," he said. "But so am I. I'm a fast learner."
Jackson smiled back. He felt encouraged. Quinn was talking to him, treating him like a colleague. "I don't doubt it." Jackson knew that Quinn's research, coupled with a hunch, had led to the rescue party. He hadn't felt like he needed rescuing, and indeed the team that had come through the gate hadn't known he was even alive, but this world was more to his taste than the one he'd been found on, although he hadn't felt that way when he left. It had been hard leaving the only home he remembered. Maybe he just saw possibility no matter where he was--artifacts to study, things to learn. Apparently that was his job, and it transcended who he was. "Can I get copies of your notes?"
"Absolutely. I can get them to you tomorrow at the briefing." Jackson was pleased that Quinn took it as read that Jackson would be there. Quinn separated the books into two piles. His leg brushed against Jackson's as he shifted his weight. "You can take these," he said, indicating one pile. "These, I need to copy some stuff first, and then you can have them."
"Jim said something about throwing a lot of my things away," Jackson said.
"Jim?" Quinn said blankly.
"The guy with--with the hair." Jackson waved at his own head.
Quinn seemed to know who he was talking about. "Oh, the Colonel. Colonel Jack O'Neill. Not Jim. Jack."
"Yeah. Him."
"Colonel O'Neill kept some of your personal stuff. He called ahead and had a team put your room together. I don't know about the stuff they threw out. You should ask him."
"Oh. Okay."
"I doubt they would have thrown away anything valuable, and they definitely didn't throw away any books. And your office wasn't touched. Everything is still there."
"Good." Jackson turned away and began pacing around the room. He had what he came for, but he didn't want to go. Quinn wasn't exactly free with the information, but he didn't seem to want something from Jackson, and that was refreshing. He remembered Carter's eyes following him on Vis Uban; he remembered O'Neill studying him when he thought Jackson wasn't paying attention. Quinn seemed happy to talk about translations and ruins.
"Well?" Quinn asked at last. "Anything familiar?" He gestured. "Some of these books are yours."
"No," Jackson said. "Everybody keeps forgetting. It's been two months for me. I was there for two months before SG-1 came and got me. Nothing seems familiar--not there, not here." He took a book out, flipped it open, and immediately closed it and returned it to the shelf. "Were we friends?" he asked bluntly.
"No," Quinn said.
"Why not?"
"Just--history."
"No, see, I don't know," Jackson said. Quinn wasn't behaving as though they were mortal enemies. He didn't understand at all. "I don't know why we weren't friends."
Quinn said at last, "I didn't get assigned to SG-1 until you--until you'd left."
Jackson eyed Quinn. Quinn didn't want to say, "Until you'd ascended." He supposed ascension was rare. He wondered why he'd achieved it. He wondered even more why he'd come back. "Oh. I didn't know that. Were you my replacement?"
Quinn just shrugged.
"Can you tell me something?"
"Maybe."
"Why does everybody call me by both my names? 'Daniel Jackson.' Doesn't anybody call me Dan, or Danny?" It bothered him that he did not respond at some fundamental level to the sound of his own name. It was just a sound. It didn't hold any meaning for him. If someone spoke it in a crowded room, he wouldn't hear it. There would be no automatic turning toward a voice, no electric shock that demanded attention be paid to the speaker.
Quinn laughed. "I don't know. Teal'c calls you Daniel Jackson and I guess everybody else does because he does. And you don't seem much like a Dan or a Danny to me. People who call you by your first name call you 'Daniel.'"
"You're not one of those people?" Quinn had called him "Doctor Jackson" when he showed up at the door.
"Why do you ask?"
"I want you to call me Daniel."
"Then I will," Quinn said.
Jackson moved a pile of books aside and sat down on the bed. He leaned forward, forearms on his legs. He clasped his hands and surveyed the floor. "I think I'm supposed to remember something," he said. His voice sounded fretful even to his own ears. "I'm supposed to remember something important. Really important." He looked up and met Quinn's eyes. "I'm late for something," he said. "I mean, really late. Terribly late."
"You'll remember," Quinn said. "Otherwise, what's the point of coming back?"
Jackson brightened. "That's true," he said. "My body," he said abruptly. "I look the same?"
"Exactly the same."
"Okay," he said. He'd just gotten a body. No wonder it felt so insubstantial. Body and mind--they hadn't integrated yet. His mind skittered, and his body plodded. They weren't yet synchronous. "Then do you mind--?" He remembered the press of Quinn's leg against his. He remembered those dimples. He remembered watching Quinn as Quinn worked. He'd wanted Quinn then. He still did. He stood up.
"What?" Quinn asked.
"Just this," Jackson said.
He crossed the few steps to Quinn, put his hands on Quinn's head, and kissed him. Quinn didn't shut his eyes or draw back. When Jackson released him, Quinn looked at him for a long few moments, then brushed Jackson's cheek.
"Daniel Jackson," Quinn said.
Jackson leaned in again, tasting him this time, deepening the kiss, and Quinn's hands lightly touched Jackson's sides before they slid down and cupped Jackson's ass. The kiss had been a question, and Quinn had given him an answer. They didn't need to stop. Quinn stepped forward and Jackson felt Quinn's penis stir, then solidify into an erection as they kissed. He could feel its heat. Jackson had felt desire since he'd seen Quinn smile on Vis Uban. He'd waited for Quinn to approach, to talk to him, and he never did. He'd been both relieved and disappointed.
"We were really, really good friends," Samantha Carter had said. Jackson guessed it was because he liked men. The picture of the woman that he had tipped over was probably his sister or some other family member, and they'd left the picture out on purpose, hoping it would jog his memory. He could let go now. He could forget, at least for a while, trying to make sense of the world. Now, here, alone with Quinn, things were simple. Maybe they had been lovers before. If that was the case, Jackson should savor it--the sensation of being with someone beloved, as if it were new, as if it were the first time. It could be a homecoming for both of them, a reunion: the dead man returned to life.
He pulled back again, panting a little, and looked down at Quinn's round face, brown eyes, and untidy hair. His fingers stroked Quinn's jaw. He felt the slight prickle of stubble. Quinn was breathing fast too. Jackson saw how this face could be the most important thing in the world. When Quinn smiled, it changed his face. "Were we?" he asked Quinn, just as he'd asked it of Samantha Carter. "You and me?"
"You tell me," Quinn said.
Jackson shook his head slowly. He hadn't expected an answer. "It's my first time," he told Quinn. He put his arms around him and leaned around, as if he were going to bury his face in the crook of Quinn's neck. Instead, he whispered, "Help me remember what it's like to be human."
Quinn fingers tightened on his ass, and Jackson's erection was suddenly painful. "Take it off," Quinn said, tugging at his shirt, and Jackson let Quinn slide his jacket off. His own hands crept underneath Quinn's T-shirt, enjoying the feel of Quinn's skin. They pulled back long enough to remove their shirts. Jackson took off his glasses and tossed them on top of the untidy pile of discarded clothes. The world became smaller with the glasses off: things at the periphery of vision were suddenly out of focus. His center was Quinn.
Quinn's hands came around and fumbled with Jackson's waistband, undoing Jackson's trousers, as he steered Jackson across the room. Jackson's back hit the wall, and Quinn slid Jackson's trousers down. They wrapped their arms around each other, their mouths devouring, and Jackson grew breathless. Quinn's mouth was aggressive, but when he took Jackson's penis in his hand, his touch was tentative.
Jackson laid his hand over Quinn's. "Yes," he said encouragingly, and Quinn's hand squeezed more firmly. Jackson set a pace, then released Quinn's hand so he could touch Quinn's body. Quinn's hand stroked as his tongue played with Jackson's, and Jackson knew he couldn't last. Sensation piled on sensation. His heart hammered. His sweaty body pressed against Quinn's. Just as pleasurable as the feel of Quinn's hand on his penis was the feel of Quinn under his hands. He learned the planes of Quinn's body, the softness of Quinn's ass, the taste of salt on Quinn's skin. He always came back to Quinn's mouth--soft, generous, demanding. Quinn's free hand slid up Jackson's body and came to rest on his chest. When Quinn scraped his nipple with a fingernail, Jackson's body tightened. He broke their kiss and grabbed Quinn's head.
"Now," he said as his body shattered. His orgasm pulsed through his entire body, starting with his groin and radiating outward, ripples of exquisite pleasure that broke him apart. He wasn't aware of anything but the strength of his coming, of the white heat that consumed him. The intensity peaked, leaving him breathless, then slowly receded.
Quinn's brown eyes brought him back. Jackson had been staring into Quinn's eyes when he came, holding Quinn's head in his hands. Quinn had anchored him here. The sensation should have carried him away. He didn't see how anyone could bear it. He had never felt anything like that before. He felt certain that he would have remembered something so profound.
"Time," he whispered. Quinn released his penis and leaned into him. Jackson could feel Quinn's erection against his leg. "How long was I gone?"
"It doesn't matter," Quinn said. He didn't ask what Jackson meant. Jackson couldn't have told him. "You came back."
Jackson had been broken apart and put back together. Now Quinn had done it to him. Jackson stroked Quinn's collarbone and studied Quinn's face, forcing his eyes to focus. He still didn't have any answers. His orgasm hadn't brought his identity to him in a blinding flash of light and pleasure. He wanted to be able to look at Quinn with the full force of shared context.
He dipped his head and kissed Quinn. He could start by sharing context with Quinn right now. "Tell me what you need," he said.
"Your mouth," Quinn said. "Put your mouth on me."
Jackson obliged. He kissed Quinn as he tugged Quinn's trousers and briefs down. He turned Quinn's back to the wall and pressed him against it as he wrapped a hand loosely around Quinn's penis. Although it wasn't particularly large, it was fat. He stroked Quinn's length a few times, then began using his hands in tandem with his mouth as he worked his way down. Quinn responded to Jackson's touch with sighs, with quick inhalations. Jackson, kneeling at Quinn's feet, spent a long time at Quinn's belly: the expanse of Quinn's lightly furred stomach invited open-mouthed kisses, and he could tell that Quinn enjoyed it.
"There, Daniel. Yes," Quinn said when Jackson finally enveloped Quinn's penis. Quinn put a hand on Jackson's head.
Jackson drew Quinn in and began sucking. Quinn filled his mouth, the taut skin of his shaft a contrast to the soft, almost rubbery glans. He could taste Quinn's semen from the precome. He found himself pulling on Quinn frantically, and he forced himself to slow down. He found the slit at the tip and tongued it, then began a rhythmic slide, swirling his tongue over the cap. His palm brushed Quinn's sacs as he used his hand to pleasure the base of Quinn's penis. Jackson could feel the remnants of his own orgasm in his stomach. He felt like he could come again, just from what his mouth felt. He dipped his head up and down, his tongue pushing hard against Quinn's shaft, unbearably excited but unable to get hard again. His mouth knew what to do, and Quinn responded.
Quinn's hand suddenly tightened on his hair, and Quinn tugged in short, hard jerks. Jackson felt Quinn's testicles tighten. Quinn was so hard, so hot, that nothing could hurt. Jackson increased the suction and matched Quinn's desperate pace. He was aware of Quinn's breathing changing, and a second later, Quinn came, gout after gout of warm semen pouring into Jackson's mouth. Quinn didn't make noise when he came. Instead, he breathed raggedly. Jackson found this sole evidence of loss of control intensely erotic.
When Quinn was done, Jackson released Quinn's penis and sat back. He swallowed and wiped his mouth. Quinn bent his legs and slid his back down the wall until he was sitting next to Jackson. He was too far away.
"Come here," Jackson said. He tugged Quinn toward him, and they lay on the floor, body against body, arms around each other, trousers still around their ankles. Quinn was still breathing harshly. Jackson gently stroked Quinn's face with the backs of his fingers. Quinn's breathing slowed, then became regular. "I don't remember what you are to me," Jackson confessed after a while. "I don't feel anything deep inside."
"You don't need to," Quinn said. His brown eyes were guileless, but Jackson saw through it.
"You do," Jackson said. "You feel something. That's why you didn't come visit me on Vis Uban." Quinn closed his eyes for a long moment, as though Jackson had hurt him, but he didn't say anything. Jackson continued, "You broke me apart and put me back together. And then I did it to you." And when they came back from wherever they had been, when they were reconstituted and turned into humans again, the other became part of them. Jackson now had a little bit of Quinn in him, and vice versa. Surely that counted for something. Surely that anchored him in this time and place. Surely now he could remember.
"I have to go," Quinn said, touching Jackson's chest. He sounded matter-of-fact, but his demeanor was sad.
"You live here," Jackson pointed out. He pulled Quinn's hair through his fingers. It felt almost liquid. He wanted Quinn to smile again.
"No, I mean, now that you're back, I think I have to go." Quinn pressed his palm hard against Jackson's breastbone. "Especially now that we--now that we did this." He hesitated. He was trying to tell Jackson something. "I don't want to go. I finally found something here. I wanted you, and you came back. I have things I need to tell you."
"Later," Jackson said. He put his hand on Quinn's. Jackson felt like he was on the edge of possibility, on the edge of remembering. He would go to sleep when he got back to his room, and when he woke up, he would remember who Jonas Quinn was. He would remember whether they had been enemies or lovers or something in between. Then everything would change. But that was in the future.
"I still want you. Just so you know that."
"Jonas, I don't understand."
"That's all right, Daniel," Quinn said. He kissed Jackson, and Jackson understood that it meant goodbye. "I don't think it's me you want to be with."