Kylie Lee | Slash fan fiction

"Arrom."

Arrom, whom the strangers called Daniel Jackson, blinked. "Sorry, Alla," he apologized. He bent over the bedding again, but this time, he actually started taking it off, ready to wash in the freshwater stream nearby. Alla and Solah had been more than kind to him. He annoyed them enough with his tendency to wander off when his attention was caught by something—a snatch of song that children sang, or the glyphs carved into the columns in the ruins of the city they were camped in. They had arranged for his lodging, his own tent, which was something of a luxury in the nomads' world, in exchange for his labor, because they were no longer young. So therefore, he should labor.

But once again, the movement of someone wearing dark green caught his eye, and once again, he paused. It wasn't so terrible, not knowing who you were. You reached back in your memory, and nothing was there. It was peaceful, in a sense, almost soothing. For Arrom, everything had started when he woke up naked in the middle of a clearing in the forest. That was what his name meant, after all—"naked one." He could speak, and he could understand, but he couldn't read. He was also ignorant of plant life, to such a degree that he wasn't allowed to forage any more, but he could name many animals. But here were the strangers, the soldiers who wore green, the strangers who came out of the standing stone circle, and they said they knew him. They said he was Daniel Jackson, who, Arrom gathered, was dead.

Every day, he woke up, and the people that had initially seemed so unfamiliar became more familiar. The strange smells had become comforting. Even the food, some of which he had initially perceived as unpalatably bitter, had become acceptable. He could become one of them, one of the people of this small nomad village, going to school with the children and helping Alla and Solah in their tent. Life had just settled into a comfortable rhythm when the strangers came.

A quick glance around revealed that Alla was and Solah were busy putting away food; the pot out front needed to be scraped and washed. He should probably get some lunch himself; he hadn't yet eaten, and his stomach growled. And—there he was again, the man with dimples, the man with short, light hair and the contrasting dark eyes. Arrom had met him briefly, but he couldn't remember the man's name. He seemed to be in charge of some of the other men, some of whom, confusingly, were women, even though they dressed just like the men. Now Arrom watched as the man in green spoke and gestured. Like Arrom, he seemed interested in the writing on the abandoned buildings. He was too far away to hear the man's words, but he could see the flash of teeth. The man smiled easily, and he seemed enthusiastic about whatever it was he was doing. As Arrom watched, he patted another soldier on the back, and the soldiers set off purposefully. Apparently the man had been giving orders to those of lesser rank. The man, back to Arrom, yelled something in farewell to his troops, and Arrom heard laugher in response.

Abruptly, as though he could sense Arrom watching him, the man turned. Their eyes met, and Arrom felt warmth in his stomach. He didn't look away. The man looked uncertain, but then gave him a half-wave of acknowledgment. Before Arrom could decide what to do, Alla yelled, "Arrom! Where are you?"

Arrom broke the gaze and stepped back. "Right here, Alla," he called. His heart raced; he felt as though he'd been running, or as though he'd been caught doing something wrong. He knew what it meant, of course. He imagined the man patting him on the back, his hand staying there, and Arrom would turn and those brown eyes would lock with his—

Alla stuck her head out the door. "Watching the strangers again," she said, but she didn't sound angry. "Do you really think you're one of them?"

Arrom said, "It might explain why I can't tell weeds from food."

"But you can tell cups from bowls. I know, because I've seen you do it. Get them ready for washing, would you? And then go talk to the soldiers. You must be curious."

Arrom ducked inside the tent. "I'm curious what they can tell me about their world," he said. He wondered whether he could read their writing. If he could, maybe it would prove that he was their missing friend.

"But not about who you are?" Alla asked.

"But I don't remember," Arrom said, frustration leaking into his voice. His past lasted two moons; others had pasts that lasted for years and years. The food he perceived as bitter was bitter in comparison to what, exactly? He couldn't remember. The words he learned in school with the children, words he hoped to use to translate the words on the ruins of the town, seemed just on the edge of familiar. If he could just twist everything a half-turn to the right, everything would click into place, he would remember, and his world would make sense. Then, maybe the strangers would stop looking at him. It overwhelmed and frightened him, those looks of need. But until that happened, everything—every misidentified plant, the taste of every new food—was a symbol alluding to the fact that he was missing his entire life. "If I don't remember, it doesn't matter who I am. I'm Arrom now."

"No doubt you're a married man with ten children who needed some peace and quiet," Alla said. "Or…you're a traveling trader who got bonked on the head when he cheated one too many patrons. Or, handsome devil that you are, you slept with the wrong someone and the family cursed you. Or…"

They played this game a lot, imagining weird and wild histories for Arrom, but he wasn't in the mood today. "…Or I'm a vicious murderer hiding out," Arrom said. Sometimes he thought maybe he was.

Alla shook her head. "I don't think so. I think you're a kind, decent man."

"But I—"

"—don't remember. I know. But can you change so much?"

Arrom shrugged. "Who knows?" he said rhetorically. He turned and began gathering bowls.

Alla gestured with her head, indicating the soldiers. "They might," she said.

***

Arrom stood with his arms crossed as he watched the men from the other side of what they called the Stargate. A few of the soldiers threw him curious glances as he watched. They all thought they knew who he was. Arrom did his best to ignore them. The uproar among the nomads when they had come through had been the most excitement Arrom had ever seen during his stay. Arrom's own arrival had kept the nomads in the ruined city, which had ended up being lucky, because one of the soldiers had come through the Stargate and recognized Arrom. If the nomads had set out south, like they usually did this time of year, to head for warmer weather, they would have missed the arrival of the soldiers. The village elders were in a tizzy, particularly Shamda, who told pedantic, boring stories over and over and was excited to have new ears to listen to him, and the women and the children treated the strangers like a spectator sport, following soldiers around, offering them food and hospitality. The men were trying to play it cool, but they were excited too. Not in the memory of anyone in the village had so many strangers come at once, especially strangers with such interesting gifts: exotic food, silly stories, songs, laughter.

Arrom turned and started for his tent. It was time for a nap. He waved at one of the children—he'd been going to school with the children, probably, he suspected, to keep him out of the way, once it became clear he had little but enthusiasm to offer in the way of skills—and almost bumped into a soldier standing by the pillar near the village center. It was the same soldier he'd watched an hour ago, the same soldier who had stared at him. Close up, he exuded self-confident competence. Arrom remembered the way their eyes had locked, and he found himself wondering what it would feel like to be the complete focus of this man's attention, to be touched by him, however casually, like the soldier this man had patted on the back.

"Hey," the man said, and he smiled, showing his dimples. Arrom smiled back; the man was enthusiastic. He was eating some kind of brown bar wrapped in silvery paper. "Arrom, right?"

"I'm sorry, I don't remember your name," Arrom said.

"I'm Jonas Quinn," the man said. "Oh, sorry, this is my lunch." He gestured with the bar. "Are you hungry? I have more if you want one, although I warn you, they are pretty tasteless. Nutritious, though."

"Thanks," Arrom said, surprised.

"Here." Jonas pulled another bar out of a pocket and handed it to Arrom. The silvery paper was sealed, and it crackled interestingly. Arrom put the bar in his leather bag to eat later. He looked up when Jonas pointed at the pillar in front of them. "This word here." Jonas pointed to a glyph. Arrom noticed that he didn't touch the stone. "It reminds me of a word in a Goa'uld dialect that means travel. I'm wondering whether it refers to the Stargate."

Travel. Arrom blinked, and it was as if the rock in front of him shifted. A half-turn to the right? he thought as something shook loose. "Travel," he repeated. "No. Not travel. Distance. A great distance." Unlike Jonas, he touched the rock, covering the word with his hand, as though he could obliterate distance. He covered a second glyph. "Trouble, or danger." Another glyph. "Um, crops." He hadn't remembered until Jonas had prompted him, and then—he just understood, just like that. It made him feel breathless and a little scared. He could read those words, just reach back into his memory, and there something was. Regaining his memory would be like that, he imagined: he would reach back, and the information would be there.

"Anything else?" Jonas asked quietly after Arrom fell silent.

Arrom pressed his forehead against the pillar, willing himself to remember, to read. When he pulled back, the words he knew remained the words he knew. Nothing else made sense. He spent all his spare time during daylight staring at the words on the ruins, conferring with Shamda, trying to read it, as though understanding it would allow him to understand what he had lost. And he spent all his spare time during night hours meditating, candles lit, willing his mind to open.

"No," he said. His shoulder bumped against Jonas's when he stepped back. Jonas put out a hand and touched his arm, as if to steady him, and Arrom felt it through his body, a rush of heat, the same desire he'd felt when he'd watched Jonas earlier that day. Jonas looked up at him, and Arrom realized that Jonas was looking at his lips. They were so close to each other; Arrom could have leaned down and brushed Jonas's mouth with his. Jonas's hand squeezed, and he knew that Jonas wanted the same thing Arrom did.

Jonas hadn't called him "Daniel Jackson." He wondered why. "Excuse me," he said, gently pulling his arm back, and he walked on. When looked back, Jonas, arms crossed, weight on one leg, was staring after him, his half-eaten bar forgotten.

***

"My take is, he doesn't remember."

Arrom, stack of bowls in hand, hesitated. He recognized the voice of the soldier he'd spoken to a couple of hours ago: Jonas Quinn.

A deep, precise voice sounded next. "Perhaps it is not Daniel Jackson."

"This is nuts," another voice said. "It's got to be him. That's Daniel. He looks exactly the same. Plus—he showed up in a field, naked. It's not like he's been here for years and years, like Daniel's twin or something."

"He doesn't remember," put in a woman's voice. "Colonel, remember it's been a couple months for him. He's probably starting to build a life here."

Arrom faded around the corner. They clearly hadn't seen him. If they didn't move, he'd be able to hear. He'd be late bringing the new bowls to Alla, but she would have to make do without him to run her errands. He sensed that the strangers weren't being completely open with him, but over that lay the feeling that these people could help him remember.

"It may not matter if it is he," said the deep voice. "If he does not remember, he is no more Daniel Jackson than I am."

"Jonas, you're the only one who hasn't talked to him," the colonel said. It was true. All the others had come to him, one by one, but all Arrom had learned was that Daniel Jackson was a good man whom they missed, someone who had ascended, whatever that meant. He wanted to remember, but at the same time, he was afraid to, because of what might be revealed about him.

"I talked to him a little bit today," Jonas said. "We talked about the writing on those ruined columns in the middle of town. He remembered some of the words."

"That's it?" the colonel asked.

"Well, it's not like I knew him really well," Jonas said. Arrom thought he sounded a little defensive. "Talking to me wouldn't help him get his memory back. We really only saw each other on Kelowna, back before—before—"

"Right," the colonel said, cutting Jonas off.

Jonas continued, "So anyway, it was like a click or something. He remembered the words when I translated one on the basis of a related Goa'uld word. It wasn't like he could just read them. So—he can remember, and that means, maybe he'll remember being Daniel."

"Yeah," the colonel said thoughtfully. "Good. What do you think, Carter?"

Arrom had to strain to hear the woman's words. Her back was to him.

"I think if he doesn't want to come, we can't force him," she said. "I don't know how to make him come with us against his will."

"A little something in his dinner?" the colonel asked. "A little midnight kidnapping?"

"Sir—" Carter said, just as Jonas said, "Colonel, we can't do that."

"I know we can't do that," the colonel said. "It was just a thought. And I think it should remain an option. But—no takers? No? Okay then."

"We can just hope he'll remember on his own," Jonas said.

The man with the deep voice spoke again. He didn't seem to talk much, and Arrom was a bit intimidated by his huge bulk and tendency to glare. "If it is Daniel Jackson, it is important that he return. The stakes are high."

Arrom blinked. Stakes? What were they talking about?

"There's always stakes," Carter said.

"Stakes galore," the colonel said grimly. Arrom heard them shift, and suddenly the colonel's voice got louder. He slipped behind the well as they walked past, bending over so they couldn't see his face. "But forget stakes. I just want Daniel back."

***

"We were just really, really good friends," Samantha Carter had said.

Arrom took a thoughtful bite from his bowl of stew. He sat next to the fire on a bench hewn from a log. Carter had looked at him with huge, wounded eyes—the eyes, perhaps, of a lover, he'd thought. It made sense that if she loved this Daniel Jackson, she'd want him back, but her motivations, as well as those of the colonel and the man with the staff weapon, were now equally opaque. This Daniel Jackson had meant a great deal to them. Every time they looked at him, Arrom could see the pain in their eyes. Their desire for him to remember was almost palpable. It made him uncomfortable, although his initial skittishness had turned into curiosity. The only one who hadn't sought him out, the only one who didn't seem to want something from him, was Jonas Quinn, and Arrom didn't understand that either. But unlike the people here, the people who had so generously taken him in, they could put a name to a face. They had a history and a role for him to play. It struck him again that there was nothing for him here—no meaningful work, no deep personal relationship. Although this world was all he remembered, somehow it wasn't enough for him. He was curious about the Stargate, and he was curious about what lay beyond it.

"Arrom," a familiar voice said, and he looked up. He couldn't make out the face at first, because he'd been looking at the fire. "Jonas Quinn," the man identified himself, as though he needed to. "May I join you?"

Arrom gestured at the empty spot beside him. Jonas had his own bowl of stew. "You aren't calling me Daniel?" Arrom asked. "You didn't earlier today either."

"I don't think you're Daniel," Jonas said matter-of-factly. He spooned up some stew and blew on it to cool it.

"Everyone has come to me except you," Arrom said. "The military guy and Sam and that man there." He gestured at the big black man.

"Teal'c," Jonas supplied.

"Teal'c," Arrom repeated. "You don't think I'm Daniel?"

Jonas swallowed so he could speak. "I don't doubt you're Daniel Jackson," he said. "The similarity is—well, let's just say there's no doubt in my mind. But unless you remember, you're Arrom, because you don't know anything Daniel Jackson knows."

"Are you here to convince me to come with you through your Stargate?" Arrom asked. Although he was hungry, the stew suddenly seemed like too much—too hot, too thick, too tasteless. He was hungry for knowledge, not food.

"Do you want to go?" Jonas asked.

"No." Arrom spoke automatically, and he didn't realize until he'd said it that what he meant was, "Maybe." Arrom couldn't shake the feeling that the lack of his memory was a punishment for something, some horrible wrong he'd done in his life. If that was the case, maybe it was a blessing that he couldn't remember. He was afraid to know, but he thought maybe he was more afraid to not know.

"Then don't."

Arrom set his half-full bowl on the ground. "What did I mean to you? Or—not me—Daniel Jackson?"

Jonas took another bite of food while he considered. "I didn't know him well," he said at last. "After he—left, I took Dr. Jackson's place on one of the teams that travels through the Stargate. I'm the person who translates things—words and writing. Dr. Jackson was also an archaeologist. He studied ancient civilizations on his planet. I do some of that too, but Dr. Jackson did it better. I've been using his notes, studying up."

Arrom intrigued, thought about his own interest in the ruins. He was curious about the people who had lived here, so long ago, and he was curious about why they had left the city to go to ruin. Maybe they had become the nomads. He had that in common with Daniel Jackson.

"So he's important?" Arrom asked

Jonas nodded. "Very. He has some information—or we think he might have some information—that we really need."

"So he's not dead," Arrom said. "Some of the other soldiers say he's dead."

"It's a long story," Jonas said. "He's sort of dead. Are you going to finish that stew? Oh, thanks."

"How can you be sort of dead?" Arrom asked, watching Jonas stack the bowls together and stir Arrom's discarded stew with his own spoon before taking a bite.

Jonas shrugged as he swallowed. "Oh, you know," he said vaguely. "Ascending to a higher plane of being."

Arrom considered. The colonel had said the same thing when he'd rudely come uninvited into Arrom's tent. It sounded unlikely to him. "I don't remember anything about any of you," he said. "If I'm Daniel Jackson, why wouldn't I remember? Does this ascension thing affect memory?"

"You ask a lot of questions I can't answer," Jonas said. "A lot of people love you and miss you. Or—not you. Dr. Jackson."

"The woman—Sam. She visited me in my tent today." Her visit, of the three, had affected him the most deeply.

Jonas nodded. "She said she couldn't convince you to come with us."

"No," Arrom said. "She just made me—curious, I guess, about who I am, who I could be. She wondered why I was afraid to know about myself."

"Maybe if you came back with us, you would see things from your life and remember who you are."

Arrom nodded. "Maybe," he said noncommittally.

Jonas shifted closer when someone sat down on the other side of him, pressing his side against Arrom. The touch of his body sent a thrill through Arrom. He put his hand on Jonas's leg and slid it in and up the inside of his thigh, toward Jonas's groin. His own cock hardened when Jonas put his hand on Arrom's knee and deliberately stroked. Arrom felt himself grow breathless. He wanted Jonas, and the feeling was definitely mutual.

"I think I want some more stew after all," Arrom murmured. Jonas's touch had made him hungry again.

***

"You were late with the bowls," Alla said, but the glint in her eyes told Arrom she was teasing him.

Arrom said, "Not very late."

"But I wouldn't have needed the new bowls if you hadn't smashed the old ones," she argued.

"It was an accident."

"A terrible accident."

"But really, just an accident."

Alla laughed. "You smash my bowls, you bring me new ones when I no longer need them, and now you want to go off on a hike and leave me and Solah alone, two old women who can barely cope without you to help us."

Arrom nodded. "That's exactly it," he said. "Also, I'll need a picnic lunch. For two."

"My, my," Alla said comfortably. "Which of the strangers is it? The tall one with the blonde hair who dresses like a man? Or the big one who never smiles?"

"Neither," Arrom said. He bent over and kissed her wrinkled cheek. "You can keep guessing, though."

"Charmer. My last guess is the one who eats all the time. The one interested in the words on the ruins."

"And…you can keep guessing."

"I'll pack food for three, if it's him."

"You do that."

"So it's him."

"Maybe I'm just hungry," Arrom said. He ducked under the tent's opening. "I'll be back soon," he tossed over his shoulder.

The walk wasn't long. He called greetings to his friends from school and to some of the people who were Alla's and Solah's friends, who often shared their fire. He realized he was smiling. He hadn't invited Jonas to his tent last night, in part because the soldiers shared tents—he wasn't sure Jonas could get away unseen, and it was clear that the soldiers were under orders to leave the nomads alone. That hadn't stopped him from spending much of the night imagining what he and Jonas could do together. He might not remember what it was like to be with someone, but that didn't mean he didn't have an imagination.

Jonas wasn't by the ruins he'd been studying yesterday. Arrom hesitated for a second, undecided, and walked to the outskirts of town, where the strangers had set up camp. They had erected several small tents made of tightly woven material that had been the talk of the children allowed to visit inside, and Jonas, along with his friends, was sitting on a split log they'd borrowed. It looked like they were eating breakfast.

"Arrom," Jonas said enthusiastically, waving.

"Hey, Arrom," the leader of the group—Arrom could never remember his name—said.

"Hello," Arrom said. Sam smiled at him and touched his arm in greeting, making Arrom smile in return. She so much wanted him to be Daniel, and she so believed in his compassion and love for others, qualities she had told him Daniel had. He hated to disappoint her.

"Do you want some oatmeal?" Jonas asked. "We have instant." He tilted his bowl so Arrom could see inside. It looked unappealing.

"No, thanks," Arrom said. He felt awkward. He addressed the group's leader. "I was planning on visiting a monument today, to see if I could remember any words. I thought Jonas might want to see it. Maybe he can read some of it." Maybe that would jog his memory again. He wanted to experience that again: the sure knowledge, pulled from nowhere.

The colonel said, "He'd love to. Right, Jonas?"

Jonas swallowed hastily. "Right."

"It's about an hour's hike, maybe more," Arrom said.

Jonas nodded. "When do you want to leave?"

"Whenever you like," Arrom said. "Now? I have to stop at my tent and get some food and water."

Sam cleared her throat. "Um, you should videotape the monument, Jonas," she said.

"Oh, good idea," Jonas said. "Excuse me—I'll get a pack together."

"Do you know what videotaping is, Arrom?" the colonel asked as Jonas ducked into a tent.

"Making a visual record," Arrom said. "One of your soldiers showed me. She was taping the ruins in the middle of the village."

"Oh," the colonel said, clearly disappointed that he hadn't caught Arrom remembering.

"Would you like to come along?" Arrom asked politely. "Any of you?"

"I think you've got too much going here, Colonel," Jonas yelled from the tent.

"Guess…not," the colonel said, throwing a glance over his shoulder to the tent. "Yeah, the rest of us are due to coordinate some action this side of the Gate, but I can spare Jonas—the survey of the ruins is almost done. Monuments, ruins, and ancient glyphs aren't really my thing, anyway." He raised his voice. "Jonas, check back every hour on the hour."

Jonas, hauling a small backpack behind him, emerged from the tent. "Yup," he said. "Arrom? You good to go?"

Arrom pointed. "This way," he said. "We can stop at my tent on the way out and get supplies."

"I've got my own water," Jonas said, shrugging the pack on. He dug a hat out of a pocket and shook it to uncrumple it. "I'll be back—when we will be back?"

"Before nightfall," Arrom said.

"Have a great time, kids," the colonel called after them. "Don't stay out too late. No driving too fast, and don't play too many video games."

Jonas put his hat on as they started into the village. "Cultural references," he said to Arrom's puzzled glance back. "I don't get half of them either. So tell me about this monument."

"It's quite a bit taller than me, and it's just sticking out of a field," Arrom said. "I don't know what it's for. Maybe it's a road marker. The glyphs seem similar to the ones in this city. There are two more monuments, neither of which I've visited yet. I've thought about mapping them. Maybe their placement is important."

"Has anyone studied the stone it's made out of?" Jonas asked, turning aside so he wouldn't hit a nomad.

Arrom nodded. "It's from a quarry a few miles from here. It's local."

"What about an estimate of time? How long ago was it quarried?"

"I don't know how to tell that," Arrom said. "Would the stoneworkers know how to figure it out?" The nomad stoneworkers tended to make small objects, not large ones like the monument, because everyone had to haul all his belongings around.

Jonas stepped close to Arrom as they paused to let someone pass—market day was always busy, as the hunting parties came back and everyone haggled for what they needed—and Arrom touched Jonas's waist. He slid his hand down, stopping just before he cupped the curve of Jonas's ass. Jonas turned his head and smiled at him, and Arrom felt a little shaky, because Jonas knew: Arrom had conspired to get Jonas alone, and Jonas clearly didn't mind at all, and in fact had discouraged any other member of his team from coming along. "They should," he said. "But maybe not, if it was just a really long time ago and there's nothing contemporaneous with it for them to use for comparison. Also, if there are tooling marks on the side from when the stone was quarried, that can be helpful."

"Really," Arrom said. He moved his hand a little lower, and Jonas stepped closer, brown eyes intent, focused wholly on Arrom. Arrom couldn't look away. It was just the two of them, suspended in this moment, and for a second Arrom couldn't breathe, because he wanted Jonas so badly, and Jonas wanted him back. Then he felt his heart accelerate as arousal flashed through him, and time started up again.

"Really," Jonas said.

***

Arrom found it surprisingly easy to talk to Jonas. They picked up water for Arrom as well as their lunch—Jonas seemed oblivious to the look that Alla gave him when she handed over the package, which included "a blanket to sit on while you eat"—and set off. Arrom wore his everyday bright blue tunic over his faded-blue shirt and trousers, which Solah had assembled for him because it matched his eyes, and he wrapped his striped scarf around his head to keep the sun off. Jonas, wearing the now-familiar greens of all the soldiers, wore a hat with a bill, so he let Arrom borrow his sunglasses, which helped cut the glare. Arrom set a slow pace, in deference to Jonas's gear. The day seemed less chill once they'd been walking for about ten minutes, as physical exertion warmed them up. He watched with interest as Jonas used the radio affixed to his vest to check in with the colonel, a quick, pointless conversation. The colonel's last words were, "Fill the car up with gas before you come home."

"He's pretending we're adolescent boys and he's our father," Jonas explained, which did not clarify matters much for Arrom.

Jonas checked in once more before they made it to the monument, and they took a few water breaks. Arrom was wildly curious about Earth and disappointed to learn that Jonas was not from there, although Jonas had visited many parts of it and told stories about the people, the food, and the landscape. Arrom plied Jonas with questions. He was interested to find that he knew many words Jonas used, like "airplane" and "car," even though there was nothing like that on Arrom's planet. Although Arrom could identify the word and define it in general terms, he didn't have any context for it, and he was unable to associate anything else, such as emotion or physical description, with the unfamiliar terms. The strange bifurcation of understanding frustrated him. Still, he could tell that his knowledge of words' meanings encouraged Jonas. Jonas wanted Arrom to remember, and Arrom was trying his best, but once again, when he reached back, nothing was there, a feeling that had grown all too familiar.

"That must be it."

Arrom looked where Jonas was pointing, glad of the sunglasses. "We're almost there. Come around this way—there's a path."

"It's not very well preserved," Jonas commented when they finally reached it, stopping a few feet away and eyeing it. A few sheep grazed placidly in the area. The nomads allowed them to roam free; Shamda had told Arrom that they rounded them up once a year and sheared them. Insects droned monotonously. There was no one for miles.

Arrom indicated the landscape. "It's on a hill," he said. "Weathering."

"Yeah, that makes sense." Jonas knelt, took off his backpack, and unzipped it. "I'll just tape a walkaround of the monument, and then we can eat lunch. Oh, thanks," he added as Arrom helped him untangle the video camera. Their hands brushed, and Arrom knew he didn't want to wait any more. He was sorry he hadn't invited Jonas to his tent last night, when he had been sure that Jonas was interested. "Let me just get a cartridge…"

"Jonas."

Jonas looked up, and Arrom kissed him. After a moment of surprise, Jonas's mouth softened, and Arrom felt a flush of raw pleasure with the touch of Jonas's tongue. He'd had enough of trying to figure out the past during the walk here. It was time to figure out the present. Arrom pulled Jonas close, and they leaned into each other, the backpack forgotten between them. Their tongues stroked, and Arrom deepened the kiss, devouring Jonas's mouth, and Jonas responded, until they were kissing frantically, hands on each other's faces. Arrom felt it to his toes when Jonas, fingers tangled in Arrom's hair, bit his upper lip. Jonas trailed his mouth down the side of Arrom's face, and Arrom, breathless, pressed his lips to Jonas's throat, but they always returned to tonguing, open-mouthed, desperate kisses that left Arrom weak-kneed and gasping.

"Arrom, stop," Jonas said when they came up for air. He took off Arrom's sunglasses. "You look so much like him. You are him."

Arrom dug his fingers into Jonas's hair. It felt almost crispy, not soft. "I don't want to stop." His voice came out low and throaty. He took in Jonas's huge pupils, his shallow breathing. "I don't think you want to stop, either." He wanted to let his body go and let it take him where it wanted, a kind of living in the moment he'd perfected during the two moons of his remembered life.

"I have things I need to tell Daniel Jackson," Jonas said. He didn't pull away when Arrom caressed the side of his face, feeling faint stubble.

"Tell me instead," Arrom suggested, dipping his head to taste the tender skin by Jonas's ear. Daniel Jackson wasn't around, whoever he was.

Jonas hesitated. "I need to tell him that it's my fault, and I'm sorry." He tilted his head to grant Arrom access to his neck, and Arrom closed his eyes at the explosion in his mouth, all salty skin and masculine scent. "And that I've always wanted him, like this. As a lover."

"As a lover," Arrom repeated against Jonas's sweaty skin. "Do you want me, or him?"

"I don't know," Jonas said. "I don't know who you are."

Arrom bit Jonas's neck gently, and Jonas made a noise of need that arrowed straight to Arrom's hard cock. "Neither do I," Arrom said. "It's all right. Whoever I am, I want you."

This time, Jonas's mouth found Arrom's, and Arrom let himself sink into its warm silk. And maybe he really was this Daniel Jackson, because his hands knew exactly what to do to undo the clasps and buttons to free Jonas from his greens. Arrom shook out the blanket Alla had packed for them to sit on when they ate. He spread it out right by the monument, in the sun, to keep off the chill, and Jonas helped Arrom out of his clothes before lying on his side. The curve of Jonas's ass, which Arrom hadn't dared touch in public, was as sweet as Arrom had imagined. Jonas's golden skin looked hairless, but Arrom felt a faint prickle of hair as he touched Jonas. Jonas's red-purple cock jutted out from a dense light brown mass of curls, his balls large and heavy. Jonas twined his legs with Arrom's, reaching for him eagerly.

"Arrom," Jonas gasped as Arrom bent his head, kissing and licking Jonas's body. "Daniel."

Arrom found that once he began tasting Jonas, he couldn't stop. His own cock throbbed more and more urgently as he desperately held onto Jonas's ass. He moved his mouth over Jonas's neck, collarbone, arms, chest, nipples. When Jonas moved, he could feel the soft skin skate over muscle, a slide that shivered through his mouth straight to his groin. Jonas's hands gripped his shoulders, moved to tug gently at his hair. The low, steady buzz of the insects receded: Arrom was only aware of the rush of his own heartbeat, the strength of his own cock, of Jonas panting under his mouth and hands. When Arrom slid his hand down Jonas's sweaty ass to press a fingertip inside, Jonas moaned and wrenched Arrom's head up. He felt Jonas flutter inside, the strong muscle almost expelling his finger, as Jonas frantically plundered his mouth, grinding his cock against Arrom's stomach, a reaction that made Arrom's balls squeeze in anticipation.

"No," Jonas groaned when Arrom pulled his finger out and rolled on top of him.

Jonas flung his arms out, as if to keep himself from falling. He looked up at Arrom, panting, as Arrom pushed himself to his knees and tugged his pack onto the blanket. The little pot of lubricant was cold and heavy. "I need to be inside you," Arrom said.

"Oh, god, hurry," Jonas said.

"Here," Arrom said, scooping some lubricant out with his thumb. He dabbed it onto Jonas's palms. "Touch me."

He settled himself against the monument, the stone rough and hot against his back. He ignored the curious glance of a sheep as Jonas, gloriously hard and panting, knelt between his outspread legs and began stroking Arrom's erection, spreading the heavy slickness of the lubricant. Arrom felt light-headed: the sun was high overhead, the air was thick and hot instead of chilly, and Jonas's breath cooled his skin. They were both breathing fast. Jonas's fist tightened, and then Arrom could only focus on the sweet sensation of his cock being stroked, on the immediacy of Jonas's body, on the exquisite anticipation.

He pulled Jonas close, indicating what he wanted, and after a little bit of fumbling, Arrom held his penis steady as Jonas straddled him, centered himself, and slid down. Arrom gasped at the sensation of his cock inside Jonas's tight, slick, hot body. Jonas leaned against the rock, bracing himself with both arms, legs tucked under, as he raised and lowered himself, undulating his hips, his body sleek and sweaty, his penis brushing his own stomach as he moved. Jonas's tight opening rubbed up and down Arrom's straining cock, the sinuous movement of his hips tugging at Arrom's dick. At the bottom of the movement, Jonas's ass pushed on his balls. Arrom looked up into Jonas's transcendent face. Jonas moved strongly and steadily as he rode Arrom, driving them toward orgasm, and they both made noise now, gasps and grunts in time to the pace Jonas set. Arrom closed his hand around Jonas's erection, stroking in time to their rhythm, and Jonas threw his head back and increased the pace, hips moving faster and faster, and then everything cascaded, and Arrom thrust up into the heat of Jonas's body and let Jonas take him, and he exploded, jetting hard into that sweet ass, and he heard Jonas cry out in release just as he felt warm spatters on his chest, and it wasn't going to end, this moment, this feeling, now was going to stretch out for eternity—

"Daniel," Jonas groaned.

***

Arrom opened his eyes. Jonas was slumped heavily atop him, heavy and hot. His weight felt marvelous, even though it pushed him uncomfortably into the rock of the monument. He put his hands on Jonas's hips. He felt strong and sated, and although his cock had softened, he could stay inside if Jonas didn't move around too much. Ever since he'd seen Jonas, he'd wanted this—to be inside, to touch, to have. He wanted to sit just like this, and then he wanted to thrust again, push into that golden body, and come again, fast, without waiting.

He lifted up his head to kiss Jonas. "You think I'm him," he said.

"I know you are." Jonas shifted, and Arrom felt Jonas squeeze around his semierect penis. "I've been thinking about this ever since you touched me at dinner last night. About having you."

"Because of him. Because of Daniel Jackson."

Jonas shook his head. "I don't know. Yes."

"I've been living in the present," Arrom said matter-of-factly. "There's no past for me, only my time with the nomads."

"Do you want to remember?"

"I don't know. I told Sam that I thought I did something wrong, and I might not be able to make it right. It might be better not to remember." He touched Jonas's chest. "Did I do something wrong by doing this? Is there—is there someone waiting for Daniel Jackson?"

Jonas shook his head. "Not like that—at least, not that I know of," he said. "I am a little worried—" He stopped.

"What?"

"That when you get your memory back, you won't want to be with me. Because of—well, because of what I did."

"Oh." Arrom considered. He liked that Jonas took it as given that they were somehow together now. Even if remembering altered his desire for Jonas, even if it would turn what they had just done into a big mistake, he wanted to remember, so much it almost hurt. Maybe he was ready to face it now, whatever his past was. It couldn't be all that bad, not if this man, who was no longer a stranger to him, wanted to be with him. "But you apologized. So that makes it all right."

Jonas smiled. "It does? Good. Whew. That was easy." He adjusted his weight so Arrom could breathe a little easier. "Arrom? You seem a little…distant."

Arrom touched the stickiness on his chest. "I feel distant," he said. "I don't really belong here, but I don't know whether I'll belong there. I could stay here, I suppose. I would come to belong."

"Come back with us," Jonas said. "You'll see your friends back on Earth. You'll come to remember."

Arrom leaned his head back against the rock. "You're not telling me everything," he said. "It's partly Daniel Jackson, and it's partly something else, isn't it? Something important?"

"No, we're not telling you everything," Jonas admitted.

"I figured as much," Arrom said. "I guess I'll have to come back with you, find out what's so important." He also had no intention of letting Jonas out of his sight.

"Really?" Jonas said, surprised. He smiled back. "That would be—I would—that would be great. You know, for the team."

"For the team?" Arrom teased. He liked seeing that smile.

"Well—for me. Especially for me."

"Can we do this, be together, on the other side of your Stargate?" Arrom asked. "Would that be all right with you?"

"It would be more than all right with me. I'm sure we can find a way. We'd have to be discreet."

"I can be discreet," Arrom said, just as Jonas's stomach growled. He put a hand on Jonas's stomach, and it rumbled again. Arrom laughed. "Are you hungry? Should we eat lunch?"

Jonas nuzzled the side of Arrom's face. "I'm always hungry," he said. "Let's eat lunch when we're done here."

"That could be all afternoon," Arrom said. He wasn't hungry himself. Apparently he'd just had what he needed.

Jonas kissed him again. "I can wait," he said.