Me and my Shadow

by Jb

The blue fabric felt soft against his skin. He fingered the material, rubbing it together between forefinger and thumb. Considering its sturdiness, it was incredibly lightweight, and he wondered if it would stay this way when it got wet. Or, would it hold in the dampness and grow all soddenly heavy, pulling him down with its weight just like his real clothing did? It was an important consideration. His clothes got soaked right the way through, all too frequently, in the boiler rooms; the air was unremittingly humid with hot steam and the sweat from too many hard-working bodies trapped in entirely too confining places.

She'd referred to them as... what? Scrubs. That was almost funny. To him, a scrub was one of the unwieldy wire brushes he used to clean out the insides of the empty tanks, to get them ready for re-use. Dangerous things, those scrubs. He remembered how he'd once scraped all the skin right off his...

"Okay, it's your turn, Daniel." A pile of towels landed with a muffled thump beside him on the bed. He looked up to see a flash of white teeth and then the tail end of the doctor, her head still turned toward him as she left as quickly as she'd come. She disappeared from view through the half-closed curtain around his bed. A moment later he heard her voice again, this time from across the room somewhere, and heard Brenna's muted reply. Something about discomfort. He hoped Brenna was okay.

The towels were white. A clean, stark white. He couldn't recall ever having seen anything quite so white as these towels and the smock-thing worn by the doctor. Even the outfit worn by that evil dictator guy he'd faked out – Calder; that was the name – wasn't white like this. A spark of satisfaction flared as he recalled the move he'd made to disarm Calder. He'd done all right, reacting quickly to take away the advantage. He'd learned how to do that in the mines. The mines were vicious. Being smaller than most of the men there, he'd had to be able to react quickly in... in –  No. He was never in the mines. That wasn't him. It was... it was... who was it? Who was he?

If he wasn't Carlin, then who was he? Up in Brenna's enclave, she had called him something else... the same thing Jona's Homer had called him when they arrived here through the, the... something to do with a star? The big blue puddle. No, the cha... chappa'ai; that was it! The word echoed in his head, bounced back and forth almost maniacally, and the feeling of deja vu which accompanied it was close to overwhelming. He rolled the word around in his mouth, quietly whispering it. "Chap-pa-ai. Chappa'ai." He didn't know where it had come from, a puzzle which normally would have been worrisome, but not so for this now. It sounded good, like a familiar friend. It sounded right.

As Carlin, he'd always had a strange feeling things were out of focus, way off-kilter. He'd known who he was and where he was, but somehow it had felt all wrong. Like he didn't belong. The people he lived and worked with, everyday tasks, the most unremarkable of objects seemed at the same time just as completely foreign as they did ordinary. As if he was living a surreal, never-ending dream. When Brenna and Teal'c had told him he wasn't actually Carlin, but someone else, it was a truth he instinctively and wholeheartedly embraced. But, he still wasn't sure who he was supposed to be.

Jona knew who he was. Jona had been a hard man to convince, his dislike of him – uh, Carlin – not helping much to pave the way to understanding. However, once Jona clued in that there was something very wrong, he'd been the first – after Teal'c – to actually get past the overlay memories Brenna explained were blocking access to their true selves. Apparently, for Jona a big chunk of it had all come flooding back without a hitch. He'd instantly corrected Carlin on his proper name, Jack, not five minutes after they'd been told the truth by Brenna.

Jack had clapped him on the shoulder as they'd stepped onto the metal ramp, no doubt sensing the fear in him which had risen at the sight of what amounted to a heavily defended concrete bunker. Out of the pan and into the fire, was the thought which had crossed his mind. A strange expression, come out of who knew what sealed off corner of his mind, but basically apt given the apparent circumstances. They'd reassured him, and Thera too. Teal'c, Brenna, and Jo... Jack, had told them they actually belonged here, in this new place full of things more unfamiliar than even the most disorienting of those in the boiler rooms and the barracks. Had promised that his memory of these things and these people, of this place, would slowly return to him. He sure hoped so, because he was mortally afraid of being a no-one stuck in a state of no-where if they didn't.

They called him 'Jackson'. The doctor had just called him Daniel. He rolled that one around in his mouth, but the strong sense of comfort he'd felt a moment ago with 'Chappa'ai', the Stargate, simply wasn't there. Stargate; yes, that was it. Good. A whole lot better than a blue puddle. Daniel Jackson. In his mind, he walked up to Jona and stuck out his hand – why was he sticking out his hand? – and said, 'Hello Jack. I'm Daniel Jackson.' And Jona grabbed his hand, and did a weird thing with it. He clasped it in his own, and moved it up and down. And even as strange as it was... it felt great. It felt right.

Oh. A greeting. It's a greeting common to many cultures, frequently assumed in the western hemisphere to symbolise peace in that a right-handed grip between two men demonstrated weapons were not being wielded against one another. Interestingly enough, though, the forearm clasp was depicted in cave art as much as several thousand years ago, and written evidence of the existence of a more similar version to the contemporary handshake dates back to the mid-500s AD, in Palestine...

Whoa! Where did all that come from? Interesting. This guy, this Daniel, must be really smart. Wait... Brenna and Hom – no, his name was General Hammond and he was in charge of this whole place – both had called him Doctor Jackson. He was a doctor. What? Like Dr. Fraiser of the warm hazel eyes and cold probing hands? He looked down at his hands where they rested in his lap. A doctor. Did he use these hands to help people, to fix ailing bodies? No, that didn't feel right at all. There were other kinds of doctors: professorships. He must be one of –

There were? Hmph. Really. He recalled what he'd told Jona and Thera in boiler room three, that he couldn't help but feel he was meant to be doing something much larger, more important, than maintaining boilers in the bowels of an ice planet. It had been true then, and was all the more true now. There was so much missing, and he needed to get it back. No way could he be Carlin anymore, and there was a sense of urgency building in him, becoming desperately larger by the moment. He had to remember who he was and what he'd left behind during his sojourn as Carlin. There was something big looming... something meaningful waiting for him. A life. His real life. He had to find it.

The curtains moved and a nurse bustled in, her hands full of clean linens. White sheets, and a pale yellow blanket. She frowned at him. "Dr. Jackson, you're still here? Colonel O'Neill was done awhile ago. The shower is free now." She stood there, looking from him down to the towels, then to the mussed linen on the bed, and back to him. She was young and refreshingly healthy-looking, and his eyes involuntarily strayed over her, noting the fresh, pale blue whatever it was called she was wearing. He lingered a few seconds where it left her hips, falling to cling to her thighs, then moved on to appreciate how clean and smooth the skin on her arms and hands was. She coloured under his gaze, and looked away. Suddenly, inexplicably, he felt embarrassed, and glanced away himself. Directing his eyes down, he saw his own hands and forearms, and grimaced at the difference between her and him. At the grime, dried sweat, and cracked, abraded skin. At the dirty marks his arms left on the clean scrubs covering his legs. And beyond that, at the bed he sat on. Fine granules of dirt and charcoal, greasy-looking smudges, and matted dark brown bits of Carlin's former, filthy clothing littered the bed around where he sat.

God. The people here were so... so clean. How had Janet and the medic been able to bear touching him during his physical exam? Another flush of familiarity, of comfortable satisfaction, washed over him as her first name flitted across his memory and found a home in his consciousness. Yes! Oh God, so it was true, he must have a life here! This place, it must be where he'd once belonged. Before, when he knew who he was His heart hammered in his chest, and he suddenly felt short of breath. What if it never all came back? Would he still be allowed to stay here? Would he ever belong here again, if he never did become the same Dr. Daniel Jackson they'd told him he was.. was supposed to be?

"Dr. Jackson? Are you all right?" He looked up to see the nurse moving to put the linen down, her eyes fixed on him as she did so, an assessing and concerned expression on her face. She allowed the sheets and blanket to hit the dirty bed with a thump, unmindful that they'd become soiled, and reached out to place her fingers on his wrist. He tried to pull away, but stilled the movement when she all but growled at him. She waited what seemed an interminable long time, shifting her gaze between her watch, his chest, and his face, before she let go of his wrist and relaxed. "Okay. That's a lot better. Have you had an episode like this before?"

Hell, he didn't even know what it was she was talking about. Surely not that little bit of heavy breathing? Kegan'll laugh herself silly over this. He panted worse than that every time they –  Never mind. He wasn't with Kegan any more. He settled for a shrug and what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The nurse smiled back. "Okay. But maybe you ought to forego that shower for..."

A shower. He knew what that was. He wasn't sure just how he knew, but he did. And just as clearly, he knew he suddenly wanted – needed – to have one. Mumbling something indistinct about getting out of her way, he snatched up the towels and practically bolted off the bed, not giving her the chance to finish the sentence. He didn't side-step in the opposite direction to her startled movement, and they found themselves chest to chest for a second until he figured out she was likely to go left next. He ducked right, and escaped. Through the curtain, turn left down the aisle between the row of beds and the some-sort-of-equipment lined up against the opposite wall, and then... then... damn.

Where the hell was the shower? He found himself stalled in centre of the aisle, halfway to nowhere. Thera was sprawled across the covers of the nearest bed, wearing the same type of blue scrubs he was. She was asleep. Her hair looked slightly damp, and her skin was every bit as clean as the nurse's and Dr. Fraiser's. He stared at the soles of her bare feet, stunned by the immaculately unblemished pink skin. Had he ever seen feet look like that? He'd seen his own feet, and those of the men and women whose bunks were closest to his and who shared his wash barrel, and Kegan's, hell, he'd even tasted –  None of the feet he could remember seeing looked like these, even after having been dry-scrubbed. It was taboo to use the shared wash water for feet and... certain other things...

"Pick up a new fetish, Daniel?"

The mild voice from behind startled him, and he had to fumble to keep hold of the towels as he whirled around. It wasn't Jona. This man had a twinkle in his eye and a good-natured expression which would have been completely out of place on Jona's face. This was Jack. With a start, he realised Jona was gone. Gone. Just... gone. Is that what would happen to him if he didn't find his way back to being Daniel Jackson? He wasn't Carlin, had never been Carlin, and now, oh God, what now? He couldn't even find a shower stall!

"Hey... You all right?" Jack's hand steadied him even as the unexpected, deep concern in Jack's eyes drove him further toward loss of control. He didn't know this man!  He hadn't known Jona very well, but at least he'd known what to expect from the son-of-a-bitch. The grip on his upper arm tightened at the same time Jack's lips thinned and tightened. "Hang on, Daniel. It'll be okay. I'll help you back, and get Dr. Fraiser."

"N-No." Oh, that was good. Real encouraging. Sounded more like what would come out of a pinhole leak in the auxiliary steam line, than a person. He cleared his throat, took a deep breath in through his nose, and tried again. "No, no. I was just, just a bit surprised. I didn't hear you coming. I'm okay."

"Sure you are." Narrowed eyes joined the thin lips, and for a second he thought maybe Jack and the nurse with the thighs that went from here to way up there had shared class notes. How to direct a critically assessing gaze certain to intimidate even the most befuddled of subjects. Every Tuesday and Thursday, from one p.m. to three p.m., building G, room 101. No, that was the graduate level Linguistics lecture series he'd given on syntax, concentrating upon dependency, licensing and the nature of grammatical relations, during his final year of teaching at Columbia –  Whoa!

"I'm a linguist!" He blurted it out so loudly his own voice set his ears ringing. His heart was in his throat, his pulse pounding so strongly in his head that he was sure he'd see brains on the walls at any second. He knew what kind of doctor he was! He was a lingui... Wait. What the hell was a linguist? He felt his face fall, then flush with heat. God. Moron. Everyone was staring at him, and he'd woken Thera. Carter. Major. Sam. Whatever. Her, over there. She sat up and grinned widely at him, which only made him feel even more the idiot.

"Yes, you sure are. And eloquent as ever, too." The twinkle was back in Jack's eyes. It was actually quite disarming. "You're also an archaeologist, which means you dig up centuries old things and drool all over them."

An archaeologist. A memory, a stern female voice, sounded in his head. Dr. Daniel Jackson. Linguist, Ancient Egyptian Historian.  Katherine. Oh, oh, he knew the owner of that voice. That was Katherine. He welcomed the memory of her, trying to shove aside the knowledge he had forgotten her, that if he'd not got off that ball of ice he may well have lived out the rest of his life never realising he'd ever known her. Big question was, though, how did he know her? Wait. The Stargate. She'd been the one to introduce him to the Stargate. Yes. And Jack and Sam had followed, and then Teal'c, too. Yes!

Sam's voice brought him back. "Are you starting to remember more things, Carlin?"

He turned to her, trying to keep the shakiness out of his voice. God, it really was true. "It's Daniel. I'm Daniel Jackson, and you're Samantha Carter..." He pointed to Jack. "This is Jack O'Neill. He's a colonel, and you're a major." He heard the pride in his voice, and felt a bit like a little child showing a parent he'd learned five new words. A bit juvenile, but not so much it mattered. Because he knew for sure now who he had been, and he knew there was in fact a chance he'd be him again. It was still really spotty, pretty hit-and-miss, but he already had more hope than he'd had just fifteen minutes ago, and that was something.

"Sounds good, Daniel. Sounds real good." Jack stuck out his hand. "Hello. I'm Colonel Jack O'Neill. United States Air Force. And you are...?"

Daniel almost laughed out loud at his own childish pleasure over the fact he knew just what to do. He accepted the hand, and shook it. "Hi. Daniel. Daniel Jackson. Linguist, Ancient Egyptian Historian." He looked at their hands clasped together, and the filthiness of his own skin compared to Jack's hit him hard. He let go, and scanned the room anxiously as he admitted, "And I'm also... lost."

Sympathetic noises came from the direction of the bed. Sam waved a hand through the air, a rueful expression on her face. "Hey, don't worry about that. Not only could I not find the shower, I didn't know how to work it when I got there."

"Come on. I'll show you the way. And even how to use the thing." Jack grabbed Daniel's elbow and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "More than happy to help out, because damn it, Daniel, you really don't smell so great, y'know?"

Ah, no. Daniel didn't know. But that was okay because he remembered how to shower, and knew what it was for. He remembered cascading warm water – limitless amounts of clean water he didn't have to share with five other dirty, sweaty people – and bottles of thick liquid which foamed up and smelled of fresh herbs and lemon. No matter if his body odour wasn't the same as it ought to be here in this place; soon he'd smell entirely different. He'd wash the scent of Carlin from his body, and set out in earnest to locate Daniel in his mind.

Limitless amounts of cascading, warm, clean water. Thick liquid which foamed up and smelled of... vanilla and honey. Okay, so no fresh herbs. Can't have everything. Daniel upended the bottle and allowed another large handful of the vanilla-scented glop to, well, glop onto his hand. Placing the bottle back on the small shelf to his left, he brought the liquid soap up to his face and inhaled its scent. This was good. Much better.

He stepped back out of the stream of water, and using his other hand to catch any escaped, uh, glops, brought his hand to his chest and spread the soap thickly over himself. He did it slowly, not wanting it to lather up just yet. The feel of his hands sliding so easily through it against his own skin, no longer sticking and scraping through layers of sweat and grime, was absolutely heavenly. But it was getting spread too thinly now, and he'd better lather it up while it was still possible.

Nipples peaked to attention as his hands quickly rubbed across his entire chest from one side to the other. The sensation stirred some all too recent memories, and something else as well which he absently wondered if he ought to attend to or not. Nah. Not. It wasn't worth the effort right now. He wondered what Kegan would have decided if she were here, and what she would have thought of all this water, free for the taking. Unlimited feet and butt washing allowed. A pang of guilt hit him as he realised he really didn't miss her company. She had been part of Carlin's life, and though out of a sense of fairness he'd accept her in Daniel's with no hesitation – unless, of course, Daniel had any objections; he really didn't know the guy well enough yet to know if he would or not – she really didn't belong here. He'd known that instinctively even before he'd actually made the choice between her and Thera and Jona.

His fingers trailed over his right nipple and across his chest. They encountered a roughened patch of skin just to the left of his sternum. Right. The scrub. He'd caught himself with it as he'd clumsily been learning to use it. The raspy teeth had torn a great rip in both his clothing and his chest. It had hurt like hell and bled alarmingly, but for some reason Brenna wouldn't let him go up to the sick room to have it bandaged. He had to stumble to his bunk to get his jacket to use to stem the flow. It had been a couple of days before she gave him another one to wear.

He felt the mostly healed abrasion with the tips of his fingers. That was a real memory, not imprinted. He could see it, touch and feel it. It was something he could count on as being true, a fact undeniably belonging to Carlin, proof of his existence... well, at least his existence in name and circumstance. It had happened... oh, wow. It had happened before Tor had first arrived. Before the first time Teal'c had joined them in the boiler rooms. Daniel suddenly realised why he hadn't been allowed medical attention for the injury. Teal'c had been up there, and she'd needed to keep them apart during that time.

That an early opportunity for the truth to have come out had been denied made him momentarily angry with Brenna. She'd come to her senses a bit late, hadn't she? Daniel resumed washing, briskly rubbing... far harder than that which was necessary to encourage the soap to lather into a sudsy blanket over his chest.  Brenna. An honour to serve. Yeah, right. Who he was... who he was had been stolen from him! His agitation didn't last long. It wasn't her fault. Was it? Carlin emphatically said yes, it was, it was unforgivable... but could that be Daniel saying no? Saying Brenna was as much a victim as everyone else, irrespective of role and rank. Still kept in what was essentially slavery to Calder's warped sense of right and wrong. Chiding the remnants of Carlin, telling him he was better than that.

Daniel smiled. He was starting to believe he was going to turn out to be an okay kind of guy. A royal pain in Jack's butt, but... Oh. Another insight. He smiled wider, and turned his attention back to washing the last vestiges of Carlin away. The soap had lathered up well, and he lazily spread it around, going in no particular predetermined direction. Over his shoulders. Along his upper arms. Side to side along the base of his neck then around to the back, where he could feel it hesitate at the edge of his hairline for a moment before it slid off to run down his spine. He upended the bottle one more time. Glutton. Lathered it over and down across his belly, where some of it escaped him to trail down over his pelvis and groin in irregular clumps of thick-walled, slippery bubbles.

Hands moved down to catch the errant soap and massage it in. There was a vaguely crescent-shaped dark patch of skin down there, really high up on the inside of his left thigh. A well-healed scar? He rubbed his fingers across it, but other than a line of tiny bumps along one edge, he felt nothing but smooth skin hiding under a light covering of fine, pale brown hairs. So, it was old. Really, really old. Not Carlin's, then. So, Daniel, how'd you do that? It was a sizeable scar; had likely hurt just as much if not more than the adventure with the scrub. He concentrated on it, kept his hand there, pressing against his thigh just a few inches down from his scrotum, but not even that insistent pressure helped to bring back any memory of how the blemish had got there. Ah well. He supposed there were other scars. Maybe he ought to check himself out and see if any of...

The deafening chatter of the weapons he held. A sudden bright light and flash of pain so shocking he didn't even realise he was falling until he hit the wall behind him. Then the floor. No! You have to get up! Get up, damn it, get up and stop him... he's going to get by you... Get The Gun Up! Firing. Did it. God, the pain. Oh. God! Blood, a great ragged hole in his chest and shoulder, and pain so bad it wasn't even worth wanting to live any more...

Daniel struggled to breathe, sudden sounds and images driving him to his knees in the corner of the shower stall. Panic welled up. He groped wildly for the wall with one hand, the other clutched to the left side of his chest. Devastating pain. An automatic weapon laying in his lap, the heat of the barrel burning into his groin only vaguely felt. And that.. that... He killed them! God! He was capable of... They were dead, and oh God, oh please God please help... so was he.

Jack! No, no... just go. Dying. Pain, more than he could bear. His back against the wall, cold floor beneath him. It was wet. Sitting in his own blood. His whole chest more gone than not. Go, Jack. Just go. Bleeding. It hurts! A hand on his face; a silent goodbye. Leaving. Jack was leaving.  Wet.  The floor under him, it was...

Wetness. All over him. Running down his face, his shoulders, his chest. He was sitting in it. Blood. His blood.

Daniel screamed.

"Better?"

Daniel nodded, even though it wasn't true. He still felt like screaming. The hands rubbing his arms and shoulders stopped, and he felt one of them move to his face. Cupping the side of his face. No! He jerked away, and bashed the back of his head against the wall of the shower stall.

"Jesus, Daniel. Come on, let's get you out of here before you kill yourself." Immediately after the words left his mouth, Jack winced. He gave Daniel a pained look, silently mouthing, 'sorry'.

Still huddled in the corner of the rapidly cooling stall, Daniel shook his head. It was okay. Words couldn't hurt him... at least not as much as his memories apparently could. "God," he muttered. "I don't know if I even want to be Daniel Jackson."

The pained look on Jack's face intensified, then morphed into a stony mask. "You prefer Carlin? We're all rediscovering some difficult things about ourselves, Daniel. My own shower wasn't exactly a day at the beach." Jack stared hard at him for a moment, then moved his hand back up to the side of Daniel's face. Daniel steeled himself. Didn't move away. The mask relaxed. "This is something we once shared years ago, and it's something we shared again today. Because it's one of the events I re-lived today, too. Whatever's to come, Daniel, just remember we lived through it all once already, and came out the other side. This time may not be a picnic, but it won't be as bad as the real thing. Everything will be all right."

Shit. As much as Daniel didn't want to face it, he knew Jack was right in basically telling him he had no choice so he may as well make the best of it. There was more bad stuff ahead, of that he was certain. This had just been an overture, a tasty appetiser. He didn't know how he knew that, but he did. But he also knew something else... there was good stuff ahead, too. Of course, sitting stark naked in the corner of a shower stall and screaming your lungs out didn't fit in that last category, and he wasn't into any more of the other... so...

Daniel stood up, Jack moving out of his way, backing out of the shower stall and scowling at his wet clothing. He stood aside to let Daniel out. Suddenly seeming uncomfortable, Jack was looking anywhere but right at him. He waved his hand toward the exterior door of the infirmary washroom. "Okay, so... I can go now, right? Give you some, ah, overdue privacy."

Ah. Yes. Daniel glanced down at himself. Totally nude. Fully exposed. Edging on more toward Daniel now than Carlin, so... he was pretty much totally mortified as well, now that he was getting over the screaming-meemie attack. He snatched a towel from the rack by the shower door, and started to drape it around his waist. Jack nodded his approval and stayed put, apparently deciding the towel was an acceptable temporary substitute for proper attire.

A sudden thought hit Daniel just as he was arranging the towel to be sure it covered all the right bits. He rotated his left leg outward, pulled the towel aside, and bent over to examine the scar to the inside of his thigh. Maybe Jack could jog his memory as to what this was from? He reached over and felt the area again.

There was a snort from the direction of the doorway. Jack raised his eyebrows as Daniel looked up at him and opened his mouth to ask the question. Raising his index finger, Jack made an unfamiliar rapid "ach-ach-ach" sound which Daniel found to be surprisingly, reassuringly, welcome. He instantly understood the connotation, was well aware Jack didn't want to hear it, but still, it was just a question...

He didn't get it out. At the same time as he turned the knob and swung the door open with his other hand, Jack spoke first. "Whatever it is, Daniel, I don't want to hear it." Heading out, he dropped the raised finger to point directly at Daniel's partially exposed genitals. "I'll just leave you and Carlin alone now, shall I?"

The door closed with a not-so-soft click. Daniel straightened up in the ensuing silence, his hand moving from his leg up to the roughened patch of healing skin on his chest. Geez. That wasn't a very nice thing to imply about Carlin. Sure, he was a little rough around the edges, tending to put on a bit of a belligerently forceful show, but he wasn't – hadn't been – such a bad guy. Okay, yes, he'd taken to Kegan like a duck to water until he realised he didn't belong there. He'd accepted all she had to offer, while not sparing a thought as to whether or not anything other than his presence might be expected in return. Daniel winced, recalling how even despite knowing it was wrong and feeling guilty over it, Carlin still had been so willing to drop Kegan like a hot rock.

All right, so he could understand why Jack might think Carlin had been a bit of a prick. But Carlin had also been a survivior in the better sense of the word, though. Able to adapt quickly. Innately protective. Intelligent, intuitive, persistent. Maybe it wasn't necessary or desirable to completely lose Carlin in order to recover Daniel. Or even possible, anyway. As long as he could still feel and remember this patch of skin, Carlin would be with him. Just like the imprint of that horrible day on Apophis's ship was still with him. He couldn't wash either away, and maybe he shouldn't even try.

There was some bad stuff looming, and it scared him, but Carlin had fought long and hard to get Daniel to this point. Daniel owed it to him to forge on ahead, and maybe Carlin could help him get through it.

It wouldn't be so bad. Would it?

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