Day Eight of Advent

Door Eight is opened by Michaella who asked for Daniel/Cameron.

Not in Kansas

The sheen of sweat across Cameron’s shoulders makes Daniel want to touch, to taste. Stupid, really. It’s sweat. It’ll leave his fingers damp and his tongue tasting salt. He knows this and he still wants to do it.

Curiosity is the besetting sin of an archeologist. Not that he thinks of himself in those terms these days. Too many Goa’uld kills under his belt, too many worlds saved, deaths died, resurrections managed. He’s not sure what he is, but archeologist is the least of it.

One certainty is that he’s Cameron’s lover. And isn’t that surprising? So easy to go there, so satisfying to discover how all that boyish enthusiasm translates in bed to a focused determination on getting Daniel to cry out, whimper (once) and beg (same time as the whimpering, never to be repeated while there’s breath in his body. If Jack found out, the teasing would be unbearable.)

He settles for stroking Cameron’s ass, tracing the curve with an appreciation for all that taut muscle and the welcoming space his cock fits into so snugly. Cameron’s asshole is conquered territory. Daniel’s put his fingers, tongue, and cock into it, not in that order, and if his curiosity’s long since appeased, his appetite isn’t.

Cameron murmurs, sleepy, sated, and rolls over. “What?”

“It’s Christmas Eve. If you were at home, what would you be doing now?”

“Not lying in bed naked with a guy, that’s for sure.” Cameron yawns, not troubling to cover his mouth. His breath smells of coffee and cum. “Kansas at Christmas… It’s quiet, you know? Lots of hot cocoa and cookies, meals that leave your stomach aching it’s so full, people singing carols like they’re on a damn commercial. Homey. Yeah. It’s homey."

It’s as alien as a distant planet (and he knows his distant planets.) “Do you wish you were there?”

Cameron wrinkles his nose thoughtfully. “Kinda. Glad I’m not if you’re staying the night.”

“I’m not.” Daniel doesn’t hide his regret, but he doesn’t apologize or make excuses. Cameron knows why he can’t, why they can never have more than an hour or two together. Unless a blizzard arrives, trapping him, he’s got to leave at a reasonable time after spending an innocent evening ostensibly watching movies with a team mate.

Sometimes he wants to take the regs and shove them into the nearest black hole. But they’re not an object to be destroyed; more a mass of prejudices and caution. Because, leaving their gender aside, this is still forbidden what he’s doing, and for good reason. He doesn’t care, though. He’s arrogant enough to trust himself to keep his feelings for Cameron separate from their interaction in the field.

Daniel Jackson. The Special One. That’s him. He spares a moment to laugh silently at himself, then tunes back into what Cameron’s saying and lets him spin a fantasy land of snow and silent woods, blazing fires and family. How much of it is true, he’s not sure. That picture-perfect scene in reality probably contains mushy vegetables, squabbles, hurt feelings, buried resentments flashing to life, rain instead of snow, and indigestion.

But he lets himself listen to the longing in Cameron’s voice and translate it to the loneliness Cameron keeps hidden.

Maybe he’ll stay a little longer, after all.