TITLE: To paint a man with words

PAIRING: Sam/Daniel

NOTES: writers_choice: books

Sam POV, post-Meridian. Books = Daniel, that’s the way my mind works. My first Geek in Glasses – this topic is his.

She’s not entirely sure why she’s here. Sure, the Colonel told her that she should ‘take the house’, but she’s not in the mood to listen to him right now. It wasn’t an order, she could easily walk away.

Taking a deep breath, she opens the door before she can change her mind, a shrivelled Mars bar wrapper dangling from her key. She remembers that day – she’d taken Cassie when Janet had a nightmare double-shift, and was at a loss, her house less than child-friendly. It had been too long since she was this young, a world and a taxi-ride ago, and she had called Daniel.

Stupid, really. It should have been Jack, he knew about these things, but it was Daniel, because she’d always known the child in him, the look of boyish wonder on his face at every new thing. He’d chuckled at her panic, and driven over with a plan. His production of chocolate bars had raised an eyebrow, but the chocolate devoured, keyrings came out of the oven like magic, or incomprehensible alien technology.

She idly plays with the tag as she walks, the now-silent apartment disturbing her beyond reason. It’s different this time, not just because he’s gone, but because he’s not coming back. The house resounds with his soul, but in time, that will fade, and it will be but four walls and furniture.

It’s waning already; she can feel it ebb away. His scent is faint, and as she straightens a sculpture, she sees dust, and wonders if that too is carrying him away. Absurd that she is suddenly so sentimental about a set of rooms, some trinkets gathered by one man. Absurd.

Realising she’s been pacing, she stops suddenly, and her hands settle on the bookcase. She recognises journal volumes from the last time she performed this ritual, and pulls one from its place, flipping it open without thought.

He writes of dreams and far-off worlds, of discoveries both fresh and yet-to-be. He shares knowledge of cultures ancient and of the people he sees now, and she sees her name on every page: ‘Sam says’, ‘Sam thinks’, ‘Sam’s lying.’

The last is commonest on the last few pages, and she closes her eyes in shame, for she knows it’s true. She has lied, she has hidden, and she was foolish to believe her anthropologist would not notice such things. He knew she was keeping secrets, and he let her.

She wishes he hadn’t.

So badly did she want to say, to tell, but all she did was write, word after word of feeling with no substance, no true expression. He’s never seen her journals, never read her words. Idiot, Sam.

The journal shuts with a thud, and she is moving again, restless without purpose. She doesn’t know why she chose to read, why she thought his words could capture him, could cage him. Bring him back to her.

No, the last trace of him is fading, and it’s not in the words. It’s in the keyring and the sculpture and the dust, and perhaps a little in her. She’s a fool to think she would find him in words.

She’s a fool to believe it mattered.

She’s a fool for loving him.

A fool for not telling, just keeping to words.