Title: skin-diving
Author: nostalgia
Rating Advice/Warnings: Swearing and non-graphic sex.
Disclaimer: Property is theft.
Summary: Not waving, just drowning.
Notes: Lyssie's beta brings all the boys to the yard.
The first thing that occurs to her is that she's kissing Daniel, and that's just weird.

The second thing is that, hey, why can she see all this? Because her eyes are shut and this is totally the wrong angle anyway and Jack O'Neill is yelling at her but she can't really hear him and she's shorter than she thinks she is and, oh, Daniel's breathing for her.

And this is all too weird and not in any way scientific and...

...and there's this pain in her lungs and she's cold and she has to turn her head because there's the taste of saltwater in her mouth and someone's turning her on her side and she's just puking out ocean and how the fuck did this happen anyway?

The sounds are samsamsam and jesuscarter and those are supposed to mean something and she's not quite sure what it is and moans of pain and those are her own and she wonders why she's drowning in a desert anyway.

And then thinking is effort, so she does not think.

She hits a camp bed and her eyes open and the light doesn't hurt so much. It's nice and when did nice become a synonym for not actively painful?

Now the words are fixthefuckinggatedaniel and she wonders why he gets to sound so tired when she's the one who almost - shit - died. And then her CO is unbuttoning her shirt and it's not sexual at all because there's wet sand everywhere and godcarterifyoueverdothattousagaini'llkillyoumyself.

She knows that there could still be water in her lungs and she could still drown in the desert, which would probably be ironic and she struggles with definitions of that as wet fabric peels away from her in layers.

Between medicine and anthropology they abandoned modesty a long time ago. It's nothing he hasn't already seen.

There are no secrets.

If his fingers brush a little too close to her skin, that's allowed. He's just checking bones and bruises. Her skin prickles because it is cold, and she leans forward because she is cold and he is warm.

It's all OK because she can write this off as post-traumatic, so the weight and the heat and the cartercartercarter are fine, are survival instinct. They are amoebas in reverse, merging to multiply.

He tastes of sea-salt, bitter on her tongue. She calls him nothing, because none of the names she can say are the right shape when they are moving like this.

She drowns again, under a starched blanket, not alone this time.

Time goes crazy or she falls asleep, because she blinks and it's darker outside and she's alone with another blanket and a thermos propped against the pillow. There's a pile of clothes at the foot of the bed that don't look anything like her size and the note's in Danielscrawl because he's gotten used to being the one who gets drowned or burned or eaten by rats. They really shouldn't have left her alone. ("So it goes.")

Outside, she is grateful for the years of awkwardness and avoidance. This part is normal for them. He looks right through her and says he's glad she didn't die. Sam looks back at nothing and nods. This is what she does, this is back to normal.

As she steps into the event horizon he tells her trynottodothatagaincarter. Two hundred light-years later and she's still not sure what he means.