Kylie Lee | Slash fan fiction

Daniel's kitchen. Cupboards, refrigerator, stove, linoleum, sink, window. One of the bulbs in the light fixture has burned out. The refrigerator makes a little rattle when it comes on. The coffee maker has a timer. In the sink are a few dirty dishes.

This is Americana.

Pan left. Close in on the refrigerator. And freeze.

***

"So you see a refrigerator."

"Yeah."

"Why do you think about food so much?"

"I don't know. I'm hungry a lot, I guess."

"So I don't think I need to be Freud to figure this one out."

"Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar?"

"And sometimes a refrigerator is just a refrigerator."

"So it's a food fetish. Is that what you're implying?"

"'Fetish' is not the right word in this context."

"Even when I want to pour maple syrup over your toes and lick it off?"

"You're kidding about the toes, right?"

"But not about the maple syrup."

"Well, obviously not."

"Wait a minute. Food fetish, or foot fetish?"

"What?"

"What?"

***

Damn, it's hot. A hot summer night. And there it is, Daniel's refrigerator. Freezer on top. No ice maker. No light in the top, either. Open the bottom too. The insufficient light from the overhead fixture combines with the insufficient light from the refrigerator, to reveal—empty ice cube trays.

Dig through. Ice cream bites. Ice cream sandwiches. Those blue freezer pack things for coolers. A box of pierogies. (What are pierogies?) Frozen dinners. Bags of frozen vegetables. Select one.

Will this do?

Yes.

Rip it open carefully. Peas, small, hard, and round. They taste sweet and cold. Tilt the head back, tip the bag, and fill the mouth with small, hard, round, sweet, cold. The peas spill, hitting the floor with hard little taps.

Close-up on figure. Step in: click, upper body. Click, shoulders and neck. Click, head. Click, mouth. Click, lips.

And peas—cold, hard, green, round.

And freeze.

***

blossoms of warmth, feather-soft touches along my chest, and then the mouth on my nipple, the tongue slow at first, lazy circles, and then faster, and faster, until my heart can't keep up, and I feel the vibration to my soul, and then his mouth on mine, the taste of Daniel, the flavor of Daniel, the love of Daniel, and my hand on him, and his hand there, oh there, please, floor hard under me but it holds me up, and I taste maple syrup and Daniel's hand swirls lower, mouth following, and in the light cast by the open refrigerator door I watch him take me into his mouth, and I say "Daniel" and the word isn't enough to say what I mean

it's him, it's only him, it's always only him

the peas scatter when I throw my arms out, rapidly warming pebbles, my knees go up, and his tongue inside me, and it's all the same: Earth and Langara, Colorado and Kelowna, he and I, divided by nothing but agreement, nothing but words, nothing but space-time and energy and surface tension

his tongue, my only word his name

the eruption, like a newly activated Stargate, a rush of pure, self-annihilating energy

and the floor, the love, to hold me up when I come

***

It comes back to the kitchen, always back to the kitchen, the soul of the house. It's dark out, late. A ghost filters downstairs, someone out of space, someone far, far away from home.

A hand reaches out. The refrigerator opens, and pale light spills out. There are frozen peas on the ground. A step crunches them underfoot. They are softening. There, on the floor—a limp, half-empty bag, discarded. It always comes back to this place, over and over again.

Lean down. Peer in. The pale light inside strengthens. Step back automatically when the rush of energy punches through, like a dense burst of bubbles through the wand of a nuclear-powered bubble blower. And there it is, a ring of standing water, of warped space-time, of a singularity, everything condensed down to this one point.

There's a Stargate in Daniel Jackson's refrigerator.

POV swoops down and in. Small. Then large, larger, largest.

Dolly in.

Dolly through.

The other side.

It's Daniel's kitchen. It's Daniel's refrigerator.

And freeze.

***

He says "Jonas," and the warm rush of Daniel's semen mingles with the maple syrup, with the mushy peas, with the seed already on your belly. You feel it in your heart, your stomach, the visceral sound of pleasure ripped from his body. You did this to him, reduced him to noise and sensation. He did this to you with his body, his tongue, his self. And every time you do it, the surface tension between you dissolves, the membrane that separates self from self rips, and the Stargate exhales with a whoosh, destroying everything in its path so it can draw something in and make it anew somewhere else, matter made energy made matter.

You draw him close and you pant together, fulfilled for now, but the joy of it all is that it can happen again, and again: annihilation, oneness, reconstitution, separateness.

"Your refrigerator," you say, crawling on top of him.

He holds you, curls his leg around you. "It's a box of wonder," he agrees. "Cold food."

You shake your head. "No, my dream."

"Maple syrup and peas?"

A smile. "I made up the maple syrup. You added it in when we got down here."

"It's going to be really hard to clean up if we let it dry."

"We?"

Daniel laughs, and you feel it through your body. He holds you like he possesses you, because he does. You put your head on his shoulder. "No, what about the refrigerator?" he asks.

"There's a Stargate in there, and it leads to your kitchen, like a big loop. Like mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors."

Daniel considers. "It's rife with meaning. Meaning all over the place. Deep, deep meaning."

"So explain it." That is, after all, what you're doing down here, fucking on his kitchen floor.

He turns slightly and you spill onto the ground, onto the cold peas, onto the puddles of real Vermont maple syrup. "You." He touches the center of your chest. "Me." He touches the center of his chest. "Whoosh." His fingers splash out. "Orgasm." He starts to laugh. "The Stargate in my refrigerator." You have to join in the laughter, because it's really funny, a silly dream. He rolls on top of you, clasps your hands, hauls them over your head, and kisses you. "Oh, I don't know. Tell me what it means, Jonas. Tell me what you think it means."

You look into his blue eyes. Whoosh. How to say it? How to phrase it? "I go." Home to Langara, home to Kelowna, home to another planet. "But I always come back." You indicate the refrigerator with a nod of your head. "I always come back here, to Earth." To you. To a love, a home, that transcends space and place.

Daniel straddles you, holding your arms overhead, pressing your hands down, and suddenly you're so happy that you feel it blaze around you, an aura, a whoosh of pure white light. You want to stretch out this very moment, this unique moment, so it lasts forever.

Pan left, you think. An entwined couple, maple syrup, peas, and an open refrigerator door, spilling out cold and light. Step in: click, closer, another click, closer yet. Click, the open refrigerator. Click, top shelf. Click, the lighting element. Click click click, large larger largest.

The light becomes the glow of the Stargate.

Whoosh.

And freeze.