stargateficrec | Apartment 8-3, by Moonshayde (PG)

Rec Category: Original Character

Pairing: none

Categories: original character, gen, Daniel Jackson, episode related, angst

Warnings: spoilers through Meridian

Author's Website: Scribal Traditions

Why This Must Be Read: Meet Maggie Ducharme, the irascible elderly woman who lives across the hall from Daniel in his apartment building.

We watch bits and pieces of Seasons Four and Five through her eyes: the frequent scrapes and bruises that he unconvincingly tries to explain away, the long absences, the terrifying morning that Daniel tries to jump from his balcony. She remains at the very fringes of Daniel’s life – after all, she’s just the neighbor across the hall, with a cat that approves of Daniel on the occasions when she invites the “troubled young man” for a cup of tea. She is unashamedly cynical and prejudiced and snappish and irritable; and yet, perhaps in spite of her human foibles and failings, the reader can’t help but like her. And when Jack finally tells her just why the team is clearing out Daniel’s apartment, you’ll be grieving not only for Daniel, but also for Maggie’s pain – even if Jack’s quiet turn of phrase offers a tiny bit of comfort that Maggie doesn’t wholly comprehend.

And for dessert, try this little timestamp fic that Moonshayde made to give Maggie (and Daniel!) closure, one year later: Pieces.

Neighbors, I thought. Just what I needed. Another drunken young whippersnapper, making noise and staying up all night. They were all the same, these young men.

Though, he didn't look as young as some of the others that were involved in that tomfoolery. Maybe a little older. Maybe married. I stole a quick peek. No ring.

A man like him not married? Maybe he was funny. One of those.

I narrowed my eyes, trying to discern his nature by his face. He didn't seem that way, but these days, you just never knew.

We arrived on the eighth floor. He was right. There were boxes piled right outside one of the apartments, the one closest to mine.

Good Lord, the man had a lot of books.

"Are you a librarian?" I asked him, fumbling for my keys at the doorway.

"Hmm? What? Oh, no," he answered, readjusting his hold on the bags. When I opened the door, he followed me into the apartment, his grip on the bags and his book starting to slip. "Here?" he asked with a quick motion to my coffee table with his chin.

"Yes, yes. That'll do," I told him.

As I watched him place the grocery bags down, and try and catch his book before it fell, I was able to discern some of the writing on the cover. Something about the French Revolution.

"You're a teacher, then," I asked him, waving my hand vaguely in his general direction. "At the local school? Or for those college kids?"

"No," he admitted.

Gazing down, he turned the book over in his hands. I noticed they were quite calloused, and I instantly thought maybe he was a construction worker of some kind who just happened to like books.

"I used to teach," he confided. "But that was a long time ago."

Unemployed, I decided. One of those lowlifes that lived off the system. Hell, I wouldn't stand for that. He had probably lost his job, drinking up a storm, and now was just a step barely above a bum.

Snorting with satisfaction, I moved over to him and grabbed one of my bags. I managed to sneak a quick sniff, but I didn't smell no booze on him.

Perplexed, and a little curious, I had to admit, I studied him intently, nearly tripping over these old legs of mine. But instead of just turning his back on me, dismissing me as a crazy old coot, he walked over to me and helped me to put my groceries away.

What a sweet thing to do.

He didn't say a word, but just smiled, one of those shy little smiles that I'd seen my nephews give on more than one occasion. It was sweet though, yet still subdued, like the poor man had something weighing heavily on his soul.

"I'm Daniel Jackson, by the way," he said at last. "Looks like we'll be living right across from each other."

"Hmph," I responded.