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magibrainChapter Summary: A late night on an alien world, a frantic scrabble to make sense of things, and more raw wounds than anyone knows what to do with.
Index post: [Fic] Beneath a Beating Sun - Index
The funeral didn't sit right with Daniel.
He wasn't a fan of funerals in general, even less so when he knew the one mourned, but he'd been to military funerals before and they were always the worst. He appreciated the dignity, the solemnity and poise – but another element defined them. These funerals were uniform. Predetermined. Standardized. Routine. As if death was routine. Something to be expected.
He could imagine entire affairs written out in the base schedule: 09:00 - Begin mission. 12:45 - Take casualties. 16:50 - Funeral. 18:00 - Dinner in the mess. In a way, he preferred disorder. He preferred stupefaction. Death should hit by surprise and stagger all comers. People should not be expected to die.
And for the past few days he'd trapped himself inside those routines, surrounded first by PV1-542 and the SGC and now the beta site. Even here, in the open air, he'd never felt so imprisoned.
But at least the sky here was a deep velvet blue, not the sharp black of '542 or the grey ceiling of the SGC. At least the air here was clean and cold, not the recycled atmosphere of either. At least the stars here were pinpoints, flickering dimly instead of beating like a slow sick heart.
"Daniel Jackson."
Daniel looked up. Apparently this hilltop was just as easy to find as he'd suspected, not that he'd wanted to hide. "Hey. Teal'c."
"What are you thinking?" Teal'c asked.
Daniel stared at the dark horizon, sinking to a small, desperate laugh. "It shouldn't have been her. It should have been me."
Teal'c regarded him gravely. "Why do you say that?"
"Because it should have been me," Daniel said, thinking the answer obvious. "I'm always the one who dies. That way, I can come back, it's business as usual."
"You could not be expected to have activated the shield." Teal'c fell to pragmatics. Daniel shook his head.
"All these times," he said. "When it's me, there's always a sarcophagus, or Fraiser is there, or there's some miraculous happenstance that brings me out the other side. I don't understand it!" He looked at Teal'c. "Where was Sam's miracle? She doesn't deserve at least one?"
Teal'c joined him, staring horizonward. "After your Ascension," he offered, "Major Carter often spoke of the loss she felt at your departure."
He winced. "That was different."
"Indeed," Teal'c agreed. "As she was aware."
Daniel looked at his hands. He didn't want to hear these stories – didn't want Teal'c to speak of Sam behind her back, as if all her secrets were free to the world. As if she was dead. He didn't want to hear that he'd hurt her – that she'd felt these pains for his absence, as though he'd ever truly died. "What are you saying?"
"Major Carter died as a warrior. In doing so she saved many lives. She would not have wanted you to take her place."
His stomach clenched. "Is that what it boils down to, for you?"
Teal'c frowned. "What do you mean?"
"'She died as a warrior.' I don't understand this... military preoccupation with honorable deaths," Daniel said. "I've studied every culture I could get books on, but I've never understood that. The idea that there's something to be proud of, something to celebrate when a person dies. Can you actually find some way to understand this so it's a good thing?"
Teal'c drew back. "How can you ask that," he said, voice raw as Daniel'd ever heard it, faint timbre of wounded affront inaudible but for one who knew him well. "No one here has said that Major Carter should have perished. But we must recognize the fact that she has. We honor the qualities which were best in her. We recognize that she honored us in the manner of her passing. Honorable does not mean fortunate, Daniel Jackson; it means that we cannot turn our backs to the good she did, which she chose to do at the expense of her own life."
Daniel swallowed.
"If it were possible," Teal'c said, "I would take any action to reverse her death, even sacrificing my own life. But it is not. We did not choose these circumstances, or a great many things would be different. We do not celebrate the fact that she died. We choose to recognize what good we can find."
He stood and walked into the darkness, leaving Daniel with his thoughts. He'd delivered perhaps the longest single outburst Daniel had ever heard, easily among the most passionate – and among the most wounded, most betrayed. Daniel couldn't bring himself to accept what he'd said, not yet – how could anything be good in this? Reparative, maybe. Mitigating, maybe. But good? – but he wanted to apologize anyway, tell Teal'c he hadn't meant it like that.
But Teal'c hadn't left because he was affronted or wounded. The injury hadn't come from the words, but from the fact that Daniel hadn't known – that they'd worked side by side for so long and such an integral part of him still proved to be a mystery. Teal'c didn't open himself to people as a matter of course, and when he did, he expected to be understood. He'd left so that Daniel could think on what he said, without apologies or excuses, coming to terms and rectifying what was wrong.
Daniel collapsed backward. Too much pressed in on him. This place had atmosphere, but provided no sanctuary; too much weight hung on the stars and would crush him, given the chance.
-
Jack completed a slow circuit of the foothills, ready to return to the SGC and whatever duties awaited. He'd escaped in the funeral's aftermath, evading Fraiser and Hammond and Daniel and whoever else might come after him to walk for a while – to try, futilely, to clear his head. The more time he spent alone, the more cluttered his mind became.
He was ashamed to admit that Fraiser had been right: he wasn't strong enough to walk so far. He returned to his wheelchair panting, and when he sat the world rocked about him. He took the time to catch his breath before looking for Daniel, because if Daniel knew he'd exhausted himself, Fraiser would not lack that knowledge for long.
It said something, he decided, how many of his survival instincts traced back to those two Doctors.
Without thinking he did a tactical scan of the landscape, picking out the few people still out and about and narrowing down the number of places Daniel was likely to be. It didn't take him long before he closed in, rolling quickly toward his friend's position. The act – recon and approach – was an absurd parody of military procedure. It fit his mood.
(...what the hell.)
Daniel lay flat on his back, head quirked to one side, staring up as if God had written answers in the heavens. Jack doubted He had. Daniel read many languages, but he was no augur.
The wheelchair didn't creak to a halt, but the sound of strain on the cushions and axles announced him just as well. He caught Daniel's eye as he approached. "What are you doing?"
"Stargazing, I guess," Daniel answered.
Jack looked up. There were certainly enough out. Maybe it was the open countryside, maybe the planet's position in the galaxy – who knew? What did it matter?
"When I was in college," Daniel said, "I studied constellations. Where they came from – the myths, I mean. What significance they had. Occasions associated with their rising, their importance in navigation. I thought they were so far beyond me – these perfect things that would always be there, that could only change so much. That I could never step outside of. And then I stepped through the Stargate, and..." he smiled. "I wonder how many of our stories are going to end like that? 'And then I stepped through the Stargate?'"
"They're still out there somewhere," Jack said.
The topic switched back too fast for him. "What?"
"Constellations."
Daniel nodded. "The stars are. But I think as soon as I could look at the sky without recognizing them, when I could look straight at one I had seen for years and years and have no idea it was that same star..." He swallowed. "You stargaze, Jack. On these planets you have to notice it. How do you deal with the fact that when you step through the wormhole, Polaris isn't the north star any more? Orion falls apart? You realize everything you thought had this perfect order is really just a jumble, up there, with no more cohesion than..." he trailed off, unable to find a comparison.
Jack didn't answer. He had no answer – and moreover, there was no reason to. Daniel wasn't talking about star formations any more than he was dancing a jig. "What are you getting at?"
"You get used to things," Daniel said. "Sooner or later you don't think about them – you take them for granted. And then something happens and they're gone, just like that. And then you get used to them being gone. ...I used to have these nightmares of being lost in the sky, unable to find my way home because the meaning of everything changed. This is the first time I've thought about it in years."
Jack could see the parallels, but still couldn't follow the line. "And? So?"
"So what scares me is that sooner or later, this won't hurt any more," Daniel said. Without rising, he waved toward the funeral grounds. "Sooner or later, we'll move on. We'll forget about her for days, or weeks at a time. Eventually, when we remember her, she'll be just a fact of the past – one more important thing that's long over. I don't want that to happen." He folded his arms, tucking his hands in around his sides. "...it happened with Sha're. I loved her more than anything, and now she's just... a memory."
It frightened Jack, too. He could feel the abyss on either side of him yawn open, gaping wider with each of Daniel's words. He coughed, and looked away – seeking solace in the crabgrass, far from Daniel and the sky. "You know," he said, "some people would say that's healthy. Moving on."
"And that scares me too. That it's healthy to leave her behind." Jack closed his eyes, but Daniel didn't see it – he ignored the unfortunate phrasing and continued. "That something happened that makes it unhealthy for us to hold on to her. I don't understand it. I don't think I want to."
(I don't want to, either. Hell, I wish I hadn't heard any of this.) Jack felt lost – Daniel had ripped one more brace out of his universe, made it that much more likely to implode. He'd never thought of losing Polaris, losing the ability to orient himself by the steady array of the stars. He'd accepted the difference in night skies without thinking. It was like discovering, quite suddenly, that the ground had given way beneath him as he walked, and for the last seven years he'd been falling.
He shook his head forcefully and extended a hand. "Come on. Get up."
Daniel accepted his hand through habit before remembering that he wasn't the one injured. "You want to head back?"
"Yeah. Where's Teal'c?"
Daniel shrugged. "Dunno. I don't think he really wants to see me right at the moment, though."
"You either?" Jack made a mental note to check in with him. It wasn't like him to suddenly cut people out or isolate himself – any more than he already was isolated, at least. "Jeez. Where's Hammond?"
"What? Hammond went back already."
"Why?"
"I don't know. Something needed his attention. Something about the 'gate."
Jack caught himself. (The 'gate?) That could only mean a few things. Hammond wouldn't leave so quickly unless something had gone wrong. "And he didn't think this was worth sharing?"
"I think he would have told us if it was important." Daniel took the wheelchair handles, pushing Jack back toward the installation. Jack didn't protest, partly because he didn't have the energy and partly because he suspected Daniel enjoyed this – or at least could glean comfort from providing assistance. For several minutes, they proceeded in silence.
"The story goes," Daniel began out of nowhere, "that Orion, a hunter of the titans, and Artemis, the goddess of the hunt, fell in love, but the god Apollo disapproved. So when Orion was swimming one day, Apollo challenged Artemis to display her skills at archery. From their spot on Mount Olympus he pointed to a speck in the ocean and challenged her to shoot it – and she did, without realizing that she'd just shot Orion. When she found out, torn by grief, she placed his body in the stars."
Jack braced his head in one hand. "Daniel, I swear, if this is another metaphor–"
"No, not really. I thought about that – shooting from a distance, placing a body in the heavens – but it falls apart. Which could be a metaphor in itself, I suppose. Things fall apart." He laughed weakly. "'Thing fall apart, the centre cannot hold; mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.' Yeats."
Jack reached down, braking the wheelchair abruptly. Daniel stumbled into it with a quiet Oof. "Sit," Jack ordered.
"Jack?" Confusion stamped Daniel's tone.
"Sit down," Jack said, indicating a patch of dirt. "We're not going anywhere for a few minutes."
Daniel stepped around the chair, sitting. He cast Jack a quizzical look.
Jack studied him in what little light existed. He didn't look crazed, not that Daniel ever did. Nor did he look as if he was about to crack. Instead he had that bearing, peculiar to him, as if he was being dragged out to sea and hadn't the faintest idea of how he'd gotten this far already.
"What did Teal'c tell you?" he asked.
Daniel looked down, picking at the grass. "That we had to find the good in this. What did he tell you?"
Jack struggled for a response before changing the subject. "She's dead, Daniel. Not lost. Not gone. Not metaphorically dead. Not 'placed among the stars,' not realigned because we're on a different planet. Dead. Quote all the poetry you want, but you have to face that."
Daniel picked another blade of grass, methodically shredding it. He didn't answer.
Jack leaned forward, trying to see his eyes. "Daniel?"
"What if I don't want to believe it just yet?" Daniel asked, throat clenched.
"You have to."
"In the long term," he said, not looking up. He shrunk down, pulled in, tried to hide.
(God, I don't want to do this.) Anubis might have placed the knife, but Jack was twisting it. "In the short term we're going to sit here until you can admit it."
"Why?"
(Because I won't let you repress this. Because running from it won't make it easier. Because if I have to give up anger you have to give up denial. Because given the chance you'll dance around it for all eternity, so you never have to admit something happened that hurt you, too.) Daniel's response to mutual grief was to turn inside out – radiate compassion and concern onto others as if he hadn't suffered the same. If there was one thing to be said it was he didn't wallow. Instead he compressed his pain, clenching it down like a cold black pearl. By now he had a spectacular one. Sometimes – not often, but sometimes – Jack could see it there, deep at the center of everything he did. Now Daniel was adding one more layer, and an awful one, at that; sooner or later it would choke him, fill up the space he needed to breathe.
But he couldn't say that. Some things couldn't be said – things easy to say were things simple and shallow, addressing few real points. "Because she is. And you can't change that."
Daniel picked another blade. (We should have sent him here to clear the place for construction,) Jack thought darkly. (Dammit. Damn you and damn me too – don't swallow this. I don't care if you scream or cry or attack me or break something, but you have to face this, and I have to make you.)
"Daniel."
"So maybe I'm not good at this military stuff," Daniel said. "Calculated losses and honorable deaths and stiff upper lips. Maybe the reason I die so often is because it's so much – easier – on me, or because–" his breath shuddered, followed by his voice, followed by his shoulders through his bones to his hands.
(...this is it,) Jack thought. Daniel the reserved, the withdrawn, the healer-of-others and neglecter-of-self, would fall apart in front of him. (Controlled demolition. Has to happen, but God, I don't want to see this.) He held onto the wheelchair. (Carter should be here,) he thought – abruptly, painfully. (She'd know what to do.)
"God, Jack, I know. I know! You think I don't know? Of course she's dead! In a few more years who the hell won't be? It's like I'm a carrier," he said, and laughed – a quick, running laugh, fleeing from pain he could never escape. "Of this especially virulent disease called death, and everyone will catch it if I'm around them enough. I touch things and they fall apart – it's not even a question of if any more, it's a question of when. It took this long for Sam to catch it. How long before it's Teal'c? How long 'til I kill you?"
"You didn't kill her," Jack said. (All of these people you're blaming yourself for...) "You didn't kill any of them." (And for your question, it's already happened. You don't remember, but you've watched me die. Over and over again.) It was something he couldn't – wouldn't – tell him. Especially not like this, not now.
"Right. Of course. Because you've claimed that responsibility all for yourself. And you think I'm the one who needs–" He stumbled, still desperate to shift the focus. "At least you could do something. At least you can look back and say 'this is my part in this.' I can't. Where was I?
"You don't like myth, Jack? You don't like metaphors?" His hands travelled from his knees to his sides, arms wrapping around his torso as if otherwise he'd come physically undone, ribs unspooling and blood pouring out. "That's all I have. Maybe that's why I study the past, because it's one thing that won't change – you're right, though, it's not about Artemis and Orion or losing the North Star. It's about looking for meaning somewhere where there isn't any and never will be. Making sense of the senseless. If I believed in God any more I think I'd hate Him. He thought it'd be funny to turn me into a Typhoid Mary of catastrophes. I feel like I should quarantine myself for the greater good."
He pulled his knees up, rocking forward over them. The force of his words pressed against Jack's diaphragm, so that his heartbeats shuddered through his chest. Daniel had done it again – inverted his own agony, admitting it in everyone but himself.
"I feel like I can't breathe," he whispered.
Jack eased himself out of the wheelchair, transferring himself to the ground beside him. Daniel didn't look up or otherwise react to his presence – but from here he was clearly shaking, every muscle taut in knots and breath chasing itself around the inside of his lungs. Jack laid a hand on one shoulder, and he jerked as if he'd been shot.
"It feels like death," he went on.
(And you would know.) Jack stretched a hand across his shoulders, drawing him in to weigh against his side. By now Daniel had collapsed into a ball, face hidden.
"Celestial navigation isn't the only type we've got," Jack said, awkwardly adopting Daniel's code. "And you're not a carrier. This is a bad business, and you're–"
He stopped himself. He'd been about to say luckier than most. (As if there's anything lucky about being the perpetual survivor. Look at you.) Daniel's tremors fell to a familiar pattern – a long shudder, quick tripping shakes. (God, just look at you. You're more of a wreck than I am, radiation included.)
But for the moment it didn't matter that he didn't know what to say. Daniel didn't need words.
A cool edge infiltrated the air, wreathing through his uniform and probably through Daniel's suit. Out of habit Jack pulled him closer. He'd unconsciously slipped into thinking of the emotional wound as a physical one, and kept an eye out for the onset of shock. If the wind was any indication, the beta site would get cold before sunrise.
Time passed. Unnamed constellations moved in slow arc seconds above them.
Daniel pulled his face from behind his knees, trying not to show his red-rimmed eyes. His breath had steadied at the expense of all calm on his face – he wore an expression common to condemned men. "...I'm sorry."
Jack quirked his head, removing his arm as Daniel made to pull away. "For what?"
Daniel gestured anemically. "For being such a basket case."
"Hey." Jack stood, offering a hand again. "It's not fair, you always getting to be the stable one," he said, hauling Daniel to his feet.
Daniel shook his head as he gained his balance. "I'm supposed to be helping you up." He spoke literally.
"Yeah, well. Between the two of us, maybe one of us can find our way to standing."
"You're sitting again," Daniel said, looking pointedly toward the wheelchair.
Jack rolled his eyes, sinking into the chair. "Yes, Doctor."
"Don't think I didn't notice you run off after the funeral," Daniel admonished, as both of them ignored the raw edge to his voice. Better a halfhearted joke than total implosion. He set the chair moving with a jolt. "I expect payment for not telling Fraiser."
"What makes you think Fraiser didn't notice?" Jack asked.
"The fact you got away with it," Daniel said.
"Point." Jack considered how best to bribe him – not only into silence, but into levity again. The mere act of breaking down had been a step in the right direction – it had brought issues to light that now Daniel couldn't ignore. But they couldn't all be faced tonight. The coming days would be hard enough as it was. "I'll buy you coffee?"
"All right," Daniel said – and Jack heard, or hoped he heard, a very faint smile in his voice.
For several minutes, he let the world simplify itself to Daniel's careful pace and the world's light breeze. Absently, he wondered how long night here lasted.
"It's three stars," he said.
It took Daniel several steps to think that through. "What?"
"Polaris. It's three stars running around each other," Jack said. He looked into the sky – unable to place Earth or Polaris or anything else in the scatter. "There's a metaphor for you, Daniel."
-
Hammond was already in his office when Jack made it to the control room, glancing at the room's clocks. It was evening – but, thanks to the beta site, seemed much later. Walter sat at his terminal, pouring over readings. Jack cleared his throat.
"What's going on, Sergeant? I heard there was a situation."
"We've been getting these offworld activations every few hours," Walter said. "Most of the connections last less than a second before they cut out."
"But nothing's come through," Jack said.
"No, sir. Not even a transmission."
"And we have no idea where they've been coming from."
"No, sir."
Jack looked at the screens.
"General Hammond wants to hear your recommendation," Walter said. "He asked me to ask you when you got back."
"Well, I'd recommend we put the base on DEFCON 4," Jack said without prelude.
Daniel looked up. While the SGC was allowed its own DEFCON status, it rarely deviated from the Air Force's state. Jack had, on occasion, joked that it would make sense to get rid of the SGC's condition 5 altogether, because at any given time someone out in the universe was bound to be plotting their destruction. But those had been jokes. An increase now meant he expected something to happen. "Is that really necessary?"
"Maybe you didn't read that report," Jack said, "but the last time Anubis sent nothing through the Stargate it almost blew up the planet."
"You don't know it's Anubis," Daniel said, ignoring, for the moment, Jack's semantic gaffe.
"No, we don't. But raise your hand if you think he's not going to come after us." Jack turned to the 'gate. "He's not just going to lurk out in the wilderness stepping on our fingers when we put a hand out," he said, frankensteining a metaphor. "Sooner or later he will attack Earth, if not with ships and drones, by some crazy underhanded method. He's done it before. Until we know for sure it's not Anubis, I think we should act like it is."
"But we can't do anything, can we?" Daniel asked. "We have to wait for him to make his move."
(At which point we scramble and react, and nine minutes later more of our people die.) "Recurring theme, isn't it?"
"Getting there."
"Hey, Walter," Jack said. "Has Teal'c showed up yet?"
"Yes, sir – about an hour ago. I haven't seen him since then."
(Right. Well, he'll show up sooner or later. Much like Anubis, though I know who I'd rather see. I think.) He shook his head. "I'm going to check in with Doc Bonaparte."
"Right," Daniel said, reaching for the wheelchair handles.
"Daniel," Jack said, taking the wheels. "You go sleep." (If you're not exhausted now, you will be as soon as the last few hours catch up with you.) "I know the way."
Daniel let go. "...right," he said. "See you."
They parted ways.
-
Jack made sure Fraiser saw him trundle into the Infirmary like a good, obedient patient, because otherwise he wouldn't have bothered. His attention was already too divided – pleasing the good Doctor provided one more annoyance.
A fresh set of scrubs lay on his bed, neatly folded. Fraiser waved him over to them without looking up – she was neck-deep in some pile of papers, regardless of the fact that they hadn't had any catastrophes other than '542. Paperwork could appear out of nowhere – the curse of the SGC administration. He knew the feeling well.
He drew the privacy curtains around the bed, changing into the scrubs. He could have lived out his life quite happily without ever seeing a set again. (I hate these things so damn much.)
He pulled the curtain back, scanning the room. Fraiser had already gotten her equipment ready, including – always his favorite – a needle and test tube. "You're really selling all this blood, aren't you?" he groused. "I really don't see why you need so much. Can't you just take a pint at a time and call it good for two months?"
Fraiser smiled. At least one could always count on Colonel O'Neill to be a curmudgeon. The fact that he still joked while complaining suggested there might be hope yet – his ill temper was an odd source of comfort, but she'd seen odder. "Procedure following exposure to radiation," she said. "Take a full blood count every two hours for the first eight hours after exposure, every six hours for the next two days, and periodically after that to watch for signs of infection." She took his arm, quickly seeking out a vein that didn't look overly abused. By now he was so used to this that he didn't even wince at the needle going in – Fraiser went through the familiar pattern and bandaged him up, and the entire process took less than a minute. "So, Colonel, how are you feeling?"
"Fine. Peachy. Good enough to go home."
"Not quite yet," she said, handing off the vial to a medtech.
"I've been here for most of a week, I'm not contagious, and I doubt you're keeping me here for the pleasure of my company," he said. "I'd be going home to sleep."
"I'm sure," Fraiser said.
Jack looked around, resigned. "I don't suppose you'd believe me if I said the walls were closing in?"
"We have people you can talk to about that," she said, carefully moderating her expression.
There, Jack winced. "Never mind."
A Lieutenant – one of the MALP techs, it looked like – walked in the door, and Fraiser excused herself. "Make yourself comfortable for a bit," she said.
(Yes. Comfortable. Comfort and the Infirmary just go hand in hand.) He leaned back on the bed, watching as she tended to her newest patient. In the days he'd been stuck here, he'd seen the routine many times. This wasn't his world – it was far too subtle, too intricate, too reactive. A situation arose, and the Infirmary staff took it from there. Jack wanted to be out there doing stuff, not fixing... people.
Of course, speaking of fixing people, he knew there was more to be done. Everyone around him was broken in one way or another.
(Daniel will need more help to get through this. Who knows what Teal'c thinks of everything – I'd almost expect him to be fine with it. Well, not fine with it per se, but moreso than the rest of us. That damn Jaffa fatalism – what is it, do they train them just to die?) His expression tried to sour, but he stopped it. No use attracting the nurses. (Fatalism and revenge. The revenge bit I like better. Less so when it leads into the getting-himself-killed, but in principle, I approve.) He couldn't stop a quiet snarl. (I know some things I'd like to do to Anubis right now.)
(Of course, Anubis has a few strategic advantages over us. Like first-strike capability. And invulnerability. And overwhelming force.)
Fraiser reappeared from the direction of the labs. "Your blood count is looking better," she said. "If you'd like, you don't have to stay in the Infirmary tonight, though I do want you to stay on base."
O'Neill raised an eyebrow. "I really can't just go home?"
"Not yet," she apologized. "We'll see what your condition is tomorrow."
Jack kicked at the wheelchair. "Tell me I don't have to keep that thing."
"Well, it's obvious you're strong enough to take short walks on your own," Fraiser said, giving him a look that said in no uncertain terms she suspected what he'd been doing after the funeral. "I won't insist on it inside the base on the condition that you'll take it easy."
"And outside the base?"
"Well, given that I'm not even going to consider releasing you until tomorrow, we'll talk about that then," Fraiser said. She caught herself as he grimaced, quickly studying his face before he could recognize the scrutiny.
She was one of a very small population – those with actual knowledge of what the Colonel was going through. She'd been in the room three years before, when he'd been considered a zatarc and had refuted it, haltingly, spectacularly. She'd reported it to Hammond – as her own duty dictated – and Hammond had decided that as long as no problems arose they would gracefully ignore it. And they had. All parties had. Until the bitter end, duty had come first.
"Colonel," she said. "If you need anything, be sure to tell me."
He stared at her, and the look in his eyes told her he'd heard the twin meanings. "Yeah," he said. "No. Thanks."
He took himself out the door. His on-base quarters weren't ideal, but they lay in the right direction. One small step in the long road home.
-
Contrary to all expectation, the next day passed without incident. Five more offworld activations were reported through the night and early morning, each one cutting out as soon as it was established. The last appeared at 06:41, and after that, all was quiet. At noon Hammond warily downgraded the SGC to DEFCON 5, after a sweep of the base and a full 'gate diagnostic revealed nothing wrong. If it was another of Anubis' ploys, they had no way of knowing. If it wasn't... the same problem applied.
In the mean time, the day's normalcy turned from unexpected to stifling. Teal'c didn't explode. Daniel didn't suffer a nervous breakdown. The Stargate didn't activate. Anubis didn't attack. Carter didn't come back from the dead. And Jack found himself wishing for something, no matter how catastrophic, to occur.
Of course, as soon as he thought it, he caught himself – no matter how catastrophic was a dangerous thing to wish for.
But this – this was the first step in dying. This idle time, this waiting. He could only stay here so long, in the Infirmary or elsewhere, without doing anything productive and without going insane. And by "insane" he didn't mean "stir-crazy," he meant full-bore losing it with violence and invectives. As long as he was on base, he was on duty; as long as he was on duty, he was at ready. The hours ticked by under Damocles' sword.
-
Daniel was the victim of bad timing when he ran into Jack after a particularly useless meeting with Hammond – yet another affirmation of the SGC's powerlessness. The work day was drawing to a close, shifts turning over and personnel heading for houses and apartments far removed from the impersonal base. Jack hardly waited for a greeting before obliquely airing his grievance. "You can go home, you know."
Daniel shuffled. "I know. I just feel like I ought to be here."
(What kind of misguided whatever is he off on now?) Jack wondered. "I don't even feel like I ought to be here."
"Exactly," Daniel said.
Jack blinked. He'd picked up a few key phrases of Jacksonese, but the nuances often escaped him. In some world, that exchange had made sense. He suspected that world terminated at the inner edge of Daniel's skull. "Seriously. Go home. Or at least get some fresh air."
"I've had some fresh air."
"Earth air!" Jack snapped before he could temper his response. Daniel's eyes widened, and he stared as if Jack's eyes had glowed. Warning bells went off in Jack's mind. (Dammit. Yes, this is exactly what you need to do right now. Blow up at people. See how long it takes for Teal'c to come and kick your ass back to the beta site!)
"I think–" Daniel started.
"Well, stop it!" (I'm sure you're trying to help, but it's not helping!) "If you can get out of here, go. If you need something tell me, and if not I would very much appreciate some time to myself, goodbye."
He stormed off down the hall, leaving Daniel to gape after him. (So that was the totally wrong thing to do,) his brain caught up. (But what the goddamn hell isn't?)
He would have taken anything over this.
-
By the time he got into the Infirmary late in the day, he'd run down the list of Fraiser's Napoleonic epithets to the point where he had trouble deciding on just one. He took a moment to compose himself before he stepped in, doing a fine impression (to his own mind) of a man who wasn't about to kill anyone. Fortunately, this time, le petit caporal didn't insist that he change into scrubs before she poked him full of holes. He could have written volumes on undergoing this procedure by now, if there had been enough to write volumes on.
As the medtech ran his tests, Jack thought of C4. C4 was a remarkably stable compound under any normal circumstance. Heat alone wouldn't detonate it. Pressure alone wouldn't detonate it. But when one combined heat and pressure–
That's what he felt like. Anger and frustration and inability to act formed a slow-smouldering rage wrapped up in his chest, and the mysteries of the day and Anubis' stubborn silence pressed down on him. One force or the other could give, or he could explode. And when that happened, he'd have no capacity to control it; if he didn't destroy himself, he'd certainly injure others. Teal'c would have his hide, and the wreckage that was SG-1 would fall apart completely.
"Your blood count is looking better," Fraiser said at length. Again.
"How much better?" Jack asked.
Fraiser looked at him, seeing as much with a visual survey as all her equipment could tell her. "Enough to release you," she said – and held up a hand before he could react. "Again, I point out that this is a latent phase. Because your immune system was damaged, over the next few days you'll start coming down with illnesses. You'll be more prone to infection." She looked at him sternly. "I'm going to let you go home because I think that will be a better environment for you, but I expect to see you here for a checkup as soon as you come on base and right before you leave, every day. Is that clear?"
(...thank you.) "Crystal," Jack said.
"I'll also arrange a driver for you," Fraiser said, giving him her classic Don't even think about arguing glare. "To and from your house."
"Is that really necessary?"
"Would you like to go home?" Fraiser asked.
Jack threw up his hands. "Fine. Is there anything else you'd like me to take? I'm sure somewhere around here I could find a bell to wear."
"Take it easy," Fraiser instructed. Tonight she wasn't about to get into a sparring match, verbal or non.
Jack looked through her, letting a tight-lipped smile cross his face as he grabbed his jacket. "Yes, ma'am."
He headed for the stairs out of spite.
-
Two levels above, Daniel caught up with him again. "Jack, stop."
Jack ground to a halt, turned, and cast a disparaging look back. Daniel was here to mend fences. Jack had neither the patience nor the time. "What?"
Daniel sidled, glancing around the hall. "...here," he said, hiking his thumb at Sam's former lab. By now it had been totally emptied, a desk and its chairs the only indication of previous use. "In here."
Jack followed on autopilot, taking a seat. "What?"
"We need to talk," Daniel said, quickly amending it to "you need to talk" as he sat across from him.
"About what?"
"About this – about what happened, Jack." (You're not an idiot and neither am I. Please, don't play dumb right now.)
Jack shook his head. "No, I really don't."
"Yes, you do." Daniel tried to give him a knowing look, but it came out desperate instead. "Jack, it's not healthy not to talk about these things."
Jack raised both eyebrows. (Hello, pot. This is kettle. I was just calling to say...) "Oh?" he asked, folding his arms. "I had to beat you over the head to get you to talk. Would you care to remind me how many people you talked to after Sha're or Ke'ra or–"
"Then I should be uniquely suited to know exactly how unhealthy it is," Daniel shot back. "You've forced everyone else to deal with it, and you need to deal with it too."
(By 'everyone else' you mean you, Daniel. Everyone else got it before I did. We're the last two to come limping out of this except maybe Jacob, and where's he off to now?) "What makes you think I'm not dealing with it?"
Daniel shot a stern look over his glasses. "Jack."
Jack looked him in the eye. "This is not the first time I've lost a member of my team," he said. "And barring divine intervention, it probably won't be the last."
"We're talking about Sam," Daniel said.
Jack's expression twisted for a moment into something that wasn't quite pain and wasn't quite amusement. Before Daniel had a chance to ask what it meant, it was gone, and Jack had moved on. "What do you want me to say? You being the expert."
"I don't know," Daniel admitted. "Something. Some – display of human emotion, at least."
Jack pushed his chair away. "You're going to have to do better than that," he said, standing.
"Jack–"
"If you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be," Jack said. "Home. I have a date with a very deep bottle of Jameson's."
"I know for a fact you're not allowed to drink yet," Daniel said.
"So tell Fraiser," Jack shot back, knowing that, this time, he wouldn't.
Daniel stood, making it to the door before he did and putting an arm across the threshold. "Fine. Run off. Just tell me one thing."
Jack eyed his arm, debated pushing past it. But he was still feeling the effects of the radiation, and would not give Daniel a demonstration of how weak he still felt. "What?"
Daniel looked at him and through him, as if he was still Ascended and knew things Jack didn't know. As if he could look past every evasion, dispel every lie. "Are you going to be all right?" he said. He wasn't asking about the radiation. Or the whiskey.
(Will I be all right?) He'd never stopped to consider. It usually wasn't an issue – shit happened, he dealt with it. He'd carried the scars for years. (All right?)
"Give it time," he said, and while it didn't make Daniel happy, it satisfied him. He took his hand off the door.
No further words were exchanged.
-
Jack's house closed around him like his own abandoned world.
He tossed his keys on the counter, letting the night sneak in through the cracks. He lived as far away from base as was practical – he enjoyed the solitude, respected the isolation. The world went on around him here. Owls would perch in the trees overnight, crickets would sing, and the moonlight could come in his window when he left the blinds open.
But most importantly, it was his. Removed from the clicks and hisses of the SGC, from Fraiser and her well-meaning staff, from protocol and regulation and duty. This was a civilian house, which neither conferred nor required respect. A house in which he could be something other than an Air Force Colonel.
That was something he needed more than anything, right now.
He walked to the liquor cabinet.
He wasn't naive. He knew how dangerous it was to mix alcohol with grief. But somehow, through chemical means or no, he needed to relax – just enough to take the black knot out of his stomach, to let him close his eyes.
If he'd asked Fraiser for sedatives she'd have understood. She might even have given him some instead of referring him to Dr. MacKenzie. But Colonel Jack O'Neill didn't ask for help from anyone – he'd soldiered on through Charlie, through Kawalski, through all the times they'd thought Daniel dead. He would soldier on through Samantha Carter. No one asked questions if he wound up here, from time to time, with a bottle in hand. No one had to know.
And to break that precedent now would be... unwise. Some critic with no respect for the dead would draw a connection that wasn't there – that couldn't be there, that they'd spent years ensuring didn't develop. A public display of grief could only tarnish her good name.
He poured himself two glasses. Then, on a whim, he poured a third and slid it across the table to rest in front of an empty chair. He locked the bottle back in its cabinet, put the key back in its drawer. Then he took a seat with his glasses, staring at the empty place setting.
Pragmatics. Everything boiled down to pragmatics. Why Carter had stayed on the planet, why he wasn't allowed to grieve. "You know," he remarked to the chair, "those were really your department."
It didn't answer.
He drank, draining one of the glasses down to a finger's width. Moderation be damned. Pragmatics be damned. For a second he was intensely angry at her for leaving him here to deal with things, and then he hated himself for thinking it.
Three years ago, he'd said he'd rather die than lose her. Yeah, well. He'd rather a lot of things. He'd rather the winters were warmer and summers were cooler and weekends were longer and the Air Force had casual Fridays. The universe didn't give a damn for the preferences of one Jack O'Neill. If it noticed, it went so far as to spite him. He'd rather not have had to dance around his second in command, maintaining the polite fiction that they hadn't shared so much as a hint of affinity. And now–
"This is absurd," he said to the chair. "You're dead, and we're still stuck in protocol. ...I'm."
He could imagine her sitting there, staring awkwardly into her drink, answering in quiet "Yes, sir"s and "Colonel?"s. He snorted, and polished off his glass.
"That's okay, Major. You don't have to say anything." He looked across the table. "...I'm just talking to myself. Thinking out loud. You know how it is." (Right?)
After Daniel's ascension, she'd haunted his lab. She'd been the one to insist they keep his things, the one who had wanted a memorial, the one who'd hurt most openly. And very cautiously, carefully, within their regulated bounds, she'd been the one to offer him sympathy he hadn't allowed himself to take. She and Daniel together were incredible – they were SG-1's soul. Missing either meant half that soul was gone.
He picked up the second glass, eyeing "her" chair. No one could replace her. Someone – some egghead from one of the engineering teams, some Pentagon-approved physicist – would take her place, but that wasn't the same. SG-1 and the SGC had lost something incomparable. Something singular. Unique. Peerless. Inimitable. English didn't have enough synonyms to convey the scope of the loss – it could only treat her as if she was some snowflake melted away in the sun. That made for pretty images, but didn't approach the truth. She'd been a masterpiece, a wonder of the modern world, something manyfaceted and constructed painstakingly through trial and triumph and indomitable will, something unique and beautiful, true, but worth far, far more than a flake of fractal ice.
He raised his glass. "Well, here's to you, Major," he said, and drank. (And here's to hoping you're in a better place, though I doubt it. I've died too, and I don't remember it being any better than this.)
Whiskey didn't generally bring out his maudlin side. Most days, he was perfectly happy denying he had a maudlin side. But there was no use denying this now; he hurt, and he missed her. Truly, genuinely missed her, not like a missing limb (wasn't that what everyone said?) but like a familiar place, a home destroyed or sold. Something in the world that had welcomed him. (Something important long gone.)
At least she didn't have to fight any more. Wasn't that what eulogists praised? At least the constant struggle was over – she'd face no more danger, no more pain, no more torture at the hands of the Goa'uld or injury at the hands of their minions. But he hated that "bright side," that evasion. No, Major Samantha Carter had been one of those rare few for whom life had been worth it. All the bad times, all the pain. She'd been able to find good in almost anything, or after anything, at least. Had she found the good in this?
He shot back the remainder of his glass without tasting it. This was no toast – this was medicinal whiskey, and he held no illusions about that.
Once more, his mind drifted to thoughts of revenge.
Carter would probably not have considered this train of thought appropriate. Of course not – she was nice person, rational, compassionate, as gentle as was possible within a military profession. She wasn't vengeful. (Well, that makes one more reason she's a better person than me. I really don't care how petty it may be. I want Anubis to suffer. I have no idea how to make it happen, but I don't care. Somewhere in the universe, there's a way.)
He cleared his glasses. None of that really mattered – tomorrow he'd ask Hammond to put them back on active rotation. Hammond wouldn't agree, not until Fraiser cleared him, but he'd ask anyway. (Because when it's too hard to stand you stagger on forward and hope no one notices you're about to fall down.) For a moment he marveled at the dark poetry of his thoughts.
Sooner or later the sickness would end. He'd lead his team through the Stargate again, and somewhere in the galaxy they'd fight and maybe they'd die and maybe he'd be here to mourn them and maybe not. There was no other resolution.
He left the third glass where it was.