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Accidentby Night Spring It was an accident. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. When hell freezes over, sir. He didn't believe that. Oh, no. Coincidences happened, sure. But he'd never yet won the lottery. Hell, he'd never won bingo at the fund-raising thingies for Charlie's school, for that matter. Yup, some guys did get lucky -- or unlucky, as the case may be. Daniel losing Sha're to the fucking Goa'ulds -- now that was unlucky. Them being so close to bringing her back, only to have Heru-ur arrive just as they were trying to dial out -- that was cosmically bad timing, but still the same bad timing that screwed up every other mission. The same kind of timing that'd worked in their favor more often than not -- Daniel stumbling through that quantum mirror before Apophis' ships came calling, for instance. Or their managing to gate to Klorel's ship just before it took off. Those were the kind of timing that separated alternate realities from each other, totally random, the roll of the dice determining the course of events to follow. But a speeding car just happening to share the exact same space at the exact same time as a reporter about to divulge a highly sensitive, ultra-top-secret, super-classified military project? Uh-uh. No way. And right in front of his eyes, too. It was an accident. Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Message received loud and clear, sir. Except, that wasn't fair. Hammond wouldn't do that, never. Right? Not Hammond. A military that went around killing civilians -- the very same civilians they were sworn to defend and protect -- was out of control. Even if that civilian was about to compromise a delicate and crucial operation, use of lethal means to stop him was only justified under very specific, very tightly circumscribed conditions, and this had been nowhere close to that. And Hammond had proven time and time again that he understood and believed in the crucial importance of not crossing that line, safeguarding that line with everything he had, always standing vigilant watch against its crossing when others might trample over it. No, not Hammond. But then who? It was an accident. Yes, sir. Don't believe it for a moment, sir. Nor would the general expect him to. But whatever the general knew or suspected, he wasn't going to share it with his subordinate -- not this time. Which meant, whatever it was, it was bad, it was deep, it probably went high places, and he should... He should what? Keep his head out of it? Trust the general knew what he was doing? Trust that the general was, in fact, doing the right thing? Even if he were to try something, what could a colonel find or do that a general couldn't? Not to mention the fact that anything he tried would surely, most certainly, get back to the general, one way or the other. And to the ones who had sent that car, arranged for it to be at that place, at that time. Still. The issue of our worth could be debated openly in the Senate... Why not? Kinsey may be a Bible-thumping, flag-waving, self-righteous egomaniac, but sometimes the message was right despite the messenger. Would the Stargate project really wither in the light? If so, did it perhaps deserve to wither? Making the project public would bring in the buzzards, sure, but it would also bring... light. Recognition. Acclaim. Substantiation. Credit where credit was due. Not having to grovel to the likes of Kinsey for funds. Well, they would have to grovel to the public at large, but... SG-1 would make a great public relations team. Imagine them on Oprah, or the Tonight Show. Teal'c could do demonstrations with his staff weapon, Carter and Daniel could regale the world with tales of their fantastic technical and cultural discoveries, and he could do his friendly neighborhood colonel act, smiling benignly from the sidelines and reigning in the others when they got too technical... He'd better stop laughing or he'd wake Daniel. Ops, too late. Bleary, blinking eyes peered up at him from within the tangle of sheets and blankets. God, Danny looked exhausted, weary and bone-tired to the core of his soul, eyes red and bloated from the obligatory cathartic crying session. Lucky that he could give Daniel that much -- a safe place, a sympathetic ear, a pair of arms to hold him while he cried. And who would hold him and let him cry when Daniel did get Sha're back for real, and he came back to a cold, comfortless bed, leaving Daniel to Sha're's warm, welcoming arms? A cold dark corner of his mind rejoiced -- not in that Apophis had taken back Sha're, that the damn Goa'uld was in control of her body again. He wouldn't wish that on anybody, not even his worst enemy. But he was glad to still have Danny, and since he could have Daniel only as long as they didn't get Sha're back... Daniel was frowning now, head tilting a bit as he squinted up at him, trying to decipher the puzzle of his shifting moods, scrutinizing him as intently as he would one of those dusty ancient tablets, but with eyes soft and full with tender, apprehensive concern. He shook his head tersely, cutting off any questions Daniel may have voiced, and reaching out, drew Daniel closer, pressing his lips onto Daniel's, mutely commanding silence, and Daniel acquiesced, pliantly giving in to his demand, accepting his need for the intimacy of touch, complicit in the silence and darkness in whose shielding embrace only were they allowed. His love for Daniel was a plant that grew in the dark, destined to wither in the light of Sha're's return. One day the Stargate too would emerge from the shadow to stand tall in the light of the public eye. Perhaps that reporter was right, and he would be worshipped as a hero, or he could be regaled as a villain. Whichever way, he would be obsolete, consigned to the sidelines as others leaped the benefits of what he wrought, all that he paid for with his sweat, blood and tears. And everything -- everything that he treasured, that gave meaning to his life, that made it worth getting up in the morning -- all would be taken from him. Each day he did his job, did what he was supposed to, did what was right -- each day took him one day closer to the day he would be cast aside, sent off on his way with nothing more to show for his troubles than the satisfaction of a job well-done. He could keep popping those pesky reporters between the eyes whenever they popped up. He could subtly throw off the timing whenever they got close to actually retrieving Sha're. What had he been thinking, really, letting Daniel return to Abydos on his own? Medal ceremony be damned, he should have sent his excuses to the President and gone with him. And what really would he have done if he had been on Abydos and seen Daniel with Sha're? Would he have done the right thing, or given in to the temptation to make things go wrong, just a tiny bit? Was he, in fact, in a dark cold corner of his mind, not a tiny bit grateful to those who had taken out the reporter, who'd done the dirty work, so he didn't have to? The inevitable had been postponed, one more day; he had Daniel in his arms, one more night. He could no more hold off the end than he could stop the dawn from rising with his bare hands, but was it so wrong to wish for -- and rejoice in -- just another day, just another night? It was an accident. Yes, sir.
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