DISCLAIMER: All characters and property of Stargate SG-1 belong to MGM/UA, World Gekko Corp. and Double Secret Productions. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.
I'll be honest with you. It wasn't a conversation I was looking forward to. Yes, there were things that needed to be said. And for a great many reasons, I was the best -- maybe the only -- person to say them. And yes, time was an issue. Jack was more than capable of letting the problem go unaddressed indefinitely -- it's his favourite coping mechanism -- but the General had a point. SG1 was needed.
It's just that I know Jack. He guards the perimeters of his privacy like the barbarians are at the gate. Even now, even after all this time and everything we've been through, he's reluctant to let us in. Okay. So now maybe we don't give up so easily. Now we've each got ourselves a personalised set of lockpicks, and when we need to we let ourselves in.
And sometimes ... just sometimes ... he even leaves the gate unlocked himself. But not then. Then, he still had the portcullis down and the drawbridge up and the moat full of nasty surprises. Then, he considered himself under attack ... and nobody is more dangerous than Jack O'Neill when he's defending himself.
Especially from a friend.
Like I said. It wasn't a conversation I was rushing to have.
But we had to talk, he and I. And it had to be soon. Some wounds time can heal. Others, if left alone, fester and mortify and lead to an ugly death.
Daniel was bleeding. Jack was bleeding. I'm a doctor.
Says it all really, doesn't it?
"Janet," said Jack, holding his front door open. His expression was a study in wary pleasure. "Hello."
"Have you eaten?" I said, holding up two Dragon Palace take-out bags. "I've got beef and black bean sauce, mu shu pork, honey prawns, mixed vegetables and rice. And two sets of chopsticks."
"I burned two omelettes, ran out of eggs and gave up," he said. "Come on in."
Something lovely was playing on the stereo. Jack took dinner out of my hand and disappeared into the kitchen. I stood in the middle of the lounge room and listened. Two violins were having a conversation, poignant and full of longing.
"Brahms Double Violin Concerto in D Minor," said Jack, sticking his head around the door. "Second movement. You want wine?"
"Yes, please," I said, and smiled quietly to myself. Wondered how many people knew that Jack has a classical cd collection that takes up half a wall, and seems to be growing at a steady rate. "It's beautiful," I said, wandering into the kitchen. Hunted up placemats and coasters and set them on the round table in the corner.
"Yeah," he agreed. "One of my favourites."
We carried the decanted food and wine over to the table, sat down and started eating. I was starving, and Jack was making respectable inroads as well. He eats like he does everything else: economically, precisely. I tend to drop bits, myself, but he forgives me.
He was looking tired, too. Even more withdrawn than usual. Forty eight hours wasn't nearly enough down time balanced against two weeks of slave labour. I would have liked to have packed him off to a tropical island somewhere, or better yet back to Argosia and some time with Kinthea ... but we'd had that conversation before, more than once, and I was still smarting. This was definitely not the time to bring up old arguments.
Not when a brand new one was looming on the horizon.
He glanced up. Caught me checking him out. His look was long suffering, but all he said was, "Where's Cass?"
"Slumber party," I said, chasing rice around the bottom of the bowl with my chopsticks. "Fifteen squealing girls, a foot high pile of Leonardo DiCaprio videos, enough junk food to feed an army, and someone else's basement. My idea of heaven."
He laughed. "How's she doing, anyway? How's school?"
"Better," I said. "The lessons are finally starting to make sense now, her grades are improving, she's got some good friends. She still gets a little homesick now and then --"
"I'm sure she does," he said.
"But that's getting better, too."
"Good," he said, reaching for his wine. "Good. She still on for next weekend?" I grinned. "Aside from the slumber party, it's all she's talked about since you set it up."
"Yeah?" he said. Ever so casually, like it didn't really matter. As if he was going to fool me.
"Yeah," I said, letting him know that I knew. He can be so transparent sometimes.
And so can I.
He said, "This isn't just a social call. Is it."
I shook my head. "No."
Tapping his chopsticks against the bowl, he pulled a face. "Hammond?"
"Is worried," I said. "So am I."
He shoved his chair back. Snared his wine glass and the bottle and retreated to the rustic warmth of the lounge room. A moment later I followed him.
The Brahms had finished, and now it was something starring a piano. I said, "I know that. Mozart, isn't it? Elvira something or other?"
"Madigan," he replied. "Elvira Madigan."
He was sprawled in his favourite two seater. I took my usual chair by the fireplace. "You haven't even asked how he is."
His glance was swift. Derisive. Defensive. "What makes you think I'm interested?"
Oh, for God's sake ... I thumped my wine glass down on the side table. "Jack --"
"I mean, you know, I kind of figured that if he was dead you would have mentioned it. Hi, Jack, I've got beef and black bean sauce, mu shu pork, honey prawns, mixed vegetables and rice and by the way, Daniel died."
"Jack."
He had the grace to look shamefaced. Lifted a hand in brief apology. "All right. All right. How is he?"
God Almighty, he can be such a bastard. He could give my ex lessons and trust me, that's saying something. Tartly, I replied, "Much better. His body chemistry is almost back to normal. He's coherent."
"Does he remember what happened?"
"Yeah," I said. "He does."
For a while, then, we were silent. I was content to wait. Cool my temper. Nobody riles me like Jack, but there's no point getting angry. It gets you nowhere. Plays right into his hands, actually. The trick is never to take anything that he says personally.
Which is much easier said than done, believe me.
He was still furious. I could see it in the set of his shoulders, the tension round his eyes and mouth. The way he swallowed the wine like he was biting off the head of an enemy.
But then I'd expected that.
What I hadn't expected was the brittleness beneath the fury. An overwhelming sense of fragility. Disorientation, almost. As though without warning he found himself stranded in unfamiliar territory and couldn't quite bring himself to ask for directions.
Generally speaking, if you want to get Jack to talk you have to put some of your own cards on the table first. Only rarely will he open up without prompting. Or copious amounts of alcohol. Or extremes of physical duress.
That night, against every expectation, every scenario I'd imagined on the drive over, I got the feeling that he was trying to reach out. Trying to find some way of asking for help. That he knew to the millimetre how high the stakes were ... but was too afraid to call. Too afraid to raise. Too afraid of what he had riding on the game.
I didn't dare speak. The wrong word at the wrong time would shut him down, I knew it, and that would be the end of everything.
I don't know how long we sat there like that, saying nothing, with the music flowing gently beneath the silence. I started to drift. I was tired. Sad. My shoulder hurt. When he finally spoke, I nearly dropped my glass.
He said, not looking at me, barely loud enough for me to hear, "My best friend at the Academy was an addict. Stevie. He started out with pot. Nothing serious, a few joints now and then. Second year, he started to wash out. Couldn't handle it. His dad was a three star. There were ... expectations. He graduated from pot to smack. Kicked it twice. Cold turkey. I helped him. Third time he wasn't so lucky. I had to id the body, his folks were in Germany."
"I see," I said. It was hard to picture ... Jack that young. That wild. Had he smoked pot, too? Jack O'Neill stoned: now there was an image. God. Had he, too, ventured beyond the relatively harmless bounds of marijuana?
He looked at me then. Smiled. Reading me like a book, the bastard. "Once."
My eyebrows went up. "Once?"
His smile faded. "I liked it too much."
"Oh," I said. And thought it was one of the most frightening things I'd ever heard. "So ... Daniel reminded you of Stevie?"
Jack upended the last of the wine into his glass, but didn't drink it. Just swirled it gently from side to side. "He used to say, don't worry. I use heroin, heroin don't use me. I'm the one in the driver's seat, boy, don't you fret." He frowned. "First time we did the cold turkey dance, he promised me never again. Second time? Never again."
"And the third?" I asked.
His face contracted. "I wasn't there the third time. I'd already walked away."
Oh. I cleared my throat. "Um --"
"He was so cocksure," said Jack. "So convinced he had it all under control. He knew what he was doing. I didn't. But he did. He was in the driver's seat."
"Stevie?"
Jack looked at me. "Daniel."
I took a deep breath. Let it out. I said, "My fifth wedding anniversary, I decided to do something special. The marriage was in trouble. Bob knew it. I knew it. But neither of us had the guts to come out and say so. I left work early, went shopping. Sexy lingerie. Perfume. Lobster and asparagus. You know. I had it all planned out. Candlelit dinner. Romantic music. A slow, sweet seduction by the fireplace ... all the elements to rekindle the embers. I got home and found him in bed with my best friend. Well. On couch, if you want to be specific."
"Ouch," said Jack.
Ouch is right. I'll never forget how that felt. That visceral kick in the solar plexus, the hammer blow to the heart. There were tears in my eyes, pricking, and my throat felt sore and tight. Even after all that time. I said, "Things got a little ugly, then. I filed for a divorce the next morning. Scratched her name out of my address book. Got drunk. More than once. Tried to figure out what I'd done wrong, what made it okay to do that to me."
"I'm sorry," said Jack. Meaning it.
I blinked a few times. Cleared my throat. "The point I'm trying to make here, Jack, is this. Loving people makes us vulnerable. We give them our hearts and then hope like hell they don't do something stupid like break them."
Jack shifted in his chair until the shadow from a lamp fell across his face. "But they do."
"Sometimes," I agreed. "But hardly ever on purpose. I can't comment about Stevie, Jack. I never met him. But I know Daniel. And so do you. Is Daniel another Stevie? Really? Or are you just getting them confused because you're angry and hurting and feeling betrayed?"
No reply. Elegantly civilised, the music played on.
I said, "Daniel's terrified, Jack. Terrified that you hate him. That you won't forgive him."
His face denied me, I watched Jack's hands. His fingers on the stem of the wine glass. They were unmoving. "You think I should? Forgive him? Pretend that it never happened?"
God. He can be so black and white at times it makes me want to scream. "Of course you can't pretend it never happened, Jack. And what I think isn't the issue here. It's what you think. What you want. What do you want, Jack?"
I waited as he thought about it, and I was afraid. I've heard people complain about Jack. Say he's a hard nosed hard hearted sonofabitch. That he expects too much. Drives people beyond their limits. And maybe they have a point. But what they don't stop to realise is that he drives himself even harder. Expects more of himself than he does of anyone else. Asks himself the hardest questions of all ... and is unforgiving if he comes back with the wrong answer.
It's hard to forgive other people if you can't forgive yourself.
He moved again, out of the shadow. His face was cold and uncompromising. He said, "That mine was a hell hole, Janet. You have no idea. We watched people die in their chains every day. Watched the guards drag them out and throw them into mass graves. Beat and kick and shoot old men, young women, because they got sick and couldn't keep up. The mine was exhausted, there was virtually no naqueda left to dig up. But they blamed us when the quota wasn't filled at the end of the day. Starved us. Hurt us. Daniel could have stopped it. He didn't. At the end, Sam was in so much pain she was crying in her sleep. Daniel could have saved her that. He didn't."
"So you're angry because of what he put Sam through. And the other people, too."
"Hell, yes. Of course I am!"
"And what about you, Jack?"
He looked away. "I don't know what you mean."
Oh, yes he did. He wasn't getting away with that, no sir. "Why are you angry for you? How has Daniel hurt you?"
He didn't like the question. I knew he wouldn't. But it had to be said. Acknowledged. If he was going to banish Daniel, he had to know why he was doing it. We all did.
I said, "If you're going to punish him, Jack, it can only be for what he's done to you. Not Sam or Teal'c. They'll make their own decisions on that, it's not for you to make them."
"Like hell it isn't!" he said. "They're my team. He jeopardised my team."
"Yes," I acknowledged. "That's true. But a team is comprised of people, and those people, Sam and Teal'c, are faced with the same decision you are. How would you like it if they presumed to task Daniel on your behalf?"
He answered without thinking. "They wouldn't dare."
"No. They wouldn't. Because it's not up to them. What relationship you choose to pursue with Daniel after this matter is resolved is your business. Not theirs. And the reverse also holds true."
And he didn't much like that, either. Too bad.
Jack said, "I'm the team leader. Everything to do with SG1 is my business."
"Yes. And I'm assuming that at some point, as a team, you'll get together and discuss whether or not you still want Daniel on SG1. But before you can do that, you have to work out what it is that you want, Jack. What it is that you feel. As Daniel's friend. Not as his commanding officer, team leader, whatever. Because you're not feeling all this pain as a Colonel, Jack. You're feeling it as a friend who's been hurt. Deal with it. Don't hide it behind rules and regulations and 'this is about the team' bullshit. It's too important."
He drained the last of his wine. Placed the empty glass with meticulous precision on the two-seater's arm rest and looked at me. "Tell me. Did you forgive Bob? And your best friend? After what they did to you, did you forgive them?"
I never should have opened my mouth. "No," I said, throat tight. "No. I didn't."
"But you want me to forgive Daniel."
I sighed. "I told you. What I want doesn't matter."
"Say it does." He leaned back. Let his head thump gently against the wall. "Say it matters."
Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. "What I want," I said slowly, "is for you to think very carefully before you do anything. And while you're thinking, I want you to remember one thing: that all of this started because Daniel saved a life. We don't know what happened between him and this Shyla woman. We don't know how hard he tried to get you out of the mines. We don't know what kind of threats were made against you to get him to co-operate. We don't know why he started using the sarcophagus in the first place, or if he tried to resist its effects, and wasn't strong enough. Jack, there's so much we still don't know. So far, all we have is your side of the story. Before you make any decisions, I think you owe it to him to hear what he has to say."
Jack said, "All of this started because he disobeyed my directive about charging into situations without thinking first or checking with me."
"Oh," I said. "I see. So you're angry with Daniel because he wouldn't do as he was told. That's pretty rich, coming from you."
That got him. Scowling, he snapped, "There is a big difference and you know it. I've spent the last ten years behind enemy lines, living on my wits, making a hundred decisions a day that meant the difference between life and death not just for me, but for hundreds, thousands, of people. I've earned the right to disobey orders when I know they're ill-conceived. That order to Daniel was not ill-conceived. And even if it had been, what gives him the right to question my judgement in the field? What's he spent the last ten years doing? Living off government handouts? Digging up old pots? Propping up a shelf in a library somewhere with his head buried in a book?"
"Perhaps," I agreed. "And if he hadn't been doing all of that, there'd be no Gate travel, you two would never have met, and you'd probably be two years dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Is that what you'd prefer?"
"Fuck you," said Jack, and walked out.
Ah, the 'f' word. Apparently I'd struck a nerve.
Elsewhere in the house, a door slammed. Heels thumped along polished floorboards. Jack re-appeared. "And anyway," he said, looming at the top of the stairs connecting lounge and kitchen. "It doesn't matter that he had an altruistic motive. Daniel's motives are always altruistic. What matters is his damned altruism nearly got me killed, probably took ten years off my life, and screwed up my knee even more than it was before the mission! And I didn't think that was possible!"
I didn't know I was going to say it till the words were out of my mouth. "I know what's pissing you off. Daniel saving that woman was a blatant slap in the face. An outright criticism of your behaviour. Wasn't it? That's what's got you so riled up."
He stared. "What?"
Too late to back out now. "You were going to let her jump. Let her kill herself. Daniel --"
"Oh, here we go," said Jack, scathingly. Thumped down the stairs and started to pace. "Spare me, for Christ's sake. We weren't on a family picnic. We were in hostile territory. Spying. If they'd been real goa'ulds we'd be dead or worse by now. I had more to worry about than the life of one person. I was responsible for the lives of my team, and everyone on Earth who would have been at risk if we'd been taken by the enemy. One life against billions. You gonna sit there and tell me you wouldn't let one person die to save billions?"
"This isn't about me, Jack," I said quietly. "And you haven't answered the question."
He slammed his fist against the closest wall. "What gives him the right to judge me? To judge me, for fuck's sake? He's only walking around breathing free air because of me, and all the people like me, who've bled to keep him safe. What, does he think it's easy being in command? Does he think I enjoy making those kinds of decisions? Jesus Christ! Does he think I'm some kind of a murderer?"
"I don't know, Jack," I said. "Why don't you ask him?"
He jerked like someone who's just been shot. Turned away, fingertips touched to the wall. He said, distantly, "We were there to observe. That was it. No interaction with the indigenous population. I made that perfectly clear before we left. Daniel chose to disregard my instructions. Now he can wear the consequences. Like the rest of us had to."
I said, gently, "You don't think he's been punished enough already?"
"No," he said baldly. "Not nearly enough."
I didn't know what to say. I'm still not sure if he meant it. Or whether he just wanted to mean it. Spoke out of hurt, and the human need to lash out at whoever caused the pain. God knows, I know what that's like.
He said, "I'm pretty beat, Janet. Thanks for dinner."
I stood. Pulled my car keys out of my pocket and jangled them on the end of my finger. "Will you at least think about what I've said? Please?"
"Drive carefully," said Jack. "Give Cass a hug for me."
I sighed. "Yeah. Sure. Good night, Jack. See you tomorrow."
Safely home, I made myself a coffee, added a generous dollop of brandy, took a couple of painkillers and went to bed. Feeling like a failure. Crushed with uncertainty. Brimful of unshed tears. I replayed our duet over and over, searching for what I might have said better, or differently, or not at all. Sleep came late, that night.
The next morning, still sore but feeling better, I went in to the base. Daniel had had a quiet night. His vitals looked good. He'd eaten some breakfast. After getting up to speed on the other patients, I went to see him.
"Doctor Fraiser," he said. "Hi." Still subdued. Haunted. But his colour was better, and he'd been reading a book. "How's your shoulder?"
"It's fine. I told you. Stop worrying about that," I said.
"Have you seen Jack this morning?"
"No," I said. "I haven't."
He looked away. Picked at the unravelled binding on the spine of his book. "Neither have I. Have you spoken to him?"
"Today? No."
"At all?"
I hesitated. What to say? How much more to interfere? I had the awful feeling that last night hadn't made any difference at all.
"Please," said Daniel. "You have to help me."
"How?" I asked him. "What is it you think I can do?"
"I don't know!" Daniel said, and threw the book on a nearby chair so hard that he loosened the pages. "Jack's avoiding me. I know he is. How am I supposed to fix this if he won't even see me?"
"Daniel ..." I took a deep breath. "Maybe you should just let things happen as they happen. Don't try and force the issue. Healing takes time. Like the song says: let it be."
"But I have to -- to apologise, I have to let him know how sorry I am that --"
I rested my hand on his shoulder. "Daniel. He knows."
Daniel swallowed. "So what you're saying is, it's not enough. God! What do you think I'd give to undo this? To make things so it never happened? I know he's angry. Of course he is. I understand that. But if he'd just give me a chance, if he'd hear me out --"
"He will," I said, hoping like hell that I was right. "But it'll be when he's ready, Daniel. Not before."
"When? When will he be ready? And what am I supposed to do in the meantime? Am I off the team? Off the project? Should I just go home and wait for a phone call? I don't know what to do!"
"Well, you could try shutting up and listening," a dry voice said from behind us. "Doctor Fraiser has been known to give good advice, now and then."
Jack. Looking tired. Sleepless. Chaos behind the guarded eyes. But he was here. Against every expectation, he was here.
"Good morning, Colonel," I said.
"Good morning, Doctor," he replied. Smiled a grim little smile. "Doctors."
"Jack ..." said Daniel. Faintly. Looking like he wanted to dive under the covers and stay there for a week.
"I wonder if you could give Daniel and me a few moments alone," said Jack. So cool. So collected. Professional to his fingertips. Like this was about discussing ball point pen requisitions.
Well. Two could play at that game. "Certainly," I said. "I should be getting along anyway, I have rounds. Colonel, once you and Daniel have concluded your business, I'd appreciate it if you could stop by my office. Some unfinished business, you understand."
"I'll do my best," said Jack. Meaning not a hope in hell, lady. We'd see about that.
"I'll be back to see you later, Daniel," I said, opting for a dignified retreat. "Try to remember, Colonel, that Daniel is still convalescent?"
"How could I forget?" said Jack, sweetly.
Daniel flinched.
I tell you, there's almost nothing I wouldn't have done to be a fly on the wall in that room. Jack's never told me what was said. According to Sam, Daniel's never breathed a word to her, either. As I started to pull the door closed behind me, I had no idea if this was a beginning, or an end.
Then I heard Daniel say, brokenly, "Jack. God, Jack. Where do I start?"
And Jack reply, in a voice I'd never heard before ... haven't heard since ... "Jesus Christ. Danny...."
That's when I was sure, for the first time really sure, that in the end, everything would be all right.
And it was. In the end. In time. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't always pretty. Jack is a hard taskmaster, and Daniel's penance was often painful. But he survived it, and he's stronger now. Just as Jack intended.
Being cruel to be kind ... it's something else we have in common.
So. The fences are all mended. And if they don't look exactly the same as they did before, if there's a crack showing here, a little shakiness there ... well. I consider us damned lucky. Some fences never get mended at all. I'm not complaining.
Well. Not much. Not often.
And only to Sam, when we've both had one glass of wine too many. Like I say ... there's no point playing the 'if only' game.
It'll only drive you crazy.