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.
For the next six hours, I tag teamed the last of the base counselling sessions with Eric Avery, one of our on-call psychiatrists. It's exhausting work, listening to other people's griefs and fears and trepidations. And when you're hearing the same themes over and over again, as we were, it's easy to start worrying. But in this case, I had good cause. The blow up in the mess hall was just the tip of the proverbial ice berg. People were afraid. Uncertain. They were questioning the work, the risks, the dangers. Each other. It hadn't been this bad before, not even during the Apophis crisis. I think because nobody died, then, and we had a brilliant victory snatched from the very teeth of defeat. We had four good guys, and no bad guys and none of it could be seen as anybody's fault.
This time was different. This time we were the bad guys, and it was our fault, and people died.
My heart was heavy as I typed a preliminary report for the General, and had it sent up to him for appraisal. Once I'd finished that, I went for a wander around the Infirmary. The nature of the work means we usually have at least one guest at any given time. That day, apart from Jack, we had Helen Garver from SG11 recovering from a septic wound, SG2's Juan Chavez with a broken ankle and Mick Lee from SG7 getting over an allergic reaction to an alien plant. They all had people with them, chatting quietly. I've given up trying to police visiting hours. SG team members are welded at the hip. Wound one and they all bleed. So we just work around the visitors, and only kick them out if its absolutely necessary.
When I finally got around to checking on Jack, surprise, surprise: Sam, Daniel and Teal'c were warming chairs in his room. I stood in the doorway, unnoticed, and watched them. Jack asleep, twitching a little. Dreaming. Daniel, pencil in hand, muttering under his breath as he scribbled notes in the margins of whatever textbook he was devouring this time. In all the time I've known him, I don't think I've ever seen him with a novel. Sam was flicking through the latest issue of Popular Science. Teal'c was frowning over something, paperback dwarfed in his hand.
He looked up. "I do not trust this Gandalf," he announced.
Lowering her magazine, Sam said, "But Teal'c, Gandalf is one of the good guys. Really."
"He is cryptic," said Teal'c. "He knows more than he is telling."
"His middle name's probably Jack," said Daniel, still scribbling.
Sam shot him an amused look, and said, "Gandalf's a wizard, Teal'c. It's kind of a package deal, comes with the robes and pointy hat."
Teal'c stared at the book. "I do not recall mention of a pointy hat --" he began.
Sam was laughing. "Metaphor, Teal'c, metaphor. Just -- keep reading. He's okay, I promise."
Teal'c looked unconvinced, but he lifted the book again, willing to give it another try on her say so. Between them, Jack grunted. Flung one arm out. His face twisted, and his head thrashed on the pillow.
"Frank!" he gasped, and sat bolt upright, eyes wide and staring, breath rasping in his throat.
Two books and a magazine hit the floor.
"Jack, its okay -- its okay." Daniel. Reaching out his hand.
Jack knocked it aside. Fell back against the pillows. "No," he said. His voice was dull. Blunted. "It's not." And covered his face.
Silently they drew close to him. Sam sat half way down the bed and took his free hand in hers. Daniel crouched at his shoulder, cradling the back of his head in his palm. Teal'c stood by his feet, fingers lightly upon his ankle. The only sound was Jack's ragged breathing, pressured and raw and perilously close to breaking.
Daniel said, so gently, "Jack. We know about Frank."
There was no mistaking his meaning. Jack stiffened. Said from behind his sheltering hand, "What do you mean, you know?"
Sam, chafing his fingers gently, said, "We're very sorry, sir."
"Very sorry," echoed Teal'c.
Jack didn't order them out. Didn't pull free of their touch. He just lay there, stone still and silent, accepting what he couldn't ask for.
Until that moment, I really had thought Hammond was wrong to do what he did.
I closed the door and left them alone.
When I stopped by to see him the next morning, he was out of bed. Dressed. In a chair. Reading some kind of report. Whatever it was, he wasn't enjoying it. His expression was grim.
"Good morning," I said. "I don't recall authorising you to get out of bed, or requisition official documents. You're still concussed."
"I'm fine," he replied, curtly, and tossed the folder onto the neatly made bed. "Who told my team about Cromwell? Was it you?"
I closed the door behind me. Pushed my hands into my pockets and came a little further into the room. "No. It was the General."
"Hammond." He made the name sound ugly.
"Colonel, before you fly off the handle, I want you to listen to me," I said. "He's worried about you. We're all worried. Losing Hank, SG10. Colonel Cromwell. None of us is blind, you know, we can see that you're taking this badly, and --"
"Christ," said Jack. "Why would I do that?"
"Be fair," I said. "He cares --"
"Fair?" Jack interrupted, rigid with anger. "Tell me what's fair about any of this, Doctor! Five people dead, five good people, and for what? For nothing. What the hell are we doing, anyway? What's the point? Stargates and alien races and running around the galaxy playing Flash Gordon and Star Wars?" Slumping in the chair, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes. Said softly, all fire quenched, "What's the damned point , Janet?"
Uncertain, I stared at him. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I don't want to do this anymore," Jack replied. His voice was liquid with despair. "I'm saying I'm tired of people dying. I'm tired of my friends dying. It was fun for a while, and now its not. Okay? That's what I'm saying."
I didn't know how to respond. Opened my mouth anyway ... and realised we weren't alone. The door was open, and General Hammond was standing behind me with a strange look on his face. Shock and sorrow and grim determination, all at once. "Colonel. Doctor Fraiser."
I stared hard at him. Hoped he could read the warning signs I was flashing. Hear the red alert in my voice. "General."
He looked worn. Uniform jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, he came into the room, pushed the door closed and said, "How are you feeling, Jack?"
Jack sat up. His eyes were hard and cold. "You sonofabitch. How dare you divulge information about me to my team without consent?"
Hammond didn't miss a beat, which is more than I can say for my heart. Reasonably, ignoring the insubordinate venom, he said, "I did what I thought was best, for you and your team. And this facility."
"You had no right," Jack said, on his feet now. "If I'd wanted them to know I would have told them myself. What I feel about Frank Cromwell --" His voice betrayed him. Gratingly, he finished. "--is my business, and nobody else's."
Hammond marched to the end of the bed and glared across it at Jack. "Sorry, Colonel, but that's where you're wrong. What you feel about the weather is everybody's business, because you're not in the habit of keeping your opinions to yourself. In my considerably experienced judgement, your team had a right to know what was going on behind the scenes, and if I thought for one moment that you'd tell them yourself, I never would have opened my mouth. But we both know that wasn't about to happen, don't we?"
"Maybe it would have and maybe it wouldn't," said Jack. "Either way, it wasn't your decision to make. It was mine."
Hammond held his ground. "I disagree."
"So what exactly did you tell them?" Jack demanded.
"What they needed to know," Hammond replied. "Nothing more."
"Like what?"
I cleared my throat. Time for a little damage control, before things got said that would come back to haunt us all. "Just that you and Colonel Cromwell served together in the Gulf. That as a result of a compromised mission you were captured and held prisoner by the Iraqi.... and that your friendship with Cromwell ended because of it. That was all, Colonel. No -- details."
Slowly Jack turned his head to look at me. The expression on his face pushed me back two paces and into another chair. One leg was missing its rubber stopper; the scrape of metal on linoleum was loud. "You were there?" he asked, softly. "And you allowed it?"
"I -- had my doubts at the time," I said, chin up, hands fisted in my coat pockets to stop the shaking. "But now I think --"
He looked away, and I ceased to exist.
It's what he did to Frank Cromwell for seven years ... what he did to Daniel, for a much shorter period. Hey presto: now you see us ... now you don't.
It's not an experience I'd recommend.
"Don't blame Dr Fraiser," said the General. "It was my decision. My doing."
"Then God damn you," said Jack, as quietly vicious as ever I've heard him. "God damn you to hell. Sir."
"I'm sure He'll take the recommendation under advisement," said the General. "In the meantime, you think on this, son. I've been watching you for more than two years, now. I know how you operate. It's the way you've always operated. When the going gets tough, you walk. Oh, I'm not talking about physical courage. You've got that. No question. But emotionally? You're a ninety pound weakling who gets sand kicked in his face. You walked out on Frank Cromwell. You walked out on your marriage. You damn near walked out on your own life. You wanted to walk out of here last year when we thought Jackson was dead. And now we've lost SG10, and the Air Force has lost Frank Cromwell, and here you are getting ready to lace on your walking shoes again. Well, you can throw them back in your locker, airman, because you're not going anywhere. Your team needs you. I need you. We're staring down the barrel of a major morale crisis and whether you like it or not, folks in this place will be looking to you for a lead. I won't have you leading them out the front door."
Chalk white, unflinching, Jack held Hammond's gaze. With deceptive calm he said, "I can do whatever I want."
"Not in my Air Force you can't," Hammond retorted. "You want to know what the point is, Colonel? I'll tell you. The point is that Senator Kinsey was right. Nearly four years ago we did indeed open Pandora's box. Actually, you opened it. You and Daniel and Sam and Catherine ... the whole damned lot of you. You got that Stargate operational and you went through it and you changed the course of human history. So now, instead of enjoying my well earned retirement teaching my granddaughters the finer points of fly fishing, I am spending my twilight years lurching from crisis to crisis, flying by the seat of my pants, trying to keep a lid on everything from alien invasions to deadly viruses to renegade black holes! And if you think I'm doing it without you, then you can think again."
"So quit, if you hate it so much, " said Jack.
"Trust me, Colonel, trust me: there are days when I wish I could. But I swore an oath to protect this country, and I keep my promises," the General retorted. "Henry Boyd and his team swore that same oath. So did Frank Cromwell. They died doing what they believed in. They died in the service of their country. Their ... planet. So here's the thing, Colonel. How are you going to honour their memories? By walking away? Or by upholding the oath you swore. By finishing what you started. You think about it." He turned on his heel and marched out, snapping the door shut behind him.
Almost too shocked to breathe, I stared after him. Stared at Jack, whose face was a blank mask. "I'll -- I'll be right back," I stammered, and left.
I caught up with the General half way down the corridor. Ducked in front of him so he couldn't get past, and stared up at him, fists planted on my hips. "That -- that --" I took a deep breath. "That was cruel."
All the belligerence and righteous anger were gone. Hammond looked old, and tired, and inexpressibly sad. "Yes, Doctor. I know."
I wasn't expecting that. Nonplussed, I shook my head. "Sir -- what did you expect? You must have known he'd be furious when he found out."
He nodded. "Furious I'm used to. Furious I can deal with. What I can't deal with right now is Jack O'Neill in a full blown depression."
"Why General, I wasn't aware you had a degree in psychiatry," I said, way too angry to care about protocol.
His lips pinched at that, but he let it go. "I know I was hard on him. I didn't have any choice. I fly to Washington on Saturday for my meeting with the President and the Joint Chiefs. God alone knows how long its going to take me to rescue the Project from annihilation after this latest fiasco. Or even if I can. But no matter what happens in that meeting, I have to know that while I'm away, this facility isn't going to fall into a heap. I have to know that Jack O'Neill is here, on his feet and functioning in his capacity as second in command, and the fastest way I know to achieve that right now is to make him mad. You know damned well we're facing a morale crisis, Doctor, you wrote the report! I need him to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. If I'd thought all he needed was to break a few windows, I'd have given him my car. Hell, I'd have given him both! But its a damned sight more serious than that this time, and you know it."
"General, I fail to see what my report has to do with what I just saw and heard," I snapped. "Jack O'Neill has just lost two very close friends and three other people he worked with on a daily basis. What he needs is the room to grieve in his own way, in his own time. And if that means he gets to be depressed for a week, or two weeks, or a month, I --"
The General held up his hand. "Right now I can't afford to care about what he needs. What I need is more important." The shock must have shown in my face, because he reached out and touched my arm. Lightly. Softened his voice, and his face. "You're a good doctor, Janet. You care about your patients. I appreciate that. I rely on it. But I am Commander of this base.This project. And I have an obligation to everybody here, to this country, to this planet, God help me, to see that nothing and nobody compromises the work that we do. Not even Jack O'Neill."
"Even though," I said, grittily, "he has just bought the safety of this base, this country, this planet, with his own blood and pain? Again?"
That hit home. For a moment the General couldn't speak. Then he pulled a wry face. Shifted his briefcase into his other hand, and flexed his fingers. "Ordinarily I'd agree with you," he said. "No argument. But look around you, Doctor. This isn't an ordinary place, and we don't lead ordinary lives. If you think I enjoy this, you do me a grave disservice."
Against my will, I could feel the anger draining away. "I don't, sir. Believe me. But --"
"Doctor Fraiser," he said. "Are you going to stand there and tell me that when Jack O'Neill catches cold, the rest of this place doesn't sneeze?"
I glared. "No. But --"
"There are no buts, Doctor. Sometimes we have the luxury of sending our wounded to the hospital where they can be treated properly, in comfort. And sometimes we patch them up as best we can on the battlefield and send them right back into the fray. By telling his friends what was behind his unhappiness, so that they can give him the help and support he needs, I did the best patching job I could, in the time I had available. End of story. I'm sorry if he doesn't like my first aid, but its just too bad."
I straightened my spine. "I wasn't aware we were at war, General."
His smile was kind, and reproving, and sorrowful. "Weren't you?" he asked softly. And walked away.
When I went back to Jack's room, I discovered that he'd locked the door. Which meant nothing, of course, since I had a key. But I'm not stupid. I can take a hint when it lands on me with both feet. I briefed the nursing staff, told them not to say anything when they did their next rounds, but to make sure the door was left unlocked. Then, exhausted and mindful of all the overtime I'd been putting in, I called in Bill Warner and went home. Took a hot shower and fell into bed to sleep until Cass came home from school. But not before I double checked in the mirror to make sure I really was still there.
As luck would have it -- I'll let you decide if it was good or bad -- I was rostered on at the Academy Hospital for the next four days. I stayed away from the base. Checked in with Bill to make sure Jack's recovery was progressing normally. It was. I didn't call Jack, or go round to see him. Concussions need a lot of peace and quiet, you know. And I was busy. And of course he needed space, to -
God. Who am I kidding?
In two and a bit years we'd progressed from being friendly colleagues to close friends. And then, within the space of sixty seconds, I'd ceased to exist. Just like that.
I'll be honest: it hurt. A lot. And I'll admit it , I was angry. Damn him! After everything we'd been through. All the times I'd patched him up and sewn him together and ... saved his life.
I know, I know. It's my job to save his life, just like its his job to risk it. He didn't owe me anything. I suppose you could say that I owed him. An apology. For being a co-conspirator in the violation of his privacy.
But dammit, we did it for him. Because we knew he wouldn't do it for himself. We did it because we care.
And I'll be damned if ever I apologise for caring.
So for four days I did my rounds at the USAF Academy Hospital with one ear cocked for the sound of the telephone, ringing. The doorbell, chiming. Knuckles rapping briefly on my office door. Hoping against hope that without noticing I'd suddenly become visible again.
No ring. No chime. No rap.
Cassie asked me what was wrong. I told her, nothing. She looked at me in that quaintly adult way of hers. Patted my hand, and made me a cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. I swear, sometimes she acts like she's the mother and I'm the child. I thanked her, and sent her outside to play with Jack-the-dog so I could snivel in private. Which I did.
Like the song says: You don't know what you've got till its gone.
I hear you, Joni.
Sam came by to tell me that General was back, and the Project was safe, and that everyone seemed to be getting over the whole debacle okay. Makepeace had even apologised, after which she'd had to go and lie down for a while, to recover. Jack seemed fine. He'd thanked them for their concern, which was unnecessary -- of course -- and then was scarce as he took over from Hammond while the General was in DC. The subjects of Frank Cromwell and SG10 and who knew what about which, and how, weren't raised.
What a surprise.
After dinner on the night before the Base memorial service for SG10, Cassie and I were doing the dishes. Me washing, her drying. The dishwasher was broken and I hadn't had time to get in a repairman. We were almost finished when Jack-the-dog leapt to his feet, barking. A moment later we heard the sound of tyres scrunching on the gravel out front.
"Go see who it is, would you, honey," I said. "I'm all sudsy."
"Okay," Cass said, and bounced out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door with Jack-the-dog at her heels, yelping his excitement. I heard the door open. Jack-the-dog's welcoming bark. Cassie's delighted cry of, "Colonel Jack! Hi!"
Jack. Heart thumping, I let the water of out of the sink, dried my hands, and turned around as my daughter and her friend clumped back into the kitchen.
I say clumped because they were doing their favourite thing again. Cassie calls it playing circuses. Jack calls it valuable gymnastic training. I call it downright dangerous, but hey, I'm only the mother. What do I know?
Shrieking with laughter, bare toes wriggling in Jack's face, ankles clasped in his firm hands, her own fingers anchored to his running shoes, Cassie hung with her face scant inches from the floor and loudly encouraged him in their mutual lunacy.
"Do the goosestep, Colonel, do the goosestep!"
Jack pretended to stagger. "You're getting too heavy for me to do the goosestep," he protested.
"I am not either," said Cassie, and bounced up and down like a vertical stick insect. "Do the goosestep! Please?"
So Jack paraded around my island bench in a solemn goosestep, while Cassie sang breathless snatches of 76 Trombones, loudly and offkey.
"Okay," said Jack, after the third circumnavigation. "That's it. I'm an old man, I can do no more."
Cassie let go of his feet. He lifted her a little higher and swung her gently from side to side, inciting more mirth. Jack-the-dog was practically blue in the face from barking and leaping hysterically every time she went by.
One last big swing and he had her in his arms, safe and tight, and hers were clasped around his neck, and her legs were limpet-like about his waist, and I don't know who was hugging who the tightest. Cassie, leaning back, pink cheeked and starry eyed, said, "Where have you been? I haven't seen you for ever."
Jack shrugged. "Oh, well, you know. Work."
She snorted. "Huh. You mean hospital. Again. Janet said. I wanted to come visit you but she said you were asleep." She made it sound highly unlikely.
He nodded. He still hadn't looked at me. "I kind of hit my head. That can make you pretty sleepy."
Cassie put on her scolding face. Wagged an admonishing finger. "I thought I told you to be more careful?"
"Sorry, ma'am," said Jack.
Intently she stared into his eyes. Reached out her small hand and laid it against his cheek. It was a searingly grown-up gesture. "I'm sorry, too. About your friends. Janet said."
I winced, but still Jack didn't look at me. He just took Cassie's hand in his own, one arm supporting her weight, and kissed her fingers. "Thanks, Cass," he said. "I appreciate that."
"Cassandra," I said gently. "Time for bed."
She heaved a huge, I¹m-soooo-put-upon sigh, but didn't argue. Grinned at Jack. "Tuck me in?"
He pretended to think about it. Said grudgingly, "Oh, all right. I suppose so. If I have to."
"And tell me a story?"
"Tell you a story?" echoed Jack. "Hell's bells and buckets of blood! And what are you going to do for me, then?"
"Be your girlfriend for ever and ever," said Cass.
"Oh," said Jack. "Okay. I can live with that." He headed for the door, Jack-the-dog at his heels. "Which story?"
"Umm," said Cass, as they wandered away down the hall. "The one about the time you got back at the school bully by painting the rabbit poo and making him think it was candy."
"Again?" Jack's voice demanded. "Cassandra Fraiser, is there something you're not telling me?"
As their conspiratorial giggles faded upstairs, I turned back to the business of cleaning up. By the time Jack came back to the kitchen the second lot of washing up was done, the dishes dried, the benches wiped down and Cass's lunch was made up and in the fridge.
"She's asleep," he said, hesitating in the doorway.
I turned from my contemplation of the moonlit garden beyond the kitchen window. Enquired delicately: "Rabbit poo? Just what are you teaching my daughter, Colonel?"
"Vital lessons in tactics and strategy," Jack replied promptly. "Besides. He deserved it."
"He?"
"Billy McGrath."
"Ah," I said. "The school bully?"
"The same."
I turned away. Reached into a cupboard and pulled out the Laphroaig and two glasses. Held them up. "Drink?"
He nodded. "Sure."
So we sat at the kitchen table, and sipped the smokey malt, and listened to the moths batter at the window.
"Bill Warner says you've made a good recovery," I said, after five minutes had stretched to ten. Ten to fifteen. Fifteen to nearly twenty.
"Yeah," he said. "Not bad."
"Headaches?"
"Some."
"You taking anything?"
"Mmm," he said, which meant no.
I didn't bother arguing. Just rolled my eyes and reached for the bottle. "More?"
He shook his head, regretful. It was very good whiskey. "Better not."
So I poured myself another half inch, and nursed it. Waited for him to say something. Anything. For once I didn't feel like being the first to go.
Eventually he said, staring at his fingernails, "I know you meant well."
I waited for the next part of the sentence. Waited some more. Said finally, patiently, "But?"
He looked up. "I don't have to say it. You know."
I took a mouthful of whiskey. Let it sit on my tongue for a moment. Swallowed. "Yes."
"My relationship with Frank Cromwell was private and personal," he said. "Not for public consumption."
I sat back in the chair. "Well if that's true, why did you go out of your way to let everyone within earshot know you had a beef with him?"
He stared. "What?"
"You were rude to him in front of me. Sam. General Hammond. God knows who else. You might just as well have taken out an ad, Jack."
He shoved away from the table. Paced the length of the kitchen and fetched up against the sink to stare into the moonsoaked night. I shifted around in my chair to watch him.
"I--" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "You know my file. Probably better than I know it myself by now. You know what happened in Iraq."
"Unfortunately I do, yes," I said.
"Those are the facts. Who did what, to which bits, and how many times. But the file won't tell you what it was like." His gaze remained steadily on the garden. "And I can't. I can't talk about that, Janet. Not to you. Not to anybody."
He didn't have to. His face, enmeshed in nightmare, had already told me everything I needed to know. More than I ever wanted.
"We knew what the Iraqis would do to us if we got caught," said Jack. "We talked about it. Frank promised, he promised, that no matter what, nobody would be left behind. He promised he'd shoot us himself before he let any of us get taken. We believed him. And then he left me there." He turned a little, and I caught a glimpse of his face. It was haunted. "Afterwards, people kept asking me, how did you do it? How did you beat them? How did you survive? And I told them, I was well trained. Or, my family. Or, knowing my buddies back at HQ were counting on me." He smiled. "Lies." Turned away again. "It was hate."
I felt my throat constrict. "He thought you were dead, Jack."
"He thought wrong", said Jack. And flinched.
"What?" I said. "Are you okay?"
He nodded. Was silent for some time before speaking again. "Frank said that what he did to me in Iraq was the same as what I did to Hank."
"Well, he was wrong," I said quietly. "Because you didn't do anything to Hank."
"Yeah, I did," said Jack. "I killed him."
I opened my mouth to argue. Thought about it. Sighed. Said, "So you killed him. So now what?"
That got a reaction. Jack jerked away from the window and stared at me, shocked. "You think I killed him?"
I shrugged. Remembered the look on his face, in his eyes, as he made me disappear. "I think its pretty clear that you don't care what I think."
I watched the words sink in. Their meaning strike home. He said, "I was angry."
"Oh," I said. "Well. Sure. That makes it okay, then."
"You're hurt."
I lifted my glass. "Give the man a kewpie doll."
"You don't think I had the right to be pissed off about you and Hammond telling everyone about ... stuff?"
"Well, for one thing it wasn't 'everyone', it was Daniel and Sam and Teal'c," I pointed out. "And for another, it wasn't a joint operation. He called me and the team into his office at the same time and just started talking. There was nothing I could do."
Jack chewed his lip. "I didn't know that."
"You didn't ask."
He turned around. Leaned against the sink with his hands buried in his pockets. Jeans and a sweatshirt and a glint of stubble: what I've come to think of as his recuperation outfit. There were smudges beneath his eyes and the lines in his face were carved a little deeper than before.
"Do you want to know what I think?" I asked.
He shrugged and nodded: ambivalence personified.
I said, "Okay. Here's what I think. I think Frank Cromwell had a split second to make a decision. I think he decided to save his team instead of risking them for someone he thought was already dead. I think he probably wanted to die himself when he found out he was wrong. I think he hurt every day of every week of every month of the last seven years because of it. I think you were wrong not to see him. I think you probably know that now, because you've led your own teams for the past six years and you've made some tough calls that weren't always appreciated and you've lost one or two men of your own and suddenly its not so black and white any more. I think you were blinded by your own pain, and then when you finally began to understand things from his point of view, you were too stubborn to admit it. Too pigheaded to make the first move. And now he's gone, and he's not coming back, and the things you thought you'd say to him one day ... one day when it suited you ... they're just smoke on the wind."
If ever there was a time I thought I'd see him cry, it was then. His face was glazed with anguish. His whole body a muted scream of pain. It was a frozen moment, one I can still see when I close my eyes at the end of the day. When I am sorrowed or weary to my bones or overcome with other griefs.
Eventually it passed, and he was able to speak again.
"He sent flowers to Charlie's funeral," he said. "Sara wanted me to call him. Say thanks. Say something. Anything. She never stopped trying to get us talking again. But by then it was way past too late. By then I wasn't talking to anyone, not even her."
I got up from the table, leaving the whiskey behind. Moved quietly to lean against the island bench opposite him. "I'll say this once, and then I won't mention it again because I know it makes you uncomfortable. I am desperately, desperately sorry about Frank's death. And Hank's, and the rest of SG10. I wish there was something I could say, or do, to make the pain go away. We all do. But there's not. It just has to be lived through, one day at a time. Nobody knows that better than you. Just don't forget that you have people who care about you, and who are hurting for you. Don't make the same mistake twice, Jack. Don't shut out the ones who care."
Silence, as Jack struggled for self-control, and won. He said, "You'll be at the service, tomorrow?"
"Of course."
"Sam said there was nothing we could have done to save them."
"Well," I said, "I don't even pretend to understand all this business about black holes and gravity wells and relativity and time dilation, but if Sam says it was hopeless, I believe her."
"I know. So do I. " He shook his head. "God. I gave him every trick in my book. Taught him everything I ever knew. Everything Frank taught me. And it still wasn't enough." His face tightened.
Gently I said, "People die, Jack. You do everything right. You pull out the bullets, you stitch them together, you replace the lost blood, give them a new heart, even. Whatever it takes. They still die. So what do you do? Kill yourself? Give up? Walk away? And then what happens to the next one you could have saved, if you'd been there?"
Silently he pushed away from the sink. Reached out his arms and wrapped them around me. His heart beat hard and strong beneath my cheek. Muffled against his sweatshirt I said, "Jack?"
"Janet?"
"Go home. You look like hell."
He laughed. Released me and stepped back. "Yes, ma'am."
"And take a damned Tylenol, would you? Stop being a martyr."
"Yes, ma'am," he repeated. Dropped a kiss on my hair, and dimmed my kitchen with his leaving.
SG10's memorial service was scheduled for 1400. Of course, their family stuff had already been taken care of, elsewhere, days earlier. This one was for us, for the people who knew what they really did. How they really died. What their sacrifice truly meant.
I didn't talk to Jack before the official ceremony. Saw him from a distance a few times, crisp and as always strangely unfamiliar in his dress uniform. I caught a glimpse of him at one point in deep discussion with the General. It looked amicable, so clearly they'd moved on, too. I'd get around to asking him, sooner or later.
By the time the service was due to start, the gateroom was full to bursting. The overflow was crowded into the control room and the briefing room, pressed against the brand new glass, looking down at the proceedings. Blue light from the open Gate rippled over all our faces.
Jack was the last person to speak. Sombre but relaxed, he stood at the microphone, hands resting lightly on the lectern, and gazed around the packed room.
"This isn't the first time we've gathered here like this," he told the silent crowd. "And it won't be the last. What we do is difficult and dangerous. It costs lives. Nobody knew that better than Hank Boyd and his team. But Hank never was one to turn away from a challenge. Neither were Mark and Abby and Phil." He paused. Swept us all with a measuring gaze. "You all know that Hank and I went back a few years. I recommended him for the Stargate project. I nominated him as a team leader. I suggested his team for the mission that cost them their lives. It was supposed to be a routine recon. Nobody expected trouble." His lips curved in a brief, sardonic smile. "Nobody ever does. So when it snaps us in the ass, we're surprised. We're angry. Hurt. We wonder what the hell we're doing here, anyway. I know I've asked myself that question these past few days." Another pause. I saw him find Sam and Daniel and Teal'c in the second row, and his eyes softened, just for a moment. He said, "But as a very wise, very tough man once told me ..." His gaze flickered left, to where General Hammond was sitting with the visiting brass. "... when we opened the Stargate we opened a Pandora's box, and someone has to keep the lid on it. Today, its our turn to be that someone. I think we could do worse than follow in the footsteps of Hank Boyd, Abby Hunt, Mark Tyler and Phil Brooks. God bless them and keep them in the palm of His hand, until we meet again."
He stepped down from the lectern. The pipers played Taps. I cried. I wasn't the only one. Jack and General Hammond sent a wreath through the Gate. It shut down.
The service was over.
Someone, Graham Simmons probably, patched an Ella Fitzgerald CD through the loudspeaker, and 'Stairway to the Stars' rolled around the cavernous gateroom. The ordered ranks broke up, milled and roiled and communed. I caught Sam's eye, waved. She threaded her way through the packed bodies and kissed my cheek: a measure of her distress.
"Hi," I said. "How are you doing?"
"I'm okay," she replied. "You?"
"Yeah. Okay. You know." We exchanged rueful smiles.
"Uh huh..." she said. Then she straightened as a hand landed on my shoulder. "Colonel."
"Sam," said Jack.
She smiled. "That was really nice, what you said."
He offered her a little bow. "Thank you."
With a glance from his face to mine, she said, "Well, if you two would excuse me, I have to go find Teal'c. We're going to the theatre tonight and there's something I have to tell him, before I forget."
My eyebrows lifted. "Not Les Mis?"
"Yeah. It seemed a shame to waste the tickets."
I considered the prospect with a kind of horrified fascination. "Do they even have musicals on Chulak?"
Sam smiled. "Apparently not."
"Oh," I said. "To be a fly on the wall ..."
"I'll tell you all about it tomorrow," she said. Waggled her fingers. "Bye."
"Have fun," said Jack. Watched her for a few moments, staring over my head, then said, "I'm going out of town for a few days. Frank's funeral is the day after tomorrow."
"That's late. "
He shrugged. "Yeah. Some family thing. I don't know."
"And afterwards?"
"I thought I'd take a drive."
"Where to?"
"Wherever the road leads me."
"But you're coming back," I said.
"Oh yeah," he replied, and smiled. "I'm coming back."
We never talked about Frank again. I have no idea if they managed to patch things up during their brief reunion. I don't think even Daniel dared to ask that one, so I guess we'll never know. We talked about Hank, though, and the others. All of us. Held a wake, without breaking any windows this time. Kept on bowling every Saturday we could manage, competing for the inaugural Hank Boyd Challenge Trophy. Held a pizza party the first Tuesday night of the month, same as always ...
I don't know who started the thing about leaving one piece of pepperoni pizza in the box. I suspect it was Jack, but that's something else I'll never ask him. For one thing I doubt he'd admit it. For another ... it doesn't really matter. Pizza in the box, no pizza in the box ... in the end its just window dressing.
Hank will always be with us ... every time Jack laughs.