With Sword and Salt
Written for the Stargate Legends 2011 Screencap Challenge. Cum gladio et sale—”with sword and salt”—the salary of a soldier in Roman times, and the origin of the word salary.
Part 1
Jack’s weapon was hot in his hands; spent brass littering the floor of the sub and the damn bugs just kept on coming. He gritted his teeth and fired, mind ticking off the options for escape and finding… none. He flicked a piercing gaze at Teal’c and saw the solemn comprehension on the warrior’s face. Time was up. They’d saved the world—again—but there’d be no miraculous escape this time. No alien intervention. No magical healing. He backed slowly along the narrow corridor, the clicking of mechanical feet echoing from the sub’s metal bulkheads all around him.
“Prepare to blow this thing,” he muttered bitterly into the mike. The anchor cable had snapped, the sub was heading out to sea, a time bomb of replicators waiting to go off when they got to land. And, frankly, he’d rather go out with a big ass bang than screaming in a corner while the bugs ate him up bite by bite.
Daniel’s voice in his ear was desperate, tenacious, and stubborn in a way that Jack would sorely miss. He couldn’t help a quick smile. Daniel’s appendix had ruptured at just the right time—nearly killing the guy while keeping him from this deathly hell hole. He nodded to himself. Carter and Daniel—the brain trust of the SGC. At least they would survive. He and Teal’c? The brawn. Eh, they’d always known they’d go down fighting. Teal’c would no doubt call it ‘the way of the warrior’ or some other crap; Jack just recognized the inevitable cost of a violent life.
Now if he could just convince his soft-hearted and hard-headed teammate. The man who fought for naked white guys who couldn’t speak and annoying fat men who only lived in their brains. ‘Never Say Die’—at least not for long—’Jackson’. Jack tore the helmet from his head and snarled directly into the camera’s lens.
“Listen to me. We are not getting out of here. Mission accomplished. Blow it!” Do it, Daniel. He spared another moment to try to communicate everything from ‘Good-bye,’ to ‘Dammit, Daniel, follow my order, just this one time!’ to… something infinitely deeper with one glance.
“Jack!”
Yeah, Danny, I get you, but we don’t have time for this.
“Daniel, please! Before I get eaten alive by these God damn bugs!” Oh, hell, Daniel would never be able to do it—and Jack realized that he could not add this last act to his friend’s already over-burdened conscience. “Davis, give the order!”
He dropped his helmet, muscles tightened to steel cords in his neck as he turned to fire into the massive swarm of bugs. He looked up—Teal’c's dark eyes were calm.
Daniel couldn’t move, couldn’t think—Jack wanted him to… Jack expected him to… He watched the bugs surround them, saw every movement, watched the bullets break against wave after wave of replicators. God, no wonder Thor and his people were so desperate, too busy with their own survival against these things to help Earth when it called. They were relentless, unstoppable, like a tsunami of destruction.
He felt Paul’s tension beside him, the phone pressed to his ear. The skipper of the Dallas was shouting—Daniel could hear his voice leaking around the spot where the receiver was jammed against the major’s skin—demanding the order, the okay to fire. But Daniel knew that, no matter what Jack said, no matter what threats came over the phone lines, Paul would never give the order without Daniel’s okay. He wouldn’t order Jack O’Neill’s death while Daniel, Jack’s best friend and the only member of SG-1 present, sat and watched. He glanced around, sweat pouring down his back—none of them would. The pain in his gut felt like hot pokers.
Lieutenant Baker stood rigidly behind Siler, another phone gripped tightly in one hand. His mouth was open, shouting something about orders, about the Pentagon, but Daniel couldn’t hear him. The sounds in the warehouse spilled together to create a wordless din, cymbals clanging sharp and thunderous, meaningless noise inside his head. All he could see was Jack’s stark white face, all he could hear was the click of metal feet and the explosion of round after round crackling in his headset. And Jack’s voice.
Siler finally grimaced and shoved the angry lieutenant back with one absent-minded brush of his hand, the master sergeant’s eyes still glued to the screen before him.
They were all waiting for Daniel. Waiting for him to see the inevitable, to snap off the last strand of hope, to finally become the blank-faced soldier that Jack and Sam and the general had always wanted him to be. To turn Daniel Jackson into a man who could make the big decisions, who could leave a man to die, who could order his friends’ destruction for the common good. And, suddenly, he couldn’t breathe.
“Okay—okay.”
Was that his voice? Did he… he blinked hard, jaw clenched. He had to see, had to watch, it was the right thing to do. To see Jack’s death… Teal’c's death… to see what his words had brought to reality.
“Fire on target.” Paul’s voice was carefully controlled.
“No! Major Davis, I have new orders!”
Daniel didn’t look up at Baker’s renewed shout.
“Dallas is firing torpedoes.” Siler—stoic, dour. How much did that cost him, Daniel wondered. “Eight seconds to impact.”
Jack and Teal’c were moving closer together, still firing, still fighting. Of course. They’d never stop—and they expected Daniel to understand. He locked his gaze on the grainy images before him. Every motion, every nuance, every quirk of a lip or turn of the head—he had to remember it all. He’d have to tell the general how they died. Tell Sam. Remind them all that they’d died heroes. He stared, never letting his eyes blur with tears. Remind himself every single day of what he’d lost.
“Blackbird attempting evasive maneuvers.”
He didn’t know whether to cheer to groan. Death was coming to his friends either way.
Siler must have done something because Baker had been dragged away. In fact, it seemed to be just the three of them, now. Paul, Siler, and Daniel. He frowned, his face aching, holding back the grief—three witnesses to this… this horror.
“Torpedoes still on target. Two seconds.”
Two seconds. A lifetime. It didn’t matter—it was never enough time to say what needed to be said, what Daniel could never say before, what Jack would never want to hear.
“Direct hit.”
He watched as Jack and Teal’c were thrown to the floor of the sub by the impact, weapons flying. The replicators might have shivered, once, but then… oh God. Daniel met Jack’s fierce glare through the camera in his helmet, saw the realization behind those brown eyes that Daniel, his friend, would witness his last moments, would hear his final, dying screams. And he saw the inherent protectiveness in the man, his teammate, the leader of SG-1, as Jack reached for the camera with both hands, clearly intent on shutting it off.
Daniel couldn’t look away.
And then, his eyes widened. A familiar beam of light, that sound echoing strangely over the distance between them. Asgard beams—it was Asgard beams!
He saw the sub explode on the monitor, watched the image blacken, tiny pieces floating gently in the current. He knew it was impossible. But, so many impossible things had happened, they’d seen so much, returned from the dead, survived the explosion of a Goa’uld mothership, been back and forth in time.
“They’re okay,” he stammered, eyes suddenly dry, a dark veil creeping along the edges of his vision.
“What?” Paul, next to him, looked up. He’d missed it, head in his hands. The major’s eyes searched Daniel’s face and then the dark monitors before him.
Daniel gestured at the screen, his throat closed over bile that he held back by sheer will-power. “They’re… they’re…” He swallowed, shaking his head. “They’re okay!” He pointed upward, his smile out of control.
“Dallas confirms the Blackbird has been destroyed.”
“They’re okay,” Daniel whispered, relief and exhaustion pressing him down into his chair as Davis accepted his assurance, smacked him on the back, releasing his own tension. He looked across the table and saw Siler nod before darkness crashed him to the earth.
Part 2
Jack O’Neill grinned at Teal’c's broad face, the subtle satisfaction there barely visible, even to those who knew the Jaffa well. Chalk up another win for the good guys. Thor and Carter had wiped out the bugs threatening the Asgard planet, and the good ole US of A had turned the little mothers into bits of rust on the bottom of the ocean floor. Not a bad day’s work—even if the maiden voyage of the nifty spaceship with his name on it had been a suicide mission.
Carter slipped between him and Teal’c, the sleeve of her jacket just brushing his arm and he returned her smile with a cocky smirk. Thor nodded stiffly, skinny grey neck looking ready to snap. “The Asgard are most grateful. One day we shall repay you by helping to fight the Goa’uld.”
Jack cocked his head. “One day?”
“Saving one Asgard planet was a small victory, O’Neill. The conflict with the replicators stretches across my galaxy. Major Carter’s strategy worked this time, but the replicators are very intelligent. It may not work again.”
Spoilsport. Note to self, Jack thought, don’t go to the Asgard when you’re looking for motivational speakers. “I get it.”
“However,” Thor bowed his head, huge black eyes blinking slowly and a little out of sync, “now there is hope where once there was none.”
Hope is good. He took a deep breath, reveling, for a moment, in life, hope, and his team at his side. It felt—almost right.
Carter quirked a smile. “Well if you ever need any more dumb ideas you know where to find me.”
A thin hand moved towards alien controls. “Until we meet again.”
Jack took a half step forward. “Yeah, hey—listen, drop by any time. In fact I’ll take you fishing.” Thor in a fishing hat, twig-like legs swinging, too short to reach the ground from the lawn chair on his dock, vest pockets filled with lures and hooks and extra line. That’d be a picture. “I’d love to do that. There’s this lake in northern Minnesota where the bass grow…” He opened his arms wide. “That big… well…” he shortened his measurement to something resembling the truth…
The white beams dissolved and Jack blinked the briefing room into focus. A lungful of air he didn’t realize he was holding huffed out, louder than he expected and he grinned, clapping his raised hands together. Yep, SG-1—six billion, Certain Death—zero! He heard the clattering of a telephone handset from General Hammond’s office followed by a hastily barked apology, and smiled as the general came into view, eyebrows high.
“Colonel O’Neill?”
“Present and accounted for, sir.” He sent a casual salute in his commanding officer’s direction and crossed his arms, bouncing up and down on his toes. “I’d imagine the replicators are either lying in itty bitty bits on the ocean floor, or…” he wiggled his eyebrows at Carter.
“Or have been reduced to dust and are floating in space in the region of the Asgard homeworld,” she added proudly
“Mission accomplished… again, sir,” Jack crowed.
“So I’ve heard,” Hammond grunted, stalking towards the briefing room table and gesturing the three members of SG-1 to take their seats.
Jack’s enthusiasm died a quick death. He fell into the nearest chair, eyes never leaving the general’s concerned face. “General? Our happy news seems to have left you a tad underwhelmed.”
Hammond looked down at his clasped hands for a long moment. “Colonel, Major, Teal’c—you have my gratitude for doing the impossible—again. But, unfortunately, the repercussions from this mission have grown much more far reaching than any of us imagined.” He shook his head.
“Sir, what is it?” Carter glanced around the quiet room. “Is Daniel on his way back?”
The general’s eyes narrowed. “Yes. Doctor Jackson is returning via emergency medical transport.”
“Medical—”
“Sir, what—”
“Has Daniel Jackson been informed that we survived the submarine’s explosion?”
Jack’s gut wrenched. Surely Daniel saw the beams. He must have… He couldn’t think… Dammit. Why hadn’t he thought to ask Thor to get a message to Daniel while they were all busy congratulating each other?
Hammond held up one hand. “Apparently, Doctor Jackson witnessed the Asgard beams carry you and Colonel O’Neill to safety, Teal’c, before he collapsed.”
“Collapsed,” Jack echoed thinly.
The general nodded. “Doctor Frasier believes the pressures of the mission placed undue stress on Doctor Jackson’s health—he’s still recovering from major surgery and a systemic infection, people. And the week we all spent wondering whether you three had survived the break-up of Thor’s ship wasn’t exactly restful—especially for SG-1′s fourth. Doctor Frasier is heading to the airfield to meet his transport, but, frankly, that is the least of our worries at this point.”
Jack leaned forward, hands spread wide on the table. “The’least of our worries,’ General? May I say how very not good that sounds?”
Hammond’s mouth drew up into that particular line that told Jack that, without a doubt, whatever came out of his mouth next would piss Jack off to no end. “Senator Kinsey is on his way to the SGC to lead an investigation into this mission.” He paused as if gathering his courage to continue. “Orders from the Pentagon have preceded him, demanding I take Major Davis, Sergeant Siler, and Doctor Jackson into custody and have them ready for interrogation and possible charges when Kinsey arrives.”
“What?” Jack’s eyes were narrowed dangerously, his voice filled with rage. “Sorry, General, but, what the hell is going on?”
A sharp blue stare snapped towards him, and Jack knew his own disbelief and fury was mirrored in his commanding officer. “Based on reports from the shipyard, Lieutenant Baker has made accusations against these men.”
“Baker?” Jack glanced towards Teal’c and received a firm nod to his unspoken question. “He was on the sub with us when the replicators attacked Teal’c and killed Stevens.”
“Lieutenant Baker asserts that he received orders from the Pentagon that both Major Davis and Master Sergeant Siler refused to acknowledge while you and Teal’c were aboard the Russian submarine, Colonel.”
Jack threw his hands up in the air. “What orders? And why would a lieutenant be receiving orders—Davis is a major and he works directly with the Pentagon stuffed shirts.”
General Hammond pursed his lips. “Colonel O’Neill—I was not there.” He was practically spitting. “And I have not as yet had a chance to debrief the two men; and since Doctor Jackson is not available, I am flying blind here.” His muscles looked like rigid knots beneath his sharply pressed uniform. “I’ve been ordered to allow Senator Kinsey to conduct an investigation into charges of willfully disobeying an order, insubordination, destruction of government property, and, in the case of Master Sergeant Siler, assault on a superior officer.” He snorted out a breath and raised one hand to rub at the back of his neck. “And my contacts in the White House are going along with it.”
Part 3
Jack stalked towards the infirmary, rage burning a hole straight through his stomach to his spine. He was so damned tired of this—of standing shoulder to shoulder with men and women who faced monsters straight out of some Stephen King nightmare every single day only to watch them fall to alien energy weapons, holes burned through their chests; seeing them howl and scream in pain or hold their buddies as they died. He’d seen the hollow resignation in an airman’s eyes the moment he realized nothing would save him, and the hellish guilt that wracked his survivors.
But nothing—nothing—was worse than the realization that saving the world, doing their best, risking life and sanity to walk through a big metal ring to another world where glowing-eyed scumbags wanted to wear you like a suit would never be enough.
No. Not for some people. Not for the stuffed shirts and shit-brains who lived pampered lives on Capitol Hill, far from any threat, and told the soldiers and airmen and unbelievably courageous civilians that their best was just not good enough.
Jack stretched his neck back and forth, shoulders hunching to try to work out the kinks and knots that his two hour debrief with Hammond had set into stone. Jack had been the officer in charge—the commander on the ground. Kinsey didn’t have a leg to stand on with these ridiculous charges against Davis and Siler. And Daniel—well, Daniel Jackson was so far outside the chain of command he wouldn’t recognize it if it wrapped around his neck and dragged him to freedom.
He stopped at the infirmary door and ran his hands through his hair; tugged his black shirt away from his chest. He’d swear some of those metal shards—replicator bug shrapnel—were still attached, the greasy bits seeming to creep along his skin just out of his reach. He needed a long, hot shower and a two week vacation, and a baseball bat to beat some sense into a certain senator’s head—not necessarily in that order.
What he didn’t need was another semi-coherent, tense, subtext-ridden chat with a certain archaeologist. Hell, he thought with a shake of his head, when did he ever get what he wanted, anyway?
The furor that usually surrounded a Daniel Jackson visit to Frasier’s domain was missing. In fact, Jack noted, Daniel was alone, the alcove at the end of the row—his usual table, garçon—dim and shadowed, blanket smooth along his motionless legs, pulled up across his chest just below his shoulders, both arms stuck through with needles connected to the ubiquitous clear bags of fluids.
Jack stepped closer. The blue eyes were closed, dark lashes feathered against pale skin, pointing towards the blue/black shadows just beneath the eyes. His forehead, even in sleep—or unconsciousness, Jack corrected—was wrinkled with tension, that inverted V between his brows was back again—it had been carved so deep in recent months. Jack eased slowly, inch by careful inch, onto the stool beside his bed, elbows pressed to his knees, head dropping into his hands, mind working hard to remain a deliberate blank.
It didn’t last long.
Daniel’s collapse on P6A-992 had taken Jack out at the knees. They were just standing there at the ‘gate, saying their good-byes to the locals—who had practically adopted his archaeologist, as usual—when he’d dropped. Just like that. Out. And Jack thought his heart had stopped.
Both Hammond and Frasier had lit into him afterward—Janet long afterward since she’d been trapped in surgery trying to save Daniel’s life for… too many hours. Read him the riot act about his responsibility to take care of his team, how the symptoms of an appendicitis attack as acute as Daniel’s would have been unmistakable to a blind man in a sensory deprivation tank. The general came closer to putting Jack on report for dereliction of duty than he ever had before.
And they were right.
But, the thing is, Jack hadn’t been looking.
He dug his fingers along his scalp, rubbing back and forth, the heels of his hands pressing into his eyes in a futile attempt to keep the images at bay. Daniel, sweaty face as pale as paper, head lolling as he and Teal’c dragged him upright and hurried his unresisting body through the Stargate. He remembered the heat of his skin and knew, then, that this hadn’t come on unannounced. That, if Jack had been doing his job, if he’d taken ten seconds to listen to Daniel—or to Teal’c—that morning it all could have been avoided.
Yeah, that was the problem, wasn’t it? Avoiding. A Jack O’Neill specialty. Didn’t like something? Hey, it didn’t exist. Bright blue eyes and a slight smile made him itchy? Don’t look. Didn’t want to feel the gut curdling heat when his friend got too close? Easy—stay away, don’t go near him. Pair him up with Teal’c, give blonde hair and a curvy shape a try. Don’t see, don’t hear, don’t damn well touch if you know what’s good for you.
And then Daniel was lying there—here, actually—recovering, his white scrubs a shade darker than his skin. And Jack stood there, hands in his pockets, mouth dry as an Abydos sandstorm as the awkward silence grew around them. Daniel barely met his eyes, his words spoken in that purposefully even tone that Jack knew too well, that spoke oh so loudly of the archaeologist’s unease, his confusion; that told him Daniel was keeping his emotions under lock and key for fear of their release in a humiliating torrent.
He’d run. Tried to run. Time away—that’s what he needed. Time at the cabin to get his head on straight, to slap himself back into shape, to build a God damned bridge and get over it. And, if that wasn’t enough, he’d turned to her—again. Carter. She was… responding. Bigger smiles. Awareness swirling around behind those eyes. At first it was hesitant, as if she was figuring him out, trying to solve Jack like an equation. But she’d almost said “yes” this time, almost decided to take that step forward and see if Jack would meet her in the middle or run for his life. The colonel had turned away just in time to put some salve on his wounded professional pride, kicking himself all the way down the underground corridor towards the elevators, wondering where the Special Ops trained loner career officer was hiding. The guy who led his team—this little surrogate family they’d all built up around each other—like a sarcastic master. Brothers in arms, that’s what they were. That’s what they all were.
Thor’s call, crawly, purple erector-set bugs, certain death, crashing a space ship, stealing a Stargate, and then a week on a deserted island. Except for Teal’c and Carter. And the squirrel/pigs. Snakes. Those bright orange birds that squawked all night long. Carter seemed to be getting in touch with her inner girl—worried about washing her hair, for crying out loud. Jack spent the interminable hours pretending to fish, foraging for food or drinkable water, walking a non-existent perimeter, and wondering, worrying, every single minute he wasn’t, if he’d ever get back, if he’d ever have the opportunity to be close again, to explain, or, at least, apologize.
Well, he’d certainly gotten away from Daniel, hadn’t he?
Jack raised his head and stared at his best friend. God, he was an idiot.
A small hand curved over his shoulder. “You about done?”
He looked up—not too far up—blinking, feeling the same tired old defenses try to slam shut. “Huh?” Oh, brilliant, he thought to himself.
“Done beating yourself up, Colonel?”
Janet was wearing that soft, knowing smile that Jack hated. Loathed, actually. “Now, why would I be doing that?”
She shook her head and walked away, turning, after a few steps. “Coming?”
Jack frowned, set his teeth, threw together his arguments, and then looked back at Daniel’s still form. Watched his own hand reach out, one crooked thumb stroking the ridge between Daniel’s brows, soothing, smoothing, until the furrows eased and the sleeping man sighed, turning into the touch.
He swallowed hard, shoved his hands into his pockets, and followed the diminutive doctor into her office.
“Daniel’s going to be fine, Colonel.” Janet took the initiative, answering his question before he could even put it into words. And that look on her face told him that she knew exactly what she was doing.
“So, why’d he collapse then? And why do you have him plugged into the happy juice?”
She folded those little hands of hers on top of her desk. “Daniel had major surgery only ten days ago, Colonel. And, for some reason, his bed-rest turned into something else entirely when you and the rest of SG-1 disappeared onto the Asgard ship. And then, into thin air.”
Jack felt his mouth crook up sardonically and made a ‘come-on’ gesture with one hand. He knew all this.
She sighed. “He’s dehydrated—again. Running a low grade fever. His blood sugar is too low and his blood pressure is too high. He has internal sutures that I would rather not have to open him up to repair. And the stress on his abdomen is certainly painful. So, since Daniel can’t seem to allow himself to rest until he actually collapses, I’ve taken that decision away from him by providing a slight sedative.”
“He’s too pale.” It just sort of came out. Jack shrugged at Janet’s raised eyebrows.
“Well, Colonel, he didn’t get to spend a week out in the sun with his friends, did he?”
“Yeah,” Jack spat, “a week’s vacation, that’s what it was. Major.”
Janet refused to look cowed. Or the slightest bit interested.
“If that’s all, Colonel O’Neill?”
Ouch. She didn’t need the big needles to draw blood. He leaned forward, waving one hand between them like it was a white flag. “Sorry. It’s just—well, maybe drugged up and out of it is the best place for Daniel for a while.”
“You mean because of Senator Kinsey’s so-called investigation? Keeping Daniel away from him?” She cocked her head. “Or is it simply easier for you?”
He stood and headed for the door. One hand on the knob, he stopped. Assessing. Stomach churning. Eyes burning. Jack clenched every muscle, reciting the oath beneath his breath, the oath he’d taken so many years ago and still did every time he put on the uniform. After a moment, he let it go. “Keep me informed, Doc.”
“Sir?”
The door was open, his retreat in sight, but something in her voice made him turn. It wasn’t demand, or insistence—it was more like… pleading.
“Daniel spent the last week in his on-base quarters—the general refused him access to his office.”
The brown eyes tried to pierce his armor, tried to burrow beneath his skin. He knew what she was offering, what she’d seen and sensed between Jack and Daniel, knew she wanted to help.
“Thanks for taking care of him,” Jack whispered, flashing a smile before he strode from the room. Too bad he couldn’t take her up on it.
Part 4
Level 16. Holding cells. Jack had cooled his own heels here during his caveman days, not that he remembered much about it. He shifted his gaze to the silent figure at his side, wondering if Teal’c ever figured out who the heck Lucy was.
He’d picked Teal’c up on the way, diverting him from his intention of visiting Daniel—and not very easily, either, even when Jack had assured the big guy that their teammate was fast asleep—and recruited him to come along on his self-appointed mission.
Hammond’s hands were tied. The so-called powers that be had ordered him to delay debriefing Davis and Siler until the big cheese arrived. More like the head rat, Jack snorted. But that didn’t mean Jack and Teal’c couldn’t visit their good buddies and let them know how Daniel was doing. Didn’t want them worrying themselves to death before Kinsey could sink his long, moldy teeth into them.
Just before the turn towards the two holding cells he stopped and held out one hand, palm up, to reveal a shiny quarter.
“Flip you, big guy?”
The wide shoulders slowly turned toward him, Teal’c's dark eyes glittering, eyebrows sneering. “That would be unwise, O’Neill.”
“Oh—ha, ha,” Jack replied evenly. “You know exactly what I mean.”
Teal’c faced forward again. “I will interview Major Davis.”
Jack curved two fingers of each hand into the air. “‘Visit,’ Teal’c, we’re ‘visiting’ our ‘friends.’”
The Jaffa stalked away, hands clasped behind his back.
“Glad we had this little chat,” Jack called out, hurrying to catch up. He turned the corner in time to watch Teal’c crowd one SF away from an open door, Major Davis’ pale face just visible beyond him. Jack gestured towards the opposite guard who slid his passkey through the lock with a hum and a click.
“Sir!”
Siler was on his feet before Jack could step inside.
“Sergeant.” He jerked his head towards the door and waited, hands in his pockets, until the guard exited.
The tall master sergeant straightened under his scrutiny. “Any chance you know what’s going on, sir?”
Jack’s mouth twitched and he shook his head. “Just visiting a friend, Siler.”
Siler didn’t twitch. “Sir?”
“Hammond’s under orders not to debrief you and Davis.” He cocked his head, eyes narrowing. “And all I know is, as exciting as things got aboard the Blackbird, apparently you guys on shore were having the real party.” He pulled a chair away from the standard metal table and straddled it, waving the grim-faced airman towards the other. “So, you clocked Lieutenant Baker.”
Siler’s eyes nearly disappeared beneath his furrowed brow. “Sir?”
“Now, don’t “sir” me, Siler. We all know you’re a ticking time bomb. A short fuse. The proverbial still waters running deep.”
“An accident waiting to happen, Colonel?”
Jack smiled wryly. “Something like that.”
“Colonel O’Neill—” the sergeant’s lips thinned, jaw muscle jumping, “I remember being focused on the camera feed and the telemetry. My headset was feeding both your mike and the tactical reports from the sonar officer.” He took a deep breath and let it out, shaking his head.
“And Baker?”
“Lieutenant Baker had been called to a landline, sir. He did step close to me at one point, shouting, but it was… well… you’d just given the order to blow the sub, Colonel. I was…”
“A little busy, Siler? Doing your job?” Jack crossed his arms over the back of the chair. “Following my orders?”
Siler swallowed. “There was no change of command, sir.”
“You’re right about that.” Jack jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “And if there had been, Davis outranks Baker any day of the week.” He leaned forward, suddenly wary of the airman’s careful responses. “You and Davis were following my orders, weren’t you, Siler? Davis gave the order to fire?”
“Not… exactly, Colonel.”
“Teal’c,” Major Davis stepped forward as soon as the door had clicked shut. “Is Daniel okay?” One hand brushed through his short, dark hair with apparent frustration. “Nobody will tell us anything.”
Teal’c hesitated, carefully taking in the Tau’ri soldier’s urgency, his direct gaze piercing, attempting to provoke Teal’c to answer. He nodded approvingly—he had not expected such depth of loyalty from a lo’hass. “Daniel Jackson rests in the infirmary. Doctor Frasier anticipates his full recovery—eventually.”
Davis’s eyes closed and he blew out a sigh. “That’s good news, anyway,” he muttered, turning away to perch on the edge of the single bunk. “I thought the bottom dropped out of my stomach when he went down like that.” He snorted out a laugh and then lifted his face. “And I thought it was bad when SG-1 beamed aboard Thor’s ship.” A dark smile hovered around his mouth. “But, as ill as Daniel looked then, this time was much, much worse.”
Watching the sudden easing of the tight lines around the young man’s eyes, the way his hands hung, relaxed, between his knees, Teal’c considered his expectations. This man did not respond to his captivity as he had anticipated. He raked him, head to toe, with an assessing gaze. Concern for Teal’c's brother, the wounded scholar so lately abandoned to the terrors of his own imagination, seemed to be the Tau’ri’s only thought.
Perhaps he had attached the label ‘lo’hass’—a warrior in name only, one who would run from the battle—too quickly.
“You were at Daniel Jackson’s side when O’Neill, Major Carter, and I fought aboard the Asgard vessel?” Teal’c had not been aware of this.
Davis nodded. “Yeah. The Pentagon sent me out as soon as General Hammond contacted Washington.” Hands moved to loosen his tie and unbutton the top button on his uniform shirt. “Daniel, well, he insisted on remaining in the control room. Wouldn’t leave, even when Doctor Frasier tried to drag him back to the infirmary.” A quick frown flashed across his face. “I made sure he got back to his quarters after the ship crashed.”
Teal’c felt his eyebrows rise. “Then I have much to thank you for, Major Davis. I was greatly concerned that my brother would be… distressed… by our unresolved fate.” And for good reason. He had watched as Daniel Jackson had worked himself to exhaustion when their teammates were transported to the second Stargate in the Tau’ri’s frozen wasteland during the first year of their comradeship. As their bonds had grown, the depth of the scholar’s loyalty and self-sacrifice had often troubled the Jaffa warrior. To sacrifice himself in battle was scored deeply into Teal’c's very being, into every Jaffa’s soul, and he would gladly have died aboard the strange ocean vessel at O’Neill’s side to save this world, but Daniel Jackson… he seemed eager to sell himself too cheaply in Teal’c's estimation.
“No thanks necessary.” Major Davis shook his head. “I wanted to stay longer, to make sure he was okay,” he grimaced, “but they called me back to Washington 24 hours later. All I could do was wait there while he slept, watching, watching all the fear he had hidden come out in ugly nightmares.” His words were clipped and harsh, but his eyes were dark with despair.
The strange unskilled warrior could not mask his feelings behind the determined placidity of his features, and Teal’c regarded him from behind eyes hooded with time and experience. His soft hands clasped and unclasped in his lap, fingers twitching as if Major Davis’s memories urged him to touch, to soothe, to take some of Daniel Jackson’s pain unto himself. Teal’c recognized the signs—he had seen them many times before, each time O’Neill waited beside the scholar’s bed, as the warrior’s shell cracked and the man within reached out, soul to soul, as Teal’c had once with a sworn temple priestess. The man before him bore the same weight of tenderness, the same burden of longing.
Daniel Jackson drew others to him without effort; the warmth of his spirit, the quickness of his mind, and the beauty of his form awakened desire even in the narrowest of souls. In all of his long life, Teal’c had known few others who held such fascination for both the most worthy and the most vile. Major Davis—he would no longer use the Jaffa slur—was not, however, one whom Teal’c could approve for his brother. But, the one who should act, the one who could protect and nurture his brother’s spirit, continued to do nothing. He lowered himself into a chair. Perhaps O’Neill had waited too long.
Teal’c gentled his voice, softening his tone. “You have bonded to Daniel Jackson?”
Davis did not seem to breathe, did not look up, did not demand that Teal’c explain or withdraw his question. “I’m a career officer in the United States Air Force, Teal’c. And I’d like to think I’m Daniel’s friend.”
At Teal’c's continued silence, the Tau’ri raised his eyes. “And I doubt you came in here to ask for details about my very private life.”
Teal’c restrained his amusement at the man’s inability to deny the depth of his affection. Major Davis had answered well, had shown his loyalty and courage, and had proved his selflessness in never questioning his own confinement. Teal’c inclined his head in respect.
“I did not.” He would let the matter fall—for now. But soon this question of bonding must be addressed, and the inequitable demand of the Tau’ri military revealed for the kel’tacha that it was.
“Senator Kinsey,” Teal’c could not help the edge of disgust that colored his voice when forced to utter the corrupt ha’taaka’s name, “will arrive soon to determine charges against you, Sergeant Siler, and Daniel Jackson.”
Thoughts streamed behind the Tau’ri’s darting eyes and he straightened suddenly. “Baker.” He spat the name as Teal’c had the senator’s. “Dammit. It had to be Baker.”
“It is Lieutenant Baker who has accused you.”
Major Davis rose to his feet, lips tightened to whiteness in his flushed face. “I should have… dammit, the threat came up too fast to hand pick the team, to make sure…” He strode back and forth, his fury denying his words any sense.
“You will explain,” Teal’c demanded.
The Tau’ri spun, one hand fisted against his temple as if to threaten his disorderly thoughts. Finally, he lowered his arms. “Lieutenant Baker is NID.”
Teal’c ground his teeth together. The human government was as filled with scheming and plotting as any System Lord’s palace.
“We’ve known for some time that the NID was gearing up for something. Ever since Colonel O’Neill broke up their off-world operation they’ve been scrambling to strike back.”
“In vengeance.” Teal’c glanced away, anger filling him, searing along his nerves, readying his body and mind for battle. He understood the concept of vengeance better than any human.
The young man shrugged. “Call it vengeance, call it strategy—all I know is they want to hit back and hit hard. And we’ve suspected for months that, to hit the hardest, they’d try to attack the most vulnerable member of the SGC.” He set his teeth, one finger pointing towards the floor. “The heart of the SGC.”
Of course. “Daniel Jackson.”
Part 5
“What?”
The general practically leaped from his chair and Jack found himself standing to rigid attention in reaction. He had never seen Hammond so angry.
“That is also what Major Davis stated, General Hammond.”
Jack glanced quickly towards the Jaffa at his side. Yep. That made it unanimous: three furious guys just looking for somebody to pummel. Too bad Kinsey hadn’t shown his rat-like face yet.
“You’re telling me that the military officers on that pier transferred their duty—their sworn duty—to a civilian? That they hesitated in the face of Colonel O’Neill’s direct order until Doctor Jackson gave the order to blow the sub?” Hammond’s voice was like a baseball bat, bruising and brutal—the man was nearly spitting with rage.
“It’s my fault, General,” Jack snapped, staring straight into the cold blue eyes of his commanding officer, ready to absorb the blows. “I should never have addressed my orders to Daniel in the first place.”
He felt the earthquake-like shift of his teammate next to him. “That is incorrect, O’Neill. Major Davis claims that the fault is his, and I myself heard you admonish him to ‘give the order’ before the replicators could consume us.”
Jack didn’t want to remember that moment; the ache in his chest as he stared into the camera’s lens and right into Daniel’s eyes, the stomach-churching realization that he’d been expecting Daniel to pull the trigger. “Yeah, well, since Davis’ combat experience is, oh, let’s add it up,” Jack wove his finger through the air to distract himself, “exactly zero, I don’t think—”
“You do him a disservice, O’Neill.” Teal’c had turned, leveling a steady glare that cut straight through Jack’s sarcasm. “He believes—”
Hammond’s palm struck his desk with a loud crack and both men turned back to face him. “This is unacceptable, Colonel,” Hammond seethed. “Unconscionable. I’d have these men up on charges myself if Senator Kinsey hadn’t stepped in.” His jaw bunched tight, hands fisted against the papers that littered his desk as if anxious for a target. “Since when do military men shift responsibility for life or death orders onto a civilian team member?”
“Since Daniel Jackson, General Hammond.”
Jack’s throat seemed swollen, too thick with sudden knowledge for air or bile or a trickle of spit to pass. He clasped fisted hands behind his back, nails digging ragged furrows into one sweaty palm, the other squeezing his opposite wrist until he thought he might crush bone. Since Daniel… since Daniel, nothing had been the same. Especially Jack.
General West and the Joint Chiefs had shoved a gun into the archaeologist’s hands and thrown him through the Stargate with a Special Ops team on a suicide mission. Hammond had—at first, reluctantly—allowed him a spot on a first-line combat team. And Jack—his lips pulled back sharply against his clenched teeth—Jack had honed and sharpened and drilled the peaceful, brilliant scholar into a lean, muscled marksman, a cookie-cutter soldier, Daniel’s camos just an outward sign of his near complete blending with the Air Force and Marine hard-asses surrounding him.
A sharp pain stabbed through him at the truth in Teal’c's sure, steady words. Jack had done it to protect Daniel—to harden him into shape and make sure he survived. The bitter laugh didn’t proceed farther than a thought. Sure he did. It had nothing to do with long, silky hair or wide blue eyes or a slender waist above a perfect handful of ass.
How the hell could he blame Davis and Siler for looking at Daniel and seeing a soldier? Hell, didn’t that moment on the sub, balanced precariously on the edge of death, show that Jack had almost managed to fool himself?
Hammond himself seemed taken aback, jolted out of his righteous anger by the comment. Long moments passed before the general’s brow cleared, his searing gaze clouding over with uncertainty, his shoulders slumping in something like defeat. He jerked his chin towards the two seats opposite his desk, the order implied. Settling himself carefully in his leather chair, Hammond let his hands fall open as if in surrender. “Daniel Jackson,” he whispered.
“Indeed.” Jack tensed when Teal’c seemed to be agreeing with something beyond the general’s simple utterance. “Your military men can see that our young brother is a true warrior.”
“He’s not—dammit, Teal’c, he’s not,” Jack insisted, staring at the floor, raising both hands to lace fingers behind his bent neck as if he was a prisoner, knowing, as he said it, that his words were a lie.
“O’Neill.”
Jack dragged his gaze from the floor to Jaffa’s scowling face.
“When I accepted my staff weapon from Daniel Jackson’s hands on Cimmeria, when I listened to him defend my honor at the Cor’ai, when I watched, helpless, as he delivered Apophis’ child from his own wife’s swollen body,” Teal’c's dark eyes glistened and he blinked quickly. “I knew, then, that Daniel Jackson is indeed a mighty warrior. A warrior of the spirit as well as the flesh. Do not diminish him in this.”
“Teal’c.” Hammond’s quick word disrupted the coiling tension. “I don’t think you understand,” the general sighed. “In a military unit, there is no place in the chain of command for a civilian.” He held one hand up when Teal’c drew breath to speak. “Not on a military mission. On a dig, on first contact, or in negotiations—that is a different matter entirely.” Hammond pursed his lips, hands unconsciously taking up a file from his desk and tilting it to display the Air Force emblem. “An officer’s privilege is to order, to command, and his responsibility is to protect those under him with his life and his accountability. Our system would break down without that ascending hierarchy of duty.”
Teal’c's slow blink was a blatant denial. “The Jaffa know of ‘duty,’ General Hammond, and that greater sacrifice accompanies greater power.” His tone was sharp, cutting. “Do you deny that Daniel Jackson is well respected by your men? That his words are heavy with weight or that he would sacrifice all to bring safety to your world?”
“No. No I don’t.” Jack was surprised at Hammond’s quiet calm. “But, on Earth, a military officer who defers command to a civilian is in dereliction of his duty.” The general’s eyes narrowed. “Doctor Jackson simply cannot ‘order’ an airman to action.”
Rising slowly to his feet, Teal’c drew a long breath and both officers watched; tense, waiting. “It is clear Daniel Jackson does command—both loyalty and respect.” The dark stare turned to aim in Jack’s direction. “And more.”
Jack forced his limbs to stillness, his face to a blank mask, no tell-tale sign of frustration or anxiety sending the muscle in his jaw jumping. Damn it, Teal’c's hooded eyes saw far too much.
“Of course he’s respected, Teal’c, he’s a member of SG-1,” he offered glibly. “The guy opened the Stargate. Hell, he’s saved the world almost as often as I have.” Jack tried a half-smile but it felt brittle, and Teal’c's stormy glare defeated his shallow humor. He leaned forward, finger pointing emphatically. “It was Davis and Siler who screwed the pooch here, not him.” No, not Daniel.
Siler had told him about Daniel’s barely whispered words, his ‘okay’ that had released Davis from his hesitation and absolved both airmen of blame. Jack would do what he could to protect them, to absorb the accusations, demand culpability, and let Kinsey do his worst. But Daniel… short hair dark with sweat, his face pale, utterly surrendered to Frasier’s drugs and his own exhaustion in a motionless heap in the infirmary bed… alone. Jack shook his head and wondered why it was so hard to breathe. “Daniel stepped in and did what he had to do. It’s not his fault.”
“Agreed,” Hammond stated, nodding.
Teal’c's ghost of a sneer never wavered. “Then why does Major Davis insist that it is Daniel Jackson who is the current target of Senator Kinsey’s vengeance?”
Pieces fell into place in Jack’s mind with a deafening boom. Kinsey. Harry Maybourne’s supposedly unsanctioned off-world team. Makepeace’s sardonic threats and hints that Jack would regret his actions as undercover scumbag. Rage flooded Jack’s senses along with the deep, utter knowledge that Davis was right. Revenge. Revenge against Jack and the SGC. And how better to hurt Jack, leader of SG-1, best friend and mentor, surrogate family, than by targeting the only person who had been able to crawl beneath his well-armored skin with one innocent smile? His space monkey? The man who’d been left a broken wreck by Jack’s bitter, hateful words about friendship and foundations?
Something deep with Jack O’Neill shifted, unfastened; barriers crumpled, tightly coiled denial flashed with inner flame and turned to dust. Quick. Complete. Absolute.
The words tore along his throat as he surged to his feet. “I will kill the fucking bastard.”
Part 6
A cool thread of sensation along his wrist broke through the warm blanket of sleep that had wrapped Daniel’s consciousness. Like water. Or the tentative touch of a lover’s hand. A rugged face, dark eyes comforting, smile warming all the empty places within him, swam behind his eyes. The lips moved, but Daniel couldn’t quite hear the familiar voice; other sounds, less welcome, intruded. Voices sharp and questioning, asking things, demanding things he didn’t want to share, shouldn’t speak of. Then… gentle strength, commanding so quietly. Daniel moved his hand, reaching for that fleeting hand. Something clicked. Metal. Not… not…
“Jack?”
His fingers fumbled to find the sheet, reaching, anxious to touch, but his hand was strangely held away, as if it hovered in the air. Heavy eyelids strained, lifted, shut. Daniel frowned.
“Shh. It’s okay, Daniel, go back to sleep.”
Janet. Comfort sheathed in steel. He breathed in the smells of healing and felt her hand against his forehead. But… his scattered thoughts grasped for clarity… she sounded impatient, unhappy. He tried to reach for her but his wrist was caught. Metal clanked.
Not a hand. Handcuffs.
Daniel forced his eyes open. “Janet?”
She wasn’t looking at him. “Take those off right now, Lieutenant. Just where do you think he’s going to go?”
A black-clad soldier stood close beside his bed. Too close. Daniel twisted his left hand, shifting his gaze to the silver restraint that locked him to the bed.
“I have my orders, Doctor. This man is to be detained for questioning.”
Daniel’s head fell back against the pillows, his mind working hard to burrow through the smothering fog of Janet’s drugs. That voice sent him back to the pier, to Jack’s orders, to the click of replicator feet, to Paul Davis and Sergeant Siler. He lifted heavy lids again to stare. Baker. Lieutenant Baker.
“Wha’s goin’ on?”
His words were slurred and sleepy, barely reaching his own ears, but Janet seemed to hear. She rubbed soothing circles on his arm. “It’s okay, Daniel. I’ll take care of it. You just relax.”
A laugh bubbled up between his lips and he feebly tested the reach of the metal cuffs. “Sure, Jan’t,” he murmured. “Gonna break me out?” His lips tried to smile.
“As you can see, Lieutenant,” Janet was enunciating very carefully, “Doctor Jackson is in no shape to resist. Now take those things off of him and get out of my infirmary.”
“S’okay, Janet,” Daniel flapped his hand awkwardly, the darkness folding him within its arms. Strong arms. Holding him tight. Keeping him—keeping both of them—safe. “Jack’s coming… Jack will fix it…” Jack. Jack was alive. The thought shook through him, loosened his quivering hold on wakefulness, on control.
An ugly sound followed him into sleep. “The only thing coming for you, Jackson, is what you deserve.”
No. Daniel shifted uncomfortably, dark images rising. No. He’d had that—always had that. Didn’t want that anymore. “No,” he breathed.
“Lieutenant!”
No. Daniel turned his head back and forth against the pillow, struggling to open his eyes. Janet was angry, nearly shouting.
“You will back away from my patient—now! If your orders demand that my unconscious patient is to be placed under guard—restrained—then you may take a position by the door, but you will not harass him or interfere with my treatment in any way!”
“Janet… stop…” Daniel’s right hand scrambled against the smooth sheets beneath him, trying to find purchase; his left hand gripped the metal rail, his muscles trembling as he tried to push and pull himself upright against the unholy weight that kept him down. He widened his eyes, determined to fight—to keep them open. Pain flared in his right side, but it was a familiar companion; it greeted him, centered him, held him within the arms of reality.
Jack stalked the hallways, hands in his pockets, his scowl fastened down tight as if the tense furrows could keep his brain from exploding. Airmen avoided him, finding somewhere else to be PDQ whenever he turned a corner or entered a room. The gym held no appeal—the only thing he wanted to punch was currently closeted with one pissed off general, safe for the moment from Jack’s Special Ops trained retaliation.
Kinsey’s call from the base’s security gate at the surface had come on the heels of Hammond’s mild reprimand for Jack’s outburst and his subsequent unrepentant attitude. If the grey-haired son of a bitch had materialized in the general’s office right then, Jack would have happily ripped his balls off with Hammond’s staple remover.
The simpering coward was targeting Daniel—Daniel! He smashed one fist towards the concrete wall at the end of the corridor, stumbling from shock when the pain of broken bones never erupted. He blinked at the large hand wrapped around his fist, holding it motionless against his wild tugs and yanks as he tried frantically to free himself.
The Jaffa twisted his wrist, forcing Jack to face him in the deserted tunnel. “O’Neill.” Teal’c leaned close, looming, wrestling Jack to stillness. “You do not serve Daniel Jackson with this childish behavior.”
Jack jerked his arm away. “Yeah? Well, tell me, what else am I supposed to do, Teal’c? The bastard has ordered me away from Daniel, Siler, or Davis. His goons are guarding the damned infirmary!”
Teal’c stood up straight. “They have also barred Major Carter from her lab.”
That—what the hell? Jack held up both hands, fingers wide, as he tried to make any sense out of this latest development. “Okay,” he finally surrendered, “I’m missing something here. What does Kinsey want in Carter’s lab?”
“I do not know. But perhaps seeking out Major Carter would be a more valuable use of your time than breaking your hands against the wall.”
Jack narrowed his eyes at his teammate’s bland, unemotional face. “‘Perhaps,’” he echoed darkly.
It was the armed SF outside the closed door to Daniel’s office that brought all of Jack’s barely restrained fury to the surface again. “Airman! Report!”
The kid—probably not more than 25—blanched; his posture so rigid it looked as if his spine would break before it bent. Muddy green eyes stared straight ahead, or as straight as he could and still avoid eye contact with the furious colonel standing not two inches in front of him.
“Sir! Orders, sir!”
Jack seethed disgust and violence from every pore. “What orders, Airman?” he growled.
“The general—he said—”
Jack watched the bob and weave of the kid’s Adam’s apple and tightened his mouth into a snarl.
“They’re searching Doctor Jackson’s office,” the SF finally choked out.
Jack caught the sounds of shuffling papers and low voices behind the metal door.
“For what purpose?” Teal’c was just behind him, broad chest pressed up against Jack’s shoulder. Jack watched the SF’s gaze dart in his direction before the kid paled even further.
“I don’t know, sir.”
He stared at the airman for a long moment, letting the kid’s tension ramp up to DefCon 2 levels before Jack stepped back, Teal’c shadowing his movements. He turned, his thoughts churning.
“What the hell is going on, Teal’c?”
A quick step from behind spun him on his heel.
“I think I might have an answer to that, sir.”
Carter.
The headache throbbed and Daniel closed his eyes once more, tightening all of his muscles, willing the pain to let him go, to let him think. Several deep breaths and he managed to find a foothold within the swirling reds and blacks that threatened to undo him. He lifted his head.
“Lieutenant Baker.” He clanked the handcuff sharply against the rail, making sure to keep his gaze steady and unflinching in the face of the airman’s obvious oozing malice. “Care to explain?”
“Oh, I’m thrilled to get to tell you that you’re under arrest, Jackson.” Baker twisted both hands around the metal rail as if it was Daniel’s throat, and leaned in close.
Arrest? What—Daniel tried another deep breath but the scent of sweat and excitement and the heat of Baker’s proximity made his stomach churn. He swallowed harshly. “Who?” He tightened his lips and tried again. “Who ordered—”
“Senator Kinsey. In fact, he’s on base now.”
Daniel shifted backwards as Baker’s feral grin blazed a brilliant white within the dark infirmary, seeming to pulse in time with the ache behind his eyes.
“But I’m really, really hoping that the Senator will turn your… interrogation… over to me.”
Dizziness swooped in and stole his reason, tossing it into the stale air, and Daniel’s fingers clutched at the hot metal of the bedrail, struggling against Janet’s strong hands against his shoulder. “What?” What had he done? What could Kinsey… “What charges—” his voice cracked and fell away. Where was Jack?
“Let’s just say that you’ve suborned your last airman, Jackson.”
Daniel jerked backwards as Baker’s breath washed over him.
“That’s enough!” Janet gripped him, levered him backwards. He didn’t fight it. Couldn’t. “Daniel, close your eyes,” she was insistent, talking so fast, “the sedative I gave you won’t wear off for hours. Just go to sleep.”
Coercing. Almost demanding. “Janet?” His eyes wouldn’t stay open. She was trying to tell him something.
“You should try to be quiet, Daniel.” Her voice was tight with warning.
Quiet. Keep quiet. Don’t say anything you’ll regret. He panted, trying to think past the confusion and dread that swallowed him. He needed to… had to…
“Shh,” the wrong fingers soothed, brushing against his forehead, “go to sleep.”
Jack?
