U is for Unkown
U is for Unkown
Written for Fig's always wonderful soup.
Missing scene for Continuum
PG for a little bad language
(This is darker than my usual fare so be warned.)
Daniel ignored the knocking at the door. His leg... his stump ached. It often did after a day of walking the streets. The prosthetic gave him mobility, and he was thankful for that, but it didn't stop him from feeling relief when he finally took the damn thing off.
The knocking became more insistent. With a sigh, Daniel grabbed his crutches from beside his bed. He was going to rip apart the person on the other side of the door. No doubt it was a lost pizza delivery person or the crazy neighbor three doors down who insisted that Daniel stole his paper every morning. Whoever it was, they wouldn't be standing there long.
The knock was almost a pounding. “Hang on,” Daniel yelled. “I'm coming.” The pounding stopped. He hobbled his way the door, cursing at his own clumsiness. He opened the door, fully prepared to lay into the poor victim in the hallway. What he saw struck him dumb. “Jack?” he said when he finally found his voice.
Jack-Colonel Jack O'Neill-stood on the other side. It was the Colonel Jack O'Neill who was a stranger to Daniel, the Colonel Jack O'Neill who had a wife and a son, the Colonel Jack O'Neill who had all put ignored him and his team: he stood with his hands in his pockets and an eyebrow raised. “Don't you ever check to see who's on the other side of the door?” Jack asked.
“I live in a secure building,” Daniel answered on autopilot. “I'm lucky the military didn't decide to put a guard on my door.” The voice was so like his Jack. So were the hands in the pockets and the raised eyebrow. Even the scolding sounded like his Jack. Finally, Daniel realized that his unexpected guest was standing in the hallway, waiting. “Come in,” he said. He stumbled in an effort to move aside. The crutches caught on the door frame, and he almost fell. Only Jack's hand reaching out to hold his elbow kept him upright. The touch was worse than the voice, and for a minute Daniel thought he might cry. His Jack, his friend, was dead. On this Jack, Daniel saw the overlay of a man dying, urging them to get out, to get to the Stargate, to leave him behind.
Daniel pulled himself together. Jack let go and stepped back, giving Daniel his space.
“I'm sorry,” Daniel said. “You remind me of....”
“I know.” He shuffled a little, not as confident and at ease as Daniel first thought. Jack's eyes flitted over the apartment, looking everywhere but at Daniel. “Nice place,” he said, “if a little... sparse.”
“I'm not really one for collecting stuff,” Daniel lied. It wouldn't make a difference if he told this Jack that he no longer had any desire to collect the ephemera of human existence. The things he loved were a universe away.
After he remembered his manners, he led them both to the kitchen, and while Jack sat, made coffee. The familiar act steadied him. He took down cups, pulled some milk out of the fridge, and sat a secondhand-store sugar bowl on the table. By the time he sat down, he had some control back.
Jack sipped his hot coffee, then spoke: “I thought you might have questions. For me.”
Questions? Daniel ran through a slew of them. How are Sam and Mitchell? Where's the Stargate? What the hell happened to Ba'al? When can I go home? He didn't ask any of them and stared at his coffee instead.
“You said that the other O'Neill was a General. Was he any good?”
Daniel smiled. So this Jack O'Neill had a competitive streak as well. “Yes,” he said. “He was very good.”
“But he didn't have a family.”
“No.” Daniel tried not to be defensive for his Jack. This Jack was similar... but not the same. “We were his family, Sam and I, and Teal'c. We'd been together a long time.” He wondered how much to give this stranger with his friend's face. “He never stopped missing them, you know. He never got over Charlie's death and losing Sara.”
Jack winced at the painful reminder. “I'll bet it damn near killed him.”
“Yes.” Daniel didn't elaborate. Even now with Jack dead and the timeline shot all to hell, he wasn't about to share that story with anyone. It belonged to Daniel alone, now.
“Well.” Jack drummed his fingers on the table. “Would you like to see a picture of my Sara and Charlie?” He didn't look up when he said it, afraid, maybe, of being rejected.
“I'd like that,” Daniel said.
For the next 15 minutes, Jack pulled pictures out of his wallet. One of them showed a serious young man who was Jack's double except for the light hair. Daniel remembered the picture in Jack's locker and he saw the resemblance.
“Is he in college?” Daniel asked.
“Majoring in computers,” Jack said, “obviously a talent he inherited from his mother because I hate the things.”
One picture showed the Sara that Daniel remembered from many years ago. She looked older,. Her face was more lined, but she looked happy, content.
“You know her?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I met her once. She and Jack stayed friends.”
Jack nodded but didn't press.
One picture showed Jack and Kawalsky. It was taken at a stadium somewhere. Each of them had a baseball cap, a beer, and a stupid grin.
“You know him, too?”
“Yeah. He's dead in my world.”
Jack stilled. “It sounds like your world was a rough place to live.”
In the carefully neutral tone, Daniel heard the condemnation. A Jack of any universe couldn't hide that from him. “Most worlds are,” he said mildly. This Jack didn't know anything about Daniel's world or Daniel's life. He didn't know anything about the Jack O'Neill who mattered to Daniel, nothing about his world or his life or the man who had earned Daniel's respect for more than a decade.
As Jack put away his wallet, Daniel felt an ache, not only for what was but for what could never be.
“I shouldn't have come,” Jack said. “I thought it would help if I stopped by to see how you were doing, to tell you something about someone you sort of knew, but I see now that I was wrong.” It wasn't an apology so much as a simple statement of fact.
“You meant well,” Daniel said. “My Jack would have done the same thing.”
“You two were close.” Again, it wasn't a question but a statement of fact.
“We were very close, best friends, in fact.” He'd said it before from a hospital bed on a submarine somewhere in the Arctic. He'd been in pain, drugged to the gills, and desperate for someone to listen to him.
This time Jack seemed to believe him. Then he pushed aside his cup and stood. “I won't come again,” he said.
“I know.”
Jack stuck his hands in his pockets. “You didn't ask about Mitchell and Carter.”
“You may not be my Jack, but I knew him, so I know you well enough to know you won't tell me.”
Jack nodded “I can't tell you where they are. I can tell you they're fine. They're both worried about you. I'll tell them I saw you.”
Daniel wanted to say, “Tell them I'm fine,” but it wasn't true, and that was one lie he couldn't tell.
He reached for his crutches, pushing himself to stand. He was so tired, so worn by such a short visit. He missed home, Jack, Sam, Teal'c, Mitchell, Vala, all of it. He ached, and for the first time in months, the ache in his heart overrode the ache in his leg.
At the door, Jack stuck out his hand. As they shook, Jack said, “I wish I could do more, Doctor Jackson.”
“I know,” Daniel said.
Jack turned and walked out. Without looking back, he strode down the hallway, turned the corner, and was gone.
Daniel shut the door. He stared at the empty cups on the table, at the shabby couch, at the half-empty bookcase. He dropped his crutches and leaned against the door until grief overwhelmed him and he couldn't stand. He slid down the door, landing on the floor with a sob. The sobs continued long into the night.
~::~
Written for Fig's always wonderful soup.
Missing scene for Continuum
PG for a little bad language
(This is darker than my usual fare so be warned.)
Daniel ignored the knocking at the door. His leg... his stump ached. It often did after a day of walking the streets. The prosthetic gave him mobility, and he was thankful for that, but it didn't stop him from feeling relief when he finally took the damn thing off.
The knocking became more insistent. With a sigh, Daniel grabbed his crutches from beside his bed. He was going to rip apart the person on the other side of the door. No doubt it was a lost pizza delivery person or the crazy neighbor three doors down who insisted that Daniel stole his paper every morning. Whoever it was, they wouldn't be standing there long.
The knock was almost a pounding. “Hang on,” Daniel yelled. “I'm coming.” The pounding stopped. He hobbled his way the door, cursing at his own clumsiness. He opened the door, fully prepared to lay into the poor victim in the hallway. What he saw struck him dumb. “Jack?” he said when he finally found his voice.
Jack-Colonel Jack O'Neill-stood on the other side. It was the Colonel Jack O'Neill who was a stranger to Daniel, the Colonel Jack O'Neill who had a wife and a son, the Colonel Jack O'Neill who had all put ignored him and his team: he stood with his hands in his pockets and an eyebrow raised. “Don't you ever check to see who's on the other side of the door?” Jack asked.
“I live in a secure building,” Daniel answered on autopilot. “I'm lucky the military didn't decide to put a guard on my door.” The voice was so like his Jack. So were the hands in the pockets and the raised eyebrow. Even the scolding sounded like his Jack. Finally, Daniel realized that his unexpected guest was standing in the hallway, waiting. “Come in,” he said. He stumbled in an effort to move aside. The crutches caught on the door frame, and he almost fell. Only Jack's hand reaching out to hold his elbow kept him upright. The touch was worse than the voice, and for a minute Daniel thought he might cry. His Jack, his friend, was dead. On this Jack, Daniel saw the overlay of a man dying, urging them to get out, to get to the Stargate, to leave him behind.
Daniel pulled himself together. Jack let go and stepped back, giving Daniel his space.
“I'm sorry,” Daniel said. “You remind me of....”
“I know.” He shuffled a little, not as confident and at ease as Daniel first thought. Jack's eyes flitted over the apartment, looking everywhere but at Daniel. “Nice place,” he said, “if a little... sparse.”
“I'm not really one for collecting stuff,” Daniel lied. It wouldn't make a difference if he told this Jack that he no longer had any desire to collect the ephemera of human existence. The things he loved were a universe away.
After he remembered his manners, he led them both to the kitchen, and while Jack sat, made coffee. The familiar act steadied him. He took down cups, pulled some milk out of the fridge, and sat a secondhand-store sugar bowl on the table. By the time he sat down, he had some control back.
Jack sipped his hot coffee, then spoke: “I thought you might have questions. For me.”
Questions? Daniel ran through a slew of them. How are Sam and Mitchell? Where's the Stargate? What the hell happened to Ba'al? When can I go home? He didn't ask any of them and stared at his coffee instead.
“You said that the other O'Neill was a General. Was he any good?”
Daniel smiled. So this Jack O'Neill had a competitive streak as well. “Yes,” he said. “He was very good.”
“But he didn't have a family.”
“No.” Daniel tried not to be defensive for his Jack. This Jack was similar... but not the same. “We were his family, Sam and I, and Teal'c. We'd been together a long time.” He wondered how much to give this stranger with his friend's face. “He never stopped missing them, you know. He never got over Charlie's death and losing Sara.”
Jack winced at the painful reminder. “I'll bet it damn near killed him.”
“Yes.” Daniel didn't elaborate. Even now with Jack dead and the timeline shot all to hell, he wasn't about to share that story with anyone. It belonged to Daniel alone, now.
“Well.” Jack drummed his fingers on the table. “Would you like to see a picture of my Sara and Charlie?” He didn't look up when he said it, afraid, maybe, of being rejected.
“I'd like that,” Daniel said.
For the next 15 minutes, Jack pulled pictures out of his wallet. One of them showed a serious young man who was Jack's double except for the light hair. Daniel remembered the picture in Jack's locker and he saw the resemblance.
“Is he in college?” Daniel asked.
“Majoring in computers,” Jack said, “obviously a talent he inherited from his mother because I hate the things.”
One picture showed the Sara that Daniel remembered from many years ago. She looked older,. Her face was more lined, but she looked happy, content.
“You know her?” Jack asked.
“Yeah. I met her once. She and Jack stayed friends.”
Jack nodded but didn't press.
One picture showed Jack and Kawalsky. It was taken at a stadium somewhere. Each of them had a baseball cap, a beer, and a stupid grin.
“You know him, too?”
“Yeah. He's dead in my world.”
Jack stilled. “It sounds like your world was a rough place to live.”
In the carefully neutral tone, Daniel heard the condemnation. A Jack of any universe couldn't hide that from him. “Most worlds are,” he said mildly. This Jack didn't know anything about Daniel's world or Daniel's life. He didn't know anything about the Jack O'Neill who mattered to Daniel, nothing about his world or his life or the man who had earned Daniel's respect for more than a decade.
As Jack put away his wallet, Daniel felt an ache, not only for what was but for what could never be.
“I shouldn't have come,” Jack said. “I thought it would help if I stopped by to see how you were doing, to tell you something about someone you sort of knew, but I see now that I was wrong.” It wasn't an apology so much as a simple statement of fact.
“You meant well,” Daniel said. “My Jack would have done the same thing.”
“You two were close.” Again, it wasn't a question but a statement of fact.
“We were very close, best friends, in fact.” He'd said it before from a hospital bed on a submarine somewhere in the Arctic. He'd been in pain, drugged to the gills, and desperate for someone to listen to him.
This time Jack seemed to believe him. Then he pushed aside his cup and stood. “I won't come again,” he said.
“I know.”
Jack stuck his hands in his pockets. “You didn't ask about Mitchell and Carter.”
“You may not be my Jack, but I knew him, so I know you well enough to know you won't tell me.”
Jack nodded “I can't tell you where they are. I can tell you they're fine. They're both worried about you. I'll tell them I saw you.”
Daniel wanted to say, “Tell them I'm fine,” but it wasn't true, and that was one lie he couldn't tell.
He reached for his crutches, pushing himself to stand. He was so tired, so worn by such a short visit. He missed home, Jack, Sam, Teal'c, Mitchell, Vala, all of it. He ached, and for the first time in months, the ache in his heart overrode the ache in his leg.
At the door, Jack stuck out his hand. As they shook, Jack said, “I wish I could do more, Doctor Jackson.”
“I know,” Daniel said.
Jack turned and walked out. Without looking back, he strode down the hallway, turned the corner, and was gone.
Daniel shut the door. He stared at the empty cups on the table, at the shabby couch, at the half-empty bookcase. He dropped his crutches and leaned against the door until grief overwhelmed him and he couldn't stand. He slid down the door, landing on the floor with a sob. The sobs continued long into the night.
~::~