fic: at the bottom of the well
title: At the Bottom of the Well
series: Stargate SG-1
rating: R
warnings: non-con, suicide, character death
word count: 1,350
notes: Five unhappy endings for SG-1.
1.
There isn’t much for Sam to do anymore but count. She hasn’t had a moment alone in two years, four months, and minutes of hours that no longer matter. What was once “days since capture” has become “time lost”.
He weaves his tired fairy tales out of thin, tattered threads. “Let’s go out,” he says, and Pete links his arm through hers and leads her through the town with no people. “Let’s stay in,” he says, and Pete smiles beside her on the couch, nudging her with his shoulder each time she dozes off to the same fragmented pieces of Singin’ in the Rain. When Sam says, “I’m tired,” she tries to sleep, but the bed shifts and Pete’s weight settles on top of her. His fingers slide down her body, her blood runs cold.
If she’s feeling cynical enough after he’s done, she whispers, “I want to go home,” and watches Pete’s lip curl into a scowl. The bones in her wrists crunch beneath his grip, but the pain breaks the fantasy. This isn’t real, and it never will be.
Somewhere, in another galaxy, her Pete has moved on. Her SG-1 have stopped looking, and even if they haven’t, they’ll never find the Sam they lost. Fifth keeps them moving, ensconced inside his growing army, as he drugs her up on lies and illusions. They’re so far away from the stars she knew; her blurred memories of Cassiopeia and Orion feel more foreign to her now than the frigid metal she senses at her back.
She’s jumped at every chance to slit her wrists, but when she does, no blood seeps out. It’s just a black, hollow void under her skin.
There’s nothing more to try.
Pete kisses her as the sun comes up. His lips are cold.
Sam crawls out of bed, numb, for day 851.
2.
Amaunet died because her host was strong.
Lies, Qetesh spits, but Vala knows better. She tastes the bile at the back of her throat each time Qetesh thinks of it, feels the spike of panic at the idea of Vala taking back what’s hers.
Amaunet was weak, Qetesh calmly asserts. You would be foolish to place me at her level.
Vala has never been able to look away from the years of iron-fisted rule, can never tune out the sound of her own voice calling for the razing of villages and the torture of slaves. Her hands have crushed the throats of men. There isn’t anything about Qetesh that doesn’t horrify her.
You are nothing, the snake reminds her every day. You are my shell.
But this shell is still alive, and for the first time, she has hope.
She learns to steel herself against the screams of mass slaughters and the crying of starving children. She memorizes the names of every System Lord who strikes terror into the heart of her captor. She detaches herself from the smell of sweat and too-sweet incense, from her hips grinding against the hard muscles of men whose names Qetesh does not care to know.
Vala watches and learns and rebuilds, quietly waiting in the dark.
One day, Qetesh locates a stockpile of weapons on a deserted planet and rings down, intent on claiming every one. In the center is a large mine, hovering in restraints and humming with activity.
“You will inspect it,” she tells her lo'taur, still so young. She puts on a show for him and for the guards at her back, striding up to the mine with no hesitation, because she has a personal shield with her and gods need not fear manmade explosives.
So afraid, she croons to Vala, taunting her with her hand, hovering near the mine’s surface.
Fear is not what Vala feels.
She can see the sheen of sweat on the lo’taur’s forehead as he works his way around the mine. She wishes peace for them both. She pictures the woman stolen by Amaunet.
It takes every ounce of her strength to make Qetesh’s hand twitch, and then everything burns and goes black all at once, right up until the glorious moment when Vala doesn’t feel much of anything anymore.
It’s not long before she sees white, before her chest rises and falls with breath.
Before she realizes her failure.
Helmeted guards lift her from the sarcophagus (she thinks, as if it will change things, that there couldn’t have been anything left of her to put inside of it) and she feels her eyes flash.
My shell, Qetesh declares, and Vala never moves again.
3.
The Grand Canyon truly is grand.
Jack stands at the edge, looking down into the vast, golden gorge below. The wind blows hard enough to ruffle his hair and he squints against the sun. Families with kids mill around behind him, little giggles and “get in close now”s accompanied by the incessant clicking and winding of convenience store cameras. Jack just focuses on the roar of the air.
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, fingers brushing against the tight threads of a faded round patch.
They would have loved it here.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you mind taking our picture?”
He turns around to find a father, a mother, two boys and a girl, each one smiling hopefully.
“Sure,” Jack says, and takes the camera.
He takes five pictures of other people’s families before the day is over. When the sun begins to set, he gets in his car and drives back alone.
4.
Cam’s physical therapist is cute, a redhead named Cynthia who’s bright and funny and doesn’t patronize him. That’s why he knows it’s not good when she looks at his chart and her smile falters.
“We’re not out of options yet,” Cynthia tells him, and Cam believes her.
He feels sore all the time, sore and tired and a little bit helpless. He’s in a wheelchair more often than not, and he wishes the crutches weren’t so excruciating if only so people opening doors for him would look him in the eye instead of at his legs.
Cam tries and tries and tries again. Cynthia smiles less and the doctors spend more time scribbling on their clipboards than they do talking to him.
“Why?” Cam asks one day, teeth clenched, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up on the bars.
Cynthia sighs quietly. “Sometimes the body just doesn’t respond.”
They knew going in that his chances were low, but it still doesn’t make him feel any less angry or any less like he’s failed.
Appointments with Cynthia vanish from his schedule. The doctors give him their condolences. The Air Force gives him medals, but no jobs.
His parents help him home, keeping the crutches in the trunk of the car and standing them up against the wall by his bed. He doesn’t know why they bothered. His father can't seem to stop looking down at his own braces.
“You’ll be okay,” his mother says, but every night Cam dreams of Antarctica, and every morning he wakes up bitter and unfulfilled.
5.
“This sucks.” Hundreds of thousands of words in Daniel’s vocabulary, and that’s all he can think to say.
Teal’c keeps his gaze focused ahead of him and replies, somberly, “It does indeed ‘suck’.”
They have thirty seconds, give or take. Jack and Sam are nowhere to be found (dead, probably) and Daniel hears staff blasts down the corridor. This is very much the end.
“I hope it’s enough,” Daniel murmurs. “The self-destruct, I mean.”
The staff blasts get louder.
“We could have done so much for this planet.” And others that they’ll never know. It hurts, sharp and hot in his chest, to think about the things they’ll never get to see, the people they will never meet.
“Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c says, turning to face him. He is determined, standing straight and proud, almost regal in their final moments. “We die free.”
An amber flame slams into the open door, leaving a charred gash in its wake.
“We die free,” Daniel says, and the vibrations of the first explosion travel up through his legs.
series: Stargate SG-1
rating: R
warnings: non-con, suicide, character death
word count: 1,350
notes: Five unhappy endings for SG-1.
1.
There isn’t much for Sam to do anymore but count. She hasn’t had a moment alone in two years, four months, and minutes of hours that no longer matter. What was once “days since capture” has become “time lost”.
He weaves his tired fairy tales out of thin, tattered threads. “Let’s go out,” he says, and Pete links his arm through hers and leads her through the town with no people. “Let’s stay in,” he says, and Pete smiles beside her on the couch, nudging her with his shoulder each time she dozes off to the same fragmented pieces of Singin’ in the Rain. When Sam says, “I’m tired,” she tries to sleep, but the bed shifts and Pete’s weight settles on top of her. His fingers slide down her body, her blood runs cold.
If she’s feeling cynical enough after he’s done, she whispers, “I want to go home,” and watches Pete’s lip curl into a scowl. The bones in her wrists crunch beneath his grip, but the pain breaks the fantasy. This isn’t real, and it never will be.
Somewhere, in another galaxy, her Pete has moved on. Her SG-1 have stopped looking, and even if they haven’t, they’ll never find the Sam they lost. Fifth keeps them moving, ensconced inside his growing army, as he drugs her up on lies and illusions. They’re so far away from the stars she knew; her blurred memories of Cassiopeia and Orion feel more foreign to her now than the frigid metal she senses at her back.
She’s jumped at every chance to slit her wrists, but when she does, no blood seeps out. It’s just a black, hollow void under her skin.
There’s nothing more to try.
Pete kisses her as the sun comes up. His lips are cold.
Sam crawls out of bed, numb, for day 851.
2.
Amaunet died because her host was strong.
Lies, Qetesh spits, but Vala knows better. She tastes the bile at the back of her throat each time Qetesh thinks of it, feels the spike of panic at the idea of Vala taking back what’s hers.
Amaunet was weak, Qetesh calmly asserts. You would be foolish to place me at her level.
Vala has never been able to look away from the years of iron-fisted rule, can never tune out the sound of her own voice calling for the razing of villages and the torture of slaves. Her hands have crushed the throats of men. There isn’t anything about Qetesh that doesn’t horrify her.
You are nothing, the snake reminds her every day. You are my shell.
But this shell is still alive, and for the first time, she has hope.
She learns to steel herself against the screams of mass slaughters and the crying of starving children. She memorizes the names of every System Lord who strikes terror into the heart of her captor. She detaches herself from the smell of sweat and too-sweet incense, from her hips grinding against the hard muscles of men whose names Qetesh does not care to know.
Vala watches and learns and rebuilds, quietly waiting in the dark.
One day, Qetesh locates a stockpile of weapons on a deserted planet and rings down, intent on claiming every one. In the center is a large mine, hovering in restraints and humming with activity.
“You will inspect it,” she tells her lo'taur, still so young. She puts on a show for him and for the guards at her back, striding up to the mine with no hesitation, because she has a personal shield with her and gods need not fear manmade explosives.
So afraid, she croons to Vala, taunting her with her hand, hovering near the mine’s surface.
Fear is not what Vala feels.
She can see the sheen of sweat on the lo’taur’s forehead as he works his way around the mine. She wishes peace for them both. She pictures the woman stolen by Amaunet.
It takes every ounce of her strength to make Qetesh’s hand twitch, and then everything burns and goes black all at once, right up until the glorious moment when Vala doesn’t feel much of anything anymore.
It’s not long before she sees white, before her chest rises and falls with breath.
Before she realizes her failure.
Helmeted guards lift her from the sarcophagus (she thinks, as if it will change things, that there couldn’t have been anything left of her to put inside of it) and she feels her eyes flash.
My shell, Qetesh declares, and Vala never moves again.
3.
The Grand Canyon truly is grand.
Jack stands at the edge, looking down into the vast, golden gorge below. The wind blows hard enough to ruffle his hair and he squints against the sun. Families with kids mill around behind him, little giggles and “get in close now”s accompanied by the incessant clicking and winding of convenience store cameras. Jack just focuses on the roar of the air.
He reaches into the pocket of his jeans, fingers brushing against the tight threads of a faded round patch.
They would have loved it here.
“Excuse me, sir. Would you mind taking our picture?”
He turns around to find a father, a mother, two boys and a girl, each one smiling hopefully.
“Sure,” Jack says, and takes the camera.
He takes five pictures of other people’s families before the day is over. When the sun begins to set, he gets in his car and drives back alone.
4.
Cam’s physical therapist is cute, a redhead named Cynthia who’s bright and funny and doesn’t patronize him. That’s why he knows it’s not good when she looks at his chart and her smile falters.
“We’re not out of options yet,” Cynthia tells him, and Cam believes her.
He feels sore all the time, sore and tired and a little bit helpless. He’s in a wheelchair more often than not, and he wishes the crutches weren’t so excruciating if only so people opening doors for him would look him in the eye instead of at his legs.
Cam tries and tries and tries again. Cynthia smiles less and the doctors spend more time scribbling on their clipboards than they do talking to him.
“Why?” Cam asks one day, teeth clenched, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself up on the bars.
Cynthia sighs quietly. “Sometimes the body just doesn’t respond.”
They knew going in that his chances were low, but it still doesn’t make him feel any less angry or any less like he’s failed.
Appointments with Cynthia vanish from his schedule. The doctors give him their condolences. The Air Force gives him medals, but no jobs.
His parents help him home, keeping the crutches in the trunk of the car and standing them up against the wall by his bed. He doesn’t know why they bothered. His father can't seem to stop looking down at his own braces.
“You’ll be okay,” his mother says, but every night Cam dreams of Antarctica, and every morning he wakes up bitter and unfulfilled.
5.
“This sucks.” Hundreds of thousands of words in Daniel’s vocabulary, and that’s all he can think to say.
Teal’c keeps his gaze focused ahead of him and replies, somberly, “It does indeed ‘suck’.”
They have thirty seconds, give or take. Jack and Sam are nowhere to be found (dead, probably) and Daniel hears staff blasts down the corridor. This is very much the end.
“I hope it’s enough,” Daniel murmurs. “The self-destruct, I mean.”
The staff blasts get louder.
“We could have done so much for this planet.” And others that they’ll never know. It hurts, sharp and hot in his chest, to think about the things they’ll never get to see, the people they will never meet.
“Daniel Jackson,” Teal’c says, turning to face him. He is determined, standing straight and proud, almost regal in their final moments. “We die free.”
An amber flame slams into the open door, leaving a charred gash in its wake.
“We die free,” Daniel says, and the vibrations of the first explosion travel up through his legs.