After Words
Tallulah Rasa
The puddle was mud-brown, ankle-deep, and smelled like crap. It was perfectly round, like a Stargate. He was so busy telling Sam about the possible meanings of the marking on the obelisk that he stepped right into it.
That's his last clear memory of the very last time he was off world.
He thinks he heard something
right after that, but maybe he didn't.
He thinks he saw the
The scar is mottled and shiny and as wide as his hand. It starts at his right hip and runs all the way down his thigh.
He almost lost the leg. He doesn't remember much about that, what with the shock and the pain and the drugs. He thinks he remembers Sam crying, and Jack and Teal'c sitting by his bed. It wasn't until after the second surgery that he knew enough to be scared.
Later, after the last surgery, facing the forever months of grueling rehab and dependence and embarrassment, he careened from scared to frustrated to enraged. That was normal, the doctors said, but as usual, his "normal" was more than other people's. His explosions were massive. He'd never been a man to do things in a small way.
He told his friends to keep away. He didn't want witnesses. He didn't want pity. He didn't want their guilt. Jack was the only one who did what he asked. Daniel should have been grateful, but he wasn't. That's something he never told Jack.
The day nurse was named Donna. She wasn't really pretty, but she was quick, and she had blazing eyes. She yelled back when he roared, and told him to get his own damned water when he was rude. When he thought he was past feeling, she squeezed his hand, and he felt it. The day after he finally walked out of the hospital on his own steam he walked back in with a dozen lilies for her.
Sam and Teal'c weren't surprised when he gave her the ring, but Jack never understood. He never said, "This is a mistake," but he thought it so loudly Daniel could hear it.
That had been fifteen years ago. It hadn't been a mistake.
They said he could try going off-world again, but suddenly life on Earth had a greater appeal. He agreed to be an on-call consultant for the SGC, and then took a teaching job at the Academy. He wanted an office with a window. Jack hadn't understood that, either, but it mattered less, then. The baby was on the way, and Daniel knew he couldn't do that kind of waiting under a mountain.
He would have liked to have named his first child after Jack, but "Jack Jackson" is a stupid name. That's another thing he never told Jack. He often wishes he had.
When the call came, it was so early the kids were still asleep. At first Daniel thought it was his mother-in-law, who had a habit of calling at odd times. But then Donna said, "I see," in the same voice she'd used when they'd gotten the call about Sam, and Daniel knew. That time, eight years ago, Donna had said, "A motorcycle helmet can only do so much," three times before he understood. This time she doesn't have to say anything.
The cemetery isn't far from Cheyenne Mountain. Jack could have been buried at Arlington, but Charlie's in Colorado. The service is at the graveside, which is a long walk from the parking lot. Daniel limps a little, although it's not cold, and it's not raining. Donna squeezes his hand, and for a minute it's like he's in rehab again, all that rage and sadness, but then it's gone.
There aren't many people at the grave. Jack holed up in Minnesota twelve years ago, and he was never much for keeping in touch. Sam's gone, Hammond's not as strong as he used to be, Ferretti's off world. Cassie just had a baby. Teal'c hasn't left Chulak for years. Tretonin has side effects, sometimes.
Sara gives the eulogy. It's perfect.
Daniel goes up to her afterwards, and she hugs him, even though she doesn't really know him. The Stargate program still hasn't gone public. He wonders what she knows, what Jack told her. Donna had worked with a few of Janet Fraiser's patients, so she knew some of it. He told her everything else. Some things matter more than treason.
"There's something…" Sara starts. She chokes up a little, but it passes. "He left some letters, and a note that said you'd know what to do with them. I have them in my car."
So he walks with her. They don't say much. Sara's eyes are clear, and she holds herself straight. Daniel likes her. He thinks they have a lot in common.
At her little Toyota, she hands him three sealed business envelopes, and a big, heavy, manila one. "Can you…?" she asks.
He doesn't turn the manila envelope over; that's probably for George. One of the white envelopes is for Teal'c. That's no problem; Daniel's still got a desk at the SGC. He sends messages through the Gate all the time. He might even be able to get Ry'ac to come, which would be almost as good as giving the envelope to Teal'c himself. He's not so sure about the second envelope, the one with Sam's name. Jack knew about Sam, but still, the envelope says "Carter" in Jack's confident scrawl. The Tok'ra are all gone, and Sam was never close to her brother. Daniel knows where Pete is, but in the eight years since his wife's accident Pete's never answered a letter or returned a phone call.
He's a little surprised to see his name on the last white envelope, but there it is.
"Of course," he says.
Sara invites him back to the house, but he and Donna foisted all three kids on a neighbor, and they promised to be back by noon. Sara hugs him again. After she's gone he drops the envelopes, and that's when he notices the name on the manila envelope isn't Hammond's. It's his, and by then it's too late to ask why.
At home, he lays his envelopes on the desk in his office and leaves, closing the door behind him.
It's sort of a normal Saturday. He corrects some translations. He reads a report. He arranges to have Ry'ac invited to the SGC. He attaches a letter of his own to Sam's envelope and mails the whole thing to Pete's address. He mows the lawn. He mediates a dispute between the boys, who are building a model of the Valley of the Kings in the basement. He wanders into the kitchen. He comes up behind Donna, who is explaining fractions to their youngest while she makes dinner, and wraps his arms around her.
Donna leans into him, and says to Samantha, "If you have two envelopes and you open one, you've done half the opening you need to do."
Samantha chews her pencil. Daniel nuzzles Donna's neck. Donna turns, puts a floury hand on his face, and gives him a long look. He goes back to his office.
He closes the door and sits at his desk. No one ever bothers him in his office, except to say they need a pencil, or to tell him that dinner's getting cold, or to say that it was an accident, but the fish tank is cracked and leaking on the floor. He stares at his two envelopes and thinks about halves.
Donna comes in without knocking, picks up the manila envelope, and holds it out to him. He tears open the flap with damp, clumsy hands and pulls out a thick wad of folded newspaper. The pages are neatly torn; there's no date on any of them. He unwraps layer after layer, until a hockey puck falls onto his desk with a dull thud. Attached to it is a sticky note that says, "You know what to do with this."
He has no idea what to do with it.
He sits up all night. He hasn't done that in years, not since the boys had pneumonia at the same time, and that was different.
Donna doesn't point out that it would probably help if he just read the damned letter. He thinks tomorrow he'll bring her a bunch of lilies. It's been a while.
In the morning, he drives to the cemetery. Archeologists spend their lives walking among the dead, but this is new and different. His parents' ashes were scattered over a corner of Egypt; Sam's over a corner of the galaxy. Sha're's world is long gone. He sees a child's grave marked "Jackson", and for a moment he can't breathe.
When he gets to Jack's grave, he stands for a while. Then he crouches and tucks the hockey puck into some dirt near the marker, next to a bouquet he thinks Sara left. His leg doesn't hurt at all.
He wishes he had known about the puck before. He could have buried it with Jack, in case there's a pick-up hockey game in the afterlife.
"So…" he says, but Jack just waits.
There's a bench across the way, but Daniel sinks down in the grass next to the grave to read Jack's letter.
If you're reading this, it says, I'm dead and you're alive, which has to be a first. Let me tell you, it's a lot easier on me this
way.
Don't get excited. I'm not going
to say anything profound or emotional. I'm just organized. I like things left
neat and tied up. Not like you, with papers all over the place. Maybe it's a military thing.
There's some money for your kids.
It's in the will, and don't worry, Sara's taken care of. She knows, by the way. I know your kids don't need it, but everyone
should have a little money they don't need.
You can hang on to it till they're eighteen, if you want. Just make sure they spend it on something
stupid.
There's some stuff in a locked trunk in my attic. The combination's the designation for
Harlan's world. I know, I know. Do whatever you think is best with all of it.
I'll bet you stayed up all night over the hockey puck. It's from a game I played in high
school. That makes it an artifact, so
treat it with respect. And take your
kids to a hockey game sometime. They
should know there's more to life than mummies.
All the other stuff? There's
probably nothing I can say you don't already know, or wouldn't argue with.
I'll be seeing you.
Jack
He's not sure how long he's been sitting when he notices the shadow. He looks up, and Jack's there. Thirty-ish, and with a beard that slightly masks his face, but Jack.
"John," Daniel says.
"Long time," Jack's clone says.
In fact, it's been ten years since he left Earth for good. Daniel's gotten a few letters through the years, but never a visit. One Jack O'Neill, John had written, is enough for any world. Of course, he was mellower than Jack, who'd thought one was enough for any universe.
"So," Daniel says.
"So," John says, squatting next to Daniel with the ease of someone who's never had bad knees.
Daniel waits.
"There was a letter," John says, and it isn't a question. Daniel hands it to him. John settles himself in the grass before he reads it.
"He—" John begins.
Daniel lifts a hand. "Don't."
They sit for a while, side by side. The day is sunny enough that Daniel can feel the warmth seeping through his hair, heating his scalp. It's oddly like the first second of being hit by a Goa'uld ribbon device.
"It's weird," John finally says. "Knowing you've died."
"It is," Daniel agrees.
"No, what I mean is…I know I'm not him, and he wasn't me. But his being there—his being him—defined me. It's odd losing that. Like…like losing the contrast on a TV picture. The thing that makes everything sharp."
"It is," Daniel says again, quietly.
"I heard the eulogy was nice," John says after a minute. "I called your house. I talked to Donna."
Daniel nods.
"So…can I buy you a cup of coffee? Maybe see some pictures of the kids?"
Daniel looks over. "You don't have to…"
"Not as him. Not because of him. Just…just because."
"Yeah," Daniel says. "That would be nice."
Daniel gets up. He folds the letter neatly, puts it back in its envelope, and tucks it into his jacket pocket. After a minute, he unearths the hockey puck, brushes it off, and pockets that, as well. "So, how's the new site?" he asks as they walk away.
"Good," John enthuses. "Beautiful planet. Fantastic lake."
Daniel smiles. "You finally took up fishing?"
"I swim. You know I don't like fishing."
"You do, you know."
"No, I don't."
"Yes, you do."
"No, I don't. I absolutely—do you really want to fight about this?"
"Yeah," Daniel says. "I really do."
END