Jack spun the picture frame round and round, no longer staring at the
contents. Rain lashed shadows danced across his face as the streetlight
outside threw stark images into the dim room. Placing it down in a sudden
movement, he reached aimlessly for the beer bottle at his side. Empty,
again. He snorted and threw it haphazardly across to hit the chair, where
it clattered down to join the others, leaving a trail of dregs slowly
oozing across the upholstery. As he attempted to stand, he slid
ungraciously to his knees, knocking the silver picture frame off the coffee
table.
"Oops." He stated, picking it up and setting it back with the earnest carefulness of those not entirely above the influence. The little boy's smiling face stared out again, reunited beside the other pictures strewn across the table. As Jack knelt forward, he caught sight of the newest of the old photographs, a laughing woman enjoying a joke with a happier version of himself.
Jumping to his feet again, spinning around and stalking back to the kitchen, his empty mood dissipating into that anger that had seethed under the surface for the last day. As he reached for the beer crate, he realised it was empty, and glared around the room. There, that half-full bottle – it looked alcoholic. Opening it carefully, he regarded the clear liquid dispassionately before taking a hefty slug.
Goddammit. He should have gone. How could he refuse her, he who never could? He remembered the pleading look in her blue eyes as she begged him to come.
To be the best man.
And after all his years of training, he had balked. He owed this woman his life, his sanity, his friendship above all else. She had always stood there for him while she could. And he couldn't even do one thing that might make her happy?
Taking another long drink, he coughed slightly before heading back out into the living room. Hatred and self-loathing screamed inside until he could barely hear the ticking of the clock, the torrential rain. Half sitting, half collapsing, he sat down in front of the table, placing the bottle on the wood with a solid plunk. He stared forward, frame tense, eyes narrowed.
The pictures stared right back.
And he swung his arm round in a sudden fit of fierce anger, sweeping everything off and yelling wordlessly, a tear of rage forcing its way down his rough cheek. The four photographs and the bottle alongside it went shattering to the floor, scattering glass shards every which way. He exploded to his feet, hardly knowing how he got from place to place, destroying the room methodically in his wrath.
When he glared around the room, breathing heavily, eyes misting, he saw only one thing left to break. Flinging himself against the window, staring for a moment at the soaking garden darkness beyond, he brought his fist crashing down on the glass, breaking through the first glazing in a shower of razor fragments.
And that seemed to do it.
Jack slowly sat down, bemused, among the glass shards. His wrist and hand was stating to bleed now; thick red lines began to ooze down his arm as he held his hand in front of his face.
It crossed his mind that he should be dealing with this, first aid sure was needed. But why not finish the job he had contemplated those years ago? Charlie was dead, through his own fault. Sara had left him, because he was a pathetic and old wreck of a man. The only reason he had put it off so long was the small lingering hope. Six and a half years he had known her. He had never stopped loving her. At one point he cherished the hope that she returned it.
Hah.
Some dreamer, Jack O'Neill.
The lines on his wrist ran now in a thick stream, and he stared fascinated at it. Why not leave it, end it right here? There was nothing here for him now.
A ring came on the doorbell, echoing unwelcomingly through the dark hallway, rebounding with a weird tinge to it. Maybe that was just him that heard it that way. Jack shifted slightly, gritted his teeth slightly as he felt a shard embed itself in his thigh, let out a laboured breath as the pain hardly registered. The blood was dripping onto the carpet now, the streetlights leaching the colour, leaving it looking almost black.
The ring came again, and then the door creaked hesitantly open. He should have left it locked – but he couldn't be bothered to get the keys. They were on the hallway table, under the notepad. He'd never used that shopping notepad; it had been one of those stupid things that passed around the base one Christmas. It had the Simpsons on. He glanced down. The blood was starting to soak right through his trousers now.
"Jack? Jack, are you here?"
That was Danny-boy's voice. Daniel came back from the dead. Wouldn't fancy my own chances. I'm not the pet of the Ancients or whatever. Not a cosmic class genius like he is. Like she is.
"Jack – JESUS! Jack, what the hell are you doing?"
"Get the hell outta here, Daniel," he slurred pleasantly. "Or I'll make you regret it."
He tore his fascinated gaze from his own bleeding arm and suddenly squinted as Daniel flicked the light switch on. He was still wearing his suit. Had fun being the best man in my place, Danny? Come right from the reception? Enjoy your little self?
Daniel stared around the room, his face too full of mixed emotions. Sam had been so worried about Jack – come to think of it, so had he been. He hated having to leave so soon, but he felt he owed it to his friend.
And boy was he glad he'd come. He took in the trashed room, the pile of beer bottles, the strewn pictures, the broken window, the glass covering the floor and catching the light at crazy angles.
And Jack slumped in the middle of it. Jesus, was that his blood making a puddle on the floor?
"Jack, I need you to listen to me," he began, ice dread running through him as he crunched over the floor hesitantly.
"Daniel!" said Jack warningly, looking up and smiling humourlessly. His eyes were so dark they seemed black, almost inhuman. "I said, don't come closer. You don't want to get hurt."
Daniel stopped, head shaking slightly in denial.
"Jack, don't do this."
"Can you give me a reason not to?"
"Firstly, the SGC need you..."
"Hah." Jack snorted. "You coped when I was frozen. When I was missing. I'm sure they'll cope if I'm not there."
"Jack, we care about you. You're like a brother to me. Hell, Teal'c even says the same," Daniel continued, in as calm a voice as he could manage.
"Hey, you're tough, Danny. I taught you well. Go kick the Goa...goo.. bad guys asses."
"Jack."
"Daniel." He mimicked it perfectly.
"Jack, do you know the worst person you'll be hurting?"
"Myself, I hope."
"Jack, think about Sam."
He threw a laughing stare back at Daniel, and it chilled the archaeologist. He'd seen scared shitless Jack, sarcastic Jack, incredibly angry Jack, but he'd never seen him so calm in accepting black despair.
"And I've been thinking of sunshine and flowers all day, Danny." The sarcasm slurred lightly off his tongue. Daniel continued doggedly.
"She was so worried about you that she sent me out to find you as soon as the reception was halfway through. This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Don't ruin it." Daniel cringed inwardly, wondering whether the guilt trip was going to work or whether it was completely the wrong thing.
"She's... not worried... 'bout me," continued the Colonel, sliding down further into his glass surroundings.
"Jack, you know that's not true..."
"Hah..."
"Jack, sit up. You need to get out of that glass. Jack. Jack!" tried Daniel again, helpless as he suddenly saw his friends eyes slowly flicker closed. Ignoring the sharp area he strode in and knelt beside him, feverishly checking for a pulse and grabbing Jack's wrist to try and stem the bleeding.
"Leave it, Danny," Jack murmured. "Go out and enjoy your life. Forget about me."
"Jack, don't you dare," hissed Daniel fiercely, scrabbling for his cell phone in his pocket with one hand as the other was clamped on Jack's arm. Crap, he had to have hit an artery, the way it was running. Eventually he succeeded in flipping open the phone and hitting the speed dial.
"Jack? Jack, I'm phoning help," he continued, but Jack either wasn't answering, or had passed out. CRAP!
"Hello, Sergeant? This is Doctor Daniel Jackson. Get hold of the duty nurse immediately. I need a medical team to Colonel O'Neill's house RIGHT now."
Of course, a lot of the personnel were out at the reception. And Janet... Daniel closed his eyes on the familiar tearing pain, and concentrated fiercely on the matter in hand.
Between his fingers blood continued to seep out.
"Oops." He stated, picking it up and setting it back with the earnest carefulness of those not entirely above the influence. The little boy's smiling face stared out again, reunited beside the other pictures strewn across the table. As Jack knelt forward, he caught sight of the newest of the old photographs, a laughing woman enjoying a joke with a happier version of himself.
Jumping to his feet again, spinning around and stalking back to the kitchen, his empty mood dissipating into that anger that had seethed under the surface for the last day. As he reached for the beer crate, he realised it was empty, and glared around the room. There, that half-full bottle – it looked alcoholic. Opening it carefully, he regarded the clear liquid dispassionately before taking a hefty slug.
Goddammit. He should have gone. How could he refuse her, he who never could? He remembered the pleading look in her blue eyes as she begged him to come.
To be the best man.
And after all his years of training, he had balked. He owed this woman his life, his sanity, his friendship above all else. She had always stood there for him while she could. And he couldn't even do one thing that might make her happy?
Taking another long drink, he coughed slightly before heading back out into the living room. Hatred and self-loathing screamed inside until he could barely hear the ticking of the clock, the torrential rain. Half sitting, half collapsing, he sat down in front of the table, placing the bottle on the wood with a solid plunk. He stared forward, frame tense, eyes narrowed.
The pictures stared right back.
And he swung his arm round in a sudden fit of fierce anger, sweeping everything off and yelling wordlessly, a tear of rage forcing its way down his rough cheek. The four photographs and the bottle alongside it went shattering to the floor, scattering glass shards every which way. He exploded to his feet, hardly knowing how he got from place to place, destroying the room methodically in his wrath.
When he glared around the room, breathing heavily, eyes misting, he saw only one thing left to break. Flinging himself against the window, staring for a moment at the soaking garden darkness beyond, he brought his fist crashing down on the glass, breaking through the first glazing in a shower of razor fragments.
And that seemed to do it.
Jack slowly sat down, bemused, among the glass shards. His wrist and hand was stating to bleed now; thick red lines began to ooze down his arm as he held his hand in front of his face.
It crossed his mind that he should be dealing with this, first aid sure was needed. But why not finish the job he had contemplated those years ago? Charlie was dead, through his own fault. Sara had left him, because he was a pathetic and old wreck of a man. The only reason he had put it off so long was the small lingering hope. Six and a half years he had known her. He had never stopped loving her. At one point he cherished the hope that she returned it.
Hah.
Some dreamer, Jack O'Neill.
The lines on his wrist ran now in a thick stream, and he stared fascinated at it. Why not leave it, end it right here? There was nothing here for him now.
A ring came on the doorbell, echoing unwelcomingly through the dark hallway, rebounding with a weird tinge to it. Maybe that was just him that heard it that way. Jack shifted slightly, gritted his teeth slightly as he felt a shard embed itself in his thigh, let out a laboured breath as the pain hardly registered. The blood was dripping onto the carpet now, the streetlights leaching the colour, leaving it looking almost black.
The ring came again, and then the door creaked hesitantly open. He should have left it locked – but he couldn't be bothered to get the keys. They were on the hallway table, under the notepad. He'd never used that shopping notepad; it had been one of those stupid things that passed around the base one Christmas. It had the Simpsons on. He glanced down. The blood was starting to soak right through his trousers now.
"Jack? Jack, are you here?"
That was Danny-boy's voice. Daniel came back from the dead. Wouldn't fancy my own chances. I'm not the pet of the Ancients or whatever. Not a cosmic class genius like he is. Like she is.
"Jack – JESUS! Jack, what the hell are you doing?"
"Get the hell outta here, Daniel," he slurred pleasantly. "Or I'll make you regret it."
He tore his fascinated gaze from his own bleeding arm and suddenly squinted as Daniel flicked the light switch on. He was still wearing his suit. Had fun being the best man in my place, Danny? Come right from the reception? Enjoy your little self?
Daniel stared around the room, his face too full of mixed emotions. Sam had been so worried about Jack – come to think of it, so had he been. He hated having to leave so soon, but he felt he owed it to his friend.
And boy was he glad he'd come. He took in the trashed room, the pile of beer bottles, the strewn pictures, the broken window, the glass covering the floor and catching the light at crazy angles.
And Jack slumped in the middle of it. Jesus, was that his blood making a puddle on the floor?
"Jack, I need you to listen to me," he began, ice dread running through him as he crunched over the floor hesitantly.
"Daniel!" said Jack warningly, looking up and smiling humourlessly. His eyes were so dark they seemed black, almost inhuman. "I said, don't come closer. You don't want to get hurt."
Daniel stopped, head shaking slightly in denial.
"Jack, don't do this."
"Can you give me a reason not to?"
"Firstly, the SGC need you..."
"Hah." Jack snorted. "You coped when I was frozen. When I was missing. I'm sure they'll cope if I'm not there."
"Jack, we care about you. You're like a brother to me. Hell, Teal'c even says the same," Daniel continued, in as calm a voice as he could manage.
"Hey, you're tough, Danny. I taught you well. Go kick the Goa...goo.. bad guys asses."
"Jack."
"Daniel." He mimicked it perfectly.
"Jack, do you know the worst person you'll be hurting?"
"Myself, I hope."
"Jack, think about Sam."
He threw a laughing stare back at Daniel, and it chilled the archaeologist. He'd seen scared shitless Jack, sarcastic Jack, incredibly angry Jack, but he'd never seen him so calm in accepting black despair.
"And I've been thinking of sunshine and flowers all day, Danny." The sarcasm slurred lightly off his tongue. Daniel continued doggedly.
"She was so worried about you that she sent me out to find you as soon as the reception was halfway through. This is supposed to be the happiest day of her life. Don't ruin it." Daniel cringed inwardly, wondering whether the guilt trip was going to work or whether it was completely the wrong thing.
"She's... not worried... 'bout me," continued the Colonel, sliding down further into his glass surroundings.
"Jack, you know that's not true..."
"Hah..."
"Jack, sit up. You need to get out of that glass. Jack. Jack!" tried Daniel again, helpless as he suddenly saw his friends eyes slowly flicker closed. Ignoring the sharp area he strode in and knelt beside him, feverishly checking for a pulse and grabbing Jack's wrist to try and stem the bleeding.
"Leave it, Danny," Jack murmured. "Go out and enjoy your life. Forget about me."
"Jack, don't you dare," hissed Daniel fiercely, scrabbling for his cell phone in his pocket with one hand as the other was clamped on Jack's arm. Crap, he had to have hit an artery, the way it was running. Eventually he succeeded in flipping open the phone and hitting the speed dial.
"Jack? Jack, I'm phoning help," he continued, but Jack either wasn't answering, or had passed out. CRAP!
"Hello, Sergeant? This is Doctor Daniel Jackson. Get hold of the duty nurse immediately. I need a medical team to Colonel O'Neill's house RIGHT now."
Of course, a lot of the personnel were out at the reception. And Janet... Daniel closed his eyes on the familiar tearing pain, and concentrated fiercely on the matter in hand.
Between his fingers blood continued to seep out.