Homecoming

Rated: G

Category: Jack Daniel Friendship, General

Season: Seven, Shortly After Fallen

Spoilers: Meridian and Fallen, I Suppose

Summary: Jack Helps Daniel Out In An Unexpected Way

Dedication: For the Wylie house and for Becky, as always.

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I've been back three weeks. Everyone around here still acts like I'm the walking dead, though, which I guess in a way I am. I see the odd little looks, the nervous glances. I don't really mind most of the time, but sometimes it gets old. I want to just grab people by the fronts of their shirts and shake them, screaming 'I'M STILL ME!', but I don't think that would make the stares stop, and frankly I'm not sure that it's true.

Jack's the worst. He acts like he's walking on eggshells around me. He keeps cracking jokes and acting like nothing's wrong, but I can tell he's really freaked out by this. He's the one who told everyone to let me go. He helped me ascend. In his mind, he killed me. It's written across his face in text I don't need to translate to understand. I see it every time I look at him. I think he thinks I blame him. Nothing could be further from the truth, but I know I won't convince Jack of that. Seeing me is hard on him. I know he's glad I'm back, but I think he's waiting for the other shoe to drop, like this isn't really happening. I understand it, but his constant mother-henning is making me nervous. I swear, if he comes by one more time to check up on me, and then treats me with kid gloves, I'm going to lose it!

I can't take it anymore. My quarters on base are nice enough, if Spartan, but I've got to get out of here. I remember more every day. I'm pretty sure I spent most of my time here before, but there was somewhere else, too. An apartment, I think.

They gave me a ton of papers as soon as I got back. Like I could be expected to read them and just go on about my business. I couldn't even remember who I was half the time! So, I tossed them in a drawer and didn't give them another thought. Now, though, I wonder what was in them. Do I still have a place to live? Somewhere to go to get out of this mountain for a while? I remember things I owned. Where are they? Were they sold? Put in storage? So many questions, and so few answers…

I find what I'm looking for after a quick search. I ruffle through the papers and suddenly, amongst all the loose sheets, there's an official looking envelope. There's something solid inside. My curiosity makes me open the small package. Inside, I find a single key, surrounded by a memo from the SGC.

The letter is dated three days after my 'death'. It details plans for the redistribution of all personal effects of one Doctor Daniel Jackson. Turns out all of my belongings were packed up and taken to a storage facility outside Area 51. That seems odd to me, because one thing I do know is that I had a will. I've read it. Recently. Seems I picked up several interesting and exotic artifacts in my travels, and I provided a means for them to be given to museums and collections around the world upon my demise. According to this, that wasn't done. My will was not carried out.

Now I'm pissed. Sure, I'm back now, but how would anyone have known that would happen? Why weren't my things taken care of as I stipulated? I understand some things would have to be confiscated or gone over with a fine tooth comb before being released due to their classified status, but this isn't right.

Only one thing to do, I suppose. I'm going to get to the bottom of this.

XXX

I didn't tell anyone I was leaving, for good reason. Jack has to know about this, and I don't feel like a confrontation. I just want to find out what's going in my own way. I'm more than a little upset that my wishes were just blown off, and he had to be involved somehow. He was my executor, for God's sake.

Hammond provided me a car and all the requisite paperwork to drive it weeks ago, but I haven't used it until now. At least I still know how to drive. That's something.

As I climb into the car, doubt begins to surface. There must be some reason for this. Maybe I should just ask. My things were stored away in Nevada for a purpose. Jack has to have a reason.

As I think of Jack O'Neill, the doubt fades and anger again takes its place. Jack and I haven't always seen eye to eye, and the more I think about it, the more I just have to do this on my own. Now.

The sixteen hour drive would have been shorter if I'd really known where I was going, but I managed. It was a boring drive, with not much to look at, especially as I decided to do this around noon, putting me at my destination in the middle of the night. I still haven't gotten back to a regular sleeping pattern yet, though, so with the help of a little coffee, I made it just fine.

Despite its lack of landscaping, the drive did give me time to think. I'm not sure if that was a good thing or not. I thought about a lot of things, but mostly about my future and where I should go from here. I just don't know if I fit in here anymore. Things are so hard right now. The way people treat me, not knowing quite how to do my job…it's frustrating. I must be a bit of a perfectionist, because it really bothers me. I also really got myself worried about what I would find when I got to Area 51. I could see it clearly. Artifacts dumped into boxes without care, broken fragile goods, papers torn and crumpled, everything in disarray. Do you think the standard airman they would have sent to do a job like this would have been careful? No way. He would get the job done as quickly as possible, and damn the consequences. Probably would have even been a little mad at having to do some stupid packing job, too. Might have taken it out on a few of my possessions, or former possessions…whatever. I don't even know what to call them.

God, this sucks. Just thinking about boxes and packing nearly makes me ill. I moved too much as a kid. Granted, I didn't have much to move, but it was always such a pain in the ass. Nothing ever went quite right, and something important was always lost or broken. Convenient that these memories choose now to resurface. Why can't ones like this just stay locked away?

I sigh at the irony of it all, and continue to sit in my car outside a top secret military installation, wondering what to do next. Brilliant idea, driving here. What am I going to do now? Just waltz up to the gate and demand entrance? I don't think so.

I don't have to ponder my next step long, though. After all of three minutes, bright lights suddenly surround my car, and I make out several vehicles pulling up alongside me. A door opens on one of the cars, and a tall middle aged man steps out. I squint into the light as he approaches my car. As he gets closer, I roll my window down. I hold my hands up to show I'm unarmed, and call out to the stranger.

"I'm Daniel Jackson, with Stargate Command. Don't shoot!"

The response to my yell surprises me. Never in a million years would I have expected what I next heard.

The government man stops, takes one step back and calmly answers me. "Ah. Doctor Jackson. We've been expecting you. If you'll step out of the car and follow me, I'll show you where you need to go."

My brow furrows in what I know is disbelief and puzzlement and I stare for a long minute.

"Don't worry, Doctor Jackson. Everything will be fine. Just come with me."

Since I really have no other choice, I slowly step out of my car and follow my new 'friend'. He leads me to his own vehicle, and after we're seated in back, he gives a whispered direction to the driver. We speed into the base, dust covering my car in seconds.

As I try to get a grip on what's happening, I slowly realize the man next to me is talking.

"We were told to escort you to the proper area without delay if you showed up at any time. I'm sorry if we startled you back there. We get a lot of troublemakers and conspiracy theorists out this way, as I'm sure you can imagine. We can't be too careful. I thought you were just another punk kid with a camera. I was shocked when I saw you. Ah, here we are. You'll just have to verify your identity here with a palm scan."

What? Palm scan? These guys have my palm on record? How often do I come here? What the hell is going on? I am not ok with this. My hesitation must show, because my 'guide' offers his help.

"Daniel. Look. I know this is hard for you. I know you don't remember everything and that this must be overwhelming, but I promise I won't let anyone hurt you, and I think you want to see what's here, or you wouldn't have come. Just put your hand on the scanner. It'll be ok."

The use of my first name startles me a bit, but then I look closer at the man in the car with me. He's familiar somehow. I can't place him, but I know him. I believe him, somehow. The soft understanding in his eyes tells me he must have known me…before…

I reach my hand out to the scanner alongside the car at an interior gate. It lights up for a minute, then the gate in front of us lifts. We enter a compound of large warehouse-like buildings.

After a few more minutes of driving, followed by a short walk and then an elevator ride to an underground storage facility, we arrive at what's obviously our destination. The familiar man hands me a magnetic passcard, and smiles.

"Take all the time you need. Let us know if you need anything. I'll station a guard outside in case you need any help or directions."

I mumble my thanks as the man walks off. I'm alone for the moment. The only signs of life here are the cameras. They're everywhere, and I know someone is watching my every move.

I know I can't do anything other than what they expect, and besides, this is supposedly why I came, right?

I slide the passcard through the scanner beside the door, and it unlocks with a loud clunk.

As I slowly open the heavy door in front of me, another door comes into view. This one has a plain lock, like you would find on a house, only heavier. I suddenly remember the key in my pocket.

I try it in the lock, and it works easily. A perfect fit.

I hesitantly enter the dark room behind the door, and as I step over the threshold, lights come on all around me. There must be a motion sensor tied to the door.

As the room illuminates, I'm met with row after row of neatly stacked boxes of all sizes. Larger items are packed in wooden crates in the corners of the room, but most of the space is filled with small, uniform boxes on metal shelving units. Everything is in perfect order. I can make out furniture in the very back of the room, and as I walk towards it to get a better view, something strikes me.

Every box is labeled in exactly the same way. All the boxes are arranged so that every label is easy to read. After two steps, I can clearly see that what I think is all of my furniture is in fact here, and I can read the writing on the first shelved box. It's not the words that jump out at me, but the writing itself.

I know that writing. I may not remember everything, but I know who labeled these boxes as well as I know that I need oxygen to live.

Jack.

His distinctive scrawl covers every single neat little label.

Jack did this.

As I look around, I see that everything is here.

Everything.

My clothes, my furniture, my books…everything.

And I know Jack did this. All of it. His presence fills the room as much as the boxes do.

Oh, Jack, I'm so sorry. You didn't follow my wishes because you knew. Somehow, you knew I'd be back.

A smile slowly spreads across my face, and I realize that while it's great, the grin has nothing to do with the stuff, and everything to do with the man who preserved it for me, hoping against hope that one day I might be able to use it again.

One thought overpowers everything else in my brain and banishes all doubts as my eyes fill with tears at the tenderness of my friend's gesture.

I'm home.