She is Wronged
The Tau'ri act differently around her.
A few months ago, they removed her from her cell. Allowed to see an actual physician, a lovely woman who was nothing but concerned for her despite her alien status. The bullet wound healed slowly naturally, ached and throbbed. When she questioned about her healing device, they ignored her. In fact, they ignored the majority of her questions entirely.
They're still ignoring her questions presently.
Deals mostly with two men, an older man lacking hair, who takes a gentler tone with her, and corrects instead of reprimanding when she doesn't get the correct Tau'ri word for the large, flat pie covered in vegetable sauce, dairy strings, and animal flesh. He lets her be herself a bit more, at least who she thinks is herself, it's been so long.
The other is Major Lorne.
They take her out like some domesticated pet, go with her on walks and explain their ecosystem like her home world doesn't have coniferous trees and food chains. Like she doesn't know the importance of nitrogen and oxygen and all those other marvelous chemical molecules that their lives depend on. She just nods and hos and hums and sometimes the older gentleman will crack a smile and a laugh at her and apologize because he never notices their similarities.
Major Lorne only glares.
He rampages in to her bedroom one night during a checkup with the doctor who monitors her bullet wound like some monitor the stock market. He tosses a black dress onto her bed while the doctor listens to crackling in her chest with a very cold little metal disk at her back. He's wearing his full army uniform complete with medals, all ironed and crisp. "Get dressed."
Before she can answer, the doctor pulls back from her, stringing the listening device around her neck. "I'm worried about—"
"I don't care." He cuts her off and then is drawn to himself in a full-length mirror behind the door to the dorm they moved her to. Her door unlocks and locks from the outside, but she has a private washroom, a wardrobe that doesn't include orange jumpsuits, and is allowed to roam around the base with a chaperone. "She needs to be upstairs in five minutes."
"She's going off base?" The doctor takes a step away from her, lines of concern drawn over her forehead.
"Going to a gala."
"She shouldn't be going anywhere. She has obvious signs of infection from the bullet wound you—"
"Save it Lam," he picks something from his teeth and then sucks his lips together. Straightening the lapels of his jacket. "Your daddy's the one who wants her there."
That aborts anymore of a conversation as the doctor rolls her eyes with a huff and collects her clipboard from the dresser, before sneaking her an apologetic look. She brushes by Lorne and out the door, while the major's eyes are fixated on her unmoving from the bed. "You got two minutes or I'm coming in here to help you."
They sit in the back of a long, extended car they call a limo. The older gentleman, General Hammond, tells her it's an abbreviation of the word limousine and holds the door for her.
"General," Lorne clears his throat as she tugs up the bottom of her dress, so she doesn't trip with her barely secured high heels. "Shouldn't you get in first?"
"Ladies first, Evan."
"She's not a lady, Sir, she's a prisoner."
Hammond merely laughs at the barb, shaking his head. "It's that disposition that's going to give her away."
Feels Lorne on her coattails, or lack there of them as no one thought ahead to bring her a jacket, which is why his body heat so close to her is more disturbing. She sits along the far wall, and when he moves to sit beside her, she slides over into the spot so he can't. When he tries again, she slides back, and his teeth crunch off each other.
"Problem, Evan?"
"No sir, just a bit tight."
He ends up sitting across from her, his dark eyebrows low and his jaw cocked like the trigger on a gun. Hammond climbs in and she relinquishes her seat to him, sliding down. When Lorne's jaw muscles tighten, she smirks at him, knowing as long as Hammond is present, he cannot touch her.
As the car coasts over the road, she twists in her seat staring out the window behind her, watching the streetlights flash by in sepia tone from the tint on the glass. Her fingers grip the back of the seat and when she catches Hammond's eye, he smiles at her.
"We should talk about protocol and what's expected and acceptable from you tonight."
They drive down a strip with a variety of food businesses lining the blocks, different signs and advertisements with flashing or bright lights distract her before the scent of oil dipped food morsels. "You certainly do have a variety of food places to choose from."
"Oh yeah." Hammond taps the window as a sign with a large yellow M drifts away. "That one's been around since I was a kid."
"Ms. Mal Doran can you please sit so we can discuss—"
"Is it any good?" Her stomach growls, hungry from missing lunch from her Tau'ri vernacular and idiom classes carrying over into her doctor's appointment. Her teacher is also a doctor, one who is not a teacher at all but a language expert and while he certainly is handsome, he doesn't have the patience for her antics and when Lorne came to collect her from the archeologist's office and they exchanged words, the outcome didn't appear in her favor.
She won't pester the archeologist again.
"It's definitely changed over the years, and I don't just mean the price."
"Sit down please so we can discuss your etiquette tonight—"
"Will you bring me some one day? Although there's much to explore in your commissary, the food tends to be—"
"Sit down, Vala." Lorne shouts at her from across the aisle, reaching forward and yanking her away from the window with a stiff hand clapping on her bare shoulder.
She stops talking, drops her eyes and they ride in silence for a few moments before Hammond speaks, "Why don't you try treating her like a human, son?"
"Because she's not." Lorne spits back flipping a hand in her direction, causing her to flinch.
The logical argument would be that she is a human, she has the same physiological makeup of any Tau'ri female, however her home world is not Earth, it is composed of nearly the same substrate and chemicals and climate, there are ninety-nine similarities to one difference, but apparently that difference puts her at a disadvantage.
Always at a disadvantage.
Hammond is passive in his answer, which while refreshing, is not always successful. "Why don't you let me worry about her tonight?" When Lorne doesn't offer an answer, the General continues, "You've got enough on your mind working auxiliary security for the President and Colonel Mitchell—"
Perks her head up at the name. A name in the last four months that she'd almost forgotten, but the blood covered face still etched into her memory, the comforting hand over hers, his worry despite what must be his own painful injuries. The concern in his questions as he tried to root around and discover more about her. "Colonel Mitchell will be there?"
"Yes." Hammond seems taken aback by her sudden interest, or perhaps her learned knowledge over the man she saved and in doing so gave up her own freedom. Should have continued to fly the al'kesh through the atmosphere before they released any more Tau'ri pilots. She would have been freed not only from an oppressive, sadistic Goa'uld husband, but a stifling planet as well.
Could have been herself for almost a year now.
"You remember Colonel Mitchell?"
Listens to her gut which is imploring her to downplay their connection because exposing her abilities, her memories, is very dangerous. "Barely, just the name and the face."
Hammond nods aware that she's not releasing the whole truth, but Lorne leans forward, scanning her arm with a tracking device, where a week before they injected her with a chip against her own wishes. The device in his hand beeps and vibrates and he types something in on a small keyboard. "Of course Mitchell will be there. Who do you think demanded your presence?"
The device that scanned her is an electronic lead. She is allowed a bit of freedom in the building, a museum that houses all sorts of prehistoric Tau'ri baubles that aren't as shiny and as stealable as she assumed they'd be. Old pieces of large reptiles are apparently very important as they don the walls and construct themselves off the floor. There are also large pieces of stone with the indentation of animal shells and teeth.
People sip a tan toned liquid from long thin glasses and it seems like a waste to not have a simple goblet like she did when she was Qetesh. General Hammond lifts his arm and she curls her hand through, trusting him enough to walk her through the crowd of people all glittery and done up and even as a God she never looks that glamorous
"I have to give my regards to the president." Hammond gestures in the direction of the stout man, the one who upon her retrieval and her revival from blood loss approved the halt of medical treatment until she admitted she was a Goa'uld. The one who assigned Lorne to cover her at all times, and if it wasn't so sickening, she would find the humor in the irony.
"I'd rather not."
Though he offers her an expression of intrigue, he doesn't ask her to expand on her reasoning. Merely directs her over to a long buffet style table, showcasing all the best foods Earth has to offer and unhooks her hand from his arm. "Why don't you stay here, grab something to eat. I'll be back shortly."
Without her agreement he leaves her independent at the table and for the first time, in a room bustling with people, she's truly alone. An exhalation clears her body and her mind, and a wave of fatigue courses through her body as she examines the variety of food, her appetite waning.
Assumes it's the newest prescription to help clear up the lingering infection from her wound. Anytime the doctor comes close to fully healing her, her body adapts to the medication and the infection returns near the entry and exit wounds on either side of her chest. Doesn't understand why the Tau'ri still fire with metal bullets, when energy beams are more humane in actually cauterizing the wounds after doing damage.
She and the doctor agree it's an unseen aftereffect from her time as a host, and the remaining naquadah in her veins, the medication is seen as a form of poison and her body works slowly to siphon it, actually hurting her in the process. A high fever usually accompanies her fatigue along with a loss of appetite and painful stinging as if she's been shot once again.
"If you're looking for a place to start, I highly suggest the cocktail weenies."
Part of her recognizes his voice, a little hard without the drone of a fan and the echo of the high interrogation room ceilings. Expects to find him in a chair, but forgets about the time lapse, the four months spent educating her in Earth history and customs and them trying to wheedle her medical history from her. In the four months spent trying to make her better, he did get better and she grins to see him supporting himself leaning slightly on one crutch.
Much like the other military men, he's dressed fully in uniform with medals pinned over his heart and for a single second she forgets that she wants to go home. Forgets the plan she formulated of trailing the event staff to the kitchen, finding a uniform, tying up her hair and ditching the dress before Major Lorne informed her that if she left a certain proximity the chip in her arm would release a debilitating electric shock.
Forgets that she just wants to go home despite that home no longer existing.
"Well look at you." Abandons the cold white dish she planned on stacking with food she probably wouldn't eat and checks her hips.
"No one's going to be looking at me if I'm standing with you."
Ducks her head to hide her blush. He made her blush. "Well, apparently I have you to thank for the invitation to this shindig."
"You should be here. It's in honor of everyone who fought the battle of Antarctica."
"Hmm." Hums, facing away from the table. Random prolific men and their done-up wives drift around them plucking up little eggy things and random amalgamations of food stabbed through with a tiny wooden spear. "Somehow I don't believe the rest of your military shares your progressive views."
The jovial expression wipes from his face, his eyebrows dropping, becoming stern with concern. He takes a hobbling step forward causing their conversation to become much more intimate. "Are they treating you better?"
"I guess that depends on your perspective, Darling." Straightens her back, the soles of her feels slick with sweat and sliding around in her heels. "I'm out of the basement, but now I'm being wrung through a strict routine of Tau'ri education and assimilation."
Perhaps it's the wandering of her gaze, or the forced huff of a laugh she parses her sentence with, but the same knowing expression General Hammond wore earlier graces his face. His hand swings from his side, fingers grasping hers again, not quite as desperate, but very informative nonetheless. "Why don't we get a drink and talk about it?"
That pesky sensation returns to her stomach, the one telling her that despite an almost rudimentary need to accompany this man, the one she saved, the one she was imprisoned for whom she expects is working a campaign to free her, she speculates that the punishment for doing so would be grand.
So she grins, but it's insincere and reserved and used to cover up the piece of her that's very likely dying from infection. "My dear colonel, while I would love nothing more than to accompany you to a dark corner of the room and have a detailed conversation of how your military's treatment of me, I'm afraid I already promised General Hammond I would wait patiently in this spot for his return."
His thumb traces over the dips of her knuckles before he entwines his fingers with hers. A simple act, perhaps a romantic gesture, but calming, protective, and so gentle. His eyes are so gentle. "Wouldn't want to fall from the General's good graces, would we?"
"Exactly." A breathless word.
Closer now, their entangled hands lowered from any casual observer's line of sight. Near enough to his face to notice the outline of his set nose, how it's healed differently. "What if I got the drinks and brought them to us?"
"A valiant effort, my dear colonel, but Major Lorne was more than clear in his request that I not drink." Her voice lowers, very aware of the state of his body in proximity to hers, quelling the urge to raise her fingers to the side of his face and touch to see if his cheek is as cold as before, to trace the bridge of his settled nose.
He chuckles at her words, his free hand hovering close to the silken fabric wrinkled at her hip. "I think he meant nothing alcoholic."
"Then I would love—"
"Colonel Mitchell." Major Lorne clears his throat standing off to the side of them, his arms clasped behind his perfectly postured back. Jaw muscle twitching when he glares at her, and she drops the lovely Colonel's hand. "Forgive me for interrupting, Sir, but they want to do one last run through before your speech."
"We already did three."
"I know Sir, I just think the president wants the speech to go smoothly due to the recent speculations and riots." Lorne will not look at Colonel Mitchell while addressing him, stares what seems to be straight ahead, but she knows better.
"All right. I'm on my way."
When he swings back to her, to address an adieu of some sorts, Lorne interrupts him again. "I'm sorry Sir, but they did say it was a pressing matter."
"Well they can wait for me to hobble my ass over there." Attention on her again he grins, his voice low, as secret as it can be in their now shared intimate space. "Drink later?"
"Absolutely." She thinks there may be a twinkle behind her eyes even though she did her very best to stop it.
Together they watch the Colonel limp through the crowd. With every staggered step her grin dissipates, and Lorne's scowl grows. Once he becomes indistinguishable, the major's terse voice rings out in her ear. "Ms. Mal Doran, a word?"
Adjusts the slipping strap of her gown and rolls her shoulders. "I'd love to, but I told General Hammond that I would wait here for his speedy return—"
"And I just told Hammond that I would stop in to check on you—"
Swallows harshly because she's been through this routine before. "Well. Perhaps if—"
Interrupts her, holding up the device. "And perhaps if you'd like to remain shock free—"
He hauls her to a corridor, his arm clamped down on her bicep, her eyes watching the ornate pattern of the red-carpet flash beneath her feet. They make it halfway down, a little further than the servant's entrance to the kitchen and just before the curve to the washrooms when she yanks her arm away.
When he seizes it again, she shoves him off, her heel slamming down onto his calf and propelling them both in opposite directions. Thinks she has the upper hand, prepared for fisticuffs because they're in public and a male soldier hitting a female has to be less acceptable than the reverse. But he's shrewd. Her biggest mistake is frequently forgetting all his training.
Launches his arm out to restrain her again, grunts not with effort, but with anger, and it's only a second too late when she realizes she shouldn't raise her hands at him to intercept. The punch hits his jaw which is solid as stone and in her recoil, he slams her back against the wall, twisting her so her arms are pinned beneath both their weight.
"That." Grunts unbridled into her hair, shoves a knee parting her legs, forcing her up, to flattened under his solid chest.
"Was a very—" when she squirms to free a hand, he slams her into the wall again, compressing her body further and the pressure on her ribs causes shallow breathes. "Very stupid thing to do, Vala."
With one forearm he keeps her pinned, his other hand sliding over her dress, pushing fingertips into the dip of her hips sliding upwards to paw at her breasts. She shimmies, shuddering her shoulders to be free of him, but he growls something to her, his elbow slamming down on a very much infected wound, darkness spots her vision as he continues to speak demeaning words to her, call her words meant to hurt her, words that she doesn't fully understand.
She had initiated the sex with him first, flirted and swayed her hips, and batted her eyes while playing up the lost little girl card because she assumed she'd be on an al'kesh home within the week—on any civilized planet, she'd have been home in a week—and the idea of having sex that was her choice with a partner of her choosing seemed euphoric after decades of trying to steer Qetesh away from Ba'al. After three years of being devoted to a rather pasty, carnal God of death.
Only she picked the wrong soldier out of a mountain full. Should have been tipped off by his ease in compliance, by his forceful hold of her hair, the pinning of her hands, by his revisits becoming more frequent and more violent.
Blinks and views where a bit of blood from her teeth sinking into her lip has smudged against the silver stripped wallpaper and is desperately aware of his hand tugging the hem of her dress to her hips the material clinging to the hosiery covering her legs.
He sets his foot between hers, fiddling with his own pants, and she seizes his distraction, stomping her foot down upon his foot, in his wince she bucks the back of her head impacting his nose and lips, then flips as he stumbles backwards, kneeing him as hard as possible in the groin.
Wants to gloat because the struggling was her role in sex for so long it's ordinary for her. But a portion of herself figures out just how disturbing and grotesque it is, the same part of her that tastes the blood on her lip and is starting to feel tired with a well-earned headache.
The part of her who isn't aware someone has rounded the corner and is now standing in the aftermath tableau of the violent exchange.
She's cloistered into her room upon their return. Examined by the kind doctor who does her best to wear a blank mask for a face, but she's a woman, and she simply knows from the runs in her stockings.
Despite her reassurance that nothing happened, a soldier enters the room and demands the dress, stockings, all her clothing, be returned and she feels cheated that her night out was cut short.
After she changes into pajamas, what she was given to use as pajamas, the doctor cleans her gunshot wound, now inflamed and leaking a bit of pus. She speaks in soft words and is very delicate with her actions, and where she didn't feel respected or equality before, she feels pitied and patronized now.
Before the doctor leaves, she sets her hand on her knee and offers a weary but compassionate smile, then collects the containers of her blood.
And if these people bothered to ask her what had happened in her trials before arriving on this planet, instead of speaking down to her in gentle voices, they would've gotten her an alcoholic beverage, and shared a flat vegetable sauced, meat lined pie.
Within the next week she's back to her regular classes, a little more languid than usual as she's on a very powerful antibiotic for her wound and she wants to know when they will finally see logic and allow her to use the Goa'uld device to heal herself.
For now, she sits at a desk with the archeologist, Dr. Jackson, who uses a softer tone and barely admonishes her for not perfectly remembering the idioms from two weeks ago. He offers her a hot beverage and baked goods every thirty minutes as she reads through the work he's prepared for her.
Just as he's about to speak, about something off topic she's sure, there's a knock at the laboratory door. The doctor groans and pushes himself up from the table and keys in the code to allow entry. She's too busy reading about blood being thicker than water to notice who's entered until she hears the uneven footfalls of a colonel relying on a crutch.
She's allowed to leave her lesson, her boring, tedious lesson on all the words the Tau'ri can mash together to give multiple obscure meanings with dubious origins, to have tea in the cafeteria. They sit on the same side of the table as when they were in the interrogation room and while he's not dressed in fatigues or his uniform, he still looks overly presentable and perhaps he did that for her.
"How are you doing?" Lays his crutch across the bench seat next to him, grunts, stretching his back, the muscles and bones that aren't entirely healed yet.
"It's worse than it looks." Addresses her open wound, the one the doctor needs to debride each day. Told her to air it out as often as possible, so she wears a thin-strapped tank top under a thick fleecy sweater that zips up in the front because it's what the doctor suggested. "Although the medication and the infection make me rather sleepy."
"And here I was keen on taking you out dancing." His smile is gentle, but not more so than before.
She returns the grin and sips on the side of the Styrofoam cup, "promises, promises."
"I—" but he stops, groans as shifting his back, his hips again and his face morphs, squashes with pain.
"Are you all right?"
"Yeah, my hip—" His foot barely misses her knees under the table as he raises his leg and kneads his fingers into the muscles. "—just gets a little stiff if I don't have it stretched out when I sit."
Taps the bench beside her, his legs are long enough to rest without causing too much discomfort. "Set it here then."
"No, no, it's fine."
"No, it's not, you're obviously in pain."
"No, I wouldn't want—"
Then she understands, wants to translate the act as chivalrous, not wanting to crowd her personal space after what everyone has labelled a sexual assault. Acceptable from the other familiars in her life at this point because being pitied is a tad above being viewed in constant suspicion. However, he should know better. Doesn't know why he should, but just expects it from him.
With a huff, she crosses her arms over the tabletop and ignores the pain in her chest as she leans forward, crowding in his space. "While I appreciate your courtly devotion of me, I spent decades as a puppet to the God of sex. I can tell you numerous things done to me for which Major Lorne's handsy actions barely register."
He leans in, meeting her halfway across the table and she gazes at the bridge of his unswollen nose, discovers a freckle just below his eye before his face contorts again. "It still doesn't mean he should have done it."
Wants to retort that Lorne barely had a chance to do anything this time before she put him down. That she's unsure which of his previous actions in the last six months has constituted sexual harassment to the Tau'ri and which are considered normal for her home world, or for Qetesh, for Anubis. It's hard to know what is unacceptable when there's a sliding scale. Perhaps they should've given her lessons in that before becoming concerned with her lack of knowledge in knowing which blood is bad and which blood is thicker than water.
But he was also a catalyst to the situation. Had they not been so cozy so openly, perhaps Lorne's rage wouldn't have peaked on her. If the good colonel hadn't hobbled down the hallway at that particular moment because nerves had gotten the better of him and he needed to relieve himself before his big speech, he would have never found Lorne on the ground bleeding profusely from a broken nose, cradling his groin and calling for him to apprehend her. He would have never taken a step towards her, asking on repeat, asking as a mantra, if she was okay while Lorne reeled. After the fifth time she plucked his hand from her shoulder and reassured him she was fine.
Soldiers rounded the corner, as Lorne had incited some hidden security measure, Cameron hastily reached down, tugging the hem of her dress back in place and offered her a cloth to stem the cut on her lip with. When the soldiers demanded he stand aside, their guns trained on her, he didn't budge, stood before her until General Hammond arrived and she had to stand dirtying his hanky with her blood and listen to him explain what had happened as Lorne refuted it, hateful words still spilling from his mouth.
"Yes well—" She ducks down, grasping his leg, surprised by the twitch he gives her whether she startled him with her touch, or if another snap of pain hit him at that exact moment, and sets his sneakered foot beside her on the bench. "From what I've been told, Major Lorne has been sent to other duties."
"They shipped his ass to Antarctica for cleanup." Relaxes back into his seat, the pressure taken off whatever was ailing him. "But that's not the reason I came to see you."
If anything, she should have learned flirting can be dangerous, that her sexuality can be used against her. That on this American military base, which has an overt majority comprised of men, she should bury away who she is lest they find a way to weaponize it against her. Yet as she sits across from him, she cannot help herself. "And here I was hoping you didn't need a reason."
His smile is reward enough, but a nervous chuckle follows, and he crosses his arms. "President Landry wants me to go on a PR docket."
"I'm not sure I follow."
"I'm going to be the poster boy for the United States military," his voice very unenthused at the proffered position. He leans back against the table, his foot tapping her side gently. "Morale isn't exactly the best since word of the gate got out, but the public thinks I'm a hero, that I did what you did and destroyed Anubis."
"It could have very well been you who took the final shot."
"No, I was too busy nosediving into a solid sheet of ice. I just thought—"
"What?"
"If I could bring you along too, I wouldn't feel so guilty."
The thought, the mere consideration, makes her nervous, causes her stomach to dip in a familiar yet different way. She ignores the warning. "My dear colonel, as lovely as your idea of bliss sounds—" she leans forward, pinching his nose between her fingers, finally feeling the improper dip, the bit of sweat, the hot huff of air as he chuckles again. "I highly doubt I will ever be released from this mountain again."
Retrieves her fingers from his nose, cupping them in his hand, and strings her knuckles to his mouth to brush his lips across. His voice muffles against her skin and the words hit her skin warm. "General Hammond already okayed it."
"Well." Retracts her hands folding them under her breasts, crossing her legs, allowing one to ghost over his still outstretched leg, well aware of what she's doing and not experiencing any burst of fear. "That's interesting."