Jack of Spades
--
The mission had been simple reconnaissance, tracking recent Jaffa activity in the area of P3H-878. The threat level was supposedly minimal, and they had spent the first 24 hours cooling their heels in the silent, snow covered pine forest near the Stargate.
It was, of course, just their phenomenal luck that brought them face to face with two Jaffa battalions unloading cargo through the stone ring just as they were due back to Stargate Command.
It was also just their luck that a pair of scouts found their hiding place among the frozen trunks. An alarm had already been given by the time Carter's two, well-aimed shots broke through the Jaffa's skulls.
The following fire fight was textbook in its violence.
--
Jack was returning fire with the single minded intensity of a soldier hardened by years of battle – which is exactly what he was. He stepped from behind his boulder to pull another volley of bullets when he felt, more than heard a ball of energy zing his way from an opposing Jaffa's staff weapon.
He spun on his heel to face to oncoming threat, lifting his arms unconsciously, protecting his eyes from the terrifyingly bright orange glow. His eyes shut, before popping open again as his body rocked backward from the blast, ending up propped awkwardly against the boulder he had been using as defense.
Vaguely, he saw Carter's eyes widen through the haze of staff weapon fire, the blue in them more obvious and alarming to him now than had ever been. He felt the urge to smile at her, his lips only managing a weak twitch in the corners. He had seemingly forgotten about the battle and bloodshed around him, transfixed on his second in command who was staring back at him with an equal intensity.
A warm finger extended down his stomach, and he looked down as he felt the blood break into separate rivulets near his navel. The wound in the centre of his chest looked terrible, a gaping hole that Jack was sure if he put a finger into, he would find his heart beating frantically against the digit. As it was, he merely lifted his hand to the blood, and dipped his fingers casually.
In a moment of childlike sincerity, Jack looked up at Carter, no, Sam, catching her eyes and staring. The urge to grin at her surfaced again and he managed a wan smile in her direction. Her response was a look of utter horror, military training lying bereft in the general vicinity of the Stargate.
It's the end.
"J-Jack!"
Because, honestly, how could it not be?
"Hold on, Colonel! You'll be okay!"
He didn't think he would mind having his last memory be of horrified blue eyes. The unyielding presence of them in the darkness behind his eyelids was comforting to him; even the revulsion coiled in the pit of his stomach was comforting. He couldn't remember why he didn't like those eyes being so horrified.
"Colonel," a different voice this time, "I need you to breathe, just keep breathing. Listen to my voice, can you hear me?"
Jack didn't feel like answering. He was annoyed with the voice for driving the blue eyes from his mental field of vision. A bright light invaded the darkness, and he could almost make out bronze hair behind the silver penlight burning his retinas.
Ah, the good ol' Doc. Don't bother this time, Frasier – it's the end.
He could still feel the corners of his mouth twitching in an effort to smile perversely at the people rushing around his gurney, trying to stop the emptying of his blood out onto the floor. He lifted his hand, unrestrained, and brought it up to the wound again. He briefly felt the hissing warmth of it before his hand was slapped away, falling limply to the white sheets.
It's the end. Why won't you stop?
The twitching stopped.
Why won't you stop?!
He was crying out to the darkness, to those horrified blue eyes.
Why won't you leave me alone?!
He couldn't tell if he was speaking aloud, or just screaming inside his own head. The noises and movement never once ceased from around his bedside, and the dizzying pounding of his head was beating a cacophony, almost drowning out his pleas.
Just go!
The lips parted in a sob.
Go.
--
He woke slowly, his mind synchronizing with the harsh beep, beep of his heart monitor. His hand lifted for the third, final time, to his chest, encountering soft, white bandages. Jack frowned.
With both hands, he grasped the cold metal railings of his bed, and pulled his body upward with a groan of pain. He settled himself higher up on the pillows without opening his eyes to the stark white of the infirmary.
In a rush, he remembered the scarlet blood on his hands, and the shocked blue eyes he had entertained in his head for so long. His own eyes shot open in alarm, and the door opposite his bed opened with a resounding click.
"Colonel?" Carter was standing in the doorway, a book in her hands. Her blue, off-duty military fatigues looked rumpled.
"Carter." Jack's voice was hoarse, but he was proud that it didn't shake or crack. She walked forward, and around his bed, placing the book on the bedside table. He didn't break gaze with her – he was too busy staring at the wide blue eyes he had painted over the wearied gaze being returned.
Clenching down on the revulsion in his stomach he didn't understand, he smiled at her.
She flinched.
He frowned.
"I'm sorry," he murmured softly. For a moment, the conflict was plain to see on Carter's face, before she decided to ignore the apology, and the reason for it.
The door opened again, and Doc Frasier came in, clipboard in hand. She glanced oddly at them, before coming forward to the foot of the bed.
"I'm sorry, Major, but the Colonel needs his rest," the implication was loud.
Carter ducked her head, muttering, "Of course," on her way out.
Jack tuned out Frasier's medical ramblings, and concentrated on the feeling that was steadily curling into a dense ball in his stomach. It was revulsion and – disappointment? What had he to be disappointed about? He was alive, after another very close shave with death, and his team was unhurt. If one of them had been, that would have been the first piece of news he would have received upon waking.
An echo bounced across the recesses of Jack's mind, so soft it was hard to make out, but Jack heard it. And the ball curled tighter, a flash of disgust flowing down his spine. He was so weak.
It's always like this.
Those blue eyes. Asking him not to, and yet he already had – tens of times before. Hundreds? Thousands, in his dreams. He had already given up, so much so that he could taste his want of it. And with every show down with Death, the call became louder. Frasier looked up in concern when Jack shivered in his bed.
It's the end.