Twist in the Tale
The building had been built with his collection of books and artefacts in mind – in that he felt himself to be incredibly lucky. He had been delighted to be consulted on the architecture – curves, domes, pillars, a lot of glass and big airy spaces - and later the décor within – soft, warm, reflective, relaxed. He always felt that he was walking into a different world, just brimming with peace and tranquillity, whenever he stepped through the front entrance.
His collection didn't have pride of place – he was too modest for that – but it was carefully and tastefully displayed in a room on the second floor, where the main Ancient Egyptian resources were kept. As well as his library of books, parchments and scriptures, the second floor had a small computer system with the latest software – translation, comparison, database - and a link with the National Library as well as access to several high profile authorities in that time period from across the globe. As the Head of Egyptology, the second floor also held his office where his most precious pieces were kept.
With shelves on two walls that were stuffed with little trinkets and slightly dust-dulled tomes, a large window behind his desk and a glass wall between him and the rest of the building, he had his own little island of peace and quiet in which to work. The small cubby-hole – neatly disguised as a filing cupboard – was enough for him if he really wanted to be undisturbed and seeing as he had a percolator in there, he could hide all day if he really wanted to.
Of course, actually getting to have time to himself was the problem. There was always someone needing to pick his brain, as they say, for some little titbit of information – a name, a date, a title, an author. So this Sunday afternoon, the rain slamming into the windows in a staccato drumbeat that seemed to soothe his mind, he was rather grateful that the only people in the building were the receptionist, the security guards and him.
"Peace at last." He sighed to himself, settling back in his chair as he watched the mists of the downpour pull a veil over the world outside.
"Do you even know the meaning of the word?" The teasingly serious voice made him sigh even heavier.
"Peace? Yes…but only when you aren't bugging me." He kept staring out of the window.
The soft click of the door closing gave way to the rough tread of boots over the wood floor, an echo bass beat to the rain.
"Come on…I haven't bugged you for at least a month." The voice hinted at deep amusement. "Although the last time I dropped by like this, I had to drag you outta your cubby and make you remember to eat."
There was a pause as the Head of Egyptology lifted his mug and took a slow swallow of near-tepid coffee. He glowered at the liquid in disgust.
"Dammit."
At the chuckle behind him the archaeologist rolled his eyes.
"Make yourself useful, flyboy – put the coffee maker back on."
"Wow – does this mean I'm invited to get one myself?"
Spinning in his chair, the man whose office it was fastened a stern gaze upon his visitor.
"Listen up," He growled. "I may have known you for years but that doesn't mean you can go poaching my coffee!"
His guest just smiled as he wandered over to the sideboard, grabbed the water pitcher and filled the coffee maker back up.
"You always get grouchy whenever you haven't had a decent caffeine fix."
His only response was a gruff "Whatever."
With a fond smile and a shrug, the visitor slouched back in the leather chair, eyeing the edge of the desk, his feet twitching.
"Don't even think about it." Came the warning growl.
Choosing instead to tuck one foot under a thigh, the flyboy peered measuringly at the man hiding behind the desk, the barest of smirks on his face. The intellectual noticed the gleaming amusement and sighed.
"What?"
With a shrug, his visitor rocked back in his chair, his expression that of someone just idling away his time.
"Nothing. Just wondering if you're happy here, that's all."
The wind whipped hard enough to rattle the windows, the rain smacking into the glass with a harsh staccato beat.
"I'm fine – I like it. I'm kept busy, still have time for my own research, get to do a little teaching now and again when the students drop in...it's what I wanted – you know that."
"I do know that."
Raising an eyebrow, the archaeologist eyed his friend carefully.
"This isn't a social call." He stated, wary.
"No." The response felt for all the world like a noose scratching at his neck. With a deep sigh, he murmured, "Crap."
The coffee machine made a pinging noise. The air force officer rose, snagged the mug from the desk, moved to the sideboard and proceeded to make two fresh coffees.
"Look…it's not what you think…"
"You want me to come back to the programme."
The two men looked at each other.
"Oh-kay…so it is what you think…"
"Why would I possibly come back to that madness?" Rubbing at his shoulder, the seated man grumbled. "How many times did I get shot? Or beaten up? Or knocked out? In five years?"
"13, 7, 15." Came the slightly distracted reply.
"Excuse me?"
"You've been shot, in various ways with various weapons, thirteen times. Record states that you've suffered injuries from a beating on at least seven occasions and you've been knocked unconscious by various means a total of fifteen times." Stirring the two coffees, the darker haired man shrugged with one shoulder. "That's not including any run-ins with hand devices, natural occurrences such as rock falls, near-death experiences and mind-altering substances."
Feeling two hot points in his back, he turned to offer his now intently glowering friend his fresh mug of coffee.
"Well…that's what the reports have recorded." He said, his tone far too congenial, far too blasé, as he settled himself back into the large backed leather chair, carefully repositioning the cushion to support the small of his back.
"Yeah…and what about you, huh?" Fixing the suddenly evasive officer with a stern glare, the Department Head put his memory to good use. "Let's just think about this one, shall we?
"Electrocuted four times, once being prolonged via contact with a cage. Shot eight times, only three of which have actually been bullets as I recall and one was actually an arrow. Then there's the bulls eyes that seem to be painted on your knees – coz everyone seems to like smacking you hard on the back of them. And the radiation sickness. And the rewriting of the neural pathways - twice. Oh, and the brief brush with post-traumatic stress."
Trying to hide behind his coffee mug, the officer grimaced.
"Okay, okay…so neither of us had much luck with keeping ourselves in one piece." He grumbled before quickly suppressing a grin. "But just think about it – least when we did go nuts that time, it was short-lived!"
"I am not going back, Colonel, and that's that." Swinging his chair round to face the rain-splattered windows, the academic sipped on his coffee. "I can do without all of that over again."
"We need you." The statement was raw, unguarded, purely honest. "I won't lie and say that it'll be different – it won't. That's what we do. But if there's one thing we've learnt the past months, it's that we can't do the job right, can't get the results, the trust, the friends and allies, the way we did with you there.
"I've been given permission to use anything to get you to agree to come back – promises of money, resources, time for your own projects, a house in the Hamptons if that's what you want! But…dammit…"
There was the soft thunk of ceramic on wood.
"Dammit, old friend. I'm not going to offer you anything – you can name your price as far as the Government is concerned – but I am going to beg. It's been hell. Every mission there's been something where one of us has said to ourselves 'Oh, that would have gone differently if…'…" He trailed off.
"If I were there."
The gentle murmur came as if from the lips of someone who had never realised what a difference they made. The colonel stared, desperate and pleading, at the reflection in the window.
"Please. Just think about it. Anything you want. But while you're considering the pros and cons of your choice, I want you to remember one thing…"
The high-backed chair creaked as it was vacated. Bass echo footsteps made their way to the door.
"The team wants you back. Because we worry. Because we miss you. Because you made us a better team, better people. If nothing else makes the difference…just remember that you have a family that misses you. And that family won't stop caring even if you decide you're turning us down."
The door clicked open, swished through the air as it closed again. The man whose office it was blinked a couple of times, wondering why the window was so smeary. After a few moments he realised it was his eyes, filling with tears.
Leaping out of his chair, he almost tossed his mug to the desk, grabbing his leather jacket and diving out of the door. He swiftly made his way down the stairs, waving to the security guards jovially as he raced to catch up.
"Hey! Wait! Yo, flyboy!"
The denim-jacketed figure paused at the open car door, peering back through the still pouring rain.
"Yeah?"
Halting in front of his friend, the archaeologist looked into the eyes darkened with so many emotions. He searched the face for anything that might scream at him to turn back.
"You meant that, huh?"
"Yeah, I meant it." The officer grinned. "Even if you are a thorn-in-my-side, jumped up book-worm with no idea how to stay outta trouble."
With an almost haughty look, the other replied, "Oh, like you aren't an arrogant, sarcastic, trigger-happy adrenaline junkie with a habit of leaving your brain on the bedside table every morning."
They grinned at each other, suddenly back into the old pattern despite the weeks of absent bantering. The colonel stuck his hand out, blue eyes shining with fond amusement.
"Welcome back on the team, Doctor O'Neill."
His own chocolate eyes gleaming with the knowledge that he was back where he belonged, he returned the grip just as warmly.
"Thanks for reminding me of what I should never give up, Colonel Jackson."