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Chapter 8
From Just One
There's a way out of this because there's always a way out of it.
It's the only words he thinks of because anytime he allows himself to think of something else, he starts to break down like she's breaking down.
Thought that she was gone.
He rubs at her cheeks, caressing at first, trying to call her back, to just share a conversation with him, to help him figure out what to do, because they've always worked better as a team.
As a couple.
When she doesn't respond, not even the mumbling, creased brows she's given to him for the last fifteen minutes, he starts to press harder, only fueled on by her lack of an answer.
"She's dying, Jackson."
Drops his hand to her stomach, rubbing, wishing for once their stubborn kid would just kick, give him some hope—but they don't kick—and he's so tired of being the hopeful one, sweltering away inside form the pressure of always being optimistic when he's scared as shit.
"There has to be a way," Jackson's voice is strong, but peters out at the room quakes, as the other Vala floats calmly in a tube, undisturbed for an unknown amount of years.
And it doesn't matter.
This woman knows nothing. Doesn't know who he is, or the good Vala has done in all the years he's known her, and he'll be damned if they're gonna wake her up now and take all that away from his wife, from him, from their baby, when they all worked so hard to be here.
"Maybe there's a way to help her back at the SGC?"
It doesn't matter who this woman was—sure it's real shitty that she's been tubed for so long, and that she'll never get to have her life back—as long as he's conscious enough to stop her—but she's a stranger to him.
Only looks like Vala.
She might not like football, or she may pay too much attention to labelled switches above the sink, or she might not pester him enough for a royal purple guest room—when he finally did paint a room purple for the baby—after she left and he was afraid she wasn't coming back—she even acknowledge it, didn't clasp her hands together in delight like he thought she would.
He just wants to go back to how it was before they had to flee from Earth, before he wanted to live in her pocket to make sure she was safe, and warm, satiated, and loved.
"Mitchell, in case you haven't noticed, the ruins are collapsing—"
"In case you haven't noticed, we're—" he gestures at his wife, his baby, himself "—not going anywhere."
Now he's ready to accept it—to be together as a family—no matter what that means.
The room gives a large quake, some dust and bits of stone tumble down from the ceiling, and he leans over her, letting the pebbles spike against his back, protecting her for as long as he can.
"Chippie," Jackson's shouting at the shuddering ceiling, his eyes going glassy as he realizes exactly what's happening. "Chippie!"
He never should have agreed to come, he should have put his foot down—only, she was depressed, and he knew it.
:) —#Dr. Daniel Jackson. Lieutenant Colonel Camer—#
Giving up her freedom despite however long of a leash he gave her.
"Chippie is there a way to help Vala?"
Giving up her family, despite making a new one with him.
:) —#Simply release Vala Mal Doran from the capsule—#
Jackson was right, she would always be anchored to him now, and maybe she wasn't made to be that way, when he obviously was.
"Releasing her will kill our Vala." Jackson holds his fists tightly at his side, like he might actually hit the CRTV made out of stone. "How do we save our Vala?"
A month into making the farmhouse their new home, her need for action, her inability to sit still kicked in. He was able to counteract it with random trips to the market, with walks to the city just over an hour away, with surprising lunchtime picnics in a barren field, and late summer nights spent combing the night sky with constellations he didn't know a damn thing about while she calmly curled into his side, not caring about the difference in the way the stars spread out.
But it was only a temporary fix, like putting a bandage over a bullet wound.
Happened when they were making the bed—actually he was making the bed because she never does, not army born, the need for tight sheets not ingrained in her genes—the fitted sheet already wrinkleless, he flapped out the flat sheet, and watched the curtains flutter with the gust it made.
"Be careful, Darling." She warned, her back to him, fingers scrolling through the dresser for another shirt—this was during the week or two she felt uncomfortable in most shirts. Ended up wearing a lot of his t-shirts, but she still scratched uncontrollably, enough to keep her up at night—or add to what was keeping her up at night.
He can't describe what happened next, because he knows he heard her warning, remembers hearing her warning, but something made him flick his wrists with extra aggression, just to prove her wrong. The queen-sized sheet flapped through the air again, this time knocking the only thing on her nightstand to the ground.
The picture frame hit with a crash and immediately shards of glass skittered over the floor. He dropped the sheet in time to see the disenchanted expression bloom on her face, to see the shirt in her hand abandoned half out of the drawer.
He held up his hand to halt her because she's always barefoot—never wore shoes or socks before, but now sometimes her feet swell so she has an actual excuse—kept the colonel's command in his voice as he directed, "Stay over there, there's glass all over the—"
It escalated pretty quickly from there.
Patience hadn't exactly been overflowing in the house lately. They were dealing with being suddenly roommates—spouses—full-time when before they had separate dorm rooms to go for solitude. He had to deal with a thigh that started killing him the moment they set foot on Thea because of the atmosphere, she dealt with congestion, he tried to make himself useful while her body ached and changed with pregnancy, his anxiety hit the roof whenever he couldn't find her and he sometimes checked for her every ten minutes to put himself at ease, and she yearned for the freedom that's always taken from her—this time the mobility, the adventurous lifestyle.
They both missed Earth, their old lives, and their friends at the SGC, which was evident when she lost her mind when her photo broke.
He didn't just break the glass, but the picture tore—one of the team at a bar downtown on one of their post-mission celebrations. Everyone very happy, and definitely drunk, and it was one of the Jackson's ideas to have the bartender take their picture as a huddled group. At some point she just stole the photo.
She cried, then switched straight into a rage he's never seen because usually her anger pops in one comment and she leaves to stew alone. But she kept going, kept talking, kept screaming until she was out of breath. Yelled so hard, and for so long he actually stopped talking, not to listen to her words, but out of concern.
Finally, when she was done, she set herself on the edge of the bed, her hand on the flimsy floral camisole shrouding her stomach—one she'd borrowed from Sam before her last stint on Atlantis—the only one that wasn't itchy.
With tears and pinched lips, she glared at him. Her expression softened, not from understanding or forgiveness, but fatigue.
"I don't know if I can do this, Cameron." Spoke the words directly to him as she stroked her stomach—their kid—and shook her head.
He was almost frantic, sitting on the bed next to her, his hands anywhere he could touch—anywhere she would let him—because she could get up and leave anytime she wanted and if she didn't let him follow he was fucked.
Eventually calmed her while he freaked out in his head. He always manages to settle her, and he doesn't know if it's because he has a way with words or because she surrenders enough to let him.
It ended with him kissing her, holding her as she nodded against him. She didn't say much more to him. Just got up, and carefully lowered herself to kneel on the ground, starting to pick up the shards of glass.
And he understood what it was like to break a person.
She didn't interact with him very much for the rest of the day. Flitted around the house doing light cleaning, then outside to weed the flower beds and clear away some of the brush while he stayed in and fixed a dinner she only picked at.
He held her extra tight that night and she was stiff, she was uncomfortable and trapped, but didn't complain because she spent two decades buried inside her own body. Didn't complain because for ten months she was stuck on an unfamiliar planet in a different galaxy, pregnant with a baby she didn't initially want, but intended to have.
How the hell was this situation any different.
"What do you need." His lips moved against the side of her neck as he curled up behind her, slid his arms around her, guiding her back towards him. "Tell me what you need to be happy?"
Without missing a beat, without acknowledging his hands or his body against her, in a sad whisper she told him, "I need to go away."
And she did.
It was only for a little more than a day, but he almost tore up the woodwork. Almost re-landscaped the entire dusty exterior of their house. Intended on painting the porches, but he kept checking over his shoulder for her shadow waddling through the fields. Kept the walkie with him at all times in case she needed anything.
In case she missed him.
Managed to prime the guest room—soon to be nursery—but she never gave him a clear answer on what color she wanted it. Wouldn't give him a hint if she felt their baby was more a boy or a girl.
So, he painted it the purple she requested so long ago.
He could always paint over it if she didn't like it.
That night, when he couldn't sleep in a big, cold, empty bed, he grabbed his glasses and sat at the kitchen table trying to tape her shredded picture back together.
Sat on the porch after lunch the next day and opened his third baby book. He hates reading because he has to put on his grandpa glasses again, but the winds were humid, and his peppermint tea helped him settle into the swing.
Heard her crunching through the fields he never managed to hoe like he said he would.
Felt the warmth of her grin like a sunbeam before he saw it through thick bifocal lenses.
Still had on that outfit she left in, a black t-shirt under a brown leather jacket and a baby that was getting harder and harder to hide. She looked beautiful, a few smudges on her cheek, but delighted as she ran to him and hooked her arms around his neck, kissing him before he had a chance to launch into his barrage of questions.
That's how she got back into being a free agent.
How he had to let her, because the probability of her getting hurt while in the field was smaller than the probability of her leaving him permanently if she didn't have her ability to run.
"Mitchell!"
He's telling her stories.
The first road trip they took together where she kept falling asleep in the passenger's seat, and he kept glancing over, falling more in love with her.
The time they went on a mission to an off-world club and it went so south so quick.
That one time those red panties that drive him wild made his favorite running shirt pink—he still wears it.
"Mitchell!"
"What?"
"Chippie knows how to save her."
Once he almost lost her—he's almost lost her at least once a day for the past eight years, little things that could happen if just one simple aspect of their lives changed. Made him become hyperaware of everything—of what she ate for breakfast, of if she tied her boots, of if the P-90 she was using was recently in for a cleaning.
Practiced this overprotection way before he had officially fallen head over heels for her and the way she walked in those perfect hip hugging BDUs that he still thinks she special orders because they fit her so damn well.
He was still team leader back then.
There was only one Daniel back then.
It was right after Sam left for her first stint in Atlantis, right before he hit the glass ceiling of field duty and switched to the big boy chairs upstairs.
It was one of the last missions they were on officially as SG-1 and it still haunts him.
They'd been dating about four months, not so many frequent sleepovers off base, but she was spending a lot of time in his room at night watching football, or stealing the remote and putting on some funniest video clips show and bouncing on the other side of his mattress until something stirred in him.
They were called for protection duty—what they really wanted was just a few seconds of alone time with one particular ancient artifact which belonged to the owner of a popping club in one of the more technologically advanced planets they'd been to, but the owner was having a hard time paying for security detail and—they just wanted some pictures of the damn artifact and it turned into a whole thing.
It was one of his only undercover stings—sure he'd pretended to be a bounty hunter, or part of the Lucien Alliance, but this was a real undercover mission. Teal'c was acting as a bouncer, Jackson and Vala as a couple at the bar, and him as the bartender, because everyone else said they didn't have enough experience pouring drinks into glasses.
Each of them was still packing and ready in the dark atmosphere of the club, black lights, a fog machine, strobe lights, and heavy booming music ready for a Friday night.
And she—she looked amazing.
That didn't even begin to cover it.
Tight purple leopard print pants and a black shirt that sort of hung off her shoulder. He had no idea where she was packing because he could see every curve of her and he remembers thinking how out of his league she was, before remembering that they'd been dating for months.
He mostly cleaned glasses and served the odd drink, while Teal'c remained stationary by the door, grunting out answers to the questions he covertly spoke into his watch while he scratched behind his ear. Vala would shuffle closer to Jackson, and Jackson would shuffle away, then she would snarl something between her teeth clenched in a wide grin, and Jackson would sigh and throw his arm over her shoulders.
Jackson rolled his eyes at him.
Vala did too, and it made him blush a bit, duck his grin away while he cleaned his fiftieth cup of the night.
She got Jackson out onto the dance floor. Doesn't know how she does it, if the rhythm is natural or something ingrained in her—leftover from Qetesh—but her body moves without trying, almost hypnotic.
Jackson, a little flustered, excused himself to investigate a meeting happening in the owner's office.
Vala picked her way back through the crowd to the bar.
He had a water ready for her—lemon slice on the side. Her face glistened with sweat, her hair was wild about her face, and he hated that they were on duty because there were some very complex things he wanted to do with her body in the employee bathroom.
Instead, as the heavy bass beat thumped inside his head, he reached forward and tugged a strand of her hair from where it pasted to her lip gloss and tried to match the brightness of her grin.
But the moment they shared ended prematurely as a new wave of mist shot out of the fog machines, but instead of being cotton candy scented, it knocked them all out cold.
When they woke up, Vala and every other woman at the club was gone.
The club was a guise for a sex trafficking ring, and he doesn't know how none of them saw it.
Maybe she did.
Maybe she wanted to say something but knew all of them would shoot her down just for a chance to spend an hour with an artifact he doesn't remember the name of—an object that didn't even matter.
It took them less than a day to track her, of course his memory rushes the process, leaving out the bathroom he trashed, the owner he punched until Teal'c escorted him from the room and came back with a location in less than a minute, or how he went through a revolving door of blaming himself, then Daniel, then Teal'c, then himself again.
They did catch the guy, he did a full out action move jump over the ledge of a second-floor balcony and landed on him. It probably looked pretty awesome, and when he punched the guy maybe one more time than was acceptable, it felt better than awesome.
But the whole thing hurt his thigh.
They found her a little bit late, but on time.
She was handcuffed to a bed and heavily drugged but managed to take out three of the guards before they brought her down. Reluctantly, he handed her off to Teal'c to take back home safely. Jackson and him remained behind until back-up arrived and helped contact family members of the other women.
What he really focuses on is the next night—after Lam released her for a few more days of rest. He gave the team the same amount off to catch up on paperwork and explain to the IOA how so many of those sex trafficking assholes ended up so badly beaten—a little after nine, she shuffled into his room, wearing an oversized nightshirt and sweats, her hair going frizzy from a recent shower.
The sight of her made him push himself up on the bed because he started to slide down while watching the late-night show. "Vala, you should—"
She shook her head and mounted his bed, moved very slowly, like she was still hindered, the opposite of how she appeared on the dance floor. She nudged his legs apart a bit, and climbed into his lap, sitting sideways, resting her head to his bare chest with a sigh.
"I need to be right here."
He sighed too, shaky emotional—tried to focus on her, cold in his arms, pulling his bad thigh into her own lap and using her thumbs to massage the tight muscles.
Initially, they didn't speak.
He just closed his eyes, listened to the audience laughter at some punk kid he didn't know. Felt the sensation of his muscles relaxing for the first time since they got back despite two ice bathes and using a heating pad.
"Daniel told me you aggravated your old injury."
"Yeah." Cheek smooshed to the top of her head and his arms closed around her, held her to him, felt her breathing, her muscles twitch, and knew that if they got the wrong intel she would be gone now.
"He also told me you beat the bastard behind this thing near to death."
"Wish Teal'c didn't stop me."
"Hmm."
Couldn't tell if she sounded upset or pleased from the neutral hum.
He tucked her hair behind her ear, like he did in the bar, but pressed his lips to her temple and felt the tug of those muscles in a grin.
"What about your squeaky-clean record as Mr. Military Man?"
"Hmm."
Held his lips in the kiss and didn't know whether his own hum was approving or disapproving.
Maybe just neutral.
The whole thing was just neutral.
Rested his hand on her thigh, her fingers worked as diligently as ever.
"Sometimes it's good not to be that transparent."
"Cameron." She released his thigh with a rueful smile. "While I appreciate the chivalrous nature behind your actions, they're hardly worth—"
"They are. You always are. If we showed up a minute too late—"
"But you didn't."
"But a minute is all it would've taken—"
"But I'm here." Her hands gripped either side of his face, but it wasn't accusatory, wasn't shaming or celebrating, just there—neutral—just like her spoken words.
She grinned and nudged the tip of his nose with her own. "I'm right here."
His thumb strummed over the bandage on her forearm, the opposite side of her elbow, where those assholes pumped so many drugs into her that Lam said she was comatose, and her regaining consciousness depended on them weaning her off the drugs slowly.
If all the pieces of the mission didn't fall into place perfectly, without hesitation, then she might be somewhere else, not in the safety of the SGC, might be in someone else's bed and not wanting to be.
He leaned his forehead to hers, closing his eyes and savoring the feel of her with him, her cool soft skin, the grin she wears to try to be optimistic because so much shit is thrown at her and she bounces back up and keeps going.
She just keeps going and he has no clue how she keeps doing it.
"You're right here." Finally sighed into the side of her neck, pulled her back against him as he slid down the headboard.
She giggled, wrapped her legs around his, and nuzzled against him as he drew the covers up over them. He didn't sleep at all, just stayed still, waited, because if he closed his eyes, she would be gone.
There's a way out because there has to be a way out.
Holds her sort of set in his lap, her arms and legs wilting, her body wracked with shudders, hair stringy and damp from sweat—the only thing that's normal is their baby—still silent, still sticking out like a sore thumb.
She hasn't said a word in nearly an hour.
She doesn't have another hour left.
He's terrified to be without her, without them, to have the quilted ideologies in his head torn apart before he could even finish knitting them together, before he could get excited about first words—which is obviously going to be mama—first steps, teaching football, teaching baseball because she's already requested he do it half a dozen times—sometimes he thinks it's one of the only things she's looking forward to and—
She doesn't have another hour.
:{ —#Are you ready Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell?#
There is a way to save her.
It's not ideal.
But it will save her.
Save them.
It will also destroy the ruins, which Jackson didn't say shit about.
But like all good things, an equal sacrifice is needed, and unfortunately, it's him.
Him for her and their baby—it seems like a steal of a deal. Volunteered before Chappie finished explaining that the Ancients installed a fail-safe which would destroy the ruins, and circumvent the protocol affecting all the clones—
She was never a clone to him.
Even after he found out, it sounds cruel, but he can't give two shits about a woman in a tube when he has everything he's ever wanted in his arms. If only she'd—
Her limp hand stirs against the arm holding her, her eyes barely open, but when they do, the whites are more of a yellow, and they roll back in her head because she's too exhausted to focus.
"Hi Honey." Greets her like it's any other morning but chokes out a strangled sob, ignoring what needs to be done. Just proud of her for waking up.
"Ca—Cam—" Lids keeps fluttering, her eyes rolling, her skin gray and green and a little bit yellow, but trying to listen to him, trying to figure out what's going on.
Her fingers twitch against his arm, attempting to rise, but she can't, so he delicately lifts her hand, wet and cold, against his cheek and tries his best not to break down. "I—uh—I have to go."
Watches her face contort in either misunderstanding, or pain, and God, it's making him sick. "Ca—m?"
"You're going to feel better soon though." Grins, kissing her forehead, lingering his lips and she's lost her smell, the one he wakes up to that calms him, the one that smells like home. "You and the baby are gonna be fine."
She nods, just barely, and he finds solace in her relief. "I need you to do me some favors though—"
"Mitchell—" Jackson's face looks broken, pale and sweaty as he interrupts, not wanting to.
He just nods, shortening his list of demands. "Don't blame yourself. You didn't do anything wrong. Try to lay off the free agent crap—this kid is really gonna need you—and please don't name them after me, you're more creative than that."
Finishes with a kiss against her lips, chapped but still memorable.
She grins, not understanding, not cognizant, but hearing him and feeling happy, and with a quick hand he wipes the tears from his face, before dropping it to her stomach. "Make sure you listen to your mom—I—I wish I could be there kiddo."
She's unconscious again, barely breathing and her pulse is weak.
It's time for him to go.
He pillows her head against his pack, the one with almost everything in it because he didn't want her to overexert herself, because he was so afraid to come here and now he knows why. Covers her with his jacket, the one she said he looked good in, but didn't want them to match, when they always did.
Two pieces fitting together to complete each other, to be stronger.
Two pieces to create someone perfect.
Tries to clear his eyes, his head, his heart and jabs a finger in Jackson's direction as he ambles by towards the sacrificial heart of the ruins. "You watch out for them."
"Mitchell, let me—"
"Promise me you'll watch out for them."
"No one even knows I'm back, I could—"
But the words die in Jackson's mouth, buried underneath otherworldly screeching, the sound of metal, gears impacting something, being crushed up. The sound unbearable, almost animal in nature, painful cries mashed in with metallic whirs.
The energy within the pit starts to bubble and froth, unhappy with what it consumed, a long, low rumble quakes through the ruins, tearing up the writing on the walls and cracking the floor
Within the gorge of energy powering the ruins, a shower of light blasts free. All he can see is a black screen looking up at him, an emoticon smiley face plastered there, before it cracks in half and blinks away.