The man who stands so rigidly at the graveside doesn't notice the wind as
it howls mournfully through this place of the dead. The bitter chill of a
northern breeze is insignificant to him; his life has been frozen for the
last four years.
He hates cemeteries. It's not even as though the box under his feet contains a body, there is nothing to mourn here except a name and a date chipped into a piece of expensive white granite. Nothing to mean anything, except a phrase of a language he wishes he didn't understand. Resurgam; 'I will rise again,' which is fucking ironic because he knows he won't, hopes he won't, knows he won't. Nothing left of the good Doctor, no laughter, no sorrow, no anger. Just the cold empty earth and the smell of decay.
He promises himself each year he won't come. Each year he does anyway.
There are fresh flowers by the tombstone. He doesn't bring anything, no flowers, no Kleenex, no tears. He doesn't have to bend to read the cards to see who they're from, a bunch from Janet and Cassie, a wreath from Hammond. A pretty shitty turnout this year. The day of the funeral, the coffin had been covered in petals, vivid reds, yellows, blues; a last desperate attempt to bring light back into a world that was suddenly much darker. He had watched the brightness being swallowed by the hungry soil, wincing each time a clump had been thrown on the lid, thinking that he couldn't, he really fucking couldn't, but throwing a clump anyway and wanting to scream at the hollow thud it had made. An empty gesture for an empty coffin.
He reaches into his inside pocket, pulls out the photo that has spent the last four years residing over his heart. His cross to bear, the albatross around his neck, his punishment. Just as he didn't want to come today, he really doesn't want to look, but he has to, must do, otherwise how can he remember what he's lost, what he sacrificed?
Friendship.
That's what he sees when he looks at the picture. The blue sky above their heads a world away from the bleakness of today, a better time, a better life, for all of them. He studies his own face first, looking at the laughter lines that have faded because he hasn't got anything to laugh about, sees how happy he was back then, living in hope, living in ignorant bliss. Then he looks at Teal'c. Not smiling, because come on, it's Teal'c and he doesn't do things like that, but with gleaming eyes and his arm firmly around the shoulders of the woman next to him. Sam. The name is bitter in his mind, bitter in his mouth as he nearly says it out loud. She's laughing, her head thrown back, a moment of forgotten joy frozen forever, never to be regained, her hair golden in the sunlight, her hand held securely in the hand of her neighbour, radiant, happy, perfect.
He hates her for being perfect. And for not being his.
The last figure in the photograph, the one holding Sam's hand so tightly, so possessively, although it didn't seem that way at the time, is the one whom he's come to visit today. The one whose tombstone stands at his feet, the one whose name resides in the white granite, the one for whom he has bared the cross of self-loathing for so long. Dr Daniel Jackson, SG1, M.I.A, R.I.P. He stands in the sunlight, and unlike the others he doesn't look at the camera, doesn't look straight ahead. Instead he looks at the woman laughing next to him, looks at her with an expression that is brighter than the sun, even on film. The man wants to reach into the photo and rip his throat out, just for that look alone, because he was supposed to be his best fucking friend, and he was supposed to understand. He was supposed to love his dead wife forever, not love Sam, his Sam, his chance, his redemption, his hope. He wasn't supposed to take her away. He wasn't supposed to leave him with nothing except hate.
It's all his fault.
His hand tenses on the photograph, poised, ready to rip it to shreds, to scatter the pieces along with the memories.
But he doesn't. He can't. Instead he puts it back over his heart, that still beats, must still beat because otherwise Janet would notice, but that stopped loving the moment he had seen them together. Seen the love, seen the happiness, seen the mother-fucking goddamn desperate need she wasn't supposed to feel for anyone but him, and at that moment he knew. He knew whatever she'd felt for him was nothing like what she was feeling now, a teardrop in the ocean, and he knew it would never be enough again; he would never be enough for her ever again. Never had been in the fucking first place.
He'd wanted to kill them both.
But he hadn't. He'd crept away like a wounded animal, bleeding inside his unfeeling heart, and he hadn't said anything, hadn't done anything, but now he saw all the looks and glances, all the brushing of hands when they thought he wasn't looking. He saw their love like a burning light, and he was left alone in the frozen darkness with the light searing his eyeballs, destroying him from within.
He hated them.
He hated himself for hating them.
And his hatred destroyed them all.
He hates cemeteries. It's not even as though the box under his feet contains a body, there is nothing to mourn here except a name and a date chipped into a piece of expensive white granite. Nothing to mean anything, except a phrase of a language he wishes he didn't understand. Resurgam; 'I will rise again,' which is fucking ironic because he knows he won't, hopes he won't, knows he won't. Nothing left of the good Doctor, no laughter, no sorrow, no anger. Just the cold empty earth and the smell of decay.
He promises himself each year he won't come. Each year he does anyway.
There are fresh flowers by the tombstone. He doesn't bring anything, no flowers, no Kleenex, no tears. He doesn't have to bend to read the cards to see who they're from, a bunch from Janet and Cassie, a wreath from Hammond. A pretty shitty turnout this year. The day of the funeral, the coffin had been covered in petals, vivid reds, yellows, blues; a last desperate attempt to bring light back into a world that was suddenly much darker. He had watched the brightness being swallowed by the hungry soil, wincing each time a clump had been thrown on the lid, thinking that he couldn't, he really fucking couldn't, but throwing a clump anyway and wanting to scream at the hollow thud it had made. An empty gesture for an empty coffin.
He reaches into his inside pocket, pulls out the photo that has spent the last four years residing over his heart. His cross to bear, the albatross around his neck, his punishment. Just as he didn't want to come today, he really doesn't want to look, but he has to, must do, otherwise how can he remember what he's lost, what he sacrificed?
Friendship.
That's what he sees when he looks at the picture. The blue sky above their heads a world away from the bleakness of today, a better time, a better life, for all of them. He studies his own face first, looking at the laughter lines that have faded because he hasn't got anything to laugh about, sees how happy he was back then, living in hope, living in ignorant bliss. Then he looks at Teal'c. Not smiling, because come on, it's Teal'c and he doesn't do things like that, but with gleaming eyes and his arm firmly around the shoulders of the woman next to him. Sam. The name is bitter in his mind, bitter in his mouth as he nearly says it out loud. She's laughing, her head thrown back, a moment of forgotten joy frozen forever, never to be regained, her hair golden in the sunlight, her hand held securely in the hand of her neighbour, radiant, happy, perfect.
He hates her for being perfect. And for not being his.
The last figure in the photograph, the one holding Sam's hand so tightly, so possessively, although it didn't seem that way at the time, is the one whom he's come to visit today. The one whose tombstone stands at his feet, the one whose name resides in the white granite, the one for whom he has bared the cross of self-loathing for so long. Dr Daniel Jackson, SG1, M.I.A, R.I.P. He stands in the sunlight, and unlike the others he doesn't look at the camera, doesn't look straight ahead. Instead he looks at the woman laughing next to him, looks at her with an expression that is brighter than the sun, even on film. The man wants to reach into the photo and rip his throat out, just for that look alone, because he was supposed to be his best fucking friend, and he was supposed to understand. He was supposed to love his dead wife forever, not love Sam, his Sam, his chance, his redemption, his hope. He wasn't supposed to take her away. He wasn't supposed to leave him with nothing except hate.
It's all his fault.
His hand tenses on the photograph, poised, ready to rip it to shreds, to scatter the pieces along with the memories.
But he doesn't. He can't. Instead he puts it back over his heart, that still beats, must still beat because otherwise Janet would notice, but that stopped loving the moment he had seen them together. Seen the love, seen the happiness, seen the mother-fucking goddamn desperate need she wasn't supposed to feel for anyone but him, and at that moment he knew. He knew whatever she'd felt for him was nothing like what she was feeling now, a teardrop in the ocean, and he knew it would never be enough again; he would never be enough for her ever again. Never had been in the fucking first place.
He'd wanted to kill them both.
But he hadn't. He'd crept away like a wounded animal, bleeding inside his unfeeling heart, and he hadn't said anything, hadn't done anything, but now he saw all the looks and glances, all the brushing of hands when they thought he wasn't looking. He saw their love like a burning light, and he was left alone in the frozen darkness with the light searing his eyeballs, destroying him from within.
He hated them.
He hated himself for hating them.
And his hatred destroyed them all.