Jack peered into the refrigerator. He'd stocked it well, but just wasn't in the mood to actually make anything requiring effort. He opened the freezer and surveyed its contents. Finally, he stuck a frozen pizza in the oven, grabbed two beers from the fridge, and headed out the back door.
After three weeks of a team of psychiatrist completely attacking Daniel like hounds on a wounded rabbit, Jack managed to pry him out of their grip. It took a hell of a lot of arguing upon his part, considering what Daniel had almost done, but he finally got him free. The point was that Daniel had stopped his plan at the last minute. Lie detector tests were showing that he had no clue (no, at least) how to build a bomb, and couldn't even remember doing anything of the sort. All he remembered, he told now. They still insisted on picking his brain, however, and had it have helped, Jack was sure that they'd have literally opened his skull and poked around inside.
Amidst Jack's protesting of the immense amount of psychiatric bullshit came also his—as well as the rest of SG-1's and a good amount of SGC-stationed people's—objections to Daniel's dismissal from the program. By now, everyone know the story, and he was sure even more would have protested if they didn't fear going up against the general, who, despite being a generally (no pun intended) nice guy, wasn't on to mess with or object to the opinions of. However, when it truly came down to it, it was more the president and pentagon considering Daniel as a risk than Hammond. Over those three weeks, Jack was on the phone with so many government employees that he mentally vowed to smack the next person he saw wearing a campaign pin of any kind—even if it was just for a Nowwheresville mayoral candidate with no chance in hell of being elected.
Things were going pretty damn good, now, all things considered. Daniel still held his place on SG-1, and Hammond allowed—okay, more forced-by-command—a vacation for the team. He'd taken Jack aside, however. If there was one person in the world that knew Daniel Jackson better than anyone—Daniel included, some of the time—it was Jack O'Neill. All of the psychologists felt Daniel was hiding something about the incident in the gateroom, but none could get it out of him. He simply claimed that he had come to his senses at the last moment, but they knew he was lying. If Jack hadn't been so damned persistent about getting Daniel out of those brain-probing maniacs' hands, they'd still be trying to get the information. Now, Jack was left with getting to the heart of the matter. If Jack couldn't do it, no one could. And if no one could, it wasn't going to be good for Daniel.
The sun was sinking below the treetops, and already, the sky was stained with its read light. The reflection on the still and quiet lake looked like the water was blood, and the shimmer of it on the grass made the entire scene look like a battle had been fought on the water's edge and the blood had flowed down to form one big pool. Jack walked down the dock. Daniel flinched at the footsteps in surprise, and then relaxed. He sat at the end, shoes beside him with his socks tucked in them. His arm wrapped around the wooden post there for tying up boats, and he leaned his head against it, moving his feet slightly in the water below. Jack set a bottle down next to him, but Daniel didn't move. He was tired. Mentally. Physically. Jack hadn't seen him for more than ten minutes a day in those three weeks—usually less. Neither of them was to blame, and it wasn't putting the psychiatrists on Jack's 'beloved people' list. Yet every time he saw Daniel, he looked more tired. Now he looked like hell.
They stayed silent for some time—Daniel still wiggling his toes in the cool water, Jack standing behind him, rolling the beer bottle between his hands, and staring at the silhouetted trees across the lake. The crickets chirped and creaked softly, singing without care.
"Are there snakes in the water?" Daniel asked, not sounding as if he'd take his feet out, even if there were.
"Nah. Just fish. I ever tell you about—"
"What?" Daniel asked, looking up, then. His tone didn't indicate that he hadn't heard what Jack had said, but Jack still played the innocent, raising an eyebrow in faux-confusion. "Why are we out here?" Daniel finally questioned.
"You need to learn to love fishing. The land. The wilderness. Be manly and rugged."
"Really, Jack." He pulled his feet out of the water, shaking them slightly, one at a time, sending droplets falling back down. He stood and faced Jack, resting his hand on the post. "You want to know something. Don't play around it."
Jack sighed. "Am I that predictable? Fine. Why did you do it? Diffuse the bomb? You were brainwashed. You said it yourself. People don't just snap out of brainwashing."
Daniel frowned and glanced at the water—not looking for an escape, but more collecting his thoughts. "Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked, finally, turning back.
"Daniel, you know as well as I do that when you're in our kind of work, you see some damn weird things and learn to believe five new things before breakfast everyday. Of course I don't." He caught the look of exasperation. "I don't know—never thought much about it. Why?"
"I…Sha're came to me and convinced me not to listen to what the Goa'uld had told me to do." A slightly shocked silence fell over him, having heard it for the first time out loud, and probably realizing how crazy it really sounded aloud.
"Well, you know, you saw your parents on that planet, right?" This time, Hammond had convinced the psychiatrist to be a little more free with information with Jack—not that that meant a hell of a lot, but he learned a lot more than he ever would have without the general's help. "Look, maybe Doc Fraiser's tests were wrong. Could be that you were still hallucinating and—"
"She wasn't a hallucination," Daniel snapped at him with sudden vehemence and anger. "She was there. Really there," he insisted, thrusting his fist against the post in frustration. "I saw her. I felt her. It…" he shook his head and spoke softly now, looking down at the dark puddles of water forming under his bare feet, "it wasn't like my parents. She wasn't cold and dead. She didn't even have a wound from the staff weapon. She was there, and she convinced me to change my mind. If you don't—"
"I believe you, Daniel."
"You—you what?" Daniel looked up in surprise, blinking furiously to keep away the tears that had threatened to come while he spoke.
"I believe you. Who am I to tell you what you saw?" He paused, but Daniel was now looking over his shoulder, eyes wide. "Daniel?"
"Um…Jack…" He gestured towards the cabin.
Jack turned and stared for a half-second before reacting. Soft grey smoke curled lazily from the half-open kitchen window—not enough to be from a fire. But enough to remind him of—"The pizza. Crap." Jack bolted for the back door, and despite their dinner charring in the oven, he had to smile. For the first time in over a month, he heard Daniel truly and honestly laughing.
* * * * * *
Aww…make you feel warm and fuzzy? Good. ALL SHALL LOVE ME AND DESPAIR!!! *negative film-exposure freak out*
I should mention, now that you've read it all, where I got my inspiration for this entire story. If you've ever read "IT" by Stephen King (or watched the movie, and though I love the movie dearly, I have to tell you, the line is much better in the context of the book), there's a line that goes, "He thrusts his fists against the post, and still insists he sees the ghosts." So, there you go. An entire story spawned from a little line meant to help a stuttering boy learn to speak better. What can I say? My bunnies come from all kinds of places.
Read, review, and love me. Or I'll throw more "Lord of the Rings" references at you—trust me, I can go on forever—I've both seen the movies *and* read the books. Fear the geekdom.
