Title: Experto credite

Author: Major Clanger
Email: majclanger@aol.com
Category: Epilogue (sort of)

Pairing: none
Spoilers: teeny ones for S7 Fragile Balance
Season:  ten years after in the future

Rating: G

Warning: none

Status: Complete
Summary: A child is born (sorry, anything else will give away the plot). A bit sappy, apparently.

Disclaimer:

Stargate SG-1 and all its characters belong to a shadowy organisation known as The Powers That Be (TPTB). Scarier and shadowier, even than the NID. In writing this story no copyright infringement was intended. However, the original characters, situations and stories are the property of the author. That is me – and  I write under the name of "Major Clanger" for reasons that are unclear, even to me – so please leave them alone. These stories may not be posted elsewhere without my consent, although since I'm a shameless self-publicist, if you write and ask the it is highly likely that I will agree.
Author's notes: Thanks to TC who read this and told me I can write Sap. Thanks hun. I wrote this one because I haven't written for a while, and had 2 hours or so with just me and my notebook. Fragile Balance is a fascinating episode, and although I've officially retired from fic writing, I'm sure I'll be back to do this ep again. (the title is a quote from Virgil, and translates as 'Trust one who has gone through it'.

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"Breathe in… hold it… breathe out…"

"I know the drill," Samantha grimaced as the pain took over and pushed all rational thought, except for the need to breathe through it, out of her mind.

"Two minutes apart, maybe it won't go on much longer."

"You'd better hope so, buster," the last word was ground out through clenched teeth and was accompanied by a vicious squeeze of Jack's hand.

He gritted his teeth against the pain and said nothing. He felt like spare part in this scene and was not sure if his presence was desired or not. The question of his presence at the birth of their child had not been raised by Samantha and, fearing her reply either way, Jack had not broached the subject. As a result of which he was now wondering if he should not just, somehow, disentangle himself from her killer grip and seek out a waiting room equipped with a TV tuned to ESPN. He gave his fingers an experimental wrigle and tugged gently. The vice-like grip on his hand tightened.

The question had been answered: his presence was required. Demanded even.

Jack noticed that the pauses between Samantha's attempts to break his metacarpals had grown to almost non-existant. He raised an eyebrow at the doctor. A doctor, incidentally, who appeared way too young to have finished high-school, let alone medical school. In reality she had at least ten years on the twenty-five year old father to be and had delivered hundreds of babies. For a moment his view of the young-seeming woman was superimposed with that of an older man, but the vision lasted only a short moment before stabbing pains in the back of his hand alerted him to another contraction.

"Mrs. O'Neill," the doctor addressed the labouring woman, "any time now when you get a contraction you are going to feel the urge to push. You did practice this at your ante-natal class, didn't you?"

"Um," was the only reply. The doctor's ability to raise one eyebrow without twitching any other facial muscles was impressive, and Jack suddenly felt very alone despite his proximity to Samantha. He nodded and the doctor resumed her examination of the long strip of paper which was spewing out of the foetal monitor at a fast rate.

"Okay, here we go then," the doctor patted Jack on the arm before donning a pair of latex gloves and positioning herself so that she could best deliver the iminent new arrival. She watched Samantha carefully and when she judged the time was right spoke rapidly. "Deep breath, chin on chest, eyes closed now push push push push."

The pain in Jack's hand intensified with each 'push' and he was relieved when Samantha's hand went slack. He felt his eyes tearing up and the room disolved before his eyes. In place of the dark head against the white sheet he saw blonde, the doctor's voice deepened and he had the strange feeling that he was experiencing a weird form of déja vu.

"… and push push push push." The words brought him back to the present. "I can see the head! One more time and you'll be parents."

Jack could feel the blood drain from his face. His forehead and palms felt clammy, and his heart appeared to skip several beats. A feeling of dread swarmed over him and he could hear a rushing noise in his ears that blocked out all other sound. There was no way he was ready for this. Again the urge to flee was upon him and this time he sucessufully wrested his hand from his wife's grip and exited the room. He ran blindly down the neon-lit, deserted corridor until he found himself standing in front of the elevator. Without thinking where he was heading he jabbed several times at the down arrow and hugged himself as he waited an eternity for the doors to open.

A display above the buttons showed that the elevator was currently three floors down and rising. Jack hugged himself tighter as the dratted machine waited an inordinately long time two floors below him. He was contemplating searching out the stairs when suddenly a loud 'ding' announced that his wait was at an end. Without waiting to see if anyone wanted to exit, he barged forward and collided with the elevator's sole occupant, who grabbed hold of Jack and pushed him back against the wall.

Muttering his apologies Jack tried to free himself from the bear hug, but was unsuccessful.  His opponent, for lack of a better word, was obviously skilled in unarmed combat and who knows what else. Jack struggled harder in his desperation to escape not only the confinement of the other man's arms but also the building.  He became aware that someone was saying his name over and over and finally stilled himself.

The other man released his hold on Jack and took a step back. "What's the hurry, Jack? Is something wrong?" Colonel, retired, Jack O'Neill lately of the USAF stood in the corridor and looked at the younger version of himself with concern written all over his face. "Is there something wrong, Jack?"

"Nothing. Everything," Jack ran his hands through his long hair. "I don't know." He registered who he was talking to and scowled. "What are you doing here?" He shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned against the wall, raising his chin defiantly against the criticism he expected.

None came. "Okay. Let's try this again. Hi, Jack. Is everything alright?"

"What are you doing here?" Jack repeated stubbornly. He looked around and saw that they were at the end of the corridor. A few potted plants and some uncomfortable looking easy chairs were grouped around a low table in an alcove to one side of the elevator. A few magazines and information pamphlets were piled neatly in the middle of the table and the walls were haphazardly decorated with a few calming landscapes, and posters exhorting men to give blood every two months, women every three. Without a word to his companion Jack slouched over to one of the chairs and slumped into it. He left his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans and sprawled with his legs outstretched staring at the ceiling.

The other man followed, sitting casually in the chair opposite Jack. He leaned slightly forwards and appeared to give Jack a thorough examination, which Jack found uncomfortable, but he wasn't about to admit this. Neither man spoke.

Finally O'Neill looked at his watch. "I think you have safely missed all the gory bits, passed up the chance to cut the cord and been peed on. Are you ready to go back now?"

"How can I?" Jack was furious with himself that his eyes teared up again. "I didn't want this to happen, I didn't want children. I'm not ready."

O'Neill sighed. "Nobody ever is. But if we all listened to our inner coward the human race would have died out already." He gave Jack a wry grin. "Sorry, bad choice of words."

"I can't do it," Jack leaned back and closed his eyes. "What if some thing happens? It would break Samantha, and I don't even want to begin to think what it would do to me."

"Nothing is going to happen." O'Neill looked uncomfortable. He executed a clumsy attempt to change the subject. "How on earth did you end up married at your age? To a woman called Samantha, for cryin' out loud!"

"Since when did you care?" Jack got up and stood next to O'Neill's chair, looming menacingly over him with clenched fists. The look on O'Neill's face silenced him. "Sorry, that wasn't fair." A thought struck him. "You haven't told me what you're doing here."

"Later. Go and see Samantha and the baby."

Jack stared at him for a few seconds before he shrugged and walked slowly back to where he had left his wife. When he got to the birthing suite he met his wife coming out in a wheelchair, holding a small, white-wrapped bundle. She glared at him and in that one look made it clear that he had a whole lot of grovelling to do before she was even half way ready to hear his explanation.

An explanation, he thought to himself, that he could never, ever give her. He felt a hand on his arm and looked up to see the doctor standing in front of him.

"I've seen all sorts of reactions, you know, from mothers as well as fathers. It affects everyone differently. But I learned a whole new vocabulary in there, your wife sure knows how to curse!" She gave him a sympathetic smile. "She'll want to rest now, if I were you I'd say goodnight and come back to collect her tomorrow with a big bunch of flowers and your best grovel." A bleeper went off and she squinted at the display on her pager. "Oh, that's me. I have to go."

"Thanks, doctor, for everything," Jack called after her departing figure, which she acknowledged with a flap of her hand as she disappeared behind a glass door. He turned and followed the route his wife had taken, ending up in a small, private room on the next floor up. Standing sheepishly in the doorway while Samantha pointedly ignored him and fussed over the baby in her arms. Jack waited patiently until she acknowledged his presence. Finally she turned large, brown, reproachful eyes on him and beckoned him over.

"I don't know," she said, "how I'll ever forgive you for that. Probably I won't." She held out the baby, "but I'll be needing your help with this one, so I guess we'll have to call it a truce. For now."

Jack stood awkwardly beside the bed, with the tiny scrap of human being in his arms. The impulse to flee had now been replaced with an overwhelming desire to protect and he carefully kissed the smooth little forehead. A small cough attracted his attention.

"So, don't you want to know if we have a son or a daughter? And before you say anything, I've already picked out a name." Jack raised an inquisitorial eyebrow. His skill in that department had not improved but Samantha got his meaning nonetheless. "Her name is Charlotte." His wife smiled and the cold hand that had encircled his heart for the past hour released its hold.

"Hello, Charlotte," he stroked a gentle finger along her round cheek.

"We shall," his wife continued, "call her Charlie."

~*~

Colonel, retired, Jack O'Neill lately of the USAF closed the front door of his house gently and removed his desert boots. Padding quietly into the kitchen he took a beer from the fridge and took it into the living room. Without turning on the light he went over to the picture window and pulled the drape aside so that he could look out over the expanse of snow covered trees on the hills behind his garden and took a long pull at the beer. His gaze wandered over the treetops and up to the cloudless, starry sky above. There was a lump in his throat as he raised the bottle to the heavens. "Watch over her, Charlie, for both of us."

~the end~