O'Neill was furious. Absolutely as angry as he'd ever remembered being in
his life. It was a cold rage that seemed only to grow as the Colonel walked
out of the woods and towards the little cabin that he'd become so fond of
in the last few days. What the HELL had the boy been thinking? He slid his
gun into the waist of his jeans as he came to the clearing that the cabin
stood on the edge of, knowing – even as furious as he was – that he didn't
want any of the kids to see him walking around waving a gun. The cabin was
dark, and that only made Jack angrier, for no reason at all.
He threw the door open, and reached under his bunk, pulling his bag out and rummaging around in it, looking for the keys to his truck. They'd been in the pocket of his jeans. He'd used them last to get face paint the night they'd played Capture the Flag. And he'd just left them in the jeans when he'd changed that night. But they weren't in that pocket, anymore. They were sitting at the bottom of his bag. A part of him – the very small part that wasn't mindlessly fuming – told him this was important. But at the moment, Jack didn't care. He snatched the keys up and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard the windows all rattled.
No one spotted him as he went down the hill towards the parking lot that was off to the side of the main building. Which was all to the good, since Jack wasn't in the right mindset for company.
When they'd arrived at the camp, they'd been the last of the counselors to show up, and Jack had been forced to take the parking spot at the very end of the lot. This put his truck in almost complete darkness now, since the lone street lamp that lit up the lot was on the other end, but Jack didn't need light. He walked over and unlocked his truck, opened the door and reached underneath the seat. The leather holster that normally held his Beretta wasn't there. Swearing, Jack searched the cab of his truck, and found what he was looking for on the floor by the passenger seat.
He climbed into the truck, sliding behind the wheel and reaching down to pick up the holster. Pulling his gun out of his pants, Jack stared at the weapon in the faint glow of the dome light. The anger that had sustained him this far drained out of him as his mind replayed one scene over and over.
A little hand holding a weapon it had no business going anywhere near. A little hand. A hand that was so young and innocent, one that didn't even understand the deadly force of the weapon. A simple mistake that could have cost so much. Like the one Charlie had made so many years ago. Years. It only seemed like days to Jack just then, the memories were so clear and fresh in his mind.
Jack didn't even realize he was crying until a tear fell on the barrel of the gun. He'd been so terrified when he saw that little hand holding the gun. So afraid that what had happened to Charlie was going to happen again. He hadn't even considered that the boy could have shot him. That would have been the least that could have happened. Jack would have much preferred that he, himself, get shot than have something happen to Shawn. He couldn't have lived with himself if something had happened. He'd had so much trouble living with himself after Charlie...
A sob echoed through the cab of the truck, and Jack didn't try to stop it. He couldn't have. No more than he could control the furious anger that had swelled within him earlier. He broke down as he reflected on the day he lost his son. A memory that was triggered so forcefully by the events of the night that he could even remember the smell of the air, and the feel of the light breeze that had been rustling through his clothing that day. And he remembered the sound of the shot that had rang out. The shot went through his mind over and over again, ending the life of the one person he'd loved most of all. His boy.
Jack crossed his arms over the steering wheel and sobbed into them, his shoulders shaking as the anger turned to sorrow, and the sorrow to a profound grief that had been thought to have been long buried, but was still as fresh as ever. God, he missed his son. Missed him so much. He was all that was good in Jack, and none of what wasn't. Sunny and cheerful, no matter what the world threw at him. The hope for the future. And gone forever because of one mistake. A mistake that could have so easily been repeated that night. Another sob, a heart wrenching sound of loss, and Jack broke down completely.
~*~
That was where Daniel found him. It was pure luck. The archeologist had come out of the gym and was walking up the hill on the far side of the main building, trying to figure out where he might find O'Neill and he'd just happened to see the very faint light from the dome light of Jack's truck. He'd gone to investigate, and was only slightly surprised to see Jack leaning against his steering wheel, his head buried in his arms.
Jack vaguely heard the passenger door open and felt, rather than saw, someone sit down in the passenger seat next to him. The tears had stopped by then, but they'd left in their wake a terrible emptiness that Jack knew was just as potentially deadly as the anger he'd felt before. It was so easy to fall into that emptiness, he knew. And so tempting. Jack knew that there was no pain in that emptiness. But there wasn't anything else there, either. He'd been there, he knew. There was no pain, or love, or joy, or anything.
"Sam told me what happened."
He turned his head without lifting it from his arms, and looked over and saw Daniel.
"Yeah?"
Daniel nodded, and Jack could see concern in his friend's expression. Daniel knew Jack as well, if not better, than anyone else. He'd been around Jack when O'Neill was dealing with the loss of Charlie, and he remembered the haunted look in the Colonel's eyes from back then. A haunted look that was there once more.
"I can't imagine what you're feeling right now," Daniel said, softly. "I know it hurts, though." He'd lost his wife. He knew what pain was. It wasn't the exact same thing, but it was probably pretty close.
"It's killing me, Daniel," Jack said, softly, surprising Daniel. O'Neill raised his head, and then raised his right hand, which still held the Beretta. "He could have killed himself, and he doesn't even know it."
"He's a little boy. They do dumb things."
"But they're not supposed to die from them."
"No."
The two men were silent for a long time, each thinking of their own demons.
"He's a lot like Charlie was." Jack finally said, still staring at the gun in his hand.
"I know, Jack. He's a good kid."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, he is."
They were quiet again, and the horn sounded, telling them that the campers were being sent off to bed. Daniel wondered how long he and Jack had been sitting there in the dark truck. He wasn't in any hurry to go anywhere, though. Jack was talking – more or less – which was more than Daniel had expected.
"I was so afraid when I saw him with this," Jack said. "I just knew it was going-"
"It didn't," Daniel interrupted, putting his hand on O'Neill's shoulder.
"It could have."
"Yes. But it didn't."
"No. It didn't."
They were silent as the sounds of the camp died away completely, and lights started going out in the main building as the staff closed it down for the night. Daniel squeezed Jack's shoulder companionably, and after a little while, Jack slid the gun into the holster that was sitting on the dash.
"You'd better go help Teal'c get the kids settled, Daniel."
"Are you coming?"
"Eventually."
"Are you going to be all right?"
"Eventually."
Daniel nodded, and opened the passenger door.
"Hey, Daniel?"
He turned, looking back at Jack.
"Thanks for the talk."
"Any time, Jack."
Feeling as though he'd actually accomplished something, Daniel got out of the truck, shut the door behind him, and headed across the parking lot and up the hill without a backwards glance.
He threw the door open, and reached under his bunk, pulling his bag out and rummaging around in it, looking for the keys to his truck. They'd been in the pocket of his jeans. He'd used them last to get face paint the night they'd played Capture the Flag. And he'd just left them in the jeans when he'd changed that night. But they weren't in that pocket, anymore. They were sitting at the bottom of his bag. A part of him – the very small part that wasn't mindlessly fuming – told him this was important. But at the moment, Jack didn't care. He snatched the keys up and walked out of the room, slamming the door behind him so hard the windows all rattled.
No one spotted him as he went down the hill towards the parking lot that was off to the side of the main building. Which was all to the good, since Jack wasn't in the right mindset for company.
When they'd arrived at the camp, they'd been the last of the counselors to show up, and Jack had been forced to take the parking spot at the very end of the lot. This put his truck in almost complete darkness now, since the lone street lamp that lit up the lot was on the other end, but Jack didn't need light. He walked over and unlocked his truck, opened the door and reached underneath the seat. The leather holster that normally held his Beretta wasn't there. Swearing, Jack searched the cab of his truck, and found what he was looking for on the floor by the passenger seat.
He climbed into the truck, sliding behind the wheel and reaching down to pick up the holster. Pulling his gun out of his pants, Jack stared at the weapon in the faint glow of the dome light. The anger that had sustained him this far drained out of him as his mind replayed one scene over and over.
A little hand holding a weapon it had no business going anywhere near. A little hand. A hand that was so young and innocent, one that didn't even understand the deadly force of the weapon. A simple mistake that could have cost so much. Like the one Charlie had made so many years ago. Years. It only seemed like days to Jack just then, the memories were so clear and fresh in his mind.
Jack didn't even realize he was crying until a tear fell on the barrel of the gun. He'd been so terrified when he saw that little hand holding the gun. So afraid that what had happened to Charlie was going to happen again. He hadn't even considered that the boy could have shot him. That would have been the least that could have happened. Jack would have much preferred that he, himself, get shot than have something happen to Shawn. He couldn't have lived with himself if something had happened. He'd had so much trouble living with himself after Charlie...
A sob echoed through the cab of the truck, and Jack didn't try to stop it. He couldn't have. No more than he could control the furious anger that had swelled within him earlier. He broke down as he reflected on the day he lost his son. A memory that was triggered so forcefully by the events of the night that he could even remember the smell of the air, and the feel of the light breeze that had been rustling through his clothing that day. And he remembered the sound of the shot that had rang out. The shot went through his mind over and over again, ending the life of the one person he'd loved most of all. His boy.
Jack crossed his arms over the steering wheel and sobbed into them, his shoulders shaking as the anger turned to sorrow, and the sorrow to a profound grief that had been thought to have been long buried, but was still as fresh as ever. God, he missed his son. Missed him so much. He was all that was good in Jack, and none of what wasn't. Sunny and cheerful, no matter what the world threw at him. The hope for the future. And gone forever because of one mistake. A mistake that could have so easily been repeated that night. Another sob, a heart wrenching sound of loss, and Jack broke down completely.
~*~
That was where Daniel found him. It was pure luck. The archeologist had come out of the gym and was walking up the hill on the far side of the main building, trying to figure out where he might find O'Neill and he'd just happened to see the very faint light from the dome light of Jack's truck. He'd gone to investigate, and was only slightly surprised to see Jack leaning against his steering wheel, his head buried in his arms.
Jack vaguely heard the passenger door open and felt, rather than saw, someone sit down in the passenger seat next to him. The tears had stopped by then, but they'd left in their wake a terrible emptiness that Jack knew was just as potentially deadly as the anger he'd felt before. It was so easy to fall into that emptiness, he knew. And so tempting. Jack knew that there was no pain in that emptiness. But there wasn't anything else there, either. He'd been there, he knew. There was no pain, or love, or joy, or anything.
"Sam told me what happened."
He turned his head without lifting it from his arms, and looked over and saw Daniel.
"Yeah?"
Daniel nodded, and Jack could see concern in his friend's expression. Daniel knew Jack as well, if not better, than anyone else. He'd been around Jack when O'Neill was dealing with the loss of Charlie, and he remembered the haunted look in the Colonel's eyes from back then. A haunted look that was there once more.
"I can't imagine what you're feeling right now," Daniel said, softly. "I know it hurts, though." He'd lost his wife. He knew what pain was. It wasn't the exact same thing, but it was probably pretty close.
"It's killing me, Daniel," Jack said, softly, surprising Daniel. O'Neill raised his head, and then raised his right hand, which still held the Beretta. "He could have killed himself, and he doesn't even know it."
"He's a little boy. They do dumb things."
"But they're not supposed to die from them."
"No."
The two men were silent for a long time, each thinking of their own demons.
"He's a lot like Charlie was." Jack finally said, still staring at the gun in his hand.
"I know, Jack. He's a good kid."
Jack nodded. "Yeah, he is."
They were quiet again, and the horn sounded, telling them that the campers were being sent off to bed. Daniel wondered how long he and Jack had been sitting there in the dark truck. He wasn't in any hurry to go anywhere, though. Jack was talking – more or less – which was more than Daniel had expected.
"I was so afraid when I saw him with this," Jack said. "I just knew it was going-"
"It didn't," Daniel interrupted, putting his hand on O'Neill's shoulder.
"It could have."
"Yes. But it didn't."
"No. It didn't."
They were silent as the sounds of the camp died away completely, and lights started going out in the main building as the staff closed it down for the night. Daniel squeezed Jack's shoulder companionably, and after a little while, Jack slid the gun into the holster that was sitting on the dash.
"You'd better go help Teal'c get the kids settled, Daniel."
"Are you coming?"
"Eventually."
"Are you going to be all right?"
"Eventually."
Daniel nodded, and opened the passenger door.
"Hey, Daniel?"
He turned, looking back at Jack.
"Thanks for the talk."
"Any time, Jack."
Feeling as though he'd actually accomplished something, Daniel got out of the truck, shut the door behind him, and headed across the parking lot and up the hill without a backwards glance.