NOTES: Sorry about the lapse between chapters! Hopefully this will be worth your wait. Thanks to Eve, Kat, Dusty, and Amber for the gentle reminders. As always, my gratitude goes to Ayashii for beta services. If you have the time, I would greatly appreciate any feedback you should choose to send.
One Familiar Face 4?
by Meredith Bronwen Mallory
It bothered Jack that Daniel no longer looked out of place in the locker room.
Face no longer framed by golden-brown hair, young Dr. Jackson had a few more muscles on his form and endless years behind his bright blue eyes. He held his books and his ordinance with equal ease-- always willing to talk, to understand, but also capable of pulling the trigger. Like a hero of epic, both brave and smart and strong, he was neither one thing or the other. He was Daniel, shaped, evolving like patterns of ice on glass, warm all the same.
A smile on Apophis' ship, cheek running with red; Daniel's firm support on Netu, where the air was rank-- stiff with the smell of heat and dirt and blood.
In the blood, they say-- they say a lot of things about blood. How it will out, how it will tell, how it's thicker than water. Family blood, O'Neill blood, which-- as far back as anyone cared to remember-- had been spilled on battlefields, shed in loyalty to countries, flags and Kings. Maybe that was why Jack could never imagine being anything but a soldier. Great-grandfather and grandpa in the cavalry, Pa in the Navy, and now the latest O'Neill son off to war, in the sky, in the stars. Progressively climbing away from terra firma, Jack considered wryly, remembering his own brief battle of wills with his father.
What's wrong with the Navy, son? We got a damn fine Navy.
(And, years after the fight was settled, Jack could imagine another boy saying, "It's not the cavalry I want, Dad-- not the Marines, or anything else. Only the Navy will do.")
Only the Air Force, only the sky-- the ceiling of his dreams, baring the stars like thick glass. The engine of a fighter plane louder than himself, than his screaming, than his sullen, increasing anger at the world.
He didn't remember a lot about being a child-- the green tile kitchen, the incessant sound of Mother's chalkboard algorithms, theories and proofs. Late nights eating sloppy jelly sandwiches, the only lights from the bathroom and Her study. He could remember reaching for the sink to fill a glass of water, his legs so small and no one else around to do it for him. A vague parade of Aunts and Uncles while Pa was on active duty.
('D'you feed him, Anrin?' they asked, like he couldn't hear, like he was some kind of dog, requiring simple maintenance.
And click-click, Mother and her numbers. They'd say her name again and prompt. 'Oh? Why yes, I think I did. I'm almost sure I did.'
'She thinks she did!' they'd hiss and crow in the hallway, unaware or uncaring that the sound carried right to Jack's ears. 'Thinks she fed the kid, well. Doesn't know up from down, that one, let me tell you.')
He'd lay on the blue rug in the living room, some Italian baritone warbling out from the record player, kicking his feet and drawing in thick black crayon. They sang in Latin and German, the voices trapped in garish album covers-- the colors were always bright, and the back always held some small-printed summary of what was going on. Pa's portrait-- the good one, with his crisp and dashing in full uniform-- would stand sentinel on the mantel, Jack would overwhelm the click-clicking of chalk with foreign voices, always amazed. They could say anything, in those high vibrato notes, swear to kill or flee or never love again, and it would be okay.
He was a soldier, it was in his blood, and blood would tell. It would flow and carry him away from Sara, from Charlie playing soccer in the humid summer evenings. He would look at his son and feel torn, because he just couldn't see that little face shaded by camouflage.
He didn't want his son to be a soldier. Let him be doctor, lawyer-- hell!-- Indian Chief, but his little boy would never belong in a war. Charlie wasn't a fighter, he was a doer; build, shaped with his hands... Sara's influence, Jack guessed. He was stubborn and strong, but the image of some older boy with a gun in his hands had always struck Jack with a sick sort of dread, almost deja'vu.
(Deja'vu-- you knew. You could see him with a gun 'cause one didn't belong in his hands. Didn't want him in a war because you couldn't see him kill, didn't want him to fall in ditch somewhere you couldn't even spell, and my friend, you got your wish.)
They talked alot about Mother's intuition, about how, sometimes, she just knew. But there was more to being a father than just standing around, feeling removed as the baby grew out of something taken from inside.
There was a lot more, if you bothered to stick around.
Never should have had a gun in the house, never should have had one around the son you knew wasn't meant for that sort of thing. Every year would pass and Jack could see Charlie growing clearly in his mind's eye. Playing, working, arguing, until the dream ended as it always did-- with blood and tears, and the certainty that one of these days the would was gonna kick Jack, gonna get him down, and there wouldn't be any getting back up again.
'So what do you get?' he asked himself, pulling on his civs in the locker room. Across the bench, Daniel was stretching and hiding a yawn-- Jack never looked, except when he did. He got Daniel, that's what.
(Daniel blinking at Dr. Langford, two days into the Stargate research, looking at the clean clothes in her offering hands.
The young man had fumbled, "Oh-- oh it's..." and Jack couldn't help but roll his eyes. Yeah, kid, it's been forty-eight hours since Langford picked you up off the street, and you're still wearing your rained-on rumbled shirt and tie.
Daniel saying he could do it, get them there and back again-- stance firm, eyes determined in front of a General who radiated skepticism.
'Take him with you,' West had said. Oh-- good one, sir! That's a joke, right? Daniel was smart-- hell, Daniel was frick'n brilliant-- he had fought, deciphered, and gotten them back home. But he had also lain prone on the too fine sand, had welcomed a foreign beast and laughed, like a boy with his dog.)
'It's gonna end, worse than the last one, worse than anything you've ever screwed up before.' Voiceless words, carved into Jack's bones, waking him up at night as they rose to the surface of his skin. 'Don't you dare touch him, 'cause it's all gonna end.'
And that-- that was exactly what Jack got.
"I need a beer," Jack said faithfully, running a heavy hand through his hair.
"Paper work getting to you?" Daniel smiled over his shoulder.
"And Freya," Jack put in with a significant glance. "She gives me the willies. Her and her Amazon hand-me-downs." The younger man merely 'hmm-ed' in sympathy, engrossed in changing his shirt.
"Still," Daniel said when he finally worked himself free, "I am looking forward to seeing the materials Anise brought with her. The more I learn about the Goa'uld who assumed each god's persona, the clearer the picture of Ancient Earth becomes. It's fascinating, really, when you consider that we're living in the ruins of a truly epic and terrifying past, yet we don't even--"
"Daniel?" Jack said expectantly, raising his head when the sentence continued to simply hang. The archaeologist had his back to the locker mirror, frowning over his shoulder. "Daniel?"
The only response was a brief string of Abydonian-- swear words, by the tone-- as Daniel's puzzled look deepened.
"Daniel!"
"What?" Blue eyes blinked quickly as Daniel turned around. "I'm sorry, Jack... I just..." His expression turned inwards, "I think I'm loosing my mind."
"Join the club. I'm a charter member," Jack snorted, at first only faintly disturbed. He pulled on his jacket and turned, ready to warn his friend about the temptation of pulling an all-nighter. Instead, he found himself staring at the younger man's back, trying to place what had so disturbed Daniel before. The skin was faintly tan, as always, dotted with scars and lines that Jack had long learned not to ask about, but...
Something was wrong.
Daniel's flesh ran smooth, from the right side of his spine and down along to his hip, inviting and utterly unmarked. Jack knew, though-- hated himself for knowing-- that there was, there should have been, a long, faded welt of red. A lash mark, from someone's clumsy but enraged hand-- the mark Jack had trailed his finger along once, while Daniel slept, muscles twitching in dreams of Nem's machine.
'You're looking at it in the wrong light,' Jack told himself wildly, 'it's there, your eyes are going, or...'
But it wasn't there, and it never had been; a remembered lashing without a scar. Jack could see it in Daniel's eyes when the other man looked up, the carefully curtailed panic in those open, determined eyes. The Colonel's stomach turned.
"I have to--" he said weakly, making an abortive motion with his hands, "-- to go."
Now Daniel's voice rose just slightly in concern, "Jack?"
"Have to go." He was taking quick steps backwards, making for the door. "Don't," he added clumsily, "worry. Play nicely with Anise. I have to--"
"Go. You said. Jack--"
But Daniel's voice was fading at the threshold, and Jack was moving, steps quick and economical, hiding any sense of real hurry. Levels on the elevator, down and down, ignoring any curious looks, vaguely praying he wouldn't run into Carter or Teal'c. In his mind's eye, Jack could only see Daniel, remember the feel of that scar under his one, trembling finger. His whole hand was shaking--
(with rage, and he held himself carefully still. The sun was dim and coming through the windows in shrinking columns. Daniel's face was hidden by long, summer-light hair, but he could feel the younger boy watching, before the blue eyes lowered in shame.
"Who's the bastard that did this to you?" Jack demanded, fist tight around the bottle of ointment. He sat down on the couch where his friend was spread out, gently touching one slim, trembling shoulder. The skin was chill, with warmth lingering underneath.
"It's not important, John," Daniel sighed. "Usually I can get out of the way fast enough, but..."
"You shouldn't have to!" Jack almost shouted. He leaned in, pressing his cheek to Daniel's hair.
"It's no big deal," the younger boy reiterated. "I'm sixteen, I can take care of myself." Voice withered, Jack simply nodded, uncapping the bottle.
"Ointment-- found it in my Mom's room. Doesn't smell like flowers or anything, I promise," he said gruffly, touching scars that were much more fresh than Jack had ever really seen. A week or two old, at most. His hands-- had his hands ever really been that slender?-- were gentle, hesitant as he touched Daniel, sickened by the healing pain and awed by the trust. He rubbed gently over shoulder-blades and mid-back, but the longest, ugliest of the lot was absent even in this strange and broken dream.)
Jack shook his head and drew a deep, firm breath before rapping his fist against the General's door. He was still fighting through mist and disorientation, past and present no longer oil and water, but infinitely less tangible. More real. He wondered if it showed on his face-- that he was crazy, that he was loosing it-- so he kept his own expression carefully blank as Hammond called for him to come in.
"Sir," he said, unaware of what exactly he was planning until the words had actually left his mouth. "Request permission for a thirty-six hour leave."
"Colonel?" The General raised his head, eyes penetrating, reading Jack's body language as well as his words. "Among other things, this is a bit sudden..."
"I'm sorry, sir. This is just..." he cast about for a word, "it's important. It's very sudden, and very important, and I need you to let me go."
Now Hammond's face changed, just briefly, and Jack could see what the older man's granddaughters would see. It lasted only momentarily, but it lurked there even as Hammond said, "Are you alright, son?"
"Yes," Jack said quickly, and then, "No, sir." He shook his head, "Whichever answer will get you to let me take leave, sir."
Dubiously, "Thirty six hours?"
"The Tok'ra aren't due back for forty-eight," Jack pointed out. "I need... I need to get out of here. I can probably be back in less than thirty six," he thought for a moment, "but definitely more than twenty-four."
Concern now clearly visible, the General reached for his pen. "Can I ask where you're going?" That was easy. That was the only answer Jack knew in this whole goddamn maelstrom of questions.
"Minnesota." He was going there to look, because he couldn't be loosing it, not now, not after all this time. To remind himself of what had happened... and what had not.
"I'll authorize your leave," Hammond said, almost kindly. "I trust you..."
"Thank you, sir!" the Colonel replied, wondering why he couldn't feel more relieved.
"-- but I would, at some point, like a better explanation," the older man said firmly.
'You and me both,' Jack thought wryly, but all he said was 'Thank you, General' before he headed for the door.
He was trying to keep track of turns and corridors as the guards drug him from his cell, but John's eyes were weak, and he spent a good deal of the trip squeezing them closed against the abrasive light. At last, when he could hold them open for longer than it too to simply blink, he began looking for exits, for windows, for anything unique details along the heavy golden walls. The turns seemed endless, halls composed of black tile and glittering inscription, but John saw few guards. At last, he was drawn through an arched threshold into a larger room, draped in linen and expensive silks. It was so large and overwhelming that, at first, he couldn't help but miss the young woman seated carefully amongst the cushions.
"Um... hey," he said, simple acknowledgment-- because she was slim and small, the freckles on her face so hastily covered up and the embroidered robes so ill fitting that he could hardly imagine her as a threat. She looked almost mousey, eyes far away, strawberry-touched orange hair pulled, frizzy and elaborate, away from her cheeks.
"O'Neill," she said, and her face changed so dramatically that John blinked, wondering if he was still looking at the same person. Something stirred under the flesh of her expression, something strange and so much older than the fit the lines and angles of a slim farmer's daughter. The chin tilted up regally, motion calculated like that of a marionette, and she rose in a wave of crimson folds. "Yes," she said, having circled him twice, "you will do nicely."
"Look, Lady," John said, instinctively drawing back, despite the guards' firm grip on his upper arms. "I don't know who you are, but I think you have the wrong O'Neill. That's with two 'l's," he tried very hard to smile, "common mistake."
"Silence!" The woman narrowed her hazel eyes, leaning in close. "You would not recognize me in any case, would you?" she said, mostly to herself. "You have caused me great damage, Colonel O'Neill-- forced me to," she gestured distastefully at her own body, "scrounge. But," she smiled in a way that did not fit her face at all, "I am strong, and now in a position from which no one will expect an attack." Her gold-tipped fingers touched his cheek, "I believe you are much easier to control, in this form."
"See," John babbled, watching her eyes flash the brightest of yellows, "I know you had the wrong guy. I'm not a Colonel-- I'm barely old enough to drive! And Lady-"
"We are called Hathor," she informed him regally, brushing a lock of hair past her shoulder. "And you will call us... Goddess." That smile again, and John shuddered.
"Don't think so!" he bit out, casting his eyes about wildly.
"You are a strong warrior, O'Neill," her praise seemed to rub against his skin, making him squirm. "You have already defeated many of the System Lords. Such a young age, I have found you at now... so pliable. You are a bit old to receive your prim'ta, but you will indeed become our First Prime, as we originally decreed." Her hand, so cold, lingered against his stomach.
"Get off me!" John said, kicking wildly. "You bitch!" His mind was full only of Danny, of his friend's voice trembling in the long and fruitless void. Swallowing his fear, he raised his chin up to salvage his pride, "Hands off the merchandise." Hathor's lips were horribly red, every experienced motion rolled off her innocent form like someone's idea of a horrible joke. All he could feel was the heaviness of the slim army knife in his pocket; any moment they were going to pat him down, find it, and then he'd be out just one more thing when he needed every little advantage he could get. She was close, smelling of heavy perfumes, and smoke. Her hands were on his shoulders, and all he could think of was Danny, already labored breathing thick and clotted with her closeness.
The knife seemed to ache. The guards were massive, but she was comparatively small-- like a thug on the street, he could overpower her, maybe...
(and sink that knife right into her heart, right were the collar of her silken robe reveals those pale, freckled breasts.
-I've never killed anyone before!-
'Before this is over, you just might have to.' The knowledge came from some calm, already resigned place inside of him. 'First time for everything, you know.')
"The code of life grows strong within us," Hathor murmured, close to his ear. "We will lay our clutch... and then prepare you to accept one of our young. The Nish'ta does not work on one so young, and..." she smirked, "inexperienced, but there are other ways of ensuring loyalty, as you will see." Her gaze seemed far away, full of bitter dreams, "We may find, soon, that the past has shifted irreparably. Then I shall be more powerful than ever before."
John fought against the desire to close his eyes-- he didn't want to see her, or anything, anymore. He wanted to be back, submerged in the thick black, where he could listen to Danny and feel the quick, gentle touch of a finger.
('Don't give her the satisfaction,' Pa's voice advised, and seemed to echo, 'Oh, son-- son, you are in some deep shit now.'
'Tell me something I don't know!' John thought wildly.
--the knife...--)
"You're barking up the wrong tree, lady." He looked Hathor directly in her strange triumphant eyes, voice steady as stern as he could bend the young tones to, "you should just send--" (us!) "--me back to where I belong. I'm not worth the trouble, and I don't know nothing about nobody."
"You are afraid," Hathor observed cooly, tilting her head to the side. "I have not had the pleasure of witnessing it so clearly on your face. It is most pleasing." She turned, all flashing hues of orange and ruby, waving a dismissive hand. "Return him to his cell, and prepare my nest." She stood, back straight, as a platform began to rise out of the floor. The light caught each other its polished, metallic angles, and John forced himself to look at it, without thinking about the fact it was a coffin. "No one is going to rescue you, young O'Neill." The room rang with her confidence, "You will come to accept your new, honored role."
His mouth was dry, filled with the ashes of words, but he tried to spit anyway-- his distaste landing pitifully on the black, polished floor. Hathor seemed to find this amusing; she was rotting from within, something spoiling what otherwise might have been a pleasant giggle. She waved once more with her bejeweled hands, and the guards lifted him away with little effort. He found their grip on him transferred to a single fist on the scruff of his neck as one of the pair marched off. He dangled, held in front of the remaining guard like some naughty puppy, his mind flashing with a thousand small, racing thoughts.
(Only one now, Pa's voice urged. You're not gonna get a chance like this again.
--the knife...--
Yeah, right, you stupid little shit! They've got lasers!)
The guard navigated the corridors with ease, unconcerned by the limp young man he carried, eyes turned far inward. John waited a few more measured breaths, before he began to struggle violently, kicking and swinging, though the collar of his shirt dug into his neck. At first the guard only seemed annoyed, but John kept kicking, trying to hit anywhere near the waist. The was an audible rip as he tumbled to the floor, a blue scrap of fabric hanging from the guard's fingers. He rolled quickly, hand diving into his pocket, surging upwards while the guard was still looking at him in smug, half-amusement. John aimed for the stomach, where the guard's short, ceremonial breastplate gave way to a linen kilt. One of his opponent's large hands closed around his neck, an instant crushing weight; the knife remained lodged in skin, while John's hand fell away to clutch at his windpipe. In a move of pure instinct, he angled himself back and kicked for the crotch, eyes swimming in pain. The first kick missed, and something clattered to the floor, but the second one hit its mark. John fell again as the guard doubled over. Taking one deep, desperate breath, he crawled towards the object on the floor. The laser was coiled closed-- this close, John could see that it was wrought in the image of a snake. Knees shaking, he stood, trying to open it with clumsy, hurried hands. The guard bent back up, almost standing straight, his steps heavy and menacing towards the young boy, before John heard a satisfying, metallic pop. He aimed, watching in fascinated horror as the blue energy leapt out to steal the guard's consciousness. The large body crumpled to the floor, even as John-- unprepared for the weapon's slight recoil-- fell backwards, landing heavily on his behind. The past few minutes seemed to rush in than, thought replacing instinct.
'Oh, shit,' he thought, looking at the red handle of his Swiss army knife, planted in white cloth like some triumphant explorer's flag. His stomach rolled but settled under his forced command. Bending down, he covered his hand with the cuff of his sleeve, pulling at the blood-slick handle of his blade. The dead body's stomach seemed to ripple under the linen, a terrible, inhuman shriek echoing down the long corridor. Panicked, John fired again, relieved with the sound stopped immediately. His eyes roamed over the rest of the form and he quickly grabbed the ring of small, gold strips from it's fastening at the dead man's side. At last, he took off at a run, trying to make his footsteps as quiet as possible without wasting the brief time he had.
The first turn he took was a bust, leaving him plastered again a wall, choking down his fear as two guards marched past. He hurried back, trying to orient himself, before he finally saw twin black doors, positioned some ways away. He pressed frantically at the rounded glass button to no avail, before he looked at the golden strips in his hand. To him, the tiny symbols looked like mere scribbles,
('Hieroglyphics', Danny would say.)
But there was a row of the same number of symbols etched neatly above the release on the door. John flipped quickly through the strips, glancing up, trying to match. Selecting one, he slid it over the row on the door, watching with unspeakable relief as the glass button glowed an approving blue. He slammed it again, watching the door hiss open.
Light spilled through the threshold, merciless on the gray flooring of the cell, but the illuminated space was empty. Tasting his heart on the back of his tongue, John took a step in, eyes searching the deep shadows.
"Danny," he whispered pleadingly, "Danny-- it's John!" Curled on the floor, a form at first edged near the vent, then seemed to realize the new direction of the voice. Danny's glasses-- round and precariously perched, flashed in the light from the hall as he stood, stepping fully out of the dark recesses, finally more than a voice.