Debriefing

Soon after his meeting with the heads of staff, of course Dr. Jackson wants to talk to the resident wraith. Namely, me.

I had gone back to the infirmary to sit by my brother's bedside. Whenever one of my human family here is sick, a constant bedside vigil is held, often in shifts, other times driving the nursing staff crazy by taking up space in chairs and beds around the afflicted.

The medical staff is not amused by the extremes of camaraderie when exhibited at 3 am.

He's been placed in what Dr. Beckett calls a "medically induced coma". He's been intubated to make sure his airway doesn't collapse. An Electroencephalograph machine has also been hooked up, for reasons I don't understand, so multicolored wires now run in and out of his hair.

So many wires. So many tubes. So much inorganic paraphernalia to keep him alive.

I walk into what used to be Dr. Weir's office—her things are gone, but in their places are even more artifacts and boxes of books and papers. It's as if in the lack of her cold presence, her things decided to go forth and multiply.

Dr. Daniel Jackson (that is his name according to the nurses) is rummaging through one of the boxes when I come in. The woman (Vala?) and Grandpa seem to be playing poker across the desk. Grandpa notices me first and waves me in.

"Ah, Mary! I see you have come to meet the illustrious Dr. Daniel Jackson! Speaker of 23 and counting languages, diplomat extraordinaire," he pauses and looks at the archaeologist. "Did I miss anything?"

"Uh, yes, the part where you volunteered me to be the leader of the Atlantis expedition," he replies and sneezes as he pulls two rather large and dusty tomes from one of the boxes.

"Aw, cummon Daniel! You were begging me to let you out here!" retorts O'Neill as he tosses down his cards. "Full house! Beat that!"

Vala smiles, catlike, and slowly lays down her hand. "Royal Flush."

"I told you not to play cards with her," Jackson mutters as he puts the books on a shelf. "She was a professional con for years."

"Daniel, where are your manners?" reprimands O'Neill, gesturing to me. "Introduce yourself to the lady."

"Oh, yes, yes," he turns around, extending his hand only to freeze when he actually sees me. "Oh." He shakes himself and begins to offer his hand again. "I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean t-to be rude. Um, I'm Daniel Jackson. Um, Daniel," he says quickly while shaking my hand. I glance at the desk and see three coffee carafes and a half-empty mug. How much coffee has this man had?

"I am called Mairghread," I introduce myself, although I'm sure he already knows who I am. "But Mary is also acceptable."

"Ah, a, a simplified form for those who have trouble with the long version. It sounds vaguely like, um, Scots-Gaelic, from earth—" he begins to babble, retrieving his hand and reaching for the coffee mug.

"Yes, Daniel," O'Neill says patiently as he deals out a new hand. "That would be why the good Dr. Beckett can so easily converse with her."

"Of course, of course. Oh, I'm sorry," he gestures to the remaining chairs. "Please, sit, sit. Um, coffee?" he begins searching, I assume, for another mug.

"No thank you," I say tersely before allowing myself a small smile. "Dr. McKay could tell you that coffee and I don't mix well."

"Oh." He blinks rapidly, as though trying to mesh this information into that which he must have been given about the wraith in general. "Is that a wraith thing, or just you? Do you know? I wonder—"

"Daniel, shut it," O'Neill and Vala say simultaneously.

"Just play nice for now, anthropologist later."

"Right." Definitely too much coffee. "Um, so Mairghread, first off I'd really like to talk with you, get to know you a little better but, um, I suppose the more pressing matter is that of, of your brother," he refers to a sheet of paper. "Gilleasbachan." Not bad—pronounced it correctly on the first try. "Uh, Colonel Sheppard explained that he, your brother, that is, was held as a slave by a wraith queen and was, um, trapped with her for over 10,000 years?"

"Yes sir," I reply curtly.

"Geez, Daniel, where's your tact?" O'Neill stands up and takes the mug out of the archaeologist's hands. "No more coffee for you, mister."

"Jack!" he protests, grabbing at for his confiscated mug. "Give it back! Jack!"

"No. No!" he emphasizes as Daniel reaches for the carafes and blocks him with his body. "Get out. Mairghread, maybe you could take him for a walk on the balconies? Try to get some of that caffeine out of his system."

"Jack!" the protest is almost a whine.

"Uh-un. No more coffee for you! Seriously, one of these days I'm gonna find you dead from caffeine poisoning."

"But Jaaack…"

"No buts! Mairghread, get him out of here. I'm sure there's someone who needs this coffee more than you, Danny-boy," O'Neill says, shooing both me and Dr. Jackson out of the office and onto a balcony, employing his gene to lock us out.

"Jack!" Daniel shouts in protest one last time before resigning himself to his coffee-less fate, turning around and offering me a friendly, if someone nervous and forced smile. "So…" he tries to begin again. "Look, I'm sorry, I'm being kinda—"

"Hyper?" I proffer the term I have heard John and Rodney throw at each other when they act like this.

"Yes," he draws it out, as if considering its applicability and, having deemed it appropriate, continues, "Yes, I-I guess hyper is a good term. It's just…it's the city of the Ancients—"

"The Lanteans?"

"Oh, yes yes, of course, the Lanteans," he babbles and we begin to walk around the tower. "And, I mean, there's a whole new galaxy to explore. I'm not actually sure why they thought I could replace Dr. Weir," he seems to be musing, despite the fact that he is speaking absurdly fast, like Rodney with a new idea how to get more energy. "Granted, I know more languages and I'm a linguist so I pick them up easier, but she has—well, no, she's done earth negotiations, not as many alien negotiations as I have, not be arrogant or anything, but she did have a longer career of it and I don't really have any leadership experience, but neither did she and I'm a little more familiar with the military and addressing culture conflict." He pauses his monologue. "Still…" he seems to recollect himself. "I-I'm sorry. Here I wanted to get to know you better—I mean I've seen your file, but just a quick read through, nothing detailed—and I've been going on about myself."

"What would you like to know?" I ask brusquely, although I can feel myself softening to this Daniel Jackson. For one thing, the way he's acting makes me think, in a mild way, of what happened when Rodney gave me coffee one day—it took forever for me to 'come down from the ceiling'. For another, he may be distracted but it doesn't seem so much an off-hand way of dealing with things as it is he's trying to take in everything at once and consider it deeply—his brain, mouth and curiosity can't keep up with each other. Rather like Radek, who has trouble keeping to English when he makes a discovery.

"Well, um, how old are you? Why don't we start with that?" He slows down, hands in his pockets, his shoulders tensing and relaxing as though some part of him always had to be in motion. Definitely too much coffee.

I stop in front of him, cross my arms, realize that it's a rather aggressive stance, and uncross them to clasp my hands, but feel very exposed and so settle for hugging myself.

"Chronologically? About 10,800. Physically? Maybe 100? Somewhere between 60 and 100?" I answer tentatively. It's almost impossible to say for sure. Give me 200 years and I could let you know with more accuracy. But, oh, you'd be dead. Damn the short human lifespan. I'll live on, and Mum and Dad and John and Carson and Rodney and you will all be dead.

"10,800? Really? Wow. I remember reading something about how you had, uh, had been put in a-a stasis pod to protect you from, from the queens, but 11000 years?" he whistles. "Wow. And then you grew up in, in about a year, correct?"

"Yes." I can't help but chuckle a little. "There some who wish I had taken a little more time about it."

"Teyla Emmagen and Ronon Dex, your adoptive parents, of course," he concludes rapidly. Despite my initial reaction, I find myself liking Daniel Jackson. If his idea of a quick, undetailed reading of my files includes memorizing the members of my family, what would a detailed reading mean? A pensive look comes to his face. "You really are in a unique position here. I seem to recall that you have the memories of your family, but you were raised here," he gestures to the city in general, "here on Atlantis."

"That is true," I find myself, despite the ebbing of my initial tension, reverting to the slightly stilted, 'formal/archaic' speak patterns that seemed natural to me when speaking this tongue as opposed to my own, just as Mum does, although she has different reasons. "My athair gave me both all his memories, and the collective knowledge of our hive and…as my family…died…their memories were given to them as survived. Namely, me." I finish quietly.

"Wow, I'm so sorry. I mean, I'm not sorry that you're in this unique position or that you have the memories and knowledge, but um, I'm so sorry that you lost most of your family," he takes off his glass and rubs his eyes with one hand, just like Radek does when he's really frustrated with Rodney or an experiment or both. "I, uh, lost my parents when I was six, and, uh, my-my wife, died just, just a few years ago. I, I couldn't believe the pain," he pauses. "Not that I'm comparing my situation to yours, of course—"

"Dr. Jackson," I interrupt him—I can sense the pain rolling off him, even as I can see it on his face.

"Daniel," he corrects me, hastily putting his glasses back on.

"Daniel," I repeat softly. "There is no need to apologize." Can I really do this? I just met him, he's the new leader and I'm not a child anymore, it might seem presumptuous. "I don't know the pain of losing a soul-mate," it's the closest translation for the wraith idea of spousal love—someone whose spirit is incomplete without yours, as is yours without theirs, "You don't know the pain of losing twenty brothers and sisters." I must—the pain is too clear in his eyes and it beats against me like the heat from a bonfire. I slowly lower my mental defenses, letting his thoughts flow into mine.

"Wait, wait, what are you doing?" he glares at me—he must recognize what I am doing. Most humans don't. Interesting.

"Don't fight it," I tell him quietly. "I'm just letting your thoughts have somewhere to go. They were pushing against me—I can…sense your pain. Just, close your eyes."

"No, no wait," his thoughts don't stop, but I close off my mind for a moment so he can 'verbalize his concerns'. "Explain this to me. What are you doing? And why?" he looks at me suspiciously.

I sigh and gesture at the balcony. "May I sit first?"

"Oh, oh, of course, sit, please," he sits cross-legged on the cold stone along with me. He slouches, leaning on his knees, while I sit straight—inbred habit.

I think, once again, how best to explain it. It is not easy to explain something so basic—how do you explain breathing to a fish? Perhaps, begin at the beginning.

"Whether you realize it or not, you, even though you don't have specific telepathic powers, are always projecting…thoughts. Not usually your surface thoughts, the kind that form themselves into sentences of a sort, but the undercurrent, the thoughts that are memories, associations, feeling, things your thinking about 'in the back of your mind'." That's good—explain his side of things first. Now, if only I can explain what I am, what I'm trying to do…

"If I had grown up in my hive, I would have received the title aoghaire—I am…physically predisposed to be extremely sensitive to the thoughts of others," I try to explain. "As child, even as a fetus, I had to learn to protect myself from the minds of others—its distracting, sometimes dangerous—so I learn to create…," what was that computer defense that McKay talked about? "A mental firewall of sorts. Keep my thoughts in, other's out. You mind was practically screaming at me," I inform him, and pause to allow him time to absorb, sort through this information. He is thoughtful, as though he were weighing it in his mind.

"All I did was lower the firewall. I'm sorry if you found it…intrusive," I apologize. "Most people don't even notice. But my instinct to heal is…very strong."

"No no no no no, don't, don't be sorry," he waves his hands in the air as though trying to get rid of my apology. "I mean, off all things to have an instinct for, that, that's probably one of the better ones," once again, his voice trails off, as though he were distracted in chasing down a thought. "So, you were trying to, what, heal my mind?"

I purse my lips and nod slowly. "Yes…and no. Oh, how do I explain this?" I ask the air in general and Daniel stares at me, clearly waiting for me to finish the thought. "It's not that your mind is…no, let me try this way." I hold out my right hand, palm up so the 'feeding slit' is clear.

"Do you know about this?" I ask quietly, jerking my head at my hand.

"Yes, I was told about how the wraith have a, what did they call it, feeding slit?" he takes my hand to look more closely at it. "It's how you, um," he slams his hand into his chest, "feed?"

"Yes," I say sadly. "But we can also use it to give life. You have heard of how my athair and John escaped from the Genii?"

"Your—athair?—yes, your athair fed off Col. Sheppard in order to escape and to eliminate the soldiers, but then returned it—with interest, according to Dr. McKay," Daniel summarizes, closing his eyes as though he were able to see the reports on the backs of his eyelids.

"Well, just as we can give and take lifeforce, we can poison the mind, or draw off the poison," I explain. "Your mind—it's like a great ocean. Your conscious thoughts are like the waters in the shallows, clear and always changing out. Your subconscious thoughts are like the waters of the deeps, always there, always roiling, sometimes moving into the shallows. Those memories which cause you great pain, they are like…barrels of waste water dumped in. 80 percent of the waste is water or other things that the sea can incorporate. The other 20 percent is oils and toxins that poison the water. I can, I was trying to, draw off that 20 percent," I confess. "You would keep the memory, and the memory of the emotions, but not the poison that is slowly killing you."

He scrutinizes me, tilting his head to one side and is silent for a moment, even stops moving for a few seconds.

"That's what you did for Jack, isn't it? When you were little and he came here with Woolsey?" he asks, allowing different pieces of a puzzle to fall into place.

"Yes."

"I see," he looks down at the tiles. "Thank you. Maybe, one day I'll take you up on it, but, not right now, okay? I'm not sure I'm ready to get rid of the pain."

"You feel guilty." He doesn't answer, but stares pointedly away from me. "You can't lie to me, you know. Even with my firewalls, I can tell when someone's lying. Especially you." His mind felt, different, I suddenly realize, but I can't think of why it would. A mystery to be solved at a later date.

He shrugs and looks back at me. "It's not important," he closes off that channel of discussion, turning the interrogation lamp back at me. "I wanted to talk about you, and your brother, not myself."

I return to clipped sentences. "What do you want to know?"

He turns a piecing gaze on me. "First, what did you do to make Dr. Weir not like you? Up until a few months ago, her reports of you were almost glowing and then—" he sweeps the air with his hand. "nothing, or at best a—an uncomfortable note of your involvement in something. Care to comment?"

I bow my hand and fold my hands in my lap. "I don't know. I assumed that she, like others here, were alright with me as an infant and child, but once I grew to be an adult, I become a nightmare, an abomination living among them," I state it quietly, precisely. It hurts to know that people that I played with as a child now see me as a monster. It hurt the day I first sensed their fear and it still does. "If there was anything else, I never knew about it."

He looks down at his hands, considering, and then snaps up his head again. "Can I trust you?"

A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews! Almost 100! I am so happy! And so sorry. Meant to get this up a few days ago, but having been running around on almost no sleep—suddenly my holiday got very busy. More soon, I promise. And more action, I hope.

A note to the reviewer Kate: Please keep in mind that it is a first person pov story, so the motives of other characters may or not be clear. However, depending on how cooperative the characters are feeling, we may find out more later.

The "uh" and "ums" may seem a little much, but again, it's Mairghread perception of him—she's having a miserable day to begin with, and her comes a babbling archaeologist who holds both her and her brother's fate in the palm of his hand. Everything about him may seem a little exaggerated to her, and will get better the more she knows him.