Comfort

Author: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 7

Episodes: Heroes 1-2

Spoilers: Heroes

Category: Drama, missing scene & epilogue

Pairing: None

Warnings: None, thought Kleenex might be needed

Rating: PG

Summary: Jack’s POV on the events of Heroes

Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate. If I did, Season 7 wouldn’t have been so awful.

Author’s Note: thanks to SS for the beta.

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The blow was a surprise.

Big, honkin’, nasty surprise.

A split second, in which he knew he was a dead man.

Dead man running.

Dead man falling.

Pain blossoming in the fraction of time left to him, as fried nerve endings shrieked their distress and his body decided it was more than it could reasonably handle, and like an overloaded electrical circuit, fuses blew and it shut down.

----------------

Colonel Jack O’Neill didn’t hear the shouting, didn’t know the firefight continued even as a medic rushed to his side. He didn’t see Carter’s frightened face, or Teal’c’s outwardly calm expression belying his worried eyes. He didn’t hear the rip of cloth, or the medic’s whispered "Damn" as the skilled hands worked frantically to stem the tide of leaking blood. He didn’t feel the sting as a field dressing was applied to the wound.

Unconscious, he didn’t know the SGC teams won the battle, or at least, held off the enemy long enough to carry him and the other casualties back to the gate.

He didn’t know about the other casualties.

He missed the look of horror on Daniel’s face, Carter’s disbelieving tears, Wells’ cries of pain, and the stunned disbelief in the gateroom as a fallen warrior was carried home.

O’Neill wasn’t aware of the journey as he was loaded onto a gurney and wheeled through the SGC hallway and to the infirmary. He was unaware of the flurry of activity as his clothes were cut away, blood wiped from his skin to reveal his wounds, x-rays and scans taken of his body in the frenetic moments before he was rushed to the OR.

He didn’t see the looks of disbelief, or the tears, on the faces of the nurses.

They were over the first stunned emotions of it by the time he awoke.

-----------------

The slow, foggy, drugged return to consciousness was familiar, though he had to admit, unexpected.

He’d thought he was a dead man.

Again.

There was something humorous in that, if only he could think clearly enough to figure it out.

Sounds filtered through to him first, beeps and hushed voices, commands he tried to respond to in the best way he could even before he could manage to open his eyes.

Wiggle toes.

Move fingers.

Squeeze hand.

When the eyes finally were back in working order, at least minimally enough to indicate some awareness of his surroundings, there were more questions.

"Colonel O’Neill, do you know where you are?" Dr. Warner asked.

Of course he knew. "Infirm-ry," he rasped through a bone dry mouth.

"That’s right, Colonel."

Something wasn’t right, and he knew it, but the thought drifted out of his reach faster than he could latch onto it.

He’d figure it out later, when he was awake.

-------------

The noise scared him, because it sounded like someone crying.

Had he died?

No, he knew he was alive. He could feel the gentle touch of a hand on his arm.

Opening his eyes was still hard work, but he managed to lift the immensely heavy lids, blinking to focus. Nurse Lee was standing beside his bed, fiddling with some medical contraption he was quite sure he didn’t want to know anything about. There were tears on her face, tears she hurriedly wiped away with a shaking hand.

"Colonel?" There was relief in her voice, but there was something else there, too, something he couldn’t pinpoint. Something wrong, very wrong.

"Ssss right," he mumbled, his throat feeling raw and sore.

"It’s good to see you awake, Sir. You gave us quite a scare." Lee was smiling, but he could see something was missing from the smile. It was there on her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes, eyes that were red and puffy.

"Wh…"

She didn’t let him finish, holding the straw to his lips and helping him sip. "You have a staff weapon wound but the new vest saved your life. No irreparable damage. You were lucky, Colonel."

Yeah right, he’d heard that before. Funny, but people always said that to you while you were lying in a hospital bed in far less than perfect condition.

"Do you remember what happened, Colonel?"

The mission… it had been a rescue mission. He searched through his still-cobweb-filled brain and finally came up with a name. "Wellssss?"

"Wells is going to make it." Lee’s voice still didn’t seem quite right, she was far too quiet, far too subdued.

He was worried. "Ev’ryone else?"

"All the SG teams made it back just fine, Sir. You rest now." She patted his arm, pulling the blanket up across his chest, not meeting his eyes.

Something was definitely wrong. Something was missing from her answer.

-------------

He slept, uneasily, but the meds were too strong to deny, the damage to his body too much and too recent to allow him to do otherwise, despite his worries.

Another voice Jack knew dragged him up out of the void once more. He raised a hand to wipe at his face.

"Colonel?" That was the General’s voice. "How are you feeling?"

He opened his eyes, blinking, working to focus, needing to make sense of his surroundings. "Like crap…"

"Rest, then, Jack."

"What happened?"

"You don’t remember?"

"I know what happened to me. What… else?"

Hammond had on his stone face, but for one moment the same look he’d seen on the faces of the nurses was there, that shadowed, disbelieving, grieving… Oh God, he pushed himself up on one elbow, ignoring the stab of pain in his side. "Who died?"

"Colonel…"

"Who didn’t make it?"

And then he knew, he knew who was missing, whose soft voice and gentle hands and quiet authority was absent. "Doc?" he asked, disbelieving it even as he said it, and knew it was the only answer.

Hammond looked down a moment, then raised his face to meet Jack’s gaze. "Doctor Fraiser was working on Wells when she was hit by a staff weapon blast."

"Wasn’t she wearing the new vest?"

"Yes, Jack, she was. The blast hit her above the vest. She died instantly."

He closed his eyes, sinking back on the bed. Why her? Why not him? What odd twist of fate brought him back from the brink of death and beyond, time and time again, when others, more deserving, more needed, died? Guilt suffused him. He was in charge of the rescue mission. He should have sent more men with her, a protective cordon…

"We saved all the others, including Wells and the rest of SG-13." The general suddenly looked his age, his voice sounding tired and grim and sad. "I knew how risky the mission was, I knew the odds were that it was an ambush…."

"So did I, Sir…"

"… but I sent you anyway. It was damned good work on your part, Jack, that any of you got back."

"I wasn’t much help, getting shot."

"Your defensive strategy wasn’t the problem. I shouldn’t have let any of you go."

"And just left Dixon's team there?" Jack asked, incredulous.

"Maybe I should have."

O’Neill thought a long moment, then said, softly, "I think she would have felt sacrificing one life to save seven was a more than fair trade."

"It should have been no one."

"It should never be anyone, Sir, but that’s not the way it works."

"No, it isn’t." The General sighed and stood, preparing to leave. "Dr. Warner says you’ll be back on your feet in a few days. That new vest saved your life." Hammond turned and left.

Jack O’Neill lay on the bed, mentally tallying another black mark against the Goa’uld, adding another name to the list of those who’d died too soon.

Adding another layer of guilt to his own benighted soul.

********************

The next few days passed slowly.

He ached.

Inside and out.

In the old familiar ways, of physical pain and emotional loss.

But he knew how much worse it had to be for so many others.

And he knew there was too damn little he could do to help.

Moving cautiously, Jack O’Neill swung his legs off the infirmary bed, and looked over at the clothes the nurse had brought him, his civvies.

The doctor had told him he could go home.

Usually, that made him one very happy camper.

But not this time.

There was too much hurt.

He knew he’d been lucky, damned lucky. An inch or two, this way or that, and the staff weapon blast would have killed him. Instead, the internal damage was only slight, his skin was only singed and his ribs were only cracked.

Unlike her.

He missed Doc, missed her bullying and badgering that hid how much she cared. There weren’t many people left who cared about him, and losing one of them was losing one too many.

Standing, feeling shakier than he wanted to admit, Jack shuffled the three steps over to the chair where his clothes were neatly stacked. Working slowly, he bent over, sucking in a breath as the constant dull ache in his side blossomed into flat out *hurt*. "Crap," he muttered, and sat down, taking short, shallow breaths while the pain retreated to a bearable level. After a minute, still sitting, he bent down once more, sliding his pants over his feet and up his long legs to his hips.

Biting his lip as he stood up, he pulled the trousers over his hips, zipping and buttoning them.

One third done.

The easy third, actually, he reminded himself.

Sitting back down on the chair, he stuck his right arm into the sleeve of his shirt, then using his left he carefully reached back, grabbed the edge of the cloth, and slid his good arm into the sleeve, shrugging it up onto his shoulders with a hiss as various damaged body parts objected.

Two thirds done.

The easy two thirds.

Feet were next.

This would take some planning. No way he could bend over and touch his toes without passing out.

He pulled one leg up to rest his right ankle on his left knee, sliding a sock onto the foot, then his shoe next, tying it carefully. With a grateful sigh, he finished, and put sock and shoe on the other foot.

There, see, he *was* fit to go home.

Confident now, Jack stood, and felt the room sway and grabbed onto the chair again.

Just for a moment.

For a bit of support.

Just a little steadying, actually.

Right, Jack.

Three more steps over to the bed, and he sat down again. An airman would be coming to drive him home shortly.

Home.

Not so comforting today.

He missed Doc bustling in for one last stern ‘take care of yourself Colonel’ lecture hiding the delighted look in her eyes when she could send an on-the-mend patient back home.

************

Carter looked awful. He shouldn’t have hugged her, that wasn’t very CO like, but it had been so obvious that she needed it that he’d found his arms wrapped around her before he’d stopped to think. He’d meant it to be just a comforting arm on the shoulder, nothing overboard, nothing he wouldn't have done for Daniel or Teal'c in similar grief-stricken circumstances. Then he'd felt her trembling with barely suppressed tears, and somehow, he'd realized that he needed that hug, that *he* needed comfort, and in a moment of out of character vulnerability, he gave in to his own need to feel connected, to someone, somewhere, in the face of the death of another friend.

Good thing his hearing hadn’t been damaged, because his keen ears just barely picked up the first slight clicking sound of the door being opened. Jack jumped back, wincing at the pain caused by the sudden movement.

The orderly stopped, door partially opened, surprise plain on his young face. "Sorry, Colonel, thought you’d already gone, Sir…," he stammered.

"It’s okay airman. Carter, walk me down to the elevator, would you?" Jack shuffled out, letting the major pick up his gear bag, grateful he’d heard the orderly enter. Imagine the scuttlebutt that would have ensued… the Colonel hugging his subordinate. Just the kind of thing that would get an officer written up, and deservedly so. Jack looked over at Carter, who was walking slowly to keep pace with his shortened strides. "Carter, I know you and Doc were friends..." and then he stopped, not knowing what else to say. Knowing there was nothing else he could say.

Carter ducked her head and said nothing, and they walked on.

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An airman dropped him at his front door, solicitously carrying his duffle up the walk, and making sure he got inside.

With a sigh of relief, Jack walked right on past the blinking red light on the answering machine and headed for the sofa.

Just for a minute.

While he caught his breath.

And the ache in his ribs subsided a bit.

He closed his eyes, and the minute turned into two hours.

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He woke, disoriented, in the dark and silent house.

Crap.

Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, combing through his short hair with his fingers, he sat up and looked around and realized how much time had passed. Just peachy.

The nap had refreshed his flagging energy, but he was painfully stiff as he carefully got to his feet and went in search of the phone, flipping on the hallway light on his way.

He dialed the number from memory and waited while it rang and rang. He was nearly ready to hang up, figuring she wasn’t home, when she picked up.

"Hello."

Even in that one terse word, he could hear her sadness and grief, and he felt his heart ache for her. "Hi, Cassie."

"Uncle Jack." There was a tone of relief. "You’re home? You’re feeling better?"

"Yeah." He paused, clearing his throat. "How are you doing?"

"I’m okay."

He knew better, and also knew he couldn’t say it, not yet, not to a teenager. "I was wondering…"

"I don’t need any company. Really."

"Actually, that wasn’t what I was going to ask. I was hoping you could help *me* out."

"Help you?"

"Yes. I’m here alone and I’m not supposed to drive, all these damn pills make me sleepy. I’ve been gone for a week and the cupboard’s a little bare, well, a lot bare…" He paused, hoping she wouldn’t see through his offer, or maybe, that she would, and that she could accept it for what it was.

"I could pick you up some things." The offer was tentative, but she made it.

Good for her, he thought proudly, and then said absolutely the wrong thing, aware of it the moment the words left his mouth. "Cassie, you’re a life saver…"

"No, that was Mom."

Damn, he thought, closing his eyes wearily. This comfort stuff was waaaay out of his league. "Yes, it was," he answered matter of factly. He heard her draw in a breath that was half sob, and waited.

When she went on, her voice had a forced but steady tone. "I’ll stop by the store, and be at your place in half an hour. What do you want on your pizza?"

"The works. I’ll get the oven warmed up."

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He’d managed to doze off again by the time the door bell rang. "It’s open," he shouted, climbing carefully off the couch to hobble toward the door, cursing the extra effort the steps required. By the time he reached the hallway, she was already inside, hanging her coat in the closet.

She turned then, and looked up at him, squaring her shoulders in a too-adult way, and his heart broke for her.

Orphaned.

Not once, but twice.

No kid deserved that.

"Cassie…"

"Let’s get the pizza made. You must be starving." She turned away quickly but he didn’t miss the surreptitious swipe she took at her eyes.

He shuffled along behind her to the kitchen, leaning carefully against the counter top as she opened the paper bags she’d been carrying, putting things in the refrigerator until she found the frozen pizza. Wordlessly, concentrating far too hard on the simple task, she unwrapped it and set it on the tray Jack had set out on the stovetop. She placed it in the oven and set the timer, never once looking at him.

He waited.

She turned back toward him, a thin smile on her face. "There. Twenty minutes."

"Thanks, Cassie."

"You’re welcome. I brought you some milk to drink with it, Mo… they say you should always drink milk while you’re recuperating, it’s full of vitamins and things, but I got skim so there’s not too much cholesterol, because that’s bad for you too, and a bag of that salad stuff, I know it’s not your favorite but it *is* good for you, and you need to eat healthy…"

"Cassie…" he said softly, breaking into her flood of words.

She raised a hand in sudden defense, as if to push him away. "Don’t. Just don’t."

"Cassie, it’s okay to talk about her," he started "And it’s okay to cry."

She spun to look up at him, her face all determined teenager, her body tense and defensive. "No, it’s not. I’m too old to cry."

"No one’s too old to cry.

"*You* never do."

"I’m a bad example to follow, especially when it comes to," he waved a hand in the air, "to family and emotions and stuff. So it’s okay to cry, and it’s okay to be angry, too."

"Angry?"

"That she left you."

"Is that how you felt…" she started, then stopped, afraid she was treading on ground that was still too treacherous for her surrogate uncle to navigate.

"Yes, I was angry when my kid died. It’s a natural reaction."

"Who told you that, Dr. Mackenzie?"

"No," he answered softly, "your mother."

Cassie turned away, looking out the kitchen window toward the darkness of the yard. He heard her take a deep breath, saw her shoulders shudder before she continued in a tired voice. "Why? Why me? First my real Mom and Dad and now Janet… is there something wrong with me?"

"There’s nothing wrong with you."

"I’m a jinx then."

"No. It’s just life. There’s no rhyme or reason. Bad things happen to good people all the time."

She turned back to look at him then, her eyes glistening. "Like your son? Like Charlie?"

"Yes. Like my son, Charlie."

"He’d be just about my age now, wouldn’t he?"

"Yes, he would." Jack kept his voice flat and unemotional as he always did whenever the subject of his son was brought up, the pain hidden deep away inside him.

"And you still miss him?"

"Every day. Like you miss your family."

"It’s not fair."

Jack shrugged. "Fairness isn’t part of life’s equation, Cassie."

"She shouldn’t have gone, she shouldn’t have been off-world, in that much danger. That wasn’t her job." Her anger was bubbling over now, overwhelming the grief.

"She was saving a life. That was what she did, what mattered to her…"

"What about me? Didn’t I matter?"

"You know you did."

"Her work was always more important! She spent more time there than she did with me!"

"I did the same, to my son. And I regret every minute of it."

"After it was too late!"

"That’s another thing about life, Cass, hindsight is always 20/20." He paused. "I know she tried to be there for you as much as she could."

"Well, it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t!" and then the anger melted into tears. He stepped toward her, and suddenly, her arms wrapped around his waist as she buried her face against the solid comfort of his chest, sobbing. "I just want…I just want to tell her… I didn’t mean the things I said when we fought, I didn’t…."

Jack held her tight against him, feeling her tears soaking through his shirt. "She knew, Cassie. Every parent knows."

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As does every child. And grieves, for what is missed, for the time that flies past too quickly and is gone forever, leaving only memories, and an empty place in the heart.

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Memorial Day weekend, 2004

****** In loving memory of my father, who was also named Charlie… 1914-2003.******