Sliding into the Abyss

Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 6

Series: Views of the Abyss

Summary: Several POVs during the episode Frozen, prelude to Abyss

Spoilers: Abyss, Frozen, anything before

Rating: PG, a little language

Warnings: None

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, SciFiChannel, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.

Author's Note: Part of my Views of the Abyss Series

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**General George Hammond**

The words haunt me, the tiredness in his voice, the exhaustion, the hurt, the despair.

Maybe he really was ready to retire.

But no, I know better.

He was just so tired that, for once, he let the truth leak through into his words.

I'll never forget him hobbling into my office on his aching knee and standing there, in front of my desk, looking worn and lost. "This is the thanks I get for saving the world again."

I'd just dumped another bombshell on him, and once again, I/we/his commanders/his president/the world was asking him to accept it and carry on.

Through all the hell Jack O'Neill had been through the past five years, this was the only time I can remember that the man openly let his real feelings show.

And now, here I stand at the observation window, staring down into the infirmary's isolation ward, where my Second in Command lies, dying.

After five years of impossible missions, miraculous comebacks; after saving his team, this base, this country and this world; after facing off against fantastical aliens and raging natural phenomena and the worst the NID could throw at him, a microscopic invader, so tiny as to be invisible to the naked eye, is claiming the life of the best man I knew.

It is so wrong.

Jack O'Neill ought to go out in a blaze of glory, in one final death-defying act of inspired, foolhardy courage.

This is a life that should be given to a great cause, not taken so mundanely in a sterile hospital room.

If there was ever a man who should die with his combat boots on, it is Colonel Jack O'Neill.

Silly, George, I chided myself. It doesn't matter. None of us have a say in how it ends, or where or when.

I've watched so many men, and women, too, die. In my four decades of service to my country, I've served with, served under and commanded hundreds of men and women, some good, some not; some brave, some not; some smart, some not; some I respected, some not; some I missed, some not; some I admired, some not; a very, very few I considered friend/brother/son.

Jack O'Neill is special.

I'd suspected that since I'd read his report on the first Stargate mission to Abydos, and he'd confirmed it with our first face to face encounter, right here in Cheyenne Mountain. He hadn't yielded, hadn't knuckled under; he'd stood his ground, stood toe to toe with me, and he'd only bailed for the sake of those people on that planet. Then, when he’d done that, he stood ready to take the consequences. True, the whole bomb business had been a nasty trick on my part, but necessary, to get the measure of this man.

He'd proven he was a hell of a officer.

And a hell of a man.

Unbidden, the memories came... his defiant, unapologetic look when Merrin went back to Orban; smashing my car window at Daniel's wake; his chagrin over the bar fight while under the influence of those damned armed bands; his disbelief when I announced my retirement, and his quiet, aw-shucks grin when I'd returned; the dark look on his face when that thump had hit the iris moments after he'd come home from Euronda; his delight when helping my granddaughters fly their kite; his anger at men like Kinsey and Simmons; his total trust in his team. There were times he defied me, creatively interpreted his orders, exasperated me, frustrated me, but he'd also made me laugh. He'd willingly shouldered his share of the burdens of this job, and quite honestly, I can't imagine how this place, how I, can function without him.

As they used to say down in Texas in frontier days, he was one to ride the river with.

There will be no monument to what he's done for us, no TV documentaries extolling his heroics, no books telling his tale of courage and commitment and duty and honor and sacrifice. His deeds are recorded only in dry, descriptive words in top secret reports buried so deeply beneath the veil of secrecy surrounding this program that it’s unlikely anyone will ever know.

Those words didn't reveal the man, the one who stops in my office every day to chat about fishing and hockey and ask after my grandchildren with a longing born of his own loneliness and loss.

*******

Below me, the sensitive microphone picks up the ragged sounds of his breathing, his mumbled words as he tosses his head restlessly on the pristine white pillow, his fingers twisting the sweat soaked sheets in the throes of his delirium. For a moment, the brown eyes open, but they're unfocused as they drift aimlessly side to side before sliding shut once more.

Damn.

It’s so hard to see him like this.

It was only a few short weeks ago I'd stood here like this, helplessly watching Dr. Jackson fade away, waiting hopelessly for the end. I'd tried to console Jack then, to remind him of all the good his team had done, and all they had left to do. It hadn't worked for Jack O'Neill and it wasn't working for me, either.

There was no consoling a loss like this, of a colleague, and a friend.

I've known men of great courage. This command has been home to many of them, far too many of them lost to the battle we wage. I don't know how many. I don't count them. I refuse to. Counting them would be to somehow make them less human, a number rather than a person. No, I see their faces, each and every one, good, decent and brave.

Fate, it seems, takes a perverse delight in being cruel to the best and the bravest. Like Tom, who'd disappeared into the jungles of Southeast Asia. Like Jack O'Neill, a man who loves children and deserved to have dozens of them, and had, in the end, none, his only child torn viciously away.

Children.

Oh God, how would I tell my grandchildren?

I've informed so many families, but this time, I'd have to tell my own, tell Kayla and Tessa that Jack…

I owe him so much, I know that, a debt I can never begin to repay, a debt I've always known I would never be called on to repay because Jack O'Neill wasn't the kind of man who kept score.

Of anything.

Like how many times he'd saved the planet.

And yet, I know even that wasn't enough for Jack, could never be enough for this man to erase the debt he'd charged against his own soul. No matter how bravely he acted, how many lives he saved, he could never buy back the one life most precious to him, the one human being he'd failed. Jack never talks about his son, but I've always known that burden he carries, a load that would shatter most men, and nearly destroyed him.

May he find peace at last, I prayed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Dr. Janet Fraiser**

I can't save him.

From the moment, back in the Antarctic, when I touched his fevered forehead, I'd known there was nothing I could do for him. And Ianna had already over-extended her own healing abilities.

He's so very hot to the touch, his skin radiating heat.

I've watched him sliding downhill, inexorably. He never complained. That's when I realized how sick he really was. He didn't say anything, didn't ask for anything, just asked about the others.

That's the way he was.

The way he *is*.

Will be again.

I have to find a way to save him. I’ve tried everything, tried my best, called specialists and experts, and I know I’m fighting a losing battle.

God, we've all been through so much, him most of all. Time and time again, he's found a way to cheat death, whether out there in the field, or back here in my infirmary.

When Ianna died, his last hope died, too.

I know about the Tok'ra offer.

And I know what his answer will be.

I hope the General doesn't order it.

I don't think I can be a party to forcing it on him. I remember how he was, after Hathor's larvae, the terrible nightmares, the horrible haunted look in his eyes. He'd faced his worst fear and survived it, like he's survived everything else life, the Air Force, and the Universe, have thrown at him.

*****

I don't know if he can hear me anymore. Actually, I don't believe he even heard my words as we left the Antarctic base, but I spoke them anyway, in hopes he was still listening.

I can only hope he is still listening.

"I'm sorry, Sir. I've tried everything."

His eyes flicker, his lips move.

"Colonel?" I bend down to hear his frail voice.

"Ssss okay," his fingers move, he's too weak to raise his hand, so I grip the long, slender digits, look into the depth of those fever glazed brown eyes, eyes that have seen wonders and horrors beyond the imagination. He knows what’s coming, I can see it. He knows this time he’s fought and lost and there’s acceptance and forgiveness and regret in those expressive eyes.

"Colonel, is there anything I can do for you?"

The head moves infinitesimally from side to side.

I'd thought that would be his answer, but I had to ask.

Without thinking, my other hand goes to his forehead, my gloved hand brushing back the short gray hair.

How many times had I done this, had we done this, he and I, talked in the infirmary. I know he doesn't want to die. He's fought too hard to hang onto life too many times for me to think otherwise. Sure, I know he once was suicidal, after his son died. But he survived that bleak period in his life, emerging a stronger if darker and harsher man.

No one survives a horror like that and emerges unscathed.

I've seen the darkness in his soul, he's let me glimpse it a few rare times, times he was tired or hurt, and his control slipped and his emotions escaped the short leash he always keeps them on.

He's a survivor.

He's fought as long and as hard as he could, and he's not quitting, but he's finally run head on into a foe he can't beat, and he's losing the battle; dying, as he has always lived, on his own terms, as his own man, relying only on himself, asking nothing of anyone, but to let him be who he is.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

**Jonas Quinn**

I don't really know him.

Teal'c said I would, in time, that Colonel O'Neill doesn't open up easily or often, but once I proved myself, I'd be accepted by the Colonel, win his respect and his confidence.

Be patient, Teal'c told me.

But I think I'm too late. I'll never get the chance to make up for my people's mistakes, and for my own failures. I'll never get to show him that I really can be more than just the fourth name to fill out the SG-1 roster; more than just a body to keep a Russian off his team.

O'Neill is dying. Ianna is gone, and with her, his last chance to be healed like the rest of us were.

Everyone is so solemn. They haven't recovered from the death of Dr. Jackson, and now they are about to lose Colonel O'Neill as well.

I want to fit in here. I want to be liked. I wanted the Colonel to like me, to respect me, not in the way he liked and respected and befriended Dr. Jackson, I've never expected that much. But I wanted, I needed, to win his approval. Perhaps because he reminds me of my father, whose respect I never had the opportunity to earn. Perhaps it is because I've left behind everyone and everything I ever knew because it was Colonel O'Neill who made me realize what a debt my people owed to his.

Mostly, I think, though, it is because of the challenge I see in his eyes, the barely concealed resentment, anger and hurt.

I so wanted to prove myself worthy in his eyes, to win his respect, even grudgingly; to learn from him.

I know I can never be who he wants me to be, I can never fix what was done.

And now I may never have the chance to change his opinion of me. I think I was making progress, but I'll never know.

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**Teal'c**

He is my brother.

I came here, to this strange world, because of him, abandoned what I was to become someone new, to pursue the dream of my people for freedom, because in his steady gaze and unyielding nature, I found the leader I was looking to follow.

He will not willingly accept the Tok’ra symbiote. I cannot imagine how the others could think he would do so. Do they not know him well enough to understand his need to be who he is? To be entirely human? To live on his own terms, or die, but die free?

Though I am in no danger from this virus, I, too, must wear this cumbersome protective clothing for the sake of others, and so cannot clasp the hand of my brother in arms, cannot offer him the comfort of a warrior's embrace, and the touch of the hand of a friend.

To see him like this is unsettling.

The life of the Tau'ri is short.

He has far too much left to accomplish, our war is not won. I do not want to see him die.

Yet, I will bid him godspeed and farewell on his journey to Kheb. For if ever there was a warrior deserving of the glory of the gods, it is O'Neill.

I chant the prayer for the dying and bow respectfully, and then it is time for me to depart.

~~~~~~~~~~

**Major Samantha Carter**

I don't know if I can do this. What do I say to him? How can I say this, what words will persuade him? He has to try. I know he doesn't like the Tok'ra, but he has to try.

"I can't lose him, too," I mutter as with shaking hands I struggle awkwardly to get into the biohazard suit.

A hand touches my shoulder. "Take your time, Sam," says Janet.

I brush away the tears that are welling in my eyes, and I look across into the isolation room. The Colonel is dying, the virus sapping his strength and his will. We've survived so much together. SG-1 was perfect, it was like a perfect jewel, and it shattered when Daniel died and before we could even start to gather up the pieces…

"I can't lose him, too, not so soon after Daniel," I mumble.

"I know," says Janet, kindly.

"I've hardly talked to him, since Daniel…." I stop, taking a deep breath. "I was so angry at him over how he reacted to Daniel… and now…" I can't go on, I don't know what to say, my feelings overwhelm me. Fiercely, I scrub the tears off my face. I can't go in there looking like this, I can't go in there falling apart. He expects me to be Major Carter, to be the perfect soldier, and I owe him that. He deserves that.

He deserves this chance.

I wish Daniel were here. Daniel would know the right words to convince the Colonel to say yes to the Tok'ra. I wish Dad were here. The Colonel respects Dad, he'd listen to Dad. But they're not here, and now it's up to me.

Standing on wobbling legs, I somehow manage to get upright and place the hood over my head, and enter the room.

He's so weak, weaker than the last time I was here. He doesn't react at all to my presence. His skin is covered with a fine sheen of sweat, the gray hair darkened by the damp moisture beading in it. His chest rises and falls discordantly under the thin blanket. His face is pale, and distress shows in the tight lines around his eyes.

He's far too still.

My first words get no response.

Please, God, let him wake up, let him wake up enough to answer.

When his eyes finally open, they're dull and dim, confused; and he can't seem to muster the strength to keep them open.

I explain the Tok’ra’s offer of a symbiote.

The firm words of his answer don't surprise me. "Over my dead body."

They're what I expected him to say.

And then I explain the rest, that duty calls, demands one more thing of him, won't let him slide peacefully away when there's work still to be done.

He may not like it, but he'll do it.

He has to.

I'm not sure he really understood, but he agreed. At least I think that was a nod. Maybe he didn't understand. Maybe he will hate me for this, for misinterpreting, but that's okay. As long as he's alive.

Carrying a Tok'ra symbiote isn't so bad. I know. I lived with it, and it's aftermath. Selmak saved Dad. We have the Tok'ra’s pledge to leave, so this *will be all right. It *will be. I know it will be.

"Thank you, Sir," I mumble so low no one can hear.

Everything happens so fast, then, as the Colonel is readied for the journey to the Tok’ra base. Within the hour, we are gathered in the gateroom, Teal’c and I joining the soldiers who carry him up the ramp. From the corner of my eye, I can see the General, the Security team, the control room staff, all watching silently. Solemnly.

It’s too much like a funeral. The biohazard container is too much like a casket and I need to take a deep breath to calm myself. This isn’t death, it’s life, we’re saving his life.

I look down at the Colonel, at the pale still form, looking so lifeless. I can see the labored rising of his chest, reassuring me that he’s still alive. We’ll get him to the Tok’ra in time. We’ll save him. He’ll be back soon and he’ll be okay, we’ll all be okay.

We have to be okay.

‘Forgive me, Sir, forgive us all for what we’re about to do.’

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