Views of the Abyss: Sara

By BadgerGater

Episode: Abyss

Spoilers: Abyss and before

Category: Epilogue to Abyss, drama, angst, comfort

Pairing: Jack/Sara

Summary: Sara wonders where Jack is when he fails to show up on an important day

Series: Views of the Abyss

Rating: PG

Warnings: Kleenex needed.

Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate, SG-1, or Jack. Unfair, I know, but true nonetheless. No copyright infringement intended to all those folks who *do* own 'em: MGM, SciFi, Gekko, Double Secret, etc.

Author's Note: My greatest disappointment in S6, the lack of follow-up to Abyss.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

She couldn't believe he wasn't there.

He never missed his son's birthday.

Never.

Sara O'Neill knew something was wrong.

In a way, it wasn't her business; it shouldn't be a concern. After all, they were divorced.

But signing a piece of paper didn't mean you stopped caring about someone. It didn't erase more than a decade together, couldn't sever the bond between them.

Nothing did.

No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop caring about him, worrying about him, hoping for the best for him.

Despite all that had come between them, all that drove them apart, there was still something that pulled them together.

Funny thing, love. People spent their whole lives chasing after it. Some people schemed to get it, lied, stole, even killed for love. Other people found it when they weren't looking, in the most unexpected places, discovered that, even under the most extreme situations, it could persevere. Some people threw it away. Some had it stolen from them by a quirk of fate.

And others had it ripped away by tragedy.

*****

She'd tried to stop caring about him.

And failed.

Tried to stop worrying about him.

And failed.

Tried to stop thinking about him.

And failed.

Jack O'Neill was not a man you could ever forget.

Love him, hate him, huge dollops of both, he was one of those people who made an impression on your life, on your soul.

After all their time together, and all their time apart, he still confused her. Or at least her feelings for him did. She wished she understood, wished that there was a set of rules she could understand. She wished that she could understand him, or at least, understand herself.

Know what to do.

It would be so much easier if she could forget him.

But she couldn’t.

He was there, in her life, even when he wasn’t.

One of her friends once had described him as having presence, as being the one person in the room you couldn’t miss, and wouldn’t forget. It wasn’t just his good looks, or his ready smile or the amusement in his eyes, it was something far more.

Something few men had.

And he had it in full measure.

Her life with him had never been easy, or simple or commonplace, though sometimes she’d wanted it to be all of those things.

*****

She couldn't believe he hadn't been there.

Sara knew his career sometimes made it difficult. She knew it was possible a mission had come up unexpectedly, or lasted longer than planned. But she couldn't believe that he hadn't made some sort of effort. And if he had, there'd be the remnants of his visit, flowers or a toy or some other small memento of his presence.

His phone had gone unanswered, and she'd hung up when the machine picked up. She didn't want to leave a message; she didn't know what to say.

Knowing she shouldn't, but unable to stop herself, she'd driven past his house. There was no vehicle in the driveway, though it could be in the garage, she told herself. But then there'd be a light on, and there wasn't; the house stood ominously dark.

Shit, he hadn't been called up, had he? Sent to Afghanistan? He was a colonel, for crying out loud, a senior officer, and 45 years old, too old for combat. Wasn't he? Not that he'd ever admit to it, but the Air Force did have rules. Rules Sara knew that Jack would circumvent if he could, to find a way to do what he loved most, to be in the middle of the action.

It was what made him feel alive.

It was what had always frightened her most.

*****

Arriving home to her own too-quiet house, Sara turned the key in the lock and entered the dim kitchen. The house was so empty now, with her Dad gone to live in a home where he could get the 'round the clock care he needed.

She'd never truly lived alone before. Sure, there had been times before Charlie was born when Jack was gone on a mission, but those were only temporary doses of solitude.

She ought to sell the house. It was too big and too expensive for one person alone.

But she couldn't. She'd never be able to leave this place where her son's spirit still lingered, if only in her memories.

As she tossed her keys on the counter, Sara checked the answering machine, her spirits rising in the hope that the blinking light meant that Jack had left her a message. The first message was from her sister, and the other message was from Judy Cromwell.

There was nothing from Jack.

She sighed, worry growing once more. Jack *would* call her, today of all days, if there was any possible way he could. Even from Afghanistan, he could call her. Several of the Air Force wives she remained friends with got regular calls from spouses in the combat zone. His silence meant Jack was either out in the remote countryside, where a 40-something Colonel sure as hell shouldn't be, or there was something else wrong.

So now she was worried on top of the sadness this day always brought.

She'd waited so long for Jack, it was already after 8 p.m., yet Sara wasn't hungry. Food held no appeal. Neither did the TV or even the radio. A warm bubble bath, that seemed like the thing, soothing and relaxing, a bit of comfort, of coddling, even if she had to do it for herself, that was what she needed.

Shucking off her shoes in the living room, she climbed the stairs, her heart heavy. Three steps from the top, she looked down. There, on the polished wood, was the spot where Charlie had carved his initials.

She'd wanted to kill him, and Jack, too. It was Jack who'd bought him the pocketknife, a shiny red Swiss Army knife for camping and fishing, Jack had said.

Charlie had tried it out by whittling on the woodwork.

God, she'd been so angry.

Sinking to her knees, Sara reached down to let her fingertips brush along the wood.

It was one of the few tangible signs that her son had ever existed.

Oh, Charlie.

She started to sob.

Twisting to sit on the steps, she dropped her head into her hands and let the tears flow.

He'd be 16 now, a young man. She imagined him, tall like his father, with that mischievous smile and the twinkling eyes. The girls would be flocking after him, just like they'd gathered around his father, drawn by the O'Neill charm.

She searched her memories to recall his voice and his laugh. They would be different now, deeper, richer. Grown up.

He'd never had the chance to grow up.

Her empty arms ached, and she wrapped them around herself, rocking back and forth.

Sara cried, the hot tears sliding down her cheeks, catching on her lips, tasting salty on her tongue. She cried for what he'd been, and what he'd never had the chance to be, for all his dreams unfulfilled, for all he'd never seen and experienced, for all the chances he'd missed.

For all she'd missed, all she'd never have, all she regretted, all she missed. She cried for the emptiness and the heartache and the loss, and what losing him had done to her and to Jack.

She cried for all that was lost and gone forever.

Memories were all she had.

And memories weren't enough.

*****

Sara didn't know how long she sat there, her tears final drying. She felt empty and alone and lost.

The ringing of the phone roused her.

Then she realized it might be Jack, and she ran down the hallway, into the bedroom, grabbing the phone off the nightstand.

"Hello?" she knew her voice sounded choked and hoarse from the crying.

"Sara?"

"Jack?" Oh God, it was Jack, she'd know that voice anywhere... and then her heart skipped a beat, because it wasn't quite right. It was a voice she knew, and knew well, and one that sounded so like Jack, yet not, because it was Jack's brother.

"This is Joe."

Sara said nothing, trying to clear her throat. Father Joe, Jack's brother, was a priest in Chicago. Joe had performed her and Jack's marriage ceremony, and baptized Charlie. Buried him, too.

"Sara, I just wanted you to know I was thinking about you today."

"Thank you."

Joe talked and Sara listened with part of her mind. She knew Joe wanted to comfort her, he was a good man and he had loved Charlie, too. She let him talk, and answered in what she hoped were the appropriate places, saying words she hoped were the right words, but her heart wasn't in it.

Finally, when the conversation, or Joe's monologue, wound down, Sara asked. "Have you heard from Jack?"

"No. I called but I didn't get an answer. I was thinking perhaps he'd be there, with you."

"I didn't see him today."

She could hear Joe's worry now. "That doesn't seem like Jack."

"I wondered if he's been sent overseas. Afghanistan? Or even somewhere else."

"I haven't heard anything, Sara, and I think he'd call me if he was going there."

"Maybe," Sara whispered. "If you hear anything, you'll let me know? I'm worried."

"I will. I'm sure it's nothing," but she could hear the hesitation in the priest's voice. Joe knew as well as Sara did that 'nothing' wouldn't keep Jack away on this day of all days.

Awkwardly, they said their goodbyes.

Sara didn't sleep that night. She took her bath, and crawled into her bed, and cried once more, but sleep eluded her.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The days passed slowly.

Sara left messages on Jack's phone, saying she'd missed him, and please call when he had a chance.

There was no call.

She made excuses to drive past his house. Nothing changed. Day after day, it was dark and empty.

Her worry surged.

It was silly to worry, Sara told herself. There were so many explanations for his whereabouts. He could be safely in any of a dozen assignments in any of a hundred places in the world. He could be on vacation, for all she knew. Yet, her heart told her, if there were any logical, safe, reasons for his absence, he'd have contacted her, because he knew her well enough to be concerned. Because she knew him well enough to know that he'd have found a way to mark the day, because Jack couldn't forget Charlie any more than she could.

Days turned into weeks.

And then one day, driving past his house, there was a change.

His truck sat in front of the garage.

He was home.

She knew it.

Sara drove on by, turned around at the end of the block, and before rational thought could intervene and change her mind, she pulled up at the curb. Striding up the walk, she stepped to the front door and knocked.

Her knees were shaking.

She didn't belong here.

And yet, something told her, she had to be here.

She knocked again.

The house was silent, no sound of TV or radio.

Sara knocked once more, insistently.

At last, she heard a noise from within, and a moment later the door opened.

Jack stood there, looking at her in shock.

"Sara?" the word was a mere whisper of disbelief.

"I-I..." she suddenly didn't know why she was there, didn't know what to say or how to explain herself.

"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice still incredibly quiet.

"I..." she looked over at him. "I... was worried about you."

His eyebrows shot up toward his hairline in surprise. "Why?" he whispered.

"You weren't there. For his birthday..."

"His birthday?" he looked puzzled, as if he genuinely didn't know.

"Charlie's birthday. Jack, it was two weeks ago." She wasn't sure whether she ought to be angry or scared. Had he forgotten, just plain forgotten? He couldn't have.

"Charlie's..." he still looked stunned. Suddenly, he washed a hand across his face, looking incredibly worn and sad and bewildered.

The look frightened her.

"I didn't... I don't know what day it is...I've been..." he waved a hand vaguely through the air "away."

"Jack..." she stepped closer, reaching a hand forward to touch his arm.

He drew back, avoiding her touch, his face bleak, his eyes oddly blank and empty.

Good heavens, this wasn't another Jack copy, like that thing all those years ago, was it? "Jack?"

He shook himself, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

Something horrible had happened to him.

She knew this look, it was the look he'd had when he came home to her after all those months in Iraq, Sara realized, shuddering.

God, no.

They were still standing in the doorway, Jack looking not at all like Jack, Sara shaking so hard she was afraid her knees would give way.

Moving her hand more slowly this time, she once again reached out to touch him.

She saw the first look of uncertainty, and then she saw him tense and *force* himself to stand still.

This was so wrong.

Jack had never been one to talk much, but he was someone who craved physical contact, who touched and wanted to be touched, that was how he showed the affection he couldn't voice.

What had happened to him? What horrible thing had been done to him to wound him so deeply?

Sara stepped closer. Beneath her hand, she could feel his muscles tense once more, as if he was forcing himself to endure her touch. "Jack," she said softly, taking her other hand, reaching up slowly and gently to cup his face.

She felt him relax slightly, but his eyes were still so strange, anxious and wild, like a cornered animal. That's how he seemed, like he was unsure of what was happening, questioning if what he was seeing, was real.

Gently, she stroked her thumb across his chin.He sighed, leaning his face into her hand, letting his eyes fall closed, as if the familiar touch soothed and reassured him.

Tentatively, his arms reached out, trembling, pulling her into his embrace with a sudden desperate strength that pinned her so tight against his chest she was afraid she’d be smothered. She could feel his heart beating madly as he wrapped himself around her, his chin in her hair, rocking back and forth, clinging to her as if his life depended on it.

His eyes popped suddenly open, breaking the spell and he stepped back, seemingly shocked by his own actions. She watched as he took a deep breath, like he was waking up.

"Maybe we should go inside?" she suggested.

He nodded mutely, and stepped into the house, letting her in, closing the door behind them. He pointed down a hallway toward the right, and she walked half its length before turning left into his kitchen.

A cup of coffee sat on the counter, and without asking, he opened the cupboard, took down another cup, filled it from the coffeemaker, and handed it to her.

She took it, glad to have something to do with her hands.

Sara sipped her coffee.

The only noise was the quiet ticking of the dining room clock.

After long minutes, she could endure the silence no longer. "What happened?"

He didn't raise his gaze. "Nothing."

"Liar."

His head snapped up, his look one of astonishment, his eyes flashing darkly for a moment before the emotionless mask was firmly back in place. Jack turned, set the coffee cup on the counter, and without a word, fled out onto the deck.

Sara placed her coffee cup next to his, and followed him out.

He stood now with his back to her, his hands clutching the railing, his shoulders rigid, his whole body tense, radiating discomfort.

"What did they do to you?" she asked again.

His voice was choked. "I can't tell you."

"Of course you can."

He still wouldn't look at her. "Damn it, Sara, you know better than to ask. I *can't.*"

"Were you in Afghanistan?"

"No."

There. One answer at least.

"But there was a mission, gone wrong," she pressed.

He nodded.

"Someone died."

There was an odd hesitation before he nodded again.

"And you're wondering why you survived. Because you still think you don't deserve to be alive."

She saw his shoulders slump, his whole body sag and for a moment she thought he was going to collapse altogether.

His head shook no, sunlight glinting off the soft gray hair.

Sara went to him then, felt him flinch when her hand touched his shoulder, but this time he didn't move away. She stepped closer, letting her hand run down his arm until her fingers touched his.

"Whatever you did, Jack, it wasn't that bad."

"You don't know what I did," he whispered hoarsely.

He turned his head to look at her then. His eyes were still haunted and weary, but they weren't as terrifyingly empty as they'd been a few minutes ago.

Relaxed as he was now, she eased his shoulders down, letting him slip down to lie on the couch, his head in her lap. Her fingers rhythmically brushed the salt and pepper hair off his forehead, stroking the near white strands at his temples as she listened to the slow, soothing sound of his breathing.

Despite all that had come between them, all that had driven them apart, there was still something that forever pulled them together.

---The End---