by Karen Miller
“No, actually. No straws this time. Just me.”
“Being you,” said Jack. “So. What do you want?”
He didn’t sound very friendly. Surprise, surprise. Sometimes it felt like simple friendliness wasn’t a big part of their friendship. At least not the kind of easy, uncomplicated camaraderie that other people enjoyed. Him and Sam. Him and Teal’c. Even Jack and Teal’c. They got along like bread and butter.
But me and Jack? We’re bread and barbed wire.
At least that’s what it felt like sometimes. Whenever they butted heads over their diametrically opposed life philosophies, or he was getting in Jack’s face for Jack’s own good. Like now, for example. So. Ask a blunt question, get a blunt answer.
“I’m worried you’re going to end up going medieval on David Dixon’s ass.”
Jack choked on a mouthful of beer, nearly spewing it into the air. “What?”
“You heard me,” he said, and sat down again. “Look. Can we talk about this? Like grownups?”
Jack kept his back resolutely turned. “Says the man who skulked in his car for half an hour, too afraid to knock on my door.”
“Yeah. Okay. That was dumb.”
“Ya think?”
“I was formulating an approach. Working out the best strategy to get the conversational ball rolling.”’
“There is no ball, Daniel. There is no rolling. There’s nothing to talk about.”
Daniel let his head fall back against the chair. “Yeah, Jack, there really is. I might not’ve been here for the actual black hole-sucking-the-earth-down-its-gullet extravaganza but I was around for the sequel. And having seen that movie once, I gotta tell you I’m not particularly interested in a rerun.”
Jack threw a scorching glance over his shoulder. “Daniel, you’re full of crap.”
“Am I?”
“Didn’t I just say so?”
“I don’t care what you said. It’s what you don’t say, Jack, that gets you into trouble.”
“Okay,” said Jack, and turned away from the French doors. “Did you, I don’t know, fall over in the driveway and give yourself concussion?”
“Not that I noticed. Jack, please don’t stand there and tell me the idea of Colonel Dixon joining SG-1, no matter how briefly, hasn’t rattled you. Please don’t tell me that one point five seconds after Hammond told you he was coming you didn’t flash back to the moment Frank Cromwell died. Don’t stand there and tell me that because I have known you too long and saved your ass one time too many to put up with that kind of insult.”
Slowly, so slowly, Jack lowered the beer bottle from his mouth. “Daniel…”
He leaned forward, relentless. “I’m not asking you to spill your guts, Jack. I’m not that stupid. I just want you to face up to what you’re feeling. In the privacy of your own head, admit that Dixon’s secondment to the team is going to stir up some really bad memories. Admit it and deal with it. Because we both know what happened the last time you went trekking in the Land of Despair.”
The crucible of Abydos. A Jack hell-bent on self-destruction. Pain like a supernova, scorching everyone in his orbit and obliterating his world. Okay, Cromwell wasn’t Charlie… but he’d been the next worst thing.
A muscle leapt along the side of Jack’s jaw. “That was a long time ago, Daniel.”
“And this year the leopard’s looking good in stripes,” he retorted. “Jack, how you deal with things is your business. I’m not telling you how to live your life.” He stopped and thought about that. “Yeah. Okay. I am. But — ” He raised a finger. “Only because what you do these days affects me and people I care about, oh, and the universe at large, and I’m not interested in getting caught in the crossfire between you and Dixon. And because, God knows why, I care what happens to you.”
Jack took another slug of beer. “There is no crossfire, Daniel.”
“Give it time.”
“You sound damned sure.”
“Ah — how long have I known you?”
“Right now I’m thinking too long,” said Jack. His smile was brittle. “Daniel, you’ve wasted your afternoon. I have no problem with David Dixon. In fact I’m grateful he’s coming, given how short-handed we are.”
He felt himself blink. “You’re grateful?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not worried he’s going to try and talk to you about Cromwell? About what happened last year? You’re not worried he might have… I don’t know… issues?”
With an impatient sigh Jack put down his half-emptied beer bottle on the nearest side table. “No, Daniel. David Dixon is a professional soldier. I am a professional soldier. Professional soldiers live in the present. We focus on life-and-death matters of immediate concern. We leave the navel-gazing and the hand wringing and the frolicking down Memory Lane to people like you.”
Well, it wasn’t surprising but still, it stung. “People like me?”
“Yeah. Academics.”
He said the word as though it were an obscenity. And to Jack it usually was, particularly at times — like this one — when irritation became anger. Swallowing resigned disappointment, Daniel stood.
“Okay. I had something to say and I’ve said it, so I’ll go. Unless there was anything you wanted to add?”
“Right now,” said Jack, “the only thing I feel like adding is my boot to your butt.”
He shook his head. “Yeah. This went well. I’m really glad I dropped by. Have a nice evening, Jack. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow at the memorial.”
Was that a cheap shot? He couldn’t tell. He was too busy being pissed at Jack, who refused to recognize a helping hand when it was shoved in his face.
But then he did feel bad, because the combative light was gone from Jack’s eyes. Instead he looked tired and sad. “The memorial. Yeah.”
Daniel pulled a face. “Way too many.”
“Yeah. So Daniel, when I say I welcome help from any quarter believe I mean it. Okay?”
“Yeah. Okay.” He headed for the door, but stopped and looked back when Jack spoke again.
“I’m fine, Daniel. Honestly. But… thanks for asking.”
It was a huge concession. Not one Jack made lightly or often. It was his ability to admit fault in the midst of utter bastardry that kept their volatile friendship alive.
He nodded. “You’re welcome, Jack. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Chapter Four
Jake Andrews had been a popular man. Gregarious, cheerful, the first to volunteer and the last to give up. The gate room was crowded for his memorial service. At least one representative from every available team and every SGC department stood strictly to attention in immaculate dress uniform, stoically determined not to break down. Some were more successful than others. The service was piped through the base for those who couldn’t physically attend.
Janet Fraiser, representing the medical staff, pristine in her dress blues, held her grief at bay as General Hammond spoke briefly, eloquently, on the making and receiving of great sacrifices. So many services of late, yet he always found something important to say. Ariel Lee, on crutches, delivered the eulogy and with Lieutenant Esposito sent a wreath through the shimmering, hungry wormhole.
A small distance away Janet could feel Jack’s muted angry sorrow, Sam’s struggle for composure. Close beside Sam stood Daniel. How must he be feeling, yet another funeral service so soon after burying Sha’re? Teal’c betrayed nothing, but she knew he felt Jake’s loss keenly.
We can’t keep doing this. We can’t keep saying goodbye. Either we’ll go numb… or we’ll fall apart. Either way it’s disaster.
To her surprise and cautious approval Colonel David Dixon attended the service, standing at the rear of the gathered group. Discreetly watching him, Janet wondered if he was having second thoughts about his temporary assignment to the base. It was impossible to say. Nothing but sorrow showed in his expression. A tall man, physically imposing, he had a nice face. Not handsome, not precisely, just… nice. Steadfas
t. Dependable. Something unexpectedly gentle in his eyes.
Interesting. Not what she’d expected from a man who’d chosen Special Forces as his life. She was sorry she’d missed out on conducting his preliminary physical. Bill Warner had taken care of it while she’d been on shift at the hospital.
Still. There’ll be time to talk with him sooner or later. And I will. I want to know what makes him tick. I want to know if he’s holding a grudge over Cromwell.
Not that she had any reason to think it. Probably she was just being over-protective. Suspicious. Possibly, maybe, insubordinate.
But even if I am, so what? It doesn’t count when it’s only in my head. And anyway, I’m the doctor. Jack’s one of my patients. Being protective comes with the territory.
The memorial service concluded. The wormhole was disengaged. Shaking herself free of sorrow, Janet got back to work.
“Colonel Dixon?”
Wrenched from the sour memories of Frank Cronwell’s memorial service, Dixon turned. “General. Yes, sir?”
Hammond had himself well in hand, but what that was costing him showed in his light blue eyes. What had McCreary said? Hammond’s a good man. One of the best. It was the impression he’d got reading all those mission reports full of unconscious heroism and ruthlessly restrained humanity. At the heart of each and every one, even O’Neill’s, was the need to satisfy General George Hammond; every officer, noncom and airman on this base, so eager not to let the man down. Of course it was possible he’d misread the reports. Few C.O.s could inspire that kind of loyalty.
Looking in Hammond’s weary face now, though, after hearing him speak, he realized he hadn’t misread anything. Now he’d seen the general in action it was clear the reports had told only half the tale.
He’s one hell of a leader. This base, this program, hell, this planet, is lucky to have him.
“If you have a moment, Colonel?” said Hammond, his Texas twang muted, his courtesy distinct. A real Southern gentleman… but nobody’s fool.
They’d not spoken since he’d arrived on the base. Hammond had been caught up with Pentagon business, and then there was the matter of settling into his quarters, the flap and crap of yet another full-scale physical — the most rigorously thorough he’d ever endured, which was saying something — and last of all getting ready for the memorial service. Acutely aware of O’Neill and his people filing out of the gate room, he focused his attention on his temporary commanding officer.
“Of course, General. All the moments you need.”
“Your quarters satisfactory?” said Hammond, leading the way to his office.
“Yes, sir.”
“Anyone given you the ten cent tour yet?”
“Of the base? No, sir.”
They’d reached the general’s sanctum. Waving a hand at the nearest empty chair, Hammond’s lips quirked in a brief smile. “I can fix that.”
Dixon sat. “Yes, sir.”
“It’s a bit of a maze but you soon get used to it. Just watch out for doors opening unexpectedly. You’d be surprised how often that happens.”
Doors? Okay… “Yes, sir.”
Hammond slid into his own chair, a large man dominating the available space. The desk he sat behind was neat and gleaming with polish. A shiny red phone sat to one side. Hotline straight to the President, just like in the movies.
I wonder if they’re on a first name basis? Rumor has it O’Neill and the President are. But then rumor has O’Neill doing a lot of things, doesn’t it?
“I appreciate you being here, Colonel,” said Hammond. “The whole base appreciates it. And I understand from General McCreary that three of your team have also agreed to help us out.”
Logan, Chagall and Aikeman. They’d be arriving sometime within the next twenty-four hours. Davies had declined. His mother was in hospital with complications from diabetes. Gangrene or something, and he was an only child. Sometimes life sucked.
“Yes, sir. They’re good men. You won’t be disappointed.”
Hammond nodded. “I’m sure that’s the case.” He sat back, his narrowed gaze intent. “You and your team are meeting us at a particularly difficult time, Colonel Dixon. We’ve lost too many good people — too many friends — of late. It’s very hard. The nature of this command, the work we do here, means my people form uniquely close bonds. Coming from Special Forces I imagine you can understand that.”
“Yes sir, I can.”
“You ready to step through the Stargate, Colonel?”
“Yes, sir. I’m looking forward to it.”
“I thought you might be,” said Hammond, smiling sharply. “After a while, reading the mission reports is like showing a starving man a menu and telling him, Gee there’s some fine food in the world, ain’t there? Comes a time when a starving man wants to sink his teeth in the steak for himself.”
And it wasn’t until Hammond said it that Dixon realized it was true.
Huh. All this time I’ve been friggin’ jealous…
“But for all its miracles the Stargate has its downside,” Hammond added. “As I’m sure you know. Colonel, I need to ask you a blunt question.”
He knew what was coming before Hammond said another word. “Ask away, General.”
“Given the circumstances of Colonel Cromwell’s death last year, is it going to be a problem if I assign you to SG-1?”
A problem? Hell no. He had his fingers crossed for exactly that. But he had no intention of saying so to Hammond. Instead he shook his head. “Sir, as far as I’m concerned there were no ‘circumstances’.”
Hammond’s narrowed gaze was piercing. “Cards on the table, Colonel. I’m aware you and Cromwell were good friends. I’m also aware he and O’Neill were not. At least not at the time of his death. I take it you know that?”
He nodded, his expression severely blank. “Yes, sir.”
“So I’ll ask you again, Colonel Dixon: is this going to be a problem?”
He shook his head. “Due respect, General Hammond, the relationship between Colonels Cromwell and O’Neill is in the past. Furthermore it’s none of my business. I’m just here to do a job. You can trust me to do it.”
Hammond’s expression didn’t change but a shadow of tension in his eyes faded, slowly. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, I’m sure I can.” His gaze shifted, then, focusing on something beyond the glass window in his office wall. His pale eyes narrowed again, briefly, and his hand came up in a beckoning gesture.
The general’s other office door opened, and Jack O’Neill walked in from the briefing room.
“You hovering out there for a reason, Colonel?” said Hammond, genially enough… but with the faintest hint of a bite.
“Hovering?” said O’Neill, sounding faintly shocked. “Was I hovering, sir? I had no idea.”
So. O’Neill was going to play the clown, was he? Dixon considered him, changed out of his dress blues into rumpled, well-worn fatigues.
Frank had always said, If you’re not careful he’ll have you thinking he’s auditioning to play Ronald McDonald. But the goofier he is, the closer he’s studying you.
Hammond just shook his head. “Since you’re unlikely to be of any help to Major Carter, Colonel, perhaps you’d care to show Colonel Dixon around his home away from home.”
An explosive silence. Dixon, chagrined, saw the echo of his own feelings reflected in O’Neill’s suddenly opaque eyes. He turned to Hammond.
“There’s no need, sir. I’m sure Colonel O’Neill — ”
“Would be happy to oblige,” said O’Neill, just as suddenly expansive. “Come on, Dixon. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard my tour guide spiel. In fact I’m thinking of taking it up as a second career.”
Crap. He’d been hoping for a little more time to observe O’Neill from a distance before engaging with him one-on-one. Neatly corralled, Dixon stood. Nodded at Hammond.
“Thank you, General.”
Hammond offered him a genial smile. “Enjoy the tour, Colonel Dixon. Though I will add t
his — if you’ve any questions pertaining to the Stargate and its physics I recommend you ask Major Carter for enlightenment. She knows pretty much everything there is to know about it.”
“Whereas what I know,” said O’Neill, “beyond the fact it’s a honking big metal circle that chews up a ton of power and spits you out on the other side of the galaxy, isn’t worth writing on the back of a used stamp. Eh, General?”
Hammond just waved a hand. “Colonels, you’re dismissed.”
“And here,” said Jack O’Neill, “is the most important room in the base.”
Dixon nodded, looking around the concrete-walled commissary. The functional tables were covered in Air Force blue tablecloths. There were a few cheerful posters of dolphins on display. A handful of SGC personnel paid attention to their meals, breakfast or lunch or even dinner, depending on what kind of roster they were following and what time it was they’d recently left behind them out there. He sucked in a deep, scented breath. “Pot roast, mashed potatoes and gravy. Smells good.”
“If you say so,” said O’Neill, indifferent. “Personally I can recommend the cherry pie. Also the pumpkin. The pecan’s not bad either. I still say the lemon meringue could do with a bit of work but so far they’re not listening. I’m thinking of staging a protest. Are you in?”
Dixon looked at him. O’Neill hadn’t been kidding about the tour guide spiel. Jovial, expansive, and underneath that… what? If Frank had told him once he’d told him a hundred times, as they discussed the mission reports fed through from the SGC: The thing is, with Jack: there’s what you see and there’s what you get and the biggest mistake you’ll ever make in your life is thinking those things are one and the same.
He smiled. “Sorry, Jack. I’ve never been a fan of lemon meringue.”
“Really, Dave?” said O’Neill, his eyebrows lifting. “Well, I guess nobody’s perfect. Okay. So now you’ve seen the boring crap and the beating heart of the base let’s go check out my other favorite place, the armory.”
The trick was to play along until he had his bearings. Until the time was right to talk of Frank Cromwell. “Sure,” he said. “Whatever you say.”
