Work Text:
The Makepeace Connection:
Just Maybe
by Jb
I should have done more. Said something else. I really should have…
Too late now, so just forget it. Everything is all finished with. It took over four hours but the off-world clean-up is done. The artillery and heavy equipment are back in the gateroom, all the casualties and teams are accounted for, and… well, the bodies are in the morgue and all that stuff that happens to them after they get there – being hauled onto cold metal dissection tables, every open wound and orifice expertly probed before they get hosed down – is probably happening to them right now.
So, it’s all done with. I need to just forget it and go have that shower. Get cleaned up. That will help; I’ll be back to my old self once I get cleaned up. I make my way to the locker room, glad that no one I pass bothers to speak to me. I don’t want to talk to anybody. I had my chance to talk and I… aw, shit. Forget it, okay?
The welcome silence turns into a holy racket as I round the corner into the changing area; locker doors are hanging open everywhere and the sound of ten shower heads spraying hot water and, hell, gotta be a lot more than just ten voices raised above the noise of the running water, echoes through the room.
Man oh man… you see that turret explode… yeah… this is one for the record books alright… hey, Sammy. I saw you take those guys out… we did a hell of a job, right… this one’s for Jonesy, guys…
They stall for a second at the mention of Jonesy. He’s dead now, and while part of me understands their need to release a little of the stress by crowing over their victory, I’m glad they have the sense to remember who they left behind. Then the subject of conversation abruptly changes; hey, I can understand that, too… it’s a lot easier to acknowledge a dead enemy than a dead friend. But the sound of just what they’re talking about now echoes louder in my head than it does in the room, and I’m starting to feel a bit sick to my stomach.
This is my fault. I should have said something. Someone is gonna get hurt here if this continues… hurt worse, that is.
… whupped her ass… got us some of *that* all right… honey, I’m *home*… aw, yuich, she was a damn Goa’uld for Christ sake… yeah, but did you see the bodacious bod on that damn…
Before I even know what I’m doing I’m standing in the hot steam, the spray dampening my face and hair, and I’m yelling at them to goddamn well shut the hell up. Only the sudden silence and shocked looks on their faces shuts me up. Okay… so everybody’s defenseless, standing here with their privates hanging out, I got their full and undivided attention, we’re not in a tense situation anymore… so why can’t I say it, why the hell don’t I just tell them what really happened here?
I don’t. I walk out.
I can’t forget the looks… the one on Carter’s face when they packed Jackson up on the stretcher, and when O’Neill told me to take care of getting the dead Goa’uld back to the SGC. The look, when she touched my arm and mumbled that I should be careful with the body. Then there’s that damned look on the old Abydonian guy’s face – the confusion and shock – when O’Neill took him by the arm and they left to follow Jackson. And especially, the look on Teal’c’s face when he left the tent… the way he stared at the body and then at me. That was a warning or something; at the very least it was a strong message. And did I take it? Shit, no.
I stood by and watched. Well ain’t that me all over, the epitome of efficient supervision, impartial and detached. Well, okay, I did tell them once to knock it off, when they laughed when her head whacked against the ground, but that didn’t mean they were any more gentle with her than when they started. And did I say any more after that? I can still hear the thud when they carelessly tossed her onto the stretcher. To them she was just one dead people-eating monster.
Did I tell them who she was? Why they should be more respectful? No. Why not?
Well, how the hell should I know why not.
Shit. Where am I, anyway? Oh. I’ve just been walking, and looky where my feet took me. The infirmary. I’m just about to turn tail and run, but the Doc sees me through the open door.
"Colonel. Great… your timing is just perfect; there’s a lull right now." What’s the woman talking about? She comes over and plucks at my sleeve. "Most of the teams are getting cleaned up, but we’ve managed to put about half of them through. I’m dreading the rush we’re going to get as soon as the hot water runs out."
I give her my special ‘what, you a moron or something?’ look; there’s no way I came here on purpose right now. Besides, it looks like anything but a lull in there. Nurses and medics are shuttling past the doorway like cars in a freight train, arms full of supplies, and the two beds I can see from where I’m standing are occupied. IV lines and monitor leads look like suspended strands of spaghetti, hooked up to just about every visible body part of the wounded soldiers. There’s no bloody way I’m going in there. But that’s not why.
Either I’ve suddenly lost my touch or Doc Fraiser is somehow impervious to the Makepeace-special, because she’s pulling me into the place. "You can go on over to bed four. I’ll send a medic over to do the preliminaries. You know the drill, Colonel, the standard exam."
Oh hell. All right. Get it over with, Makepeace. Get it done, and hope like hell that they’re all somewhere else, that you don’t run into any of them.
But they aren’t somewhere else. Okay, I admit it: that’s why I didn’t want to come in here.
As the Doc pushes me around the corner toward beds four through eight, toward the back wall, I can see SG1 hanging around in there. The General is there too, standing over by bed six. The curtain between me and the bed is drawn half shut, hiding the head of the bed from view, but I can see the shape of hips and legs under the blankets. Jackson. It’s been pretty much five hours already since they hauled him outa there; if he hasn’t woken up yet, no wonder everyone’s looking so uneasy.
So maybe they’re too self-involved to notice me. I make a quiet dash for bed four, and just as I think I’ve made it scott free, Teal’c looks up… straight at me. The embarrassment I’m feeling is so foreign that it takes me a minute to figure it out, to understand that’s what the churning in my stomach and flush on my face actually are. I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. It’s not like me to feel like I need to avoid anyone or anything.
I’ve got no reason to feel this way. Hell, there’s no reason to feel any which way. I didn’t know her; she was just a poor slob turned into a Goa’uld, and a pretty nasty Goa’uld at that. And I’ve never given a flying-you-know-what for Jackson. Right from day one, the first time I met him two years ago when we sat in the briefing room before the trip that turned us all into primitives – yeah, the briefing where the first thing the little brat did was to smart-mouth me – I always thought he was the wrong person in the wrong place at the wrong time. That he wasn’t up to it. That he’d never make it. I still don’t feel any different about that. It’s just… taking a little longer than I thought, that’s all. But it’ll happen; he’ll mess up, or quit, or worse. Yeah.
So, what the heck is my problem? How come over the last four hours I’ve kept seeing his face in my mind – that one, the pained one when Carter said O’Neill had been taken as host by Hathor? Why am I hearing him, over and over again, saying, "it’s a deep bleeding gash but it’ll be fine…"
I think maybe I must have got whacked in the fire fight when I wasn’t looking, because I sure am acting shell shocked here. Suddenly I’ve gone all sympathetic or something. Hope the Doc has a pill for it, because it’s really got to stop before anyone notices.
The medic is here. He’s looking a bit harried and impatient. I give him my Makepeace-special, and nope, I haven’t lost my touch. It was the Doc; she must have some kind of invisible shield or something. Maybe we oughta look into that; something like that might be useful in our fight against the Goa’uld.
He pulls the curtains closed around the bed, and just as he’s hauling out his stethoscope the curtains sway with the breeze as someone passes in a big hurry. Then I hear the voices from two beds down. It’s not hard to make them out; it’s not even eight feet away. The medic pauses for just a second then keeps on with what he was doing, motioning for me to take off my jacket and shirt. He’s being real quiet about it, though, so I know he’s just as interested as I am in what’s happening over there.
Christ. The guy’s practically leaning into the curtain trying to eavesdrop more effectively. Real discrete, buddy. At least I have the decency to pretend I don’t give a shit.
I hear the Doc; she’s talking to Jackson, asking questions, checking him out. His birthday is July 8th. Gee, too bad I missed it. She tells him she’ll get the nurse to bring something for his headache, and … flap, flap… the curtains swish twice in rapid succession as she flies by, once in each direction. That headache must be a doozy, because it's gone real hush over there; nobody’s talking any more. Pretty much right away the curtains wave again and through the slight gap I see a nurse pass by, syringe in hand.
The medic takes my blood pressure. He looks bored; it’s still quiet over there. Then he perks up some as we hear O’Neill asking Jackson if he remembers what happened, and while I can hear that the kid is answering, his voice is too quiet and I can’t quite make out what he says. There’s a bit of silence, and now Hammond is saying he’s so terribly sorry, asking if there’s anything he can do, and I know that Jackson remembers. He knows.
And inexplicably, I feel an ache in my chest that has nothing to do with the medic’s knuckle rapping on me as he listens for anything abnormal.
Teal’c knows. I don’t know how he found out, but with that stare he was giving me… it sure looks to me like he’s gotta know what I did. That I let them throw her around like that. Why else would he have come over here? Okay, yeah, he said that he just wanted to thank me for getting the body back here. But he stared right through me. I wonder if he told O’Neill?
Oh Christ, knock it off; I’m being stupid. Teal’c’s not that subtle. My conscience is bothering me for what I said in the tent and for what I didn’t say later, that’s all. And I know the best cure for a conscience, don’t I? Maybe I’ll hunt up some of the guys when I’m done here.
Oh hell, I’m right here waiting on the Doc. So maybe I should just get it over with right now ... go see Jackson, give him my condolences. As soon as Doc Fraiser is done with me, I’ll go do that. Maybe. She was busy so I went for my MRI, and since I came back here everybody been leaving. Teal’c was the first to go; that’s when he paid me that little visit. Carter was the last. I swear, sometimes it seems like maybe there’s something going on between those two, the way she… Wait. Look who it is you’re talking about, Makepeace. It’s Jackson. Carter knows she needs to look out for him, is all. We all know he’s the wrong person for this. He won’t last.
Flap, flap. "Okay, Colonel. Sorry for the delay. Roger took your blood sample? Good." Her stethoscope is cold. "Take a deep breath."
"Doc…"
"Sshhh… another deep breath…"
Yeah, fine. Oh, that one kind of shuddered in and out. She’s looking at me.
"Colonel? Are you all right? You seem worried."
No, I’m not worried. Why would I be worried. "No. I’m fine." Oh hell. "Doc… how’s Jackson? He was looking really rough. He taking it okay?"
She looks surprised. "Dan… Dr. Jackson will be all right. The hand device was ..." She stops, straightening up, and the questioning look she gives me makes me wonder if I accidentally spoke something other than English. "Taking what okay? Uh, Colonel, are we talking about the same thing here?"
What? I didn’t think it was a stupid question. But, hang on… maybe nobody is supposed to know? Yeah, okay, I’m feeling better already. I guess it was smart that I didn’t tell those guys who she was. Just using my usual smarts. "Never mind, Doc. Maybe you could just tell him I asked after him."
She’s packing up, winding the long cord of the stethoscope up around the ear pieces. She doesn’t seem surprised anymore; now she has a knowing look on her face. "I see. Well, actually, Colonel, he’s awake if you want to tell him yourself. It looks like you might be thinking about the same thing he is." I’m shaking my head, but she ignores it. "I'll run it by him, see if he feels like having a visitor."
Flap. She’s gone before I can even blink, never mind tell her don’t do that. Damn.
Flap. "Go ahead, Colonel. But just keep it short, okay?" Flap.
Shit.
He doesn’t look so hot. "That’s quite a souvenir." Oh, crap… geez, Makepeace. What a thing to say. A souvenir. Like he’s been doing something he’d want to remember.
His eyes cloud over a bit and he frowns, then winces as the frown reaches the burn. He gingerly touches his forehead. "Oh yeah, that. It’s just a bit sore. It’ll be fine."
…it’s a deep bleeding gash but it’ll be fine…
"Uh. Yeah. Okay, well, I just wanted to see if you were okay. You looked like shit, back there." I’m starting to back away. He looks awful, eyes half shut and all red like that, the burn and the lines of pain around his mouth. This is no place for me. I don’t even like the guy.
"Colonel. You…" His voice is so soft I have to lean forward. He looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. "You’re the one who brought her back, right?" He looks up at me and though I can’t bring myself to even nod, he knows. His face is so fucking earnest. "Good. I’m… I’m glad it was you. Thank you."
His words go through me like a red hot lance. Guilt is a terrible thing. Now I know why I avoid it at all costs. I try to cover it up, to keep it from showing on my face by putting on my second string Makepeace-special, the one that says ‘hey, who ya gonna call, baby…’. He just gives me a small smile – kind of a cross between a grimace and a smile, actually – and lowers his head again.
And then before I even know it, I fuck it all up but good. "I did my best. I figured, you wouldn’t want anybody to find out. You don’t need to worry about it."
His head snaps up like it was on a tight marionette string, and his eyes are wide open now. Uh oh. Did I say something wrong?
"What?"
Well, the Doc said… actually, no, she didn’t say. I just thought… but I’m starting to think that, I think, I thought wrong here. Yup. Fucked it up real good. Jackson says it again, "What?", with a sharpness I’ve heard in his voice before. It’s one of the things that I don’t like about him, that he sees nothing wrong with using that protesting tone of voice with the senior officers. Hell, even with the General. He won’t last.
My mouth is open, but I haven’t quite organized anything yet before he pipes up again. That’s something else I don’t appreciate about him. Come hell or high water, he’s always finding something to say. "What do you mean, I wouldn’t want anybody to find out? To find out, what, Colonel?"
Heard that before – that’s what the Doc just said. I figured she was just pussyfooting around, testing me, to see if I knew. I’m usually pretty good at tests; thing is, now I don’t think that this is one, though. "Well, to find out that the Goa…, that, uhh." Shit, what the hell was that name? Oh, yeah. "That Ammonet was, uh, the person you were looking for." Good thing it’s not a test, because I would have just failed miserably.
"My wife’s name was Sha’re. Why wouldn’t I want anyone to know that’s her, Colonel?"
I can feel my defenses rising. I always get kind of officious when I’m under attack, and the open challenge in Jackson’s deep blue stare is as much an attack as I’ve ever been under. "Well I guess that’s up to you, isn’t it. Look, I just came to…"
"No, I don’t think so. You think I should want to hide who she is? What, because she was inhabited by a Goa’uld?" His face is drawn, the burn on his forehead flaming compared to the pallor of his skin around it. He looks like he needs to lay flat, not to sit up and start ranting and raving here. I put up my hand to stop the flow of words but it just seems to spur him on. How does O’Neill do it?
"You thought it should be a big secret, Colonel? I don’t know why you came to see me; you sure don't seem to be very sorry about what just happened." He's obviously angry, and I guess that's understandable; after all, his wife has just died.
And like the good old insightful soul that I am, I mess it up even further. "Yes, I am. I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry that your wife was a Goa’uld and that it’s dead. I’m sorry that they knocked…" I just barely suck it back in.
This time I’d welcome a holy racket over the silence. It draws itself out like an overstretched balloon about to snap back any moment. I wish I could snap it all back. It’s not me that breaks the painful silence though… hey, I’m too much of a man for that.
Jackson’s voice is back to being that soft whisper that I need to concentrate on to understand. He's back to looking at his lap. "Her name was Sha’re. She wasn’t a Goa’uld, she was just possessed by one. She’s not an it. She's, she was, beautiful and brave, and..." He looks up, straight into my eyes. "She’s my wife, and I’m not ashamed of her." A tear rolls down his cheek and I see the pain, the depth of his loss, and I wonder if that’s what I would look like if my wife had just been violently killed.
I’m such a fool. My guilt and shame come flooding back and I know I can’t leave it like this. I shuffle my feet and clear my throat, intending to apologize, but he shakes his head at me. "It’s not your fault. Most people can’t understand."
He smiles. It’s sad, but there’s relief there too. "Sha’re was my wife, and I love her. I want everybody to know, Colonel."
…it’s a deep bleeding gash but it’ll be fine…
Okay, so it’s just possible I was wrong. Maybe he will make it; maybe he is the right person in the right place at the right time. Maybe I oughta have another look…
Just maybe.
But then again... Maybe not.