Phone Calls from John the Baptist , by Marzipan (PG-13)
Rec Category: Episode Related
Categories: Daniel, Jack, Mackenzie, Teal'c, Sam, Janet, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, team, Jack and Daniel friendship
Warnings: mental health issues
Author's Journal: marzipan77
Author's Website: Marzipan at AO3
Link: Phone Calls from John the Baptist
Why This Must Be Read: Oldskool classic fic! So oldskool, in fact, that it contains two of the fanon tropes that usually have me hitting the back button with enthusiasm. Yet I read this long, satisfying story at a gulp, loving that this was canon and yet gave us such a fascinating alternate perspective!
I've always firmly believed that if anyone is working at the SGC, they are competent and the best of the best. Felger is the exception that proves the rule. So when Marzipan portrays Dr. Mackenzie, even in the midst of Legacy, as an intelligent, competent doctor...
Here is Mackenzie: professional, dedicated, genuinely doing his best. And here is Jack and Teal'c and Sam, driven to somehow cure Daniel through sheer mental effort. And here is Daniel: trapped in hallucinations, just aware enough to know his mind is disintegrating.
Everyone is wonderful here. Everyone. Settle down and read this one with enjoyment.
MacKenzie sighed and tugged his glasses from his nose with one finger, the thick report falling closed on his desk one single page at a time as if the words within it were trying to hide. Guilt sat heavily in his stomach. All of the accomplishment and pride of well-executed research and the kudos of those few of his peers who were read into the Stargate program had become dust and ashes in his mouth. When this report - these findings - had been all theoretical, when his careful theories, his painstakingly detailed analyses of EEGs, his study of mental disorders, of brain chemistry and genetic predispositions were tucked neatly into stark black type on a white page, he’d actually felt pride. Intellectual accomplishment.
But when the reality leaped from the page to sit before him in flesh and blood, clothed in drab BDUs and wearing the faces of real men and women - heroes - the only emotion he could feel was regret. Regret that he could do nothing to stop this, that he could say nothing to ease the grief and loss, and, finally, regret that his findings gave him no other solution.
Solution. He shook his head, fingers pinching against his nose and his eyes tightly shut. That was not a word he would allow past his lips during the upcoming briefing. There was no solution to schizophrenia.
Categories: Daniel, Jack, Mackenzie, Teal'c, Sam, Janet, angst, drama, hurt/comfort, team, Jack and Daniel friendship
Warnings: mental health issues
Author's Journal: marzipan77
Author's Website: Marzipan at AO3
Link: Phone Calls from John the Baptist
Why This Must Be Read: Oldskool classic fic! So oldskool, in fact, that it contains two of the fanon tropes that usually have me hitting the back button with enthusiasm. Yet I read this long, satisfying story at a gulp, loving that this was canon and yet gave us such a fascinating alternate perspective!
I've always firmly believed that if anyone is working at the SGC, they are competent and the best of the best. Felger is the exception that proves the rule. So when Marzipan portrays Dr. Mackenzie, even in the midst of Legacy, as an intelligent, competent doctor...
Here is Mackenzie: professional, dedicated, genuinely doing his best. And here is Jack and Teal'c and Sam, driven to somehow cure Daniel through sheer mental effort. And here is Daniel: trapped in hallucinations, just aware enough to know his mind is disintegrating.
Everyone is wonderful here. Everyone. Settle down and read this one with enjoyment.
MacKenzie sighed and tugged his glasses from his nose with one finger, the thick report falling closed on his desk one single page at a time as if the words within it were trying to hide. Guilt sat heavily in his stomach. All of the accomplishment and pride of well-executed research and the kudos of those few of his peers who were read into the Stargate program had become dust and ashes in his mouth. When this report - these findings - had been all theoretical, when his careful theories, his painstakingly detailed analyses of EEGs, his study of mental disorders, of brain chemistry and genetic predispositions were tucked neatly into stark black type on a white page, he’d actually felt pride. Intellectual accomplishment.
But when the reality leaped from the page to sit before him in flesh and blood, clothed in drab BDUs and wearing the faces of real men and women - heroes - the only emotion he could feel was regret. Regret that he could do nothing to stop this, that he could say nothing to ease the grief and loss, and, finally, regret that his findings gave him no other solution.
Solution. He shook his head, fingers pinching against his nose and his eyes tightly shut. That was not a word he would allow past his lips during the upcoming briefing. There was no solution to schizophrenia.