fic: that long black cloud (stargate sg1)
sjficathon ficathon: dizzydame requested jack being forced (through alien influence) to be completely unguarded emotionally.
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: The gunshot echoes.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sam/Jack, AU
WARNINGS: Child death
SPOILERS: The Gamekeeper (2x04)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: surreallis for betaing.
NOTES: Apologies to dizzydame for the long wait.
WORDS: 1,138
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; May 2011.
* * * * *
That Long Black Cloud by anr
* * * * *
--reset--
The first time, she tries to reason with him.
Tries to reason with him, tries to pull him away, tries to remind him of what he already knows, what he has just argued about with the Keeper: that this isn't real, it's just a simulation, a virtual reality game that he (they) can not ever, ever win...
Leaning away from her, he gives her a blank, numb, empty look, Charlie's body limp in his arms. "It's okay, he's okay, he'll be okay, he's okay, he's okay," not crying, no longer shouting, just over and over and over, "he's okay, he's okay, he's okay..."
The simulation ends as the sun sinks below the horizon line, shadows settling in the room.
--reset--
He tries to beat the gunshot every time. He can't not. Neither of them can.
There's the split-second of confusion as the simulation resets (where where what?) with his mouth kissing the back of her neck and his arms wrapped around her before it sinks in, before he remembers that she is not his wife and this is it -- this is the do-over he's always, always wanted -- and then he's gone, pushing her off the bottom step in his sprint for the door, for Charlie; her following three paces behind, her knee stinging from where it has scraped on the gravel in the path and her heart racing --
The gunshot echoes.
--reset--
She knows why she's here instead of Daniel or Teal'c, knows it's because she's the easiest fit into a memory that only two people will ever remember, but.
"Stop this," she says, asks, cries. She's always known how utterly devastating this must have been for him, but to see it -- to hear and smell and relive it with him -- over and over and over again? "Please. He'll remember anything you want, I know he will -- anything else at all -- but not this, please not this."
From inside the house, she can hear him shouting for her (no, not for her; for Sara) and.
She drops to her knees in front of the Keeper. "Please," she begs.
--reset--
The windowsill in the master bedroom is wide -- not quite a seat, but close enough -- and the view looks out over the driveway. She can see photographs scattered over the gravel, can see the Residents lined up near the mailbox, can see the sun setting, pink and orange and --
Sitting there, she watches the Colonel hold his son and the room fill with red.
--reset--
She runs with the Colonel right to Charlie's side. Runs and runs and skids to a stop beside the bed and leans down like she really is his son's mother, like her only thought is to pick him up, to hold him, to keep him safe for ever and ever and ever --
She scoops up the gun instead.
Three Residents head-shot before the Keeper can run in, shouting and fumbling with his wrist pad, and she --
--reset--
She follows the Colonel into the house, and through the foyer, up the stairs, down the hall.
Charlie's door is closed, but the master bedroom door is ajar, a shard of sunlight catching the door handle and burnishing it red (the first time she came up here, she wondered how the blood could have sprayed that far; how the angles of projection could be so terribly, garishly wrong) and it's here that the Colonel heads without hesitation.
She walks slower, slowly. This isn't the worst part (the gunshot is the worst, that horrible moment of incomprehension snapping into sheer terror as the report echoes) but it's maybe the most rending.
(The look on the Colonel's face. The sheen of blood on the duvet. The smell of gunsmoke in the air.)
He's already dragging Sara's bathrobe off the bed and wrapping it around Charlie's head when she steps through the doorway; is shouting for her to call 911, for her to get the jeep, for her to fucking do something Sara oh no oh Charlie oh fuck fuck fuck, but.
But.
It's not real. It's not real and she is not Sara and this is not fucking real it's not it's not it's not.
--reset--
The gunshot echoes.
--reset--
Once, he picks up his son, picks up the gun, and.
The reset's a half-second too slow and her shout drowns out the second shot.
--reset--
She catches up to him in the foyer and pulls on his shoulder, turning him round so that she can slug him in the face, her foot sweeping his out from under him before he can adjust his balance. He hits the ground hard, surprise (and something that might -- just might -- be shame) almost wiping the horror from his eyes.
"Simulation or not, don't you ever fucking make me watch that again," she hisses. "Sir."
She turns and walks up the stairs before he can do or say anything in response.
--reset--
She doesn't follow him.
For the first time, she doesn't follow him.
He doesn't look at her as he pulls away and takes the steps two at a time, disappearing inside the house. Alone on the bottom step, she listens to his footsteps fade, listens to the gunshot split the suburban quiet.
Getting to her feet, she walks away.
She walks down the drive and through the crowd, out into the street and down the block, down two blocks, tears blurring her vision, three blocks, one foot in front of the other, again and again, on and on and --
--reset--
She blinks as the simulation resets, his bicep warm under her palms and his mouth soft on her neck, her vision clearing and comprehension dawning. She tenses for his leap and is surprised when it doesn't immediately come. She starts to pull back.
His arms tighten around her, stopping her.
"Don't," he says, voice rough and low and broken. "Just --"
It's coming, she thinks. It's coming it's coming it's coming. "Sir --"
He makes a low noise, almost like a moan, and drops his head further until his face is pressed against the bare skin above her shirt collar. Holds her harder, closer, tighter.
"I can't, Carter," he whispers, shuddering, and she closes her eyes and clutches at his arm as best she can, wishing (oh god oh holy father son and spirit oh god) she could do something (anything). "I --"
He starts to cry.
The gunshot echoes.
Neither of them moves.
--reset--
At the end of the driveway, the Residents watch silently.
--reset--
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*
STATUS: Complete
SUMMARY: The gunshot echoes.
RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATIONS: Sam/Jack, AU
WARNINGS: Child death
SPOILERS: The Gamekeeper (2x04)
ARCHIVING: Do not archive. Thank you.
THANKS TO: surreallis for betaing.
NOTES: Apologies to dizzydame for the long wait.
WORDS: 1,138
DISCLAIMER: Not mine. Don't sue.
Copyright anr; May 2011.
* * * * *
That Long Black Cloud by anr
* * * * *
--reset--
The first time, she tries to reason with him.
Tries to reason with him, tries to pull him away, tries to remind him of what he already knows, what he has just argued about with the Keeper: that this isn't real, it's just a simulation, a virtual reality game that he (they) can not ever, ever win...
Leaning away from her, he gives her a blank, numb, empty look, Charlie's body limp in his arms. "It's okay, he's okay, he'll be okay, he's okay, he's okay," not crying, no longer shouting, just over and over and over, "he's okay, he's okay, he's okay..."
The simulation ends as the sun sinks below the horizon line, shadows settling in the room.
--reset--
He tries to beat the gunshot every time. He can't not. Neither of them can.
There's the split-second of confusion as the simulation resets (where where what?) with his mouth kissing the back of her neck and his arms wrapped around her before it sinks in, before he remembers that she is not his wife and this is it -- this is the do-over he's always, always wanted -- and then he's gone, pushing her off the bottom step in his sprint for the door, for Charlie; her following three paces behind, her knee stinging from where it has scraped on the gravel in the path and her heart racing --
The gunshot echoes.
--reset--
She knows why she's here instead of Daniel or Teal'c, knows it's because she's the easiest fit into a memory that only two people will ever remember, but.
"Stop this," she says, asks, cries. She's always known how utterly devastating this must have been for him, but to see it -- to hear and smell and relive it with him -- over and over and over again? "Please. He'll remember anything you want, I know he will -- anything else at all -- but not this, please not this."
From inside the house, she can hear him shouting for her (no, not for her; for Sara) and.
She drops to her knees in front of the Keeper. "Please," she begs.
--reset--
The windowsill in the master bedroom is wide -- not quite a seat, but close enough -- and the view looks out over the driveway. She can see photographs scattered over the gravel, can see the Residents lined up near the mailbox, can see the sun setting, pink and orange and --
Sitting there, she watches the Colonel hold his son and the room fill with red.
--reset--
She runs with the Colonel right to Charlie's side. Runs and runs and skids to a stop beside the bed and leans down like she really is his son's mother, like her only thought is to pick him up, to hold him, to keep him safe for ever and ever and ever --
She scoops up the gun instead.
Three Residents head-shot before the Keeper can run in, shouting and fumbling with his wrist pad, and she --
--reset--
She follows the Colonel into the house, and through the foyer, up the stairs, down the hall.
Charlie's door is closed, but the master bedroom door is ajar, a shard of sunlight catching the door handle and burnishing it red (the first time she came up here, she wondered how the blood could have sprayed that far; how the angles of projection could be so terribly, garishly wrong) and it's here that the Colonel heads without hesitation.
She walks slower, slowly. This isn't the worst part (the gunshot is the worst, that horrible moment of incomprehension snapping into sheer terror as the report echoes) but it's maybe the most rending.
(The look on the Colonel's face. The sheen of blood on the duvet. The smell of gunsmoke in the air.)
He's already dragging Sara's bathrobe off the bed and wrapping it around Charlie's head when she steps through the doorway; is shouting for her to call 911, for her to get the jeep, for her to fucking do something Sara oh no oh Charlie oh fuck fuck fuck, but.
But.
It's not real. It's not real and she is not Sara and this is not fucking real it's not it's not it's not.
--reset--
The gunshot echoes.
--reset--
Once, he picks up his son, picks up the gun, and.
The reset's a half-second too slow and her shout drowns out the second shot.
--reset--
She catches up to him in the foyer and pulls on his shoulder, turning him round so that she can slug him in the face, her foot sweeping his out from under him before he can adjust his balance. He hits the ground hard, surprise (and something that might -- just might -- be shame) almost wiping the horror from his eyes.
"Simulation or not, don't you ever fucking make me watch that again," she hisses. "Sir."
She turns and walks up the stairs before he can do or say anything in response.
--reset--
She doesn't follow him.
For the first time, she doesn't follow him.
He doesn't look at her as he pulls away and takes the steps two at a time, disappearing inside the house. Alone on the bottom step, she listens to his footsteps fade, listens to the gunshot split the suburban quiet.
Getting to her feet, she walks away.
She walks down the drive and through the crowd, out into the street and down the block, down two blocks, tears blurring her vision, three blocks, one foot in front of the other, again and again, on and on and --
--reset--
She blinks as the simulation resets, his bicep warm under her palms and his mouth soft on her neck, her vision clearing and comprehension dawning. She tenses for his leap and is surprised when it doesn't immediately come. She starts to pull back.
His arms tighten around her, stopping her.
"Don't," he says, voice rough and low and broken. "Just --"
It's coming, she thinks. It's coming it's coming it's coming. "Sir --"
He makes a low noise, almost like a moan, and drops his head further until his face is pressed against the bare skin above her shirt collar. Holds her harder, closer, tighter.
"I can't, Carter," he whispers, shuddering, and she closes her eyes and clutches at his arm as best she can, wishing (oh god oh holy father son and spirit oh god) she could do something (anything). "I --"
He starts to cry.
The gunshot echoes.
Neither of them moves.
--reset--
At the end of the driveway, the Residents watch silently.
--reset--
* * * * *
The End.
FEEDBACK: Always appreciated. *g*