* Sam *
There's always been something unspoken between my C.O. and I. I'm not sure of the exact reason. Maybe it's the very nature of words: so easy to remember, so simple to understand, so defined in their meaning. The catching of an eye, the brushing of a arm, a smile at a strange time or a pause at an odd moment... that's what I got from him, all I got from him, and all I gave him. Motions, gestures, slights of hand. Things that could be missed, misinterpreted, misunderstood. Things that weren't so concrete, so cemented in their intent.
Silent communication is a useful skill to share with another in the military, where so much has to be done IN silence, in stealth. Whether that trait served to intensify our off-duty relations, or the surprising ease we found in each other surfaced even in battle, I've never really decided. It's never mattered, before. But now, suddenly, it does. Every part of myself that I shared with him, every part of him that I know, the validity of our connection, has suddenly been called into question.
I tell myself that I'm overreacting, but the hard neon lights reflecting off the lemon-scented floors all but paint me a liar. Again and again, I go over the fact that he didn't tell anyone, not Daniel or Janet or Teal'c. It wasn't as though his condition was a secret he kept from me and me alone... it wasn't something he even thought to be concerned about. But the fact remains: I feel disconnected from him. And facts are like words. They're hard to misconstrue.
It's not so much that I'm asking myself, "Why didn't he tell me?".. Jack O'Neill doesn't tell me plenty of things. Still, I know them. There's a lot we never discuss. Yet, we have an understanding about them. There's a universe of things we've never said or done. We've thought about them, however, and in our world, that's what counts.
In the real world, what counts is what's said. An unfortunate fact.
I'm not wondering why he didn't tell me. I'm wondering why I didn't know anyway.
* Daniel *
I've taken to watching Sam pace; it's really the only interesting thing going on at this hour, and I need something to interest me. Need it badly.
She's an impressive pacer. The same number of steps every single time.. Five steps away, five steps back, five and five, rapidly and with intensity. Ten steps and a turn takes only eight or nine seconds, and she's been at it for half an hour, if not longer. And then there's the fact that each round she makes is exactly the same length. I can monitor it against the tiled floor; she makes her turns at the same place every single time.
At four a.m., with a belly full of coffee and half a pot of caffeine percolating in my veins, it's just about astounding. Is she doing it on purpose? By chance? Does she realize how rhythmic she is, like a boat on the ocean, swelling tides buffeting the craft up and down, up and down, up and...
I blink myself awake, run a hand across my mouth, and wish fervently for a toothbrush. It's an awfully selfish wish, of course. If I actually had the power to create my will, or a genie in a convenient brass lamp, I'd have much more noble inclinations.
The measure of Sam's pacing increases. Her arms are crossed over her chest, barring herself from any more pain, keeping what's inside firmly there.
Janet sits to one side of me, and Teal'c to the other, all three of us in uncomfortable molded plastic chairs, pushed against the wall as though awaiting our firing squad. We're a sorry bunch, eyes cast to the glaring linoleum as much with worry as with exhaustion. The door, THE DOOR, is scant feet away, just across the narrow hall, and every now and then I hear the faint murmur of voices through metal. Male voices, subdued. One: the on-call doctor. The other: the oncologist.
* Janet *
Part of me wishes that I was in there. I AM Jack's physician, after all, and technically I COULD demand to be a part of the discussion behind that closed door. It's the other part that keeps me out here, the selfish part. The sliver of myself that doesn't want to hear the news, and will do whatever's necessary to avoid it until the last possible moment.
As a doctor, I've imparted plenty of unhappy tidings. It comes with the territory. When you're in a constant battle with Death, you're destined to lose at least once in a while, destined to divulge sad news to those who'd rather not hear it. It'd been a terrible skill to learn: how to tell someone that a loved one has died, or is sick, or injured, and to stand back and see that look of utter hopelessness steal over their features. It had been hard, but this is even harder. Sitting here and feeling the hopelessness, the preemptive, reactionary despair I've seen so often and on so many faces. It's no more fun on this side of the fence.
I share the guilt that comes with this kind of upheaval, and no small part of the blame is mine. It's SOP - Standard Operating Procedure - in the SGC, now that the tissue in the back of the throat is considered an entry point for Gou'ald infestation. As surely as I'd run those ultrasounds, I'd shone my little flashlight down the throat of every person who walked through that Stargate, SG1 included. JACK included. And yet somehow I'd missed it. Somehow I... I hadn't seen. The fact that the growth was gradual is no comfort at all, no excuse, because I had missed it and I had screwed up and now... and now if SOP hadn’t failed, if I had...
Hot tears prick behind my eyes. I will them to stay there, out of sight, out of notice, to drain back down into my nasal passages.
Sam paces to and fro before us, her shoes slapping the tile, the rubber soles squeaking as she pivots. She was the last one called, the furthest away, but the first one here. When I arrived, she was already at it, marching up and down the hallway single-mindedly, as though she had come here with this express purpose. She hadn't seen the Colonel yet, hadn't talked to the doctor yet, and none of the nurses on staff could or would tell her anything. From the irritated glances the men and women in white shoot at the Major, I can well imagine how displeased she'd been at their obstinacy.
Sam's eyes are hooded, downcast, focused on the too-clean floor or her folded arms, but the thoughts playing behind them are no secret to me; her skull is as transparent as any Nick Ballard ever found. She's thinking of her father, of his own battle with cancer, a battle almost lost, that WOULD have been lost if not for the convenient necessity of the Tok'ra. She's already prepared herself for the worse possible news, is planning for it, is wondering if O'Neill will take the same route as General Carter. Which he won't, I know with absolute certainty. She knows it too, but right now, it's virtually all she has to cling to.
I'd gotten the call shortly after midnight, at the base; SG-7 had returned half a day early, one of them with a broken leg that needed to be set immediately. I'd no sooner sent the hapless Captain to spend the night in the infirmary, and considered doing the same, considering the hour, when one of the internal lines had rang. A call patched through from the SGC switchboard, approved by the General... concerning Jack.
Teal'c, as was usually the case, was on base as well; I'd relayed a message through a series of airmen for him to meet me at my car, and as soon I was clear of NORAD used my cell phone to reach the other two at home, in bed. In our line of work, a late-night call isn't an inconvenience -- it's a warning.
So Jack had made passing mentions of a sore throat for a couple days... so his voice had been a little hoarse. He hadn't seemed to be unduly upset by it, and even seemed to enjoy jokes at the cost of his raspy voice. I hadn't thought much of it, at least not after running a quick ultrasound. It was true, his larynx, his voice box, was a bit swollen: a key sign of impending bacterial, viral, or common-variety laryngitis. The man certain ran his mouth enough.
Coupled with the fact the Colonel had also been feeling rather run down since the 593 mission last week, I'd ordered medical downtime with his promise to go home, rest his voice, and stay away from the Budweiser until the inflammation cleared up. Classic signs of laryngitis, I remember thinking, dismissively. A hoarse voice from swollen vocal cords. A generally run-down feeling and a mild cough indicative of an accompanying flu. A couple days of bed rest and the scratchiness would be gone, he'd be back at the base, and SG1 could get back to doing what they did best: ending up under my care again.
Now I have to wonder if those good old days would ever come again.
* Jack *
It's macabre. I'm sitting on a thinly-padded hospital bed, dressed in a thinly-woven hospital gown, rendered nearly mute, reduced to hand signals and messages scrawled on a legal pad, watching helplessly as two white-coated, antiseptic-scented M.D.s volleyed my future back in forth in front of me... and all I can think is: "Apophis would find this SO funny."
It's weird. When one's life consists of dodging bullets and staff weapon blasts, one stops considering simple human disease an immediate threat to one's life. Especially cancer. Cancer was for old people, like my mom, like Carter's dad. Not ME. I'm not old. Well, not THAT old.
When I'd started loosing my voice, it had been more of a joke than anything. Daniel insisted on making puberty jokes. Sam sweetly speculated that a higher power was trying to give me a hint to shut up. The sore throat was no biggy, especially after a couple aspirin. I'd endured far worse.
The medical axe fell when I interrupted a post-mission briefing with a nasty cough, and eventually fell asleep in the middle of the meeting. Yeah, I had a cold, so what? They couldn't possibly indicate anything more disastrous than couldn't be mended with a little bed rest.
But only the day after Frasier had sent me home with a series of admonitions, I'd discovered something that greatly disturbed me: my voice was nearly GONE. Not just a little hoarse, not merely embarrassingly scratchy. All that remained was a truly pathetic squeak, a slight whisper in my throat. Wait it out, I'd told myself.
And I had. Until my breathing started to be noticeably impaired. Yeah, that did it. I drew the line when I had trouble sucking down oxygen.
I'd wanted to call Janet, or Daniel, or Sam, or someone on base; I WAS scared. Scared to be alone here, scared of what was going on, now that it seemed a lot more harmful then a little cold. But - and this is where I really humiliated myself - I was also scared of my friends. Of looking stupid in front of them, gaping like a fish, forced to tap out SOS over the phone line or leave some pathetic 'help me' message on their beepers. I was a grown man, I'd told myself, climbing into the car. I could take care of this myself.
Now, these two stuffed-shirt duckies are sitting here and telling me something that I emphatically do not want to hear: judging by what they saw when they rammed a tube down my windpipe, there's some kind of... disgusting... growth down there.
They throw terms and treatments at me like I'll actually UNDERSTAND half of it. Apparently, they took a chunk out of the thing when they had me on the table earlier, a biopsy, and they'll use that to figure out what kind of tumor it is.
Tumor... that's an ugly word.
It could be benign, they tell me, which means it stays put. Then again, it could just as easily be malignant, and spread through my body, and do things to it I'm not willing to consider just yet.
"I really can't tell you either way," says the oncologist, a man with glasses so massive and lenses so thick that his magnified eyes fill up the entire frame. "Until recently, you've told us, you were a smoker. That can cause malignant tumors to form. Not to mention that your discomfort has been growing, and you've been feeling tired lately. That could indicate that the cancer has spread and developed secondary sites. On the other hand-" he lifted a palm, as though he held the answers in his hand "-you've also told us that you're a... verbally active man, Mr. O'Neill, which could create a benign tumor, and your fatigue could be just that: exhaustion or maybe a slight cold."
I nod mutely. That's what I am now. A mute. A mime. I shudder.
"If you're worried about your voice," says the on-call physician, a stout man a head shorter and a shade balder than the oncologist, "Don't. From what we've seen... well, it probably feels worse than it is. Statistically speaking, 99% of the time all or part of the larynx is saved. You'll be able to talk again."
"Statistically speaking," I mouth. Both men shrug.
The physician mutters something to his counterpart about a head trauma in the ER, goes to the door, opens it, stops, and looks back at me. "There's some people out here," he begins, and I straighten. "Family?"
Knowing who it has to be, I nod emphatically, remembering a second too late that I'm practically naked here.
"If you say so," whistles the doctor, passing over the threshold and beckoning whoever's taken root outside. I almost smile. Daniel and Sam look like they could possibly be related, but none of my friends bare the slightest resemblance to me, least of all Teal'c.
He's there, of course, and Daniel and Carter and even Janet, with brave faces but worried eyes. Sam's the worst. Her face is an impenetrable mask, her confident smile is nearly believable, but her hands are shaking. She shoves them into her pants pockets. Daniel makes a beeline for the bed, face alight with questions and concerns, and Teal'c follows, brow furrowed. I dredge up a pitiful grin, casting them a little wave. I feel... disconnected. Them in their street clothes and me in this... this smock. Them with their health and me without mine. Damn if I don't feel... dirty.
Janet and the oncologist launch into a rapid-fire discussion, during which Frasier demands knowledge of endoscopic examinations, papillomas, polyps, and metastases, and the wide-eyes man repeats that he has to wait for the results of the biopsy. I can feel Sam's eyes on me the entire time. Is she seeing Jacob sitting here? Is she seeing me in Jacob's old place in a few very months?
When I finally get the courage to glance up at her, when I'm able to shut out the jargon-laced conversation and forget about the other two for a second, the wealth of emotion in Sam's face catches me off guard. Her eyes meet mine dead-on, almost hungrily, and I realize my gaze is eager as well. It's the first time I've really talked to somebody in hours.
Grinding my teeth together, I summon a blast of irritation and rudely snap my fingers together, loud enough to break up the doctoral discussion, sharp enough to cause Danny to nearly fall off the bed. Glaring, I motion to him, Teal'c, Frasier, and the doctor, and then nod to the door. I gesture to Sam and to the floor, insistently, indicating that she remain right here. 'You go, she stays.'
The oncologist pauses, glances at Carter out of the corner of his frames, and then gives a relenting nod. "The biopsy results should be back soon, Mr. O'Neill, Mrs. O'Neill," he reminds us, and then backs out of the room. The others follow, less willingly. Finally, though, I'm alone with Sam, which is what I really wanted since trying my voice and finding it MIA, all those hours ago.
"That was embarrassing," murmurs Carter, taking a few steps closer to my bedside. Of course, it's only bothering her that the doctor decided so quickly that we're 'together'.
"Embarrassing?" I mouth, looking down on myself, at the threadbare hospital garment. Sam smiles, genuinely this time.
Tentatively, but with an odd air of confidence, she perches on the edge of the bed. I'm not tucked in or anything; my bare legs hang over the side, next to hers.
The Major bites her lip, staring at the floor for a few long seconds before looking back to me. "Is your voice going to come back?" she asks, an almost childish tremor in her words.
I show her my crossed fingers.
"Yeah, I hope so too," she replies. "I mean..."
I wrinkle my nose and shrug: 'It's okay... words are overrated'.
The corners of her eyes crinkle. "Yeah, we can still have a pretty good conversation anyway, right?"
I nod: 'Right'.
Her bravado fails. "But if it's cancer..."
I swallow nervously. Ow.
Sam winces at my expression. "Sorry."
I frown. 'What for?'
"That's not what you want to hear right now." She licks her lips tensely. "The worst case scenario. I should be telling you that... that this is nothing, that it's all going to work out."
I snort. At least THAT still works. 'Come on, I can take bad news.'
"You're a grown man," she appears to agree. "Maybe it's just me... I don't want to think about... about what it could be..."
I hunch my shoulders and nod. 'You aren't the only one.'
"Is there a history? In your family?"
Nod: 'Yes.'
"Me too. But... you knew that." She laughs apprehensively. "I keep wondering... if I ever found myself in the same position as Dad, if that was ever ME, if I would do what he did. If I'd be brave enough to make that decision."
I send a gentle scoff her way. 'Who says that's bravery? Maybe the brave thing is do deal with the disease the old fashioned way.' I hesitate. 'Not that your dad's not a brave man, I'm just saying...'
That wins another smile out of her. "Oh, I know, I'm just..." She trails off, and stares at me. "That's so weird," she all but whispers.
My brows knit. 'What is?'
"I know..." She stumbles over the words. "I know exactly what you're saying to me... just by your eyes and your..."
Really? Is it that easy? I'm suddenly elated, realizing that we HAVE been having a conversation; I feel like a kid who's just come up with his own language. Does this... inability to speak have its own perks? Are words, like I assured her earlier, overrated? Unnecessary?
Let's find out.
"...but I want to hear you talk again," Carter rushed on, her cheeks burning, beautifully hued by a flustered blush. I grin. "I want to..."
I touch her leg. She jumps, color rising in her face, eyes as wide as the oncologist's.
'I love you.'
The flush drains from her cheeks like watercolor from parchment. "What?" she whispers, as though I actually SAID it, as though it was something I could SAY again. I can't.
But I can repeat it. The hand on her leg goes to her pale face, skims across the soft skin. 'I love you, Sam.'
Muteness is extremely liberating. All of a sudden, I'm telling her something I barely recognized, something I tried to ignore, something I can't begin to imagine myself putting words to. But I don't have to. I can tell her without saying so. I can tell her how I always do, because I'm always saying it to her, saying without speaking, talking without voice, in a million ways, every time we see each other, every time we watch each other, every time we make eye contact. On base, off world, it doesn't make any difference. Every time I see her or touch her or hear her, I'm telling her I love her, without words, with something more than words. Only this time, she actually understands what I'm saying.
'I'm in love with you.'
'Me too,' she says, and then with a heady rush I understand that she didn't, her mouth never opened, she never said anything, not verbally. But she told me, just the same, how she feels.
--
The End
Alli *gags over sappiness* Excuse me... I think I'm going to go write a character death... anything to get this taste out of my mouth... blach...
Welcome to my Insanity: http://www.geocities.com/rainrobinson/
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AIM SN: UST Calliope
Story Notes: Unspoken 05: alli@ecis.com
Spoilers: Tok'ra I&II
Series Info: "Unspoken" consists of "Actions", "A Game", "No One But Themselves", "What She Doesn't Say", and, now, "More Than Words" It's not necessary to read the other stories to understand this one, but... it couldn't hurt.
Archive: Heliopolis and Sam&Jack, others please tell me where you're putting it.
Spoilers: Tok'ra I&II
Series Info: "Unspoken" consists of "Actions", "A Game", "No One But Themselves", "What She Doesn't Say", and, now, "More Than Words" It's not necessary to read the other stories to understand this one, but... it couldn't hurt.
Archive: Heliopolis and Sam&Jack, others please tell me where you're putting it.
DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc, are the property of their respective owners. Any original characters and plots are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended. ... [ read more ]