* * * * *
"It's a long way down, it's a long way down
It's a long way down to the place where we started from."
- Ice Cream, Sarah McLachlan (used without permission)
* * * * *
It's a small, dark space, quiet and almost contemplative. The lights are dim, respectful. The shadows are soft and discreet. The place has an aura about it that reeks of a hundred lives, a thousand actions, a billion words. This place is history; you can see it, smell it, sense it.
I can't help but wonder what would be said if these walls could speak. Rough, unadorned slabs of concrete laced with wires and pipes. What would they say? Would they tell of a hundred emergencies, when lights flashed, klaxons blared, and dutiful soldiers rushed for their posts? Would they narrate stories of tragedy, when all the technology in the world - and some OFF of it - couldn't bring some unfortunate soul back from the other side? Would they speak of Andromeda and the others, or would their tales be significantly more mundane? Would they even give up their secrets, or would they be just as reticent as, say, General Jack O'Neill? The man's a hero, and doesn't appreciate it one bit. Loved by thousands, and couldn't care less. Would this facility be the same, if it possessed the ability to communicate?
My sister says I went into the wrong business, that I should have been a writer rather than a doctor, that I have the imagination and creativity and general weirdness to spare. Medicine is a field of hard science and facts, and not much time for idle daydreaming, so maybe she's right. Maybe I should have pursued other paths, not simply the one that was spread out before me. 'The road less traveled' and all that jazz.
Today, however, I find that I have plenty of time to daydream. They called me from the Academy Hospital in urgent tones, whispering about the SGC and classification and secrets. Doctor Bayly and I hurried down, hearts pounding, minds full of thoughts of extra-terrestrial visitors - even MORE extra-terrestrial visitors - of fame and glory and the same notoriety that such ungrateful men as Jack O'Neill were blessed with. Instead, we find a handful of self-healing Tok'ra and one human woman.
She's not just ANY human woman, of course, and we all know her face and her name, which is why no one's being allowed near the phones or off the base. Colonel Samuels, who keeps an eye on things, grudgingly called the President and informed him of the situation, so any leaks that form are undoubtedly from that quarter.
For Carter's sake as well as our own sanity, I hope there aren't any leaks. When she isn't being known as Jack O'Neill's little 'thing', she's busy going down in history as a woman mankind is none too fond of. It comes more from their adoration of and sympathy for O'Neill than any real FACTS, of course. It comes from rumors and hearsay, random comments made at exactly the wrong time, picked up and carried off as actual truth. I should know.
I was working here, at the SGC, when it had all started. I'd been stationed as nothing more than an intern under Janet Frasier, who was notoriously overbearing and domineering when it came to her infirmary... but that was all right. I'd carved myself a niche, made friends, enjoyed the thought of working in a place that officially did not exist. I'd never figured on seeing much attention, or even being a part of Frasier's team. I was a twenty-six year old flunkey for the real white coats, and I'd resigned myself to that fact, simply intending to have fun.
And for a while, it WAS fun. The people at the SGC were family, I came to realize, just as close or maybe closer than my parents, my sisters, and I. They risked so much together, braved so much, sacrificed so much that they couldn't keep from becoming attached. Especially SG-1.
They were notorious... oh, for many things. Usually for ending up under Frasier's care an inordinate number of times, but also for staying alive. For getting in trouble, and getting out of it. When they argued, it bruised the entire base. When they made up, it made everyone, down to the most insignificant supernumerary, feel light. Though some of the other teams claimed to take offense, SG-1 really was the heart and soul of the project.
Why Carter left, I can't be certain. Everyone has their theories, and some of them have made a lot of money off those theories. I stay quiet; silent as the walls. If they won't give up their secrets, then neither will I. I was just a nobody, after all. Someone who really wasn't noticed all that much. A shadow in the background. An irritating obstacle that was always getting in the way. A greenhorn, a kid, not truly military and not all that civilian. As a result, I won't exploit the knowledge I gained over the years, won't speak of O'Neill and Carter, Jackson and Teal'c as though I knew them, because I didn't. Not really, not personally. But I still have my theories.
It was because of the Tok'ra.
The Tok'ra are perhaps one of the most controversial subjects of the entire conflict. Gou'ald, and yet not Gou'ald. Allies, but not exactly. Friendly enough, but also enigmatic enough that no one was ever sure of exactly where they stood. That's what I know about them, and it just doesn't add up. I never knew her - not really, not personally - but I can't figure out why Carter felt more comfortable with them then she did with her own people. Her own PLANET. I can't figure out why she left a team - and a MAN - who obviously cared for her.
Doctor Jeffery Bayly stands next to me, peering around the corner and through the fabric partition, same as me. His arms are crossed, and his face is full of strange wonder. "Julie?"
"Yeah?" I answer, keeping my voiced hushed.
"That's actually... them?"
I glance over and up at the man. Bayly never worked at the SGC, and doesn't know these people any better than anyone you might pick off the street. In fact, probably the only reason he was ordered here was his shear size and mass. He's a big man, a loud man, and though he was obviously able to scare off the blonde reporter a few minutes ago, it seems to not have worked with O'Neill. "That's them," I answer.
It's different for me; I can't help it. In a way I DO know these people; I worked with them, saw them on a fairly constant basis - usually after every mission. I have trouble looking at Jack O'Neill as a hero. I have trouble looking at Samantha Carter as a traitor. These are labels, just as I was labeled a doctor by my family and an amateur by other doctors. I'm just a person. O'Neill and Carter are just people.
I'm not totally immune to the situation. As O'Neill puts his arms around Carter, and she buries herself against him, and their bodies are wracked with sobs, I can feel a gentle quiver that informs me my heartstrings are being tugged upon. If there ever comes a day when such an encounter stirs nothing within me, well, I don't know what I'd do.
"God, I missed you," whimpers Carter, and with a teary half-smile playing on her face, the reporter back into the hallway. I have no idea who she is, and I should probably send security after her, but if her greatest crime is telling him that Carter had returned... well, to hell with her.
O'Neill cups the back of Carter's head with more tenderness than I can ever recall seeing the man exhibit, smoothing down her hair as he makes an visible effort to quell his own emotions. He doesn't answer verbally, but he gives a slight nod, one she's sure to notice, and hopefully understand.
I step back, away from the curtain, feeling my face flush as I realize my practically-voyeuristic actions. People, remember, Julie? Not characters in one of your soap-operas. Not made-up folks from one of your stories. People who have been put through hell, both together and apart, and now want nothing more than to revel in their reunion and bask in the afterglow. With a wave of my hand, I motion that Bayly should get on with things himself, and after a slight balk he moves away and out of the room.
Ignoring soft murmurings coming from around the corner, on the other side of the partition, I follow, taking the long way out of and around the infirmary. If nothing else, I need to find Colonel Samuels, and have the pleasure of informing him that one of his least-favorite people has ended up on base. And I WILL derive pleasure from it, make no mistake. No one around here is very fond of Colonel Sparky - a name I believe O'Neill originally termed - and we generally do whatever's possible to drive him towards early retirement. The man's a paradox: he was one of the staunchest supporters of the plan to shut down the SGC after the Gou'ald were defeated. At the same time, he skulks around Colorado Springs - especially NORAD - with nothing much to do but annoy the hell out of people. In my opinion, he wants the Stargate Program back up and running... but with HIM in charge. I'd give a lot to see that beautiful gray circle spin again, but if it's only with Sparky at the helm... forget it. Might as well bury the damn thing.
* * * * *
I exit out into the hallway and am about to head towards the elevator when the undertones of conversations catch my attention. It's not O'Neill and Carter, I reflect, following the sounds back towards the main infirmary entrance. For one, it's a whole lot more people...
I don't know why I'm so surprised to see doctors Daniel Jackson and Janet Frasier; this is becoming an all-out reunion anyway. I recognize the lone loitering officer, Simmons, chatting it up with the pretty blonde reporter, but I'm sure I've never seen the other man in my life: a young 'un with dark eyes and distinctly Hispanic features. "What the hell?"
All five of them turn to look at me, discussions trailing off immediately. Simmons identifies me at once and gives a little jump. I think I see a flicker of recognition in Jackson's eyes, but no more. "Doctor Frasier... what's going on?"
She narrows her eyes, unable to place me. I sigh, knowing I shouldn't be shocked that she never filed away my name, but hurt all the same. "Doctor Julie Piper," I remind her.
"Julie." Frasier smiles, and I'm forced to return the expression. "We heard about Sam."
"From who?"
The five look around guiltily.
"The grapevine," shrugs Simmons.
"My boss," says the reporter nonchalantly.
"Her," says Jackson and the young man at the same moment, both looking at Frasier
"Teal'c," answers Janet. "And he heard from the President."
"Wonderful," I mutter. "We're going to have a regular circus here in no time." Thankfully the Pandora Act requires us only to release official military documents, so the secret will be safe from the world at large for a while longer... but still. This world we live in is a lot smaller than it used to be, and a lot more connected. In no time flat it'll be public knowledge that Sam Carter is alive and back. Especially since... "And whose bright idea was it to tell Jack O'Neill?"
"Mine," the blonde says with a distinct air of self-importance. "Shannon Biggs, RSW Pub Co."
"A reporter. Great."
"I'm not going to tell anyone about this, if that's what you're insinuating," Biggs informs me hotly. "My boss called me and told me about what had happened because I was on my way to interview O'Neill. And I couldn't keep that from him." Out of the corner of my eye I can see Frasier nod almost imperceptibly.
"How did your boss find out?"
"Maybe you've got a leak?" Biggs suggests smugly. I send her a withering look.
Reporters.
"Hey... You know, this is all great, but we are really, really eager to see Sam," Jackson speaks up, both for himself and Frasier. The man is largely as I remember him: soft-spoken but passionate, cautious and intelligent. "Now... can we?"
I think of the Lieutenant Colonel and the General in the next room, and think that the least I can do is stall a bit for them. Not that Carter won't be happy to see her other friends, she just looked REALLY happy to see O'Neill. "She came through the Gate about six hours ago with a small group of Tok'ra. Now, the Tok'ra aren't talking and, well, we've all been advising Carter to watch what she says." Jackson and Frasier scowl. "She conked out a couple minutes after coming through, but Dr. Bayly and I are inclined to suspect extreme exhaustion rather than something serious, like concussion. We were able to set her up with a room down the hall and she took a nice little nap until... well, until O'Neill showed up."
I'm not sure the others notice my sudden confusion; if they do, I'm sure they don't think much of it. I have to wonder, though, how Carter had known O'Neill had arrived on the base? What were the coincidences of her just waking up moments after he had started harassing the staff?
Bayly, my parents, my sister, they all say that I have an overactive imagination. Which is why I'll never mention to them - or anyone else - certain theories I have about... certain things. Namely a planet fondly known as P2C-260. Even after all we've seen, some things probably will never be fully accepted... at least not when it comes to humans of this Earth. Precognitive reckoning, 'déjà future', telepathy - whatever you feel like calling it - is one of those things. O'Neill was less than responsive when I brought it up to him... and that was two years ago.
"You have no idea why there were Tok'ra with her?" asks Jackson, seeming nonplused by my pause.
"Isn't it obvious?" says the Hispanic kid. "She's been living with them since... what? '04? '05? Maybe they were just escorting her back or some jazz..."
"And you'd be who?" I ask, not rudely but not exactly with a mother's touch, either. Until Sparky gets his ass in line - thereby getting it HERE - I feel that it's only my duty to keep things under control. It's already past nuts with this reporter, Biggs, whose tape recorder is probably running, and Simmons, who shouldn't even be on this level, much less hanging around with a bunch of civilians. We don't need tourists compounding the problem. Are the security guys asleep or what?
"Jared Austin," he answers. "I'm a student at Cal State-"
"A tourist?"
He gives me a nasty look. "Not exactly, no."
"He's my aide," offers Jackson, the pitch of his voice rising. "Now can we see Sam?"
I open my mouth to answer, and then close it.
"Hi, Daniel."
The entire contingent turns as one again - it's starting to get creepy - and smile at Samantha Carter as she hangs nervously in the doorway. At first I wonder where O'Neill went, but as she moves out into the hallway, he follows, standing about a foot behind her but making no physical contact. I suppose I was expecting a hand on the shoulder, entwined fingers... something. What the hell had happened to the two desperately exhilarated people I'd watched clutch at each other not more than fifteen minutes ago? Where'd they gone?
I look on as Carter puts her arms around Jackson, and then Frasier, and then Simmons, and then back to Jackson. The doctor had, in a way, always been the brother she'd been cut off from for some time. Even after the family had made amends all around, she hadn't spent much time with her sibling; Jackson had, as far as I'd been able to tell, always been there as a kind of stand-in. How nice to have somebody like that, I reflect, though I'm not sure I'd ever want anyone standing in for one of my sisters. It's bad enough just having to deal with them.
As soon as Carter pulls away from Jackson the second time, the blonde reporter is right up in her face. "Lieutenant Colonel Carter?" She extends a hand. "Shannon Biggs. It's an honor, ma'am."
Jackson's aide hops right up next to her, though I'm certain he'd be more interested in a hug than a handshake. "Jared Austin, and ditto ma'am, it's an honor."
Carter shakes their hands, but looks confused.
I snort. Honor? Yeah, right. Until maybe a couple of hours ago, these two clowns were probably in the same bucket as all the other idiots who believe every tall tale they hear about the SGC. O'Neill and Carter had been having an affair. The Stargate had really been discovered by the French. There were actually TWO Stargates. Carter had betrayed humanity along with the Tok'ra. All pure fabrication.
Except for maybe that last one.
It's only then that Jackson and Frasier notice O'Neill, standing very quiet and meek behind Carter, probably wishing he could somehow blink his way back into his fairy-princess tower in Denver. The man's a recluse, a modern-day hermit, after all; I'm quite certain he'd rather be back home.
With Carter, of course.
"Hi, Jack," says Daniel blandly.
"General," greets Frasier softly; it doesn't seem to matter to her that he's long retired.
"Hi," replies Jack stiffly.
Austin looks at Biggs who looks at Simmons who looks at me. We're the outsiders here, and boy, do we know it. Doesn't matter that I sorta know these people - KNEW these people - and that this is more my base than it is theirs... I was a nobody to them and I still am. With a grunt, I motion that we move away a bit and provide them with all the privacy you can find in a hallway. It ain't much, but hopefully they'll take it.
"I'm sure you're all enjoying this very much," I reprove Biggs and Austin as soon as we're out of earshot. "But this is a military base and-"
"I don't know," Biggs interrupts, in a rather smarmy tone, I think. "You put together the Pandora Act and freedom of the press and that just about covers it."
"Please," I beg dryly, giving her my 'do I look like an idiot?' expression. "I know the laws. And even if you had a 'right' to be here, Mr. Austin does not. In fact, as soon as Colonel Spark... Colonel SAMUELS gets here, the both of you are going to be removed from the premises.
Simmons says nothing, simply rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.
"Fine," replies Biggs. "Toss us out. While you're at it, could you call us a cab? We don't have to go far... I think the headquarters of Channel 7 News is about five miles away."
"You wouldn't."
"Oh, but I would."
"You'd only end up hurting Carter."
"Yeah, but it'd piss the hell out of you too, wouldn't it?"
I look at Austin. He shrugs. Moron.
* * * * *
Samuels is still AWOL when the next act of the freak show arrives. Not that I don't have a healthy respect for Teal'c; out of the four of them, he's the most tolerable. Not saying much, but at least he was never a whiner... and he didn't get injured half and often as the rest of his team.
Jackson, O'Neill, Carter and Frasier had moved back into the infirmary so that they could sit as they talked; Carter was still weak from fatigue. Simmons and Biggs had returned to their conversation. Austin had his hands jammed in his pockets and was wandering up and down the hallway, occasionally trying to sneak a peak into the infirmary. I stood nearby, knowing I should run and get Sparky but uneasy abandoning my role as baby-sitter.
I lean against the wall, and simply happen to glance down the corridor to the elevator when I see him emerge.
It's been almost a decade since the Stargate program was initialized, but to my trained eye it seems he's barely aged a day. His shoulders are still massive, his eyes dark and penetrating, his skin smooth and perfect, and his bearing majestic. The only thing that's changed is the costume. Like the others, he's turned in his BDUs for civilian wear, but clothing of a different type. Not O'Neill's jeans and leather jacket, not Jackson's button-down and slacks, not Frasier's modest blouse and skirt, and certainly not Carter's simple brown tunic and coat - standard Tok'ra-wear. No, Teal'c stands tall in a tasteful suit, crisp white shirt, and tactful tie. The gold watch chain hanging from his pocket matches the tattoo on his head, and his black shoes are just as shiny as his scalp.
The first time I saw Teal'c like this was on the evening news, and I laughed and laughed until my roommate thought there was something seriously wrong with me. Teal'c in a suit, all doled up in his spiffy apparel... it was absolutely absurd. Unthinkable. He was a damned Jaffa, not a politician.
Except that was exactly what he was.
"Senator," I greeted in my most respectful voice. Simmons nodded courteously to him. Biggs and Austin stared unabashedly.
"Doctor Piper," he says in that wonderful, tranquil, bass voice. I smile; at least someone remembers my name. "Are my teammates on the base?"
"In the infirmary, Senator," I tell him, nodding in the correct direction and then kicking myself. Of course Teal'c knows where the infirmary is; he's certainly been there enough times, visiting his colleagues or getting himself patched up.
Teal'c looks towards the door, and I'm sure it's not my imagination; he's hesitating. "Is the Colonel well?"
I stare at him, puzzled, and then blink away my confusion as it becomes clear. During most of the time I had worked at the SGC, O'Neill had been the Colonel, but then both her and Carter had been promoted right before it all started. That made Carter a Lieutenant Colonel, but no one wanted to bother stumbling over the seven syllables of her full title and name, so Carter become the Colonel, and O'Neill the General. Funny that I would forget something like that, I muse, but there you have it. "She was exhausted, but otherwise fine." I shrug, glancing over at Biggs and Austin.. "Better then she'll be when news of this gets out. We've already got some kind of leak."
"I understand," says the Senator, hardly giving the younger people a second look before marching down the corridor and around the corner, where his old teammates and friends await him.
And what else awaits him... what awaits all of them?
Carter will undoubtedly be the crux of it all. She's the one that people don't like, don't trust... don't know. But her friends DO like and trust and know her, and they will without a doubt stand beside her through the hell that's sure to follow close on the heels of this event. The cost won't count to them; I could see it in the set of Teal'c's shoulders, in Jackson's tight lips, in the way Frasier held her head, and in the vigilant glitter of Jack O'Neill's eyes. And yet it WOULD cost them. It would cost them public support and adoration, the high regard and affection of many. O'Neill wouldn't mind surrendering any of this, but the others had more to lose. Teal'c especially.
And yet they WOULD stand beside her, even knowing the risks and the cumbersome way in which they outnumbered the benefits. THAT is why SG-1 was known as the heart and soul of the Stargate program. Not because they were famously infamous. Not because they were General Hammond's favorites. Because they were always THERE. For each other, for others, to act as a leaning post, a battering ram, or a dose of cold, hard reality. Although the SGC is no more, SG-1 still - in a way - is. And Janet Frasier with them.
I sneak a peak at the reporter, and find herself looking after Teal'c with an oddly pensive expression. "That's why everyone loves them," she murmurs, and I wonder for a moment if I'm being visited by telepathy myself. "They love each other. Maybe not physical or sexual love-"
"Wouldn't be surprised," interjects Austin.
"But they do love each other. They'd do just about anything for each other."
"Some more than others," Jackson's aide comments.
Silence ensues.
"I should get going," Simmons finally stutters; the man gained some self-confidence once he was away from O'Neill, but not a whole hell of a lot. "My shift starts in a couple minutes."
"You have my email, right?" asks Biggs sweetly. Simmons manages to blush, nod, pat his front shirt pocket significantly, and stumble over his own feet, all at the same time. Amazing man, I think, refusing to give into the urge to grin and favoring the captain with a glare instead. Fraternizing with the media, are we, officer?
And then there were three.
Biggs slides down the wall into a sitting position. Austin silently squats next to her. They obviously aren't planning to go anywhere; Sparky will LOVE this.
It's a bit of an anti-climax, I think, leaning again the cold wall with a frustrated little sigh. SG-1 reunited, and then what? A powerful hug, a teary welcome, an all-in-all curious reaction for a group of people who not only have been out of contact for years, but who also had some critical issues to work out even before they lost touch. They are a team with serious obstacles, I realize, overactive imagination spinning into overdrive. We know so much about them, but there are certainly a million more things to know. Maybe some we'd like to find out. Maybe others should rest in peace in the minds they already trouble.
A team with history; in that aspect, not unlike the base they called second home for a good number of years. I rest my head against the cool concrete and scrutinize the wall closely. If it could speak, would it tell of Andromeda, of the excitement and tragedy, triumph and death? The blood and the cusses, tears, sweat, and saliva? Or would they instead tell us of awkward moments such of these, when so much goes unsaid, understood only by simpler messages sent on subtle undercurrents that only a select few recognize? Therein lies the true battle. Momentous occasions, or soon-forgotten incidents? Which one is more important to us? Which one SHOULD be more important?
Now there are three, and the tumult of the past hour or so seems to collapse back in on itself like a folding chair, creasing back into dimness and silence. It's different, though. No longer is there the sense that important things have been done here. No longer does this place seem like a closed vault or perfectly aged bottle of wine. History was not simply ONCE made here.
It will be made here again.
* * * * *
Got feedback?
Story Notes: TITLE: The Afterglow
AUTHOR: Alli (alli@ecis.com)
RATING: PG (language)
CATEGORY: Angst, future story
ARCHIVE: SJA and Heliopolis. Other please email me.
SPOILERS: none
1. The Assignment
2. The Aide
3. The Afterglow
AUTHOR: Alli (alli@ecis.com)
RATING: PG (language)
CATEGORY: Angst, future story
ARCHIVE: SJA and Heliopolis. Other please email me.
SPOILERS: none
1. The Assignment
2. The Aide
3. The Afterglow
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 ]