Scotch, when contemplated long enough, takes on a silvery hue.
It sounds nuts, but it's true. That sparkling surface--a pale, golden pool--slides swiftly past the first sensation on the front of the tongue, caresses the hollow of the cheek, and settles pleasantly at the back of the throat before relinquishing the mouth altogether. Its smooth fluidity is transformed, eventually, to a solidity which makes it deceptively hearty. Who needs a meal? Have another drink. By the time you realize that it has been--how many hours? not enough--so long since you recalled why you started drinking in the first place, the alcohol has become liquid metal, a mineral fluid blissfully embalming the senses. Scotch has become, in a word, silvery.
Then why, God damn it, could he still remember? Why wasn't this damned liquid fire blotting out the memory of Sam's terrified eyes as she saw his hands, drenched in her blood?
"Colonel O'Neill?"
Jack abandoned his contemplation of the Scotch in response to his superior's greeting. It was not as if he and General George Hammond had ever stood much on ceremony; it was just as well, because O'Neill was not certain that he could manage a salute at the moment.
"May I join you, Colonel?" Again, Hammond did not wait for a reply, but pulled a chair out from the table and, straddling it, sat across from O'Neill. The sight of the portly man decked out with a multitude of military ribbons, practically lounging across from him was enough to make O'Neill bite back a laugh.
The junior officer registered the casual invitation in Hammond's stance, and took advantage of it. "You must have a real nose for booze, if you don't mind my saying so, sir. I didn't think that anyone could find me down here." Did his superior hear the bitter edge, or was it masked enough to avoid charges of insubordination? If he had buried himself so deep in the bowels of their mountain headquarters that neither Daniel nor Teal'c would find him, why had Hammond turned up on his doorstep?
The older man appropriated a glass and poured, enjoying a healthy swig of the liquid before answering. "I'm more of a beer man, myself. But that's a fine bottle of Scotch you're wasting there, son." His expression was mild as he continued, "I understand that Captain Carter will be just fine."
Jack ignored the observation. "Scotch isn't wasted if it's drunk. But if it's drunk, you're wasted."
It was a joke at which only Sam would have laughed. He pushed that thought away irritably.
"Very profound." Hammond took another swallow, draining his glass. He refilled it before speaking again. "That was a tough mission, Colonel. Good job."
O'Neill nodded. "Well then, here's to SG-1." He drank. "Only one near-fatal casualty this time: our record is just spiffy."
"Hm." Hammond's grunt was noncommittal. Finally he leaned forward a little on the chair. "The Stargate missions are grueling. Maybe you need some time off."
"With all due respect, sir, I don't need leave. I need...." Jack swallowed, wishing that the sour taste in his mouth would wash away. He had tried to staunch the blood flowing from Carter's side, dragging her through the Stargate with him in a tight hug. When they had landed on the platform, released from the grip of the Gate's blinding tunnel, she was leaning so heavily against him that he nearly lost his balance and sent them both sprawling. Only her hand, pressed fiercely on top of his at the wound, steadied him.
"I need my people to be safe," he finished.
Hammond drank slowly, savoring the alcohol now. "Jack, every time a team steps through the Stargate, I feel the same way." He closed his eyes for a moment. "I don't like sending anybody to do a job that I haven't done myself." When he opened his eyes again, he fixed O'Neill with a piercing look. "But there's no room for hesitation in this, or any, command."
The glass was too warm in his hand, and Jack pushed it away. "No sir. And we don't hesitate. We walk gleefully into every dangerous situation. That's our job."
Hammond slammed down his glass, jolting the table between them. "Feeling sorry for yourself, Jack?" The general watched O'Neill bristle at the comment, and nodded in satisfaction. "You do it, then. Drink your Scotch. Wallow in guilt. But you damned well better get it all out right here, right now. Because if you walk into the control room with this attitude, you're signing everybody's death warrant, not just your own." Then, with deliberate care, he picked up the bottle and topped off the colonel's glass. "Kawalsky's death wasn't your fault."
Did his hand shake as he picked up the drink? "No, it wasn't," O'Neill agreed, his anger at Hammond's outburst subsiding. "I know that." And, he could admit only to himself, his superior was right on all counts. Why else had he crawled into this hole, except to lick his wounds? Charlie, Skaara, Daniel how many times?--and now, Carter. He pushed past the thought. "It's been a while since Kawalsky...died. I've made my peace with it."
If Hammond doubted him, he didn't voice it. "Then I suggest that you finish your drink, and go see Captain Carter in the infirmary. I understand from Doctor Fraiser that she feels guilty about bleeding on your uniform."
The general wasn't much on jokes; Jack raised his glass in tribute. After he had sipped from it, however, he hesitated. "Maybe I'll get some sleep first."
"You'll sleep better once you've seen her," Hammond answered firmly. "Unless you're trying to tell me that you have lingering doubts about Carter's place on your team."
O'Neill shook his head. "No. For a scientist, she's not half bad." His smile took the sting from it.
"Good." Hammond drained his glass, then fixed O'Neill with what Jack had often privately called his 'Steely-Eyed Missile Man' look. "Caring leads to hesitation, Jack. But frankly, if you didn't care--I'd kick your ass out of SGC so fast your head wouldn't catch up." He pushed himself up from the table and pivoted towards the door. In the doorway, however, he paused. "It's hard to watch the people you care about suffer. I know."
Before O'Neill could reply, he was gone.
Jack stared, unseeing, at the glass for a long moment. Finally, he shook himself out of the reverie and pulled himself up. His muscles were stiff: sore from the hurly-burly of the mission gone awry, protesting from too long spent in the uncomfortable chair while he nursed the bottle.
Maneuvering the endless hallways of Stargate Command was, at this point in the evening, an adventure worthy of the crack commander of SG-1. Or at least, that's what he kept telling himself during the long trip. He breathed a sigh of relief when he made it to the infirmary without tripping over an airman or--worse yet--Daniel or Teal'c.
The lights were dim. He could see Janet Fraiser working in her office, the small glare of her desk lamp the brightest reflection in the room. She looked up as he walked in, but through the glass which separated them, she simply gave him a small smile and a nod of her head towards the only occupied pallet.
The light beside Sam Carter's bed was not on. Jack sat down quietly, hoping not to wake her. Even in the dim light of the infirmary, he could see the gentle curve of her cheek, the stray amber strand of hair across her forehead.
Christ, he was acting like a lovelorn teenager.
He leaned back in the chair and sighed quietly, his eyes closed. What the hell was he doing here? More importantly, what had driven him to the bottle hours ago? He was not sure that he wanted to know the answer.
"Colonel?"
Her eyes were open, had been for how long? "Captain," he acknowledged. "I'll be sending you my dry cleaning bill."
Sam smiled, as he had known she would.
"Sorry about that, sir." Her face was pale, but her eyes bright. "I'll try to bleed on Daniel next time."
"Do that." He leaned forward a little, hands on his knees. "How are you feeling?"
Carter shrugged, then winced as the movement strained the stitches at her side. "Bikinis are out, for the near future. But who has time for sunbathing anyway?"
That was *not* the image that he needed at the moment. "I'll be sure to request only cold, frozen planets for our next assignments," O'Neill suggested.
She grinned again, but this time it turned into a yawn. "Sorry. It's not that I don't find your company captivating, but Doc loaded me up with every drug known to man." Sam grimaced a little as she tried to get comfortable on the hard pallet. O'Neill waited a moment for her to settle, but then, as he made a move to go, she closed her eyes. "Colonel?"
He paused, halfway to pushing himself up from the chair.
"Thanks for coming down to see me." Her eyes were still closed, as if she expected him to depart without further comment, but he sank back down into the chair. The golden blonde of her hair reminded him of the amber alcohol with which he had tried to drown his memory. Abruptly, Jack recalled the general's face as he said those parting words--it's hard to watch the people you care about suffer.
Sometimes, he reflected, it's even harder to care.
"You're welcome, Captain." O'Neill stretched out his legs, resting them under her bed. With his arms folded across his chest, he leaned back. "Get some sleep."
She did not open her eyes, but the smile had returned to her lips. It was the last thing that Jack recalled before he slipped into dreams.
*end*
Story Notes: Thanks to Siobhan, Kelly, and Ness for the suggestions, comments, and ego-patting.
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 ]