Bad Day

 

By

 

moon_n_star

 

 

 

 

******

 

Jack O’Neill loved his job. 

 

Heck, who wouldn’t love hopping from planet to planet, traveling across – or was that through – galaxies?  Who wouldn’t dream of being able to look up at the stars and honestly be able to say, if only to himself, “I’ve been there?”

 

Of course, skipping across the cosmos wasn’t all fun and glory.  He’d been shot at more times than he could remember (was it just him, or did the Jaffa have a soft spot for SG1).  The words “bow before your god” were so beyond old they bordered on cliché.  And he spent more time in the infirmary than he did at his cabin. 

 

But, in spite of all that, he still knew how lucky he was, how fortunate to be among the precious few that actually looked forward to punching in every day.  That even when someone (earth-saving intelligence or not, stealing his dog was downright criminal) or some*thing* (what did the Asguard classify as, anyway) interrupted his not often enough downtime, despite his show of protest, he really didn’t mind. 

 

Jack O’Neill made no bone about it – it was the best-damned gig on the planet.

 

And yet, even this job, as real as it was fantastic, had its bad days.  Except, instead of a rude customer or a lost sale, his bad day usually meant someone, be it under his command or not, lost their life.  Sometimes, it was more than one.  Sometimes, it was a person he considered a friend, a person he respected, someone he looked upon as family. 

 

Fortunately, the good days outweighed the bad – hell, he’d even saved the world a couple of times.  But, although they were gone, they were never forgotten, their courage and honor an inspiration to all that fought the good fight. 

 

He never dwelled on it, not consciously anyway; for, no matter how harsh it sounded, it was just that – a bad day.  The stargate was like any other rollercoaster – you had to ride both the ups and the downs.  And regardless of how low the downs went, if you didn’t jump right back on it, you never would.

 

He’d tell himself that when this was all over; when SG1, *all* of them, had returned safely through the stargate, he’d recite those words – the wisdom born from years of training, from years of loss – over and over until he convinced even himself that all would be okay.  They’d been here before, stuck between the proverbial rock and a hard place; battling the impossible was what SG1 did.  They excelled at the unachievable, thrived on its challenge.  They didn’t underestimate it, never laughed in its face; but, through half amazing skill and half amazing luck, emerged victorious nonetheless.   

 

Except they wouldn’t.  Not this time.

 

Her choice was clear, written like sandstone on her dark eyes.  Without any words, for words were something they rarely needed, he knew what she had decided.  Although she’d never say it, never force her opinion – her guilt – on him. 

 

It was so very much like her; that even in this most abominable of situations, she refused to think of herself, putting his choice – his will – before her own.  His heart jolted despite himself, the rage that boiled within subsiding however briefly, his angry heart softened by her constant generosity and selflessness.

 

Except the momentary lapse only made his situation that much more painful.  For it was a decision that he shouldn’t – that neither of them should – have to make.  It defied every rational law, every code of decency.  But like so many times before, he found himself choiceless.  So he buried his rage (although, heaven help these people if the tables somehow turned), knowing that despite how he felt, despite how he felt about her, he was above all else her commanding officer. 

 

It was why he was here, standing in the center of a tent both extravagant and rich in color, framed with sleek drapes that seemed to dangle from the sky. 

 

It was why she was there, standing before him rather than beside him, as she always did, her eyes brimming with a restrained fury, eyes that refused to meet his. 

 

It was why they weren’t alone.

 

It was a moment that he never thought, despite his hopeful heart, would come.  A moment that, if and when it did arrive, he never thought he’d wish it hadn’t. 

 

His mouth should be moving, words sputtering past his lips as they searched for a loophole, a way out; his brain should be running on overdrive, formulating some plan, any plan, to get them the hell out of there. It wasn’t like him to give in so easily, to wave the proverbial white flag without a fight, to surrender to an enemy that, under any other circumstance, he knew he could take.  But with half his team resting in a cozy cell so graciously supplied by their hosts, chains and all, he knew choiceless when he saw it.

 

Oh, they’d explained, the two men beside him, their names long forgotten from Jack’s mind.  But Jack hadn’t heard any of it, hadn’t listened to their words that spewed like magma from their lips since being dragged in, literally, from his cell.  For three words were all he needed to hear. 

 

Him or me.

 

Daniel, no doubt, would find it all intriguing, fascinated by the ancient customs and norms of this supposedly quaint, and truly deranged, agrarian culture. 

 

Daniel was like that. 

 

Jack was not. 

 

Perhaps Daniel could even talk them out of this, could somehow persuade the two men, their robust forms fixed beside them, their worn clothes soiled from the day’s work, to release them from this sick burden.  But, alas, Daniel wasn’t here, apparently choosing not to appear despite their dire circumstances – even though a part of Jack realized that, even if Daniel had appeared, he’d yet to prove himself capable since going all invisible of *doing* anything. 

 

But, even if he was here, judging from the look of steeled panic in her eyes, Jack realized that not even Daniel’s silver tongue could save them. 

 

Not this time.

 

Under any other circumstance, Jack wouldn’t *want* to be saved.  He could think of a million other scenarios, off-world or not, where this would be – could be – the luckiest day of his life. 

 

Instead, it was the worst. 

 

This would be it – their first – the event he’d secretly hoped for, wanted for longer than he should have.  Except, here, now, there’d be no hearts or flowers, although hearts and flowers were things Jack O’Neill rarely did.  But he would’ve, might have, for her.  She’d never expect it, never ask him to do it, to be something she knew he wasn’t.  But, for her, for someone so precious to him – someone who, more than any vein or artery or muscle, kept his heart beating every morning of every day – he’d do anything.

 

But, god, he couldn’t do this. 

 

Not to her. 

 

Not like this. 

 

It was all being ripped from them, burning quickly like paper in a fire, leaving behind a dream of ashes, the remnants too small, too burned, to piece back together.  Something so right, something so destined to be, if not in this reality, was being made so wrong. 

 

His eyes burrowed into hers, his soul frantically searching them for her understanding, for her forgiveness.  And as his feet moved, his body edging closer to hers, he leaned in, his protracted breath wisping nimbly across her face.  

 

"I'm sorry."

 

And as his hand lightly cupped her cheek, his thumb feathering over her parted lips, he knew they'd get through this.  

 

They'd survive. 

 

But they would never be the same.

 

 

****** 

 

The End