Author's Note: This is an alternate take on my story The Guardian, and features Jack's return to the SGC after 12 years as a prisoner on another planet. It's just a brief one-shot about his return, which is very different from the other story (i.e. he doesn't have the kids with him in this), so it can and maybe should be read separately. It is only slightly Jack/Sam. I just wanted to share it with you all. I'm working on the sequel for The Guardian but it won't be out for a couple months, so this is just to tide you over. Best wishes to all.
-Bixata
Coming Home
He stood before the Stargate, wondering what lay beyond. Who would he meet on the other side? Would they know him? Would they accept him? Had they been waiting for him, eager to learn where he had been, what he had learned, what he had been through? Would he even make it to the other side, or would he crash into an impenetrable wall, his cells barely allowed to reintegrate before he splattered like a bug on a windshield? Not a pleasant prospect.
Who would he find on the other side?
The symbols locked into place and he felt anxiety, trepidation and excitement. But mostly…he was afraid. Afraid of what he'd find. Or wouldn't find.
He rubbed his fingers over the device strapped to his wrist. He'd had it for years, his only link to the past, to his life, his home. He wasn't sure if it still worked. It had taken quite a beating over the first few months, and again during the rebellion. He'd kept it with him, it never left his sight in the twelve years he'd been stuck on this planet. He input his code, the number sequence he'd memorized and chanted through his head every evening in the hopes he would one day get the opportunity to use it again.
And he imagined the chaos that would have ensued back home when his code was identified. If it was identified. If the thing even worked. If there was still a home waiting for him.
He waited a long time, hoping with every fiber of his being that the light would flash, signaling it was safe for him to step in the shimmering blue event horizon of the wormhole and finally be home. He sent the code again. He was desperate.
And he waited.
He wondered if the light was broken. How would he know? He could always try somewhere else first, maybe some old ally. But he couldn't remember any addresses. Just home. This was his only shot.
After what seemed an eternity, and was probably coming up on the 38-minute time window before the wormhole shut down automatically, a green light flashed at him and he stared at it. Green light. That was good. Green was good. Green was go. They were giving him the go ahead.
Tentatively, he stepped up to the Stargate. It was now or never. If he had survived twelve years of hell only to escape and find himself adorning the backside of the iris, so close to home and freedom but not yet there, then so be it. Karma was kicking him in the butt.
He took a deep breath and slowly limped through the shimmering puddle, not quite water, not quite anything. Like him. Who was Jack O'Neill anyway?
He emerged on the other side and his first instinct was to praise the Powers that Be that he wasn't splattered like an insect. His second was to drop to his knees and kiss the cold, hard metal ramp beneath his feet. His third was to weep like the tired old man he was who had been given his life back, who had found freedom once again.
But he was not controlled by instinct. He stared dispassionately at the weapons trained on him. Lots of weapons. He mentally recalled what each one did, and how to fire it, and what it was called. He looked beyond the weapons at the faces. There was no familiarity. He did not know these people. But he could see the recognition in some of their faces. They knew him.
The wormhole shut down behind him, leaving an ominous silence in its wake.
He directed his gaze up to the window that spanned the wall in front of him. He saw people staring down at him. Nobody was moving. They were locked in a silent dance of sorts, each dealing with what lie before them.
He directed his gaze back to the men holding the guns on him. Very slowly he raised his empty hands, showing them he was unarmed. His shoulder twinged from the gunshot wound he had received many days ago, and he lowered that arm again. He imagined it looked like he was waving at them. His knee threatened to give out on him, it had a tendency to do that at the most inopportune moments. It would be pretty embarrassing for his great return to find him tumbling gracelessly down the ramp onto his face. By strength of will alone he managed to stay on his feet.
The doors opened on the side and a man and woman rushed into the room. He knew them.
"Jack?"
"Sir?"
He was home. Daniel and Carter. Some things never changed.
And he smiled for the first time in a good long while.
"Jack?" Daniel stepped closer, obviously hoping to elicit some sort of response.
Jack tilted his head to the side a bit, grinning impishly.
"Oh my God, Jack."
And he was enveloped in a crushing hug. Something he hadn't really expected from Daniel. It wasn't Daniel. He looked down in surprise to see a bundle of light blond hair crushed to his chest. He so wanted to return the hug but he couldn't. He bit his lip, closing his eyes to push back the pain. He could feel his body trembling with the effort. He looked at Daniel, pleadingly. He didn't want to associate Carter with pain.
"Sam! Sam, don't you're hurting him."
She immediately pulled away, embarrassment and concern in her eyes. And tears.
"We need to get him to the infirmary." Daniel ordered. "Jack, can you walk?"
He nodded his head and started limping down the ramp very slowly, with Daniel and Sam at either side.
"Can you talk?"
Jack suddenly realized he hadn't said a word. He hadn't spoken in a very long time. He'd been…dissuaded from doing that early on.
He shook his head without even trying to speak. It had been far too long. Any noise that came from him was sure to be unintelligible and inhuman.
"You can't or you don't want to?"
Jack glared at him.
"Just asking." And Daniel was genuinely smiling. His friend was back home. "We thought you were dead."
Jack nodded. He'd assumed as much. He glanced at both of them, then looked at Daniel with a question in his eyes.
"Teal'c's fine. He's leading the Free Jaffa on Dakara, with Rya'c and Ishta."
Jack smiled down at the floor. His friends were okay. He dragged his leg along behind him. His pace had slowed, but they didn't push him. They wanted to ask him so many questions and he wanted to ask them how they were doing. But he couldn't ask, and he couldn't answer, so they walked in silence.
He was led to the infirmary and a dark-haired woman greeted his friends and eyed him curiously.
"Dr. Taylor, this is…this is General Jack O'Neill." Daniel introduced them.
The doctor gasped and stared at him. Jack stared right back.
"He's in pretty bad shape. I don't know exactly what's wrong with him, but he doesn't seem to be able to speak. His leg is hurt, probably his shoulder, too."
Jack put his hand on Daniel's shoulder to get him to stop talking. He limped over to the bed and was about to climb on when he noticed how startling white the sheets were, so bright they almost hurt his eyes. He ran his hands over them, and he felt the soft bed beneath his fingers. Looking down he saw his own tattered rags, filthy, home-spun and worn, in stark contrast to the clean white sheets of home. Without a second thought he pulled off his shirt and dropped it to the floor. He wanted to be rid of it. He would have taken off his pants, too, but he still had a bit of modesty within him. He wouldn't do that to Carter.
As it turned out, he had shocked them enough. The scars on his back and across his chest had elicited gasps from all three in attendance. Hardly an inch of skin remained unmarred by the lashes and beatings of his imprisonment. The recent wound to his shoulder that he had received during the rebellion hadn't yet healed, a myriad of discolored flesh. It was a wonder infection hadn't set in. The equivalent of a bullet was still lodged in there somewhere, and he hadn't the flexibility to pull it out. Or even the will to care.
"I'll get you some clean pants, sir." The doctor mumbled and hurried from the room.
Jack looked down at his hands. His long slender fingers had been broken so many times he could barely bend them anymore, and they were as scarred as his forearms, used to shield his face from the assaults of his captors. He'd learned his lesson in the first few hours of his capture, the nasty scar across his face evidence of that.
He was filthy. Dirt was caked under his fingernails, and not the temporary kind like he'd been planting a garden. The kind you get from years of slave labor and unsanitary working conditions. The hard, tough calluses belied their weakened condition.
He would love to have a shower.
Dr. Taylor came back with a set of blue scrubs for him. "Sir, I'd like to do a preliminary check on your condition, but I think you'd benefit most from a nice hot shower. How does that sound?"
He nodded his head, grateful for the doctor's intuition.
"That wound on your shoulder looks recent. How long ago did it happen?"
He looked confused, then he was concentrating hard. He held up all five fingers.
"Five days?"
He looked at her sharply, shaking his head.
"Five weeks?" She looked at him doubtfully.
He dropped his head in defeat. She wouldn't know how he counted time. Of course she wouldn't. Nobody would. He counted time between feedings. Maybe three Earth days. That would make it 15 days. He showed her the proper sign language for that, which Carter correctly interpreted.
"Fifteen days?"
He nodded.
"Is the bullet still inside?" The doctor asked and when he nodded, Carter paled. "Where else are you hurt?" She helped him onto the bed, avoiding his filthy lower half.
Jack found a hole in the thigh of his pants and without hesitation ripped it open to reveal the old wound to his lower thigh, just above the knee. He'd been shot there and then sprained the same knee when he fell trying to escape after about eight years. The guards and the other prisoners had been taken by surprise that he still had the will to fight.
His dreams of freedom had ignited the rebellion but it took four more years to finally put it into play. Four years of agony as each day he made the injury worse by never giving it the time to heal. Four years of beatings for working too slow and missed meals for neglecting his duty when he was laid out by the pain. The others had taken care of him, giving him small portions of their food to keep him alive, for he was their only hope. And because he was the only decent thing about that world.
He was a man of no words, but his actions spoke louder than any man could shout. They knew why he didn't speak. They had seen it. At first, he would speak all the time. He mocked the guards, insulted them, and defended his fellow prisoners by attracting the attention to himself when a woman or child was being beaten. They did not understand this behavior. It was not their way. And the guards did not appreciate it.
They found a way to shut him up. They gathered the children. The troublesome man was brought before them and forced down to his knees. A young boy was brought before him, held firmly by the shoulders. The man was ordered never to speak again. He told them to go to Hell. The boy's neck was snapped. The man was horrified, but he said nothing. He never spoke another word. That was in the second month.
Nothing else changed, though. He continued to step in when another woman or child was down, oddly leaving the men to fend for themselves as though he didn't really care what happened to them. He gave what food he could spare to the children. He treated the sick and injured, working by their side so that he may take up the slack for their weakened conditions and the guards would be none the wiser.
He did not do this to seek favor. When all was moderately well he would sit by himself off in some corner, alone. He didn't seek companionship, or friendship.
He was alone, in every sense of the word.
Things changed after his escape attempt. He was never alone, physically, though in almost every other sense of the word, nothing had changed. The other prisoners sought him out, they drew strength from him, the old warrior who still fought to be free. And slowly, they began to take care of each other, as he had done for them. They helped the sick and injured, they worked together. And they became an army.
Dr. Taylor was running her hands over the injury. He didn't wince at the pain. He was used to it. She worked her way higher and instinct took over as he shoved her away, pulling his knees up and sliding away from her. He glared fiercely at her.
She recovered, obviously taken by surprise. "I'm so sorry, General. I wasn't trying to…"
He suddenly understood and he was ashamed, ashamed that he could think she would hurt him. He knew better than that. What would they think of him now? He pulled his knees in tighter, wrapping his arms around his legs, ignoring the pain in his shoulder, and in his knee. He was used to pain. The bed was uncomfortably soft. It unnerved him.
"Sir, I'm going to clean that wound on your shoulder a bit, then you can take a shower. Take as long as you need."
He nodded, and allowed her to treat the wound. She drew some blood, probably hoping to verify that he was in fact General Jack O'Neill. Or perhaps not, given his condition.
Daniel helped him to the locker room and waited for him to shower. Jack was in there for a long time. He couldn't get clean enough. He washed himself completely at least five times before he was satisfied. Then he got dressed and looked at himself in the mirror.
He hardly recognized the old man he saw there. His hair was a bit long and unruly, though they had kept it trimmed for him. It was white as snow, with only a few gray patches of silver. He chin had a small growth of stubble, which never seemed to change over the years. There was a huge scar that cut down the right side of his face, starting above the eyebrow and ending down the middle of his cheek, separated by the socket of his eye. He looked old and worn out and…emaciated. There was no other way to describe it. His ribs poked out of his skin, his face was gaunt, his cheeks sunken and dark. He couldn't weigh more than 100 pounds.
He couldn't look at himself anymore. Daniel was watching him carefully, and saw the hurt in his eyes.
"It's good to see you again, Jack." Jack would have smirked if he had the energy. "It really is. It hasn't been the same without you. Sam was a wreck when you disappeared. I don't think she ever really got over you. Teal'c left after you were declared dead. You were the only reason he stayed as long as he did. And I've missed you. I never really realized how good you were to us. What a great friend you are. I've missed that."
Jack clutched the sink, his head down. Daniel put a tentative hand on his shoulder, and he let him.
"You're home now, Jack. You're going to be okay."
He hoped Daniel was right. He turned on the sink and let the water run over his hand. Then he brought his hand up to the mirror and spelled out a name. 'SAM'
"What about her?"
He fingered the cloth around his neck, at his shoulders.
"She's a full colonel. She's still leading SG-1, but we don't call it that anymore. SG-1 was resigned when you were declared dead. She…uh…she doesn't get out much."
He spelled out 'CASS' underneath Sam's name.
"She's in med school." Daniel declared proudly. "Top of her class. But she does have her own life. She's married, with a little one."
Jack smiled, delighted by the news. He nodded at Daniel.
"I'm about the same. I'm still here all the time. They, uh…they put me in charge. I'm in command of the base." Jack gave him a cheeky grin. "I know, I can't believe it either. It's been a couple years, and I'm just starting to get the hang of it. I don't know how you did it. You made it look so easy."
He stared down at the floor, shifting his feet.
"We should get you back. We can talk later. Or, I can talk and you can make fun of me in your head. I'll send word to Teal'c, let him know you're back." Jack nodded gratefully as Daniel led him out of the locker room back to the infirmary, walking slowly as Jack struggled with his bad leg.
Dr. Taylor did a much more thorough investigation, first with a physical examination then running every instrumental test known to man for hidden injuries. Sam and Daniel waited quietly by his bedside. He was prepped for surgery and was in and out before they knew he was missing, his arm in a sling, the drugs keeping him unconscious. They waited for him to wake up.
It took him a while to remember where he was. He was staring at Sam a full three minutes before he recognized her. And that was no small wonder. She looked old and tired, almost as much as himself. Her eyes didn't sparkle like they used to, and it didn't seem like she smiled all that often anymore. He hated to think he was the cause of that.
Without realizing it, as if of its own accord, his hand had stretched out to touch her face, to feel for itself that she was real. She closed her eyes at his touch and covered his hand with hers, as if seeking the same comfort he did.
He opened his mouth to speak but nothing came out. Dr. Taylor hurried to explain that his vocal cords seemed to have atrophied from disuse, but with enough work he could learn to speak again. They wondered how Jack O'Neill could have gone so long without talking. It was un-Jack-like. But of course, he wasn't telling.
Scans had shown he'd had multiple fractures, not only in his fingers, but in his ribs as well. He wasn't surprised. Neither were his friends. He was horrifically malnourished and could use a few days out in the sun. Psychologically, they weren't sure. With Jack not talking it could be difficult getting him to share. Daniel would need an official explanation of what had happened to him, but he put their friendship first and was willing to give Jack time to recover and get accustomed to being home.
Jack's house had been sold years ago. He could stay with Daniel but his apartment was pretty small and filled with the archaeological treaures and books of his work and interests.
"He can stay with me." Sam offered. "I'd love to have your company, sir."
He looked at her, then down at his bedraggled self, then back to her. 'Jack' he mouthed to her. Then to himself, he thought General O'Neill is dead.
"Jack." She conceded. He saw that old sparkle in her eye. Had he done that?
Dr. Taylor released him, provided he returned daily for a check-up and to keep tabs on his nourishment. Daniel cleared him to leave the base and gave Sam the week off. Then he followed them to her house and the three of them sat together, staring at nothing. Sitting in comfortable silence.
Well, not really comfortable, but it was familiar. Jack had slid off the couch to sit on the floor, his legs stretched out, his back braced against the sofa. He cradled his arm to his chest in the sling. Sam slid down to the floor next to him without even realizing it. Daniel looked at them and he had never felt so old, because his best friends seemed so much older.
After a few hours Daniel wished them a good night, and once Sam assured him they would be fine, he went home to get some much needed sleep. Sam and Jack sat awkwardly in the living room.
"Are you tired?"
He nodded.
"I have a guest bedroom but…if you're more comfortable on the floor we can set something up out here. Start out small, with a sleeping bag maybe."
He nodded his approval and she helped him to his feet to get ready for bed.
He was asleep minutes after he lay down. Sam brought out her blankets and a pillow and fell asleep on the couch so she could keep on eye on him. She needed to know he was really there.
She wasn't sure how it happened but at sometime during the night she crawled onto the floor with him. He woke long enough to know it was her, so he wouldn't hurt her. Then he put his good arm around her and held her close, her back to his chest, blocked only by his bad arm. And he hadn't felt this good in a long time.
He was safe, he was free, and he was home.