In the Presence of Death

Running my hands through my hair in a futile attempt to look somewhat presentable, I poke my head into the infirmary one last time before I go to my quarters. To my relief, Jacob is finally here, sitting at his daughter’s bedside while she sleeps. I turn to leave, but he sees me, and waves me in to the room.

“Hello, sir,” I greet him, keeping my voice down for fear of waking Carter.

He shakes his head. “You don’t have to whisper, Jack. Doctor Fraiser gave her some pretty heavy sedatives.”

“On top of what she’d already had?” Ever since Jolinar possessed her, Sam’s been incredibly resistant to knockout drugs, but today she’s been sedated, given stimulants to wake her up from the sedatives, been through the wringer emotionally, and sedated again.

“That’s right. She wasn’t in very good shape, and it was the only way to calm her down.” He takes her hand in his protectively. “I haven’t had many of the details yet, Jack, aside from knowing that Martouf was brainwashed. What happened?”

I grab another chair and sit down, staring at Sam. She’s tall and can look most men in the eyes, but lying on the bed, still in her bloodstained BDUs, she looks small and helpless. “It was really bad, sir.” Clearing my throat, I look up at him, wondering whether to give him the details of our little truth session with Freya. “Really bad,” I repeat. “None of us suspected Martouf until we realized he hadn’t been tested.”

“Which is doubtless why he was chosen to be made Zatarc,” Jacob agrees, sighing heavily. “I’m going to miss him. He was a good man, one of my first friends among the Tok’ra.” He rubs Sam’s hand between his own. “Before she fell asleep, Sam was saying all sorts of things. She said it was her fault. What did she mean by that?”

“We didn’t get to Martouf in time, sir. His programming was triggered, and all we could do was stop him.” I hold my hands very still, not wanting them to shake. “I shot him, and so did the Secret Service agents, but it wasn’t slowing him down -- too much adrenaline, I suppose. Teal’c gave him a zat blast, and then Carter ran in. He --- ah, crap. You know that the victims kill themselves, right?” At his curt nod, I wince and continue. “He was trying to resist, to not kill himself. He called out to Sam, and she zatted him a second time.”

“Which killed him?” Jacob asks, closing his eyes.

“Yeah. She fired the final shot.”

After a few more minutes of quiet conversation, I leave Jacob to his vigil, and walk to my quarters. Closing the door behind me, I open my footlocker and grab the bottle of scotch and a clean glass. I pour myself a drink, sit down on the bed, and raise my glass.

“Here’s to you, Marty. Rest in peace.” I take a large gulp of scotch, welcoming the pleasant burn as it goes down my throat. I didn’t really like him, and a lot of that goes right down to being jealous of his relationship with Sam. But for a snake, he was a decent guy, and he deserved better than to be shot down by his allies. God, the Goa’uld have a lot to answer for. The list of reasons why I want to kill Apophis just keeps getting longer. The look in Sam’s eyes as she cradled Martouf’s body in her arms was devastating. I keep having these ridiculous macho pretensions that I can protect her from the all the bad things in the world, but who am I kidding? She can handle all the crap we get handed, and she’ll survive this. She’s strong enough, but sometimes I wish she didn’t have to be.

She knelt on the concrete, one hand supporting his head, the other running across his shoulder, and when her fingers came into contact with one of his wounds, she bit back a sob and gritted her teeth. Per’sus’ attendants came to remove the body, and Teal’c helped her to her feet. Just before Janet ran in and whisked her back to the infirmary, she stood at attention, blinking back her tears, saluted the corpse, and quietly said, “It was an honor serving with you.”

I’ve heard and said that expression far too many times during my years in the Air Force. It’s a stock phrase people adopt, an expression that hides all our humanity, our hopes and fears within the persona of the perfect military officer. Kawalsky said it to me before his botched operation, I’ve said it to friends in the Special Forces, and I even said it once to Carter in Antarctica, when I still hardly knew her beyond the fact that she was a frighteningly intelligent science geek. It’s the sort of thing you say when you want someone to know how much he means to you, that you’re friends, that you’re really going to miss him. When you’re in the presence of death and can’t think of anything else to say.

When I came back to the SGC, Kawalsky and I picked up our friendship right where it had left off. I knew that we were going to be the best of buddies, and then I had to turn around and make jokes while he was dying. Because that’s what the military expects of us. We can feel all the human emotions, but have to draw the line at expressing them. Be a good airman. Talk of honor and service, not that you love your friends.

I’ve left people behind before. Hell, I even left Daniel on Klorel’s ship when I knew he was too wounded to go on, and we completed our mission, believing he was dead and fully expecting that we’d die, too. It’s not a pleasant memory.

I take another drink of scotch, mentally tallying up all the dead who are rattling around in my head tonight. Kawalsky. Henry Boyd, and all of his team. Cromwell, who left me behind once. Graham and Astor and Blasdale. The list goes on and on as I tilt my head back and drain the glass, trying to drown the names so they’ll go away. Martouf’s name has found its way onto the list as well. We could have been friends in different circumstances. An honor to serve with them, all of them.

I pour myself another drink, and put the bottle away, instead of following my urge to just drain the whole damn thing. I could have left Carter behind and made my escape on that mission to blow up Apophis’s new ship. She might even have escaped anyway, once the explosion knocked out the force shield. If I had, it’s possible we’d have been saved a whole lot of trouble. Maybe we wouldn’t have been misidentified as Zatarcs when we weren’t, and maybe we’d have discovered Martouf’s programming in time to save him.

Then again, it’s possible that we’d have ended up exactly as we were, only Carter wouldn’t have known that we were both holding back, and we’d have been doped into oblivion indefinitely. Who knows?

I couldn’t leave her. A proper officer would salute her, say the phrase, and run for the exit, because he’s supposed to salvage as much of the team as he can, and not sacrifice himself for no reason. The inches between us might as well been miles, and she knew what was going to happen. She told me to leave, to save myself, and I refused, futilely banging away at the force shield. She yelled at me one last time in desperation, and it felt like my insides were being torn out when I screamed, “No!” She didn’t look back at the approaching Jaffa, just stared at me in despair, and our eyes met.

Before then, I knew that I cared about her, but I was pretty sure that she just thought of me as a friend. I guess we were both really good at hiding our feelings. I looked at her beautiful face and sorrowful eyes, full of the knowledge of imminent death, and I knew. I knew that she felt the same way, and that she’d only just realized my feelings for her. It was the sort of moment that should come after a romantic evening, or during a quiet conversation, not when some heavily-armed Jaffa are coming with the intent to kill.

As we looked at each other, shocked, not saying anything, I had the chance to turn and run. I could have done it, and even if she’d survived, I wouldn’t have faced any censure but my own. Bitterness filled me, that the only way I could prove my devotion was to do what she didn’t want -- to make sure she didn’t die alone. I could have saved myself, but how could I have saved my soul?

We told each other that we’d leave this knowledge in the room where Freya questioned us, but it isn’t going to be easy. We were as circumspect as possible under questioning, reducing our feelings to the most neutral words in our vocabulary. Freya looked astonished that we would consider them anything to hide. It’s not surprising, given what I’ve learned of her world’s lack of inhibitions. I just hope that she doesn’t start asking Hammond why Carter and I feel that we aren’t supposed to care about each other.

So, now we both know. It felt safer before, being able to love her without acting upon it. We could pretend that we were just friends. Instead, we had to tell each other how we felt in front of other people. Our most personal thoughts, that we had a right to keep to ourselves, laid bare because that damned piece of technology had no concept of privacy. If Carter hadn’t figured it out, I could have died because I hadn’t told the whole truth. Yet another reason to avoid Freya and Anise -- the two of them are big trouble.

I take the empty glass over to the tiny sink in one corner of my room, rinse it, and splash some water on my face. I open the tiny cupboard, take out my toothbrush, and start getting ready for bed. When I’m done cleaning up, I close the cupboard door, and glance at myself in the mirror. This can’t be who am I now, can it?

I suppose my mental image of myself stayed at age thirty. There’s hardly any brown left in my hair now. Wrinkles and creases have grown deeper. Looking at myself, and knowing who I am, I can’t imagine what Carter would want with me. An aging, bitter man, who cracks jokes and makes sarcastic comments to cover up how empty he is inside? And yet, I know that she does, because I saw it in her eyes long before she had to say the words.

We haven’t gained anything from today’s admissions. There’s the chance that Hammond will find out, that SG-1 will be separated, and we’ll be reassigned. I don’t want to hurt her career -- it would be a sorry way to repay her for what she’s given me. So we’ll keep quiet, and hope that things go back to normal.

I lie down in the bed, fully clothed except for my boots, and pull a blanket over my shoulders. Turning out the light, I close my eyes, but I can’t shut out the memory. Samantha, asking me to leave her, because she didn’t want me to die. Me, refusing, because to leave her would destroy me. There, in the presence of death, we were other’s salvation.

But now, when the walls have come down, when we have to live with what we know, what will become of us?

--fin.