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Life is...the Pits
Story Notes:
Doc’s not pleased, so I’m pretty sure she’s got something that’s about to remind that life is the pits. After an hour holed up in her office, she pulls me away from Daniel’s bedside for an impromptu conference. Daniel’s asleep, finally dragged under by Doc’s sedative. Teal’c’s shown up to sit with Daniel, so I follow Frasier to her office. I really don’t like the look on her face. Like she’s been eating sour grapes for the last hour. She gets straight to it. “After the incident with the Gamekeeper, I managed to track down Daniel’s childhood records, at least the ones after he moved to the U.S. It took a lot of time. When they showed up, we were knee deep in some crisis or another, so I put them away. Until today, I’d forgotten I had them.” She taps a file on her desk that looks like an overstuffed sandwich. Papers stick out at odd angles, and the file folder that contains them is beginning to tear along the crease. A clipboard beside the file bears a piece of paper with Doc’s distinctive writing, so I figure she’s been taking notes. “First, Colonel, I want you to understand this is a normal reaction for Daniel. Even as an adult, he resorts to a mild form of catatonia--” I interrupt, “For crying out loud! We’ve been through some pretty heavy crap, and Daniel’s never reacted like this.” “Not like this, exactly,” she agrees. “Now he buries himself in things like coffee and overwork. But when that’s not enough? When he’s really hurting? You know what he was like last week, after Sarah was taken by Osiris. He shut himself off. He backed away from all of us and wanted to be left alone. He withdrew. Essentially, he retreated into a catatonic state, though a very mild one. It’s a defense mechanism, as I said earlier, that helps him cope. It gives him time and distance until he’s able to handle whatever pain and stress overwhelmed him in the first place.” Okay, I see her point. When it comes to handling crap, Daniel carries the independent thing to extremes. Try as I might, I can’t get Daniel to understand that he doesn’t have to deal with things on his own. Eventually, he’ll wander over to my house, share a few beers, and somehow I’ll know whether to push him to talk or whether to let it slide. But the first day or two, Daniel wants to be alone. On some instinctive level, I’ve figured out that it takes him longer to recover if I invade his space, so I almost always wait for him to come to me. “Obviously, what we’re seeing now is a more acute reaction than we’re used to.” I look at her. “Ya think?” She gives me a look back that promises long needles in my future, but I’m too worried about Daniel to care. “The point is, Colonel, Daniel suffered several attacks like this after his parents’ deaths. Until he started college at the age of sixteen, he went to eight grief therapists, off and on, and made little progress with any of them.” “Why off and on? And why so many?” I may not be an expert, but even I know kids do better with a consistent routine. “Daniel stayed in eleven different foster homes. Not all of them encouraged his therapy, and the ones who did couldn’t always be bothered to take him.” I clench my fists, remembering a moment of alcohol-induced honesty when Daniel had admitted that he hadn’t been a lovable child. At the time, I had thought the beer was just making him maudlin. Now it burns me up to realize there are people out there who can’t “be bothered” to stick with a child through thick and thin. I would have died for my child. “The therapists’ reports are all similar,” Frasier says. “Daniel refused to talk about his parents.” “Oh, big surprise there,” I mutter. “Occasionally, he would discuss school or the situation in current or past foster homes, but he did so reluctantly. The only time he initiated conversation or became animated was on the topic of--” “Let me guess. Archaeology.” “Of course.” We share a knowing smile. Then Doc sighs and continues, “Daniel’s grieving process was of continual concern throughout his years in foster care. His first foster parents were worried that Daniel never cried for his parents, despite waking up from violent nightmares. Later foster parents expressed concerns that Daniel’s occasional slides into catatonia meant he hadn’t finished grieving.” I grit my teeth. I know better than most that one never finishes the grieving process. It’s not something that ends or has an “on/off” switch. Since Charlie died, there’s been an empty hole in my heart that will never be filled. I’ve learned to live with it, but I haven’t stopped grieving. Sure, it doesn’t hurt as much, but every once in a while, I’ll see a dad and his kid together or I’ll catch a whiff of Charlie’s favorite meal, and the grief will hit me all over again. Frasier heaves another sigh, which is so not good. I can tell she’s winding up for the big whammy, and I’ve already heard more than enough. “This is essentially background material, Colonel. Right now, based on what little information I have, I’m going on the assumption that Daniel is twelve, not only in body but also in his mind. If that’s the case, his parents died four years ago, and that’s still a major factor in his life.” I nod and gesture impatiently for her to get on with it. She’s stalling, and it’s making me nervous. “Bottom line it, Doc.” She offers an apologetic smile. “When Daniel was twelve, he experienced a state of severe catatonia that lasted two months. No one knows what caused it. This may be something that’s been building up in a twelve-year-old Daniel for a period of time, and arriving mysteriously in our gate room tipped the scale. Bottom line, Colonel? I can’t wave a magic wand and wake Daniel up. It took two months before, and he knew his caretakers that time. We’re starting from scratch.” Yup, it can’t get much worse than this. Life is officially the pits.
#
Daniel recognized the groggy pull of sedatives. He rode the waves of their influence, floating in and out, welcoming the opportunity not to think or feel. Awareness came and went. So did surprise. He was not alone. Whenever he surfaced, momentarily alert before sedatives dragged him under again, someone was waiting for him. Through half-closed eyes, Daniel saw the first man as a shadow. The shadow-man had a deep, soothing voice and a way of saying Daniel’s full name that reached Daniel even in the drugged depths and made him feel protected. “You are safe, Daniel Jackson. You are with friends. Rest securely, Daniel Jackson. We will not abandon you.” Then there was a blonde lady who tried to speak but kept stopping because sobs choked her words. After a while, she said nothing, sniffling occasionally. The whole time, she held his hand and gently rubbed her thumb over it. Before unconsciousness claimed him, he wondered what had made her unhappy and if he could help. Later, soft snores tugged Daniel to wakefulness. He slitted his eyes and found Jack slumped over on the bed, one arm slung across Daniel’s thighs. The other cradled Jack’s head, which was inches from Daniel’s, as if the man had fallen asleep while waiting for Daniel to wake up and notice him. Well, Daniel was noticing now, but he didn’t understand. Whatever game these three adults were playing, it wasn’t one he recognized. That bothered him. If he didn’t learn the rules fast, he knew what would happen. He would get hurt. Badly. ¤
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Disclaimer: The Stargate characters all belong to Gekko Film Company, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions, MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Showtime, Sci Fi Channel, and Stargate SG-1 Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended to infringe on any of those rights and is meant solely for the purpose of entertainment. All other characters, the story idea, and the story itself are the sole property of the author. |
