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Life is...Predictable
Story Notes:
There are days when life is totally predictable. Here I am, sitting next to my shrunk, near-catatonic archaeologist, with instructions from Frasier to talk to him until the sedative she’s given him kicks in, and I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m pretty sure she means the sappy stuff. I don’t do the touchy-feely thing on a good day, and today definitely does not qualify as a good day. Besides, there’s no beer in sight. I can’t depend on Daniel to do the noble thing and jump in on my behalf, the way he does when I’m about to make a total screw-up of whatever diplomatic thingy he’s got going. Right now, Daniel’s not talking. Or moving. He didn’t even jump when the nurse dropped a tray, while I was glad to be in the infirmary where I’d have instant help if my heart suddenly gave out after galloping three times faster than normal. Daniel’s eyes are at half-mast, so I don’t think he’s totally out of it, but he’s definitely not tracking. He hasn’t responded to anything or anyone since he shut down in the gate room. That’s not something I want to remember. I came through the gate, thinking everything was normal, only to hear Daniel puking on the ramp and to see the shocked expression on Carter’s face as she turned to check on Daniel. After all, we’re old hands at gate travel, and no one’s puked since the first couple trips. That’s when I saw this twelve-year-old kid with Daniel’s glasses and the longish-blond hair Daniel used to have. He staggered upright and stared at us. I’m not sure who was more freaked. I think I shifted my gun because Daniel’s gaze went straight for it. I remember the fear that settled over Daniel’s too-young face. No, not fear. It was outright terror. Daniel stumbled back, away from me and the puddle of vomit, crying, “Where am I? What is this place? Who are you? How did I get here?” We should have answered right away. Instead, we were all too busy getting our collective jaws off the floor. So, Daniel simply folded up and crumpled to the ramp. Defense mechanism, Frasier calls it. Speaking of Napoleon, here she comes. She checks the monitors with a glance, makes a note on Daniel’s chart, and nudges me. “Talk,” she whispers. “About what?” I whisper back. “It doesn’t really matter, Colonel. He just needs to know he’s safe. If he’s regressed completely, which seems to be the case at the moment, then this is an unfamiliar setting for him. He doesn’t know any of us. He needs someone to reassure him.” I want to answer “why me?”, but the truth is, I’m not moving from this chair. Waiting for Daniel to wake up in the infirmary is as ingrained as yelling “dammit, Daniel!” whenever he touches something or takes off without bothering to tell me where he’s headed. I want to be the first person Daniel sees when he opens his eyes. I’d like mine to be the first name he says, but if he’s twelve—really and truly twelve—I guess that’s not happening. Twelve. Crap, that’s a scary thought. Twenty plus years of life wiped out. Forgotten. And no one knows why. Or how to undo it. Frasier’s right, I realize as she returns to her office. The kid’s probably scared to death. I’m scared to death, and I’m not the one surrounded by strangers. “Hey, Daniel.” I lean forward a little so he can see me through the lower half of his partially-lidded eyes. “I guess you don’t know me. My name’s Jack, and I’m a friend, okay?” I flash back to the sight he had of me in the gate room. “Maybe that’s a little hard for you to believe right now, but it’s true. Things must seem pretty weird for you, huh? You probably have some questions.” Which is an understatement, because Daniel always has questions. Lots of questions. He’s predictable that way. “So when you wake up, I’ll be here to answer them.” I backtrack a little because I am 2IC of the Base, and I can’t tell him something like that, as much as I want to. “Or somebody will be here. Usually, it’ll be me. But it might be a blonde lady named Carter or a big guy named Teal’c. They’re friends too. One of us will be here. You understand me, Daniel? Someone will always be here for you. No matter what. We’re not leaving you. We’re going to keep you safe.” He doesn’t respond, and I try not to let it bother me. He looks so vulnerable lying there. There’s a stiffness to his curled-up position, as if he might shatter into pieces if he’s touched. I can’t help myself. I reach out and gently brush aside the hair that’s fallen over his forehead. “You’re safe, Dannyboy,” I murmur to him. “I promise you that. You’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you.” Now that I’ve started, I can’t stop. I comb through his hair for several minutes. The rhythm of it relaxes me. I think Daniel’s body isn’t so tense, but that may be wishful thinking. “I wish I knew how to fix this,” I whisper. “Christ, Daniel, why did it have to be you?” It’s always Daniel. The rest of us get our share of injuries, but the worst of it always seems to smack Daniel. It’s nothing he does. Maybe it was during that first year, when he was still figuring out how to duck and how to actually hit something when he aimed a weapon, but he’s learned. Now I’d trust him to watch my six any day. If the universe was a sentient being, I’d accuse it of having a vendetta against Daniel. Like it can’t stand the sight of Daniel’s unfaltering idealism so it’s trying everything it can to pound it out of him. Except it never works for long. Daniel is the original get-up-and-try-again kid. Sooner or later, though, the universe gets antsy again, and suddenly there’s a Goa’uld with a grudge, or a damsel with a dilemma, or a Tok’ra with a trap, and they all want one thing. Life is just that predictable. It’s always Daniel.
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Daniel felt limp. His whole body, wrung out. His brain, sluggish. It was the brain part that clued him in. Usually his thoughts raced along in millions of directions, sometimes so fast that he had to stop whatever he was doing, arrested by the speed of his thoughts and the unlikely places where they seemed to lead. The teachers didn’t like it when he watched his own mind. They accused him of not paying attention. Right now his brain felt mushy. Which meant he’d probably had an “episode.” It was weird how that happened. Everything just shut down. His body, his brain, his feelings. That was the most important thing. When the episodes came, for just a little while, he could stop feeling. Lethargy surrounded him like a cocoon. He rested in its warmth gratefully, allowing it to keep the world at bay. Distantly, he recognized the hospital sounds around him. They were trivial noises. He always ended up in a hospital during an episode. It didn’t matter. It was just a place. A place to hide. A place to wait until all the feelings receded to the level where he could ignore them once again. He wondered briefly what had brought on this episode, his brain niggling at the thought with its usual curiosity. He let the thought fade. It didn’t really matter. It was always something bad. Something that made him remember the stone, his mother’s scream, the blood… He banished the images and drifted back to the comfortable haze of forgetfulness and apathy. Time slipped by. He didn’t measure its passage. Maybe he dozed. He wasn’t sure. It was a strange sensation, the way time flowed around him. A room that had once been light would be dark, and he’d suddenly realize he had lost hours without noticing. Maybe even days. The sound of his name drew him out of the fog. Sometimes the doctors or nurses would use his name when they checked on him. He never responded because he could tell from their tone that he was just another patient, just another problem. They took care of him because it was their job and they were paid to do it. Just like foster parents. But there was something different in the way this man said Daniel’s name. As if he cared whether or not Daniel answered. Which was ridiculous but odd enough that it caught Daniel’s attention. The man called himself “Jack” and said he was a friend, peaking Daniel’s interest further. When the episodes came, people ignored Daniel. No one sat by his bedside, no one talked to him, no one cared. He had his episode, figured out how to deal with the feelings, and got over it. The hospital looked after his body for a while, but he did everything else by himself. Afterwards, when he was ready to face life again, someone tried to talk to him about it, but he never told them anything. Why should he? They weren’t there when it was happening, when it might have made a difference. “You understand me, Daniel?” the Jack person was saying. “Someone will always be here for you. No matter what.” Daniel stiffened. It was a lie, of course. A gimmick to persuade Daniel to stop hiding before he was ready. Daniel had to admit the Jack guy was good. He was attempting eye contact, and he sounded sincere. Daniel wasn’t fooled, though. The guy was probably a psychiatrist or something, hoping he could bring about Daniel’s “miraculous return” and take credit for it. Well, Daniel wasn’t cooperating. He’d stay here in his cozy hideaway until he was good and ready to come out. Then Jack touched him. Touched him. And not in an impersonal, medical way. No, Jack’s fingers were brushing through Daniel’s hair with an intimate touch, as if they had a right to be there. “You’re safe,” Jack whispered. “No one’s going to hurt you.” Daniel knew it wasn’t true. He was always being hurt, and he couldn’t depend on anyone to keep him safe. The fingers kept moving. Daniel fought the hypnotic touch that seemed to be stroking his very heart. He couldn’t afford to let go, to trust, to feel. But it felt… oh, God, it felt so good. ¤
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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. |
