Sara's Message
Sara's Message
by BadgerGater
TITLE: Sara's Message
AUTHOR: BadgerGater
EMAIL: BadgerGater@cs.com
CATEGORY: Angst, emotion; Jack and Sara
SPOILERS: A Matter of Time
SEASON / SEQUEL: Season Two; Set at the end of A Matter of Time
CONTENT WARNINGS: G to PG, very limited language, m/f
SUMMARY: Sara wants to talk to Jack, (from Sara's POV)
STATUS: Completed
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. We have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the authors. Not to be archived without permission of the authors.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Feedback, please. I'd love some. Is anybody out there reading? (Hope, hope.)
I was getting really, really sick of hearing that answering machine message. I'd be wondering if he still lived there, except the voice and the tone were unmistakably his. "Oh for crying out loud-- I'm not home again. Leave a message and I'll call you next time I'm back on the planet." Leave it to Jack to put something sarcastic on his answering machine. So okay, the first time I heard it, it *was* sort of funny-- maybe living with him all those years, some of his warped sense of humor had rubbed off on me. But after, what, 50 times, I was sick of it.
Maybe he just wasn't picking up. That would be like him. Maybe he was off somewhere on a mission. Maybe he was in a hospital, again. Or missing. Or dead. With Jack, any one of those was possible. He'd been all of them at least once already. Reported KIA. MIA. Hospitalized for months. Re-assigned on a moment's notice. Been depressed enough not to answer the phone at all.
I couldn't stop the memories, no matter how hard I tried.
"Pick up if you're there, Jack. It's me, Sara," as if he wouldn't recognize my voice. "I *need* to talk to you. Don't you ever answer your messages?"
I couldn't stop worrying. I guess that comes with the territory, whenever Jack O'Neill is involved. What he did was dangerous, still is I'm sure. Mysterious, too. I'd nearly driven myself crazy, puzzling over that incident last year, with that "thing" that looked like Jack, then like our son Charlie. Oooh, don't go there, Sara. Some weird top-secret government cloning project or something, I'd finally convinced myself, so I could sleep at night. Jack, of course, gave me no explanations.
I hadn't seen much of Jack since then. Once, from a distance, at the cemetery, on Charlie's birthday. I'd hung back, unable to face him, waiting for him to leave, watching him pace back and forth, so controlled, shoulders rigid, hands clenched. I couldn't face that agony on top of my own. The other time, a few months later, a friend of mine told me he was at the USAF Academy Hospital. I wasn't sure why I went to see him then, maybe to test myself, see if I was strong enough to face him and still walk away. It was safe, see, because I knew he had a broken leg, so he couldn't follow after me. All I needed was the courage to walk out of his room. I nearly didn't. Seeing him hurt like that was so hard. He'd been very, very sick, I could tell, much as he made light of his injuries, which were obviously more than just another broken bone (I'd seen him with enough of those over the years to know hurt from *hurt*).
That was a year ago, and I'd talked to him on the phone a couple of times since, but that was it. He always told me he was fine, which I only half believed, knowing him, knowing *I* wasn't fine. The last time had been an awkward couple of minutes, more empty pauses then talk, revealing the wreckage of the 'us' that no longer existed.
"Jack, dammit, pick up, will you?"
The thought crossed my mind to just leave a message on his machine. Write him a note and slip it under his door (yes, I'd been to his house and there was no sign of anyone around). But I didn't want him to hear this from someone else, I had to face him this time. That was the one regret I still had, the way I'd left, that I'd not had the courage to face him. Back then, I'd been too fragile, too raw. Afraid, no, knowing I wouldn't be able to leave if I looked into his eyes. I could never have said no to that puppy dog, I need you look. See, I still loved him then. Still do now, in so many ways. But I just couldn't take it anymore, his silences. I just couldn't stand to see him because when I saw his face, I saw Charlie's face. Because when I looked into Jack's eyes, I saw my own grief mirrored and magnified there. Because when I was with Jack, his grief, his guilt, overwhelmed me.
Like too many times in our marriage, he wasn't there when I needed him. The Air Force always came first. Even then, when Charlie died and I didn't know how to break through to Jack, when I begged and pleaded, I got no answer. But the Air Force did. They beckoned. He answered. I folded.
I packed his things in boxes, left them in the middle of the living room, left the note on the kitchen table. Left him to come home to an empty house. It had been cruel, it took me a long time to realize, intentionally cruel. I guess I wanted him to know what the silence was like. I suppose I thought maybe I could make him mad enough to fight back, to break that icy quiet, to say something, anything. It didn't work. He hadn't argued or pleaded. He'd only signed the divorce papers, took his things, and left.
I'd be lying if I said I was over Jack O'Neill. He's not the kind of man you forget, ever. We'd endured so much, had so much, lost so much, tried so hard, or at least I had, but finally I had no more to give.
All those weeks, Jack sat in Charlie's room, that gun in his hand, stone faced, silent, empty-eyed. I spent every moment expecting the gun shot, fearing it, dreading it, until the day I realized I wished he would get it over with, just do it and let me get on with my life, because I couldn't stand another minute of wondering when....
I loved him and hated him. Blamed him and forgave him. Needed him and loathed him. Couldn't live with him and was terrified I couldn't live without him.
But I could. Did. Have. Learned a new life, sans Jack O'Neill. I'd turned to my work, my friends, my dad, and somehow picked up the pieces and gone on, mourning my son, my marriage, the man I'd married.
See, that was the hardest part. I still loved the Jack O'Neill I'd married, the young man who'd won my heart with that captivating smile, that sly wit, those to die for eyes, the saunter in public, the shyness in private; the man who was so full of life and the possibilities of life.
But somewhere along the way, it had begun to change, he'd begun to change, to lose that innocence. After that horrible parachute accident; after, I thought with a sob, whatever it was they had done to him those four terrible months in Iraq; after the things he'd done in the name of his country; after all the friends and teammates he'd lost: he was no longer the man I had married. And then, when Charlie died, he had nothing left to give. The 'we' that was Jack and Sara was as dead as our child, it just took us longer to realize it. Jack, of course, never would have. He's nothing if not stubborn. He would have clung to the empty shell of our marriage forever, because he doesn't know how to quit.
So I'd had to end it for both of us.
"Jack, this is important. I need to talk to you. Call me when you can. Please."
After six days, I'd quit leaving messages, just hung up when I heard the machine kick in.
Finally, I got a call back, but it wasn't Jack.
"Hello, Sara O'Neill?"
"Yes."
"I don't know if you remember me, but we met once, about a year ago, at the hospital. I'm Daniel Jackson."
"Yes, you work with Jack?"
"Right. I wanted to let you know Jack is on assignment right now. I stopped to check things at the house for him and saw you've left him a bunch of messages. I'll let him know you need to talk to him, but it might be a few days before he can call you."
I sighed. "How is he, Daniel?"
"He's fine," Jackson said, but I thought I detected something uncertain in the voice.
This was not good. "I've heard that before," I said with a sigh. "Look tell him not to worry, nothing is wrong, but I do have some important, ahh, business, we need to discuss. As soon as possible."
When he finally called, I barely recognized his voice. It sounded unnaturally quiet. Did he already know, I wondered?
"Sara, what's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong, but we've got some business to talk about. I'm sorry I left so many messages but it's been more than a week, and I'm going to be going out of town and I need to talk to you about this before I go."
"Sorry."
"It's okay. Look, when can we get together?"
"I'm not sure," he answered. "I'm not sure when I can get out of here...."
I didn't like the sound of that, tried to make a joke of it. "What, you're in the brig, or in the hospital again?"
He coughed. "Oh shit, you are in the hospital."
"I'm *fine*."
He didn't deny it, which meant it was true. And he didn't sound fine. "So how many broken bones this time?"
"None."
"Right. No broken bones, Then what, extra holes, strains, sprains, stitches, bruises? Jack, you're too old to be jumping out of airplanes."
"Wasn't jumping out of airplanes. And I'm fine," he insisted. "Look, is tomorrow night okay? Your place or mine?" he asked.
I needed neutral ground. "How about that little coffee shop on 7th Street? About 7:30?"
"Sure. Sara?"
"We'll talk then, Jack. Take care."
I got there early, nervous, very nervous. Maybe I should have had Bill come with me, but truthfully I was afraid Jack might hit him. As it turned out, I needn't have worried. Jack wouldn't have hit anyone, couldn't have hit anyone, not with one arm in a sling and looking so pale and ill I was afraid he'd pass out before he got to my table.
I saw him get out of the backseat of his Jeep, a man and woman in front, arguing with him I thought, probably not wanting to leave him, sick as he was. But Jack, ever stubborn, climbed out gingerly, walked carefully up to the door, squared his shoulders and came in.
My heart hammered. Oh Jack. He looked so awful, something was terribly wrong. I rose, and he offered me a chaste kiss on the cheek, barely brushing the skin, and sat down across from me, adjusting the set of his sling and leaning back slowly against the seat.
The waitress brought us coffee. I sipped mine. He played with the rim of his cup while I studied his face. In the last year, he'd gone gray around the temples, silver shot all through his hair. Unthinkingly, I reached across and ran my fingers through the short, silvery strands at his temples, smiling softly. "It looks good on you."
He grinned, not his usual cocky grin but something soft. "People keep telling me I look distinguished."
I smiled. "They're right."
He shrugged, winced. "I don't think we came here to talk about my hair."
Oh Jack, always to the point. And now that the time was here, I didn't know how to start, delayed the inevitable moment. "I won't ask how you're feeling. I can see, you're hurt, and something more."
Without raising his eyes from his study of the pattern on his coffee cup, he said, very softly, "Frank Cromwell is dead. So is Henry Boyd."
Oh God. "I'm sorry Jack. I didn't know. When?" And then I knew, knew it was linked to his own unhealthy state. "How?"
He shot me that look I had gotten to know all too well, the one that said he couldn't tell me.
We said the next words together. "Training accident."
Anger filled me. "Can't you ever tell me the truth, just once?"
He shook his head. "You know I can't. It's not my decision."
It was one of the few times I had ever seen him look so, defeated. I reached my hand across the table to caress his fingers. "I know. I'm sorry," I said resignedly, thinking of his broken friendship with Frank, how he and Jack and our families had been like, well, like family. Another good thing in life shattered beyond repair by the Air Force.
"Frank and I, we had a chance to talk a little, clear the air some, before..." Jack said so softly I could barely hear.
"I'm glad."
"He died saving my life."
I didn't know what to say, knew this was another tragedy in the long line of disasters that had wounded Jack more deeply than any gun or knife could. Physical pain Jack could deal with, emotional trauma left him defenseless. It was such a contradiction, the bravest man I knew and the most vulnerable, all in one. And I was going to pile more hurt on an already hurting man. God, my timing sucks.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, getting himself back under control, and raised his eyes to my face.
"So, what was it you needed to talk to me about?"
"I wanted you to hear this from me." It was my turn to study my coffee cup.
"What?"
"I'm getting married."
His eyes focused on my face, slid away. For a moment, I thought I saw his hand shake. He took a deep, calming breath. "Who?"
"Bill Huber. He teaches sixth grade."
Jack nodded. Silence.
"Jack." I reached across the table, touched his hand. He jerked his fingers away. "I *am* sorry for dumping this on you now, when I can see you're grieving and hurt. I didn't know. But the wedding is this weekend. I'm sorry I put off telling you for so long. And then for almost two weeks I haven't been able to get hold of you."
"Nothing for you to be sorry about." Silence again.
"Jack..." when he looked up I thought I saw tears brimming in his eyes. My imagination, it must be. This time, when I reached for his hand, he didn't pull it away. "We *were* great once."
"Yes," he said, in a choked voice.
"A long time ago." He nodded. "But too much happened to you, to us. Oh Jack, I loved you so much then, I did. And I know you loved me." He was gripping my fingers tightly, his hand shaking. He still wouldn't look at me. "I never wanted it to come to this." I laughed hollowly. "But you know in the end, you were married more to the Air Force than to me." I paused. "If Charlie hadn't," a sob escaped me, and he gripped my hand even tighter, "if Charlie had lived, we would have made it, I know. He was the glue that held us together."
I stopped. He still wouldn't look at me. "I went to counseling, Jack, a lot of it. Joined a support group for people whose children died. I learned a lot, Jack, a lot. And one of the things I learned is that people grieve differently, especially when they lose a child. Not many marriages survive the loss of a child, no matter how strong they were before." I reached to touch his face, tilted his chin to make him look at me. What I saw there made me want to cry: the hurt, the loss, the despair. Steeled myself, because this time I had to be the strong one. "I don't blame you, Jack. I forgave you, a long time ago. That's how I could move on. Now you have to forgive yourself."
He shook his head. "Never."
"You can't change it, Jack, nothing we do can change what happened. Accept it. Move on." Seemingly of its own accord, my hand caressed the familiar hard line of his jaw. "There will come a time when you will find someone to love, Jack. You deserve that. You are a good man, just not a perfect one. Just not the right one for me, anymore."
Silence. Long moments passed. The waitress started over with more coffee. I waved her away.
"Say something." He looked at me in mute anguish. "Dammit, Jack, don't do this. Don't close up on me. Say something, anything." This was the part of him I hated, the part where he shut himself off from me, from everyone, even himself. I used to think of it as his 'perfect soldier' mode. "If I ever meant *anything* to you, say something, you son of a bitch."
A single tear leaked down his cheek. I wanted to reach up and brush it away. Made myself not. He dropped his face to stare at his cup again. "I'm sorry," so softly, for a moment I thought I had imagined the words. "You deserved better than the mess I made of our lives."
"That's not true. I was as much at fault for what happened as you."
"Yeah, right," he said bitterly.
"It's true, Jack. If I'd known the right words to say. If I'd been less needy..."
His hand clutching mine quieted me. "No. I made so many mistakes, and I deserve to have to live with the consequences of those mistakes. I'm just sorry you have to live with them too."
"It wasn't all bad, Jack. The good times were very good."
"And the bad times very bad."
"That's life." I said philosophically.
He took a deep breath. "Have a good life, Sara. You deserve it."
"So do you Jack." He shook his head no. I reached out and touched his face again. "A part of me will always love you, Jack O'Neill." Probably the best part of me, I thought sadly.
I saw him swallow, fight back his emotions. Same old Jack. Courage in full measure, except when it comes to opening his heart. I sighed. "It's time to move on, for me, for you, too. You'll be okay?"
He nodded.
"If you need someone to talk to, I'll always be there for you." I offered.
"I don't think that would be a good idea, Sara." He straightened his shoulders, slipped out of his seat, climbed to his feet. I stood, looking up at him, this man I had loved so deeply, and gently put my arms around him for what would probably be the last time. I tried not to remember how well our bodies had fit together, the way those hands had caressed me. Don't lose it now, Sara, I told myself.
I broke the embrace, kissed his cheek. "Get well. Take care of yourself."
His eyes met mine. "Goodbye Sara." And he turned and was gone.
I sank onto the chair, tears on my cheeks. In all the times we had parted, when he left on a mission, to a new assignment, went to war, just went to work, he had never said goodbye before. Not once. Not ever. Jack didn't believe in goodbyes.
FINIS
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