Title: The Weight of a Shadow (Slash version)

Authors: mor_tru

Email: mor_ag2001@yahoo.com

Homepage:  www.oocities.org/mor_ag2001/

Archived: HKH Area52; www.oocities.org/mor_ag2001/ ; All others please ask.

Category: SLASH/Angst/ER

Pairings: Jack/Daniel

Spoilers: None.

Season/Sequel: Any season.

Rating: PG13

Content Warning: None – but it’s an intense read.

Summary: Jack shares a hard memory from his Special Ops days.

Author’s notes: Jack O’Neill came to the Stargate program with a history in a Special Operations Unit. He did and saw many things that were part of doing the job and those events partly shaped the man you see now.  Have you ever wondered why he thinks the way he does?  Wondered what happened to him before he came to the Stargate?  Jack’s cynicism about life is deeply seated in his past – a very interesting and complex past. 

Special Author’s notes: Thank you always to beta’s Irene, Katherine and Nancy– totally extraordinary!  BTW - Did I mention that my co-author, Tru, kicks ass? Read on. 8-)

Disclaimer: There’s a real fine line between what’s theirs and what’s ours, and although the characters may be theirs, all the words are ours.

Date: Updated 10/04/2003

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~~~oOo~~~

 

The Weight of a Shadow

 

mor_tru

 

~~~oOo~~~

 

He was out cold and sprawled face-down across the bed. 

The room was cool and the chill in the air nudged into his subconscious; the draft touching across the skin of his back was insistent, prodding him to leave his dream. Daniel shivered; stirring a hand out from under his pillow to stretch blindly across the sheets, his fingers in hopeful search of the warmth of his lover’s body. 

“Jack?” his question went out sleepily as he fought his way up to something approaching awake, realizing through the fog that he was alone.  Ja-ack?”  he squinted into the dark; the mattress under his searching hand empty except for the rumpled sheets, which had been thrown back, leaving that side of the bed holding only the residual essence of someone who should have been laying there too. “Jack?” A little louder, but there was no response to his call, and he rolled over and pushed himself up on his elbows to peer into the dimness, the room a host of black shadows, none of them in movement.

Daniel glanced at the clock on the night stand; almost 3am early – that thought in response to the blur of numbers. He’d remembered going to bed around midnight with the echo of Jack’s voice coming at him from out of the den, words sent to reassure he’d be following soon--and he had, much later. But Daniel couldn’t remember just when, he’d literally passed out, surfacing briefly only to the touch of Jack’s hands as they gently massaged into the muscles of his back, the warmth of those fingertips sending his body onward into deeper sleep. And somewhere, in those seconds, right before he’d surrendered totally to a dream, the tenderness of Jack’s lips were there on the nape of his neck--the love given then and still a bond he felt now. 

Where are you Jack? That thought as he listened to the quiet of the house, rubbing the back of his neck absently, fingertips tracing a memory, tracing Jack. He sat up, his body reluctantly acknowledging a vague emptiness that always seemed to hit hard whenever his lover wasn’t there; hating that waking-up-in-the-night-to-find-him-gone ache that always sank a knot of dread into the well of his stomach. But he knew Jack had to be nearby – they were home.

Daniel threw back the sheets and swung his legs over the side of the bed, the cold floor a sharp and sudden prompt into wakefulness. He stumbled away from the bed, feeling for the wall and checking the bathroom before he headed out of the door. The wood railing along the landing directing him towards the stairs and he tentatively searched with his toes for the top step, waiting there while his eyes finally adjusted.  Then he peered down the stairway, his way illuminated by the green glow of the clock in the kitchen, its dimness just a blurry night light casting eerie shadows out into the hallway. 

The house was calm, moonlight shafting in through the shadeless windows, its beam sending a mosaic of odd shapes to cover the floor below. “Jack?” his voice sent out again, still husky with sleep, listening in the dark for sounds. Then he made his way slowly down the steps into the silence of the hallway, plodding blindly into the spare bedroom – checking – knowing Jack would sometimes sleep there. Knowing Jack’s only thought was not to disturb him by taking the restlessness he felt away from their bed. Jack’s nightmares always came unannounced, and most of the time he preferred to just fight them alone.

Then Daniel recognized the familiar pattern he was walking, looking for Jack, wandering through the dark of their house, drifting from room to room, his lover somewhere in the shadows. He remembered other nights when he’d awake to the touch of Jack’s hand, his lover needing to be held until some dark memory had receded to that place where he kept them all safely hidden. And every so often, Jack would just want to talk something out and Daniel would be there, to give him the security of his arms in the cover of darkness to say words he didn’t want to say in the light of day. The dark always seemed to take all the harsh edges away.

But the spare bedroom was empty, with only the rumpled blanket a signature to say Jack had been there. 

Daniel turned towards the hallway, catching the glint of glass from the open patio doors. The sight of the lonely outline brought an ache to his heart that reached out to the figure sitting resolute in the moonlight. He stood still and watched for a moment, then weaved his way carefully around the coffee table, feeling the cool early morning breeze brush up against his body as he made his way towards the doors. He shivered; the bare skin of his chest reacting to the coolness and he instinctively wrapped his arms across his ribs as he approached the strong back sitting quietly in front of him. 

Jack - a solid silhouette with feet propped up on the wood railing; two boots crossed at the ankle, the stretch of his legs covered in faded fatigues. That image sent a spark, and Daniel couldn’t decide right then what he liked more - being loved by Jack O’Neill or being in love with him.

“Hey,” He stepped outside with his word, his hands coming to rest on Jack’s shoulders, glad to offer a massage through the sweatshirt, kneading into the tight muscles, warming them with his attention, letting Jack know that he was there. “Missed you,” he said as his hand slid under Jack’s chin and nudged his head back so that he could punctuate that statement with a kiss to a crinkled forehead.

The kiss brought a smile and Jack voiced contentment beneath Daniel’s touch.

“Couldn’t sleep.” That was no surprise.

“You okay?” Daniel asked with a crease of his eyebrows as he edged around the chair to lean up against the railing next to the boots. Punctuating his concern with a gentle tap of his fist to the nearest ankle, knowing that no matter what Jack said, he wasn’t okay.

“Yeah.” It was spoken a little too softly to be fully convincing. “Just thinking… y’know how much I hate doin’ that,” he added, his smile weak, his voice tired, but still that light in his eyes bright, the mind behind them alive and active and always in control.

“Feel like talking?” Daniel shivered, the breeze from the lake kicking up behind him and he snaked his arms tighter around his belly. “I’m awake now,” he continued with a smile as he hunched his shoulders against the cold.

“Feel like lis’nin?” Jack leaned forward and pulled his sweatshirt off, “here…” he stretched out and gave the warmth of it to his lover, “…before you freeze your ass off and Fraiser has my ass for allowing that to happen.”

Daniel gave up another smile with his thanks, the sweatshirt warm and still holding the rugged smell of the wood smoke from their evening by the fire. “Want coffee?” he asked as he pushed himself off the rail, stepping in close.

“Nah,” Jack’s voice was thoughtful as he reached out to hook the tips of his fingers around Daniel’s thumb, staring out across the lake. “Ever feel like maybe you never happened?” he suddenly asked.

“Huh?” Daniel heard the words - surprised because he hadn‘t expected Jack to say that. 

“Y’know… like maybe you don’t exist?”

“I don’t understand,” Daniel closed his hand around Jack’s fingers, knowing instinctively that they needed to talk, that he needed to listen, more importantly knowing that he wanted to listen. “What’re you saying?” he asked gently, squeezing Jack’s fingers reassuringly.

“Know what it’s like to not only live a secret but to be a secret?” Jack looked up at his lover. “Know what that means? It means you don’t exist. It means you never happened.”

“It doesn’t mean that Jack,” Daniel shivered again, recognizing that Jack was drilling down.

“Yeah?  Well what does it mean?” Jack sank back against the chair. “Half my friggin’ life’s been classified fer chrissake. And I’m not talking about the Stargate program.” The grip on Daniel’s hand got stronger. “What d’you call it if you can’t talk about what you’ve done?  What you’ve been asked to do?  What you’ve seen?” The coolness of the breeze came in with his words. “How could you say that you ever happened?” The look said it all. “No one really knows who I am Daniel… cept you.”

“What’s bothering you?’ Daniel offered up a smile, encouragingly.

Jack shrugged. “Sometimes… some sights just circle my nights endlessly, like the fin of a shark.”

“Nightmare?”

“I guess. Just an old one that won’t go to rest.”

“Come on the couch with me …’kay?  I’m cold,” he prompted Jack, pulling him to his feet, dragging him indoors. “Talk to me,” he said as he grabbed at an Indian blanket draped over the back of the chair and sank gratefully into the warmth of the corner cushions.

Jack stabbed at the embers of the fire, the poker sparking up a flare of heat. “Sometimes… y’know… some memories just won’t leave me alone. Don‘t know why they keep comin’ round… they just do.” Jack stood up slowly, shaking his head. “I’ll get you some coffee,” he said and headed off to the kitchen.

“Something happen today?” Daniel shot the question out in the direction Jack had gone.

“Nah. Nothin’ unusual. Just...” he stood over Daniel, the coffee mug extended. “It’s kinda stale,” he said, his apology wrapped in a smile. “Sometimes…. something’ll just hit me and keep me awake,” he added and rolled onto the couch, his head coming to rest against Daniel’s chest. “Can’t sleep ‘cause… I keep seeing somethin’ I don’t want to.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

“Nope.” Jack stated emphatically, his hand covering Daniel’s, pressing both into his chest, before he then followed his initial resolve hesitantly with, “may-be.”

“This coffee sucks by the way,” and Daniel found a home for the discarded cup on the end-table nearby, adding, “may-be?” before wrapping his arms tightly around Jack.

Maybe it sucks?”

“No. It definitely sucks. Maybe you’ll tell me?”

“Can’t. Classified shit.”

“So-o?”

“Not supposed to talk about that stuff.  I’d be on everyone’s shitlist if they ever found out.”

“They?  Who the hell are they Jack? “

“You know… the Boyz down on the farm.”

“Oh! The-em,” responded Daniel skeptically and tapped the top of Jack’s head with his chin, rubbing at it affectionately. “Yeah... like I’m in tight with those guys.”

Jack stretched out and pushed himself deeper into Daniel’s warmth, exchanging with him some of his own. The house was quiet, the moonlight still shafting in through the patio doors - the breeze from the lake sweeping in around the one left ajar, the sweet fragrance of morning dew in the air. They stayed together like that for a long while, just enjoying the last light from the fire and the heat that was coming from the blanket that wrapped them both. 

They were breathing shadows in a room that was safe harbor to many shadows.

Jack rubbed his head slowly across Daniel’s chest, his words a whisper. “Sometimes… when I can’t sleep… it’s because maybe there’s a hard memory…” Jack took in a long slow breath, and then hesitantly he let it go. “Let’s say… lets say that this is the saddest thing you ever saw.”

 

~~~~~oOo~~~~~

 

Let’s say you were a stranger in a strange land, which wasn’t unusual because that was part of the job. It’s what you did, it’s what you were trained to do, and let’s say you were in this place that had already been violently abused for several years - again, not an unusual thing. You were there uninvited; moving silently through this country that was far from the idea of western civilization, and even further from the ideals of western morality. 

Maybe you were there looking for someone or something, just another job, your latest mission, and you’d been inserted into this country in the quiet of a night several long days before. Maybe you were alone because that was frequently the safest on this kind of mission, not just for you but for everyone else, and you were on edge because this particular area of the country was barren. Maybe it was winter and cover was tough, and you’d already endured several days of shelling. You were a shadow, moving silently beneath their radar because that was also what you did to get to where you were supposed to be - because blending out of sight really did mean the difference between staying alive and dying. 

Maybe it was cold where you were so you were thinking about food, and sleep, and dry socks and how far you still had to go. Maybe you came through the barrens to the edge of a village, to what had been someone’s house; a lonely gray structure in a backdrop of a gray landscape all draped by a gray mourning sky. Only now, this house was just another kind of shell, an empty one because it had already exploded - its broken windows and half-roof looking like just another silent scream in a country whose national anthem had morphed long ago into one endless silent scream. 

Maybe this house was different from all the others because there was a woman in what used to be the front yard. But tanks and heavy trucks had turned what might have once been her garden into a tumble of raw blocks where their tracks and wide treads had compacted the clay into bricks that, from a vantage point above the earth, looked zippered. A zigzag map of callousness lain down by an invading army too blind in its destruction to take the time to distinguish between those who were the innocents; an army driven by a collective hate, who saw every living thing in this country as nothing more than another target in an environment filled with living, lifeless targets; an army with a basic mandate to indiscriminately annihilate of all human life. And maybe you knew the truth of it all and that was one of the reasons you were there, because somewhere deep inside you, protecting the innocents is what you chose to do - protecting them because you knew they couldn’t do it for themselves.

So you notice this woman – this innocent. 

You notice - because that’s also something you do, you assess each situation for the minute details, for the hidden threats, and because your skills in observation have kept you alive on more than one occasion. So you notice the woman’s clothes are all tattered, but more importantly there are no weapons about her. You notice her dress is just an odd collection of rags that had once been real garments, but are now pulled on in layers with maybe her thought to retain a little warmth around her fragile frame. You notice there are mud covered scarves tied around her feet, wrapping up over her ankles and legs, disappearing beneath a torn coat many sizes too big. You notice under the mud, the coat appears to be military; a non-descript drab-olive with one pocket torn off and the flap of its material still clinging by a thread, waving to you with her movement. You notice, despite the cold, her hands are without gloves, dirt caked beneath the dark nails and on the back of one hand, a streak of blood - from a scratch - you think. You notice her hair is scattering around in the icy wind, a lifeless stringy canopy blowing unheeded across a face that maybe had beauty in someone’s eyes. You notice her life, that which may have been herself, has been raped by the ravages of this senseless and never-ending war. But mostly you notice you feel everything and you notice you feel nothing as you silently watch this skeleton draped by the remnants of some whispering sorrow, a transparent frailty, ethereal beneath the weight of her burden.

So you notice...

She’s focused and she doesn’t see you.

Maybe this was what you were used to - not being seen - but you were careful anyway, because not only did she not see you she didn’t appear to see anything beyond what she was doing. She was kneeling down, building something, like a tiny house - like a doghouse - you think. She’s stacking pieces of her shattered house, maybe a board from a splintered door, part of a window frame, perhaps half of a cabinet, and she’s singing. You can hear her high voice, the sounds blowing your way in the curl of the acrid smoke. You know some of her language because that’s part of what you do, part of how you can be there and blend in. You know it’s a lullaby she’s singing and maybe she’s singing to whatever is in that fractured shelter. Maybe you’re just a little curious, because from your vantage point you’re still too far away to clearly see whatever is holding her focus.

Then you feel it– in the soles of your boots, understand? – the approaching vehicles, before you actually hear them. It’s just another one of those tricks you’ve learned, one of those tricks that have kept you alive. So you feel them, that deep rumble that travels through the earth just below the surface, and at the same time you understand she’s not right.  Maybe you think, she’s seen too much of the world and whatever it is, there’s some vital part of her that is no longer in the here and now so she can’t protect herself. You know she can’t, and you know in your gut she won’t. You know it instinctively because you’ve seen that look a thousand times before.

She’s vacant, oblivious to all things around her.

Then she stands up and looks at what she’s done, and she frowns and darts away into the rubble of her house. You think – good - she understands the approaching danger and she’s leaving, so you get up slowly and move through the yard because by now you can hear the heavy motors and that means they’re too damned close and you really need to get moving yourself. You can’t be caught, not here, not now, because your mission is vital and completing it successfully is the prime directive. It’s one of your prime directives and you do it because it could make the difference, you do it because it will make the difference, you do it because it has made the difference. You do it for them, for all the innocents and then you get yourself safely home. 

You move lithely across the torn earth, your intent to move on, to remain unseen. Then you see her in the house as you chess your way quietly across the broken earth.  She’s a blurred silhouette somberly framed through one of the yawning squares that used to be a window.  She’s looking for something, still frowning in her concentration and you think – damn, she’s not leaving at all, is she. But still you have to move on, because the tanks are getting much closer and your presence in this land is not sanctioned by anyone there.

Then you know for sure she’s not leaving, when you cross the yard and you see what she’s been doing.

She’s building this shelter, see? She’s sheltering – because it’s raining and the mud is terrible, it freezes into crazy shapes, and you can tell from the dried brick of tracks that the tanks and heavy tires have already come through this yard many times before, tearing up the earth in their violent disregard. So you know, instinctively, she’s sheltering something valuable and you know for certain she can’t protect herself. Or maybe, you decide, she doesn’t want to because here she is, working out in the open, oblivious to the imminent danger, but there is something in this shelter she’s compelled to stay and protect.

Then you see as you step closer - the footprints in the mud. 

Tiny footprints of a child, and you guess it’s somewhere around two - old enough to walk but just barely. You glance quickly around the yard, but there’s no child in sight and the hard realization hits you and now you wish you hadn’t looked at all because you know the footprints are all that are left. 

And you react to the sound of a twig snapping because here she comes out of the house with the back of a chair, and you realize then she’s never leaving, she’d just gone in to get more wood. Maybe she sees you near her shelter and she raises the chair-back at you, vaguely, like a weapon, but you stand calmly and non-threateningly and she lowers it because it’s worth much more to her as a building element anyway. And besides, maybe she’s had enough of weapons and maybe there’s no weapon now that can hurt her more than she already hurts.

Maybe you step back with your palms up a bit, offering her no threat and you remain there and watch as she places the back of the chair against her little shelter. Her little barrier against the tanks and the trucks that wont care, because they’ll blow right over those pieces of wood and maybe she knows this, but this is all she’s got and all she can do is try and save those precious footprints. Because maybe those footprints are like the shadows on Plato’s cave; only for her they’re all that’s left of what used to be her life.

You know you can’t take her with you and even if you could you know she wouldn’t come, and even though you know enough of the language, your words are useless to her because there’s nothing you can possibly say.  

So you leave her, alone, singing her lullaby softly into the small fragile shelter. You leave her to protect that memory of her child. You leave her with its innocent soul, captured by the impression of two tiny footprints – all that remain to support the weight of its lingering but slowly fading shadow.

You leave her, as the gray day edges into night and the shadows grow long and all that was life here begins to submerge into war-torn obscurity.

Then you become obscure too – and so move on.

Because by then you’ve had to move on, leaving her far behind you; knowing the tanks will be there soon; knowing the tiny shelter will be wiped away and another life will disappear into the gray mud; knowing her hushed scream has become one more innocent voice lost in a cacophony of deafening silence. Because you know - because you can feel it in your soul that this land you move through is drenched in the sad and unbearable silence of thousands of murdered innocent souls. All those lost lives forever lurking beneath the cast of every unmoving shadow, their souls wandering aimlessly in the quiet around you, searching for an answer to the madness that has brushed them away. Where that madness has touched you too, and sidled up against the kindness in your soul, leaving its indelible mark on your conscience and your own need to understand why.

And so you moved on...

Maybe you think that’s what she really wanted. Maybe you have to think that, because you had no other choice but to move on, needing to slip back into the security of your own fading shadow. So you move on with your mission, you return to the unseen; you become the one living ghost sent to walk quietly through their lives - lives that have been emptied, lives that have lost all life. 

You don’t belong there. Your life doesn’t belong there, but still you leave a small part of yourself behind in the strength of your footprint - a solid footprint, holding the essence of your conscience which will always remain as an everlasting impression in the mud of their turmoil. Your shadow, leaving a silent statement that says the reason you chose to be there was simply because you cared. And maybe you believed your touch could make the difference - because maybe you knew in your heart the ghost of your presence had already made the difference. And maybe the end really does justify the means because when all is said and done its the innocents who will be saved, if not today by you, then tomorrow by someone else who believes, just as strongly as you do, that to fight on the side of right is never wrong.

But later, after you’ve found what you came for and did what you were supposed to do, you went home. Maybe when you couldn’t sleep you’d sit out on your porch and watch the mist rise off the lake on a quiet autumn morning, the swirl of it casting shadows that took on the ethereal shapes of an old memory. Maybe you had wanted to tell someone back then, but there wasn’t anyone to tell, because that moment had no strategic importance to your mission; it didn’t belong in a report and it felt too fragile to talk about face-to-face, like it might shatter beneath the weight of the spoken word. So no-one knew about it and it weighed on you - until now.

Then someone touches your heart in a place that it has never been touched before, and he says –‘Tell me Jack, you can trust me, I’m safe’. 

So you do.

 

~~~oOo~~~

 

Daniel pulled Jack in tight to his body and they dropped into sleep as the sun came up through the windows, its light finding them tangled together in the security of their love. Jack’s memory now shared, the telling of it finally banishing a sorrow that had been felt so deeply by a man whose heart was never expected to be touched by something as fragile as the weight of an innocent’s shadow. 

But it was.

He was.

 

fini

 

~~~~oOo~~~~

 

Thank you for reading.

Comments are always appreciated.

mor_ag2001@yahoo.com