And she’d repaid him by talking about him to his team. Told them his secrets. Secrets that were
his
to tell, dammit, that he’d never wanted them to know. Frank. Abu Ghraib. Hell, and nightmares.
Just thinking about it curdled his guts all over again.
She had no right. I don’t give a crap how man
y times she’s saved my life. She crossed the line. She’s in the wrong. Did she really think I’d take it lying down?
Except…
“I know you meant well.”
“But?” she said, when he didn’t continue.
He met her quiet gaze steadily. “I don’t have to say it. You know.”
She took a careful sip of whiskey. “Yes.”
“My relationship with Frank Cromwell was private,” he said. Feeling anger’s heat lick along his bones. “Not for public consumption.”
She sat back, a new and caustic edge to her stare. “Well if that’s true, why did you go out of your way to let everyone within earshot know you had a beef with him?”
She might as well have stuck a knife in his ribs. “What?”
“You were rude to him in front of me. Sam. General Hammond. God knows who else.” Her fingers drummed the table. “You might as well have taken out an ad, Jack.”
Sometimes it was easier to hate a friend than an enemy. He got up from the table before he said something unforgivable, and walked away from her. Walked the length of the kitchen until he hit the sink and glared into the moonlit garden until the bubbling fury subsided. Jesus.
She
was lecturing
him
?
My God, this woman. Why can she twist me inside out like a pretzel?
He wasn’t in love with her. God. Not in a million years. She was like — like a sister. Or an evil guardian angel. Jabbing him with needles. Stabbing him with truth.
Did I want them to know? Did I want everyone to know Frank couldn’t be trusted? That the book and the cover bore no relation? He was slick. He was smooth. He g
ot people to like him. To — hell — love him like a brother. And then, when it mattered most
…
“I — ”
He had to stop. Clear his throat. He should go. Just go. Frank was dead. It didn’t matter. That particular piece of the past had died with him and good riddance. But instead of walking out he kept on talking.
“You know my file. Probably better than I know it myself by now. You know what happened in Iraq.”
“Unfortunately I do, yes,” she said. Her voice was soft, and gentle as the moonlight. Running beneath it an undercurrent of distress. He didn’t know if that made things better, or worse.
“Those are the facts. Who did what, to which bits, and how many times. But the file won’t tell you what it was like. And I can’t. I can’t talk about that, Janet. Not to you. Not to anybody.”
Her silence was palpable. It spurred him on. He needed her to understand. Didn’t want her thinking he was just some crazy, irrational torture survivor, a trendy poster boy for PTSD.
“We knew what would happen to us if we got caught,” he said tightly. “We talked about it. Frank promised, he
promised
, that no matter what nobody would be left behind. He promised he’d shoot us himself before he let any of us get taken. I believed him. And then he left me there.” He shifted so he could see Janet’s face from the corner of his eye. But only a little, so she couldn’t see very much of him. “Afterwards people kept asking me, how did you do it? How did you beat them? How did you survive? And I told them,
I was well trained
. Or,
my family
. Or,
knowing m
y buddies were counting on me
.” He felt his lips peel back in a snarling smile. “Lies.” He shifted again, so she lost sight of him. “It was hate.”
He heard her shocked little gasp. “He thought you were dead, Jack.”
“He thought wrong,” he replied. And again saw Frank’s anguished face… heard the torment in his voice…
“What?” said Janet. “Are you okay?”
Damn, she saw too much. But he’d started this. He might as well finish it. She was a doctor… and he’d come to be healed. “Frank said that what he did to me in Iraq was the same as what I did to Hank.”
Hank Boyd and his team, like Frank, probably still dying in slow motion in that black hole, each heartbeat of agony lasting a lifetime. Hank, his good friend. Crazy guy. The best.
“Well, he was wrong,” said Janet. “Because you didn’t do anything to Hank.”
When he closed his eyes he saw Hank’s face on the base monitor. Distorted with terror. Stark with grim knowledge.
“Yeah, I did. I killed him.”
He heard her sigh. “So you killed him. So now what?”
That spun him round. “You think I killed him?”
She shrugged, the warm sympathy in her eyes turning chill. “I think it’s pretty clear that you don’t care what I think.”
It took him a moment, then he realized what she meant. She hadn’t forgiven him for how he’d reacted when he found out she’d talked to his team. “I was angry.”
“Oh. Well. Sure. That makes it okay then.”
This was her house. Her kitchen. There were no uniforms here. He was Jack, not the colonel. She wasn’t obliged to call him sir. To guard her tongue. To hide her pain.
He swallowed. “You’re hurt.”
Eyes glittering, she raised her glass. “Give the man a kewpie doll.”
Okay. This was a road to be walked both ways. “You don’t think I had a right to be pissed off? About you and Hammond telling everyone that… stuff?”
“Well, for one thing it wasn’t
everyone
, it was Daniel and
Sam and Teal’c,” she snapped. “And for another it wasn’t a joint
operation. Hammond called me and the team into his office and just started talking. There was nothing I could do.”
What?
Hammond
told them? “I didn’t know that.”
“You didn’t ask.”
Well, crap. Why didn’t she say? When he tore her a new one for talking out of turn, why didn’t she tell him it wasn’t her?
Because you scared her, jackass. She did exactly what you wanted her t
o do, she tucked her tail between her legs and headed for the hills
.
It was a miracle she’d let him through her front door.
She was looking at him now, reading him like a book. “
Do
you want to know what I think?”
Yes. No. Hell. Why had he come here?
“Okay,” she said. “Here’s what I think. I think Frank Cromwell had a split second to make a decision. I think he decided to save his team instead of risking them for someone he thought was already dead. I think he probably wanted to die himself when he found out he was wrong. I think he hurt every day of every week of every month of the last seven years because of it. I think you were wrong not to see him. I think you probably know that now, because you’ve led your own teams for the past five years and you’ve made some tough calls that weren’t always appreciated and you’ve lost one or two men of your own and suddenly it’s not so black and white any more. I think you were blinded by your own pain, and then when you finally began to understand things from his point of view you were too stubborn to admit it. Too pigheaded to make the first move. And now he’s gone, and he’s not coming back, and the things you thought you’d say to him one day… one day when it suited you… they’re just smoke on the wind.”
He couldn’t breathe. Could barely see. Every word was a bullet, tearing him apart.
God dammit. God dammit. Frank… I’m sorry.
“He sent flowers to Charlie’s funeral,” he said, his voice ragged. “Sarah wanted me to call him. Say thanks. Say something. Anything. She never stopped trying to get us talking again. But by then it was way past too late. By then I wasn’t talking to anyone, not even her.”
By then he had no words worth speaking. All he could do was sit in Charlie’s room, holding the gun that had killed his son, putting its barrel in his mouth and taking it out again… over and over and over and —
On a deep breath he pulled himself out of that memory.
Oh God. Frank’s dead.
It was too late to say sorry.
“Hey, Jack,” said Daniel. “How are you doing?”
Jack didn’t answer. Like Lotar at the end, he was sunk deep in stupor. On fluids. On oxygen. Teetering on the edge of existence.
I haven’t seen him look this bad since Antarctica. He nearly died then. God, we need another miracle.
Aching with exhaustion, he blotted sweat from his face. He was feeling pretty awful himself. Nauseous. A splitting headache. Pains in his gut. He hadn’t told Janet. There wasn’t much point.
If my luck’s run out and the plague’s finally got me, my best hope
is the vaccine she and Teal’c are cooking up. She can’t afford to be distracted.
Outside the tent, Adjo was lightening towards dawn. Another
day, another funeral. They’d farewelled ninety-four villagers so far. Everything stank of cremated flesh. Bhuiku was holding his people together, but only just. If they didn’t find a cure soon there’d be nobody left for the young man to lead.
Behind him Dixon coughed and rolled off his camp bed. Groaned and muttered, then joined him beside Jack.
“Morning.”
Daniel glanced up. “Yeah. Looks like it.”
“He’s still with us?”
“He’s hanging in there. In his own words, he’s one stubborn sonofabitch.”
Dixon nodded. “Yeah. Frank said. Did you know he was taken prisoner by the Iraqis in Desert Storm?”
“Yeah.”
“Frank said they gave it to him pretty good, but… he held out.”
Daniel shifted a little on the camp stool. “You know, you say that a lot.
Frank said
.”
“It’s true,” said Dixon, shrugging. “He talked about O’Neill all the time. I guess O’Neill never talked about him.”
“No. I never heard of Colonel Cromwell till after he was dead.”
“Figures.”
He sighed. “Dave… what is it you want?”
Another shrug. “Doesn’t matter now. Doesn’t look like I’m going to get it.”
Daniel looked up. There was such sorrow in Dixon’s face. In his glazed, exhausted eyes. “Jack’s a good man,” he said at last. “He’s also the most aggravating, complicated,
difficult
man I’ve ever known.” He hesitated again, then decided to continue. This might be his last chance to get through to Dixon. “We met a little while after his son died. He blamed — blames — himself for Charlie’s death. Not pretend blame, not self-pitying blame. It’s complete, uncompromising self-condemnation.” He took a deep breath. “So however hard you think he is on other people, on Frank Cromwell, believe me. He’s a hundred times harder on himself.”
Dixon’s eyes turned grim. “Don’t be too sure. I met Frank after O’Neill kicked him to the curb.”
Oh boy
. “Look. Dave. I don’t know exactly what happened between them. Mainly I’ve just read between the lines. And all you know is what Cromwell told you. Not that I’m suggesting he
lied
— ” he added hastily as Dixon’s thin, pale face flushed with temper. “But every story has two sides.”
“You’re just defending O’Neill because he’s your friend.”
That made him smile, even though his head was pounding. “Trust me, Dave. That doesn’t stop us butting heads. We’ve come close to nuclear meltdown once or twice.”
Dixon frowned, disbelieving. “Uh huh.”
“Oh please. You don’t think we put
everything
in our mission reports, do you?” He rolled his eyes. “The thing is, Dave, assuming Jack survives this illness, you are
never
going to get
him to discuss his friendship, or lack of it, with Frank Cromwell.
Trust
me, he will
never
talk to you about something that personal. And the sooner you accept it, the happier you’ll be.”
After a long, heavy silence Dixon nodded. “Okay.” He checked his watch. “We should start rounds. Unless… you want me to do it? You’re not looking too hot.”
That made him smile. “Don’t suppose you’ve checked in a mirror lately, have you?”
“Nah,” said Dixon. “Too scared. Okay. We’ll do rounds, then you should get some more sack-time. Be damned if I end up doing this all on my own.”
“You go ahead,” said Daniel. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”
“Sure,” said Dixon, and made himself scarce.
Daniel stared down at Jack again, chewing his lip. “Okay. As much as I really want you to be better, I’m hoping you didn’t hear any of that. Jack…” He reached out, rested his palm on Jack’s quiet head. “I’m going to be really pissed if you make a liar out of me. You’ve survived so much already… don’t you dare let a snakehead
virus
get you.”
With a wincing grunt he levered himself to his feet, then dragged himself off, stumbling, to the hospital tents.