Death of All Things Innocent
Death of All Things Innocent
by Gallagater
Title: Death of All Things Innocent
Author: Gallagater
Email: 7j4him@prodigy.net
Category: Angst
Season: any Season
Pairing: Jack/Sara
Rating: PG
Warnings: minor character death
Summary: The gun goes off and a world is shattered.
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I 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 author(s).
Death of All Things Innocent
Gallagater
Summary: The gun goes off and a world is shattered. E-mail: 7j4him@prodigy.net
Category: angst
Rating: PG
Season: Pre-Stargate the Movie
Archive Permissions: WaM, stargatefan, Jackfic, Heliopolis, all others ask
Disclaimer: They're not mine, sigh, a girl can always dream. SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (ll) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. No Copyright infrigement is intended. They don't earn me a dime, just new friends and some time away from my laundry. That's entertainment! The original characters, situations, and story are property of the author.
Author's Note: This is the fifth story in my Sara O'Neill series. Many thanks to everyone who has written me concerning this series. The previous stories are as follows: More than Mere Duty, A Reflection of Mere Pride, New Strength Awakening, and Harmony of Tempest and Circumstances. Your encouragement throughout the creation of this series means more than you will every know. A very special to Chrisbod who beta skills makes it possible for me to post with much more confidence. Thanks Chris. Feedback is as always very much appreciated.
His blood be upon us and our children.
Luke 27:25
Sara O'Neill lay in silent isolation in the darkness. It was a darkness which not only permeated the room, but filled her soul. She shivered despite the throw she clutched around her trembling shoulders and wondered if she would ever be warm again. Had she thought about it, Sara might have realized that the cold she was feeling was not external, but had invaded her from within.
Beyond hope, beyond tears, Sara was numb. Had she given it any thought, she might have realized that more than anything else, she longed for Jack to walk into the room, take her in his strong arms, and hold her like a child... like a child. Like the child she would never again hold. But even in her despair, Sara recognized that would not happen. Jack was as lost to her as Charlie.
Hearing quiet footsteps in the hallway, Sara knew without looking that it would be her dad coming to check on her again. Quickly, she closed her eyes, feigning sleep. She simply wasn't up to his well-meaning fussing. Especially when Mike's grief was etched so plainly on his own face. He loved - had loved - Charlie so much. As his only grandson, the little boy had managed to wiggle his way into a special corner of his grandpa's life.
Mike loved to build things. He enjoyed working with his hands. He always had. This was probably where Sara's passion for gardening had come from. Sara worked with soil while her father worked with wood. He shared that love with Charlie from the time the boy was old enough to clutch a hammer in his little fist.
Closing her eyes tightly against the hurt, Sara remembered Charlie's first Christmas when his proud grandpa presented him with a complete tool kit easily as large as his bassinet. Jack had laughed and teased her dad unmercifully about buying such an inappropriate gift for a baby only a few months old. Not to be out done, Mike had simply pointed to Jack's own gifts of baseball equipment and raised his eyebrow. As Jack's stammering explanation died an ignoble death, they had all burst out laughing, startling Charlie who had made known loud and clear his feelings on the subject with his infant wail.
It had been the best Christmas ever. Well, that wasn't quite true. Every Christmas had been the best ever. Charlie's presence had been their present. He had made Christmas come alive. For Jack and Sara, he was their Christmas spirit.
Mike had the last laugh on his son-in-law. As Charlie grew, his grandfather had instilled in him a love of creating that surpassed even his own. Sara could see the fort from her window, the two of them had spent weeks building together in the backyard. It seemed she could always count on her dad planning a project just when Jack received orders and was gone for any length of time. Sara knew how much Charlie missed his dad. Having something to keep his hands and mind busy made the time pass quicker.
And then there was the anticipation of sharing his accomplishments that made Charlie's face light up. Whether it was a birdhouse for the backyard, or a shelf to hold his baseball trophies, Charlie was so eager to show his handywork to his dad. Just this week at supper he had hinted that he and his Grandpa were planning on building a doghouse. And then he casually manipulated the conversation to mention that Jared Siler's dog had puppies. Charlie was most certainly Jack O'Neill's son when it came to being direct. There wasn't a subtle bone in either of them. Jack had looked over at her, his eyes twinkling with suppressed mirth as he teased his son about building a doghouse when he didn't have a dog.
Sara had allowed her husband to have his fun for awhile, but seeing her son's downcast expression, she had smiled at Jack and asked, "Well, aren't you going to tell him?"
She knew she would never forget the look on Charlie's face as his dad told him he had already talked to the Silers and his puppy was just waiting for the promised doghouse. Sara was sure old Mr. Anderson could have heard the joyful whoop all the way across the street. They had beenhard pressed to get Charlie to finish his dinner before he was on the phone making plans with his grandpa.
Sara wondered with whom the coveted puppy would find a home now. She tried in vain to block out the happy images which bombarded her, but her imagination was merciless. Charlie, watching eagerly out the window for his dad's car. Jack's arms full of squirming puppy as he walked in the door. Charlie, having his face washed by a warm pink tongue. Jack, leaning against the wall, content for the moment, to simply revel in the outpouring of his son's happiness. Within moments; however, Jack would be down on the floor and the living room would erupt with the sounds of laughter as her boys and the pup became acquaintance. She could even picture herself leaning against the doorframe of the kitchen, a plaid dish towel in her hand, a smile on her face, enjoying every chaotic moment.
It was so real that for a moment Sara thought that it must really have happened. But no, Charlie had never seen his puppy. He had not built the doghouse. He had not chosen a name. His face hadn't been puppy-washed. He would never again roll on the floor and play with his dad. And Sara was sure she would never smile again.
Mike had taken charge of the steady stream of callers who brought unwanted casseroles, potted plants, and sympathy. The phone never seem to stop ringing. Like eyes drawn to a car wreak, friends and mere acquaintances were eager to share in the pain of the tragedy even in absentia, especially in absentia. They seemed to gain importance with their ability to make a connection to those directly involved.
"I carried Mrs. O'Neill's groceries to the car the day before it happened. His glove was in the back seat of her car."
"I dry cleaned the colonel's dress uniform. You know, the one he wore to the funeral. Oh yes, we are very good friends. I've known them for years. Did you hear it was the colonel's own gun?"
They caressed the pain without touching it. Reveling in the sanctimonious hypocrisy of those not stroked by the hand of fate. They looked in the mirror and saw only the reflection of pain. Hurting only in a way that made them feel good for the hurting. Assuring that they were indeed filled with compassion and therefore a good person. It soothed the conscience and made it acceptable to say in one breath, "What a terrible tragedy. How could they have left a gun where a child could reach it?"
May God have mercy on their pharisaical condemning souls, because Sara knew she never would.
How could they have left a gun in the house where their child could reach it? Her grandmother had always said hind-site was twenty-twenty. Sara knew without a doubt that she would have rather been struck blind than beheld the sight that met her eyes that day.
It had started out to be such a beautiful day. The kind of a day which from the moment you climb out of bed you are in good mood. Unknowing that you are about to be dealt a blow in which your life will never be the same and from which you may never recover.
Sara had tried to ease her way out from under the sheets without waking Jack. There had been a dark period in their life just after Jack came home from Iraq, when this had been the norm. But they had made it through that time. It had been a long uphill journey for both of them, but they and their marriage had emerged stronger than ever after Jack had, if not buried, at least caged the demons which tormented him for so long.
This morning Sara had decided to rise early and make her boys waffles with blueberry topping. She knew she would have to hurry if she was going to get everything done before Charlie's bus came. Sliding her legs off the bed and sitting up, Sara smiled as she glazed at her sleeping husband's bare back. Looking at the scars that littered the tan skin, Sara resisted the urge to trace each of the marks. To her they represented just how far she and Jack had come from that dark time. A time when Jack would not allow her to see what man in all his wickedness had done to him. But while time had not healed all wounds, it had allowed Jack to come back to she and Charlie. Scarred, changed forever, but able to accept the gift of peace and happiness he found in his home. Their relationship had its scars as well, but then with all deep wounds there is almost always scarring. But the wounds had healed, and what if they had left their marks on them both. It added a character to their marriage that was theirs alone, unique, incomparable, priceless for having nearly lost it.
Feeling so very clever at having outwitted her special forces husband and anticipating the appreciation in his eyes when he saw the extra effort she had gone to for breakfast, Sara stood up quietly. She gasped in surprise as a long tanned arm reached out and wrapped around her slim waist. A quick tug and Sara found herself trapped in Jack's strong embrace. Pulling her tightly to his chest, Jack laughed softly at her muttered indignation. As he silenced her threats with a firm kiss, Sara felt herself melting into his arms. Ceasing her mock struggles, Sara relaxed.
"If you want blueberry waffles this morning you better let me go," she teased as she played with the coarse hair on his broad chest. Reading the passion in Jack's eyes she added, "I suppose I could always use frozen waffles."
"Sounds like a plan to me," Jack whispered with a grin as he pulled her closer.
As it turned out, neither Jack, nor Charlie seemed to have minded the frozen waffles at all. Having wolfed down his breakfast, Charlie was out the door with a wave of his hand, eager to get on the bus and see his friends. Jack whistled his way through getting dressed with a smarthy, smirk of satisfaction on his face.
As she sat of the edge of the bed and watched him dress, Sara scolded, "You better wipe that smirk off your face, Flyboy, or there won't be an airman on base that doesn't know what you've been up to this morning."
Throwing her a rakish look from around the closet door, Jack grinned, "Yeah, and wishing they had been doing the same thing." He ducked quickly as a pillow came flying across the room at his head. Checking to see if the coast was clear, Jack dodged out of the closet. Wrapping his arms around Sara he pushed her back on the bed. Resting on his elbow he leaned back beside her. Looking into his wife's eyes he read unabridged love in the blue depths.
Tracing her lips gently with one finger Jack whispered, "Is it my fault, I'm married to the most beautiful woman on base?"
Sara's eyes welled with tears at the unexpected endearment. Jack wasn't normally one to express himself in such fashion. She smiled as Jack gentle kissed her. "Much as I'd like to stay," he began reluctantly.
"Duty calls," Sara finished for him. Getting her emotions under control, Sara gave Jack's seat a playful swat as he stood up. "Better get a move on, Colonel," she said briskly, "or General West will have your butt in a sling."
"Yes, ma'am," Jack said throwing her a sharp salute. "Don't forget I'll be home early tonight to take Charlie to the ballgame."
"As if he'd let me forget," Sara laughed. "Besides the puppy, it's the only thing he's talked about all week."
Grinning, Jack planted a kiss on her nose. "I'll try and call you later," he promised. "Better tell Mike to speed up the plans for that doghouse or Charlie's gonna bust a gasket."
"I'm sure I'll talk to him sometime this afternoon. I'll be gone around noon. Today's the Officer's Wives Luncheon," Sara reminded him gloomily. "I'd rather change the spark plugs on my car."
"Ah the order of the almighty OWL group, eh," Jack quipped as he used their pet term for the group. I know you don't give a hoot, but hang in there, soldier, the spark plugs will have to wait," he teased, knowing how much she disliked the politics in which she was forced to participate as the wife of a career officer. "Remember you're an O'Neill."
"And that fact has gotten us both into trouble more times than I care to mention." Sara laughed.
Jack smiled knowing she was absolutely right.
It was a good day.
The dreaded luncheon was behind her. Sara was once again comfortable in her work clothes and tennis shoes. Colonel Steward's wife had asked her to chair the hospitality committee this year. As much as she hated the committees, Sara knew how important it was for her to remain an active part of Jack's career. Long ago she had resigned herself to the necessities involved in being an officer's wife. It was bearable and a small price to pay in comparison to her husband's appreciation for the things she did in the name of his career. Jack wasn't the only O'Neill who knew how to play the game when necessary. Although Jack never said a lot about her sacrifice, Sara knew how he felt. When compared to the pride and love she saw for her in his eyes, it was a small price to pay, a very small price.
Sara knelt in the soft dirt and carefully worked with her trowel. She loved being outdoors. She loved watching the young planets sprout from seed to seedling, from seedling to bloom, from bloom wince came more seeds. To Sara it was the perfect circle of nature and she found comfort in its consistent cycle. Now she was clearing away some young plants which had been beaten down in an unexpected storm. The tender shoots had been unable to withstand the brutal blow. Sara thought sadly that this was one life cycle which would never find completion and had ended too soon.
Charlie's bus arrived and Sara waved from her kneeling position. She watched as her son and several of his friends escaped the last confines of school. They stood together, obviously plotting some adventure or game. No doubt, if Charlie had anything to do with the plans, a baseball would be involved. He loved the game so much. Sara's attention returned to her gardening. The comforting sounds of children's play echoed through the neighborhood.
As he had promised, Jack was home early. He had changed at work and Sara couldn't help but smile at the eager anticipation written on his face as he ran towards her across the yard. Sara knew how much Jack coveted his time with Charlie. She knew her husband well enough to know that although he didn't say much about it, he was looking forward to the ball game and the time with his son, even more so than Charlie. Although Jack's job may have taken away from quantity of time with his son, her husband worked hard at making the time they did have quality. Sara loved him for it. Jack treasured his son. He treasured her. She could see it in his eyes. She could hear it in his voice as he asked her about her day. She could feel it in his touch as he nuzzled her neck playfully. Jack was truly happy and at peace with himself and his world. And this knowledge made Sara smile again. They had come along way to reach where they were. Together, at peace, happy, a family.
And then a shot shattered that illusion.
Sara didn't remember how she got to the bedroom. She didn't remember screaming Charlie's name. She didn't remember dropping the new school picture still in its cellophane wrapper on the floor. Sara remembered the blood.
As she followed Jack upstairs, too frightened to even cry, Sara stopped in the doorway of their bedroom. The ridiculous thought entered her head that Charlie must have filled a water balloon up with red paint and it had exploded. The red was soaking the knee's of Jack's pants as he threw himself on the floor and began a frantic race with death. Red was everywhere. Bright drops decorated the green paisley bedspread like ripe cranberries. It splattered on the cream walls making vulgar patterns. It saturated the beige carpet next to the bed.
Jack's labored breathing sounded loud in the otherwise morgue-like stillness of the room. Sara stood frozen, afraid to speak, afraid to breath. Her husband's broad back blocked her view, but she could not move. Suddenly Jack stopped, his head bowed, his back slumped in defeat. His trembling hand brushed over the smiling portrait of their son which she had dropped, leaving a trail, smearing the cellophane red.
And then Sara knew. As she stared at the bloody mockery of her son's picture, she knew. Charlie was gone. And then she screamed.
Had it only been two weeks since the argument over the watergun? Only two weeks. Why hadn't she been stronger? Why hadn't she backed Jack's order that Charlie never touch a gun, pretend or real? Why couldn't they have allowed Charlie to play with the toy gun? Maybe then he wouldn't have been so curious. But he was curious, and resourceful, and determined. Just like his father. Why did he have to be so much like Jack? Why couldn't he have inherited just a bit of his mother's cautious nature? Just a bit. That was all he would have needed.
But he didn't. He was every inch Jack O'Neill. And he was curious. And he was resourceful. And he was determined. And he was dead.
Oh God, her son was dead.
Somewhere in this house that used to be a home, Sara knew Jack must be battling his own kind of Hell. Perhaps if they could have clung tightly to each other they might escape this pit they had been flung into so callously. But Sara didn't have the courage to face her husband, to face his self-hatred and guilt. She was hurting too badly herself to allow Jack to lean on her this time. She simply didn't have the strength. And so Sara lay in the dark, hoping and praying that Jack would come to her. But he didn't. And the darkness in her soul grew.
*fin*
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