On the Land or the Deep
Jul. 10th, 2011 01:51 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stringertheoryTitle: On the Land or the Deep
Rating: PG
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Colonel Reynolds
Word Count: 2197
Categories: friendship, drama, angst
Spoilers/Warnings: Set S8, sometime prior to "Prometheus Unbound".
Summary: Written for the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sg1friendathon: "Jack, Colonel Reynolds. 'We make mistakes, people die.'"
Note: Title from the unofficial verses for "Taps". Found here.
Hours into his vigil, Reynolds found himself glaring at the grey walls of the infirmary.
He didn't hate the infirmary as much as some, but he still tried to spend as little time there as possible. He would willingly stay tonight, though, if it meant the man in the cot beside him would instead be safe at home.
The fluorescent lights hummed above him and Reynolds scrubbed a hand over his face, fighting sleep. His back ached from sitting in the same position in the hard infirmary chair for so long, but he didn't move. The discomfort kept him conscious. He would be awake when Bosworth woke up. His would be the first face the airman saw and he wouldn't apologize or ask forgiveness for the mess he had made of their mission, but Bosworth would hear it anyway. When you woke up next to a teammate who had bags under his eyes, who wore weariness as heavily as the rumpled clothes on his body, you understood.
He released a breath into the quiet of the room and checked Bosworth's face again for any signs of approaching consciousness. Pipes rattled in the infirmary walls, a cough sounded from one of the offices, and Reynolds wished desperately for a beer.
The soft shush of boots against concrete alerted him to someone entering the infirmary. Despite the fact that it could be one of his superiors, due a salute and snap to attention he wasn't sure he had the energy to perform, he didn't look up. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the starched white sheets near Bosworth's right arm and the pulse oximeter on his finger. The monitor beside the bed provided a reassuring series of beeps, proof of a steady heartbeat. It had been Reynolds' music for the past four hours.
With a rustle of fabric, the intruder on his solitude took the chair opposite him.
“Reynolds.”
General O'Neill. At least he wouldn't have to worry about being reprimanded for keeping his seat.
“Sir.”
“How is he?”
“Doc says he'll be okay,” Reynolds replied, his voice gruff, “but he hasn't woken up yet.”
“Lieutenant Mooney?”
“Sent home a few hours ago with eighteen stitches and a sling.”
“And some of the good painkillers?” O'Neill asked knowingly, a hint of playfulness in his tone.
“Yeah.”
Reynolds felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The sensation was completely at odds with his mood. It wasn't right to smile while keeping watch over someone who was only in a hospital bed because you had put him there. O'Neill seemed to sense his state of mind, for his voice was serious when he spoke again.
“How are you holding up?”
Reynolds glanced over. O'Neill wasn't looking at him, picking at some peeling veneer on the arm of his chair, but the tilt of his head let Reynolds know that he was asking sincerely. Reynolds heaved a deep sigh and rubbed at the back of his neck.
“I'm okay.”
“Liar.”
Reynolds shook his head. “Yeah, I am.”
“What happened?”
“You have the report—”
“I do,” O'Neill cut in, “but I'm asking you what happened.”
Reynolds hesitated. The ruined mission had been playing over and over again in his mind; he couldn't see the benefit in repeating it out loud. And relating his mistakes to his commanding officer over the sickbed of his subordinate just seemed unfair. But O'Neill was watching him with an expectant air, so he leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and told the story.
“We arrived on P8X-147 with no problems,” he began, slipping easily, protectively, into the report mode he used for every debriefing. “On SG-3's initial visit to the planet, we found a few Jaffa we determined were affiliated with Ba'al, polite though disinterested locals, and ruins inscribed with what appeared to be Ancient text. We managed to complete a quick survey of the area without encountering any of the Jaffa directly, as they seemed more concerned with monitoring the work of the locals than guarding the Gate.. The planet's inhabitants didn't seem to care what we did so long as we kept our distance, so we figured it would be safe enough to bring back SG-24 for a closer look at the ruins.”
O'Neill nodded. This much he would know from the report of SG-3's first trip.
“After we arrived on the planet with SG-24 and verified that our presence had apparently gone undetected, we hurried for the cover of the ruins. From what we had gathered on our first visit, both the locals and the Jaffa had no use for the place, so I figured we would be safe there and unlikely to encounter anyone.” Reynolds let out his breath in a huff. “That was my first mistake,” he admitted. “My second was ignoring the signs.”
“What signs?”
“The place was too quiet,” Reynolds said, shaking his head. “The first time we were there, the sound of the birds was nearly deafening. There were animals all over the place, scurrying through the leaves, making all sorts of noise. The second time, the only sound was the wind through the trees. That should have told me something was wrong, but it didn't register or I brushed it aside. Either way, I decided the team was safe enough that I could do a bit of scouting. I left Bosworth and Mooney with SG-24, and took Kinder with me.” He let his shoulders drop, the weight he carried pressing him deeper into his chair. “She never even saw it coming.”
“What happened?”
The statement was more an encouragement to continue than a question. Reynolds straightened in his chair and rubbed his hands up and down his legs. He made a quick check of Bosworth, who appeared to be no closer to consciousness than he had been half an hour ago.
“We hadn't gone more than a few hundred yards from the ruins, headed toward the nearest village, when a staff blast flew between us. I yelled to Kinder to take cover, but before I could even get the words out of my mouth, she'd been hit. It was bad; I could tell. But she fought like hell to...” He trailed off, the pain of what had happened blocking the words in his chest. He cleared his throat and got his breath back.
“I dragged her behind some cover and cleared enough of the hostiles that I was able to carry her back to the ruins. There I found the rest of the team and SG-24 under heavy fire, coming from the direction of another nearby village.” He shook his head. “I don't know if one of the locals tipped them off, or if we were somehow spotted by the Jaffa, but they made our position before SG-24 could even set up any equipment. As far as I could tell, the path back to the gate was clear, so I sent Bosworth to dial it up,” he said, tipping his head in the man's direction, “while we made a hasty retreat. The docs went in front of us with Mooney, I came in between with Kinder, and Major Appleton and Lieutenant Parks brought up the rear, providing cover.”
Reynolds paused there as another patient across the ward moaned and muttered in his sleep. The man was restless for a few seconds, then turned over to his side and stilled, the only remnants of his momentary disturbance a few hitches in his otherwise deep, steady breathing. When the infirmary was quiet again, Reynolds continued.
“By the time we got to the gate, the Jaffa were closing in on us from three sides, pinching us together. Bosworth had been shot in the leg, but he had the gate open and I ordered SG-24 through. Lieutenant Mooney had a nasty cut on his arm, so I sent him on with Corporal Kinder, with me and Bosworth bringing up the rear. Then I ordered Bosworth through, but as he turned to follow my orders, he fell.”
Reynolds turned his gaze to Bosworth's still face.
“I'm still not sure what hit him, but he went down hard. When he didn't get up, I worked my way over to his position. He was unconscious, blood pouring from a head wound, and I knew we needed to get off that planet as fast as possible. I made a strafing shot across the area to buy us a few seconds, hauled him up over my shoulder, and made a run for the gate. When I came out here, the first thing I saw was Kinder laid out on the gate ramp. Mooney was sitting beside her, holding a bandage over his arm. From the look on his face, I knew she was gone.”
The memory of their return was burned into his mind as a series of images and sensations: Dr. Wells hunched over at the end of the ramp with his hands on his knees, taking slow, shuddering breaths while Dr. Overstreet rubbed his back; bright red spreading insipidly across the white bandage under Mooney's fingers; the ragged rise and fall of Bosworth's chest against his shoulder; Kinder on the ramp, face pale, eyes open and empty, the front of her shirt stained dark with blood; the feel of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and the feeling of that pulse dropping to the pit of his stomach.
For a minute, the only sound was the beeping of Bosworth's monitor. Reynolds kept his eyes on his hands, clasped together so tightly the knuckles shone white.
“And you think it's your fault?” O'Neill asked quietly.
It wasn't the admonishment Reynolds had expected, but it still felt like a slap in the face.
“Of course it's my fault!” His words seemed to echo in the small space, and Reynolds conscientiously lowered his voice to something closer to a rough whisper. “I was in command, I gave the orders, I missed the signs—I'm the one to blame for everything that went wrong.”
“You aren't perfect,” O'Neill said matter-of-factly. “No one is.”
“No, sir, but my mistakes have bigger consequences.” He met the general's eyes. “You understand that. We make mistakes, people die.”
To his surprise, O'Neill shrugged.
“We don't make mistakes, people die,” he said. “We do nothing, we do something, too much, too little—people die. It's a fact of what we do, the nature of our business. We can't control that. Our job is to make sure there are as few casualties as possible.” He spread his hands in front of him. “I think you did your job today.”
Reynolds scoffed.
“You got SG-24 back home safe. Mooney is fine and Bosworth is going to be alright.”
“If he ever wakes up,” Reynolds said darkly.
“Bosworth knew what he was getting into. We all do. Going into hostile territory is kind of what we do. And he'll tell you as much once he's awake again.”
“And Kinder?” Reynolds asked bitterly.
“There was nothing you could've done,” O'Neill said, his tone as gentle as Reynolds had ever heard it. “Sometimes you lose people. It sucks, but it isn't always your fault. Don't beat yourself up over something you couldn't have prevented.”
“Yes, sir,” Reynolds replied, his tone proving he was anything but convinced.
“Hey!” O'Neill said intensely. “I've been there, and I know what you can and can't do.”
There was something in O'Neill's voice that told of bitter experience, and Reynolds pondered how many bedsides the general had kept watch over, how many letters to parents he had written. Reynolds met his eyes again, saw the understanding there and felt the weight on his shoulders shift. The burden didn't disappear or get smaller, but it felt a bit easier to carry.
“You're a good leader,” O'Neill said firmly. “And getting off that planet the way you did proves that.” He held Reynolds gaze until Reynolds looked away. “So does how hard you're taking this,” he added quietly.
He stood and walked to the end of Bosworth's cot. With his hands in his pockets, O'Neill took in the two of them, commanding officer and subordinate. “For what it's worth,” he said, “I don't think you made a mistake. I would have made the same call.”
With that, O'Neill turned and headed for the door. Reynolds' response stopped him as he reached the doorway.
“Thank you, sir.”
O'Neill gave him an evaluating look. “Get some sleep, Reynolds,” he replied. “We don't want Bosworth to wake up to that.” He gestured vaguely in Reynolds' direction.
Reynolds shook his head at the general's retreating back, feeling a little lighter. Then he slouched down in the chair, laid his head back and, for the first time in over eighteen hours, he closed his eyes.
Rating: PG
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Characters: Jack O'Neill, Colonel Reynolds
Word Count: 2197
Categories: friendship, drama, angst
Spoilers/Warnings: Set S8, sometime prior to "Prometheus Unbound".
Summary: Written for the
sg1friendathon: "Jack, Colonel Reynolds. 'We make mistakes, people die.'"Note: Title from the unofficial verses for "Taps". Found here.
Hours into his vigil, Reynolds found himself glaring at the grey walls of the infirmary.
He didn't hate the infirmary as much as some, but he still tried to spend as little time there as possible. He would willingly stay tonight, though, if it meant the man in the cot beside him would instead be safe at home.
The fluorescent lights hummed above him and Reynolds scrubbed a hand over his face, fighting sleep. His back ached from sitting in the same position in the hard infirmary chair for so long, but he didn't move. The discomfort kept him conscious. He would be awake when Bosworth woke up. His would be the first face the airman saw and he wouldn't apologize or ask forgiveness for the mess he had made of their mission, but Bosworth would hear it anyway. When you woke up next to a teammate who had bags under his eyes, who wore weariness as heavily as the rumpled clothes on his body, you understood.
He released a breath into the quiet of the room and checked Bosworth's face again for any signs of approaching consciousness. Pipes rattled in the infirmary walls, a cough sounded from one of the offices, and Reynolds wished desperately for a beer.
The soft shush of boots against concrete alerted him to someone entering the infirmary. Despite the fact that it could be one of his superiors, due a salute and snap to attention he wasn't sure he had the energy to perform, he didn't look up. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the starched white sheets near Bosworth's right arm and the pulse oximeter on his finger. The monitor beside the bed provided a reassuring series of beeps, proof of a steady heartbeat. It had been Reynolds' music for the past four hours.
With a rustle of fabric, the intruder on his solitude took the chair opposite him.
“Reynolds.”
General O'Neill. At least he wouldn't have to worry about being reprimanded for keeping his seat.
“Sir.”
“How is he?”
“Doc says he'll be okay,” Reynolds replied, his voice gruff, “but he hasn't woken up yet.”
“Lieutenant Mooney?”
“Sent home a few hours ago with eighteen stitches and a sling.”
“And some of the good painkillers?” O'Neill asked knowingly, a hint of playfulness in his tone.
“Yeah.”
Reynolds felt a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. The sensation was completely at odds with his mood. It wasn't right to smile while keeping watch over someone who was only in a hospital bed because you had put him there. O'Neill seemed to sense his state of mind, for his voice was serious when he spoke again.
“How are you holding up?”
Reynolds glanced over. O'Neill wasn't looking at him, picking at some peeling veneer on the arm of his chair, but the tilt of his head let Reynolds know that he was asking sincerely. Reynolds heaved a deep sigh and rubbed at the back of his neck.
“I'm okay.”
“Liar.”
Reynolds shook his head. “Yeah, I am.”
“What happened?”
“You have the report—”
“I do,” O'Neill cut in, “but I'm asking you what happened.”
Reynolds hesitated. The ruined mission had been playing over and over again in his mind; he couldn't see the benefit in repeating it out loud. And relating his mistakes to his commanding officer over the sickbed of his subordinate just seemed unfair. But O'Neill was watching him with an expectant air, so he leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and told the story.
“We arrived on P8X-147 with no problems,” he began, slipping easily, protectively, into the report mode he used for every debriefing. “On SG-3's initial visit to the planet, we found a few Jaffa we determined were affiliated with Ba'al, polite though disinterested locals, and ruins inscribed with what appeared to be Ancient text. We managed to complete a quick survey of the area without encountering any of the Jaffa directly, as they seemed more concerned with monitoring the work of the locals than guarding the Gate.. The planet's inhabitants didn't seem to care what we did so long as we kept our distance, so we figured it would be safe enough to bring back SG-24 for a closer look at the ruins.”
O'Neill nodded. This much he would know from the report of SG-3's first trip.
“After we arrived on the planet with SG-24 and verified that our presence had apparently gone undetected, we hurried for the cover of the ruins. From what we had gathered on our first visit, both the locals and the Jaffa had no use for the place, so I figured we would be safe there and unlikely to encounter anyone.” Reynolds let out his breath in a huff. “That was my first mistake,” he admitted. “My second was ignoring the signs.”
“What signs?”
“The place was too quiet,” Reynolds said, shaking his head. “The first time we were there, the sound of the birds was nearly deafening. There were animals all over the place, scurrying through the leaves, making all sorts of noise. The second time, the only sound was the wind through the trees. That should have told me something was wrong, but it didn't register or I brushed it aside. Either way, I decided the team was safe enough that I could do a bit of scouting. I left Bosworth and Mooney with SG-24, and took Kinder with me.” He let his shoulders drop, the weight he carried pressing him deeper into his chair. “She never even saw it coming.”
“What happened?”
The statement was more an encouragement to continue than a question. Reynolds straightened in his chair and rubbed his hands up and down his legs. He made a quick check of Bosworth, who appeared to be no closer to consciousness than he had been half an hour ago.
“We hadn't gone more than a few hundred yards from the ruins, headed toward the nearest village, when a staff blast flew between us. I yelled to Kinder to take cover, but before I could even get the words out of my mouth, she'd been hit. It was bad; I could tell. But she fought like hell to...” He trailed off, the pain of what had happened blocking the words in his chest. He cleared his throat and got his breath back.
“I dragged her behind some cover and cleared enough of the hostiles that I was able to carry her back to the ruins. There I found the rest of the team and SG-24 under heavy fire, coming from the direction of another nearby village.” He shook his head. “I don't know if one of the locals tipped them off, or if we were somehow spotted by the Jaffa, but they made our position before SG-24 could even set up any equipment. As far as I could tell, the path back to the gate was clear, so I sent Bosworth to dial it up,” he said, tipping his head in the man's direction, “while we made a hasty retreat. The docs went in front of us with Mooney, I came in between with Kinder, and Major Appleton and Lieutenant Parks brought up the rear, providing cover.”
Reynolds paused there as another patient across the ward moaned and muttered in his sleep. The man was restless for a few seconds, then turned over to his side and stilled, the only remnants of his momentary disturbance a few hitches in his otherwise deep, steady breathing. When the infirmary was quiet again, Reynolds continued.
“By the time we got to the gate, the Jaffa were closing in on us from three sides, pinching us together. Bosworth had been shot in the leg, but he had the gate open and I ordered SG-24 through. Lieutenant Mooney had a nasty cut on his arm, so I sent him on with Corporal Kinder, with me and Bosworth bringing up the rear. Then I ordered Bosworth through, but as he turned to follow my orders, he fell.”
Reynolds turned his gaze to Bosworth's still face.
“I'm still not sure what hit him, but he went down hard. When he didn't get up, I worked my way over to his position. He was unconscious, blood pouring from a head wound, and I knew we needed to get off that planet as fast as possible. I made a strafing shot across the area to buy us a few seconds, hauled him up over my shoulder, and made a run for the gate. When I came out here, the first thing I saw was Kinder laid out on the gate ramp. Mooney was sitting beside her, holding a bandage over his arm. From the look on his face, I knew she was gone.”
The memory of their return was burned into his mind as a series of images and sensations: Dr. Wells hunched over at the end of the ramp with his hands on his knees, taking slow, shuddering breaths while Dr. Overstreet rubbed his back; bright red spreading insipidly across the white bandage under Mooney's fingers; the ragged rise and fall of Bosworth's chest against his shoulder; Kinder on the ramp, face pale, eyes open and empty, the front of her shirt stained dark with blood; the feel of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears and the feeling of that pulse dropping to the pit of his stomach.
For a minute, the only sound was the beeping of Bosworth's monitor. Reynolds kept his eyes on his hands, clasped together so tightly the knuckles shone white.
“And you think it's your fault?” O'Neill asked quietly.
It wasn't the admonishment Reynolds had expected, but it still felt like a slap in the face.
“Of course it's my fault!” His words seemed to echo in the small space, and Reynolds conscientiously lowered his voice to something closer to a rough whisper. “I was in command, I gave the orders, I missed the signs—I'm the one to blame for everything that went wrong.”
“You aren't perfect,” O'Neill said matter-of-factly. “No one is.”
“No, sir, but my mistakes have bigger consequences.” He met the general's eyes. “You understand that. We make mistakes, people die.”
To his surprise, O'Neill shrugged.
“We don't make mistakes, people die,” he said. “We do nothing, we do something, too much, too little—people die. It's a fact of what we do, the nature of our business. We can't control that. Our job is to make sure there are as few casualties as possible.” He spread his hands in front of him. “I think you did your job today.”
Reynolds scoffed.
“You got SG-24 back home safe. Mooney is fine and Bosworth is going to be alright.”
“If he ever wakes up,” Reynolds said darkly.
“Bosworth knew what he was getting into. We all do. Going into hostile territory is kind of what we do. And he'll tell you as much once he's awake again.”
“And Kinder?” Reynolds asked bitterly.
“There was nothing you could've done,” O'Neill said, his tone as gentle as Reynolds had ever heard it. “Sometimes you lose people. It sucks, but it isn't always your fault. Don't beat yourself up over something you couldn't have prevented.”
“Yes, sir,” Reynolds replied, his tone proving he was anything but convinced.
“Hey!” O'Neill said intensely. “I've been there, and I know what you can and can't do.”
There was something in O'Neill's voice that told of bitter experience, and Reynolds pondered how many bedsides the general had kept watch over, how many letters to parents he had written. Reynolds met his eyes again, saw the understanding there and felt the weight on his shoulders shift. The burden didn't disappear or get smaller, but it felt a bit easier to carry.
“You're a good leader,” O'Neill said firmly. “And getting off that planet the way you did proves that.” He held Reynolds gaze until Reynolds looked away. “So does how hard you're taking this,” he added quietly.
He stood and walked to the end of Bosworth's cot. With his hands in his pockets, O'Neill took in the two of them, commanding officer and subordinate. “For what it's worth,” he said, “I don't think you made a mistake. I would have made the same call.”
With that, O'Neill turned and headed for the door. Reynolds' response stopped him as he reached the doorway.
“Thank you, sir.”
O'Neill gave him an evaluating look. “Get some sleep, Reynolds,” he replied. “We don't want Bosworth to wake up to that.” He gestured vaguely in Reynolds' direction.
Reynolds shook his head at the general's retreating back, feeling a little lighter. Then he slouched down in the chair, laid his head back and, for the first time in over eighteen hours, he closed his eyes.