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Stargate SG-1 drabble thing.
Unbetaed SG-1 gen ficlet, vaguely Season 2-ish. I thought it was going to be a drabble and was only off by about 900 words, go team me.
Daniel opens his eyes. It's not his watch yet--if he listens hard enough, he can hear Sam, pacing in the grass, and the silent place where Teal'c is lying, deeper than sleep--but he's suddenly wide awake, and Jack is sitting up, a little more than arm's reach from Daniel's bedroll. It explains why Sam is keeping her watch on the camp's perimeter, instead of sitting by the fire. She's decided Jack needs space.
Daniel catches his own pun as he notices that Jack is looking up at the sky, brighter with stars than Daniel ever saw the sky on Earth, even out in the desert at night, even when he was a child. They're significantly closer to the galactic core here, and the atmosphere runs a little thin. But the stars don't concern Daniel; Jack sitting awake after a long day on the march, with another long day ahead of them, does. Something looks strange about the outline of Jack's silhouette, and then Daniel realizes that he's holding his sidearm in his hands, as if he'd been cleaning it. Just holding it, and that's all. Daniel rolls onto his side and lays his head on his arm. If Jack didn't know Daniel was awake before Daniel did, he'll know it now. They've all had nights when they couldn't sleep offworld. They've all had times when they took another's watch, or walked off far enough to pretend there was any privacy to be had. Jack is sitting next to Daniel's bedroll. Daniel waits.
Jack says, "Do you think--" and then stops. Looks down at the gun, turns it over in his hands. He makes a motion as if he meant to holster it, but his hands tighten on the weapon, and Daniel thinks again about the half-outlined paper he's never going to write, regarding the degree of emotional security military personnel derive from going armed. "I was thinking about that quantum mirror thingy," he says quietly.
Thingy, like that will stop Daniel from noticing that he remembers the correct name, and probably at least as much as Daniel does about what Sam thinks it means. He looks down at his sidearm again, and he's awake in the night. Daniel says, "Yeah?" like he doesn't know where this is going.
Jack nods and looks back up at the stars, speaking so softly only Daniel can hear him. "So there are all these universes where things went differently."
"Infinite, actually," Daniel says, watching Jack as well as his vision will allow. He wishes for his glasses, but he can't interrupt Jack's train of thought to find them and put them on. "Everything that could happen, is happening, somewhere. The mirror proves it. Or at least, that's what Sam thinks."
Jack nods again, and doesn't look away from the sky. "Carter would know." Jack's holding perfectly still now, and the stars are shining on his face, but he's squinting like he's staring into the sun, and his hands move restlessly on the gun, turning it over and over. "So then--if there are infinite universes--there must be one where he..."
Jack can't say it, but he's given Daniel permission to, now. "As I understand it, there would actually be an infinite number of universes in which Charlie is alive," Daniel says, steadily, his own eyes fixed on the stars, because he can't look at Jack and say Charlie's name, not at the same time. He doesn't point out to Jack that there is probably a much larger infinity of universes in which Charlie died, or was never born, or in which the whole point was moot because the Goa'uld rule the earth. It hardly matters. Any infinity ought to be enough, even a relatively small one.
"So then there are--lots--of universes where he's okay. Going to school. Playing hockey, maybe."
Daniel lets himself look at Jack; Jack is still looking at the stars, but the strain seems to be easing a little. "It's actually a mathematical certainty," Daniel says. "There logically must be a universe in which he'll be taken as the number one draft pick by the Minnesota North Stars."
Jack's shoulders jump with a quick breath of something that might be laughter. "Calder Trophy," Jack says, looking up into a whole sky of stars to wish on. "Hart Trophy. Conn Smythe winner. Name on the Stanley Cup, wife and two kids riding with him in the parade."
"Scientifically inevitable," Daniel agrees, and Jack's thumb slides up and down the barrel of the gun.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah," Daniel says. "Sam could do the math, but--"
"But you actually went," Jack says. "You saw it. You know."
Daniel could remind Jack that the world he saw wasn't anybody's best case scenario, but he's pretty sure Jack knows that. "Yeah," he says. "I know. I'm sure."
Jack nods decisively, holsters the gun, and gets to his feet, walking past Daniel to his own bedroll to lie down.
Daniel turns to his other side to watch him, and Jack folds his arms behind his head, still staring up at the stars. "Jack," he says quietly, "you know you can't go--"
Jack looks straight at Daniel for the first time, and Daniel falls silent. Some part of his brain catches up with the conversation as Jack's dark eyes fix on him, and he realizes that in an infinite number of universes, his parents are alive; in another, perhaps larger, infinity, Sha're is safe and free. There is an infinity in which he is with her, an infinity in which he never saw Jack again after that first trip, and of course he can't go. He isn't even sure he'd want to. "It's okay," Jack says finally. "I don't have to see him. It's just good to know."
Daniel nods, and Jack settles back to watch the stars. Daniel watches Jack, listening to Sam pacing down to the stream and Teal'c lying wrapped up in silence, until all the things that are inevitably and infinitely true, somewhere, fade into dreams.
Daniel opens his eyes. It's not his watch yet--if he listens hard enough, he can hear Sam, pacing in the grass, and the silent place where Teal'c is lying, deeper than sleep--but he's suddenly wide awake, and Jack is sitting up, a little more than arm's reach from Daniel's bedroll. It explains why Sam is keeping her watch on the camp's perimeter, instead of sitting by the fire. She's decided Jack needs space.
Daniel catches his own pun as he notices that Jack is looking up at the sky, brighter with stars than Daniel ever saw the sky on Earth, even out in the desert at night, even when he was a child. They're significantly closer to the galactic core here, and the atmosphere runs a little thin. But the stars don't concern Daniel; Jack sitting awake after a long day on the march, with another long day ahead of them, does. Something looks strange about the outline of Jack's silhouette, and then Daniel realizes that he's holding his sidearm in his hands, as if he'd been cleaning it. Just holding it, and that's all. Daniel rolls onto his side and lays his head on his arm. If Jack didn't know Daniel was awake before Daniel did, he'll know it now. They've all had nights when they couldn't sleep offworld. They've all had times when they took another's watch, or walked off far enough to pretend there was any privacy to be had. Jack is sitting next to Daniel's bedroll. Daniel waits.
Jack says, "Do you think--" and then stops. Looks down at the gun, turns it over in his hands. He makes a motion as if he meant to holster it, but his hands tighten on the weapon, and Daniel thinks again about the half-outlined paper he's never going to write, regarding the degree of emotional security military personnel derive from going armed. "I was thinking about that quantum mirror thingy," he says quietly.
Thingy, like that will stop Daniel from noticing that he remembers the correct name, and probably at least as much as Daniel does about what Sam thinks it means. He looks down at his sidearm again, and he's awake in the night. Daniel says, "Yeah?" like he doesn't know where this is going.
Jack nods and looks back up at the stars, speaking so softly only Daniel can hear him. "So there are all these universes where things went differently."
"Infinite, actually," Daniel says, watching Jack as well as his vision will allow. He wishes for his glasses, but he can't interrupt Jack's train of thought to find them and put them on. "Everything that could happen, is happening, somewhere. The mirror proves it. Or at least, that's what Sam thinks."
Jack nods again, and doesn't look away from the sky. "Carter would know." Jack's holding perfectly still now, and the stars are shining on his face, but he's squinting like he's staring into the sun, and his hands move restlessly on the gun, turning it over and over. "So then--if there are infinite universes--there must be one where he..."
Jack can't say it, but he's given Daniel permission to, now. "As I understand it, there would actually be an infinite number of universes in which Charlie is alive," Daniel says, steadily, his own eyes fixed on the stars, because he can't look at Jack and say Charlie's name, not at the same time. He doesn't point out to Jack that there is probably a much larger infinity of universes in which Charlie died, or was never born, or in which the whole point was moot because the Goa'uld rule the earth. It hardly matters. Any infinity ought to be enough, even a relatively small one.
"So then there are--lots--of universes where he's okay. Going to school. Playing hockey, maybe."
Daniel lets himself look at Jack; Jack is still looking at the stars, but the strain seems to be easing a little. "It's actually a mathematical certainty," Daniel says. "There logically must be a universe in which he'll be taken as the number one draft pick by the Minnesota North Stars."
Jack's shoulders jump with a quick breath of something that might be laughter. "Calder Trophy," Jack says, looking up into a whole sky of stars to wish on. "Hart Trophy. Conn Smythe winner. Name on the Stanley Cup, wife and two kids riding with him in the parade."
"Scientifically inevitable," Daniel agrees, and Jack's thumb slides up and down the barrel of the gun.
"You're sure?"
"Yeah," Daniel says. "Sam could do the math, but--"
"But you actually went," Jack says. "You saw it. You know."
Daniel could remind Jack that the world he saw wasn't anybody's best case scenario, but he's pretty sure Jack knows that. "Yeah," he says. "I know. I'm sure."
Jack nods decisively, holsters the gun, and gets to his feet, walking past Daniel to his own bedroll to lie down.
Daniel turns to his other side to watch him, and Jack folds his arms behind his head, still staring up at the stars. "Jack," he says quietly, "you know you can't go--"
Jack looks straight at Daniel for the first time, and Daniel falls silent. Some part of his brain catches up with the conversation as Jack's dark eyes fix on him, and he realizes that in an infinite number of universes, his parents are alive; in another, perhaps larger, infinity, Sha're is safe and free. There is an infinity in which he is with her, an infinity in which he never saw Jack again after that first trip, and of course he can't go. He isn't even sure he'd want to. "It's okay," Jack says finally. "I don't have to see him. It's just good to know."
Daniel nods, and Jack settles back to watch the stars. Daniel watches Jack, listening to Sam pacing down to the stream and Teal'c lying wrapped up in silence, until all the things that are inevitably and infinitely true, somewhere, fade into dreams.