Work Text:
A WINTER’S DREAM
“What’s the capital of North Dakota?”
“Bismarck.”
Jack waits for the next state, searching his memory for the capital of Ohio. When the question doesn’t come, he glances over at her. Sam’s bent over the table, busy writing in one of her spiral notebooks. The wick on the oil lamp is burning low and he makes a mental note to trim it in the morning. The wind has picked up, moaning through the trees and the canvas top of their platform tent moves restlessly with the occasional heavier gusts. It feels like winter has come early, but then this will be their first winter at the Alpha Site, so who’s to say if it’s early or not?
“Columbus.”
That gets her attention and she looks up at him and smiles. “Ohio is tomorrow.”
A heavy gust of wind catches at the flap of the tent and it rattles. “I’m going to go get more wood.” She nods distractedly, chewing on the cap of her ball point pen.
Jack doesn’t ever ask her what she’s going to do when they finally run out of paper and pens. Computers are reserved exclusively for work; the naquadah generator only runs for six hours a day now, Sam and the other scientists scramble like people possessed, cramming as much research and work as possible into the limited hours, racing against time and the inevitable depletion of their naquadah supply.
Grabbing his parka, Jack opens the tent flap and his breath catches at the sudden gust of cold wind that tugs and pulls at him when he leaves the warmth of the tent. Quickly fastening the flap, he finds himself oddly grateful that SG1 was visiting an ice planet all those months ago when they were forced to take refuge at the Alpha Site. Tugging his gloves on and pulling the hood up, Jack trudges through the light snow that sweeps and swirls around him in the wind.
He passes by the main building and when he sees the faint glimmer of a lamp on inside, he stops. The metal door squeaks on its hinges, but Reynolds—just like Sam—doesn’t look up at him. The burden of command weighs heavily on the younger man, his hair is grayer than it was six months ago and it seems like new worry lines are etched in his face daily. Jack wonders if the same can be said for him….
Reynolds appears engrossed in a stack of well-handled papers that Jack recognizes as one of the base inventory lists that had been one of the first priorities when seven homeless SG1 teams had landed on the barely finished Alpha Site. Jack sometimes wonders, as ranking officer, if he should have pulled rank on Reynolds when they’d first arrived. But he didn’t; Reynolds is a solid commander and after so many months on their own, rank and regulations have ceased to matter in the face of survival.
“How’s it look?” Jack asks quietly.
“Not good.”
“We’ll make it.”
Reynolds looks at him then. “It’s going to be a long winter.”
The plan had always been for the Alpha Site to be self-sufficient for a minimum of twelve months, but budget cuts, bureaucratic red tape and the belief that they would have some warning of any impending apocalypse had them left with a six month supply for less than one hundred that would have to stretch…well, Jack didn’t know how long it would have to stretch.
“We’ll find help.”
Since he’s living his ultimate worst case scenario Jack finds he can be curiously optimistic. They’ve been cautiously sending teams out every few weeks for the past three months, searching friendly worlds, and some not so friendly, for news and trade. Teal’c, Daniel, along with Travers and Espinoza from SG3, are out there even now.
“They’ll find something.” Jack smiles faintly. “Maybe Travers will find a cow.”
Reynolds’ bleak expression lightens for a moment. “I am getting kind of tired of that damn goat milk.”
Jack doesn’t think any of them will ever forget the day early on that SG3 came back through the gate with five hens, one rooster and seven goats in tow. Sergeant Espinoza, a city girl to the core, looked terrified, hanging onto a rope with four nanny’s, two kids and one billy pulling and tugging on the line. Lieutenant Wendell and Captain Connolly each wore bemused expressions, carrying simple wooden cages containing the chickens. And Major Travers, who was responsible for their bounty and, as it turns out, grew up on a farm, had been grinning from ear to ear.
But a few head of livestock are nothing compared to finding once friendly worlds decimated and lifeless. Naquadah, while never plentiful, is now non-existent and the Tok’ra—and even the Goa’uld—are nowhere to be found. The few worlds they find that are still inhabited are wary and scared, with resources just as limited as theirs. Jack figures one day they’ll stumble across the intergalactic black market, but until then they trade what few precious supplies they can spare for meager bits of information and what little fresh produce they can find.
The wind rattles against the window, the light from the lantern flickering in the draft that seeps in through even the sturdiest of the buildings. There isn’t much else to say, they live every day balancing the need to never give up hope against the need to accept what has happened and start building a new life. Jack turns to leave and Reynolds says, “Its Monday tomorrow.”
Jack nods, tugging his hood back up. He doesn’t need the reminder. No matter how the days seem to run together, the entire compound always remembers Mondays. Reynolds turns back to his papers and Jack slips out the door, closing it carefully behind him. The wind seems to have abated for the moment but the snow is coming down heavier. He doesn’t take anymore detours, walking briskly through the falling flakes to the lean-to where the wood is stored.
Jack grabs several logs and one of the canvas satchels already filled with kindling and makes his way back to their tent. The rest of the compound is quiet, settling down for the evening. Night comes early now and after dinner, everyone who can retreats to the warmth and security of their tents or bunks. Jack knows if he wants, he can find a friendly card game in the common room, or re-read one of the several dozen books in their ‘library’, but he simply wants to return to Sam.
Old habits die hard though and he finds he’s automatically walking the perimeter on his return. The Stargate stands majestic and silent, an open fire crackles merrily near the DHD in defiance of the snow and McCormack is briefly silhouetted against the gate. They’ve never had uninvited guests and perhaps their continued vigilance is wishful thinking in a universe that seems to have gone from thriving to almost uninhabited in the blink of an eye, but they still assign watch duty every night.
McCormack spots him and lifts a gloved hand in greeting, Jack nods through falling snow and leaves the captain to his lone duty. He picks up his pace, encountering no other activity on his way back to their tent. A wind gust catches him as he opens the flap, allowing snow to swirl in around him. The lantern flickers but doesn’t go out and Sam keeps writing. Dumping the wood by the stove, Jack takes off his jacket and hangs it neatly by the door.
“What’s the name of that big dogsled race in Alaska?”
“Iditarod.” His reply is automatic and he kneels down in front the stove, carefully opening the door and adding more wood. The leap from North Dakota to the Iditarod doesn’t faze him. He’s gotten used to her questions and while he understands what she’s doing, preserving her memories of Earth in a written form against the day when their technology fails them, it also worries him.
But then they all have their obsessions. Reynolds shuffles and reshuffles innumerable lists, Espinoza worries and fusses over her now beloved goats, Daniel spends almost as much time writing as Sam does, meticulously documenting the details of every planet they visit, searching for patterns and clues to discover what could have devastated the universe on such a galactic level. Kreminski has made it her personal mission to refashion every scrap of material they find into wearable clothing, LaFontaine runs a trap line and Teal’c renders every bit of animal fat he can find into tallow to make candles.
And Jack has his obsession too.
“Sam?” He rises from setting the fire for the night, brushing his hands on his BDU pants. “Time for bed.”
“Just let me finish this paragraph….”
She keeps writing and Jack can tell from her distracted tone that she’ll keep going until he stops her. He takes the pen out of her fingers and that gets her attention. She looks up at him, her skin is so pale, it’s almost translucent in the firelight and it turns her eyes into a deep blue that rivals the sky over their new home. Her expression softens and she stifles a yawn. “Is it that late already?”
“Uh huh,” he says, taking her hand and pulling her up. Their movements are economical as they take turns using the small wash basin, brushing teeth and washing up with expertise born of experience with limited running water. It’s late and cold, so while he strips down to his long underwear, she uses the chamber pot instead of making the trek to the latrine.
Putting out the lantern, he quickly slips in beside her on the pallet that has become their bed, zipping the double sleeping bag shut and pulling the scavenged fur pelts over them. Sam turns on her side and he spoons up behind her, the faint glow from the wood stove the only light in the dark tent. A strong gust of wind blows, shaking the structure.
“Sounds like we’re in for a storm,” he murmurs.
“Was it still snowing?”
Jack hears the fatigue in her voice and wonders how long they can continue to work this frantically to find their way back to Earth, but all he says is, “Yeah, coming down heavier.”
She sighs and he pulls her closer when she settles deeper into his embrace. Her hand rests gently on his arm and she whispers, “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he murmurs, briefly nuzzling her hair and planting a kiss behind her ear. She falls asleep quickly, her warm body a comforting weight against him, her breathing slow and regular. Jack isn’t sure how he would make it without this…without her. Sometimes the only thing that gets him through the day, or back up in the morning, is the fact that they are in this together. It seems like a small comfort against the massive losses of the past months, but he won’t give her up for anyone or anything.
It had raised a few eyebrows—and leering grins from some of the men, along with speculative glances from the women, when she’d moved into his tent two months ago. And with the tacit acceptance of their changed status, he wonders how long it will be before others follow suit, finding comfort and security in the arms of a friend or lover. Jack isn’t blind to the proprietary way Travers looks at Espinoza; though he knows Travers has a wife and family on Earth while Espinoza wears a ring on a gold chain around her neck.
Biology is too strong a drive to ignore forever and he knows they’ll have to address the consequences sooner or later. Sam’s implanted birth control is good for another three years and Jack wonders if one of Reynolds’ many lists contains that exact same information about the other women. Jack pulls her closer, finding comfort in the simple pleasure of holding her in his arms and falls asleep to the sound of the wind the trees and dreams of children laughing and playing on a planet that doesn’t look like Earth.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dawn comes early; one of the benefits of having a rooster on the compound is that there is no need for an alarm clock, though there are some mornings that Jack would like to throttle the bird, the once unfamiliar cry ringing out raucously in the quiet morning. Peeking experimentally out from under the covers, Jack shivers slightly at the wash of cool air over his face and finds Sam already up, adding more wood to the stove.
“It’s Monday.” She tugs her BDU pants on over her long underwear, along with another thermal top and one of the colorful wool ponchos that Kreminski fashioned for all the women out of surplus blankets. She quickly laces her boots and pulls her black watch cap over her uncombed hair, pausing on her way out to bend down and give him a quick kiss. “I’ll meet you there.”
The kiss is way too short and he wishes they could linger, but he nods and waits to get up and dress until she’s gone, the tent flap once more closed against the cold morning air. The rooster crows again while he’s dressing and he begins to hear the familiar and reassuring sounds of the camp getting up. Less than five minutes later, he’s walking through the few inches of snow that fell during the night, making his way to the Stargate.
Sam’s already there, deep in conversation with Doctor Malvern, one of half a dozen civilian scientists in their group, but when she sees him, she smiles and breaks off her conversation, coming to stand at his side. She slips her gloved hand into his and they wait for everyone to gather. Whatever storm there was passed during the night and when the sun breaks over the trees, glistening off the snow, the chevrons start to glow, reflecting the brilliant sunlight.
Reynolds is the last to arrive and he walks briskly through the small clusters of people to the DHD. Everyone moves in closer, standing in a loose semi-circle around the DHD and he pulls out a carefully folded piece of paper. Reynolds unfolds it in a ceremony that has become familiar to all of them and studies it for a moment before he looks up and smiles. “Looks like its O’Neill’s turn today.”
Sam squeezes his hand and Jack makes his way to the DHD accompanied by wishes of “Good luck,” and he’s sure it’s Connolly who calls out, “Remember the address, Jack?” There’s the sound of congenial laughter from the group; Reynolds moves aside with a sweeping gesture of his hand and Jack stops in front of the DHD.
Jack remembers the address, they all remember the address…Auriga, Cetus, Centaurus, Cancer, Scutum, Eridanus. He brushes aside the fine layer of snow that accumulated on the DHD overnight, but he takes his gloves off to dial; he needs to feel the glyphs beneath his fingers….
Everyone stops talking when he places his hand on the first glyph, the pattern achingly familiar beneath his hand. The stone is cold, but he feels the vibration start and the gate slowly wakens, lumbering into life. Jack doesn’t waste time, pressing the remaining glyphs in rapid succession and then his hand hovers briefly over the large central crystal. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Reynolds cross himself and Jack closes his eyes for the briefest of moments adding his own silent prayer before he presses his hand on the center crystal.
It lights up, glowing brilliant orange, and he steps back; Sam is right at his side, her hand back in his and they watch as the inner wheel turns, seeming to gather momentum before slowly grinding to a stop when the seventh chevron fails to engage and the other six chevrons turn dark. There’s a collective sigh and murmur of disappointment behind them and Sam squeezes his hand.
“All right, people,” Reynolds says briskly. “Breakfast is in thirty.” The gathering quickly breaks up as everyone heads back to the warmth of the buildings or their tents. Reynolds nods at them, his expression once more somber, and leaves, the list tucked out of sight back into his pocket.
Sam sighs and runs her free hand in a lingering caress over the central crystal. “Maybe next time.”
Jack steps up behind her and wraps his arms around her. “Maybe,” he agrees, though they both know that with each passing week that the Stargate on Earth remains silent their chances of returning home fade a little more.
They stand together in the early morning light, the dark evergreens surrounding them are tipped with white snow, the cries and calls of the birds that stayed for the winter mix with the fainter sounds of the goats bleating and the occasional belated crow of the rooster. Jack smiles and thinks that the Alpha Site kind of reminds him of Northern Minnesota—without the goats and the chickens—and maybe in the spring he’ll look into building a cabin somewhere close by.
“Come on,” he says, pressing a kiss to her cold cheek. “I can smell coffee.”
Sam links her arm with his and they walk back to the compound and he smiles when she asks, “What are the names of the Great Lakes?”
THE END