Just Another Blog

my random ramblings about crafts, writing, books and kids

Stargate SG-1 fic: The Promise

So here’s one of the stories I posted about yesterday.  I’ve renamed it “The Promise”.  It was written for another writerverse challenge using the prompt: promise.

The Promise
by jennickels (aka Jen Connelly)
Stargate SG-1
753 words
rating: PG-13
WARNINGS: death of major character

If there were ever words Jack O’Neill regretted more he couldn’t think of any.

don’t own… wish I did, but I don’t. No infringement intended.

If there were ever words Jack O’Neill regretted more he couldn’t think of any.

I promise.

He could shoot himself for saying that. He could shoot himself for a lot of things. He can’t lie that the thought of his gun in his mouth hadn’t comforted him. Briefly. It should have been him any way.

How in the hell is he supposed to go on now? He keeps asking himself that. But there’s never an answer. Just a gnawing guilt in his gut and the gaping, empty hole where his heart used to be.

I promise, Carter, just hang on.

His mouth is completely dry but he refuses to stop. It takes forever but they finally see the Gate in the distance. It should be a relief but it’s not. It’s just the end—an exclamation point on the events of the last few days. He keeps his eyes on the Gate as it grows bigger, focuses on keeping his breathing even. But it’s hard, every breath is forced. The finality of the whole situation hits him like a Mack truck. It crushes insides until all there is left is the pain.

And then they are there, waiting for Daniel to dial home. Everyone is so quiet. Teal’c is behind him, holding one side of the stretcher. Jack can feel his steady, reassuring presence. Next to him, Reynolds—who hasn’t said a word in hours, his eyes front and center, jaw set—helps balance the weight on the front. Somewhere behind him is King on the last corner. The other members of SG-3 are helping each other walk. Daniel isn’t looking too good either. And Jack’s hurt, too.

He has no idea how badly—he hasn’t taken the time to inventory the injuries. Doesn’t want to. His physical pain is nothing compared to what he’s feeling inside. The way his emotions have been scrubbed raw, edges ragged. It’s a blazing white pain that blinds him from other thought, consumes his very being. He doesn’t think he’ll heal from this. Charlie tore the wound open years ago. But this…

I don’t think I’ll make it, sir.

Just hang on, Carter.


Carter, shut it. I’ll get you back.


I promise I’ll get you home.

It doesn’t really help that he’s kept his promise. Daniel nods that they’re clear to go through. He stumbles ahead followed by the two injured members of SG-3. And then it’s their turn. Jack braces himself, lips set in a thin line. They start forward as his eyes slide down to the stretcher. She’s so still, so pale. It’s painful to look at, to see the life gone from her face.

He jerks his gaze away. And then they’re through and it’s pandemonium in the Gate Room. Jack can’t talk, can’t think, can’t breathe. It takes every ounce of will power to hand the stretcher over to the medics, to not pull her into his arms. He waves Fraiser’s concern away. Nods dully at Hammond’s questions. The words, though, wash over him. Just more noise inside his head that means nothing. They looks sick, and he knows they’re hurting, too, but he can’t focus on anything else right now except the pain.

He follows the stretcher and the wounded to the infirmary but there isn’t anything to do. Daniel and Teal’c join him beside the bed to stare at the pristine white sheet covering her. The lack of movement is unsettling. The whole damn thing is wrong. Should have been me. The thought knocks the wind out of him again but he doesn’t move, doesn’t show any outward sign. Should have been me. The words are on an endless loop now which just adds more weight to the pain crushing him.

He feels that to the bottom of his soul. He’s always figured he’d go first. He never let himself imagine this. Maybe because it was too damn painful. He rubs at his chest but nothing is going to ease the ache, nothing is going to comfort him. Not any more.

And there’s that thought of his gun, still strapped to his thigh. It would be easy—just sneak off to the locker room. He’d been that close before, after Charlie. He thinks maybe this is worse. It shouldn’t be because losing your child should be the ultimate pain. But as he watches Fraiser wheels the bed out of the infirmary he doesn’t think anything could hurt more than this.

I promised. I brought you home, Sam.

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