TOO TRUE TO SAY GOODBYE TO YOU [1 of 2]

My recipient is: kazbaby‎
Who asked for: 1. Evil!Cameron 2. Cameron with amnesia 3. Mexican stand off ‎. ‎
With: Cameron/Teal'c, other character: Daniel
Setting request: a bar in the middle of nowhere.‎
Prop request (i.e. - bandanna): sunglasses
Restrictions: No Schmoop
Ratings: NC-17+‎
‎WARNING: MINOR SPOILERS FOR CONTINUUM

‎TOO TRUE TO SAY GOODBYE TO YOU‎

‎‎

He's pretty sure he's been here before. He's been in a lot of places like this. Burnt-out ‎dives in the middle of nowhere. His ride died up the road a bit and he had to walk. The ‎bartender said he was crazy when he came in the door.‎

Yeah, he gets that a lot.‎

But his money's good, and if you have to drink the liquor fast before it eats through the ‎glass, there's something familiar about that, too. The first shot burns all the way down, ‎and gets rid of the feeling he's missed a few too many meals lately. The second one ‎keeps it company and takes the edge off, making him think it might be a good idea to ‎stick around here until night. He's going to need a ride out of this place.‎

For some reason he makes the guy behind the bar nervous. Guy tells him they've got ‎rooms if he'd like one. He's going on about them being nothing fancy, just a bed, and the ‎moment the guy says 'bed', well, it's enough to remind him that he can't remember the last ‎time he saw one. So he lets him show him the way.‎

He brings the bottle from the bar.‎

The room is tiny but not too filthy. Bed, toilet, sink, mirror. The guy quotes a rate, then ‎adjusts it down when he just stares. He hands over the money and takes the key.‎

Shuts the door and locks himself inside. Goes over and stares into the mirror.‎

He still doesn't recognize the face that stares back.‎

He doesn't know his own name.‎

‎#‎

‎"I'm just saying there's got to be a safer way to do this. The Reole drug isn't ‎something you really want to fool around with, and Anise says this new version the ‎‎Tok'ra have managed to synthesize is even stronger and with the delivery ‎system Bill's come up with I just don't think that—"‎

There are voices in his dreams. There are always voices in his dreams (when he lets ‎himself sleep). They never make any sense (just background noise; ignore it). A word ‎here and there. Drugs. Tok'ra. (Snakes. Fucking snakes. He always ‎hated the Goa'uld — they all did — but the Tok'ra were worse, ‎preaching alliance and cooperation and just waiting until your back was turned to stick a ‎snake in your head...)‎

‎"Look, Sunshine, any time you can come up with a better way to get next to these ‎guys, I'm all ears. This worked just fine last year when I used it to impersonate ‎whatsisname and get close to, you know, the big cheese Alliance guy—"‎

‎"Oh, yeah, sure, sure. Let me see if I remember that one: Teal'c got captured and tortured, ‎your disguise failed, and you ended up declaring war on the—"‎

‎"Now, now, now. How come you have to always be so negative about everything? Why ‎don't you—"‎

‎"Why don't you tell us what your mission was, Colonel?"‎

A new voice interrupts the others. The man on the bed tosses uneasily. ‎

‎"Tell us what your mission was, Colonel."‎

He doesn't like dreaming about this voice. It brings him nothing but pain. Fear and pain. ‎In this part of the dream he loses himself.‎

‎"Your mission, Colonel."‎

He sits up, gasping, his body shaking with remembered pain. Only he doesn't remember ‎any pain. It's only there in dreams, and the images fade quickly when he awakens. All ‎that's left behind is emptiness and anger.‎

He was somebody once. Someone with a place, a name, a purpose.‎

Not any more.‎

If somebody did this to him, he doesn't even know who they were.‎

He runs his hand through his hair. It's damp with sweat. He pushes himself to his feet, ‎lurches the half-step to the sink. The water runs rust-brown, then yellow, and finally ‎close to clear. There isn't a hot tap and a cold tap. There's just water, and when he ‎scoops up a double handful to rinse his face, it's neither hot nor cold. He sluices his face, ‎runs wet hands through his hair, wipes them dry on his bare chest. No maid service in ‎this hotel. It's a far cry from...‎

From what?‎

He has no fucking idea.‎

He lets his body fall back to the bed with a grunt of irritation, reaches for the bottle — ‎half gone; it's how he got to sleep — picks it up and knocks back a healthy swallow. ‎Breakfast of champions. Of winners. Winners never quit, and quitters never win. His...‎

The almost-memory vanishes like smoke when he grabs for it.‎

He remembers....‎

He remembers a crash. No. A wreck. Or a burnt-out building. One or the other. And ‎he was walking away from it. (Building? He thinks. Maybe he was hiding. Maybe he'd ‎been somewhere before and doesn't remember. After he was somewhere else ‎that he doesn't remember.)‎

He remembers walking. It was dusk. He remembers the sound of engines, the smear of ‎colored lights across the sky. Buildings. The sound of unfamiliar music. ‎

The first building he came to was a bar, and he wanted to see people, so he went in. He ‎had money, so he ordered a drink. And then he was laughing and relaxed, and not ‎knowing which way was up didn't seem to matter too much, and the two guys who'd ‎bought him the last three rounds of drinks took him out through the side door into the ‎alley to beat him up and steal anything he might have in his pockets.‎

So he beat them both unconscious, and took everything they had, and took their guns, too. ‎Guns were familiar (why?) and he'd wanted the money. It was only then that he thought ‎to check his own pockets (because he couldn't read any of the words on any of the things ‎he took away from them and he thought that couldn't be right) and he found there wasn't ‎anything in them but a handful of coins and a purple crystal. He didn't know what it was ‎‎(then); later he found out it was a key, and later still he lost it.‎

By then he'd been through the Chappa'ai a dozen times. Not sure what he ‎was looking for. Home. Revenge. Somebody who recognized his face. He didn't find ‎any of them.‎

On a planet whose name he doesn't remember he sat in on a friendly game of Deemo that ‎turned out to be not so friendly after all, and so he shot the dealer, and after that nobody ‎at all was friendly on Planet No-Name, and that was when he found out you could check ‎in any time you liked—‎

‎(the fragment of an almost-memory teases at him and he bats it away ‎irritatedly)‎

‎—but that everybody needed a permit to leave and the local peacekeepers watched the ‎‎Chappa'ai non-stop. Since he didn't have much chance of getting that permit ‎‎(because the dealer in that crooked game turned out to have been the son of the ‎Peacekeeper-in-Chief and everybody in the damned bar'd seen his face) he stole a ship ‎instead. And somehow that turned out to be another stupid idea, because now the ship is ‎smeared over the ass-end of nowhere and he's here.‎

Wherever "here" is. He'd been hoping for somewhere with a few more people, but for ‎some reason, the friendly locals of Planet No-Name didn't really take to the notion of ‎somebody making off with one of their ships. He even asked nice. (He won't let ‎himself wonder where he learned to fly, why the controls of the Death Glider seemed so ‎familiar — he knows damned well he's no Jaffa — where he got the skills that let him ‎blow three of their guys out of the sky.) Just bad luck there was a cloaked ‎‎tel'tak up there on sentry duty. Worse luck it'd been retrofitted with weapons. ‎Death Gliders only have limited hyperjump capability to begin with; he babied it along as ‎far as he could — aiming for the nearest Chappa'ai — and he'd still done the ‎last stretch at sublight. It was only when he reached atmosphere that he found out the ‎athodyd system was pretty well fucked, and a Death Glider lands about as well as a ‎thrown brick even when its tipjets are working. ‎

The walls here are thin. He can hear the sounds of sex reverberating around him — ‎thumps and groans and cries of pay-for-play ecstasy. Coming and hurting sound a lot ‎alike. The sounds are what woke him. He's been hearing them for a while. Not like he ‎had a lot of illusions about what this place was, but it must be evening now, and some girl ‎and her fifteen-minute date will be wanting this room. And he's had his beauty-sleep, and ‎he knows there's a Chappa'ai somewhere on this sun-scorched hellhole. Now ‎it's time to go see if the barkeep's going to tell him where it is.‎

He'll even ask nice.‎

He gets himself back into his clothes — boots and leather pants and a shirt that's seen ‎better days. Buckles his gunbelt on and straps down his holster, tucks his hideout pieces ‎away (one for show and two to go — someone said that to him once — ‎who?) tucks his knives away — the two in his boots that go in easy and come out ‎just as easy and the one in the wrist sheath that doesn't come out easy at all but if he's ‎down to relying on that one, he's already in serious kimchee anyway. What his shirt ‎doesn't cover, his leather jacket does. (Dressed to kill, and he frowns — looking at ‎himself in the mirror — because he's almost sure he heard someone else say those words ‎once, and it was meant as a joke, but he can't think why it would ever be funny.)‎

He opens the door, checks the corridor — empty — walks out of the room. He ‎remembers to bring the bottle.‎

At night, the whole place looks different. Lit up and a pretend glow of happiness over ‎everything, like good times are coming and everybody's gonna treat each other right ‎when they get here. Only good times never do get here, and nobody treats anybody right.‎

There's about a dozen people in the bar. Three of them work here — two girls and a boy, ‎all dressed in cheap and bright, all painted up — and the rest have come for other things. ‎There are three men in the corner playing Deemo — he sees the tiles flash even in the ‎dim light — one man sitting alone at another table eating something out of a bowl. Three ‎of the other men are standing at the bar to drink. The two women are sitting at a table. ‎From the looks the whores are giving them, they've all tried their luck there already. He ‎goes up to the bar, taking a place at the far end. Sure enough, the guy hurries down.‎

‎"What can I get you this evening? We have—"‎

‎"You sell food." It's not a question.‎

‎"Oh yes, but—"‎

‎"Bring me some. And something that isn't this." He sets the bottle down on the table.‎

There are a couple of tables empty. He goes over and sits down at one. Sure enough, one ‎of the working girls shows up before his food does.‎

‎"You look lonely," she says.‎

‎"Not really." She starts to get up. He puts a coin on the table and rests his fingers on it. ‎She sits down again and looks at him. "I'm not that lonely. But I'm new in town. How ‎much to talk to you for a while?"‎

‎"Buy me a drink, give me that shesh'ta, you can talk all you want, fella."‎

He nods, but doesn't let go of the coin. She smiles, and snaps her fingers. Somebody ‎who's probably the barkeep's son scurries over with a tray, a pitcher, two glasses. He ‎takes the glasses, pours for both of them.‎

‎"You got nice manners, fella. Hey, you got a name?"‎

He smiles at her, lazy and slow. "Not really. You?"‎

‎"Oh, everybody just calls me Denda. It's short for Dendeusderith. You know." She ‎takes a long swallow of her drink. He sips his. It's beer. Sort of. "So, what'cha want to ‎talk about? You know," she says, as if it's just occurred to her, "you talk real pretty. ‎Nobody's ever called Inolfre a town before."‎

‎"So what do they usually call it?"‎

‎"Supply station. Assay office, general store, this place. It's why we're so far from the ‎‎Chappa'ai; bring alchrego anywhere near it and you might as ‎well not dig it up in the first place. Crop has to be taken off planet by ship. Every two ‎years."‎

He gets interested when she mentions a ship, less so when he says two years. "So, you ‎about due?"‎

Denda makes a rude noise. "Just had one. You planning to walk out of here, ‎‎Chappa'ai's in that direction," she says, jerking a thumb back up the road ‎‎(answering the other question he'd wanted the answer to). "I was you, I'd just wait for my ‎friends. Less they aren't your friends."‎

His gaze sharpens, but she doesn't say anything else. He lets go of the ‎‎shesh'ta. She still doesn't say anything. He adds a second one. She takes it ‎and leans forward.‎

‎"I'm usually up and down during the day. Kid's teething, y'know? So I hear Treca ‎talking to some guys back in the kitchen, and they didn't sound like anybody local, and ‎they talked about a guy looked like you they were looking for, and Treca said he hadn't ‎seen you, but I looked around the door and one of them was Jaffa. First Prime, you know, ‎with the gold? And the other one was saying they tracked you here, and he told Treca to ‎call him if you showed up. And I bet he is."‎

If he didn't have bad luck he wouldn't have any kind of luck at all, because there's two ‎kinds of Jaffa in the universe — peaceful farmers, and professional leg-breakers — and ‎the only farm in his future is the kind that the kind of people who hire former First Primes ‎want to see to it that he buys. "There a back way out of here?" he asks Denda.‎

‎"There's a door through the kitchen. Some of us with kids, we've got places out back. ‎And sometimes a guy likes to pay for an all-night, you know?"‎

‎"Let's say I just did," he says. He gets to his feet and holds out his hand, and he can see ‎her thinking about how to get more money out of him, and he doesn't want to hurry her ‎any more than he already has, because that's a sure way to make her dig in her heels and ‎jack up the price.‎

And that's about the time his luck goes from 'bad' to 'none at all.'‎

A guy comes in the front door, and he's dressed like one of the locals, but he doesn't ‎move like one. He's got a set of readers on his face, and he scans the room, and there's ‎‎no fucking place to hide.‎

Denda sees the guy and makes an unhappy kicked-puppy sound, and about the time the ‎stranger locks on to him and takes a step forward — smiling, looking relieved — he's got ‎her by the arm and he's pulling her up out of her seat. He shoves her a little — hasn't ‎gotten to the point yet of using people like her as human shields — and she runs.‎

He picks up the pitcher — he'd only poured two glasses out of it; it's half full — and ‎takes a step forward. All that's only taken a second or two; barely long enough for the ‎stranger to finish making his first move.‎

‎"Mitchell!" he says. "Oh my god — do you know how many—? Where have you ‎‎been? Teal'c and I have been looking all over for you! When you—"‎

Whoever he is, he doesn't get any further than that, because he's let him (Mitchell? ‎His name?) get close enough, and he slings the half-pitcher of beer directly into his ‎face. The readers don't spark, so he guesses they weren't powered up. But the guy ‎chokes and sputters anyway, and that gives him a good chance to sink a fist into his gut, ‎hammer him over the head with the pitcher, run for the door as the guy goes down.‎

He pulls his gun as he goes. That Jaffa's got to be out here somewhere.‎

Dark. Cold. The front of the bar has colored lights and floodlights; he keeps his back to ‎them as much as he can, but it's going to take his night vision a while to adjust. There's ‎several battered trucks out here. He recognizes the style; they take a palm-print to ‎activate, and they'd take him too damned long to jury-rig, but they're good cover. He ‎fades back into the shadows, stretching his ears for every sound.‎

Nothing.‎

If he can make it out onto the desert, he'll spend a bitch of a night, but he'll be able to see ‎what's coming for him.‎

‎"Hey, Jaffa!" he calls into the dark. "You think we can cut a deal here, you and me?" No ‎answer, but he wasn't expecting one. He moves immediately, sliding ghostfooted further ‎into the shadows. Suddenly the human comes bursting out the front door (he finds that a ‎little annoying — usually when he hits someone they stay down).‎

‎"Mitchell!" he shouts. "Quit playing around!"‎

He raises his gun (killing one might discourage the other) but the human's already ducked ‎and rolled into the shadows. He's trying to think of who he's pissed off who's rich enough ‎to hire a pair of professional bounty hunters to chase him to Ass End, because one little ‎justified shooting couldn't do it.‎

Could it?‎

On the other hand, if he can take them both out, he's pretty damned sure they didn't come ‎here through the Chappa'ai. So things may be looking up.‎

Or maybe not.‎

He's down past the end of the building — the lights are all focused on the front door — ‎when suddenly there's a roaring noise overhead and a spotlight hits him. Light so bright ‎it hurts. He stares skyward in shock. There's something up there — not very far ‎overhead. Tel'tak. It's just dropped its cloak (which is why the sudden noise; ‎must've been running stealthed as well as cloaked) and that means rings (because you ‎can't run transport rings through a cloak on anything he's ever heard of) and transport ‎rings mean bad things. He fires up at it — hoping to knock out the floods (knowing he's ‎panicking) — and the moment of inattention on the ground war costs him. He feels a ‎heavy weight land against his back, arms encircle him, trapping his arms at his sides. ‎Made him drop his pistol. Bastard.‎

‎"Hi," a voice breathes in his ear. "I guess we haven't been introduced. My name's Daniel ‎Jackson. We work together."‎

By the time the man finishes speaking, the tel'tak's transport rings have come ‎down and gone up again, and he's a prisoner.‎

But he won't go quietly. The hunters haven't done a conversion on their ship; it still has ‎the bulkhead in place between the cargo area and the pel'tac, and the hatch is ‎locked. It might be enough to buy him a little time. The moment the rings drop, he slams ‎Jackson back against the nearest bulkhead as hard as he can.‎

‎"Ow! Mitchell! Hey!" Jackson sounds irritated, but he isn't letting go. He tries a head-‎butt. It doesn't work, so he goes with the tried-and-true method of just banging Jackson ‎against the bulkhead until he can stun the man and pry him off. Then he can get to one of ‎his backups, shoot Jackson in the stomach to slow him down a little, see what he can do ‎about the damned Jaffa, then come back and see if he can get any answers. Finding out ‎who sent them and why would be nice. Jackson's smart though. He doesn't even get ‎halfway started on that before Jackson lets go and gets himself to where he figures is out ‎of reach. ‎

‎"Look — look — look — I don't know what's happened to you, but you're stuck here." ‎Jackson talks fast, holding his hands out in front of him placatingly. "On this ship. The ‎rings can't be operated from back here and we're already out of range of the planet. So ‎why don't we all sit down and talk about things? My name is Daniel Jackson and your ‎name is Cameron Mitchell and you and I are friends."‎

‎"Really?" he asks sarcastically. The bigger of his two hideouts is at the small of his back, ‎meaning Jackson has to know it's there, so it'll be hard for him to draw inconspicuously. ‎The little one's probably enough to take Jackson down, but it's in his waistband in the ‎front. Decisions, decisions.‎

‎"Yeah, well, okay, not exactly. But we work together. I've saved your life, you've saved ‎my life — the point is, two months ago, you went undercover on an ‎‎incredibly risky mission and you didn't come back, and—"‎

A remark like that is actually enough to make him stop reaching for his pocket pistol for ‎a second. "Do you mind telling me why I would do an incredibly stupid ‎thing like that?"‎

Jackson flashes him a grin, there and gone like a warning shot. "Because you're brave, ‎and noble, and really really stupid. I told you infiltrating the Lucian Alliance ‎was a bad idea."‎

‎"I am not that stupid," he tells Jackson. ‎

Oh fuck the guns. Some days you just have to go for the classics. He takes a step back ‎‎— like he's thinking of leaning up against the bulkhead and chatting a while — and when ‎he sees Jackson start to relax, he leans down and whips one of his knives out of his boot ‎and throws it.‎

And wouldn't you just fucking know that's when the Jaffa picks to open the ‎hatch and snatch his damned knife out of mid air.‎

The Jaffa's about nine feet tall and looks like he's been cold-forged out of a block of solid ‎‎naquaadah. The kind of guy who eats black holes for breakfast and your ‎liver for lunch. "Are you making progress in reaching a meeting of the minds with ‎Colonel Mitchell, Daniel Jackson?" the Jaffa asks.‎

‎"I thought I was," Jackson says, sighing.‎

The Jaffa looks at his knife like it offends him, and he figures he's got nothing left to lose ‎now, so he goes for his hideout (not the little one, the big one, dammit) and ‎about the time he whips it clear he hears the high whine of a zat'ni'katel ‎powering up. Trust a goddamned Jaffa to bring a zat'ni'katel to a fucking ‎knife fight.‎

He tries to get a shot off before the Jaffa shoots him, but he doesn't know if he does.‎

‎#‎

‎"Tell us who you are! We know you aren't Zantus! Sorfir just brought in his ‎head!"‎

Dreams. Nightmares.‎

‎He shouldn't be able to see his own face, but he can. There are cameras here, ‎screens all around the room. Wave to the folks at home, Zantus. You're on Candid ‎Camera. Harfin says he isn't Zantus, and that's just crazy talk. He is. He knows he ‎is. Westi's his boss, and Westi has a yellow streak a mile wide — everybody knows that ‎‎— and won't leave his district; Westi sent him to negotiate with the Cartel.‎

Didn't he?‎

Oh, god, he doesn't know what Harfin stuck into him, but it's made him sick as a pup. ‎Jackson said—‎

He doesn't know anyone named 'Jackson'.‎

‎"Tol' you. M' Zantus," he mumbles.‎

Dreams.‎

Nightmares.‎

‎"—scars all over both forearms, Teal'c. They must have realized he wasn't Zantus ‎‎— somehow — and found the delivery system for the modified Reole drug."‎

‎"Only a small amount of that compound introduced into the system would induce great ‎confusion, Daniel Jackson."‎

He's not sure if he's still dreaming or not. Everything hurts. He can't move. Don't ‎try, he tells himself. If he can hear them, they can see him.‎

‎"You think— When they cut it off, he was exposed. But — it's been six weeks ‎since the Lucians sent us a message that they'd killed him. Without re-exposure, the ‎effects of the Reole drug wear off within—"‎

‎"And if it were to have another drug added to it?"‎

So many questions. A thousand threads of lies and half-truths twisted into the net that's ‎choking him now, and he doesn't know what's memory, what's fantasy, what's just a bad ‎dream. He remembers a man hanging in chains, screaming at the touch of a pain-stick. ‎And they said they knew who he was said he was Colonel Cameron Mitchell ‎but he didn't remember anything no matter what they did to him.‎

‎"Why don't you tell us what your mission was, Colonel?"‎

He remembers how to let the blackness take him so he can hide, though. And he does.‎

‎#‎

When he wakes up the next time, he's not on the tel'tak. Some planet; he can ‎smell fresh air. There's an ocean nearby. He sits up quickly. Not tied up, no ‎‎zat'ni'katel hangover. He wonders how long he slept and what he was ‎drugged with to make him sleep.‎

He's been searched. Stripped. But they left something for him to put on when he woke ‎up, an ugly costume of green cloth. No weapons. No boots, either. Just a pair of ‎‎(equally-ugly) green socks.‎

This doesn't make any sense (he's got a headache). Killing him makes sense. Taking him ‎to whoever paid them to grab him makes sense (alive, okay, yeah, that wouldn't be fun — ‎but it would make sense ). Bringing him to wherever this is, taking his ‎clothes, and giving him new clothes? That does not make sense.‎

Unless he's been dumped here to die slowly.‎

He stands carefully and gets himself into the unfamiliar clothing. At least it's clean. He ‎stuffs the socks into a pocket, because the floors are slick and he doesn't want to slip. ‎The room he's in is done in Early Tasteless Ornate Brothel, but the maid hasn't been ‎around lately; because the wall-carvings have a layer of dust on them. There's a doorway ‎and not a door, but — he balls up the socks and tosses them through to check — there's ‎no force shield. He walks out cautiously, picking up the socks as he goes.‎

Voices.‎

‎"—ake him back to the SGC like this, no matter how much fun it'd be to have him try to ‎shoot General Landry in the Gate Room."‎

That's Jackson.‎

‎"I fail to perceive the entertainment value to be derived from such a spectacle."‎

And that's the Jaffa. Jackson said his name is Teal'c. First Prime. He didn't recognize ‎the Goa'uld-mark, though.‎

‎"Liar. Gin. You know, I really hate this place."‎

‎"P4X-374 is eminently suitable for our purposes."‎

Jackson says something else, but he doesn't stick around to hear it. He heads off down ‎the hall, because there's light up ahead and there might be an exit.‎

There isn't an exit, but there is a Chappa'ai. And it looks like Jackson and ‎Teal'c don't want to share the bounty on him, because there doesn't seem to be anyone ‎else here. Good enough. Give him three minutes and he won't be here either.‎

He starts pressing asterisms on the Del'mak'ai, but none of them light.‎

‎"Won't work," Jackson sings out, and he was already turning toward the motion he'd ‎glimpsed, but Jackson seems perfectly happy to just lean against the doorway. Jackson's ‎wearing the same ugly green clothes as they left out for him; he wonders why. "Teal'c ‎took the control crystals out of the DHD and locked them up in the ship. You might be ‎able to get in, but since you'd need to be able to remember your IDC for that, I'm not ‎worried."‎

‎"Do you go out of your way to be annoying?" he asks. It might not get him out of here, ‎but it would probably make him feel a lot better to beat Jackson to a pulp.‎

‎"Not actually as often as people think," Jackson says. "Come on, Mitchell. We'd like to ‎talk to you. If that can be arranged without hitting."‎

‎"I'm always in favor of not being hit," he says. He hasn't said anything about not hitting, ‎if he can get away with it.‎

‎#‎

About an hour later, he revises his opinion a bit. Maybe being hit would be ‎‎better.‎

They offer him food. It's something Jackson calls "emmories," and the Jaffa (also ‎wearing the same green cloth outfit as Jackson, and here he thought that only the Alliance ‎wore uniforms) says there are a couple of cases them left here from when they were using ‎this place as a base. Only... when Jackson hands him one so he can inspect it, it isn't an ‎‎"emmory" at all. It says "Meals Ready To Eat" on the bag, in a language he can read. ‎‎(He tries not to let them see how much of a shock that is; he isn't sure how well he does.) ‎He's willing to eat it because it's sealed, and because they eat them too. Jackson ‎complains about the quality and the taste. He guesses Jackson hasn't missed that many ‎meals. He eats two.‎

Then they start in with their stupid explanation. It's the same one Jackson tried on the ‎‎tel'tak: that his name is Cameron Mitchell. That he's an officer in the ‎‎Tau'ri military, specifically in the part of it called Stargate Command, which ‎has to do with the Tau'ri Chappa'ai and that's a secret. That two months ago ‎‎(whatever a month is) he decided — because he is brave and noble (and stupid) — to go ‎off and infiltrate the Lucian Alliance. Six weeks ago (there are four weeks in a month) ‎the Lucian Alliance told the Stargate Command that he was dead, and sent them pictures ‎of him being tortured, and because Jackson and Teal'c didn't believe that he was dead, ‎they started looking for him.‎

Oh, but here's where it gets really good. Jackson and the Jaffa work for him, ‎and the Jaffa is the former First Prime of Apophis, who was one of the System Lords. He ‎and Jackson have killed dozens of Goa'uld. As for how he (Colonel ‎Cameron Mitchell of the First World) could infiltrate the Alliance, he had a secret alien ‎drug that would make anyone who saw him think he was whoever he said he was.‎

Only (so Jackson guesses) something went wrong with this drug, and that's why he ‎doesn't remember being this brave, noble, stupid Tau'ri Colonel.‎

‎"If you work for me, I can order you to fix the Chappa'ai and leave, right?" ‎he says when they're done.‎

Jackson sighs. "We don't work for you, Mitchell. You lead SG-1. We all ‎‎'work' for Stargate Command. So... that would be a 'no.'"‎

‎"Yeah, okay, so what about all of us going back to this Stargate Command place. Just so ‎I can check out your story? It's not like I don't believe you guys..."‎

‎"It is our belief that this would be unwise, Colonel Mitchell," the Jaffa says.‎

‎"Oh yeah? Why?" Pushing a Jaffa is so not the brightest thing anybody's ‎ever done (usually the last thing anybody ever does) but he can't help it. He ‎has the odd feeling (halfway between a hunch and a memory; probably a death-wish) that ‎this one won't really hurt him.‎

‎"Should you return to the SGC in your current state of impairment, it would be difficult ‎for us to persuade General Landry to allow you to remain in charge of SG-1," the Jaffa ‎says.‎

‎"Jack might go for it, though," Jackson says. The way he shakes his head indicates it's ‎mostly a joke. Mostly. "The thing is, the Reole chemical — that's what you used to ‎infiltrate the Alliance — is volatile and non-persistent. As far as we know, if the subject ‎isn't given a strong suggestion immediately after it's administered, nothing happens. If ‎the suggestion is counteracted by objective evidence afterward, the fantasy breaks down. ‎Even if you ended up with it in your system, you shouldn't be like... this."‎

‎"I like the way I am just fine," he snaps.‎

‎"Stargate Command will not," the Jaffa says.‎

‎"So-o-o-o... we're hoping a few days in our charming company will remind you that ‎you're, well, you," Jackson says. (He guesses Jackson and the Jaffa are like ‎two people who've been married long enough to finish each other's sentences, and ‎‎he really doesn't need that image in his head right now.)‎

‎"Nice talking to you guys," he says, pushing away from the table.‎

Neither of them stops him when he leaves.‎

‎#‎

He wanders around the place (looks like some kind of palace — some kind of old, beat-‎up, dusty palace) for a while, but unless he intends to smother one or the other of them ‎with a blanket or have a lethal pillow-fight, he doesn't find anything that will make much ‎of a weapon. He does find a door to the outside. The brokedown palace is right at the ‎edge of the ocean. Not a blue and gold tropical paradise; the sky is grey, the water is ‎darker grey, and the salt wind blowing in off the water is raw and cold. ‎

‎(It feels wrong — as if there's something that ought to be right. He shoves the ‎thought away.)‎

The beach is stony (he wonders if they think that will keep him inside?) He picks his ‎way cautiously down the steps to the waterline. It's low tide. The stones here are the ‎ones that will be smoothest. Walking isn't comfortable, but it's not painful. He still ‎doesn't go more than a hundred yards or so.‎

Suppose they're right? Okay, not about all the incredibly stupid stuff, but ‎about him having been a prisoner of the Alliance and having been given a drug that ‎scrubbed his memory whiter than white. Maybe the Alliance didn't want him dead — or ‎not dead yet. Maybe he was a lab-rat. Maybe something else. And maybe ‎he escaped (he thinks of his first memory, of walking away, and wonders where he was ‎an hour before that). And now he's here.‎

He stands in the surf, looking back the way he came. The palace (yeah, it's a palace all ‎right) is huge and shabby and gaudy, lurid even against the grey sky. He walks ‎‎(cautiously, sucking air between his teeth), up across the dry stones and sits down.‎

If he remembers — if he doesn't remember — what then?‎

‎#‎

He isn't out there that long before he sees the Jaffa (it's Teal'c) come out of ‎the building and walk up the beach toward him. When the Jaffa (Teal'c) gets ‎closer, he can see he's carrying something. Boots.‎

‎"You will find your return trip more comfortable with footwear, Colonel Mitchell," the ‎Jaffa-no-his-name-is-Teal'c says, stopping beside him.‎

‎"Not my name," he says.‎

Silence.‎

‎"You just happen to be carrying boots around in my size?" he asks, because he looked, ‎and these aren't his. (Not the ones he came here wearing.)‎

‎"When we began searching for you, Daniel Jackson thought it appropriate to carry ‎suitable dress for your return to Stargate Command."‎

‎"Jackson's an optimist." People don't tend to return to anywhere from Alliance ‎hospitality.‎

‎"He is indeed."‎

He gives up and takes the boots. There's socks wadded into one of them, so he doesn't ‎pull out the ones in his pocket. The boots close up with a bunch of little strings in the ‎front. Weird, but he figures it out. They fit, too.‎

When he has them on, the two of them get to their feet and walk back.‎

‎#‎

He's been here six days. It's just about the longest he's ever been anywhere. He's ‎explored most of the palace (Teal'c says it's an old Goa'uld bordello) and ‎walked for miles along the beach. There aren't any doors anywhere in this place — only ‎doorways (which is fucking annoying, but Jackson says he'll have to take it up with the ‎‎Goa'uld). He's moved to a different room to sleep in every night. The others ‎haven't said anything. ‎

He's gotten used to answering to 'Mitchell' — although it would be more accurate to say ‎that he's gotten used to ignoring 'Mitchell', because Jackson's always ‎‎talking at him (doesn't the man ever shut the fuck up?) and he really doesn't ‎want to listen, because what Jackson says (once Jackson develops the lovely fantasy that ‎he isn't going to get hit; the fact of the matter is that Jackson isn't going to get hit ‎‎yet) is that he isn't behaving much like Mitchell at all, and apparently that ‎makes him a fascinating new toy in Jackson's little world, because he goes on (and on and ‎on and on) about personality being modified by memory until he finally ‎snaps at Jackson that he wouldn't think it was so much fun if he'd ever woke up one day ‎not knowing who he was. He's not sure why that makes Jackson shut up for ‎the next day and a half, but he'll take what he can get.‎

He doesn't think of himself as 'Mitchell'. In the place inside where there's supposed to be ‎a name, there isn't anything at all.‎

He doesn't believe them. He doesn't disbelieve them. It's a ridiculous story, ‎but it's so ridiculous he can't figure out why anybody would make it up. He can't see ‎where the angle is to convincing him he's this Cameron Mitchell guy if he isn't.‎

If he were Mitchell, he thinks he'd remember.‎

‎#‎

On the seventh morning he wakes up and knows before he's opened his eyes that ‎something's different. He dresses quickly and goes looking for the others. They aren't in ‎their rooms, or by the Chappa'ai. He tries the Del'mak'ai again ‎on the off chance it's working, but it isn't.‎

He finds Jackson out on the balcony, looking out over the ocean, drinking coffee. It ‎comes in the MREs, and Jackson says it's horrible. (It's an unfamiliar taste, and he ‎wonders if he'd like not-horrible coffee better, but for now he stays with the powdered ‎cocoa, which Jackson also says is horrible. He's starting to wonder if Jackson likes ‎anything.)‎

‎"Teal'c's making a supply run," Jackson says without turning around. "We're running low ‎on some stuff."‎

He's pretty sure that 'stuff' isn't going to include drinking liquor, which is a damned ‎shame, but apparently Jackson's on some kind of temperance kick and Jaffa don't drink. ‎‎"You didn't expect to be here this long," he says.‎

‎"No," Jackson says. "Mitchell—"‎

‎"Not my name," he says. The protest is automatic (though usually internal). He doesn't ‎know why it's so important to repudiate a name that he's starting to suspect is actually his.‎

Jackson turns around, leaning against the rail, cupping the steel mug for warmth. He ‎makes a face (frustration, irritation). "Then pick a name. Ishmael. Legion. Sam Hall. I ‎don't give a damn what you want to call yourself. I—" He shakes his head, sips his ‎coffee, staring down into the cup. "Never mind."‎

‎"What?"‎

‎"I said—"‎

‎"Heard you. Why'n't you go ahead and say it anyway? Maybe it'll be the thing that jars ‎my memory loose." He smiles coldly at Jackson. He doesn't think so. He doesn't think ‎Cameron Mitchell is in here.‎

Jackson looks up, and his eyes are as cold as the wind off the water. "I think that if you ‎were going to remember who you were you'd have done it by now. I think there isn't ‎anything the SGC can do to fix this. I think that if we were going to find you like this, it ‎would have been better if we found you dead, because at least that way Teal'c would ‎know."‎

This isn't anger. It's hate. And it's honesty. It's like a punch to the chest, like breathing ‎pure oxygen, like knowing you're about to die. And he realizes that in the last six days he ‎hasn't gotten any of these things (not anger not hate not honesty) from Jackson, for all ‎that the man has spent every hour of the day and half the night stuffing his ears with ‎every useless detail of fucking Cameron fucking Mitchell's fucking life.‎

A smokescreen. A diversion. And he fell for it.‎

He really is too dumb to live.‎

‎"Why Teal'c?" Because that's the sixty-four thousand dollar question, isn't it, boys and ‎girls? Jackson said it would be better for Teal'c if he was either Cameron ‎Mitchell or dead. He didn't say anything about himself.‎

‎"It's none of my business," Jackson mutters, staring back down into his coffee again.‎

‎"Yeah, well, maybe it's mine." He closes the space between them — four steps — and ‎gets a fistful of Jackson's shirt, yanking him in close. Jackson drops his cup. It rings on ‎the stone. He pushes in, close and hard, grinding Jackson's body against the balustrade ‎with his.‎

‎(something shifts uncomfortably in the back of his mind, where he can feel but not ‎touch it)‎

Jackson throws his head back and laughs. There's no humor in the sound. "I'm not the ‎one you want," he says. "I never was."‎

He doesn't move. He can feel Jackson's heart, beating against his knuckles. He's trying ‎to think about Mitchell — about Mitchell's life — but it's like trying to fly a ‎ship without an engine. He ducks his chin, shaking his head.‎

‎"Oh, you gave a pretty good impression of it at first," Jackson says, his voice low and ‎venomous. "Showed up at the SGC all bright-eyed and brand new. Hero of Antarctica. ‎Man of the hour. I was done. I was going to Atlantis. You followed me around like you ‎were a starving dog and I was a t-bone steak, saying 'pretty please, Dr. Jackson, ‎won't you stay and help me re-form the Legendary SG-1?' So... yeah. One thing ‎and another, I stayed. Of course, by then you'd seen Teal'c, and since Vala didn't even ‎blip your radar and we knew about the thing with Sam, we figured that you were just in ‎the market for an SG-1 Hat Trick. But no. It was Teal'c. He wanted an apprentice. You ‎wanted to be an apprentice. I don't know. I don't actually give a damn."‎

‎"You're jealous." It's all he can think of.‎

‎"Of which of you? And apparently Mitchell's dead anyway." Jackson brings his hands ‎up and shoves. Hard. Harder than he expects, although he already knows that Jackson's ‎strong. It's enough to tear his grip loose, make him stagger back and flail to keep his ‎balance, and while he's trying to keep from falling, Jackson walks back inside.‎

He walks over and picks up the mug, just for something to hold in his hands.‎

He wants to think Jackson's lied to him, but in his experience (what ‎experience?) when a body gets that mad, they tend to tell the truth.‎

So a lot of things that didn't make sense before make sense now. Why Jackson and Teal'c ‎would take off on a wild goose chase like this. Why they'd hide out with him once they ‎found him, instead of going back to the First World. Teal'c wouldn't believe he was dead ‎without a body, and he'd want revenge on whoever it was in the Alliance who killed him. ‎He must have been tracking in both directions — where he'd been and where he went — ‎until he found the fresher trail. And Teal'c knows he'll be locked up somewhere if he ‎takes him back to the Stargate Command and can't convince them he's the brave, noble ‎‎(stupid) Colonel Mitchell who went off on this suicide mission. And Teal'c will do a lot ‎to prevent that, because...‎

Because he and Teal'c.‎

Sometimes life's a real bitch.‎

‎#‎

He knows where they keep the supplies (they've never actually hidden much from him, ‎except — oh, hey — the keys to the fucking car) so he can get food (Jackson ‎was telling the gospel truth about them being short-stocked) and headache pills. Two sets ‎of them don't do much for his headache, though, so he gives up. He and Jackson spend ‎the day avoiding each other. At least he spends the day avoiding Jackson; hell if he ‎knows what Jackson's doing. Sometimes he thinks that boy was just born plain ‎‎wrong. ‎

Teal'c doesn't get back from the mall until it's almost dark. He only knows Teal'c's back ‎when he hears him talking to Jackson; he's moved back to the room they put him in that ‎first night, so it's just down the corridor from theirs. He's tried food, pills, and a long ‎walk on the beach, and nothing shook the feeling that his brain is revving itself up inside ‎until it's going to blow. It was there when he lay down, and it's there now. There ‎might've been some sleep in the middle; he isn't sure. Between the pressure and the ‎grogginess, it takes him until he's halfway through lacing up his second boot (the ‎‎Tau'ri brought down the Goa'uld Empire, and he bet they did it ‎by giving them these boots, because he's never encountered a more dangerous and ‎inefficient design in his life) to realize that Jackson and Teal'c (in his mind, ‎there's always a whisper of the Jaffa, like a footnote) aren't just talking.‎

They're arguing.‎

‎"—opinion it would be for the best, Daniel Jackson."‎

‎"Oh sure. Because sending him back out there to get his head shot off when ‎he can barely tie his own shoes is a good thing, right, Teal'c?"‎

‎"Colonel Mitchell would not appreciate the reception he would receive were we to return ‎him to Stargate Command in his present condition."‎

‎"Yeah, well, I don't appreciate the reception I receive when I ‎return to Stargate Command half the time these days. I still go." A pause. "Okay. All ‎right. Yeah. What about— What about sending him off to the Free Jaffa? Or—"‎

‎"He would not remain. It is better to provide him with the tools for survival."‎

‎"The tools to get dead. Or did we all miss the part about the ‎‎bounty the Lucians put on all our heads? Unless you're planning on ‎throwing in a little plastic surgery, all you're doing is arranging for him to get picked up ‎and tortured — to death this time — for something he doesn't know anything about."‎

There's another silence. Longer this time.‎

‎"Teal'c—!"‎

And Jackson sounds so horrified that he decides he's tired of eavesdropping.‎

When he walks into the room, Jackson turns to him. "Mitchell!" he demands. "Tell him ‎not to do it!"‎

He looks at Teal'c, puzzled. Teal'c is standing with his arms folded across his chest (Jaffa ‎Stubborn Stance Number Five Hundred Fifty-Eight: We Shall Not Be Moved). "Sure," ‎he says slowly. "Not do what?"‎

‎"Go— Go— Go off with you and— And— And play Bonnie and Clyde ‎somewhere!" Jackson sputters.‎

That gets Jackson The Eyebrow from Teal'c. "In fact, Daniel Jackson, Colonel Mitchell ‎and I would be Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. I would be Butch ‎Cassidy."‎

Jackson makes an exasperated noise. He (not Mitchell, not Colonel) doesn't get either ‎reference. What he does get is that...‎

‎"You're letting me go?" he says slowly.‎

‎"I'm going to Atlantis," Jackson announces. "Vala's dating Ba'al, Sam's moving to the ‎Moon, you've decided to go be a bank robber — I'm going to Atlantis."‎

‎"In fact, Vala Mal Doran is dating Ba'al's former host, as you are well aware," Teal'c says ‎to Jackson.‎

‎"Always a bridesmaid," Jackson mutters. ‎

He doesn't understand what Jackson's talking about this time either, but he thinks if he ‎gets to choose between understanding Jackson and not understanding Jackson, he'll pick ‎not understanding Jackson. Jackson can be clear when he wants to be, and when he is, it ‎cuts like a scalpel.‎

Now Teal'c turns to him. "In fact, Colonel Mitchell, we are not letting you go. We are ‎merely not returning with you to Stargate Command. I believe it would be pleasant if we ‎were to travel together for awhile."‎

‎"I'm returning to the SGC," Jackson says, leaning his hip against the table ‎and staring up at the ceiling. "Where I will skip throwing myself on Landry's mercy and ‎go straight to playing the Jack O'Neill card, because that's the only thing that's going to ‎save my ass after you and I stole Earth's modified tel'tak from Area 51. And ‎oh yeah — let's not forget the whole "absent without permission" thing. Yeah, that's ‎always a crowd-pleaser. What Teal'c isn't mentioning, Mitchell — because he's nicer ‎than I am — is that the Lucian Alliance has a bounty out on you that they're dying — or ‎‎you'd be dying, actually — to collect. And that if we take you back to Earth, ‎you get locked up somewhere for a really long time."‎

‎"I actually figured out the locking up part myself, thanks," he says. And now Jackson's ‎pissed with him, and Teal'c's pissed with Jackson, and he... Knowing Jackson was telling ‎the truth this morning isn't like knowing Jackson was telling the truth. It ‎makes him feel—‎

‎(frightened)‎

‎(lonely)‎

‎—he isn't sure how it makes him feel, because not having a memory means you don't ‎have a past, just a now. And there hasn't been anybody in that ‎‎now but him. No family, no friends—‎

‎(no lover)‎

‎—nobody who'd give up a whole life to watch his back.‎

But this Jaffa warrior — Teal'c of Chulak, former First Prime to Apophis, ‎‎Goa'uld-killer, hero of the Tau'ri — loves the man he ‎actually isn't any more so much that he'll go with him. Because the Lucian ‎Alliance wants that man (wants Colonel Cameron Mitchell) dead. And the ‎odds ("Never tell me the odds," a voice whispers in his mind, and he doesn't know ‎who it is — someone Mitchell knew?) are — if the Alliance really wants Mitchell ‎dead — it'll get what it wants, and that means it'll get Teal'c too.‎

‎"Good," he says shakily. "So... good. That's good. So... what'd you bring back in the ‎way of supplies?"‎

‎#‎

Dinner isn't exactly festive, but it's a change from MREs, and wherever ‎Teal'c went on his supply run, he picked up (what's apparently better) coffee and ‎chocolate and fresh bread and even beer. The beer is a nice change from water (the ‎‎Goa'uld palace purifies the seawater until it's drinkable, but it's flat and ‎tasteless) or cocoa, or fruit drink mix, and he thinks he's missed fresh bread. He's not ‎sure. There's fruit, too — grapes and oranges — and anybody would miss those.‎

He tries not to watch Teal'c. He thinks he'll give too much away. He doesn't want to ‎look at Jackson, either. But he wonders (because Jackson has babbled like a ‎fucking drain ever since he's gotten here), just what it was that Colonel Mitchell ‎fucked up enough that Jackson's still furious about it three years later. Because Jackson ‎and Teal'c have been on this SG-1 thing for years together, so if either of them was going ‎to make a move, they'd had plenty of time. And Jackson says Mitchell was interested in ‎him back in the day, so it can't be (can it?) that Jackson wanted Mitchell and got shut out.‎

It has to be that Jackson wanted Teal'c, and he was okay with not getting ‎when Teal'c didn't look like going after anyone. Then Teal'c chose him (chose ‎Mitchell, and for the first time since the two of them grabbed him and started turning his ‎world inside out, he wishes he were Mitchell — all of Mitchell) and ‎Jackson realized that Tealc's disinterest was personal.‎

They get all the way through to dessert (he's had three beers, Jackson's had two), while he ‎works all that through in his head, and gets to where he realizes that despite that, Jackson ‎‎still came along with Teal'c to rescue Mitchell. And he realizes that Teal'c ‎has to know all that stuff that's kicking around in Jackson's head, and he still ‎trusts him not just to watch his back, but to watch his back, too. And that ‎makes him think that this SG-1 thing must be kind of amazing, and he sort of wishes he ‎remembered it.‎

‎"If— If I got those—" (he can't quite bring himself to say "my") "—memories back, they ‎wouldn't keep me locked up on your planet, would they?" he asks haltingly.‎

Both of them stop what they're doing — Jackson's peeling an orange, Teal'c's eating ‎grapes — and just stare at him like he's developed naquaadah ‎eyes or something.‎

‎"Harfin was not encouraging," Teal'c finally says flatly.‎

‎"Uh-h-h... What Teal'c means is, after we picked you up, we went back to talk to the ‎people who'd been holding you prisoner," Jackson says. "You went undercover as a man ‎named Zantus, who was an enforcer for Westi. Westi was one of Kefflin's underbosses ‎‎— with Netan dead, we're pretty sure Kefflin's the new head of the Lucians. We thought ‎the impersonation would work because we had Zantus in protective custody, only he ‎escaped. That's when you were turned over to Harfin for interrogation."‎

‎"Yeah, fine, okay, whatever," he says irritably. They've been over this before, although ‎the part about paying Harfin a visit is new. He's not that wild about getting the details.‎

‎"Will you listen to me for once in your life, Mitchell?" Jackson snaps. "We ‎went in to the base you'd been held at and got Harfin out. Teal'c talked to ‎him. Harfin didn't know anything about a Reole drug — he thought you were wearing ‎the special fake-skin gloves to fool a print and gene scan — but he told Teal'c everything ‎he did to you. Everything he used. None of it would have done this." Jackson sighs, and ‎when he goes on, he sounds kinder than he has yet. The sympathy in his voice burns like ‎acid. "If we can't even figure out what caused it, there's no cure for it on Earth. I'm ‎sorry."‎

‎"I'll talk to him myself," he says, voice tight. He hates the fact that he wants this.‎

‎"You cannot. Harfin is dead," Teal'c says.‎

He'd accuse Teal'c of wanting him to stay this way, except for the fact that ‎Teal'c looks about as miserable as somebody pulling that whole "Great Stone Jaffa This ‎Is Not An Expression" shtick can look, and just when the hell did he get to be so fucking ‎expert on Teal'c's expressions, anyway? He wants to say that he hopes Harfin died ‎screaming — because he does (even if he can't remember anything Harfin did to him) — ‎but he keeps his tongue between his teeth out of the suspicion that it isn't something ‎Colonel Mitchell would say.‎

He hates the fact that he cares.‎

He nods, just a little. "Guess not too many people are going to cry over him," he says. ‎‎"You don't mind, think I'll go for a little stroll before I turn in."‎

‎#‎

Apparently the Tau'ri don't have any cloth that isn't ugly and green (or ugly ‎and black), but the jacket that goes with the shirt and the pants is warm. He takes a ‎lighting-stick, but he doesn't really need it: the moon is full, and at night (on this world) ‎the ocean fluoresces. He walks up the beach for hours to the crash of the radiant moon-‎white surf, trying to fit himself into a universe where people care about each other this ‎way. This much. Even when they hate each other. ‎

Mostly he thinks about Teal'c. About Mitchell and Teal'c. Or he tries to. It's like trying ‎to imagine what your face looked like before you were born.‎

He may only have existed for six Tau'ri "weeks", but he's done a lot of things ‎in that time. Fought and flown and fucked. (Pretty boys in noisy back rooms; ‎pretty girls in filthy alleyways.) He hasn't loved. Not the way Teal'c loves ‎Mitchell. Not even the way Teal'c loves Jackson, because there is love there, ‎too, just a different kind. Whenever he'd hear about love — whores and gamblers talk ‎about it a lot — he never said anything, but he always thought it was as mythical a thing ‎as peace, or the Ancient Ones coming back, or Lantia the Lost.‎

Only Jackson's talking about going to Lantia. And Teal'c loves Mitchell enough to die ‎with him instead.‎

He turns around and walks back the way he came.‎

‎#‎

He's not completely surprised to see someone out on the balcony. Leaning on the railing, ‎staring out at the ocean. Moonlight deceives; it makes things look like what they aren't, ‎but he gets closer and there's a head-turn and the flash of moonlight on readers ‎‎(glasses) and he knows for sure that it's Jackson. Not keeping an eye on him ‎‎— no point to that — just out here in the quiet, watching the sea.‎

‎"With all the planets I've been to, sometimes I forget how beautiful they can be," Jackson ‎says, when he gets up the steps. "The first time I came here, I tried to kill myself after I ‎left. We didn't realize — back then — that the place had been the Goa'uld ‎equivalent of an opium den. It's shut down now."‎

It sounds like more of Jackson's babble — meaningless noise — and it is. And it isn't. ‎Protective coloration. Information if you know how to look. "You came here with ‎Teal'c," he says.‎

‎"With SG-5 first. They died. But, yeah. Teal'c, Sam, Jack. About seven years ago. So, ‎about four years before you joined us."‎

He lets that go; the eternal argument about being-or-not-being Mitchell isn't worth having ‎right now, and he isn't really sure which side of it he's on any more. He stands beside ‎Jackson and leans his weight on the railing. The crash and hiss of the surf is so rhythmic ‎as to fade into inaudibility. He turns over in his mind the shape of what he means to say. ‎To ask. "I need you to be straight with me," he says.‎

Jackson laughs, a short startled bark. "Sorry. Earth idiom. You don't remember why it's ‎funny — which is a whole research paper in itself that I'll never get to write. Sorry. Go ‎ahead."‎

‎"This SG-1 thing — it's pretty important, right?" he asks.‎

‎"Used to be." Jackson's voice is so carefully-neutral that he can tell the man's not saying ‎about a lifetime's worth of things.‎

‎"And Teal'c — he's important to it?"‎

‎"Depends on who you ask. It wouldn't exist without him. We wouldn't be alive. The ‎Jaffa would all still be slaves. Earth — your home planet — would have been blown to ‎shit by the Goa'uld. You'd be dead. Little things."‎

‎"So him running off to nursemaid me until the Alliance kills both of us is kind of stupid?"‎

The pause before Jackson answers his third question is the sound of Jackson trying not to ‎scream. He can hear it clearly. "Do feel free to try to change his mind, Mitchell. ‎Please." Jackson pushes away from the railing and stalks inside.‎

It's funny — for all that they've told him and not-told him about SG-1 being so much of a ‎team — what they seem to do most here is walk away from each other.‎

‎#‎

Cameron Mitchell — Colonel Cameron Mitchell — is brave and noble and ‎probably stupid, and he knows exactly what Cameron Mitchell would do in this situation. ‎The funny thing (laugh 'till you cry) is, it's what he'd do too.‎

And neither one of them can.‎

Good ol' Cam Mitchell, he'd hightail it out of here by himself so that his good buddy ‎Teal'c couldn't throw his life away watching his back. Maybe head on back to that ‎Stargate Command of his and tell them what had happened. Well, he doesn't know what ‎asterisms will open the Chappa'ai to the Stargate Command, but it doesn't ‎really matter. The Del'mak'ai isn't working anyway.‎

He even went off and found Teal'c — after he'd managed to chase Jackson in off the back ‎porch and stood around out there brooding until it got too cold for him — to try to ‎explain to him that it was a fool's errand to go chasing around the galaxy with him. ‎Didn't remember him. Never would. And all the damned thick-headed bastard would ‎say was that a fella's past wasn't near as important as the future he made for himself. ‎He'd spent a good half-hour trying to explain to Teal'c that he was a man with no name, ‎no past, and a future that wasn't looking all that rosy, either, and he would take it as a ‎particular favor if Teal'c would leave him to meet his Maker in decent peace and privacy. ‎And that worked out about as well as he should have expected it to, seeing as he has two ‎kinds of luck: "bad" and "none". In a sane world, he could expect Jackson's ‎help in zatting Teal'c to keep him quiet while he clears out, but just because Teal'c can ‎out-stubborn Jackson doesn't mean Jackson isn't as stubborn as a rock in the road. He ‎won't get any help there.‎

He knows that life isn't fair. Nobody better. It still fucking sucks, because ‎he's killed people he didn't like, and people he didn't care about, but now he's going to kill ‎someone who isn't either of these things.‎

Someone worth a thousand of him.‎

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‎[con't in next post]‎