TITLE: Games
AUTHOR: Ålßã
EMAIL: Alba@currantbun.com or 5691@penrice.rmplc.co.uk
CATEGORY: Angst
SPOILERS: None
SEASON / SEQUEL: Comes directly after Underworld.
RATING: PG
CONTENT WARNINGS:
SUMMARY: Daniel's experiences in the underground city bring back some childhood nightmares.
ARCHIVE: Heliopolis
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and all related characters belong to Showtime inc. and MGM/UA. I can't claim the idea, because Ivanova thought of a good chunk of it, but all additional characters mentioned are mine. This story was not written for monetary purposes, more to see if I could, and then for the satisfaction of writing it.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, here's my third story, the sequel to Underworld. This was incredibly difficult to write, and I'm relieved it's finally finished. If you find anything about this you do or don't like, tell me. I love feedback. Anyway, enough of me, on with the story.

"Life is hard, somehow,

Life is cold, somehow,

It can make you, it can break you,

In pieces all around. . . "

Life is, Runrig.

. . . .I'm trapped! He's coming towards me and I can't escape. His eyes, the darkest, cruelest eyes I have ever seen, are watching me. His lips are curved into a scornful grin. This is a game to him. Just a game. It's more than that for me though.

I back away. The wall is behind me. I can't escape. He moves forward and hits me, again and again and again. I can't get away. Why won't he leave me alone? What have I ever done to him? What did I do to deserve this?

I can't even fight back. I have neither the strength nor to experience to defend myself against such a powerful man as this. He's taller than Jack, and a good bit stronger I think. And he has an evil the like of which I've only seen in the Goa'uld. This is no Goa'uld though. He's as human as I am. I can't even imagine why he is like this. All I know is he hates me. I can't forget that.

Everything hurts. He punches me, kicks me, anything, whenever he can. I know he can kill humanely. He has a knife. No, he wants to cause me as much pain as possible.

He's toying with me like a cat with a mouse. I wish this was a "Tom and Jerry" cartoon, because the mouse always wins. The trouble is, real life isn't like that. Real life hurts.

He trips me over and kicks me sharply in the ribs as I fall. I try to scramble away, but each time I think I'm away from him, he kicks me again.

I call out for the one person who can help me.

"Jack! Help me! Help me! Jack!". . . .

"Daniel! Daniel! Wake up!" Dr. Frasier is screaming in my ear. She's shaking me, trying to get my full attention.

"Wha? What's happening?" I ask.

"You were calling for Colonel O'Neill. Captain Wallis came out to get me because you were keeping SG-8 awake. He thought there was something wrong," Janet says.

"Sorry. I was dreaming," I try to explain. I'm shaking violently. My heart is beating quickly from the sudden rush of adrenaline during my sleep. I'm stiff all over. I feel awful. What I want right now is something to help me relax. I haven't slept well since I've been back on Earth. I can't. I can only sleep for a short time before the nightmares set in and I wake up. From there it takes me hours before I'm relaxed enough to sleep again. I'm tired, but I can't rest without having these terrifying dreams.

"Nightmares more like. What's wrong?" she asks me.

"Nothing. I just haven't been sleeping well," I answer.

"Look. I know something's wrong. You obviously won't tell me, so I'll find Colonel O'Neill. Don't worry, the number of times he's been in here checking on you in the middle of the night, I wouldn't be surprised if he was awake now anyway," Janet says as she leaves the infirmary.

I sit up in bed and curl my arms around my legs, my chin resting on my knees. I rock back and forwards slowly. I can't stop shaking. I'm scared, but I know there is nothing here that can hurt me. I have nothing to be a afraid of, but the dreams bring back the darkest fears of my past. It's a fear I cannot, and will never forget.

I see Janet come back into the infirmary with Jack only a few minutes later. Janet whispers something to Jack, and then goes to check on the other patients.

"What's this about nightmares that Dr. Frasier has been telling me about?" he asks cheerfully. He sits down on the bed and regards me with concern.

"It's nothing. I'll get over it," I answer. It's not nothing though. It's a very big something. But, I don't know how to tell Jack.

"Come on, Daniel. I know you better than that. There's something wrong, and I'm staying here 'til you tell me," Jack says. The tone of his voice tells me that he means it as well.

We sit in silence for a while. Jack looks me in the eyes several times. I have to look away though. When he looks at me like that, I can't help opening up to him. But I'm not sure I want to tell him this. He'll be angry, I know it.

I gaze at the infirmary wall, mulling my options over in my mind. On one hand, if I tell him what's bothering me, he'll have exactly the right thing to say to me. He'll know precisely what'll comfort me. But then, it's not something I want to talk openly about. It's not that I don't trust him. I do. If I ask him not to tell anyone else he won't, but I'll have no end to his mothering. And he'll be angry. Not at me, but I hate it when Jack's angry. It reminds me too much of. . .

"Daniel?" Jack interrupts my thought.

"Hmmm?" I mumble. I turn my gaze to him. He catches it and holds it. He's watching me so strongly I can't look away.

"Tell me what's on your mind," Jack insists.

"I've been having these dreams. . ." I start.

"Nightmares," Jack corrects me.

". . nightmares ever since we got back from P4D822," I continue. My voice sounds hesitant, and Jack seems to pick that up easily.

"So?" Jack asks curiously, using a tone of voice that beckons me to tell him more.

"Well, I used to have the same nightmares when I was a little kid," Jack watches me intently, absorbing every word I say.

"So it's a major blast from the past kind of thing?" Jack asks me gently. He's being careful. He doesn't want to say anything that'll upset me. He knows that I had a tough childhood, but I've never wanted to go into details, and he won't push me. Many of my memories are still painful.

"Yeah," I agree with him. With any luck he'll leave it at that.

"What were these nightmares about then?" I should have known he'd ask that. Why does this always happen? I've told Jack more about myself than I have anyone. He knows me better than anyone. The content of my nightmares will hurt him as much as it does me, only in different ways.

"You don't need to know that. Morgul reminded me of someone I used to know. That's what's caused the nightmares. They'll pass," I answer. I know that by evading the question it'll only make Jack more determined, but I really don't want to tell him.

"Daniel. You can tell me. Who was the person that Morgul reminded you of?" Jack asks me. His voice is getting urgent now. I think he's beginning to put two and two together and definitely getting a number close to four.

"It doesn't matter," I reply.

"Yes it does. This is really bothering you. Who did Morgul remind you of?" Jack asks me again. He's not giving up.

"He reminded me of my foster father," I tell him.

"Right up 'til where Morgul had you beaten, right?" Jack asks with a grin. He's trying to cheer me up with that inexhaustible supply of jokes and sarcastic comments of his. It's not going to work though.

"No, Jack," I answer. My voice is low and grave. The grin disappears from Jack's face and he regards me with disbelief. We sit for another few minutes. I don't want to talk, and Jack's stunned into silence I think. He doesn't know what to say. But then, what can you say to comfort someone who's just told you they were abused as a child? I mean that's what it was. Whatever explanation my foster father used, it could be nothing else.

 I realize what an awkward position I've put Jack in. He'll want to do something about it. But then he'll also respect my wishes, I hope. There have been court cases when former child abuse victims have taken their parents, or whoever, to court. Jack may want me to do the same. But I don't want the hastle, or the publicity.

Jack will at least want to tell General Hammond. It's supposed to be on my personal records, so that I won't be put in a situation which may cause emotional damage or whatever. What would be the point though? We can't predict what will happen on every planet we go to. Inevitably I'm going to get beaten up by people like Morgul again, and I don't want the whole team to have to bail out because of me. I can just tide it through like the others.

"You're serious?" Jack asks me. His voice is tinged with anger, but also with the softest, gentlest tone I've ever heard him use. He's not angry at me, but at the thought of what I went through. And I love the gentle, sympathetic side to his voice. What can I say? I'm a sponge for sympathy. It's a strange combination of emotions, but it's one I wish I could hear more often.

Who am I kidding? I can't just ignore my feelings. I can't tide it through. Jack can look at everything with that cold military eye, but I can't. I should be able to hold my emotions in check, I've had chance enough for practice after all. But I can't. I always feel so much emotion about most things, and Jack insists that I never just bottle-up. So I have to let my feelings out. Sometimes I think I surprise Jack with the intensity of my emotions.

"So what happened?" Jack asks. Apparently he's not expecting an answer to his last question. And why should he? He knows me well enough to know that I wouldn't lie to him. I have no reason to.

Jack wants to know everything, so I tell him.I describe to Jack what happened between me and my foster father. How he was never sympathetic to me, even though for months after the death of my parents I cried myself to sleep every night. How I once accidently disobeyed one of his many house rules, so he lost his temper and hit me. I go on to how he enjoyed giving out my punishment, and so continued with the beatings on an almost daily basis. I describe how I had six or seven hiding places, ranging from the bottom of the garden to three miles away, which I used when I wanted to be alone. He knew where they were, but it would take him time to work out precicely which one I was in. I tell Jack of how he often came to meet me on my route home from school, and how I conveniently discovered new routes home. I describe how he never defended me from the bullies in school, but sometimes encouraged them.

I find that I'm refering to my foster father as "he" or "him".

With every sentence I say, Jack's getting angrier. I can see it in the expression on his face. The deep frown creasing his forehead, the curve of his lips, the raging fury in his eyes. His stunned silence is worrying me. He usually has a comment for everything.

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Jack asks me. Not what I wanted to hear, but at least I know he can still speak.

"I couldn't. I tried telling my foster mother, but she wouldn't hear a word against her husband. I tried phoning one of those child support places when I was thirteen. When he found out he was furious. I remember him just hitting me over and over until I was begging him to kill me and be done with it. Then he told the people I'd phoned that I was just a spoilt child who was exaggerating a small incident. Said that I just couldn't take being grounded," I answer.

 Jack is hanging on every word I say, as if he's memorising every syllable.

"On the plus side though, I never had to play any sports in school. He said that someone might see the bruises. At least he did that one bit of kindness. I suppose he assumed that all kids like sport," I say. I'm trying to lighten the mood a little. This isn't a subject I want to dwell on.

"Why don't you do something now?" Jack asks.

"No," I reply with more force than I intended, "I've managed to stay away from him since I left home. I said as I walked away I never wanted to see him ever again, and I meant it. Besides, I don't want the hassle or the publicity of a court case right now."

I can tell Jack's disappointed. He wants to see my foster father behind bars for what he did to me.

"He used to say I deserved it. Every time I asked him why he was dliberately hurting me he'd say "because you deserve it". I learned quickly that asking what I'd done to deserve it always got me another beating. But you know what really bothered me was? He enjoyed it. He thought it was funny. He called it our private game, and that I must never ever tell my foster mother about it. That's what I really couldn't understand. A game. I'd always thought games were fun. I still can't understand how anyone can find causing pain amusing. That was why Morgul reminded me of him. They both got kicks out of hurting me. I suppose this sounds stupid to you. I mean I'm absolutely terrified of a man who passed out of my life years ago. And you're not afraid of anything," I continue.

"A game? Sounds like a very sick game to me. And to say you deserved it.... If you were the same then as you are now, I don't think I can come up with anyone less deserving. No, you're right. If I was in your position I'd never want to see him again either. You have perfect right to be afraid of him, even now," Jack's voice is hard with anger, but it's a quieter, more controlled anger now. "Memories rarely fade completely, I know that from experience," Jack's voice takes a softer, almost regretful tone now. He's talking of his son Charlie. His memories of that day are as painful as my childhood memories.

"And as to not being afraid of anything. I am. Every time you disappear, or get yourself into trouble, I'm afraid I'll lose you. No, I'm not mothering you. You're my best friend. I'm scared that one day I'll be stuck with Carter and Teal'c, and neither of them will even pretend that they're interested in hockey. Teal'c won't drink beer, and I can't talk to Carter about most of the things we talk about."

I listen to him as he tells me how much he cares about me. Knowing that he actually cares about me because I'm his friend, rather than because I can translate some bit of stone for him, really comforts me. Before I was on the SGC, people only cared about my well-being because if something happened to me they have to find another anthropologist. But here, on SG-1, I have the best friend I could possibly imagine. And the way he tells me makes me smile. His comments on Sam and Teal'c are amusing. I wonder if he says similar things about me to them. No, I doubt it. His relationship with them is not as close as his relationship with me, I think. Sometimes I wish I could crack jokes like Jack does. His sense of humor often cheers me up if I'm upset.

He always knows if there's something wrong, and can often guess what's bothering me. Then he'll come up with the perfect joke or comment to bring me out of my self-pity.

I wonder what I'd be like now if Jack had been around to protect me as a child as he does now. Probably far more confident in myself, and possibly more agressive. I remember promising myself all those years ago that I'd never allow myself to be like my foster father. If that hadn't happened, I'd probably be an entirely different person. But I have enough to deal with in the present without being worried about the "what ifs" of the past.

"Right now, you don't need to worry about your foster father or Morgul. What you should really be more concerned about is what I'm about to do with this pillow," Jack warns as he snatches one of the pillows from my bed and hits me gently with it. He knows he's treading on thin ice after what i've just told him, but there's no force or malice behind the blow. He knows that he needs to cheer me up, and bring me out of my serious mood. And he knows that I won't take offense. In fact, I think right now a nice friendly game will remind me what games are really about. In the turmoil of memory, things like that can be forgotten. And somewhere I think I've lost the memory of what it is to have fun.

I take the other pillow and retaliate. Jack gets to his feet and brings the pillow down on my head. I try to get to my feet so I can defend myself, but I can't do it alone. I'm still weak from my injuries. Jack stops hitting me with the pillow long enough for him to help me up. Then he renews his attack. Generally I'm useless with weapons, but anyone can use a pillow as an offensive weapon. It doesn't matter how hard I hit Jack with it, soft feathers can't hurt.

As the feathers start to fly, SG-8 join the game with their own pillows. Normally, I wouldn't. . . well what else can I call it? . . . play, but I guess Jack brings out the child in me. The child that never had a chance to really play. It feels so good to just let go. To get a feel of what could have been. Jack himself is always happy to start a game like this, be it with snowballs or pillows, and once the fun starts, it's catching. SG-8 have no idea what this means to me. For them it's only a game. But it does much to restore my self-confidence, and helps to send my fears back to the dark corner from which they came. Jack understands this I think. He's been watching over me for the past week, worrying all the way I imagine, so this relaxes the tension I think. He can stop behaving like the over-protective parent, and more like the big brother that he is to me. I would never say it, but I've never really had any family, and I think that Jack, Sam and Teal'c are the closest thing I'll ever have to family.

When I heard of soldiers describing their life in the military, how they're married to the army kind of thing, I used to think it sounded like the stupidest thing I'd ever heard. And people said I was crazy. But now I've actually experienced it, it makes sense. Jack has saved my life so many times now, I couldn't imagine just thinking of him as a colleague. I owe him so much. I don't think I could ever repay him, but I can try can't I?

Janet stands by the doorway, muttering about us "ruining her pillows" and "making an awful mess that she'll have to clean up". But I don't think she minds too much. If she did she would have stopped the game, confiscated the pillows and ordered Jack out of the infirmary before he could cause any more mischief. Maybe she knows how important this is for my mental stability, and for Jack's.

Still, the game doesn't last long. I only have a limited amount of energy, and SG-8 not much more. We have to call a cease fire, as Jack is continuing to beat us into submission with the pillow. If SG-8 and I renewed our efforts "en masse" we could possibly have won against Jack, but we're all too tired. Jack eventually admits that we can't "play" with him all night, so he reluctantly lets us crawl back to our beds.

As I drift to sleep, I hear Jack murmur, "soon as you're better, Danny, we'll have a rematch."

My foster father played games of pain and suffering with me. Jack plays games for the fun of it. I prefer Jack's games.

The End.

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