Mathématique: Chapter 20

“The whole world owes me coffee,” Jackson said, and while his delivery was light, those blue-fire eyes were anything but.

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Grief. Physical injuries. Mental health challenges. Pain.

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 20

Young walked the halls of the SGC, looking for Jackson.

Ten minutes or so after Sheppard’s team had departed, he limped through the busy corridors of level twenty-one, trying not to think too much about Rush—Rush, damn it—on a world halfway across the Milky Way, dismantling a DHD.

He felt—not exactly responsible for the man, but maybe—maybe concerned.

Maybe responsible.

Maybe concerned.

Maybe responsible and concerned.

He sighed.

The guy hadn’t even been able to turn on his own air conditioner.

That’s a little unfair, his inner version of a reasonable person offered. Plus, McKay’s probably the one taking apart the DHD.

Young hoped that was true.

The guy would be fine. The planet was in friendly territory, the Odyssey was standing by for a remote beam-out if Rush broke the DHD, and Dr. Perry was on deck for science backup, not that the team would need it, since McKay was onsite. In a worst-case scenario, Carter had recovered enough to weigh in if needed. Most reassuring of all, Sheppard was leading the mission. Young couldn’t think of a better man for the job, with the possible exception of himself, which hadn’t been an option Landry was willing to entertain.

That was fair.

Sheppard though—Sheppard was perfect. He was enough of a closet intellectual that he could go toe-to-toe with any of the science staff if it suited him, which it usually didn’t. The man had the most laid-back command style to ever survive an ascent up the chain. Behind Sheppard’s Mensa membership, his laissez-faire leadership style, and his SoCal veener, was something hard-edged. Young had never seen him in action, in real action, but he’d heard enough water cooler talk to get a feel for the guy’s rep. Telford had been the one who’d put it best: “Brain of a nerd, heart of a surfer, enthusiasm of a kid, nerves of a test pilot, and soul of a stone cold badass.”

Sheppard was perfect.

  

Young turned off the hallway and into the infirmary. The anteroom was empty, aside from the medic manning the intake desk. He angled left, avoiding conversation with a noncommittal flash of his badge before heading for Teal’c and Jackson, who stood on either side of Carter’s gurney, watching her and Mitchell go at it over a chessboard.

Carter looked pretty damn good for a soldier who’d taken a round to the chest. She was sitting up, the fluorescent lights glinting off her hair. Mitchell perched on the edge of her bed, hunched over the board on the moveable table between them.

“Oh, okay, so that?” Jackson grimaced and crossed his arms over his chest. “That—that was not a good move.”

“God, Jackson.” Mitchell didn’t look up from the board. “Stop backseat chess-driving.”

“I don’t think that’s a thing,” Jackson said. “Is that a thing?” He scanned over Carter and Teal’c, then his gaze settled on Young.

“‘Course it’s ‘a thing’,” Mitchell replied. “You’re doin’ it. Right now. Teal’c, help a brother out here?”

“I concur with Daniel Jackson. This is not your game.”

“You guys are the worst.”

Carter gave Young a wave and a wan smile while Mitchell considered the board with battlefield intensity.

Young exchanged nods with Teal’c, then leaned over Mitchell’s shoulder to eye the board. It was mostly covered with black pieces. The majority of the white ones were in a neat row on Carter’s side of the table.

“This isn’t looking good for you,” Young observed.

Mitchell jumped and half-turned in his seat. “Oh sure,” he said, when he’d recovered his equilibrium, “kick a guy while he’s down. I’m not hearing constructive criticism from any of you.”

“Endeavor not to lose so many pieces,” Teal’c said.

“Indeed.” Jackson raised an eyebrow in an understated imitation of Teal’c. 

“Come on guys,” Carter rasped. “This isn’t helping.” She raised her eyebrows at Mitchell. “It was your opener that sank you. You didn’t set up a good pawn skeleton at the outset.”

“I know,” Mitchell said, “but it’s hard to set it up if you insist on taking it down all the dang day.”

Carter’s laugh turned into a wince, and she pressed her hand to her chest.

“Sorry!” Mitchell hands hovered in the air just short of her shoulders. “Sorry.”

“You guys are way too intense about everything,” Young pointed out, while Carter recovered.

They all stared at him. 

“This is not ‘intense’,” Mitchell said, with the air of a man who’d been deeply offended. “This is appropriate. You just don’t have all the facts. Dr. Coombs challenged us to a chess tournament. SG-1 versus the Infrared Spectroscopy Unit.”

“And you accepted?” Young asked.

“Colonel Mitchell accepted,” Teal’c clarified.

“You guys are toast,” Young said, eyebrows up. 

“I believe that is likely,” Teal’c said.

“It’s not ‘likely’,” Mitchell replied. “We’re gonna win, thereby maintaining our street cred.” 

“I think a chess tournament with the ISU, which we will inevitably lose, will do nothing to maintain our ‘street cred’,” Jackson said. “In fact, I think even accepting the challenge is likely to have the opposite effect from the one you’re envisioning. The ISU dresses up like Vulcans every Halloween. They have no ‘street cred’ to speak of.”

“There’s nothing wrong with Vulcans,” Carter said primly, “but I, for one, refuse to submit to a team captained by Jay Felger.” 

“There ya go.” Mitchell moved a remaining pawn in a way Young could see wasn’t gonna work out well for him. “That’s what I’m talking about. Positive attitude.”

“Checkmate,” Carter said apologetically.

“Damn it,” Mitchell snapped.

“We are so screwed,” Jackson said.

“Indeed,” Teal’c added. 

“Any word on Dr. Lam?” Young asked into the ensuing silence.

The expression froze on Carter’s face, and Mitchell flinched. It was Jackson who answered, his tone light, his delivery casual. “She’s doing okay. No problems with dialysis, no post-op complications so far following—ah. The bilateral kidney removal. She put herself back in the duty roster for the week after next.”

“Landry took her out of the duty roster,” Mitchell added, “but she says she’s doing fine.”

Carter nodded, her eyes fixed on the end of the bed. “Any—“ her voice frayed, and she took a sip of water. “Did she come up with any requests yet?”

“Requests?” Young asked.

“We’re cooking her dinner,” Jackson said. 

Young flicked his gaze to Mitchell, who was blushing so subtly that he doubted the rest of the man’s team had noticed. “Oh really,” Young asked. “And whose idea was that?”

Mitchell directed a glare at him that would’ve ignited the uniform of a lesser man. “It’s a tradition,” he clarified.

“That you made up,” Jackson said. “One week ago.”

“I approve,” Teal’c said.

“Me too,” Carter added.

“I’m not saying I don’t approve,” Jackson said, “but I am questioning the use of the word ‘tradition.’ I’m also questioning the culinary abilities of this team.”

“You guys should get Rush in on this,” Young said.

“Good call,” Mitchell replied.

Carter and Jackson leveled simultaneous stares first at Young, then at Mitchell.

“What?” Young asked.

“Nicholas Rush,” Jackson said. “Your neighbor? That Rush?”

“That’s the one,” Young said. “He’s damn handy in the kitchen.”

“No,” Jackson said. “No.”

“Yes,” Young said. 

“I don’t believe it. I don’t think he eats anything except—well, I have no idea, actually. I just—I don’t think he eats,” Jackson said.

“Oh come on,” Carter replied. “Even for you, that makes no sense.”

“Nope,” Jackson continued. “I’ve never seen it happen. And hey. ‘Even for me?’ I’m very rational, thank you; I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Ummm.” Carter studied the chessboard. “Yeah. For sure.”

Young shrugged. “He makes a great fougasse and soupe au pistou. He’s been into Provençal cuisine for, like, five days now.”

“No,” Jackson said, his voice dropping.

“I don’t get how you convince this guy to make you dinner on a regular basis,” Mitchell said.

“It’s a struggle,” Young admitted, “requiring a balance of insults, reverse psychology, appeals to pity, and intermittent threats about ordering Chinese takeout. I ordered it once. Tried to make him eat it. Didn’t happen.”

“Proof,” Jackson said. “I need proof.”

“Take a picture.” Mitchell stole a chocolate-covered espresso bean from the small pile on Carter’s bedside table. “Take a bunch of pictures. You could start a blog.”

“That’d backfire,” Young said. “I wanna keep getting dinner.”

“I need this.” Jackson fixed him with a pleading expression. “I need a picture. Need.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Young replied, “but I’m not jeopardizing my dinner for you. Ask Vala. Bet she can get away with a pic. He’s cooking dinner for her next week.”

“I— He— For—Vala?” Jackson sputtered. “But—why?”

“Think she might like him a little bit.” Young shrugged.

“What?”

“We’re watching Kill Bill. Not sure how that’s gonna go, but—”

“Back up. What do you mean she likes him?”

“Vala likes most people,” Carter looked up at Jackson with eyes that were a bit too wide to be wholly innocent.

“Kill Bill?”  Mitchell said. “Man, but she’s got a thing for Tarantino. I don’t get it. I really don’t.”

“But—” Jackson stammered.

Mitchell began setting up the chessboard again. “Do you think if we invited him to this thing for Dr. Lam—” he trailed off suggestively.

“There’s no way he’d show,” Young said.

“But what if Vala invited him?” Mitchell asked.

“Only if she caught him when he wasn’t paying attention. Hard to do.”

“Dang.” Mitchell stole another one of Carter’s espresso beans. “Ow,” he added, as she smacked his hand.

“I believe that commissioning an outsider to cook dinner for Dr. Lam defeats the purpose of the tradition,” Teal’c said.

“Outsider?” Young echoed.

“True.” Mitchell plowed over Young. “Come on guys, we’ll be fine. Teal’c makes an awesome Jaffa dip. Chel’mek or something, right?”

“Hate to break it to you, but ‘Chel’mek’ consists of pulverized Doritos mixed with hot sauce, sour cream, and cilantro.” Jackson’s snark crisped up his consonants.

“Teal’c!” Mitchell turned the man’s name into a half-shout as he twisted to fix the Jaffa with a pointed stare. “Seriously. What. The hell.”

“It is delicious, is it not?” Teal’c asked, unperturbed.

“Yeah, but—Chel’mek? I thought the stuff was High Jaffa Cuisine.”

“Following the founding of the IOA, United States Customs inserted a classified clause regarding the importation of offworld food products. I have been unable to bring food through the gate for some time,” Teal’c said.

“Well then—” Mitchell began.

“Chel’mek translates into something like ‘the fire of awesomeness’,” Jackson said. “Most correctly: ‘a burning thing, in which the thing that is on fire is also the thing that is awesome’.”

“You guys are punkin’ me,” Mitchell said. “Again.”

“Nope,” Jackson said.

“Not this time,” Teal’c confirmed.

Young did his best to keep a straight face as Mitchell leaned forward, bracing his elbows against the table in front of him and burying his head in his hands. “Doritos? But how is it so delicious?”

“You guys, stop,” Carter wheezed. “I can’t laugh.”

“So, to summarize,” Jackson said, “we’ve got Chel’mek, which we can pass off as a regional variant of a traditional Jaffa dish, the ability to burn cookies, and some kind of grilled meat as options, presuming that Mitchell can operate a grill. You can, can’t you?”

“Yes,” Mitchell said. “I can operate one and I have one.”

“Don’t forget the cocktails,” Carter said, trying not to laugh. “We’ll definitely be having Mal Dorans.”

“They should pair with the rest of the meal really nicely,” Jackson said, “as all cocktails involving salt tend to do. They’re like wine in that way.”

“One day she’ll figure out we don’t like them.” Carter’s expression was caught between amused and guilty.

“Nooooo.” Jackson drew out the word. “That day will never come. Not for me, not for you, not for any of us.” He turned to glare at Young.

Young held his hands in front of him, palms out.

“You’re a tyrant,” Mitchell said, looking at Jackson. “A weird, autocratic, Prince of Geeks.”

“I concur,” Teal’c decided.

“Ow.” Carter grinned, one hand pressed over her sternum. “You guys.”

“I’m not an autocrat,” Jackson said, scandalized.

“Where is Vala anyway?” Young asked.

“Probably improving her cultural lexicon,” Jackson replied.

“So, watching The X-files then?” Mitchell asked.

“I’m not so sure,” Carter said. “I think she has a new project. She was awfully secretive in the bookstore about two weeks back. I’m not sure what she was buying, but she didn’t want me to see it.”

“Well, let’s hope it’s not illegal,” Mitchell said cheerfully as he finished setting up the board.

“Oh god,” Jackson moaned.

“She has had only one illegal hobby,” Teal’c said, “despite your many fears to the contrary.”

“I don’t think you can buy many illegal things in a bookstore, if it’s any consolation,” Young offered.

“But knowledge of illegal things,” Mitchell said, rotating the chessboard and positioning it in Carter’s easy reach, “that you can buy.”

“Not helpful,” Jackson snapped. “Not helpful, you guys.”

“Chill out, Jackson,” Mitchell said.

“Indeed,” Teal’c agreed. 

“Been tellin’ him that for years.” Carter crunched an espresso bean delicately between her teeth. “Vala’s fine. Vala’s great.”

“Oh no,” Jackson said. “No you don’t. I’m not the one who needs to ‘chill out.’ Who stayed on base without going home for two-weeks solid while trying to phase-shift her lab bench, hmm?”

“It wouldn’t have been two weeks if someone hadn’t spilled coffee in that array.” Carter frowned.

“Right,” Jackson said. “And what happened with that? Did you ever figure out who it was?” He shot Mitchell a pointed look.

“Yeahhhhh, so maybe we all need to chill out,” Mitchell said, glaring back at Jackson while Carter considered the board. “Not just you. Apparently.”

“I am adequately chill,” Teal’c said.

“Okay. Everyone, except for Teal’c, needs to chill.”

Young hadn't made a trip to the infirmary with the express purpose of participating in the SG-1 Banter Hour, however easy they made it.

“Jackson.” Young caught the other man’s eye. “I owe you a coffee.”

“The whole world owes me coffee,” Jackson said, and while his delivery was light, those blue-fire eyes were anything but.

“Let’s take a walk.” Young tipped his head toward the door.

“Sure,” Jackson replied. “Sam, you want more blue jello?”

“That’d be great,” she said. “Thanks.”

“I would also like some jello,” Teal’c added.

“You got it,” Jackson said.

“Daaanielllll,” Mitchell said, as Jackson rounded the bed.

“I only have two hands,” the archeologist replied.

“You know you’re gonna do it, if you don’t get sidetracked by a library book that lost its mom, that is,” Mitchell said.

“No jello for you,” Jackson pronounced.

“I got your back.” Young slapped Mitchell on the shoulder as he turned for the door. 

“That’s my man.” Mitchell pointed after him, his eyes never leaving the chessboard.

Jackson and Young left the infirmary. The archaeologist slowed his stride to match Young’s pace as they headed for the elevators.

“How’s the leg?” Jackson asked as they stepped through the metal doors. “And the back?”

Young shrugged. “As good as it can be,” he said. “How’s your stuff going?”

“It’s been lighter lately, other than, y’know, the horrific foothold here and there where someone gets shot in the chest. We scrapped a mission requiring Sam that was supposed to embark a few hours after the LA showed up, so that cleared our schedule. We’ve also been—” Jackson sighed and hit the button for level twenty-two, “—bogged down in red tape.”

“I heard about that,” Young said, “if by ‘red tape’, you mean the planning stages of a certain feature film?”

“Ugh,” Jackson said. “We do not speak its name.”

“So I heard. I also heard, from multiple sources, that they’re resurrecting Dr. Levant.“

Jackson rolled his eyes. “They promised me they’d killed him off once and for all. They’d let him rest in peace. But noooo.” He coupled the word with a sweep of his hand. “Mitchell is gonna be insufferable when it comes out.”

“Mitchell and half the base,” Young agreed. “Vala’s pretty psyched about it.”

“I know,” Jackson said. “And I know. People are starting to shout his catch phrase at me in the halls.”

Young snorted. “What’s his catch phrase?”

“‘You don’t understand’,” Jackson quoted, opening his hands, staring at the ceiling and delivering the line with wryly earnest melodrama, as though addressing a higher plane.

Young snorted.

The elevator doors swished open, and the archeologist pressed his hand against the metal to hold them in place, waving for Young to precede him.

“Thanks for—” Jackson began, as they started toward the mess. “Your report was—well. I read your report. You said some nice things about Vala.”

Young raised his eyebrows.

“It’ll help. It already has. She doesn’t know it yet, but—as of this morning, the paperwork’s in motion to make her a full-on member of SG-1.” Jackson tried not to smile, but couldn’t quite hold it back.

Young nodded, grinning. “Good on her.”

“Don’t tell her,” Jackson continued. “We’re gonna wait until it’s really official. She’ll talk my ear off about it if it’s not carved in stone when we give her the patch.”

“My lips are sealed,” Young replied.

They were quiet as they navigated the busier corridor near the mess hall.

“Seriously, Jackson,” Young began, as they entered the cafeteria.

“Daniel,” Jackson corrected him.

“Daniel,” Young amended. “A Dodge Dart? From the seventies?”

“Late seventies.” Jackson smiled faintly. “It runs fine.”

“Except for the air conditioner.”

“Lack of climate control builds character.” Jackson cocked his head and fixed his gaze on the floor with a disarming half-smile.

“Right,” Young said. “Sure.”

They moved through the cafeteria line, then found an out of the way table at the back of the room, where they set themselves up, coffee in hand and an array of blue jello lined up, waiting to be delivered to the rest of SG-1.

The mood between them changed subtly as Jackson traced the rim of his coffee cup with a fingernail, watching Young with an expression that was intelligent, guarded, and contained only a trace of his usual friendliness. Young cleared his throat and did his best not to let the other man unnerve him.

“You wanted to talk,” Jackson said evenly.

“I did,” Young replied, but said nothing further.

“The fact you’re not doing any talking makes me think you understand the delicacies of our current situation,” Jackson said, wry and dry, examining the rim of his coffee cup.

Young hated this coy bullshit, talking about a thing without talking about it at all. “Some of them,” he replied cautiously. “Maybe.”

“I’ll start.” Jackson gave him an exhausted look. “I usually do. Jack told me that he offered you Icarus?”

 

“He did,” Young replied. “He gave me some extra time to think on it after last week’s developments.”

“Telford’s back,” Jackson said softly, “but far from cleared.”

Young nodded. “The offer’s still on the table—with a bunch of caveats attached. I wanted to talk to you before I decided.”

Jackson gave him a small smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I hope you didn’t tell them that.”

“No,” Young said.

Jackson lifted his coffee cup in a half-hearted toast.

“I hear you give good advice,” Young said.

“It’s been known to happen.” Jackson scanned the room, eyes lingering on the personnel who’d lasted this late into the lunch hour.

“You gave my neighbor a pretty good tip last week.”

Jackson’s gaze snapped to Young. “Yes,” he admitted. “One of my narrowest needle threadings yet. What did you think? I assume he told you what he found.”

Young suppressed the urge to shift in his chair. He’d thought it was hard to stare down Mitchell. The man had nothing on Jackson. He took a sip of his coffee. “Not sure I know enough to have an informed opinion.”

Jackson dropped his eyes to his coffee cup, and Young had the feeling that—to the extent it was possible—he’d answered correctly.

“What’s your role in all of this?” Young asked. “What’s your angle?”

“My angle?” Jackson echoed with such perfect control of face and voice that it made Young’s teeth ache in irritated sympathy.

They faced each other in silence, poised on an invisible fulcrum, while Jackson decided whether to tip the conversation into informative territory. Dangerous territory, maybe.

“Do you understand,” the archeologist said slowly, “what you’re asking?”

“No.” Young tried to keep the frustration out of his voice.

Jackson watched him, undecided. “Tell me why you’re considering Jack’s offer.”

“For the same reason I’ve done everything I’ve done.” Young rubbed his jaw. “I have no great aspiration to find out where this nine-chevron address goes. I have no great aspirations in general.”

Jackson said nothing.

“I could get behind the Icarus Project, if it creates any kind of headwind in the shitstorm we’re facing with the LA. The Ori. The one thing I do know: whether I do this, or something else, I’m not benching myself because I broke my damn back.”

“That’s the vibe I get,” Jackson said.

“So there’s all that.” Young shrugged. “And then—there’s my neighbor. The most likeable unlikable guy I’ve ever met.”

That cracked a real smile out of Jackson, small and warm. “Go on.”

“He’s interesting. He’s got issues I don’t have a prayer of unboxing. But he’s in a bad spot when it comes to the LA conflict, and Landry’s using bureaucratic loopholes to keep the guy off the radar, but that’s no kind of real protection. It’s not gonna last.”

Jackson looked at Young with a neutral expression.

Young was beginning to get a feel for what made the man one of the most sought-after diplomats in the galaxy.

“I’d like to help him,” Young admitted. “If I can.”

“Me too,” Jackson said softly.

“So, we done with the job-interview part of this?” Young asked.

Jackson took a measured sip of coffee and didn’t respond.

That was a no, then. Young tried to guess what else the man might be waiting to hear. “I’m not gonna throw you under a bus, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“No?” Jackson searched Young’s face.

“No.” Young tried to answer with the full depth of who he was.

“No one’s meant to shove me in front of most of the busses that have hit me,” Jackson said. “People don’t see the shove for what it is.”

“I get it,” Young said shortly. “It’s hard to be you. Meanwhile, I’ve got a bolted-together back, no personal life to speak of, and no goals beyond doing what I can for the guy next door, plus or minus the rest of humanity. It’s your call. You want me in or out?”

Jackson unthawed a little. “No goals?” he asked, gently skeptical. “You’re a full bird colonel who’s been offered a huge branch of the program.”

“And, as I mentioned, I’m not sure I’m gonna take it,” Young answered. “It’s a dark time.”

“It is,” Jackson agreed, his gaze sparking. “A very dark time.”

“I don’t have a lot to lose,” Young admitted. “I’d rather do the right thing than advance the back half of a broken career.”

Jackson looked at him, assessing.

“But I can’t tell what’s right if I can’t see the field.” Young pressed his advantage. “I’m asking for your perspective.”

“My perspective?” Jackson repeated, like he wanted to be sure.

Young nodded.

Jackson’s control cut out like he’d flipped a damn switch. He leaned forward, eyes blazing, fingertips blanching to white as they pressed into the table. “I’ve been there.”

“Where?” Young leaned forward, mirroring the man’s posture.

“Where?” Jackson echoed. “What does that even mean: ‘where.’ As if we’re speaking of grounded location in a non-specialist conceptualization of spacetime. The act of leaving changes you. Even if you don’t remember the nature of the change. Even if those memories are stripped.”

“Jackson,” Young ground out, gripping his coffee, leaning forward despite the pull in his back. “I’m terrible at this metaphorical bullshit. I have no experience with it. Nail it down.”

“It’s un-nailable.” Jackson dug into the styrofoam of his empty cup.

“You talking about ascension?” Young guessed?

Jackson nodded.

“What does ascension have to do with Icarus?”

“It has everything, everything to do with Icarus,” Jackson looked like he might be sick. “It’s in the name.”

“Jackson.” Young’s heart rate increased for no other reason than the strain he saw in the other man’s frame, in the shredding of a styrofoam cup beneath his hands.

“I can’t,” Jackson said. “I can’t talk about—about what I think. Already, they’re watching me. Both sides. All the time. Do you know what that’s like?”

“What do you mean ‘both sides’?” Young asked, at a loss. “What do you mean ‘all the time’?”

“You think I’m worried about the SGC?” Jackson fixed him with a fiery, desperate gaze. “You think I’m worried about pissing Landry off? God, I wish I were. I wish that was my life.”

“So by both sides—” Young said, already feeling his blood beginning to chill.

“It’s better, I think, if you speak the words,” Jackson whispered.

“The Ori,” Young said. “The Ancients.”

Jackson nodded.

“This is what Icarus is about?” Young clarified.

Jackson nodded again.

Holy shit. Young took a breath. The skin between his shoulder blades prickled. “Okay.” He unwrapped a hand from his coffee cup. “I get it. You’re in a tight spot.”

Jackson pulled in a ragged breath. 

Young tried to relax the muscles in his back and leg.

Jackson’s breathing evened out.

As they equilibrated, Young tried to wrap his head around the troubling perspective Jackson had just keyed open. “What can you tell me?” he asked, hearing the sympathy in his own tone, the same sympathy that’d taken him far undercover on the First World of the Sixth House of the Lucian Alliance.

“It’s hard,” Jackson said, most of his composure back in place. “Less than I’d like.”

“I get that,” Young said.

“It seems like you actually do,” Jackson agreed wistfully. There was a waver in his voice, like he was fighting through strong emotion.

Young gave him a minute.

When the man looked a little steadier, he said, “There’s gotta be a set of common knowledge facts you can organize, maybe.”

“A fact bouquet?” Jackson said. “I can arrange a fact bouquet.”

“Shoot,” Young said amenably.

“The Ancients,” Jackson began, “are unwilling to help us in our fight against the Ori, despite direct and personal appeals. By me.”

Young nodded.

“The Ori have a city.” Jackson dropped his voice to a whisper. “A city called Celestis. It’s possible for humans to travel there. In fact, humans are taken there—to be made into Priors.”

“No shit,” Young said.

“I’ve seen it. I’ve been there.”

The other man paused. Young waited him out.

“When we discovered the nine-chevron address in the Ancient database,” Jackson continued. “It contained a reference to another repository of Ancient knowledge, which, when cross-referenced, provided more detail on what’s at the other end of this nine-chevron address.”

“What kind of detail?”

“That one could travel there,” Jackson said, “but that to truly access it, to unlock it, that’s the word used, ‘unlock.’ Certain benchmarks must be met.”

“Benchmarks?”  Young asked.

“Physiological benchmarks. On the road to ascension,” Jackson said. “Or—on the road to something else. The road to Priory, perhaps. It might be both. Might be neither. The text isn’t clear.”

Young stared at him.

“Ascension,” Jackson continued, “is not an inherently moral process. It can be twisted. The Ori have twisted it. Anubis twisted it. There are no ethical safeguards, but there are biological limitations.  Limits that some people are closer to breaking than others.”

“Shit.”

“Yes,” Jackson said. “You begin to see. Why specify these biological benchmarks, if this address simply leads to a place. A place like any other.”

“So where do you think it leads?” Young whispered. “Somewhere else? Somewhere like Celestis? To Celestis itself?”

“I don’t want to say,” Jackson said, swallowing convulsively, looking at the ceiling, “what I think.”

Young gripped his coffee, thinking of his neighbor. Of all his damn Ancient genes. “You say biological benchmarks, and I think ‘genes’. And when I think genes—” he trailed off.

Jackson nodded. “Your neighbor,” he confirmed. “He doesn’t meet them. But he’s closer than anyone else.”

“He doesn’t meet them,” Young repeated, relieved.

Jackson said nothing.

Young’s relief evaporated.

“There’s a way,” Jackson said. “A way he could meet them.”

“Of course there is.”

“He doesn’t know it. He doesn’t know any of this.”

“He wants to unlock this shit,” Young breathed.

“Yes. I know he does.”

“Is how he meets those benchmarks part of your fact bouquet?”

“Yes,” Jackson confirmed. “I know how it can be done. So does Colonel Telford, Colonel O’Neill, General Landry, and Dr. Lam.”

This was the crux of it, then. Young held himself still. “O’Neill said you and Telford were arguing about wall carvings.”

Jackson smiled an unhappy smile. “For now, I’m winning that argument, and alteration of gene carriers isn’t a road the SGC is actively pursuing. But there are other parties that aren’t so scrupulous.”

“The LA?” Young said, aghast. “That’s why the LA want our personnel? Why they tagged gene carriers with that damned mist? So that they can, what? Alter them? Benchmark them up?”

“Yes,” Jackson hissed, leaning forward. “It’s why those people were recruited in the first place. Why Dr. Volker was recruited. Why Dr. Lam was pulled from the CDC—why Rush was brought here. There’s a guy in ITS and a guy in linguistics who are useless, but who are here for this reason. There’s a medic, there’s a sergeant, there’s a former special forces lieutenant, there’s a molecular biologist—the list goes on. Everyone we’ve found with any of the genes has been brought here.”

“To protect them?” Young asked, “or to use them as a resource?”

“Even I don’t know,” Jackson admitted, “and I’m deeply involved in Icarus.”

“But Rush is the number one draft pick,” Young said.

Jackson nodded.

“What would he have to do?” Young asked. “To meet these benchmarks? What would he—” 

“Nothing,” Jackson said. “He’ll do nothing. If anyone does this? It’ll be me.” His tone was flat and brooked no argument.

Didn’t stop Young from arguing anyway. “Even if you don’t have the genes for it?”

Jackson looked at him.

“Why you?” Young asked.

“They’re pushing this because the situation with the Ori looks so bad. “Nick had nothing to do with any of that. It’s not his fault.”

“But it’s yours?” Young couldn’t keep the skepticism out of his voice.

“Yes,” Jackson said.

Young stared at him.

“It’s not widely known, but yes. It’s my fault.” Jackson’s blowtorch gaze was melting a hole to the back of Young’s skull. “Nick Rush isn’t destroying himself over this just because he wants to.” Jackson broke their gaze and looked down at his hands. “Because it’s convenient for everyone. And because David Telford is leading him straight into it.”

Young swallowed.

“So take Jack’s offer,” Jackson said, “because I need someone in my corner on this.”

“Having a hard time persuading O’Neill it should be you that walks the road?” Young asked evenly.

Jackson looked away and took a sip of his coffee.

“I’m not sure he’s wrong,” Young said mildly.

“It shouldn’t be Nick,” Jackson said. “It shouldn’t be anyone. You’ll see. If you take the post. You’ll see.” 

“Rush is throwing himself at this problem,” Young said. “If he finds out about this—option, or whatever it is—he may want it.”

Jackson looked away, his eyes roving over the room. “I think it’s likely,” he agreed. “He named it,” Jackson said. “Did you know that?”

“Named what?”

“The project,” Jackson murmured, still watching the room. “He named it Icarus.”

“Shit name.” Young ran his thumb over the rim of his coffee cup.

Jackson smiled, brief and small and terrible to look at. “I know, but I—I let it stand.”

“For him?” Young asked. “Or for you.”

“For us both,” Jackson said. “But I’ve already had my fall.”

“Jesus, Jackson,” Young growled. “You always talk like this?”

“No.” Jackson stared ruefully at the styrofoam cup he was shredding. “I only dig into the rhetoric when I need something.”

Young looked at him, considering.

“So step in,” Jackson said, low and fiery. “Take what they’ll give you of Icarus. Telford may not make it out the other side of the Psych Department if they find evidence of coercive persuasion. Even if he does make it out, even if he gets backing from the IOA to push Nick Rush into this other project, you’ll be in a position to intervene. To make a swap, maybe. Him for me.” He glared fiercely at empty air.

“Jackson,” Young’s voice cracked. “Listen to yourself. I can’t even acknowledge what you just said it’s so fucking out of line. God damn.”

Jackson pulled what was left of his styrofoam cup in half. “You don’t understand,” he said, fierce and cinematic. “You don’t know what I know. You can’t feel what I feel. It has to be me. It has to. I have to be the one to put an end to this. And I will.”

“Stop talking,” Young growled. “Right. Now.”

Jackson stared into the air above his own clasped hands, unmoving. 

Waiting.

Waiting for Young to make his move, to say his piece. To go to Mitchell, or to Landry, or hell, maybe to MacKenzie. Maybe to the Psych Department.

“We’re not ever talking about this again.” Young pitched his voice low so that it wouldn’t carry.

Jackson pushed back in his chair, gaze averted, but before he could get to his feet, Young reached out and clamped a hand over the man’s wrist.

“After today,” Young amended. “Because this shit? This is conspiracy.”

Jackson relaxed back into his seat, warily amused. “I prefer the term ‘planning’?”

Young shot him a dark look. “First of all, what the hell are you thinking, doing this here?”

“I’m not exactly an inexperienced ‘planner’.” Jackson said.

Young shot him a dubious look.

“Ambient noise,” Jackson said. “Low index of suspicion. On a base where words describing ascension and war are used daily. You think I trust my apartment? You think I trust anywhere in this city? You think the people in this base are the worst people that could overhear this particular conversation? I’d rather be fired with a memory wipe as my severance pay than have the Trust find out about this.”

Young rubbed a hand across his jaw. “They’d do that?”

“In this climate? I’d be lucky if they let me go back to my former identity as America’s most preeminent archeological hack,” Jackson said, his amusement laced with bitterness this time.

“All right,” Young whispered. “Is O’Neill backing you?”

“Only partially,” Jackson replied.

“Meaning he doesn’t want you doing whatever it is that’ll get you to the benchmark finish-line?”

Jackson nodded.

“Is anyone on board with this plan of yours?”

“In its entirety?” Jackson asked. “No. Well. You, maybe?”

“Maybe,” Young growled.

“We have to get Rush to go to Atlantis,” Jackson said. “He’s too perfect for this. They all see it. The fact he’s the one who’s unlocking the gate? He has no family to speak of. No ties beyond you. Me. Vala. The fact he’d want to do it? That he’d volunteer?”

“Have you considered the possibility that it should be him?“ Young asked.

“No,” Jackson hissed. “Don’t say that. Because it shouldn’t be anyone, but when it has to be someone? It’s going to be me.”

“I heard you the first ten times. But what if it can’t be you?”

“They’ll make an exception,” Jackson said.

“Who, the Ancients?”

“They always make an exception. For me.” Jackson stubbornly looked down at his hands. “He needs to go to Atlantis. That’s step one. Who do you think floated the idea of using Sheppard and McKay for this DHD thing he’s insisting on?”

“That was a good move,” Young said.

“We’ll see,” Jackson replied.

“I don’t think he’ll go,” Young said. “Not willingly.”

“No?” Jackson asked.

“Apparently, math is a vocation these days.”

“He said that?” Jackson smiled faintly.

“No chance of me pulling that one out of my ass,” Young confirmed. He took a beat, held the man’s gaze and said, “Jackson. I get—“ he opened his hands. “I get where you’re coming from on this.”

“No,” Jackson replied. “You don’t, but I really wish you did.”

“I do.” Young said.

Jackson looked at him steadily, but didn’t deny him a second time.

“But if this option is as bad as you say it is, then take it off the table. I’m with you on keeping Rush and Lam and your useless linguist guy, and whomever else the hell away from anything that’ll overwrite their biology, but I don’t see why keeping them away from it has to put you in the firing line.”

“Sooner or later,” Jackson said, “someone will have to do something. Because we’re losing the fight against the Ori. We’re already losing. Badly.”

Young looked away.

“I have so many people,” Jackson whispered, “Who are protecting me. Who will protect me. Against my wishes. I need someone to back the others. Specifically, I need someone to back Rush.”

“Why me?” Young asked.

“Because you’re already doing it,” Jackson smiled a small smile.

He supposed he was.

“So you’ll take the post?” Jackson asked. 

“With this higher-plane-of-existence paranoia on top of institutional cloak-and-dagger bullshit, how can I say no?”

“Good.” Jackson gave him a wan smile. He arranged the shredded remains of his coffee cup into a sloppy pile. “Good,” he said again, and this time the word came easier.

“Jackson,” Young began.

“This is the way it has to be,” Jackson said stubbornly. “This is the right thing.”

“Is it?” Young asked.

“Yes. Without a doubt.”

“I’ll tell Landry today,” Young said.

“Then soon,” Jackson said, “very soon, you’ll see.”

“Why trust me with all of this?” Young asked.

“You think this is all of it?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Because you seem like a decent person,” Jackson said. “And because I don’t know anyone else who I have a prayer of convincing that they should put Nick Rush’s interests ahead of mine.”

Young studied the man, suddenly suspicious. “Did you have a hand in O’Neill’s offer to me?”

Jackson unstacked the shredded pieces of his coffee cup. “Don’t read too much machinating into this,” he said, building a new tower of styrofoam inches from the old tower of styrofoam. “Or, if you do, put the machinating where it belongs. Jack likes you. He doesn’t like Telford. And you were the one who sought me out, just now. In fact, I’m fairly certain Landry attempted to time things so I wouldn’t have the chance to influence you, especially because they suspect me of tipping Rush off about his medical file. If everything had gone like it was supposed to, sans foothold situation, I’d have been offworld on that cancelled mission and you’d have had to make your decision in the span of forty-eight hours. And, I’m not sure about this, but—” he trailed off, looking up at Young.

“I might have turned it down,” Young finished.

“You might have,” Jackson agreed.