Mathématique: Chapter 83

It was easy to think of Jackson as an eccentric, an academic with a bladed moral compass, a nerd with celestial backing that sometimes leaked through.

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

Text iteration: Witching hour.

Additional notes: None

Chapter 83

0200 found Young in the darkened infirmary, gate-lagged and exhausted, watching Nick Rush stare into the shadows of the sea-toned ceiling like he was multiplying seven digit numbers in his head. Sheppard was dead to the world on an adjacent gurney, sleeping face down, his head pillowed on his arms.

The gameplay had turned intense.

Even Rush had been drawn in. The mathematician had gone into the thing with all kinds of cool reserve and gratuitous eye rolling but after ten minutes he’d been as absorbed as Sheppard, who’d stared down his screen with glittering intensity from the word go.

Every so often, Young had looked over Rush’s shoulder and caught a fantastical image: a dragon with mirrored scales, an orchard, an old man pinned to a tree. Maybe a little more artistic and intricate than usual, but otherwise it was standard video game fare. With only occasional half-sentences from Shep and Rush, spoken into headsets, it was impossible to follow what was happening.

So, instead, he’d spent the evening contemplating John Sheppard and Nick Rush. In isolation and as a unit. Where he himself might fit, if at all, in these quiet days on the threshold of war.

He’d been orbiting Nick Rush for months. Falling in dead-end love the way he had for most of his life when he’d come across people bold enough to swing for fences, smash through walls, ignite themselves like a chemical rocket. It was so different from his own inch-by-inch approach to life, to goals, to military campaigns and rehab for his back. He couldn’t get enough of it, couldn’t imagine that a relationship with Rush would ever turn predictable. The man already drove him crazy. He drove Young full stop.

Sheppard though.

He’d never considered it until they’d stood together on the stoop of Young’s apartment building. The guy’s Pegasus Exploits drove half the water cooler talk at the SGC. John Sheppard felt leagues out of Everett Young’s league. He had a city in his corner and a boot planted on a path Young could never walk. “Poorly concealed death wish,” Woolsey’d called it. Sounded like a McKay line. Sounded right.

Because when he thought of the way Sheppard had leaned against November brick—days back and galaxies away—the idea tracked.

In the dark infirmary, Young subtly stretched his aching spine, shifted his weight, and leaned into the cool wall behind him.

There was something unstable about Rush and Shep as a unit, both of them edge-riders, pushing boundaries wherever they found them. They had great chemistry, complimentary skill sets, and they were about as cute as an amnestic math professor and a stone-cold badass were ever gonna get. But leave the pair of them alone together, and they couldn’t go half a day before psychically merging with the tech in their immediate vicinity.

He wouldn’t mind reeling them in.

Call it a hobby. For now.

Young smiled faintly.

The doors to the infirmary slid open and Vala entered the space, leaning heavily into her cane, her features drawn and exhausted.

Rush sat, fluid and much too alert for the middle of the night.

“Hello gorgeous.” Vala gave her terrestrial BFF a bright smile, but her gaze swept the room, then settled on Young. “Handsome.”

“Hey,” Young rasped.

Without being invited, Vala eased herself onto Rush’s gurney.

Rush shifted to make space for her. “Shouldn’t y’be sleeping?”

“I should,” she said. “In the Sand Suite no less. I’ll give you a tour tomorrow, gorgeous, it’s a must-see.” With the help of her hands, she crossed her injured leg over the uninjured one, then swept her hair to one side like she was posing for a picture rather than sneaking into the infirmary at 0200. “I was looking for your colonel,” she whispered.

“Which one?” Young asked dryly.

“Oh the original, of course,” Vala replied.

“What’s going on?” Young asked.

She met his eyes and he caught a glimpse of that cracked eggshell vulnerability she worked so hard to hide. “It’s Daniel.” She smiled in the dim light, bright and wavering and trying too hard. “I’m hoping you might talk some sense into him. Usually I’d rely on Teal’c for this, but he’s busy pulling up psychotropic corn by its roots, so—” She compressed her lips. Controlled her expression. Gave them another quick smile, strong and short.

Young shifted, torn. “I gotta keep an eye on this one.” He pointed at Rush with his thumb.

“Wasn’t the entire point of coming to Atlantis so that I wouldn’t require constant security?” Rush asked.

“Well put, gorgeous. Plus, I noticed your very determined young lieutenant stationed right outside this door,” Vala added, looking at Young.

Beneath her 0200 charm and her broken-lacquer poise, Vala let a trickle of heartbreak into her expression.

“All right,” Young said. “Where is he?”

“At the overlook between our rooms.” Vala couldn’t conceal the note of relief in her voice. “You’ll see. When you get there. You’ll see what I mean.”

Young locked eyes with her.

She gave him a small nod. “Thank you, handsome. I—I wasn’t helping.”

“Not sure I’ll do any better,” Young said.

“There’s no way you’ll do worse.” She pulled a handful of dark hair over one shoulder. Tossed it back. “I’ll guard this one.” She pointed at Rush. “With my life.”

Rush huffed. “I’m a good sight more capable than either of you at the moment.”

“Very true, gorgeous. Can I sleep in your bed while you keep watch?”

“Yes,” Rush said.

“No,” Young growled.

“And this,” Vala said, gesturing at Young like she was leading a museum tour, “is why you wait until overbearing Air Force personnel leave before you negotiate for a change in strategy.”

“Noted.” Rush tried not to smirk.

Young got to his feet, pressing a hand to the ache in his back. “Watch him” he growled at Vala, pointing at Rush with two fingers.

With mock solemnity, she saluted in the dim light. “Tomorrow, handsome, we’ll do another round with that healing device.”

He nodded, then limped out of the infirmary in pursuit of an errant archeologist.

The night breeze was cool. Overhead, unfamiliar stars spread thick across the sky. Atlantis gleamed, limned with the shine of running water. It flowed down towers and along halls and footpaths.

On a wide silver parapet overlooking the starlit sea, Daniel Jackson sat with his legs crossed, his hands palm up on his knees. His chin was tipped to the sky, his eyes were closed, and, as Young approached, he could see the starlight and the city light shining in tear tracks on the man’s face.

It was easy to think of Jackson as an eccentric, an academic with a bladed moral compass, a nerd with celestial backing that sometimes leaked through. But, as Young watched him sitting on that rail, almost aglow with borrowed light, all he could think of was the man fighting his own grief beneath turning leaves, describing Vala’s dreams of gold hallways, of battles in space, fought at great remove. The way he’d looked, newly descended, wearing supernatural khakis beneath a mountain, confused, losing his glow, full of grief and hope, as though something he loved was being stripped away and returned, and all he could feel was the going and coming of it.

Young’s throat tightened, and he stopped a span of balcony away.

What was Jackson doing, eyes closed, head tipped to stars he couldn’t see?

Was this the real battle of their time, happening here and now in Jackson’s head and heart?

How long had Vala stood, watching Jackson from the sidelines before going on offense with pieced-together memories and her heart on her sleeve?

Young leaned into the parapet.

Stories below, he heard the quiet break of small waves against Sanctuary Quay.

Jackson looked like he was begging the stars themselves to grant something. Or, maybe, to take something away.

Quietly, experimentally, Young spoke into the lonely night air.

“That’s the best we’re ever gonna do,” he murmured, looking at Jackson, speaking for his species, addressing any cosmic observers that might be hanging around. “If help’s gonna come, there’ll never be a better time. A better person.”

For the span of two heartbeats, a familiar silhouette appeared in his peripheral vision. Nick Rush, dressed in black and starlight, sat on the parapet at his shoulder, looking at Jackson. Even as Young took him in—strange clothes, stranger eyes, his hair stealing shades of night and streaks of light—he was gone.

Young blinked hard.

He didn’t reappear.

His heart pounded, unsure of itself. His jaw clamped shut. His thoughts ached with hope and fear and uncertainty. He didn’t speak. He said nothing aloud, even though he burned with the desire to call out, to verify, to lock down what he could no longer see.

When he looked back at Jackson he saw the man’s eyes open, glittering with trapped light.

Young walked forward, his cane ringing faintly and methodically on the silver alloy at his feet.

Jackson ducked his head, wiped his eyes with both hands, and did his best to dredge up a raw smile. “Hey,” he said, his voice thick with tears he hadn’t shed. “Sorry. Just uh.” His expression broke and he looked away, over the sea.

Young couldn’t speak. He just nodded. Every ounce of him wanted to tell Jackson that it was all right. That it would be all right. That they’d make it all right. That the world wasn’t as hard as it was beautiful. That something had always saved him, that something would always be there to save him from horror and chaos and his own unmaking because that was how things should be in a world that was just.

But the world wasn’t just.

It never had been. The builders of these spun-sugar towers of starlight and crystal were gone. The Wraith roved the skies of countless worlds. The galaxy had spent thousands and thousands of years under the dark yoke of the Goa’uld.

Young leaned into the parapet, next to where Jackson sat.

Something too large for words resonated between them. So—

“Vala sent me,” is all Young said.

Jackson nodded, weeping silently.

“Jackson,” Young rasped. “C’mon.”

Jackson laughed through his weeping. “Give ‘Dan’ a try, maybe.”

“Thought you said no one’d been able to pull it off.”

“I did say that.” Jackson wiped his face. “It’s feeling a little less true for some reason. Not sure why.”

“Dan,” Young said experimentally.

“I don’t hate it,” Jackson whispered.

“Maybe,” Young said, his throat tight, “maybe you try talking about the thing without talking about the thing. Say what you can. I won’t ask you any questions.”

Jackson’s expression cracked. Reformed. Cracked again. “I like that.” He sniffed, looking out to sea. “There’ll be a time, I think, when you need to stop Vala.”

“Oh,” Young whispered. “Is that all? Sounds easy.”

Jackson smiled through still flowing tears. “You’ll know when, I think.”

“Dan. C’mon.”

“I’m always gonna remember her breaking into that isolation room.” Another tear leaked out of the corner of his eye. “Wearing a hospital gown like a queen.”

“You think that was something, you shoulda seen her commandeer the Odyssey just to use their transporter,” Young said.

“I don’t know if it was her, or something I saw when I was—” Jackson lifted a hand. “But after I descended, for a few days there, I felt better. Hopeful. Like real help was coming.”

Young nodded.

“But being here,” Jackson continued in a ragged whisper, “seeing Atlantis, I’m less optimistic.”

“I’m getting that,” Young rasped.

“Maybe it’s how empty the city feels.” Jackson swallowed. “Maybe it’s that Morgan directed me here, but won’t or can’t answer when I call.”

“Everyone you helped,” Young said, forcing the words through a too-tight throat, “everyone you saved, all those worlds and dimensions and lives—you don’t think someone’s gonna show for you, when it’s time?”

“I don’t know.” Jackson wiped his face. Looked up at the stars.

Waves broke at the base of the spire.

A gentle breeze lifted Young’s curls. The edges of Jackson’s open jacket.

“What do you think David’s doing right now?” Jackson asked.

The question split Young like a knife, severing his memory of Telford along the hero/traitor line he walked in Young’s thoughts.

“Oh,” Young breathed, “I like to think he’s—” his throat closed.

“Tell me,” Jackson rasped. “Please.”

Young breathed through the memory of David Telford, laughing at death on an ash-covered hillside. “In my better moments,” Young said, “I like to think he knows what he’s doing. That he’s always known. That everything he’s done is about stopping the Ori.”

“He really loved science, didn't he?” Jackson asked, half a laugh, half a sob.

Young nodded, teeth clenched too tight to speak.

Jackson wiped away a tear. “Coercive persuasion destroys LA scientists. I like to think he was close enough to count. And he was as sharp as ever, right up to the day he took Nick. I like to hope his mind was his own. That he made his own choices. That he did what he did to you with a higher goal in mind. That he didn’t like the LA any more than he liked the SGC.”

Young nodded. Swallowed. “For what it’s worth, I’m pretty sure he threw that Au Coeur op. Let us get outta there with Rush. Shot Vala by accident, aiming for Ginn.”

Jackson smiled through his tears, real and powerful, something that looked like genuine hope. “Really?”

“Yeah. Really.”

“That’s something,” Jackson breathed, and dried his tears on the edge of an alien tower under unfamiliar stars.

Young didn’t fall sleep until the early hours of the morning. He groaned when his phone alarm went off, his body and mind telling him it couldn’t possibly be time for the light already pressing against his closed eyelids.

He woke to the tail end of a spectacular dawn, to a floor-to-ceiling view of a sea of pastel color split by a road of shimmer that led to the rising sun. It was breathtaking. The shell tones of his room softened the morning glare. Young threw back cream-colored sheets and slowly got to his feet, mindful of his back. When he was ready, he limped across the floor to stand in front of the windows, looking out at a world of water.

After doing his morning physical therapy exercises and dressing in Lantean fatigues, he left his room, his to-do list already spiraling. He passed two closed doors along the hall then entered the common area.

It was a mess.

Eli was passed out on the couch, head thrown back, a controller in hand, surrounded by the shed wrappers of half a dozen candy bars. The kid’s suitcase was open, spilling clothes and toiletries and comic books like a wild animal had torn it apart.

“Eli,” Young barked.

“Whuh?” The kid blearily opened his eyes. “What time is it?”

“0600,” Young said. “I want this cleaned up by 0630.”

“No what time is it really?” Eli said. “Earth time.”

“There is no more Earth time,” Young growled. “We’re on Atlantis time now. And it’s 0630. We’re gonna have a briefing in here as soon as Rush is released from the infirmary. Pick a room, move in, and clean this place up. You can’t live in the common area.”

“The boss said we’re staying on Earth time,” Eli said blearily.

“I’m the boss,” Young shot back. “Clean it up. Eat breakfast, come back here, and wait for the briefing.”

“You’re not the boss,” Eli muttered sulkily, but he got unsteadily to his feet and started in on the candy bar wrappers. “Where’s the garbage, even?”

“Figure it out, boy wonder,” Young threw back over his shoulder, and left the suite.

The morning wind was cool and smelled like the sea. Young walked the span between the Nautilus Suite and the Sand Suite and gently tapped the door, wondering if Jackson was awake.

No answer.

“Colonel!” said a genial voice behind him. “You’re an early riser, I see.”

Woolsey.

Young turned. “Administrator.”

“Please,” Woolsey said. “Call me Dick.”

“Uh, sure.” Young gestured wordlessly at Jackson’s door. “I was just—”

“In my experience, 0600 is far too early to find Dr. Jackson up and about,” Woolsey said. “And I can’t imagine Vala Mal Doran waking before noon.” He gave Young a knowing look. “Please. Join me for breakfast.”

Without other options, Young motioned the man to lead the way.

“How did you find your rooms?” Woolsey asked.

“Incredible,” Young said.

“Yes, they are, aren’t they?” Woolsey smiled. “Once Dr. Rush is firmly on his feet I’d love to host the pair of you for dinner. The Athosians hunt a small bird on the mainland that tastes just like chicken. Well, chicken with a hint of duck. It’s delightful. And Athosian wine; I can’t say enough about it. Admittedly, it’s not as complex as what you’d find in France, but it has an Italian boldness to it.”

“Ah,” Young said as they stepped into the transporter. “Sounds great.”

“Have you met Teyla?” Woolsey hit the controls.

“In passing,” Young said.

“You must get to know her. She’s been educating me on Athosian cultural practices. I’d love to see the relationship between her people and the Expedition personnel deepen. Trade is one thing, but nothing brings people together like shared customs. She often eats early. Maybe we’ll run into her.”

Woolsey held up more than half his share of conversation as Young tried to orient himself in shining, beautiful halls that all looked the same. When they reached the mess, the administrator loaded up Young’s tray with the best of the breakfast on offer, then guided them toward a table where Teyla sat alone, contemplatively working through a bowl of oatmeal and fruit.

“Teyla,” Woolsey said. “Would you mind if we joined you?”

“Please.” She smiled up at them. “Sit.”

“This is Colonel Young,” Woolsey said, then looked to Young. “Colonel, this is Teyla.”

“Hi.” Young placed his tray on the table, leaned his cane against its edge, and carefully lowered himself into his seat.

“Welcome to Atlantis,” Teyla said warmly.

“Thanks,” Young replied.

“How are you finding your stay thus far?” Teyla asked.

“Great,” Young said. “Very, uh—”

“Oh there’s time for all of this later.” Woolsey leaned forward conspiratorially. “How’d it go?”

With a small smile that Young was pretty sure hid more amusement than it revealed, Teyla innocently took a spoonful of oatmeal and gave Woolsey a small shrug.

“What are we talking about?” Young asked.

“Oh, only the most popular leisure activity in the city,” Woolsey said, delighted. He motioned at Teyla.

“Livestreams of Astria Porta are quite common,” Teyla explained. “More so now, given the rising mathematical stakes of the game.”

Young raised his eyebrows. “You guys livestream video games as entertainment?”

“Astria Porta fans were crushed to lose Teyla, Camantha, and Commander Effect to what Colonel Sheppard has dubbed “The A-team.” Woolsey gave Young a significant look. “But of course, no one expects to have a front row seat to the genuine work of cypher solving. But there’s quite a bit of excitement around the emerging B-team. Lots of unknowns. A mix of low and high level players. Makes things interesting.” Woolsey leaned forward. “How do you think they’ll fare on the their first campaign?”

Teyla arched an eyebrow and smiled at Woolsey. 

Young grinned at his Athosian pancakes. “Does the B-team know they’re gonna get broadcast?”

“We’ll secure the agreement of all parties of course,” Woolsey said. “But in my view there’s no need to burden new players with the knowledge of just how popular these streams are. Might want to encourage a little practice here and there though, before their debut.”

Teyla fought a smile and dug her spoon into her bowl of porridge.

“Teyla!” Woolsey whispered, delighted. “There’s no need to be so coy. You’re among friends. Discreet friends, I might add.”

But, “They may indeed wish to practice,” is all Teyla said.

By 1000 hours, Young had familiarized himself with the security features of the Nautilus Suite, sent Vala to check on Jackson, dismissed James to get some rest, and set himself up with pen and paper next to Rush’s bed. Sheppard was gone, called to a briefing on Wraith activity. Rush was finally asleep, curled on his side in the jewel-toned light, like he had no idea he had most of Young’s brain in a chokehold.

Young focused on sketching out some structure for himself and his grass-green team.

Pen in hand, he chunked out a rough schedule. He’d love to have the resources to put a two man team on their Planetary Asset twenty-four seven, but that was more an emotional stance than a logical one, given the drastically reduced LA threat on Atlantis.

He needed his team to have the skills to flex to an elite performance level without the usual SGC structure of missions, training, and downtime bonding at O’Malley’s over beer and pool.

It was one hell of an ask.

Then again, even though they were green, he was holding a pair of aces that most commanding officers would kill for: raw intelligence and raw dedication.

Greer was a quick study and had knack for handling Earth-based tech as well as a rifle, Young hadn’t seen enough of him in action to know, but he was willing to bet he was a give-no-quarter fighter, maybe even with a little bit of a temper when his blood was up. James was tough as hell to read, but had enough common sense for the whole team. She had that Special Forces eye for tactics. Ginn knew her way around alien and Earth-based computer systems and her time in the LA had made her tough as nails. She had an aggressive earnestness that was gonna hold her back until she learned how to file it down. The three of them needed some combat training, they needed seasoning, and they needed to work together as a unit.

And then there was Eli.

Young tapped his pen against SG-68’s blocked schedule, torn between writing the kid in versus boxing him out.

Box him out, and he’d be throwing wrenches in Young’s plans.

Write him in, and he’d buck Young’s authority for the hell of it.

He stared, unseeing at the neatly blocked schedule in front of him, thinking of Jackson, weeping into the Lantean night. Wondered about who or what it was that he’d seen for a pair of heartbeats, perched on a silver parapet beneath a spread of stars.

“What are you thinking of?” Nick Rush asked.

Startled, Young looked up.

Rush regarded him solemnly, curled on his side. His expression was serious, his eyes alert, as though he’d been watching Young for countless minutes.

Young couldn’t think of a thing to say.

Rush reached for his glasses. Slid them into place. The eyepieces clicked faintly against his cortical suppressors.

Who are you? Young wanted to ask. Who could you be, if we let you?

Before the Au Coeur op, before he saw Nick Rush descend a fire escape with the setting New York sun in his hair, it never would’ve occurred to Young that the guy had the kind of strength one could lean into. And Young had leaned into it, all during that mythic, mind-blowing dinner. But as he cast back, he realized it had always been there. It’d been there in the way the guy hadn’t caved during the LA foothold, but instead had driven him and Vala to Casper, Wyoming. It’d been there earlier still, maybe even from that first day, when the man had woken up in an unfamiliar apartment and made dinner for a USAF colonel on a fast track to a desk job.

“Hotshot,” he rasped, “would it make any kind of sense to you if I—” he lost steam, understanding how little he knew, thinking of David with ash in his hair, thinking of Jackson weeping under the weight of all he couldn’t say.

Rush sat, his expression full of concern, full of something that looked like sympathy, that looked like understanding, and—

God.

Maybe he did understand. Maybe he knew more than Young did. Because—

“Tell me what’s so important about the word ‘superposition’,” Young said softly.

“I’m afraid that, until the day you can tell me what’s so important about it, we’ll remain at an impasse,” the mathematician said gently.

Young took the hit, shouldered his disappointment, and said, “you want to help me train up a handful of kids? I think we’re gonna need ‘em, before the world ends.”

Rush swung his feet over the edge of the gurney and ran a hand through his elegant pianist hair. “According to the internet, this was my literal day job as recently as March of this year.”

“Thought you did math all day,” Young said.

“D’you have any idea how academia works?” Rush replied. “I had students. I mean, presumably. I can barely restrain my pedagogical instincts where Eli is concerned. Surely you’ve noticed.”

Young smiled at him, knowing too much of what he was feeling was on his face when Rush’s expression softened. “Good,” he said, trying not to cut himself on the sharp edges of his own hope. “Let’s plan a briefing.”