'Twas the Day After Christmas by AC

‘Twas the Day After Christmas
By AC

Jack awoke on the morning of December twenty-sixth with an odd sensation. The weak sunlight filtering through the curtains wasn't painful. His head was clear. It didn't hurt to open his eyes.

Oh yeah, he thought. I didn't get drunk yesterday.

With the thought that the first sober post-Christmas morning in six years deserved a bit of celebrating, he decided against lying in bed for the whole morning. Shrugging into his robe, he trudged into the kitchen, started the coffee maker, and quickly ducked outside to get the morning newspaper. He brought it back to the sink, brushing off the faint dusting of snow.

He poured himself some coffee and sat down to read about the state of the world, but instead found himself staring blankly ahead, thinking about the previous day.

He hadn't bothered to put up a tree. There didn't seem much point. But he had broken down and got a wreath for the front door. Just one wreath. The current trend in decorating wherein one put wreaths in every window, and a whole herd of reindeer in the front yard struck him as slightly ridiculous. And it wasn't like his job gave him a lot of free time. If he'd managed to buy a gaggle of Rudolphs for the yard, they'd likely still be there for the Fourth of July before he had time to put them away for the year.

So just one wreath. And no booze. No bringing out the old photo albums hidden in the linen closet and starting out Christmas morning getting drunk and looking at pictures of his son. There had been a brief snowfall on Christmas Eve, so the next morning he'd gotten up and gone down the street to shovel Mr. and Mrs. Pemberton's walk. They were both in their eighties now, and he didn't want them to fall and break a leg or a hip or anything else.

After that, he'd engaged in a brief snowball fight with some kids two houses down, before they abandoned their play to the lure of new Christmas presents inside.

In the evening, he'd gone next door to eat dinner with Mrs. Gutierrez and her granddaughter. Her daughter Maria was currently deployed overseas, and little Pilar's father had left for parts unknown two years before. They'd feasted on a combination of traditional American and Mexican dishes, and later that night he'd driven them to midnight Mass.

Yes, indeed, Jack O'Neill had been a productive, solid citizen yesterday. He'd been neighborly, virtuous, and friendly. He'd learned that he had a great many more friends near his house than he'd thought, and had spent the day doing good instead of wallowing in the past.

Unfortunately, he concluded, he really didn't feel all that much better. Oh well. At least he wasn't hung over. And there weren't any broken glasses or bottles that needed to be cleaned up. Casting an eye around the kitchen, he noted with pride that his house was actually rather clean. And they say bachelors live like pigs, he thought wryly.

And then he saw the small package on the counter.

Crap. He'd forgotten about that.

On the twenty-third, he'd been on his way to sign out for the evening, when Janet Fraiser's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Colonel!" the petite woman called from down the hallway, hurrying to catch him. "Do you have a minute?"

He sighed to himself, then turned around. "Sure thing. What's up, Doc?" he needled her.

She didn't notice the joke. "Cassie and I are heading to Atlanta first thing tomorrow morning," she explained, "and I forgot to give this to Sam before she went home." She waved a small, gaily wrapped package at him. "Are you going to be here tomorrow?"

Nodding, he took the present from her. "I'm coming in for a few hours to catch up on paperwork," he told her. "Want me to give it to her then?"

She nodded, thanked him, and then hurried off.

Only he'd forgotten. The package sat in his office while he finished up mission reports, and by the time he remembered, Carter had gone home for the day. He'd slipped the gift into his coat pocket with the thought of driving by her house. But on his way home, he drove on automatic, and was unlocking the door to his house before he remembered again.

So now the gift sat on his kitchen counter, mocking him.

Going by her house wasn't a good idea. He knew that. As a matter of fact, he'd been surprised that she wasn't visiting her brother, or off with Janet and Cassandra.

If he didn't take it to her, Janet might say something. And Sam wouldn't reproach him, but she'd look at him with that clear, unwavering gaze that said she knew exactly why he hadn't done it, and he'd know that once again, he'd managed to hurt her.

No rest for the wicked, he told himself, taking a last sip of coffee and heading off to the shower.

Carter didn't have a wreath on her door, but her car was parked at the curb, so Jack was pretty sure she was home. He shut the door of his truck and gingerly stepped over the pile of snow at the edge of the street, careful not to slip.

At the sound of the doorbell, a voice from inside called out, "It isn't locked."

Shrugging, he opened the door. "Carter?" he asked, stamping his feet in the entryway to shake off the snow.

He heard her get up. "Colonel? What is it, sir? Do they need us on base?" She came out of the den, clad in an old sweater, leggings, and slouchy wool socks.

Jack shook his head. "No. We're still on down time until the twenty-eighth. But Doc Fraiser asked me to give you this," he held out the package for her, "and I forgot to get it to you, and thought I'd stop by."

"Oh. Thanks, sir," she took the gift from him. "You can come sit down for a few minutes if you'd like," she said over her shoulder as she walked back towards the sofa.

Slipping his coat and hat off, Jack followed her, taking a seat in a chair opposite her. As she began opening the gift, using her fingernails to avoid tearing the paper, he looked around the room. There wasn't a tree, but a small nativity scene graced the mantel, and a large collection of candles sat on the island counter in the kitchen. The aroma of scented wax still permeated the room.

And on the table in front of her, an almost-empty glass sat on a coaster. The remaining liquid could only be bourbon, or rum, or something of that color.

Taking a closer look at his second-in-command, he noted her eyes were rather bloodshot and her complexion even paler than usual. But she was stone-cold sober, and didn't appear hung over.

She smiled softly as she opened the package at last, and held up the picture frame for him to see. "It's from Cassie's birthday this year," she explained.

"It's nice," he agreed, looking at the smiling faces of Sam, Janet, and Cassie beaming out of the photograph. Cassie and her two moms. "I thought you'd have gone with them on their trip."

Placing the picture frame on the table, her face closed off once more. "They're visiting Janet's father," she told him quietly.

"And your brother?"

"Staying with my sister-in-law's family. I just didn't feel up to going anywhere this year."

Teal'c had gone to visit his son, and Daniel had left on the twenty-third with vague explanations of seeing an old college friend -- Jack personally thought he'd finally met someone and was spending the holidays with her, but couldn't confirm it.

"So you spent Christmas alone?"

Sam looked down at her hands and frowned. "No, not really." She didn't offer any explanation.

"Ah." Jack wracked his brain for something to say. Anything to fill the silence that she seemed perfectly comfortable with but was driving him nuts. "So, today's what the Brits call Boxing Day. Think there's any good boxing on television?"

The expected smile didn't appear. "That's not why they call it Boxing Day, sir," she began.

He rolled his eyes. "I know, Carter, I was just making a bad joke. It's something about giving tips to people who work for you and perform valuable services. What do you say you and I head off to the White House and ask the president where those big honking bonuses of ours are? I'd say we've earned them this year."

"I heard on the news that he's at Camp David, sir. I doubt they'd let us in to speak with him."

"Yeah, you're probably right." Standing up, he wandered over to her counter, then took a closer look. The candles ranged from ones that looked new, to old faded pillar candles that barely had any more wick left. And carefully carved into the wax on the outside of each was a name.

Mom. Ashley. Carl. Many names that meant nothing to him. Then, Jonas. Jolinar. Martouf, Narim, Joe.

The names of her dead.

She came to his side, watching him carefully. "It's tradition," she said simply.

"You do this every year?"

She nodded. "I light the candles for a while, and remember."

"Does it help?"

She bit down on her lip thoughtfully, then shook her head. "Not really. But it seems appropriate." Running her finger down one candle, she spoke again. "You know some of these names. But the others... I knew Ashley McKenzie at the Academy. She died in a training exercise. Carl Johnson died in the Gulf." Quietly, she ran down the list, then shrugged and returned to the sofa.

He stayed where he was, breathing in the scent of the candles. So this was how she'd spent Christmas? Not alone, but with the memories that tormented her?

"Sam, I--"

She cut him off. "It was nice of you to bring this by for Janet, sir. I'm sure you have more important things to do today, but thanks for stopping by."

So that was how she wanted to play it? He was damned if he'd play along. "You could have called, Sam."

Her expression was calm and blank, all emotions carefully locked away. "You know why I couldn't, sir."

"No." His voice contained all the pain she wouldn't express. "I don't know. I don't know why you wouldn't know that I'd help if you'd let me. Just help, Sam. I'm still your friend, aren't I?"

She thought for a moment, then nodded. "But, sir, even if it were your place, you can't take away the things that have happened."

Not his place. Her meaning was clear. "I know, Carter. God help me, I know." Understanding, friendship... love -- those things couldn't entirely banish pain. They didn't remake the past. But sometimes, they made it hurt just a little bit less.

"But maybe," she pondered almost to herself, "having someone to listen might help a bit."

"Yeah." And it didn't have to be him. Just knowing that she'd talk to someone about the demons that haunted her would make him breathe easier. "If you need to talk?"

She shook her head. "Not today," she replied. "But next time, I promise."

"I'm glad to hear it, Carter." Reaching for his coat and hat, he smiled at her. "I'll get out of your hair, now. See you at work in a few days."

She followed him to the door, wrapping her arms around herself as the chill wind blew inside. "Yes, sir. And thanks."