Boxers
Never a drabble
By Gumnut
6 Mar 2004

They were mostly papers.

Forms, reports, the odd unfiled file. And they came in a rainbow of colours. Pink, green, yellow, white. Most of them had her neat handwriting on them. Incredibly neat considering her occupation.

He shuffled aimlessly as the print began to blur.

Occasionally they would come across an item that wasn’t official USAF anything. Again some of these were paper. Scribbled reminder notes, old christmas cards, even one with his own scrawl denting the surface of a verse encrusted picture of a dog wearing a santa hat, four years old. He could remember handing it to her while hoarding his stash of popcorn from an over excited Cassie. A movie, friends and Christmas – cards, presents, laughter. He didn’t even know she had kept it. But apparently she had.

Oddly enough he had never expected it to fall into his hands again.

Paperweights.

She had a fanaticism with paperweights.

Not particularly illogical considering how much paper was actually in this room, but a little out of the ordinary nonetheless. Marvin the Martian stared out at him from a round glob of clear plastic, his form frozen in a snarl of defiance at any form of breeze that may flutter the clutter he was ordered to restrain. Three odd shaped rocks sat in a row on the bookshelf, polished quartz possibly, each sporting a set of plastic bobble eyes that also stared back at him. Accusing perhaps not, yet stabbing him anyway.

He grabbed them and placed them gently in the carton next to Marvin. They could stare at each other. He did not need reminding, because he would never forget.

A snuffling sound came from the opposite corner of the room, and he glanced up covertly in time to see Carter rub her hand across her face. He couldn’t see her eyes, she was turned towards the wall, but he knew she was crying. The soft, stark sobs were all that was breaking the silence.

His mind danced between his options of whether to go and talk with her, lend her a hand, an arm, or a shoulder, or whether he should hide behind rank as he usually did. Carter could handle it. She always did. Just like he did. She was a soldier, he was a soldier.

God, he was full of shit.

He took a step in her direction, but his mandatory hesitation took the option away from him as Daniel, ever the more empathic, wandered over and put an arm around her, letting her head fall to his shoulder as he held her. Daniel stared over her at Jack, his blue eyes less than dry themselves.

A brief flash of envy of both of them danced across O’Neill’s mind. Daniel for his ability to give sympathy, Carter for her ability to take it. For he had difficulty with both.

He forced himself back to his task.

Books.

There were lots of books.

And they were not small books. If there was one thing that all scientists had in common, it was their love of honkin’ great big books. His wrist strained as he manhandled one which was particularly in line for the title of world’s most humungous tome.

The box strained as he let the hardback fall to the bottom, the thump as it landed making him jump.

He paused for a moment, staring at the carton. The usual USAF stickers were stuck on its sides, her name was printed in neat letters on the pretty little stick on form. The simple words of name and rank hid the purpose of its existence, hid the reason as to why this mundane, prefabricated, blank and stark cardboard was enclosing these items.

It didn’t tell you that the previous owner of everything it contained was dead.

A victim of circumstance?

Career choice?

Fate?

The letters blurred again, and he shook his head.

He had asked for this task. Sam and Daniel had supported him wholeheartedly, and in the end he couldn’t have given a rat’s ass if he was using his rank to his own advantage. Just the thought of leaving all her personal items to be sorted through by someone other than a friend just did not bear consideration.

So he had volunteered. Knowing the pain he would be putting himself through.

Because she was here. In every corner of this room. Here, even though she was gone, never to return.

The object in his hand blurred, and once again he had to squint, only to open his eyes and realise he was holding a photograph and she was smiling at him.

God.

His hand trembled.

They were all in the picture. Sam, Teal’c, Daniel, Cassie, himself…..and Janet. He’d always loved her smile.

She had never hesitated to show it to him each time he awoke in her infirmary, plastered, sewn, glued, and stitched back together by her very own hand. She had always been happy to see him.

And he always woke to that smile.

Except this time.

Broken ribs.

Concussion.

Where is Doctor Fraiser?

The nurse hadn’t told him.

But tears do tell.

It had been Hammond who had confirmed it. His face pale. They had been two blank faced soldiers passing information succinctly and emotionlessly. Both eager for privacy to lick their own wounds and handle it in their own way away from prying eyes.

He had been the model patient this time. Janet would have been proud.

The photo flicked from his hand and landed, corners crumpled, on top of the pile in the box.

It was painful.

Not unfamiliar, but painful nonetheless. And it was a job that had to be done. They were here to fill a pile of empty cartons with the remnants of a life.

And they were her friends.

Today they paid her a respect beyond her memorial service.

Because today they were Janet Fraiser’s boxers.

**********
FIN.