Well, I’ve been reading Stargate/Buffy crossover fanfiction again. And you all know where that leads… I’m aware I have existing stories that deserve endings. As always, I do plan to finish them one day. Obviously not in a timely manner, but, they will be finished.
Thank you all for reading with me for so many years (this is my 12th year writing fanfiction). While a lot has changed in my life, I still love this creative outlet and yes, I’m still working on my Ph.D. (year four, finishing in a few months or else). Disclaimer:
I don’t own either Stargate or Buffy, but I’m glad we can all play nice once in a while. Timeline:
This is placed concurrently in Buffy, Season 5, right after Forever
and Stargate SG-1, Season 5. Chapter One “Well I saw myself in more of a patriarchal sort of role. You know, lots of pointing and scowling.” – Giles
It was not a phone call Dr. Daniel Jackson had ever expected to receive. It had been years since he had actively thought about the detective agency he had hired to track down his paternal extended family. Although he had paid the yearly bill since right after he had entered the Stargate program it had been mostly without conscious thought. Besides, it’s not like he hadn’t been busy, traveling to other galaxies and chatting up the locals. Getting kidnapped. “Killed” a few times. The usual.
So it had surprised him when his landline rang at the house, one of the rare nights he had chosen to head home from the mountain. The stir fry wasn’t likely to set the kitchen on fire so after a moment’s hesitation Daniel grabbed the cordless phone from the wall and propped it against his shoulder, wincing as the casual movement aggravated a still healing injury.
Daniel wasn’t as young as he used to be. Using tuck rolls to escape energy blasts, while necessary, took a few weeks to recover from. “Hello?”
“Hello, is Dr. Daniel Jackson at home? We have some potential information about his father’s family.”
He managed to burn the stir fry, but he made an appointment for the next day at the detective agency.
“It’s fine, Giles. It’s just a dresser. I mean, we have others. I have a dresser. Dawn has a dresser. I think Xander could build a dresser, if given enough tries.” The tight burning sensation that crept behind her eyes was too familiar.
She’d seen dead people before. She’d been a dead person before.
Why was this so hard?
She could feel more than see Giles’s pursed lips as he surveyed the destruction of Joyce’s bedroom. The five drawer dresser was now in significantly more pieces than it had been earlier in the day, and Buffy knew her hands were trembling as she tried to fold her mother’s clothes.
Stupid traitorous eyes.
Stupid traitorous hands.
A single hand stretched out to her, wavered between touching her hair, or resting on her shoulder, until Giles took in the rigid back. His hand drifted back to his side and he sighed, softly, before sitting on the bed.
Buffy hoped he checked for splinters.
“I wasn’t talking about the dresser.”
She ignored him, focused on the clothing she held and almost started crying again when she realized she held a sweater that her mom had worn just the week before. If Giles hadn’t been there she would have held the clean fabric to her nose and inhaled. Instead she carefully lined up the sleeves and folded the cheery yellow sweater into a neat square.
And suddenly it was too much, the silent worry, the caring, the sad, sad eyes following her everywhere. Dawn’s angry grief.
She stood up, upsetting the sweater in her lap. She knew her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, but she didn’t care how it looked. How anything looked. She just wanted…
Giles’s face pleaded with her as she towered over him, face open and raw and hurting. “I’m fine!”
Her Watcher bowed his head for a moment and nodded slightly. Acknowledging the anger. Acknowledging the fear. The sadness. “I’ll be downstairs, while you finish up in here.” He stood carefully, slowly, and turned his back to leave the room.
Buffy watched him go, tears wet on red cheeks. She sniffed fiercely, wiped her face on a long sleeve, and knelt down to refold the sweater.
When it was a square again she held it to her face and inhaled.
Stupid traitorous words.
Stupid traitorous eyes.
It smelled like home.
Stupid traitorous life.
“So explain again why Danny-Boy is missing the mission today? Not that I don’t enjoy Dr. Odair’s sterling
personality… but, explain again why Daniel fobbed his lackey off on us?”
Major Samantha Carter resisted the urge to glance at their replacement archaeologist, mostly because she knew Colonel O’Neill was trying to goad her into it. A wry smile managed to make its way to her lips despite herself though. Dr. Robert Odair was similar in so many ways to the Daniel they all used to know- glasses, allergies, complaining about arduous physical activity on missions. Jack complaining about him…
But while Odair was a small reminder of how far they had all come, he wasn’t Daniel. A fact that the good doctor was not likely to forget.
Not with Colonel O’Neill’s bellyaching anyway.
“I told you Colonel, Daniel called in a personal day. He’ll be back in the office tomorrow. Just in time for our adventurous return to P3X-892.”
Jack groaned. Loudly. “The rock planet? Again? We just went there last month. Best nap I ever had.”
Dr. Odair paused in fidgeting with his BDUs and looked suspiciously in their direction. “I thought the rock planet was P3X-298.”
Jack sorted. Loudly. Sam sighed and replied to the poor archeologist. “No, today we’re going to examine silt deposits in the ruins of…”
“Sand,” Colonel O’Neill interrupted. “We’re going to the sand planet today. The rock planet tomorrow. You know Carter, I never thought I’d say this, but things are getting down right predictable nowadays.”
Sam looked up at the Stargate and took a moment to feverishly hope that the universe hadn’t heard that.
Daniel tried to relax his death grip on his slacks. He’d spent the last six years facing down the scourge of humanity, traipsing from planet to planet to find new cultures, new races, fight against the Goa’uld. All without wrinkled pants. But the prospect of one simple phone call changing his life, well…
Death-gripped and wrinkled pants were the theme of the afternoon.
A dark haired man in his fifties came into the room. He was grizzled in a way similar to Jack and moved smoothly, if stiffly. Denver wasn’t all that far from Colorado Springs, and Daniel would have been willing to place a bar bet on Paul McCreedy being ex-military. For some reason that relaxed him enough that he was able to shake the older man’s hand and meet his eyes with a wan smile.
“I’m Paul McCreedy, we spoke on the phone yesterday. I’m so glad you could make it down this quickly Dr. Jackson.”
Daniel sat back down and nervously adjusted his glasses. “Well, it’s only been thirty-seven years. Although it could probably wait, it seemed important. And please, call me Daniel.”
Paul gave a warm smile in return and paused for a moment, collecting himself. “So, I have some good news and some bad news for you.”
Daniel swallowed and felt his hands go back to his knees, knuckles white with nerves. “But you did find something.” Someone?
The detective nodded. “Yes, Daniel I did. This might be a lot to take in, but, did you know your father was in a… relationship before your mother?”
The roaring in his ears wasn’t new. He felt that way every time he had seen Sha’re. Every time he made contact with an alien civilization. “No,” he responded, wondering why his voice sounded so distant, “I was very young when my parents passed and my mother’s father didn’t speak much about my family, other than to tell me I had no one else.” Daniel looked down at his hands again. “It always seemed strange to me, that I could so easily be alone.” He took a deep breath. “Were they married?”
Paul McCreedy shook his head slowly. “No, as near as I could tell your father, Melburn Jackson, was very young, maybe seventeen, when he got his high school girlfriend pregnant. They separated soon after, at the girl’s families’ insistence. She did keep the baby, though appeared to have had no contact with your father after.”
“I have a half-sister?”
The detective looked away from his hopeful face and Daniel remembered, with a different kind of roaring, that there was bad news along with the good. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”
McCreedy reached into a manila folder and pulled out printed copy of an obituary. “I’m sorry to say her death was what helped me to track her down. Your half-sister married young, right out of high school herself, and moved around some before getting divorced.”
Daniel stared at the picture that was included in the obituary. Joyce Summers didn’t look much like him, but she had had a soft smile and warm eyes that crinkled like their father’s used to. He scanned the obituary, noting that she had passed a mere three days before, and felt a sense of loss descend around him that was surprising.
He wasn’t anymore alone than he had been minutes ago. Wasn’t any less loved. And yet…
His eyes narrowed and stilled as he came to the last line of the obituary. Joyce Summers is survived by her two beloved daughters, Buffy and Dawn Summers.
It made sense, on an intellectual level, for people his age to have children. Just because his friends for the most part were unmarried and without families didn’t mean that Joyce, who was almost eight years older than him, wouldn’t have had children.
“Buffy and Dawn.”
Paul nodded solemnly. “Yes Daniel, Buffy and Dawn would be your nieces.”
Daniel gaped at the detective for a moment before he collected himself, released his pant legs in favor of holding the obituary. “You… you know where they are?”
Paul nodded again. “I have the phone number for the house, in Sunnydale California.”
The piece of paper with the phone number written on it felt insubstantial, yet heavy. A weight with a purpose. A path that was potentially so different from where he was now. “Is their father in the picture?”
This time the answer was less positive. “I looked him up too, Hank Summers. As near as I can tell he lives in Spain with a woman who used to be employed by him. There doesn’t seem to be strong ties to the girls.”
There wasn’t a picture of Buffy or Dawn, but Daniel could almost see them in his mind. “How old are they?”
“Buffy is twenty, Dawn is fourteen.”
Daniel rose almost robotically and shook the detective’s hand. “Thank you for your time, and your work.”
Paul smiled and handed Daniel the manila folder, with the paperwork and copies of documents he had used to track down the Summers family. “Good luck Daniel.”
Daniel nodded once, “Thank you again.”
He had some phone calls to make. <br> <br>