Rating: R for language (naughty!) and adult situations.
Disclaimer: Forgot this last time.  Whoops.  Not mine.  Not makin' money.  All 
MGM's, etc.
Spoilers: Um, Entity and Foothold for sure.  Let's go up to Season 6 just to be 
safeish.

Notes: Wow.  This is really depressing.  Basically, this was my brain reacting 
to the summary of one of Suz's fics.  Points to those who have an epiphany about 
the title.  Yes, it has meaning.  Yes, if you *really* want to know, I'll tell 
you. :)  And yes, you can mock me if you must.

***

La Petite...
by A.j.

***

I've watched you die in so many different ways.

You didn't know that, did you?

No, because you think you're the only one that's seen death. REALLY seen it. 
I hate you for that slight sometimes. You're the solider. Battle-hardened and 
gruff, you wear it like a badge.

//Oh, yeah, well I've done |this|, and you haven't.//

You kill. Take life and watch in your little rearview mirror as the destruction 
melts into the past. Black marks on your soul. You hoard it and wave it around 
when you want to run away or make yourself different from the rest of us. From 
me.

Well, fuck you, Jack O'Neill. Fuck you, and the horse you bloody well rode in 
on. Because it isn't about volume or quality. We've all become soldiers in this 
place. We kill, we maim, we die, and I'm so tired of you pushing that.

It's been six years. I think my soul's pretty black right now too.

But that's not what we're talking about right now, is it? No. That's a screaming 
match for a different day in a different place.

Today, there's just this.

I killed you once. Or someone who was you, but wasn't. Your mind in his head. 
Did you feel it when my bullet entered your/his chest? Or is it blocked out, 
like so many other things. Locked in a box with all those other precious 
keepsakes.

My mind doesn't give me that option. It's too used to moving however and where 
ever it wants. I remember you killing me. Bet you didn't think I did, huh? You 
wanted to believe I was already gone, deep inside my black little cocoon. So 
that all the little lies you told yourself - //she didn't die, it wasn't *her*// 
- could smooth away the rough patches and let you sleep that much better.

I don't begrudge you that. This thing in me, this warmth only you can touch, 
won't let that happen. I want you happy or peaceful. In a lot of ways, I *need* 
you to be that. It's not the point, though.

No, because we're good at avoiding that little issue, aren't we?  Maybe not so 
much anymore.

We've killed each other in very physical ways, Jack. I shot you/him in the 
chest, and you electrocuted me.  You and I have taken life away in its most 
dramatic sense... and it was given back. We woke up, alive and almost whole. But 
we haven't stopped killing each other.

No, because even though we've pushed past that final barrier, there's so much 
left for us to break.  Bits and pieces, O'Neill.  A casual word, a touch here.  
I can feel you crack underneath the fabric on your shoulder.  It's almost heady, 
that power.  But not.  Because it isn't something that's just mine.

Death follows us, doesn't it?  Quiet, but always near.

I wonder sometimes, if we really knew what we were getting ourselves into when 
we signed on that dotted line.  You know the one I mean.  That oath, promised 
when we were both so, incredibly young, binding us to something above another 
person.  To an ideal.  A theory, even.  Did we know?  Could we have?

//To honor, and serve...//

I don't think so.

So much we didn't know.  So much given - signed - away.  But gained.

I've watched you die, Jack.  So many times.  In my mind, and in front of my 
eyes.

And every time you live, swaggering away so confidant - so *you* - I feel a part 
of myself go gray.  Because it means that, once more, you're walking away.  You 
know it too.  I've seen you watching me after.  I know your face, and I know 
myself.

You see me die.  And I see you, Jack.  I see you die when I walk away.

We watch each other die, everyday.

It's too much a part of us now.  I wonder how there's any life left.  In me.  In 
you.  I don't know Jack.  I don't know any other way to live, save this.

But it's no surprise to me - none at all - that as I sink slowly on to you, I 
see it. Your head thrown back, eyes wide with something, I think, like joy.  Or 
pain.

I'm watching you die. 

***