I don’t own Buffy, Angel, the Stargate ‘verse, Harry Potter, or Charmed. That’s Joss Whedon, Brad Wright and Jonathon Glassner, J.K. Rowling, or Constance M. Burge.Author’s Notes:
A Christmas present for Caliadragon. Merry Ficmas, Calia!
“Ms. Summers? Are you awake? Can you hear me?” a gentle voice asked, penetrating the haze of drugs.
“Um?” Brain surgery took a lot out of a person, so all she wanted to do was sleep until she got better but she didn’t want anyone to worry so she gave him a minimal response.
“Good, that’s good,” that gentle voice said, sounding relieved. Slim fingers slipped into hers and she squeezed them. “I know it hurts. Don’t you wish all the pain would just go away?”
A small furrow creased her brow because that was wrong. She wasn’t in any pain. The side of her head felt strange but it didn’t hurt, not yet. “No…”
The fingers slid from hers as the voice turned impatient. “Well, what do
you want, then?”
Something was wrong about this and Joyce struggled to open her eyes but a fresh wave of morphine hit her, scattering her thoughts. “What?”
The voice was back to gentle as it coaxed, “What do you wish for most right this second?”
“Oh,” she sighed. “I wish for all the good things for me and mine. Love, happiness, family, time.”
She pried her eyes open in time to see a pretty face turn grisly. “Wish granted.”
And the world turned to black.
*** *** ***
Something was ringing and that was vastly unfortunate. Joyce was the sated kind of sleepy and it had been a long
time since she’d felt like that.
“That’s mine,” a gruff voice murmured and Joyce’s eyes flew open as a well-muscled arm slid across her shoulder, warm lips pressing into the crook of her neck and a little sigh escaped her. Then growling, “O’Neill. This better be good.”
Joyce clenched her fist in the pillow then got distracted by the hard press of metal and lifted her hand to stare in disbelief at the wedding ring set on her finger. “Oh my God. What did I do?” she whispered.
“Mom! Cordelia’s hogging the bathroom!” Buffy shrieked from down the hall and Joyce felt a rush of relief that at least some
things were still right.
A light swat on her backside her quickly rolling over as he said, amused, “And that’s yours.”
He smiled down at her and she suddenly knew that this was Jack; he loved The Simpsons, blue jell-o, opera, and her kids, not in that order. She knew she’d fallen in love with him on their third date when she’d opened the door with a weepy Dawn on one hip and a sniffling Sirius clinging to her other leg, harried, unkempt, and about as unavailable as a mother of 11 could appear and he’d nodded and said, “A night in sounds fun.” He’d hand her roses, kissed her cheek, murmured, “Motherhood suits you,” and that had been that. She was his for the asking.
And she trusted him, a hard won trust that had taken years to develop even though part of her was screaming that she’d never even met this man.
“Jack?” she said and she must have sounded scared because she immediately had his full attention.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, sitting beside her, hand covering her knee.
And her mind flailed because how did she explain what she was feeling?
“I feel like I have two sets of memories,” she blurted.
Buffy burst in with a strident, “Mom
“Out,” Jack said, pointing at the door even as his eyes never left hers.
Buffy took a quick read of the situation and left with a quiet huff.
He squeezed her knee and said, “Let’s talk about this.”