Work Text:
Bach's Partita Number 6 in E Minor
Nicholas Ballard followed the lithe form of his grandson up the sidewalk to the little one-story house, Daniel's home. The old man squinted against the afternoon sunlight, so bright to his weary eyes after the months spent a galaxy away communing with the giant aliens. He paused at the bottom step as Daniel unlocked the door.
"Such greenery," the old man murmured, gazing around at the rolling grass, the tall trees that lined the quiet suburban street in the unassuming neighborhood. The neighborhood was well below the means of someone with his grandson's current income.
Daniel turned, his hand still on the brass knob of the half-open door. "Greenery?"
"Here," Nicholas said as he spread his hands wide. "And the mountain air. Do you take time to smell it all, Daniel?"
"Yes. When I manage to get time off." The younger archaeologist's smile set off a twinkle in his blue eyes.
"Dedicated to your work. Just like a Ballard," Nicholas said as he nodded approvingly.
Daniel merry smile slipped into a wry, forced grin. "Just like a Jackson." He stood aside and indicated for his grandfather to enter first.
"Ah!" Nicholas shook his finger at his grandson as he passed him. "You won't trick me into that old argument again. Your mother's genes, boy. I see them every time you look at me with her blue eyes."
Chuckling, Daniel set his grandfather's satchel down. "Would you care for a drink?"
"Etruscan?" Nicholas asked the rhetorical question as he studied a parchment framed and displayed in the entry hall.
"Wine? Or perhaps tea?" Daniel continued as he left Nicholas to examine the parchment.
"Tea. Do you have real lemon? It's been so long since I've had real lemon. And honey?" Nicholas requested as he wandered to the living room. Wide bay windows allowed bright light into the perfectly appointed space. The walls were a pale ecru, the bare wood floor warmed by the reflection of sunlight throughout the room. "This is from the Yuan Dynasty?" He studied a vase on the oval coffee table, a piece of art by itself.
"The porcelain?" Daniel asked, speaking loudly from the kitchen "Yuan, I believe. It's not mine. Steven sent it to me for a consult. I think he wanted to torture me by giving me half a puzzle. It's half of a set. I found a reference to the companion piece. I'll ship it back in a few weeks. No lemon. But I do have lemon juice."
"So you and Steven have found a way to be friends again since that girl is out of the picture. This is a remarkable display. You've quite a collection of parchments and blades here, young man. You are burning up all that money those people pay you, aren't you." Nicholas surveyed a fine set of ushabtis that he was certain were from Armana. The little figures were intended to serve their master in the afterlife. On the round table below them was an Egyptian board game. He struggled to place its dynasty.
"I suppose. But then what's it for, if not to collect what I want?" Daniel carried in the tea service on a lacquered tray. "Yes, Steven and I have managed to find some common ground again. A professional relationship. No jealousy to get in the way. He can't stand female competition."
"And this, this little stone tablet is from the Valley of the Kings, isn't it? You don't seem to concentrate on Egyptian artifacts. I thought you would. You do not seem to concentrate on any particular era or civilization, in fact." Nicholas said with an indulgent smile as he joined his grandson on the white couch.
"Jack says I can't stop jumping from one thing to the next enough to suit him." Daniel's voice was warm with love.
Nicholas chuckled. "An astute man, this Jack of yours."
"Oh, he's not mine. I mean, not … He's my team leader, but he's not … And my friend, of course. I mean, my friend ..."
"Pour the tea, Daniel." Nicholas schooled his features and relaxed on the couch. In some things his grandson was too shy. In others as bold as his mother would have wanted her grown son to be. This Jack. What would she have thought of him? Nicholas smiled and nodded. He liked Jack. She would have too. Any man Daniel was bold enough to call an ass and then get such instant obedience from? Well, that man was good enough for a Ballard.
The house was quiet. No ticking clocks or electronic noises intruded on their peaceful afternoon. Nicholas sipped the tea, then studied Daniel over the rim of his cup. "Will your Jack be by this evening to have supper with us?"
"No. He's got something to do with Teal'c this evening. Something about long bows, I believe."
"Ah. Warriors. You are not a warrior, Daniel."
"I hold my own."
"What does that mean, that American idiom?" Nicholas asked calmly.
"You know what it means, Nick," Daniel replied sharply.
"You were taught better than that." Daniel would know he wasn't talking about the ill-mannered behavior toward his grandfather. It was the language and only that.
"It means that when I find myself in a combat situation I perform acceptably. Is that better?"
"Yes. Your mother would not wish to hear you abuse her adopted language in such a manner. Idioms are for the uneducated."
"I am nothing if not well educated," Daniel answered sarcastically.
"In archaeology and linguistics," Nicholas said, reprovingly.
"Following in my parent's footsteps--"
"Your father's. Yes," Nicholas retorted.
"My mother--"
"My daughter," Nicholas said, interrupting Daniel, "was a genius. There was no limit to her intellect, to her artistic, her academic and musical talent--"
"We're not having this discussion." Daniel got up and left the room.
Nicholas sighed and put his cup down. The boy's tone had been as unemotional as a rock. "Old fool. You've missed that boy more than you ever thought possible, and here you are scratching at the same old wounds."
He sat there and listened to the faint noises coming from the kitchen. He loved Daniel, loved him with all his heart. And yet he'd allowed himself to touch on a subject that was as painful to Daniel as the horrendous death of his parents.
"Daughter, your golden boy was. He was as talented as you. He could have been playing for kings today. He could still be making music that made angels weep. Ah," Nicholas sighed as he shook his head. "I’m a foolish old man, with foolish old memories that have no place in this world any more."
Wearily, he got to his feet. With his back bowed, he shuffled off in search of his grandson.
Daniel was in the kitchen. He stood at the stove setting the timer for the oven. "Nick?"
"You're cooking?" Nicholas asked with a broad smile.
"Yeah. Something French. You'll like it."
"Daniel, I am sorry--"
"It's all right. I just-- Let's not fight, all right?"
"Let's not," Nicholas said with a nod.
Later, they sat at the cozy, drop-leaf kitchen table by the back windows, sharing the steaming quiche pie. Nicholas loved every bite and lavished praise on the cook. "How your Jack must love your cooking. This and the excellent Dutch recipes you must cook for him, eh?"
His cheeks slightly rosy from the wine, Daniel beamed as he shoved more onto his grandfather's plate.
"I can not hold another bite. No, no. Do not waste that on me, Daniel." Nicholas finished his wine then scooted back from the table.
"Coffee?" Daniel asked.
"Surely. I have yet to see the rest of your home. Coffee, then a tour. I demand it."
"Then you'll get it," Daniel said with a chuckle.
With warm cups in their hands the two wandered back through the living room, stopping to discuss various ancient objects. Through the French doors at the far end of the room they stepped into Daniel's library.
"And this, I'm sure is a forgery," Daniel said as he pointed to a German bible on his desk. "The ink is good and the paper is excellent, but the binding ... Nick?" He looked up.
Two steps into the room, Nicholas had come to an abrupt halt. As Daniel had continued on, Nicholas stayed as still as a statue. In the far corner of the room, by the bay window was a grand piano. Its glossy surface shone in the room's many sconced lights. Sheet music was visible on it, past the raised lid. The keys gleamed, their black and white orderliness the most contrasting thing in the jumbled and much-lived in look of the library.
He felt his grandson's eyes on him. Nicholas clutched the cup carefully as he turned from the piano to look at Daniel. He saw startlement as Daniel darted a quick glance to the piano, as if seeing it for the first time. Then Nicholas saw fear, real fear on the boy's face. Daniel blinked rapidly at him, then took an involuntary step backwards, ending up against his desk. Then Daniel dropped his gaze to the Saltillo tiled floor.
"I ... Daniel, was it here when you moved in?"
Mutely, Daniel shook his head.
"A gift from someone, perhaps? Your Jack?"
"No. I … I bought it myself."
"Do you-- Have you … played it?" Nicholas whispered.
Several moments went by, seemed to crawl by as Nicholas stared at the pale visage of his sweet grandson. Finally he saw the boy nod timidly. "You've played ..."
Daniel nodded again. "Yes," he whispered. "I have."
Nicholas was at a loss for words. What could he say to the boy? What could he say that would not stir up more of those horrible memories for Daniel, memories of the fantastic life he led as a prodigy, and of the horrendous way that lifestyle ended, so tragically at the tender age of fourteen?
"I play it sometimes, when I'm here by myself."
"I won't ask you to play for me, Danny. I won't--"
"I know," Daniel rushed to assure him. "I know, Nick. I just ... I don't play if anyone is here, even Jack."
"I understand."
"It's kind of funny," Daniel said as he shifted back, sitting on the edge of his desk. "This is actually the second piano I've had. The first was an antique I bought. Elizabethan. Supposedly, just as a collector's piece but it had excellent tone and it fit in the living room of my apartment by the doors to the balcony. When Jack saw the first one I think he was more scared than I was that I'd make him sit and listen to me play." He laughed weakly.
"More scared than you were," Nicholas repeated. "Is that different now?"
"No," Daniel said reluctantly. "It still scares me, to get near it. Sometimes, I have little panic attacks." A tiny smile flitted across his lips.
"But you play," Nicholas said wistfully. "Her heart would sing, your mother. To know that you play again, she would be so glad."
"I don't think it would make that much difference. She never knew I quit." Daniel gave him a short glare.
"True. She didn't know." Nicholas shook his head.
"No. And I'm glad of that. Aren't you?" Daniel asked defiantly. The little smile was long gone. A firm grimace replaced it.
"That she didn't know what happened to you in Rome? Yes. Yes. If I had adopted you, instead of allowing you to be raised by your foster parents you would have grown up out of a suitcase, from dig to dig, from one wild expedition to the next."
"And I wouldn't have been playing the circuit, being tutored in music by the best, and performing several months out of the year. I'd have had a somewhat poor education missing months of college time," Daniel said coldly. His eyes were dark flecks of midnight blue and his brows were drawn together.
"And you would never have been … taken by that lunatic."
"Kidnapped. Taken makes it seem too tidy, Nick."
"Kidnapped. His team of villains killed the two security guards at that conservatory. That willingness to slaughter filled me with such fear for your life." Nicolas eased himself into a chair and set his cup on a low table.
"I’m not mad at you," Daniel said, his voice still cold. "You have nothing to feel guilty about. Music was my life. I'd have been there in that conservatory one way or another, regardless of who died, who didn't, of who my guardian was, I'd have ended up there in Rome and I would have been taken by him, put in his zoo."
"Madman," Nicholas swore as he shook his head. "I hope he is still rotting in hell."
"I'm sure he's not," Daniel said solemnly.
"What?" Nicholas demanded. The surety in the tone of his grandson's voice alarmed him.
Daniel dropped his gaze to the tiled floor again, then paced over to the piano. He ran his fingertips along the curved edge of the raised lid. "Since shortly after I got the little Elizabethan piano, Nick, when I first started, some memories came back to me. I remember his face. I remember being held in his estate, forced to play for him. He was a sick, sick man. I remember the things he did to some of the people he held …the horrendous torture for some and pampering for others. I got the pampering treatment, mostly. Mostly. "
"Interpol believes he died in the raid, when they freed you and the others," Nicholas said as he moved to stand beside Daniel.
"I remember him telling me that he'd never be trapped anywhere. He would talk to me as he did things to me. He'd explain his feelings for me, his future plans for my life… but he had escape routes throughout the estate. Some he'd show me and others just brag about. He was in love with his own genius and loved to brag, to boast about his money, his power and control. A man with his sick hobbies? His paranoia level was pretty high, I assure you. He had means of escape that even Interpol would not thwart."
"You think he still lives," Nicholas said softly, dreading the answer.
"Yes. He'd be fifty now, and probably very fit. That love of his own genius extended to his body. Mirrors, so many above the piano. All across the ceiling in the large hall where he kept me. He loved watching himself." Daniel stared out the windows into the tidy back yard.
Nicholas rose and approached his grandson. "I'm sorry—" He stopped abruptly as Daniel darted back from him and the piano he'd been resting his hand on. Nicholas returned to his chair and sighed, but stayed quiet.
His back against the panes of glass, Daniel cleared his throat and crossed his arms over his chest. "So, you do understand, Nick. I can hold my own. When I started remembering, when I began to recall the conversations, the bragging sessions about his escape routes, I started working out in earnest with Teal'c and Jack. I got focused, serious about weapons training and hand-to-hand combat. I can hold my own in a battle. I'll never play for anyone again."
Nicholas nodded. He looked around the room, for the first time realizing the volume of weapons on display, the daggers, swords, spears, the axes in Daniel's collection. The weapons were spread throughout the house, in each room, even the kitchen. The place was an arsenal and each weapon, regardless of age, was in excellent condition and within quick grasp.
Daniel would never be forced to play for anyone again.
End