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The Cold War

by Charli Booker

* *

I toggle my radio.  "Carter?"

"Almost there, sir," comes her static response.

"Good.  Cause I'm freezin' my ass off."  Besides, an aging AF
colonel bleeding out was not a part of the mission briefing.

I stare up at the seemingly endless supply of snowflakes drifting
down to blanket me.  It's been snowing for 12 hours, ever since we
arrived, and there's no sign of it stopping.

Gasping, I try to sit up.  The pain is as piercing as the
cold.  "Dammit!"  I drop back onto the wet ground.  Okay.  That was
not the best idea I've ever had.  All I've managed to do is make my
vision dim and my stomach roil.  To top matters off, I've also seen
how badly I'm hurt.

The glimpse is enough to assure me that I actually am hurt as bad as
I feel.  It that weren't bad enough, which it is by the way, the
relentless snow is beginning to drift around me.  If my team doesn't
hurry, all they're going to find is a bleeding snowman lying broken
at the bottom of a cliff.  A messy, frozen Humpty-Dumpty.

Not quite as bad as Antarctica.  Not yet.  But it's beginning to
rival it.

* * *

I wake up coughing, and squint at a bright, pale-grey ceiling.  Not
dull, SGC-grey, but something else.  Coughing again, just once to
clear my throat, I frown and blink as something soft drifts down and
tangles in my eyelashes.  Raising my hand, I fumble to wipe away
whatever it is.

My fingers feel cold, wooden and . . . wet?  What the hell?

Blinking against the fluffy stuff trying to coat the surface of my
eyeballs, I suddenly remember: snow, cliff, slick, falling.

I try to move.  Oh, God!

Add: broken, busted, bleeding.

I realize that my radio is alive with voices.  People are calling my
name and rank.  Someone, Daniel I think, is cussing at me.

"Dammit, Jack, answer me!"

How rude.

Groaning, pain lancing through the lower half of me, I reach with a
shaky hand and toggle the switch.  My numb fingers slide off. 
Wait.  Not numb.  Slick.  I glance at them and find that they're
coated with thickening, chilling blood.  Mine.  Me, myself and I.

I press the radio again, more firmly.  "Dan–," I have to swallow as
bile rises up the back of my throat.  I suddenly feel sick.  Very
sick.  "Daniel?"  And my voice is weak, breathless.

"Jack?"  He sounds breathless, too.  "Thank God.  Are you all
right?  I thought . . . why didn't you answer me?"

Oh, I don't know.  Busy . . . passing out!  Instead, I manage a
weak "hurt."  Pathetic whiner.

"Hang on, Colonel.  We're almost there."

Yeah.  So you said.

"Sir?"

Amazingly, my mind is totally clear.  All sorts of smart-assed
comments are lining up behind the synapses that connect my brain to
my vocal cords; unfortunately for the act of speech, I'm too busy
trying to breathe.  Speaking is going to have to take a number. 
Other things come first, like trying to NOT hurl, NOT bleed, NOT
scream.  This is so fun . . . NOT.

Despite my best efforts, vomiting is inevitable.  Trying to roll to
my side brings a surge of agony and darkness beckons.  If I pass out
now, I'll drown in my own puke.  Cursing softly in a vague echo of
my foul-mouthed archaeologist, I manage to turn my head and lift my
right shoulder in a parody of twisting my torso.  It's not enough to
ease the difficulty of heaving nor to prevent me from soiling
myself, but at least I won't choke to death on my own rancid stomach
contents.

Panting, my stomach muscles still cramping, I drop back down with a
grunt.  My breath and my vomit greet the cold dampness, creating
small geysers of pungent steam.  Old Faithful.  That's me.  I
chuckle softly.  Old and faithful.  Well, more of the former than
the latter, depending on who you ask.

Just as I'm in the middle of mentally rehearsing my speech to my
second in command regarding the definition of `almost there,' I hear
them coming.  They sound like a pack of rabid hyenas scurrying to a
fresh-out-of-the-oven helping of Road Kill a la O'Neill; better yet,
considering the freezing cold and the reddening slush in which I'm
lying, maybe Irish Creme'd Gazpacho.

They're snorting and grunting and someone is making strangled little
noises that could be growls but that sound more like Daniel in the
throes of an allergy attack.  Panting noisily, they drop down beside
me, their noses red and dripping, their eyes watering.  But hey, at
least they aren't salivating and sniffing each other's butts.

"Oh . . . my . . . God."  Sweet little Samantha.  Trying to make the
old Colonel feel better.

Daniel looks down towards my legs, blanches and promptly throws up. 
At least he manages to not get any on me.

Teal'c studies me without expression, then looks me in the eye and
says two seemingly unrelated words:  `Theissman' and `woodchipper.'

Despite the agony, or maybe because of it, I laugh.  Just last week,
I'd made him watch a tape of Theissman's career-ending game.  Teal'c
had reciprocated by forcing me to sit through the movie `Fargo' –
which in itself isn't a bad thing.  It's just that, trying to
explain to a reformed Jaffa why you find kidnapping and murder
hysterical detracts from the viewing pleasure and makes you feel
like you need a bath . . . or a confessional.

I suddenly sober at the thought that this is my punishment; I follow
that disturbing notion with another batch of vomit.  Consider it an
exercise in self-exorcism.

"I can't fix this, Colonel."

"We need to get you back to Janet."

"You are badly injured, O'Neill."

Masters of Understatement . . . and just when my thoughts are
beginning to fragment.

"You guys . . . suck . . . at this," I manage.

Daniel flinches and bites down on his lower lip.  Oh, crap.  I've
hurt his feelings.  I'm laying here dying, slowly and by the half-
frozen ounce, and Daniel gets all bent out of shape?  Considering
the condition of my legs, I chuckle at the irony, then begin to
cough.

The light above me fades slightly and everything on the edges of my
vision shimmers and blurs.  I feel my body shift into neutral as it
prepares to pass out on me.

This is not good.

Carter is staring at my legs so hard, I can almost see the
word `splint' reflected in each of her glassy, blue eyes.  Teal'c is
deep in thought, obviously sizing me up for a woodchipper.  Daniel's
bottom lip is mere seconds from being gnawed completely through, and
honest to God, I think he may be gearing up for a good cry.

As I watch the infinite darkness close like an iris in front of me,
I realize, too late, two very important things:  (1) the hyena
analogy was smack-on, and (2) you should never hurt the feelings of
someone who may be carrying you home.

This is SO not good.

* * *

This time I wake up screaming, and I have to tell you, if offered
the choice between coughing and screaming, I'll choose coughing
every time.  Although oftentimes screaming will lead to coughing, it
doesn't work the other way around.  Hence, coughing over
screaming . . . every time.

Carter and Teal'c are pulling my leg – literally.  Well, Carter has
a death grip on my thigh; Teal'c is the one doing the actual
pulling.  Even in the midst of a most unmanly yell of pain, the
irony of a stoic alien pulling my leg isn't lost on me.

Daniel is still chewing his lip, which is now bleeding, but I think
he's over his hurt feelings.  He keeps rubbing my arm and murmuring
things like `you're doing great,' `you're going to be fine.' 
Frankly, I think we both know he's lying through his bloody lip.

Just when I think I can't take any more, I feel a gut-wrenching snap
deep inside my leg and the pulling stops.

"Sick," I announce, and then I am.  At least this time there's not
much of a mess.

"Okay, sir, I'm going to splint it."

I swear, ever since Carter got that little taste of doctoring on our
trip down south, she's been hankering for one of us to break a limb
just so she can perfect her technique.  And while she does seem to
have improved somewhat, delicate hands do not a gentle touch make. 
She tugs and grunts and wraps until I'm dripping in sweat and my
empty stomach is flipping around on itself.

"You going to be sick again, Jack?"

I glance up at Daniel.  A thin stream of blood is running from the
corner of his mouth down his chin.  I move my head once from side to
side, and attempt to catch my breath.  God, where's the damn
morphine?

"How's the pain, sir?  The morphine should have kicked in by now."

I frown at her.  She's shitting me, right?  Right?

Brushing a strand of blonde hair from her eyes, she smiles and pats
my splinted, throbbing leg.  "That should do it."

I groan and close my eyes in relief.

"One down, one to go," she pronounces.

What?  I gasp and try to sit up.  "No."

Okay, here's something you may not know:  behind all the bravado and
the P90, just to the rear of the never-ending stream of insults and
the whining, lurks the heart of a coward.  Teal'c and Sam are
shifting positions, moving towards my other tribute to an amazing
quarterback cut down in his prime.

"Stop," I order.

I look at my twisted, broken, bleeding limb.  I think it will heal
just fine on its own.  Given time.  That's all I need, just a little
time.  Speaking of which – even funnier than how it tends to slip
away, is how it doesn't when you need it to.

"I promise I will try as little as possible to hurt you."  I stare
at Teal'c, who is wearing a mantle of new fallen snow, and wonder
just how he meant that.

"Leave it.  Doc'll do it."

"Colonel, you know we can't do that."

"Yes.  You can."

"No.  We can't."

"Can!"  I grab Daniel's sleeve for emphasis, trying to pull myself
up to glare at Carter.  "Please.  I'm begging you."  Just in case
they couldn't tell.

Carter blinks slowly, a sign that she's about to give me my way. 
Biting my lip Danny-style, I huff softly in disbelief when I see her
nod her head at Teal'c and grab my thigh.

"No!"

*

Seems the third time really is the charm.  I wake up sweating. 
Sweating beats coughing and screaming, hands down.  Oh, and I'm
rocking.  Or being rocked.

How many ways can a woodchuck wake up if a woodchuck could upchuck?

My lips are numb.  My legs hurt, but my lips are numb.  And my
eyelids don't work.  Always wondered how the morphine knew where to
go.  Answer: it doesn't.

S'okay.  I'll make lists while I wait.

Groceries needed: beer; canned soup – anything but chicken noodle
which reminds me of worms which reminds me of snakes; hot dogs.

Chores needed doing: clean out fridge – ask Carter if sour cream can
sour; mow lawn; clean under toilet seat before anyone other than me
has a chance to lift the lid – what are those little brown spots
anyway?  No, I don't want to know.

Chocolate covered raisins . . . add to grocery list.  Teal'c loves
those things.  Caramel flavored rice cakes for me – don't tell
Daniel because when he forced one on me I told him it tasted like
styrofoam packing material dipped in cheap syrup.

Ways to die: two – one of which is poorly.

Do laundry – down to my last pair of boxers which I may have messed
when sliding down cliff.

Ways to live: two – one of which is poorly.

Don't forget the hot dog buns!

Reasons to die: lots – none worth mentioning.

"Guys, I think he's waking up."

At Daniel's words, the rocking stops and I feel like I'm on the
world's shortest elevator ride.  Something firm, the ground I think,
touches my butt, my back, my legs.  God, my legs!  But, hallelujah,
my eyes work.  Sweating, I stare up at my team.

Reasons to live: lots – three worth mentioning.

"Sir?  Colonel, can you hear me?"  Carter touches my face, frowning.

It's still snowing.  "Kansas?"

She smiles over at Daniel and back down at me.  "No, sir.  We're not
in Kansas any more."

"Milk."

"What?"  Daniel laughs softly.

I need milk.  At the store.  "Hurts."

"Yeah, Jack, I know."

No, I don't think he does.  None of them do.  Despite my own best
efforts not to, I moan . . . loudly.  The sound is obscene and
disturbs even me.  Maybe especially me, since only I know that I do
NOT whine.  Daniel is gnawing his lip again and Carter's hands
flutter helplessly over the sleeping bag in which I'm laying.

"I'm not sure I should give you any more morphine yet."

"Yes . . . you should," I groan and feel my body begin to thrash,
despite knowing it's going to hurt to do so.  If she doesn't hand
over the hard stuff, I think I'm gonna have to kill her.  Or
myself.  God.  I try to lay still, but the urge to escape the pain
that is crawling up my legs is overwhelming.  I begin to fidget,
then gasp in relief when I see Carter digging in her med kit for the
little vial.  As much as I hate asking for the drug, I'd hate
bawling like a baby or wetting myself from the pain even more.

Seconds later, my eyes squeezed shut against the agony that's
consuming me from the legs up, I feel the blessed sting of the tiny
needle in my right thigh.  It suddenly dawns on me that we must be
getting injured more often than I thought, because Carter's getting
way too adept with a hypodermic.  Either that, or she's developed a
personal habit that I don't want to know about.

Add to grocery list: 12-pack of Dr. Pepper, and Diet Pepsi with
vanilla for Teal'c.

"Sorry," my numb lips move without my realizing it.

Daniel leans over me, partially blocking the soft flakes of falling
snow.  "What are you sorry for, Jack?"

I feel slightly breathless and recognize it as a sign of the drug
kicking in.  "Big . . . mess."

He smiles.  Daniel's got a smile that makes him look about 18.  And
he's been known to use it to his advantage.  "Yeah.  Well, it's what
we do best.  Actually, I'm glad you decided to carry the ball this
trip.  Seems like lately, I've been doing all the work around here. 
If I spend any more time in the infirmary, Janet's going to think
I've got a thing for her."

Janet.  Doc.  I flinch as a sharp dagger of pain spears past the
cloak of the drug, surprising me with its intensity.  God, I wish
Fraiser were here right now.

"Yeah.  Me, too, Jack."

Huh?  I said that out loud?

He and Carter both laugh softly.  "Don't worry, Colonel, we won't
tell her."

Add to chores:  Hose off garage floor – pretty sure Cassie's dog
barfed up something toxic last time I dog-sat.

Carter and Daniel exchange a worried look.

"Jack?  You okay?"

Note to self: quit thinking out loud.  Team thinks I've lost it.

* * *

Okay.  This is getting old.  This time I wake up swearing.

I suppose it's too much to ask to peacefully awaken in my own bed
doing nothing worse than wiping sleep from my eyes.  But damn, to
wake up with someone shoving something up my . . . well, to be
perfectly frank, my appendage?  That's a bit over the top, even for
Doc.

Turns out, that's the good news.  Bad news is, morphine has gone bye-
bye.

"Shit."

"Colonel?  Sir?  Do you know where you are?"

She's kidding, right?  Only two people have ever touched me there
and lived, and Sara's not here, so this has got to be the
infirmary.  I groan and try to pry myself away from a particularly
disturbing pair of hands doing something that I think is illegal in
the state of Colorado.

"I need you to open your eyes for me."

Why?  What do my eyes have to do with my . . . .

"Aagh!"  I'm suddenly staring up at her and trying unsuccessfully to
fight off a platoon of Janet Fraiser-wannabe's.

"Calm down, Colonel.  I know you're in pain, that this is
uncomfortable, but we'll be done before you know it."

Right.  And my mother was the Pope.

I stop fighting.  Not because she told me to, but because I'm in
pain, short of breath and exhausted, and I think I'm going to puke
again.

"Easy.  Easy.  You're going to be fine.  Just fine."

Yeah?  Who died and made you CMO?

"Sir, can you tell me where you're in pain?"

Poor sentence structure there, Doc.  Biting my lip, I consider the
alternative ways in which to respond to her question.  Then, due to
the fact that I'm gasping for breath at the agony engulfing the
lower half of my body, I decide to skip the grammar lesson for
today.  When in doubt, keep it short and to the point.

"Chest down."

She smiles a little, then frowns when she realizes I'm not kidding
and immediately starts barking out orders, and rattling off letters
and numbers that sound eerily like Stargate destinations.  Carter
says the reason doctors speak in abbreviations is because it saves
times.  I say it's so we won't see it coming – `it' being long
needles and other instruments of torture.  I mean, after all, who
but an expert in the art of `coercive manipulation' would have
invented something like a catheter?

And while I'm in pain and rambling, I'll share another of my little
theories: gate travel is hazardous to your health.  Whether at the
hands of the Goa'uld themselves, or through the effects of too much
travel through a wormhole, or bringing back a contagion of some
sort, or merely from too many MRI's and x-rays due to off-world
accidents, I believe the Stargate is going to screw us all in the
end.  And I'm not just talking about those of us who work at the
mountain.  I mean ALL.

So, once again, I'm being poked and prodded and shot through with
radiation and shoved into a too small, ear-rattling tunnel.  And
that's on this side of the gate.  Doc must have an entire room
devoted to nothing but pictures of the inside of my calloused,
battle-scarred anatomy.  It's a shame they can't recycle those
films.  Or can they?

Suddenly feeling the effects of something Fraiser has injected into
my bloodstream, I chuckle at the thought of Farmer Brown being x-
rayed for a stomach ailment and the doctor finding shadows of
Hathor's Goa'uld wrapped around Farmer Brown's spine.  Guess it
would go something like:

`So, Farmer Brown, tell me again what the problem is?'

`Well, Doc, Momma made some new recipe for chitlins she done clipped
out of the latest edition of the Daily Gazette, and ever since I ate
me some I've had the strangest feelin' in my gut.'

`Well, Farmer Brown, take a look at this x-ray.'

`Holy shit, Doc!  What the hell is that?'

`That, Farmer Brown, is either an undigested chitlin' or a snake has
crawled up your ass and shed its skin.'

I laugh at the mental picture.  Maybe I should talk to Hammond about
sending our old films back east . . . say to D.C.

"Hold still, sir.  It'll be over soon and then you can sleep."

"Sound like . . . old girlfriend."

I hear laughter.

Holy crap!  Did I actually say that?

"You certainly did, sir."

I glance up at a young nurse who's leaning over me, fiddling with
some piece of equipment out of my line of sight.  I'm pretty sure
she wasn't even born when I enlisted, but she's cute and looks
nice.  Like somebody's little sister.  She's very, "Pretty."

"Well, thank you, Colonel."  She blushes and grins over at someone
else that I can hear moving around across the room.  "You . . .
uh . . . you're not so bad yourself."

"Too . . . old."  Is it getting hot in here?

"I beg to differ, sir."  She leans close and smiles softly.  "You
look just about right to me."

Yeah.  Definitely hot in here.

Someone curses softly.  Another woman – the one somewhere across the
room.  She mutters something about being doped up and taking
advantage.

"Judy says I'm taking advantage of you, sir.  What do you think?"

Any other time, I'd say go for it.  But, right now, I "feel . . .
weird."  I'm having a bit of trouble breathing and I suddenly
realize the heat I'm feeling has nothing to do with my groin and the
Dirty Old Man Syndrome.

My young flirt is suddenly serious, her brow creasing
slightly.  "Sir, what's wrong?"

I'm too busy to answer; I'm watching her head do a slow 360 degree
spin.

"Colonel?"  She touches me on the shoulder.  "Judy, something's
wrong.  Get Dr. Fraiser in here."

* * *

"Get out of town."

"I'm serious."

"Sam, come on.  You really expect me to believe that?"

"Whether you believe it is irrelevant, Daniel.  It's true."

"Says you."

"Yes.  Says me."

Their bickering stops and I feel myself dropping back under the veil
of drugged sleep.  Somewhere behind the fuzziness, a dull throb
hints of pain to come.

"Does not," Daniel mumbles.

"Does."

"Does no–"

"Shut up," I order, at the expense of my throbbing head and dry
mouth.

"Colonel?"

I hear movement and someone drops a hand onto my arm.  Squinting
against the overhead lights, I blink up at them as Daniel hits the
call button and asks for Janet.

"What year is this?"

Carter laughs softly and I give her a glare with what are most
likely dilated eyes.

"I'm serious."  I am.  I was having the weirdest dream that it was
1969, and SG-1 was on a neon-colored bus with two hippies.  I was
wearing a leather jacket, and there was a haze of smoke in the air –
something sweet with an herbal twist.

"It's 2004, Jack."

2004?  That can't be right.

"You slept through New Year's, sir."

Crap!  And for the first time in three years I'd had plans for
welcoming in the new year.  A real date that included dinner and a
movie.  Now, the only hangover I have is morphine-induced, and any
toe-curling will be the result of cramps in my healing limbs. 
Dammit!  This is not a good way to start the year.

"Colonel, welcome back."

I grunt at Doc, still peeved at discovering that I've missed out on
what may be the only date I'll have until spring – if I'm lucky.

"How do you feel?"

"Like crap if you must know."

"O-kay," she forces a smile, then frowns over at Daniel and
Carter.  "Want to elaborate on that?"

"No."  I attempt to turn my back to her, but having two legs in
casts, an IV in my left arm, and all my nerve-endings misfiring due
to the narcotics in my system make my efforts half-assed and
ineffective.

"Sir," she grabs my arm, stopping my movements and untangling the
clear IV tubing, "please lay still.  Now," she raises the head of my
bed slightly, "what's the problem?"

"The problem is, I was sleeping until these two started yammering
back and forth like an old married couple."  I jerk my arm away from
her touch and turn my head towards the wall, trying not to notice
that Carter and Daniel look like I've slapped them.

I see Doc frown at them.  Daniel ducks his head and Carter smiles
and shrugs – a sure sign than I'm telling the truth.

"Okay, sir, I promise to make them behave.  Now, are you in any
pain?  Do your legs hurt?"

She's shitting me, right?  Do my legs hurt?  I don't even bother
answering.  I'll save my breath until someone asks me something that
actually deserves a response.

"Okay."

"Three," I grumble.

"Excuse me?  Three what?"

I look at her.  "That makes three times you've said `okay.'  Not
that anyone is keeping track."

She frowns again – also for the third time, I might add.  "Are you
oka--alright, Colonel?"

I sigh.  I don't know why I'm so pissed off.  It's not really
anything they've done and I don't think it's because I missed one
date.  Maybe it's fumes from the bus dream, or maybe it's hormonal
and I'm just overly horny.  If I weren't so drugged, I'm certain
we'd all know for sure.  "I have a headache and I want to be left
alone."

Doc's mouth opens, getting ready to form the `o' word again, then
she closes it and simply nods instead.  "Fine."

She adjusts something on the IV and I know from experience that I'm
going to be feeling all squidgy and wonky very soon.  Obviously
feeling daring, she pats my arm and turns to go, pointing a finger
at Daniel and Carter and whispering, "quiet or out."  They nod and
settle back down in the chairs along my bedside.

I try to get comfortable, but it's a little difficult when you have
trouble moving.  And, they're staring.  Even with my eyes shut, I
can feel them watching me.

I force myself up onto my elbows and glare at them both.  "What?"

Daniel's mouth opens and shuts.

Carter swallows.  "I . . . uh . . . maybe I should go."  She stands
up and without turning her back to me, makes her way to the
door.  "I'll just . . . uh . . . I'll just check in on you later,
sir."

"Fine."  I look at Daniel.

"I'll just sit here . . . quietly."  He crosses his legs and leans
back, staring up at the ceiling, then glancing at me.

I lay back against the pillows and shut my eyes.  Doc's little
cocktail is beginning to permeate my bloodstream and I'm just about
asleep when Daniel clears his throat.

"Jack?"  His voice is quiet, or maybe it's the drugs affecting my
hearing.

"Mmm?"  I sink deeper into the bed, oblivion within my reach.

"Sam says you play with dolls."

I'm headed back into the hazy, neon, 60's dream.  I open my mouth to
respond, but a soft groan is the best I can manage.

Daniel laughs, despite being alone in the room with a man who is
technically a vegetable.  "She says Barbie and Ken are cuddled up on
your living room sofa even as we speak."

There's a long pause. If he's waiting on me, he's going to be here a
while.  Right now, I can't tell my lips from my asshole, let alone
form a coherent thought.

"So, she's lying . . . right?  Jack?"

* * *

"Jack, what do you think you're doing?"

Crap!  He surprises me and I almost lose my already precarious
balance.  It also does nothing to alleviate the fine sheen of sweat
that has broken out on the upper half of my body.  Stumbling, I grab
onto the nearest wall and lean against it.  Over the sound of my own
panting, I hear him rush forward and feel him grab my arm in an
effort to hold me up.

"God, Daniel.  You scared the living daylights out of me."

"Sorry.  I thought you Special Ops guys had eyes in the back of your
head."

"We do.  But only in the presence of the enemy or foxy chicks."

"Foxy chicks?"  He sounds incredulous.

"What?  You think I don't notice?"

"No.  It's not that.  I just . . . you do know what century you're
living in, right?  I think `foxy chicks' went out with lava lamps
and bell-bottomed pants."

I push myself upright and try not to think about the dull heat in my
low back and the tremendous weight settling onto the healing bones
beneath my casts.  "For your information, foxy chicks will never go
out of style.  As for lava lamps and bell-bottoms . . . been to the
mall lately?"

"Okay, Jack.  Whatever you say.  Now," he insinuates himself under
my arm and takes some of my weight, "let's get you back to bed.  If
Janet finds out you're doing this, she's going to kill you.  Or
worse."

He tries to lead me back across the room, but I've just spent the
better part of 15 minutes getting this far – at least 10 feet or so –
and I have to pee like a racehorse.  I tug him the other direction,
towards the bathroom.  "I need to take a leak."

"Okay.  So get back in bed and we'll get a nurse."

"No."

"Jack."

"Daniel."  We face off, staring at each other.  I'm hoping he
doesn't notice the sweat and the fact that I'm beginning to get the
shakes.  "Come on.  I'd like to see if I've still got what it takes
to pee standing up."

He snorts softly and tries to hide a smile.  "Okay.  But if you tell
Janet I helped you, I'm not recording any more `Simpsons' episodes
for you."

"Oh, trust me on this, I won't tell anyone that Dr. Jackson helped
me take a whiz."

Both of us cursing and grunting, we manage to get me into the
bathroom and standing in front of the john.  I grab onto the nearest
handrail and extricate myself from Daniel's grip.  My legs are
seriously throbbing now and I think I'm splitting the seams of my
bladder.  I'm not sure how much longer I can keep up the pretense
of `this isn't so bad.'

"Hey!"  I slap at Daniel's hand which is reaching for the drawstring
of my pants.  "Do you mind?"

"What?  I'm not leaving you in here by yourself."

"Uh . . . yes.  You are."  I'm not sure what's going to give first –
my pride, Daniel's stubborn streak, my shattered legs, or my
kidneys.  Speaking of which, "If you don't leave, I'm going to tell
Doc that I think the low back pain you're suffering might have
something to do with that punch to the kidney you took."

"What are you talking about?  My back's not hurting and I didn't
take a punch to the . . .," he stammers his way into silence at my
tight smile.  "Oh."  He stares at me a second, then backs out of the
bathroom.  "Fine.  Be an ass.  God knows you're experienced at it."

Sweating profusely and in pain, I struggle to urinate.  Every time I
have to go – which is far too often – I'm reminded of Tom Hanks
in `The Green Mile.'  It's been nearly two weeks since my tumble,
but peeing still hurts like a son-of-a-bitch thanks to a badly
bruised kidney.  At least my urine has faded from the freakish fire
engine red to a slightly feminine pinkish hue.  I'm beginning to
wish I'd just buzzed for the nurse like Daniel suggested.  Better
yet, like in the movie, maybe Teal'c could just grab my crotch and
miraculously heal me.

Finally finished, leaning heavily on the rail, I make myself
presentable and wash my hand, before dropping down onto the toilet
with a groan.  My legs are seriously throbbing and I can tell
they're beginning to swell inside the casts.  I'm not supposed to be
putting any weight on them, but climbing into a wheelchair just to
get across the room is stupid . . . well, it seemed that way at the
time.  Shaking, I lean over against the cool sink, waiting for a
wave of nausea and weakness to pass.

"You okay in there, Colonel Butthead?" Daniel hollers through the
closed door.

I wipe sweat from my forehead and take a shaky breath.

"Jack?"  The door pops open and Daniel peeks inside.  "Shit."  He
disappears momentarily, then returns to squat down in front of me,
shaking his head.  "You stupid jerk, you're white as a ghost."

"And you wear too much aftershave.  Come on," I hold out a trembling
hand, "help me up."

He merely shakes his head.  "Not on your life.  You look like you're
going to pass out.  We're waiting right here."

I frown.  "For what?"

I jump at the sound of Doc's angry voice.  "What the hell do you
think you're doing?"  She storms into the bathroom and kneels down
next to Daniel.

What a picture this makes – me on my porcelain throne with my
subjects kneeling before me.  Even sick, I can't help but smile.

"It's not funny, sir."

But it is . . . a little.

"Dammit, Colonel."  She's feeling my toes and pressing a hand to my
forehead.  Shaking her head, cursing under her breath, she leaves
the throne room without so much as genuflecting.

Daniel chuckles softly.  "Oh, you've done it now."

Before I can work up a snappy response, the room is filled with Dr.
Napoleon and her army of nurses, one of whom is pushing the dreaded
wheelchair.  I groan as I'm wedged into the chair and rolled out of
the room.  They wheel me over to the side of the bed.

Doc slams a hand down onto my shoulder.  "And don't even try to
stand up, mister.  We'll do the work.  Daniel, give us a hand."

"Sure."  Still smiling, he helps them lift me up onto the bed.  In
fact, the little sicko actually seems to be enjoying this.

Who would have thought a trip to the head could be such a big deal? 
I suddenly get the feeling that if I live long enough, this little
scene will replay itself in some Knotty Pines Nursing Home deja vu
scenario.

"So, Janet," Daniel grins, "I didn't think you were going to let
Jack up on his feet for a few more weeks."

Fraiser huffs and shoves pillows under my legs with what I consider
to be unnecessary roughness.

Leaning back onto the bed, exhausted and hurting worse than I'll
ever admit, I force all emotion from my face and voice.  "Doc, I
really think you should check on Daniel.  I know, I know," I hold up
a hand to my teammate as if to forestall any arguments.  "I promised
I wouldn't say anything, but . . . I really think you're hurt worse
than you're letting on."

Daniel's mouth drops open as Fraiser turns on him.  I have to say
that despite being in agony, I'm quite pleased with myself.

* * *

The sun is hot against my eyelids but there's a gentle breeze that
leaves a soothing coolness in its wake.  I awaken without moving,
listening to the sounds of the birds scrabbling around the feeder
and a group of kids two houses down screaming as they splash and
play in my neighbor's swimming pool.  I breathe through my nose,
savoring the scents of roses and lilacs and a hint of slightly burnt
hamburgers a la Jaffa.  There's a soft buzz near my right ear, and I
know it's a bee drawn to the roses.  I'm not worried.  Mosquitos
love me, but for some reason bees and wasps steer clear.  Must be
something in my Irish blood – too much beer most likely.  Something
soft and slightly warm brushes across my forehead, settles there for
a mere two seconds, then moves away.

"Why do you keep doing that?"  I open my eyes in time to see her
flinch, then she smiles softly and settles into a chair across from
me.

"Sorry.  Habit."

"I broke my legs, Doc, not my head."

"This time."  She sips her beer, her forehead wrinkling.  "Besides,
we still need to keep a close eye on your . . ."

"Wee-wee?" I finish for her.

She chuckles.  "Is that the layman's term for it?"  I shrug.  "Well,
anyway, remember . . . drink lots of water.  No alcohol of any kind."

"Yes, mom."

"I'm serious."

"Yeah, I know."

"Daniel will be keeping a close eye on you.  And stay off those
legs.  You're allowed to go from the bed to the sofa to the
bathroom . . . with Daniel's help.  That's it."  I nod.  "And if I
find out you're even thinking about going up on your roof, I'll
break your other leg."

"Hey!"  Considering both my legs are already broken, I instinctively
cover my crotch with my hand.  "Hostile work environment."

She blinks innocently.  "Why, Colonel, we're not at work, now are
we?" she says in her best Scarlet O'Hara voice . . . which sucks by
the way.  Then, she reverts to the tough Air Force doctor, "Besides,
if you tell anyone I said that, I'll deny it.  And I think we both
know who they'll believe."

Damn.  She's good.

Two hours later, after everyone but my babysitter leaves, I hobble
inside to the sofa.  Daniel is sitting on one end of it fiddling
with something.  He glances up as I sink down into the cushions.

"You okay, Jack?"

"Uh-huh."  I lean back and shut my eyes, wondering why the first day
out of the infirmary is always so exhausting.  But other than being
tired and Doc's threat to my manhood looming over my . . . head, I
feel pretty good.  My legs ache a little, but not much; the worst is
my low back – the heated throbbing low on the right side seems to
have settled in for the long haul.

"Can I get you anything?  Dammit."  He mutters something I can't
make out and I look over at him.  He's frowning intently down at his
hands.

"What the hell are you doing?"

He blushes and looks up at me.  "Uh . . ."

"Are you doing something naughty, Dr. Jackson?"  I laugh softly
until I see the look of guilt on his face, and then I sit up
straighter.  "What?  Or do I not want to know?"

"Well . . . um . . .," he grins sheepishly then finally,
reluctantly, holds up a headless Barbie doll in one hand and a tiny
head in the other.  "For crying out loud, what did you do?"

"I busted her."

"No shit, Sherlock."  I shake my head in disgust and hold out my
hand.  "Give it here."

He scoots down the sofa and hands it over.

"What the hell?"  Barbie is wearing what I know for a fact is Ken's
best business suit.  I look at Daniel accusingly.

"I didn't do it.  Sam did."  Smiling, he reaches behind his back and
pulls out Ken all decked out in a hot little off-the-shoulder
evening gown.

"You guys are sick.  You know that, right?"

"Us?"

"Yes.  You."  I pop Barbie's head back in place, glancing over at
him.  He looks uncomfortable.  "Don't worry about it.  These things
always pop off.  See."  I hold her up.  "Good as new."

Daniel snorts and leaves the room.  "Want anything from the kitchen?"

"Beer."

"No.  Anything else?"

I curse at him under my breath and strip off the tiny suit, then
undress Ken.  The dress is much easier – fewer snaps on the back.  I
put the little eunuch back in his suit.  When Daniel returns with a
cup of coffee for himself and a glass of tap water for me, Barbie's
mostly decent.  He sits down next to me as I slide the single
spaghetti strap up on a smooth, round shoulder.

"You seem to be very good at that, Jack."

"Thanks."  Holding the two dolls in one hand, I sip my
water.  "Think I'll take a nap."

Daniel's staring at the dolls.  "Yeah.  Good idea."

I set the glass and the toys on the coffee table and grab my
crutches.  Daniel suddenly rouses to help me.  By the time we reach
my bedroom, I'm more than ready for one of Janet's little happy
pills.  It must be obvious because as soon as I'm settled on the
bed, Daniel hands me one with a glass of water.  I swallow it
without protest and sink back onto the bed.  My bed . . . home.  I
sigh in relief and thank him.

"No problem."  He walks to the door and stands there, playing with
the doorknob.

"Something wrong?"

"No.  I just . . ."

"What?  Spit it out."

"Do you babysit your neighbors' kids?"

I punch my pillow and snuggle down into it.  "Why would I do that? 
Actually, when would I do that?"

He shrugs.  "I don't know."

I shut my eyes but can feel him still standing there.  "Is that all?"

"Hmm?  Oh.  Yeah.  Have a good nap."

***

"Ha!"  I move the rook and give Daniel my `Groucho Marx with a
cigar' eyebrow wiggle.  "Checkmate."

"Huh?"  Daniel studies the board.  "Crap.  How'd that happen?"

I reach across the table and snag his beer, getting in two swigs
before he notices and takes it away from me.

"That happened because you've had your head up your butt all
evening."

He nods and begins putting away the pieces.

"Something wrong?"  He doesn't seem to hear me.  To tell the truth,
I'm beginning to worry.  Anything that can shut up Dr. Jackson for
very long must be serious.  "So, Daniel, that little artefact you
picked up on our last trip . . . you know, that statue thingy that
you were rattling on about when I took my nosedive?  Have you
figured out what it is yet?"

He rearranges the game pieces in the small wooden box and fits the
chessboard on top.

"Daniel?"  Okay, now I'm scared.  "Hey!"  I grab his wrist, stopping
him.

"Wha–," he jumps like I've slapped him, then seems to come
around.  "Oh, sorry.  What?"

"What's going on?"

"Nothing."  He laughs softly.  "Really.  I just . . . Jack, can I
ask you something?"

"Shoot."  I make a subtle move towards the beer, but he's set it out
of my reach.

"Do you . . . do you want to play something else?"

I frown at him.  "That's your question?"

He shrugs.  "I just thought, you know, you might want to play
something other than chess."

Okay.  This guy is beginning to seriously freak me out.  "What'd you
have in mind?  But I'm warning you, if you say `Operation'
or `Twister,' I'll zat you."  He laughs a little at that then
blushes slightly, which worries me more than his being
quiet.  "Daniel, please tell me you don't want to play spin the
bottle with me."

"I don't want to play spin the bottle with you."

"Thank God."  I sigh and stretching, snag the beer.  I sip it
leisurely and he lets me.

"I thought you might want to . . .," he hesitates, then reaches for
something under his chair.  "I mean, do you want to . . ."  He sets
Barbie and Ken in the middle of the table.

I wait, but he just sits there, staring at me.

"Do I want to . . . what?  Play dolls?"

He says "yeah" so softly I wouldn't have heard him if I hadn't been
watching his lips.

"What the hell are you . . .," and then I remember waking up to the
argument in the infirmary and Daniel saying that Sam had accused me
of playing with dolls.  Suddenly, I laugh.  Hard.  If I weren't half-
covered in plaster, I'd probably be rolling on the floor.  My eyes
are watering and my stomach muscles are beginning to ache.

"What?"

His slightly offended tone sets me off again.

"Jack?  What's so funny?"

Out of breath, my back throbbing in protest, I fight for
control.  "You think I . . . you think that I sit around during my
downtime and play with these?"

"Well," he shrugs, "why else would you have them laying around?  You
admitted you don't babysit or anything.  I mean, it's . . . well, if
they're not yours, whose are they?"

"I didn't say they weren't mine."  I force the grin off my face.

"Then . . ."

I frown, put on my `serious' face, and count to ten.  "Oh God,
Daniel," I moan and cover my face with my hands.  "What am I going
to do?"

I don't know.  How about . . . thank God for high school drama
classes?

"Jack?"  At the seriousness in his voice, I sniff back a laugh.  He
drops a hand onto my arm.  "It's okay.  Everything will be fine."

No, it won't.  I'm dying here.

"I'm . . . I'm glad it was you, Danny.  I mean, if anyone else had
found out, I just . . . I'm kind of relieved.  I'm not sure how much
longer I could keep up the pretense.  You know?"

"I know.  I know."

He does?

"Jack?  What . . . what exactly did I find out?"

Good question.  I rock slightly, trying to ease a cramp building in
my left leg.

"It's okay, Jack.  Whatever it is, you can tell me."

Yeah?  But maybe not without laughing.  "I . . . I . . ."

He's moved around the table and is standing next to me, patting me
on the back.  I swallow another giggle.

"Sshh.  It'll be all right.  We'll work through this.  Together."

"You won't hate me?"

"Hate you?"  He sounds stunned.  "I could never hate you, Jack. 
You're my best friend."

Oh, yeah?  You might want to get back to me on that.  "Promise?"

"I swear."

"Cross your heart?"

"Jack, I promise.  Now, come on.  Talk to me."

"Okay."  I sniff again and wipe my eyes.  "It's just . . . it's
just . . . Teal'c didn't understand the whole `missionary' thing and
I thought . . . well, I thought, there's no way I want to watch a
porn movie with him.  There'd be way too many things I'd have to
explain – some of which I don't even understand myself, to tell you
the truth.  This just . . . it seemed like a good idea at the time. 
And I . . .," I sit up and look at him, smiling.

I watch Daniel go through several transformations – confusion,
disbelief, understanding, anger, horror, anger. . . .

"So, these were just to show Teal'c . . . stuff?"

I grin.  "Pretty cool, huh?"

Daniel blinks once, then stands up and tugs the beer bottle from my
grasp.  Without a word, he disappears into the kitchen and returns
with a glass of water which he sets in front of me.  He picks up the
chess game and returns it to the hall closet.  Then he goes back
into the kitchen.  I can hear him rattling dishes.

"Daniel?"

Nothing.

"Come on.  Don't be mad."

A cabinet door slams.  He returns and begins wiping off the table
with a damp rag.

"You promised you wouldn't hate me."

I see him glance at me.

"You swore."

He sighs and continues wiping.

"Okay.  Stop it.  Sit down and quit sulking."

He glares at me.  "I'm not sulking."

"Prove it.  Sit down and be sociable."

He sits down but doesn't look at me.  He toys with the rag.

"So, you want to watch TV or something?" I venture.

Nothing.

"You want to play a game?"

That gets his attention.  He looks up at me.

"How about a card game?"  Few people know just how much Daniel loves
to play cards.

"Poker?" he says softly, hopefully.

I nod.  "We could play poker.  But . . . I was thinking more along
the lines of, oh, I don't know . . . Old Maid?"

He huffs and turns a cold shoulder towards me.

"Go Fish?"

He stands up and stomps back into the kitchen.

"War?" I yell after him, laughing.

Six hours down, four weeks to go.  Let the games begin. . . .

<fin>