Title: The Drugged Out Strapped to the Bed Thing
Author: Karen (Kent)
Email: a_non_entity@hotmail.com
Status: complete
Sequel: none
Content Level: 13+
Season: 4
Pairings: none
Category: Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Angst, Missing Scene/Epilogue
Spoilers: Hathor, Need, Shades of Gray, Divide and Conquer
Warnings: Mention of drug addiction
Summary: Tag to Divide and Conquer- which doesn't include Sam except for a passing mention. Sorry 'shippers! But... that line of Jack's always had me wondering what he was referring to. This is my answer.
File Size: 105 KB

Jack knew he shouldn’t have said it.

Big mistake.

Complete stupidity.

He cursed himself.

But, when you’re stressed . . . okay, beyond stressed . . . when you think you’ve made the last important decision . . . hell, the last decision, period . . . you’re ever going to get to make, then you’re probably not really thinking straight.

Which was, actually, no excuse for letting go with comments above and beyond what was required. None whatsoever.

So, okay, he was trying to be dismissive. To make everyone feel okay with things – or as okay as anyone could be in the situation they were in. Trying to do the “Well, I really don’t matter, because everyone else will be okay, and if I don’t come out of things too well then, hey, no big loss,” sort of thing.

So, his mouth ran away with him, and, ‘I’ve done the drugged out strapped to the bed thing,’ just came burbling out after, ‘I’ll do it.’ No brain required. Typical O’Neill – engage brain when it’s too late. Dumb. Totally and utterly dumb. Christ, no one would believe he was actually Special Forces trained.

Actually had a brain.

According to his last CT scan.

On today’s evidence it had gone walkabout since then.

Either that or his common sense had slipped a few notches, and was now crawling around on the floor looking for a flea that might actually make better use of it.

Being stressed was no excuse at all.

Despite the fact that, at that point, it hadn’t seemed to matter much because he honestly thought he was going to die. Truly. And had just hoped that what happened to him would help Carter, somehow.

Yeah, well, great, . . . he didn’t die.

And he didn’t help Carter, either.

She helped him.

Them.

Nothing new there, then.

The Brains Trust strikes again.

Jack sat back in his chair, and stared morosely at the walls of his office. This overflowing of emotions, and spilling of feelings all over the place, was more stressful than facing a roomful of Goa’uld.

Unarmed.

And it had given him a king-sized headache.

And put him in a foul temper.

With himself.

And brought back some very unpleasant memories.

Which he deserved for opening his mouth and doing his impression of a first year cadet who hadn’t quite sorted out what the words Top Secret and Classified meant yet.

Goddammit.

‘I’ve done the drugged out strapped to the bed thing.’

Good one, Jack.

Like Mister Inquisitive was going to let that one go in a hurry.

Jack had seen Daniel’s face. Which had had questioning concern plastered all over it.

And now the situation was all over and resolved – mostly – he just knew Daniel was dying to ask him about that unguarded slip of the tongue.

Jack ground the heels of his hands into his eyes in an effort to push out the pain.

And failed.

Goddammit.

And then there had been the ‘I care for her a lot more than I’m supposed to,’ speech. For cryin’ out loud. Good job Daniel missed out on that little moment. If he couldn’t learn to express himself better than that he might as well stop writing mission reports right now. ‘I care for her a lot more than I’m supposed to.’ Yeah. Of course he did, she was a member of his team. And his team meant everything to him. Which was rather more personal than the Air Force liked. But stuff their regulations on team dynamics. His team were very, very special people to him.

So, of course he cared for Carter. Like he cared for Daniel. And like he cared for Teal’c. All right, NOT like Daniel, and NOT like Teal’c. They were each different. But . . . the primary point was he’d never leave any of them behind.

Ahh, crap.

Jack felt like hitting something.

Very hard.

His head against the wall would be a good start.

Continuously.

‘Til he was unconscious.

Then he wouldn’t have to deal with all the conflicting thoughts and memories running through his head, like frantic soda bubbles fizzing around after the top is taken off a well shaken bottle.

And it would certainly cure the headache.

For a while.

Doc had been trying to tell him she wanted to keep him in the infirmary, and he’d been absolutely certain she wasn’t going to. Partly because Carter was being kept in as a precaution overnight. Fraiser was a good friend to Carter, and Jack suspected that it was both professional and personal concern that had caused her to sign Carter in for a night’s observation.

Jack was uncomfortable spending a night in the vicinity of Carter after the day’s events. And once he’d ensured she was settled and sedated he’d left the infirmary. Against Doc’s wishes, but, Hell, she’d no real excuses to keep him.

He wasn’t punctured, virussed, broken, or otherwise battered in any incapacitated-so-I-can’t-defend-myself sort of a fashion. He’d only been zay whatevered a couple of times.

And had a pounding headache he’d stubbornly failed to mention.

And the resurrection of some pretty distasteful memories that were making him feel sick.

She’d been unable to find anything wrong with him, and he’d resisted with a growling pit-bullishly unfriendly act. And she’d let him go. Possibly understanding some of his reasons for wanting to leave, now that he knew Carter was well cared for.

But she didn’t know all of it.

Sometimes, Jack was aware, Doc gave him as much latitude, patience, and understanding as Hammond. And for that he was very, very grateful. Even if he knew he didn’t always show it.

But it wasn’t just being anywhere near Carter.

It was being in anything that even remotely resembled a medical facility. He absolutely knew that if Fraiser had tried, in any serious way, to keep him in overnight he would have flipped. Really given her reason to detain him. Under the Mental Health Act, probably.

Whether she’d sensed that he didn’t know, but she’d let him go.

Scrubbing his hands through his hair he abruptly found himself invaded by thoughts from the past. Stark memories of a bare white-washed room. A door with re-enforced meshed glass. Bright unshaded lights.

Ahhh, crap.

With an effort he wrenched himself back into the present, but still felt the chills running down his spine, the sweat forming across his forehead, and under his arms. The band of constricting pain tightening around his head. He hadn’t thought about that nightmare time in so long. So many other nightmares had overtaken it, swallowed it up in the cesspit of other charming and delightful moments in the Military Life And Times of Jack O’Neill.

But his unguarded comment as he’d agreed to be tested had disturbed his own mind. Opened it to memories that had been buried for so long. And now, like noxious swamp gas, they came bubbling to the surface.

And, suddenly, he had to escape. Get out. Find some fresh air.

Now.

++++++++

Jack was gone, and Daniel had missed him; having gotten caught up checking in on Sam again, and then snagged by the General who was dealing with the whole unpleasant and shocking incident in his capacity as head of the SGC. Sam was very distressed, needless to say, suffering from the trauma of having shot and killed Mahtouf. Daniel didn’t always consider himself to be the most observant person where things of a present-day nature were concerned, as opposed to things of a six-thousand-years-ago nature. But even he could tell that she had felt something more for Mahtouf than if he was just your casual, every day, walk in the park Tok’ra.

Thankfully, Jacob was around to help, and Janet Fraiser, who was a good friend to all of SG1 when they were not totally up to scratch. Daniel suspected Janet was going to need to be on hand for a while. There are certain things that a woman needs another woman for, in terms of support. Or her family. Which left Daniel at a loose end. And he’d gone in search of Jack, but Ferretti informed him he’d seen Jack heading out

Arriving at the security desk Daniel found a guard who looked relieved to see him.

‘Doctor Jackson. I’m pleased to see you. I was just going to phone down.’

‘For me?’ Daniel was confused. He rarely got calls from the security desk, as no one visited him here.

‘I know that Major Carter is . . . well . . ‘ the guard looked uncomfortable.

‘Yeah, right,’ Daniel nodded. ‘So what was it?’

‘Colonel O’Neill.’

‘Jack?’ Daniel’s worry antenna immediately picked up the signals. ‘What about him? I was told he’d gone home.’

‘Yes. That’s just it. When he left he didn’t look well, and then he nearly drove his truck into the security fence. He was driving very erratically, and I just thought I’d better tell someone.’

Jack had had a rough day, but he’d had rough days before without trying to total his truck against the fence.

Daniel thought back over the stressful events of the day, and Jack’s face swam in front of him. He recalled Jack’s words, spoken quietly, with resignation, yet determination. ‘I’ll do it.’

Daniel remembered the withdrawn expression and careless shrug, as Jack tried to dismiss what he was suggesting as if it was nothing. As if it didn’t matter that he might die. The eyes that had refused to look at anyone else in the room. Because everyone had known that Jack was sacrificing himself for a member of his team, as he always did. Stepping on to the parapet with a white flag pinned over his heart, knowing a sniper was watching and waiting. As he’d done so many times before. And up until then they had failed to shoot with fatal accuracy. But one day Jack’s luck was going to run out.

And everyone in the room had thought that this was going to be the moment. And from the tone of his voice, from the avoiding eyes, from the slumped shoulders, the clasped hands – Jack had thought it, too.

And the unguarded ‘I’ve done the drugged out strapped to the bed thing,’ only emphasised that. In the normal run of things Jack would never have revealed so much.

So . . . it had certainly not been a normal day. And Jack had certainly been under an inordinate amount of pressure. And had then compounded the worry Daniel had over that by trying to drive through a reinforced electrical fence.

‘Thanks,’ Daniel nodded. ‘I’m on my way out. I’ll go check on the Colonel at home.’

‘Right. I’ll just log it in the incident book, and say that I informed you then.’ The guard looked relieved. Probably thankful that he’d not had to contact Teal’c, or the General, Daniel smiled to himself as he left. He hoped Jack was okay.

********

Jack O’Neill sat in his truck staring at the side of his house. He’d shaken himself more than he’d realised with his erratic driving. His hands were shaking on the steering wheel, and he knew he was sweating. He could feel his heart pounding as if it was trying to escape his chest.

He thought he’d left all this behind him a long time ago. Flashbacks to Iraq were still something he had to live with, but even they were few and far between now. Too many other things had overtaken them. Charlie’s death, Kawalsky’s death, Frank Cromwell’s death, being Goa’ulded . . . so much.

Yet, as he’d tried to drive out of the SGC he hadn’t seen a barrier, he’d seen a road in Germany, blocked by a fallen tree. And he had reacted with the classic manoeuvre of trying to drive off the road. Because he now knew what that obstruction meant.

At the time, back then, he hadn’t.

Today, he’d come back to his senses just in time to skid to a halt and not crash through the protective fence. An incident that would have caused him lots of searching questions he wasn’t ready, or willing, to answer.

He’d driven the rest of the way home in a mist. Trying very hard to concentrate but finding his mind sliding back into the past as if it was on an downhill ice-skating rink, and he had no control over it.

That room was intruding into his mind once more. The scene of so much pain, back then. With white lights that speared his eyes. Stark walls that reflected the light with a harsh glare. A door with wire meshed protective glass. Behind which THEY’D stood.

And watched him.

Watched him fall apart.

Disintegrate before their eyes.

Jack could feel his breathing come in gulps as he tried to close his mind to the disturbing images. But he couldn’t. Trying to move, he found his hands had difficulty gripping the door handle, and once he’d forced his mind to concentrate hard enough to open it, his legs were like paper, and standing upright was uncertain. He was sure he was going to fold over and collapse right there in his driveway. Which would not do. He couldn’t. He COULDN’T do that. Not there. Inside he could keel over, look ill, sweat buckets, throw up, piss himself if he wanted to. But he WOULD NOT do it in his driveway in full view of the neighbourhood.

Even if it was heading towards dark, and most folks were comfortably ensconced in front of their televisions for the evening, paying no attention to the odd behaviour of the strange guy who dropped in, and stayed a while, before disappearing again for long periods of time.

Wobbling unsteadily, Jack made it to the front door, and finally focussed enough to get the key turned in the lock. And the next thing he knew he was slumped on the hall floor, back to the shut door.

His head was pounding. And he felt very, very sick.

******

Daniel stood on the porch, and tried hard not to think about the last time he’d stood here like this. Coming to talk to Jack O’Neill.

Tried not to think about how that visit had turned out. About what had been said. He understood the reasons Jack had said what he’d said. That hadn’t made it any easier to come to terms with. Daniel knew he was far too sensitive about such things. That he should just have shaken off the incident. But he hadn’t been able to.

He’d looked at Jack for so long afterwards searching for the grain of truth in what he’d said. ‘I guess you couldn’t relate to me, any more than I could to you.’ The merest grain, that would suggest that Jack O’Neill really had no true regard for the man who desperately wanted to consider him his best friend.

Jack O’Neill was the most private man Daniel Jackson had ever met. He said so much and yet, actually, said very little. He grumbled incessantly about trees, theories he had no use for, the weather, the Marines, his boots, Goa’uld system lords with the most fantastic powers of resurrection. Anything, indeed, except things of a personal nature. Anything in that domain he guarded so fiercely.

Yet today he’d slipped up. Said something revealing.

Then he’d tried to drive through a security fence.

Daniel was sure Jack could probably do with a friend.

Even if he wouldn’t admit it. Which he wouldn’t.

Even if he’d struggle to accept the hand offered. Which he would.

Even if he’d let Daniel in to the house. Which was debatable.

Daniel felt his fist freeze before it completed the action of knocking.

*******

Jack had been sitting in the darkness of the hallway. For a long time. He wasn’t sure how long. He’d lost track of time. Just knew it was a long time. As unpleasant memories sloshed around in his head like sewage.

He’d lost track of time. Just like he had when . . .

He was going to be sick.

Felt the bile rise in his throat, and threw himself in the direction of the bathroom

And after he’d thrown up everything in his stomach, he sat exhausted against the side of the bath, and waited for the sour taste to subside from his mouth, and the trembling in his arms and legs to settle. Oh, God! Why now? He hadn’t had this reaction in so long.

Stress. Delayed reaction to being zay whatevered. Who knew? The doctors had said there was no accounting for the things the mind will recall, or when it’ll choose to do so.

Crap.

He rested his head back, and decided that the only way to deal with this was to think it through, and then he could put it all back in its box and lock it away. Think about that time so many years ago now . . .

*******

He’d been so excited about getting leave. Three whole weeks. To spend with Sara, back home.

For five months his special assignment had been as one of the bodyguards to Senator Paul Brooks, formerly General Paul Brooks. The Senator had been part of a team taking part in hush hush talks in what was now the former West Germany. Jack now knew those talks had been crucial negotiations towards drawing together both East and West Germany. At the time, he’d just done his job, and been pleased as punch to get some leave. None of the team had had any leave in the five months he’d been on assignment, except the Senator’s unfortunate aide who had broken his leg a couple of months before.

‘So, going to go home, Jack?’

‘Yes, sir.’

Old habits die hard, and Jack just couldn’t stop calling his former commanding officer ‘sir’ despite the fact that he’d repeatedly asked Jack to call him Senator, Mister Brooks, and, recently, since he’d taken on the duties of aide, Paul.

Brooks had been Jack’s first CO. And he considered him the best CO he’d ever had. Brooks, on a visit to the Special Forces base where Jack was stationed had remembered him, and asked for him to transfer to his bodyguard team. Which was unusual, but Jack had been pleased by the request, and the variety the assignment offered.

Brooks smiled. ‘I bet Sara can’t wait to see you? Or Charlie.’

‘They’re really excited, sir. I spoke to them yesterday.’

‘Banners at the airport, that sort of thing?’

Jack laughed, ‘Yeah, probably. But, hey, it’s been a while.’

‘That it has,’ Brooks smiled. ‘You’ve earned the rest, Jack. Keeping me safe and well all this time.’

Jack laughed, ‘Not just me, sir.’

‘No,’ Brooks agreed. ‘But the others are all those FBI suit and tie guys. I needed someone else around me. Someone I could reminisce to, and be the old soldier.’

‘Ah.’

‘That’s why I asked for you, Jack.’ Brooks looked at him steadily. ‘You were a face I recognised, and all these months when I wanted to pretend I was still a general, and not a politician, I spouted off to you.’ He grinned, ‘You must have noticed?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Jaaack?’

‘Well, only occasionally, sir.’

They smiled at each other in the companionable way of acquaintances who knew each other well, but who would never be true friends.

‘Okay, have a good time, Jack. See you in three weeks.’

‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’

And he’d left.

Little guessing what was going to happen.

The nightmare that was about to unfold.

*****

Many, many, long and desperate weeks later, Sara told him how she had been completing the finishing touches to her cake, when the phone rang.

Rounding off the lettering to the words Welcome Home she’d scrubbed her hands on her apron before she picked up the receiver.

‘Hello?’

‘Mrs O’Neill?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m calling on behalf of the office of Senator Brooks. I’m afraid your husband’s leave has been cancelled at short notice.’ The disembodied voice shattered her plans at a stroke. ‘We are faced with a very tricky and delicate situation here, and I am sorry but your husband will be unable to contact you for the next week or so.’

Sara felt the tears well up. It had been so long, they had got so close, and now this. The unfairness of it burned her eyes and throat, and crushed her breath.

‘Mrs O’Neill?’

She released the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding, and barely prevented the tears from falling, too.

‘Mrs O’Neill?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m very sorry about all this. But it’s important you understand that you cannot try and contact your husband. Things are very tricky over here at the moment.’

‘Right.’ She WOULD NOT cry. ‘Yes, I understand.’

‘Fine. Thank you, Mrs O’Neill. Goodbye.’

She said goodbye in a choked voice, and it was only when she’d put the phone down that a barrage of questions thundered into her brain. Who had she been speaking to? What was happening? When would Jack get in touch? How long would she have to wait? Would he get leave when the crisis – whatever it was – was over?

There was no one to ask. And she’d promised not to ring.

Sitting there looking at the cake with the mocking Welcome Home written across the white icing, Sara felt the tears fall. She couldn’t help it. It was so unfair. Five months they’d been apart. And she’d been looking forward to these three weeks since Jack had first phoned with the news. It was not easy being a serviceman’s wife. The separations were so hard to cope with. But shatteringly sudden changes of plan like this were even harder.

She brushed the tears away with her fingers.

Oh, God! What was she going to tell Charlie? He’d been bursting with the news.

Oh, God! She hated her husband’s job.

******

Jack threw his bag into the back of the truck. He had plenty of time to get to the airport, and his mind was filled with thoughts of Sara, and Charlie. Being a husband and a father, if only for three weeks. But he would make every one of the minutes of those three weeks count for something. So that he could hold them like precious jewels, and admire them, and lose himself in their beauty, when it was over. Make them last for however long it took before he got leave again.

Which is probably why he wasn’t as alert as he should have been.

Only one stretch of his ride to the airport was along a shaded patch of road, and it was there that the tree blocked the way. Not a hefty tree – one that was sturdy, but easily moveable. But there was a car that looked as if it had careered into the tree, and a pregnant woman looking distraught at the side of the road.

With the benefit of hindsight, Jack knew, they’d obviously worked on the scenario for weeks. Blocked the road off behind him, to prevent further traffic until it was all over, that sort of thing. But that was later. Then, with his mind full of his wife and son, and how soon he would be with them, he simply didn’t think. Despite all his training, despite all the warnings, despite everything . . . he saw a woman in distress, and, exactly as they’d planned, he stopped.

Opened the truck door.

And got out to help.

******

And when he came to he was strapped to a wide table in the crucifix position, and all he could see were whitewashed walls, glaring lights, a door with re-enforced glass, and ceiling tiles.

That was his world.

No matter how far round he managed to crane his head to either side, or tilt it to try and see what was behind him.

That was all there was. Walls, ceiling, lights, door, floor, and the table to which he was strapped.

He tested the straps that held his wrists and upper arms. Nothing doing. Same with those that bound his ankles and thighs. Lifting his head slightly he could see further restraints across his chest and waist.

Crap.

Whoever had him, wanted him to stay put. Quite definitely. He was going absolutely nowhere.

All he could do was lie there and imagine who “they” might be. And what they might be going to do with him. And what they wanted.

And count ceiling tiles.

******

He had no idea how long he’d been lying there counting tiles, counting cracks in the walls, trying to count the small diamond shapes in the protective glass. He had lost track of time.

He had no idea how long he’d been unconscious strapped to the bed in the first place.

Had no idea if it was still Wednesday.

If Sara was waiting for him at the airport.

Shit.

Sara.

The pain of memory shot through him like a hot pointed needle.

How long would she stand and wait at the arrivals’ barrier before she realised he wasn’t coming through? What would she think? How long before she started to make enquiries? How long before they realised he was missing, and started to look for him?

How long?

How long?

A man in a white coat stepped through the door.

And Jack decided that however long it took, it would be too long.

******

Daniel gathered his courage, and knocked and waited. Wondered at the reception he might encounter. Unsure that O’Neill would even open the door. Was unsure he was even there. The house looked in complete darkness. Daniel wondered if his friend was up on the roof, watching the stars. That was often a refuge if he was feeling stressed or needed to get away from things. Daniel stepped back, and contemplated going up and checking. He knew where the steps were.

Decided that he’d knock again first.

Heard the sound echo through the house.

Dammit, Jack where are you?

The darkness worried him. If Jack was home he was sitting in the dark. If he wasn’t there then where was he, if his truck was still in the drive? Jack had no need to go out. Food was a pizza delivery away, entertainment a seat on the sofa in front of the television or video.

Was he asleep?

Daniel bit his lip, and tried to decide on the best course of action.

And decided to knock again.

One last time, before looking on the roof and possibly admitting defeat.

He made his assault a good one. If Jack was there he was going to have no excuse to say he hadn’t heard his friend at his front door.

*******

The man wore the stereotypical white lab coat, but instead of being faintly comical it was warningly sinister. As were his glasses, and slicked back hair.

Jack watched him approach and said nothing. Just waited.

‘Major O’Neill.’ The voice was quiet, authoritative, slightly accented on the vowel sounds. But only just.

Jack still said nothing. There was nothing he felt was worth the effort. He felt sure that whatever the man intended to do to him it wasn’t going to be pleasant, and that the man, in true stereotypical fashion, would tell him all about it if he waited long enough.

‘Welcome.’ The man gestured with his right hand at the bed on which Jack was held prisoner. ‘I regret this, but have no choice. I hope you understand that, Major.’

God, the man had even read the script. Required spy thriller dialogue – apologise to the victim, before torturing him, making him understand that given the choice the torturer was actually a family man with morals and ethics, and who wouldn’t be doing this, except that it was a necessary evil required of him by his government.

The man would probably even say how it was going to hurt him more than Jack.

Jack refused to respond. And tried hard not to watch as the man drew on a pair of protective gloves, and gestured to a man outside who carried a tray into the room.

Jack didn’t like what he saw on the tray.

And began to feel even more helpless and sick.

Hoped his face showed none of it.

‘Just in case you are curious, Major, this is heroin.’

Jack truly hoped his face wasn’t showing the stomach churning fear he was feeling.

Torture, deprivation, interrogation – these were all things he’d been trained to cope with.

This . . . this was . . . different.

Hellish.

‘You have been working with Senator Brooks.’ It was a statement, not a question, and Jack did not respond.

‘The Senator is involved in delicate negotiations. Negotiations the people I work for would rather see go no further.’

The man tapped the side of the syringe, and Jack could do nothing but watch, fascinated, as he expelled a fraction of the liquid which fell onto the floor in shiny mesmerising drops.

‘You have been working for the Senator for some while.’ He rubbed one gloved hand alongside Jack’s left elbow. Jack flinched at the touch against his bare skin, but the bindings prevented him shifting away. He could only watch in sickened foreboding as the man’s hand moved back and forth.

‘We know you were an especial favourite with the Senator, and that you have been acting as an unofficial aide since the Senator’s last aide broke his leg. ‘We would like to know what information you possess, Major. We would like it very much.’

Crap, there was the dime novel dialogue again.

Jack tried very hard not to think of the memo’s and papers and communiqués that had passed through his hands in the last two months. He couldn’t betray what he knew. He just couldn’t. Yet couldn’t see how he was going to prevent himself.

‘Therefore, Major, because we know that you are trained to resist certain methods of persuasion, we have come up with our own new way to encourage you to share what you know.’

Pressing his thumb into the crook of Jack’s elbow the man inserted the needle into Jack’s arm, with his other hand, and pressed the plunger down.

‘Whether you tell us under the influence of the heroin, or because you become desperate for your next . . . fix, I believe you call it, Major, matters not. Either is satisfactory to us. But tell us you will. Sometime in the next three weeks.’

Jack could swear he could feel the drug coursing up the vein his arm like a warm stream, that he could feel it start to spread a feeling of disorientation and confusion through his mind, and he fought it. Hard.

White coat turned to go.

‘Oh, and Major?’

Jack waited, knowing that this was the killer blow. To be delivered as White Coat departed. Leaving his victim to deal with the last, devastating, parting shot. That was how it worked.

‘If you’re expecting someone to raise the alarm – your wife had a phone call . . . you are unavoidably detained, and she is not to try and contact you. Your colleagues think you caught the plane. No one knows you are missing.’

*******

Jack became aware of a persistent knocking that pushed his haunting memories aside.

Became aware that he’d slumped against the bath.

Tasted the sourness left by vomit, felt the shakiness of stressful memories that shook and upset him, and the sweat across his forehead and down his back.

He was in no mood for visitors.

Yet, he had a fair idea who it would be.

And company might be a good thing, even if all they did was sit together, and acknowledge that Jack had ‘issues’. And that he was not going to talk about them. They could both silently accept that, just by being there, Daniel was helping.

Except, could he rely on Daniel to stay silent? Not ask prying questions? Leave ‘The drugged out strapped to the bed thing,’ alone? Just sit?

Probably not.

Yet . . .

Could he leave Daniel outside to worry?

On top of everything else that had happened today?

Reluctantly, he guessed not, and stiffly pulled himself to his feet.

Perhaps he could just say everything was fine, he’d been sleeping, and Daniel could just leave. No problem. Thanks for stopping by.

After sluicing his face down, he skimmed water around the inside of his mouth, and, feeling marginally better, he made his way unsteadily down to the front door, only just becoming aware that daylight had gone and that the house was in darkness.

Goodness knows how long he’d been zoned out in the past.

He opened the door. And was hit by the memory of another time Daniel had stood there looking uncertain, and yet strangely determined. As he did now.

And Jack knew that Daniel was thinking of exactly the same thing.

And that the wrong word now might cause the chasm that had opened between them for a while, after that unfortunate incident, to reappear.

Like a child ready to flee because he is absolutely certain that his actions, despite the best of intentions, have upset his teacher, Daniel looked at Jack with a wide eyed pleading for understanding. And Jack, who was not the most subtle of men at the best of times, tried really hard to get his response right.

Digging right deep down into his self control he said, ‘Daniel?’ in the most neutral voice he could manage.

Because it had not been one of SG-1’s better days. Because Jack felt like he’d been through the wringer – twice. And because Daniel Jackson had cared enough to come and check on his well-being. And the dark memory of the last time he’d done that was like a spectre at their shoulders.

‘Jack . . . I . . . uh . . . ‘

‘Come to check on me?’ He said, quietly.

‘Sort of.’ Daniel looked unsure. Then ploughed on, ‘A security guard said you tried to drive through a fence?’

Jack looked at his friend and struggled with the impulse to say that everything was fine. But the memory of that last time hung heavy between them. When Jack had spurned Daniel’s enquiries. Despite the fact that he’d had no choice.

‘Yeah.’

‘So . . . I . . . thought I’d come and see if you are okay?’

Which was the moment for Jack to say that everything *was* fine, if he was going to say it, and let Daniel go home. Despite the fact that they both knew that everything *wasn’t* fine. Jack could feel it in the sweat slicking his forehead, the stale taste that still traced the inside of his mouth, the way his mind kept jumping the tracks and flashing unwelcome images that he couldn’t block out.

Knew that Daniel could see some of that strain and tension because his eyes were glittering with concern, as he looked at Jack.

And, somehow, for Jack to say that everything was fine would be a betrayal of all that was unspoken between them. The friendship and trust that had been severely tested by government schemes and undercover plots the last time Daniel had stood here. And which had gradually been glued back together again, stronger, somehow, for being broken and healed. A fact that neither had ever acknowledged out loud. But which, in unguarded moments when eyes had caught and held, had been accepted by both sides.

And so Jack knew that, here and now, he had to compromise. Fight his instincts to go through this alone. Accept the company that was offered. In silent memory of the time he hadn’t done that.

Hadn’t been able to.

In a balancing of the scales.

‘I’m . . . ’ Jack struggled to get the words right. And finally said, ‘Wanna come in?’

Daniel paused.

Jack delved deeper, sensing this test of so many things they never talked about, but which were true, nevertheless.

That despite their many differences Colonel Jack O’Neill, Air Force, and Daniel Jackson, civilian linguist, had much in common. They both hurt. Deep down. In a way that was rarely spoken of, but which in lesser men could have been crippling. They both guarded that pain, one more deeply and more fiercely than the other, but they were in that sense very similar. And they both cared. Deeply. About those closest to them. One hid it more cleverly than the other. But the emotions were there.

In other ways they were as far apart as the North Pole from the South.

But to send Daniel away now would be a deep betrayal of their similarities. And an acknowledgement that the differences were too wide. And Jack recognised that, in a rare moment of clarity. And did his very best.

‘Please.’

Daniel looked stung, as well he might. Please was not a word Jack O’Neill used often. And, recognising it for what it was he nodded, and crossed the threshold.

*******

Daniel immediately noted that the entire house was indeed in darkness. He had seen Jack’s face caught in the streetlight and knew his friend was not fine, or even anything approaching it. He was pale and sweating. And if Jack had been sitting somewhere thinking things over, or trying to deal with whatever was troubling him, he had been doing it in the darkness which in Daniel’s book was not terribly healthy.

He was pleased he’d come.

Now he was inside he wasn’t entirely sure what would happen next. But he had understood the war that had been waged in his friend’s mind as he decided whether to let him in or not. Had understood what Jack was remembering. Had known that Jack knew he was thinking about the same incident.

Knew it had swayed Jack between sending him away with a patently untrue platitude, or letting him in.

It was only when they’d seated themselves that Daniel realised the significance of their chosen positions. Looked up sharply and realised that Jack had noticed, too late, as well.

They shared an uneasy half smile. An acknowledgement that they both remembered.

Even more reason for Jack to not say, ‘Stop your worrying. I’m fine.’ So instead he said nothing.

They sat in silence for a while. The only light from the almost full moon outside, casting a gentle, soothing balm across the scene. Jack tilted his head back and released a sigh, then closed his eyes, as if he knew it was safe. Daniel was there. He was not alone.

Daniel propped his feet up on the coffee table and also closed his eyes. Content that Jack seemed calmer. Reluctant to do anything that would upset that.

Questions could wait.

And slowly the only sound became that of even, synchronised breathing as the two men slept.

*******

Jack woke with a crick in his neck.

The moon glow still washed the floor.

Daniel was still sleeping, chin on chest, arms folded, feet propped on the table. Glasses half skewed across his face.

The familiar sight of his friend helped Jack to calm his breathing, and he scrubbed his hands through his hair and dug the heels of his hands into his eyes as if in an attempt to gouge out the memories that had woken him. He could feel his heart gradually slowing its fierce pounding, the uncomfortable sweaty feel across his forehead, under his arms, and down his spine.

Sighing deeply, Jack rose and went in search of a beer, and a breath of fresh air.

He tried to put aside the memories that were entwining themselves into his head again like trails of evil ivy. Reaching into the corners of his mind and smothering him.

He’d been awoken by the few memories that remained of the early sessions of heroin treatment. And very little did remain. Much of the nightmare was lost in the haze that became his frightening world over the next few weeks. The strong lights that poured into his eyeballs, the blank walls that enclosed him, the straps that held him. The gurney that pressed against his back.

The needle that soon became the only focus of his desperate attention.

He had learned since that the heroin used had to have been of a very high quality because his addiction happened within the first two weeks.

He remembered the surge of comforting warmth that flowed through him every time the doctor injected the drug into his arm. The sense of well-being and the “rush” that other addicts had well recorded. And after which much was lost.

What they had asked him, what he had said, he could never remember. The frustration was akin to trying to dig out an elusive dinosaur skeleton from solid rock with your bare hands. He could scrabble and scratch at the face of his memory, rub it, attack it, beat himself up in sobbing anger and despair, but he had never been able to find much beyond isolated shards that pierced him with a longing to know more.

Except for the violent nausea and stomach cramps that had seized him the first time they injected him, so much was lost. He could simply remember coming round each time still strapped to the table. But whether they had released him as the drug did its insidious work, and then strapped him back down when he showed signs of recovery, he did not know.

He had fought so hard early on, when he saw the doctor appear with the needle. Had thrown himself against the straps, despite the fact that he knew there was no escape, despite the fact that it obviously amused the other man. But it gave Jack the sliver of satisfaction that he hadn’t just waited to be mown down like a mesmerised rabbit, he’d done his meagre best to jump out of the head lights.

But every time he was crushed.

******

Daniel woke to the sounds of rain against the windows.

And the sense that he was alone.

Easing his body into a more normal position, he straightened his glasses, and stretched out the kinks and aches.

Then went to look for Jack.

He found him standing in the rain in the back garden, his head tilted back so that the water ran in rivulets down his face. His eyes were closed, and it was as if he were worshipping the downpour, and the dark sky and clouds above. He had obviously been there some time because his hair was plastered flat against his skull, and his clothes were soaked through.

Yet he showed no signs of discomfort. Or of moving.

Daniel stood and watched, waiting for his friend to move out of the rain, but he remained still. Which was in its self unusual. Normally, Jack was a symphony of movement. He was capable of the quiet clarinet solo, as compared to a percussion piece or the full combined orchestra, but there was always something happening. He was so rarely still when conscious that Daniel could only pause and wonder.

The rain continued to fall.

Jack continued to stand.

Daniel continued to watch.

Slowly Jack blinked as if coming out of a trance.

‘Seen enough?’

Daniel started.

’You should come and stand out here, Daniel. It’s very soothing.’

Soothing? Standing in a downpour getting soaked to the skin?

Still, he was here as a friend to offer support, and if offering support meant standing with a clearly deranged friend in the pouring rain then . . .

‘Just lose yourself in it, Daniel.’

Jack still hadn’t looked at him.

Daniel tried to gain some sort of eye contact but failed.

So he just tilted his head back as Jack had and let the rain fall onto his face in a strangely mesmerising massage. After a short time he removed his glasses and let it work against his eyelids as well. And it was almost hypnotic. And the rain was warm so it wasn’t uncomfortable in any way. Quite the opposite. Daniel felt the tiny drops brush his skin with gentle strokes, and slide in an almost tickling sensation down his upturned cheeks, and stroke his neck as they slipped down past his collar.

And he felt himself relax and lose himself in the experience.

And he felt almost resentful when the shower eased off, and there was no more.

He opened his eyes and saw Jack watching him with a slightly crooked smile on his lips.

‘Feel better?’

Daniel thought about it, and nodded. ‘Strangely, yes.’ He looked at Jack, ‘But I won’t if we stand here much longer. I’ll start to feel pretty cold I imagine.’

Jack nodded, and gestured towards the house.

*********

Dressed in an old set of sweats from Jack, and a steaming cup of coffee in his hands, Daniel was seated back in the living room, looking at his friend who was also sipping hot coffee.

‘So,’ Daniel tried tentatively. ‘Is that some sort of strange ritual or initiation ceremony I need to write up in one of my journals?’

Jack half-smiled. And for a while Daniel was certain he wasn’t going to answer.

Then, ‘I used to do that a lot.’

Daniel sat straighter. Jack rarely gave much away. Hardly daring to breath, he waited.

‘Sara couldn’t understand it.’

Jack looked away. At the early dawn beginning to show itself in a eerie half light. At the corners of the room. At his hands wrapped around his coffee cup. Anywhere but at Daniel.

‘The need to feel clean.’

Daniel struggled to keep up.

‘On the outside, anyway.’

Jack looked at Daniel with eyes that were dark pools of nightmarish memories only he could see.

********

After about ten days he couldn’t judge time very accurately any more, only the shameful deterioration in his own strength to resist and the increased craving for the drug they were feeding him.

He could remember very little of the world he inhabited once they injected him, and was only aware that as soon as he came back to full consciousness White Coat was there with the dreaded needle ready to put him back on the road to full blown addiction.

And after about ten days they succeeded. There was no need to have him tied to the table any more. He was weak from a lack of food, and the constant injections. But he was also watching the door for White Coat. It didn’t matter what messages of resistance isolated parts of his mind sent out to him – that if he was strong he could beat them; that if he was strong he wouldn’t debase himself by asking for the next shot.

He did.

Debase himself.

Humiliate himself.

Because he couldn’t help it.

He needed it.

And watched with degrading desperation as White Coat held up the needle and asked him questions. About Brooks. About Brooks’ schedule. About the papers Jack had seen. About conversations he had overheard.

And the time between each shot got longer. Instead of just coming back to awareness and White Coat sending him straight back to the foggy half world he’d found thanks to the heroin, the sessions where they asked questions, and demanded, answers got longer and longer.

With the promise of a fix at the end if he was a good boy.

And he answered. That was the hardest thing to recall. He’d told them things. There were times when he was able to hold on to some rags of pride and deliberately lie. To say that he didn’t know the answers. But he knew that when they injected him, and he went under, he had no control over what he said or did. And, from things they said, he knew that he was giving away things when they questioned him during his drugged out sessions.

He watched White Coat’s eyes hold scorn. Felt shame.

Watched White Coat hold the needle, tantalisingly. Felt sordid desperation.

Watched White Coat inject the traitorous liquid into his arm. Sobbed with dishonourable relief.

Day after day.

Becoming lost in a world that was sickening and repellent. Lost in a world of a craving that ruled every other thought and action he was capable of. A world that made him feel as if he had been raped, repeatedly, as the drug robbed him, time and again, of all decent self control. And every vein, artery, and organ was invaded, degraded, and enslaved.

And there was nothing Jack O’Neill, Major, United States Air Force, could do, despite his best efforts.

Because eventually there was only Jack O’Neill. Heroin addict.

*******

‘Jack?’ Daniel’s voice was quiet and soft.

Jack blinked, and looked around as if his surroundings were unfamiliar.

Looked at Daniel.

‘You kinda zonked out on me, Jack.’

Jack looked down at his hands, and drew a ragged breath. And seemed to shudder. Dropped his head into his hands.

For the first time Daniel was truly glad he’d decided to stay. Whatever Jack had going on inside his head wasn’t pleasant.

He’d been trying to piece things together, from the scraps that Jack had revealed, starting with ‘the drugged out strapped to the bed thing.’ Trying to understand what was troubling his friend so deeply. And kept coming back to the ‘need to feel clean. On the outside, anyway.’

Something he understood only too well. And which brought back another memory of something Jack had said, in an unguarded moment.

‘Can I ask you something?’ Daniel was reluctant to probe, and yet, something prompted him to.

Jack didn’t raise his head, but shrugged his shoulders slightly.

‘You remember my . . . addiction . . . to . . . the sarcophagus?’

Jack slowly removed his hands, and looked at Daniel through slitted eyes. His face still and graven as if made of stone.

‘You said then . . . in the storeroom . . . you said . . . you knew . . . what it was like. To be addicted.’

Still Jack said nothing. Watching like a wild animal assessing whether to take flight and run, or stay very still and blend into the undergrowth.

‘I felt like that then, you know?’ Daniel said. ‘Dirty. On the inside. I stood in the shower, for hours at a time.’

He watched Jack, who made no comment. So Daniel made the hardest admission of all. ‘And after Hathor . .’ He stalled, and then pressed on with all the courage he could find, ‘ . . . after Hathor, I did the same. And scrubbed, and scrubbed. And I couldn’t get clean.’ He fixed his eyes on Jack’s. ‘Maybe . . . maybe . . . I should’ve stood in the rain.’

There was a very long pause.

So long Daniel was about to break the silence.

Then Jack said, so quietly Daniel could barely hear him, ‘It helped. Being outside. A shower stall was too . . . enclosed.’

Gently, Daniel asked, ‘What were you addicted to?’ He knew he was pushing further than Jack might be willing to go, but tried anyway.

The silence was heavy.

Pressing.

Both men felt its weight.

Felt it change as Jack said, ‘Heroin.’

Daniel couldn’t help it, ‘You took heroin?’ He was shocked.

‘Oh, dammit, Daniel!’ Jack shouted. ‘Of course I didn’t TAKE it. Just like that. What do you think I am? Stupid? No! Don’t answer that! Of course you’d think that! For cryin’ out loud!’

And in an explosion of movement Jack was up and gone with a kicking over of the table and a vicious slamming of doors.

And Daniel was left to consider what Jack had revealed in total disbelief. And curse his own careless words.

******

It was late when Jack came home.

Slouched into the house like a child waiting to be scolded.

Slumped into a chair with defensive barriers raised and visible for all to see. Not that there was anyone but Daniel.

Who wasn’t sure if his decision to stay had been the right one. But who had been unable to leave until he saw his friend return safely.

‘Do you want me to leave?’

Jack shrugged. Which was probably as close to a ‘No, please stay,’ as he was ever going to get. At least that’s how Daniel chose to interpret it. Rather than ‘I don’t care, please yourself.’

So they sat in an uneasy silence. Until Daniel made coffee, which he then drank, but Jack didn’t.

Finally Daniel chanced his arm, life, friendship. Everything.

‘I still see her, sometimes,’ he said, quietly.

Jack, who had been staring at the upper corners of the room for a long time, focussed on Daniel for the first time since his return. Then looked away again.

‘Who?’

‘Hathor. I still remember what happened. Feel dirty.’ He waited but Jack said nothing.

So Daniel tried again. ‘The ‘drugged out’ thing you mentioned this morning? And the addiction? They’re the same thing, right?’

Jack half-shrugged.

‘Do you still feel dirty?’

Jack’s eyes flickered at Daniel, and then back to the corners of the room.

‘Someone forced you to take the drug, didn’t they?’

No response.

‘Somebody made you an addict?’

Still nothing.

‘I don’t pretend to understand much of your career, Jack. But I know you’ve had to do some pretty hard things. Tough missions.’

He waited. At least Jack was still there. And hadn’t rearranged the furniture in a rush to escape. Must have come back knowing Daniel was still there. Had still come back. Knowing Daniel might ask these very questions.

‘But you’ve come through. I know what addiction is like, now. I couldn’t have got through that time without you. I needed your understanding. Needed you to be there.’ Daniel watched closely for signs of flight. Hoped Jack was reading the message correctly.

Continued, ‘What brought it back?’

Jack looked at his hands, and shrugged again. ‘Don’t know. The zay thing. Possibly.’ He raised his eyes to Daniel’s. And Daniel could not recall a time when he’d seen such a fearful and haunted expression in Jack’s eyes. ‘The doctors said it might come back. At any time. It did for a while. Off and on. It’s been so long. Don’t know. Don’t know why now and not any other time.’

‘Want to tell me about it?’

‘Nope.’

‘Don’t want to, or can’t?’

‘Ahhhhh, both . . . really.’

Daniel looked at Jack. Thought about the time in the storeroom when he’d tried to shoot Jack. Then collapsed in tears. When Jack had gathered him in his arms, and rocked him as if he was a baby. Comforted him. Soothed him. Protected him.

Held him.

For a very long time.

With a deep understanding. Of a shared misery.

Knew that Jack would kill him if he so much as suggested returning the favour!

‘Thanks.’

Daniel looked up, startled. ‘What?’

‘I said thanks.’

‘For?’

‘Staying. Last night. Today.’

‘I . . . just wanted to help.’

‘You did.’ He paused. ‘You are.’

Daniel nodded. ‘After the sarcophagus thing, it just helped to have you around. Have Sam and Teal’c, there too. And I talked to Janet. A lot.’

Jack nodded.

‘I’m pleased I could do something, Jack.’

Jack nodded again.

‘The Air Force . . .’ Daniel stumbled again.

Jack raised an eyebrow questioningly.

‘The Air Force doesn’t like addicts.’

Jack twitched, and drew back into himself. ‘Ahh, no. Not usually.’

‘So they must’ve thought a lot of you. To keep you on. Not discharge you.’

‘Yeah,’ Jack said in a tone Daniel didn’t recognise. ‘Guess they did.’

**********

They went for a long walk and didn’t mention drugs. Or addiction. Or withdrawal. Or pain.

They slept the afternoon away without any disturbing d