By Soles
E-mail – soles@gamewood.net
Category – Challenge response – Jackfic opening
sentence of the week, 9-7-03, Action / Adventure, H/C
Rating – 13+
Pairing – Sam and Jack
Season – 6th
Spoilers – Meridian
Summary – A return visit to a peaceful planet has a
shocking outcome for Jack.
Disclaimer – I own nothing in the Stargate Universe,
although I am borrowing the characters for entertainment purposes, and no
monies were exchanged. I would like to borrow Jack for an evening of
entertainment, but once I got him I'd have absolutely no idea what to do with
him.
Author's note – I want to thank Lynette for taking
time out of her hectic schedule to Beta this story for me. Her input has made
it a much better story.
"Teal'c, has anyone mentioned to the Jaffa that bullets hurt?"
Jack O'Neill quietly groaned as another sharp stab of
pain coursed down his leg.
"And who in his right mind would give flintlock
rifles to those guys? It's a wonder they haven't blown their own foot
off."
The colonel groaned again as fire savagely burned
through his thigh, flaring even higher with each tiny movement of his body, and
each pulse of his heart. Bright red blood ran down his leg and pants in a
steady, ever widening stream. He ran one bloody hand through his gray unruly
hair – turning it into a blood-streaked mess.
"Indeed O'Neill, I do not know. It is sufficient
that they have blown a hole in your leg," Teal'c replied, answering both
questions very economically. "But it is a widely accepted theory that that
which can kill you, can also hurt you. Even Jaffa have learned this lesson."
The Jaffa warrior
diligently tended O'Neill's leg, trying to stem the flow of blood, and bandage
the wound tightly. Both men were stained with the colonel's escaping life force
as they worked together to contain the loss. Needing to move further away from
their attackers, they labored as quickly as possible. But the amount of blood
still seeping from the bandaged, mangled thigh wound worried Teal'c. He had to
get O'Neill back to the SGC, or he was in danger of bleeding to death.
Major Carter
and Jonas Quinn were successful in their retreat back through the Stargate, but
the wounded man had not been as fortunate. O'Neill was unable to even hobble
fast enough to make "the five o'clock plasma stream" home. Teal'c,
electing to stand with his brother, had stayed behind.
The dark alien kept looking over his shoulder, and around their tiny area of concealment as he
worked. It wouldn't do for their small hiding place to be over run by over
zealous, half-cocked warriors.
There was only a small contingent of the "snake
carrying sons-of-bitches," but SG-1 had run smack dab into them, while
trying to leave M43-778. Which group was more surprised was a toss up. They'd
come from the opposite direction of SG1, from a village some ten kilometers due
west of the gate. SG1 had met some of those folks at the little parley they'd
requested O'Neill attend.
But these Jaffa were armed
with antiquated firearms, which they'd stolen from the locals, along with their
standard staff weapons. And had no compunction about practicing with their
ill-gotten new toys, by shooting first, and asking questions later.
Unfortunately, O'Neill had fallen victim to the "shoot first"
delegation.
Another quiet groan from O'Neill brought Teal'c out
of his introspection. He saw the sheen
of sweat, the too pale skin coloration - so unlike the soldier's normal healthy
tan, and the tight grimace of pain etched on O'Neill's
face.
With the bandage securely in place, he placed O'Neill
in the shock position, with feet up – as far up as you can get when you have
nothing to use for elevation. The colonel lay quietly still, his arms folded
up, his hands tightly clasped together over his eyes – the textbook picture of
pain and impending shock. His silence was a sure sign of their situation's
gravity.
Teal'c rummaged in his backpack for his medical kit.
O'Neill needed medication to stem the pain, and an antibiotic for the infection
that was inevitable. Teal'c had been carrying a personal med kit for just a
short while, only since the death of his symbiote.
But he was now familiar and quite comfortable with its presence, and Dr. Fraiser had been very thorough in his education of its
contents and use.
The kit also contained an emergency vial of his
elixir of life – the liquid Tretonin.
Teal'c found the pain carpule
he searched for, and without further ado injected the wounded man.
"Holy Shit, Teal'c! You could at least give a
guy some warning before you stab him…"
"I did not wish to become embroiled in a game of
words, O'Neill. A game that you are most destined to lose. You are in pain…I
have pain medication…" he smiled at his brother, "You do the
math."
O'Neill ignored his friend.
"Yeah well, I'm going to have a bruise there,
and YOU'RE so going to have to explain to Fraiser.
What is it…everybody's using me for target," a huge yawn escaped,
"…practice today?"
"Indeed, O'Neill. You make a fine target."
From his spot on the ground, the soldier looked up
and saw the glint of humor shining in his alien friend's eyes. O'Neill yawned
again.
"Geez, what the hell
did you…give me?" Another yawn interrupted his question, leaving him a
little breathless, while sudden black spots clouded his vision, and an
overwhelming need to vomit claimed his attention. "Teal'c…I'm not feeling
…so goo…d…."
O'Neill's eyes rolled up and closed, and he passed
out with a sigh. Teal'c, mindful of his first-aid training, leaned over the
stricken man and listened intently to O'Neill's chest. He was fearful that his
friend had breathed his last breath. The too fast, but steady heartbeat,
beating a tempo in his ear, lightened his dark dread.
Teal'c rolled his patient on his side into the
recovery position, after making sure O'Neill had not vomited, nor that his
limbs were further compromised. He'd have to wait for O'Neill to recover before
even thinking of leaving their bivouac. Once again he checked the injured
soldier before getting up. He stretched tightly bunched muscles and then looked
around the area, scrutinizing it for signs that the Jaffa
were near. He saw nothing, and heard only the comforting silence of the forest.
Jaffa were not trained in
stealth. His own training as a warrior flashed before his eyes. None of it was
geared toward silence, or clandestine furtiveness. A Jaffa
warrior was taught to move with grace, but his uniform was a complete
contradiction to that ideal. It clanked and clanged resoundingly, as the
warriors strode into battle. An enemy could hear them coming a mile away.
Teal'c relaxed – to an infinitesimal degree.
**************************************************************
O'Neill's return to consciousness was made complete
by hands firmly gripping his painful thigh.
His first thought, after coming to terms with the fire raging
unrestricted in his damaged leg, was that someone had turned out the lights.
But then, after blinking moisture from his eyes, he decided the sun had set. He
remembered Teal'c giving him a shot for pain just a few minutes ago. Yet, the
warm fuzzy feeling he usually associated with Doc Fraiser's
off world remedies was nowhere present. He groaned automatically, and a hand
was quickly clamped over his mouth. The hand smelled of Teal'c, and sweat, and
the pungent scent of blood…His blood.
The stifled groan stuck in his throat, as he returned
to full awareness. He clamped his own weak grip around Teal'c's
wrist to communicate his return to the living. Teal'c eased his hand away from
O'Neill's mouth.
"What's up, T?" Was that his voice –so weak
and strained? If so, he really needed to work on that macho wake-up thing.
"The enemy has not given up and still probes
this area in search of us. We must remain silent. Your wound continues to
bleed, O'Neill." Teal'c fed the soldier a drink of water, from his
canteen, as he quietly continued. "I have been unable to sufficiently
restrain the flow of your lifeblood. If we do not get you back to the SGC, and
Dr. Fraiser's care, you are in grave danger."
…Of bleeding to death remained unspoken, but the words hung heavily in the
air between the two men. O'Neill knew he was bad off, he could feel the ever
encroaching weakness indicating too much lost blood. And he would be worse off
yet if help didn't come galloping over the hill…soon.
"Only two Jaffa have
remained behind to guard the Stargate and patrol the area. The others have
proceeded to the village…undoubtedly to question the villagers regarding our
presence here. I am fearful for our village friends. They do not know, nor
recognize danger in this form. " He paused,
collecting his thoughts.
"A wormhole was opened and the MALP was
activated some time ago, but I heard staff weapon fire, so it may have been
destroyed…" he stopped speaking; the mental picture of a destroyed MALP
filled his thoughts. They were effectively on their own, if the Jaffa had destroyed their only means of communication with
Earth.
O'Neill filled the short silence with a question. He
felt compelled to suffuse his weak, strained, and trembling voice with as much
confidence in his friend as he could vocalize. Teal'c knew O'Neill trusted him
with his life, but at times like this, it never hurt to reiterate.
"At least the general has some idea of what
we're up against. So, what's your plan, T?"
Dark eyes contemplated the soldier. O'Neill's few
words placed his confidence squarely on Teal'c's
shoulders. He would not betray that confidence lightly.
"I will move to the Jaffa's
encampment, overtake the guards and open the Stargate. Help from the SGC should
be arriving shortly after, at which time I will come back for you, and then we
can leave this place." Teal'c knew his plan sounded very simple, much more simple than it would be in actuality. But his need to
get O'Neill to medical help before it was too late held his uppermost
attention.
O'Neill looked at the other man as if he had snakes
growing out of his head. In the gathering evening gloom surrounding them, who
could tell? Teal'c returned a steadfast look that begged obedience.
"Look
Teal'c, I may be dying here, and you may be in charge of this little road show,
but I AIN'T going to hide in the bushes while you risk your life alone. Two zats are better than one…I can at least cover your six in
case these guys suddenly grow a brain." His long speech made him
breathless, and the lack of oxygen had dark spots again dancing in his vision.
"Now, let's see what we can do to get this leg ready to travel."
Teal'c bowed his head briefly to O'Neill's
determination.
And then gathered the remaining
supplies to again bandage O'Neill's wound.
*****************************************************************
After first removing the now-useless dressing, the
gory, bloody mass of torn flesh was illuminated by a small spot of light. The
bullet, while missing the femur, had wrecked havoc with O'Neill's thigh, where
fresh blood seeped steadily from ragged, raw tissue. The wounded man groaned
softly as he looked down at his thigh – not quite believing it was his, but for
the pain. He mentally counted the days and weeks, possibly months, of
recuperation and therapy needed to heal this one – if he lived long enough.
"Oiy," he
breathed quietly, spellbound by the damage.
"Indeed," Teal'c agreed.
Together, and with a lot of soft swearing and
sweating on O'Neill's part, the two men fashioned a tight pressure dressing
around the wound. It was tight enough to temporarily stop the seepage of blood,
but not tight enough to stop the circulation to O'Neill's limb. The remaining
medical supplies were depleted – one more reason to return to the SGC as
quickly as possible. Teal'c insisted, as leader of the evacuation effort, that
O'Neill have another dose of pain medication. It would be a hard road back to
the gate, especially for the injured man.
O'Neill wanted to refuse, but the pain in his leg had
him grinding his teeth so hard, the enamel was in eminent danger of fracturing
into a million pieces. And to be an effective help for Teal'c's
plan, the pain couldn't distract him.
"Okay, Big fellow, but no
stabbing this time. You need to
take lessons from…Oouch…" he almost shouted, but
caught himself in time.
"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary…" O'Neill groaned.
"…Son-of-a-bitch, Teal'c…" curses flowed
like branch water…
"…Ggaaah…you like
doing that don't you?" he finally whispered.
"Indeed not, O'Neill. I take no pleasure from
administering your pain medication," he replied with a glimmer of humor in
his eyes, disposing of the carpule. "Other than
the knowledge that your discomfort will be somewhat alleviated."
"Yeah, right," the soldier looked through
the gloom at his friend. "You know Teal'c, if I didn't know you better,
I'd say you had a vicious streak."
The dark soldier twitched an elegant eyebrow, but
remained silent.
Teal'c puttered about, packing all the supplies and
the odds and ends of their sojourn in the little thicket. He wanted O'Neill's
medication to have a few minutes to take affect before they moved out. There
would be no returning to the "in plain sight" seclusion of their hide
away.
Sitting quietly, leaning back against a tree trunk,
O'Neill felt the warm flush of the medication take hold as his eyes crossed in
reaction. It wouldn't take the pain away, but it would make it more manageable,
AND he wouldn't care any more. He could feel the pain ebb away to the
background – like so much white noise.
"I think it's time, Teal'c. We wait much longer
and I'll be more of a hindrance than any kind of help." O'Neill made weak
motions to get up as Teal'c reached down and offered his hand in assistance.
The colonel looked at the offered hand, only for an
instant before grabbing hold and being lifted up onto his unsteady feet. The
pain was incredible, bringing involuntary tears to his eyes, which he quickly
dashed away. His determination almost buckled under the painful onslaught -
coupled with dizziness and the overwhelming desire to toss lunch. It was a good thing Teal'c hadn't let him
have any solid food while they were tucked out of sight. Otherwise it would
have ended up splattered all over his good boots.
Teal'c watched his friend struggle for mastery of his
own body, but said nothing. As soon as he deemed O'Neill in control, he handed
over the crutch he'd fashioned, grabbed his staff weapon and both their
backpacks. O'Neill had all he could do just maneuvering with Teal'c's rustic, homemade support. And then both men took
one last look around the tiny enclosure, in case they'd missed something, and
finally left with no looking back.
***************************************************************
Crutch usage and stealth movement was a contradiction
in terms.
But, O'Neill was nothing if not determined, and the
short walk – short that is for someone NOT on crutches – back to the Stargate
consumed every ounce of determination he possessed.
The need for quiet was top priority. Even from where
they skulked in the bushes, they could hear the Jaffa
guards talking and moving around, and then settling down for a long haul. The
two soldiers skirted the gate clearing, ever mindful of their vulnerability,
hoping darkness and the trees covered their approach. For success, Teal'c's plan depended on complete surprise.
O'Neill's leg was on fire - a fire raging completely
out of control. The pain was harder, so much harder to ignore now. And the very
jumps and jolts that made up his forward momentum were the culprits of his
agony. He could once again feel the warm tickle of blood seeping, slipping down
his leg.
He was bleeding again.
He'd already chewed a layer of skin off his lower
lip, and was prepared to gnaw his own leg off if it would help in any way. But
instead, he maintained a stoic façade, which fooled his Jaffa
friend not at all.
O'Neill had made his decision, and it was too late to
go back on it. Going back was a dead end, their only salvation lay past two Jaffa guards and then on through the Stargate.
Teal'c brought them to a halt. He could tell by
O'Neill's ragged breathing that he was having a hard time. He also knew, from the decided lack of
O'Neill's glib sarcasm that his comrade's condition was deteriorating rapidly.
O'Neill, feeling the ever encroaching weakness of
blood loss, zoned out as he slipped once again to the ground. Conserving his
strength, he waited as Teal'c watched the tableau in front of him.
They were almost directly in front of the DHD, but
separated from it by a large open area, the huge ring stood quiescent just
beyond. Even in the darkness, without the aid of light from any celestial
bodies, it shone with a radiance of its own, as if lit by its own internal
energy. A double row of marker stones lined the dark path up to the steps of
the artifact, gleaming dully in the reflected light.
The two guards had seated themselves directly in
front of the gate, and were having a friendly, yet noisy game of chance…a dice
game of some sort. Teal'c watched their actions and movements, unimpressed by
both guards inattentiveness to their duties. As he watched he finally decided
it was a game of Bac'ma'c…similar to the Tau'ri backgammon. It really did not matter which game of
chance it was, luck had run out for the two guards. Their inattentive behavior
was his and O'Neill's ticket home.
In the quiet darkness Teal'c knelt down, revealing
his plan to O'Neill. Once away from protection of the thick foliage, they would
be open targets. They would take out the guards from this protected position
with the "Zats". Then he and O'Neill would
move quickly to the DHD, where O'Neill would dial the Earth's destination. The
DHD stood as support, as O'Neill's injuries demanded, and a small measure of
protection should it be necessary. Teal'c would send the iris code through the
opened wormhole; standing by to receive confirmation while covering his leader.
He'd then return to assist O'Neill through the established gate, before the
guards regained their senses. Simple enough.
It remained unsaid that Teal'c wouldn't hesitate to
fire a killing second shot should it be required.
O'Neill felt his concentration fade, Teal'c's words faded in and out of his hearing. He shook
his head, trying to clear the cobwebs, and felt his friend's concerned gaze
turned his way, a question poised in his dark eyes.
"M'okay
Teal'c. Le'ss
get this circus show on the road. S'no time like now." He
wanted to say something more, something more in line with his smart aleck, son
of a bitch notoriety. But thick black clouds were taking over his brain cells
and right now, he couldn't think of an appropriate one-liner if his life
depended on it.
Teal'c silently nodded and stood up, granting his
leader the autonomy he was due. He then pulled O'Neill to a standing position
once again.
Un-holstering the large "Zats",
both soldiers were eager to finish this business and go home. For the injured O'Neill,
the strange yet familiar weapon felt unusually heavy in his grip. He knew he
was as weak as the preverbal kitten - that he felt
like shit, and hurt like hell. And, he wanted a cup of water so bad he'd give
up his left nut to get one. But first he had to get home,
and right now, getting home lay just beyond them.
O'Neill caught his concentration wavering again; the
painful throbbing in his thigh claimed his attention, as he and Teal'c
exchanged hand signals.
"O'Neill?" The soft, one-word inquiry
brought his attention back to the present.
"Sorry Teal'c, won't
happen again," he replied, just as quietly. In the dark shadows, he sensed
Teal'c's regal nod.
"We go on three,
O'Neill," Teal'c wondered briefly if his friend was up to this last challenge.
Weakness from loss of blood alone was a major deterrent, but it was compounded
with grievous pain, and loss of mobility and agility. But Teal'c also knew that
if O'Neill were unable to move on his own, he would carry him through the
Stargate himself - as would O'Neill, if the tables were reversed.
" …One…two…three…."
Streaks of blue zat-fire
exploded from the dark forest. The eerie blue light illuminated the darkness
almost like a shock grenade. The Jaffa guards were
caught completely by surprise, having heard only the shrieking whine before
succumbing to the electrical charge. The two men went down heavily, and lay
quivering for a short moment, until finally yielding to their body's overload.
Teal'c and O'Neill followed the streaking blasts out
of their dark cover. O'Neill hobbled painfully toward the DHD, each step agony
as his weight bore down on the injured muscle and flesh. Teal'c quickly moved
to check their victims. He gave the all-clear sign after none too gently
nudging the two men for subterfuge, and then moved out of harm's way.
O'Neill leaned heavily on the DHD's
solid structure. His free hand moved quickly over its surface, punching the
symbols as fast as possible. He even surprised himself by instantly recalling
Earth's seven symbols. Could it be he wanted to get the heck out of here? He
didn't think he'd make Carter, or Quinn, privy to this little secret.
Each of the huge artifact's chevrons locked into
position with a solid "chunk."
The plasma stream gushed out with a windy "whoosh." And Teal'c
hurriedly punched in
SG1's code, just as quickly flinging their equipment into the anomaly. And then
on an impulse, he tossed through the crude weapons similar to those with which
O'Neill had been wounded. He would have loved to see the faces when the old
weapons came flying through the wormhole.
Out of the darkness, a silent third and fourth Jaffa suddenly appeared. One staff weapon was cocked and
already blasting away, while the second one was taking aim.
"Where the heck did they come from…?"
O'Neill had only a second to wonder before bolts of
hot fire blasted his way. Losing his grip on the DHD, he fell to the ground,
under the relative "safety" of the DHD's
upper rim. A hail of multiple blasts burned a hot stinging path past his
position. He was able to return only a couple of shots before deciding he
should definitely keep his head down.
All around him bits of stone, DHD fragments and
detritus flew, clouding the air, making it impossible to breathe. The smell of ozone and burnt "whatever" filled the air,
adding to the soup mix.
Both Jaffa warriors aimed
solely at O'Neill. Not once taking their eyes off the easy quarry. Never once
giving thought to the presence of others in this place. The men ignored Teal'c's presence at the open gate. Or failed to see him in
the firestorm they'd created…until it was too late.
"Jaffa, Kree," Teal'c shouted, over the noise. "Jaffa…Kree!"
One warrior turned his blazing staff weapon toward
the shouted command, loosing off another round of shots. One blast sped into
the opened wormhole. Teal'c returned fire immediately as he dropped to the
ground and rolled to cover behind a marker stone. The shot went wide when his
target dropped into a low crouch, and began shooting his weapon directly at
Teal'c.
Pinned down by the barrage of staff weapon blasts,
Teal'c failed to see the other Warrior's concentrated rain of fire on O'Neill's
position. Dodging the devastating shots prevented the injured man from
returning fire with any accuracy. In his weakened condition he couldn't keep up
this momentum. He had
to make his shots count, but how was he going to do that except
by exposing his dumb mug?
O'Neill returned more fire. The warrior seemed intent
on blasting him, and the DHD, to smithereens.
By playing dead…
The thought struck O'Neill like lightening out of the
sky. God O'Neill, I can't believe you're actually thinking of doing
this. Hadn't he said something earlier about these Jaffa
warriors growing a brain? So far, it hadn't happened, but if he went down, and
made it look convincing, wouldn't "snaky brain-boy" think he'd hit
his target? And since ninety percent of all staff blasts were killing shots,
he'd stop shooting. At least it would give O'Neill time to make his move…and a
chance for success…or not.
Good thinking, O'Neill. Now, the show must go on….
O'Neill listened to the exchange of shots on his
right flank, hoping Teal'c was too busy to notice his play-acting. He didn't
want Teal'c to see his little performance – he could end up dead either way –
loss of blood or a staff blast. Personally, if he had to choose, he'd chosen
the blood loss thing; staff blast wounds were terribly painful. And he didn't
want Teal'c injured, or worse, because of some drama school production.
His personal Jaffa suddenly
seemed to be waiting for something too – possibly a move from the O'Neill
corner. The man had finally hunkered down behind another of the convenient
marker stones – maybe his staff weapon was overheating…. From behind the DHD pedestal, O'Neill
watched, waiting for the right moment to strike. He had to make his move quick,
before he was totally incapacitated by his weakness.
Okay, let's give him what he wants….
O'Neill slowly rose up, taking a bead on his
opponent, and then loosed off a barrage of "Zat"
fire. It didn't have the same ferocity, or wrecking power of the staff but the
shots were just as deadly.
Apparently O'Neill's move was exactly what his man
was waiting for. The Jaffa warrior rose from his
refuge, firing the deadly blasts non-stop. The barrage again centered on the
DHD, chipping huge hunks off the trim work, and pedestal. Only barely missing
O'Neill, he could feel the hot searing burn of each shot. It was now or
never…before he bit the dust for real. It had to look good, preferably without
the burning, gaping hole in his chest. On three – one…two…three….
O'Neill gave a strangled cry of agony - easily
worthy of an Academy Award for sound effects - collapsing away from
the protection of the DHD. Only thing was… his thigh was in for half of the
award due to its agonizing bunching of damaged muscle tissue – set
decoration. The muscle spasms almost gave the game away. Only by sheer
cussedness did O'Neill lay still, quietly waiting for his opponent.
His 9mm was clutched loosely in his out flung right
hand, while the Zat was concealed under his body. His
left hand held the weapon in a firm grip as his finger itched to squeeze the
trigger.
True to plan, the Jaffa
ceased firing. He wasn't concerned with a dead enemy, only the living ones, but
the weapon in the dead mans hand was intriguing. He stepped away from the stone
and came forward…where had he seen such a weapon?
They say curiosity killed the cat, and it was just as
true for the doomed Jaffa. O'Neill let him take two
steps away from the refuge of the large stone. He quickly rolled over, facing
the armor-clad warrior, the hidden "Zat"
suddenly spitting out deadly streaks of blue. The warrior's fate was sealed as
successive shots found their target, and his disintegrating body shimmered out
of being.
Noise in the background finally registered in
O'Neill's overtired and overloaded brain. Teal'c still fought valiantly as the
remaining warrior tried to gain the advantage. As much as he wanted to go to Teal'c's aid, he couldn't. His body wouldn't move another
inch – the mind was willing, but the flesh had hit a wall.
He gazed steadily at the spot where the warrior had
vanished, trying to justify his lack of remorse. No, he was coming up empty.
Maybe he didn't need to justify his survival – it could just as easily have
been the other guy. He didn't feel like justifying anything, he wanted to rest,
he needed to do something…what was it?
He'd just rest for a minute, he was awfully tired…and
his vision was a little… wonky….
Teal'c's mind registered the cease-fire at O'Neill's section
of the clearing. He spared a second to petition for his friend's safety. The
other Jaffa warrior, intent on blasting Teal'c back
to his maker, must have registered the cease-fire also. For an instant his
attention wavered and he turned away from the matter at hand.
Teal'c took advantage of that instant of inattention
by immediately standing up, aiming his "Zat",
and firing at his opponent. A second killing shot followed with almost
lightening speed. Both bolts found their target and the man went down heavily.
Silence filled the clearing.
The smell of burnt electricity clogged the air.
The tossed up cloud of smoke, dirt and debris slowly
cleared, slowly sifting back down to its place of origin.
"O'Neill," Teal'c shouted in a panic, and
ran back to the fractured and pitted artifact. The soldier appeared to have
hardly moved since the attack began.
He was covered with a layer of dust and dirt, but had
managed to evade the Jaffa's killing attack. Teal'c
knelt down, and saw the bright red evidence of new bleeding, and cuts and
scratches caused by flying debris. Did O'Neill have any blood left to spill so
haphazardly? He touched a gentle hand to his friend's arm, and then moved it up
to his neck feeling for a pulse.
The telltale too fast, inconsequential thread spoke
volumes, and Teal'c knew it
was now, or never. O'Neill had to get back to the SGC, and
into Dr. Fraiser's care. He slipped an arm under his
friend's legs, in preparation of carrying him through the gate.
*****************************************************************
The grinding pain in his leg brought O'Neill back
from a black oblivion. His fuzzy eyesight coalesced into the sharp image of
Teal'c, bending over him. He smiled.
And received an elegantly raised
eyebrow in response.
"Did we win, T? I sort of lost track of the
score there. For a while it looked like Jaffa-1, O'Neill-zip." His voice
was ridiculously weak and tremulous, and an overwhelming fatigue blanked his
scattered thoughts. The crunch of grit in his mouth set his teeth on edge, and
his eyes burned from blasted-up debris. But he was alive…and it was time to go
home. "Let's head on out, Teal'c. There's a gallon of water back there
with my name on it, and I think old Doc Fraiser needs
to look at this leg…"
"Indeed, O'Neill. I will assist you…"
"Thanks, T. But, I think I've got it…" he
struggled to get up and failed. He had no strength left. "Nope…can't seem
to get up, T. Can you give me a hand?" He reached a shaky hand up to his
friend.
"I would be honored, my friend."
Teal'c grabbed hold with his huge warm grip and
pulled gently. O'Neill stood, and promptly passed out. Teal'c caught the
soldier before he could hit the ground, lifting him up as gently as one would a
baby. He looked around the clearing, nothing here was
of further interest.
He walked toward the wormhole, once again sent the
iris code and noticed the two guards were waking up. It didn't matter, he and O'Neill were going home.
And then he stepped through.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The klaxon had long since stopped making its raucous,
irritating noise, but the emergency lights still swirled their flashing bright
red. The opened wormhole stood silent, and expectant.
In the control room, General Hammond checked his
watch nervously. Ten more minutes and the wormhole would shut down on its own.
His people were still on that planet, still out of
contact, and he still didn't know what the hell was going on. They'd stopped
receiving telemetry shortly after the MALP was reactivated. All indicators pointed to deliberate
destruction. Someone had destroyed the MALP on purpose.
He noticed the medical team over in one corner of the
"gate" room quietly talking amongst themselves. They'd been summoned
as soon as Major Carter and Mr. Quinn stepped through too many hours ago…and
again just twenty-eight minutes ago. They'd been summoned for an injured
soldier, who was still not present, nor accounted for – and the general was
worried sick.
Teal'c had opened the gate, and had even sent through
a brief message,
" O'Neill needs medical attention…."
But his message had been cut short, and now it was a
waiting game. Waiting for his people to come home, waiting till the wormhole
shut down of its own accord, and then waiting until he
could re-establish the conduit, and send help through.
The general unconsciously pursed his brow, willing
his men through the liquid flux. Thinking back to the previous arrivals, he
remembered his surprise when only half of SG1 stepped out of the anomaly, onto
the ramp. He'd almost made a joke about O'Neill's tardiness.
Major Carter and Jonas Quinn had stepped through the
giant portal almost clinging to one another. They'd turned back expectantly,
waiting for Colonel O'Neill and Teal'c's arrival.
Both men failed to appear and finally the wormhole shut down, almost with an
angry snap.
A quick debrief, after medical clearance for a
reduced SG1, and the general was even more worried than before. Major Carter
stated that they'd met up with a group of Jaffa
coming from the opposite direction. She grinned when she told Hammond that
Colonel O'Neill had cursed like a sailor at their rotten luck, and a firefight
had ensued. Colonel O'Neill had been injured and unable to make it to the open
gate. Teal'c went back to assist the injured officer, and she had expected to
see both men come through.
Mr. Quinn couldn't add more to her statement other
than the fact that "Colonel O'Neill was shot in the leg by one of the
purloined flintlocks …in the hands of a small band of ignorant Jaffa warriors."
"How, Mr. Quinn, do you surmise they came by
those weapons?" Hammond wanted to know. If Jaffa
warriors were on M43-778, what was their purpose for being there? And why now
was planet Insipid of interest to any one, much less the Jaffa?
Was it just an unlucky coincidence? Or was some nefarious Goa'uld
plot underfoot?
"They're stolen, sir. The locals use them for
game…they don't have much use for them as protection. But, sir, they wouldn't
have given them up without a fight."
Jonas had inwardly cringed. The calm, pleasant
natives of M43-778 were either dead, had been taken prisoner…or worse. Those
same unselfish, friendly natives who found the colonel so amusing – especially
when he'd played games with their children.
Hammond gazed at the quiescent puddle in front of
him. He could still see backpacks flying out of the wormhole – at terminal
velocity a little while ago. Followed quickly behind by two
amazingly well preserved, yet alien flintlock rifles. Rifles any
collector would give his ba…best ever paycheck for.
Sergeant Siler had almost been a casualty of those
weapons too, due to his close proximity to their trajectory. Siler seemed to be
as big a trouble magnet as the colonel. The general shook his head in
exasperation
On closer inspection both backpacks were spattered
with blood. Major Carter was stunned at the amount of blood already dried into
the fabric.
"It was only a meet and greet,
sir. A pleasant little backward planet…all farmers and laborers…."
And then suddenly, out of the rippling puddle of the
open wormhole
a blast of fire erupted.
"Incoming!" A shout went up as eyes tracked
the quick moving fire.
The fiery bolt flew straight for the line of S.F.'s stationed around the bottom of the Stargate's metal ramp. Everyone ducked, hoping to be spared
the painful death, or living agony, such a bolt preceded. The shot quickly
struck the cement wall, just below the large glass window where General Hammond
stood. The general ducked slightly in reaction, breathed a slow pent up sigh
that no one was injured, and quickly moved to the stairs to view the damage.
Many eyes were expectantly turned toward the open
anomaly, waiting. Waiting for what - no one quite knew. Another
more powerful barrage of firepower, an attack from a splinter group of Jaffa, or the return of lost soldiers coming home.
Hammond stared up at the burnt cement, and then
checked his watch again. Two more minutes….
"Come on…come on, Colonel, Teal'c," he
muttered under his breath. "You're holding up this shindig. What the hell
are you doing out there?"
One final minute remained before the wormhole shut
down of its own accord.
Abruptly, the heavy tread of boots on metal brought
everyone's attention simultaneously back to the gate, with a quick show of
arms. The missing team members had arrived.
Teal'c stood, just over the threshold of the event
horizon, as if stunned. Draped over his shoulder was the inert form of Colonel
O'Neill. The big man stepped forward with his cargo and the wormhole shut down
as if on cue.
Even as the medical team rushed up the ramp, General
Hammond felt a grin lighten his face. The one he saved for Tessa and Kayla…and
errant colonels. He watched, as O'Neill was gently handed off and loaded onto
the waiting stretcher.
The medical team swarmed over the injured man like
"flies on a dead carcass" – General Hammond chastised himself for
thinking along those lines. An IV was quickly inserted in his 2IC's arm; ECG
leads were adhered to his chest, he was covered in warm blankets to prevent
further chilling, and the triage team made motions to leave the too-public
room.
Just arriving on the scene, Dr. Fraiser
started giving out orders as the stretcher made its way from the
"gate" room and back to the infirmary.
"High Trendelenburg
…he's in shock, Lactated Ringer's 100/minute – we don't want to overload him,
get an I -stat and a BMP, then a type and cross for four units – tell them to
stay four units ahead of us, and I want two units of plasmanate
ASAP. Let's roll guys."
The general caught Dr. Fraiser's
eye before she exited. A slight nod of her head was all she could afford at the
moment. But it was all Hammond needed. Her nod reassured him that O'Neill was
in very capable hands – quite possibly the best, and she'd report when the
shouting was all over.
Teal'c sat in the secluded quiet of his quarters, the
smell of fragrant, burning candles was overpowering. As overpowering as was his
need for Kel-no-reem - and the rest, which becoming
one with himself afforded.
He kept seeing O'Neill's too pale face as he was
taken to the infirmary. It was seldom that O'Neill was not kicking and
complaining about necessary trips to the doctor. Too pale and too quiet, his
face a waxen mask, his lips a decided blue.
Teal'c looked deep within himself, knowing he had
done all in his power to return O'Neill to the SGC and medical attention. Now,
it was up to O'Neill to open himself to the power of healing which Dr. Fraiser dispensed with a light touch.
Teal'c needed the benefit of meditation,
he needed to banish extraneous thoughts. Only by removing exterior noise from
his being could he gain internal strength. His internal strength was so
necessary to his continued survival and was that which had been drained by this
ordeal. He would be called upon again, to support O'Neill's recuperation and
his full return to health. He would gladly heed the call.
Major Samantha Carter sat in her lab, contemplating
her computer's blue screen saver. She'd been sitting there, contemplating it
for quite a while now…ever since the colonel had been brought home. Although,
truth be told, the major hadn't paid much attention to
the screen before it was saved from irreparable damage.
Her thoughts lay in the infirmary…with the colonel.
He'd been so…so inert, so lifeless. So unlike the colonel they all loved and,
at times, loved to hate.
She wanted to be in the infirmary so badly she could
almost taste it. It tasted of wasted opportunities, not-quite-wrong choices,
and service-over-self. Sometimes Self needed to take
the bull by the horns, and be assertive – especially in matters too tender, and
too sensitive to be brought out of that room and into the light.
Carter still couldn't believe such an innocuous
mission had ended so wrong. The locals had been friendly and accommodating,
they had no idea who the Goa'uld were – having never
encountered one, and hadn't seen any such as the Jaffa.
She grinned, remembering the colonel begging to be
released from the mission to planet Insipid. His name
for the planet, not hers. The colonel had almost gotten down on his
wonky knees, almost pleading with General Hammond.
"General, I've got paperwork; evaluations, team
allotments, budget reports, time sheets, pay records, materials requests…"
"Colonel O'Neill," uh, oh, the general was
pissed.
He never used O'Neill's full title unless it was
required by circumstances, or he had reached the end of his rope with his 2IC.
"Colonel O'Neill, I know how much paper work you have…and I know just how
long it's been on your desk. And I even know when it's due…or, WAS due."
"Sir, you know I do my best work under the
gun…"
"Well, I don't Colonel. Under duress, I get
ulcers…"
"…And Carter needs the experience." She
remembered giving her CO a baleful eye. He returned her look with one that
said, "Work with me here, Carter."
"Major Carter will best get her experience under
the tutelage of our MOST experienced officer. Although "Badgering your CO
-101" seems to be the topic in front of us this morning. Take notes,
Major, this might come in handy…" the general smiled at his junior
officer.
The general officer took a deep breath, rubbing his
tired eyes.
"Colonel, why do you REALLY not want to go,
to…" he checked his notes, "…M43-778? And don't tell me you DON'T not want to go. I'm an old dog in this
kennel."
O'Neill jammed his hands in his BDU pockets, and had
the grace to look embarrassed.
"We've been there before, sir, why do we need to
go again? It was quiet, peaceful, placid, insipid, uninteresting to man and
beast. In the galactic dictionary the meaning for boring is M43-778, with
pictures. Sir, if it's just a diplomatic mission send
SG9. Carter, Teal'c and Jonas could tag along, take a quick look-see, see what
they want, why they called us, and be back in time for supper.
While…I…do," he swallowed, "…paperwork, re-wire the intruder alarms,
or…or scrub the latrine with my toothbrush. General Hammond, sir, you do know I
suck as a diplomat."
"Yes, Colonel, I do, and I appreciate your
sacrifice. I know Major Carter appreciates your willingness to accelerate her
learning process. Sergeant Siler has those alarms well in hand, and don't tempt
me on the other. But…the planet locals asked especially for you – seems they
found you amusing on that first visit. And I too, can be as self-sacrificing as
any one of my officers. Therefore, I feel it would best serve all our interests
for you to lead the mission to M43-778. Ah," he held up a hand,
"Don't thank me. Now get out of here…you leave at 0800hrs, tomorrow
morning."
"D'oh," the
colonel muttered, low under his breath.
"What was that, Colonel?" The general loved
baiting his favorite colonel.
"Nothing, sir. Just clearing my throat."
"Yes, well then…dismissed."
The general stood - with everyone seated at the large
table following his lead - and moved rapidly from the conference room.
The next morning - which was so many hours ago now,
they'd shipped out to M43-778, and the rest was history. And here she was
sitting alone in her lab, when her place was in the infirmary, with a good
friend. She felt hot tears escape down her face. The colonel was right; he
shouldn't have gone back to Insipid. But if he hadn't, whom would he
have chosen to stand in his place at this very moment? How would he have
reconciled his poor skills as a negotiator against the injury of one of his
team?
He was so cold. Somebody really needed to turn up the
heat, or throw another log on the fire.
His thigh was on fire. It was a wonder he didn't
smell his own flesh cooking and boiling in the inferno.
People buzzed around him, he could hear them, but he
couldn't quite see them. Someone did something to his leg.
Please don't touch it…it hurts so b…bad.
Someone was intent on bathing him – he'd felt the
rough washcloth on his face, and neck, and body too many times.
I'm too cold already. I'm shivering…can't you hear my
teeth chatter?
He heard the mechanical beep-beep of odd machinery. And the whoosh-sigh of other machines counting a cadence with which
he was strangely familiar.
Another someone touched his thigh, and the pain burst
up like an ever-expanding mushroom cloud, consuming everything in its path, and
taking his breath away. He knew he'd screamed, he
could feel his throat tightening, and his lungs contracting. And then, when he
felt he couldn't take the awful burning fire any longer, he felt warmth spread
through his veins. It moved like wildfire, burning away the decaying flesh of
his decomposing body, making all fresh and new again. The pain was held at bay,
held off for a little while longer, and then he slept.
With an audible sigh of relief, Janet Fraiser sat down for the first time in six hours. It felt
so good getting off her feet. So much so, that for a full minute she sat
immobile, eyes closed, just savoring the feeling of weightlessness.
An incongruent thought skittered through her tired
brain cells. She was either going to have to grow several more inches, or find
a pair of orthopedic shoes that fit her tap-tapping hi-heeled image. She
snorted quietly with amusement.
A cup of hot coffee had mysteriously appeared on her
desk, and she mentally thanked Lt. Patterson for the kindness. They both,
working side by side, were exhausted from tending Colonel O'Neill. The doctor sighed a deep, heartfelt sigh of relief and was suddenly
conscious of tears springing to her eyes.
It had been a hard six hours, touch and go all the
way. He'd been in shock from the minute of his arrival. But bless him; Teal'c
had done all the right things to insure his delivery of a live patient. Her
team had acted as one getting business taken care of…from cutting off the
colonels clothing, getting a foley inserted, keeping
him warm, inserting an extra IV line, to hanging bags of warm fluid and blood
products, and the list went on.
They'd even been able to debride
and irrigate the colonel's thigh wound while he was unconscious. Washing out clots and bits
of Air Force issue, and then gingerly cutting away dead tissue, and cauterizing
those pesky bleeders. He'd screamed in pain at one point – scared the
hell out of Dr. Warner. The leg was now cleaned, packed with iodoform gauze, and wrapped for future surgical
intervention, but first things first.
Now, it was a waiting game. Waiting
for the inevitable infection. She was pumping him full of antibiotics
even as she sat quietly crying. Waiting to see if his kidneys
had shut down. An order had already gone through to Academy Hospital for
a dialysis machine, just in case. And most importantly, she was waiting for him
to wake up. Wake up and let her know if he was brain damaged or not – if Teal'c's and their own efforts had been in vain. Had they
saved the body, but not the man?
She let the tears fall; it was only natural, shedding
tears for a friend. Plus she was tired and had no defense against her run away
emotions. Patterson was probably in the nurse's lounge having her own quick,
private tears. A natural reaction after fighting the good
fight – and winning.
Dr. Fraiser was going to
rest a minute or two more and dry her tears. Only then would she go check on
her patient, get a bite to eat, report to the general, and then face the remaining
members of O'Neill's team. You could hold off an avalanche only so long.
He was so hot.
Why didn't they turn on the air conditioning? Hadn't
the general paid the bill?
He was in Iraq, wasn't he?
They never had AC in Iraq – unless that was what you
called it, being tortured with high-pressure water that took the place of a
bath. His lice probably appreciated the cool down.
And his leg…what happened to his leg? It was numb and
hot at the same time. What had they done to his leg? Jesus, God…they cut off
his leg….
A blood-curdling scream reverberated through the
quiet infirmary. Captain Mary Ruzycki ran back to her
patient, dodging carts and other nurses along the way. She'd only gone to the
medicine cabinet to get his next IV antibiotic ready. And he'd been so quiet –
she should have known it was too good to be true.
The colonel was struggling with the IV lines, while
tugging at the CVP line, which had been sutured in place. Dr. Fraiser'd have her butt if he pulled that one loose…along
with her captains' tracks. The captain grabbed his cold, trembling hands,
gently holding both of his in her own warm grip.
"Colonel O'Neill…Colonel O'Neill, don't pull on
your lines," she spoke calmly and without the frenzy she felt. He wasn't
awake, she could tell by the glazed far-off look in his eyes. But she had to
get through to him, or their previous work would be in shambles.
"Colonel O'Neill…Colonel…" to her surprise,
the injured man interrupted.
"My leg. Damned fuckers took my leg…" large tears rolled
down his face.
Ruzycki knew she was privy to something extraordinary. An
event she would have never seen if the colonel was in control of himself. His
distress made tears of her own form. Now wouldn't that
be pretty…she and Colonel O'Neill, sitting here, crying over his drugged
dreams?
"No, sir. They didn't cut your leg off. It's fine…well, maybe
not fine, but it is intact, and still attached, sir. Look at me, sir." She
steadfastly willed him to look at her – to look into her eyes and know the
truth. Ruzycki tugged gently at his hands when it
appeared he'd refuse to look at her. "Come on, sir. I know you're not
afraid of the truth."
For what seemed hours, the injured man stared at their
joined hands, and then finally raised his head. Looking at the set of Captain's
bars, it reminded him of someone. He raised his glazed eyes up further, to meet
the calm, aqua gaze of Captain Ruzycki. The world
formed around him for a moment, he knew he was in the infirmary and he'd been
injured…
"My leg…" he mumbled softly.
"…Is intact, sir. Dr. Warner started an epidural
for pain control, that's why your leg feels numb. We've got some repair work to
do, but it'll be right as rain afterward." Ruzycki
tugged at his hands again. "Sir, Dory's going to get some medication to
top you up. I can tell you're in pain, and we'll get your antibiotic restarted.
I'll be right here with you, sir."
He nodded in reply, too tired and too out of it to
make much sense of anything. They hadn't removed his leg that was enough for
now.
The two nurses eased O'Neill back into bed, and
positioned him on his uninjured side. After placing pillows to prop him up,
Dory went for the epidural anesthetic. Ruzycki
grabbed the IV antibiotic, and both met back at the patient's bedside.
He was gone again. She could tell by the return of
that distant, open-eyed gaze which was so disconcerting. She slam-dunked a mild
sedative into his IV, and started the antibiotic. When she looked again his
eyes were closed, and his breathing had evened out in sleep. Ruzycki grabbed a chair, and sat down by his bed, pulling
up his chart for an interesting evening of reading.
Real life…always stranger than fiction….
Samantha Carter, Teal'c and Jonas Quinn lounged, with
differing styles, in Dr. Fraiser's cramped office.
They'd been told to stay away from the infirmary for a solid eight hours and
that time was officially up - in five minutes. Fraiser
would probably chew them out for jumping the gun. But each of them was rested
and anxious to see the colonel.
Even from Janet's office they could see the colonel's
official infirmary home away from home. It was darkened, but nursing activities
were still being carried out in the gloom. Strange machinery stood just outside
the periphery of light, waiting silently to be called into action.
Captain Ruzycki came out
from behind the curtain once and waved to them, also giving a thumb's up
gesture. Carter grinned and returned the gesture, Jonas grinned goofily, and
Teal'c raised an elegant eyebrow – he had never doubted O'Neill would not
triumph over this adversity.
The tap-tap of hi-heeled shoes on concrete heralded
Dr. Fraiser's return. She looked at the group
gathered in her office and then down at her watch.
"Either I'm running late, or all of you are way
too early. You did get some rest." It was a statement, not a question. Her
tired eyes touched on each of the team members. After receiving a nod from each
one she proceeded.
"First of all, I want Teal'c to know he did a
fine job out in the field. If he hadn't been so meticulous in his care of
Colonel O'Neill, we wouldn't be standing here having this briefing."
Teal'c bowed his head briefly in acknowledgement.
"The colonel was in shock when we got him, he's
lost a lot of blood, but we're replacing his circulatory volume, and we're
watching for kidney failure – so far, so good. He's on a twenty-four hour
antibiotic regimen for the gun shot wound…right now we're fighting fever
hallucinations and phantasms. He woke up once, just a little while ago, but for
too short a period to determine brain function. Although we are encouraged, by
the conversation that took place with Captain Ruzycki.
He was able to follow simple instructions…after a fashion." The doctor
took a deep breath and continued.
"I'll let you see him, but only for a short
visit. Because of the hallucinations I don't want too much outside stimulation.
When we're able to lose all of this special equipment, you can come back for
longer periods. He's asleep, and is as comfortable as we can possibly make him
right now. Okay?" She looked from person to person, exacting a nod of
understanding and consent from each before continuing. "So…come with me."
They left her office and very quietly trouped down
the short walk to O'Neill's bedside. Carter, Teal'c and Jonas stood quietly at
the foot of his bed as if drinking in the sight before them. Dr. Fraiser looked on from behind.
The ECG machine almost silently ticked out a steady,
too fast beat. While the blood pressure monitor automatically whooshed and
sighed, tightening uncomfortably around the colonel's bicep every five minutes.
Multiple bags of fluid dripped down multiple clear plastic lines, supplying
blood and fluids to his depleted system. One solitary tubing carried fluids
from his body, and as important as it was, it was hidden from sight. A cooling
machine hummed quietly in one corner of the space, hooked to the blanket
O'Neill lay on.
O'Neill was turned on his left side with a mound of
pillows propping him in place. His injured leg was swathed in a huge pressure
dressing, which distorted the single sheet covering him. They'd cleaned the
blood from his hair, and washed the rust colored stains from his hands and
body. Dressed in a white hospital gown, coupled with his clean silver hair, he
looked pure, shiny and pristine like a bright new silver nickel.
He was finally resting. The sedatives were working in
his favor now, the phantasms were no threat at the
moment. In sleep he looked calm, and pain free, and so very innocent. He also looked terribly alone – lonely and innocent.
Captain Ruzycki sat with
her back to the newcomers, so she could tune out infirmary noises and remain
tuned in to her patient. Her dark head was bowed over his chart – which she
read while holding her patients hand. A minute noise brought her head up, and
she twisted around to see the solemn faces of O'Neill's team. Her intense look
of concentration melted into a smile as she recognized the onlookers. Letting
go of the colonel's loose grip the nurse stood and moved away from the bed so
that his friends could gather closer.
Teal'c remained at the end of the bed where he stood.
It was his place. It was where O'Neill would expect him to be. Jonas looked
slightly embarrassed; he hadn't known the colonel that long, so he too remained
where he was standing. Although, he hoped Colonel O'Neill realized he wished him
well. Carter wanted to touch her friend - touch him and know he was real. And
the sight of his nurse holding his hand stirred something within her breast.
Was it jealousy? Was she jealous of a nurse because the nurse could hold his
hand in comfort, and in public, while she as his friend, his teammate, could
not?
It wasn't right. It surely wasn't fair.
Carter slid into the vacated chair, having eyes only
for the man lying so still in his pristine bed. God, she wished Daniel was
here. He was better at this stuff than she was. Daniel could always touch, or
bully, or cajole, or tend the hurt of a less than happy Jack O'Neill. Maybe
that was the problem. O'Neill had forever been Jack to Daniel; to her he was -
had to be - THE COLONEL…Sir.
But, she was a woman, right? Women were the
nurturers, the caretakers, right?
She'd missed out on that lesson, somewhere along
life's road. But she could do this. She could give succor to a man who stood as
her friend, as well as being her CO and mentor.
Sam slowly stretched out her hand and on an impulse,
smoothed his tousled short hair. It had long been something she'd wanted to do,
yet decorum dictated otherwise. But with an audience standing at her shoulder,
how could that small gesture be construed as anything unbridled. Cautiously Sam
moved her hand lower until it touched his too warm knuckles, and then smoothly
slid her hand around his. She held his overly warm hand for just a moment,
giving it a gentle squeeze, and was surprised a few seconds later, to feel a
weak pressure in return. A smile lit her face, and she looked up at her
teammates, the doctor and the nurse, with a look of delighted wonder.
Teal'c nodded sagely, as if the response was as he'd
expected, while Jonas gave her his wide-open grin. Both Dr. Fraiser
and Captain Ruzycki gave her a thumb's up. And then
finally, Fraiser scooted them all out of the cubicle,
too much more and the patient would be awake, and there'd be another problem to
deal with.
Ruzycki returned to her charting, Fraiser
returned to her office, and SG1 returned to their various solitary pursuits.
But they'd be back, even for the short periods Dr. Fraiser
had allotted. They'd be back again and again….
Jack O'Neill lay back on his pillows, tired of making
motions to eat. He was weary of soup, and if he saw another cube of red Jell-O
he wouldn't be responsible for his actions. Didn't the Air Force train cooks to
be master chefs? Why couldn't he get one of those guys to cook his infirmary
meals? He scrubbed a restless hand through his hair. Visions of a big thick
steak, with homemade fries, washed down with a crisp, cold beer danced in his
dreams. Not being able to eat, or rather, not holding down what little he did
eat was seriously interfering with that macho image he was working on.
All in all, he was just plain tired. He was tired of
the fever - tripping between hellish Netu and the
frozen wastes of Antarctica. He'd been to both places and did not
wish for a repeat visit – real or imaginary. Of the dressing changes to his
leg, why didn't they just go ahead, sew the leg back together and be done with
it – he had a life to live, didn't he? He wanted a nice long soak, in a very
large bathtub filled with very hot water, so badly that he wasn't above
resorting to a little bribery to get it.
But, nnnoooo…all he was
allowed was a spit bath, or worse – a bed bath.
It really hadn't been a problem while he was out of
it, and he was clean – sort of.
But it was damned embarrassing – even for a hardened
military type like him.
Because when it came to bathing…down there…you had to
have a certain amount of maneuverability, or the nurse had to do it for you…. And, if you had THAT tube in, a certain amount of special care had
to be taken with your…parts.
So to avoid embarrassment – his, he
only let Captain Ruzycki help him at bath time. He and Ruzycki went back
several years, he also knew her husband Paul. He'd even had a crush on her when
they'd first met – before Iraq. He smiled; remembering his telling Sara she had
stiff competition for his affections, but being the mother of his unborn child
definitely put her in the lead. He grinned again, remembering his last bathing
encounter with Ruzycki.
"Okay, colonel, you know the drill. I've got
warm water, you take the top…I've got the bottom and your back. And if you're
especially good this morning, I'll give you the General's back rub."
"You know me, Ruzycki,
I like being on top…. The general has his own back rub?"
"Rank has its privilege, sir. And don't try that
lame, male chauvinist piglet, Air Force flyboy, bullshit on me, sir." Her
sparkling aqua-blue eyes stole any harshness from her command.
He wiggled his eyebrows and commenced his spit bath,
while she turned her attention to his IV lines and various drains, and machine calibrations.
"It's your turn," he soon lay back against
the pillows, exhausted. She helped him into a clean gown, and after covering
one leg with the blanket, began washing the other impossibly long leg and foot.
The sensuous feel of warm, soapy water on his skin was heavenly, but it only
made him wish more fervently for that bathtub. Long ago he'd discovered the
fine line between a sensual and a utilitarian caress, and now his nurses continuous caress and massage motion almost lulled
him to sleep. Even after she dried his foot and leg, tucked it back under the
blanket, and changed sides. He was all but asleep when she spoke again.
"Keep your eyes closed, sir,
while I finish up. And then I'll
do your back."
"Why don't you close your eyes, Ruzycki? It's MY stuff you're looking at."
"Sir, you keep your eyes closed, it's called
saving embarrassment. I close my eyes; it's called groping a patient…. Neither
my husband, nor the Air Force would understand, sir."
He grinned at her irony.
From behind the curtain another voice, from a certain
blonde major, piped up.
"Anything I can help you with, Colonel?"
"Never you mind,
Carter. There are still some things the Air Force doesn't expect a 2IC to do
for his, or her, CO. Although…" he said very softly, gave his nurse a weak
smirk, and then closed his eyes.
Being held hostage, here at the Experimental Animal
Testing Zoo – otherwise known as the infirmary, was never a condition he
yielded easily to. He was tired of lying in bed, even though his first foray
out of bed had been a disaster.
He thought back to an earlier time that morning. Two
of the nurses had helped him get out of bed and into a chair, while his bed was
stripped and remade. When that task was complete, they'd offered to take him on
a stroll around the room. Not a monumental task, on an average day. But today,
he'd taken a few steps away from his chair and promptly took a nosedive – in
front of Carter, and Teal'c who'd just arrived.
As soon as he stood and shuffled away from the damned
chair, he'd felt lightheaded. The room started spinning, his vision tunneled
down to zip and his hearing disappeared all together. Sweat dripped down his
back, his scalp prickled, and the all too present nausea raised its ugly head
again. His legs wouldn't hold him up – never mind the pain in his injured
thigh. He didn't remember whether he'd actually grabbed hold of his nurses, or
vice versa. He went down with an audible sigh, in a tangle of IV lines and
drainage bags, grasping hands and IV poles, faster than a razed building.
Everyone had scrambled, getting him off the floor and
back into the freshly made bed, but it was embarrassing. He couldn't even stand
up on his own. Fraiser had called it, he thought for
a moment, organic…no, that didn't sound right…. Orthopedic…no…broken
bones…orthostat…orthostatic hypotension…that was it!
A big fancy word for falling on the floor and going boom…and oh, joy, he'd get
to do it all over again later this afternoon.
O'Neill moved restlessly in bed. His shoulders ached,
and his hips hurt from lying on this mattress. Some Air Force
Supply Sergeant's idea of comfortable and cost effective. He wanted
those IV's entirely gone, but after this mornings debacle he could kiss that
wish goodbye. Most particularly he wanted THAT tube removed. He moved, restless
again, and felt THAT tube tug on more tender parts of his anatomy.
He knew he should be grateful for being alive. By all
accounts it had been a near thing – just about squeezed all the juice out of
the old tomato, huh, O'Neill? Talk about being a quart low…it took
on a whole new meaning. At least his nurses weren't hovering anymore, and the
myriad of machines was gone – back to dark, ominous storage areas. His team was
able to visit more, and stay longer. Although he still cringed when Jonas came
– the man was too perky!
The sound of voices, coming toward his space, brought
O'Neill out of his introspection. A familiar tap-tapping alerted him that Dr. Fraiser was making a house call. He hadn't seen her since
earlier today - he MUST be getting better. Suddenly the privacy curtain was
thrown back, accompanied by the hissing cacophony of speeding curtain rings.
"Colonel O'Neill, how are we feeling?" The
doctor checked his chart distractedly.
"I'm feeling just peachy, Doc. But, you've just
gotten here; I can't tell how you feel – come a little closer." And then
without missing a beat, "What's the word Doc, when can I go home?"
"Not for a while yet, sir," she replied,
still looking at his chart, turning pages, studying the information as she
spoke. "Although I do have good news, and some
not so good."
Fraiser closed the chart and gave him her full attention,
with a big smile.
"First off, your last three cultures came back
negative. That means the infection is under control. And it also means we can
finally close your thigh wound, without risking sepsis. Which means no more
dressing changes, no more painful digging for cultures, no more packing and no more wet dressings." Now, she fairly beamed at him.
"Cool. And when can I get rid of my
port-a-potty?"
Fraiser's eyes blanked at his phrase, but she came back
quickly.
"The foley…well, I'm
afraid that has to stay a while longer."
"Doooccc…"
"Hopefully," she continued as if he hadn't
whined, "…only for a short while. You do understand that the shock
syndrome affected your kidneys, right? They've made a wonderful come back, but
we still need to watch your kidney function as closely as possible. But, if you
do well after surgery, yet still need the device, you can go home with a leg
bag." Again the beaming smile.
"Sounds delightful, Doc. I'll be the only guy on
my block where peeing for distance takes on a whole new meaning."
Fraiser
looked at him silently and grunted.
"Now about that syncopal episode earlier today." Fraiser put his chart on
the bedside table and fished in her pocket for something, and then finally drug
out her pocket penlight. She instructed him to look straight ahead. "Have
you been up, out of bed, since then?" She had visions of him, climbing
over the side rails, getting out of bed – trying to prove something. Who he
felt he needed to prove anything to was a big question
mark. But, she wouldn't put it past him.
"Not yet, Doc. Rogers is coming back for me
after supper, along with Teal'c. Although I'm not really hungry, so I guess I
could call him back sooner. When am I going to start eating again, Doc – lack
of edible food around here not withstanding?" He rolled his eyes away from
her light with a frown, " Do you actually see
anything important in there?"
Fraiser grinned. She and the colonel had a long-standing
disagreement over the application and value of the ophthalmic exam.
"You'd be surprised, sir. As for the food,
you'll start eating when you feel better. And now that we have a handle on the
infection, we'll be able to close the wound, and you should regain your
appetite."
"I'd feel a whole lot hungrier if I had a steak
to drool over," he looked up at her hopefully. "…A cold one to wash
it down..."
"And who," she laughed, "…Is going to
clean up the mess when you vomit every bit back up? That's IF you actually
swallow any?"
"That's what I'm talking about, Doc. When will I
stop heaving – I'm REALLY sick of broth and red jell-o."
The doctor gave him a long searching look. The dark
smudges under his eyes were new, while the lines around his eyes and mouth were
more pronounced than usual. Those gorgeous brown eyes – which every female on
the base coveted for her own romantic notions, looked huge in his face. He'd
lost weight, no one could've gone through this ordeal and not lose a little of
himself – thank goodness it was only poundage. His fine tan had given over to
sickroom pallor, which ill suited Jack O'Neill. All in all he looked like road
kill – days old road kill.
He'd be antsy to get up and get going soon. Already,
he'd fired his first shot across her bow, wanting to get out of here, wanting
to get home. According to O'Neill standards, it had been mild.
"Colonel…Jack. I…you do know you almost bled to
death, right? You were mere drops away from the point of no return when Teal'c
got you back here. It wasn't his fault, its just fact. You've been very ill –
the hypovolemia, the infection, that hole in your
thigh. Each of those processes alone has put a tremendous strain on your
physiology. It's going to take a while for your body to catch up, to reach its
optimum – but it will…we just have to take it slowly. The absence of an appetite, and the inability to hold on to your food will
subside, and your strength will come back. You'll wake up one morning
completely ravenous, ready to really take on the world. Be patient, just a
little bit longer. Meanwhile, I'll tell the cook to get creative with the
Jell-O."
O'Neill grunted his skepticism.
"Doc, I can do patience. I'm the picture of
patience. When you look in the dictionary under patience, there's a picture of
me, Jack O'Neill." He looked down at his hands and grimaced, suddenly
self-conscious, "I…I can't do waiting, Doc."
Fraiser nodded her head, her large expressive eyes filled
with understanding.
"Then we'll get Rogers back in here, and get you
out of that bed. Dr. Warner has your wound closure scheduled for
tomorrow…."
Sam Carter sat quietly watching her CO sleep. It was
one non-contact sport she enjoyed. Just watching his face -
as innocent in repose as it was in action "charged with life."
He'd finally fallen asleep on her. A rousing evening
of cards, and he owed her one million dollars – in toothpicks.
It had been an exhausting day for the colonel. First
off, he'd been in surgery this morning having his thigh wound closed. Of which
Dr. Warner had reported as going very well. The spinal anesthesia had worn off
by early afternoon, and then O'Neill spent the rest of the day gritting his
teeth in pain. The PCA pump, standing quietly by his bedside went unused. What
he was trying to prove by not easing the surgical pain, only he knew. Dr. Fraiser had come by twice and had, both times, pushed the
pain control button – with a lecture to boot, on why he should use it.
Ggahh, the man was so stubborn! Once, even she had surreptitiously pushed that
button, but he'd caught her and then accused her of dispensing medicine without
a license. By the look in his eyes, she hadn't been too convinced he was
joking. Hence the marathon games of gin rummy, hearts and finally poker – to
keep the colonel occupied and to help him forget his discomfort. He always
responded well to his team's presence, although he was very good at sublimating
his pain.
She looked at her watch – it was getting late and
Teal'c should be here in a little while. He'd requested the late shift…feeling
it was his duty to help ease O'Neill's suffering "should the nightmares
come to steal his rest." Jonas would be back for the luncheon shift –
O'Neill, early morning, and Jonas Quinn didn't mix well. O'Neill didn't truly
feel comfortable in his new team member's company. So, with a hundred and one
personal things to be done to get going each morning, he'd chosen to have one
of the nurses help him.
A sudden shifting in the bed brought Carters
attention back to her patient. She didn't dare to breathe as O'Neill mumbled in
his sleep. The low whispered sounds quickly took on the appearance of pleading,
for something or someone. Sam knew she should leave O'Neill alone, not touch
him unless his distress became too much. But it was all too apparent that
"something" was bothering him. His movements became more pronounced,
more frantic as he fought his unseen demons. His breathing came in gasps as if
he'd run a great distance, and his arms had started to flail around. Carter was
afraid he'd accidentally bang his newly repaired thigh and start it bleeding
again.
She reached out a curiously trembling hand to gently
shake him, and could feel his cold clammy sweat even through the hospital gown.
She had visions of her CO slugging her before he had fully awakened, but it was
a chance she'd take. In a pinch, she smiled; she had a few of her own counter
moves to use as back up.
"Colonel…wake up. Sir,
you're dreaming…wake up." Carter kept her voice low and unemotional; she
just wanted his attention, not scare him to death. She grabbed his restless
hand, and held it loosely, yet firmly in both of her own.
"Colonel, you're having a bad dream…wake up,
sir."
"Daniel?" He awoke with a startled jerk.
The dream quickly faded, but he could still see his friend's horrible
suffering, and could still hear his plea for help.
O'Neill's unfocused eyes moved around the area in a
seemingly futile search for something, and then narrowed down to the warmth
enclosing his hand. He stared down at the sight as if it were an alien fixture
– both intriguing and extraordinary.
"Carter, s'that
you?" His being cold had
little to do with the clammy sweat dotting his body. It came from the dream, of
Daniels death, and of its horrific nature.
"You miss him don't you, sir?" She rang the
nurse's station, requesting warm blankets for the colonel.
"What's not to miss? He was my friend."
"You've been trying very hard to forget that,
haven't you, sir?"
He shivered again, remembering Daniels untimely,
gruesome death. It was too new; he was still angry, and still unable to
consciously deal with it. Work had been his panacea, now was not the time for
discussing this – not even with Carter…especially not with Carter.
"You…you held my hand once before – during the
worst…" changing the subject was always a good move.
"I'm your friend."
O'Neill nodded, gripped her hand a little harder, but
remained silent.
"What kind of friend would I be who couldn't
hold your hand?" She grinned, "Ruzycki's
your friend…she held your hand."
"Yeah, well," he replied, looking up into
her eyes, was that a blush creeping up his neck?
"Ruzycki's a nurse, my
hand is the least of my anatomy she's had hold of."
Carter felt a blush warm her cheeks.
O'Neill grimaced. Had he gone too far, been too
blunt? Maybe he could blame it on brain damage.
"Sorry, Carter…dead brain cells…"
She waved him off. No apology was needed; she was a
big girl, a grown woman.
"I want to be your friend, sir …no matter what
else we have that had to remain in a locked room. And if being your friend -
with all it entails, is all I can have, then I'll take it – with both
hands."
O'Neill looked up from an intense contemplation of
his blanket, to meet her intensely dark, sapphire blue eyes.
"You can never have too many friends, Carter.
You lose a good one; it's nice to know there's another one to help ease the
empty space."
Carter nodded in agreement. Now they were on the same
page.
O'Neill grinned and painfully turned, facing his 2IC
/ friend. He gazed peacefully at the beautiful sight. Scooching
down deeper into his now comfortable bed, the drowsiness of sleep once again
sang its siren song to him. He was going to have to talk to Fraiser
about this sleeping all-the-time thing. Soon his breathing evened out in the
rhythm of absolute rest.
Carter felt his hand release hers. She brought it up
to smooth a stray bit of hair away from his face – something she would've never
been allowed to do if he were awake. And then settling back in the
uncomfortable chair, she looked at her watch, Teal'c was late. She didn't care
though. She returned to the one non-contact sport she most enjoyed – watching
an innocent Jack O'Neill sleep – maybe he wasn't so lonely this time.
Unseasonably
warm sunshine beamed down on the sleeping form lying in the chaise lounge.
Pinned down under an ebony cane lying on the deck, newspapers beside the chair
fluttered in a gentle breeze. A neglected cup of coffee cooled, well within
reach, on the other side of the lounge chair. The scene was one of peaceful
tranquility, of quiet repose.
Jack
O'Neill had finally come home. The infirmary was definitely behind him, as he
regained strength and vitality each succeeding day. The leg was still very
stiff, and using the cane was a bitch. Physical therapy was giving his thigh
muscles a real workout, while rebuilding their lost strength.
The sound of a car door slamming awakened the
sleeping colonel. He'd done it again – fallen asleep in the warm winter
sun. He really would be glad when he
stopped nodding off at the drop of a hat. Fraiser
said it was part and parcel of the recovery phase. His body needed to rest,
recuperate and rebuild.
Sitting straight up in the lounge, stretching warm
muscles, he felt glad for another reason. His port-a-potty had been removed
before he'd left the mountain – his peeing for distance would have to be done
the old fashioned way.
A feminine voice called from the front of his house –
it was Carter.
"Back here Carter, come on around."
He was surprised that she'd come out this early in
the day. Jonas and Teal'c had probably worn down her resolve not to come until
later. His two alien teammates had begun an endurance chess game last time they
were out. He was doubly surprised when only her head peered over the fence
gate.
"Permission to come aboard,
sir."
"Come on in, Carter. Where are the kids?"
He grinned – especially since Teal'c was almost twice his age.
Carter looked a bit shamefaced. And was she blushing?
"I…uh, I…umm…"
"Carter, why do I suddenly have the feeling that
Teal'c and Jonas are stuck in some dark supply closet?"
"They're not, sir…honest! I…um, I just wanted to
spend some quiet down time with a friend. And I sort of didn't tell them where
I was going…or when. "
"Uh, huh."
"I thought I'd invite that same friend to lunch
– my treat."
O'Neill's eyebrows reached for his hairline as his
mouth formed a perfect "O". He looked to her for more information,
remaining silent – struck dumb was more like it.
"Well…I mean… friends CAN do lunch. And you've
been stuck here for how long?
"Four days, Carter…four…long…days. And I'll be
glad to do lunch…it's been a long time since a woman treated me to a meal. Let
me get a clean shirt and comb my hair."
He reached down for the cane and then stood with
ease. Leaning heavily on the support, O'Neill walked the short distance to his
door. Before going inside, he turned
back toward Carter.
"I look pretty good with a cane, don't I Carter?
Sort of debonair, cosmopolitan if you will."
Carter grinned. Yes, he did look very distinguished
with the cane.
"Yes sir, you do. You do know the babes go for
men with certain affectations. "
"They do?" He grinned.
"Yes, sir, they do. But you, Colonel, look more
natural holding a 9mm instead."
He looked long into her eyes, trying to fathom just
what she was saying, and then nodded.
"That I do, Carter. That I do."
He flashed her his wide,
boyish smile, turned and limped into the house.
2-29-04