Mayhem, Unpleasantness, and Other Forms of Torture

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+…several adult words.

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.

 

 

--- Epilogue ---

 

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.

 

 He was anxious to get back to work, but knew that traveling through the Stargate, leaning on a cane was unacceptable, and dangerous. He'd make himself be patient. General Hammond would welcome him back, with open arms, just to clean up paperwork when Fraiser gave the okay. Now, it was a waiting game – he hated waiting.

 

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