Title: Brainstorming

Author: Charli Booker and Gallagater

Email Address(es): charli.booker@netzero.com; 7j4him@prodigy.net

Author’s website: http://www.frondfic.com/filing/gallagater/swamp.htm
Status: Complete

Category: Angst, Drama, Hurt/Comfort

Pairings: None

Spoilers: Unnatural Selection; Meridian; Abyss; Cold Lazarus; A Hundred Days; Message In A Bottle; Spirits

Season: Season 6

Sequel/Series Info: N/A

CONTENT LEVEL: 18+

Content Warnings: Language; graphic violence; rape

Summary: O’Neill learns that dreams can come true, but the cost may be more than he can pay.

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the authors. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the authors.

File Size (kb): 319

Archive: JackFic, Heliopolis

Authors’ Note: Jack O’Neill spent 37 hours with the Replicator First, and came away from the experience with absolutely nothing to say about it. We found it impossible to believe that Jack would simply give in to First’s demands. We also found it impossible to believe that Jack didn’t remember what had happened. Special thanks to Diana for all of her hard work.

BRAINSTORMING

By: Charli Booker and Gallagater

“To him that you tell your secret you resign your liberty.”

Anonymous

After all this time who’d have thought it would be bugs that would get ‘em? He’d done everything by the book and a few things that weren’t. Nothing helped. The bugs got ‘em and he had stood there and watched the progressive destruction and finally the death. And there wasn’t a damn thing left to do, but mourn the loss.

The rose bush was dead.

Aphids, the guy at the nursery had said, like he knew what he was talking about. Aphids, my Aunt Alice’s ass. He’d bought all the crap Mr. Blooming Idiot had recommended, had suckered him into buying. He’d filled the cart with everything guaranteed to make your backyard look like some Rose Parade float on steroids; pampered, trimmed, even used distilled water. Hell, he would have brought Doc in on a consultation, but her price for a house call would have broken him when she found out it was for a sick rose bush. Even Carter had failed him, informing him snidely that she was a physicist, not a botanist, and putting to rest once and for all the rumor that there was nothing that Carter didn’t know.

Jonas had offered up suggestions claiming that he watched the Gardening Network faithfully, but after the dried banana peel fiasco, the Kelownan had wisely kept his thoughts and his lame-ass homeopathic remedies pretty much to himself. Who the hell would have thought dried banana would attract moles? Now his freakin’ backyard looked like a scene from ‘The Great Escape.’ Where was Steve McQueen when you needed him?

And the bush had still died.

Turned out it wasn’t aphids at all, but some microscopic bug with a name that looked like the letters after Carter’s name that had attacked in force. So now he had a backyard pest tunneling happily through his irises and peonies, pissed off neighbors because of Mighty Mole’s frequent excursions into the pristine fescue on the other side of the proverbial fence, and Hammond’s promise of demotion if he snuck a Zat or a staff weapon from the armory to take care of the problem once and for all.

And a dead rose bush.

Crap.

Jack sighed as he gazed on the dried husk that had once proudly boasted fragrant blossoms; blossoms which had overpowered the smell of scorched weenies on the grill as he’d sat relaxing on his deck sipping a brew and inhaling their wafting aroma. He’d miss that. One of those seemingly insignificant details that made his life a little richer. He sighed again.

The pealing of his cell phone broke through his melancholy reverie. Pulling the phone from his pocket, he frowned at it as the phone chirped out the tune ‘Disco Duck.’ Dammit, it never failed to annoy him that his cell phone did that. He could almost see the smirk on Daniel’s face. No doubt, in whatever plane of existence Daniel now called home, he was laughing his cosmic ass off that Jack had foolishly asked him to change the ring on his phone. Then Daniel’d gone all glowie before he’d had the chance to make him change it back. He still had nightmares about the time the stupid thing had gone off in a briefing with Hammond and the SG team leaders. Oh yeah, Danny-boy would have loved that one. Freakin’ Marines. He guessed he could go to Siler or one of the other techno-geeks, but it was just too damn embarrassing. Carter? Forget it. She’d think disco was cool, even an asinine song like this.

Breaking off the tender strains of Rick Dees crooning, ‘Flapping my arms I began to cluck. Look at me . . . I’m the disco duck.’, Jack snapped, “O’Neill.” He listened with mounting irritation as General Hammond’s aide efficiently rattled off a long list of paperwork that he was being ordered to complete ASAP, effectively cutting into a major chunk of his plans for his day off. Therein lay the cusp of being near the top of the military food chain. He’d learned long ago: too high up to avoid the avalanche of paperwork which blanketed the mountain, but not high enough to reach for the stars and pass it on to subordinates.

Snapping the phone shut, Jack shoved it in his jeans pocket and walked towards the garage. No use putting it off. He had just enough time to deal with the dead bush and grab a quick bite to eat before he headed over to the base. As he walked over to retrieve the shovel, he frowned at the oil stains on the concrete. Great, another thing to add to the list that he never seemed to get done. Now his truck was complaining that he wasn’t attending to its needs by leaking oil. Geesh, worse than a wife.

At least Sara hadn’t made him walk when he’d ignored her needs. In fact, she’d been the one to do the walking. Snatching the shovel off its hook, Jack issued a soft curse at the harsh memories that that thought evoked. He was so not going down that path today.

It didn’t take long to dig up the rose bush, not nearly long enough to dispel the bad mood that enveloped him. Jack had hoped that some yard work would quell the mood which had followed him home from Planet Hala, but apparently it was not to be. Like some skinny stray dog you take pity on and feed, this mood refused to budge, despite his half-hearted attempts to dissuade it.

Kneeling down to eye-level with the toppled bush, Jack couldn’t see the creatures responsible for its death. Who knows, they’d probably gotten what they wanted and had moved on to greener pastures. Wasn’t that the way it worked? Suck the life out of you and then leave the empty, worthless husk behind.

Jack rubbed a calloused hand over his face, trying not to think about how calloused his thoughts had become lately. What the hell was wrong with him? Nothing Doc could fix with her magical mystery medicine show, he was sure of that. Reaching for one of the branches to carry the dead plant to the burn pile, Jack yelped as a thorn pierced his finger.

Bright red blood welled in a small crescent.

Squeezing the wounded digit with a muttered curse, Jack watched, mesmerized, as the crescent burst, overflowed and trailed a crimson stream down his hand. He stared at it and kneeling there next to a dead rose bush, Jack lost himself as red-stained memories blotted out the crisp Fall day.

*****

“Charlie, I’ve heard just about all I can take.” I didn’t look up from what I was doing. For the last two and a half weeks, I’d been looking forward to this and I’d be damned if I was going to let anything, or anyone, ruin my first day off in over a month – not even my own kid.

“But, Dad, it’s not fair. Everyone else is going. Why can’t I?”

Squinting, I fiddled with the tiny metal clasp. I was going to need a smaller set of pliers. These wouldn’t work; they were way too big to get the job done. I dropped them down on the wooden worktable in the corner of the garage and stepping around my eight-year-old son, started digging through boxes and drawers. Where had Sara stashed all my tools?

“Eric Thom–”

“I swear to God, if you tell me one more time that Eric Thompson’s father said it was okay, you’ll never play with that kid again. You hear me?” Crap. I shoved a box back on the shelf and grabbed the next in line. I was gone a little over two months and when I got back all my stuff was either missing or misplaced. It pissed me off. What gave her the right? “Where’s your Mom?”

He mumbled something unintelligible.

“Where?” I finally looked at him. He had a little metal car in his hand and, apparently, he’d been running it along the side of my truck the entire time he’d been standing there. “Dammit, Charlie!” He flinched and stared up at me, wide-eyed. “What the hell are you doing?” I squatted down beside him and roughly grabbed the hand with the offending toy, forcing him to look at the parallel lines of scratches that stretched from one side of the door to the other. “I can’t believe you just did that.”

“I’m sorry.” His eyes watered.

“Do you know how much this little stunt is going to cost me?”

“Jack?”

I looked up to find Sara standing in the open doorway of the garage, watching us. The sun was behind her and I couldn’t see her face, but I could tell by the tone of her voice that she wasn’t happy.

“What?” I snapped.

“What’s going on?”

I still had a tight grip on Charlie’s hand and he’d begun to cry at the sound of his Mom’s voice.

“Look at this. He ruined my truck.”

“Charlie,” Sara stepped into the garage and smiled down at our son, “why don’t you go in the house. I think there are some Oreo’s with your name on them in the cookie jar.”

Tentatively, gently, he pulled his hand from my grasp as I stared in mute anger at the scratched paint.

“Jack.”

I wet my finger and ran it along one of the scratches as if my own spit would miraculously restore the finish.

“Jack.”

“I can’t believe he did that. Do you let him get by with stuff like this when I’m not here? I’m not home twenty-four hou–”

“Jack,” she grabbed my shoulder. I looked up at her as if seeing her for the first time. “What’s wrong?”

“What?”

“Please. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Well, look. You’ve got eyes.” I pointed at the truck. “What’s wrong is, that kid gets away with ruining my truck and you–”

“That kid is your son, Jack, and he didn’t ruin your truck. He scratched the paint.” She squinted at the driver’s door and shrugged. “I can hardly even see it.”

“Dammit, Sara, you’re making excuses for him.”

She squatted down beside me, smiling coyly. “I make excuses for his Dad all the time, too.”

“Yeah?” I smiled tightly. “What’d you do with my stuff?”

If she was disappointed with my cold response, she didn’t show it. “What stuff?”

“My tools. My fishing gear. My . . . stuff.”

“I didn’t do anything with it. It should be right where you left it.”

“Well, it isn’t.” I straightened and turned my back on her, pulling another box off the shelf. I dug through it, emptying its contents, tossing things haphazardly onto the cement floor. A small, well-manicured hand settled softly over my own large, calloused one.

“Jack.”

Her hand had tiny blue veins running along the back of it. They looked delicate, extremely vulnerable.

“Look at me.”

Finally, I did. I looked at her. Really looked at her for the first time since I’d gotten home. We’d made love last night; a frenzied, desperate act performed within the dark confines of our bedroom. I hadn’t even looked at her then; she’d just . . . been there. Sara had lines around the corners of her eyes that I didn’t remember. I started to reach up to touch one of them, but stopped myself.

“Tell me what’s bothering you, because it isn’t paint scratches and it isn’t your fishing gear.”

I looked at her, knowing I couldn’t tell her. God help me, I wanted to. I wanted to unload it all, the whole damn mission, the entire fucked-up mess. It had been a complete disaster before we’d even shipped out and when we’d finally arrived, it had been worse than I’d anticipated. I’d thought I was prepared. That I’d seen it all.

I couldn’t tell my sweet wife about the dead, the dying, and I certainly couldn’t tell her how I’d contributed to it all. Surrounded by the gentle scent of her perfume, how could I describe the odors that had assailed us when we’d hit the ground running and had been faced with bodies that had been rotting, bloating in the desert sun for days. I couldn’t, that’s how. I couldn’t. So, I did the next best thing.

“Charlie doesn’t want to go with me. He’d rather go with his friends to a stupid water park than go fishing with his Dad.” I stared down at that dainty hand. It was still resting on mine.

“You have a headache.”

I looked up at her, slightly confused. “What?”

She smiled and leaned close, kissing me gently, chastely, on the mouth. She was right. I did have a headache. Suddenly. A blinding, painful, nauseating pain that started somewhere between my eyes and stretched towards the back of my skull. I staggered slightly.

“Tell me, Jack.”

I shut my eyes, leaning drunkenly against the worktable. “I told you . . . Charlie

doesn’t . . .”

“No. Not about Charlie. About the codes.”

Codes? What the hell was she talking about? I moaned softly. “Sara, I don’t feel so good. I think I. . .”

“He’ll die, Colonel,” she whispered seductively against my cheek. “If you don’t tell me, Charlie will die. Again.”

I heard myself screaming, and I couldn’t stop.

*****

The long fingers beat out an impatient rhythm on the steering wheel of the truck. The interminable line of traffic had ground to a halt. Craning his neck out his window, all Jack could see was a barricade of orange cones funneling the traffic into an ever-diminishing space.

Swell, road construction. Dammit, he so didn’t need this today.

The cadence of the drumming fingers increased, unlike the speed of the traffic. Turning on the radio was a study in futility, giving him the information he already knew in spades. Traffic sucked. Tightening the muscles in his butt, arching his back and rotating his aching neck, Jack hoped he could alleviate some of the strain of his tired muscles. He stretched his neck again, hoping to see how far it was until the next exit. Who the hell cared that this exit wasn’t the one that went to the base? He’d figure out a new route as he went. Just as long as he was moving. This waiting was driving him freakin’ nuts.

Jack inched the Ford forward another half car-length. The exit ramp was less than a quarter mile away. Suddenly out of the passenger mirror, he saw an ancient Cutlass driving along the shoulder, the driver’s sights obviously fixed on the nearest exit ramp as well. Even though he had the same goal in mind, the guy’s shortcut and blatant disregard of the rules royally pissed Jack off.

Twisting the wheel hard, the big truck cut directly into the path of the Olds. The car’s driver slammed on the brakes, rocking the rusty frame back and forth. An angry blast of the car’s horn sounded, as the driver issued Jack a middle finger salute.

Rolling down the passenger window, Jack leaned over as far as his seatbelt would allow. “Get back in line, like everyone else, asshole.”

The driver yelled an undecipherable comment concerning Jack’s parentage through the windshield. The traffic chose that moment to surge ahead another few car-lengths. Issuing a mocking single finger salute of his own, Jack pulled forward, but continued to block the Oldsmobile until he was able to gun the truck’s engine and escape via the exit ramp.

Thirty minutes later, his hands shoved deep into his pants pockets, he fixed his eyes on the grey tile pattern of the floor. Jack’s posture reflected his desire for anonymity as he walked towards the elevators.

Grey . . . the color of his world.

Grey floor . . . grey walls . . . grey hair . . . grey matter . . .

Grey, the essence of black and white. Dreary, dismal, designating a vague, intermediate area . . . his life lately. Where the hell was the color in his life? What cosmic entity deemed him worthy of being the ‘no where man’? No family, no friends, no freakin’ life outside this grey mountain.

The guard had his back turned as Jack walked up to the check-in desk. It was easy to see he was engaged in an animated conversation on his cell phone. The guard paid scant attention to the fact that a senior officer had approached. Jack waited impatiently for the clipboard, his ire growing as the conversation continued.

“Airman, are you, or are you not, on duty?”

There was a brief pause, as nervous eyes flicked in Jack’s direction, and then with a mumbled apology to the unidentified party, the conversation ceased immediately as the guard snapped to attention. Eyes locked on a point beyond Jack’s shoulder, the sentry reeked of nervous anticipation.

“I’m sorry, Colonel O’Neill. That was my wife. She’s pregnant and she just got back from her OBGYN. The doctor told her it’s a boy. She couldn’t wait to . . .” He stopped and glanced nervously at O’Neill’s face, hoping to read some understanding in the stony features of the normally friendly officer. There was none. “I apologize, sir. I shouldn’t have been on the phone. It won’t happen again.”

Snatching the clipboard from the man’s hand, Jack scribbled his name. “See that it doesn’t, Sergeant.” Turning towards the elevator, he glanced over his shoulder. “Consider yourself on report.”

The afternoon trudged by slowly as Jack sat at his desk diligently completing the required paperwork. Initialing requisitions from the various departments, reviewing supply lists, balancing and juggling numbers until the figures tap-danced across the page beneath his bleary gaze. The knot of a tension headache was blossoming at the base of his skull. Jack leaned back and rotated his neck trying ineffectually to work the knot loose.

Checking his watch, Jack saw that he had worked through supper. Crap, that didn’t used to happen. It didn’t seem that long ago that he would have been interrupted from completing his paperwork half a dozen times by different members of his team, either dropping in to chat, or calling to see if he wanted to grab a bite to eat. Talk around the water cooler always had Jack at the hub of the SG-1 social circle, but the reality was that any one of the members was just as likely to initiate an impromptu get together as O’Neill. After Daniel left, those gatherings had died away like his rose bush. Sure the team still got together to eat occasionally, but the easy spontaneity had vanished. More and more, Teal’c was spending his time with Jonas. Carter spent most of her time holed up in her lab or hanging around the other science-geeks. That left him . . . the odd man out.

Again.

Funny how something like that had the ability to hurt. Hell, he should have been used to it. He’d left behind that whole best friend shit for a long time after Frank and Iraq. Why the hell did you need to let someone into your life when they would only shit on you in the long run?

Like Frank.

It was easier to give people surface access only. Let them think you were a cold son-of-a-bitch who they were better off avoiding. After Charlie, he didn’t have to pretend. He became the Real McCoy, genuine grade A, one hundred percent prime, son-of-a-bitchin’ bastard. He shut off his wife, his acquaintances, his work, until at last his only friend was a bullet in his gun. But he found he didn’t even have the courage to allow it the access to what was inside Jack O’Neill’s head.

Then along came Daniel and eventually the rest of the misfits of SG-1. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, he felt like he belonged. He had a purpose. He had friends. Sure, he still played the clown, kept them laughing so they’d forget that he never shared beneath that surface crust. But it was enough. He should have known it was too good to last.

So now he was back where he started. Eating alone.

The headache seemed to be feeding off the melancholy thoughts. Coffee sounded good. And maybe just a change of scenery would help. Hell, maybe Teal’c was hanging around the dining hall looking for an excuse to eat another piece of pie.

Jack was washing his hands, when the door flew open and two young officers walked into the latrine.

“Man, you are so full of shit, Blackburn. No wonder your eyes are brown.”

“Look in the mirror, Nalley. You got it coming out of both your ears. There’s no way she said that.” He punctuated his statement with a punch on the shoulder of his companion.

“Hey, don’t worry, Buddy, I told her what to expect so she wouldn’t be disappointed. I explained that you had trained with the Seals and spent a lot of time in cold water so shrinkage . . .” At that moment both men realized they were in the company of a senior officer and snapped to attention despite their inauspicious surroundings.

Jack turned, the flash of memory of he and Frank in their early Special Ops days stung him for a moment. They’d been just like these kids. Loud, obnoxious, know-it-all smart-asses. Well, he’d been like that, but Frank had learned fast.

“Gentlemen.” He nodded towards the two young men as they stepped back out of his way.

Teal’c wasn’t hanging around drooling over the pie. In fact, the hall seemed surprisingly empty until Jack realized just how late it really was. Moving over to the counter, he nodded an unspoken greeting to the head of the night shift and reached for a mug.

Walking to a table by the wall, Jack sat down heavily. Taking a cautious sip, he grimaced as the strong brew burned a path to his gut. Setting the mug down, he cradled the warmth between his hands and stared into the imperceptible depths.

******

Oh, God. I was going to die. Right here. Right now. My lungs were going to implode and I was going to fuckin’ die. What a way to go.

I sank lower into the dark depths . . . trying to remember what I’d learned; trying to relax; trying not to think about things like drowning and breathing and oxygen and . . . my chest heaved. Oh, shit.

Okay, just relax, O’Neill. You are not going to die. Do you hear me? Just suck it up. Oh, God. Don’t say ‘suck it up’ to someone who’s drowning.

A precious bubble of air escaped me as I gulped back a laugh. I cracked myself up . . . even when dying. I . . . I killed myself. Another bubble rose through the murky swamp water, headed for the surface.

I opened my eyes, but could see nothing and only managed to add burning corneas to a rapidly growing list of complaints. But, at least the stinging roused me, cleared my head and my thinking somewhat. I had to move. Slowly, I inched my way forward along the submerged depths of the swamp. If the enemy had been watching, I’d just given myself away and lost precious oxygen at the same time. Real smart, O’Neill.

I plunged my fingers into the thick mud and pulled myself along the bottom. I tried not to think about the slimy, unidentifiable objects that were brushing against my hands and my face; I tried to ignore the searing agony that was my lungs. Please God, don’t let there be gators.

The need to breathe was indescribably urgent. It was hard to believe that just a few short minutes ago Frank and I had been slogging through chest-high swamp grass and knee-deep mud, smoking Lucky Strikes and laughing about the irony of how easy it would be to pick up girls when they found out we were Special Forces, and here we were, both of us, newly married.

Lucky Strikes? Oh, God, why’d I ever start smoking? I’d give anything right now for just a centimeter more of live lung tissue. If only I’d . . .

I jerked and opened my mouth in a water-filled scream as something hard clamped down on my right shoulder. I shot out of the water, heaving and gasping for breath, fighting against whatever had me in its grip.

“O’Neill!”

Sucking down noisy, desperate, soggy lungfuls of air, I managed to get my feet under me.

“Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“S . . sir?” Still heaving, blinking water from my eyes, I faced my commanding officer.

Major Cox was the worst officer I’d ever served under. Ever. It was hard to explain, but he managed to be the most stupid, most cunning bastard I’d ever met. I think the man could probably manage to choke on his own sock, but he’d slice open his own throat in order to save himself. Frank and I and every other man in our unit had a running string of jokes involving nothing more than the man’s name and rank, but honest to God, I’d eat my own arm before I’d let him hear a single, solitary one of them from me. Cox was the biggest, meanest, most unforgiving son-of-a-bitch I’d ever met, bar none. He’d as soon stab you in the heart as to look at you, and I have to tell you, he scared the shit out of me.

“You stupid, little, shit-faced, rat-assed, slimy, bastard! Your Irish ass is dead, Airman! Dead! Do you hear me?”

He was standing so close, he was spitting in my face. How could I not hear him?

“Sir, yes sir!”

“Now, do it again!”

“Yes, si–”

He shoved me under before I could even draw a clean breath. I squeezed my eyes shut and pressed my lips tightly closed, prepared to die all over again. Over and over again, if necessary. I dug my fingers into the mud, clung to the bottom of the swamp, and swore on my Granddad’s grave that I’d die for real before I’d give up. Giving up wasn’t in my nature.

As soon as I made the decision, a calmness settled over me. I floated down on the surface of the mud and relaxed. Immediately, the burning in my chest eased. Once again, I opened my eyes and stared up through thick, green water towards the hazy light that was the surface.

This was what I’d wanted. Not this moment in particular, not drowning in a murky swamp somewhere in the heart of Louisiana, surrounded by gators and the worst our military had to offer, but this . . . Special Forces. I would pass. I would make it out. I would be one of the small percentage that didn’t give up. I would. Me. A scrawny nobody from Chicago. Me and Frank.

And Sara. Despite my surroundings, I felt a smile form on my face at the thought of her. My pretty Sara, who had me wrapped around the third finger of her left hand. My bride, my . . . my mechanic. My smile widened at the image of her leaning under the hood of my car, doing whatever it was that she did. It was beyond me, the stuff that she could do with those delicate hands. Those delicate hands . . .

Something roughly yanked me to the surface. Several sets of hands clamped onto me and I was suddenly exposed to the hot, humid air. I breathed deeply, but calmly.

“My God, O’Neill, you gotta death wish?”

Dripping swamp water from my nose and ears, I stared at Cox and spat back at him the only thing he ever wanted to hear proceed from our lily-livered mouths. “Sir, yes sir.”

He opened his mouth to reply, then just shoved me towards solid ground. Frank was there to give me a hand up.

“Damn, Jack. What the hell were you doing under there?”

I smiled over at him as we began marching back through the soggy marsh towards our camp. “How long was I under?”

“I’m not sure, but I think you set a record, buddy.”

“Yeah?” I shook my head, trying to empty my ears of water. “It didn’t feel like that long.”

“I thought you were dead.” Frank lit a cigarette and held it out to me.

I started to turn it down, then reconsidered. Hell, I’d survived, right? What was one more smoke? “Me, too. Thought I’d died a couple of times actually.”

Frank lit a second smoke for himself and shook his head, laughing. “You did, you little shit.”

I took a drag on the cigarette and frowned over at him, waiting for the punch line. “What?”

“You did.” He was suddenly serious. “You died more than a couple of times.”

I stopped walking and stared at him. “That’s not . . .”

“Funny?” He smiled around the cigarette which was dangling from the corner of his mouth, then reached over with one hand to tap me playfully on the forehead. “No, it wasn’t. Not when you kept doing it. Over and over and over. It hurt, didn’t it?”

I rubbed my forehead where he’d touched me. Pain blossomed. “Frank, what the hell are you talking about?”

“You know . . . when he left you there? It hurt. Because he could have helped you, but he didn’t. Did he, Jack?”

“I don’t know . . .,” but my words were silenced as I clutched my head against the sudden agony which seemed to fracture my skull. I groaned loudly.

“It hurt,” he whispered.

I felt his hand brush along the line of my jaw. His touch left a streak of searing pain in its wake and I tried to pull away from him.

“Kinda like with Charlie, huh, Colonel? It hurts when someone you care about deserts you.”

I groaned and felt the swamp fall out from under me.

*****

Jack sat in silent irritation. He picked up his pen and using the cap of the Bic, began to clean under his nails. The sludge cooling in a mug next to him was testimony to the fact that the coffee pot in the Briefing Room had been unattended since early morning. Thick, black, potential fuel for a nuclear reactor graced the bottom half of the pot. Jack had taken one cautious sip of the intimidating liquid and quickly pushing the mug away, resorted to the Bic method of nail care to pass the time until the rest of his team and Hammond showed.

The door swung open and Jonas and Carter breezed in together, discussing the merits of the upcoming mission.

Jack watched Jonas move around to his usual seat - Daniel’s seat. Even after all this time, it was still Daniel’s seat and it irritated Jack every time the Kelownan sat there. Today more so than usual.

“Jonas,” Jack nodded a terse greeting at the man shuffling through and organizing his paperwork. “Major, where’s Teal’c?”

“He’ll be along in a couple of minutes, sir.” Carter continued to pour through her pre-mission notes without looking up. “Sergeant Siler asked for his help in the Gate Room. Something with a routine check on the Gate.”

“Would you like me to go check on him, Colonel? Maybe I can do something to help.” Jonas half rose from his seat.

Issuing a weary sigh bordering on exasperation, Jack looked into the eager-to-please face. “Jonas, sit down. Teal’c’s a big boy. He knows the way. Here,” he pushed the mug of paint thinner across the table, “I poured you a cup of coffee.”

Jonas’ easy smile faltered momentarily as his brow knit in bewilderment. Recovering, he took the proffered mug and smiled his appreciation. “Thanks, Colonel.”

A predatory gleam lit Jack’s eyes briefly as he watched Jonas sip the strong brew.

“Whoa!” The mug hit the table with a ceramic thunk that sounded loud in the quiet room and brought Sam’s head out of her notes. “That’s strong.”

The watery-eyed distress on the man’s face nearly made Jack snort in amusement. “It’s called espresso, Jonas.” Disappointment colored his words, “I’m surprised I have to tell you that.”

“Espresso? They serve that at Starbucks, don’t they? Doctor Jackson mentioned it in his notes.” Jonas made a brave attempt to swallow down the bitter after-taste coating his tongue.

Carter threw a suspicious look towards O’Neill which he refused to acknowledge.

“That’s right, it’s expensive and considered a gourmet treat. Don’t tell me you don’t like it? I’m disappointed. It was one of Daniel’s favorites.”

Jonas grinned weakly, but shook his head quickly. “Oh no, it’s not that I don’t like it. I just wasn’t . . .”

“Good, glad to hear it. Then drink up and enjoy. That’s an order.”

“Colonel?” Carter began.

“You have something to say, Major?” Jack gave her a warning glance. “Would you like a cup? I’m sure I could scare you up a mug.”

“No sir. No thank you,” she answered quickly. “I’m trying to limit my caffeine intake.”

“Good idea, Carter. You’ve seemed a little edgy lately.” Jack was interrupted from further comment as General Hammond walked into the room from his office.

“Good afternoon, people. Colonel, where’s Teal’c?”

Jack was interrupted by a loud sputter followed by a round of harsh coughing across the table.

Hammond looked in surprise at Jonas’ red-face. “Are you all right, Mr. Quinn?”

“I’ll be all right in a minute, General Hammond,” a hacking cough stopped him momentarily. “I guess espresso takes some getting used to.”

“Espresso?” Hammond shot a questioning look at O’Neill, who gave a noncommital shrug in innocence. “While Mr. Quinn recovers let’s get started, shall we? Major, would you please begin?”

Jack leaned back, his face devoid of expression, as he watched Jonas reach shakily for the pitcher of water. Slowly he rocked forward, placed the heel of one hand on the table, while rubbing his thumb back and forth along the edge of the table as if polishing out a persistent smudge.

Carter glanced briefly at her notes and shooting one worried look at Jonas, she began in her succinct, professional manner. “P3-X54C, or Ruina as the indigenous persons call it, appears to be an excellent possible location for a secondary camp for the Rebel Jaffa. Bra’tac has expressed concerns to Teal’c about the wisdom of having a single location for the bulk of their forces. Malek, of the Tok’ra, agrees.”

A sarcastic snort interrupted her. “That’ll be a first.” The words, although mumbled, were clearly understood by everyone in the room.

“Did you have something to add, Colonel?” The frown on the General’s face plainly spoke of his irritation with Jack’s breach of decorum.

“No, sir.” O’Neill’s eyes remained fixed on the spot where his thumb continued to rub. “It’s just that it has been my experience that when those two groups agree on anything, it means nothing but trouble for us.”

“Colonel,” Jonas cut in, “is that really a fair assessment? After all, look at what has been accomplished on the Alpha Site, P3X-984. The To’kra and the Rebel Jaffa have worked together to build . . .”

“I was there, Jonas. You weren’t. I think that qualifies me to know what the hell I’m talking about rather than someone who just reads it in a report.” He scowled across the table at his startled teammate.

“I didn’t mean to imply that you didn’t, Colonel. I was simply making an observation based on your report.”

“Yeah, well, sometimes you have to know when to read between the lines.” He looked down at his thumb and added bitterly, “And sometimes you have to know when to shut up.”

“Colonel O’Neill, are you all right?”

Jack’s eyes slowly met his superior’s. “Just fine, General.” His look dared Hammond to disagree.

The General’s eyes narrowed and his normally stern features hardened further. “Very well, please continue, Major. And Colonel, try to contain any further comments, albeit ones based on your personal experience, to yourself until the appropriate time. Understood? After all, Mr. Quinn isn’t the only one to glean information second hand.”

Jack’s eyes dropped to his hands. The thumb was polishing again. Back and forth . . . rubbing . . . massaging . . .stroking . . .

“Yes, sir, understood.”

*****

We all had one. In our line of work, it was a requirement. In fact, some of the guys had already gone through their first one and had found a replacement, for various reasons – overuse, a victim of the fighting, or they were merely unsuited for one another. It was difficult to not get too attached, because our lives depended on them. Particularly here, under these circumstances. The irony was that we tried to pretend that we didn’t miss the States all that much, then we each of us gave our girls a name that reminded us of home – something that was easier to pronounce than their real name, and if we admitted it, a name that had a special meaning.

Bender called his Maria. There was Lilly, Farrah, Nancy, Kelly, Lucinda. The list went on and on. I couldn’t remember them all, but it didn’t matter. Other than my own, I couldn’t tell them apart. Frank had Noreen. He said it was after some movie star, but I knew for a fact that Noreen was the name of the young woman Frank had had his first crush on in high school. He’d told me all about her one night after he’d had three too many drinks.

Mine, I dubbed Colleen. I’d told the guys I had to call her that; hell, I’m Irish aren’t I? But the truth was, I’d named her after my Mother. Yeah. What kind of sick monster does that make me? That I’d want to be reminded of my Mother at a time like this? But I thought about my Mom a lot these days, particularly at dawn. It had been her favorite time of day. She’d told me once that at daybreak, anything was possible.

I looked around at the camp full of dirty, exhausted, human killing machines being illuminated by the rising sun, and realized that, unfortunately, my Mom had been right. Too bad I couldn’t tell her so, but she had been dead for over five years and even if she were alive, there would have been no way to get in touch with her.

Five years . . . and still there were times when I couldn’t believe she was gone. When I’d first met Sara, when I’d recognized that she was the one, I’d found myself reaching for the telephone to tell Mom that I’d found someone willing to put up with me. I’d dialed three numbers before it hit me that Mom was no longer there.

And here I sat, running my hands along Colleen’s dark, sleek frame, thinking of my Mother. It shamed me to think that I’d dishonored her memory in this way. I only hoped that if Mom were looking down – and I prayed to God that she wasn’t – but if she were, I could only ask that she would forgive me.

I wasn’t even thirty yet, and I had already accumulated a long list of things for which I needed forgiveness. God help us all if I lived to see forty.

“Mornin’, Jack,” Bender dropped down across the fire from me and watched as I massaged oil onto Colleen, polishing her to a dull gleam. I did it so often that my fingers were stained the color of the pungent lubricant. “You’re gonna wear the damn barrel off, you keep rubbin’ her down like that.”

I smiled over at him, knowing he was only half kidding. Bender didn’t believe in treating Maria any differently than any other weapon in his personal arsenal. I glanced down at the 24-inch barrel beneath my calloused hands. “One of these days you’re going to regret ignoring your rifle.”

Bender snorted and poured himself a cup of coffee. “Doesn’t make the killin’ any more clean, you scrubbing her down.”

I flinched as if he’d hit me. I’d worked and struggled to get through Special Ops, and finally I had what I wanted: I was a member of one of the most elite killing forces the U.S. had to offer. A sniper. I set Colleen aside and began re-checking my magazines and scope. Finally, I wiped a smear of mud off the bipod and began stowing my gear.

“Jack,” Bender’s voice was low, totally out of character. I didn’t look up. “Jack.”

“What?” When he didn’t answer, I finally ventured a peek. He was still holding his coffee cup; wafts of steam were floating up towards his bearded chin. He frowned at me and looked away as if embarrassed. I had a feeling I knew what was coming, and I began fiddling with my pack.

“I forgot. I wasn’t thinking.” He paused, probably waiting for me to respond. “You did the only thing you could’ve done, considering. I’m sure some of the other guys have had to do the same at one time or another.”

Despite the fact that he was trying to be kind, my voice was hard. “But not you?”

“Well, no. But . . .”

In the stillness, I could hear someone taking a leak in the bushes just to the south of the camp. Frank. I’d seen him head out that way just a couple of minutes before.

“I hope if I’m ever faced with the choice you had to make, Jack, that I . . . that I have the guts to do what you did.”

I felt something inside me snap and I jerked around to glare at him. “Guts? You think that took guts?” I shook my head in disbelief. “You asshole. You stinkin’ pile of Kentucky shit. Where the hell do you get off?”

“Hey, what’s going on?” Frank dropped down beside Bender, whose face had gone pasty white. Bender was a big guy who looked dumb as an ox but wasn’t, and right now I would rather have picked up Colleen and blown his fuckin’ brains out as to look at him. “Jack?”

I looked over at Frank, the designated peacekeeper of our ragtag unit of serial killers. “Bender here thinks it takes guts to blow the head off a kid, that’s what’s going on here.”

“You did what had to be done.” Frank stared at me, his face so serious I wanted to laugh. “That’s all. What had to be done.”

I turned back and began stashing clips in my vest. My hands were trembling. No sniping today, O’Neill. I laughed softly to myself just before I was hit with a vision of the little girl who’d come running out of the small farmhouse yesterday evening. She’d been chasing a scrawny pup. Running around barefoot just trying to catch her stupid dog, for cryin’ out loud. Then she’d spied Grady stalking along the fence near her home. We’d tracked three of the enemy’s best snipers to the house two days before. Grady was supposed to draw them out, but we weren’t ready. No one was in place except for me, and Grady and Norton were sticking out like sore thumbs. That’s when I saw the kid open her sweet little mouth to call out. I barely had time to think about what I was doing. There was just a brief moment in time when I saw what was happening, saw my men, and then I was aiming Colleen – my mother of a rifle, an M24 outfitted with a scope and homemade silencer. Without thinking, I centered my sights on dark braids of hair, had a second to notice the tiny green ribbon, and then squeezed the trigger. She dropped without a sound; the puppy yipped and danced around her dead feet.

“Hey.” Someone touched me on the shoulder, breaking my trance, and I swung blindly. Frank ducked. My blow landed on nothing causing me to fall awkwardly onto my knees, panting. “Geesh, Jack. I was just . . .”

I looked at him. I looked at him and suddenly I felt nothing but hate for these men. All of these assholes with whom I was destined to spend an eternity in hell. In hell for killing. For taking innocent lives along with the guilty. “Don’t touch me.”

“What the hell is your problem, O’Neill?”

I pointed a shaky trigger finger at Bender. “Keep out of it. I swear to God if you open your mouth to me again, I’ll shoot you.”

“And you would, too,” he muttered softly.

“What?” Bender blanched as I rose up to face him. “What did you say?”

He glanced up at me, then eyed Frank who was moving in to referee. I suddenly realized that Bender was filthy and he stank and he disgusted me. “Why do you think we send you in first, Jack? You’re an eager beaver.” He smiled, and laughed softly.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” I launched myself at him before the words were even out of my mouth.

Frank stopped me. He wrapped his arms around my shoulders and held on for all he was worth. He was yelling at me, and he was yelling at Bender for saying what he did. I fought and kicked and tried to wrestle my way out of Frank’s grasp, but other hands joined in to stop me. Later, I’d be glad they did, but right now all I could think about was getting to Bender. Even while fighting, I made the decision that I wouldn’t waste my ammo. I’d take him out with my knife. A clean thrust through the ribs and into the bastard’s cold heart.

“Jack!”

Gasping, I found myself firmly in the grip of my comrades. Frank was facing me.

“Stop it! Dammit, just stop it!”

I began to calm and then saw Bender moving closer. Frank put out a hand to stop him, but not before the guy could lean near me. He reached up a grimy hand and grabbed my hair, pulling hard.

“Truth hurts, don’t it?”

I roared and managed to kick someone. I heard a strangled cry and felt the hands on me tighten.

Bender smiled. “The truth. Just tell me the truth.”

“What the hell are you . . . .”

I groaned as he pulled harder, pain lancing across the top of my head. “You blew the kid’s head off. You. No one else. It was all your fault. It didn’t have to happen that way.”

I felt myself beginning to sob, and it enraged me.

“Charlie didn’t have to die like that, Colonel. All that blood.”

I froze. Nothing moved except the tears that I felt sliding down my cheeks. “What?” My head throbbed.

“Tell me the codes, Colonel. Don’t make Charlie die again.”

*****

“Well, Carter, this planet is about as appealing as a turd in a punch bowl.” With ill-disguised impatience, Jack took off his cap and wiped his sweaty brow. He had done that a lot since SG-1 had gated here. Apparently the planet’s atmosphere allowed more of the sun’s rays to penetrate to the surface creating a lush, if somewhat steamy, environment. Carter had offered an involved explanation which fascinated Jonas and made Jack’s head throb with the effort of not telling her to shut the hell up. “Haven’t these people ever heard of the Greenhouse Effect?”

Carter looked up from her instruments and grinned. If she was aware of O’Neill’s mood, she masked it well under her trademark cool professionalism. “Apparently not, sir. I seriously doubt the natives have any concerns about a thinning atmosphere and polar melting.”

“Well, they should. Make a note, Carter. When we get back home, I’m ordering a subscription to National Geographic for this planet.”

Her mind obviously on her calculations rather than her C.O.’s offer, Carter mumbled a reply and continued to study the data she was collecting.

Unable to get a satisfactory rise from the Major, Jack walked towards the lush foliage somewhere within which Teal’c was patrolling. “Postage would be a bitch,” he muttered as he disappeared down a narrow, nearly invisible path.

They had been informed that the elders would meet to discuss a proposed Beta site at the hour of Ur, which Jonas translated loosely to mean when the moon rose. That meant hours of down time. Carter happily took advantage of the unexpected gift by experimenting with her techno-toys, delighted that for once she wasn’t having to play snatch-as-we-go with her samples. Jonas seemed content in his role as lab assistant.

Having struggled along the pseudo-path in a wide circuit around the Stargate, Jack stopped to mop his face, take a drink of tepid water, and check up on his team. He toggled his radio. “Carter, anything to report?” Irritably, Jack brushed an over-zealous frond from his face as he waited for her reply.

“No, sir, everything’s clear. Jonas and I are continuing to run samples, but so far we’ve found nothing of interest.”

“And that would be a good thing, Carter?” Jack realized his impatience was bleeding through, but he couldn’t find it in him to curb the irritability that was seething just below the surface.

Apparently, he was masking it better than he thought. That, or more likely Carter was in full diplomatic mode, because her business-like manner never wavered as she answered. “Yes, sir. Nothing, is exactly what we want to find. If we can’t find anything of interest, hopefully neither will the Goa’uld. We’re hoping they’ll think this planet is a wash and beneath their notice.”

Got a news break for you, Major: This planet is a wash. Jack swung his P-90 upward, trying to keep the heavy, damp foliage out of his face. With a look of disgust, Jack pressed the button again. “Carry on, Carter. Keep an eye on Jonas.”

As Carter acknowledged the order, O’Neill pushed ahead through the brush. The path, if that’s what you wanted to call it, was littered with seasons of dead growth. Huge, beetle-like bugs scattered as he pressed forward. Damn, he hated bugs, especially honkin’ big ones. A six-inch centipede parachuted from the overgrown greenery above him, its wiry legs digging for traction as it scurried up his pant leg double-time. Jack let out a yelp that would have tarnished his tough-guy image for all times to come had anyone but the myriapod in question heard it. Using the barrel of his weapon, Jack flicked the trespasser off to the side of the path where it slid unharmed into the leaf litter. Jack shuddered, despite the oppressive heat. Wiping his face, he moved forward.

Thinking to rendevous with Teal’c, Jack picked up the pace despite the humidity and poor traveling conditions. He was sweating profusely, his t-shirt soaked through under his vest. Jungles had never been big on his hit parade list. Too many unknowns. Too many variables. Jungles had a way of reminding you just how insignificant you were in the big picture. Even as a kid, Tarzan had taken a distant second to Robin Hood. Guess it was a matter of degree of wooded area you had to deal with, but as far as he was concerned, Sherwood Forest rocked.

He was still thinking of childhood raids against the evil Sheriff of Nottingham when without warning he suddenly found himself face down in a foul pool of muddy water camouflaged by dead brush. Sputtering, and royally pissed at himself for allowing his thoughts to distract him and make him careless, Jack pushed his way into a sitting position. The decaying plant matter filling the pool in slimy strands now decorated his head and shoulders giving him a look Ozzy Osbourne would have envied.

Disgusted, Jack swept the offensive strands from his hair. Fishing around the murky bottom, he located his abused, sorry weapon. Dammit, did he have a cosmic target painted on his back? Couldn’t God, or whoever was in charge of these things find someone else to piss off just once in a while? Would it cause Armageddon if occasionally this shit happened to some other chump?

Jack figured it was a pretty safe bet he’d get no satisfactory answer, cosmic or otherwise, even though it was pretty obvious the handwriting was on the wall. Jack O’Neill was destined to be the universal punching bag whenever somebody up there got bored or needed to work off some steam.

Heaving himself carefully out of the muck, Jack slogged his way to the far side of the stagnant pool. He stood there a dripping, stinking, pissed off mess. He shook and stomped himself free of the worst of the fetid pond scum, breathing through his mouth in order to cope with the smell. He stank worse than Daniel’s fish tank when he forgot to clean it. Worse than Ferretti’s socks. And God only knew how bad that was.

Not wanting to waste the water in his canteen, but seeing that he had little choice, Jack dampened his handkerchief and wiped as much of the offensive matter from his face as he could. As he ran the cloth over the back of his neck he felt another fat clump of decaying refuse. Unable to shift it with his handkerchief, a look of utmost distaste plastered firmly on his face, Jack reached up to remove it.

“Holy shit!” His cry was swallowed up by the living umbrella surrounding him. “Holy freakin’ shit.” Leeches. He had blood-sucking leeches stuck to him. A sick feeling squirmed in his stomach. Looking at his arms, Jack realized with sudden nauseating clarity that the clumps of mud that littered his arms were in fact rust-brown worms that had latched onto him and were even now happily sucking away at O’Neill type ‘O’ negative blood.

Dreading what he had to do, but having no choice, Jack prodded one of the fat bloodsuckers with his finger. He swallowed and closed his eyes hoping when he opened them he would discover it had all been a huge mistake. Right. Like the cup had ever passed him by. Nope. Wasn’t gonna happen. And so he did what he had always done when life pissed on him: He sucked it up and moved forward.

Grasping the soft, fat body between his thumb and forefinger, Jack pulled. The leech stretched, unwilling to release its meal. Longer and longer, until he feared he would pull the creature in two. And suddenly there was a minute pinch and a trickle of blood seeping from a tiny wound on his arm. He flung the offensive creature to the side and as his face skewed in concentrated disgust, Jack reached for another. Had he mentioned that he hated jungles?

It was late afternoon before Jack walked back into the clearing where he had left his team. Teal’c stood nearby watching his approach, but otherwise the scene looked remarkably unchanged from the time he left. Carter looked up as he approached and dumbfounded surprise shot across her face that in other circumstances might have amused him. Not today. Today it simply pissed him off more, if that was possible.

“Sir?”

To Carter’s credit, her vast intelligence kicked in and she stopped herself. Jonas, unfortunately, had less experience dealing with pissy superior officers. “Colonel, you’re all wet and muddy. Did you have an accident?”

Jack gritted his teeth and did a mental ten count to reign in his temper. “No, Jonas, I found a lovely little pool full of mermaids who beguiled me into coming for a swim. I spent the afternoon making love and listening to their songs of unrequited love.” His voice raised, “What the hell do you think happened, Jonas? You’re the one who’s always saying you’re a quick study. Figure it out.”

The wounded look on Jonas’ face made Jack realize he probably should have counted to twenty, but he was just too irritated to even considering apologizing. “I need to get cleaned up.” So saying, he yanked open his pack, pulled out clean clothes and his kit, and moved towards a distant clump of trees.

“Colonel, we need to be at the village in a little over an hour.” Carter blew out a relieved breath and cast a glance at Teal’c and Jonas when Jack simply gave her a wave of acknowledgment.

By the time O’Neill had returned, the rest of the team stood waiting for him, ready to make the hike to the village. As he repacked his kit, Jack looked up at Jonas. “You got the blanket and beads ready to trade with the natives for this worthless piece of land?”

The puzzled look that colored the younger man’s face was proof that he was concerned he had forgotten to pack vital supplies. “I’m not sure what you mean, Colonel. I didn’t realize I was supposed to pack beads. Doctor Jackson’s notes never men–”

“The Major understands, don’t you, Carter? You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

&nbs