Medical Considerations
By OzKaren - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

Includes:  Medical Considerations: Fire and Water
           Fire  (Medical Considerations: Solitudes)
           Medical Considerations: Need
           Medical Considerations: Matter of Time
           Medical Considerations #5: Into The Fire
           Medical Considerations #6: Shades of Grey
           Medical Considerations: Divide and Conquer

                         *******************

Medical Considerations: Fire and Water 
By OzKaren - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

RATING: R -- language, sexual references

WARNINGS: If you don't like swearing, don't read this

EPISODE SPOILERS: Fire and Water 

TIME FRAME: First Season 

SUMMARY: What got said and done off screen ... maybe 

DO NOT ARCHIVE WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S PERMISSION 

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters belong to MGM, Gekko Corp 
and Double Secret Productions. This fan fiction was created solely for 
entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or 
trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, 
living or dead , is coincidental. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: All comments welcome. Flames will be doused. 

Here's the first part of a missing scene/post scene/whatever trilogy. 


                         *******************

There are two kinds of people in this world: the ones who stay behind to 
clear up after the party, and the ones who don't. 

By the time the sun had slipped below the horizon and the first stars 
were twinkling and most of the food was just a smeared memory on the 
plates, there was only us left. The General, Sam, Teal'c and me. To be 
fair, some people did help a little before rushing off to other 
commitments or to rescue their babysitters or to somewhere, anywhere, 
that didn't remind them of death and loss and barely controlled grief. 
The rest just couldn't be bothered, but that's par for the course. Oh, 
well. I gave up bitching about human nature years ago. 

Sam was washing up. Teal'c was drying: oh, for a camera. The General -- 
he keeps telling me to call him George when we're not on duty but I 
don't know. Seems disrespectful, somehow. Well. George was putting 
everything away with a deftness that suggested he knew his way around 
Jack's kitchen a damned sight better than business only interaction 
warranted. I was playing hunt the potato chips between the sofa 
cushions, and herding stray beer bottles back to the corral. 

As for Jack, he'd retreated to the roof hours before, and by tacit 
consent we'd left him there. It would have been cruelty to dumb animals 
to make him pretend any longer. 

I gave downtairs one last sweep, located a single ingenious Budweiser 
hiding in a potplant, and rejoined the others upstairs. I did the same 
up there, wiping a damp cloth over everything, straightening picture 
frames, curtains, chairs. I don't know. There's just something 
peculiarly satisfying in creating order out of chaos, cleanliness out of 
mess. 

Must be why I became a doctor. 

Sam was on the last relay of plates, up to her elbows in warm, soapy 
water. It was a little strange to see her in a dress. She usually 
prefers jeans when she's not in uniform. It was even stranger seeing 
Teal'c in civvies. Somehow the ordinary pants, shirt and blazer served 
only to emphasize his alienness instead of camouflage it. As for George, 
well, he's so at home inside his skin that the external trappings are 
pretty much irrelevant. 

Someone had restacked the cd player, and music drifted through the room. 
Simon and Garfunkel. Bridge Over Troubled Water. When you're weary. 
Feeling small. When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all. 

Tears ambushed me, then. Ambushed us all, so that stopped in mid-motion, 
pierced to the heart by that piercing voice, by memory and loss, we 
stared at each other and thought of Daniel. 

Like a bridge over troubled water, I will ease your mind. 

And so he had. With a smile, a touch, with his earnest, oblivious 
enthusiasms, he'd eased us all at one time or another. Often without 
realising he was even doing it, I suspect. Just by being ... Daniel. And 
for the first time, I think, as we stood silent in Jack's clean kitchen, 
listening to Jack's music, we came to our first true understanding of 
our bereavement. 

It's a feeling that haunts me, even now. Even after so long, with Daniel 
restored to us and so many more griefs accumulated in our collective 
history. The last soaring note faded into silence, became Cecilia, and 
the snappy upbeat Sixties-ness of it shattered the moment. Sam slid 
another plate into the sink, Teal'c swapped his damp tea towel for a dry 
one and George made space in a cupboard for the last of the glasses. 

"Well, I think that's everything now," I said, dropping the Budweiser 
bottle into the garbage. "We've done good, kids." 

"Yes," said George. "I think it went off pretty well." Then added, 
heavily, "All things considered." 

Yes. All things. Like having your car window smashed with a hockey 
stick. 

Teal'c and Sam knew what he meant, too. "I can't believe he did that," 
she said, head bent over the sink. Her voice was subdued, hesitant, as 
though she felt like a traitor saying the words out loud, but couldn't 
help herself. 

"Colonel O'Neill and Daniel Jackson were very close," said Teal'c. "The 
severing of such a bond can only be .... traumatic." 

George and I looked at each other. Teal'c had hit the nail right on the 
head. But I doubted if he knew why. Doubted that anyone else except 
George ... and Jack, of course ... knew the true circumstances behind 
that first trip to Abydos. Knew precisely what it was that had forged 
that special bond between the cynic and the scholar. 

George said, with casual ease, "I wouldn't worry too much about that if 
I were you, Sam. We all grieve differently. All have different ways of 
expressing our hurt. Jack's way is just a little more -- physical -- 
than most people's, that's all. It was only a window." 

Again, our eyes met. True. It was only a window. This time. But other 
times ... 

Teal'c said, "I, too, have felt like breaking something. If Daniel 
Jackson had fallen to an enemy, there would be someone to fight. Someone 
to punish for his death. But there is not. I feel ... strange. Filled 
with rage, and yet empty." 

"I think we all feel empty, Teal'c," Sam said. Slotted the last plate 
into the draining rack, and pulled the plug out of the sink. She stared 
at the suds swirling down the drain ... and her face blanched. With a 
low, startled cry she staggered, snatching at the bench top. 

"Captain Carter!" Teal'c had his hand under her elbow before I could 
move, was supporting her as she trembled. 

"What, Sam? What's wrong?" I demanded. 

Horrified, she stared at me. "Flashback. Daniel. Burning. Oh, God." She 
pressed her wet hands to her face. Muffled, said, "That's never happened 
to me before. I've never done that before." 

"Come and sit down," George said. "Teal'c?" 

"Yes, sit down, Captain Carter," Teal'c urged. "You are upset." 

She lowered her hands. Gently freed her elbow from Teal'c's concerned 
grip. "No. I'm fine. It was just a shock. I wasn't expecting it. I'm 
fine." 

"No," said George. "You're not. None of us are. We've lost a good friend 
under horrible circumstances. We're all of us feeling pretty shaky right 
now." And he looked at me, then, a wry expression in his eyes. 
Acknowledging that I'd been right, that the team indeed was suffering 
from post trauma, and that getting back on the horse straight after this 
fall would have been a major mistake. 

It's nice to have a commanding officer who can admit when he's wrong. 

"I think we should call you a cab," said George. "I can send someone out 
here to pick up your car tomorrow." 

Sam shook her head. "No, sir. That won't be necessary. I'm perfectly all 
right to drive. But I think it's time I left ... if that's okay with 
you, Teal'c?" "I am ready to leave when you are, Captain." 

She turned to George. "Would you -- could you say goodnight to the 
Colonel for us?" 

George's smile was gentle and understanding. "Of course. Good night, 
Sam. Teal'c." 

They left. Simon and Garfunkel sang their last track, and the Moody 
Blues took over. George and I finished up in the kitchen. 

I said, "You handled that well, by the way. The hockey stick thing." 

George sighed. "He says he wants to retire." 

"Does he mean it?" 

A weary shrug. "I think he thinks he does. Me, I think it's grief 
talking." 

"Grief didn't smash your car window," I pointed out. 

"Yes, it did. That's how Jack expresses grief ... you know that." 

I do. My turn to sigh. "You know, it's not so much that he smashed the 
window that has me worried. It's the fact that he did it in public." 

"It surprised me, too," George admitted. "It's not his usual m.o. I 
don't know, Doctor. What do you think it means?" 

"I think it means as much time off as is required and a softly, softly 
approach," I said. "We both know his history. With everything else he's 
been through, he could have done without this. My honest opinion? It's 
too soon to say whether he'll bounce back as good as before. I do think 
that retirement is probably the worst thing for him, but if he's serious 
about it, I don't see what we can do to stop him." 

George leaned against the fridge door. "I agree. I've managed to stall 
him, for now. Asked him to supervise the lockdown of Jackson's 
apartment." The flat of his hand slapped the cool white metal beside 
him. "Dammit! I liked that boy." 

"He was extremely likeable," I agreed. 

"I guess I should get going, too," said George. "Early start tomorrow." 
He glanced at the ceiling. "Can't say I like leaving him up there, 
though." "It's all right," I said. "I'll see he gets down safely. If he 
is in a state, I'm probably the best one to deal with it." 

George smiled. "A woman's touch, hmm?" 

"No," I said, sharply. "A doctor's. Not to mention the fact that I'm not 
his commanding officer, and that all doctor-patient interaction is 
confidential. My guess is he's already regretting the public outburst. 
No need to put more fuel on the fire." 

"As you say, Doctor," George agreed. "I'm sure you know what you're 
doing. I won't disturb him. Tell him I said good night?" 

"Of course, General," I said. 

Alone for the first time in Jack's home, I indulged in a little 
research. So I'm nosey. Sue me. The kind of medicine I practice at SGC 
is, if you'll pardon the pun, light years from the conventional take-
two-asprins-and-call-me-in-the-morning stuff most peacetime military 
medicos truck with. I've dealt with exotic plagues, accelerated aging, 
cybernetic clones, organic bombs, symbiants, alien bacterial 
infestations ... the list goes on. I've handled physical traumas ranging 
from sprained ankles to shattered bones and volcanic gas poisoning. And 
all of that is easy, easy, compared to the psychological ramifications 
of Gate travel. Of the weird and wonderful adventures the SG teams have. 

How do you counsel someone who's aged fifty years in ten days? Someone 
who's been kept a prisoner inside her own body by an invading alien 
parasite? Someone who's just spent thirty six hours in agony pinned 
through the shoulder to a concrete wall, hostage to an alien 
intelligence? Someone who's been pushed to the very brink of genetic 
reconstruction? Someone who's come within a breath of killing their best 
friend because the torture of addiction and withdrawal has distorted 
their personality almost beyond recognition? 

I had no idea. I was making it up as I went along. I still am. All I 
knew, all that I still know, is that to help these people successfully, 
I have to understand them better than they will ever understand 
themselves. And while medical and personnel files are helpful, they're 
just a part of the picture. The rest of it comes with experience, with 
talking, listening, observing. 

Jack's house is an interesting case in point. The wake was my first 
visit, and since then it hasn't changed much. It's masculine, of course. 
Utilitarian. Comfortable. Not very many bright colours. Muted shades of 
brown and green and blue. Plants and artwork and an eclectic music 
collection. It's a guarded kind of place, revealing surprisingly little 
about its occupant, even to himself. The second most intriguing thing is 
the display of medals and commendations over the fireplace. Jack's a 
confident man. Unkind people might even call him arrogant. But he's not 
vain. Not pretentious. I looked at those medals and commendations for a 
long, long time, and wondered. 

And the most intriguing thing? 

No photographs. 

Even after the business with the crystal clone, very few people know 
about Charlie. Jack prefers it that way ... and who can blame him? But I 
found it interesting, and disturbing, that even in the sanctuary of his 
own home there were no photos of his slain child. At least, none that 
were in plain sight, where the eye might encounter them without warning. 

You know, denial really isn't just a river in Egypt. It's a big black 
hole that sucks into itself all the feelings we'd rather not have, but 
that to be healthy human beings we need to acknowledge and accept and 
experience. And then let go. In pretending that we don't feel them, 
we're not protecting ourselves at all. What we're doing is binding them 
more closely to our hearts, giving them a power over us that they were 
never meant to have. 

I speak from experience, you understand. 

The business with the hockey stick said to me that Jack's black hole was 
full to overflowing, and that if he didn't pull the plug and let some of 
those feelings out, then all of us were headed for trouble. 

As it turned out, I was right and wrong. As I said, I really didn't know 
Jack very well in those days. I'd only been on board a matter of months. 
He was professional, friendly, amusing, aloof. His files made for 
alarming reading. I wasn't at all sure, at first, that he should even be 
there. But after a while I relaxed, and patched up his bumps and bruises 
as required, and kept a weather eye out for trouble. I remember that 
above everything, knowing what I knew of his past, what I felt for him 
most was a kind of horrified pity. 

I suppose my first truthful experience of him was during the first 
plague crisis, when he battled the effects of the Neanderthal virus and 
offered himself as a human guinea pig for drug experimentation. 

I didn't want to do it. But I was desperate and he was insistent, and it 
worked out for the best. That's when I learned that this man needs no-
one's pity. That pity in fact insults him. That he is possessed of a 
strength, a courage, an unyielding will that is so rare, so rare ... 

My second truthful experience was, of course, after the wake ... and it 
taught me ... a little more than I bargained for. 

                         *******************

Climbing narrow wooden ladders in high heels isn't my first choice of 
recreational activity, but it was a case of Mohamed going to the 
mountain, and so on. I knew Jack was more than capable of staying on the 
roof all night, and I wasn't sure it was a very good idea. So up I 
climbed and my heart wasn't in my mouth solely because of the heels and 
the ladder. 

He was settled in the corner of his rooftop hideaway. Back braced 
against the solid railing, knees drawn midway to chest, safely 
barricaded behind an array of empty bottles. Not a good sign. He was 
never what you could call an alcoholic, but in the months after his 
son's death, four out of his five major food groups were kinds of 
alcohol. The fifth was nicotine. 

He looked up as I hauled myself onto the roof. Watched me slip and 
stagger and curse with a kind of detached curiosity. 

Regaining my balance, I straightened my skirt. "Hi." 

"I'm very drunk," he informed me conversationally. "You might want to 
leave." 

"I just got here," I pointed out, and settled myself onto the camp stool 
parked in front of the telescope. 

He shrugged. "Fine. Just don't say I didn't warn you." 

A promising beginning. I looked up. It was a clear, bright night. The 
stars looked very close. "This is nice," I said. "Very peaceful." 

"It was," he said, and his voice was as dry as a desert. Lifting the 
bottle in his hand, he swallowed deeply. Held it out to me and said, in 
a bad brogue, "A foine Irish whiskey for a foine Irish wake. Want some?" 
I shook my head. He shrugged, swallowed some more, and said, "I thought 
everyone was gone." 

Some people slosh their sibilants when they're drunk. Others get very 
precise. Jack belongs to the precision school of inebriation. A little 
slow, a lot deliberate ... and maybe twice as dangerous. 

"Everyone else is," I replied. "They said to say goodbye. It's just me 
left." 

His eyebrows lifted derisively. "Checking up on me, Doc?" 

"Yes," I said. Want to make something of it? 

Another swallow. The bottle was nearly empty now, and it had been full 
when he started. I could see the freshly discarded screwtop, glinting in 
the light from next door. 

"Sweet," he said, and bared his teeth in a smile. 

Yes. Well. I'd never thought it was going to be easy. 

I poked around inside my shoulder purse, now by my feet, and pulled out 
my cigarettes and a lighter. Caught his expression and scowled. "Don't 
start. One or two a day, tops. And only on stressful days, at that." I 
lit up, then offered the pack to him. "Want one?" 

"I quit." 

"Is that a yes or a no?" 

He took one. Leaned forward so I could light it. Leaned back again, 
against the railing, and regarded the glowing tip of the cigarette in 
rapt silence. Then, shutting his eyes, he closed his lips around the 
filter and inhaled. An expression of blissful agony crossed his face as 
the smoke seeped into his lungs. He exhaled, a deep sigh, and let his 
head tilt back until it thumped gently against the rough wood behind 
him. 

"Screw the Surgeon General," he said. 

"Screw him," I agreed, and for a while we sat in silence under the 
starry sky, and smoked our cigarettes, and felt a little cold. At least, 
I did. Jack had enough alcohol in his blood to proof him against 
Antarctica. 

He said, "Why is it you always crave a cigarette after sex?" 

I raised my eyebrows. "I don't recall saying that I do." 

He scowled. "Not you you. People you." And muttered "Smartass" under his 
smokey breath. 

"In that case," I said, "I have no idea. Why do they?" 

"I don't know," he said. "You're the doctor, I thought you'd know." 

"Well, I don't," I said. And waited. 

He said, not looking at me, "Daniel would know. He'd have a long, 
involved explanation about how some ancient extinct tribe used to roll 
the leaves of some kind of fertility herb and then smoke it after sex in 
some kind of ritual to ensure conception and the ongoing prosperity of 
the tribe. And how now, via the miracles of genetic memory, modern man 
still feels the tug of that ancient ritual, which is why five thousand 
years later we get the irresistible urge to light up a post-coital 
Marlboro." Reaching up, he flicked ash over the side of the roof. "Some 
bullshit like that." 

I shrugged. "Maybe it isn't bullshit," I said. "Maybe Daniel is -- was -
-" Shit. "Would have been -- right." 

His eyes glinted in the dim light. "Tenses are a bitch, aren't they?" 

"Jack --" 

Another smile. "Janet?" 

"It wasn't your fault." 

"Wasn't it?" 

Cigarettes are very good props. Especially when you're stalling for 
time. Trying to work out your next move. Puffing quietly, I decided to 
play it safe and go with repetition. "No. It wasn't." 

"You're right," he agreed, and alternated a drag on the cigarette with a 
mouthful of whiskey. "It wasn't my fault." 

I blinked. "You agree with me?" 

"Sure." 

I shook my head. Too easy. Way, way too easy. "You're lying." 

The tip of his cigarette glowed balefully in the darkness. "That's -- 
kind of insulting." 

"Sorry." 

"Liar." 

My turn to grin. "Maybe it's contagious." 

"Look. Doctor. What are you trying to say?" 

I leaned forward. "That shit happens, Jack." 

He swallowed more whiskey. "Ain't that the truth." 

"Shit happens," I insisted. "Not everything is your fault." 

Nodding, he closed his eyes. "Right. Not everything. Not Daniel burning 
to death. Not Kowalski dying with his head sliced in half. Not Sara 
leaving me. Not Charlie killing himself with my gun." He looked at me, 
then, eyes black and bitter. "Christ, how could any of it have been my 
fault? I was only the commanding officer. The husband. The father. None 
of it had anything to do with me, right? It's what you said. Shit 
happens." 

I reached out. Tapped the ash off my cigarette into an empty beer 
bottle. "You're not being fair on yourself, Jack. You --" 

"Fuck you," he interrupted. "What the fuck do you know about it?" 

I sucked on my cigarette. Blew the smoke in his face. Fuck you too, 
mister. "I know that going through the Stargate is the single most 
dangerous thing anyone can do, and that there are no guarantees, none, 
that if you go through in one piece you'll come back the same way. I 
know that marriages break up for all kinds of reasons and it's almost 
never just one person's fault. And I know that kids have accidents and 
that loving them more than life itself doesn't mean they won't die." 

"Well, isn't that profound," he said. "Get that out of one of your fancy 
psychology textbooks, did you?" 

"No. From observation and personal experience." 

He nodded. Put his cigarette to his lips and inhaled sharply. Blew a 
smoke ring, smiled at it, and said, "Personal experience. So that means 
you left your revolver in your nightstand drawer, which you forgot to 
lock because you'd been out on wargames for six weeks and couldn't wait 
to screw your wife, came home from work the next day to take your wife 
and son out to dinner, heard your gun go off in the bedroom, rushed 
upstairs, found your son bleeding to death with a hole in him the size 
of your fist, rushed him to hospital, only to be told sorry, your child 
died on the way to theatre. Is that it? Is that your personal 
experience? Doctor?" 

I met his hot gaze without flinching. "I can't have children." 

"God did you a favour, then," he said, and laughed. 

Okay. I'll admit it. That hurt. So much so that I couldn't speak for a 
moment. Jack said, "Piss off, why don't you? Who invited you up here 
anyway? Not me." People in pain lash out all the time. It's an 
occupational hazard in my line of work. The trick is not to let it get 
to you. I stubbed out the remnant of my cigarette. Lit another. Time to 
get the conversation back on track. "Daniel knew the risks, Jack. He was 
an adult, he made his own --" 

"Bullshit!" he said. "Daniel was a kid. He knew fuck all. Thought 
everyone was his friend. Thought all he had to do was smile at people 
and they'd be reasonable. Head stuffed full of mythology and folklore 
and crap. There wasn't a sensible bone in his body. That's what I was 
for. To drum some sense into him. To say Daniel! Look what you're doing, 
for Christ's sake! Watch where you're putting your feet!" 

Stabbing the air with the bright burning end of my cigarette I said, 
"Jack, come on. You couldn't have known that the ground was going to 
open up like that right underneath him! That a wall of flame was going 
to flare up like that! You're not God!" 

"The fuck I'm not," he retorted. "I'm SG1's team leader. Same thing. 
It's my job to know everything. To protect everyone. To get my kids home 
in one piece. I fucked up. I blew it. I got Daniel killed because I 
wasn't paying attention." 

"That's not true!" I contradicted sharply. "For God's sake, Jack! Sounds 
to me like you're drunk on self-pity as much as whiskey!" 

In a single wild movement, Jack was on his feet. Bottles tipped and 
scattered and tinkled. He towered over me, eyes narrow and vicious, the 
barbed tongue unleashed and unforgiving. "And what the fuck would you 
know? Another fucking scientist. Christ Almighty, save me from fucking 
ignorant scientists. Why don't you go back where you belong, to your 
safe little laboratory with your safe little test tubes and your safe 
little experiments? Go on. Get the fuck out of my sight. Why should I 
give a shit about what you've got to say? You're nothing, you're a 
pencil pusher, a microscope monkey! You don't know squat about the real 
world!" 

That's when I temporarily misplaced my objectivity. All of a sudden it 
was personal. He'd made it personal, attacked me when I was only trying 
to help. 

I know. I know. Who was I kidding? You stick a needle in a tiger's 
behind, you gotta figure the tiger might object. 

Even if you are doing it for his own good. 

But Jack's not the only one with a temper ... and I don't need alchohol 
to help me lose mine. All it takes is a man, throwing abuse at me. 

There are good reasons why I'm divorced. 

"I don't know squat?" I shouted back at him, on my feet, shaking. "You 
arrogant prick! When was the last time you held someone's beating heart 
in your hand -- to save it, I mean, not rip it out by its roots! When 
was the last time you cut someone open to heal them, not slaughter them? 
When was the last time you stood for five hours up to your elbows in a 
patient's guts trying to sew him back together again, trying to make him 
live, and failed, and had to tell his parents? Huh? When was that?" 

"Don't go there," Jack said, and his voice was like a knife, 
unsheathing. "You have no idea of what I do, or why I do it, or --" 

"Oh, yes," I said, scathing. "I know. It's a hard job, but somebody's 
gotta do it. And nobody, least of all a geek scientist doctor who's 
saved your ass once or twice, can understand. So. Maybe you're right. 
What do I know? Maybe it is all your fault. You're responsible for 
Daniel burning alive. You're the reason Kowalski ended up with a goa'uld 
in his head. Sara didn't just leave you, she ran away, because you're 
the meanest sonofabitch on the face of the earth. And Charlie didn't 
shoot himself by accident, he did it to get away from you because you 
were such a lousy father. But hey -- why stop there? There's a hole in 
the ozone layer because you bought an aerosol fly spray! The country's 
got a seven billion dollar deficit because you don't save half your pay 
check every week! And three million Chinese drowned this month because 
you forgot to turn off your tap! Okay? You say you're God? Fine. Then 
every damned rotten thing in the whole wide world is your fault!" 

"Fuck you!" he shouted. Threw the whiskey bottle at me, hard, so close 
that I smelled the spilling dregs as it spun past my head to explode 
against the telescope behind me. 

I screamed. 

Somewhere down the street, a door banged. A dog started barking. A car, 
starting up, backfired. It sounded like gunshots. 

"Fuck you," Jack whispered. White to the bone. Shaking like an old man 
with palsy. The cool night air was soaked with violence and the stale 
stench of whiskey. 

My mouth was dry as ash. I took a step towards him. "Jack --" 

His hands came up as though I'd threatened him. Reeling sideways, he 
clutched at the railing, the ladder, and blundered his way back to 
earth. 

For a long time I stood there, shivering in the impersonal starlight. 
Then I braved the ladder a second time, and went to find him. 

                         *******************

As I let myself back into the house, I heard the sound of someone 
retching. It went on for a little while, then I heard a toilet flush. 
Runnng water. A moment later Jack came out of the downstairs bathroom, 
towel pressed to his face. He lowered his hands, saw me and stopped. 

Quickly I said, "Jack, I'm sorry." 

Silently he walked by me, up the stairs. Biting my lip, I followed him. 
"Jack," I said. "Please. Say something." 

He had his back to me, opening cupboards. "I think we've both said 
enough. Don't you?" 

"You can't not talk about this," I insisted. "It's too important." 

Still ransacking the cupboards, he spared a quick, cool glance over his 
shoulder. "Watch me." 

Frustrated, I did. "What are you looking for?" I said, as he swore under 
his breath and slammed another door closed. "Maybe we put things away in 
the wrong places, I --" 

"Ah," he said. Turned around. He had a bottle in his hand. 

"Don't you think you've had enough for one day?" I said quietly. 

"No," said Jack. He found a glass. Unscrewed the lid. The bottle chinked 
against the glass as he poured; the glass chinked against his teeth as 
he drank. 

"Jack," I said, feeling helpless, feeling desperate, "this won't help." 

"Yes, it will," he said, and poured some more. 

"How?" I demanded, itching to take the bottle and glass away from him. I 
didn't dare. 

"If I drink enough I'll pass out, and if I pass out, I --" He stopped. 

"What?" I prompted gently. 

"Nothing," he said. 

I took a deep breath. My heart was racing. "Jack. I can't make you talk 
to me, I know that. But at least be honest with yourself. The silence, 
the drinking ... it's what destroyed your marriage. Nearly destroyed 
your life. Don't let it happen again. It's the last thing Daniel would 
want for you." 

He flinched. Scowled. Poured another three fingers' worth. Rattle, 
rattle, chink. 

"Think about what you're doing, Jack," I said. "You've got 
responsibilities. You're not the only one grieving, here. What about 
Sam? She loved Daniel as much as you did. Who's going to help her get 
through this if you don't? And Teal'c? You're the only family he has, 
now. Don't try and tell me his stoneface routine's got you fooled. I 
won't believe you. They're your team, Jack. Your kids. They look to you 
for direction. They need you to get through this." 

"I can't help them," he said. Harshly. As though the words themselves 
hurt. "How can I help them? I can't even -- I can't --" One hand came up 
to cover his face, and he was shaking. Muffled, he said, "He screamed to 
me for help. He was burning, and screaming, and I couldn't save him. 
Just like Charlie. Charlie cried, he kept saying 'Daddy it hurts, Daddy 
it hurts, Daddy I'm scared, help me Daddy', and I tried but he died. He 
died, and Daniel died, and I keep seeing it over and over and I want it 
to stop, Jesus, Jesus, please, I just want it to stop!" 

I reached out my hand. Touched him. He grabbed me, crushed my fingers in 
his. It hurt, it really hurt, but I just bit my lip and let him hang on. 

We stood there like that for a long time. Not speaking. Not moving. 
Eventually he let go of my hand. Uncovered his face. He bent down and 
kissed my cheek, and smiled at me, and disappeared into his bedroom. 

I let myself out, and drove home. It was very late. The streets were 
almost deserted. My hand ached gently from the desperate pressure of his 
fingers, and the skin of my face burned where his lips had touched me, 
and it was a long, long time before I fell asleep. 

                         *******************

Against all expectations, we got Daniel back. 

Wet, tired, bemused ... alive. 

I should have kicked the rest of SG1 out of the infirmary while I 
examined him, but I didn't have the heart. They didn't want to let him 
out of their sight, and I can't say that I blamed them. Besides, Daniel 
didn't seem to mind. He was too full of what had happened. 

"And you're not mad at him? This Nem?" said Sam, shaking her head. 

"No, no," said Daniel. "How could I be? He was half out of his mind with 
grief. All those years, thousands of years, never knowing what had 
happened to his wife!" He blinked rapidly. Swallowed. "How could I be 
angry when I know exactly how he feels?" 

"He must have known she was dead," said Teal'c. 

"Why? Look how long they live," said Daniel. "Anything could have 
happened to her." 

Sam shivered. "But she was murdered. By a goa'uld. It's awful." 

"Yeah," said Jack. "Almost as awful as someone getting inside our heads 
and making us believe that Daniel went krispy kritters right in front of 
our eyes." And he lifted his eyebrows meaningfully at her. 

Daniel, Sam and Teal'c exchanged looks. Daniel said, "I'm really sorry 
about that, guys. I guess it's my fault. If I hadn't shown him that I 
understand cuniform he probably would have just sent us back through the 
gate and --" "Can it, Daniel," said Jack. "It wasn't your fault. 
Besides, what's done is done. All that matters is that you're back, and 
in one piece. Which reminds me. Once you've had a little sleep, and the 
doc here gives you the final all clear, you and I are going to have a 
little chat about volunteering to have your brain vacuumed by weird 
alien devices. Got it?" And he scowled, menacingly. 

"Help," said Daniel. Grabbed Teal'c and tugged him into place as a 
shield. "Save me." 

"I will not," said Teal'c, frowning. "I will in fact jump on Colonel 
O'Neill's bandwagon. Your actions were extremely foolish." 

We all stared at him. Teal'c stared back. 

"Was not my use of this idiom correct?" he asked. 

"Uh -- it was," said Sam. "I think that's why we're stunned." 

Teal'c regarded us gravely. "I am crushed," he said. 

"Okay," I said, over the laughter. "Enough. Daniel needs to get some 
rest, now." 

"Yeah," said Daniel. "No fair picking on the newly resurrected." 

I ushered them out into the corridor. Jack lingered. "He really is going 
to be okay?" 

"Yes, Colonel, he's going to be fine," I said. 

For a moment he stood there, staring into the distance. "Guess I was 
wrong." 

"What about?" I said. He looked remade. 

"All he has to do is smile at people ... and they are reasonable." 

I looked up at him. Grinned. "Well," I said. "Most people." 

"Touché," he said. "And ... thanks." 

I wasn't going to ruin things by pretending I didn't know what he meant. 
I just nodded. Touched him briefly on the arm. "You're welcome. Any 
time." 

"Yeah," he said. "Yeah." 

I watched him saunter down the corridor, all traces of the man on the 
roof, with the hockey stick, erased. Or at least ... carefully hidden. 
But I knew that dangerous man was still there, somewhere. And he knew 
that I knew. It made for -- an interesting subtext. 

As somebody once said .... I think this is the start of a beautiful 
friendship. 

The End 


                         *******************

Fire (Medical Considerations: Solitudes)
By OzKaren - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

RATING: G. No language this time!

EPISODE SPOILERS: Solitudes 

TIME FRAME: First Season 

SUMMARY: What got said and done off screen ... maybe 


DO NOT ARCHIVE WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S PERMISSION 

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters belong to MGM, Gekko Corp 
and Double Secret Productions. This fan fiction was created solely for 
entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or 
trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, 
living or dead , is coincidental. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Well, here is the 2nd of 3 vignettes.... forgot to 
mention before that thanks are owed to Jenn and Kate for their keen 
critiques. 

Medical Considerations # 2 


                         *******************

 If I may borrow a charming term from an equally charming Colonel of our 
acquaintance: 

Waiting sucks. 

I know. As the doctor, I could have insisted on going with them. But 
once the word came through that the rescue team had located the other 
half of SG1, well. There's only so much room in a helicopter, and 
nothing short of a general anaesthetic was going to stop Daniel and 
Teal'c and the General from rushing off to make sure nobody accidentally 
dropped Jack or Sam during the extraction. I didn't have the heart to 
pull rank on them. Besides. Phil Waites, the McMurdo Rescue team EMT, 
was perfectly competent and I was only a radio wave away and there were 
all the preparations to be made. 

I've gotten used to not having to worry about security considerations. 
At SGC my patients can babble all they want about goa'uld and jaffa and 
stargates and aliens and wormholes. Who's to care? But McMurdo is a 
different matter. McMurdo is not a secure facility. Not what we call 
secure, anyway. That's why I'd been brought along, of course. Not just 
because of my extraordinary medical skill, but for containment purposes. 

Dr Roger Abbot wasn't too sure. Dr Roger Abbot seemed to think my 
presence implied that he wasn't good enough to take care of our people. 
Dr Roger Abbot is one of those irritating types who think that 
'Classified' applies to other people. What? Did we think he couldn't 
keep a secret? 

Well, yes. That was the general idea. 

George Hammond is a dedicated, intelligent, articulate, caring, 
compassionate man who can halt a Jack O'Neill tirade in mid-flight with 
the lift of one eyebrow. One eyebrow. 

Roger Abbot didn't stand a chance. 

He sulked as we waited for Rescue Team Charlie to come in from the cold. 
Spare me. If I hadn't needed his surgical skills I would have found 
something else for him to do. But I did, so I was stuck with him. 
Terrific. Just what I really wanted with yet another O'Neill inspired 
crisis heading my way at Mach 2. 

Coma. Hypothermia. Head injury. Fractured tib/fib and ribs. Internal 
injuries. Bleeding. Frostbite. Hell's bells and buckets of blood. 

Buckets. I just prayed that Jack hadn't spilled more than he could 
spare. Him being so clumsy, and all. I'd brought more with me, of 
course. Lots of little red baggies of AB neg. Couldn't risk McMurdo 
running out and didn't want to deplete their stores, anyway. The OR was 
ready, the blankets and saline were warming, the crash cart and portable 
x-ray machine were standing by and my little heart was going pitter-
pitter-pat. 

We could lose this one. This is bad. He's been deteriorating for seventy 
two hours. He may be strong, he may be the toughest sonofabitch you've 
ever met, but it's been three days and he's a mess. 

Roger Abbot said, "This is an excellent facility, Doctor. And it has 
excellent staff. You don't have to worry about that." The scowl was 
gone, replaced by something approaching compassion. 

"I know," I said, more snappily that I should have. Either he was more 
perceptive than I'd given him credit for, or I wasn't camouflaging as 
well I should have been. Damn. I bit my lip, took a deep breath. "Sorry. 
This has nothing to do with your competence, Doctor. It really hasn't. 
When the General said National Security, he wasn't kidding. Do yourself 
a favour and give your curiosity the day off." 

Easier said than done. I could see all the unasked questions and 
speculations rampaging behind his eyes. He smiled. "That's a tall 
order." 

"I know," I said. "But this is no joking matter. Everyone here will have 
to be debriefed once the emergency is over, and I promise you, it's not 
going to be any kind of a routine chat session. You're playing in the 
Major League, now." He nodded. Said, "So. I guess these people are 
pretty important, then?" 

Pretty important. Cassie burst into tears when I told her where I was 
going, and why. And yes, I did tell her. She already knew they were 
missing. I don't believe in lying to children. They know when 
something's wrong, they know when you're deeply distressed. Telling them 
that nothing's the matter is a betrayal of trust. Besides. Cass is no 
ordinary child. And she loves Jack as much as she must have loved her 
real father, when he was alive. Loves Sam like the big sister she'd 
never had. She wouldn't have thanked me for lying. She gave me two 
paintings, one for each of them, to sticky tape beside their beds. 
Paintings that she'd done the day before in school. Sam's was a roller 
coaster. I think it was a hint. Jack's involved lots of dogs. Well. I'm 
almost sure they were dogs. They had four legs, anyway. The paintings 
were in my bag. I was looking forward to Jack's face when he saw his. 

And, by God, he was going to see it. 

"Yes," I said to Roger Abbot. "They're pretty important." 

The radio squawked and spluttered. We both jumped. "Rescue Charlie to 
base, do you copy?" 

Abbot reached for the handset. "This is McMurdo, Rescue Charlie, we 
copy." 

"McMurdo, our ETA is five minutes," EMT Waites said over a crash of 
background noise. "Updated vitals are as follows: O'Neill, BP 70/40, 
pulse 24, resps 6 and shallow, temp 82.5 degrees. Carter, BP 110/70, 
pulse 76, resps 14, temp 93." "Copy that, Rescue Charlie. See you 
topside in five." 

"Don't be late, McMurdo," Waites replied, and not even the background 
eggbeating of the chopper blades or the radio wave distortion of his 
voice could disguise his concern. "Rescue Charlie out." Abbot pulled a 
face. "Let's suit up and get out there. It's rude to keep guests 
waiting." 

"God forbid we should forget our manners," I agreed. Thinking, 70/40, 6 
and shallow, 82.5. Oh, shit. 

                         *******************

I still find it hard to believe that Jack watches ER. You'd think he had 
enough crises in his life without inflicting more on himself in the name 
of relaxation. He says that watching someone else's disasters makes a 
nice change from living his own. Clearly Jack subscribes to the 'I bang 
my head against a brick wall because it feels so good when I stop' 
school of recreation. 

I don't. 

Besides. It's all hyped up for the purposes of ratings: God forbid they 
let the medical facts get in the way of a good story. No real ER has 
that many unusual incidents every day, and nobody races around the 
corridors bellowing 'Emergency! Get out of my way' in a real hospital. 

Having said that, if the producers had seen the way I rocketed over to 
the helicopter as they unloaded Jack onto a gurney, they would have 
hired me on the spot. 

82.5 degrees. Doesn't sound so bad, does it? I mean, that's only ten 
degrees or so below normal. What's the big deal? 

Well. The big deal is that the human body is a perplexing kaleidoscope 
of inter-connected checks and balances. And there's very little leeway 
for error. 82.5 degrees meant that Jack's body was almost too cold to 
function. That the proteins and hormones and neurotransmitters that keep 
us alive, that keep the marvellous machine ticking, were on the brink of 
breakdown. At 82.5 degrees the heart can barely pump. It develops 
arrhythmias. It starts to fibrillate. 

You die. 

Sam was fine. A couple of nasty lacerations on the right cheek that 
would need plastic surgery once we were back home. Assorted bumps and 
bruises, a little touch of frostbite here and there, hypothermia, of 
course, but mild, compared to Jack. Nothing life threatening. Sam was 
fine. Sam could wait. 

But Jack? Oh, Jack. 

Naming no names, there are some people at SGC who think that my feelings 
for Jack O'Neill have strayed a tad past the professional. Which is 
nonsense. I am his physician, and by definition know more intimate 
things about him than anybody else alive, including his wife. I have to. 
It's my responsibility to put him back together again after an 
excursion's gone sour. 

If, when SG1 returns from a mission and there's been some kind of 
medical compromise, if I tend to check him out first, it's for a reason. 
I've read his full medical file, and you haven't. 

I'll bet you didn't know that an entire military medical seminar was 
devoted to discussing his survival of a top secret mission into Iraq 
that went wrong back in ... well, let's just say the eighties, shall we? 

Twelve of the military's finest surgeons, four top psychiatrists, two 
behavioural psychologists and assorted Generals, Colonels and Staff 
Sergeants, every one an expert in survival trainng, all trying to work 
out how Jack O'Neill managed to crawl across the desert for nine days 
with a fractured skull, a smashed arm, blown knee, broken collar bone, 
fractured cheekbone, assorted broken ribs, dehydration, malnutrition, 
sunburn and heat exhaustion. They thought perhaps there might be a few 
things they could incorporate into their Special Forces training 
programmes. Things that could help another soldier should a similar 
accident occur again sometime in the future. 

Unfortunately, Jack's particular brand of bloody-mindedness doesn't come 
in vaccine form, and he wasn't really amenable to the idea of Sara 
marrying anybody else. 

He still isn't, but that's another story. 

In the end, the seminar was a bust. They attached the notes and the 
slide show to his permanent medical file, though. I just wish someone 
had warned me about that before I sat down to read it over lunch. 

What's more, the Iraq thing isn't the only hair raising item in Jack's 
medical file. Oh, no. So if I tend to get a little concerned when Jack 
O'Neill returns from a mission with more holes in him than when he left, 
I have good reason. Jack used up his last Get Out Of Trouble Free card a 
long, long time ago. 

But it's not just his physical well being I worry about. It's also my 
job to keep an eye on his emotional barometer, and take action if 
there's a storm brewing. Jack's sustained some pretty savage blows in 
that department, too, over the years. He hasn't always handled them 
well. If you look closely, past the self-assured sarcasm and the aura of 
invincibility ... you can see the cracks. The bottom line is ... I'm the 
logical one for him to talk to. I'm his doctor. I've already done a 
headcount of all the skeletons in his closet, so there's not much he 
needs to explain. I'm not in his direct chain of command, up or down. 
Even though he's a Colonel and I'm a Captain, the fact that I have the 
medical authority to ground anybody, up to and including Hammond, means 
that we're on a strange kind of equal footing. He knows he can trust me. 
And in his line of work, that's rare. 

So please. Enough with the raised eyebrows and the knowing looks, okay? 
We're friends. End of story. 

Doctor Roger Abbot took one look at my friend and said, "Oh, shit." We 
were wheeling him down the corridor towards the McMurdo Infirmary like 
he was made of spun glass. Like sneezing too close would shatter him. 

Bodies suffering from extreme hypothermia are fragile. It doesn't take 
much to shut them down completely. Treating them is tightrope medicine, 
you don't get a safety-net .... and more often than not, one end of that 
tightrope is unravelling as you go. 

It was going to take every ounce of skill I possessed to stop Jack from 
falling. I left Phil Waites and his team to take care of Sam in the 
second treatment room. They knew what they were doing, they had fluids 
in her and heat pads round her. She was in no danger of dying. 

We couldn't say the same for Jack. 

There's a kind of rhythm to dealing with an emergency. After a while it 
becomes second nature, and even if you've never worked with a particular 
team before, if they've danced the dance then it doesn't take long to 
get into sync. Within seconds, Roger Abbot and I were dancing up a 
storm. 

"Onto the table on three," he said. "One, two, three." And delicately we 
swung Jack off the gurney and onto the exam table. Intubated him. 
Started him on warmed humidified oxygen. Hooked up more ivs, poured a 
few units more blood and warmed fluids into him, attached the EKG 
patches, took blood for screening, re-checked his vitals. I was 
peripherally aware of Daniel and Teal'c and the General hugging the wall 
opposite, still bundled in their snow gear, silent and staring and 
scared. They shouldn't have been there, really, but when Roger opened 
his mouth to clear the room, I shook my head. To his credit, he didn't 
argue, just shrugged and continued hunting for another vein. After the 
first glance I ignored them. Couldn't afford to be distracted by their 
distress. 

"Scissors," I snapped, and snatched them from someone, and began cutting 
off Jack's clothes. Where's a nurse when you need one? Damn military 
issue fatigues. My wrist and fingers were killing me by the end, but at 
last he was naked and we could get an accurate picture of what we were 
dealing with. 

He looked like an extra in a horror movie. His eyes were sunken, his 
lips blue. What little of his body that remained unbruised was dead 
white, plastic and unyielding like a refrigerated corpse. 

"Christ on a bicycle," Roger Abbot said in disgust, bending over Jack's 
chest with a stethescope. "Decreased breath sounds on the right, with 
rolls. The lung's collapsed. I need a chest tube, now." 

I kept half an eye on what he was doing as I ran my fingers lightly over 
Jack's cold body, testing for give where it should be strong, rigidity 
where I wanted give. Roger inserted the chest tube, hooked up the 
suction. Pulled back to remove the invading air. The syringe filled with 
blood. 

"Dammit," said Roger. "We're looking at pneumonia for sure, here." 
Discarded the syringe and listened again to Jack's lungs. "Nope. No 
reinflation. I think it's perforated. What about you?" 

My discoveries were no better. Three ribs definitely gone. The right 
leg. Maybe some bleeding into the belly. Bruising around the right 
occipital that may or may not indicate a hairline fracture. He needed 
exploratory surgery. He needed an orthopod. He needed a fully equipped 
ICU. He needed a miracle. 

"What's his temp now?" Roger said. 

I checked. "85." 

"We've gotta heat him up or anything else we do'll be a waste of time." 

I nodded. "We'll put him on heat pads and pack him with blankets. 
Continue the warm fluids and oxygen." 

"What?" Roger said. "That's not enough. He needs a peritoneal lavage. 
Blood dialysis, even." 

"No," I said. "That'll raise the core temp too fast." 

"Too fast?" said Roger, belligerent. "The man is a popsicle, Dr 
Fraiser!" 

"I know that!" I snapped. "Look. His medical history is -- unorthodox. 
His body is subjected to unusual biomechanical stresses on a weekly 
basis. They've resulted in some chemical changes. There's no telling 
what affect optimal reheating will have. I'd rather play it safe. Lavage 
and dialysis as a last resort." 

"That'll mean maybe three hours before we can risk a general 
anaesthetic," Roger pointed out. "I'm not sure he's got that long. Are 
you?" 

I looked up, then. Straight at Daniel, and Teal'c, and the General. 
"He's tough," I said. "You'll never know how tough. My decision stands." 

Roger wasn't happy. "Fine," he said. "It's your call. Let's just hope 
it's not his funeral, too." 

We took pictures of Jack's skull and chest and leg. Passed them down the 
hall to be developed. Slid heat pads underneath him, laid heated 
blankets on top of him. Poured more blood into his starved body. 
Rechecked his vitals. Stepped back for a moment to breathe, just 
breathe, and wipe the chilly sweat from our faces. 

He arrested. 

                         *******************

I didn't want to think about what was happening to his abused body as I 
shocked him with 200 joules, then 300, then 360. As I screamed at the 
monitor to blip, you bastard, blip, don't you dare give up on me 
O'Neill, don't you dare, don't you think you can walk away from this, I 
promised Cassie you'd be all right, you sonofabitch, you sonofabitch, 
don't you make a liar out of me! 

I got him back. 

Roger and I looked at the pictures, then. They weren't pretty, but they 
could have been worse. No second skull fracture. No facial fractures. If 
he'd hit his head an inch more to the right he'd have shattered the 
fragile bone beneath the temple. That would have killed him outright. 
The ribs had broken cleanly but yes, one jagged edge had perforated his 
lung. As for the tib/fib fractures, they were clean too, but heavily 
displaced. Definitely a case for surgical reduction. 

"Might as well move him into the OR," I told Roger. "I'll be right with 
you." Then I turned and faced the others. 

I don't know what it will take to disturb Teal'c's extraordinary 
composure. He's like no one I've ever known. Only a fool would have said 
he was indifferent to the situation, and my momma never raised no fools. 
But it was so contained, his fear, his pain, so completely within his 
control that the only clue was in the enormous stillness of his face. 

General Hammond echoed him, though less completely. He was frowning, 
biting his lip, and his hands were fisted tight enough to interrupt the 
blood flow to his fingers. But still a soldier. Still strong. 

Not like Daniel. There were tears in Daniel's eyes, drying on his 
cheeks. His arms were wrapped around his chest, he was cradling himself, 
and he rocked on his feet in the ancient rythm of human distress. 

"He was dead, Doctor Fraiser, wasn't he ? Just then. Jack was dead." 

I had to clear my throat. "His heart stopped. We started it again. Now 
we need to stabilise him before we can fly him back home to the ICU at 
SGC. I'm afraid that's going to take some time." 

"Is he out of danger?" The general. Unflinching. Shoulders braced 
against enemy fire. 

"No," I said. "He's not." 

"What can be done to assist you, Doctor?" 

"Right now, Teal'c, nothing. I'll be monitoring him constantly until 
he's ready for surgery. Once that's done, and he's good to travel, we'll 
be out of here." 

"Well, can we at least sit with Sam? I mean, she's not critical, is she? 
Can we sit with her?" 

I patted Daniel's arm. Could easily have hugged him, he looked so lost, 
so helpless. What can I say? He brings out the maternal in me. It must 
be the hair and the glasses. "Sure," I said. "You go sit with Sam. 
She'll be all the better for a few friendly faces to wake up to." 

"And you'll keep us informed?" 

I nodded. It was an order, not a request. "Of course, General. Now, 
please excuse me." 

The weight of their fear, their trust, my promise, staggered me as I 
walked away. I had to touch fingertip to door jamb to steady myself as I 
left the treatment room and headed for the OR, where Jack was waiting 
for me to somehow keep him going long enough to put him back together 
again. 

                         *******************

Long story short, as a mutually acquainted archeologist would say. 
Between us, and with some generous intervention from the Surgeon 
Upstairs, Roger and I managed to keep Jack with us. Re-heated him like a 
tv dinner, syphoned out the loose blood, rearranged his rib cage into a 
nice xylophone effect, gave him a matching pair of lungs, straightened 
out his leg -- don't give up your day job, Sam, my dear-- and put a 
temporary cast on it. We both agreed that it was a pin and plate job for 
someone with more rivetting experience than we had. 

In other words, by God, we put Humpty together again. 

So there. Don't go believing everything you read. 

Then we pumped him full of painkillers and antibiotics and staggered off 
to a dark corner to sleep. Well. Roger did. I went to check on Sam and 
let the others know that they could relax, everything was going to be 
all right, barring complications, pretended not to hear the question 
'what do you mean, complications?', and advised them all to get some 
rest. 

Then I scrounged coffee and a sandwich, inhaled them, and went back to 
sit with Jack. Only to find my chair already overflowing with Jaffa, 
perched at something approaching parade rest while sitting down. Not 
easy, but he managed it. 

"It's okay, Teal'c," I said, closing the door behind me. "I can sit with 
him." Teal'c just looked at me. I should have known better, of course. 
According to Bill Warner, he'd not moved from Daniel's side after the 
inbound Stargate accident that had started all this. Not until Daniel 
had opened his eyes and was pronounced sound in wind and limb. Now he 
was on guard again, on duty. I'd be wasting my time trying to get him to 
leave. 

So I found another chair and parked it on the other side of the bed. 
Checked Jack's vitals, listened to his chest, made a medication note on 
the chart, and settled in for the long haul. He was still unconscious. I 
had no idea when he'd wake up. Head injuries, hypothermia and 
anaesthetic aren't an ideal mix, but desperados can't be choosers. The 
good news was that his pressure was up, his temperature was back to 
normal and his heart beat, echoing electronically in the small room, 
beeped a steady sixty two beats per minute. On the high side, for him, 
but music to my ears. 

I really needed to sit down. The hairline tremor that denotes exhaustion 
was thrumming all the way to my bones, and I was starting to see double. 
So I let myself fold at the knees until I was safely in the chair. 
Propped my elbows on the side of the bed and indulged myself in the 
sight of Jack O'Neill, breathing. I fell asleep. When I woke, I found 
myself on a camp bed placed along one wall of Jack's room. Covered in a 
light blanket, a pillow beneath my head and my shoes placed neatly to 
one side. Yawning, blinking, I sat up. It didn't take three guesses to 
know who was responsible for the Sleeping Beauty trick. 

"Thank you, Teal'c," I said. 

He inclined his head, graciously. You know, for a former slave he acts a 
lot like a prince. "You are welcome, Doctor Fraiser." 

According to my watch, it was 1522. I'd been asleep for nearly five 
hours. I clambered off the camp bed, rearranged my clothes and stuck my 
feet back into my shoes. Stared at Jack, so peaceful beneath his 
blankets. "You've been here the whole time?" Another regal nod. "Any 
change?" 

"Yes," said Teal'c. "Approximately one and one half hours ago, Colonel 
O'Neill opened his eyes and, upon seeing me, spoke my name. He then fell 
asleep once more. I immediately informed Doctor Abbot, who seemed most 
relieved. I asked him if it was appropriate for you to be woken at that 
point, but he said that it was not. I hope I have done the right thing." 

I blinked. "Just ... run that past me again, would you, Teal'c? An hour 
and a half ago Colonel O'Neill regained consciousness, demonstrated 
lucidity, then relapsed into a normal sleep? Is that correct?" 

"It is." 

"Thank God," I breathed, and had to press my lips tight to stop them 
from trembling. Reached out to my sleeping friend and touched his cheek. 
Just once. Just lightly. To celebrate the pliability of warm flesh 
beneath my fingers. The bruising around his right eye was savage, 
ripened now into all its glory. But the marks, both visible and hidden, 
would fade soon enough, as would the memories of this disastrous 
mission, and life would go on. I had, by God, kept my promise to 
Cassandra. 

"What about Sam?" I said, still not taking my eyes from the bed. 

"I do not know. I believe that General Hammond and Daniel Jackson are 
still with her." 

"I'd better go see how she's doing," I said. "You're all right to stay 
here? You don't need anything?" 

Teal'c shook his head. "Thank you, no. I am content." 

So I left him there, stone still by Jack's bedside, as immense and as 
deep as any ocean. 

Sam was awake. Propped up in bed, her cheek swathed in gauze and 
sticking plaster, dark shadows beneath her eyes, a drip still plugged 
into her arm. She looked tired. She looked shaky. She was alive: she 
looked great. Daniel sat back to front on a chair pulled close to the 
bedside. General Hammond sat a little further away. Everything about him 
bespoke a profound contentment. I knew he was a friend of Sam's father. 
I could only imagine the depth of his relief at not having to make that 
final, terrible phone call. 

"Hey, there," I said as I entered the room. "Still in bed? Did you know 
there's a word for people like you?" 

"Yeah," said Daniel, his face as vivid as a sunrise. "Lucky. Look, Doc. 
She's okay." 

"She certainly is," I agreed, giving the chart at the end of her bed a 
quick glance. "Mind if I confirm the diagnosis myself?" 

Sam smiled, but it was a little hesitant for my liking, a little 
strained. There were shadows in her eyes as well as below them. She 
said, "Sure. Why not?" And suffered in silence as I poked and prodded 
and generally convinced myself she really was in one piece. "So," I said 
when I was finished. "How do you feel?" 

"Warm," she said, and shivered. "I never thought I'd feel anything but 
frozen again." 

"No, well, hypothermia will do that to you," I agreed. 

"What about Jack? I mean, the Colonel? How's he doing?" 

"Well," I said, "he seems to be doing okay. His vital signs are holding 
steady, he's in a natural sleep. All things considered, I'm guardedly 
optomistic." She was frowning. "But his leg. What about his leg?" 

"It's broken. But not too badly. Provided we chain him to a bed long 
enough for it to heal properly, I don't see why he should have any 
trouble with it in the future." I grinned. "Despite the truly terrible 
set and splint job." 

As a joke, it backfired. Her eyes filled with tears and, knees pulled 
close to her chest, she hugged herself. "I tried. I did, honestly. But 
I'd never had to set a broken bone before, and my hands were so cold, 
and --" 

"Hey!" I said. "Hey, it's all right. I was kidding. The splint was fine, 
Sam. It was fine. The Colonel is fine. It's all right." 

Beside her, Daniel reached for her hand and held it tight. "Please don't 
cry, Sam. It's all over now. You're safe, Jack's safe. It's over." 

She nodded, eased her hand free. "I know. I'm okay." 

Daniel said, "Do you feel up to telling us what happened? So long as Doc 
Fraiser says it's all right?" 

The General looked at me. "Is it all right, Doctor?" 

I looked at her. Sooner or later she'd have to talk about it ... and I'm 
a big believer in sooner. Bottling up trauma doesn't help anyone. I 
said, "Sure. As long as Captain Carter's comfortable with it." 

"Yeah," she said. "I guess." 

I eased myself into a convenient shadow. Perched on the edge of an empty 
bed, and settled myself down to listen. To be honest, I was dying of 
curiosity. 

Softly, a little hesitantly, Sam told us what happened. How, along with 
the rest of the team, she'd fled the enemy attack on P7C225. Leapt 
through the gate two paces ahead of Jack. Awoke twenty minutes later to 
find herself sprawled beside his unconscious body at the bottom of a 
deep glacial crevasse. How she'd checked him for injury, searched 
without success for Daniel and Teal'c, for the DHD, for some kind of 
clue to their location. Waited for Jack to wake up, and slowly, 
terribly, absorbed the frightening implications of their situation. 

"When the Colonel finally regained consciousness, he seemed all right, 
at first," she said. "I mean, he was in pain. His leg --" She faltered. 
Took a deep breath. Let it out. "But apart from that, he was ... the 
Colonel. Cracking jokes. Keeping me focussed. Making me concentrate on 
fixing the Gate and getting us home. At first, I thought he wasn't too 
badly hurt. But then after a few hours he started to ... drift." 

                         *******************

"How do you mean, drift?" said Daniel. His arms were folded along the 
back of the chair, and he'd lowered his chin to rest on them. His hair, 
overdue for a cut again, flopped into his eyes. He looked like a college 
kid, not a married double PhD university lecturer come archeological 
pathfinder come space explorer. 

Sam frowned. "I think he knew, almost from the beginning, that he was in 
trouble. When he thought I wasn't looking there'd be this weird 
expression on his face, like he was staring inside of himself, 
calculating the damage and how long he could last." 

"He probably was," said the General quietly. 

"Mmm," said Sam, white as her sheets. "Anyway." 

It all went rapidly downhill from there. The laboured breathing. The 
coughing up blood. The increased lethargy, and lapses into 
unconsciousness. The body slowly but surely shutting down. She said, "I 
tried so hard to make the Gate work. I was his only hope, he was 
counting on me to save his life. He never put any pressure on me, he 
never criticised me once for being so useless, but I could see in his 
eyes that he was getting scared, that he thought he was going to die. It 
was all down to me and I couldn't do it, I couldn't make the damned 
thing work, and I didn't know why !" 

Again Daniel reached for her hand, folded his fingers around hers. This 
time she didn't pull away. "Easy, Sam," he said. "It wasn't your fault." 

"I couldn't believe it when you told me we'd been on Earth the whole 
time!" she cried. "How could I have missed that? It was an obvious 
conclusion, how could I have been so stupid?" 

Daniel grinned, anxiously, trying to calm her down. "Hey, go easy on the 
stupid thing, will you? I mean, it took me three days to figure it out." 

"Yes, but you're not an astrophysicist, Daniel," she said impatiently. 
"I am. I should have known. I should have thought." 

"You did everything you could, Sam," the General said. "There's no call 
for self-reproach." 

She said, "Or I could have tried dialling a different destination, a 
friendly world. But I was so fixated on getting him back to Earth that 
didn't occur to me, either! If I'd thought of that at the start we would 
have been home days ago, I could have spared him -- spared him --" She 
pressed her hands to her face, breathing tremulously. 

Daniel said, "You're being too hard on yourself, Sam. You kept him 
alive. You activated a stargate that's been buried in ice for God knows 
how many thousands of years. You were freezing. Hungry. Injured. You --" 

"Injured?" she spat, snatching her hands away. "I had a couple of lousy 
scratches and a headache, Daniel! I got worse than that in basic 
training. Stop making excuses for me, okay? I screwed up. End of story." 

The General said, "We might just agree to disagree on that point, 
Captain. What happened next?" 

"I abandoned him," she said. "I left him to die." 

All three of us stared at each other. Me, Daniel, the General. 

Daniel said, "Sam --" 

Hammond said, "Captain Carter --" 

I said, "Bullshit." 

So then they all stared at me. I got off the bed. Stepped out of the 
shadow. I've never been so sure of anything in my life. "He knew he was 
dying. He didn't want you to see it. He didn't want you to die, too. So 
he ordered you to leave him, and save yourself." 

"How do you --" Daniel began. 

"Because I know him, Daniel. So do you." I looked at the General. "And 
you do, too, sir." 

The General was nodding. His expression sad and admiring. "Yes. Yes, I 
do." 

Sam said, "He begged me." She was staring into the past. Pain rising in 
her until it overflowed her eyes and ran down her cheeks. "He said, 'I'm 
dying.' And he told me to go. He said, 'It was an honour serving with 
you.' He was in pain. Afraid. Dying. And I abandoned him." 

Gently, the General said, "You were following orders, Captain." 

"I abandoned him," she repeated. "I failed him, and then I abandoned 
him." 

"But you went back," said Daniel. "You were together when we found you. 
That's not abandoning him, is it?" 

She was shaking. "He didn't know where we were, at the end. He thought I 
was --- someone else. He trusted me to get us out of there, and I 
didn't. I failed him." Her voice broke, and she sobbed. Pressed her 
knuckles to her mouth, eyes wide and appalled. Soldiers don't cry. 
Soldiers are tough. Detached. Always in control. 

Yeah. Right. 

I opened my mouth to clear the room, then. Give her the privacy she 
desperately needed, and a shoulder to cry on if she wanted one. 

Daniel beat me to it. 

"Sam, Sam, don't, please, Sam, come on, don't do this to yourself," he 
pleaded. His own voice breaking. Lunging out of the chair and onto the 
bed, gathering Sam in his arms and gentling her face to his chest, one 
hand smoothing her hair. "It's okay, it's okay, Sam, it's okay," he 
crooned, over and over. 

"Oh, God," she wailed, muffled into his sweater. And wept without 
restraint, like a child. 

Irrationally, as I watched Daniel comfort her, I thought of my own 
unlamented ex and his inability to so much as say 'poor you'. And I 
envied Sha're, the wife I'd never met, her brief love of this 
extraordinary man, her husband. Better brief than never is what I say. 

It was good she was crying. Tears are a normal, healthy response to 
traumatic events, and if more soldiers gave themselves permission to cry 
on a friend's shoulder when they needed to, instead of bottling up their 
feelings and pretending that everything was okay when it wasn't, we'd 
have fewer suicides and mental health discharges in the US Military. Not 
to mention divorces, chronic depression and non-specific malaise. 

Do I need to mention names? 

I glanced at the General. He was frowning, eyes downcast. Uncomfortable. 
Another damned soldier. Thank God for Daniel. 

"Listen to me," he said, when she'd cried herself out and eased free of 
his embrace. "It was an accident. All of it. If you want to blame 
someone, blame whoever it was that started firing on us and overloaded 
the gate in the first place. There was no reason for you to think you'd 
come through a second gate on Earth. And I only figured it out because 
you got that second gate working and set up a reaction in ours. If you 
hadn't, we never would have found you. So you see? You did save him, 
Sam. You did." 

"Listen to Doctor Jackson, Captain," the General said. "He's right." 

Sam nodded. "Yes, sir." 

Yes, sir. In other words, I'm tired sir and I don't want to talk about 
this any more. I know you mean well, I know you think you understand, 
but you don't, and nothing you or Daniel can say will change what 
happened or how I feel about it. 

"Okay," I said. "Time to let the Captain rest." 

Once they were gone, I re-checked her vitals. Settled her in the bed. 
Plumped the pillows and straightened the blankets, all the little 
touches that Cass likes when she's not feeling well. 

"Janet?" 

I looked up from making another note on her chart. "Yes?" 

Her eyes looked enormous. Bruised. "Is he really going to be all right?" 

I replaced her chart. Perched on the side of the bed. "I think so. I 
won't lie to you, Sam. It was close. Another half hour and he would have 
been DOA. And you wouldn't have been far behind. But that didn't 
happen." 

"He screamed," she whispered. "When I was setting his leg. I never -- 
he's always so --" She bit her lip. "I made him scream." 

I sighed. "Sam. Any human being not paralysed from the waist down is 
going to scream when you set their tib/fib fractures without so much as 
an aspirin to distract them. Even Jack. So don't take it personally, 
okay?" She didn't look convinced. "Look," I said. "Between you and me 
and the bedpan, I've made him yelp a few times myself. I know how you 
feel. Hurting people is never pleasant. But sometimes you have to, and 
that's all there is to it." 

She didn't look much older than Cass, huddled under the blankets. "He 
wouldn't let me near him, after I'd set his leg," she said. "Even after 
-- when he coughed up -- he kept saying he was fine. I knew he wasn't." 

"So?" I said. "Once you'd set the leg, what more was there for you to 
do?" 

"I could have got him out of there!" she retorted. "I could have thought 
things through properly, worked out we were on Earth, or dialled another 
world!" 

Dear oh dear. Time for a sedative. She protested. I ignored her. 

"Sleep," I said severely, capping the hypodermic. "And when you wake up, 
use the brains God gave you. What you did or didn't do is now 
irrelevant. The Colonel is alive, and so are you. Stop pulling out the 
gift horse's teeth, and take a moment to appreciate the miracle." 

She blinked. Drowsily. "Yes, ma'am." 

I waited till her eyes closed, and her breathing slowed. Tip toed out of 
the room and closed the door behind me. 

Daniel was hovering. "Is she okay? God, I've never seen her so upset, 
ever. Is she okay?" 

Dear Daniel. "No, I wouldn't say she's okay, exactly," I told him. "It's 
been a bad three days." 

"It wasn't her fault," said Daniel, eyes wide and worried behind the 
glasses. "I meant what I said. We never would have find them without 
her." 

I patted his arm. "You know that. I know that. The General knows it, 
too. But for Sam to know it, she'll have to hear it from the Colonel. 
And that's not going to be for a while, I'm afraid." 

"So what do we do?" 

"Give her space. Let her feel whatever she feels. Don't argue with her. 
Just be there." 

Daniel smiled. "Always." 

Always. Ah, yes. Love is indeed a many splendoured thing. 

"I have some test results to check," I told him. "Get some rest. I'll 
see you later." 

                         *******************

Late that night Jack woke up properly. I gave him Cassie's painting, and 
he laughed, painfully, so I declared him fit to travel. The next day we 
packed up our bits and our pieces and thanked the staff at McMurdo, who 
really had been great, yes, even Roger Abbot. 

He eyed me with resigned speculation. "You know this whole business is 
going to itch me for the rest of my life, don't you?" 

"Yeah," I said, grinning. 

"You could at least pretend you were sorry!" 

I shrugged. "I keep my beside manner for them who needs it." 

"And a hell of a bedside manner it is, too," he replied. Watched the 
EMTs wheeling Jack down the corridor, towards the waiting helicopter. 
Smiled at the two-man escort party, one silent, one voluble, as they 
hurried to open the double doors. "You were right. He's .... tough. Just 
who the hell is he, anyway?" 

It was the first time he'd asked. I shook my head. "A good man," I said. 
"A friend." 

"Then he's lucky as well as tough," said Roger Abbot. And shocked us 
both by kissing my cheek. "See ya, Doc," he added, walking away. "It's 
been ... different." 

                         *******************

 The long flight home was uneventful. Jack slept through most of it. Sam 
met with the plastic surgeon, and was assured there'd be no scarring. 
Once I was convinced he truly was out of danger I transferred Jack to 
the USAF Academy hospital, where he had the extra surgery on his leg to 
pin and plate the bones, and he came through it just fine. A few days 
after that, when the worst of the pain was gone from his chest and ribs 
and leg, the pneumonia dwindled to slight breathlessness, and we were 
able to cut his medication by half, Bill Warner and I teamed up to tell 
him the bad news about his convalesence. Bad news as in it was going to 
take a minimum of three months of healing and physiotherapy to get him 
back to operational status. 

Four if you don't stop swearing, Colonel. 

Two days after that came school holidays. I took Cass into work with me 
every day, and she spent most of her time in Jack's room. Reading. 
Chattering. Painting. I was afraid she'd tire him out, or maybe even 
stir things that seemed to be sleeping pretty well, these days, but he 
said it was fine, he didn't mind. Very nonchalant, very offhand ... but 
watching him with her was like watching desert flowers bloom after rain. 

Yes, all right. It's a sloppy, sentimental comparison. But I saw it. You 
didn't. He glowed. 

On the last day of her mid term break, as I was passing his door on the 
way to a quick coffee break, I poked my head in to say hi. He had 
another visitor aside from Cass: Sam. She was in civvies, jeans and a 
tee shirt. I'd been busy, hadn't seen her for over a week. According to 
Daniel, who made it a point to visit Jack every day and always found me 
to say hi, she'd stopped beating herself up over what happened in 
Antarctica ... in public, anyway ... and seemed back to her old self. 

Looking at her, though, I wasn't entirely convinced. There was something 
... but I couldn't have told you what, exactly. Just .... something. 

None of them noticed me standing there. Sam was sprawled in a chair, 
reading 'The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe' aloud. Jack was watching 
Cass, who was camped on his bed. And Cass? 

Cass was painting his cast. 

Sam had reached the end of the story. "'-- And don't talk too much about 
it even among yourselves. And don't mention it to anyone else unless you 
find that they've had adventures of the same sort themselves. What's 
that? How will you know? Oh, you'll know all right. Odd things they say 
-- even their looks -- will let the secret out. Keep your eyes open. 
Bless me, what do they teach them at these schools? 

"'And that is the very end of the adventure of the wardrobe. But if the 
Professor was right it was only the beginning of the adventures in 
Narnia.'" She closed the book. "The End." 

Cass, her tongue peeking out between her lips, daubed a particularly 
lurid shade of green around the border of the cast at Jack's toes. "Just 
like us. Sort of." 

"I'm sorry?" said Sam. 

Cass made an impatient noise. Ah, the slowness of grownups. "You know. 
The wardrobe and Narnia. That's the Stargate and all the places you go. 
And I'm Lucy." 

Sam flicked a quick grin at Jack, who raised his eyebrows. "And who is 
the Colonel?" 

Cass screwed up her nose, thinking. "The Colonel is Mr Beaver, and Janet 
is Mrs Beaver," she said gravely, after due consideration. "Because they 
work so hard at making everything right for me." 

Sam was having a hard time keeping her face straight. "Really?" she 
said, and stared round eyed at Jack. "Mr Beaver, hey?" 

"Watch it, Captain," Jack growled. "I may not be able to reach you right 
now, but I have a long, long memory." Sam mimed terror, grinning. Jack 
sneered and said to Cass, "Okay, Miss Smartypants. Who's Captain Carter, 
then?" 

"Oh, that's easy," said Cass, waving the paintbrush airily. "She's 
Aslan." 

"Aslan?" 

"Of course," said Cass. How can you be so slow? 

"Any particular reason?" said Jack. 

Cass rolled her eyes. "Well, because she is. Sam stood up for me. She 
took care of me when I was sick, even when it was dangerous. She was 
going to let herself die with me. Of course she's Aslan. Who else could 
she be?" 

Electric silence. Sam stared at her fingernails. Jack stared at Sam. 

"You're quite right, Cass," he said, eventually. "Who else, indeed." 

Sam looked up, then. Eyes bright. Bottom lip quivering. "Colonel, I --" 

He lifted a finger. "Ah. No arguments. Arguments make my temperature go 
up. For some strange reason they've got a prejudice against that kind of 
thing around here." 

"Yes, but --" 

"I said ah! You're Aslan. End of discussion." He was smiling as he said 
it, but his eyes were solemn and a shadow of memory lay over him like 
gauze. 

I watched Sam think about it. Memories shifted across her face, too. 
Darkened her eyes and tightened her fingers on the book. At length she 
nodded. Swallowed. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." 

Jack shook his head. Shivered. "No. Thank you." 

"Hey," said Cassandra. "Should I make this dog purple or yellow?" 

"What?" said Jack. "What the heck are you doing to me, woman?" 

Sam put the book under her chair and leaned in for a closer look. "Wow, 
that's a neat dog, Cass. It even looks a little bit like the Colonel. 
Paint it purple. With pink spots." 

"What?" Jack bellowed. "What is it with you two? First I'm a beaver and 
now I'm a dog?" 

Cass grinned across the bed at Sam. "I've got another paint brush. You 
want to help?" 

"Gee," said Sam, very carefully not looking at Jack. "Thanks, Cass. I 
don't mind if I do." 

Jack groaned. "Captain, I'm going to get you for this. Don't think I'm 
not going to get you for this." 

Sam reached for the spare paint brush. "Oh, I'm sure you are, sir." She 
smiled at him. Sweetly. "But not for another four months. Pass the 
paint, Cass." 

I left them to it. 

Some days, I swear, it's just so damned good to be alive. 


                         *******************

Medical Considerations: Need
By OzKaren - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

RATING: R. Language.

EPISODE SPOILERS: Need 

TIME FRAME: Second season 

SUMMARY: What got said and done off screen ... maybe 


DO NOT ARCHIVE WITHOUT THE AUTHOR'S PERMISSION 

DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters belong to MGM, Gekko Corp 
and Double Secret Productions. This fan fiction was created solely for 
entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or 
trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, 
living or dead , is coincidental. 

AUTHOR'S NOTES: And here is vignette # 3, based on Need. HUGE thanks 
again to Jenn. 

Medical Considerations # 3 


                         *******************

"So," I said. "On a scale of one to ten, just how pissed off are you, 
Colonel?" 

"Thirty seven," said Jack, glowering. "And a half." 

Oh, dear. 

You know, over the years I've collected quite a lot of handy little tips 
for survival. Tips like, 'Don't jump out of an aeroplane without a 
parachute'. 'Don't threaten to shoot someone holding a gun unless you're 
sure you've got bullets in your gun'. 'Don't ever leave the house 
without lipstick'. 'Don't make Jack O'Neill mad, especially not at you'. 

That last one I consider particularly important. 

I didn't know, then, exactly what had happened on P3R636. All I knew was 
that Jack, Sam and Teal'c had come back looking like they'd just had a 
two week vacation in hell ... and Daniel didn't. And that as far as Jack 
was concerned, it was all Daniel's fault. 

I said, "Uh huh. Well, try to relax anyway, or I won't be able to finish 
this exam. Okay?" 

Jack gave me a look that would easily have ignited rock. But he made an 
effort to untense his muscles. 

It wasn't a long exam. For once, he was still in one piece. But he was 
malnourished, dehydrated and exhausted. There were some nasty bruises, a 
few cuts and scrapes that thankfully only needed Betadine. The anterior 
cruciate ligament in his left knee was just about dangling by a thread, 
begging for surgery ... but raising the subject of a looming knee 
construction wasn't an option just then. 

All in all, he'd been lucky. I'd say only his extreme fitness level 
saved him, and even that nearly wasn't enough. Forty isn't old, but as 
they say it ain't the years, it's the mileage. Jack has more wear and 
tear than I like to think about, and the Stargate project isn't helping. 

I took blood for a routine screen. Gave him a multi-spectrum vitamin B 
group injection. Jotted some notes in his file. Jack could barely keep 
his eyes open. I don't think I've ever seen him so tired, before or 
since. 

"Okay," I said. "You're on forty eight hours medical leave, as of right 
now. All of you are. I'm going to arrange for a car to take you home. 
Captain Carter, too. Neither of you is in a fit state to drive." 

Wiith a grunt, Jack shook his head. Stared at me muzzily, and said, 
"Can't. Debriefing. Hammond --" 

"Can wait," I said. "No arguments, Colonel. I want you to go home." 

He was swaying where he sat. "Sleep here." 

"No," I said. "Not this time. I want you at home, in your own bed. When 
you wake up, I want you surrounded by your own things, not bare concrete 
walls. You were in prison." He opened his mouth to object. I held up a 
hand. "Yes, you've been there and done that. I know. I don't care. Your 
minds are as battered as your bodies. They both need rest. Which you 
will best get at home. And that's an order. Now get dressed and I'll 
call you a limo, Air Force style." 

Jack hates it when I pull medical rank. I grinned. He scowled. Just as 
he finished dressing, General Hammond knocked on the door. 

"Come in, sir," I said. "We're done here." 

"And how's our favourite Colonel doing?" the General asked, smiling. 
Putting on his brave face ... but I knew him well enough, by then, to 
see beneath the surface. 

"He's fine," I said. "But I'm afraid your mission debrief will have to 
wait a couple of days, sir. I'm placing SG1 on immediate forty eight 
hours medical leave." 

"I suspected as much," the General said. Reached out a tentative hand 
and patted Jack's shoulder. "You look like you could sleep for a week, 
Jack," he said gently. "And I wish I could give it to you, but I can't. 
I'm afraid you'll have to settle for a couple of days. Go home. 
Recuperate. Then we'll talk." 

"Yes, sir," said Jack. "If you insist." On principle maintaining his 
grouchy reluctance, but he wasn't fooling anyone. With studied 
nonchalance, he rested a hip against the exam table. From the looks of 
things, it was that or fall over. 

The General and I shared a sly smile, then he said, "Captain Carter? 
Teal'c?" 

"Teal'c is Teal'c," I said with a shrug. "Thanks to the symbiant, he's 
fine. A little tired, not surprisingly, but he assures me he'll be back 
to complete health and fitness by tonight. Captain Carter is very tired, 
too. Malnourished, dehydrated, like the Colonel here. But with a little 
rest she'll be as good as new." 

"Ah, youth," said the General, with a sigh. "I remember it well." Then 
he hesitated. Frowned. "What about Doctor Jackson?" 

My heart sank. Daniel. There was something very, very bad going on with 
Daniel. I said, "To be honest, General, I'm not exactly sure. I'll know 
more once his blood work and muscle biopsy are complete. But I have to 
tell you, my initial impressions aren't encouraging. Quite apart from 
the fact that he seems to have somehow developed perfect 20/20 vision 
when two weeks ago he was myopic with an astigmatism, his whole 
demeanour is significantly altered. If I had to take an educated guess 
as to what's wrong, I'd --" 

"Wrong?" Jack straightened. "I'll tell you what's wrong," he snarled. 
And it really was an honest to God snarl. "What's wrong is the little 
bastard screwed us." 

"That's not fair, sir," a quiet voice said from behind us. The General 
and I turned. Sam. Not quite as debilitated as Jack, but visibly tired. 
Dark smudges beneath her eyes, cheeks hollowed from hard work and lack 
of food. "It was the sarcophagus." 

Wincing, Jack stepped forward and jabbed a finger in Sam's face. 
"Don't," he said, and his voice was as close to menacing as I've ever 
heard it among friends. "Don't you dare stand there and defend him to 
me. He nearly got us all killed, Sam. Nothing excuses that." 

It was as though the General and I had disappeared, and it was just the 
two of them. Exhaustion had stripped something from them, some layer of 
dissembling or polite usage. The air was suddenly raw, storm clouds 
descending, a cold wind howling. 

Sam said, "He never meant to hurt us. You know that. He's not -- you 
can't hold him responsible for his actions. It was the sarcophagus, it -
-" 

"Screw the sarcophagus!" Jack said. "A drunk driver gets behind the 
wheel and takes out a family. Do you say, oh well, never mind, it wasn't 
his fault, he's not responsible, it was the whiskey? Nobody made him 
climb into the damned sarcophagus, Sam! Nobody made him keep on using 
it, even after you told him it was dangerous!" 

Sam said, "But it was Shyla --" 

Jack slashed the air with a bladed hand. "She put him in it after the 
rock fall. To save his life. Fair enough. But after that, it was him. 
His choice. And while he was playing with his new toy and his precious 
princess, we were dying. And nothing you say can change that." 

"Look," said Sam, and closed the distance between them. Reached out her 
hand and brushed his forearm with her fingertips. "I know you're angry. 
Disappointed. What he did was thoughtless, I agree. But you know him. 
You know him. He would never hurt us in cold blood. Never." 

Jack shook his head, and he looked so tired, so beaten, that my heart 
broke for him. "Don't ask me to pretend this didn't happen, Sam," he 
said, so quietly it was hard to hear him. "Don't ask me that." 

"Sir," Sam said, and it was a whisper. A plea. "We have to get past 
this. We have to. Or SG1 is finished." 

Jack shrugged. "Then I guess it's finished." He looked at General 
Hammond then, and that peculiar air of intimacy vanished. "Sir. With 
your permission, I'll be heading on home. Doctor Fraiser won't let me 
drive, so if it's all right with you I'll borrow an airman and a car, 
and I'll see you at 0700 Friday." 

Speechless, the General just nodded. Stared after Jack as he left the 
room, limping slightly. I was pretty speechless myself. 

Sam said, "He didn't mean it, General. He's just upset. It's been a bad 
two weeks, sir, and he thinks Daniel let us down." 

Gathering himself, the General stared hard at her. "And is he right, 
Captain?" 

She struggled with that. Took her time before answering. "Sir ... Daniel 
made a mistake. A couple of mistakes. I won't deny it. But sir, we all 
make mistakes. Now that he's home again, away from that damned 
sarcophagus, I'm sure Daniel will be fine. And when the Colonel calms 
down, they'll work things out." 

"Colonel O'Neill didn't have the look of a man willing to work things 
out, Captain," the General observed. 

Reluctantly, Sam nodded. "No, sir. I know. But give him a couple of 
days. He'll come around." 

"I admire your optomism, Captain," the General said. He didn't look as 
though he shared it. I can't say I did, either. Jack's been cranky with 
Daniel, mildly pissed off, moderately annoyed ... but until then I'd 
never seen him truly, deeply angry. 

It wasn't a pretty sight. 

General Hammond said, "What's all this about a sarcophagus? Do you mean 
a goa'uld sarcophagus? One of those healing machines?" 

Tiredly, Sam nodded. "Shyla and her father had one. Daniel was crushed 
in a rock fall. She put him in it to save his life, and then somehow 
convinced him to keep on using it after he was healed. That's when 
everything started to go wrong." She pulled a face. "Well. Really 
wrong." 

"How so?" asked the General. 

For a moment she didn't answer. Just rubbed a hand over her face. She 
looked near to tears. "Captain," I said, "I know you're exhausted. But 
if I'm going to help Daniel I really need to know what you know." 

"Yeah. It's okay," she said. Sniffed. "I had a -- well, I guess you 
could call it a vision. In the mine. I remembered something. But it 
wasn't my memory, it was Jolinar's. The sarcophagus --" 

"I'm sorry," the General interrupted. "You had a what?" 

"A vision," said Sam. "It's the best word I can think of to describe 
it." And as we stared at her, open mouthed, added, "There's nothing to 
worry about, I'm okay." 

The General turned to me. "Doctor?" 

"This is the first I've heard of it," I said, and gave Sam a look. 

"I really am okay," she insisted. "I promise." 

"Well --" The General said. Sighed. Appealed to me again. "Doctor?" 

"Nothing in my most recent exam suggests that there's anything to worry 
about right now," I said. "But I will be conducting a thorough 
examination with CAT scans and an MRI as soon as Captain Carter has 
recovered from her latest mission." 

"Fine," said the General. Harrassed. Overburdened. Oh, did I know how he 
felt. "Now. You were saying, Captain? About the sarcophagus?" 

Sam said, "It does more than heal sickness and injury. It enhances -- 
perfects -- a healthy body. But it screws up your mind at the same time. 
I think that's what's happened to Daniel. I think he's addicted to the 
effects of the sarcophagus." She had to bite her bottom lip to stop it 
from trembling. 

"Addicted?" the General echoed. "Like a drug?" 

She shrugged. "Maybe. I'm not sure. All I know is that he's different. 
Changed. And it's not for the better." 

The General turned to me. "So now what?" 

"I wish I knew," I said. "I guess we'll just have to take it one step at 
a time. One hour at a time." I patted Sam on the arm. "Thank you. Now go 
home. Rest. And don't worry about Daniel. He's in good hands." 

She managed a smile. "I know." 

"You've acquitted yourself with distinction, Captain," the General told 
her. "Now do as the doctor says. Find yourself an airman, and have them 
drive you home. Try and put the last fortnight out of your mind." 

"Yes, sir," said Sam. "Thank you, sir." And with a quick, strained 
smile, she was gone. 

"Where is Doctor Jackson now?" asked the General. 

I answered without thinking. "Floating somewhere between the 
stratosphere and outer space." And then, at the look on the General's 
face, I added, "He's around here somewhere. Teal'c is keeping him 
occupied, sir." 

The General looked about as helpless as I've ever seen him. "Is Captain 
Carter right?" he asked. "Is Daniel addicted to this goa'uld machine?" 

I spread my hands. "It's possible. I don't know much about them. I've 
only ever seen one once. The Hathor crisis, remember?" 

He grunted. Glanced away. Not our boys' finest hour, that. A topic 
unsuitable for mixed company around the base. 

I said, "It healed the Colonel, but I have no idea how. I couldn't begin 
to tell you if what the Captain says about it is true or not." 

He pressed the heel of his hand over his eyes. "Dear God. What next?" he 
murmured. Sighed. "Is he dangerous?" 

And wasn't that just the sixty four million dollar question. I chewed my 
lip for a moment. "Right at this moment? No. I don't think he is. He's 
ebullient. Expansive. Aggressively confident." 

The General's expression was grim. "In other words, he's high." 

Reluctantly, I nodded. "Yes. I suppose that's as good a term as any." 

"And what goes up, must come down," he added. "How far down are we 
looking at, Doctor?" 

God, I hate questions like that. What did he think? That I had a crystal 
ball tucked into my pocket? "It's impossible to say just now, sir. The 
next twenty four to forty eight hours will give us an indication, I 
suspect." 

The General turned away, started to pace. His disquiet, his frustration, 
were palpable. I felt for him: I was disquieted and frustrated, too. He 
wanted answers. He wanted to know what the hell was going on. He wanted 
a situation that he could understand, that was familiar and controllable 
and covered in an Air Force procedures manual. 

In which case he should have turned down this assignment, shouldn't he? 

"Does he pose an immediate threat to this facility?" 

Ooh. That was a curly one. I chewed my lip. Took a deep breath. "As of 
right now, sir, I'd have to say no. He doesn't." 

"But he might?" 

God. What to say? "Sir -- look. I know you're worried. So am I. But I 
have no evidence to suggest that Doctor Jackson is in any way a danger 
to himself or this base. Not at the moment. And I can't lock him up 
because I think he might be in the future. What I can do is make sure 
he's kept under close observation, monitor his vital signs, and be ready 
should the situation deteriorate." "Is there any point asking him about 
the sarcophagus?" 

"I can try," I said doubtfully. 

The General stopped pacing. Sighed, a deep, right from the bottom of his 
boots sigh. "All right, Doctor. The truth. What do you really think?" 

My own sigh was pretty boot deep, too. "I think, sir, that it's going to 
get worse before it gets better." 

You know .... I really hate it when I'm right. 

                         *******************

I went to find Daniel. The whole sarcophagus thing had me spooked, 
really spooked ... this job is hard enough without throwing alien 
medical technology into the mix. I felt like running around the base 
waving my arms and yelling 'Warning! Warning! Danger, Will Robinson!' 
Or, in this case, Daniel Jackson. Except that the damage was already 
done ... and all I could do was wait for the other shoe to drop. 

Which is nowhere near the top of my list of favourite things to do. 

Daniel was in the library. Sorting books. Teal'c was with him, seated in 
a corner, impassive and self-contained and worried as hell. 

"Hey, Doc!" Daniel said when he saw me. "How you doing?" 

"I'm fine," I said. "How are you?" 

He laughed. A feverish excitement thrummed in his voice, illuminated his 
face. "You tell me. You're the doctor!" 

I exchanged glances with Teal'c. Perched myself on the corner of the 
table. "Have you got a minute to talk, Daniel?" 

He held up two books, waved them in my general direction. "What do you 
think? Do you think I should take the Tacitus and leave the Seutonius? 
Shyla might find Tacitus a little heavy going, what do you think?" 

That name again. Shyla. His precious princess? I said, "What can you 
tell me about the sarcophagus, Daniel?" 

His smile vanished. A sly, crafty expression slid over him, black and 
soft as a shadow. "You've been talking to Sam," he said, in a sing-song 
voice that shivered me like ice water. "And Jack." His face contracted, 
as though he'd just tasted something horrible. "Jack." His disgust was 
as thick as clotted cream. 

"I'm curious," I said. Calm. Conversational. Not scared. Not appalled. 
"How does it work?" 

He turned back to the books. "You sleep. You wake up. You feel 
fantastic. It's brilliant." He glanced at me. A look of pity. "You don't 
want to listen to them, Doc. Sam. Jack." That look, again. There was 
something awful brewing there. In his face a curdling of anger and 
resentment and defiance. 

"You seem pretty upset with Jack," I said. "Any reason in particular?" 

Daniel started banging the books around. Muttering under his breath. I 
caught words at random: respect -- bossy -- ignorant. Then he said, 
clearly, "He thinks he knows everything. Thinks he's always right. He 
doesn't give a rat's ass about what I think." He flung himself around to 
face me again. "He told you it was bad, didn't he?" he demanded. "Said 
the sarcophagus was evil, a devil machine. Superstitious bullshit. He's 
wrong. It's wonderful." 

"I see," I said. It didn't sound wonderful to me. I exchanged another 
glance with Teal'c. Minutely he shook his head. He was right, of course. 
Trying to get Daniel to see sense when he was like this was futile. But 
I couldn't give up that easily. I said, "So, how many times have you 
used it? Do you remember?" 

"Shyla says you have to start out with a lot of sessions at first, 
really soak in the power," said Daniel. "Once you've done that, you only 
need to use it once a day. Kind of a top up. I really should be getting 
back, I'm overdue for my next --" He giggled. "Nap." 

I'd never met this Shyla person, and aleady I was beginning to hate her. 
"If it's all right with you, Daniel, I'd like you to stay around for 
just a little while longer," I said carefully. "I'd like to run some 
tests. Learn more about how the sarcophagus has helped you. It sounds 
like there could be hundreds of medical applications we could use it 
for." 

"Oh," he said. "Oh. Well. I guess. Okay. But not for too long. Shyla's 
expecting me, and it isn't good manners to keep a lady waiting, you 
know." A brilliant smile. Brittle, like the first ice of winter. 

"No," I said. "Not for long." 

My eyes met Teal'c's for the third time. His expression warmed, 
slightly. I smiled back, my chest aching, and withdrew. 

Oh, God. Oh, hell. 

                         *******************

So for two days I kept him under observation. Ran test after test. Tried 
without much success to decipher exactly what it was the sarcophagus had 
done to him, and how. Unfortunately none of my five hundred dollar 
medical textbooks were of any use. Not even Teal'c could help me. Jaffa 
are forbidden to use the sarcophagus. Only the Goa'uld know its secrets. 

Right. 

Daniel kept asking when he could leave. Bald-faced, I lied. 

Just a few more tests, Daniel. It won't be long, Daniel. No, no, of 
course you're going back. Tomorrow, okay? Tomorrow. For sure. 

Jack and Sam came back Friday morning. "How is he?" Sam said as soon as 
she saw me. 

"Coming down," I replied. "Slowly." 

"What can I do to help?" 

"Watch," I said. "And wait." 

Jack didn't even ask. I think that worried me more than everything else 
combined. 

The mission debrief was the beginning of the end. 

"Why am I here?" Daniel kept asking. "You don't need me. I should be 
packing. I have to go back. Shyla's expecting me. I said I'd go straight 
back. I don't appreciate you making a liar out of me." 

I wanted to ask whether he thought Sha're would appreciate Shyla making 
an adulterer out of him ... but heroically I restrained myself. No 
question it would have made me feel better... but I don't think it 
would've helped the situation any. 

"All in good time," the General said. "Let's get the debrief finished, 
and then we can discuss other matters." 

"Well, come on then," said Daniel, kicking the briefing table's 
pedestal. "Get on with it. I haven't got all day, you know." 

Teal'c didn't utter a single word through the whole debrief. He just 
looked at Daniel, and there was a kind of puzzled hurt in his eyes that 
I'd never seen before. As though he couldn't quite bring himself to 
believe what was happening right in front of him. 

Sam kept her eyes pretty much pinned to her notes. Every so often she'd 
glance at Daniel, and there was so much anxiety in those looks they 
broke my heart. She didn't say much. One word answers, yes, no. A couple 
of clarifications. Her glances at Jack were an odd mix of supplication, 
understanding and resentment. 

And Jack? Jack didn't look at him once. Didn't speak to him once. He 
referred to Daniel as though he weren't in the room. As though he were 
dead, and unlamented. Even when Daniel interrupted, to explain or 
justify or just rant. He simply waited till Daniel finished, and 
continued from where he stopped. As though the interruption were nothing 
more than the drone of a low flying aircraft. 

It was one of the coldest things I've ever seen in my life. Pitiless. It 
was like watching someone get buried alive. 

When the debrief was done, and the General dismissed us, Daniel tried to 
block Jack as he headed for the door. Stood in front of him, and grabbed 
hold of his arm. Said, "Hey. I want to talk to you. Colonel." The 
dislike in his voice was as shocking as bloodshed. 

Jack looked at him, then, with a searing contempt that went through all 
of us. Even Daniel, as far gone as he was, even Daniel backed off. Broke 
contact. "Fine. To hell with you, then," he said. Turned on his heel and 
stormed out, muttering under his breath. 

The General said, "Colonel, if you've got a moment I'd like a word with 
you in private. My office." 

"Certainly, sir," said Jack. Scrupulously neutral. Side by side they 
left the briefing room. 

Sam said, "Teal'c?" 

Teal'c nodded. "I will ensure that Daniel Jackson does nothing to 
endanger himself, or this base." 

He left, and it was just us. Sam dragged her fingers over her face and 
hair. "Please tell me this isn't happening." 

"I wish I could." 

When she looked at me, I could see she wanted to cry. She's a sensitive 
person, Sam. Feels everything acutely: joy, sorrow, triumph, defeat. No 
half measures. She said, "When we were in the mine all I could think 
about was getting out. I kept telling myself, over and over, once we get 
out everything will be okay. But it's not okay, is it? I don't think 
it's going to be okay ever again." 

"I think it's a little too soon to be deciding that," I said. 

"Is it? God, Janet. Leaving aside the question of Daniel's physical 
condition ..." She stopped. Folded her arms across her chest and stared 
at the floor, blinking. 

"I know," I said. "It's awkward. But can you really blame Jack for being 
angry? From what I just heard, Daniel behaved with a reckless disregard 
for his own safety, and the safety of the team. In the Colonel's book 
that's a cardinal sin. You know that. I know that. And so does Daniel." 

"Yes," she replied. "I know he was wrong. But I can't help thinking that 
if he'd done nothing, if he'd let that wretched woman jump to her death 
... how would I feel about him now?" 

It was a good point. Was it really fair for any of us to blame Daniel 
for being -- Daniel? We love him because of his boundless compassion, 
not in spite of it. Besides. Jack had known him a long time. Knew what 
he was like. Impulsive. Reckless. Inclined to act from the heart, and 
not the head. Jack knew that. Was any of this truly surprising? 

No. Not really. 

But then Daniel knew, too, that Jack was fast losing his tolerance for 
impulsive recklessness, Daniel style. There'd been words about it, more 
than once. Loud words. Emphatic words. And not so long before the 
mission. So really, knowing Jack, could any of us expect him not to be 
coldly, comprehensively furious that Daniel had, in effect, blithely 
thumbed his nose at him ... and put their lives at risk as a result? 

No. Not really. 

It was stalemate. And I had no idea what we were going to do about it. 
Clearly, expecting Jack to forgive and forget was out of the question. 
And expecting Daniel to even dimly comprehend his crime just then was 
equally useless. 

God grant me the strength to change the things I can, the serenity to 
accept the things I can't, and the wisdom to know the difference. 

In front of me, grimly determined not to surrender to her emotions, was 
the one person I could maybe do some good.... even if it was a case of 
being cruel to be kind. Because I know Sam. I know how she operates. And 
I knew, like I could look inside her head and read her thoughts, what it 
was eating her like a cancer. 

I said, "What about you, Sam? Were you going to let this Shyla jump to 
her death?" 

Startled, she looked up at me. "There was nothing I could have done. It 
all happened so fast and I was too far away. She walked to the cliff 
edge, the Colonel said 'she's going to jump' and almost before he'd 
finished, Daniel was flying to the rescue." 

"Okay. But if your positions had been reversed? I asked gently. "If 
you'd been close enough to reach her in time?" 

"We were there to observe," she whispered. "At that point it looked like 
the place was run by goa'ulds. There were jaffas everywhere. Well. They 
looked like jaffas. Our prinary objective was to gather information." 

"And not get caught," I reminded her. 

"Right," she said. "And if that meant watching Shyla throw herself off a 
cliff --" She shook her head. "What does that say about me? What kind of 
a human being does that make me?" 

Ah, yes. Just the sort of question to keep you tossing and turning and 
searching your soul in the long cold hours before the dawn. 

"I mean," she continued, "here we are fighting the goa'uld, hating them 
because of their cruelty. Their inhumanity. Yet there we were, all three 
of us, Jack, Teal'c and me, prepared to stand back and watch someone 
kill herself. Without so much as lifting a finger to save her. Only 
Daniel acted. Only Daniel did the human thing. And now he's being 
punished for it. Is that fair? Is that right?" 

"It was a tough call," I said. "Military life is full of them. You might 
want to re-think your career path if the consequences are going to be 
this difficult." 

"But --" 

"Sam," I said. "What if they really had been goa'ulds? What if you'd all 
been implanted with a parasite? What you know the goa'uld knows. And 
that would have been it for us." 

"I know!" She shoved her hands into her pockets. Said again, "I know." 
Quietly. Sadly. "I just wish it didn't have to be this way. That's all." 

"Well, it is," I said, blunt as a hammer. "So deal with it, or deal 
yourself out, Captain. Otherwise you're going to drive yourself crazy." 

For a long time she stood there, staring at things I couldn't see. Her 
expression melted into sorrow ... regret ... acceptance ... and then 
reformed into resolve. Her eyes refocused, and she said, "So what's 
going on with Daniel, Janet? What's with the Jekyll and Hyde routine?" 

It was a good question. Pity I'd yet to come up with a good answer. I 
said, "It's hormonal. That much I know for sure. The blood I took from 
him directly after you came through the gate showed massively elevated 
levels of endorphins. I'm talking twenty times the concentration that 
you'd find in someone who's just completed a comfortable five mile run, 
for example. I've been testing new samples every six hours since your 
return, and the levels have been falling steadily. The sample I took 
first thing this morning was almost normal." 

"What does that mean?" 

"I'm not sure, to be honest." I laughed, not feeling very amused. "Since 
I joined this party I've spent more time saying 'I don't know' than 
'here's the answer'. It's enough to make a girl question her competence. 
Bottom line? Whatever it was the sarcophagus did to him, whatever 
hormonal high it put him on, the party is nearly over. I think it would 
be wise if you kept Daniel with you for the rest of the day. Cook up 
some kind of excuse. I don't think he should be alone right now." 

"Why not confine him to the infirmary?" 

I shook my head. "I've no reason to, as yet. And he's in such a volatile 
mood that if I try to force the issue I'm afraid I'll only make things 
worse. If something happens, I'm only an alarm bell away." 

She thought about it. "Yeah. Okay. I wanted to have a play with some of 
the naqueda we brought back. I'll get him to help me with that." 

"Fine. Perfect. And don't forget .... if something goes wrong, if you're 
uneasy about anything, tell me. Or the General." 

"I will. Thanks," she said, and headed for the door. When she reached it 
she stopped. "Janet? Tell me this is going to have a happy ending. Tell 
me we all get to live happily ever after once this nightmare is over." 

I couldn't answer. I wanted to. God, how I wanted to. But I was afraid 
and discouraged and the words wouldn't come. 

"That's what I thought," said Sam, and she closed the door behind her. 
After a few moments, I headed back to the lab, where I was growing 
interesting things in petrie dishes courtesy of SG7. Busy, busy, busy 
... that's me. 

Four hours later, the situation blew up in my face. 

                         *******************

Being attacked by Daniel is like getting savaged by a teddy bear. 

Not that he isn't strong. He is. Scarily so, as it turns out. But he 
really is the last person you'd expect to go flinging people about, or 
pounding on them without provocation. Which is why, even with all the 
medical data in my hands, I completely underestimated him ... and ended 
up shrugging one-shouldered for a week. 

So there you are. You do indeed learn something new every day. Or you do 
around here, anyway. 

It hurt all of us to see Daniel tied to the bed like some kind of 
dangerous animal, but I really didn't have a choice. Sam isn't the only 
one faced with tough decisions, or with the will to carry them out 
regardless of the cost. In my job, as in hers, it comes with the 
territory. 

I still don't know how Daniel managed to get the restraints undone. It 
should have been impossible. God knows they're hard enough to undo when 
you're on the outside of them. But somehow he managed it. Assaulted poor 
Rod Brown. Came damn close to shooting Jack. 

I heard the shots. Called for backup to take care of Brown and ran like 
hell: I was so afraid. The acoustics in the complex are hopeless, the 
gunfire could have come from seventeen different directions. 

When I found them, the crisis was over. Daniel was disarmed. Weeping 
into Jack's shoulder, a sodden mess. Three base guards milled around, 
completely incapable of deciding whether to arrest Daniel or hand him a 
box of Kleenex. Men. I shooed them away. 

Jack was rocking Daniel like a child. As he must have rocked Charlie in 
the aftermath of catastrophe. Was saying, over and over, "It's all 
right, Danny. It's all right." Soothing himself as much as Daniel, I 
think. 

Daniel didn't believe him. Between hiccuping sobs I could make out just 
one word: sorry. 

Describing Daniel as 'child-like' does him a grave disservice. He is a 
man, in every sense of the word. Nevertheless there is something ... 
innocent at the heart of him. It's hard to put into words. I think it 
has to do with his childhood. The death of his parents. The loneliness 
that followed. Being an only child. Circumstances that drove him inwards 
to live within the fantastic realms of history and his own imagination. 

Whatever you want to call it, he has a quality that touches the hardest 
heart. The most alien. It's his gift, really. But it makes him 
vulnerable to pain in a way that most of us aren't. Thank God. 

And Jack, whose armour against pain has over the years grown to medieval 
proportions, was defenceless against it. Our eyes met over the top of 
Daniel's bowed head ... and I saw he was shattered. Drowned. Undone by 
Daniel's abandoned despair. I felt suddenly crude. Oversized and 
intrusive. Unwelcome. 

Echoing footsteps in the corridor freed me. Sam and Teal'c. I held up my 
hands, held them at bay. "It's okay," I said, hurrying to meet them. 
"It's under control." 

"What happened?" Sam demanded. 

"I'm not sure, exactly," I said. "Daniel got loose, attacked me and 
Airman Brown, made a run for it." 

Teal'c was frowning. As well he might. "Airman Henson said shots were 
fired." 

"Yes. But no one's bleeding," I assured them. Not on the outside, 
anyway. 

"Where is Daniel Jackson now?" Teal'c demanded. 

"He's with the Colonel, just around the corner. I think you should give 
them a min--" 

I was talking to myself. I looked at Sam, she looked at me. We both 
sighed. "Is he really all right?" she asked. 

"I think the worst might be over," I said. "But no. I wouldn't say he 
was all right." 

"Oh, God," she said. "Come on. We'd better see what's going on." 

Not a lot, as it happened. Daniel was asleep, or unconscious, still 
cradled in Jack's arms, still slumped against his chest and shoulder. 
Jack was still rubbing his back, cramped awkwardly on one knee. Teal'c 
stood over them, impassive and radiating distress at the same time as 
only he can. 

"I really need to get Daniel back to the infirmary," I said, fighting 
the urge to whisper. 

"I will carry him," said Teal'c. Reached down and lifted Daniel out of 
Jack's embrace in a single effortless motion, holding him as easily as 
if he were Riyak. 

"Okay," I said. "Let's go." 

When I turned round to see who was following us, there was only Sam. 
Surprise, surprise: Jack was gone. 

                         *******************

Daniel woke up an hour and a half later. Sam and Teal'c had surgically 
attached themselves to his bedside, and I was busy analysing blood test 
results on a computer in one corner. Daniel coughed, we all jumped, and 
I left the glowing screen to check on my troublesome patient. 

He looked awful. Paper white. Eyes dull and red rimmed. Sooty smudges 
beneath them. Exhausted. Demon-driven. 

He said, "I tried to kill Jack." His voice was hoarse and cracked. 

Sam was holding his left hand. His right rested on the blanket, knuckles 
raw and swollen and brown with Betadine. "Shhh," she said. "It doesn't 
matter. Don't think about it now." 

His face looked naked without its glasses. Defenceless. "Is he all 
right? Did I hurt him?" 

"You did not," said Teal'c. 

Daniel lifted his free hand, went to rub it across his face, and winced. 
Turned it over to stare at his battered knuckles. "I hurt someone," he 
whispered. "It's all a mad dream, but I remember. I hurt someone, didn't 
I?" 

"Yes," I said. "You attacked Airman Brown. You blacked both his eyes, 
broke his nose and his right cheekbone, and you split his lip." 

"No," said Daniel, shaking his head. "No...." 

"I'm afraid so," I said. "But he'll mend." 

He was frowning. "There's something else ... I can remember, I --" He 
sucked in air. "It was you, Doctor Fraiser. You were bending over me, 
and I --" 

"Daniel," I said, using my scalpel voice. "Enough. I am all right. 
Airman Brown will be all right. There'll be more than enough time to 
exhaust the rights and wrongs of this situation once you're well again. 
Do I make myself clear?" 

Fretting, he turned back to Sam and Teal'c. "Jack's okay? I didn't hurt 
him? I shot at him, I was trying to kill him." 

"No, you weren't," Sam said. "You were confused. Sick. You weren't 
trying to kill anyone." 

"Where is he?" said Daniel. "Where's Jack?" He struggled to sit up. 
Before I could protest, Teal'c flattened him against his pillows with 
one hand. 

"Colonel O'Neill is not here, Daniel," he said. 

"Oh, God," said Daniel, and wilted. "He hates me." 

"No, he doesn't," Sam said sharply. "Daniel. He doesn't." 

Daniel wasn't listening. "How can you be here? How can you even want to 
look at me? God! How can I make it up to you, Sam? Teal'c? What I said. 
What I did. How I acted. Please forgive me. I don't know what I'll do if 
you can't." 

He was working himself into a fine old state. Sam and Teal'c exchanged 
anguished looks. Well. Sam's was anguished. And Teal'c's would have 
been, if he'd let it. She said, "Don't. Daniel, don't. It doesn't 
matter. None of it matters. You didn't mean any of it. We understand 
that, don't we, Teal'c?" 

Teal'c nodded. "It was the sarcophagus." 

"That's right," said Sam. "It was the sarcophagus. You didn't mean any 
of it." 

Blanched, shaking, Daniel said, "I meant to kill Jack. He won't forgive 
me for that. You know him, Sam. He'll never forgive me. Not for any of 
it." 

He was on the brink of a complete breakdown. Time to pull the plug. 
"Okay," I said. "Visiting hours are over. Teal'c, Captain Carter, I'm 
afraid you'll have to leave now. You can come back again tomorrow. For a 
short visit." 

They left, and we were alone. I collected stethescope, thermometer and 
bp cuff and began a routine exam. Daniel stared up at the ceiling like a 
man bereft of hope. He was flaccid beneath my hands, inert and 
unresisting. I took blood, inserting the needle between the bruises in 
the crook of his arm. He didn't even flinch. 

"I am so disgusting," he said, as I labelled the sample and set it 
aside. 

"No, you're not," I said. 

"Yes. I am. Look at what I've done. I abandoned my wife. I left my 
friends to be worked to death in a mine, starved and chained like 
animals, while I lived in a palace. I attacked you, and Brown. I tried 
to kill Jack." His voice broke, and he covered his face with his hands. 
"I'm a monster." 

I put down the sample. Settled myself beside him on the bed, and took 
his hands in mine. Gently pulled them away from his face and said, 
"Enough. Listen to me, Daniel. How long have we known each other now?" 

Dully, he said, "Two years, about." 

"And in two years," I said, "have I ever lied to you?" 

"No." 

"No. And I'm certainly not going to start now. This is a bad situation, 
Daniel. It's dire. There will be consequences. Serious consequences. You 
have more broken fences to mend than I can even count. And even if you 
can mend them all, I suspect some will never be the same again. You've 
been foolish, and reckless, and other people have paid the price for it. 
But you're not a monster, Daniel. Okay? You're not a monster." 

He started to cry, then. Silently. No sound. No movement. Just tears, 
sliding hot and fast down his hollow cheeks. 

There was so much more I could have said. Wanted to say. But he was in 
no fit state to hear it and besides ... it really had to come from Jack. 

I just didn't know whether Jack would say it. Or if Daniel could bear to 
hear it from him. 

I gave him a sedative. Left him alone. Closed the door behind me, 
flagged it 'do not disturb', and went to find the General. 

                         *******************

"I'll be honest with you, Janet," General Hammond said. "I don't know 
what to do." 

Oooh. He called me Janet. He practically never calls me Janet. Mystery 
readers would call that a Clue. 

I didn't need one. I already knew we were in deeper shit than I had a 
shovel for. And the smell was getting worse by the minute. I'd already 
reassured him as to Daniel's physical recovery. Now we were 
contemplating the wreckage of his friendship with Jack ... and the view 
was anything but encouraging. 

I'd already reassured him as to Daniel's physical recovery. Now we were 
contemplating the wreckage of his friendship with Jack ... and the view 
was anything but encouraging. 

I sighed. "What does the Colonel have to say?" 

The General's smile was grim. "Nothing I'd care to repeat in mixed 
company." 

Helplessly we stared at each other across the pristine expanse of his 
desk. "Well .... does he still want Daniel on the team?" 

"I don't know," the General replied. "Hell. I don't think he knows 
himself. I'll tell you this, though. God forbid I should ever make Jack 
O'Neill angry with me. The man could disembowel you with his tongue." 

"Yes," I said. "I know." 

His eyebrows lifted at that, but I didn't elaborate. He said, "Any idea 
as to how Daniel feels?" 

"Daniel," I said, "is a mess. If he could, he'd be pouring coals of fire 
on his own head. Remorse doesn't begin to cover it." 

The General sighed. "I wish I thought that would mean something to Jack 
... but right now, I'm not sure it would." 

We sat in depressed silence for a while. I picked at the fraying pocket 
of my lab coat. The General drew spiky stars on his blotter. 

"We have to do something," he said explosively, digging his sharpened 
pencil into the creamy paper. "I'll be damned if I just stand idly by 
and watch those two fools self-destruct! Besides. All personal 
considerations aside ... this operation can't afford to lose SG1. It's 
as simple as that." 

I said, "We could always call in Tom Mackenzie. He's got clearance. He's 
a good psychiatrist. Daniel and the Colonel know him." 

"Right," said the General. "And you think Jack's changed his tune on 
clucking dogs and barking chickens and all things psychiatric because 
...?" 

My turn to sigh. "Right." I straightened. "I guess there's no other way. 
I'll talk to him." 

"No offence, Doctor, but ... what makes you think he'll talk back?" 

Because I know him. I know which buttons to push. And if he doesn't I'll 
nail his feet to the floor and make him watch Daytime soaps until he's 
begging for mercy. 

"Oh," I said. "Just a feeling I have. I can't see him staying angry 
forever. He's as invested in the friendship as Daniel is. He just needs 
some time, and a fresh perspective." 

Which didn't exactly answer the question. I watched the General's face 
flicker with speculation. Kept my own expression bland and unreadable. I 
don't think I fooled him. 

He said, "Yes. Well. Let's hope you're right." 

"Yes," I agreed. "Let's." 

I got up to leave. Wished the General good night. As I headed for the 
door he said, "By the way, Doctor. I understand you and Daniel got into 
a little rough house of your own. Are you all right?" 

"Sure," I said. "I've gotten worse playing softball. I'm fine." 

Which wasn't strictly true, but Daniel was in enough hot water already. 
General Hammond can be a touch old fashioned about some things ... and 
attacking women is pretty much top of the list. 

By the time I'd settled Daniel for the night and briefed the nursing 
staff, it was after seven. Driving away from the base, heading home, I 
dithered. It was Friday. Cass was at a slumber party. I had no food in 
the house. Well. Nothing I wanted to eat, anyway. The evening yawned 
before me, empty and uninviting. 

On the other hand, I could go see Jack. 

                         *******************

I'll be honest with you. It wasn't a conversation I was looking forward 
to. Yes, there were things that needed to be said. And for a great many 
reasons, I was the best -- maybe the only -- person to say them. And 
yes, time was an issue. Jack was more than capable of letting the 
problem go unaddressed indefinitely -- it's his favourite coping 
mechanism -- but the General had a point. SG1 was needed. 

It's just that I know Jack. He guards the perimeters of his privacy like 
the barbarians are at the gate. Even now, even after all this time and 
everything we've been through, he's reluctant to let us in. Okay. So now 
maybe we don't give up so easily. Now we've each got ourselves a 
personalised set of lockpicks, and when we need to we let ourselves in. 

And sometimes ... just sometimes ... he even leaves the gate unlocked 
himself. But not then. Then, he still had the portcullis down and the 
drawbridge up and the moat full of nasty surprises. Then, he considered 
himself under attack ... and nobody is more dangerous than Jack O'Neill 
when he's defending himself. 

Especially from a friend. 

Like I said. It wasn't a conversation I was rushing to have. 

But we had to talk, he and I. And it had to be soon. Some wounds time 
can heal. Others, if left alone, fester and mortify and lead to an ugly 
death. 

Daniel was bleeding. Jack was bleeding. I'm a doctor. 

Says it all really, doesn't it? 

                         *******************

"Janet," said Jack, holding his front door open. His expression was a 
study in wary pleasure. "Hello." 

"Have you eaten?" I said, holding up two Dragon Palace take-out bags. 
"I've got beef and black bean sauce, mu shu pork, honey prawns, mixed 
vegetables and rice. And two sets of chopsticks." 

"I burned two omelettes, ran out of eggs and gave up," he said. "Come on 
in." 

Something lovely was playing on the stereo. Jack took dinner out of my 
hand and disappeared into the kitchen. I stood in the middle of the 
lounge room and listened. Two violins were having a conversation, 
poignant and full of longing. 

"Brahms Double Violin Concerto in D Minor," said Jack, sticking his head 
around the door. "Second movement. You want wine?" 

"Yes, please," I said, and smiled quietly to myself. Wondered how many 
people knew that Jack has a classical cd collection that takes up half a 
wall, and seems to be growing at a steady rate. "It's beautiful," I 
said, wandering into the kitchen. Hunted up placemats and coasters and 
set them on the round table in the corner. 

"Yeah," he agreed. "One of my favourites." 

We carried the decanted food and wine over to the table, sat down and 
started eating. I was starving, and Jack was making respectable inroads 
as well. He eats like he does everything else: economically, precisely. 
I tend to drop bits, myself, but he forgives me. 

He was looking tired, too. Even more withdrawn than usual. Forty eight 
hours wasn't nearly enough down time balanced against two weeks of slave 
labour. I would have liked to have packed him off to a tropical island 
somewhere, or better yet back to Argosia and some time with Kinthea ... 
but we'd had that conversation before, more than once, and I was still 
smarting. This was definitely not the time to bring up old arguments. 

Not when a brand new one was looming on the horizon. 

He glanced up. Caught me checking him out. His look was long suffering, 
but all he said was, "Where's Cass?" 

"Slumber party," I said, chasing rice around the bottom of the bowl with 
my chopsticks. "Fifteen squealing girls, a foot high pile of Leonardo 
DiCaprio videos, enough junk food to feed an army, and someone else's 
basement. My idea of heaven." 

He laughed. "How's she doing, anyway? How's school?" 

"Better," I said. "The lessons are finally starting to make sense now, 
her grades are improving, she's got some good friends. She still gets a 
little homesick now and then --" 

"I'm sure she does," he said. 

"But that's getting better, too." 

"Good," he said, reaching for his wine. "Good. She still on for next 
weekend?" I grinned. "Aside from the slumber party, it's all she's 
talked about since you set it up." 

"Yeah?" he said. Ever so casually, like it didn't really matter. As if 
he was going to fool me. 

"Yeah," I said, letting him know that I knew. He can be so transparent 
sometimes. 

And so can I. 

He said, "This isn't just a social call. Is it." 

I shook my head. "No." 

Tapping his chopsticks against the bowl, he pulled a face. "Hammond?" 

"Is worried," I said. "So am I." 

He shoved his chair back. Snared his wine glass and the bottle and 
retreated to the rustic warmth of the lounge room. A moment later I 
followed him. 

The Brahms had finished, and now it was something starring a piano. I 
said, "I know that. Mozart, isn't it? Elvira something or other?" 

"Madigan," he replied. "Elvira Madigan." 

He was sprawled in his favourite two seater. I took my usual chair by 
the fireplace. "You haven't even asked how he is." 

His glance was swift. Derisive. Defensive. "What makes you think I'm 
interested?" 

Oh, for God's sake ... I thumped my wine glass down on the side table. 
"Jack --" 

"I mean, you know, I kind of figured that if he was dead you would have 
mentioned it. Hi, Jack, I've got beef and black bean sauce, mu shu pork, 
honey prawns, mixed vegetables and rice and by the way, Daniel died." 

"Jack." 

He had the grace to look shamefaced. Lifted a hand in brief apology. 
"All right. All right. How is he?" 

God Almighty, he can be such a bastard. He could give my ex lessons and 
trust me, that's saying something. Tartly, I replied, "Much better. His 
body chemistry is almost back to normal. He's coherent." 

"Does he remember what happened?" 

"Yeah," I said. "He does." 

For a while, then, we were silent. I was content to wait. Cool my 
temper. Nobody riles me like Jack, but there's no point getting angry. 
It gets you nowhere. Plays right into his hands, actually. The trick is 
never to take anything that he says personally. 

Which is much easier said than done, believe me. 

He was still furious. I could see it in the set of his shoulders, the 
tension round his eyes and mouth. The way he swallowed the wine like he 
was biting off the head of an enemy. 

But then I'd expected that. 

What I hadn't expected was the brittleness beneath the fury. An 
overwhelming sense of fragility. Disorientation, almost. As though 
without warning he found himself stranded in unfamiliar territory and 
couldn't quite bring himself to ask for directions. 

Generally speaking, if you want to get Jack to talk you have to put some 
of your own cards on the table first. Only rarely will he open up 
without prompting. Or copious amounts of alcohol. Or extremes of 
physical duress. 

That night, against every expectation, every scenario I'd imagined on 
the drive over, I got the feeling that he was trying to reach out. 
Trying to find some way of asking for help. That he knew to the 
millimetre how high the stakes were ... but was too afraid to call. Too 
afraid to raise. Too afraid of what he had riding on the game. 

I didn't dare speak. The wrong word at the wrong time would shut him 
down, I knew it, and that would be the end of everything. 

I don't know how long we sat there like that, saying nothing, with the 
music flowing gently beneath the silence. I started to drift. I was 
tired. Sad. My shoulder hurt. When he finally spoke, I nearly dropped my 
glass. 

He said, not looking at me, barely loud enough for me to hear, "My best 
friend at the Academy was an addict. Stevie. He started out with pot. 
Nothing serious, a few joints now and then. Second year, he started to 
wash out. Couldn't handle it. His dad was a three star. There were ... 
expectations. He graduated from pot to smack. Kicked it twice. Cold 
turkey. I helped him. Third time he wasn't so lucky. I had to id the 
body, his folks were in Germany." 

"I see," I said. It was hard to picture ... Jack that young. That wild. 
Had he smoked pot, too? Jack O'Neill stoned: now there was an image. 
God. Had he, too, ventured beyond the relatively harmless bounds of 
marijuana? 

He looked at me then. Smiled. Reading me like a book, the bastard. 
"Once." 

My eyebrows went up. "Once?" 

His smile faded. "I liked it too much." 

"Oh," I said. And thought it was one of the most frightening things I'd 
ever heard. "So ... Daniel reminded you of Stevie?" 

Jack upended the last of the wine into his glass, but didn't drink it. 
Just swirled it gently from side to side. "He used to say, don't worry. 
I use heroin, heroin don't use me. I'm the one in the driver's seat, 
boy, don't you fret." He frowned. "First time we did the cold turkey 
dance, he promised me never again. Second time? Never again." 

"And the third?" I asked. 

His face contracted. "I wasn't there the third time. I'd already walked 
away." 

Oh. I cleared my throat. "Um --" 

"He was so cocksure," said Jack. "So convinced he had it all under 
control. He knew what he was doing. I didn't. But he did. He was in the 
driver's seat." 

"Stevie?" 

Jack looked at me. "Daniel." 

I took a deep breath. Let it out. I said, "My fifth wedding anniversary, 
I decided to do something special. The marriage was in trouble. Bob knew 
it. I knew it. But neither of us had the guts to come out and say so. I 
left work early, went shopping. Sexy lingerie. Perfume. Lobster and 
asparagus. You know. I had it all planned out. Candlelit dinner. 
Romantic music. A slow, sweet seduction by the fireplace ... all the 
elements to rekindle the embers. I got home and found him in bed with my 
best friend. Well. On couch, if you want to be specific." 

"Ouch," said Jack. 

Ouch is right. I'll never forget how that felt. That visceral kick in 
the solar plexus, the hammer blow to the heart. There were tears in my 
eyes, pricking, and my throat felt sore and tight. Even after all that 
time. I said, "Things got a little ugly, then. I filed for a divorce the 
next morning. Scratched her name out of my addresss book. Got drunk. 
More than once. Tried to figure out what I'd done wrong, what made it 
okay to do that to me." 

"I'm sorry," said Jack. Meaning it. 

I blinked a few times. Cleared my throat. "The point I'm trying to make 
here, Jack, is this. Loving people makes us vulnerable. We give them our 
hearts and then hope like hell they don't do something stupid like break 
them." 

Jack shifted in his chair until the shadow from a lamp fell across his 
face. "But they do." 

"Sometimes," I agreed. "But hardly ever on purpose. I can't comment 
about Stevie, Jack. I never met him. But I know Daniel. And so do you. 
Is Daniel another Stevie? Really? Or are you just getting them confused 
because you're angry and hurting and feeling betrayed?" 

No reply. Elegantly civilised, the music played on. 

I said, "Daniel's terrified, Jack. Terrified that you hate him. That you 
won't forgive him." 

His face denied me, I watched Jack's hands. His fingers on the stem of 
the wine glass. They were unmoving. "You think I should? Forgive him? 
Pretend that it never happened?" 

God. He can be so black and white at times it makes me want to scream. 
"Of course you can't pretend it never happened, Jack. And what I think 
isn't the issue here. It's what you think. What you want. What do you 
want, Jack?" 

I waited as he thought about it, and I was afraid. I've heard people 
complain about Jack. Say he's a hard nosed hard hearted sonofabitch. 
That he expects too much. Drives people beyond their limits. And maybe 
they have a point. But what they don't stop to realise is that he drives 
himself even harder. Expects more of himself than he does of anyone 
else. Asks himself the hardest questions of all ... and is unforgiving 
if he comes back with the wrong answer. 

It's hard to forgive other people if you can't forgive yourself. 

He moved again, out of the shadow. His face was cold and uncompromising. 
He said, "That mine was a hell hole, Janet. You have no idea. We watched 
people die in their chains every day. Watched the guards drag them out 
and throw them into mass graves. Beat and kick and shoot old men, young 
women, because they got sick and couldn't keep up. The mine was 
exhausted, there was virtually no naqueda left to dig up. But they 
blamed us when the quota wasn't filled at the end of the day. Starved 
us. Hurt us. Daniel could have stopped it. He didn't. At the end, Sam 
was in so much pain she was crying in her sleep. Daniel could have saved 
her that. He didn't." 

"So you're angry because of what he put Sam through. And the other 
people, too." 

"Hell, yes. Of course I am!" 

"And what about you, Jack?" 

He looked away. "I don't know what you mean." 

Oh, yes he did. He wasn't getting away with that, no sir. "Why are you 
angry for you? How has Daniel hurt you?" 

He didn't like the question. I knew he wouldn't. But it had to be said. 
Acknowledged. If he was going to banish Daniel, he had to know why he 
was doing it. We all did. 

I said, "If you're going to punish him, Jack, it can only be for what 
he's done to you. Not Sam or Teal'c. They'll make their own decisions on 
that, it's not for you to make them." 

"Like hell it isn't!" he said. "They're my team. He jeopardised my 
team." 

"Yes," I acknowledged. "That's true. But a team is comprised of people, 
and those people, Sam and Teal'c, are faced with the same decision you 
are. How would you like it if they presumed to task Daniel on your 
behalf?" 

He answered without thinking. "They wouldn't dare." 

"No. They wouldn't. Because it's not up to them. What relationship you 
choose to pursue with Daniel after this matter is resolved is your 
business. Not theirs. And the reverse also holds true." 

And he didn't much like that, either. Too bad. 

Jack said, "I'm the team leader. Everything to do with SG1 is my 
business." 

"Yes. And I'm assuming that at some point, as a team, you'll get 
together and discuss whether or not you still want Daniel on SG1. But 
before you can do that, you have to work out what it is that you want, 
Jack. What it is that you feel. As Daniel's friend. Not as his 
commanding officer, team leader, whatever. Because you're not feeling 
all this pain as a Colonel, Jack. You're feeling it as a friend who's 
been hurt. Deal with it. Don't hide it behind rules and regulations and 
'this is about the team' bullshit. It's too important." 

He drained the last of his wine. Placed the empty glass with meticulous 
precision on the two-seater's arm rest and looked at me. "Tell me. Did 
you forgive Bob? And your best friend? After what they did to you, did 
you forgive them?" 

I never should have opened my mouth. "No," I said, throat tight. "No. I 
didn't." 

"But you want me to forgive Daniel." 

I sighed. "I told you. What I want doesn't matter." 

"Say it does." He leaned back. Let his head thump gently against the 
wall. "Say it matters." 

Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. "What I want," I said slowly, "is for you to 
think very carefully before you do anything. And while you're thinking, 
I want you to remember one thing: that all of this started because 
Daniel saved a life. We don't know what happened between him and this 
Shyla woman. We don't know how hard he tried to get you out of the 
mines. We don't know what kind of threats were made against you to get 
him to co-operate. We don't know why he started using the sarcophagus in 
the first place, or if he tried to resist its effects, and wasn't strong 
enough. Jack, there's so much we still don't know. So far, all we have 
is your side of the story. Before you make any decisions, I think you 
owe it to him to hear what he has to say." 

Jack said, "All of this started because he disobeyed my directive about 
charging into situations without thinking first or checking with me." 

"Oh," I said. "I see. So you're angry with Daniel because he wouldn't do 
as he was told. That's pretty rich, coming from you." 

That got him. Scowling, he snapped, "There is a big difference and you 
know it. I've spent the last ten years behind enemy lines, living on my 
wits, making a hundred decisions a day that meant the difference between 
life and death not just for me, but for hundreds, thousands, of people. 
I've earned the right to disobey orders when I know they're ill-
conceived. That order to Daniel was not ill-conceived. And even if it 
had been, what gives him the right to question my judgement in the 
field? What's he spent the last ten years doing? Living off government 
handouts? Digging up old pots? Propping up a shelf in a library 
somewhere with his head buried in a book?" 

"Perhaps," I agreed. "And if he hadn't been doing all of that, there'd 
be no Gate travel, you two would never have met, and you'd probably be 
two years dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Is that what you'd 
prefer?" 

"Fuck you," said Jack, and walked out. 

Ah, the 'f' word. Apparently I'd struck a nerve. 

Elsewhere in the house, a door slammed. Heels thumped along polished 
floorboards. Jack re-appeared. "And anyway," he said, looming at the top 
of the stairs connecting lounge and kitchen. "It doesn't matter that he 
had an altruistic motive. Daniel's motives are always altruistic. What 
matters is his damned altruism nearly got me killed, probably took ten 
years off my life, and screwed up my knee even more than it was before 
the mission! And I didn't think that was possible!" 

I didn't know I was going to say it till the words were out of my mouth. 
"I know what's pissing you off. Daniel saving that woman was a blatant 
slap in the face. An outright criticism of your behaviour. Wasn't it? 
That's what's got you so riled up." 

He stared. "What?" 

Too late to back out now. "You were going to let her jump. Let her kill 
herself. Daniel --" 

"Oh, here we go," said Jack, scathingly. Thumped down the stairs and 
started to pace. "Spare me, for Christ's sake. We weren't on a family 
picnic. We were in hostile territory. Spying. If they'd been real 
goa'ulds we'd be dead or worse by now. I had more to worry about than 
the life of one person. I was responsible for the lives of my team, and 
everyone on Earth who would have been at risk if we'd been taken by the 
enemy. One life against billions. You gonna sit there and tell me you 
wouldn't let one person die to save billions?" 

"This isn't about me, Jack," I said quietly. "And you haven't answered 
the question." 

He slammed his fist against the closest wall. "What gives him the right 
to judge me? To judge me, for fuck's sake? He's only walking around 
breathing free air because of me, and all the people like me, who've 
bled to keep him safe. What, does he think it's easy being in command? 
Does he think I enjoy making those kinds of decisions? Jesus Christ! 
Does he think I'm some kind of a murderer?" 

"I don't know, Jack," I said. "Why don't you ask him?" 

He jerked like someone who's just been shot. Turned away, fingertips 
touched to the wall. He said, distantly, "We were there to observe. That 
was it. No interaction with the indigenous population. I made that 
perfectly clear before we left. Daniel chose to disregard my 
instructions. Now he can wear the consequences. Like the rest of us had 
to." 

I said, gently, "You don't think he's been punished enough already?" 

"No," he said baldly. "Not nearly enough." 

I didn't know what to say. I'm still not sure if he meant it. Or whether 
he just wanted to mean it. Spoke out of hurt, and the human need to lash 
out at whoever caused the pain. God knows, I know what that's like. 

He said, "I'm pretty beat, Janet. Thanks for dinner." 

I stood. Pulled my car keys out of my pocket and jangled them on the end 
of my finger. "Will you at least think about what I've said? Please?" 

"Drive carefully," said Jack. "Give Cass a hug for me." 

I sighed. "Yeah. Sure. Good night, Jack. See you tomorrow." 

Safely home, I made myself a coffee, added a generous dollop of brandy, 
took a couple of painkillers and went to bed. Feeling like a failure. 
Crushed with uncertainty. Brimful of unshed tears. I replayed our duet 
over and over, searching for what I might have said better, or 
differently, or not at all. Sleep came late, that night. 

The next morning, still sore but feeling better, I went in to the base. 
Daniel had had a quiet night. His vitals looked good. He'd eaten some 
breakfast. After getting up to speed on the other patients, I went to 
see him. 

"Doctor Fraiser," he said. "Hi." Still subdued. Haunted. But his colour 
was better, and he'd been reading a book. "How's your shoulder?" 

"It's fine. I told you. Stop worrying about that," I said. 

"Have you seen Jack this morning?" 

"No," I said. "I haven't." 

He looked away. Picked at the unravelled binding on the spine of his 
book. "Neither have I. Have you spoken to him?" 

"Today? No." 

"At all?" 

I hesitated. What to say? How much more to interfere? I had the awful 
feeling that last night hadn't made any difference at all. 

"Please," said Daniel. "You have to help me." 

"How?" I asked him. "What is it you think I can do?" 

"I don't know!" Daniel said, and threw the book on a nearby chair so 
hard that he loosened the pages. "Jack's avoiding me. I know he is. How 
am I supposed to fix this if he won't even see me?" 

"Daniel ..." I took a deep breath. "Maybe you should just let things 
happen as they happen. Don't try and force the issue. Healing takes 
time. Like the song says: let it be." 

"But I have to -- to apologise, I have to let him know how sorry I am 
that --" 

I rested my hand on his shoulder. "Daniel. He knows." 

Daniel swallowed. "So what you're saying is, it's not enough. God! What 
do you think I'd give to undo this? To make things so it never happened? 
I know he's angry. Of course he is. I understand that. But if he'd just 
give me a chance, if he'd hear me out --" 

"He will," I said, hoping like hell that I was right. "But it'll be when 
he's ready, Daniel. Not before." 

"When? When will he be ready? And what am I supposed to do in the 
meantime? Am I off the team? Off the project? Should I just go home and 
wait for a phone call? I don't know what to do!" 

"Well, you could try shutting up and listening," a dry voice said from 
behind us. "Doctor Fraiser has been known to give good advice, now and 
then." 

Jack. Looking tired. Sleepless. Chaos behind the guarded eyes. But he 
was here. Against every expectation, he was here. 

"Good morning, Colonel," I said. 

"Good morning, Doctor," he replied. Smiled a grim little smile. 
"Doctors." 

"Jack ..." said Daniel. Faintly. Looking like he wanted to dive under 
the covers and stay there for a week. 

"I wonder if you could give Daniel and me a few moments alone," said 
Jack. So cool. So collected. Professional to his fingertips. Like this 
was about discussing ball point pen requisitions. 

Well. Two could play at that game. "Certainly," I said. "I should be 
getting along anyway, I have rounds. Colonel, once you and Daniel have 
concluded your business, I'd appreciate it if you could stop by my 
office. Some unfinished business, you understand." 

"I'll do my best," said Jack. Meaning not a hope in hell, lady. We'd see 
about that. 

"I'll be back to see you later, Daniel," I said, opting for a dignified 
retreat. "Try to remember, Colonel, that Daniel is still convalescent?" 

"How could I forget?" said Jack, sweetly. 

Daniel flinched. 

I tell you, there's almost nothing I wouldn't have done to be a fly on 
the wall in that room. Jack's never told me what was said. According to 
Sam, Daniel's never breathed a word to her, either. As I started to pull 
the door closed behind me, I had no idea if this was a beginning, or an 
end. 

Then I heard Daniel say, brokenly, "Jack. God, Jack. Where do I start?" 

And Jack reply, in a voice I'd never heard before ... haven't heard 
since ... "Jesus Christ. Danny...." 

That's when I was sure, for the first time really sure, that in the end, 
everything would be all right. 

And it was. In the end. In time. It wasn't easy, and it wasn't always 
pretty. Jack is a hard taskmaster, and Daniel's penance was often 
painful. But he survived it, and he's stronger now. Just as Jack 
intended. 

Being cruel to be kind ... it's something else we have in common. 

So. The fences are all mended. And if they don't look exactly the same 
as they did before, if there's a crack showing here, a little shakiness 
there ... well. I consider us damned lucky. Some fences never get mended 
at all. I'm not complaining. 

Well. Not much. Not often. 

And only to Sam, when we've both had one glass of wine too many. Like I 
say ... there's no point playing the 'if only' game. 

It'll only drive you crazy. 


                         *******************

Medical Considerations: Matter of Time
By OzKaren - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

RATING: PG 

CATEGORY: Missing Scene 

SUMMARY: The SGC personnel come to terms with the events surrounding the 
Black Hole disaster. 

SPOILERS: Matter of Time, Second season. 

DISCLAIMER: All characters and property of Stargate SG-1 belong to MGM, 
World Gekko Corp. and Double Secret Productions. This fan fiction was 
created solely for entertainment and no money was made from it. Also, no 
copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real 
persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. 

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: Gilllian and Jenn, for their brilliant comments 


Here's a Pop Quiz for you. 

If you had two hours free time, would you rather spend it: 

a) shopping b) seeing a movie c) getting a facial d) picking 28 pieces 
of glass out of Jack O'Neill. 

Well, I don't know about you, but my choices in order of preference are 
a, c and b. Never in a million years would I choose d. 

Three guesses what fate chose for me. 


                         *******************

When Momma told me there'd be days like these, I don't think black 
holes, dilated time and the earth being sucked through a stargate were 
exactly what she had in mind. 

Sometimes I wonder if we have any idea of what we're doing at Stargate 
Command. Much to my surprise, it didn't feel any better to be stuck 
outside the base instead of inside it during the crisis. When you're 
inside, even if you are waiting to die, at least you have some idea of 
what's going on. Outside, all you can do is sweat and twiddle your 
thumbs and drink way too much coffee. 

We sweated and twiddled and overdosed on caffeine for four days as we 
waited to see if Sam's plan to close the wormhole would work. Hundreds 
of feet below us, down in the gateroom, it took about half an hour. 
Don't ask me to explain it. Nobody can, not even Sam. I try not to think 
about it myself, because I already have enough in my life to drive me 
crazy without adding anything more to the mix. Just after dawn on the 
fifth day, when our nerves were frayed to the last thread and even the 
General's aplomb was worn almost bare, Sergeant Siler came topside. In a 
hurry. The General and I bolted out of the command tent to meet him. 
Everyone else gathered round behind us, not crowding, certainly not 
usurping the General's privilege ... but anxious. Haggard faced, hollow 
eyed and hopeful. 

"Well?" the General demanded. 

"It worked, sir," said Siler. "The wormhole is disengaged and the 
gravity well has collapsed. But --" He hesitated. Glanced to the left, 
to the aloof, tight knit little group of Special Forces operatives who 
were waiting for their team leader to return. "Sir, we lost Colonel 
Cromwell." 

I felt the shock hit Cromwell's people. They surged forward, too hard, 
too professional to exclaim aloud ... but the pain and the anger and the 
unasked questions raged in their eyes. 

"Damn," said the General. "How?" 

Siler was unhurt, but he looked shocky around the eyes. Hardly 
surprising, when you consider what he'd just been through. "The gravity 
from the black hole sucked the iris out of the Gate. Then it sucked the 
glass out of the control room. The Colonel's rope was cut. Colonel 
O'Neill tried to hold on to him, but he didn't have a chance. He was 
sucked into the wormhole." He looked at the surviving members of 
Cromwell's team, apologetic and shaken. "We did try to save him, sirs. 
If it's any consolation ... I don't think he suffered. It was very 
quick." 

Cromwell's team said nothing. What could they say? Thank you? General 
Hammond spared them a sympathetic glance, then turned back to Siler. 
"And what about Colonel O'Neill? Is he all right?" 

Now Siler was looking at me. "Not really. He survived, but he's out cold 
and pretty cut up. He got caught in the explosion. Doctor Fraiser, we 
need you." 

I didn't need a second invitation. As I headed for the downshaft, medkit 
clutched in sweaty fingers, I heard the General tossing orders like hand 
grenades. Then the emergency exit door shut behind me and I was taking 
the stairs three at a time, heading for the elevators. 

Damn, damn, damn. Cut up and out cold. Well, of course he was. It was 
just too much to hope for, Jack coming out of this unscathed. 

Quit bitching, said the naggy little voice inside my head. He could be 
Cromwell. He could be dead. 

Cromwell. Now that was a story I wanted to hear. History there, no two 
ways about it. And now Cromwell was dead. Not good. From what I'd seen, 
it seemed pretty clear they didn't like each other. Didn't matter. I 
knew in my gut that Jack wasn't going to take Cromwell's death well. 
Losing an enemy can sometimes be as bad as losing a friend. 

What I didn't know, then, was that to Jack, Frank Cromwell had been 
both. 

It seemed like forever before I made it to the embarkation control room. 
Jack was sprawled on the floor, profoundly unconscious, a folded blanket 
under his head, Teal'c by his side. He was bleeding messily from his 
neck and arms and nose. Shards of glass glinted in his hair, on his 
shoulders. In his flesh. How he missed having his jugular severed, I'll 
never know. 

Put it down to the luck of the Irish. 

Sam was running a diagnostic on the Gate computer system. She looked 
white, strained. Kept glancing over her shoulder at Jack. 

"Janet! Thank God!" she said when she saw me. "I don't think anything's 
broken this time, but he got well and truly walloped by the bomb's shock 
wave. And then when the wormhole disengaged and the gravity well 
collapsed, he hit the wall pretty hard. He's completely out of it, 
doesn't respond to any kind of pain stimulus. He's got a nosebleed but 
his ears are clean, I don't think he's ruptured his ear drums or 
fractured his skull." 

"Good," I said, on my knees beside him, medkit open at my side. "How 
about you? Are you all right? And you, Teal'c?" 

"I'm fine," Sam replied, tapping her computer keyboard, scowling at the 
monitor. 

"I am unharmed also," said Teal'c. His eyes were very dark, his mouth 
turned down at the corners. "It is Colonel O'Neill about whom you should 
be concerned." 

"Trust me, Teal'c," I said, and reached over Jack's inert body to pat 
his arm. "I am. Now can someone please tell me where all this glass came 
from?" 

"The windows shattered, and the pieces got sucked outwards, towards the 
gate," Sam explained. "Colonel O'Neill and Colonel Cromwell --" She 
stopped. Bit her lip. "They were directly in the way. I tried to warn 
them, but ..." 

Quietly, Teal'c said, "Captain Carter." 

She gave him a tremulous smile. "Yeah. I know." Said to me, "If it 
hadn't been for the time distortion of the gravity wave, they'd have 
both been cut to ribbons. But I don't think it's too bad, is it?" 

"No, it doesn't look like it," I replied, as I started a routine vitals 
check. Pupils first: equal and reactive. That glorious contract and 
blossom of iris that brings joy to any doctor's heart. Thank God. No 
serious head injury, then. Replacing the penlight in the medkit, I 
added, "Siler told us what happened to Colonel Cromwell. I'm sorry." 

Teal'c said, "There was nothing any of us could do. O'Neill tried, but 
no living creature could have prevented Colonel Cromwell's death." And 
then he looked down at Jack, and frowned. Looked up, meeting my eyes. He 
knew, and so did I, that Jack is completely irrational about things like 
this. He'd never forgive himself. Not for Frank Cromwell. Not for Hank 
Boyd and his team, either. 

Tears burned me. I blinked and throttled them. I wasn't going to start 
thinking about Hank and the rest of SG10. They knew the risks. Nobody 
made them do it. All of us know our next trip through the Stargate could 
be our last. We don't talk about it, but we know. 

Oh, Hank. No more pizza parties. No more Saturday night bowling. No more 
Ella Fitzgerald in the mess hall. What will we do without you? 

"Doctor Fraiser, are you all right?" 

Teal'c. His hand on my shoulder. "I'm fine," I said, not daring to show 
my face. "Give me some room here, would you please?" 

"Of course," he said, and removed his hand. 

I listened to Jack's heart, his lungs, took his pulse, 61, and jotted it 
down. I was starting to feel a little better. True, he was out cold, but 
so far the picture wasn't looking too bad. Sam swivelled round in her 
chair, frowning. "There was something really odd going on between the 
Colonel and Cromwell," she said. "I don't suppose you know what it was, 
do you?" 

"Odd?" I said, as I carefully wrapped the BP cuff round Jack's arm. "In 
what way?" 

She shrugged. "Well, it was pretty clear they knew each other. And that 
there was some kind of problem. But it wasn't like him and Mayborne. Or 
Samuels. It wasn't that kind of hostility. I don't know. It was just ... 
odd." 

"I'm afraid I have no idea," I said. 

"I think they might have served together," said Sam. 

"It's possible," I said. "Cromwell was Special Forces. The Colonel is 
ex-Special Forces. Don't talk for a moment." 

She turned back to the computer and I took Jack's blood pressure. A 
hundred over fifty. A little low, but not unbearable. "Teal'c, I need a 
gurney. Could you bring me one from the infirmary?" 

"Of course," said Teal'c. Rose to his feet in that liquid metal flow of 
his, and left the control room on silent feet. I ran my hands the length 
of Jack's body, feeling for interruptions to its structure, but he was 
whole. Amazing. 

"Is he okay?" Sam said. 

"Probably," I replied. "Once I've cleaned him up I'll run some routine 
x-rays and an MRI to make sure, but his vitals are good, his colour's 
not bad, and he appears to be in one piece, for a change. Lord knows, 
he's looked worse." 

She managed a quick grin. "True." Then the swift amusement faded, and 
she stared at Jack without really seeing him. Pale. Shivery. Haunted, 
even. 

"How about you?" I asked gently. "It must have been pretty awful 
watching Cromwell get sucked into that gravity well thing." 

She nodded, swallowing. "Yeah, it was. The Colonel tried so hard to hold 
onto him, to save him, but ... like Teal'c said. It was hopeless." She 
blinked away tears. "He's going to be pretty upset when he wakes up." 

"It's a miracle any of you survived," I said, and had a shivery moment 
of my own. Another close call. Another 'almost died' footnote for Jack's 
medical file. How many more before that damned Irish luck finally ran 
out? 

Something else I didn't want to think about. 

Sam said, staring into thin air, "Right at the end, just before the bomb 
detonated, he stopped trying to climb back up to us. He just ... 
stopped, and hung there. His face was -- it was serene. Calm. No fear. 
No panic. Just complete acceptance." 

"He made his peace with death a long time ago," I said quietly. "His 
own, at any rate. Other people's is a different ball of wax altogether." 
I reached out my hand, laid it against Jack's cheek. Cool. A little 
clammy. Silver glinted strongly at his temples, threadily elsewhere. 

It didn't a year ago. 

"It was close, Janet," said Sam, and rubbed her arms. "It terrifies me 
to think how close ..." 

"Then don't," I advised, unwrapping the bp cuff. "A miss is as good as a 
mile in this business. What might have happened didn't, so let's just 
count our blessings. We'll be up to our eyeballs in postmortems soon 
enough." 

When she didn't reply I looked up. She was slumped in her chair, staring 
at a nearby video monitor. Mesmerised by Hank Boyd's fear twisted face. 
"I don't want them to be gone," she whispered. "Abby and I had tickets 
for Les Mis. Can you believe she'd never seen it? She was really looking 
forward --" She stopped. Pressed her fingers to her eyes. "It isn't 
fair." Her voice ached with pain. Loss. Rage. 

So did I ... but it would be long hours before I'd have the chance to 
let myself feel any of those things. "No," I agreed steadily. "It 
isn't." Then I turned to the open doorway, mindful of my patient. "Where 
the hell has Teal'c got to? I need that gurney." 

That's when we both heard the clattering of regulation issue boots in 
the corridors and on the stairs outside. Raised voices barking orders, 
acknowledging. A moment later General Hammond entered the room, followed 
by Teal'c, and an airman pushing my gurney. 

"Dr Fraiser," the General said, staring down at Jack. "How is he?" 

"He should be fine, sir," I said, standing, "but I do need to get him to 
the infirmary." 

"Of course," said the General. "Airman, give the doctor a hand to --" 

"Unnecessary," said Teal'c, stepping forward. In one easy movement he 
bent down, lifted Jack and deposited him carefully on the gurney. Jack 
didn't so much as flicker an eyelid. He really was out cold. 

"Thank you, Teal'c," the General said, with a discreetly amused glance 
in my direction. Then he turned to Sam. "Status, Captain?" 

"Everything seems to be operational, sir," she said, all traces of 
distress eliminated. A military brat to her bootstraps, is our Sam. "The 
main problem is that we've lost the iris. Without it we have no way of 
stopping unwanted inbound travellers." 

"That's already in hand," the General assured her. "A new trinium 
strengthened iris is being manufactured even as we speak." 

"Wow," said Sam. "That was fast. Sir." 

General Hammond's smile is positively wolfish on ocassion. Teeth bared, 
he said, "I lit a fire under one or two people. In the meantime there'll 
be around the clock security in the Gateroom. Teal'c, I'd like you to 
co-ordinate that, please." 

Teal'c nodded gravely. "Of course, General." 

Hammond added, "I've also got replacement armoured glass on its way for 
in here. We should be back to normal -- or what passes for normal around 
here -- within fortyeight hours." 

Which was great, and I for one would sleep a lot better knowing that, 
but in the meantime ... "General," I said. "If you'd excuse me?" 

"Of course, Doctor," he said. "Don't let me hold you up." 

So we wheeled Jack to the infirmary, where we inched him out of his g-
suit and uniform and I combed the worst of the glass out of his hair. 
Then we ran all the tests, x rays and MRI and a CAT scan too, just to be 
on the safe side. When all that was done we wheeled him back to a small 
private room in the infirmary, I pulled up a chair and a pair of 
tweezers and started easing slivers of window out of his flesh. 

It's a fiddly job that requires complete concentration. In fact I was 
concentrating so hard that it took all of Daniel's excited volubility to 
bring me back to an awareness of my surroundings. I could hear him half 
a corridor away. 

" --- and when we still couldn't open the gate to you after about seven 
tries we knew something was really wrong. We knew it wasn't our gate 
because we opened it to a couple of other places, just to make sure. I 
just about passed out from relief when we finally got through to you." 

I finished extracting the last shard of armour plated glass from Jack's 
shoulder, dropped it with a satisfying clink into the tray, and looked 
up to see Daniel and Sam coming through the door. 

"Hey, Doc," he greeted me, half smiling, half frowning. "Jack in the 
wars again?" 

"Again," I agreed. We smiled at each other. Daniel is a comforting 
person to have around. Very accepting. Calming, in an exciteable kind of 
way. 

Sam, staring at Jack, said, "He's still out." 

"Yes," I said. "The MRI showed some bruising to his brain. Concussion, 
in layman's terms. Nothing life threatening, and not enough to cause 
permanent damage. But he'll probably sleep for a day or two, which isn't 
such a bad thing. He's going to be one sore and sorry Colonel, what with 
the shake up from the explosion and hitting the gateroom wall and the 
glass cuts." 

"What about them?" said Sam, arms barricaded across her chest. Holding 
in the fear, and the pain. 

"Oh, they're not too bad, on the whole," I reassured her. "A couple of 
deep ones. I'm just about to stitch those. The rest will be okay with 
some betadine and butterfly strips." 

"From what Sam's told me, he was lucky," said Daniel. The half smile was 
gone and his face was all frown, now, as he stared down at Jack with his 
arms folded tight across his chest, too. They looked like Tweedledum and 
Tweedledee, he and Sam, concern creasing their faces into identical 
masks. 

Damn Jack anyway. He's making us all old before our time. 

"Very lucky," I agreed. 

Daniel cleared his throat, painfully. "Not like SG10." 

The three of us exchanged looks, and I saw my own anger and grief and 
sorrow reflected as though in mirrors. The moment was broken by General 
Hammond, who came into the room looking tired and worn. Grief was in 
him, too, buried beneath his professionalism ... but not so deep that we 
couldn't see it. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get down here," he 
apologised. "I've been on the phone with the President and the Joint 
Chiefs." 

Something in the way he said it boded no good. Daniel and I pulled a 
face at each other, and Sam said, "Trouble, sir?" 

He nodded. "Let's just say that this latest little incident has put the 
fox among the chickens in a major way. But that's my problem, Captain, 
not yours." He turned to Daniel. "Good to see you, Dr Jackson. I take it 
Captain Carter has brought you up to speed?" 

"Yes," said Daniel. "I'm just sorry I wasn't here to help." 

The General smiled, gently. "Don't take this the wrong way, son, but I'm 
glad you weren't. When it looked like we were all going to hell in a 
handbasket, it was a small comfort to know that a few of us would 
survive, albeit 'out there'." Then he turned to me. "What's the story 
with Colonel O'Neill, Doctor?" 

I filled him in, finishing with, "I'll have the nursing staff check on 
him at regular thirty minute intervals, but as I said, I really don't 
expect him to wake up for at least twentyfour hours." 

The General nodded. Turned to look down at Jack, sleeping so peacefully 
beside us. It's not until he's silent, quiescent, that you realise just 
how overwhelming his waking presence is. He dominates a room without 
even trying. And it's not because he's tall. I've known tall people who 
fade in the middle of an empty closet. And it's got nothing to do with 
physical appearance either, because he's really not that good looking. 
At least, not until he smiles. I don't know. It's that same something 
that makes a champion racehorse stand out in a field. Charisma. Strength 
and fire and force of personality. 

In the end, it's why the Maybornes and the Kennedys and the Samuels of 
this world don't like him. They feel the lack in themselves, and are 
resentful. 

To be honest, it was intimidating at first. Now its absence unnerves me. 

It unnerved General Hammond too. A man not without charisma himself. He 
said, frowning, "You're sure he's going to be all right?" 

"Well," I said. Cautious. Conservative. I'm not a big fan of 'the 
operation was a success but the patient died' school of medicine. "When 
it comes to head injuries nothing's guaranteed. I'm sure you're aware of 
that. It's quite a severe concussion and as you know, sir, it's not his 
first. But I've seen nothing in his test results to indicate 
complications. At this stage I do expect him to make a complete 
recovery." 

"Excellent, excellent," said the General. "As I told you, I've been in 
conference with the President and the Joint Chiefs for the past three 
hours. They wanted me to extend their congratulations and gratitude to 
you, Captain Carter, for your sterling work throughout this crisis. 
You'll be hearing more through official channels, eventually, but they 
were most anxious that I pass on the message to you personally, and as 
soon as possible." 

Sam flushed. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." 

He smiled at her, as warmly as I've ever seen him smile. "Sam, you never 
cease to amaze me. Your father would be so very proud of you, right now. 
I am very proud. It's an honour to know you." 

Sam looked like she wanted to burst into tears. "Mmm," she said, in a 
strangled little voice. "Thank you, sir." 

Daniel, sensing danger, said brightly, "Gee, Captain, can I have your 
autograph?" 

Which made us all laugh, and gave Sam a precious few seconds to regain 
her self-control. 

Sobering, General Hammond continued, "We've also decided that any 
official memorial services for SG10, and Colonel Cromwell, will be 
delayed until Colonel O'Neill is well enough to attend. Given his close 
associations with both parties, I don't think it would be fair to do 
anything else." 

"Colonel Cromwell," said Daniel. "That's the Special Forces guy who was 
killed?" 

"That's correct," said the General. 

"So I was right," said Sam, largely to herself. "There was something 
going on between them." 

General Hammond gave her a sharp look. "What makes you say that, 
Captain?" 

"Oh, well, sir, it was just ... Colonel Cromwell called Colonel O'Neill 
by his first name, and it was pretty clear they knew each other well and 
--" She cleared her throat. "I just got the feeling that there was 
something going on. Sir." 

"That may or may not be the case," said the General. "Either way, it's 
nothing to do with us." 

Sam blinked. "Of course not, sir." 

The General looked at me. "Keep me posted on Colonel O'Neill's 
condition, Doctor. Notify me the minute he regains consciousness." 

"Of course, sir," I said. 

He gave us all a nod, and left. Daniel raised his eyebrows. "Why do I 
get the feeling the fox isn't just in with the chickens, it's tearing 
their throats out as well?" 

"Because it is?" said Sam. She shook her head. "There must be some 
serious heat coming down from upstairs." 

"I guess so," Daniel agreed. And grinned. "But you're okay. You're a 
hero. Again." 

She punched him. "Watch it." 

Rubbing his arm, still grinning, he said, "I was going to ask you to 
give me a hand unpacking all my stuff from P3X808, but I guess you're 
too important now to stoop to such menial --" 

"Janet," said Sam, "does the sight of blood disturb you? Maybe you 
should avert your eyes ..." 

"Pax, pax," said Daniel, raising his hands. "So. You gonna help? There's 
some really neat stuff." 

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. It'll make a nice change from quantam 
gravity theory, at any rate." 

"That's a good idea," I said. "You two children run away and play. I 
have to get out my needle and thread and embroider pretty patterns in 
Colonel O'Neill's neck." 

"Gee," said Daniel. "My favourite spectator sport. Not. Wanna meet up in 
the mess hall for dinner later?" 

Cassie was sleeping over at a friend's place, and I wouldn't be going 
home any time soon. "Sure," I said. "Why not? 1900?" 

"See you then," said Sam, and they left, scuffling like school kids. I 
fetched a suture kit. Odd as it may sound, I find stitching cuts 
therapeutic. All those nice, neat little knots tidying up the messy 
bits. To be on the safe side I injected the wounds with local 
anesthetic, but I doubt Jack would have felt it even if I hadn't. As I 
pierced and pulled and looped and tied I wondered where he was. What he 
was dreaming. Happy dreams, I hoped. There was such a world of sadness 
waiting for him when he woke. 

When the suturing was done, and he was slid neatly into a medical gown, 
propped up with pillows, tucked beneath a blanket, tubed and taped and 
monitored with EEG and EKG, I left him in peace and retreated to my 
office to write up notes. 

                         *******************

 At 1910, hungry and tired and ready to be distracted, I made my way to 
the mess hall. Sam and Daniel were seated in the far corner, talking as 
they ate. They saw me and waved. 

I grabbed a tray, helped myself to some pasta with bolognaise sauce and 
threaded my way between the tables to join them. The room was maybe half 
full, and buzzing with a dozen different conversations. But the mood was 
odd. Subdued, yet agitated. I think everyone was still coming to terms 
with what had nearly happened. What had happened. It's a strange 
dichotomy: we're prepared for death, yet when it comes we're surprised. 
Outraged. Offended. For all that we've made peace with our mortality, we 
resent being reminded of it. 

"Hey," said Daniel, as I slid into a chair opposite. 

"Hey yourself," I said, sorting out cutlery and napkins. 

"How's Jack?" 

"Still sleeping." 

"You're absolutely sure he's going to be okay, aren't you?" said Sam. 

I sighed. "As sure as I can be. Now stop fussing, and finish your dinner 
before it gets cold." 

She smiled. "Yes, ma'am." 

I turned my attention to my own meal, and smiled to myself as they 
resumed their friendly argument about the likely origins of one of the 
pieces Daniel brought back from the dig. Ten minutes later, a shadow 
fell across the table. 

"Colonel Makepeace," said Sam, politely. "Good evening, sir." 

Makepeace stared down at her. "Is it?" 

Between you and me and the Stargate, I don't much care for Makepeace. 
And it has nothing to do with the fact that's he's a Marine and I'm Air 
Force. I don't warm to him because he's aggressive and belligerent and 
pushes his people too hard. 

He doesn't much like SG1, either ... but of course that doesn't have 
anything to do with why I don't like him. 

And if you believe that, let me tell you about this great swampland I 
have, going cheap. 

Sam and Daniel and I exchanged quick glances. Daniel said, "Well I don't 
know about you, Colonel, but I think it's a good evening." 

Makepeace's expression left no doubt as to how he feels about Daniel. 
"You would." 

"And what's that supposed to mean?" 

"Four people are dead, Dr Jackson," Makepeace said. "Or have you been 
too busy playing with your -- artifact -- to notice?" 

"Oh," said Daniel. "I noticed. I definitely noticed. I just don't see 
what it has to do with Captain Carter." 

Sam reached out her hand. "Daniel ..." 

"Captain Carter was the one who assessed the probe's initial telemetry," 
said Makepeace. 

"A lot of people assessed the probe's initial telemetry, surely," said 
Daniel. "Captain Carter wasn't the only one, was she?" 

"She's the superstar astrophysicist," Makepeace retorted. "Hammond's 
golden girl." 

"That was inappropriate, Colonel," said Sam. "And it's rude to discuss 
someone as if they're not present when they're sitting right in front of 
you. If you've got a point to make, then make it. Sir." 

"My point," said Makepeace, "is that you didn't notice the black hole. 
My point is that you let SG10 gate to their deaths. My point is that I 
kind of can't help wondering who you're going to get killed next. My 
point, Captain, is that we came within a whisker of destroying this 
planet, and none of it would have happened if you'd done your job 
properly to begin with!" 

Makepeace's voice had risen to a near shout. We were attracting an 
audience. Sam was pale. I could have slapped him. 

"In case you've forgotten, Colonel," I said as coldly as I knew how, 
"this planet was saved because of Captain Carter. As for her being 
responsible for the deaths of SG10, you are way out of line. Now why 
don't you just go and get your dinner and leave us to enjoy ours. We're 
all upset by what's happened, and I think we need to give each other 
some space." 

Makepeace ignored me. 

"I heard you were so cut up over SG10 you wanted to keep the video 
running while they died." 

Sam flinched as though he'd struck her. "Who told you that?" 

"Good news travels fast, Captain. Guess you must be disappointed, huh, 
you didn't get your home movie." 

"I know how it looks," Sam said. Her voice was tight. Hard. "I didn't 
mean to be insensitive. I was thinking about the knowledge that could be 
gained, I just wanted --" 

"Don't, Sam," said Daniel. "You don't have to explain anything to him. 
To anyone." 

"Yeah, she does," Makepeace contradicted. He turned a little, swept his 
angry gaze over the listening room. "Every time we go through that gate, 
we're trusting what she says. She's the expert. That's why she was 
brought on board in the first place, right? So if we're putting our 
lives in her hands, we've got the right to ask some questions!" 

Heads were nodding in agreement. Not a lot, not everyone's, but enough 
to worry me, and drain the last colour from Sam's cheeks. She said, "We 
won't know the exact reasons why the probe didn't detect the black hole 
till we've had a chance to study the data." Now it was her turn to 
address the room at large. "You know I'd never wilfully put any of you 
in danger. You know that." 

Someone said, "Not on purpose. But mistakes happen. This was a mistake, 
and look what it cost. Four lives and nearly the whole damned planet." 

Sam stood up. "We don't know that it was a mistake. It could just be a 
limitation of the technology. We're dealing with a lot of new stuff, a 
lot of questions that we can't always answer, it's --" 

The same voice said, "Then if it's all so limited, should we even be 
doing it at all? Risking our lives, the planet, on guesswork and 
maybes?" 

Pushing her chair aside, Sam stepped away from the table. Daniel said, 
"Sam, don't, there's no point --" but she ignored him. Walked towards 
the speaker. It was Brad Davies, another Captain, part of SG4. 

"Are you saying we shouldn't, Brad?" she demanded. "Are you saying we 
should just shut up shop and pretend that we really are all alone in the 
galaxy? It's too late for that." 

"Yeah. Thanks to you," said Makepeace. I really, really wanted to slap 
him. 

The buzz of conversation was back now, but it was angry and nervous and 
dangerous. We'd had such a fright, you see. We were in pain. And the 
human animal lashes out when it's frightened and hurting. Daniel said, 
"We have to stop this." 

"Agreed," I said. "Any suggestions as to how?" 

He glared up at Makepeace. "You started this. You finish it." 

Makepeace scowled. "I didn't start anything. I'm just asking a few 
legitimate questions. And if you'd pull your head out of your butt for 
five seconds you'd realise that I'm right." 

"If anyone's head is up their butt, it's yours," Daniel snapped. "Jack 
was right. You are a jarhead. This whole facility has just come through 
a major crisis, and instead of trying to calm things down, you're 
calming them up! How'd you get your Colonel's stripes, anyhow? 
Consolation prize in a raffle?" 

I closed my eyes. Flinched as Makepeace launched into a full frontal 
assault on Daniel's parentage, intelligence and fitness for living. 
Behind me, Sam was still trying to convince Brad Davies, and others, 
that regardless of the inherent risks, the Stargate Project was still 
vital and viable. It sounded like she was losing the battle. 

Dinner cold, congealing and unwanted, I eased myself out of the warzone 
and headed for the internal phone. Dialled Hammond's extension. 

"Sir? Dr Fraiser. You might want to come down to the mess hall. We seem 
to have a situation, here." 

Five minutes later, the General walked into a scene of chaos. Daniel and 
Makepeace were still going at it hammer and tongs. Sam was in the middle 
of a group of about twelve people, desperately trying to prove her case. 
Four more arguments had broken out around the room. There was no 
violence, at least not physically, but the noise of anger was deafening 
and the mood was ugly. Flashpoint. 

Hammond paused in the doorway, eyes wide with astonishment and dismay. 
His gaze found me, and his lips framed a question: What the hell is 
going on here? 

I made my way over to him. Raised my voice. "I'm sorry, sir, but I 
thought it was a case of bringing in the big guns. They don't seem to be 
in the mood to listen to quiet reason." 

Grimly, the General surveyed his brawling personnel. Stalked over to the 
food service area, nodded at the fraught airman on duty, picked up an 
empty pot that had been left behind the counter and bashed it furiously 
against the metal bench. The sound echoed brashly off the concrete 
walls. 

Everybody jumped. Broke off in mid-sentence and stared. Paled when they 
saw who was brandishing the saucepan. Only one voice continued its 
haranguing into the sudden silence. 

"--- and from the way you've behaved here tonight, I'd say that 
'jarhead' is nowhere near an accurate description of your --" 

"That's enough, Dr Jackson!" the General ordered. 

Daniel turned. Stared. "Oh. General. I didn't notice you come in." 

"Obviously," the General said. Then he handed the saucepan to the 
stunned airman, and turned his unimpressed gaze onto the rest of the 
room. His displeasure was as cold as winter, and as deep. "To say the 
least, I am disappointed. This is not how I expect my people to conduct 
themselves. I don't know who started this, and I don't care. I am 
stopping it. Right now. And I don't want a repeat performance. Ever. Do 
I make myself clear?" 

Lots of nods and mutters and yessirs. 

"I suggest that if you're done with eating, you find yourselves 
something else to do. Understood?" More nods and mutters and yessirs. 

"Then you're all dismissed. Dr Fraiser, a word?" 

With a last look at Daniel and Sam, I withdrew and accompanied the 
General as he marched along the corridor, fuming. Once clear of any kind 
of audience, he stopped and glared at me. 

"Would you care to explain what that was all about?" 

I took a deep breath. Let it out. "Sir ... we've just survived a pretty 
major crisis. Or maybe I should say, another major crisis. Anxiety 
levels are running high right now. Plus there's the matter of SG10. 
Frankly, I'd be more surprised if there wasn't some kind of reaction 
from the personnel." 

Hammond wiped his hand down his face. He looked tired and stressed and 
full of headache. "Doctor, I have enough on my plate at the moment 
without this kind of nonsense! In five days' time I have to appear 
before the President and the Joint Chiefs with a complete explanation as 
to how this latest major crisis happened, why I allowed it to happen, 
and how we're going to prevent anything like it happening again. In 
other words, Doctor, I don't expect to be seeing my own bed for a while. 
And now you're telling me I have a morale crisis to deal with as well?" 

"Not a crisis, sir, no," I said quickly. Not because it wasn't true, 
since I had the nasty feeling that it might be. I just didn't want to 
give him anything more to worry about. "What we saw then was a natural 
response to anxiety and grief. I'll set up a counselling schedule first 
thing in the morning." 

"Yes, you do that," the General said. Let out a gusty sigh. "How's 
Colonel O'Neill doing?" 

"He's still sleeping, sir," I said. 

The General grunted. Rubbed his eyes again. Scowled, and said, "Do you 
know who Cromwell was?' 

I shook my head. "You mean apart from being a Special Forces operative? 
No, sir, I don't. Why? Should I?" 

"Not really. I just thought you might have made the connection," the 
General said. "Among other things, Cromwell was the man responsible for 
O'Neill's imprisonment and torture in Iraq. The man who left him 
behind." 

Understanding dawned hot and bright. Dammit, I should have remembered. 
"Oh," I said. Shit. 

The General's expression suggested he thought so, too. "By the time I 
found out, it was too late. He'd already been deployed here." 

"I see." 

And I did. We both did. The General and I know Jack's service and 
medical records better than anyone. Maybe even better than he knows them 
himself. The Iraq entries are about the hardest to read. I don't let 
myself think about what it must have been like to actually live them. 
There is such a thing as having too vivid an imagination. 

"To make matters worse," the General added, "Cromwell and O'Neill were 
friends before the Iraq debacle." 

Double shit. 

"In that case, sir," I said carefully, "I'll make sure I include a 
mandatory counselling session for Colonel O'Neill." 

"You do that," General Hammond said. "For all the good it'll do any of 
us." 

"We should at least try," I pointed out. 

He managed a tired, resigned smile. "We should. Now if you'll excuse me, 
Doctor, I have a great deal of work to get back to." 

I watched him walk wearily away. Not a young man any more. Bowed down by 
the impossible task of overseeing the Stargate Project. Of knowing the 
safety of an entire world was in his hands. 

I kind of found myself thinking that maybe Brad Davies had a point. 

Heaving a pretty gusty sigh of my own, I went back to my office. 
Consoled my rumbling stomach with an apple, and started drawing up the 
counselling roster. 

 Jack regained consciousness at 1224 the next day. Sooner than I'd 
anticipated, but then that's Jack for you. Always confounding 
expectations. He didn't last long, though. It was another ten hours 
before he surfaced again. I was still at the base, working late, trying 
to catch up on the mountain of paperwork that accumulates whenever my 
back is turned ... and often when it isn't. I was tired, and cross, and 
missing Cassie, even though I knew she was tickled pink to have another 
night with her best friend Libby. 

One of the nurses, Emily, came to get me. 

"It's Colonel O'Neill," she said. "I think you'd better come." 

I managed -- barely -- to keep myself from running. Oh God, oh God. 
Blood clot? Subarachnoid haemorrhage? Aneurism? Please, please, please 
... 

He was alone. Tangled in his bedclothes. Sweat soaked and struggling in 
the grip of nightmare. 

"It's okay, I'll handle it," I told Emily. "Close the door after you." 

One look at his face and I knew what he was reliving. I didn't need the 
sound effects, but for my sins I got them anyway. My skin crawled. No 
human being should ever be forced to make noises like that. 

No human being should ever be tortured. 

"Jack," I said, flicking on the bedlight and taking hold of his 
shoulder. "Jack! It's okay, you're dreaming, it's not real. Wake up, 
wake up!" 

On a throttled cry he woke. I got the basin to him just in time. Placed 
it discreetly out of view when the retching was done, wiped him clean 
with a damp cloth, helped him untangle the sheet and blanket, pulled a 
chair up to the bedside, and waited. 

Far, far beyond speech he lay there, curled on his side. Shaking. Time 
passed. After a while he began to relax. The tremors eased. Eventually 
they ceased. His face regained some mobility, and his eyes refocused, 
looked outwards instead of deep within. He looked at me. His lips framed 
a single word: Thanks. 

"You're welcome," I said. Relief made my eyes water. 

He coughed. Swallowed. Grimaced at the lingering taste of bile and 
whispered, "Flashback." 

I nodded. "Do you want some water?" 

"Please." 

I fetched the water. Helped him sit up. Steadied his hand as he held the 
glass and drank. Put the glass on the nightstand and said, "How long is 
it since that's happened?" 

Cautiously he lay down again. "A while. Years, since ... that." 

The urge to touch him was overpowering. I straightened the blanket. "You 
okay?" Yes, I know. A stupid question. But I wasn't prepared for feeling 
so ... fraught. Like I said. The curse of a vivid imagination. 

He gifted me with the truth. "No. Not really." Then added, with the 
ghost of a smile, "I could use a drink." 

And so say all of us. "Sorry," I told him. "Not with a head injury." 

He pulled a face. Reached out a still unsteady hand and touched my 
wrist. "I'm sorry, too. Didn't mean to scare you." 

"You didn't," I said. Then added, hesitantly, "I'm so sorry about SG10. 
Hank. And Colonel Cromwell." 

He flinched. Turned his face away. Closed his eyes. 

I'd lost him. 

Beyond the closed door, base life continued. A trolley rattled down the 
corridor. Someone coughed. Someone else laughed. Somewhere nearby a 
radio played hits from the Eighties. Jack opened his eyes. 

"Still here?" 

"You're right," I said. "Who can sleep with someone staring at them? 
I'll leave you to rest. Did you want something to help you settle?" 

"No. I'm fine." 

He didn't look fine. Sound fine. He looked like he needed to be held ... 
like he'd shatter if anyone tried. I touched his wrist for a moment, 
felt the scudding pulse beneath my fingers. He withdrew his arm. His 
attention. Crawled back inside himself like a hurt animal retreating to 
safety. 

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," I said. "Okay?" 

"Okay," he replied, distantly. And didn't ask me to turn off the 
bedlight. 

                         *******************

When I checked on him again the next morning, Daniel and Teal'c were 
there. Standing on either side of the bed with such helpless expressions 
that if I hadn't been worried, I'd have laughed. 

"Doctor Fraiser!" Daniel said, and mimed panic at me. "Hey, Jack, look 
who's here." 

Subdued, listless, Jack didn't lower his gaze from the overhead airduct. 
Daniel pulled a succession of faces designed, I think, to warn me that 
Jack wasn't feeling too chipper this morning. He needn't have bothered, 
I could see it for myself. 

I'd run into Emily as she was leaving, and she'd told me there'd been 
two more incidents through the night. In the end they'd given him a mild 
sedative, ignoring his bitter protests, insisting that he needed the 
rest. But it didn't seem to have done him much good. His eyes were 
sunken and shadowed, his face pale and drawn. He looked exhausted. 
Battered. 

Teal'c said, "We have been attempting to lift Colonel O'Neill's spirits, 
but with little success, I am afraid." 

Jack roused himself enough to give Teal'c a dirty look. "I'm fine. Go 
away." 

"You are not fine, O'Neill," Teal'c replied. "If you were fine, you 
would not be in the Infirmary." 

"Don't you have work to do?" Jack said. "I told you, I'm fine. Just 
leave me alone." 

"Actually," I said, before the situation turned really nasty, "I do need 
a word with Colonel O'Neill in private. You can come back later." 

"Or not," said Jack. 

Daniel and Teal'c withdrew, Teal'c impassive as ever, Daniel still 
pulling faces. 

"There's no need to be rude," I said. "They're only trying to help." 

"I don't need help," said Jack. "I don't need anything, except for 
everyone to get off my case. This place is like Grand Central Station, 
I've had Carter in here and Hammond and that bloody shrink, Daniel and 
Teal'c and now you." 

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a packet of painkillers. 
"Take these." 

"No," he said. "What are they?" 

"Painkillers. It's obvious you've got a headache." 

"Of course I've got a headache," he snapped. "I can't get five minutes 
peace." 

"You've got a headache," I said, "because you're still recovering from 
concussion. Now stop acting like a spoilt brat and swallow the damned 
pills." 

He treated me to a vintage filthy look, but snatched the packet from my 
fingers, upended the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a 
swallow of water. Then he slumped back against his pillows and went back 
to staring at the ceiling, aggression swamped once more by gloom. 

"Jack --" I said, ready to tell him a few home truths. Then I stopped. 
I'd be wasting my breath. Instead I pulled his blankets straight. 
Touched his hand, briefly. "Get some rest, Colonel. I'll check in on you 
later." 

                         *******************

There was a message waiting for me at the duty nurse's desk. Please see 
General Hammond at once. Frowning, I let the Infirmary staff know where 
I was going and went to find out what he wanted. Not more bad news, I 
pleaded silently. I can't take any more right now. 

Sam, Daniel and Teal'c were waiting outside his office door. 

"He'll be back in a minute," said Daniel. 

"Do you know what this is about?" I asked. 

"We do not," said Teal'c. 

I looked at Sam. "How are you doing?" I said. I hadn't seen her since 
the mess hall incident, she'd been cooped up in the briefing room with 
the rest of the Project scientists, trying to work out exactly what had 
gone wrong, and why. She looked tired. 

"I'm fine," she replied. "Really. A little stir crazy, maybe." 

"Any progress?" 

She shrugged. "Some. I just don't know whether it'll be enough." 

"Geez," said Daniel. "You saved the planet, Sam. What else do they 
want?" 

"Assurances that we won't have to save it again," she replied. "Problem 
is, I can't give them any." 

Daniel bumped his shoulder against hers. "You're doing your best. That's 
all they can expect." 

Sam and I exchanged a look. Dear Daniel. No matter how hard he tried, he 
couldn't quite seem to wrap his mind around the concept of Military 
Thinking. 

Daniel said, "We were just talking about Jack. We think there's 
something wrong." 

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Said, "Really?" 

Daniel stared at me for a long, silent moment. "Really. Is there 
something going on we should know about?" 

Before I was forced to lie, General Hammond returned. "Sorry to keep 
you, people. Please, go in." His manner was pleasant. He was freshly 
shaven, spit and polished to his fingertips, no outward signs of 
catastrophe .... but all my alarm bells were ringing. Maybe because he 
refused to meet my questioning look. 

Into his office we trooped, to find four chairs ready and waiting. We 
sat, like kids in the principal's office, and exchanged surreptitious 
glances. 

Sliding in behind his desk, the General folded his hands in front of him 
and surveyed us with a curious intensity. Grave. Determined. My alarm 
bells were ringing so loudly it was a wonder no-one else could hear 
them. 

"Thank you for coming," the General said. "I know that you're all 
extremely busy right now. But something has arisen that affects each of 
us, and after due consideration I felt it necessary to address the 
matter directly." 

More swift looks. 

"As you by now have probably all realised," said the General, "it's not 
my habit to discuss one member of the SGC staff with another. What each 
of us chooses to tell others about himself or his past is up to us. Some 
of us are happy to discuss our personal and private lives, and others 
prefer to keep that information to ourselves. It's certainly nobody 
else's business but our own." He paused, and we nodded. No arguments 
there. He continued, "Recent events, however, have conspired to place me 
in the position of having to break that rule. I don't do it lightly. I 
don't do it happily. And I do it with the expectation that what gets 
said here, now, within these four walls, will go no further. Is that 
understood?" 

We all murmured appropriately. Daniel said, "This wouldn't be about 
Jack, by any chance, would it, General?" 

For a moment Hammond looked startled. Then his face relaxed into a tiny 
smile. "That's very perceptive of you, Doctor Jackson. Yes, it would." 

Sam turned to me. "He's all right, isn't he? He hasn't had a relapse, or 
anything?" 

"No," I said. "He hasn't." 

"Physically, Captain, Colonel O'Neill is just fine," the General 
reassured her. 

"But emotionally he's a wreck," said Daniel. "Because of SG10? Or is 
there something else?" 

Dear, dear Daniel. Flying in at a hundred miles an hour where no angel 
would even look, let alone tread. And seeing straight to the heart of 
the dilemma, as always. 

The General said, "The loss of SG10 is certainly part of the problem. 
You all know how much work Colonel O'Neill put into preparing them for 
their first away mission. You know how close he was to them, and to 
Henry Boyd in particular. And you know he will blame himself for their 
deaths." 

"Which is utterly ridiculous," said Daniel. "How could it possibly be 
Jack's fault? It was an accident. A horrible, awful accident." 

"I know that, son," the General said. "So do you. But Jack O'Neill 
doesn't see things that way. One of the reasons he's such a good officer 
is because he takes his responsibilities so seriously. Nothing is more 
important to him than the welfare and safety of his team. And, rightly 
or wrongly, he looked upon SG10 as his team. Without even talking to him 
about it, I can tell you for a fact that he considers their deaths a 
personal failure. That he feels he overlooked something that would have 
enabled them to save themselves from the black hole. " He looked at me. 
"Would you concur with that assessment, Doctor?" 

I was so angry with him, I could have spit. Because I knew what was 
coming, I knew what he was going to do. How far he was going to take 
this. I knew why, too, but that didn't make it okay. I wanted to run out 
of the room. To thump my fist on his desk and shout, Don't you dare drag 
me into this! Not without asking, not without making sure I agreed. And 
I didn't. This was a gross violation of confidence, and I didn't want 
any part of it. 

But if I walked out. If I left him to it -- I wouldn't know exactly what 
was said. I needed to know. Needed to be able to control the damage. 

So coldly, letting him know I was not impressed, I said, "Yes. Colonel 
O'Neill is likely to take their loss very personally indeed. I know that 
Hank Boyd considered him a great friend, and his mentor." 

Late one Tuesday night, over mouth-searing pepperoni pizza, Hank said to 
me: I wish you'd known him before his kid died. He was different, then. 
He laughed a lot. Seeing him now, it -- well, it hurts. It's like he's 
been crippled. 

I said: But he does laugh, Hank. You make him laugh. 

He grinned at me, that silly, cheesy grin we'd all fallen in love with. 
Then it faded, and his long face was serious. "I owe him everything, 
Doc. I owe him my life. And I miss the old Jack. 

My heart gave a painful double thump, and I bit my lip, hard. Hank. 

Daniel said, "Okay. I understand that Jack's upset about Hank's death. 
And everyone else's. We all are. But he's not a sentimental person. SG10 
isn't the first team we've lost. I don't see why this time is so 
different." 

General Hammond held up a hand. "Bear with me. I'm getting to that." He 
took a deep breath. Eased it out. "What do you people know about Colonel 
O'Neill's involvement in Operation Desert Storm?" 

"Desert Storm?" said Teal'c. "I am unfamiliar with this conflict." He 
looked at Daniel. 

"Wouldn't have a clue what he did," said Daniel. "Jack's not much into 
battle reminiscences." 

"I asked him, once," said Sam. "Making conversation. You know ... I was 
flying support out of Saudi during Desert Storm, sir, where were you?" 

"What did he say?" said Daniel. 

Sam's expression was mystified. "'Club Med.'" 

Daniel's eyebrows rose. "'Club Med?" 

She pulled a face. "I took it he meant 'butt out, Captain', so I didn't 
pursue it. I like my head on my shoulders, if you know what I mean." 

The General was smiling, a grim, not very amused little smile. "I expect 
he was telling you to mind your own business, Captain," he said. "But in 
his own way, he was also telling you the truth. Colonel O'Neill spent 
most of Operation Desert Storm in an Iraqi prison." 

Into the shocked silence Sam said, "Oh, my God." 

Daniel, staring into thin air with a remembering, bemused look on his 
face said, "So that's what he meant." 

I just sat there, feeling sick. 

Hammond continued, "At the time of the Gulf War, he was Major O'Neill, 
and 2IC of a 55th Special Operations team led by Colonel Frank Cromwell. 
As well as colleagues, they were close friends. They even had a 
nickname: The Bobbsey Twins. Their wives were like sisters, their kids 
played together. You get the picture." 

Daniel turned to Sam. "I thought you said there was some kind of problem 
between them?" 

"There was," said Sam. 

"So what happened?" Daniel asked Hammond. 

"I'm getting to that, Doctor Jackson," said the General, not entirely 
thrilled by the interruption. "Cromwell's team was sent behind enemy 
lines on an extremely sensitive, extremely dangerous mission. Somehow, 
the Iraqis found out they were coming. The mission was blown, and 
O'Neill was shot. According to Colonel Cromwell, it appeared that he was 
dead. Retrieving the body would have jeapordised the rest of the team, 
so he pulled them out. They barely escaped with their lives." 

"Except that Jack wasn't dead," said Daniel. "Whoops." 

"Intelligence discovered that O'Neill was still alive and being held by 
the Iraqis," the General continued, after giving Daniel a look. "When 
Frank Cromwell found out that he'd left his friend wounded and in enemy 
hands, he was beside himself. Tried everything he could to get a rescue 
mission mounted. Just about scuttled his own career in the process. But 
rescue was deemed too dangerous and permission was refused." 

"Refused?" Daniel echoed. He looked ill, and angry. "How could they? The 
military must have known what the Iraqis would do to Jack. How could 
they refuse? How could they just -- just abandon him like that?" 

"The risks were higher than the likelihood of a positive outcome," Sam 
said quietly. "It's not good strategy to endanger ten lives for one." 

"Strategy?" Daniel spat, choking on the word. Indignant and furious and 
horrified as only Daniel can be when faced with harsh military reality. 
"What happened to loyalty?" 

"If you think the decision was taken lightly, Doctor, you're very much 
mistaken," the General said, his tone touched with ice. "Wait till 
you're in a similar position yourself before you pass judgement on those 
who are." 

Unabashed, Daniel said, "Sorry. So ... what did they do to him?" 

The General gave me the minutest of nods, and I cleared my throat. 
Treated him to another glare, and said, "During his four months in Iraqi 
detention, Colonel O'Neill was subjected to regular physical and mental 
torture in an effort to make him reveal key US Military information." 

I kept my tone cool and distant like a college lecture. Striving for the 
impersonal, because anything more than that was too painful. Remembered 
his face, his voice, as he dreamed of that time, and failed, utterly. 
Saw in my mind's eye the photographs, the medical reports, Jack's 
debriefing notes. After all, it's always useful to know what little 
tricks of persuasion the enemy's getting up to. As it turned out, 
nothing new. Just good old fashioned sleep deprivation, starvation, 
electricity and beatings. Lots of beatings. And humiliations so 
degrading, so foul, it turned my stomach just to think of them. 

Four months in prison, two months in hospital, another month of sick 
leave after that. And the scars in mind and body that will never, ever 
heal. 

"Torture," said Daniel. "For four months." He shook his head slowly. 
Disbelievingly. "Why isn't he dead?" 

General Hammond snorted. "God knows, Dr Jackson. From the evidence it 
would appear that He isn't finished with Jack O'Neill just yet." 

"He did not break," said Teal'c. Said it like he'd been there, said it 
like it was written in stone. There was a cold, fierce satisfaction in 
his face. 

The General smiled. "He did better than that. He held out for three 
months. Then he pretended to break, and fed them enough disinformation 
to keep their wires crossed for a year." 

I already knew that. I watched Sam and Daniel and Teal'c exchange looks, 
watched them think about it. Absorb the implications. Imagine the 
reality behind the deceptively benign words. 

"Wow," said Daniel. "That's .... pretty amazing. Even for Jack." 

"He was made a Colonel on the strength of it," said the General. Then he 
gave an inelegant little snort. "There are times, I swear, when stuffed 
shirts like Mayborne and Samuels and a few others I could mention whinge 
and bitch and moan about O'Neill's manners and lack of military decorum, 
I just want to grab his service record and rub their noses in it till 
they bleed." 

"Why do you not do so?" said Teal'c. 

The General just shook his head. "Because, Teal'c, ninetynine percent of 
it is classified. Because it wouldn't be appropriate. Because Jack 
O'Neill doesn't need defending by me, or anyone else for that matter." 
He sighed. Allowed a rueful smile. "But it sure would feel good." 

It sure would. For a brief moment the five of us indulged in a mutual 
fantasy involving revenge, comeuppances and grovelling apologies ... 
then Daniel said, "You said Colonel Cromwell thought he was dead? That 
means Sara and Charlie thought he was dead, too. God!" 

So much for lightening the mood. 

"We were at war, Doctor Jackson," the General pointed out heavily. 
"Mistakes happen in war." 

I could see Daniel wanted to argue, wanted to rail and fight and scream 
against what had been done to Jack. So did I. We'd never talked about 
it. I doubt he ever spoke of it again, once the inescapable debriefings 
were done with. Not even to Sara. Not that I know for sure, of course 
... it's just a feeling. Bad enough to live through that kind of 
treatment once. Worse to have to detail it, blow by bruising blow, for 
doctors and psychiatrists and curious superiors and all his peers. For 
Jack, private to the point of paranoia, a second torture as unbearable 
as the first. To go through it a third time, even for his wife ... 
unthinkable. 

Besides. I couldn't imagine Jack subjecting someone he loved, who loved 
him, to those kinds of images. 

"So how did we get Jack back?" said Daniel. "Did he escape?" 

"No," said the General. "Not even Jack O'Neill could escape from a 
maximum security Iraqi prison." Our eyes met, and in them I saw the 
knowledge we unwillingly shared. Vicarious memories of savagery and 
suffering visited on a helpless, wounded man. "Not in the condition he 
was in. He was released at the end of hostilities." 

He took a deep breath and let it out. I wondered if he was regretting 
his decision to break confidence, now that it was far too late to turn 
back. 

If he was, there was no sign of it in his face. 

He continued, "Once O'Neill was free, Colonel Cromwell tried again and 
again to see him in the hospital. O'Neill flat refused. Eventually 
Cromwell gave up. Once he was declared fit for active duty, the newly 
promoted Colonel O'Neill was put in charge of his own team. He moved to 
a different theatre of operations. Managed to avoid Cromwell from that 
point on. To the best of my knowledge, they hadn't spoken since the day 
O'Neill was taken prisoner in Iraq. Not until --" He scowled. "Whatever 
the hell day it was down here that they met." 

"Seven years," said Sam. "Seven years without once talking. Wow. That's 
what I call holding a grudge." 

"O'Neill suffered greatly as a result of Cromwell's erroneous 
assumption," Teal'c said. "It was not unreasonable for him to be angry." 

"Angry, yes," said Sam. "But to cut him dead like that? His best friend? 
To not even give him a chance to explain? Tell his side of what 
happened? Holy Hannah." 

The General frowned. Picked up a pen and tapped it end to end on his 
desk blotter. Since I know his file about as well as I know Jack's, I 
had a suspicion of what was shadowing his eyes. Thinning his lips. Jack 
isn't the only one with demons. He said, "Time doesn't heal all wounds, 
Captain, although we like to think it does. Some wounds never heal, no 
matter how many different bandaids we try." It was indeed a sobering 
thought. The General's old fashioned carriage clock ticked quietly into 
the hush as we all sat and considered this new aspect of Jack O'Neill. 

"Now," said the General, "to bring this up to date. While I was at the 
Pentagon briefing the President and the Joint Chiefs, I was approached 
by General Grant Hill. We go back aways. He's in Special Forces 
Operations, has been for the last fifteen years, one way and another. He 
knows Colonel O'Neill, and he knew Frank Cromwell. Knew them both very 
well before, during and after Desert Storm. " 

"What did he want?' asked Daniel. 

"To warn me that Frank Cromwell was leading the team sent to investigate 
our communications blackout." 

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "He anticipated trouble? Why then did he 
authorise Colonel Cromwell's deployment?" 

"Colonel Cromwell," the General said carefully, "requested the 
assignment. Forcefully. General Hill's exact words were,  'He damned 
near stood on my desk refusing to get off till I said yes'." 

"But why?" said Sam. "Unless --" 

"Unless he knew Colonel O'Neill was here," I finished. Despite myself, I 
was interested. I'd wanted to know the story behind Jack and Cromwell. 
Had thought maybe I'd hear it from Jack. Never expected to find out this 
way. A small part of me was ashamed ... but mostly, well, I was 
interested. 

So sue me. 

"Jack was his friend," Daniel said. His glasses flashed in the lamplight 
from the General's desk. "Despite everything." 

"Cromwell must have kept himself apprised of O'Neill's activities," said 
Teal'c. 

"Yeah," agreed Daniel. "And when he realised Jack might be in serious 
trouble ..." 

"He came to his immediate assistance," said Teal'c. "A good friend, 
then." He glanced at Daniel. "Despite everything." 

"But that means Colonel Cromwell already knew about the Stargate 
project, " Sam said. "How is that possible? He's Special Forces, he's 
got nothing to do with us." 

The General took a moment to answer. "As a result of Apophis' aborted 
attack on Earth," he said eventually, "and one or two other incidents, 
it was decided that awareness of the project would be extended to a 
handful of elite Special Forces teams, in the event of a hostile alien 
takeover here in the base. Colonel Cromwell's team was one of them." 

"And suddenly," said Daniel, to no one in particular, "the word 'secret' 
takes on a whole new garrulous meaning." 

"So what you're saying, sir," said Sam, "is that Colonel Cromwell, even 
after seven years of silence, came racing up here the minute he heard we 
might be -- that Colonel O'Neill might be -- in serious trouble." 

"Yes, Captain, that's what I'm saying." 

"And that because he did that, he's now dead," added Daniel. 

The General nodded. "It's one way of looking at it," he agreed. 

"And you believe that O'Neill will hold himself responsible for this 
death as well as the loss of SG10," said Teal'c. 

"That's about the size of it, yes," said the General. 

"But like Sam said," Daniel pointed out. "They hadn't spoken for seven 
years. As far as Jack's concerned, the friendship's been over since 
1991. What makes you think he still cares?" 

"He cares, Daniel," said Sam. She and the General exchanged a long, 
silent look. "He cares." 

We all thought about that for a while. Then Daniel stirred. Turned to 
Sam. "Do you think there's a chance they might have worked things out 
before Cromwell died?" 

She spread her hands wide, shrugging. "Geez, Daniel, I have no idea. 
From our perspective they were down here alone for hours ... but to 
them, it was minutes. And they were co-ordinating the automatic 
destruction of the entire base. I don't see that there was time for a 
heart to heart. Besides ... you know the Colonel. How likely does it 
seem to you?" 

Daniel slumped. "Not very." 

"Well, maybe they did and maybe they didn't," said General Hammond. 
"Frankly, I'm not sure which is worse. Losing the chance to ever put 
right what was wrong between them, or putting it right and then losing 
him. The point is, Frank Cromwell is dead. Colonel O'Neill tried to save 
him, and failed. He wanted to save Hank Boyd and his team, because he 
couldn't stand the idea of leaving them behind, and he failed there, 
too." 

"And even though none of it was his fault, Jack's blaming himself," said 
Daniel. He looked at all of us. "You know he is. Look how he's 
behaving." 

"I believe you are correct, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c said. "But how can 
we help? O'Neill has made it clear he wishes to be left alone. Surely we 
must respect that desire." 

"Even though it's the last thing he needs?" Daniel countered. "And it 
is. Trust me. I've seen this before. You haven't. That first mission to 
Abydos? It was five months after Charlie died. He was a walking dead 
man. If he reacts even half as badly this time as he did then, we're 
going to have a real problem on our hands. I can't stand by and watch 
him go through that again without trying to help. And I won't." 

"So what do you suggest we do?" said Sam. "If he orders me out of the 
room, what then? He's my superior officer." 

"We're not here because he's our superior officer," Daniel replied 
impatiently. "We're here because he's our friend. And friends do what 
needs to be done, no matter how hard it is. Ever since we got on this 
roller coaster he's been there for us, every step of the way. Now it's 
our turn to be there for him. Whether he wants us, or not." 

Hammond looked at me then, and behind his carefully neutral mask I could 
see his triumph. He'd gotten what he wanted. Unilateral support for 
interfering in Jack's life. And yes, it was very moving, this swift and 
unconditional support of Jack. But it didn't alter the facts: Hammond 
was playing with fire. 

I would have been a lot happier if I didn't suspect he'd cast me in the 
role of fireman. 

"I hope I'm right," said Daniel abruptly, breaking the silence. "I hope 
they worked things out. To go the rest of your life knowing you can 
never, ever say the things you wanted to say, meant to say .... and for 
Cromwell to die without being able to say he was sorry ... for Jack not 
to hear it ... " He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips, 
to hide the swift tremor. 

Another pause, fraught with emotion. After a moment General Hammond 
cleared his throat. "As I said at the beginning, I don't want this 
discussed with anyone else. But you four are the closest people to him. 
I thought you should know the background, so that you'd understand why 
in the coming days he might be --" 

"Difficult?" Daniel suggested. 

"Difficult," Hammond agreed. "Exactly." 

"Thank you, General," Teal'c said. "Your confidence will not be 
misplaced." 

"We'll do whatever we can, sir," Sam added. 

"I know you will," the General replied. "It's why I told you. Now, I 
won't keep you any longer. I know you're all busy. Dismissed." 

Silently we filed out of his office. Stood in the corridor like lost 
sheep, blinking at each other. Daniel said, suddenly stricken, "God. No 
wonder he was so angry with me over Shyla. The naqueda mine. It was 
Cromwell and Iraq all over again." 

"Hey," said Sam, gently, and rested her hand on his shoulder. Gave him a 
little shake. "That's over. Okay? Remember what we agreed?" And then she 
smiled, a small, mischievous smile. "Besides, look on the bright side. 
At least he didn't stop talking to you." 

Daniel managed a kind of watery chuckle. Sniffed. "Well. Not for long, 
anyway." 

And then we stared at the floor, the walls, our fingernails. What now? 
Did we pretend the last half hour hadn't happened? Go away on our own 
and think about what we'd learned? Find somewhere to sit, in private, 
and talk about it? It was the last thing I wanted. Everyone knows I know 
a lot of stuff about all the SGC personnel. Private stuff. Stuff you 
wouldn't want anyone else to know. And everyone knows that of course I 
would never discuss it. But now Hammond had opened the door on questions 
I didn't want to be asked, didn't want to answer. Not just for Jack's 
sake. For mine, too. 

So we stood there, avoiding each other's eyes, chewing our lips. Until 
Teal'c said, "I must return to the Gateroom. I am assisting with the 
installation of the new iris." 

Staring, Daniel said, "You mean you're not going to sleep at the foot of 
Jack's bed? Teal'c!" 

"If it were not for the new iris, I would indeed take my place at 
O'Neill's side," said Teal'c. "And I will do so, once my other duties 
have been discharged." 

"He's teasing, Teal'c," said Sam, and slapped Daniel. "Stop it." 

He clutched his arm in mock agony. "So what are you going to do now?" 

"Finish up my report," said Sam. "Why?" 

"Well, I've got one last box of stuff to catalogue," said Daniel. "Then 
I think we should go see Jack. Agreed?" 

Teal'c nodded. "Agreed." 

"Sam?" 

She frowned. "Yeah. I guess so. Agreed." 

So we said our goodbyes, and I watched the three of them head down the 
corridor together, united in purpose and stride and affection and worry. 

Then I rapped on Hammond's door, and went back in. 

He didn't look very surprised to see me. 

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But after seeing him this morning, I had 
no choice. Whether he cares to admit it or not, he needs his friends 
right now." 

"That may be true," I said. "But he needs control of his own life even 
more." 

The General tipped back in his chair and considered me. "If you had a 
patient in desperate straits, wouldn't you do whatever was necessary to 
save them, even though they were afraid of the pain?" 

The bastard had me, and we both knew it. 

"Keep me posted, Doctor," he said. 

"Yes, sir," I replied, and closed the door very, very gently on my way 
out. 

                         *******************

For the next six hours, I tag teamed the last of the base counselling 
sessions with Eric Avery, one of our on-call psychiatrists. It's 
exhausting work, listening to other people's griefs and fears and 
trepidations. And when you're hearing the same themes over and over 
again, as we were, it's easy to start worrying. But in this case, I had 
good cause. The blow up in the mess hall was just the tip of the 
proverbial ice berg. People were afraid. Uncertain. They were 
questioning the work, the risks, the dangers. Each other. It hadn't been 
this bad before, not even during the Apophis crisis. I think because 
nobody died, then, and we had a brilliant victory snatched from the very 
teeth of defeat. We had four good guys, and no bad guys and none of it 
could be seen as anybody's fault. 

This time was different. This time we were the bad guys, and it was our 
fault, and people died. 

My heart was heavy as I typed a preliminary report for the General, and 
had it sent up to him for appraisal. Once I'd finished that, I went for 
a wander around the Infirmary. The nature of the work means we usually 
have at least one guest at any given time.That day, apart from Jack, we 
had Helen Garver from SG11 recovering from a septic wound, SG2's Juan 
Chavez with a broken ankle and Mick Lee from SG7 getting over an 
allergic reaction to an alien plant. They all had people with them, 
chatting quietly. I've given up trying to police visiting hours. SG team 
members are welded at the hip. Wound one and they all bleed. So we just 
work around the visitors, and only kick them out if it's absolutely 
necessary. 

When I finally got around to checking on Jack, surprise, surprise: Sam, 
Daniel and Teal'c were warming chairs in his room. I stood in the 
doorway, unnoticed, and watched them. Jack asleep, twitching a little. 
Dreaming. Daniel, pencil in hand, muttering under his breath as he 
scribbled notes in the margins of whatever textbook he was devouring 
this time. In all the time I've known him, I don't think I've ever seen 
him with a novel. Sam was flicking through the latest issue of Popular 
Science. Teal'c was frowning over something, paperback dwarfed in his 
hand. 

He looked up. "I do not trust this Gandalf," he announced. 

Lowering her magazine, Sam said, "But Teal'c, Gandalf is one of the good 
guys. Really." 

"He is cryptic," said Teal'c. "He knows more than he is telling." 

"His middle name's probably Jack," said Daniel, still scribbling. 

Sam shot him an amused look, and said, "Gandalf's a wizard, Teal'c. It's 
kind of a package deal, comes with the robes and pointy hat." 

Teal'c stared at the book. "I do not recall mention of a pointy hat --" 
he began. 

Sam was laughing. "Metaphor, Teal'c, metaphor. Just -- keep reading. 
He's okay, I promise." 

Teal'c looked unconvinced, but he lifted the book again, willing to give 
it another try on her say so. Between them, Jack grunted. Flung one arm 
out. His face twisted, and his head thrashed on the pillow. 

"Frank!" he gasped, and sat bolt upright, eyes wide and staring, breath 
rasping in his throat. 

Two books and a magazine hit the floor. 

"Jack, it's okay -- it's okay." Daniel. Reaching out his hand. 

Jack knocked it aside. Fell back against the pillows. "No," he said. His 
voice was dull. Blunted. "It's not." And covered his face. 

Silently they drew close to him. Sam sat half way down the bed and took 
his free hand in hers. Daniel crouched at his shoulder, cradling the 
back of his head in his palm. Teal'c stood by his feet, fingers lightly 
upon his ankle. The only sound was Jack's ragged breathing, pressured 
and raw and perilously close to breaking. 

Daniel said, so gently, "Jack. We know about Frank." 

There was no mistaking his meaning. Jack stiffened. Said from behind his 
sheltering hand, "What do you mean, you know?" 

Sam, chafing his fingers gently, said, "We're very sorry, sir." 

"Very sorry," echoed Teal'c. 

Jack didn't order them out. Didn't pull free of their touch. He just lay 
there, stone still and silent, accepting what he couldn't ask for. 

Until that moment, I really had thought Hammond was wrong to do what he 
did. 

I closed the door and left them alone. 

                         *******************

When I stopped by to see him the next mornng, he was out of bed. 
Dressed. In a chair. Reading some kind of report. Whatever it was, he 
wasn't enjoying it. His expression was grim. 

"Good morning," I said. "I don't recall authorising you to get out of 
bed, or requisition official documents. You're still concussed." 

"I'm fine," he replied, curtly, and tossed the folder onto the neatly 
made bed. "Who told my team about Cromwell? Was it you?" 

I closed the door behind me. Pushed my hands into my pockets and came a 
little further into the room. "No. It was the General." 

"Hammond." He made the name sound ugly. 

"Colonel, before you fly off the handle, I want you to listen to me," I 
said. "He's worried about you. We're all worried. Losing Hank, SG10. 
Colonel Cromwell. None of us is blind, you know, we can see that you're 
taking this badly, and --" 

"Christ," said Jack. "Why would I do that?" 

"Be fair," I said. "He cares --" 

"Fair?" Jack interrupted, rigid with anger. "Tell me what's fair about 
any of this, Doctor! Five people dead, five good people, and for what? 
For nothing. What the hell are we doing, anyway? What's the point? 
Stargates and alien races and running around the galaxy playing Flash 
Gordon and Star Wars?" Slumping in the chair, he ground the heels of his 
hands into his eyes. Said softly, all fire quenched, "What's the damned 
point , Janet?" 

Uncertain, I stared at him. "What are you saying?" 

"I'm saying I don't want to do this anymore," Jack replied. His voice 
was liquid with despair. "I'm saying I'm tired of people dying. I'm 
tired of my friends dying. It was fun for a while, and now it's not. 
Okay? That's what I'm saying." 

I didn't know how to respond. Opened my mouth anyway ... and realised we 
weren't alone. The door was open, and General Hammond was standing 
behind me with a strange look on his face. Shock and sorrow and grim 
determination, all at once. "Colonel. Doctor Fraiser." 

I stared hard at him. Hoped he could read the warning signs I was 
flashing. Hear the red alert in my voice. "General." 

He looked worn. Uniform jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, he 
came into the room, pushed the door closed and said, "How are you 
feeling, Jack?" 

Jack sat up. His eyes were hard and cold. "You sonofabitch. How dare you 
divulge information about me to my team without consent?" 

Hammond didn't miss a beat, which is more than I can say for my heart. 
Reasonably, ignoring the insubordinate venom, he said, "I did what I 
thought was best, for you and your team. And this facility." 

"You had no right," Jack said, on his feet now. "If I'd wanted them to 
know I would have told them myself. What I feel about Frank Cromwell --" 
His voice betrayed him. Gratingly, he finished. "--is my business, and 
nobody else's." 

Hammond marched to the end of the bed and glared across it at Jack. 
"Sorry, Colonel, but that's where you're wrong. What you feel about the 
weather is everybody's business, because you're not in the habit of 
keeping your opinions to yourself. In my considerably experienced 
judgement, your team had a right to know what was going on behind the 
scenes, and if I thought for one moment that you'd tell them yourself, I 
never would have opened my mouth. But we both know that wasn't about to 
happen, don't we?" 

"Maybe it would have and maybe it wouldn't," said Jack. "Either way, it 
wasn't your decision to make. It was mine." 

Hammond held his ground. "I disagree." 

"So what exactly did you tell them?" Jack demanded. 

"What they needed to know," Hammond replied. "Nothing more." 

"Like what?" 

I cleared my throat. Time for a little damage control, before things got 
said that would come back to haunt us all. "Just that you and Colonel 
Cromwell served together in the Gulf. That as a result of a compromised 
mission you were captured and held prisoner by the Iraqi.... and that 
your friendship with Cromwell ended because of it. That was all, 
Colonel. No -- details." 

Slowly Jack turned his head to look at me. The expression on his face 
pushed me back two paces and into another chair. One leg was missing its 
rubber stopper; the scrape of metal on linoleum was loud. "You were 
there?" he asked, softly. "And you allowed it?" 

"I -- had my doubts at the time," I said, chin up, hands fisted in my 
coat pockets to stop the shaking. "But now I think --" 

He looked away, and I ceased to exist. 

It's what he did to Frank Cromwell for seven years ... what he did to 
Daniel, for a much shorter period. Hey presto: now you see us ... now 
you don't. 

It's not an experience I'd recommend. 

"Don't blame Dr Fraiser," said the General. "It was my decision. My 
doing." 

"Then God damn you," said Jack, as quietly vicious as ever I've heard 
him. "God damn you to hell. Sir." 

"I'm sure He'll take the recommendation under advisement," said the 
General. "In the meantime, you think on this, son. I've been watching 
you for more than two years, now. I know how you operate. It's the way 
you've always operated. When the going gets tough, you walk. Oh, I'm not 
talking about physical courage. You've got that. No question. But 
emotionally? You're a ninety pound weakling who gets sand kicked in his 
face. You walked out on Frank Cromwell. You walked out on your marriage. 
You damn near walked out on your own life. You wanted to walk out of 
here last year when we thought Jackson was dead. And now we've lost 
SG10, and the Air Force has lost Frank Cromwell, and here you are 
getting ready to lace on your walking shoes again. Well, you can throw 
them back in your locker, airman, because you're not going anywhere. 
Your team needs you. I need you. We're staring down the barrel of a 
major morale crisis and whether you like it or not, folks in this place 
will be looking to you for a lead. I won't have you leading them out the 
front door." 

Chalk white, unflinching, Jack held Hammond's gaze. With deceptive calm 
he said, "I can do whatever I want." 

"Not in my Air Force you can't," Hammond retorted. "You want to know 
what the point is, Colonel? I'll tell you. The point is that Senator 
Kinsey was right. Nearly four years ago we did indeed open Pandora's 
box. Actually, you opened it. You and Daniel and Sam and Catherine ... 
the whole damned lot of you. You got that Stargate operational and you 
went through it and you changed the course of human history. So now, 
instead of enjoying my well earned retirement teaching my granddaughters 
the finer points of fly fishing, I am spending my twilight years 
lurching from crisis to crisis, flying by the seat of my pants, trying 
to keep a lid on everything from alien invasions to deadly viruses to 
renegade black holes! And if you think I'm doing it without you, then 
you can think again." 

"So quit, if you hate it so much, " said Jack. 

"Trust me, Colonel, trust me: there are days when I wish I could. But I 
swore an oath to protect this country, and I keep my promises," the 
General retorted. "Henry Boyd and his team swore that same oath. So did 
Frank Cromwell. They died doing what they believed in. They died in the 
service of their country. Their ... planet. So here's the thing, 
Colonel. How are you going to honour their memories? By walking away? Or 
by upholding the oath you swore. By finishing what you started. You 
think about it." He turned on his heel and marched out, snapping the 
door shut behind him. 

Almost too shocked to breathe, I stared after him. Stared at Jack, whose 
face was a blank mask. "I'll -- I'll be right back," I stammered, and 
left. 

I caught up with the General half way down the corridor. Ducked in front 
of him so he couldn't get past, and stared up at him, fists planted on 
my hips. "That -- that --" I took a deep breath. "That was cruel." 

All the belligerence and righteous anger were gone. Hammond looked old, 
and tired, and inexpressibly sad. "Yes, Doctor. I know." 

I wasn't expecting that. Nonplussed, I shook my head. "Sir -- what did 
you expect? You must have known he'd be furious when he found out." 

He nodded. "Furious I'm used to. Furious I can deal with. What I can't 
deal with right now is Jack O'Neill in a full blown depression." 

"Why General, I wasn't aware you had a degree in psychiatry," I said, 
way too angry to care about protocol. 

His lips pinched at that, but he let it go. "I know I was hard on him. I 
didn't have any choice. I fly to Washington on Saturday for my meeting 
with the President and the Joint Chiefs. God alone knows how long it's 
going to take me to rescue the Project from annihilation after this 
latest fiasco. Or even if I can. But no matter what happens in that 
meeting, I have to know that while I'm away, this facility isn't going 
to fall into a heap. I have to know that Jack O'Neill is here, on his 
feet and functioning in his capacity as second in command, and the 
fastest way I know to achieve that right now is to make him mad. You 
know damned well we're facing a morale crisis, Doctor, you wrote the 
report! I need him to be part of the solution, not part of the problem. 
If I'd thought all he needed was to break a few windows, I'd have given 
him my car. Hell, I'd have given him both! But it's a damned sight more 
serious than that this time, and you know it." 

"General, I fail to see what my report has to do with what I just saw 
and heard," I snapped. "Jack O'Neill has just lost two very close 
friends and three other people he worked with on a daily basis. What he 
needs is the room to grieve in his own way, in his own time. And if that 
means he gets to be depressed for a week, or two weeks, or a month, I --
" 

The General held up his hand. "Right now I can't afford to care about 
what he needs. What I need is more important." The shock must have shown 
in my face, because he reached out and touched my arm. Lightly. Softened 
his voice, and his face. "You're a good doctor, Janet. You care about 
your patients. I appreciate that. I rely on it. But I am Commander of 
this base. This project. And I have an obligation to everybody here, to 
this country, to this planet, God help me, to see that nothing and 
nobody compromises the work that we do. Not even Jack O'Neill." 

"Even though," I said, grittily, "he has just bought the safety of this 
base, this country, this planet, with his own blood and pain? Again?" 

That hit home. For a moment the General couldn't speak. Then he pulled a 
wry face. Shifted his briefcase into his other hand, and flexed his 
fingers. "Ordinarily I'd agree with you," he said. "No argument. But 
look around you, Doctor. This isn't an ordinary place, and we don't lead 
ordinary lives. If you think I enjoy this, you do me a grave 
disservice." 

Against my will, I could feel the anger draining away. "I don't, sir. 
Believe me. But --" 

"Doctor Fraiser," he said. "Are you going to stand there and tell me 
that when Jack O'Neill catches cold, the rest of this place doesn't 
sneeze?" 

I glared. "No. But --" 

"There are no buts, Doctor. Sometimes we have the luxury of sending our 
wounded to the hospital where they can be treated properly, in comfort. 
And sometimes we patch them up as best we can on the battlefield and 
send them right back into the fray. By telling his friends what was 
behind his unhappiness, so that they can give him the help and support 
he needs, I did the best patching job I could, in the time I had 
available. End of story. I'm sorry if he doesn't like my first aid, but 
it's just too bad." 

I straightend my spine. "I wasn't aware we were at war, General." 

His smile was kind, and reproving, and sorrowful. "Weren't you?' he 
asked softly. And walked away. 

                         *******************

When I went back to Jack's room, I discovered that he'd locked the door. 
Which meant nothing, of course, since I had a key. But I'm not stupid. I 
can take a hint when it lands on me with both feet. I briefed the 
nursing staff, told them not to say anything when they did their next 
rounds, but to make sure the door was left unlocked. Then, exhausted and 
mindful of all the overtime I'd been putting in, I called in Bill Warner 
and went home. Took a hot shower and fell into bed to sleep until Cass 
came home from school. But not before I double checked in the mirror to 
make sure I really was still there. 

As luck would have it -- I'll let you decide if it was good or bad -- I 
was rostered on at the Academy Hospital for the next four days. I stayed 
away from the base. Checked in with Bill to make sure Jack's recovery 
was progressing normally. It was. I didn't call Jack, or go round to see 
him. Concussions need a lot of peace and quiet, you know. And I was 
busy. And of course he needed space, to -- 

God. Who am I kidding? 

In two and a bit years we'd progressed from being friendly colleagues to 
close friends. And then, within the space of sixty seconds, I'd ceased 
to exist. Just like that. 

 I'll be honest: it hurt. A lot. And I'll admit it , I was angry. Damn 
him! After everything we'd been through. All the times I'd patched him 
up and sewn him together and ... saved his life. 

I know, I know. It's my job to save his life, just like it's his job to 
risk it. He didn't owe me anything. I suppose you could say that I owed 
him. An apology. For being a co-conspirator in the violation of his 
privacy. 

But dammit, we did it for him. Because we knew he wouldn't do it for 
himself. We did it because we care. 

And I'll be damned if ever I apologise for caring. 

So for four days I did my rounds at the USAF Academy Hospital with one 
ear cocked for the sound of the telephone, ringing. The doorbell, 
chiming. Knuckles rapping briefly on my office door. Hoping against hope 
that without noticing I'd suddenly become visible again. 

No ring. No chime. No rap. 

Cassie asked me what was wrong. I told her, nothing. She looked at me in 
that quaintly adult way of hers. Patted my hand, and made me a cup of 
hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. I swear, sometimes she acts like 
she's the mother and I'm the child. I thanked her, and sent her outside 
to play with Jack-the-dog so I could snivel in private. Which I did. 

Like the song says: You don't know what you've got till it's gone. 

I hear you, Joni. 

Sam came by to tell me that General was back, and the Project was safe, 
and that everyone seemed to be getting over the whole debacle okay. 
Makepeace had even apologised, after which she'd had to go and lie down 
for a while, to recover. Jack seemed fine. He'd thanked them for their 
concern, which was unneccessary -- of course -- and then was scarce as 
he took over from Hammond while the General was in DC. The subjects of 
Frank Cromwell and SG10 and who knew what about which, and how, weren't 
raised. 

What a surprise. 

After dinner on the night before the Base memorial service for SG10, 
Cassie and I were doing the dishes. Me washing, her drying. The 
dishwasher was broken and I hadn't had time to get in a repairman. We 
were almost finished when Jack-the-dog leapt to his feet, barking. A 
moment later we heard the sound of tyres scrunching on the gravel out 
front. 

"Go see who it is, would you, honey," I said. "I'm all sudsy." 

"Okay," Cass said, and bounced out of the kitchen and down the hall to 
the front door with Jack-the-dog at her heels, yelping his excitement. I 
heard the door open. Jack-the-dog's welcoming bark. Cassie's delighted 
cry of, "Colonel Jack! Hi!" 

Jack. Heart thumping, I let the water of out of the sink, dried my 
hands, and turned around as my daughter and her friend clumped back into 
the kitchen. 

I say clumped because they were doing their favourite thing again. 
Cassie calls it playing circuses. Jack calls it valuable gymnastic 
training. I call it downright dangerous, but hey, I'm only the mother. 
What do I know? 

Shrieking with laughter, bare toes wriggling in Jack's face, ankles 
clasped in his firm hands, her own fingers anchored to his running 
shoes, Cassie hung with her face scant inches from the floor and loudly 
encouraged him in their mutual lunacy. 

"Do the goosestep, Colonel, do the goosestep!" 

Jack pretended to stagger. "You're getting too heavy for me to do the 
goosestep," he protested. 

"I am not either," said Cassie, and bounced up and down like a vertical 
stick insect. "Do the goosetep! Please?" 

So Jack paraded around my island bench in a solemn goosestep, while 
Cassie sang breathless snatches of 76 Trombones, loudly and offkey. 

"Okay," said Jack, after the third circumnavigation. "That's it. I'm an 
old man, I can do no more." 

Cassie let go of his feet. He lifted her a little higher and swung her 
gently from side to side, inciting more mirth. Jack-the-dog was 
practically blue in the face from barking and leaping hysterically every 
time she went by. 

One last big swing and he had her in his arms, safe and tight, and hers 
were clasped around his neck, and her legs were limpet-like about his 
waist, and I don't know who was hugging who the tightest. Cassie, 
leaning back, pink cheeked and starry eyed, said, "Where have you been? 
I haven't seen you for ever." 

Jack shrugged. "Oh, well, you know. Work." 

She snorted. "Huh. You mean hospital. Again. Janet said. I wanted to 
come visit you but she said you were asleep." She made it sound highly 
unlikely. 

He nodded. He still hadn't looked at me. "I kind of hit my head. That 
can make you pretty sleepy." 

Cassie put on her scolding face. Wagged an admonishing finger. "I 
thought I told you to be more careful?" 

"Sorry, ma'am," said Jack. 

Intently she stared into his eyes. Reached out her small hand and laid 
it against his cheek. It was a searingly grown-up gesture. "I'm sorry, 
too. About your friends. Janet said." 

I winced, but still Jack didn't look at me. He just took Cassie's hand 
in his own, one arm supporting her weight, and kissed her fingers. 
"Thanks, Cass," he said. "I appreciate that." 

"Cassandra," I said gently. "Time for bed." 

She heaved a huge, I'm-soooo-put-upon sigh, but didn't argue. Grinned at 
Jack. "Tuck me in?" 

He pretended to think about it. Said grudgingly, "Oh, all right. I 
suppose so. If I have to." 

"And tell me a story?" 

"Tell you a story?" echoed Jack. "Hell's bells and buckets of blood! And 
what are you going to do for me, then?" 

"Be your girlfriend for ever and ever," said Cass. 

"Oh," said Jack. "Okay. I can live with that." He headed for the door, 
Jack-the-dog at his heels. "Which story?" 

"Umm," said Cass, as they wandered away down the hall. "The one about 
the time you got back at the school bully by painting the rabbit poo and 
making him think it was candy." 

"Again?" Jack's voice demanded. "Cassandra Fraiser, is there something 
you're not telling me?" 

As their conspiratorial giggles faded upstairs, I turned back to the 
business of cleaning up. By the time Jack came back to the kitchen the 
second lot of washing up was done, the dishes dried, the benches wiped 
down and Cass's lunch was made up and in the fridge. 

"She's asleep," he said, hesitating in the doorway. 

I turned from my contemplation of the moonlit garden beyond the kitchen 
window. Enquired delicately: "Rabbit poo? Just what are you teaching my 
daughter, Colonel?" 

"Vital lessons in tactics and strategy," Jack replied promptly. 
"Besides. He deserved it." 

"He?" 

"Billy McGrath." 

"Ah," I said. "The school bully?" 

"The same." I turned away. Reached into a cupboard and pulled out the 
Laphroaig and two glasses. Held them up. "Drink?" 

He nodded. "Sure." 

So we sat at the kitchen table, and sipped the smokey malt, and listened 
to the moths batter at the window. 

"Bill Warner says you've made a good recovery," I said, after five 
minutes had stretched to ten. Ten to fifteen. Fifteen to nearly twenty. 

"Yeah," he said. "Not bad." 

"Headaches?" 

"Some." 

"You taking anything?" 

"Mmm," he said, which meant no. 

I didn't bother arguing. Just rolled my eyes and reached for the bottle. 
"More?" 

He shook his head, regretful. It was very good whiskey. "Better not." 

So I poured myself another half inch, and nursed it. Waited for him to 
say something. Anything. For once I didn't feel like being the first to 
go. 

Eventually he said, staring at his fingernails, "I know you meant well." 

I waited for the next part of the sentence. Waited some more. Said 
finally, patiently, "But?" 

He looked up. "I don't have to say it. You know." 

I took a mouthful of whiskey. Let it sit on my tongue for a moment. 
Swallowed. "Yes." 

"My relationship with Frank Cromwell was private and personal," he said. 
"Not for public consumption." 

I sat back in the chair. "Well if that's true, why did you go out of 
your way to let everyone within earshot know you had a beef with him?" 

He stared. "What?" 

"You were rude to him in front of me. Sam. General Hammond. God knows 
who else. You might just as well have taken out an ad, Jack." 

He shoved away from the table. Paced the length of the kitchen and 
fetched up against the sink to stare into the moonsoaked night. I 
shifted around in my chair to watch him. 

"I--" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "You know my file. Probably better 
than I know it myself by now. You know what happened in Iraq." 

"Unfortunately I do, yes," I said. 

"Those are the facts. Who did what, to which bits, and how many times. 
But the file won't tell you what it was like." His gaze remained 
steadily on the garden. "And I can't. I can't talk about that, Janet. 
Not to you. Not to anybody." 

He didn't have to. His face, enmeshed in nightmare, had already told me 
everything I needed to know. More than I ever wanted. 

"We knew what the Iraqis would do to us if we got caught," said Jack. 
"We talked about it. Frank promised, he promised, that no matter what, 
nobody would be left behind. He promised he'd shoot us himself before he 
let any of us get taken. We believed him. And then he left me there." He 
turned a little, and I caught a glimpse of his face. It was haunted. 
"Afterwards, people kept asking me, how did you do it? How did you beat 
them? How did you survive? And I told them, I was well trained. Or, my 
family. Or, knowing my buddies back at HQ were counting on me." He 
smiled. "Lies." Turned away again. "It was hate." 

I felt my throat constrict. "He thought you were dead, Jack." 

"He thought wrong," said Jack. And flinched. 

"What?" I said. "Are you okay?" 

He nodded. Was silent for some time before speaking again. "Frank said 
that what he did to me in Iraq was the same as what I did to Hank." 

"Well, he was wrong," I said quietly. "Because you didn't do anything to 
Hank." 

"Yeah, I did," said Jack. "I killed him." 

I opened my mouth to argue. Thought about it. Sighed. Said, "So you 
killed him. So now what?" 

That got a reaction. Jack jerked away from the window and stared at me, 
shocked. "You think I killed him?" 

I shrugged. Remembered the look on his face, in his eyes, as he made me 
disappear. "I think it's pretty clear that you don't care what I think." 

I watched the words sink in. Their meaning strike home. He said, "I was 
angry." 

"Oh," I said. "Well. Sure. That makes it okay, then." 

"You're hurt." 

I lifted my glass. "Give the man a kewpie doll." 

"You don't think I had the right to be pissed off about you and Hammond 
telling everyone about ... stuff?" 

"Well, for one thing it wasn't 'everyone', it was Daniel and Sam and 
Teal'c," I pointed out. "And for another, it wasn't a joint operation. 
He called me and the team into his office at the same time and just 
started talking. There was nothing I could do." 

Jack chewed his lip. "I didn't know that." 

"You didn't ask." 

He turned around. Leaned against the sink with his hands buried in his 
pockets. Jeans and a sweatshirt and a glint of stubble: what I've come 
to think of as his recuperation outfit. There were smudges beneath his 
eyes and the lines in his face were carved a little deeper than before. 

"Do you want to know what I think?" I asked. 

He shrugged and nodded: ambivalence personified. 

I said, "Okay. Here's what I think. I think Frank Cromwell had a split 
second to make a decision. I think he decided to save his team instead 
of risking them for someone he thought was already dead. I think he 
probably wanted to die himself when he found out he was wrong. I think 
he hurt every day of every week of every month of the last seven years 
because of it. I think you were wrong not to see him. I think you 
probably know that now, because you've led your own teams for the past 
six years and you've made some tough calls that weren't always 
appreciated and you've lost one or two men of your own and suddenly it's 
not so black and white any more. I think you were blinded by your own 
pain, and then when you finally began to understand things from his 
point of view, you were too stubborn to admit it. Too pigheaded to make 
the first move. And now he's gone, and he's not coming back, and the 
things you thought you'd say to him one day ... one day when it suited 
you ... they're just smoke on the wind." 

If ever there was a time I thought I'd see him cry, it was then. His 
face was glazed with anguish. His whole body a muted scream of pain. It 
was a frozen moment, one I can still see when I close my eyes at the end 
of the day. When I am sorrowed or weary to my bones or overcome with 
other griefs. 

Eventually it passed, and he was able to speak again. 

"He sent flowers to Charlie's funeral," he said. "Sara wanted me to call 
him. Say thanks. Say something. Anything. She never stopped trying to 
get us talking again. But by then it was way past too late. By then I 
wasn't talking to anyone, not even her." 

I got up from the table, leaving the whiskey behind. Moved quietly to 
lean against the island bench opposite him. "I'll say this once, and 
then I won't mention it again because I know it makes you uncomfortable. 
I am desperately, desperately sorry about Frank's death. And Hank's, and 
the rest of SG10. I wish there was something I could say, or do, to make 
the pain go away. We all do. But there's not. It just has to be lived 
through, one day at a time. Nobody knows that better than you. Just 
don't forget that you have people who care about you, and who are 
hurting for you. Don't make the same mistake twice, Jack. Don't shut out 
the ones who care." 

Silence, as Jack struggled for self-control, and won. He said, "You'll 
be at the service, tomorrow?" 

"Of course." 

"Sam said there was nothing we could have done to save them." 

"Well," I said, "I don't even pretend to understand all this business 
about black holes and gravity wells and relativity and time dilation, 
but if Sam says it was hopeless, I believe her." 

"I know. So do I. " He shook his head. "God. I gave him every trick in 
my book. Taught him everything I ever knew. Everything Frank taught me. 
And it still wasn't enough." His face tightened. 

Gently I said, "People die, Jack. You do everything right. You pull out 
the bullets, you stitch them together, you replace the lost blood, give 
them a new heart, even. Whatever it takes. They still die. So what do 
you do? Kill yourself? Give up? Walk away? And then what happens to the 
next one you could have saved, if you'd been there?" 

Silently he pushed away from the sink. Reached out his arms and wrapped 
them around me. His heart beat hard and strong beneath my cheek. Muffled 
against his sweatshirt I said, "Jack?" 

"Janet?" 

"Go home. You look like hell." 

He laughed. Released me and stepped back. "Yes, ma'am." 

"And take a damned Tylenol, would you? Stop being a martyr." 

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated. Dropped a kiss on my hair, and dimmed my 
kitchen with his leaving. 

                         *******************

 SG10's memorial service was scheduled for 1400. Of course, their family 
stuff had already been taken care of, elsewhere, days earlier. This one 
was for us, for the people who knew what they really did. How they 
really died. What their sacrifice truly meant. 

I didn't talk to Jack before the official ceremony. Saw him from a 
distance a few times, crisp and as always strangely unfamiliar in his 
dress uniform. I caught a glimpse of him at one point in deep discussion 
with the General. It looked amicable, so clearly they'd moved on, too. 
I'd get around to asking him, sooner or later. 

By the time the service was due to start, the gateroom was full to 
bursting. The overflow was crowded into the control room and the 
briefing room, pressed against the brand new glass, looking down at the 
proceedings. Blue light from the open Gate rippled over all our faces. 

Jack was the last person to speak. Sombre but relaxed, he stood at the 
microphone, hands resting lightly on the lectern, and gazed around the 
packed room. 

"This isn't the first time we've gathered here like this," he told the 
silent crowd. "And it won't be the last. What we do is difficult and 
dangerous. It costs lives. Nobody knew that better than Hank Boyd and 
his team. But Hank never was one to turn away from a challenge. Neither 
were Mark and Abby and Phil." He paused. Swept us all with a measuring 
gaze. "You all know that Hank and I went back a few years. I recommended 
him for the Stargate project. I nominated him as a team leader. I 
suggested his team for the mission that cost them their lives. It was 
supposed to be a routine recon. Nobody expected trouble." His lips 
curved in a brief, sardonic smile. "Nobody ever does. So when it snaps 
us in the ass, we're surprised. We're angry. Hurt. We wonder what the 
hell we're doing here, anyway. I know I've asked myself that question 
these past few days." Another pause. I saw him find Sam and Daniel and 
Teal'c in the second row, and his eyes softened, just for a moment. He 
said, "But as a very wise, very tough man once told me ..." His gaze 
flickered left, to where General Hammond was sitting with the visiting 
brass. "... when we opened the Stargate we opened a Pandora's box, and 
someone has to keep the lid on it. Today, it's our turn to be that 
someone. I think we could do worse than follow in the footsteps of Hank 
Boyd, Abby Hunt, Mark Tyler and Phil Brooks. God bless them and keep 
them in the palm of His hand, until we meet again." 

He stepped down from the lectern. The pipers played Taps. I cried. I 
wasn't the only one. Jack and General Hammond sent a wreath through the 
Gate. It shut down. 

The service was over. 

Someone, Graham Simmons probably, patched an Ella Fitzgerald CD through 
the loudspeaker, and 'Stairway to the Stars' rolled around the cavernous 
gateroom. The ordered ranks broke up, milled and roiled and communed. I 
caught Sam's eye, waved. She threaded her way through the packed bodies 
and kissed my cheek: a measure of her distress. 

"Hi," I said. "How are you doing?" 

"I'm okay," she replied. "You?" 

"Yeah. Okay. You know." We exchanged rueful smiles. 

"Uh huh..." she said. Then she straightened as a hand landed on my 
shoulder. "Colonel." 

"Sam," said Jack. 

She smiled. "That was really nice, what you said." 

He offered her a little bow. "Thank you." 

With a glance from his face to mine, she said, "Well, if you two would 
excuse me, I have to go find Teal'c. We're going to the theatre tonight 
and there's something I have to tell him, before I forget." 

My eyebrows lifted. "Not Les Mis?" 

"Yeah. It seemed a shame to waste the tickets." 

I considered the prospect with a kind of horrified fascination. "Do they 
even have musicals on Chulak?" 

Sam smiled. "Apparently not." 

"Oh," I said. "To be a fly on the wall ..." 

"I'll tell you all about it tomorrow," she said. Waggled her fingers. 
"Bye." 

"Have fun," said Jack. Watched her for a few moments, staring over my 
head, then said, "I'm going out of town for a few days. Frank's funeral 
is the day after tomorrow." 

"That's late. " 

He shrugged. "Yeah. Some family thing. I don't know." 

"And afterwards?" 

"I thought I'd take a drive." 

"Where to?" 

"Wherever the road leads me." 

"But you're coming back," I said. 

"Oh yeah," he replied, and smiled. "I'm coming back." 

We never talked about Frank again. I have no idea if they managed to 
patch things up during their brief reunion. I don't think even Daniel 
dared to ask that one, so I guess we'll never know. We talked about 
Hank, though, and the others. All of us. Held a wake, without breaking 
any windows this time. Kept on bowling every Saturday we could manage, 
competing for the inaugural Hank Boyd Challenge Trophy. Held a pizza 
party the first Tuesday night of the month, same as always ... 

I don't know who started the thing about leaving one piece of pepperoni 
pizza in the box. I suspect it was Jack, but that's something else I'll 
never ask him. For one thing I doubt he'd admit it. For another ... it 
doesn't really matter. Pizza in the box, no pizza in the box ... in the 
end it's just window dressing. 

Hank will always be with us ... every time Jack laughs. 

The End. 


                         *******************

Medical Consideration # 5: Into The Fire
By OzK - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

RATING: R for language

CATEGORY: Epilogue 

SPOILERS: Into the Fire 

SUMMARY: Latest in the Medical Considerations series. What happens after 
SG1 return to Earth, told from Janet's pov. 

DISCLAIMER: This is a not for profit fanfic, with no intended breaches 
of copyright owned by MGM, Showtime, Double Secret or Gekko.


                         *******************

If the Universe has one cardinal rule, then this is most likely it: 
Anything that looks too good to be true probably is.

I don't know why I forgot that. I guess I --

No. I swore a long time ago it was going to be the truth, the whole 
truth or ... don't even bother. So I have to tell it like it was, warts 
and all, no matter how hard that is to do.

If I don't ... then what's the point?

You know, I pride myself on being damned near the best in my field, on 
being able to divorce the personal from the professional so that my 
patients get premium care, platinum results. Janet Fraiser doesn't screw 
up. Janet Fraiser doesn't drop the ball. Janet Fraiser doesn't let fear 
get in the way of the job. 

Except that I do.

I did.

I hate it. You have no idea how much I hate it. But if knowing Jack 
O'Neill has taught me anything, it's that it is possible to stare your 
greatest fears, your greatest failings, square in the face, to accept 
them, embrace them, even ... and survive. 

Jack's a good teacher.

Because he does it by example.

And there's nothing like an in-your-face practical demonstration to 
drive the lesson home.

                         *******************

In between the time that word came through of SG1's rescue from Hathor, 
and their weary appearance through the Stargate, so many people had 
crammed into the gateroom and the control centre that there wasn't 
enough room to swing a kitten caught in a trash compactor. The cacophany 
of welcome was deafening. In the end I resorted to hitting people to 
move them out of my way.

Of course, not everyone who went to get them came back. We lost three 
good people on that mission. Nothing much was said at the time: nobody 
wanted to spoil the celebrations for SG1's safe return, or make them 
feel any worse about it than they already did. But a strange little 
silence fell as the bodies were brought through the gate and the crowd 
and taken decently away to the morgue, and even though it only lasted a 
few moments, its echo lingered beneath the ongoing jubilation.

We also had a few walking wounded, whom I passed onto other members of 
the medical team, plus Daniel and the Tok'ra woman, whom I reserved for 
myself. They were both on makeshift stretchers, both looking battle 
torn. The woman I couldn't do anything for except find her a quiet, 
private room and let her get on with healing. So I did. One of these 
days I'm going to request a sabbatical to Tok'ra town and see if I can't 
get a line on exactly what it is the symbiant does to heal its host. 
Right now, it's got me stumped. And I like stumped about as much as Jack 
likes surprises.

And Daniel? Well, he was talking at a million miles an hour, so it was 
clear his throat hadn't been cut or anything, but he had way too much 
blood on the outside of his uniform for my liking, and beneath his 
excited chatter there ran an undercurrent of pain.

A quick glance at his leg was all I needed to see that he needed 
stitching and antibiotics. The rest of the team would need checking too, 
of course, but it was pointless trying to do that yet. Let them unwind 
first. I'd deal with Daniel, get him settled, then play spoilsport and 
shanghai the rest of SG1 for their medicals.

Under cover of chaos I wheeled Daniel out of the gateroom circus and 
into the infirmary. As I got him out of his ripped and stained trousers 
and under a decent strong light, and gave him a thorough once over, he 
filled me in on SG1's latest brush with death.

Spare me, God. Who needs the movies when I've got this bunch for 
entertainment?

Thankfully, the worst thing Daniel had to deal with this time was the 
gash in his leg. It was nasty, though, well and truly through the quad 
muscle and liberally garnished with dirt and gravel. Cleaning it out 
wasn't going to be easy or comfortable.

"I'm giving you a local now," I said, with the hypo poised. "It's going 
to sting, I'm sorry, but only for a moment."

He nodded, winced. As I began to sluice out the wound, he wriggled a 
little on the exam table. Frowned. Sighed. Drummed his fingers.

"What?" I said. "Can you still feel it?"

"No," he replied. "No, it's fine. Dead as a doornail."

"Then what?"

He looked at me, clearly troubled. Pulled his glasses off, scrubbed a 
grazed hand across his face and said, "He'll probably kill me if he 
finds out I've told you, but I can't not. You need to be forewarned. 
Just ... don't let on that you know, okay?"

"Hard to do that when I don't know what the hell you're talking about," 
I said. "Just spit it out, Daniel."

Glancing at Tracey, who was counting bottles of penicillin in the 
corner, he said, "Probably I should do this without an audience."

"Tracey," I said. "Take a break." I have great staff. She just smiled, 
nodded, and closed the door on her way out. I gave Daniel my best 'spill 
the beans' look, and waited.

He took a deep breath. Released it in a groan. "Jack was implanted with 
a Goa'uld larva."

I dropped the bottle of saline and betadine swab.

"What?" It came out as a croaking whisper.

"It didn't take," Daniel assured me hastily. "The Tok'ra operative got 
him back in the deep freeze before it could meld with him, and the cold 
killed it. I guess his body's absorbing what's left. Which is pretty 
damned lucky when you come to think about it, since Jack as a Goa'uld 
just isn't something the universe is ready for right now and --"

I waved my hands in his face. "Daniel! Daniel! Stop. Rewind. Explain."

So he did, and I listened, and felt so ill, so sick to my stomach. 
Sometime during the telling I finished cleaning out his wound, collected 
tweezers, suture needle and silk and started stitching, coasting on 
auto-pilot, as he filled me in. Filled me up with images that I knew 
would revisit me in the cold of the night.

When I was done stitching and checking him over in general, I took 
blood, snipped a bit of muscle from his calf for a tissue biopsy just in 
case the cryogenic procedure had left any lasting damage, and scheduled 
him for a CAT scan and an MRI to check for residues from the memory 
activation device.

"God," said Daniel, barely stifling a yawn. "I am so tired."

"I'm not surprised," I said, and patted his shoulder.

"You won't tell him I told you, will you?" he asked, suddenly 
apprehensive. "Because if he finds out, he'll kill me. Slowly."

"No, I won't tell him," I promised.

"I mean, all things considered, he seems okay with it," said Daniel. "As 
far as I can make out, anyways. But you know Jack. Why tell the truth 
when a sarcastic joke will do?"

Yes, I know Jack. Well ... I thought I did. I thought we'd shared 
enough, revealed enough to and of each other, so that even if he 
couldn't be honest with anybody else in the SGC, he could be honest with 
me.

The funny thing is, I think he really did believe it himself. Really did 
believe that he was okay with what happened. Maybe that's why I let 
myself be so easily convinced. Because by then I was so intimately 
acquainted with his capacity for brutal truth, what I couldn't believe 
is that he would lie. To me, or himself.

Live, as they say, and learn.

I said to Daniel, "I swear, on a stack of bedpans, that your secret is 
safe with me. Now, I'm keeping you in for tonight, just to be on the 
safe side. And you'll have to stay off the leg for the next few days. 
Barring complications, the stitches can come out at the end of next 
week."

"Okay," he said, and treated me to a spectacular view of his tonsils. 
"You're the doc, doc."

So I got him settled down the hall, had a quick peek at the Tok'ra woman 
who seemed to be regenerating just fine, sent an airman to fetch 
Hammond, and made sure I was still alone when he arrived.

He, too, was looking tired, but jubilant. I think he really enjoys 
getting out from behind his desk, rampaging about in the field every now 
and then. Like a retired champion racehorse, leading the parade on Derby 
day. He took one look at my face and said, "Oh, hell. What is it?"

There was no way I could pretty it up. "Colonel O'Neill was implanted 
with a Goa'uld."

Hammond groped for a chair. Sat in it, heavily. "Sweet Jesus. Tell me."

So I told him what Daniel told me. Watched the same procession of 
thought and feeling shadow-shift across his face as surely it had done 
across mine. Horror. Pity. Fear. Relief. Uncertainty.

"Ground him," said Hammond, when I was done. "Now."

"I can't," I said. "Not without due cause."

Hammond laughed. "You don't think that's due cause?"

"No. Not unless there are ... repercussions. If he's ill, or disturbed 
in some way, I can --"

"Jack O'Neill was implanted with a Goa'uld," Hammond said, interrupting 
me with a rudeness he rarely displays. "What the hell makes you think 
there won't be repercussions, doctor?"

"I didn't say there wouldn't be," I replied, fighting to keep my voice 
calm and even. "But I can't just ground him, General. Not without cause. 
In its own way, that would be as bad as what's already been done to him, 
and you know it. I won't do it." And you can't make me, so there. I felt 
like stamping my foot for emphasis.

He let out a gusty sigh. "Then I want him watched. Closely. I want 
somebody --"

Simultaneously there was a knock on the door, and it swung open. "Ah, 
General, there you are," said Jack. "The President called, looking for 
you. I told him you were busy and you'd call him back. So I guess you 
probably should."

I stared at him. Hammond stared at him. If stares were sounds, you'd 
have needed earplugs to avoid going deaf.

So much for oaths on bedpans.

Jack stared back, surprised. Then realisation dawned. "Damn. Damn. He 
told you, didn't he? The little ... weasel ... told you."

Hammond was scowling. "And when exactly were you planning to tell us?"

"Lie down," I said. "I'm going to check you out, now, and I don't want 
one word of argument."

Jack held up his hands. "Okay. Okay. Everybody just .... calm down. I am 
fine. All right? See? No glowing eyes, no Darth Vader voice, no two-for-
one deal. The snake died before it could lock on. I'm me. The same 
argumentative, curmudgeonly smart ass you've grown to know and love. I 
don't know what Daniel said, exactly, but I bet he made it sound nice 
and dramatic. I swear he's missed his calling; he should be working in 
the downtown Barnes and Noble Kiddie Corner as a storyteller."

Hammond stood. "Jack ... don't."

Jack hung his head. Sighed. When he looked up again, there was a wry 
little smile lurking. "No, George, don't you. Don't either of you. I 
want you both to be absolutely clear on this. I -- am -- fine. Yes, it 
was disgusting. Yes, it hurt like a mother. Yes, the would-have-been, 
could-have-been if-onlies are enough to give a stone statue the 
screaming meemies. But they didn't happen. I am not now, nor have I ever 
been, a Goa'uld. What I am is tired, thirsty and hungry. I want to go 
home and eat a pizza, drink a beer and then sleep for a week. If that's 
okay with you."

See what I mean? He sounded fine. Calm. Rational. No incipient hysteria, 
no imminent emotional collapse. Sure he looked tired. A little tattered 
around the edges. The bruise on his temple from the memory stimulator, 
identical to Daniel's, stood out in stark relief. But he was ... Jack. 
No more, no less. No drama.

What would you have done?

Hammond looked at me. I looked at Hammond. He said, "If Doctor Fraiser 
gives you a clean bill of health then ... I suppose so. If anybody's 
earned some downtime, it's you and your team, Jack. You've got a week. 
But I want you to keep in touch, is that understood? At the first hint 
of any -- any -- anything, I want you back in here. And that is not an 
option, it's an order. Understood?"

Jack snapped off a half way decent salute. "Understood, sir."

"Good. Then if you'll excuse me, I'd better go call the President." At 
the door he turned. Stared. Shook his head. "'He's busy and he'll call 
you back?' Dear God in Heaven ..." Then he was gone, and it was just us.

Despite everything, I couldn't help a smile. "You didn't really say 
that, did you?"

"Sure," said Jack, and hitched himself onto the nearest exam table. "Why 
not?"

I wasn't going to answer that. I said, "Not so fast, mister. Hop down, 
strip off, and put on a gown. I am going over you with a fine tooth comb 
and a microscope."

And I did. The entry wound at the base of his neck was livid, 
miraculously healed over but still tender. He grunted when I pressed it, 
flinching away from my touch.

"That's a huge scar, Jack," I said, gently palpating around the area. 
"How big was the larva?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, doc, I didn't happen to have a tape measure 
on me at the time. Three foot?"

"Three foot?" I echoed. "My God. What about its diameter?"

Irritably he said, "I don't know. I mean, it felt like a telegraph pole 
going in, but probably that's an exaggeration."

I stepped back. "I'm sorry. I know you want to get home, Jack, but 
before I can sign you out, I need to be certain that you're really okay. 
I want to do an MRI now."

He groaned. "Oh, for crying out loud, Janet. Can't it wait?"

"No. It can't. Now come on. The sooner we get it done, the sooner you're 
out of here."

"I am not wandering around the place in this damned stupid gown."

"Fine. You can put this on," I said, and tossed him one of Bill's lab 
coats he'd left hanging on the back of the door. "Let's go."

The MRI showed that while significantly reduced, the larva was some way 
short of being completely reabsorbed. Shreds of it, like old Christmas 
streamers, still clung to his spinal column, from the base of the skull 
to just below T5. As a guestimate, three feet long looked about right.

I shuddered.

Jack came into the monitoring room as I was loading a report to disc. I 
stood and blocked the screen with my back, bracing my hands on the edge 
of the desk. "All set?"

His expression was peculiarly neutral. "Let me see."

"I don't think that's a very good idea, Jack."

"And I don't care what you think. Let me see."

A screaming argument wasn't going to help anyone, so I stepped aside. 
"It's disappearing fairly quickly," I said. "Probably by this time 
tomorrow it'll be completely dissolved. There doesn't appear to be any 
damage to your spinal cord, your nerves. You say there's no tingling in 
your fingers, no numbess in your face, so I think it's safe to say 
you're okay, neurologically speaking."

I'm not sure if he heard me or not. He didn't reply, at any rate. Just 
stared at the outline of himself, of his spine, and the ghostly remnants 
of the parasite that had burrowed its way into his body and tried to 
hold him prisoner.

I had to know. I said, hesitantly, "What was it like?"

It took him a moment to respond. Then he glanced at me, his eyes 
refocussing. "Hmm?"

"The attempted assimilation. What was it like?"

He shrugged. "Like I said, it hurt like a mother. Like being shot in 
slow motion. I could feel it scrabbling around in there, wrapping itself 
around my spine. And then its mind was battering at me. Like I was a 
locked door, and it was trying to break in. But it was young, it hadn't 
taken a host before, so it wasn't sure what to do. Like a virgin getting 
laid for the first time. All instinct, no finesse."

I hadn't expected him to answer. Or if he did, I'd thought he'd just 
shine me on with a dry wisecrack. What he said shook me. Turned my 
stomach. I touched his arm, lightly. "I am so sorry, Jack. Really."

Still staring at the monitor, he gave another shrug. "It's no big deal. 
Just another chapter for the memoirs."

And again, I believed him. Because he sounded so plausible. Because he 
looked so like himself. Because I had no reason, then, to call him a 
liar.

Because, God forgive me, I wanted so badly for him to be okay that I 
deliberately didn't look below the surface of his acceptance.

He said, "So if that's it, can I go?"

I'd taken blood, a sample of muscle for biopsy, an EKG reading, an EMG 
reading, MRI scans and if I'd thought toenail clippings would help, I'd 
have taken those too. Still, I hesitated. "Jack ... we thought we'd 
saved Kowalski, and we were wrong."

Impassively he stared at me. Then he reached out, picked up the phone 
receiver and dialled an extension. "This is O'Neill. Can you see Captain 
Carter anywhere? Good. Send her down to the MRI suite, will you?"

And then we waited in preoccupied silence until Sam arrived. "Hi. What's 
up?"

Jack pushed away from the desk he'd been leaning against. "Tell Janet 
I'm not a Goa'uld so I can get the hell out of here, would you?"

She considered him warily, picking up the undercurrents, playing it 
typically Sam. "Okay. Janet, he's not a Goa'uld. I checked him when I 
took him out of the cryo-bath. It never blended with him, he was never 
altered. I'd stake my life on it."

"You're staking all our lives on it," I said.

"He's not a Goa'uld," she repeated. "You've trusted my word on this 
before. Why not now?"

Why not? Because the part of me that knew better was jumping up and down 
and waving its hands to attract my attention. Being taken by a goa'uld 
is something we all fear ... but for Jack it had always been a 
particularly ugly concept. And now the worst had happened ... almost 
happened ... and he was taking it just too damned well.

See? Deep down, I knew that. That old cardinal rule. I knew it. But when 
push came to shove, I didn't go with my gut. I didn't force the issue. I 
didn't want to ... oh, I don't know. I didn't want to make Jack feel 
even more powerless than he'd been made to feel already, by telling him 
that he didn't know how he was feeling. That he didn't have complete 
control over his own body. That he wasn't free to do whatever he wanted 
to do. He'd had enough of that.

But I didn't want to turn him loose, either. That little part of me, 
jumping and waving for all it was worth.

I said, "Compromise. Stay tonight. Just tonight. Let us keep an eye on 
you. If you're still fine in the morning, then you can go."

"I'm fine now," said Jack. His cold anger filled the room.

"Please," I said. "Don't make me make it an order, Colonel. Just go back 
to the infirmary and check with the nurse on duty. She'll get you 
settled."

Oh deary, deary me ... if looks could kill ...

The door slammed behind him on the way out.

"Ouch," said Sam.

I sighed. "Comes with the territory, I'm afraid."

"You don't really think there's something seriously wrong with him, do 
you?"

"I can't find anything," I admitted. "I'm sure he is fine. I guess, 
given what's just happened, I expect him to be a little more upset."

"Oh, he was upset," said Sam. There was a faraway, remembering look on 
her face. "But I think killing Hathor helped. I know it sounds horrible, 
but I think it gave him back some dignity, or autonomy. Something."

"Yes, I imagine that it did," I agreed.

"And it's not as if this is the first bad thing that's ever happened to 
him."

"True," I said, with a grim laugh. "Not the first by a very long shot."

"I mean, he does seem like himself, doesn't he?" said Sam. "It's not 
like he's off, the way he was after that Ancient memory download."

"No, he's not off," I said. "You're right about that. And I expect I 
will let him go home in the morning. After all, you say he's definitely 
not a Goa'uld, and I accept that. The MRI tells me the larval remains 
are dissolving into his bloodstream, and I have to accept that, too. 
Jack assures me that he's okay, and I supppose if anybody knows, he 
does."

"Yeah," said Sam. "Exactly. I mean, I was here for a week after Jolinar, 
but that was different. I did get taken over. He didn't."

"No, he didn't. But still, it won't do him any harm to sleep here 
tonight," I said. "Now, while I've got you, I might as well check you 
over too. Then at least you can go home."

"Great," she said. So we went went back up to the infirmary and she told 
me exactly what had happened to her and I gave her the once-over and she 
was fine.

"Just make sure you tell me the minute you start feeling anything out of 
the ordinary," I warned her. "If you do. We have no idea what kind of 
side effects that memory enhancing technology might have. Or the 
cryogenic procedure. And even though you weren't subjected to that 
Goa'uld hand device for very long, as far as I'm concerned just looking 
at the damned thing constitutes a health hazard. I don't want any 
heroics, is that clear?"

"Clear," she promised. "So, I'm out of here. Are you coming?"

I pulled a face. "Don't I wish. But Jack aside, I've got that Tok'ra in 
one spare room, Daniel in another and various other scrapes and bruises 
to take care of. You go. Have a long hot bath with extra bubbles, and 
get a good's night sleep. According to the General, you've got a week 
off. Enjoy it."

She grinned. "I know. He said. I will."

On the whole, I thought it would be best if I didn't drop in on Jack to 
tuck him in and sing him a lullaby. I just gave Jim, the night duty 
nurse, a discreet heads up on the situation, and left him to it.

The night passed uneventfully. The next morning I released Jack on his 
own recognizance. He was surly in the extreme, but at the time I put it 
down to just being a sore loser. Now, of course, I'm not so sure. 
Hindsight is a wonderful thing. Daniel went home too, and the Tok'ra 
woman. Some of her colleagues came and took her back to resistance 
headquarters, wherever the hell they were that particular week. Teal'c 
buried himself in a new delivery of books from Amazon, and the General 
returned to his favourite hobby, wrestling bureaucrats three falls out 
of five. Gradually, after yet another SG1 sponsored crisis, base life 
returned to what we laughingly call normal.

I did call Jack a couple of times. Invited him over for dinner. He said 
thanks but no thanks. He sounded fine. A little distant, sure, but I put 
it down to being pissed off at being disturbed and in too charitable a 
mood to curse me for it. He certainly didn't sound distressed or 
psychotic or on the verge of a breakdown.

So it seemed that the other shoe had got itself stuck in a tree branch 
on the way down. I stopped holding my breath, patted myself on the back 
for not over-reacting, and continued my ongoing field trials of a new 
anti-wormhole nausea brew.

And then that damned shoe did hit the ground, hard enough to crack the 
pavement.

The following Saturday night, Cass and I were at the dinner table, tired 
after a day in the garden digging weeds and pruning bushes and chasing 
Jack-the-dog. You know. Mother-daughter bonding rituals. Cass, after 
demonstrating no interest whatsoever in matters culinary -- apart from 
eating, of course -- had unexpectedly developed a passion for inventing 
new and unusual pasta sauces. As the mom, I was pulling double duty as 
guinea pig.

You know, mostly they're pretty damned good.

Mostly.

Anyways. The phone rang. It was Daniel, on his cellphone, with a bad 
connection. "Janet? Janet, it's Daniel, can you hear me?"

"Barely," I replied, around a mouthful of spaghetti. "What's up? Please 
don't tell me you've re-opened that wound, I told you to take it --"

"We're at Jack's place," Daniel shouted over the crashing and squealing 
of digital static. "I think you'd better come over. Now."

I went cold. Nearly dropped my fork. "Why? What's happened?"

"Just come," said Daniel, and disconnected.

"What's wrong?" said Cassie, staring.

"Nothing, honey," I replied. "I just have to go out for a bit. Will you 
be all right?"

"Sure," she said, in the voice that said a) what a load of horse hooey 
and b) how old do you think I am now anyway?

"Good girl," I said, and kissed her hair in passing. "I shouldn't be 
long. If I get hung up, I'll send Anita over." There was no point in 
alarming her. I didn't know what was going on. It might be nothing. 
That's what I told myself anyway, as I found the car keys, closed the 
front door behind me and coaxed my recalcitrant Mustang into life.

Of course, I knew that it wasn't.

I knew that it was something.

And it was. Oh dear God, it really, really was.

                         *******************

Daniel was not alone. Teal'c and Sam were with him, sitting on the hood 
of his car which, along with Sam's, was parked in the street two doors 
down from Jack's. The sun had just set; the sky was all purple haze and 
pinpricked stars and fireflies.

Sliding my car in behind Sam's I cut the engine and got out. Opened my 
mouth to ask what was going on ... and then realised I didn't have to.

"What the hell ...?" I joined them, and together the four of us stared 
bemusedly at Jack's place.

His car was in the driveway, so unless he was out walking or cycling -- 
because of his knee, I'd forbidden him jogging on pain of death -- he 
was home. It looked like he was home. Every window in the house, top to 
bottom, leaked blazing light around the edges of the drawn curtains. And 
it sounded like he was home, too. Those incandescent windows were 
vibrating with the sound of music turned to an ear-shattering volume. It 
was classical, something violent and cathartic.

"Oh, my God," I said, blankly.

"We knocked," said Teal'c, "but he chooses not to answer."

"That's if he even heard you," I said. "He might not, given how loud 
he's got the music."

"When he didn't come to the door, we looked in through a window," said 
Sam. She was in her customary jeans and sweatshirt, jangly with 
jewellery. A subtle shifting of the military Carter, and always a slight 
shock to behold. "He's okay, not passed out or anything. We saw him 
moving around. Janet, he's got the place full of heaters."

"Heaters?" I blinked. "In summer?"

Daniel said, "I tried phoning, but the machine picked up."

"Maybe he just doesn't feel like company," I pointed out. "Was he 
expecting you?"

As Sam nodded, Daniel said, "He's supposed to be expecting us. We 
arranged on Tuesday to get together tonight for pizza. When I phoned him 
yesterday afternoon to confirm, he sounded ... off. When I phoned him 
this morning there was no answer. There's been no answer all day. Now 
this."

"Given everything that's just happened," added Sam, "we thought it'd be 
safer to wait for you before going in."

"Good call," I muttered. "Okay. So something a little odd is going on. 
But if he's not answering the door or the phone, how are we supposed to 
get in to see him?"

"That will not be a problem," said Teal'c.

And it wasn't.

"Don't worry," said Sam, seeing my expression. "We'll pay for the lock."

Once into the hallway, it was a toss up as to which would knock us over 
first: the music or the heat. The sound was so loud I could feel it 
rattling my bones. We were all wincing, screwing up our faces and 
hunching our shoulders around our ears. And as for the temperature ...

"God almighty!" Daniel shouted over the dead white composer noise. "It's 
gotta be a hundred degrees in here!"

At least. Personally, I would have said one-ten. Or even one-twenty. 
Sweat poured down my face like I'd opened an internal tap. I stripped 
off my denim jacket and dropped it on the hall stand. Sam pulled off her 
sweatshirt, revealing a teeshirt already half drenched. Daniel rolled up 
his sleeves and opened all his buttons. Teal'c frowned.

"Oh my God," said Sam, fingers jammed knuckle deep into her ears. "I've 
got to turn that off."

"Which, the music or the heat?" said Daniel.

"Both!"

In a herd we stumbled through to the living room. Sam made a beeline for 
the stereo and killed it. The sudden silence was a relief of near-
orgasmic proportions. Then Daniel, Teal'c and I started turning off the 
blazing heaters. I never actually counted, but there must have been 
close to twenty of them, all belching hot into the superheated, ovenish 
room. As we flipped switches and dialled down thermostats, Sam flung 
back the curtains and began opening the windows, giving the clean cool 
night air a way in.

From above and behind us, Jack said: "What the hell are you doing? How 
did you get in here?"

Guilty as kids in the cookie jar, we jumped and turned.

"Jack," said Daniel. "Um ... hi."

He looked ... appalling. Sweat soaked, greasy hair. Sweat stained skin, 
tee shirt, cargo pants. Eyes red rimmed and bloodshot, sunken deep and 
showing the whites like a startled horse. A grey pallor, punctuated by 
stubble. And he stank, a rankness of unwashed flesh and fear. Even with 
several feet of parched air between us, I could smell him.

He said, "Go away." Then he crossed to the windows that Sam had opened 
and slammed them shut again. Wrenched the curtains back over them and 
clubbed us with sound once more.

When Sam turned the stereo off for a second time, he shoved her away so 
hard she fell over.

"O'Neill!"

Teal'c, looking thunderous. Sam shook her head at him, finding her feet. 
"It's okay," she said. "Colonel, we just want to talk to you for a 
minute. Could we at least turn the music down a little?"

"Just a little," echoed Daniel, and edged a few steps closer. Reached 
out a hand, and nudged the volume control down into the reaches of the 
lower atmosphere. "There. Just that much. Is that okay?"

Scowling, Jack backed up a step. Nodded. Shook his head. He looked 
confused, disoriented. Stripped of the self-assurance and authority that 
are as much a part of him as the scar through his eyebrow and his 
precarious temper. "Who said you could turn off the heaters? Turn them 
back on. Now. I'm cold." His petulance was as shocking as his 
appearance.

"How can you be cold, O'Neill?" said Teal'c. I'd never seen him look so 
perturbed. "This room is hotter than the deserts of Abydos."

Jack shoved a pointed finger into Teal'c face. "So? Did I ask you? Did 
I? Do I walk into your quarters and tell you what temperature they 
should be? No, I don't think I do. So do me a favour and shut up about 
deserts. I like deserts. They're hot. I like hot."

Oh God. The four of us exchanged fraught looks. I said, "It's okay, 
Jack. We're sorry. We'll turn them on again."

So we turned the heaters back on, but only just. Jack watched us, 
fidgeting, fretting, scrubbing his palms down the front of his stained 
shirt, his dirty trousers. There was an odd, distracted expression on 
his face, and once or twice he winced and tilted his head as though 
something was hurting him.

"There," I said when the last heater was back on line. "All done. Okay?"

Another scowl. "Okay. Now go away."

Daniel let out a deep breath. Glanced at me sideways for reassurance. I 
nodded, and he said, his voice slow and soothing, "But we're supposed to 
be going out for pizza tonight, Jack. Remember?"

Jack started to pace, one hand tugging distractedly at the back of his 
neck. "No. Well -- yes -- but I don't -- tonight?"

"Yeah," said Daniel, watching him, his expression suspended. "But hey, 
if you don't want to, that's okay. Maybe -- maybe we could order home 
delivery. Or Chinese takeout, if you don't want pizza. How does that 
sound?"

Still Jack paced, aimless, distracted steps. "Yeah -- no -- I'm not 
hungry."

"When was the last time you ate something?" said Sam.

He shot her a dirty look. "I don't know. I told you, I'm not hungry. 
What are you, Carter, deaf?"

I risked a step towards him. "It's okay, Jack. You don't have to eat if 
you don't want to. But I'm kind of wondering ... do you remember when 
you last got some sleep?"

His head jerked up at that, and he flinched. "No. No sleep. Jesus, I'm 
cold. Aren't you cold? Get out of the way." Shoving us aside, he turned 
up the thermostats on all the heaters, fingers frantic.

Sam turned to me, stricken and threatening tears. "God, Janet, we have 
to do something. What's happened? What's wrong with him?"

It was a moment before I could answer. My heart was hammering and I felt 
like banging my head into the wall. Stupid, stupid, stupid. When I could 
trust myself to speak, I said, "In simple terms, it's a stress 
reaction." And you should have know, you should have known, you stupid, 
stupid bitch, you should have known.  

                         *******************

"To being Goa'ulded?"

"I think that's a safe bet," I said. "You were all cryogenically frozen, 
he's obsessing about being cold, about wanting heat."

"And the music?" Teal'c asked. "What does that signify?"

"I'm not sure," I said.

"I'll ask," said Daniel.

Jack was crouched beside the stereo's speakers, pressed against them as 
though trying to climb inside the music. Eyes closed, he was as tense as 
a drawn bow. "No, no, it's no good," he muttered, shaking his head. "No 
good."

"What's no good, Jack? I don't understand," said Daniel.

Jack reached out, fumbled for the volume control. The drums and cymbals 
rattled the windows, our teeth, our brains. Discordant violins flayed 
our nerves. "No, you can't come in!" he screamed, hands pressed to his 
ears. "I won't let you in! Get out! Get out of my head!"

Daniel grabbed Jack's arm. Shouted. "Jack, it's not in your head. Okay? 
It died." Fending Jack off with one hand, he hit the 'stop' button on 
the cd unit. The music disappeared in mid-cataclysm. He said, softly, 
"Don't you remember? It died."

Jack turned wide, uncomprehending eyes upon him. "Then why can I still 
hear it?"

Hesitantly, lightly, Daniel reached his arm around Jack's shoulders. "I 
don't know," he said. "I think maybe ... you can't. Not really. I think 
maybe you're just very tired, and kind of upset right now. That's all."

For a breathless moment Jack just stared at him. Then he started to 
shake. "Oh God," he whispered. "Daniel? What the hell is going on here? 
What's wrong with me?"

Sam turned away, hand pressed to her mouth. Teal'c closed his eyes. And 
I just stood there, nailed to the hot floor by shame, and guilt, and 
self-loathing. In my head a screaming voice: Stupid, stupid, you are so 
stupid, you should have seen this coming, why didn't you see this 
coming, he's falling apart in front of your eyes and you didn't see it 
coming!  

                         *******************

Daniel said, calmly, "Nothing's wrong with you, Jack. You're not going 
crazy, you haven't lost your mind. You're just tired. When did you last 
sleep?"

Overbalancing, Jack thumped against the wall and ground his hands into 
his face. "I don't know. I don't know. What day is it?"

"It's Saturday. Saturday night, actually."

Jack looked confused. "Saturday? How can it be Saturday, I --" He 
coughed, a dry rattle. "I don't know. I can't sleep. I'm cold. Turn the 
heaters up."

Tentatively, Sam moved a little closer. Perched on the edge of a nearby 
armchair. "They're up as high as they'll go, sir. Maybe if you had a hot 
shower, you'd warm up."

"That's a good idea," said Daniel, encouragingly. "Why don't you have a 
hot shower, Jack? It'll help you relax. Come on, I'll give you a hand."

"Turn the music back on," said Jack, as Daniel helped him stand. "I can 
still hear it."

"You won't hear it in the shower, I promise," said Daniel, and helped 
him up the stairs to the bathroom. Without turning around he said, 
"Clean sweats from his bedroom, somebody."

"I will get them," said Teal'c.

Sam turned to me. "Janet?"

I was trembling. "I don't know. I don't know."

It wasn't what she wanted to hear. Grabbing my arm, she shook me. "What 
do you mean you don't know? Is he having a breakdown? Is it post-
traumatic stress disorder? What? You must know!"

Lifting my shirt, I blotted the sweat from my face. Couldn't meet her 
eyes. "Probably a little of both."

"So what are we going to do?"

Good question. I moved away, trying to find a cool pocket of air, 
failing. Where was my customary poise? My legendary calm head in a 
crisis? The floor felt unsteady beneath my feet, and the room tilted 
around me. When was the last time I'd make a mistake like this? I 
couldn't remember. This can't be happening. "He should be admitted, put 
under observation. He might hurt himself."

"No," said Sam. Grabbed my arm again and pulled me round to face her. 
"No, Janet. Not yet. Only as a last resort. It would kill him, you know 
it would. Daniel's right, he's just upset. He's exhausted, sleep 
deprived. Is your field kit in the car? Is there something you can give 
him, to put him out for a while?"

I couldn't believe it, I was falling apart, I've seen first year 
residents with more self-control than I was showing. "Yes," I said. 
Depsite the stifling atmosphere in the room, my teeth were chattering.

"Give me your keys and I'll go get it," said Sam. "You pull yourself 
together. He needs you, Janet, you can't go to pieces on him now."

I handed my car keys over. Groped my unsteady way to the couch and put 
my head between my knees.

Get a grip, Janet, get a grip. She's right, he needs you, they all need 
you, get a grip, you don't have the luxury of hysterics. You don't have 
the right. 

                         *******************

I sat up. Teal'c was standing before me, concern pulling the corners of 
his mouth down. "Are you all right, Doctor Fraiser?"

I nodded. Sucked hot air deep into my lungs. "Yes, Teal'c. I'm fine. Did 
you find Jack's sweats?"

"I have given them to Daniel Jackson."

I nodded. "Good. That's good."

"Will Colonel O'Neill be all right?"

"I don't know. I hope so."

"It is ... distressing, to see him thus."

I nodded again. "Yes. It is."

"Doctor Fraiser, are you omniscient?"

"What?" Blinking fresh sweat out of my eyes, I stared up at him. "No. 
What a strange think to ask, Teal'c."

He was regarding me gravely, hands clasped behind his back. "If you are 
not omniscient, then it makes no sense to hold yourself responsible for 
this unfortunate turn of events."

Sudden tears prickled. I willed them away. "Teal'c, I --"

Fresh air wafted into the room as Sam came back with my field medikit. 
She handed it to me. "Here. Look, Janet, Teal'c and I have a problem. 
SG4's got a run of experiments going offworld, and we offered to fill in 
for Jim and Sandy. They're heading back to P9X664 at 2100. We can't stay 
here any longer, we have to get going."

"That's okay," I said. "Daniel and I can manage."

She was distressed. "I hate to leave him like this, to leave you, but I 
don't -- Teal'c? I don't think we have any choice."

"We do not," said Teal'c. "I, too, am reluctant to abandon O'Neill but 
if we withdraw our offer of assistance to SG4 at such short notice, 
suspicions will be aroused."

"Exactly," said Sam. "Not to mention it'll totally screw the 
experiments, and they're pretty important."

"It's okay," I said. "Go. Daniel and I will be fine."

"What if we should encounter General Hammond?" said Teal'c. "What are we 
to tell him?"

Oh please, no. Not that, on top of everything else. "Nothing," I said. 
"At least, not if you don't have to. Just ... try not to see him."

"Yeah," said Sam. "Absolutely."

"Please tell O'Neill that we are thinking of him," added Teal'c.

"Sure," I said.

"We should be back sometime tomorrow afternoon," said Sam, and gave me a 
swift hug. Whispered fiercely in my ear, "Remember. Last resort." Teal'c 
nodded gravely at me and then they were gone, and I was alone in Jack's 
desert dry living room. Faintly from the other end of the house I could 
hear the pitter patter rainfall of the shower, and the comforting rise 
and fall of Daniel's voice.

Numb, I rummaged through my medikit till I found the tranquilisers. 
Dragged myself into Jack's surprisingly neat kitchen, found some milk 
that was a hairsbreadth from turning, and heated it in a saucepan. While 
it warmed, I called Anita and organised her to go stay with Cass. Just 
as the milk came to the boil I pulled it off the stove, crushed the 
tranks into it, added a tiny dollop of whiskey, poured the concoction 
into a mug and set it on the kitchen table. Then I poured myself a 
considerably larger dollop of whiskey and knocked it straight back.

A few minutes later, with Daniel behind him, Jack came out of the 
bathroom, clean, patchily shaven, smelling of soap and warm water. I 
handed him the mug. "Drink this," I said. "No arguments."

With frightening docility he took the mug from me. Swallowed the laced 
milk in three large gulps, and stood there holding the empty mug like he 
had no idea what it was. Carefully I unwrapped his fingers from it, and 
set it safely in the sink.

Muzzily he looked at me. "I'm cold," he said.

Daniel and I swapped slightly desperate glances. "Come and sit down," I 
suggested. "Or would you rather go to bed?"

He shook his head. "No bed. Can't sleep."

"Come on," said Daniel. "We'll sit for a while then, okay? Listen to 
some music."

"Loud music," said Jack. "I can still hear it."

Ten minutes later he was fast sleep, curled into the armchair by the 
fireplace. Daniel found a blanket, covered him with it, and I turned off 
most of the heaters and cracked a couple of windows for fresh air. 
Tinkling into the silence, Jack's favourite Mozart.

I said, "Sam and Teal'c had to go."

Daniel nodded. "Oh yeah. I forgot. The SG4 thing." Then he sighed, and 
flattened a hand across his eyes. "God. This is a nightmare."

I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry. It's my fault. I'm the doctor. I didn't 
pay close enough attention. It's my fault. I'm sorry."

After a moment, Daniel lowered his hand. Shook his head. It was a sharp, 
decisive gesture. "No. It's not your fault. Yes, you're the doctor. So 
what? I'm the friend, and I didn't notice anything either. We saw what 
he wanted us to see, Janet. It was his choice to try and do this alone. 
His decision. At any time, he could have put up his hand and said, Hey 
guys. Drowning, not waving. But he didn't. And that's Jack. It's not our 
fault if he'd rather cut his own throat with blunt scissors than ask for 
help."

It sounded great in theory, but it didn't stop the flooding guilt. I 
should have seen beyond what Jack wanted to what he needed. That was my 
job, God dammit. I was his doctor, and I'd failed him. Failed him, 
failed the team, the SGC, Hammond. Failed myself.

Stupid, stupid, stupid ... 

                         *******************

Daniel said, "Are you hungry? I'm hungry."

I shook my head. Had to wait a minute before I could speak, and even 
then I sounded suspiciously husky. "I've eaten."

Daniel pretended not to notice. "Well, I'm starving. I think I will call 
for a pizza."

In the end I ended up sharing a large super-supreme with him. As we ate, 
and talked, and listened to the music Jack slept on, oblivious, anchored 
to unconciousness by drugs and exhaustion.

At some point, I don't know when, I fell asleep too.

When I woke, hours later, it was to the sound of Jack screaming.

"Get it out, get it out, Jesus Christ, get it out of me, somebody! Get 
it out, please God, Christ, get it out of me!" 

                         *******************

The room was in near darkness, the lights dimmed, the heaters reduced to 
a whispering shimmer. Daniel had covered me with a blanket, too. 
Startled, disoriented, I fell out of my chair. Bumped my head. Ouch. 
Groped myself upright, tried to see in the darkness ...

Daniel got there before me.

"Jack ... Jack ... it's okay, it's okay."

As my eyes adjusted to the lack of light, I saw that Jack was on the 
floor too, on his knees, clawing at the back of his neck, choking. 
Daniel was beside him, pulling his hands away, holding his wrists.

"Don't Jack, you'll hurt yourself. Jack, it was a dream, it was only a 
dream, it's okay, you're at home, the Goa'uld is dead, it's gone, you're 
okay."

"Jesus, Daniel, do something, get it out of me!"  

                         *******************

They'd forgotten I was there. I dithered. Stay or go?

Rightly or wrongly, I stayed. Climbed back in my chair, tightened the 
blanket around me, and eavesdropped.

Daniel's voice was tight with strain. "Jack, it's gone, okay? You were 
dreaming, it's gone."

Jack stopped struggling. "Gone?" The word came out as a disbelieving 
whisper. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," said Daniel. Hesitated, then cautiously let go of Jack's 
wrists. "Do you believe me?"

Jack nodded. "Yeah. I believe you."

"Okay," said Daniel. "Good. At least that's a start."

Jack slumped against the chair behind him. Daniel backed off, gave him 
some room. Watched him carefully for a moment then said, casually, "You 
okay?"

"I'm fine," said Jack. Pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his 
arms around them. Coughed.

"Of course you are," said Daniel.

Jack coughed again. "Daniel ..."

"Jack?"

"Tonight. Before. Was I -- did I --"

"Go a little Dark Side on us?" said Daniel. "Uh ... yeah."

"Oh," said Jack, and let his forehead drop to his knees. "Shit." Then he 
sighed. "Okay. I can take it. ... How dark, exactly?"

"Exactly?" said Daniel. "Uh ... let's see. Okay. About as dark as the 
inside of a cow on a moonless night."

There was a short, disbelieving silence. Then: "I give up. Where the 
fuck do you get them? I mean, is there a book I can burn, or something?"

"Now, Jack," said Daniel, reproachfully. "I am a linguist, you know."

"A piece of limp linguine, more like it," retorted Jack, in a grumbling 
undertone.

"Seriously," said Daniel. "It wasn't so bad. I mean, you weren't hanging 
upside down from the chimney stark naked, or anything. You were just ... 
a bit agitated. I think it was mostly sleep deprivation."

"Yeah," said Jack. "You could call it that."

"So ... how did it start?"

Jack shrugged. "I came home. Did some stuff. I was still tired, so I 
crashed out for a while. The nightmares kicked in and they didn't stop. 
Nothing helped. Booze, sleeping pills, exercise. Every time I closed my 
eyes, I was back there. And no matter what I did, I couldn't get warm. 
It was pretty much all downhill from there."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Jack snorted. "Not particularly. But I suppose you think I should."

"What I think doesn't matter," said Daniel. "The decision's yours. 
Whatever you want to do is fine with me."

Another sigh, dredged from the depths. "Ever since we signed on for this 
gig, it's been my biggest fear. Getting taken. Having one of those 
things put inside me. I don't know how Carter didn't go nuts. I don't 
understand how Jacob could say yes. I'll take cancer any day. Any day. I 
don't care that they're Tok'ra. They're still ... snakes."

"Yeah," said Daniel. "I know."

Jack cleared his throat. "While it was happening ... all I could think 
of was Kowalski. The people he killed. The way he cried. What she said. 
That I'd kill you, and Carter, and Teal'c. It was winning, you know. I 
couldn't fight it. I would have killed you. All of you."

Daniel's voice was soft in the darkness. "No, you wouldn't have. Any 
more than Sha're has killed, or Skaara, or that poor little man trapped 
inside his body with Apophis. The Goa'uld kills, Jack. The host is just 
one more victim."

"It's still in me, Daniel. I can feel it." There was a passion of 
loathing in Jack's voice that I had never heard before. "It's in me, 
rotting inside my flesh. I can smell it in my sweat. Taste it in my 
mouth. When I look into a mirror I can see it in my eyes."

"No," said Daniel. "You can't. It's dead, Jack. It's gone. It's not in 
you any more. It was never in you. Not really. Not the way Ammonet is in 
Sha're, and Klorel is in Skaara. Not the way Jolinar was in Sam. It was 
never a part of you. It never shared your mind or spoke with your voice 
or looked at the world with your eyes. It never owned you. And if it 
owns you now, it's only because you're letting it. The only power it 
has, Jack, is the power you give it."

There was silence, then, for the longest time. Then: "Oh God, Daniel," 
said Jack. He sounded beyond hope, or help. Battered into submission. 
"What do I do now? How do I fix this?"

"Cry," said Daniel. "Scream. Howl at the moon. Something. Anything. Just 
-- stop pretending."

"Pretending," said Jack, eventually.

"You know what I mean."

"Dammit, Daniel, I --" Jack stopped. Cleared his throat. "I'm not you."

"You don't have to be."

An even longer silence. Then Jack got up and left the room. I heard the 
click of the front door opening, closing. In the darkness, Daniel 
sniffed, and rubbed his face. Eased himself on the hard floor. Said, 
quietly, "Janet? Are you awake?"

Only then did I realise I was crying. Hot tears, streaming down my face. 
"Yes," I said, blotting my cheeks with the blanket. "I'm sorry, I wasn't 
sure what to do, I --"

"It's okay. At least now you know. Does it help?"

"It helps," I said. Then I shook my head. "He won't do it, you know."

Daniel shrugged. "He might. A lot's happened since Charlie died. He's 
not the man I met before the first mission to Abydos."

"No," I admitted. "But still. He hasn't changed that much."

"I don't know," said Daniel. "You might be surprised."

My turn to shrug. "Anything's possible."

For a while neither of us said anything. Then Daniel stirred. "If I go 
home, will you be all right?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Then I think I'll go home," said Daniel. "Good night, Janet. See you 
back at the base."

"Good night, Daniel."

The house was very large and silent after he left. For a little while, I 
waited for Jack to come back in. Then, gradually, I realised that he 
wasn't going to. Realised that somewhere outside, probably on the roof, 
he'd finally stopped running and was facing his demons. Confronting his 
fears. Maybe, for the first time in a very long time, or even for the 
first time ever, was letting himself feel everything that he needed to 
feel in order to leave that particular nightmare behind for good.

I hoped so.

Then I thought, well, Doctor Fraiser. If Jack can do it, then so can 
you. Hell, if Jack can do it, you don't have any choice. You have to.

And so I waged my own battle. Struggled to make peace with the mistakes 
that I'd made and the lies that I'd told. The promises I'd blithely 
made, and blithely broken.

It hurt. I cried. But sometime between the darkness and the dawn I 
discovered how to forgive myself. Not just for letting Jack down. For a 
lot of other things, too. Things I'd thought I could never look at 
again, let alone relive, or let go. Things I'd almost forgotten. Things 
I could never forget.

When I was ready, I went to find Jack.

Sure enough, he was on the roof, in his little home made observatory. As 
I clambered off the ladder and onto the platform I grinned. "Oooh. Deja 
vu."

"No," he said, squinting up at me. "No empty bottles. Or cigarettes. 
Unless --"

"No," I said. "Not this time. I quit."

"Damn," he said. "Oh well."

He looked the way I felt. Emptied. Renewed. Scoured clean of all his 
darkness and despair. His eyes were a little puffy, a little red. It 
could have meant anything. It could just have been lack of sleep. It 
didn't mean Daniel was right.

I wasn't going to ask.

I sat down facing him, in the opposite corner. Stretched my legs out in 
front of me and breathed deeply of the bright morning air. "How are you 
feeling?"

"Were you there last night?" he asked. "I seem to remember that you were 
there."

"Yes," I said. "I was there."

"Ah." He pulled a face. "Well," he said, "right now, I feel cold. For 
real, I mean. As in goosebumps. See?" He held out his arm.

"Goosebumps," I agreed. "Would you like me to go get a blanket?"

He shook his head. "No. It never hurts to be reminded of what's real, 
and what isn't."

"No," I said, suddenly and deeply happy. "It never does."

"I suppose," he said idly, "that now you expect me to come lie down on 
your office couch and tell you all about it."

"No," I replied without thinking, drunk with delight, my tongue 
uncensored. "I already know the important stuff. We can leave it there, 
I think."

That's when he realised that I'd been awake, and listening, and privy to 
his confession to Daniel. He was still then, the way a glacier is still, 
or a dormant volcano. 

I said, staring at the rose and azure sky, "Isn't it a lovely morning?"

By degrees he relaxed. Thawed. He said, "Lovely." His tone was 
particularly dry.

I looked at him. Raised my eyebrows. "Are you saying you want to talk 
about it some more?"

"No," he said. "I'm not saying that."

I smiled. He scowled. I shrugged. He scowled.

We left it at that.

I said, "Jack ..."

His eyes were closed, his face tilted towards the rising sun. "Janet?"

"Is it still inside you?"

Dreamily he lifted one hand, and trailed his fingers through the morning 
light. "No," he said. "It's gone, now."

"Good," I said. "I'm glad."

That made him smile. "So am I."

My own smile didn't last long. I took a deep breath. Let it out in harsh 
increments. "Jack ..."

He shook his head. "You saw what I wanted you to see."

"No," I said. "I saw what I wanted me to see. Because to see anything 
else was too painful. Too frightening. I was wrong. You needed me to see 
with better eyes than that. I promise, I will never let you down again. 
At least, not in that way. How ever much I might want to, I can't swear 
never to let you down at all."

He nodded. "And I'm sorry I lied to you. I can't promise that won't 
happen again ... but I'll do my best to see it doesn't."

"Deal," I said. "Shake on it?"

We clasped hands. His palm was cool, dry. He said, releasing me, "What 
are you going to tell Hammond?"

"Nothing," I said. "What are you going to tell him?"

He shrugged. "Everything. As usual."

Time drifted, taking us with it.

Overhead, the sky lost its rosy tint, and the pale blue deepened. In the 
street below us, children shouted and laughed, fought their Sunday 
battles and cried their Sunday tears. Dogs barked. Fathers started lawn 
mowers and mothers scented the suburban air with hotcakes and syrup. A 
distant radio painted the silences with music.

Through it all, sleeping, Jack smiled.


                         *******************

Medical Considerations #6: Shades of Grey
By OzK - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

RATING: R

WARNINGS: Language

CATEGORY: Epilogue

DISCLAIMER: Not for profit fanfic; no copyright infringements intended 
for MGM, Double Secret, Gekko or Showtime

                         *******************

Like all the best disasters -- the Titanic, the atom bomb, Lt. Nguyen's 
engagement party -- the idea looked really good on paper. Get the 
members of SG1 together in an informal therapy-cum-counselling-cum-
debriefing session to work through the lingering aftermath of the sting 
operation mounted against Harry Maybourne and his merry gang of outlaws. 
No uniforms, no rank, no notes ... just a frank and free exchange of 
views to clear up any ongoing misunderstandings arising from the 
mission.

What could be simpler? More efficacious? More insane?

Gee, I don't know. Lighting a match in a gunpowder factory, maybe?

We should have known, Hammond and I. After three years, we should have 
known. Well ... I should have, anyway, and since Jack and the general 
actually spend time together off base, fishing, talking about God knows 
what, then Hammond should have known, too.

One way and another, it had been a bad year for SG1. Jack being 
implanted with a goa'uld larva, no matter how briefly. Daniel losing 
Sha're. Three of them going to hell, getting hurt, tortured. Twice for 
Sam, if you counted her Jolinar memories. All of them losing the rematch 
with Apophis. Jack getting stranded on Edora. Body blows, every one. And 
while we kept a close eye on them, while we gave them all the support 
and understanding that we could, Hammond and I knew, achingly, bitterly, 
that there were scars, and scars, and that we couldn't make them or the 
pain disappear.

It meant the team was tired. Fragile, on the inside, where it didn't 
show. Hairline cracks in the psyche, the soul, that widened under 
pressure. And God knows, what those ineffably superior aliens asked Jack 
to do was pressure enough to split the atom.

After all of that, asking them to uncover the resulting wounds in the 
crucible of each other's regard was more than they could bear. It was 
unkind. Unfair. Thoughtless.

But we thought it would be okay. We thought that after three years, that 
odd little quartet of disparate views had grown together like four 
different flowers in a single pot, so tightly entwined that not even 
this most ill-judged of escapades could disentangle the roots.

How refreshing, to find out at my age how wrong I still can be.

Of course, the damnable thing is that it wasn't really an ill-judged 
escapade at all. It was a godawful state of affairs that had to be 
resolved, quickly ... an amputation in the field, with the patient 
haemorrhaging to death and no time for finesse, just hack and chop and 
bludgeon until the offending limb is severed. Brutal but necessary, and 
if the patient takes a few ancillary slices, well, you sew those up 
after the fact and thank your lucky stars it wasn't worse.

Cue me and the general ... needle and thread at the ready, trying to 
work out which cut to stitch first.

"Janet," he said to me in his office, late one night about ten days 
after it all happened, "we have a problem with SG1."

I sighed. "Yes. I know. A big one."

We hadn't discussed it, the team and I. Jack and I. Twenty-four 
excruciating hours after the successful completion of the sting, during 
which I'd been swamped with an SG4 inspired crisis, Hammond had wisely 
stood the team down for three days. They'd scattered to the winds, fled 
the scene of the crime, Sam to visit her brother, Teal'c to his wife and 
son, Daniel to an exciting dinosaur find in Nevada and Jack into the 
wilds of Colorado on his Harley. The whole base had heaved a sigh of 
relief, and I'd buried myself in an ongoing biokinetic study that Liz 
Harris and I dreamed up over dinner and a bottle of good rough red.

They returned to duty on the Thursday. Things were ... a little hinky. 
Lots of exaggerated politeness, slightly off-kilter body language, not 
exactly making eye-contact stuff. A certain edge to the conversation. No 
surprises there. All things considered, it was only to be expected. I 
wasn't worried, then. I did think of cornering Jack, checking to see how 
he was, but he very studiously avoided me, and I took the hint.

On the Friday, he and Hammond went off somewhere hush-hush to debrief 
Makepeace and the others. When they came back Saturday, it was like 
Invasion of the Body Snatchers time. Jack was ... angry. Cold eyes and 
rigid shoulders and take your life in your hands to say 'hi' to him 
angry. Gone the sheepish, apologetic, excessively agreeable man doing 
his best to get back into his team's good graces, and in his place a man 
who walked softly, carried a very big stick and didn't look like he'd 
have a problem using it. Whatever he was angry about, it concerned 
Daniel. Sam and Teal'c he basically ignored. But Daniel was treated to 
the kind of obnoxiousness that in other times, other places, would have 
earned him a knife between the ribs. For starters.

The day before my meeting with Hammond I'd witnessed an unpleasant 
exchange between them that set all my alarm bells ringing. The team was 
heading out to P7X903 for a quick check on a bank of monitors they'd 
left behind two weeks before, and I was giving them their routine pre-
flight once-over. Daniel said something about maybe taking some time to 
explore beyond the immediate gate vicinity this trip. It was nothing, 
just an off-handed 'wouldn't it be nice' kind of remark.

Jack came down on him like two tons of bricks.

"That's not why we're going, Daniel. We're going to check the monitors, 
period. We've got better things to do than waste our time sight seeing 
right now. If I'd thought the place warranted further exploration I 
would have said so, wouldn't I? That is my job, after all. To assess the 
MALP and UAV telemetry and recommend the kind of mission we need to 
mount. I assessed, I called it, we don't explore. You got a problem with 
that, take it up with Hammond. For some strange reason he seems to have 
faith in my judgement."

Sam, Daniel and I gaped at him. Teal'c raised both eyebrows. Daniel 
said, "O-kay. I just thought --"

"Do me a favour," said Jack. "Don't think. Try something different for a 
change. Try following orders, even if you don't like them. Might be an 
educational experience." And then he stalked out of the infirmary, 
leaving us stunned and disconcerted.

"Well, excuse me for breathing," said Daniel, clearly put out.

Sam and I just exchanged a look. "Come on, Daniel," she said, and patted 
his arm. "Better not keep him waiting."

So they headed out after Jack, and I put away my bits and pieces and 
thought unpleasant thoughts. After they returned, Sam and I had a hasty 
conference in a deserted corridor, but she was as clueless as me.

"I have no idea what's going on," she said, pulling a face. "You should 
go ask him. He listens to you more than any of us."

Ha.

In three years I'd learned a thing or two, believe me. Like how to tell 
the difference between the fights with Jack that you can win, and the 
ones that will leave you in a little bloody heap on the floor. No way 
was I going to push him into conversation when he was in that mood. No 
way.

So I held my breath, crossed my fingers and hoped the abcess would burst 
of its own accord.

It didn't, of course. Which is why Hammond and I were sitting in his 
office on opposite sides of his desk, wearing identical frowns.

Leaning back in his chair, Hammond pressed his hands to his face, then 
let them drop to his lap. "I hoped and prayed there wouldn't be any 
fallout from the sting against Maybourne. Looks like I was asking too 
much. So now we have to deal with it. The question is ... how?"

I shrugged. "They have to talk about it. And soon. But you know as well 
as I do that it's not going to happen without a lot of arm twisting. 
They're all very angry right now, and not in what I'd call an 'active 
listening' frame of mind."

"I'm open to suggestions," he replied with a wry smile. "To be honest 
with you, I haven't known where to start or who to tackle first. It's 
all such a goddamned mess." The smile vanished, and his fist banged the 
desktop. "Damn Maybourne anyhow. The damage he's done ..."

"Can be repaired," I said quickly.

"Can it?" He sounded doubtful. Sick at heart. "I wish I were as sure, 
Doctor." He reached into a drawer and pulled out a tape deck. "You know 
Maybourne bugged Jack's house?" I nodded. "Listen to this."

He pressed the 'play' button and sat back, the look on his face 
suggesting he'd already heard the conversation one time too many. I 
leaned forward, closing my eyes to better catch the underlying nuances.

It was like listening to a murder.

Daniel. Worried, confused, courageous. *How are you feeling?* How many 
people in Jack's life are there who'd dare to ask that question? Frank 
Cromwell, but he's dead. Sara, but she's divorced. Me, but I'd been kept 
out of the loop on this one and honestly, I can't say I'm sorry. And, of 
course, always, Daniel.

He must have known what the question invited. He's known Jack longer 
than any of us. Has seen a Jack that none of us have witnessed. Even so, 
did he dream that Jack, *Jack,* would turn on him in such a fashion? Rip 
him up and down with his double-bladed tongue, disembowel him, leave him 
gutted and bleeding and sliced to ribbons?

No. He didn't. Because, despite everything, they were friends. Scarred 
and tested and broken and mended friends.

Or so he'd thought.

Suddenly it all made sense. Daniel's ice cold fury. His scalding 
bitterness. His point blank refusal to stand with us in the Gateroom as 
Jack turned his back and apparently walked away, for good.

*Oh, Daniel.*

I had to blink back tears. Was swept with a blinding, irrational fury at 
Jack for doing that to a man who loved him, who'd had enough pain to be 
going on with, thank you very much. *God, Jack, how could you?*

Of course, I knew the answer already. Because he had to. Because it was 
necessary. Because there was no-one else available who could look a 
friend in the eye and stab him through the heart in the name of duty.

*Oh, Jack.*

When it was over I said, "I knew he was being awful, but I had no idea 
..."

Hammond sighed, and put the tape deck back in his drawer. "To be honest, 
neither did I. If I'd thought he'd have to go that far ... that he 
*could* go that far ... maybe ..."

I shook my head. "No. Much as I hate to admit it, General, you had no 
choice. Neither did Jack. Maybourne had to be stopped, by whatever means 
necessary. And I have every faith that the other members of SG1 are 
aware of that. I won't deny there's been some collateral damage --" 
Hammond snorted at that, face screwed up in a disgust which I shared. I 
managed an acknowledging smile, and continued, "-- but I know these 
people, sir, and so do you. They've survived too much together to let 
this tear them apart."

The look he gave me was piercing, his expression twisted between hope 
and disbelief. "What makes you so sure?"

*I'm not. I'm just telling you what you need to hear, sir. What I need 
to hear. What we both need to believe. Because the alternative is ... 
unacceptable.* "I know them," I repeated doggedly. *I do, I do, I do, so 
there.*

He said, "I acknowledge your expertise in this matter, doctor, but ... 
we have an unfortunate complication."

Just in time I stopped myself from saying, *No, really?* We get on well, 
Hammond and I, but the only person around here who gets away with that 
kind of sarcasm is Jack. And even then, not always.

"Something happened with Makepeace, sir?"

On a sigh, nodding, he said, "Jack is ... very upset about it. As you 
may have noticed. I think I'll let him tell you what happened himself. 
It's something that I imagine will come out when they finally get around 
to talking through this whole mess."

Rats. Where Jack is concerned, no amount of information is too much. 
Forewarned isn't only forearmed, it's double locked, triple checked and 
backed up to the hilt. I said, being very polite, "Actually, sir, it 
might help if I knew in advance."

He considered me for a moment, then heaved another sigh. "Dr Jackson 
apparently indicated to Makepeace that he's never trusted Jack's 
command. Makepeace repeated the comment to Jack."

Oh, shit. Oh, *Daniel.* Of course, he was hurt over what Jack said to 
him, and people in pain don't often think of consequences, but .... "Oh, 
dear," I said. "That's ... unfortunate."

He snorted. "You could say that. I think," he said slowly, after a 
moment's silence, "that whatever we decide to do, it should be done 
informally. In unofficial surroundings. No rank, first name to first 
name. I know this whole catastrophe arose out of official business, but 
the fallout is private and personal. I think maybe there's a better 
chance they'll actually work it out if they're somewhere ... unmilitary. 
Neutral. Domestic ...." His voice trailed away hopefully.

"Your place, sir?" I suggested, wilfully misunderstanding.

He shook his head. "Actually, I thought I might sit this one out, Janet. 
Insofar as they're likely to be intimidated by my presence, even if rank 
and authority are left at the door."

Right. What I thought was *coward.* What I said was, "Then I guess it'll 
have to be my place, sir."

"Are you sure?" He was hard put to keep the relief out of his voice. 
"Because I think it's the best solution, don't you? Somewhere familiar, 
comfortable, but without territorial associations. Somewhere they feel 
able to let their hair down, and talk frankly and openly about their 
feelings."

Jack? Talk frankly and openly about his feelings? *Without* the benefit 
of sodium pentothal?

*Excuse me, sir, but did we slip into an alternate reality while I 
wasn't looking?*

"Yes, General," I said. "I'll let them know."

*And then I'll go lock up all my breakables.*

                         *******************

I told them first thing the next morning. You can imagine the cries of 
joy with which the announcement was greeted.

Not.

I just smiled and shrugged and said, "Sorry. General's orders. See you 
tonight." And made my escape.

Zero hour had been set for nineteen-thirty. Teal'c was the first to 
arrive.

"Good evening, Doctor," he said, as I stood aside to let him into the 
hallway.

"Janet, please," I said, and looked out into the driveway. "You're 
alone?"

He nodded. "I am."

"So you drove yourself here?"

There was the glimmer of a smile. "I did."

"I ... see."

Another glimmer. In the obsidian eyes, a wicked gleam. "Do not concern 
yourself -- Janet. It was perfectly safe. The car is an automatic."

That made me laugh. An iceberg of a man, is our Teal'c. I closed the 
door and said, "Follow me, then, and welcome to my home. Can I get you 
something to drink?"

"Thank you, no," he replied as he trailed me to the other end of house 
and into the family room. It felt like having a mountain on my heels. At 
home, off duty, I absolutely and categorically refuse to wear anything 
on my feet other than flat shoes. In a weird way, of course, I was back 
on duty again ... but I can be as stubborn as the next Jack. Standing 
next to Teal'c under my own roof made me, disconcertingly, a child 
again.

He chose the armchair by the picture window, the seat that offered the 
best coverage and sight lines in the room. Habit, I think. Dressed in a 
shirt and trousers as he was, I could see he wasn't armed. And while 
surely he, like I, was expecting trouble, it wasn't likely to come from 
flying bullets.

Well. Not ones made out of metal and gunpowder, anyway.

"Cassandra is not here?"

I shook my head. "Not for this. She's spending the night with a girl 
friend."

"A wise precaution."

The others would surely be arriving any moment. I perched on the edge of 
the sofa, hands tight on my knees and said, "May I ask you something?"

For a moment he just looked at me. Assessing my request, my nerves. 
Focussed and silent and intent as an eagle. I know, I know ... another 
'force of nature' comparison. But with Teal'c, it's the only metaphor 
that springs to mind. He is that vast. That implacable. Still as an 
alpine lake. Obdurate as a glacier. Lethal as a hurricane. Enormous, 
unstoppable power caged within flesh and blood and bone.

When at last he nodded, it was like the granting of an audience by some 
warrior-king out of legend. "You may." 

"You don't have to say if you don't want to ... but ... what do you make 
of all this?"

For a moment I didn't think he'd answer. The number of in- depth 
personal conversations Teal'c and I had had were in the 'fingers of two 
hands' category. I admired him, trusted him ... but I didn't know him 
very well. In many ways, I still don't. In the muted, shadowy lighting 
the gold on his forehead glowed liquid, newly minted. Then he sighed. It 
startled me ... it was the first time I'd ever heard such an uncertain 
sound from his lips. "The battle against the goa'uld is very difficult, 
for they are a formidable foe. The greatest danger that we face is that 
in attempting to defeat them, we risk surrendering those values that 
cause us to fight in the first place."

The eternal dilemma. My throat closed. *A host. I need a host.* With a 
shudder I banished the memory. "Yes. You're right."

He said, "That is one answer. But if, as I suspect, you wish to 
ascertain my feelings about O'Neill's part in this recent charade, I 
have only this to say. Though we were born beneath different suns, in 
our hearts we are as one. He is my brother, and I am his."

That made my eyes sting. I said, "So ... you're not angry with him at 
all?"

Again, that glimmering smile. "I did not say that. But I have no quarrel 
with him personally. We were interrupted before he could say anything to 
me that might have caused offense."

The phone call from Hammond. I took a moment to consider just what Jack 
might have said in the infirmary to get Teal'c out of his way ... and 
shuddered. There are some things in life you really are better off not 
knowing.

Impulsively I said, "Teal'c. Truthfully. Will this work? Or am I just 
making things worse?"

As he considered his answer, the doorbell chimed. I got up to answer it. 
As I reached the hall he said, "You have a saying here, Janet. Make or 
break time. I believe it is appropriate now."

Heartsick, I nodded, and headed for the front door. It was Sam and 
Daniel.

"Hey," I greeted them. "You made it. Good. Come on in. Teal'c's just 
arrived."

"No Jack?" said Daniel, standing back for Sam to lead the way.

"Not yet."

"Surprise, surprise," muttered Daniel.

"Hi, Janet," said Sam, eyebrows lowered, and kissed my cheek.

"Hi. How are you feeling?"

She shrugged. "Sick."

"It'll be all right."

Daniel looked down at his nose at me. "Ya think?"

Oh dear, oh dear. "Go on through to the family room. I'll ... wait for 
Jack."

With an exchange of looks they did and, a moment later, as I stood in 
the open doorway waiting for the sound of Jack's bike, or his jeep, I 
heard the murmur of their voices, soothing as the ebb and flow of a 
distant ocean.

He came, eventually. Slammed the jeep door and slouched his way up the 
steps, all slitted eyes and down-turned mouth, hands thrust deep into 
the pockets of his battered black leather jacket. In the porch light his 
hair gleamed cold silver.

"I'm glad you're here," I said as I closed the front door behind us.

He headed down the hall. "Don't speak too soon."

*Oh .... terrific.*

Sam and Daniel were settled side by side on the sofa. That left another 
armchair and a love seat. Jack headed for the curtained window. Turned 
his back to it and said, "Let's get this over with, then."

Daniel, arms barricaded across his chest, shook his head. "Oh, here we 
go."

Up came a warning finger. "Don't start with me, Daniel."

Sam sagged into the corner of the sofa, one hand covering her eyes. 
"Look, guys, do you think we could --"

Daniel ignored her. Leaned forward, pointing right back at Jack and 
said, stridently, "Hey. I'm not starting anything, here. You're the one 
who started this."

"Jesus Christ! I was under orders, Daniel!" Jack, being placating. "I 
had more important things to worry about than hurting your feelings!"

"Oh, now there's a newsflash!" Daniel, being placated. "As far as you're 
concerned, Jack, *everything* is more important than worrying about 
hurting people's feelings!"

Jack started pacing. It's his version of that tick-tick-ticking sound 
you hear while a bomb is preparing to explode. "Has it occurred to you 
yet, Daniel, that my life was on the line? One false step, one wrong 
move, and phht! Maybourne and his goons would have disappeared me 
without a second thought."

"And gosh," said Daniel, with devastating aim. "We really would have 
missed you."

Jack went white. Took a step forward, fists clenched. "You sanctimonious 
little --"

With a crack like gunfire, Teal'c brought the flat of his hand down on 
the lamp table beside him. "*Kree!* Enough! You will cease this petty 
bickering immediately! It achieves nothing, and dishonours you both!"

Shocked silence.

"Furthermore," added Teal'c, monumental in his displeasure, "you are 
upsetting Major Carter."

I didn't dare remind him that this was a 'check your rank at the door' 
kind of do. Barely breathing, I stayed still as a mouse in my chair in 
the shadows, and waited to see what would happen.

Sam sat up, sniffing, and smeared the back of her hand over her cheeks. 
"It's okay, Teal'c. Really. I'm just -- you know --"

"Tired of this state of affairs," Teal'c finished. "As am I."

Both Daniel and Jack had the grace to look ashamed. "Sorry, Sam," Daniel 
said, and squeezed her hand. "Sorry."

Jack muttered something that could have been interpreted in a number of 
ways. Teal'c, with one last blistering glare, gave him the benefit of 
the doubt and resumed his customary silence.

I cleared my throat. So much for my carefully thought out plan for the 
evening, in which each team member would be given a chance to express 
his or her thoughts and feelings in a calm, non-judgemental atmosphere. 
Instead, it was back to good old seat of the pants flying.

Surprise, as Daniel would say, surprise.

"I think," I said, in the most soothing voice I possessed, "that we 
should all take a deep breath and start again. Clearly, there are some 
issues that need to be dealt with, here. But Teal'c is right. We're not 
going to achieve anything if we allow ourselves to resort to personal 
insults. We have to respect each other's positions, and listen to what 
everyone has to say without judging or attacking. The last couple of 
weeks have been difficult for everyone here. We're looking to rebuild 
some trust, people. Agreed?"

"You're right," said Daniel. "As usual."

I looked at Jack, whose faced was screwed up like he'd just bitten into 
a lemon. He really hates it when I talk like a relationship therapist. 
"Jack?" I said. "Why don't you have a seat? You'll be more comfortable."

He baulked, like a horse refusing to go into water. Ears pinned back, 
tail swishing, a red gleam of rage in the eye.

"Please, Jack," said Sam. "Don't make this any harder than it already 
is."

He sat.

"Why don't you go first, Sam?" I suggested.

She nodded. Sat forward, hands pressed palm to palm and captured between 
her knees. "I just want to make it perfectly clear that I'm speaking 
only for myself, here. I mean, sure, Daniel and Teal'c and I have talked 
about what happened. We talked while it was happening, too. But what I'm 
going to say now is only what I think and feel." Her eyes never left 
Jack as she spoke. "Okay?"

He made no acknowledgement. Just kept frowning at the beginnings of a 
rip in the right knee of his faded jeans.

"Okay," I said. "That's fine, Sam. Go on."

She took a deep breath. Let it out. Glanced at Daniel, and received a 
small, encouraging smile. Rubbed her palms down the side of her cargo 
pants, and cleared her throat. "I understand that you were acting under 
orders, s-- Jack," she began, carefully. "And I understand that you 
weren't able to let us in on what was really happening. Your life was on 
the line, and you had to take every precaution."

Jack's gaze flicked up to meet hers. "So what's your problem ... Sam?"

She moistened her lips. "My problem ..." On another deep breath, she 
straightened, and lifted her chin. "What I don't understand, what I --" 
Her voice quavered. "-- resent, is the way you went about stealing the 
device from the Tollans. By doing it in front of us, you made us 
complicit in the crime. That wasn't fair."

"There was no crime," said Jack. "The Tollans knew what I was going to 
do. We worked it out beforehand. Why do you think I wasn't fried when I 
ripped the damn thing out of the wall?"

"*We* didn't know that," Sam replied. She was pale, with a bright patch 
of colour burning in each cheek. "You put us in an impossible position. 
Report you to General Hammond, or stay quiet and make ourselves 
accomplices after the fact."

"And you didn't squeal. For which I am very grateful, by the way," Jack 
replied. "I was touched."

"And I was dishonoured!" Sam snapped.

That sat him up. Sat me up, too. Eyebrows raised, voice dangerously 
delicate, Jack said, "Dishonoured?"

"Yes," said Sam, unflinching. "We should have reported you. We should 
have walked back through the Gate and gone straight to Hammond and told 
him what you'd done. That would have been the right thing to do."

There was the faintest of sneers in Jack's voice as he said, "So why 
didn't you?"

"Because we care about you and we didn't want you to get into trouble!" 
Sam retorted, stung. "We felt there had to be some kind of explanation, 
some reason for you doing what you did!"

Jack shrugged. "And patently, there was. So what's the big deal?"

"The big deal?" Sam echoed. "We thought maybe you were -- were -- sick. 
Having some kind of a stress breakdown. But you weren't, you were just 
setting us up."

"In a good cause."

"Yes, but that's not what I mean!" Sam said. "I behaved inappropriately. 
Whatever the reasons were for you stealing that device, I should not 
have kept quiet about it. I should have gone to Hammond and reported the 
theft, and let him decide if you were sick, or insane. Don't you get it? 
I compromised my integrity for you, Jack. I put my personal feelings 
before my duty. How can Hammond trust me now? How can he be sure I'll 
ever do the right thing, when I didn't do it then?"

"Sam --"

"No! You shut up and hear me out, God dammit!"

All our mouths were hanging open. Even Teal'c looked shocked. In three 
years, Sam had never spoken to Jack like this. Never spoken to anyone 
like this. Part of me was appalled ... but another part was silently 
cheering. *You go, girl. Tell him like it is.*

"But you know something?" Sam continued. "Even if I had done it, I still 
would have been screwed, and you know why? Because then I would have 
been disloyal. Some choice, huh? Rat on my CO the minute he crosses the 
line, or keep my mouth shut and be an accomplice to the crime. Either 
way, I look bad to Generald Hammond. I'm sorry if that sounds selfish, 
or petty, but it's how I feel. His opinion of me is very, very important 
... and now it's been compromised."

Jack said, "That's not true."

She was on the verge of tears again, rage and pain and disillusionment 
brimming in her eyes. "Yes, it is true, and you know it. How could you 
do that to me? After everything we've been through together, how could 
you jeopardise my career like that? You know how important it is, Jack! 
It's my life! Why did you do it? You didn't have to, you could have sent 
us on ahead and then made up a reason to go back. We never had to know. 
You could have surprised us all with it in the mission debrief, and we 
never would have been involved!"

It was a long time before Jack replied. When he did speak, it was very 
carefully, as though he had to ride every word, every breath, or run the 
risk of losing control completely. I had a sudden sense of exclusion, as 
though the rest of us didn't exist and it was just him, and her, and the 
chasm that had opened up between them.

"I did consider doing it that way," he said. "But the Tollan have 
security recorders all over the place, and I couldn't be sure that they 
didn't have their own subversives. We really don't know that much about 
them, yet. And ... it was a situation that lended itself to paranoia. 
You're right, I could have arranged with you to carry on while I doubled 
back and took the device. But it would have meant you were still open to 
suspicion. For all anyone knew, I could have told you what I was going 
to do, and sent you ahead to create a diversion or something. My way 
made it crystal clear that you --" His gaze flickered to the others, 
briefly. "-- none of you, had anything to do with the theft. And if you 
can't see that, then you're not the officer I thought you were."

*Ouch.* Low blow. But I wasn't surprised. It's not in Jack's nature to 
be attacked, and not defend himself.

Gradually, gradually, the hurt faded from Sam's face. The threatening 
tears receded. She exhaled a shaky breath, and nodded. "Okay," she said 
at last. "Fair enough. I accept that. But -- it doesn't change how 
Hammond must think of me now."

Jack shook his head, and for the first time since he'd entered my house 
that night, the merest hint of a smile showed in his eyes. "Hammond has 
nothing but the highest respect and regard for you, Sam. You didn't get 
command of the team because you aren't ready, not because you aren't 
worthy."

"Oh," said Sam. It was a very small sound.

Across the room, Teal'c's eyes met mine. There was a smile glinting 
there, too. I returned it, briefly.

"What about what you said to her?" Daniel demanded. "In the corridor. 
You owe her an apology for that."

Sam shot him a look. "It's okay, Daniel," she said, and there was a hint 
of warning in her voice. "I told you, I don't need anyone fighting my 
battles for me."

"Not to mention that it's none of your business," Jack added. The 
lurking smile was gone, and his eyes were back to being flat, and cold, 
and unforgiving.

Daniel, bless him, has never been afraid of giving Jack back what he 
dishes out. "I'm making it my business," he retorted. "You hurt her, 
Jack."

"No, he didn't, Daniel," Sam said, using her 'Major Carter' voice. "Just 
let it go."

Daniel turned on her. "No, I won't let it go. He did hurt you, you know 
he did. I'm tired of him getting to say whatever he likes to people and 
nobody calling him on it. It's not fair. Just because he's the colonel 
doesn't mean he should get away with it."

"Get away with it?" said Jack.

Oh dear. We were back to dangerous delicacy again.

"You always do," said Daniel. His face was set, eyes opaque. "You bully 
with words and because you can be so goddamned scarey, nobody says 
anything."

Jack smiled. My heart sank. He said, "This isn't about Sam at all, is 
it, Daniel? This is about you. It's that old 'only child, must be the 
centre of the universe' thing. Your problem is, you're a spoilt brat. 
All you ever think about is yourself."

"Er --" I said. "People ... remember what I said about --"

"No, Jack," said Daniel, who has a pretty good line in dangerous 
himself. "This is about you, and the choices you made during this little 
operation. The things you chose to say, and the way you chose to say 
them."

"Christ on crutches!" Jack was on his feet again, pacing, hands 
agitated, savaging his hair. "How many times do I have to tell you? My 
place was bugged, I had to make it sound good! It's your own fault, 
anyway."

And now Daniel was standing, goaded beyond the point of no return. "*My* 
fault?" he demanded. "How the *fuck* is it *my* fault?"

Jack whirled to face him. "Because, Daniel, you *never* listen to me. 
Never. If you'd just for *once* listened when I said I didn't want to 
talk about it, if you'd respected the fact that I --"

"Respect?" Daniel gasped. "Hello pot, this is kettle! Since when have 
you ever respected --"

"Oh, *fuck,* Daniel!" Jack's fist hit the wall. "Not this *again.* How 
many more times do you want me to say it? I respect the *hell* out of 
you when it comes to your area of expertise. I just wish that for once 
you'd return the compliment and respect mine ... *and* respect my right 
*not* to talk to you if I don't want to! What gives you the right to 
demand that I share my feelings with you? Do you have a short circuit in 
your brain somewhere, that when you hear the words 'I don't want to talk 
about it', you suddenly go deaf? Why won't you just take no for an 
answer? I said what I said because it was the only way to shut you the 
fuck up and get you out of there. I was protecting you, you stupid 
bastard, and it's not my fault if you're too pig ignorant to see it!"

"Protecting me?" Daniel repeated. "Telling me that our friendship meant 
nothing to you was protecting me?"

"And what about what you said to me, huh?" Jack spat. "Since when is a 
friendship something you *work on*? What am I, some kind of post-
doctoral thesis? An extra-curricular anthropological project? Is 
spending time with me like -- like -- *homework*? What? Because fuck 
you! Am I supposed to feel grateful you're taking the time to work so 
hard at liking me?"

"I didn't mean it like that!" Daniel shouted. "Stop putting words in my 
mouth. What I meant is that you and I have very little in common --"

"You got that right!"

"-- and -- and -- and I'm *not* going to let you turn this around and 
make it into my fault! You always do that. You always attack people when 
you know you're in the wrong. You may have been playing a part, Jack, 
and you may have been talking it up for the invisible audience, but 
there was a part of you that meant what you said, you know it, and I 
know it, and --"

"The way you meant what you said to Makepeace?" said Jack.

I was holding my breath so hard my head had started to swim. All of a 
sudden, things were right out of hand. Sam was staring at the two of 
them as though her heart was ready to split right down the middle. This 
wasn't what I'd intended, this wasn't how it was supposed to go. I'd 
expected some fireworks, I'd expected a lively exchange of opposing 
viewpoints ... but this was bloodshed. They were tearing each other 
apart, hacking and slashing without care. I had to do something. I had 
to stop it before --

Across the room, Teal'c shook his head at me. Frowned. Lifted a hand in 
a gesture that said, *See it through.*

I sat back, heart pounding to dust against my ribs.

Daniel blinked. "What?"

Any remnants of delicacy in Jack's voice were now burned to ash. He 
said, simmeringly, "You remember. About how you never trusted me?"

"Oh," said Daniel. "That."

"He couldn't wait to share that little titbit," said Jack. "First words 
out of his mouth when Hammond and I went to see him. 'So, Jack, how's 
your team? Do they trust you yet?'"

"I never said I didn't trust you," Daniel said flatly. "I said I never 
trusted your command."

"Oh, well, excuse me while I get my magnifying glass to look for the 
difference," said Jack, with awful sarcasm.

"There is a difference, and you know it," said Daniel. "You said it 
yourself. People like you and people like me don't see the world the 
same way. I may trust you to pull my ass out of the fire, but I don't 
trust you to-- to -- to put cultural considerations before military 
ones."

"Good call!" Jack jeered. "Because it'll be a cold day in hell before I 
do that! And if that's such a problem for you, Daniel, you should 
probably go find someone else to be friends with, if that's what we ever 
were, because I am sick to fucking death of this shit! It's too hard! 
*Fuck!*" His fists were clenching and unclenching as though they longed 
to drive through paint, through plaster, through timber and brick and 
mortar into a pure, clean place of uncomplicated physical pain. 

Daniel, suddenly and acutely aware of his danger, stood very still.

Jack said, raggedly, "You think you're the only one working here? You 
think *you're* a walk in the park? How many times have you jeapordised 
this team with your stupid impulsive cultural tunnel vision? How many 
times have you argued with me, questioned me, disrespected my expertise, 
my experience? Jesus Christ, Daniel, I was bleeding for this country 
while you were in high school! Now I'm bleeding for the whole damned 
planet, Christ, for the galaxy! I think that should cut me just a little 
bit of slack, don't you? I think it should earn me the right to do my 
job as I see fit without being punished for it!"

Daniel said something then, or made a sound, but it was too little, too 
late and Jack was far beyond hearing him.

"I didn't ask for this crappy assignment, Daniel, I got volunteered. We 
were in shit so deep it was closing over our heads, and we didn't have 
the time to sit around debating the niceties! How long do you think 
we'll last against those snakey motherfuckers if the Asgard *and* the 
Tollan *and* the Nox *and* the Tok'ra cut us loose? We *need* them, you 
stupid prick! Are you going to stand there and tell me that your hurt 
feelings are more important than the safety of the six billion people on 
this planet? I don't *care* if I bloodied your nose, Daniel. You got 
that? I don't *care* if you sobbed yourself to sleep! I did what I did 
for good old Planet Earth, and every other human settlement out there 
victimised and abandoned by the goa'uld and if you don't like it then 
that's just too damned fucking bad!"

Silence. Shocked and breathless. A freeze frame of fury and pain and 
shattered feelings. And then came a sound like bells, chiming. A shaft 
of brilliant white light exploded the shadows ... and there was a little 
grey alien standing in my family room.

"Greetings," he said.

Somehow, I managed to gather my wits. "Er ... greetings -- Thor? You are 
Thor, aren't you?"

"I am," Thor agreed, and blinked those enormous eyes. "Forgive me for 
intruding, Doctor Fraiser. I had hoped interference would be unncessary, 
but clearly it is required."

Jack stirred. "What are you talking about? What are you *doing* here?"

Thor turned to him. "When I asked you to intervene in the matter of the 
stolen artifacts, O'Neill, I knew I was putting your life in grave 
danger."

Jack waved an impatient hand. "We talked about that. I told you, it was 
cool. Not like it was the first time, you know."

"I know. And fortunately, you did not die. But I fear nevertheless there 
is the danger of a death, here. The death of your team. Your 
friendships."

"You've been ... listening? To us? Tonight?" Sam said. She looked torn 
between scientific curiosity and moral outrage.

Thor nodded. "I was afraid the drastic measures taken to uncover the 
people responsible for the thefts would lead to conflict among you." 
Again, he turned to Jack. "When we removed the Ancients' knowledge from 
your mind, O'Neill, we took the liberty of reading your life. We learned 
everything that there was to know about you, at that time."

"Oh, really?" said Jack. He looked less than impressed.

"Yes, it was an invasion," Thor agreed. "But consider our position. We 
did not know who or what you were, or whether you posed a threat to us. 
Because of what we learned of you then, we have risked much for your 
planet. And we asked you to help us stop the thefts because we knew you 
had the courage to do what had to be done, even at the cost of your own 
life. Or the loss of friendships that mean the world to you." 

"Oh," said Jack.

Thor held out his hand. There was a small flash of light, and then he 
was holding a round blue device. He looked at all of us then, pinned us 
with that unnerving black gaze. "You are angry. You feel hurt. Betrayed. 
You take your friend's hasty words at face value. It is understandable 
... but you are wrong." He placed the device on the coffee table. 
"Watch, listen ... and learn."

The device glowed, humming, and then we were looking at a three 
dimensional holographic recording of Jack, General Hammond and Thor. 
They were seated round a table, somewhere I'd never seen before. At a 
guess, it was the Asgard mother ship. The image was stilled, silent.

Jack sucked in a breath. "Turn it off."

The liquid, gentle eyes regarded him gravely. "There is nothing to fear, 
O'Neill."

Jack turned away.

"What is it?" said Daniel. "When is it?"

In reply, Thor passed his hand over the top of the image, and it came to 
life.

The holographic General Hammond said, *"It's a very serious thing that 
you're asking us to do, Thor. The fallout could be .... considerable."* 

Thor nodded. *"Yes. I know."*

Jack turned to the general. *"Sir ... could you excuse us for a moment? 
Do you mind?"*

More confused than offended, Hammond hesitated. Then he nodded. *"As you 
wish, Colonel. I'll wait outside."*

When they were alone, Thor said, *"You may speak your heart, O'Neill. 
All consequences must be considered before a decision is made."*

Elbows braced on the table, head lowered, Jack sighed. *"First of all, I 
want to apologise on behalf of my stupid race. I know there's nothing I 
can say to excuse what's happening here, but --"*

*"Yes,"* said Thor. *"I understand. Go on."*

*"I agree it has to be stopped. Now. No delays. And I agree we have to 
operate on a need to know basis. But I don't agree that Hammond and I 
are the only ones who need to know."*

*"You wish to tell your team."*

*"Yes."*

*"You cannot."*

Jack spread his hands flat to the table. *"They're not involved."*

*"You do not know that."*

*"The hell I don't."*

Thor shook his head. *"You feel they are not. Feeling is not proof, 
O'Neill. Someone in your SGC is complicit in these crimes. We do not 
know, yet, who that someone is. I cannot trust that your team is 
innocent."*

*"Then trust me,"* Jack said, desperation edging his voice. *"Believe me 
when I tell you they're not involved. I know them, Thor. I trust them 
with everything I have, everything I am. They can help us do this."* 

*"I am sorry. It is impossible."*

Jack slapped the table and pushed his chair away, to pace. *"You're 
asking me to lie to them. To betray their trust."*

Thor shook his head. *"I am asking you to pretend, for a little while, 
that things are other than they truly are."*

Jack waved a dismissive hand. *"Semantics."*

Considering him, Thor said, *"You are afraid they will believe the 
lie?"*

Turning to him, Jack spread his hands wide. *"No. They won't. And that's 
the problem. To make this work I'll have to get in their faces so hard 
they'll be too busy being pissed off with me to start working out what's 
really going on. And they will, Thor. Trust me on that. Sam and Daniel 
are the two smartest people I know, and Teal'c's no dimwit, either. The 
only way I'm going to distract them long enough for me to get in with 
whoever's doing this is to hurt them."*

Thor blinked slowly, considering. *"And you cannot do it?"*

*"Oh, I can do it."* Jack's voice, his face, were grim. Twisted with 
loathing. *"I know exactly what to say, and how to say it, to send them 
away hating my guts. And if I have to, I will. But I don't want to have 
to, Thor. These people mean the world to me. Don't make me hurt them."*

Thor sighed. *"I am sorry, O'Neill."*

Moving stiffly, as though his body pained him, Jack closed the distance 
between them.

*"Please."*

*"Jack --"*

Jack lowered himself to one knee, until he was face to face with the 
alien. His voice quivered. *"Please."*

Eyes brilliant with sorrow, Thor placed a gentle hand on Jack's head. 
*"No."*

Groping blindly for the table, Jack found it, hauled himself to his feet 
and turned away. Beneath the dress blues his shoulders were rigid. I was 
glad I couldn't see his face.

Thor said, *"Will you still help us?"*

There was a long silence. Then: *"Yes,"* said Jack. His voice was 
ravaged.

*"Thank you,"* said Thor. *"I will leave you, now. When you are ready, 
join the General and myself in the observation lounge."*

Jack did not reply. As Thor left the room, he sank back into his chair, 
and buried his face in his folded arms.

The image faded then, and the holo-projector turned off. Thor picked it 
up and held it, lightly.

With his back still turned to the rest of us, Jack said, distantly, 
"Damn it, Thor. That was private."

As though they were still alone in the mothership briefing room, Thor 
said, "You would prefer to continue the charade that you do not care, 
O'Neill? Come. You are not so foolish, surely. Or so fearful. Nor are 
your friends so blind ... although they have been blinded." Then he 
turned and considered the rest of us, who stood and sat as though turned 
to stone. "Farewell." Within another blinding pillar of light, he 
disappeared.

After what truly did seem like an eternity, Jack swung around. So might 
a man look, braced before the firing squad. I had to glance away.

There was a helpless silence. Then Sam said, "Sir ..."

Jack lifted a hand, and she fell silent. He said, "What I told you in 
the corridor was almost true. I haven't been the same from the day I met 
you. But ... that's a good thing."

*Sam, Sam ...*

She gulped. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I-- I'm glad."

He smiled. "Me, too." Then he shifted his balance slightly, and looked 
at Daniel, who was standing in typical Daniel-fashion: head lowered, 
arms close about his body. "Daniel ..."

Daniel looked up. His eyes were very blue behind his glasses. "Jack?"

I've seen Jack truly lost for words twice, maybe three times, in all the 
long years that I've known him. This was the first. He just stood there: 
lost, forcibly stripped of all his defenses, left naked and exposed and 
vulnerable in a way that, until then, only I'd been privy to. Behind the 
sharp tongue and the assinine humour and the impatient arrogance lives a 
man of profound sensitivity and exposed nerves. Until that moment, I'm 
not sure if the others ever really knew that.

Jack cleared his throat. Tugged at his jacket. Tried to paste on that 
familiar, cocky smile, and failed. His eyes were frightened. "Daniel 
..."

Daniel sighed. Shook his head. Smiled his sweet, sweet smile. "Oh ... 
just shut up, you fucking moron." And stepping forward, he folded Jack 
into a rib-cracking embrace. And then Sam was hugging him, and Teal'c 
was standing sentinel, a quiet joy suffusing his face.

It seemed like my cue to exit, stage left.

So I did.

Later, when I went back downstairs again, Sam, Daniel and Teal'c were 
clustered round the kitchen table, drinking coffee.

"We helped ourselves," said Sam. "Hope you don't mind."

I started a fresh brew and gave her a smile. "Of course not."

"Jack went home," Daniel said, staring into the depths of his mug.

"I know. I heard the jeep."

Sam sat back in her chair, elbows propped, expression introspective. "So 
... how about that Thor, huh?"

"You know," said Daniel, still contemplating his coffee dregs, "one of 
these days, I'm going to kill him."

Teal'c considered him gravely. "Thor?"

"Jack," Daniel replied, and treated him to a look. "As if you didn't 
know."

"What I know," said Teal'c, sternly, "is what you know, Daniel Jackson. 
And you, Major Carter. When you look at a tree, do you complain because 
it is not a flower? Do you chastise a dog because it cannot swim like a 
fish, underwater? Do you --"

"Okay, okay," Sam interrupted. Her cheeks were pink. "We get the 
picture."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "Do you? I wonder. Did we not agree that 
Colonel O'Neill could not truly be as he appeared? Did we not agree that 
there was a hidden agenda to which we were not being made privy? And did 
we not also agree that it fell to us to keep the faith, and trust 
O'Neill to reveal his true purpose when he felt able to?"

Vastly entertained, not to mention relieved that someone else was doing 
my job for me, I leaned against the kitchen counter and watched Sam and 
Daniel squirm.

"Well, yeah," said Daniel. "We did. But --"

"There are no buts here, Daniel Jackson," said Teal'c, still stern. "A 
dog must do what is dictated by its nature. It cannot simply decide to 
swim underwater, like a fish. O'Neill, too, acted according to his 
nature ... a nature to which we are all accustomed. It serves little 
purpose, therefore, to cry like children when he does so. The error, 
Daniel Jackson, was in allowing yourself to become emotionally 
sidetracked." He sniffed. "In this matter, you did not conduct yourself 
like a warrior."

Daniel didn't take too kindly to the comment. "Well, maybe that would be 
because I'm an Egyptologist, Teal'c, " he replied, edgily. "So shoot 
me."

"That will not be necessary," Teal'c assured him. His gaze flickered to 
me, quickly, and away again. In those obsidian eyes, a sudden wild 
laughter. "This time."

As Daniel stared at Teal'c over the tops of his glasses, Sam said, "You 
know, we had legitimate grievances here. We did. So why is it I feel 
bad, now, for even trying to bring them up?"

Daniel abandoned his coffee mug and buried his face in his hands, 
groaning. "It's Jack. It's just Jack. He's not a man, he's a self-
contained biohazard on legs. Guaranteed to short-circuit your wiring 
from a distance of fifty paces. He ought to come equipped with safety 
signs."

"Yeah," said Sam. "Warning, warning: prolonged exposure will result in 
severe hysteria."

Daniel uncovered his face. His glasses were all steamed up. "Define 
'prolonged exposure'."

Sam shrugged. "Ten minutes?"

"Ha!" said Daniel. "Ten seconds."

"Yeah. Okay. Ten seconds." She looked at me. "Janet, I have to go now."

My eyebrows lifted. "Really? Where?"

"Anywhere they serve ice cold beer. I feel the need ... the need for --"

"Alcohol," said Daniel. "In copious amounts. And do you know what's 
*really* sad?"

"What?" said Sam, her hand on his arm.

"I don't even like it."

"You're right," she said. "That *is* sad." Kissed my cheek, patted 
Teal'c's shoulder, and left, Daniel trailing in her wake like a comet's 
tail.

"You don't feel like joining them?" I said to Teal'c.

He shook his head. "I do not."

Sliding into Sam's vacated chair, I regarded him curiously. "You're not 
the least bit angry with Jack for what happened, are you?"

"I am not."

I thought about it for a minute. "You'd have done exactly the same, 
wouldn't you? If Thor had asked you, and not Jack?"

Teal'c did not reply with words. Just tilted his head a little, and 
lifted one upswept eyebrow.

He didn't need to speak. I already had his answer.

*Though we were born beneath different suns, in our hearts we are as 
one. He is my brother, and I am his.*

The next time I saw Jack was the following afternoon, in the base gym, 
working up a sweat on the treadmill.

"You disappeared," he said to me, mopping his face with a towel.

"So did you," I replied.

"Good point," he admitted.

"I just figured I was surplus to requirements," I said.

We were alone save for our reflections, bouncing from wall to mirrored 
wall.

He said, "I guess."

I sat on a handy weight bench and checked him out. He looked ... good. 
Cleansed. Relaxed. Happy, for the first time since his most recent 
resurrection after the Edora incident.

Edora. A brand new definition for the concept 'can of worms'. A 
conversation still waiting to happen.

But not today.

I said, "Are you okay?"

He nodded. "Yes."

"Things are ... okay? You, Daniel?"

He gave me a look. "If I believed in any of that new age, mystical mumbo 
jumbo bullshit, I'd say that Daniel is my karmic burden."

I grinned. "And Daniel?"

"Daniel?" Jack's smile was .... complicated. "Oh, he believes it. He 
says I'm his."

And that made me fall off the weight bench, laughing. Jack just watched, 
a lopsided grin on his sweaty face. After I'd picked myself and 
straightened my lab coat he said, kindly, "Go back to work, Janet. I'm 
fine."

I raised my eyebrows at him. "What makes you think I'm not working?"

He pulled a terrible face. "Ha ha. Funny." Then he laughed.

I stood there, watching him. Wondering. A roil of questions seething. 
Why, Jack? Why do you do it to yourself? To everyone else? Why don't you 
-- why can't you -- why do you have to --

He read them in my face. All those questions. The ones people have been 
asking him, one way or another, all his life. Offered another smile, 
this one serious. Self-deprecating. Faintly aromatic of apology.

"I'll see you," he said.

"Yes," I agreed. "You will."

And I left him to his sweating, and found something else to do.

A disaster, I called it. But maybe that's being too harsh. In the end, 
nothing was destroyed, after all. Except maybe some illusions. Some 
defences. A few misconceptions. And other things were strengthened. 
Refined. Purified. 

I suppose, looking at it that way, it wasn't a disaster at all. More ... 
a devastating triumph.

There's just one thing still pissing me off about the whole business.

I had a *real live alien* in my family room, and I can't tell my mother.

<end>


                         *******************

Medical Considerations: Divide and Conquer
By OzK - oz.k@optusnet.com.au

RATING: R

WARNINGS: Language

CATEGORY: Epilogue

SPOILERS: Divide and Conquer

TIME FRAME: Continuation of Medical Consideration series, set post 4th 
season episode Divide and Conquer

SUMMARY: Examines the fallout from the revelations made in Divide and 
Conquer

DISCLAIMER:    All characters copyright MGM. This is a non-profit fan 
story not intended to infringe the rights of MGM, Showtime, Gekko or 
Double Secret productions.


                         *******************

Hindsight is a wonderful thing.

Given the luxury of time, distance and liberal slugs of a fine malt 
whiskey, we look back upon those defining, pivotal moments in our lives 
and say: Ah ha! Yes. Of course. It was so *obvious.* Why didn't I *see*?

If we're lucky, those defining, pivotal moments concern something 
wonderful. Why didn't I *see,* we ask ourselves, and chuckle, and shake 
our heads at the gentle foibles of humanity.

If we're not, the question haunts us. Steals our sleep and carves fresh 
wounds in the soft underbellies of our hearts.

Why didn't I *see,* we cry, and beat our fists against the past.

Of all the deaths that hurt us in those two days, it was Martouf's that 
cut most deeply. If only we'd thought to ask if all the Tok'ra had been 
tested. If only we hadn't assumed they'd taken care of everything. If 
only I hadn't allowed my personal dislike of Anise to keep me from 
really talking to her.

If only, if only, if only.

If only it hadn't been Sam.

But it was, and nothing any of us can do will ever change that. Like so 
much else that happens in this crazy job, it's a case of deal with it, 
and move on.

Somebody died. Another funeral. Not the first, not the last. Learn the 
lessons that hindsight has to teach us, then move on.

And as for the other business ... well. 

Only a fool thinks that love is an unmixed blessing. And when it comes 
to Jack and Sam, hindsight isn't any help at all.

After the summit was finished, and the President's post-treaty facility 
tour was done with, and the Tok'ra had left, taking Martouf with them, I 
felt like I'd just run through a Force 5 hurricane with weights strapped 
to my legs. Physically exhausted, emotionally battered.

But I still had work to do.

I found Sam in SG1's locker room. She was alone. Daniel had gone home, 
and Teal'c had gone with him. They had an excellent excuse, some ongoing 
Goa'uld language study they were working on, and nobody objected.

Jack, if anything, had looked relieved. Then he'd muttered something 
about paperwork, and disappeared.

At which Sam had looked relieved.

When all my paperwork was squared away, and I finally caught up with 
her, she was slumped on one of the locker room benches, half in uniform, 
half out, looking as though she'd plain run out of gas, or forgotten 
what it was she was doing, or how to do it.

"Hey," I said, as I entered the room and flicked the lock behind me.

She raised a hand in half-hearted welcome. "Hey."

"You okay?"

She gave me a look. "What do you think?"

I sat down on a bench opposite and rubbed my aching neck. "I think that 
as days go, this one just about scrapes the bottom of the barrel."

"Just about?" she echoed, and her mouth twisted. "Yeah. Right."

I'd never seen her so brittle, not even after Jolinar. I said, 
carefully, "I'm sorry about Martouf."

She nodded. "Thanks."

There was a little silence after that, during which our respective toe-
tips received a prolonged, intense inspection. Eventually I said, "So. 
Feel like talking about it?"

She shrugged. "What's to talk about? The amount of holes the Secret 
Service guys put in him, he probably would have died anyway, even with 
Lantash to help him heal. All I did was hasten the inevitable."

I let out a sharp breath. "Sam ..."

Her hand came up, forestalling me. "Honestly, Janet? I don't know what 
I'm feeling. Me, I mean. Sam Carter. Because Sam Carter doesn't exist 
any more. Not the way she did before Jolinar."

//Oh no. Not again ...// "Come on, Sam, you can't --"

"Janet. Please. We both know it's true. Okay, so most of the time I 
manage to forget about it. But whenever I see ... saw ... Martouf --" 
She stopped. Regrouped. Continued, more softly, "Whenever I looked at 
him, I knew I loved him, desperately. But I also knew that wasn't me at 
all, that was her. And when he looked at me, I know he saw her, even 
though he never knew her in me."

"Okay," I conceded. "It was a strange set up, I'll give you that."

She glanced at me then, a haunted little flicker of blue. "I used to 
dream about him. About making love with him. But they weren't my dreams, 
they were hers, even though they felt .... real."

"Oh," I said. //Ewwww.// "Um ... why didn't you ever tell me that 
before?"

She shrugged, pale cheeks flushing. "I don't know. Too embarrassing. It 
didn't happen often. Once after we first met. A few times, after the 
mission to Natu. Not for a while, now."

My skin was crawling. "I'm sorry." Not very original, or constructive, 
but in all honesty I was a little grossed out. And tired. And did I 
mentioned grossed out?

Frowning, she tugged her fingers through her hair. "I did like him, 
Janet. Very much. He was kind, and brave, and honourable. Totally 
committed to his cause. And I know he liked me for me, too, not just for 
what I am of Jolinar."

"Of course he did."

"I did the right thing." She took a deep breath, let it out in a 
tremulous rush. "He wanted me to kill him. To refuse would have been 
..." She let the sentence die. Searched for words by staring at her 
tightly linked hands. "Cowardly. It would have dishonoured him. Jolinar 
would have done it. Don't ask me how I know that, but I do. And even 
though she's been dead for nearly two years, I can feel her grief. I 
hurt, Janet, and it's not just my pain. It's hers, too, and I don't know 
how that can be, or what to do about it."

I scooted along my bench till I was within touching distance of her, and 
took her hands in mine. They were cold. "There's nothing you can do. 
Jolinar aside, he was a friend and an ally and he died a horrible, 
tragic death. Of course you're grieving." I squeezed her fingers hard, 
once, and let go. "Are you blaming yourself?"

Her answer came slowly, as though she were still working it all out. 
"No. Maybe." Another frown. "I don't know. What happened wasn't my 
fault. I know that. The Tok'ra should have tested him. It was their 
mistake, not ours. Not mine. But it's such a waste, Janet. A waste of a 
good and decent man. Men like Martouf shouldn't be lost so easily." She 
hesitated. Bit her lip. "But it's not my fault, so move on."

"I know," I said. "I know. And for whatever it's worth, I think you're 
absolutely right, I think it was the Tok'ra's mistake. It was their 
show. They were the ones with all the information, not us. As usual. 
Besides. You had ... other things ... on your mind."

There was a long silence, then, and I didn't know if she was going to 
take me up on the offer or not. She unslumped herself, by inches, and 
finished changing into her street clothes. Pulled on her jeans. Tucked 
in her shirt. I waited.

With her back to me and her head low she said, "I don't know how this 
happened, Janet. I swear that's the God's honest truth. I have no idea. 
The whole idea, it's -- it's -- " She kicked the locker. 

"In my experience," I said, slowly, "love rarely makes a whole lot of 
sense."

She laughed, extravagantly ironic. "Try none." Then she turned and 
looked at me. "You knew. Didn't you."

My turn to blush. "I ... suspected."

"When?"

"When did I think he was seeing you differently? Or vice versa?"

Closing her locker door, she leaned back against it, hands jammed into 
her pockets. "Both."

"I realised something had changed for him when we almost lost you to 
Jolinar," I said. "Especially after the ashrak attacked you. He scared 
me. The look on his face ..." I shivered, remembering. "I didn't dare 
let you die. After that, it's hard to say. He's got the best poker face 
in the business." I shook my head. "I don't know, Sam. Maybe it was the 
way he watches you when he thinks nobody's looking. Or the way he always 
asks for you first, whenever you've landed yourselves back in the 
infirmary. Or maybe it's that little pedestal he's got you on. The one 
he thinks nobody's noticed."

She goggled at me. "*Pedestal?*"

I had to laugh, even though things weren't funny at all. "Sam. If he 
were any prouder of you his chest would burst right through his 
fatigues. 'Carter says' is his mantra. He believes in you the way the 
rest of us believe in gravity and sunrises."

From the look on her face, she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "I 
don't think I'm up to this."

I said, "I doubt if too many other people know, Sam, if that's worrying 
you. You've not given anything away, or once acted inappropriately, I 
promise. And as for what *I* did or didn't suspect, well, I admit there 
were times when I wondered. Like I said, nothing you did. Just a 
feeling. But after last year, I was pretty sure."

"Edora." She pulled a face. "Longest three months of my life."

Yes. Edora. And that woman. Laira.

I was *so* not going there.

Sam said, "I knew I was in trouble when we got stuck in Antarctica. 
Leaving him was like cutting out my heart with a blunt bread-and-butter 
knife." In her jeans pockets, her fingers clenched into fists. "I nearly 
requested a transfer. I mean, Janet, you know the trouble this causes. 
You must have seen it, just like I have."

I nodded. "Oh, yeah." And I have seen it. Careers ruined, lives pulled 
apart, and lots more lovely ammunition for the no-women-in-the-military 
brigade. Misery, gossip, ill-will, spreading like a poison for which 
there is no antidote.

"The non-frat rules are there for a reason!" Sam said, taut and 
unforgiving. "*Good* reason. I should have transferred ..."

"Why didn't you?"

She pulled her hands out of her pockets and crossed her arms. Squeezed 
tight, her expression bleak. "Because I thought I could handle it. 
Because this job means everything to me. Because I would've had to say 
why I wanted the transfer and --" She shuddered. "I thought I could 
handle it. I *did* handle it. I sat on the whole stupid idea. Wrapped it 
up in chains, weighted it down with concrete and dropped it to the 
bottom of my psyche. I mean, regulations aside, the idea of him falling 
for me? Insane. I'm not a girl, I'm a telescope in a C-cup."

That made me laugh. "Sam, come on. Don't sell yourself short, I've seen 
you dressed up and out on the town. You are a lot more than a telescope 
in a C-cup, honey."

She pulled a face. "Janet. You know how I grew up. I'm a military brat. 
Put me in a dress and walk me past a mirror and I'm reaching for my 
sidearm. Stand where you are, stranger, and get those hands in the air! 
When other girls my age were putting on makeup and practicing bedroom 
eyes, I was stripping down F16 engines wearing grease instead of 
blusher. I mean, yeah, okay, sure, I had boyfriends ... I even managed 
to get myself engaged ... but I never really felt like a girl. You know? 
I've never been any good at all that ... female stuff. I live most of my 
life in fatigues and combat boots. Regular women accessorise with ear-
rings and handbags. I spend ten minutes choosing between brands of stun 
grenade. It's a little hard to feel feminine in this line of work. And 
anyway. Four years ago, he was still in love with his wife."

It took a moment, but I made the connection. "Four years is a long 
time," I said. "Sarah has another life now, and he has this one. You're 
a part of it. A big part. And lord knows, Sam, you've been through 
enough together. You've saved each other's lives, risked each other's 
lives, spent days -- weeks -- isolated in each other's company under 
stressful conditions that are about as make or break as they come. 
You've held each other as you lay dying, developed a level of trust that 
most people could never hope to experience ..."

"So?" she demanded. "Why aren't I in love with Daniel, then? Why aren't 
I in love with Teal'c?"

"I don't know," I said. "Why aren't you?"

She banged her head against her locker, eyes brilliant with dismay. "I 
*can't* love him, Janet. How can I love him, for crying out loud? He's 
arrogant and argumentative and aggressive --"

"And those are just the As," I added, and won myself a tiny smile. 
"Sam...."

She sighed. Let go of herself, and slumped on the bench again. "He's 
also smart and funny and honourable and compassionate and insanely 
brave. He respects my intelligence. He's never once tried to protect me, 
or make allowances for me, or questioned my competence or ..." She shook 
her head. "He's never treated me like a- a- *girl.* You know? When he 
said he didn't have a problem with women, he really meant it. I never 
expected that."

"It's rare," I agreed. "And you know what else?"

"What?"

"He's got a great butt."

Startled, she stared at me, mouth open. Then she laughed. Blushed some 
more. "Yeah. Okay. He's got a great butt," she agreed. Then, smile 
fading to something more complicated, continued: "He drives me crazy, 
Janet. When you want him to talk, he makes like a rock. When you want 
him to shut up, he goes on, and on, and on. He keeps beating me at pool. 
He says I drive too slow. He says chick flicks are for chicks. And he 
refuses to add tabasco to his meat loaf recipe, when everybody knows 
that meat loaf without tabasco is a barf fest."

"He does?" I said. "Shame. There ought to be a law." 

"But do you know what's really terrible?" she said. Her expression was 
knife edged with horror. "I actually envy all those other Sam Carters 
out there, in all those alternate universes. The ones where I didn't 
join the military, and we still met, and fell in love. I envy the Sam 
Carter who came here. I am so *jealous* of her. Because even though she 
lost him ... at least she'd had him to lose. They had a year. She loved 
him, without reservation, without restraint, for a whole year. And he 
loved her. And nobody could tell them it was wrong."

There was a sudden, fierce prickling behind my eyes. The room blurred, 
and cleared. "I know," I said, softly. "I know it's hard."

She wasn't crying, but there was something worse than tears in her eyes. 
"I don't get to have that, Janet. For all I know, today might be the 
last day I ever see him. Tomorrow we could step through that 'gate, and 
he could die. I mean, how many times has it nearly happened? Twice in 
the last three months alone. And the thought of losing him before --" 
She closed her teeth tight. Breathed hard. Horror faded, iced over into 
a bleak wasteland. "There are so many things I want to say. To hear. And 
I can't. This isn't an alternate reality, it's *my* reality. My world. 
He's my colonel, and I'm his major, and neither one of us wants to quit 
the military or get a transfer or risk a court martial. And even if we 
did want to ... we can't, because we're at war, and that's more 
important than our feelings. So where does that leave us? Where does 
that leave *me*? He says we're okay to leave things just as they are, 
but how long will that last? How long *can* it last? What if we can't 
keep on pretending? What if he starts making decisions for the wrong 
reasons? What if I do?"

It was a night for hard questions. I said, "I wish I knew, Sam. I wish I 
could tell you." I sighed. "In my experience, keeping a cat in the bag 
is a hell of a lot easier than trying to put one back in, once you've 
let it out and it's messed on the carpet."

She pressed her hands to her face, fingers white with tension. Muffled, 
she said, "My work means the world to me. And so does he. How am I 
supposed to choose?"

It was a good question. And there was me, fresh out of good answers.

"Look," I said eventually, "this is all a bit of a shock. You weren't 
expecting to have to deal with this today. Maybe ever. I think --"

"Were *you*?" she said, pulling her hands away and hitting me with the 
hardest stare I'd ever collected from her. "Were *you* expecting to have 
to deal with this? And how exactly *are* you going to deal with it, 
Janet?"

Drat. And I'd been hoping against hope that wouldn't occur to her. I was 
on the shakiest of shakey ground. Teal'c was fine. Teal'c was under no 
obligation to say a word to anyone, about anything. But not me. I was 
squirming on the horns of a damned sharp dilemma. I had reason to think 
that both Jack and Sam were compromised, and therefore I had a duty of 
care to report such thinking to George Hammond. Our mutual commanding 
officer.

And I was about as eager to do that as give myself an unassisted root 
canal using an icepick, a trowel and lemonade for anaesthetic.

Sam was still skewering me with that stare, asking for things I didn't 
know how to give her. And then there was a knock on the door, and a 
voice called, "Sam? Sam, you in there?"

Jacob Carter.

Sam's face froze. The stare fractured. I got up and unlocked the door.

Jacob, comfortable in his Tok'ra uniform, hovered in the doorway, 
looking like a father: concerned, wary, tongue-tied. He nodded at me, 
offered a small, distracted smile. "Janet."

"Jacob."

Sam was on her feet, palms sliding up and down the legs of her jeans. 
"Hi, Dad."

Jacob took a step into the room. "I came as soon as I could. Are you 
okay?"

And now her arms were wrapped around her middle, and her head was down, 
the unruly hair falling over her face. Her breathing was strained. "Not 
really."

Jacob came closer, wanting to hold her, wanting to give her space. A 
military man, altered now, but still ... "Sammy ..."

Sam looked up. Her cheeks were drenched. "Everything's such a *mess,* 
Dad," she whispered. "And I killed Martouf."

Then Jacob reached out his arms, and she was in them, and he was holding 
her as she sobbed like a child whose heart is newly broken. Jacob's 
eyes, severe with pain, met mine. I nodded. Closed the locker room door 
behind me, and sat for a long time in the nearest head, where I could 
cry a little myself.

Like I said. Some days just scrape the bottom of the barrel. You know?

I left not long after that. I'd had enough, I just wanted my own home 
and my own bed and the feel of Cassandra's hair beneath my lips as I 
kissed her good night.

Jack was in the officers' parking lot. Perched on the hood of his car, 
elbows propped on his knees, chin dug resentfully into closed fists. At 
the sound of footsteps on the concrete he looked around ... and in that 
swift moment between hope and disappointment, I saw everything he'd been 
keeping secret for such a long, long time.

It took my breath away, and made me stumble.

My car was parked four up from his. I ignored it, and came to rest with 
a hip against Captain Chung's Dodge convertible, parked in all its brand 
new glory next to Jack's battered, dusty jeep.

"If you're waiting for Sam," I said, carefully casual, "she might be a 
while. Jacob's here."

"Ah," said Jack, and after a moment unfolded his knees and slid to the 
ground. He had his expression back under control, locked down tight as 
the Mountain in the middle of Wildfire. "Might as well head home, then."

"Might as well," I agreed.

But he didn't move. Just stared at the concrete wall opposite, brows 
knit tight in a frown. "What do you reckon?" he asked, eyes hooded and 
distant. "Do you reckon if I thought about it good and hard for, oh, 
say, a week, I could come up with another equally successful way of 
totally and publicly humiliating myself?"

"I wasn't aware you considered me the public," I replied. "Or Teal'c, 
for that matter."

His eyes slid sideways, looked me up and down, then returned to their 
intense contemplation of the exhaust grimed wall. "If I swore on a stack 
of bibles that I didn't know until today, would you believe me?"

I took a deep breath. Hissed it out between my teeth. "No."

His eyebrows shot up. "No?"

"Jack ..." I cleared my throat. "I'm sorry. But when you offered to go 
through with Anise's procedure, knowing it'd probably kill you, because 
the autopsy would help Sam ..." He'd shocked me, then. Revealed a 
softness, a vulnerability unprecedented in four years of knowing him. 
"It wasn't duty motivating you at that point."

He frowned. "No. It wasn't." He sounded unbearably sad. Slumping his 
weight back on the jeep's hood, he pinned his hands between his knees. 
"I loved Sarah," he said. "More than I could ever tell her. More than I 
could stand, sometimes. Didn't stop me from hurting her. I never meant 
to. It just happened."

"I know," I said, softly.

He said, not looking at me, "Talking's never come easy to me. Or sharing 
my feelings. But I loved her. Adored her. Didn't stop me killing my 
marriage, though. I killed something inside of her, too. There's a wound 
in her that I put there, that'll never heal even if she lives to be a 
hundred."

He looked so desolate I wanted to hug him. It wasn't anywhere close to 
an option. "You don't know that."

He nodded. "Yes. I do."

"Jack ..." The air in the parking lot was chilly. I blew on my fingers, 
tucked them under my arms to keep them warm. Yes. All right. I was 
stalling. Twice in one night. Sheesh. I was tired. Conflicted. The only 
person *I* had to tell my troubles to was the dog, and there's only so 
much comfort you can get from a wet tongue and a wagging tail. "Jack, 
Sam isn't Sarah. And the two of you aren't married. You're not even --" 
I stopped. Reconsidered. "You're good friends. You mean a great deal to 
each other. The last four years have brought you close, in a very 
special, very unique way."

He looked at me, then. "Does that mean you're not going to say anything 
to Hammond?"

And in four years, we'd developed our own brand of special, unique 
closeness. I could no more lie to him than to my mother. "I don't know," 
I said. "I don't want to."

He managed a brief, wry grin. "Guess I pretty much shot myself in the 
foot, didn't I?"

"Oh, I don't know about that," I replied. "I mean, nobody actually came 
right out and said the 'l' word, did they? On the other hand ... 
preferring to die rather than lose her is a bit of a give away."

He winced. Pulled a face. "Just a bit."

"Are you sorry?"

"About what? That I -- care -- about her? That I got to tell her like 
*this*?"

"Yes."

He snorted. "No. I'm ecstatic. This has been the best day of my life."

And that was the Jack I knew. Sarcastic. Armoured to the eyeballs. To be 
honest, the new improved touchy-feely Jack was kind of throwing me for a 
loop.

He picked up on the thought. "What?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Only ... for a guy who's not good at sharing his 
feelings, you're doing a pretty good job. I guess I'm not used to you 
being so forthcoming. At least not without an awful lot of prodding."

That provoked the glimmer of a smile. "Oh, I've been prodded, Janet. 
Good and hard." The glimmer died. "When I realised -- when I looked at 
her through that damned forcefield, knowing we were going to blow any 
minute, knowing I could no more leave her than I could -- " He actually 
shivered. "How often do you get a second chance like this, huh? How 
often does life knock you on your ass, kick your teeth in for good 
measure, then hold out its hand to help you back on your feet again?"

My eyes burned, and for a moment I was so jealous ... "Not often," I 
admitted. And made myself smile.

"She deserves a lot better than me, Janet," he said. His voice was low, 
and his gaze was again riveted to that damned wall.

"That's for her to decide, surely," I said. "And in case you weren't 
listening, my friend, you weren't singing solo in there."

For a moment, for the briefest moment, his eyes blazed with a triumph 
hot enough to ignite the world. "Maybe not."

I confess, curiosity got the better of me at that point. And I had the 
feeling that if I didn't ask then I'd never know, because his 
uncharacteristic willingness to share wasn't going to last for ever. 
Probably not for another five minutes. "Just how long have you been 
fighting this, anyway?"

"A while," he admitted. "I guess ... since Daniel came back from the 
first alternate reality. Up till then, I mean ... come on. Seriously. 
It's not like anybody's ever felt the urge to give me the Mr 
Congeniality Award, even on a good day. But when he told us about that 
Jack and Sam being engaged ... I guess it made me wonder. However many 
versions of me there are out there, basically we're all the same guy, 
right? So if one Sam Carter could find a way to fall in love with one 
Jack O'Neill ..." His voice trailed away into a sigh. "And after that, 
things just kept happening. Jolinar. Hathor. Aris Boch. The other other 
Sam. Everywhere I turned, I kept running into these ... feelings. I knew 
it was dumb. I knew it was wrong. So I just kept on pretending that it 
wasn't happening." He grimaced. "I'm good at denial. I've had a lot of 
practice."

"And then along came Anise with her nifty little armbands."

He nodded. Laughed, softly, a mingling of black amusement and despair. 
"So I guess that means I'm fucked, huh?"

"It's a problem," I agreed.

"Did you talk to her before you left? Is she okay?"

I nodded. "Yeah. I did. And no, she's not really okay."

There were lines of pain in his face I'd never seen before. "Marty was a 
pretty good guy. For a snake."

"She liked him very much. Doing what he asked ... it was hard. She's 
grieving."

"And I can't --" He turned his head a little. Made himself look at me. 
"Do you have any idea how much I want to -- how much it kills me not to 
--"

"I can guess," I replied, aching. "I'm sorry, Jack. I really am."

Abruptly, he pushed away from the jeep's hood. Walked round to the 
driver's door, unlocked it, opened it, then stared across the roof at 
me. His expression was wiped clean of pain, of desolation, of everything 
save a grim endurance. The caring, sharing Jack was gone, and we were 
back to business as usual. I didn't know whether to be relieved, or 
sorry. 

"I know this puts you in a tough position, Janet," he said. "I'm not 
going to say anything about that. You do what you have to. You'll get no 
grief from me."

And then he was gone, driving away, gunning the engine and filling the 
cold night air with exhaust fumes as his tail lights disappeared up the 
ramp and out of sight.

I went home. Endured a sleepless night. And the next day, I went to see 
Hammond.

If the situation hadn't been so awful, I would have laughed out loud at 
the look on his face.

"I'm sorry?" he said, incredulous. "The Colonel and the Major have done 
*what*?"

"They've developed ... feelings for each other," I repeated, delicately.

"You mean they've fallen in love!"

I sighed. "That, too."

"When did this happen?"

"When did they realise? A few weeks ago. During that little armband 
experiment. When did it all come out? Yesterday, when we re-tested them 
on Anise's zatarc detector. When did it start? Who knows. A long time 
ago, it seems."

He stared at me, face compressed in a frown. "You know this for 
certain?"

"I was there during the re-test. It was Major Carter who realised why 
she and the Colonel weren't really zatarcs. She confronted him, they 
unrepressed some things they'd both been repressing, and voil. Not 
zatarcs. Just ... more than friends."

"I think," Hammond said heavily, "that you'd better tell me everything."

So, feeling ever so slightly like a traitor, I did. When I'd finished, 
the General sat quietly for a few moments, then wiped a hand across his 
face. "Damn," he said, voice softly angry. "And I never saw it coming."

"They've worked very hard to keep it a secret sir, especially from 
themselves. And each other."

"Did you suspect?"

I offered him an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid so, sir. Yes."

"*Damn.*" He reached for his internal phone. "This is Hammond. Page 
Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter and ask them to join me in my office."

"May I ask what you intend to do, sir?"

He shook his head in frustration. "You can ask, yes. And if I knew, I'd 
answer you."

A few moments later, there was a knock on the door. Hammond replied, and 
in came Sam and Jack. One look at his face, at me sitting opposite, and 
they knew. Their faces smoothed into professional masks, and they stood 
to attention. Facing the firing squad.

Hammond stared at them, his expression anything but professional. "At 
ease," he said. "And sit down. I think you both know why I've asked to 
see you."

They pulled out the last two chairs, and sat.

"Yes, sir," said Sam.

"Yes, sir," said Jack.

"It would appear that we have a ... situation."

"Yes, sir," said Jack. "Sorry, sir."

"Me, too," Sam echoed. "I'm sorry, too, sir."

"Which makes three of us," Hammond replied. "But sorry doesn't cut much 
ice, does it? I'm afraid this has put me in a very difficult position."

Jack and Sam exchanged glances. Jack said, "We know."

"We didn't mean to," Sam added.

Somehow, Hammond managed a smile. "What? Put me in a difficult position, 
or cross the line?"

Another exchange of glances. "Both," said Sam.

"I know that," Hammond replied. "But you have. Now I've got to decide 
how best to --"

He was interrupted by an impatient rap on the door. Before he could 
respond it opened, and Daniel came in, followed by Teal'c.

All of a sudden the room was very crowded.

Taken aback, Hammond said, crisply, "Doctor Jackson? I'm sorry, I'm 
afraid I'll have to ask you and Teal'c to come back later. I'm in the 
middle of a meeting and --"

Daniel closed the door and took a step forward. "Yes, General, I know. 
That's why we're here."

Eyes narrowed, Hammond leaned back in his chair and considered him. "It 
is, is it?"

"Yes," said Daniel, unruffled by the look or the tone. I suppose that 
once you've gone up against three gods and a goddess, a mere general is 
hardly enough to raise your pulse rate. "You're trying to figure out 
what to do about Jack and Sam. I thought, since Teal'c and I are 
affected as much as anybody, that we should be here."

Jack muttered something under his breath. Raised his voice and said, in 
no uncertain tone, "Daniel -- go away."

Daniel frowned. "Uh -- no."

"No?"

Teal'c, forestalling World War III, said, "Do you deny, O'Neill, that 
the future of SG1 is currently under threat?"

When Jack didn't reply, Hammond said, "There's no need to over-react 
here, Teal'c. The fact is, you and Doctor Jackson don't know why I'm 
meeting with Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter."

The look Teal'c gave him would have withered a lesser man. "I was a 
witness yesterday, General, when the truth of O'Neill and Major Carter's 
feelings was revealed. I am aware of your rules concerning such matters. 
Clearly, your duty in this instance is to disband SG1. Since neither 
Daniel Jackson nor I wish this to happen, we have come to argue against 
it."

"Exactly, Teal'c," Daniel agreed. "General Hammond, Jack and Sam aren't 
the only two people with something to lose, here. We all have an 
investment in the team, and that's something I intend to protect. I 
don't want this to mean the end of SG1."

Sam said, "It's not something we want either, Daniel. But --"

"But nothing, Sam," Daniel interrupted. "Since when did you just roll 
over and die when things got difficult?"

Sam recoiled as though he'd slapped her. "For crying out loud, Daniel!" 
Jack snapped. "This is a military matter. You're not military. Go away."

Stubborn as a mule, Daniel shook his head. "No. Jack, look. I know this 
is very embarrassing for you, but you'll just have to deal with it, 
okay? I mean, come on. It's not like it was some great big secret. 
Teal'c and I have known for ages that you and Sam had feelings for each 
other. We talked about it months ago, didn't we, Teal'c?"

Teal'c nodded, gravely. "We did."

"You did?" Jack echoed. He looked anything but pleased by the notion. 
Sam just looked stunned. And Hammond? Well, he looked like he was 
hatching a headache.

Oh, do I know that feeling.

Daniel, bless him, still couldn't believe they were surprised. "I'm not 
saying everybody on the Base knows. Probably nobody outside this room 
suspects a thing. I mean, it's not like you've been tripping down the 
corridors hand in hand singing selections from The Captain and Tenille's 
Greatest Hits."

"Like *that* would ever happen," muttered Jack. He was scowling.

"Amen," said Sam, faintly. Without realising it, she and Jack had drawn 
closer together, shoulders nearly touching, on their faces identical 
expressions of horror.

It was quite sweet, actually, in a bizarre kind of way.

Blithely, Daniel continued. "Most of the time, I don't even think *you* 
realised it was happening. But, you know. Ever since I came back from 
that first alternate reality ... I always thought it was only a matter 
of time."

Jack, who'd been watching Hammond's increasingly unhappy expression as 
Daniel danced his way unheeding through the minefield, smacked the arm 
of his chair. "Well, gee, Daniel, that's swell. You've been a big help. 
Thanks a bunch. Now don't let the door hit your ass on the way out."

"The only way you'll get me out of here is by knocking me down and 
dragging me off by the heels," said Daniel, flatly.

Jack's eyes were glinting, and his tone was dangerous. "Don't tempt me, 
Daniel."

Beside him, Sam had a hand over her face. In a muffled voice she said, 
"Guys ... please ..."

"Doctor Jackson," Hammond said heavily. "I'm not sure you appreciate the 
gravity of this situation. There are rules --"

Daniel flapped an impatient, dismissive hand. "I know, I know. Non-
fraternisation, anti-sexual discrimination, all that stuff. And I 
suppose they're a good idea, generally speaking. I'm not talking in 
general, though. I'm talking about us. SG1. About Jack, and Sam."

"As am I, Doctor," Hammond agreed, quellingly. "Specifically, about how 
the alteration of their relationship will impact negatively on the 
team."

Brusquely, Daniel shook his head. "You're wrong about that, General. Who 
says there has to be a negative impact? I mean, look at the Tok'ra. 
They've been at war with the Goa'uld for two thousand years. They don't 
have any non-frat rules. Look at Martouf and Jolinar! Their personal 
relationship lasted for - for *decades,* but it didn't get in the way 
professionally. They served side by side, fought the Goa'uld, went on 
missions separately and together. They did just fine, and they were 
about as in love as you could get. Weren't they, Sam?"

There was a short, sharp silence. Jack shot Daniel a look that should 
have incinerated him on the spot. Even the General gasped, just a 
little. Daniel, realising, winced. "Sorry, Sam, I didn't --"

Sam lifted a hand. "It's okay, Daniel." Somehow, she kept her face and 
voice neutral.

Chastened, but no less passionate, Daniel said, "All I meant, General, 
is that any decision you make needs to take into account the people 
involved. Think about it. This is Jack and Sam we're talking about. They 
would never do anything to jeopardise the team, the mission, the planet 
--"

"Not deliberately, no," Hammond agreed. "But when feelings of this 
nature are involved, it is the military's opinion that --"

"Then the military is wrong," said Daniel, firmly. "This time, anyway. I 
mean, Jack cares about all of us, General. He puts his life on the line 
for all of us. How is that going to change just because he and Sam care 
for each other? If that whole Cor Ai thing happened tomorrow, instead of 
being over and done with three years ago, do you think Jack would act 
any differently? Of course not. He'd defend Teal'c just as pig-headedly 
tomorrow as he did back then, regardless of how he feels about Sam."

"Thank you, Daniel. I think," said Jack, with a grim forbearance. "And 
now that you've made your point, would you please *go away*?"

This time, Daniel just ignored him. Kept all his quivering, passionate 
attention focused on Hammond. "General? You have to see that I'm right, 
here."

"I understand your position, Doctor Jackson, and I sympathise," the 
General said. "Believe me, I do. Unfortunately, Colonel O'Neill himself 
has admitted that his feelings for Major Carter have already interfered 
in his command decision making ability."

"Forgive me, General," Teal'c replied, "but if you are referring to the 
situation on Apophis' warship, then I must disagree. O'Neill ordered me 
to get Daniel Jackson to safety while he attempted to rescue Major 
Carter. That was not unusual. He has often in the past risked himself to 
save one of us. His feelings for Major Carter are therefore not 
relevant."

"Son," the General said gently, "they are relevant if it means that 
Colonel O'Neill would rather lose his own life than leave a team member 
who cannot be salvaged. Putting it bluntly, that's not his decision. He 
is a tool, bought and paid for by the government, and he has an 
obligation and a duty to take care of himself." He turned to look at 
Daniel, then. "Doctor Jackson, when you were taken down by enemy fire on 
Apophis' attack vessel, did you ask Colonel O'Neill to leave you and 
complete the mission?"

Daniel looked stricken. "Well, yes, but --"

"And did he then leave you? Or did he stay with you, and in doing so 
risk his life and the lives of the remaining team members?"

"That's different," said Daniel. "By then none of us expected to get out 
of there alive. It was a case of dying where we could do the most 
damage."

"Perhaps. But in the case of the mission to Apophis' new warship, the 
only person in direct danger of dying was Major Carter. And in fact 
Colonel O'Neill's refusal to leave her put you and Teal'c in danger, did 
it not? Because you and Teal'c refused to leave until he returned 
safely, with or without Major Carter."

Daniel flung up his arms. "Well, there you go. See? We're all as bad as 
each other. If you're going to disband the team, you might as well do it 
because Teal'c wouldn't go without them, or because I wouldn't go 
without Teal'c!"

I snuck a look at Jack and Sam. He appeared to be possessed by a kind of 
horrified fascination, while Sam was staring at her knees, hands clasped 
white-knuckled in her lap. Both seemed quite resigned to their status as 
objects of discussion, no input required.

As Hammond geared up for a rebuttal to Daniel's argument, Teal'c added, 
"General, I do not believe that the deepening relationship between 
Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter poses any threat to my life, or the 
safety of SG1, or the security of this planet. If I did, I would have 
spoken long before now. As Daniel Jackson correctly points out, these 
feelings have been developing over many months. Yet at no time has 
Colonel O'Neill attempted to excuse Major Carter from her duties, or 
avoided placing her in harm's way, or indeed indicated the slightest 
degree of favouritism towards her. Nor has Major Carter acted in any 
manner that could be interpreted as unprofessional. Surely this must 
count for something."

"Yes, Teal'c, it does," Hammond said. "But the fact remains that any 
relationship between officers in a direct chain of command is against 
the rules, and --"

"Forgive me, General," Teal'c said. "But am not I, an alien, the former 
servant of your sworn enemy, against the rules? Is not Daniel Jackson, a 
civilian with access to the most sensitive government information, 
against the rules? Did we not all break the rules when we arranged for 
the Nox to remove the Tollans from under Colonel Maybourne's nose? Did 
not I, and the rest of SG1, break the rules when we gated to Apophis' 
ship in an effort to prevent his attack on Earth? Did not Colonel 
O'Neill break the rules when he lied about detonating the bomb on 
Abydos? And did he not break them again when he took the child Merrin to 
visit Cassandra's school?"

Daniel was staring at him admiringly. "You know, Teal'c, when this war 
against the Goa'uld is finally over, you should think about going to law 
school."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "Indeed?"

Sam said, "General. If I may?"

Hammond nodded. I think he'd well and truly given up any idea of being 
in control of this meeting. "Go ahead."

"We never meant for this to happen," Sam said, earnestly. "And a part of 
me wishes it hadn't, because it makes everything so damned hard. 
Especially for you. But it has happened, so now we have to deal with it. 
If you decide, in the best interests of team safety and national 
security, that I should transfer off SG1, out of the SGC, even, then ... 
I'll abide by that decision." As Jack opened his mouth to protest, she 
touched his arm, lightly. Frowning, he subsided. Something of a minor 
miracle, really. "We have no defence in this. Technically, we are in 
breach of the rules. But ... it wasn't deliberate, we haven't done 
anything to be ashamed of, and we're not going to. There is no way 
either of us would ever place Daniel or Teal'c, or anybody else, in 
danger because of how we may feel about each other. I hope you can 
believe that, sir."

Hammond sighed. "Of course I can, Major. But what about yourself? Can 
you swear you'll never endanger yourself because of those feelings?"

With a tight little smile, Sam said, "Well, sir, with all due respect, 
it's like Daniel said. I've already endangered myself, more than once, 
and not just for Colonel O'Neill. Putting myself in danger, for an 
individual or an entire planet, is part of my job description."

"To which I would say," Hammond replied, "there is a difference between 
reasonable and reckless endangerment. And in my experience, love is 
almost guaranteed to blur that line."

That brought Sam's chin up, and put a cold gleam in her eye. "Sir. You 
have my word, as an officer, that I will continue to do my job as well 
as I've ever done it, either in the field or here on the Base, 
regardless of any complications that have arisen between myself and 
Colonel O'Neill. Surely the salient point is whether or not two officers 
in a direct chain of command behave ... inappropriately." A faint blush 
stained her cheeks. "That isn't the case here. And it never will be. At 
the end of the day, sir, having a feeling doesn't mean you have to act 
on it."

Hammond nodded. "I'm aware of that, Major." With raised eyebrows, he 
considered Jack. "Colonel?"

Jack looked up from examining his fingernails. "What she said. Sir."

"General ..." Daniel raised clenched hands, eyes bright and blue and 
earnest. "You know I'm not afraid to speak my mind. You know that I'll 
challenge Jack at the drop of a hat if I think he's wrong. We have a lot 
of differences. Give me ten topics, I guarantee you that he and I will 
disagree on nine of them. But I know him. I am safe with him. In every 
conceivable way that it could matter, I trust him. So should you. And 
that goes for Sam, too. They won't hurt us. It's not in their natures."

I didn't dare look at Jack, then. I heard him shift in his chair. 
Thought I heard him make a sound, deep in his throat.

The General nodded again, slowly. "Thank you, son. I appreciate your 
candour. And your support." He looked at Jack. "Colonel ..."

Jack sighed. "Sir ... look. Let's just call a spade a spade and be done 
with it, shall we? Basically, we're asking you to look the other way on 
this. It's not fair, it's not appropriate, and it's enough to get us 
into a lot of trouble ... but we're asking anyway. I'm sorry it's 
happened like this, I really am ... but I'm not sorry it's happened. If 
that makes me unfit for duty, then so be it. All I can do is give you my 
word, as an officer and a slightly scruffy gentleman, that I will never 
do anything that could make you regret trusting me. Or us."

"I know that, Jack," the General said gently. "Believe me, son. I do." 
He looked at me. "Doctor Fraiser? Since this has turned into something 
of a summit meeting ... have you any thoughts you'd like to share?"

And there I was, hoping against hope he'd forgotten all about me. I bit 
my lip. Looked into the faces of my friends, and said, "Yes, sir. I 
have. While I don't for a second doubt the sincerity of anybody's 
statements or feelings, the fact remains that when two people's 
emotional relationship changes, in either a positive or a negative way, 
there are repercussions that aren't always within their ability to 
control. Even though they might want to, even though they have every 
good intention of doing so. It just isn't that simple."

Jack was looking at me as though I'd somehow betrayed him. "You saying I 
can't control myself?"

"What happened to not giving me any grief?" I replied, with more of an 
edge to my voice than I'd intended. But dammit, I thought he'd meant it 
...

"Changed my mind," Jack said, equally sharp. "Thought you knew me better 
than that."

So. The gloves were off, were they? He should have known *me* better. I 
turned back to the General. "Sir. You asked for my medical opinion, so 
here it is. Human emotions are powerful, and unpredictable. You can't 
give them orders and expect them to obey. You can't program them like 
you would a computer. And they have the damnedest way of running amok 
just when you least expect it, or can afford it."

Sam started to say something then, but Jack cut her off. "That is 
bullshit. I've spent the last twenty years controlling my emotions, in 
circumstances you don't want to hear about third hand, *Doctor,* let 
alone experience for yourself. You can accuse me of being rude, 
abrasive, tactless, hard-nosed, unkind or ruthless and you won't get an 
argument. But don't you *ever* accuse me of being unprofessional."

"Or me," Sam added. She was flushed again, but it was with anger this 
time. "Do you really think I'd risk people's lives, Janet?"

I took a deep, calming breath. Reminded myself not to take it 
personally. This was an emotional subject, people were bound to get 
emotional. "Not on purpose, no," I replied, and met her hot gaze as 
coolly as I knew how. "But --"

"No!" she snapped. "No 'but'. I think you're forgetting something here, 
Janet. This situation has been going on for a long time. We've been 
operating as a team, and having these feelings, for months and months. 
Nothing has to change."

"It already has changed, Major," I pointed out. "Before yesterday, what 
you felt was unacknowledged and, for all you knew, unreciprocated. Now 
it's out in the open, and it's mutual. So don't *you* insult *me* by 
sitting there and insisting that nothing's changed!"

"Okay, things have changed!" Sam all but shouted at me. "That doesn't 
mean we're going to turn into a pair of raving sex maniacs who can't 
control themselves or their feelings! *God!*"

"Cool it, Carter," Jack murmured.

She turned on him. "No, I won't cool it. I expect to hear this kind of 
crap from misogynistic military dinosaurs, not from another woman. Not 
from somebody who knows me, knows you, knows *us.*" She glared at me, 
then, with a hostility I'd never seen before. It hurt. "What do you 
think, Janet? That we're going to sneak off for a quickie behind a rock 
somewhere in the middle of a mission?"

It took everything I had, but I kept my voice steady. "What I think, 
Sam, is that loving someone as a friend, the way you love Daniel, and 
loving them as someone you don't want to live without, the way Jack 
loves you, are two very different things. I mean, have you actually 
stopped to *think* about this? *He wouldn't leave you.* He chose to die 
rather than live without you. Do you really want that on your 
conscience?"

"Here's what I don't want," Sam retorted. "I don't want to be judged and 
condemned for something that hasn't happened. I don't want you, or 
anybody, but *especially* you, jumping on that 'women can't be trusted 
around men in the military' bandwagon. I don't want to be punished for 
something that wasn't revealed by choice and that I have successfully 
kept out of the professional arena for the last three years!"

In the silence that followed, Jack shifted in his chair and looked at 
her. "*Three years?*" he murmured, eyebrows raised. Sam just shook her 
head, and closed her eyes. Teal'c and Daniel exchanged eloquent glances. 
Hammond squinted at his desk blotter, as though his headache was getting 
worse.

I know mine was.

"Sam," I said, "whether you believe it or not, I am motivated only by 
concern for you. And the Colonel. And the rest of SG1." To Hammond, I 
added, "You asked for my opinion, sir, and you have it. Under the 
circumstances, I don't think it's wise for Colonel O'Neill or Major 
Carter to continue serving on the same team."

"I see," said General Hammond. Very circumspect. Not giving anything 
away. "Thank you, Doctor. Thank you, all of you, for your willingness to 
discuss this very difficult matter so openly. I know it hasn't been easy 
for you, and I appreciate it."

Jack and Sam mumbled something in reply. Teal'c nodded. Daniel said, 
with a rueful smile, "For better or worse, General, SG1 is my family. 
I've already lost two. Losing a third would be extremely ... careless."

Hammond smiled back at him, equally rueful. "I know." Squaring his 
shoulders, setting his hands flat to the desk top, he continued, all 
military briskness, "Obviously, people, this isn't a decision I can make 
lightly, or without a great deal of thought. All I can say for now is 
that I promise I shall think long and hard about what to do, and that 
when I make my decision, it will have been with careful consideration of 
everything you've said here today. Dismissed."

After a certain amount of shuffling, we found ourselves in the corridor. 
Daniel immediately turned on me. "What the hell was that, Janet? I can't 
*believe* you --"

As one, Jack and Sam said, "Shut up, Daniel."

Startled, he trained his outraged blue gaze on them. "What?"

Jack said, "She gave her honest opinion, just like you did. It may be 
wrong, but she's entitled to it. Let it go."

"Let it go?" Daniel echoed. "She just shot us down in flames, Jack. 
Hammond's never going to keep us intact now. It's over."

"It's never over till it's over," Jack said. "Stop being such a 
defeatist."

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know it wasn't what you wanted to hear. I wish I 
could have said I am okay with this, but I'm just not. It has nothing to 
do with thinking you're unprofessional, or incompetent, or anything like 
that."

"What does it have to do with, then?" said Sam. There remained the 
faintest whisper of anger beneath her words.

"One of my functions," I replied, carefully, "is to act as the neutral 
observer. I'm trained to see the differences between normal, and 
abnormal, be that in bodily functions, or behaviour. As an outsider, I'm 
in the best position to tell whether or not symptoms are about to erupt 
into a full blown disease."

"Fine," said Sam. "Except in this case, you weren't even sure there 
*were* any symptoms. Were you? So how can you be so damned certain 
there's going to be a disease?" 

"I may not be able to predict it with 100 percent certainty," I said, 
"but I can tell you this. After yesterday, it's looking more likely."

"With all due respect, Janet, that is only an opinion. It's nowhere near 
a fact," Sam retorted. The whisper was louder now, and her eyes were 
hard.

Jack touched her. Brushed his hand against her shoulder. One fleeting 
instant of contact, and she softened. Eased down. In the flickering of 
her eyes to his, the hint of an apology. He said, "She's just doing her 
job, Carter. There's no need for this to get tense."

It took a long moment, but Sam finally smiled at me. "I know. I'm sorry. 
If we can't be honest with each other, we're all wasting our time. It's 
good that you're here to keep an eye on things. We'd be in trouble if 
you weren't."

"Okay," I said, and couldn't trust myself to say more than that. The 
thought of Sam and I fighting ... of any threat to our friendship ... it 
was unbearable. I felt as though someone had just plucked me back from 
the edge of a crumbling cliff. "Okay."

"You are wrong, you know," Jack added, eyebrows raised at me. "I just 
hope we get the chance to prove it to you."

I didn't know what to say to that. 'Me, too' implied that I was okay 
with them staying as a team. That wasn't true. 'I don't' would have 
sounded ... mean. I settled for an ambiguous smile.

Nobody was fooled. But there was nothing to say that hadn't already been 
said, and the ground beneath our feet was still uncertain. 

We let the matter lie there. 

"Come on, kids," said Jack. "We've got a mission briefing to prepare. 
Until Hammond makes up his mind, we're still SG1. Let's move on."

"And don't forget your urine samples for the pre-mission medical this 
time," I called after them as they drifted down the corridor. "No beer 
with dinner tonight, anybody, or I'll skin you alive."

Jack's voice floated back to me from around the corner. "Nag, nag, nag 
... anybody'd think she had a medical degree..."

Ha funny ha. Some people think they're *so* amusing.

The next day, in his office, Hammond over-ruled me.

"It's not that I think you're wrong," he told me. "There's a chance you 
might well be right. But the fact is, Janet, I owe them the benefit of 
the doubt. At least for now. God knows, they've sacrificed enough for 
this planet over the last four years. I trust them to play within the 
rules. And I trust them to tell me the minute they think they can't do 
that any more."

I had to say it. "Sir, you're going out on quite a limb, here."

"I know that," he said, gravely.

"Well," I said, "it's your decision, sir."

He smiled, fiercely. "Indeed it is."

"Do you really think this can work?"

He picked up his pen, tapped it end to end on his desk blotter. "Well, 
Doctor, if it doesn't, it won't be for want of trying." He smiled again, 
more gently. "Janet, think about it. All that's really changed here is 
that something that was imperfectly hidden is out in the open. Do you 
honestly think that anything else is going to change? Can you imagine, 
for example, Jack O'Neill marching up to Sam Carter, in public, and -- 
and -- giving her a great big kiss? Because I sure as hell can't!"

I had to admit, it sounded unlikely. "I'm sorry, General. I don't mean 
to question your decision. But I can't help worrying."

"I know," Hammond said. His fingers tips were white on the pen. "But 
dammit, I don't much care for the idea of losing my best team because of 
a Tok'ra snafu! As it was we nearly lost them over that damned business 
with the armbands and now, thanks to this zatarc disaster, if it weren't 
for Major Carter's insight both she and O'Neill could be lying in the 
morgue as we speak! Graham, Astor and McClaine *are* in there. That's 
more than enough to be going on with, don't you agree?"

"It was a close call, sir, yes," I said. "The Tok'ra are proving to be 
very expensive allies. But I don't see what that has to do with the 
matter at hand. Where interpersonal relationships are concerned, the 
rules are the rules and they allow no leeway for interpretation."

"I know that!" Hammond snapped. "I spent all last night thinking about 
it. But have you thought about this? If I accept your recommendation and 
break up the team, what if Jack O'Neill decides that he can fight the 
Goa'uld just as easily *out* of uniform as in? Because if I push this, 
Janet, if I do what you want and stand one of them down from SG1, I 
wouldn't put it past him to go elsewhere, and continue the fight 
someplace where the idea of who's feeling what about whom doesn't matter 
a tinker's cuss. And if he goes, do you really think Sam won't go with 
him? And Daniel? And Teal'c?"

That rattled me. I hadn't even *considered* ... "Sir, I don't --"

The General raised the pen, silencing me. "Just think about it for a 
minute, Doctor. We ask one hell of a lot from the SGC teams. As support 
personnel, you and I have it relatively easy around here. And what's 
more, we get to have private lives, if we want them, that involve love 
and family and children. We make plans, and we have a reasonable 
expectation that we'll get to see those plans bear fruit. Can you 
honestly say the same about the SG field units?"

He had me there, dammit. Over the last four years, it had been my 
unhappy experience that as far as the teams were concerned, and with all 
due respect to Mr Lennon, *death* was what happened to you while you 
were busy making other plans.

"I know, sir," I said, "but --"

"How many times have we chalked Jack up as lost, Janet? How many times 
has he actually died, and somehow been resurrected? Dear God, by now he 
must have frequent flyer points to the After Life. And that's not even 
starting on his injury record. His medical file is twice as thick as 
anybody else's here. And Sam's not much better. How can I ask them to 
risk their lives, day in and day out, for as long as I need them to, and 
at the same time expect them to forsake any kind of happiness, no matter 
how meagre, even if it's just a matter of spending time together and 
nothing more, when the next sunrise they see could be their last? Hell, 
why *should* they?"

Carefully, I said, "Sir, I understand how you feel. I do. But military 
law clearly states --"

Hammond snorted. "This place isn't the regular military. In fact, it's 
about as far from the regular military as you can get! And I'll be 
*damned* if I'm forced to apply regular military rules!"

"Sir, you'll be setting a dangerous precedent," I said, as worried for 
him as anybody else. "SG1 isn't the only mixed gender team."

"I am aware of that," the General replied, gently sarcastic. "And I will 
cross that bridge when, and if, I come to it. However, while I concede 
the possibility, I would also have you note that men and women have been 
working together in a variety of environments for many years now. 
Working with a member of the opposite sex does not automatically 
guarantee you'll fall in love with him or her. Does it?"

I sighed. "No, sir."

"Furthermore, it's only a precedent if everybody knows about it, and 
since this development is staying well below radar ..."

I sighed again. "You've made some good points, General," I said. "But if 
you'll forgive me for being blunt, I'm wondering which one of us you're 
trying to convince."

He burned me with a glare, then, that nearly sent me running for the 
door. No wonder Jack backs down in their infrequent confrontations. And 
then the heat cooled, and the General managed a smile. "I know," he 
admitted. "I know I have no legal, officially approved legs to stand on 
here. What I do have is their word that nothing improper has happened, 
or will happen. If I refuse to accept that, then I'm afraid I'll ... 
damage ... something. Something that would be, quite frankly, impossible 
to mend."

"Sir, both Colonel O'Neill and Major Carter are career military. They'd 
understand ."

Hammond frowned. "Yes, Doctor, they probably would. Probably, Jack 
wouldn't take his bat and his ball and his team, and go find somewhere 
else to play. But that's not a chance I'm prepared to take right now. 
They're too valuable an asset to risk."

"All the SG teams are, General," I said. "By giving SG1 preferential 
treatment --"

"I'm not doing that," Hammond snapped. "If they were sleeping together 
and I sanctioned it, then yes. That would be preferential treatment. 
Then they would be in flagrant breach of the rules and I'd have no 
choice but to act. But that's not the case here."

"Yes, sir, I know, but --"

He shook his head, cutting me off. "Think about it for a moment, Doctor. 
What exactly is SG1? A civilian, an alien, a Colonel who's earned 
himself a court-martial on five separate occasions, and a Major who's 
been taken over by an alien parasite and now possesses memories of a 
life she never lived. By rights they should have been disbanded a dozen 
times, or more. Don't think it hasn't been suggested, either. But I 
haven't done it, and do you know why? Because they are unique. They have 
succeeded against the enemy *because* of who they are, not despite of 
it. They have prevailed against unimaginable odds, over and over again 
... and they did it even though two of them share feelings that the 
military chooses to deem inappropriate."

"That's true," I agreed. "But even so --"

He held up a hand, forestalling me. "What if," he said, doggedly, "they 
keep on beating the odds *because* of those feelings? What if, at the 
end of the day, it's -- I hesitate to use the word, but what the hell -- 
*love* -- that keeps them going? Not just between Jack and Sam, but all 
of them? Love, in all its many shades and meanings. Separately, they're 
talented, highly competent individuals. Together, they're ... something 
I've never before encountered in forty years of service. I saw it in 
1969, and I see it today. I won't risk that. I don't care what the rules 
say. I won't."

"So ... you'll risk your own career, instead?"

That made him laugh. "You think I haven't risked it before, more than 
once, for Jack O'Neill? And the rest of them? Don't you worry about me 
on that score, Doctor. As far as I'm concerned, it's the safest bet 
going. Besides," he added, shrugging, "I'm a two star general on his 
last tour of duty. Do I look like I care what the stuffed shirts in 
Washington think?"

I smiled back. "No, sir, I would have to say that you do not."

"Damn right," said Hammond, and tossed aside his pen. "Dismissed."

So that was that. SG1 was still SG1. And on the surface of it, nothing's 
changed. Jack still calls Sam 'Carter', and Sam still calls Jack 'sir'. 
She still gets carried away with her technobabble, and he still shouts 
at her to just shut up and say yes or no, for crying out loud. He still 
keeps sending her into harm's way, and she still keeps going. And he 
still looks up at her as she stands on her pedestal, believing in her 
like gravity and sunrises, and she still keeps smiling down at him, 
saving the world every time he asks her to.

And if, when they think nobody else, or even each other, is watching ... 
if sometimes, what it costs them to carry on as though 'just good 
friends' is the summit and apogee of their ambition, if that pain blazes 
bright and brief as a falling star in their weary eyes ... well.

I did say, didn't I, that anybody who thinks that love is an unmixed 
blessing is a fool. 

So ... I was worried, but I wasn't sorry. It sounds crazy, I know. So 
sue me. Despite everything, it would have broken their hearts if the 
General had sided with me. Even so, I meant what I said. Sooner or 
later, I was afraid the bubble would burst, as it nearly had on Apophis' 
fancy new warship. I was afraid that one day, in the heat of 
catastrophe, someone's heart would over-rule their head, and it all 
would end in blood and tears.

It hasn't so far, but I'm still afraid.

All I can do is take it one day at a time, and say my prayers.

Hard. 

<end>