Stargate SG1 and its characters are property of Stargate (II) productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money was exchanged. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations and story are property of the author. This story may be linked, but not be posted anywhere else without the consent of the author.

Notes: Unbeta'd!

"Will you not raise your voice to me like I'm some kind of a kid?"

"My voice is raised as emphasis. It's a completely sanctioned use of volume."

The man. Is. Infuriating. It's moments like this that I long for my full 6'2" of height so I can knock him on his ass. Long for my height as much as I long to wipe the smug smile off the smug bastard's face. For the lack of upper body strength and height, however, I retaliate the only way I can--I narrow my eyes dangerously and do what any normal five-to-seven year old would do in a situation like this.

"What-JACK!"

"Sorry," I croon, positively oozing childish innocence. "Hands are too small, Daniel."

The man whose existence of which I am the bane sighs heavily and drops to his knees to wipe up the milk--chocolate, of course--that I 'inadvertently' spilled. He won't dare get pissed off at me; he knows how volatile and vulnerable my poor confused mind is right now. "You know," Daniel begins conversationally, drawing my attention to him again, "if you don't want me to speak to you like a child, maybe you should stop acting like one."

I scoff. Nice try. "Come on; this is how I always act."

Daniel pauses in his Mr. Mom routine, sort of just staring at nothing for a moment before his eyebrows quirk in some irritating gesture that just screams "*shrug*" at me. "The sad thing is, you're right," he agrees wryly. "This is exactly how you acted when...that happened," he reminisces, waving a hand at me, "so it really shouldn't surprise me that you're still acting like this, even though I was stupid enough to assume that you would accept this setback gracefully and exude even a smidgen of maturity while we figure this out, but it's so bizarre that, for once in your life, your attitude matches your...your..."

"Height?" I supply helpfully.

"Height," he acquieses, "and I'm sorry, but it's just a natural reaction to treat you in a manner befitting your behavior." He winces apologetically and I hop off my chair, feeling slightly perturbed that Daniel of all people could find it to be a 'natural reaction' to patronize and treat me as one treats a bratty little kid, but a little resigned and, damn it, even...accepting. For the moment.

"Why can't we stay at my house?" I demand, abruptly changing the subject as only a child--hell, as only I--can. Daniel blinks before rising and tossing the soiled dishcloth into the sink.

"Think about it, Jack. How would it look to your neighbors if some random kid and your best friend just moved into your house with you nowhere in sight?"

Shit. "Good point." I pace around the small kitchen restlessly, pausing here and there to bounce a little on the balls of my feet, burning some of this restless energy that keeps bombarding me. "It's just that this place is so small, and your neighbors are annoying!" I shudder convulsively, swearing that if some Stepford wife pinches my cheek or kisses my head one more time, I'm going to go Hulk on this entire neighborhood.

"Friendly," Daniel corrects.

"They think you're hot," I inform him baldly, relishing his reaction--a record-setting coffee spew halfway across the room.

"They don't!" he protests.

"Ooooh, yes. Yes, they do. Why do you think they're always around when you go out to get your mail, or they show up with food whenever you come back from missions?"

"Other people have to get their mail, Jack!" Daniel sighs loudly. "And as for the...food, I commented to Kim one day that I'm always out of groceries when I get back from 'digs', and I guess...she just told Audrey, Diane, Joan...and Stuart."

I smother a snort of laughter. "Yeah, Stu's a spitfire, isn't he?" I crow, giving Daniel a little nudge with my knobby, kidlike elbow. The guy has a thing for Daniel; it's painfully obvious. "'Get back to work, Stuart'," I mutter, and Daniel reluctantly gives into a laugh--he saw that episode of 'The Simpsons'; I wonder if Stuart did...

"I don't think he appreciated the quacking when you were going inside," Daniel chastises halfheartedly.

"Please." I drag a chair over to Daniel's sweets cupboard--that I stocked--and rifle through it. "The guy's jaw was on the grass when you got out of the car. Where're the Fudgee-O's?"

"In back. Behind the Fruit Roll-ups. And you're exaggerating." Daniel leaves me in the kitchen and heads for the living room, and I triumphantly pull the bag of Fudgee-O's out of the cupboard, hop off the chair, and follow him, carrying the bag with me. That's one good thing about this whole situation--for the most part, Daniel leaves me to my own devices as much as humanly possible; letting me be as independent as I can be in my temporarily downsized existence. I pretty much throw myself onto the couch and thrust the bag of cookies out to him. He pauses momentarily and takes one, twisting off the top and peeling the fudge filling from the inside.

"I'm not exaggerating; if Stuart's eyes had bulged out of his head any further, you could charge him for sexual harrassment." I tear the fudge disk from my cookie into little strips and roll the strips into little balls of fudge, balancing them on the arm of the couch, and pop the two outer cookie bits into my mouth, crunching noisily. Daniel tosses the cookie bits of his cookie into the trash and rolls his filling into one big ball before biting into it. I grin; who'd have thought that Dr. Daniel Jackson, PhD, ate cookies like a six year old? "You coulda given the cookie to me," I grump, swallowing the cookie paste in my mouth and tossing the little balls of fudge into the air to catch them in my mouth. "That's a perfectly good waste of Mr. Christie's good cookies."

"The cookie part is disgusting. I only like the filling."

I have nothing to say to that. The man doesn't like cookie but will eat God-knows-what-it's-made-of fake fudge? "Whatev."

"Oh, don't tell me you're picking up kiddie slang," Daniel groans, dropping his head to rest on the back of the couch as I pull out a couple more cookies and toss him one.

I shrug. "Beats wasting time on all those extra syllables."

"I can't wait 'til we can get you changed back."

"Yeah..." I can't either. Really can't. I don't even know how this happened to me. A couple of days ago, SG-4 brought back this porta-potty wannabe, Daniel was doing his archaeologist thing in his lab trying to figure out what it did...I was doing my thing, hovering and waiting for him to touch something that wasn't supposed to be touched. Turns out I touched the wrong thing; some remote control that shot some light at me, and the next thing I knew, I was waking up in the infirmary with Daniel explaining he had to jimmy the door of the porta-potty to get me out...like this. Fraiser wanted to keep me in the infirmary until Carter figures out what to do to reverse whatever makes the potty do...what it does, but I graciously volunteered Daniel's new place as my home away from home.

Not that Daniel minded. I think. We've always kind of opened house and home to one another after hairy missions or team nights that usually leave one or both of us at least three sheets to the wind. He didn't protest my impulsive decision to hole up at his place any more than I protested the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles t-shirts Carter brought back from Wal-Mart....okay, scratch that. He protested a lot less about me spending a few days at his place than I did over the Ninja Turtles t-shirts.

"They were the only ones in your size," Carter said apologetically, but she and Fraiser were both fighting 'awwww, isn't he adorable' smiles. I cast the most pissed-off look I could manage at the two Majors and one very constipated-looking Jaffa before Daniel swept into the infirmary carrying some kind of suitcase/kit bag for me to pack my stuff in.

"Hey Jack; you ready?" Fraiser and Carter relieved him of the bag and started ripping tags off jeans, sweaters, t-shirts, jackets and shoes and piling them in.

"You have no idea," I muttered, batting his hands away as he reaches out to tie my shoelaces. "Daniel, if you want to keep your hands, you'll just buzz off."

"Sorry."

Staring down at my attire now--a t-shirt emblazoned with something reading 'Yu-Gi-Oh!' and a kid whose hair looks like he got struck by lightning wearing a pyramid around his neck, kiddie jeans with an elastic waist and a lightning bolt embroidered on each pocket--I can't help but wonder if this might turn out to be a little more permanent than the 'week or so' timeframe Carter offered. God, I hope not. I glance at Daniel, who's drifted off at the other end of the couch. Daniel's my best friend, and I'm sure he wouldn't really object to giving me a place to stay if this was permanent, but I can't help the ache in the pit of my stomach knowing that I more than likely wouldn't be able to go through the Stargate anymore, I'd certainly lose the respect I've fought for on my way up to Colonel...I'd have to live my entire life over again, would be the only one around when my friends get older and die, that by the time my body reaches where my mind is now, I'll technically be nearly one hundred years old. Sure, Daniel, Carter and Teal'c will probably continue to have team nights and, if Daniel doesn't decide to get me a babysitter, I'll be invited along, but how will their new fourth react to spending Friday or Saturday nights with a Colonel in a kid's body? Nothing will be normal again...

I shake myself mentally. I need out for a little while. Being careful not to wake Daniel, I slide off the couch and grab my jacket and sneakers. As an afterthought, I scribble a barely-legible note--"Gone for a walk"--and leave it on the kitchen table, then slip soundlessly out the front door.

It's early; only about ten in the morning or so, and there isn't really a lot of activity in the neighborhood. Diane's blue Volvo glides past the house--she's late for work again, I guess--and I step down off the low step, heading down the front walk to the sidewalk. Where the hell am I going? A walk around the block, leaving myself wide open to the NID or whoever might be watching me at this very moment? Shut up, O'Neill,' I growl inside my head. No one even knows I'm downsized, aside from the folks at the SGC. Besides, if I remember correctly...

I turn left at the end of the walk, heading for the park a few blocks away, half-expecting to hear Daniel yell at me to come back at any minute. But the guy sleeps like the dead when he's exhausted, and the last couple of days, he's been on edge, waiting for me to spontaneously combust or something--he needs the sleep.

An old man at the end of Daniel's street is out watering his garden and his smiles at me amiably and a little warily, no doubt wondering why a five-or-so year old kid is out wandering the neighborhood on his own this early in the morning. "No school this morning?" he asks.

"Uh...no. No sir. My, er, dad is letting me stay home today."

"Ah...well, I suppose you're a lucky young man, aren't you?"

"Yes sir." How humiliating. 'No school today, sonny?' I cast a glance back over my shoulder as I pass; the old guy is watching me, 'Neighborhood Watch' written all over him. I so need my real body back.

=====

Ah, the park. The perfect refuge for a kid, both real and pseudo. I pick my way over to the first swing I can get my ass on without breaking my neck and push off with difficulty, my toes just barely making contact with the loose gravel beneath the playground equipment. "Need stilts," I mutter to myself, obscurely comforted by hearing a voice--even if it is my squeaky, disturbing one.

As I pump higher and higher, short legs working furiously to keep the swing in motion, my mind starts racing. What'll happen if Carter can't fix that machine? Will I have to go through school all over again? Aside from some niggling little five year old emotions and urges that make their way to the surface every now and then, my 40-odd year life is still intact. I remember everything that's ever happened to me, everything I've learned in school, university...

My feet hit gravel and I forcibly stop the swing. What if I lose all that? What if, over time, my memories--everything--just disappears? I mean, I'm no Daniel or Carter when it comes to book smarts, but I'm no slouch. How else would I have gotten as far as I have? I really don't relish the idea of forgetting everything I've ever learned; all the experiences I've had. That would, effectively, wipe the slate clean; I'd be an entirely new person. Who knows if I could work my way back up the ladder when I...grow up...again? A wave of vertigo washes over me, leaving me lightheaded, dizzy and shivery. 'Great time to start going into shock,' I curse myself. But the two halves of my mind are starting to work together, rising up against me and flooding me with a numb fear so intense that my fists clench tighter against the steel chains suspending the swing, squeezing to the point of pain, my knuckles turning white, fingertips and throat itching with the urge to just tear down walls and scream myself hoarse.

"Jack!"

Startled, I almost fall off the swing, and swivel my head to find Daniel's car parked at the side of the road and the man himself hurrying towards me, eyes wide with panic that's quickly giving way to relief. "Are you all right?"

Not now, Daniel. Not now. "I'm fine," I growl. "I just wanted to get some air."

"Well I just woke up and you weren't in the house, and I thought--"

"I left a note," I remind him brusquely.

"Note?" he echoes.

"On the table...told you I was 'going for a walk'." Slow, precise enunciation complete with finger quotes. At least I haven't lost my edge.

Daniel's face smoothes out and his eyes dart away from my gaze briefly. "Oh..."

"What?" I snap, and by the look on his face, I know exactly what's up. He couldn't read it. My face starts burning with embarrassment, and I push past him. "Let's go."

=====

"Jesus Christ, would you give me some space, Daniel?!"

"Well maybe if you'd stop acting like a four year old and not disappear like one, making everything so unnecessarily difficult--"

"'Difficult'?!" I leap up from the couch I've just barely touched down on and face him, feeling the heat of anger and embarrassment reassert itself when the difference in our heights hits me--I'm not even as tall as he is when he's sitting down, and I'm standing up! "You want 'difficult', Daniel? Try pushing fifty and finding yourself in a body you haven't occupied in nearly forty years! Try being a goddamn Special Ops Air Force pilot that can barely even take a piss on his own! Try being used to giving the orders and looking out for the members of my team, and waking up three feet shorter nad getting urges I haven't had since I was this age the first time around! So don't you fucking tell me this is difficult for you, Daniel, because you know damn well you'd be a little less than calm if our positions were reversed! It'd be me sitting there listening to you bitch and whine about not being able to see over your damn desk or translate your rocks, and you know it!"

I'm forced to stop, panting for breath, the anger and emotions I don't care to identify threaten to bubble over. Daniel sits there frozen in place, eyes unblinking and mouth slightly open, and I flush even further when I realize my face is wet. 'Fuck!' I can't even put on a decent tirade without this little bugger in my head taking over! I make a pitiful attempt to spare what little dignity I have left, turn on my heel and stalk into the spare room, slamming the door behind me and tossing myself face-down on the comforter.

Comforter. What a word, because the terrified, teary little five-to-seven year old in my head is railing against that soft, warm lie and forcing breath-stealing, frame-wracking sobs out of my throat while the sane half of me is cowering in some corner with its ears and eyes plugged, willing this to be a nightmare.

Oh-ho, it's a nightmare, all right. But I don't think the biggest, meanest pair of forceps in the world are gonna pinch me out of this one.

=====

I don't know when I dozed off, but I must have, because the next thing I know there's a tentative push on my shoulder, and the edge of the bed dips as someone sits down near my head. "Jack?"

Neither side of me really wants to look at him right now, but I know Daniel, and I know that he's as worried sick as I am pissed off. So I turn my face to the side, peering up at him with one eye--and I'm surprised to see his eyes looking red, as mine no doubt do, too. "Daniel?" My voice is still a little hoarse from sleeping--and crying, I admit to myself. "You okay?"

Daniel barks out a sharp laugh of disbelief. "Me? I'm fine. Are you...?"

I sniff, rolling lethargically onto my side, facing him. "Yeah."

We sit in silence for an interminable moment before Daniel suddenly blurts, "I'm sorry."

I don't even bother asking him what he's apologizing for--that's painfully clear to both of us--so I just stare at him, blankly but not uninvitingly. He clears his throat and studies his hands, clasped in his lap, for a a moment, then meets my eyes again. "You're right," he informs me softly. "I wouldn't be handling this any better than you are if things were reversed. I'd be a lot worse off, I think. Work, translations...it's all I've ever really felt 'happy' doing since..." 'Since my parents died' I read into his thought. Daniel nods slightly as though he heard me, and coughs slightly. "You, though," he says, a little more brightly. "Even though you'd rather be an adult, and I don't mean any offense here, it's not such a stretch to envision you as a child. You always have that..." he waves a hand vaguely, "...that spirit--not childish, not really. Just...fun. You know? I wouldn't know the first thing about being a kid again, and I don't know how to treat them, let alone one who isn't really...one. I'm kind of just going with what my gut tells me to do, and I'm sorry--really sorry--that it's coming across like I'm patronizing you."

I can't help the little twist my heart gives as Daniel's apology sinks in. He's trying. He's doing whatever he can for a friend in a completely foreign, unnatural situation, and I know that if he were the miniature one, I'd be doing the same for him - not just listening to him bitch and whine; though I'm sure there would be plenty of that, as there is with me, but being there as moral support, backup. Reassurance, comfort. "I'd teach you," I find myself telling him out of nowhere, and Daniel gives me a questioning look. "How to be a kid. If you were...like this. I'd teach you." Then, for reasons unknown, to me, I worm my way across the slight gap separating us, press my face against Daniel's side, and fling my mini arm across his abdomen. Daniel starts a little in surprise, but I feel him tighten an arm around my back after only a slight hesitation, and the five-to-seven year old in my brain breathes a little sigh of relief at the wave of comfort that spills over me.

And if I'm being completely honest here, I think the pushing-fifity half does, too.

=====

Part 2 - One Day at a Time
Home