Clean
Author: BadgerGater
Email: [email protected]
Category: Drama, tag scene for The Fifth Man
Season: Five
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: None yet, except Jack's talking so watch the language. Images of naked Colonel (but nothing explicit. I leave it up to your own vivid imaginations.)
Summary: What happened when the wormhole shut down at the end of The Fifth Man
Disclaimer: Don't own 'em. Dearly wish I did. This fic was created purely for enjoyment, drooling, and appreciation of Jack O’Neill; no money exchanged hands nor ever will; no copyright infringement intended. I know they belong to Showtime, MGM, Gekko, Double Secret, the Sci-Fi Channel... but a girl can dream, can't she?
Author's Note: A Shower Scene Tag for Fifth Man (Many thanks to Scribe for the Shower Scene Theme): This one is dedicated to the denizens of the Jackfic list, where someone asked me why I liked Jack's grubby warrior look in The Fifth Man, and my answer was, think how much fun it would be to clean him up! Cleanly, of course. LOL
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Sometimes, it's the simple things in life you cherish most, like being warm, fed and clean.
Jack O'Neill sighed. SG-1 had just watched 'Lt. Tyler' (he was sooo not going to try to pronounce Ahyeahyaheeayeehaw-whatever) step into the wormhole on his way to rejoining his people on their new planet. Earth, O'Neill thought hopefully, might have found some new allies in the war against the snakeheads. True, Tyler had said his people, the Ree-ole, weren't much at fighting, but they did have that remarkable ability to make themselves, if not invisible, then appear to be something/someone they weren't.
The silver haired Colonel shook his head. He was way too weary to try to figure out this whole Creole chameleon thing. He'd leave that up to Carter: she was good at it, enjoyed it, even, figuring out the science of it.
He didn't.
He just knew that he liked Tyler; that the man, er, person, er whatever, had, in the end, been willing to risk his life to help SG-1 escape, and that made him pretty damn decent, and human, in O'Neill's book. Not to mention the fact that the Ree-ole was actually interested in taking him up on a fishing trip. Too bad he had to leave...
Thoughtfully, Jack rubbed a grimy hand across his gritty jaw. Most of all, O'Neill was eager to enjoy a hot shower, a hot meal and a warm, soft bed, and he didn't mean one in the infirmary.
Jack sighed again.
"O'Neill, are you unwell?" Teal'c inquired.
"Nope. Just tired. Weary. Wore out. Done in. Played out. In need of sleep, food, clean clothes, clean everything." O'Neill shot Daniel a look. "And don't say anymore."
"I wasn't going to Jack," Jackson answered softly.
O’Neill didn’t miss the frown creasing the younger man’s forehead, that ‘I have a headache but no, I’m not going to say anything’ look that the Colonel had seen too many times before. "You okay?" After all, Jack knew his alien buddy had zatted the archaeologist.
"Oh, I'll be fine in a bit. A touch of a headache, you know."
"Oh, I know." The Colonel had been zatted more than enough times to know that it left one with body aches that included a way above average headache. Probably similar to the headache that was lurking around the back of his own brain, the kind he got when he didn't sleep for, oh, about 72 hours.
"Carter," he ordered his second, "dial us up, would ya?" Man, he couldn't wait to get home. The only thing he was uncertain about was whether he was going to get food, bed or a shower first. Lord, he craved them all.
Carter dialed the DHD, the gate kawooshed, and the Colonel waited impatiently while she sent the iris code and received the acknowledgment. "Ready, Sir."
"Oh, yeah, I'm ready," he marched forward into the familiar blue pool.
O'Neill stepped awkwardly out the other side, catching himself quick enough that the stumble didn't turn into an embarrassing fall in front of the usual gateroom crowd.
"Glad to have you back, Colonel," General Hammond stood smiling at the base of the gate.
"Not half as glad as I am to *be* back, Sir." Jack schlepped wearily down the stairs to stand in front of his CO.
"I'm eager to hear your report on this mission, Colonel, and a first hand report on the alien, but I can see you need some rest..."
"And some soap and hot water..." Jack added
Hammond nodded, grinning. "That too, Colonel. Get checked out and cleaned up and we'll debrief first thing in the morning, SG-1," he included the whole team in his announcement.
O'Neill threw the general a sloppy salute. "Thank you, Sir."
Hammond stood watching as the Colonel led his team out into the corridor on their way to the infirmary, a Security Forces sergeant following on their heels, SOP for returning teams. Until all the gate travelers were proven clean and clear, they were escorted by security. It was a lesson the SGC had learned the hard way, way back with Major Kawalsky, Urgo's little implants,
and dozens more instances of alien contact, er, contamination, that weren't visible to the naked eye.
Hammond didn't envy the teams their post-gate trip to the infirmary. Though he knew Dr. Fraiser did her best, the tests were neither quick nor particularly pleasant, especially when one was tired as the teams always were when they returned from off-world. Still, it was a necessity for the safety of the base and for the team members themselves.
George sighed. He'd hated doing what he'd had to do to SG-1 and Colonel O'Neill, hated leaving the man stranded on that planet, hated denying his team the chance to rescue him, and really, really hated the thought that the delay he ordered could very well have caused the death of a man he respected as both a warrior and a friend.
O'Neill would understand the harsh necessity and forgive him, but it would be a long time before George Hammond forgave himself.
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Dr. Fraiser sighed in relief as the four members of SG-1 appeared in her infirmary. Thank God none of them looked in need of immediate medical attention, though the Colonel was walking with something less than his usual bounce and energy, and she could definitely see some bruises under the dirt. Daniel looked a little dazed. But no one was carrying anyone, bleeding visibly, or shouting for a med team. All in all, that signaled good news in her book.
"Check Daniel first, Doc," O'Neill suggested.
"Jack, I'm fine," the archaeologist protested.
"No, you're not," O'Neill chided him, then turned back to Fraiser. "He got zatted."
"And you, Colonel?" she could see the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes, and the stiff way he was standing, as if he had more than the usual aches and pains troubling him.
"Nothing more than a little dirt and a few bruises, Doc," he answered, rubbing his stubbled chin. "So I thought you'd appreciate it if I showered first and we vetted after?" he suggested hopefully.
It wasn't something he asked for often. "As long as your escort goes with you, showering first is fine, Colonel." She eyed the SF non-com who nodded his okay. "Twenty minutes, then, Colonel."
Twenty minutes? Who was she kidding? He couldn't scrub this grime off in twice that, but at least she'd conceded that much. "Doc..." he started.
"Go, Colonel. Your time's already running. Twenty minutes. By then I'll be done with the others. Don't be late."
"Yes, ma'am," he answered sarcastically, and headed for the locker room.
****************
Alone in the locker room, the SF standing guard outside the door, the Colonel sat on the bench in front of his locker. He shrugged out of his vest and started to slide the jacket off his shoulders, inhaling sharply at the catch in his back when he twisted. “Damn,” he muttered, cursing the fact that even he couldn’t stave off the effects of his too often abused and not so young as it had been body. More carefully now, he finished sliding the jacket off his shoulders. Lifting his arms to pull the black t-shirt over his head, he grimaced. Yup, he must have bruises on his back from that little encounter with the Jaffa this morning, he thought wearily, but bruises, hell, they were nothing. He'd come within seconds of having a staff weapon blow a hole clear through him. He was so not going to complain about a few black and blue patches when he knew the alternatives all too well.
Leaning down, he unlaced his dust covered boots. They'd need an oil and shine after this mission, he thought ruefully. Standing, he undid his belt and slipped out of the dark camo trousers, sliding his briefs down with them. Stepping out of his clothes, he set them on the bench atop the two shirts. Grabbing an Air Force issue plain white towel, he wrapped it around his waist, snagged his soap and shampoo and headed for the showers.
Hot water. One of humanity's greatest discoveries. Some people might think the wheel, the printing press or space travel were the greatest inventions of all time, but Jack O'Neill knew better.
Nothing beat plain old hot water.
Sticking his head under the flow, he let the warm liquid cascade across his skull and trail down his face, back, chest and arms. Rolling his shoulders and twisting his neck, he worked at alleviating the tension generated by three days on the run from a squad of Jaffas. It had been a surprise to find the Jaffa on that planet, there hadn't been a sign of them during the MALP and UAV surveys. Of course, Tyler had explained that, telling Jack how the transport had crashed, stranding him along with his Jaffa captors. Just SG-1's bad luck to decide to visit right then, Jack thought with a wry smile. On the other hand, it certainly had been YippieIOKayays good fortune to find the humans to help him.
Things had sure looked ugly there for a while though, just the two of them facing more than a dozen Jaffa.
More hot water rolled luxuriously across his bruised and aching body. "Hmmm," it felt good to let the responsibilities slip away with the water, let the battle tension flow out of his muscles and disappear down the drain.
Grabbing the shampoo, he snapped open the cap, squirted a bit onto his hand, and quickly worked the gel through his short, graying hair. "Graying, humph," he snorted. Gray, all gray, completely and *very* pre-maturely gray. Of course, considering what he did for a living, a few gray hairs were inevitable. Okay, more than a few. But at least he still had hair to turn gray. And people kept telling him it looked good on him. Distinguished. Manly. Handsome.
They weren't kidding him, were they? After all, just the other morning that new nurse had definitely looked at him appreciatively. Either that or she was very nearsighted.
Rinsing his hair, he soaped it again, working the suds into his scalp with long, graceful fingers. A final rinse, and he set the shampoo aside. Taking the soap, he lathered it between his hands and the washrag and started working it onto his skin from head to toe. He started with his face, working carefully around the bruise on his cheek, the one caused by a staff weapon blast narrowly missing his head and blowing a fist sized shard of rock off the wall of the ruin. Maybe his reflexes were getting too slow, he should have been able to duck that, he thought worriedly.
Satisfied that at last his face was clean, he scrubbed behind his ears, around his neck, along his wide shoulders, and down his long arms. He worked the washcloth across his chest, soap bubbles catching in the wiry gray hair. He ducked back under the water, letting the spray sluice the soap off his chest, down his ribcage and abdomen. Taking his time, he worked the cloth and soap across his ribs and over his chest once more, then down his waist, past his slender hips and long legs, to his size 11 feet. He worked the suds along his back, and into more intimate places, until he could no longer feel the gritty texture of dirt and sand, until all he could smell was the clean scent of soap. Irish Spring, he thought with a silent laugh. What else would someone named O'Neill use?
Clean.
Ahhh.
Nothing beat clean.
He closed his eyes, leaning with arms braced against the wall, and once again let the hot water beat its comforting rhythm over his head and against his back and shoulders.
Clean.
Something most folks took for granted, long hot showers whenever you wanted one. Over his career, he'd spent enough stretches of his life out in the field, dirty, grubby, unshaven, unwashed, days at a time, hell, sometimes weeks, in deserts, in jungles, in caves and snowfields. He tried not to think of the worst part, his months long little visit to Saddam's boys, to the time he'd vowed that if he ever saw a real shower again, he'd stay in it for a week.
Suppressing the shudder that memory caused, Jack scrubbed a hand across his face.
He could stand here forever, he thought, or at least until the hot water ran out, which would probably be never, here in the mountain.
"Colonel O'Neill? Sir? Time's up," he heard a voice shouting over the sound of the water.
Damn. The SF. Humorless guys who didn't appreciate a man's need for a real, true genuine shower after days on an alien rock halfway across the galaxy with no one but Jaffa and alien Creoles for company.
Reluctantly shutting off the water, O'Neill stepped out of the shower, grabbing the towel from a wall hook and wrapping it around himself once again.
Back at his locker, Jack sat down heavily on the bench, suddenly feeling drained and tired. Three days without sleep will do that to a person, he knew. There was that point where one hit the wall, where the energy just plain stopped and the body said enough's enough and just shut down, keeled over and quit.
Now that would be damned embarrassing, to pass out right here in the shower.
Dredging up one last bit of energy, Jack pulled the clean clothes from his locker-plain white cotton briefs, blue trousers, black t-shirt and white socks, and quickly slipped each item on, the plain, clean cotton soft and comfortable against his skin. Lacing his boots, he straightened carefully, grabbed his electric razor, and headed for the sink. A fast shave cleared the itchy stubble from his chin, the buzz of the little machine lulling him gently. Finally, with a last toweling of his damp hair, he shoved his gear into his locker, tossed the wet towels and dirty clothes into a hamper and ambled out into the hallway, passing the SF, and strolling back towards the infirmary.
People nodded at him in the hall, and he nodded back. From the corner of his eye, he could see his shadow, following unobtrusively in his wake.
Arriving at last at Doc's domain, Jack straightened his shoulders, grimacing at the twinges he felt all over, pasted a smile on his weary face and stepped in.
The infirmary was surprisingly quiet. Well, he had taken more than the 20 minutes Doc had allotted him, Colonel's privilege and all, he figured. His teammates were nowhere in sight. Doc didn't seem to have any other patients, and none of the routine daytime activities were going on, either, since, he realized with surprise as he glanced at his watch, it was nearly 8 p.m.
Where had the day gone? Hmm, to chasing Jaffa around PX whatchmacallit. Okay, Jaffa chasing him, too. "Colonel, you're late," Doc said briskly, pointing him down the hall for his
MRI. Once done there, he headed back to an exam room, stripping out of his clothes and wrapping the backless hospital gown around himself. Whoever had invented these annoying things ought to be taken out and put before a firing squad, he thought.
"Colonel..."
Doc's voice took him by surprise, and he spun back toward the door, unable to stop the hiss of pain at the movement.
“Colonel?” her smile dimmed, worry plain in her voice. “It’s nothing,” he muttered with a wave of his hand. “Just the old thing with the back. You know,” he answered, almost apologetically.
She nodded and pointed him at the exam table, and he sat down.
"Daniel okay?" he opened quickly.
"Just the usual post-zat headache. I gave him some aspirin and ordered Sam to see to it that he got home and rested."
"Good." O'Neill toyed with a scissors he'd taken off Doc's instrument tray. Finally, without raising his eyes to meet hers, he said, "Carter said I've got you to thank for figuring out what was going on," O'Neill told her as she gently palpitated his neck and shoulders. "The alien used some sort of chemical brainwashing stuff?"
"You could call it that," she smiled. "We were all baffled, Sir."
"Not half as baffled as I was that no one was coming to the rescue," he said softly.
Her hands paused momentarily, then she resumed the exam, realizing that he must have been really worried to admit that. "How do you feel?"
"Fine," he answered automatically.
She stopped, leaning forward to look at his face, weariness etched in every line. "Colonel..." she warned.
He waved a hand in the air. "Okay. Tired."
"When did you sleep last?"
"I've been sleepless before."
"That's not what I asked."
"Two days."
"More likely three," she said, noting her observations on his chart. "Well, Colonel, I don't find anything other than the bruised cheek and some bruising from your altercation with the Jaffa. What's the problem with your back?"
He started to say nothing, then thought better of it. "A little stiff. From carrying that whatsis alien guy..." the hand waved again.
"Carrying him?" her voice rose in surprise. "Carrying the alien?"
He shrugged, and she didn't miss the grimace that caused. "He had a bad leg wound, couldn't walk, and we had to move. It was either play packhorse or leave him there. Which I wasn't about to do. Even if I'd known at the time that he was an alien."
"Well, I understand why you did it, but you shouldn't have..." She ran her hands down the lean muscles of his back, and was surprised at the intensity with which the Colonel jerked away, breath hissing out of his throat. "Soreness concentrated right there," she muttered.
"Oh, yeah. That's the spot. Ow!" he complained as her hands worked along his backbone until they pinpointed the area of abused muscle. "I usually *do* let Teal'c do all the heavy lifting, but he wasn't there, so," he shifted on the table and felt the muscles in his back pull. "Ow!"
"I know, Colonel. But you've had trouble with your back before..."
"It's nothing..."
"Right. Just try to be more careful in the future? Let the alien junior officers carry themselves? I'll give you a muscle relaxant to take the tightness out..."
"I'm fine..."
"Just humor me, Colonel. If I don't find something wrong, they'll decide they don't need me here and I'll get reassigned to Greenland, or some other perfectly lovely place. Okay?" she smiled.
"I can go home, then, right?"
"Well, I ought to keep you here..."
"Awww, Doc..."
"But I won't, *if* you promise to go straight home and go to bed, no hockey, no stargazing, ignore the mail and the phone. Rest."
It was a little game they played; she prescribed, he protested; she gave him an excuse and he acquiesced.
"Deal," he muttered with a weary smile.
She pointed at the tray an orderly had just brought in. "Soup and sandwich. Get dressed and eat that while I clear up the paperwork and get your meds. Give me about five minutes, Colonel, and then you can go."
Her heels rat-a-tat-tatted as she headed out the door and down the hallway.
A wave of weariness washed over O'Neill as he dressed. He was suddenly so tired that despite his ravenous hunger, it was all he could manage to lift the spoon to his mouth, all he could do to chew the sandwich, tuna, his favorite, he realized gratefully. Count on Doc to remember the little things, he thought blissfully. He was clean, warm and fed, all a man really needed in life.
With a smile, he slumped back on the bunk, waiting for Doc to return, letting his lids droop shut for just a moment. It was okay to rest his eyes for a minute, until Doc came back.
The world faded gently away.
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A nurse stopped Fraiser to ask a question, and her quick trip for O’Neill’s prescription took her longer than she'd planned. She expected to find the Colonel loudly protesting the delay, but as she walked down the corridor it was eerily quiet.
"Colonel..." she started to apologize as she entered, then stopped, falling silent. O'Neill was sprawled out across the bed, chest gently rising and falling, his usually stern face softened in sleep. He had managed to get one boot on, though it remained unlaced, and the other was still on the floor. There was nothing but crumbs left of his sandwich, a last couple of spoonfuls of soup sat chilling in the bowl.
She didn't have the heart to wake him. He looked relaxed and comfortable, and really, the most important part of her prescription *was* for him to get a good night's sleep.
Smiling, shaking her head, Janet grabbed a blanket and covered the softly snoring man, sliding his unlaced boot off his foot and setting it neatly beside the other one, tucked under the bed. Dimming the lights, she pulled the curtain closed around the bed, and tiptoed out.
Her night nurse watched, an eyebrow lifted in surprise.
"The Colonel's spending the night," the doctor whispered. "Just let him sleep. Give him these if he wakes up," she handed Lt. Carroll the pills she'd prescribed, "but I doubt you'll hear from him before morning."
Smiling, Janet Fraiser hung up her lab coat and prepared to head for home.
Lord, she couldn't wait to hit the shower and her own soft, warm bed.
*************