Confident

Sequel to: Confidence

Author: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 5

Sequel: To the fic Confidence

Category: hurt/comfort, with emphasis this time on the comfort

Pairing: None

Summary: A wounded Jack arrives back at the SGC

Rating: Older kids as adult words may appear on occasion

Warnings: Those occasional four letter words that sometimes pop into or out of an adults’ brain

Disclaimer: Stargate doesn’t belong to me. <sob>

Author’s Note: okay, so you wanted more, you got more--

XX---------XX-----------XX-----------XX

They didn’t know much about what had happened to Colonel O’Neill, or what condition he might be in. There was only Teal’c’s report of a last brief glimpse of O’Neill, running toward the Stargate, just a step or two behind the Jaffa, and then abruptly being struck down.

Weapon, unknown. Type of wound, unknown. Consequences, unknown.

Location, unknown.

Fate, unknown.

When finally the SGC was able to redial the planet and send a rescue team through, thankfully, they did not find his body, but they did find drops of his blood, dried on the barren stone of the platform.

They began to search.

And search.

And search.

Wallada, it seemed, had more than one residence.

More than one hiding place.

More than one dungeon.

Finding one man on a whole planet was like finding a needle in a haystack.

**-----**

She was confident that they’d find the Colonel, and rescue him.

And she was equally confident that, if anyone could still be alive, he would. And, even more confidently, she knew that he would fight for his life, fight as hard as any patient she ever might deal with, and, if it were humanly possible, he’d win that fight.

It was confidence borne of experience… after that nearly fatal trip to Antarctica; after Hathor, twice after Hathor, actually; after the barbarian virus from the Land of Light; after three months on Edora and aging on Arkos and the beating he’d taken from Svarog’s Jaffa on Latona. The litany of injuries and illnesses went on and on. His medical file was thicker than any she’d ever seen.

Time and time again, O’Neill had proven that he was resilient and stubborn.

Dogged was a good word to describe him, a word that would please him, because he loved dogs. How many times had she heard him say that, that dogs were his favorite people? Which, actually, she knew wasn’t true, because kids were his favorite people. He’d proven that with Cassie, and the Reetou boy and the general’s granddaughters, and any and every kid she’d ever seen him have contact with. They brought out his otherwise nearly invisible gentle, patient side.

But, the bottom line was, like a bulldog himself, he didn’t ever give up, just as he never let anyone else give up.

She wasn’t about to give up on him, just because he’d been missing for a few days. He would be found, and no matter how badly hurt he might be, they would find a way to save him.

She was confident of that, of her medical skills and his determination.

**-----**

When at last the message came, the one that reported Colonel O’Neill had been found, injured but alive, Janet Fraiser, CMO of Stargate Command, set her medical emergency team in motion.

Within minutes, they stood ready in the gate room. Janet looked around her at the people who waited with her, and knew she had the best, and that they would save him, if he could be saved.

The best team, doing their best work, to save one of the best, strongest, toughest warriors she knew.

Confident in her own abilities, and in theirs, she waited impatiently at the base of the gate. As the minutes ticked by, she ran through a mental checklist of the preparations that were already made: oxygen ready, blood transfusions ready, portable X-ray ready, MRI ready, meds and instruments ready, OR standing by. Hopefully, they wouldn’t need them all.

Assist, assess, stabilize, save.

**-----**

He was never going to forget the appalling sight that had greeted them in Wallada’s dungeon. Even now, walking in the bright sunshine on the way back to the Stargate, surrounded by the Marines of SG-3 Search and Rescue, the memory of it made Daniel Jackson shiver with horror.

The dim light of that place hadn’t been able to conceal what was there.

In that first, horrified moment when he’d burst through the door to that cell, on the heels of the Marine lieutenant, Daniel had thought they were too late, that Jack was dead. The man hung unmoving in the chains that held him tightly to the damp, cold stone wall. There was no cocky grin, no smart-ass remark, no impatient demand to be freed, no snarky "what took you so long" comment, just a frightening stillness and a chilling silence.

Up close, the reality was even more terrifying. Blood darkened and dulled the lanky gray hair, trailing down his neck. More rust red stains streaked across the stubbled cheek and discolored chin. His skin was so pale it seemed translucent, except where it was criss-crossed with cuts and mottled with dark patches that were bruises. The lean cheeks were sunken and smeared with dirt.

"Jack?" He’d reached out a hand to touch the face, terrified that it would be cold and lifeless. Relief washed through him as the gray-haired head turned weakly away, cracked and bleeding lips mumbling all but inaudible words, but moving, warm, alive. Dirt and blood-crusted eyelids fluttered, fighting to open and when they finally did, the usually sparkling brown eyes were dull and glazed and uncomprehending, but life remained.

And as long as the tiniest spark of life remained, Jack O’Neill would fight.

Daniel was confident of that. The man might be infuriating, okay, not might be, was infuriating, irritating, galling, short-tempered, bullish, totally incomprehensible at times, but he was also a friend, a brother, a mentor, and above all, a fighter.

If he lived to be a hundred, Daniel could never forget that first night back on Earth from Abydos, when he’d been totally at loose ends. He’d had nowhere to go, owned absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back. He had no friends, no home, no money, no job, no place. It was Jack who’d come to his rescue, invited him to his home, plied him with beer to calm him down enough to slow his whirling brain so he could, finally, sleep. It was Jack, who made him so angry, and yet, who had a way of making him feel like family, like a beloved little brother with a big brother who cared and always would. Sometimes, you hated that sibling for his over-protective too-often condescending big brotherly ways, but you were always sure, when push came to shove, that the same infuriating big brother would be there, on your side and at your back, whenever you needed him.

Jack O’Neill inspired confidence.

So full of confidence himself, that he gave it to others.

There was always another way. Jack had said that so many times that Daniel now believed it.

Despite the horrible way Jack looked, despite the worried frown on the face of the medic, Daniel was suddenly confident. Jack would make it.

His confidence was shaken but not shattered when the Marines opened the shackles holding Jack rigidly in place. Daniel could see the tremors, the shudders rippling through the muscles of the thin, dirt-smeared arms as they unfastened the chained hands from above his head. Jack’s low moan was an awful thing to hear, so much pain contained within such a small sound. Instinctively, Daniel reached down to clutch the shuddering, bloodied hand. "It’s okay, it’s okay, easy Jack, easy. I know it hurts--"

The response was another mumble, like Jack was trying to say something, a slight movement of the long fingers, as if Jack was trying to squeeze his hand, to tell him he was still there.

‘You’re going home," he said, "you’re going home."

**-----**

He’d been carried home through the gate before, and he never liked it.

Though he was only half-awake, and half might be a gross exaggeration, Jack O’Neill was aware enough to know what was happening to him. He clung stubbornly to a thread of awareness in the way that a drowning man doggedly clutched a life preserver.

It was important to know what was going on, what was happening to him. He didn’t know how or why he knew that, but that connection was vital. If that fragile thread broke, if that frail link gave way, he would be swept away and lost.

The remote corner of his brain that was still active assessed and recorded what was happening: The gentle rocking motion of being carried on some sort of stretcher; the occasional gentle touch of a hand on the bare skin of his arm; the sound of voices, the words slurred by his own dulled senses, but the reassurance was still audible even if the words were incomprehensible.

Finally, he felt the piercing cold of the wormhole, chilling him through to the bone in the brief seconds he was within its icy grasp before emerging into light and warmth.

A familiar soothing voice spoke to him, and it didn’t matter that he couldn’t comprehend what words she said, just as he was comforted by the familiar soothing touch that he knew would heal him.

He sighed, and recognized home.

**-----**

The gate kawoshed.

"Here they come, people," Janet told her staff, her eyes fixed on the shimmering center of the wormhole, her whole body tense as the adrenaline kicked in. She tapped one foot impatiently as the first figure emerged from the gate. He was carrying the foot of the stretcher. Her patient began to appear then, feet first, then legs and torso. Daniel was walking beside the injured man, his hand wrapped around Jack’s arm, as if reassuring them both.

Hurrying to the Colonel’s side, Janet was amazed to see the brown eyes open, as if he needed to reassure himself that he was in the right place.

"Colonel." A bit of the relief she felt at having him back here, here where she could help him, leaked into her voice. "Welcome back, Sir."

He tried to smile, his cracked lips curling, muttering something she couldn’t hear.

Bending down, her ear close to his mouth, she could only make out a rasping, croaking sound that might have been "Home."

"Yes, Sir, you’re home. We’ll get you fixed up."

The smile was a bit more effective this time, and she saw the long, dirt-caked fingers wiggle, as if he was waving at her.

The procession had reached the base of the gateramp, the stretcher bearers pausing near the waiting gurney.

"We’re going to move you now, Sir," one of the orderlies announced.

It was one of the things Janet insisted on, a little thing but important, that a patient always be told what was happening, especially this patient. She didn’t have to warn them to be careful, they knew their jobs too well to need such a reminder.

Still, even being as careful as they could be, the movement tore a low moan from his throat.

**-----**

Mere seconds after arriving back on Earth, Colonel Jack O’Neill was on the way to the infirmary, Janet trotting alongside the rapidly moving gurney.

As they rolled, the medic recited his litany of vital medical information. Pulse. BP. Broken bones, Lacerations, Abrasions. Severe dehydration. Exposure. Exhaustion. IV fluids started. Observations made. First aid administered. Symptoms included weak irregular rapid heart beat, low blood pressure, rapid and shallow breathing, and an altered level of consciousness.

With the confidence she’d earned through year after year spent coping with emergencies, Janet took each piece of information, fitting it into the framework of this patient, weaving it into a pattern that told her what might be wrong and what he might need.

By the time they reached the infirmary, her plan was fully formed. The Colonel was whisked into an isolation room and the work of saving his life got underway in earnest.

Oxygen was administered, blood was drawn, a central line was inserted as well as a Foley catheter, and x-rays were taken.

**-----**

He sort of knew where he was, a vague sense of familiarity seeping into his only partly functioning brain. Beeping machines, clattering equipment, terse voices. Touches, businesslike but gentle.

He floated just beneath the surface of real consciousness.

**-----**

As the senior nurse at the SGC, Captain Lee Carroll R.N. had tended Colonel O’Neill many times. As she applied the scissors to the tough material of his shirt and trousers, she didn’t think of him as the sometimes witty, sometimes sad, most often cranky patient she’d watched over so often.

With every snip of the scissors cutting through the heavy cloth of his tattered BDUs, she pulled it back and away from the too thin body, revealing more damage, more discoloration. Was there a square inch of skin that wasn’t bruised, painted in some shade of purple, black, blue or faded yellow? A miasma of smells clung to the cloth: blood, sweat, dirt, wastes, and even worse, she could swear the scent of despair and pain and even fear pervaded the material.

She took a brief moment to pat his arm reassuringly, using touch to remind him that he was in comforting, healing hands now.

**-----**

In the end, her assessment of his condition wasn’t nearly as bad as Janet Fraiser had initially feared.

Dehydration was a main reason for his poor condition but thankfully, it was something that was relatively simple to cure. Two to three days of IVs fluids, and, as soon as he was able, drinking plenty of water on his own should have his fluids replenished. IVs, rest, pain meds to keep him comfortable, would quickly rebuild his strength.

She was confident this was something from which he’d bounce back quickly.

Broken bones included two ribs and his collarbone, and another rib was cracked. He had deep bone bruises on his chest, back, arms, and thighs. The beatings he had sustained were thorough, but obviously meant to be painful rather than fatal.

There was blood in his urine, however, his kidneys were still functioning. Re-hydration would help significantly.

He’d obviously taken several hard blows to the head. Concussion, yes, skull fracture, thankfully, no. The laceration on his scalp had bled profusely, looking worse than it turned out to be. The cut was dirty, inflamed with the start of an infection, but a course of antibiotics should take care of that.

All in all, though at the moment he was one sick and hurting Colonel, his odds for recovery were high, and that made Janet Fraiser one relieved doctor.

Writing the last of her notes in his chart, she took one last look at her patient. He was lying quietly on the bed, his weathered face now washed clean of the blood and the dirt, but still mottled with the fading rainbow of bruises. The cut on his cheek was an angry red line, especially stark against the skin that was nearly as pale as the bleached white sheets beneath him. A fringe of his steely gray hair, clean and soft now, nearly covered the swelling and cut above his right ear. The deep abrasions on his wrists were concealed beneath neat white bandages. The hospital gown hid the swelling and bruising on his chest around the broken ribs.

He seemed to be sleeping, although it was a restless sleep. Occasionally, a hand or foot twitched and jerked, as if he needed to move them to prove to himself he was free of the restraints that had held him locked in place for so long.

She reached down a hand, slowly stroking his arm, appalled at how thin it seemed. The touch seemed to soothe him, though, the lines on his slowly face softening, the restless movement easing and ceasing, and he slipped into a deeper sleep.

One last time, she checked the monitors, the IVs and the oxygen. Satisfied that he was stable and comfortable, she left to make her report to General Hammond.

**-----**

As head of nursing, and with many duties in addition to direct patient care, Lee didn’t have to be there, at the Colonel’s bedside, in the middle of the night. Still, she’d chosen that spot to work, carrying in her laptop and sitting down to work.

She wanted to be sure he wasn’t alone if he awakened.

His awakenings were often dramatic and sometimes traumatic.

And when they weren’t, he was too stubborn to use the call button.

He’d had company earlier, but Doctor Fraiser had sent all his visitors packing. His teammates were exhausted after days of worrying until he was found and then fighting their way from the gate to the fortress where he was being held.

She’d checked the Colonel’s vitals before sitting down, pleased to see that they were continuing their slow but steady march back toward normality.

Lee was confident they’d be back to normal soon. The Colonel was that sort of patient, resilient and strong.

Strong willed, too, she thought with a smile.

Once he was awake, he’d be driving them all crazy with his insistence on being out of bed, on being up and moving, and preferably on his way home.

He’d have to stay at least two more days, continuing to receive IV fluids and meds, his kidneys being monitored, too.

She finished the first of her patient reports, looking up to see him moving restlessly. Quickly, she moved to his side, her warm hand reaching out to touch his cool one. "Just relax, Sir, and go back to sleep. Everything is fine, Colonel," she told him, her voice soft and quiet as her eyes roamed over the monitor readouts, checking each one.

When she looked down, she was surprised to see that the deep-set brown eyes were open and focused on her.

She smiled. "Hello, Sir."

"Hi," he rasped hoarsely. His eyes locked onto hers, as if he found it reassuring to see a familiar face.

She was sure he did, even if he would never admit to it. "Do you know where you are, Sir?" she asked. When he nodded, she continued. "Do you remember how you got here?"

His face crinkled into a frown and he shook his head slightly.

"That’s okay, Colonel. You weren’t really awake. You were brought in this morning and Doctor Fraiser says you’re on the mend already." She saw him lick his lips, and before he could ask, reached for the cup of water on the bedside table. She helped him raise his head with one hand, with the other holding the cup so that the straw touched his lips.

He closed his eyes as he drank, as if savoring the feel of moisture in his mouth. How long had it been, she wondered? She’d heard how he’d been found, chained in a dark cell with no sign of food or water. "More?"

His head moved slightly, and she took that as a yes, holding the straw to his mouth once more.

He swallowed eagerly, then closed his eyes and relaxed. "How’m I doin’?" he whispered, his voice still rough.

"You’re doing fine, Sir. Now you should sleep some more." She allowed his head to sink back down onto the pillow.

His hand reached out and grabbed hold of her arm.

"It’s okay, Colonel. We’ll be here with you."

"M’ team?"

"Your team is fine. They were here earlier, while you were still sleeping, but Doctor Fraiser sent them all home to rest. It’s the middle of the night, and you should be sleeping, too."

He nodded, and she could see him fight to keep his heavy lids open, and lose the battle. Still, his fingers clung to her arm, and she stayed there until his breathing evened out and his grip loosened, his hand sliding down to rest on the sheets.

Carefully, she tucked it under the blanket, confident now that he’d sleep through the night.

**-----****-----****-----**

He heard the car pull in, but he was far too comfortable to get up to check. Stretched out on a chaise lounge, like a cat sleeping in the sun, he was reveling in the warmth and the light, things he’d missed down in that dark hole where Wally’d confined him.

"Hello?" called out a feminine voice.

"Back here!" he shouted.

He was surprised to see that it wasn’t Doc, but Captain/Nurse Carroll who walked up to his deck.

"Dr. Fraiser’s tied up on base. An emergency," she explained.

He sat up straighter, a grimace flashing across his features at the sudden movement, his face frowning with concern at the news.

"Nothing life-threatening," Lee reassured him. "One of the Marines took a fall. Hit his head."

"Ah, well, no real danger there then. It’s hard to damage brick." He smiled at his own cleverness.

She laughed. "Well, you’re certainly looking and sounding better."

"I’m home," he waved a hand at the green yard. "No better medicine than being here. Peace, quiet, fresh air, greenery, no doctors, no nurses. No one to interrupt my naps."

"I won’t interrupt for long then, Sir. Just a quick check up."

**-----**

She watched carefully as he eased himself up out of the chair, moving gingerly, like a man who hurt all over but was determined not to let it stop him. His usually long stride was short, and he kept his left arm tucked protectively against his side, over the broken ribs.

Following him into the house, she noted the masculine, earth tones of the neat living room. The windows lining the room, all the curtains drawn back, seemed to draw the outdoors inside. She could see why he lived here. Everyone who worked in the windowless confines of the SGC craved sunlight and greenery. And the Colonel, he’d spent days and days locked in a dark cell followed by more days in the SGC infirmary.

A week after his release, he’d obviously been spending time in the sun. He looked tan, which undoubtedly helped cover the plethora of fading bruises, adding to his appearance of returning good health. The cut which had marred his cheek had shrunk to nothing more than a thin, fine line. Broken bones knit slowly, but she could see that he was moving carefully yet confidently as he led her up a pair of stairs and into the dining room.

Quickly, she took his pulse and blood pressure, then listened to his heart and lungs. She checked the laceration mostly hidden beneath the spiky gray hair, pleased to see that the signs of infection were gone and healing was well underway. "Everything seems to be healing fine, Sir," she told him as she tucked the bp cuff and stethoscope back into her bag. "Now, for your meds—" she looked around and spied a bottle on the kitchen counter. Picking it up, she popped the top and tipped them out into her hands. "Sir, there are a lot of pills left here."

He rolled his eyes at her. "You know I don’t like the pain meds. They make me feel--" he shrugged carefully, "drugged. You know, loopy."

"Yes, Sir," she sighed. "Doctor Fraiser sent along something else for you to try. They should be less altering for you. Not as effective as these," she nodded down at the pills in her hand, "but much more effective than taking nothing," Lee finished pointedly.

He looked down, not meeting her eyes. "I know, I know, I’ve already had this lecture. From Doc."

"Well, she’s right."

"Maybe," he conceded.

She smiled. "Good, Sir." She turned to the refrigerator, opening it to check that there was more inside than beer and cold pizza. "You’ve been eating well then?"

"Of course."

"Of course," she repeated skeptically. She jotted a few words in her notebook. "I’ll have someone deliver you a good meal tonight."

"Oh for cryin’ out loud I don’t—"

"Yes, you do. Supper will be here at six."

As she headed for her car, he stuck his head out the door to the deck and shouted after her, "it better not be MREs."

She smiled. He was definitely on the mend.

**-----**

At five minutes to six, his doorbell rang in staccato rhythm. Hauling himself to his feet, he made his way to the door. "Look, this better be—"

Three smiling faces greeted him, well, not three. Teal’c wasn’t smiling, but Jack was pretty sure there was a hint of a grin hiding there. Carter and Daniel were both grinning, however. Each one of them carried a box, delicious smells emanating from inside. "Pay cuts at the SGC so you’ve taken up new jobs, eh?" he snickered as he opened the door and welcomed them in.

**-----**

His stomach was pretty much back to normal. Jack devoured the creamy broccoli soup with relish, but felt full long before he’d polished off the thick steak and sour-cream laden baked potato.

Meal finished, they headed to the living room, talking about inconsequential things. He wasn’t very effective at keeping up his end of the conversation, he was so tired he kept catching himself dozing off.

It was Teal’c who noticed. "I believe we should depart. O’Neill is in need of rest," he announced.

"Oh, I’m fine," Jack protested.

"Really, Sir, Teal’c is right," Carter insisted. "It’s late. We should be going."

They gathered up their coats and headed out the door. It was Teal’c who held back, the last to leave, pausing in the doorway. "I am pleased to see that your health is much improved, O’Neill," he stated. "I am relieved. I was much concerned when you were injured, and regret my failure to remain on the planet with you."

"Teal’c, you did not fail. There was no need for ol’ Wally to get his grubby mitts on two of us. And believe me, you didn’t miss out on anything worthwhile. Summer camp it was not," Jack answered lightly.

"I should not have left you behind."

"You had no choice, T. I know that."

"You have taught us, O’Neill, that we always have another choice."

"And you made it, the choice to come back, for which I am grateful." He kept his tone light, despite the seriousness of the words he spoke.

"That was not a choice, O’Neill. We could not do otherwise. But we should have found you sooner."

"You found me soon enough."

"Only after a long and difficult ordeal."

"Not so long. Not so difficult," he lied, then finished with a truth. "Besides, I was confident you’d be back."

One elegant eyebrow quirked upward. "You were not concerned?"

"Never," he answered, confidently, and truthfully. "Never."

**-----** Finish **-----**