Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Category: Drama, Angst

Rating: G

Season/Sequel: About three-- would be very helpful to read my Four Months in Hell first

Summary: Jack has a flashback

Warnings: Recalls a nasty incident from O'Neill's past

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.

Authors Notes:

I will never forget that sound. Never.

I've heard him yell in pain and in anger; I've heard him moan and groan and complain. But whimper? Like a whipped puppy? Jack O'Neill?

You'd never think he could make a sound like that, but I heard it.

I will hear that sound in the darkness of night for a very, very long time.

What they must have done, to the bravest man I know, to make him utter the cry of a wounded animal..... I shudder just thinking about that sound. Horror, pain, anguish, despair; helplessness and hopelessness; not a human sound but the cry of a tormented wounded creature.

Let me go back and start at the beginning. I'm a little rattled, still, and shaky, the after effects of what I heard and saw tonight in my infirmary. I don't normally let these things affect me, I'm a doctor after all, a professional, and I'd thought I'd seen and heard it all. Until tonight.

My God, how one human being could do such things to another?

I know a lot about what was done to him, once, ten years ago now. I've seen the medical files, made myself read them all the way through. I shouldn't have been so surprised over what happened tonight, well, actually, it's last night now. I knew very well what was in the Colonel's medical records. I don't need to know the details of what they did, I can make some pretty good assumptions based on the damage done. He was injured to start with, then beaten, starved, shocked, kept in the dark, and in solitary confinement; subjected to both physical and mental torture for a very long time.

It's a tribute to his toughness and resiliency that he survived and emerged relatively whole.

I thought it was totally behind him, and I think he'd thought it was forever behind him, the Colonel being too busy wrapped up in the present problems of the SGC. That's how he coped, just going on to something else, keeping himself busy, concentrating on the here and now, because there's so much ugliness in his past., I don't know how anyone could live with what he's seen and been a part of.

He'd always seemed to have himself totally under control. Until tonight.

The Colonel was in the infirmary, again, like far too many other times. Nothing seemed unusual, nothing seemed amiss. He was making his usual sparkling recovery, annoying the nurses, asking to go home, cracking jokes and complaining, the Colonel we all know and tolerate affectionately.

There had been a nasty run-in with some natives on a planet, and, according to Daniel, the Colonel had been subjected to some pretty rough treatment. O'Neill refused to call it torture. But I could tell by the look on Daniel's face and in Sam's eyes that it had been much worse than O'Neill had let on, much, much worse. The Colonel basically wouldn't tell me anything about what had happened.

"I got hurt," he'd said, and tried to get me to let it go at that. So I'd had to go to his team for details, not that they knew much, only that he'd been taken away whole and come back with some terrible burn marks on his back. In between they'd heard him-- first loudly proclaiming his refusal and defiance, then ominous silence, followed by garbled sounds of pain. Even then, I don't think I got the whole story, not by the way Dr. Jackson stood with his hands wrapped around his chest and the way Major Carter looked down at the floor and never once up into my eyes. They were trying to protect him, the way he'd protected them. I understood, I know that this team draws closer together when it seems the outside world is ganging up on them. That's how they cope. They turn to each other. I'm friends with all of them, and yet, I'm still an outsider. I'm not part of SG-1. They turn to me to put them back together, they let me into their little circle in some small measure, but they never really let me in to their core.

That's okay. I realized it a long time ago, and I accept it and how it allows them to be something special, SG-1, dependent on each other, alive because they depend on each other and they take care of each other. Sometimes, though, it's just so hard looking in from the outside, wanting to help, if only they'd open up and let me.

Once I'd got the overview on what had happened, I'd ordered the others out and turned to my patient. When I asked the Colonel what had been done to him, he'd merely treated me to that knowing look that says I've been there and done that and this, this was nothing. He'd been tied, though, the bloody skinless patches on his wrists showed plainly that he'd fought, and fought hard, to free himself. Then there were those marks on his back, nasty, painful, deep, and quite obviously intentionally inflicted to cause the maximum amount of pain. I'd call it torture. Most anyone would call it torture. O'Neill shrugged it off, as always, or so it seemed. I shouldn't have missed it, I shouldn't have, it didn't take much of a reach to see this incident was far too likely to bring up some ugly recollections.

I stitched him up, cleaned and dressed the burns on his back, x-rayed the ribs which turned out to be bruised not broken, and finished up by dousing his raw, chafed wrists with antiseptic, and wrapping them with neat, white bandages.

Moderate physical damage, painful but not life-threatening, the kind of thing that had become far too routine with SG-1.

So it was his second night in the infirmary, and I'd decided that as long as there was no sign of fever or infection, I would send him home the next day.

It was late, nearly midnight, the base having settled into the usual after hours lull, not that we ever close per se, but the activity level drops way off, this late.

I checked the Colonel, who was still receiving IV fluids, pain meds and antibiotics but I'd discontinued the sedatives. He doesn't like them and I try to respect that as much as I can. He'd been alert and seemingly pretty comfortable all through the day and I was just beginning to get comfortable with the idea that everything was going to be just fine.

I should know better by now. Nothing is ever that easy, here in the SGC, or with Colonel O'Neill.

------------------

I had paperwork to catch up on, and went up to the cafeteria for a cup of coffee, planning to finish one final report before heading for home.

As I walked back into the quiet medical facility, my night nurse Carol was the only other medical staffer on duty, since O'Neill was our only patient. "How's the Colonel?" I asked her.

"He's still awake," she said, a worried frown creasing her forehead, "but he said he didn't want anything to help him sleep. I let him keep the TV on, even though it's late. Thought that might distract him."

"That's fine, Carol. Works sometimes when he can't sleep. And I'll check on him in a few minutes," I answered her.

Before I could make that check, it happened.

It wasn't until much later, when I had time to think and look for what had started this, that I realized the TV was turned to CNN or some other news channel, carrying reports of the war and an interview with someone speaking Arabic.

Arabic. The language of Iraq, of the people who really *had* tortured him.

It started with a clatter of metal hitting the floor. It sounded like someone dropped a grenade in the infirmary, and I bolted from my office in the direction of his bed. I honestly don't know how he did it, because one minute he'd been sitting up quietly on the bed and the next, IV's, water pitcher, tray and charts were flying. He was off the bed and on the floor curled up in a fetal position against the wall, with his hands over his head, his eyes scrunched tight shut.

Carol got there first. "Colonel O'Neill?" she was asking as I ran across the room. He cringed away from her, curling himself up even more tightly, moaning "no" and shaking.

"Sir?" she asked.

"NoNoNoNoNoNoNo," he chanted, barely audible.

I motioned Carol to back away from him. "Carol, just keep back. Don't let anyone in here. I'll take care of this."

She looked uncertainly from me to the man on the floor, and I knew she was worried for my safety. "Ma'am?"

"It will be all right. Stay out in the hallway, don't let anyone in here, unless it's an absolute emergency." I stopped about six feet away from O'Neill, far enough to still be outside of his space, but close enough to get a good look at him and assess the situation. I knew immediately that this was more than just a simple nightmare, seeing him shake, hearing the small noises he was making.

Soothingly, quietly I said, "Colonel? Colonel O'Neill?" No response, no acknowledgement.

I stepped closer, listening, finally able to make out the words he was muttering.

"O'Neill, Jonathon, Major, United States Air Force, " followed by a string of numbers. "O'Neill, Jonathon, Major...." over and over again.

Oh God, name rank and serial number.

Not a nightmare, but a flashback.

It could only be Iraq.

Damn.

"Colonel..."

This time he made an inarticulate, pain filled noise, a whimper, the sound of which I will never forget.

"Colonel O'Neill, it's Doctor Fraiser. You're in the infirmary, at the SGC, in Cheyenne Mountain. In Colorado. No one here is going to hurt you. You're home, you're safe. You're with friends. You know me, and Nurse Carol. There's nothing bad that will happen to you here..." I kept talking, using every comforting, re-assuring phrase I could think of, trying to keep up a string of soothing, gentle sounds. Trying to drown out the voices in his head.

He didn't respond to me. The little noises were still escaping from under the arms curled tightly around his skull.

"Sir, I need to move this stuff so you don't hurt yourself," I told him, brushing the pitcher, glasses, pens and pill bottles aside. Talk Janet, doesn't matter what you say, it's how you say it, soothing, calm, non-threatening. He'll come out of this in a few minutes. He'll be fine, you'll be fine. Just talk. Keep talking.

He remained oblivious to me, still mumbling between those heart wrenching whimpers, unmoving except for the continued shivering, his face still buried in his folded arms.

And then I did what was unknowingly the stupidest thing I could have done.

"Sir, I'm going to get you a blanket. You need to stay warm. You can stay here on the floor, if that's what you want. I'm not going to force you to do anything. If you like it on the floor, you can stay there for now. Nothing wrong with that. Sometimes it's a pretty comforting place to be, on the floor. Safer there." As I talked I reached slowly and carefully to the bed, and pulled off the blanket. I didn't like the way he was shuddering, didn't want him to catch a chill. It was bad enough he'd probably already done some damage, with that wild move off the bed, it looked like he might have ripped loose the stitches in his arm. I could see fresh red stains on the bandages.

Damn you, Colonel. No, damn them, for what they did to you, to make you like this. Damn them all. "Sir, I'm just going to put the blanket over you, you look cold, Colonel. That's not good for you. It's just a blanket, Sir, nothing else. I won't hurt you. I promise." Approaching him cautiously, I held out the piece of cloth, not having a clue what the gift of a blanket might have meant to him back then, back there; not knowing then about the death of an innocent boy, a fellow prisoner, who had stolen the blanket to give to him, a bit of comfort in a comfortless world.

What happened next stunned me. I moved closer, bending down to his level, softly slowly still talking, seeing no movement. I reached out to cover his quivering form with that blanket and suddenly, more quickly than I would have thought an injured man could move, he grabbed it and threw it at me. Pushing past me, pushing me out of the way like he didn't even see I was there, shoving me bruisingly hard against the cabinets, O'Neill scrambled away, deeper into the corner. He hit the corner of the bed, knocking it crashing to the floor as he curled himself up tighter, smaller, much smaller than I'd ever have imagined a man as tall as the Colonel could.

The noise brought Carol back to the doorway, eyes large and frightened. I motioned her back. Nothing she could do here. Colonel O'Neill didn't need an audience watching, he just needed quiet.

I turned all my attention back to him. He was shaking so hard I could hear his teeth chattering, still mumbling, "No. Take it back. Take it back," in a voice so small I had to lean close to hear.

I could hear his harsh breathing and see his chest heaving. When he moved, I could feel the sharp intake of breath as he dragged himself into the corner, retreating to shelter behind another bed, as far back into the shadows as he could get. I could see that the arms wrapped around his head were shaking, I wasn't sure if it was in reaction, or exhaustion, or both.

Carefully, I eased myself down on the floor, a few feet away, close enough so he could hear me, but far enough that I wasn't threatening. "Colonel, no one here is going to harm you. No one is going to hurt you."

He whimpered again, a terrible, gut wrenching sound. He was drenched in sweat, shaking, those normally expressive brown eyes glazed and unseeing, and suddenly he wrapped his arms once more about his head, and slipped back to lie on the floor.

"Colonel," I put my hand out to touch his arm, and he jerked away as if the touch had burned him, grimacing with pain.

I began to talk again, soothingly, softly, I don't remember the words, just soft sounds like one would use to comfort a child caught up in a nightmare. What I said didn't matter as much as the simple fact that I was there and the sound of my voice.

I reached back for the blanket, and this time he didn't react at all when I covered him with it. I sighed, a step forward, I thought. His shaking began to ease and slow, but he was still rigidly curled into as small a ball as one could imagine a man of his size could achieve. His muscles were rigid. He had to be in pain.

"Sir, do you know where you are?"

Easy Janet, easy, one step at a time. Don't rush, don't push.

"Colonel..."

Suddenly, he was pushing back to a sitting position, shoving the blanket at me. "Take it back, take it back, now, quick, before they find it. Oh God, take it back."

I took it, not understanding, then, what it meant, but reacting to his obvious distress.

"Okay, I'll take it back. It's okay."

"No, no nononononononono. Its a trap." he whispered.

And he began to shake again, bringing his knees up and wrapping his arms around them, rocking back and forth, despair plain in his voice. "Take me. Punish me. Take me. Punish me. Take me. Punish me. Take me. Punish me." There was a frantic tone to his voice, now. "Take me. Punish me. Take me. Punish me. Take me. Punish me. Take me. Punish me." ..."

"Colonel, I took the blanket back, it's okay. No one is going to be punished or hurt. It's not a trap. It's okay. We have permission to have the blanket."

"No." His eyes had drifted closed again. "No. No, nonononono" his voice was getting softer. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he chanted, sagging back toward the floor. Slowly, the sound died away, and carefully I reached out to touch his arm. The muscles were still tight, still rigid, but the shaking had stopped. His eyes were closed, tightly like he was holding them shut, so he couldn't see. Unsure if I should, I cautiously reached out to touch his wrist, taking his pulse. It was still racing, but even as I counted I could feel it easing. I covered him with the blanket, hoped that didn't provoke another outburst and this time it didn't.

I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself, and looked up to see Carol standing, frightened, in the doorway. 'It's okay,' I mouthed to her and she nodded, looking more relieved.

I don't know how long I sat there, maintaining the gentle contact of my hand on his wrist before I felt him begin to relax. By that time, I was beginning to get very, very stiff and cautiously shifted my weight. I looked down. Brown eyes looked up into mine, confused and dazed. He looked around, then his eyes drifted closed.

"Not again," he mumbled, coughing.

"Colonel?"

The eyes opened. "Doc."

"Colonel, can you tell me where you are?"

In a very small voice, O'Neill answered, "In the infirmary, at the SGC."

Good. I smiled. He was back, back here with me in the here and now, not wherever those dark memories had taken him, not back in that terrible place where he relived the horrors he had been subjected to. I knew it was important that I didn't try to push things too far, too fast. One step at a time. "Sir? I need to put your IV back in."

He shuddered, pulled himself back against the wall. "No drugs."

"Colonel, I need to get the fluids and the antibiotics re-started."

"No drugs," he insisted, eyes closed, head leaned back against the wall.

"All this moving around, you must be in pain, Sir, pain meds will help...."

"No!" there was some force in his voice, and though I hate to be told no, at least it was a response with some emotion in it. O'Neill opened his eyes, looked at me, then away. "They make me," he waved a hand, searching for the words, "fuzzy. I'm not awake and I'm not asleep and that's the worst place to be," he looked at me, pleadingly, and I nodded, understanding.

Right now, he needed control and medicating him would take that away. "Okay, no pain meds, no sedatives."

"Thank you," he said in a very quiet voice.

I got his IV restarted, re-inserting the needle, reattaching the lines, saying nothing. He sat still and silent as I worked. When I was done, I sat back down on the floor, next to him, closer this time.

"Colonel, can we get you back up on the bed? You'll be more comfortable. I know I'll be."

His eyes opened slowly and he looked at me dully, looked at my outstretched hand, ignored it. He put his hands on the floor, pushing himself to a sitting position, then using the wall to steady himself, he climbed to his feet. I offered him my arm, but he pulled away, as if the thought of touching someone, or of someone touching him, was painful.

He sat himself back down on the edge of the bed, pausing there a moment, then carefully pulled his feet up and laid back on the bed. I covered him with the blanket, and he was oblivious to it this time.

"Colonel?"

He looked at me, a fleeting glance, his eyes pain filled and desperate, and then he was lying on his side, curling up again.

"Sir," I started to tell him not to lie like that, it would be bad for his injured back and ribs but I had the feeling his physical state was by far the least of my worries, and his. He'd shut himself off again. Please, please don't let him have retreated back into the dark. Please, no more. "Colonel? I have to get another IV and a fresh bandage for your arm. I'll be back in a few minutes. Will you be okay?"

"Just fine, Doc," he didn't open his eyes as I turned down the lights and left.

Back in my office, I sank exhaustedly onto my chair. The clock said 3:45 a.m. I'd just spent almost three hours on the floor with Colonel O'Neill. After a few deep breaths to get my own emotions back under control, I went and talked to Carol to make sure she was okay with what she had seen. She was the one who pointed out the marks on my arm. "Doctor, you're going to have bruises."

Oh great, how was I going to explain this? Because I sure didn't want to make any official report on what had just happened. The results would be disastrous for the Colonel. Any hint of instability, of any inability to be in complete control of himself at all times, and they'd ship him off to Mental Health. Mackenzie and the Air Force would end his career. No second chances. No matter how great the justification, it just wasn't acceptable, even today, to seek help, even after you'd been tortured, after your only child died, after your best friend was killed. Didn't matter. Warriors fixed themselves or found another way out. I shuddered. "Soldier, heal thyself," I muttered.

Yet, as much as I didn't want to do this, if he didn't deal with this, talk to someone about it and show me he was capable of working through this, I couldn't in good conscience send him out into the field, either. I was a doctor first, and his friend second, and I couldn't forget the former no matter how much the latter meant to me.

I got myself a cup of coffee, sat thinking, wide awake despite the hour and my lack of sleep, then made a decision. It had to be done. All or nothing. I couldn't let him go out there at less than 100%, for his own sake, as well as the safety of those he worked with.

I went back to Colonel O'Neill's room. He was still curled tightly, eyes closed, but not asleep, that was obvious. I left the lights low, figuring that might help, if he couldn't really see my face.

I started with his arm.

"Colonel, I need to check your arm."

He uncurled from the fetal position enough to let to remove the old bandage, and put a new one in place. The wound had bled some, but the stitches were still in place. I checked the dressings on his back, listened to his heart and lungs, took his blood pressure, all routine things to fill the time, until I got to the point where I no longer had a choice but to come right out and make my request.

"Sir, we need to talk."

He said and did nothing, if anything just curled up more tightly, ignoring me.

"Colonel O'Neill, you, we, have to deal with what happened. This incident cannot be ignored."

"It's over," he said softly. "It's in the past."

"Iraq is in your past, yes. But your feelings about it, they're here with you now, in the present. The feelings about what happened are not gone, and certainly not over with."

"What happened there, and how I deal with it, that's my personal business."

"No, it's not. It stopped being personal when this happened here, in my infirmary, in front of one of my nurses. I have to decide how I'm going to deal with this, and how *I* deal with this depends entirely on how *you* deal with this."

He shifted, turned a little so he could see me. Good. Progress of a sort. At least I had his attention.

"If you report this, they'll take me off active duty, force me to take a medical discharge. I'll never go through the gate again. MacKenzie...."

"Dr. MacKenzie doesn't have to know about this," I found myself saying, knowing how much he disliked the man.

"Where's the but?" he asked suspiciously.

I smiled. "But you do have to talk to someone. Your choice. Friend. Co-worker. Daniel?"

"God, no. He doesn't need to hear this. Never."

"The General?"

"No."

"Sam?"

"I'm her CO."

"Okay, then Teal'c. He's a good listener."

"He...no...too much to explain."

"Then that leaves me."

"No."

"Sir, I've read your files."

"I know that. So there's nothing I need to tell you." He looked away again.

"The files say what happened, not how or what it was like for you, how it felt."

"You don't want to know."

"On a personal level, no, I don't. But you have to deal with this, and talking will help you sort things out and work through them."

"There's nothing to work through. It's over. In the past."

"No, Colonel. You can say that all you want, but tonight proved it isn't in the past. I can't in good conscience clear you for duty when I have to wonder if this will happen out there, sometime, in the middle of a crisis. When your life or your team's lives are at stake."

"I've never had a...one of these, on duty or out there," he waved his hand again. "I haven't had one of these for a long time, for years. I thought they were gone..."

"You push the past out of your mind and concentrate on what you're doing. I know. But that's not good enough. You have to talk about this."

He glared at me. "I can't."

"Yes you can. Colonel, I know you don't like to talk about yourself, about your feelings. But this is important. It will help you."

"Didn't before."

"You need to try again."

There was a long silence.

"Sir, you and I, here, tonight, we both know we can't really deal with this. We can't change it, we can't fix it, we can't even make a start on what a psychiatrist would do to help you." This time I waved a hand at him, stifling the protest I knew was on the tip of his tongue. "I'm not saying you need one," though there's been many the time I could see he'd benefit from one. But who of us in this line of work, wouldn't? "What I need, Colonel, is concrete evidence that what happened tonight is unlikely to happen again."'

"It won't. I won't let it."

"You let this one."

He shrugged.

"Colonel, I'm not a psychiatrist, but I am your doctor, and I hope, your friend. If you can't talk to me about this, then I have to assume that you can't deal with this. So tell me about it. Tell me what you were feeling."

His voice took on an angry tone. "So you want to know how it felt? In Iraq? To be left behind? To be chained up and beaten and shocked? To never have enough to eat or drink? To go days without seeing the sun, without seeing light? Well then let me tell you, it hurt. It was painful, agonizing, sometimes absolutely excruciating." He stopped and stared at me. "Is that good enough for you?"

While anger wouldn't have been my first choice, at least it was an emotion. It beat watching him sit there looking like a six year old who'd just watched an 18 wheeler flatten his dog. "It's a start."

"It's all there is."

"There's more."

"Not that I can talk about."

"Yes, you can. You are the bravest man I know."

He snorted. "I'm not."

"Colonel, there is nothing you cannot do if you set your mind to it. I *know* that. And I promise you, there is nothing you could tell me that would make me think less of you."

"You don't know that, either," he said stubbornly.

"Yes, I do. I know you. That's all I need to know. I've seen you at your best and at your worst, and whatever you tell me, nothing will never change how much I respect you." I touched his hand, and he flinched away, then let his fingers come to rest on my arm. "You are *not* responsible for what they did to you."

"Huh." I had the lights turned down so low I could barely see his eyes, could only see his shadowed face.

The silence stretched out so long I was sure he wouldn't say anything. I felt my heart sinking. He needed to do this, needed to find his center again, needed to find that equilibrium that allowed him to go on.

Finally, in a very soft voice he said, "ten years and I can't forget his face or what they did to him."

"Some things we never forget," I said, wondering who it was O'Neill was talking about. The files hadn't said a thing about another prisoner, he'd spent almost all his captivity in solitary confinement.

"Yeah." He was silent for a few minutes and I was afraid he would clam up again. If he did then I knew I would have to follow through on my threat and the SGC would lose him, and that loss could very well be the end of him. This place, his team, the people and his work here, that was his life. Please, Colonel, don't fail me. Talk to me, I begged silently. I don't want to ground you, but I have to know you are dealing with this. My friendship for this man, my respect for him, warred with my medical training that demanded I treat him like any other patient. I had to justify my action, or lack of action. I had to stand firm and make this demand of him. I knew it was difficult, if not impossible, but I also knew this man, if anyone, could find his way once more.

He started slowly, his eyes closed, his fists clenched, recounting so briefly, so dispassionately it was like he was talking about someone else, like he was reading a report, the very report I'd read, the dry, concise words telling me nothing about what he'd been through.

"You've read the reports, you know most of it..."

"Except..."

"Except English Voice, that's what I called him. I never knew his name but he was the one guy who spoke very good American English. I pissed the guy off. It became a contest of wills between me and him. He would talk while they....worked...on me. And you know me, my mouth, I couldn't, even there, shut up."

His voice was raw, hoarse. I bit my lip, and willed him to go on.

"After a couple weeks, he knew there would be no useful information I could tell him even if he could make me talk, it would be too outdated. There was no reason to keep it up. But by then it had become personal, a grudge match between us." O'Neill's eyes were closed now, his hands sliding back and forth along the edge of the blanket as he talked softly.

"The last... time... I was in his... office... there was another guy there. They did all the usual things, tied my hands over my head, to a ceiling beam, shocked me. But this time he had a pipe. Just an ordinary piece of pipe like you'd find in your kitchen, about three feet long. First he used it to break my arm, this one," O'Neill lifted his right arm, "and then he smacked my knee with it. He cut me down and I thought it was over but he started to hit me, kick me, over and over." For the first time he raised his face to look at me, then glanced quickly away again. "I thought that was finally the end, he was just going to beat me to death. And I was glad. I was glad it was going to be over, glad it was the end because I didn't think I could take anymore. I welcomed it."

I fought to hold on to my professional detachment. "You were hurt and alone..."

"I thought everyone believed I was dead already, they'd left me behind and I didn't think anyone knew I was alive. I thought I would just disappear into some Iraqi cell and if I never came out, no one would know, no one would look for me. I thought it would just go on and on until I died anyway so I might as well die now and get it over with..."

"There's nothing wrong with feeling..."

His eyes flitted to make contact with mine, oh so briefly, then swung back to stare up at the ceiling. "I didn't feel anything. I couldn't feel. That's how you survive. You don't let yourself feel the pain, you drift, you put yourself someplace else, some place good, until they're done doing whatever it is they're going to do to you. What you live in your mind becomes more important than whatever they do to your body. And pretty soon it doesn't matter if you're dead or alive because you don't know the difference. Because there is no difference, because you're already dead inside. " His brown eyes were staring through me, as if looking back to that time and that place. "When you can't feel anything, you might as well be dead."

God, his voice was so lifeless, his face so bleak. I knew it would be a long time before I forgot that look, if ever. I shivered.

"After, I woke up in a cell, a different cell that time, and there was this kid, not really a kid, a teenager. They put him in with me to take care of me, because they didn't want their prize prisoner to die. The Iraqis knew by then they were losing the war and I think they figured once the Americans got there, they'd be in big trouble. I was their only bargaining chip, and I was no good to them dead. So they sent the kid to take care of me."

O'Neill had latched onto my hand, his long fingers curled around mine.

I was afraid to move, afraid to breathe, afraid anything I might do would make him stop. I hoped Carol was keeping guard at the infirmary door like I'd told her. I prayed no emergency would arrive in that doorway and end this, because I really, truly never thought to make a breakthrough like this, not with O'Neill. And I knew it wouldn't be happening again.

"The kid, he took care of me. Fed me and gave me water. Bandaged my arm and my knee. He was just a kid, but they'd put him in prison for stealing. Except first they'd cut off his hand for stealing, just cut off his right hand. Maimed him. Crippled him. Took his hand because he was starving and stole food."

He stopped, licked his lips, resumed slowly. "He worked in the kitchen and every day they'd take him out of the cell to work and then a few hours later he'd come back. I never questioned where the food came from, the extra food he brought every night. I was starving, and I ate it. I didn't ask, but I should have asked." A pained look crossed the Colonel's face. "Another mistake, another stupid mistake because maybe if I'd asked him, he wouldn't have."

His hand was gone from mine, his arm thrown across his face, and I thought he would stop, but he went on.

"Then one day he brought me a blanket..."

I nearly choked. No wonder the blanket had set him off...

"He'd taken it, stolen it. It was a set up. They took him away. I begged them to punish me, to let me take his place, cut off my hand or my head, didn't matter, I'd take whatever punishment they wanted to give."

He stopped again, his voice shaking when he finally went on. "They made me watch while they did it. Made me stand right there, so close that his blood...he was crying, crying my name, and they made me watch while they, while they," he stopped, took a deep breath and continued, spitting out one word at a time, angrily. "They made me stand right there and watch while those sons a bitches ...decapitated... him. They killed him because he'd helped me." Somberly, he added, "the blood was everywhere. Everywhere."

I was barely breathing, horrified by the cruelty of it, angered by the callousness of it, and understanding a bit better, now, the Colonel's horror at the memory. Had they known he had a child, and therefore used a child against him? Or had they just seen his compassion, and used that to torture him more? I'm a doctor, and a professional, trained to contain my own emotions, but I'm also a mother, and just the thought of something so heinous made my stomach churn.

The Colonel had stopped again, and then, so softly, he went on. "They made me carry his body and his head and bury him. I dug the hole with my bare hands, and buried him myself. His blood was all over me. I couldn't wash it off." He moved his arm, away from his face and looked up at me, suddenly, meeting my eyes, holding them for a moment. "I couldn't wash it off, there was so much blood on my hands. It's still there, you know. Only there's more now."

I touched his arm, and he didn't flinch or pull away, just looked at me, as if expecting me to look away, or reject him. "Colonel..."

He shook his head. "I never told anyone about him before. No one, no one, ever..."

At that moment, I threw away the regulations, probably even half the AMA rules, and did what was right for my patient, medical and military SOP be damned. I guess Colonel O’Neill’s attitude really has rubbed off on me. "And no one else will know. It's between you and I, and I won't say anything."

"Thank you."

"Sir, what they did to you and how they used you, is not your fault. The blood is on their hands, not yours."

"Nice try, Doc. Won't work, though. I know better. It's there and it will never go away. Never." He sighed heavily. "I learned to live with it a long time ago."

I nodded. He'd faced up to his past, how many times? Watching that boy die in Iraq, losing his own son who he still quietly grieved for, the deaths of his friends Kawalsky and Colonel Cromwell. Once again, his resiliency amazed me. "And how did you do that?"

He wouldn't look at me this time. "I don't know. I just did. I learned to live with what I couldn't change, and just went on doing my job."

Good recipe for mental health, I thought, accept what you couldn't change, and find something to carry you forward, like a job where you were needed. "What happened here, tonight?"

"I was back there. I don't know what triggered it..."

"I'd say stress, exhaustion, your current injuries. And then that voice on TV."

He nodded. "For a minute it sounded like my old friend," the word dripped with distaste. "I was back there. In the dark. Alone."

"You know you're not alone here? Ever."

O'Neill nodded, meeting my eyes for a moment before letting his gaze drift away. "I know."

He sat silently for a long time, and then he said. "It was just a blanket, a filthy rag, and it was the most precious gift anyone ever gave me, because I had nothing." O'Neill raised his eyes to meet mine. "When you have nothing, the smallest thing is everything. A ragged, dirty piece of cloth that no one here would want, that we wouldn't want to touch, that we'd throw away in an instant. And there, there it was a little bit of heaven."

I swallowed. Once again, the Colonel had surprised me. It's easy to dismiss him as loud and brash, but he's a very perceptive man, our Colonel, a man who feels very deeply, but nearly always chooses not to let it show.

"And for that worthless thing, they killed him," he finished softly.

Which thing did he think worthless? That blanket? Or himself? "You know that's not why."

"I know," he said, wearily, "I know."

The room got very quiet again and long minutes passed before he said, "I think I can sleep now, Doc."

I smiled wanly. "Colonel..."

"Doc, I, um, thanks..."

"You said that already."

"I know. Meant it again." Once again he did look at me, his eyes holding mine.

Good. "Colonel, I'm going to put down in your chart that you had a restless night. Nightmares. That's all it needs to say. I do have one request for you, though...."

Suspicion suddenly crossed his face. Ah, hard to keep this man's trust, not after the ways he's been hurt. "Colonel, I want you to promise me you'll talk to someone, if you ever feel the memories are overwhelming you, that you'll find someone to talk to."

He looked at me, studied my face a moment, and nodded. "I'll come find you, Doc."

I ducked my head and swallowed hard. He had, tonight, given me his most precious gift, his trust. God help me never to fail him.

--FINIS--