Fold

Author: BadgerGater

Email: [email protected]

Category: WordAMonth, thoughts, Jack's POV

Summary: Some things you simply have to do

Warnings: None

Rating: PG

Pairing: None

Disclaimer: 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.

Author’s Notes: A WordAMonth Fic. With special thanks to TK

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I will not fold.

I cannot.

Not now.

They’re depending on me.

Legs, hold me up.

Knees, don’t buckle.

Ankles, don’t roll.

Now is *not* the time for my body to mutiny.

No matter how awful I feel.

Walk.

Just walk.

Straight line, shortest distance.

Walk.

I will not fold.

I may spindle, hell, I may even mutilate, but I won’t fold.

Inane chuckle.

Stupid grin.

But don’t fold.

No time.

Can’t do it.

Can’t fold.

Must hold.

Ignore the cold.

Go for the gold.

Oh, yeah, I’m losing it.

Doesn’t matter, though.

As long as I don’t fold up, hold up, or get rolled up.

Make the gate.

That’s all that matters.

Make the gate.

Dial home.

Get help.

I stumble, finding myself suddenly on my knees in the dirt.

I look around for who or what tripped me.

Stupid, Jack, no one tripped you. Nothing tripped you.

You fell.

That’s what happens when your lifeblood is slowly trickling out of your veins, across your skin, and down your back, soaking your shirt and your trousers.

Get up.

On your feet.

Stagger, stumble, fall, but get to the gate. Crawl if you have to. You have to get there.

The others are back there, where you left them.

Yes, you left them.

You know you had to leave them.

You’re not really leaving them, just going for reinforcements.

There are only three of them and one of you and hundreds of those shrieking, howling, pissed off natives.

The rest of SG-1 is pinned down, but they’ve got good cover in that old stone hut. They’ve got enough weapons and ammo to hold off the natives for a while.

You got separated, didn’t make it to cover with them. Trying to go to them, trying to rescue them would have been stupid. Suicide. Worse than suicide, it would have killed them, too.

Because if, not when, *if* they were to run out of ammo, they’d be overwhelmed by the sheer numbers of that vicious, howling mob.

Going for help was the only thing to do.

I knew it. They knew it.

Still, I hated to do it.

I did not leave them behind.

I will not fold.

I’m tired.

I’m hurt.

I’m exhausted.

I’m thirsty, oh god, so very thirsty.

But I’m alive. They’re alive. They’ll keep on being alive if I get back to the gate and call for help.

Simple task.

Impossible mission.

Hard to stay upright when the ground is rolling under your feet.

Hard to see when sweat drips into your eyes, blinding you.

Hard to walk, when your legs want to buckle, just fold right up and leave you lying helpless in the dust.

Don’t, Jack.

Can’t, Jack.

Get the hell up, Jack.

I told them to hold on.

I told them I’d be back.

I told them and they trusted me so now I’ve got to finish what I started, no matter how much it hurts.

God, it hurts.

One native, one among hundreds, the only one who saw me. Couldn’t shoot him, the noise would have drawn the others. Hand to hand, my short knife against his long spear thing. I won, but the price was high. Sharp edged agony, slicing flesh and blood and tendon and bone. My shoulder’s a mess and I know it, I know losing that much blood is *not* a good thing, but it doesn’t matter. It’s just my body, not my soul.

Spirit wins.

Even the best, the brightest, the fastest, the strongest, don’t always win.

The toughest win.

The sonuvabitch who can’t spell quit, doesn’t know halt, refuses to concede, won’t fail, won’t fold.

Learned that a long time ago.

Don’t fold.

Not when everything is riding on this one gamble, this one bet, this one final stake.

The lives of your friends are the prize.

You’re the gambler.

Know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em, know when to quit the table and come back to play another day.

Get up, Jack.

Sure, you’re on your knees again. Yeah, you’re gonna have bruises you’ve hit the dirt so many times. Sure, you want to quit, want to give up, want to curl up into a tight little ball and whimper because that freakin’ thing stuck in you flesh hurts like hell.

But you won’t.

You can’t.

You promised.

You keep your promises.

You never make promises you can’t keep.

So yeah, sure, when you promised you’d get help and be back, you didn’t have that primitive stone arrowhead buried in your shoulder, burrowing deeper with every minute, every stride, every movement, every pain filled breath.

Damn, if it would just stop hurting for a minute. One lousy minute, so I could catch my breath, take one lone deep, filling breath, clear my lungs, clear my head.

Wishing won’t make it so.

Stand up.

Get on your feet.

Unfold those long legs and walk, one step at a time. A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step. The first one is the hardest.

The first one.

And then the second.

Don’t quit. Don’t fold.

Hold.

One foot in front of the other, left, right, left, right, find the rhythm.

Ignore the hurt. Ignore the feel of warm fluid trickling out of your veins, across your skin, soaking your clothes. Ignore the thirst that’s turned your mouth to dust. Ignore the darkening sky.

Tunnel vision.

Set your goal.

Reach your goal.

He never thought I could do it, my old man didn’t. He’d all but laughed at me when I said I wanted to go to the Air Force Academy. Wanted to fly jets, fly fast, fly far, soar.

He said I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t smart enough or strong enough or tough enough.

“You’ll fold, son. You haven’t got it in you.”

He was wrong.

I did not fold.

I will not fold.

I didn’t fold then and I won’t fold now.

No one thought I would make it. No one thought I’d tough out the classroom stuff, the discipline, the punishment details; no one thought I could curb my tongue or study hard enough or learn anything well enough.

So, I’m not brilliant, I’m not perfect, but I’m not digging ditches.

I’m Colonel Jack Goddamn O’Neill.

I don’t fold.

I hold.

I can see it now.

The Stargate.

Tall, cool, standing proudly upright.

It seems so far away, each step swallowed up by the vast distance, no pain, no gain, no gain, no pain. Am I walking backwards? It seems to be getting farther away, receding, or is that just my faltering vision?

Must be me.

Stargates don’t move.

Not usually.

Walk.

Forward.

One step.

One stride.

One foot.

One heartbeat.

One breath.

One more.

That’s all.

Just one more.

One more.

One more.

Always one more.

Never done.

One more.

I will not fold.

Close now.

There it is, the DHD.

Grabbing hold of the edges of the alien pedestal, holding on for dear life, for the three lives depending on me, back there, surrounded, dug in, fighting, holding on because I said I would bring them help.

Seven.

That’s the magic number.

Seven symbols.

Concentrate. Blink away the blurred vision. Be sure.

Press one.

Then another.

In order.

The gate spins, turns, chevrons lock.

A pool of water, oh god, I need water, no, that’s not water, appears as if by magic, spits out, draws back, shimmers across the shining eye of the gate.

I stagger the last steps to the MALP.

“This is O’Neill. Attacked. Send help. Now, damn it, now."

Fade to black.

I wish.

Not so easy as that.

Pain doesn’t quit, just because you’re there at last, because you’ve done what you had to do.

A familiar voice. “Rescue team on the way, Colonel…”

“Good,” I mumble.

My legs fold up and I'm in a heap on the ground.

Seconds drag into interminable minutes that seem like hours.

I know it takes time to get a rescue team to the ramp. I know, I know, but the waiting takes forever when each second is another second lost, another heartbeat, another agonizing breath. Blood inside, blood outside, blood pooled in the sand around me.

Hurry.

Hurry before it’s too late, before this has all been for nothing.

Save them.

The gate moves.

I would have cheered if I’d had enough breath.

Thank you lord for small favors.

They’ve come.

Liquid hope kawhooshing outward, the shimmering wave receding, armed figures charging out of the vortex, out of the cold, from far across space.

“That way,” I point, back toward the hill, back the way I’d come. “My team’s pinned down. Natives. Lots of natives. Crazy. Chased us. Follow…follow the trail.”

“What trail?” I hear Griff ask, and then he looks down. His face goes white, impossibly white, probably as white as mine must be. Boot prints, glistening red drops beside and between them. He turns to me, face determined. “We’ll get them, Sir. Don’t worry.”

I won’t. Griff’s a good man.

I can leave him in charge.

A hand touches my shoulder gently.

It’s a medic. “Sir, let me see that shoulder.” Gently, his gloved hand touches my back.

Pain flares, roars to life, surging, biting, growling, growing, consuming me, racing along abused nerves and devouring damaged tissues, wrapping me in its smothering embrace.

You can fold now, Jack.

Let go.

Blackness descends.

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FINISH