Geeks

Author: Badgergater

Season: 6

Episode: Redemption

Category: Missing scene pre-ep and after the opening scene (before the credits)

Summary: Just how did Jack hurt his knee?

Warnings: Irritated Jack, so watch the language

Rating: PG

Pairing: None

Disclaimer:

Author’s Note:

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

This was stupid, so incredibly stupid.

After everything, after all the shit he’d been through, the possibility loomed that this was the end, due to a dumb, stupid mistake, due to one small, less than square inch part of his whole, entire, 6’2" frame.

Jack O’Neill sat on an exam table in the infirmary, grimly trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his right leg. If he’d have been a praying man, he’d have been praying right then, praying that the knee he could feel swelling by the millisecond wasn’t the beginning of the end of his career in the Air Force.

He’d survived the Goa’uld, the NID, the Replicators and now it might all be over, thanks to one inept archeologist…

*****

It had been a simple mission, as simple as any of them were, though none of them ever seemed simple anymore, not since Daniel… left. O’Neill had tried to convince Hammond that SG-1 didn’t need a fourth, but Hammond had been adamant. When Jack wouldn’t pick a new meet, greet and translate fourth for the team, the General had started assigning them from the pool of available ‘talent,’ a word O’Neill used with a grimace.

The first two had actually volunteered, which had amazed the Colonel. Who would be crazy enough to want to be on SG-1, to try to fill Dr. Daniel Jackson’s shoes?

Captain Ethan Marcus had been the first. He’d lasted three days before O’Neill had stomped into Hammond's office and explained that the guy didn’t have a clue and there was ‘no way in hell’ he was staying on SG-1. Hammond hadn’t bothered to tell the SG-1 team leader that he was too late… Marcus had beaten Jack to the punch by about an hour. The Captain’s request for transfer off SG-1 was already signed.

Dr. Simon Bagetsky had been next. The man *was* a very competent linguist, quite an excellent sociologist, and unfortunately had no sense of humor whatsoever. Even Hammond had known he wouldn’t last long, but Bagetsky had surprised the General and stuck it out nearly a week before he’d shown up in the CO’s office and begged to be sent back to SG-11. The doctor had said it was nothing personal, but Dr. Fraiser was going to ground him entirely if his blood pressure didn’t return to something near normal, and there was no way that was going to happen when just being in the same room as the surly O’Neill raised it at least 20 points.

Victim number three had been a very nice, seemingly very competent young man Jackson himself had recruited into the program. Hammond had hoped that would give Dr. Reynolds some credence with O’Neill.

It hadn’t.

After the third failure, Hammond had had a talk with his second, suggesting the Colonel go a bit easier on the new guy, give the man a chance. He reminded O’Neill that even Dr. Jackson had tried Jack’s patience in the beginning.

It had been the wrong tack to take with the stubborn Colonel.

Candidate number four didn’t even make it through the first day of the first mission. O’Neill had sent him home along with Major Carter’s box of soil and rock samples with orders not to return.

So it had gone, through eight possibles.

Captain Hagman was at least military, even if he was a military geek, adept at 11 languages and holding advanced degrees in four fields.

Unfortunately, O'Neill too late discovered, to his chagrin, that Hagman didn’t speak Eluptian, at least not well enough.

P2X-374.

Nice place, or so it had seemed. The natives were a tad bit primitive, but they hadn’t shown any hostility.

At least not at first.

Hagman, meanwhile, had actually laughed at a couple of O’Neill’s jokes, and Carter was sure that, wonder of all wonders, she’d seen the scowl start to slip off the Colonel’s face at least once when Hagman started talking about football. So, okay, it wasn’t hockey, but at least it was something shown on the sports channel.

Carter was holding out high hopes for Hagman. He seemed like a nice guy.

He’d also seemed to be doing a good job of translating some hieroglyphic -like symbols they’d discovered on the wall of the temple in a clearing just outside of the Eluptian village.

Seemed being the operative word, O’Neill recalled bitterly.

Deciding to divide up the team to save time, the Colonel sent Teal’c with Carter to a spot back near the gate to study some rock that had gotten the Major all intrigued by the geo-something-something readings one of her doohickies revealed.

Jack had gone to the native's village with the rookie, not because he’d really wanted to, but knowing the new guy needed both a babysitter and an observer. Finding a convenient rock to sit on, O’Neill kept an eagle eye on the natives. Not that there seemed to be much to watch. The locals had been friendly in a distant sort of way, quietly watching the strangers for a few hours, then drifting away to do whatever the natives did on this planet. Not that Jack blamed them. Ten minutes of watching Hagman at work giving himself eyestrain as he peered at what looked like something a kid could have drawn with crayons, gave Jack a headache.

Jack looked around and sighed, wondering how long this mission was going to take.

And then something happened.

Not much to start with, just that the natives, who’d wandered away, had come wandering back. Even as Hagman knelt in front of the stones, his hands running across the carvings in the same way Daniel used to do, feeling the shape of the letters as well as seeing them, the young officer assured the Colonel that they were in no danger.

Standing now Jack watched suspiciously as several of the oversized, hairy, wookie-like aliens approached.

"So, Captain, what have we learned so far about the Sasquatch?" O’Neill was eyeing the large natives carefully as they walked up and began talking to Hagman.

"They call themselves Eluptians, Colonel. The people are friendly, Sir, their language, which is quite close to ancient Egyptian by the way, doesn’t even appear to have a word for enemy," Hagman stated.

"Do they have a word for Gould?" O’Neill asked with his usual sarcasm.

"No, Sir, Colonel, not from what I could tell."

"What could you tell, then? Besides no Gould, and no enemies."

"Well, they’re definitely a peaceful riparian agrarian society…" Hagman started enthusiastically.

"Ack!" O’Neill’s hand waved in the air in an unmistakable stop motion. "A ripe what?" SG-1’s leader snapped.

"It means they are an agricultural society living near water, Sir," he answered, remembering Major Carter's rule number one when dealing with O'Neill: never bore the Colonel with too many details.

"And how do we know the peaceful part?" O’Neill demanded suspiciously.

"They’ve just invited us to stay for dinner…"

"For dinner or to *be* dinner?" O’Neill interjected.

"For dinner, and to join them in a ritual ceremony afterwards."

"Ritual ceremony?"

Hagman smiled. "The inana gaput karashkanak…"

"In-a kaput what?"

"A smoking ritual sir, I’d say similar to that of many Native American tribes who invited their friends to smoke a peace-pipe, Sir," Hagman was still smiling. "It should be fun."

It wasn’t.

The food was awful, the drink was worse, and the loud and boisterous party went on all night: drinking, dancing, off-key singing of a sort, all around a huge, roaring bonfire.

O’Neill envied Teal’c and Carter, who had radioed earlier for permission to continue the Major’s rock studies.

Looking at rocks would have been sooo much more fun than this, he thought morosely. He should have made Teal’c babysit Hagman.

The rowdy celebration was still going on. It reminded him of some of those parties he’d been to back in his younger days, the memories of which were extremely hazy, not just because they were so long ago, but because of the quantity of alcohol he’d invariably indulged in during them.

Which was the only way to actually enjoy a party like this one, he surmised.

And being on duty, couldn’t.

Crap.

************

Thankfully, nights were short on the planet of the Sasquatch.

Jack watched the dawn with tired but relieved eyes. Checking his watch, he knew he could head for home in a few more hours.

As the sun rose, the natives got to their feet and faced the dawn, raising their hands in unison, and began chanting. Just at the moment the sun cleared the horizon, the locals had suddenly gone ominously silent, and they all turned to stare at the two members of SG-1. Their faces were no longer smiling and friendly, but somehow grim and dark.

"Hagman," O’Neill said slowly and softly, "what’s going on?"

"I’m not sure, Sir, possibly their morning prayers?"

"Get sure, Hagman. Now."

One of the natives stepped forward, standing directly in front of the Captain. The local began speaking, Hagman answering softly.

"Captain?" O’Neill was getting that feeling, the one he really, really, really disliked, the one where all the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention, his skin crawling, his shoulders twitching, his every instinct screaming at him to get the hell out of there.

Something was about to happen, and he knew it wasn’t going to be a good thing for SG-1.

The Colonel shot Hagman a look, but the new team member wasn’t looking at his CO, he was intently staring into the face of the native. "What’s he saying?" O’Neill demanded.

"Um, hm, I’m not exactly sure…" the Captain answered hesitantly.

"You don’t know?" Jack’s whisper had gone up an octave.

"I think he’s asking us to join their prayers…"

"You think?" O’Neill’s voice was now up two octaves.

"Or maybe he’s asking us if we could climb the stairs…"

"What stairs?" O’Neill was looking around, seeing only the distant temple had any sort of steps.

"Ah, hm, or maybe…"

O’Neill didn’t seem where it came from, but suddenly, there was a spear flying through the air, right at Hagman. "Get down!" the Colonel shouted.

Hagman spun to look at O’Neill. The move, while not the one the Colonel had ordered, did save the young officer’s life, the projectile hurtling a hair’s breath away from the Captain’s head.

"Get down!!" O’Neill shouted. Realizing Hagman was too busy staring at the chaos around them to move, the Colonel dived forward, tackling the young scholar, pulling the younger man off his feet, the two of them rolling in a tangle.

As they fell, O’Neill’s boot caught on something, what he didn’t know, and then his knee twisted, pain shooting up his leg even as the Colonel grabbed at Hagman’s collar, dragging the man away from the now shouting, arm waving natives who were surging forward.

O’Neill swung his P-90 up, finger tightening on the trigger, a burst of gunfire kicking up dust at the feet of the natives.

The humanoids retreated, crouching, eyes rolling, whispering in fear.

Jack rolled toward his feet and would have fallen except for the one hand still wrapped in the collar of Hagman’s jacket.

"Aggghh. Damn!" he cursed as he dragged his right leg forward, shards of knife-like pain centered in his knee. Hobbling, he pushed ahead, still holding onto Hagman, facing the locals as he stumbled backward.

They’d gone perhaps a hundred yards when the natives began moving forward.

O’Neill’s bullets drove them back again, but he knew this time, they’d pursue.

"Time to retreat," he snapped at the still stunned Hagman. Turning now, still holding onto the captain for support, O’Neill began running awkwardly, if you could call it running, each step a painful jolt.

They ran, or in O’Neill’s case swore and stumbled and somehow covered some ground to get away from the village, clearing the first hill.

"Stop!" Jack ordered at the top of the hill, gasping for air, still leaning against Hagman, his leg throbbing in rhythm to his pounding heartbeat. He tried to bend his knee, groaning at the pain that futile attempt caused, realizing that he’d definitely done something to it, though he didn’t yet know what.

"They’re still coming, Colonel!" Hagman whispered.

Oh yeah.

Dozens, hundreds, hell, millions it looked like.

"Peace pipe, huh?" O’Neill once again threw his arm over Hagman’s shoulder and hobbling painfully, hurried toward the gate. If the natives didn’t kill them first, the Captain was a dead man, he seethed.

*************

Clearing the second hill, Jack grabbed for his radio, shouting orders at their teammates. "Carter, Teal'c! Get to the gate! Dial it up! Dial it now!"

One more hill. Damn, it was hard going on the sandy dune, slipping and sliding awkwardly. O’Neill fell, skidding down the dune’s soft side like sledding on snow, moving faster than he could on his feet. When he reached the bottom, Hagman was there, pulling him upright as Jack gasped and tried to ignore how much every step hurt.

Don’t think.

Run, er, hobble, stumble, but move, damn it, he ordered himself.

Teal’c was suddenly at his side, and O’Neill gratefully let go of Hagman and threw an arm over the big guy’s shoulder. Leaning heavily on the Jaffa, the Colonel struggled on toward safety once more.

That was how they’d finally arrived at the gate, Teal’c helping O’Neill as the Colonel limped, stiff-legged, toward the safety of home, leaning more and more weight on his alien friend’s strong shoulder.

***********

Down the ramp into the SGC, not even pausing, O’Neill threw Hammond an unapologetic, "Next," as his only reference to what had happened.

Hammond looked stunned.

He'd been sure Hagman would be the one.

***********

The infirmary had seemed miles away. Jack’s knee was stiffening with every step, protesting painfully even before Teal’c helped him into the medical area, past a couple of surprised nurses, a pair of SF’s trailing in their wake.

Jack had tried to bite back the painful groan as Teal’c had helped him up on the exam table, the Colonel’s hands free now to clutch at the aching joint as he rocked forward, head down.

"O’Neill?" The rich voice seemed full of worry.

Jack raised his head and looked at his teammate. "Thanks, T," was all he said, and the alien nodded quietly in understanding.

Teal’c helped his CO remove his vest, then handed over their weapons to the SFs as they waited for Dr. Fraiser to appear.

**********

At last the SGC’s chief medical officer bustled into the room. "What happened, Colonel?"

"Twisted my damn knee, Doc," O’Neill told Fraiser as she hurried to his side. The physician could see the Colonel was in considerable pain, and the deep brown eyes were looking worried.

Carefully, Fraiser unlaced O’Neill’s boot, noting the Colonel’s grimace as she lifted his foot slightly to slide the Air Force issue footwear off. Next, she took a scissors and carefully slit the pant leg, starting at the ankle and cutting up the outside seam past his right knee, and peeling the cloth back carefully.

The swelling was already obvious. Gently, she placed her hands on the joint.

"Ow!"

"Colonel, I haven’t done anything yet."

"Well, you were going to," he answered sulkily.

"I have to examine your knee, Colonel, that includes touching it." Carefully, she probed along the outside of the knee, palpating the swelling, quickly realizing a physical exam was pretty much a waste of time, what with the swelling already ballooning the joint. "How long ago did this happen?"

"Maybe half an hour."

"This might hurt, Sir," she warned, slipping one hand under his calf, she pulled upward, straightening his leg.

His face twisted into a grimace. "Ahhhh. Right. That hurts!"

"Sorry, Sir. Just try to relax and let me move it."

"Relax. Right," Jack growled.

"I need to test the range of motion. I know it hurts, but…"

He sighed, "… it needs to be done. I know."

She shot him a worried look, and when he nodded, she bent the limb once more. She heard him gasp, but he said nothing.

"What did it feel like when this happened?"

"Felt like somebody tried to rip my leg off."

"Did you feel or hear anything, like popping or tearing?"

"No," he answered quickly.

She looked up to his face, to judge if he was being truthful, or trying to hide something. "Colonel? Honesty is important here."

"Nothing." He waved a hand in the air. "It just got twisted."

Carefully, Fraiser slid the injured limb side to side. It felt stable enough, she thought hopefully. "Did it lock up?"

He nodded no.

"Buckle or give way?"

"No. Just hurt like a son of bitch… "

Nodding, Janet set his leg down carefully. "How did you do this?"

"Tackling that idiot… Hagman… didn’t know enough to get down when he was ordered to…"

Fraiser frowned. "That *idiot*, by the way, Colonel, is being tended to by Dr. Warner…"

"What?" O’Neill shot up to a sitting position, then let himself fall back with a groan. "What the hell happened to him?"

"He was darted by the natives just as you came through the gate. He’s unconscious, but he’ll be all right…"

"For the moment," O’Neill added angrily.

"What did he do?"

"Messed up a translation. The natives took offense and started shooting. I tackled him so he wouldn't get shot, and he fell on me," O’Neill explained in an aggrieved tone.

Fraiser was making notes on a chart.

"How bad is it, Doc?"

Raising her eyes to meet the Colonel’s gaze, Janet weighed her words carefully. "I don’t know yet. There’s too much swelling here for me to do a thorough exam. We’ll need x-rays and an MRI and then we’ll see…"

"Doc…" his tone was worried now, as worried as his eyes.

"It could be anything from torn cartilage to a simple sprain to just a bruise…"

"Which means?"

"You know what it means, Colonel. Worst case, knee surgery. Best case, ice and a few days rest." She patted his arm, wishing she could give him more reassurance. "Let’s get those tests and then we’ll know, all right, Colonel?"

He couldn’t manage a smile, just a worried nod.

***************

So there he sat, in the infirmary, an ice bag on his knee, waiting for a nurse to help him out of what was left of his BDUs and into one of the ever flattering back-less hospital gowns. Once that delightful task was done, he waited again until another nurse came to take him for tests. One hand on Nurse Carol’s shoulder, hopping awkwardly, he managed to get into the wheelchair, grumpily ignoring the nurse’s attempts to get him to talk as she wheeled him out for his x-rays, the MRI, and the other routine snake detection tests required after every off world mission.

Now it was waiting.

Waiting was not something he ever did well, especially when he was worried.

Like he was now.

He didn’t even have Teal’c to talk to, or Carter, either. They’d gone to the briefing with the General, while he waited here, alone. And worried.

Finally, after what seemed like eons, Doc walked in, carrying an envelope. She snapped on the bank of wall lights and stuck the x-rays in place, studying the pictures intently.

"Doc?" He couldn’t keep the worry out of his voice.

"These look good, Colonel. I’ll have a radiologist take another look, but there doesn’t appear to be anything broken." Fraiser reached up and pulled down the x-rays, then set the MRI scans in place.

"Hmmm."

"Doc?" O’Neill’s voice was really worried now.

"Well, I’m not seeing any damage to the ligaments or cartilage…."

His sigh of relief was audible.

"…beyond the wear and tear you’ve had before."

"This is my good knee, Doc," the Colonel muttered plaintively.

"Yes, it is," Fraiser turned to him and smiled. "I’d say you were lucky, Colonel. I can’t see any further damage. I’ll have a specialist double check the scans, just to make sure."

"So if I didn’t damage anything, why does it hurt?" he asked.

"You have a soft tissue injury."

"What does *that mean, Doc?"

"You banged up your knee, Colonel."

"Well, why didn’t you just say that in the first place?"

"Because I spent a lot of years in school to learn the proper terminology to describe an injury. Look, Sir, it will be swollen, and it painful, but this time it will clear up without another surgery. Stay off of it, ice it, wrap it for support, elevate it whenever possible, and take anti-inflammatories."

"How long will it take before it’s back in playing hockey shape?"

"Never, Colonel because it wasn’t that good before, but in a few weeks it’ll be good enough to run away from the Goa’uld..."

"Weeks?" he asked plaintively.

"Weeks," she answered sternly. "Maybe a bit less if you follow orders, definitely more if you don't. Get dressed, and the nurse will get you some crutches and a knee immobilizer and then you can go home, okay, Colonel?"

"Crutches? Can’t I just have that brace things?"

"No. I want you to rest that leg completely for the next few days. No weight bearing at all. You’ll heal quicker in the long run. I’ll leave you to get dressed, then Sir. And really," she smiled, hoping to brighten his mood, "you *were* fortunate here."

"Yeah, riiiight." He nodded glumly, feeling extremely unlucky, contemplating the hells of life on crutches. He was a really bad invalid, and he knew it.

Moving carefully, Jack re-dressed himself in the civvies Teal’c had brought from the locker room. The sweater was no problem, but getting his painfully stiff knee into his pants leg was tricky. Long legs hanging over the side of the bed, he pulled the trousers up past his knees. Sliding off the bed, he let all his weight rest on his good leg as he carefully pulled the pants up to his waist and fastened them. Leaning his weight onto his hands, he cautiously maneuvered his foot into his shoe, knowing there wasn't a chance he'd be able to bend the leg far enough to tie it. Hopping awkwardly back up onto the bed, he used both hands to pull his throbbing limb up onto the bed, putting the ice pack back in place before putting on and tying the other shoe.

Done, he sank back onto the bed, closing his eyes, trying not to think, cursing the state of his knees and the inability of modern medicine to fix the damn things.

He was jolted out of his dark thoughts by the sound of someone entering the room. O'Neill opened his eyes to look up at a nurse.

"Sorry, Colonel, didn't know you were still here," she apologized. "We're a little short on space..."

It was then he saw that another patient was being wheeled in.

Hagman.

Great.

Just who he needed for a roommate, the man who'd put him here, Jack thought grumpily.

"Yeah, sure, plenty of room," he told the nurse snidely.

O'Neill watched as the nurse fussed over Hagman, checking IVs and attaching medical gizmos to the Captain’s unmoving form. "How's he doing?"

The nurse turned to smile reassuringly at the Colonel. "He will be all right, Sir."

"That's good," O'Neill answered sarcastically. "He'll live to screw up another day."

"Yes, Sir," the nurse answered warily, surprised by the Colonel's tone. Finishing her tasks by the Captain, she turned back to O'Neill once more. "Anything you need, Colonel?"

"Yeah, out."

"Doctor Fraiser wanted to speak to you before you left, Sir. I'll let her know you're ready."

Jack sat on the bed, waiting impatiently, glaring over at Hagman.

He looked really young, lying there.

Not much more than a kid really.

None of them were.

Jack sighed, and tried not to think about Hagman or any of the others.

He wasn't being too hard on them, was he?

Nah.

SG-1 was the best, and only the best ought to be on his team. And if there wasn't anyone good enough to fill Daniel's shoes, well, then Daniel's shoes would go unfilled.

"Mmm."

"Hagman?"

The Captain was stirring and mumbling, trying to wake, a distinctly painful grimace on his face.

It was a moment Jack was far too familiar with, the disorienting first minutes as awareness was returning, usually pain with it, always distressing.

The Colonel punched the call button.

No one came. O'Neill realized he'd been hearing a lot of commotion out in the main ward; another team must have returned just a few minutes ago. Doc and her nurses, he knew from experience, must be busy.

Hagman was thrashing and muttering.

"Oiy." Biting his lip, O'Neill swung his legs to the floor, steadying himself with one hand on the bed. He hopped forward, moving his bracing hand to the wall. A couple more lurching hopping steps and he was able to grab hold of the back of the chair beside Hagman's bed. "Captain?" he asked softly, seating himself in the hard chair.

Hagman was still mumbling and shifting around on the bed.

"Captain!"

The order seemed to get the man's attention. Hagman's head turned toward O'Neill, the eyes fluttering open. "Whaaa?"

"Captain, we're back on Earth. In the infirmary." The young man still looked confused, so Jack tried again. "Captain, we're home. Safe." He reached out and touched the man’s shoulder.

Hagman was fighting to keep his eyes open, slurring his words. "Sorry, Shir, sorry ‘bout ever’thing."

Jack sighed. "Just rest, Captain. Everything’s all right." Okay, so maybe the guy wasn’t soooo bad. A geek, sure, and not someone he wanted on his team, but the poor guy was going to have one giant-sized hangover. And to be honest, the damage to his knee wasn’t really the geek’s fault, Doc had told him time and again that his cartilage was a disaster waiting to happen, and had been, for a long, long time.

Hagman had calmed down by the time a nurse arrived, and then, finally, Doc came to grant his parole.

"I’ve got a driver to take you home, Colonel," Doc reported. "Take care of that knee and I’ll see you on Monday," she added, helping him fix the knee immobilizer into place before handing him the crutches, a bottle of pain meds and a sheet of instructions she was sure he’d ignore.

Crutching out of the infirmary with expertise acquired through far too much experience with the unwieldy aids, Jack O’Neill headed for the elevators, followed by the airman assigned to give him a ride home.

He rode to his house in silence, his leg propped up beside him on the seat, and finally, safe in his own home, Jack sank down on the couch, sighing with relief.

Wishing he could go back to the good old days, when SG-1 was SG-1; when his team was *his* team; when he didn’t *understand* his team’s archaeologist, but he knew what to expect from him; when he knew he could count on Daniel’s brains, if not his common sense.

But then, if wishes were horses, beggars could be choosers, he thought. Wishing didn’t change things, or fix things, or make them any easier to live with. They never did. Not even time could do that, a sad fact he knew all too well.

Some things weren’t healable, like his oft-battered knees.

Or his oft-battered heart.

So maybe he’d try again to find a fourth for SG-1.

But he wasn’t going to be friends with the team’s designated geek. No, Sir. No way. Not a chance.

Not even Hammond could order him to do that.