Mirror, Mirror
Author: Badgergater
Email: [email protected]
Season: 6
Episode: Smoke and Mirrors
Spoilers: Smoke and Mirrors
Category: Missing Scenes and Sequel; Angst
Summary: What happened to Jack during, and after, the episode.....
Warnings: None
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions, SciFi Channel, Showtime/Viacom ; 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 elsewhere without the author's consent
Author’s Note: with special thanks to Carol, for a great idea......
For Jude, and Kentish Karen… I know you like the chains<G>….
----------------------
His hands shook when they clicked the handcuffs shut over his wrists.
It had taken every ounce of willpower to submit himself to them, despite Hammond's promise.
Why had they had to arrest him there? On base? In front of his team?
He knew why, actually, knew that they knew that he wouldn't do anything in front of his colleagues.
But the humiliation of it all...
*****
The click of the cuffs locking was like a physical blow, driving all the air out of his lungs.
He ground his teeth together, clenching his hands until they cramped with pain, anything to make him think about something else.
He'd been in chains before. Lots of times. Sweathog the Goa'uld, back there on the Sentinel’s planet, had chained him up. Hell, he'd spent days and days in chains on Shyla's planet. And he'd been chained in the village square for the Unas to haul away, on that Dark Ages English planet.
Chains were no big thing. They were just things, just another thing to put up with, just another wrong that would be righted because he was innocent and the American justice system protected the innocent.
Yeah right, Jack. Even *you* know you're not *that* dense.
"Move, airman," the SF ordered, leading him away.
Jack squared his shoulders and raised his eyes to gaze front and center, the way he'd been taught ages ago as a cadet. Never look down, never look back, look straight ahead and meet the shit life throws at you straight on.
At the elevator, General Hammond waved the others away. Jack was relieved to get away from their worried expressions.
"I'd like a word with him," the General told the SFs, who backed away a step but never took their eyes off their prisoner. "Jack, we'll get to the bottom of this. I promise."
"Yes, Sir." He knew Hammond would try, but he also knew Kinsey was a very, very powerful man.
*************
The ride over to Peterson was silent. As he was led out of the van, Jack took a deep breath, once more setting his shoulders before walking into the detainment building.
Never let them see you squirm. Never let them see you worry. Never let them see there's a human being under the uniform.
Those were lessons he'd learned well, so very long ago.
He shuffled up the steps and into the holding area for processing.
He was frisked once again, anonymous plain blue pants and shirts given to him in place of his civvies. Processed, like cheese, he thought dismally, as he rotely answered their questions, name, birthdate, military ID number, Social Security number, address as he was photographed and fingerprinted.
Like a common criminal.
He was silent through all of it, except for the minimal answers to their questions, praying for it to be over and done with.
Finally, he was marched down a hallway past rows of other cells. The men in them looked up at him as he walked by, their eyes following him silently.
"In there, don't turn around," the SF ordered.
He did as he was told, stepping into the cell. His back to his jailers, he felt the ankle shackles being removed. Once inside, with the door now closed and locked, he was ordered to turn around and extend his hands through a gap in the bars. There, the cuffs were released from his wrists.
He stood watching as the SFs silently walked away down the hall.
This was no big deal.
He'd been locked up before. On Abydos. On Shyla's planet. In Aris Boch’s ship. On that medieval English world with their very own Inquisition.
He could tell himself that this was nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary, he'd been there and done that before. Except for one huge, honkin' difference.
Each of those times, he'd had his team with him.
He hadn't been alone.
Jack forced himself not to think of the exceptions, of his time with Ba'al or his time in Iraq, because there lay madness.
Focus on something else, he ordered himself grimly.
He paced to the back of his cell, up to the front. Back to front, front to back. Back to front, front to back. Over and over again, unable to sit still, unable to stop, unable to stop his mind from traveling into dark paths he really didn't want to go down.
He *wasn't* alone and abandoned. Sure, his team wasn't here with him right now, but they knew where he was. They were working to get him out of here. Carter was brilliant and hell, even Jonas was smarter than the average bear, and Teal'c would never give up on him. They were his team and he could depend on them.
Front to back.
Back to front.
Front to back.
Back to front.
He'd been fishing. Damn it, he'd been on vacation. He hadn't shot anyone, well, not for a few weeks, not since those alien guys on P-whatchamacallit. And that had been self-defense.
Kinsey.
He couldn't claim to be sad that the SOB was dead.
He couldn't honestly say that the thought of strangling the dumb bastard hadn't crossed his mind on occasion.
But he wouldn't have done it.
He was an honorable man.
Yes, he had blood on his hands. Yes, he'd killed when the situation called for it. Yes, he'd kill again when and if he had to, to protect his country and his team and himself.
He was a soldier, for cryin' out loud.
Front to back.
Back to front.
Front to back.
Back to front
*************
Interminable hours later, a tray was brought.
The food wasn't any worse than what the SGC commissary served.
But it wasn't any better, either.
Jack forced himself to eat.
********
At some preset time, the lights dimmed.
A guard walked through and told him to lie down.
Jack couldn't.
He paced until his legs were as leaden with exhaustion as his heart was weighted down with worry and humiliation and anger.
Finally, he sat on the hard bunk, pulling his legs up toward his chin, and stared at the wall.
The night passed slowly.
***********
Things didn't get any better the next day.
He didn't have an iota of privacy. It wasn't like he hadn't lived under such conditions before. Hell, military life was like that. But it had been a long time since he'd been forced to live like this. The camera was on 24-hours, while he was pacing or eating or sleeping or using the facilities.
Time dragged by in excruciating ways.
Sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, four hours until the boredom was broken by the arrival of a bland meal. Sixty seconds in a minute, sixty minutes in an hour, five hours until an equally bland supper would be brought to him.
An SF non-com sat at a small desk down the hallway, just within Jack's view, or rather, Jack just within his view. O'Neill could see the man reading a newspaper.
"Hey, can I read that when you're done?" he finally got desperate enough to ask when he saw the young SF set the paper aside.
The man shook his head. "Sorry. Not allowed."
"What, you think I'm going to paper cut myself to death or something?"
The SF didn't smile.
Of course, he didn’t give him the paper, either.
***********
Somewhere amid the endless hours between lunch and dinner, Jack was pulling threads out of the blanket lining when footsteps approached.
"O'Neill," another one of the interchangeable faceless SFs stood in front of his cell.
"O’Neill, two Ls? That's me."
"You have visitors."
"Guess it's my lucky day, huh?"
"Stand here," the guard pointed to the front of the cell. "Hands here."
Jack stuck his hands through the gap and once again the cuffs were clicked shut over his wrists. Then, with one guard standing watch, the other ordered him to turn around. Shackles were buckled around his ankles, links run up to another chain belted around his waist that attached to his wrists.
His usually fluid strides reduced to a painful shuffle, Jack followed the guards down the hallway, and into a small room.
Teal'c and Jonas stood waiting for him.
Was that doubt Jack saw in their eyes? Pity? For a long moment, he wasn't sure that this wasn't worse than being back in his cell, alone.
Much as he wanted, needed, to see his teammates and his friends, having them see him like this was nearly unbearable. He fought to keep his face impassive, to hold onto his dignity, despite the chains.
It was awful. But anything beat more endless, tedious hours locked alone in that tiny cell that seemed to close in on him more and more tightly with each passing moment.
*********
Time dragged endlessly.
O'Neill did what he could to channel his restless energy: sit ups, push ups, crunches, jumping jacks. By the second day, he'd counted every brick in the wall, every tile in the ceiling, and every crack in the concrete floor.
He didn't know how long he could take this, before he went stark raving nuts.
And then, when the guard's changed at 3 p.m., he saw a familiar face.
"Colonel O'Neill?" the short, compact soldier asked, incredulously.
Jack knew that face, it had greeted him many a time when he'd returned through the gate. The man was one of the SFs who'd been assigned to the SGC, and he searched his mind for the man’s name. "Sergeant..." Jack frantically tried to recall the name..."Sergeant… Lewiston?"
"Llewellyn, Sir."
"What are you doing here, Sergeant?"
"I transferred out of..." the man paused, realizing he couldn't say the name... "ah, Cheyenne Mountain a month ago, Sir. More regular hours here, Colonel, easier on my family." The sergeant was staring at the SGC's second in command with complete shock at finding him imprisoned here. "You, Sir?"
"Long story, and a false one."
The sergeant nodded.
**********
Things got slightly better then. Llewellyn would conveniently drop the sports page into his cell. He sat at the guard's desk and read the comics out loud. He talked back to the newscasts shown on the guard stations' tiny TV that Jack couldn't quite see. He took the long route when escorting Jack from his cell down to the visitor's area and back, during the twice daily visits the Colonel was allowed.
That was another thing for which O'Neill found himself unspeakably grateful. He wasn't sure who had organized the parade of visitors, but it was obvious to him that someone had. Regular as clockwork, morning and afternoon, someone from the SGC appeared to update him on what was happening, or at least, give him a few minutes of blessed company, and a view of something other than the tedious gray walls of his cell and the equally gray walls of the adjoining corridor. Okay, so the visiting room wasn’t much better, but it did have a window, albeit frosted glass crisscrossed with bars and a view of nothing but the parking lot.
Carter came, to tell him they were working on his case.
Major Davis appeared, asking him a hundred questions, each more frustrating than the last because he didn’t have any answers.
Dr. Fraiser stopped in, asking after his health and telling him about Cassie’s new boyfriend, and looking at him with a worried frown she quickly covered up with her cheery, ‘things will get better’ professional smile.
Major Griff dropped by, bringing greetings from the General and assurances that all the teams stood behind him and would do anything he needed to help. He somehow managed to refrain from requesting an all out assault to facilitate a prison-break.
Teal’c and Jonas showed up again, the alien dynamic duo, saying they were making progress, urging him to be patient.
As if he could be.
*************
And then came the word that he was being shipped to Washington.
Shipped, like cattle on the way to slaughter.
Once again, he had to fight to hold onto his control as the whole mortifying chains thing was foisted upon him for the move. God, wouldn’t Kinsey love to see this? That was one consolation with the son of a bitch being dead, at least he wasn’t there gloating over Jack’s humiliation. And thank God none of the SGC personnel had come to see him off and witnessed this, reduced to this shameful shuffle.
Out of the detention center, into a car, seated between another grim faced pair of SFs for the short drive to the airfield. With a guard on either side, he was walked aboard an Air Force transport plane, belted into a seat, and left in silence during the long hours of flight.
Didn’t get a window seat, either.
Just more time to think.
Waaaay too much time to think.
Upon arrival in D.C., there were more guards. Another car. Another plain gray building, more plain gray walls, and another too small, windowless stark and foreboding cell.
And this time, there would be no friendly guards, and there would be no friendly visitors.
Sure, his lawyer came by, but he was just another unfamiliar face.
Jack O’Neill hated being helpless, loathed being dependent. And through all the shit he’d gone through in his long and not always glorious Air Force career, he’d never felt so impotent. Locked up. Alone. Friendless. Out of the information loop. Just another poor schmuck on the wrong side of a cell door.
The thought of being stuck in a place like this, for the rest of his life, was terrifying.
And he was powerless to do anything to prevent it.
His enemies had constructed a perfect frame, and he’d walked right into it.
************
When they came for him, O’Neill was surprised.
He didn’t have any friends in Washington, couldn’t imagine who might be here in the visitor’s room to talk to him, since his lawyer had just left.
He’d never in his whole life been more glad to see Carter’s face, Carter’s smiling face, Carter’s absolutely beaming face.
He knew that look, and it meant good news.
“Carter?” He tried not to let his hope grow, terrified he’d be disappointed.
“Sir, I’ve brought you something.” She reached to the chair beside her, and held up his dress uniform.
“What, they’re going to let me wear that to court?”
“No, Sir,” she was grinning widely now. “This is for you to wear home.”
“Home?”
“Yes, Sir. You’ve been cleared.”
He could have kissed her, right there in front of the whole room full of guards, and in front of Major Davis, who was sitting, smiling, behind her. Hell, he’d have kissed Davis, too.
“Carter, what the hell did you do?”
“It’s a long story, Sir, and it wasn’t just me, but I thought you’d like to get out of those,” she pointed at his jail clothes “and into these, and out of here, first.”
“Damn right, Major.”
Davis was handing over paperwork to an SF officer who’d just walked in. The man studied the paper, then motioned to the silent guards who stood in the doorway. Producing keys to the chains that held O’Neill, the guard quickly unlocked the restraints.
Jack shuddered as the chains fell away, rubbing his wrists, needing to feel that they were free.
“This way, Sir,” the SF officer pointed toward a doorway.
Sir, that sounded good and right, and damn, he felt a little more of the ice that had formed inside his chest begin to melt away, letting him breathe deeply for the first time in far too long. The officer walked with him down the hallway, pointing into a small room. “You can change in there, Colonel.”
Jack stepped quickly inside, latching the door, stripping out of the jailblues in seconds. Truthfully, he rarely liked wearing his Class A, preferring the comfort of BDUs, but today, hell, he didn’t care. Anything was better than jail wear.
Trousers on, shirt buttoned and tucked into the waistband of the pants; belt buckled. He sat down to put on the polished black shoes, and standing once again, tied the tie, and shrugged into the blue jacket.
He felt… human, clean, real, relieved, himself. *Colonel* Jack O’Neill. Damn straight.
Stepping out of the room, he walked back to the hallway where Carter and Davis waited, and where the other shoe was about to drop.
“Kinsey’s alive?”
“Yes, Sir, and he’s waiting to see you.”
For a moment, Jack contemplated the idea of going right back into his cell. That might be preferable to visiting Kinsey. “So not only did I not shoot him, no one else did either?” That was a disappointment.
“Actually, Colonel,” Davis interjected, “he *was* shot. Just not killed. Supposedly, it was all part of the Senator’s plan to reveal a traitorous plot within the NID.”
“Oh, right,” Jack snapped. “This just keeps getting better and better. What next, I suppose I saved him?”
“Well, Sir, not exactly,” Carter wasn’t looking at him now. “But he does want you at his press conference.
“A press conference? Swell.”
***********
All the way across town, despite the heat of the day, the icy cold feeling was back inside Jack O’Neill’s chest. The limo stopped in front of a hospital, and two Secret Service agents checked his ID before escorting him inside.
Senator Kinsey.
Jack O’Neill despised the man.
And now Kinsey was going to make him a hero, for cryin’ out loud.
He knew he shouldn’t do it.
But he also knew he had no choice, because this wasn’t just about him, it was about the future of the SGC, and General Hammond and Major Carter, Teal’c, Jonas, all the SG teams, even Major Davis. So he was going to have to swallow his pride and go along with Kinsey’s little show.
Jack wanted to throw up, right then and there as he stood beside Kinsey on the podium, facing the shouting reporters and the unblinking cameras and the glare of the lights.
He’d done some damned distasteful things for the sake of his country, but none more than this.
Jack O’Neill stood silently at attention, every inch the good soldier, ignoring Kinsey’s droning endless words, his gut churning over the senator’s whispered words to him. Had he just helped get the man elected president? God, he hoped not, prayed not. Publicly clearing his name wasn’t worth that, because Jack knew, with certainty, that the man was a clueless, self-serving idiot with an oversized ego and delusions of sainthood. The thought of that man in the White House was scarier than confronting a whole army of Goa’uld.
When Kinsey finally stopped talking, making his way through the cheering throng of wellwishers and reporters, Jack hastily slipped away, evading the press, and striding back into the hospital, to find Major Davis waiting once again.
“I’ve got a car to take you to the airport, Sir,” Paul informed him.
“Thanks.” All he wanted was to go home to his own house, his own bed, to some privacy, a good beer and a Simpsons marathon.
It wasn’t to be.
----------------------------------------------------------
Arriving late at night at his house, dismissing the driver with his thanks, Jack trudged wearily up the walk, unlocking the front door and flipping on the hallway lights.
The odor of spoiled food assaulted his nose, and a mess greeted him. Papers littered the hallway floor, plainly pulled from the opened drawers of the desk. In the living room, couch cushions and magazines were strewn across the carpet. Peering into the kitchen, he could see cupboard door standing open, cans and boxes stacked willy-nilly on the counter next to a milk carton, ketchup and mustard containers, and all the other “keep refrigerated after opening” stuff from inside his refrigerator. Empty beer bottles along with the rancid steaks, tacos and vegetables from his freezer filled the sink. At least now he knew where the smell was coming from. Dodging the mess to make his way down the hallway to his bedroom, he saw more open drawers, his clothes heaped randomly on the floor.
His first thought was that the place had been ransacked by burglars while he’d been… away.
And then he remembered Hammond telling him that the NID had searched his place.
“Bastards.”
They’d done it on purpose.
Left him a message he couldn’t miss.
Sons of bitches.
Angry now, far too angry to sleep despite his weariness, he stuffed clothes, towels and bedding into the hamper, and when it was full, carried armloads downstairs to the laundry room. In the kitchen, he rummaged around to find the trash bags and swept everything into them, carrying them out to the curb.
Great.
Now he had nothing to eat.
As if he could eat with this painful knot in his stomach.
And no place to sleep, unless it was on the bare mattress.
As if he would be able to sleep.
Grabbing a blanket from the hallway closet, he stripped down to his briefs and t-shirt, curled up on the couch and tried to rest.
Sleep, of course, wouldn’t come.
Probably had something to do with the anger- and disgust-induced headache that was pounding like a sledgehammer through his skull.
Making his way to the bathroom, he found a bottle of painkillers Doc had prescribed for him months ago for headaches, and swallowed a pair of capsules, washing them down with a handful of water from the faucet.
They didn’t seem to help much, and on top of it, his stomach was queasy, probably from taking those pills without eating anything. After a couple of sleepless hours, he went back to the medicine cabinet. There was a bottle of that chalky pink stuff, and he opened it, drinking down several mouthfuls straight from the bottle, shuddering at the foul taste of it. He took two more painkillers and went back to the couch.
*********
In the morning, he felt like crap. Tossing and turning all night instead of sleeping did that to him. His stomach was pretty dodgy, too, but then, he couldn’t remember the last time he'd eaten. Just thinking about food made his stomach roil like Junior had taken up residence there.
Jack considered calling in sick, then decided to hell with it, maybe he’d feel better once he got away from this scene that did nothing but remind him of the NID. There had to be a six foot tall stack of paperwork on his desk by now, and if he didn’t get to it, he’d be buried under it for months.
Work would be good for him.
Get his mind off things.
Get all the greetings and welcome backs and well-meaning but cloying hovering over and done with.
Get back to normal.
That was what he needed.
That would make him feel better.
With the headache still pounding, he drank the last of the Pepto Bismol, tossing the empty container in the wastebasket, and grabbed two more pain pills from his medicine cabinet, washing them down with a glass of water from the bathroom tap.
**********
Dressing quickly, he grabbed his truck keys and headed out, climbing behind the wheel of the big Ford. Backing out of the driveway, he turned the vehicle down the familiar route toward Cheyenne Mountain.
The sun was up, shining brightly, almost too brightly, it seemed. Maybe just because he’d hardly seen the sun for so long. He made his usual early morning stop at the filling station along the way, topping off the tank on the truck and picking up a cup of the place’s good, strong coffee.
His stomach still felt a little off, though. Probably wasn’t used to real coffee anymore.
Maybe he should have eaten some breakfast.
Probably he shouldn’t have taken those pain pills on an empty stomach.
Well, he’d get a bite in the commissary.
Honest to God, he’d missed his Froot Loops.
They didn’t serve those in jail.
Arriving at the gates to the complex, Jack stopped at the guard post and showed his credentials.
The sergeant grinned at him before saluting. “Nice to have you back, Sir. It’s been a while. Again.”
“Right, sergeant,” Jack threw a wave/salute and drove on.
****************
More welcome back words greeted him at the ground level security desk, and again at level 10.
Stepping into the second elevator with a pair of SFs, two clerks and three guys in lab coats, the car started downward. O’Neill felt his stomach lurch. For an awful moment he thought he was going to throw up right there, but he swallowed convulsively and got his stomach under control.
Reaching his level, he hurried out and headed for his office, waving a hand at the greetings from SGC personnel. Once in his office, he shut the door, stepped behind his desk and sank down into his chair, dropping his head into his hands. He felt shaky and hot.
But mostly nauseous.
He couldn’t stop it this time. Jack was barely able to grab the wastepaper basket out from under the desk in time. Bending over the container, he retched and gagged, his mostly empty stomach attempting to turn itself inside out.
After a couple of minutes, he straightened up, shaking, wiping a hand across his mouth. There was water in his cold coffee pot, and he poured it into his ‘World’s Best Fisherman’ Mug and sipped it, rinsing his mouth and spitting it out into the already soggy mess in the wastepaper basket.
He drank a little, hoping the liquid would settle his stomach.
It didn’t.
Jack could feel the sweat on his face now, at the same time he felt cold. He shuddered as a chill swept through his body, and then doubled over as pain blossomed in his abdomen. “God,” he moaned, keeping himself upright by bracing one hand on his desk, the other wrapped around his stomach.
Something was wrong. This was no touch of the flu, no upset stomach needing to readjust to his regular diet.
Another spasm rolled through his gut like a wave and the room began to darken as the walls wavered and shimmied.
Jack tried to stand, and failed, his legs committing mutiny, his muscles giving way and dumping him unceremoniously to the floor.
***********
Mirror, Mirror
By Badgergater
5/5
“I thought the Colonel would join us for breakfast,” Jonas commented as he carried his tray to the table in the SGC cafeteria, setting it next to Teal’cs.
“O’Neill has returned?”
“Sergeant Mathews said Colonel O’Neill was on the elevator with him nearly an hour ago.”
“Perhaps he is meeting with General Hammond.”
“No, General Hammond’s not in today. Some meeting at the Octagon…”
“Pentagon,” Teal’c corrected. “It is unusual that O’Neill did not chose to visit us.”
Jonas was peeling a banana, adding slices atop his bowl of corn flakes. “You, maybe. Me, I think he doesn’t like.”
“You are on SG-1, JonasQuinn.”
“Yes, because the alternative was a Russian.”
“Indeed, that was the situation many months ago. However, O’Neill has allowed you to remain on the team, which indicates he views your work favorably.”
Jonas stopped, a mouthful of cereal halfway to his mouth. “You mean he doesn’t hate me?”
“If he hated you, you would not be on SG-1.”
“So, okay he doesn’t hate me. He only dislikes me.”
“O’Neill does not like people easily.”
“You can say that again.”
“O’Neill does not like people easily.”
Jonas waved a hand. “Teal’c, what can I do?”
“Continue to do your job, JonasQuinn. Eventually, he will no longer dislike you.”
“Great. So I’ve moved up from hatred to dislike.”
“That is an important move, JonasQuinn.”
The two aliens finished their breakfast.
“So do you think we should go check on the Colonel?” Jonas suggested.
“Indeed. He has been gone for many days and may appreciate a friendly greeting.”
**************
Teal’c knocked on the closed door to Colonel O’Neill’s office. There was no answer. The Jaffa was about to turn away when his keen hearing detected a sound he could not identify.
“O’Neill? Are you within?” Teal’c asked, knocking again. There was no answer, but he tried the door handle and it turned in his hand.
The lights were on.
O’Neill’s chair was pushed back from the desk, lying on it’s side.
Teal’c stepped further into the small room, and saw him then, O’Neill’s long legs pulled up as he lay in a fetal position, halfway under the desk.
Jonas grabbed the phone even before Teal’c could give him the order. “Medical emergency. Colonel O’Neill’s office. Stat.”
Teal’c was kneeling beside his CO and friend. “O’Neill?” he inquired, softly.
The lids flickered, revealing distressed looking brown eyes set in a far too pale face.
“Are you injured, O’Neill?”
“Sick.” The eyes closed and the Colonel moaned once again.
“Help is on the way, Colonel,” Jonas promised.
“Good,” he mumbled, and lay still, shivering.
Moments later, the rapid click-click of familiar footsteps sounded in the hallway, and Dr. Janet Fraiser entered, a nurse following closely behind.
Teal’c stood, moving aside to allow her access to her patient. “He is ill, Doctor Fraiser.”
”Colonel?” her eyes were wide as she knelt next to O’Neill, studying his too pale features and sweat slicked skin. The stale smell of vomit emanated from the wastebasket. “What’s wrong?”
“Stomach. Upset. Hurts.”
“Where?” she asked.
He waggled his fingers where his hand was lying across his abdomen.
Pulling up his t-shirt, she gently palpated his abdomen. He winced, his mouth setting into a grimace. “There?” Fraiser asked.
“Pretty much all over.”
“Pain level? One least, ten most?”
“Four. Maybe five.”
Damn, thought Janet. O’Neill was one to gripe about the little things, but if he rated the pain a five, it was anyone else’s 15.
“Colonel? What did you eat today?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing at all?”
“Coffee.”
“Anything in it? Milk? Sugar.”
“No.”
Turning to the nurse, she noted, “it’s unlikely this is food poisoning. It could be an ulcer. Or appendicitis.”
“I’ve had my appendix out, Doc,” he mumbled.
“Are you hurting anywhere else, Sir?”
“Headache.”
“Sir, did you fall, hit your head or get hit in the stomach in the last 24 hours?”
He just shook his head no this time.
“Okay, Colonel, we’ll get you to the infirmary and figure out what’s going on.” She patted his arm in what she hoped was a comforting manner. “You’ll be okay.”
He nodded mutely.
*************
Twenty minutes later, they’d drawn blood, taken x-rays, poked and prodded him in 62 different places, including some very far from his roiling stomach, and so far had completely failed to find any answers.
Janet shook her head in frustration. The Colonel was in obvious pain, centered in the abdominal area, accompanied by profuse sweating, nausea, and dizziness. It didn’t make any sense. Her first suspect had been food poisoning, especially knowing that he hadn’t been home in over a week. But he’d eaten nothing there. Tests showed it wasn’t an ulcer. He hadn’t been off world in nearly two weeks, and none of his teammates were ill, so it was highly unlikely that they’d come into contact with something alien which was now causing a delayed reaction. There wasn’t even any sort of flu going around.
Sam had assured her that when she and Major Davis had seen him in Washington, he’d been physically fine. More than a little upset about the whole cameo appearance on the Senator-Kinsey-runs-for-president show… that couldn’t be what was making him sick, could it? She knew the Colonel despised the man, but the whole ugly mess was over and done with. He was back, in his home, at the SGC, with his friends and on the job, he should be okay.
He moaned again, drawing his legs up as another wave of cramping rolled through his stomach. She grabbed the emesis basin as he gagged, dry heaves leaving him breathless once again. In a moment, he let his head fall back onto the pillow, his eyes tightly shut.
“Here, Sir,” she offered him a cup of water, and he leaned forward, taking in a mouthful to rinse the taste from his mouth, and spitting it out into the basin.
“Doc?”
“We’re working on it, Colonel. I should have some more blood test results back soon. That should help us figure out what’s going on.”
A nurse entered, a stack of papers in her hand, and gave them to the physician. Janet skimmed the top sheet. Nothing. Normal. Normal. Normal. Normal. The second sheet was the same.
But there, on the third, the lab tech had circled, in red pen, an odd number. “What?” Looking once more at her pale patient, “I’ll be back in a minute, Sir,” she promised.
Hurrying to her office, she ran a hand along the shelf full of medical texts, searching quickly, and finding what she needed, pulling it out. Opening it to the index, she ran her finger along a series of tables. “Ah hah!” Snapping the book closed, she put it back and walked briskly back to O’Neill’s bedside. “Colonel?”
He opened one eye, peering blearily at her. “Doc?”
“Sir, do you have mothballs in your house?”
“What?” The headache was pounding, but he could swear she’d said mothballs.
“Mothballs, Colonel? Little white round, marble sized balls of chemicals, you put them in with sweaters or other clothes that you store.”
“No.”
Janet frowned. “Colonel, are you sure?”
“Never bought a mothball in my life, Doc.”
“Is it possible someone else did? Put them in your house? Your cleaning lady, maybe?”
“Not that I know of,” he licked his lips and swallowed, suppressing another surge of nausea.
“Well, the blood tests show signs of naphthalene in your bloodstream…”
“Thought you said mothballs.”
“I did, Sir. Mothballs are made of naphthalene. And they’re quite poisonous.”
“So I’m dying?”
“No, Sir. There doesn’t seem to be a high enough concentration to cause any permanent damage. We’ll have to watch for anemia, jaundice and renal insufficiency, those are the most serious symptoms, but otherwise, this is just minor.”
“Maybe standing there it seems minor,” he griped.
“Sorry, Colonel, I don’t mean to trivialize how you’re feeling. Napththalene exposure can cause some nasty symptoms, which you’re already experiencing, and some serious long term effects, which hopefully we’ll prevent. But now that I know the cause, we can get started on what we need to do to clear the chemical from your system and treat these symptoms.”
“And that treatment would be?” Doc wasn’t looking him in the eye, *that* was a bad sign.
“We need to be sure there are no remnants of the poison left in your stomach, which means we’ll need to do a gastric lavage…”
“Which is?” he asked, suddenly not really wanting to know.
“I’ll need to put a naso-gastric tube down into your stomach…”
“That’s down…” he weakly waved a hand at his face, feeling even more nauseous at the thought.
“Nose, Colonel. We’ll do the procedure while you’re sedated.”
“I hope so,” he groaned.
“And because of the possibility of renal complications, we’ll need to put in a catheter.”
“Oh good,” O’Neill wasn’t sure which was worse, the current state of his stomach, or the just- revealed treatment Doc intended to use to fix it.
Fraiser was already back at his bedside, adding something from a syringe into his IV. “This is Versed, Colonel. You’ll be out in a few minutes, and you won’t remember any of this.” Thank goodness, she thought, watching him drift off.
Working quickly, she inserted the tube through his nasal passages and into his stomach. Adding warm water to flush his system, she then used suction to remove the liquid. Finally, she inserted a catheter, another one of those medical procedures she knew her patient detested.
O’Neill slept for a few hours, awakening slowly. His stomach felt better, he’d grant Doc that, but shifting uncomfortably, for the thousandths time he wondered why doctors always insisted on interfering with a man’s natural functions.
By early afternoon, O’Neill was feeling much better, and he slept away the rest of the day. By supper time, he was adamantly insisting a certain medical device be removed, and he be allowed to go home.
Janet was equally adamant that he spend the night in the medical ward. “Sir, not yet. Your symptoms seem to be well in hand, but I do want to watch the kidney output for a few more hours. And frankly, Colonel, until we figure out just how you came into contact with the substance, I really can’t let you leave. While you haven’t been exposed to enough naphthalene to be anything more than annoying… er, painful, ingesting more could be quite dangerous.”
“So how did I get this naptime stuff into me?”
“Well, you could have swallowed it, but it can also be absorbed through the skin, or even inhaled.”
“I didn’t eat anything. There wasn’t anything left in my house that was fit to eat.”
“What?”
“The NID paid my place a little visit, searched it while I was gone, and conveniently left everything out to spoil.”
“You’re sure it was the NID?”
“Oh, yeah. The General told me they searched my house. Searched it, messed it up, stunk it up, the works.”
“So, okay, you didn’t eat anything. Did you drink anything then, Colonel? A beer? A soda? Fruit juice?”
“Just the coffee. But I bought that on the way.”
“Well, I’ve sent Sam and Jonas to your place to test the air, and check anything you could have come into contact with, from your toothpaste to your deodorant. Even your bedding or clothes could have been contaminated.” Janet looked over at her patient once more. “You’re sure, Colonel, that there was nothing you ate? Nothing you ingested at all? Not even vitamins?”
“No. I had a headache when I got home, of the Kinsey induced kind. So I walked in, found the mess, cleaned it up, grabbed a blanket out of the closet, settled in on the couch, and slept like crap because I had a headache.” He stopped suddenly, looking up at her. “I took a couple of pills, for the headache. Last night and again this morning. And my stomach was upset so I took some of that pink stuff, Pepso…”
“Pepto Bismol?” Janet asked.
He nodded.
“I’ll have Sam bring the bottle in. It’s in the kitchen?”
“Waste basket in the bathroom.”
**********
Two hours later, Dr. Fraiser received another set of lab reports, and went straight to O’Neill’s room. General Hammond met her along the way.
“How is he, Doctor?”
“He’ll be fine in a few days, Sir. And I have the answer right here,” she patted the lab report.
The Colonel was dozing, still looking quite pale, but he’d been able to keep down the oral meds she’d prescribed, and drink a little water to supplement the IV fluids he was getting.
His eyes snapped open as they entered. “General? Doc?”
“Well, Colonel, I have our answer here.”
With the familiarity of far too many days spent in an infirmary bed, he flipped the switch to raise the head of the bed so he could sit up. Thankfully, the room only wavered a tiny bit before settling back to normality. “What is it?”
“Someone spiked the contents of your medicine cabinet. Both the pain medication and the Pepto Bismol were tampered with.”
“Those sons of bitches,” O’Neill snapped.
“Doctor?” Hammond’s look demanded an immediate answer.
“Colonel O’Neill told me that his house was ransacked, apparently by the NID team that was sent there to look for ‘evidence.’ I sent Sam and Jonas to the Colonel’s house earlier today, to search for a source of the chemical. They retrieved a bottle of pain medication, a bottle I’d prescribed for the Colonel several months ago, after I removed that splinter from his leg.”
Jack nodded.
“The Colonel took two pills last night, two during the night and two more this morning. There are six pills left. All six of them have been tampered with. The original contents were replaced with crushed naphthalene. In addition, we were able to test the Pepto Bismol container, and found more traces of the chemical. There was also napththalene in other items in your medicine cabinet, Colonel, like the Tylenol aspirin and even the shaving cream.”
Hammond threw her a ‘what?’ look.
“Mothballs,” O’Neill answered.
“Mothballs?” Hammond looked from the doctor to the patient.
“They’re actually quite poisonous. In small doses, like what could be put in a capsule, it would cause some very nasty symptoms, as the Colonel well knows…”
“Oh, yeah.”
In a larger dose, they could cause kidney damage, coma or convulsions. It could kill.”
“If he’d taken all the pills?” the General asked.
Janet shook her head. “Even if he’d taken all of them at once, it’s unlikely to cause any serious damage to someone in otherwise good health. Sir, this wasn’t meant to kill…”
“Just teach me a lesson. I know,” Jack’s eyes were dark and angry. “They couldn’t kill me, that would be way too hard to explain. But they wanted to leave me a message.” He knew they wanted him to know what they’d done, and who’d done it, to know that he was vulnerable.
Once again, Jack relived that moment, standing on the platform, shaking hands with a man he loathed. A man who hated him. A man who was already very powerful, and probably about to, with Jack’s unwilling help, become even more powerful.
A man who could become the next President of the United States.
And Jack O’Neill’s Commander in Chief.
His stomach clenched one more time, and this time it wasn’t because of any drug he’d swallowed.
----------------------
The End………