Payback

By Badgergater and Margo

Email: [email protected]

Season: 7

Spoilers: Revisions

Category: Sequel, hurt/comfort, drama

Warnings: None

Rating: PG

Pairing: None

Summary: SG-1 evacuates the residents of the dome, but all Jack wants to do is go to his cabin

Disclaimer: Don’t own em’, recognize the power and authority of those who do, yada yada yada… Not to be posted without the author's permission.

Author’s Pledge: All Badgergater fics are clearly and honestly labeled; read or not at your pleasure, but be assured this and all my other fics are accurately labeled as to content and category; I do not need to suck in the unwary reader by trying to disguise the content, rating or category of this or any other fic.

Author’s Notes: For Margo, who kept wanting this one, and gave me a great idea for it…Happy Belated Birthday my friend…

------------------------------/-------------\-------------------------------

"So, Carter, how many are left?" Colonel Jack O’Neill asked of his second in command.

"We’ve sent more than 90% through, Sir. Just three more groups and we’ll have everyone."

"What about all the gizmos?" O’Neill waved a hand at the MALP, piled high with gear.

"We’ll be taking that through as well, Sir, although we’ll have to leave the main computer behind."

"Dang," the Colonel chimed in sarcastically. "What a shame."

"Actually, Sir, the technology here is very advanced. We could learn a lot from it."

"Like how to kill our own people to hide the truth from them?"

Carter didn’t answer. She knew he didn’t expect one.

Jack sighed. "Okay, guess it’s my turn to take this group, huh?"

"Yes, Sir."

He hated the suits. They were confining, closed in, airless and hot, clumsy to move in. Geared up except for the helmet, Jack walked through the assembled group and checked that each of them had their suits on properly and their helmets correctly closed. Then, nodding at Carter, he put on his own helmet and locked it in place.

"Move out," he ordered, waving an arm at his following. Feeling more than a bit like the Pied Piper, Jack stepped forward into what appeared to be a solid brick wall, and through it, out of the brightly lit cityscape of the dome. He emerged into a brown chemical fog, illuminated only by the weak bit of sunlight that could penetrate the miasma of the planet’s ruined atmosphere. He watched as the others came through behind him, carefully counting heads. Teal’c was last. "Twenty-seven?"

"That is correct, O’Neill," Teal’c answered via radio.

"Okay then people, everyone stay together. Don’t wander off. It’s dark out here, but it’s only a short walk down the yellow brick road to Oz."

"Oz? I thought we were going to Earth," one of the natives asked cautiously.

"It’s just a little humor," Jack paused, "a very little humor. Oz isn’t a real place, it’s in a movie…" Seeing the blank looks he was getting from the natives, he stopped. "You’ll learn all about it soon enough. Let’s just get there."

It was a walk Jack had made many times in the last few days. The first time was just days ago when SG-1 had arrived on the planet and found the dome. Then, when they’d discovered how the dome was shrinking and people were disappearing, he’d made a trip back to find the MALP, which had seemingly disappeared. Since then, he’d made numerous treks back and forth to and from the gate, leading groups of evacuees, their few belongings piled high atop a MALP.

O’Neill shook his head. The place was weird, weirder than a lot of the weird places he’d visited over the past seven years. Well, okay, the weirdness wasn't so much the place as the people, blindly accepting what the link told them. Living, breathing, human robots, controlled by a machine. People just disappearing, and being erased from everyone’s memories. A horrible thought, not to remember the ones you’d loved, their whole lives just obliterated, as if they’d never existed. As painful as some of those memories were, they were all that remained, and without them… Jack shuddered.

"O’Neill?"

The Colonel suddenly realized he had stopped. What the hell? Okay, he’d been thinking about things… people… yeah, okay, about Charlie, which he didn’t normally allow himself to do while on a mission. "Yeah, okay, Teal'c. Just checking my bearings."

"We are on course, O’Neill. Is something wrong?"

"Nothing. Just being my usual cautious self." Even through the faceplate of the helmet, Jack could see Teal’c’s raised eyebrow. "Move out then." And keep your head on straight, O’Neill. That had been stupid, he told himself, really stupid, the kind of stupid that got you in trouble, letting your mind wander in the middle of a mission, no matter how well things seemed to be going, no matter how many times he’d followed this same path from the dome to the gate.

He took a step, and stumbled. "Ow."

"O’Neill?"

"Leg cramp, Teal’c," Jack answered quickly. Instinctively, he reached for the calf of his left leg, wanting to massage the twitching muscle, but was frustrated by the thick material of the haz-mat suit. Damn. He took another step, shaking his foot, twisting the ankle, trying to work the cramp out. Crap. The muscle spasmed again and he stopped, gritting his teeth until the tightness eased at last.

"Are you able to continue?" there was concern in the Jaffa’s voice.

"Yeah sure." After that, the Colonel limped along silently.

He was relieved when they arrived at the gate at last. Carefully, since it was rarely his job, O'Neill dialed up the DHD. Wearing the bulky haz-mat suit gloves, it was hard to send the GDO signal, and he watched carefully until the green light came on, indicating the iris had been opened and it was safe to enter the wormhole.

"Okay, folks, we’re ready for takeoff. Teal’c, lead the way," Jack waved the Jaffa forward. He counted as the evacuees walked through, made sure all 27 stepped into the gate, and followed them through. There was the familiar swirl of nothingness, of being neither here nor there, like a blink in time, and then, he was back on Earth.

The lights of the gateroom seemed especially bright after the dimness of the polluted planet. As soon as both feet were firmly on the gate ramp, Jack reached up and pulled off the helmet, glad to get the confining thing off. After more than an hour inside the suit, the stale air inside the Cheyenne Mountain complex was heavenly by comparison.

SGC personnel were busily helping the new arrivals shed their suits, preparing to escort them to the infirmary. Another crew was unloading the MALP, preparing to send it back for another trip.

"Colonel?" General Hammond had just entered the door. "How is the relocation going?"

"Just like clockwork, Sir. Nearly complete. Just two more trips for the U-Haul express and then I’ll be relocating myself."

"Colonel?" Hammond looked puzzled.

"Off to my cabin, General. A little vacation."

"And well earned, Colonel. Your team has worked hard on this."

"As we always do," he answered cheekily.

Hammond chuckled under his breath. O’Neill always had a witty comeback, or at least a smart-ass one. It was both an annoying, and endearing, trait. Kept an old general on his toes, and kept things from getting too grim or too dull.

/-------------\

As soon as the MALP was unpacked, Jack and Teal’c were on their way back to P3X-289. On the walk from the Stargate to the city, they passed another group on its way out, led by Major Reynolds.

By the time they arrived back at the city, the dome had shrunk even more. Their previous point of departure was now outside, but the two warriors soon reached the structure’s perimeter and stepped inside.

Carter and Daniel were taking the final group. The haz-mat suits, returned via the MALP, were soon distributed to the evacuees, their possessions stowed aboard the automated carrier, and they prepared to depart.

"Have a good trip, campers," Jack waved at his teammates as he and Teal’c watched them go. Once the group had disappeared, the Colonel turned back to the Jaffa. "So, T, let’s take one last sweep through the city, make sure we haven’t left anyone or anything important behind."

"An excellent precaution, O’Neill."

It was eerie walking through the now empty village. It had been a rather quaint place, in a Martha Stewartesque kind of way, O’Neill thought as they walked through the vacant, silent streets. When they reached the house that had been home to Nevin and his father Kendrick, O’Neill’s thoughts turned to the boy. Once confined to this tiny world inside the dome, the youngster now had a whole universe of limitless opportunities waiting to be explored. In the midst of all the ugliness he’d encountered over the past few years, this kid had been a rare bright spot, a bit of good SG-1 and the SGC had done, an accomplishment Jack could point to with pride. There hadn’t been many of those in the last few years. There’d been too many losses, too many failures, far too many dark days.

Completing their circuit of the now tiny village and finding nothing, the two warriors returned to the MALP, once again piled high with boxes of unknown doohickies Carter had salvaged with the help of Pallan. "Guess this is all she wrote, T."

"All that was written by whom, O’Neill?" Teal’c asked.

"It means the end, Teal’c. The finish. The conclusion. The denouement. The opera is over and the fat lady has sung."

"I have not seen an overweight female here, singing or otherwise."

Jack smiled. He still couldn’t tell if Teal’c was pulling his leg or not, but he suspected the Jaffa was doing just that. Teal’c was one smart guy, and he watched enough American TV and movies to know the meanings of just about any idiomatic phrase Jack could think up. "T, just, forget it."

They were geared up once again, experience making the job go quickly. Within minutes, both were sealed inside their protective suits.

Jack picked up the MALP remote, started the workhorse machine, and headed it forward. He turned for one last look around the place. "I keep thinking we’re forgetting something, like turning out the lights or turning off the water in the bathtub."

"It would not matter if we did, O’Neill."

"It just seems wrong," Jack said softly. Despite the oddness he felt there, it was somehow disconcerting to leave the place, now empty of life. Ghostly, in a way. Shrugging off the thought, for the last time he followed the MALP through the dome’s barrier, Teal’c beside him.

Jack trudged along behind the machine, steering it through the thick brown haze. What a mess these people had made of their planet. Then again, how many times had Earth been in danger of the same fate? he thought sadly. And it still might suffer the same environmental disasters, if they didn’t take care.

"O’Neill?"

Once again, Teal’c’s voice drew his attention.

"What?"

"You are moving unusually slowly."

"Doesn’t it seem like the gate is a lot further away?"

"Indeed, the dome has been steadily shrinking, so its distance from the gate *has* been increasing."

"Seems like a lot."

"We have made many trips."

"Yeah, guess I’m just tired." Really tired. Getting the natives packed up to leave wasn’t usually the kind of work SG-1 did. His team was exploration and first contact, not the local U-Haul franchise. But a whole host of events, from on-going missions to other personnel on leave to two teams down with some weird alien virus and four others in quarantine with them, just in case, had meant there was no one else available for the job. With the dome’s power systems steadily failing, there was no time to delay the evacuation, and the task had fallen to SG-1.

O’Neill couldn’t wait for this last trip to be over. He was finally getting leave, and this time, nothing was preventing him from actually leaving on his leave… not Thor, not the Replicators, not the General, not even saving the world was going to keep him from days and days of peace and quiet and fishing at his cabin. Minnesota in the fall... now *that* was paradise.

His mind on Minnesota, and the fish and the cooler of beer that awaited him there, he stumbled, just catching himself from falling to his knees.

Damn, that had been stupid. Daydreaming again. Pushing away Teal’c’s helping hand, Jack walked on.

The first thing he was going to do when he got to Minnesota wasn’t fish or drink beer or listen to the loons or watch the sunset, he vowed.

It was gonna be sleep, a full eight hours, maybe even 10 or 12.

God, he was tired.

They reached the gate at last. Once again, Jack carefully dialed the DHD, tapped in the iris code and, on receiving the okay, sent the MALP into the wormhole. He and Teal’c followed a step behind, bidding a final, not at all fond farewell to P3X-289.

/-------------\

Ten minutes later, Jack and Teal’c walked together into the infirmary for their post mission physical. The place was nearly empty. All the former residents of the domed city had apparently cleared their tests and were on the way to guest quarters before their next move, going on to the new planet they’d been assigned. The SGC had relocated quite a few groups over the years, populating a number of the uninhabited worlds they’d explored, offering the people fresh starts.

Fresh start.

Definitely something he needed himself.

Or at least some fresh air.

All that time on that dreary planet, with the dismally depressing mess its inhabitants had made of it, had put him in a low mood.

But he’d get over it.

Once he got to Minnesota.

On leave. On vacation. Away from the job, the responsibilities, the duties.

Minnesota.

Just the thought of it made him feel better.

/-------------\

Not even Doc and her needles could ruin his mood. He breezed through the post-mission check, and even Fraiser noticed. "You’re looking chipper, Colonel," she smiled at him as she took his blood pressure.

"As soon as you’re done, I’m out of here for a *whole* week."

"Taking leave, Sir?"

"Yup. Minnesota," he enthused.

She smiled, then frowned as she noticed his left foot twitch. "Colonel?" she asked.

"Cramp," he was reaching down, massaging the tingling arch of his foot.

"Is this a problem?" she asked, concerned.

"Nah. I’ve been doing a lot of walking in those damn stifling suits. Probably wasn’t drinking enough fluids these last few days."

She stared at him for a long moment. All his test results had been boringly normal. "You’re sure it’s nothing?"

"Positive. I’ll be sure to drink more this week."

She knew exactly what he meant. "Beer does not help with hydration," she cautioned, frowning, though her eyes were twinkling with amusement.

He winked. "I can test the theory."

"I can keep you here for an IV…" she threatened.

His grin disappeared, his face fell. "Aw, Doc, you wouldn’t."

"I won’t," she relented, "*if* you promise to drink enough water. In fact, I’ll have Nurse Lee bring you in a bottle of sports drink before you go. Finish it during your debriefing, and I’ll give you the okay to leave. Fair enough?"

He jumped down off the exam table, all smiles. "More than fair, Doc. You’re the best."

She grinned at him. "And you, Colonel O’Neill, are full of it."

"Always," he smiled and hurried out.

/-------------\

The only thing wrong with Minnesota was its distance from Cheyenne Mountain. Too bad he hadn’t managed to get one of those transporter thingies from the Aashen before they’d had to break off the alliance and leave those humorless alien SOBs behind. Or maybe next time, he’d ask Thor for a lift. It would be so much easier. And faster.

Flying civilian to Minneapolis meant putting up with all the hassles of post-9/11 airport security. Even Air Force personnel weren’t exempt. Too bad he hadn’t been able to hitch a ride along on an AF flight, but that hadn’t worked out either. Still, he’d managed a few hours of much needed sleep during the flight, despite his headache.

That’s what the wonders of air travel did for a body, the lack of fresh air, cramped quarters and crying babies, he thought glumly, massaging his neck.

Deplaning, he headed for the car rental desk, picked up the keys to the Taurus he had called ahead to reserve, and hit the road. The Interstate was jammed with afternoon commuter traffic as usual, but once away from the city, the road was soon empty and open, and the miles flew past.

The disk of the sun was just sitting atop the horizon when he pulled into the driveway of his cabin. He grabbed his duffle from the back seat, leaving the bag of groceries for a second trip. He dug the house key out from under the third rock to the left of the porch, and opened the door. The place had the usual slightly musty smell of an old building too long closed up. He opened the windows facing toward the pond, then found the matches and lit the waiting logs in the old stone fireplace. Jack never left without laying the fire for his next visit. It was something his granddad had taught him, to always think ahead to that next visit. It made leaving a little easier, a sort of promise to return.

With the fire crackling, warming the room and beating back the dark shadows of dusk, the place took on a homey glow. Jack went back out to the car and carried in the beer and the groceries, setting the former in the fridge and the latter on the counter.

All the hours sitting in those damned tight airplane seats and cars built for people definitely shorter than his 6’2" frame had left him feeling stiff and sluggish.

The headache was lingering, too.

Still a good night’s sleep in the peace and quiet of the great north woods was sure to cure that.

/------------\

It didn't. If anything, he felt worse in the morning when he woke with a pounding headache, a backache, and every joint aching like he was Rip Van Winkle and had aged a hundred years overnight.

His first thought was the virus SG-14 and 15 had come down with. But nope, he'd fortunately had no contact with them… he'd been on P3X-289 when they'd returned. Doc had also thoroughly briefed everyone on the symptoms, which started with a nasty rash in a very delicate place.

That delicate place was one place he *didn't* hurt. About everything else did, though, from his toenails to his eyeballs and maybe even his hair.

The flu.

Someone on that damn civilian plane must have had the flu. It was the perfect medium for spreading germs… a whole bunch of people all jammed into a too-small space, breathing the same canned air.

Crap.

Finally he'd gotten his leave, actually made it to his cabin, and now he was coming down with the flu. There was no justice. Next time he saved the world, he was gonna demand as payment a cure for the common cold and the even more common flu.

Groaning, he rolled out of bed, literally.

Oops.

He'd meant to stand, but his legs, most specifically his very numb left foot and leg, hadn't held him up and he'd folded up bonelessly. Jack was quite surprised to find himself suddenly prone on the floor. Thank goodness for the old rag rug that had cushioned his fall. His body hurt enough without hitting rock hard unforgiving solid oak.

For a long moment, he stayed there, on the floor, unmoving, feeling weak as wet socks and about as useful. Finally, bracing himself against the wall on one side and the bed on the other, needing both arms and legs to provide adequate leverage, he got to his feet.

Goal one accomplished.

Now, move.

Sliding his bare feet across the floor, one hand still using the wall for support, he shuffled forward. It wasn't easy. Every movement sent ripples of weakness washing through trembling muscles. He'd read about those whacko type A personalities who climbed Mt. Everest; about the way the high altitude made every motion deliberate and exhausting. He was never gonna climb Mt. Everest, because he already, right then and there in the bedroom of his cabin, knew exactly how painful it was.

It was a long way to the bathroom. The cabin only had one, at the end of the hall near the living room. Long before he got there, his arms and legs were trembling with the strain. Sweat was pouring down his face, his arms, his back, his legs, dampening the t-shirt, boxers, and sweatpants he'd worn to bed.

Sweatpants. How appropriate, he thought idly. Well, they were working, because he was sweating like a pitcher of milk left out on the counter on a warm summer day.

Or maybe melting, like ice cream someone forgot to put back into the freezer.

He sat down on the toilet to take care of business, too wobbly to stand. Done, he reached over and turned on the cold water in the sink, letting it run across his hands, splashing it on his face.

It felt good.

For a long time, he just sat there, holding his head in his hands, without the energy to stand.

He thought about a long, cold shower, but by then, he wasn't feeling so hot anymore. In fact, he was starting to feel chilly. Maybe it was thinking about ice cream and cold milk, because suddenly, he felt half frozen. Hell, his hands and even more so his feet felt numb, like they were so cold as to be on the verge of frostbite.

He had to get warm.

Staggering, he stumbled his way out into the living room. An old thick quilt was thrown over the back of the couch, there to hide the worn old fabric as much as to lend color to the room. Shivering now, he wrapped himself in the blanket's warmth and curled up on the aged sofa. Gradually, his shivers died away, and he slept.

His dreams were the kind he'd wish on no one, jumbled nightmare bits and pieces, memory intertwined with memory until he couldn't distinquish one from another. Charlie bloody and still, Sara screaming. John Michaels dying, Kawalsky's eyes glowing, Merrin smiling at him, his double from Harlan's world dying leaking milky white fluid instead of blood. Nevin asking questions morphing into Ba'al asking questions, Hathor stroking his chest. Frank's fingers slipping through his, watching as his friend was silently sucked into the gate. Chained to a post and the Unas looking gleefully down at him. Watching Ska'ara take his dying breath. First sifting through his memories dredging up the most awful ones he could find. Giving the order to blow up the alien ship with Daniel aboard. The Halloween horror faces of the mutated creatures Nirti had created. Shooting Ska'ara to save Daniel, shooting Carter to save Earth, shooting Teal'c to save Teal'c. The Replicators inside the sub crawling over his body, Daniel's ravaged face as he lay dying of radiation poisoning, listening to Teal'c being tortured, Ba'al's gloating smile as he released drops of acid, the Crystal Skull turning into Charlie's skull. Hathor's snakelet on his chest hissing and then burning its way into the back of his neck, screaming triumphantly as it invaded his mind. The burning heat of the Ancient virus consuming him cell by cell, Kanan's betrayal, the touch of a pain stick sending fire arcing down his spine, that reporter's blood wet and warm on his hands… Like a highlight reel of the Jack O'Neill Horror Picture Show, his brain replayed all the moments he'd never wanted to experience the first time around, much less relive once again.

/-------------\

He'd never thought it got this hot in northern Minnesota, not in September, because the temperature must have just spiked to at least 110. Maybe 120. He threw the quilt off wondering what had possessed him to cover up with it in the first place when it was so hot.

He needed water but the sink and refrigerator were, oh god, it seemed like miles away. Getting groggily to his feet, one hand on the arm of the couch to prop himself up, he weaved unsteadily. His legs felt numb, sort of tingly and odd, but Jack managed to take a step, and another and another.

Halfway there, the walls suddenly wavered, and he could have sworn the floor was undulating, too, because suddenly, he took a step and it was like the floor wasn't there. He felt himself falling. Desperately, he threw a hand out in front of him to break his fall, and all he broke was his arm.

/-------------\

He woke, wondering why he was lying on the floor instead of in his bed, why his arm throbbed so viciously. He was cold, too, his damp clothes clinging to his clammy skin. Around him, everything looked sort of gray and hazy, like it was foggy inside the… cabin. That's right, he was at his cabin.

With only the flu for company.

Crap.

He rolled over to lie on his back for long minutes, staring up at the log beams. He’d never really studied them before, he thought idly, noting their rich, swirling shades of dark brown. There was a spider web up there, fragile, it's owner on guard in the corner, staring down at him with tiny, beady eyes.

Finally, intending to get up, he summoned up all the strength he could muster and twisted his body toward a sitting position, pushing with his arms.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhh." Bone grated against bone and sickening pain shot from his wrist through his elbow, all the way up to his shoulder, exploding inside his skull. He fell back to the floor, closing his eyes to ward off the pain-induced nausea. "Oh, God," Jack moaned, what had he done? He tried to remember, but everything was hazy and unclear.

Really, it didn’t matter, did it?

Forcing his bleary eyes to focus, he looked at his forearm and realized it was way bigger than its normal size. Either he’d been pumping iron while he was asleep or it was grossly swollen, like that long-ago time he’d broken it in that fight with that East German border guard...

"Crap."

/-------------\

Despite being assigned to the U.S. military’s most top secret program, Stargate Command, Airman Carlyle Winston had a most pedestrian job. No glory, no excitement, no thrills, not compared to the work that went on around him. He didn’t get to go off world, though he hoped some day he would.

Not that his work wasn’t important. His specialty was hazmat equipment, and it was a job that had kept him very, very busy for the past week. He’d had to scrounge up every hazmat suit available for the evacuation of the residents of the Dome on P3X-289.

Now that the evacuation itself was done and the people relocated all that was left was the clean-up, which fell to Carlyle’s capable hands. Every suit had to be carefully scrubbed, checked to be sure no dangerous residues remained, and meticulously inspected to be sure it was safe for further use before being stored away until it was needed again.

It was slow work.

Tedious.

Boring, mostly, not like stepping through the Stargate would be…

Carlyle forced himself to quit daydreaming and keep his mind on his job. After all, he was very nearly done, and that meant a most welcome change of duties. Maybe he’d even find an excuse to go down to the gateroom level where he might see a gate activation. In nearly a year here, he’d only seen two, and they still amazed him.

Reaching for the next suit in the rapidly dwindling stack and lifting it up to rest on his work table, Carlyle couldn’t believe his ears when the small tabletop meter began to beep. It had never beeped before, because Airman Winston was very good at his job. Suits were thoroughly cleaned before they ever arrived at his workstation on level 19.

The beeping was slow, and not overly loud, which meant the very delicate, very sensitive meter had detected only a low level of something, but whatever that something was, it shouldn’t be present. Not at all.

Caryle picked up the small device and moved it closer to the suit. It began beeping slightly louder and slightly faster. He was stumped, because he knew the exterior of all the suits had been cleaned, he’d done the work himself. Had he missed this one? Waving the meter over the suit, he found the readings were lowest near the shoulders, highest near the left leg. Rummaging in his desk, he found a magnifying glass. Carefully spreading the suit out over the desk, Winston looked it over.

It was so tiny he almost missed the first one, a minuscule, neat hole just below the left knee.

He was even more shocked when he found the second one, and the third one.

One might have been an accident, but three?

Carlyle looked down at the orange suit in his hands. This one belonged to one of the SG team members because it had a name patch on the sleeve.

The name patch read "O’Neill."

Winston didn’t hesitate. Moving quickly across the room, he grabbed the phone and dialed his boss, Captain McGee, who worked directly with the base’s science team. "Sir, we’ve got a problem. One of the suits from P3X-289."

/-------------\

Twelve minutes later, McGee, Winston, Dr. Bill Lee, Dr. Janet Fraiser and Major Samantha Carter of SG-1 all stood in Lyle’s humble, and suddenly very crowded, work space.

"The outside of the suit is clean, Sirs," the airman reported, "But I found these small holes in the left leg. The meter readings indicate, inside the suit, that there are varying amounts of sulfur dioxide, methane and ammonia along with several unrecognized substances…"

"This matches what I saw on the atmospheric analyzer readings outside the dome," Carter stated. "Taken in combination with the elements from P3X-289, it’s an extremely toxic mix."

"A very nasty chemical cocktail," Bill Lee agreed.

"How toxic?" McGee asked, taking a step back from the table.

"In these low amounts present now, we’re safe, Captain. At worst, if some of the mixture got on your hands, you might experience muscle tremors, weakness or numbness," Carter assured.

"Heavier doses might induce headache, dizziness, nausea…" Doctor Lee added.

"What about the person wearing this suit?" McGee asked.

"We re-used the suits multiple times during the evacuation, but each person would only have been exposed for the short duration of the trip from the dome to the gate," Carter reminded. "Only a short time, so the wearer would have gotten a low dose, if the only source was those few tiny holes."

"Unless the exposure continued," Doctor Fraiser stated slowly, turning the suit over to show the name tag.

Carter gasped.

Frazier's face was grim. "How many trips did the Colonel make?"

"He and Teal’c made more than any of us, a dozen, if not more," Carter’s eyes were wide. ‘But he passed his post mission physical, right?"

"He did. He was fine… except," Janet was staring at the suit. "His left foot… he had a cramp in his foot. Said it was because of the suit, that he wasn’t drinking enough fluids…" she looked up.

"We’ve got to find Colonel O’Neill. Now!"

"He’s on leave, Janet," Carter reminded.

"He told me he was going to his cabin," Janet’s eyes were dark and worried. "If he got that far."

/-------------\

He was wet and cold, shivering and sweating all at the same time.

If this was the flu, it was the worst case of the flu he’d ever had, even worse than the year he’d come home on Christmas leave and spent all of it in bed. Not that spending one’s leave in bed was necessarily a bad thing, under the right circumstances. He and Sara had done that a few times. Not at all like this, in bed, sick as a dog, coughing up his cookies at every turn…

Just remembering being sick was all it took to spark his stomach muscles to cramp once again. Somehow, using his arms to push himself, Jack managed to roll over onto his side before the heaving began. He gasped, holding his stomach as wave after wave of dry heaves tore through him.

The bitter stench of bile joined the stale reek of sweat.

Desperately, he wanted a drink but his shaking limbs wouldn’t begin to support him.

/-------------\

The power of a Major General in the U.S. Air Force could make things happen very fast. Within minutes of being notified of the situation involving Colonel O'Neill, George Hammond had ordered a plane be prepped for takeoff at Peterson AFB, waiting only for the arrival of Dr. Janet Fraiser. "There will be a full medical team with all the gear you might need loaded on board by the time you arrive, Doctor," Hammond told her. "A helicopter will be waiting at Grand Forks AFB, it’s closest to the Colonel’s cabin."

"Have you been able to contact the Colonel?" she asked.

"No. He did take his cell phone with him, but we haven’t been able to get an answer. Remote areas often have only spotty reception at best. Get there, doctor."

"I will, Sir," she promised.

/-------------\

The flight seemed endless, though Janet knew it was less than two hours. In North Dakota, she met two medics who already had their equipment loaded aboard the waiting Black Hawk. Quickly, they were in the air and flying east into the remote wilderness of Minnesota.

It took only minutes to reach their destination; the hardest part was finding a place to set down. A road junction provided just enough clearing to land the chopper.

"We’re only a couple klicks west of your destination, Ma’am," the pilot told Fraiser as he set the chopper down.

A local sheriff’s department SUV stood waiting.

Janet jumped into the police vehicle, and gave directions.

/-------------\

His head was thumping horribly.

Actually, he thought fuzzily, it felt like the whole building was shaking. And it sounded amazingly like a helicopter.

Except, of course, helicopters didn’t usually hover over the roof of his cabin.

Not usually.

He raised a shaky hand and wiped the sweat from his face, groaning, wishing the heat wave would end soon.

/-------------\

Janet was relieved to see the rental car parked in the driveway of the cabin. Hurrying from the police car, up onto the porch, she knocked loudly on the door. "Colonel? Colonel O’Neill?" Please, Colonel, be okay, she prayed, desperately hoping to see his terribly annoyed face appearing at the door, glowering at her. She wouldn’t complain if he was angry, rude, obnoxious and condescending, as long as he was healthy.

"Colonel!" she pounded more loudly on the door.

There was no answer, no sound of footsteps from within.

Maybe he was out fishing, or walking, or… just or *something*, the doctor hoped fervently.

The medic was already beside her, hand against the glass of the window to cut the glare, peering in to the dim interior. "I can’t see anything, Doctor. Maybe he’s not here," the sergeant suggested optimistically. "I’ll check around the other side." There were more windows, these looking into a bedroom, and he could see the rumpled covers, but no sign of anyone. Moving around to the side of the cabin facing the lake, the NCO once more shaded his eyes and looked inside.

The cabin was small. He could see a tiny kitchen area with a small refrigerator, stove and a few cupboards and a plain wooden table and chairs. The living room area had a fireplace, an old recliner, and a large old sofa. The medic wiped his sleeve across the windowpane, and shifted his position to change the angle.

There, on the floor, was that a person? "Dr. Fraiser," he called out, "I can see him. On the floor."

"Colonel!" she called out one more time, then tried the door handle, and to her surprise, found it wasn’t locked. "Colonel?" she called as she stepped inside.

/-------------\

His head was pounding again, though this time not nearly as bad as before. The helicopter was gone, but there were other loud noises that reverberated in time with the throbbing inside his skull. Odd, one of them sounded an awful lot like his name…

/-------------\

Immediately, she saw him, on the floor beside the couch, like he’d fallen from it. The Colonel was on his side, curled into a fetal position, his long legs drawn up toward his chest. "Sir?" Janet hurried over to him and knelt beside him, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder. The material was damp with sweat and very warm.

Relief flooded her. He *was* very much alive. She could see his chest rising and falling, hear his abnormally harsh breathing, and feel the heat rolling off his skin, none of which was good. "Sir? Colonel O'Neill? Can you hear me?"

He opened his eyes, dull and fever glazed, smiling weakly up at her. "Doc?" his voice was very soft.

"Yes, Sir. It’s me." She smiled reassuringly.

"How’d, how," he licked his lips. "What ya’ doin’ here?" he asked her slowly.

"I came to check on you, Colonel."

"Good," he said, letting his eyes slide closed. "Thirsty."

She could see and smell the signs of his having been sick. "Were you throwing up, Sir?"

"Bit. Thirsty," he repeated.

"I know, Sir, but I think we need to check you out before I give you anything. Can you wait?"

"Can wait," he agreed. "Not too long."

She brushed the sweat-soaked hair back off his forehead. "It won’t be, sir, I promise. We’ll work as quickly as we can."

"I know." He closed his eyes, trusting her.

Just then, the medics entered with the medical gear and equipment. Janet placed the oxygen mask on his face. "This should make you more comfortable, Sir."

He nodded, eyes still closed, and she noted that his breathing seemed immediately easier. "Better, Sir?"

Another nod.

As she moved to take his pulse, she saw the damage he’d done to his arm. "What did you do to here, Colonel?"

"Fell. Think‘s busted."

"I think so, too, Colonel." She smiled, trying to reassure him. "Take it easy then, and we’ll get you out of here."

"You’re… boss, Doc."

"Yes, I am, Colonel."

"I think… got… the flu…"

"It’s more than the flu, Colonel."

His eyes fluttered open briefly. "More'n the flu?"

She couldn’t say too much, not with the medic and the sheriff there. "We found a leak in your hazmat suit, the one you were wearing when you helped evacuate Pallan’s people. You’ve probably absorbed some toxins."

"Dang’rous?"

"Yes, Sir."

"You’ll fix m’ up."

"Yes, Colonel, we’ll fix you up," she promised.

Working carefully, she checked his vitals. His heart sounded good, though his labored breathing, high temperature and rapid pulse worried her. Quickly, an IV was inserted and fluids were being given, while his arm was fitted with a temporary splint. He was wrapped in blankets and loaded aboard the stretcher.

"Still with me, Colonel?" she asked, and he nodded again.

"We’re heading out to the car, and then to the chopper."

"’kay."

"We’ll be at the medical center soon."

"Where?"

"Grand Forks AFB."

"Mmm."

"Is that okay, Sir?" she asked.

He nodded, shivering, and she wrapped the blankets closer around him.

/-------------\

He lay silent, a silence that worried her, unprotesting as he was carried out to the sheriff’s car, transported to the waiting chopper, and carefully loaded aboard.

During the flight above the pine covered hills of northwestern Minnesota, she held his hand, her fingers gripping his, maintaining the connection. He didn’t open his eyes, but his fingers clung to hers.

/-------------\

At Grand Forks, Fraiser took charge in the base's small medical center, assuring that her patient was stabilized. Blood was drawn and lab work quickly undertaken, with the results matching her suspicions: O'Neill was suffering from exposure to heavy metals and other toxic elements, some of them unknown.

Reports in hand, she hurried back to his bedside. Pausing at the door to his room, she looked in. The usually perpetually-in-motion O'Neill lay quietly on the bed, far too still, pale and silent for her liking. As she walked up to the bed, her eyes quickly reviewed the readouts on the monitors that surrounded him. Stable, that was good. "Colonel? Colonel O'Neill?"

He opened his eyes at the sound of her voice, but the eyes were dull, not the usual laser sharp and bright. Blinking slowly, O'Neill frowned slightly as he looked up at her. "Doc?" His voice was soft and questioning, the word slightly slurred.

"How's your arm?"

His gaze shifted down to the limb, now encased in a lightweight cast. "Broke."

"Yes, Sir, it was. How does it feel?"

The puffy fingers wiggled slightly. "Broke."

"The x-rays look good, so it should heal just fine," she checked the pulse in the fingers, and nodded, satisfied. "Colonel, do you remember what I told you, about the holes in your hazmat suit?"

He nodded. "Poisoned."

"Yes, Colonel, you were. The tests have confirmed what we suspected when we found the problems with your hazmat suit. You've absorbed some dangerous toxins into your system."

The brown eyes blinked slowly again. "Dangerous?" he licked his lips. "Bad?"

"It's not good, Sir, but we're going to get you started on chelation therapy..."

"Key therapy?"

"Chelation, sir. We're going to start an IV that will inject a substance called EDTA into your bloodstream. That should bind with the toxins…"

As always, even as sick as he was, he latched onto the key word. "Should?"

"Chelation works, Colonel, for example, it's commonly used to remove lead from the bloodstream of people who are suffering from lead poisoning. But some of the chemicals in your system are *unknown* elements," she spoke carefully, not wanting to use the words alien or off-world in this open environment.

"Nevin's…" he paused, and his brow furrowed.

"Yes, Colonel, things from Nevin's *city*."

"Nevin's city, right," he repeated drowsily.

"We'll get the therapy underway in a few minutes."

His eyes focused on hers. "Not nasty is it?"

She patted his arm comfortingly. "Not bad at all, Sir. Sometimes there are minor side effects."

His eyes widened. "Minor?"

"Yes, Colonel, there really shouldn't be any problems for you. You might feel tired…"

"Tired now," he muttered.

"I can tell that, Sir," she smiled. "Chelation therapy has been known to cause headache, upset stomach, cramps, joint pain or fever, but side effects *are* rare."

"Good."

"I'll monitor you closely while we get you started. You tell me if you're experiencing any discomfort."

"Um huh," he answered, and she smiled, knowing he wouldn't.

The nurse brought in a bottle, and Doc hung it and started the slow trip into his IV. "This will take about three hours, Colonel."

"Then I'm done?" he asked sleepily.

"For now. We'll need to do this several times over the next week, then do some more tests."

Once again he blinked slowly. "'Kay, Doc," he muttered trustingly, and drifted off to sleep.

/-------------\

Jack slept through the infusion and woke hours later, feeling achy all over, though not nearly as awful as he'd felt before. His head still throbbed painfully, but his brain was processing, though maybe at a slower pace than usual. Looking around, he realized the place was totally unfamiliar, the windows of his room showing a flat, treeless landscape that sure as hell wasn't Colorado Springs.

Where was he? How had he gotten there?

Searching through his still foggy memory, he did remember talking to Doc, something about keying late, and then there were the weird dreams about spiders and helicopters and fish.

Fish.

He'd been at his cabin.

Struggling to sit up, Jack discovered he was weak as watered down coffee. And he was anchored to the bed by a whole plethora of tubes and wires in some very delicate and uncomfortable places.

Damn.

"Here, Sir, what are you doing?"

His head snapped up as an unfamiliar woman dressed in white hurried toward him. "Who are you and where the hell am I?" he demanded, still trying to sit up.

"Sir," the nurse stammered.

Heels clicked on the linoleum floor, and a familiar figure entered the room. "It's okay, lieutenant, I'll handle this," Fraiser ordered. "The Colonel is usually grumpy when he wakes up."

O'Neill hid his relief at the familiar voice. "Doc?" he asked cautiously.

"So your eyes are working."

"I'm fine," he snapped, pushing back his blankets.

"You're improving," she amended, putting the flat of her hand on his chest to push him back down on the bed. "Just where do you think you're going, Colonel?"

He waved a hand in the vague direction of the bathroom. "Out of bed."

"There's no need, Sir."

"Yes there is, Doc," there was an edge of whine to his words.

"Colonel, I know it's not the most comfortable…"

"You don't have a clue, Doc…" he snapped.

She sighed. "No, Colonel, you're right, I don't. But I *do* know that the catheter has to stay in."

"I don't need it," Jack sulked. "I can walk that far," he waved at the nearby bathroom door.

"But we need to monitor your urine output. It's part of the therapy."

"The key thing?"

"Yes, Sir. That's how your body rids itself of the toxins you absorbed. The EDTA binds with the contaminants and carries them out of your body. "

"I could just flush my system with beer."

She hid her smile, half annoyed with his protests, even though they were a sure sign of his rapid improvement. A complaining Colonel was a Colonel on the road to recovery. "I'm sure that would be much more pleasant, Colonel, but not nearly as effective as the treatment."

He flopped back onto the bed, crossing his arms across his chest, moving the broken one carefully. "So how long will I have to stay here?"

She was skimming through his chart. "If you continue to improve, we'll do one more treatment tonight, and head back to Colorado tomorrow."

"So home tomorrow night?" he asked optimistically.

"Colorado tomorrow night," she corrected. "I want to keep you under observation for another day, and then we should, *if* all goes well, be able to finish the last couple of therapy sessions at home."

/-------------\/-------------\

The car wound its way through the quiet streets of suburban Colorado Springs.

"DanielJackson, you are aware that O’Neill does not appreciate surprises."

"Teal’c, he's been off work for weeks. Trust me. He misses us."

"I am not sure that this is a wise decision."

"Oh, no, it’s very wise."

"O’Neill may not appreciate having his privacy invaded."

"I think he’ll be delighted with the company."

"That may be a faulty hypothesis."

"Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Teal’c."

"I am seated in your car, not standing in mud."

Daniel hid his smile. "Teal’c, you can't have a surprise visit without the surprise. Besides, we’re bringing cake. He's always talking about cake."

"He speaks of cake, but more often he eats pie."

"That's just Jack being Jack."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow.

"You know, being contrary. He'll love this. Trust me. He's been off for two weeks. He'll be going stir crazy."

"But we did not bring him anything to stir."

Daniel hit the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of the empty street. "Teal'c, you are doing this on purpose, aren't you?"

"Indeed, DanielJackson, one may only speak 'on purpose'."

"You know, you and Jack are just alike." The archaeologist threw the warrior a look of consternation, and once again put the car in motion.

Teal'c's face twitched in what could be considered a fleeting shadow of a smirk. "Indeed."

/-------------\/-------------\

When the door bell rang, his first inclination was to ignore it. After all, who’d be coming to his door in the middle of the day? An insurance salesman? Some scam artist home repair guy? Certainly no one that he wanted to see, much less make the effort of getting up from his comfortable spot on the couch in front of the TV.

The bell rang again, a staccato double beat like someone had been leaning into it. Oh crap, maybe it was that new neighbor across the street, the one who kept coming over to ask to borrow this or that, bat her eyelashes at him, and find clever ways to remind him, in a sultry voice, that she was newly divorced and living all alone, and sooo in need of a man’s assistance. He desperately looked around for a place to hide.

"Jack, you in there?" called out a familiar voice.

"There is no need to hide, O’Neill, it is us, your friends," chimed in another rich-toned speaker.

Jack sighed with relief. "Okay, okay, okay I’m coming! Give me a minute," he levered himself up off the couch with a groan prompted by the still present but thankfully diminishing muscle aches courtesy of the poison atmosphere of Nevin’s planet. He walked carefully across the room, stretching his back and shoulders as he did so. Reaching the front door, he opened it, and peered out at the pair of visitors. "Ah, Abbott and Costello."

"Gonna invite us in?" Daniel asked.

"We have brought cake," Teal’c lifted the cover on the box to reveal a sea of white frosting.

Jack leaned over to peer at the offering. "Chocolate?"

"Lemon swirl."

Jack opened the door wider and stepped aside, waving them in. "Okay, then. Have a seat. I’ll get utensils." He headed to the kitchen for plates and forks, grabbing two beers and a cider from the fridge to wash down the confection. Bracing the bottles against his still cast encased arm, he carried the items down to the living room, setting them on the low table in front of the couch.

"So, what’s the occasion?"

"Just come to visit," Daniel explained.

"DanielJackson believed you were in need of company, " Teal'c added.

"Don’t know about needing company, but I was in need of cake." Jack wolfed down a huge forkful of the cake, then another.

Daniel watched wide-eyed. "Hungry?"

"Oh yeah. Been eating my own cooking for days and days."

"You mean, Pizza Palace and Taco Takeout’s cooking," Jackson corrected.

"Them too," Jack agreed, devouring a third oversized forkful.

Daniel "So, the arm seems better."

"Much."

"Gonna be back to work soon?"

"Nope. Doc says another week, then light duty." Jack paused, another mouthful of cake halfway to his mouth. "Missed me, did you?" he smirked.

"No, actually, I was thinking how nice and quiet things are at the SGC. No one barging into my office to annoy me. Drinking my coffee. Interrupting me. Misplacing my books."

Jack looked crestfallen.

"I have missed your presence, O’Neill," Teal'c spoke up.

"There, see?" Jack smiled across the room at the alien. "T, I have always known you were a man of great intellect and incredible perception."

"Indeed, when you are not at the SGC, I have had no one to eat cake with."

This time it was Daniel who smirked.

Deciding to change the subject and save face, Jack asked, "So then, has *anyone* figured out what went wrong with my hazmat suit? I know the Air Force buys from the lowest bidder but…" he left the rest of the sentence hanging unfinished.

"Well, no one has come up with a definite answer."

"Not even Carter?"

"No, not even Sam," Daniel answered.

"Now that’s scary," O’Neill injected sarcastically.

"All the suits were inspected, but only yours was damaged," Teal’c reported. "It is a mystery."

"Sam did have one idea, though."

"And that was?" Jack was finishing off his first piece of cake, and dishing himself out another.

"Well, considering the way the computer defended itself through the link…" Daniel started.

"By killing it’s own people…" Jack reminded.

"Yes, and the complete control it had of everyone’s minds…"

Jack shuddered. "That was creepy."

"Maybe the computer told someone to do it."

"The computer old someone to wreck my suit? Why only my suit?"

"Because you’re SG-1’s leader."

"But I wasn’t the one who was going to figure out the truth of what was happening. That was going to be you or Carter," Jack protested.

"True. But you did pose a threat…"

"To Nevin’s father." Nevin had wanted to go to a new world. He’d told his father he wanted to be an explorer like Jack, making Jack a threat to both the peaceful order of the city and a father’s authority. Kendrick, who had at one time been eager to leave, then did a complete about face and acted like he’d never even been interested. Just like Nevin had suddenly reverted to wanting to remain in the dome and be a gardener.

Daniel was speaking again. "Sam said the holes in your suit looked they'd been made by a sharp instrument of some kind. They weren’t tears and they weren’t flaws in the material."

"Did anyone ask Kendrick?"

"I did, but Jack, you know the link made people completely disappear, instantly forgotten by their co-workers, neighbors, spouses. Coercing one man to poke a few holes in your suit, and then forget what he’d done, it would have been child’s play."

"Deadly child’s play."

"True, but," Daniel shrugged. "I guess we’ll never know for sure."

"No, I don’t imagine we will," Jack said softly, wondering if the link had been responsible after all. A father would do anything to protect his son, he knew that.

And he wondered.

-----------The End--------------