Past and Present and People Long Gone
Author: BadgerGater
Email: [email protected]
Category: Sequel to Past & Present; H/C
Rating: PG, Jack's mouth, again
Pairing: None
Season: Three
Summary: Daniel is peeved over Jack's remarks about Kira and the Colonel decides to spend a little time alone
Warnings: Whumping. Snakes. Rocks. Trees. Trouble
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.
Authors Notes: As always, this fic wouldn't be what it is without TK and Corine, they're the best; and CDL, who teaches me medicine
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Why do you even bother, Jack? Colonel O'Neill asked himself. You shouldn't have opened your mouth, you should have stayed out of it, left well enough alone, let the kid get hurt if that's what it takes. The kid, see, no wonder he's pissed at you. He is not a kid. He's a grown man and he has every right to resent it when you treat him that way.
It all started with that Kira woman. Daniel, who'd been lost and alone and dragging around for weeks since Sha're died (I don't blame him for that, no one would, Jack thought), just fell right into her clutches. Okay, okay, maybe she really wasn't that much of a gold digger, but it sure hadn't taken her long to latch on to Daniel, thought O'Neill. He'd known this thing was going to be trouble the minute she batted those big blue eyes at Jackson and he'd gotten that silly besotted grin on his face. Why couldn't he have fallen for some woman from Earth? the Colonel lamented. Nope, not Daniel. Second time, in fact. Maybe there's something about those off world women. (Well, come to think of it, there was Kynthia, O'Neill remembered. But he wasn't on the rebound at the time. Nope. And at least Kynthia was really Kynthia and not the newly youthful former slayer of worlds.)
So, there he was, trying to be big brother Jack, or maybe uncle Jack, or okay, yeah, sure even worse, Father Jack watching out for Daniel, and, as usual, he'd blundered in, not saying what he meant or how he meant to say it, and things just sort of fell apart, O'Neill recalled.
Jack had actually waited in the hallway for Daniel, hoping to get a word alone with him. He'd spent hours thinking of what it was he was going to say to his friend, to try to head off trouble, and then of course, O'Neill hadn't said it.
Way to go Jack, thought the Colonel.
-----------------
Daniel had walked down the hall and O'Neill ambushed him.
"Jack?"
"Hey..."
"Heard things didn't go so well."
"She'll think of something. " Daniel didn't pause, continuing down the hallway, knowing from that look on Jack's face that he wasn't going to like what else his friend had to say.
"Listen," Daniel stopped, and Jack continued. "I'm not saying the first woman you've fallen for since Sha're isn't a peach, but if she remembers who she is, you'll be the first to go."
Daniel just walked away, said nothing.
Damn, Jack, screwed that up, didn't you, O'Neill thought as he watched his friend walk away.
It was then the Colonel made his second mistake, he went to try to fix what he'd said, and of course, just made it worse. Par for the course, when it's me, O'Neill chided himself.
Jack had found Daniel in his office, seated behind his desk, paging through a book in some language that looked like chicken scratching to the Colonel's untrained eye. "Hey, Daniel," Jack opened as he moved three books off the spare chair, flipped the chair around to sit on it backwards, and comfortably rested his elbows across the back. "So..."
"So, what, are you back to give me another scholarly lecture on my personal relationships?"
Oh, oh, he sounded mad, thought O'Neill. "Daniel..."
"Going to give me the benefit of your own great personal experience with women, eh, Jack?"
"Well, I *am* older."
"And in your case it doesn't mean wiser."
"Well, no probably not. But..."
"But what? Now you've branched out from team leader, mother hen and all around nag to become
Jack O'Neill, relationship counselor? As if *you've* ever been successful at a relationship..."
"Learning from your mistakes is a time honored human tradition. Figured you'd know that, knowing all about traditions and, and stuff..."
"Right. It's also a time honored tradition to let people make their own mistakes, or even, God forbid, have you ever even *considered* the possibility that you might be wrong and they might be right, on occasion. Huh? Did you ever think of that? That maybe *I'm* right? Maybe *I* *know* what I'm doing?"
"Daniel."
"Don't say my name like that, like I'm a twelve year old, about to get a lecture from big, bad dad, okay?"
O'Neill threw his hands in the air in surrender. "Hey, look I was just trying to help."
Daniel wasn't buying it. "Jack, butt out."
"Sometimes it helps to hear things from a different perspective. Daniel, it's just that, well, it hasn't been that long since Sha're. I know what it's like to be on the rebound. I just don't want to see you get hurt."
Jackson stood up and glared angrily at O'Neill. "You know something, Jack, I'm not a child, and it's time you quit treating me like one. I'm 35 years old. I'm a grown-up. An adult. I can make my own decisions, even my own mistakes. But at least they're mine."
"Daniel..."
"Jack, leave it. I don't need you as a father. You really make a damn lousy one. You've already proven that."
Jack flinched, his expression changed, a look of intense pain flashing across his face for a brief second before his usual mask of indifference returned. Without another word, the silver-haired Colonel turned and was gone.
Oh God, Daniel suddenly realized what he'd just said. He slumped at his desk, knew it was too late to catch up with Jack's long legged strides that had carried him hurriedly down the hall.
----------------------------
It wasn't until later that Daniel realized just how badly he'd hurt his friend.
After the whole mess was over, the people cured of the damage done by the Vorlex and Kira returned to that planet, still believing she was Kira and not knowing she was really Linea, Jackson went looking for O'Neill. The Colonel's office was dark. He wasn't in the gym or even hanging out in the briefing room, which he sometimes did, just to watch the gate kawoosh, though he'd never admit it. Sam didn't know where he was, or Teal'c, or Doc, and finally a desperate Daniel even asked the General.
"Colonel O'Neill left a couple of hours ago, Dr. Jackson, said he had business to take care of at home." Seeing the look of dismay on the archaeologist's face, Hammond asked, "Something wrong, Dr. Jackson?"
"Ah no, Sir. I don't think so. I'll just catch up with Jack later, thanks."
-----------------------------
O'Neill had walked silently back to his office, not even noticing the murmurred greetings in the hallway, too preoccupied, hell, too hurt to pay attention. Angrily, he'd grabbed his coat, told one of the SF's to inform the General he had personal business to attend to and was going home, and left. Once in his truck, he drove down the mountain, totally preoccupied, suddenly finding himself pulling the black Ford into his own driveway and not remembering how he'd gotten there. Smart, Jack, real smart, he told himself, driving with your brain totally disengaged.
Once inside his house, he found himself too restless to think. He grabbed a beer, opened it, took one swallow and realized he didn't want a drink, he didn't want anything but to get away and be alone.
He stomped back out to the garage, looked once at the truck and rejected that idea, instead opted for the big, heavy motorbike. He hadn't ridden the Harley for a while, but it quickly sprang to life with that throaty growl he loved. He needed this, the feeling of freedom the bike gave him, the fresh air and release he found guiding the powerful machine up and down the winding mountain roads.
He'd ridden two blocks before he realized he'd not only left his helmet behind, he'd even forgotten his jacket. To hell with it, Jack thought, needing to feel unfettered, to hell with it and to hell with surly civilian archeaologists and to hell with the Air Force. Yup, to hell with everything.
-----------------------
O'Neill rode for hours, not thinking, just riding, just enjoying the mountains and the movement, the wind in his face, and the power of the big bike. There was a place he liked to visit up in the mountains, and he parked the Harley and hiked up the hill, sitting for hours, listening to the quiet, letting his soul settle back into that place he'd found where the hurt didn't matter anymore, where he was just who he was, no more, no less, where the past was the past and now was all that mattered. It was a place he'd learned to find when he needed it, a place of peace he needed too often, to forget what he'd done in the past, to live with the losses in his life, and to soothe his unhealed wounds.
Jack knew Daniel hadn't meant to hurt him, hadn't meant to use those words in that way, Daniel wouldn't, not really. The kid was mad at him, okay, okay, not a kid, the man, his friend, was mad at him because, yeah, Jack had just treated him like a kid, and so the dad reference had come from that, not a condemnation of Jack's well known failure as a father. Cripes, the guy was probably back at his place, or hell, camped on Jack's doorstep, feeling bad for what he'd said.
Trouble was, it didn't matter what Daniel meant or didn't mean, Jack had heard it one way and he couldn't un-hear it. He'd been a lousy father to Charlie and he was repeating the same stupid mistakes with Daniel. Messing up what he started, saying and doing the wrong thing; when he tried to help his friend, protect him, he got it all wrong, made things worse instead of better.
Charlie. God, he missed his son. Charlie had been the best thing in his life, ever, an unexpected joy. He'd never been there enough for the boy, his work took him away too often, but when he'd been home, he'd loved everything, from changing diapers to coaching baseball. When they'd discovered Sara couldn't have any more kids, well, they'd just devoted that much more energy to the boy they already had.
When he was busy enough, Jack could forget, he'd always had a great ability to focus on the here and now, concentrate on the problem at hand and shut out the distractions. That was one of the skills that made him so good at what he did, got him promoted time and again. Singlemindedness. Good trait to have, in his line of work. Do the job, get it done, get it done right.
So how could he be so good at one thing in his life and such a pitiful failure at the rest of it, huh?
Shit.
He watched the sun set, and the stars rise, naming the constellations, tracing their paths across the sky. It wasn't the first time he'd spent a night up here, in the chill mountain air, and stayed to watch the sun rise.
At dawn, stiffly, the gray-haired man climbed to his feet, stretching, working the many aches and pains out of his body after the long, chill night on the unforgiving rock. He had just a couple of hours to get back home, cleaned up and make it to the base. SG-1 had a briefing with the General this morning, Daniel was going to give a report on some new planet they might want to visit next week.
Back at the bike, he kicked started it, rocked the big machine upright, and headed back down the mountain.
He didn't see the car, didn't know where it came from, but suddenly it was there on the narrow road with him, on his side of the road. O'Neill had a brief glimpse of a vehicle packed with faces, young faces. It was a carload of kids out for a lark, he thought, and he swerved and braked hard to avoid them. The heavy bike wobbled, and he fought for control, had it in hand with a sigh of relief, and then the rear tire hit dirt and pulled the Harley out from under him. He saw the bank coming, had nowhere to go, felt himself sliding, skidding, flying, and then... oblivion.
---------------------
Daniel, Sam, Teal'c and General Hammond were all in the briefing room. It was 8:05 a.m.
"Anyone seen the Colonel this morning?"
Head shakes all around.
"Has anyone seen him or talked to him since he left early yesterday?"
More headshakes.
Daniel, eyes still focused on the table, finally said, softly, "I stopped by his house last night, meant to talk to him about yesterday, but he wasn't around. His truck was there. I thought maybe he just didn't want to see me and was ignoring me so I left."
"Well, we'll start the briefing without him," said Hammond, irritated. "Hopefully, he'll turn up in a few minutes, and with a good excuse."
O'Neill did not show. Nearly an hour later, an SF sergeant brought Hammond a message, reporting that calls to the Colonel's house as well as his mobile phone and beeper had gone unanswered. The General considered the note a moment, then whispered several orders to the SF and dismissed him before turning to the worried faces sitting around the table.
"SG-1, I think we'll call an end to this meeting, for now at least. It's not like the Colonel to miss a briefing, and not answer calls or his beeper. I've sent a Security team to his house, and we'll check out the situation. You're dismissed. Except you, Dr Jackson, I'd like a word.
Hammond got straight to the point. "What happened between you and Colonel O'Neill yesterday?"
Daniel Jackson waited, a pained look crossing his face, hesitating to answer.
"Something wrong, son?"
"No. Well, maybe. I mean, yesterday, before he left, I said something to Jack. I didn't mean to, it just sort of slipped out and by the time I realized what I'd said he was gone. I think he left yesterday because of what I said to him."
"Colonel O'Neill has had nasty things said to him in the past."
"This was worse than nasty," Daniel folded his arms across his chest, remembering the pained look on Jack's face.
"I can't imagine anything that you could have said to him would have made him go AWOL."
"Telling him he was a rotten father would."
Hammond stared at Jackson, his eyes widening in stunned surprise. "You said *that* to him?"
"Yeah. Sort of," the archaeologist shrugged. "He was giving me fatherly advise, about Kira, and I was annoyed because I didn't want to hear it. I knew he was right and I didn't want him to be, so I just said the first thing that popped into my head. He threw me this look, like I'd just stabbed him in the heart or something, and then he disappeared."
The General shook his head slowly. "Thank you, Dr. Jackson. You're dismissed." As SG-1's archeaologist walked slowly toward the doorway, Hammond added, "I'm sure there's some other explanation and the Colonel will turn up soon."
"Yes, Sir," Daniel answered, softly.
Jackson left; Hammond returned to his office. Both men wore worried frowns.
----------------
George Hammond settled down behind his desk, leaning back in the leather chair, closing his eyes to think. Had Jackson's words prompted O'Neill to do something rash? The General thought back over the past four years, to the changes he'd seen in the disillusioned, nearly burnt out man he'd first met. SG-1 had been through some tough times lately, but then, when wasn't their job difficult? O'Neill seemed to be handling things well. Had he misjudged the man so badly? Was the Colonel's emotional hold so fragile, still, that something his teammate and friend had said to him could push him over the edge? Hammond was a good judge of character, that's how he'd earned his stars and this assignment, and he couldn't believe he'd been so far off on his assessment of O'Neill. No, there was more to this, he was sure, as he dialed up the phone and ordered a quiet but thorough search to begin.
-----------------------------
Daniel Jackson pulled off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose, wishing the damn headache would go away, wishing that hard lump in his stomach wasn't there, either. Closing his eyes didn't help, it just made Jack's face flash in front of his eyes, that look on Jack's face when Daniel had thrown those harsh words at him. God. Stupid. Words were his business, his life, how could he have been so thoughtless? He and Jack goodnaturedly traded barbs, even insults, but there were things neither of them joked about, and Jack's son was one of them.
Where the hell had Jack gone?
-----------------
His head hurt. Oh Lord, his head hurt. Slowly, Jack pried one eye open, met with glaring sunlight, closed it again, then opened it slowly, squinting, trying to remember where he was and what had happened to him. Naquadah bomb? Staff blast? Goa'uld stun grenade? Twelve pack of Bud?
Lying still for a moment, O'Neill tried to assess where he was and how he was. He was lying on something soft, pine needles mostly, though there was an annoying rock under his hip. That's when he made his first mistake, tried to shift to get off that rock, and pain exploded through his leg.
"Ahhhh," he moaned, shit shit shit shit shit. He could feel bone sliding against bone, tearing flesh, something was broken. Damn, oh damn. Instinctively, he reached for the source of the pain, his right hand grabbing at his right leg. That movement revealed more pain, in his back, his shoulder and his ribs. Oh Lord, was there an inch of him that didn't hurt?
Jack moaned, curled on his right side, battling the snarling red-eyed demon that was pain, denying the darkness that was threatening to overtake his senses. Imagery, mental exercises to control pain, he knew those, if he could think and remember. Box it up. Take the pain, put it in a box, a sturdy, strong box, close the lid, carefully, completely, and then snap the lock tight.
Worked.
Almost.
But enough to help.
He could think now, better than before, could categorize where he hurt most and what was hurt worst. It was obvious the right side of his body had taken the brunt of the damage. The pain in his right leg was centered in his ankle, throbbing with each heartbeat. He'd had enough broken bones to know he'd definitely snapped something there. His knee was aching from the battering it had taken, but nothing new in that. His hip hurt, bruised at least, maybe that was all, same with his ribs. He'd broken them enough times to know. His right shoulder, the old injury from Iraq, hadn't been helped by whatever had happened to him, it was tender, swollen, barely able to be moved, but still serviceable. He reached a hand up to feel his head, found a knot on the back of his skull. Combined with the blurred vision he was experiencing, that indicated concussion, and there was dried blood matted in his hair. So, he'd been unconscious long enough for the bleeding to stop and the blood to dry, there and elsewhere, all along his arms, his right leg and hip. Cuts and scrapes seemed to cover every bit of exposed skin. O'Neill looked, and felt, like he'd been through a blender.
So just what did you do, Jack old boy?
He looked around, carefully tried pushing himself to a sitting position. Made it, well, almost, he was now somewhere between lying prone as he'd been and sitting upright. Reclining, but at least he'd been able to raise his head enough to take stock of his surroundings.
"Trees," he chuckled, stopped quickly because it hurt. "Why do I always end up somewhere with trees?" O'Neill looked up toward the tops of the trees and groaned. He let his head hang again for a moment, dizzy and exhausted, then shifted his weight to look behind him, up the slope. More than a slope, it was a hill, a steep, rugged hill. Mountainside, really, to be honest about it. Part way up that hill lay a jumble of twisted, shimmering metal.
"Oh man, my bike," he mumbled. "Damn..."
He remembered now, going off the road, in the air, soaring like he was flying for a moment before coming down, hitting, bouncing, rolling, rocks, trees, logs, stones, big hard rough sharp stones.
It was a miracle he was alive at all.
And then he realized that staying that way wasn't going to be easy. Because he heard, dimly, a sound, far, far above him on the hillside, and recognized it for what it was. A car. On the road he'd crashed off of.
There was no guardrail up there, nothing he or the bike would have broken on the way down. No mark. The bike was way down the slope in the trees, just like he was. He knew this road, knew you couldn't see over and down the side. Knew there usually wasn't much traffic at best. Knew he hadn't left much if any sign at the top of the hill, certaintly not enough for anyone to pull over to investigate.
No one would look for him, not here. No one knew where he was.
Jack O'Neill looked again at the mountainside in front of him, and knew the only one who was going to save him from this mess was himself.
Sure, all he had to do was just hike on up there. On a broken ankle and with God knew what else not in working order. Like his head for starters. He closed his eyes a moment, gathering his thoughts, gathering himself.
Nothing to it. A piece of cake. A walk in the park. A quick trip through the drive-through. A day at the beach. A slam dunk. Like falling off a log. Not even a bump in the road. Well, he thought wryly, at least my cliche' collection is unbroken.
Plan the mission, then carry it out, airman. Break it down into it's simplest parts, start to finish, action by action. Do-able segments, workable installments, achieveable goals, from the simple to the complex, a bit at a time, attacking this hill like he was attacking an enemy. He'd done this on a hundred missions.
The hill was his enemy, the obstacle keeping him from help and safety. His resources, nothing more than his own grim determination.
First step, simple step, move your body around so you can look and plan a route up the hill.
Easier said than done, he thought, gasping as a shaft of pain spiked from his ankle all the way to his head. "Oh, God, oh, God, oh God," he moaned. Deep breaths, Jack. Find that box, see, the lid popped off. Put the pain back in, close the box and lock the lock and latch it this time, buddy. Now throw away the key. Can't be opened now.
Okay.
Better.
He could breathe now.
Some at least.
Time to amend the plan, airman. First step, immobilize that ankle somehow.
Gasping at every movement, he managed to rip several strips off the bottom of his already torn shirt, found a couple of sticks (one thing trees are good for, he thought wryly), and lined them up next to his already swollen ankle.
"This is gonna hurt, Jack," he told himself.
Bad sign, talking to yourself, he realized.
Well, he didn't have anyone else to talk to, or anyone to talk to him, to tell him all those nice soothing everything-will-be-all-right platitudes; no one to remind him of how tough and resilient he really was, how this was no big deal compared to the shit he'd already been through and survived.
So do it and quit whining, Flyboy.
He pushed the cloth strips under his leg, grimacing at the pain that simple movement caused, then slowly pulled the first one tight around the crude splint, biting his lip, cursing, holding off the onrushing wall of blackness. Sweating now, he took the second strip of cloth and pulled it taut, carefully, then resolutely yanked hard. "God damn, God, oh son of a bitch," he mumbled, closing his eyes for a moment, fighting to put the red-eyed demon back in its box. Finally, long moments later, he found the strength to tighten the third binding and then the fourth. It wasn't much of a splint, Doc would laugh, hell even Carter'd done better back in Antarctica, but it would have to do.
He let his hands drop into his lap, closed his eyes, head hanging. Exhausted, just that little effort had exhausted him. He wanted a drink. His mouth was so dry, parched, and with horror he realized there was no water here, and the day would be a warm one.
He would have to crawl, up to where the smashed pieces of his bike littered the hillside, then work his way to the left, up a rocky slope and finally the last, steep section of loose rock, over the embankment, and onto the road.
Don't stop to think. Just do it. Like the Iran/Iraq border. That was a long ways, Jack, that was impossible, that was miles and miles and miles of desert. This? This is nothing, just a few feet of hillside.
Taking a deep breath, he began pulling himself up the slope. With a groan he moved, using his hands to find a grip on the rock, pushing with one good knee, dragging his right leg, pretending he couldn't feel the thump of rock against the grossly swollen thing that was the lower half of his right leg.
He crawled, for hours, hands bloodied by the sharp rocks, shredding the fabric of his jeans until his abraded knees were leaving a trail of red at each spot he rested.
His pauses became longer, and his climbing got slower as his breath became more labored, as it took more and more of his will to push the pain aside so he could move at all. Oh God, wasn't he there yet? He raised his head and with despair saw the shattered bike was still 10 or 15 feet above him.
Wearily, Jack let his head drop onto the raw flesh of his hands. The sun was high overhead, the heat of the day adding to the discomfort of his growing thirst as he tried to swallow past the dry raw throat.
Two minutes to rest, and then he forced himself onward. He climbed another five or six feet, pulling with his hands and pushing with his one good leg.
Blindly reaching for a handhold above him, he heard a sound that despite his dazed exhaustion, froze his movement, the familiar buzz saw warning of a rattlesnake.
Shit. He couldn't buy a break.
Slowly, as slowly as he could, he pulled his hand back. Shaking with the surging adrenaline, he paused for a moment, then tried to picture again in his mind the hillside as he'd seen it from below. He thought he should be able to move left, to get around the snake, so carefully O'Neill worked left, inch by inch. Giving the snake several feet of space, he again reached above his head for a handhold.
There was no warning this time. The sharp pain was totally unexpected, the sting and the rattle simultaneous...
"Arrggh!" He jerked his hand back but too late, and he howled in pain as the fangs ripped through the skin between his thumb and first finger and the snake's writhing body flew away into the rocks as he snatched back his hand.
He never did know if it was the same snake or the reptile's companion.
It didn't matter.
Bitten was bitten.
And that quickly became only part of his problem.
As he jerked his arm back, away from the searing new pain, he slipped, his right hand losing its purchase on a rock, his right knee slipping, sliding, unable to hold him in place. He had his good foot wedged against another rock, but that too came loose, and he felt himself begin to slide. Jack grabbed at rock with his left hand, cried out in pain, unable to grip, and felt himself slide further, rocks rattling down the slope with him. Frantically, he grabbed with his hands, desperately searching for a handhold, flailing at rocks and brush. He slid 8 or 10 feet, all the while burning his hands and knees as he desperately fought for purchase. Everything around him was loose, sliding, moving, insubstantial, and then his right foot caught on something, impacted rock, solidly. His whole weight jammed against broken bone and torn flesh, and Jack's head snapped back in pain, a cry of agony escaping him as the broken bones in his ankle absorbed the full impact of his body's slide.
A moment of excruciating pain, and then blackness.
-------------
"Sir, has the Colonel shown up?"
General Hammond looked up to see the worried faces of three-fourths of SG-1 peering in his door.
"I'm sorry, people. We're still getting no answers on his phone and pager, his truck is parked in his locked garage and the house is empty. I had a team jimmy the door. No sign of him. No sign of a struggle. Nothing."
"So then where is he?" Daniel's brow was furrowed with worry. "No matter how mad he might be at me he wouldn't just take off..."
Sam was staring. "No matter what kind of emergency, he wouldn't leave without contacting us."
"Which means he didn't intend to be gone this long. He just went somewhere the other night..."
Sam nodded. "Out for a drink or a drive, no wait, his truck is at home. He had to have gone with someone..."
"Willingly? Or unwillingly?
"Like I said, there was no sign of a struggle." Hammond looked down. "There are a number of negative scenarios here. He could have left with someone he knew, had some sort of trouble or accident, and be unable to reach a phone."
"Or?" Daniel didn't really want to hear the second part he knew was coming.
"Or someone could have taken him. He has enemies. There are people who'd like to know things he knows, from Kinsey going all the way back to Iran and Iraq."
"Sir..."
"I've got a squad talking, discreetly, to his neighbors. Pretending to be old friends trying to track him down. Asking questions. We've checked hospitals and with the local and state police. We're also checking his cell phone records and his credit cards."
Jackson was staring intently at his notebook on the briefing room table. "Mrs. McGilligan." Daniel announced suddenly, a triumphant smile crossing his face.
Hammond looked sharply at him.
"Mrs. McGilligan. She's Jack's neighbor, just down the block. Little old lady, she's retired, watches everything that goes on in the neighborhood. Her dog always goes down to Jack's. And he often stops in to visit her. He always says it's to play with the dog, but I think he feels sorry for her since she's all alone. He stops and visits, talks to her, plays with the dog. He told me once she reminded him of his grandmother. She'll know if anything went on."
---------------------------
Half an hour later, Daniel was knocking on Mrs. McGilligan's door, Sam standing beside him. "Hello? Hello? Mrs. McGilligan?" he called.
"Just a moment, dear," said the little old lady, shushing the yapping little dog bouncing around by her feet. She opened the door a few inches, peering out through thick glasses. "Do I know you, young man?" She squinted up at him. "Oh, yes, I recognize you. Mr. O'Neill's friends. I've seen you at his house."
Daniel smiled. "Yes, I'm Daniel Jackson, and this is Major Carter. We work with..."
"Oh, that dear Mr. O'Neill, he's some important General or something in the Air Force isn't he? My Edward was in the Air Corps, they didn't have the Air Force then yet, that was in the last world war..."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. McGilligan, I'd love to learn more about the Air Corps, but right now, I'm hoping you can help us." Sam asked impatiently. "We were supposed to meet Colonel O'Neill, and he doesn't seem to be at home. Have you seen him today?"
"Today, oh my dear, no. Not today. There were some other people around his house earlier, I thought they might be burglars, but then I saw they were Air Force, too. Friends of yours?"
"Ah, yeah," said Daniel. "We were all supposed to get together. It's really important that we find
Jack. When did you see him last?"
"Oh, dear, Rusty, when was it we saw the dear man, hmm?" she addressed the dog, closing her eyes to think. "Oh, yes, that's right. Yesterday afternoon. It was early for him to come home, I thought, I saw him pull in and put his vehicle in the garage. He's always so neat about the way he keeps his place. Puts things away. I know he's gone a lot so I didn't think it was odd..."
"What was odd, Mrs. McGilliagan?"
"Well, that he left on that motorcycle and didn't come back. It's not very often I see him ride it. It's big, and quite noisey, but he's such a nice neighbor, I can forgive him one noisey motorcycle. Not like those nasty Everman brothers over on Elm Street, they go roaring past here at all hours of the night, making noise on purpose, I swear. I've called the police, but it doesn't seem to help..."
"Ma'am. Please," Sam interrupted. "I'm sorry the Everman brothers are so much trouble, but we do need to find Colonel O'Neill. It's very important."
"National security I suppose? I know he's very important." She smiled. "He left yesterday afternoon on his motorcycle. He wasn't even wearing one of those black leather motorcycle jacket or boots. He does have them, I've seen him wear them, but yesterday, he was just in regular clothes." She peered at Sam. "My dear, are you married? You are quite lovely, and he is such a handsome gentleman, and lives all alone in that lovely house..."
Sam would have turned 12 shades of red if she wasn't so worried about the Colonel. "Ah, Ma'am, sorry, rules, he's my commanding officer, and we can't date."
"Oh, what a shame, my dear. He seems so lonely, sitting up on his roof, watching the stars. I see him up there quite often."
"Mrs. McGilligan, I'm sorry, but really, any other help you could give us in finding Jack would be appreciated."
She smiled at Daniel. "Well, young man, like I told you, he left on that motorcycle, not dressed for going far or being gone overnight, and he went that way," she pointed north up the street. "That's all I know. And he seemed rather preoccupied. Didn't even wave at me when he left, and that's now like him, not like him at all."
Daniel handed her a card. "Please, if you see him, or if you think of anything you didn't tell us that might help us find him, call, please?"
She took the card. "Certainly, Mr. Jackson."
------------------------
Two hours later they were once again meeting in the briefing room, SG-1 sans its leader, the SGC's commander, it's CMO, and the head of the base's Security Force contingent.
"The search for Colonel O'Neill remains negative," reported Major Denman. "Nothing in the neighborhood, nothing at any of the area hospitals, law enforcement, even the neighbors. All negative. We searched the house thoroughly, and there was no sign of any disturbance."
"Thank you, Major," said Hammond. "Dr. Fraiser has made me aware of another possible explanation that we may have overlooked." Hammond nodded at the SGC's Chief Medical Officer.
"In light of the Colonel's disappearance, there's the possibility that he may have been contaminated on Vyus," said Janet Fraiser quietly.
"What? How?" Jackson and Carter asked together.
"I don't know. It's one more thing to consider here, that the Colonel disappeared because he's lost his memory. That he was somehow infected with enough of the Dargol to experience memory loss."
"That doesn't make sense, Doctor. We were on the planet as long as he was, Daniel even longer, and we're fine," Carter objected.
"I know. It's just a theory at this point, but one we need to consider as long as he's missing. And there are many reasons why one of you could be affected differently than the others. The Colonel is older to start with, so perhaps that would lead to him being affected sooner. Or he came into contact with more of the chemical, with something that was highly contaminated."
"We were very careful. We realized right away that the people on Vyus had some sort of endemic amnesia, so we didn't ingest anything," insisted Carter. "On *his* orders."
"But you weren't with him every minute. He could have eaten something, drank something, even inhaled it, or absorbed it through the skin. We really don't know enough about it to be certain."
"But it would be reversible in Jack just like the Vyans, right?" Daniel asked.
"Yes, it should be. If we can find him."
-------------------
Jack O'Neill groaned, eyelids fluttering, shivering in the early evening chill.
Rocks. Crashing. Climbing. Thirst. Snake. Sliding.
Oh damn.
His ankle was an agony onto itself, pulsing with each heartbeat. He couldn't feel the fingers on his left hand, couldn't bend them, and when he moved his hand he moaned against the agony inflicted by the slightest movement. Snakebite, he knew it usually wasn't fatal, *if* the victim got to a hospital. *If* the victim remained quiet, didn't undertake strenuous activity, and kept the bite site below heart level.
"Great, Jack, so far you've broken every rule," he mumbled.
O'Neill shivered, realized there was sweat caking the dirt on his face. Hot. Cold. Chills. Fever. Bad signs.
He raised his head, weakly, trying to see where he was, which wasn't easy in the pitch darkness of the mountain. It was cold and quiet, so perfectly quiet, except the soft sounds of the night around him, and the sighing of the wind in the trees.
Trees.
Always trees.
Damn trees.
He let his head drop back down until his cheek lay against the rock. It would be so easy just to lie there, not to move, because he knew if he moved it was going to hurt like hell. But if he didn't move he was going to die.
"Move, Jack."
He opened his eyes, looking for the source of the voice. Had someone found him?
"Get up, kid."
He knew that voice. "Dad?"
"I always knew you weren't tough enough to be an O'Neill. So just lie there and die. Go ahead. Only
the strong survive."
Jack raised his head to look around in the darkness, could have sworn he saw his father sitting on a rock about eight feet in front of him, glaring, wearing that look that meant Jack was in trouble. O'Neill shook his head. Hallucination. Nightmare. Fever dream. Another bad sign, almost as bad as talking to yourself. "You can't be here," he slurred.
"I can be anywhere I damn well want to be. You think you can hide from me, boy? Well, you can't. Nowhere. Never. I am your father and you will do as I say. And I say get your lazy butt moving."
O'Neill let his eyes fall closed. "You can't order me around. You're dead. Dead. Dead. Dead."
"Dead or not, I'm still your father. Now move!"
Jack moved. In his whole life he'd never, ever, not once given in to that sorry SOB who was his father, and he wasn't about to now. O'Neill crawled toward the apparition on the rock, crawled until he was so close he could reach out to touch it, and it vanished. The weary man's head sank once again.
---------------------
The phone in Hammond's office rang. Let it be good news, he pleaded silently as he picked up. "General Hammond...yes...Yes...Uh huh... We'll concentrate the search in that area. Keep looking. We're on our way up there now. We'll be there in a couple of hours."
"What did they find?" Daniel asked.
"Did they find him?" asked Sam.
"We haven't found the Colonel, yet, people, but we've got our first clue."
"What?" Daniel insisted.
"Jack's credit card was used to buy gas early this morning at a gas station near Harvey. About 5 a.m."
"Harvey? What was he doing up there and so early in the morning?" There was a puzzled look on Sam's face.
"We don't know, but we'll find out. We need to talk to that gas station attendant, make sure it even was the Colonel."
"You think his credit card was stolen?"
"It's always a possibility. Now, let's go. I've got a car waiting."
-------------------------
"Jack, honey, wake up. Come on, son. You've slept long enough."
"I'm still tired," the battered figure on the mountain mumbled between shaking lips.
"Jack, you have to get up. Now. It's too cold for you to be lying on the ground."
"But Mom," O'Neill shuddered, came awake. "Mom?" he whispered. "Mom?"
She was standing, no sort of floating, a foot or two off the ground, about 15 feet in front of him, up the hillside. "Oh, hi Mom. Dad was here before. Funny, you're dead, he's dead. Does this mean I'm dead?"
"No, Jack, you're not dead, not if you move, not if you try. Do it for me, Jack, for your Mother."
"Oh sure, Mom, sure, why not?" O'Neill crawled forward, toward the shimmering, floating figure. Halfway there, he paused. "Mom, how are you doing that?"
"What, son?"
"Floating? Floating. It would be nice if I could float up the hill."
"I'm sorry, son, I can't help you. Not that way. I can only be here with you, so you're not alone."
Jack started climbing again. Reach ahead with the right hand, not too far, made the shoulder hurt like hell. Then move the left hand, aching, swollen, can't grip anything, hurts like blazes, like someone was squeezing the fingers in a vise. He just wished whoever the hell it was would stop, just for a few minutes, but he wouldn't. So Jack pushed the hand forward, and then he used his left leg to push himself upward, and dragged the right leg, trying not to let the ankle hit anything but he didn't have the strength to lift it and avoid the rocks. Each movement of the shattered ankle sent shafts of pain lancing all the way up to his head. That ached too, his head, everything ached and hurt and he felt hot and cold and sick, and exhausted. After ten more feet, he didn't have the energy to move his leaden limbs, couldn't keep his eyes open and he sank quietly to the ground.
-------------------
"You are good at this, Jack. No matter how tired or cold or hurt, you keep moving."
O'Neill's head seemed too heavy to lift from the cool rock. "Too tired," he slurred his words. "Too thirsty, too tired, too cold, too hot, too sick. Can't."
"Can't is not a word in your vocabulary, Jack. You know that. Never say can't. You told me that, buddy. Never give up."
"Shut up." O'Neill whispered.
"I won't, not until you move your sorry butt up that hill."
Jack opened heavy eyelids to see Kawalsky grinning at him in the moonlight, seated on a rock ledge 15 feet up the hillside.
"Hey, Jack, come on. You should see this. It's an incredible view, buddy. You can see forever from up here."
Jack let his weary eyelids close. "You're dead, Kawalsky. You can't see anything."
"No, I'm dead, I can see everything. You know, you're not much fun anymore, buddy, just lying there. Where's the fun in that?"
"I'm hurt. Broken ankle. Snakebite."
"Ah, so now the vaunted Colonel Jack O'Neill is going to be stopped by a couple little owwies? Huh. The Jarheads will be laughing at your funeral, Jack."
"Don't care what the damn Jarheads do."
"Now that's not true, Jack, and you know it. You always hated the way those guys thought they were something special because they were god-damned Marines. Hated it when they called us Flyboys. Despised 'em, you did, or have you gone soft since I died? So soft that one little bitty snakebite will kill you?"
"Snake killed you," O'Neill mumbled.
"Now, that was a whole different kind of snake, Colonel, and you know it. Deadliest snake ever known to man. Freaking Goa'uld alien snake wrapped up all inside me. So move Jack, now."
"Can't. Hurt."
"Hurt?" Kawalsky snorted. "You think you hurt? Let me tell you about hurt. What do you think it felt like to have that damn snake all coiled up inside me? Hurt a thousand times worse than anything you've ever felt."
"Felt it myself. Damn snake. In my head."
"That's right, Jack. Hathor tried to get you with her own baby snake. You *know*, Jack, you *know* what it's like to hurt like no other hurt ever devised by man or beast. That, that was excruciating. This, this is just plain old ordinary everyday anyone-can-survive-it pain. Pain Doc Fraiser can fix. So come on."
"Kawalsky?"
"Yeah, Jack?"
"You're a pain."
The vision smiled. "Yup. I try. Now come on. I want to listen to that stereo of mine that you've got, so let's go, climb this mountain, get on back to your place."
Jack summoned up some strength and energy from somewhere and climbed. Not fast, not far, but he climbed. With Kawalsky whispering in his ear, he climbed another 20 feet before exhaustion claimed him once more and his body was unable to go on.
----------------------
Major Carter pulled the Air Force sedan into the isolated gas station. It was late, past midnight, and they were surprised the isolated business was even open. General Hammond, Daniel and Teal'c were out of the vehicle almost before the tires had stopped rolling across the gravel parking lot. An attendant in patched coveralls strolled out of the old, grease stained building.
"How can I help you folks?" she asked.
"Were you working here early this morning, er yesterday morning, actually, now?" Daniel asked.
The woman looked from face to face, suspiciously. "Yes, I'm here every morning. Own the place. Nothing happened here. Don't tell me we violated some EPA rule or somethin' by selling gas..."
"No, no, we need some help." Sam countered quickly.
"We're looking for someone, a friend, who's missing. He came through here yesterday, bought some gas early yesterday morning. A man on a motorcycle?" Daniel inquired.
"Good looking man, graying hair," the woman had a wistful look on her face. "Brown eyes, sort of sad, real quiet fella, for a bike rider."
"That would be him. Jack O'Neill."
"Sure, who'd forget a man like that coming through a place like this? Course, I've seen him around here before."
"You have?" Sam asked in surprise.
"Yeah, I think he goes up to the rock. It's a popular place for folks looking for some peace and quiet."
"The rock?"
"Yes, Sir," the woman addressed Hammond. "He came down that road there. The park, and the rock, that's about the only thing up there. Folks go up and camp, just to be alone. Nice place to hike back in by the lake, watch the sunset or the sunrise. He looked like he'd been out there all night, tired. Didn't seem too well prepared for a night up there, no gear with him, not even much of a jacket on, but...."
"Did he seem okay?"
"Okay?"
"Was he acting normal? Or did he seem lost? Or confused?"
The woman looked at Daniel, assessing. "Ah, just what did this guy do?"
"Nothing. Well, nothing bad. He just sort of disappeared, and it's not like him at all. He was supposed to be at a meeting yesterday morning, not up here on a motorcycle. We're just worried, since he never showed up. He's not usually so irresponsible."
The woman paused, thinking, shrugged. "He seemed fine. Didn't say much, like I told ya', just asked for gas, bought a fruit juice from the cooler, handed me his credit card and signed the slip, then he left."
"So where did he go when he left here?"
The woman pointed off to the right, not the way the SGC personnel had come. "That way. The shortcut, back toward the Interstate. Most folks don't like it cause it's really winding and steep in some places. But bikers like it. Can be fun to drive. And it cuts a lot of miles off the trip back to civilization."
"Thanks."
Once back in the car, Sam looked around. "So, what are we looking for, Sir?"
"Well, let's see where the road goes, talk to anyone around, see if anyone remembers seeing him."
-----------------------------
"Hey, Jack, you want a drink?"
"Ummm. Yes," his lips were dry, his throat parched, felt like he hadn't had a drink in days. The desert would do that to you, he thought fuzzily, feeling the sweat soaking his clothes, finding it hard to swallow.
"Well, then, buddy, you better open your eyes and look around you. A few feet ahead, and there's your drink, nice soothing, cool drink."
O'Neill opened one crusted shut eyelid, started to push himself up, moaned as pain shot up his left arm. "Oh, God, what?" In the dim moonlight, he could see his hand, grossly swollen from fingertips nearly to his elbow. It hurt with each heartbeat, worse even than the pain in his right ankle. Agony in stereo-- left arm, right ankle, throbbing to the rhythm of his pulse, his head pounding in counterpoint.
"Let's go, Jack. I don't want to leave you behind again."
Jack's head snapped up to see the ghostly figure of... "Frank? Frank Cromwell? What are you doing here? You're not here. You're in the black hole on PX someplace." O'Neill paused, looked blankly around the dark mountainside. "Is that what happened? Black hole, that's why it's so dark, black hole, crushed my arm, my ankle, my head. Oh shit."
"No, Jack, you're not in the black hole. Only I fell in the black hole. You're on a mountain, not that far from Cheyenne Mountain. Now it's time you get yourself out of this mess. I didn't die so you could ride your damn bike off a mountain and kill yourself by giving up when help is so close."
O'Neill's head had slumped back to the ground. "I can't go any further, Frank. Hurts. Tired."
"So? When haven't you hurt, Jack? When weren't you tired and injured and wounded? When? You have survived more crap than anyone I know, Jack. A lot of it was my fault, so I couldn't let you die in that black hole and I am not going to let you give up and die now. That's the easy way out, Jack. The easy way, the coward's way. Dying is easy. It's living that's hard."
"I know," O'Neill mumbled.
"That's right. Any dumb shit can give up and die. It's takes a spectacularly tough shitkickin' dumbass to keep on livin'."
"Leave me alone, Frank."
"No, I'm not leaving you alone, and I'm not leaving you behind. I did that once, and I never forgave myself for it any more than you ever forgave me. So I'm not gonna let it happen again. You will move your sorry ass up that hillside."
"Can't."
"You can, Jack. Start with reaching right there, in front of you. That's an order, airman."
O'Neill stretched out his right hand, felt the cold numbed fingers hit... something. He reached, pulled it towards him, something plastic, heavy. He opened one eye. A bottle, a plastic bottle, full of fruit juice. His breakfast, the juice he'd bought at the gas station, stuffed it in his pocket, to drink for breakfast...
With a moan that was a mixture of relief and pleasure, he pulled the treasure to him. His hand shook so badly it took him three tries to open the cap. He sipped, the cool liquid soaking into the desiccated tissues of his mouth and throat. He wanted to gulp it down, knew better, could barely restrain himself, but made himself sip. Only a little. Then clumsily he put the cap back on, tucked the bottle inside his shirt, and crawled upward.
He'd made it a dozen more feet when he saw light above him, flickering through the trees, blinding, searing light in the dark world he inhabited.
A car, oh God it was a car on the mountain road. Shouting hoarsely, voice rasping, he hollered.
No one heard.
The car drove on.
Oh God.
But the road, it wasn't so far now. He'd made it most of the way, thanks to Dad and Mom and Frank and Kawalsky.
Jack let his head rest on his forearm, he could feel the heat radiating off his left hand. Didn't much look like a hand, just a puffy, marshmallow, Pillsbury doughboy kind of hand-shaped throbbing thing. A moan escaped him. Snake. God damn snake.
"I hate snakes," he mumbled, and his eyes slid closed again.
------------------
They drove slowly down the winding road, all the way to the bottom, to the state highway that connected to the Interstate. Three squads of SFs in Jeeps were waiting there. Hammond got out, talked to the commander, then walked back to the worried members of SG-1 gathered around the car.
"Sgt. Harder's team has been talking to people. No one saw anyone come through this way yesterday. But there's an older retired gentleman who lives down by the bridge. He walks up here everyday. Says a car full of teenagers, driving crazy, passed him going up the hill, nearly ran him over, and a few minutes later he thought he heard something odd. Teal'c, you'll start with these men and as soon as it's light enough to see, begin working your way up the mountain. Look for any sign of someone or something leaving the road. Major, Dr. Jackson, we're taking the third squad back up to the top and working our way down." Hammond looked over all the personnel. "Look sharp, people. The Colonel may be here somewhere, ill, or injured."
Carter, Hammond and Jackson climbed back into the car, the Jeep full of SFs following and slowly began the long drive to the top of the mountain.
--------------------------
"You can't give up, not now, not when you're so close. They're coming for you."
That voice, oh God, he knew that voice. Though he didn't have the strength to lift his head, O'Neill's eyes snapped open, and he smiled. "Charlie."
"Yes, Dad, it's me."
"You shouldn't be out here in the dark. Are you lost?"
"No. I came to be with you, Dad."
"Go home. It's not safe out here. Snakes," Jack mumbled.
"I'm okay, Dad, snakes won't hurt me. I'm worried about you."
"Jus' tired."
"I know, Dad, I know you're tired. But you have a little bit further to go. Then you can rest. But you need to come on up here by me, up by the road."
"Sorry, Charlie. Can't. No more, can't do any more." Every breath hurt, his throat felt tight, his head ached and his arm and his ankle hurt. Weariness, exhaustion, weakness threatened to overwhelm him.
"Dad, you have to move. Come on."
"No."
"Dad, if you die, who will remember me?"
"Charlie...just let me die. Let me be dead with you."
"No, Dad, not yet. You tried that before and it wasn't right. It's not your time."
"Past my time. Cheated death too many times."
"No one cheats death, Dad, when it's your time, it's your time. Even if you're only ten years old. I didn't leave because I wanted to Dad, my time was up."
"Too young, you were too young."
"No Dad, it was my time. Ten years was all it was supposed to be, Dad. But you've got more years left, you've got things to do, things you need to do, people who need you..."
"Charlie can't I just be with you?"
"No, Dad, you can't." The boy's pale face was set in that stubborn look Jack knew only too well. "It's time for you to come up here, the rest of the way. There's not much time."
"Doesn't matter. I'll be with you."
"Dad, it *does* matter. You have to climb up here. See, up here, by me. Look, Dad, look at me."
Jack raised his head, glazed eyes seeing the ghostly form of his son, saw the beckoning, outstretched hand, waiting for him. He shook his head weakly. "No, can't be you. A trick. You're dead."
"Yes, Dad, I'm dead, but it's no trick. A figment of your imagination, maybe, a hallucination, created by your own mind, your will. I'm your subconscious ordering you to fight on and not give up."
The brown eyes closed slowly. "Enough is enough."
"No Dad. You can't quit now. You'll never forgive yourself if you give up."
"It won't matter. If I give up I'll be dead and I won't have to forgive myself for anything anymore." The apparition shimmied and faded. A sob shook Jack's chest. "Charlie... Please. Charlie. Don't go. Wait for me. Charlie!"
"Dad, I need you to come up here. Now. Please."
"Oh God, Charlie, I can't. It hurts."
"I know it does, Dad, but I need you. Please. Try. For me? Remember the card I gave you, on the last Father's Day we were together? The one that said you were the best Dad ever? I meant it, Dad. You're the best. You know that, don't you?"
"I failed you. Screwed up..."
"No. Dad, please. I can't stay much longer, but I need you to listen. Please. Come up here, to me. I'm waiting."
He had no strength left, but he couldn't ignore the pleading in Charlie's voice, the need. Charlie needed him. His son needed him. Jack knew it wasn't real, knew it couldn't be real, but he didn't have the capacity anymore to distinguish what was real from what wasn't and it didn't matter anyhow. Charlie needed him. He couldn't let Charlie down again. He would do anything for Charlie, he would do the incredible, the unbearable, the impossible; he would give his life and his very soul for Charlie.
Reaching deep inside for his last ounce of strength and will, Jack O'Neill forced his right arm to move, to reach up and grasp a rock. Using his good left leg to push himself upward, he set his right knee to brace himself against a rock. He inched forward, pulling, pushing, crawling, six inches, eight, ten, a foot, two feet...
"That's it, Dad, you're nearly here," Charlie cheered him on. "Hurry. They're coming. Hurry. Now Dad. Now."
With a groan, O'Neill pushed himself upward once more and found himself lying, on small stones, not hard, rough, rugged, jagged rocks but small little smooth stones.
"Good job, Dad. I knew you could do it," Charlie smiled, and reached out his hand.
------------------------
Carter was driving carefully, concentrating on the curving road in the pre-dawn darkness.
"Stop! Stop!" shouted Daniel suddenly, throwing the door open and jumping from the car even before it had stopped. There, beside the road, a darker patch of 'something' had caught his eye, something that hadn't been there when they'd come down the mountain. A form, a dark, huddled form, on the side of the roadway, a hand reaching out. "Jack!"
Glazed eyes opened, the gray haired head lifting a bare fraction of an inch from the ground. "Charlie..." Jack reached out his hand, grasped the warm hand that was there, taking his. "Charlie?" Oh God, he was real, flesh and blood and warm and real. "Charlie."
"A blanket. I need a blanket!" Daniel shouted at Carter and the General, as he dropped to his knees, his hand locked by Jack's vise like grip. "Jack, it's okay. Let go. We found you."
The hand stayed wrapped tightly around his. "Charlie," the only mumbled sound that came from O'Neill's lips.
"My God! What happened?" Hammond muttered, as he heard the Jeep pull up behind them.
Daniel was using his free hand to quickly check the too rapid pulse and feverish forehead as Carter's flashlight illuminated the mumbling, shivering man. "He tried to splint his ankle," Jackson said. "He's got cuts and scrapes everywhere, and a lump on his head, under all this blood," he added. "Oh God, Sam, shine the light here." Carter brought the light closer, revealing the Colonel's left arm, so grossly swollen it barely resembled a human limb.
"Broken?" Carter asked.
"No. It's hot, just radiating heat. I don't know," and then Jackson had worked his way down to the hand, and found the two small puncture marks. "Snakebite. Damn."
One of the SFs, a medic, had brought a blanket, and carefully they wrapped it and another one from Hammond's car around the Colonel's still form. The airman quickly checked over the injured man. "His pulse is rapid, breathing shallow. We need to get him to medical help immediately, Sir," said the medic.
"General, Sir, take a look," said Carter, her flashlight pointing down the hillside. Hammond joined her, and saw the light glinting off metal. "He must have lost control and gone over the embankment. You couldn't see this from the road unless you got out and looked."
"Damn," said Hammond.
"Sir," said the young medic, rising to his feet. "We need to get him to a hospital."
"In my car, then, airman. We'll have an evac chopper waiting at the bottom of the mountain by the time we get there," Hammond ordered. Two of the young SFs carefully picked up the injured man, placing him on the back seat. Daniel climbed in beside Jack to steady him, cradling the wounded man, keeping the blankets draped around the battered body.
Quickly, Sam turned the car around and started down the mountain and towards town.
-----------------------
They were nearly to the base of the mountain before the quiet form wrapped in blankets stirred, dazed brown eyes opening slowly. "Where am...?"
"Shh, Jack. We found you. We're on the way to the hospital. You're going to be okay."
"Where's Charlie?" the eyes drifted around the car, looking.
"Jack, just relax, everything's okay."
"Charlie!" O'Neill struggled to sit upright. "Charlie?" There was desperation in the voice, the eyes still searching randomly."Charlie! I need Charlie. I can't go without Charlie."
"Shhh, Jack, it's me, Daniel."
The struggling continued. "Charlie!"
"Jack, it's Daniel, not Charlie. Charlie's not here. You know that." Daniel tried to keep his voice calm.
"Charlie," the quiet voice was a choked sob, the glazed eyes not seeing Daniel, but the one face he wanted to see. "Charlie, you okay, son? I'm sorry, I'm sorry...."
"Shh, it's okay. It's okay. I'm okay. Don't worry."
"Charlie, oh God, you're all right..." Jack's voice faded, drifted as he struggled to keep his eyes open, and lost the battle.
"I'm alright. Don't worry. You'll be okay, too." Daniel bit his lip as he wrapped the blankets even tighter around O'Neill. The Colonel was still mumbling, more names now, names Daniel knew, Kawalsky and Frank, he even thought he heard a Mom and Dad among the disjointed rambling mutterings.
--------------------
The chopper waited at the base of the mountain, blades spinning, medical personnel including Dr. Fraiser standing by impatiently. The car had barely stopped before the orderlies were loading the still form of Colonel O'Neill from the car onto a stretcher.
Fraiser was immediately as his side, listening to the medic's report, quickly re-taking the Colonel's pulse, respiration and blood pressure readings, her face grim in the soft light of dawn. "Get him in that chopper and to the hospital. Now." she ordered.
General Hammond and the remaining members of SG-1 could only look on helplessly as their friend and CO was loaded aboard the helicopter, Dr. Fraiser climbing in beside him. Squinting against the blast of grit and sand stirred up by the speeding blades, they watched silently as the craft lifted off and sped away.
Wordlessly, they returned to the car and the long drive to Colorado Springs and the Academy Hospital.
-----------------------------
Janet was waiting by the time they arrived at the hospital over an hour later, her tired face expressionless.
"So, Doctor, how is he?" General Hammond asked.
"Alive. And that's a miracle. Fractured ankle, bruised ribs, concussion, suffering from dehydration, exhaustion, exposure, cuts and abrasions too numerous to mention. As for the snakebite," she paused, took a deep breath, "he was bitten once on the hand. We've given him the anti-venom, but ideally, that should have been given in the first 6-12 hours to be most effective. There's no way to know when he was actually bitten, and he hasn't been coherent enough to answer. Most likely, the bite occurred sometime yesterday, which means it's been over 12 hours, possibly as much as 24. He's very sick and he'll be sick for a while. On top of the other injuries..."
"He'll recover, though, won't he?" Sam asked.
Janet looked around at the expectant faces. "I'd like to give you an answer, you know that, but I can't. It's just too early to know."
Daniel sighed, Sam slumped back to lean against the corridor wall, and Teal'c stared impassively.
It was only General Hammond who spoke. "Anything we can do?"
Fraiser shook her head. "You might want to say a prayer, Sir."
"Can we see him?" Daniel asked quietly.
Janet shook her head. "He's still deeply unconscious. At best, he won't be awake for hours, probably not until tomorrow. I'd suggest all of you go home and get some sleep. I'll let you know when there's any change." She looked around at Hammond and SG-1. "I wish I had better news. I'm sorry. Now, I need to go..."
"Yes, Doctor. Take care of him," Hammond ordered. He watched her go, then sighed. "I've got to get back to the base. I think all of you should follow Dr. Fraiser's orders and get some rest," he said, and was quickly gone down the hallway.
"Coming?" Sam asked Daniel.
"No, I think I'll stay," he answered, staring down the hallway at the intensive care unit.
"You can't visit him," she reminded.
"Maybe Janet will let me sit with him a bit." Daniel looked up at her. "Sam, all the way back, he was mumbling, talking about his son, and his parents, Frank Cromwell, Kawalsky. People who were important to him, and they're all dead. But he was talking to them as if he'd just seen them, as if they were there." Daniel shook his head, remembering the frantic tone in Jack's voice. "He kept asking for his son, so I let him think I was Charlie. I don't know if that was right."
"He was feverish and delirious. Anything that would give him comfort was okay Daniel, really." Carter soothed.
Daniel smiled wanly. "I'm not sure. After what I said to him the other day, he probably won't want to see me anyway."
"Now that I doubt. I'll go find Janet, see if it's okay for you to stay, huh?"
Sam was gone 15 minutes, coming back with rolls and coffee. Daniel sipped the hot bitter brew thankfully, tried to eat some of the pastry, nibbled mostly. "Janet says they're putting a temporary cast on his ankle right now, so you can go sit with him in an hour or so. Okay?" she asked, gently.
He nodded, lost in thought.
"Daniel..." Sam started.
He looked up at her with haunted eyes. "This is all my fault. God, how could I have been so thoughtless, to say that, to him? To use Charlie to hurt him?" Daniel let his eyes drop to focus on the floor between his feet. "Sam, you didn't know him then, right after his son died. He was dead inside and he intended to finish the job on Abydos. He wanted to die, because he believed he had failed at the most important thing in his life. And because *I* was upset, I just threw out at him the most hurtful words I could think to say."
Sam laid a hand on Daniel's shoulder. She hadn't known the Colonel back then, had only heard bits and pieces from Daniel about that time in O'Neill's life, when the man had felt he had nothing to live for.
"Sam, I rubbed it in his face. God, me of all people. I *knew* better. I deliberately said the one thing I knew would hurt him the most. I wanted to hurt him. It was like my lips were moving without my brain being engaged in the conversation, like some part of me I didn't even recognize just took over and was determined to do the most damage it could to the person who's the best friend I've ever had."
"You're still grieving yourself, Daniel. The Colonel understands."
"Oh sure. So that gives me the right to take out my hurt on him and expect him to understand? We always expect him to carry on no matter what, we expect him to be the strong one, because he puts on that nothing-bothers-me front. But I know better; of all of us, I know better. I got a glimpse, back on Abydos, of the hurt he carries around, all locked up inside, hidden behind the sarcasm and the attitude. And we just take him for granted, expect him to always buck up and take whatever everybody dishes out. We take him at face value and forget he's human, too."
"Yes, we do, Daniel," said Sam, softly, squeezing the young man's shoulder.
_______________
When they finally let Daniel in to Jack's room, he was appalled by what he saw. O'Neill lay on the bed, unconscious, livid bruises, cuts and scrapes covering almost every inch of skin that Jackson could see-- his cheek, arms, chest. His lower right leg was propped up on pillows, encased in a heavy cast. His left arm, still terribly swollen, was also supported by a mound of pillows. An oxygen cannula assisting his breathing, the steady rise and fall of his chest reassuring, considering how pale he looked under the bruises. Daniel thought he'd seen corpses that looked healthier. "How's he doing?"
Dr. Fraiser was fussing over her patient, and turned a reassuring though tired look at Jackson. "He's holding his own, and that's a good sign right now. And we know he's strong. And lucky, very lucky that you found him when you did."
Daniel stood at the foot of O'Neill's bed, arms wrapped around himself, rocking slightly on his heels. "It was my fault he was there in the first place."
Janet shook her head. "He wouldn't see it that way."
"That doesn't change anything. It's my fault. I didn't think before I opened my big mouth. I didn't care that I hurt him. Hell, I wanted to hurt him, I wanted to, I don't know, make someone else hurt as much as I did, make someone else understand. I was so angry, and I wanted to wipe that smug look off his face, wanted to shut him up before he said I told you so." Daniel gazed into the doctor's kind face. "Janet, I saw the look on his face, when I told him he was a rotten father, and he flinched, and I was glad. Glad that I'd made him feel bad. God, it was so vindictive and petty and stupid of me, but I couldn't stop myself."
"Daniel, it's only human that we lash out when we're hurt, and usually, it's at the people who mean the most to us." Janet soothed, putting a hand on the worried man's shoulder. "You can't take back what you said to him. Just be here for him now, and when he wakes up, tell him what you've told me." She squeezed the stiff shoulder.
"*If* he wakes up..."
"Colonel O'Neill doesn't give up easily. Don't underestimate his recuperative powers. I've learned not to. He has a long way to go, but he's always been one to defy the odds. Never give up on him, Daniel."
---------------------------
Through the day, Daniel sat at Jack's bedside for the ten minutes per hour visiting time allowed in the Intensive Care Unit. Finally, late in the afternoon, the still figure began to stir, small restless movements signaling the start of returning consciousness. Jackson called one of the nurses and Janet soon arrived, checking her patient closely. "Colonel, it's Dr. Fraiser. Can you squeeze my hand?"
He didn't respond, just mumbled incoherently and tried to move on the bed.
"Colonel, Sir, you need to stay still. You're at the Academy Hospital. You're going to be okay." She checked him over quickly, frowning at the still elevated temperature and his lack of responsiveness.
When she was done, her gaze met Daniel's worried eyes. "He's improving, but very slowly. His temperature has come down a bit, and his vitals are more stable. He's still got a long way to go, but we all know the Colonel is a fighter," Janet reassured him.
Daniel nodded, arms wrapped around his chest, looking lost.
"Why don't you go get some rest? He'll sleep a while yet I think."
"No, I need to be here when he wakes up."
"Okay," Doc said kindly, "I'll let the nurses know you have my permission to stay."
"Thanks."
Fraiser patted his arm as she left. "When he wakes up, he'll be glad you're here."
----------------------
Nothing changed for hours, and then O'Neill began to mumble, disjointed, out of sync words and sentences. On the rare occasions his eyes opened, they were unfocussed, drifting, haunted. When Jack looked at Daniel, he didn't see him, but the fever induced visions from his past. He spoke to the apparitions, over and over, in hoarse whispers. Daniel simply gripped the hand that sought his, and let his friend imagine who he wanted, or needed, to see. He didn't know if Jack was recalling real memories or imagined conversations or nightmare dreams. Some of each, he thought, as the rambling continued.
"I made it, Dad. See. Tougher than you thought, you old bastard." A faint smile of triumph crossed O'Neill's face.
"Charlie, stay away, there's snakes here, Charlie. Go home." Worry creased the sweat streaked forehead.
"Kawalsky, they said you were dead." There was joy in the voice.
"Frank, I understand, now, what it's like. How it hurts. I've forgiven you, Frank. Huh? Is that okay?" The words were earnest, searching.
"Mom, oh God, Mom, I'm sorry I wasn't there when you were sick. I wanted to come, I did really." A note of despair in the words.
"Dad, I broke the window, not Joe," said defiantly.
"Don't tell your Mom, Charlie, it's our secret." A half-grin crossed the pale lips.
"Kawalsky, ah, man, I know the guy's just a geek but..."
"Frank, you sorry son of a bitch, how could you leave me behind? Huh? You promised, you *promised*..." Anger filled the words, tensed the bruised jaw.
Hour after hour, mumbling, rambling fever filled talk as Daniel wiped the sweating face, held the flailing hand, repeated low comforting sounds that didn't seem to offer any comfort at all, but it was all Jackson could think to do. In between, nurses and Dr. Fraiser and Dr. Warner were in and out, reassuring him that O'Neill was improving. Daniel couldn't see it, but he had to take their word for it, comforted by the steady beeping of the monitors.
"Hurts, Charlie, oh God it hurts." The pain lines were back around Jack's eyes.
"Hate snakes, hate damn snakes."
"Get out getout getout getout getout getout. I won't hurt them, I won't hurt them, I won't let you hurt them. Freakin' snake..."
"She didn't tell you squat. Neither will I."
"I believe *in* you."
"Destroyer of worlds. She'll destroy him, too. Him first."
"Aw, God, Charlie. Charlie noooo," the words drifting into a half sob.
----------------------------
Pain.
Heat.
Jack thrashed.
Beepers and alarms went off as O'Neill's sudden movements tore loose the connections for the monitors. Daniel jerked awake at the noise, grabbing at his friend's flailing arm.
"Jack, easy, it's okay." The Colonel snagged Jackson's hand in a convulsively strong grip.
"Charlie?" The eyes were glazed, feverish, the voice rising in intensity as he failed to recognize his friend. "Charlie? Son? Where are you? Charlie?"
A nurse was in the room, adjusting meds, reconnecting equipment. She handed Daniel a cloth, and he wiped the sweat from Jack's face and forehead. His friend didn't look like the usual self-contained, always in control military officer. "Easy, you're going to be fine, Jack. Everything is fine."
As the sedative the nurse had added to the IV took hold, Jack's grip on Daniel's hand loosened. "Where's Charlie?" he asked once more.
"Shh, rest now. You're fine. He's fine. It's okay."
------------------
Daniel was dozing, sometime in the night, the hospital gone quiet around them, only the soft sound of the machinery beeping its incessant rythym.
"Charlie?" A weak voice from the bed startled Daniel to wakefulness.
"Jack?"
The brown eyes were only partly open, looking confused and distant, a frown creasing the forehead. "Charlie?"
"Jack, hey, it's okay. You're in the hospital. You had a little accident but you're okay."
"Charlie?" the name was whispered.
"Jack, this is Daniel. Charlie's not here."
Fever bright eyes drifted over to meet his. "Daniel?"
"Yes."
"Where's Charlie?"
"Jack, he's not here." Very softly he added, "You know he's not here."
The eyes slid closed, blinked, opened to stare languidly around him. "Charlie's not here?" A pained expression crossed the face, reality intruding. The eyelids slid shut, and Daniel thought he'd drifted off again, until they opened and O'Neill's soft voice asked. "It was a dream, wasn't it?"
"Yes, I'm sorry, Jack. You know..."
"Charlie's dead," the voice said quietly.
"Yes."
"But he was there, with me."
"You imagined it. Fever will do that."
The tired eyes closed, then once more opened slowly. "He was there. So were Kawalsky and Frank."
"Dreams, Jack."
"They were real, so real. I'd have given up, without them."
Jack's eyes drifted shut once more, and Daniel thought he'd gone back to sleep.
"Daniel..." barely a whisper.
"Sh, you should rest."
"Daniel, I know you didn't mean it. What you said. The other day. About Charlie."
Daniel Jackson slumped in his chair. "I was angry and upset and of course I didn't mean it." He patted Jack's arm. "I know you were a great Dad. The kind any kid would have wanted. Charlie was lucky to have you."
"Charlie..." Jack mumbled the name once more. "I miss him." Quiet for a moment.
"I know."
The voice sounded worn. "They're all gone, aren't they? Frank, Kawalsky, Charlie?"
"Yes. I'm sorry. They're all gone."
"You won't go?"
Daniel reached down and laid his hand reassuringly on Jack's shoulder. "Of course not, I'm here. That's what friends are for."
"Still friends?"
"Yeah."
Daniel had to strain to hear the mumbled word. "Thanks."
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