Something
Author: Badgergater
Email: [email protected]
Summary: Jack wonders if he's dead... or if it's something else
Pairing: None
Season: not definite
Warnings: None, really, Jack's talking so watch the language
Rating: PG-13
Spoilers: Nope, none of those, either
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 is the property of MGM, Double Secret, Gekko, Showtime, SciFi, probably Fox and just about everybody but me, but I'd buy shares if they'd let me. Until then, I know they're not mine, I 'm just borrowing them for entertainment purposes and will faithfully return them, though I make no promises as to their condition when I'm through with them
Author's Note: For TK, she liked this one
------------------------
If only they would stop.
God, why won’t they stop?
Damn it, God, make them stop.
I’m...something.
I don’t think I’m dead. I’d know if I was dead, wouldn’t I? I mean, I’ve been dead before, and I knew it, sort of. So no, not dead.
Might be better.
It would hurt less, that much I know.
I’m…something.
Floating.
Adrift.
Lost.
Alone, I know that.
I’m just here, thinking.
I can’t move. It’s like my brain is disconnected from my body, like all the nerves are severed. Well, no, not quite all, because I can feel things, things I don’t want to feel. It’s usually that way, come to think of it. It’s the pain you can feel that tells you you’re still alive, so maybe the pain isn’t such a bad thing.
Yeah, right, Jack.
I can feel pain. My head, or at least what I think is my head, hurts, like each brain cell is being flattened in a vise, like there’s a giant drum beating inside my skull, reverberating, echoing, trying to get out but the sound has nowhere to go. Round and round, clashing with its own echoes, until my head feels like it’s going to disintegrate. There’s another pain, too, in my body, my chest, a different agony, a sharp, hard, intense, insistent, pain; flaring, bursting to life and subsiding in time with the beating of my heart; rhythmically, in counterpoint to the ache in my head.
Here, there and everywhere.
I can feel a few other things, too, like scattered parts of my body are working still. I can feel that I’m lying on something, something not too hard, not stone or metal, cool and smooth, not rough. I know that they, whoever they are, have taken my clothes and covered me with something else. I can feel cloth, something that seems like cloth anyway, brushing against my bare toes, my legs, my butt, my chest, my back and shoulders.
I just can’t move, like I’m stuck in cotton or glue or cement.
Or wrapped up like one of Daniel's mummies. He didn't turn me into a mummy, did he?
And it’s dark. I don’t know if it’s really dark, or just that I can’t seem to open my eyes. Of course, maybe they are open, I’m not sure if I could tell. Maybe it’s that dark in here, maybe I’m blind.
Maybe it was a Goa’uld stun grenade, this is sort of what it feels like, come to think of it. That pain racing around inside your head, and the pitch black in front of your eyes. But that never lasts this long.
I’d check to see if my eyes were open if I could move my hand. Can’t. Either it weighs a thousand pounds or the muscles have all turned to mush; or maybe all the nerve cells that are supposed to tell it to move don’t work anymore.
Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe it’s a new Goa’uld weapon, the new and improved supersized stun grenade deluxe.
Goa’uld. Oh God, shit, no, please no, not a snake, not in here with me.
For a moment, I can feel my heart racing wildly, pounding in my chest, the sound echoing through my head. Was it a Goa’uld? Is that why I can’t control my body? Did the freakin’ snakes get me? Take control and lock me out? Nooooooo.
Shit. No. No. No. No.
The darkness is rushing at me, a monstrous towering black wave rising and rising, ready to crash over me, envelope me and I can’t flee, can’t hide, can’t do a goddamn thing. No, damn it, no, not now, let me think, no, no.
-----------------
I don’t know how long I was…gone? Unconscious? But I don’t think I’m exactly conscious now, so I’m not sure what I was before. Or for how long, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months years.
Timeless darkness.
Oh yeah, it’s still dark, still quiet.
Not totally quiet. I mean, I can hear things, like my heart pounding. And faint, rumbling noises, almost like the way people sounded when they were talking during that Black Hole thing. You know, super slow, like playing one of my old 45s on 33 1/3, all draggy and stretched out and indecipherable.
Talking oddly, like a Goa’uld?
Shit, no, don’t go there, Jack. Stop. Take a detour. Do *not* go on with that line of thinking. Think. Use your head. You better use your head because it’s the only thing you do have that’s working, or that seems to be working. Reconnoiter a bit. Check around inside here, in all the dark little nooks and crannies of your brain. Nope, no snakes hiding in here with me. I’d know, wouldn’t I? Yes, I would, I’d know that.
Good. Whew! That’s a relief, at least one less thing to worry about.
Snakes. Goa’ulds. That must be what happened to me. Apophis. Bastard is supposed to be dead, but he’s not dead, he’s never dead. How’d he ever get his hands on a Get Out of Hell Free card, huh? Sneaky sonofabitch.
Damn. Apophis. His Blood of Sokar stuff again? Not that. No. Not that shit, not more warped memories, more punishing dreams. No. But that would account for this strangeness; maybe, maybe that’s why I feel so…something. So weird. So cut off.
So breathless.
Can’t breathe.
Funny, I thought I couldn’t move, but breathing is moving so I must have been moving because all of a sudden, I realize I suddenly can’t breathe. I can feel my chest straining, my lungs screaming for air.
God, what are they doing to me.
No.
Stop.
Stop.
I can’t stop them. I can’t tell them to stop because my throat doesn’t work.
I’m suddenly cold.
Icy air hitting my chest.
I'm not covered up any more.
Something…
Oh shit, gagging. Gagging me, something pushed in my mouth, down my throat. Not the Blood of Sokar, something hard, thick, cold, choking me.
Can’t breathe.
Can’t.
Breathe.
Even though I can’t tell my body what to do, it’s fighting. I feel it, feel my muscles spasm and seize, my throat instinctively retching, trying to reject whatever the hell they’re stuffing down my throat.
Stop.
Damn you, stop.
Stop.
Please, stop.
Touches.
I can feel touches on my skin, my arms, my chest. Some of them are gentle, some are uncomfortable, in places I really don't want to be touched, not like this anyway, while some are downright, ouch, painful. Inwardly, I squirm, dreading whatever is coming next.
My chest is heavy, tight, weighed down.
Ow. Something sharp and cold jabbing into my chest, an intense flare of pain that dies away as suddenly as it came.
There's something else now, hard, cold touching my chest. What are they doing? I've got a really bad feeling. I don't think I want them to do this. Get away! What? What?
Arrrrghhhhh.
Agony. Shocking pain arcing through my body, like ten times ten thousand volts, like lightning turning my nerves to molten fire.
I can feel my back arch, my muscles cramping and twitching.
Oh God, what the hell are they doing to me? Torturing someone who can’t speak and can’t move makes no sense. Nothing makes any sense.
I’m trying to scream, but I can’t partly because my throat is blocked, partly because my body still won’t obey a single damn thing I tell it to do, no matter how simple, no matter how loudly or frantically I order it, and partly by whatever the hell they stuck there, against my will.
They’re back, those cold hard pain inflicting things and the shock slams through me again. Pain rages outward from my chest to the tips of my toes and the top of my head. Son of a bitch. God, what is this, a new kind of pain stick? Those others weren’t bad enough?
Please, not again. Not more. Damn.
What do you want?
Leave me alone.
Let me be.
Stop.
------------
Son of a bitch.
I’m…something.
Still not dead.
Still hurting.
Still breathing.
It feels like breathing, anyway. And that other sound must be my heart beating and my blood running through my veins, gurgling and chugging.
I feel…exhausted. Drained. Overwhelmed.
I feel relieved. Whatever they, whoever they are, have been doing to me, it’s stopped, at least for now.
I’d sigh if I could.
Peace for a few moments. The pain’s still in here with me, but at a bearable level now, spread throughout my whole body, every muscle, bone, tendon and tissue vibrating with the intensity of it.
I can’t do anything to stop it, to hold it in, to escape it, move with it or against it or fight it.
Trapped.
A prisoner in my own body.
This is my own body, isn’t it?
Yes, I feel the familiar throbbing in the knees, the spasms in the back, the old deep dark pain in the shoulder, all the well-known pains and damaged places and out of kilter pieces and parts. That’s a relief. At least I’m still…something… of myself.
If only I could see or hear.
If only I understood, maybe then I could handle this. I’d have something to hold on to, some tiny iota of control. Something to cling to. Some hope it will end.
That’s how I get through it other times. I know the pain will end. If I can see it as something finite, I can conquer it.
Think, Jack.
How did this happen?
You remember what happened.
Your brain still works.
Apophis was waiting when we went through the gate to P4C-370, yes. One momentary glimpse of that triumphant face before the zats hit us.
Some new kind of zat, maybe that’s what this is? I’m lying on the ground, my nerve endings fried by a super strength zat?
No, wait. That’s not it. We got caught, but we escaped. We did. I remember.
We got zatted. He must have had those things on full power. Writhing on the ground, the fire burning though every inch of me, pain tingling through every muscle, every cell quivering.
Apophis stood there, looking down on us, laughing, gloating about how he was going to get even with us, how he’d make us pay, how we’d be human sacrifices to his glory and his power and his ability to resurrect himself once again. He used the rings to go back to his ship.
Finally, when we could walk, the Jaffa marched us away from the gate and toward the ship, or tried to. Daniel stumbled, and when I reached down to help him up, one of the Jaffa swung his staff at me. I grabbed it, surprise giving me the advantage as I pulled him toward me. He staggered, and then we were all fighting, swinging, and somehow, desperation lending me strength, I pulled the weapon from his hand. Turning it, I shot him and shot another as Teal’c grabbed the dead Jaffa’s zat and we took them all down.
SG-1 ran for the gate.
We made it didn’t we? I thought we did...
We did…something.
Damn.
He must have caught us again.
So this isn’t torture for information.
It’s torture for the hell of it. For spite. For revenge. For kicks.
Now that’s a Goa’uld for ya.
Torture a man when he’s down.
Why else?
The others, what happened to the others? My team, where are they? Are they here, too, being forced to suffer like this? Oh shit, no, please, not them, too. I can bear this if I know they escaped.
My heart is pounding, my lungs gasping for air, fighting to draw the oxygen in past whatever the hell device they’ve shoved into my raw throat.
Can’t breathe.
The darkness is returning, rolling in like fog from the sea, surrounding me, dragging me down. No, damn it, no.
Let me go.
---------------
I’m drowning, unable to breathe.
What’s he done now? Thrown me into a lake, a river, a something? I don't feel wet. I feel... something.
Suffocating.
Can’t draw air, can’t get air…
------------
I’m…something.
Still not dead, I don’t think.
I feel heavy.
The pain’s still here, my constant companion, ebbing and flowing like a living thing, waiting to ambush me, granting me a brief moment of respite to collect myself before surging forward once more, roaring back to life with renewed intensity, washing through me in waves. I want to whimper in relief when the pain goes away as much as I want to scream when it builds again. I can do neither. I can’t do anything.
I can’t handle this.
I could handle steady but this, this… is something worse. Anticipation of pain is as bad as the pain itself. I know that, know it well. Pain is an old friend of mine.
--------------
A touch, something lying heavily on my forehead and I flinch away, mentally at least. Rumbling noises, on the edge of my awareness, noises I should know and recognize but I can’t quite interpret.
I know I’m drugged. I recognize this leaden feeling, this lack of control. I recognize it now for what it is.
I’m not giving in, not letting him win.
My hands, I feel my hands move. Yes!
Free, somehow, I’ve gotten free, I raise my hands, bringing them up toward my face to remove the gag, moving my legs, trying to crawl away, anything, anything.
Too slow. My hands are seized, grabbed, held, my legs, too. I try to fight but I haven’t the strength, God, they’re too strong for me, too much for me. Stop. No! Let me go!
I can feel the bindings wrap around my wrists.
That’s the good news, I can feel; the bad news is I’m bound and gagged and I still can’t see who it is that’s torturing me.
I have to see.
I’m not blind, just like I’m not paralyzed. It’s a trick, a drug, a mind game.
I can overcome this.
Concentrate. Pick one task, bend your will to one specific, single, simple thing.
Open your eyes.
Eyelids weigh, what, a couple ounces? Can’t be more than that. Open your eyes, damn it, O’Neill.
Open.
Your.
Eyes.
They feel like they’re glued shut, like they’re sewn closed, like they’re weighted with cement blocks.
A sudden irrational surge of claustrophobia, terror sending the blood racing through my veins, my heartbeat thundering as adrenaline surges, giving me strength.
My eyes open.
Searing, blinding, painfully intense light.
More than my battered brain can comprehend.
Blackness claims me once more.
***********
**Dr. Fraiser**
I was in General Hammond’s office when the huge alien artifact in the room below spun slowly into life.
“Unauthorized off-world activation!” rang out the familiar, unruffled voice of Sgt Walter Davis.
I followed the General to the control room, praying I wouldn’t be needed, that it was just a team coming home a bit early because things had gone well. Sighing, I knew it was unlikely. Rarely did teams come home off schedule for positive reasons.
“Who’s still out?” Hammond asked the technician.
“Just SG-1, SG’s 4 and 5, and SG-11, Sir.” Numbers began to appear on his screen, numbers even I recognized. I didn’t need to hear his voice to know who it was.
SG-1.
Hadn’t they just left?
I turned to the General, his grim face confirming my worst fears. “With your permission, Sir,” and without waiting for his answer, I turned and ran for the stairs, nearly tripping in my haste, hearing Walter’s voice already calling for a medical team.
The iris stood open by the time I raced through the door on the heels of the last members of the Security Team.
Please, let them be alive, please let there be something I can do, I chanted silently.
A ripple on the fluid horizon and Sam stumbled through, a smudge of dirt or a bruise on her face, her cap gone, her hair spiking wildly, like they’d been in a terrible windstorm. Or a fight. She spun to look back at the gate, tension radiating from every line of her body.
This was bad, this was going to be bad, I told myself as I shouldered my way past the SFs.
Another ripple, and a…clump… of human beings emerged from the wormhole. Teal’c and Daniel, both upright and for a moment, a surge of hope that this wasn’t so bad…
And then I realized that between them they were carrying the limp form of Colonel O’Neill. Not just supporting him, or helping him, but carrying him. And there was only one way our stubborn Irish Colonel would let anyone carry him home, and that was because he couldn’t carry himself.
I was up the ramp and on my knees beside him even as I heard my own voice shouting, “Where’s that medical team?” my hands already at work, without conscious thought on my own part.
It was as bad as I’d feared.
His face was gray, still, lifeless, a jarring contrast to the vivid red blood trickling out of the matted gray hair and down across his face. His shirt was charred and singed, the sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh stinging my nostrils. Head wound, chest trauma, my brain began immediately assessing his condition, seeing a patient, a wounded body, not the man I’d had breakfast with this morning, not the man with whom a few short hours ago I’d been discussing my daughter’s possible career choices, not my friend.
“What happened?” I asked of no one and everyone.
“Apophis set an ambush for us. O’Neill was able to take the staff weapon from a Jaffa and help us all to break free,” Teal’c’s tone was calm as always, a settling thing in the chaos of the moment. “He was hit by a staff weapon blast. I believe it was only a glancing blow, but he was thrown into the steps of the gate platform, striking his head.”
He *was* breathing, thank God, though his color was bad and his respiration shallow, pulse thready, and completely unresponsive. “Colonel O’Neill, can you hear me? Colonel?” Nothing, not a twitch of an eyelid, not even a feeble movement of his still hand.
My team arrived at last, pushing SG-1 out of the way. Moving with well-practiced ease, the orderlies lifted O’Neill onto a gurney, set the oxygen mask across his face, and wheeled him down the hall.
These few minutes seemed like hours as my mind raced ahead of us, planning every action, every move, so that once we reached the infirmary, not a single precious second would be wasted.
Damn, why can’t the infirmary be closer? I’ll have to ask the General that next time. We need to rearrange this place, move help closer. I know, I know, we’re closer than any emergency room, better equipped and more experienced and we’ll do everything that can be done, because damn it, we’re not going to lose him.
I hate to lose anyone. Ever. But especially not him.
Death is my enemy. The teams, they fight the Goa’uld, the Replicators, whoever and whatever evil they encounter out there. My only foe is death, and I battle him with everything I’ve got.
-------------------
I’ve got a good staff, and they know their jobs.
We’re barely in the door before I’m surrounded by nurses and technicians who hardly need a word from me. The Colonel is transferred onto a bed, his boots pulled off, his clothes being cut away. The first lines are already in, blood samples drawn, saline solution and transfusions flowing into his veins, catheter in place, blood wiped from his face so I can assess the damage.
The portable x-ray unit is there. “Skull series first, and we need to check his ribs just to be sure,” I order.
From the outside, it might look like chaos, but everyone in here has a job and knows it. We’ve done this often, far too often, so we understand our roles, working together like a well choreographed dance, the dance of life.
I can see Sam, Daniel, Teal’c and the General out in the hallway, looking worried, but I’ve got too much to do to talk to them now. Besides, I don’t know enough to tell them anything yet, except his vitals are unstable and frankly, I don’t like the look of this. He seems off, wrong, too still and too cold.
Take a deep breath, Janet, and assess what you’ve got. Head trauma, possible skull fracture, at minimum a concussion and a laceration that’s going to need stitches. A burn on the chest, not as deep as first feared, but dirty, contaminated with charred bits of cloth and dirt and who knows what all else, a nasty, dangerous thing all by itself.
Shock. So many times it’s not the injury itself that kills, it’s shock, the trauma causing the body to shut down.
It’s a battle between my medical staff and an implacable foe, a battle fought on many fronts.
I thought we had things well in hand, had the enemy on the run, and then, out of the blue, things went to hell. His heartrate and pulse spiked and suddenly he just quit breathing. We hadn’t even had a chance to get him intubated, frankly I’d hoped I didn’t need to, and then there we were, looking for all the world like one of those frenetic scenes on some medical TV show.
His heart stopped, and mine nearly did, too. I injected eppy straight into his heart. No response. “Crash cart!” It was there, beside me, in an instant, ready. “Clear!” I shouted and everyone backed away from the bed as I placed the paddles against his chest. The first jolt lifted him off the bed, his back arching rigidly. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Damn you Colonel, don’t you quit on me. “Again. Clear!” Another jolt. His body spasmed again, and this time, the heart monitor spiked, changed, settled into that rhythm that every doctor learns to love.
He was still with us.
At least for now.
--------------
Two hours of frenetic activity later, I stood back, exhausted, knowing I’d done all I could for now, and that the rest is in the hands of Jack O’Neill and whatever higher power looks after him. And there better be one with him tonight, because this is bad.
I try to paste a hopeful look on my face as I go out to the hallway to tell his teammates and his CO the news. I sent Nurse Lee out earlier, to tell them the basics, but I didn’t have much to go on.
Now, they all turn to me with anxious, worried, tired faces. I wish I had better news to tell them.
“Doctor Fraiser?” the General asks.
Maybe give them the good news first? “The burn was only superficial, fortunately not a direct hit but rather a glancing blow, or he would have been killed instantly. However, Colonel O’Neill has a severe head injury. We’re doing everything we can, but I’ve had to intubate him to assist his breathing. We’ve got him on medication that will hopefully limit the swelling in his brain and prevent bleeding or clots. But we haven’t been able to keep him stabilized…”
I looked around at the worried faces: Sam looking on the verge of tears; Daniel wrapping his arms around himself; Teal’c still as always; the General trying to maintain his gruff exterior, but worry showing in his eyes. “He’s strong, we all know that, and we’re doing everything we possibly can…”
“If there’s anything you need, doctor…” the General stated, not needing to finish the sentence.
I nodded. He hadn’t needed to say it, we all knew there was nothing and no one who would stand in his way if there was something one of his people needed.
I shook my head. “I’ll let you know if there’s any change.”
“Can we see him?” Sam asked.
“Not yet. Not until he’s stable. He’s deeply comatose and won’t know anyone is there. Get some rest yourselves,” I turned away and went back to my patient.
I walked back into the ICU and stood, observing, my mind checking off every detail of the work we’d done, reviewing every item, checking that there wasn’t a thing left to do. There wasn’t.
Stepping up to the bed, I allowed myself for this one moment to see him as a friend, not a patient, as the man who invited his colleagues over for a mid-summer barbecue, who taught my daughter to ice skate, who talked with her about boys, who showed her how to play baseball because there was no reason girls couldn’t do anything the guys could do. A kind and gentle man, out there, in the everyday world; a warrior here in the insane world we worked in, a man who could be ruthless, who could kill. And be killed.
His face was white and still, a livid bruise beginning to form under the nearly translucent pale skin on the left side of his face. He looked quite ordinary lying there, so still and calm. It's only when those eyes are open, that's when you realize that there's so much more there than the casual glance reveals. The eyes, they show you his strength, his resiliency, his stubbornness, his anguish, his determination.
He’d need all of that now.
----------------
Something told me to stay with him. I pulled up a chair and set his chart on the tray table, scribbling notes, my eyes sliding over to watch his still form every now and then. Nothing changed. No movements. Utter stillness, frightening in its completeness. He’s never still, that’s the one thing you notice about the Colonel, after the intensity of that gaze. Vibrant, vital, alive, burning hot like a flame.
Hours passed. I checked my other patients, then came back to him, adjusting his meds, checking his vitals. Nothing’s changed. “Colonel, I wish you’d wake up,” I whisper softly, placing a hand on his arm. “I’d feel better if you’d just let me know you were all right in there. I’d feel much better. I’d know you were going to be okay.”
No response.
More hours passed. I must have dozed off in the chair when suddenly, I jerk awake, fully alert. The monitors haven’t changed, he hasn’t changed, his hand and arm lying limply where I placed them hours ago. I reach out to touch his fingers, still warm, but there is no answering pressure when I squeeze his hand.
“Colonel?” I took a damp cloth from the bedside table and wiped his face, letting my hand rest on his forehead for a moment.
There. Wait. What was that? An eyelid twitch.
“Colonel, come on, Sir, time to wake up…”
His eyes flickered, opened, a flash of deep brown, and then they slammed shut again.
He woke up alright, well, okay, not aware, but he was moving. Violently. His hands were in motion, reaching for his face, grasping for the airway. “Nurse!” I hollered, grabbing O’Neill’s hands as he writhed on the bed, an IV tearing loose, the leads for the monitors disconnecting.
God, he was strong, even not awake, sleepwalking or in the throes of a subconscious nightmare or whatever you’d want to call it. His fingers tore at mine, fighting to get at the tube. “Colonel! Stop! You mustn’t!”
I could see the muscles of his throat spasming, his Adam’s apple rippling under the skin as he fought the airway. Damn. I couldn’t take it out, and I couldn’t have him doing this, and I really didn’t want to sedate him, given the already shaky condition he was in. “Colonel. Look at me. Open your eyes.” The lids fluttered, I saw a flash of brown, but that was it. Was it in response to my questions? Just instinct? Or meaningless coincidence?
Carol, the night nurse, was quickly at my side, her hands gripping his wrists, holding them as I grabbed for the tray and the vial of sedative, drawing a minimal dose into the syringe. I had to be careful, couldn't give him too much in this condition, just enough to loosen his control but not enough to weaken his already struggling system.
Within moments, he fell quiet and unresponsive once more.
That’s how he stayed for hours.
The next time he started to come around was even worse. A combative Colonel O’Neill is a frightening thing. He has such strength, even hurt as he was; flailing arms, hands reaching for his face, for the tube…shit…he’s trying to pull out the tube again.
“Colonel,” I tried to reach him, tried to break through, prayed there was someone still in there to break through to, that this wasn’t just blind instinct and reflex. I couldn’t have him thrashing around like that, and yet I didn’t want to sedate him again, couldn't risk compromising his already laboring respiratory system, risk covering up more symptoms.
There was only one other choice. Reluctantly, the nurse and I buckled the heavy leather restraints in place on his slender wrists. Soundlessly, he pulled at the ties, his hands balling into fists, wrists straining, then relaxing. He wasn't fighting anymore, not outwardly, but his hands were making small, fluttering motions; his face looked strained, angry, hurt. "Colonel, I'm sorry. I have to restrain you. You need the airway. I know it's uncomfortable and I know you don't like it, but you must leave it alone." I prayed he heard my words.
There was no acknowledgement, no sign that he knew or understood, just more aimless movements as he pulled against the restraints.
I assigned someone to stay with him every minute, talking, encouraging, touching his hands and wiping his face, working to rouse him, to break through that barrier that seemed to have cut him off from us. I knew he wasn't responsive, but he *was* moving, trying. At least I could hope he was in there, just not in control, yet. I still hoped.
---------------
“Why is Colonel O’Neill in restraints?” the General demanded angrily, looking down at the pale form of his second in command, wide padded leather straps holding the man’s arms to the bed rails. "Dr. Fraiser? What is the meaning of this?"
Damn. I hadn't given him an update, hadn't expected him to show up here in the middle of the night, but I should have known he'd come to check on the Colonel. He often does, when O'Neill is a guest here in my ward.
“He’s come out of the coma several times, Sir, and each time he’s come out fighting. He tried to pull out the breathing tube the last time he was awake, General.” I reached down and placed a gentle hand on the Colonel’s forearm. There was no response. “He doesn’t seem to hear or understand us, or be aware of his surroundings in any way. Mostly he’s like this, completely still and quiet, his vitals fairly stable. Then he becomes agitated, his heartrate and respiration increasing wildly. I’d keep him sedated, but it’s time he should be waking up. It’s a balancing act, General, between keeping him under and letting him come back to enough awareness to understand where he is.”
“He doesn’t know where he is?”
“I don’t think so, Sir, I don’t think he knows who he is or where he is or who we are. He’s just fighting.”
Hammond looked hard at me. "Doctor..." there was warning in his tone.
“I don’t like seeing him like that either, Sir,” I answered his unasked question, “but for now, we don’t have a choice.”
*******
**Colonel O'Neill**
Voices.
Those rumbles, they were voices.
Hey, I know about voices.
Maybe, if I listen, I can figure out what they’re saying, where I am, what they’re doing, like back in Hathor’s fake SGC of the future. Listen quietly.
Damn, that sounds like Doc. If that’s a snake, it’s doing a damn good imitation of the Doc. Could it be Doc? Nah. Can’t be, can it?
Maybe I could look, then I’d know.
Look. Hmm, have to open the eyes to look.
Not a good idea, Jack, remember what happened the last time you opened your eyes? Blinding white light that sent your brain into spasms that didn’t quit for hours, swirling bright lights that speared into your brain.
But if you don’t open your eyes, you won’t know what’s out there.
Have to do it sometime, bucko.
Now.
Do it.
Open.
My lids fluttered. God, they were heavy, uncontrollable.
There. Movement. See, hah, I can do it. Move. More. Further. Higher. Ahah!!
Light’s not so bright this time. Bearable.
Not much to see. Just gray.
Move your head Jack, maybe there’s something over there.
Right.
Tell the neck to move the head to the right.
Must have worked, the scenery began to shift, ever so slowly. Gray ceiling tiles, gray wall, cupboards, machines. For a long time I stared at the little green squiggly lines as they went up and down, up and down, up and down, hypnotically.
A flash of white. Movement. Focus the eyes, over there. It’s a face, someone you know, the face is moving, lips, those are lips moving, making sounds. Maybe if you listen you can hear the sounds, too.
Novel concept.
Sight *and* sound.
Whoa.
Cool.
“Colonel?”
That’s still me, right?”
The face is changing, getting whiter, oh, wait, those are teeth, that’s a smile. That’s Doc and she’s smiling. Usually means good things, right?
Right.
I tried to say something.
Damn, throat still doesn’t work.
She’s talking again. Maybe I should listen?
“Colonel, don’t try to talk yet. We’ve got you intubated, to help your breathing. You can’t talk, but will you do something else for me?”
I can feel her touching my hand. Cool. Something else that works!
“Can you squeeze my hand, Sir?”
Oh yeah sure youbetcha, Doc. I tell my fingers to tighten. Nothing happens for a long moment, and then I feel my fingers moving stubbornly. They’re stiff after all this time, how long I wonder? Don’t know.
Doc’s smile is even wider. “That’s good, Sir. Very good.” She brings her hand up in front of my face. I follow it with my eyes, wondering what she’s going to do. Nothing, just waving her fingers. That’s odd. Hmmph. Doctors. Weird people, almost as weird as scientists.
Scientists.
Carter? Daniel? Teal’c? My team. Where are they?
Doc’s frowning.
I can’t hear her talking but I can hear beeping, noises, loud, strident, like alarms. Shit. Alarms. Gate activation? What the hell?
My eyes search frantically for Doc’s face. Tell me, I plead, but I can’t say the words.
Her hand is there, on my face, touching my jaw. “Sir, easy, lie still. Don’t try to talk. Everything is okay. You’ll be fine. You scared us, but you’re doing great. “
Tell me. I need to know. I try to put the question into my look, try to mouth the words, but that damn tube is there, and I’m choking on it.
She looks worried. “Colonel!” her tone is sharp. “Colonel, relax. Don’t fight it. There’s no need to fight. You are fine. You’re back in the SGC infirmary, and you’ll be okay soon.”
I flick my eyes over toward the other beds, trying to see if they’re there, if anyone else was injured, but I can’t see, the view is blocked by all those damn stupid machines and now the room’s spinning…
I lift my head off the pillow, trying to lift my shoulders, trying to see.
She pushed me back, absurdly easily. She shouldn’t be able to do that. I must be sick.
But I need to know. I channel my energy into my hand, raising it to grip hers. I see surprise on her face, surprise I can move that much? Things must be bad. Again, I try to mouth the words, and she catches on.
“They’re fine, Sir. Daniel, Sam and Teal’c are all fine. You’re in the ICU and I’ve kept them out, sent them all to rest because you were unconscious. They’ll be upset that you woke up before they got back here, but don’t blame them. I made them go, with the General’s help.” She smiles.
I like it better when she smiles.
Means I’ve done something good.
The background noise, I suddenly realize, has retreated to that soft annoying background buzz. Doc is looking over at those squiggly green lines. Some day I’ll have to ask her what those mean, but she turns back and she’s still looking happy, so I guess this is my lucky day. “Good, Colonel, that’s better, your heartrate’s back to normal." She's looking at me seriously, little frown lines on her forehead as I try to lift my hand and realize I can't. Try to move my head to see what's wrong. "Colonel, I'm sorry, we had to use restaints. You woke up fighting."
It wasn't the first time, and probably wouldn't be the last.
"I'll take them off if you promise to relax."
I blinked, nodded carefully.
Quickly, she unbuckled one wrist, then walked around the bed to unbuckle the other.
"Better?"
I nodded again, flexing my hands, raising my arm.
Sudden alarm crossed her face.
I reached out and touched her hand, hoping she'd understand the attempted apology. Hard to do, without words.
Bless her, she caught on right away. The smile returned.
She’s checking me over. Blankets lift and I feel cold air on my chest. “You’ve got a burn here, but it’s healing. You might have some scarring, though,” she says softly.
The blanket is replaced, and she steps toward the foot of the bed, uncovering my legs. Damn, why can’t they turn up the heat in this place? Cheap lousy government heating system. I feel her hand on my instep, and then something hard and sharp against the bottom of my foot. I flinch away. “Good, Sir, your reflexes are fine.”
She replaces the blankets and steps back up by my shoulder, pulling that little penlight out of her pocket. Damn, I hate that thing. Someday I’m going to smash it into itty bitty pieces. Not today though, I think that’s still beyond me. She shines the damn thing into my eye and I jerk my head away.
“Okay, Colonel, I know you hate this thing, but I needed to check. You’re doing fine.” She turns as if to leave.
I reach my hand up, hey, see, that’s good, moving almost fast as normal, snagging the sleeve of her coat.
“Colonel?” she turns to look down at me.
I bring my hand up to point at my throat. I want her to take this damn thing out.
She nods in understanding, and her gaze softens. “I know it’s uncomfortable. I need to check your last set of test results and then hopefully we’ll be able to take that out, okay?”
I grimace.
She smiles, pats my hand. “Give me ten minutes. Okay.”
I flick my eyes over to look at the clock on the wall, then back at her. She laughs, squeezes my arm, and leaves.
It’s quiet.
-------------
I’m…something.
I’m alive.
Alive and damn lucky to be that way.
It was a long ten minutes, but she’s smiling when she gets back. “Okay, Sir, I’ll remove that tube. Hold your breath, then breathe out when I pull.”
Plastic sliding, rasping across raw throat tissues, I gag, fight back a cough, breathe out. Suck a breath back in, cough, that hurts, but I'm breathing, feeling somewhat human.
Amazing.
“Better?” she asks.
“Much,” I whisper hoarsely, and cough.
Doc grabs a cup from the bedside table and lifts a spoonful of ice chips to my lips. I suck them greedily.
“What?”
“Don’t talk,” she orders sternly as she wipes my face once more with a damp cloth. It feels good, so very good. I think I know now why cats purr.
“When you escaped from Apophis, you were hit by staff weapon fire, and thrown headfirst against the gate platform.”
“Good thing,” I mumbled.
Doc gave me an odd look.
“Hard headed,” I rasped.
“Right you are, Sir, but it’s still not a good idea to lead with your skull, especially when you’re not wearing a helmet.”
“Don’t start, Doc,” I whispered.
“I won’t.” She was smiling again. “Be more careful next time, though, Colonel, huh?”
I nodded, shifted a bit on the bed. “Mmmmm,” I closed my eyes as pain spiked in my chest. Damn burns are nasty things, nearly as bad as the headaches. “Try.”
“Good. Rest now.”
I looked up at her once more. “We 'scaped.”
“Yes. You were only on the planet about an hour.”
“Hour?” I was baffled, and my unease must have shown on my face.
“Colonel?”
“It’s just, I 'member…things. That would have taken more than an hour.”
“You’re bound to be a bit confused after a blow to the head like you received,” she soothed.
People tend to think I’m confused a lot, but… “I remember being...” I searched for the word, failed to find it, shrugged, “couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Shocked. I thought Apophis used… damn pain-stick thingy on me. That’s how… felt.” Damn, talking was hard work.
A strange look crossed her face. “Colonel, Apophis didn’t do anything to you. You came through the gate unconscious, and then, after we got you back here, we had to intubate you. You went into full arrest and we had to shock you to get your heart restarted.” The look of guilt and horror on her face told me everything I needed to know.
I waved a hand in the air. “No big deal, Doc.” I rubbed my hand across my chest. “You did... what you had to do... it worked. That’s what counts." I paused to take a breath, and went on. "It was all just like... a dream.... you know, like I was... watching... somebody else.”
She looked doubtful, and I knew she didn’t believe me.
But I was alive, and, even if I had another bad memory for the collection, it was a something I could live with.
-----------------------------------------------------
the End