Stars 8—Bananas

Author: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Category: Drama, humorish

Season: 8

Sequel/Series: A standalone fic but part of the Stars series

Rating: PG

Pairing: None

Warnings: None

Summary: The new general needs a little help and gets more than he wanted

Disclaimer: I don’t own Stargate, its characters or its story: I don't own Jack or anyone or anything else from Stargate, I'm just a lowly, unpaid fanfic writer who borrows the characters for no motive other than fun. No profit involved. And remember, don't post this without asking.

Author’s Pledge: Badgergater fics are posted with fair, honest and accurate info about the fic, its topic and focus. Potential readers deserve the opportunity to make an informed choice on whether or not to read.

Author's Note: There was an episode early in S8 where Jack is at work and there's a banana on his desk. Why was it there? Here's a possible explanation.

Thanks to Margo, Sis, K of K for the beta, and to all those who feedback.

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

He could almost feel sorry for her.

Almost.

After all, she had a job that was as impossibly tough as Jonas Quinn's had been, because no one really wanted her there. They wanted her predecessor. And 'they' included him.

Brigadier General Jack O'Neill was standing just outside her office door, and he was there only because he had to be there. Well, to be exact, only because he'd called down and asked her and she'd said "no, not over the phone."

So, yeah, he'd only been a general for a few days, but he was already getting used to people doing what he said, used to them *not* saying no.

Rarely did anyone say no to a general, even a brand spanking new one.

Jack O'Neill sighed. Grimacing, he closed his eyes, raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as the pain in his skull spiked to new heights.

Infernal damn headache.

Again.

Oiy.

Stepping forward, he rapped his knuckles on the open door and walked in, seeing her raise her head.

Nodding at him, she neatly put down her pen, neatly closed the neat folder she'd been undoubtedly neatly writing in, and set it neatly aside on her neat desk.

Neat, neat, neat.

So much neatness, so much precise perfection, made him … twitchy.

"General O'Neill," she greeted him in her non-committal voice, neatly pronouncing every syllable precisely as she rose to her feet.

"Dr. Breitwoman… Breitman," he hurriedly corrected himself, waving apologetically in her direction. "Brietman. Sorry. Don't take it personally. I'm not good with names. You'll figure that out."

"I'm sure I will, General O'Neill." She nodded again, still serene and calm and annoyingly neat. He wished at least one of her neatly coiffed strands of hair would escape from her far too neat hair-do.

Unfortunately, it didn't. "Good, that's good."

"So, General, you've here because you have another headache?"

"Guess they come with the job."

She was staring at him intently. "This makes four days in a row, and eight out of the last ten days."

"You've been keeping track?"

"That's my job."

"There are hundreds of people working on this base. Do you know how often all of them get headaches?" he asked belligerently.

"There's only one general."

"Thank god for small favors, huh?"

She stared at him humorlessly.

He sighed. "You'll get used to the humor, too."

"I imagine I will." The doctor pointed toward the door. "So, General, shall we?"

"Doctor?" he raised an eyebrow. "Shall we what?"

"Why don't we move to Exam Room B?"

His anger spilled out, helped along by the still spiking headache. "Doctor Breitman, I did not come down here for a physical. I've had a few thousand of those over the past few years. You can check the records on any one of them. Right now, I just need something for a headache."

"For your eighth headache in ten days."

"I know that," he snapped.

"That's a lot of headaches." Her voice was still calm.

"My new job is spelled h-e-a-d-a-c-h-e."

"You've been through some difficult events lately, Sir, some of them unique to medical science…"

"So, what? You think that the Ancient's knowledge fried my brain? That I'll go whacko at any minute?"

"Sir, your health is an important part of my job here," she countered calmly.

"Well, then let me update your job description. Worry about everyone else's health. I'll worry about mine."

"I can't do that, General. So, Sir, now if you'll…"

"I don't have time for this," he snapped.

"Then you'll have to make time, General. As CMO of this base, albeit currently only the temporary one, I have…"

"Yes, I know. You have the authority to declare me unfit for duty," he conceded wearily, and followed her down the hallway to an exam room.

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

Breitman pulled the curtain closed to give him some privacy as he unbuttoned his long-sleeved shirt.

Taking her stethoscope, she slipped it beneath the general's t-shirt, against his chest, and listened to his heart. "Now breathe in, Sir. Deep breath."

He complied as she listened to his lungs.

"Again."

Removing the stethoscope from under his shirt, she moved behind him, sliding his shirt upward, listening to his lungs once more. They sounded good, amazingly good for a man his age, and with his diverse medical history, she thought. Moving to his side, Breitman wrapped the BP cuff around his upper arm. She pumped the bulb, watching and listening. One hundred and eight over sixty-eight. Very good. His pulse rate seemed up a little from his recorded norms, though that could be from the headache. And his obvious annoyance over the exam.

"So?" It was his turn to ask this time.

"So, General, your vitals are quite good, although elevated slightly from what I'd expect per your medical file."

"Well, gee, I'm a little stressed out. Waiting for something for a *headache*. Not to mention the new job and all." He glanced at his watch, pointedly. "And I'm late for the 1400 de-briefing with SG-12."

She nodded. "A change in routine can be difficult." She was staring at his chart.

"So, do I get the aspirin now?"

"Extra Strength Tylenol."

He started to jump down from the exam table, but stopped as she glared at him. "Doctor?" he asked suspiciously.

"The Tylenol is just the first part of my prescription."

"Huh?"

"How long have you been in your office today?"

"Since six, " he stated.

"So, more than eight hours already. What have you eaten?"

He shrugged. "Coffee."

"Coffee isn't food."

"I get busy. Time passes. I forget."

"And yesterday? What time did you go home?"

He shrugged. "Nine or ten."

"And the day before, how many hours were you here?"

"Too many. I've got a lot to do," he admitted, before he remembered that he wasn't sure if she was on his side or not.

"And a lot of people depending on you."

"Thanks for the reminder. Just what I needed to help me get rid of the headache, more pressure."

"Sir, my point is that you need to take care of yourself, which you obviously aren't doing. No more fourteen hour days."

"Tell that to the Gould. And the Pentagon. And the President. And the teams…"

"I can't, as you well know, Sir. But I can help you manage the stress."

He looked at her skeptically.

"I'm prescribing exercise, adequate sleep and decent meals."

"What, you're sending me on vacation?"

"No. However, you are used to getting a great deal of exercise, miles of walking almost every day, correct?"

He nodded.

"So, a minimum of one hour per day working out in the gym."

"Doctor," he started to protest. "I don't have time."

"Then make time."

"I'm only a general, not God."

"This is an order, General, written into your medical record. Every day, one hour. Sparring, treadmill, bike, rowing machine, or any combination thereof. No excuses."

"Fascist," he mumbled under his breath.

"What was that, Sir?"

Damn, the woman's hearing was good. "First rate, Doctor. And?"

"Decent meals, or as decent as the cafeteria can provide. I'll arrange to have the cook send an orderly with a tray to your office. A decent breakfast, sandwich for lunch, and fruit mid-morning and mid-afternoon."

O'Neill stood, pulling his t-shirt back into place. "Do they teach you that in medical school, Doctor?"

"Teach what, General?"

"The drill sergeant routine."

He thought he saw a flicker of amusement actually appear momentarily on her face before her usual emotionless demeanor returned.

"No, Sir."

"Fine," he stared for the door, then turned back. "Bananas."

"General?"

"I like bananas. And Froot Loops. But no yogurt."

"No Froot Loops, Sir."

His face fell theatrically. "No Froot Loops?"

"None, Sir. But I'll pass along the word about yogurt." She looked down at his chart. "The oatmeal is good, too, Sir."

"It says I like oatmeal in my *medical* chart?"

"Yes, General, Doctor Fraiser was very thorough, very detailed."

"Yes," he answered, evenly, missing Doc immensely, "she was."

"There’s a lot of information in your record. I haven’t had time yet to read it all…"

"Don’t bother." He waved a hand in the air. "Most of it is stuff you don’t want to know, some of it is stuff you *really* don’t want to know."

She shook her head. "I need to know everything about you, General. It’s important."

"Not everything."

She paused and looked up at him. "Professional interest, Sir."

He sighed, and waved a hand at Breitman and left. Professional interest. That was the difference. Because with Janet Fraiser, behind the professional interest, there’d always been *real* interest, the personal interest of a friend, someone whom he had grown to trust implicitly. Fraiser had understood him in ways very few people ever had. Ways in which he wasn’t sure he could ever let anyone know him again, considering all that had happened. Doc had been there and helped him get through things. Over and over again, she’d proved to him that she only and always had his best interests at heart.

Doc had been a professional.

And so much more.

He’d have to appoint a new permanent CMO, he knew that, it was one of the things as the new guy in charge he had to do. But he wasn’t going to like it.

He wasn't going to like it one bit.

-------- Finish ----------