Strays
A Sequel to Flyboy Soup
By BadgerGater
Category: Drama, Angst
Sequel: Though the story could stand alone, it really is a sequel to my 100th fic, Flyboy Soup
Season: 4 or 5, not specific
Warnings: Kleenex alert
Spoilers: Nothing specific
Pairing: None
Rating: PG
Summary: Jack’s POV: After the events in Flyboy Soup, Jack finally gets to go home to recuperate
Disclaimers: We all know the drill. Stargate is owned by MGM, Gekko, Double Secret Productions, Showtime/SciFi Channel… anyone but us fans. This story is written for (hopefully) entertainment purposes only. No money changed hands.
Author’s Note: Fic # 101: Thank you, my friends, for sharing my Stargate/Jack O’Neill obsession.
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Human nature is an odd thing.
Whatever you haven’t got, you want.
And when you get what you want, it’s not what you wanted.
----------
I’d spent three interminable weeks stuck in the mountain, actually, in Fraiser’s infirmary in the mountain, and all I wanted to do was go home. I spent all my time lobbying Doc to send me home, okay, not quite *all* my time. That might be a little exaggeration. I was unconscious for the first couple days, and even I haven’t mastered the art of trying to cajole Doc while I’m lying in a coma. Though that doesn’t mean I’m not trying.
And then the next couple of days, yeah, I admit it, I wasn’t exactly a sparkling conversationalist. Mostly I kept drifting off into never-never land, but really, I think that was those nasty drugs Doc was giving me. Sure, she said they were for the pain and the fever and the infection, but what do I know? I’m just her United States Air Force special order guinea pig.
All right, okay, I concede, the drugs did stop the muscles in my injured leg, the one ol' Spiderman zapped with his stinger, from doing all sorts of weird and um, yeah, make that painful things like spasming, twitching, and knotting. Most of the time.
But see, my leg could just as efficiently spasm, twitch and knot up at home as in the infirmary, while I could curse, swear and grind my teeth until they ached, and no one would have to listen.
So, from the time I knew which universe I was in, which planet I was on, and who the hell I was, I wanted to go home.
Especially since, yeah, okay, I'll admit it if you don't tell anyone else, I was scared. No, more like a litle bit worried. Just a teensy, tiny bit, mind you, but the idea was there in the back of my brain. See, it started the first day Doc let me up to walk and I discovered that, while my leg hurt a bit, and yeah, sure, my ribs, too, and okay, I was still a little dizzy if I moved too fast, my body wasn’t right. I know how my body heals, or should heal. Hell, I’ve had more experience at recuperating than a dozen average folks put together, what with all the damage I’ve done to myself, or had others do to me, over the years.
I should have been able to walk. And I couldn’t.
My left leg wouldn’t work for more than a couple of minutes before it went numb. Hmm, well, numb probably wasn’t right, because numb implies without feeling, and boy, I could *feel* my leg all right. What I got was sharp, shooting pain washing in waves through every nerve, which in turn left my leg a quivering, useless thing that obeyed orders worse than Daniel Jackson. Pretty much exactly what had happened each time that big and honkin’ oversized bug had zapped me with his antennae thingy. Except that was days and days ago.
I tried to ignore it, grit my teeth and walk anyway. Tried to push through it, fight through it, will it away or just plain bullishly resist.
Didn’t work.
Doc gave me some long, complicated explanation filled with big words that Carter might have understood but I didn’t. Bottom line, as near as I could figure, was that the nerves in my leg were having their own happy little ‘seizures’ because they kept ‘remembering’ the spider’s sting. As if I could forget.
For the next week or so, Doc tried a lot of different stuff. I got poked, prodded and pestered; took pills and had IVs and tried about 142 kinds of therapy.
Finally, then, I'd spent a whole morning having test after test after test, all the standard things I'd come to expect, and more that I hadn't heard of or undergone before. At last I was ushered back to my own little corner of the infirmary. Doc arrived a few minutes later wearing *that* look on her face, the 'I don't want to have to tell him this but there's no getting around it look.' It's a look that gets my attention, because, despite all the flack I give Doc, I know she's always on my side. I could see she was worried, and once she started to explain, I was worried, too. She was pretty quiet while she checked the dressing on my thigh, and tested the circulation, muscle strength and reflexes in my leg. Her expression didn't improve as she finished her exam.
"So, Doc?" I needed her to talk to me.
"Yes, Colonel?"
"Ah..."
She looked up at me, her gaze meeting mine and my heart nearly stopped. "What?"
I could see she was gathering her thoughts.
"What's wrong?" I demanded.
"Sir..."
"Tell me. Now."
She cleared her throat. "The infection is clearing up nicely," she started.
"But..."
"That's the good news."
"What's the bad news?"
"You're still having muscle weakness?"
"Once in a while," I hedged.
She nodded. "And sometimes your leg just goes numb..."
I shrugged. "Not nearly so often anymore."
"But it still happens."
"Yes," I conceded.
"That shouldn't be happening."
"Gee, I'd never have guessed." Okay, so the sarcasm goes into overdrive when I’m, um, concerned.
"Colonel," her look, that worry in her eyes, worried me.
"It *will* stop, won't it?" I insisted.
"Sir, I..."
"Doc!"
"Colonel, I don't know. I'm hopeful. I think it will disappear eventually. But it’s possible that the toxin in the spider's bite may have done irreversible damage to the nerves in your leg."
I swallowed.
So if I was going to have to deal with some permanent fall out from my trip to the Planet of the Arachnids, I wanted to cope at home. In private. On my own.
I needed to get the hell out of here.
Soon.
Soonest.
Now.
--------------
Doc’s not easy to convince.
Okay, I’ll let you in on a little secret. Half of my protest to anything Doc makes me do, is just because I figure it’s my duty to object, you know? Just to keep Doc on her toes, and hone my argumentative skills (as if they don’t get enough practice with Daniel).
So I lobbied to go home. Endlessly. Continuously.
And no, contrary to what Doc says, I do *not* whine.
Granted, I may have been close to whining a few times. Damn, but those muscle spasms hurt! But I didn’t whine... never, ever. Complain maybe. Make my wishes clearly known. Gripe a bit. Get a touch grumpy, but who wouldn’t? Just try letting a giant spider decide to take you home to dinner, to *be* dinner, and see how good you feel afterwards. Huh.
My request was simple. I just wanted to go home, where a man can suffer, er, sleep in peace.
Eventually, Doc relented. She always does, of course, but then, sooner or later she has to. Fraiser has gotten pretty good at figuring out the right moment to send me home, the one that falls precisely between ‘if I send him home now he’ll fall flat on his face before he makes it to his front door’ and ‘if I don’t send him home now the nursing staff will mutiny, resign or call in sick, and I think I’ll join them.’
I don’t make things difficult for Doc on purpose, really.
I just hate being stuck in a hospital. Call it an infirmary, but it’s still a hospital.
I’m not sure what they do in medical and nursing schools to teach people, people who seem to be otherwise quite nice, normal, non-sadistic people, to perform painful, annoying and intrusive practices on the bodies of us poor unfortunate souls dubbed as patients.
And yeah, there were a few days when I had that infection, and I felt sort of, um, under the weather, dizzy, nauseous and sweating when I wasn’t just plain zonked out with fever dreams taking me to places I didn’t really want to go, and believe me, you wouldn’t want to go there, either. I don’t remember talking in my sleep, I really hope I didn’t. I do remember them covering me with one of those cooling blankets, and people giving me sponge baths, for cryin’ out loud, which do absolutely nothing for a man’s dignity and command presence.
Of course, no one has much command presence while delirious with a fever of 105.
But I did start to feel better, in a remarkably expedient manner, by the way, which led me to explain to Doc, the General, my team, the nurses, the orderlies, even the cooks and the cleaning lady, why I needed to go home. Yesterday, if not sooner.
So, once I’d convinced Doc I was no longer so dizzy that I couldn’t walk, talk or eat; once I’d demonstrated that, despite the sore ribs, I could hobble around on my crutches without dumping myself onto the floor; and, once I’d vowed, Scout’s honor, to eat what I should and not eat what I shouldn’t, get plenty of rest, avoid stress, and take all my meds in a timely fashion, she agreed to sign my release papers.
Hallelujah.
Of course, freedom came with a price. It was Friday, and I had to agree to let one of my teammates stay over at my house for the weekend, to prove I could and would follow all orders, instructions and edicts.
It took forever for 5 p.m. to arrive. About noon, I dressed in the comfortable sweat pants and sweat shirt Daniel had picked up from my house. Just wanted to make sure I wasn’t late, or spent an extra thirty seconds in the infirmary, you know. I conned one of the nurses into tying my shoes, since my ribs were in more than the desirable number of pieces and bending over that far was still a bit of a challenge.
I sat and waited patiently.
Okay, so I can’t fool you, it wasn’t patiently.
About five minutes before my parole, Doc showed up, giving me one last check up, listening to my heart and lungs, taking my temperature, and checking the dressing on my leg. The infection had cleared up at last, and the wound in my thigh was no longer draining that nasty yellowish stuff from where I’d cut it while escaping from my friend Spiderman on the Planet of the Arachnids. I hadn't used that dirty bit of jagged bone to cut myself on purpose, but I'd done what I had to do, knowing there might be consequences.
Then, of course, I still did have some tingling and numbness in left leg, where Daddy LongLegs had stung me. The damn thing would just give out on me on occasion, which was the real reason I was still using crutches. It was happening less every day, though, and it was going to go away completely, despite what Doc was worried about. I just wasn't going to consider any other possibility. The ribs vigorously protested any sudden movement, but that, too, was to be expected for the next couple of weeks. I’ve had enough broken ribs to think of them as old hat, painful old hat, but old hat none the less.
Doc, of course, couldn’t let me go without one last warning. “Colonel, I know you’re eager to be out of here…”
“But…” I started theatrically, knowing the ‘but’ was coming.
She glared. I shut up. I wasn’t safely out of her clutches yet. Don’t ever annoy the person who signs your orders for leave, your promotion recommendations, or your hospital discharge papers. That’s my advice as a Colonel.
“Colonel O’Neill…”
I tried to look contrite. I know that tone of voice.
“I know you are feeling better, and you think you’re ready for anything, but you are far from back to 100%. You need to follow your care instructions or you’ll wind up right back here, and I know you don’t want that. And,” she added sternly, “neither do I. Now, I’ve got your meds packed up right here: the last cycle of antibiotics; muscle relaxants if you start getting cramps in your leg; and pain relief medication. Use them as needed. They’ll help you rest and regain your strength. If you start running a temperature, feel nauseous or lose your appetite, or experience increased levels of pain or numbness in your leg, you let me know. Call anytime, day or night. And I’ll be by your house to give you a check-up Monday morning.”
“Okay already, Mom. I’ll take the meds, eat right, sleep a lot, and avoid all spiders, big or small.” I grumped. “I’ll even brush my teeth, wash behind my ears and take my afternoon naps…”
“Good,” Frasier smiled. “You’ve made a remarkable recovery, Colonel, and I just don’t want to see you experience a set-back at this late date.”
Just then I heard footsteps in the hallway.
Please let it be Daniel.
It was Carter.
“Here to see me off, Major?”
Sam was smiling. “Yes, Sir. I’ll be stopping by later with some food, and some movies.”
“Just so it isn’t Titanic. I know the plot.” I lowered my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I hate to tell ya’, Carter, but the boat sinks.” I smirked.
Carter nodded with a sigh. “I know, Sir. Only John Wayne, the Marx Brothers, or Judy Garland.”
“Right. The classics.”
Daniel arrived at last.
I grabbed for my crutches, sliding off the bed and onto my feet, er, foot, in one smooth maneuver.
“Not so fast, Colonel,” Doc chided, placing a hand on my chest to push me back down on the bed, before pointing to a wheelchair. “You ride out today, Sir.”
“But I can walk, Doc,” I reminded her.
“Yes, I know you can. But you’ll need to save your energy for walking at home. It’s a long trip out of here, and the hallways tend to be crowded this time of day.”
“Doc…” I wheedled.
“Colonel…” She glared.
We stared at each other.
Okay, I’ll let her win this time.
Besides, it means I can harass Danny about his wheelchair driving.
Putting an aggrieved frown on my face, I carefully slipped off the bed again, bracing myself with one hand and hopping over to sit in the chair.
“Let’s go, Daniel. And drive like an Andretti…”
“Who?” he asked.
Daniel is so hopeless when it comes to the real world. “Never mind,” I shook my head. “Let’s just get out of here.”
As we crossed the threshold, I looked back to see Doc standing and watching, a slightly worried look on her face, I thought. “Hey, Doc, can’t say it was fun, but it was better than ol’ Spidey’s accommodations.” I waved goodbye without a regret, feeling like a man just let out of prison.
--------
**Janet Fraiser**
With mixed feelings, I watched Colonel O'Neill leave.
I felt a great deal of relief. Frankly, there'd been many days early on in this crisis when I didn't think this day would ever happen, at least not in this way. I'll never forget my horror when he'd arrived home from P4B-397, more dead than alive. My initial assessment had been frighteningly grim... head trauma, broken ribs, infection, blood loss, unknown toxins in his system, and neurological damage to his left leg.
Did he realize what a close call he'd just survived? I think he did, but with the Colonel, you never know. He holds his emotions, his fears, so close to the vest, that even as well as I know him, I rarely know what he's thinking.
So I was most certainly relieved to see him discharged from my infirmary, yes, but I was worried, too. Worried he wouldn't follow his after care instructions, but mostly, worried that what little we could do for him wouldn't be enough for him to make a full recovery. I'd told the Colonel the truth, told him what I knew, which unfortunately wasn't much, but the truth was, the outlook was uncertain... maybe his leg would heal, maybe it wouldn't.
Maybes, speculation and what ifs. See, that's the biggest problem with what we do here. The SG teams are out there, facing unknown threats, unknown dangers, entirely unknown medical crisis, and far too often, all I can do is guess at what to do, believe that what I’m doing won’t make things worse instead of better, hope that we have an Earth based treatment that will be effective, and then pray that somehow, someway, we'll find the answer, in time.
It had been a near thing, and it hadn’t been easy, watching him, day after day, fighting, struggling, stubbornly trying to hide his pain. By this time he ought to know he doesn’t need to do that, doesn’t have to prove anything to me, but he can’t help himself. I know that, and I wish I could get him to acknowledge it, and make things easier on himself and my staff, and yes, me, too.
When things were worst, he fought grimly, never complaining. The day he started complaining was the day a load was lifted off my shoulders, because it meant he was getting better at last.
The Colonel is difficult, obnoxious and frustrating, and just when it seemed I couldn’t stand to have him in my infirmary one single second more, he’d make me laugh, and I forgave all the trouble he caused me. He’s a hard man who’s had a difficult life, and he deserves my best, and the best my staff can do for him.
Thank God for his team. They showed up regularly to humor, cajole and entertain him. General Hammond was a frequent visitor, too. They had long, quiet heart to heart talks, often late at night, sharing those burdens only senior officers know and understand.
I heard Daniel and the Colonel laughing as they disappeared down the hallway. I knew he was happy to be going home, and I just wished I knew he'd soon be happily back at work here with the SGC.
I know how important Jack O'Neill is to this place. It's a shame he doesn't.
----------------------------
**Jack O'Neill**
We had to wait at the elevator, and it was crowded.
I hate using a wheelchair, not just because it makes me feel like an invalid, either. I hate the way people look at you like you *are* an invalid, all that sympathy and pity makes my teeth ache like too sweet candy stuck in a cavity.
And then of course, I’m tall, so I hate being so damnably short, sitting down when everyone else is standing.
But I wasn’t going to complain, nope, because I was on my way home at last.
A small grin finally escaped onto my face.
“So, Jack, glad to finally elude the good doctor’s clutches, are you?”
“Whatever would make you think that, Daniel?”
“Oh, I don’t know, maybe that silly grin on your face has something to do with it.”
I shot him a stern look. “Silly grin? I don’t do silly. I’m a Colonel.”
“Riiiight, Jack, you don’t do silly. I’ll remember that the next time you and me and Carter and Teal’c are sitting around a campfire and you start…”
“Enough, Daniel.”
“Oh, I don’t think it’s ever enough with you, Jack,” he said, but with a good natured grin.
------------
We finally got all the way out to Daniel’s car, and an orderly took the wheelchair back. Carefully, I slid down into the seat of the low-slung little vehicle. Damn. Not much room in here for my long legs, especially since the left one still didn’t bend quite as far as it should, and had a nasty tendency to cramp up at the most inconvenient times. Like now. Sticking my crutches between the seats and onto the back seat, I used both hands to pull the uncooperative limb into the car, and then sat forward, breathing deeply, massaging the thigh with my hands until the muscle spasms died away.
I hadn’t even noticed Daniel climbing into the driver's side seat and waiting patiently for me to get myself together.
“You okay?” he finally asked, a look of concern on his face.
I nodded.
He drove.
-----------------
What always strikes me after spending a few days, much less two weeks, cooped up in the mountain, is how bright everything is, how vivid the colors are after endless hours of staring at gray walls. The air feels fresh no matter what the season, the sky seems bluer and the grass and trees greener. Hell, I’d been inside so long I was even glad to see trees. Now that tells you how stir crazy I was.
I tried to drink in all the sights and sounds and sensations during the drive.
Of course, what I managed to do was fall asleep.
“Jack,” Daniel’s soft voice woke me. I hadn’t even realized the car had stopped.
He’d pulled up right by my front steps. With a sigh, I looked at my obstacle course. If I had to do it again, I wouldn’t buy a house with so many steps. Steps out here, steps in there, not a problem when you’re healthy and hearty and have two good, perfectly functioning legs. Which I didn’t have at the moment.
Crap.
Oh well, nothing gets done by sitting and wishing it were easier.
I opened the car door, grabbed my crutches out of the back, swung my legs out to the ground, and rocked my hips up off the seat. My left leg still had that alarming tendency to want to buckle when newly upright, but I made it. Taking a deep breath, I crutched up the stairs, Daniel following solicitously at my heels.
Crutches are just so damned annoying.
But better than wheelchairs, I quickly reminded myself.
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They say a man’s home is his castle, but I like to think of mine more as my sanctuary. Surrounded by my things. No one to order me around. Free to do as I please. Master of all I survey. Lord of my domain. Leader of the pack. Major General O’Neill
Of course, Daniel is here, so that means someone to nag me to follow orders in this place where I’ve made a vow never to take orders.
Sigh.
--------------
I made it up the sidewalk and stairs at last, and by the time I got to the front door, Daniel had it open.
“Why don’t you go up and lie down, rest a bit?” he suggested oh so helpfully.
I was not in the mood for suggestions, and instead of heading upstairs to my bedroom, I slipped past him in the hall and over to the couch. Carefully, I sat down, sliding down to the far end, pulling my leg up onto the cushions, stuffing a couple of throw pillows under it. That was a comfortable position for my leg, but strained my ribcage, so I pulled the pillows out and stuffed them behind my back. Better for the ribs anyway…
Just then, Daniel arrived with a couple more pillows and a blanket. “If you’re going to stay down here, at least get comfortable,“ he said. Once I’d squirmed around until I found a way I could both breathe and keep my leg from going numb, he handed me the remote, covered me with a blanket, and set a glass of water and two pill bottles on the table beside me.
“You know, anyone ever tell you you’d make someone a good mother?”
He just shook his head, and disappeared into the kitchen.
I heard the sound of the refrigerator door opening, then the sound of stuff hitting the bottom of the wastepaper basket. Not that I ever have much in my fridge, but I hadn’t been home in over two weeks, so there must have been a few rank things living in there. I heard paper rustling, then the back door open. Wow, he even takes out the trash. Maybe I could hire him as a housekeeper?
After a few minutes he was back, book in hand, and he flopped down on the chair across from me. “Good thing Sam’s coming over later with some food. There’s nothing edible in your kitchen.”
“There must be some cereal and maybe some eggs.”
He shook his head. “Stale cereal. Old eggs.”
“TV dinners, pizza and Spam, I’ll bet.”
“That’s not food,” he complained, and opened the book to read.
“Hmmpph.” Ignoring him, I turned on the TV, surfed through a couple of channels before finding an old black and white movie, and before you can say Barbara Stanwyck and William Holden, I was asleep.
-------------------
It was dark when I woke up. I could hear Carter and Daniel talking quietly in the kitchen. Teal’c was sitting in the chair across the room from me. "Hey, Teal'c, when did you get here?"
“O’Neill, you are awake.”
Why is it people always do that? Make really, really asinine remarks when they’ve caught you napping? “Ah, yeah, eyes open, vocal chords working, awake would be my first assumption.”
Raising an eyebrow, Teal’c nodded in that stately fashion he has.
“Oh, hey, he’s awake,” Daniel had just walked in.
“Wow, another brilliant observation.”
Carter stepped up behind him. “Sir, you’re…”
Hurriedly, I raised a hand. “Ah, Major, don’t say it.”
Her mouth snapped closed, and she was silent a moment. “Okay, are you hungry then?”
There was a heavenly scent coming from the kitchen, and I don’t mean the trash. “Carter? Have you been cooking?”
“No, Sir,” she said with a smile. “Shopping. Take out. Murphy’s.”
I started to push myself upright.
“Wait. Jack, why don’t I just bring you a plate?”
Usually, I use rooms for their intended purposes. Sleep in the bedroom, eat in the dining room, watch TV in the living room. But, since I’d never before had to recuperate from the attack of a giant spider, I decided to throw caution to the winds, and break a few rules. “Okay.”
I ate the thick soup and tasty sandwich, although I have to admit, I wasn’t up to my usual standards of devouring the food from my favorite deli.
Carter then counted out my pills, making sure I swallowed the required number, and stomach full and heart content, I promptly fell asleep again.
Damn, this is bad for my reputation.
----------------
“Jack, come on. Wake up. You should go up to bed.”
“Wake a guy up so he can go to sleep? That’s making even less sense than you usually do, Daniel.” I said, opening my eyes to my own dimly lit living room. Teal'c and Sam seemed to have left. The landscape outside my windows looked pitch dark.
He frowned. “Jack, come on. You shouldn’t sleep down here on the couch. It’s bad for you.”
“Yes, mother.” I took hold of his outstretched arm and carefully pulled myself to my feet. My leg protested, twinged, but stayed relatively calm, and with Daniel hovering, I crutched up the stairs to my bedroom suite. I used the facilities, brushed my teeth, and gratefully sank down on the bed.
Despite the fact that I'd spent most of the last four hours sleeping, I fell asleep promptly.
-----------------
I slept late, really late for me at least. My teammates stayed during the day. Between naps, I watched TV, played chess with Daniel and got my butt kicked as usual though he tried to be polite about beating an invalid, kicked his tail at gin three games out of four (and no, I didn’t cheat. Not much) and supervised while the kids barbecued steaks out on my deck.
Ah, that’s the life.
Sunday night, they all went home at my insistence, and left me in peace.
No hovering friends, no bossy nurses; privacy, peace and quiet at last.
---------------
So now I’m home and I'm bored.
Don’t get me wrong. Being home is a thousand times better than being stuck in the infirmary or a hospital, but, you know me, Jack needs to be busy to be happy. Or content. Or at least, not quite so grumpy.
There’s not a whole hell of a lot I *can *do. With broken ribs and only half my wheels in working order, I can’t play hockey, hike or even swim, none of my usual activities to burn off excess energy. Even yard work is on hold for the time being. I’m not supposed to drive so I can’t go anywhere. And now that it’s Monday and the rest of my team is back at work, I don’t even have anyone to pick on, irritate and annoy. And since they all refuse to go fishing with me (just what *did* Teal’c tell them about our fishing trip, huh? Someday I'm going to have to find out), and going fishing by myself isn’t much fun, here I am.
Yes, I know it’s hard to believe, but even I can reach my limit of sitting quietly watching movies and hockey.
I need to move, do something, do anything besides sit here and vegetate.
I’m so not into rocking chairs.
----------------------
It was a welcome relief when the doorbell rang , until I remembered who’d promised to stop in. It’s not that I don’t like Doc, it’s that I don’t like what Doc *does*, you know?
So the doorbell chimed again, and I hollered, “Give me a minute, would ya?” not meaning to sound cranky, but it came out that way anyway. Reaching across to latch onto my crutches, grimacing at my ribs’ complaints over the movement, I got upright with a minimum of fuss and worked my way over to the front door. The bell was ringing again. “Geez, Doc, give a gimp a chance, would ya?” I said as I opened the door.
“Well, you sound like your usual self,” the diminutive doctor said as she stepped into my hallway.
Man, I don’t always sound that cranky, do I? Maybe I need to work on my presentation a bit, I thought guiltily as I followed her into my living room.
She was checking the pill bottles, counting them to be sure I’d taken what I was supposed to (as if I wouldn’t be smart enough to toss out any ones I’d forgotten to take. I didn’t though. Really. Not this time.), looking satisfied at the totals. Turning to me as I re-seated myself on the edge of the sofa, she eyed me carefully. “How are you feeling?”
“Fine.”
“Colonel,” how does she know that was exactly my mother’s tone of voice when she caught me… well, you don’t need to know doing what.
“Really. I’m doing okay.”
“Took all your pills?” she asked, pulling the stethoscope out of her medical bag.
I nodded.
“Drinking plenty of fluids? No beer? Eating good meals? Avoiding stress?” she queried as she slipped the stethoscope against my chest.
“Yes. No. Yes, and you don’t see Daniel here, do you?” I smirked. SG-1’s civilian has to be responsible for adding at least 10 points to my blood pressure.
She grinned as she listened to my heart and lungs, then took my temp and checked my blood pressure.
I like it when Doc is grinning. Means things are going okay and she’s not about to order me back to jail, er, the infirmary.
“How’s your leg?”
“I still get some tingling and numbness, especially if I sit for a while. Walking a bit actually seems to help,” I told her as she peeled off my sock and checked the circulation in my foot and toes.
“That makes sense, because movement improves the circulation.” Holding her hand flat against the bottom of my foot, “Push” she ordered.
I pushed and after a bit I felt the tremors start, from my toes all the way up to my thigh. I ground my teeth and kept pushing, until the cramping started. Shit, that hurt.
“Okay,” she relented, and with a sigh of relief I sagged against the back of the couch, calf muscles still bunching and twisting painfully. Doc expertly massaged the cramping muscles until the tremors began to subside.
“That’s an improvement over just last Friday,” I think she was trying to make me feel better.
“Not much,” I groused.
“Have you been taking the muscle relaxants?”
“They make me,” I waved a hand in the air, “dodgey, you know.”
“But they do help?”
“Some,” I admitted reluctantly.
“Then use them.”
“I don’t like them,” I insisted.
“I know,” she sighed wearily, once again reminding me of my mother. She used to sigh at me a lot, too, with that same kind of long-suffering ‘why me’ expression on her face. “Colonel, this is going to take time. I don’t think that there’s any permanent damage to the nerves in your leg, but we just don’t know. Anything that will help, that will give your body more time to heal, is a good thing at this point. I know you’re anxious, I know you want to get back to normal *now*, but this is going to take time and work and patience.”
I wasn't even going to consider the possibility that it might not happen at all. Doc had already given me the worse case scenario lecture. And I'd flat out rejected the thought. “Then tell me what I can do to help move things along.”
“I just did, Sir. Use the muscle relaxants. Take one at night, before you go to bed, and take one again after lunch. Remember that afternoon nap you promised me you’d take? Take it. If walking seems to help, do some walking in the morning, and again in the late afternoon, after the nap. Some walking, not too much. Start slow. If you go the end of the block and back the first week, that’s fine. I don’t need to remind you of this, but I will. Let your body be your guide. When it starts to hurt, you’ve overdone things. Back off, take a break, and rest.” She was packing her medical gear back into the little black bag, thank goodness.
I got up to see her to the door, well, started to, because, like it was prone to do on occasion, my left leg took an extra minute to answer the call to duty. It’s an odd feeling; I tell it what to do, and then it’s like the signal from my brain to my muscles is detoured. Yeah, it’s a bit of a scary feeling, too.
So I have control issues. Do you blame me?
I wobbled, but caught my balance before Doc had to try and catch me.
Her face had that worried doctor look, the one that usually scares the hell out of me.
“I’m okay. Just a little slow, Doc,” I reassured her.
She looked at me for a long minute before finally nodding, picking up her bag and heading for the door. I followed, my crutches thumping softly on the bare floor. At the door she paused. “You’ll call if you need anything, Colonel? Please?”
“Yes.”
“I mean it, Sir,” she tried to look stern.
“So do I.”
“So, then I’ll just drop by again in a couple of days. Check how things are going.”
“No need, Doc.”
“I’ll do it anyway. Humor me, Colonel.”
“Right,” I smiled, waving as she headed down the walk to her car.
-------------------
The house was quiet, way too quiet. I turned on the radio, listening to a discussion of biotechnology that was more in Carter’s line than mine. Switched the station to classical music. Tried the TV, nothing on but soap operas and loud, obnoxious talk shows.
Stir crazy already.
I needed to move, get outside.
Doc did say I could go for a walk.
I pulled my jacket out of the hall closet, slid it on, still a bit of a trick with my ribs feeling like they did, stuffed my house keys into the jacket pocket, and crutched out the door.
Outside felt good.
Moving felt good.
Determinedly, I started down the block, past the houses of neighbors I didn’t even know. I spent so little time at home, and usually when I was home I was sleeping or maybe doing some yard work, that I’d never met most of the folks on the block. I knew the Darnell’s, their son liked to play street hockey in the driveway; and the Tewens, who had a couple of cute blonde-haired kids who always waved at me when I drove by; and the Thorntons, whose dog sometimes came over. But that was about it, except for Mrs. McGilligan, the nice little old retired lady with a yappy little dog she loved to no end.
I took my time, like Doc had ordered, feeling a little silly for hobbling down the street with my crutches in the middle of the day. I used to jog around the neighborhood a lot, but since my knees had started to bother me, I’d switched to swimming and weights and bicycling to save what little cartilage I had left. So it had been a long time since I’d done the neighborhood tour.
I didn’t make it all the way around the block, of course. I wasn’t even to the end of my street when I felt my left leg begin to tense up, and knew the damn cramps were going to start again. Shit shit shit.
Looking around, I spied the steps up to Mrs McGilligan's house, and crutched over, sitting down on the concrete steps just in time, mere seconds before I was about to fall down as my leg knotted up something fierce. With both hands, I massaged the calf, then up into the thigh, trying to tame the muscle spasms.
I was so wrapped up in what I was doing that I didn’t even hear her come out of the house. "Are you all right, Mr. O’Neill?” she asked.
“Oh, yeah, fine,” I bit my lip, feeling the sweat pop out on my face as I continued kneading the knotted muscles in my leg.
“You are not fine, young man," she shook her head, studying me. "You really should be more careful, Mr. O'Neill. That job you do is just way to dangerous, it seems to me. You get hurt far too often.”
“Once is too often,” I mumbled under my breath. Fortunately, her hearing’s not so good and she didn’t hear me. “Yes, ma’am, I’ll agree with that,” I amended, speaking more loudly.
“What happened?”
Oh good, should I tell her the truth, how an oversized, giant spider the size of her living room had stung me with his feelers so he could carry me home and eat me for lunch? “Just a little training mishap, Mrs. M.”
“You look warm. Would you like a glass of water, young man?”
Not a bad idea. “Yes, I’d like that, ma’am. Thank you.”
“Then you come on up here on my porch and set yourself down right there. Prop your foot up on that empty chair while I get you some nice cold water.”
So that’s how I ended up sitting on Mrs. McGilligan’s front porch.
She likes to mother me. And it’s kind of nice to have someone call me ‘young.’
So call me vain. See if I care.
The morning visit to Mrs. M’s porch became a daily ritual. Truthfully, for the first couple days, that was about as far as I could walk without needing a rest.
Pretty humbling. Jack O’Neill, interplanetary explorer, friend to the Asgard, scourge of the Goa’uld, on the galaxy’s top ten most wanted list, gnarly heroic Air Force Colonel, rescued by a little old lady with a yappy little dog and a big front porch.
But, as long as you don’t tell anyone, I’ll admit that I kinda liked it, actually. Gave me somebody to talk to. And she sort of reminds me of my grandmother.
By the second week, I’d managed to build myself up to covering a lot more distance. Finally made it all the way to the end of the block, across from the park. So, yeah, that’s only what, four hundred yards from my front door, but that was 400 yards further than I was walking a week ago, so there.
It was a nice day, sunny, warm, and the park looked damn inviting. Besides, I could see a bench over there that would be just the place to rest. Only for a minute, of course, just so I didn’t overdo things. Wouldn’t want to disobey Doc’s orders, nope.
I crutched across the quiet street and over to the bench, hot, sweaty and tired, dropping heavily to the seat. Damn, this was all still such slow going.
Closing my eyes, I sat back, tilting my face upward to catch the warming rays of the sun while I waited for the trembling in my legs to go away, along with the stitch in my side.
That’s when I heard something behind me.
Not moving my head, I slowly opened one eye, then millimeter by millimeter, shifted my gaze toward the bushes behind me.
There was someone there, no, too small, more like something there, creeping cautiously through the bushes toward the trash can next to the swings.
The animal darted from the cover of the plants, snatched a tattered piece of paper lying near the trashcan, and retreated back into the concealing foliage.
I’d only had one very quick glimpse, but it looked to be a dog, a skinny, ill-kept, scared dog.
“Hi, pup,” I said conversationally. All I could see of the animal, in the darkness under the bushes, were gleaming black eyes, staring at me with mistrust and fear. And hunger. The poor thing looked ravenous, digging through the trash.
I rifled through my pockets. I had on jeans and a sweatshirt today, no need for a jacket, and there was no food in my pockets. Damn. Nothing at all. Not even a crumb.
“If I go home and get you something, will you stay here?” I asked the dog.
As you’d expect, it didn’t answer.
“I’ll be back, fast as I can. Which I’m sorry won’t be very fast, I know,” I rattled on, keeping my voice soft and soothing and hoping the animal might respond. “I’ll be back. Promise.”
The dog slunk back even further into the bushes, growling low in its throat as I levered myself upright.
Home seemed a million miles away. I can hop aboard a wormhole and be halfway across the galaxy in a matter of seconds, but on crutches, with a numb leg and broken ribs, it took me forever to go three-fourths of a block back to my house. Sweating, stumbling, cursing the damn crutches and my damn leg and my goddamn ribs, I struggled back to my house. I rifled through the refrigerator, not finding much, but there was a loaf of bread, and the leftover steak from the other night, and the ham someone had bought me for sandwiches. Tossing it all into a plastic bag that I could slip over my wrist, I hobbled back to the door, grabbed my keys, and went out to the garage.
So yes, I knew I wasn’t supposed to be driving yet, but it was only to the end of the block, and if I tried to walk, I’d damn sure overdo it. So which was worse, walking too far or driving? Sometimes you’ve got to make choices. So I chose the truck. Somehow managing to haul myself up into the cab, I backed out carefully and drove slowly down the street, parking across from the park.
------------
The dog was still there, still cowering back in the bushes.
I sat down on the bench and opened the bag, pulling out the ham, waving it in the air to be sure the pup got the scent.
The dog licked his lips, still staring at me. I could see his nose twitch. Ah, good, I had his attention now. “Here, pup. Come on. Din-din,” I chanted softly.
The creature whined, but stayed put.
“Ham. Real, sugar cured ham. Good stuff. Makes great sandwiches.”
The dog was shivering but not moving.
“I won’t hurt you, pup, I promise.”
I could see the animal tense, wanting to come out, but still afraid.
Breaking a small bit of meat off the slice, I gently tossed the tidbit into the bushes, not too close to the frightened animal, afraid I’d scare it off if the throw came too close. It raised itself up on its haunches, preparing to flee, and then its hunger got the best of it. Quickly, the brown muzzle reached forward, snatching up the meat, gulping it down so fast I’m sure the animal never tasted it.
“That’s good, pup. A good start,” I kept up the soothing chatter, throwing another piece of meat, not quite as far as the first. Bit by bit, I lured the animal a little closer to the edge of the bushes, but despite its hunger, that was as far as it would come.
“Hey, pup, that’s okay. I understand. Sometimes the world’s a scary place.” I was remembering a time when my world had been dark and empty and barren; when my own belly had growled with hunger, and my eyes had reflected only distrust, hatred and anger, and all I wanted was a place to hide from those who would hurt me.
Pup became my project, because I knew what it was like to be him.
-------------------
Every morning, and again every afternoon, I’d hobble on down to the park and sit on the bench, a bag of treats in my hand, and patiently toss them into the bushes. “We’ve got all day, pup. You take your time. Trust’s not an easy thing.”
I know I’m an impatient man. It’s a flaw I’ve had since I was a kid, and one I’ve never been able to tame. Too much restless energy, I suppose. Too much to do and too little time to do it. And mostly, just no need for the superfluous details. I’m a big picture kind of person. I want the capsule version, the summary, straight to the point, no-nonsense, just the facts basics. You do know Carter drives me crazy, and Daniel’s right next to her, right?
But for some reason, with kids, and dogs, I have an ocean of patience, maybe because I don’t waste it on adults.
Whatever, it’s there, and it was there for Pup.
----------------
Pup quickly learned when to look for me. I think he had a hideout, back there under the bushes, because that’s where I always saw him.
I was late one day, when Doc came by to give me another check-up, and the animal seemed almost relieved to see me. Good. That was a start.
I’m sure the folks who lived across from the park thought I was nuts. I’m probably lucky they never called the cops on me. I mean, there I’d be, every morning, rain or shine, hobbling down the street, plastic bag flopping against the crutches. And then I’d go sit on the park bench, for hours at a time, seemingly talking to myself because ol’ Pup stayed hidden in the bushes.
I talked to him a lot. Pup was a good listener. I told him about Doc and her twice a week visits to check up on me; about my friends at work; about my boss, Hammond of Texas; about how quiet and empty my house felt at night; about how after all this time I still mourned Charlie and missed Sara and regretted the mess I’d made of all the good things in my life; about Minnesota and fishing. I told him about all the things I couldn’t tell a human being, because a human might judge me, or reject me or take pity on me, none of which I could abide. Pup would listen, and he wouldn’t scold or criticize or look down on me for my failures.
Humans should be so forgiving.
I have told you that dogs are my favorite people, haven’t I?
--------
A couple of weeks went by, and my life was filled with excitement-- eating, sleeping, taking pills, watching TV... I was feeling better every day, my leg getting stronger and truth be told, Pup had a lot to do with it. I had someplace to go and someone to talk to. I had a goal, and my goal was to get that dog to come out of hiding and let me be his friend.
The breakthrough came the day when he finally slunk out of the bushes to take a treat right out of my hand. Of course, he snatched it and retreated into his safe hideout, but that was okay. He’d made the first gesture, it wasn't much, but it was a start.
Pretty soon he’d come out from his hidey-hole and sit there, tongue hanging out, a big brown mutt with a rough coat, but at least his ribs weren’t sticking out anymore. He never quite wagged his tail at the sight of me, but he was glad to see me, or at least the food I’d bought.
So no, I didn’t tell Doc that I’d driven to the grocery store and bought dog food and dog treats, those little ones that smelled like sausages and bacon.
---------------
And then one day I went to the park, and Pup wasn’t there.
I waited. Hey, he’d waited for me when I was late.
He didn’t show.
Hours passed.
I contemplated looking for him, and since I could now walk something akin to normal, and needed only a cane instead of crutches for the now rare occasions when the leg tremors threatened my balance, I strolled around the park, looking for him. There was no sign.
I was sitting there on the park bench as dusk descended, feeling a bit lost and forlorn, when Daniel drove up.
He got out of his car and walked over, sitting down beside me on the bench. His eyes scanned over my face, and whatever he saw there made him frown. “Nice day to go to the park."
“Uh huh.” I’m a great conversationalist when I’m worried.
“Did you forget I was coming over, or did you just not want my company?” he asked finally.
“Sorry. Forgot.”
“Ah. Lots on your mind then.”
“Yes.”
“Care to talk about it?”
“That would be a first.”
“Yes, it would,” he said, that little perplexed frown on his face.
We were quiet for quite a while.
“You come here a lot?” he asked at last.
“Shit, Daniel, that’s a pick-up line!” I snarled, exasperated.
“Not in this case, no. It’s an honest question.”
“Which I don’t have to answer.”
Daniel jumped to his feet, pacing in front of me, pausing finally to glare at me. “No, Jack, you don’t. But I’m your friend, or at least sometimes I think I am, and I’m worried about you. It’s not like you to forget that we were going to meet Sam and Teal’c for dinner.”
“Guess I wasn’t paying attention to the time.” I tried to cover, feeling guilty now on top of being worried.
“No, I guess you weren’t. So, are you mad at me or something? Cause I can’t figure out what I might have done… this time.”
I swiped a hand across my face, feeling tired. “I’m not mad at you. Just lost something. Something important.”
“What?”
“Probably my mind,” I tried to joke. “Look, Daniel, I’m just not in the mood for eating out tonight.”
He looked oddly at me. He knows I really like to eat out, mostly because I don’t like to cook in, and we’d been planning this dinner as a sort of SG-1 anniversary gathering.
“You feeling okay?”
“God, not you, too…”
“Well I *am *Doctor Jackson.”
“Doctor of Archaeology Jackson.”
“Right. So?”
“So you guys go without me. I’ll be there some other time.”
“Look, Jack, I know you must be tired of being stuck at home and anxious to get back to work, but…”
“This isn’t about that, Daniel. Really. I’m fine. You guys go. I’ll see you all Friday night, right?”
Daniel studied my face intently. I lifted my chin and gave him my best ‘I’m fine’ look and at last he shrugged. “Whatever, Jack. Need a ride home?”
“No. I’ll walk. Good for me you know.”
I watched while he walked over to his car and drove away. Carefully, I stood up, my legs stiff from sitting for so long, twinges of muscle pain flickering through my thigh and calf after the long period of idleness. I gave myself a minute, then started the walk home, still feeling like I’d lost something important.
-------------------------
I was at the park early the next day. No sign of Pup again. I actually went over and asked a couple of the moms with small kids who I saw often at the park, but they didn’t remember seeing the dog.
Finally, not knowing what else to do, I walked over to the house across the street and rang the bell. A middle-aged woman came to the door, looking suspiciously at me. “Can I help you?”
“I’m just wondering if you’ve seen anything of a big, shaggy coated dog, brown, about this big,” I held my hand about knee height.
“Oh, the stray that’s been hanging around the park the last few weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“A car hit him yesterday.”
My heart skipped a beat.
Shit, Jack, get it together. It was just a dog, just a poor, damn, helpless, friendless, scared, dog…
“Ah, thanks.” I turned to go.
“Mister, if you’d like to know, the people from the humane society took him to the shelter I think.”
I turned back and smiled at her. “Thank you.”
---------------
I hurried home, grabbed the truck keys, and drove to the pound.
It’s a place I usually avoid, because my instinct is to want to take every last sorry, sad dog home with me. Yeah, sure, I’m Mr Hardass Military Guy, but I can’t walk past a sad-eyed dog without choking up. What’s it to ya’?
I walked in to the shelter, and up to the woman sitting behind a big desk piled with almost as many papers as Daniel usually has on his, meaning a lot. “Hello, Judy,” I read off her nametag.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here about a dog.”
She smiled, sensing a customer I guess. “We have lots,” she smiled brightly.
“Ah, actually, I’m here about a specific dog, one that was picked up yesterday…”
Her smile dimmed with disapproval. I’d obviously been demoted from dog lover to unworthy careless dog owner. “We picked up several strays yesterday.”
“This one was found by the Centennial Park. Big brown dog, the neighbor said it was hit by a car.”
“Dogs shouldn’t be left to roam, mister…?”
“O’Neill, Jack. He wasn’t roaming per se. And he’s not mine. I’ve been feeding him, over at the park, trying to make friends with him…”
“A noble desire, Mr. O’Neill, but…” she was shuffling through one part of one stack of paperwork, stopping with an “ah hah” and looking up at me at last, “you could have called us and we’d have picked him up, gotten him safely in here.”
In hindsight, maybe she’d been right, but I didn’t want to think so. “So, is he here?”
“Yes, he was very lucky. A broken leg and minor injuries. We’ve treated him, but I’m afraid he’s not very friendly and probably won’t be adoptable.”
Before my brain knew what my mouth was doing, I said, “I’ll adopt him.”
“Do you know anything about dogs, Mr. O’Neill?” she asked skeptically.
“Tons. Had a couple when I was a kid, and another a few years ago.”
“What happened to it?”
“My wife got the dog in the divorce.”
“Oh. What kind of job do you have?”
“A good one, good enough so that I can afford to own my own house and feed for a dog,” I snapped.
“You’re home everyday?”
“Yes.” Okay, so I lied. Sort of. I *was* home everyday now, and I would be for a few more weeks yet, and by that time I’d find the dog a permanent home. I knew if I left him here no one would want him, and I knew what happened to unadoptable dogs.
She looked me over suspiciously from head to foot.
I don’t suppose I looked very prosperous, or very impressive either. I mean, there I was in sweats, unshaven, walking with an appreciable limp. Then I saw her eyes flick out to see what vehicle I’d arrived in, and when she saw the big Ford, her assessment improved immeasurably.
She took me back to see Pup. He was lying in a kennel, on a soft rug, sleeping, probably sedated, one leg bandaged.
“Hi, Pup,” I said softly.
He woke sluggishly, then raised his head to look at me, his eyes sort of glazed. Man, did I know how he felt, drugged, in pain, confused, and scared. Been there a few times myself.
Was that an attempt at wagging his tail? I thought so.
“He does seem to know you, Mr. O’Neill,” said Judy. “Are you sure you want to do this? He’s actually an older dog. The vet figured 5 or 6 years old according to his teeth, but it’s hard to tell with strays. And he’ll need lots of attention and care.”
“I’ve got the time.”
--------------------
So I took Pup home with me, fixed him up a bed next to mine.
We made a pretty good pair, one as battered as the next.
It was good having him there. I enjoyed it, having Pup to talk to. He didn't like riding in the truck, maybe he didn’t trust my driving? And he hated the collar when I put it on him the first day, but he didn’t fight the leash I put him on so he could walk with me yet stay safely out of the street. He hadn’t always been a stray then, he’d had some training once, back when he really was a pup.
I knew I’d be going back to work soon. I didn’t know what I was going to do about Pup. Sure, at first I’d be doing desk work, so I’d be home every night, but truthfully, a part of me was getting damn impatient to get back to my real job, with SG-1.
But another part of me was perfectly happy here at home with Pup for company.
We got along well, a pair of cranky, antisocial, gimpy old timers. He even had gray hairs showing on his muzzle. Well, you know they say people and their dogs *do* look alike.
-------------
My first day back at work was pretty anticlimactic.
And boring.
After all the obligatory ‘glad you’re back, Colonel’ pep talks, a nice chat with the General, and breakfast with Carter, Daniel and Teal’c having gone off world with SG-4, I limped down to my office.
The paperwork was stacked about 12 feet high on my desk.
Okay, so that’s a slight exaggeration. Six feet. Four. All right, two. Really.
After a couple of hours, I had writer’s cramp, eyestrain, and one hell of a headache. The paperwork stack was still about 23 inches high.
Surprisingly, it was Doc who came to my rescue, dragging me over to the infirmary for another check-up and another round of tests.
As I buttoned up my shirt, she strode back into the room, a smile on her face. “All your test results look excellent, Colonel. I want you to intensify your workout schedule this week, and hopefully by the week after I’ll be able to allow you on light duty.
I guess my smile didn’t seem too genuine.
Hers dimmed. Doc stared at me worriedly. “Colonel?” she asked softly. “Something wrong?”
I was staring down at my hands. “No.”
“I see. Something's right, then?”
I looked over at her. She was giving me one of those looks, no not that one, the other one, the ‘this time he’s got me completely baffled’ one.
“I thought you’d be glad to be back on active duty,” she prompted.
“I am,” I answered quickly. “Sort of.”
“I see,” she said, and clearly didn’t. “You enjoyed having some time off?”
“Not exactly.”
“So what’s…”
“Nothing, Doc.” I stood. “Guess all that paperwork on my desk is just depressing me, huh.” And I walked out.
------------------
Daniel and Teal’c got home the next day, and that night, Daniel stopped over. I was sitting on the deck, watching the sunset, Pup curled up by my feet, as I heard his car pull up. “Back here,” I shouted. He came around the corner of the house with that sheepish little smile that drives all the nurses mad as in ‘isn’t he cute’, and just plain makes me mad as in ‘isn’t he annoying today.’ “There’s more beer in the fridge,” I offered.
“Nope. Driving.” He stood, jacket in hand, leaning against the deck railing.
I nodded. “So how was PXX... whatever.”
“PC5-449. Nice planet.”
“Trees, rocks, ruins…”
“Yes. Some very nice ancient cave paintings.”
“No Goa’uld?”
“None.”
“Nice neighborhood, then.”
“Very.”
“So what did you come to ask?” I asked.
“Janet was worried about you.”
I shrugged. “It’s Doc’s job to be worried about me, and about you and Sam and even Teal’c.”
“This is a different kind of worried.” He raised his gaze to look into mine. “She said you seemed uncertain about coming back to work.”
“I’ve been there the last two days.”
“No, not in the mountain. With SG-1.”
“Oh.” I sat, quiet.
“Something wrong?”
“She asked me that.”
“And you didn’t answer her.”
“Does there have to be an answer?”
“For you to not be jumping at the chance to get back to doing the job you love? Yes, there does have to be.”
I shrugged. Truth was, I didn’t know what I felt, or what I wanted. And that was scaring me, because I know I can’t do the job for SG-1 if I’m not 100% there, every minute of every day we’re out there.
“I’m thinking retirement.”
“You’ve thought that before.”
“Yup.”
“And rejected it.”
“That was then…”
“And now is different because… what?”
“Because I’m older, grayer, probably not any wiser…” Hell, how could I explain it to him when I didn’t understand it myself?
“Jack…”
“Daniel, I just don’t know. And because I don’t know, I know I’m not ready, you know.”
He nodded. I think trying to follow that bit of O’Neill logic was making him dizzy.
And then he looked over at me, to where my hand was scratching Pup behind the ears, and I think he understood.
Maybe. Daniel’s not a dog person, and I’m not sure if you can understand, if you’re not a dog person, what it means. Pup was company, a friend, a constant when my life had been chaos for the past six years. He made my empty house less empty. So what if he wasn’t a brilliant conversationalist? I get enough of that at work every day, between Daniel and Carter that’s more brilliance than one normal human being can handle. And unlike my team, Pup followed orders and *never* talked back. He didn’t care if I was cranky or moody or having a bad day, because Pup needed me, like I hadn’t been needed by any human being for a very long time. Not since Charlie…
Daniel just looked from me to the dog and back to me, and nodded, said, “See you tomorrow, Jack,” and left.
-------------------------
Two days later, Sgt. Siler knocked at my office door. The sergeant is a good guy, and a damned good technician, steady in a crisis. Besides, anyone who can understand even a tenth of what Carter says has to be brilliant. And, okay, I still owe him for the concussion and the broken arm, even though I swear it was entirely, 100% accidental, all the fault of those damn Tok’ra and their double damned Superman armbands.
“Colonel O’Neill?”
“Come in, Sergeant.”
“Ah, Major Carter said you might be able to help me out.”
“With?” Me? Help Siler? Unless he had a problem that required a gun, I doubted there was much I could do to help him out.
“Well, Sir, my son’s 12, and pretty shy, and last week he lost his dog. The Major said you’d taken in a stray who needed a good home.”
Damn that Carter. Using a kid to weasel in under my defenses ought to be a court martialable offense.
“Zach needs another dog, and we don’t have time for a puppy right now. He’d have a great home, Sir, I promise.”
I swallowed a big lump in my throat. “Why don’t you bring the boy over on Saturday and see if he and Pup get along?” I offered reluctantly.
-----------------
When the doorbell rang I had the irrational urge to ignore it and hope the Silers would go away. But I didn’t; I opened the door and let the Sergeant and his young son enter the house. “Come on in,” I invited. “Pup’s back here.” We walked through the living room and out onto the deck, where Pup had been happily snoozing on a rug strategically placed in the sun. Naps in the warm sun are good for mending bones and aging bodies. I know.
Pup raised his head and thumped his tail when he saw me.
Siler’s quiet son smiled and slapped his hand against his thigh in that universal ‘come’ gesture every dog lover knows.
Pup looked over at me as if apologizing and climbed carefully to his feet, limping over to the boy. Zach bent down to Pup’s level and looked the dog in the eye, boy to beast, his hand stroking across the soft brown hair on the dog’s skull, scratching the droopy ears. Pup’s long pink tongue darted out to lick the boy’s chin. Zach smiled and threw his arm around the dog’s neck, and Pup’s tail began to wag slowly.
They belonged together. I could see it, in the boy’s eyes and in Pup’s, too.
But it didn’t make it any easier to send him away with them.
Sometimes, doing the right thing hurts.
But the right thing is the right thing, and they needed each other and belonged together, that quiet boy and that old dog.
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So that’s how Pup went to live with the Siler’s. I stop in and visit now and then, and he’s always happy to see me. Seems like he gets grayer every time I see him, sort of like me I guess. His broken leg healed up just fine, and he only limps a little. You hardly notice though, because he walks with the happy swagger of a well-fed and much loved member of the family. It’s hard to recognize the scared, starving stray I’d found in the park.
I’m happy for Pup, who’s named Colonel now.
He’s found himself a home, a family and a good life.
I’m glad.
But I miss him.
Maybe some day, after I really do retire, I’ll get myself a dog and move up to Minnesota, live in Granddad’s cabin beside that fishless lake, no longer a stray myself, but home at last.
Mostly, though, I know it’s just wishful thinking.
I’m not as lucky as that dog.
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**The End**