The Test

By: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 3 or 4

Episode: None

Category: Hurt/Comfort

Summary: Jack must prove he isn’t a gould

Warnings: None

Rating: Anyone, though there’s some intense hurt here

Pairing: None

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of MGM, SciFi, Showtime, and probably a whole bunch of other rich and important folks that definitely don't include me. This story is for entertainment purposes only, and no money was involved, only appreciation for the characters.

Author’s Note: For all of you who have been patiently waiting for another fic; With special thanks to MonaM for the medical advice; and as always, deep appreciation to all those who feedback

-----------------------------

Colonel Jack O’Neill, having just stepped out of the wormhole, stood in front of and two steps to the left of the Stargate, gun raised and eyes narrowed as he raked his gaze over the alien landscape. O’Neill surveyed his surroundings, searching for any sign of trouble which might appear out of the rocks or trees. Never taking his eyes off the terrain, the Colonel silently noted the arrival of the rest of his team, listening to the sucking sound each one made when emerging from the wormhole. He counted as he heard the familiar sound behind him— repeated once, twice, three times-- everyone had arrived. SG-1 was ready to go to work.

For the veteran of dozens of visits to alien planets, there was nothing new here. O’Neill looked around at the incredibly familiar landscape—a small grassy meadow which ended about twenty yards away where a thick forest of pine-type trees began. "So, Major, I’m not seeing any brick roads, yellow or otherwise. Which way to Oz?" he asked lightly, turning to look at his second in command.

Behind him, Major Samantha Carter smiled. "The UAV showed that way to the village, Sir," she pointed ahead and slightly left.

"Then that way it is, Dorothy," O’Neill smiled as he waved at a faint trail that led across the open ground near the gate and into a thick forest. "Teal’c, you’ve got point, I’ve got our six."

The Jaffa warrior didn’t answer, just nodded in acknowledgement, and walked ahead, following the trail that led in the direction SG-1’s leader had just pointed.

Jack waited while the major followed the Jaffa, then waved a hand at Daniel. "After you, Doctor Jackson."

Daniel had noted Jack’s upbeat mood. It was good to see it. They’d been through some tough missions recently, but SG-1 seemed to be getting back in sync at last. "So, Jack, you sure are chipper today," he couldn’t resist.

"Chipper? Nah, not me, I’m Toto," Jack answered with a grin.

He did feel good today, he had to admit. Just the day before, he’d passed his annual field readiness physical, passed it with flying colors, in fact. So, yeah, he wasn’t a kid anymore, but damned if he still couldn’t outdo damn near every one of them, Marines included. He’d actually snuck a look at his chart and noted with satisfaction the remarks about his fitness, stats a man half his age would have been proud of. So, yeah, in a few days he would be turning 46. Sounded old, but it wasn’t. Nope. Not him.

Fit as a fiddle, healthy as a horse, right as rain, to borrow a couple of oh so accurate clichés.

-----x-----x-----

They had gone less than ten yards when Teal’c stopped, raising one hand. There was warning in the single word he uttered. "O’Neill."

"Gotcha," Jack answered equally softly, casually raising his gun barrel as a white-robed old man stepped silently out of the trees in front of them. Another dozen or more men, clad in light brown robes, emerged and arrayed themselves in a half circle behind the old man.

The white robed native came forward three steps and stopped. "Hail, Lord, your people await you," he called out, dropping to his knees. The men around him did the same.

Jack looked questioningly at SG-1’s expert on alien cultures. "Daniel?"

Before Jackson could answer, Carter’s whisper brought Jack’s attention to her. "Sir, we’re surrounded."

Jack looked back, noting that more natives had stepped silently out of the trees on the far side of the gate. He felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand up, and his shoulders tightened with sudden tension. His bantering tone was quickly gone, replaced by a terse warning. "Daniel, I’m not liking this."

The archaeologist put a hand out, pushing down the barrel of Jack’s gun. "Just relax, Jack. No one’s made a hostile move."

"Not yet," O’Neill answered grimly.

The white clad native, still on his knees, raised his eyes to glance upward at Jack. "You have come through the Chappa’ai, my Lord?"

Jack answered cautiously, "Yes, we did."

The old man in white raised his arms. "Hail, mighty Lord," he cried, and bowing his head again added, "Your people are ready for your judgment."

"Oh for cryin’ out loud, get up." Jack didn’t find the obsequious behavior relaxing; instead, it just seemed to raise the tension level. "We’re not Lords. We’re not here to judge you. We’re just—people. Visitors. Get up," he demanded.

‘Yes, my lord," the white clad man climbed to his feet, the others following his lead.

"And stop with the lord crap," Jack added, irritated, his good mood having quickly vanished. "What’s your name?"

"High Priest Quuall."

"Well, High Priest Quill, we’re not lords, we’re just laymen."

"Actually," Daniel stepped forward to stand beside O’Neill, smiling in his most friendly way, "we’re simply peaceful explorers. My name is Daniel Jackson, and that’s Major Samantha Carter, Teal’c, and our leader here is Colonel Jack O’Neill." Daniel pointed to each of his teammates as he stated their names.

The old man in white was looking from one to another of the new arrivals, his gaze finally coming to rest on Jack. "Colonel Jack O’Neill, I have never heard such a strange name for a Goa’uld Lord."

"You know of the Goa’uld?" Daniel interjected, surprised.

The white clad native turned to Jackson, nodding. "The Lords visit us."

More people had stepped out of the woods, edging silently closer to the new arrivals.

"Why do you think we’re Gould?" Daniel asked.

"Only the goa’uld may use the Chappa’ai," Quuall replied.

"Not true," O’Neill countered.

The high priest shook his head. "For many, many lifetimes, we have had visitors through the Chappa’ai. Always and only the Goa’uld Lords and their servants lead those who use the Chappa’ai. So we were told; so we have seen."

"Maybe that was true in the past, but not this time, not us," the Colonel disagreed. "It’s a machine. Anyone who knows how it works can use it."

Daniel looked confused. "Wait, Quuall, the Goa’uld have been here, and your people, you obey the Gould, you worship them?

The native’s humble tone and posture vanished. There was open hostility on his face now, accusation not worship. "Once we did. No longer. We have cast out the false gods, and will bow down to them no more."

"Then we should be friends," Daniel suggested. "We, our people, also oppose the Goa’uld."

The old man looked skeptical "So you say." Turning back to O’Neill, the priest asked, "You, Colonel Jack O’Neill, you claim to be the leader of this group?"

"Yes, I’m their leader," Jack answered. "But, just to be clear, I’m no Gould. I’m only a humble Colonel."

"So you claim. Yet you travel through the Chappa’ai. And you command a Jaffa, a warrior of the Goa’uld," the white clad old man sounded suddenly smug as he pointed to Teal’c.

Jack waved away the comment. "Teal’c? He was on the gould’s team but he’s an independent Jaffa now."

"Jaffa serve the Goa’uld. He bears their mark." Quuall insisted.

"Teal’c is different," Jack insisted. "He left the Gould and joined us."

"I no longer serve the false gods," Teal’c spoke up. "I am free."

The old man was not accepting their answers. His voice grew louder and rougher as he looked first at Teal’c, then at O’Neill, shaking his fist at the Colonel. "He is Jaffa. And you are Goa’uld."

Jack tried to ignore the cold chill that suddenly rippled down his spine. He had the sinking feeling that this place really wasn’t going to be like Oz in any way, shape or form.

"We’re not Goa’uld," Daniel insisted.

"Perhaps you are not," the elderly native spun to look at Daniel, then turned back to point once again at Jack, "but *he* is."

"Hey, now that’s an insult. I’m no Gould," Jack stepped up to look directly into the old man’s gaze, and pointed at his own face. "See the eyes, no glow. And the voice, normal." He pointed at his BDUs. "And have you ever seen a Gould who dresses like this? Huh? No gold, no gaudy, not even close to the top, much less over it."

The priest clearly remained unconvinced. "The Goa’uld do not always willingly reveal their nature. They lie. They hide, when they believe it will be to their advantage. Whatever you have come here to find, you are not welcome, Goa’uld."

"I am *not* a gould." Jack snapped, annoyed with the circular debate. "Oh for cry—look, I’m *not* some pompous, narcissistic, self-centered, over-glammed, slimy snake infested god-wanna-be. Not. How many times do I have to tell you that?" In exasperation, he turned to his teammate. "Daniel, explain it to him, would you?"

Daniel smiled at the native, trying to diffuse the situation. "Quuall, we are travelers. We’re here to get to know your people, to learn about your culture and your way of life," he started in his most reasonable voice.

"Those who seek knowledge rarely carry weapons and bring Jaffa with them," accused a loud voice from among the men standing behind the high priest.

Daniel kept his tone calm and neutral. "My people travel to many lands. Sometimes, we must defend ourselves, but our weapons are only for our own protection. We have no wish to harm you or your people. We would like to become friends and share what we know in exchange for learning about your people. We are simply in search of knowledge, Quuall, to take back with us to Earth."

"Urth? You claim to be from Urth? Urth is but a legend." A second, younger native stepped forward to stand beside Quuall. His robe was a pale ivory color; his face was flushed red with anger.

"Earth is no legend," Daniel replied earnestly. "It is the homeworld of humanity, your own homeworld before the gould brought you here."

"For someone who claims not to be of the Goa’uld, you know much about them," the younger man countered suspiciously.

"We have learned of them in our travels, and met them on many worlds," Daniel insisted.

The young man was glaring. "You spout lies in order to trick us!"

Jack had heard enough, his patience was gone. "Look, for the last time, we’re not trying to trick anyone. And we’re not gould, none of us." He turned back toward his team, disgusted. "This is a waste of time. Let’s get the hell out of here--"

Daniel wasn’t ready to leave. "Jack, wait, please--"

"Daniel, save your breath. If he thinks we’re gould, there’s no changing his mind. Truth and logic won’t sway a fanatic."

"You speak with the arrogance of the Goa’uld," said the younger native.

"Oh, yeah. Right," Jack snapped.

"Jack," Daniel warned.

O’Neill turned to look back at the two natives. "Okay, fellahs, I don’t know how to say this any more clearly. I am not a gould. My people are not goulds. We don’t work with or for the gould. We don’t like the gould and we sure as hell don’t worship them. Yes, Teal’c is a Jaffa, but he is no longer on their side. He opted for free agency years ago."

"All Jaffa serve the Goa’uld, and only the Goa’uld and their minions travel through the Chappa’ai," whispered a voice from among the men gathered behind the priest. There were murmurs of agreement from the crowd of natives.

"Like you, I once served the Goa’uld, but no more, and for that, I am called shol’vah," Teal’c stated mildly.

"More lies!" cried the younger man.

"Hallat! Quiet," the older priest ordered the younger. His old eyes carefully studied O’Neill’s face. "Perhaps they do speak truth."

Jack started to smile. "Thank you," he answered sarcastically.

"Do not be a fool, Quuall. He has come to enslave us," Suddenly, the younger priest smiled confidently. "I shall prove to you that he lies." Hallat stepped quickly forward, a glint of rich gold metal momentarily flashing in the bright sunlight.

O’Neill’s instinctive half-step backward saved his life. "Listen--"

Hallat’s hand flashed forward. Something punched Jack in the midsection, just below the bottom edge of his vest, cutting off his words. Instinctively, his hands flew down to clutch at his stomach. "Wha--?" With a sudden look of stunned surprise, the Colonel dropped to his knees. His gaze slid down toward his stomach.

There, just to the left of his bellybutton, protruded the ornately carved hilt of a dagger.

/-----x-----\

It was weird. He was staring down at a knife stuck in his flesh and in this first moment, it didn’t hurt, not really. It was just there, like a toothpick in an or’ deourve .

Mesmerized, he watched the first drop of bright red blood appear. It slid across one finger of the hand that clutched the glittering hilt of the knife. Another drop followed quickly after it, sliding slowly, wetly, across his flesh.

Jack took a tentative shallow breath and then another before the first sharp sting of sliced flesh shuddered through him. He swayed and caught his balance, his mouth suddenly dry, feeling abruptly shaky and sick.

Absorbed in the absurd sight of the alien weapon protruding from his body, afraid to draw a real breath, Jack wasn’t watching his team. He didn’t see the fight break out behind him as Teal’c lifted his staff weapon and Carter raised and aimed her MP-5.

They were too late, already surrounded by dozens of natives, all of them holding long, wickedly curved swords that had suddenly appeared from beneath their robes. O’Neill didn’t see another one of the natives grab Daniel from behind, holding a knife to his throat. With their teammate in danger, outnumbered and in close quarters, wordlessly, Teal’c lowered and dropped his weapon, and the Major followed his lead.

Within moments, all three were stripped of weapons, packs, vests, and all their gear, tossed down beside the gate.

For a long moment, the meadow was perfectly quiet except for the soft murmur of the wind.

All eyes were fixed on O’Neill.

Afraid he was about to black out from lack of oxygen, Jack sucked in a breath. Red hot flame erupted in his belly. The world spun, the light went dim, and he found himself fighting the sudden rush of blackness that swirled around him like a whirlpool, threatening to suck him in.

In the hush, they could all hear O’Neill’s gasping breaths.

Finally, the stillness was broken when the old high priest grabbed the younger one, pulling him around to glare into his face. "Hallat, what have you done?"

Hallat smiled. "He cannot hide his nature now. He is Goa’uld, and he will prove it when he heals himself. We need waste no more time on useless words--"

"He’s not a Gould! None of us are!" Daniel shouted, struggling futilely to break free.

"We will soon know the truth." The young priest smiled smugly. Hallat pulled free of Quuall’s grasp. Walking up to O’Neill, he reached down to wrench the strap of the MP-5 off Jack’s shoulder, nearly knocking over the wounded man.

The Colonel swayed, but managed to stay on his knees, the color draining from his tanned face, his gaze still fixed.

Hallat waved a hand and the man with the knife released Daniel.

Daniel hurried to SG-1’s stricken leader, kneeling beside him. "Jack?" He reached out a hand to touch his friend’s arm.

At the contact, O’Neill turned. He licked his lips, his eyes unfocused, and a painful grimace twisted his lips.

"Jack?"

The voice was so low the younger man could barely hear it. "I-- I don’t feel so good, Daniel."

Wanting to do something to help, the younger man reached out a hand to grip the knife’s hilt. "Let’s get this--"

O’Neill swayed back. "No! Don’t!" he gasped. "Wrong-- thing—to do." He sucked in a breath and exhaled slowly as Daniel pulled his hand back. Each word was a chore, as if he had to concentrate to make the syllables to form the words. "Makes it—worse-- bleeds more--"

Hallat moved to stand before them, smiling mockingly. "Then we shall have our answer sooner." Without warning he reached down and tore out the knife.

"Agghhhhh!" Jack cried out, only Daniel’s quick move to grasp his shoulder preventing him from collapsing.

Calmly, Hallat wiped the slender blade of the bloodstained weapon on his robe and slid it back into its hiding place on his belt. "We must take them to the temple. There we shall see the Goa’uld come forth, and we will know the truth. Bring him," he ordered, indicating O’Neill.

Rough hands reached down and grabbed Jack’s arms. He groaned as he was hauled to his feet and prodded forward.

Teal’c, Carter and Daniel, surrounded by armed natives, were forced to march behind their leader. O’Neill walked slowly, left arm wrapped around his belly, his left leg dragging slightly as if it were extra heavy.

"Jack--" Daniel, desperate to help, started toward the Colonel, but a sharp blow to his back stopped him.

"Stay back!" he was ordered.

"Let us help him," Daniel pleaded.

His request was ignored as the guards instead tightened their cordon surrounding the three able members of SG-1 and forced them forward.

/-----x-----\

He could feel the warmth of blood trickling over his fingers now. That couldn’t be good. Warm, wet drops slid lazily down his belly and trailed down his leg, turning his green BDUs dark and sodden. He tried to stop, but each time he faltered, hands against his back propelled him forward. Dizzy, legs shaking, he staggered blindly on.

/-----x-----\

Under normal conditions, they would have needed only a couple of minutes of brisk walking, ten at most, to reach their destination.

It seemed like hours, though Daniel was pretty sure it was actually only fifteen minutes or less. However short a time, it was agonizing as the other members of SG-1 were forced to watch Jack stagger slowly onward for what seemed to be unending minutes.

They followed a well-worm trail through the forest before reaching another clearing, the one they had seen on the UAV flyover. The village they had planned to visit stood there, a cluster of small primitive houses of wood and thatch dominated by one large stone structure.

They were being herded to the base of a set of steep stairs that led up the large building.

Sam looked at Daniel. "What is this place?" she asked softly.

"From the carvings, I’d say it’s a ceremonial building of some kind, a temple probably," the archeologist whispered back. "There aren’t any gould symbols, not now anyway," he added, pointing to a spot on the wall where it looked like the stone had been chiseled away, as if something had been removed.

In front of them, at the first step, the Colonel had stopped. His teammates watched helplessly as unable to go on, he staggered and fell to his knees.

/-----x-----\

He couldn’t do the steps, not even the first one. Jack tried to raise his booted foot, but it weighed tons. All the strength was gone out of his legs and his balance was off kilter. He stumbled and dropped to his knees, bracing himself with one hand, the other still fixed to his belly.

Daniel pushed past the men who surrounded him and ran forward to Jack’s side. "Leave him alone!" Shoving the guards away, the archaeologist leaned down. "Jack?"

"Hey, Daniel," Jack tried to smile, but couldn’t. "Tired."

The weakness and pain in the voice scared Jackson to his core. "I’ll help, okay?"

O’Neill nodded mutely.

Daniel took hold of Jack’s arm and pulled.

The Colonel nearly screamed. Pain burst outward from his gut in a rolling wave that turned his legs to jelly and the daylight to wavering darkness. Gasping for air, he locked his knees and staggered, on his feet but bent over at the waist, both hands wrapped protectively around his abdomen.

Daniel had hold of his shoulders, propping him up, or he’d have fallen again.

"Move," Hallat ordered, pointing up the five steep steps. "Or we shall simply drag him." He prodded Daniel in the back, nearly knocking the two of them off their feet.

Jack managed to raise his head and look up. The steps looked like the Rockies, maybe even the Himalayas. Groaning, feet feeling heavy as lead, most of his weight hanging on Daniel, he somehow lifted his booted foot up onto the first step. Agony flared. The Colonel gasped, but dragged himself upward.

Reeling, counting on Daniel to hold him up, O’Neill took another step.

"That’s it Jack," Daniel encouraged, nearly carrying the other man.

Somehow, the Colonel dragged his feet up another step.

And another step.

He slipped on the fourth, his weight crashing into the younger man, and Daniel couldn’t hold him this time. They both fell to their knees, Jack landing with a pain-filled moan.

Jackson’s face looked frightened. "Jack?"

"This isn’t fun," O’Neill mumbled.

Daniel didn’t know what to say. "I know, but we’re nearly there. Come on." He slipped his arms under Jack’s again, pulling the Colonel upright once more. Together, precariously balanced, they staggered up the final step and onto the platform, stumbling to a ragged halt.

Breathless, Jack sagged to his knees, unable to stand but too stubborn to give in and go down completely.

"Jack, we--"

"Leave him there." The young priest’s words were cold as ice.

Daniel, on his knees beside Jack, spun toward Hallat. "What?"

"Leave him there. You will join the others." Hallat waved a hand toward the back of the platform where Carter and Teal’c were hemmed in by the temple wall on one side and surrounded by a half circle of native guards on the other three.

"He needs help," Daniel pleaded, turning hopefully to Quall, but the high priest wouldn’t meet his gaze.

"Goa’uld need no help," Hallat sneered. "Goa’uld heal themselves.

Daniel was already ripping the hem from his t-shirt, folding it over and over to form a thick bandage. "He’s not a gould. Look at how he’s bleeding. He’ll die without--"

"He will not." Hallat’s voice was full of unshakeable certainty.

Daniel was sliding the cloth pad under Jack’s blood stained fingers. "Hold this. Keep pressure on it." And then, despite his protests, Daniel was dragged away to join the others.

/-----x-----\

Jack was alone in the middle of the platform at the top of the steps, still on his knees. Pain surrounded him, filled him, erecting a hazy barrier between him and the world. He tried to contain the pain, tried to use the old tricks he’d learned long ago, of boxing it up and locking it away in a far corner of his brain, but this pain wouldn’t obey him. It wouldn’t get into the box, and he wasn’t strong enough to force it. The steady throbbing agony didn’t even ease. He felt shaky, each indrawn breath causing the pain to spiral to new heights.

Despite the bandage Daniel had made, he could feel the blood leaking warmly over his fingers.

He’d been bleeding for quite a while now. How much blood could he lose before he died?

Dimly, Jack could her someone talking to him, as if calling his name from a long distance, telling him to lie down, to save his strength, to put pressure on the wound and slow the bleeding.

Pressure. Daniel had said pressure was important.

But pressure was going to hurt.

Moving was going to hurt.

Oh damn.

He didn’t want to do it, he didn’t. It was going to hurt.

But he had to do it.

Lie down first. That he could manage, just letting his knees sort of buckle, his whole body wilting, sliding gracelessly to the stone floor, landing on his butt and sinking onto his side before rolling over onto his back.

Gawd, that hurt, but it was better, a little at least. Lying down, he didn’t feel quite so shaky or so dizzy, just very, very tired and very very cold.

Jack laid his hands across the wound, holding the bandage in place over the center of the pain that was focused just a few inches to the left of his bellybutton. Closing his eyes, he pushed down.

Agony exploded, a nuclear blast beginning in the middle of his body, raging outward, racing across sensitized nerve endings. Involuntarily, his legs jerked upward and a moan escaped his tightly compressed lips.

Fortunately, his team was far enough away that they couldn’t see the tears leak from his eyes.

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

Carter, looking over at her CO, seeing the blood that discolored his BDUs, felt like she was going to throw up. She wanted to help him. She’d had first aid training, she’d even taken an advanced course after that disastrous fiasco in Antarctica.

But all her knowledge meant nothing when the Colonel was over there and his team was confined over here.

/-----x-----\

Teal’c glared angrily at the natives. The cold eyes of their captors showed their determined defiance, making it clear they would not allow SG-1 to go to O’Neill’s aid. The Jaffa turned his attention to their surroundings, visually searching every inch of his surroundings, looking for a weapon, or a means of escape.

He found neither.

/-----x-----\

Daniel talked until he was hoarse. He reasoned and he pleaded, and when that failed, he begged, and finally he threatened.

No one listened.

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

Time flies when you’re having fun, so by that definition alone, Jack O’Neill knew he wasn’t having anything remotely like fun.

Just the opposite in fact.

The seconds crawled past like hours, the minutes like days, the hours like eternity.

He lay on the hard stone of the temple platform, his eyes closed most of the time, listening to the occasional conversation around him, Daniel’s pleas with the guards, and his own harsh breathing. Sometimes, the pain eased a bit, or so he tried to convince himself, but mostly it was a deep, bitter ache pulsing through his body, like the dentist drilling to the center of a tooth without a drop of novocaine.

He tried not to think about it, that was usually good practice. Occupy your brain with some other thought.

Distract yourself.

After all, the good news was that he wasn’t dead, which meant he had a chance to survive. Not just because of the obvious, because once you were dead, you were dead and not surviving, but also because, if you lived this long with a knife wound, which seemed like days but he really knew was less than hours, then you probably weren’t mortally wounded. Oh sure, the after-effects, like bleeding or infection, could still kill you, but the blade hadn’t punctured anything vital like an artery or his spleen or his liver. He’d heard stories, sometimes seen with his own eyes, men who’d taken shrapnel, a knife or a bullet to the gut. Some died within minutes, almost before they hit the ground. Some died in hours. Others lingered for days. Jack shuddered, remembering tales of men screaming to be put out of their agony. He didn’t want to go like that, he wanted it to be quick and clean and preferably, with no time for regret and recrimination.

So maybe not being dead yet really wasn’t such good news in the long run. For now, however, he’d hold on to what hope he could find, no matter how small, and fight for survival.

He dozed, and tried to think of more pleasant topics.

Like hockey, played on cool, cool ice.

Oh, yeah, ice would be good.

If only he had red slippers instead of combat boots, maybe he could click his heels and go home.

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

Oh, man, that was the hottest quacamole sauce he’d ever eaten. Seemed like it was burning a hole right through his gut.

And his back hurt, too. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much if he rolled over. He never liked sleeping on his back. Jack shifted his weight, preparing to roll over, lifting one leg, and the flaring pain immediately provided proof that the problem was neither back aches nor guacamole.

Awake now, he opened his eyes. It took a moment to get his eyes to focus, and when they did, all he saw was darkness. Finally, he realized he was looking up at the beams of a smoke blackened ceiling.

Blinking, Jack turned his head slightly. That looked like his team over there by the wall. What had he done to piss them off, that they were over there and he was over here all by himself? It wasn’t nice for them to leave him here, not when he felt wretched like this.

"Jack?" He could hear relief in Daniel’s voice.

"Hi, kids." Even he could tell his voice sounded shaky. Jack raised a hand and waggled the fingers to wave at his team. But what was that on his hand? Ketchup? Barbecue sauce? Man, he’d made a mess—and then he remembered, the familiar, coppery-bitter smell bringing the recollection to life.

It was blood.

A lot of blood.

Way more blood than could possibly be healthy.

The bite in his gut wasn’t guacamole sauce at all.

Oh, crap.

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

CHAPTER THREE

/-----x-----\

The hours passed slowly as daylight faded and darkness surrounded the temple. The natives brought torches, placing them in niches along the wall.

For O’Neill, time crawled along on a slow downward spiral. Each breath hurt a tiny increment more, carrying away with it a bit more of his waning energy. The slow steady parade of blood drops leaking from his stomach, crusting on his hands, soaking his clothes, pooling on the floor seemed to be carrying with them his fading strength, sucking the warmth out of him at the same time he was sweating as if he were in the firestorm of the desert’s heat.

The temple was quiet now. A dozen armed natives remained sitting impassively in their tight semi-circle, effectively imprisoning the three uninjured members of SG-1. More, including Quuall and Harrat, sat or knelt near the platform at the top of the stairs, watching O'Neill.

/-----x-----\

Jack hadn't moved for a very long time. He was sleeping, Daniel had convinced himself. It was hard to tell in the dim light, but Jack's face didn't look quite as painfilled. He tried to find comfort in that.

Totally focused on O’Neill, Daniel didn’t realize anyone was there until a hand touched his shoulder. He glanced back to find Sam standing beside, looking intently at him, her expression as grim as he knew his own had to be. Turning toward her, he took off his glasses, wiping his eyes before putting the spectacles back on. "Sam, we have to do something," he whispered, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t wake Jack, if he actually was sleeping.

"What?"

"I don’t know! Just, something."

Teal’c’s quiet voice joined their conversation. "We require a plan."

"A plan to do what?" Sam questioned. "We’re surrounded, outnumbered, weaponless. And even if *we* got free, the Colonel--" She stopped, unable to say the words that had been on the tip of her tongue, that the Colonel was slowly dying before their eyes.

"Well we can’t just sit here and let him die." Daniel didn’t realize he’d raised his voice until he heard Jack cough.

"Not dying," Jack’s words were soft and slightly slurred, as if it was too hard to utter them in his usual crisp tones.

"How are you doing, Sir?" Carter asked.

Jack licked dry lips. "Thirsty."

"Sorry, Sir, We don’t have any water to give you."

"All gone, huh?" he asked.

Daniel looked at Sam and nodded, so she answered. "Yes, Sir, all gone for now. We’ll have more later."

"Good."

Daniel turned to one of the brown robed men who formed the circle of guards enclosing them. "Let me give him some water. Please."

"No water," one of the men answered.

"What harm could that do? How could it matter to you? He’s in pain and he’s thirsty. He’s a human being who needs help."

"He is not human," the man answered smugly. "Goa’uld need no help."

"He’s not a gould. I’ve told you that, he’s told you that. Don’t you understand? What point is there to this, to letting him suffer?"

"We could end his suffering. Permanently," another one of the guards muttered, chuckling under his breath.

"What kind of barbaric bastards are you? What--"

Teal’c rushed forward and grabbed Daniel’s shoulder, pulling him back. "That will not help him, Daniel Jackson."

Daniel paused, taking in a deep breath before speaking more softly. "I know. I know, but I can’t just watch--"

Teal’cs words were whispered. "For now, until another opportunity presents itself, we can do nothing else."

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

One of the natives was walking around the temple. As the figure approached, Daniel recognized Hallat.

"What are you going to do with us?" Daniel demanded.

"Once the Goa’uld comes forth, we will kill it, and then his servant, the Jaffa. When they are dead, you, and she, will be free to leave this world, to go back and tell the others that their kind is no longer welcome in this place. Any Goa’uld who dares to come here, will be killed."

"Even if Jack was a gould, the host is not to blame," Daniel countered wearily.

"Gould and host are one."

Daniel shook his head. "You are wrong, about that and everything else. There is no gould in Jack. He’s a good man. Just let us go and I promise, we’ll take him and we’ll leave your world and we’ll never come back." Daniel looked over at his too still friend. "Our doctors, our healers may still be able to help him, to save him."

Hallat snorted in contempt. "Your leader is capable of saving himself."

Daniel turned away, slapping his hand against the wall in frustration before turning back to shout at the young priest. "Hallat, Jack is not a gould. He hates the gould. You are condemning an innocent man."

Daniel was surprised to once again hear a weak answer from the quiet figure on the floor.

"Not so innocent," Jack mumbled.

"Jack? You’re awake?"

"Think so," the reply was slow and hesitant.

Teal’c stepped up to stand beside Doctor Jackson. "How are you feeling, O’Neill?"

"Oh, fine," the Colonel answered vaguely.

The weakness of the voice worried Daniel. "Hold on. We’ll get you home."

"Hope so."

Teal’c answered this time. "You may count on it, O’Neill."

"Counting," Jack answered softly, and fell silent again.

"Jack?"

"Daniel, let him rest," Sam suggested, putting a hand on his shoulder. "He needs to save his strength."

Overwhelmed by watching his friend’s suffering, Daniel turned on her. "For what, Sam? Until we can rescue him?"

"In a few hours, we’ll have missed our check-in," she whispered. "The General will send a team--"

Daniel lowered his voice as well. "I don’t think Jack has that long. Do you?"

Sam looked over at her CO, and shook her head. Honestly, she didn’t know. The Colonel was tough and strong, stubborn too, but honestly, with what she knew about medicine and anatomy, he was lucky to be alive. That he hadn’t died within minutes of being stabbed said he had already been very fortunate, the blade had missed vital organs like the liver or kidneys. But no one could survive continuing blood loss. Shock killed.

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

Daniel had been pacing for what seemed like hours but he stopped as two figures climbed the temple stairs and approached Jack.

Hallat and Quuall stopped to look down at the man lying on the stone floor.

The stranger looked near death, thought the high priest. His eyes were closed and his face was unnaturally pale. Blood tracked across the long slender fingers that were clenched over his stomach, staining the hands, creating dark patches on the shirt and trousers and pooling wetly on the cool stone. Only his breathing, shallow and harsh, revealed that the off-worlder still lived.

"Quuall, what is wrong with your people? You are letting a good man die for no reason." Daniel demanded.

"The Goauld will not let its host die."

The old man’s voice did not sound as sure as it had a few hours ago, Daniel thought. Was doubt creeping in? Leaving a door ajar for hope to enter? "Please, Quuall. Jack is not a host. We aren’t allied with the gould. We hate them as much as you do. You aren’t in any danger from us. We want the same thing you do, to defeat the gould."

"We oppose the gould, like the Tok’ra," Carter interjected.

"Your words mean nothing," Hallat spat.

"Then look at him, you can see it with your own yes. He’s not healed. Jack is dying," Daniel shouted. "Would a gould let himself suffer like that?"

"He is right, Hallat," the old priest let his shoulders slump. "The Goa’uld gladly inflict pain, but they have no courage to bear it. If this stranger was a Goa’uld, he *would* be healing by now." Quuall stepped forward, kneeling beside the injured man. The old priest touched a bony hand to the sweat streaked face. "Colonel O’Neill?"

The brown eyes fluttered and opened, but continued drifting and unfocused.

"Colonel O’Neill?" The old priest asked again.

"Wha?"

"Are you a Goa’uld?"

"No damn snake," O’Neill mumbled.

Quuall pushed the man’s bloodstained hands away from his wound. He lifted the shirt, pulling it back to show Hallat. The small, dark cut still slowly oozed blood, the swollen skin around the wound an angry flame red. "Hours have passed, Hallat. There has been no healing. He is not a Goa’uld."

Hallat’s face blanched, and he dropped to his knees. "I could not know, High Priest. I beg your forgiveness."

Quuall shook his head, his old eyes sad. "It is not my forgiveness you should beg, but his, and their’s." He pointed over at the other visitors. "They will mete out your fate, not I."

"Let them pass." The old priest waved a hand, and the circle of guards moved away from the prisoners.

/-----x-----\

Daniel sprinted forward to the top of the stairs, skidding onto his knees to land beside Jack. Frantically feeling for a pulse, his probing fingers at last found it, rapid and faint, but there. Jack’s eyes were open but hazy and though he seemed to be looking at Daniel, he didn’t seem able to focus. "Jack, we’re going home. We’re going to get you back home and Janet will fix you up."

The answer was faint and unconvincing, more moan than answer. "Hmm."

"We need to get him to the gate. Now." He turned to Quuall. "We need help; a litter, and men to help us carry him. Please!"

Quuall nodded. "We will provide what assistance we can."

"And our packs—" Daniel requested.

Several of the natives carried SG-1’s backpacks forward and dumped them at the teams’ feet. Teal’c grabbed hold of one and immediately began searching through it, pulling out the first aid kit. Carter ripped open a bandage and carefully handed it to Daniel. With trembling fingers, he moved Jack’s hands aside, noting with dismay the ice cold feel of the fingers. Daniel pulled up the blood caked shirt, muttering a silent prayer for forgiveness as he set the dressing down and firmly pressed the bandage against the ugly wound.

Jack’s eyes flew open, his mouth opening in pained surprise a moment before a hoarse shout erupted from his throat. His back arched and then his eyes rolled up in his head and he slumped back, unconscious.

/---------\

He’d been floating in a sea of hurt, riding the rollercoaster of the waves of pain, uncontrollable waves that seemed to be building and building without any hint of receding. He was weary, like he’d been paddling desperately to stay afloat for a lifetime. He knew that he was weaker, his reserves nearly depleted, his strength nearly gone, the pain about to win and drag him under.

Dimly, Jack heard the comforting sound of a familiar voice making promises of home.

And then the comfort was washed away as a hand touched his belly and a tidal wave of agony roared to life, racing through him, sucking him down into the swirling blackness. He had the really bad feeling that he was going down for the last time.

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

The strange caravan traveled quickly toward the gate, a combination of natives clad in brown robes and the travelers in their green BDUs, taking turns carrying the blanket-wrapped, unmoving figure aboard the litter.

SG-1 carefully choreographed their return home long before they reached the gate.

While Teal’c and the locals carried O’Neill the last quarter mile, Daniel and Carter ran ahead. He dialed the gate, waiting impatiently for the kawoosh as he watched the slow procession move closer.

The moment the wormhole formed, she sent the IDC. The wait for the confirmation seemed endless, though she knew it was only seconds. "Got it!" she shouted and ran for the gate.

Daniel stopped, standing with one arm in the maelstrom to keep the wormhole active, silently admonishing the litter bearers to hurry.

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

Carter hurtled out of the gate and into the brightly lit SGC, barely catching her balance, shouting as her feet clattered loudly on the metal grating of the ramp. "We need a medical team now! Colonel O’Neill is injured!"

General Hammond was just coming in the door. "Major? Where’s--?" He was looking around for the rest of SG-1.

"Sir, the Colonel was attacked by one of the natives. They thought he was a gould."

An emergency trauma team was already on its way in the door, wheeling in a gurney stacked high with medical gear. Dr. Janet Fraiser came running in behind them. "Sam? What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I’m fine. The Colonel’s hurt, they’re bringing him," she repeated, still fighting to control her breathing. "He was stabbed, by one of the natives."

"Where’s the wound? And what type of weapon?"

Sam pointed at her own stomach, several inches to the left of her navel. "Here. With a dagger. It was narrow, very sharp, maybe six inches long."

"Has it been removed?"

"Yes."

Janet shook her head. "Better if it had been left in."

"It wasn’t our choice. Hallat, the native who stabbed him, pulled it out."

Janet’s worry deepened. "How long ago did this happen?"

Carter looked at her watch. "About nine hours. Not long after we got there. They wouldn’t let us leave. We tried but--"

"Nine hours?" More bad news. There was likely to be severe blood loss and infection was probable. "How much blood loss?"

"I don’t know, a lot I think. He’s been bleeding slowly the whole time."

She patted Sam’s shoulder. "We’ll take care of him." Janet’s mind was already racing ahead, planning what would be needed. Turning to one of the nurses, she issued orders for an operating room to be prepared for emergency surgery.

Taking into account all she knew so far, the good news was, obviously, no vital organs had been damaged or he’d have died hours ago. The bad news was, he’d certainly lost a significant amount of blood, meaning he was probably shocky, and the risk of peritonitis was high. That was in the future, of course, first, they had to get him home and get him stable. The high possibility of infection a day or two down the road was, well, a day or two down the road. There were a lot of other things to worry about first.

Like just hoping he came through the gate alive.

And then survived the surgery.

Just then, Janet heard them arrive. They stepped through together, a worried, almost frantic looking Daniel walking beside Teal’c. The Jaffa carried the Colonel in his arms, like one would carry a sleeping child. Jackson’s eyes caught hers, and she saw fear and relief mixed there. "He’s still with us," Daniel muttered as Teal’c carried O’Neill down the ramp and placed him gently on the waiting gurney.

O’Neill moaned weakly, drawing his legs up slightly.

Janet hurried to the Colonel’s side, quickly noting his pale, sweat soaked skin, the labored breathing, the bloody clothes and hands. She pulled up the soaked shirt and surveyed the wound, a dark slit visible in the reddened, puffed skin, with a drop of blood leaking slowly out, soon followed by another.

"Colonel?" she put a hand to his neck, feeling for his pulse. It was there but weak.

He didn’t rouse at her touch. "Colonel?" she asked, more forcefully this time. She was rewarded by a small movement of his head and a slight shift of his weight on the stretcher, as if reacting in pain, which she knew he had to be feeling.

"Sir, we’re going to take care of you," she promised him, then turned to her staff. "Okay, get him to the infirmary. He needs to get to the OR stat!"

"Janet?" Daniel reached out a hand to stop her. "Will he make it?"

"I don’t know yet, Daniel. Not until I can see what kind of injuries he sustained and how much blood he lost." Wanting to give him hope, she squeezed his hand and added, "He made it this far. That means there’s hope."

She turned and hurried after the gurney.

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

By the time she was scrubbed and in the OR, her patient was prepped and waiting for her. She paused for a glance at the Colonel’s X-rays, which looked clear as she’d expected.

"Vitals?" She called out.

A nurse responded. "BP 80 over 40, heart rate 108, respirations 24, shallow."

"Good." Better than she’d hoped, actually.

An anesthetized O’Neill was on the table, his clothing cut away, his lean upper body exposed, covered from the waist down by a blanket. An IV fed blood into his veins, monitors reflected his steady heartbeat, the mask over his face supplied oxygen and sedatives. Most of the blood had been wiped off his skin, exposing the ugly wound. As she watched, the nurse finished washing his stomach with a betadine solution.

Janet turned to the anesthesiologist. "Are we ready?"

"Ready, Doctor."

"Okay, then let’s see what we’ve got." She held out a gloved hand. "Scalpel."

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

Ninety minutes later, a tired Janet Fraiser tied the final stitch, setting a drain tube in place. She’d cleaned the wound and sewn up the damaged peritoneal tissue.

She’d done everything she could for him, now it was up to the Colonel’s strength and resilience to recuperate. She leaned down and ran her hand along O’Neill’s arm. "We’re done, Colonel. You did great." Turning back to the staff, she smiled behind her mask. "Good work, people. Now let’s get him to recovery."

Janet stopped in the prep room long enough to shed her gloves, mask, cap and the blood splattered outer gown before she went to find the rest of SG-1. They weren’t hard to locate, but stood waiting in the hallway outside the OR.

Daniel jumped to his feet the moment he saw her approach. "Janet?"

"He’s doing as well as could be expected."

"Which means what?" Carter demanded.

"Which means that we repaired the damage, and started him on a course of antibiotics," she sighed.
"He suffered massive blood loss, we’ve already had to give him nearly four pints."

"That’s a lot?" Daniel asked.

"Yes. Normally, someone of the Colonel’s size would have a total of about 12 pints." Janet answered. "That much blood loss can have some serious complications."

"But O’Neill will live?" Teal’c asked.

"Provided he doesn’t develop any serious complications, yes, he should. Optimistically, if things go well, he could be home in less than a week. If not," she shrugged, "it could be longer. The full recovery will take weeks, and it won’t be pleasant, but he will make it."

"You expect he’ll develop an infection," Daniel interpreted.

Janet nodded. "Unfortunately, it’s quite likely, given the location of the wound. His gut wasn’t perforated, that’s very good news. But there was tissue damage. Following an injury like this, the intestines shut down. He won’t be able to eat for a few days, and he will be in considerable pain."

"But you’ll give him something for that, right?" Daniel shivered, remembering how much pain Jack had already suffered.

"Actually, Daniel, I can’t, not in this case. Pain meds slow the intestine, and we’ll need to do everything we can to get his system working properly again. So, unfortunately, once this initial morphine dose wears off, no, no pain meds for a few days at least. But, he is medicated and sedated now, and he won’t be awake for quite a while. Meanwhile, my prescription for all of you is rest."

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

The first one to show up in the intensive care unit, demanding to be allowed to sit with the Colonel, was, as she expected, the Jaffa warrior.

"Teal’c, you should be resting," Janet told him kindly.

"I have completed my kel-no reem, Doctor Fraiser. I do not require further rest," he reported solemnly.

She smiled. "I know, Teal’c. But the Colonel’s sedated, I don’t think he will know you’re here."

"But I will know, Doctor Fraiser."

She sighed and smiled, patting his arm. "Right you are, Teal’c. Go on then, sit with him for a while." Janet turned to go, then paused. "And if any of the others show up, only one of you in there at a time, okay."

"Understood, Doctor Fraiser." The Jaffa nodded in his regal way before entering O’Neill’s room, pulling up a chair and seating himself beside his team leader’s silent form.

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

Daniel was not good at bedside vigils. He could stare at the clock for only so long, listen to the sounds and smell the smells for not long at all before he wanted to jump up and scream out his frustration. Even taking a book didn’t help much, he couldn’t concentrate, but instead found himself reading the same paragraph over and over again. And of course it didn’t help that the nurses wouldn’t let him take his coffee into the room. So he preferred to be in and out, checking on Jack every few minutes.

Sam was much better at the waiting thing than he was. She brought her laptop and would soon be totally immersed in some project or problem. Trouble was, Jack could be awake for days before she lifted her head from the screen and noticed.

Teal’c, though, he outdid them all. He had unending patience, not to mention an incredibly calming effect. Jack, who appeared to be growing more restless as time went on, seemed somehow to sense that quiet, settling down whenever Teal’c’s soothing presence was in the room.

It was fitting, then, that Teal’c was the one who was there when the Colonel finally awoke.

Not that he hadn’t been awake before, in a manner of speaking. Doped up with the morphine literally stitched into the surgical incision, he’d awakened several times in the first 24 hours post op, none of which he remembered the next time he awakened.

This time, however, he was climbing up out of the haze of drugs and exhaustion for real.

And soon to regret it.

/-----x-----\

/-----x-----\

The restless twitching of fingers, a foot moving slightly, the silver haired head sliding to the side and back again to face forward warned them that he was reaching for consciousness.

Finally, sleepy brown eyes opened, blinking then drifting around for long moments before finally fixing on a blurry shape seated beside the bed.

"O’Neill, you are awake."

The Colonel didn’t answer, he was still trying to focus his eyes, but he did recognize the voice. He twisted his shoulders a bit, closing his eyes, then clenching and unclenching his hands. Jack recognized the place by the far too familiar sounds and smells.

He’d awakened here many times before, but usually, not like this.

He hurt.

Bad.

Hurt.

Too much.

"O’Neill, can you hear me?"

Oh, yeah, he could hear, but mustering the strength, the resolve and the air, along with remembering how to move lips and tongue to form words to respond to the question, that was taking a minute or two.

"Yeah," he finally managed to say. His mouth felt funny, dry, with a bitter taste. "Wha’ happened?"

"You do not recall the incident on P7K-153?"

"Um?" Trying to get his brain to ignore the sharp pain in his belly and instead concentrate on the words was proving difficult.

"The natives on P7K-153 believed that you were a gould."

Oh, yeah, he was remembering now.

"You were wounded with a knife, but Doctor Fraiser was able to repair the damage."

"Good." He licked his lips. "How long?"

"It has been almost two days."

"Two? Asleep?"

"You have awakened several times."

"Don’t remember."

"Doctor Fraiser believed you would not recall speaking to us previously. She has, however, stated that this is an appropriate time for you to awaken more fully. She will be pleased."

"’M’ not," he mumbled. He shouldn’t hurt this much. He was in the infirmary. Doc always gave him good drugs there. Sure, he complained about that, the O’Neill bravado insisting that he deny any need for them, but this time, there was no getting around it. Whatever drugs he’d been given just plain weren’t enough.

Not even close.

"S’ Doc?"

"You wish to speak with Doctor Fraiser?"

"Hmm. Yeah."

"I shall bring her."

With Teal’c gone, the room was quiet. God, his gut ached. He lifted a hand and slid it down toward his abdomen, feeling the thick lump of bandages covering an area just to the left of his bellybutton. He was pretty sure there were stitches under there, lots of them, inside and out.

He closed his eyes and tried to will the pain to go away, but it didn’t work.

/-----x-----\

He’d dozed off again by the time Doc arrived.

"Colonel?" Her voice, in contrast to Teal’c’s soothing tones, was loud and bright and cheery.

He hated it.

"Um."

"It’s good to have you back with us, Sir. Can you squeeze my hand?" He did, and she smiled. "How about opening your eyes for me, Colonel?"

He did, and quickly regretted it.

She raised something toward his face and he immediately recognized that damn penlight he hated.

He flinched. And wanted to crawl onto the floor or bite through his tongue or dive into the pillows, anything he could do to get away from the burning agony in his gut. A low moan rolled out of his throat.

"Easy, Colonel."

"Doc?" he gasped.

She was raising the light again, and this time, somehow, he found the energy to slap at her hand, a feeble blow, but enough to show her his displeasure.

"Colonel? What’s wrong?"

He waved a hand toward the bandage, okay, not the whole hand, a couple of fingers, actually. "Hurts. Lots," he accused, his heavy lids sliding shut again.

"I know, Colonel."

He opened his eyes and looked into hers. "Know? S’ Wrong?"

"Nothing is wrong, Colonel. But right now, I can’t give you anything for the pain. Your intestine, your gut, has been injured, and pain meds will slow the recovery. I know you’re uncomfortable, but you are going to be okay, Sir."

Uncomfortable? Damn, Doc was better at understatement than Teal’c. At least in this case. "Easy," he needed to suck in another breath, "for you," another pause, "t’ say."

"You’re right, Colonel. It is. But you’ll just have to trust me."

He nodded his head minutely. "Do."

"Then we’ll get through this, Colonel. I promise."

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

He was tired of hurting.

He wanted the pain to go away so he could sleep and move and get out of the damned bed.

He’d been hurt before, way too many times, and okay, he’d admit it, he’d never before really appreciated the value of pain meds.

Usually, he complained and objected, and he and Doc and the nurses, they all knew his whole bravado routine by heart.

Not today. Today, when he didn’t have them, he’d have given anything to have them.

He’d even have admitted how much he wanted them, if that was what it took.

He was so never gonna complain about the damn drugs again, he promised himself.

Never.

Not ever.

This was one time he was perfectly willing to feel groggy and sleepy and let his brain be disconnected from his aching body.

And for cryin’ out loud they wouldn’t let him.

The best he could do was doze off for short stretches before the constant ache woke him.

/-----x-----\/-----x-----\/-----x-----\/-----x-----\

Jack O’Neill knew he was never a good patient at the best of times, and this was so not the best of times. His mood was ugly. He was cranky, frustrated and hurting, an ugly trio if there ever was one, he thought dismally.

"Doc? Why can’t I go home?"

"Not until you can eat something, Colonel, and pass it."

"I can eat at home."

"Not until you prove that your system is working."

"Awww crap."

She smiled. "Exactly, Colonel. That’s the point."

He glared at her. "Doc, if you make me laugh, so help me—"

"Threats, Colonel?"

"I outrank you, Doc."

"Not in my infirmary you don’t. Sir." Janet Fraiser smiled as she left. A snarky Colonel O’Neill was a Colonel O’Neill who was definitely on the road to recovery. And that was good news.

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

Twenty four hours later, Jack had accomplished Fraiser’s mandate— to put it delicately, meal eaten, digested and the remnants passed. "All systems go, Doc," he’d proudly announced to her with a silly grin, "so I can go home, right?"

Not that it had been easy. Or painless.

Just like going home proved to be neither easy nor painless.

Having a hole pretty nearly right smack dab in the middle of your torso was not a good thing. It meant that just about any motion pulled on something in that part of your body. Arm motions hurt, leg motions hurt, bending hurt, straightening hurt, sitting up hurt, lying down hurt, breathing hurt.

Being alive hurt.

Which, when he thought about it, was a damn sight better than the alternative.

But it was still no fun at all.

/-----x-----\

Getting out of bed hurt. As slow and careful as he moved, his belly still protested every movement. Once his feet were on the floor, he carefully eased himself straighter and straighter until the muscles in his abdomen said, quite clearly, far enough. He listened.

/-----x-----\

Getting dressed hurt, but damn it, he was going home, and he had to manage, or Doc wouldn’t let him leave. Moving slowly, like the 90-year old he’d been after eating Kinthia’s marriage cake, and accepting nurse Lee’s help, Jack had finally gotten himself ready, clad in sweat pants and a thick turtleneck, slip on shoes and his leather jacket.

/-----x-----\

Sitting down in the wheelchair hurt. He’d rather have walked out under his own steam, but the thought of getting halfway to the elevators and passing out, okay, the likelihood of getting at best halfway to the elevators, made him swallow his pride and accept the ride. He pinched his lips together and swallowed the little moan of pain that bending to take a seat provoked. "Ah, nice," he smiled, hiding the discomfort well, he thought.

/-----x-----\

Riding up top in the bumpy elevator hurt. Each rough stop made him set his teeth, but he wasn’t going to voice any complaint, because Doc was standing right alongside him, and if for a minute she thought he wasn’t ready, she would rescind his release and lock him up again.

He so wasn’t going to let that to happen.

But, next time he was back, he was going to have a talk with Siler about fixing the damn elevator, putting shock absorbers on it or something.

/-----x-----\

Getting up from the wheelchair and taking two steps over to Doc’s car hurt. It wasn’t the two steps that were a problem, walking wasn’t bad, not if he took it slow and shuffled forward with little baby steps. It was the getting up and then the getting down that was painful. She couldn’t hear him wheezing, could she? Nah.

/-----x-----\

Riding in Doc’s car hurt. He felt every bump in the road. Damn, he’d never realized there were that many potholes along the winding highway from Cheyenne Mountain to his house. And he was pretty sure he hadn’t actually dozed off during the ride. He’d just been resting his eyes a bit, protecting them from the glaring sun. After all, after more than a week underground, the outside world was awfully bright.

/-----x-----\

Getting out of the car hurt. A lot. More than it had getting in. He had to raise one arm to grip the top of the car door, which pulled upward on his wound, and then raise his leg and lift it out of the car and onto the ground, which first pulled up and then down on the wound, and then he had to stand up which, even with Doc’s help, required more pulling up the wound, hard pulling this time. Despite his best efforts, a groan escaped his tightly clenched jaw.

"Colonel, you’ll break your teeth like that," Doc whispered into his ear.

"M’ fine," he insisted, pasting a phony smile on his face, standing up, well, mostly standing upright or close to upright, for sure more uprightly taller than she was.

And only leaning on her shoulder a teeny, tiny bit. Just for balance.

/-----x-----\

Walking up to his door hurt. It was a damn long walk. And who’d moved his house? Had there been an earthquake while he’d been down in the bowels of mountain? He was sure it had never been that far away from the curb before. And the steps, they were twice the height they’d ever been, maybe even three times. Next time he bought a house, Jack vowed, he was buying one without steps. Not one single, solitary itty bitty step.

Sweat beading on his face, knees trembling, he finally, triumphantly, gratefully stepped inside his own front door. "There’s no place like home," Jack announced with a happy sigh, making a move to the left toward the living room.

"Not that way, Sir," Doc caught hold of his arm and pointed him in the other direction, down the hallway. "A nap in your bed, not on the sofa."

"Doc—"

"Colonel," she warned.

"I’m not in your infirmary any more," he reminded her.

"But you’re still under my care. And if I think for a single minute that you aren’t, or won’t, follow my orders, I’ll have you hauled right back to my infirmary."

They were halfway down the hall. "You wouldn’t."

"I would, Colonel."

He stopped, and looked down at her. "Yes, you would."

"I would. But I don’t think I’ll have to." She smiled. "I’m glad you’re home, Sir."

"Me, too." He paused, looked away, then met her eyes. "And ah, well, Doc, you know you’re the wizard in my world."

She laughed. "Colonel, flattery will get you nowhere."

His smile was genuine this time, the humor lighting his eyes. "I don’t need to go anywhere Doc, I’m home where I belong. Don’t you recognize Kansas when you see it?"

/-----x-----\/-----x-----\/-----x-----\ THE END /-----x-----\/-----x-----\/-----x-----\