Nightmares Return

(Was posted as Nightmares Revisited- then I realized I might have already used that name)
By Badgergater

Email: [email protected]
Pairing: None
Season: 9, yes NINE
Warnings: None

Spoilers: Anything through S8; utilizes a few vague spoilers bandied about before the start of S9
Summary: Saving the world (again) doesn’t always have positive consequences; Jack isn't enjoying his new assignment, and then things get really bad
Rating: Anyone; there are a few swear words, though nothing you wouldn’t hear on TV
Category: Drama, hurt/comfort
Disclaimer: Don’t own Stargate, and yes, I know it.
Author's Pledge: Honest and accurate information provided to potential readers so that they may make informed choices on whether or not to read
Author's Note: Written after S8 and before the start of S9, knowing only a few vague spoilers.

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

He'd made some dumb decisions in his life, and this was definitely one of them. Neither the biggest nor the worst, but it ranked right up there with the whopper miscalculations of his long and way less than perfect career.

Washington, D.C.

What the hell had ever possessed him to accept this job?

Okay, so at first he'd thought maybe it would be better, in a way, being farther away from the SGC, staying physically far, far away from the gate and out of sight of the action. Like an alcoholic who hid a full bottle away in the back corner of the cupboard where he wouldn't have to look at it, he’d hoped out of sight would be out of mind.

He'd been wrong. Way wrong. Being farther away hadn't eased his longing in the slightest, in some ways, it seemed to have, in fact, made it worse.

The sad truth was, he hated everything about Washington-- the traffic, the crime, the noise, the dirt, the cost, the lack of mountains and greenery, and most of all, the politics, the politicians, the desk jockeys, and the endless hordes of sycophants.

He could kick himself for being dumb enough to accept the post, although, to be honest, it was George's fault. George Hammond, master of the devious, who had talked him into this, more like conned him into it, just like nine years ago the sneaky-smart Texan had finagled him into coming out of retirement to join the SGC.

Except the SGC had been a lot more fun.

And anyway, he'd hated being retired.

He'd missed the action.

Like he missed it now.

Which wasn't George’s, or even Washington's fault, he knew. It had been inevitable, considering his age, his knees, his back and the fact that he'd come to the attention of important people like the President who considered him necessary to the safety of not just the country, but the world.

Damn stupid mistake, letting that happen, he chided himself. A side effect of saving the world, he supposed, although the President hadn't felt a similar need to keep Daniel, Carter or Teal'c close enough to rely on.

So, yeah, being invited to the White House on a regular basis *was* a bit of a kick, he had enough ego to enjoy it just a smidgen.

But it didn't make up for all the associated crap, like the need to wear the clothes he abhorred every bleepin' day, the paperwork, and existence, he refused to call it life, in the nation’s capital, the capital of greed, avarice, deceit, backbiting, paper shuffling, blame avoiding, grandstanding, and politicking. Where the military’s motto had shifted from ‘No one gets left behind’ to ‘Cover Your Ass’ when it wasn’t ‘Kiss My Ass.’

Major General Jack O'Neill sighed and closed his eyes, trying to block out the sights, sounds and smells of the crowded tram he rode on. He missed his car and driver, something else he'd had to give up when he left the SGC.

At the SGC he’d been one really big duck in one very small pond.

Here, he felt every bit the ugly duckling totally out of place amidst a vast ocean filled with swans. And sharks.

More than anything, Jack O’Neill cursed himself and his over-riding sense of duty. Damned if he could figure out where it came from. George Hammond had appealed to it, used it to get him to take the job. Why oh why oh why couldn't he just once in his lifetime say no? Why couldn’t he leave the dirty job to someone else this time?

And dirty it was. It made him feel dirty to be one of the people he’d always railed against, groused about and cursed for their too-clean uniforms and too-dirty hands.

The tram lurched to a stop and Jack stood, straightening his blue uniform jacket. At least when he reached the privacy of his office he'd be able to hang it up and loosen his tie. Not exactly real comfort, but better than nothing.

But he had a meeting first, so it might be hours before he achieved even that small bit of relief.
Entering the building, he knew he really should take the stairs, but his knees were aching this morning. All the unforgiving concrete sidewalks and stone floors played havoc on the too-often-damaged joints.

Still deep in his funk as he walked down the echoing hallway, Jack thought that maybe he should have retired for good this time. Left the job to someone else. Gotten on with his life. But who was he kidding? The Air Force *was* his life. Much as he loved his cabin, deep down, he was afraid he'd grow bored there, or worse yet, become lonely and depressed, spending too much time stewing over the irreparable misdeeds of his past. Moving to his cabin was one of those dreams he held on to, yet, in all honesty, he knew was only a pipe dream and never destined to become a reality.

Jack slid into an empty space in the elevator, ignoring the people packed in around him, and tried not to think of how it contrasted with the peace and quiet of the ride down into the bowels of the SGC.

A quiet hum of conversation swirled around him, and he tuned it out.

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

He wasn't aware of just when or how it started, but suddenly he felt-- weird. Out of the blue, an icy chill rippled down his spine as if a cold draft had swept through the elevator.

Or someone had walked across his grave.

Jack shuddered.

A terrible sense of dread, of panic almost, seized him, like something awful was about to happen. The feeling grew and intensified, leaving him dizzy and weak-kneed. The cramped space was suddenly too hot and too crowded. A vicious knot twisted his stomach, his shoulders tensed and his mouth was unexpectedly devoid of moisture.

Claustrophobic?

Crap.

He'd never been claustrophobic in his life.

Never.

He pulled at his tie, desperate to loosen it, but it didn't help him. He felt stifled, as if there wasn't enough air to breathe.

Looking around, no one else seemed to notice the sudden lack of air or the rapid spike in temperature. All their faces looked bland and pre-occupied.

Damn.

Jack felt sweat break out on his forehead and under his arms. His ears buzzed, his heart raced and he blinked sweat from his eyes.

Fever?

Heart attack?

Hot flash?

And then it dawned on him. He hadn't had one in years, but he remembered the symptoms far too well.

Flashback.

Brought on by?

Two men, to his left, their voices-- they were speaking in a language that wasn't English, but one he remembered all too well.

Arabic.

Speaking Arabic, here in the Department of Defense.

Don't panic, Jack, he told himself as he rubbed a hand across his face. People come here from all over the world to meet with U.S. military policy makers. This was nothing to worry about. It was no big deal.

Just a language.

Spoken by millions. Many of whom were allies of the USA.

It was okay for someone to speak it here.

Really.

It was.

He could feel his shirt dampening. Pulling on his collar once again, he knew he had to get off the damn elevator. Now. Risk the stairs. Maybe there'd be some air there.

Pushing forward, Jack ignored the dirty looks from a couple of women in business suits who'd obviously labeled him as rude as he reached his long arm forward to hit the button to stop at the next floor.

He was diving for the doors as soon as they started to slide open, elbowing past a bored looking Army colonel. As he moved, his eyes raked across two men standing to his left, Middle Eastern in appearance despite their business suits. For a brief moment, he was eye to eye with the taller one. Jack looked hard at the face and saw nothing familiar there, nothing at all. Yet, for an absurd moment, he was quite sure he saw a flash of recognition and maybe even something else cross the man's features before the bland mask slid back into place.

Jack shuddered and pushed his way out the door, relieved when it slid shut behind him.

Thank God the hallway was empty. Shakily, he leaned back against the wall, closing his eyes, willing his body to stop this nonsense and stand down. Taking deep, calming breaths, one after another, he finally felt his heart rate beginning to slow from the rapid thumping that had been reverberating through his chest.

Spying the sign for rest rooms, Jack hurried down the hall and into the men's room. He splashed cold water on his face and looking into the mirror, stared at his pale features and haunted eyes, wondering if he was losing his mind, what little was left of it.

Great, Jack, just great.

Falling off the deep end at last?

Well, at least he wasn't drooling yet.

But maybe that was next.

Wiping his face once more, Jack straightened his shoulders and headed for his meeting, trying his best to look like a general, even if he didn’t feel like one. He was only a few minutes late.

/-----\

One floor up, the two men emerged from the elevator, and started down the hall.

"We have a problem," the older one whispered to the younger one.

"What is that?"

"The man in the elevator. He is someone who could recognize me. Something must be done about him, quickly. Find out what you can, where he lives, what he's doing here. He cannot be allowed to interfere with our plans."

/-----\

When the meeting was over, there was nothing on O’Neill’s notepad but doodles. He hadn't said more than a word or two, and he hadn't missed the odd looks thrown his way more than once. He was inordinately relieved when the discussion was over and he could quit pretending to pay attention.

The room cleared quickly as Jack continued to stare down at the sheet of yellow legal paper covered with squiggly lines, stick-like dogs and large round circles. His reverie was broken by an inquiry from a familiar voice.

"You seem a little distracted today, Sir," said Lieutenant Colonel Paul Davis. "Everything okay?"

"Oh, yes, absolutely right as rain, Colonel. Perfect in fact. Just peachy." O'Neill sighed.

Davis eyed him. "Missing Colorado, General?"

Jack looked up. "Shows that much, does it Paul?"

Davis nodded.  "Yes, General. Any way that I can help?"

"Only if you can turn back the clock." The gray-haired officer levered himself to his feet, picked up his papers, and headed morosely back to his office.

/-----\

His office.

Another place he loathed.

He spent the rest of the day pretending to work, leafing through the pages of reports and signing requisitions when and where his aide told him to sign, his mind totally elsewhere. Daydreaming, mostly, of being damned near anywhere but where he was. Off world, mostly. He could have asked to retire there. He should have. Plenty of planets would have welcomed him.

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

When the endless day was over at last, he headed home.

Home.

Yeah, right.

As if this was home. This was where he lived, but it wasn’t home.

He missed his home, his home with the big, big windows that looked out over his backyard and the green expanse of lawn bordered by towering pines, the stargazing platform on the roof, and so much quiet you could take a nap on the deck.

*That* was home.

This place? It was nothing but an undersized, overpriced apartment, completely lacking in character or comfort, with a view of another row of identical red brick apartment buildings, and windows that didn't even open. Probably so that the residents wouldn't be jumping out of them, he thought mirthlessly as he bypassed the food in the fridge for a beer.

Shedding his uniform on his way to the bedroom, slipping into a t-shirt and sweats, he took a swig of the beer and flopped down on the couch.

God, he was tired. Not the good kind of tired, the tired in body and mind that he'd felt, back in what he was already thinking of as the good old days, when he'd trudged miles across other-worldly landscapes, fought aliens and shared MREs with his team. Instead, he was the weary kind of tired that came with spending too many hours behind a desk and not enough hours doing anything he could see as useful, constructive or important.

Pushing papers wasn't exercise for either the brain or the body.

Somewhere into his third beer, Jack O'Neill fell asleep.

/-----\

It was dark, and he was hot. Sweat rolled down his arms, soaked his hair, dripped into his eyes. His muscles strained, his legs shook with weariness and threatened to fold up on him, but he locked his knees and held on tight, enduring. Jack tried not to imagine what was about to happen, but he was unable to stop his mind from going there.

"I am the only man who can save you, spare you the pain. Tell me what you know. Tell me. I do not want to hurt you, but when you stubbornly refuse, you leave me no choice-- "

He knew what came next, what always came next despite the denials. He tensed, anticipating the agony that would explode out of the darkness that surrounded him, but there was nothing he could do to prepare for it. He could hear the man moving around him and fought back the urge to draw away, because there was nowhere to go. There was no escape, no escape-- snap, spark, and pain seared through his flesh like a burst of flame--

He woke with a shout to find himself half on, half off the couch, drenched in sweat.

"Shit," he mumbled, and climbed to his feet. That had been one hell of a nightmare. He hadn't had one that bad in years and years, at least, not one about Iraq. He must have fallen asleep watching the news from the current conflict there, he thought as he headed for the bathroom. More than once, after all, he'd gotten chills watching battle video, even found himself ducking involuntarily when gunfire erupted on the screen.

He relieved himself, washed his hands and face, then crawled into bed. Sleep came grudgingly, and when it did, it was riddled with more ugly nightmares.
/-----\

In the morning, he rose at his usual time, feeling worn and unrested. He forced himself through the routine of getting ready for work, showering, shaving, dressing, taking his briefcase and heading out the front door.

/-----\

Days drifted by, and nothing changed. The job got no better, his apartment no homier, his life no less lonely, his sleep no less troubled.

He thought about calling someone, about talking, but who was he going to call? Teal'c was off with the Jaffa, Jack wasn't even sure which planet he was on. Daniel was back to being an archeologist, digging up old rocks somewhere on Earth, Jack didn’t know where. Carter was off with the Daedalus, in search of the Atlantis team. George, well, Hammond was fishing somewhere with his grandkids, and what was he going to tell him? Hey, George, I think I'm losing it? I’ve finally gone whacko? Survived the Gould and the Ancients but can’t hack Washington?

He could call the President, he had Hayes' private White House number, but what was he going to say? The job sucks, I want out? Tell that to the poor schmucks eating sand in Iraq. How could he wimp out, when faced with courage like that?

/-----\

Day after day, he did his job, to the best of his ability, without enthusiasm, but with the dedication his commitment to the Air Force demanded of him.

Night after night, he dreamed dreams that he thought he'd put behind him, nightmares of four endless, despair filled months.

/-----\

He wasn't sure when he noticed the car.

Plain black cars were common in Washington, D.C. So what if he thought it was the same one he'd seen the day before? Probably one of his neighbors who just happened to leave for work at the same time he did, in the same part of town. Hell, a lot of people worked at the Pentagon, thousands and thousands.

He noticed it again the next morning.

So, big deal, it was a coincidence.

/-----\

By the third morning, he wasn't sure if it was the hangover, the weariness, or outright paranoia, but the same car pulled out and followed him, he was sure of it.

Yeah, right, Jack. You haven't been here long enough to make any enemies. Besides, here, you're just one of many, only another peon, one cog in a giant wheel, one unhappy laborer among many.

And yet, there was the car.

That night, on his way home, he tried to lose it. He took a different route home, driving through the back streets, then, arriving in his own neighborhood, circled the block twice, as if he was looking for a parking spot.

He didn't spot the black car.

See, Jack, it was just your overactive imagination, your exaggerated sense of danger.

Too much beer.

Too little sleep.

Too many nightmares.

Pull yourself together, Jack, because people are starting to notice. Even the President, who this morning had asked him if he was feeling okay because he looked tired.

Crap.

He let his head fall into his hands, then worked his long fingers through the short, spiky gray hair. Time to straighten up, O'Neill. The past was the past. Off-world missions were over and done with. The SGC was history.

Accept what needed to be accepted.

When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

But how the hell did you make Washington into lemonade?

Maybe, he thought, stop with the beer. He'd been drinking too much, fallen into the trap of feeling lonely and alone and hopeless, missing what he'd lost, just like he'd done before, when he'd lost his family. Well, he'd lost another family, a military family that had gotten him through the loss of the first. But this time, there was no one to help him compensate, no family, no friends. This was Washington, where no one trusted anyone, where you didn’t have any friends, and you knew it.

Maybe he really should hang it up, but he'd promised George he'd give it a year.

And it wasn't even close to a year. Hell, it was barely a month.

And if he was honest, he hadn't given it a fair chance, not at all.

He'd been wallowing in his own unhappiness.

Time to stop with the self pity, the beer and the falling asleep on the couch, which was wrecking havoc with his back, and pull himself up by his bootstraps. Even if his boots didn't have an honest day’s dirt on them anymore.

So.

Do something.

That night, on his way home from work, he stopped at the bicycle shop on the corner of Cottage and Grove, and bought himself a sturdy, bright yellow Trek, a helmet, water bottles and a whole trunk load of other gear.

/-----\

Biking in D.C. wasn't at all like biking back in Colorado. Too few mountains and too much traffic, but it was the best he could do.

The first night, his calves and thighs and yeah, his butt ached, too, but with a good, honest ache. Maybe on the weekend he'd take the bike out into the country outside Washington. The Blue Ridge Mountains weren't the Rockies, but they would be an improvement over city streets.

Maybe it was only trading one crutch for another, but he knew that the biking beat the beer any day. And for that hour or so every evening, he could focus on activity, and let his brain drop into idle and feel, relatively, free.

The physical exertion let him sleep. He still had the nightmares, but not as frequently, and so he was sleeping better. He didn't even seem to be seeing his buddy in the black car anymore, either.

/-----\

The phone conversation was brief. "You have not been spotted again, have you?"

"No, Sir. I have been careful since the previous incident. And I think he may have presented us with a solution to our dilemma."

"It will appear to be an accident?"

"Certainly, Sir. O'Neill has taken up a new hobby, one that could very easily prove to be quite dangerous."

/-----\

It didn’t take long for Jack to develop a routine that gave him an hour or more on the bike through some quiet and thus relatively safe neighborhood streets in the cool of dusk. Jack quickly found himself looking forward to the evening workouts. They seemed to melt the stress out of his body and ease the tenseness out of his muscles. How he was going to cope when winter came, however, he wasn't even going to let himself think about.

He'd cross that bridge when he came to it. He smiled, thinking of Bra'tak's reaction when he'd said that, so long ago on Chulak.

Jack pedaled rhythmically, legs pumping, lungs straining, heart thumping, working up a sweat. Boy, it sure hadn't taken him long to get out of shape. Happened damn quick, too damn quick. Biking, though, he'd always enjoyed it, and the exercise had long ago won Doc's approval, since it was so much easier on his knees than jogging or running. Sadness washed over him at the thought of Doc, and what had happened to her. Today, though, he wasn't going to let the bad memories of the past win. He'd let the past be the past.

/-----\

The target was right on time. The man in the black car watched the bicycle approach, switching on the engine and gunning the accelerator as he pulled smoothly out of the parking space. It was absurdly easy: a moment to catch up, to pull alongside and then one hard jerk of the wheel, and the job was done.

He didn't stop, catching only a glimpse in the rear-view mirror of a crushed bicycle and a crumpled body lying next to it.

He smiled as he drove away, his work complete.
  /-----\

One minute Jack was pedaling along, working up a good, healthy sweat, and the next, amazingly, he was flying through the air. There was a momentary sensation of being airborne followed by a split second of realization that this was not a good thing and probably wasn't going to end well. That was all the time he had to think before the pavement rushed up to meet him.

Jack felt bone snap and his head hit something hard and unforgiving and then everything was black and cold and just gone.
/-----\

He wasn't really awake but he could hear a woman's worried voice speaking softly to him. "Mister, don't move. We've called an ambulance. Keep still. You're hurt." A hand was on his shoulder, light and gentle, and the voice was full of comfort.

He didn't need her to tell him he was hurt. His ankle was bent in an awkward direction that he was pretty sure it wasn't meant to bend, something in his shoulder felt all wrong, and breathing was hard work.  But the soft voice and the even softer touch was nice, so he kept still and waited.

The wail of a siren began off in the distance, drawing closer until it pulled to a stop just a few feet away.

/-----\

It was all vaguely familiar. Hovering just below full consciousness, Jack was aware enough to take stock of what was happening to him. He flinched at the bright light flashed in his eyes, and he mumbled a reply to the questions asked of him. His voice sounded funny and slow, like a 45 rpm record played on 33, and he wasn't at all sure that his answers made any sense at all, but he tried. He bit back a sharp cry of pain when someone moved his leg. Finally, he was placed on a backboard and lifted into the ambulance.
/-----\

The ride was rough and slow and the wall of pain was rising higher with every passing minute.
/-----\

He closed his eyes against the bright lights flashing overhead as he was wheeled into the emergency room. That helped a little, but he was feeling very odd and quite disoriented. Shadowy forms moved around above him in a nauseating dance, their words flying around over his head far too fast for him to grab onto any of them.

"Mister?" someone asked.

"Gen'ral," he muttered in answer.

"Yes, sir, this is DC General. What's your name?"

He mumbled, "Jack O'Neill," or so he thought, and right then that big looming black wall toppled over on him and he was unconscious.

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

"Jack, are you awake?"

He tried to ignore the voice but it continued, annoyingly, like a fly buzzing incessantly around your head.

"Jack, it’s really time for you to wake up now."

The voice was familiar, and insistent.

"Jack."

He couldn't quite find the energy yet to open his eyes, but he knew who that was talking to him, and he knew where he was. The familiar antiseptic smells told him all he needed to know.

The voice was Daniel.

The smell, combined with the myriad of dull aches encompassing his whole body and the IV taped to his hand, said, quite clearly, infirmary.

Which meant, wow, the whole general-SGC commander-Washington thing had been one big and honkin' dream. Nightmare, actually. He sighed with relief, happy to be simply Colonel O'Neill once more, and snuggled deeper into the covers.

Strange, though. The infirmary must have gotten some new beds, because this one felt more comfy than his usual.

"Jack, are you awake?" The voice was louder and more demanding this time.

"No," he mumbled in answer.

"Jack, the doctor said you should wake up."

"Not gonna."

"Too late, Jack. If you're talking, you're awake."

"Faking," he insisted stubbornly.

"You can't fake being awake."

"Can."

"Can't."

"Can."

"Not with me."

Jack sighed and opened his eyes, knowing all too well the futility of arguing with Daniel.
Immediately, he knew at least one of his assumptions, the most important one, was totally wrong.

Yes, it was Daniel, standing there beside his bed.

Yes, there was definitely something majorly wrong with his body, despite the masking effect of whatever drugs the IV was pouring into him.

And yes, this was definitely a medical facility.

But this equally definitely wasn't the infirmary, unless they'd had a bigtime upgrade, like a whole new décor, hell, *a* décor, which the infirmary had never had. These walls were painted, ceiling tiles hid the pipes, and there was a window.

That proved it was *not* the SGC's infirmary.

Maybe it was the Academy Hospital, he thought hopefully, even as, with a sinking heart, reality seeped in and he knew it wasn't. "Damn," he muttered, closing his eyes and reopening them slowly, hoping things would look and be different. They didn't, and weren't. He shifted on the bed, and grimaced.

Daniel frowned. "Something wrong? Want me to call a nurse?"

Jack shook his head. "No. Just," he waved a bandaged hand at the walls. "Don't know where this is-"

"It's a hospital."

"I know *that*," he snapped. "But where-"

"DC General."

He paused a moment to consider that bit of unwelcome information. DC as in Washington, which meant he really was a general, he really wasn’t at the SGC anymore, and the whole unhappy scenario was back. "How'd you get here so fast?"

"You've been either unconscious, in surgery, or in recovery, for," Daniel looked down at his watch, "oh, about 20 hours."

"Oh." Jack looked around, then down the length of his bed. His right leg, the one part of his body that hurt the worst, was propped up on several pillows. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

Daniel shrugged. "You were bicycling and had an accident."

"Oh, yeah," he did remember, sort of, at least there was a vague memory of flying through the air without a plane or anything else to protect him. "How?"

"We were sort of hoping you could tell us what happened."

"I was unconscious, Daniel."

"Not at the time you were hit."

"By what, a bus?" It sure as hell felt like something big and solid had run him over.

"You really don't remember?"

Jack surfed through his mostly still muddled brain, and shook his head once again. "Nothing there at the moment."

"You were hit by a car. We were hoping you'd remember."

"What did the driver say happened?"

"The driver left the scene. Maybe he didn't know that he hit you."

Jack shook his head.  "I suppose it's possible. More likely he didn't want trouble. Drunk probably."

Daniel frowned. "That could be."

"So how bad's the damages?"

"You were lucky."

Jack licked dry lips. "Don't feel lucky."

"The doctor said the helmet probably saved your life."

"Didn't save everything," Jack noted the way his whole body ached with that certain, far too familiar feel of badly damaged flesh and bone.

"No. You've got a broken ankle, concussion, bruised ribs, bruised lung and contusions too numerous to count."

"That’s lucky?"

"You could be dead."

"Umm." Well, hard to argue with that assessment, especially since he’d been dead, several times, and hadn’t ever enjoyed it much. "How'd you get here?" Jack wondered.

"Well, once they figured out who you were, they needed to call someone."

Jack's eyes were once again getting too heavy to keep open. "I thought you were in Timbuktu or someplace."

"Actually, I was at a conference in Texas when General Hammond called. Since that's not so far away, I came. And you're welcome by the way."

"Yeah, sure, thanks," Jack waved a hand without opening his eyes.

"You're welcome, Jack."

/-----\

They let him go home the next day, mostly because he bullied his doctor incessantly.

The physician was far too young, far too cheerful, and absolutely no match for Jack O'Neill. "Mister O’Neill—"

"General O’Neill," Jack corrected, not at all above using his rank to get his way, not when it came to something as important as this.

The young man nodded. "General, while I appreciate the fact that you want to go home, before I can allow that, you do need to see physical therapy--"

"I know how to use crutches, Doc. I've used them before. Many times."

"General--"

"Didn't notice the scars?" Jack waved a hand down at his leg. "Three knee operations."

"Yes, I did, but--"

"No buts. I'm going home."

"Look, General O'Neill, I know you're used to giving orders--"

"And having them followed," Jack pointed out bluntly.

"I'd feel better if you stayed for another day of observation."

"And I wouldn't. And won't. So," Jack glared, and the doctor caved.

/-----\

"Are you sure you should be going home already?" Daniel asked.

"Positive." Jack insisted as he levered himself out of the cab and up onto his crutches, moving carefully. He took his time, not because he wasn't capable on the crutches, which he was, from way too much experience. But damn, his ribs and chest hurt, a lot more than he wanted to admit. His whole body ached, in fact, and just a vague touch of dizziness reasserted itself when he moved too fast.

Daniel was looking at him worriedly. "Maybe you should have rested a bit more--"

"Rested? In a hospital? For cryin' out loud Daniel, with all the poking and prodding and nurses running back and forth all night, how the hell is a body supposed to rest in a *hospital*?" Jack had climbed out of the cab and stopped, propped up on his crutches, trying to catch his breath. He definitely wasn't up to both walking and talking at the same time. Not enough air. Must be the damn Washington pollution.

"That’s what normal people do," Daniel suggested.

"Sick people."

"Injured people, too."

"I'm not that injured," Jack insisted, hoping the words would cover up his labored breathing.

"You look awfully pale."

"Getting run over by a car does tend to take the color out of your cheeks," he snarked, looking up at his apartment building. Thank God the place had an elevator, but, crap, he'd forgotten about the three stairs guarding the front door.

He took a step, the shift of his weight on the crutches igniting a bright flare of pain in his ribs and shoulders. Walking with the crutches made his back hurt, too.

Oiy.

Turning the groan into a cough, which was just one more thing that hurt, too, damn it, Jack crutched carefully up the steps, past Daniel holding the door open and into the coolness of the hallway. Four more strides and they were at the elevator.

He leaned back against the wall while they waited for the car to arrive.

Daniel said nothing, staring down at the floor.

"Say it," Jack muttered finally.

"You wouldn't have badgered Janet that easily."

"And just what does that mean?" Jack answered, hobbling carefully into the just arrived elevator.

Daniel punched the button for the third floor. "It means that you should really still be in the hospital."

"Thank you for the diagnosis, *Doctor* Jackson."

"Jack, you can be so-– so-- pig-headed."

"Back at ya', Daniel."

They rode the rest of the way in silence. No words were spoken as they traveled slowly down the hallway and Daniel opened Jack's apartment door.

Once inside, Jack moved slowly over to the couch and gingerly maneuvered himself onto the cushions, unable to hide the grimace as his battered body protested.

"Hurts, does it?" Daniel asked unsympathetically.

"If you have to know, yes, it does."

"It would hurt less in the hospital."

"Oh for crying out loud Daniel, would you cut the 'hospitals are wonderful' crap. I'm really not up to arguing with you about this."

"I wasn’t arguing. I was disagreeing."

"Same difference."

Daniel sighed.  "I can't stay you know. I’m scheduled to give the keynote presentation at the conference tomorrow."

"How nice for you." He hadn’t meant it to sound so sarcastic, he really hadn’t. It was just that his leg hurt and his head throbbed and being back in this dismal apartment reminded him of what a mess his life was. Knowing that Daniel was now back to doing something he loved, while Jack was stuck here, doing something he hated, well, it was a pill more bitter than all the prescriptions the doctors had sent home with him.

Daniel turned away, looking out the window, saying nothing. Probably counting to ten, Jack figured, and he made an effort to soften his tone. "Look, Daniel, it was nice of you—"

"Well, it was," Jack admitted softly, staring at his ankle as if by glaring hard enough at it he could make the broken bone heal faster, like in the next ten minutes.

Daniel flopped down in the room’s only chair. "You know, I'm not even sure why I came here."

"Because you missed me," Jack suggested, hoping the smug tone hid the loneliness behind the answer.

"Oh, right. I just really couldn’t get through another day without some of your over-the-top, misdirected sarcasm."

"Sarcasm? Over the top? Never."

The younger man took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Jack, I’m here because I’m your friend and I’m worried about you. General Hammond said he’d heard you weren’t very happy here and –"

Crap! Now they were talking about him behind his back? His pride, pretty much the only thing he had left these days, suddenly overwhelmed the momentary urge he’d had to concede that things weren’t exactly hunky-dory in his new life. The sudden need to be alone with his unhappiness was overwhelming. "Daniel, I’m fine. I'm sorry I interrupted your life. Go on back to digging up rocks, or whatever it is you’re doing these days," he snapped.

"Jack, don’t be such an ass."

"Thank you for coming, Daniel," he said, stiffly, "but I was fine before you got here and I’ll be fine after you’ve gone."

"Jack—"

"Daniel, SG-1 and the SGC are over and done with. That’s military life. Assignments come and go. Eight years with the same assignment, the same people, was an anomaly. It’s time to move on, for all of us."

"If that’s how you feel—"

Jack pointed toward the door. "It is."

Wordlessly, Daniel took the hint, picked up his coat and headed for the exit. Opening the door, he stepped into the hall, then turned back, his face somber. "Jack, I miss the old days, too. And there’s nothing wrong with admitting that."

/---------\

He wasn't sure why it was that he always pushed away the people who cared about him. Maybe he was still afraid of making attachments, of letting people in, because the people he cared about went away. Some died, some he drove away, some just left. Admitting that you needed people was weakness, how many times had he heard his old man say that? A man stood on his own two feet, lived with his mistakes and dealt with their consequences.

Well, it was going to be a while, six weeks in fact, before he'd be standing on his own two feet.

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

Jack was asleep when the phone rang, the noise jarring him out of a for once very pleasant dream about sponge baths and Mary Steenburgen. Only partly awake, he sat up much too quickly his ribs told him rather succinctly. Gasping, one hand wrapped around his chest, he groped for the phone with the other. "Yeah," he mumbled.

"Hold please for the President," a bored voice said.

There was a short, pause, a loud click and then a hearty, "Hello, Jack. How are you feeling?"

"Peachy, Sir." Oiy. Had he just said 'peachy' to the President of the United States?

"I heard you'd been discharged from the hospital, General. I just wanted to convey my personal get well greetings."

He was wide awake now. "Thank you, Sir."

"So, I've been assured that you're on the road to recovery but that you do need some time off."

"Yes, Sir."

"You know you don't need to spend that time here in Washington, Jack."

"Sir?" He was so not holding up his end of the conversation. Side effect of being half awake, and drugged to boot, he theorized.

"So would you rather be in Minnesota? Colorado? Hawaii? Somewhere else?"

"Mr. President--"

"Please, Jack, I know you don't love Washington."

"It's that obvious?"

"Yes, it is."

Jack sighed. Don't be an idiot, he told himself. This is one offer that you shouldn't refuse. The thought of spending even a few days back in Colorado, in his own house  "Sir, I-- yes, I do still have my house in Colorado Springs."

"Excellent. I have a friend who owns a private jet and owes me a few favors. Someone will pick you up in the morning. Ten-ish okay?"

"Yes, Sir. And thank you."

"You're welcome, Jack. Recuperate quickly. We need you back here."

That was a bit hard to believe, but--"Mr. President--"

"No need to say more, Jack. It's the least I can do for the man who keeps saving the planet."

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

Once again, the phone call was short and to the point.

"The target is moving."

"I didn't know that it was possible for a dead man to move."

"He was badly injured--"

"Not badly enough."

"I am aware of my failings, and I will not waste the next opportunity."

"No, you will not. Next time, you will have help. I will find out where he is going.  Get your bags packed, we'll be following him. We have a job to finish."

"We?"

"We will follow him. A badly injured man should be an easy target. And this time, you'll have help to be sure that you don't fail again."

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

The private plane was plush, the pilot cordial, and the trip smooth and uneventful. A chauffer-driven car met him at the plane and drove him back to his house, the driver carrying in his one small bag.

It felt good to be back home. The familiar surroundings were comforting, his furniture, his own bed, pictures of family and friends on the wall, his Simpsons DVD collection, all of it made him feel real again.

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

Jack spent three days doing little more than sleeping. He conferred with Colonel Davis by phone and communicated with his office by e-mail.

By the fourth day, he was going stir crazy.

Besides, the cupboard was empty and he was sick of ordering in. Even he could only eat so much pizza.

Jack managed to crutch out to his truck and drive carefully to the store. Inside, he leaned on the cart a bit as he purchased what he needed: milk, bread, cereal, fresh fruit, pre-made salad, and steaks. Crutching through the produce section, he smiled as he passed a stack of Yukon Gold potatoes.

At the check out, he paid for his groceries and a helpful clerk carried them out to the truck for him.

He drove home through the well-remembered streets, and parked next to the house, surprised at how tired he felt from such a short excursion.

That’s when he was greeted with a brand new dilemma. Two crutches, occupying two hands, left no hands for two bags of groceries. Grasping the plastic sacks, one in each hand, he started carefully for the front door. The bags bounced against the crutches, throwing his balance off.

Damn.

It was harder than he’d thought, maneuvering himself and the groceries. He definitely didn’t have enough hands. Looking up the walk, the two short steps up to his front door suddenly seemed to take on the difficulty of scaling the Himalayas.

"Here, let me help," a feminine voice offered.

He spun, totally surprised that he hadn’t heard anyone approach, dropping one of the grocery sacks and nearly falling. He stumbled, and only her hand on his arm kept him from taking an embarrassing and undoubtedly painful tumble.

Jack felt his cheeks redden with embarrassment.

"Hey, you okay? Sorry if I startled you," the woman apologized. She was tall, and slender, dressed in pink jogging shorts, a white sleeveless t-shirt with the straps of a sports bra peaking out from underneath, and running shoes. Her long dark hair was pulled back into a pony tail. Her tanned skin was covered with a fine sheen of sweat.

She looked and smelled all woman.

If he’d been embarrassed a minute ago, he was even more so now as he realized he was unshaven and clad in a baggy t-shirt, sweatpants, and sock-less deck shoes, er, shoe.

"No problem," he said. "These things are just—awkward," he lifted one crutch.

"I understand. Had to use them once myself. Hated it. Made me feel completely helpless."

"Don’t I know it," he said.

"I never could figure out how to carry anything," she added, bending over to pick up the bananas that had fallen out of the grocery bag, inadvertently providing him with a very nice view of her long, long legs. Once the runaway items were back in the bag, she stood and offered her hand, "Annie Willis. I live a couple of blocks over, on Hardaway." She waved a hand toward the end of the street.

He nodded, then re-balanced his weight onto his good leg and one crutch so he could extend a hand to shake hers. "Jack O’Neill. Klutz."

She laughed, picked up the groceries and headed for his front door.

He managed to open the door with a minimum of fumbling and no further damage to his shaky self-esteem.

"Nice place," Annie said as she carried the groceries into the house and set them beside the door.

Jack suddenly realized he didn’t want her to leave. It was nice to hear another human voice in his house. "Um, would you like some coffee? I think I could manage that."

"Sure," she smiled.

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

They ended up out on the deck, Annie carrying the coffee pot and two cups out to the picnic table. He sat in one of the deck chairs, and she took a seat by the picnic table.

"Great backyard," she commented.

"Needs a little work," he noted, spying the weeds in the flower beds. He had hired the McCutcheon kid across the street to mow the lawn, but that hadn’t included gardening.

"Hard to do like that," Annie noted, nodding at the ankle he now had propped up on the extra deck chair. "So have you lived here long?"

"Nine years."

"Wow. I don’t think I’ve ever stayed anywhere nine years, not since I got out of school anyway."

"What do you do?" he asked, finding that he liked talking to her.

"I’m a photo journalist. Travel incessantly. And you?"

"Government job," he answered cryptically.

"You don’t look like a bureaucrat," she eyed him critically. "Military?"

"Not a bad guess in this town," he admitted. "Air Force."

"Is that how you got hurt?"

He laughed. "Hardly. A small collision, with a car."

"Your truck didn’t look damaged."

"It wasn’t my truck, but my Trek."

"Trek? As in bicycle?"

He nodded. "Beyond repair, I’m afraid."

"Well, you look pretty good, considering."

"You should have seen me last week," he smiled ruefully, waving a hand at the fading bruises that still marred his check.

"Actually, I think I’d like to see you anytime—" she stopped, and when he didn’t say anything, just stared at her, his eyes wide, she went on in a rush, her face flushed. "Oh, wow, I don’t usually say that kind of thing, but-but you seem nice. I noticed, okay, I was looking actually and I did see you weren’t wearing a wedding ring, and there’s no sign of a woman in the house. If I’ve embarrassed you, I’m sorry, but well, I think I’d like to get to know you better."

He was looking down, studying his hands intently. "Who could be embarrassed by a statement like that?" Raising his gaze, Jack looked at her. "How about dinner? Tomorrow night?"

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

A date.

He had an honest to goodness date.

And he was nervous.

He hadn’t dated anyone new in a very long time. There’d been Kerry, of course, but he’d met her at work.

In Washington, well, he didn’t know anyone, not even his neighbors.

He smiled goofily at himself in the mirror as he shaved. He’d been flattered by her attention, and there was no doubt that she was a beautiful, attractive woman, even in workout clothes. He’d never been attracted to the dainty ‘girly-girl’ type; athletic, independent, straight-forward women had always been his preference.

It was just nice to have someone around to talk to. He’d been spending far too many nights cooped up alone in that ugly DC apartment.

Dressing carefully, he chose a dark blue sweater over khaki jeans.

He took her to O’Malley’s. Well, actually, she took him, since driving was still a bit of a challenge for him.

Thankfully, O’Malley’s seemed to have forgiven him for the trouble he and the rest of SG-1 had caused there. Of course, that had been years ago. And they hadn’t started it. Just finished it, he remembered with a grin.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked.

"Oh, I was here for a very memorable fight—er, night," he corrected himself, "once. Long time ago."

She stared at him assessingly. "You don’t look like the ‘fight’ kind."

"Looks can be deceptive."

"I hope not," she whispered, and walked beside him into the dining room. He was aware of others looking at them, at her, he was sure, stunning in a little black dress that showed off her long legs and athletic body. Seated across from her, waiting for their meals to come, he played with the silverware and reminded himself not to drool.

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

They had a quiet dinner with good food spiced with even better conversation. Something about Annie prompted him to talk, or maybe it was just that it had been so long since he’d spent this much time being Jack O’Neill, human being, rather than General O’Neill, keeper of secrets.

When she pulled up back in front of his house, he climbed out cautiously, then stopped, holding onto the car door, peering in at her. "Would you like to come in? We could do the coffee thing again," he offered, hopefully.

She smiled, and accepted his offer.

When she left, she gave him her number.

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

He wasn’t sure whether he ought to call her again. Would it seem too soon? But she settled the issue by calling him the next night.

"O’Neill," he answered the phone.

"Hi, Jack."

"Hi, Annie," he answered, hoping the call was good news.

"Um, I was wondering if you might like to go for a drive on Saturday. You were talking the other night, about how much you like the mountains? Some friends of mine have a cabin on a lake. It’s beautiful, quiet and pretty secluded," her voice was low and husky. "I was thinking maybe you’d like to get out of town for a while, get out into the country."

"I’m not ready to go hiking," he reminded her.

"That’s okay. I thought we could take out their boat."

"Fishing boat?" he asked optimistically.

"Just an old row boat, actually," there was enthusiasm in her voice, which dropped to a more quiet tone. "That is, if you’re interested."

"Very interested."

"Okay, Saturday, noon. I’ll pack us a lunch."

/-----\

The lake was lovely, a brilliant blue body of water with several small islands in the middle, tucked into a small valley surrounded by a ring of mountains. Their lower slopes were carpeted by the vivid green of a pine forest, their peaks still wore a dusting of snow. The cabin was actually nicer than his own, bigger and newer, but set farther back from the shore and surrounded by pines.

"This is nice," he smiled as he made his way down to the lake.

Jack insisted on taking the oars when they pulled away from the boat dock, and it felt good, something physical he could do despite his broken ankle. The effort made his shoulder and ribs ache, but he ignored them. Pulling steadily on the oars, he rowed out to the island, surprised that that small effort had left him breathless. He was disappointed, however, when they found that there was already another boat pulled up on the shore of the island, though he couldn’t see the people.

"How about if we find somewhere more private?" she suggested.

His heart did a little anticipatory thump-thump and he nodded. "Private sounds-- nice."

She grinned. "Can I try rowing for a while? I’ve used the rowing machines, but I’ve never tried the real thing."

They switched places, and he gave her some tips. She caught on quickly, as he expected.

He watched her quietly for a few minutes. "This is hard on my manly ego, you know," he grinned, "letting a woman work." He’d never admit it, but it was sort of nice watching her shoulders, and ah, other body parts, flex as she rowed.

They soon left the large island and the other boaters behind. Rounding the corner of another island, Jack pointed the way into a secluded cove on the far shoreline. Pulling the boat up onto the beach, they spread a blanket on the sand, and ate the lunch she’d brought.

They’d barely finished when, to his astonishment, Annie got up suddenly. He was surprised and a little disappointed as she quickly started packing up their things. "What’s the rush?"

"I’m ready to go, and I think you are too."

Odd, the softness, the affection, was suddenly gone from her voice.

He’d been lying back on the blanket, and started to push himself up only to discover that he felt funny, oddly weak and strangely lethargic; tired, very tired, actually, incredibly tired. Okay, eating could make a guy sleepy, but not that sleepy, not usually, not normally.

Actually, he felt a lot like he had the first few days after his accident, when he’d been taking some heavy duty painkillers.

"Jack?" Gone was Annie’s bright smile, the one he’d gotten to know so well in the past few days. Her voice sounded warped, slow and slurred.

"Huh?" He was finding it hard to sit up, and one part of his brain, the one that had always warned him of danger, began to frantically shout warnings at him now.

"Jack, I think you should go for a swim."

Swim? Hell, he could barely hold up his head. "Wha—"

Two men stepped out of the trees.

She turned away from him, and toward them. "The drug’s working," he heard her say coldly. "He’s ready."

"Good. This time, we’ll finish the job, and it will look like an accident."

"The authorities may find that hard to believe, another accident so soon after the last one," Annie’s voice sounded different, harder, harsher than he thought it should.

"What they believe is immaterial. They will be able to prove nothing. There may be suspicion, but there will be no proof."

Jack tried to say something, to ask what the hell was going on, but his lips and tongue and throat weren’t working right. He struggled to get up and failed, falling back.

He didn’t know how the man got there, but suddenly one of the men was standing over him, blocking out the warmth of the sun. "Remember me, O’Neill?"

It took him a moment before he remembered—it was the man from the elevator, the man who’d spoken Arabic. What the hell was he doing here, in Colorado? "Who ‘re you?" he managed to mumble.

"Ah, you don’t remember me? I am disappointed, O'Neill, that after all the time we spent together, you have so quickly forgotten me."

There was something chilling in the words, but Jack didn’t know what or why.

Then the words changed, to Arabic, "I am your keeper, I hold your fate in my hands, your rewards, and your punishments--"

He’d heard those words before, and that voice-- he knew that voice, even if he didn’t know the face. It was the voice of a thousand nightmares, of the faceless evil, moving around him in the darkness behind his blindfold, bringing with it pain and agony-- the voice of his Iraqi torturer. Despite the drugs, Jack’s heart started to pound. Once again he struggled to get up, but with one hand he was pushed down, flat on his back on the blankets.

"I am so disappointed that you do not remember me. I am Abdullah, your friend from Tikrit."

All he could utter was a weak, all but indiscernible, "Bastard."

Abdullah laughed. "You always did have courage, O’Neill. Not brains, not sense, but courage. What a shame to have to kill you after all this time but it became inevitable once I saw you in Washington. If you were to recognize me, as eventually I believe you would have, you would have ruined my future, and I cannot take a chance of that. A new Iraq is being born, a nation sadly in need of leaders, leaders with a vision for the future. But that cannot happen, if they know of my— work-- in the past." The man bent closer, his voice low. "You are a hard man to kill, O’Neill, but you *will* die this time. Oh, I know what you are thinking. You are a general now, and an important man, a friend of your President even, so they will investigate. But they will find nothing. Your ‘girlfriend’ is someone who never existed. No one knows you are here. This lake is very deep and quite cold. It is unlikely that they will find your body, but if they do, all signs of the drug will be long gone from your blood. They will think you had an accident, drowned, perhaps even committed suicide. There will be a beautiful military ceremony for the dead heroic general. What a shame you won’t be there to see it," Abdullah paused dramatically. "No, I must correct myself, I did not say that correctly. You *will* be there, but you won’t be seeing it."

Suddenly, arms grabbed him, dragging him across the sand and into the boat. The cast on his ankle smacked roughly against the boat’s oar lock, and he would have screamed if he’d had the ability, but all that emerged from his throat was a low moan.

Then they were moving out over the water, the boat rocking ominously, and a few moments later someone was pushing him, rolling him over.

O’Neill fell.

With a loud splash, he hit the water, the cold of it shocking him into a semblance of awareness. Instinct kicking in, Jack’s arms flailed and he grabbed desperately for the side of the boat. Something hard rapped viciously against his knuckles, forcing him to let go. He sensed the second blow coming, the pressure of displaced air as the oar swept toward his head, but he had neither the strength nor the muscle control to do anything to either avoid it or stop it.

Luck was with him. The oar hit his shoulder a split second before connecting with his head, lessening the impact but still cracking hard against his skull, splitting the skin, causing blood to flow, and stunning him. Jack sank into the water, making no effort to swim as the current caught him and began to carry his body away.

The last thing he heard was someone asking, "Are you sure he’s dead this time?"

"Yes," answered a triumphant voice.

/---------\

He inhaled, and his mouth filled with water.

Jack choked, coughed and thrashed feebly, somehow managing to lift his mouth out of the water far enough to suck in a lungful of air. He floated for a moment, head turned just enough to keep his mouth and nose out of the liquid, trying to figure out where he was and what had happened to him.

Abdullah.

He managed to lift his head again, and squinting, focus well enough to make out a motor boat roaring away, across the empty end of the lake, and, closer, in the middle of the lake, an empty rowboat, drifting.

His would be murderers were leaving, having left him for drowned.

Which he would be soon if he didn’t get to work.

Even only half aware of the situation, he began to kick his legs and swim. Ordinarily, he was a strong swimmer but one shoulder wasn’t working well at all, which, in conjunction with his throbbing head and overall weak muscles, made coordinated movement all but impossible. Still, his survival instinct was screaming at him to get the hell out of the ice cold water. Now.

Thank God this end of the lake was shallower. Though they’d dumped him in deep water, the current had carried him close to the far shore.

He reached the rocky bank, pulling himself halfway out of the water before collapsing in a heap.

Shivering.

He was very cold. He didn’t think he’d been this cold since Hathor had frozen him, back there in her fake SGC.

And his head hurt. It had hurt then, too, but of course, that had been thanks, no thanks actually, to the damned snakelet.

He raised a hand to his head, and found something sticky caked in his hair. Bringing his hand around, the smell told him it was blood even before he saw the rich redness of it.

No wonder his head hurt.

He licked his lips, his mouth feeling absurdly dry for someone who’d just swallowed half of a big and honkin’ lake.

Of course, the dry mouth, that was the kind of thing drugs did to you.

The drugs that had been in his picnic lunch.

The lunch that Annie had made for him.

God, he’d been played for a fool, a sucker, an idiot.

Fallen hook, line and sinker for a pretty face.

Taken the bait like a bass swallowing the hook, just begging to end up on someone’s dinner plate.

He coughed, and retched, gagging on the not-so-pristine lake water, expelling some of his lunch with it. He could only hope that in bringing that up, he was purging himself of some of the drugs, too.

After a few minutes, when he’d gathered up a bit of strength, Jack crawled a little further up the bank. He moved into the weeds, getting his feet out of the cold water and hoping he was hidden if prying eyes were looking for him. He could only hope that Abdullah and his accomplices had left, firmly believing Jack was dead. Still, he probably shouldn’t be hollering for help, just in case they remained within earshot.

Jack shuddered once more, and began to assess his situation. The good news was that he was no longer in danger of drowning. The bad news was that he was seriously in danger of hypothermia. He needed to find shelter and soon. Once the sun went down, it would get very cold, very fast at this high altitude, and he was soaked and shivering already.

Normally, it wouldn’t be much of a problem. Walking would warm him up, and it wouldn’t take more than a couple of hours to hike around this side of the lake and back to the cabin. Except his ankle was still broken, and his crutches were probably in the bottom of the lake. TV shows made it look so easy, like all you needed was some little bit of a stick to prop you up and you could just walk away on a broken leg/ankle/whatever.

It just wasn’t so.

Yes, he had a high pain threshold, but even he couldn’t walk that far, across rough terrain, on a recently broken ankle, with a flimsy little plastic and Velcro cast which, miraculously was still intact.

And shoeless. Somehow, he’d lost the one shoe he had been wearing.

"Crap," he sighed, rolling over on his back and trying to make his lethargic brain spit out some sort of useful idea.

His brain wasn’t cooperating in coming up with a plan B. All that he could think of was the same old plan A, move, crawl if you have to, but make your way to help. Rescue yourself. Remember Iraq, the first time, on the Iran-Iraq border when he’d had trouble with his ‘chute, when he’d had to rescue himself, nine days on his own.

Compared to that, this was nothing.

Well, maybe not nothing. But easy. After all, he was in his own country, no one would be shooting at him, and help was probably only a couple of miles away.

/-----\

It turned out to be not even that far. But like every other time that Iraq was involved, it was hell anyway.

He had to walk. Jack got up on his feet, well, foot, and took a careful, tentative step, ever so slowly shifting his weight to his injured leg. The world didn’t end, his ankle didn’t explode, it just felt like someone had stuck a red-hot poker up inside the bone and then, just to add to the fun, was pounding on it with a sledgehammer. Closing his eyes tight, feeling tears gather in their corners as he swayed, Jack ordered himself to stay upright, and somehow, managed it.

One step.

He’d progressed about six inches, maybe eight. At that rate, it was gonna take him years to get anywhere. And he was pretty sure he didn’t have years, not the way the blood was dripping down his temple and his head was spinning and his ankle felt like it was breaking apart into a billion little bits and pieces. And that was only after the first step.

He made himself go on. Calling on the same strength, the same implacable will that had gotten him through steaming hot jungles and bone-chilling arctic cold, broken bones and bleeding wounds, torture inflicted by inhuman humans and non-human beings, he shut the pain away into one deep, dark corner of his mind and focused on his goal.

One step, then another.

Ignore the feeling of broken glass in his ankle.

Walk.

Ignore the grating bone and shrieking nerve endings in his ankle.

Find help.

Ignore the pains shooting upward from his ankle and into his already throbbing skull.

Find Abdullah.

Shoot the bastard.

Kill him slowly.

Hatred was a great motivator, and an even better pain blocker. Ironically, that was something he’d learned long ago, on his second visit to Iraq and during his first meeting with Abdullah. He still had scars both inside and out from that encounter, just like he was adding a few more with this one.

Just like that time, he would survive.

But this time, he would do more.

He would win.

That thought drove him on, farther along the lakeshore, toward the spot of color he’d spied while in the boat.

He was pretty sure it was another cabin. Hopefully, someone was there. If not, as long as he could get into the place, break in if he had to, he could get warm and dry, probably even find food, maybe find a phone.

It was a long ways away, much further than he’d first thought.

He fought back the despair that kept trying to team up with the pain, threatening to derail his concentration.

Jack drove himself on. Don’t look ahead at your destination, don’t let yourself see how far away it is. Concentrate on the ground in front of you, on finding tree trunks to hold onto, on avoiding the sticks and stones. Focus on taking another step. When you accomplished that, then focus on the next. One step, you could always go one more step. When every other goal seemed impossible, one step, no matter how much it hurt, was do-able.

He’d grimly gone on like that, intent, determined, while the afternoon faded into evening. The air grew chill as the sun began to set behind the mountains, and he was shivering again in his still damp clothes.

Pain won only if you let it.

You could, he knew, refuse to give in to it.

Lock it away, box it up, take control. You couldn’t actually make it go away, not completely, but you could make it distant, like a spot dimly seen on the far horizon.

Force your mind to concentrate on something else.

Deny—

He tripped. Stepping forward with his ‘good’ foot, now torn and battered by walking shoeless on the rough ground, Jack slid to his knees, saving himself from hitting the ground only by grabbing onto the rough trunk of a pine. For long seconds he knelt there, shoulders leaning against the tree, head down, gasping for breath, fighting for control.

At last, he raised his head.

The cabin was much closer than he’d expected.

And much less than he’d hoped for.

It was a wreck: the roof sagged, the windows were broken, and one wall leaned outward at a drunken angle that revealed years of neglect.

A momentary wave of despair, fueled by exhaustion, overwhelmed him.

A part of him wanted to quit, the part that was tired of Washington, tired of the rat race, tired of being alone, and more than a bit chagrined by having let down his guard and being taken for a ride by a pretty woman.

Another part of him, the bigger, stronger made of solid steel part, the part that had gotten him through the worst times of his life, like Iran, Iraq, Baal, the Ancient overload, and most of all, Charlie’s death, wouldn’t let him throw in the towel. No matter how heavy the towel felt at the moment.

He’d been in ugly situations before, many times. But always, he’d been part of something, of the SGC, and of SG-1, before that of a Special Ops team, or an air wing. He’d always known that someone, somewhere, knew where he was; that he had a teammate at his back. So, yeah, sometimes that had failed; thinking about Frank Cromwell still brought back ugly memories. But always, there’d been someone he could depend on, or someone who depended on him, someone he could believe would be there to help him.

This time, he had only his own pig-headed stubbornness to rely on.

And he wasn’t feeling particularly stubborn at the moment, only pig-headed.

He needed to rest, to gather up his strength before he tried to get back up on his feet.

Or crawled onward.

Because onward he was going.

In a minute.

On the ground, exhausted and fighting back despair, he looked up into the cloudless, near-dark sky, sprinkled with the evening’s first stars. God, how he missed the stars. Having stars on his shoulders didn’t compensate in the least for no longer being privileged to walk among the stars.

He’d missed the stars before, in a different way, so very long ago, locked in that dark cell in Iraq, waiting for Abdullah to come for him again—

That’s when he heard it, a rustling in the brush, followed by a low growl.

Crap.

The growling continued, growing in intensity, growing closer.

Jack sat up, hands frantically searching the ground around him for a weapon of some kind, a stick or a rock, anything with which to defend himself.

The growling was louder, nearer now. By the last dim light of the fading day, Jack could just make out a canine form approaching, stiff-legged and suspicious.

And then the growling changed to barking; not howling, barking.

Barking.

Not a wolf, but a dog.

Relief flooded through him. "Hey pup, it’s okay," he said softly. "I’m a friend."

The barking stopped.

The form, crouched low to the ground, inched closer, it’s body language proclaiming it was no longer worried, but simply curious.

"I’m a friend, pup. Friend. Person. Human. Dog-lover," Jack spoke quietly, the same way you’d try to soothe a frightened child, holding out a hand for the creature to sniff. The dog was close now, close enough that Jack could see the hair on its neck standing up and the white flash of teeth, as if the creature still wasn’t sure if he was friend or foe.

"Sadie! Sadie!" the shout came from further up the hill.

Jack turned his glance upward, and saw a cone of light flashing back and forth through the trees.

"Damn it, Sadie, you get back here!"

Sadie whined, looking up at the caller, but staying put beside her discovery.

"Sadie!" The light was moving steadily closer.

Jack reached out and took hold of the dog’s collar.

"Sadie!" The person was so close Jack could hear her mumbling now. "Damn fool mutt, running off after God knows what in the dark. If I break a leg out here, so help me--"

The figure was close, very close. Jack could only hope she didn’t have a gun.

"Sadie, what the hell did you find now?" The flashlight’s beam hit his face. "Wha—" and the light stopped, fixed on his face, blinding him.

For a long moment, silence reigned. In the quiet, Jack could hear the woman breathing, short, sharp breaths that sounded scared; Sadie’s panting, and his own pounding heartbeat.

"Hello," he said, very softly, trying to shade his eyes with his hand.

"Where’d you come from?" There was suspicion along with fear in the voice.

He didn’t blame her, only tried to soothe her, using the same voice that had worked with the dog. "I had an accident. Back there, on the lake," he tried to point.

"Is that blood on your face?"

He raised a hand to touch his cheek. "Yeah. Hit my head."

She seemed to be considering what he’d said. The flashlight moved off his face, leaving him momentarily blinded, weaving around as if looking for something. "You’re alone?"

"Yes." Sadie was trying to lick his face, and he pushed her away.

"Well, Sadie seems to think you’re okay and generally, she’s got good sense when it comes to people." The flashlight pointed at the ground in front of him. "I’m Kate Howard. I suppose you can come to my cabin. I’ve got a first aid kit, Mister?--"

"O’Neill. Jack O’Neill. Thanks."

"Well, come on, get up then."

He tried and failed, between his own utter weariness, the dog weaving in and out between his feet, and the darkness. A hand reached out of the darkness and took hold of his arm, helping him to his feet, steadying him.

"Guess you hurt more than just your head."

"Broke my ankle a couple weeks ago."

Kate snorted. "What were you doing out in a boat then?"

"It’s a long story."

He heard her sigh. "Lean on me, then."

Kate was short, but strong. They stumbled awkwardly like an out of synch team in a three-legged race, but in a few minutes were on a path that made moving easier. Ten minutes hard work brought them into the yard of a small, neat cabin. He was so weary the single short step up onto the porch seemed impossible, but finally he was inside the building, gratefully sprawled in a chair.

"You are a mess, Mister O’Neill." In the light now, he could see Kate was close to his age, her face weathered like someone who spent a great deal of time outdoors. She was clad in blue jeans and a faded denim shirt covering a t-shirt that had probably once been green and now was a soft near-gray.

"Yeah, well, it’s been a rough day," he understated.

She handed him a glass of water and put two little orange pills in his hand. "Take them, then I’ll clean up that cut on you head."

He looked down at them, then up at her, considering.

"Ibuprofen. I’m no nurse, but I know they’re better for you than aspirin when you’ve got a sprain or some-such."

Deciding he could trust her, Jack threw the pills into his mouth and washed them down with the water. He chugged two more glasses while she dug antiseptic out of the first aid kit, draped a worn but clean towel over his shoulder, and set a bowl of warm water on the table. "This might sting a little," she warned.

"Yes, I know. Go ahead."

Steadying his head with one hand, with the other she dipped the rag in the warm water and then held it to his head.

"Ow," he hissed, flinching at the touch.

"Sorry. Just give it a minute. There’s a lot of dried blood here." She applied more warm water, her movements sure and gentle, then wiped his face with the towel which quickly turned pink. "This cut bled a lot. You might need some stitches here, but it’s more than I can do. I think you need a doctor."

"No."

"No?" she took a step back, the suspicion back in her eyes. "What kind of trouble are you in, Mister O’Neill?"

"It’s Jack," he corrected as he sighed, closing his eyes for a moment, wishing the headache and the god-awful throbbing in his ankle would stop long enough to allow him to gather his thoughts. "It’s complicated, but I’m *not* a drug dealer or in trouble with the law or anything like that." He looked her straight in the eye, using his most reassuring tone. "I promise, there’s nothing for you to worry about, no trouble that will come down on you. It was—" suddenly, it came to him, "personal, personal trouble."

"What, your wife hit you?" she was still suspicious.

"It wasn’t a woman."

Her face fell and she shook her head in disappointment. "Of course, all the good looking ones—"

He quickly realized what she was thinking. "No, sheesh, not *that* kind of personal. A girlfriend, and, and some—friends-- of hers. They’re in trouble, not me," it was as much as he was willing to explain.

Kate was still staring at him skeptically.

He sighed. "Look, I know it’s hard to believe, but you’ll just have to take my word for it. I’m military. Air Force. Based at Cheyenne Mountain." That was only a little untruth.

"So what is this, some top-secret national security thing?"

"Yes."

Kate continued to study his face. "Well, Mister—Jack, you’re either telling the truth, or you’re a very good liar. I guess I believe you. So we’d better finish with the first aid."

He nodded, gratefully.

She rinsed the bloodied rag in the water, wringing it out. Then, taking a clean rag, she poured disinfectant on it. "This *will* sting," she told him, and pressed the damp rag to the cut.

Sting? Just sting? It burned. He wanted to jump out of the chair but instead bit his lip and held still while she cleaned the cut.

Finally, she stepped back. "Sorry, I know that hurt."

He shrugged.

Kate gave him a minute to recuperate, then pointed toward the floor. "I should take a look at those feet next."

He waved a hand in rebuttal. "They can wait until morning."

"They shouldn’t. You don’t want an infection getting started." Giving him no time to protest, she knelt. Carefully, Kate pulled the torn and bloody sock down his left instep and off his foot, then repeated the motion with his right. She frowned as she looked at the bruises and oozing cuts. "This is nasty," she commented.

Jack threw her a crooked smile. "Sorry. Guess I left the Odor-Eaters at home."

She looked up at him with an answering smile. "That wasn’t what I meant, but then, you knew that."

He nodded in silent acknowledgement.

"Well, once more, I’d say a doctor ought to deal with this, but knowing your answer, I’ll clean them up as much as I can." Working carefully, she disinfected the cuts and wrapped his feet with the gauze from the first aid kit. Done, she sat back on her heels. "That’s the best I can do I’m afraid."

"It’s plenty," he thanked her.

She shook her head, then pointed him toward the couch. "You can sleep there. In the morning, if that’s soon enough for you, we’ll figure out what to do next."

She helped him hobble the two steps over to the old sofa. It was too short for his long legs, but uncomplaining, he curled up with a contented groan. Kate brought him a blanket, carefully covering him with it, and he burrowed into its warmth.

Despite the chorus of aches and pains, within moments, he was sound asleep.

Sometime later, Jack woke to the soft sound of footsteps, both human and canine. He heard Kate stop near where he lay feigning sleep, and then her footsteps receded once more. The quiet click-click of Sadie’s paws moved across the room, then he felt the gentle bump as she flopped down on the rug beside the couch. He reached down and stroked her head, rewarded with a gentle thump-thump of her tail.

He’d always said that dogs were his favorite people. Sadie was one he really appreciated.

/-----\

The next morning she drove him the six miles to the nearest town to a pay phone outside a store and bait-shop.

He dialed the only number he could think of where he could get help with no questions asked and no publicity generated.

After three rings, someone answered. "Cheyenne Mountain."

He punched in an extension, praying it hadn’t been changed, that someone was still there at the nearly shut down base, someone who would remember him.

The phone was ringing again. Just when he was afraid no one was going to answer, someone did. "Extension 28."

"I need to speak to Sergeant Walter Harriman."

"Who shall I say is calling?"

"O’Neill, Jack O’Neill."

Jack waited, impatiently tapping his fingers on the little shelf below the open-air phone, but it was only a few seconds until it was answered.

"Walter here," the voice was uncertain.

"It’s Jack O’Neill, Walter." He could only hope Walter would recognize his voice.

"General O’Neill?" there was skepticism in the voice.

"The one and only. That other guy, with one L, he only made Colonel," Jack added.

"Other guy?" There was a momentary pause. "Right, Sir," Walter still sounded surprised. "I, uh, didn’t expect to be hearing from you, Sir. I thought you were in Washington."

Jack stared over at the woman watching him innocently. He kept his most innocuous smile on his face, as if he were talking about everyday occurrences rather than people trying to kill him. Although, during long stretches of his life, people, and other things, trying to kill him had been pretty much everyday occurrences. "I’ve been back in town a few days. And, uh, I had an accident—"

Walter still sounded puzzled. "I heard about that."

"Ah, no, an accident yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"Yes, Walter, and a very kind lady gave me a ride to a phone so I could call for someone to pick me up. Seems I’ve lost the keys to my truck."

"Why didn’t you just call—"

"I can’t be doing that just now, Walter. You know--"

The tone voice on the other end of the phone changed suddenly. "Ah, something’s wrong?"

"Exactly."

"Why didn’t you just say so, Sir?" there was a short pause. "Oh, right, there’s someone listening."

"That’s it." He smiled his brightest smile at his rescuer. "So I’ll let Kate give you the directions." He handed the phone to her. "Walter’s an old friend. We worked together for years."

/-----\

Once Walter picked him up, things happened quickly. Back at the SGC, on a secure phone line, he made some calls, talked to a few friends old and new, and quietly arranged an Air Force flight back to Washington. By the time he’d had medical treatment, got a new cast and a new pair of crutches, a limo was waiting for him at the empty hangar at the back of the airport.

It was dark by the time he arrived at the White House, entering through the secret visitor’s door-- an underground passage that connected it to the Executive Office Building next door. Crutching along carefully, O’Neill was quickly escorted into the Oval Office. He’d been there many times, but still, the room never failed to impress him.

Jack’s meeting with the President was brief.

When the general entered, Henry Hayes was on the phone. He waved Jack at a chair, quickly ended his conversation and stepped around the big desk, standing on the famous carpet bearing the presidential seal.

"You look like hell, Jack."

"Thank you, Mr. President."

Hayes picked up a folder from his desk. "I’ve had a short briefing on the situation, and the preliminary report’s right here. Abdullah Ahmanjala. Actually I’ve met the man. He’s one of several Iraqis vying for my support in establishing a new relationship with us. He claims he was always part of the anti-Saddam faction."

Jack smiled humorlessly. "Claims are easy to make. Proof comes harder."

Hayes shook his head. "Jack, give me the details on this guy, and tell me what you need." Hayes’ reaction to Jack’s tale was immediate. It was amazing, what the power of the presidency could do. One phone call, and the pick-up was scheduled.

"Sir, I do have one request. I’d like to be there, to see this through to the end." Jack asked, very quietly.

"Making sure there are no screw ups?" Hayes asked astutely, staring at him.

O’Neill nodded.

"Jack, you deserve this. Just stay out of it until he’s in custody."

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

Two hours later, Jack sat in another plain black car outside a plush residence in one of Washington’s more exclusive, and expensive, neighborhoods. Abdullah had moved up in the world from the days he’d been one of Saddam’s torturers, he thought. Now, though, he’d be moving back down.

Finally, the signal came that the situation was in hand. Jack exited the car and crutched as quickly as he could up the steps and in the front door. He hobbled down a long hallway, past ornate chairs, expensive paintings and doors opening into other equally rich rooms.

By the time he arrived Abdullah was seated on a chair, hands cuffed behind his back, protesting loudly to the arresting officers, his voice rising in anger. "What are you doing? I am an Iraqi citizen, a leader of my country. You have no right to arrest me. I have done nothing!"

All the talk stopped when Jack hobbled into the room, saying nothing, just staring at the man.

"You—" spat Abdullah, glaring at him. "Pig."

"Now, now, name calling isn't nice." Jack sat down in one of the comfortable chairs, propping his crutches against the coffee table before running a hand along the rich fabric.

"Release me. Now!!"

"I guess no one told you it was moving day?" Jack waved a hand around at the richly furnished room. "You'll be going to a place with a nice warm climate, lots of sun and sand. I'm afraid the accommodations there won't be so plush, and I've heard the food's not the best, but hey, you can't have everything."

"Where are you taking me?

"American jails, you'll be glad to know, even the worst of them, are nothing like that rathole you ran."

"You cannot do this. My people will not stand for this! I am an important—"

Jack shrugged. "No one will care. Just another one of Saddam's henchmen exposed."

"You cannot expose me without revealing yourself."

O'Neill's voice turned dark and deadly. "I don't have to. I wasn't the only one entrusted to your tender care. There are plenty of your own people willing to condemn you." Jack stood and hobbled over to the prisoner, close enough to whisper into the cuffed man’s ear. "You did have one thing right, Abdullah. I’m not easy to kill. Better men than you have tried. And failed."

That night, for the first night in a very long time, Jack O’Neill had no more nightmares.