Fission of Silence
by Pough
Part 3

Back to Part 2

Sam stood outside the door to Daniel's private quarters—a square room with a bunk, a table and a chair—the absolute lowest point on Maslow's hierarchy, but a huge step in Daniel's recovery. It signified that he was no longer ill enough to be cooped up in the infirmary, but not yet strong enough to go home on his own. A halfway house. A purgatory between solace and perdition.

The door to the room opened, and Janet walked out, almost running into Sam. "Oh, hi, Sam. I was just checking in on Daniel."

"How is he?" Sam asked, glancing into the room.

"I'm not sure. I removed the trach today, so that should make a difference, but..." Janet took Sam by the arm and led her away from the door. "I need to make some decisions about his care. I think it's time we consulted Mental Health, and I think I should be doing that now."

"He's not going to like that," Sam said.

"He doesn't have a choice."

Sam could only hold Janet's tired focus, knowing her decision was based on Janet's observations of Daniel from the perspective of a physician, not a friend. "Does he know?"

"I think so. When I ask him how he's doing with all the changes, he looks away and just...I don't know, sort of drifts," Janet said.

"Yeah, I've seen that."

"Look, I have a mound of paperwork. I'll let you go," Janet said. She patted Sam's elbow and walked away. Sam stepped to Daniel's gray door, rapped on it, and popped her head inside.

"Hey, Daniel," she said, smiling.

Daniel stormed up out of his chair when she entered. "Sam."

"You don't have to get up. In fact, why'd ya get up?" she asked, looking at him askance.

"I...I..." Daniel stammered and then sat back down. "I don't..."

"It's okay." Sam sat next to him and placed a small wax bag in front of him. "Here. I smuggled them in."

"Cookies."

"Yeah."

"You...you're ...trying to fat me," Daniel said, then shook his head and tried again, "...fatten me."

"Kind of," Sam admitted.

"Thank you," he said, in his still weak, gravelly voice. He cleared his throat and pushed the cookies aside. "I...I..." he began and decided just to plow forward, forget about trying to find correct verb phrase, "...eat them, uh, later."

"Okay," she said. Her eyes caught the sight of the fresh bandage on his neck, the place where the trach had just hours ago peeked out. With a sigh, she realized he was in for a new scar. Just another memento of this horrific event.

And when she paused a moment just to look at him, she wondered if he was aware of the healed gash that snuck into his mouth from his cheek. She wondered with a roiling stomach how his nose came to have a subtle angle in it, tweaking it over to the side. She wondered if, when he looked, he knew how the wounds came to be on his wrists. He didn't hide them, nor did he mention them. She wondered...

Daniel fingered a small circular piece of paper between his fingers, ragged around the edges, worn soft from manipulation. Daniel's eyes, dark in the subdued light, never left the scrap of paper in his hands. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you... um, do you...remember ..."

"What, Daniel? Do I remember what?"

"Your cat."

Sam lifted her eyebrows and blinked. "My cat? Schrodinger?"

Daniel nodded.

"Yeah."

"Tell me w-why...uh, Schrodinger."

"Why did I name him that?" she asked. Daniel nodded. "For Schrodinger's Cat. You know, the explanation for quantum physics—how a cat in a box can be both dead and alive at the same time. I thought it was kind of...well, at the time I thought it was pretty original. Turns out its a physicist's first choice for cat names."

"Lots of them?"

"Oh, yeah. Kind of embarrassing," she said, rubbing the red from her cheeks. "Why? What's the sudden interest in my cat?"

Daniel pressed the small circle into his palm and closed both hands around it. "How is the cat both?"

Sam pulled her brow down low and searched his face for any clue as to why they were discussing quantum physics. "Well, it's just a theory—an oversimplification of an explanation on how atoms react, really. See, when a cat is in a closed box, until it is observed, it can be both alive and dead at the same time. Now, when we open up that box, the cat can only be one or the other. Therefore, using this theory, when we observe an atom, we can make measurements which way it is moving. It's the Theory of Complementarity set up by the Copenhagen Interpretation that said..."

"The atom...does it...know?" Daniel asked, touching his finger to the center of the paper circle.

"Does it know what?"

"Which way it...it's moving."

Sam was stymied, her thoughts fractured in a thousand disparate directions. What a strange conversation, she thought. In milliseconds, between coming up with an answer and finding the words to easily explain it, she also tried to pin down a reason for Daniel asking. "Well, the atom doesn't exactly know where it is or where it is going. I mean, if it knew where it was, it wouldn't know where it was going at all. See, if it knows where it is going, then, it doesn't have a clue about where it is. What I'm trying to say is quantum entities can't exactly be pinned down to a specific location, and there's always going to be some uncertainty about where they are going. Does this make sense at all?"

Daniel's head shifted from side to side. "Um, yes. A little."

"Daniel, why do you ask?"

Daniel closed his hands around the thin scrap of paper. He became silent and introspective, changing her word to useable images. Images of stillness, of silence, of closed compartments and freedom from cognitive servitude.

"Daniel?" Sam whispered, touching his joined hands.

"I understand. Now."

"Then help me understand," she said, forcing her fingers between his two hands. "Help me understand what happened to you."

The look of pain that crossed his face touched Sam in a way she thought years in the military had excoriated from her soul. He opened his hands slightly, allowing her in further, screwed his lips up in a tight pucker and shook his head. He dropped his chin to his chest and for a brief moment, neither drew in breath nor let out the changed air.

Sam laid her other hand on his arm and leaned closer to him. "Daniel. Please talk to me."

When his eyes came up, the sadness filling them seemed to spill out into the small room, pulling in the already pressing walls, dampening the already dimmed lights. "Why, Sam? Would...would it be easy...easier to know?"

"It would be easier if I could just understand."

Daniel looked deeply into her eyes, imploring her with his sorrow. "If I knew, would tell you. But, I...don't know. I don't want to know. Please, Sam. Don't make...don't make me choose."

"Choose what, Daniel?"

Daniel pulled his hands into his lap and closed his eyes. "I—I'm tired."

And just like that, her window to him was closed. Just like that, she missed her opportunity to gather him up and carry him away from his own torment.

"Okay," she whispered. Sam stood up and walked toward the door. She tapped the handle and just as quickly turned back to Daniel. "May I..." she asked, holding out her hands.

Daniel looked up at her with tense, anxious eyes, dark and swollen underneath. When he didn't make an effort to tell her not to, Sam slowly wrapped her arms around his shoulders and tucked her face into his neck.

"I'm sorry it took so long to find you, Daniel," she wept, shocked by the suddenness of her own tears. In her arms, Daniel was rigid, trembling to a small yet frightening degree. "We tried so hard to find you, but...I'm so sorry."

When he couldn't stand the contact anymore, Daniel wriggled away from her, hoping she wouldn't be offended by his need to get away, but he knew if he let her arms encircle him any longer he'd be beyond his already tenuous control of his emotions.

Sam uncoiled her arms and wiped her nose. She slid her hands into her back pockets and sniffed. "I'm sorry. I guess I needed that more than you, huh?"

Daniel's eyes fluttered, but he remained silent.

She gave him one last forlorn smile and said, "Sleep well, Daniel," before leaving his quarters.

Daniel heard the door click and then he rushed to his feet, rubbing his arms and shoulders through the heavy cotton sweater, reworking the signals his nerve endings sent to his brain, hoping that by scrubbing his skin he could fool his mind into thinking that there hadn't been arms around him; that no one had just touched him; that his body wasn't pinned down, held against his will. He scrubbed and abraded his skin with his palms and his nails until he ached and his skin seared.

Until he no longer could feel anything but pain.

He had the terrifying sensation of utter paralysis but acute sensory perception. One hundred scratching and clawing hands touched him, tore him open, sliced through his body. His cries stuck in his throat—stuffed down with the rest in suffocation. And when the pain became unbearable, he awoke.

Sitting on the edge of his bed, his linens twisted and damp with sweat, Daniel held his head in his hands and hunched over his knees, rocking and contracting into a trembling coil of fear. From deep within him, the poison in his soul rumbled, and Daniel scrambled toward the garbage can, hoping to make it before he became sick.

Panting and heaving over the receptacle, Daniel couldn't tell if his tears were from the vomiting or his consuming terror, this memory that bubbled up in his mind at night, bursting with frenzied images and horrific acts.

And he was always the center, immobilized, unable to move.

Daniel vomited long past the point of there being anything left in his burning gut. When at last he could feel his stomach calming, he slumped back onto his bony hipbones and propped himself up against the cold concrete wall in the darkened privacy of his quarters. He pulled his knees up and wept, and while he wept, the lingering remains of the dream electrified his frayed and tattered nerve endings, pinched into his most tender flesh.

Without even realizing it, Daniel began to list and roll to the floor, where he curled himself into a timorous mass. There, his arms wrapped protectively around his waist, he pulled in on himself and began to mute the screams that roared in his ears, to diminish the burning in his body, to forget.

He doubled over his thoughts, kneaded away the memory until there was nothing. Until it was silent once again, and nothing could touch the beast.

Until he was both dead and alive.

It wasn't the meeting he wanted to have, but nonetheless, Jack showed up at the appointed time to have a chat with the general, Doc and the new chief of Mental Health. They had told him the doctor's name, but Jack didn't even let it sink in. Didn't matter.

He puffed up his most petulant self and walked into the meeting, a few minutes late, just enough time to show his disinterest.

"Colonel O'Neill," General Hammond said. "Glad you could make it."

"You kidding? Wouldn't miss this for the world," Jack said, taking his seat. A woman sat in front of him—mid 50's, ramrod straight posture and slicked back chestnut hair in a bun that Jack thought was probably torqued three turns too tight. "I bet you're that new doc from Mental Health. Jack O'Neill," he said, reaching across the table.

"Doctor Abigail Sebastian," she said, taking off her glasses before accepting the hand.

"Heard you're the big cheese over at the nut house," Jack said, sitting back down. Doctor Sebastian was not amused. "Whatever happened to good ol' Doc MacKenzie? Gosh, I'm gonna miss him."

"Doctor MacKenzie has retired and is in private practice," Doctor Sebastian said.

"Lucky civvies, getting a cracker-jack like MacKenzie," Jack said.

"Doctor Sebastian is here to consult on Doctor Jackson," General Hammond said, putting an end to Jack's insistence to show his disrespect for her profession.

Jack took a deep breath, keeping his eye on Doctor Sebastian, and then with a flourish, let it all out in one big whoosh. "Why?"

"Surely, Colonel, you realize Doctor Jackson has been through a traumatic event," she said, weaving her fingers together on the table.

"Yeah, I realize he's banged up, but I think he's coming around," Jack said. "Besides, none of us are really sure what happened to him, including, I might add, you."

Doctor Sebastian opened a manila folder and said, "The reports I'm receiving..."

"Which are grossly lacking in facts," Jack added.

"Yes, well, be that as it may, the reports I'm receiving are that he is withdrawn, emotionally detached, uncommunicative..."

"He had his trachea lined!" Jack cried. "Give him a break!"

"Yes, but..."

"And really, what you're describing sounds like me before I've had my morning coffee."

"Colonel O'Neill..." Doctor Sebastian said, pulling a different file from the stack in front of her. "Yes, I've read your file."

"I bet you wished you'd known me when you were writing your thesis, huh?" Jack said. Doctor Sebastian glared at him.

"Colonel O'Neill, I'd appreciate your cooperation in this matter," General Hammond warned.

"Look, you asked me to this meeting to discuss Daniel. I'm his CO, and my perspective is he's just tired," Jack said, turning first one way and then back in his chair. "You said it yourself—he's been through a hell of an ordeal. I think if we just let him rest for a while, get his bearings, he'll be fine."

"Fine?" Doctor Sebastian reiterated.

"Yes. Fine."

"Irritable heart," she said, closing the file.

"How's that?"

"That's how Civil War surgeons used to describe it," she said, sitting back and holding her pen between her hands. Two hazel eyes set under thin lids offered a flat-eyed stare. "Those soldiers who came back from Gettysburg and Shiloh, Andersonville with symptoms of depression, sleep disorders, chest pains, thoughts of or attempts at suicide—they were diagnosed with 'Irritable Heart.' Oh, later on they changed the name. During the World Wars it became 'Shell Shock,' or 'Combat Fatigue.' Tell me, Colonel, is George Patton one of your personal heroes?" she asked, tired of her profession being offensively passed off by idiotic lay people.

Jack leaned forward and pressed his hands against the table. He set his cold eyes on her like a laser beam. "As a matter of fact..."

"I guessed as much." Doctor Sebastian, a full ranking colonel herself, pulled her dress blue uniform jacket down over her waist. "Maybe we could just bleed him, get all those bad spirits out of his system. What do you think, Colonel? Do you think that will help?"

"Isn't that what you're planning on doing?"

"Colonel O'Neill, Doctor Sebastian, I believe we're here to discuss Doctor Jackson," General Hammond reminded them.

"Yes, sir. I apologize, sir," she said. Doctor Sebastian regained her composure and stared at Jack with lifeless eyes. "There's been some change in thinking in the last thirty years. Now it's called PTSD—Post Traumatic Stress Disorder."

"I know what it is," Jack snapped.

"Good, then I won't have to go through the laundry list of symptoms with you."

"Look, General, this is ridiculous," Jack said.

"I think we need to listen to Doctor Sebastian, Colonel," General Hammond said, trying to give Jack some leeway.

"I think I'd know if he were stressed," Jack said. "He's not. Tired, yes. Sorting through some things, possibly, but he's not crazy."

"Nobody said he's crazy, Colonel, and if you think I did, then perhaps you don't know what PTSD is at all," Doctor Sebastian said.

"I know what you want to do here," Jack started. He could feel his buttons all being pushed and he forced himself to keep it under control. "You want to take him to Mental Health, drug him up like they did the last time, until he really is crazy, and then you're going to stuff him away in a room for the rest of his life, or until the Air Force forgets about him. I'm here to tell you, I won't let that happen."

"Are you saying you would stand in the way of him getting medical treatment if he needs it?" Doctor Sebastian challenged.

"He doesn't need it," Jack reminded her, leaning across the table to accentuate his point.

"Is that your professional opinion?" she asked, hardly able to mask her dislike of the man.

"Yes, Doctor. It is," Jack hissed, narrowing his dark eyes to her.

Doctor Sebastian stood up, tossed the files into her attaché, and looked at Janet. "I don't have time for this, Janet. Have Doctor Jackson at my office at 1800 hours on Wednesday."

"I will, Doctor Sebastian," Janet said. "Thank you."

"I can tell you right now he doesn't want to talk to you," Jack said.

Doctor Sebastian ignored Jack and turned to General Hammond. "Sir, after I talk with Doctor Jackson, I'll report back to you what I believe—"

"General..." Jack interrupted, holding out a hand.

"—what I believe Doctor Jackson's treatment options to be," Doctor Sebastian said, and without so much as wavering an inch from her icy decorum, she turned to Jack, impaling him with her glare. "And so help me, Colonel O'Neill, if you get in the way of Doctor Jackson's treatments, I'll have you up on charges, sir."

"Will ya now?" Jack answered back.

"Oh, yes, sir. Count on it, Colonel."

For the first time in his Air Force career, Jack felt he had actually met his match in steely intractability.

"Thank you, Doctor," General Hammond said, using his voice like a crowbar between the two.

Janet stood up and said, "I'll see you out, Doctor."

Doctor Sebastian never acknowledged Jack after that, but Jack did wave brightly to her while she left.

"Nice woman," Jack said.

"Dammit, Jack..."

"Look, General, I'm not going to let this happen."

"You don't have a choice, Jack," the general said. "And I'd strongly advise you not to consider anything rash where Daniel Jackson is concerned."

"But, General..."

"Do I make myself clear, Colonel?"

"Yes, sir."

"Fine. Now, you'll excuse me while I go run this base," he said.

"Yes, sir," Jack said.

General Hammond signed the final document for the night and closed the folder on a very long day. He stepped out from behind his desk and peered into the briefing room—dark and empty. A brief few hours of reprieve before the cares of the universe crowded the room again. A few brief hours of silence.

General Hammond liked to visit his people at night, that way he didn't need to feel rushed to get back to his office, nor was there much gate activity to patrol. Rarely did he approve a night launch—didn't seem like there was any point to that, what, with planets on the dark side of the sun, or planets being in different solar systems, for that matter. What was day on Earth might be night on FL5-971, and vice versa. Why have his people lose sleep over the time change, time being relative and all?

Still there were those few times when other planets sent visitors to the SGC during the quiet of the night—night also being relative and all inside a mountain. It was during those times that General Hammond's Southern rules of decorum came rushing to the surface. What he often considered doing was sending out a widespread message throughout the universe—"Please respect our time. It's just rude to call on a person after 2100, people. Sincerely, General George Hammond, USAF."

Of course, he never did it. That in itself would be rude and probably a little on the high falutin' side, as his wife used to say. Being a soft-spoken Southern gentleman at heart, he'd rather graciously accept a visitor at 0200 rather than be thought of as high-falutin'.

Still, nights were quiet at the SGC. Most of the civilian contractors had headed home hours earlier, and the military personnel comprised only those necessary to keep the base on alert, protected and on guard. The rest were in their quarters or in the mess, playing cards or watching TV.

So it was the hushed hours of the evening that General Hammond chose when he wanted to visit one or two of his people in the infirmary, and the only person on his list was one Daniel Jackson.

From the moment he stepped into the dimly lit room, the general knew what the concern for the young man was all about.

Sitting in the middle of his bed, his knees drawn up, his arms propped on them, Daniel held his head in his hands and was crying.

General Hammond came to a dead halt just inside the room. Thirty-five years in the Air Force—Vietnam, Beirut, Iraq—had taught him that if a man was crying in a military environment, there had to be a good reason. He cleared his throat, hoping not to startle Daniel.

Rather than startle him, Daniel didn't even look up. He kept a relentless focus on the end of his bed, pressed his long fingers into his skull, and wept—mutely, with only the choking hitches of breath to fill the silence.

"Doctor Jackson? Is there something I can do for you?" the general asked, stepping to the side of Daniel's bed. Thirty-five years in the Air Force had taught him that if a man was so upset that he couldn't acknowledge the presence of a ranking officer, that man was in pain.

Daniel clasped his fists together and pressed their union to his trembling lips. Tears, heavy with consuming fear, saturated his face. Still, he stared at nothing; at an enemy only his eyes could see. Could feel.

"Daniel, how can I help you?" General Hammond asked, keeping his tone hushed. He reached out and soothed Daniel's shaking back. Thirty-five years in the Air Force had taught him that if a man was so distraught he couldn't speak, that man was in trouble.

From the looks of things, General Hammond decided Daniel was in trouble. Trouble, dark and foreboding.

"You go ahead and cry," the general said, wrapping one arm around Daniel's back, the other stroking Daniel's sweaty hair. He gathered the young man to himself and comforted him. "You go right ahead. I just bet there's a whole world of hurt inside, so you go ahead and cry all you want."

Daniel stared without sight while his body vibrated with spastic breaths and tremulous, bone-deep horrific dread. He could not feel the gentle hand wiping away his tears, nor could he hear the lull of the sympathetic voice acknowledging his pain.

He knew only images—frightening and confusing. Images that were more real than the large arms consoling him. Images peppered with violence, buckshot full of terrifying faces and scratching, tearing hands. Images so corporeal that his skin burned as if slapped; his bones throbbed as if crushed; his body screamed as if being torn in two, fiber by fiber.

General Hammond stroked Daniel's fevered brow, rubbed his shuddering arm and whispered, "Cry all you need, Daniel. I've got no where to go."

So Daniel wept and wasn't aware of a single tear. He wept and heard his own far away screams become suddenly silent, molesting his ears and his mind.

Daniel wept and doggedly, mournfully, silently repeated his one word mantra:

Why?

Jack played the moment with a breezy nonchalance. He strode into the mess with Daniel by his side and Teal'c and Sam following close behind, as if it weren't the first time in nearly a year that the whole of SG1 would be gathered for a meal.

"Daniel, you want me to get a tray for you?" Sam asked.

"He can get his own," Jack said, leading Daniel by the elbow to the mess line. Jack ignored Sam's look of obvious disapproval. He didn't care. It was obvious that Sam was coddling Daniel, and the last thing Daniel needed, according to Jack, was to be coddled. No, for the sake of Daniel, the team and for Jack, it was time to get back to normal, and that meant that Daniel had to start behaving like things were back to normal.

Daniel picked up the aqua blue tray from the stack and placed it on the rails. He didn't think about his next move, didn't think about the fact that the tray was slick with rinse water. He followed Jack, took whatever Jack took from the cold tables. Daniel filled his cup with whatever beverage Jack chose. He placed his silverware and plate and napkin on his tray in the same place as Jack did.

It was easier that way. Easier just to become a shadow.

No more decisions. No more thinking.

Just follow. Mimic. Blind and silent. Easy...

"Daniel?" Sam said, leaning into Daniel. She had watched him come to a stop after he placed his tray down on the table and Jack had left for a moment to talk with Colonel Mahaffery. Daniel stood, motionless and void.

"DanielJackson," Teal'c said, eyeing his friend from across the table. Teal'c glanced at Sam and was sure his own features mirrored the concern he saw in Sam's face. "Perhaps you would like to sit down, DanielJackson."

"Daniel? Sweetie?" Sam said, placing a hand on his back. She expected to feel him trembling. She expected to feel his skin moist with perspiration. But Daniel was perfectly calm, and the serenity scared her all the more. "Daniel, let's sit down."

His eyes wavered a moment. The subtlest shift in emotions crossed his face. A slight clicking in the back of his throat was heard as he exhaled. "Where's Jack?"

"I think he went over to talk with Mahaffery," Sam said, taking a seat, trying to guide Daniel down to his own. "Daniel, why don't you sit down? Okay?"

Daniel nodded and took a seat. Sam kept an eye on him, while Daniel kept an eye on Jack. Long, awkward, uncomfortable moments passed before Jack joined the team again.

"Just be glad you're not SG7, campers," Jack said, smirking. "Daniel, how ya doin'?"

"I'm fine," Daniel said, nodding to Jack, even attempting to smile.

"Good."

Sam wasn't as appeased, but she let Daniel's behavior go and chalked it up to nerves.

While they ate and talked, Daniel did what he was becoming very good at—acting casual.

He had reached way back into his memory to come up with the things he used to do when they sat in the mess hall. He had developed a list—purse your lips and nod; roll your eyes at Jack; stir your coffee with the handle of your fork; push food around your plate; push your glasses up from time to time; stare at the center of the table. He cycled through these traits, all the while trying to keep up with the conversation.

It seemed to be working just fine. There was an ease in the room.

Well, at least Daniel felt that Teal'c and Sam and Jack were at ease. At least they weren't constantly glancing at him, checking to see if he needed anything. At the very least they weren't slowing down their conversation, asking Daniel if he caught all that. He was catching most of it—that is when he wasn't diligently pretending to look casual and relaxed.

Sitting in the mess hall, Jack was secretly very pleased with himself that he had shaken Daniel out of his stupor just at the right time. He knew what Daniel needed—he needed to snap out of whatever was in his head—that's all. Sometimes the firm approach worked wonders. Obviously, this had been one of those times.

Yeah, it had been two weeks since Jack told Daniel to get his act together, and Daniel had done just that. He was speaking with more fluidity, able to carry on fairly well in a conversation, and was even joining them for their meals. It was all coming together.

Jack knew a thing or two about being away from home in a nasty situation. That's why he decided to let things go with Daniel, if only for a while. If Daniel wanted to talk about it, he would. Otherwise Jack thought it was best to let Daniel work it out. Hell, Jack had been able to work out his own demons. Daniel would, too.

Still there were all those unanswered questions. They knew nothing more about his imprisonment than what the medical records showed—and even that was sketchy. Whenever questioned about it, Daniel could only come up with facts: they had a healing device—a large ring—that encapsulated the patient; yes, he did eat; no, he didn't know what it was; he spent most of his time in service to one person but he didn't know that person's name; no, he didn't know what he did for him.

What do you mean, you don't know, Doctor Jackson?

What did he do for him? That was the stumper. When it came down to what Daniel had been doing the last seven or eight months of his captivity, he simply couldn't recall.

They healed him. That was all he could remember.

That was good enough for Jack. Sam wasn't as satisfied.

She had heard Jack brag to General Hammond and Janet that he thought Daniel was making loads of improvement, but Sam didn't think so. She and Daniel had always had an intuitive connection. A kind of bond that flew under the radar. Her gut told her that Daniel was trying too hard. She thought Daniel was putting on a good show. It was just too good to be true.

So, even though she made a concerted effort not to show it anymore, she still worried about him. And she wasn't even sure why. She wanted to believe what the colonel had said, that maybe it wasn't all that bad, aside from the obvious physical neglect to his body. Maybe it had been eight long months of nothing.

Nothing.

The ragged, waxy scars etched on Daniel's wrists spoke otherwise.

"I'm gonna get more coffee," Jack said, rising from his seat. "Anyone want anything else?"

"No. Thank you, sir," Sam said.

"I am fine," Teal'c said.

Daniel remained quiet.

"Daniel? You want anything?" Jack asked.

"No."

"How about a carton of juice?"

"Okay."

Jack wiped his face with his napkin and sauntered off to the food lines.

"Daniel," Sam said, "did you want juice?"

"No." He never looked up from his plate, only moved the peas from one side to the other.

"Then why did you tell Colonel O'Neill you wanted some?" she asked.

"He said he'd get some for me," Daniel told her, his forehead becoming lined.

"Daniel, you...you don't have to do everything that the colonel says," she reminded him. "Not when it comes to food."

"I know."

"Do you?" she asked. She touched his arm. "Daniel, why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"You are following Colonel O'Neill's word religiously," Teal'c said, entering the conversation.

Daniel shook his head.

"You are," Sam agreed. "What's going on?"

"Nothing."

"Daniel, are you...are you afraid of the colonel?" she asked, hoping she was wrong.

Daniel pulled his arm from her hand. "No."

"Then what is it?" she asked. "Why are you capitulating to him? It's not like you."

Daniel's words came so softly, neither Teal'c nor Sam were able to fully hear them. As if on cue, they each leaned toward him.

"What?" Sam asked.

Daniel kept his eyes lowered but turned a degree so that only Sam could hear. "I have to."

A chill swept over her. "Why?"

"It's what I want."

"Here ya go, Daniel," Jack said, placing a carton of orange juice in front of him. Daniel opened it and drank from it while Sam looked on aghast.

"So, where were we?" Jack asked, stirring his coffee with the handle of his fork.

Again it stared at the cold, marble floor and the feet so close to its body. Boots, hard and laced, inches away from its face.

The silent condemnations of its worthless existence buffeted the beast, made more clear by a kick, a slap, a misuse of its body.

And the beast understood. The beast absolutely heard each and every word.

"Why can't you follow orders?"

Because I am stubborn.

"Why don't you do what you're told?"

Because I am undisciplined.

Missing sounds were replaced with oft-heard words, and when the beast looked into its master's dark eyes, it understood.

"I swear, Daniel, sometimes I think you do it just to be a pain in my ass," the master said with deserved ire, kicking the beast to the floor.

"I'm sorry."

"Oh, you're sorry, are ya?"

"I'm sorry, Jack," pleaded the beast. "Please, I'll try to follow directions better. Please. Please, don't hurt me."

"You don't understand, Daniel," the master said, spinning the beast around, throwing it against the wall. "It's for your own good."

Ten fingers, each with three joints, scratched the wall. "Please, Jack."

"Don't talk," the master ordered, smacking the beast's head into the rough masonry. "I've always said you talk too much. Now you know the price for opening your mouth."

With a painful thud, Daniel hit the floor of his quarters, panting and gasping for air. He was on his feet before he even knew to adjust to the new balance. Stumbling through the room, his chest burning to take in more air than he could draw, Daniel found the wastebasket and retched.

And retched again.

Drenched in cold sweat, his clothes spattered with vomit, Daniel stood up straight, bound his trembling arms around his head and cried.

"No. No. No. No. No. No. No..."

Daniel swayed back and forth until he became off-balanced and began to pace. He paced and marched, and with each pass the pattern became tighter.

Striding around the circular path, Daniel began to feel the split, the segregation of before and after, the bisection of his physical and emotional memories, of himself and the other one.

Faster and faster, his bare feet slapping the ground in a contrapuntal reply to his racing heart, Daniel spun. Gravity and centrifugal force worked in concert, a dynamic tension, the physics of psychosis, until he was then and now, a body and a mind, a thing and a person.

And then he stopped.

And then it was done.

"Him and me and one in the same."

He closed his eyes, let his head roll back, and collapsed.

"Yeah, well, I think so, too," Jack said, swiveling in his chair.

"Sir, the other thing we should think about is that the Tok'ra base is a direct link to Goa'uld information. Sending Teal'c along might be a gesture of goodwill," Sam said.

"Goodwill for whom?" Jack asked, pinching his eyes down.

"I believe it would be advantageous for us all if I were to join the search," Teal'c said.

Daniel sat still, touching his fingertips to his chin, creasing his brow to show his level of concentration.

Jack drummed his fingers against his the table. "All I'm saying is I'd rather not farm out Teal'c here if what we get in return is squat."

Sam rose from her chair and stepped to the side table. She filled her cup with coffee and nodded that she understood the colonel's concern. Cradling the cup in her hands, Sam leaned against the table and tried to persuade the colonel to see her point. "Sir, because Teal'c will be an integral part of the scouting party, any information gathered will go directly through him. I don't see how we can miss."

"That's what I find most intriguing about you, Carter," Jack said, turning his chair out to face her. "You have an endless supply of optimism where the Tok'ra are concerned." He patted his stomach, adding. "Speaking of supplies, I'm hungry."

Teal'c was the first to question the connection. "How does Major Carter's optimism remind you that you are hungry?"

"It has more to do with this," Jack said, pointing to his stomach. "You hear that? My stomach is making the connection between thirteen hundred hours and emptiness. There! You hear that one?"

Daniel watched Jack's hands fly to his abdomen, gesticulate toward his body. The hands gestured that something was to be taken care of immediately. Daniel watched the communication of the hands, the abrupt message, and began to lose sight of anything else.

"Look, I think we should continue this discussion after lunch. There it is again!" Jack stated, pointing to his rumbling stomach.

The beast understood.

"That's fine, sir. We can discuss it further in the mess," Sam said, placing her coffee cup on the side table.

The beast slipped out of its chair and knelt before its master.

"Daniel? You lose something?" Jack asked. He shared an uneasy look with Sam.

The beast kept its eyes lowered while it reached for the enclosure.

"Daniel, what the hell are you doing?" Jack asked, batting Daniel's hands from his belt.

The beast worked more quickly than before, knowing the master was becoming impatient with the beast's clumsy hands.

"Stop it!" Jack yelled, grasping Daniel's wrists. Jack rocketed out of his seat and pushed his chair aside with force. He shook Daniel by the arms. "What the hell's gotten into you?"

The beast's eyes shot to Jack's and it began to tremble. Its mouth opened, but there was no air behind the screams.

"Daniel?" Jack said, still holding the rigid arms.

The beast began to scramble away from Jack, tried to tear its arms out of the master's grasp.

"Calm down, Daniel," Jack said. He released Daniel to show him he meant no harm. Jack stepped closer to the cowering man, but the horror of confusion in Daniel's eyes changed to stark, undisguised fear and his arms began to flail and his feet began to kick.

Sam rushed to the phone to call Janet.

Teal'c remained behind Jack, fearing that his presence would only aggravate Daniel's already frenzied behavior.

Faceless bodies and scrawling hands surrounded the beast, penned it in against the unforgiving wall. Turning to the concrete barrier, the beast clawed its way to the corner where a lamp caught its attention. The beast snatched it and threw it at the faces, at the bestial disciplinarians.

The lamp grazed Jack's shoulder. "Dammit, Daniel!"

"Daniel, we're not going to hurt you," Sam tried to assure him. She watched his manic, hazed focus dart over her face. His hair fell in long strands across his eyes.

"No one's gonna hurt you, Daniel," Jack said, hands upraised, keeping his distance.

The beast wouldn't be taken, not again. It wouldn't let them touch its burning body one more time. It would rather die first. It would rather kill first. The beast tore a picture from the wall and pitched it at them.

"Jesus!" Jack hissed, ducking.

The beast's chest bucked with frantic gasps of air. Eyes fierce with self-preservation bore into the gathering surrounding it. The beast bit down hard on its terror, unwilling to show just how scared it was anymore.

Jack stepped closer, knowing there was nothing else for Daniel to throw at him. "Settle down, Daniel."

The beast held out its hands, shaking and splayed. It pressed itself into the corner, desperate to fend off another attack.

"Everything's gonna be all right," Jack said. He stepped directly in front of Daniel; let Daniel's hands, trembling in resistance, press against him. "I'm not gonna hurt you."

The beast shook its head and closed its eyes against the imminent attack.

With great care, Jack touched Daniel's arms. "It's all right. Calm down."

The beast shook his head over and over and over, and began to see Jack.

"It's over," Jack told him, stroking Daniel's quavering arm.

"What's happening?" Janet asked, rushing into the room.

Jack held up a hand to her, but never took his eyes off Daniel. "It's all right. We're all right."

Daniel quaked, trembled, strung out by the torrent of maddening memories.

"Talk to me," Jack said, speaking only above a whisper. Janet looked on with apprehension, as did Sam and Teal'c.

Daniel's breath came in stuttering riffs as he whispered back, "What's happening to me?"

Jack touched his face. "I don't know, Danny."

"Why would I do that?" he asked, oblivious of the three other worried people in the room. "That's not me. That's not...I'm not...why..."

"It's okay."

"I don't understand."

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry, Jack. I didn't...I didn't know w-what..."

"Daniel, don't worry about it."

Tears began to slide across his flushed cheeks. Daniel shook his head. "I don't...I don't understand."

"I know. Neither do I, but it's okay," Jack reassured him.

Daniel took some comfort in his words, and then a renewed sense of shame washed over him—a realized memory of kneeling before Jack, trying to loosen his pants. Daniel's mouth slung open in horror. He covered his face and wept. "Oh, God. Please don't look at...me."

"Daniel, I'm not concerned about it. You have nothing to worry about," Jack said, trying to make eye contact with the tottering man. He reached behind Daniel's neck to give him a comforting nuzzle, but the touch made Daniel flinch. "I'm sorry. I won't do that again."

"Oh, God," Daniel cried. Frayed and shredded nerves gave way, sending his weakened body sliding down the wall. "Oh, God..."

Jack crouched in front of him, ready to draw him in, hold him back—whatever Daniel needed, Jack was ready. In that moment of waiting for his next cue, Jack began to see the whole picture. He began to see that Daniel wasn't just drained, that Daniel wasn't a little confused. Daniel was destroyed, and nothing Jack could do would change that. He began to wonder if the price for maintaining some semblance of sanity these last few weeks had cost Daniel more than he ever realized. More than Jack had realized. Watching this broken and disheveled man, arms and legs twisted in a knot of despair, Jack began to understand.

"Daniel..."

"Why did you...find me?" came the forlorn question, hushed behind shielding hands and thick with sorrow.

"What? Where?"

"Back there."

Jack lowered his face, humiliated by his own recent behavior. "You're a member of my team. No one gets left behind."

"You could...could have left me," he said, his words thin and brittle like splinters of glass falling from a broken window. "It would...have been easier."

"Daniel, what are you talking about?" Jack asked.

A tortured face, splotchy and wet with tears, rose from the barricade of shaking hands. "They would have killed me."

"But they didn't," Jack said. "You're home now."

"I wanted...them to," he said, staring at Jack. With an awful nod, Daniel whispered, "I wanted to...die."

"You don't mean that," Jack said. The words blistered his soul. "No, Daniel. You don't..."

"They would...would have killed me...eventually," he cried, bobbing his head up and down, undone by the memory. "Would been...have been easier that way."

The words hung suspended in the room, heavy and cumbersome with burden. Distant sounds of sniffling, of people containing their own grief were muffled by the exchange between the two men—one desperate to hang on; one too tired to care.

The room became a sacred confessional between friends, not a place of observation. Janet whispered a word to Sam and then left the room. Sam touched Teal'c on the arm, and both she and the Jaffa followed Janet out so that the awful moment wouldn't have to be witnessed by anyone other than the two men inextricably bound to its force.

"God, Daniel," Jack uttered, reaching a hand out to center them both.

"Don't!" Daniel cried, scratching his way further from Jack. "Don't...please, don't...touch me."

"Okay," Jack whispered. "Sorry. I won't. I promise. I won't."

A hand waving without reason before his face; a face pinched and tight with tears; tears unbridled and unrelenting; a wail of grief so pungent it bounced without mercy against the walls. Daniel contorted himself into a braid of writhing and defensive limbs and submitted to his pain.

Submitted to his unfathomable shame.

Sitting next to Daniel's bed, back once again in the shelter of the infirmary where the only sound was the ubiquitous buzzing of fluorescent lamps, Jack was whipsawed between red anger at the people who had destroyed Daniel and blunt despair that he was powerless to change it.

It seemed so simple: act normal and you will be normal. Once you're in a nosedive, pull up. Easy. It had worked for Jack in the past—forget and go on. It should have worked for Daniel. If there was one thing Jack prided himself on, it was the ability to shoulder hardship and muddle on.

Eight months living in sordid, brutal conditions precluded muddling on, he supposed.

They had 'rescued' Daniel. They had plucked him from his oppressors and brought him home using their well-honed, brazen skills. That's where the story ends.

Usually. It ends with the missing person saying, "Thanks, guys. Sure missed you." A pat on the back, one last flinch to shake off residual trauma, and life is status quo.

That's the way it was supposed to be.

Even in the tense moments back on R43-972 when Denjo Blont handed over Daniel to them, Jack sensed there was more to the story, but he closed the book, denied his intuition, and might have, possibly denied Daniel the chance to heal. In those moments, Jack's main concern was getting Daniel through the gate, back to the SGC where he belonged, where Jack could rip into him—or better yet—freeze him out for not following orders. Once again, Daniel wasn't about to go along with the plan.

Two months later, a barely communicative shell of a man lay huddled in a starched white bed with a storm of memories battering away at his soul.

They had brought him home. That much was true. But what had they returned?

"Colonel?" Janet said, touching Jack's shoulder.

"Um, I was just thinking," Jack said, clearing his throat. "This Doctor Sebastian—she's good, right?"

"Yes, she is, Colonel," Janet said.

Jack nodded. "I won't get in the way. Let's get him some help. I was...I won't get in the way."

Janet raised her chin, called up all her stubborn pride and quelled her burgeoning emotions. "I'm glad to hear that, sir."

Jack lowered his eyes and watched his fingers twine together. "They, uh, they used him hard, didn't they?"

Janet squinted her eyes. "Yes, sir, they did."

Jack nodded again, not wanting to actually hear the word, appreciative that Janet didn't use it. Jack knew what happened to Daniel. But he didn't want to hear it. He didn't think he could stand the sound of it. Didn't know how Daniel had been able to live with it for so many months.

"This is only the beginning, you know," Janet mentioned, in a voice of vacillating solicitude. "You should be prepared for the fact that...that this won't be easy."

"I know," Jack said.

"We might lose him after all," she said.

Jack nodded and chose to concentrate on the two pale hands that peeked out of the white sheet next to the white pillow. A few inches higher, on that same pillow, was the face of humiliation and fear, but Jack chose to focus only on the hands. Hands that he was sure had been brutalized fighting off the attacks. Hands that he was sure had defended a body being ripped and torn, a body that had been used in ways unthinkable and unholy.

Jack looked away, unable to look at the hands that had done what Jack was supposed to do—defend Daniel, cover him, keep him safe. Jack looked away from his own failure.

"Let's get him some help," he whispered.

"I'll make the call," Janet said. She squeezed Jack's shoulder and walked away.

They set out to bring Daniel Jackson home. They searched from one end of the Stargate system to the other to bring home their teammate and friend. But who did they actually bring back?

An anthropologist, a linguist who couldn't make sense of a foreign, alien culture; who couldn't speak the alien language; whose own language came stubbornly once home.

Whose only wish was to die.

With miasmal bitterness, Jack wondered if he hadn't done Daniel a great disservice bringing him home. And then he chastised himself for the dark thought.

No, Daniel was home. Daniel was broken and ruined and possibly destroyed, and he was home, dammit, and that had to count for something.

It had to count.

No one gets left behind.

But just what had they been able to return?

A voice as fragile as salt crystals said, "Jack."

Jack's head popped up surprised to hear Daniel's voice, breathy and unsure. "Yeah. How ya doin'?"

Daniel's eyes fluttered for a moment, still heavy from the sedation. "I have to go to...um..."

"Yeah," Jack said, hopping off the stool. He lowered the rails on Daniel's bed and offered a hand. Daniel ignored the proffered hand and pushed an elbow into the bed to prop himself up. "Ya all right?"

"I'm a little...um, dizzy," he said, pressing the heel of his hand to his eye. "I'll be fine." Daniel slid off the bed and with stumbling steps, padded to the small bathroom.

Jack waited for Daniel to return, and while he waited his nerves danced beneath his skin. He knew their conversation wouldn't be one for the memory books.

And while he waited, he realized just how much he had missed Daniel all those months. Missed that stubborn, willful, pain in the ass, remarkable man Daniel had been.

With onerous sadness, Jack wondered if he would ever see that man again, or if this hollow, shelled-out version was all that was left of his friend.

When at last the toilet flushed and the sound of the faucet ceased, when finally Daniel returned to the room, Jack had steeled himself to the thought that Daniel's fate was in the hands of Doctor Sebastian, and the only thing left to do was convince Daniel of the same.

"I, uh," Daniel muttered, interrupting Jack's thoughts, taking scattered steps within the small area, "I don't want...I'm tired of..."

"What, Daniel? What do you want?" Jack asked. "It's okay. I want to hear what you want."

"I want to sit," he said, almost as if the words had broken over his lips before he could stop them. Jack rounded the corner of the bed and pulled up a chair for Daniel. "Thank you."

Jack brought a second chair into the small room, pushing his stool aside, and took a seat in front of Daniel. "How ya feeling?"

Daniel never looked up. He shrugged his shoulders, picked at his fingernail and bit his lower lip. "I'm fine," he said, convincing no one.

"Daniel," Jack said, "tell me. Just...you know, tell me what you need."

Daniel's vision played across the floor while he encapsulated one shivering hand inside the other. "I'm a little cold."

Jack leaped from the chair and grabbed a blanket, which he draped over Daniel's shoulders, seeking Daniel's approval first. "Better?"

Daniel nodded and pulled the blanket in closer.

"Daniel," Jack began, forcing himself to begin the awful conversation, "I met a doctor a couple days ago who thinks...no, she knows she can help you..."

Daniel shook his head.

"No, now, just hear me out," Jack said. "I met her. She's good. Doc knows her. She can help you, Daniel. Hell, she threatened to bring me up on charges if I got in her way, so you gotta respect that." Jack smiled, but the feigned expression never reached past his mouth. "I thought she was just being reactionary. I might have, possibly been wrong about that. Maybe. The thing is, even though she pissed me off, I think she knows what she's doing, and I think you should talk with her."

There was a long pause while Daniel considered his reply. Jack listened to Daniel's breathing become ragged, stop and hold, and then, in a surrender of air and spirit, Daniel whispered, "I can't."

"Yes, you can."

When Daniel's eyes met Jack's, gone was the frenzied consternation of hours earlier. It was replaced by a frailty—sad and lamentable. "I know it's my fault, Jack. I'm sorry."

"What's your fault?"

"I should have...listened to you," Daniel said. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. "I didn't...I didn't follow directions. Maybe...it'll be okay if I just..."

"If you just what?"

"I think if I...maybe if you give me a few more days, I can...I will be able to think more logically, you know?" he said, grinding his teeth, lower over upper. "I could just focus and not...not be so confused all the time. I'll...I'd be okay." And then he nodded to Jack, hoping his friend would take his word for it.

Jack bobbed his head to the side. "Why don't we let this Doctor Sebastian help you focus?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

"She'll want to look in the box," he said, his voice drifting away on the last word.

"'Scuse me?"

Daniel pinched his eyes down to slits, battling with the fear inside. "I'm okay as long as I...um, can be him and me," he tried to explain. "I won't if she open...opens the box."

"Daniel..."

"I think...you just give me a few more days, just a couple, I'll be...fine...okay?" he said, grasping at a shredded sense of certainty. "I'll do what you say. Just, please, Jack..."

"Daniel, this isn't about doing what I say. I was wrong about that," Jack said. "It's about..." And what it was about was what they had all wished would go away. It was about the sight none of them wanted to discuss, but each of them felt a share of its onus. "It's about this." Jack reached over and took Daniel's chilled hands in his, turning them out to expose the waxy, raised scars.

Daniel stared at the markings because, even though they were grotesque—an iconography of suffering—they were far easier to display than what was in his mind.

"What happened?" Jack asked, thumbing the taut cicatrices.

"I'm okay with it, Jack," Daniel told him. "It doesn't bother me. See, I'm focusing better already." Daniel smiled, but it was empty and lacking in any conviction. "I don't...I don't want to talk to Doctor Sebastian. I'm fine."

Jack gave the scars one last look and pressed Daniel's hands together, his own hands wrapped around the union. "Danny, listen to me. I wish I...I wish I could change all this, but I can't. Doctor Sebastian—she's good people. She'll help you."

"No."

"I won't let them hurt you," Jack promised, grasping tighter to the cold hands that had fought so hard. "I won't let anything else happen to you. Trust me, okay?"

Daniel's eyes slid away from Jack, away from another empty promise of trust. He nodded and whispered okay, but once again he found that the walls he was carefully constructing held no strength, and all his defenses were crumbling yet again, exposing him to more danger, more pain.

The box would simply have to remain closed.

"Okay, Jack," he said, and pulled himself in deeper, farther into the darkest corner he could find, and closed the lid, he hoped forever.

Daniel had spent most of the drive in complete silence, looking out the window without really seeing anything. Familiar landmarks—mountains, domed churches, university buildings, the angular peaks of the Air Force Academy Chapel—passed before his eyes without as much as a second look.

Jack flashed his badge to the cadet at the gate of the Mental Health facility and drove into the parking lot. A dozen times he had turned to Daniel from the SGC to the hospital; a dozen times he had turned away, not knowing what to say.

Jack pulled into a parking spot close to the front doors and put the truck in park. If Daniel at that point had said, "Let's get out of here," Jack would have slammed the truck in reverse and crashed through any barrier.

But Daniel didn't say a word, so Jack turned the key in the ignition and cut the engine.

"You ready?" Jack asked, unbuckling his seatbelt.

"Yes."

Jack grabbed the handle on his door and pushed it open.

"No."

Jack pulled the door shut. "Okay."

Daniel stared at the doors leading into the facility. "Now I know how Nick felt."

"Your grandfather?"

"He checked himself into the hospital because he thought he was losing...losing his mind," Daniel said, his voice thin as hope. "It never occurred to me how scared he must have been."

Jack turned in his seat to look at Daniel, this pale, husk of a man whose eyes barely glimmered. Daniel's profile was in sharp relief against the gray background outside his window, and in those sunken features, Jack could see the pain, the extraordinary weariness in Daniel's spirit that no amount of sleep could touch. Jack wanted to say he was sorry for it all. Sorry for everything, but he knew his apology would be useless and vacuous, and really, who was it meant to help?

The doors to the facility swung open, and two cadets strode through, crisp and sure in their blue uniforms and caps. Daniel watched them with envy for their youth and naïveté, and then he had an unexplainable sense of dread for their futures. In his silence, Daniel cried out to them to abandon their convictions, run away from this world of what is just and what is concrete. Run. Find a spot to just be at peace, because someday, sometime they will find you, and you'll never be the same again.

"That had to be hard," Jack said.

"Going to the hospital to visit him—it just became too... too much, you know?" Daniel said, returning his attention to the front doors. "After a while, I just stopped going to see him."

"He wasn't well, Daniel," Jack said, trying to understand.

"But wasn't I abandoning Nick like he abandoned me?" Daniel asked.

The caustic words struck Jack. A world of concerns blew over him. "Daniel..."

"I mean, wasn't it easy for me to...to blame it on his psychosis?" he asked.

"Daniel, are you worried we're not going to visit you?"

"I'm worried that..." Daniel stopped, clapped shut his mouth. Feeling his emotions running raw and exposed, he ran his thumb across his lips while he fought to regain his composure. "I'm worried that if I'm not...not psychotic now, I will be soon enough."

"What do you want to do, Daniel?" Jack asked.

"I want to go home," Daniel said in a weak, sad voice. "But I know that's not going to happen, so..."

"Why don't we go inside?" Jack said.

Daniel stared at the two metal doors whose glass inserts reflected the stormy, somber hue of the sky. "Okay."

Jack opened his door, rounded the front of his truck and stood by while Daniel collected his things in the cab. Daniel grabbed his duffel from the back and shut his door. Jack gave him a soft smile, and the two began to walk toward the entrance.

"I can't remember a lot of it, you know," Daniel said. "What I remember, though, is terrifying."

"I can imagine," Jack said, without really thinking about it. "No. No, actually, I can't imagine it."

Daniel stood a few feet from the doors and stopped. He glanced at Jack and then said, "I hope not." He let Jack open the door for him, and together, Jack and Daniel walked to the registration desk.

"Morning," Jack said to the attendant behind the desk. He showed her his badge.

"Good morning, Colonel O'Neill," the attendant said in return. "How may I be of assistance, sir?"

Jack put his ID away and said, "I need you to page Doctor Sebastian for me."

"Yes, sir," she said, and began to dial.

Jack turned from the desk to find Daniel standing a few feet away. It seemed to Jack that Daniel was trying to fade into thin air. "Daniel?"

Daniel stared at an invisible image, known only to him, as real and tactile as the bag he held in his hand.

"Daniel?" Jack said again. He touched Daniel's elbow.

Daniel's eye shot up. He took a deep breath and said, "I'm fine."

"You sure you're okay?" Jack asked, concerned that the people milling around the halls might see Daniel's dissociative behavior.

"Yes," Daniel said, more forcefully than he had intended. A woman in a dress blue uniform seemed to be focusing in on him as she walked down the hall, her pace brisk and militaristic.

"You wanna sit down?"

"No." Daniel wondered why this woman seemed so intent on garnering his attention.

The woman nodded to Daniel and the lines around her eyes and mouth guided a gentle smile into place. "Colonel O'Neill," she said.

"Doctor Sebastian." Jack offered his hand, which she took. "Or is it Colonel Sebastian?"

"Either one. Hello," she said, turning to Daniel, and Jack was put at ease by the genuine warmth he saw in her expression. "I'm Abigail Sebastian."

Daniel glanced at her hand before taking it. "Um, Doctor Daniel Jackson."

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Doctor," she said. She stepped to his side and motioned for them both to follow her down the hall. "Why don't I show you to your room?"

Jack looked at Daniel to gauge his comfort level, but Daniel seemed lost, so Jack pointed in the direction Sebastian was walking and silently asked Daniel if he cared to join them. Daniel's eyes darted from Jack's hand to the hall to Sebastian, and finally he was able to take that first step toward his room.

There wasn't a great deal of talking while they walked down the long, sterile corridor lined with doors, none of which were closed. Occasionally, Doctor Sebastian would point out certain areas—the TV room, the group-process room, the counseling rooms—but Daniel followed, knowing full well from his sporadic visits with Nick that when the time came for him to be anywhere, someone would come get him and take him. They always did, both here and there and everywhere in between. It was just a matter of waiting for that time.

"And this is your room," she said, holding the door open for him.

A bed, two chairs, a chest of drawers and a window that would not open.

"It's almost time for lunch. You may choose to eat in your room today or in the cafeteria," she said.

"Thank you," Daniel told her, looking around the room.

"A nurse will be in shortly to help you settle in," she said. "We'll talk later today."

"Fine," Daniel said.

"Colonel," Doctor Sebastian said, offering her hand, which Jack took. "Doctor."

"Yes," Daniel said, nodding. "Thank you."

And then she was gone.

Jack walked around the room, touching the bed, looking in drawers, keeping his hands busy so his mind wouldn't have time to race. "This is, uh...this is nice."

"It's austere," Daniel said, never having moved from his original spot in the room. His eyes glanced across the white, cotton bedspread, the white walls, the gray floor, the two wooden chairs, one with a green vinyl seat, one with a blue vinyl seat.

"Yeah, well, they don't want you to get too comfortable," Jack told him, the corner of his mouth curling up. "You won't be staying long."

Daniel sent Jack a chagrined look. Jack looked away.

"Can I, uh, help you put your things away?" Jack asked.

Daniel looked at the bed again, at the strangely familiar pillow encased in a slightly darker shade of white.

Jack followed his line of vision and said, "Oh, yeah. I stopped by your place and picked up your pillow." He shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. I guess I thought it might make you feel more comfortable. I know when I come home after a long mission, hitting my own pillow kind of makes me feel better. I don't know."

Daniel crossed to the bed and placed his duffel bag on it. He touched the pillow and wondered what it felt like, what it smelled like. "I've been gone a long time, Jack. I don't remember what...what...."

"You will," Jack assured him. He shoved his hands into his pockets and fidgeted with the change while he watched Daniel cross to the window and look out over the grounds of the Air Force Academy. "How ya doin'?"

It amazed Daniel that such a gloomy day could produce such blinding light. He squinted and felt the sting of tears building in his eyes and nose and knew the brightness was only partially responsible. He took a quick glance back at Jack and then again to the outdoors. "It's bright. Hurts my eyes. I guess I'm not used to the light."

"Yeah. Maybe," Jack said. He listened as Daniel sniffed. Jack picked up the ever-present box of discount tissues off the chest of drawers and slid it along the windowsill to Daniel. Daniel looked at the box, blurred by the ridge of tears, and then looked back out the window, scanning the area for no reason, his focus shifted inward, concentrating on holding his emotions at bay.

"You call me if you need anything. Anything," Jack said.

The trees, the grass, the cement sidewalks chasing away from the building—they all melded together against the ashen sky. Daniel nodded to Jack.

"Doctor Jackson?" a voice said. Jack turned from the window, leaving Daniel to himself. "Oh, pardon me, sir," the young woman said. Jack put her at ease. The woman in the Class B uniform and short black hair said, "Doctor Jackson, my name is Sergeant Nancy Garanzia. I'll be your day assistant, sir."

"I'm not an officer," Daniel told her, without bothering to turn around. "I'm a civilian contractor." Less than that, he thought.

"I am aware of that, sir," she said. "Why don't we sit down, and I can talk you through some things."

"Should I..." Jack started, pointing to the door.

"If you would, sir," she said with the utmost respect.

"Sure. Right," Jack said. He patted Daniel on the arm and vacated the room.

Daniel took one last look at the world beyond his grasp, and turned to face his latest caretaker.

Nancy Garanzia pulled up the chairs and invited Daniel to take one, which, after a pause, he did. She sat opposite him, keeping a safe distance from Daniel. "Our main concern is your safety. That's why the room seems so sparse. With that in mind, we require all our clients to remove their belts and shoelaces if you're wearing them. Do you understand?"

Daniel's shoulders slumped. He nodded. He unbuckled his leather belt and slid it through each belt loop, all the while wondering if she thought he was capable of hurting himself. All the while wondering if he were capable of the same. He handed the brown leather belt to her.

"Thank you," she said, laying it on the bed. "Can I help you with your shoes?"

Daniel looked down at his suede oxfords and couldn't comprehend how the short laces could ever be considered a threat, but he didn't question her. He leaned over, untied one and threaded the lace through the six holes, handed it to her and started on the second.

"Thank you, sir," she said, adding the shoelaces to the pile. "The door to your room will always be ajar. None of our clients' doors are able to shut. This is as much for your protection as it is for us, should we need to enter quickly. At this time, I need to go through your bag, Doctor Jackson. May I?"

Daniel nodded and feeling the weight of dejection overwhelming him, drove his elbows into his knees, pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. The humiliation never ended, he thought.

"Doctor Jackson, we'll supply you with an electric shaver if you don't have one," she said, taking his razor from his personal affects. "Can I assist you in putting your clothes away?"

"I can do it," he told her from his curled position.

Sergeant Garanzia sat down with him once more and began to speak. "You are scheduled to meet with Doctor Sebastian at 0900 each morning. I'll come here approximately ten minutes before to accompany you to the session."

"Is that necessary?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said. "Lunch is served at 1200. You may elect to eat in the cafeteria or in your room. Also, I will be bringing your medication to you and I will stay with you until you take it."

"They're going to put me on drugs?" he asked, raking his hands through his long bangs.

"In the event that they do, yes, sir," she said. "If there is anything you require, please feel free to ask. I am here to help in any way I can."

"Thank you," Daniel said, but the sound was muted by his awkward position.

Sergeant Garanzia picked up the razor, the shoelaces and the belt from the bed. "Doctor Jackson, would you like to eat lunch here or in the cafeteria?"

"Here."

"Very good. I'll see to it that a tray be delivered," she said. "You have an appointment with Doctor Sebastian at 1400 today. I'll be here at approximately 1350 to escort you. Shall I ask the colonel to come back in?"

Daniel nodded, and she left the room.

"Hey," Jack said, stepping next to Daniel.

"Can you bring me an electric shaver?" Daniel asked. He wrapped his hands around the back of his head and tried to shut out the world.

"Uh, yeah. Sure," Jack said, taking the seat the young officer had been sitting in. "You okay?"

Daniel opened his eyes and looked at his shoes, saw how pathetic and useless they seemed without laces. What good would they be if he couldn't tie them up? Useless and pathetic. "She took my shoe laces."

Jack glanced at his shoes and then back at Daniel, his face obscured by the curtain of hair. "Safety procedures. They just don't want anything to happen to you."

"What the hell would I have done with a ten inch shoelace?" Daniel cried, lifting his face to Jack. His unruly bangs fell across his eyes.

"Well, for one thing, you could have used them to tie back that hair," Jack told him, raising his eyebrows.

Daniel stared at him for a moment, caught between withering tears and the ironic dark humor of it all.

When a sudden burst of laughter left Daniel, Jack felt himself breathe again. He watched Daniel pull his hands through his hair, away from his face.

"I meant to get it cut," Daniel said, but the levity abandoned his voice before the final word, and once again he was right at the precipice of cascading emotions. He brushed his hand through his hair, almost a form of self-comfort, stroking his hair as if it were being stroked for him.

Jack pulled the chair next to Daniel's, so that he could sit beside him. He put an arm around Daniel's back and rubbed Daniel's arm. There were no words. There were no promises he could make to Daniel that would mitigate the intensity of the moment. Jack could only sit alongside Daniel, hushed and awash in his own oceanic pain.

Daniel felt the hand rubbing his arm, and for the first time in many months, wanted nothing more than to welcome the contact. That in itself, realizing how much he missed the feel of a comforting hand, made it all the more painful. He wanted, needed to be touched in a way that wasn't base or that inflicted pain, but the months of abuse, the months of having his body violated and used...Even though he wanted to accept Jack's comfort, he just couldn't. He shrugged the hand away, and as soon as it was gone, he missed it.

Jack removed his hand and nodded. "Okay."

"I'm sorry," Daniel whispered. "I wish..."

"It's okay," Jack said. "I think I understand."

"No, you can't," Daniel said. "You can't because I don't understand."

"Okay."

Daniel pressed his shaking hands together, scouring them against each other. "You should go."

"I can stay," Jack said.

"No, you'd better go," Daniel told him.

"You sure?"

"I have some things I need to do," he said, wiping his sweaty palms against his thighs.

"Okay." Jack stood up and fought against the urge to give Daniel a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

"Electric shaver," Daniel reminded him, unable to meet Jack's eye.

"Got it."

"Oh, and..."

"Yeah?"

"My loafers. My suit loafers."

"Right."

Daniel nodded his head and made a decision to go beyond his comfort. He reached out a hand to Jack, who took it, sliding his hand against Daniel's, embracing it with both of his own.

Daniel kept his eyes riveted to the speckles of gray and beige in the tiled floor and shook Jack's hand. Then grasped it. Then clutched Jack's hand until the muscles in his arms began to twitch and shake.

"You're gonna be okay," Jack said, though his words were lost in the sorrow of his voice. He patted Daniel's hand and ran his hand along the length of his wrist. "You're gonna be fine."

There was a soft rap on the door, and Nancy Garanzia poked her head in the room.

"Doctor Jackson, it's time for your meeting," she informed him.

Daniel sat with his elbow perched on the window ledge, letting the warmth of the sun seep into his skin. Quite sure his memories were closed and cordoned off, Daniel stood and followed the young woman from his room.

"How was your lunch, Doctor Jackson?" Nancy asked while they calmly made their way down the shining hall.

"Fine."

"You didn't eat much, sir. If there's any other food that would be more to your liking, please feel free to ask."

"That won't be necessary," Daniel said, wondering which door would be the point of their arrival.

They stopped at a door with a sliding nameplate adhered to the outside. The present psychiatrist, Doctor Abigail Sebastian, was shown to have possession of the room and the head of the department.

Great, Daniel thought. The bigger the head case, the higher the rank...

"Ah, Doctor Jackson," the older physician said, placing her glasses on her desk. "Please, come in."

Nancy Garanzia held out a hand, guiding Daniel into the office. Daniel slipped past her and entered the room, sparse and uncluttered. He took a seat in a mauve modular chair against a pale blue wall. He looked at the reproduced art on the walls—Georgia O'Keefe—and wondered why all offices in the last fifteen years decided O'Keefe's works symbolized the new aesthetic.

"Thank you, Sergeant Garanzia," Doctor Sebastian said.

"Ma'am," Nancy Garanzia said, vacating the room.

Daniel wriggled in his chair, trying to find a comfortable position. He placed both elbows on the armrests and wove his fingers together, and then waited for the barrage of questions to begin.

Dr. Sebastian slipped on her glasses, gathered a manila folder with its pages folded back, and took a few quick steps to the overstuffed chair across from Daniel. Slowly, with great care, she lowered herself into the cushion and placed the folder in her lap.

"You'll have to excuse me," she said, with a sheepish smile. "I was in-line skating with my daughter a few days ago and I took a fall. I'm finding, in my fifties, that I don't bounce back as quickly as I used to."

Daniel frowned, wondering why she was telling him the story.

"At this first session," she continued, jotting a note to herself, "I'd just like to get to know you a little, become familiar with how you came to be here."

"Jack," Daniel said, grasping the arms of his chair, lowering his eyes.

Doctor Sebastian glanced up from her notes. "Pardon me?"

"Jack brought me," he said, proud of his use of sarcasm once again. And just at the perfect time.

"Right. Very good," she said, smiling. Doctor Sebastian looked across the frames of her reading glasses, taking particular interest in the hollowness in his eyes, the way he scraped his thumbnail across the abraded skin on his index finger. "I've been reading your file."

"Of course, you have."

"Background information. You understand the need, yes?"

Daniel cleared his throat and nodded.

"You've been suffering from insomnia and flashbacks," she read. "Is this correct?"

"Some." Daniel ran his hand across his arm and tried to bring some warmth to it.

"Are you familiar with Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder?" she asked, flipping the pages of the file over the top, finally reaching the section for note taking.

"PTSD. Yes." He could feel the arctic chill stream across his forearm and up his shoulder. His back prickled with raised flesh.

"After having read your file and through conversations with Doctor Fraiser, I believe our best course of action would be to address the PTSD."

"Fine," Daniel said. He pulled up his collar closer to the back of his neck and hid his eyes from Doctor Sebastian lest she see the fear building in his.

"So," she began, noticing his fidgeting, his attempts at warming his body, "how does it feel to be home again? Oh, and, would you like me to turn up the thermometer in here? You seem cold."

"No. I'm fine. It feels fine," he said. There. That was easy enough. The sting of the chill began to leave his body.

"Fine? In what way? The temperature, or being home?"

Daniel shrugged, shook his head and said, "Um, both. I don't know. Fine. Um, better than not being home...I guess."

"You guess?" she questioned.

Daniel stopped, regrouped and reminded himself of his purpose—to convince this person not to want to dig any deeper than he would allow. So he straightened himself up in his chair, worked up a smile and tried again.

"I mean, it's...it's comforting being back." Smile. Lift the brow. Nod.

Doctor Sebastian smiled back and watched him a studied eye, unconvinced. "Good. I'm pleased to hear that." She waited, kept her soft focus and neutral expression directly on him. Waited for Daniel to fill the silence with whatever he felt needed to be said. When nothing but the whir of the central air remained, she went on. "What's it like being with your friends again?"

Daniel felt his cheeks flush, and suddenly the temperature in his body began to expeditiously rise. He had prepared himself to discuss the last few missing months, not his relationship with his friends. His eyes drifted across the room, focusing on nothing. A different approach would have to be taken to avoid this type of probing question. Quickly.

"Um, yeah, it's good," he answered, shifting in his chair. "You weren't born here, were you?"

"Excuse me?" she said.

"Your accent. Not much, but...English isn't your first language," Daniel told her, attempting a smile that could hardly be considered sincere. He felt his pulse began to quicken and a throbbing ache beginning behind his left eye.

Doctor Sebastian ignored his question and wrote down a quick note. "Since you have no family, do your friends at the SGC fulfill that need for one?"

"Yes, somewhat. I guess," Daniel told her in abrupt, percussive words. "Where are you from?"

"Why do you ask?" she said.

"Curious," he told her, turning onto one hip. "I'm usually very good with accents."

"Yes, that's right. You are a linguist," the doctor said, nodding. "You haven't been able to return to your career yet. Do you miss that?"

Daniel concentrated all his attention on her speech patterns—the dentals, somewhat dampened; the vowels, a tad wider; a smidgen more nasal on the voiced consonants. "I don't miss the paperwork, no. Um, Macedonian?"

"No," she said. "You seem to be deviating from my question. Is there a reason?"

"I'm just interested in you," Daniel told her, while the throb began to creep over the top of his skull. "I'm lucky enough to be able to speak to someone who is obviously multi-lingual. For a linguist, this is a fun."

"Do you consider yourself to be lucky?" she asked, tilting her head to the side, waiting for his answer, which she knew he would bury along with the rest.

"Luck. Um, no. I'm not sure I believe in luck," he said. Daniel closed his eyes only for a moment and could feel the pressure building in his left eye socket. "Croatian."

"No. What, in your opinion, does it mean to be lucky?" she asked, removing her glasses.

Daniel took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair, a nervous habit. "Well, let's see. Luck means you have no control over the outcome of things. If you have no control, there's no meaning. There has to be meaning," he told her in a short, clipped pattern. "Albanian?"

"Doctor, what do you believe was the meaning of your abduction, then?"

"Filipino?"

"No. What do you think the meaning was, Doctor Jackson?"

"I'm not sure. Maltese?"

"I don't accept 'I'm not sure' and 'I don't know,' Doctor. Now, what do you—"

"Thai."

She crossed her legs and regarded him with reserved skepticism. "Why are you so interested?"

"It's my job. It's what I do." Even in his own ears, he could hear that his voice sounded too animated, too manic.

"And when your job is to be the chief communicant, how did it make you feel when you could not communicate?" she asked. "How did it make you feel when they took away your ability to do what you do best?"

Daniel stared at her, stymied and unable to keep up the game. His lips moved, but his mind gave forth no words. Pin pricks of faint lights raced across his vision.

Doctor Sebastian held her glasses by the conjoined earpieces. She waited for his retort. Waited for him to respond. Knew that her question had finally tripped him up. Good, she thought. Perhaps we can begin to talk now.

"Doctor Jackson," she began, "what did you perceive the meaning to be when your captors took away your ability to speak?"

Daniel felt his breath hitch. He felt the cold sweat of a presence too close to his back. He slid his hand under his arm and pinched the hidden skin. "They had no oral...language. They, uh, were telepathic, I...I think." He stopped, stroked his aching forehead with his fingers. "I think they ..." He practiced the sentence in his mind, unsure of the words, of the weight of the message, and if he could deliver it with enough credibility. "They muted me so...so I would be able communicate with them."

"Yes, I read that in your official debriefing. Did it help?" she asked.

"No. I'm...I'm not...telepathic," he said, and as he spoke, he found the ordeal becoming more and more laborious.

"That's good," she said, smiling at him. "I'd be out of a job, otherwise."

Daniel closed his eyes while the tension of unavoidable memory again crept through his mind and the omnipotence of a quick-setting migraine hijacked his body.

Doctor Sebastian slid her glasses back onto her face and watched his physical reaction very carefully. In his chart, she recorded words such as "anxious," "fidgeting," "chilled then warm," "speech patterns interrupted."

"Doctor Jackson, would you like something to drink?"

Daniel ran his trembling hand through his hair, across his neck, and over his face. He pinched the bridge of his nose and crushed the area just under his eyebrow, trying to use acupressure to fend off the pain.

"Doctor Jackson?"

"I'm sorry," Daniel said after a moment. "I have a headache."

"Do you get many headaches?"

"No. Some," he lied. Daniel gritted his teeth and decided he would concede this point to her. "Yes. I seem to be getting more and more."

"Are you able to continue, or would you like to take a break?"

"I'm fine," he said, tossing his head back and feeling the painful tightness through his neck and shoulders.

"Very well," Doctor Sebastian said. "Let's get back to your inability to communicate with—"

"No, that's...that's not correct. Not entirely," Daniel interrupted, holding his finger to his lips, prompting her to wait for his answer. He could feel the itching of panic rising in his spine and capped it off, diverting the question from his memory to his erudition. "Communication takes ma—many forms. Um, I began to...uh, understand their...um..." he waved his hands in the air, searching for the word.

"Body language?" she said.

"Yes. Thank you."

"Was it an effective way of communicating?"

An angry glare, a raised hand, eyes that bore into him. Yes, he thought, it was highly effective. "We came to ...understand each other. Yes." Daniel rubbed the back of his neck and felt the taut cords, the tender flesh, all of it in response to the pounding in his head.

"But still, when your voice was restored, it took you a great deal of time before you would speak again. Why do you think that is?"

He thought it was a question he couldn't possibly answer while the bones in his skull seemed to be cracking. "I'm sorry. I think my headache is getting much worse. Would it be possible to continue this later?"

"Certainly," Doctor Sebastian said, placing his file on the table next to her. She rose from her chair and stepped to her desk. "Are you currently taking anything specific for your headaches?"

"Only Tylenol," Daniel said, leaning forward so he could cradle his throbbing skull in his hands.

"Has that been working for you?" she asked. She removed a prescription pad from her top desk drawer.

"It takes the edge off. Sometimes."

Doctor Sebastian tore two sheets from the pad, wrote a note on each and placed them on the corner of her desk. "Doctor Jackson, I would like to prescribe two different medications for you—one for your headaches, and one to help assuage the symptoms of the PTSD."

"I'd really rather not be pumped full of drugs," Daniel said from his hunched position.

"I realize that, but these medications are very helpful," she said. "I have a sample of Imitrex here. Why don't you see if it will help?" The doctor filled a glass with water, tore open a hermetically sealed packet, and handed the pills and the cup to Daniel.

Daniel stared at the two triangular pills in the soft-skinned palm of her hand. His focus riveted to the white pills, Daniel felt mired in hip-deep mud. What do I do? he asked himself. It probably started just like this for Nick, he thought. First, one drug for a headache, and soon, your life is about sorting through the blue ones, the round ones, the ones to help you sleep, the ones to keep you awake.

No, he didn't want them. He hated the feeling of being disconnected and out of control. Hated the fog, the delay in reaction. No. He wouldn't take it.

But when it felt like the bones of his eye socket were bulging, he acquiesced. He opened one eye so that he could see, took the pills from her hand, threw them to the back of his throat and gulped down the entire glass of water.

"Thank you," he said, handing her the glass.

"Perhaps a warm cloth?" she said, placing the empty glass on her credenza.

"No, I'm..." Daniel stopped and wondered if there was a word that could even come close to describing how he felt. "I'm..."

"Why don't I call in Sergeant Garanzia and have her take you back to your room? We can continue this at another time," Doctor Sebastian said, stepping toward her door.

Daniel nodded and wished he hadn't. The pain bounced against his skull with even the most incremental movement.

"Doctor Jackson," the sergeant said, before Daniel even realized enough time had passed for her to enter the room, "can I assist you, sir?"

Daniel kept his head very still, rose from the chair and hoped he could reach his quarters before he needed to vomit.

Part 4

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