Sursum Corda
by Pough
Part 2

Back to Part 1

"What the hell is going on in here?" Janet demanded, having heard the angry voices and crashing trays, even in her office.

"Colonel O'Neill is refusing assistance, ma'am," the nurse said, swiping her hand over her uniform, removing the colonel's lunch from the front of her. "Vehemently."

"Watch it, Airman!" Jack warned, pointing one defiant finger at the young woman. He wobbled unsteadily on one foot, and his hand strangled the bedrail. "You're about a fifty-cent cab ride away from the brig."

"Yes, sir," she said, though without great conviction.

"Nice command you got going here, Doc. Do they teach insubordination in the medical corps, or is this something you practice in your department?"

The nurse, hearing the foreboding words, straightened up, and tried to apologize. "Sir, I meant no—"

"What, sergeant? You meant no what?" he asked, drilling through her with his venomous growl and dagger eyes.

Janet held up a hand to the young woman, allowing her to remain silent. "Sergeant, you are excused."

"No, you're not!" Jack barked.

Janet stood down the colonel with her own obdurate glare. "You are dismissed, Sergeant—"

"Hey!" Jack yelled, slamming his fist against the bedside table, rattling the casement. The nurse waffled in her steps, not fully knowing which order to follow. "Who's the ranking officer here?"

"In this infirmary, sir, you're looking at her." Janet's body held fast in its spot; her lips, sealed in one tight line. Only the slight narrowing of her eyes gave any hint of the volcanic anger building inside her. "Sergeant Charles, I said you are dismissed."

"Yes, ma'am," she said, and didn't wait for any other contradiction.

Jack's body shook with anger, undone by his immobility and a junior officer. "You are way out of line, Doctor Fraiser."

Yes, she thought, in any other circumstances overruling a superior officer's orders was out of line. However, in her infirmary, where rank had no other distinction other than what title they called you when they asked if your catheter was comfortable, the good colonel was the officer in the wrong. He was also the officer about to get one hell of a scolding.

"Sir, you would do well to remember that while you are in my infirmary..."

"Oh, please! Not the 'my infirmary' bullshit, again," Jack said, feeling the weight and pressure of his fatigue sweeping over his body.

"That's it!" she said, snatching up the phone on the wall.

"Who you gonna call? Teal'c? 'Cause I'm here to tell ya, nobody else on this base has half the—"

"I'm calling General Hammond, Colonel," she said, punching in the number. "I'm having you transferred to the Academy Hospital."

"You can't do that," Jack said, reaching for the phone, finding it one painful yard too far away. "Stop it, Doc. That's enough!"

"I agree!" Slamming the phone on the hook, Janet focused all her fury on the colonel. "It is enough! The temper, the inconsideration, the disrespect for my staff and me—it is absolutely enough! For this moment on, you will control your anger, sir, or I will, with very little provocation, boot your ass out of here."

"I'd like to see you try," he muttered, barely able to keep his body upright.

Janet tore the receiver from the wall and began to dial the general once again.

"Fine," Jack said, waving his hand toward the phone. "Fine. Fine! Dammit, you made your point."

She held the phone midway between the wall and her ear, almost wishing he'd say one more thing, just one more ill mannered comment.

Janet Fraiser was tired of it. The man had been in her infirmary for a week recovering, and if he wasn't obstinate in his taciturnity, he was foul-mouthed and pugnacious. There didn't seem to be any middle ground with him, unless she drugged him, which she could no longer justify. At least not by any medical standards.

"I said fine!" he crackled, sailing his arm through the air. "Put the damn phone down." When Janet remained unmoved by his salty demand, Jack tempered his speech and added, "Please. Please put the phone down, all right?"

She could hear the contrition in his voice, masked as it was, and gave him a slight bit of room for the discomfort he was surely feeling, but she did not waver in her unyielding stipulation that he behave himself, henceforth.

"Please," he said again, unable to keep his head up any longer. "Just...put it down."

And she did. She hung up the phone, and turned her attention to her patient. "Colonel, you should lie down."

"I'm fine," he said, though it held no validity.

"Want to tell me what this was all about?" she asked, hiding her hands, balled up in livid fists within her pockets.

"No! Everything is just great." Jack grimaced with pain, the side of his hip sizzling under the white scrubs. He pivoted on his one good heel, grabbed hold of the bed rails with both hands. Jack leaned forward, taking most of his weight with the strength of his trembling arms, ducked his head down, hiding his agony. "In fact, it's one big ball of fun, dammit." He was breathing heavily, practically choking on his pain and, from the looks of it, anger.

"Colonel," Janet said, lowering her voice, placing one hand on the small of his back, "why don't you get in bed."

"Because, Doctor," he started, biting out each word with malice, "I have to pee!"

"That's fine, sir, then I'll call Sergeant Ch—"

"For Christ's sake, Doc, I can pee by myself!"

"Fine!" she yelled back, equaling his resentment. "Go ahead! Be my guest, but when you fall over and crack your pelvis again, understand that the only thing I'm going to do is call the Academy Hospital to send over an ambulance!"

That seemed to shut him up, she thought, or maybe it was that he was in too much agony to argue back. The back of his neck bore rivulets of sweat. His arms shook under the weight of holding his body steady and vertical.

"You've got a choice, Colonel," she said, rounding the side of the bed in order to be face to face with Jack, "you can either have Sergeant Charles assist you to the bathroom, or you can use the receptacle in your toilet kit."

Jack shifted his weight, let go of the bar with one hand, and swiped it across his perspiring face. He wasn't strong enough, however, to maintain the position for long, so he dropped his elbow to the rail and his head to his hand. He had been breathing so heavily, with such force, that his tongue stuck to the top of him mouth when he tried to swallow.

"Colonel?"

"Fine," he said, yet again, the only word he could find to use in the face of bitter surrender.

"Fine, what?"

There was no movement for a brief period on Jack's side of the bed, and Janet wondered if she ought to move to his side in case he began to fall. Then, as if he knew he'd better show that he was still in control of himself, Jack tilted his head toward her, and said, "Can I, at the very least, piss into that thing while I'm standing here, instead of having to do it lying down?"

"I'm not sure," she said, scrutinizing his gray pallor, the deep ridge between his eyes. "Do you think you're able to?"

A dozen surly comments peppered his thoughts before he decided on, "Yes."

"Then, be my guest," she said, reaching under his bed for his toiletries. She handed the plastic-handled receptacle to him across the mattress and waited for him to find the strength to take hold of it. "I'll step outside."

"Thank you," he said, and he meant it.

He waited until he could no longer see the flourish of her white lab coat before he spun his body around and propped himself up on the edge of the bed. The pressure of the soft mattress against the back of his hip, however slight, left him breathless and lightheaded. He closed his eyes and waited for the feeling to pass. When the scramble of bright flashes across his eyes faded, Jack untied his pants, pushed down the waist, and held the receptacle in front of him.

The relief he felt at emptying his bladder was nullified by the humiliation of having to urinate into a bottle. Old men and the disabled used these things, he thought. It was the despondent reality that he was a little of both which plowed through his body, crackled through his brain. He cursed under his breath; spat epithets against the disgrace of having to employ a can, rather than being able to walk the few steps to the can.

When he was finished, he set the bottle on the bedside table and pulled up his pants, stringing together a rancorous gathering of acerbic profanities.

"Colonel?"

Jack brushed his hand across the front of his scrub bottoms, mumbled a few undistinguishable words, and wiped the sweat off his forehead.

"Now can you get into bed?" Janet asked, weary of the special attention the colonel always demanded while in the infirmary. He nodded, and she reached out to assist him.

"I can do it," he whispered, the fight almost gone. Janet tossed an antiseptic wipe on his pillow, took his receptacle into the bathroom and flushed the contents, washed her hands. Jack inched his hips onto the bed, clasped the bedrail in his sweat-dampened palm, and hooked his hand under his knee.

"Colonel, let me—" she began, leaning toward him. His impressive glower focused directly on her told her to back off.

With a great deal of effort and considerable pain, Jack first swung his good leg onto the bed, followed by the injured leg, his hand aiding the motion. He sucked air in through his clenched teeth; let it out in a hollow stream.

Janet shimmied the disheveled covers from under his legs and held both the coverlet and the sheet in wait. It took him longer than it should, she thought, but finally he pushed his languishing body up the bed and dumped his torso onto the inverted mattress. His eyes glistened with asperity and fatigue. He ripped open the wipe, washed his hands with it, and crumpled the packaging. Janet offered him an emesis basin, and Jack tossed it in. Janet drew the sheet and blanket up over his legs, clear up to his chest. She folded back the two edges, nice and neat, smoothed them down, and let her hand linger for a moment on Jack's chest. Even through the gathering of cloth, she could feel his heart pounding.

"Jack," she said, shifting into the intimate and away from the formal, "I want to ask you—not as your doctor, but as your friend—how are you?"

Their eyes never met. If he had heard Janet's question, he didn't give any indication that she should expect an answer. She was about to leave, frustrated by his puerile behavior, when she heard him whisper, "Doc."

"Yes?" she said, brushing her thumb against his sternum, a show of friendship above and beyond the battle of wills and ranks.

But he didn't say anything more. He never looked at her. He stared, glassy-eyed at the opposite wall, and hoped sleep would come soon to him.

Just when she thought her moment had passed and she chose to let him rest, his hand slid over hers, tightened around her slim fingers, and made it impossible for her to even think of leaving his side. She looked down at her small hand, encapsulated in his larger hand, and she nodded, acknowledging the words she knew he couldn't speak, the pain and fear he could never utter.

She propped herself up on the edge of the bed and stayed with him until he fell asleep.

Teal'c glided into the doorway and rapped on the door. Janet's face popped up from her reports, and when she saw Teal'c's open and smiling face, she smiled back and folded over the cover of Lieutenant Belker's chart.

"Good morning, Teal'c," she said, twining her hands around her pen.

Teal'c's eyes softened demurely, his head bowing. "It is indeed a good morning, Doctor Fraiser." He motioned toward the office chair in front of her desk, requesting tacit permission to sit. Janet gave him absolute and perfunctory consent, and when he grasped hold of the chair arms in order to lower his body, his biceps bulged. Janet felt her lungs involuntarily spasm, sucking in a short burst of air. She washed her hand across her cheeks, hoping to mask the blush that seemed to spray across her face. She was a doctor, and as such, these things shouldn't bother her so. His was just a body, a skeleton, much like any other skeleton with massive arms and chiseled torso. Just another body. Another exquisite, hard body. One that was rippling and warm, and...Oh, my...

"Doctor Fraiser, are you well?" Teal'c asked, watching her press the cool back of her hand to her forehead.

"Yes! Yes, thank you. I'm...I'm fine." Janet forced herself not to rest her eyes on the distinct swell of pectoral muscles thinly veiled by the black, woven shirt. She cleared her throat, and thought it was best to pretend to be a little ill. A little feverish. Not so much of a lie, she thought. She touched her fingers to her lips, coughed and smiled. "So, Teal'c, how can I help you this morning?"

"Colonel O'Neill seems to be recuperating well," he said.

"Yes, he is."

"Are his injuries the type and severity that will require him to be on inactive duty for an extended period of time?"

Janet poured a glass of water, and hoped that it would cool her inner fire. "I don't believe so, no. Why do you ask?"

"It is imperative that Colonel O'Neill return to his normal activities in a most expeditious manner."

Janet locked eyes with Teal'c, her hormonal interest in him suddenly taking a backseat to her professional interest. "Not that I'm disagreeing with you, Teal'c, but why do you say that?"

"It is my experience that a warrior should return to the theatre where he is most comfortable, as soon as possible," Teal'c said, his voice becoming more insistent.

"Yes, well, that may be, but it is my experience that a warrior must heal completely before being asked if he'd like to return," she told him. "And that is a question that I alone will ask. Do I make myself clear?"

"Indeed," Teal'c acquiesced, bowing in a genteel and respectful manner, not only to her rank and office, but also to her strength. "In no way did I mean to overstep my authority, only to express my concern."

Janet let her spine, rigid with indignation, relax. She sat back in her chair and crossed her legs underneath her desk. "Forgive me, Teal'c. Call it being over-protective of my patient." Teal'c smiled, and Janet went on. "I realize you and the colonel are teammates. More than that, I'm sure, and I know you are concerned for him, but I've never known you to ask about another person's recovery before."

Teal'c began to lift his body from the chair. "Perhaps it is not my place."

"No, no." Janet waved him down, and Teal'c remained seated. "I didn't say you had no right to ask. I'm just curious—what is it about Colonel O'Neill's latest injuries that concerns you?"

Teal'c found a spot over her shoulder into which he stared. He drew in a deep breath, lifting his chest high, and deliberated how he should answer her question, and how he should protect the intimate knowledge he knew of his friend's inner turmoil. When at last he was ready to proceed, his line of vision slid across her face to her eyes, and his chin dipped, a show of humility, a show of compassion.

"Doctor Fraiser, since coming to the SGC, I have had to study a lifetime of lessons in order to survive on this world so different from my own. I am grateful to the people of the SGC, you included, for guiding me on my journey."

"You've done a remarkable job, Teal'c," Janet said, reaching toward him across her desk, not quite making contact, but demonstrating her care and respect, all the same.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes sparkling beneath a fringe of obsidian lashes. "The worlds in which Colonel O'Neill and I originate could not be more dissimilar, to be sure. However, where our paths unite is in our lives as warriors. It is here where I am able to find, as you say, my comfort zone." One corner of his mouth edged into a smile, an unspoken tip of the hat to the doctor that he, too, understood the absurdity of a Jaffa using such blatantly Tau'ri colloquialisms. Janet appreciated the humor and the sentiment, and brought her hand to her mouth to quiet a chuckle.

And once again the time for levity was over, and Teal'c's expression transmitted the change in temperament. "The training for a Jaffa is extensive. There is as much time spent cultivating the inner warrior—sin'tek'ateh, in my language—as there is in shaping the outer or bodily warrior—shan'ak'ateh. When a young Jaffa trains, he is expected to give equal attention to both sin'tek'ateh and shan'ak'ateh. Indeed, Kel-no-reem is a time for the Jaffa to focus in on his sin'tek'ateh, or his inner warrior, while his body heals."

"The connection between the mind and the body," Janet said, nodding. "Yes, more and more we're seeing the power in that."

Teal'c lowered his head, smiling gently. "Precisely. When a warrior such as O'Neill has been injured in battle and yet his sin'tek'ateh remains unharmed, there is no cause to believe that soldier will require anything beyond the requisite Kel-no-reem. However, when a warrior's injuries include both, no matter how minimal the trauma to his shan'tek'ateh, if the inner warrior is compromised, the bodily warrior will never fully heal."

Janet nodded, making the link between what her Western medical training had taught her, as opposed to the Eastern traditions of medicine, a tradition she was beginning to understand more and more. "This makes perfect sense to me, Teal'c. However, I'm still unclear about one thing: How does this pertain to Colonel O'Neill? Are you concerned in some way about his mental health?"

"If my limited knowledge of your differing approaches to treatment of the body is correct, what you speak of as mental health is a relationship with the personal emotional state, whether that is chemically compromised or experientially compromised."

"It's a little more complicated than that, but go on."

"What I am speaking of is a state of consciousness which can only be achieved by the most elite warriors, of which Colonel O'Neill is certainly one," Teal'c said, his voice gaining intensity. Janet sat back in her chair and allowed Teal'c to speak freely. "Just as I am able to reach into my mind and access my sin'ak'ateh, I am also keenly aware of the same state of consciousness in other warriors. It is again part of a Jaffa's training to do so. For many days now, I find myself troubled by the unrest in O'Neill's sin'ak'ateh."

"Uh-huh," Janet muttered, her eyes fluttering. She'd been having the same misgivings regarding Jack's recovery. That his injuries went far deeper than the physical ones. But Janet only knew how to heal the body, healing the mind was something for which she'd never had the time, nor the understanding. Although she'd always been aware of Teal'c's impressive intelligence, she was only learning of his acute sensitivity to those around him. She was beginning to suspect that Teal'c was the only one who had an inkling of understanding just what was going on in the colonel's troubled mind. "How can I help?"

Teal'c closed his eyes and bowed his head, issuing forth a silent appreciation to her. "It is my intention to assist Colonel O'Neill regain his sin'ak'ateh, and in order to do that I must understand the colonel's physical abilities or limitations at this point in his recovery."

Janet leaned forward, resting her arms on her desk. "You realize that becomes an issue of patient-physician confidentiality, don't you?"

"I will accept any and all information you can provide," Teal'c said.

Janet looked him over, deciding the adage that it takes a village to raise a child should somehow apply to the colonel. After all, she was fairly tired of raising the childish colonel from his sick bed, so employing as many people as possible to help might just be the trick.

"Well, okay..." she began, smoothing her lips together and tapping her pencil on her desk blotter. As long as she only discussed those injuries that were common knowledge, she wouldn't be broaching her ethical code. "Let's start with his pelvis fracture. It's been a few weeks now, and the fracture is healing quite well. In fact, he's working with a physical therapist everyday in order to resume his normal activity as quickly as possible."

"That is indeed good news," Teal'c said.

"Yes, it is. There were other minor injuries, but they've all healed nicely. As for his concussion, he's out of the woods. I'd rather you not spar with him, however."

"I feel certain we shall refrain," Teal'c said, smiling.

"Then, I don't see any reason why you shouldn't be able to...assist him in the repair of his..." Janet paused, blinked, and waited for Teal'c to finish her sentence for her.

"His sin'ak'ateh."

"That would be the one."

"I am grateful for you the information you have provided, Doctor Fraiser," Teal'c said, lifting his body from the chair, setting Janet's biological workings into a tizzy.

"Oh, sure," she said, whisking her bangs off her forehead, pulling the front of her shirt, suddenly tight, off her chest.

Teal'c pivoted toward the door, then pivoted again and bowed. Janet wiggled her fingers in his direction, and when he was clearly out of sight, dropped her hands on her folded arms, and groaned.

"This shouldn't be that difficult," he said to himself, looking at the access card that had fallen to the ground. "All I have to do is...the impossible."

"Sir," a passing airman said.

Jack turned his head and readied his mouth to call the soldier back, but stopped. In that split second he had weighed the difference between asking for help, and taking another blow to his pride.

His pride was bruised enough.

He let the younger, mobile man continue on his way, while Jack remained stationary outside the elevator doors, his access card at his feet.

All he had wanted to do was get out of the infirmary for a couple minutes or...days. He had tossed around enough personal attacks and cast about enough familial aspersions to ensure that the infirmary staff would leave him the hell alone for at least an hour. And then he went about the arduous and somewhat agonizing activity of getting out of bed, dressing, and slipping out of the infirmary.

It was all going so smoothly until his great plan had been undone by the mishandling of his access card.

"Dammit," he muttered. He knew he could move in certain directions—vertical directions, up and down, with both feet planted below him. He was working on lateral, but crouching was a whole different animal, and Jack thought it was one animal he wouldn't automatically love.

He glanced at his watch. He'd been gone from his bed for ten minutes, and should a masochistic nurse decide to check in on him, she'd find the colonel gone, and Jack would be forced back to the infirmary.

Should that be the case, he had a new and creative inventory of profanities which to hurl.

It was only pain, he thought, and he could do pain. Crouch. Pick the thin piece of plastic up off the ground. Just hang on tight to both crutches in one hand. Totally doable.

Or not.

Maybe if he just waited long enough the elevator doors would open, he could pretend to bump into one of the occupants and blame the mishap on him or her. Indignant, Jack would make sure that person knew their rank, and in their embarrassment would pick the card up for the colonel, then hope they wouldn't be disciplined by the ranking officer for being so klutzy.

It was a plan. It wasn't quite the burning of Atlanta, but it had its moments.

So he waited. And he looked at his watch.

"Screw it," he said, arranged both crutches in his left hand, and began to crouch.

"Hey, Jack," Daniel said.

"A passing airman bumped me!" Jack stated, pulling his body back up. He threw the crutch under his right armpit and faced Daniel. "Makes me so damn mad."

"And you dropped your card?" Daniel asked, eyeing Jack sidelong.

"Can you believe it? I don't like to name names, but the weenie didn't even have the decency to pick it up!" Jack pinched his eyes down and searched Daniel's face for any signs that his story was not being accepted.

"Really? Oh, that's...that's really...Just happened, did you say?" Daniel asked, thumbing the parcel of folders in his arms.

"Not more than fifteen seconds ago."

"Because," Daniel said, looking down both sides of the hallway, "I didn't see anyone when I walked up."

"Okay," Jack said, revising his story, "so, it was a minute ago. That's really not the point, is it?"

"No, I suppose it's not," Daniel agreed, pushing his glasses up. "The point is...what?"

"That my access card was carelessly bumped from my hand!" Jack said, pointing at it.

"Yes, I can see that." Daniel stared at Jack, wondering what he was missing. Jack stared back, occasionally letting his focus drop to the card. Finally, the implicit and the explicit met in Daniel's head.

"Say, Jack, would you like me to pick that up for you?" he asked, his voice riddled with condescension.

"It's really not your responsibility, Daniel."

Daniel nodded, rested his chin on the top of his files. "I see what you mean."

"People just don't take responsibility for their own actions anymore, have you noticed?" Jack said.

"I couldn't agree more," he said, hardly able to look Jack in the eye. He really didn't want to laugh at the man, not now. Later, definitely, but now?

"I'd pick it up myself," Jack began.

"But there's the principle of the thing," Daniel continued.

"Exactly!"

Both men breathed in deeply, satisfied with their haughty superiority, feigned as it may be.

"So," Jack said.

"So, why don't I..."

"Yeah, I'd appreciate that," Jack said, and in an instant, the card was back in his hand. "Hey, Daniel, how about a ride on an elevator?"

"I hadn't thought about it, but sure."

Jack swiped his card through the reader, the doors opened, and he and Daniel piled in.

"What floor?" Jack asked.

"Twelve," Daniel said, lightly giving his folders a shake to straighten them. "Where are you going?"

Jack paused just long enough to give rise to the fact that he was AWOL. "Yeah, twelve sounds as good as any place."

"Bustin' out, are ya?" Daniel asked, leaning against the compartment wall while the elevator made its ascent.

"You could say that," Jack said, keeping his attention toward the number panel. With the shutting of the double doors, Jack hoped the topic would also close.

Daniel, sensing that Jack had no intention of furthering his story, decided he'd plow into another taboo subject. In preparation, he screwed up his face, cleared his throat and threw caution to the wind.

"So, Sam and I were wondering—"

"Daniel," he interjected with haste and indignation, "if this is about the last mission—"

"Well, it's just that—"

"What? It's just what?!"

Daniel paused, showed Jack that the loud voice and browbeating really had no affect on him, and began again. "It's just that we were wondering if, in your estimation, any of the inhabitants under the ground had any resemblance to the ones you saw on P5...something, or other."

Jack stood back, adopted a casual, thoughtful look, and answered back. "Well, that depends."

Daniel's eyes fluttered. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Oh, yeah? On what?"

"On what the hell you're talking about, Daniel!"

Browbeating had no affect on him, but the sarcasm continued to set his nerves on edge. "What I'm talking about is the planet that you, Sam, Teal'c and Jonas Quinn visited."

"We visited a lot of planets. Could ya maybe be more specific?" Jack added, knowing full well Daniel hated his derisive attitude. Jack knew exactly what set people off, drove them away, and using those things against the people around him was his primary objective of late. Daniel just happened to be the target of the moment. Jack also knew he wasn't going to get off on the same floor with Daniel, not anymore. He tapped the number eleven.

Daniel maintained his unflinching lock on Jack's slatted eyes, reminding Jack that no matter how impossible he was Daniel would, in the long run, get the information he was looking for. "It was the planet where you encountered Nirrti's experiments."

"What about it?" Jack asked, turning away from Daniel, feeling a sudden urge to sit down.

Daniel ground his teeth together and tried again. "On that planet, the aliens that you met, did they in any way resemble the aliens you...became acquainted with on our last mission?"

"I know what this is about," Jack said, his voice soft and level.

"Okay," he said, cautious and rather dubious that Jack knew what he was getting at. Daniel glanced obliquely at Jack from the corner of the elevator. "What is this about?"

"It's about you trying to make up for lost time."

The folders in Daniel's arms slipped, but he caught them before they hit the ground. "It's...it's about what?"

"Daniel, what's done is done. You made the choice to leave," Jack told him, counting down the floors.

"I...I..." Daniel stammered.

"Trying to solve the riddles of past missions you weren't a part of isn't going to change anything." One more floor to go, and Jack would be free.

"That's not what I'm trying to do, Jack," Daniel defensively said, stepping closer to the front of the lift, glaring at the side of Jack's face.

"Jonas took care of things when you were gone. You'll just have to accept that." The elevator bobbled to a stop, and for a brief, tense moment, Jack thought Daniel might just strike him.

"You...you..." Daniel's face bloomed with anger and umbrage. "You're a piece of work, Jack."

The elevator doors glided open and the wall in front of them showed they had reached Daniel's floor. "Nice talking with you, Daniel. Let's do this again, real soon."

Daniel smirked, let out a bitter laugh, and continued to eye Jack with well-placed resentment. "Yeah, I'll try to make time in my schedule."

"Good!" Jack sarcastically called out, waving to him with one crutch while Daniel stepped out of the compartment.

Daniel faced Jack one last time before the doors closed, hoping the anger in his eyes hid the disappointment in his soul.

Jack punched the "door closed" button and steadfastly refused to look up at Daniel.

Janet Fraiser flipped the pages of her quarterly report, took a deep breath, and began to inform the general of the SGC's overall health.

"Like I said, by and large we've been able to contain the spread of influenza," she said, glancing up for a moment to see if the general's eye were any less glazed. She knew it wasn't his favorite responsibility, that of having to sit through quarterly reports from the CO's, but he usually carried on with them as if the information he was given was vital to the workings of the SGC. Sometimes her reports did have more weight than others.

Unfortunately, where her present report and where the general's attention were concerned, the last quarter had been relatively uneventful. Boring, even. Clinical in the most dry sense. There had been quarters when she had his rapt attention—usually having to deal with contagions of alien origins, or when an outbreak of microbial infections had filled her infirmary with an overflow of patients. However, when the most grave information was the statistic dealing with the flu, Janet had the feeling she could have emailed the general and saved them both the aggravation.

That being said, it was the Air Force, and there were protocols and time-honored orders to follow, and so she whisked back her hair and carried on with her report.

"There were only the six reported cases of influenza, all of which were from personnel who had taken the vaccine, but were immune to it for one of any number of reasons."

"Is that consistent with the national average, Doctor?" General Hammond asked, sitting back in his chair.

"It's within the parameters, yes. Because we take greater precautions than the vast majority of the nation against air-borne diseases, such as influenza, our numbers are slightly skewed, but unlike the general public, we are in much more confined quarters, thereby increasing the likelihood of the virus spreading." Gawd, she thought, it even sounds boring to me...

"Understood," the general said.

"Well, General," Janet sighed, closing her file, "I think that's everything."

"Things seem to be in order," General Hammond said, mirroring her actions. "Your expertise and support are greatly appreciated, Doctor. I hope you are aware of your value to this operation."

"I am, sir. Thank you, sir," Janet said. "Sir, if there's nothing more..."

"Actually," he said, lacing his fingers and dropping them into his lap, where his focus followed, "there is one more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

"It's about Colonel O'Neill."

Janet studied him carefully—he didn't often avoid her eyes. He rarely asked about individual patients. She knew her patient/physician confidentiality did not apply where the general's requests were concerned—after all, an airman is an airman, healthy or injured—but she could hardly remember the last time he crossed over that line and into her domain. When his face raised and he made eye contact with her, she saw a glimpse of the brooding trouble within his eyes. This was more than just a question about a certain colonel's health. This was a question loaded with ramifications.

"What can I tell you, General?" she quietly said, hoping not to broadcast her own concern.

General Hammond nodded his head and a pursed his lips. He pushed himself away from the table, rose to his feet and stepped to the briefing room door, which he closed.

"Without going into detail, Doctor, which I expect you'll understand," he said, returning to his seat.

"Yes, sir," she answered back.

"I am under a...certain amount of pressure to report to Washington on Colonel O'Neill's condition." General Hammond pulled his yellow legal paid out from under the blue-covered report Janet had given him. On it he had written three questions, each of which was followed by open space. It was with resigned acrimony that he began his questionnaire. "Doctor Fraiser, are Colonel O'Neill's injuries such that he will be unable to return to the field?"

"No, sir. They're not." Her pulse began to quicken, and her skin began to warm. She'd heard these questions before for other officers the Air Force was forcing out of active duty. She never thought she'd have to be answering them about Jack O'Neill. "His concussion, although significant, has healed quite well. His latest CAT scan was clear."

The general nodded approvingly. "Very good."

"The fracture to his pelvis is healing. However," she said, and paused. How could she couch the subject in order to shed the best light on the situation? "However," she went on, "I don't believe he'll be ready for active duty for at least six to eight more weeks."

"That long?" the general asked.

"It was a fracture, sir, and as such I'm not willing to rush his recovery."

"Fine." The general wrote some perfunctory notes, and when he was finished, he laid down his pen and asked the second question. "In your professional opinion, will there be any lasting effects from this latest round of injuries? I'm asking about any emotional difficulties that may occur because of his injuries, as well."

Janet could feel her cheeks begin to redden. She was an officer, and being an officer was under a strict code of ethics. She could not, under any circumstance, lie to the general about Jack's condition, but if she told her CO what she felt in her heart to be true, it would destroy the colonel's career.

"Doctor?" the general prodded.

"Colonel O'Neill has a remarkable ability to recover from his injuries. All his injuries," she said, hoping there would be no follow-up questions.

"So..."

"So, I have every reason to believe that this too shall pass, where the colonel's concerned," she implied.

"I hope you're right," the general answered back, reading perfectly well the message within the message. "I only have one more question."

"Certainly, sir," Janet said.

"Could you, in full knowledge of the mental and physical rigors involved in leading an away-team, recommend that Colonel O'Neill be put back in command of SG-1, after the six to eight weeks needed to complete his recovery?"

Her heart leapt into her throat. Her fingers strangled her pen. She hated him for asking the question—loaded and explosive. She hated that he was under enough pressure to have to ask her to put her professionalism on the line to answer the question. She hated that she would have to rely on duplicity to answer it.

"Sir, with all due respect, I won't know the answer to that until those six to eight weeks are up." Janet never let her focus waver while she said the words. She wanted it to be very clear to the general that even though she understood her place and his pressures, she wouldn't be a party to such obvious railroading.

General Hammond capped his pen, tossed it onto the paper, and sat back in his chair. The time for vagaries and political maneuvering needed to come to an end. He understood "need to know" policy better than most, but he also understood loyalty above all else. He had a duty and a responsibility to his superiors, few as they were, but he had a duty to his men, as well. The two buffeted his conscience, and his only recourse was to do the unthinkable—breech protocol and let his CMO know what was happening.

"Doctor, what I have to tell you can go no farther than this room," he said, and the second the words left his mouth, the more bitter the on-deck words tasted. "There is a movement to offer Colonel O'Neill a promotion to brigadier general."

The statement left her totally speechless. Here she had been thinking they were forcing Jack out, and all the while they were trying to promote him? Janet shook her head, cleared her throat and tried to speak.

"I'm sorry. I guess this is rather a shock," she managed to say.

"It was to me, too," the general said.

"Forgive me for asking, sir, but does that mean the Pentagon has finally decided to make the beta-site a fully-operational base?"

"Unfortunately, that is not what it means," he tried to tell her.

"Then, Colonel O'Neill would be reassigned to..." Her questions, unformulated and incomprehensible, swirled through her mind. "Sir, in order for a promotion to occur, there has to be an opening somewhere in the ranks for a brigadier general. Unless I'm unaware of any resignations, I don't believe the Air Force has any openings at this time."

"There would be a new position created for Colonel O'Neill," the general said.

"A new position," she repeated, and it started to be incrementally clearer to her. "This new position—it wouldn't be in the SGC, would it?"

"No, Doctor, it would not."

Her heart became leaden, her arms suddenly felt numb. Janet pursed her lips, straightened her spine, and gathered up as much stoicism as she could muster. "Does the colonel know?"

"Not yet."

She raised an eyebrow, in lieu of a more dramatic, destructive action. "He's not going to like it."

"He may not have a choice."

She remained stiff-backed and tenacious in her resentment, just as the general remained seated, powerless to stop the machinations of it all.

"Sir, could you ask me those questions again?" she said, her tone brittle.

"No, I'm afraid I can't."

"But, sir—"

"I don't really think anything you say can change the future, Doctor." General Hammond flipped over the pages of his writing pad and gathered his papers in a pile. "But as the colonel's physician, I thought you should know. I need to discuss the matter with him soon, and I'd like you to be aware of the situation beforehand."

"I appreciate that, sir," she said.

The general pushed himself out of his chair, picked up his papers and gave pause to his thoughts.

"I've been in this uniform for close to forty years, and this is the first time I've ever felt like it wasn't an honor to wear it."

With a tear cresting in her eye, Janet held her breath and watched the general quietly leave the room.

Sam sliced her cubes of blue Jell-o, Teal'c chewed his Swiss steak, and Daniel constructed walls out of his mashed potatoes. Occasionally, one of them would acknowledge a passing colleague.

"He said that," Sam reiterated, still shocked by Daniel's conversation with the colonel.

"Yes, he did," Daniel said.

"And you're sure you—"

"No, Sam," Daniel said, before she could suggest anything more. And in fact, Daniel knew she might just question him like this. It seemed, to Daniel, that she was second-guessing him all the time. Questioning his motives, his actions, and, frankly, Daniel was sick of it. Especially since this time he knew he hadn't pushed any of Jack's buttons. Jack hadn't given him time to do so. "No, I didn't set him off in any way, other than I asked him about the aliens from that planet you encountered." Daniel dropped his fork onto his plate with a loud clang. He pushed his tray to the side and planted his elbows into the table. Both hands reached up under his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

"But before that he seemed—"

"Fine," he said, rather brusquely, even to his own ears. He decided to try again. "He seemed fine."

"He is not fine."

Sam and Daniel turned in unison to Teal'c, who, up until that moment, had remained silent.

"In fact," Teal'c continued, weaving his fingers together, "Colonel O'Neill's soul is vexed."

Daniel looked at Sam; Sam looked at Daniel. After a moment, Daniel held up one finger, and said, "Um, exactly when did Jack become a gladiator?"

"Daniel," Sam interrupted, incredulous. "Exactly when did you become such a smart ass?"

"This is something I've just become, Sam?" Daniel asked, eyeing her with great irritation and sarcasm.

"No, but lately it seems worse," she countered, turning fully toward him.

"Lately?"

"Yes, lately."

"Since when?"

"Since," she hedged, "since you came back."

"Oh, really."

"Yes, really!"

"And you think it has something to do with me descending," he said, becoming agitated by her innuendos.

"I don't know," she said, leaning toward him. "Seems that way to me."

"Well, why don't I refer to my book—Recently Descended Beings for Dummies," he crowed. "Maybe there's a chapter on side effects!"

"Maybe you should!"

"Major Carter! DanielJackson!" Teal'c bellowed, gaining their immediate and startled attention. "This behavior is neither productive nor beneficial."

The two stopped, the wind summarily taken out of their sails. And yet a residue of hurt and resentment hovered between them. Daniel was the first to break the stubbornly held staring contest. He swiped a finger under his nose, cleared his throat, and said, "You're right, Teal'c. I'm sorry. I think I'm just a little..."

"Yeah," Sam said, taking over for Daniel. "I think we're all a little..."

"Tired," Daniel added.

"Concerned," Sam furthered.

"As am I," Teal'c said.

They sat there, the remaining three, trying to spool their emotions back to order. Finally, Daniel said, "So, um...vexed."

"In the extreme," Teal'c qualified.

They all knew it. Sam hadn't wanted to believe it, but she knew it. "Okay," she said, "so, how can we help?"

"By allowing O'Neill the time to find peace." Teal'c pushed his plate away from him, wove his fingers together and allowed the information to settle in their thoughts.

"Meaning we need to leave him alone," Sam said.

"He must be allowed to look inside himself in order to find that peace," Teal'c told her, choosing to ignore the smirk on Daniel's face. "His heart, if I am using the Tau'ri representation of the spirit correctly, is being weighed down. Only he can lift that encumbrance."

"Yeah, okay, but there are questions that need to be answered," Daniel said, truly not interested in encumbrances or Tau'ri representations for anything. "Jack would be the first to understand that."

"And you shall have your answers," Teal'c stated, "in time."

"Okay, so—what?—a few days? A week? Can you be a little more specific?" Daniel asked, gesticulating with stiff movements.

"It is said that even the most storm-crashed sea calms quickly, but only when the storm has died," Teal'c said.

"It's also said confession is good for the soul, Teal'c," Daniel said, winking for good measure, lest the sarcasm in his voice not adequately display his disdain.

Teal'c stared at the space between his two friends, tired of the prattle. "There is a storm in his soul, and we must no longer supply the winds."

"Yeah, see," Sam added, grimacing, "I'm more inclined to think the colonel needs to get it off his chest. I'm not talking about cornering him and demanding he talk to us. I'm talking about the three of us going to see him, sitting down with him, offering our support."

"It is not what is needed."

"Well, he certainly doesn't need to be left alone," Daniel said, waving his hands through the air, underscoring his frustration. "How will it look if we we we just...let him carry on like this? Won't that send the message that...that there's something out there that we don't understand, and because one of us was injured, we shouldn't continue the investigation? I mean, just think about the message that sends to—oh, I don't know—Washington?"

"I don't think that's what Teal'c was saying, Daniel," Sam said, pivoting her body toward him.

"I am merely suggesting that during this time of convalescence, O'Neill should be allowed to completely heal," Teal'c said.

"Yeah, well," Daniel said, smacking his lips, arching his brow, "I think you're wrong. I'm all for letting Jack heal, but I refuse to believe he'd be better off wallowing in his misery." He rose to his feet, gathered his plates and cups on his tray, and chose his final words. "I agree Jack needs to find peace, but I think the only way to do that is for Jack to face whatever demons are bothering him."

"There are no demons involved, DanielJackson," Teal'c informed him.

Daniel shook his head, sighed, and said, "Well then, whatever." He lifted his tray, resolute that his was the best course of action, and to that end he told Teal'c and Sam that he was going to find Jack, pretend that the elevator incident never happened, and indeed help him find his peace. On Daniel's terms.

In his wake, Sam stared at Teal'c, mystified by Daniel's recent behavior—erratic and shortsighted.

"I believe DanielJackson is also burdened, Major Carter," Teal'c said.

"I'd like to take him out back and ease him of that burden, Teal'c," she said, gripping her hands together. "I gotta tell ya, Teal'c, his attitude is starting to grate on my last nerve."

"His attitude, as you say, is merely a symptom of his own burden," Teal'c said.

Sam chortled, shook her head and gathered up her tray. "Yeah, well, everybody's burdened in one way or another. When's it gonna be my turn?"

Watching Sam leave, trailing behind her such bitterness, Teal'c reminded himself that at thirty-seven years old, Major Carter was still very young.

Jack had always prided himself on being a quick study, even if Carter thought it might never make sense to him how each and every molecule found its way back in place when they exited the wormhole. Wasn't it possible, he theorized, that one day he'd step into the event horizon your basic, ordinary man, and when he got to the other side, his knees bent the wrong way, or his navel turned up on his forehead? For her part, Carter would only say, "Possible, not probable. But tell me if you feel the need to chew gum with your toes, sir."

Jack was fairly sure Carter was making fun of him, but just to be safe he discontinued carrying gum in his jacket. Probably one of those things he didn't want to know about. And Carter was probably kidding. He hoped.

Yes, there were things worth learning, in which case he learned them quickly, and things not worth learning, in which case he didn't.

Learning not to do a flip turn at the end of the pool with a crack in your pelvis was well worth learning.

In fact, any kind of turning was something of which Jack thought he might stay clear, at least for the time being.

Still, it was nice being able to get out of the SGC, even if it meant doing laps in the Air Force Academy pool. His physical therapist called it aquatic therapy and used such terms as buoyancy assistive and resistive, decrease in compression, vibration and torsion forces. Something called a hydrotone belt came into the conversation, and that's where Jack stopped being even remotely interested.

"Listen," he had told the young officer, "if you want me to swim, I'll swim. I'll make like a fish, and be one with the water, but don't ask me to accessorize."

So Jack did just that. Everyday for ten days, Jack hobbled into the pool and made like a fish. He swam one lap after another, varying his strokes, just like he promised he would, but never once wearing any flotation device.

And all the while he thought that no self-respecting Minnesotan would ever consider a chlorinated swimming pool a good use of water. Clear, fish-filled and preferably free of pesky vacationers, yes, that was a good use of water. Frozen, lacking any fissures, and with a whole village of ice fishing shanties within sight of the goal—another very good use of water. But a 25-meter rectangle with plastic lane markers was not, by any definition, a good use of water.

Unless it meant Jack could get back to being an upright member of society faster. There he could almost see the value. Almost.

But the whole flip-turn issue at the end of a lap? Not so much.

Still, Jack had to admit he appreciated the quiet. Rank had some privileges, and being able to use the pool alone was one of them. No SGC personnel to pester him; no physical therapist to tell him how well he was doing; no short, Napoleonic doctors to remind him to take it easy; no eyes to look at him; no fears to address. No need to think. Just swim. Grasp hold of the kick board. Kick and breathe. Don't think. Get to the end, turn around. Keep kicking. Eyes straight ahead. Clear your thoughts. Breathe. Kick. Quiet.

"Hey, Jack."

Jack flinched, muttered a few wet epithets, but kept kicking.

"Janet said you'd be here."

Eyes straight ahead. Come to the end, and turn around.

"How many laps have you done so far?"

Switch from scissor kick to frog kick. Much slower and hurts like hell, but still going forward. Breathe...

"You, uh, you wearin' earplugs by chance?"

Much slower. Too slow. And too painful. Switch to backstroke, and hope when the thrown kickboard sails through the air, it will peg Daniel.

"Hey!" Daniel said, jumping out of the way of the flying piece of foam. He shoved his hands in his pockets and frowned. "You can hear me, can't you?"

Something about the backstroke that makes the world go away. Oh, right—ears underwater. Good stroke...

"Well, I'm just going to talk, since I know you can hear me," Daniel said, following alongside Jack on the pool's deck. "Sam and I were thinking about our last mission. We think we know what happened, or...not. That is to say we think there may be a reason for us to go back."

Look for the flags draped across the 5-meter mark. Watch for the ladder out of the corner of the eye just before the wall. Touch the wall, turn, but don't push off too hard.

"See, Sam and I think there were two different kinds of people...well, the term being relative and all, nonetheless, there might have been another race on the planet, one that was capable of of of generating a stasis chamber. I mean, it was obvious that the race we met wasn't capable of that, so it just stands to reason that there had to be someone else, or many others, for that matter, on that planet. Nice goggles, by the way. Those standard Air Force issue?"

Breathe. Focus on the ceiling. Reach back. Kick. Think of something peaceful. Think of a different stroke. Think of one that will block out that annoying voice.

"Anyhow, we think Nirrti has something to do with the differences between the races," Daniel said, watching Jack turn over in the water and begin the front crawl. "I mean, it's just a hunch at this point, but it's a pretty good one, and unless we go back there, we'll never know." Daniel swiped his forehead and pushed his glasses up on top of his head. "How warm is that water? It's a steam bath in here." He continued to pace alongside Jack. Noticing that Jack was ten meters from the end, Daniel turned the corner of the pool and decided to wait for him, hoping he'd make eye contact when Jack hit the wall. Daniel hiked up the front of his pants and crouched down in front of the lane. "I know you said you didn't think we should go back, but Sam and I both think there's a lot there to learn."

Two meters from the wall. Touch and turn, or flip turn? To hell with the pain. Flip turn it is. Okay, here we go. Big breath, and...

Jack's legs slapped against the surface, and a wall of water crashed into Daniel. He threw up his arms as if that would stop the water, lost his balance and plunked down onto the wet tile. Dripping wet, his arms thrust out to the side, Daniel blinked the water out of his eyes, while Jack glided below the surface, his hip burning with pain, his mouth turned up in a satisfied smirk.

"Yeah, the water...yeah, it feels pretty nice," Daniel called out, shaking his arms, airing out his jacket. "Thanks very much there, Jack."

Kick. Don't laugh. Could choke. Kick. Ouch...

Daniel stood up, drenched, rubbed his hair free of excess moisture, and watched Jack cruise down the lane. "I guess I'll take that as you'd rather talk about this another time," he yelled down the lane. When Jack continued to swim and not respond to Daniel, Daniel shook out his hands one more time and moved to the exit. "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

In a conciliatory move, Jack raised one hand and waved to Daniel.

And kept moving. Away from Daniel's concerns. Away from pain. Away from care. Away from fear.

If truth be told, Jack was never more grateful than right at that moment for the bulletproof glass that separated him from the embarkation room. He was indignantly grateful for the protection.

There was a time when Jack could stand at the window overlooking the gate room and know with absolute clarity that come hell or high water (either one fairly easy to achieve in the dregs of a missile silo...) he'd protect the place. Sometimes it only took a well-placed sarcastic remark, and other times it took a nuke. Either way, his actions were effective.

Anymore, however, nothing seemed very effective. The way he saw it, since returning from that miserable little planet, his efficacy was downright embarrassing. Hell, he couldn't even bend over to pick up his morning paper. He'd had to tell himself over and over to hold it together, but there was this weight, a tightness in his chest. He had hoped it would go away once he was out of the infirmary, where the eyes of the entire SGC seemed to be looking in on him 24/7, but it didn't. No matter where he went, it stayed with him. He'd close his eyes, and all he could see were those hundreds of pairs of pin dots, staring at him. They could see it, he was sure. They still could see it.

Strange memories haunted him, thrown up against a cruel screen in his mind. Mere moments in a life that any other time would have been categorized as trivial. One in particular, and Jack resented its insinuation, resented his own mind for having dredged it out. He had been brushing his teeth one late night, having arrived home after Sarah and Charlie had gone to sleep. He was trying to be quiet, he didn't want to disturb them, but when he finished, when he had turned from the sink, Charlie was standing in the doorway, silent as a ghost. Jack gasped.

"I'm sad about something, but I don't know what it is," Charlie had said, his chin quivering, his eyes wet and round as saucers.

Jack didn't really deal with those things, kind of hoped Sarah would have heard their son and taken over, but when Jack glanced over the top of Charlie's head and down the hall to their bedroom, he saw that his wife was out for the night.

"Um, okay," Jack whispered, crouching down in front of his son. He wrapped his hands around Charlie's thin upper arms. "What are you sad about, champ?"

"I just told you. I don't know," Charlie said, winding his arms around his dad's neck, pressing his eyes into his dad's warm neck.

Jack enveloped him with his entire body and had no idea what to say or what to do. "Well, are you worried about something at school? Huh?"

But Charlie was finished trying to explain the unexplainable. He choked Jack's neck in his arms and sobbed.

Why Jack had to remember that moment, he'd never know. It had to have happened ten years prior, and not once had he ever thought about it, until recently.

"Hold it together," he reminded himself, massaging his eyes.

However, he could either hold onto his stoicism, or he could hold onto his cane. He couldn't do both, and maintaining his stoicism wasn't going to keep him upright, so...

He strangled the grip of his cane. His knuckles white around it. Children and old men could afford moments of ambiguity, not officers. He was an officer, a hardened, career soldier. There just wasn't room for self-doubt.

His father had taught him to be a leader of men; the Air Force had taught him to be a soldier; his mother had taught him to be a smart-ass—he was the perfect triple threat. He was forty when they made him a colonel; forty-five when he had his third knee surgery. Even so, he had led his team—led all the teams, with or without a knee brace—with bravado and growling doggedness. He'd faced system lords, crooked politicians, treasonous soldiers and humorless scientists—faced them all, and reduced them with nothing but a P-90 and a smirk. No, there was no room for weakness.

Seven years he had watched over the gate room as the CO of SG1, and not once did he ever doubt his tenacity. Well, he doubted it now. And holding a cane in your hand precluded any vibe that you were in any way a threat. Not to anyone out there, that is. Fifty was shuffling up his walkway, holding a bouquet of laxatives and a box of bifocals, and it wasn't going to leave until Jack opened the door.

And all Jack could think to do was rush up to the nearest person and say, "I'm scared about something but I don't know what it is."

"Jack."

He spun his head around too quickly and felt a twinge go down through his back. "Sir?"

"It's good to see you back on your feet," General Hammond said.

"Yes, sir," Jack said, frowning. "My feet are glad to see me...back, too."

General Hammond chuckled. He surely did enjoy the man. He was going to miss him, and with that thought, General Hammond lost all feel for the humorous. "Jack, do you have a minute?"

Jack eyed the general carefully before saying, "Yes, sir." The general set the pace back to his office, relaxed and at ease, as if he always checked for dust on the credenza.

"Have a seat, Colonel," the senior officer said, motioning toward the chair across from him. He watched his usually spry 2IC slowly lower himself into the chair, and General Hammond tried hard not to wince in sympathy for Jack. "You look like you're doing well. I suppose it could have been much worse." Jack bobbed his head noncommittally, and the general went on. "That ol' Irish luck of yours, huh?"

"Yes, sir," Jack said, all the while silently berating his heritage for its decided lack of good fortune.

"Jack," the general said, resting his elbows on his desk, his hands clasped together, "Washington has plans for you."

"Washington, sir? As in George, or the Redskins?" Jack asked, buying time in a conversation he knew he didn't want to be a part of. When the general chuckled again at Jack's lame joke, Jack knew the information was going to be worse than expected.

"There are plans in the works to promote you, Colonel."

"I think I'd rather be a place kicker." There it was, the constant, brooding aura. It was a scared feeling, one that doesn't quite take hold, but it's hovering there, just beneath the surface. One of being watched, of imminent doom.  If I hold still, don't react, maybe the fear won't take root.

"How do feel about brigadier general?" General Hammond paused a moment to let the message sink in, also to get a better read on how Jack was going to take it. When he was met by impassivity, the general continued. "There's a new position opening up in the Pentagon for an officer, just like yourself, who knows the ins and outs of this program. You'd be the administrator of the SGC, working in alliance with the oversight committee—"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Jack finally interjected, seething with resentment, while a distant part of him was grateful that anger had taken precedence over the bone-numbing trepidation trying to tighten its grip on his soul. "They're promoting me to a desk jockey, and I don't think there's one person between here and DC who doesn't know just how much I hate paperwork, not to mention the oversight committee!"

"This is your chance to make some changes, Colonel, for the better," the general told Jack, with a quiet in his voice that bespoke his earnest commiseration.

Jack's foot began to bounce, his cheek fell to his awaiting hand, and his mind went blank with rage.

"You'll still be involved in the decision making process of the SGC, Jack. You'll still be a part of our continuing mission."

Jack could taste blood in his mouth. Bile. Iron. Swamp gas. This wasn't the way it supposed to happen.

"So, that's it. I'm a general. Just like that."

"Well, no. Not just like that."

"Do I have a say in this, sir?" Jack asked, not able to look his CO in the eye, lest he see the white-hot anger, the inextinguishable...inextinguishable—what was it, he wondered.

"Jack, you passed your officer's exam years ago," the general said, fully knowing he was adding insult to injury. "You had a say at that time."

"So, I'm out."

"Well, not quite, but..."

"May I speak freely, sir?"

"By all means."

"This bites."

"Yes, it does."

"It bites, sucks, blows, stinks, and pretty much eats it."

"I couldn't agree more."

What could he do but shake his head and feel like he had just been put out to pasture, but not before they had castrated him? A career soldier works all his life for advancement, but all Jack could see on his tombstone was "General Jack O'Neill. Old soldiers never die. They just get reassigned to the Pentagon." What was it that crushed his spirit? Inextinguishable sadness.

Old men and little boys. He wasn't a little boy anymore, which left only one choice. He was out. His field days were over, and if they had asked him, Jack would have been hard pressed at that moment to argue.

The eyes had known what they were looking at.

"Permission to get the hell out of your office, sir," Jack said, grinding out each word like a rusty chain over corroded gears.

"Certainly."

Surprised by the quickness in Jack's step, the general thought that maybe there is grace in anger. It seemed to override physical pain.

"See, this is what I'm talking about," Daniel said, swinging into Sam's lab uninvited, his vision focused on the opened notebook in his hands. He didn't notice when Sam visibly jumped, startled by his sudden appearance, or if he had, he didn't think it was more important than what was in the journal.

"Hey, Daniel," Sam said, her hand to her chest, able to feel her heart pounding against it. "You scared me."

Daniel glanced up for a brief moment and then back down. "Oh. So, this is what I was trying to explain to you, about Jonas' notes."

"That's it," she said, turning from her computer, ready to take on Daniel's misplaced obsession here and now. "Daniel, I think we need to discuss your motivation."

Daniel spun the book around for Sam to see the sketches. "Isn't this what we saw on P57-263?"

Sam closed the book, and said, "264. Daniel. We need to talk."

Daniel squinted to look more closely at her, wondering what he had missed. "That's what I'm trying to do, Sam."

"No, not about the mission. About your... fixation with it."

"I'm sorry?" he said.

Sam swallowed hard and readied herself to hit Daniel with the truth. "The more I think about it, the more I agree with Teal'c. I think we should leave it alone."

"Leave what alone?"

Her eyes widened at Daniel's stubborn single-mindedness, and she shrugged. "Trying to get back there. Trying to find answers to questions that no one is asking but you. Does any of this sound familiar?"

"I've made a career out of asking those questions," he said, defending himself. "It seems to me we've made a lot of progress because I've been asking those questions."

"Yeah, but...maybe not this time. I gotta wonder if this time you're asking them for a different reason." Oh, boy, did she know that look of his—mouth opened wide, eyebrows practically at his hairline, his eyes opening and closing slowly. Oh, yeah. Here it comes...

"So, you're saying that I'm...somehow sublimating my inadequacies by doing exhaustive research? Is that it?" he asked, crushing the notebook to his chest.

"Well, that's not what I was going to say, but," she said, "I definitely think there's some kind of transference going on."

"So, so, so, let me get this straight," Daniel said, beginning an angry stroll around her lab, his words rattling off his tongue like a howitzer. "My motivation here, in your opinion, isn't about figuring out what happened to Jack, but about trying to outsmart Jonas."

"Um, no," Sam said, eyeing him sidelong, with great incredulity.

"But in a nutshell, that's pretty much what you're saying."

"Did I mention Jonas? Did I, at any point, mention that I thought you were feeling inadequate?" she demanded of him, cutting him off at the far corner of her lab table.

"Well, I suppose I was just reading between the lines, as it were. Coming to my own conclusions." He cocked his head to the side and glared at her. "Why should you be the only one who can practice the art of conjecture?"

"Okay, look," she said, her hands up between them. "That's not what I'm saying."

"Then what are you saying?"

"It's...have you really sat down and asked yourself why you feel it's so important to go back there?"

"Yes," he said, in that sarcastic way that made the nerves in Sam's neck stand on end. "And I thought you agreed with me on the point. It's important, Sam, to find out who these people are and how we can help them."

Sam closed her eyes, stung by the words. "How we can help them? Whoa, I thought the point was to help the colonel."

Daniel bobbled a minute, and said, "Yeah, him, too."

"Daniel," she said, smiling gently but brooking no false empathy, "I think you want to go back there for reasons other than helping the colonel. I'm not really sure you've honestly thought this through."

Daniel considered that a moment, nodded his head, and said, "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Well, let me tell you what I'm thinking right now."

Sam's spine became an unyielding pole of indignation, and she stared him down, saying, "Maybe you need to rethink that, as well."

"Maybe you're right."

When the door behind him slammed, Sam shook her head and laughed, a sound that was anything but humored.

A paper pusher. A relic. Is that what his career had come to?

He'd heard once that in Japan they take workers who don't meet up to standards and give them a desk with nothing to do until they quit. Spares the executives the untidy business of actually having to fire anyone.

That's what Jack felt like was happening to him: He was going to be sent off to DC, where he would turn to dust in some cubicle, just like all those artifacts they sent off to God knows where. He was going to be holed up behind a partition, and the only action he'd see would be the daily threat of a paper cut.

Then again, maybe that would be too much.

How long did he have to call this office his own? How long would it be before they stripped him of his command? How long ago had he seen this coming?

The eyes saw it. They saw everything.

His head drooped forward, as if the weight of his troubles made it impossible for him to hold it up. He had to remind himself to breathe. He was probably close to blacking out, he thought, but he couldn't change his position, and he couldn't begin to think of how to stop it.

A lifetime of service to his country, and suddenly he was obsolete. Useless. Finally, someone realized he was as old as he felt, and finally, someone was putting an end to the charade. And it was a charade. Two years ago, he would have heard his kidnappers. Two years ago, no one would have caught him literally with his pants down. Two years ago, he should have retired.

It was pride that kept him in a young officer's position. Pride that fueled his grandiosity. Well, his tanks were empty, and his pride was another useless commodity.

"Jack," Daniel said, rapping at Jack's door, not stopping to see if he'd be given permission to enter.

"Not now, Daniel."

"Now just hear me out," Daniel began, placing the journal on Jack's desk.

"Daniel, this isn't a good time."

"No, I'm sure it's not," Daniel said, sliding his glasses onto his head, disregarding Jack's mood. "Look, I've been reading over these notes, and I—"

If Daniel wasn't going to leave, and years of experience told him that was a distinct possibility, then Jack was going to leave. Either way, he had no intention of listening to Daniel. "Daniel, I don't want to hear it," Jack said, leveraging his body out of his chair.

"Yes, so you've said." Daniel grabbed the journal and began to follow Jack. "I think this is important enough that you might just be interested."

Jack hobbled across his office to the door, where, out of breath, he rested momentarily against the casing. A volcanic pressure brewed in his gut. "Daniel, dammit, I said I didn't want to talk about it. Got it?!"

"No, Jack. You've been blowing me off for weeks now. This can't wait."

He could feel the strain beginning to build, nearing a point when he wouldn't be able to contain its fury. A sheen of sweat dotted his skin, and his vision began to gray. "I swear to God, Daniel—"

"Just do me a favor and look at this," Daniel insisted, opening the journal to the same page he had tried to show Sam. "Are these or are they not—"

"Daniel—"

"—the aliens who—"

Jack fisted a handful of hair and pulled hard. His ears roared with the dangerous surge of his blood pressure. He wanted to scream, to run, to hide.

"—abducted you?"

"Daniel, I swear..."

"If you would just look—"

Jack stretched tight the skin across his forehead, his head that was about to explode.

"—at these pictures, then—"

Jack spun around and connected with Daniel's jaw, sending his glasses flying across the room. Daniel's legs wobbled, he stumbled back.

"Jesus, Jack," Daniel muttered, reaching out to grab hold of any stationary item. "I just—"

A crack, and the office went black for a second. Daniel found himself sitting on the floor, holding his jaw, completely speechless and utterly unable to recognize the man standing over him, shaking out his fist.

A current of panic, arcing and wild, shot through Jack's body. Had he just hit Daniel? Had he just assaulted one of his teammates?

"Oh, my God," he whispered, watching a trail of blood dribble down his friend's chin.

"You son of a bitch," Daniel said, glaring up at Jack, with eyes full of shock, anger and betrayal. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth, the pain taking full hold of his jaw. "You goddamn son of a bitch."

But Jack didn't stay long enough to hear it, not that he could hear. All sounds were drowned out by the roar of panic, the tumult of fear. He was out the door and down the hall before he could catch up to his careening thoughts. One hand against the cement walls, the other tacked to his throbbing hip, Jack hopped and limped a hectic pace to the general's office.

"'Scuse me, sir," Siler said, plastering himself against the opposite wall, watching Jack blindly chug by.

His air came in gulps, his heart smacked against his ribcage, forcing highly pressurized blood through narrowly constricted arteries. Temples throbbed, gut ached. Critical, critical, red zone and rising.

"Permission to take a leave of absence, sir!" Jack bellowed, practically tumbling into Hammond's office.

"Colonel, what in the hell—"

"Permission to take that leave effective immediately, sir!"

General Hammond looked the man up and down. Not ten minutes earlier the same man was in his office, angry but in control. Here he was again, panting, sweat dripping off his face, with an awful look of desperation in his black eyes. "Why don't we sit down, son, and—"

"No, sir! I can't do that, sir!" Trembling and ready to burst out in blood-curdling cries, Jack jammed the butt of his hand into his eye, and said, "Either give me permission to take some time, or I swear to God I'll resign right here. I'll...I'll walk out of this place, go AWOL. I swear to God, General, I'll..."

"How much time do you need?"

Jack stopped, swallowed hard. "Ah, God, I...I don't know."

"Permission granted."

And he was on his way out of the mountain.

He and Jack had had some moments, some tense moments, but it had never come to blows, not without one of them having been addicted to a sarcophagus or inoculated with a virus.

Okay, so they'd come to blows before, but not like this.

He looked at his face in the mirror, dabbed at the trail of blood tracing out of his mouth. He ran his finger along his bottom molars, and was pretty sure one of them was cracked. Maybe two. He turned on the water and washed the blood off his hand, spit more blood into the drain.

"Daniel? You in here?"

Daniel ripped three paper towels out of the dispenser, wiped his hands and folded one to press against his lip. "Men's bathroom, Sam."

"Yeah, I'll keep that in mind next time I have to go," she said, stepping into the echoing room. Sam sidled in next to Daniel and took a look at him in the mirror. "Let me see."

Daniel just stared at her, ill tempered and pitiful. When she turned to face him and to take the towel away, Daniel stepped back and allowed her a quick glimpse of his swollen and bloody lip. The left side of his jaw was puffy and already mottled with purple bruising. Sam sucked in air through her teeth and winced.

"You think anyone will notice?" Daniel asked, chuckling inappropriately. He looked at the bloodstained paper towel in his hand, threw it away and grabbed a new one.

"You need to go to the infirmary," she said, inspecting the rest of his face for bruises.

"Right. Good idea. 'So, Doctor Jackson, how'd this happen?' Oh, you know, Colonel O'Neill happened to be doing some shadow boxing, and I just happened to be a shadow. Twice." He slumped against the sink and could feel the blood pooling once again in his mouth. "Shit," he mumbled, turning around to spit. Sam averted her eyes.

"You could have a cracked jaw, Daniel. There could be damage to your sinuses." Sam tore one of the towels from the metal container and ran it under the water until it was as cold as she could make it. She held it to his lip while her other hand pressed against the back of his head. "You could have a concussion. You probably need stitches. You—"

"I pushed him, Sam. I pushed, and he punched," Daniel said, his enunciation becoming garbled.

"I know." His hand grasped her wrist and just held it. He couldn't quite meet her eye, and she knew from having taken a few hits herself how he must be shaking.

"I can't believe what just happened," he whispered, closing his eyes, the rush of adrenaline tapering off. His jaw pounded; his lip, too. There was an insistent ringing in his ears, and he was pretty sure he was going to have to sit down very soon.

"We'll talk about it in the infirmary," Sam said, her hand moving to his back to usher him out of the bathroom. "Daniel, I have to ask—I mean, it's my duty to ask. Do you wish to press charges against Colonel O'Neill?"

He thought about it a moment, paused on his way out of the lavatory. He shook his head, which was a really bad idea, and said, "Jack's a real son of a bitch for this, but...I don't want to..." Even if it did make his brain feel like it was sloshing up against his skull, he shook his head again. What more could he say?

"Okay. I understand." Sam pulled the door open and let Daniel pass by. "We'll just go see Janet and—"

"Sam," Daniel said, grabbing her arm, "I can't go to the infirmary because they'll make me file a report."

Sam wrestled with her options and had to agree. "Okay, so, we'll go back to your office and call Janet."

"Janet's an officer, Sam," Daniel reminded her. "She's going to want to know how it happened."

"Janet's also a friend," Sam reminded Daniel. She patted him on the back and began to walk. "We'll tell her I did it."

"Do you think she'll believe that?"

Sam smiled. "Oh, yeah. She'll believe that."

"DanielJackson, Sergeant Siler has just informed me that you were injured," Teal'c said, charging toward them.

"Wow, Siler sure does get around," Sam said.

"I'm fine, Teal'c." Daniel touched his tongue to the still bleeding gash in his lip.

Teal'c's gaze fell wholly on Daniel's eyes. "Did O'Neill cause you this harm?"

"Uh, yup." The last thing Daniel wanted was for another member of the SGC to come upon them and start asking questions, so he began to walk a little quicker.

"He meant you no harm, I am sure," Teal'c said.

"Yes, I suppose his hand just kind of darted out there of its own accord," Daniel said, smirking. "Twice, by the way. Not that I'm counting."

"If O'Neill were in his healthy mind, this would not have happened." An airman ambled by. Daniel pretended to scratch his cheek; Teal'c nodded a salutation.

"I'm not excusing him, Daniel, but the colonel would have never done this before." Sam noticed the flesh along his jaw line had begun to discolor. "Again, I'm not condoning his behavior, but the colonel hasn't been himself lately."

"I know." Daniel closed his eyes and allowed Sam to guide him through the corridor. "I know. So I guess that whole 'leave him be' thing you were going with is something I should have considered, huh, Teal'c?"

"Perhaps."

"I'm on board now," Daniel said, rotating his neck.

Teal'c set his eyes on the end of the hall and spoke in a hushed rumble. "That time has passed."

"What are you saying, Teal'c?" Sam asked.

"It would seem that O'Neill has gone beyond wandering," Teal'c said, pausing to let yet another airman pass. "He is now lost, and must be found."

"Yeah, well, considering our last conversation, I don't think I'm the best candidate," Daniel said, touching his swollen jaw.

"I could go talk to him," Sam offered.

"Major Carter, you would be a most suitable candidate in any other circumstances," he said, allowing Sam room to swipe her access card through the elevator panel. "But I believe it is I who should seek him out."

There was a silence, and Daniel said, "Okay, I'll ask—why?"

"O'Neill and I are old soldiers. We speak, as it were, the same language."

"I don't know, Teal'c," Daniel said, the labor of which sent spikes of agony through his jaw, "I'm not sure anyone speaks whatever the hell language Jack attempts to speak."

"On the contrary, O'Neill and I understand each other perfectly." Teal'c observed Daniel's posture, stooped, holding onto Sam's shoulder far too precariously. He stepped to Daniel's side and removed his hand from Sam, who mouthed a thank you. "I believe I alone can help him find his sin'tek'ateh." Teal'c draped Daniel's arm across his massive shoulder.

"Yes, well," Daniel began, but he weighed the cost between a laying out a snarky comment and abusing his jaw further, and decided to remain quiet.

"Plus, I do not believe O'Neill would strike me." The elevator doors whooshed open before Daniel could counter Teal'c's remark. The three piled inside, the doors closed, and two different buttons were punched.

The first seven hundred miles, the Colorado Springs to Des Moines stretch, went by in a blur. Jack had been so engrossed in thought that he almost missed where 76 meets 80, which would have been bad. He really couldn't deal with having to turn back, even for a few miles.

again, it wasn't thought that was drawing his attention. It was more like a knot of emotions, like wet leather bootstraps impossibly tangled, coming from totally different directions, all snarled together. There was anger, despair, fear—demoralizing moments of the reality he was in. It was exhausting. Yet, he drove on, grateful for cruise control, fueled by caffeine and crullers.

At a breakneck speed, he had raced from the mountain to home, jammed whatever clothes he could find in his duffle, and was out the door. There was no way in hell he was going to stick around, no way he was going to be caught in his house where Carter or Teal'c or...or even Daniel might stop by, just to check in on him. He didn't want anyone to check in on him. He just wanted them all to leave him the hell alone.

It was best that way.

God, what the hell did I bring? Did I bring a jacket, even? Spring is cold up there. I can buy a jacket. Did I bring shoes?

Two hundred and fifty-two miles to Minneapolis. He'd been driving straight through for ten hours, except for gas and coffee stops. Another three, three and a half hours to go, and he'd be practically there. He'd stop for a meal. There was a good truck stop just off the interstate. He could taste the meatloaf, mashed potatoes and carrot and peas medley. He could also feel the indigestion starting. Or maybe that had nothing to do with the meal.

Ah, God, I hit Daniel. Daniel...

Whenever he tried to unravel that particular knot, a wave of deep despair crashed over him. He tried not to think about it, could hardly believe it happened, chose not to, in fact. But the ache in his knuckles reminded him, and the almost palpable burn in his gut served to throw the fact in his face time after time—he had struck his friend. He, an officer in uniform, for Christ's sake, had hit one of his own teammates.

God help me...

Two hundred and fifty-two miles suddenly seemed too far to drive. Jack pulled over at the next rest stop, turned off the truck, and hunched over the steering wheel, until his chest stopped hurting, or until sleep came to him. He hoped it would be sleep. He needed it. His eyes ached, and the muscles up the back of his head burned. He hated to admit it, but his hip sizzled with pain. All in all, not one of his best days.

He supposed it didn't really matter when he drove into town. No one was expecting him, not like anyone was there to greet him when he did arrive. That alone brought him comfort. Better that he not be where other people were. Better to leave it all behind.

Jack unlatched his seatbelt and dug through his coat pockets for his painkillers. So he had brought a jacket. Okay, he didn't remember that part, but you know, what the hell. He shook one pill out, downed it with the remainder of his cold coffee and sat back. Let sleep come. Yeah, this was better. Anonymous along highway 35, where no one would ask him questions, or give him bad news, or check his progress, or get in his face, or be a face—a thousand faces, with a thousand eyes.

Come on, Vicodin. Do your stuff...

Anger had always been the weak spot in his character. It had been the theme that ruled most of his life—anger at this person, that alien, himself. Daniel, a lot. But he had never intentionally physically abused anyone. That is, he hadn't struck anyone who didn't really deserve it, and the courts martial board had backed him up on that a number of times. But this punch, this one would probably land him in the brig. Maybe it was about time. He was a loose canon, and he knew it. More importantly, they knew it, and on the off chance that Daniel didn't file charges, the Air Force was going to slap a star on each of Jack's shoulders and shovel him into a dark corner to rot.

If Daniel didn't file charges, if General Hammond didn't file papers on his rogue officer, then maybe it was for the best that he leave the SGC. Take the promotion, and live with the emptiness his new rank held. It was his penance.

It was probably the first time in his whole career when he agreed with the Pentagon on anything.

Anger had always been his weakness. Guilt, his undoing.

Part 3

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