I toggle my radio. "Carter?"
"Almost there, sir," comes her static response.
"Good. Cause I'm freezin' my ass off." Besides, an aging AF colonel bleeding out was not a part of the mission briefing.
I stare up at the seemingly endless supply of snowflakes drifting down to blanket me. It's been snowing for 12 hours, ever since we arrived, and there's no sign of it stopping.
Gasping, I try to sit up. The pain is as piercing as the cold. "Dammit!" I drop back onto the wet ground. Okay. That was not the best idea I've ever had. All I've managed to do is make my vision dim and my stomach roil. To top matters off, I've also seen how badly I'm hurt.
The glimpse is enough to assure me that I actually am hurt as bad as I feel. It that weren't bad enough, which it is by the way, the relentless snow is beginning to drift around me. If my team doesn't hurry, all they're going to find is a bleeding snowman lying broken at the bottom of a cliff. A messy, frozen Humpty-Dumpty.
Not quite as bad as Antarctica. Not yet. But it's beginning to rival it.
* *I wake up coughing, and squint at a bright, pale-grey ceiling. Not dull, SGC-grey, but something else. Coughing again, just once to clear my throat, I frown and blink as something soft drifts down and tangles in my eyelashes. Raising my hand, I fumble to wipe away whatever it is.
My fingers feel cold, wooden and . . . wet? What the hell?
Blinking against the fluffy stuff trying to coat the surface of my eyeballs, I suddenly remember: snow, cliff, slick, falling.
I try to move. Oh, God!
Add: broken, busted, bleeding.
I realize that my radio is alive with voices. People are calling my name and rank. Someone, Daniel I think, is cussing at me.
"Dammit, Jack, answer me!"
How rude.
Groaning, pain lancing through the lower half of me, I reach with a shaky hand and toggle the switch. My numb fingers slide off. Wait. Not numb. Slick. I glance at them and find that they're coated with thickening, chilling blood. Mine. Me, myself and I.
I press the radio again, more firmly. "Dan-," I have to swallow as bile rises up the back of my throat. I suddenly feel sick. Very sick. "Daniel?" And my voice is weak, breathless.
"Jack?" He sounds breathless, too. "Thank God. Are you all right? I thought . . . why didn't you answer me?"
Oh, I don't know. Busy . . . passing out! Instead, I manage a weak "hurt." Pathetic whiner.
"Hang on, Colonel. We're almost there."
Yeah. So you said.
"Sir?"
Amazingly, my mind is totally clear. All sorts of smart-assed comments are lining up behind the synapses that connect my brain to my vocal cords; unfortunately for the act of speech, I'm too busy trying to breathe. Speaking is going to have to take a number. Other things come first, like trying to NOT hurl, NOT bleed, NOT scream. This is so fun . . . NOT.
Despite my best efforts, vomiting is inevitable. Trying to roll to my side brings a surge of agony and darkness beckons. If I pass out now, I'll drown in my own puke. Cursing softly in a vague echo of my foul-mouthed archaeologist, I manage to turn my head and lift my right shoulder in a parody of twisting my torso. It's not enough to ease the difficulty of heaving nor to prevent me from soiling myself, but at least I won't choke to death on my own rancid stomach contents.
Panting, my stomach muscles still cramping, I drop back down with a grunt. My breath and my vomit greet the cold dampness, creating small geysers of pungent steam. Old Faithful. That's me. I chuckle softly. Old and faithful. Well, more of the former than the latter, depending on who you ask.
Just as I'm in the middle of mentally rehearsing my speech to my second in command regarding the definition of `almost there,' I hear them coming. They sound like a pack of rabid hyenas scurrying to a fresh-out-of-the-oven helping of Road Kill a la O'Neill; better yet, considering the freezing cold and the reddening slush in which I'm lying, maybe Irish Crme'd Gazpacho.
They're snorting and grunting and someone is making strangled little noises that could be growls but that sound more like Daniel in the throes of an allergy attack. Panting noisily, they drop down beside me, their noses red and dripping, their eyes watering. But hey, at least they aren't salivating and sniffing each other's butts.
"Oh . . . my . . . God." Sweet little Samantha. Trying to make the old Colonel feel better.
Daniel looks down towards my legs, blanches and promptly throws up. At least he manages to not get any on me.
Teal'c studies me without expression, then looks me in the eye and says two seemingly unrelated words: "Theissman" and "woodchipper."
Despite the agony, or maybe because of it, I laugh. Just last week, I'd made him watch a tape of Theissman's career-ending game. Teal'c had reciprocated by forcing me to sit through the movie `Fargo' - which in itself isn't a bad thing. It's just that, trying to explain to a reformed Jaffa why you find kidnapping and murder hysterical detracts from the viewing pleasure and makes you feel like you need a bath . . . or a confessional.
I suddenly sober at the thought that this is my punishment; I follow that disturbing notion with another batch of vomit. Consider it an exercise in self-exorcism.
"I can't fix this, Colonel."
"We need to get you back to Janet."
"You are badly injured, O'Neill."
Masters of Understatement . . . and just when my thoughts are beginning to fragment.
"You guys . . . suck . . . at this," I manage.
Daniel flinches and bites down on his lower lip. Oh, crap. I've hurt his feelings. I'm laying here dying, slowly and by the half-frozen ounce, and Daniel gets all bent out of shape? Considering the condition of my legs, I chuckle at the irony, then begin to cough.
The light above me fades slightly and everything on the edges of my vision shimmers and blurs. I feel my body shift into neutral as it prepares to pass out on me.
This is not good.
Carter is staring at my legs so hard, I can almost see the word `splint' reflected in each of her glassy, blue eyes. Teal'c is deep in thought, obviously sizing me up for a woodchipper. Daniel's bottom lip is mere seconds from being gnawed completely through, and honest to God, I think he may be gearing up for a good cry.
As I watch the infinite darkness close like an iris in front of me, I realize, too late, two very important things: (1) the hyena analogy was smack-on, and (2) you should never hurt the feelings of someone who may be carrying you home.
This is SO not good.
* *This time I wake up screaming, and I have to tell you, if offered the choice between coughing and screaming, I'll choose coughing every time. Although oftentimes screaming will lead to coughing, it doesn't work the other way around. Hence, coughing over screaming . . . every time.
Carter and Teal'c are pulling my leg - literally. Well, Carter has a death grip on my thigh; Teal'c is the one doing the actual pulling. Even in the midst of a most unmanly yell of pain, the irony of a stoic alien pulling my leg isn't lost on me.
Daniel is still chewing his lip, which is now bleeding, but I think he's over his hurt feelings. He keeps rubbing my arm and murmuring things like "you're doing great," "you're going to be fine." Frankly, I think we both know he's lying through his bloody lip.
Just when I think I can't take any more, I feel a gut-wrenching snap deep inside my leg and the pulling stops.
"Sick," I announce, and then I am. At least this time there's not much of a mess.
"Okay, sir, I'm going to splint it."
I swear, ever since Carter got that little taste of doctoring on our trip down south, she's been hankering for one of us to break a limb just so she can perfect her technique. And while she does seem to have improved somewhat, delicate hands do not a gentle touch make. She tugs and grunts and wraps until I'm dripping in sweat and my empty stomach is flipping around on itself.
"You going to be sick again, Jack?"
I glance up at Daniel. A thin stream of blood is running from the corner of his mouth down his chin. I move my head once from side to side, and attempt to catch my breath. God, where's the damn morphine?
"How's the pain, sir? The morphine should have kicked in by now."
I frown at her. She's shitting me, right? Right?
Brushing a strand of blonde hair from her eyes, she smiles and pats my splinted, throbbing leg. "That should do it."
I groan and close my eyes in relief.
"One down, one to go," she pronounces.
What? I gasp and try to sit up. "No."
Okay, here's something you may not know: behind all the bravado and the P90, just to the rear of the never-ending stream of insults and the whining, lurks the heart of a coward. Teal'c and Sam are shifting positions, moving towards my other tribute to an amazing quarterback cut down in his prime.
"Stop," I order.
I look at my twisted, broken, bleeding limb. I think it will heal just fine on its own. Given time. That's all I need, just a little time. Speaking of which - even funnier than how it tends to slip away, is how it doesn't when you need it to.
"I promise I will try as little as possible to hurt you." I stare at Teal'c, who is wearing a mantle of new fallen snow, and wonder just how he meant that.
"Leave it. Doc'll do it."
"Colonel, you know we can't do that."
"Yes. You can."
"No. We can't."
"Can!" I grab Daniel's sleeve for emphasis, trying to pull myself up to glare at Carter. "Please. I'm begging you." Just in case they couldn't tell.
Carter blinks slowly, a sign that she's about to give me my way. Biting my lip Danny-style, I huff softly in disbelief when I see her nod her head at Teal'c and grab my thigh.
"No!"
* *Seems the third time really is the charm. I wake up sweating. Sweating beats coughing and screaming, hands down. Oh, and I'm rocking. Or being rocked.
How many ways can a woodchuck wake up if a woodchuck could upchuck?
My lips are numb. My legs hurt, but my lips are numb. And my eyelids don't work. Always wondered how the morphine knew where to go. Answer: it doesn't.
S'okay. I'll make lists while I wait.
Groceries needed: beer; canned soup - anything but chicken noodle which reminds me of worms which reminds me of snakes; hot dogs.
Chores needed doing: clean out fridge - ask Carter if sour cream can sour; mow lawn; clean under toilet seat before anyone other than me has a chance to lift the lid - what are those little brown spots anyway? No, I don't want to know.
Chocolate covered raisins . . . add to grocery list. Teal'c loves those things. Caramel flavored rice cakes for me - don't tell Daniel because when he forced one on me I told him it tasted like styrofoam packing material dipped in cheap syrup.
Ways to die: two - one of which is poorly.
Do laundry - down to my last pair of boxers which I may have messed when sliding down cliff.
Ways to live: two - one of which is poorly.
Don't forget the hot dog buns!
Reasons to die: lots - none worth mentioning.
"Guys, I think he's waking up."
At Daniel's words, the rocking stops and I feel like I'm on the world's shortest elevator ride. Something firm, the ground I think, touches my butt, my back, my legs. God, my legs! But, hallelujah, my eyes work. Sweating, I stare up at my team.
Reasons to live: lots - three worth mentioning.
"Sir? Colonel, can you hear me?" Carter touches my face, frowning.
It's still snowing. "Kansas?"
She smiles over at Daniel and back down at me. "No, sir. We're not in Kansas any more."
"Milk."
"What?" Daniel laughs softly.
I need milk. At the store. "Hurts."
"Yeah, Jack, I know."
No, I don't think he does. None of them do. Despite my own best efforts not to, I moan . . . loudly. The sound is obscene and disturbs even me. Maybe especially me, since only I know that I do NOT whine. Daniel is gnawing his lip again and Carter's hands flutter helplessly over the sleeping bag in which I'm laying.
"I'm not sure I should give you any more morphine yet."
"Yes . . . you should," I groan and feel my body begin to thrash, despite knowing it's going to hurt to do so. If she doesn't hand over the hard stuff, I think I'm gonna have to kill her. Or myself. God. I try to lay still, but the urge to escape the pain that is crawling up my legs is overwhelming. I begin to fidget, then gasp in relief when I see Carter digging in her med kit for the little vial. As much as I hate asking for the drug, I'd hate bawling like a baby or wetting myself from the pain even more.
Seconds later, my eyes squeezed shut against the agony that's consuming me from the legs up, I feel the blessed sting of the tiny needle in my right thigh. It suddenly dawns on me that we must be getting injured more often than I thought, because Carter's getting way too adept with a hypodermic. Either that, or she's developed a personal habit that I don't want to know about.
Add to grocery list: 12-pack of Dr. Pepper, and Diet Pepsi with vanilla for Teal'c.
"Sorry," my numb lips move without my realizing it.
Daniel leans over me, partially blocking the soft flakes of falling snow. "What are you sorry for, Jack?"
I feel slightly breathless and recognize it as a sign of the drug kicking in. "Big . . . mess."
He smiles. Daniel's got a smile that makes him look about 18. And he's been known to use it to his advantage. "Yeah. Well, it's what we do best. Actually, I'm glad you decided to carry the ball this trip. Seems like lately, I've been doing all the work around here. If I spend any more time in the infirmary, Janet's going to think I've got a thing for her."
Janet. Doc. I flinch as a sharp dagger of pain spears past the cloak of the drug, surprising me with its intensity. God, I wish Fraiser were here right now.
"Yeah. Me, too, Jack."
Huh? I said that out loud?
He and Carter both laugh softly. "Don't worry, Colonel, we won't tell her."
Add to chores: Hose off garage floor - pretty sure Cassie's dog barfed up something toxic last time I dog-sat.
Carter and Daniel exchange a worried look.
"Jack? You okay?"
Note to self: quit thinking out loud. Team thinks I've lost it.
* *Okay. This is getting old. This time I wake up swearing.
I suppose it's too much to ask to peacefully awaken in my own bed doing nothing worse than wiping sleep from my eyes. But damn, to wake up with someone shoving something up my . . . well, to be perfectly frank, my appendage? That's a bit over the top, even for Doc.
Turns out, that's the good news. Bad news is, morphine has gone bye-bye.
"Shit."
"Colonel? Sir? Do you know where you are?"
She's kidding, right? Only two people have ever touched me there and lived, and Sara's not here, so this has got to be the infirmary. I groan and try to pry myself away from a particularly disturbing pair of hands doing something that I think is illegal in the state of Colorado.
"I need you to open your eyes for me."
Why? What do my eyes have to do with my . . . .
"Aagh!" I'm suddenly staring up at her and trying unsuccessfully to fight off a platoon of Janet Fraiser-wannabe's.
"Calm down, Colonel. I know you're in pain, that this is uncomfortable, but we'll be done before you know it."
Right. And my mother was the Pope.
I stop fighting. Not because she told me to, but because I'm in pain, short of breath and exhausted, and I think I'm going to puke again.
"Easy. Easy. You're going to be fine. Just fine."
Yeah? Who died and made you CMO?
"Sir, can you tell me where you're in pain?"
Poor sentence structure there, Doc. Biting my lip, I consider the alternative ways in which to respond to her question. Then, due to the fact that I'm gasping for breath at the agony engulfing the lower half of my body, I decide to skip the grammar lesson for today. When in doubt, keep it short and to the point.
"Chest down."
She smiles a little, then frowns when she realizes I'm not kidding and immediately starts barking out orders, and rattling off letters and numbers that sound eerily like Stargate destinations. Carter says the reason doctors speak in abbreviations is because it saves times. I say it's so we won't see it coming - `it' being long needles and other instruments of torture. I mean, after all, who but an expert in the art of `coercive manipulation' would have invented something like a catheter?
And while I'm in pain and rambling, I'll share another of my little theories: gate travel is hazardous to your health. Whether at the hands of the Goa'uld themselves, or through the effects of too much travel through a wormhole, or bringing back a contagion of some sort, or merely from too many MRI's and xrays due to off-world accidents, I believe the Stargate is going to screw us all in the end. And I'm not just talking about those of us who work at the mountain. I mean ALL.
So, once again, I'm being poked and prodded and shot through with radiation and shoved into a too small, ear-rattling tunnel. And that's on this side of the gate. Doc must have an entire room devoted to nothing but pictures of the inside of my calloused, battle-scarred anatomy. It's a shame they can't recycle those films. Or can they?
Suddenly feeling the effects of something Fraiser has injected into my bloodstream, I chuckle at the thought of Farmer Brown being xrayed for a stomach ailment and the doctor finding shadows of Hathor's Goa'uld wrapped around Farmer Brown's spine. Guess it would go something like:
"So, Farmer Brown, tell me again what the problem is?"
"Well, Doc, Momma made some new recipe for chitlin's she done clipped out of the latest edition of the Daily Gazette, and ever since I ate me some I've had the strangest feelin' in my gut."
"Well, Farmer Brown, take a look at this xray."
"Holy shit, Doc! What the hell is that?"
"That, Farmer Brown, is either an undigested chitlin' or a snake has crawled up your ass and shed its skin."
I laugh at the mental picture. Maybe I should talk to Hammond about sending our old films back east . . . say to D.C.
"Hold still, sir. It'll be over soon and then you can sleep."
"Sound like . . . old girlfriend."
I hear laughter.
Holy crap! Did I actually say that?
"You certainly did, sir."
I glance up at a young nurse who's leaning over me, fiddling with some piece of equipment out of my line of sight. I'm pretty sure she wasn't even born when I enlisted, but she's cute and looks nice. Like somebody's little sister. She's very, "Pretty."
"Well, thank you, Colonel." She blushes and grins over at someone else that I can hear moving around across the room. "You . . . uh . . . you're not so bad yourself."
"Too . . . old." Is it getting hot in here?
"I beg to differ, sir." She leans close and smiles softly. "You look just about right to me."
Yeah. Definitely hot in here.
Someone curses softly. Another woman - the one somewhere across the room. She mutters something about being doped up and taking advantage.
"Judy says I'm taking advantage of you, sir. What do you think?"
Any other time, I'd say go for it. But, right now, I "feel . . . weird." I'm having a bit of trouble breathing and I suddenly realize the heat I'm feeling has nothing to do with my groin and the Dirty Old Man Syndrome.
My young flirt is suddenly serious, her brow creasing slightly. "Sir, what's wrong?"
I'm too busy to answer; I'm watching her head do a slow 360 degree spin.
"Colonel?" She touches me on the shoulder. "Judy, something's wrong. Get Dr. Fraiser in here."
* *"Get out of town."
"I'm serious."
"Sam, come on. You really expect me to believe that?"
"Whether you believe it is irrelevant, Daniel. It's true."
"Says you."
"Yes. Says me."
Their bickering stops and I feel myself dropping back under the veil of drugged sleep. Somewhere behind the fuzziness, a dull throb hints of pain to come.
"Does not," Daniel mumbles.
"Does."
"Does no-"
"Shut up," I order, at the expense of my throbbing head and dry mouth.
"Colonel?"
I hear movement and someone drops a hand onto my arm. Squinting against the overhead lights, I blink up at them as Daniel hits the call button and asks for Janet.
"What year is this?"
Carter laughs softly and I give her a glare with what are most likely dilated eyes.
"I'm serious." I am. I was having the weirdest dream that it was 1969, and SG-1 was on a neon-colored bus with two hippies. I was wearing a leather jacket, and there was a haze of smoke in the air - something sweet with an herbal twist. "It's not 1975, is it?" Please God. That was so not a good year for Mrs. O'Neill's oldest.
"No, Jack. You even made it through the 90's."
Really?
"You slept through St. Patrick's Day, sir."
Crap! And for the first time in years I'd had big plans to celebrate my Irish heritage. A real date that included dinner and a movie. Now, the only hangover I have is morphine-induced, and any toe-curling will be the result of cramps in my healing limbs. Dammit! This is not a good way to welcome in the spring.
"Colonel, welcome back."
I grunt at Doc, still peeved at discovering that I've missed out on what may be the only date I'll have until Labor Day - if I'm lucky.
"How do you feel?"
"Like crap if you must know."
"O-kay," she forces a smile, then frowns over at Daniel and Carter. "Want to elaborate on that?"
"No." I attempt to turn my back to her, but having two legs in casts, an IV in my left arm, and all my nerve-endings misfiring due to the narcotics in my system make my efforts half-assed and ineffective.
"Sir," she grabs my arm, stopping my movements and untangling the clear IV tubing, "please lay still. Now," she raises the head of my bed slightly, "what's the problem?"
"The problem is, I was sleeping until these two started yammering back and forth like an old married couple." I jerk my arm away from her touch and turn my head towards the wall, trying not to notice that Carter and Daniel look like I've slapped them.
I see Doc frown at them. Daniel ducks his head and Carter smiles and shrugs - a sure sign than I'm telling the truth.
"Okay, sir, I promise to make them behave. Now, are you in any pain? Do your legs hurt?"
She's shitting me, right? Do my legs hurt? I don't even bother answering. I'll save my breath until someone asks me something that actually deserves a response.
"Okay."
"Three," I grumble.
"Excuse me? Three what?"
I look at her. "That makes three times you've said `okay.' Not that anyone is keeping track."
She frowns again - also for the third time, I might add. "Are you oka--alright, Colonel?"
I sigh. I don't know why I'm so pissed off. It's not really anything they've done and I don't think it's because I missed one date. Maybe it's fumes from the bus dream, or maybe it's hormonal and I'm just overly horny. If I weren't so drugged, I'm certain we'd all know for sure. "I have a headache and I want to be left alone."
Doc's mouth opens, getting ready to form the `o' word again, then she closes it and simply nods instead. "Fine."
She adjusts something on the IV and I know from experience that I'm going to be feeling all squidgy and wonky very soon. Obviously feeling daring, she pats my arm and turns to go, pointing a finger at Daniel and Carter and whispering, "quiet or out." They nod and settle back down in the chairs along my bedside.
I try to get comfortable, but it's a little difficult when you have trouble moving. And, they're staring. Even with my eyes shut, I can feel them watching me.
I force myself up onto my elbows and glare at them both. "What?"
Daniel's mouth opens and shuts.
Carter swallows. "I . . . uh . . . maybe I should go." She stands up and without turning her back to me, makes her way to the door. "I'll just . . . uh . . . I'll just check in on you later, sir."
"Fine." I look at Daniel.
"I'll just sit here . . . quietly." He crosses his legs and leans back, staring up at the ceiling, then glancing at me.
I lay back against the pillows and shut my eyes. Doc's little cocktail is beginning to permeate my bloodstream and I'm just about asleep when Daniel clears his throat.
"Jack?" His voice is quiet, or maybe it's the drugs affecting my hearing.
"Mmm?" I sink deeper into the bed, oblivion within my reach.
"Sam says you play with dolls."
I'm headed back into the hazy, neon, 60's dream. I open my mouth to respond, but a soft groan is the best I can manage.
Daniel laughs, despite being alone in the room with a man who is technically a vegetable. "She says Barbie and Ken are cuddled up on your living room sofa even as we speak."
There's a long pause. If he's waiting on me, he's going to be here a while. Right now, I can't tell my lips from my asshole, let alone form a coherent thought.
"So, she's lying . . . right? Jack?"
* *"Jack, what do you think you're doing?"
Crap! He surprises me and I almost lose my already precarious balance. It also does nothing to alleviate the fine sheen of sweat that has broken out on the upper half of my body. Stumbling, I grab onto the nearest wall and lean against it. Over the sound of my own panting, I hear him rush forward and feel him grab my arm in an effort to hold me up.
"God, Daniel. You scared the living daylights out of me."
"Sorry. I thought you Special Ops guys had eyes in the back of your head."
"We do. But only in the presence of the enemy or foxy chicks."
"Foxy chicks?" He sounds incredulous.
"What? You think I don't notice?"
"No. It's not that. I just . . . you do know what century you're living in, right? I think `foxy chicks' went out with lava lamps and bell-bottomed pants."
I push myself upright and try not to think about the dull heat in my low back and the tremendous weight settling onto the healing bones beneath my casts. "For your information, foxy chicks will never go out of style. As for lava lamps and bell-bottoms . . . been to the mall lately?"
"Okay, Jack. Whatever you say. Now," he insinuates himself under my arm and takes some of my weight, "let's get you back to bed. If Janet finds out you're doing this, she's going to kill you. Or worse."
He tries to lead me back across the room, but I've just spent the better part of 15 minutes getting this far - at least 10 feet or so - and I have to pee like a racehorse. I tug him the other direction, towards the bathroom. "I need to take a leak."
"Okay. So get back in bed and we'll get a nurse."
"No."
"Jack."
"Daniel." We face off, staring at each other. I'm hoping he doesn't notice the sweat and the fact that I'm beginning to get the shakes. "Come on. I'd like to see if I've still got what it takes to pee standing up."
He snorts softly and tries to hide a smile. "Okay. But if you tell Janet I helped you, I'm not recording any more `Simpsons' episodes for you."
"Oh, trust me on this, I won't tell anyone that Dr. Jackson helped me take a whiz."
Both of us cursing and grunting, we manage to get me into the bathroom and standing in front of the john. I grab onto the nearest handrail and extricate myself from Daniel's grip. My legs are seriously throbbing now and I think I'm splitting the seams of my bladder. I'm not sure how much longer I can keep up the pretense of `this isn't so bad.'
"Hey!" I slap at Daniel's hand which is reaching for the drawstring of my pants. "Do you mind?"
"What? I'm not leaving you in here by yourself."
"Uh . . . yes. You are." I'm not sure what's going to give first - my pride, Daniel's stubborn streak, my shattered legs, or my kidneys. Speaking of which, "If you don't leave, I'm going to tell Doc that I think the low back pain you're suffering might have something to do with that punch to the kidney you took."
"What are you talking about? My back's not hurting and I didn't take a punch to the . . .," he stammers his way into silence at my tight smile. "Oh." He stares at me a second, then backs out of the bathroom. "Fine. Be an ass. God knows you're experienced at it."
Sweating profusely and in pain, I struggle to urinate. Every time I have to go - which is far too often - I'm reminded of Tom Hanks in `The Green Mile.' It's been nearly two weeks since my tumble, but peeing still hurts like a son-of-a-bitch thanks to a badly bruised kidney. At least my urine has faded from the freakish fire engine red to a slightly feminine pinkish hue. I'm beginning to wish I'd just buzzed for the nurse like Daniel suggested. Better yet, like in the movie, maybe Teal'c could just grab my crotch and miraculously heal me.
Finally finished, leaning heavily on the rail, I make myself presentable and wash my hand, before dropping down onto the toilet with a groan. My legs are seriously throbbing and I can tell they're beginning to swell inside the casts. I'm not supposed to be putting any weight on them, but climbing into a wheelchair just to get across the room is stupid . . . well, it seemed that way at the time. Shaking, I lean over against the cool sink, waiting for a wave of nausea and weakness to pass.
"You okay in there, Colonel Butthead?" Daniel hollers through the closed door.
I wipe sweat from my forehead and take a shaky breath.
"Jack?" The door pops open and Daniel peeks inside. "Shit." He disappears momentarily, then returns to squat down in front of me, shaking his head. "You stupid jerk, you're white as a ghost."
"And you wear too much aftershave. Come on," I hold out a trembling hand, "help me up."
He merely shakes his head. "Not on your life. You look like you're going to pass out. We're waiting right here."
I frown. "For what?"
I jump at the sound of Doc's angry voice. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" She storms into the bathroom and kneels down next to Daniel.
What a picture this makes - me on my porcelain throne with my subjects kneeling before me. Even sick, I can't help but smile.
"It's not funny, sir."
But it is . . . a little.
"Dammit, Colonel." She's feeling my toes and pressing a hand to my forehead. Shaking her head, cursing under her breath, she leaves the throne room without so much as genuflecting.
Daniel chuckles softly. "Oh, you've done it now."
Before I can work up a snappy response, the room is filled with Dr. Napoleon and her army of nurses, one of whom is pushing the dreaded wheelchair. I groan as I'm wedged into the chair and rolled out of the room. They wheel me over to the side of the bed.
Doc slams a hand down onto my shoulder. "And don't even try to stand up, mister. We'll do the work. Daniel, give us a hand."
"Sure." Still smiling, he helps them lift me up onto the bed. In fact, the little sicko actually seems to be enjoying this.
Who would have thought a trip to the head could be such a big deal? I suddenly get the feeling that if I live long enough, this little scene will replay itself in some Knotty Pines Nursing Home deja vu scenario.
"So, Janet," Daniel grins, "I didn't think you were going to let Jack up on his feet for a few more weeks."
Fraiser huffs and shoves pillows under my legs with what I consider to be unnecessary roughness.
Leaning back onto the bed, exhausted and hurting worse than I'll ever admit, I force all emotion from my face and voice. "Doc, I really think you should check on Daniel. I know, I know," I hold up a hand to my teammate as if to forestall any arguments. "I promised I wouldn't say anything, but . . . I really think you're hurt worse than you're letting on."
Daniel's mouth drops open as Fraiser turns on him. I have to say that despite being in agony, I'm quite pleased with myself.
* *The sun is hot against my eyelids but there's a gentle breeze that leaves a soothing coolness in its wake. I awaken without moving, listening to the sounds of the birds scrabbling around the feeder and a group of kids two houses down screaming as they splash and play in my neighbor's swimming pool. I breathe through my nose, savoring the scents of roses and lilacs and a hint of slightly burnt hamburgers a la Jaffa. There's a soft buzz near my right ear, and I know it's a bee drawn to the roses. I'm not worried. Mosquitoes love me, but for some reason bees and wasps steer clear. Must be something in my Irish blood - too much beer most likely. Something soft and slightly warm brushes across my forehead, settles there for a mere two seconds, then moves away.
"Why do you keep doing that?" I open my eyes in time to see her flinch, then she smiles softly and settles into a chair across from me.
"Sorry. Habit."
"I broke my legs, Doc, not my head."
"This time." She sips her beer, her forehead wrinkling. "Besides, we still need to keep a close eye on your . . ."
"Wee-wee?" I finish for her.
She chuckles. "Is that the layman's term for it?" I shrug. "Well, anyway, remember . . . drink lots of water. No alcohol of any kind."
"Yes, mom."
"I'm serious."
"Yeah, I know."
"Daniel will be keeping a close eye on you. And stay off those legs. You're allowed to go from the bed to the sofa to the bathroom . . . with Daniel's help. That's it." I nod. "And if I find out you're even thinking about going up on your roof, I'll break your other leg."
"Hey!" Considering both my legs are already broken, I instinctively cover my crotch with my hand. "Hostile work environment."
She blinks innocently. "Why, Colonel, we're not at work, now are we?" she says in her best Scarlet O'Hara voice . . . which sucks by the way. Then, she reverts to the tough Air Force doctor, "Besides, if you tell anyone I said that, I'll deny it. And I think we both know who they'll believe."
Damn. She's good.
Two hours later, after everyone but my babysitter leaves, I hobble inside to the sofa. Daniel is sitting on one end of it fiddling with something. He glances up as I sink down into the cushions.
"You okay, Jack?"
"Uh-huh." I lean back and shut my eyes, wondering why the first day out of the infirmary is always so exhausting. But other than being tired and Doc's threat to my manhood looming over my . . . head, I feel pretty good. My legs ache a little, but not much; the worst is my low back - the heated throbbing low on the right side seems to have settled in for the long haul.
"Can I get you anything? Dammit." He mutters something I can't make out and I look over at him. He's frowning intently down at his hands.
"What the hell are you doing?"
He blushes and looks up at me. "Uh . . ."
"Are you doing something naughty, Dr. Jackson?" I laugh softly until I see the look of guilt on his face, and then I sit up straighter. "What? Or do I not want to know?"
"Well . . . um . . .," he grins sheepishly then finally, reluctantly, holds up a headless Barbie doll in one hand and a tiny head in the other.
"For crying out loud, what did you do?"
"I busted her."
"No shit, Sherlock." I shake my head in disgust and hold out my hand. "Give it here."
He scoots down the sofa and hands it over.
"What the hell?" Barbie is wearing what I know for a fact is Ken's best business suit. I look at Daniel accusingly.
"I didn't do it. Sam did." Smiling, he reaches behind his back and pulls out Ken all decked out in a hot little off-the-shoulder evening gown.
"You guys are sick. You know that, right?"
"Us?"
"Yes. You." I pop Barbie's head back in place, glancing over at him. He looks uncomfortable. "Don't worry about it. These things always pop off. See." I hold her up. "Good as new."
Daniel snorts and leaves the room. "Want anything from the kitchen?"
"Beer."
"No. Anything else?"
I curse at him under my breath and strip off the tiny suit, then undress Ken. The dress is much easier - fewer snaps on the back. I put the little eunuch back in his suit. When Daniel returns with a cup of coffee for himself and a glass of tap water for me, Barbie's mostly decent. He sits down next to me as I slide the single spaghetti strap up on a smooth, round shoulder.
"You seem to be very good at that, Jack."
"Thanks." Holding the two dolls in one hand, I sip my water. "Think I'll take a nap."
Daniel's staring at the dolls. "Yeah. Good idea."
I set the glass and the toys on the coffee table and grab my crutches. Daniel suddenly rouses to help me. By the time we reach my bedroom, I'm more than ready for one of Janet's little happy pills. It must be obvious because as soon as I'm settled on the bed, Daniel hands me one with a glass of water. I swallow it without protest and sink back onto the bed. My bed . . . home. I sigh in relief and thank him.
"No problem." He walks to the door and stands there, playing with the doorknob.
"Something wrong?"
"No. I just . . ."
"What? Spit it out."
"Do you babysit your neighbors' kids?"
I punch my pillow and snuggle down into it. "Why would I do that? Actually, when would I do that?"
He shrugs. "I don't know."
I shut my eyes but can feel him still standing there. "Is that all?"
"Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Have a good nap."
* *
"Ha!" I move the rook and give Daniel my `Groucho Marx with a cigar' eyebrow wiggle. "Checkmate."
"Huh?" Daniel studies the board. "Crap. How'd that happen?"
I reach across the table and snag his beer, getting in two swigs before he notices and takes it away from me.
"That happened because you've had your head up your butt all evening."
He nods and begins putting away the pieces.
"Something wrong?" He doesn't seem to hear me. To tell the truth, I'm beginning to worry. Anything that can shut up Dr. Jackson for very long must be serious. "So, Daniel, that little artefact you picked up on our last trip . . . you know, that statue thingy that you were rattling on about when I took my nosedive? Have you figured out what it is yet?"
He rearranges the game pieces in the small wooden box and fits the chessboard on top.
"Daniel?" Okay, now I'm scared. "Hey!" I grab his wrist, stopping him.
"Wha-," he jumps like I've slapped him, then seems to come around. "Oh, sorry. What?"
"What's going on?"
"Nothing." He laughs softly. "Really. I just . . . Jack, can I ask you something?"
"Shoot." I make a subtle move towards the beer, but he's set it out of my reach.
"Do you . . . do you want to play something else?"
I frown at him. "That's your question?"
He shrugs. "I just thought, you know, you might want to play something other than chess."
Okay. This guy is beginning to seriously freak me out. "What'd you have in mind? But I'm warning you, if you say `Operation' or `Twister,' I'll zat you." He laughs a little at that then blushes slightly, which worries me more than his being quiet. "Daniel, please tell me you don't want to play spin the bottle with me."
"I don't want to play spin the bottle with you."
"Thank God." I sigh and stretching, snag the beer. I sip it leisurely and he lets me.
"I thought you might want to . . .," he hesitates, then reaches for something under his chair. "I mean, do you want to . . ." He sets Barbie and Ken in the middle of the table.
I wait, but he just sits there, staring at me.
"Do I want to . . . what? Play dolls?"
He says "yeah" so softly I wouldn't have heard him if I hadn't been watching his lips.
"What the hell are you . . .," and then I remember waking up to the argument in the infirmary and Daniel saying that Sam had accused me of playing with dolls. Suddenly, I laugh. Hard. If I weren't half-covered in plaster, I'd probably be rolling on the floor. My eyes are watering and my stomach muscles are beginning to ache.
"What?"
His slightly offended tone sets me off again.
"Jack? What's so funny?"
Out of breath, my back throbbing in protest, I fight for control. "You think I . . . you think that I sit around during my downtime and play with these?"
"Well," he shrugs, "why else would you have them laying around? You admitted you don't babysit or anything. I mean, it's . . . well, if they're not yours, whose are they?"
"I didn't say they weren't mine." I force the grin off my face.
"Then . . ."
I frown, put on my `serious' face, and count to ten. "Oh God, Daniel," I moan and cover my face with my hands. "What am I going to do?"
I don't know. How about . . . thank God for high school drama classes?
"Jack?" At the seriousness in his voice, I sniff back a laugh. He drops a hand onto my arm. "It's okay. Everything will be fine."
No, it won't. I'm dying here.
"I'm . . . I'm glad it was you, Danny. I mean, if anyone else had found out, I just . . . I'm kind of relieved. I'm not sure how much longer I could keep up the pretense. You know?"
"I know. I know."
He does?
"Jack? What . . . what exactly did I find out?"
Good question. I rock slightly, trying to ease a cramp building in my left leg.
"It's okay, Jack. Whatever it is, you can tell me."
Yeah? But maybe not without laughing. "I . . . I . . ."
He's moved around the table and is standing next to me, patting me on the back. I swallow another giggle.
"Sshh. It'll be all right. We'll work through this. Together."
"You won't hate me?"
"Hate you?" He sounds stunned. "I could never hate you, Jack. You're my best friend."
Oh, yeah? You might want to get back to me on that. "Promise?"
"I swear."
"Cross your heart?"
"Jack, I promise. Now, come on. Talk to me."
"Okay." I sniff again and wipe my eyes. "It's just . . . it's just . . . Teal'c didn't understand the whole `missionary' thing and I thought . . . well, I thought, there's no way I want to watch a porn movie with him. There'd be way too many things I'd have to explain - some of which I don't even understand myself, to tell you the truth. This just . . . it seemed like a good idea at the time. And I . . .," I sit up and look at him, smiling.
I watch Daniel go through several transformations - confusion, disbelief, understanding, anger, horror, anger. . . .
"So, these were just to show Teal'c . . . stuff?"
I grin. "Pretty cool, huh?"
Daniel blinks once, then stands up and tugs the beer bottle from my grasp. Without a word, he disappears into the kitchen and returns with a glass of water which he sets in front of me. He picks up the chess game and returns it to the hall closet. Then he goes back into the kitchen. I can hear him rattling dishes.
"Daniel?"
Nothing.
"Come on. Don't be mad."
A cabinet door slams. He returns and begins wiping off the table with a damp rag.
"You promised you wouldn't hate me."
I see him glance at me.
"You swore."
He sighs and continues wiping.
"Okay. Stop it. Sit down and quit sulking."
He glares at me. "I'm not sulking."
"Prove it. Sit down and be sociable."
He sits down but doesn't look at me. He toys with the rag.
"So, you want to watch TV or something?" I venture.
Nothing.
"You want to play a game?"
That gets his attention. He looks up at me.
"How about a card game?" Few people know just how much Daniel loves to play cards.
"Poker?" he says softly, hopefully.
I nod. "We could play poker. But . . . I was thinking more along the lines of, oh, I don't know . . . Old Maid?"
He huffs and turns a cold shoulder towards me.
"Go Fish?"
He stands up and stomps back into the kitchen.
"War?" I yell after him, laughing.
Six hours down, four weeks to go. Let the games begin. . . .
<fin>
Author Notes: This takes place in any Season but 6 because Daniel's not glowie
Author's Note: Amy, a/k/a Bratty, you asked for a continuation of my Snowman/Rival drabble. Well, let this be a lesson to you.
© April 2005 The characters mentioned in this story are the property of Showtime and Gekko Film Corp. The Stargate, SG-I, the Goa'uld and all other characters who have appeared in the series STARGATE SG-1 together with the names, titles and backstory are the sole copyright property of MGM-UA Worldwide Television, Gekko Film Corp, Glassner/Wright Double Secret Productions and Stargate SG-I Prod. Ltd. Partnership. This fanfic is not intended as an infringement upon those rights and solely meant for entertainment. All other characters, the story idea and the story itself are the sole property of the author.
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