Jack is such a pain in the ass.

Everything has to be a campaign with all possible logistics problems noted and accounted for, each position scoped out, and every duck in its ducky row.

I understand the need for organization and the infamous chain of command and even though Jack thinks I never, ever obey an order without questioning it, I am quite able to comprehend the logic of a solid battle plan. On most of the uncharted worlds we have gated to, Jack is totally in command. He has the experience, the instincts and he's... well... oh hell, just say it, he's just anal enough to be a great team leader and to bring us home, no matter what the odds are.

So why can't he just go and get it over with in his usual, step by step, line by line, control freak way and let me stay here with my feet up, the television promising at least a few worthwhile Discovery channels, and Sam's latest bag of get well chocolate walnut cookies? Not to mention the three foot high stack of books I keep hauling back here to the chair so I can get something accomplished and that Jack keeps yanking away and tossing at the bookshelf.

"Janet says you have to get off your lazy ass and get some exercise or that knee's never going to straighten itself out." Oh, geez, now he's reading minds. "Take it from a man who knows about knees," he adds in a somber tone.

He punctuates the statement with a flex of his right leg that pops ominously.

Now that bothers me. I have no desire to create body parts that speak on demand. Maybe Janet's right and I had better shove up out of this chair and be dragged along on this trip; after all, it's to pick up stuff that I need. Not to mention that Jack has been over here twice in two days, giving me the official Colonel Mom treatment. One of these times, I expect to find a fluffed pillow under my head or, if I continue to piss him off, over my face. It's not like I'm dying or anything or even that I don't appreciate it. According to Janet, the torn ligaments in my right knee are serious enough to brace in this medieval torture thing, and bad enough to moan a lot in pain, but not serious enough to have to undergo surgery, or as our sweet, brown-eyed chief medical officer assured me--there will be some discomfort.

I think the word 'discomfort' ought to be deleted from the medical profession lexicon.

Discomfort is a slight headache. This is an entire highway of shrieking muscles that demands instantaneous payback for any movement at all.

"Daniel."

Oh, great. He's standing over me, arms crossed, a stern, yet somehow sympathetic mask over his face.

Time for the white flag. "Okay, okay, I'm going." Hey, nobody said I had to be gracious in surrender. I shoot him a pitiful look as I start to heave myself out of the chair. Every once in a while Jack comes up with a great idea and this lift chair is one of those times. He ignores the you-flushed-my-last-fish look and grabs an elbow, hauling me the rest of the way out of the chair.

I won't even comment on Jack's driving habits.

Then again maybe I should. Keep in mind, that I did nothing wrong...

Jack's patience with my directions to the store snaps after the first few minutes. I love that store. I've been there countless times, or, well, realizing that countless is a relative term. The point is that I know where I'm going. Sam tries to intervene but it's hopeless when Jack thinks I'm playing fast and loose with his control over all things. And besides I just got a little lost; it's not like we ended in Nevada or anything,

I just have to sit here and wait for it...

"Daniel, where the hell is your sense of direction?" He's already in rant mode.

And remember, we weren't even officially lost, just... misplaced... a little.

I should just shut up. I know it's not going to tamp down the fires if I insist that I'm right.. It's just... that... I can't help it, so, I toss out the next red flag. "There's nothing wrong with my sense of direction, Jack. You just don't want to listen to me when I tell you where to go."

Then Sam butts in. "Daniel, maybe I should take a look at the map. Just to get a different perspective."

"I can read a map, Sam. Jack's just too stubborn "

Oh great, he's decided it's a challenge. Jack screws up his face and cuts a quick glare at me. "Stubborn? I'll show you stubborn. You are giving us directions. You. That's the fourth time we have gone past that same, plug ugly church."

I have to admit it is an ugly church.

Still trying to defuse us both, Sam kicks in with, "That's the largest church in the--"

A quick sideways glance cuts her off. Then Jack does a double take.

"Carter, is that my baseball cap?"

"Sorry, sir, the wind was trashing my hair." I can't see her from my position without turning and that would move my knee, which is something I do not want to do. Even without seeing her, I can picture her face with a sudden flush of color. It's all there in her voice-the spontaneous military tenor in her voice, embarrassment, just a touch of irritation.

"I'll take it off, sir." No matter how many times Jack tells her that it's 'Jack' when we're off duty, she just can't seem to wrap her mind around that, as if it's fraternization in ranks.

Jack comes to her rescue. "Naw, keep it, Carter. It's probably got all that hair gook on it now."

That's our Jack, always the gentleman.

Amazingly, we make it to my own private piece of geek heaven without even a fender bender. "All You Need." A perfect mingle of rare books, stationery, pens and pencils. On a good day, I could lose myself for hours in here. I start to rummage through the 'sale' table on the off chance there might be an obscure gem buried beneath coffee table tomes and Fabio-graced romances. Oh, geez, how do I know that? Or more to the point, why do I know that? Pouring through purple prose isn't one of my favorite pastimes, although if you look at it under a slightly skewed angle, a lot of historical fact embraces that and, even worse, could provide multiple storylines for most soaps. Which is a good reason for not mentioning that to Jack. I have this horrible picture of him tying soap opera plots into Goa'uld mythology.

My energy and abused leg muscles die at the same time. I'm already walking like a ninety-year old man with a military issue cane and I don't last long. Fortunately there's a convenient chair right by the counter and I sink gratefully into it. Just for a minute, I reassure myself. Just a minute to let it ease off and I can...

Jack's voice short-circuits my mental rambling. "Okay, Daniel, what do you need here?"

It's right there in his voice. Jack's idea of shopping is to approach it the way he would take over a small country. A full frontal assault. How on earth does he not enjoy it? I mean it's not like there aren't enough fascinating things to keep me sidetracked for hours. Umm, which is precisely why Jack's least favorite shopping buddy is me. With any luck Sam will be on my side.

In fact, she seems comfortable here. She's flipping through another table of marked down books, her mouth pursed like she's deep in thought.

"Sir..."

Jack completely ignores her. "What do you need, Daniel?" This time there's a definite note of impatience.

I try to do a mental scan of the store, but being unable to roam through the aisles is a handicap and I have an Air Force colonel standing at my elbow insisting that I should know what I need here. "It's not that easy, Jack. I need to look--"

"You need to tell me what you need, Daniel," strained patience in his voice, "so we can get it and get out of here."

Somehow I think Jack might flunk the personal shopper opportunity.

"Journals. I need journals."

"Fine." He sets off with a purposeful swagger.

"Sam," I hiss quietly, hoping Jack won't hear and catch me in the middle of a conspiracy.

She's at my side instantly. "What is it, Daniel? You feel okay?"

"Yeah, Sam, I'm fine, just not very ambulatory. I could really use your help."

She turns that hundred watt smile on me, the one that occasionally reminds me that she's not one of the guys but a beautiful woman. She drops gracefully into a squat so that she's at eye level. "Anything," she offers around that smile. "You just tell me what you want. Do you need another pill?"

"No, no," I say quickly. I'm still muzzy headed from the last one. "It's just that Jack... um, you know how Jack is about..." I sweep the store with a helpless gesture.

The smile morphs into a grin. "Oh boy, you're right there. What is you want me to find?"

Ah, a willing cohort. "I need some new journals, but they have to be waterproof and I like the ones that... I don't know... just feel right. You know, not so slick that it feels like the pencil's going to skid right off the surface. But not so textured that there are chunks of wood imbedded in it."

Too late. An armful of generic pads under his arm, Jack is back from the hunt with his version of success. He thumps his gold card onto the glass counter and actually treats the clerk to a genuine smile.

I almost hate to interrupt his fast getaway, but I really need more than a couple of ill-chosen journals. Sam has already gone in search for my version of journals; now if I can only sidetrack Jack.

"I need some pencils, mechanical pencils..."

"Daniel, you just bought about a hundred pencils. You don't need any more."

"Um, uh," I hate when he makes me stutter, "actually, it was only about a dozen or so, but you know how we lose things." I dart a quick glance around the all-but-deserted store, slightly paranoid, which I wasn't before getting sucked into the Stargate program-quite literally. "In some of the places we go... we... well, we lose things."

He dumps the small avalanche of journals onto the sales counter top and stalks away before I can protest or even provide suggestions. From a sense of enlightened self-interest, I try to pry myself out of the chair, only to drop back to the hard metal seat when my knee attacks all the nerve endings in my leg.

Sam's an angel. She lets me feel the paper in the good journals and then slips them onto the counter and spirits away the rejects.

You have to give Jack credit. He brings the pile of journals over to me so I can pronounce judgment on the paper quality. I even let him have two out of the lot, since he really is trying to help. Then he's off again to replace the rejects.

Seconds later, Jack's back with a handful of mixed pens and pencils. He spills them onto the counter and tries to stick the credit card into the clerk's hand. The clerk grins but doesn't reach for the card.

"The eraser..."

"Daniel, the damn pencils have erasers! Look, right here, all nice and convenient." He has definitely dropped over into condescending mode. He nudges the credit card a little closer to the clerk's hand.

Sam to the rescue. She produces the square kind of eraser that I can never remember the name of and doesn't miss a beat when I look up at her.

"Right," she's halfway down the aisle, "two erasers," and produces a second.

Jack has one hand full of gold card and the other pointed in his familiar, "Aah!"

Oh, well, I can get more pencils later. I'm sure Sam would sneak out and get me some. The clerk finally gets custody of the credit card and starts ringing up our purchases. One more shot from Jack when the total keeps rising on the receipt, "You know, Daniel, I'm beginning to get suspicious about how you always seem to forget your wallet when you decide you need..." he makes a sweeping gesture at the pile of goodies on the counter, "'stuff'."

I grin at him; finally, I get the last word. "I practice."

It's cold, feels like rain is only a breath away and the accommodations leave a little to the imagination. How'd we get here anyway? And why? Oh, yeah, it's for my own good. According to the world by Jack O'Neill, sunshine and fresh air cures all evils, even torn ligaments. My option was to sit in the jeep and sulk while he and Sam soak up all that healthy stuff or haul myself down here and park my butt on a hard wooden plank masquerading as a picnic table bench.

There's no sun, my knee hurts-not that I'd give Jack the satisfaction of complaining-he'd only find something else that's 'good for me" to substitute. Sam's wandering down a tree-heavy path taking it all in like she's marking a trail. And Jack... well, right now our fearless leader is entertaining himself and a small herd of children by taking trips up and down the much too short slide and I keep expecting him to take a header down into the sand, kind of like my usual nosedive onto the gate ramp.

But all my sour ruminations aside, he slides down like a four-year-old with that wonderful bonelessness of childhood. Uh oh. He's looking over at me like a predator eyeing up a potential meal and here he comes. Oh, God, he's sauntering across the playground and I just know he's going to try to convince me that jungle gyms and slides are the latest thing in physical therapy.

Here comes Sam too with a glint of excitement in her eyes, hunched over something she/s carrying half-concealed beneath her jacket. Both of them-Florence Nightingales from Hell-zero in on me and I just know that I'm going to have fun even if it kills me.

Instead, Sam scoots over onto the bench beside me and opens her coat just enough to show me a bedraggled weed lovingly cupped there by both her hands.

"Carter." There's a bit of the commanding officer in his tone. "Tell me that isn't what I think it is."

"Yes, sir," she answers brightly still shielding the limp greenery from any potential prying eyes. "It's a blue spruce. Absolutely perfect and it's going right in your front yard. I've already got the spot picked out."

"My yard? Why my yard? It's bad enough that you have two crates of those little sissy plants in the back of the jeep that you keep threatening to plant at my place. What is this? Some kind of womanly nesting ritual?"

"Uh, Sam..." I make a tentative effort to interrupt the brewing casual banter, and of course, I'm completely ignored.

"Why don't you Martha Stewart your own place and leave mine alone?"

"Sam..."

"You know perfectly well, sir, that I have absolutely no yard space--"

"Sam!"

Twin "Whats?" bring their attention to me.

"This is a state park," I toss a little irrelevant information into the pot, "and it's a Federal offense to pick any of the plants. Or trees. Though I should think that would go without saying."

Sam pulls her jacket even tighter around her illegal tree. Jack just stares at me. I give up. At least Sam is now interested in going home, I guess because she is now carrying contraband. Me, I just want to pass out in the lift chair with a book and a hot cup of something, so I'm glad we are making our getaway.

Naturally, it was too good to be true. Instead of heading for hearth and home, we end up at Jack's place where Sam starts unloading her two trays of brightly flowered plants at Jack's Koi pond which is evidently the site of choice for decoration. Jack, grumbling all the while, even gives her a hand at digging, measuring, calculating worthy of estate planning, getting the little blossoms organized and planted. The golden, feathered fish keep bobbing up to see it's feeding time or just the humans doing weird things. Finally, they give up on dinner and ignore us for the rest of the day.

With Sam doing yard work and Jack with the barbecue grill fired up, it seems like a picture right out of whatever that Beaver show was all about.

I get to sit on the retaining wall and be the official audience of one.

Jack knows I don't really like beer, but that never seems to faze him whenever we are here. So I'm sitting here, sipping and, watching and ooohing and ahhhing where appropriate. The plants do look nice when they finally agree on the logistics of the planting, and better yet, it's finally time to go inside. I don't wait for an invitation, just drop gracelessly onto one of the couches, and let out a sound that is part grumble, part moan, and a lot tired.

Jack takes a look at my face, the beer in my hand, another glance at my face, and then shakes out two of the painkillers Janet made me promise to take when I was rescued from the infirmary. I don't even bother to argue, just toss them into my mouth and wash them down with another swig of beer. With any luck, he'll turn on a hockey game or some other mindless pursuit of goals that don't really matter to anyone including the players and I can drift off into a nap.

No such luck. Sam is still puttering away. Evidently she didn't see Jack dosing me with drugs, and she slips another beer into my hand; I hadn't even noticed the end of the other one and then drops a hockey puck size piece of wrinkled, unidentifiable 'stuff' into my hand and cheerfully says, "Try it, it's great."

For some reason, she has been brewing perfectly good fruit into little pieces of leather-on purpose, mind you-so that we can eventually snack on what for all intents and purposes is a good facsimile of an MRE. The military is sneaky about that. They lull you into thinking that things totally foreign to human nature are not only... wait for it... 'good for you,' but you actually are going to 'like' them.

So here I am, thanks to Sam and the pain medication, in a mellow, not painful mood. If Jack had just swung by my place, it wouldn't have taken me more than a couple of minutes. All I need is a few minutes to get the papers together and start working on them. Jack wasn't having any of that.

I still don't like beer, and I'm amazed that I have gotten away with this one to wash the pills down with. Sam seems pretty preoccupied with her version of Mr. Rogers neighborhood as she's happily humming away as she jams another plant into a hole. Okay, maybe just another swig of this beer. It seems to taste better than usual. Guess I'm three sheets to the wind. It's a pun, Jack, it's just a pun. Although when I consider it, it's really not appropriate as a pun either. Other than the paper thing. And if you consider the history behind that particular... oh good grief, no wonder I piss Jack off when I go off into rhapsodies about history and that meaning of life stuff.

Maybe I'll wander out to share the primal urge for charcoal and meat with our fearless leader. Or maybe not. Another swig of beer then and I'll just sit here until my nerve endings quit reminding me I'm supposed to be off my feet.

I'm trapped here with nothing resembling readable material other than the swimsuit edition of Sports Illustrated. Wonder if Sam would notice if I picked that up and started perusing, I mean, reading the articles.

I'm starting to feel like a class A heel. I know there's only one thing Jack hates more than shopping and that is shopping with me. This is not a new concept. And he did humor me when I wanted a different grade of paper in those journals. He growled and groused about it, but he did it and that's a pretty good reflection of our friendship. When I feel like I can't handle it anymore, when the ghosts are getting too close, when I simply want to crawl under the bed and pretend life as we know it, and too many hurts seem insurmountable, well, he just seems to know.

He's there.

No gift can match that. He's always there.

Next time I'll let him pick out the journals and to hell with the paper quality. Of course, I might have to steer him in the right direction, just a hint, a nudge, and the next time... I'll just have a coffee with cream.

© June 16, 2000 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.

Author's Note: Lost is letting me post from her house and wants to have everyone know that she has no hand in this short tale, methinks she doth protest waaay too much, especially when you realize that she is the 'inspiration' for these little thingies...

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