Beyond the teltac's shielded windows, hyperspeed wove its surreal patterns in lazy swirls, like blue oil on shifting water. Silence ruled. Staring into that otherness, subliminally aware of his sleeping passengers in the cargo hold, Tealıc shifted in the pilotıs seat, shrugged his shoulders and rolled his head from side to side.

It was indeed a long journey to Varesh, made longer by the need to maintain a prudently diminished speed. In running the engines at full capacity the last time,  he had dangerously stressed their integrity. There was now a real danger of a power cascade and failure.

As O'Neill would say, this was a bad plan.

So he nursed the ship's heart at some twenty percent of capacity, and accepted that they would not be reaching their destination swiftly. With the engines so fragile, it was not safe to leave them on dar-ek del, auto-pilot, so he had to stay awake and fly the teltac manually.

It was mildly inconvenient. He had not slept now for some three days. Even with the symbiant to sustain him, it was stressful. His body was sending him urgent signals. It required rest. Meditation. How good it would feel to close his eyes, relax his vigilance, let his body ease from its correct alignment ...

He snapped his spine straight and stared furiously into the otherness beyond the window.

Jaffa do not sprawl.

In the cargo hold behind him, somebody stirred. Groaned. Suppressed a cough. Then came the sound of footsteps, uneven and dragging. Muttered swearing. The raggedness of pained breathing.

O'Neill.

The colonel slid awkwardly into the secondary pilotıs seat, wincing and pulling faces. Their eyes met; O'Neill's were bloodshot, glassy. He looked unwell, and very tired. For a middle aged human his levels of energy and health were generally impressive. Now, though, every one of his forty two years was writ heavily upon him. He looked like a human with much mileage. O'Neill knew it, too. His expression was wry, and his lips were quirked into a mocking half smile.

"Hey, Teal'c."

He gave an acknowledging nod. "O'Neill."

"Everything okay up here?"

"Everything is fine."

"Uh huh. Great. Glad to hear it."

Turning his head, he let his gaze rest on O'Neill's injured leg for a moment. "You are in pain." He reached out a hand and briefly touched O'Neill's forehead. "You  have a fever."

"I have a hole in my leg," said O'Neill. "Go figure."

"I have already done so. I surmise that by now it is an infected hole," he replied. "Upon our return to the SGC you will require extensive medical assistance. Again."

O'Neill gave him a filthy look. "Thank you for the reminder." Then he sighed. "Oh well. You know how it is. It offends my puritan soul to see Janet sitting around being paid all that money without having anything to do. She'd be lost without my sacrifices for medical science."

"Indeed."

O'Neill grinned, and laughed a little, but his amusement was short-lived, stifled by discomfort. He took in  a sharp breath, bracing himself in the chair. There was sweat on his face. "Sonofabitch ..."

"There is morphine in the medical kit," he said. "Shall I fetch it?"

"No," O'Neill said tightly, and shook his head. "Uh uh. It's okay. It's not so bad."

He permitted a small sigh of his own. "O'Neill. I have myself experienced a direct blast from a staff weapon, on more than one occasion. As we both know, it hurts like hell. Please do not attempt to pull the wool over my ears."

"It's eyes, Teal'c," O'Neill corrected, as he knew would happen. "You pull the wool over someone's --" And then OıNeill managed a strained little smile. "Ha ha. But what did I tell you about making me laugh at times like this?" He pulled a face, then breathed out. Forced himself to relax. "Hurts like hell," he murmured. "And doesn't that little phrase take on a whole new
meaning ..."

He shrugged. "I cannot answer that question. I have never been to Natu."

O'Neill leaned back in his seat and pressed his palms to his face. "Oh, Teal'c. Trust me on this one. It does."

Then there was silence, as O'Neill fought his battle with the pain. Eventually he was moved to speak again. "My friend, you have nothing to prove. Allow me to fetch the morphine."

For a long moment, he thought O'Neill would refuse him once more. Then: "Fuck. Yeah. All right. Get it."

It was a measure of his distress that he allowed himself an obscenity. Generally speaking, O'Neill was quite temperate in his language.

There was no danger in engaging the auto-pilot for a few minutes. The morphine was in the medical kit, back in the cargo hold. He employed stealth, not wanting to disturb his sleeping passengers. As he unlatched the medical kit, however, Daniel Jackson opened his eyes and blinked groggily at him.

"What is it? Are we there?"

He held up the ampoule of morphine.

"Oh," said Daniel, and propped himself on one elbow. "Jack?"

"Yes."

"Gee. I guess his leg must really be killing him if he asked you for morphine."

He permitted himself a tiny smile.

Daniel smiled back. "Ah. Right. Of course. Well, do you need some help? I can sit on his head."

"Thank you, no. I do not require assistance at this time."

Daniel lay back down again. "Okay. If  youıre sure. But  you know where I am if you need me." Then he frowned. "He's okay, isn't he? I mean ... it's not serious?"

"Any wound from a staff weapon is serious," he replied. "But as yet there is no cause for alarm. We should be within reach of adequate medical facilities in sufficient time."

Daniel frowned. "You know, Teal'c, I just know you thought that was reassuring."

He shut the medical kit with a quiet click. "Go back to sleep, Daniel Jackson. You have endured an arduous mission, and require rest."

"Yes, daddy," said Daniel, and obediently closed his eyes.

O'Neill considered him with ill favour as he resumed the pilot's seat and checked the dar-ek del.  "Give it to me," he said, nodding at the morphine and holding out his hand. "I'll do it."

"That would be unwise," he replied. "Your hand is shaking."

"No, it isn't," O'Neill said, in direct contradiction of the evidence.

"Do you not trust me?" he enquired politely. "I have received full training from Dr Fraiser."

Another filthy look. "Stick it in, then."

"Very well." And he stuck it in. Squeezed the little rubber bulb that pushed the drug into the thigh muscle, withdrew the needle, and disposed of the empty ampoule.

The expression on O'Neill's face was peculiar: loathing and gratitude and an odd kind of fear. "God. I hate that stuff."

"It causes pain?"

A bitter laugh. "No. Quite the opposite, in fact."

There were times ... many times ... when following O'Neill's train of thought was a challenge worthy of a Jaffa master. "I see."

O'Neill looked away. Cleared his throat. "You remember I told you about that little parachuting contretemps of mine a while back?"

Idly, with trademark wit and self-deprecation, O'Neill had spun the tale during shared lookout duty on PX7661, many months previously. They'd been comparing survival techniques, arguing amiably about GPS technology versus a good eye for constellations. Quick to play down any suggestion of heroics, OıNeill had used the story to illustrate his contempt for over-reliance on technology. What he had done was a feat worthy of any Jaffa. Surprising, and at the same time not ... if one knew OıNeill. "In the Middle East? I remember,"  he said. "You had an argument with gravity, and lost."

A quick grimace. "Comprehensively. Well. What I didnıt tell you was that afterwards they kept me on a morphine cocktail for nearly two months."

He raised an eyebrow. "And this is not a good thing?"

O'Neill's look was eloquent. "Morphine is kind of like a first cousin to heroin."

Ah. Heroin. "I see."

"I did not get addicted," O'Neill snapped. Then he let his gaze stray again, reluctantly honest. "But..."

He nodded. "I see."

O'Neill released a long, quavering sigh. A little of the torment was fading from his face now, and his eyelids drooped. "Janet doesn't know."

"A wise precaution."

Beside him, O'Neill chuckled. Then he sighed, and his head rolled against the seat  back.

Silence returned, settling softly like a blanket. As O'Neill slept, he took back control of the teltac and eased himself into a light trance, a kind of pre-kelnoreem state,  encouraging his body to refresh itself. Beyond the window, space continued to writhe in gentle distortions. A little less than an hour later, O'Neill woke. Cursed and clutched at his leg. "Are we there yet?"

"Soon."

O'Neill nodded. Frowned. "Charlie used to say that every five minutes when we went on holidays. 'Are we there yet? Are we there yet?' Drove us crazy." His face crumpled, clenched, smoothed. When he spoke again his voice was low. Shaking. "He made me remember Charlie. He was in my head, watching me remember Charlie."

He. Molten hatred stirred, quested.

"Jesus. Jesus." O'Neill slammed a fist into the chair's armrest. "How can he not be dead? I can't believe that he's not dead. For Christ's sake! How many times are we going to have to kill the bastard?"

"As many times as it takes, O'Neill." It was a vow. A declaration, to any gods who might be listening. "One day we will hold his lifeless heart in our hands and know that he will not rise again."

He could feel O'Neill's eyes upon him, feel the fierce intelligence and the ice-cold reflection of his own quiet fury. "Yeah," said O'Neill, in a calm, flat voice. "We will." Then he said, in a different  tone altogether, "He knows you're the one who killed Ammonet. Sokar had already told him, but he didn't believe it until Daniel confirmed it."

He stared at that. "Daniel Jackson?"

O'Neill was shaking his head. "First words out of his mouth. 'Ammonet is dead. Sorry to ruin  your day. Actually, no, Iım not sorry.' You know, Teal'c,  I hate Apophis. And you hate Apophis. But Daniel ...." He shivered. "I think thereıs something deep inside of Daniel that could make me look like a pussycat on a brick wall in the sunshine."

"Sha're is dead," he said, and failed to school his voice sufficiently.

O'Neill's hand came to rest on his shoulder. No words, for there were none to be said. But the warm weight of friendship eased him, and when at length O'Neill withdrew his hand, his heart ached a little less.

"Well, we'll just have to look on the bright side," said O'Neill. "Maybe the snakey little motherfucker was killed when Natu exploded."

He nodded. "Maybe."

"And maybe he wasn't," O'Neill added glumly. "You know, this galaxy really isnıt big enough for the both of us."

"The universe is not big enough," he said. "If he is alive -- and we must accept it as a probability -- then you must know that he will not rest until he has found us, and exacted retribution."

O'Neill pulled a face. "Gosh. Now there's something to look forward to."

Turning away from the flight controls, he said vehemently, "It is not a joking matter. Apophis is capable of cruelties you could not comprehend. But I have seen them with my own eyes. I have seen the villages torched. The people, burned alive in their homes. Flayed. Vivisected. Torn limb from limb by wild beasts. Nailed alive to the walls of the public  houses and left to rot. Anyone who defies him is treated thus."

"So he's not a good loser. I knew that."

There were times when O'Neill's insistent flippancy was extremely ... aggravating. He resisted the  urge to take his friend by the shoulders and shake some sobriety into him. Sharpened his voice, instead. "Together, O'Neill, we have humiliated Apophis, destroyed his base of power, rejoiced in his death, delivered him to torture at the hands of Sokar and killed his mate. There are no words to describe the hatred he feels for us. There are no words for the deaths he will give us should ever we fall into his hands after this day."

O'Neill shifted in his seat, uncomfortable. "I know, I know," he said irritably. Not wanting to hear it. Hating the negativity, the spoiling of a victory that by rights should never have been. Well that, as O'Neill himself liked to say, was too damned bad. Like it or not, he had to hear this.

"No," he insisted.  "You do not know. There was a man, a village elder, who withheld tribute from him. Apophis ordered that the gold he stole be melted down, and poured into the man's open mouth. In another village, another man. He tried to prevent Apophis from taking his eldest daughter as a host. Apophis had the man's eyelids stitched open, then killed his other five children, one by one. It took twenty seven hours for them to die.  Then  he cut out the man's entrails, impaled him on a stake and raped the daughter. The last thing the man heard  was her dying screams. And there were other deaths, O'Neill, even more horrible than those. For as long as you have lived, I was his First Prime. You do not know what he can do. You do not know what I know. You have not seen what I have seen."

Sickened, face bleached of colour, O'Neill nodded. "Okay. I get the picture. He's a recreational serial killer with an overactive imagination."

"O'Neill ..."

"Well, hell, Teal'c! What do you want  me to say? That I'm scared? Fine. Iım scared. I'm more than scared. If he is alive, then chances are he's going after Sokar's patch. And if he gets it ... if he gets control of a fleet of warships big enough to conquer all the other system lords, then we are fucked. So you don't have to draw me any more diagrams, okay? Contrary to popular opinion, I am not as dumb as a stump. I absolutely understand what  you're telling me."

He nodded. "Very well, then." And added, after a little time, "General Hammond will not be pleased to hear of this development."

O'Neill just looked at him. "Ya think?"

He returned the look. "Frequently."

That earned him a double-take and another wry smile. Then the smile faded and O'Neill said, a little hesitantly, "You never talked about that stuff before. Apophis' ... predelictions."

He shrugged. "The appropriate context did not arise. Besides. They are not memories I am eager to resurrect."

"No. I guess not."

Another silence, heavy with unspoken thoughts. He said, slowly, "You do not ask the obvious question, O'Neill."

Discomfited, O'Neill drummed his fingers on the armrest. "I -- it's none of my business."

He sighed. "During the Cor-Ai ceremony, you would not listen when I tried to tell you that executing me would not have been a miscarriage of justice. When I said that murdering Hanno's father was the least of my crimes, I told the truth."

"And so did I. There were mitigating circumstances, Teal'c. The --"

"The chain of command theory," he interrupted. "Yes. But was it not at the Nuremberg Trials,     O'Neill, that the argument 'I was only following orders' was dismissed as a legitimate defence? Only a coward hides behind words like that. Whatever I did during my service to Apophis, I did with my eyes open ... and my heart closed. One day, there will be a reckoning for that."

"Teal'c ..." O'Neill raised a clenched, denying fist. "For crying out loud. You were a slave. If  you'd refused, he would have killed you."

"That is true. I was a slave ... but I still had a choice. My life, or the lives of Apophis' intended victims. Until the day we met, OıNeill, I always chose myself."

"I've always wondered ..." O'Neill began. Took a deep breath. "Why did you do it? Why did  you choose that moment to abandon your friends, your family ... your God ...  and side with us? You must have known the consequences. After all you'd done. All  you'd seen. Why then?"

In three years of scattered personal conversations, it was the one question that had never been asked. He said, softly, "It is a matter to which I have given much thought. In answer, I can say only this. That for me, the slaughter of those innocents in Apophisı prison was, as you call it, the straw that broke the camelıs back. And that in  you, I had found a man I could follow with both eyes and heart open."

"Okay," O'Neill finally replied. "Now Iım embarrassed."

Again, he turned away from the teltac's control panel and focussed fiercely on his friend. "Hear me, O'Neill, for it is important that you fully understand. It is true, is it not, that if the circumstances dictated, you would give your life to save mine. Or Daniel Jackson's. Or Major Carter's."

So low he was almost inaudible, O'Neill said, "Yes. It's true." He was staring at his hands, his expression troubled.

"Do you not see how ... enormous ... a thing that is? You humans, the Tauri, live as imperfect beings on an imperfect world, O'Neill. Yet despite your petty  bickerings,  your wars and your sanctions and  your waste, at the heart of you is a wild courage and a love that knows no bounds, nor even sanity. In the name of love you fight for each other, bleed for each other, die for each other. You stand true. I have studied Earth history, O'Neill. I have read the words of  your great leaders. Your  holy men. Beneath the dross of your existence there is a force that can change the fate of nations. Of worlds. Of a galaxy. It is love, O'Neill. The love of justice, of freedom, of all that is good and right. The love of a father for his son. A leader for his country. A man for his brother, and his friend. Do you agree that this is so?"

"Don't forget the women, Teal'c," said O'Neill, striving for lightness. "Or you'll get Carter's knickers in a knot."

"Is this so?"

O'Neill waved a hand. "Yeah, yeah. I guess. I guess it's true."

"It is true. And it is what the Asgard learned from you. It is what the Tok'ra are learning now, from Jacob. From SG1. It is why Apophis fears  you, why the other system lords fear you. When humans are united in love and the common good, no evil can stand against them. On the day we met, O'Neill, I saw that. In the way you tried to protect those people you did not know. In the way that Daniel  Jackson offered himself as a host, so he could be with his wife. I had never seen it before. So I joined you. I wanted to learn from  you, so I could show my own people that there is a better, a truer way to live our lives. One day, I shall. And that is my answer." He turned back to the controls. Checked the readouts. They were nearly at Vorash.

For a long time, O'Neill did not speak. When he did, his voice was quiet. Sombre. Stripped of its customary armour. "Ever since we met, I've always wondered what really goes on behind that face you put on every morning," he said. "Now ... I guess I know. I just hope that I never do anything to make you regret what you just said. I don't think I could bear that."

"You will not," he said. Glanced at O'Neill, and frowned, not liking his friend's pallor, or the hectic patches of colour that burned over his cheekbones. "How are you feeling?"

O'Neill took a deep breath. Winced, and let it out in a groaning sigh. "Oh. Well. You know. Like shit, basically." Then he smiled. "But, in spite of everything ...  happy shit."

"Happy shit?" said a bemused voice behind them.

Major Carter. O'Neill turned to look at her. "Sam. How are you doing? How's Jake?"

She pressed his arm briefly in passing. Leaned against the control console and smiled. "Dad's okay. Whatever it was that Martouf and Alwin have been giving him, it seems to have helped, heaps. And I'm okay too. Tired. Still a little buzzy from that Sokar's Blood stuff." She pulled a face. "Can't see it joining my list of favourite tipples any time soon." Then her eyebrows lifted. "And it reminded you of the Seventies, did it? Well, well. Is there something you'd like to share with us, by any chance, Colonel?"

"Absolutely not," O'Neill said promptly. "And anyway, I was still delirious. That evidence would never be admitted in a court of law."

"Uh huh," she said, laughing at him. Then she leaned forward and touched his forehead. "God. I could fry an egg on you. Why aren't  you lying down, resting? Janet is going to be so mad."

"Uh ... no, she's not," said another familiar voice.

"Hey Daniel," said Major Carter, as Daniel  Jackson slumped beside her. "Why isn't she?"

"Because I think Jack's latest little whoopsie means she scoops the betting pool."

Beside him, O'Neill straightened. "I beg  your pardon?"

As Major Carter slapped him, Daniel Jackson flinched. "Oops."

"I said, I beg your pardon?" O'Neill repeated, querulously. "Betting pool? What betting pool?"

"Er ..." Major Carter cleared her throat. "Truly, sir. It's nothing."

"Oh yeah? Exactly how much nothing are we talking about here?"

An exchange of guilty glances. Daniel Jackson said, "Um, at last count I think it was up to seven hundred and sixty."

"Dollars?"

"No, schekels," said Daniel Jackson. "Of course dollars. General Hammond put up a hundred."

O'Neill scowled. "Well, that's pretty insulting. He's a two-star, he could afford at least one-fifty."

Turning in his seat, he regarded O'Neill with a sly smile. "Are you not curious to discover what it is that people have been betting upon?"

O'Neill gave him a look of freezing dignity. "I was getting to that." He turned his attention back to his subordinates. "Well? And? Yes?"

"Janet started it," said Major Carter. "I said it wasn't a good idea."

"And then you said 'yippee' when you won the time before last," said Daniel Jackson. "Hypocrite."

"Hah," said Major Carter. "You're just jealous because you've never won. You've never even come close."

"That's because I have more faith in Jack than the rest of the SGC. I know he's not some accident prone trigger happy bullet magnet," said Daniel Jackson.

"Well, that's true," said Major Carter. "Sometimes he just falls over and breaks things."

"Let me get this straight," O'Neill interrupted. "Are you saying there's a betting pool that operates on how often I get injured in the line of duty?"

"Well ... yeah. There is," said Daniel Jackson. "Sorry."

"And you didn't tell me about it?"

"Tell you about it?" echoed Major Carter.

"Hell, yes!" O'Neill replied. "I could use an extra seven hundred bucks, my damn car transmission's shot!  Hell, if I'd known I would have let that moron take Carter without an argument, saved myself a hole in the leg, let the pot build a few more weeks and then stubbed my damn toe! That would have paid for the transmission and new tires!"

The furious argument that followed was interrupted just short of bloodshed by the proximity beacon sounding a shrill alarm.

"Enough!" he declared above the mayhem. "We have arrived at Vorash. I suggest that you prepare for landing."

After which there was a great deal of fuss and discussion with the Tok'ra High Council, and protestations of thanks, good-byes and organisation of holidays and meetings and so forth. Eventually, they were ready to return through the Gate to Earth.

Martouf joined him as he stood waiting for Daniel Jackson to engage the DHD. O'Neill, leaning on a makeshift crutch, was still complaining about lost revenue. Major Carter was arguing in counterpoint.

"I do not understand," the Tok'ra said, shaking his head. "They sound so angry and yet ... I sense that beneath the noise and  bluster, they are not. How can this be?"

He shrugged. "There is more than one way to express affection, Martouf."

The Tok'ra stared, aghast. "Affection? But --"

He smiled. Rested a hand briefly on the Tok'ra's shoulder. "Fret not, Martouf. It is merely ... a human thing."

And then the Gate swooshed open, and it was time to leave.

"Ah," said O'Neill, kicking the crutch away and resting his left hand on Major Carter's shoulder, his right on Daniel Jackson. "Home. Let's go, kids."

They went.

© December 4, 1999 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.