• Season: Post Meridian - Pre 6th
• Summary: A song, a bottle, and the loss of a friend cause Jack to make a bad decision. Now he must pay the price for his actions.PG [A] [HC]

The juke box never stopped belching music, like Bossy chewing the same mouth full of grass, the songs played over and over. From the time the doors opened, to the time the last drunk was escorted towards the exit someone was constantly feeding quarters into the old machine’s insatiable metal stomach causing it to regurgitate a non-stop variety of euphony. In another type of bar it might of been John Denver’s Country Roads or flashing disco lights keeping rhythm to the Bee Gees, but here it was the finger taping on the side of a cold one golden oldies from the 70’s and 80’s. They were the songs you had heard a hundred times and could recite backwards in your sleep. The songs, if you were so inclined, which you could belt out into a Karaoke microphone and make a complete fool of yourself. Jack O’Neill was not so inclined.

Dressed in civvies, Jack had made an effort to blend in with the locals as he walked into the bar. Sitting in self inflicted isolation he had ignored the one or two friendly attempts to socialize people had thrown his way. Now the word was out, ‘Leave me the hell alone.’ Staring into his glass, O’Neill’s sigh reached gut deep. Signaling the bartender to refill his glass and leave the bottle, his eyes dared the man behind the counter to refuse him this escape.

Jack’s eyes locked onto the label of the bottle he had spent the evening consuming. 'Jack Daniels, Oh shit. Couldn’t he get away from it anywhere?' Jack and Daniel, the dynamic duo, oil and vinegar, salt and pepper. Mix, shake well. Left alone, they were ingredients, but combine the two and they made a hell of a dressing for the khaki green salad that was SG-1. Now he was back to being just an ingredient. An ingredient just like before Abydos when a geeky scientist made him realize he had something to live for again. ‘Daniel, why did it have to be you? You were the best friend I ever had. My friend...my brother...my pain in the ass. Why?’

He was sick of the looks he got at the base, the pity, the unspoken accusations, the void that was Dr. Daniel Jackson. He was sick of Carter’s mock cheerful, good soldier, ‘Everything is going to be fine, Sir,’ attitude. The lie evident on her face every time he looked into her pain-filled blue eyes. He had quit looking. It hurt too damn much to see his failure so evident. He was sick of Teal’c’s ever stoic nothing’s-gonna-change-the-facts-so-get-on-with-life perspective. He was sick of Hammond pressuring him to choose a fourth and get it over with. He was simply sick. Reaching to pour another drink he mumbled, "Yeah, Danny, it’s just me and you, Jack Daniel’s, together again, the way it’s supposed to be."

Throughout the evening Jack had avoided the drone of the juke box. It was just another background noise in the midst of a thousand noises he chose to ignore, but as the plaintive voice of Elton John crooned the words, "Daniel, my brother ..." Jack raised his head, unable to ignore the sharp pain that shot through to his soul.

"Do you still feel the pain of the scars that won’t heal?" Scars that won’t heal.

Shit, shit, and double shit he didn’t need this. He had scars. Daniel had scars. The whole damn world had scars that wouldn’t heal.

"Your eyes have died, but you see more than I." Jack’s eyes squeezed shut, ordering the emotions to stand at ease. They didn’t obey orders any better then he did. His hands shook as he quickly grabbed the neck of his only friend and poured another drink, allowing it to burn a fiery track down his throat as he tossed it back.

"Daniel you’re a star in the face of the sky." O’Neill could take no more. With fire flashing in his eyes, he stalked over to the machine and glared at it, accusing it of adding to his pain and sentencing it to death. Did it have any last words before sentence was carried out? "Oh God, it looks like Daniel, must be the clouds in my eyes." With that the executioner picked up a bar stool and smashed the old machine to pieces.

Silent outrage filled the room as O’Neill turned and staggered towards the door. The silence was slowly replaced by wanton effrontery. As Jack crossed the threshold towards the safety of the dark parking lot, a meaty hand grabbed the back of his shirt, jerking him to a stop. "Wait just a damn minute, buddy, I don’t know who the hell you are, but ..."

The man never finished his statement as he suddenly found himself on the floor of the bar staring into a pair of emotionless eyes and the palm of a hand ready to smash the bones of his nose deep into his brain. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that the gray haired man could and would kill him a never break a sweat. Complete silence once again filled the bar.

Slowly Jack stood up and released his grip. Turning, he ignored the sweat drenched face of the other man and made his way to his truck. A collective sigh filled the room as someone lent a hand up to the big man still quaking on the floor and the bartender quietly dialed the number for the police.

O’Neill slammed his foot on the gas even as he was throwing the big Ford into gear causing it to spew gravel throughout the parking lot. It was juvenile and stupid and he didn’t care. Swerving wildly the big truck squealed out on the road in a cloud of dust that was swallowed up by the night. As a sweet duet of violins filled the cab, O’Neill nearly hit a light pole as he fought to rip the CD player out of the truck and throw it out the window. ‘No more music! Not tonight.’ Fighting to regain control the colonel turned on a side road and sped into the night down a lonely blacktop winding into the darkness away from civilization, away from his pain.

Jack stared blearily through the dirty windshield. Somewhere deep inside the drunken driver, a stone cold rational colonel berated him for doing something this idiotic. He might drink, hell yes, he might drink, but he never drove under the influence. His tox-level must be through the roof. God, he knew better than to do this, he’d seen the result of too many drinking and driving accidents. The sober colonel ordered him to pull over and sleep it off. He ignored the order and drove faster, anger at life coursing through his veins.

Peering out into the area illuminated by his headlights Jack saw the road narrow as it crossed a small bridge. There was no one else on the road so he saw no reason to slow down. Somewhere the thought actually flitted crossed his mind that it might be wise to stop, but even as he thought about lifting his foot from the gas pedal the truck’s right front tire hit a pot hole and blew. Had he not been drunk, the colonel might have stood a chance to regain control, but with slowed reflexes and impaired thinking, O’Neill over-compensated and jerked the wheel causing the big truck to careen over the embankment. Sparks flew from beneath the truck bed as it scrapped wildly on the large rocks embedded in the hillside, bouncing its passenger like a rubber ball against the roof again and again.

Blearily, Jack watched in detached fascination as the nose of the truck plowed into a bridge abutment, flipped, and rolled on its side into the river. Without the protection of his seatbelt when the air bag exploded it snapped the colonel’s head back, breaking his nose even as it managed to keep him from being thrown through the wind shield. He never felt the blow. The unconscious driver lay in a crumpled heap against the passenger window as icy water began to trickle into the cab.

O’Neill awoke with a start. ‘Shit, the guards must have beat him to unconsciousness again and then thrown buckets of water on him to wake him up so they could start the games again. They had really done a number on him this time. *Wonder what I said this time to piss them off so bad?* God, he hurt all over. He didn’t remember the water being quite so cold at Club Med. His teeth were chattering with the cold. He was shaking all over. So how come his face felt so hot?’

Shaking his head in an attempt to clear up some of the fogginess surrounding his brain, O’Neill suddenly became aware of his surroundings. He couldn’t quite put the whole picture together yet, but a couple of things were painfully apparent. He was laying on his side in icy cold water, water that seem to rapidly be getting deeper, and as he glanced above his head through the driver’s side windows he could see flames and smoke licking the frame of the undercarriage. Oh crap!

Adrenaline sobered him as he fought down the panic that threatened to drown him quicker than the river surly would if he couldn’t get out of this truck. Of course before that happen the gas tank was sure to explode so drowning wasn’t really an option at this point. Welcome to Let’s Make a Deal, O’Neill style. Behind door number one, colonel, you can choose to drown in the icy river. Door number two allows you to be fried, flattened, and fricasseed as the gas tank of your truck explodes. Jack attempted to stand only to double over as strangled coughs shook his body. Waves of pain caused him to break out in a sweat despite the fact that he was shaking with cold. Blood splattered the surface of the rising water as the deep coughs finally subsided leaving his mouth full of its coppery taste. Oh swell, behind door number three, internal injuries.

Steeling himself to try again, while making a vain effort to block out the sounds of the fire as it crept rapidly towards the fuel tank, Jack stood and pushed at the bent door frame ... jammed. He tried the button to open the window. Nothing. ‘Of course nothing, Jack you schmuck. Did you really think you’d get out of this that easily.’ It was a bizarre feeling, standing up to his knees in icy cold water while his face and torso seem to be roasting. Fire and Ice.

Pounding uselessly against the glass with his fists, O’Neill could see that if he didn’t get out in the next couple of minutes it would be too late. The flames flared over the window and Jack found himself mesmerized by the memory of Daniel engulfed in flames, screaming his name, begging for help. ‘Don’t go there Flyboy, keeped focused’ he ordered himself, consciously willing the memory back into the recesses of his mind. It was too apparent that if he didn’t get it together right now, he would be dead for now and all times to come in this flaming coffin.

It was becoming nearly impossible to breath the heated air. O’Neill found himself panting, his mouth gapping wide in an attempt to feed his starving lungs the oxygen they craved. Reaching behind the seats, Jack felt frantically in the water for his tool kit. Suddenly his long fingers wrapped around the tire iron he had thrown in the back floorboard the last time he had changed a tire. With strength born of desperation, O’Neill began to strike at the glass, finally shattering it. He hit it again and again until he had a sizable hole. Shrugging out of his leather jacket, Jack wrapped his arm and knocked as much of the glass out as he could. He was unprepared as the flames surged into the cab devouring the new source of oxygen.

Dropping to his knees, O’Neill desperately tried to submerge himself. The cold water doused the burns covering the colonel’s face and arms. Unbeknownst to the frantic man, the water quenched the fire that was burning his hair. The very thing that would strive to take his life had momentarily saved him. Soaked to the skin, O’Neill clenched his teeth against the myriad of pain assaulting him and clambered through the gates of hell, ignoring all, in a desperate last ditch effort to escape the inferno.

Stumbling along the water’s edge, O’Neill fell to his knees and crawled, ignoring the rocks and gravel cutting into his aching knees and burned palms. Collapsing in the soft mud, Jack glanced back at his truck, now a fire ball illuminating the dark countryside. Waves of nausea overwhelmed him and he lost his battle with consciousness as his body mutinied against the treatment it had received. He was not aware when the blast wave washed over him as his truck exploded moments later.

~O~O~O~O~

‘What the hell did I do this time?’ O’Neill groaned. ‘Why am I laying in the mud?’

The colonel’s aborted attempt to sit up proved a monumental mistake. ‘God how could one person hurt in so many places?’ He felt like he’d been put through the puree cycle in a blender. Janet was going to murder him and the way he felt it might be considered mercy killing. Trying to take in his surroundings through swollen lids he became aware that it was raining, not a real down pour, but the kind of steady drizzle that made you want stretch out in..front..of ..a..fire... ‘Oh shit,’ he thought as memories flooded back.

Struggling to turn his head, O’Neill could see the skeletal remains of his truck lying in a steaming heap. The river water had filled what was left of the cab. Jack’s head sank back onto his mud pillow as he contemplated just how close he had come to death. ‘Oh yeah, Jackie me boyo, and this ranks right up in the top ten stupid things you’ve ever done.’ Drinking, yeah right, drunk driving. Speeding down a pitch black country road. God, he got exactly what he deserved. What if he had killed someone? What if he had killed a kid? The accusations pounded him in rhythm with the pounding in his head. He closed his eyes and surrendered to the pain.

Some time had passed before the colonel had the mental strength to open his eyes again. He ignored as best he could, the pounding head, the burns, the scorched lungs, and ... well the other things it didn’t pay to spend time dwelling. Somewhere deep beneath the surface of suffering, the tiny seed of self-preservation which had saved him so many times in the past, sprouted roots and began to grow.

‘Dammit, he would make it, somehow. He wasn’t going to curl up and die without a fight.’

~O~O~O~O~

The phone rang deep inside Cheyenne Mountain and Hammond reached for it without taking his eyes from the report he was working on. "Hammond," he barked. His hand suddenly dropped the pencil and began rubbing his forehead in an attempt to ease the tension he felt building as he listened to the police sergeant drone on with the charges listed against his second in command. Slamming the receiver down at the end of the conversation, the general pushed a button and ordered, "Get Major Carter and Teal’c in here now." Picking up his pencil he began to beat out a cadence to his impatience as he muttered, "Jack, what the hell have you got yourself into now?"

Within minutes of the page, Major Carter and Teal’c were hurrying towards the general’s office. Pausing to knock, Sam threw a questioning glance towards Teal’c. The arched eyebrow was her only answer, but after years of practice, the major had become proficient in interpreting the body language of the tall Chulakian. *I am unsure as to why General Hammond as summoned us , Major Carter. Perhaps he will enlighten us momentarily.* Carter smiled.

As Teal’c glanced at the smiling face of the young woman next to him he pondered, ‘Even after all these years I do not understand the Tauri.’

The thoughts were interrupted as Hammond’s bellowed, "Come," beckoned the pair into his office.

"Sit down people," the general ordered, "we’ve got a problem."

"I just received a call from the police. The Colorado Springs police are looking for Colonel O’Neill." Seeing the questions formulating, Hammond held up his hand and continued. "According to the sergeant who called me, the colonel went to a local bar last night, got drunk and used a barstool to destroy a jukebox."

"That doesn’t make sense, General," Carter began.

"There’s more, Major," Hammond continued, "When a man attempted to detain him, the colonel took the man down and threatened to kill him. He then left in his truck, driving erratically, and has not been seen since. There are several outstanding warrants for his arrest, including drunk and disorderly conduct, destruction of property, there was even some talk about attempted murder, not to mention drunk driving. I don’t even want to think about the vehicular homicide charges they’ll bring if he is in an accident and kills someone." He paused and shook his head, "It’s bad, people."

"General Hammond, have the police located, O’Neill?" Teal’c asked.

"No, Teal’c, and that has me concerned given his state while driving. Lord knows what could have happened to him."

"Have you sent someone to check the colonel’s house, General?" Carter questioned.

"No need, Major. The police obtained his address when the bartender reported his truck’s license plate number. They’ve been staking out his house waiting to arrest him when he returned. So far he hasn’t been back and no, he hasn’t checked into the base," forestalling the next question. "Major, Teal’c, I’m sure you realize anytime military personnel are involved in civil law there are always complications, and I don’t have to tell you given the classified nature of the program just how much more difficult this whole situation becomes. Not to mention a few people who would just love to leak this little escapade not only to discredit the colonel, but cast a shadow on the whole Stargate program. Suffice to say, we need to locate Colonel O’Neill, ASAP. I will contact a friend of mine in JAG and see what if anything I can do, confidentially, through them. You two concentrate on finding the colonel."

As Carter and Teal’c stood and turned towards the door he added, "We don’t know what’s going on with the colonel, so let’s keep this between ourselves for now."

Teal’c gracefully tipped his head, deeply appreciative that in his own way General Hammond was attempting to protect O’Neill despite circumstances.

"Teal’c let’s go to my lab and make some plans," Carter suggested. Teal’c nodded his agreement and the pair hurried towards the elevator.

~O~O~O~O~

The few feet Jack had managed to crawl up the riverbank had proven to be an exercise in futility. The burns and blisters on his hands prevented him from effectively using them to help scale the rocky embankment. His chest was killing him. From his vantage point the climb to the road looked impossible high. ‘Must be how a dog feels when he takes a leak on a Sequoia,’ O’Neill mused, ‘why bother, whose gonna notice?’

Another round of coughing cut short this line of thinking. ‘God, it hurt to cough with broken ribs.’ He spat out another mouthful of blood, trying to ignore the increasing frequency of that action. Pressing his burned face into the cold mud he made no attempt to bite back the moan that breached his swollen lips. He would have killed for some water or better yet about a gallon of Fraiser’s Happy Juice. Life really sucked when he started daydreaming about being in the infirmary. Daniel would have had some smart ass comment to make about that. Hell, if Danny Boy was here he’d be studying the damn boulders and calling them artifacts. Of course, if Daniel was here he wouldn’t be in this mess.

Twice now he had made it to his feet, but the freakin’ pounding his head had taken had given him the mother of all concussions. ‘I’m surprised what little gray matter I’ve got left isn’t leaking out of my ears.’ He grimaced then he added, ‘who knows maybe it is.’

He had attempted a couple of wobbly steps and suddenly found himself on Mr. Toad’s wild ride as the landscape swirled around him at an impossible rate. He had ended up flat on his back both times, not even sure how he had gotten to the ground. On top of all that he seemed to have pulled something in his knee. Nothing serious, just off. Kinda whocky. ‘Probably won’t even mention it to Doc,’ he thought as he lay there shaking with cold and shock.

At least it had quit raining. Now if he could just get it together and reach the road maybe he’d have a chance at being found. Twice now he had heard cars on the blacktop above him, but neither had heard the hoarse shouts for help. By late afternoon, he was not aware of the third car that paused at the bridge before crossing on towards its destination.

~O~O~O~O~

A small face pressed against the window and searched the skies anxiously. "Mom, the rain stopped, can Drew and I go out for a while?" the boy yelled. Barely waiting for the obligatory "Don’t get muddy" lecture, the boys rocketed out the door, whistled for the big golden brown and white collie mix breed waiting patiently in the yard and rushed out of parental range. One boy tossed a stick for Chance and watched the dog return it, proudly strutting in front of his young owners with his prize. It was a favorite game.

"Let’s go down to the bridge," Drew suggested. "I’ll bet the river’s out of its banks after all the rain." His older brother feigned disinterest.

"Race you there," he yelled catching his little brother off guard. "Last one there has to do all the chores tonight," he added over his shoulder.

"That’s not fair," his brother yelled back as they sprinted towards the river. As the boys skidded to a stop, panting after the mad dash, they leaned on the railing of the old bridge. They weren’t disappointed. The rains in the nearby mountains had feed the river enough to create a moderate surge out of the normally placid currant. Chance, eager to play, soon grew tried of watching the boys drop sticks and branches into the water. The big dog whined and when that did not have the desired result he reared up and planted his muddy paws on the chest of the oldest boy.

"Get down, Chance," Logan complained pushing the dog back, "look what you did, Mom’s gonna kill me."

"Here Chance, go get the stick," his brother rescued him even as he snickered at his brother’s muddy clothes. Tossing the stick over the embankment, the big collie raced away. The boys were startled a moment later to hear the dog barking feverishly.. Running over to the top of the hill, they peered down at their dog circling and barking wildly at the still body of a man. The burned wreck of a truck lay on its side in the river. "Drew, go get Dad," a young voice whispered.

~O~O~O~O~

Carter and Teal’c had spent a frustrating day searching O’Neill’s favorite haunts. They were handicapped by the fact that even after years of working together the colonel was still an intensely private man. The park didn’t seem likely given the weather, the children’s hospital, Sara’s house, and as a last result they even drove over to Charlie’s grave. While a fresh bunch of roses, Carter could have sworn grew in Jack’s backyard, graced the small grave, they found no signs of the missing colonel.

Returning to the mountain, they headed towards Hammond’s office to report. The general was just hanging up the phone as they entered. Motioning them to sit down he began, "I’m glad your back, I was just getting ready to page you. I just received word that a man matching the colonel’s description was found by two boys on the bank of the Fourmile River a few miles southwest of the city. Apparently the colonel lost control of his truck and drove off the embankment. Given his reported state of intoxication before the wreck it’s not difficult to imagine why."

Carter and Teal’c exchanged a quick glance at the slightly accusatory tone which had crept into the general’s last statement. It was understandable, afterall, Hammond had grandkids. He wasn’t likely to be one hundred percent sympathetic with a drunk driver, even if it was Jack O’Neill.

The general cleared his throat and continued his report, "The truck caught fire and exploded." Seeing the major’s horrified expression, the general added quickly, "The colonel has been transported to Colorado Springs General Hospital. I just got off the phone with one of the ER doctors who assured me he should survive barring complications. I’ve already dispatched Dr. Fraiser to the hospital to oversee the colonel’s care until he can be transported to the Academy Hospital where they have a burn specialist on staff."

The general stopped as he noted Carter’s face go a shade paler at the mention of burns. Even Teal’s chiseled features reflected his distress. "Why don’t you go meet Dr. Fraiser at CS General and wait to hear what she has to say about the colonel’s condition. I’m afraid you will have company as soon as the police get word of his location. Call me as soon as you know something more," he ordered, responding to Major Carter’s crisp salute with a distracted nod.

~O~O~O~O~

The waiting room was crowded. Unbeknownst to the blonde major, she had been on the receiving end of several ill-tempered glares as she paced the length of the small room. "Major Carter, there is no point that I can see in this repetitive walking back and forth across the room," Teal’c finally vocalized. Several people glanced towards the big man hoping the woman would take the hint and sit down. Each of them had troubles of their own that had been thrust unwelcome into their laps.

Stopping in front of the uncomfortable chair into which Teal’c had squeezed his large frame in an effort to blend into the crowd of concerned people, Sam looked at him with blue eyed anxiety. "How long has the colonel been in surgery? It’s taking a long time."

Had the same thoughts not entered his own mind several times, Teal’c might have been amused that the calm, coolly efficient major he had come to know over the past years was capable of this kind of erratic behavior. Just as he was formulating a response he noticed a decidedly weary looking Dr. Fraiser beckon them out into the hall.

Before she could speak, Sam verbally attacked the fatigued doctor. "Janet, what’s going on? How’s the colonel? It took so long." Sam might have continued her nervous dialogue, but the weary look on her friend’s face and Teal’c firm hand on her shoulder stopped her.

"Dr. Fraiser, is there somewhere we could sit and speak in private and allow you a chance to rest," Teal’c suggested softly. Even in the midst of the variety of crisis at the SGC, he could rarely remember Dr. Fraiser looking quite so exhausted. The usual ‘piss and spit’ attitude, as O’Neill called it privately, which was the hallmark of the feisty doctor appeared dim. Teal’c feared it was a direct result of his friend’s injuries which the doctor had been dealing with for the past several hours.

Nodding gratefully, Janet motioned them towards a small doctor’s lounge. A deep sigh escaped the petite woman as she collapsed in a comfortable arm chair and leaned her head back. Sensing her friend’s physical and emotional weariness, Sam bit back her anxious interrogation and allowed Janet a few minutes to compose herself and regain her normal professional mannerisms.

Sitting up, Dr. Fraiser took a deep breath and began in her matter of fact, business-like way, "The colonel should be dead." Seeing the shocked look in the eyes of her companions she paused and took another deep breath, pulling the armor of her profession around her, protecting her soul, creating a chasm between friend and physician. It was how she survived in a world where, too often friends became patients and sometimes when they were hurt too badly for her skills, memories.

Everyone knew doctors were never supposed to treat friends and family. Well that was a joke. How many times over the past years had she broken that rule? Laugh with them, cry with them, treat them, attend their memorial services. Jack O’Neill wasn’t the only one with chinks in his armor. Hell, Jack O’Neill was responsible for an awful lot of the dings and dents in her shiny protective plates.

Her musing was brought home as Sam laid a hand gently on her friend’s arm, "Janet, are you okay?"

"I’m sorry," Fraiser answered. "It was just too damn close this time. I don’t think I could take it, losing the colonel so soon after Daniel."

Sam’s eyes filled with tears and she looked away to try and regain control. Once again, Teal’c’s steady presence was a life-line as he asked, "What were the nature of O’Neill’s injuries, Dr. Fraiser?"

On steadier ground, Janet began reciting the shopping list of injuries the colonel had received. "Colonel O’Neill has multiple concussions and facial trauma one would expect given the severity and nature of the wreck. His lungs were punctured by broken ribs and at the time he was found, one lung had partially collapsed. Of coarse, his entire body is badly bruised." She paused and took a deep breath, "Now complicate an already critical situation with exposure, first and second degree burns to the face and hands and the damage the heat did to already damaged lungs, not to mention untreated shock, and you begin to understand my earlier statement. The colonel should be dead."

There was silence as the remaining members of SG-1 digested the unwelcome news. "May we see O’Neill," Teal’c asked, breaking the strained silence.

"The colonel’s in ICU, Teal’c. This isn’t like the Academy Hospital and I don’t have much say here, but I’ll see if I can get you in for a few minutes. There is concern about infection so you’ll both have to wear sterile gowns and masks. If anyone asks, tell them you’re his next of kin." Even in her weariness and worry, Janet couldn’t keep the sparkle from her eyes as Teal’c’s eyebrows shot up.

As the trio headed towards the ICU area they passed two uniformed police walking towards the nurse’s station. "Looks like we’re going to have company," Sam frowned.

Donning her best ‘I’m the doctor so don’t even think about messing with me’ face, Janet squared her shoulders for battle as a nurse pointed towards her and the officers headed her way.

"Excuse me, ma’am," the officer asked politely, "are you Dr. Fraiser?"

Sam remembered an evening a few months ago when she and Daniel had watched a documentary on bears. The look she saw on Janet’s face as she stared at the police, reminded her of the mother bear ready, willing, and able to defend her cubs against all odds. Right now Mama Bear was majorly pissed off and ready to take on Goldie Locks for trespassing on her territory. Now if General Papa Bear would come through with the right connections, Baby Bear might get out of hot water. Right now Carter would have given just about anything to hear Colonel Baby Bear bitching about eating the infirmary’s version of porridge again.

Seeing Janet moving away with the officers, Sam realized she had missed part of the conversation. As she started to follow, she felt Teal’c’s restraining hand on her arm. "Dr. Fraiser has instructed us to wait here momentarily, Major Carter. The police officers wish to see O’Neill."

Before the worried major could reply she saw the two young officers hurrying out of the ICU area. What Sam read in their eyes worried her more than the information Janet had shared with them. As the officers passed them she heard one mutter to the other, "Just a damn shame."

Janet motioned them into the ICU area and handed them the required safe guards. Carter was no novice to hospitals and the sick and injured. She had seen her share, hell she’d had her share, of injuries since joining the SGC. Unfortunately that didn’t prepare her as she stepped into the room and caught a glimpse of Jack’s swollen, battered, and burned face. A tent of sorts had been stretched over the colonel’s body and numerous wires and tubes fed medication, information, and other things in and out of his body.

But it was the still battered face on which Sam’s gaze was riveted. She had expected the intubation tube allowing the colonel to receive the life-giving oxygen his damaged lungs craved. She wasn’t even terrible disturbed by the blackened eyes and swollen nose. What the major wasn’t prepared for was the reddened, blistered skin, contrasting in such a vulgar way with the stark white bandages encircling his head and wrapped loosely on his hands. Her eyes locked on the eyebrows with the familiar scar, that were now sizzled and crinkled; the normally unruly gray hair, burned short in uneven patches, the lips that ... "Stop it Sam," she ordered herself savagely. Her knees began to shake as she took in the blisters covering the colonel’s eyelids and lips.

Sam felt cold sweat trickle down her back. She began to swallow rapidly trying desperately to get a grip on her sudden nausea. She found that she couldn’t answer when Janet turned her concerned gaze on her pale face. Suddenly she felt Teal’c arm wrap around her shaking shoulders and support her as he led her out of the room and to a chair which Sam gratefully sank into.

Embarrassed that her friends should see her like this, Carter gave a small laugh, which sounded terribly lame even to her ears. "I’m sorry guys," she tried to apologize, "guess I just didn’t realize how close we came to losing the colonel." Looking up at Dr. Fraiser she said, "Janet, I know you tried to explain, but ..."

"It was indeed most distressing to see O’Neill in such a state, Major Carter. There is no need to apologize," Teal’c responded.

"Sam, don’t feel bad, the burn unit is one of the hardest areas of a hospital to work and that’s even for people in the medical profession. Trust me, the colonel’s burns will heal. They’re not as bad as they look. In fact he’s had much worse when he was hit by the staff weapon. This is just so disturbing because it involves his face and hands. It may take some skin grafts, but we’ll deal with that once the colonel’s stable enough to move to the Academy Hospital. Dr. Philip Marks is a leading specialist in treating burn victims. I’ve already contacted him and he’s ready for the Colonel O’Neill to arrive." Laying a comforting hand on Sam’s shoulder Janet added, "Trust me, Sam, you know I wouldn’t turn Jack over to anyone but the best. Now if your feeling up to it, you had better go report to General Hammond, while I get back to the colonel."

~O~O~O~O~

It was a long painful recovery. Dr. Marks explained to the anxious team that while Colonel O’Neill’s burns were not severe in themselves, there were complications with which he was having to deal. He expounded on the fact that while the cold water which the colonel had doused himself had, without a doubt, saved his life, the prolonged exposure in the cold rain and mud had been life-threatening and contributed to shock and the danger of infection. While Dr. Marks may have been an expert in his field, he had yet to realize the tenacious nature of one stubborn colonel in his care.

It was a difficult time for all involved. Even Teal’c appeared disturbed as they sat for hours the first few weeks, watching the sedated form of their leader lying motionless behind the walls of the oxygen tent Dr. Fraiser had insisted on because his face was too tender for the mask or cannula. It was a day to celebrate when Janet final pronounced his lungs healed and he was able to breath on his own.

The burns took time and patience. Something Jack had never had an overabundance of on his best day. Dr. Marks simply shook his head when he thought of Dr. Fraiser treating the cantankerous colonel on a regular basis. One day he jokingly remarked to Janet after a particularly trying round of dealing with the colonel, that if the Joint Chiefs could aim O’Neill towards the Middle East, the terrorist threat would immediately be irradiated. He was still pondering Dr. Fraiser’s answer, "What makes you think they haven’t?", long after she walked away with a knowing look on her face.

Then one day as Carter sat working quietly on her laptop beside the colonel’s bed as he dozed, she realized something was distracting her. The colonel’s hands lay on top of the sheets covered in thin layers of loose gauze to protect the latest grafts. They were absolutely still. Sam had watched those long tapered, expressive fingers during briefings, on missions, around campfires, even when he was laid up in the infirmary, and if there was one thing the colonel’s hands weren’t, it was still. Even in his sleep they tended to react to his dreams, twitching and gesturing spasmodically. It was part of what made the colonel, ‘The Colonel’.

With most people Sam could watch their eyes and know what they were thinking, not so with the Colonel O’Neill. His Black Ops training, his personality, his past, had eradicated that window into his mind. When Sam wanted to know what the colonel was thinking or feeling, she had learned to watch his hands. The restless hands playing with a paperclip as Daniel excitedly explained a theory, the decisive hands issuing mute orders as they prepared for battle, the tender hands as they patted her shoulder encouraging her to solve an impossible situation. The key to Jack O’Neill’s soul was his hands. Now they were stilled and it was unnerving.

So engrossed in the inner-dialogue that she failed to notice a pair of deep brown eyes watching her, Sam jumped when O’Neill broke the silence and asked, "For crying out loud, Carter watcha staring at?"

Embarrassment colored her cheeks as the blonde major ducked her head, "Nothing Sir, just daydreaming." Then not knowing what else to say she asked, "How are you feeling, Sir?"

Expecting his standard smart-ass reply of, "Just peachy," Sam was surprised when he answered, "Got to admit, Carter, I’m getting a little sick of this Venus De Milo routine."

"Sir?"

"Aw come on, Carter, you know the statue with no arms," O’Neill grimaced as he shifted in bed seeking a comfortable position.

"Yes, Sir," she answered, "I know who Venus De Milo is, but ..."

"Well, you have to hand it to her," O’Neill paused with a wicked twinkle in his eyes as his words sunk into the ‘way smarter than his brain’. A grin broke through the corner of his mouth as she groaned and rolled her eyes.

That was the day Sam knew they would make it.

~O~O~O~O~

It seemed like the sun had risen inside the mountain the day Jack returned to the base. As near as he could figure nearly the entire SGC staff was on hand to welcome him home. By the time he had made his way to General Hammond’s office and sat heavily into the plush chair, he was exhausted. As the general entered the room, O’Neill made a conscious effort to sit up straighter. "Welcome back, Colonel," Hammond said, looking his 2IC over with a critical eye. "You were missed."

"Thank you, Sir. It’s good to be back," Jack mumbled, not quit meeting his superior’s eyes. The gesture wasn’t missed as Hammond scrutinized the man sitting in front of him.

"Jack, this was a damn stupid thing you did. As an officer in the United States Air Force and the second in command of this project you gave up any right you might, and I repeat might, have to go out and drink yourself senseless. There are too many people counting on you. I won’t even begin to tell you what I think personally as a grandparent about your decision to drink and drive." He saw O’Neill flinch as if hit by a powerful body punch and knew the man had gotten his point.

Lightening his tone, Hammond said, "Son, we nearly lost you, not in battle, hard as it would be, that I could somehow accept. We’ve both been soldiers a long time and as hard as it is, you go on with life knowing that the sacrifice is for a good cause. Losing you in a drunk driving accident would have been nothing but a damn waste, one I’m not prepared to accept."

Prying his eyes from his lap, O’Neill’s face acknowledged everything the general had just said as truth. "General," he began, "I don’t know what to tell you that I haven’t said to myself a thousand times already. It was a thoughtless, stupid thing to do that I would give anything to correct. I got what I deserved," he said quietly, thinking back to the weeks of painful treatment. "All I can say is thank God no one else got hurt." He paused, steeled himself, and blurted out the speech he had practiced most of the night in anticipation of this moment, "General, I deeply regret any embarrassment or consequences my actions have caused you or the SGC. If you want my resignation I understand completely, Sir."

There was a pregnant pause as Hammond considered his words, "Hell, no Colonel, we’ve got a job to do, but if you ever pull a stunt like this again I’ll personally bust you down to Airman 2nd class in charge of the base latrines." The look in the general’s eyes told O’Neill that it was a promise that would be kept, too. "I don’t suppose you want to share what it was that evoked this whole episode do you?"

"No, Sir, I’d rather, not."

Hammond snorted, "My that’s such a surprise." His eyes crinkled at the colonel’s expression. Getting back down to business he told O’Neill, "As far as anyone around here knows, you were in a carwreck, nothing more, nothing less. Let’s keep it that way, shall we, Colonel?"

Giving a brisk nod, Jack answered, "Yes, Sir, thank you." Looking at Hammond with the worry clearly lining his face, the colonel asked, "What about the police, Sir. Major Carter told me about the warrants. I’ll need to face the charges."

"The charges have been dropped, Colonel." Holding up a hand to forestall any questions, Hammond continued, "I paid a little visit to the bar and had a talk with the bartender. He explained a few things to me which occurred right before you took out the jukebox. Not a big fan of Elton John, I take it, Colonel?"

"Just not real crazy about one of his songs, Sir," Jack admitted as he studied his nails.

"Anyway, Colonel, it seems the bartender is a Vietnam Vet. He recognized your Ops training when you took the man down who tried to stop you and had you figured for military. He and I talked about a few things that were going on in your life right now. The man understands grieving for a lost comrade. He dropped all the charges as long as you agree to pay for the damages and not come back in the bar."

"Not a problem, Sir, I won’t be going back there."

"I didn’t think you would, the general nodded. "Jack, take this piece of advice for what it is worth, no amount of drinking is going to bring Dr. Jackson back. Lord knows I’ve tried and it never helps. You’ve lost a friend and the SGC has lost a valued member, but we will go on and so will you. We have a job to do and Dr. Jackson would have understood. We grieve, but we can not allow it to override the importance of the mission we’re here to accomplish. You know that! You simply allowed the grief to overbalance the importance of what you do and it cost you. It cost you physically, mentally, and financially and it will continue to cost you unless you shelve it where it belongs and go on with life. Choose your fourth and get SG-1 back where it needs to be. Am I making myself clear, Colonel?"

Standing, Jack looked at the man he respected above all other commanding officers he had ever served under, "Crystal, Sir." Snapping off a salute, O’Neill turned and headed towards his office. He knew there would be a mountain of paperwork awaiting him. He also knew Carter and Teal’c wouldn’t leave him alone too long before they found their way to his office to share a cup of coffee and some camaraderie. It was good to be back. It was right. Hammond was right. There was an enemy to fight and battles to win. Just like the words in the song said there would always be pain from scars that don’t heal, but he would go on and fight. It was what he did. It was who he was.

Jack O’Neill squared his shoulders and headed back into the battle. Closing the door to the lonely sound of Elton John echoing in his head, "Lord, I miss Daniel, oh I miss him so much."

Author’s Notes: Many thanks to Elton John for a great song. It seemed to fit.

© August, 2002 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.