Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.
Mmm, get high with a help from my friends.
John Lennon & Paul McCartney
"Forgive me, Colonel Makepeace, I appear to have slipped."
The tension was palpable in the locker room. Teal'c, his features so stony they belonged on Mount Rushmore, looked down at the man splayed naked before him on the cold concrete.
The rest of SG-3 stared at the scene in their various states of undress, and concern. It was obvious some wanted desperately to laugh at their team leader's undignified position, but were caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place of loyalty and fear of reprimand and/or almost certain death. Even the rawest recruit would recognize the peril of laughing openly at an angry Marine colonel, particularly if said colonel's ass was plastered publicly to a cold concrete floor.
SG-3 had completed their mission successfully. They had returned to base, typically tired, hungry, and eager for some down time; however, post mission physicals seemed to have taken an inordinately long time to complete. It seemed to the weary Marines that Doctor Fraiser had found it necessary to run a never-ending battery of tests before she pronounced them clear of even the remotest possibility of any alien infection. The Colonel was still attempting to decide why it had been necessary for he and his weary team to endure complete rectal exams. He was almost certain he had heard Fraiser muttering something about a 'pain in the ass' as she had him bent over the exam table. He was also still trying to figure out why the damn lubricant was so cold. If he didn't know better he would have sworn it had been in the refrigerator. Just thinking about it made him shudder.
Makepeace had still been contemplating the evils that the fierce pint-size doctor had inflicted on him and his team when he stepped out of the shower, and began wrapping a towel loosely around his waist as he walked towards the lockers. Without any warning, the distracted man suddenly found himself flat on his ass on the floor, with the impassive face of a Jaffa looking down at him. Looking up, impossibly far up, from his inelegant position, Makepeace caught just a glimmer in Teal'c's eyes that told him he would be wise to let the situation drop.
"I believe you may wish to remove yourself from the cold flooring," Teal'c advised seriously, his voice carrying throughout the room. "It appears the temperature is causing shrinkage of your manhood." Pausing slightly, he raised an eyebrow, gave the Colonel an appraising inspection and added, "Or . . . perhaps, not."
There was silence, and then a stifled snicker escaped from of one of the Marines. It broke off immediately as Makepeace cast an angry glare in that direction.
With a slight bow, Teal'c turned and left, displaying a fluid grace that belied his earlier clumsiness, leaving the red-faced Colonel attempting fruitlessly to cover his laurels.
><><><><><
'This was the freakin' report from Hell,' thought Makepeace. Why today of all days, did Hammond have to send that e-mail ordering a new format and detailing of mission reports? He downloaded the new program and with an irritated sigh of resignation he began. Orders were orders.
The stupid report had taken him hours to complete. Why the Hell, Hammond needed so much useless information was beyond him. "Fauna, as interacting with foliage, and how it related to a fabliau?' He read in disbelief.
'What the Hell, did that mean? It sounded like something that geek, Jackson, would ask for. He had probably talked Hammond into adding this shit on the reports. Fabliau? Ah Hell, where was that damn dictionary?
Squinting at the screen, the Colonel rubbed his weary eyes. God, he was going to be glad to finish this up and get the Hell out of here. He needed a beer, or two, or four, and about ten hours of uninterrupted shuteye away from sadistic physicians, freakin' big Jaffa with a penchant towards clumsiness, and never-ending mission reports. Just a few more points to cover and he'd be done. He could put this mission to bed and himself with it.
Pecking out the final information, Makepeace wearily hit the spell-check button, as directed at the bottom of the instructions, before sending it to Hammond. As the program ran, he corrected a few errors he had missed. Suddenly the spell-check stopped. Tired as he was, it took the Colonel a few minutes to realize something was seriously amiss. A window flashed a message that the program was not responding.
Puzzled, Makepeace clicked the cancel button. The window vanished, but the program remained silent and stationary. The Colonel clicked the File menu hoping to be able to nudge the mulish system into play.
Nothing.
Save.
Nothing.
Close.
Oh shit. The damn 'not responding' window was back.
The Colonel knew he had a deadline to meet, or Hammond would have his ass in a sling. He pushed the close button and was issued a warning that if he closed the program all unsaved information would be lost. He was getting a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The one that told him he was so freakin' screwed.
><><><><><
"Colonel Makepeace, are you all right?" Hammond asked with concern.
The General had good reason to be concerned. The Marine Colonel's normally ruddy complexion was pasty. Dark bags under his eyes offered the only contrast to the man's sallow appearance. He appeared not to have slept at all during the previous night. But the weary sneer of superiority remained plastered on his face, even if it didn't reach his dull eyes.
"Fine, sir," he responded as he sank gratefully into his seat at the briefing table. He was surprised to see that his team had been joined by most of SG-1. Who all appeared to be looking at him in a strangely assessing fashion. Before he could make a comment, Hammond explained the reason for the meeting, adding much to Makepeace’s rising misgivings. It was definitely nerve-racking the way that damn Jaffa was watching him. It made him think of the way a cat would play with a mouse. Attack, maul, release to allow the victim the illusion of escape, attack again. Why the Hell had that popped into his mind? He shuddered.
"Colonel, are you sure you're not ill? " Hammond asked with a frown. "I can send for Doctor Fraiser."
"Oh God, no sir," Makepeace blurted out, "that's not necessary." He ran a shaky hand over his face.
"Very well, Colonel. We'll get started," the General nodded. "As you know, Colonel O'Neill is still in the infirmary recovering from the leg injury he received on the mission to Netu. Doctor Jackson has suggested that while the Colonel is recovering, that SG-3 accompany the remaining members of SG-1 to P8J-427. It is apparently the site of a potentially important archeological find. Due to the fact that SG-3 is unaccustomed to this type of mission, Doctor Jackson suggested that he prepare a complete background report to broaden your team's general knowledge and expectations." Ignoring the incredulously look on the Marine's face, the General nodded towards Daniel and said, "Please begin, Doctor."
God, his head ached. It was pounding out a rhythm to his brain that might be interpreted as Morse Code. Dot dash dot dash dot dot. "Shut this little bastard up or I'm going to explode, you moron." How the Hell could one person talk for so long about absolutely nothing? Shit, no wonder O'Neill spent so much of his time in the infirmary. It had to be better than this limitless litany Jackson was spouting. He was hard pressed not to start beating his aching head on the table. He would have, but for the fact that he feared Hammond would pack his bruised and battered butt off into the clutches of Doctor StrangeGlove. And then, too, he might be forced to explain to Hammond why he had found it necessary to stay up all night to complete his mission report. And then there was that memo in his 'In Tray' about team leaders having to be up to speed with their IT skills, or spend the next six weeks on a training course. No way. No friggin’ way.
There was little wonder his head was ready to explode after the nightmare he had gone through with that report. Nothing he tried would budge the frozen program. Nothing had helped. He thought briefly of calling in Carter, or one of the other techno-geeks, but vetoed the idea. The threat of six weeks on a training course! It was just too damn embarrassing. He'd just have to fix the mess himself.
It hadn't taken him long to realize that the report was gone. No back up file, no temp file, just gone. Hours of work gone. He would have been tempted to cry, if Marines cried. As it was, he cursed.
He cursed Hammond and computers, mission reports and damn big Jaffas. He cursed spell-checks and techno-geeks, the SGC and miniature doctors with rubber gloves. And then he cursed himself for being stupid enough to ever have left a cushy Middle Eastern assignment where all he was called upon to do was complete the occasional assassination, or some such mission. God, those were the days before he’d ever heard of this bedeviled place.
And then he began the whole process of rewriting the report.
Hours later, as he was completing the revised report, which he had carefully saved this time, his e-mail signaled that he had a message. It was a short message from Hammond stating that upon further consideration, the amended mission report program was being scrapped. Effective immediately, all team leaders were to use the original briefing outline.
His head had hit the desk with a responding crack that no doubt had been recorded by deep space telemetry.
He was unaware that several floors away Sam Carter and Daniel Jackson were logging out of their internal e-mail files with smug, self-satisfied grins on their faces.
And so here he sat, bruised, battered, and completely bewildered as to what in the hell Jackson was talking about. Shooting a glance at the rest of his team, Makepeace was sure they were getting as much, or as little, out of this briefing as he, if their glazed eyes were any indication. SG-1, on the other hand, appeared completely intrigued and absorbed in the lecture. They actually appeared to be enjoying themselves. And Hammond had the nerve to call O'Neill's team the flag ship team of the SGC. Shit there is no justice.
And Daniel Jackson talked on.
><><><><><
Carter sat easily on the edge of O'Neill's bed, carefully avoiding the Colonel's injured leg. Janet sat across from her. Daniel relaxed in a chair next to the bed. Teal'c stood in calm repose at the foot of the bed. There was a comfortable camaraderie as they shared a Chinese meal, smuggled in from town.
"So kids," Jack grinned as he bit into an egg roll, "you've been up to something. Which of you cats ate the canary?"
"I had not realized yellow song birds were on the menu," Teal'c frowned. Carter issued an unladylike snort.
Daniel grinned and said, "Does the word retribution mean anything to you, Jack?"
O’Neill looked in confusion from one person to another.
Teal'c continued, "If any bird is to be devoured, it would be wise to look towards Colonel Makepeace, who has been dining on crow."
Staving off the questions the Colonel obviously wanted to ask, Carter passed out the fortune cookies.
Cracking open his cookie, Daniel grinned at his friends and feigned reading the message. "He who laughs last, laughs longest."
O’Neill settled back and watched them. Whatever it was they had done, they were mightily pleased with themselves.
"How about yours, Janet?" Daniel asked.
With an evil grin playing on her lips, and thoughts of rectal thermometers in her head Janet glanced at the paper. "An ounce of 'retention' is worth a pound of cure."
O’Neill felt himself drifting away, thinking how much better life was with good friends like these around him.
"Teal'c?" Carter chortled.
With a gleam in his dark eyes, Teal'c held the tiny slip of paper up and drawled, "Revenge is sweet."
Noting O'Neill's eyes closing in peaceful slumber, Sam picked up her own fortune and read softly, "Sweet dreams, Colonel."
Author's Notes: Many thanks to all those who wrote demanding, er requesting, a sequel. Hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Karen, you are my personal trainer of fic writing. Thanks so much for always beta reading for me with a smile. As always, feedback is much appreciated.
© January, 2003 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.