The Devil Denied
The Devil Denied
by BadgerGater
The Devil Denied
Author: BadgerGater
Email: BadgerGater@cs.com
Category: Drama, angst,
Sequel: to The Devil You Know
Rating: PG
Pairing: None really, but Jack/Sara if you must have something
Season: Three; sequel to the Devil You Know
Summary: Jack may have lost something very important on Netu
Warnings: Kleenex alert. Angst. Couple of bad words.
Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, Gekko Productions; all the powers that be, not me; This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement intended. The story is the property of the author and may not be posted without the author's consent.
Authors Notes: Margo said I'd have to write an epilogue to this episode, and yup, she was right!
Thanks to my betas: A tip of the Badger's favorite baseball cap to TK, Corine (dank je wel) and my medical expert (bows deeply) cdl
Why is it we always seem to end up in a place like this? thought Colonel Jack O'Neill. They didn't call it the pit for nothing-- hot, dirty, dry, smelly, and oh yeah, bars and locks on the doors. Great place, he thought cynically. Good ol' Marty warned you, didn't he? He wasn't kidding when he said we'd be going to Hell, and you, Jack, you of course had to make some flip, off the cuff smart ass if true remark about checking out the neighborhood because that's where you're going to end up sooner or later.
Permanently sooner seems the more likely bet, at the moment.
So, here you are, Jack, you and your team, locked in the pit, in a place called Hell, and Apophis is your keeper. You remember, that Goa'uld you thought you killed a few months ago? Good job, Jack.
"Why," O'Neill wondered aloud, "why is it we can't kill one of those damned snakes anyway, huh? Why can't the sons of bitches stay dead? Ya' think any of them are dead? Please tell me they're dead."
"Well, Jack I think we probably did kill Seth, and most likely Ra, too. It's been a long time since we've heard from him. I'm not sure about Hathor ... "
O'Neill shot Jackson a dirty look. "I really didn't want an answer to that, Daniel."
Jackson shrugged. "Knew that. Just making conversation."
"A way to pass the time while we wait for afternoon tea in this pleasant place?"
"Ah, yeah," said Daniel.
O'Neill closed his eyes, running his hand through his hair. God, he hated this place, aptly named, it was, he thought. Hell. He twisted his head from side to side, fighting the throbbing headache and trying to stretch the soreness from his back and shoulders. Both had started with that ribbon device Bynarr had wielded, knocking him off his feet, crashing down hard on his back, hitting his head on the stone floor. Then of course, just adding to the fun, he'd been thrown into the pit and rolled hard into the wall. Probably had bruises on top of bruises already, he thought disgustedly, and they'd only been in this godforsaken place, what, a couple hours? Hell. Yup, that was right. To hell with Hell.
Jack continued prowling around their cell, looking for anything that could be viewed as a weapon, or, barring that, a way out. He was about to make another smart remark when they heard footsteps in the hallway. Three of Apophis' henchman entered the cell, Kintac, the one who'd shouted out Apophis' orders earlier, was carrying a staff weapon. "The woman will come with me," he snarled.
O'Neill stepped forward protectively. None of his people would be taken anywhere, not without a fight from him, he vowed. "Ahh, I don't think so."
Kintac didn't hesitate, didn't threaten, he just pushed the staff weapon's activation button. Power crackled and surged from the staff weapon, and O'Neill hollered, crumpling to the floor, writhing, grabbing at the burning flesh on his thigh.
Stunned, Carter looked down at her CO, then over at the men. "Okay, okay," she agreed, glancing once more worriedly at the injured man on the floor before stepping towards the door.
Oh shit, this *hurts*, thought O'Neill, clutching at the source of agony on his leg. Damn good work, Jack, get yourself hurt while trying to be macho man and protect your team, and failing. Way to go. Here to rescue Jacob and now you'll need rescue yourself, he chastised himself.
O'Neill groaned as Daniel and Martouf knelt beside him to examine the wound. The raw charred circle of blistered flesh was a few inches above the knee on the outside of his right leg. The Colonel had to fight back the urge to gag at the sickening smell of his own burnt flesh. As he writhed on the floor, a gentle hand pulled the charred cloth of his pant leg aside, but even that soft touch left him moaning.
"The surface of the wound appears cauterized but there may be bleeding beneath the surface," said Martouf matter of factly.
Oh, great, thought O'Neill, fighting to somehow get the searing agony under control.
There was a worried frown on Daniel's face. He knew from personal experience how much one of those staff weapon burns hurt. Ripping the sleeve from his shirt to use as a bandage, he carefully wrapped the cloth around the Colonel's thigh.
"Easy!" Jack ordered, roughly, his voice harsh. "God."
As gently as he could, but knowing he was going to hurt the Colonel, Daniel tightened the bandage.
"Aggh. You, oh God," said O'Neill, thrashing, half sitting, then sinking back to the floor, hand over his face to hide the pain.
For long minutes the only sound was the Colonel's harsh breathing as he fought to control the waves of agony washing up from his leg, into the pit of his stomach, threatening to engulf him in blackness. "God," he breathed.
Daniel was sitting beside him, feeling helpless, unable to so much as offer the wounded man a drink of water or an aspirin to ease the pain.
Finally, O'Neill seemed to quiet. He was lying still now, one hand thrown over his face, willing the pain out of his consciousness, ordering himself to ignore it. Mostly, it was working, if he concentrated hard enough.
"Jack, you okay?"
"Yup, I'm fine," he snapped. "I like lying on the floor with my leg turned into barbecued meat. My favorite way to spend my first day on a new planet."
"Well, technically, Jack it's a moon, not a planet."
"I know that, Daniel. Damnit." O'Neill muttered at the archeologist.
"Sorry," said Daniel softly.
Jack sighed, moved his hand away from his face, making eye contact with his friend. "Nothing for you to be sorry about." He shifted on the hard floor, trying vainly to find a more comfortable position, but the movement only sent pain shooting through his leg. "Argghh. God," he whispered.
"Keep still. That's a nasty burn," soothed Daniel.
"Don't I know it," O'Neill muttered, hand once again over his face. Taking a deep breath, the Colonel knew he had to ignore the pain and focus on their predicament. "Martouf?"
"Yes, O'Neill," the Tok'ra answered.
"You working on a plan?"
"I am thinking, O'Neill."
"Good. Keep it up," the Colonel said quietly. "How long has Carter been gone?"
"Not long Jack, Just a few minutes I think," Daniel answered.
"You should rest, O'Neill," Martouf added.
"We need to find a plan."
"You rest. We'll plan," Daniel suggested.
"Yeah right."
O'Neill was quiet again. He dozed, tried to rest, failed, and in a few moments, asked again, "how long has it been?"
"About two minutes longer than the last time you asked, Jack."
"Ah, yeah." He paused, thought again. "How's the General?"
"About the same. Still weak, semi-conscious."
"Ah, good," O'Neill mumbled, voice laced with sarcasm. "That makes two of us then."
For what seemed like hours, but couldn't have been more than minutes, they all were quiet, the General and O'Neill resting, Daniel watching and worrying over both, Martouf pacing restlessly, thinking of Jolinar and Samantha.
And then they heard noises in the hall, footsteps approaching. Jack pushed himself to a sitting position, trying to see, and heaved a sigh of relief as he saw they were bringing Carter back. They were supporting her, all but carrying her, and she looked dazed and exhausted, as they dragged her into the cell, and roughly threw her to the floor.
Kintac, Apophis's new 'first prime,' looked around, his eyes finally coming to rest disdainfully on O'Neill. "That one," he ordered the others, pointing at the Colonel. "The one with the loud mouth. Bring him. Apophis wishes to teach him some manners."
Rough hands grabbed Jack's arms, hauling him to his feet. "Hey now, you didn't have to do that. I'd have come peacefully." Someone shoved him, sent him staggering, pain lashing through him from the abused muscles and tissues of his leg. "Ow. Damnit," he protested, as he was forced to put his weight on the injured leg.
"Hurts, stranger, does it?" Kintac grinned. "You should have thought of that before. Bring him."
"Now look ... " but O'Neill's words were cut off by a grunt of pain as he was jerked forward. Dragged out of the cell, he was force marched to the quarters that were formerly Bynarr's and now belonged to SG-1's old enemy, Apophis.
Stumbling and limping, teeth gritted against the pain, O'Neill was pushed into Apophis's chamber and then forced to his knees, groaning. "Ow. Ow!" he protested, as the two goons held his arms. They forced him to hold the awkward, painful position as Apophis stalked toward his kneeling, helpless foe.
There was a smug grin on the maimed face as he contemplated the Tau'ri before him, the discomfort the man could not hide. He remembered how this one had once gloated over his dying body, had smugly refused his pleas for refuge and mercy. He was going to enjoy toying with this one. Revenge was sweet.
"Major Carter was most forthcoming," Apophis sneered. O'Neill thought it was a sneer. Hard to tell, with that mess Sokar had made of the Goa'uld's face.
"She didn't tell you squat," O'Neill answered defiantly. "Oh and by the way, I won't either."
"You're not here to provide information. You are here for my amusement," Apophis' lone eye gleamed.
Oh shit, thought O'Neill, not this again. What is it about me that attracts this kind of punishment, huh?
The Colonel didn't have much time to contemplate his fate. Hands roughly grabbed his jaw, holding his head in a vise-like grip from behind and above as Apophis approached carrying a familiar button like device, probably the one Carter had been wearing. Jack remembered the damn memory device from that little mis-adventure with Hathor. Not again, not that damn thing. He hated having someone poking around in his brain. His memories were his his alone, and private. "No!" He struggled, couldn't break free, overpowered by the three big goons. He felt pain flare through his skull as the device was attached. "All right, all right." Apophis used the little whirring screwdriver thingy to turn the memory device on.
It felt like an electrical shock straight through to the center of his skull.
And a piece of his past flashed across his brain.
<< .... "Charlie?" He was walking through his backyard on a summer day, smiling, baseball glove in hand, looking for his son.>>
O'Neill closed his eyes, trying desperately to shut out the memory. He knew this memory, didn't want to live this moment again, and pushed it away, deep into that spot where he'd banished all the bad memories from his life ...
From in front of the kneeling Colonel, Apophis's oily tones cut through the flashback. "You must be dying to quench your thirst."
The hands still held his head. O'Neill saw the cup in Kintac's hand. He didn't know what was in it, didn't want to know, just knew it wasn't anything good. Jack clenched his jaw determinedly. Hands in his hair pulled his head back, but he stubbornly held his lips clamped closed. That worked until the fist slammed into the raw burnt flesh on his thigh, and he had to gasp against the pain, gasp for air, and the liquid was splashed into his mouth. He tried not to swallow, felt most of the bitter, nasty tasting stuff slide down his chin, but he'd swallowed some before locking his jaw once more. Again, the hand was digging into his wound, agony ripping through his leg as one of the goons ground grime covered fingers against the raw flesh. Jack could feel the fresh blood trickling down his leg. Another gasp of pain he couldn't stop. More liquid this time, the cup emptied into his mouth and he had to swallow or drown.
O'Neill closed his eyes, tried to make his mind a blank, tried to ignore the vivid images forming in his head, and couldn't.
<<< ... "Charlie?" He was in the backyard at his house, green grass, warm fresh outdoor air, walking toward Charlie's swing set and his playhouse, searching for the boy. "Charlie? Sorry I'm late. I stopped to get you something." Jack tossed the baseball glove in his hand, eager to see the boy's face at the gift. It was the glove he'd been wanting, the new one they'd seen last week at the sporting goods store. "You in there?"
A bundle of energy came streaking out of the playhouse, something in his hand, a gun in his hand! "Bang! Bang! You're dead! You're dead!!" The toy weapon was pointed at Jack's face.
Anger flared in O'Neill's mind. "Where'd you get that?" he snapped, snatching the toy weapon from his son's hand.
"Jeff Eisen gave it to me." Charlie looked away. "It's just a water gun."
"It doesn't matter." How many times had Jack explained this? Charlie knew the rule. No toy guns. Guns weren't toys.
"You have a gun." The words echoed through Jack's head, "you have a gun."
"That's different."
"Why?"
God, why did kids have to ask questions? Why couldn't they just accept what an adult told them, huh? Jack couldn't keep the anger out of his voice. "Charlie," the boy, head hanging, walked past Jack. "Charlie! Where are you going?"
"Inside ... " his shoulders slumping, the boy turned toward the house.
Jack tried to change the moment, lighten the mood, "Wait a minute. Got you something," he hefted the glove. "Come on. We'll play some catch."
Charlie turned back to him, but it wasn't Charlie's expression, not his innocent child eyes, but something cold and steely and hateful in the voice. It sent a chill through Jack's soul. "This is not what happened, Dad. You're changing everything just to make it better."
"I know." Jack's eyes turned dark, hurt and sorrow searing through his brain, his mind wanting to avoid the memory of that day, of the anger and resentment, the fight, and where it had lead, the opportunity missed to change things, to fix things, to stop what happened from happening. Of course he changed things in his memories, he made things better in his memories. It was the only way he could live with them, by remembering the good parts and blotting out the bad. Jack's heart hammered. "Can't we just play catch?" he said softly.
His son's voice turned bitter and angry. "What really happened is you got mad at me and I went into the house. Two weeks from now I shot myself with your gun." The words were like blows, driving the air out of Jack's chest, echoing through his skull, "shot myself with your gun."
Stunned, Jack shivered. The man kneeling on the floor on the moon Netu moaned.
"We never played catch today and we never will," the child's unchildlike voice was gloating, angry.
Pain etched on his face, clouding his eyes, Jack pleaded, "why? Why can't we just play catch."
The boy's voice changed, taking on a sly tone, all innocence gone. "I'll play, if you tell me."
God, Jack wanted to change this day, change this memory; he needed to change it. He stepped forward, handed the boy the glove. "What? What do you want to know? I'll tell you anything."
The voice was no longer like the playful tones of a child, his child, but carried an edge of triumph. "Tell me how you made contact with the Asgard."
Jack spun to look at his son. "What?"
"You represented Earth in the negotiations between the Asgard and the System Lords."
"How'd you know that?" That was top secret. What have you been doing, Jack, talking in your sleep? A tiny thread of suspicion began taking shape in O'Neill's fogged brain.
"It's okay Dad, you can tell me," the boy wheedled. "Tell me the address of the Asgard home world."
"I don't know it."
"Tell me the address of the world where you had the Ancients knowledge downloaded into your brain. That was cool, wasn't it?"
Jack's heart skipped a beat, his chest was tight. "You can't know that. This isn't you." Pain clouded his face. This couldn't be Charlie. Charlie was dead. Charlie didn't know about the Asgard and the Ancients and the damn Goa'uld. Oh God, this wasn't Charlie, Charlie was dead, dead and gone.
"Sure it is. Come on Dad. We'll have a catch. Just like you want."
"No," he whispered. "No.">>>
For a moment, O'Neill lingered in the memory, looking at his son's face, and then the face changed, began to morph into the laughing ravaged face of the Goa'uld.
"No!" Jack shouted, surged toward his feet, dragging the two goons with him, and then something slammed him across the back and he crashed to the floor. "Charlie," he moaned, breathing in ragged gasps. "Charlie!" he called out the name, grief and guilt roughening his voice.
"Ah, O'Neill, this Charlie, he was important to you, wasn't he?"
"Charlie .... " Jack drifted, caught up in another memory, unsure now if this one was real or some other drug induced nightmare, of Charlie sulking, refusing to come down to dinner, refusing to play catch, ignoring Jack. Sara telling him the boy was just mad, he'd get over it in a couple of days, of Jack going up to his room, and Charlie sitting on the bed, arms folded across his chest, ignoring him, defying him, shouting at him, telling him he was a rotten dad. Asking why he was never home, why he promised he'd be at the Little League games and he wasn't; why he promised to take him fishing, but he didn't; why he couldn't have someone else as his Dad because he wanted a *real* Dad ...
<<<"I hate you!" the boy had shouted. "I hate you!">>>
The words cut like a knife through Jack's soul. He had been a rotten father, rotten ...
And then the memories started crashing down. Deep inside Jack knew it wasn't real, knew this was some drug induced twisted nightmare version of the real events of his life but he couldn't stop them. Images cascaded through his brain: Charlie being born, Charlie's eyes glowing; Charlie's first words, *'Daddy I hate you'*; Charlie turning away, Charlie lifting the gun to his head, *'this is for you Dad.'*Echoing through his head, *'for you Dad'*and the blood, blood everywhere. Sara screaming, screaming ... *'For you Dad.'*
-------------------------------------------------
O'Neill wasn't aware of Apophis ordering the men to take him back to the pit, of being dragged back to the cell, and tossed on the floor while Martouf was taken away.
He lay, facedown in the dirt, recalling how he'd gone to wake Charlie, mumbling the name.
Daniel reached down, touching Jack's shoulder gently, rolling him over onto his back. "Jack?"
"No. I don't want to go to school," he muttered. "No!" Jack jerked awake as Daniel pulled back, allowing Jack to sit up. "Ow. Ow." Damn, that movement sent waves of pain washing through his leg, and his head, ooh, he had one hell of a hangover. What had he been drinking? That stuff, that stuff Apophis gave him, the drug. Bad drug. Bad trip. Bad, bad trip. He stared forward out of glazed eyes.
Daniel's voice was very, very soft. "You okay?"
"No." He could barely see past the images in his head, the whirling psychedelic images of blood and death jumbled in his brain with visions of Charlie's hateful eyes; He could barely hear Daniel's quiet question over the sound of Charlie shouting hate filled words, and the echo of a single gunshot.
"They ah, they took Martouf," Daniel said softly, worried at Jack's lack of response, his lack of interest in his surroundings.
O'Neill was still fixed in his one train of thought. "They put that damn memory thing on me," he said tonelessly, eyes still fixed forward and sliding aimlessly side to side, like he was watching a picture in his own head, something only he could see. "And then they gave me something that reminded me of the 70s."
"The Blood of Sokar," explained Daniel.
"Daniel," Jack's voice was very odd, very still.
"Yeah," Daniel tried to keep the worry out of his voice.
"I'm gonna pass out again," said Jack, the fixed gaze suddenly fading as his eyes slid closed and he slumped against the wall.
-------------------------
Daniel quickly checked O'Neill's leg, the burn looking worse if anything. "I think they ah, hit him here, tore it up even worse. It's been bleeding again." Daniel shuddered, remembering how a staff weapon wound hurt.
"I imagine he fought them, tried to keep them from giving him the drug," said Sam.
"He's got a mark on his temple here, too," Daniel added, wiping away the grime from Jack's face, "Looks like they just ripped that memory device right off. And he's got some fresh bruises."
Sam's grim face reflected her worry for her father, her CO, and Martouf. "What was he saying? Before?"
"He just kept mumbling Charlie's name."
Sam's face turned dark. "God, that son of a bitch, if Apophis used the Colonel's son ... no wonder he's ... "
"I don't like this, Sam. He's not coming out of this nearly as fast as you did."
Carter grimaced. "Well, he was hurt to start with. Not just his leg, but he took that ribbon blast earlier. Or maybe he got more of the drug. It's nasty stuff, digs up your worst memories." She shivered, recalling the all too real replay of the day of her mother's funeral. "It's so real, just like being there, going through it again, feeling the pain, and, and then it's twisted." Carter looked in concern at the Colonel who was stirring restlessly, mumbling, fists clenched. "If he's reliving his worst nightmare ... "
"Charlie's death ... " Daniel looked helplessly at his friend. "God help him."
O'Neill was quiet for a few moments, and then the nightmare returned.
<
"He was just here a minute ago," she answered looking around.
He knew what was coming, he knew it and couldn't stop it, the gunshot, echoing through his brain, the sound that destroyed every good thing he had in his life. "NO!" He was thrashing, someone was holding him back from seeing his son, the paramedics, the doctors, they wouldn't let him see his son. "Charlie!">>
"Charlie!" Shouting hoarsely, Jack snapped awake as he lurched to a sitting position, heart hammering, breath rasping, and sweat rolling down his face. He swiped a hand across his face.
Daniel's voice was soft again. "Jack? You all right?"
He shook his head. "No. I ... " he looked around disoriented, licked his lips. "Water?"
"Sorry, still none."
Jack shifted, groaning, bracing his weight on his arms, with Daniel's help sitting up against the bars. Suddenly, he looked around. "Where's Carter? And Martouf?"
"When they brought you back, they took Martouf ... "
"I remember that ... " Jack answered irritably.
"And about five minutes ago, they took Carter, again."
"Damn," Jack tried to push himself to his feet.
Daniel put out a restraining hand. "Stay still. You shouldn't be up on that leg. And anyway, there's nothing you can do. No way out of here, nothing."
O'Neill sank down to again lie flat on his back, his hand absently rubbing his thigh above the burn. "How's Carter's dad?"
"No change." Jackson stared hard at O'Neill. "How are you doing?"
"Fine," Jack answered dismissively.
"You keep mumbling about Charlie."
"I'm fine."
"You don't look fine, or sound fine."
"So I'm not fine." O'Neill snapped. "What are you going to do about it, heh? Call in the medics? Have Scotty beam us up? Huh?" Jack scrubbed a hand across his face, let his voice die down. "Sorry, Daniel. Didn't mean to take it out on you. I know there's nothing you can do. Or me either, at the moment."
Jack went back to resting, trying to sort out the fragmented images that kept tumbling through his head, but he couldn't.
When the footsteps came back, a semi-conscious Martouf was tossed into the cell with Carter shoved in behind him. O'Neill watched helplessly as they took Daniel away, Jackson looking back with a small grin as if to reassure Jack he'd be okay.
Carter, tending to Martouf, did not miss the way O'Neill's fist was pounding against the floor as he watched with haunted eyes while Daniel was taken away.
---------------------------
Jack didn't want to be awake, but he didn't want to be dreaming either. He didn't want much of anything, except to stop the images in his head and the pain in his leg. He didn't know how much time passed, it seemed like hours as the ugly visions continued unabated.
And then they brought Daniel back and things started to happen. Bless that boy, maybe he was learning, thought O'Neill, Jackson had managed to snatch the communicator from Apophis' room. That gave them a chance to talk to Teal'c and maybe find a way out of this mess.
Seemed like a possibility, until the bomb hit, and the planet began to shake, Teal'c explained the Tok'ra were destroying the planet and they had only minutes. Carter's plan, blowing the cover off the cell, worked, and they were escaping, Daniel half carrying a staggering, limping O'Neill, up to Apophis' chamber.
The adrenaline surge got him that far, but by the time they reached the chamber, Jack was so exhausted he could barely stand erect. Leaning heavily on Daniel, head hanging, he waited for the transport rings. Hurry, hurry, he prayed silently. Then they were there, the rings, and in an instant, he found himself on the familiar tel'tac ship. An unfamiliar face greeted them in the cargo hold, hollering to Teal'c to "go. Go. We have them."
The ship lurched, accelerating, and O'Neill fought to hold his balance, and then, gratefully, his energy spent, he simply gave in and let himself sink to the floor. Sagging back to lean against the wall he stretched his long legs out in front of him. He was so tired it was all he could do to hold his head up.
Martouf had grabbed the first aid kit, turning first to the Colonel. He removed the bloodstained bandage and O'Neill hissed as the Tok'ra pulled the stuck fabric away from the blistered flesh. "This will hurt," he said softly, pouring disinfectant on the wound. O'Neill inhaled sharply, blanched, grimaced.
"You got that right," he snapped as Martouf applied a dressing to the wound.
"That should be sufficient until we arrive on Vorash."
"Thanks," said O'Neill, slumping against the bunk he was resting against, exhausted, trying to ignore the pain, and failing.
The door opened, and Teal'c was there, smiling, "we have escaped."
Weary, exhausted, hot, dirty, hurt, O'Neill wanted nothing more than "iced tea, air conditioning" realized he'd said the words aloud, waved at Teal'c. "Water?"
The Jaffa handed him a water bottle, and for a moment he held the cool container against his forehead, then opened it and sipped before handing the container on to the others.
Jack looked around. "Everybody okay?"
The Carter's nodded, Martouf grinned, Daniel raised an eyebrow, looked questioningly at Jack. "Just peachy, then kids. I'm gonna take a nap. Wake me when we're ready to land, uh?"
-----------------
That wasn't quite how it worked. Teal'c and the Tok'ra were in the cockpit, as Jack thought of it, for lack of a better term. Carter was asleep next to her father, her arm cradling his shoulder. Daniel was curled up on one bunk, Jack on the other. Exhausted as he was, O'Neill couldn't sleep because every time he relaxed and let down his guard, the dreams were back. Well, they weren't really dreams, but nightmares; fragments of what had been real distorted by bits and pieces of the present, Charlie and the Goa'uld; Charlie and the Ancients; Charlie shot with a staff weapon; Charlie dying in his arms on some world with blue trees and an orange sky; Charlie's throat crushed by the Unas. Hateful, hurting words pouring from Charlie's mouth: Asking why he was never home, why he promised he'd be at the Little League games and he wasn't; why he promised to take him fishing, but he didn't; why he couldn't have someone else as his dad because he wanted a real dad ... *"I hate you!"*the boy had shouted.
The words cut like a knife through Jack's soul. He'd been a failure as a father, a failure ...
"No!" O'Neill jerked awake. He looked around quickly, hoping no one had heard, meeting Daniel's understanding eyes, but saying nothing, just nodding.
Jack wanted to pace, needed to move, needed to do something, and he started to push himself to his feet, but Daniel was there, pushing him back down on the bunk.
"You need to lie still," said Jackson, unable to miss the haunted look in O'Neill's eyes.
"Can't," the Colonel disagreed, pushing himself to a sitting position, his right hand unconsciously rubbing the spot just above the painful burn on his leg. They'd decided not to give him any painkillers, because no one was sure how much of Sokar's drug might still be in his system, and how it might interact even with something as simple as aspirin. That was okay, the physical pain gave him something to think about other than the mixed up mess in his head.
Jackson placed his hand against his friend's forehead. "You're burning up, you've got a fever," he told Jack, handing him the water bottle.
O'Neill drank thirstily, then handed the container back to the young archeologist. Putting the bottle away, Daniel crossed the cargo hold and sat on the bunk next to Jack, unsure what to say, knowing he ought to say something. "Back there, when they gave me the drug, Apophis tried to find out about the child."
"You didn't tell him," Jack's answer was a statement, not a question.
Daniel nodded, appreciating Jack's confidence. "No. But it wasn't easy. It was you, there in my dream, the day we talked about Sha're, the day Kasuf sent Sha're's things, and I was unpacking the box."
Jack put his hand on Daniel's shoulder, and nodded. "I remember."
"Started out just the way it really happened, and then it got ... "
"Weird?" Jack raised an eyebrow.
Daniel smiled. "Yup, that would be it. Weird. Twisted. You know what gave it away?" he still had that soft grin on his face, the one that made him look about ten years old, the innocent-as-a-child look that sparked all of O'Neill's protective fatherly instincts. For a moment, an image of Charlie flashed in front of his face, in place of Daniel's face. Jack flinched.
Daniel didn't see it. He was staring down at his hands. "You apologized. Said you were wrong about a lot of things. That's when I knew it wasn't you."
"Course not. I'm never wrong," even O'Neill felt the bravado rang false at that moment.
Daniel chuckled. "No, you never *admit* you're wrong." Jackson lifted his face. "You told me you didn't always believe me, but you always believe *in* me."
"Yup. I did say that. It's true."
"And you reminded me never to give up hope."
"Said that, too," Jack agreed.
"Works both ways, you know. You too," Daniel said softly, sneaking a sidelong glance at Jack's face.
Jack saw the look, shook his head, trying to cover up the dark despair in his eyes. "I, uh, just keep having these flashbacks about Charlie." O'Neill scrubbed a hand across his face, as if trying to erase the images. "I'll be okay."
"Just remember, the drug messes with your head. Things seem real and they aren't."
"Maybe, maybe not," O'Neill muttered under his breath, words Jackson didn't hear.
------------------------
The Tau'ri and the Tok'ra parted on Vorash, O'Neill insisting he didn't want any alien medicine, damn it, he'd let Doc fix him up. He just wanted to go home and get a shower and that iced tea he'd been dreaming about. Daniel was worried, but slung Jack's arm over his shoulder, acting as a crutch, and together they limped through the Stargate.
Dr. Fraiser was waiting, having been alerted by the Tok'ra that she would have patients to deal with. An hour later, a pale and weary Colonel O'Neill was sitting on a bed in the infirmary, leg propped up, the old dressing removed, revealing the angry, charred wound.
"Colonel, I'm surprised you didn't let the Tok'ra use one of their healing devices on this. If you had, you wouldn't have to be here in the infirmary at all," observed Fraiser.
O'Neill turned to her with a disgusted look. "I've had enough of aliens using me for a guinea pig, thank you, Doc. Just clean that up and I'll go on home."
"Colonel, I know you'd like that but ... "
"Look, Doc, I've just spent a couple of days in Hell, literally and figuratively. I just want a cold drink, a soft bed, and to crank up the air conditioner. I'll be a good boy, promise, take my pills, everything." He looked imploringly at her. "Anything."
"Colonel, I'm sorry, but you are going to have to stay here for treatment, several days at least."
He rolled his eyes. "Days? Doc, it's not *that* bad."
"Sir, I'm afraid it is. On the surface, it's a small wound, true. But there's tissue damage all around. Your skin is your body's first line of defense, and that's been breeched. You're already running a temperature and obviously there's an infection started. It would be a miracle if this burn wasn't infected, considering the filthy conditions on Netu. Your overall condition is run down, you haven't had enough water and when was the last time you ate anything?"
He didn't answer, just shrugged his shoulders.
"I have to clean away the dirt, debris, dead tissue and infection to start with, and then keep debriding it twice a day for four to five days. It's a nasty injury, Colonel, and you'll require in-patient treatment, electrolytes, IV antibiotics and pain meds. And don't try to tell me it doesn't hurt, I can see that it does."
O'Neill sank back on the bed, knowing this time resistance was futile, that Doc was right. Maybe he should have let the Tok'ra treat him-- no, damn it, he didn't want to owe those ... those ... *people* anything. "Okay," he muttered, lying back on the bed with a sigh, covering his face with his hand.
She patted his arm, knowing how he hated this. "I won't keep you here a moment longer than I have to, Colonel, I promise. Now, Sir, we're going to get you prepped, and then I'll get this wound debrided."
----------------------------
Cleaning a deep burn like this one was an ugly job, thought Janet Fraiser hours later as she watched her patient sleeping. She had decided to do the work surgically, putting the Colonel under full anesthetic. The surface of the burn had been initially cauterized by the weapon blast, but there was a great deal of tissue damage around the wound. She'd been able to clean it thoroughly, but this injury was going to take some time to heal.
Janet had sent the rest of SG-1 to their quarters, forbidding any visitors the first night, not for O'Neill's sake, he wouldn't know the difference. Fraiser had given him a strong sedative, hoping it would help him sleep. She had seen the exhaustion on the faces of his team, and ordered them all to rest for eight hours minimum.
Once more she checked the Colonel's IVs, making sure the antibiotics were dripping into his veins along with the painkillers and the saline solution to get him rehydrated. He'd be on all of those meds for several days, she noted.
So far, so good, she thought, and better than expected, really. She'd been very, very worried about administering morphine on top of that unknown drug he'd been given by Apophis, but there was no choice for the debridement. Even the stoically tough O'Neill couldn't handle that kind of pain, and digging the dirt, debris and damaged tissue out of that raw burnt flesh had turned into a lengthy procedure. His leg was going to hurt for a while and require time to heal.
He was sleeping uneasily now, mumbling and moving restlessly under the covers. "Colonel, easy Sir," she soothed, wiping his forehead with a damp cloth. "Sir, it's okay. We're all done, the worst is over, Colonel."
He didn't respond, and with a worried frown Fraiser realized the name he was whispering over and over was one he so rarely mentioned aloud, that of his deceased son. "Damn that Goa'uld for digging up such ugly memories, Sir," she said softly.
-----------
The doctor managed to keep O'Neill in the infirmary for four days, the first two keeping him on strong doses of painkillers and sedatives. He'd slept nearly around the clock those first 72 hours, yet seemed to get little real rest, troubled by raging nightmares that woke him often. Even the usually calming presence of Teal'c and Daniel failed to settle him.
She'd like to have written the whole mess off to the fever and the pain, but Fraiser knew better, knew him better than that, knew he was troubled, because every nightmare centered around Charlie.
Finally, on the fifth day, she was seriously considering sending him home. True, she had enough medical reasons to keep him under round the clock medical care, but she didn't feel good about keeping him here, much as she wanted to. Completing the exam of her patient, Fraiser studied the Colonel for a moment, silently, assessing, trying to pinpoint what was bothering her. He was sitting up on the bed, looking alert, if tired, and was as insistent as ever that she send him home.
"Passed the tests, did I?" he asked hopefully. "Means I'm paroled?"
Truthfully, there was no absolute need to keep him here. She knew he'd rest better at home. The infection had responded well to the IV meds and he could be switched to oral antibiotics. The last set of blood tests had come back negative so it seemed all the remnants of that 'Blood of Sokar' drug were now out of his system. The staff weapon wound itself was showing steady improvement. She'd just completed another treatment: tepid bath in a Hubbard tank to soften the skin, then debridement. O'Neill had watched as she'd cleaned the wound with a brush that looked like steel wool, not even flinching. Few patients could watch; he watched, and supervised, she thought with a grim smile. Once the dead, sloughing skin was removed, she'd covered it with Silvadene cream and wrapped the wound with Kerlex.
As always, his basic good health and hardy constitution were prompting his body to heal quickly.
"Sir, you've certainly made major progress, yes. I'm just trying to be cautious here. This was a nasty injury."
"Won't get any less nasty by keeping me stuck in here," he waved a hand at the walls. "No offense Doc but you know this place could use a little improvement on the ambiance. A little mood lighting, maybe real light, fresh air, decent food, cable TV, it would do wonders."
Once again, the Colonel was trying to charm his way out of the infirmary, thought Fraiser, and convincingly. He did sound good, and other than his obvious weariness, he looked good, too. And, well, she had promised not to keep him confined any longer than necessary.
"C'mon, Doc, let me go home," O'Neill pleaded. "You know I'll get better quicker at home."
True, he might finally sleep better at home, and that was the one symptom she was still concerned about. "Well, okay. But Colonel, I need your solemn promise that you'll follow my orders and take your meds."
He put a hand over his heart. "Promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."
She shivered at his choice of words. "I'll need to stop by each day and do a thorough check up. We can continue the treatments on an outpatient basis, change the dressing on this."
He grinned, but somehow she thought the smile didn't make it all the way to his eyes, not the way it should reflect his delight at going home.
"Now, Colonel, you'll need to stay off the leg, use your crutches until I clear you to be walking on it. Okay?"
"Sure."
"And you know the drill, Sir. Take all the antibiotics. Keep the leg elevated and the wound dry, don't get the dressing wet. No alcohol. No driving ...
"But Doc."
"The alternative is to stay here, Colonel, where the nurses and I can keep an eye on you."
"Fine. No driving," he agreed, grumbling.
"Good, now get dressed. I'll tell General Hammond I've released you. He wants a few words with you before you leave, and then I'll find someone to give you a ride home."
--------------------------------
O'Neill had barely managed to get the green trousers and black t-shirt in place before there was a knock on his door. "Come in."
It was General Hammond. "Dr. Fraiser says she's sending you home."
"Yes Sir. And not a moment too soon." Jack settled himself carefully on a chair, propping the crutches against the wall beside him. "Sorry I missed the briefings, Sir."
"Well, I think you had adequate reason. The others filled me in on the major events. I'll expect a report in a few days, when you're up to it."
"The Carters get away on their vacation okay?"
"Yes, they left the day before yesterday. I told Major Carter it was fine, you had plenty of company from the rest of the team."
"Good. This was a very difficult mission for her. They needed some time together."
"Yes, I think they'll both enjoy it." Hammond paused. "Mostly, though, I just wanted to thank you for another impossible job well done, Jack."
O'Neill found a sudden need to study the pattern on the floor. "Yeah, well, I've been thinking of renaming our team the IMF .... "
Hammond cocked his head in unspoken question.
"Ah, Impossible Missions Force, you know the old TV show and the Tom Cruise movies ... "
"Right, Colonel. Well, you know that not only is General Carter an important link from Earth to the Tok'ra, but Jacob is my friend. Thank you."
O'Neill's grin this time looked more sincere. "You're welcome, Sir. Piece of cake."
The General snorted. "Cake? Right." Hammond stared hard at his 2IC. "Are you really okay, Jack?"
"Fine. Doc said the leg is no big deal. It will heal in a few days."
Hammond's voice was very quiet. "You know that's not what I mean."
"Sir?" O'Neill feigned surprise.
"You didn't mention the memories the drug induced." There was real concern in Hammond's eyes.
"No."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Dr. Jackson said that while you were unconscious you kept talking about your son."
"Yes, Sir."
"And Dr. Fraiser says you haven't been sleeping well ... "
"Yes, Sir."
"Jack ... "
"Yes, General, the drug dredged up some memories of my son. And yes, some of them were unpleasant. Sir."
"Unpleasant?"
O'Neill stared defiantly at the General. "Yes, Sir. Unpleasant."
"Jack, Doctor Fraiser is concerned you'll have flashbacks. All of you, but she is most concerned about you. Your memories seemed to be more intense."
"I know that, Sir. She explained."
"Are you sure you'll be okay, Son?"
O'Neill turned haunted eyes to his CO. "Yes, Sir." He turned away. "Permission to be excused, Sir?"
"Of course, Colonel. Well done, again. Take care of yourself, and we'll see you back here soon."
---------------------
After the General left, a nurse came to the door, handing O'Neill a package containing the medications Fraiser had prescribed for him. "Your driver is waiting, Colonel," said the nurse, smiling.
Probably smiling because I'm on my way out of here, O'Neill thought cynically. With practiced ease Jack crutched out into the hallway only to find Daniel waiting there.
"Thought you'd be home by now, sipping a margarita or something."
Daniel grinned. "Nope. I'm your ride."
"You?"
"Yeah, I offered to give you a lift home. This way ... "
"This way Doc has somebody to keep an eye on me. Sweet. I should'a known," O'Neill said, heading down the hallway.
Daniel had to hurry to keep up with the Colonel, crutches and all. "Those things don't slow you down much," he observed, breathless.
"I've had a little practice, remember? Two broken legs. Knee surgery. Foot surgery. Three sprained ankles, no, maybe it was four," O'Neill recited as they headed for the elevators, the surface and home.
----------------
Jack settled himself onto the couch in his living room, carefully pulling his aching leg up onto the sofa, sticking a pair of pillows under it, hoping the throbbing pain would ease now that he was lying down. He leaned back with a sigh, exhaustion settling over him, hoping now that he was home he could actually rest.
He looked across the room at the large framed painting on the wall, the colorful childish images of flowers and trees, the painting Merrin had made when he took her to school. Usually, it was something that gave him peace, helped settle him after a difficult mission, but ...
<
And then Charlie's voice, a harmonic, Goa'uld voice coming out of Charlie's throat. "I hate you.">>
O'Neill jerked awake, nearly falling off the sofa, chest heaving as he fought to pull air into his lungs. Damn, damn that sonofabitch Apophis. I should have killed him when I had the chance, I should have killed him back on that planet, back there in the sand. I had Apophis in my sights. I could have killed him and he'd have been dead and Sokar wouldn't have gotten his hands on the bastard soon enough to revive him ....
"Jack, did you say something?" Daniel's quiet voice carried into the room from the kitchen.
"Yeah. Just need a drink," he lied, covering his face.
Daniel walked into the living room. "Well, I've got your iced tea here," he smiled, juggling two glasses and two plates. "Take out chicken with the works. God, I'm hungry." He added, digging into his own plate.
"Yeah, guess escaping from Hell can have a positive effect on the appetite, can't it?" Jack tried to joke, forcing himself to eat and make conversation.
He managed to convince Daniel that he was feeling fine, just wanted to sleep now that he'd had a good dinner. Jackson, eager for his own bed since he'd spent the last several nights camped on one of the those uncomfortable infirmary chairs, left, promising to check back in the morning.
------------------
O'Neill did sleep, some, not much, in fits and starts between the nightmare images of Charlie, good memories and bad memories so twisted together he couldn't separate one from another, until he wanted to scream in despair. He turned on the TV in the middle of the night, watching some all night sports channel replay of a soccer match. He hated soccer, didn't want to watch it, didn't know what teams they were or what country they were from; didn't care, just needed the sound of the announcer to combat the unstoppable voices in his own head.
------------------------
Buzzing. Something was buzzing, and Daniel Jackson peered myopically at the clock on his nightstand. Five a.m. Who would be calling him at that ungodly hour? God, he wanted to sleep for a week, well, another 24 hours at least, he thought as he pulled the covers back up over his head, hoping the noise would stop. It didn't. The phone kept ringing until reluctantly Jackson picked it up. He couldn't miss the irritation in O'Neill's voice. "Daniel? Where are my car keys?"
"Ah, here, at my house. With your car."
"You stole my car?"
"I didn't steal your car. You aren't supposed to be driving, remember, Doctor's orders."
"Well, that was yesterday. I need it back."
"Ah, Jack, Janet didn't say not to drive for one day. You know you're not supposed to drive until she clears you. That won't be until Monday at least."
"Well, I can't wait until Monday. I've got somewhere to go."
"I can drive you."
"No, you can't."
"I do know how to drive."
"I need to go alone, Daniel."
"Jack, you are supposed to be resting, not driving, not visiting, not going places. Home. Resting. Recuperating. Healing."
"Well, I'm bored."
"Then I'll get you some movies."
"I need to get out."
"Where?
"That's private."
"Damn it Jack."
"Look, fine. I don't need the damn car. I'll just go without it."
"Jack ... " Daniel heard the sound of the receiver slamming down on the phone cradle. "Jack, why do you do these things?" he lamented, not wanting to get up but knowing he couldn't go back to sleep, worrying about what trouble Jack was surely getting himself into. Realizing he needed to get to Jack's in a hurry, before the man did something stupid, Daniel grabbed for his clothes, dressing hurriedly, throwing on his coat, snatching the keys off the hall table and heading out the door.
Jackson was too late. O'Neill was gone. No amount of banging on the door roused anyone, so Daniel went around the back, rummaged in the rosebed beside the back door for the key, and let himself in. "Jack? You here?"
He wasn't, the house was dark and quiet, empty, no sign of Jack or his crutches, and his leather jacket was gone from the front closet.
Shit. He must have called a cab.
So where did he go? Where would he go? Where did he so desperately need to go, and alone? There was only one place Daniel could think of, and he went back to the car and started across town. By the time he got there, it was raining, but as he drove along the street to this place where he knew Jack visited often, he soon glimpsed O'Neill. The Colonel was standing, head bowed in the rain, propped up on his crutches. "Damn stupid thing to be doing, Jack," Daniel muttered under his breath as he hiked across the grass to stand beside his friend. "Haven't even got the good sense to stay in out of the rain."
The water was washing down Jack's grim face as he stood, eyes almost closed, oblivious to the wind and the rain. He said nothing, took no note of Daniel's approach.
"Jack ... "
Very, very quietly, O'Neill answered, "I told you I wanted to be alone."
"I know. But you shouldn't be out here in the rain. You're soaked and it's cold."
Jack ignored him.
"Jack, please, come on."
"No," O'Neill turned to his friend, and Daniel saw despair in the brown eyes, deep, abiding despair of a kind he had not seen since their first trip to Abydos, right after Charlie died.
"Making yourself sick isn't going to help you or him."
"Nothing can help him."
"Jack, come on." Daniel took Jack's arm.
O'Neill jerked out of Jackson's grasp. "I have to find him, Daniel."
"What?"
Jack turned those haunted eyes back on his friend. "I have to find him, find Charlie, the real Charlie."
"Jack, are you delirious? You know where Charlie is. Here," he pointed at the grave marker, the small stone, and the words carved there: Charles Jonathan O'Neill. Beloved Son. Daniel grabbed Jack's arm again, and this time the Colonel did not resist, but instead crutched along beside his friend, back to the car. Daniel helped him into the passenger seat, stuck the crutches in the back, and hurried around to the driver's side. He started the car, turning the heater up full blast as he watched Jack shiver.
"So what's going on?"
Jack stared straight ahead.
"Jack, come on, damn it, I'm your friend."
"This is my business, it's private."
"And I've told you the same and that's never stopped you from sticking your nose into my business, so it's not going to stop me, either."
Jack was silent, shivering, hands clenched, staring straight ahead.
Daniel frowned at his friend, and then, suddenly, he knew. "It's the business with Apophis, and the Blood of Sokor, and the memories, isn't it?"
Jack turned an anguished face to his friend. "Have you been able to forget?"
"No," Daniel answered honestly.
"Me neither."
"Brought up some ugly stuff, huh. Bad memories."
Jack rubbed a hand tiredly across his face. "Yeah. Ugly. Real ugly."
"I might be able to help if you tell me."
Jack shot him a look. "Yeah. Right."
"You could talk to someone else, Janet or," the young man grimaced, "Dr. Mackenzie."
Jack snorted. "Yeah right. Mackenzie. He'd put me in one of those padded rooms and I'd never get out."
"You keep talking about Charlie in your sleep." Jackson prompted.
Jack's face suddenly closed down, lips tight, eyes hooded.
Silence, long moments of silence while the rain and the wind battered the outside of the car.
"All I have left of him are my memories," Jack said very quietly. "Good memories, for the most part, most of them." He paused again, and Daniel thought he wouldn't say more, but he stayed quiet, hoping. Finally, Jack continued. "The bad memories, the ugly ones, I buried, deep, really deep."
"I've done that myself," Daniel admitted with that little self-deprecating grin. There was no answering smile from O'Neill.
"Two weeks before he ... died Charlie and I had an argument. I was late getting home, missed his Little League game, that happened all the time. And I found him playing with this toy gun, pointing it at me, like he was shooting me." Jack stopped, taking a deep breath, as if forcing himself to go on. "He was angry with me, so angry, and I lost my temper and shouted at him and he sulked off into the house. He said he hated me."
Daniel's heart nearly stopped. God, no wonder Jack was hurting. "You know he didn't mean that. Kids say that all the time when they're upset. They get over it."
Jack shook his head. "He never did. He stayed mad at me. Wouldn't talk to me, wouldn't play catch or go fishing. Sara, she kept saying he'd get over it. So I bought the tickets for that baseball game, the day he died. I paid scalper's prices I couldn't afford, but I wanted to make things up to him. I was always doing that, trying to make things up to him, because I was gone so much."
"He didn't hate you, Jack, he couldn't have."
"I was a rotten excuse for a father."
"Now that I don't believe. I've never seen anyone better with kids than you. Cassie, that reetu kid, Merrin, they all love you."
"My own kid didn't." More silence, then, he went on in an agonized whisper, "I've always wondered whether it was an accident."
Daniel suddenly couldn't breath. Did Jack think the boy had killed himself to punish him? He couldn't. "It was an accident."
"I guess." Jack looked away, out the window, through the rain slicked window and into the cemetery. "Doesn't matter, I suppose. I just wish ... " he stopped. "Daniel, what the drug did, what it made me remember, was that day, when Charlie and I argued. And now it's all mixed up in my head, what's real and what isn't. I can't tell the difference anymore. My memories are polluted, corrupted, it's like that son of a bitch snakehead defiled my kid. Because of him, because of that drug, I don't know what really happened from what I imagine happened from what Apophis tried to make me believe happened, and what I tried to make myself believe happened." He looked pleadingly at Daniel. "Does this make any sense?"
Jackson nodded. "You're afraid of losing what you have left of Charlie."
"Yes. I don't know what's real and what isn't. That's why I had to come here. I thought maybe I could find the truth here." He shook his head. "And I didn't."
Daniel didn't know what to say, knew there was nothing he could say at that moment that could make a difference. Grief and regret was like that. He knew only too well. "Well, let's get you some dry clothes and something hot to drink and then we'll figure out what to do, huh?"
---------------
Back at Jack's place, Daniel helped his friend into the house, found him dry clothes, and brewed coffee while the Colonel changed. Jack finally limped back down to the living room, dressed in sweats, face pale, eyes dark, and, propping his crutches against the coffee table, set himself carefully on the couch, pulling his injured leg up onto a footstool. His mouth was set in that tight line that meant the man was holding back the pain, but Daniel had the bad feeling that the physical pain O'Neill was feeling was nothing compared to the emotional anguish he was also trying to hide.
"How do you feel?"
"How do you think? Damn leg hurts."
"Wouldn't hurt as much if you took the pills Janet gave you."
Jack didn't even bother to answer, just slid a look at Daniel, then turned away. "Look, Daniel, why don't you go home? Huh? You must have things to do. I'm just going to sleep."
"I don't think I should go."
"I'm a big boy, Daniel. I'm not afraid to be home alone."
Maybe you should be, Daniel thought sadly, shaking his head.
"Daniel, go. Please." Jack laid back on the couch, covering his face with his hand, closing his eyes with an exhausted sigh. "I took a couple of Doc's pills, so I won't go anywhere. Promise."
"Then I'll just turn on the TV and hang around."
"Go. That's an order." Jack insisted.
"Ah, no, we're on leave. I don't have to take your orders."
"You don't need to stay."
"Well, I want to. And since I don't think today you have the strength to throw me out, I'm not going anywhere."
"Have it your own way then, Daniel." O'Neill finished, trying to relax and let the pills do their work. God, he needed to sleep. He needed a few hours of peace.
He was drifting when he heard Daniel's quiet footsteps and felt the blanket thrown gently over him. "Thanks," he mumbled.
<<"Catch." Jack threw the baseball across the yard, watched Charlie effortlessly make the catch. The boy tossed the ball back with practiced ease, the ball landing in Jack's glove with the resounding thwack of a well thrown ball. "Good job," Jack smiled at his son.
They loved playing catch, played for hours in the backyard, Jack loving the rhythm of the game, throw and catch, the sounds and the sights and the solid feel of the ball hitting his glove.
Charlie had thrown the ball back. "Here, Dad, catch."
O'Neill pulled the ball from his glove, and threw it. But as it left his hand this time, it wasn't a baseball, it was a Goa'uld stun grenade, the brilliant flash blinding him as it hit Charlie's glove, and the boy crumpled to the ground.>>
"Charlie!" Jack jerked awake, unable to catch his breath, heart pounding, looking around the room, eyes focusing on the familiar face and soothing voice of his friend. Daniel.
"Jack, it's okay, it was just a nightmare."
O'Neill sat up on the couch, bringing his hand up to run through his gray hair. He couldn't meet Jackson's eyes as he let his gaze drift aimlessly around the room. "Nightmare, memory, I can't tell the difference anymore, Daniel," he whispered, turning blank eyes to his friend.
Daniel was suddenly frightened, very, very frightened. Jack was looking more and more like the Colonel O'Neill he'd first met, the one who had been lost and depressed, bereft and hopeless.
-------------------------------------------------
Jack didn't sleep anymore that morning. He dozed, watching the sports channel, while Daniel kept his nose buried in a book on the Minoan culture, one he'd been meaning to read for months. Both were startled when the doorbell rang.
"I'll get it," Daniel offered. It was Dr. Fraiser, medical bag in hand. "Hi Janet," he greeted her, letting her into the hallway.
Her voice was soft. "How's the Colonel?"
"Cranky."
She grinned. "Ah, his usual self then."
"Mostly," added Daniel, grimly, not wanting to explain further, as they walked into the living room.
While O'Neill lay quietly on the sofa, hand over his face, Fraiser checked the burn on O'Neill's thigh, took his vitals and noted no changes, but couldn't help her worry over his unusual silence.
"You're awfully quiet this morning, Sir," she said, finally, as she applied a fresh dressing to his injury.
He looked away, refusing to meet her gaze. "Ah, still tired I guess. Going to hell and back will do that to you."
"I imagine it would, Colonel," she answered, thoughtfully. "Did you get any sleep?"
"Some."
"Take the pain meds?"
He simply gave her a look, and she knew it meant no. Stubborn man.
"They will help you sleep, too."
"No," O'Neill answered softly, "no, they don't. They just leave me ... not me. Confused. Not asleep but not awake, either."
She nodded, remembering his vivid nightmares in the infirmary. "I'll change them, then," she said, picking up the pill bottles from the table. "Some of these stronger ones can be disorienting. I'll leave you something else. It won't be as effective at controlling the pain, but it won't leave you feeling groggy."
He nodded, still unable to meet her gaze, but at least she had him talking. Some.
"Eat anything?"
"Daniel brought takeout last night."
"And this morning? Breakfast?"
"Ah, wasn't hungry."
"Ahah, so if you didn't eat you didn't take your antibiotics this morning, either, did you, Sir?"
His answer was as evasive as his gaze. "Ah, well, ah ... "
"Colonel, I allowed you to come home on your solemn promise you would take care of yourself. This is a serious burn, and you had a nasty infection. I wasn't at all sure you shouldn't have stayed in the infirmary to start with. Now, if you don't want me to take you back to the base and a nice long stay in my infirmary where I can be sure you take all your meds ... "
"Doc, I am *not* going back there," he glared at her. God, he didn't want more witnesses to his nightmares. Daniel seeing them was bad enough.
Well, at least she'd gotten some emotion out of him. "Colonel, I am going to make you some, well, brunch now it would be, since it's a bit late for breakfast. I will stay and make sure you eat it, and I don't mean play with your food but actually consume an adequate amount. Then I will watch you take your meds. Do that, and I will let you stay here. If not, I'll have a couple of SFs here within the hour and we'll drag you back to base if I have to sedate you to do it. Got that, Sir?"
He had the good grace to look sheepish, if not repentant. "Whatever you say, Doc. You're the boss."
Damn right, she thought. Janet just wished it would be as easy to get him to deal with the emotional wounds of this last mission.
After they'd eaten, eggs, sausage, toast and juice, Janet made sure her patient had taken all his antibiotics, and satisfied at last that he was physically okay, she prepared to leave.
Daniel walked her to the door. "So, how is he? Really?"
Janet shook her head. "The usual. Physically, he'll recover, if he takes care of himself. Emotionally, he's stressed." Janet turned to Jackson. "And I thought you were going to look after him, Dr. Jackson," she let anger slip into her words. "He didn't take his meds, and I understand he went for a walk in the rain this morning?"
"Ah, sort of. Before I could get back here. But I won't leave, now. Promise," Jackson looked suitably chastised by Fraiser's words.
"Well, he has to take those pills, I don't care how you get him to do it, but if he won't take them, it's back to the infirmary. I've told him that too, but you need to be aware. And I don't like his exhaustion ... "
"He hasn't slept much. Keeps having nightmares."
"So I assumed. About his son?"
"Yes. Whatever memories that Blood of Sokar stuff triggered, they were bad ones, ones he hasn't dealt with in a long time."
Janet sighed. "Why does *that* not surprise me?" She paused, "Daniel, I don't know about this, about leaving him here."
"Well, he won't be left alone again. I'm not going anywhere. Jack's always been there for me, even when I thought I wanted to be left alone, he wouldn't go. So I guess I owe him the favor."
Fraiser was still unsure. "Well, okay. As long as you're willing to stay, I'll take the chance that the emotional benefits of being here rather than in the infirmary outweigh the potential risks to his physical well-being."
"They do, Janet. I know the answer is here, somewhere. He needs to find himself or that part of himself, that this trip to Hell stripped away," Daniel noted, concern in his eyes.
------------------------------------
The house was quiet after Dr. Fraiser left, Daniel returning to his reading, Jack watching TV, flipping through the channels.
Suddenly, Daniel got an idea. "Ahh, Jack, I'll be right back," he said, heading for the kitchen. He grabbed the phone, called a number, waiting impatiently while it rang and sighed with relief when a voice he recognized picked up. Briefly he explained the situation and made his request, and when he received an answer of yes, he smiled, said "thank you. We'll be there in half an hour" and hung up. "Jack? Come on."
------------
Back in the car again, Jack did not look happy. "First you were upset because I went someplace, now you drag me out of the house to go somewhere else," he groused.
"Yes. I changed my mind," Daniel tried to soothe his friend.
"Where are we going?"
"You'll see when we get there."
"So it's some place I don't want to go."
"It's some place that you should go."
"Daniel," he said wearily, "you know I don't like surprises."
"Jack, look, I promise. You don't have to stay if you don't want to. Just humor me, and give it a try, huh?"
Too tired to fight any more, Jack rode silently the rest of the way.
------------------------
When they pulled up in front of the house, Jack turned to glare at Daniel. "What is this?"
"Sara's house," he answered.
"I know that," Jack answered irritably. "What are we doing here?"
"Come on."
"I can't talk to Sara about this. She'll think I'm nuts."
"Jack, she lived with you for how many years? She knows you're nuts. But no, you don't have to talk to her if you don't want to. I didn't bring you here to talk to her."
Jack stood outside the car, balanced on his crutches, looking up at the house, angrily turned to his friend. "Daniel .... Tell me what we're doing here."
"Look, when the crystal clone thing, back, you know, a couple years ago, when it was looking for Charlie, it came here, right? And it found Charlie, here, up in that room, Charlie's room. So I thought maybe you could find him here, too."
Jack's anger faded. He looked at Daniel, wordless thanks in his eyes, and carefully he made his way up the rain slicked walk to the familiar front door.
Sara was waiting. Though Daniel's call had warned her Jack was hurt, she hadn't expected this. Jack looked awful, tired and injured and something far more than the physical injury, she thought. She'd seen his 'I'm hurt but I'll be okay look' often enough to recognize that part, but he looked wounded, his eyes appearing lost and empty, like they had right after Charlie died. It was a look she had hoped never to see again.
Sara bit her lip, "Hi Jack," wanted to hug him, decided she shouldn't. "Daniel said you needed to spend some time with Charlie ... " she turned and led the way up the stairs, hearing Jack and his crutches come up the steps behind her.
He entered the room slowly, silently, looking around, his heart thudding in his chest, his mouth dry.
"I can usually find him here, Jack," said Sara, softly. "I talk to him. It helps."
He turned to her, an agonizing look on his face, and quickly looked away, studying the poster on the wall, the star chart Charlie had all but memorized. "I, lately, I feel like I'm losing him, like he's fading away, like ... "
"No matter how hard we try to hold on to them, time fades every memory Jack, the good and the bad. But I think you can find him here, still." She paused, laying her hand on his arm. "I'll leave you ... two ... alone."
He nodded, unable to speak, listened to her footsteps fade away down the stairs. Exhaustedly, he sank down on the bed, gazing around the room, images of his son filling his head. On the dresser, he saw a photo album, and picked it up, opening it to gaze longingly at the glimpses of the best times of his past.
There were a lot of good moments, he realized, thumbing slowly through the book. Page after page of pictures: Jack gingerly holding Charlie as a tiny barely visible blanket wrapped bundle. Jack holding Charlie's hands while the toddler practiced walking. Charlie riding on Jack's shoulders. Jack tossing the boy into the air, Charlie's face laughing with delight because he was flying. Charlie wearing Jack's favorite baseball cap. Charlie proudly holding up a tiny fish, Jack beaming in the background. Charlie blowing out the candles on his birthday cake. Charlie in his Star Wars Jedi Halloween costume. Charlie with a baseball bat. Charlie looking wobbly on skates, the day Jack took him out on the ice for the first time. Charlie in his hockey uniform. Charlie in his baseball uniform. Charlie on his bike, Jack's hands steadying him on the new two wheeler. Jack and Charlie sound asleep side by side on the couch.
So many memories. Too few memories.
He let his fingers linger gently over each photo, as if by touching them he could touch his son again.
-----------------------------
Daniel was standing in the hallway as Sara came down the stairs. "Thank you for doing this."
"Of course." She looked down, then raised her eyes to meet his blue ones. "He looks awful."
"He's, ah, had a rough time lately. Bad mission."
"His leg, it will be all right?"
"Yeah. The doctor says it should be fine in a few weeks, he's just supposed to stay off of it."
Sara nodded. "And of course you can't tell me the rest."
Daniel grinned shyly. "No. Sorry."
She sighed. "I know, top secret stuff and all." She looked again at Daniel. "You work with Jack but you don't look very military."
"Well, no, I'm not, actually. I'm a civilian consultant."
"Jack, working with a civilian?"
"Ah, yeah."
Sara led the way into the living room. "We might as well sit down and be comfortable." Seating herself on a chair, legs curled under her she asked, "So, what is it you do, as a civilian in the Air Force?" She looked again, smiled at his discomfort. "Ah, right, sorry. That's classified, too, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"I should have known." Silent for a moment, suddenly she added. "Jack is lucky to have you for a friend."
"Works both ways."
"He is sort of high maintenance, though isn't he?"
Daniel laughed. "Yeah. He can be the most irritating person ... But then, you'd know that wouldn't you?"
"Yes," she sighed. "Really, is he okay?"
"I hope so." Daniel paused. "He's just been sort of depressed the last couple of days, thinking a lot about his son, so I thought maybe this would help." He saw something on Sara's face, some emotion he couldn't pin down. Not just concern, more than affection, maybe. Well, he was already knee deep into this, so why not? "You know, he's still in love with you."
Her answer surprised him. "Yes. And I'm still in love with him."
Daniel raised his head, shocked to hear her say the words. "So?"
"So what happened to us was never about whether we loved each other. I never doubted him, not once. He's too loyal and honest and decent for that. And I've never loved anyone else. Despite all his faults, he's, well, he's the only man I've ever loved. Being married to him was never easy, but it was always worth it." A sad smile lingered on her face, and unconsciously she massaged the empty place on the ring finger of her left hand. "But loving someone isn't always enough. It doesn't mean you can live together. After we lost Charlie, there was just too much hurt, more hurt than either one of us could stand. Watching him hurt, him watching me hurt, neither one of us able to talk about it, it was just too much for us. Together we just magnified the misery." Daniel could see the tears glistening in her eyes as she looked across the room at him. "In the end, it hurt more to be together than it did to be apart."
"You shouldn't throw love away. It's too rare and too special."
Sara lifted an eyebrow.
"I was married, for a short time. She, we didn't have much time together. And now she's gone ... "
"I'm sorry."
He shrugged. "Me too." Daniel was silent a moment. "Jack said Charlie was mad at him, before he died."
"Yeah, they'd argued about Charlie having a toy gun. About Jack missing his Little League game. Nothing unusual. It happened often, too often, but Charlie always got over it. Except that time. I don't know, I think he was just growing up, starting to assert his independence, you know? But Jack was so hurt. He was a great father, really, if you've ever seen him with a child, any child, you'd know. I guess because he's so much a kid himself."
Daniel nodded.
They fell silent. "You know it's awfully quiet up there, maybe I should go and check." Sara uncurled from the chair and went quietly up the stairs. Hearing nothing, she looked in. Jack was sound asleep on Charlie's bed, looking younger and more peaceful than she'd seen him look in a long time. The open photo album lay where it had slid to the floor.
Careful not to wake him, she tiptoed back downstairs. "He's asleep," she told Jackson.
"Asleep? I know he was exhausted, he hasn't been sleeping well, but ... I'm sorry, I hadn't meant to impose on you, we'll go."
"No, let him sleep. He looks so peaceful. Look, Daniel, why don't I make us some coffee? You might be here for a while."
-------------------------------------------------
<<<
"Dad! Dad! Dad!" The boy careened out of the playhouse, a huge smile on his face, running to his father.
Jack dropped to his knees to greet his son, and hugged the boy.
"Dad, it's been such a long time. I missed you, Dad," the child said earnestly.
Jack reveled in the touch, the feel of his son's sturdy body, the strong arms clasping him. "I'm sorry, Charlie, I'm sorry, I've been away too long."
"I knew you'd come back, Dad, that was all that mattered. I knew you'd come back to me and you'd find me ... "
Jack pulled back, holding the boy at arm's length. "Find you? Were you lost?"
"No Dad, you thought I was, but I wasn't. That mean man, he tried to make me hurt you, but he couldn't, because you're too strong, Dad. You're the biggest and the bravest and the best dad. Ever."
Jack hugged his son fiercely. "Charlie, I ... "
The boy ducked his head, pulled away, "Got to go, Dad ... "
"Charlie ... Charlie. Don't go. Charlie ... " Jack was on his feet, wanting to follow the boy, wanting to follow him into the bright light, but he couldn't, something held him back.
Charlie turned, smiling, the baseball glove in hand, and waved. "Got to go. Love you, Dad.. I'll be waiting."
And then he was gone, gone into the light.>>>
------------------------
Daniel sat in Sara O'Neill's living room and they talked as the afternoon passed slowly away, until they heard the sound of crutches on the stairs.
Finally, Jack came into the living room, looking sheepish, hair askew, and though he still looked tired, his eyes were less shaded, his face less haunted. "Ah, sorry guys. Didn't mean to do that ... "
"It's okay. I've just been having a nice conversation with Daniel. A very sweet man," said Sara with a grin. "He doesn't seem to be at all the kind of person you'd hang around with, Jack. He actually reads books, prefers Chinese to pizza, and hates hockey."
"He hates hockey? News to me," Jack grinned softly.
Sara eyed him closely. "Feeling better?"
"Much, actually." He glanced at Daniel. "You didn't?"
"Tell her? What? She knows you better than I do. I didn't have to tell her anything."
As they prepared to leave, this time Sara did hug him, awkwardly reaching around the crutches, and he hugged her back, that all consuming embrace that was uniquely Jack. "You *are* okay?" she whispered in his ear.
"I'm okay," he answered. "Charlie's still here," he said, pointing to his heart. "I haven't lost him. I never will."
She hugged him again, then stepped back, studying his face a moment, seeing the light back in those deep brown eyes. "Take care of yourself, Jack," she said, and watched him limp away from her doorway.
---------------------------------
Back in the car, Jack sank back on the seat and rode wordlessly back to his house. As Daniel turned off the engine, O'Neill spoke for the first time.
"Thanks, Daniel," he couldn't look at his friend, slid his eyes away to gaze into the darkness.
"Did it help?"
"Yes. Charlie's back. Here, where he belongs," Jack touched his chest, felt his heart beating strongly and heard the words echo in his head, different words this time.'Love you, Dad.'
(*(*(*(*(*)*)*)*)*)
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