DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters and property of Stargate SG-1 belong to MGM/UA, World Gekko Corp. and Double Secret Productions.  This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment purposes and no money was made from it.  Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended.  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.  Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author.  Not to be archived without permission of the author(s).

Chapter 8: Jack

"C'mon, Danny, time to eat. It's been a long time since breakfast"

Which you didn't eat either, I almost say, but catch myself in time.

If anything the kid looks worse now than before. Dark shadows stand out under his eyes and I can tell he's lost a lot of weight since we stepped through that 'gate almost a month ago...not that he had much to spare in the first place.

Switching tactics, I prop him up on the pillows and hand him his coffee, which I've sweetened up quite a bit. He'll hate it, but at least it'll get some calories into him. To my surprise, he actually takes it and sips...not even reacting to my little additive. I notice his hands are still shaking. He can't still be cold, the fire's roaring not 10 feet away.

I look back in time to see it...As he stares into the flames the 'look' is there again, but somehow deeper and more disturbed...and disturbing. Whatever is going on inside that agile mind of his...I don't think he's winning.

I put my hand on his shoulder and squeeze it a little and he jumps, startled back from wherever he's been. He ducks his head and says, "Sorry," in a voice I can barely hear. It's like talking is a monumental effort.

"C'mon, Danny, You've got to try at least a little of this, okay?" I'm trying the cajoling tone I used to use with Charlie when some illness had robbed him of his appetite.

Daniel nods his head a little and reaches out to put his coffee cup on the table. His hands are actually trembling. This isn't just from the cold.

I put the tray on his lap and hand him the fork in my best head waiter imitation and order, "Eat."

He picks at the plate, more to please me, I think, than because he really wants to. He actually swallows a few bites before pinfully admitting, "Sorry, Jack...I just can't..."

As he lays his head back on the pillow, I tell him it's okay. But it's not. I cover him back up and take the tray away.

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