DISCLAIMER: All 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 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.
At 1910, hungry and tired and ready to be distracted, I made my way to the mess hall. Sam and Daniel were seated in the far corner, talking as they ate. They saw me and waved.
I grabbed a tray, helped myself to some pasta with bolognaise sauce and threaded my way between the tables to join them. The room was maybe half full, and buzzing with a dozen different conversations. But the mood was odd. Subdued, yet agitated. I think everyone was still coming to terms with what had nearly happened. What had happened. It's a strange dichotomy: we're prepared for death, yet when it comes we're surprised. Outraged. Offended. For all that we've made peace with our mortality, we resent being reminded of it.
"Hey," said Daniel, as I slid into a chair opposite.
"Hey yourself," I said, sorting out cutlery and napkins.
"How's Jack?"
"Still sleeping."
"You're absolutely sure he's going to be okay, aren't you?" said Sam.
I sighed. "As sure as I can be. Now stop fussing, and finish your dinner before it gets cold."
She smiled. "Yes, ma'am."
I turned my attention to my own meal, and smiled to myself as they resumed their friendly argument about the likely origins of one of the pieces Daniel brought back from the dig. Ten minutes later, a shadow fell across the table.
"Colonel Makepeace," said Sam, politely. "Good evening, sir."
Makepeace stared down at her. "Is it?"
Between you and me and the Stargate, I don't much care for Makepeace. And it has nothing to do with the fact that's he's a Marine and I'm Air Force. I don't warm to him because he's aggressive and belligerent and pushes his people too hard.
He doesn't much like SG1, either ... but of course that doesn't have anything to do with why I don't like him.
And if you believe that, let me tell you about this great swampland I have, going cheap.
Sam and Daniel and I exchanged quick glances. Daniel said, "Well I don't know about you, Colonel, but I think it's a good evening."
Makepeace's expression left no doubt as to how he feels about Daniel. "You would."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"Four people are dead, Dr Jackson," Makepeace said. "Or have you been too busy playing with your -- artifact -- to notice?"
"Oh," said Daniel. "I noticed. I definitely noticed. I just don't see what it has to do with Captain Carter."
Sam reached out her hand. "Daniel ..."
"Captain Carter was the one who assessed the probe's initial telemetry," said Makepeace.
"A lot of people assessed the probe's initial telemetry, surely," said Daniel. "Captain Carter wasn't the only one, was she?"
"She's the superstar astrophysicist," Makepeace retorted. "Hammond's golden girl."
"That was inappropriate, Colonel," said Sam. "And it's rude to discuss someone as if they're not present when they're sitting right in front of you. If you've got a point to make, then make it. Sir."
"My point," said Makepeace, "is that you didn't notice the black hole. My point is that you let SG10 gate to their deaths. My point is that I kind of can't help wondering who you're going to get killed next. My point, Captain, is that we came within a whisker of destroying this planet, and none of it would have happened if you'd done your job properly to begin with!"
Makepeace's voice had risen to a near shout. We were attracting an audience. Sam was pale. I could have slapped him.
"In case you've forgotten, Colonel," I said as coldly as I knew how, "this planet was saved because of Captain Carter. As for her being responsible for the deaths of SG10, you are way out of line. Now why don't you just go and get your dinner and leave us to enjoy ours. We're all upset by what's happened, and I think we need to give each other some space."
Makepeace ignored me.
"I heard you were so cut up over SG10 you wanted to keep the video running while they died."
Sam flinched as though he'd struck her. "Who told you that?"
"Good news travels fast, Captain. Guess you must be disappointed, huh, you didn't get your home movie."
"I know how it looks," Sam said. Her voice was tight. Hard. "I didn't mean to be insensitive. I was thinking about the knowledge that could be gained, I just wanted --"
"Don't, Sam," said Daniel. "You don't have to explain anything to him. To anyone."
"Yeah, she does," Makepeace contradicted. He turned a little, swept his angry gaze over the listening room. "Every time we go through that gate, we're trusting what she says. She's the expert. That's why she was brought on board in the first place, right? So if we're putting our lives in her hands, we've got the right to ask some questions!"
Heads were nodding in agreement. Not a lot, not everyone's, but enough to worry me, and drain the last colour from Sam's cheeks. She said, "We won't know the exact reasons why the probe didn't detect the black hole till we've had a chance to study the data." Now it was her turn to address the room at large. "You know I'd never wilfully put any of you in danger. You know that."
Someone said, "Not on purpose. But mistakes happen. This was a mistake, and look what it cost. Four lives and nearly the whole damned planet."
Sam stood up. "We don't know that it was a mistake. It could just be a limitation of the technology. We're dealing with a lot of new stuff, a lot of questions that we can't always answer, it's --"
The same voice said, "Then if it's all so limited, should we even be doing it at all? Risking our lives, the planet, on guesswork and maybes?"
Pushing her chair aside, Sam stepped away from the table. Daniel said, "Sam, don't, there's no point --" but she ignored him. Walked towards the speaker. It was Brad Davies, another Captain, part of SG4.
"Are you saying we shouldn't, Brad?" she demanded. "Are you saying we should just shut up shop and pretend that we really are all alone in the galaxy? It's too late for that."
"Yeah. Thanks to you," said Makepeace. I really, really wanted to slap him.
The buzz of conversation was back now, but it was angry and nervous and dangerous. We'd had such a fright, you see. We were in pain. And the human animal lashes out when it's frightened and hurting. Daniel said, "We have to stop this."
"Agreed," I said. "Any suggestions as to how?"
He glared up at Makepeace. "You started this. You finish it."
Makepeace scowled. "I didn't start anything. I'm just asking a few legitimate questions. And if you'd pull your head out of your butt for five seconds you'd realise that I'm right."
"If anyone's head is up their butt, it's yours," Daniel snapped. "Jack was right. You are a jarhead. This whole facility has just come through a major crisis, and instead of trying to calm things down, you're calming them up! How'd you get your Colonel's stripes, anyhow? Consolation prize in a raffle?"
I closed my eyes. Flinched as Makepeace launched into a full frontal assault on Daniel's parentage, intelligence and fitness for living. Behind me, Sam was still trying to convince Brad Davies, and others, that regardless of the inherent risks, the Stargate Project was still vital and viable. It sounded like she was losing the battle.
Dinner cold, congealing and unwanted, I eased myself out of the warzone and headed for the internal phone. Dialled Hammond's extension.
"Sir? Dr Fraiser. You might want to come down to the mess hall. We seem to have a situation, here."
Five minutes later, the General walked into a scene of chaos. Daniel and Makepeace were still going at it hammer and tongs. Sam was in the middle of a group of about twelve people, desperately trying to prove her case. Four more arguments had broken out around the room. There was no violence, at least not physically, but the noise of anger was deafening and the mood was ugly. Flashpoint.
Hammond paused in the doorway, eyes wide with astonishment and dismay. His gaze found me, and his lips framed a question: What the hell is going on here?
I made my way over to him. Raised my voice. "I'm sorry, sir, but I thought it was a case of bringing in the big guns. They don't seem to be in the mood to listen to quiet reason."
Grimly, the General surveyed his brawling personnel. Stalked over to the food service area, nodded at the fraught airman on duty, picked up an empty pot that had been left behind the counter and bashed it furiously against the metal bench. The sound echoed brashly off the concrete walls.
Everybody jumped. Broke off in mid-sentence and stared. Paled when they saw who was brandishing the saucepan. Only one voice continued its haranguing into the sudden silence.
"--- and from the way you've behaved here tonight, I'd say that 'jarhead' is nowhere near an accurate description of your --"
"That's enough, Dr Jackson!" the General ordered.
Daniel turned. Stared. "Oh. General. I didn't notice you come in."
"Obviously," the General said. Then he handed the saucepan to the stunned airman, and turned his unimpressed gaze onto the rest of the room. His displeasure was as cold as winter, and as deep. "To say the least, I am disappointed. This is not how I expect my people to conduct themselves. I don't know who started this, and I don't care. I am stopping it. Right now. And I don't want a repeat performance. Ever. Do I make myself clear?"
Lots of nods and mutters and yessirs.
"I suggest that if you're done with eating, you find yourselves something else to do. Understood?"
More nods and mutters and yessirs.
"Then you're all dismissed. Dr Fraiser, a word?"
With a last look at Daniel and Sam, I withdrew and accompanied the General as he marched along the corridor, fuming. Once clear of any kind of audience, he stopped and glared at me.
"Would you care to explain what that was all about?"
I took a deep breath. Let it out. "Sir ... we've just survived a pretty major crisis. Or maybe I should say, another major crisis. Anxiety levels are running high right now. Plus there's the matter of SG10. Frankly, I'd be more surprised if there wasn't some kind of reaction from the personnel."
Hammond wiped his hand down his face. He looked tired and stressed and full of headache. "Doctor, I have enough on my plate at the moment without this kind of nonsense! In five days' time I have to appear before the President and the Joint Chiefs with a complete explanation as to how this latest major crisis happened, why I allowed it to happen, and how we're going to prevent anything like it happening again. In other words, Doctor, I don't expect to be seeing my own bed for a while. And now you're telling me I have a morale crisis to deal with as well?"
"Not a crisis, sir, no," I said quickly. Not because it wasn't true, since I had the nasty feeling that it might be. I just didn't want to give him anything more to worry about. "What we saw then was a natural response to anxiety and grief. I'll set up a counselling schedule first thing in the morning."
"Yes, you do that," the General said. Let out a gusty sigh. "How's Colonel O'Neill doing?"
"He's still sleeping, sir," I said.
The General grunted. Rubbed his eyes again. Scowled, and said, "Do you know who Cromwell was?"
I shook my head. "You mean apart from being a Special Forces operative? No, sir, I don't. Why? Should I?"
"Not really. I just thought you might have made the connection," the General said. "Among other things, Cromwell was the man responsible for O'Neill's imprisonment and torture in Iraq. The man who left him behind."
Understanding dawned hot and bright. Dammit, I should have remembered. "Oh," I said. Shit.
The General's expression suggested he thought so, too. "By the time I found out, it was too late. He'd already been deployed here."
"I see."
And I did. We both did. The General and I know Jack's service and medical records better than anyone. Maybe even better than he knows them himself. The Iraq entries are about the hardest to read. I don't let myself think about what it must have been like to actually live them. There is such a thing as having too vivid an imagination.
"To make matters worse," the General added, "Cromwell and O'Neill were friends before the Iraq debacle."
Double shit.
"In that case, sir," I said carefully, "I'll make sure I include a mandatory counselling session for Colonel O'Neill."
"You do that," General Hammond said. "For all the good it'll do any of us."
"We should at least try," I pointed out.
He managed a tired, resigned smile. "We should. Now if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I have a great deal of work to get back to."
I watched him walk wearily away. Not a young man any more. Bowed down by the impossible task of overseeing the Stargate Project. Of knowing the safety of an entire world was in his hands.
I kind of found myself thinking that maybe Brad Davies had a point.
Heaving a pretty gusty sigh of my own, I went back to my office. Consoled my rumbling stomach with an apple, and started drawing up the counselling roster.
Jack regained consciousness at 1224 the next day. Sooner than I'd anticipated, but then that's Jack for you. Always confounding expectations. He didn't last long, though. It was another ten hours before he surfaced again. I was still at the base, working late, trying to catch up on the mountain of paperwork that accumulates whenever my back is turned ... and often when it isn't. I was tired, and cross, and missing Cassie, even though I knew she was tickled pink to have another night with her best friend Libby.
One of the nurses, Emily, came to get me.
"It's Colonel O'Neill," she said. "I think you'd better come."
I managed -- barely -- to keep myself from running. Oh God, oh God. Blood clot? Subarachnoid haemorrhage? Aneurism? Please, please, please ...
He was alone. Tangled in his bedclothes. Sweat soaked and struggling in the grip of nightmare.
"It's okay, I'll handle it," I told Emily. "Close the door after you."
One look at his face and I knew what he was reliving. I didn't need the sound effects, but for my sins I got them anyway. My skin crawled. No human being should ever be forced to make noises like that.
No human being should ever be tortured.
"Jack," I said, flicking on the bedlight and taking hold of his shoulder. "Jack! It's okay, you're dreaming, it's not real. Wake up, wake up!"
On a throttled cry he woke. I got the basin to him just in time. Placed it discreetly out of view when the retching was done, wiped him clean with a damp cloth, helped him untangle the sheet and blanket, pulled a chair up to the bedside, and waited.
Far, far beyond speech he lay there, curled on his side. Shaking. Time passed. After a while he began to relax. The tremors eased. Eventually they ceased. His face regained some mobility, and his eyes refocused, looked outwards instead of deep within. He looked at me. His lips framed a single word: Thanks.
"You're welcome," I said. Relief made my eyes water.
He coughed. Swallowed. Grimaced at the lingering taste of bile and whispered, "Flashback."
I nodded. "Do you want some water?"
"Please."
I fetched the water. Helped him sit up. Steadied his hand as he held the glass and drank. Put the glass on the nightstand and said, "How long is it since that's happened?"
Cautiously he lay down again. "A while. Years, since ... that."
The urge to touch him was overpowering. I straightened the blanket. "You okay?" Yes, I know. A stupid question. But I wasn't prepared for feeling so ... fraught. Like I said. The curse of a vivid imagination.
He gifted me with the truth. "No. Not really." Then added, with the ghost of a smile, "I could use a drink."
And so say all of us. "Sorry," I told him. "Not with a head injury."
He pulled a face. Reached out a still unsteady hand and touched my wrist. "I'm sorry, too. Didn't mean to scare you."
"You didn't," I said. Then added, hesitantly, "I'm so sorry about SG10. Hank. And Colonel Cromwell."
He flinched. Turned his face away. Closed his eyes.
I'd lost him.
Beyond the closed door, base life continued. A trolley rattled down the corridor. Someone coughed. Someone else laughed. Somewhere nearby a radio played hits from the Eighties. Jack opened his eyes.
"Still here?"
"You're right," I said. "Who can sleep with someone staring at them? I'll leave you to rest. Did you want something to help you settle?"
"No. I'm fine."
He didn't look fine. Sound fine. He looked like he needed to be held ... like he'd shatter if anyone tried. I touched his wrist for a moment, felt the scudding pulse beneath my fingers. He withdrew his arm. His attention. Crawled back inside himself like a hurt animal retreating to safety.
"Then I'll see you tomorrow," I said. "Okay?"
"Okay," he replied, distantly. And didn't ask me to turn off the bedlight.
When I checked on him again the next morning, Daniel and Teal'c were there. Standing on either side of the bed with such helpless expressions that if I hadn't been worried, I'd have laughed.
"Doctor Fraiser!" Daniel said, and mimed panic at me. "Hey, Jack, look who's here."
Subdued, listless, Jack didn't lower his gaze from the overhead airduct. Daniel pulled a succession of faces designed, I think, to warn me that Jack wasn't feeling too chipper this morning. He needn't have bothered, I could see it for myself.
I'd run into Emily as she was leaving, and she'd told me there'd been two more incidents through the night. In the end they'd given him a mild sedative, ignoring his bitter protests, insisting that he needed the rest. But it didn't seem to have done him much good. His eyes were sunken and shadowed, his face pale and drawn. He looked exhausted. Battered.
Teal'c said, "We have been attempting to lift Colonel O'Neill's spirits, but with little success, I am afraid."
Jack roused himself enough to give Teal'c a dirty look. "I'm fine. Go away."
"You are not fine, O'Neill," Teal'c replied. "If you were fine, you would not be in the Infirmary."
"Don't you have work to do?" Jack said. "I told you, I'm fine. Just leave me alone."
"Actually," I said, before the situation turned really nasty, "I do need a word with Colonel O'Neill in private. You can come back later."
"Or not," said Jack.
Daniel and Teal'c withdrew, Teal'c impassive as ever, Daniel still pulling faces.
"There's no need to be rude," I said. "They're only trying to help."
"I don't need help," said Jack. "I don't need anything, except for everyone to get off my case. This place is like Grand Central Station, I've had Carter in here and Hammond and that bloody shrink, Daniel and Teal'c and now you."
I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a packet of painkillers. "Take these."
"No," he said. "What are they?"
"Painkillers. It's obvious you've got a headache."
"Of course I've got a headache," he snapped. "I can't get five minutes peace."
"You've got a headache," I said, "because you're still recovering from concussion. Now stop acting like a spoilt brat and swallow the damned pills."
He treated me to a vintage filthy look, but snatched the packet from my fingers, upended the pills into his mouth and washed them down with a swallow of water. Then he slumped back against his pillows and went back to staring at the ceiling, aggression swamped once more by gloom.
"Jack --" I said, ready to tell him a few home truths. Then I stopped. I'd be wasting my breath. Instead I pulled his blankets straight. Touched his hand, briefly. "Get some rest, Colonel. I'll check in on you later."