Author's Notes: This is my response to a challenge on one of the lists.
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.
Gasping, sweat pouring down his face, a scream stuck in his throat, Daniel Jackson struggled to free himself. Dark, it was so dark, he couldn't see, he couldn't breathe, the arms that held him were crushing his throat. Oh, God, he didn't want to die!
"Noooooooo!" Daniel sat bolt upright in bed, gasping with terror. Burying his head in his hands, he moaned. "Only a dream, only a dream, only a dream." But it had been real. Too real. He unconsciously rubbed his throat, still feeling Vishnoor's iron grip as it grew tighter and tighter and tighter. He hadn't even been able to scream for Jack to help him ... this time. Throwing what little remained of his covers ... hell, it looked as if he'd lost that battle too ... he rose to stand on shaky legs.
Vishnoor! God, the man had actually died, and Daniel couldn't quite bring himself to feel bad about that. It was how he died, that bothered the young anthropologist. He, Doctor Daniel Jackson, had supposedly been the larger man's executioner. At least that's what he'd been told, and what the other prisoners had believed. The lie had been useful; it had allowed SG-1 to take the positions near the Stargate that had allowed them to escape that hellhole.
But that wasn't what was really wrong, he suddenly realized. That was just the nightmare. Soon he'd bury it in his subconscious, along with all the other night terrors that returned to plague him when his soul was once again shattered. No, it was his voice that kept the ordeal fresh in Daniel's mind. Angrily pulling his pants on, he fastened the snap at the top, and fled, shirtless, into the halls of the SGC.
The young Airman hesitated outside the door. It was late, and these were Colonel O'Neill's quarters, but ... Raising a tentative hand, he took a deep breath, and knocked.
A voice, hoarse with sleep, responded quickly. "Come." The young Airman winced as he heard the more quietly issued, "and this better be good."
Saluting briskly to hide his fear, the young man enunciated clearly.
"Sir! Airman Michael Fielder, sir."
"Yes, Airman, what do you want?"
"Sir, I was making rounds, and, well, sir, it's about Dr. Jackson."
"Oh, God." Jack moaned. "Is he still working?"
"Sir? Uh, no, sir. He's well, sir, he's in the gym, and well, I thought you ought to know."
Jack glanced at the clock. "It's 0200."
"Yes, sir, it is."
"And Daniel's in the gym?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why?"
The young man looked uncomfortable. "Uh, sir, he's well, he's... Sir, I really think you should see for yourself."
The tired Colonel stared for a moment at the nervous young man. "Thank you, Airman. I'll do that. Dismissed."
Relieved the younger man saluted, and fled the room. Jack sighed in dismay and reached for his pants. "God, Danny, what now?"
Airman Fielder had been correct. This had to be seen to be believed. Daniel Jackson, naked from the waist up, except for the sweat that decorated his back and chest, in battle with ... the punching bag. Not the light one either. No, Daniel had chosen for his opponent the tall, heavy bag, usually reserved for kick boxing. Or the really adept fighter. And Daniel was beating the living daylights out of the bag, without the benefit of gloves. Jack winced at the thought. If Daniel had been hitting the bag since before Airman Fielder had awakened him, then the young man's hands would be a mess. The Colonel sighed. Another trip to the infirmary. But first he had to know what this was all about. "Daniel?"
The man froze in mid-punch, turning slightly to see the man behind the voice. An angry "What?" escaped his lips, then he turned on the bag once more. "You're not gonna get the upper-hand on that bag." Jack commented idly as he moved closer to Daniel.
"I don't particularly remember ever getting the upper-hand." The anger in his friend's voice surprised the older man.
"What?"
"Just ..." A particularly brutal blow sent the bag rocking rapidly away from its young attacker. "... what I said. I always lose. Someone always has to rescue me. I never win a fight. I didn't really win the fight with Vishnoor. Hell, I was dying; I couldn't breath; I couldn't think; it all went dark. Linea must have used that, that device of hers to, to k..kill him."
'Oh, boy.' "What if she did?" Jack moved closer still, wincing as he caught sight of the blood running down Daniel's hands. The gentle young scientist's knuckles were torn, bruised, and bleeding, but he didn't seem to notice as he hurled another angry punch into the bag.
A thick Irish brogue issued from the young linguist's lips. "Hey, ya actually won a fight, Dannyboy! ..." The brogue disappeared. "Only, only I didn't. It was all a lie."
Another punch aimed for the bag was stopped instead by the rapidly moving Colonel. He knew now the source of Daniel's pain, it was, dammit to hell, him. Shit! "Enough, Daniel. Look at your hands. You're hurting yourself." Jack held Daniel's wrists firmly in his hands, pulling the younger man's fists upwards into his line of sight.
Daniel stared unblinkingly at the mess he'd made of his knuckles. "So, once again, you save me."
Jack suddenly realized that Daniel's anger was directed inward, at himself, not where it should be, at his commanding officer. Jack knew he used sarcasm in tense situations, trying to lighten the mood. He hadn't meant anything by his statement; but thinking back on the entire prison experience, he realized that this must have been the final blow to his young friend's self-esteem. Blows that started with him and ended with him; that began when he removed Daniel's glasses, alluding to them as signs of weakness. Way to go, O'Neill. "I didn't save you from Vishnoor."
"No, you didn't. Linea did."
"Does it really matter how you won?"
"YES!" Daniel yanked his wrists free from Jack's hold, and backed away from his friend. "I should have been able to win on my own."
"The meek shall inherit the earth."
"What?"
"From the Bible. The meek shall inherit the earth."
"I know where it's from. It's also a crock of shit. The meek won't inherit anything but a bunch of bruises."
Jack studied the distraught young man for a moment. Daniel's hair, face, and torso were drenched with sweat. The rivulets of moisture glistened in the artificial light of the gym. The blue eyes were deep set behind the dark circles that told of too little sleep. But it was the pain in those expressive orbs that bothered Jack the most. "That's not necessarily true."
"What?" Confusion momentarily replaced the pain in Daniel's eyes.
"Don't equate 'meek' with 'weak'. The two are not synonymous. You, of all people, should know that." Jack held up his hand to forestall Daniel's interruption. "Meek as in gentle and peaceful is not a bad thing.
You're strong in ways you cannot even begin to fathom, Daniel. Let Teal'c and I, hell, even Carter, take on the role of combatant. You keep the role of interpreter, of peacemaker, of conscience. Because that's what you do best. That's where we need you."
"I..I don't want to be a burden to the team, Jack."
"I understand that. And you're not. Don't confuse a difference in skill sets, or even roles, as being a burden. Different does not equate to bad, any more than meek equates to weak. And, ... at a more reasonable hour, I'll be glad to teach you moves that will help you in a fight." He grinned. "I'll bet Teal'c could be persuaded to teach you some Jaffa fighting techniques."
"Uh, I'll pass on that, thank you, but you'd teach me?"
"Yes, but Daniel, don't expect to be able to take on a Jaffa warrior after a few lessons."
"But I'll be able to hold my own?"
Jack smiled sadly. "Probably not."
"Why?"
"Danny-boy, how long did it take you to learn those twenty-some odd languages you know?"
"Years."
"Well, just think of fighting as learning a language of the body, rather than of the mind."
"Oh. Do I have years?"
"If Carter, Teal'c and I have any say in it, you do."
"Oh. ... Thanks. For everything."
"You're welcome. Now, Daniel about those hands..."
"Ugh, they are a mess. Janet's gonna kill me."
Jack studied the bloody mess for a moment. "Well, I've got a first aid kit in my quarters. We might be able to fix this without her noticing."
He held back a grin as the thought, 'Fat chance, the woman sees everything' rushed through his mind.
Daniel blushed as he looked at Jack. "Okay. Thanks."
The Irish brogue returned unbidden to Jack's lips. "No, problem, Danny-boy, but first, how's about you using a bar of 'Irish Spring'? Don't want to be offending the little people, now do we?"