Dr Daniel Jackson

Jack wanted to come to my apartment rather than have me go to his house to talk, which surprised me. He lives much closer to Cheyenne Mountain than I do; he'd have to drive into Colorado Springs to get to my apartment.

Nor did he want to talk on Base about what I had found out about Eric's visitors.

His coming is an opportunity, one that I intended to use. Jack and the Chinese food I had ordered were both to arrive at 6:00 p.m.

Earlier my friend had looked tired and frazzled; he's working on budgeting with Hammond. Along with the usual host of other things happening at the SGC. He needed a little pampering and that was part of my plan.

Once he arrived, I led him into my small dining area and indicated the cartons of food that had barely gotten there before him.

"Black Bean and Garlic Chicken?"

His hands hovered over the little cartons, long fingers flexing, and a hopeful expression on his face.

"Yeah, it's there somewhere."

"Oh, Danny, you'll make someone a wonderful wife someday."

He sat down across from me and began opening cartons, calling out their contents as best he could tell. When he muttered 'lizards gizzards', I knew that he'd found his favorite. I began opening cartons too; I shoved a small box of steamed rice in his direction receiving a grin as thanks. He was busy with one of the bowls I had placed on the table and was picking over the handful of chopsticks I had. He handled them as well as any native I'd seen. Where he picked up the skill I had no idea, he's never mentioned being stationed in Asia. Of course he could have learned stateside in one of the large cities. He is from Chicago. That's probably it.

As for the term 'lizards gizzards', I had asked him about it once, only to have him blanch alarmingly and excuse himself to the bathroom. His reaction shocked me greatly; he had always used the term almost fondly. When he returned to the table he didn't touch the Black Bean and Garlic Chicken again. In fact he avoided it for many months after that and I never bought up the subject again.

My Cashew Beef and Wonton Soup only appeared to hold my attention as I watched Jack eat. He can put away a sizable portion of food, but not as much as most men his size. As for the type of food he prefers, contrary to popular belief, beer and pizza is not a main staple to him. More like company food for when the rest of SG-1 or others from the SGC are around.

When it's just us, he eats very sensibly. Jack eats 'rabbit foot', i.e. salads, as he often calls them. He's not a health nut, nothing like that. He does like some strange things though. For instance, he actually likes potato chips without salt. I still find it hard to believe. Do you have any idea how hard those are to find? Well, take my word for it. It's hard. He prefers specialty chips, taro or sweet potato. That is only one of two reasons he'll go into a Health Food store, the other is vitamins. He only indulges in high fat food before missions, or while recovering from them.

Jack's very athletic, lifting weights is a given, although he has had to modify that over the last couple of years. It's too hard on his knees and back. He swims more, does a lot more low impact exercise. It allows him to get away with that beer and pizza when socializing. If he ate like that all the time, he'd never fit through the Gate.

Considering the way Jack looked when he walked in a beer would do him good right now.

Usually I keep a few for Jack; I get up and step into the kitchen to rummage in the fridge. Ah, there's one. Walking back to the table I thump the bottle down before him, only to receive an askance look from him for my efforts.

"You look like you could use one," I explain.

"Look like or will need one?"

His face takes on a serious dark look; he's referring to what I can tell him about Eric's sudden friends. I kick myself.

Darn it, Daniel, he was eating.

Even as I think it he places the chopsticks down across the bowl and pushes it away. His hand never strays towards the cold beer. He's all business now.

Sighing, I sit and resume eating; I for one am still hungry. So, between mouthfuls of food, I describe my visit with Lt. Roy. Jack listens with rapt attention, never once interrupting.

After I finish, Jack sits across the table from me thinking.

Finished with eating, I begin to clean up, picking up the cartons, tossing the empties, and closing the rest for storage in the refrigerator. The bowls go into the dishwasher and I hand-wash the utensils, including the chopsticks. Wiping down the table, I finish my 'wifely' duties.

Returning to my seat I see the beer is now open, and dangles from one long fingered hand hung over the back of my ladder-back chair. His dark amber eyes seem unfocused and downcast, as if staring through the floor to a great distance. That lean body askew in the chair, one long leg straight out before him while supporting the other ankle on that knee, deceptively relaxed.

Sitting down I prop my chin on my folded hands, elbows on the tabletop, and watch him think, just as un-relaxed as he is.

Several minutes pass. He raises the bottle and sips from it, he hardly moves as he regains his previous position. It's fascinating to see him like this, totally still, so deep in thought. And, I would love to be able to follow those thoughts, to see how his logic works, to be following along when he takes those alarming shortcuts he's capable of. Those shortcuts in logic that save lives.

Jack's eyes suddenly shift from the floor to focus sharply on me, startling me with their intensity. His left hand and the beer both thump the tabletop.

"I need to find those men, I have to know what's going on."

His voice has a desperate quality to it as Jack pulls his body round in the chair, both elbows now become firmly planted on the tabletop, his dropped head trapped beneath his hands, as he appears to be trying to tear his hair from the back of his head. I seldom see such a display of emotion from him, and I can't help but respond to it.

"Okay... how?"

Straightening, he stretches back against the chair, throwing his head back to stare at the ceiling in further thought. He holds that uncomfortable stance for a beat, before relaxing and unclasps his hands from the back of his neck, allowing his eyes to meet mine again. His brief bleak look is painful to bear as those soulful eyes break away to seek solitude by staring at the tabletop. The same tabletop where he leans tiredly propped up by his elbows with his loosely grasped hands before him.

"I can't do it. Hammond's up to his eyeballs in the budget I can't abandon him for..."

"A hunch?"

His worried eyes snap up to mine.

"Yeah.

His eyes drop back to watch his hands unclasp to lie open, palms up as if in supplication. He's hit a bump that I should be able to help him with.

"I could do it."

"NO."

His voice is sharp and quick, he pulls his arms off the table and just as quickly returns them to toy with the beer bottle. A scathing look on appears on his face.

"Jack..." I put a little whine into his name, I'll wheedle if need be.

"Daniel, I said NO."

He emphasizes the last word as his glare in my direction deepens. His hands unconsciously show his agitation by clawing the label from the beer bottle.

"Jack, I can do this."

I try to display conviction in my eyes, holding his now black hooded ones with mine.

"Can't."

"Can."

"Can't."

"Can."

"Over your dead body maybe."

"What...?" Now where did he get that thought?

"Daniel, when was the last time you had your hearing checked?"

"Ah..."

"That was rhetorical and I don't want you getting hurt."

Pushing away the shreds of torn label, his action is a physical representation of his spoken attempt to dissuade me. He pushes back from the table slightly to lean back into the chair, resuming his former posture there.

"And how will that happen?" I ask indignantly.

"Those men were trying to intimidate, force was implied and the guy they're shielding is, well... doing bad stuff, really bad stuff. I don't think thumping on you would bother them."

He had been gazing off at the wall and waved one hand in the air while he spoke and not once did his eyes meet mine.

"Okay... I can't do it, actually you won't..."

"Daniel..."

"...And you can't do it. Who can do it?"

"Therein lies the problem Danny me boy. I'm not sure."

"The General might be able to help."

"A. Too personal and B, the budget."

"Sam?"

"Same reason as you and the General, well... except for the B part."

"Teal'c would be out, too conspicuous. Hey, how about that new guy in security?"

Jack forsakes the view of the wall and nails me with shocked eyes.

"Crap. 'Mr. I Want To Be Your Buddy?' "

"Jack, he's not that way at all. He's... well, he's kinda in awe of you."

"Excuse me?"

A loud thump tells me his ankle lost its grip on his leg allowing his foot to fall to the floor in his shock.

"Jack you have saved Earth a couple of times, it's bound to happen. Hero worship."

He reddens and sputters, quickly grabs the now warm beer to gulp down the nearly flat liquor in a futile attempt to distract me from his reaction. Jack finds the idea that he is a hero totally alien. To him, it's a Team effort and he had little, if anything, to do with it, he was just along for the ride.

"Yes Jack. It happens and I would bet that Captain Cochran would move heaven and earth at your merest whim."

I find it hard not to chuckle as the flush on his face deepens and his eyes narrow as he thumps down the now useless empty beer bottle. He tries his best to give me a nasty look, but the flush works against it. I hold up open hands in surrender anyway

Jack crosses his arms and stares at the tabletop.

'Is he pouting?'

"I could ask him for you?" I try to catch his eye.

'He is pouting.'

He looks at me from under lowered brows looking like a sulky little boy. Actually probably being, he's done it enough times. He can be such a child sometimes. Just a gawky 6'2" five year old with attitude.

"You would do that?"

Jack drops his head just enough to hide his now bright amber eyes, his emotions are running high as they always do when someone he considers a friend offers to help.

"Sure. You have nothing to lose if I do. Come on Jack let me do this for you. Please."

Never looking up, he asks.

"You're sure about this?"

"Positive."

"Well... okay, I'll let you try it. But, I'm going to come up with a plan B."

"That's alright Jack, but I don't think you'll need it."

I stand, taking the empty beer bottle with me and pause in the doorway to the kitchen.

"You want to watch a movie with me?"

"What ya got."

His body is still in sulk mode. I can hear his booted foot drawing circles on the tiles beneath the table. Just a big kid.

"Lawrence of Arabia."

That perks him up, his head comes up, eyes wide, not quite as amber, but still bright. A grin spreading across his face.

"Sweet!"

"Great, you know where everything is, if you'd like to get it started. I just need to start the dishwasher. Okay?"

Jack jumps up and steps into the next room on his errand, as I continue on mine.

My plan worked. I couldn't help it, I had to chuckle.

As soon as he asked to meet me here rather than at his house, I knew that I was being presented with a singular opportunity. Jack is obsessively focused on others, helping them, protecting them, and well... just being there. He forgets that he has needs, that maybe he should let others help him, protect him or just be there for him as he is for them. It just never crosses his mind. But, it does cross mine, and tonight I intend to be there for him.

I have already accomplished part of that, the painful and distressing part, related to helping him. And, I know that this problem will remain foremost in his mind, affecting his sleep, his appetite and his general outlook on the world. So, I decided that distracting him would break that cycle of chronic worry wart-itis.

It took me quite a while to hit upon the prefect distraction -- a movie. Not just any movie. Thinking back several months, I remembered being subjected to endless moaning regarding a particular movie. One he hadn't seen in ages.

It's rather funny, he likes old movies and I like new ones. Strange huh?

After some calling around, I'd finally found a local rental place that stocked the movie and had picked it up before coming home to wait for him.

Finishing in the kitchen, I joined Jack. Sprawling onto the love seat across from him, I leave him the whole couch. We're both using the far arms as backrests to better see the television at the other end of the couch.

Lawrence of Arabia is a long, long movie and is probably older than I am. But, I find it surprising good. Jack explains its historical significance, militarily, of course. I find myself engrossed in the movie and make plans on reading the 'Seven Pillars of Wisdom' by TE Lawrence. Jack says he's also a colonel, only in the Royal Air Force, doing that era's version of Special Ops. Jack also recommended the book. He says Lawrence wrote other books, but this one covers most everything.

Jack, being an extremely private person, does not enlighten me on himself often. Nevertheless, he lets slip little snippets like this. The books he's read, the music he likes and art he prefers are all safe subjects. Those he will grudgingly impart when the mood strikes him.

While busily being appalled during the scene that implies Lawrence was raped while a prisoner in Turkey, I glance over at Jack. He's slumped down in the corner of the couch; I peer across the darkened space between us intently. He's asleep.

Quickly hitting pause, I toss down the control and cross to him. With some effort, I ease him into a comfortable position. Pushing and pulling at his limp long-limbed body, I'm surprised that my gentle assault to provide him some comfort doesn't even change the cadence of his breathing. And with a sense of wonder, I realize that even in his sleep he recognizes me and offers his complete trust.

Finally I have him laid full length on the couch, his soft slow breaths stirring the air between us. Thank goodness I got the long couch; he'd never fit otherwise, I think as I pull the pull the Pendleton wool blanket off the back of the couch to drape it over him.

Crossing back to the love seat, I scrabble around for the control and hit play.

He may not want to watch the rest of the movie, but I do.

Lt. Eric Van Sickle

My two fingers bound by tape slowly flex in the beam of light as I watch, their span of movement no more than an inch. They straighten and curl through that inch of space, shivering slightly, straining for more.

The movement of my fingers and hand are mirrored in the gloom beyond the light; flashes of lesser dark show the movement of tendons in my forearm, beaded with sweat. Beads become drips, which drop onto my bicep and leg below.

My sweat covered, straining body is pressed tightly into the cold painted concrete corner of the room. I focus intensely on forcing those two fingers into wider motion. I grit my teeth, not against the constant physical pain of their movement, but against the mental confusion I'm trying to drown with my exercise.

Curl. Straighten. Curl. Straighten.

Watching as tendons ripple and the sparkles of light in the dark attest to more erupting sweat, I moan quietly in pain.

Still, the fingers only span an inch in their movement

This lack of progress accurately reflects my stalled thoughts as I rigidly hide myself beyond the light.

I feel gusts of pride, love and duty sweep across the barb-wired no man's land of defeat and self-hatred that has taken root within.

Can these nobler winds erode quickly enough? Will they succeed in wasting the solid boulders of baser emotion I have built?

The answer I seek can be seen in the actions of these two fingers.

Stilling them, I allow them to drop down into the darkness. Fumbling there, I use them to feel the desired shape and I apply no conscious thought to their use to grasp. Surprisingly they constructively move through more than one inch of space, grasping the physical representation of my future. They clumsily bear the file into the light and I use my remaining eye to scan the instructions to resume my life on my terms.

Captain Isiah Cochran

'Shit, what the hell is this?'

All morning I've been here watching the office of one Dr Means, psychologist, getting a feel for the man's routine. Hoping that I would see his two cohorts in crime.

This whole case had started yesterday morning when Dr Daniel Jackson, archaeologist/linguist and member of SG-1 under the command of the SGC's esteemed 2IC, Colonel 'Jack' O'Neill, had contacted me via phone at my office indicating that the Colonel needed my help.

Considering who O'Neill is and how I felt about him, I hurriedly assented. Telling the Doctor that I would be available all day and would await the Colonel at his convenience. All the while during our conversation I had been checking my Outlook Calendar and had no other commitments for the day, and even if I had, I would have cleared them all for Colonel O'Neill.

I, Captain Isiah Cochran, considered the man to be America's greatest living hero. It was too bad that hardly anyone knew about him, but I did and would treat him accordingly.

Less than 20 minutes after my phone conversation with Dr Jackson, there is a knock on my office door. Jumping up I yelled 'come,' smoothed my BDU's, and waited, nearly at attention, for Colonel O'Neill to step into the office. Breathless at the anticipation of meeting an honest to God American Hero. Yes, all caps. AMERICAN HERO.

Dr Jackson appeared in the doorway, he stepped in and closed the door.

No Colonel O'Neill?

My lower jaw rested somewhere on the floor. Losing the will to stand I drop into my desk chair deflated.

"Captain Cochran, uh..."

Shaking myself from my shocking disappointment I noted that the archeologist was visibly nervous, sliding his glasses higher on his nose and then pushing his fingers through he short light colored hair. He was dressed in the usual BDU's common to the SGC and was casting glances about my small office while seeming to seek words to continue.

Coldly I cut him off.

"I was under the impression that Colonel O'Neill was coming."

My voice held a righteous petulance and I liked it.

"I'm sorry... I hadn't meant to give that impression."

His tone was meek and apologetic, but in my opinion not nearly apologetic enough for the perceived deception that the Colonel would be here, instead of this civilian consultant. Nevertheless, I would be magnanimous; he is here at the behest of Colonel O'Neill. Not listening would be unthinkable.

"Unfortunately that was the impression that I had. I am vastly disappointed. Although I can understand that Colonel is busy man, and I would imagine he has a great many things on his mind. So, please tell me the particulars of the matter."

Leaning back into my executive chair I crossed my legs and placed my loosely folded hands beneath my chin to await the Colonel's words by proxy.

My wait wasn't long and Dr Jackson wasn't a linguist for nothing. The man wove his words well and gave me the lowdown on the whole case.

It seems that a young lieutenant was being somewhat brainwashed by a consultant psychologist and that two hardened men were strong-arming people who were trying to protect the young man. I assured Dr Jackson discovering the truth behind the whole heinous scenario would be child's play. After all, I'm from a long line, third generation mind you, of Private Investigators, and I myself had left the private sector to join Special Forces, giving my country the benefit of my experience and talent. He had nothing to fear and pressed him to tell Colonel O'Neill this also.

As the good Doctor was leaving, I warned him that I would be expecting to meet the Colonel in person soon, very soon.

That was yesterday.

Now some damned Bird Colonel just walked into the perp's office. I thought that I was the only one on the case.

This just pisses me off.

Using the telephoto, I had gotten a few frames of the Bird Colonel arriving, but no clear shots of his face.

All I could tell was he middle aged; black hair combed toward the back and tends to walk a bit bent-kneed. Not bowlegged, really kinda weird, like he leads with those knees. He moves languidly, calmly, no sudden moves. Kinda reminds me of a big bird.

Waiting, I leaned back into the faux leather of the van's seat and waited.

My wait wasn't long, the front door of the office was flung open and the Bird Colonel, with a brute of a man at each arm was carried out to the sidewalk and dropped, literally. Luckily the officer was able to land on his feet. His back was to me but I could tell he was talking a mile a minute, trying to get back through the door. One of the men in black planted a hand on the officer's chest and shoved. Staggering back for a moment, he calmly resumed his attempt to enter the premises. A shoving match ensued, well... actually the brutes shoved, the Bird Colonel doggingly and calmly kept trying to enter the office. One-track mind I guess. 

Knowing those guys were going to lose patience I started the van, pulled out into the empty street, and screeched up next to them. I leaned across the seat and pushed the door open.

"Get in." I yelled at the officer, who turned to face me.

'Dr MacKenzie!'

"Get in, NOW."

He didn't get a chance; the other brute grabbed him and pushed him into the van. Once enough of him was inside, I floored it and left. I would have to get another vehicle to continue my surveillance. I drove a couple of blocks, pulled over, shut off the engine, and turned to Dr MacKenzie.

"Just what the Hell did you think you were doing?"

For a man who had been roughed up, he was remarkable calm and composed, unlike myself. Awaiting an answer, I huffed and puffed in my adrenaline pumped state.

He didn't say a word, just raised his hand and tapped that eagle on his shoulder.

'Shit, I totally forgot.'

Before I could start apologizing he opened the door and began walking back in the direction of Dr Mean's office.

Shit, he just doesn't have a clue; I jumped out and ran after him. Those guys will bounce him off the sidewalk if he goes back.

"Sir! Sir... I'm sorry, but you walked into my surveillance."

He stopped and turned. He looked me up and down, very slowly and deliberately. I felt as if I was just one of a dozen packages of hamburger being surveyed for purchase, then rejected in favor of a good cut of steak.

Hey! Who did he think he was?

I saw red. Well until my eyes fell on those eagles again. Oh, yeah, Bird Colonel to my Captain. Shit.

Opening my mouth, I began to work on my damage control but he quietly spoke first.

"For whom are you working?"

This guy had me suddenly feeling fourteen again and standing in the principle's office facing the music.

"Uh, Colonel O'Neill."

"I find that hard to believe."

"How come?"

"The man usually doesn't suffer the ill-suited."

Glancing down at my uniform I saw it fit fine, I have a cousin who gets them tailored for me, they have a terrific fit...

"I was not referring to how you are dressed."

'Oh, that 'ill-suited.' ' Jeez, talk about a brain fart.

A mixture of embarrassment and anger had my face heating up and no sooner than I opened my mouth to retort... And, yes, I know what 'retort' means... than he resumed walking back to Means' office.

Hurrying after him, I knew that if he walked back into to that place now would queer the whole deal. I'd never find out who the players are.

Dancing around him, I tried to get his attention. He just ignored me.

"Hold on. Hey, if you go charging back in there you might scare them off. Then where will you be? Huh, huh, riddle me that."

He stops so abruptly that I bump into him, he lurches a step off balance, but he's not paying any attention to me.

Not news to me.

Then I notice he's watching something. Looking where he is, my eyes find and follow the dark car that cruises past us.

Hey! Those... those are the guys.

Frozen on the sidewalk, I staring dumbly at the car; too late, I remember 'license plate number.' Shit.

But the Doc, he turns and calmly walks back to my van. He climbs into the driver's side.

The roar of the starting engine gets me moving and sprinting to the passenger side I fling myself inside just as he begins to pull away.

Dr MacKenzie

This man talks like a cheap detective dime novel. How he got into the Air Force, let alone the SGC is beyond me. As for him being retained by Colonel O'Neill, well that beggars the mind.

I was so hoping I would be leaving him behind by absconding with his van.

But alas, no such luck.

Pulling out into traffic I accelerate rapidly, attempting to close the distance opened up by not anticipating the departure of the two 'goons' from Dr Means' office.

"Hey, don't get too close."

Oh, I was so hoping that he wouldn't be speaking.

"You get too close they'll see you."

Maybe if I ignore him he'll stop speaking. At least the man procured a vehicle with decent acceleration; he can't be totally inept.

"If they see you they'll rabbit."

'Rabbit?' Oh, I remember, as in losing a following car. Oh, that's not good; I'm driving the following car. Maybe this cheap detective has a use after all.

"And just what would you suggest?"

"Hang back, keep a few cars between you and them. Just keep them in sight. We just want to go where they're going, not stop them."

His words do sound prudent, even if I don't appreciate his sarcastic tone in the least. Keeping the dark car in sight, I crease trying to catch up with it and flow with the traffic, watching for any changes of direction, I must admit that following them seemingly makes more sense then stopping them. Moreover, I had had little success reasoning with them earlier. Eventually, I may find out something through this more passive method of investigation.

Meanwhile, I need to engage my unwelcome passenger's attention elsewhere. I eye him briefly. He seems the type.

"Tell me about yourself."

Ah, right on the money, he begins talking nonstop, never slowing. Soon he is prattling on about himself as if he were the most fascinating thing under the sun. I tune him out and concentrate on following my quarry.

A trend in their direction becomes evident; they are heading for Petersen Air Force Base. Knowing their destination allows me to drop back further in traffic. This however turns out to be a slight miscalculation on my part.

"Hey... Hey, you'll lose them sitting this far back."

'Oh joy, he's speaking to me again.'

"I know where they are going."

Now I will be able to estimate his true intelligence by how long it takes him to reason out how I know. At least a mile goes by before he speaks again.

"You think they're going to Petersen, huh?"

Surprisingly, I'm impressed; I thought that it would take him much longer. I was convinced that he wouldn't catch on until we drove up to the gate at Petersen. Maybe his being in the Air Force is justified. No, no that's just too far fetched. Glancing at the passenger floor, I conceive a plan.

"Is that a camera?"

"Yeah, what of it?"

"You might want to use it when we arrive at the Air Base."

"Oh... got ya. Surveillance."

I really need to get this man on my couch; just to see why he talks the way he does.

[see Chapter Five]