General George Hammond

"Teal'c."

"GeneralHammond."

Long years in the military has taught me how not to show my startlement and this man is enough to startle anyone. One moment the doorway was empty, the next he was standing there, a palpable silent presence. Slowly I passed a hand over my face, feeling the abrasion of rare whiskers on my cheeks, I was letting little things like this slip in my worry for Colonel O'Neill... for my friend... for Jack. And, because he was my friend, I sat here and not there with him. I could not, would not add to the load he carried. Guilt would eat at him if I were with him when I was needed, so here I sat, fingering the phone. Hoping for news to arrive, catching myself constantly from standing to discover that news myself. I had to keep reminding myself that I had good people around him; he was being taken care of by the best. And I had a base to run.

"What can I do for you?" I asked while waving Teal'c towards the chair positioned in front of my desk.

He moved forward into my office, I could see beyond his shoulders to the unshuttered windows over the Stargate, but not the 'gate itself. He stopped and stood at parade rest, the chair ignored. He would stand; he always stood, and at one time with a distinct air of scarcely respectful disdain, but no more. Suffice it to say I knew that if it came down to obeying me, or O'Neill, ultimately I would lose. Still I was honored by his current level of trust and respect, for the loss of that disdain, and I hoped that one day I could depend on him as much as I could Jack -- with the lives of all those I commanded.

Learning so much, so fast must be hard -- and alien. Just as alien as how I needed to approach this Jaffa that had sided with my best officer, I have learned what I could of Teal'c's dictates, so that I could better provide the kinds of commands he would comprehend and obey, he existed very much within a web of honor and degrees of allegiance, both of which I needed to understand and play upon to get the desired result. This was never covered in command school, but long years of enforced dealings with Earth's own political machine helped provide me with an inkling.

Whatever reason he was here for I knew it had to do with O'Neill and his perception of his relationship to him.

"I wish to return to PBX 123."

"Good. A decision has been made; the team will stay in place until we can get a better handle on the infiltration into the SGC by faction or factions unknown. Personnel and supplies are being prepped and I wanted you there as my liaison."

"An honor," he solemnly intoned with an incline of his head. Minute movements telling me of his promise to do as I ask, always a man of few words, each carried much meaning. He would not fail at the task, at least not at his perception of how O'Neill would prefer it done, and that was good enough for me.

"The Joint Chiefs have decided that Lt. Van Sickle needs protection, only they don't know from whom. So the team will stay put for another week. They're already a couple of days past their extended stay date and are running out of supplies. Your opinion on the lieutenant's safety and the progress they are making would be invaluable to me."

"Gladly would I do this, our goals are similar. My only regret is leaving O'Neill."

"Son, he won't be alone. This whole mountain is looking out for him. And I've alerted security to the possibility of unfriendlies amongst us, bent on getting to the lieutenant."

"Lt.VanSickle is not the only goal," he said, and with a raised eyebrow made the inflectionless statement into a question, a question that had me reevaluating my own perception of the situation. Doubt rose to the surface and I asked my own question.

"You think we are being mislead?"

"Precisely."

Dr. Janet Fraiser

Stepping away from the half-light of the Colonel's room, pride in my staff was foremost in my thoughts, I had confidence in their ability to meet all of his needs, and so I turned towards a much-needed rest. This was the hardest part of my job, allowing others to take over while I did so. Constantly I needed to remind myself that the fresher I was the better I would care for my patients. But this patient would surely raise bloody hell if he ever found that I'd run myself down while caring for him. Not that I gave two cents for his anger. Quality of care was my concern, even more so for him. He was too important to lose, and my friend. But I would save him the anger and the inevitable guilty he would manifest if I did tire myself too much.

Shutting the blinds and pulling my office door closed, I slumped into my chair and closed my eyes a moment. My feet hurt, I'd been on them too long. Sneakers -- must remember to change into them when the fat hits the fire like this. My heels clattered to the floor as I toed them off, each swollen foot was rubbed to get the circulation started again. Leaning back, I rested one more moment before reaching across and switched on my desk lamp, blinking in the sudden brightness. My clearing vision sought out the in-basket and I eagerly snatched out the latest labs on my star patient.

Scanning the results of the tests I sighed in relief, all was going to plan. Now was not really the time to review that plan, but habits die hard, especially when reduced vigilance could lead to another's death. Near the bottom of the stack was a confirmation from the specialist, he had received the couriered results of the x-rays and scans; he would be here tomorrow morning. It sounded like a small miracle itself. A world-renowned doctor dropping his caseload and coming at such short notice for an unknown air force colonel. And I wondered just who in the government or military I had to thank for that favor.

And how strange for the specialist, never knowing whom his patient is and being required to never speak of his visit here. But this is the way it has to be, I'm just grateful we have this option.

Reluctantly I slipped the heels back on, replaced the papers back into the in-basket and stood, leaving the turning off of the light as the last chore before leaving. Going home would be good, if I could bring myself to actually leave the base. Maybe tomorrow... yes, if all goes well, I'll go home tomorrow and break the news to Cassie. She already knew something was up, she's always told me that my staying at the base revealed just how seriously someone was injured. She never complained; she knew I tried to get home as much as I could during such times. She saw my homecoming as a good sign, even when she knew from my face that someone hadn't made it, she pretended like nothing was amiss.

How did I become so lucky to have such a daughter?

And such friends?

I would sleep on base tonight - just in case. And, I hoped the Colonel and I had pleasant dreams.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

The noise hit me before the water did, a hollow roaring boom that I could feel on my skin and vibrated in my bones. Like standing next to a jet when the afterburner kicked in, no way was this a jet, not on this forgotten dirt ball, so it had to be a flashflood. My eyes searched the canyon walls above me, sheer, slick and too far up to climb out.

Such irony, I had made it back to my camp at the side stream and picked up my pack. If I had lingered there I would have been safe. Now I was less than a quarter mile away from that safety, might as well be a thousand miles. Going back wasn't an option, too many unknowns. Why tempt fate by rushing into the arms of disaster?

Couldn't go back, had to go downstream. I knew that there was possible safety in that direction; another stream entered the creek canyon maybe a mile further. If I ran like hell... if I beat the water there... if I could climb out... and, if I stood here debating much longer...

Slipping off my pack I ran.

Running through the sand and loose rock was hard, I could feel the tops of my boots dig into my legs, feel bruises forming already. I slipped and slid in the gravel losing precious time, allowing the freight train of water to get closer, soon it was displacing the air in the canyon so fast that it created a nice tail wind. What I'd give for wings right now.

Not gonna make it. Not gonna stop either. Giving up wasn't an option, never had been for me.

My P-90 soft-landed in a patch of sand as I lightened the load and I used the pain from my bruised chest, focusing on it, embracing its sharpness with every breath, and pushed faster.

No fucking way was I gonna bite it like this.

Complications, there are always complications. Didn't remember this much water here, damn the wave of floodwater was already passing me, deepening and spreading between my goal and me. Showing me just how fast that water roaring at me from upstream was coming. Soon I was forced to splash through its welcome wagon, slowing me even more. So loud was that wall of water I couldn't hear my harsh breaths or the roaring of my own blood pumped by my now very much panicked heart.

How far was that damn stream?

Then something hit me, from behind - hard. My vision vanished in fireworks and the world winked out.

General George Hammond

"Easy son, you're okay. You're not alone."

Gripping his hand, anchoring him, I trailed the fingers of my other hand across his forehead, pushing his hair into a neat line; worry prickled me. His limbs moved restlessly against the restraints, like he was trying to push something off of him, as if he could feel the insult of the leather binding him. It was hard knowing he was tied down, but I knew this upsetting solution was necessary. Yet, seeing him so vulnerable made the early morning hours here beneath the mountain just that much colder, darker, and lonely.

Who would have thought that when I first met him that he would become so important to me, just a mysterious older man and three odd companions that asked me to take them on faith and precious little else. I risked everything to do just that.

Later, at our second meeting he was a man that had to be practically dragged into the SGC, our ages very much in reverse this time. Age wasn't the only thing that had been reversed. He forced me to lock him up to get his cooperation, shattering my first image of a wise, caring, trustworthy individual. Someone larger than life. Then when he lied to me, and contrived to hide vital information, I wondered if he 'was' the same man. Never having dealt with the paradox of time before it didn't immediately dawn on me that the Jack O'Neill, there, at that moment, wasn't the Colonel Jack O'Neill I'd met years before - not yet.

It can be an advantage when you know how someone will be at a certain time in their life. I watched, waited and helped when I could. My efforts were rewarded. Slowly, surely, Colonel Jack O'Neill emerged, restoring my faith and earning my respect; and finally my friendship, even when his smart mouth urged me to throttle him. I even felt the kind of love a proud parent would feel at seeing a child do the right thing, even if one didn't approve of their methods.

I wished my wife had lived long enough to meet him. She and I had often lamented the fact that we had no son, someone to carry on the name and traditions of our family. She would have loved him; he would have been her son in all but name. I can just see my hardass special ops colonel meekly submitting to her maternal urges. Hell, he's pretty much my son in a strange way, he's Uncle Jack to my granddaughters, Kayla and Tessa, who love him dearly, and I know he loves them back, almost as much as the son he lost to tragedy.

And, losing his son nearly killed him and would have caused the fall of Earth. I'm sure of it. From the very first time I'd met him in 1969 I knew he was important, could feel that something bigger in his future. Our second, though rocky, meeting eventually reinforced that feeling, which grew with each new emerging facet of his complex personality. This man needed to live, his survival must be insured, and I could feel that at some point in the future he would be a pivotal player in the survival of our race. My fondness of him as a man is nothing in light of that fate. Yes, fate. Much to my discomfort, there is such a thing and not everyone has one, but Jack O'Neill does. He is fated to do something big. As if saving the planet more than once isn't big.

He burns so brightly; I fear he'll never reach that critical time when he's our only hope. The same hope I felt at our first meeting. Each time he's injured, lost or delayed, my breath catches in my throat. Is this it? Has he thrown the dice once too often? Is it snake eyes?

I'm not a praying man. Watching my wife die destroyed that in me. But if there's any chance at all I'd be damned if I'll let it get past me. Bending my head in silent pray I hoped for the best. For his sake, I prostrated myself before a god I had forsaken.

'Amen.'

Under my hand I felt him still. Maybe I was heard?

Colonel Jack O'Neill

I awoke struggling. Against what? Who? Why?

It took a moment to understand that I couldn't breathe and that something was holding me down. Water, I was in... no, I was under the water.

Everyone feels the terror that drowning triggers in every animal. Only a fool would say otherwise. That terror can kill you fast or save you. Taking advantage of my body's terror I forced it into the struggle against what was holding me under. Blindly I fought back, each blow, each clawing motion allowed my oxygen starved brain time to recover, each succeeding blow was better aimed, better timed and more effective. My sudden gasps for breath told me I had fought free of what held me enough to reach breathable air.

And just as suddenly I was pushed under again.

But the lungs full of air gave me the ability to reason now. The wall of water had caught me and I was struggling with a tree that was rolling in its turbulence. If I wasn't careful this tree could kill me, catch me and force me under it to bounce off the rock at the bottom of the canyon or be crushed by any boulder rolling along with the water. Carefully I pulled myself toward the air again.

It was one of the big evergreen trees, long since dead and broken off to fall into the path of the flood. In my trek upstream I hadn't seen it and probably would have if it had been there. It's possible that it came from the bigger canyon at the source, a place I had not gone. The partially denuded limbs had swept me up from the water as they trailed the bare trunk plowing alone on the crest of the flood front. It's a good guess that the trunk was what knocked me for a loop and may have saved my life in the process.

Thought was kinda hard; I was dazed from the near drowning and the blow to my lower back, its pain just now awakening. Pins and needles raced up and down my legs, they were sluggish and took effort to move. That worried me because I wasn't in a position to take it easy.

My lack of mental acuity was nearly my downfall, raising my head I looked down the tree trunk and right at a stone wall.

Major Sam Carter

'Some soldier I am.'

Blinking hard, my eyes brimmed with unshed tears. My ears strained for each breath from my CO, my heart in my throat at any change in his rhythmic breathing. He is a very special man whom I tried not to think about day in, day out -- unsuccessfully.

"Sir?" I softly called out to him, afraid to touch him. Touch is forbidden. He is forbidden. He is the apple and I am Eve.

'Come on, Sam. This is your chance to touch forbidden fruit. You're expected to touch, hold... caress.'

Angrily shaking such thoughts from my head I recall that General Hammond had mentioned that Colonel O'Neill had been restless, calming only just before I arrived to take over from him.

"Sir, you'll be okay." 'Jack, you've just got to be okay,' yet another little voice whispered in my head; or is that my heart?

Looking down at the face I've seen in every stage of human emotion, memorized so thoroughly that just closing my eyes, I can recall the curve of his rare smiles or the depth of pain his eyes reveal when he can't do the impossible just one more time, I shudder at my extensive collection of mental photos. This had been close. Closer then that Goa'uld force field that had stood between us, when he showed me just how much I meant to him, willing to die with me, then and there. Every hair on my body raised in the shiver that shook me at the memory, the same one that visited me in the middle of the night too often. My death would be bad enough, but his... I couldn't bear that if I survived.

He needs me. And I need him. Living is only bearable if he's there too.

Selfish, oh so selfish. He is the architect of the impossible, able to push me into doing the same. My needs are nothing compared to those his own unique genius requires.

At first I imagined he was just a military jock, a shoot first with never a thought, arrogant, condescending -- MALE. Someone I'd have to defeat at his own game just to stay under his command, never to have his respect or trust, just a smart girl playing at being a soldier.

The shocking part was that what I imagined he thought, had, in part, been correct. No, he didn't think that, I discovered, but I was that, I had been playing at being a soldier, more scientist than soldier. Colonel Jack O'Neill was a soldier, a great soldier. And more startling - A MAN.

Well, that can be confusing, but to me, a man isn't just a male. A male is just a prodigy of a man. A man has honor and integrity. Fair with all, unstinting of himself and someone you need never fear. His biggest concern is the greater good, even at his own expense. An ideal. There are so few men left in the world and to think that I had happened upon one in such a way. To have been so arrogant to believe such thoughts existed in his head.

But, this isn't why I'm here, to review 'our' history together, I'm here to help this 'man,' saving him not for myself, but for the millions out there he can save, will save, and even die for. My feelings mean nothing in his struggle for survival. Our feelings mean nothing in the face of a universe full of lives and his potential to shield them.

"I'm just going to lay my hand on your arm." 'Yes, I know, we spend a lot of time preventing any kind of contact, but this is for your own good.' "Just to let you know that you're not alone." 'That I won't leave you here alone, that perhaps you'll stay for me.'

Throughout most of my time at his side, I spoke of our missions. The good parts, of which there were many. Trying hard to ignore my revel of my skin against his, I knew that I would dream of this, his sun browned skin, tight over those long strong muscles, the softness of the hair on his arms, the scratch of his beard. My endless marveling at the delicate freckles that seemed to cover every square inch I could see, giving him a boyish look, so in tune with those long dark lashes that he deemed so inadequate to shield those brown amber gems that were his eyes. So much so that he seldom went without sunglasses. Ooh, to see those golden flashes more often from their soft brown emotive depths. Many times I've considered hiding those glasses.

His restlessness returned, in payment for me taking more pleasure from my watch than I should have. Closing my eyes, I leaned down and asked his forgiveness in forgetting our vow of putting these turbulent feelings away, to remain just friends. Anything more we knew was far too dangerous. Forbidden. This I hoped would calm him.

Opening my eyes, I knew that I hadn't.

Only a man about to die has an expression like that.

My heart seized in anguish.

Dr MacKenzie

And I thought that fingerprints on the finish on my car angered me. But, NO, that simpleton Captain Cochran makes me furious, so angry that I can barely see straight. How dare he endanger his career in this fashion? How dare he stand there and become a totally different person. How dare he disappoint me?

He's put me in the position of needing to report him, to lock him up in a padded cell. Something I excel at.

Carefully, slowly, I close his very 'vanilla' file, I press my forehead to my beautiful cherry wood desk, objects just don't disappoint like people, nor do they create problems. After thumping my head against the desktop, I think better of that strategy. Besides, it'll give me a headache. And explaining the red mark is difficult. I'm not even sure how I wound up here, alone, in my office. Devoid of my 'friend.'

How dare he desert me?

Stupid man, what am I to do? This is what I get for becoming emotionally involved, for buying in to the whole 'friends' routine.

'Ya know I honestly like ya...'

Funny way to show someone you like them, drag them into a court-martial-able offense just by daring them to do nothing.

Who is he, to make me like him? ...my friend. Yes, my friend.

Sitting up, leaning my head back against my expensive and very comfortable executive chair, far more dependable then any person. I let my eyes close. Nausea, I'm most definitively felt nauseous. This whole problem with Cochran has me conflicted. My arms cover my chest and belly like a warm security blanket, fending off the sudden cold. Do I do my duty? Do I. Don't I. Do I. Don't I. Ad infinitum.

What do I know? Cochran seems to have suffered some kind of break. Does anyone else know this? Hmmm, I don't really think so. For some reason he feels comfortable enough around me to display his hidden personality. I'm confident that I'm the only one who really knows. And does anyone have even an inkling of what happened to Mr. A. Whole, now known to the captain and I as Manny Devine? I have a feeling that in his dementia, Cochran has been successful in preventing anyone else from knowing what occurred.

Friends of mine aren't allowed this kind of behavior. And by God, he's gonna straighten up and fly right.

Suddenly standing, my wonderful chair doesn't budge an inch and I have to grab at the excellent desk to keep my derriére from hitting the imported rug that I know everyone here admires. Turning I check my appearance in my mirror, then turn again and stride for the door.

This just proves I'm as crazy as he is. He needs help and I'm going to see he gets it, even if I have to kidnap him and tie him to the bed in my guest room.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

"Oh Crap!"

My ride was pointed right at that rock solid wall of stone. Instinctively I scrabbled backwards along the trunk, pushing myself through the stiff, scratching tangle of dead limbs.

The abraded, rounded stump hit square on. The impact jarred me, only the limbs I'd taken refuge in held me to the main stem. The trunk broke, like matchsticks in a Cuisinart. Jagged sections and chunks rode up the dry stone drenching it with water. Large sections would fall back down the wall into the water to disappear, and then jump back into the air as their natural buoyancy forced them up again. Each section and chuck was another jarring impact. All of this happening so fast all I could do was watch, wishing I had a remote to slow down the action and observe it slo-mo. One's impending death can be fascinating.

Suddenly I stopped; I was motionless in a maelstrom of motion. As if I had placed the action in pause, a large section of trunk slid back into the water right in front of me. So close I could reach out and touch it. Now only a ribbon of boiling water separated me from the stone wall, an imaginary reprieve, just an illusionary breath of calm. Something badgered at the back of my sluggish thoughts. Like a Stone Age jack-in-the-box the tree trunk was back, it shot out of the water and loomed over me. Slowly it began that flop that each before it had experienced, vividly I recalled they usually dropped full length back into the water to partially submerge again, smashing any malingerers in the process. It teetered before me then tipped my way. Instinct forced my hands and arms to push it away, so futile my mind stuttered. And just before I touched the smooth bark-less trunk I was snatched backwards.

Teal'c

"O'Neill, it is I, Teal'c."

Normally I would enter a light state of Kelno'reem while watching over my warrior brother, alert to any movement or sound, yet, silent in my supporting vigil. My brother needs guidance back to us with voice; and contact with those whom he trusts. Being 'touchy-feely' as O'Neill is oft heard to describe it is most difficult for me. Such emotions being anathema amongst warriors of my race at the behest of our service to our false god, the infant Goa'uld within lies uncomfortably when emotions are freely shown.

This is an opportunity to experience and explore a world forbidden me. Only with my wife have I been allowed to express my deeper self in words and touch. How then to tell this man I respect and honor with those little used tools.

"Brother, I will be returning to the planet with news for your Chosen; Lt. Eric Van Sickle. In my heart I have named him O'Neill's Chosen, he is the child of your heart, as CharlieO'Neill is the child of your soul. You soul mourns the loss of that child of your loins every moment of your existence. You give great honor to his memory. Yet I am certain that he would approve of this young warrior you have taken into the battlements of your compassion. Do not fear besmirching your true son's memory, that is beyond your ability."

"Lt.VanSickle has taken you as his father of the heart as I have taken Bra'tac. You know of my feelings for my father, my dedication to his memory, to achieving the revenge that will free his soul to journey to Kheb. I honor my father. You may even say 'love' as you understand it, and as I am beginning to truly understand under your guidance. My father would be proud that I have claimed Bra'tac as my second father. Bra'tac would never usurp my father's rightful position within my soul."

"At times I see the emotions you hope that no one else can. Few can, but I have seen, and with each year I see more. The moment you threw open your heart to your Chosen he came under my protection as well as yours. Brother of my heart, all that you cherish I will strive to protect as you would mine."

To O'Neill I spoke of his young warrior, the greatness I could see within that damaged frame, greatness that would grow beyond his disabilities. He will be a worthy successor to my warrior brother who is not only a legendary leader in battle, but also a beacon of peace and diplomacy. Both warriors are bright flames of freedom in this benighted galaxy.

Touching O'Neill, my friend, my brother, was more difficult than I had imagined. He had taken the false god's place in my life, in ways I had not anticipated. With reverence I clasped his forearm, gently, for I knew just how fragile the Tau'ri are, their will to survive far outstripping their physical ability. After realizing I had attached the taboo of touching the false god to O'Neill I strove to defeat it, its existence was an affront not only to me, but also to my brother. A wound to his heart I would not allow by tolerating it further.

With both hands I explored his, much as I had his Chosen's that day in the gym. His long slender fingers hide a strength that is not apparent, appearing delicate, breakable. They have touched me in the past, feeling like the gentle fingers of a healer or the talons of a raptor, as he chooses. I count myself lucky that I have not felt his anger or rage, or even his blood lust in his touch, but I have seen the destruction they have wrought. And I have seen the calm his massaging touch of his damaged thumb can bring to a teammate. Now I adopt that technique and speak on, filling the air with my voice so he will know that I am here and he can rest.

No longer do I fear his death -- he will live. His will is great. Yet O'Neill's essence sits lightly in the strong frame that houses it, as if ready to flee. It has always sat lightly there, too bright for such a base container. At times I believe he is a lost spirit from Kheb, caught and held by his own need to offer protection to the innocent, and, where else would he find many innocents, but among the living.

"Have I spoken of the new ballad among the Free Jaffa?"

With my own eyes I have seen my brother unleash from its container his bright spirit, it is then that the fearsome warrior he is strikes fear in all who behold him. His slim, tall body is finely honed as any weapon, reacting to any threat, loose of it reins his limbs deal death and destruction. Little survives such an unleashing.

"The ballad was presented to honor me and spoke of my mastery of the Tau'ri and my warriors of SG-1. Having asked my opinion, I gave it. Telling them of the true hero at whose feet I humbled myself to his mastery of battle and compassion of all. Yes, my brother, I did tell of you. Long did I speak of my pride in being a member of SG-1 and serving the Tau'ri as I served my own people. Only your strength and boldness broke me from my bonds to the false god, freeing me to help provide the fertile field in which the Free Jaffa now grow."

Of this and many things did I speak. Spilling more words in the short hours I had than in all the years since that fateful day Apophis ordered my brother and those not chosen as children of the gods deaths.

The hour of departure would arrive within the last swiftly dying seconds of the preceding hour; I rose, striding to the door. My sensitive ears had heard the approach of the next to shine a spoken light upon the path my brother must take. A burning within my breast halted me short of the door and I turned to speak one last time before departing.

"You must return, there is much still to do."

Colonel Jack O'Neill

Totally unprepared for movement in that direction, or any direction, I almost tumbled off the new jagged end of the tree. The last chunk to break off had slammed one knee aside as it left, leaving me with the certain knowledge that the next object I felt would be that very immovable wall that was making matchsticks of this tree I sat astride.

Pulling my chin off my chest, pushing at the tree to keep myself from being pitched into the maelstrom of churning water, I clamped my legs tightly around my bucking transport. When I could, I scooted back, trying to wiggle around the closely packed limbs. Hooking an arm around one as an anchor I had to know what was behind me, because I now had my back to our direction. Slowly I faced front.

Another tree had smacked this tree. While mine was being smashed to bits by the water trying to defy gravity against the rock wall another tree drifted into the eddy where its top brushed against mine, it became entangled and drifted across the eddy until the current dragged it back into the fast ride further downstream. That was how I was jerked out from under the airborne trunk about to crush me.

Carefully I pushed myself up to my knees to look around, both tree remnants were in the center of the current, but seemed to be headed for the canyon wall again. It may have been fool hardy, but I stood. S-turns, these were the S-turns, I'd long since been swept past the point I had been running for, that possible safe haven of a small stream coming in to the creek's canyon. I remembered this section, the canyon walls were rough, they changed from one type of stone to another, and there were ledges and holes. If I could get close enough I might be able to cling to the wall until the water fell.

And it looked like I wasn't going to get any time to decide where or when.

Damn, another wall - dead ahead.

Dr Janet Fraiser

Whew! Now that was an experience.

Doctors in the military can be different than doctors in civilian practice. There are two kinds in the military, the dedicated and the adequate, sad but true. In civilian practice, from my own experience, there are three kinds: the dedicated, the money-seekers and the adequate. Only the adequate in this case can grade down to killers with a license. Even those well known in their specialties can inhabit the last class, while most dwell in the second. Finding a rare genius of the first category is like finding a unicorn in one's backyard. Rare, very rare.

Dr John Swale, who insists on being called 'Spike,' is of that category. Only by chance does he fit the second, wealthy and dedicated. And even better ex-military. He was stationed in Germany at the Landstuhl Regional Medical Center during the Gulf War, learning his craft by tirelessly working to repair the most damaged of American survivors of that conflict. He left the service during the cutbacks of personnel after that war concluded, enticed into the one of the biggest and most famous of hospitals specializing in extreme trauma recovery.

He is the most unusual angel of mercy I'd ever met. So short, I wondered how he met the height requirements to become an Army surgeon. Tough as nails, which explained his nickname, looking every inch a soldier fresh from barracks inspection, haircut and all. But so gentle and understanding that anyone around him could not help but respond by offering unstinting attention and granting of his merest wish. A wish that was no more than his manifestation of his burning desire to help the person in his care.

Like any mother hen I was reluctant to allow a strange to approach Colonel O'Neill, so I may have embarrassed myself when I first met Dr Swale.

"Dr Fraiser, may I ask a personal question?"

"That depends on just how personal it is, go ahead."

"Colonel O'Neill is a friend, isn't he?

"Yes, yes, he is."

"And as his friend you wish to protect him?" With a rising of both hands, a gesture of submission, he cuts me off and continues. " Doctor, I'm his friend too."

"How, when... How can that be? Surely someone would..."

Smiling he lays a hand on my forearm, grasping it gently and squeezes.

"It's the uniform, that uniform makes us all friends, makes us all brothers. Didn't you wonder why I dropped everything? Stepping out of a very busy and extremely lucrative practice, without even a word of protest? Not even a protest from the hospital that admits I make more money for them than any three doctors they have there? They knew from the beginning that if I were called to treat any member of our armed forces I would go. Any attempt by them prevent me from doing so would mean my resignation. Then I would go, never to return. I'm the best only because of my brothers in arms. I owe them everything."

My mouth must have been hanging open; I was stunned by his speech. He had the heart of a warrior just as Jack did; each had their own battles. Spike fought for an individual life and the freedom to live it; Jack fought extinction and protected our innate freedom to live our lives as we saw fit. They were truly brothers. He smiled knowingly; he was so open, so easily read. My trust was instant.

"Shall we attend to my brother?"

"By all means, lets."

Colonel Jack O'Neill

It was risky, but staying with my floating debris could prove fatal, I leaped onto the other tree, catching at the sparse slippery limbs as it tried to roll under me. Then I crouched looking for a good place to leap to.

Just as I jumped the trunk under me lurched and swung, I hit the stone wall hard, only instinct had me groping for handholds. Hand holds cause my legs were wonky, I felt something give in my back when I jumped and the pain dug deep when I hit, drowning out the other scraps and cuts that landing caused. Desperately I pulled with my arms, throwing a hip up on a tiny ledge. Momentary stars clouded my vision, damn that hurt!

Better the pain than death. The trees had hit the wall; I felt one of them brush my foot, dislodging its fragile grip on the rock. Sneaking a peek down all I saw was floating lumber. You know the kind that wind up in fireplaces and campfires, the leftovers, too small for any other use.

Looking above me, I checked my handholds and searched for a better place to perch. A large drop of water hit me right in the eye. Blinking it clear, I looked up again and got another one. Damn, it was raining. It took what felt like hours to creep up the stone to a place where I put my back to the rock and wedge my butt into an angular hollow, created when a large flake of stone had broken away. Like sitting in the bottom of a triangle, it was maybe a foot deep and graduated upwards to nothing. I wedged my arms against its sides, and there was a little protuberance where I could put one foot at a time to help hold me back against the outwards slope of the hollow. But always one foot would be hanging in the wind, I was breathing hard once I got positioned. The rain became a deluge.

Catching my breath, I shielded my eyes from the downpour. For the first time I got a good look at my surroundings. It wasn't a pretty sight. The water ten feet below was dirty and full of trees and parts of trees. And I would bet that under that, where I couldn't see, there were boulders, rocks, gravel and water heavy with abrading sand. The creek had become a moving ribbon of sandpaper, scouring all life from the canyon, as it nearly had mine.

The sky was heavy with cloud, darkening the canyon, bringing night early. With the failing of light, went all warmth; soon I was shivering with the chill and my exhaustion.

In the pitch black only sounds existed, like none I'd ever heard before. My heartbeat sped up. I could feel the adrenaline. There are just some things you can't control, my body wanted to flee, to run, and to get as far away from the danger as possible. The stress of being unable to could be my worst enemy.

Dr MacKenzie

I'm more than appalled at the small room, its very cramp-ness. Such rooms give rise to claustrophobia; and the chair deadens cheeks never meant to endure the ill-considered contours of this plastic contraption so misnamed chair. And I fear.

Lying helplessly bound to the bed is Colonel O'Neill. His very helplessness, his weak pulling at the leather encircling wrists and ankles prevents me from doing what should be a simple act of comfort on my part. A task played out so many times in my life, in the precepts of my profession, performing it while totally unconscious should be possible. A flush of shame overwhelms me at such callousness. Yet, all I can see, even without looking, is Captain Cochran drugged and bound to that bed rather then the SGC's 2IC. Knowing that the man who professes to 'like' me lays there because of me - ME!

Shakily I drop my face into my open palms, clenching my fingers to hide myself. Breathing harshly at the vision of what I should do, and in the past, have done, Dr. Jackson being just one such victim.

This is not what I should be doing - thinking. I'm here for another reason, a very important reason, for many important reasons. How has that escapee from the military's jock club been able to totally befuddle me that I can't do this?

Uncovering my face I cannot focus upon my task, my duty. There is real need here. Colonel O'Neill is not only one of those I need to redeem myself to, but his life is also valuable to the continuing survival of this planet. Even knowing that the man could break emotionally at any time I also know he is the best chance of many of those within this base to survive an encounter with the worlds beyond the Stargate.

The issue of what I should do about Captain Cochran must be solved. Now!

Unasked, an unremembered moment flashed into existence, a memory buried within. After getting drunk in Cochran's office, after being taken into custody by the SFs, while laying in a drunken stupor in that dark holding cell. So stupefied that knowing what that could or would do to my career my whole world had narrowed to gentle fingers brushing through my hair. I knew who -- a man; a man I'd thought beneath me. Yet he comforted me without hesitation, without reward. For the first time in my life I felt a loving touch freely given because I lived. Someone valued my existence.

How could I forget such a thing? That warmth that blossomed in the desert that was my heart should be cherished and horded against the thong that tolerated me, wished me gone. Yes, gone. To survive the hostility of those around me I convinced myself that it was jealousy, envy that drove those to express their dislike of me. Cochran has shown me that perhaps, in my ineptitude, I was somehow the cause of their dislike. Yes, I know, too improbable to contemplate isn't it?

All I know is that Cochran gave me something I'd never had before. I liked it. I wanted more. And only he seems to be able to supply the 'fix' this new and disabling drug demands of me.

NO!

I will not be the one to report Captain Isiah Cochran; but I will be the one that will save him. The knowledge resides within me to accomplish his recovery. Yes! I will do this. I will not lose this source of warmth. I will not lose... 'my'... friend. Even at the cost of my career, or my freedom, I will keep him near. Selfishly I will partake of this new drug - MY friend.

Relief at making a decision, even the outrageously stupid one I have chosen, quiets the tremors in my body and slows my breathing, a steadying calm settles over me. I have made the right decision for all the wrong reasons. Raising my head I can now look at the man before me. It strikes me at that moment, Colonel O'Neill too has made the right decision for the wrong reasons; and in my arrogance I have faulted him for it. My latest decision has shown me yet another wrong I need to remedy between he and I.

But first, I need to do what I'm here to do. Soon, very soon, I will be able to do what I know I must to keep what my soul and heart demands of me.

Drawing the hideous torture chair closer I speak the words that I know will comfort Colonel O'Neill and perform the acts of touching that will calm that part of him that has no language. My actions are without thought; my thoughts are contemplating the new ground I share with man struggling for balance before me.

I refuse to lose either man -- or myself.

***

Steaming like an icebreaker off the North Pole, I was a man on a mission as I pushed through the crowded corridors of the SGC. Suddenly I seem to have a friend, not exactly a wanted friend, more like a cancerous growth than a friend. But he's my cancerous growth. And he needs me desperately. Not that he knows it, but he does. He can be so ignorant sometimes.

Airmen jump out of my way, only Colonel O'Neill could get a better response.

Captain Cochran's door was closed. Is it always closed? Or does he leave it open when he's in the office? Hmmm. I knock. And again. Ah... and again.

"Captain Cochran!" And I banged on the door again for good measure, my efforts getting a modicum of interest from a passing technician whom I glared at. He hurries on his way. Still no lunatic grin greets me. Maybe he's not in his office?

Out of habit I try the knob. It turns.

Quietly I pushed the door inward, slipping into the still lit room when there is enough space to snake my body between door and jamb. And just as quietly I pushed the door closed to lean my back against it as I drew in a deep calming breath. I was not cut out for this clandestine work. And when I have the captain on my couch, finally, he and I will speak long on the subject of just why he feels he must be some kind of dime store detective. Surely there must be some form of traumatic experience in his childhood behind this bizarre career goal? He needs a more sensible career, this one could make him a dead would-be hero.

Still breathing hard from the adrenaline brought on by my invasion of his private domain, I let my eyes roam over his office. It's reminiscent of General Hammond's office, decorated with certificates, military memorabilia and pictures. Pictures? Cochran's are different. The general has personal pictures of his family, but all of them present their frame backs to anyone in the office, only the general can see the faces of his loved ones. But, here... here, Cochran has not only more, but all are facing out. For any and all to see. Behind his very business-like desk is a credenza top that transforms into shelves of books to the ceiling, but the flat surface at the point of transformation is covered with more family photographs then I've seen in many a day.

Stepping across the room I drop into his desk chair and swivel around to view the crowd of framed photos. Everyone is smiling, touching - happy. My heart feels a little hollow at the sight. What... it's a portrait shot of Cochran, but it's the smaller photo jammed between protective glass and frame edge that shocks me, because it is me.

The frame somehow becomes cradled in my trembling hands; I feel tears swelling in my shock-widened eyes. That's me. It's the same terrible picture that's in my personnel jacket. The man is just asking for problems, he probably lifted it from my personnel jacket. Doesn't he realize he can be tracked down and disciplined for this act of vandalism? I'm bound by duty to report this. I don't know what warms my heart the most, the fact that he has the photo displayed with this precious collection of his family or that he is going to get into trouble for risking to take it.

This firms my resolve, so, taking myself in hand, I carefully replaced the photo before turning to search his desk for clues to his location. Its clean surface stood gleaming between me and his flat screen computer monitor, across which flashes scenes of men in barely there swimming attire. Lean, glistening bodies caught in the act of movement; diving, swimming, walking and rubbing soft fluffy towels across well-defined muscular torsos, something else that we need to discuss when I have him where I want him.

Finding the keyboard in a tray under the desktop I pull it out and tap a key, clearing off the feast of male bodies, before me lays his Outlook Daily Calendar. How convenient. The man hasn't a clue about keeping information secure. Everything I need is right here.

Flipping back through the last couple of days I find that Cochran has an unusual habit of including his off duty plans in his 'everyone can see it' calendar. And tonight he has no plans. Perfect.. Now I know just how to get him the help he needs.

Nudging the mouse I reactivate the brazen bazaar of bare skin, giggling a bit at my pun on words, and leave the office just as I'd found it. Cochran the great head of document security being none the wiser, I'm sure.

Since, according to his 'secret' calendar he was due to leave in about 30 minutes, I needed to get to the parking lot, there I would position myself between him and that red testosterone-made-metal vehicle he drives.

My dash to the surface left me with a few minutes to wait. So, using the Armor All™ and cloth I have handy I began a nearly daily, soothing ritual -- so calming. It was while wiping down the dash I finally spied my target.

Getting Cochran into the caddy was child's play. My superior intellect against his rough and tumble gut instincts, a foregone conclusion. I had but to mention 'dinner' and then get him to talk about himself. I had him to the door of my home before it even dawned on him where he was. I just shoved him through the entrance door, locking it behind me. Once inside his leaving was prevented by my keyed deadbolt, no one could leave without unlocking the door from the inside. And I had the only key. Not that he noticed; he was still bent on expounding on his titillating life story.

Tuning out the endless chatter Cochran was so good at providing, I lead him to the guest room where I opened the door and indicated that he enter. Which he did, following me to the bed. Using the switching on of the bedside lamp as a ruse, I opened the drawer of the nightstand. Reaching inside I concealed the object I removed in one hand while thumping a crystal decanter loudly against the polished period replica table with the other. The table that was a perfect match for the study, slender spindled four-poster flat canopied bed my soon to be patient sat on. This kind of French inspired Colonial piece could be equipped with bed curtains. It had been made for me by an ex-patient to my specifications, a childhood remembrance. An old desire come to life. Then my only friends were dreams.

"Hey, Mac. Is that cognac?"

'Why, yes it is. Very old cognac, the prefect bait.'

Silently I held it out to him, pausing for him to reach out for it, and when he had a firm grip on the decanter, I slipped the hidden object into place over his wrist. With a hip block I knocked him back onto the bed, smoothly fastening the other end of the now revealed handcuffs onto the nearest bedpost.

"Why Mac. What's this?"

He shook his cuffed hand now attached firmly to the bed. The sound of metal scrapping wood caused me to cringe at the damage to the gleaming wood, immediately I pushed that to the back of my mind, I had other concerns here.

"What does it look like?" I replied sitting on the edge of the bed, studying his reaction to my aggressive methods. He was calm. Too calm.

"Looks like padded cuffs, the kind used for sex kink," he leered and winked. This was not what I expected at all. Emotional explosions, yelling, kicking and biting, that I expected, not this. I looked down at the syringe I just pulled from my pocket wondering if I'd need it at all. Maybe I could talk him into this.

"Ah, Captain Cochran... Isaiah, may I call you Isaiah?" Softening my expression I laid a comforting hand on his forearm and leaned over him, trying to express compassion.

He smiled, lifted his other hand and gripping my shoulder and squeezed it gently, his eyes so full of acceptance that I nearly fell into them. Never had anyone been this open and welcoming to me.

"Sure, why not. And I'll call you Mac. Here get comfy." His gentle squeeze turned into a swift pull, I wound up laying on my right side, my left leg draped over the captain's hips, his left, free arm under me, his hand at the nape of my neck and his face was really close as he smiled at me. Those bottomless, accepting eyes bored into me, I couldn't help but breathe in his exhalations. My stomach quivered.

"Mac, are we getting frisky?" He hugs me closely to him, my chest pressed into his ribs as he rubs his head against mine. My instinctive reaction was to heave myself to my knees, once done I discovered to my surprise that I was straddling his hips; he has the most peculiar expression on his face. His eyelids lowered, peering up at me from under his lashes, like some smoldering damsel surrendering to the hero. That quiver in my stomach transformed into painful knots of apprehension.

His hips trust upwards between my spread legs, I felt a hard length and leapt straight up off the bed, banging my head on the canopy edge. Landing badly, I fell in a heap on the floor panting hard, fighting the nausea my now thoroughly upset stomach was reduced to.

"Ouch!"

At that exclamation, I pop into a sitting position and watch as he reaches toward his belt buckle and fumbles there. Oh my!

"Oooh, yesss."

...and pulls a flashlight out of his pocket, a little Mag-Lite®. Relief, shock, I don't know? I fall backwards, plopping onto the carpet and clamp a hand over my eyes, not to hide, but to watch. From between my fingers I observe my present project, cataloging everything he does, hoping to distract myself from killing him with my bare hands.

"That kinda smarted," Cochran rubbed gingerly at a spot very close to his groin in sublime relief. "Forgot that little guy was there. Hey, you okay there, Mac?" He was all concern, for me. He needed to look out for himself and I was going to help him.

"I'm fine. It's you that we have to worry about. But I'm here to help with that. So, just lay back and relax." My tone was soothing and calm as I slowly lumbered to my feet. Fetching a blanket I shook it out and attempted to cover him. One leg popped up dropping the blanket in midair.

"Whoa there Nellie. What's this about me not being fine?"

"Shh, no need to speak of this now. You need your rest; we have a heavy day tomorrow. We'll have a long talk about what's bothering you."

"Bothering me? Have you cracked?" Staring at me, his mouth fell open for a few seconds before snapping shut. "No, you think I'm cracked."

We stared silently at one another, but from the expression on his face my answer was plain.

"Heeey, Mac. I was just fooling around. You know how it gets when a couple of guys roughhouse, things get weird and a little out of control. I didn't mean to scare ya. Now come on, let me go."

One eye stuttered closed under the horrifying sounds of metal destroying the fine wood finish as he jerked at the restraint. Screwing up my resolve I ignored it and concentrated on the matter at hand, plastering on a mask of determination. That mask I found difficult to maintain as Cochran wiggled and writhed in a satire of come hither passion while puckering his lips, yet not whistling, and winking lewdly at me. Involuntarily I staggered back a step.

"I don't think so."

"Hey, what's that look? Not about the little woo-woo huh? What? What could this possibly be about?"

'Woo-woo,' is that what he called it? And what exactly does that mean. We definitely have to discuss his sex life; there is no doubt in my mind. Hmmm. Ah... remember he's ill, keep calm, and don't take anything personally. That urge to slap him has got to go. Ah... maybe, my expression is a tad too stern too? Deliberately I altered my expression, softening it a bit, relaxing the taut muscles. Have to be his rock. He needs a solid presence of boundless patience. And I will be that for him no matter how much I want to kill him right now.

"No, we'll talk about your actions tomorrow, after you've rested."

"My actions? What actions? Naw, tell me you don't mean our fact-finding mission with Manny. Tell me you don't mean that."

Calm, calm, calm. Remain calm. I just stared at him, smiling and reminding my self to stay calm. He just continued on and on and on. Nervously I fingered the syringe of sedative as second thoughts flooded me.

"Shit, you do mean that! Hey, what's with the needle? No, no, I'll shut up. We'll talk tomorrow. Turn off the light on the way out, would ya."

Dropping the syringe back into my pocket I acted on his suggestion. I really couldn't deal with this much more tonight.

"Hey, what if I have to pee in the middle of the night?"

That was it. It was either leave; or kill him. I fled.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

I'd been in some bad places in my life: Iraq, Iran and South America. Places where I'd been tortured by experts, or hurt bad enough to wish I had. Places I'd thought I couldn't endure. Even the Goa'uld had been unable to improve upon our home team baddies. I'd survived them. But sometimes... sometimes, the torture you're willing go through to survive is worse.

Iran had been one of those places. A failed jump and the awful pain of broken bones, alone, with no help or hope of any. I was forced to save my own ass. This was way too similar. Only this time I was older, and as much as I'd never admit it, not as strong. Dragging your broken body out of a desert in your twenties is totally different when you're twenty years older. I 'know' that if I were in the same pickle now, at my age, I was as good as dead.

That's a rather sobering thought. I've been accused of being suicidal; nothing could be further from the truth. Except for that one time, when life was just too painful and I was convinced I had no right to live. That was then, this is now. Even knowing my odds of surviving this wasn't even good enough to be called 'bad,' I would endure. I had too. Being stubborn has its advantages. Now I had more to live for. Yes, Sara was gone. And...Charlie. Never to be replaced. New people crowded into my heart, like Eric, Danny and Sam; and dozens more, as friends, before I stepped into the realm of responsibility, that numbered in the billions, if not hundreds of billions. Thor comes to mind and with him a whole other galaxy full of billions more. I wonder where his little gray butt is. Would be real nice having him visit right now. Yep, sure would.

All I need do is survive the night. Surely I can do that?

PBX 123's day is about the same length as that on Earth, the main difference is that on Earth the duration of day and night shifts in a rhythm throughout the year. Here, day and night were the same lengths -- always. That makes this world warm and being warm, my Earth bred body kept telling me that the night would be short, that I could get through it. That day wasn't far, and so was a chance at life. But physics had a different idea, instead of around seven hours; I had to keep alert and clinging to the cold stone for twelve.

The darkness and the unknown were burning my reserves at an alarming rate. Surviving the flood had already exhausted me. My muscles shook with it and the cold. Yes, cold, because I didn't have enough energy to keep my body heat up, what little energy I had was being used to keep me glued to the stone; preserving my life now, by decreasing my chances later. It was a game of Russian Roulette, and exposure was the bullet.

Closing my eyes against the phosphorescent glow of the rushing water below me, I tried to shut out the disturbing sounds, and the feel of the stone leaching away my life. Mentally and physically I reached out to the cold rock wall. Willing myself to become one with it. Teal'c would be proud.

Dr. Janet Frasier

Dr. John Slane proved to be as good as his word; he handled the colonel gently, with deliberate caution and true concern during the examination. Doing more than any specialist I'd ever seen. He personally wheeled our patient to and from each test, a test that he, himself did. Anyone else would have angered the technicians who knew the equipment intimately, but he forestalled that when he asked them to verify all his settings and sought their advice on the peculiarities of the equipment. Surprising them by not only explaining what he was doing, and hoped for, but further elicited their opinion on his approach to diagnosis. And scandalously, further asked them to tell him their interpretation of the test.

Later he explained, that no one knew it all, certainly not he. Those responsible for running diagnostic tests see more results than even the doctors responsible for diagnosing from those tests. Why should he forego such a wealth of knowledge just because they were not doctors? He wanted every advantage on his side in any battle to help his patient.

He handled the most frightening of problems. An emotionally incoherent half-aware colonel and he did it so well, immediately shielding the distraught man from view and calling for me. He spoke in soothing terms, stroking forehead or arm, urging me to take on the task as I was 'more familiar' to him than himself. Eschewing the use of additional sedatives that could be detrimental in the circumstances that Colonel O'Neill currently found himself, another doctor would have knocked the colonel out, not giving it a moments thought, their time worth more than the patient's health.

Dr John Slane was the epitome of the perfect physician.

I was confident enough of him and the colonel's safety with him that I left to perform my duties as CMO. My staff we now his devoted slaves. A chuckle escaped me at the thought. And just as quickly I sobered, it would be a long day before he completed his evaluation of Colonel O'Neill and deliver his recommendation of treatment. A very long day indeed.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

Falling!

Rudely I was roughly jarred back to awareness. I'd dozed off, my foot slipped free of its tiny protuberance and my butt started sliding off the ledge it couldn't feel anymore. Quickly I pushed my shoulders and arms out, becoming a cork in a rock bottle. Clumsily I reestablished my holds. That was close, too close. The cold was getting worse; hypothermia was making sleep irresistible, undermining my ability to monitor myself. The only good the cold seemed to be doing was numbing the pain in my back; it had been a constant throbbing ache from the moment I'd leaped onto the rock.

The decrease in pain wasn't really a good thing; pain could keep me alert and awake, preventing the rest of my body from becoming numb. Which it had, numb, swollen and with a near absence of sensation. Without a sense of touch, unable to feel the rock, falling was becoming a real prospect in my future.

Without a watch - Lord knows what happened to it - I had little idea how long I'd sat here. I couldn't even use the stars to tell me of the passing of time. The storm clouds obscured them. The rain was nothing more than a drizzle now, but the wind was worse, tugging at me, pulling the breath from my lungs and scorching my face with its ragged cold claws.

CRACK!

Crap! That was close. Lightening... and water; getting fried had just been added to my list of don'ts. The darkness was full of green squiggles and fog. Hot on the heels of the boom, the sky fell.

It was like sitting in a waterfall. Even more heat was sucked out of my body. It's times like this that giving up, letting go, is most tempting. Letting what would happen, happen, is easier than not. My world was flashes of stark clarity and absolute darkness, like those old hand cranked movie machines at amusement parks, a relic of my parent's past. And I intended not to become one with the past despite the fatigue, numbness and muddy thoughts.

The intervals of light gave me something to occupy myself with; I watched the creek -- bigger now than most rivers -- as it rushed past below me. If I hadn't been so cold, so tired, I might have noticed sooner. Those floating trees were awful close, too close, soon to become closer than the lightening had been. Damn, the water was rising. I wanted very much to pull my feet up to the ledge I sat on, to pull myself into a corner of my little angular niche and cower. Even the strongest want to give in, we just refuse too.

Being too stubborn for my own good and enduring such discomfort and pain may not be enough. The water was gonna make the decision of if I lived till dawn or not. I had no choice, but to hang on and hope.

Major Louis Ferretti

"Damnit Jack. You know... you damn well know, I hate this."

"Sitting in the infirmary is not what I expected to be doing. I expected to go check up on this kid of yours. My team was primed and ready to go you know. Crap, I'm no good at this, you know that."

"But there was no way I could leave you like this. You didn't leave Kawalsky after that snake got him; you stayed and made sure that he was free of it. Too bad he had to die. And just for the freaking record: It is not your fault!"

"My being here 'is' your fault. You set the example I have to follow. Only this getting hurt has to stop. It's a lousy example and I have better things to do. Don't wanna be laying or sitting in the Infirmary, where just about anyone of rank can find me. It's just asking for it. You hear me, Jack! This has got to stop."

Sigh.

"Remember the new kid Danny Boy recommended to me? Sure you do, you twisted my arm to accept him onto my team. Remember? Well, I need to thank ya for that. He may be a civilian, but he's a spitfire. Knows his stuff too. Can translate almost as well as Danny can. I'm proud of that kid, he saved our asses twice already. He's not as flashy as your token civilian, but he's okay by me."

"Since you're a captive audience, so to speak, I got a question. Just where were you? No ya don't, don't clam up on me and give me that dumb act you're so fond of, I'm not one of those pea brains that believe for even a breath that you're that stupid. Wake up here and give me an answer. Jack... Okay, maybe you don't know 'exactly' what I'm talking about. Poker. Yes, poker night. You're a regular. Remember? Ah, come on, of course you remember. Didja forgot where. My place, I bought that beer you like and all. You never showed. I so should kick your ass. Walter cleaned me out."

"Have you like, been tutoring Walt or something?"

"Hey, it's not that much of a stretch of even my very limited imagination. You'd do it just to see him whip our butts, little tech sergeant like him cleaning out captains and majors. With you acting appalled during the whole put up job. Bet you'd laugh yourself silly once you climbed into that big truck of yours. I don't know what was worse, him leaving with our dough or that he tried to give it back. Sheez!"

"Too much honor in that little banty rooster. Too much."

"Ya know he's devoted to you? Don't ya? What... not saying anything here? Well... maybe you don't? Bet you don't have a clue how many of us on base would walk into the fire for you. Hmmm. Maybe it's a good thing you don't know. You have this damned complex ya know. Yes you do! You cannot control everyone else's destiny. Hell, you have hard enough time keepin' your own from killin' ya."

"Like here, now. Jack... I... I don't know what I'd do if we lost ya."

My promise didn't hold. I promised myself he'd only hear me being chipper. But damn it, I couldn't take his place, I didn't want to take his place. There weren't anyone that could. He was the best; the absolute best there was. He was my friend.

My eyes fell to our hands, fingers knotted together. I wasn't gonna let go, not now, not ever; I tightened my grip, determined.

"You hear me Jack, I'm not letting you go. So if you don't want me to kick your ass you better get out of that damned bed pronto."

"Come on Jack, I'm waiting here."

Colonel Jack O'Neill

What a time to discover that I can't walk on water. My footrest is going under fast, and with it my foot. Hope the current isn't bad against this rock. The lightning has tapered off; only occasionally does it light the canyon and reveal the height of the water. There seems to be fewer trees now. The rush and tumble of the flood has become a deceptive wall-to-wall sheet of muddy glass, only the occasional piece of debris reveals just how fast it's moving. Tempting, but oh so stupid, escape doesn't lie in those waters. From time to time I glimpsed the boils of the upwelling current, and where those exist also exists places where something on the surface simply vanishes, headed for the bottom. Where down along the floor of the canyon under that water is a grinding machine that can polish rock to a high sheen. Nothing survives that.

The storm is tapering off. But will it have an effect on the flood? Maybe. Maybe not.

Huddling as much as possible in the pouring raining, I try to get warm. Kinda hard with both legs dangling up to their knees in the water, lucky the current is sluggish here; I'm almost sitting in it. The wind died and is no longer sucking greedily at every calorie I can press into service, the rain and water taking it instead. The lightning is too far away to give me much more than ghost images of the canyon. Even the water is silent; the sounds are more felt than heard now. The thunk, thunk, thunk of hidden boulders registers on my contact with the stone wall, not through my ears. Only the occasional sucking sounds echo off the narrow walls, maybe something being drawn down into the current to disintegrate in the grinding gut the creek has become.

My fear, and the adrenalin that kept me partially awake, has died in the relative deceptive calm. Dawn shouldn't be far away. Not that I could tell, as the sky is still heavy with cloud, no stars are evident.

Tired, I'm really tired. I close my eyes, just for a second. Something tugs at my leg; lazily I move it, not even thinking what it could mean.

That meaning is made very plain by a sharp jerk as something catches at my pant leg, I pop right out of my little sanctuary feet first. Muddy water encloses me, stiff and cold I try to reach my leg as whatever it is pulls me down. Just as suddenly I'm free, free and totally disoriented, something unseen presses into me, not hard, not bruisingly, but relentlessly. Pushing me down, I'm pretty sure it's down. Hands connect with it and tell me it's a tree. Feeling my way in this murky hell of sand heavy mud I jokingly think of as water, everywhere I turn a limb blocks my escape. Seconds, only seconds have passed, but I'm already starting to black out, no oxygen, my lungs are bursting; and the dark abyss closes in from all sides.

Unable to struggle any longer, tree limbs push at me, one catches me under an arm and pulls up just as I black out.

Teal'c

Deep shadows clung to the vertical walls of the Canyon of the Chaapa'ai, its watery blue surface light reflected from those dark depths and illuminated my present goal in a fiery aurora -- O'Neill's Chosen.

Lt.VanSickle met me step for step as any warrior of equal rank would. Reminding myself he is Tau'ri, not Jaffa, and knows not to approach me as swiftly as dignity permits as a mark of respect to my experience and rank. As I do with O'Neill, a warrior so superior that I could never be his equal. To know that all on O'Neill's planet consider themselves as equal is difficult to remember, for experience tells me that some Tau'ri are less equal than others.

Behind me are the liquid sounds signal the arrival of burdened warriors, here to bring the most needed of supplies and to retrieve the wheeled vehicles that could not be returned until now. They will only be gone for a short time, returning briefly with additional supplies. GeneralHammond wishes no one to suffer in their necessary exile.

"Lt.VanSickle, you are well?"

We grasp forearm to forearm tightly, a warrior's greeting. His smile is forced, even to my alien eyes.

"As well as expected. How is the colonel?"

"He lives."

This young one cannot hide his pain as his chosen sire can, revealing just how my words have caused not only the pain I now see but most likely old pain well hidden behind the mask that O'Neill cares like a shield. Anger, most profound, fills me, for I have erred. Arrogantly I had believed their language to be my slave.

"Forgive me, I meant all is as well as can be. He will live, and there is hope in that. DrFrasier is unsure yet of just what damage O'Neill will suffer, she is hopeful. As am I."

"Thank you. I... I wasn't certain he would. Live, I mean.."

His eye sought the ground; leaning upon my staff weapon I gripped his shoulder with my free hand, the action pulling those mismatched orbs to my face.

"O'Neill has survived much in the past, he will survive this. Do not fear."

"I'm sure you're right Teal'c. Come on join me for breakfast."

He leads me silently across the torn turf and up the dark incline to one of the uppermost openings. Inside is a communal dinning area. Behind us has trailed near half of his team, all silent and somberly watching this young one beside me. Quickly we are seated, as highly honored guests would be, served first and watched with breathless anticipation for our approval or disapproval of the offered food. Though simple, it is excellent. Visibly I express my pleasure of the repast, yet the silence remains.

Not until Lt.VanSickle actually consumes his first taste does the crowd move, going about their business. Soon the room is filled with hopeful banter. Individuals come and go, eventually returning to join in the common meal, even accommodating the warriors I had brought.

All is not well with O'Neill's Chosen.

To all appearances I am enjoying my meal, but I watch the young warrior beside me and those who I know support him. It is they that tell me that something is amiss; their eyes constantly light upon him. And at that time, some show their worry and concern. And even love. This emotion is not always recognizable, but here, this group holds Lt.VanSickle tightly to their hearts, like those Tau'ri I have been privileged to observe interacting with their children. Showing the look I have seen on O'Neill's face when dealing with a child. A love translated to a fierce protectiveness, leading to the offering of their very lives to preserve those young helpless ones in their care.

O'Neill's Chosen speaks little during the meal, only excusing himself after meeting the gazes of all those that watch his every move, as if challenging them to interfere. And perhaps he is, for I have also learned that love can bind, so tightly as to choke. From the carefully blank looks he received that is not the case here. Quickly he leaves, obstinately to see to the movement of the vehicles to the 'gate in preparation of their departure.

Thoughtfully chewing the last of my meal, I casually rise, bringing my soiled implements to the designated place and person currently in charge of their cleansing for the next meal. Nearby is one I know will reveal the thoughts of the whole regarding Lt.VanSickle - CaptainEllis; turning, I head for the man and stop before him.

"CaptainEllis."

"Teal'c, you've scarcely been gone."

"Yet much seems to have happened during my absence. How fares your young leader?"

My meaning is deciphered, he beckons me from the room, and I follow him out onto the ramp and up to the desolate plateau. There we stop, gazing at the few trees that remain along the now small creek surging along its river sized bed, strewn with downed and dying trees, trees that had sheltered my warrior brother less than two hands of days in the past.

CaptainEllis does not speak and I have found it best to wait; that which must be said can be difficult to frame and more so to utter. The gentle warm breeze from the unseen lake is soft with moisture, caressing my skin pleasantly. Long ago I had learned to take such small rewards at every opportunity, greedily I drank deeply of this world's touch.

"You are correct, much has happened in your absence. Not all of it good, not that anyone would ever see it."

"An event has happened that is not good? Does it, as I fear, involve the young lieutenant?"

"For an alien you seem to be able to read humans well."

"I thank you for such a compliment, but it is unwarranted. For if I were able to read the peculiarities of you Tau'ri well I would have never left when I did. What has befallen Lt.VanSickle?"

"Ah... nothing physical, he is recovering well. We have, all of us, insisted on proper rest and food. Yet even in the limited time we allow him to work he overtires himself. It is his mental state that has taken a bad blow and work is his penitence."

"For what does he punish himself for?"

"He believes that he hurt Colonel O'Neill, physically and emotionally. And in so doing he has lost his friendship and convinced himself that his only course of action is to live up to the colonel's ideals as much as he can. While resigning himself to never being able or be worthy of reconciliation."

"The young can be so foolish."

"Then, there is a chance that he and O'Neill can be friends?"

"Our young leader has done my warrior brother a grave disservice. For once O'Neill has accepted one into his heart, only the vilest of acts will harden it against the accepted one."

"It's just in the lieutenant's head, O'Neill is okay with what he did?"

"Precisely. This must be remedied; it will only harm O'Neill. One thing I know without doubt about my brother of the heart, he will blame only himself for this. He has not the energy for it such foolishness, he needs to see to his own well-being."

"I'm not sure how you'll do that. I talked to the boy till I was blue in the face, couldn't budge him in this."

"There is a solution, it is drastic, but it must done."

"What?"

"Better that you do not know. What I am about to do could well result in my ass being kicked, as O'Neill is fond of saying."

"If it solves this, I wish you luck."

"Indeed."

Colonel Jack O'Neill

Being awakened by someone smacking you in the face isn't fun and I really don't want to open my eyes to face the music. Bluish-white ice, cold, and clouded breathes; memory conjures what I would see. What I know is there. Worst of all is that look of guilty shame on Sam's face. Better I had died when the 'gate tossed me out, better she found a corpse then watch me become one.

"Too hard," I mutter, hoping she'll stop now that I've said something. She must be really worried, cause it stings every time she hits me, more like a switch than a hand. Must be the cold.

"Stop," I plead, shamed at the whine in my hoarse whisper.

There's brightness beyond my eyelids, just another day in ice cube hell. Marshalling my positive "I'm fine!" mask I force my eyelids up.

My heart starts pounding and my breath quickens, awakening pain in a place far removed from where I'd expected it.

Where the hell was I?

Blurrily I lift my head, and blink around me. I'm pinned, encased -- immobile. And wet?

This is the ice planet from hell?

"Sam?"

"Daniel."

"Teal'c..."

Unable to hold my head up anymore it drops back into something cold, hard and wet. And I drift away.

Dr Daniel Jackson

Nervously I find myself turning pages, not even noting my actions. The chair is hard and the room is empty. Halfheartedly, I asked myself why I was here. The answer is obvious. This is Jack's room and this is my time to comfort him, even if he's not available for me to do so. He was here earlier. Twice now he's been wheeled out for tests. Janet and Spike. A giggle slips from my lips.

Spike? Who'd have thought that such a prestigious doctor of medicine, a legend even, would have such a nickname. Well, I thought it was strange until I set eyes on him. Army, he was Army, very obviously a soldier. He may be retired, but like Jack, but some men are always warriors, for as long as they live. He was Doctor Major John Slane, better known in the military as Major 'Spike.'

Lou Ferretti, on one of his frequent drop-ins, and accompanied by a visible urge to disappear, was able to explain the nickname. He wasn't there or anything when it happened, but he had heard it on that extremely accurate grapevine that exists within the ranks of the military.

According to Lou the good doctor had one very, very short tour during Desert Storm. A glitch really, accidental orders sent him to a front line unit, where he showed a unique way to calm hysterical men.

On one fateful day, a frightened young man, a boy really, awoke during triage. So confused that he thought he had been captured, he raised his weapon, a weapon he should not have had, and leveled it at the doctors and nurses working feverously over the wounded. There had been a transport taken out by landmines, time was short, men were bleeding to death.

Dr. Slane happened to be behind the confused boy, dropping to his belly in the dirt he crawled toward him and spoke.

"Help. Please, help me."

Those words, said in a pained voice from the man in the dirt drew the boy's attention enough to swing the weapon towards him. Not a word was uttered. Only a hand stretched out toward the armed youth, who also stretched out a hand. In seemly obvious pain, pulling himself by use of that once outstretched hand, the other useless and dragging at his side the man pulled himself to the youngster who eventually grasped the hand and pulled. But the downed man was too heavy, so loosening his grip on the weapon he let it swing on its harness to grasp with both hands the wounded man and pulled him close. Only then was the farce revealed, the useless arm swung up and plunged down against the armed youth's thigh. His fingers depressing the plunger on a syringe full of sedative as he pushed himself to his knees to hug the youth to his chest, trapping the weapon safety between them and held him as he succumbed to the drug.

The syringe projected from the young man's leg like a spike, it's drug pinning him to the ground.

From that day on Doctor Major Slane was know as Major Spike.

Ferretti told me the story with awe in his voice, so much so that he forgot to be antsy about leaving. That told me a lot about how Dr Slane was regarded by his fellow brothers in arms. Highly.

And from watching the man work with and for Jack, I too was beginning to think highly of him. He may be the stuff of a small living legend, but he was unknown to me, to us. Here I would stay until I was sure Jack was going to be okay with this man, I think I needn't have worried.

"Daniel?"

So lost in thought was I that the word startled me.

"Spike?"

"Don't worry so much, he's with Gino. I just wanted to let you know he woke up disoriented and he's still a little agitated. I'm glad you're here to help; I understand the two of you are good friends. He needs a friend right now." My shock and concern had to have been evident, his face softened and he smiled. "You good to go Daniel?"

"Ye... yes, no problem, just unexpected, that's all."

"Good."

Gino and Spike wheeled the bed into the narrow private room I'd seen the inside of more often than my own apartment. Jack was restless, his movements slow, but not quite aimless, but like he was treading water. He panted and gasped as I took up a position that allowed me to rub my hand across his upper chest, massaging his shoulders and chest. Shushing and shooing, makes comforting noises, trying to calm him. It wasn't helping, but I wouldn't give up.

His movements... I swear he appeared to be struggling in water. How strange was that?

Colonel Jack O'Neill

Arms and legs feebly churning, I come to unable to breathe. Water fills my mouth and I panic. One arm is draped over something that pulls me up. Air! Coughing out water, spitting and sputtering, I gulp in the air. On my third gulp I get water, whatever had hauled me up out of the water had dunked me down into it again. Lungs screaming for air, hands uselessly batting at the water...

Initially I jerked awake, pain exploded from my lower back and reverberated through my body. All the time I was spitting, trying to get water out of my mouth I clawed at the obstacle that kept hitting me in the face. So bright, my eyes took a long while to adjust and longer for my brain to tell me just where the hell I was.

Sucking air as deep and as often as possible I fought back the panic of awakening from a dream of drowning. A dream that I knew wasn't that, but a remembrance.

I'd survived.

My half-hearted, lack-luster elation on still being alive was short lived. Looking around - a difficult task because the sun was in my eyes - I discovered that I was trapped.

Buried to my waist in damp sand, and pinned to the canyon wall by a thick, bare, crooked waterlogged limb. It loomed over me, a still limber dead, side shoot vibrated in my face, showing me that the tree wasn't as immobile as I. For it regularly lurched and hit me on the cheek. It was irritating the crap out of me.

In a fit of ill considered rage, despite the pain such a struggle created I locked both hands around it as close to the parent limb as possible and twisted. And twisted, and then twisted some more, cutting my hands, creating red welts across them. Now saw the world through a red haze of anger.

Then it was done, I held it dumbly, drops of blood falling from its twisted fibrous butt. In disgust I flung it as hard as I could, it arced to land in muddy water, swift, moving muddy water. Shit, I'd forgot about the flood. How...?

Then the most unusual sensation, the sand began sucking me - and the tree - down.

Dr Janet Frasier

"Here."

"A fracture?"

Dr Slane and I studied the x-ray and MRI images of Colonel O'Neill's spine. Gooseflesh rose along my arms and I hugged them close. This did not sound good; but explained the lack of response in the Colonel's legs. Guiltily I was relieved that he was still groggy enough to not realize just how badly he was injured. He spent most of his time sleeping, still gripped by drugs and his injuries, only waking for brief times. Times that I could tell he was elsewhere and he was suffering there.

"Yes, hairline, and only partially through the plane of the vertebra. We couldn't ask for a better break. Keeping him quiet for the time it takes to heal will be all it needs."

"That is good news."

Closely watching his face while he spoke told me he had bad news too.

"Unfortunately it ends there. The soft tissue damage is the danger in this case. The blunt trauma prevented a broken back, whatever the object was it was too large to deliver its energy to one spot to affect any more damage to the bone than it did; what it did accomplish was an acute disruption of circulation in the thin layer of flesh overlaying the spine. If the blow had been slightly to either side, the nerve damage would have been irreparable."

"We're just talking severe swelling and no nerve damage. Then why doesn't he have better control of his legs?"

"Initially I'd say the blow stunned his spinal cord and exiting nerve junctions. Not hard enough to press bone and nerve into a bruising contact, only tissue and nerve. Very good for him. What is bad is that the soft tissue is swelling, again pressing on the nerves. Pressure is the enemy here, the longer the pressure is present the more likely he is to lose function."

This was bad, just as pressure in the enclosed cavity of the skull can kill, swelling along the spine can kill too. Not the person, but the nerves that give that person control over their body.

"Your initial treatment was dead on. His dehydration was a blessing in disguise. You may not have recognized the danger to his spine during hydration, but your caution to reduce the intracranial swelling of his morphine overdose gave us time to recognize the problem and devise correct treatment."

"But was it enough time?"

"That, Dr Fraiser, remains to be seen."

"What are the colonel's chances?"

"Good, barely. His recovery is more up to him than us. His body is running a race with itself, we can help there, providing drugs to reduce swelling, nutrition to promote vascular regeneration and therapy to help remove the excess fluid."

"That's tricky, most therapy has the opposite effect, causing more swelling."

"Correct, but necessary. It will be a fine line to walk. Therapy will help provide healthy blood vessels that can remove the fluid and reduced the pressure."

'And the fracture, the good news, will limit movement for weeks."

"As I said Dr Frazier it is a fine line. I'm hopeful of a useful recovery."

"Useful? You don't believe a full recovery is possible."

"No, I don't really foresee that happening. There is no empirical evidence, but I believe he has already suffered damage. Such damage rarely reverses itself. You need to brace the good colonel, he will be debilitated."

"How much?"

"Mandatory retirement."

"Oh..."

Colonel Jack O'Neill

Damn, this was just not good. My stupor cleared almost instantly. Where I was getting the adrenaline, I didn't know? One heart-stopping incident after another would be the death of me yet.

Being sucked down by sand was not a good feeling, it was liquid enough for me to slip into, but so heavy that I couldn't push, or swim or claw my way back out. The sand's surface shone with excess water, acting like a mirror, blinding me further. My face was hot as a squinted against it. I found my arms wrapped around that limb that had pinned me to the canyon wall, pulling myself up, hopefully faster, than it was sinking. It wasn't going down as fast, if I could prevent myself from sinking by clinging to it I might still be near the surface when the sand sank below the level of the flood. That... that might give me the opportunity to work free of it.

My chemical strength deserted me so fast I might have fallen, if I hadn't had such a death grip on that tree. My world narrowed to that grip, I rose and fell with the whims of the sand and water. Drifting in and out, never really aware, just hanging on, riding out the pain from my back, the cold of my legs and blistering heat on my face. I dreamed of torture, nice mundane, degradation and blinding pain in an environment of controlled mayhem.

I clung until I faded.

Somewhere deep inside I knew that death waited and I accepted that. I would only make it wait as long as I could.

And I knew that would be soon.

[See Chapter Nineteen]