Colonel Jack O'Neill

If this is dream, I hope I never wake up. However, if this is a nightmare... perhaps I still shouldn't.

For once I wasn't in pain, physical or mental. I drifted in the haze that rising from a deep dreamless sleep can produce. Such a rare occurrence in adulthood to experience this, only children have this it seems; or colonels on the good drugs.

The word 'drug' chased away the comfortable haze, dragging forward the confusion of the past couple of days. Did I almost drown? And... and, someone tried to kill... choke... Charlie!

My heart sped up, thumping out my confusion. Nothing made sense. Charlie was... well, gone. That never could have happened, but I swear...

"Colonel O'Neill," a panicked nurse spoke from the bright doorway, before hurrying across the room. "Bad dream, sir?"

She smiled at my non-committal grunt; closing my eyes I endured her pillow plumping. More intent on what I could remember than on the embarrassment of being treated like an invalid.

Every awakening gave me a little more of that nightmarish time on PBX 123. Not Charlie -- thank God -- no, not Charlie. But, Eric! I squashed down the rush of emotion, anything to keep my heartbeat from rising, the sooner to lose my current keeper. Not being up to the disjointed and painful images of that time, I pushed forward to remember why I could feel the bliss of drugs in my system.

My sluggish mind finally retrieved the last hours before succumbing to slumber. It was enough to make even a hard-ass special ops trained soldier giggle like a schoolgirl -- a hysterical, scared-shitless schoolgirl.

I'd awakened to my nightmare. I'd flirted with disability for years. My damn knees always one step from banishing me from the only thing that mattered to me anymore -- being out there, being with them.

Janet's face swam into the center of the whirlwind of images; again I saw that look when I'd asked for a sedative; the worry she couldn't hide. Even now I felt guilty for causing it, even though I realized that I had to do something. I couldn't move, I couldn't scream -- that would have been a surefire way to see MacKenzie, in another capacity than as a keeper of my bedside vigil. I needed something; and oblivion was the only recourse left to me. I was taking the coward's way out -- again.

Any urge at suicide had been burned out of me on Abydos. Never would I do that again -- I hoped. This wasn't suicide. Was it? After Iraq I'd found myself seeking drugs to escape what had been done to me; and the new torture inflicted by the doctors and other's random acts of kindness. Well-meaning gestures were far crueler than anything the Iraqis' had done. Drugs to help deaden the anger I couldn't control, anger aimed at everything and everyone. Drugs became my only respite then. I wallowed in them and nearly lost myself in the process.

It's not like it matters now. I'm washed up, done for, a has-been. I'll be gone from this man's Air Force soon. Friendless -- alone -- relegated to some sterile business-like rest home or care facility interested only in the money my broken body represented. An invalid to my dying day, a day I prayed would come sooner rather than later. Yeah... not suicidal. Just a coward.

Unwilling to cope, I sought out the dying tendrils of drug.

Major Sam Carter

This was it.

Tugging my uniform shirt down, I breathed deeply, calming my nerves and the flutter in my belly. But the excitement continued to build. I was going to touch him. Really, truly, touch him.

Janet had informed him his prognosis for recovery last night -- slim to none. From the lack of nurses, or visitors, he was in a foul mood. Or, would that be moods? He's still influenced by his near overdose and all the drugs that were put into his system since his arrival from PBX 123. From experience I know that the pain meds had a tendency to make him distant and remote, causing him to push away the comfort others offered him. He may think that keeping irrational tears in check denied to others the idea that he could be vulnerable; but SG-1 knew better. He's a sensitive man forced to shove down his feelings time and time again in the mistaken belief that he has to be strong and ready to go at a moment's notice.

That would never change, not in his mind, his thoughts or even in his abortive moves toward doing what he believed he must do. His body has become an anchor, tethering him down, preventing him from doing what comes naturally to him. My goal was to gently steer him into doing other things, less natural -- outwardly. Smiling, caressing, existing; being the center of my universe; things that I knew he was capable of, though out of practice.

"Go away," gruffly muttered the body strapped and weighted to the bed in the semi-darkness of the room that belonged to Colonel Jack O'Neill, the man I wanted to seduce into my life.

"Sir," just loud enough for him to hear, my voice revealed my hesitation; just as my body showed it, pushed firmly against the wall next to the door. My bravado dissolved in his presence. My legs like water with my need for him.

"Go away..."

His emotion, badly hidden, had me moving to him. My hand lightly settled on his upper arm, careful of the IV further down. His eyes were tightly clenched shut, his breath a rapid pant. Controlling his urge to strike out in the only way he could, with hurtful words, I'd bet. Man that he was, he could be surly when ill, which revealed just how human he is -- no matter his denial.

"Please..."

He trembled under my hand, so lost and out of control. This was agony for him.

"Sir?"

His stiffening muscles were my answer; I cringed at the pain that he suffered for this show of rejection. If no one sees, no one would understand how human he could be. I'd expected no less, for now and quite some time. He only rejected me to prevent hurting me. He could never hurt me; he's incapable of that. His only target was himself.

Before I could speak he did something I'd never seen him do, he pressed the button that would summon a nurse. The only time he's ever touched that ever-present button was to summon help for someone else, never himself. All of SG-1 has watched him endure obvious pain rather than admit to it by asking for help, even from us.

"Sir," I asked again, but he never reacted to me, only to the nurse who came nearly at a run. He asked for pain relief, biting the words out, enunciated precisely, distantly. The world moved around me, a coldness crept up my legs, stifling the joyous steam that had erupted from me at the very sight of him, icy liquid dripped down my inner thigh. Something was wrong, very wrong. Janet was suddenly there, confirming the request for the drug, her eyes darted to me whenever she could covertly do so. Yet I just stared wide-eyed at the scene. At the man I loved as he succumbed to the false peace of a drug.

Left standing dumbly in the room, now darkened again in deference to its slumbering occupant, my eyes swung to the light streaming through the doorway, to my friend, to Janet. Her summons galvanized my cold leaden legs and I left the darkness and emerged into the light.

"Janet? What the hell just happened?"

"He asked for pain relief."

She blushed under my stare; she knew exactly what I'd asked and she had chosen to pretend otherwise. This couldn't be good. She had told the colonel yesterday that he was headed for mandatory retirement, that his recovery to active duty status was too slim to even exist, but that everyone would work as if he were going to recover fully. He would not be alone; he would never be alone. Everyone was optimistic. He would be all right. He would be okay. All of us were thinking of ways to keep him involved, he was just too valuable to lose. To the SGC, the planet and us. We needed him.

"Janet?"

"Sam, I'd tell you if I could, but I can't, I would not betray my duty or his trust like that. Please don't ask me to."

For what felt like long minutes I contemplated her, turned over her words, factored in her expression and body language. Janet visibly squirmed as I viewed her like a puzzling equation, numbers that I knew I could conquer, swiftly plugging in promising sub-equations and likely constants to solve the unsolvable. Numbers were easy. Numbers had always been my problem, my refuge, easier than people. I'd failed with people in the past, numbers never helped then and they certainly wouldn't help now I realized. I could feel the heat of my shame move across my cold skin.

"God Janet, I'm sorry. I would never ask that of you. I'm confused and worried. Please forgive me, I really should know better," I moved to stand closer to her, tentatively reaching out to her with my hand, afraid that I'd overstepped my rights as her friend. She quickly grasped my hand and smiled. Relief flooded me and I smiled in return, I hadn't messed up with her and I was determined not to mess up with Jack. Something was wrong. What I'd just seen was wrong. Janet couldn't tell me, but there was no boundary to me finding out -- somehow -- what was going on.

There was one question Janet could answer.

"Is there anything I can do, to help?"

Her face sobered for just a moment, before a soft smile brightened her face, her eyes latched onto mine. They were so much like Jack's, a little less infinite than his, but nearly the same color. I found both my hands clasped in hers as she cleared her throat and brought me back from my daydreams of the sparkling depths of bright amber and soft teddy bear brown that fell forever in the eyes of the man I wanted.

"Yes, there is. Don't let him push you away."

Her words should have startled me, but didn't, she knew us, knew us all very well. She squeezed my hands and vanished in the direction of the main ward, leaving me gaping after my friend in wonder.

She knew about my feelings for the colonel and I suspected she knew his for me. As friends, we pretty much avoided the subject for the same reason she couldn't tell me what was wrong with Jack. She had a duty. Part of that duty could include reporting inappropriate behavior between members of a team. I was thankful that neither I nor the colonel had ever given anyone reason to more than suspect we had feelings for one another; and I was doubly thankful for Janet Fraiser's compassion and understanding. She knew that feelings didn't necessarily lead to actions and I knew in my heart that she had just given me the answer to my inappropriate question. She had told me point blank what was wrong and just what I should do about it. I've never regretted the trust I put in Janet and now wasn't the time to let doubt take root. On that thought I turned on my heel and re-entered the colonel's room.

I was determined that he would not push me away. No matter how hard he fought, he was going to lose this particular battle.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

This is it

God, I can't take this; to have her here, close enough to touch while I show her just how unworthy I am of her.

I've fallen so far as to beg her to leave, using 'please' to stave off the moment of truth. Smooth Drake was hot, but Sam is incandescent. How can a crippled killer like me even imagine getting close to that kind of woman? Smart, beautiful and so sexy that she could have anyone, why would she want me? My blooded hands soiling that perfect skin -- she wouldn't, she shouldn't, and I'm going to make sure she doesn't waste another second with charitable thoughts towards her CO. This has to be quick and final.

My body had betrayed my interest in Drake, and I'm thankful that now it's incapable of showing its greater interest in Sam. Really don't need that distraction during this process. This has got to be the most distasteful action of my long and sordid life; but this time the only death will be mine and I don't want anyone around to see that long slide towards it. Later, she'll go find someone. I'll know that she's happy and alive. Anyone would be better than me. Letting the end come will be easier knowing she's not there to watch; that anyone is there to watch. Don't want pity. Don't want compassion. There's nothing anyone can do, why be involved?

Taking up and using the call button for the nurse is a show for Sam. In this role I must be ruthless; I'm used to doing heinous things to arrive at the desired results. Janet would be here soon; her reaction last night guaranteed that. What did catch me unawares was how carefully she injected the drug, I never felt it sheath itself into my flesh and wasn't sure that the drug had been injected so slow was it. Finally I felt it.

Stuff was fast. Lost track of Janet... Dark? Oh, my eyes are closed.

Mmm... nice. Felt like slim fingers stroking down my arm. Who knows -- who cares? I hope I don't wake up.

Dr. Janet Fraiser

Damn the man! He's alive; there are people who care about him. Why does he want to throw it all away?

Easy, Janet, remember the drugs. It has to be the drugs. He's had problems before, big problems. There has to be a way to convince him that what he feels he must do is wrong.

But what?

Sam is doing her level best to entice him out into the open; she really wants him in the here and now. She doesn't give a damn if he can pack a 55-pound load over an alien landscape. She doesn't care if he has trouble standing, or getting up. All she cares about is a living, breathing piece of heaven succumbing to her charms, whole-heartedly, like choosing to live with her, even if it's in a wheelchair. She sees more in him than his physical ability. It's his compassion, his gentleness, and his ability to be a loving caring father or mate. Whether he does it from vertical or horizontal position is irrelevant. Though I'd bet she can't wait to try out the horizontal one.

Eric and he talked, but Eric doesn't know what going is on. I'm burning to inform him, but duty stands in the way. Being Jack's friend and his doctor conflicts. As his friend I'd run to tell everyone what the stubborn fool is out to do. But as his doctor I must respect his decision, no matter how stupid.

And siccing MacKenzie on him could do more harm than good. MacKenzie could be killed in his zeal to heal the breach between him and the colonel; and surely there is the possibility that he could harm the colonel as well. Though, not physically, I hope. But emotionally, mentally. So much has happened to Jack over the years, even he understands his own vulnerability.

Hammond and Daniel are both so shocked at what the colonel was doing that neither knew which way to jump. The general really should have an inkling, but then he does have this emotional investment in the man, seeing him more as the son he never had, than the soldier under his command. Proving somewhat the premise that personnel should be rotated enough to prevent emotional attachments. Yet, SG-1 proved the opposite. Their emotional bonds are shields between this planet and 'out there.' Could Earth have survived with a less attached group of individuals? My gut says: no.

Then there's Teal'c. If my duty allowed, he and I would have a very long discussion about loyalty and honor. As to why he abandoned Jack as un-salvageable and transferred all of his hopes to Eric... well, I just don't understand it. Jack still lives and is in desperate need of friends, even as he pushes them away. Teal'c could talk some sense into him if he tried.

Surely, there is something I can do? Treating his depression is strictly out. Prescribing anything along that line would open the door for MacKenzie, asked for or not. His treatment plan would be radically changed, his wishes ignored as suspect. I'd watched that happen with Daniel, he survived it, but not our colonel. His distrust of anything smacking of the mental health profession is deep; he would see that as an unforgivable betrayal; worse than what happened with Colonel Frank Cromwell, and that had ended badly enough.

Colonel Jack O'Neill

Hmmm. The delicious burn along the muscles of my legs and the glow of endorphins was better than wine, women and song. Eating mile after mile, pushing one's body to the limit; and then somehow, finding a way to push beyond it; that feeling was in a class by itself, just being was enough, and I had no other needs in that physical nirvana.

Even the slow cool-down circles after running as far as I could were a joy I'd never found anywhere else. Each fast breath became slower and deeper, but I felt as if I could do anything, deal with anything. I was invincible. Even in that age of awkward teen years, I'd never felt this indestructible.

With the sky above my upturned face I spread my arms and fingers wide. I knew I could fly, to soar through the blue, straight through the clouds and out into the cold ink of space to feel the naked warmth of the star that gave me life. Its life-giving rays reached towards me, little hands offering renewed energy with each touch. We were one for a brief moment that felt like eternity.

Such endless joy and pleasure is always shattered -- a cramp in my calf for this occasion. Already I'm paying for my moment of ecstasy with a little down-to-earth pain. With a grin I reached down to knead it. Only... only I couldn't feel it. My leg, I could feel it with my hand, it felt cold, still and heavy to my fingers. The leg, no report came from it, no sensation.

With a hitch in my breath I panted in panic. I couldn't see. My God. Control slipped away from me. Instinct took over and letting that happen was bad, very bad. Belatedly, my training pushed back, control came crashing back and buried me.

Control wasn't the only thing to crash back: memory, pain, hopelessness and the infirmary bed I was strapped to -- an E-Ticket fun-ride at the SGC carnival of horrors. Shock receded and comprehension floated in the backflow. It was all a dream, a wishful dream. Tears prickled, and a scream started deep in the pit of me; only waves of hopelessness washed forth. Never would I feel or experience the joy of running until I couldn't run anymore. Even if my life depended on it, I'd not be able to. Cripple.

Icarus must have felt this, soaring under his own power, master of his own destiny. Only to have it all fall apart, pulled down through a cloud of traitorous pin-wheeling feathers, to plummet to earth, sucked from the glow of joy into the depths of despair in the span of a breath, the bat of an eye.

My body felt as if a black hole had me in its grip. More so my soul, tendrils of darkness wrapped tightly around that warmth that existed within me, that something that no one ever saw, and it pulled and pulled, until my essence was dragged into a void as solid as weapons grade naquadah. Alone, and with every hand turned against me, even my own. Despair ruled.

As if squeezed out by the growing coils of despondency that pulled at me, hot tears slid from under my eyelids and across my cheeks. Burning gouges as they went. Compressed lungs hiccupped into motion, sobs escaped from me. My illusion of control vanished; it'd never been there. At the edge of awakening I could feel the presence of another. Our hands tightly bound together; my only safety line. That warm grasp prevented me from sinking forever into a morass I knew I could not fight my way out of. That would have been a one-way trip. I held fast to that hand and wept for the first time in a long time. Not caring who saw. No one could care if you don't care back.

Major Sam Carter

Daniel was sitting with the colonel when I arrived and before him apparently Dr. MacKenzie. Daniel wasn't happy in the least about that. Usually our archeologist needed protecting from his own trusting nature, but when it involved an injured colonel Daniel trusted very few, and MacKenzie wasn't included in that very small number.

At first that protectiveness baffled me. But, after that mission on P7J-989 and those virtual reality pods, that became much, much clearer to me. Daniel was afraid of losing the only figure that remained in his life that may or may not resemble a father figure. The colonel treated him as a child sometimes, but usually he's more like a big brother, a jock of a big brother.

My first impression of Colonel O'Neil had been what I had read of his reports before being assigned to the SGC. On my first face-to-face with the man my opinion changed, he screamed jock -- and dumb as a stump, a very hot looking stump, but still a stump. Immediately I placed him into that category of my typical superior, one more among the clueless ones. From that erroneous first reaction I've been constantly revising my estimate of him upwards.

Daniel and I have both tried to discover just how intelligent the colonel is, but official records are few and far between. His many years in covert black ops had pushed most of them into the 'top secret' category. Daniel gave up, but I shared one trait with the colonel -- stubbornness.

This man who lay drugged into unconsciousness, this man whose hand lay limply in mine is intelligent. I still don't know everything, but I know he's well educated, far more so than his behavior hints at. And I know he understands mine and Daniel's technical explanations more than he lets on. His impatience to listen to them is probably because what we are saying is familiar territory to him. His interests do exceed big honking space guns and The Simpsons.

If Homer had more than one computer at home, an expensive working telescope and an actual comet named after his son. We'd all realize he wasn't as dumb as he acted. Especially as the first calculated orbit of 1087P/O'Neill C by its discoverer still stood uncorrected, so well was its calculation. I'd not expect anything less than genius in the IQ department. And that, makes Colonel Jack O'Neill more than hot -- he's incandescent.

Only this genius is so good at acting the typical jock, that he lets that habit dictate his actions. This drugged state of his is a prime example. Dumb is as dumb does. Or in his case 'dumb does as dumb is.' I'd thought. Janet had another explanation; the man had had his emotional shields stripped away by the chemicals in his system and the shock of his ordeal. She hinted that this was an established coping mechanism of his, familiar, but still dangerous. Yet, I still think that sometimes he carries the dumb act way too far.

There was a tiny benefit to his state at the moment, one that was a very selfish indulgence of mine. He was a captive landscape and I wished to paint his likeness into memory. Even unshaven, pale, thin and bruised, he made my heart race. Long of limb, an understated musculature that he hid in ill-fitting uniforms and mufti; but I've seen him sweat soaked and bare chest-ed on a few occasions. Once he even blushed -- deeply. That had been a treat and it crowds into my dreams often.

He's too lean now, almost gaunt and pain lines overlay his strong boned face. Still he is handsome. I wondered if he could be anything but to me now. My fingers rubbed across his palm, eliciting a curling of his impossibly long fingers from time to time. There was no strength behind the movement, only a caress that promised future moments of strong passion.

My explorations of those fingers distracted me from his face, his whole body; I missed the beginnings of his soon obvious distress as his beloved fingers crushed painfully around mine. My disbelieving eyes widened and then moved to his face, and found it distorted by some unknown grief. A lone tear welled from beneath an eyelid to slide down to the pillow that supported his restless head.

My breath hastened with his and hitched at the same moment, whereas mine never resumed, his sobbed out, and tears flowed. Never even awakening, the colonel grieved; it was painful to watch him. So strong, so kind and in so much absolute soul-wrenching pain, and I hadn't the faintest idea why now, why here. His grip felt desperate and I tightened mine in response. Leaning over his irregularly heaving chest, I finally breathed. And on that warmth across his wet face I sent what help I could.

"Jack... Jack.... You're not alone. I'm here; I'll always be here. Ssssh. Ssssh."

Never loosening my grip on his hand I brushed my fingers across a damp forehead and through his hair. Making those inane sounding nonsense sounds that I'd long ago discovered was more important than the most profound of spoken truths. I remained a witness to the colonel's unaccustomed display of emotion. None would ever hear of it from me, it was too precious for that. His pain would be cherished within my heart until the day I died, a rare glimpse of the inner man. And if I could I would keep its memory even beyond that point. Jack was no Homer Simpson, not by a long shot.

Dr. Daniel Jackson

Tiredly I rubbed at my eyes; long nights with Jack and even longer days working were beginning to take their toll. Twenty-four hours in a day wasn't enough to do all I needed to do. As for what I wanted to do, I don't think eternity would have sufficed.

My relief at Jack's survival hadn't lasted long, no sooner had he regained his senses then somehow he lost them again. There are so many theories about his now obvious downward spiral into apathy that I don't know what to think.

Everyone seemed to think that I would know why Jack is doing what he is. I'm not sure. Janet believes it's the drugs, Sam thinks it's the prospect of being forced out of the SGC on disability. What Teal'c thinks he keeps to himself, but from his actions he appears to have moved on. That idea horrified me. Could Teal'c possibly believe that Jack was as good as gone, and now attaching himself to Eric would honor his all-but dead 'warrior brother'?

I've heard about soldiers taking over the responsibilities of their fallen brothers, supporting wives and children, even going so far as to marry the widow and adopting the new orphans as a matter of honor. Is this Teal'c's way of honoring Jack? By protecting what Jack tried to protect and failed?

Whom do I kick first? Jack, or Teal'c: Jack for giving up and keeping himself drugged to the gills; or, Teal'c for quietly accepting Jack's decision to fade away. Maybe, I should kick myself. What the hell have I done to fix this? Not a Goddamned thing.

My parent's death was quick, the pain sharp and my grief will never end. I'm not sure I could survive Jack's slow form of death. Before, he sought death in a quick vaporizing flash of heated plasma. My death was a foregone conclusion then, my life just as meaningless to him as his own. Then I reached out and he grabbed hold, our lives from that moment on entwined, providing meaning to us both. Could either of us live without the other now?

Dr MacKenzie

Sixty-two minutes.

That is exactly how long Cochran has been gone. Sixty-two minutes of staring at this monitor.

Like some puppet on a string he'd dragged me here, and not once did I speak up, I'd just let him pull me right into his delusion. This should never have happened; I'm trained better than this. I'm the professional!

Irked at my own behavior, I noshed on my peanut-butter sandwich cracker, using it as a distraction. Hmmm, not half bad for food that can last for a decade between manufacture and consumption. Its sticky, crispy mess rolled around pleasantly behind my frown. Water, tepid and bland, was my choice of the variety of drinks. There were cold sodas and water, but warm bottled seemed more cold war-ish. That is what this place had been built for -- the cold war, so appropriate for all this cloak and dagger stuff I thought.

A swallow of water helped me pry the dry meal from my back teeth, while giving me something to work my disgust out on.

Cochran amazed me. Why he wanted to be my friend I had no idea. Granted he was crazy as a loon, but he did seem to know what he was doing, ah... work wise. He reminded me of Colonel O'Neill, both desperately in need of counseling, but functional, until that moment one of them broke that was. The difference between them was that Cochran had already experienced his break and somehow had made his fantasy world his work. Or, was that his work fit into his fantasy world? Not much difference I suppose. Hmmm, now that's a thought, this could be the basis of a very, very interesting paper.

I would probably have plenty of time to write it, being in Leavenworth. The trouble there would be getting access to Cochran. Would they let me help with counseling I wonder? That might be the only way I'd ever see the idiot. Like I'm not one too? I should turn him in; he needs to get proper care. This delusional state he's in might get me killed. And what he did to Manny, well... I do have to admit, Manny's not catatonic anymore. Still...

My head jerked around at the touch on my shoulder.

"Scared ya did I," Cochran grinned hugely, like he had just won at Powerball.

"No! You did not. I just require the obeisance due my rank; like announcing your presence," and tapped my silver eagles for emphasis, the man has been taking just too much advantage of me of late. It's like he knows I'm trying to help him. Like he knows I suddenly find it difficult to deny him whatever he asks, no matter how ludicrous. Maybe a little more insistence at toeing the discipline mark would do him some good; it might do me some good too. With that thought in mind I amended my statement with a steely glare -- the one that worked every time.

"Ah, come on. You nearly wet ya shorts," his slap on my back propelled me forward and almost into the bank of monitors. My hands stopped my motion and I swung around to confront him.

"Hey..."

Ding! Ding! -- Ding! Ding! -- Ding! Ding!

My head jerked around in surprise; back to the monitors I'd been watching so intently. Here soon I was going to have a painful case of self-inflicted whiplash.

"It's the alarm, someone's activated the video shunts," Cochran growled and shoved me out of the way, leaving me slowing revolving in my chair, my feet had me stopped after a few helpless circuits, almost facing him. With his face close to the monitors only his pants greeted me, tightly stretched over his buttocks. Deep inside a nearly overwhelming desire burned. Boot. Ass. Yeeessss. Through will alone I pulled myself back to the problem at hand and let him have it in far less satisfying words.

"Alarm! You didn't tell me there was an alarm. You said I had to watch the monitor for it." Twiddling my thumbs uselessly for more than an hour was what I'd been doing. Just when did I lose control of this whole situation? Oh, yes, I remember. The moment I laid eyes on him. No, wait. He saw me first -- then -- very definitely then.

"Must have slipped my mind," slid from that infuriating grin of his. He did not forget; that was one thing I had learned, he didn't let anything, just slip by him.

"You did that deliberately, just to keep me here," I barked back. Squeaking wheels alerted me that I now stood, quivering visibly with suppressed emotion. Was I angry? Was I?

"Here, you'll need this," he totally ignored his effect on me and pushed cold metal into my hand. Astonishment and shock took over, at the object in my hand and the emotion inside. Not angry?

"A gun! What do I need a gun for?" Blurted out mindlessly, too occupied with identifying just what emotion I had. Not fear; not of the weapon. Ah... not much this is. My fingers tightened before the gun slipped to the floor and I shuddered.

"We gonna head off the bad guys."

"Isn't that what Security's for," squeaked from me. Now I sounded like the chair, both our worlds out of our control.

"Mac, right here, SECURITY, stitched on my shoulder."

Cochran grabbed me by the arm and pulled me out into the corridors of the SGC. I'd been trained to handle weapons, but my profession allowed me to stay away from them, far away. They brought death and emotional trauma, and I could feel this one, slick and hot in my trembling hand. It had been bad enough that I'd nearly shot my own instructor in training, missing him by a scant inch, but this was worse. I might have to use the damned thing. Targets are one thing; people are something else entirely. Yet... if I shot the right person? No, don't go there. I'm a lousy shot; I'd probably hit myself instead.

Pushed and prodded, a faster pace allowed me to actually forget the weight of death in my hand. What did he think he was doing? I'm a colonel; he should show a little more respect for my rank. Only I couldn't get his attention to remind him.

"Damn. Damn. I hadn't expected them to act so soon..." Cochran muttered to himself as he hurried us down two more levels, his fingers dug into my arm painfully. To avoid his grip I broke into a trot, and then we were clattering through the stairwells. Dust clung to the railings and made our footing slippery and every few steps my escort snipped about sounding like a herd of deer in tap shoes. Easy for him to say, he made just as much noise. More. And I would have told him so, if I hadn't been too busy breathing.

We finally arrived at the Infirmary level; quietly we crept out into a side access to the main corridor that began at the elevators. Suddenly I was pushed into a recessed doorway, an alcove that had been one of the old ladder wells that used to provide access to the levels above. "Sssh," echoed in my ear as Cochran wedged me into a corner and pressed back into me, covering half my body, his arm across my upper chest as he steadied himself against the doorjamb. His rapid breathing caused his body to grind against mine at shoulder and hip, and his elbow rhythmically bumped my sternum.

It was night and only minimal lights pierced the unnatural gloom, a shadow crossed in front of us and Cochran stiffened, his breathing seemed to stop. My eyes followed the man-sized shadow until lit by one of the few dim lights. Lt. Van Sickle. The young officer turned in the direction of the Infirmary and vanished, his echoing steps the only remaining sign of his presence. He had to have just come from the same stairwell we had, mere seconds behind us.

Before Cochran could breathe again, more shadows. These, less distinct, hugged the shadows; they came from the opposite direction we had and disappeared in the same direction as the lieutenant. Cochran uttered a curse under his breath as he slid out into the now empty corridor, his chest heaved with some suppressed emotion. Hard eyes glinted in the low light, his face hard as stone. 'Murder in his eye' now had meaning, this man scared me and I stayed frozen in the corner, afraid to attract his attention. Now was not the time to quibble about rank and protocol. Not without a fully loaded syringe.

The harsh sound of my fear-driven breath must have drawn his eyes to me and I cringed when his steel stare enveloped me, then the strangest expression passed over his rigid face, it softened and he became Cochran again. I'd only seen this once before, with O'Neill; but O'Neill was much better at wiping it out as if it had never existed. Cochran, thank goodness, didn't express the resentment O'Neill had when I witnessed his, Cochran showed only a worried and somewhat regretful look, yet I still shrank back at his approach. My reaction hurt him. 'I' hurt him. He wasn't normally this way, always with the idiotic humor, now gone as if it never existed, in its place only the pain, like someone had kicked him -- me. His gaze drifted to the main corridor, a different hardness built across his face, a determination, and a softer form of the unyielding stone his face had been before; his thoughts very obviously on other matters, less painful ones.

My spine tingled with discovery. This reaction, this was it. This is how O'Neill coped. It was so obvious, he...

"We have to follow. The kid being here is what flushed them out. Everything revolves around him and O'Neill got sucked up in the vortex. Stay behind me and be quiet." His voice soft, clear and steeped in 'no nonsense,' I obeyed -- unwillingly -- but I obeyed. Someone had to protect the moron from himself. What I'd give for that syringe.

Suddenly the SGC was the backdrop for melodrama. Here we were, two officers in service to the greatest nation on the face of the planet slinking through darkened halls following shadows. The 9mm was heavy in my hand, not for the first time did I contemplate using it as a blunt instrument on Cochran. Unconscious he could be spirited from possible harm, which, like some fool, I intended to follow him into. All my self-preservation had evaporated not long after meeting him; thus, my imitation of a shield at that deserted store, my foolish protection of Dr. Jackson. What sane person would attempt to stop a bullet like that?

A rough hand in my chest pulled me back to the here-and-now. Cochran, with weapon raised, peeked around the corner that lead to the Infirmary. This was getting too close to a James Bond film for me. Carefully he withdrew his head and let his steel-filled hand descend, gun against thigh. See, James Bond-ish. He leaned back against the wall, his head propped there, his eyes closed. He was still for just a moment, before he raised his free hand, from his fist an index finger was shaken out, held a beat, then fisted again. It and the next finger next appeared to point to his eyes, and then the index finger was alone to point down the hall. I hadn't the faintest idea what this was all about, too much deviation from Broccoli's script for me.

"Wha...?"

Like lightening his chest was to mine, pressing me into the wall, his free hand clamped over my mouth, his weapon pointed at the junction of halls. His wide, and now open, eyes bored into me, but he wasn't there, they were cold and dead -- lifeless. My own eyes were my only means of expression -- hand over my mouth -- and desperately I tried to knock on his soul's windows. There had darned well better be someone home!

Finally his rapid breathing and mind slowed, it was then that I noticed the tilt to his head. He was listening. I'd thought, well... I don't know what I'd thought. He was capable of anything and he was constantly proving that.

My revelation was short lived; then he finally answered my previous silent knock. He was back and pissed as hell. Oh my! I shrugged as best I could and darted my eyes at my eagles; I'd done something, only I didn't know what. He must have figured out my confusion, his whole face smile cockily, and then he leaned in, like he was going to nuzzle my ear. I squirmed, remembering his horseplay in the bedroom. He pressed me more firmly into the wall, making me feel childish and stupid. Colonels shouldn't be in positions like this.

"Hold still," puffed softly into my ear, so close I swore his tongue flicked it. "One hostile, standing guard outside the Infirmary," his eyes were glued to mine and I nodded my head; he started to remove his hand. "No talking."

Not interested in talking, what about giggling? I had this overwhelming desire to giggle hysterically. Why do I wind up playing the dame to his hero? Just so thankful that it just appeared that way, I sighed in relief.

As I relaxed in his hold, he began to let go and relax himself, he went away again, only this time I was sure he was mulling over his options. He listened, and glanced back the way we had come. He raised a finger to his lips. 'Quiet.' I understood that. His hand landed on my shoulder and briefly pressed me against the wall. 'Stay.' I understood that too. Don't tell me. He's a dog person isn't he?

Cochran moved quietly down the hall to a closed door, opened it and disappeared inside, closing the door behind him. I waited. Like a damned fool I waited, my heartbeat sped up, my palm sweated and the weapon there threatened to slip to the floor, again, I moved it to the other hand and wiped my palm down my pant leg. If I had any brains at all I'd slip his leash and run for it. This growing feeling of fondness for the man had me doing the exact opposite of prudence. And smack in the face of self-preservation I had the strangest thought. Did I dare move; follow him; peek around the corner even? What? What truly stupid thing do I do now?

Before I could make another mistake Cochran emerged from the doorway, a white bundle in his hand. Again he was between me and the edge of the cross-corridor; carefully he did a visual check. He shook out his bundle as he turned to me, a lab coat. Taking my gun, he wedged it into the back of his pants before urging me to don the coat. Once I had it on he miraculously produced a clipboard, complete with paper and pen. Oh my, I felt a mistake coming on.

Vigorously I shook my head. He just as vigorously nodded his. Shook. Nodded. Shook. Nodded. Shook. Shook. What?

Cochran moved to go down that corridor where the hostile was. He called my... well, it wasn't a bluff! I don't care what it might look like, it wasn't that; he forced my hand. The fool would get himself killed. Against all instinct I reached out a hand, grabbed his shoulder, and spun him back towards me, I nodded.

He returned my nod solemnly, squeezed my shoulder quickly and then stepped aside.

Oh my! Surely SUCKER is stitched on my sleeve.

Putting my back to our hidden alcove, I quietly retreated about twenty feet in the wrong direction, each foot my backbone urged me to continue, perhaps even run. Run very fast. Doing an about-face I saw Cochran, I couldn't quite make out his expression, but his body spoke of confusion and disappointment. I strode forward, noisily. Like I hadn't a care in the world, I closed out my newfound friend and patient, concentrated on the clipboard, and flipped pages up and down, making as much noise as I could. Right down the center of the hall and did a sloppy turn into the main corridor, headed for the Infirmary.

I belong here. I belong here. I belong here. Nothing wrong here. Nothing. I'm going to die.

He had to see me. He had to see me. That was the new mantra that beat through my head at an every increasing rate, keeping up with my frightened heart. Any moment now I might feel the impact of a full-metal jacket projectile. Might even hear the gun it sped from. I almost passed the entrance. I came to an abrupt halt, flipped a couple of pages, twisted on my toes and looked straight at the hostile and frowned at him.

My mind gibbered as I desperately held onto the image of a cowardly, sycophantic sergeant -- mine to command. OH MY!

Acting class was coming in handy.

"Why am I the last one to hear about stuff like this? Just why is there a guard on the Infirmary now?"

The man snapped to attention at my huffy words and answered.

"Don't know, Sir. I just follow orders, Sir."

He stepped forward, following my path towards the double doors, until he was almost pressed back against them, his arm extended just short of touching me.

"Stand aside," I sneered and tugged the lab coat's lapel. 'Oscar winning performance,' danced across my thoughts like the Rockettes. "It's rather obvious isn't it? I'm a doctor and this IS the Infirmary."

A worried look flitted across his face before his eyes came to rest on my breast pocket, my very naked breast pocket. He smiled. Oh... ah, oh...? Yes -- CRAP!

The man's body swayed forward and I began to step back. An arm emerged from the darkness to wrap around the pseudo-guard's throat and I watched in fascination as the man's eyes bugged out. Slowly his newly slackened body was lowered as it hung from that disembodied arm. Only when he lay at my feet did I notice an insanely grinning Cochran, his finger pressed to his lips.

'Quiet.' That's what he meant; I was totally amazed that I remembered my obedience training.

Rooted to the hallway floor I let Cochran enter the Infirmary. What he did there I couldn't say? How long he was gone was enough time for me to realize just how naive I was; how useless I was and how I might be someone's death if I didn't start taking this whole bizarre turn of events far more seriously.

About the time I'd worked up the gumption to charge after him, Cochran returned. Making useless, empty gestures of lifting and pulling, I followed him as he dragged the downed man into the Infirmary, which was probably what he had tried to tell me he was going to do. He should have just said it. Behind the double doors Cochran expertly flipped his prisoner onto his face and used the man's own belt and shoelaces to truss him up before shoving a nearby towel between his teeth. With a flourish he rolled the pseudo-guard under a bed in the nearby corner.

Cochran looked a little startled when he turned away from his completed task to see me watching him, a flick of his eyes beyond me spun me to look in that direction and I understood his expression all too well. All that mulling over of taking this more seriously hadn't done a thing for my track record. Two short-heel clad, shapely ankles extended out into the walkway along the ranked beds behind me. Fraiser! Damn. MacKenzie you are just no help at all.

This time I took myself in hand, remembering how silently Cochran had dispatched and hidden our pseudo-guard; I quickly and quietly make my way to the stricken doctor. My nostrils flared at the odor rising from her body -- Chloroform. Her rising and falling chest was a great relief. Gently I slid my hands along her body to check for injuries, there were none. Thank God.

A quick glance up showed me that Cochran was alert to us being very much exposed here in the middle of the room. I needed to be smarter or someone was going to get hurt -- like me.

Fraiser's office was only two beds away and I knew she kept a cot there. Many times she would stay for days on end, catching naps when she could. Carefully I pulled her to the open door and inside. She was small, but limp; I had to struggle to get her up onto the cot. A few minutes passed as I arranged her limbs and covered her with a blanket. At the last minute, I pulled it over her head; she wouldn't be as easy to see in the dark room. And how many people would bother a body covered like the dead? As much as I wanted too, I couldn't stay. Cochran was loose and I needed to keep up with him.

The thudding in my head from my too rapid heart had faded; noises drew my attention. They came from the direction of Colonel O'Neill's private room at the back of the Infirmary; I saw that Cochran heard them too. He was quivering with the need to investigate, but had held steady while I attended to Fraiser. His eyes asked me to remain and I nodded as he handed back the hated weapon. Gingerly I accepted the responsibility of his back. That is the proper term, wasn't it?

What! What am I doing? This becoming a statue was becoming inane. Time to start using my brain. Concentrate man, concentrate.

All right, Cochran was off investigating the noises. There was no telling how many others besides our pseudo-guard was here. And standing midway between the two exits of the room in plain sight just didn't seem smart. Slowly I spun in place, even dipping down to my haunches to check under the beds for lurkers. Couldn't even see the one I knew was there. Maybe that wasn't too smart.

Doors, something about doors. Oh, my. I needed to keep them both in view, so I edged my way towards the exit Cochran had taken and eventually positioned myself along the edge of it, from there I could see the main doors too. Ah... maybe this wasn't too smart either. I could be plainly seen from those doors. Ah... can't be helped, I was hidden from the most obvious danger, the noises. Pressing my body as tightly to the wall as possible, making myself as small as I could, I strained to listen.

Unfortunately I did hear something, a choked off yell and probably a scuffle, the squeak of hinges and footsteps coming for me. My brain froze, caused my mind to return to that not long-gone state of gibbering, it had a nasty habit of choking out all possibility of logical thought. Clenching my eyes tightly shut I tensed. I knew I was done for. I could kill this man, but there was at least another somewhere, I thought. Besides anything I did do would alert any others of my presence, I'd just be delaying my own demise. What do I do?

The footsteps stopped just inside the room I cowered in. Eternity was never this long. I ceased to breath. I was a speck of nothingness in an infinity that wheeled around me. There was nowhere to hide. My life began to flash before my eyes and made me nauseous -- motion sickness.

The slight scuffling of the intruder's feet created a white noise in my brain that nothing penetrated. Days, years, seconds -- I didn't know -- passed. Dawn rose on my so-called superior mind as breath recommenced. Now if I could just catch my breath. Ever so slowly I opened one eye and I discovered I was more than twelve feet from the exit, crammed beside a tall storage cabinet. Three beds between me and where I knew I had stood awaiting my fate. I had no memory of moving, none what so ever. And best of all -- I was alone!

Ooh, my!

Envy grew slowly. This was exciting, in a dumb sort of way. O'Neill and Cochran did this kind of stuff often. Bet they didn't have thoughts like this, no they probably would have jumped at the change of hand-to-hand with some intruder. My mind went round and round this revelation until I realized that I was procrastinating. Cochran. Where was Cochran?

OH, my.

Very much against my will I returned to the exit and worked my way to O'Neill's door. There were muted voices and grunts of pain; a sound like the soft thud of boot against flesh. Bubbles formed in my blood, down around my toes. Each noise, no matter how innocent sounding seemed to have Cochran as the painful center of its creation. The bubbles rose and increased in number. I felt fevered. A cry sounded and I was through the door very much like I'd gotten those twelve feet, no effort and no memory.

"Hold it right there."

My first perception was of the man who uttered that command, a command I followed. Becoming a statue seemed commonplace by now, I saw he held a 9mm to O'Neill's temple; his eyes were closed. O'Neill's, not the man with the gun. Those eyes held the light of triumph, a man in control. Another person relieved me of my own 9mm. He ripped the weapon from my nerveless fingers, and strode across the room and delivered a savage kick to a body sprawled on the floor. So hard was the kick that the man's face was revealed. Cochran. Oh, my. My bacon was most assuredly cooked; or was that crisped?

Anger swept through me, this was worse than when someone dared touch my Cadillac, leaving greasy fingerprints on its flawless maroon sheen. That's my captain they were abusing. Any foolish thoughts of retribution were stopped like water to a fire by a muffled groan. Tied hand and foot to a chair was Lt. Van Sickle, his one eye widened and blazed with fury, a towel stuffed in his month like Cochran had done with the pseudo-guard.

The short tough -- Oh, my, yes, there were two of them -- that had kicked Cochran backhanded the young man, snapping his head to one side.

"Knock it off," came from the first man, a tall, broad brute that coolly stood on the other side of Colonel O'Neill's bed. My gaze drifted to the man in the bed, the colonel's eyes were now open, if somewhat glazed. He was drugged; his pupils like saucers, and aimed at the bound lieutenant.

"And, you, who the hell are you?"

Addressed to me, the words distracted me from watching as the shorter man cuffed the lieutenant yet again. In the background gibbering of my own chaotic thoughts the man's retort to that first demand was something like: 'I'm trying.' My eyes fell to Cochran for just a moment before facing the obvious leader of the two interlopers. Obvious since he was doing all the commanding, and all the talking.

Nothing seemed to come from my mouth, I couldn't force out an answer. My brain kept shouting at me, only I wasn't listening.

"Hey, I asked you a question, stupid."

All I could do was watch as the lead thug stepped around the hospital bed, turning his back on Colonel O'Neill, showing his contempt for the injured officer in a most dangerous way. I kept expecting the colonel to jump up and ping the man with his pinky and knock him senseless, right up to the moment the thug's hand slammed into my face and pushed me back a step.

"Answer me."

O'Neill just lay there, the short thug laughed and nudged Cochran with his foot, having apparently tired of battering the lieutenant who now sat with his chin rested on his chest. Blood shown along the top of his pale cheek. My brain was still screaming at me as the tall lead thug shoved me back another step.

"Hey, are you deaf?"

My eyes flitted to O'Neill.

"He's not gonna help ya. Not as long as Georgie has the kid," sing-songed the tall thug as he shoved me in the direction of his cohort, I clumsily tripped over Cochran's feet and went down, sharply rapping my head against the wall. Both of the thugs laughed uproariously at my predicament. But the blow must have knocked the ice from my thoughts. My brain's shouts became clear: Cochran, his eyes had been open and he winked.

Of course, my first instinct was to verify this by actually looking at Cochran, but I knew that would draw the attention of at least one of our assailants. Colonel O'Neill was unwilling or unable to help; Cochran was the only one who could do anything. Well, besides me, but I didn't have the faintest idea what I could do. There were two of them. I'm a psychiatrist, and contrary to popular myth I can't analyze them to death.

It was then that I saw Dr. Jackson; the bed had been between him and me. He lay stretched out along the wall out of immediate sight. The tall thug must have stood between him and the bed when I had entered. A folded white graze strip lay across his neck. They must have chloroformed him as they had Dr. Fraiser. They had taken the Infirmary in a high security base in the middle of the night because only two people lay between them and.... O'Neill? They weren't after Lt. Van Sickle were they?

Oh, my!

This was not what Cochran had theorized, he was here to protect the lieutenant first, his assumption was all wrong. O'Neill was their primary target; he wasn't just someone who happened to have been dragged into the fray. That would mean they were probably another group, with totally different reasons for what they were doing. They were willing to use Lt. Van Sickle to get the colonel's cooperation. Only they hadn't seemed to notice that the good colonel was drugged to the gills and probably couldn't do as they desired even if he tried. I needed to do something. I was the only one here that had an inkling of just how serious this situation has suddenly gotten.

With a lightening move I swept my legs out and knocked the arrogant cretin down. Laugh at me will you! And like we had coordinated it, Cochran exploded from the floor, elbow aimed for the stomach of the still upright man, bringing him down with a pained cry.

As the tall man withered on the floor I contemplated what I should do next, Cochran didn't, he knew what to do as he smoothly moved from the man he'd just downed to the taller, who struggled to rise from the floor. They grappled, Cochran tried to wrest his weapon from him.

A quick glance showed the shorter of the pair out cold as I pushed my body upright against the wall. My eyes lit on a stout bedpan. What luck -- a weapon! Claiming my find I moved unsteadily to the pair tussling on the floor and I waited for my chance.

The weapon they both struggled for shot away from them and skittered between my legs just as I brought my handy bludgeon down, and missed. Cochran slumped to lie beside the tall man; I backpedaled at my horrible mistake. Something blurred across my field of vision and smashed into the thug knocking him senseless. Startled I stepped back again, only my foot slipped, I'd stepped on the loose gun. Using the bedpan as a balance weight I swung my arm wide. It jarred in mid arc, my head exploded at the same instant. Dark.

Major Sam Carter

For two days I have watched the man I believed I loved shut himself away from the world. For two days, I've held his limp unresponsive hand in mine, wishing he'd wake. Wishing I could lay hot lips on pale skin. Vainly I tried to push away thoughts of intimate contact with him. Yes, I'd indulged in touch, brazenly taking every opportunity to feel and map any exposed skin. My hands never stopped, even exploring his dimensions through gown and sheet. Trailing fingers along lean legs, long arms and protruding collarbones. No part of him seemed safe from my hand.

Even drunk on the sensations created through such contact, it paled. What fun can one have when the other cannot or will not join in? And that is the question at the moment. He can join in. His legs may never work as easily as they had before, but they still feel, that expanse of skin can still become just as heated. Oh, there will have to be some concessions made, the natural aggressor will have to learn new ways of aggression. Playing submissive to his dominance would be more truthful than seemly. And in that I would need to be very careful, he does not strike me as a forceful person in the gentle arts of intimate friendship; but as a compassionate, considerate and loving companion, soft as a gentle rain, and rain wears mountains to plains with its infinite patience.

To be too willing to be his mountain could create a drought, perhaps an endless drought. The man thinks too much and expects the impossible from himself. Such willingness he would see as pity and an ultimate blow to his hidden ego. If only that resembled his public one, not as large as one might guess, but far healthier and more resilient.

Life has taught him that wanting leads to never having. He has learned that lesson well, he does not reach for what he wants, and he is convinced it will be snatched from him, usually in the most horrendous of ways. He now watches and protects -- his desire hidden. No more!

My eyes open to a hundred tiny flames, bobbing and flickering in the mechanically circulated, sterile air beneath a mountain of stone.

"You have made a decision."

"Yes."

"I shall accompany you."

With a litheness any would believe beyond a man of his bulk, Teal'c raises far more gracefully from the floor than I could. I depend heavily on his helping hand; I will need all my strength for the coming confrontation. And I am grateful for his presence; he will be the distraction, preventing Janet from doing her duty. Preventing HIM punishing himself for not being indestructible, from throwing away an opportunity for happiness -- his and mine.

My purposeful march through the dark halls slowed; Teal'c too felt it. Something was wrong. Airmen who should be in certain places were not; lights that should be on were off. The closer we came to the Infirmary the more that was wrong. At first they were just small items, but fast adding up to trouble. My urge to speed up was tempered by Teal'c's hand on my arm, he pushed me to the rear, and began to demonstrate an ability at stealth only the colonel could rival.

Little light leaked from under the double doors, silently, carefully, we moved through the dark and empty Infirmary. Sounds drew us towards Colonel O'Neill's room, our original destination. Together, Teal'c and I burst through the door, the air echoed with foul curses.

Across the carnage I watched as a stranger jerked the pillow from under the colonel's head, at first I thought him unconscious until I saw the glint of his eyes as the light reflected from them. He was clearly awake.

"Die you sanctimonious son-of-a-bitch," shouted the bloody faced stranger.

The looming presence of Teal'c was distant, he moved away, why I didn't know. The colonel's face filled my vision, an expression of resignation sat on his pale features, his eyes closed as the pillow descended to cover his face. The man leaned into it as elegant fingers lay unmoving atop the green-tinted sheets of the bed; Jack made no attempt to defend himself.

That part of me that was Major Carter wailed for my attention, somehow I knew Teal'c fought yet another stranger, the distinctive sounds of hand-to-hand combat hollowly echoed behind my military persona's cries. But, as Samantha, I was too stunned to react.

[See Chapter Twenty-one]