Title: Bargaining Chip
Authors: J. M. McClure, Scribe and Gatejunkie
Author Page: Gatejunkie
Season: Season 1
Rating: 18 years or over
Summary: an enemy from Jack's past wants information and Daniel might just be the means to get it.
Category: Gen, angst, hurt/comfort, drama.
Warnings: torture of a main character; violence; attempted rape.
DISCLAIMER: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

Finally an evening when he had absolutely nothing to do.

Head down, rattling his keys to find the alarm cutoff as he headed straight to his car in the nearly deserted parking lot. Three of the overhead lights had blown bulbs, making the night a haphazard of neon and ebony sky. It was late, very late, and now he was sprung. God help anyone who tried to stand between him and the comforts of home.

No meetings and SG-1 on stand down for R & R. Let the universe of troubled creatures take care of itself just for two days. Jack O'Neill had his evening plotted out down to the last cold beer. He would strip to his shorts, order in a pizza, and break the seal on the first brew he'd had in so long he'd forgotten man does not live on coffee alone. Hockey game on the set, barefoot and lazing back in his favorite chair.

Just like a normal person.

He punched the button that bleated out a miniature horn on the car alarm system, and crossing the parking lot in a long legged stride, he aimed for his Jeep, parked under one of the several functioning lights. Seven slots down another 'gater was wrestling with an armload of books and files which would have been a challenge for Teal'c to carry. The hunched-over figure swore softly as another stack of papers hit the asphalt.

No way, Jack snarled to himself. No way am I going to be dragged into another archeological wonder and ninety minutes of elocution on why it is vital to our program. Let Daniel Jackson manage by himself this time. If the resident geek thought rest and relaxation lived in dusty manuscripts and enigmatic symbols then so be it. He could get himself and his walking library home without the colonel's intervention.

Another toppled book, another swear word.

Hell, I didn't think Danny even knew those words. Okay, okay, what can it hurt?

Jack veered away from his parked escape and headed over to give Daniel a hand at least as far as dumping the books into his car, the vehicle which naturally was parked in the darkest part of the lot. Not one but two dead lights. What was it about Daniel? Did he just attract trouble like a suit would draw lint? He looked like he should be nose deep in books in a university library and cutting classes. Another sigh. Daniel would never cut classes. And he wasn't in a college library somewhere on the east coast. He was a genius who had single-handedly ferreted out the secrets of the Stargate.

Shaking his head as he closed the distance between them, Jack chided himself silently. He's a grown up, Jack. He doesn't need a baby-sitter. Another part of his brain chimed in, Yeah, right!

More papers fluttered to the ground. "Hang on, Daniel. I'm coming."

Daniel glanced up. A smile cut his face.

Oh, no, Jack continued his silent monologue, I'm not taking you home to raise. Hell, I'd never be able to housebreak you. Beer and hockey. That's what I'm doing tonight. You go home, Danny and blow the dust off parchment if you want to. I'm turning into a couch potato.

Four strides away, Daniel swatted at his neck. A second later he looked up at Jack, an unspoken question in wide eyes. Then, the books all fell, papers tripping over themselves as the wind created miniature eddies with the precious documents.

"Ja--?" Daniel was down before the word could be finished. He simply sank to the ground, close enough for O'Neill to see the confusion and distress in his eyes.

In one fluid motion, Jack's gun leapt into his hand. He dropped to one knee and checked for a pulse. It was there. Thready but there. Daniel did not stir at the touch.

We're concealed by darkness at least. The thought skittered through O'Neill's brain, countered instantly with What're you gonna do if they're using infrared, idiot? Of course they're using infrared; how else did they hit Jackson so easily?

While his left hand skimmed over Daniel's neck, his right did a sweep of the surrounding darkness. There it was, a tiny dart imbedded in Daniel's flesh. Okay, knockout drug. Please let it be a knockout drug and not something truly nasty.

He plucked the tiny needle out and tossed it aside. If it was poison, at least it wouldn't be pumping any more into Daniel's bloodstream. Jack's ears attuned to any out of place sound reported the tinkle of metal bouncing off asphalt as the dart landed and rolled away.

With no other sign of attack, Jack grabbed his teammate under one arm. Walking backward, he pulled the dead weight across the lot. Only two seconds away from the shelter offered by another parked car, he heard a mini-hiss. The last thing he felt was a wave of dizziness and the softened landing provided by Daniel's unresponsive body.

***

Nightmare?

Daniel tried to shrug away the headache drumming through his head like an unwelcome alarm clock with no snooze button. The pain didn't budge. For a moment, he wondered if he'd been at Jack's house and downed more than one beer. Naw, his friend usually didn't let him go much further than a single brew. Daniel had no tolerance for alcohol, a cheap date according to the world of Jack O'Neill.

He tried to move, but his arms wouldn't respond to his brain's instructions. It was dark, pitch black dark, and a distant memory of a childhood fear of dragons under the bed and closet doors that weren't quite closed niggled at his mind.

It finally occurred to him he was lying on his side, hands tied and numb behind his back. Not good.

His stomach recoiled through a wave of spontaneous fear, and for a second, he thought he was going to be very nastily sick. The acid receded though, and he nudged aside a blanket of lethargy as he tried at least getting into a sitting position. He was halfway there when the room flooded with light. He dropped back to the cold floor with a muffled gasp.

The light hurt, blurring his vision and sparking tears in the corners of his eyes.

Boots.

He'd been traipsing down Air Force corridors long enough now to recognize the rhythmic thud of military footgear. Half propped on one elbow, his hands twisted painfully behind his back, he tried to manage a quick count of fatigue-covered legs. Piercing light after crippling darkness made it a nearly impossible task.

How many quickly became a moot point anyway as he was roughly hauled to his feet. Okay, at least two were holding him there, upright and wobbly. Dizziness washed through his head, followed by nausea as he nearly gagged at the overpowering stench of musk. He didn't have time to ponder on how miserable he felt before a hand slashed into his murky vision and grabbed a handful of his long, sandy hair, jerking his head back. Without his glasses…damn, how many pairs did that make this year…he got a slightly skewed version of another face inches away from his own.

"Hello, Daniel."

He caught a whiff of tobacco, a hint of something alcoholic. The foreshortened face shuffled a little better into his line of sight. Sunglasses. Inside? They were inside, weren't they? A patch of pockmarking on one cheek. Black hair with heavy strokes of gray spread throughout. Thin lips, a cigarette dangling from one side of his mouth. The sunglasses threw Daniel off. He always thought a person wasn't really identifiable unless he could see the eyes. Windows to the soul was a cliché, but like most clichés, it held true. With this man, there was no window.

His philosophizing was short circuited when the man gave another yank on the handful of hair and repeated, "I said hello, Daniel."

Geez, why do all of these military types have to play power games? If for no other reason than to avoid another pull on his hair, Daniel offered, "Hi."

The man cocked his head, chewed on the cigarette butt then said, "Hi, what?"

With his arms pinned in place and his hands behind him, Daniel couldn't shrug but neither could he resist, "I have no idea. You haven't bothered to introduce yourself."

Bad idea.

Jack was always warning Daniel about his mouth.

Something hard slammed into his lower back. Pain speared through his entire body and buckled him. The men holding him let him drop to his knees but no further. He hung between them, gasping and wheezing for breath that wouldn't come. They gave him a three count before dragging him back to his feet.

The face was back, haloed in a red haze of pain, so close his breath raked hot across Daniel's face. "Hi, what?"

Daniel couldn't think. He knew there must be a correct answer, and right now he really wanted to come up with it, but his brain had shut down in trying to deal with the onslaught of outraged nerve endings.

"Hi, what?"

Daniel was sure of one thing. The man wasn't going to give him a chance beyond this one. Military mindset, he reminded himself, trying to push rational thought past the pain. "S-s-sir," he breathed out.

A moment of silence and Daniel was very afraid he had come up with the wrong response again. Then, "Very good." The face moved away.

Another man stepped up, this one in fatigues. He had the kind of features which would vanish in a crowd, leaving only a vague memory of 'someone' there. He turned toward the man in sunglasses, obviously waiting for direction. Daniel was quite sure he wasn't going to like those instructions.

Memory leaked in slowly and without considering the consequences of asking his own questions, Daniel demanded, "Where's Jack?"

He wasn't answered.

Still, the man stood before him, waiting, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, restless.

Daniel ignored him, knowing even as he did he was going to regret it very soon. Fear for O'Neill overrode self-preservation. "What have you done to him?" he tried again, getting a little air into insulted lungs, sounding a bit more exacting.

Sunglasses peered blindly at him. "Perhaps you should be more concerned about what we are going to do to you, Daniel."

Fear edged in a little tighter. "What do you want?"

"From you? Nothing. Nothing at all." He smiled, and the cigarette clenched between his lips cocked at a rakish angle. "Think about that, Dr. Jackson. I don't want anything from you. There's nothing you can give me. Nothing at all." He reached out and touched Daniel's cheek then ran a slender finger down the angle of his face, letting it trail off the chin and drop away. "Think about it. You can't stop any of this."

With a silent nod, he turned his back and walked away.

Oh damn, was all Daniel had the time to think before the first blow smashed into his unprotected abdomen.

***

Redlands had always been a college town. Despite its political activists and staunch right wingers, it remained stubbornly somewhere in the dead center of middle American mindset. The neighborhoods ran to wide streets, long lawns, and the laid back friendliness of backyard barbecues in summer alternating with cocktail chitchat in winter. It was the perfect place to lose yourself in if you wanted a life full of Martha Stewart interiors and Miracle Grow exteriors. Only a few knew the secret facility camouflaged by the hills above town was actually a place where biological dreams could come true, and those few worked there. Most thought it was a plastic container firm which sold biohazard containers to the big companies in big cities. Middle suburbia at its best. The perfect place to hide in plain sight.

***

Like a hangover without the fun of the night before. Jack O'Neill wiped a dry tongue over parched lips. He just knew the headache would be there waiting to ambush him at the first ill-considered movement.

He slid his fingers up the back of his neck, a tactile recon of headache city. His index finger butted into the tiny metal dart, and memory flooded back. Instinct took over, and he rolled to his feet, crouching in a defensive stance.

There was no one to challenge.

Only darkness and silence.

He was in a cage with metal bars and concrete walls.

He took mental measurements, evaluated the amenities in his temporary lodgings. A pot in one corner was probably the bathroom. A bucket of water stood in another corner. A thin mattress wadded up against one gray wall served as the bed. No mint on the pillow. No pillow for that matter.

Okay, it didn't take long to check out the accommodations. He turned his attention to the world beyond the floor-to-ceiling bars. A good sized room, about twice the size of the cell. The only furnishings were a long, scarred, pitted table against the wall directly across from the cell door and two ladder-backed wooden chairs, one on each end. A thin shaft of light wedged in through a narrow window in the outer door.

No sign of Daniel.

If luck was with him, Daniel had been darted and left behind, simply eliminated as a witness to O'Neill's kidnapping. But with Daniel... well, with Daniel there usually wasn't any such thing as luck.

Jack continued to scan the room. Not even a metal cup to clang against the bars.

What kind of chicken-shit outfit is this, anyway?

The door opened with a squall of rusty hinges, and the head chicken walked in.

Not good, Jack decided with just the faintest shiver of reaction twitching up his spine. He'd been in this man's hands once before, and it was not an exercise he wished to experience again. Relatively safe behind the bars, he tried for snide. "Miguel, so nice to see you again. I thought you died in Guatemala, but here you are." Jack made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. "What a shame our information was wrong."

"O'Neill, always a pleasure."

Jack wrapped one hand around one of the metal bars, anchoring himself in place, determined to deny Santos the pleasure of any physical response. His mouth engaged a little prematurely, but then that was a family trait. "The pleasure's all yours, Miguel." First name only. Santos hated that, and Jack O'Neill was happy to indulge whatever little digs he could get in before Santos started his 'interrogation.'

If he took the time to be honest, Jack would have to admit, at least to himself, he was scared. Scared shitless. He'd been at the mercy of Miguel Santos once before and had barely survived it. He was momentarily thankful Daniel had not been brought in with him. Santos could inflict the unspeakable on the young scientist, and Daniel was in no way prepared to withstand torture. Not to mention the humiliation and degradation that went hand in hand with it, especially at the whim of a master like Santos. Ice water coursed through the mercenary's veins. If Santos were ever autopsied, Jack fully expected it to be a scientific wonder when the medical world found out he had no heart. Wouldn't Danny be enthralled by that one?

Santos stood there, five or six feet away from the cell, obviously taking no chances of venturing within arms' reach. He hadn't changed too much in the years since they had last done the torture tango, a little more gray peppered through ebony hair, more lines around the cruel eyes, the thin lipped mouth going even narrower. The sun and the unforgiving life of a mercenary leathered his skin. He was wearing camouflage fatigues, high top spit polished boots, carrying a braided riding crop in his right hand, absently flicking it against his leg.

He noticed Jack's nearly imperceptible glance at the whip. He smiled, perfect teeth a slash of white contrast to deeply tanned skin.

Another swat of the crop, this time clipping against the boot top with a crack. "An affectation, perhaps," Santos said conversationally. "But don't you think it makes me look a bit like Patton. A hero of mine."

When Jack didn't grace that with an answer, Santos stepped two paces back and settled down to a seat on one of the wooden chairs.

"You always were a hardass, O'Neill." Santos spoke almost pleasantly, ebony eyes never leaving the face of the man he had imprisoned. "Okay, we will... cut to the chase so to speak." He leaned more heavily back against the chair, the crop still doing a tap-tap-tap against his boot. "You will be very relieved to know I have no intention of subjecting you to... well, the usual amenities." The grin flashed again, feral, ugly. "In fact, I have no intention of letting my men so much as touch you."

Jack never lost eye contact even as his gut clenched at unwanted memory. "That's very generous of you."

"Not really."

An unnamable reaction sliced through O'Neill. This was hardly the status quo. He kept up the cocky persona even as he realized he was playing the game, going through the motions, dancing to Santos' tune. "So, what exactly do you hope to achieve by providing me with temporary housing? I don't want to appear ungrateful, but I really prefer my own house."

"Actually, I thought we'd wait awhile before I outlined our needs for you, Colonel. Maybe give you some time to think about whether or not you are amenable to helping our just cause."

"Do the terms 'cold day' and 'hell' ring any bells for you?"

"Play nice, O'Neill, and things will go much easier for all concerned."

Jack took half a step closer, his face a mere inch from the bars separating him from Santos. "I can't say I'm too interested in making your life easier, Miguel. In fact, you can just piss off. You didn't get anything out of me in Guatemala, and you won't get anything now. Why don't you save us both some time and aggravation and just open this door and let me go home? No hard feelings."

"Oh, I imagine there will be plenty of hard feelings." Santos glanced back at the door he had entered and called out, "Bring him in."

And Jack knew at that instant exactly what game they were going to play.

***

"General Hammond!"

George Hammond almost flipped his coffee cup across the desk. As it was, his hand jerked so badly he was rewarded for his inattention by a mini tidal wave of stale coffee washing over his hand and the starched white sleeve cuff of his uniform.

Mopping at coffee, Hammond said, "Captain Carter, I sincerely hope you have a good…"

The young captain stood framed in his open doorway, a shattered pair of glasses dangling from one hand. Her face was blanched white, her eyes huge and cobalt blue.

Behind her like a huge mismatched shadow of muscled ebony stood another member of SG-1. When it looked like Carter had suddenly gone mute, Teal'c spoke from over her shoulder.

"Daniel Jackson and Colonel O'Neill are not to be found, General Hammond. Only this." He nodded his massive head at the broken glasses.

Carter found her voice. "Well, not entirely, sir. Their vehicles are in the parking lot, neither of them locked. And there are books and papers all over the ground."

"Dr. Jackson's?" the general asked though he already had his answer in the agony imprinted in her young face and the single raised eyebrow of the Jaffa behind her.

"Yes, sir. It's all of the background research and exponential information he organized from our recent visit to PX2-339. He was going to see if he could gather enough data to extrapolate…"

"Yes, Captain," the general interrupted her gently, knowing she was trying to beat her fear down with scientific jargon and wanting to spare her the effort. "I assume someone has tried to raise them at home?" Twin nods from the two in the doorway. "On cellular?" Another matched set of nods. "Checked out the on site crash rooms?"

He didn't wait for the choreography of assent, instead punched the intercom button on his phone. "Security," he barked at the machine. "I want an all system APB put out on Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Jackson. I want to be notified the moment they are located."

***

An anonymous set of khakis stumbled through the door, right hand clutching the jamb as he struggled to drag something into the room. O'Neill needed to see no more than the brown stain across his knuckles. He'd seen too much blood on too many people he cared about. Crimson had stained his heart too many times. He had time for only the thought: not this one, not Daniel.

The man adjusted his burden then hauled a semi-conscious Daniel Jackson into the room, his face looking somehow blank with the glasses gone, blood streaking down the side of his head, the right eye already on its way to black and blue. A second younger man followed, one arm wrapped around the scientist's limp body, supporting him against the pull of gravity threatening to take them all to the floor. O'Neill blinked at the sight, his military mind already searching through files to place where he had seen the young thug before while the rest of his attention was captured by the distressing sight of his friend.

As if by prearranged signal, they dumped Daniel onto his knees in front of Santos, the younger goon grabbing a fistful of unruly hair and forcing the prisoner's head up to meet Santos' expressionless face.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jack felt his right hand start to reach out. He barely aborted the gesture in time for it to go unnoticed. Like any other predator, Santos fed on weakness. He obviously already knew Daniel was one of O'Neill's soft spots or he wouldn't have taken the scientist. Allowing himself enough leeway to wrap his hand around one of the bars, Jack let years of experience transform his face into a neutral mask.

Santos didn't seem to notice any reaction from the caged man; instead, he rose to his feet and let his gaze shift over the bruised and bloodied face of his young pawn. A smile, the merest twitch of his lips, touched his face, and he reached out with one hand. The smile broadened as Daniel instinctively flinched and closed his eyes, his body tensing against the expected blow. It never came. Instead Santos traced his forefinger down the line of Daniel's cheekbone then to his chin, smearing blood over the ashen features.

Daniel's breathing had taken on a harsh rasp as he tried to drag in air through a mouthful of blood.

"You know how it goes, Jack," Santos said casually, his eyes never leaving Daniel's face. "It starts out slow. A little bruising, a little blood. And you're going to like this one, Jack. It isn't going to cost you a moment of pain."

Blood was drooling out of the side of Daniel's mouth when Santos brought his attention back to the kneeling man. He tapped the riding crop against his boot, an insistent rhythm of anticipation.

"How are you going to feel, Daniel, if friend Jack let's you take his share of the pain?"

Jack saw Daniel draw in as much breath as his position and pain allowed, knew what he was going to do scant seconds before it happened, had only long enough to say, "Don't, Daniel..." before Jackson spat the mouthful of blood he hadn't been able to swallow at Santos.

Even before the crimson gore hit his uniform, Santos slashed the riding crop across Daniel's face with enough force to break the hold of his captors and slam Jackson onto his side on the floor. Santos wasn't done yet, though.

Daniel never had the chance to try to right himself before the crop came down a second time, this time on his shoulder, shredding the material of his shirt, leaving behind a stripe of red. Unable to defend himself in any way with his hands cuffed behind him, Daniel could do no more than try to twist away from the whip's path. The effort turned him partly onto his back. The whip whistled again, this time leaving the mark of its passing in a long, bloody line across the heaving chest.

There was nothing Jack could do but watch helplessly as Santos laid on three more lashes, tearing paths through both shirt and skin. Only when Daniel sobbed out a, "Pl-pl-please..." did the whipping stop.

Santos was breathing even more harshly than his victim was as he made a show of examining the bloody leather of the crop. He ran thumb and forefinger down the length of the leather then flicked them free of blood and pinned Jack O'Neill with his ebony gaze.

"How long do you think he's going to last, O'Neill? I know we never quite managed to break you ten years ago, but somehow I don't think it's going to be so much of a challenge with your young friend here."

"When are you gonna get around to telling me what you want, Santos? It's hard to play the game if I don't know the rules." There was a faint touch of something in his own voice that caught Jack off guard, a vulnerability Santos was not about to miss.

Distraction. There had to be something to keep Santos' attention pegged on O'Neill and off the defenseless man at his feet. Memory kicked in. Mental files woke. "I didn't know you were a big fan of nepotism, Santos."

A smile twisted Santos' mouth as if the expression was one which had somehow gotten lost. He nodded toward the younger man who was poking experimentally at the curled up body with his metal tipped boot. "How nice, O'Neill. See, Tony, I told you we were working with a pro here. He doesn't forget his friends... or his enemies."

Tony looked up. Oh, yeah, O'Neill recognized Santos' idiot nephew all right, a definite product of inbreeding.

Bored suddenly with baiting his prisoner, Santos glanced at Daniel, who lay curled onto his side, knees drawn up in a vain attempt to fight the pain, blood seeping through the black tee shirt, dripping down his face, staining his hair into a false, unnatural shade of auburn. Santos nudged Daniel with a booted foot, eliciting no more than a weak moan.

As if wearied with bloodstained anthropologists or archeologists or whatever the hell the kid was, he nodded to the men standing ready for his orders.

Without a word, one of them squatted down, slipped a key into the handcuff lock, and opened them. He slipped the rust-tinted metal into his pocket.

"Put him in with Colonel O'Neill," Santos ordered, still watching Jack for any sign of reaction. "I'm sure they have a lot to talk about."

He didn't wait for the order to be carried out as he took one more swat at his boot with the crop and left.

***

The house was unremarkable. Its two-story ranch design had been popular in the '60's when spacious back yards and even bigger bedrooms ruled the suburban landscape. The dwellings on either side were the same model with the only differences being the color of their trim and stucco. Made with family living in mind, the house had nothing special to recommend it except its occupants. From their exteriors, the people who dwelled there were really no more remarkable than their neighbors, almost as if the whole tract had been cut from the same cloth. It was hard to tell where one family began and another ended.

***

"General Hammond!" Sam Carter burst into the office unannounced for the second time in as many hours, the same name spilling off her lips with urgency.

"Captain?" A rebuke died on the general's lips as he realized who had disturbed his peace. The young captain was going through agonies enough without being reprimanded for petty protocol.

"We found this on our second sweep of the car park." Carter placed a small metallic object on the general's desk pad. "Dr. Fraiser is double-checking, but she's fairly confident it was used to administer a fast-acting anesthetic."

Hammond picked up the small dart, taking care to not to catch his skin on the sharp point. The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach hardened into cold dread.

Carter took a breath. "It also has Daniel's blood on it, sir."

Hammond looked up at her pale face and ran his fingers over his bald head. Daniel Jackson. Ever since the young man had come through the 'gate smelling strongly of goat and making outrageous demands, he had caused the general to lose sleep. He was a brilliant man whose value to the SGC was probably immeasurable and yet who seemed to walk into trouble the moment he stepped out of bed. Not that workaholic Jackson spent much time in bed. He was usually to be found in one of the SGC labs or scurrying through the corridors. Or, one of his favorite pastimes, or so it seemed to Hammond, wandering unannounced into the general's office to regale him with some long-winded and totally incomprehensible tale about his latest find and its importance to the future of mankind. Problem was more often than not, once Hammond had sifted through the over-excited babble, he found Jackson was right.

The scientist should have irritated the hell out of him. The plain fact was, Hammond found he'd come to honestly like Daniel Jackson, an attachment which surprised him even now. It was hard not to with all that hope for humanity filling him. Who could have guessed from their inauspicious beginning the almost paternal fondness he'd developed for the boy?

Except, Daniel was no boy. He was an adult with the faith and trust of a child. That was part of what made him so special. No one seemed immune to those blue eyes as they pleaded for you to do the right thing. Not Hammond. Not his teammates and especially not Jack O'Neill. No one could ignore it except the evil souls who found Daniel an impediment to their personal agendas or as a means to attain them. Hammond frowned, wondering which type had him now and how were they using that against O'Neill.

Hammond turned the dart over in his fingers as though inspecting it thoroughly would somehow help him release its secret. It made no sense. Jackson had managed to tick off just about every Goa'uld he had come into contact with, but they were all safely on the other side of the Stargate. Who on Earth, the unwitting pun struck Hammond, but he finished the thought anyway, would want to abduct Daniel?

He didn't realize he had spoken out loud until Carter answered him. "I don't know, sir. I mean Daniel didn't exactly make a lot of friends in academia, but I can't imagine any of his old professors taking pot shots at him with a knockout dart. However..."

"However, Jack O'Neill has made plenty of enemies," Hammond finished the sentence for her.

"Yes, sir." Carter's blue eyes flickered with emotional pain. Her loyalty to her teammates was absolute, a fact which caused Hammond to keep a close eye on the team's off-duty time. A romantic entanglement within SG-1 was a nightmare he could live without. His thoughts quickly snapped back to O'Neill.

"Well, it would seem whoever snatched the colonel and Dr. Jackson right out from under our noses did it without witnesses. Which means a professional. Jackson may be an easy target, but taking O'Neill down..."

"Unless they already had Daniel, sir." Carter's eyes widened in horror at the implication. If O'Neill was having a run-in with a ghost from his past, his options were going to be severely hampered if he had to protect Daniel at the same time. Carter had a lot of respect for Daniel Jackson's bravery and courage, but when push came to shove, the guy was a civilian, and a civilian who believed you could always talk your way out of a situation at that.

Hammond carefully handed the dart back to Carter, her words sending a chill down his spine. "Get back to the doctor, and see if she's identified the drug. It might give us a lead." As Carter did a smart about turn, Hammond slid open the drawer of his filing cabinet and pulled out a thick manila file neatly labeled Jonathan O'Neill. Settling back into his chair, he buried himself in his officer's history, hoping somewhere in the pages of precise reports there would be a clue to this nightmare.

***

Even if there had been the smallest chance a surprise rush might take out either of the guards as they dumped a semi-conscious Daniel just inside the cell door, Jack tamped down the urge to try. The less emotional the response he gave them, the greater the chance Daniel wouldn't seem quite so perfect as a target. A tiny part of his mind sent a post-it note: Duh! That's exactly WHY they chose Daniel. He's the perfect pawn to sacrifice in whatever scheme Santos is running now. It was no accident they chose the young anthropologist slash archaeologist slash linguist; hell, how many PhD's did the little geek have? It was hard to think of Daniel in terms of eccentric genius now that he had become the slightly clumsy, too impulsive kid brother who kept outrunning his leash and cheerfully dragging the entire team into trouble with him.

Jack didn't even look at him until the gate clanged shut and the exit door closed. He had to haul in a deep breath before he could force his feet to make the long trip across the short distance separating them. His legs wobbled, and he sank to his knees next to Daniel before they could give out on him completely. Daniel lay curled in almost a fetal position, his entire body gripped by tremors of shock and pain. Jack reached out tentatively for him, trying to find a spot which hadn't been bruised or lashed. He settled for a shoulder.

The reactive flinch he was expecting came followed by a plaintive, "Jack?"

"Yes." The response seemed totally inadequate, but it was all O'Neill could do to force the word from his mouth. He looked away from the shivering body, choking down the emotion threatening him, and spotted the shabby mattress. He removed his hand from Daniel's shoulder, intent on retrieving the mattress.

A hand snaked out and grabbed his arm. "Jack, don't leave me!"

Emotion like a knife in his gut. Where the hell did the kid think he was going to go? "It's okay, Daniel. Just gonna make you more comfortable." Comfortable! The word screamed in mockery at him. Daniel had just been beaten and whipped thanks to him. And he was talking about making him comfortable.

Jack made his trembling legs move. Snagging the mattress, he unrolled it next to Daniel. It looked damp and filthy, but at least it was better than the cold floor. Daniel was nearly a dead weight as Jack manhandled him onto the mattress, tricking O'Neill into thinking the man had finally let go of consciousness which left him totally unprepared when Daniel unwound from his curl and wrapped his arms around him. Startled, Jack almost pushed him away. He countered the impulse and carefully wound his arms around the trembling body, easing back onto his heels and pulling Daniel snug against his shoulder.

"Why?" Daniel breathed the question against Jack's body.

That was just like Daniel. Asking questions. Never, ever running out of questions. Especially the ones which had no answers.

Jack tried to dredge up some sort of reassurance but had to settle for, "I don't know. Not really. There's... a history. He wants something, and he knows I won't give it to him."

Daniel pulled back just enough to get a murky, foreshortened picture of Jack's face, the image blurred without his glasses. He tried to push away even more, tried to support his own weight without leaning on his teammate; the tiny flare of energy washed away on a tide of exhaustion and pain. Jack used the effort to force Daniel back onto the mattress. When the younger man tried to counter the movement, Jack pinned him with one hand and used the other to shrug out of his jacket. Awkward with only one hand available to him, he got the jacket off and gently tucked it around Daniel's shivering form.

Stubborn to the last, Daniel attempted to force his body upright again. The effort was short-circuited when a harsh cough spasmed through him, snatching away his air, arching his back. He sobbed through the racking cough, wide blue eyes beseeching Jack for help he couldn't give.

It finally released him, and he melted down to the mattress, pale and gasping for air which wouldn't come. He met Jack's eyes, the 'why' lingering unspoken, hanging between them. "Tell me. Tell me how you know him."

"It's a long story." Jack tried to hide his reluctance. A long, ugly story was more the truth.

"Not going... anywhere." A hint of a smile flitted over Daniel's face as he caught O'Neill's startled look. Sometimes Jack forgot he wasn't a kid. Forgot that he'd been at his side fighting Ra. That he'd seen more trouble and experienced more action than your average thirty-four-year-old academic.

Jack pulled the bucket of water over and dipped his bandanna in it before starting to work on washing some of the blood off Daniel's face, concerned mostly about the line of gore marking the passage of Santos' whip.

Somehow the image of Dr. Daniel Jackson didn't mesh with battle scars imprinted into this impossibly young face. Daniel carried his innocence right out there on his face, emotions riding across his features, painting his expressions with a heavy hand. He was going to be helpless in Santos' hands, and there wasn't one damn thing Jack could do about it. Santos didn't make mistakes. He didn't allow escapes. Except maybe the escape found in an agonizing death when he was done entertaining himself.

When he spoke, Jack's voice was low, emotionless. "It was a mission ten years ago. Bad mission. Everything that could went wrong. I ended up in a cell not unlike this one--a guest of Senor Santos."

The memory hit Jack's mind with the force of a tidal wave. Four hours. That had been Santos' M.O. in Guatemala those many years ago. Apply the torture then allow a respite of four hours, and then start part two after the body had enough time to try to shake off the indignities which had been inflicted on it. Just enough of a healing pause to gentle down the abraded nerve endings. Just enough that the awakening of those same nerve endings would cause the most pain. Torture. Rest. Torture. Rest. An unending seesaw which broke men, shattered their minds, drove them to crippling humiliation. Unremitting pain had its own fail-safe mechanism built in. The body simply absorbed all it could tolerate before shutting down as if there was a reservoir of pain that would 'fit', and once the boundaries were breached, it would no longer accept any more. Cheating the reservoir had been Santos' method then, and Jack was sure it would be the same now.

That left four hours before Daniel was dragged out of the cell for another little session with the master sadist.

Four hours that would only make the new pain harsher, more terrible, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His hands operated on autopilot, clearing blood, exposing shredded skin while memories and imagination assaulted him, 'could be's more terrible than reality.

Daniel stirred beneath his hands, wincing at the touch of cloth to torn skin, trying feebly to push away the intruding hands.

"Be still, Daniel."

"Got... got... gotta... know."

"Shhh, Danny, lie still. Don't try to talk."

Even as he said it, he knew it was hopeless. Daniel Jackson not talking was a physical anomaly. He would probably still be arguing when they all were weeping silently around his graveside.

"Why?" Another ragged breath. "Why now?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know. Really, I don't. He hasn't said." Jack drew in a deep breath. "He likes to play games. That's why..." The silence stretched until Jack finally said the one thing he couldn't hide from Daniel. "That's why he took you."

Daniel closed his eyes, absorbing the statement, understanding his role in this sick play as it crept slowly through the pain. His hand closed around Jack's arm again. "Could've been worse," he whispered. "Could've been Sara."

Damn it, Daniel. Don't you ever think of yourself first? What are you, some kind of Mother Teresa wannabe? Unable to speak, O'Neill returned his energy to washing Daniel's face, the water in the bucket now a stomach churning dirty pink.

"Jack?"

"What?"

"You got out…right? Back then?"

"Yeah. I got out." O'Neill shoved the memory of three months in a military hospital back into the dark corner of his mind where it belonged.

Blue eyes held his. Total trust in them. A heavy sigh of relief which turned into another cough. A gasp for breath.

"'S'okay, then Jack, 's'okay." Daniel melted into the offered haven of Jack's arms and lay his head on the colonel's chest, drawing comfort from the steady beat of his heart.

Oh God, Danny, it'll never be okay again. You don't understand. You won't ever understand, and I can't save you from your own innocence no matter how hard I try.

The words lodged in his throat, one breath shy of being spoken aloud. He couldn't say them, couldn't let Daniel give up hope. He simply rocked back on his heels, Daniel safe for the moment within the circle of his arms.

***

"You get your butts out here or the taxi leaves without you!"

The standing threat had been levied for nearly seventeen years with the same, predictable result--high pitched laughter from two teenage girls who were otherwise occupied with wrestling book bags, purses, and whatever other paraphernalia went with being fifteen and seventeen years old. All the necessary trappings for up-to-date young ladies on the go.

Every morning it was the same. Robert Sigmon, scientist, philanthropist, father, ferried his daughters to school, barely missing the tardy bell on his way to his high-level security job at the euphemistically dubbed 'plant'.

If either Heather or Amber knew what their father did behind those sterile walls after he passed the retinal screen barricade, they dismissed it as just what Daddy did when he wasn't with the family.

Daddy. He smiled, a little sad, a little bittersweet. Even as sophisticated teenagers, his girls still called him Daddy. Enjoy it, Robert…damn, he hated his name. All too soon it was going to change, and they would be too grown up to use the term of endearment. He'd become 'father' or 'dad' or whatever was the current acceptable term. Right now, he would just enjoy being Daddy.

Hell, even the frantic launch from the house every school morning would soon end when Heather finally had enough saved in three months to buy her dream car--a 1985 Chevy Cavalier, cherry red. Money culled from her after school job at the local Mickey D's would put her behind the wheel of the used car. It wasn't as though her father couldn't afford to put wheels beneath his older daughter. It simply was a life lesson, one which Rob Sigmon had carried over from his own childhood. A legacy of earning your way through life he intended to pass down to his children.

"Hon, don't forget to pick up the wine!" Lisa Sigmon's voice wafted its way out from the kitchen. "We have the Sandersons coming over tonight for dinner, and you know how Zack likes his wine."

"Got it," her husband tossed back as he trailed his two daughters out the door.

It'll be kind of nice, he thought, absently fingering through his pocket to be sure his keys were still there--no absent minded professor jokes this morning--the girls will be gone, Heather to her job, Amber spending the night with one of her friends. And the pleasure of good company and a too-fattening meal topped off with a bottle of good wine.

He was definitely looking forward to tonight.

***

Hammond studied the list he'd compiled. Six names. Six killers, all with reasons to want O'Neill dead. It was time to pull in a favor. Flicking through his address book, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Graham? It's George. George Hammond."

"George, how're you doing? Been a while."

"I'm fine. And yourself?" Hammond listened patiently to the quick history before continuing. "Listen, I need a favor. I need you to check out some people for me. Tell me if they're active and in the country." Another pause, a brief comment and then the list.

The voice at the other end repeated back the names. "No problem, George. I'll get back to you in a day or two."

"No!" Hammond's reply was sharper than he intended. "I need you to do it now. We've got a bit of an incident here."

"Incident?"

Hammond sighed but decided to come clean. He'd trusted Graham with his life on at least two occasions. He could certainly trust him now, and if he knew the situation he would be that much more motivated. "Two of my men have been snatched. Colonel O'Neill and a civilian scientist."

"Jack O'Neill?"

"You know him?"

"Oh yeah. Jack and I go way back. Plays a mean game of hockey. Gee..." There was a pause. "And you think one of these guys has him?" The voice had a tinge of anxiety to it now. "George, these guys are professional mercenaries. If they've snatched O'Neill, chances are he's already..."

"I need the info, Graham." Hammond cut off the sentence before the other could voice the one fear he didn't want to admit to. "Fast as you can do it."

"I'll be right back at ya. Give me an hour. Maybe two."

***

As the far door opened, Daniel instinctively pulled himself into an even smaller ball in the corner of the cell where he had huddled through the few hours of seesawing sleep and wakefulness. Jack sensed the restive movement but didn't risk looking over at the tightly curled body.

The image of Daniel cocooned inside O'Neill's fatigue jacket was indelibly burned into his mind--the ashen face was deathly white beneath the bruises and whip mark, the life in his eyes now dulled by constant pain and overwhelming fear. O'Neill was afraid he was losing him already, emotionally if not yet physically. There was a whisper of fabric against fabric. O'Neill pictured the movement in his mind. Daniel had pulled the jacket closer around his battered frame, clutching it to his chest as though it was a lifeline. Jack let out a barely audible breath. It was his lifeline. The only thing in this nightmare the young scientist could still hold onto. The only thing which could afford him any comfort.

Unlike its owner. There was no solace to be gleaned for Jack O'Neill. Not until this sickening game had run its course and they were either free or dead.

Santos.

Jack's gaze fell on their tormentor as the man entered the room. Soon, Jack promised himself. Soon he was going to take the man apart inch by inch, paying him back for everything he'd inflicted on... O'Neill clamped down on the thought. Not now. He couldn't handle thinking about Daniel now. Couldn't think about what was to come. Somehow he had to distance himself.

"Good morning, gentlemen." Santos' cheerfulness ground the hatred deeper into O'Neill's soul. "I realize it's dark in here and hard to tell what time of day it is, but I assure you it is morning."

Behind Santos, O'Neill caught a glimpse of a black box on a small rolling table being dragged into the room by two of the heartless idiots who gave their questionable loyalty to Santos. In fact, now that the light was a fraction of a bit better, Jack recognized one of them by the smell of dirty musk cologne. It had been years since he'd run afoul of the muscular behemoth who went by the single name of Grant. The asshole made up for his lack of intelligence by brutality. Grant was the last man O'Neill wanted putting his hands on his sometimes distressingly naïve teammate.

Silently Santos tried to direct Jack's attention to the unmarked metal box by a shift of his own gaze.

Don't look. Don't play the game. Instead he forced himself to play the other game. The one he was good at: the smart mouthed cocky colonel game.

"We're just fine," he said, stunned the words didn't stick in his throat. "Although an extra mattress wouldn't be a bad idea. And, Miguel, you really should talk to your cook. You know I like my eggs sunny side up."

Santos rewarded O'Neill's strained wit with a cool smile then pointedly looked past the colonel at the hunched figure in the cell corner. "And you, Dr. Jackson? Appreciating your cellmate's humor?"

Prying his uncooperative body into a sitting position, Daniel looked up at Santos, not knowing what he was supposed to say or do. Funny, he was a student of human culture. He was supposed to understand people in all their vagaries. But nothing he had studied had prepared him to deal with this: the very darkest side of humanity.

Realizing he wasn't going to get a rise out of Jackson this way, Santos returned his attention to Jack. "You know I like you, O'Neill. Always did find your attempts at bravado to be.... entertaining."

Satisfied he finally had the colonel's attention, Santos strolled back to the center of the room and leisurely circled the table holding the black box. "But you know me, Jack," he continued, "I find other forms of entertainment far more enjoyable." He was back at the cell, crouching down towards Daniel's corner. "What do you say, Danny boy? Ready for act two of our little comedy?"

Daniel's eyes held Santos' for a long moment before he spoke, his voice low and controlled. "My name is Daniel."

Santos studied the bruised face carefully before standing. This kid was full of surprises. In response, he merely nodded his head to summon the waiting goons. "Bring Daniel out. It's time to play."

***

If there was a part of his job Rob Sigmon hated, it was the constant begging, bribing, and borrowing--the three 'b's as it was affectionately termed--to funnel in enough funding to keep the project afloat.

That Sigmon's team was within a hair's breadth of concocting an effective cure for some of the world's most virulent diseases always seemed to come in as a poor second to the political machinations of the funding process.

It had gone from the ridiculous to the sublime.

Here they were, practically assuring the human race could potentially double its life span, and the lab boys were having to bring in their own coffee and creamer because there was no longer enough money to support a petty cash slush fund.

It tickled Rob's sometimes acerbic slant on the world. Sorry, boys, but we can't come up with a cure for cancer or stroke because the money ran out, and we can't afford coffee, much less the equipment or supplies we need.

His eye pressed to the lens of an electron microscope, Rob strained to recognize the latest strain of the very unstable concoction he was currently supposed to be studying.

The view wavered, dimmed, blurred.

He pulled away, wriggled his nose so his glasses dropped lower and scrubbed a hand across bloodshot eyes. He was tired. He was irritated. He needed a caffeine fix, and the only thing available was some generic instant. Rob wasn't a snob by any means, but one thing he held as non-negotiable. His coffee was fresh ground Colombian.

Doesn't seem like too much of a character flaw, he mused with a half smile.

With a sigh, he fingered the glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and buried his head in research again because, after all, coffee or no coffee, budget cuts aside, this project just might prove to be the most important step mankind had ever taken in finding a cure for cancer.

***

All it had taken was a gun pointed at Daniel's right knee.

Jack knew good and well Santos wasn't going to kill Daniel at this point, not until he was no longer useful as a pawn tailor-made to force Jack to cooperate whenever Santos deemed it the right time to tell him whatever the hell he wanted cooperation for. For his part, Santos wasn't going to insult O'Neill's intelligence by threatening an early--and easy--death for his hostage.

For that reason, the gun was aimed to cripple but not to kill.

And there was not a shred of doubt in either man's mind the maiming would take place if Jack took one step to prevent Daniel's removal from the cell.

Jack had no choice but to move aside and let Grant and his mean-looking counterpart haul the younger man out. A single, fear-painted glance at Jack was all the concession Daniel allowed himself. It was enough, though, to rip another tear through O'Neill's soul.

Trying desperately to ignore the jolts of pain spearing through him at each panicked effort to shake off the two men who were forcing him toward the wooden table in the center of the room, Daniel tried to get his breathing under control. The sight of his fear wouldn't help Jack stay strong so Daniel tried to bury it inside him.

The lash-shredded tee shirt was the first victim. Grant tore it off the struggling body, taking skin and crusted blood with it. Together the two men lifted Daniel and slammed him onto the tabletop.

"Why are you doing this?" Daniel demanded as he was pinned down while Grant retrieved lengths of rope and strapped his arms and legs, spread-eagling him securely to the freezing surface. He squirmed under their grip, ignoring the pain snaking up his back and shoulders, trying to get a good look at Santos. "Why?" he repeated, angry with himself for even lodging that much of a complaint. Knowing questioning them only served to underline his terror but too afraid to fight the desperate impulse, Daniel took refuge in bold words. "Jack won't tell you anything. You won't break him by killing me!"

Santos responded by pushing the black box on its rolling shelf closer to the table.

Helpless curiosity sparked by dread forced Daniel to demand, "What the hell is that anyway?"

Santos ignored the question, picking up instead on Daniel's previous comment. "I have no intention of killing you, Daniel, not deliberately anyway. There are some things much worse than dying. Ask your friend, the colonel, here. Isn't that right, Jack?"

Daniel swallowed down a lump of fear as one of the goons picked up a roll of insulating tape and a coil of wire. A very unpleasant thought began to swim through the murky surface of his mind.

The predator in Santos recognized the flicker of understanding, and he pounced on it even before Daniel was aware of it himself. He took the wire from his henchman and moved to Daniel's side. Almost tenderly he began to spiral it around Daniel's outstretched forearm. "Are you getting the picture now, Jack? 'Cause I think Danny boy here has just realized."

Horrified understanding assaulted Daniel's mind. Instinctively, he tried to jerk his arm away, but the restraints and Santos' icy grip held him fast. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a long breath as the fear threatened to overwhelm him. With terrible clarity, he could feel the cool metal twisting around his skin, tracking higher and higher up his arm

Dear God, he's going to electrocute me!

Memories of Ra and Klorel leapt into his head: Goa'uld ribbon devices imprisoning him in a glow of agony. A desperate sob whispered out of him. With the release of the panicked breath, he turned his head just enough to see Jack. The colonel's face was wiped clean of any kind of emotion or response, but the knuckles of his hands where they were fisted around the cell bars were pure white. A half-begun plea for mercy died on Daniel's lips as he tried to swallow the choking terror back for his friend's sake.

Well aware of the by-play of fear telegraphed and strength given, Santos taped the wire to Daniel's arm with elaborate care and tossed the reel to Grant. In comparison to Santos' version of wiring up the scientist, Grant was rough and fast. Moving to Daniel's lower body, he quickly shucked off boots and socks, tossing them carelessly against the far wall. With one violent tug, he ripped Daniel's left pant leg to the knee. Ever the connoisseur of the more sadistic sides of the 'business' Grant let his hand trail up from Daniel's tethered ankle to the knee, his touch feather light against the skin. The gesture, accompanied by a purely feral smile, sent shivers of revulsion through Daniel. More wire spiraled around his calf, its cold metallic bite harsh against bare skin.

Thug number two shoved the black box closer. As Daniel watched in morbid fascination, the two men connected the wires to two terminals on the box. Suddenly and irrevocably, he couldn't breathe. A wash of dizziness sent the room into a wild lurch. He clenched his fists and shivered against cold sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. On a moment of horror, he suddenly realized he was going to be sick. Turning his head as best as he could in the restraints, he vomited. His stomach, empty thanks to Santos' lack of hospitality, heaved painfully as waves of nausea flooded through him, his naked chest convulsing in a futile attempt to draw air into starving lungs.

"Daniel, Daniel," Santos mocked. "I'd come to expect more of you."

Embarrassment and shame threw a scarlet stain across Daniel's otherwise colorless face as he gasped for breath. He fought to keep his head turned away from O'Neill, never recognizing how much satisfaction this tiny, symbolic denial gave Santos. The mercenary had quickly realized Jackson drew much of his strength from the colonel. If he could drive a wedge between them, it would hasten the man's breakdown and in turn push O'Neill closer to the edge. If Jackson, himself, mortared the wedge into place so much the better.

"Tell me what you want you sick son of a bitch."

Feigning surprise, Santos made an elaborate gesture of turning to stare blankly at Jack as if the snarled demand came totally unexpectedly.

He stepped closer to the cell, still out of reach but near enough to taunt. "All in good time, Jack," he said. "I'm just giving you some time and incentive." He glanced back at the table, saw Grant brush sweat-matted hair away from Daniel's face, watched Daniel try unsuccessfully to pull away from the unwelcome intimacy, then met O'Neill's eyes. It was all there. The reason Miguel Santos would prevail and Jonathan O'Neill would lose this particular battle of wills.

Santos didn't give a damn about anyone or anything except the highest bidder.

O'Neill? It radiated out of his eyes. Too many years in too many wars had taken a toll on the colonel of course. But it had never quite managed to extinguish his spark of humanity.

That difference would cost him this war.

***

Lisa Sigmon wasn't beautiful. In fact, as a young woman, she had never been more than slightly attractive.

It had haunted her when she was younger, but with the passage of time, it had lost its edge. An older sister who was both popular and beautiful had left Lisa shy and private. She poured all her adolescent tragedy into the pages of her diaries, purging herself without even realizing she was doing it.

Now Melinda, her sister, was a bitter, gaunt woman, the victim of two disastrous marriages, and a lifetime of unearned attention which left her unprepared for any other way. Drugs and alcohol had drained her personality. Her hair had grayed, her face had eroded into a highway of wrinkles which stole beauty away. Lisa was too kind to indulge in an "I told you so" attitude, but every once in a while, even though she chided herself for a self-perceived lack of compassion, she was really glad she wasn't Melinda.

Her plainness in youth had given way to a refined, quiet handsomeness in maturity which served her well in her role as the wife of a highly skilled scientific genius who was firmly on the cutting edge of his field. Lisa fit in at cocktail parties. She was intelligent and gregarious; she blended in at PTA meetings. She was a good mother, an excellent and gracious hostess, and above and beyond all those wifely virtues, she truly loved her husband.

Married over twenty years now, she and Rob had long ago settled into a comfortable acceptance of each other. They had disagreements, but they passed quickly. The old, 'you'll finish my sentences for me' ease and familiarity of a long-term relationship had long ago become a truism for them.

Her two daughters had bypassed their mother's genes and commandeered a fresh set from their Aunt Melinda. Heather and Amber, Rob often teased Lisa about picking yuppie names, were beautiful. And it wasn't as though she only looked at them through a mother's eyes either. They were beautiful; Lisa and Rob were both unapologetically proud of them. In fact, in their little corner of suburban America, the Sigmons were the ideal family--freshly cut lawns in front of a well kept, tastefully appointed house, two cars in the garage, one dog and one cat and the occasional goldfish until the inevitable burial at sea in the downstairs toilet. The only off note was they had two children rather than the acceptable two point five.

***

Santos was virtually purring as he savored the young archeologist's distress.

"He makes a good toy, O'Neill. I think Mr. Grant approves."

Santos glanced over at Grant who stood at the head of the table the index finger of one huge hand tracing an invisible line down Daniel's neck to his shoulder, thoroughly enjoying the reactive shudder rippling through the young man's entire body at the unwelcome intimacy.

Jack shut off the thought. Right now he couldn't deal with even considering Grant's eclectic appetites. He waited out Santos.

"I can see why he's gotten past those barriers you put up after your son died, Jack. But, tell me…what appeals to you most? No, no, let me guess. His innocence. The fact he isn't a hard-nosed cynic like you. Ironic, isn't it? You'll be responsible for robbing him of that." Santos' already ebony eyes darkened still another shade. "I assure you, O'Neill, when we're done here, there won't be the faintest hint of innocence left in your young friend."

Without waiting for a response he knew wasn't coming, Santos nodded his head at Grant who ceased his unwanted touch and flicked a switch on the innocuous looking black box. An ominous humming rumbled through the room.

Jack, unable to watch, unable to turn away, saw Daniel twitch as though he'd been hit by static electricity. He could almost see low voltage tingle along the pale skin. Daniel struggled harder for air.

Santos brought his gaze back to the caged man. "Don't make me do this, Jack."

"How the hell can I stop you?" O'Neill protested, hating the faint tinge of fear in his own voice, knowing Santos would drink it in like a narcotic. "I don't even know what you want."

"Yes," Santos agreed with a smile. "Adds to the suspense, don't you think?"

A half-swallowed whimper from Daniel almost made Jack look away, but he kept his eyes locked on Santos by a sheer effort of will. "When do you think you might get around to telling me?"

Santos seemed to consider it then with a shrug said, "When I'm ready. In the meantime, you could stop this with a single word. All you have to do is beg, Jack. And Danny, here, gets up off this table and back in there with you."

"Go to hell."

A nod of Santos' head, and Jack heard Daniel draw in a sharp breath as the power increased.

"You are doing this to him. You do realize that don't you?" Santos spoke over the harsh breathing as Daniel tried to fight his way through the pain.

"I'm not doing a damn thing. That won't wash, Santos. You know it, and Daniel knows it."

"You're denying responsibility, Jack?" Santos did a good imitation of disbelief. "Sorry but I think you are responsible. You have the control here. One word from you and your puppy goes free." Now Santos moved to the box and took Grant's position beside it. Long, slender fingers rested over the dial. He looked directly at O'Neill and turned the power a degree higher. Daniel groaned, twisting within his bonds, unable to find relief as the current surged painfully through his corded muscles.

"Nothing to say, O'Neill?" Santos kept up the taunt. "You do realize your silence means you are giving me permission to do this."

Another twist of the dial. Daniel's back arched away from the table, his arms and legs locking into rigid lines as agony coursed through his defenseless body. His head was slammed back against the surface of the table, a strangled cry spilling out of him, a mere shadow of the scream which wouldn't come.

O'Neill forced himself to breathe. "I am not giving you permission for anything."

"Silence equals consent," Santos retorted. He twisted the dial another click. Daniel's body contorted in pain, the ropes cutting into his wrists and ankles as raw energy tore mercilessly through him.

Abruptly, he went limp.

A moment of unbearable, unrelieved silence then Santos twisted the dial all the way back, cutting off the pulsating hum of the machine.

Sparing only a cursory glance for the unconscious man, Santos offered Jack a morsel. "Think back, O'Neill. Try Eastern Europe. Try ten years ago. If you really think hard about it, you'll be able to figure out what I want from you. Perhaps a hint? Try science…"

He waited for an answer, but Jack's eyes were riveted on the unconscious body stretched across the table. Daniel's hair hung lank and sweat-matted to his ashen face, tears still sliding down his face. His chest and ribs barely rose and fell with shallow breaths. Santos looked at Grant. "Bring him around."

An acrid odor bit the air as Grant broke a net-covered tube and shoved it under Daniel's nose. It took nearly a full minute before Daniel reacted. Then, his eyes opened and a long, low moan was pulled from deep within him.

"Welcome back, Daniel," Santos cooed. He smoothed sweat-soaked hair away from the ashen forehead. O'Neill would almost swear there was a genuine tenderness in the gesture and expression on the sick bastard's face. That terrible, diseased bond which inevitably developed between torturer and victim. He'd seen it more times than he cared to remember.

But when Santos again shifted his eyes to O'Neill, there was only cruelty to be read in their inky depths.

"Perhaps we should make a wager, O'Neill? How many times do you think your puppy can fetch this particular stick?" He took the single step to the machine, turned the dial and filled the room once again with the deadly mechanical hum and the tortured moan ripping from Daniel's throat.

Somehow O'Neill remained on his feet, defying his knees to buckle. The grotesque scene was rewound and replayed just for his own private viewing a second, then a third time. Each time, it took longer to revive Daniel for the next round. The fourth time seemed longer, more unendurable, Jack's pain as real and as vivid as Daniel's.

Santos hesitated, then pulled his hand away from the switch, and pressed it to Daniel's diaphragm. A moment's uncertainty broke through the expressionless mask he inflicted on the world. Grant broke another tube of ammonia and held it to the lax face. No response. He shrugged at Santos.

Oh, Jesus. It had been a long time since Jack O'Neill had prayed, really prayed. Oh, Jesus, his mind repeated, the effort carrying all the weight of a litany.

Santos snatched a second ampoule and crunched it between his fingers, pressing it to Daniel's face with no effect. He leaned down, pinching the scientist's nose as he blew air into his mouth. Jackson's chest rose and fell with the false breath. Another puff. Rise and fall. On the third try, Daniel gasped and arched up on the table, dragging breath desperately into starved lungs.

When he dared to try to open his eyes, Daniel found only the blur of Santos' face inches from his own. A thought fled into his mind, battering at his senses, holding him hostage to it - this man could stop the pain. "P-please," he breathed. The rest of it came as a whisper. "No... m-m-more."

Santos straightened. He wore his victory in his face. "He says he's had enough, Jack. What do you think?"

Even in the close confines of the small room, Santos had to strain to hear the answer. "I'll see you in hell you sadistic son of a bitch if I have to drag you there myself."

"Wrong answer."

And it started all over again.

***

"Captain Carter."

Sam interpreted Teal'c saying her name as an invitation to enter his candlelit bunkroom. She met his calm gaze, noting the tension around his jaw which spoke volumes about his worry for their missing teammates. "There's no word yet on where they are," Sam told him, knowing he'd want to hear even though he hadn't asked. "Janet said the drug on the dart was just a maximum tranquilizer. Daniel and the colonel shouldn't have been harmed by it unless…"

"Daniel Jackson was allergic." Teal'c didn't blink, but his dark eyes softened with distress. So many things upset their friend's sensitive system.

"I'm not going to borrow trouble." Sam shook her head as if to dislodge the worry. "Janet thought it probably wouldn't hurt him."

"Then, it did not."

A tiny smile warmed Sam's features at the assurance. Teal'c's belief in the abilities of his teammates, the general, and the good doctor was unshakable, and she really needed a show of faith right now with hers fading. Her heart twisted at the thought. Daniel usually believed enough for them all.

"They will return to us. O'Neill can endure much, and Daniel Jackson does not yield."

Sam sighed. "I know, Teal'c. I know." She took a breath as if steadying her courage before blurting, "But how many times do they have to go through this kind of stuff before they break?"

"As much as fate requires. We will prevail."

The solidarity of his use of the word 'we' lifted Sam's spirits. She met his steadfast gaze, feeling his assurance calm her fears. Together or apart, SG-1 was a team. Somehow, some way, they'd find their missing friends and come through this whole.

***

This time it was harder for Jack to stand back in the corner of the small cell as Daniel was dragged closer to the barred door. Then, he decided to hell with stoicism.

There really wasn't any point to it. Santos knew good and well what he was doing and just how it was affecting O'Neill. Face it, Jack, he knew all along. That's why he took Daniel in the first place. The resident geek was in a lot of ways the weak link in SG-1.

When Grant and his cohort literally threw Daniel into the cell, Jack was there to catch him before he could hit the floor. He registered the smirk on Grant's face, the thin line of the man's lips, the cruel twist to his features--Grant was having a great time.

Daniel jerked in a mini-convulsion the minute Jack lowered him to the mattress. He bucked in Jack's arms as if the electrical charge was still coursing through him. A wheezing groan slipped out of him, and frothy saliva drooled from his parted lips. O'Neill's eyes caught sight of the vivid burn mark spiraling up Daniel's arm, and he swore softly to himself, knowing there was nothing he could do about that one or its twin which no doubt curled like an angry snake around the young man's leg.

When it seemed as though the spasms were calming, Jack turned his attention to cleaning Daniel up as best he could. He had no idea why he thought it was important they try to stay clean, just that it was the only comfort he could offer Daniel at the moment. Finally he wrapped his damp bandanna around the burn, hoping the relative coolness would bring at least some relief.

There was literally nothing else he could do for his friend. Not that it mattered right now. Jack was fairly sure Daniel had lapsed into unconsciousness, the jerking movement of his body just a nightmare echo of what he had been subjected to.

Suddenly, Jack felt old. Centuries old. Jaded. Daniel, in fact, wasn't that much younger than he was. Chronological age extended only so far, though, and then all bets were off. It didn't matter how old Daniel got; he would never be as old as Jack was.

There was an unbridgeable gap between them which would never be spanned. At least he hoped it wouldn't. Daniel was everything the SGC fought for, and Daniel might lose his innocence if they couldn't get out of here soon. Might lose his sense of wonder at the vast worlds around them. Daniel would dissect, analyze, compute... whatever the hell he did with his 'rocks.' But, through it all, he cherished each scrap of knowledge, each new find.

Enter a new race--what did Daniel do? He sashayed right up to them with his hand held out in friendship and a brilliant smile. Sometimes the alien returned the smile and accepted the handshake. Sometimes he tried to bite that hand off. But there Daniel was, ready to offer it again as soon as Janet Fraiser repaired his cuts and bruises and the occasional zat gun wound. Hell, the kid could probably find something salvageable in Santos.

As his hands fell idle, Jack ran over his options. It was still a depressingly short list. He had used the first four hour respite to check out the walls and test the bars. They were only going to get out of here if outside help knocked on the door. And Jack was certain there had been no clues left to what had really happened, certainly none that even hinted at where they were being held.

That left it up to O'Neill to get them out of here.

It was almost funny. Talk about impotent. He couldn't even draw Santos' attention away from Daniel long enough for hidden anger to force a rash move. Something, anything to get Santos to let him out of the cell. Just one moment. That's all he needed. He'd have to take down the three of them, but he'd been up against worse odds.

He had to get out of the cage just long enough to get his hands on the sadistic mercenary and repay him for all he'd done. Both now and in the past.

Ten years ago. Santos' words snapped back into his mind. What the hell had he been doing ten years ago? Eastern Europe. There had been so many missions. Iran. Bulgaria. Albania. Romania. Wherever there was a problem. Someone who needed to get out or who needed to disappear. Jack swallowed at the memories. He'd been at the sharp edge of some pretty unsavory business at times, but he'd always believed he was on the right side. Always trusted behind his often curt orders there was a good reason. A moral reason.

Ten years ago. He would have been thirty-two…not much younger than Daniel. Still sharp, still cocky. Eastern Europe? O'Neill settled himself beside his unconscious teammate and began to work mission by mission through his past. Names barely remembered. Faces blurring over the years. There was that dictator he had taken out with a single gunshot. Was that it? Was this revenge? No, Santos wanted something or somebody. More likely somebody. Which meant he would be able to sell whoever it was.

Who was paying Santos for this mission? That would give him a key. Santos never did anything purely for enjoyment; there was always a payoff. Someone, somewhere was paying him to do this. Which meant someone O'Neill had dealt with in the past was now a valuable commodity. Valued enough to balance against the life of an innocent American scientist snatched from a military establishment. Scientist!

Jack ran his fingers through his hair, desperately trying to remember the face. The name. Was that ten years ago? Was he who Santos was after?

"Jack." The sound of Daniel's voice, little more than a whisper dragged O'Neill back to the reality of the present. "Jack. Can't..."

O'Neill took Daniel's hand in his own and gently squeezed the fingers. He knew he should say something, but the words wouldn't come. A low moan accompanied the tremor running through his friend's body. "No... no.. m-more."

"It's all right, Danny." O'Neill forced the empty words through his lips. "It's over now. You're back with me."

"No... m-more." Daniel's eyes flickered open. He gazed up at O'Neill with unveiled terror, clearly not recognizing the colonel. "No, p-p-please. Make it stop."

"Daniel. It's me. It's Jack." Anguish burned into Jack as cleanly as the mark on Daniel's forearm.

The young scientist squeezed his eyes shut as if to blank out the whole world. When he opened them again, there was a hint of lucidity. "Jack?"

"I'm right here, Daniel."

The young man was beginning to shiver more now, his body reacting to trauma and shock. "Don't..." The words were cut off by another tremor. "Jack... please... don't let them take me again. Can't..."

"Oh God, Danny. Do you think I'd let them if I could stop it?" The sheer anguish in Jack's voice seemed to break through Daniel's nightmare. The young man blinked as though suddenly becoming aware of where he was, of who he was with.

"Jack?"

Blue eyes captured O'Neill, but the older man couldn't bear to hold the gaze.

"Jack?"

Dammit, Daniel. You always were a stubborn fool. Should've let me blow myself up on Abydos. Never should have trusted me... O'Neill blew out a hard jet of air. "I know what Santos wants."

Silence. Daniel merely waited. Waited for O'Neill to cast his death sentence.

"Ten years ago I got a scientist out of Eastern Europe. A brilliant chemist who was being forced to work on chemical weapons by his government. He wanted to defect... wanted to work in medicine saving lives not taking them."

"Scientist?"

O'Neill could only imagine what was going through Daniel's mind. He ploughed on. "So I went in and got him out. Him, his wife, and his two young children."

There, he'd said it. He'd laid out the case in pure logic. The life of a young brilliant linguist on one side. The life of a brilliant chemist on the other. A brilliant chemist who was also a husband and a father. The stranger whose identity O'Neill would protect because when the cards were on the table, he held all the aces, and Daniel was left with nothing other than a wife who was already lost to him.

"I see." Daniel spoke the words so quietly O'Neill could barely hear them. A long breath escaped the young man's body before, "I'd make the same choice, Jack."

Jack couldn't find words which would help. There was nothing he could say. He and Daniel both knew it. So, instead of useless reassurance, he simply reached over and snagged his coat, settled it over Daniel's shoulders, and tightened his hold on the shivering body.

He waited. When the trembling made way for desperate tears, he started rocking, the age-old comfort being all he could offer. Daniel cried for what seemed like a very long time then slipped into exhausted slumber. When he was breathing with the rhythm of sleep, Jack gave into his own emotions and let an unobserved tear track down from his eye.

***

As usual, dinner was a success, but then Lisa knew it would be. Betty and Ralph Sanderson weren't legitimate guests in their home after all. Years of friendship had stripped away the veneer of forced hospitality and a night with company was morphed into a night with family.

When the Sigmons had moved to this lazy suburb nearly ten years ago, Betty had been on the porch with homemade bread and a casserole supper. Ralph had volunteered his strapping young son to move furniture while he and Rob 'supervised' from the vantage point of lawn chairs in the driveway and a couple of beers. Exchanges just came naturally among them. Betty baby-sat so Lisa and Rob could steal a night out at someplace other than a fast food drive through. Rob repaired appliances when they blew up in the Sanderson household. Ralph showed off his new riding lawn mower then proceeded to demonstrate it often on the Sigmon lawn.

Food eaten, dishes cleared and left in the sink, drinks dispensed and downed, they all lounged in the family room, absorbing the heat from the flames nested in the marble fireplace.

It was just as it was supposed to be.

But then, what was wrong?

Lisa couldn't shake a little nagging premonition.

Something was wrong.

She didn't know what it was. She wasn't even sure what seemed... out of place... alien... but it was there, had been there ever since Rob had come home a few minutes late from work. There was something weighing on his mind he wasn't willing to reveal. That was it. Secrets. They never kept secrets from each other, and now Lisa was quite certain her husband was harboring some terrible secret he didn't want to share with her.

***

Breakfast was served without ceremony. At least Jack assumed it was breakfast. With no hint from the lone window in the door, it was hard to tell what time of day it was. He cut another glare at his watch. It loyally assured him it was 10:40 p.m., the time of their abduction and steadfastly refused to move at all, its face shattered, casing jutting out against his wrist. Damn, his Swiss Army Watch bit the dust. Duct tape would never fix this problem.

A jug of coffee, two cracked and badly stained mugs, a bowl of something O'Neill prayed was oatmeal and another covered bowl. He lifted the lid cautiously and grimaced. Four raw eggs stared up at him. He peered suspiciously at the lukewarm oatmeal, wondering if it was edible or whether it had been doctored on its way to the cell.

Survival instinct won out over caution, and he reluctantly scooped up a spoonful. Ah, yes, it was oatmeal; he'd recognize that library paste taste anywhere. The coffee actually smelled good. O'Neill grimaced again, knowing this was just another part of the game. Give them something pleasant, a sweet reminder of better times, another twist of the knife.

He filled a mug with the warm liquid, picked up the congealed oatmeal, and took the two steps separating him from Daniel. Carefully, he eased the young scientist into a sitting position.

"Breakfast, Danny." He forced his voice to sound cheerful, trying to give some sense of normalcy to the horror in which they were trapped.

"Not hungry," Daniel whispered, his eyes closed.

"You've got to eat, Daniel. First rule of survival. Whenever food presents itself, you eat."

Daniel's eyes flickered open, and he gazed at O'Neill. Pools of dark blue rippled with pain and misery, dilated almost enough to hide the color. "I don't think... starving to death... is something I need to worry about."

"Daniel." The misery in O'Neill's voice was audible now. "Please?"

A flicker of a smile crossed Daniel's face, and he gave into the faintly hysterical response, "What're you going to do, Jack? Court-martial me?"

O'Neill rocked back on his heels at the reminder that Daniel was a civilian. He looked down at the unappetizing mess in the bowl and set it to one side. What was he trying to achieve? Rules of survival? What did Daniel know of that? Why should he have to know? O'Neill's shoulders slumped. The young man should be safe and sound in a cozy university office, worrying about where his next grant was going to come from, not propped up in some hellhole fearing he might not survive the next round of torture. Perhaps, hoping he wouldn't survive...

Jack's hand strayed to Daniel's cheek, the touch uncharacteristically affectionate. Brown eyes met blue. "I'm sorry. So sorry." O'Neill's words were a ragged rasp.

Severely hampered by the loss of his glasses, Daniel's liquid eyes sought Jack's face in the gloom. "I know," he offered, finding no words to take the pain from his friend.

O'Neill turned away, suddenly choked. When he spoke again, his voice was normal. Back to the rules. Back to surviving the game. "There's coffee."

The flicker of a smile again, this time genuine. "That's good. Remind me to leave a tip."

O'Neill's lips curled as he carefully lifted the mug to Daniel's cracked lips. Stay with me, Daniel, his heart cried. Stay with me.

"Okay," Daniel sighed as he closed his eyes.

How does he do that? A weary smile of affection warmed Jack's eyes as his friend seemed to read his mind. Daniel would hold on as long as he could against the pain and torture…if only because Jack needed him to. Jack hated himself for that, but whatever it took to keep Daniel alive, he intended to use it.

***

The phone rang, cutting off Hammond's stroll through the dog-eared files of his mind. So far, he'd come up empty.

He started to stab at the speaker button then stayed his hand. If it was the call he'd been waiting for, he hardly wanted it broadcast in his office on an unsecured line. His hand detoured and caught up the receiver. He cracked the mouthpiece against his jaw and bit off a reactive curse. It had been a long time since his hand had been so spastic or his fingers shaking like an old man's. This damn program was aging him way too fast with too many nights wondering if he was sending one of the teams--his teams--into violent death on an uncharted planet. Sometimes, they were not even able to retrieve the bodies. Too many empty caskets.

Now, two of his boys were out there, stranded, alone. God only knew where and only the thin tread of Black Ops Intel was working to solve the puzzle.

He hauled in a breath and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Hammond."

"George, I have to give this to you fast so don't miss anything."

"Agreed."

"The data we compiled comparing O'Neill's assignments to recent surfacing of involved personnel indicates Miguel Santos would be the abductor. The only crossed line we've been able to draw suggests a botched mission in Guatemala.

"Santos went after a friendly military leader; O'Neill went after Santos. The assassination was prevented. The upshot is Santos reaped major displeasure from his employers; O'Neill was promoted to major. The kicker is Santos has recently surfaced in this general area, and our word is he wants to 'undo' the blot on his record by taking out O'Neill. Don't know who is bankrolling him though. Santos never works without a payoff. Anyway, I'm faxing recent surveillance on Santos to your personal machine. If you need further intelligence, call in another marker. I've had ten men on this for the past hour. I can't do any more."

"Thank you," Hammond replied, knowing the words were inadequate.

"Oh and George? When you get O'Neill back, remind him he owes me fifty bucks!"

"I'll do that." Hammond put the phone down. When you get O'Neill back. The phrase replayed in his mind, and he suddenly realized he hadn't really believed that to be possible. As his personal fax began to hum quietly, he took a deep breath and scolded himself. When he got O'Neill back, he was going to give his senior officer a severe dressing down about base security.

***

The door opened, jerking Jack out of his reverie. No, not already. Surely four hours hasn't passed yet. He glanced over at Daniel who was sprawled face down on the filthy mattress with O'Neill's jacket over his shoulders. The young man had either lapsed into unconsciousness or was so deeply asleep he hadn't heard the return of his tormentor. O'Neill decided to make the most of the respite and remained where he was, sitting on the floor with his back against the far wall. He ignored Santos and his bullyboys as they manhandled the wooden table towards the bars of the cage.

"So, Jack. How's it going?"

Jack simply fixed his gaze on the dark-haired man, his eyes blazing hatred.

"Oh, Jack. Are you getting mad at me?" Santos smoothed back his hair. "Figured out our little mystery yet?" Santos studied Jack's face, admiring the fact the soldier had once more got his expressionless mask in place. That is…everywhere except the eyes. Oh yes. Your eyes betray you, O'Neill. Every time you look at Jackson, you sell another part of yourself to the devil. Time now for another downpayment.

"I've brought something to show you, Jack."

"Go to hell!"

"Jack! Is that anyway to treat an old friend? Come and look at what I've got."

Nothing. Not a muscle moved. It was a small victory, but it was one Jack was going to enjoy. A brief moment of being back in control. A very brief moment. Santos took a step closer to the cage, the small caliber gun in his hand aimed at Jackson's inert form. "You know, I'm an expert marksman, O'Neill. I could take a finger or a toe or maybe..."

O'Neill stood up and moved slowly to the front of the cage.

Santos gave the table another shove towards the bars so Jack could get a good view. Resting on the smooth wooden surface was a small roll of deep blue velvet - the sort of thing a jeweler would use to wrap a woman's necklace in. Next to it was a metal box about the size of a child's pencil case.

Santos ran his fingers lightly along the cool surface of the box. "Time to play a little game, Jack."

"Don't go much for games," Jack responded. Behind him he heard a low moan. No, Daniel! Why do you have to wake up now?

Santos smiled coolly, aware of the effort it cost O'Neill not to turn and look at the anthropologist. He continued on in the same, mocking tone. "Oh but you'll like this one. I've developed the rules especially for you. It's an amusement of choice."

A dark memory pierced through O'Neill, causing his eyes to widen just a fraction and his head to tilt a degree or two higher. Another dark cell. A voice screaming in his ear. Choose. Choose. Choose.

The reaction wasn't lost on Santos. "I see you remember," he sneered. "Well this time, Jack the rules are different. Much more satisfying I think you'll find. This time you do the choosing, but your puppy dog gets to play." Santos tapped his crop against his boot. "It's just like one of your all-American game shows. Except, of course, in our version, the winner is Daniel Jackson every time."

"Jack?" The mention of his name had obviously caught Daniel's attention. Unable to stand it any more, Jack turned his head. The pale man was struggling to sit up - the effort clearly draining what little strength he had left.

"Stay where you are, Daniel." His voice was deliberately harsh, the only way he knew to protect his companion from whatever was coming. Protect him? Sure, O'Neill, he mocked himself. Like you've succeeded in doing so up to now? The sarcasm ran through his brain like a knife through butter. He turned back to Santos.

"You're sick," Jack snarled, his voice low.

"Sick?" Santos appeared to give the idea consideration then he leaned closer to O'Neill. "I'll tell you what's sick, Jack. Sick is the person who lets a friend go through hell for something he doesn't even understand."

He straightened, the casual smile back in place in an instant. "Let me explain your options to you, Jack. I can't expect you to make an informed choice without details, can I?" He flipped open the box, revealing a set of miniature surgical instruments. "Aren't they just perfect?" he cooed. "I had them specially made for me. Solid silver with titanium blades. Guaranteed never to blunt."

He picked up a tiny scalpel. "You should really see this in action. Slices like a dream. A sliver of skin here. A little nick there. You'd be surprised how much blood a person can lose and still stay conscious." He handed the scalpel to Grant who held it to the light. The goon's eyes moved from the blade to Daniel's face, a lazy smile creeping across his features. Wordlessly, he handed the instrument back to Santos while his gaze roved down the shivering body with a look which made O'Neill want to retch.

Santos however merely replaced the instrument in its case and moved on. He unrolled the velvet curl with a flourish. Inside was a set of six silver needles, each about three inches in length.

A deadly cold finger ran down O'Neill's spine.

"Acupuncture needles, Jack. Again, specially made for me - no expense spared. Used with skill, they can bring incredible relief from pain. With equal skill…the opposite." He looked O'Neill in the eye. "Now choose!"

"No!" Jack's voice rang out before he could stop.

Santos laughed, registering the first victory in the deadly game of cat and mouse. He risked leaning closer and lowered his voice. "Choose or I'll use option three!"

"Option three?" O'Neill hated himself for asking, but the words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Santos nodded towards Grant. "One word from me, O'Neill, and he'll put your young friend and that mattress to a use even I prefer not to dwell upon."

O'Neill stared at his evil adversary in disbelief, feeling the hate rise in him and mix with the overwhelming sense of helplessness. Suddenly, he was aware of Daniel's presence by his side. Somehow, the scientist had found the strength to not only make it to his feet but to cross the few feet to the bars. Breathing heavily, he held on to the cold metal, the quiver in his legs suggesting at any time his knees might buckle under him. He stared in mute fascination at the instruments on the table. Daniel. Daniel, O'Neill cried mentally. When will you learn not to give in to that insatiable curiosity?

"Your choice, O'Neill! You are five seconds away from watching Mr. Grant enjoy Daniel's company."

The colonel turned to look at Daniel. Blue eyes, still innocent, looked back at him, confusion at the scene stamped all over his face. Jack spoke. "The needles."

Daniel gazed at him, the trust still there, never wavering. "Jack? What's going on?" The soft voice showed he still didn't understand what he had just been condemned to, and the sound speared through Jack's soul like an innocent child's cry.

Daniel stumbled away from the door of the cell as Grant stepped forward and turned the key in the lock. He retreated back two steps before his legs gave way, and he tumbled to the floor with a yelp of pain.

Instinctively, O'Neill reached toward him.

"Back off!" Grant snarled simultaneously with the sound of the safety on Santos' gun being released. Once again, O'Neill stood by helplessly as Daniel was dragged from the cell.

"No!" For an instant, Daniel dredged deep and found some spark of resistance. He pulled his left arm free and elbowed Grant in the solar plexus. Although on target, the action lacked the power to really hit home. Grant's eyes widened for the briefest of moments, and then an ugly red stain flushed across his face. The retribution was swift. His right hand swung, backhanding Daniel so hard the young man was literally thrown from the cell. He slammed into the far wall and slid, dazed to the floor. For a big man, Grant was fast. In what seemed like a single step, he crossed the room and yanked Daniel to his feet by his hair, his hand swinging back for a second blow."

"No!"

The cry came in stereo: one voice commanding from the room, the other a protest from the cell. For a moment Santos and O'Neill locked gazes. Then, Santos snapped his attention back to his helper. "Your time will come! Tie him up."

The clenched fist slowly unwound. Grant rewarded his captive with a sour look. "Later!" he promised in a dark whisper as he released him. Daniel slid slowly back to the floor. His respite was brief. Grant was back in seconds with a length of rope. Snatching up Daniel's arms, he tied the young man's wrists tightly together, enjoying the pain dragging across the ashen features as he gave the chord an extra twist. Turning away, he retrieved a second, longer length of rope.

O'Neill caught his breath as he saw where Grant's gaze turned. Protruding from the ceiling and disguised by the shadows of the small room was a heavy-duty hook. Oh shit. O'Neill watched as Grant expertly looped the rope over the hook.

Still dazed, Daniel didn't offer any resistance as he was pulled to his feet. Now Santos' other henchmen held him vertical while Grant secured one end of the rope to Daniel's bonds. Suddenly, Daniel looked up. He caught a brief glimpse of the sadistic smile on Grant's face before the rope tightened. Oh God! Daniel let out a long moan as fresh pain scored along his abused muscles. Another tug pulled his arms taut above his head and lifted him so his toes just touched the floor, close enough to tantalize but far enough to prevent him taking any real weight off his arms. Grant secured the rope and moved as though to walk past Daniel. At the last moment his elbow caught the young man sharply in the stomach. Daniel heaved, choking for breath, tears streaming down his face.

"Shall we begin?" Santos said coolly.

Begin? Begin? Frustration crashed over O'Neill. He had to do something. Bluff! yelled his mind. Give Santos something. Get him to ease off just a fraction. "Your scientist," O'Neill blurted out. "He's part of the witness protection program. I don't know his new name. That's the whole point of the program. I just delivered him. What happened afterwards had nothing to do with me." Jack was suddenly aware of pain in his hands. Looking down, he realized he had clenched his fists so tight his fingernails had drawn blood. He forced himself to take a deep breath, ignoring the shock still managing to register on Daniel's strained face.

Santos faced O'Neill. "Nice try, Jack. Shame I don't believe you since you only relocated one scientist that I know of. By the way, remember this was your choice. No one else. Just you."

Choice! The word was like a slap. God, Danny, what have I done? O'Neill watched in a daze as Santos carefully selected a needle from the velvet pouch. His choice! Nausea rose in his throat at the thought. Damn it! The glittering skewers looked so innocuous against the blue velvet, but this was Santos, a man who relished inflicting agony and who had spent years learning his art.

Santos turned towards Daniel, noting the sweat which ran freely down the young man's face and chest. Good. Fear heightens the pain.

O'Neill's eyes turned to the scientist too. He swallowed as he watched Daniel struggling with his bonds. He knew what that felt like--to be stretched out, the weight of your own body concentrated on wrists and arms. The strain it placed on heart and lungs, making it difficult to draw breath.

Like the predator he was Santos circled Jackson, enjoying the fact a pair of terrified blue eyes followed his every move, enjoying the way he tried to twist round as his tormentor moved out of his range of view. He circled again, stopping behind him but leaning close enough so Daniel could feel his breath - hot and acidic on the back of his neck.

"I had a Chinese mistress once," he whispered to his victim. "You won't believe what she taught me." His eyes held Jack's, knowing the colonel was straining to hear his words. "The pleasure she could give a man in bed." He paused to give O'Neill a feral smile. "Have you ever been with a woman, Daniel?"

Sha're! Her face came unbidden to Daniel's mind.

"Or does your innocence stretch all the way to virginity?"

Jack sensed Grant's moronic grin rather than saw it. His jaw clamped tight - biting down on an unwise comment. Santos was enjoying the sound of his voice now.

"You know what, Daniel? The thing about women is they are even more devious than we are. Where a man might use fists or whips to inflict pain, they have much more subtle methods. Methods my beloved mistress was only too happy to show me."

Santos moved back towards Jack's prison and held the needle to the light. Two pairs of eyes trained on the glint of silver. "Of course, you already know most of this, Jack. They teach you pressure points in black ops, don't they? Show you where on the body the nerve points rise to the surface. Teach you how to disable a man with a single blow."

Unbidden, the points leapt into Jack's mind. Top of the forearm. Inside the thigh. Others, less accessible but equally effective.

"Have you ever experienced it?" Santos laughed. "I forgot…of course you have. I believe I demonstrated them to you myself."

Jack pushed the memory of a dark cell and ropes around his own wrists from his mind as fast as it arose. Still, Santos' voice baited him.

"Well imagine this, O'Neill. The pain inflicted when one of those points is struck - only enhanced." He smiled and slowly added, "Prolonged. And most perfect of all, there is no respite. This little game tricks the brain so there are no convenient blackouts to give the body time to recuperate. Just layer upon layer of pain."

He turned to Daniel, gratified to see the panic in the wide blue eyes. Daniel's gaze flicked from the needle to Jack and back again. Santos circled once more. Leaning his head on Daniel's shoulder, he whispered in his ear. "I hope you scream well, Jackson. I hate to be disappointed."

Daniel's eyes locked with Jack's, and he took in a raspy breath, choking down the pain of his tormented arms. "Go to hell!" What was it Jack had once told him? Distance yourself from the pain. Fix on a point and rise above it. Remove yourself from it. He focused on Jack, his friend, his strength. A jumble of thoughts crowded his mind as he felt Santos' fingers on his arm. It's only a needle, he told himself, trying to imitate the mask Jack had in place. Santos twisted his arm painfully against the rope, making the muscle of his forearm stand out even more clearly. It's only a needle...

A spear of pure agony! It shot up his entire arm and into the muscles of his neck, startling him from the precarious touch he had on the floor. Daniel clamped his teeth together, cutting off the cry already beginning to escape. No! He wouldn't give Santos the satisfaction. Oh God! He gasped for breath, tried to turn away from the pain. His eyes wrenched from Jack, moved upwards to the tiny little needle sticking out of his forearm. No! It isn't possible. It can't hurt this much.

Santos gazed down at him, his eyes ice cold. "No scream, Daniel? I warned you not to disappoint me." His fingers moved to the needle, pressing it a quarter of an inch deeper.

A second wave of more intense fire raced up Daniel's arm and neck. "Jack!" This time, the name escaped his lips. He clamped down again, trying to pull away from the pain, but he couldn't. There was no focus to it. Just pure agony as every nerve screamed in protest. His eyes squeezed tight, and a tear trickled slowly down his cheek.

Santos glanced at O'Neill. "An identity and an address, Jack. That's all I want from you."

"No!" Daniel ground out the negative, the sound barely audible. Somehow, he managed to open his eyes, lift his head enough to focus on the blurred image he knew was O'Neill. "Don't."

The second word was more mouthed than spoken. O'Neill sensed the agony was beginning to recede, understanding what Santos had meant about tricking the brain. The natural response was to flood the body with endorphins or to shut down. Somehow, this bypassed that process.

Jack knew, too, Santos would simply apply more. Intensifying it, pushing the younger man closer and closer to madness. Suddenly, he understood and realized he'd made the wrong choice. Unlike the voltage, there was no relief from this agony. Just a slow build up that would eventually destroy Daniel. Not physically. The muscles would recover. There wasn't even any blood. But the pain, that would destroy him. It would burn into his memory and wake him in the middle of the night--every night for the rest of his life. And eventually, it would tip him over into the abyss. Daniel pulled in a ragged breath. The appeal in his eyes broke O'Neill's heart. For a moment brown eyes locked with blue--pain leaching the color out of both.

"Don't!" Daniel repeated the word, slightly more assured, not realizing he was gambling not with his body but with his sanity.

Santos grabbed Daniel's chin, wrenching the young man's head round to face his own. "Such bravery!" he mocked. "And here I was thinking you were nothing but O'Neill's academic puppy dog." He glanced at Jack. "Seems your influence has rubbed off on the good doctor here. You always did have a penchant for nobility."

Santos returned his attention to the young anthropologist. Nonchalantly he pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to his belt. Placing the point against the fabric of Daniel's pants, he tore a gaping hole from hip to knee. Without another word he moved casually back to the velvet pouch and selected a second needle. "Remember how it felt, Jack? First the arm--pure fire from wrist to shoulder. So much agony you think there can't be anything more painful. And then the thigh--when you discover there is."

This time as the needle hit its mark, Daniel leaned back against his restraints, opened his mouth, and screamed--a gut-wrenching cry which drove into Jack like a fist in his stomach.

"A name, O'Neill!" Santos' hand rested on Daniel's thigh.

"I can't." Jack's voice sounded half-strangled as he battled with his conscience. "Danny. Oh God, Danny. I can't."

As Daniel ran out of breath, the scream was silenced. A brief second of respite before the wheeze of lungs desperate for air, a soul desperate for release. O'Neill's name once more wrenched from an agonized frame. "Jack!"

It was a cry for mercy O'Neill couldn't answer.

Santos picked up a third needle. He circled Daniel once, watching pitilessly as his prey writhed.

"You know where this one goes, O'Neill."

He ran a finger across Daniel's collarbone, resting his finger in the hollow at the base of his neck. "They say the sensation resembles choking to death. Of course, the lack of air can result in brain damage. It all depends on just where the needle hits. What do you think, O'Neill? Seems to me he's having trouble enough breathing already, but..."

Santos nodded to Grant. "Hold him still."

Two bear-like arms grabbed the contorted body. The needle moved towards Daniel's throat then slid into quivering flesh. A horrifying bubbling sound burst out of the archaeologist. His eyes shot open as his mouth gaped. Lungs sucked desperately, but the brain was already convinced it was being starved. A harsh rasping noise filled the space as if Daniel was drowning on dry land.

"Stop it!" O'Neill staggered back from the scene, unconsciously putting his hands over his ears. "Damn you. Stop!" He was trembling, the hours of controlled emotion flaring out of him in a wild spiral. He could withstand torture and not break. He'd proved it over and over. What he couldn't stand was to watch helplessly as someone he cared about was subjected to the same thing he'd survived years ago.

Triumph surged through Santos. For the first time since he had had O'Neill in his clutches, he stepped right up to the bars of the cage. "A name, O'Neill." A noise from Daniel--barely recognizable as human. "Such a simple thing…just a name."

O'Neill's hands pressed tighter over his ears, shutting out everything except his own tortured conscience. "No."

It was whispered so quietly, Santos wasn't sure he heard it. But then his face twisted with anger. He snatched up a fourth needle and nodded curtly to Grant who once again bear-hugged the tortured body.

The sudden silence caught O'Neill's attention. Dragged out of his own personal agony, he watched Santos approach Daniel.

"There's a nerve we haven't touched yet, Jack." Santos' voice was icy with barely controlled anger. His hand went to Daniel's face, grabbing the young man's chin roughly. "The optical nerves are incredibly sensitive, you know. And..." he didn't even look at O'Neill. "Damage is usually permanent."

Santos' other hand raised, the deadly point of the needle moving toward Daniel's right eye.

Images flashed before Jack. Daniel, over-excited by some new find. Daniel's sense of wonder as the Stargate first burst into life. Daniel, brow furrowed, pencil tapping, trying to figure out the secret of an alien orb. Daniel, looking at him, wide blue eyes full of life and intelligence--and too damn much trust.

O'Neill fell to his knees. "Rob Sigmon. His name is Rob Sigmon."

***

Tension was a physical presence in the locker room. It sparked off the walls, ricocheting against the metal lockers, spiking fear and impatience past a thin veneer of professional stoicism.

Captain Samantha Carter watched her hands developing a fine, barely noticeable tremor as she stuffed equipment she hoped she would not have to use into a bag.

"General Hammond did say there would be a third person going with us." Teal'c finally broke the weighted silence. "I assume that is why we are having to wait here."

Carter started to bite out an answer but held the retort at the edge of her tongue, swallowing the anger and frustration back. Teal'c was on her side, and even through the ever present lack of expression that was the big man's trademark was still there looming over her, she could see the concern in her teammate, her friend. She reached up and gently touched his arm, her fingers wrapping around the massive, corded muscle beneath the material of his only civilian clothing.

He looked down at her and nodded. Another bout of silence.

Sam couldn't tolerate it any more. Might as well break the spell of worry by talking. Too bad Daniel wasn't here. He could fill a well of silence all by himself. The stray thought hurt. The whole reason they were outfitting themselves in Earth clothes and military weaponry was for that very reason. Daniel wasn't here. Neither was O'Neill. And she was a little startled to find out their absence left a void in her spirit like a black hole in space.

Jack O'Neill was the best C.O. she had ever served under. He was military enough to impose command and human enough to understand there were simply times when protocol carried less weight than humanity. Also, there was the fact she genuinely liked him. There was just enough rebel in him so it was never boring serving with him. She trusted him with her life, and she trusted him with her friendship.

Then there was Daniel--their goodness meter. The young scientist was the team's slightly daffy kid brother. The one who wandered through life only half conscious of the world around him even as he touched, poked, read, and studied that world. Daniel lost himself in the joy of discovery, a five-year-old turned loose in a backyard full of toys. Gentle, empathetic, brilliant, and not possessing a shred of self-preservation. Daniel would die for those he loved, she knew, and she was afraid one day he might do just so on some alien battlefield.

They were family.

One last glimpse at Teal'c's face and she had to camouflage a reactive smile. The bad guys had no idea who they were playing with. Nobody messed with Teal'c's family. Nobody.

With another impatient glance at her watch, Sam finished stuffing her armory into a backpack then dropped to a slumped seat on the wooden bench. Let's get this on the road. Or as O'Neill says, we're burning daylight. She hoped the third member of their covert op team would get here before her anxiety level spiked off the chart.

Even as the thought flickered through her head, she heard booted footsteps approaching them.

Major General George Hammond took the corner of the equipment lockers and swung into view.

Only once had Sam seen the general in civvies: at Daniel's impromptu wake at Jack's house. She wasn't expecting him to show up here looking like he'd just finished eighteen holes on the local golf course.

"General…"

Hammond cut off her question. "Are we ready to go, people?"

"We, sir?" Sam couldn't resist the query.

"We, Captain."

Hammond hadn't been stuck behind a desk for all of the thirty years he had served in the military. Sam couldn't bite down the smile touching her face. "Yes, sir," she said with a salute.

Her superior noted wryly, "Perhaps we should confine the salutes while on this mission, Captain."

Sam let her smile slip back. "Yes, sir."

***

Santos spun round, the triumph on his face spearing Jack. No longer seeing the colonel as a threat, he strode right to the bars of the cage, savoring the sight of the broken man. "Excellent, O'Neill. Excellent. Now where do I find him?"

Jack took in a long, shuddering breath. It was over. He'd betrayed Sigmon. Betrayed the man's family. Everything he'd fought for. Everything he'd believed in. Santos had torn it from him, spat on it, and ground it under foot. He couldn't even make himself believe his betrayal had saved Daniel. If they were lucky, Santos would now take them somewhere remote and put a bullet in their heads. If they weren't...

"The address." Santos' voice was as smooth and sickly as caramel. He knew the routine. Knew there was nothing holding O'Neill back now. That everything he wanted was in his grasp. "Let's start with the town."

"Santos!" The voice behind him was sharp. The mercenary turned to see Grant standing in front of Jackson. The young man's head hung limply on his chest, his lips blue, the eyes open, lifeless.

"No!" The word was growled as Santos saw his bargaining chip slip through his fingers. He glanced once at Jack and saw the storm of conflicting emotions race across the soldier's face. "Cut him down!"

The whisper of a sharp blade sliced through the air, and Jackson folded to the floor. Suddenly tormentor became life saver. Santos pulled the needles from the lifeless body, scattering them like deadly icicles across the floor of the gloomy room. Then, with chilling expertise, he set about snatching back the life that had cheated him of his prize.

Chest compressions. One, two, three, four, five. Santos tipped Daniel's head back, checked his airways, breathed into him. More chest compressions. "Damn you, Jackson," he cursed.

Still on his knees, O'Neill watched the drama unfold before him. This time his emotionless expression was real. On the verge of total betrayal, Daniel had rescued him but at what price? Unaware of doing so, O'Neill began to breathe in rhythm with Santos. One, two, three, four, five. His mind was unable to process thought other than the fact Daniel was gone. Daniel had saved Sigmon. Daniel was free.

"How long?" Santos glanced up at Grant as he moved from breaths to compressions.

"What?"

"How long has he been out?"

A blank look. Grant shrugged. "How the hell should I know? Minutes. Five, Six. What difference does it make?"

Santos' attention returned to the lifeless scientist. "One, two, three, four, five. You're not getting out of it this easily, Jackson. One, two. Business isn't finished yet. Three, four. I always... Five. Win!"

A strangled sound burst from Daniel. His chest rose, stopped, and rose again. Slowly, Santos got to his feet, his hands shaking with unaccustomed exhaustion. His eyes met O'Neill's, and then he simply turned away and walked towards the door.

"Santos?" The voice was Grant's. "What should we do with him?"

The mercenary neither paused nor turned. "Put him back with O'Neill."

Grant gave his departing boss a sour look before moving to Daniel. The young man, his hands still bound tightly in front of him, began to roll slowly on to his right side as full consciousness returned. As Grant spoke, the danger of the situation suddenly penetrated O'Neill's traumatized brain.

"What do you say, Tony? You and I could have a little fun with our resident scientist while your uncle is cooling off."

"Fun?" For a moment the younger goon didn't understand.

Grant leaned down and effortlessly pulled Daniel to his feet. "Yes. Whatever takes your fancy." He pushed the unresisting scientist in the back, causing Daniel to stumble towards the table.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Grant's moronic smile widened as he recognized Daniel had regained enough brain power to realize what was happening. As his captive half-turned to avoid where his journey was taking him, Grant caught hold of his tethered hands. "Just how I like it," he drawled. "Bound and helpless." His eyes traveled from the still handsome face downward with deliberate slowness.

"Grant, stop it!" Fear of his uncle suddenly made a hero out of Tony. "You'll kill him."

Grant pushed Daniel to one side with a snarl, oblivious to the fact the action sent the young man sprawling to the floor. He turned angrily towards his companion. "Who put you in charge?"

Tony backed away. "Think, Grant. Think! You'll kill him. You know you will! And then Santos will kill you!"

Yes think, O'Neill was desperately praying in his cage as he watched Daniel attempt to find his feet. Suddenly, Daniel seemed to reach out for something, a low hiss of pain passing his lips as he did so. O'Neill blinked, not sure what he had just witnessed.

For a long moment, Grant stared Tony down. Then, without another word, he snatched up Daniel and manhandled him roughly to the door of the cage. "Open the door!" he snarled, trying to reclaim some sort of control of the situation. As Tony hurried to obey, Grant shoved Daniel face forward to the bars and leaned heavily against him, letting him feel the eagerness in his body. "This is just a rain check," he whispered vehemently. Without further ado, he tossed the scientist back into his prison.

Jack's mind registered the lingering scent of musk on Daniel's skin as if Grant had somehow marked him before his young friend crashed into him. He quickly gave the needed, steadying support.

"Hands," Daniel hissed painfully as soon as he was alone with Jack.

O'Neill didn't hesitate, moving to Daniel's side and struggling with the rope.

"God, no!" Daniel pulled his arms free of O'Neill and held them out again, emphasizing they were palm-up. "Hands!"

This time Jack caught a glimpse of something shining between Daniel's fingers. He let out a long low whistle. Embedded at least two inches into Daniel's left palm was one of Santos' needles. "You pushed that into your own hand?"

"Get it out!" Daniel was almost hysterical.

Jack pinched the small protruding point between his thumb and forefinger and pulled it hard and fast. Daniel let out a strangled cry before sinking to his knees, the fear which had given him strength for the past few minutes abruptly gone. "I hope to hell you know how to pick a lock, Jack."

For the first time in way too many hours, O'Neill smiled. "Danny, I could kiss you."

Jackson somehow dredged up a smile before collapsing, totally exhausted and drained, onto the mattress. "Do you think you could untie me first?"

O'Neill made short work of the ropes, trying to hide his concern at the ragged flesh around Daniel's wrists. His companion lay motionless on the mattress, his eyes squeezed tight, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Gently, O'Neill pushed the young man's damp hair back from his forehead, relieved to see the deathly blue tinge of his skin was slowly returning to a more normal pallor. The touch of his hand was rewarded by Daniel's eyes flickering open.

O'Neill forced a smile over the concern, but when he spoke, his voice barely managed to get the words out over the lump in his throat. "Daniel, if there's anything I can do?"

"Thirsty."

O'Neill moved instantly, snatching up a cracked mug which remained from breakfast. He glanced at the bucket which still contained the gory remainder of an earlier hour and realized there was nothing to drink except the dregs of cold coffee. Trying to still his shaking hands, he poured what was left of the thick liquid and hurried back to Daniel's side. He eased the young man into a sitting position, taking his weight on his own chest.

Daniel tried to reach for the cup, but his abused arm muscles refused to do his bidding. "Gonna.. spill..."

"It's okay," Jack whispered, lifting the container to Daniel's lips.

The young man breathed in the strong aroma of sour coffee, wrinkled his nose in an expression Jack couldn't decipher as being either disgust or pleasure, and took a large gulp.

"More?" Daniel breathed the word of appeal as he drained the final mouthful, apparently unconcerned about the sludge-like texture.

"That's all there is." O'Neill cursed inwardly at his inability to meet even this most basic of needs. He set the cup down and folded his arms around the quivering body, not knowing if the tremors were caused by cold, fear or simply a reaction to the pain and abuse. Concern about decorum had long since vanished between the two men, and Daniel merely sighed in relief at the sense of security O'Neill's touch gave him as he leaned heavily against the older man.

Silence fell between them, no more words needing to be said, no more emotions needing to be laid bare. They were simply two friends, trapped in a nightmare from which both now suspected at least one of them would not escape. Comfort, no matter how meager, was to be taken wherever it could be grasped. And if it was in the touch of one human against another, then it would suffice.

***

"Dinner was wonderful, hon," Rob Sigmon praised as they stood alone on the front porch. Their company had gone, and the house behind them lay empty until their eldest came home.

Lisa leaned against his chest as his arms wrapped around her, savoring the warmth of his lean body. They stood like that for a long moment and watched the lightning dance with the shadows on the horizon. A distant growl of thunder rumbled the land beneath their feet. She shivered.

"Cold?"

"Not now," Lisa sighed as his arms held tighter. "How was work?"

"Same old, same old."

"Nothing wrong?" She couldn't help probing. Even safe in his embrace, the crackle of trouble crawled beneath her skin. A sizzling pop split the heavens before thunder boomed.

"Wow, that was close!"

"Want to go inside?" she asked, feeling silly about the unexplained dread inside her.

"In a moment." He pillowed his cheek against her hair and nuzzled.

She welcomed the touch, turning to meet his lips with hers. Passion flared between them as bright and fierce as the approaching storm. His arms crushed her to him as the kiss intensified. Almost gasping for breath, Lisa pulled back a little when it ended, slightly dazed. Instantly, she missed the security of his hug. Shadows drew close again.

"Love you."

"Grow old with me?" she asked, letting the sense of home and his love envelop her heart and silence her worries.

He smiled at the old game. "Sure," he whispered. "The best is yet to be."

***

As the door to the room creaked open once again, O'Neill hastily shoved the needle into his pocket. Damn. No way Santos has been gone for more than an hour or two. Either that or coaxing the silver metal into a shape he could use to pick the lock had taken him far longer than he realized. If he was right though and Santos was speeding up the routine, that was bad news. No doubt the mercenary had expected to have the information he wanted a whole lot faster. Clearly he hadn't expected Daniel to be quite the tough character he had turned out to be. O'Neill had always wanted to knock the stubborn streak out of Daniel. Hell, it would be nice if the kid would obey one of his orders without question just once, but now he was extremely grateful for the scientist's obstinacy even if it had meant the young man had been to Hades and back.

O'Neill glanced towards the door, and his heart sank. From the look on Santos' face and the equipment Grant was carrying, it would appear another trip to hell was being organized. His eyes moved to Daniel who eased his abused body to a sitting position. At least the needle routine hadn't left any lasting effects. In fact, Daniel actually looked in a better condition than when he was returned from the first session. Better condition. Jack mocked his own military mindset. Always assessing the odds. They'd nearly killed Daniel twice already, and here he was evaluating him as being in an improved state. And for what? Another session with Santos.

"So, Jack," Santos breathed the words smoothly. "What do you say? You tell me the address of the good Robert Sigmon, and I let the pair of you go." His eyes moved to Daniel. "Without any further pain and suffering. I'm sure you could both do with a decent meal by now. A tender steak, side order of fries. Cherry pie for dessert."

"Actually, I hate cherry pie," Jack retorted without thinking. "And I'm seriously thinking of going vegetarian."

Santos gave him a studied look, the cocky reply surprising the mercenary. For a man who had just been broken into surrendering half the information his captor required, O'Neill was unusually jocular. Santos glanced at Jackson and smiled coldly. This little escapade had proven far more satisfying than he had ever anticipated. The fact the deep bond between these two men worked strength into them just made it all the more pleasing to chip away at it. No doubt they'd had some heart to heart chat which was why O'Neill could stand here cracking jokes about his diet when he should be curled in an emotional straitjacket.

"Suit yourself," Santos replied. "Grant!"

"Oh God!" Daniel muttered as the big man once more moved to the door of the cell. The young scientist hauled himself determinedly to his feet. "I can walk!" he said defiantly.

Grant snickered and threw the door open, standing back to allow his prisoner to pass with feigned politeness. Taking a deep breath, Daniel moved the two steps towards the door, forcing his trembling legs to obey him through sheer will power, and then two more into the room. His eyes gazed for one longing moment on the door at the far end of the room, but the sound of the cell being closed behind him forced him to dismiss any hair-brained idea of making a run for it. He returned to the one thought driving him on. If I'm going to die, I sure as hell am going to do it with dignity.

"Well, well," Santos murmured. "Seems you've regained some strength, Dr. Jackson." He pulled up one of the straight-backed chairs which had earlier been moved to the cell wall. "Take a seat."

The ice in Santos' voice made Daniel step back instinctively. He immediately recoiled as he realized Grant had moved right behind him, and their bodies contacted. Stale musk filled his nose, rising bile in his throat.

"Need a little help, Daniel?" Grant sneered, grasping Jackson's upper arms. In one fluid movement, Daniel was spun round and pushed onto the chair.

O'Neill watched as Santos' nephew gathered up various lengths of rope, but before the young man could began to tie Daniel, Grant intercepted him. "I'll do that."

Humiliation was all part of the process, Jack reminded himself, feeling sick as Grant set about lashing the young archeologist to the chair, his huge hands lingering unnecessarily on Daniel's skin. Daniel flushed a deep red, determined not to play the game, resolving not to pull away or allow Grant to see how disgusted he was by his touch. Finally with his ankles tethered to the chair legs and his hands secured tightly and painfully behind him, he tolerated Grant running his finger along the line of his cheek to the center of his chin.

Jack took in a deep breath as Grant tilted Daniel's head upwards, the action a sick pastiche of a Sunday afternoon romance movie. "Soon," Grant whispered. "Soon."

Over my dead body, Jack promised himself vehemently, his stomach churning with revulsion.

"Tony." Santos addressed the younger henchman. "I think it's time you put your skills to use." Santos turned to O'Neill. "You know I'm very proud of my nephew, O'Neill. Always had a passion for medicine, did Tony. If he'd made the grades, he was all set to go to medical school." Santos moved to the table where Grant had dumped the equipment he'd carried in. "Every now and then, he goes and plays in one of the local hospitals. Grabs a white coat and lends a hand."

O'Neill felt a cold shiver run down his spine at the thought of Santos' relative practicing medicine on the unsuspecting public.

"One thing he's got down to a fine art is how to put up a drip. Why don't you show him, Tony?" He turned to Daniel. "Do you mind if he plays doctor with you, Doctor?"

Daniel ignored the comment, and concentrated instead on trying to ignore the activity beginning on his right-hand side. Long plastic tubing. Some sort of medical monitor. A bag of clear fluid. Santos Junior wrapped a piece of elastic around Daniel's forearm and expertly found a vein. Daniel caught a glimpse of a needle and swallowed hard. God, he really hated needles now. A slight scratch before the feeling of pressure as the needle pushed into the raised vein. Finally a piece of tape. Santos Junior stepped away with a smile.

Both Daniel and Jack gazed in horrified anticipation at the fluid now dripping into Daniel's bloodstream. Santos smiled, savoring the moment, knowing the unknown was often far worse than the known.

"What is it?" Daniel couldn't bear it any longer. He had to know.

The icy smile again. "Saline, Doctor. Nothing sinister." He moved to the table and picked up a small vial of yellow fluid. "This, however, isn't saline."

Leisurely he moved to Jack's cell and casually held up the vial. "Can you guess what this is, my friend?"

"Vitamins?" Jack hazarded.

"Very good," Santos purred. "Try again."

Jack desperately tried to think of another smart reply, but his mouth was unaccountably dry.

"Let me tell you," Santos offered as though helping a particularly slow-witted student out in class. "It's a combination of toxins. Some attack the muscles, causing intense and so I've been told intolerably painful spasms. Some attack the nerves, creating agonizing sensations as if the body is being burnt or frozen. And others, somewhat slower acting you'll be glad to hear, go for the more cerebral parts of the body, gradually dissolving brain tissue until the poor patient is little more than a drooling, incontinent vegetable."

O'Neill froze, a nightmare image of Daniel reduced to such a state demanding its presence in his mind.

"One syringeful and you can say farewell to Dr. Jackson. At least the Dr. Jackson you know. The one who can walk and talk and control his bladder. Nothing to say, Jack? No town you'd like to mention?"

"I've already made my deal with the devil, Santos."

"Really!" Santos smiled. "Well if you're sure…" He turned towards Daniel and paused. "I tell you what, Jack. I like to think I'm a fair man. Instead of giving Daniel here the whole dose all at once, I'll stretch it out a little. See, that's what the little box on his right does. Just allows a few cc's to trickle into his bloodstream every fifteen minutes. Of course, there is a down side. It does mean the muscles and the nerves will be tortured for far longer before he slips into a blissful state of vegetation. But then again, any time you want to give me what I want, we can simply unhook him."

Santos handed the vial to his nephew who casually connected the bottle to the wires leading to Daniel. His job finished, the goon smiled again before leaving the room. Jack watched in horror as the first few drips slid into the saline, coloring the water with a yellow hue before vanishing into Daniel's arm.

"Oh, one more thing," Santos turned back. "The creator of this clever little cocktail? Something to ponder on while you're saying good-bye to Daniel. I think you know the name, Jack. It was Rob Sigmon."

***

Lisa couldn't help the grin playing about her mouth. It had been too long since she and Rob had had a spontaneous romp in the bed. Her smile turned a bit rueful. She'd left him snoring upstairs to put her house in order. The dishes were done. Heather was now home, supposedly studying for a pop quiz in Math tomorrow. Since when did pop quizzes come with a warning? Now they had classes on the SATs, preliminary classes on carefully scheduled 'surprise' tests, computers in the classroom. Lisa could remember all the way back to the Dark Ages when it wasn't even legal to use a calculator in class. Now they were part of the basic package along with color coded notebooks, ring not spiral, dog-eared text books graffiti-adorned with the same scrawled 'Susie loves Mark' pledges of undying love she had seen and created in her own high school years.

It was hard to believe Heather was a senior, ready to graduate and 'be free' for the summer prior to entering college. Harder yet to picture Amber, Lisa's little mother's helper, following close on her sister's heels, boys, dances, pizza, the back row in the movie unless it was already out on video.

She stood in the spotless living room, hands on hips as she evaluated it for an 'okay' or a second sweep. A definite 'okay.' Breathing in the cool moist air…the storm had passed…she wondered how much humidity would fill the air tomorrow. Ah well…that was better left for sunrise.

Working out the kinks in her neck with a satisfying pop, Lisa sighed. She was officially off duty as the matriarch of the Sigmon Household. A bath. My kingdom for a bath. Okay, it was a little skewed from the original, but she didn't care. She was pleasantly tired from entertaining, lovemaking, and an afternoon spent pampering her small, fragrant garden.

She grabbed a delicately etched crystal wine glass, poured a generous portion of ruby red port wine into it and swirled the liquid in the glass, watching the blood-red filmy coat creep up the sides of the miniature crystal bowl.

Lisa started for the stairs, reconsidered, and snatched up the bottle of wine. When she decided to relax, she was going to go the whole way. The calves of her legs protested each step of the spiral staircase, the wine sloshing towards the edge with each step up.

A moment of attention devoted to the closed door on her left--Heather on the phone, her lilting voice giggling childishly. Enjoy it, Lisa, she reminded herself with a twinge of regret, it won't be long before she's too 'grown up' to giggle endlessly over pointless phone calls.

If someone asked her, she would have to say she had a good life, she was happy, she was content. Well, at least as content as a woman could be when she waded into the dreaded middle age years and had to face the fact she had never become a world famous surgeon or artist or writer or astronaut.

A little dose of reality--she might not have achieved or even taken a step toward all the lofty goals she had started out adulthood with her ideals clutched in her hand--but she had a husband she was comfortable with even if the passion had cooled as it must after so many years, two daughters she loved with a fierceness which sometimes frightened her, a lovely suburban home which felt a part of her, friends, a mini-van that seemed to spend its life as a teenage girl shuttle.

"It could be worse," she said aloud knowing her words would hardly penetrate Korn and embarrass her in front of her children. When it was all tallied, she could truthfully say she was happy. Maybe the years had bartered down her dreams, but they had also been kind to her.

If only there wasn't that niggling, nagging twitter of unease which kept tapping at her mind like a Poe poem on a rainy night.

As if something, or someone, was going to walk in through the front door of her split-level home and shatter her carefully constructed world like a toppled mirror.

Something--premonition? paranoia? had been scuttling around in her mind for the last few days. Nothing she could mention to Rob; certainly not something she could drop onto the table as a conversation opener over coffee and spice cake with a neighbor.

With an all-over tremble, she kicked the feeling back into some unkempt corner of her mind. There was a hot, fragrant bath, a semi-circle of candles and a glass--or two--of good wine in her future. Then, she'd crawl beneath the sheets and hug her husband close. Nothing more sinister than that.

***

By now Jack was only too familiar with the nuances of Daniel in pain. It began with a restless shifting like somebody who had sat for too long in an airline seat. Then, it moved into sharp intakes of breath through the nose followed by a long slow inhalation. Jack's eyes flicked from the hint of colored fluid in the drip to Daniel's face. The guy has been present at too many births, his cynical mind taunted. All that breathe through the pain crap. Part of him though was grateful. Grateful Daniel had at least something to hold on to as the drug began to slowly work its way into his system.

"So, O'Neill," Santos gloated. "Still think Sigmon is worth saving?"

"Sigmon didn't choose to create that stuff," Jack snarled back. "He was forced into it. That's why I got him out."

"Ahh, a moral debate." Santos rested his hand casually on Daniel's shoulder. "What do you think, Doctor Jackson? Perhaps if you told us how it feels to be on the receiving end of Sigmon's handiwork, you could persuade your friend to think differently."

"Jack's right." Daniel breathed the words out determinedly. "Sigmon's not the guilty party. You are."

"Me?" Santos sounded surprised. He strolled towards O'Neill, his expression one of appeal. "Gentlemen, how can you put me in that role? No. You're the one, Jack. You're the one who could stop this. You're the one who could let Daniel here go home sound of mind and body. And remember we all make our choices. It's ironic really. Sigmon chose to create this compound rather than die. And now you, Jack, you choose to let Daniel suffer rather than simply hand him over - back to the place where he belongs. Tell me, where's the justice in that?"

"You wouldn't know justice if it bit you on the ass," Jack growled, tired of Santos and his talk. "You're the one injecting that stuff into Daniel. Not Sigmon."

Santos clicked his tongue and shook his head, his face radiating wounded innocence. "I am wounded you could say such a thing, Jack. To me. After all we have been through." He faced Daniel, smiled as an involuntary shiver wracked the abused body. "I like to think we've forged something here."

"Screw…you…" Daniel managed, finding a flicker of defiance. He gasped as hot spikes shot through him. God! I’m on fire. Help me….

Santos' lips thinned with pleasure. "Yes, I know," he crooned, stroking Daniel's face tenderly. "It hurts. Doesn't it? If only Jack would tell me what I want to know. This could end. You could go home."

"Leave him alone," O'Neill couldn't stand it any more. He wanted Santos' hands off his teammate right now.

"Now where would the amusement in that be?" Santos said. His tone would have made water freeze.

With an effort, Jack gulped his emotions back, trying not to give their tormentor anything new to feed on. He schooled his face into a mask of stoicism, fretting emotional cracks would show.

Santos laughed, seeing the failed effort in the strain on his features. He trailed his fingers through the sweat-matted hair at Daniel's temple as the spasm ended, leaving the scientist panting with the agony. "It's all about fun, isn't it? Aren't you having a fine time, Danny?"

***

If Sam Carter had been asked to choose a single word to describe Major General George Hammond, she would have said controlled.

Not the rigid, militaristic version of discipline but a feeling of leashed power, wisdom, a leader who cared about those he led.

Conversation had been nonexistent in the government-issue sedan. Rain thrummed against the windows, wipers ticking a steady rhythm, heat poured out of the vents, lulling her, trying to steal away her awareness. Not for the first time, Sam found herself trying to knuckle her eyes out of their blurriness without either of her companions noticing her lapse.

"Teal'c, I want you to take an extra zat for Colonel O'Neill. He'll need it when we find him."

"Yes, General Hammond."

Sam gave her superior a thankful look. His use of the word when not if bolstered her hope, chasing the drowsiness from her mind. "Sir, did your intel say where the colonel and Daniel are being held in the complex?"

Hammond shook his head. "No, so we'll infiltrate the compound from the north while SG-3 and SG-5 take the east and west. The south is against a mountain cliff. No one's going to escape that way except in a pine box."

Hearing the grim determination in his voice, Sam knew anyone who stood between Hammond and his people would need a coffin. She mentally nodded and caught the look in Teal'c's dark eyes. The general wasn't alone in his sentiments. Any enemy who got in their way would be a corpse by nightfall.

***

The machine beside Daniel emitted a quiet beep. His head jerked round, blue eyes transfixed on the tiny puff of yellow fluid curling into the saline.

Santos' icy smile grew wider. "Yes, my friend, it's going to get worse. Cramps. Spasms. Waves of agony." He leaned closer to him. "I know what you were thinking when you walked out here. Die with dignity. They all think that. The men who come through my hands. At some point in the proceedings, a strange madness strikes, and they start thinking they will die with dignity." Santos' lips curled. "That was what you were thinking, wasn't it, Daniel? That's what gave you the strength to walk out here with your head high and your spine straight."

He paused and then pressed home his point. "Well that's not how it's going to be. Not this time, my boy. When Sigmon's cocktail has finished its work, you'll have years and years of life to look forward to. At least the nurses who'll clean the drool off your face and change your soiled bedding will call it life. Personally, I'd call it hell because you'll still be in there somewhere, unable to communicate, unable to stop being a burden to your friends."

"Don't listen to him, Daniel!"

Santos turned to face O'Neill. "Why not, Jack? Don't want your puppy to know what he's going to face?"

A harsh breath which mutated into a low moan captured the attention of both men. As two sets of eyes turned to the bound man in the center of the room, anguish flickered onto the face of one, triumph onto the other.

"Tell him how it feels, Daniel," Santos goaded. "I know you want to. Tell him while you still can."

Breath caught in O'Neill's throat, stabbing him with pent-up emotion.

Daniel lifted his head, his teeth gritted, the breathing no longer keeping the pain at bay. "I'm fine, Jack," he ground out defiantly. "What is it you always... say? Just..." Another pain-filled sound escaped his lips before he could stop it. He paused, forced to draw air back into his lungs before he could expel the next word. "Peachy."

***

Tony beat time with a pencil against the security monitor scanning the north perimeter. "Boring…" he sighed, seeing no movement on the screen. Not that he wanted company unless it was Daniel Jackson's. His dark eyes gleamed at the thought of the tortured scientist. His uncle had promised him the man when they were through breaking O'Neill. It was too bad it had been time to check security. He'd really wanted to watch the drug work.

Tongue wetting his lips, Tony yearned to hold the scholar's still warm brain in his fingers and feel the proud heart convulsing its last in his palm. He shifted in his seat, the erection prompted by those thoughts making it uncomfortable to sit. It was almost too much to imagine the interior workings of that well cared for body. Unlike Grant, he had no interest in the external or the posterior of Jackson.

Grant. A sneer twisted Tony's lips. If the stinking clown accidentally killed his patient, he would take Jackson's place on the autopsy table even if it took a year to slice through that lounge lizard cologne he wore. A fine sheen of sweat filmed his skin in anticipation. He'd been honing his skills over the last few months so his "patient" didn't die too quickly. By jury-rigging electronics, Tony had fashioned a crude life support mechanism which would keep a subject alive and pretty much aware while he explored the insides of their bodies. It provided so much useful information on how the human anatomy actually functioned without bothering with those unnecessary morals the AMA was always blathering about. If O'Neill broke before Sigmon's drug finished its work and his uncle had promised him he would, Jackson could be his before the sun set. It didn't matter if he remained in pain from the drug. He wouldn't notice it once Tony opened him up with a scalpel. With a sigh of expectation, he leaned back in his chair, savoring the moment. God, he loved his job!

A blip appeared on the screen and disappeared.

Tony sat forward, frowning at the monitor. "Damn rabbits," he muttered when it came and went again. Rising, he wandered back through the corridors to the cell where Santos Senior was. Uncle or not, the man would have his head on a pike if he didn't warn him about every freakin' bogie dug up by security. If they had more men, he could have sent a flunky out to check it first, but his uncle had kept this operation lean and mean budgetwise because it was a get in and get out situation. Of course, there was always time for the pursuit of medical knowledge. Tony smirked.

"You can stop this, O'Neill. Why do you delight in watching our friend Daniel writhe with agony?"

"Shut the fuck up."

Tony's grin widened. His uncle had been right. From the tightness of his voice, O'Neill seemed on the verge of breaking. Good. Grant could take what he wanted then Jackson was his to play with.

"Profanity, Jack? I thought you had better manners." Santos Senior tsked. "A sign of the modern era, I'm afraid."

"Stuff your manners," O'Neill growled as Tony entered the room.

He saw the quickly masked rage in his uncle's eyes before icy calm deadened them.

"Daniel," Santos murmured, patting Jackson's sweating cheek, "Why don't you moan? You know you want to let the pain out. I'm sure you feel the cold stealing through you right now. Too bad it's going to burn again in a moment."

Tony could feel his hard-on swell as the young scientist stubbornly bit his lip, making blood well as he strangled the groan in his chest which wanted voice. What a magnificent specimen! It might take hours before he died. His heart beating wildly, Tony felt his high hopes quicken his blood. How much he could learn from this man! His fingers itched to feel the warm slickness of blood as he probed the stomach, the intestines, the lungs.

"What is it, Tony?"

Snapped back from the near future, Tony met his uncle's cool gaze. "Something flashed on the security monitor."

"A rabbit?" Santos waited, expecting a precise report.

"Maybe. It came and went a couple of times."

A sigh of exasperation filtered through the older man's lips. "Sorry to delay our diversion, Jack, but you know how command goes. Every little detail needs to be checked."

Glancing at O'Neill, Tony noted the rage burning in the brown eyes and the hard line of lips which refused to answer. The soldier was in some primal place where the need for revenge became all consuming. Too bad his uncle wouldn't let him have O'Neill also, but Santos Senior had more elaborate plans than an autopsy table. Tony repressed a shiver. There were worse things than dying to advance scientific knowledge.

The thought returned his gaze to Jackson. Trembling with pain and white-faced from internal spasms, the man could barely control the gasps of distress passing for his breathing.

"Tony!"

Santos Junior jumped and scurried after his uncle. It wouldn't do to keep him waiting. No, that would be a very, very bad thing. As he followed the older man's lean shadow, Tony mentally fingered his carving scalpels, knowing the room down the hall with the metal table lay in wait for Daniel Jackson's final hours.

***

"I thought he'd never leave," Grant muttered, a grin twisting his ugly mouth. He circled his bound and writhing victim, savoring the thought of what he was planning. Fear of Santos merely heightened his anticipation. O'Neill clearly wasn't going to break, he justified to himself. And Santos had promised him the geek. It was only fair the deal was kept while Jackson was still alive enough to react - after all that was half the fun.

Moaning in pain, Daniel twitched against the cruel bonds which lashed him to the chair, unaware of Grant's hot gaze. The unbruised portion of his face remained ashen, and his sandy hair lay lank against his scalp.

Grant's meaty fingers caressed the sweat-matted strands, and his smirk widened, his mental argument complete. "I've waited too long as it is," he muttered to no one in particular.

"Find yourself another playmate," Jack growled from the cell as the sick realization of Grant's intentions crashed over him, "or better yet, fly solo."

Shooting the caged man a scowl, Grant leaned closer to Daniel's ear and whispered in a voice loud enough to carry, "What do you say, pretty boy? You wanna fly? You won't be so nice lookin' when we're through, but I bet I leave you satisfied."

Daniel's head jerked up. His pain-filled eyes locked fearfully on Grant's face only inches from his own. For a moment, he couldn't react.

If willpower could have bent metal, O'Neill's fingers would have ripped apart the bars of his cell. His body tensed for action. As he saw Daniel's head come up, he recognized the expression. Knew what Daniel himself was even now discovering. The young man had handled more pain and anguish than most black ops agents ever had to face, and he was still alive and lucid. But this? Jack knew - this would push Daniel into an abyss no one would ever be able to rescue him from.

Despite the agony tearing into him, the wrenching cramps in his midsection, and the violent shivers they produced, Daniel finally managed a hoarse denial. "N-no."

The refusal merely fired the anticipation in Grant. "Bet you mean yes. Had a girlfriend once who told me no, and she always meant yes." He ran his tongue along the right side of Daniel's face, reveling in the taste of sweat, blood, and fear.

"God, no." Daniel tried to pull away, but the merciless fingers tangling in his hair held him immobile. His struggle sent bolts of torture through his entire body as the mounting drug worked its evil in his bloodstream. A gasp opened his mouth wide and made his nostrils flare. Stale musk odor nauseated him.

"C'mon, Daniel," Grant crooned, "fight me." His hands captured the sides of the young man's pale face. Covering Daniel's mouth with his own, Grant plunged his tongue into the wet warmth, a prelude to his ultimate intention.

"Get off him!" Jack screamed as a whimper of pain sounded from Daniel's throat. He beat the bars with his fists, no longer caring to hold his emotions in check now that Santos had left the room. He was ignored. If nothing else, if he could make enough noise so Santos would come back and put a halt to this.

Gotta do something. Gotta stop this. God, Danny, I'm so sorry. Desperation sent an icy calm through Jack. He could feel the almost insubstantial weight of the bent metal needle in his pocket. With shaking hands, he retrieved it and began to work on the lock preventing him from helping his friend.

Undone by the suffering cresting in him and the foul, stale tobacco taste of Grant's mouth, Daniel gagged. The drug had robbed him of strength, preventing him from breaking free. Hot tears spilled at his own helplessness. Held rigid by pain, the cruel ropes around his wrists and ankles, and the unyielding hands capturing his face, he couldn't stop the rape of his mouth. Desperately, he tried to bite his attacker's tongue. The goon pulled back, slapping him hard across his unprotected face. Sight wavered in starbursts of black and sick orange.

Eager breath filling his lungs, Grant ran his hand down Daniel's smoothly muscled chest. His callused fingers rubbed drug sensitized skin, eliciting a wince and another groan. "You like that?" he laughed, deliberately abrading the whip mark which still stood out red and angry across Daniel's shoulder. His eyes fell on the IV tubing taped to Daniel's arms and then on the rope holding the young man captive, viewing both merely as obstructions which were keeping him from his victim. Without a second thought, he yanked the IV free, laughing as Daniel screamed against a bitten lip to keep the sound inside. "Let it out. You're gonna yell plenty before I'm through with you, boy."

Jack's hands shook visibly as he forced them to their task of picking the lock on his cage. His eyes focused on the metal, ignoring the coarse foreplay of the man torturing Daniel. Only two things mattered: getting out and stopping this.

Daniel tried to recoil in horror as Grant's hands moved to his waist, but there was nowhere to go. The hard back of the wooden chair pressed against his flesh mockingly. Grant, however, was still intent on inflicting humiliation. He quickly unbuckled Daniel's belt, and pulled the leather free from the young man's pants. A knife appeared in his hand, and he callously sliced through the bindings holding Daniel to the chair, not caring whether he was cutting rope or flesh. Before Daniel could respond to the fresh onslaught of pain, Grant wrapped the belt around the young man's bloodied wrists, knotting it securely. A hand went back to Daniel's hair, pulling him roughly from the chair.

"You're facing the wrong way, Daniel," Grant crooned as the tip of the knife trailed languidly down the unbruised side of Daniel's face, and then across the young man's heaving chest, leaving a deep scratch in its wake. Without warning, he drew back and delivered a carefully weighted slap which was enough to slam Daniel face down to the floor without giving him any hope of unconsciousness.

For a long moment Grant stood back, watching as the young man tried to crawl towards the door despite his bound hands. The sudden silence caught Jack's attention. Tearing his eyes away from his painfully slow progress on the lock, he glanced at the scene in the room. Anger mounted as he saw Daniel piteously inching across the room - the fact that escape was impossible was clearly lost to his overloaded mind.

Effortlessly, Grant stepped in front of Daniel. "Daniel?" he purred. "Don't you know it's rude to run out on a date?"

As the last mad moment of hope was extinguished, Daniel folded, a single sob echoing around the small room. Almost immediately, Grant was on him, the weight of the big man pinning his legs to the ground. Grant leaned over him. "Time to get intimate," he whispered as his hands slid beneath the archeologist, thick fingers fumbling with buttons and zippers.

Crying out again, Daniel shook his head, trying to deny the coming violation of his weakened body. Tears choked him as he felt Grant succeed in undoing his clothing. Please God, no. Please, please no. The litany repeated in his mind, a useless prayer to a seemingly oblivious deity. Despite the fact he had long exceeded the limits of his physical strength, he desperately tried to push himself upright with his bound hands. Hampered by his own belt, his mind screamed out in mockery. It was useless. Grant merely laughed at Daniel's efforts before grabbing the young man's arms and pinning them outstretched above his head with his left hand. With a jerk of his other hand, Grant stripped his writhing victim of the remainder of his shredded clothing.

Unable to move from fear and agony, Daniel's mind screamed at the feel of cold air prickling his skin. He wanted so badly to look at Jack, to gain strength from the soldier's eyes to help him through the ordeal, but he couldn't. Daniel knew he would never ever be able to face O'Neill again. One last 'no' shuddered free from his lips before another wave of agony ripped through him. If it weren't for Grant's grip, he would've curled into a tight ball and let go of his sanity - closing out the nightmare forever. Instead he was trapped - physically, mentally, emotionally. The final dregs of sanity he had held onto were about to be torn from his grasp.

"Sweet," Grant approved, finally ready to take what he had been promising himself for so long. As he drew in a final breath of anticipation, a hand tapped his shoulder. Instinctively, he turned his head.

With an inarticulate growl of rage, O'Neill launched himself at the downed man, catapulting into the massive body as Grant had barely begun his struggle to regain his feet. The helplessness he'd been forced to endure arced like a current of electricity through his shoulders, down the corded muscles of his arms and into the fists raining down merciless blows to the already dazed man.

His head still ringing, his unfastened clothing impeding him, Grant never had a chance. Jack heard the pop of cartilage disintegrating beneath his knuckles as the bastard's nose broke with a satisfying crunch and teeth broke free from gums with a nauseating spray of blood.

A desperate last chance switch of tactic bought Grant a boot heel in the ribs as bone caved and audibly split under Jack's foot. As the goon fell under the brutal assault, O'Neill's throat tightened with the need to scream his bloodlust, but some shred of rationality prevented the savage cry from escaping, almost as if some essence of humanity still held sway over him.

Not to mention Daniel might still be partially aware, and he must not hear how damned good Jack felt as he beat Grant to death. Jack could live with the savagery of his act; oh, hell, yeah, he could live with it, but Daniel... Daniel would never understand, and he had already suffered enough trauma at this man's hands.

Almost unnoticed, Grant twitched once, and his entire body stilled with the rubber-band elasticity only achieved by death.

Breath heaving in his lungs, O'Neill stood over the bloodied form of Daniel's tormentor, dark satisfaction flooding him with the knife-edged thrill of revenge demanded and exacted.

A warm rush of overwhelming regret unexpectedly stunned him.

Jack would have given anything in that moment for a sarcophagus. Like an addict craving a fix, he needed the pleasure of killing Grant again and again. Now, here in this filthy room of horrors, he suddenly and irrevocably understood the appeal of a snatch back from the curtain of death. The ultimate revenge wet dream. A sigh tore through his lips as he gave the corpse one final kick.

"Sometimes no means no, you son of a bitch."

A ragged whisper of a moan pulled his attention away from Grant.

Shit oh shit oh shit.

Daniel. Quickly wiping his bloodied hands on his shirt, Jack knelt beside his teammate. Daniel flinched away from his tentative touch. As shivers wracked the naked man, Jack felt his mouth thin to a grim slash as he again tried to reach out. His fingers ached to cradle Daniel away from the uncaring chill of the floor, draw him back from the terror he had suffered. His heart was breaking as he felt Daniel flinching away from the touch of his hand. How in hell could he ever make this better? Desperation pulled Daniel into his arms, the need to be consoled equally as strong as the desire to comfort.

***

With the exhilaration of combat zinging through his veins, George Hammond rounded a corner, zat gun ready, his heart pumping madly like a schoolboy. A group of hostiles jerked their weapons up in greeting. Death charged the air. Blue energy sizzled by flying bullets. Outweaponed and outclassed, the enemy dropped like swatted mosquitoes. Although it felt longer, it was over in minutes.

"Move out," Hammond commanded, leading the way through the now secure area. Sam and Teal'c covered his back as they followed, stepping over the stunned bodies. As they passed door after door and checked them for their missing comrades, George wondered if their prey had gotten word of the rescue mission and taken his prisoners from the place. Hammond's jaw tightened. He'd track Santos to hell and back to find O'Neill and Daniel.

"Nothing here, sir," Sam reported, checking the right side.

"Nor this one, General Hammond."

Teal'c's somber reply drove the nail of determination deeper into Hammond's heart. He would find them. "Keep looking," he said, peering into another room. A metal-topped table dominated it, and a row of bizarre equipment lined the back wall. What in hell? Deciding he didn't have time to figure it out, the general began to shut the door when a slight sound behind one of the machines snared his attention. "Get out here," he demanded, zat steady and sure on the target.

"D-don't hurt me." A young man about Daniel's age stood and raised his hands.

Hammond's eyes narrowed. He'd absorbed the Intel reports and instantly recognized Santos Junior. This gentle looking kid was a sociopath? "Where's your uncle?"

"U-uncle? Please, I don't know…"

"Can the bull," Hammond snapped, stepping further into the room with Teal'c a pace behind him. He frowned at the way their captive's eyes widened at the sight of the massive Jaffa as if inspecting a good grade of beef. An air of innocence quickly masked slyness. George began to get an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. The notations about this man were probably true. "Tony, I know who you are. Where is your uncle?"

"I don't know."

Despite the sound of truth in the statement, the general saw Teal'c's finger tighten on the zat out of the corner of his eye. "Not yet," he ordered quietly, nodding to himself as the warrior waited. "Where are O'Neill and Jackson?"

Tony licked his lips, looking from Hammond's face to Teal'c's zat. Guile stole over his features again. "I-I don't…"

Hammond nodded slightly.

Before Santos Junior could finish, Teal'c's zat fired, sending the blue nimbus surging towards its target. Tony cried out and fell, twitching in reaction.

Hammond stood over the downed man. "Where ARE they?"

"J-jackson's mine. Mine. He p-promised I could have him," Tony snarled, curling in on himself.

Nausea boiled in the general's throat. One look at the autopsy table told him what the other man meant. Disgust making his hand tremble, he clutched his zat, preparing to deliver the second fatal blow.

Teal'c's shot enveloped the killer before he could. A third disintegrated the body.

Staring at the Jaffa, Hammond swallowed thickly, shaken to the core at how close he'd come to committing murder. Before he could say anything, gunfire erupted in the corridor, and he heard the sound of Carter's zat discharging.

Teal'c fled the room without a backward glance.

George found himself a half step behind the big man, taking aim and firing on their new adversaries. His nerves stretched to breaking, he accidentally misjudged the hair trigger on his zat and fired twice at one man. Sorry about that his mind whispered although he really wasn’t. The need to blast these bastards to hell filled him with a conscience-numbing rage.

The skirmish ended as the other one had-his team victorious and the other down. There were only a few unchecked doors left in the area, but another corridor waited. "Captain, you and Teal'c go over there and keep looking. I'll finish here."

"Yes, sir."

God bless Jacob Carter for raising his girl right. Gratitude filled him at her swift execution of his orders which spared him from having to meet either her or Teal'c's gaze. He didn't believe in wholesale slaughter, but his men were missing and the fear Santos might have taken them kept growing. Most of the enemy is neutralized not dead. Yeah, what about that guy you just slaughtered? Deciding he'd deal with it later, Hammond approached the last door, his heart dropping to his boots before he quickly steadied it. If Jack and Daniel weren't here, they'd be somewhere inside this damned place. No use dwelling on the negative. The door swung open on well-oiled hinges.

George Hammond had seen more than his share of nightmares coming up through the ranks. Now, as his search and destroy teams efficiently worked their way through the building, he prepared himself for another one. Santos. He knew what the man was capable of, and despite recent years flying a desk, he was ready for what he might find. At least he thought he was ready. Ready to cope with two of his people bruised, bloodied and battered, perhaps even... his mind whispered the word and he didn't try to deny it... dead.

George Hammond, skilled tactician, diplomat, and in his day hard-nosed airman was rarely wrong about anything. What he didn't know was today was going to be an exception.

He inched his way to the open door in front of him then warily maneuvered himself so he could see into the room. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dim light, he nearly fell into the strange tableau like the set of an impromptu, bloody and reeking Shakespearean play. He ran a quick visual recon and pronounced it non-threatening.

Hunched in one corner of the filthy room, in dirt grimed and bloodstained fatigue pants and black tee-shirt, was someone he didn't immediately recognize, rocking, oh so gently rocking the blood-washed, naked body in his arms. Then a quick glance spared for the obviously dead man close to the broken wooden table, so dead he didn't even bother with a check for life.

At the sound or sense of another presence, the man glanced up, squinted, and then spoke. "General?"

The familiar voice almost caused Hammond to step backwards in shock. "Colonel O'Neill?" Beneath the mask of pain and grief, Hammond suddenly recognized the familiar face.

"General..." O'Neill choked on a swallowed sob.

Hammond crossed the room, cold fear washing past his ability to retain his normal, neutral expression, his mouth moving. "Are you all right?" His eyes, his whole attention however, were on the naked figure clutched protectively in O'Neill's arms. If this was O'Neill, then the body...

He crouched and was jolted by the full impact of Santos' handiwork.

Resisting the obvious fact this was the impulsive, hopelessly naive young man he had allowed--against his own doubts and reservations--to be part of his crack SG team, Hammond's eyes moved from the barely recognizable features to the whip marks, the burns, the array of multicolored abuse decorating the pale body. A cold fury swirled through him like an acid bath. Anger, regret, guilt, they were all born anew for him, and he had already suffered his share of that array of self-abuse.

Stepping through the corridors and rooms of this hellhole had almost been enjoyable, making him feel like a young man again. The thrill of the mission. The adrenaline sting of danger.

Now he looked down at the young scientist he had unwittingly started to consider almost as a son, and all he could taste was bitterness.

A low moan escaped Daniel's lips. He wasn't dead! The realization rocked Hammond back on his haunches, but his relief vanished instantly as the moan turned into a tortured sob.

"Poison!" O'Neill didn't elaborate. The overwhelming grief eased back an inch. Rescue was here. There was still hope, no matter how slight. "We have to get him out of here."

Another notch of anger tightened on Hammond's face as Daniel twisted in O'Neill's arms, agony etched across his features.

"General?" A woman's voice called from the corridor. Hammond's mind leapt into action. No way did he want Carter to see Jackson in this state. "Where the hell are his clothes?" Hammond's eyes met with O'Neill's, a dozen unasked and unanswerable questions telegraphed between them. O'Neill nodded at a ragged piece of clothing situated a foot away from the corpse.

Hammond scooped it up, shook it out and realized it was the tattered remnants of a pair of fatigue pants. The sight horrified him - adding another notch to the well of fury. What the hell had they done to the young man that his clothes were...? He shut down the answer before it could form. He could imagine only too well what attention Daniel's boyish good looks could attract. His eyes drifted to the corpse, wondering... Carter's voice sounded again, more urgent.

"One moment, Captain," Hammond replied, unsure why he was so concerned with Daniel's modesty when the young man clearly needed urgent medical help. He just knew he was--that somehow it was important to provide a vestige of dignity. He pulled out his knife and cut away the worst of the shredded material. What was left would at least offer the young man some cover.

"What the hell are you doing?" O'Neill hissed, all thoughts of military decorum gone.

"You want Carter to see him like this?" Hammond snapped back. With a gentleness O'Neill would not have expected from the man, Hammond eased Daniel into what now looked like a pair of beach shorts. It was more difficult than he expected to force the minimal clothing onto a weakly resisting body. When he finally was satisfied, he shrugged out of his fatigue jacket and wrapped it around the trembling body.

Daniel's eyes flickered open, a brief moment of lucidity amongst the avalanche of pain-induced confusion. "G...Gen..."

"Don't try to speak, son." Hammond's voice betrayed his emotions. "We're getting you out of here."

There was no reply as Daniel was once more gripped by the poison coursing through his veins. Hammond noted the way the young man's fingers curled around O'Neill's hand, drawing what comfort was possible from the presence of the older man.

Hammond stood up. "Are you ready for this?" The question was aimed at O'Neill who merely nodded. He paused, eyeing the corpse. From its battered state and the blood on O'Neill's clothing, it wasn't too hard to guess what happened. The general took his zat, firing three times on the blood mess. There would be no questions or reprimands for his men. Turning to the door, Hammond called out to the anxious remnant of SG-1. "I've found them!"

The call delivered, Hammond keyed his radio and barked, "Building secured. Dr. Fraiser, get your team in here on the double. We have a man down."

"Janet's here?" Jack said weakly, his head still spinning at the sudden turn of events.

Barely nodding at the question, Hammond glanced up at his subordinate. O'Neill looked as bad as the young man he was cradling in his arms.

"General Hammond, sir!" A uniformed man burst into the room and snapped off a sharp salute. "We have prisoners, sir. Awaiting your orders."

Hammond's eyes lingered for one long moment on Daniel's barely recognizable face before straightening. He still had a job to do, and there was no purpose to be served sitting here with Jackson's injuries burning into him like acid. He glanced at the pale face of Samantha Carter, noting the tears running silently down her face. Behind her stood the solid mass of Teal'c.

"Stay with them." He voiced the words for his own comfort, knowing without a shadow of a doubt no one from SG-1 had any intention of moving an inch from their teammate's side. "Lead on, soldier."

With Hammond gone, Sam let go of her emotions. "Oh God, Daniel! What have they done to you?" Her hand moved of its own volition to the bruised face. As another painful tremor gripped Daniel, she snatched it back, suddenly afraid to touch him.

A loud clamor at the door announced the arrival of the medics. Janet led the way, her petite form bulky in full combat gear.

"Daniel?" The single word said it all. The anger. The pain. The disbelief. Oh please! This can't be Daniel. For the briefest of seconds, Janet allowed herself to see her friend not her patient, bruised and bloodied almost beyond recognition, face distorted in the grip of agony then the professional mask shuttered everything away. She dropped to her knees by the shattered body, the routine she knew only too well forming a safety barrier between her brain and her emotions.

"Colonel O'Neill?" She glanced up at the soldier, clearly expecting information as she checked Daniel's vital signs. Breathing irregular. Heartbeat weak, also irregular. Body temperature--too low.

Jack looked up numbly at her expression, bitterly aware his own physical condition other than the dirt and Daniel's blood, was only a little different than how it had been a few hours earlier. Yes, he needed a shower, a shave, and a hot meal. Other than that... Oh God, Daniel...

"Colonel O'Neill. I need to know..."

"Poison," Jack forced the word out nodding toward the tumbled IV rig. "I don't know what's in it, but I know where to look to find out."

Janet nodded curtly. "Get him on the stretcher," she told her corpsmen curtly. Symptoms?"

Symptoms? How the hell was he supposed to know? He wasn't the one dying from the stuff. O'Neill swallowed. Made himself think. "Cramps. Muscles spasms." God, he remembered Santos' taunt. "It affects the brain somehow. But only if he had a full dose. I don't know how much he had. There was this machine..."

Daniel was on the stretcher now. A medic reached over him with a strap, intent on securing him. Suddenly the air was pierced by a scream which shouldn't have been possible. "No....!" A rush of adrenaline-fed strength enabled Daniel to try to sit up, struggling against the arms attempting to hold him down. His eyes met O'Neill's. "Jack. Please. Don't let them... take me."

"Daniel, it's Janet." Anguish plunged an open wound through O'Neill's heart. "She's here to help you."

Another shuddering wave ripped through Daniel, forcing him back. Seeing their opportunity the medics tried once again to strap him down. "No!" Daniel sobbed. "Janet? Janet, please." He seemed to see her for the first time. A blood-covered arm reached out for her. "Pr..promise. No... needles."

Bewildered, Janet turned to O'Neill.

"They tortured him." O'Neill spat out the words. "He thinks..."

"Oh hell," Janet whispered, suddenly understanding. Of course. How else would he have gotten into this state while O'Neill... She clamped down on that thought. "Daniel..."

A large hand landed on the shoulder of the nearest medic. "Restraining Daniel Jackson will not be necessary." Teal'c shoved the man to one side. "I will carry him to the ambulance."

"Teal'c?" The young man's voice was childlike as the face of the Jaffa swam into view.

"It is I, Daniel Jackson." Without another word, the alien scooped the injured man still wrapped in the general's coat and headed from the room, the medics scuttling anxiously behind him.

***

As they reached the relative safety of the ambulance, Janet Fraiser decided it was time to regain control of the situation. She had dealt with enough traumatized soldiers in her career to know sometimes it paid to play dirty. Jumping into the ambulance ahead of Teal'c, she snatched a hypodermic and deftly filled it with a large dose of sedative.

As Teal'c stepped through the door with Daniel, Janet neatly moved forward and plunged the needle into the anthropologist's bare thigh. Daniel scarcely had time to release an outraged cry before the powerful drug began to steal consciousness from him. His eyes met Janet's briefly, the betrayal in them scoring through her, and then his lids fluttered closed.

Janet released a sigh of relief. "Put him there," she nodded towards the narrow cot. "Colonel O'Neill, you're with me. The rest of you follow behind."

"Janet..."

Before Sam could protest any further, Janet cut her off. "I have work to do, Captain. You can see Daniel in the infirmary just as soon as I have him stabilized. Now out!"

Reluctantly both Sam and Teal'c exited the ambulance. As Jack attempted to follow, Janet grabbed his arm. "I said with me, Colonel!"

Uncomfortably, Jack took a seat. His head slumped into his hands, and the ambulance pulled away, siren blaring. He didn't want to be here. All the hours of watching Daniel, suffering beside Daniel, being the strength for Daniel, and now Fraiser wanted to drag him along in the ambulance. He just wanted to be alone. To shut it all out. Rewind the clock back to the car park. If he'd just gotten in his car and driven away and left Daniel to struggle with his books and papers alone. If he'd just left half an hour earlier or later. He rubbed his hands over his face, suddenly realizing what he was doing. What ifs never did anyone any good.

Despite himself, he watched as Janet quickly straightened Daniel's limbs, talking to herself quietly as she did so. Like a woman taking part in a bizarre knitting contest, her hands worked deftly around the unconscious man, tapping into veins, wiring up monitors.

"I need to know what they did to him, Colonel." Her voice was direct but not unkind.

"Isn't it obvious?" O'Neill couldn't bring himself to be civil, the self-loathing he felt threatening to win control over his fragile emotions.

Janet glanced at the colonel, realizing the older man might be unhurt physically but emotionally... "Daniel's life is on the line here." Her voice was gentle. "I really need the details."

"Details!" Jack stood up, lurching as the ambulance spun around a corner. He moved to Daniel's side, bracing himself with one hand on the stretcher.

"I'll give you details." He pointed to the angry slash on Daniel's cheek. "That's where they whipped him. A riding crop. Short and hard. You'll find four more marks like that on his back and shoulders. The bruises... well, I lost count of how many times he got hit. They'd already worked him over fairly well before I saw him."

Jack was in full flow now, spitting out the words in an angry volley of disgust. He lifted Daniel's arm, showing Janet the blistered burn. "That's where they wired him to a mobile battery and pumped him full of electricity. You'll find a matching one on his leg. Oh yeah. And if you look real close, you'll find needle marks. Don't be fooled by those, Doctor. He used up one of those godamn cat's lives of his during that little game."

He took an angry breath, glancing round for something to smash. "Did I miss anything, Doctor?"

Janet gazed down at Daniel, allowing herself to assess O'Neill's words from a purely medical stance. Daniel's terrified face as they'd attempted to strap him to the stretcher came back unbidden. She shook off the image. She couldn't afford to think about that now or about what he had been through. Just deal with the injuries. Burns. Bruises. Lacerations. Just the injuries. Not Daniel. Not the gentle young man who made her laugh, teased her about her hair, and drove her mad by coming into the infirmary for physicals awash with caffeine.

"The poison?" There, she'd regained control.

Jack's face hardened. "It was concocted by someone I once knew. It'll be in the files. As soon as we reach the SGC, I can tell you what's in it."

Janet knew better than to ask any more questions about the history behind the statement. But there was one more thing she needed to know. "An antidote?" Please God, let there be an antidote.

O'Neill slumped back onto the thinly padded bench seat. "Not that I know of."

***

As the ambulance screamed into Cheyenne Mountain and the rush through the corridors towards the infirmary cannoned into existence, Jack grabbed Carter's arm.

"This way," he ordered tersely, indicating a different direction with a nod of his head.

"Colonel?" Carter's eyes were fixed on the gurney carrying Daniel.

"I need to access a Pentagon file," Jack's voice was anguished. "And I need to do it quickly. Which means I need you. Carter, are you listening?"

"What?" Sam's attention swung to Jack as the gurney turned a corner. "Files! Yes, sir!"

Sitting at a keyboard moments later, Carter's fingers were flying. Beside her, Jack was swearing softly as the minutes ticked past.

"I'm sorry," she apologized for the fifth time. "I can't make it go any faster. There - I need your password to access into these files." She glanced at him and muttered, "Let's hope it's still valid. It's been a while since you've been active in this field."

Jack blanched. It had never occurred to him his security status might have been changed. "Please, God," he whispered as he typed in the code. For a long moment, the screen displayed 'Verifying Password'.

"We're in!" Sam exclaimed with relief. "Okay, now the tricky part. Tracking down the right file."

It took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes Jack knew Daniel didn't have to spare. Twenty minutes in which he knew the poison was still working its evil. Jack poised over the printer like a leopard waiting for it to spew out the formula. As it did so, he snatched up the paper and sprinted to the infirmary for all he was worth.

Carter slammed a couple of keys to exit the Pentagon files and was hard on his heels.

***

Fraiser didn't say a word as Jack thrust the paper at her. With a quick glance at Daniel, she barked orders and snatched up the telephone. When it came to emergencies, she was nothing if not organized. Dr. Bulley, the country's leading toxicologist, was waiting on the other end of the line.

Janet read out the formula to him, her face betraying nothing. For what seemed like hours she said nothing, then suddenly her mouth was in full gear, yelling out a list of incomprehensible chemicals to her nursing staff. It seemed as though half the infirmary staff vanished in response, each of them intent on tracking down a vital ingredient for a cocktail to save Daniel.

As Janet put the phone down and returned to her patient, she saw Jack's questioning look. "Bulley's on his way here. In the meantime, there's several things we can do which will keep Daniel alive."

"He'll be alright," Jack demanded, remembering Santos' threat of brain damage.

"I can't say," Janet replied forthrightly. "Bulley said it was one of the most devilish concoctions he'd come across. But if the dosage was low..."

A memory of tiny puffs of yellow curling into the saline came unbidden into Jack's mind. That was low wasn't it? He swayed on his feet, suddenly dizzy. Janet's arm rested briefly on his. "Go and lie down. I'll call you as soon as there's any change."

Jack glanced from her concerned face to Daniel's battered features. "I'm not leaving him," he said.

For once Janet didn't try to argue with him. "Sit over there out of the way," she said briskly, turning back to her patient.

In a daze, Jack stepped back but didn't sit. He frowned as she efficiently tugged the cooling blanket higher under Daniel's chin and fussed with the IV line. His stomach knotted as she lifted one of Daniel's eyelids and flashed a light to test his responses. She bit her lip, and a frown wrinkled her forehead. Jack clenched his teeth. What did she see? Whatever it was made her quickly grab a syringe and inject the contents into the IV. He closed his eyes, denying the flashback. It ignored him.

One syringeful, Jack, and you can say farewell to Dr. Jackson. At least the Dr. Jackson you know. The one who can walk and talk and control his bladder. Reality faded for a second as Jack's knees became quicksand. He sank onto a nearby chair, watching numbly as people scurried around his unmoving teammate. They placed an oxygen mask over Daniel's nose and mouth before hooking him up to yet another machine. A new honkin' huge IV needle went into Daniel's arm. Not a needle, Janet. He's had to deal with too many of 'em lately. Medical jargon which made no sense flew between the doctor and her team. Red began to flow from Daniel's new tube into a box-like machine which began to clack and pump.

Jack glanced at the bleeping monitors over the sickbed. They told him nothing of value. He could see the blood pressure and pulse were way too low. Was this a good or a bad thing given the circumstances? His gaze flickered back to Daniel, and his stomach coiled tighter. Except for the grooves of pain, Daniel's face remained lax as if his mind had already fled his body. Fight it. Don't give Santos the victory. Wake up and be your stubborn, too trusting self. Please. I need you, Danny. Need you to stay who you are. The thought of the linguist's inquisitive, brilliant mind turning into mush became unbearable. Burning stung his eyes, and Jack quickly blinked to bring his friend's much too pale features back into focus.

A low, tortured moan stilled the medical ballet. A long heartbeat passed.

Jack held his breath.

"Not yet, Daniel," Janet urged, her gaze riveted to the vital signs.

As usual, the young man disobeyed orders. He groaned again, his head moving from side to side as if he could dislodge the mask. Numbers jumped on the displays as his heart rate increased with a substantial beep. "No." The plastic covering over his mouth muffled the rusty-sounding protest. Long eyelashes twitched and slowly rose. Dazed and fearful eyes searched the area as best as they could. No recognition lived in them.

A buzzing filled Jack's head as he still held his breath.

"Daniel. It's Janet. You're safe. Relax."

The words did no good. Sensing he was restrained, Daniel cried out, fighting to free himself and get away from the intense cold enveloping him. Glowing numbers climbed higher with the pulse rising with them.

Jack gulped air.

"Get me the atropine," Fraiser ordered. "We've got to keep him calm and stop the poison from circulating." She softened her tone. "Daniel. It's Janet. Shhhhhh. Don't fight."

Daniel whimpered with frustration and tugged at the safety bindings. The cooling blanket shifted. "P-please," he managed.

His feeble plea broke Jack's stillness. He was beside the bed in an eyeblink.

"Don't get in the way," Janet ordered.

"Danny, it's Jack. I've got you." Jack reinforced his words by reaching beneath the ice blanket and gently clasping his friend's arm. The freezing skin felt dead.

"Colonel O'Neill." Janet's tone was as cold as her patient.

Jack opened his mouth to snap back at her.

"J-Jack?"

The sighed name captured his attention. Meeting the gaze which locked onto his, Jack nodded reassuringly. "Hey, spacemonkey. Good to see your baby blues." His smile felt strained, but something in it must have pacified because the beeping slowed a fraction.

"Keep talking," Fraiser suggested.

"The doc says you've got to stay calm."

"S-Santos?"

The name jerked the pulse up. "Breathe for me, Daniel," Jack begged. "Deep even breaths. You're going to be fine. He can't hurt you any more." The lie stuck in his throat, but he pushed on, placing his other hand on Daniel's confusion-wrinkled forehead for emphasis. "You're safe. We won."

"C-cold." The full lower lip quivered as the man's teeth chattered against each other.

"I know," Jack soothed, brushing the tangled hair back from the ashen forehead. "I know. We need to keep you this way till the Doc gets you a shot to fix you up. S'only for a little while longer. Okay?"

"You?"

Guilt wrenched Jack's heart as he drew his hand back from Daniel's forehead. "I'm…" He had to clear the knotted emotion from his throat. "Fine."

Doubt clouded Daniel's eyes before he sighed and allowed his lids to fall. "'Kay." The effort exhausted him.

"Good job, Daniel," Fraiser praised with a nod for the readings.

Beneath the cooling blanket, Jack petted his friend's clammy arm, the repetitive motion soothing him too. Janet gave him a small smile of thanks as the pulse dropped lower before she reached under the blanket and lifted Daniel's hand.

Thick eyelashes flew up, starting the mad beeping again.

"Easy," Jack comforted, rubbing slow lazy circles on the cold arm. "It's just Janet."

Trust softened the fear in Daniel's eyes as he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. As the doctor pressed on his fingernail, he winced.

"I know it hurts." Janet gently replaced his hand under the blanket. She kept her voice nonthreatening. "Can you tell me your name?"

"D-daniel Jackson."

"Good. Do you know where you are?"

"Infir-mary." The hitched breath told of pain. The pulse sped up then slowed again.

"Easy, big fella." Jack kept rubbing, hoping it was doing some good.

"That's right, Daniel." Janet nodded at his answer.

"Don't feel….good." The last word was slurred.

Jack raised an eyebrow in alarm. If his friend was openly admitting pain, it couldn't be good. Janet answered the question with a slight tilt of her head.

She leaned forward. "Daniel, remain calm, but try to stay with us. Do you know why you're here?"

Panic increased his heart rate and sent a fresh wave of fear into his eyes. "S-santos."

"You're safe," Jack reassured again, shooting the doctor a lethal glare. Why in hell did she ask that? Her gaze challenged him. He tempered his frustration. She did know her stuff.

"Dr. Fraiser, we have it."

Relief washed over Janet's features as her nurse handed her the syringe. She shot some fluid into the air to remove the bubbles before injecting it into the IV. "This should help you, Daniel. Just breathe and stay as calm as you can."

"M-minute with Jack?"

She only hesitated a moment before nodding and stepping away.

"Jack?"

"Don't talk, Daniel," Jack whispered roughly. "You need to conserve your strength."

"Got to." Daniel struggled, fought the drowsiness stealing over him in mind numbing waves. "Not your…fault."

Tension flared between Jack's shoulder blades, sending a muscle spasm down his back. "Shhhhh." His rubbing became a little harder as if to hush the forgiveness.

"Thanks." The last word proved too much for the desperately ill man. Daniel gave into unconsciousness.

Clenching his jaw against the scalding tears in his throat, Jack had to glance away from the defenseless man. If Daniel survived, Santos' drug might fry his brain, and he was thanking him. No freakin' way. Only the good die young. Jack snarled at his mind to shut the hell up as he tried to look anywhere but at his friend.

"Colonel?"

"What?" he said hoarsely.

"It's going to be a long night waiting to see if this works. I don't expect you to leave him, but will you at least sit down?" Janet punctuated her request by pushing a chair near him. It scraped loudly against the floor, but Daniel didn't stir.

Jack let his body fold into the support. He didn't stop soothing Daniel's arm. He couldn't. The touch meant they were both alive. If he let go, Daniel might too. Fighting his demons, Jack settled in for the duration, determined to wait this hell out.

***

Daniel opened his eyes and let out a long, slow breath, wondering how much pain was lying in wait for him today. Despite the painkillers Dr. Fraiser allowed him, everything still hurt. He concentrated hard, trying to remember how long he'd been a guest of the infirmary. Was it three days or four? Three he decided. Three days of being prodded and poked... and questioned. Damn it! Why couldn't they just leave him alone? Alone? He looked around for his ever-present shadow, but Jack O'Neill had finally gone. It should have comforted him. It didn't.

"Daniel, good morning!" Janet Fraiser greeted him with an affectionate smile. "And how are we feeling today?"

"We are feeling fine," Daniel lied through his teeth. As he started to push himself into a sitting position, Janet slipped an arm around him, intending to help. Annoyed, he shrugged her off. "I can manage!" The color bleached from his face at the effort but manage he did. He glanced at the doctor with thinly disguised triumph. "See! Now when can I go home?"

If Daniel's tone worried her, Janet didn't let it show. She ignored the question however. "I need to change some of these dressings." She settled on the edge of his bed and reached for the gauze taped in a long line across his right cheek. Gently lifting it free from his skin, she allowed herself to smile at her handiwork. The ugly whip mark which had blazed across Daniel's face was now a neat red line. "You should be extremely grateful my mother insisted I take needlework classes," she said. "I'll put money on that not showing when it's fully healed. In fact, I think we'll leave it open to the air now if it's okay with you."

Daniel shrugged. "What difference does it make? I look like I've gone five rounds with Mike Tyson anyway."

An alarm bell rang quietly in Janet's head. Indifference was a dangerous trait in any patient. In one as abused as Daniel, it was doubly dangerous. She turned her attention to his right arm and frowned. "I'm afraid this isn't so good." She carefully began to clean the burn spiraling from his wrist to upper arm and reapplied a fresh coating of bright yellow ointment. "We could be looking at a skin graft."

No comment from Daniel. Janet's eyes moved from the burn back to his face. She decided to risk a question, her voice gentle yet concerned. "Do you want to tell me how it happened?"

Now it was his turn to ignore a question. He pulled his arm free. "Are you done?"

"Yes, I'm done." Actually she wanted to check the rest of his wounds, but right now, his attitude was worrying her more than his physical condition. "Daniel. What they did to you... you need to talk about it."

A brief flash of anger reached his eyes now, but he buried it quickly behind a smile made crooked by the cracks in his lips. "Why? Why does everyone want me to talk about it? Look, there's really nothing to talk about. I got a little roughed up..."

"Daniel..."

"Janet! I've been hurt on missions before. Hell..." A strained giggle escaped him. "I've been killed on missions. Why is everyone making such a fuss this time? Okay, the burns hurt like hell. The bruises are a bit worse than usual. But nothing's broken. I'll be fine."

"I wouldn't call what happened to you 'being roughed up'. The colonel says..."

"Jack doesn't know what he's talking about." Daniel's eyes held Janet's, defying her to contradict him.

For a long moment, the two doctors stared each other out then abruptly Janet turned away. "I'll get one of the orderlies to bring you breakfast," she said. "Perhaps you could actually eat it today?"

She marched quickly to her office and closed the door behind her, aware it banged shut much too loudly. Well, she congratulated herself sarcastically, you handled that well. She slumped into her chair and leaned on her desk, her head in her hands. What had she expected? One comforting smile from her and Daniel would spill it all out?

She took a deep breath. Well if Dr. Jackson was going to stonewall her, she'd have to use other means to get him to face reality. She reached for the telephone and dialed Jack O'Neill's number.

***

General Hammond didn't often call in the infirmary, preferring to get information on the medical condition of his personnel from Dr. Fraiser at their weekly meetings. If he admitted it to himself, it was much cleaner that way. He could put the face to the name and listen to a techno-babble report, he could live with what he was doing--send young men and women out to fight for God, country, Mom, and apple pie. The inevitable reality was some of them wouldn't come home. Even occasionally, some of them were... damaged.

On this occasion, however, Hammond felt a need to see recovery was underway. To see the young civilian who exasperated both himself and the entire USAF and charmed everyone he came into contact with and who possessed more intelligence than an entire platoon of PhD's. How in the hell had Jackson managed to come back from the tragedies which had trailed him from a fragile childhood, tragedies that blind-sided him still?

He had sheltered an inbred innocence, a sense of childlike awe, an enthusiasm which sometimes wore out the people around him, nurtured that beautiful trait and shared all of himself with the people he cared about--and some he didn't.

And right now, Major General George Hammond wanted a first hand look, a reassurance Jackson was going to be okay. That he could still wrap all of his special gifts around himself the same way he so often wrapped his arms around himself as if to ward off the hurts. Protection he had no idea he was projecting.

Suddenly tired, he sighed as he rounded the last corner, the infirmary door in sight. Getting soft in your old age, George, he chided. Or was it just that Jackson was a civilian? Hammond had never been keen on working with civilians, and Daniel Jackson frequently gave him good reason to regret ever allowing him on the base. But hell... What had happened to the young man wasn't Daniel's fault. He'd simply been in the wrong place at the wrong time and become friends with the wrong person.

But as he pushed the infirmary door open, he finally admitted the real reason he was here. The last image of Daniel Jackson he had was so sickening he wanted to purge it from his mind. Listening to Dr. Fraiser's precise medical notes wouldn't do that. He needed to see the young man personally. He needed to let him know he was there for him, not just as his commanding officer, but as someone who understood. Someone he could turn to.

And there he was, propped up on the hard infirmary bed, wires trailing from his abused body to a myriad of medical monitors. Despite his years of dealing with soldiers killed and mutilated in battle, Hammond still felt something squeeze his heart as he looked at the young scientist. If he ever got his hands on the mercenary who had inflicted this... But that was the point, wasn't it? The bad guy gets away or his body disappears so there is always the chance of a sequel.

Daniel's eyes flickered open. There was a moment's hesitation as he focused his blurred vision on the uniformed figure standing uncomfortably at his bedside. "General?"

Hammond smiled. "I was just passing by. Thought I'd come in and see how you're doing, son."

Son. That was bad, Daniel thought absently. The general usually only called him son when he was worried about him. "Thanks. I'm getting there."

"Must have been hell." Hammond pulled up a chair and settled his stocky frame into it, determined to say his piece. Without realizing it, his voice took on a fatherly tone. "You know, Daniel, we've all been through experiences like this. Jack O'Neill. Ferretti. Even me."

Daniel peered at the general, uncertain how to respond. Daniel? Hammond never called him Daniel. Now he really was in trouble. Had he jeopardized the entire security system of the mountain? Did he have fifteen minutes to live? "You, sir?"

"Got shot down once. Behind enemy lines. It was... a nightmare."

"I didn't know," Daniel responded, wondering why Hammond had suddenly decided to play confession tag with him. He listened, somewhat bemused, but nevertheless curious as Hammond began to describe his own experience.

Finally the general got to the point. "Thing is, Daniel..."

Oh-oh. There's my name again.

"What I'm trying to say is... Look, son, if you want to talk about it, then I'm here for you."

Ah, there it was. The you'll feel better when you talk about it crap. Daniel took a deep breath. Be polite, the little voice whispered. He's your commanding officer, and he does get to say whether or not you're on the team. On the team. That was all Daniel wanted to think about now. Getting back to work. Getting out of this damn bed.

"Thank you, sir." Daniel tried to sound sincere. He pushed himself higher on the mound of pillows as though he was going to respond to the general's invitation. But as he did so, he deliberately allowed a low moan of pain to escape his lips.

Hammond's face etched with concern. He peered at the IV drip attached to Daniel's left arm. "Are you getting enough painkiller?" he asked.

"I... think so," Daniel replied, his voice weak and faltering. "It's just... " He closed his eyes as though concentrating on breathing. When he opened them again, he was rewarded by Hammond's uneasy expression. "No.. it's nothing. I'm okay."

"Perhaps I'll just check in on Dr. Fraiser." Hammond rose. "You take it easy, son."

As Hammond moved away, Daniel closed his eyes. Don't think about it, a voice whispered. You know what you need. You know what's best for you. Just concentrate on getting back to work. Before Hammond had even reached Janet Fraiser's office, Daniel had succeeded in blotting out the lie.

***

"So, Daniel, how's it going? I brought you candy." Jack pushed several bars of chocolate onto Daniel's bedside table and made himself as comfortable as possible in one of the infirmary's back-killer chairs.

"Thanks." Daniel's voice was flat, the tone neutral. He was no longer wired to any of Janet's infernal machines. His body chemistry was almost back to normal, and Janet had finally decided he wasn't going to flat-line on her. A small paper cup beside his bed was the only clue he was still heavily dosed with painkillers.

"No problem." O'Neill rested his elbows on his knees and pressed his palms together. "Your face is looking... better. Janet's nurses will be fighting over you again in no time."

Daniel eyed O'Neill warily. "What have you been telling them, Jack?"

"Pardon me?"

"Janet. General Hammond. They're... hassling me."

Jack looked at Daniel and then down at the floor. "I told them what happened. That's all. And they're not hassling. They're just worried about you."

"Worried about me." Daniel repeated the words quietly, shaking his head as he did so. "What is there to worry about? A couple of days and I'll be fine."

"Daniel..." Jack sighed, remembering the conversation he had had with Janet earlier. "I know what it's like. I've been through it too. Remember? Pretending you're fine..."

"I'm not pretending," Daniel snapped.

"Damn it, Daniel. You're not fine. Do you want me to say it for you? Santos tortured you. I was there. He made me watch every minute."

"I said I'm fine!" Daniel voiced the words quietly, evenly, yet vehemently. Jack opened his mouth to make a retort, but Daniel beat him to it, his tone resigned. "I know what you're thinking. I know what you're all thinking. That I need to talk about it, right? Need to work through how I feel."

Oh-no, Jack thought as Daniel turned the full force of his charm onto him, those big baby blue eyes of his wide in silent appeal.

"Jack, I'm not a kid any more. I did all that psycho stuff when my parents died. I'd know if I needed to do it now. And I don't." He managed a smile, unaware of how crooked it appeared thanks to the damage he still wore.

Jack tried not to let it get to him. You may not be a kid, Dr. Jackson, but you sure know how to go straight for heart strings. For crying out loud, he was supposed to be the tough soldier here. Was he really going to let an upstart geeky scientist wheedle his way around him like this? Jack's eyes rested on the whip mark on Daniel's face, and his stomach did that crazy flip flop thing it had taken to doing ever since Santos first laid into the young scientist. Yep, he was going to fall for it. Jack raised his hands in defeat.

***

Alone at long, long last, Daniel allowed himself a lingering sigh as he reached for the shower knobs. Voices from the infirmary did not penetrate this clean sanctuary. For the briefest heartbeat, his eyelids drifted closed as he reveled in the solitude. No one demanded if he felt okay or asked if he wanted to talk. No one ordered him to take the pills he hated. No one touched him... A whisper of air caressed his naked skin.

Hunted blue eyes snapped open, seeking the person who'd stroked him. No one was there. He was completely alone. Abandoned. Daniel shuddered as sick dread corkscrewed in his stomach. Was he losing his mind? The chilly metal of the shower knobs grounded his shaking fingers, and he clung to them desperately, determined to remain upright. The cold tile scraping the bottoms of his feet shifted. His gaze dropped, and a blush burned his face. The floor was solid. His nerves weren't. He locked trembling knees.

"Enough!" he hissed, wincing at the sound of his hoarse voice echoing in the enclosed space. Derision filled the small area. Daniel savagely jerked the shower knobs and immediately gasped as icy water stung his flesh.

Shivering increased as he quickly adjusted the water to a more temperate level. His skin puckered with gooseflesh as he waited for the tepid water to melt the core of ice within him.

Why was it taking so long to get warm? Trembling violently, Daniel twisted the hot lever all the way until heat finally began to permeate the stall. He lifted his face to the torrid stream, letting it plaster his hair to his scalp in a liquid caress. Eyes closed, he drifted in the eternal now of splashing water. It cascaded over his body in a cleansing stream. The droplets pattering all around him tapped his skin like tiny fingers.

Fingers. Oh God.

His eyes opened and widened in horror as a vicious mental landscape superimposed over the safe haven of the shower. He was back in that room, the place where death and humiliation hungered to claim him. Daniel shoved a fist in his mouth, trapping the cry waiting to escape. Even as he backed away from the water, strands of liquid continued to follow him, striking more forcefully the longer it had to travel away from the showerhead.

Daniel? Don't you know it's rude to run out on a date?

The ragged sob knotted in Daniel's throat. He swallowed the choking pressure as he turned to face the wall. Indifferent tiles pressed into his flesh, preventing his escape. No place to run. No place he could hide. Grant's coarse fingers stroked his skin.

"P-please," he begged, unaware of the hot tears mixing with the water on his face. The continuous tapping of liquid hands on his back coursed another shiver though his body. His arms wrapped around his midsection in a protective self-hug as he huddled against the corner of the shower. Even with his eyes squeezed so desperately shut, Daniel knew when Grant moved in closer to take what wasn't offered. He felt the sick heat of the other man's breath on his body and knew he wasn't alone. He was so damn cold, more frozen than he'd ever been before in his life, and the hot pressure of those foul hands which waited to fondle and destroy lingered over his skin.

Completely unable to move, Daniel stood frozen, waiting for the inevitable, waiting for a rescue which couldn't come in time. He didn't even feel the scalding water on his skin or the wet caress of the bandages unwrapping and washing towards the drain.

***

Delicate features creasing into a frown, Janet Fraiser walked back into the infirmary, still churning the last hour over in her mind. It left a sour taste behind. Her meeting with General Hammond hadn't gone well. The report she had delivered on Daniel wasn't to his liking. But what was she supposed to do about it? She was a doctor not a miracle worker, and injuries like Daniel's took time to heal. Those were facts and out of her reach to change. As for the emotional fallout... She tried to shake the thought out of her head, but it was lodged there in an indelible protest. Just who was supposed to be designated guardian angel for naive, idealistic archeologists who didn't have a shred of self-preservation?

As far as that went, she wasn't the one who insisted on sending Daniel off through the looking glass to uncharted worlds to be fodder for the cruelties of man and beyond. George Hammond could just reflect on his own image in the mirror on that one.

Daniel Jackson, multiple PhDs, juggler of various careers, wunderkind of the Western world, whose brilliant and agile mind had broken open the Pandora's box of the Stargate was the very last person who should have been sent to trod alien soil.

She knew it. George Hammond knew it. Jack O'Neill knew it.

And yet, there they were, spinning the chevrons like some insane Vegas slot machine, and dumping Daniel into the vast unknown, armed with more knowledge than his head should have ever been able to contain, a 9mm Beretta he could barely figure out which was pointy end and which would give him another Purple Heart.

And this... this... not an alien frontal assault on a sand dune light years away... Oh, no. Daniel had to get his first taste of systematic torture at the hands of a man right here where home was supposed to be.

Treating him, watching him try for a stoic, suffering in silence which was definitely not a part of Daniel Jackson, Janet kept seeing that tiny loss of light. Those big blue eyes which only had to flicker once to have all her nurses and techs falling over themselves were missing something. In spite of herself, she kept looking for it, expecting it to return, chase away the secret darkness which now owned part of Daniel's soul.

Daniel was special to all of them because of his persistent, irritating spark of innocence no loss could rob him of. That innocence had dimmed a little, and it broke Janet's heart.

A tiny smile tugged at her frown. Even General Hammond--the universal soldier--was merely camouflaging genuine concern beneath his demands for a timetable of when Daniel would be back on full team status. The general wanted, specifically and stubbornly, to know when Dr. Jackson was going to be okay.

Janet Fraiser wasn't certain he was ever going to be okay again.

Half lost in her thoughts, it took Janet a moment to register Daniel's bed was empty. She jolted to a stop halfway through the infirmary door. Where the hell was he?

"Daniel?"

She peered around the infirmary and then hurried to her office. No sign of her missing patient. Back to the infirmary.

"Daniel!" Louder this time, worry coloring her tone. She headed to the door when suddenly the sound of running water caught her attention. The bathroom?

Doing an abrupt about-face, she covered the short distance to the large infirmary bathroom and pushed the door open. Steam billowed out over her like an advancing tide of fog. She could feel her hair uncurl in the hot dampness.

"Daniel? Are you in here?"

No answer. She stepped closer to the shower cubicle, torn between his right to privacy and her responsibility for his safety.

"Daniel, I know you're in there." All right, now she was pissed. First she'd had Hammond grilling her for answers he wanted and which weren't there to give, now her stupid patient had got it into his head to go AWOL in the shower. "Damn it, Daniel," she snarled. "You shouldn't be getting those burns wet. Get out here."

No answer.

"Daniel! Who the hell said you could get out of that bed, much less take a shower and unattended at that? Haven't you ever heard of sponge baths? What do I pay my staff for if not to take care of you and everyone else in one of these rooms? Do I need to sit Jack O'Neill beside your bed to keep you tucked in?" Slamming to a stop only because she had run out of air, she realized she was ranting. She bit off the rest of the tirade.

In the cubicle, long hair plastered to his head beneath the torrent of steaming water, Daniel let a knee-jerk obedience reaction to reach for the tap to cut the water off go through him, but then he hesitated. Despite the fact he had been standing under the shower for at least twenty or thirty minutes, Daniel couldn't seem to get rid of the feeling of being unclean. He glanced down at his body, steaming rivers of water glistening on his skin, skin reddened from the wet heat he was inflicting on it, and then picked up the soap again. He shut out the voice trapped just beyond the shower door. If he could just...

"Daniel Jackson!" Janet banged on the completely fogged shower door. "I will not be responsible for your well-being if you don't get your butt out here now."

A whisper of sanity in some half-alert part of her mind chided her for the threat. Probably not a comment she'd like being overheard. But right now, concern was beginning to wheedle its way past her irritation. Still no answer from the shower cubicle. All she could tell from the nearly impenetrable fog was he was still on his feet.

"Daniel?" One hand reached out for the cubicle door; but concern for his state of mind made her hesitate. She was Daniel's doctor but confronting him stark naked after the terrible experience which had put him in her infirmary in the first place made her pull her hand away.

Okay, time to call in reinforcements. She stalked back out of the bathroom through the small bedroom into her office and grabbed the telephone.

"Colonel O'Neill? I need you in the infirmary immediately!"

As she put the phone down, Janet's hands fisted on her slender hips. Something slithered past the wall of irritation which was her current focus. Unwelcome memory moved into her mind and plunked itself down right in the middle of her chaotic emotions.

She tried to bury it again.

It wouldn't bury.

She had better luck forcing memory and emotion onto a new track, one which held much less threat to her. He was her patient. She was supposed to be attuned to his needs. No matter what those needs were.

It came to her then on a taste of acid that little image niggling at the back of her mind.

A patient shut in the shower, refusing to come out. If it had been a female patient, she would have immediately assumed sexual abuse. Her eyes widened. Wake up, Janet. Get your own sexual biases out of the Dark Ages. Why assume female, whispered a small voice? What if...

***

"Colonel O'Neill!" Janet nearly gasped the name out of sheer relief at the thought of backup coming so quickly on the heels of her simmering suspicion as to the emotional state of her patient.

Hand half-raised to rap on her door, O'Neill's face did one of its question-twitches at the warm welcome.

Janet didn't intend to leave him in the dark for long. "Daniel's in the shower, and I can't get him out."

Another patented O'Neill face screwed up at her, both eyebrows rose and deep-set brown eyes widened. A panorama of expressions danced over his features, question, puzzlement, disbelief. Finally, he said, "The shower."

"He's been in there at least thirty minutes. I was hoping you'd be able to persuade him to come out."

Jack opened his mouth. Janet could actually see the smart-assed retort uncurling on his tongue ready to be flipped across to her. She actually liked his acidic sense of humor. Got much more of a kick out of it than she'd ever admit to him. But the rush of half-formed suspicions still tasted like bile in her mouth, and she dove right into the middle of her confusion. She took a deep breath. Now or never, girl, she told herself. "Colonel, when I asked you what happened to Daniel, did you leave out anything? Anything at all? That might be important?"

"No."

The answer was way too quick, too lightly tossed at her shotgunned questions. And O'Neill knew it.

For once, he didn't have a glib answer to chase any problem thrown at him. Janet could see it in the way his brown eyes clouded over like he could actually pull a curtain over their dark depths and keep the harsh light of the truth tightly closed.

She waited him out.

"Yes. No. Well, not exactly. I mean, nothing happened. It just could have. But it didn't."

Janet mentally shook her head. Soldiers. They could deal with their closest friends being disemboweled on the battlefield right next to them… God, Janet, when did you get so crudely cynical? Yet, try for a direct answer for a straightforward question... She went for the jugular. "Colonel O'Neill, was Daniel raped?"

O'Neill's face blanched white. "No!"

She knew. The denial was unequivocal, final, uncompromising, all of which meant she was way too close to the truth. She tempered the question. "Was it attempted?"

Damn it, the woman was like a terrier with a bone. Reluctantly O'Neill nodded. "But I got there. It didn't happen. I killed the bastard first."

"And you didn't think this was something I would need to know?" The words were more harsh than she meant them to be, but damn, did he think they could just ignore it and it would all go away?

O'Neill studied his shoes. Needed a spit shine. Reports, damn, he had reports stacked up like commuters on the New York subway at noon, all demanding his attention. He really had to get back down to his office so he could crank some of those reports out. The general would be waiting for the paperwork, probably in triplicate, and he wasn't going to be forgiving if they got stuck in a bottleneck on his desk.

The general. Shift the focus. Quick. She looks like she's ready to go for my throat. "I figured Hammond would deal with the medical aspects of the mission."

Well, that was the wrong thing to say.

Janet Fraiser drew herself up to her full five feet one inch height, small fists jammed on her hips, her face set in a mix of anger, incredulity, and shock. She let the words fly right into his face. "Excuse me, Colonel. I was under the obviously mistaken impression Daniel was your friend. Since that is not the case, I hereby relieve you from any responsibility for helping him get over what happened to him."

She stepped right into him, one hip bumping him aside as she started to go around.

All emotion drained out of her tone, replaced by forced professionalism. "If you will excuse me, Colonel O'Neill, I will go try to take care of my patient now before he harms himself any more than he already has."

He wouldn't be shunted aside. "Janet."

Almost choking on frustrated anger, she stopped but didn't look up at him.

"Janet, Daniel is my friend. I want to help him. I just don't think he can handle something like that being on his record. Having other people know what... what that son of a bitch tried to do to him. It's more than Daniel can take."

The real pain in his voice was too much for her to ignore. She looked up at his blanched, drawn face. "Denying what happened isn't going to help Daniel. What doesn't come out in a healthy way is only going to ambush him later. In dreams. In fear. He needs his friends to be there for him. To be strong for him." She held his eyes. "He needs you or he'll never get past this."

"It's my fault."

There it was. To his credit, he didn't break eye contact. But he couldn't hide the agony of self-disgust and guilt already tearing him apart, one emotional nerve ending at a time.

"You didn't drug him and torture him, Colonel. Daniel would never blame you."

"Don't you think I've told myself that? Over and over? Somehow the fact that he won't blame me just doesn't cut it. Ya know? Daniel... somehow Daniel has this never-ending well of forgiveness. But that doesn't mean there's any way for me to forgive myself."

"What could you have done to prevent it?"

That broke his resolve, and he cut his gaze away from her. He didn't pull away though, simply dug into the open, festering wound and clawed a handful of self-doubt and hatred out. "He... Santos," he clarified, "he never laid a hand on me. He didn't once touch me. I didn't get so much as a hangnail. Daniel almost died."

"So you feel guilty."

The simplicity brought his face around to look down at her again. "Damn right I feel guilty."

"Feeling guilty and being guilty aren't one and the same thing. What are you going to do about it? Let it turn into a barrier between you and Daniel and take away your help in trying to deal with it? Is that what you're going to do?"

Lines deepened in Jack's face. He huffed in a breath, rolled his neck, and stared up at the ceiling as if seeking answers in stone like Daniel did in the field. No answers. Except for the ones deep inside him. "That's what I've done before," he admitted. "Let Charlie's death drive a wedge between Sara and me. It cost me more than I ever thought I could pay."

"Is that what you're going to do with Daniel? Leave him to face his demons alone?"

Another breath before he looked at her. "No," he said. A moment of silence sat between them. They were standing so close she thought she could hear the beat of his heart. "In fact, what I'm going to do is go drag his sorry ass out of the shower."

Janet breathed a sigh of relief as he went to make good on his promise. She followed.

"Daniel?" Jack O'Neill stepped into the impromptu sauna and took up position outside the shower cubicle. "Daniel, what are you doing in there? You're scarin' Janet here."

Beside him Janet raised her eyebrows impatiently. She mouthed at him, 'Go in and get him out.'

'He's in the shower for crying out loud,' Jack mouthed back.

Janet responded by tapping her forearm. 'Those burns will never heal.'

Pursing his lips into an exasperated sigh, Jack snatched up the towel hanging on a peg outside the shower stall. "Dammit, Daniel. If you won't come out, I'll have to come in after you."

His breath coming heavy in the weighted air, Jack forced himself to stand still. Janet was back to hands on hips, head cocked in question. Finally, taking a deep breath, he pulled open the cubicle door. In a solid fog of steam, Daniel stood motionless beneath the cascading water, his back to Jack, his arms circled tightly round his body. At his feet lay what remained of a bar of soap. The livid bruises decorating his body which seemed like the work of a demented tattoo artist woke the helpless fury Jack had endured in the cell watching his friend being beaten and tortured. White gauze sagged down around one ankle and one wrist, destroyed by the fall of too hot water. Janet was going to have fits when she saw that.

Still no response. Daniel just stood hunched over, the water beating unnoticed over his hunched shoulders. "Daniel?" Jack tried again, self-consciously. He reached forward and gently tapped his friend on the shoulder.

The young man jumped and spun around, breath caught in a strangled sob of fright. "J.. Jack! What... I'm in the shower here."

O'Neill shot him a no-shit smile and held out the towel. One glance over Jack's shoulder showed the petite doctor framed in the doorway. Face flaming, Daniel snatched the offered towel from him.

Jack tried for neutral. "Janet was worried about you."

Daniel stared at him vacantly, eyes red from prolonged exposure to the hot water. At least Jack assumed it was from the hot water. "W-w-worried?"

"You've been in here quite a while..." To Jack's ears, the statement sounded perfectly normal, a simple observation. Daniel was staring at him, half trying to cover his entire body with one bath towel.

"I was just taking a shower." Daniel's tone carried a heaviness that struck at O'Neill. "Damn it, Jack. Can't a guy have five minutes peace?"

Jack opened his mouth to comment it had been more like forty-five minutes, but the pained expression on Daniel's face made the words die on his lips. "Come on," he said gently, grabbing another towel and slipping it around Daniel's pinked shoulders. "Janet wants to see what you've done to those burns."

Daniel allowed himself to be led from the shower stall, clearly mystified as to why Janet was concerned and why his team leader was hauling him out of an ordinary shower, for crying out loud. "I was just taking a shower," he whispered to Jack.

"I know, Danny. I know."

***

"And that brings us to Daniel." Janet Fraiser flipped over the sheets on her notepad and quickly glanced at what she had written. Like I need to, she thought sarcastically. Daniel had hardly been out of her thoughts for the past ten days. She glanced up at the two officers attending today's medical briefing. Jack O'Neill was leaning back in his chair trying to look casual. He was failing miserably. That was another whole area she needed to address.

General Hammond's expression was less strained, but still there was something about his eyes which hinted at unease. For heaven's sake, Janet thought, why does everyone Daniel comes into contact with either end up emotional mush or wanting to knock his head off and sometimes both at the same time. And which category do you put yourself in, Janet girl, she asked? She shoved the thought to the back of her mind. Right now, she was Daniel's doctor, a highly trained professional with a job to do.

Hammond studied his photocopied notes and looked up. "Well, this is good news. Contusions healing, bruises fading. The burns..."

"Despite Daniel's best efforts, it won't be necessary to do skin grafts," Fraiser commented acidically. "He will have to live with the scars though. Explaining them might be...interesting."

It was as though she hadn't spoken, wasn't even in the room.

O'Neill straightened and addressed Hammond. "So, Daniel can get back to work." It was a statement not a question.

"No," Janet said the word slowly, earning herself a black look from both men. "I don't think he's anywhere near ready."

Hammond's eyebrows rose. O'Neill's were already on the ceiling. "Doctor, your own notes show he's making... that he has made an excellent recovery."

"Physically, yes."

"Good," O'Neill interrupted. "Sign him back onto the team."

Fraiser bristled as she saw Hammond close the file, obviously assuming O'Neill's request was going to be rubber-stamped. "General Hammond, Daniel is not ready to go back on the team. Emotionally, he's in a state of complete denial."

"And your point is?" O'Neill's tone was ice.

"My point is, Colonel, you're asking me to put a time bomb on your team."

"I'll take my chances," Jack snapped. "Daniel's always been a little... flaky. We'll just watch his back a bit more closely."

"With all due respect, watching his back won't cut it. If you ask me, Daniel's not the only one who's in denial."

"Excuse me!" O'Neill's voice raised several decibels. "Was my name on your medical list, Doctor?"

"If this was anyone else you'd have him signed off for weeks. But, no. This is Daniel. And because you feel as guilty as hell, you want to sweep him back onto SG-1 and pretend everything is rosy. Well, it won't wash!"

"Doctor Fraiser!" General Hammond spoke up before O'Neill could launch into one of his sarcastic replies. "Dr. Jackson has requested to return to work hasn't he?"

"Yes, sir, on an hourly basis." Janet, still eyeball to eyeball with O'Neill, didn't even look at him as she responded to the question.

"Then, I think we should let him back on duty. Returning to some form of normalcy may be just what he needs..."

Janet stared at her superior officer as though he had lost his marbles. What was it with these two? Okay, if they couldn't see the obvious--she'd have to spell it out. "Sir, returning to normalcy can help in some cases. But, let's be honest here. Daniel was systematically tortured and very nearly raped..."

"Oh, you had to go and say it, didn't you?" O'Neill pressed the palms of his hands onto the table in exasperation.

"Well, you sure as hell weren't going to," Fraiser countered. She caught Hammond shifting uncomfortably in his chair and rounded on him. "And neither were you... sir!" She regretted her outburst immediately, recognizing she had unwittingly alienated the general from her cause. She rubbed at her eyes, suddenly tired. It wasn't bad enough she had to battle Daniel's stubborn refusal to accept he'd been abused. Now, she had to fight the very people she thought would be protecting him. Protecting him! She sighed and looked at the two men before her. In their own way, she knew they both believed that was exactly what they were doing. She took a deep breath and tried to salvage the situation. "Let's face it, gentlemen. When it comes to Daniel, we're all emotionally involved."

O'Neill refused to be salved. Ignoring Janet, he looked straight at Hammond. "I want Daniel back on SG-1. I'll take full responsibility for him."

Hammond looked from one officer to the other and made up his mind. "Doctor Fraiser, if Daniel Jackson is physically well enough to return to duty, I want you to sign him in."

Fraiser's lips tightened as O'Neill shot her a triumphant look. "Yes, sir."

Hammond wasn't done though. "I also want you to arrange for Dr. Jackson to receive counseling. As many sessions as you consider necessary."

"Oh for crying out loud," O'Neill protested.

"Colonel O'Neill, if you have a problem with this, I'm sure Dr. Fraiser will be only too happy to keep Dr. Jackson off duty."

Shaking his head, Jack admitted defeat. Even so, he couldn't resist commenting, "He won't talk to a shrink. Hell, Daniel could write the damn psyche tests. Do you think he's gonna fall for people are out to get me and I am being stalked by aliens shit? It'll be a waste of everyone's time. What he needs is to be with his friends."

Janet knew the last comment was a direct jibe at her, but she let it slide. Hammond had thrown her a bone. She'd just have to make the most of it, despite the fact she suspected Jack O'Neill was correct in his analysis of Daniel's willingness to cooperate on the issue.

***

Five weeks later...

"Dr. Jackson, I'd like you to meet Senator Hill." General Hammond made cursory introductions as he ushered a man into the cluttered confines of Daniel's private sanctuary. When the young scientist didn't look up from the newest attraction which held him spellbound, vaguely acknowledging the interruption with an expansive wave of one hand, Hammond offered a second attempt. "I told him you'd show him some of the artifacts you've got stashed away in your office."

"Hmmm, uh huh..." One eye pinned to the microscope lens, left hand shifting a wet mount slide slightly to the left, right hand making some sort of unrecognizable gesture to the room at large, there still was less than a shred of attention directed toward the intruders.

Shrugging off a dagger of irritation at the decidedly politically incorrect reception of an interested and influential government benefactor, Hammond bit off his own demand, trying to stuff it back into his military duffel bag of what to do with uppity civilians. With a twinge of self-accusation, he realized he, as well as the rest of SG-1 and half the compound, was still treading on tiptoe around Daniel.

The emotional crash Dr. Fraiser had promised them had evidently been avoided as Jackson drifted back into his single-minded study of the past, both earthly and alien. He was back on missions with his team and according to O'Neill was doing fine. Fraiser, of course, had been furious Jackson either failed to turn up to see his counselor or turned the sessions into academic debates about the relative merits of Jung and Freud, but the die had already been cast. Daniel was back on the team, and not even Janet Fraiser in full battle cry would convince the SGC's senior officers to put him on stand down again.

Still there was that image which kept nagging at Hammond--Daniel, naked, burned, drugged, lashed, bruised and terrified beyond all reason, enveloped in the protective embrace of his commanding officer, tears running unchecked down his ashen face. Not to mention the once in a lifetime opportunity to see those same tear tracks tracing the grimy face of Jack O'Neill.

Hammond, despite a long time friendship as well as working relationship with the normally stoic colonel, had never expected to see that. O'Neill smashed windows, even the windows of his commander's private vehicle. He didn't sit in the middle of a filthy floor rocking a friend held against his chest and blending his own tears with his.

Okay, Hammond thought as the silence began to encroach into the realm of rudeness. He cleared his throat and tried again, "Dr. Jackson, if you could spare some time..."

Something, the tone or the forced emphasis of the words, broke through. "Oh right."

Daniel suddenly recalled the memo about a visiting senator. Damn, just when he was in the middle of a particularly interesting translation, too. His eyes wandered back to the microscope in front of him with a wistful twinge of regret.

"Dr. Jackson?" General Hammond prompted. "Perhaps when you're finished here, you would show the senator back to my office?" Hell, the senator was going to think their resident geek was even flakier than he usually was. This working with civilians was going to be the final straw which broke Hammond's military back. It was a good thing he genuinely liked the young scientist or he might let O'Neill 'gate him on a one-way ticket to a deserted planet for the next twenty years as the colonel was often threatening to do.

"Oh, um. Yes, right." Daniel collected his thoughts, actually registered the edge to the general's voice and stood, thrusting out his hand. For a moment he stared down at Senator Hill's large, thick fingers as they grasped his own. An uneasy feeling skittered a trail through his stomach. He tried to shrug it off, but it lay there like a pool of acid. "Artifacts! Yes." He smiled nervously and waved at the cluttered office. "Artifacts!" He could hear the hint of hysteria in his own voice and wondered where the hell it had come from.

Great impression, Jackson, he berated himself. Men like Senator Hill held the fate of the SGC in the palm of their influential hands, and here he was coming off like a demented Dr. Frankenstein. Searching desperately for something to toss out as a token, Daniel glanced around his office, wondering where to begin. Usually a captive audience would be his idea of heaven. An interested captive audience doubly so, and word had trickled down from the powers that be that this particular United States senator was very interested in tossing his considerable political clout behind the Stargate program. With an almost frantic need to choose just the right thing or be personally responsible for shutting down the entire program, compound, and the careers of certain military personnel he cared very much about, Daniel picked up a small statue and engaged his mouth.

"Fascinating!" Senator Hill managed to interject several minutes later. "I understand from Captain Carter you've been excavating a site on one of the planets?"

So, this particular politician was doing his homework. Another good sign. Or was it a bad sign? Daniel couldn't get his thoughts in enough of a row to be sure. What was it about this man? He was not only benign, he was willing to help them. So, then, why was Daniel's skin starting to prickle? Tension had nudged a headache into the back of his neck, teasing at his temples.

He fell back on his own nature, enthusiasm never something he had to manufacture when it came to the endless universe of stuff to study as Jack termed it.

"Yes," Daniel was animated. He swung around to his computer, perched on the edge of the chair in front of it, and let his fingers have free rein on the keyboard. "I've got the site plan here. It's absolutely incredible. Very similar to early Minoan culture..."

As Daniel talked, Senator Hill drew closer to view the screen. Caught up in the academic's excitement, the man leaned his weight on the back of Daniel's chair and reached over the young man to point at something that had caught his interest.

A shiver of unease rippled up Daniel's spine. The man's nearness instantly escalated from tension to fear. The smell of musk cologne, the solid weight of the large man's torso against his shoulder, the warm tobacco breath brushing across his face...

Daniel froze. The touch of unwelcome hands on his body, violating him, holding him helpless and terrified. The smell of hot, smoky breath in his face. Oh God. The taste of it in his mouth. Now nausea joined the laundry list of unbidden reactions. Acid churned in his stomach, rising up into his throat.

"Dr. Jackson? Are you okay?" Obviously alarmed, Senator Hill reached out as he felt both tension and tremor, saw the deathly pallor on the young man's face. He reached out, to steady or support, whichever was needed. As his hand touched Daniel's shoulder, the scientist let out a horrified cry.

"Don't touch me!" Daniel lunged out of the chair, knocking the keyboard to the floor, smacking one shoulder into the monitor, nearly sending it falling after the keyboard. His glasses also fell victim as they slipped sideways on his face, then toppled onto the table. His chest heaving for air which wouldn't come, Daniel backed toward the door, his eyes wide and unfocused.

Hill felt the blood drain from his own face. What on earth had he done to elicit this overwhelming response? Still trying to help, at a loss as to what to do, he reached out again to the young man retreating from him in obvious fear.

"Don't touch me!" Daniel repeated, dodging the offered hand. "Don't..." His voice gave out, and the word was a single breath.

And then he ran. He broke free into the deserted corridor, spun on one heel and ran. He had no idea where he was going. He knew only terror was dogging his steps, and he'd never be able to run fast enough to escape it. Run. Run. Endless corridors. He collided with somebody -- a young woman in a nurse's uniform. He stared at her for half a heartbeat, his eyes seeing nothing but hands reaching for him, and then he was running again.

Somebody else in the corridor. This time blocking his way. Daniel ducked his head and pelted for all he was worth for the door behind the obstacle. A pair of arms tackled him, wrapping around his legs, dropping him face first to the floor, squirming and twisting. He screamed, a wordless, unbearable, unspeakable howl of terror. He struggled, desperately trying to get free. Desperately trying to reach the door. God, no!

His elbow smashed back. He had the satisfaction of hearing a grunt of pain, but the grip capturing him didn't loosen. They had him. The hands had him, and he would never get free.

"Daniel! Daniel! It's me. It's Jack."

The arms seemed to claw up his body, wrapping around his waist and pinning his arms to his sides. He was flipped onto his back. His head banged against the floor, forcing him to open his eyes. Terrified, he looked into the face of his attacker and saw...

"J.. Jack." He gasped for breath.

"Daniel, it's me." Jack shook him for emphasis. Wide eyes glittering with panic latched onto his, searching for God knew what. "Me," he repeated more gently.

"Jack?" Daniel blinked, and the terror leached from his gaze as tremors set in.

"You were expecting Julia Roberts?"

"I-I…oh geeze." Daniel broke free of Jack's grip, rolled to his side and rose, lurching into a nearby office.

Jack winced at the sound of violent retching. He waited a moment before following, knowing the man needed a little space. As the sour stench of vomit hit him, Jack thanked whoever was listening he wasn't a sympathy puker. No way could Daniel be left alone.

His friend clutched the trashcan as if it held his soul. His slender body curled protectively inward as he fought to subdue his ragged breathing. Sweat beaded his pale face-a mute testament to how hard the spasms had been.

Pulling out a chair, Jack sat close enough to help without hindering and waited. Daniel's tattered breathing filled the space as if all other sounds in the base had ceased. Keeping his face stoic, Jack wondered if his companion would ever raise his gaze.

"Did you ever…" Daniel swallowed with difficulty, "smell something which made you sick?" He studied the floor as if the answer lay inscribed there.

"Sure." Jack kept his tone light as if they were discussing the weather.

"I don't mean body odor nauseated but really, really sick?"

Jack frowned, wondering where this was going. You didn't run in terror because of a smell. Or did you? His mind tripped on a memory. "Yeah. Turkish tobacco does it for me. I don't hurl from it though."

Daniel nodded slowly.

Jack counted to ten in his head, but silence reigned. Guess he'd have to give if he wanted to get. "One of the Iraqi guards always smoked these huge, black cigarettes. I knew he was on duty when the stink hit me. Several years ago, I nearly lost it in a parking lot after a hockey game when a guy walked by smoking one. If Kawalsky hadn't grabbed me, I'd have taken him apart." Jack glanced at Daniel, trying to judge how the confession would register. A deep inhalation and another small nod before a beyond tired glance met his at last. Jack held Daniel's gaze.

"It's still up here." He tapped his right temple with his index finger. "The tobacco. The guard. The torture. I got out, but it's still inside me waiting for the smell to trigger it."

"I hate musk."

"Not my favorite scent either," Jack agreed to keep him talking.

"Gives me a headache. I was showing Senator Hill some things, and he leaned over, and…" Before Daniel could finish, his body convulsed in a retch.

Not even aware of moving, Jack was on the floor beside his friend, rubbing his spasming back in soothing circles as the scientist's body tried to turn him inside out. "S'okay, Danny. That's it. Get it out. You'll be fine." The spell abruptly ended. Feeling the reactive flinch under his fingers, Jack hovered but removed his touch, clenching his jaw as Daniel inspected the concrete floor again.

Fresh sweat glistened on Daniel's ashen forehead, making the long strands of his hair cling to it. Lingering in the corners of his eyes, tears of strain finally spilled. Daniel gulped, working on making his lungs steady. "I've got to get out of here." The admission came on a breathy gasp.

"Where do you want to go?"

Daniel swallowed and glanced up.

The utter wretchedness in the gaze stiffened Jack's spine. There was literally no place to run from a horror which lived inside you. He damn well knew the lost feeling intimately, but the misery of it darkening Daniel's eyes made him itch to rip Santos apart. The young scholar had so much information inside his head-he didn't need the knowledge of his own vulnerability against this enemy. Oh yeah…the nightmares were fighting for their life in his head.

"My place," Jack decided for him, knowing his house often served as a refuge for the other man.

"Okay." Shakily, Daniel rose. He swayed and would have fallen if Jack hadn't reached out to steady him.

Feeling the wince from his supporting touch, Jack asked, "You gonna make this?" His instincts were screaming for him to get Daniel into the infirmary and drug him senseless to take him out for awhile. Trouble was, the monsters would just wait for him-and maybe not even that. Jack had had his own share of nightmares which had twisted his brain while he was in a hospital in a drugged stupor.

"I'm fine," Daniel said after a long moment before he clamped his lips together and pulled away. They thinned to a hard line as he wavered on his feet. Squaring his shoulders, Daniel gathered his frayed dignity as best he could.

"Colonel?"

Both men jumped at Sam's voice.

"Sorry," she apologized, her gaze flickering from his face to settle on Daniel's in open worry. Her nose wrinkled at the smell of sickness in the small office.

"We're okay," Jack responded.

"General Hammond sent me to find you. Senator Hill was concerned for Daniel."

"He's fine."

"I'm okay," Daniel said at the same time.

"Just a little food poisoning. Tell the senator to keep away from the meatloaf. Let Hammond know I'm taking Daniel home to recuperate." Jack clamped his hand on the too thin shoulder, urging him forward.

"Meatloaf. Yes, sir." Sam moved out of the way. Her eyes said she knew the excuse was a lie, but she also wouldn't question it just now.

With a grateful nod which conveyed his promise to fill her in at the first available moment, Jack said, "Come on, Daniel. You've got a nap appointment."

"Jack?"

"Yeah, Danny?"

"Tell Makepeace I'm sorry."

Puzzlement wrinkled O'Neill's forehead as they made their way to the elevators until he realized they'd been using his fellow colonel's office. "You got it." If the situation hadn't been so alarming, he might have found the mess in Makepeace's trashcan amusing.

They reached the elevators with minimal contact with the other base personnel. Daniel kept his gaze downcast, allowing Jack to move him along without protest or fuss almost as if he needed the other man's strength to walk at all. Jack glared at the few people who stared at Daniel, and he noticed with fierce delight how they quickly found other things to interest them. As the elevator door opened, the younger man flinched at the sound.

"You okay, Dr. J.?"

"He's fine, Coglin," the colonel assured as the airman paused, "just a touch of bad meatloaf. Why don't you catch the next one?" He didn't want anyone in the elevator with them in case Daniel lost it again.

"Man oh man. I knew you had guts, Dr. J., but that is suicidal. Don't you know the meatloaf's our secret weapon against the Goa'uld?"

Daniel managed a wan smile before the doors shut in the concerned airman's face. He hugged himself tightly and retreated to a corner.

Warily, Jack watched him, noticing the heightening pallor of his skin and the hyperventilating way the breath struggled in Daniel's lungs.

"I'll make it."

"Sure." Jack insured his tone remained neutral as he took the opposite corner. He was near enough to catch Daniel if he did a nosedive but not too close to be threatening. When his friend tightened his self-hug and stared at the changing red floor numbers, Jack squashed a flare of fear. Daniel's gaze held the wildness of a trapped animal as he watched the elevator count down. His mouth fell slightly open as if he couldn't get enough air into his straining lungs.

"Jack…"

"Easy. We're nearly there."

"I don't think I…" Daniel bit his lip to stifle the panic.

"Almost…" Jack tracked the rolling numbers. They had at least ten more floors to go. He shot a sideways glance at his companion, willing calmness his way. "Hang on, Daniel."

"I-I will." Tremors shook the slender body as the hugging arms tightened even more.

Wondering if his friend's bones would break from the strain, Jack mentally yelled at the elevator to hurry. Only three more floors to go.

With a slight dip, they arrived at the midway point. Even before the door had fully whisked open, Daniel bolted, jarring his right shoulder against the frame. He stood in the corridor, breathing as if he'd just run for his life. Jack waited a heartbeat before joining him. No sense crowding the man. "We have another one before we get to the surface." His voice remained low, apologetic.

"I know," Daniel panted, closing his eyes.

"Do you want to take the tunnel?" Although he didn't relish climbing the rest of the long way with Daniel so dizzy, Jack would do what he had to to get his teammate topside.

A mirthless snort escaped Daniel's lips. "I can't do that every day. How can I continue to work here if I'm not able to ride in an elevator?"

Jack frowned. If the other man couldn't conquer this fear, it would likely grow into other problems. In no time at all, Dr. Jackson would be cut loose from the Stargate program. Santos would win. Jack would be miserable. His jaw tightened at the prospect. No the hell way.

"Ready," Daniel decided, moving toward the last set of elevators which would carry them to the fresh air.

Pride warmed Jack's heart at the bravery. It was far scarier to challenge the demons of the mind than an enemy you could see. He slowly followed.

As the door opened, Daniel took a deep breath and surged inside.

Jack quickly joined him, punching the button before the scientist could change his mind. This time, they didn't speak. Daniel's ragged breaths sounded forced as if he fought to keep himself alive for Jack's sake. Counting the floors in his mind, Jack kept his gaze averted from Daniel. He wasn't that comfortable in the enclosed space either. It didn’t take much imagination to see bars instead of the doors. Iron had kept him from stopping Santos from abusing Daniel just to obtain the name of a scientist who'd been forced to work for the wrong people.

Sigmon. Although he knew the chemist's family was currently safe, they'd been moved, and there was no telling if Santos would find the trail while he was still on the loose. Thank God the good guys had gotten to Sigmon before something happened. Jack didn't want to contemplate the alternative. The family might have been inconvenienced by moving to a new place and having a new name to answer to, but they were alive. It sucked but was a hell of a lot better than being dead or worse.

Jack's gaze shifted to Daniel again. His pallor had increased so much that his blue eyes appeared like chips of color in a block of ice. Small tremors shook him, and the self-hug was back.

"I'll make it," Daniel wheezed, aware of the scrutiny.

"I know." Jack forced every ounce of reassurance into the words because he really didn't.

With a slight bump, they arrived at the top of the shaft. This time when the doors opened, Daniel waited.

"What?"

"You first." The words came on a breath.

Jack hurried out, understanding the man was fighting panic and putting a downpayment on a future when these elevators would spiral him to the 'gateworld which had become his life.

Before the doors could trap him, Daniel exited and gulped air. His eyes glittered, but his shoulders were straighter.

"Pizza, beer, and hockey," Jack promised with a pat for his arm.

"'Kay," Daniel agreed, heading for the guard's station.

Jack swallowed hard. His teammate should have protested the last two items on the agenda. Give him time. He's just had a shitty reminder of Santos. Besides, you were teasing; he knows you're going to feed him soup and send him to bed.

Shaking his head at how well his friend knew him, Jack smiled as they reached the door which opened to crisp mountain air. He sucked pine-scented oxygen into his lungs. Daniel didn't pause. He kept going across the parking lot--the place where it all started.

A dry skittering sound pulled Jack's gaze. He stared at the paper which trailed across the asphalt, driven by a dry wind which made it sound like dead leaves rasping. This couldn't be a leftover document from the night when Santos had taken them?

"Jack?"

Seeing the fear in the wide blue eyes, Jack shook himself from the spell. "Coming." He berated himself for losing track of the present while Daniel was barely holding it together. Seeing how the younger man's gaze darted about as if seeking a place to hide, Jack knew he wasn't the only one having flashbacks to that night. He made his keys jingle cheerfully to counteract the mood and aimed for his car. "We won't miss too much of the game if we get a move on," he said to fill the silence before clicking the car's automatic locks open. It took a moment, but then he was in control, relishing the sense of normalcy being behind the wheel of his car gave him. It took a long heartbeat before he realized he was alone in the vehicle.

Daniel stood outside the passenger door, looking as if the car contained live Goa'ulds ready for implantation.

"Daniel?"

"I…can't…"

The ragged whisper and the unfocused wide gaze jolted Jack's heart. "What?" he asked gently. "You can't go to my house, can't watch the game, can't eat pizza?" Can't stand to be around me because it's my fault you're hurting and scared?

"The car…it's too….not enough….got to…" He spun away, escaping in a half-run toward the edge of the woods which bordered the inner section of the parking lot.

"Dammit," Jack hissed as he flung the car door open and bolted after him. Blind panic would hurtle his friend off a cliff before he realized the ground wasn't beneath his feet. "Daniel…stop!"

The command increased the civilian's flight. He plunged through a gnarled thicket, heedless of the sharp branches tearing his skin.

"Shit." Jack surged after him. Wooden fingers scratched his arms as he shoved through the greenery. A particularly nasty one ripped the skin below his right eye, welling a warm tear of blood. He ignored it in his need to keep Daniel in sight. As he broke through the brush, Jack increased his speed. He reached out and nearly caught the back of the other man's jacket.

Daniel tripped over an exposed tree root and went sprawling. His breath exploded from his chest in an audible rush.

Swerving just in time, Jack avoided trampling his teammate. Rough tree bark dug into his hands as he stopped himself from slamming into a nearby pine. He quickly turned and crouched near his companion before the other man could rise and escape.

He needn't have worried. Daniel lay as still as a corpse, only his hoarse breathing giving any sign he remained alive. His defeated posture said everything. Daniel was expecting to be punished, and maybe in some dim part of his brain, he thought he deserved it.

Jack instantly recognized the behavior. Enduring torture left the ghost of a victim inside you. He'd lived with his since Iraq. "Danny," he said softly, "It's over." The lie soured on his tongue.

With a visible shudder, Daniel rolled to his side and made it into a sitting position. He hugged his legs closer, making as small a target as possible. "Is it?"

Jack wanted to lie again but couldn't as shadows dulled Daniel's eyes to a dishwater gray. How could he abuse this man's faith and expect trust to survive? "Most of it is." He settled on the ground beside Daniel so his friend could feel the warmth from his body but not be touched. Some things required space.

"Santos got away." Another shiver, this one more violent, wracked Daniel's frame.

"For now," Jack growled, his voice holding deadly promise.

"He could do it again."

It took everything in Jack not to grab his friend and hold him tight against the fear. "He won't."

"How can you be so sure?"

A feral smile cut Jack's lips. "Because the people who're looking for him will make sure he doesn't run free for long. As soon as the fucker pokes his nose out of whatever pisshole he's hidden in, he'll be nailed." He didn't add that Santos' death would be slow and very, very messy. Regret flashed through him. Too bad he couldn't do it himself, but his responsibilities to the SGC and his team limited his options. Admit it, you wouldn't want Daniel to find out how you ripped Santos apart with your hands after you tortured him. The kid thinks you wouldn't do something like that. God knows why, but he sees something good in you. Something as pure as what is in his own soul. Daniel. I wish you didn't see me as the protector of the universe. He clamped his lips on a sigh. Sometimes, being on a pedestal sucked.

"I hope they take their time with the bastard."

Jack blinked, the self-disgust in the soft statement making the hair on the back of his neck spring to attention. Did Daniel actually want a hands-on part in the revenge? He could understand the sentiment well but hated this fresh evidence of the darkness growing inside the civilian. "You're human." He tried to keep his tone even so no hint of censure could be misinterpreted. "It's only right to want payback for what he did to you. Cut yourself slack, Danny."

"I can deal with what happened to me. I hate him for using me to try and break you. Helping me only brings you pain, Jack, and I'm tired of being your Achilles' heel."

In profile, Daniel looked so lost that Jack felt his heart speed up, yet he was also absurdly pleased his friend wanted justice not to even the score but because the older man had been made to suffer. Same here and double it. "You're not a weakness," Jack said firmly. "You've got more guts than anyone I know. I rely on it."

"If you hadn't stopped to help me with my books, this never would have…"

"It could have happened. Santos could have caught me and Carter talking. You wish it had been her instead?"

"God, no." Daniel's eyes blazed with anger.

"You didn't let me down."

"But…"

"Not then and not now. You survived. I survived. We won." Jack waited, letting the fierce words have their moment to sink in. "We won," he repeated softly. Silence.

A bird warbled over their heads as the breeze freshened, increasing the spicy tang of pine in the air. Jack breathed it gratefully and noticed Daniel doing the same. It was a treat after the recycled air of the base. More so after the dark stench of despair and pain of Santos' 'hospitality'.

"Jack?"

"Hmmm?"

"What if I…freak again?"

An invisible spear pierced Jack's heart and twisted it into a shredded mess. There was simply no way to prevent a panic flashback that he knew of. Only time helped. "You might."

"Oh."

"Look at the bright side. You can always blame it on the meatloaf."

A rusty laugh escaped Daniel. It sounded painful, but his shoulders slumped a little, relaxing from the terrible tension in his body.

Jack reached out, daring to risk the contact. Although there was a slight flinch beneath his fingers, Daniel slowly eased, allowing the pressure. After a long sigh, he leaned slightly toward it, savoring the reassurance. "Grant didn't win," Jack said, regretting the admission as tension sparked under his fingers but knowing it had to come out.

"I don't understand why he wanted to…to…"

"You were helpless. Some guys get off on that. What he tried to do was all about pain and domination. The stupid asshole should've known you'd never submit."

"I'm glad he's dead." Daniel finally looked up.

The raw pain in the blue eyes snatched Jack's breath. "Me too."

"I'm sorry you had to be the one."

Knowing guilt was eating away at his friend, Jack denied, "I'm not. If I had the chance to do it again, I would. You don't mess with family."

As Daniel's breath caught, a flush warmed Jack's cheekbones as he realized he'd spoken the last part aloud. To hell with it. He is family. He glanced sideways, steadily meeting the uncertain gaze to reaffirm the sentiment. Daniel's eyes glittered with suspicious moisture before he took a shaky breath and hastily looked down. Affection surged through Jack at the gesture. Daniel would protect him emotionally just as he'd bravely faced torture. That strength had lent Jack the power to resist as long as he had. The Sigmons would probably never know how much they owed this man.

Jack's arm encircled Daniel's shoulders, and he gave him a sideways hug before letting go. The comforting touch was missed immediately as he pulled back. Daniel's life was a celebration of their triumph and a sign of Santos' failure.

"Do you think the general will buy the meatloaf story?"

Jack's lips quirked at the rueful question. "Maybe." He shrugged and sobered. Fraiser and Hammond would insist Daniel see a psychiatrist to evaluate his mental state after the senator incident. Santos had insured the younger man was marked just as Jack had been so long ago. Jack had tried to deny it because he'd somehow come to believe Daniel was stronger than he ever could be. Yet, the civilian was all too vulnerably human.

Jack would be damned if Daniel had to see McKenzie alone. They'd shared the pain; they'd share the healing too. Resolve tensed his jaw. "If Hammond doesn't let it slide, and you find yourself chatting with McKenzie, I'll go with you. No need for you to go through this alone. We're a team."

Gratitude filled Daniel's face. "That means a lot. I know you don't particularly care for the bark like a chicken people."

"Neither do you," Jack retorted. Before it could be countered, he waved his hand dismissively. "Fact is, we're too smart for 'em. Beer, pizza, and hockey. The remedy for what ails you."

Daniel pulled a face.

Jack grinned at the normalcy of the expression. "Unless you'd rather sit here in the dirt smelling the pine trees and staring at the…" He looked up. "Birds about to shit on our heads?"

The younger man rose, using Jack's shoulder to steady himself. "How about beer, pizza, and The Discovery Channel?"

"That stuff hurts your brain. You've got to get emotionally involved in something to clear your mind."

"Oh yeah…like the Blackbirds are going to do that for me."

"Blackhawks." Jack's grin widened.

"Whatever. Anyway, my head's fine, Jack." Now.

The unspoken vow gave solidity to his voice. Jack studied the face above him for the truth. Lines of tiredness creased the skin around Daniel's eyes, but his blue gaze remained clear and steady. Yes, there would be nightmares. Yes, the fear would still rise up to haunt. They would get through them both…together. He mentally nodded.

It was the bargaining chip Santos had used to break him. Jack was willing to sacrifice everything for his family-blood ties and soul ties-even principle if Daniel requested it. Yet, his friend never had. He'd die rather than ask Jack to abandon his ethics. It was just one thing which made the other man so unique and treasured.

"Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"That bird you mentioned?"

Jack glanced up when Daniel pointed. "For cryin' out loud," he growled, moving quickly to avoid becoming a target. The white drops missed him by an inch. "Why didn't you say something?"

Daniel bit his lip, trying hard not to laugh. "You were the one who warned me."

"And that's the thanks I get?" Jack's playful tone matched their easy stride back toward the parking lot. He took a few more steps before he realized his companion had halted. Fresh worry rose in him as he turned and saw those big, solemn eyes. "What?"

"Thanks."

Knowing the gratitude encompassed all the times he'd been willing to risk his life and his soul for Daniel, Jack didn't even try to pretend he didn’t understand. "You're worth it, Dannyboy." Before the moment could get too emotional, he turned away and moved toward the hedge blocking his view of the parking lot. He'd attack it first this time.

"So are you."

Daniel's quiet declaration warmed Jack's soul. This time, he never noticed the thorns in the greenery.

The End