Title: The Lion and the Lamb
Authors: J. M McClure and Gatejunkie
Author Page: Gatejunkie
Season: Season 2
Spoilers: Season 2 episode Need
Rating: R - 18 years or over
Summary: what happened between Daniel's attempts to shoot Jack whilst addicted to the sarcophagus and the moment he asks to return?
Category: Gen, angst, hurt/comfort..
Warnings: attempted suicide of a main character.
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.

Jack's thigh began to cramp.

He didn't dare move to relieve the pain.

His arms were still full of his sobbing teammate, his friend. The one who had just tried to blow him away with a gun stolen from the guard Daniel had beaten into unconsciousness.

At least, the tremors were starting to ease as Daniel sagged against him, lapsing deeper into exhaustion. Jack's right hand absently stroked the non-regulation length hair, his left hand supporting Daniel's weight as the young scientist lay collapsed against him. Pain spiked through Jack's left hand where he had scored a bloody gash in one of their rolls across the floor beneath the shattered light. It pulsed with each beat of his hammering heart. His first, tentative attempt to push Daniel away long enough to check for injuries merely sparked a flash of panic and a tighter hold.

Where the hell was the security crew? Fat lot of good it did to put out a system-wide alert if no one was gonna bother to do anything about it. Jack wasn't too sure he could carry Daniel back to the infirmary by himself after the torrent of tears finally died.

Thoughts, emotions seesawed through his mind. Anger crept in, fury at being on the wrong end of a weapon in spite of knowing Daniel Jackson could never put a bullet through the head of a friend. Realization that Sam had been right all along with her diagnosis of addiction. Grief at the pain pouring over him like psychic waves being absorbed from Daniel's body to his own. Shock at the depth of pain. A little spasm of fear that this might not pass. They might lose Daniel just as he had almost lost himself in the bowels of an Iraqi prison. He shook that memory off, buried it back into the deepest corner of his mind where it would fester and wait for the chance to dredge itself up again to torment him.

Finally, the staccato racket of booted feet running in the corridor.

"In here!" he shouted.

Daniel didn't react to the sudden loud noise, merely lay motionless, his head on Jack's shoulder, arms still wound around the colonel's back as the tears finally lost their hold, leaving behind only raspy breath and an occasional shudder.

The door was flung open, and two heavily armed men in camouflage darted through, one going high to the right, the other low to the left.

Jack looked up at them, caught the what-do-we-do-now glance they tossed at each other. Better late than not at all, he mused wearily. "I think we're safe, gentlemen," he said with just a touch of acidity in his voice. "Think you could go back to the infirmary and get us a stretcher?"

Another glance then one of them dropped his weapon away and said, "Yes, sir."

With a resigned sigh, Jack O'Neill leaned back against a toppled supply shelf and rocked a now-silent and motionless Daniel gently as he waited.

***

"No..." A gasp for air before the whispered plea cut through them again. "No."

Janet Frasier tried once more to reassure Daniel Jackson without changing her stance on the restraints. "Daniel, it's just for a while to keep you safe," she crooned, trying to push her voice past the blanket of exhaustion that had settled over her patient, wondering herself if it would do any good after he'd already done a Houdini on them.

"Doc..."

"Janet..."

"DoctorFrasier..."

Uh oh, assault on three fronts.

Janet parked her fisted hands on her hips and stared down the protesting Stargate team. Okay, she decided, let's start from a reasonable stance. "It's for his own good."

Sam appealed with doe eyes. Teal'c cocked his head questioningly. O'Neill gave her his best ‘I'm the superior officer here' look.

Janet gave herself half a minute to run her potential arguments through a mental checklist, but a quick glance into Daniel's pleading eyes derailed her. No wonder half her nursing staff hyperventilated whenever the young scientist found himself in the infirmary. Talk about killer eyes.

"All right," she conceded then quickly shook her head as she felt the wall of resistance fold. "But if he gives me any trouble..."

"He won't," O'Neill assured her. "Will you, Daniel?"

Only half conscious, Daniel shook his head with a sigh and let his eyes close, lashes feathering a dusky veil against ashen skin. Oh yeah, Janet thought, you look young and innocent, but I remember too well being thrown across the room like a rag doll. She matched Daniel's sigh with one her own and gave up.

O'Neill said, "Thanks, Doc."

"Don't thank me, Colonel. Just get over on the other gurney and let Maggie stitch up that hand. You're lucky you don't have nerve damage. And I don't want any whining about needles."

The man gave in way too easily and actually obeyed her order without question, offering his bloodstained hand up to Maggie with no complaint, an oddity in itself.

Janet watched until he was settled on the other cot, wondering how four diametrically opposed individuals could possibly act as a team, but somehow SG-1 kept it together.

"Okay, people, show's over. Back to whatever it was you were doing so I can take care of my patients."

Teal'c and Sam reluctantly drifted away but finally edged out of the room with the Jaffa offering a surprisingly concerned, "We will be close, DanielJackson."

Janet turned to her patient. He was barely hanging onto consciousness. She decided it would be a good idea to sedate him again before she got his clothing off and checked him out for cuts and bruises. The image of gentle, vulnerable Daniel attacking and aiming a gun at Jack O'Neill was WAY out of her realm of imagination. And that wasn't the only problem or even the most important one. Addiction to the sarcophagus ranked right up there with the rest of the vast unknowns. She didn't have the slightest idea what new symptoms were going to pop up in her patient. Treating the disease was an impossibility. She could only resort to dealing with symptoms as they arose and hope that none of them would be fatal before she figured out how to counteract them. The good news was it might already be over.

Daniel had been conscious when they'd rolled him in on the stretcher; he'd been lucid enough to answer basic questions though he was slow to respond. The rampage, the assaults, the crying jag--that might be all they had to face. Now, why don't I believe that? Janet drew the sedative into the syringe.

***

"I need an honest assessment, people. Do I remove Dr. Jackson from this project or not?" Hammond's voice remained neutral as if he were merely asking about duty rosters. His fingers drummed on the wrinkled piece of paper on his desk.

"No, sir." Back ramrod straight, Jack sat at attention. His entire body screamed denial of the proposal as he purposefully ignored the rustling paper. So what if it was Daniel's resignation?

"With all due respect, sir," Janet said at the same time as Jack's negative, "It's way too early to tell at this time what action we should take."

Hammond leaned forward. "Explain. Thirty-six hours ago, he collapsed in this office. After that, he held a gun on the colonel, beat another soldier unconscious, and threw you across the room."

"Those were the damn sarcophagus effects." Jack's observation lacked emotion. His tone kept a reporting-as-ordered objectivity although his weary brown eyes glittered with rising anger. Did Hammond want Daniel gone?

"Were they?" the general countered. "Maybe they were the behavior of an addict." Seeing his best team leader go absolutely still at the term, the older man softened his tone. "I know you feel you owe something to Dr. Jackson."

"We all do…" Jack began.

Hammond raised a hand, halting the words. "I haven't forgotten he helped this project get off the ground."

Jack's eyebrow lifted at the understatement.

"Tell me, Colonel. How will you feel if he's tempted by another sarcophagus, and it gets one of your other teammates killed?"

"Daniel wouldn't."

Hammond shook his head. "I'm not prepared to take the chance. As of right now, Dr. Jackson is no longer a part of SG-1. I'll remove him to an advisory position for the other teams."

Janet's gaze shifted from him to the colonel, waiting for the inevitable explosion.

Sudden anger flashed in O'Neill's eyes. It was what Hammond had intended to do when he first met Daniel after their initial return from Abydos. "Then you should reassign me too," Jack said in a cold, even tone. No threats. Just facts.

The general's eyes narrowed. He didn't take well to extortion from a subordinate.

"You're saying you don't trust my judgment, General," Jack explained, sensing he'd given the wrong impression.

Hammond waited, not relenting an inch.

"I wouldn't hesitate to pull Daniel from SG-1 if I felt I couldn't trust him."

"Can you trust him?"

Janet held her breath at the question, studying O'Neill's stone façade for the hidden answer.

"Yes."

She sighed in relief.

"Are you sure?"

"I…" Jack began.

The phone rang, and Hammond stabbed at the speaker button in irritation. "Hammond," he barked in the direction of the offending instrument.

"General Hammond, is Dr. Frasier there?"

"She is."

"Dr. Frasier?" The voice was tinny over the connection.

"Yes, Maggie?"

"I just thought I'd better check with you, Doctor, to see when you had changed the orders on Daniel Jackson."

Janet cocked her head and said, "What changes, Maggie?"

"Well, letting him get up for one..." The nurse's voice started to fade, but Janet jerked the receiver up and spoke into the mouthpiece.

"Who said he could get up?" she demanded. "I did? When did I say that?" A pause, a scowl. "I did NOT say any such thing. Hasn't he ever heard of bedpans? He's what? And he told you I said he could do that?"

The voice spoke in her ear alone this time, but it was pretty easy to track the conversation by Janet's increasingly agitated responses.

"When did he get up? He got up to take a what?" Janet hauled in an aggravated huff of air. "I'll be right there," she said before dropping the receiver back into its cradle. She turned to face Hammond and O'Neill, her eyes locking with Jack's. She didn't have to say a word but couldn't resist. "He told Maggie I said he could get up and use the bathroom and take a shower. A shower! Now, he's gotten himself locked in the bathroom and won't," she pierced a guilty-looking O'Neill with her gaze, "or can't unlock the door."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud," Jack snarled. "Doc, I'll go down there with you and park his ass in the bed myself."

She waved toward the door and said, "After you, Colonel."

***

He didn't know how much time he had.

He'd have to do it right the first time or it would be all for nothing. There was no handy sarcophagus lying within the mountain that he could be dumped into and snatched back from the brink of death. When he was dead this time, he would stay dead.

The tile floor was icy against his skin. The hospital gown was one of the final holdouts against evolution; it remained scant cover and still came with an open door policy in the back. He mentally sneered at himself. Embarrassment was going to be the last thing on his mind very soon.

Daniel opened his right hand to reveal the palmed scalpel he'd managed to swipe from a surgical tray when Maggie wasn't looking. The amazing part of this was he had actually told a lie--a whopper of a lie--and gotten away with it. Probably for the first time in his life.

He leaned against the side of the tub, drawing closer to the warmth it offered as the shower poured a wall of water into it. His cover. Amazing. Just like in the military. Cover up.

"It's now or never, Daniel," he warned himself, surprised to hear he'd said it out loud. He chased the thoughts back into the silence of his mind. Do it. Now. Or you won't have another chance. Or the courage. The pain would go away, washing down the drain with a stream of blood.

Faces haunted him. The faces of Jack, Sam and Teal'c as they begged, demanded he DO something. Get them out of the mines, the relentless struggle of life below the earth manifested in forced labor, without rest, without hope. Then, he would wander back to the sarcophagus and the welcoming arms of Shyla, the silk sheets on her immense bed, the sweet smell of her breath as she whispered to him.

He had betrayed them.

He had left them.

He touched the razor-sharp edge of the blade to his left wrist. No hesitation cuts, he silently demanded of himself. Do it. Hauling in a deep, desperate breath, he jerked the blade across his wrist. Nothing happened for one incredible second as he wondered if he'd dreamed the whole thing. Then, it hit him: shock, pain, and the swell of his blood against his skin. He stared at the wound, fascinated, amazed there was that much blood. It raced in scarlet rivulets down across his trembling hand, pouring over into the tub to be carried off and mutated into a pink river as water met blood on the journey to the drain.

It's not enough, he reminded himself before switching the scalpel to his blood-drenched left hand. Daniel started to place it against the right wrist despite the agony of slashed skin.

An end to the pain--it was within his reach now. No more technicolor nightmares as death in stone stole his parents from him because he hadn't done anything to prevent it. Not even in his dreams. He was still five years old, hearing the scream that underscored their deaths. He hadn't saved them, the first of his many sins.

His hand was shaking, the blade dancing above his flesh ready to bite into it, giving him the answer to his tormenting dreams.

Jack's face. It popped into his mind without invitation. The anger, the concern, the brittleness that sometimes tweaked their friendship. Daniel was never quite sure how to live up to his own idea of Jack's expectations, never feeling like he was a whole, smoothly functioning part of SG-1. On a mission, he--Daniel Jackson--was a tag-along, a liability, a babysitting job foisted upon Colonel O'Neill.

How long has it been? Only minutes ago? Time sense slipped away from him, setting him adrift in some sort of limbo, directionless, unguided. He had tried to kill Jack. Had come close to pulling the trigger. The man he admired most in the world and he had almost taken his life away from him, away from the Stargate program. Not many people tried to murder their heroes.

"This one's for you, Jack," he slurred and snickered at the sound of the words. His head felt weightless, his mind cottoned with spider webs. He started to press the blade into his skin then reconsidered. A long ago buried memory wafted into his mind. A series of classes on suicidal ideation. The instructor had inadvertently given one of his students a blueprint for self-inflicted death. Daniel moved the blade up to the inside of his elbow, closed his eyes, and tried to rake it through his arm from elbow to wrist. He opened his eyes and frowned at the half-assed cuts but couldn't make his injured hand work any better to deepen them. It took the last of his strength to prop his right arm against the edge of the tub. His head dropped back against the wall, and he closed his eyes, waiting for all the pain to flow down the drain. He never heard the violent slamming of a fist against wood or the voice shouting his name.

***

"Dammit, Daniel, ANSWER ME!" Sharp pain shot into Jack's forearm as he smashed his fist against the door. How could reality have become so twisted in a heartbeat? Moments before, he'd been sitting in Hammond's office, feeling secure in the knowledge his friend was on the road to recovery. Now, this. Once again, complacency had betrayed him.

"Daniel!" Hearing the panic raising his voice a notch, Jack bit his lip. So much for his reputation as the calm, unflappable leader of SG-1.

"Are you hurt, Dr. Jackson?" Frasier tried.

Jack shot the petite physician a grateful glance. Bless her. Maybe Daniel would answer her when he wouldn't talk to him. She wasn't a threat. O'Neill blinked. And I am? Jack's lungs stilled as he waited to hear a reply his mind whispered was never going to come. Time stretched just like when Charlie shot himself…

Sheer black terror ripped through him at the continued, empty silence beyond the wood. "Move away," he ordered gruffly.

Frasier did, knowing without his explanation what he intended to do.

Stepping back a few paces, Jack charged the door, the left side of his body braced like a battering ram. Agony exploded in his shoulder at the abrupt contact with the unyielding wood, snatching breath away.

"Colonel, are you…" Frasier began.

Ignoring her, Jack gritted his teeth and rammed the barrier again. It gave a little more. So did his shoulder. Moisture heated his eyes at the burning spasms radiating up his neck and down through his fingers. Clutching his left arm with his right hand, Jack moved back, horrified by the glimpse of crimson he'd snatched when the door gave an inch before bouncing back.

"Colonel?"

"This should do it," Jack snapped, giving the door a mighty kick. It gave, but the shock of his dislocated shoulder couldn't withstand the movement. Jet black pinwheels of agony eclipsed Jack's sight for a moment as his world reduced to sickening physical suffering.

"Nurse!" Janet screamed, pushing past him into the bathroom.

The alarm in the word yanked O'Neill's mind from an abyss of pain. "My God," he breathed, disbelief robbing his voice of vitality. Blood slicked the floor, pooling beneath his boots in a red, congealing mess. Steam from the shower scalded his skin as he took a step closer, thoroughly nauseated by the watery iron odor of diluted blood. That pale, inanimate form slumped beside the tub couldn't be Daniel. No way.

"Where the hell's my help!" Janet snarled. She'd whipped off her lab coat and wrapped it around the scientist's left arm. The white material soaked scarlet almost immediately.

Daniel's head lolled against the enamel tile wall, his blond hair matted to his scalp by the pitiless steam. The corners of his lax mouth still retained the shadow a smile as if her efforts to save his life amused him.

"Colonel."

The horrible spell broken, Jack reacted to the command in her tone. He dropped beside his unconscious teammate, ignoring the feel of still warm blood on his pants. Without thinking, he half-gathered the younger man with his good arm, cradling him against the specter of death which hovered so near. "Don't do this, Danny," he rasped as he one-handedly hugged his friend. His wounded shoulder screamed in protest. Jack grimaced. Using techniques from black ops days, he relegated the pain to a dim corner of his mind.

"O'Neill?"

Jack's gaze went from Daniel's face to the doorway at the sound of Teal'c's worried voice. "Help us get him into the infirmary."

The Jaffa was beside them in a moment.

Jack allowed Teal'c to support most of Daniel's weight, but he refused to let go of the other man's arm as they prepared to move him.

Frasier rose with them, keeping pressure on the left arm over the worst injury.

Daniel moaned low in his throat, the lids covering his sunken eyes flickering with movement beneath him.

"Hang in there, Daniel." Jack begged. "You hear me?"

Somehow, his voice reached into the darkness of the scientist's dazed mind. "P-please," Daniel breathed, weakly struggling in the strong grasp, "L-let…die."

"Ain't gonna happen," Jack growled as Frasier grabbed a nearby towel and swathed the injured man's other arm to staunch the flow of blood. How much more could a person lose and still live?

"Failed…"

At Daniel's feeble cry, Jack tightened his hold despite the flare of pain the movement cost him and met the doctor's worried look. Yeah, he was gonna fail at trying to die if they had any say in the matter. For the first time, the enormity of the situation stuck Jack. Daniel had tried to kill himself. Sudden fury clenched the soldier's jaw. Damn him! He has no right! As quickly as the anger rose, it fell. Chills raced up Jack's spine. He knew exactly what Daniel had been feeling. Hadn't he felt this way himself after Charlie?

"Doctor?"

"Maggie, where were you?" Frasier demanded as she urged Jack and Teal'c forward. They had to get Daniel out of this steambath into her infirmary. She was already mentally stitching his wounds.

"SG-7 came back from P3X-888 with casualties," Maggie replied, stunned as the carnage-splattered foursome hurried past her. Her gaze wandered into the bathroom, and she flinched. It looked worse than a scene from a Hollywood horror movie.

Her statement grabbed the doctor's attention. She hadn't even heard the medical call. "Get Doctor Warner if you need help." Her brisk tone brooked no discussion.

"Patterson and Raynor sustained minor burns. The rest of SG-7 are fine."

"Prepare surgery one immediately, then. I want two units of whole blood stat."

"Right away, Doctor," Maggie agreed, hurrying away.

Conscious only of the life slipping away under his hand, Jack barely listened to the exchange as he was prompted to the sterile womb of the surgical bay. How many friends had he lost in here? Kawalsky. John Perkins of SG-6. Now perhaps, Daniel. With a shake of his head, Jack refused the thought. He wouldn't let it happen.

"Put him right there." Janet gestured to an empty table as she hurried to the nearby sink to scrub in preparation for surgery. As she quickly lathered her arms, she frowned at the pink-tinged soak scum. What an absolute waste. When he was better, she was gonna treat Daniel to several enemas. Swiftly drying her hands, Frasier turned and froze.

Teal'c turned, bending to lift Daniel's legs to gently place him on the raised surgical bed. He was careful not to jar O'Neill who shifted and used his good arm to cushion the scientist's body.

Large splotches of blood blackening his green uniform, O'Neill stood on the other side of the table, one-handedly clutching his wounded teammate to his heart. The older man looked like he'd lost all will to move: a giant GI Joe doll without a spirit.

Because he's cradling his soul in his arm. God help them both. Janet grabbed a gown and efficiently donned it, grateful when Maggie arrived at last to help her. As the room came alive with the bustle of her excellent medical staff, she channeled her mind into medical mode.

"No," O'Neill protested as they tried to take Daniel from him. He had to hold on. It was the only way his friend would make it. Once he lost contact… Jack's haunted eyes shuttered against grief, denying the possibility of death.

"O'Neill?" Teal'c began, understanding what needed to happen but not wanting to go against the other warrior's wishes.

"Colonel," Janet began. Seeing she wasn't reaching him, she gently squeezed his uninjured arm. It was a miracle his wounded shoulder hadn't dropped him. Amazing what shock could do. "Jack," she said softly, "let me help Daniel."

O'Neill blinked. As if he had arrived from some far distant place where his friend was headed, Jack focused on her concerned, brown eyes.

"We'll save him," Janet promised recklessly. The doctor in her reproved her for her vow, but she knew she had to say something, anything to get him to release his desperate grasp. As his defenseless gaze met hers, she nodded. "I promise." She would rather die herself than go back on her word.

"Okay," Jack breathed, releasing his precious burden to helping hands. He stepped back, instantly bereft. It felt like his heart had been ripped from his chest. Even the supportive presence of Teal'c at his back couldn't ease the pain.

"He's flat-lining." Maggie's panicked voice filled the second of silence.

"Get the paddles!" Frasier's order was instantly obeyed.

The buzzing medical team pushed Jack back as they hurried to recapture life.

Listening numbly to the electric whine of the paddles as they charged, Jack winced as they were applied to Daniel's bare chest. The thumping surge lifted the slender body from the table in a grotesque parody of animation.

"Nothing."

"Come on," Jack prayed. His gaze speared Frasier as she worked frantically over the unmoving body. How could she have lied to him? It was inconceivable.

"Again." Janet's demand produced another whine and another thump. Beeping filled the room.

"Got him!" Maggie said triumphantly.

Jack's held breath rushed past his lips.

"Come on, people," Frasier ordered, "time to earn our keep."

Numbly watching the frantic struggle, Jack was surprised by the tug on his right arm.

"Let me help you, sir," said a young, blond woman in white.

She looks so clean. The thought filtered into O'Neill's mind like a stone skipped across a pond. It took a moment to register and sink through. He thought the whole world was soaked in Daniel's blood. Blood of innocents. He looked down at his soiled uniform. Why was he always covered in it? "Yeah?"

"Your arm."

"What about it?" Jack asked numbly.

"It's injured, sir. The doctor asked me to give you a pain killer until Dr. Warner gets here to help you."

No. Jack shifted away from the hypo she held. He needed the agony to focus. He wanted the fire in his side. It tied him to Daniel. If his pain stopped, wouldn't Daniel die?

"Sir?"

"Leave him be, nurse. I'll take care of this."

Jack glanced at Dr. Warner.

The older physician took the hypo from the relieved nurse's fingers. "Take off your shirt, Colonel."

O'Neill's eyes grew hard. "Not now, Doc."

Surprise lined the older physician's round face. "Never figured you for a guy who liked pain."

Too weary and obsessed with the life and death struggle playing out in front of him, Jack managed, "I don't."

"Why not let me treat you then?"

"Because I don't want to sleep. If I do…"

Warner nodded with amazing understanding. "I've got to get your shoulder back in."

"Do what you have to."

"It'll be easier with a sedative or a pain killer."

"No."

With a sigh, Warner conceded, "Have it your way, but at least let us help you take off your shirt so our job is easier." He hated this macho bullshit. There was no reason why this man had to suffer except that he wanted to for some unfathomable reason. Why were these military aces so stubborn?

His gaze intent on Daniel's lax form which was alternately hidden and revealed by the medical dance surrounding him, Jack merely waited for Warner to do whatever he had to do and leave him alone. He winced as Teal'c gently removed his shirt.

"Brace yourself," Warner ordered and nodded in approval as Teal'c's strong hands anchored Jack's back.

The warning heralded a nauseating flash of agony. Jack trapped his scream between a bitten lower lip as his dislocated shoulder popped back into place. Queasiness consumed his stomach, rocketing up his throat on a surge of bile. He swallowed fiercely, focusing on Daniel like a talisman against unconsciousness. There was no way he was leaving the kid to fight this alone. Daniel had had to face too many solitary tests in his life. Jack had no intention of letting him do the most important one by himself.

"At least sit down," Warner grunted, impressed in spite of himself by the stoic mask. He'd just gone through hell. You'd never know it by the stubborn set of his jaw.

Jack conceded, realizing he could conserve his waning strength with the action. His gaze fastened on the matted strands of blond hair which still managed to shine with gold fire under the surgical lights. He didn't even notice when someone draped a clean shirt across his shoulders.

Uninvited, Daniel's smile flickered in Jack's memory. Yet, it wasn't the easygoing nervous grin the scientist sometimes assumed. It was the smart-assed contemptuous smirk the man who would be king sported while Jack knelt dying at his feet on Shyla's planet. Blinking away unwelcome tears, O'Neill wished he'd sat on Daniel when the impetuous fool had rushed forward to stop the bitch princess from jumping. If she'd only leapt to her well-deserved death, none of this would have happened.

If wishes were fishes and they could fly, the world would be full of them by and by.

Rolling his eyes, Jack acknowledged the truth of one of Granny O'Neill's favorite sentiments. How had his heart hardened without him noticing? It had to be stone solid if he wanted a woman to kill herself.

Better her than Daniel.

Jack shook his head. Daniel wasn't going to die. He wasn't. No way.

Letting the unspoken words serve as a litany to his injured spirit, O'Neill kept watch despite his battered body. He'd stand between his friend and death if need be. His mind slipped sideways as he waited for Frasier to tell him Daniel would make it. He didn't notice the stoic Jaffa behind him or see the pain on the dark features as they turned towards the drama playing out before them.

Countless heartbeats later, Janet stood before him, her white gown defiled by more innocent blood. Yet, her fingers were blameless. His on the other hand…. "Well?" he growled, surprised by the weak sound of his own voice. How many days had passed while he'd waited for her news?

"He's stable," she said. "I don't know how, but he managed to come back twice from death in the last two hours."

Jack knew how. If he'd slept or allowed them to sedate him, Daniel wouldn't have made it. "Prognosis?"

She winced at his rough-edge tone. This man was wounded soul deep, yet he trusted her to tell him the truth even if it shattered the last of his spirit. "The next twenty-four hours will tell. I've got blood pumped back into him, but it's going to take a while for his body to absorb all the shocks its been subject to over the last few weeks. We still might see more sarcophagus symptoms popping up."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "I thought he was over the effects."

She matched his gaze with a steady one of her own. "He should be. I'm only going by what I know about earth addictions. You have to remember we are dealing with the unknown here."

"So we wait." Again.

Trying not to hear the words for the accusation they were, Janet nodded. "You do…after you let me give you a painkiller for your shoulder."

"No."

"Daniel's going to need you," Janet said, playing her trump hand. "You won't do him much good if you pass out from pain or exhaustion. He'll be asleep for hours from the stuff I pumped into him. "

"No."

"I promise to wake you." Seeing his skeptical glare, she added, "I'll even give you a stimulant if you don't rouse fast enough. Deal?"

Still feeling he would allow Daniel to die if he slept, Jack hesitated.

"I told you I wouldn't let him die. You think I'd lie to you?"

The frustrated timbre of her voice softened his brown eyes. "If you had to," Jack admitted. Seeing her protest, he agreed, "but not this time. Okay. Give me the friggin' shot."

"Why don't you move into the same room we're putting Daniel? I don't want my team to carry you. They're tired, and you weigh a ton with your boots on."

"You saying I need to lose weight?"

Seeing the gauntness of his haggard features, Janet shook her head. "Not in the least." She held out her hand to prove her point.

Allowing her to lever him out of the chair, Jack nearly stumbled as his feet, asleep from so many hours of enforced stillness, refused to hold him upright.

Teal'c moved forward but stopped as the physician shook her head no. His eyebrow rose. Was this some sort of ritual of trust?

Janet grunted as O'Neill's larger form sagged towards her. Maybe he should lose a few pounds.

"Sorry," Jack mumbled, steadying himself.

"Best feel I've had all week," she smirked with a libidinous leer for his exposed chest.

He snorted, his throat feeling rusty from the lack of laughter. It amazed him how comfortable he felt around her. Doctors usually gave him the creeps. They were always waiting to stick you with something or get you in vulnerable positions. Yet, he trusted Janet as if she was part of his team. As they made their way behind Daniel's gurney, Jack realized with a sinking feeling in his stomach the woman was. Without her help, SG-1, himself included but most especially their vulnerable and accident-prone civilian would have been dead long ago.

"Teal'c, you'd better go get someone to tell Carter about this. She went home a while ago."

"I will do so, O'Neill," Teal'c answered with a somber nod. "Then, I will return to stand guard over you and DanielJackson."

"Thanks," Jack breathed, grateful for the strength of his friend. It really helped to have someone to lean on every now and again. The Jaffa left them before they made it to Daniel's room.

Jack gave in to exhausted irritation when Daniel's caregivers transferred him to a bed and began replacing the restraints. "For cryin' out loud," he whispered, "those aren't really necessary. Are they? He can't even move under his own power. What about the cuts on his arms? They're not going to stand much contact with leather straps."

"That's why they're lined with sheepskin," Janet overrode the objection. "He can't do much harm to himself right now, but I don't want Daniel to rip out my stitches. I pride myself on my needlepoint."

Jack's eyes sought hers, acknowledging the bitter truth. Daniel was still a danger to himself. What remained to be seen was if he would also endanger anyone else. Sinking onto the next bed near the scientist, Jack swallowed the knot in his throat. "I'm ready for that shot now." It was as close to a plea as he would allow.

Frasier didn't make him ask twice. A sharp sting in his arm preceded a warm rush of the onset of drugged sleep.

His eyes on Daniel's pale, drawn features, Jack gave himself over to the numbing sensation of painkillers. Before he was sucked under, he speared Frasier with a glance. "Promise?"

"I promise." Her vow lulled him into accepting the inevitable. Janet's eyes grew bleak as she watched him surrender to the drug. She glanced at the strapped and waxy form of his teammate on the other bed. The pair were bookends, and a universe of pain lay between them. Praying they had the strength to help each other through it, Janet signaled to her nurse to remove O'Neill's bloodstained pants. It was likely that even with the sedative, he wouldn't rest long. Jack would remain awake, keeping the vigil of faith. He didn't need any reminder of the past hours when he woke. Daniel would be enough.

***

"Please, Jack…"

The ragged plea shredded O'Neill's frayed self-composure. Leaning forward in the chair beside the bed, he scrubbed his good hand over burning, bloodshot eyes as if the action could erase the last week. It was the wrong thing to do. Unbidden, the memory of Daniel's fingers awash in crimson gore filled his mind.

"Untie me. Don't do this…"

"You did it to yourself, Daniel," Jack growled, not looking at the man helplessly strapped to the hospital bed. He nearly winced at the harshness of his reply but stopped himself in time. What in hell had his friend been thinking? He wasn't thinking. He was immersed in misery so deep it stole all consciousness. You know the drill. You remember how it was after Charlie.

"I didn't," came the rasping sob.

The broken objection opened O'Neill's eyes. Brown bored into desperate blue. He didn't see the paleness of the lined features or the hair lank with sweat or the panic which raised the oh-so-expressive eyebrows. He only saw a teammate…a friend who'd tried to kill himself without any thought of the consequences to anyone else. "You didn't slice your wrists?" Jack hissed, all the anger of the last few days boiling past his gut-sick concern. "Who did then? Shyla?" A breath catching in Daniel's throat told Jack he'd jabbed a mental wound.

"N-no…" Daniel whispered, turning his head away. The limited movement was the only one the restraints allowed. Worthless. He was totally worthless. He couldn't even die right.

"Don't tell me Maggie gave you the scalpel," Jack sneered, knowing he was being a bastard but too angry to temper his words.

Defeat closed Daniel's swollen eyelids, his thick eyelashes a dark fringe against the purplish crescents of flesh beneath them. "She-she didn't."

Sarcasm filling his tone with the sharp edge of rebuke, the soldier pushed on, "Then, how about an invisible enemy, Jackson? It's the only reasonable explanation why a member of my team would have his wrists slashed. There are no cowards on SG-1."

Misery rose in a suffocating tangle as tears cinched Daniel's throat closed. "M-my fault," he managed before ugly, ripping sobs flayed him. He thought he'd cried himself out in the storeroom. Wrong. The hoarse weeping came slightly weaker than before only because his body had been pushed past too many limits. The fresh tears shook him as violently as the earlier ones, but now he had even fewer defenses against them. Moisture burned his aching eyes, squeezing under his lids as he trembled.

Granite contained more flexibility than Jack's stern expression. "Damn right," O'Neill snapped, trying desperately to ignore the younger man's grief which chipped away at his iron resolve. How DARE Daniel try to make him feel sorry for him! The little shit deserved a thumping for scaring him. He smiled ferally. Time to go for broke.

Daniel tried to control his tears, but somehow, the ability to do so had vanished. Crybaby! Crybaby! shrieked the cruel childhood voices in his mind. He bit his lip hard to still its tremor, swallowing the knotted misery in his throat. It choked him, and his breath caught in another sob. He clamped his lips to deny it life.

"I can't trust you any more," Jack tried to keep his voice firm on the word trust, but it cracked anyway. "You're off my team."

The icy declaration shocked Daniel into the stillness he so desperately wanted. Had he heard right?

"I'll ask Hammond to keep you on the project, but I don't know what you'll do any more. Not after this last stunt." Jack's pounding heart twisted at the sight of the naked vulnerability in those tear-swollen blue eyes. Be tough, O'Neill, he mentally bolstered his resolve as it slipped. If you aren't, he'll try suicide again. He might even succeed.

His whole universe spiraling down on him, a wild surge of anger tensed Daniel's spine. He'd slit himself open to atone for his mistakes, and Jack was telling him it didn't matter? "Fine," he snapped. "You don't need to take a chance with me."

Jack almost smiled. That's it, Danny. Fight me. You gotta get pissed and stay alive. "I don't intend to," he said as he stood. His heartache eased at the defiant spark in the blue eyes.

As suddenly as anger exploded, it fled, leaving Daniel even paler. He sighed, seeming to wilt on the hospital bed. Jack's right. All I've ever done is screw up. He should dump me. I'm a liability. Raw and primitive grief wrenched his heart. He'd been an outcast most of his life. For a brief moment, he'd known love with Sha're. When that had been taken from him, he'd sunned himself in Jack, Sam and Teal'c's friendship, somehow building another family. Trust him to screw it all up. Daniel's entire body ached with defeat. He turned his face to the wall, unable to watch the older man walk away as so many had.

No! Jack wanted to scream as he saw the glazed look of despair transform Daniel's weary features into that of an orphaned child's.

"Colonel O'Neill?"

Jack's desperate gaze jerked up to meet Janet Frasier's concerned eyes. She held a hypo in her hand.

"Sleep time for our patient. Rest is what Daniel's body needs." She injected the syringe's clear contents into the IV tubing.

Rest in peace, O'Neill's mind supplied. At that moment, he couldn't control the shiver which slithered along his back. Bitter, cold despondency filled his soul. For the first time, Jack did something he'd never done before. He retreated when a friend needed him. With a brief squeeze for Daniel's shoulder, he fled the infirmary.

Daniel's eyes were hopeless as he stared at Janet.

"Sleep," she urged, pulling the blanket up under his chin since the restraints prevented him from doing it himself. She smoothed back an errant lock of blond hair from his ashen forehead.

The room began a slow spinning as her drugs whirled him away from failure. Bereft and desolate, Daniel welcomed the darkness which swirled over him in long, mindless waves. Before he slipped away from reality, a brief hope he wouldn't awaken flickered like a dim candle in his battered soul.

***

"Sir?"

"What is it, Carter?" Jack sighed, not raising his aching head from the haven of his palm. He ignored the stabbing of his immobilized but still tender shoulder, a throbbing rebuke for his inadequacy.

"Dr. Frasier sent me to find you. Daniel's not doing so well."

Jack's neck immediately straightened as he looked at his teammate. Brown eyes glittered in the dim light of his bunkroom. "Anyone tell you that you have a talent for understatement? Daniel slashed his wrists. Of course he's not doing great."

Weariness grooved lines in Sam's pale face as she absorbed the bitterness of his words. "I mean since then, Colonel."

A flicker of apprehension tightened the muscles along his spine with a wave of unexpected guilt. What did I do to him with my tirade? "Cut to it," Jack demanded.

"He's not fully waking up for one thing, and he's got a bit of a temperature."

Relaxing imperceptibly, O'Neill nodded. "Been there myself when I was drugged a time or two." His eyes narrowed. "But you already realized that, didn't you? What's the real reason for this nocturnal visit?"

Sam had the grace to look abashed before she squared her shoulders. "Janet told me about what you said to Daniel."

"For cryin' out loud. Whatever happened to professional discretion?"

"Is Daniel off the team?"

O'Neill knew her well enough to know she had to be really upset to question her commanding officer. "I don't know." He kept his voice even as if it didn't matter to him one way or the other.

"It's not Daniel's fault, Colonel," Sam argued. "He was still under the effects of the sarcophagus when he held the gun on you."

News sure traveled at light speed in the complex. "Probably," Jack admitted with curt nod, "but I've got a feeling he was himself when he gutted his wrists."

Anger made her blue eyes flash. "Is that personal experience talking?"

Shock stunned Jack for a heartbeat as the meaning behind her accusation registered.

"I heard about how you almost ate a bullet before the first Abydos mission."

"Been keeping up with my personal life have you?" Jack hissed, rising so quickly his chair crashed into the bed behind it, "or do you get your kicks hearing about suicide attempts?"

Sam's lips trembled before she could mask her expression. "No, I care about my friends."

"Not enough to keep from prying in stuff you don't need to know."

"You're wrong, Colonel."

In one stride, he was up close and personal, radiating face-to-face fury. "Am I?"

"We have to trust each other to function as a team. I had to know if you were going to go out in a blaze of glory and maybe take the rest of us with you."

Despite himself, some of Jack's anger bled away. He could appreciate her thinking. The military mind was quick to assess weak links and learn ways to compensate or eliminate them. Why hadn't he ever turned that cold appraisal on Daniel?

Because he's your friend. Wincing at the truth, O'Neill tilted his head.

"I found out you weren't like that," Sam said quietly, seeing understanding soften the sharpness of his gaze.

"I was once." Jack's admission was only a hollow whisper of sound.

"What changed you?"

Daniel. The painful truth was on Jack's face, aging him way beyond his years. He'd abandoned his friend when he could repay the favor.

"Even though he hasn't woke, he's called for you a couple of times, sir."

Jack's bloodshot gaze blurred with the warmth of tears. He was too emotionally close to the edge to deny them. "Thanks, Sam," he said, briefly squeezing her arm with his uninjured hand before he left the room. He knew now where he had to be and what he had to do. Things hadn't been so clear in a long time.

"You're welcome," she acknowledged quietly, worry for him and for their unconscious teammate bleaching her face of color. If anyone could get Daniel to want to live, O'Neill could. Despite their differences, they held common ground in principles, trust, and honor. With a silent prayer to watch over the two men, Sam followed him, knowing Teal'c stood guard near Daniel's room.

***

A place warm and hidden. A place he would never have to leave, never lose anyone close to him. Taken away. That was what had happened. His mother and his father lost in a terrible, haunting reality, one their five-year-old son was condemned to live over and over again in dreams. He didn't want to see their faces any more or watch the tons of stone bury them.

Jack was right. He was useless, no more than a mind full of statistics, antiquity, artifacts--nothing that mattered to anyone but Daniel Jackson. Jack had been crazy to let him on the team in the first place. All of them--Jack, Teal'c, even Sam--had to keep an eye on the idiot-scientist who was going to fall into an alien pot hole at least once a mission.

It was hot. Way too hot. He could feel the sheets molding themselves to his sweaty body, making the hospital gown a sodden second skin. He drifted in and out, sometimes conscious of the heat and the irritating light peering down on him from the ceiling.

Someone was there, sitting next to his bed. He wanted to tell them they could go away, he was all right, and they could get some sleep--all the social niceties. But he couldn't even tell who they were, much less force words from his dry mouth.

***

Every time he was nearly nodding off, Daniel would shift in the bed, tug on one of the restraints, mumbling disjointed words.

They almost had it down to a science. Daniel would mumble; Jack would dredge himself out of the arms of beginning sleep. Daniel would fight the restraints; Jack would push himself out of the remarkably uncomfortable chair and pace the room. He didn't know what else to do. He could hardly issue a direct order to his civilian friend.

Friend?

When had it gone wrong?

Your fault, his conscience nagged. You told him he wasn't good enough to be on your team! Why didn't you just reach in and crush his heart? He remembered the blue eyes staring at him, pleading with him then finally closing as the body drew Daniel back into himself, a place where Jack's words couldn't harm him.

What could he offer as an antidote to the pain he had inflicted? How to undo the wrong he had dumped on Daniel? How to get the kid back out of the muzzy, sedated place where he was licking his wounds away from the man who had made him suffer?

More murmured words he couldn't translate. Jack leaned closer hoping to hear them, hoping they were at least in English. Who could tell with Daniel? The linguist had endless languages stored in his brain.

Daniel Jackson, genius, boy wonder--PhD'd to hell and back.

Titled a doctor before he had finished puberty, for cryin' out loud.

Suicide wannabe.

"Did it hurt enough for you to do this to yourself, Daniel?" he questioned the sleeping man. "I know how much it hurts, Danny. You can get over it, past it. You just gotta know how."

Right now, all he wanted to hear was that Daniel hadn't caused irreparable damage to himself. Between the shock of blood loss and the sedative Dr. Frasier had forced into him after the carnage in the small bathroom, there wasn't much hope for a conversation.

What am I gonna do with you, Daniel? he pleaded silently. One of these days, you're gonna run up to an alien with your hand stretched out in greeting, and it's going to get you killed. Just like Charlie. I lost my son. I lost my wife. I've paid my dues. Now, you're trying to make good on stealing away a friend. I know, I know, sometimes I'm maybe a little overprotective. Maybe I bark and fall into militaryese instead of talking to you.

Maybe, it irritates me when you remind me I actually have no control over you; when it's convenient, you are the first to point that out. Our own little loose cannon. I don't think I've ever met someone who looks at life the way you do. You have this wide-eyed innocence you are totally oblivious to. You're just too...interested in everything you can touch. I mostly shake my head at you.

Don't begrudge me the protective mode. I need it as much as you do.

Movement out of the corner of his eye stopped his unspoken confession. He glanced up and recognized the nurse. What is her name? She had been in and out every fifteen minutes so precisely Jack figured he could set his watch by her goings and comings.

He leaned back in the chair and watched as she silently checked the IV, the bag of blood, and the other wires and mechanical gobble-de-gook keeping Daniel alive. Two minutes, he looked back up at her. She ignored him, simply going about her duties, detached enough that Jack saw her as cold and uncaring. He knew he was probably wrong in the assessment, but it swam though his brain and swallowed a little of the guilt he'd been tormenting himself with.

The frown caught his attention.

She had frowned the last time she'd run her medical checklist, and suddenly that tiny lapse of expression carried more weight than if she'd spoken aloud.

After registering temps, pulses, and whatever she was charting for her patient, she started to turn and head for the door. O'Neill caught her arm as she passed him.

"What is it?" he asked--no, demanded.

Professional face securely in place, she patted his hand and said, "Everything's fine, Colonel. I'm just taking routine precautions."

He didn't release his grip on her arm. "What kind of precautions?"

"Dr. Frasier will be able to fill you--"

He felt his hand clench around her arm. Daniel's condition was more important than apologizing for his insistence. "What's wrong?"

She--he suddenly remembered her name, Maggie--took a second to evaluate his state of mind then sighed.

The instant she gave him the concession, he pulled his hand back and waited.

"His temperature is up a little. That's all."

Jack shook his head. He'd been touching Daniel throughout the long, dark night and felt the clammy warmth of the skin each time he had checked. His weary mind finally caught on. It wasn't that this was ICU. The fifteen-minute checks and the frowns signaled concern.

He pinned her in place by the tone of his voice. "How high?"

Again, she considered then said, "104.2."

Shoulda taken those med classes, he conceded. "How bad's that?"

"I'm going to notify Dr. Frasier."

Jack slumped back in the chair. "That bad," he whispered.

When he looked up again, she had vanished.

***

The whole universe had diminished to this murky room with its beeping monitors. Jack stared at Daniel's gaunt features, wondering how the younger man's vibrant personality could have vanished in such a short time. Trapped within the confines of his dangerously weak body, the scientist might be a stick figure with shivers or an ad for a hospital serving the desperately ill.

"C'mon, Danny," Jack breathed, staring at the pale, pain-pinched face of his friend, "you gotta come back from wherever it is you've gone. I-I…" His voice broke, and he savagely scrubbed away tears with an impatient hand. "The team needs you, Daniel." Jack's voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "I need you."

The admission cost him dearly. A military man, a lifer in fact, was expected to conceal non-tactical emotions; Jack hunched forward in the chair beside the bed and bowed his head as if in prayer. No words of comfort came to his mind-either for Daniel or for himself. All was howling emptiness. His good hand reached out, needing the contact to assure him the kid still lived.

I'd give anything to hear you spout off some ancient knowledge you found fascinating, he thought miserably in the long silence.

Daniel remained as inert as a stone effigy.

Until the seizure struck. Arching away from the bed as if it burned him, Daniel's body locked in the rigor of painful possession.

Jack's mouth dropped open in dismay. Alarms on the machines wailed, and his mental prayer became one desperate word: Please.

As medical personnel rushed into the room, the soldier realized the hours of anguish would never end.

***

"I couldn't even do this right."

The words didn't quite reach O'Neill's mind. Somehow the tone--words thrumming on an almost unbearable note of despair--did. He hauled himself out of sleep, reluctantly. His shoulder ached like an ignored, decayed tooth. His head was fuzzed with half thoughts and partially experienced memories. Even the twinges from his bandaged and stitched hand danced into his consciousness.

Jack had to physically chase away the blanket of lethargy which had settled over him in half-sleep. "Wha--?" He swallowed past a dry throat, felt irritation wedge in it and said more harshly than he'd intended, "What is this--a Daniel Jackson pity party?"

Red flushed across ashen cheeks as Daniel took only a moment to orient voice and face. When his bloodshot eyes met and recognized the darkness of Jack's own tired gaze, Daniel jerked his head away as if his attention was suddenly and irrevocably snared by the eggshell non-color of the wall.

Jack nearly recalled the words then realized it was too late. Even facing away, etchings of strain and tracks of uncontrolled tears drew a picture of despair and a sheer loss of life in the normally animated anthropologist.

"Why, Daniel?" he asked, noting the loss of strength in his own voice. He was tired. Just plain tired. Danny, what was so terrible that you had to do this? He swept a hand in a helpless gesture.

He hardly expected an answer to what was basically a rhetorical question, but Daniel turned back to him for just a second before letting his eyes drop away. "You all baby-sit me," he said, weariness punctuating the statement, somehow turning it into an accusation.

"Ya think?" Jack tossed off his normal response to the obvious, only then realizing it was the truth, albeit one the other two team members accepted in spite of the fact Daniel couldn't deal with it. The younger man had always considered himself a liability, and Jack wasn't sure if there was any way to change that.

Daniel, as usual, didn't accept the mini-reprieve Jack offered. He searched for words through pain and drugs and found only, "One of these days, I'm gonna get you or Sam or Teal'c killed through... just through my own stupidity."

Jack had no answer. Daniel interpreted silence as agreement, and his expression broadcast betrayal. This wasn't the time to level blame. That would occur later and more than likely might destroy Daniel Jackson, both his career and personal life. Jack spent a moment within the confines of his own forty-year-old brain, wondered what it would be like to crash and burn at the advanced age of thirty-four. The rise and fall of a brilliant but wounded spirit. From the death of his parents to the loss of his wife, Daniel's life balanced on some sort of disastrous psychic seesaw.

Colonel Jack O'Neill wanted nothing more than to have their impetuous, naive, over-enthusiastic loose cannon out of his bed of pain and back in fatigues, crawling over uncharted worlds without an ounce of self preservation. Their very own Welcome Wagon. Daniel thinks every artifact, every envoy, armed or harmless is his own personal toy box. Forget Pandora. Daniel would swear there was a pony buried in that...

"Jack..."

O'Neill jerked out of his own thoughts at the tremulous voice. This time Daniel was actually looking at him, blue eyes glimmering with unshed tears, guilt and fear written with a heavy hand across his pale face.

Jack sighed heavily. Time to confront hard facts. He glanced again at Daniel. The young scientist didn't look like he'd make it back from a reality trip.

"You're not the only one who opted to try self-destruction," he began in a low, hesitant voice.

"I know," Daniel breathed, granting dispensation for confessions of O'Neill's suicidal depression from Charlie's death.

"You don't." Jack's harsh objection stunned his friend into stillness. Watching the blue eyes round large and liquid, he searched inside himself for the strength to continue, to lance old wounds festering for years and years. His heart pounded fiercely as he wavered between the telling or not telling. It was a time known only to dead comrades and him. Jack almost decided to keep silent, knew Daniel would allow it when he looked at his friend's gaunt face again.

Daniel was stepping closer and closer to the edge of the other world-the one where too many of his friends had gone. Death would not claim this man if Jack O'Neill had any say in the matter. The soldier suddenly realized he did. Damn. "It-it," Jack tried but had to clear his throat before he could say the name, "wasn't Charlie. This was before then." He snuck another glance at his way too silent companion and wished he hadn't.

Daniel's eyebrows drew together in an agonized expression as if he could sense the mortal injury which fevered the older man's soul. "Don't, Jack. You don't have to tell me…"

"I do," Jack admitted quietly, realizing it was the truth, "not only for you but maybe for me too." His brown eyes grew bleak with recall. "Remember I told you I'd been in prison before?"

Daniel nodded, their conversation in Hedantes coming to the forefront of his muzzy mind.

"It was an Iraqi one. Four months." The tremor in his voice was unnatural. Jack hated the wavering sound, despised himself for it. It was too much like how he'd been right after… "The reason I told you I knew what you felt like…" He stopped, unwilling to bring up the despair and utter fragility of Daniel's state in the supply room.

Understanding the jumped track of the conversation, the younger man slowly nodded. "You said you knew what it was like."

The unspoken ‘how' hovered between them like a wild animal with the ability to inflict horrendous pain.

"The damn Iraqis hooked me on heroin to get me to betray what I knew, Daniel," Jack said, looking at the tiles between his feet as if they contained a secret code to help him past this point. He waited for the gasp, the impotent "I'm sorry," some curse. The absolute stillness which greeted his revelation pulled his glance up.

Daniel's blue eyes held fluid appeal, glinting with unshed tears. He didn't want Jack to verbally slice himself open. What use would it be? Didn't Jack know that he'd already given up?

O'Neill evenly met his gaze, relieved by the total absence of judgment and soothed by the other man's willingness to sacrifice himself even in this. He nodded. "That wasn't the worst part. After three of my buddies rescued me from that hellhole, I nearly killed them and me. I would have done anything…anything to get shot up again, even betray them to the Iraqis. I needed that shit so damn bad, Daniel. Nothing mattered except keeping the pain out."

"Jack, stop. You don't…" Daniel managed despite tears choking his voice.

O'Neill didn't hear him. His mind skittered away as the years rolled back, back, back. Relentless memory grew vividly harrowing in retrospection.

"Jack, s'me, Peter."

Barely able to focus on the thin, concerned face above him, O'Neill growled, "Give me."

"Here." Gentle hands cradled the back of his head, holding the metal cup of water to cracked lips.

Jack choked on the liquid, knocking the cup away with weak determination. His shaking fingers fisted in the rough material of a khaki jacket. "Y-you've got stuff. I need it."

"No. No, you don't."

At the absolute firmness of the denial, fury erupted in the weak man, bringing with it an explosion of unexpected strength. Jack's hand curled into a fist, and he struck out. The grunt of pain brought a savage smile to his trembling lips. Before he could enjoy the sensation, burning tingles skittered along his nerves, wringing another cry from his nearly bloodless lips. He shivered uncontrollably, lost in the throes of raw urgency for the substance his blood craved.

"I'm here," soothed the gruff voice, "You can get through this."

"No," Jack whimpered, "no…" In the dim corner of his brain which was not consumed by animal need, he marveled at how disgusting he sounded, how totally useless. Better to shatter his brain with a bullet.

"Drink more."

Water again. How much could they force into him? He'd already pissed himself dry several times over and sweated the rest out. Jack's stomach rebelled at last, vomiting the clear liquid which they said was water. While he lay panting and exhausted, he stared at the mess covering the floor. How could it be? Water tasted of mud and the green slime which coated the walls of his home. No, not home. Prison. He wasn't there. His blurred gaze took in the stark room, the bed they'd put him in, the three concerned faces of who?

"Please…" He closed his eyes, no longer able to try to make sense of reality. All he understood was the fire raging in his blood and the need to ice it with heroin.

A gentle hand wiped his mouth and urged more water past his lips.

Weakly trying to shake his head, Jack shivered as the cold wetness from the cup spilled down his sweaty chest. The movement spiked increased tremors until his teeth chattered together.

"More, Jack," demanded the relentless voice.

"I hate you," O'Neill hissed, wishing they'd end this torment.

"Sure you do, sport. When you're well, you can beat the shit out of me. Until then, drink, dammit."

Unable to deny the liquid dribbling past his trembling lips, Jack did as the man…Peter…insisted. He half choked but swallowed some of it. They were going to drown him after all. A wail from his heart broke past his barriers, and Jack howled from this pit of hell which denied him any solace. Even the arms surrounding him provided no comfort.

"No more," Daniel pleaded, his tear-smothered voice yanking the solider back from the repulsive past.

Jack blinked, focusing on the washed out features of another man who wanted to die. He realized for the first time how hard it had been on Peter, Gunther and Tom to drag him from the brink of destruction and make him want to live. His jaw firmed as the insight hardened his resolve to do this for Daniel.

"It took a lot of time to get me clean from that stuff," Jack admitted quietly. "I almost killed us all as the weeks went by. I wasn't even sure I was clean until six months later when I met Peter in D.C. He invited me back to his hotel room to talk and catch up on old times." O'Neill's brown eyes darkened at the memory of a syringe filled with glinting liquid on the wet bar.

"What the hell's this supposed to be," Jack hissed, "a welcome home present?"

Peter shrugged. "Up to you, sport."

Rage clenched O'Neill's fists tight against his side. He knew if he raised them, Peter would be beaten to death. Why? His mind screamed at the betrayal.

"You need to know, Jack. You need to take the chance. If you don't, your career, your life, everything you hold sacred is over."

"So, this is some sick test? I thought you were a friend. Don't you believe in me?"

"I am, and I do. That's not important. What is is that you believe in you. You're the one who has to walk away from the prison and everything those bastards did to you."

"I need to take the chance? What kind of stupid logic is that? You saw to it I went cold turkey from this stuff. Why now?"

Peter's green eyes caught and held his gaze. "Because you're gonna be recalled to active duty. I kept the heroin out of my report. Only you and I know about it."

Grief flashed across Jack's tensed face. Gunther and Tom were dead. They hadn't made it out of Iraq-officially killed by terrorists. Unofficially, they'd died trying to save his life. No…unofficially, he'd cost them their lives.

With shaking fingers, he picked up the syringe, holding it, testing its mortal weight in his hand. Its needle glittered in the subdued light. The sharp tip sparkled with promise. The end. The end to all of his doubts and the end to all pain.

Horror creased his face, and with a roar of despair, Jack hurled the hypodermic against the wall where it shattered with a splash. Pain shot through his knees as he dropped to the floor and rocked, trying desperately to keep the unbearable anguish inside. He was a junkie. Nothing would ever change that.

Arms supported his shoulders, steadying him against hateful realizations.

"I knew you could beat it."

As the praise drifted into his bruised mind, Jack stuffed the grief deep inside. No one would ever know his terrible secret, not even the man who'd tested him.

"But you did beat it, Jack. You needed to face the challenge, and you didn't take it."

Focusing on the speaker of those worn, whispery words, O'Neill flushed as he realized that someone now knew his secret.

"You wouldn't have done it," Daniel managed, panting as sweat filmed his ashen face, "Not like…"

Before he could finish, another horrible seizure ripped into him, taking away all thoughts of confessions and absolution.

"I'm here," Jack managed inanely as he waited for the inevitable interruption of medical people into this modern horror chamber.

Daniel couldn't answer while he endured his life slipping away from him.

As Jack was once again urged back by Janet and her team, he fought hard to keep his tears from spilling. He wasn't an addict. Neither was Daniel. How could he convince his friend of this unshakable truth? Daniel needed to take the same chance he had, but his addiction was beyond the scope of this world. With a bitter twist to his lips, Jack found himself wishing SG-1 could return to Shyla's planet at least one more time.

***

It was hot.

So hot.

Everything looked so very big that he felt he was lost in a land of giants. His mom and dad were occupied with the big stone, and Daniel felt it would be the perfect time to escape to see the exhibits. His father usually took him to see the dinosaurs, but today they were too busy. Daniel turned away, his great escape then spun around when he heard the horrific scrape of stone against stone, saw his father and mother beneath the cover slab, their faces showing horror, their hands lifted up as if they could prevent their deaths by somehow holding the coverstone in place.

"No!" Daniel screamed. But no one even heard it as the child's protest was drowned in the cacophony of death dropping on the most important people in his five-year-old life.

He slapped his hands over his eyes. Maybe if he didn't see it, it would never have happened. Of course, it didn't help; besides, he couldn't fight the need to see, to witness.

He was dragged back to the stone, to the mangled figures beneath it... No, that's wrong? he spoke into the silence of his mind. Not Jack.

Jack O'Neill stood under the cover stone, his hands in the same gesture he had seen on his parents. When the massive stone fell...

"No!"

The breathy shriek nearly threw Jack from the chair. He fought for a moment to orient himself.

"No, not Jack..." It was a whisper now, laced with fear.

O'Neill grabbed one of Daniel's hands. The cold fingers encircled his warm hand, and the grip tightened until it was actually painful.

"I'm here, Daniel. It's okay. I'm right here."

"No..." This time the words vanished as Daniel opened his eyes and settled on Jack.

"Go 'way."

"Not this time, Danny."

No way was Jack going to be chased out of this room until he had somehow figured out how to take back his harsh words. He brushed his free hand across a sweat-slicked forehead. Damn, he's hot, he thought as he swiped at the moisture filming the pale skin.

Daniel hauled words up from deep inside him. "Why are you here?" It was meant to be angry. All he could muster up was a question, one rooted in pain...pain Jack had helped put there.

Jack stopped himself in time to prevent a snappy comeback. Daniel sure wasn't in any condition to launch a verbal assault or be on the receiving end of one.

"Go 'way." As if in punctuation of the simple command, he turned his head although he didn't release his grip on Jack's hand.

"Daniel, I'm here to help you."

"Why should you? You can't trust me. You told me so."

"Let's wait on that one. Okay, kid? Right now--"

"Don't waste your time, Jack." The response was breathy, low, the words locked in a place of pain. Without turning to see how Jack would take it, he summoned up enough strength to cast the final blow, one that would take them both spiraling away from each other.

"I'm not on your team any more. You don't have to--"

"Dammit, Daniel, cut it out. I said we would--" Jack lost the rest of his statement. Daniel had turned his head back to face Jack, started to say something then apparently lost the words. Blue eyes, huge and frightened, locked onto Jack's. Within a second of denial, Daniel's face washed free of color. He drew in a shaky breath before his entire body arched into an uncontrollable spasm. The hand still within Jack's clutched with an unbreakable hold; for an instant Jack thought it would break his fingers.

He tried to hold onto Daniel, but his injured shoulder violently opposed the movement. Foamy drool trickled down the corner of Daniel's mouth, his teeth clenched together.

Gag, gag his mouth, Jack struggled to bring up his first aid classes and came up empty. Gotta find a way to keep him from hurting himself. You're too damn late for that, O'Neill.

Another arch, this one worse than the rest.

"Danny," he pleaded, "don't do this to me. At least stick around long enough for me to apologize."

He was suddenly body-slammed away from the bed, dumped back into the chair, his knees giving way. He shook his head, trying to deny what was happening. A confusing shadow of prayers only half-remembered fogged his mind. It was for nothing. Daniel was going to die right here, right now in front of him while he stood in the background lost and impotent.

"Give me a temp!" What Janet Frasier lacked in stature, she more than made up for it within her realm.

"105.4, Doctor. Do you want a cooling pad?"

"No time! Get the tub ready. Now! Let's move, people." Dr. Frasier started to tug at the leather restraints. "When was the last dose of Valium?"

"0700."

"Phenobarb, IM, stat."

Jack tried to get to his feet, tried to divorce himself from the scene unfolding before his eyes then realized Daniel's grip on his hand was suddenly unbreakable. He tugged at his fingers. The clasp responded by holding it even tighter. Trying to get out of the way, he was held by a link defining them in some remote way he couldn't understand beyond the painful connection.

All around them, hands, voices assaulted them both. IV lines were torn away, tubes and wires snatched too fast for Jack to keep track. They were going to hurt the kid this way. The hospital gown was torn off and tossed to the floor. Restraints were unlocked.

"Colonel." It was cast off. Not an order. Not comfort. Just a dismissal Frasier obviously expected to be followed.

Jack shrugged and brought the doctor's attention to the grip Daniel was maintaining even through the wracking spasms.

"Go, people!" Frasier demanded. "Keep up, Colonel. We don't have a lot of time."

A male nurse, obviously chosen for the task of manhandling unconscious or recalcitrant patients moved in. He grabbed Daniel under the arms, shifted his head, and countered the violent twisting of the sweat-slicked body through sheer strength. Another nurse caught his legs and started to pull him off the bed. A good, solid kick from Daniel's right foot dumped her onto the floor.

Finally, something he could do! Jack, hand still trapped within Daniel's own, stepped into place, using his body to weight the limb until the nurse could move back in place. Amazing. When Daniel had been asleep, Jack would have sworn he didn't have the strength to move much less drop kick the medical staff.

Together they started toward the small bathroom, the same bathroom Daniel had used to take his chances with death. Jack was more than a little relieved it had been cleaned of any signs that might remind either one of them of what had happened there.

The male nurse nodded to Jack as Daniel's convulsing body was lowered into the water.

It took a full minute for the change in temperature to register in Daniel's brain. With a desperate gasp for air as prelude, he arched up out of the tub. Jack wrapped around him and pressed him back in the water, his hold slippery and tenuous. When he forced Daniel back into the icy water, Jack winced at the unbearable cold washing over his hands and arms. His conscience ricocheted within his mind: they were now torturing Daniel. Surely, there was a less painful way to treat seizures and high temperatures.

Jack was nearly dislodged by another convulsion, and his free hand strove for purchase. Only then did he really get a look at Daniel. The young scientist was pale, too pale, his slender body nearly translucent in the dimmed light. Jack's hand tried again to hold him still, his fingers skimming over ribs which were too prominent. Already Daniel had lost weight. Too much weight. Jack fought off the choking fear that they were going to lose him.

He was rescued from the guilt fermenting in his brain as the female nurse--Maggie, Maggie, gotta remember her name. Why this was so important, he didn't have a clue.

"His arms!" she insisted. "Don't get the dressings wet."

Yeah, right, Jack thought sourly as he tried to restrain a wildly thrashing body. Why is she yakking about wet bandages?

Someone pinned Daniel's arms. Jack had no idea who. Their limbs were intertwined like an insane game of Twister.

The struggles weakened though the water still poured over the exhausted man. Jack gave up. He let his mind blot out the chaos and wrapped his unbandaged arm around Daniel, whispering nonsense, letting his voice anchor his teammate. He didn't hear the shouted orders, the curse when someone slipped and almost went down in the water which had sloshed over the tub's rim. He was tuned to only once voice.

"Jack…"

O'Neill poured more useless assurance out, hoping some of it would lodge in Daniel's brain to give him a glimmer of hope.

"Jack…" It was a whisper. "Make it-it s-stop. Please, Ja…"

Oh God, Danny. If only I could.

***

The coffee had long since grown cold. Sam wondered if she had the energy to get to her feet, walk across the room and pour more of the rancid brew into her cup. Teal'c had already left the breakroom after mentioning that he was going to rest. That probably meant he was going to find a quiet spot, pretzel his legs into a lotus position, and commune with... whatever he communed with. Sam had been a little surprised to read the depth of emotion he had been signaling ever since Daniel had tried to take matters into his own hands and escape from life.

She knew the feelings. Desperation. Loneliness. Fear. Guilt. Daniel was so gentle, so animated, wanting to help and heal each person who came into his life. It was difficult to comprehend how he could do something as violent as trying to kill himself. Sure, he carried around his own personal baggage of hurt and pain. More than his share. She didn't have to be certified to know he was full of survivor guilt, and he was probably a textbook case of posttraumatic stress. But, dammit, he's part of the team. He fit into SG-1. Well, sorta, Sam admitted as she momentarily envisioned Jack O'Neill wishing he had a very short leash to keep Daniel in one place during a mission.

She also knew there was a lot of the real Jack O'Neill hidden away as if to unearth that part of him would somehow be fatal. Daniel brought those pieces to the surface. He was a strange mix of O'Neill and Charlie, the colonel's only child who had given up his short life, a tragedy still hovering over Jack's head. Daniel fit somewhere in the middle. It would be impossible for her to forget the image of the colonel wrapping Daniel into his arms in front of her, Teal'c, the general, and every other person in the room when Daniel literally rose from the dead. Space Monkey. Sam had no idea how that fit or really what it meant. But all she had to do was conjure up the image and she was plopped right into a pit of warm fuzzies. Wouldn't that amaze the colonel? He much preferred his image to retain its cold prickly shell.

O'Neill had let too much out last night on one of his infrequent breaks from Daniel's bedside. The shadow-lit form she had found haunted her. What she realized was if Daniel didn't heal then neither would Jack O'Neill. With a twist of sadness, Sam realized she couldn't accept the loss of either one. O'Neill had told Teal'c they were a family. In her heart, she knew that. If your kid brother was in pain, so was the rest of the family. Never alone. It was an impossible promise, but she felt it whenever they were together. The link should never be broken.

Damn, I'm getting morbid.

She pushed herself out of the chair and took a moment to work the kink out of her legs. Too long in one place. Too long and too late. One of the pots was nearly full. One held only enough for one cup. Which one would be the fresher of the two? Shut up, Carter, she groused and grabbed the full pot. Just as she finished pouring the coffee, she sensed another presence and a second mug seeking the caffeine hop. She poured then glanced up. Odd, the general almost never comes down to this room. Especially not for the coffee.

"May I join you, Captain?"

Sam barely caught herself before lapsing into a stutter at both his appearance and his request for company. Maybe he wants to talk. Maybe he's come to tell me bad news about Daniel. Please, her heart gave an extra beat, don't let him be dead. Please not that. Jack would never survive that, and Daniel--the loss of Daniel was inconceivable.

The general sagged into a chair, and Sam saw the new lines in his face, the pallor of exhaustion coloring his skin. For the first time, she realized the teams really meant something to this man, and that he kept his feelings under wraps so he could wear his façade of stoic leadership. The silence grew uncomfortable. Sam gave in first. She stirred sugar into her cup and watched the miniature whirlpool. The first thing to drop out of her mouth was, "You know Daniel drinks way too much of this stuff. I think if we took him off coffee for a week, he'd probably sleep the rest of his life just to catch up." Stupid, inane, she berated herself.

The general gave her the courtesy of ignoring her words and answering her heart instead. "Dr. Frasier thinks the seizures have stopped. She said Dr. Jackson is holding his own."

Sam was never quick to anger. She had a healthy respect for rank. But this... this put a flush on her face; her hand gripped the coffee cup with nearly enough force to shatter it. Holding his own? What the hell does that mean? "That's what they tell people on television. It's jargon. It's not an answer." Her words echoed, and she suddenly realized she had just yelled at a general. Her general to be exact. Sam's face went up a shade, and she offered, "General, I am so sorry. I didn't…"

"It's all right, Captain," Hammond cut short her apology. "We're all concerned about Dr. Jackson."

Carter surprised herself with her response. "Daniel," she said suddenly fighting off tears. "His name is Daniel."

Hammond nodded, "Yes, Captain Carter. His name is Daniel."

Sam stared into the inky depths of her untouched coffee. Her heart pounded once and settled. "I can't believe he would try to kill himself," she said. "If there is anyone who... I don't know…loves life, it's Daniel. How could he do it? I've never seen him violent before. It's just not in the range of imagination that Daniel would hurt anyone."

"He swallows a lot of pain, Captain. Eventually that pain must break through. Sometimes it strengthens; sometimes it destroys."

His voice and expression were fatherly. She wondered if he really felt that way or if it was his military mask. His eyes met hers, and she decided he meant what he was saying. She had to ask. There was no way around it. "Will he be removed from SG-1, sir?"

With a deep breath as prelude, he admitted, "I don't know, Captain. I just don't know."

***

Slumped in the hard chair beside Daniel's bed as he watched its limp occupant for any sign of distress, Jack wondered if he'd died and gone to some hell of suffering where it was eternally night. Well, it's another night at least. Yesterday, when I found him in the bathroom, I would have sworn that was it. Jack's good hand constantly reached out to offer comfort to Daniel's abused body. He unconsciously kneaded one of Daniel's long legs through the knobby blanket, knowing the muscles would be agonizingly sore after the convulsions. At least his dangerous temperature had dropped to no more than 100.

Jack's gaze lingered on the waxy features of his friend, wondering if a corpse looked any worse. He winced, having seen too many dead bodies in his time. Flickers of some black and white memory drenched in blood intruded into the present. Jack shuddered, trying desperately to hold them at bay. Not now. Now is for Daniel. I won't think of Gunther. I won't think of Tom.

"Jack?" came the breathy whisper.

"Shhh," Jack soothed, continuing to ease the knotted leg muscles under his fingers. "Go back to sleep."

"When?"

Meeting the half-slitted, drugged blue gaze, Jack instantly understood the need to know how much time had passed and answered softly, "Sunday night, Danny. Get your rest."

"You?" The word was a mere wisp of sound as Daniel struggled to utter it.

A sad smile creased O'Neill's face. "Not sleepy. Really. Catch some z's. I'll be here." As he watched the lax head make the faintest of nods, he sighed in relief. Daniel still hovered in the twilight world between death and life. He needed strength to pull himself away from the darkness into the light. Jack would give him his own strength of will, but the physical power to fight this battle had to come from Daniel.

Maybe. Or maybe he needs something to hold onto, something he can hug to his heart to tell him he's not alone in his pain, in his need, in his feelings of utter worthlessness. He needs to hear what it was like for another junkie.

"It took nearly a week before my friends could get me out of that room, Danny," Jack began, opening the dark vein of his soul for his friend as easily as Daniel had slit his wrists, "and I wasn't ready to leave. I still craved the shit those Iraqi bastards gave me. I told you about my friends and how they forced water in me to clear out my system, but I didn't tell you how I begged the Iraqis to shoot me up after only seven doses."

Jack studied Daniel's pale face, noting the bruised circles under the closed eyelids. Was the man even aware of this confession? Somehow, Jack knew he had to tell it now. Daniel needed to hear it…conscious or unconscious.

"Please…please give it to me."

"Ah, the tough American soldier begs," sneered his lead tormenter. "Why should I? You have given us no information." He tilted his head, black eyes glinting in almost clinical interest.

Shaking uncontrollably, O'Neill felt like he had the baddest-ass case of the flu that ever attacked anyone. His bones ached like they had been splintered and haphazardly crazy-glued together, he alternated between sweating and chills, and his muscles spasmed in unbearable wrenches of tear-producing pain. Even his teeth hurt from clenching. God, how much more could he stand? Why had he ever fought them when they injected him with the stuff? It warmed him, turning him drowsy and content. It was the key out of this prison. He didn't feel stressed or afraid even when they beat him. What a wonderful thing to be detached from your own pain.

"I'm waiting…"

Jack looked into the sadistic face of his enemy, and for a heartbeat, his mind cleared, bringing with it a flash of Sara's sweet smile. How could he have wanted heroin? How could he want to stay here? What in hell had they done to him? I'm a junkie.

A violent spasm twisted him on the heels of the thought, wringing from his lips a cry of exhausted pain.

"I can stop this. Make you feel better. Wouldn't you like to feel better?" The guard's voice crooned promises of oblivion.

Jack didn't care. "Yes…" he begged.

"Then, give me something so I can help you."

"What?"

"The names of the men who invaded my homeland with you and where they were supposed to rendezvous with your rescuers."

Names. They wanted names. Jack clenched his teeth, fighting to retain his pride, his soul. The need for the drug twisted him again, viciously drawing his spirit into a place of mortal fear and endless pain. He mumbled a name.

"Good. Who else?"

Jack shook his head, trying to deny the fire which consumed him internally.

"Why make this hard? I have what you need right here."

The golden liquid caught Jack's agonized gaze even in the depths of his anguish. Another name tumbled from him and another and another until every one was spoken.

"Very good. You have confirmed my intelligence reports. We had their names, but I wanted to be sure."

Jack stared at the amused face, not understanding. Why had they made him tell what they already knew? He shook his head. It didn't matter. Only silencing the growing misery of his body did. "Give me…more."

"You must beg me for it. I must know you really want it so there will be no hesitation the next time I ask you a question."

The words didn't register at first in Jack's muddled mind, but the satisfied tone did. It stiffened his spine for a second. Screw them. They weren't going to get him to beg. Another crashing bout of agony wrung him out, leaving him sweaty and shaking. His lips trembled as he breathed the one word he didn't want to say.

"Please…"

Daniel stared at Jack through half-lidded eyes, wondering if this horrible story was only some fever dream or if it were true. His mind listened to the soft rasp of words as they poured out in a bitter string, but it was as if the sound were mixed with some background fuzz which blurred meaning into a crazyquilt of anguish. Exhaustion pulled at him, trying to suck him down into the dark abyss of his nightmares, but he fought it. This was important. Jack needed him to hear this, whatever this was.

"It's no wonder I hesitated during the escape," Jack admitted sourly. "I didn't want to leave behind the pain. If I stayed in the prison and stayed full of that shit, I couldn't remember they broke me."

"Jack, no…"

Startled, realizing Daniel was awake, O'Neill sighed and nodded. "They did. I wanted their drugs more than I needed my wife and life. I killed my two friends with my hesitation."

"No…"

Jack ignored the whispered denial and ruthlessly continued with his story.

"Stay down, fool," warned Tom as he pulled O'Neill out of sight of the patrol. "Do you want us to get caught?"

Jack couldn't answer. His heart was slamming so hard inside his chest he almost couldn't breathe. He did. He wanted to get caught.

"Okay…" came the low voice from across the hanger. "I've got the plane prepped. We're ready for take off. Get your asses over here as soon as I start the engine. We have no time to chat."

"Shut up then, Peter," Gunther hissed, gripping Jack's arm tightly.

O'Neill felt their hands holding him, supporting his weak body: Tom on one side, Gunther on the other. Why wouldn't they let him stay? He couldn't go back to his life. Not now. Not after…

The plane roared to life, producing an angry shout from beyond the open hanger doors.

"Here we go, flyboy," shouted Gunther, yanking Jack up.

As Tom and Gunther propelled him towards the airplane, Jack made himself as dead a weight as possible. They had to eventually get tired and just leave him.

"Will you help a little, Jack?" Tom wheezed as he triggered his Uzi to spit death at the enemy.

The staccato of gunfire echoed in the metal hanger, bringing sharp bursts of orange fire from their antagonists' weapons.

Beside the plane, Jack moaned as Tom tried to push him into the open maw of its belly and fought against him. It was already moving forward. Couldn't they just go without him?

"Hurry, I see…" Gunther's head exploded in a mess of blood and bone before he could finish the thought. His rifle clattered to the ground, tripping Jack.

O'Neill tumbled into the dark belly of the plane and fought to regain his balance.

Already the plane was taxiing towards the open door, only a few more lengths towards freedom.

His face a stone mask as he filled the door of the vintage bomber, Tom held on with one hand while firing his weapon with the other.

Jack could see his rescuers beyond the man's outline as they rushed by. If he jumped now, he would be safe. He propelled himself forward.

And met Tom's immovable form.

With a hard shove, Tom threw Jack back and fought to keep his hold on the door. With his weapon quiet and outlined in the opening, he was an easy target. Blood erupted from his chest. His mouth opened in dismay, the scarlet gush from his lips saying he was hit in more than one place.

As the plane lifted from the ground, Tom fell backward into the arms of their enemies. He was dead before he hit the ground.

"No…" Jack wailed. He wasn't sure if it was for his friend's deaths or if it was because he was too high to jump. He'd die for sure if he did. Sobbing, he crawled into the dark womb of the plane and huddled into his misery, willing himself to die.

"Don't…do…"

Ripped from his dark reverie, Jack stared at Daniel's ashen, too-thin face. "I know what it's like, Daniel," he said again, echoing the words he'd offered as an olive branch in what seemed like a hundred years ago.

Before unconsciousness pulled him away again, Daniel sighed "Yes."

Jack could see the tear tracks glistening on the pale cheeks. He knew they mirrored the ones on his own. The confession had left him strangely numb, existing in a floating place somewhere outside his body. "I know you can beat this," he heard himself whisper as he leaned forward, pillowing his head just for a second on the mattress beside Daniel's legs. His good hand remained on his friend's knee as if to keep the other man connected to life. "You can."

The words were garbled with sleep as Jack surrendered to his body's demand for rest and an end to this nightmare.

***

Janet shook her head as she looked from O'Neill slumped beside the bed to Daniel huddled in it. He'd been so restless that Jack had taken on the almost endless job of getting the sheets untangled and back over him when he would squirm the blankets into knots. She had her hands full with these two. A tiny smile quirked her lips. At least, they were quiet at long, long last and proving to be less trouble, especially the younger one now that his temperature had finally normalized. She made a notation on his chart, scanning the rest of his vitals. They were looking better. In the wee hours of Sunday morning, he'd scared her into believing she might have lied to the colonel when she said she'd save him. Daniel Jackson: Lazarus man.

"How are they doing?" whispered a soft, concerned voice from the doorway.

Janet held up a finger to her lips as she faced Sam, nodding at O'Neill crumpled asleep in the chair. She carefully replaced Daniel's chart at the foot of his bed and left the room. Once outside the door, she leaned against the wall and indulged herself in another sigh.

"Janet?" Sam's voice roughened with concern.

"They're doing better, Sam," the doctor admitted, "but that's also what I thought the last time just before Daniel threw me across the room."

"You don't expect Daniel to have a….relapse, do you?"

Sam's hesitation over the word confused Janet. Did she mean a relapse from the sarcophagus's effects or another suicide attempt? "I don't think so. With each passing hour, his chances go up."

"So you think he might have…cut himself because of the sarcophagus?"

Ah, so it was Daniel's aborted suicide Sam was worrying about. "Daniel tried to kill himself. I don't know if that was from his emotional seesaw or if he couldn't live with what happened during the last mission. In either case, he's scheduled to see Dr. Sarton tomorrow afternoon if he's physically up to it."

Carter's face flushed pink. "The base headshrinker? It wasn't Daniel's fault. Shyla coerced him into that thing."

Janet's shrug expressed utter weariness. "Does it really matter? Daniel tried very hard to die; he almost succeeded. I think he needs to see Sarton."

Despair flashed across Sam's face. She trusted Janet's judgment. "That bad?"

"In my opinion."

"Does the colonel know?"

"I don't think so. Please don't say anything. Daniel will probably resist the idea, and I don't want Colonel O'Neill to influence Daniel's behavior in any way."

"Too late."

Janet smiled as she saw Sam's faint grin. The two men were both rubbing off on each other. "I wish Jack would talk to Sarton."

"Why?"

Her even gaze holding Sam's, Janet admitted, "Because I think he might need help almost as much as Daniel does right now. This has punctured holes in his armor."

"Daniel always manages to get to the colonel."

With a nod of agreement, Janet said, "And I think the reverse is usually true."

"Daniel's attitude of I hear and obey…maybe?"

Janet's brown eyes sparkled before they dimmed.

Sam saw the sadness; her heart twisted in fear. "They'll both make it through this fine, and we'll be back to keeping you busy with bruises from our missions." Even to her, the cheerful sentiment sounded brittle.

"Sure." Janet patted Sam's arm. A muffled sound from Daniel's room like a strangled nightmare then the soft crooning of shhhing from another voice drifted into the hall. Hot tears stung Janet's eyes, and she saw answering ones in Sam's. Would things ever be all right again?

***

"Have a seat, Colonel."

Sinking heavily into the chair, Jack stared tiredly at General Hammond's concerned face. He probably didn't appear that great himself. From the stubble on Jack's chin and the way his eyes were burning, he knew he looked like hell.

"How's Dr. Jackson?"

"Holding his own at the moment, sir." Jack was too enervated to embellish the truth. Hammond probably knew his friend's condition better than anyone except Dr. Frasier or Daniel did at the moment. Mentally, Daniel was only just this side of life. Physically, he was growing stronger.

"How long has it been since you really slept, Jack?"

The use of his first name narrowed O'Neill's eyes, killing the smart-ass comment he wanted to make. "A while ago."

Frowning at the evasion, Hammond sighed. "I'm not the enemy, son."

Seeing the deep worry lines creasing the corner of the other man's eyes, Jack echoed his superior's sigh. "No, sir."

"SG-1 is on stand down for the rest of this week. I want you fresh and prepared for duty by Friday of this week."

Jack absorbed the command in shock. It was Monday. How in hell was he going to get Daniel ready to go in four days?

"I haven't found a substitute for Dr. Jackson yet so SG-1 will just have to…"

"You don't have to replace him, General." Jack sat straighter in his chair, anger stiffening his spine. "He'll be fit to ship out with us."

Hammond stared at the polished finish of his desk. "I don't think that'll be possible. Even before he…hurt himself, Dr. Jackson was headed for an advisory position after this last mission."

"General Hammond…"

"He's an addict, Jack."

O'Neill flinched at the term, knowing how readily it once could have been applied to him. Dammit, Daniel deserved a chance.

"I've got him scheduled for a battery of psyche tests later today to see what we can do for him." As O'Neill's burning gaze bore into his, Hammond softly accused, "You thought I was just going to cut him loose? I don't do that to one of our boys."

"He's not in the military."

"He's proven himself to me and to this facility. He deserves our help and pity."

Jack's open palm slapped the desk. "You're wrong. Daniel doesn't deserve our pity. Our help, yes."

"Just what are you suggesting?"

His rage floundering a moment, Jack mulled the question in his mind. What was he proposing? "I want him back on the team, General."

"Hasn't he been through enough?" Hammond's sad eyes looked bruised by confusion. "How do you know he won't break under the pressure if there's a chance he can use another sarcophagus? I don't have to tell you this job creates all sorts of strain that would test a mentally fit man."

"Daniel will make it through."

"Why? Because you want him to?"

With a blink, Jack realized the older soldier was right. He did want Daniel to make the grade in spite of his weaknesses. Maybe, it was because of those weaknesses. "SG-1 needs him, sir," Jack said quietly. "He's part of the best humanity has to offer-the counterpoint to our military shoot first and hold out an olive branch later mentality. I need the reminder."

"Do you trust him?"

Trust. It all comes down to that, doesn't it? O'Neill hesitated. He wanted to say yes so badly, but something held his tongue.

Hammond nodded. "Don't blame yourself. Dr. Jackson…Daniel won't either."

Jack's haunted gaze captured the older man's. "I trust him," he said quietly, "but I don't trust myself. He's been through hell. Daniel accused the team of babysitting him. He's right. We do."

"And it's a liability."

"Also a strength," Jack shook his head. "We're more alert, attuned to each other. Daniel can't see it right now, but he watches out for us in his own way. It's what makes my team work."

Hammond nodded. SG-1 had been the best before this last mission. Could they be again? He slowly let out a breath. "Okay, I'll think about your suggestion of having him back on your team. "

"Thank…"

"But," the general interrupted the gratitude with an upraised hand, "I want you in on Dr. Jackson's counseling sessions. At least the initial ones."

"Why?" Repressing a shudder at the idea, Jack couldn't imagine doing it. It would be way too intimate, tripping around in someone else's secrets…facing some of his own.

"I want you to unequivocally know you trust him. You won't be able to do that unless you have all the facts. And he can't lie to the psychiatrist."

"Daniel doesn't lie...very well."

"Addicts do."

Hiding his wince, Jack slowly nodded, consigning himself to this tour of duty in a mental hell.

"We'll talk about this in a few days then. Dr. Sarton will be expecting you at 1500 hours. You should arrive a few minutes before Dr. Jackson to brief Sarton on what's transpired," Hammond ordered, standing.

Hearing the dismissal for what it was, Jack also stood.

"Get some rest, Colonel. If not for yourself, for Dr. Jackson. He's going to need your help no matter what the outcome of this is."

Jack nodded absently, his thoughts on a stark room in Iraq. Saluting and leaving as if he were on autopilot, he wondered how many of his own secrets he was going to have to divulge to save Daniel. Fear prickled his spine.

***

"How do you feel about what happened to your teammate?"

Jack gritted his teeth. What was it with these guys? Even if he had colonel's insignia on his uniform, Dr. Sarton made O'Neill's teeth itch.

Nothing special popped in Jack's mind as he took a second's hesitation to study the enemy. Perhaps that isn't a good way to approach this, he reminded himself wryly. There was more than Daniel's position as a member of SG-1 involved in this face-off. For some reason, he felt that Daniel's very life hung from the thin thread of this man's opinion. No way was O'Neill going to risk severing that thread. No problem, he thought, I can psycho babble with the best of them. He schooled his expression into one of concentration to give himself time and surreptitiously studied the man opposite him.

Dr. Paul Sarton was chunky to put it kindly. Obviously the shrink didn't exist on the same diet as Daniel did--endless cups of coffee and pure adrenaline. Most of the initial impression placed Sarton on the cuddly bear, helping hand basis that he probably manufactured to put patients at ease. With a twist of humor, O'Neill wondered what the doctor would do when faced with Daniel Jackson's shotgunned opinions and roundabout answers that wandered way out of bounds.

Recognizing the evasion for what it was, the psychiatrist made a mental note about paranoia in O'Neill's file. He decided to change tactics and rephrased the question, "How do you feel about what happened to your friend?"

Jack looked just above the balding man's head at the wall thick with diplomas and military commendations and thought sourly, Try to beat Daniel's wall of diplomas and awards. You're outta your league, Doc. "Angry," he said with a shrug, playing the game.

"Angry because he let you and the rest of your team suffer in the mine?"

Jack fought a battle of personal restraint as his fingers twitched with the desire to deck the portly man. What the hell did he know about any of it except what he read in the report? This s.o.b. thought he had it all pinpointed, sliced, and diced into the proper diagnosis before he even met Daniel. He had never seen the anguish in Daniel's eyes, the terror that distorted that impossibly young face, the tremors which continued to wrack his body. It was too soon, way too soon to even consider sending him back through portals that could contain different cultures or monsters or death in many faces.

But O'Neill was afraid that this was a now or never proposition. If Daniel didn't go with them on the mission on Friday, he was never going to go with them again. Within the walls of this room, Daniel's future would be determined. Part of that decision lay right in Jack's lap. He started with the obvious. "It wasn't Daniel's fault."

"Then whose was it? From your notes, he was the only member of your team with the ability and freedom to accomplish getting you out of there."

"He was drugged out of his mind by that friggin' sarcophagus and the bitch."

"So, you agree Dr. Jackson is an addict."

Jack's cold brown gaze daggered the other man's eyes. "I'm not admitting anything," he snapped, "especially to a desk warrior who knows nothing about ‘gate travel except what he's heard second hand from reports and other SG teams."

Sarton nodded amicably and made a notation in the file open on his desk.

One eyebrow lifting, Jack said sarcastically, "Be sure you spell my name right. Two ll's."

"I've got it down," Sarton disclosed, taking a long moment to finish his writing. He looked up. "You've got a decision to make, Colonel. Are you going to help me get Dr. Jackson's mental state evaluated or not?"

"I thought we were here to get him back on my team."

"That depends on him…and you."

"Me?"

Removing his wire rimmed glasses, Sarton closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his bulbous nose as if he had a headache. "From everything I've read about your team, Daniel Jackson trusted you implicitly. That may have been compromised on your last mission. How you build the bridge between you again will tell me if he has a chance at a position here at the SGC or if he's got to be transferred to a place where he can be cared for."

Raw fear clawed Jack. It was the first time he'd heard of that alternative. His eyes narrowed as he tried to maintain his façade of concerned commander. "How do you expect me to rebuild trust?" Frustrated, Jack punctuated the air with his good hand.

Sarton opened his eyes and replaced his glasses on his face. "I haven't the faintest idea."

O'Neill's lips thinned with anger. "That's the trouble with you head shrinkers. You always act like you know it all, but the answers come from the people whose heads you prick full of holes." He huffed in a deep breath, trying to remind himself that both he and Daniel needed this man's help.

Calmly, Sarton steepled his fleshy hands as if in a mockery of prayer. "It's the way of this profession. You have the answers. My job is helping you see them. If I can't…" He shrugged.

The image of straightjackets and Daniel being tormented by sadistic "guards" conjured in Jack's mind. His voice dipped into forced calmness. "You haven't even met Daniel, and you're already talking about dumping him in some government holding cell while they pick his brain and then when they've got all they can get out of him, shoving him into..." He knew his agitation was obvious, but at the moment he didn't give a damn. He lost the word he was shuffling for.

The psychiatrist filled in the blank for him. "A facility capable of caring for people like Daniel," he repeated, knowing how his words were cutting into O'Neill. He mentally shrugged; it was one of his best tools though it bordered on cruelty. He dropped the other shoe. "As for what they would do to him? I don't know."

"'People like Daniel...'" Acid dripped from Jack's mouth with the harsh retort, his anger already measurable on some sort of emotional seismograph. "You don't know anything about Daniel except for what's in his file. So, you're willing to condemn him on the strength of one mistake?"

"My understanding was that one mistake nearly cost the rest of your team their lives. Your life."

"The very same lives he's saved many times."

"One mistake is all it takes to kill you all."

O'Neill searched for a comeback, found none, so he simply ignored the statement. "You don't know Daniel. He's... well, he's..." Again that helpless gesture as he sliced the air with his free hand. The good arm was aching in sympathy with the injured one. Jack was more than willing to take the pain if it would save Daniel from a shadowy existence, forever closeted away from his wife and his SG-1 family. "He's kind of an innocent." He was a teammate, a friend, and a surrogate younger brother. Only Jack could pick on him. Daniel hated being baby-sat although that wasn't going to change--not for Sam, not for Teal'c and definitely not for O'Neill.

Calmly, Sarton leaned back in his chair. "Then tell me more about him so I can help him. You have the answers. My job is helping my patients see them."

"I'm a patient too?" Jack couldn't keep the fury from his voice. His heart rate doubled. How dare this asshole presume!

Sarton's eyebrow lifted. "Do you need to be?"

"Screw this," Jack snapped, rising.

"So I'll tell General Hammond to sign Jackson's transfer orders?"

"Transfer? To where?" Jack had no idea the plan to move Daniel had progressed so far; he'd only just heard of it. Hammond had certainly never said anything. Betrayal twisted his heart.

"We have a facility which cares for people who know too much about government secrets. He'll be shipped there."

Jack's eyes narrowed dangerously. In two steps, he was around the desk, clutching Sarton's collar. "If you do," he hissed, "it'll be the last time you ship anyone anywhere. For cryin' out loud, Daniel's a person not a thing." He shook the man for emphasis.

Still unflappable, Sarton rasped out, "So, you'll stay and help?"

Anger notched up one rung before suddenly evaporating, leaving Jack washed out. What choice did he have? He couldn't let Daniel be tossed to the likes of Maybourne and others who'd torture him with questions until he really did go mad. He released the psychiatrist's shirt as if it scalded him.

"I'll stay," he said sullenly as he returned to the chair in front of the desk, his bleak eyes staring at an overstuffed bookshelf like it contained the answers he so desperately needed.

"Building trust means being honest. You might have to share some things about yourself you'd rather keep hidden."

"I said I'll stay." Jack's bitter voice cracked slightly on the promise.

"Good." Sarton picked up the phone and punched a button. "Donovan, bring Jackson in now."

"Yes, sir."

Jack's gaze was drawn to the door. How would Daniel interpret his presence in this room-relief or betrayal? As the door swung open, his gaze darkened at the sight of shackles circling his friend's wrists and ankles. What the hell? Did they really expect his gentle teammate to hurt himself or someone else?

Into a dark sea of denial, Jack tried to ignore the fact that way too recently, Daniel had posed a very real danger to himself, nearly dying in a pool of his own blood. And he'd been a threat to others, his mind insisted. One soldier lay in the infirmary, proof of Daniel's mania.

"Come in, Dr. Jackson," Dr. Sarton coaxed, his face open and cloaked into what looked like a genuine smile.

A smile Daniel might buy into. For the moment, Jack was withholding judgment. His stomach knotted as he waited to see what his friend would do.

Daniel stood rooted in the doorway, his eyes darkening into a deeper shade of blue as he registered Jack sitting in one of the chairs in front of the desk, his expression signaling pure tension--and not a little fear which showed itself in a shiver.

The sight enraged O'Neill. Enough was enough! "Take those damn cuffs off him. Now. Or I'm leaving and taking Daniel with me." The words perhaps ill considered but slamming unbidden out of his mouth, part threat, part anger elicited a flinch from his friend.

Sarton leaned back in his chair. His calm response, the same reactive PC argument was designed to dip into Jack's well of anger. "They are routine procedure in cases of this nature. General Hammond had no choice in the matter. It's protocol." Surprisingly, after that caveat, the doctor nodded and said, "Though it is a good idea." He glanced behind Daniel and ordered, "Donovan, please remove them."

It took a moment to find the right key and get the shackles off. Daniel stood with his head down while the chains were removed. He didn't look up, either, when they dropped away and were taken away by the airman.

"Why?" O'Neill demanded. "You think he's some kind of flight risk? Here, in a maximum security facility?" Sarcasm blended with anger in his voice.

Sarton didn't give him the answer he wanted. "He's proven to be quite a flight risk, hasn't he, Colonel? He's on suicide watch. He beat a soldier unconscious after he threw Dr. Frasier across the room and before he took a shot at you." He glanced at Daniel. The young man didn't openly react to the litany of his transgressions.

"He was under the influence of that damned sarcophagus. Just like I told you twenty minutes ago, Daniel would do none of those things if he were in control. Hell, it took us six months to teach him to use a gun without shooting himself in the foot or closing his eyes. He steps over ants for God's sake! I've told you before, and I'll keep telling you until it gets through your head: Daniel Jackson is a gentle, courageous man."

The topic of their verbal sniping simply stood there with his head down, his gaze locked on a patch of nondescript carpet.

Sarton was the first to turn to Daniel. "Come in, please, Dr. Jackson." He allowed himself an inward assessment as the anthropologist stepped forward and dropped into a seat in the other chair. Geniuses, they were getting younger and younger.

"Where are your glasses?" was the first thing out of O'Neill's mouth.

That simple question unintentionally enlightened Sarton about this relationship. These two were friends, close friends. O'Neill the protector, Jackson the protected.

Without raising his eyes, still hunched over in self-defense, Jackson said, "They took them. Glass, you know?"

Even with the emotional barrier erected between them, Sarton saw the flush of embarrassment imprinted over the pale features.

"I'll get them back." There was no question, no hesitation, merely a simple statement.

Still studying the floor, Daniel nodded silently, obviously accepting Jack's reaction as if it were a normal response.

Sarton assumed that, again, it was pretty indicative of their relationship. Before he could utter any questions or even introduce himself, Jackson finally spoke up.

"I can't do this," Daniel muttered, his breath lodging in his throat, his hands caught up in a tremor. He tried to bolt out of the chair, but Jack's hand blocked his escape.

The wrong hand, Jack quickly noticed as needles of pain sparked a trail up to his still tender shoulder. He ignored it. "Danny, you have to do this."

The use of the nickname didn't escape Sarton's notice, and he filed it into the back of his mind. He had not heard anyone call the scientist anything other than the more formal Daniel.

Oblivious to the spark of attention aimed at him and Daniel, Jack added, "Or they're going to decide you're unfit to stay on the team."

Daniel finally raised his head and touched the arm that was blocking his escape. He skimmed his shaking fingers over it.

"Maybe I should be off the team, Jack. I did this to you." His fingers barely touched the sling trapping O'Neill's injured limb. Daniel didn't wait for the automatic absolution instantly printed on Jack's face. "I-I did it," he repeated, a self-directed accusation. The young scientist's voice was broken, an unconscious stutter revealing all too well the cost of the words as he dumped liability on himself.

"No." Jack's negation stood firm. No way would he allow Daniel to hurt himself any more.

Daniel shook his head, huddling into the chair.

Jack's sigh spoke of despair and frustration. His sharp gaze bored into the bent head in front of him, trying desperately to find the words which would get through.

Sarton mentally noted Daniel didn't need any help filling his guilt bag. The kid was doing a pretty good job of it himself. He had already taken a mental stroll through Daniel Jackson's file, added up the stresses that had intruded in his life, starting with witnessing the haunting deaths of both of his parents at the vulnerable age of five. Disastrous foster placements. Locked away from acceptance by the scientific world because of his radical beliefs, beliefs that were finally proven with the Stargate. Proof that Daniel Jackson couldn't use to refute the arguments that had cost him his professional career. Added to all that, he had lost his wife and had been exposed to more knowledge than the human brain was equipped to handle even in the best of times. If the young anthropologist wasn't a prime candidate for PTSD, Sarton would turn in his license. He used the brief exchange between the two men to snatch a physical impression of Jackson.

Bloodshot eyes, a unique partnership of crimson and crystal clear blue. Dressed in camouflage fatigues and a black T-shirt. Obviously in better physical condition than any scientist Sarton had come across even if he was clearly ill. Sandy-blond hair, way too long for military regulation fell over his forehead like a curtain. He looked very young, and O'Neill's tag of innocence seemed to fit at least from outward appearances. Right now, however, Daniel was back to looking at the carpet again, being barely responsive to O'Neill much less an unknown like a psychiatrist.

He looked exhausted, his shoulders slumped even more, both arms wrapped in gauze, a stark reminder of one of the acts that had settled him on the edge of the chair across from a shrink.

O'Neill obviously wanted Jackson back on his team. Sarton was usually receptive to the wants of team leaders, but the image of General Hammond's concerned face, his obvious caring for the team and this young man, countered O'Neill's wishes. Hammond also wanted Jackson back on duty, but he was teetering on the edge when it came to the question of trust. Trust that must exist without question under the unique situations this group encountered each time they entered the Stargate.

He indulged in a small sigh of his own. Time to start provoking the patient for those little telling statements, the infamous Freudian Slips...

"What do you hope to get out of this session, Dr. Jackson?" The clinical tone and impersonality of the question was designed to chafe and elicit response, and it worked.

Daniel stiffened. He lurched out of the chair before Jack could react enough to hold him in place. Staggering on the first step, Daniel swung around and stabbed at the air with one finger in the general direction of the psychiatrist. "You don't have the right! No way do you have the right!" The finger thrust again, unintentional punctuation to the accusatory words.

Jack mentally shuddered. Deja vu all over again. The movement, the accusing finger pointed right at the doctor's face, the tremors of anger rippling through Daniel's body, and the tone all served to remind O'Neill painfully of Daniel's outburst in the mine. It had been startling in the mine, and it was startling here. Dammit! Here he'll blow his chances with no one to blame but himself. Hell, Jack amended the thought, Daniel will blame himself no matter the outcome of this meeting.

Riding the crest of his fury, Daniel shouted, "You don't go there. We do. You don't face questions and fear every day! You don't! We do!" He spun on one heel and stalked away from the desk then turned again.

He was making Jack dizzy, rubbing his palms together despite the pain it must have cost him from his injured arms, swaying on his feet as exhaustion and reaction jolted through his weakened body. If he fell, it was going to be impossible to predict which way he was going to land, and the ashen pallor to his skin told the colonel that collapse wasn't too far away. Jack tensed, preparing to catch him.

With another manic turn, Daniel was leaning over the desk, his hands sending tremors the length of both arms.

"You... don't... know!"

The door to the office slammed open.

Two hundred pounds of muscle stood framed in the doorway. "If you have harmed DanielJackson in any way... " Teal'c said slowly.

Unnamed threats lingered in the air like a cloud of malevolence. Teal'c's perennial frown had deepened a fissure into his features: dark, impersonal, deadly, a soldier protecting his