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Passages of Time part 5

Passages of Time - Part Five:

It seemed like forever before Jack finally arrived back in his own home,
and it practically was. When he checked the calendar in the kitchen, he
discovered he had been away from his house almost thirty days. Half of
that time spent recuperating in the hospital, both in Cairo and back in
the States, including enduring several operations on his hand, courtesy
of the British specialist who had decided to take the government's offer
of an all expenses paid trip to accompany him back to Colorado to finish
his meticulous task.

The jury was still out on the success of his work thus far. Jack's hand
was heavily encased in plaster, from fingertip to forearm. Now they
could only wait to see how the bones knitted back together, before they
could even attempt to determine what range of movement he had been left
with.

Jack was driven home on Sunday afternoon, overwhelmed by the presence of
his well meaning friends. To his immense relief, he eventually found
himself alone. Janet had left with Cassie before the young girl fell
asleep on his couch and Daniel and Sam had stopped hopping around from
one leg to the other guiltily when he had more or less thrown them out.
Now the house was empty and quiet, the silence surrounding him
claustrophobically.

Grabbing a bottle of beer from the refrigerator, Jack struggled slightly
to open it one handed, but he knew he would soon get the hang of that,
given the practise he was planning on getting that evening, courtesy of
Daniel. The younger man had stocked up to stop Jack from attempting to
drive his car against doctor's orders, knowing that a trip to the liquor
store would be at the top of his list upon arriving home after a long
stay in the military hospital under Doctor Fraiser's strict care.

Jack went into the dimly lit den and slumped onto the couch, drinking
half the bottle in one go. He had opened the sliding doors, needing to
hear the sounds of the night creeping in on the breeze. He stared out
into the dark sky, he eyes unfocused, trying not to think about anything
in particular.

Two beers later he found a bottle of single malt whiskey in the back of
the cupboard that someone had presented to him at Christmas. He grabbed
a handful of cubes from the icebox and poured himself a generous
measure, wandering back to the den with the bottle hugged against his
chest.

Placing the bottle onto the floor, Jack settled himself back on the
couch resting his feet on the coffee table, strategically situated in
the centre of the room. He sat there for a long time, staring at nothing
and sipping from the half full tumbler, the peace broken only by the icy
contents clinking constantly against the side of the glass in rhythm
with the shake of his hand.

When the doorbell rang suddenly, shattering the silence, Jack jumped out
of his skin, spilling the dregs of the near empty drink onto his hand
and almost dropping the glass to the floor. With his heart thudding in
his chest, he stared at the dark hallway, caught between answering it
and ignoring it. The bell rang again, more insistently this time,
whoever it was obviously was not giving up in a hurry.

Reluctantly, Jack got to his feet and went into the hall, standing in
the shadows to study the shape behind the frosted porch window. The
short, bald headed figure was easily recognisable, but it seemed
impossibly hard to force himself to open the door to the General.

As the Colonel stood hesitating in the shadows, Hammond leaned on the
bell for another few minutes before eventually banging on the door and
shouting through the window pane, "Jack, open up! I know you're in
there. We need to talk, son."

O'Neill swallowed, he had not seen or spoken with his commanding officer
since he went AWOL. All the time Jack had spent in the US military
hospital, the General had made no apparent attempt to visit and that had
suited Jack down to the ground, he didn't know how he felt towards the
man, nor did he know what to say in his own defence. He had disobeyed a
direct order and still didn't know whether he was being court martialled
or not, although Carter had thought it unlikely given the circumstances.

Left without any choice, Jack stepped towards the door and released the
latch, allowing it to swing open as he turned and walked back into the
den without a word.

"Colonel O'Neill," Hammond greeted him uncomfortably when he entered the
den, finding Jack slouched on the couch, refilling a glass from the
bottle of scotch on the floor. Jack said nothing, refusing to even look
at him, instead he just concentrated on trying to hold the glass steady
in his hand, resting it on his thigh as a last resort.

Hammond studied him closely, his mind automatically recalling the photos
contained within the police report. The signs of Jack's head injuries
had begun to fade, the right hand was heavily swathed in plaster. The
General knew he was guilty of avoiding a visit to Jack in the hospital,
once he had returned to the States, allowing himself the excuse that
there was a lot of cleaning up to do in the aftermath of the whole
affair. Not to mention the fact that without Jack he had no reliable
second in command to leave in charge at the SGC. But Hammond knew it had
all been an easy option, he had simply been too afraid to face the man
after what had happened. And now he wondered whether maybe he had left
it much too late.

"So Jack, how are you?" Hammond asked, attempting to break the tension.
O'Neill shrugged, giving him a 'How do you think?' look. The General
sighed, he had known it wasn't going to be easy, but it was now or
never, "What do you want me to do, Jack? Throw myself on my sword?"

More stony silence ensued, broken only by the rattle of ice against
glass as Jack continued to sip edgily at his drink, studiously avoiding
Hammond's gaze as he stared out of the window at the darkness.

"Jack, why don't you tell me how you really feel?" Hammond offered.

"How do I feel? How do I feel!" Jack's frustrated voice sharply pierced
the still night air, "Why does everyone keep asking me that?"

"Probably because they care about you," Hammond said simply.

"Well how do they expect me to feel?" Jack threw his arm up in a
lopsided gesture, a few drops of his drink spilling onto the polished
hardwood floor. "I feel betrayed! I feel stupid! I feel angry.
And.......," he trailed off, swallowing his words, surprised at the
vehemence of his own reaction, loosened as it was by the effects of the
alcohol.

"And what?" The General urged gently.

Jack lifted his glass to his lips again, to leave nothing but ice
clinking nervously in the bottom. For a long moment, he stared at his
hand still trembling uncontrollably in front of his face, then without
warning, he flung the tumbler across the room, smashing it against the
opposite wall. The sound of breaking glass shattering the tense silence.

Hammond regarded him with a mixture of deep concern and guilt, "And
what, Jack?" He repeated insistently, needing to know as much as the
Colonel needed to say it.

O'Neill gazed at him for a moment and the General got some clue from the
unguarded look in his dark eyes. His face softened when he recognised
the internal struggle being fought. Jack looked away, unable to stand
that increasingly familiar look of sympathy that he'd been on the
receiving end of for days now.

Hammond finally broke the encroaching silence, "After what you've been
through, Jack, it's perfectly natural to feel nervous."

"Nervous!" Jack snorted bitterly. "Look at me!" He held his left hand
straight out in front and watched it shake, "Nervous, General? More like
scared out of my wits!" He rubbed his face edgily, uncomfortable now he
had admitted the truth.

Hammond waited until finally Jack spoke again, so softly his voice was
barely audible, "I've never been so afraid in my life." He glanced up at
his CO and the General was taken aback by the look on his face, the
usual mask of supreme confidence had gone, revealing eyes filled with a
fear and vulnerability that he had never thought possible in a man who
had proved his inner strength so many times.

His barely controlled guilt overflowed in response to that look, "I'm
sorry, son. I'm responsible for this mess. It's my fault."

"You were just following orders," Jack murmured, "They had you trapped
as badly as the rest of us."

"Maybe, but I didn't get hurt because of it," Hammond shook his head, "I
let you down, Jack, and I wish I could do something to change what
happened."

"Me too," Jack replied quietly, wishing for the hundredth time that he
had never got caught in the first place, "but it was my own stupid
fault. I should have been more careful."

"That's ridiculous, Jack, you're not to blame for what happened," the
General exclaimed, "You were set upon by eight men, how could you
possibly have escaped that?"

Jack shrugged helplessly, wishing he hadn't smashed that glass, he
really needed another drink. "I guess I shouldn't have disobeyed orders
in the first place."

"I should have supported your request to look for Daniel and given you
backup," Hammond admitted, "I was wrong to refuse, I should never have
played along with their game, threats or no threats."

"Philip Marshall said he'd threatened members of the team as well as the
program," Jack looked at him curiously.

Hammond nodded slowly, "He said the Senate Committee were going to
remove anyone without military status, because they were unreliable, and
then incarcerate them to stop them revealing what they knew about the
Stargate."

"Daniel and Teal'c," Jack realised. Now at least he understood why the
General had done it. He thought of another question that had been
preying on his mind, "Does this mean you won't be court martialling me
after all?"

Hammond almost laughed at the idea, "That would really be rubbing salt
into the wounds."

"Ouch!" Jack murmured, wincing at the thought.

They lapsed into silence, both struggling with their own weight of guilt
and blame. Eventually Hammond asked, "What do you want to do, Jack?"

"About what?"

"About returning to duty," the General said.

"How?" Jack raised his right hand to remind Hammond of his invalid
status.

"I could really use your help on the base until you return to active
duty," Hammond explained hopefully. "Doctor Fraiser agrees, she thinks
it will help your recovery," he added. He noticed how pale the Colonel
had gone, "What is it, Jack? What are you thinking about?"

"Retirement? Maybe," Jack didn't really know himself, he had been trying
not to think for days now, avoiding the depths where his darkest fears
were lurking, but he knew one thing for sure, he couldn't face going
back underground, especially not back to Cheyenne mountain.

"You tried that once, remember? You'd be climbing the walls within a
week!" Hammond argued reasonably. Jack shuddered at the recollection
that comment conjured up, a reaction noted by the General, "Don't you
think you should at least try to get your life back before you give up?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Jack asked hotly.

"I don't know Jack, you tell me, because from where I stand it looks
like you've surrendered already," he paused hoping the Colonel would
defend himself.

Instead Jack whispered two anguished words, "I lost."

Hammond couldn't believe his ears, after everything the man had gone
through and still lived, "So what if you were almost defeated by them
Jack, everybody loses once in a while. It doesn't matter how close you
come, so long as you survive."

"It does if an innocent girl is harmed along the way!" Jack exclaimed,
his anger with himself rising to the surface. "Cassie was almost killed
and I couldn't do a thing to protect her! They beat me hands down!" He
gestured furiously, "Even a greedy amateur like Marshall outwitted me. I
lost!"

"You only lost to him because you got shot saving Cassie!" Hammond
exclaimed frustratedly.

"Cassie shouldn't have been in that situation. I should've found a way
to get her out safely!" Jack was yelling now.

"Jack you can spend the rest of your life second guessing the situation,
but nothing's going to change except your own ability to live with it!"
The General tried not to shout back.

"Then I'll just have to ensure it never happens again," Jack said
determinedly, a decision finally made, "General, I formally request you
draw up my retirement papers."

"I'm sorry you feel that way Jack, because that's unacceptable," Hammond
said emphatically. "We cannot afford to lose you anymore than you can
afford to lose your team."

"You don't have any choice, General. Besides my team will be much better
off without me to weigh them down," Jack argued.

"That's not what they think," Hammond's expression softened as he
recalled the now frequently hang dog faces of the remainder of SG1, that
team definitely needed the return of their leader. "They want you back,
Jack. They need you back."

"Not like this they don't, I'm a liability, they can't trust me. Hell, I
don't even trust myself!" He exclaimed despondently, "I'd rather risk
losing their friendship than lose any of them. Right now I'd be more of
a danger to them."

"Then come back to the base as a non-combatant. I could use your help,"
Hammond offered sincerely.

"I can't, I can't go in there," Jack's voice reduced to a low whisper,
"I can't go underground again."

Hammond considered him for a long moment. Doctor Fraiser and the rest of
his team had all tried to persuade the Colonel to seek professional help
to cope with his renewed bouts of claustrophobia, but he had flatly
refused, claiming he could deal with it, he just needed time. Besides
General Hammond didn't believe in forcing someone into therapy, and if
it was really that bad he felt sure Colonel O'Neill would have taken the
necessary steps himself.

He could think of nothing more to say on the matter, except perhaps to
be cruel to be kind. "Well it's your decision, Jack. But life goes on,
we can't wait for you forever. I'll expect you back on base, Saturday
morning. If you're not there, I'll process your resignation papers for
you. But, Colonel, there's one thing you should know. Those papers won't
become official until after the hearing has been completed."

"What hearing?" Jack asked worriedly.

"The Senate Committee has decided that a closed hearing on this whole
matter is expedient. They require you to testify before them. The
proceedings will commence in DC, a week on Friday."

Jack blanched, swallowing nervously at the thought of having to recount
events to anyone, let alone a bunch of stuffed shirt politicians whose
idea of torture was when the gentlemen's club ran out of vintage port.
"I can't.......," but he didn't get a chance to finish before General
Hammond cut him off.

"You have no choice, Jack. The Committee would subpoena you if
necessary, but since you're still a part of the military they can just
lock you up for a few days until you're willing to cooperate." Hammond
saw him go even more pale at that thought. "I'm sorry, Jack. I wish
there was some other way, but the Committee was unanimous on this. They
feel they have to get all the details out into the open, before they can
decide if an internal investigation is necessary."

Jack stared at him coldly, clearly placing blame for his worsening
situation on the General's shoulders. Hammond decided this would be a
good time to leave, knowing that if a full blown row erupted between
them, their differences might become irreconcilable. "I'll expect to see
you on Saturday then. I'll have a car sent to pick you up." With that
Hammond turned and left, closing the front door quietly behind him. He
walked down the drive to his vehicle, wondering whether his cruel to be
kind method was really going to do any good.

~~~~~~~~~~

The waitress couldn't say she was exactly worried yet, just a little
concerned was all. The guy had started a tab on his American Express
card, so she knew the drinks were covered, but there had been a lot of
them. He had been sitting there since a few minutes after opening,
ordering double Jack Daniels on the rocks ever since.

Now she studied him from the corner of the bar, it was late afternoon,
the quiet period before the after work crowd arrived for their Friday
evening blow out. He was practically the only one left, apart from the
couple sat in a booth who had been drinking the same cups of coffee for
the last three hours, gazing at each other and giggling occasionally.

The guy on his own was another matter, he hadn't spoken for hours,
barely even blinked. He simply sat at the end of the bar, the stool by
the window, staring out into the afternoon sun like his life depended on
it.

Maggie smiled softly to herself as she studied him, greying temples
slowly spreading throughout the short cropped hair that still had that
boyish, unkempt look that women just loved to run their fingers through.
It kind of reminded her of her long suffering husband, only his eyes
were blue. This guy had soulful brown eyes, that hid a depth of dark
emotion as they gazed unfocused. He looked kind of gaunt, like he'd lost
a lot of weight recently, his high cheekbones standing out above the
three day old stubble covering his jaw line, detracting slightly from
the obviously handsome face.

The whole effect was somehow disturbing, giving off an air of damage.
Not a threat of violence simmering below the surface, more a feeling of
untended injury inflicted upon him.

As he lifted the tumbler for another sip, she noticed his right hand
tucked against his chest, covered in plaster. He emptied the glass and
looked her way, gesturing silently for another refill. Maggie flushed
red, hoping he hadn't noticed her staring, but he appeared oblivious to
anything but his drink and the view through the window beside him.

She stepped behind the bar and poured the measure herself. Eddie the
barman was still outside inventorying the latest delivery as they put it
into the store. Walking along to the furthest seat, she put the drink in
front of him, waiting patiently until he noticed and nodded his thanks.

"You know it might be quicker just to inject it straight into your blood
stream!" She joked, somewhat unprepared for the sudden loss of colour to
his already pale cheeks. A stark contrast to the black leather jacket
covering his shoulders.

He gaped at her for a moment and she saw a flash of fear in his eyes,
hidden as fast as it appeared. He broke contact, glancing down at his
fresh glass to wrap long slim fingers tightly round it. She noticed the
healing scars cluttering his left temple, a hint of dark bruising still
shadowing the eye. His hand shook as he lifted the drink to his lips.
Then he turned his gaze back to the window and was gone again.

The rush hour began soon after and Maggie didn't have time to pay
anymore thought to the Jack Daniels man, except to keep an eye out for
his refill requests, mentally counting the number and planning on
calling a halt when he hit a round dozen, irrespective of the fact that
he didn't appear to be in the least bit effected by the alcohol yet.

It wasn't until much later that she looked across and noticed he was
gone. Well she still had his credit card details, that wasn't a problem.
She finished loading up her tray and headed back to the rowdy group of
men in the centre who were obviously planning on celebrating the end of
the week with a vengeance.

As she placed the drinks down, Maggie heard the one at the centre of
attention and understood immediately. The guy had been fired from his
job that afternoon and was boasting how he had told his ex-boss what he
really thought of the stinking company. His friends, in the normal
manner, were applauding his actions, getting him increasingly riled up
over it. This would be one to watch tonight, Maggie noted. Her tray now
clear of fresh drinks, she began to gather up some of the empty dirty
glasses to take them back to the bar.

She glanced up at the sound of another burst of loud sadistic laughter
as the young man continued to embellish his tale of how he had
humiliated his boss in front of the entire staff. Behind his shoulder,
she caught sight of the Jack Daniels drinker, struggling to get back
through the crowded bar, a look of rising panic in those deep brown eyes
as he found himself sandwiched and trapped between hoards of chattering
people.

His face changed when he heard the laugh, a cold look slipped down like
a mask and his eyes hardened to granite. His gaze roamed the room,
seeking its source and, for the first time, Maggie thought maybe he
could be trouble after all.

She moved away from the rowdy group with her laden tray and stepped in
front of him. "Need another drink, Sir?" She smiled brightly, refusing
to move until he focused on her, "It always gets packed in here on
Fridays." With her tray lifted carefully in front, she began to head for
the corner where he'd been sitting, giving him an opening to follow.

As she manoeuvred past the angry ex-employee and his rapt audience,
someone stepped back from the bar and knocked against her arm. The tray
of pint glasses toppled, spilling their dregs over the side straight
into the lap of the guy who'd just been fired. He yelled, standing up
abruptly, his chair tipping back to block her path. "What the hell! Why
don't you be more careful, you stupid bitch!"

"I'm so sorry, Sir," Maggie exclaimed apologetically, pulling a cloth
from her belt and attempting to dry him off.

"Sorry's not good enough, bitch! What are you gonna do about my suit?"
He rounded on her.

"That's no way to talk to the lady," Maggie heard the quiet voice behind
her, hard and chilling, cutting through the background noise of the
room. "Why don't you apologise?" He suggested coldly.

Immediately, alarm bells began ringing in Maggie's ears. She'd heard
that tone before, the classic sign of a man who would be disappointed if
he actually did apologise, a man itching for a fight probably as much as
the ex-employee was right now.

She stepped in closer to stand between them, "Look, Sir. We'll pay for
your suit to be dry cleaned, just come up to the bar and I'll give you
our card. Then you can bring in the receipt and we'll reimburse your
costs, okay?" She smiled as convincingly as possible.

"Not good enough, that'll take too long. I need this suit, I've got an
interview tomorrow, you stupid cow!"

Maggie knew that was a lie as much as she knew it didn't matter. The guy
was not going to back down in that mood, she'd seen it before. He'd been
fired and now had the perfect opportunity to regain some of his lost
pride in front of his friends. Her only hope was that the JD man wasn't
in as much need of a fight.

She looked up into dark brown eyes that had a kind of glazed, dead look
about them and her hopes fell. It was going to be one of those nights,
after all.

"I said don't talk to the lady like that!" The JD man's voice was even
closer to her ear as he stepped forward and lifted his left arm in one
swift motion, clamping his fingers around the guy's throat, "Now,
apologise to the nice lady and you can get back to your party."

Maggie placed her hands on his arm, trying to haul him off. She could
feel the muscles tautly bunched beneath the sleeve of his black leather
jacket. "Don't, he's not worth it," she urged him reasonably, but she
couldn't be sure he'd even heard her. She placed a hand on his chest,
feeling his heart thudding beneath the denim shirt. He flinched and
slowly his gaze shifted back to her. "Don't!" She pleaded again,
breathing a sigh of relief when he finally released his grip on the man
who had gone crimson red and was gasping for air. He coughed and
spluttered, filling his lungs, as Maggie pressed insistently against JD
man's chest to push him away .

As she turned to follow, Maggie caught a glimpse of the ex-employee's
hand grasp the neck of a now empty bottle and she shouted a warning,
stepping into the way in what she realised too late was some misguided
protective instinct towards the customer.

The beer bottle impacted the top of her head, the full weight somewhat
cushioned by the long auburn hair she had tied up out of the way. Still
it hurt, a lot, and Maggie screamed, her hand reaching up to feel the
sticky red blood oozing from the cut as glass splintered around her
head.

JD man turned around, saw the blood and saw red, lunging at the culprit
who didn't even have the sense to drop the broken evidence. Instead he
waved the remaining jagged bottleneck into the face of his opponent who
lifted his right hand to knock it away harmlessly. The solid plaster
covered fingers followed through to smash into the guy's face, breaking
his nose with the impact just as the police arrived, summoned by Eddie
as soon as he had seen the JD man's hand in a stranglehold around the
other guy's throat.

With one unscathed but wild and drunken man standing between two heavily
bleeding victims, the police did what anyone would do. They dragged away
the guy in the leather jacket and escorted the two injured people out to
a pair of waiting paramedics.

Despite Maggie's and his own vehement protests, Jack was bundled into
the rear seat of the patrol car and removed from the scene to the
painfully loud accompaniment of a wailing siren.

Jack held his head in his hand, rubbing his temples against the headache
that was beginning to pound in time with the caterwauling sound. He
tried to analyse exactly what he'd done wrong to get into this
situation, if only to keep his mind off thoughts of where he might end
up, but he could only figure that his biggest mistake was actually in
bothering to get out of bed that morning.

His second thought was that maybe he would have been better off sticking
to his original plan to stop at a liquor store rather than going to the
bar. Ironically, he had gotten bored drinking alone and the bottles
seemed to get empty way too fast.

The trip to the police station was mercifully short, although it seemed
like forever to Jack. He was rapidly losing the ability to track time as
the initial rush of adrenaline began to give way to the effects of the
alcohol saturating his system.

The police officers processed him at the desk of the small town
headquarters, taking the fingerprints from his left hand, but unable to
do anything with the right, plastered to the tips of his fingers.

"What happened to your hand?" One of the officers enquired curiously.

"Got into a bit of a fight," Jack slurred rather foolishly, staring
fixedly out the window at the main street beyond, giving the policeman
even more reason to judge his first impression as accurate. He gave him
a cloth to wipe the ink from his fingers that was highlighting every
whorl and line in black relief.

They emptied his pockets, took his belt and checked his shoes. Finding
zipped boots, the officer realised shoelaces were unlikely to be of much
use to the one handed man at present. As he took a couple of identity
photos, he noticed the scars on the guy's left temple and wondered
whether there was any record on him from the previous incident, they
would have to run his details through the computer to check.

"You've got one phone call," the officer told the man before taking him
through to the lock up. Jack pondered the thought for a long hazy
moment, but he couldn't for the life of him think of anyone he could
call. He'd shut them all out, there wasn't anyone left. He shook his
head, regretting the motion immediately, and then shrugged. "Okay, come
on!" The policeman gestured for him to stand up, shoving him in the
direction of the jail.

Jack stopped in the doorway, a dark narrow corridor ahead of him, a
square of light at the end. The officer pushed him again and Jack
stepped forward, focusing on the light and imagining the possibility of
open air beyond.

Ten feet down the hall, the police officer pushed in front to unlock the
door, shoving him through into the brightly lit jail. The cell doors ran
down both sides in what had been a much needed recent extension to the
small town facilities. Weekends could get kind of rowdy nowadays, so
they had knocked down the original block and built this with ten cells.
Each well secured and sealed with a tiny ventilation grille and steel
doors with covered viewing holes.

Their lieutenant would still have liked the security camera system he'd
requested, but he knew all about budgets and as the Mayor had said,
maybe next year.

The officer pushed the drunk down to the far end. If he was going to get
noisy or sick, he'd just as soon have him as far away as possible or it
would be a long night. Opening the cell door, he grasped Jack's arm, but
the man was hanging on tightly to the door jamb, staring at the poorly
lit enclosed room shakily. Pale faced and with sweat on his brow, he
looked like he was going to be sick.

"I can't go in there," Jack whispered, his voice thick with fear.

"Yes you can, it's no big deal," the officer said, "You can sleep it
off. You'll feel a lot better in the morning.

"No, you don't understand, I can't go in there!" Jack rasped faintly,
the panic rising on his face. He started to struggle with the officer.

The policeman's patience with the drunk finally ran out. He twisted
Jack's arm behind his back and propelled him through the opening
forcefully. Jack stumbled, his left side hitting the edge of the bunk,
bending over double as pain flared in his healing rib.

"There you go, you can whine and moan as much as you like now, you won't
disturb anyone but yourself!" The officer slammed the door and locked it
down. "Geez, what a drunk!" He snorted as he made his way back to the
front desk, his hand automatically extinguishing the lights without even
thinking as he closed the outer door behind him, wondering what the game
score had been in the end after he was dragged out to the bar before it
finished.

"That guy's a real fruitcake," he said to his partner who was busy
processing data through the computer. "I bet he's got a drunk and
disorderly record as long as my arm!"

"Well, he's got some kind of record all right!" His partner responded
uneasily, wheeling his chair back from the computer screen so the other
man could look over his shoulder.

The officer saw a copy of Jack's driver's licence, displayed on the top
left half of the screen, on the top right was his single set of prints
from his left hand. On the bottom half, the search of Federal
fingerprint databases had been processed, producing a simple two lines
of data, "Identification correlated. Classified highly top secret."

"What the......," the officer paled slightly, "Who the hell have we got
in there?"

"I don't know, but I think we'd better check out his story very
carefully," his partner responded worriedly, leaning over to pick up the
radio. He called up the other patrols that were on duty that night to
see whether they'd finished taking statements from the two injured
people at the hospital and the witnesses from the bar.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jack had been pounding on the door for so long that his knuckles were
raw and his hand ached. He was slowly going out of his mind in the
darkness, his chest heaving raggedly, constricting until he could barely
breathe. A cold sweat ran down his neck and spine. His heart raced
painfully, he could feel the pulse thudding in his temple. His senses
keenly aware of every nerve jangling moment.

His voice was hoarse from yelling by the time he eventually gave up.
Slumping against the wall, he sank to the floor, desperate and out of
control, trapped again. Confined in the box that he had once fought so
hard to escape, but now had no fight remaining to help him survive.

Inexorably, Jack slid down into the depths of his own personal hell,
reliving the unforgettable reality of an isolated steel box, not much
larger than a tea chest, suspended on wooden stilts. The dark steamy
stench of the enclosure a warning to all who approached. Perhaps in his
darkest hour he had endured worse nightmares, but never one that
continued for such an eternity.

For eight days it was home. Cramped living conditions that would have
been uncomfortable for a body much smaller than Jack's six foot plus
frame, even though he was wasting away from malnutrition. Excruciating
pain emanated from the constant pressure on the half healed sores which
covered his badly beaten back and legs. The tips of his bare toes burned
against the overheated steel during the day, his knees pressed into his
chest and his shoulders sandwiched against the opposite side.

Any fluids passed through the tiny air opening were quickly sweated out
and the scraps of rotting food simply made conditions worse in the
course of quite natural bodily functions. There was little for him to do
in that hell hole except to focus on who had got him in there and who
might get him out. Contemplating revenge on the man who had sacrificed
Jack's freedom, was infinitely preferable to considering the certain
death that would result from this ready made coffin.

Jack had been captured during an incursion deep into Iraqi territory
from across the border. They were supposed to take out one of the mobile
scud missile sites that had been causing havoc for the last six nights
in a row. It may have been a hurriedly prepared mission, but the plan
appeared sound. At least it would have been if somehow the Iraqis had
not got wind of it.

Working in pairs, O'Neill was the furthest out on point when they were
hit by the enemy patrol lying in wait for their arrival. He dived for
cover, shouting a warning to the rest of his team spread over the space
of fifty yards behind. Their group of six men was no match for the
thirty enemy soldiers, even though they were fighting conscripts who had
no real taste for the war. The surprise factor alone almost finished
them off and the overwhelming firepower was too much to withstand.

The team leader radioed for an immediate emergency extraction as they
laid down cover fire, trying desperately to hold them off long enough.
From his isolated position on point, O'Neill saw the opportunity to
outflank the enemy and maybe reduce the odds a bit. He signalled Frank
Cromwell with his intentions, "Don't leave without me!" Jack yelled to
his team mate with a grin, crawling away rapidly towards the Iraqi rear
to attack from behind.

With the helicopter inbound, Frank Cromwell spotted Jack fighting hand
to hand. As he watched, a rifle shot rang out and Jack fell, hitting his
head against a rock as he went down injured, looking for all intents and
purposes like he had been shot dead. His final words still ringing in
Frank's ears.

O'Neill wasn't moving, the chopper flew as close as possible to check on
that, but with Cromwell as a witness to the hit, it appeared that Jack
had been killed. As the Blackhawk helicopter turned away his remaining
team members saw the Iraqis swarming in on the fallen man.

Jack could still hear the helicopter rotors fading as it swooped off
into the distance, announcing that Cromwell had broken his word,
abandoning O'Neill to face the beatings inflicted by a group of
frightened, angry conscripts who finally had something to focus on. He
wasn't spared until an officer noticed he was still alive and realised
he might produce valuable information.

That was more than three months ago and even now Jack thought he could
still feel the pain of his injuries, the impact of a boot on his left
temple and side, the blinding headaches that went with it, the nausea
and sweats from the concussive blow. He shivered, a cold sweat trickling
down his spine, his back pressed hard against the shell of the box. He
couldn't move anymore, his muscles were wasting away, the cramp reduced
to numbness. He could no longer feel his toes and almost prayed for a
return of those excruciating pins and needles that had gone on for days.
At least then he had known he was still alive.

For a moment he wondered whether it was possible to will yourself to
die, then he remembered what had got him through this so far and
suddenly Jack felt warm again. His love for his wife and her love for
him, and the beautiful baby boy she had presented him with. He had to
make it through. He had to survive, for them. For the millionth time, he
wondered if Sara knew what had happened, if she knew he was alive, but
she had to, a bond that strong could not be broken by distance. He was
sure that she knew, and that one thought brought her close to him again,
wrapping warm arms gently around him.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was four hours after her release from the hospital with a few
stitches in the cut on her head, before Maggie could convince the local
police that both men were at fault. It didn't help that the guy with the
broken nose had a lot of friends as witnesses, whereas the other man was
all alone and proven to be drinking heavily since lunch time.

Eventually, the police took into account the added testimony of Eddie
the barman, who had watched the proceedings whilst calling them. He
confirmed that the guy in the black leather jacket had conceded and
turned away before the loud mouth went at him with a bottle. So finally,
the police were willing to release their prisoner without charges.

It was four in the morning when the officer contacted the emergency
number on the dog eared donor card found in the back of Jack's wallet.
"Mrs O'Neill?" He asked, "Sorry to disturb you so late. My name's
Mathers, I'm with the local police department, ma'am. It's about your
husband."

Sara was confused for a sleepy moment, then her mind kicked in. This was
the phone call she had always dreaded receiving during their years
together. Every time Jack went away on another assignment, unable to
tell her where he was going or when he'd return. Just eliciting that
fateful promise, "Wait for me." And she had for so long, through thick
and thin. And in her darkest hour, during the Gulf War, she had prayed
for him and imagined them together again, safely returned to her, where
nothing else could ever go wrong.

"Jack?" She asked the officer shakily, "Is he......?"

The man interrupted, "He's fine ma'am, but he got a bit drunk and rowdy,
so we had to lock him up in the jail overnight to dry out."

"Lock him up?" Visions of Jack's claustrophobic nightmares sprung into
Sara's head. They had continued for so many months before he finally
gained control of his fear, and then only after he had talked to someone
about it. Sara only vaguely knew what had caused it from his murmured
ramblings. Jack had refused to tell her anything, he wanted to protect
her from all that, but it had been so hard not knowing what to do or how
to help. All Sara had been able to do was take him in her arms and
comfort him and fight back her anger for what had been done to her
husband.

Now Jack was locked up again and that thought scared Sara more than
anything else. "I'll be right there," she told the policeman, praying
that he would be fine, that he would be too drunk to remember anything.

~~~~~~~~~~

When the officer opened the cell door, Sara pushed past him and crouched
down beside her ex-husband. "Jack?" She asked softly, worried by the
blank staring look in his eyes. He looked so gaunt and pale, she
wondered what on earth had happened since they last met. "I'm here,
Jack," she touched his stubbly cheek gently, "It's Sara."

The officer watched, feeling bad for having left the guy in the dark for
so long, but how was he to know? If the guy was afraid of confined
spaces, why didn't he just say so?

"I didn't know," he tried to explain, but the woman simply glared at
him, still talking softly to the man. "I'll wait outside," the officer
shrugged uncomfortably and headed back to the front desk.

"Jack?" Sara continued to try and get through to him, noticing the
plaster cast on his hand and the healing scars and bruises on his face.
He had certainly been in the wars, but that was nothing Jack wasn't used
to. What had pushed him over the edge like this?

She touched his cheek again, looking for a flicker of recognition. His
lips moved silently, mouthing a single readable word, "Sara!" She
wrapped her arms around him, a familiar long lost feeling that tugged at
her heart like it would break all over again.

"It's all right Jack, I'm here," she whispered against his neck and his
arms moved slowly, tentatively, until he was clinging to her so tightly
she thought she might snap in two. "Let's get you out of here," she
breathed into his ear, feeling his quaking body beneath her. He nodded
almost imperceptibly, a brush of movement against her hair. "Come on!"
She pulled away, just enough to help him stand up, his legs wobbly,
drunken as she supported him out of the box and towards the end of the
corridor.

He was silent all the way home in the car, staring out the side window
as though his life depended on it. She drove back to his place, she had
only been there once before, and then only outside to drop some legal
papers into his mailbox. Now Sara guided him from the car and led the
way inside, letting them in with his own set of keys and flicking on all
the lights she could find along the way, brightening the dark shadows.

"Bedroom?" She asked as she steered him towards the stairs. He pulled
away to grip the handrail tightly as he made his way slowly up. Sara
watched him go, wondering whether she should just leave him to it, but
she knew she couldn't, she had to be sure he would be all right. She
would stay awhile, at least until he was sleeping soundly.

Sara wandered along the hall looking for a kitchen. She could use some
coffee to stay awake and she should get some water into Jack or he'd
have a pounding hangover when he did sober up. She switched on the light
and gasped at the sight of a dozen empty whiskey bottles lined up
waiting for disposal, along with about twenty beer bottles. If there had
been a bit more variety, she could have believed Jack had thrown a
party, but after years of living together, Sara recognised the signs.
Something had gone terribly wrong in his life recently, she couldn't
begin to imagine what and perhaps she didn't want to.

It had been so hard to get used to being without him, she missed his
jokes, that boyish smile and the look of love in his eyes. She didn't
want to get involved again, she couldn't let herself be sucked in,
dragged down into the depths of his life, but how could she just ignore
him? He needed help and she was here.

Sara filled up the kettle and started to hunt for coffee and a mug.
Before the water boiled, she found a clean glass and a jug and filled it
with ice and mineral water from Jack's fridge. Apart from beer, it was
pretty much empty, there was no food in sight except for a margarine tub
and a bottle of ketchup that had seen better days. No wonder he looked
so gaunt if he had been living off alcohol like this.

Sara wondered how long it had gone on for and where his friends were to
have allowed it to continue. She had no idea how fast he could consume
so many bottles, but she knew from experience that his capacity was
great given the wrong circumstances. He had never learned that the
alcohol didn't help him forget, it only brought the nightmares closer to
home.

With the tray laden with drinking water and coffee, Sara made her way up
the stairs to find him. The second door along was ajar, the room
brightly lit. She pushed her shoulder against the door. Inside the wide
window was open, the signs of dawn creeping over the horizon.

Jack was either sleeping or collapsed in a drunken stupor, Sara couldn't
tell which. He was lying on his right side, curled up in a ball, still
fully clothed, including his leather jacket and boots. He looked so
vulnerable and wounded, Sara almost fled there and then, she couldn't
get involved again.

Instead, she placed the tray on the dresser and considered him
carefully. Then she took a deep breath and stepped towards him, reaching
for his boots first, she unzipped them and pulled them off gently.

It was a lot harder to remove his jacket over the plaster and Sara was
afraid of hurting him. He mumbled incoherently when she touched his
side. Finally, she gave in and tried to wake him up. "Jack, come on, sit
up," she pulled at the collar to help him and reluctantly he did as
ordered. His eyes still tightly shut as she pushed the jacket off his
shoulders and eased the sleeve gently over his cast. Beneath he was
wearing a denim shirt over his black t-shirt and she undid the buttons,
pulling it from his shoulders and easing it from the waist of his jeans.

She heard a sharp intake of breath as she nudged his left side and Sara
worried that he had been hurt in the bar fight. Pulling his shirt all
the way off, she loosened his black t-shirt and lifted it up to check
his side. Sara gasped in shock at the sight, his chest speckled with
bruising, fading to yellow, black and brown, the darkest on his left
side, a stark shape against his pale skin. "Jack, what happened to you?"
She cried softly.

He opened his eyes, slowly focusing on her face, as if recognising her
presence for the first time. "Sara!" He breathed, relief washing over
his shadowy countenance. "You're real!" He lifted his arms around her,
wrapping her tightly, burying his face in her hair.

Sara held him close, rocking slightly, cautiously avoiding touching his
chest too hard, "What happened to you, Jack?" She repeated her question
gently, not really expecting an answer, at least, not an honest one.

"Trouble with the natives," he quipped unconvincingly, and Sara couldn't
help be reminded of the last time he had said that, so many years
before. When the doctors had finally allowed her to see her husband
after he had been released from Iraq. She had fought to be allowed to
see him, against the Saudi doctors' misguided attempts to protect her
from the full extent of his tortured condition.

She remembered the moment so vividly, the smile she had forced onto her
face despite the anger and heartbreak she felt to see such a strong man
reduced to so little. Tears sprang to Sara's eyes as she recalled his
first tentative touch to prove her reality, and that first kiss, a
promise of better times to come. She hugged Jack even tighter, feeling
his ribcage through his t-shirt. "You lost weight," she said, her voice
quivering.

He pulled away a fraction, gazing into her blue eyes. He brushed an
escaping tear from her cheek, his hand drifting down her jaw and round
to the back of her neck. Jack licked his dry lips nervously and drew her
towards him, eyes locked. Their lips brushed gently, tentative at first,
both responding, both needing the touch.

The kiss deepened until warning signs began flashing in Sara's head. She
pulled away suddenly. "No, stop. This isn't right, Jack."

He gazed at her with a look of loss, utterly bereft. "Yes it is!" He
murmured tenderly, moving closer again, his hand caressing her neck.

"No, it is not, Jack!" Sara said more forcefully, trying to convince
some sense into herself at the same time, "Not like this. You're just
looking for a leaning post, something to help you forget, just like the
drink. You need proper help, support I can't provide."

"Yes you can," Jack tried to persuade her with a grin.

"No, I can't Jack. I can't go through it with you again. It hurts too
much to be with you," Sara explained weakly, guiltily studying his
vulnerable face. Before she could fall for it, she strengthened her
resolve and buried her feelings, standing up and stepping away from his
tender touch. "Finish getting undressed. I've got some water for you to
drink, then you need to sleep it off," she said firmly, moving across to
the laden tray to avoid the sight of his hurt gaze.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sara was just dozing off in the armchair beside the living room window,
warm and comfortable in the bright sunlight slowly creeping into the
room, when she was startled by a blood curdling scream. She dashed up
the stairs towards the source and found Jack still sleeping, but tossing
and turning, mumbling incoherently. A voice so racked with guilt and
anguish it gripped her heart painfully.

She had seen him like this before, held him, comforted him, but that had
been years ago. Something terrible had happened to him recently, that
much was clear and he was still suffering the aftermath of it. She had
to help him, but without knowing what it was, how could she?

Sara stood indecisively for a long moment, watching over him, then she
moved across to the bed and perched beside him. Stroking her fingers
through his hair, she murmured soothing words until he began to settle
again, returning into a deep dreamless state.

Finally, she got up and left the room, heading for the telephone to look
for his address book. She remembered the team with him the last time
they had met. Maybe one of them could help, assuming they were still
around. After all, she still didn't know why Jack's friends seemed to
have deserted him.

She found the list of numbers by his phone, scanning the entries
futilely to see if she recognised any names. Then she noticed his
answering machine flashing and, with a wordless apology to Jack for her
intrusion, she replayed the contents.

The tape rewound for ages, the first message recorded at the beginning
of the week, from someone named Daniel. By the time she had finished
listening, Sara had a fairly good picture of what had been going on.
Jack had shut his friends out of his life as successfully as he had shut
her out after Charlie had died.

The man named Daniel had rung daily, he had even been past a few times,
he said, but found the house shut up, seemingly empty. Jack was good at
pretending he wasn't home, Sara knew that from personal experience.

Someone called Sam had also left a message the first day, her overly
bright cheery voice showing obvious concern for the "Colonel". A female
doctor had rung on the Tuesday regarding x-ray results on his hand,
announcing in a positive tone that the bones were knitting together
nicely. "It was all looking good so far."

The final message, left just the previous day, was from a General
Hammond. A brusque Texan accent, a man of authority, reminding Colonel
O'Neill that he was expected to report for duty back on base the
following day. His extended leave of absence was officially over.

Sara looked back through Jack's telephone book, but she could find no
entry for anyone with that name. However, she did find one for a Daniel
Jackson. Glancing at the clock over the mantle, Sara decided it wasn't
too early to wake him, even though it was a Saturday morning.

~~~~~~~~~~

When she opened the door to an urgent knock, Sara was confronted by a
pensive looking man, in his early thirties, she would guess. His bright
blue eyes were gentle and kind and she had a vague recollection that she
had seen him before, a member of Jack's team, whatever they did. That
was one encounter she had never been able to straighten out in her mind,
eventually giving up and deciding to do her best to forget about it.

This man didn't strike her as military though and he certainly wasn't
like any of the guys Jack usually called friends.

"Mrs O'Neill?" He asked in a quiet, thoughtful tone.

"Call me Sara," she smiled reassuringly, "I take it you're Daniel
Jackson?" He nodded and she opened the door wider, steering him inside.
"Jack's asleep upstairs," she explained.

"What happened?" The younger man asked, nervously hugging his arms
across his chest as they stood in the hallway.

"I was hoping you could tell me that," Sara said, watching an uneasy
look pass over his face. "Don't worry," she put her hands up
defensively, "I know, 'it's classified'. I just wanted to know if he's
going to be all right." She frowned, "He looks like he's really been in
the wars lately."

Daniel nodded, wishing there was something he could say to make her feel
better, but maybe some bare truth would at least help. "Jack got.....,"
he winced, searching for a vague enough way of putting it,
"......captured. He was held for over a week, shut up in a confined
space. He got hurt pretty badly," Daniel explained feebly. "That was
nearly three weeks ago. I thought he was dealing with it okay, he was
fine when they released him from the hospital last Sunday."

"You obviously haven't been in his kitchen lately," Sara said quietly,
unsurprised when he turned and walked straight down the hall. He had
apparently been there before. She followed him, finding him staring
guiltily at the empty bottles.

"I didn't know," he said softly.

"How could you if he wouldn't talk to you?" Daniel stared at her. "I
listened to his messages," she explained, "How do you think I found
you?" Sara took a deep breath, "Daniel, Jack was locked up in the dark
in a jail cell for seven hours last night. Before that the police said
he'd spent the day drinking Jack Daniels in a bar. He needs help or
he'll just spiral out of control," she urged gently. "He needs a friend
he can talk to about what happened. That can't be me if this is
classified, can it?"

"I tried to talk to him in the hospital, but he wouldn't open up. He
just shut me out," Daniel said in a hurt voice.

"He's trying to protect you," Sara told him. "He did the same to me
after Iraq."

"No, Jack knows it's my fault!" Daniel blurted out painfully, "He was
trying to help me when he got caught. It's all my fault he was there in
the first place."

Sara couldn't begin to pretend she knew what had happened here, but she
recognised an innocent man who had condemned himself guilty. "Jack
wouldn't blame you. He's not like that."

"He blamed Frank Cromwell, didn't he?"

That surprised Sara, these two must be close for him to know that, "Jack
told you about that?" Daniel nodded, his eyes filled with pain. "How did
Jack get out this time?"

"We found him," Daniel said shakily, suppressing the images that bounded
into his head every time he even so much as thought of pyramids now.

"You rescued him? Then why would Jack blame you?" Sara asked reasonably,
"It was different for Frank, Jack had four months to build up his
hatred, Frank never had a chance to make up for it," Sara said sadly.
"Talk to him, Daniel, for both your sakes. Help him. Please?"

After a moment, Daniel nodded reluctantly, turning to head up the stairs
without another word. Sara watched him go, praying for both of them as
she returned to the living room to wait.

~~~~~~~~~~

Jack looked even thinner than before, the weight and healthy colour he
had regained in the hospital under Doctor Fraiser's care had gone again.
Not surprising if he'd been living off booze since he got home, Daniel
thought to himself.

He looked haunted, a sight that took Daniel back to that moment in the
hotel room when he had seen the Colonel clearly for the first time since
the rescue. Daniel shivered involuntarily. Taking a deep breath he
stepped towards the bed to wake up his friend.

Jack opened his eyes with a groan, someone was hammering inside his
head. He focused on the face of the person who had woken him. "Daniel.
What do you want?" He asked flatly.

"Nice to see you too, Jack," Daniel responded with mild irritation. He
watched him struggle to sit up, coughing painfully and pressing his hand
to his side. "I thought your rib was almost healed?" Daniel asked
worriedly.

"I think I might have hit it on something last night," Jack croaked,
trying to reach the glass of water Sara had left on the night stand for
him. Daniel passed it over and he took a long gulp. "Thanks. Now what
are you doing here?"

"I came to see how you are, Jack. Although, I didn't know I'd have to, I
thought you were due back on base today!"

"Yeah, well, I changed my mind. I figured it's about time I got out and
started to enjoy life," Jack said bleakly.

"How? By drinking yourself into oblivion?" Daniel said hotly, "You need
the SGC as much as we need you."

"Like a hole in the head!" Jack exclaimed bitterly.

"Jack, you're the only one that can bring us back together!" Daniel said
infuriatedly, "We're all acting like strangers down there. Nobody trusts
Hammond anymore and we barely trust each other."

"You can't blame the General for what happened, Daniel. He did the best
he could given the threats that were made," Jack shook his throbbing
head, taking another sip of the water.

"The man sacrificed us like lambs to the slaughter in favour of the
program!" He blurted out, way too loudly considering Jack's hangover.

"Daniel, it wasn't just the Stargate in danger," Jack said quietly. The
younger man gazed at him, waiting for him to continue, "They threatened
you and Teal'c too. They were going to remove you from the program if
you didn't come through. Then lock you up and throw away the key, rather
than let either of you leave the planet knowing what you know." Daniel
stared at him silently, trying to absorb this new information. "For what
it's worth, I don't know if I'd have done anything different in those
circumstances," Jack concluded.

"Yes you would, Jack," Daniel was almost afraid to say it, "You would
have got straight on a plane and come to help."

"A lot of good that did you!" Jack grimaced.

"You saved my life, Jack! I could never have survived what you went
through. I'd be dead right now if it wasn't for you."

"That cuts both ways, Daniel. But maybe," Jack swallowed nervously,
turning his gaze to stare out at the morning sunlight coming through the
window, his words almost inaudible, "Maybe you should have left me to
die."

"Surely you don't believe that!" Daniel gaped at him, "Is that what this
is all about? You're trying to kill yourself with booze? After all we
went through, I thought you'd at least make some effort to drag yourself
out of the hole and get back to work!"

"I can't go back there, Daniel. I can't go underground again," Jack said
anxiously, drawing his knees up to his chest to hug with his plastered
arm.

"How do you think the rest of us feel, Jack? I keep bumping into Janet
in the stairwell. That's no laughing matter when there's twenty eight
levels! But I struggle every time I get into the elevator. If it's empty
I don't use it. If everyone else gets out, I get out with them and walk
the rest of the way!" Daniel exclaimed hotly, barely pausing for breath,
"Sam will hardly talk to me because she feels guilty. Teal'c keeps
asking about you with that wounded look because he wasn't here when it
happened. You should see the mission briefings, Jack. They're a barrel
of laughs! You could cut through the tension with a knife. You don't
have the exclusive rights on suffering you know!"

"Then how could my coming back help anyone?" Jack would have raised his
voice if it didn't hurt his head so much, "I'd just be a constant
reminder of what happened."

"It's a step forward though, don't you think?" Daniel asked reasonably,
"If people saw you trust Hammond maybe we could begin to follow. If we
saw you trying to put it behind you, maybe we could too. We're all
waiting on you, Jack. Only you're in no hurry to live again." Daniel
hugged his arms to his chest, his final words plaintive, "I just want
things back the way they were before it's too late."

"Don't you think I've wished for that a million times, Daniel? Every
time I close my eyes, I see one of them, coming in for the kill," Jack
blurted out painfully.

Daniel regarded him quietly, "You beat them, Jack."

"No I didn't, you did. I just got beaten!" Jack said bleakly.

"You killed the Russian, you saved Janet," the younger man argued
futilely.

"And I still don't remember that! God, do you know how much I want to
remember that?" Jack asked vengefully.

"I think I can imagine," Daniel admitted. He'd had the same feelings
himself about killing Philip Marshall. It still frightened him just how
much he had enjoyed seeing the result of his gunshots. "What are you
going to do Jack?"

"How should I know?" Jack rubbed his hand through his tousled hair
nervously.

"Maybe if you talked about it?" Daniel suggested tentatively, leaving
the invitation open.

"Daniel, I wouldn't dump that load on my worst enemy, let alone you!"

"You don't have to protect me, Jack," the younger man said defensively,
"I saw what they did to you, remember? I've got a fair idea of what went
on in there."

"Daniel, you're not capable of imagining anything that bad!" Jack said
quietly, "And don't get me wrong, I'm glad of that. Besides," he
swallowed dryly, "If you really want to know you can always read the
hearing transcripts."

"What hearing?"

"Oh, you mean you haven't heard the good news!" Jack said bitterly.

"What hearing, Jack?" Daniel repeated with a growing sense of
foreboding.

Jack looked away nervously, fear in his eyes. Eventually he said softly,
"To add insult to injury, the Senate Committee who got me into this mess
in the first place, now want to hear all about it!" Jack reached a
shaking hand to scratch his stubbly chin. "They're holding a closed
hearing into the incident to decide whether it requires an internal
investigation. I've got to appear before them next Friday," he finished,
his voice so quiet it was barely audible.

Daniel regarded him painfully, trying to think of something to say,
wishing for the hundredth time that he knew how to help his friend,
instead of watching him suffer alone. "Maybe it's for the best, get it
all out into the open?"

Jack snorted bitterly, "Yeah, kind of makes me wish I knew which Senator
dropped the dime on us. Maybe I could get close enough to get my hand
around his throat!"

"You don't think he'll be present, surely?" Daniel asked worriedly.

"Why wouldn't he, Daniel? Hammond said he's still on the Committee. The
President's got his claws into him, so he can manipulate their decisions
whichever way he wants. At least the Stargate program should be safe for
awhile."

"Jack, if you're going to be forced to go through all this again,
anyway, don't give the guy the satisfaction of seeing what it's done to
you. Get yourself cleaned up, make the effort to come back to the base.
Don't let him beat you!" Daniel pleaded.

Jack knew he was right, "It's easier said than done, Daniel."

"You just have to take it one step at a time, Jack, that's all," he said
gently, "And once you get into your stride it'll get easier. The first
step is to get you cleaned up and dried out. And get Doctor Fraiser to
take another look at that fractured rib!"

"And I guess I should tell Hammond I'm going to be late for work!" Jack
quipped sarcastically.

"I'll talk to him, Jack. I'll get him to postpone your return until
Monday. Meanwhile, I suggest you take a shower and shave off that mangy
excuse for a beard!" Daniel smiled slightly.

"Hey, one step at a time, remember!" Jack scratched his stubbly chin, "I
kind of like it this way!" He joked weakly, trying to relieve some of
the tension he felt.

Daniel shook his head and sighed, "Shave!" He said, then he turned and
walked from the room, he had a phone call to make.

When Daniel entered the living room, he wasn't completely surprised to
find Sara still sitting there, waiting patiently, a frown creasing her
forehead. She looked up eagerly as he entered, "How is he?"

"He's okay, considering," Daniel shrugged vaguely, "He's going to get
cleaned up, then I'd better take him out for some food. He doesn't look
like he's eaten anything since he left the hospital!"

"Yeah, he does take the liquid only diet a bit too far sometimes!" Sara
tried to joke about it.

"You've seen this before." It was more a statement than a question, but
Sara nodded anyway. Daniel hugged his arms across his chest, "After
Iraq?"

Sara bobbed her head again. "And after Charlie," she grimaced. "Jack's
spent years practising how to shut people out, Daniel. He's lucky he's
got you. Maybe this time, he'll get through it in one piece."

"I don't know, he still won't talk to me about it," Daniel said quietly.
It hurt him to be shut out so completely by his friend.

"You got him out of bed didn't you?" Sara pointed out, "Just take it one
step at a time, Daniel. That's all you can do."

Daniel smiled lopsidedly, "Funny, that's what I just told Jack," he
admitted.

Sara stood up and grabbed her keys, "I'd better be going, I guess." She
headed for the door.

"Aren't you going to tell him?" Daniel looked at her quizzically.
Judging from the mask suddenly concealing Sara's emotions, Jack wasn't
the only one who had practise at shutting people out. "You should at
least say goodbye," he urged quietly.

Sara stopped at the door, hesitating, her back turned to him, jangling
her keys in her hand indecisively. Finally, she sighed, placed the car
keys on the hall table and moved towards the stairs.

She knocked on the door before entering. The bedroom was empty, but Sara
could hear the buzz of an electric razor coming from the adjoining
bathroom, above the sound of running water. "Jack?"

She heard a grunt in response, neither negative nor welcoming. Sara
hesitated, then she took a deep breath and stepped across to the open
door. She leaned casually against the door frame, watching Jack
concentrate hard on shaving left handedly. The motion looked awkward,
unnatural for him. He had removed his t-shirt and now stood in his
boxers. The shower was running behind him, hot steam rising above the
top of the cubicle, warming the room and condensing on the mirror in
front of him, obscuring his view. The lack of sight didn't seem to
hinder his shaving actions and Sara couldn't help wonder whether he had
done it on purpose, to avoid his own reflection.

"Jack, I'm just leaving," she finally spoke, startling him with her
presence.

He turned slightly to look at her and she got a full view of the
impressive bruise on his left side, it's boot shaped imprint still
unmistakable even as the edges slowly faded to a yellowish brown. The
centre was still black, the bruise renewing with the previous night's
accidental impact.

"I've got to go," she said softly, almost to herself, her heart
wrenching at the sight of the damage that had been inflicted upon him.

"You don't have to," Jack's gravelly voice was pleading, tugging at her
self control.

"Yes I do, Jack. You need to concentrate on sorting yourself out," she
said gently, her meaning clear, a complicated romantic entanglement was
the last thing either of them needed right now. "Just take it one step
at a time, okay?" Jack regarded her, a look of hope in his dark brown
eyes, reading as much into her words as she perhaps wanted him too.
Perhaps, she thought wistfully. "But promise you'll call me if you need
my help, Jack. Please? I mean it! Don't shut me out again," Sara urged
softly, standing upright off the door jamb to turn and leave.

Jack put down his razor and reached out to touch her hand. "Thanks," he
said quietly, his fingers tangling loosely around hers as he stepped
towards her. She regarded him nervously, but he simply pulled her into a
one armed embrace, holding her tightly. Sara moved to hug him back, she
couldn't help it, she knew she should exercise more restraint, but she
needed to feel his touch once more before she left. She clung onto him
for a timeless moment, feeling his heart thudding in his chest.

Eventually, she pulled away, standing on her toes to reach up and kiss
his cheek, "Gain some weight, Jack. You're too thin," she scolded
gently. She hugged him again briefly and he tilted his head to place a
kiss on her forehead. Then she turned and left, not looking back,
feeling his gaze follow her from the room, her skin burning where his
lips had softly touched her face.

Jack watched her go wistfully, then he picked up his razor again and
finished working his way around his stubbly chin. Eventually satisfied,
he pulled some Saran wrap from the box conveniently left on the side by
Doctor Fraiser when they had brought him home from the hospital five
days earlier. Wrapping his plaster cast thoroughly, he finished
stripping off and stepped into the shower. Sharp hot pins hit his head
and shoulders as he awkwardly attempted to soap his hair and body with
his left hand. Jack sighed frustratedly, somehow there were just way
more things going on than he could possibly cope with at the moment.

~~~~~~~~~~

"With Alesandrov and Marshall both dead, it's up to you to complete the
job. I got you out, I can have you picked up again faster than you can
blink!" His voice turned chilling, "Do not forget you still owe me for
one. Remember, Marshall was already dead by the time you got near enough
to finish him."

The Senator leaned forward in his leather padded chair, tension rising
as he manipulated his pawns into place, "It's all arranged, the location
is setup and your papers will be waiting for you. All you have to do is
strategically place the items and dispose of the body. Just make it look
convincing! You've got until Friday morning. Don't fail me!" He finished
threateningly.

With that the Senator slammed down the telephone and sat back, a sly
smile growing on his face. He had always appreciated the idea of killing
two birds with one stone. With his new plans in place he was in a
position to dispose of an entire flock. This was what double and triple
cross was really all about, not like the feeble efforts of that rank
amateur Marshall.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was a beautiful sunny morning and he felt better than he had done in
days, but Jack still couldn't help liken himself to a man being led to
the gallows. Even so, there was a bright side to this journey up the
mountain, seated in the passenger side of a military jeep as it
negotiated the tight curves and climbs. It was a sign that he had turned
a corner, somewhere during the darkest hours of the last forty eight, a
weekend any normal person might consider the worst of their lives,
having spent a good majority of it with his head over a toilet bowl as
he attempted to dry out from a week of severe alcoholism.

The first mistake had probably been breakfast on Saturday morning. The
idea of food was, in itself, a wise move, but between him and Daniel one
of them should have realised there were better ways than a greasy fry up
to improve Jack's dietary intake. Although it was debatable whether his
stomach would have accepted anything more than dry toast in such a
deprived state.

Somehow Jack didn't think he had been particularly concerned with what
he was eating at the time. His head was still spinning with thoughts of
his encounter with Sara. God, seeing her again had hurt, he couldn't
believe how much he still ached to hold her after all this time. Maybe
she was right, maybe it was just some psychological response to
everything that had happened lately, or maybe he just wasn't strong
enough to ignore his true feelings at the moment like he was the last
time they had met. But Jack couldn't help wondering whether there was
still some hope for them, something to cling to. And thoughts like that
had certainly helped him through the last two days.

His stomach's rejection of food had only been the beginning. The DTs had
followed later as his system tried to recover to some semblance of
normal functioning. That had been fun! Jack thought grimly, either he
had a really selective memory or it had been the worst detox he'd ever
experienced. Either way he really should have learned better by now. Not
to mention the way it had somehow made his nightmares even worse than
before, presumably because their impact was no longer dulled by the
effects of the booze. At least he had got some sleep, he was pretty
certain that Daniel had not been so lucky.

Jack had eventually surfaced back to the land of the living late Sunday
evening, the effects of the alcohol finally weaned out of his system. He
was able to see straight and think as lucidly as could be expected given
everything that was going on inside his head lately. He had been shocked
by how tired Daniel looked, definitely suffering the effects of the
worst babysitting experience of his life trying to dry out one
belligerent Colonel. He looked so exhausted that Jack had kicked his
friend out and sent him home to sleep, worried that another night of
being disturbed by Jack's terror could send the younger man over the
edge instead. The angry words that had been exchanged still rang in his
ears.

"No I will not go home, Jack! How do I know you're not going to head
straight back into a bottle?" Daniel had yelled, all attempt at self
control gone as his exhaustion reached new heights.

"Trust me, Daniel. I'm just going to have an early night, build up my
energy for tomorrow," Jack tried to reassure him.

Daniel had given him that hurt look, "I should be here, Jack."

"Why? So that you can have your sleep disturbed too? What good will that
do?" Jack shook his head in exasperation, trying not to raise his voice,
"The nightmares aren't going to go away just because you're here, you
know."

"Then talk to me about them, Jack!" Daniel loudly insisted, "Maybe it
will help. For God sakes, it certainly couldn't make them any worse,
could it?"

"Maybe not for me, but this is hardly something I'm planning to share
among my friends!" Jack said hotly, "What's the point of giving you
nightmares too!"

"You don't have to Jack, I've already got them," Daniel admitted
bleakly, his shining blue eyes regarding his friend.

Jack stared at him painfully for a long moment, a mixture of guilt and
shock on his face. Daniel shrugged weakly and turned away from the
confrontation, slumping into the comfortable armchair by the fireplace.
He rubbed his face with his hands.

"I'm sorry, Daniel." Jack stood in front of the big sliding doors,
staring out into the dark night. His voice was barely audible, "It was
never my intention to involve you in this."

"I know that, but you don't have to protect me, I was there remember! I
found you in that ho.....," his throat constricted around the word and
he swallowed hard. He stared at his fingers, idly picking at the worn
cloth on the arm of the chair.

Jack was silent, he couldn't cope with his own memories of that place,
what could he say to his friend that would help him handle his.
Eventually he could only apologise again, "I'm sorry, Daniel."

"I'm not," Daniel said softly, "I mean, I'm sorry you were in there, but
I'm not sorry I got you out." He looked up at Jack, "You're my friend, I
thought you were worth it at the time."

"And now?" Jack turned to look at him. He held his breath, dreading the
answer the man might give.

"Now, I think you're still living in that hole," Daniel broke his gaze,
tears in his eyes. "We didn't save you from anything, if you can't get
past that."

"I can't do it, Daniel," Jack said softly, "I can't live through it
again."

"You are living through it, Jack!" Daniel shouted, his voice choked with
emotion, "Do you think I haven't noticed? You're not just sleeping with
nightmares, you're living them! I saw the way you flinched when the
waitress in that diner reached across to put the plate in front of you.
Every time a stranger invades your space, you look about ready to turn
and run. I've seen the way you keep fading out and I'm damn sure you're
not seeing Colorado anymore! Face it, Jack, if you don't get help you're
on a fast track to the loony bin!"

"Maybe after the hearing," Jack suggested unconvincingly.

"I don't know if you're going to survive that long, Jack!" Daniel's
voice was pleading, "Talk to me! Talk to somebody, but do it before it's
too late."

"I can handle it, Daniel. I'll be fine!" Jack's hackles were rising,
stubbornness and pride insisting that noone was going to force him into
therapy.

"Handle it!" Daniel almost screamed in frustration, "Is that what you've
spent the last week doing? If that's the way you're going to handle it,
you can count me out! I watched my parents die, Jack. I'm not going to
sit around and watch you do the same thing!"

"Then don't!" Jack shouted hotly, "Leave! Go home, get some sleep!
That's what I'm going to do!" With that he strode from the room and
headed upstairs.

Daniel heard a door slam and the thudding sound of someone slumping onto
the bed and then silence. "Damn you, Jack!" He said aloud, then he rose
from the chair and left by the front door, slamming it hard behind him.

Climbing into the driver's seat of his car, Daniel jammed the keys into
the ignition and rubbed his face with his hands. "Damnit, Jack. Why
can't you just let someone help you for a change!" He shouted at the
dashboard. He sat for a moment, contemplating going back inside, but he
knew it would only make things worse between them and he didn't want to
widen the rift. Jack was like the only family he had, he didn't want to
lose him. "You're gonna lose him, anyway, Daniel. If you don't help him
get through this," he said softly, feeling tears prick his eyelids
again. He yawned hugely, utterly exhausted. "Tomorrow, Daniel. Get some
sleep, then talk to him again tomorrow."

He turned the keys in the ignition and started the engine, reversing out
of the drive of Jack's home and pulling away, leaving one nightmare
behind him, to go home and sink into his own.

Through the wide open windows of the bedroom, Jack listened to the
fading sound of Daniel's car accelerate away. He hung his head
shamefully, sitting on the bed, his right knee hugged to his chest. His
left side ached again, almost a comfort, a sign that he was still alive,
still had feeling, even if he was doing a good job of hurting everyone
else's, well his best friend's at least. "I'm sorry, Daniel, but I can't
do it," he murmured aloud, "How can I tell you how terrified I am?"

Jack rubbed his eyes tiredly, reluctantly closing them for a moment.
With nothing visible to focus on, his mind immediately conjured up the
painful recurring images. Whenever he closed his eyes, Jack never knew
who he was going to see, but he could guarantee it would be one of a
small group of men. They ranged from a thin, weak looking Egyptian with
a flair for everything electrical to a pale older man with blond hair
and the cruellest laugh he had ever heard. Each one different in their
own way, but all had one thing in common, Colonel Jack O'Neill.

Jack awoke with a shuddering gasp, snapping his head back up off his
chest. He had only dozed off for a few seconds, but that was all it took
for the vision of a malevolent shaven headed smile coming towards him,
sizing up the colourful bruises, before selecting the weakest spot to
pound him in the chest. Jack pressed his shaking hand to his eyes, then
he took a slow breath and shook himself. He stood up off the bed and
headed downstairs to lock the front door and switch off the lights
before facing the eternal hell of another night's sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~

Now the day had arrived when Jack could no longer delay his return to
the base. After their talk on Saturday, Daniel had called up Hammond and
persuaded him to give the Colonel another two days, promising he would
be there on Monday morning even if Daniel had to drag him to the SGC
himself. Jack felt it his duty to fulfil that promise for his friend. He
had always known this day was inevitable, and Daniel was right, he at
least had to try and face some of his demons.

An airman had arrived outside his door bright and early to drive him to
the base. Jack would have been willing to attempt driving himself, but
negotiating those sharp bends with one hand was probably not the wisest
option. Of course, he might never have made it that far anyway, given
the butterflies he felt, Jack was afraid he might simply have stopped at
the first liquor store he came to and holed up in a bottle for the rest
of the day, probably even the rest of his life.

Instead he was trapped in a speeding vehicle, with nothing to do but
focus on the mountain scenery and try to forget where he was heading. He
was glad the driver had left the top off, he could feel the wind whip
past his ears, the morning sun warming his back and neck. Jack had
specifically avoided eating anything that morning, settling for a couple
of glasses of water. But his stomach was still churning and it wasn't
because of the jeep's motion.

He couldn't quite believe that it had come to this. The route taken by
the rest of his life was wholly dependant on one single trip into the
depths of Cheyenne Mountain. If he made it, somehow Jack knew return
visits would be easier. It was just that difficult first step, if he
stumbled or faltered.......

Daniel had wanted to go with him, but Jack had insisted he make this
trip alone, it wasn't because he was being brave it was simply that he
was afraid of embarrassing himself. If anything happened, he needed to
know there was a way out, that he wouldn't get trapped again, mentally
or physically. Besides, sooner or later, he had to fly solo.

It seemed like forever before the jeep pulled up to the gates of the
base. A simple flashing of identity badges and they were inside, driving
through the tunnel mouth directly towards the sub level entrance. The
airman pulled up the vehicle into the visitor spaces out front.

"Don't go too far," Jack instructed the man, "I may not be staying
long." He could almost kick himself for saying it, for admitting his
lack of confidence aloud. Damn! Jack swallowed dryly, feeling sweat
trickle down his back beneath his black t-shirt as he regarded the door
into the mountain base. He climbed out of the vehicle, slinging his
leather jacket over his shoulder, trying to act casually. He had even
avoided dressing in uniform until he got inside, an attempt to
psychologically convince himself that it was just another drive in the
country.

Jack walked inside the main entrance, letting the duty officer sign him
in rather than attempting his awkward left handed scrawl, turning to
head for the bank of elevators before he finally removed his sunglasses
to unshade dark haunted eyes. The first car would take him to the
eleventh floor below, then he would have to change to go the rest of the
way down. It was a route he had taken countless times before, barely
even pausing to think about it after the first couple of fateful trips.

It seemed like forever before the doors opened, inviting him to enter,
to be transported into the depths of the mountain. Jack closed his eyes
for a brief moment and took a slow breath, beginning the two steps
forward before he opened them again. He turned quickly, the outside
world slowly disappearing as the doors automatically closed. Selecting
the lowest level button with shaking fingers, he waited, his courage
diminishing with every number change on the digital readout.

1......2......3......4, Jack felt himself begin to lose it, clenching
his fist and fighting for control. ......5......6 ......7......8. A cold
sweat made him shudder, he pulled his jacket on over the plaster cast.
......9......10......11. The car came to a halt and the doors opened
with a soft whoosh of air. Jack felt the measurable change in
temperature down in the depths of the mountain, shivering involuntarily.

He glanced out into the empty hallway, silent and foreboding, unable to
decide whether the lack of other people was a good or bad thing. Did he
want anyone to see him acting so strangely or would the thought of them
seeing him strengthen his resolve? It was a moot point, despite it being
a Monday morning, at this particular moment in time, the corridor was
deserted and quiet. The calm before the storm.

Ten yards along, at the end of the poorly lit hallway, was a second
elevator waiting to take him all the way down to sub level 28, if he so
desired. Jack rubbed his chin nervously, glancing at the panel of his
own elevator, a place that was beginning to feel safe and secure by
comparison to the passage outside. His finger wavered over the hold
button, about to hit it reflexively, a move he knew would be his
downfall. Never give yourself an easy way out, Jack, he silently
scolded. But he couldn't help it, without it he knew he wasn't stepping
out of that car any time soon.

"Come on, Jack," he said aloud, his voice almost pleading, "You can do
this. You've done it a million times before. Nothing's changed."

Taking a few slow breaths, Jack snatched his hand away and rammed it
into the pocket of his jacket, willing himself to place one foot in
front of the other, remembering Daniel's words. "One step at a time,"
Jack muttered to himself, concentrating on his feet as he turned towards
the end of the corridor, where the second elevator waited.

He looked up and gasped, for a fleeting moment a threatening image
hovered in front of his eyes, a blond haired Russian and his Egyptian
henchman, each holding a 9mm semiautomatic. Jack shook his head as the
vision faded, trying to get his ragged breathing back under control. He
had seen the faces countless times, but the scene was a new one.
Something he had yet to recall from his memory or the harbinger of
something yet to come?

Jack whirled around, checking up and down the corridor nervously, trying
not to hear the sound of the elevator doors closing behind him, or
imagine the car slowly rising back to the surface, leaving him stranded
in this psychological no man's land.

With nowhere else to go, Jack strode down the hallway and reached for
the call button of the basement elevator. He stared at the digital
readout above the doors, his confidence diminishing rapidly, watching
the numbers barely change. It was a typical Monday morning, the car
seemed to be stopping at every level, from the very bottom upwards. As
the seconds ticked passed, Jack was beginning to think it would never
reach the highest point. He thumped the button a few more times, his
fingers drumming against the panel edgily, the noise slowly becoming
louder in his ears as the numbers began to swim before his eyes.

Sweat trickled down Jack's face and neck, his breathing ragged. He could
feel the walls moving in, closer and closer. Wiping a hand over his damp
brow, he glanced further along the dimly lit hall. At the very end was a
means of escape, the emergency stairwell, not used very often by normal
traffic, unless you had a particular dedication to physical fitness. But
it was only eleven floors back up, Jack was sure he could make that in
no time. Yeah, but are you sure you want to go in there, Jack? He asked
himself. What was worse, shut up in one of these boxes, or being able to
move freely in a poorly lit stairway?

With fading hope, Jack looked up at the digital readout above the
elevator once more. His heart sank when he saw the car had stopped
again, still several floors away, seeming to halt for an eternity. The
same number continuing to blaze an imprint on his retina. He shook his
head, there was only one place left for him to go.

"Damn!" Jack punched the elevator button one last time, then turned and
briskly headed along the corridor, bursting through the spring loaded
door at the end. For several eternal seconds he stood hesitating in the
stairwell, trying to will his feet to move downwards. Instead he turned
and began the long climb out of the mountain.

The Colonel was panting by the time he reached the fifth floor. He
stopped for a break, leaning on the rail and gasping for breath, his
healing rib aching under the exertion. He reminded himself that he
really had to start trying to get fit again after so long in recovery.
"What for Jack?" He surprised himself with the loudness of his voice,
echoing around the confines of the badly lit stairwell. "Why would you
need to get fit? You're just going to head straight back up to ground
level and dive into a bottle?"

Jack shook his head despondently, "You have to try harder, O'Neill. You
owe it to Daniel as well as yourself." And to Sara, he thought suddenly,
his heart clenching, he owed her a great deal.

Tightening his fingers around the railing, Jack fought his despair and
forced himself to turn around. Trying to convince himself that walking
downhill would be easier than up, all he had to do was concentrate on
his footing. It didn't matter where he came out, he just had to keep
going down. One step at a time.

~~~~~~~~~~

On the eleventh floor a familiar face stepped into the empty corridor
from the lower level elevator. Daniel hurried along the hall to the
second bank and hit the call button, watching the number begin to ascend
as a car slowly lowered towards him, into the mountain.

Daniel had asked the duty officer at the ground level entrance to call
him as soon as Colonel O'Neill signed in, hoping to meet him on the way
inside, but when the telephone had finally rung, he had hesitated. The
angry words they had exchanged last night still hurt, maybe Jack was
better off doing this on his own? Maybe he should trust him to handle it
alone.

Daniel sat back down on the stool at his workbench, staring at the
artefact he had been studying. Yeah, right, let Jack handle it the way
he's been doing so far, let him suffer alone! Daniel shook his head, he
wasn't going to be able to concentrate on anything until he had seen his
friend.

Striding from his research lab, Daniel headed for the elevator, hitting
the call button impatiently and praying it wouldn't take so long as
normal. But there was only one at this end of the base, never enough to
service that many floors and personnel. When he finally stepped into the
car it had stopped at almost every level on the way up, emptying out as
it went until he was alone, but he had to stay inside. Ensuring Jack
made it safely into the base seemed like one of the most important
things in Daniel's life right now. The first step towards getting things
back the way they used to be.

He had considered using the stairs, but he didn't want to miss Jack
coming down. Now Daniel wondered if he was too late, what if Jack had
already passed him? An elevator to ground level finally arrived and the
doors opened in front of him. Daniel rubbed his chin nervously. Might as
well check up top just in case, he thought to himself, stepping into the
empty car.

~~~~~~~~~~

The deeper into the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain the Colonel descended,
the less thought he put into it, which was probably a good thing. If he
had been able to think too much, he would probably have stepped out at
the nearest exit, headed back to the elevator and gone straight up. But
Jack was now running on automatic pilot, his mind slowly overwhelmed
with the dreaded implications of each downward step. In danger of being
paralysed with fear at the realisation that he was getting further and
further away from the safe haven of open air.

Jack tried to switch off all conscious thought and continue his
interminable descent, but the images that flashed before his eyes
increased in force, rapidly melting and changing like a strobe light.
Faces and experiences that had haunted him for weeks, now pushed into
the forefront of his mind, veering him dangerously close to the edge of
sanity.

Malevolent visions, torture and pain, a suffering beyond even his own
comprehension and, above all else, the image of shooting Cassie. Drug
induced or not, he would never be able to forget the terror that gripped
him during that moment of recognition, too late to stop the bullet from
leaving the barrel of the gun, held in his shaking left hand. He would
sooner have shot himself than hurt his friend, any of them.

For some reason a picture of Janet came into his head, the petite doctor
surrounded by two men, a pale blond Russian and a dark skinned Egyptian
guard. The faces were all too well known, but the scene was not. Jack
shook his head, he didn't understand what it represented and he didn't
have time for its implications. "One step at a time, Jack," he said
aloud, trying to concentrate on his task.

His footsteps rang loudly around the close metal and concrete structure
of the stairwell and he focused away from the claustrophobically tight
surroundings, narrowing his vision onto the steady pumping of his legs,
moving as rapidly as he dared. The exertion on muscles that had been
deprived of exercise and protein for too long was beginning to reduce
the sureness of his footing. His hand tightened on the railing to steady
himself as he almost stumbled, but Jack couldn't allow himself to stop
for a rest, he knew that would be as far as he went. He had to keep
going until he attained his objective.

That thought almost pulled him up short with the realisation that there
was no place on these lowest levels where he would feel in the least bit
comfortable. Still, in the midst of his limited thinking capacity, Jack
knew he needed to be somewhere empty. He couldn't face people right now,
not until he had regained some semblance of control. There was one place
he could guarantee would be deserted and that was his own office and it
wasn't even all that far from the emergency exit.

Finally reaching the right level, Jack burst from the dark stairwell and
darted along the corridor, unaware of anyone or anything except the
looming entrance of his own office a few yards down the hall. He fumbled
the metal handle with sweating fingers, panic rising as he tried to
remember whether he had left it locked when he was last there over five
weeks before, but the door swung open and he ducked inside, slamming it
shut behind him.

Gasping for breath, his chest painfully constricting under the weight of
tension and exertion, Jack faced the door, his slick fingers gripping
the inside handle. He leaned his forehead against the wood, panting and
shivering despite the leather jacket still covering him. He scrabbled at
the lock until he had securely fastened it, then he turned and slumped
against the door, taking several slow lungfuls of air to bring his panic
under control, safe in the knowledge that noone could find him here.

Opening his eyes, Jack glanced around the tight confines of his office.
He had never realised just how small it was before. Barely enough room
for a desk and a couple of chairs amidst the clutter of filing cabinets
and shelving that housed a variety of reports and overflowing storage
boxes.

He finally caught his breath sufficiently to sit down in the padded
chair behind his desk, drumming his fingers on the blotter before
opening the top drawer idly. His dogtags lay inside, atop a pile of
chewed pencils and twisted paper clips, exactly where he had left them
what seemed a lifetime ago, when he had decided to disobey a direct
command and go AWOL.

Gingerly, Jack nudged them, almost as if they would bite. Then he lifted
the chain and clutched the two tags in his hand, his fingertips running
over the imprinted identification stamped into the metal. They had been
a part of him for so many years, something he had never considered
removing for anything other than practical purposes, or retirement,
until recently. The sight of them forced his mind back to that fateful
Saturday morning and, for the first time, it occurred to Jack to wonder
what might have happened if he had not gone after his friend, if his
decision had been different. Where would he be now? And, more
importantly, where would Daniel be?

O'Neill shuddered at the thought, remembering what the younger man had
said only two days before. That he could never have survived what Jack
had gone through. Maybe Daniel was right, Jack thought grimly, after
all, he was barely surviving himself, if you could really call it that.
So was it all worth it, Jack? A voice inside his head challenged.

"It HAD to be," Jack murmured determinedly. Didn't it? After all, at
least they were both alive. Yeah, Jack, but you're not exactly living
are you? He taunted softly.

"I made it this far," he argued to himself. Only now you're sitting here
afraid to go back out into the corridor! What's the matter, you think
you might meet someone you know, afraid they might see how scared you
feel? Jack snorted derisively, I think they'd have a fair idea anyway if
you never come out of this room again.

"Ya think?" The sound of his own cutting sarcasm spurred Jack into
action. Taking several long calming breaths he gathered up his dogtags,
pushing them into the pocket of his khakis as he stood up. He turned to
the door and flicked the catch off, grasping the handle he took one
final lungful of air and opened it, concentrating his thoughts on the
journey to the locker room where he would don his uniform, the next step
in an attempt to return his life to some semblance of normality.

All sensible thought left him as the door swung open and a dark looming
shadow blocked his exit. Jack's last breath died on his lips at the
sight of a face from his nightmares. An inescapable demon with a shaven
head and a well built muscular body that would put some professional
heavyweight boxers to shame.

Jack was slow to react, his mind struggling to separate ethereal vision
from reality, but this image was moving towards him menacingly. He
stumbled back with a gasp of shock, whirling around, driven by instinct,
searching for something to fend off the immovable obstacle. With no
weapon and only one hand, his options were limited. Jack grabbed the
heaviest object within reach, wrapping his fingers around the old
fashioned push button telephone on his desk and putting his whole body
into the swing to smash it against the man's chin.

The Slav moved with impressive agility, stepping aside from the jangling
solid plastic and moving in behind it to smash his right fist into
O'Neill's chest with such brutal force that the already off balance
Colonel was knocked off his feet.

Jack fell to his knees with a groan, the telephone flying from his hand
with a ringing clatter. Winded and coughing, he put his left hand down
on the floor for support, but he lifted it quickly as a terrifying wave
of deja vu hit him. Instead he rested it on his thigh and hung his head,
swaying slightly as he gasped desperately, attempting to restore air
into his lungs. His whole body reverberated from the heavy blow to his
ribcage and the pain in his side flared sharply.

Collapsing back onto his heels, his breathing settled to a painful rasp,
Jack watched helplessly as the Slav approached him with silent menace.
His mind reeled in the face of positive proof that some nightmares were
destined to continue to eternity.

~~~~~~~~~~

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