MEDICAL CONSIDERATIONS -- MATTER OF TIME
by:  OzKaren
Feedback to:  bosskaren@ozemail.com.au

*****

DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters and property of Stargate SG-1 belong to
MGM/UA, World Gekko Corp. and Double Secret Productions.  This fan fiction was created solely
for entertainment purposes and no money was made from it.  Also, no copyright or trademark
infringement was intended.  Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and
not intended by the author.  Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the
property of the author.  Not to be archived without permission of the author(s).

*****

Here's a Pop Quiz for you.

If you had two hours free time, would you rather spend it:

a) shopping
b) seeing a movie
c) getting a facial
d) picking 28 pieces of glass out of Jack O'Neill.

Well, I don't know about you, but my choices in order of preference are a, c and b. Never in a
million years would I choose d.

Three guesses what fate chose for me.

When Momma told me there'd be days like these, I don't think black holes, dilated time and the
earth being sucked through a stargate were exactly what she had in mind.

Sometimes I wonder if we have any idea of what we're doing at Stargate Command. Much to my
surprise, it didn't feel any better to be stuck outside the base instead of inside it during
the crisis. When you're inside, even if you are waiting to die, at least you have some idea of
what's going on. Outside, all you can do is sweat and twiddle your thumbs and drink way too
much coffee.

We sweated and twiddled and overdosed on caffeine for four days as we waited to see if Sam's
plan to close the wormhole would work. Hundreds of feet below us, down in the gateroom, it took
about half an hour. Don't ask me to explain it. Nobody can, not even Sam. I try not to think
about it myself, because I already have enough in my life to drive me crazy without adding
anything more to the mix. Just after dawn on the fifth day, when our nerves were frayed to the
last thread and even the General's aplomb was worn almost bare, Sergeant Siler came topside. In
a hurry. The General and I bolted out of the command tent to meet him. Everyone else gathered
round behind us, not crowding, certainly not usurping the General's privilege ... but anxious.
Haggard faced, hollow eyed and hopeful.

"Well?" the General demanded.

"It worked, sir," said Siler. "The wormhole is disengaged and the gravity well has collapsed.
But --" He hesitated. Glanced to the left, to the aloof, tight knit little group of Special
Forces operatives who were waiting for their team leader to return. "Sir, we lost Colonel
Cromwell."

I felt the shock hit Cromwell's people. They surged forward, too hard, too professional to
exclaim aloud ... but the pain and the anger and the unasked questions raged in their eyes.

"Damn," said the General. "How?"

Siler was unhurt, but he looked shocky around the eyes. Hardly surprising, when you consider
what he'd just been through. "The gravity from the black hole sucked the iris out of the Gate.
Then it sucked the glass out of the control room. The Colonel's rope was cut. Colonel O'Neill
tried to hold on to him, but he didn't have a chance. He was sucked into the wormhole." He
looked at the surviving members of Cromwell's team, apologetic and shaken. "We did try to save
him, sirs. If it's any consolation ... I don't think he suffered. It was very quick."

Cromwell's team said nothing. What could they say? Thank you? General Hammond spared them a
sympathetic glance, then turned back to Siler. "And what about Colonel O'Neill? Is he all
right?"

Now Siler was looking at me. "Not really. He survived, but he's out cold and pretty cut up. He
got caught in the explosion. Doctor Fraiser, we need you."

I didn't need a second invitation. As I headed for the downshaft, medkit clutched in sweaty
fingers, I heard the General tossing orders like hand grenades. Then the emergency exit door
shut behind me and I was taking the stairs three at a time, heading for the elevators.

Damn, damn, damn. Cut up and out cold. Well, of course he was. It was just too much to hope
for, Jack coming out of this unscathed.

Quit bitching, said the naggy little voice inside my head. He could be Cromwell. He could be
dead.

Cromwell. Now that was a story I wanted to hear. History there, no two ways about it. And now
Cromwell was dead. Not good. From what I'd seen, it seemed pretty clear they didn't like each
other. Didn't matter. I knew in my gut that Jack wasn't going to take Cromwell's death well.
Losing an enemy can sometimes be as bad as losing a friend.

What I didn't know, then, was that to Jack, Frank Cromwell had been both.

It seemed like forever before I made it to the embarkation control room. Jack was sprawled on
the floor, profoundly unconscious, a folded blanket under his head, Teal'c by his side. He was
bleeding messily from his neck and arms and nose. Shards of glass glinted in his hair, on his
shoulders. In his flesh. How he missed having his jugular severed, I'll never know.

Put it down to the luck of the Irish.

Sam was running a diagnostic on the Gate computer system. She looked white, strained. Kept
glancing over her shoulder at Jack.

"Janet! Thank God!" she said when she saw me. "I don't think anything's broken this time, but
he got well and truly walloped by the bomb's shock wave. And then when the wormhole disengaged
and the gravity well collapsed, he hit the wall pretty hard. He's completely out of it, doesn't
respond to any kind of pain stimulus. He's got a nosebleed but his ears are clean, I don't
think he's ruptured his ear drums or fractured his skull."

"Good," I said, on my knees beside him, medkit open at my side. "How about you? Are you all
right? And you, Teal'c?"

"I'm fine," Sam replied, tapping her computer keyboard, scowling at the monitor.

"I am unharmed also," said Teal'c. His eyes were very dark, his mouth turned down at the
corners. "It is Colonel O'Neill about whom you should be concerned."

"Trust me, Teal'c," I said, and reached over Jack's inert body to pat his arm. "I am. Now can
someone please tell me where all this glass came from?"

"The windows shattered, and the pieces got sucked outwards, towards the gate," Sam explained.
"Colonel O'Neill and Colonel Cromwell --" She stopped. Bit her lip. "They were directly in the
way. I tried to warn them, but ..."

Quietly, Teal'c said, "Captain Carter."

She gave him a tremulous smile. "Yeah. I know." Said to me, "If it hadn't been for the time
distortion of the gravity wave, they'd have both been cut to ribbons. But I don't think it's
too bad, is it?"

"No, it doesn't look like it," I replied, as I started a routine vitals check. Pupils first:
equal and reactive. That glorious contract and blossom of iris that brings joy to any doctor's
heart. Thank God. No serious head injury, then. Replacing the penlight in the medkit, I added,
"Siler told us what happened to Colonel Cromwell. I'm sorry."

Teal'c said, "There was nothing any of us could do. O'Neill tried, but no living creature could
have prevented Colonel Cromwell's death." And then he looked down at Jack, and frowned. Looked
up, meeting my eyes. He knew, and so did I, that Jack is completely irrational about things
like this. He'd never forgive himself. Not for Frank Cromwell. Not for Hank Boyd and his team,
either.

Tears burned me. I blinked and throttled them. I wasn't going to start thinking about Hank and
the rest of SG10. They knew the risks. Nobody made them do it. All of us know our next trip
through the Stargate could be our last. We don't talk about it, but we know.

Oh, Hank. No more pizza parties. No more Saturday night bowling. No more Ella Fitzgerald in the
mess hall. What will we do without you?

"Doctor Fraiser, are you all right?"

Teal'c. His hand on my shoulder. "I'm fine," I said, not daring to show my face. "Give me some
room here, would you please?"

"Of course," he said, and removed his hand.

I listened to Jack's heart, his lungs, took his pulse, 61, and jotted it down. I was starting
to feel a little better. True, he was out cold, but so far the picture wasn't looking too bad.
Sam swivelled round in her chair, frowning. "There was something really odd going on between
the Colonel and Cromwell," she said. "I don't suppose you know what it was, do you?"

"Odd?" I said, as I carefully wrapped the BP cuff round Jack's arm. "In what way?"

She shrugged. "Well, it was pretty clear they knew each other. And that there was some kind of
problem. But it wasn't like him and Mayborne. Or Samuels. It wasn't that kind of hostility. I
don't know. It was just ... odd."

"I'm afraid I have no idea," I said.

"I think they might have served together," said Sam.

"It's possible," I said. "Cromwell was Special Forces. The Colonel is ex-Special Forces. Don't
talk for a moment."

She turned back to the computer and I took Jack's blood pressure. A hundred over fifty. A
little low, but not unbearable. "Teal'c, I need a gurney. Could you bring me one from the
infirmary?"

"Of course," said Teal'c. Rose to his feet in that liquid metal flow of his, and left the
control room on silent feet. I ran my hands the length of Jack's body, feeling for
interruptions to its structure, but he was whole. Amazing.

"Is he okay?" Sam said.

"Probably," I replied. "Once I've cleaned him up I'll run some routine x-rays and an MRI to
make sure, but his vitals are good, his colour's not bad, and he appears to be in one piece,
for a change. Lord knows, he's looked worse."

She managed a quick grin. "True." Then the swift amusement faded, and she stared at Jack
without really seeing him. Pale. Shivery. Haunted, even.

"How about you?" I asked gently. "It must have been pretty awful watching Cromwell get sucked
into that gravity well thing."

She nodded, swallowing. "Yeah, it was. The Colonel tried so hard to hold onto him, to save him,
but ... like Teal'c said. It was hopeless." She blinked away tears. "He's going to be pretty
upset when he wakes up."

"It's a miracle any of you survived," I said, and had a shivery moment of my own. Another close
call. Another 'almost died' footnote for Jack's medical file. How many more before that damned
Irish luck finally ran out?

Something else I didn't want to think about.

Sam said, staring into thin air, "Right at the end, just before the bomb detonated, he stopped
trying to climb back up to us. He just ... stopped, and hung there. His face was -- it was
serene. Calm. No fear. No panic. Just complete acceptance."

"He made his peace with death a long time ago," I said quietly. "His own, at any rate. Other
people's is a different ball of wax altogether." I reached out my hand, laid it against Jack's
cheek. Cool. A little clammy. Silver glinted strongly at his temples, threadily elsewhere.

It didn't a year ago.

"It was close, Janet," said Sam, and rubbed her arms. "It terrifies me to think how close ..."

"Then don't," I advised, unwrapping the bp cuff. "A miss is as good as a mile in this business.
What might have happened didn't, so let's just count our blessings. We'll be up to our eyeballs
in postmortems soon enough."

When she didn't reply I looked up. She was slumped in her chair, staring at a nearby video
monitor. Mesmerised by Hank Boyd's fear twisted face. "I don't want them to be gone," she
whispered. "Abby and I had tickets for Les Mis. Can you believe she'd never seen it? She was
really looking forward --" She stopped. Pressed her fingers to her eyes. "It isn't fair." Her
voice ached with pain. Loss. Rage.

So did I ... but it would be long hours before I'd have the chance to let myself feel any of
those things. "No," I agreed steadily. "It isn't." Then I turned to the open doorway, mindful
of my patient. "Where the hell has Teal'c got to? I need that gurney."

That's when we both heard the clattering of regulation issue boots in the corridors and on the
stairs outside. Raised voices barking orders, acknowledging. A moment later General Hammond
entered the room, followed by Teal'c, and an airman pushing my gurney.

"Dr Fraiser," the General said, staring down at Jack. "How is he?"

"He should be fine, sir," I said, standing, "but I do need to get him to the infirmary."

"Of course," said the General. "Airman, give the doctor a hand to --"

"Unnecessary," said Teal'c, stepping forward. In one easy movement he bent down, lifted Jack
and deposited him carefully on the gurney. Jack didn't so much as flicker an eyelid. He really
was out cold.

"Thank you, Teal'c," the General said, with a discreetly amused glance in my direction. Then he
turned to Sam. "Status, Captain?"

"Everything seems to be operational, sir," she said, all traces of distress eliminated. A
military brat to her bootstraps, is our Sam. "The main problem is that we've lost the iris.
Without it we have no way of stopping unwanted inbound travellers."

"That's already in hand," the General assured her. "A new trinium strengthened iris is being
manufactured even as we speak."

"Wow," said Sam. "That was fast. Sir."

General Hammond's smile is positively wolfish on occasion. Teeth bared, he said, "I lit a fire
under one or two people. In the meantime there'll be around the clock security in the Gateroom.
Teal'c, I'd like you to co-ordinate that, please."

Teal'c nodded gravely. "Of course, General."

Hammond added, "I've also got replacement armoured glass on its way for in here. We should be
back to normal -- or what passes for normal around here -- within forty-eight hours."

Which was great, and I for one would sleep a lot better knowing that, but in the meantime ...
"General," I said. "If you'd excuse me?"

"Of course, Doctor," he said. "Don't let me hold you up."

So we wheeled Jack to the infirmary, where we inched him out of his g-suit and uniform and I
combed the worst of the glass out of his hair. Then we ran all the tests, x rays and MRI and a
CAT scan too, just to be on the safe side. When all that was done we wheeled him back to a
small private room in the infirmary, I pulled up a chair and a pair of tweezers and started
easing slivers of window out of his flesh.

It's a fiddly job that requires complete concentration. In fact I was concentrating so hard
that it took all of Daniel's excited volubility to bring me back to an awareness of my
surroundings. I could hear him half a corridor away.

" --- and when we still couldn't open the gate to you after about seven tries we knew something
was really wrong. We knew it wasn't our gate because we opened it to a couple of other places,
just to make sure. I just about passed out from relief when we finally got through to you."

I finished extracting the last shard of armour plated glass from Jack's shoulder, dropped it
with a satisfying clink into the tray, and looked up to see Daniel and Sam coming through the
door.

"Hey, Doc," he greeted me, half smiling, half frowning. "Jack in the wars again?"

"Again," I agreed. We smiled at each other. Daniel is a comforting person to have around. Very
accepting. Calming, in an exciteable kind of way.

Sam, staring at Jack, said, "He's still out."

"Yes," I said. "The MRI showed some bruising to his brain. Concussion, in layman's terms.
Nothing life threatening, and not enough to cause permanent damage. But he'll probably sleep
for a day or two, which isn't such a bad thing. He's going to be one sore and sorry Colonel,
what with the shake up from the explosion and hitting the gateroom wall and the glass cuts."

"What about them?" said Sam, arms barricaded across her chest. Holding in the fear, and the
pain.

"Oh, they're not too bad, on the whole," I reassured her. "A couple of deep ones. I'm just
about to stitch those. The rest will be okay with some betadine and butterfly strips."

"From what Sam's told me, he was lucky," said Daniel. The half smile was gone and his face was
all frown, now, as he stared down at Jack with his arms folded tight across his chest, too.
They looked like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, he and Sam, concern creasing their faces into
identical masks.

Damn Jack anyway. He's making us all old before our time.

"Very lucky," I agreed.

Daniel cleared his throat, painfully. "Not like SG10."

The three of us exchanged looks, and I saw my own anger and grief and sorrow reflected as
though in mirrors. The moment was broken by General Hammond, who came into the room looking
tired and worn. Grief was in him, too, buried beneath his professionalism ... but not so deep
that we couldn't see it. "I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get down here," he apologised.
"I've been on the phone with the President and the Joint Chiefs."

Something in the way he said it boded no good. Daniel and I pulled a face at each other, and
Sam said, "Trouble, sir?"

He nodded. "Let's just say that this latest little incident has put the fox among the chickens
in a major way. But that's my problem, Captain, not yours." He turned to Daniel. "Good to see
you, Dr Jackson. I take it Captain Carter has brought you up to speed?"

"Yes," said Daniel. "I'm just sorry I wasn't here to help."

The General smiled, gently. "Don't take this the wrong way, son, but I'm glad you weren't. When
it looked like we were all going to hell in a handbasket, it was a small comfort to know that a
few of us would survive, albeit 'out there'." Then he turned to me. "What's the story with
Colonel O'Neill, Doctor?"

I filled him in, finishing with, "I'll have the nursing staff check on him at regular thirty
minute intervals, but as I said, I really don't expect him to wake up for at least twenty-four
hours."

The General nodded. Turned to look down at Jack, sleeping so peacefully beside us. It's not
until he's silent, quiescent, that you realise just how overwhelming his waking presence is. He
dominates a room without even trying. And it's not because he's tall. I've known tall people
who fade in the middle of an empty closet. And it's got nothing to do with physical appearance
either, because he's really not that good looking. At least, not until he smiles. I don't know.
It's that same something that makes a champion racehorse stand out in a field. Charisma.
Strength and fire and force of personality.

In the end, it's why the Maybornes and the Kennedys and the Samuels of this world don't like
him. They feel the lack in themselves, and are resentful.

To be honest, it was intimidating at first. Now its absence unnerves me.

It unnerved General Hammond too. A man not without charisma himself. He said, frowning, "You're
sure he's going to be all right?"

"Well," I said. Cautious. Conservative. I'm not a big fan of 'the operation was a success but
the patient died' school of medicine. "When it comes to head injuries nothing's guaranteed. I'm
sure you're aware of that. It's quite a severe concussion and as you know, sir, it's not his
first. But I've seen nothing in his test results to indicate complications. At this stage I do
expect him to make a complete recovery."

"Excellent, excellent," said the General. "As I told you, I've been in conference with the
President and the Joint Chiefs for the past three hours. They wanted me to extend their
congratulations and gratitude to you, Captain Carter, for your sterling work throughout this
crisis. You'll be hearing more through official channels, eventually, but they were most
anxious that I pass on the message to you personally, and as soon as possible."

Sam flushed. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

He smiled at her, as warmly as I've ever seen him smile. "Sam, you never cease to amaze me.
Your father would be so very proud of you, right now. I am very proud. It's an honour to know
you."

Sam looked like she wanted to burst into tears. "Mmm," she said, in a strangled little voice.
"Thank you, sir."

Daniel, sensing danger, said brightly, "Gee, Captain, can I have your autograph?"

Which made us all laugh, and gave Sam a precious few seconds to regain her self-control.

Sobering, General Hammond continued, "We've also decided that any official memorial services
for SG10, and Colonel Cromwell, will be delayed until Colonel O'Neill is well enough to attend.
Given his close associations with both parties, I don't think it would be fair to do anything
else."

"Colonel Cromwell," said Daniel. "That's the Special Forces guy who was killed?"

"That's correct," said the General.

"So I was right," said Sam, largely to herself. "There was something going on between them."

General Hammond gave her a sharp look. "What makes you say that, Captain?"

"Oh, well, sir, it was just ... Colonel Cromwell called Colonel O'Neill by his first name, and
it was pretty clear they knew each other well and --" She cleared her throat. "I just got the
feeling that there was something going on. Sir."

"That may or may not be the case," said the General. "Either way, it's nothing to do with us."

Sam blinked. "Of course not, sir."

The General looked at me. "Keep me posted on Colonel O'Neill's condition, Doctor. Notify me the
minute he regains consciousness."

"Of course, sir," I said.

He gave us all a nod, and left. Daniel raised his eyebrows. "Why do I get the feeling the fox
isn't just in with the chickens, it's tearing their throats out as well?"

"Because it is?" said Sam. She shook her head. "There must be some serious heat coming down
from upstairs."

"I guess so," Daniel agreed. And grinned. But you're okay. You're a hero. Again."

She punched him. "Watch it."

Rubbing his arm, still grinning, he said, "I was going to ask you to give me a hand unpacking
all my stuff from P3X808, but I guess you're too important now to stoop to such menial --"

"Janet," said Sam, "does the sight of blood disturb you? Maybe you should avert your eyes ..."

"Pax, pax," said Daniel, raising his hands. "So. You gonna help? There's some really neat
stuff."

She shrugged. "Yeah, I guess. It'll make a nice change from quantum gravity theory, at any
rate."

"That's a good idea," I said. "You two children run away and play. I have to get out my needle
and thread and embroider pretty patterns in Colonel O'Neill's neck."

"Gee," said Daniel. "My favourite spectator sport. Not. Wanna meet up in the mess hall for
dinner later?"

Cassie was sleeping over at a friend's place, and I wouldn't be going home any time soon.
"Sure," I said. "Why not? 1900?"

"See you then," said Sam, and they left, scuffling like school kids. I fetched a suture kit.
Odd as it may sound, I find stitching cuts therapeutic. All those nice, neat little knots
tidying up the messy bits. To be on the safe side I injected the wounds with local anaesthetic,
but I doubt Jack would have felt it even if I hadn't. As I pierced and pulled and looped and
tied I wondered where he was. What he was dreaming. Happy dreams, I hoped. There was such a
world of sadness waiting for him when he woke.

When the suturing was done, and he was slid neatly into a medical gown, propped up with
pillows, tucked beneath a blanket, tubed and taped and monitored with EEG and EKG, I left him
in peace and retreated to my office to write up notes.

*****

At 1910, hungry and tired and ready to be distracted, I made my way to the mess hall. Sam and
Daniel were seated in the far corner, talking as they ate. They saw me and waved.

I grabbed a tray, helped myself to some pasta with bolognaise sauce and threaded my way between
the tables to join them. The room was maybe half full, and buzzing with a dozen different
conversations. But the mood was odd. Subdued, yet agitated. I think everyone was still coming
to terms with what had nearly happened. What had happened. It's a strange dichotomy: we're
prepared for death, yet when it comes we're surprised. Outraged. Offended. For all that we've
made peace with our mortality, we resent being reminded of it.

"Hey," said Daniel, as I slid into a chair opposite.

"Hey yourself," I said, sorting out cutlery and napkins.

"How's Jack?"

"Still sleeping."

"You're absolutely sure he's going to be okay, aren't you?" said Sam.

I sighed. "As sure as I can be. Now stop fussing, and finish your dinner before it gets cold."

She smiled. "Yes, ma'am."

I turned my attention to my own meal, and smiled to myself as they resumed their friendly
argument about the likely origins of one of the pieces Daniel brought back from the dig. Ten
minutes later, a shadow fell across the table.

"Colonel Makepeace," said Sam, politely. "Good evening, sir."

Makepeace stared down at her. "Is it?"

Between you and me and the Stargate, I don't much care for Makepeace. And it has nothing to do
with the fact that's he's a Marine and I'm Air Force. I don't warm to him because he's
aggressive and belligerent and pushes his people too hard.

He doesn't much like SG1, either ... but of course that doesn't have anything to do with why I
don't like him.

And if you believe that, let me tell you about this great swampland I have, going cheap.

Sam and Daniel and I exchanged quick glances. Daniel said, "Well I don't know about you,
Colonel, but I think it's a good evening."

Makepeace's expression left no doubt as to how he feels about Daniel. "You would."

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Four people are dead, Dr Jackson," Makepeace said. "Or have you been too busy playing with
your -- artifact -- to notice?"

"Oh," said Daniel. "I noticed. I definitely noticed. I just don't see what it has to do with
Captain Carter."

Sam reached out her hand. "Daniel ..."

"Captain Carter was the one who assessed the probe's initial telemetry," said Makepeace.

"A lot of people assessed the probe's initial telemetry, surely," said Daniel. "Captain Carter
wasn't the only one, was she?"

"She's the superstar astrophysicist," Makepeace retorted. "Hammond's golden girl."

"That was inappropriate, Colonel," said Sam. "And it's rude to discuss someone as if they're
not present when they're sitting right in front of you. If you've got a point to make, then
make it. Sir."

"My point," said Makepeace, "is that you didn't notice the black hole. My point is that you let
SG10 gate to their deaths. My point is that I kind of can't help wondering who you're going to
get killed next. My point, Captain, is that we came within a whisker of destroying this planet,
and none of it would have happened if you'd done your job properly to begin with!"

Makepeace's voice had risen to a near shout. We were attracting an audience. Sam was pale. I
could have slapped him.

"In case you've forgotten, Colonel," I said as coldly as I knew how, "this planet was saved
because of Captain Carter. As for her being responsible for the deaths of SG10, you are way out
of line. Now why don't you just go and get your dinner and leave us to enjoy ours. We're all
upset by what's happened, and I think we need to give each other some space."

Makepeace ignored me.

"I heard you were so cut up over SG10 you wanted to keep the video running while they died."

Sam flinched as though he'd struck her. "Who told you that?"

"Good news travels fast, Captain. Guess you must be disappointed, huh, you didn't get your home
movie."

"I know how it looks," Sam said. Her voice was tight. Hard. "I didn't mean to be insensitive. I
was thinking about the knowledge that could be gained, I just wanted --"

"Don't, Sam," said Daniel. "You don't have to explain anything to him. To anyone."

"Yeah, she does," Makepeace contradicted. He turned a little, swept his angry gaze over the
listening room. "Every time we go through that gate, we're trusting what she says. She's the
expert. That's why she was brought on board in the first place, right? So if we're putting our
lives in her hands, we've got the right to ask some questions!"

Heads were nodding in agreement. Not a lot, not everyone's, but enough to worry me, and drain
the last colour from Sam's cheeks. She said, "We won't know the exact reasons why the probe
didn't detect the black hole till we've had a chance to study the data." Now it was her turn to
address the room at large. "You know I'd never wilfully put any of you in danger. You know
that."

Someone said, "Not on purpose. But mistakes happen. This was a mistake, and look what it cost.
Four lives and nearly the whole damned planet."

Sam stood up. "We don't know that it was a mistake. It could just be a limitation of the
technology. We're dealing with a lot of new stuff, a lot of questions that we can't always
answer, it's --"

The same voice said, "Then if it's all so limited, should we even be doing it at all? Risking
our lives, the planet, on guesswork and maybes?"

Pushing her chair aside, Sam stepped away from the table. Daniel said, "Sam, don't, there's no
point --" but she ignored him. Walked towards the speaker. It was Brad Davies, another Captain,
part of SG4.

"Are you saying we shouldn't, Brad?" she demanded. "Are you saying we should just shut up shop
and pretend that we really are all alone in the galaxy? It's too late for that."

"Yeah. Thanks to you," said Makepeace. I really, really wanted to slap him.

The buzz of conversation was back now, but it was angry and nervous and dangerous. We'd had
such a fright, you see. We were in pain. And the human animal lashes out when it's frightened
and hurting. Daniel said, "We have to stop this."

"Agreed," I said. "Any suggestions as to how?"

He glared up at Makepeace. "You started this. You finish it."

Makepeace scowled. "I didn't start anything. I'm just asking a few legitimate questions. And if
you'd pull your head out of your butt for five seconds you'd realise that I'm right."

"If anyone's head is up their butt, it's yours," Daniel snapped. "Jack was right. You are a
jarhead. This whole facility has just come through a major crisis, and instead of trying to
calm things down, you're calming them up! How'd you get your Colonel's stripes, anyhow?
Consolation prize in a raffle?"

I closed my eyes. Flinched as Makepeace launched into a full frontal assault on Daniel's
parentage, intelligence and fitness for living. Behind me, Sam was still trying to convince
Brad Davies, and others, that regardless of the inherent risks, the Stargate Project was still
vital and viable. It sounded like she was losing the battle.

Dinner cold, congealing and unwanted, I eased myself out of the warzone and headed for the
internal phone. Dialled Hammond's extension.

"Sir? Dr Fraiser. You might want to come down to the mess hall. We seem to have a situation,
here."

Five minutes later, the General walked into a scene of chaos. Daniel and Makepeace were still
going at it hammer and tongs. Sam was in the middle of a group of about twelve people,
desperately trying to prove her case. Four more arguments had broken out around the room. There
was no violence, at least not physically, but the noise of anger was deafening and the mood was
ugly. Flashpoint.

Hammond paused in the doorway, eyes wide with astonishment and dismay. His gaze found me, and
his lips framed a question: What the hell is going on here?

I made my way over to him. Raised my voice. "I'm sorry, sir, but I thought it was a case of
bringing in the big guns. They don't seem to be in the mood to listen to quiet reason."

Grimly, the General surveyed his brawling personnel. Stalked over to the food service area,
nodded at the fraught airman on duty, picked up an empty pot that had been left behind the
counter and bashed it furiously against the metal bench. The sound echoed brashly off the
concrete walls.

Everybody jumped. Broke off in mid-sentence and stared. Paled when they saw who was brandishing
the saucepan. Only one voice continued its haranguing into the sudden silence.

"--- and from the way you've behaved here tonight, I'd say that 'jarhead' is nowhere near an
accurate description of your --"

"That's enough, Dr Jackson!" the General ordered.

Daniel turned. Stared. "Oh. General. I didn't notice you come in."

"Obviously," the General said. Then he handed the saucepan to the stunned airman, and turned
his unimpressed gaze onto the rest of the room. His displeasure was as cold as winter, and as
deep. "To say the least, I am disappointed. This is not how I expect my people to conduct
themselves. I don't know who started this, and I don't care. I am stopping it. Right now. And I
don't want a repeat performance. Ever. Do I make myself clear?"

Lots of nods and mutters and yessirs.

"I suggest that if you're done with eating, you find yourselves something else to do.
Understood?"

More nods and mutters and yessirs.

"Then you're all dismissed. Dr Fraiser, a word?"

With a last look at Daniel and Sam, I withdrew and accompanied the General as he marched along
the corridor, fuming. Once clear of any kind of audience, he stopped and glared at me.

"Would you care to explain what that was all about?"

I took a deep breath. Let it out. "Sir ... we've just survived a pretty major crisis. Or maybe
I should say, another major crisis. Anxiety levels are running high right now. Plus there's the
matter of SG10. Frankly, I'd be more surprised if there wasn't some kind of reaction from the
personnel."

Hammond wiped his hand down his face. He looked tired and stressed and full of headache.
"Doctor, I have enough on my plate at the moment without this kind of nonsense! In five days'
time I have to appear before the President and the Joint Chiefs with a complete explanation as
to how this latest major crisis happened, why I allowed it to happen, and how we're going to
prevent anything like it happening again. In other words, Doctor, I don't expect to be seeing
my own bed for a while. And now you're telling me I have a morale crisis to deal with as well?"

"Not a crisis, sir, no," I said quickly. Not because it wasn't true, since I had the nasty
feeling that it might be. I just didn't want to give him anything more to worry about. "What we
saw then was a natural response to anxiety and grief. I'll set up a counselling schedule first
thing in the morning."

"Yes, you do that," the General said. Let out a gusty sigh. "How's Colonel O'Neill doing?"

"He's still sleeping, sir," I said.

The General grunted. Rubbed his eyes again. Scowled, and said, "Do you know who Cromwell was?"

I shook my head. "You mean apart from being a Special Forces operative? No, sir, I don't. Why?
Should I?"

"Not really. I just thought you might have made the connection," the General said. "Among other
things, Cromwell was the man responsible for O'Neill's imprisonment and torture in Iraq. The
man who left him behind."

Understanding dawned hot and bright. Dammit, I should have remembered. "Oh," I said. Shit.

The General's expression suggested he thought so, too. "By the time I found out, it was too
late. He'd already been deployed here."

"I see."

And I did. We both did. The General and I know Jack's service and medical records better than
anyone. Maybe even better than he knows them himself. The Iraq entries are about the hardest to
read. I don't let myself think about what it must have been like to actually live them. There
is such a thing as having too vivid an imagination.

"To make matters worse," the General added, "Cromwell and O'Neill were friends before the Iraq
debacle."

Double shit.

"In that case, sir," I said carefully, "I'll make sure I include a mandatory counselling
session for Colonel O'Neill."

"You do that," General Hammond said. "For all the good it'll do any of us."

"We should at least try," I pointed out.

He managed a tired, resigned smile. "We should. Now if you'll excuse me, Doctor, I have a great
deal of work to get back to."

I watched him walk wearily away. Not a young man any more. Bowed down by the impossible task of
overseeing the Stargate Project. Of knowing the safety of an entire world was in his hands.

I kind of found myself thinking that maybe Brad Davies had a point.

Heaving a pretty gusty sigh of my own, I went back to my office. Consoled my rumbling stomach
with an apple, and started drawing up the counselling roster.

*****

Jack regained consciousness at 1224 the next day. Sooner than I'd anticipated, but then that's
Jack for you. Always confounding expectations. He didn't last long, though. It was another ten
hours before he surfaced again. I was still at the base, working late, trying to catch up on
the mountain of paperwork that accumulates whenever my back is turned ... and often when it
isn't. I was tired, and cross, and missing Cassie, even though I knew she was tickled pink to
have another night with her best friend Libby.

One of the nurses, Emily, came to get me.

"It's Colonel O'Neill," she said. "I think you'd better come."

I managed -- barely -- to keep myself from running. Oh God, oh God. Blood clot? Subarachnoid
haemorrhage? Aneurism? Please, please, please ...

He was alone. Tangled in his bedclothes. Sweat soaked and struggling in the grip of nightmare.

"It's okay, I'll handle it," I told Emily. "Close the door after you."

One look at his face and I knew what he was reliving. I didn't need the sound effects, but for
my sins I got them anyway. My skin crawled. No human being should ever be forced to make noises
like that.

No human being should ever be tortured.

"Jack," I said, flicking on the bedlight and taking hold of his shoulder. "Jack! It's okay,
you're dreaming, it's not real. Wake up, wake up!"

On a throttled cry he woke. I got the basin to him just in time. Placed it discreetly out of
view when the retching was done, wiped him clean with a damp cloth, helped him untangle the
sheet and blanket, pulled a chair up to the bedside, and waited.

Far, far beyond speech he lay there, curled on his side. Shaking. Time passed. After a while he
began to relax. The tremors eased. Eventually they ceased. His face regained some mobility, and
his eyes refocused, looked outwards instead of deep within. He looked at me. His lips framed a
single word: Thanks.

"You're welcome," I said. Relief made my eyes water.

He coughed. Swallowed. Grimaced at the lingering taste of bile and whispered, "Flashback."

I nodded. "Do you want some water?"

"Please."

I fetched the water. Helped him sit up. Steadied his hand as he held the glass and drank. Put
the glass on the nightstand and said, "How long is it since that's happened?"

Cautiously he lay down again. "A while. Years, since ... that."

The urge to touch him was overpowering. I straightened the blanket. "You okay?" Yes, I know. A
stupid question. But I wasn't prepared for feeling so ... fraught. Like I said. The curse of a
vivid imagination.

He gifted me with the truth. "No. Not really." Then added, with the ghost of a smile, "I could
use a drink."

And so say all of us. "Sorry," I told him. "Not with a head injury."

He pulled a face. Reached out a still unsteady hand and touched my wrist. "I'm sorry, too.
Didn't mean to scare you."

"You didn't," I said. Then added, hesitantly, "I'm so sorry about SG10. Hank. And Colonel
Cromwell."

He flinched. Turned his face away. Closed his eyes.

I'd lost him.

Beyond the closed door, base life continued. A trolley rattled down the corridor. Someone
coughed. Someone else laughed. Somewhere nearby a radio played hits from the Eighties. Jack
opened his eyes.

"Still here?"

"You're right," I said. "Who can sleep with someone staring at them? I'll leave you to rest.
Did you want something to help you settle?"

"No. I'm fine."

He didn't look fine. Sound fine. He looked like he needed to be held ... like he'd shatter if
anyone tried. I touched his wrist for a moment, felt the scudding pulse beneath my fingers. He
withdrew his arm. His attention. Crawled back inside himself like a hurt animal retreating to
safety.

"Then I'll see you tomorrow," I said. "Okay?"

"Okay," he replied, distantly. And didn't ask me to turn off the bedlight.

*****

When I checked on him again the next morning, Daniel and Teal'c were there. Standing on either
side of the bed with such helpless expressions that if I hadn't been worried, I'd have laughed.

"Doctor Fraiser!" Daniel said, and mimed panic at me. "Hey, Jack, look who's here."

Subdued, listless, Jack didn't lower his gaze from the overhead airduct. Daniel pulled a
succession of faces designed, I think, to warn me that Jack wasn't feeling too chipper this
morning. He needn't have bothered, I could see it for myself.

I'd run into Emily as she was leaving, and she'd told me there'd been two more incidents
through the night. In the end they'd given him a mild sedative, ignoring his bitter protests,
insisting that he needed the rest. But it didn't seem to have done him much good. His eyes were
sunken and shadowed, his face pale and drawn. He looked exhausted. Battered.

Teal'c said, "We have been attempting to lift Colonel O'Neill's spirits, but with little
success, I am afraid."

Jack roused himself enough to give Teal'c a dirty look. "I'm fine. Go away."

"You are not fine, O'Neill," Teal'c replied. "If you were fine, you would not be in the
Infirmary."

"Don't you have work to do?" Jack said. "I told you, I'm fine. Just leave me alone."

"Actually," I said, before the situation turned really nasty, "I do need a word with Colonel
O'Neill in private. You can come back later."

"Or not," said Jack.

Daniel and Teal'c withdrew, Teal'c impassive as ever, Daniel still pulling faces.

"There's no need to be rude," I said. "They're only trying to help."

"I don't need help," said Jack. "I don't need anything, except for everyone to get off my case.
This place is like Grand Central Station, I've had Carter in here and Hammond and that bloody
shrink, Daniel and Teal'c and now you."

I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out a packet of painkillers. "Take these."

"No," he said. "What are they?"

"Painkillers. It's obvious you've got a headache."

"Of course I've got a headache," he snapped. "I can't get five minutes peace."

"You've got a headache," I said, "because you're still recovering from concussion. Now stop
acting like a spoilt brat and swallow the damned pills."

He treated me to a vintage filthy look, but snatched the packet from my fingers, upended the
pills into his mouth and washed them down with a swallow of water. Then he slumped back against
his pillows and went back to staring at the ceiling, aggression swamped once more by gloom.

"Jack --" I said, ready to tell him a few home truths. Then I stopped. I'd be wasting my
breath. Instead I pulled his blankets straight. Touched his hand, briefly. "Get some rest,
Colonel. I'll check in on you later."

*****

There was a message waiting for me at the duty nurse's desk. Please see General Hammond at
once. Frowning, I let the Infirmary staff know where I was going and went to find out what he
wanted. Not more bad news, I pleaded silently. I can't take any more right now.

Sam, Daniel and Teal'c were waiting outside his office door.

"He'll be back in a minute," said Daniel.

"Do you know what this is about?" I asked.

"We do not," said Teal'c.

I looked at Sam. "How are you doing?" I said. I hadn't seen her since the mess hall incident,
she'd been cooped up in the briefing room with the rest of the Project scientists, trying to
work out exactly what had gone wrong, and why. She looked tired.

"I'm fine," she replied. "Really. A little stir crazy, maybe."

"Any progress?"

She shrugged. "Some. I just don't know whether it'll be enough."

"Geez," said Daniel. "You saved the planet, Sam. What else do they want?"

"Assurances that we won't have to save it again," she replied.
any."

Daniel bumped his shoulder against hers. "You're doing your best. That's all they can expect."

Sam and I exchanged a look. Dear Daniel. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't quite seem to
wrap his mind around the concept of Military Thinking.

Daniel said, "We were just talking about Jack. We think there's something wrong."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Said, "Really?"

Daniel stared at me for a long, silent moment. "Really. Is there something going on we should
know about?"

Before I was forced to lie, General Hammond returned. "Sorry to keep you, people. Please, go
in." His manner was pleasant. He was freshly shaven, spit and polished to his fingertips, no
outward signs of catastrophe .... but all my alarm bells were ringing. Maybe because he refused
to meet my questioning look.

Into his office we trooped, to find four chairs ready and waiting. We sat, like kids in the
principal's office, and exchanged surreptitious glances.

Sliding in behind his desk, the General folded his hands in front of him and surveyed us with a
curious intensity. Grave. Determined. My alarm bells were ringing so loudly it was a wonder no-
one else could hear them.

"Thank you for coming," the General said. "I know that you're all extremely busy right now. But
something has arisen that affects each of us, and after due consideration I felt it necessary
to address the matter directly."

More swift looks.

"As you by now have probably all realised," said the General, "it's not my habit to discuss one
member of the SGC staff with another. What each of us chooses to tell others about himself or
his past is up to us. Some of us are happy to discuss our personal and private lives, and
others prefer to keep that information to ourselves. It's certainly nobody else's business but
our own." He paused, and we nodded. No arguments there. He continued, "Recent events, however,
have conspired to place me in the position of having to break that rule. I don't do it lightly.
I don't do it happily. And I do it with the expectation that what gets said here, now, within
these four walls, will go no further. Is that understood?"

We all murmured appropriately. Daniel said, "This wouldn't be about Jack, by any chance, would
it, General?"

For a moment Hammond looked startled. Then his face relaxed into a tiny smile. "That's very
perceptive of you, Doctor Jackson. Yes, it would."

Sam turned to me. "He's all right, isn't he? He hasn't had a relapse, or anything?"

"No," I said. "He hasn't."

"Physically, Captain, Colonel O'Neill is just fine," the General reassured her.

"But emotionally he's a wreck," said Daniel. "Because of SG10? Or is there something else?"

Dear, dear Daniel. Flying in at a hundred miles an hour where no angel would even look, let
alone tread. And seeing straight to the heart of the dilemma, as always.

The General said, "The loss of SG10 is certainly part of the problem. You all know how much
work Colonel O'Neill put into preparing them for their first away mission. You know how close
he was to them, and to Henry Boyd in particular. And you know he will blame himself for their
deaths."

"Which is utterly ridiculous," said Daniel. "How could it possibly be Jack's fault? It was an
accident. A horrible, awful accident."

"I know that, son," the General said. "So do you. But Jack O'Neill doesn't see things that way.
One of the reasons he's such a good officer is because he takes his responsibilities so
seriously. Nothing is more important to him than the welfare and safety of his team. And,
rightly or wrongly, he looked upon SG10 as his team. Without even talking to him about it, I
can tell you for a fact that he considers their deaths a personal failure. That he feels he
overlooked something that would have enabled them to save themselves from the black hole. " He
looked at me. "Would you concur with that assessment, Doctor?"

I was so angry with him, I could have spit. Because I knew what was coming, I knew what he was
going to do. How far he was going to take this. I knew why, too, but that didn't make it okay.
I wanted to run out of the room. To thump my fist on his desk and shout, Don't you dare drag me
into this! Not without asking, not without making sure I agreed. And I didn't. This was a gross
violation of confidence, and I didn't want any part of it.

But if I walked out. If I left him to it -- I wouldn't know exactly what was said. I needed to
know. Needed to be able to control the damage.

So coldly, letting him know I was not impressed, I said, "Yes. Colonel O'Neill is likely to
take their loss very personally indeed. I know that Hank Boyd considered him a great friend,
and his mentor."

Late one Tuesday night, over mouth-searing pepperoni pizza, Hank said to me: I wish you'd known
him before his kid died. He was different, then. He laughed a lot. Seeing him now, it -- well,
it hurts. It's like he's been crippled.

I said: But he does laugh, Hank. You make him laugh.

He grinned at me, that silly, cheesy grin we'd all fallen in love with. Then it faded, and his
long face was serious. "I owe him everything, Doc. I owe him my life. And I miss the old Jack.

My heart gave a painful double thump, and I bit my lip, hard. Hank.

Daniel said, "Okay. I understand that Jack's upset about Hank's death. And everyone else's. We
all are. But he's not a sentimental person. SG10 isn't the first team we've lost. I don't see
why this time is so different."

General Hammond held up a hand. "Bear with me. I'm getting to that." He took a deep breath.
Eased it out. "What do you people know about Colonel O'Neill's involvement in Operation Desert
Storm?"

"Desert Storm?" said Teal'c. "I am unfamiliar with this conflict." He looked at Daniel.

"Wouldn't have a clue what he did," said Daniel. "Jack's not much into battle reminiscences."

"I asked him, once," said Sam. "Making conversation. You know ... I was flying support out of
Saudi during Desert Storm, sir, where were you?"

"What did he say?" said Daniel.

Sam's expression was mystified. "'Club Med.'"

Daniel's eyebrows rose. "'Club Med?'"

She pulled a face. "I took it he meant 'butt out, Captain', so I didn't pursue it. I like my
head on my shoulders, if you know what I mean."

The General was smiling, a grim, not very amused little smile. "I expect he was telling you to
mind your own business, Captain," he said. "But in his own way, he was also telling you the
truth. Colonel O'Neill spent most of Operation Desert Storm in an Iraqi prison."

Into the shocked silence Sam said, "Oh, my God."

Daniel, staring into thin air with a remembering, bemused look on his face said, "So that's
what he meant."

I just sat there, feeling sick.

Hammond continued, "At the time of the Gulf War, he was Major O'Neill, and 2IC of a 55th
Special Operations team led by Colonel Frank Cromwell. As well as colleagues, they were close
friends. They even had a nickname: The Bobbsey Twins. Their wives were like sisters, their kids
played together. You get the picture."

Daniel turned to Sam. "I thought you said there was some kind of problem between them?"

"There was," said Sam.

"So what happened?" Daniel asked Hammond.

"I'm getting to that, Doctor Jackson," said the General, not entirely thrilled by the
interruption. "Cromwell's team was sent behind enemy lines on an extremely sensitive, extremely
dangerous mission. Somehow, the Iraqis found out they were coming. The mission was blown, and
O'Neill was shot. According to Colonel Cromwell, it appeared that he was dead. Retrieving the
body would have jeapordised the rest of the team, so he pulled them out. They barely escaped
with their lives."

"Except that Jack wasn't dead," said Daniel. "Whoops."

"Intelligence discovered that O'Neill was still alive and being held by the Iraqis," the
General continued, after giving Daniel a look. "When Frank Cromwell found out that he'd left
his friend wounded and in enemy hands, he was beside himself. Tried everything he could to get
a rescue mission mounted. Just about scuttled his own career in the process. But rescue was
deemed too dangerous and permission was refused."

"Refused?" Daniel echoed. He looked ill, and angry. "How could they? The military must have
known what the Iraqis would do to Jack. How could they refuse? How could they just -- just
abandon him like that?"

"The risks were higher than the likelihood of a positive outcome," Sam said quietly. "It's not
good strategy to endanger ten lives for one."

"Strategy?" Daniel spat, choking on the word. Indignant and furious and horrified as only
Daniel can be when faced with harsh military reality. "What happened to loyalty?"

"If you think the decision was taken lightly, Doctor, you're very much mistaken," the General
said, his tone touched with ice. "Wait till you're in a similar position yourself before you
pass judgement on those who are."

Unabashed, Daniel said, "Sorry. So ... what did they do to him?"

The General gave me the minutest of nods, and I cleared my throat. Treated him to another
glare, and said, "During his four months in Iraqi detention, Colonel O'Neill was subjected to
regular physical and mental torture in an effort to make him reveal key US Military
information."

I kept my tone cool and distant like a college lecturer. Striving for the impersonal, because
anything more than that was too painful. Remembered his face, his voice, as he dreamed of that
time, and failed, utterly. Saw in my mind's eye the photographs, the medical reports, Jack's
debriefing notes. After all, it's always useful to know what little tricks of persuasion the
enemy's getting up to. As it turned out, nothing new. Just good old fashioned sleep
deprivation, starvation, electricity and beatings. Lots of beatings. And humiliations so
degrading, so foul, it turned my stomach just to think of them.

Four months in prison, two months in hospital, another month of sick leave after that. And the
scars in mind and body that will never, ever heal.

"Torture," said Daniel. "For four months." He shook his head slowly. Disbelievingly. "Why isn't
he dead?"

General Hammond snorted. "God knows, Dr Jackson. From the evidence it would appear that He
isn't finished with Jack O'Neill just yet."

"He did not break," said Teal'c. Said it like he'd been there, said it like it was written in
stone. There was a cold, fierce satisfaction in his face.

The General smiled. "He did better than that. He held out for three months. Then he pretended
to break, and fed them enough disinformation to keep their wires crossed for a year."

I already knew that. I watched Sam and Daniel and Teal'c exchange looks, watched them think
about it. Absorb the implications. Imagine the reality behind the deceptively benign words.

"Wow," said Daniel. "That's .... pretty amazing. Even for Jack."

"He was made a Colonel on the strength of it," said the General. Then he gave an inelegant
little snort. "There are times, I swear, when stuffed shirts like Mayborne and Samuels and a
few others I could mention whinge and bitch and moan about O'Neill's manners and lack of
military decorum, I just want to grab his service record and rub their noses in it till they
bleed."

"Why do you not do so?" said Teal'c.

The General just shook his head. "Because, Teal'c, ninetynine percent of it is classified.
Because it wouldn't be appropriate. Because Jack O'Neill doesn't need defending by me, or
anyone else for that matter." He sighed. Allowed a rueful smile. "But it sure would feel good."

It sure would. For a brief moment the five of us indulged in a mutual fantasy involving
revenge, comeuppances and grovelling apologies ... then Daniel said, "You said Colonel Cromwell
thought he was dead? That means Sara and Charlie thought he was dead, too. God!"

So much for lightening the mood.

"We were at war, Doctor Jackson," the General pointed out heavily. "Mistakes happen in war."

I could see Daniel wanted to argue, wanted to rail and fight and scream against what had been
done to Jack. So did I. We'd never talked about it. I doubt he ever spoke of it again, once the
inescapable debriefings were done with. Not even to Sara. Not that I know for sure, of course
... it's just a feeling. Bad enough to live through that kind of treatment once. Worse to have
to detail it, blow by bruising blow, for doctors and psychiatrists and curious superiors and
all his peers. For Jack, private to the point of paranoia, a second torture as unbearable as
the first. To go through it a third time, even for his wife ... unthinkable.

Besides. I couldn't imagine Jack subjecting someone he loved, who loved him, to those kinds of
images.

"So how did we get Jack back?" said Daniel. "Did he escape?"

"No," said the General. "Not even Jack O'Neill could escape from a maximum security Iraqi
prison." Our eyes met, and in them I saw the knowledge we unwillingly shared. Vicarious
memories of savagery and suffering visited on a helpless, wounded man. "Not in the condition he
was in. He was released at the end of hostilities."

He took a deep breath and let it out. I wondered if he was regretting his decision to break
confidence, now that it was far too late to turn back.

If he was, there was no sign of it in his face.

He continued, "Once O'Neill was free, Colonel Cromwell tried again and again to see him in the
hospital. O'Neill flat refused. Eventually Cromwell gave up. Once he was declared fit for
active duty, the newly promoted Colonel O'Neill was put in charge of his own team. He moved to
a different theatre of operations. Managed to avoid Cromwell from that point on. To the best of
my knowledge, they hadn't spoken since the day O'Neill was taken prisoner in Iraq. Not until --
" He scowled. "Whatever the hell day it was down here that they met."

"Seven years," said Sam. "Seven years without once talking. Wow. That's what I call holding a
grudge."

"O'Neill suffered greatly as a result of Cromwell's erroneous assumption," Teal'c said. "It was
not unreasonable for him to be angry."

"Angry, yes," said Sam. "But to cut him dead like that? His best friend? To not even give him a
chance to explain? Tell his side of what happened? Holy Hannah."

The General frowned. Picked up a pen and tapped it end to end on his desk blotter. Since I know
his file about as well as I know Jack's, I had a suspicion of what was shadowing his eyes.
Thinning his lips. Jack isn't the only one with demons. He said, "Time doesn't heal all wounds,
Captain, although we like to think it does. Some wounds never heal, no matter how many
different bandaids we try." It was indeed a sobering thought. The General's old fashioned
carriage clock ticked quietly into the hush as we all sat and considered this new aspect of
Jack O'Neill.

"Now," said the General, "to bring this up to date. While I was at the Pentagon briefing the
President and the Joint Chiefs, I was approached by General Grant Hill. We go back aways. He's
in Special Forces Operations, has been for the last fifteen years, one way and another. He
knows Colonel O'Neill, and he knew Frank Cromwell. Knew them both very well before, during and
after Desert Storm. "

"What did he want?' asked Daniel.

"To warn me that Frank Cromwell was leading the team sent to investigate our communications
blackout."

Teal'c raised an eyebrow. "He anticipated trouble? Why then did he authorise Colonel Cromwell's
deployment?"

"Colonel Cromwell," the General said carefully, "requested the assignment. Forcefully. General
Hill's exact words were, 'He damned near stood on my desk refusing to get off till I said
yes'."

"But why?" said Sam. "Unless --"

"Unless he knew Colonel O'Neill was here," I finished. Despite myself, I was interested. I'd
wanted to know the story behind Jack and Cromwell. Had thought maybe I'd hear it from Jack.
Never expected to find out this way. A small part of me was ashamed ... but mostly, well, I was
interested.

So sue me.

"Jack was his friend," Daniel said. His glasses flashed in the lamplight from the General's
desk. "Despite everything."

"Cromwell must have kept himself apprised of O'Neill's activities," said Teal'c.

"Yeah," agreed Daniel. "And when he realised Jack might be in serious trouble ..."

"He came to his immediate assistance," said Teal'c. "A good friend, then." He glanced at
Daniel. "Despite everything."

"But that means Colonel Cromwell already knew about the Stargate project, " Sam said. "How is
that possible? He's Special Forces, he's got nothing to do with us."

The General took a moment to answer. "As a result of Apophis' aborted attack on Earth," he said
eventually, "and one or two other incidents, it was decided that awareness of the project would
be extended to a handful of elite Special Forces teams, in the event of a hostile alien
takeover here in the base. Colonel Cromwell's team was one of them."

"And suddenly," said Daniel, to no one in particular, "the word 'secret' takes on a whole new
garrulous meaning."

"So what you're saying, sir," said Sam, "is that Colonel Cromwell, even after seven years of
silence, came racing up here the minute he heard we might be -- that Colonel O'Neill might be -
- in serious trouble."

"Yes, Captain, that's what I'm saying."

"And that because he did that, he's now dead," added Daniel.

The General nodded. "It's one way of looking at it," he agreed.

"And you believe that O'Neill will hold himself responsible for this death as well as the loss
of SG10," said Teal'c.

"That's about the size of it, yes," said the General.

"But like Sam said," Daniel pointed out. "They hadn't spoken for seven years. As far as Jack's
concerned, the friendship's been over since 1991. What makes you think he still cares?"

"He cares, Daniel," said Sam. She and the General exchanged a long, silent look. "He cares."

We all thought about that for a while. Then Daniel stirred. Turned to Sam. "Do you think
there's a chance they might have worked things out before Cromwell died?"

She spread her hands wide, shrugging. "Geez, Daniel, I have no idea. From our perspective they
were down here alone for hours ... but to them, it was minutes. And they were co-ordinating the
automatic destruction of the entire base. I don't see that there was time for a heart to heart.
Besides ... you know the Colonel. How likely does it seem to you?"

Daniel slumped. "Not very."

"Well, maybe they did and maybe they didn't," said General Hammond. "Frankly, I'm not sure
which is worse. Losing the chance to ever put right what was wrong between them, or putting it
right and then losing him. The point is, Frank Cromwell is dead. Colonel O'Neill tried to save
him, and failed. He wanted to save Hank Boyd and his team, because he couldn't stand the idea
of leaving them behind, and he failed there, too."

"And even though none of it was his fault, Jack's blaming himself," said Daniel. He looked at
all of us. "You know he is. Look how he's behaving."

"I believe you are correct, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c said. "But how can we help? O'Neill has
made it clear he wishes to be left alone. Surely we must respect that desire."

"Even though it's the last thing he needs?" Daniel countered. "And it is. Trust me. I've seen
this before. You haven't. That first mission to Abydos? It was five months after Charlie died.
He was a walking dead man. If he reacts even half as badly this time as he did then, we're
going to have a real problem on our hands. I can't stand by and watch him go through that again
without trying to help. And I won't."

"So what do you suggest we do?" said Sam. "If he orders me out of the room, what then? He's my
superior officer."

"We're not here because he's our superior officer," Daniel replied impatiently. "We're here
because he's our friend. And friends do what needs to be done, no matter how hard it is. Ever
since we got on this roller coaster he's been there for us, every step of the way. Now it's our
turn to be there for him. Whether he wants us, or not."

Hammond looked at me then, and behind his carefully neutral mask I could see his triumph. He'd
gotten what he wanted. Unilateral support for interfering in Jack's life. And yes, it was very
moving, this swift and unconditional support of Jack. But it didn't alter the facts: Hammond
was playing with fire.

I would have been a lot happier if I didn't suspect he'd cast me in the role of fireman.

"I hope I'm right," said Daniel abruptly, breaking the silence. "I hope they worked things out.
To go the rest of your life knowing you can never, ever say the things you wanted to say, meant
to say .... and for Cromwell to die without being able to say he was sorry ... for Jack not to
hear it ... " He steepled his fingers and pressed them to his lips, to hide the swift tremor.

Another pause, fraught with emotion. After a moment General Hammond cleared his throat. "As I
said at the beginning, I don't want this discussed with anyone else. But you four are the
closest people to him. I thought you should know the background, so that you'd understand why
in the coming days he might be --"

"Difficult?" Daniel suggested.

"Difficult," Hammond agreed. "Exactly."

"Thank you, General," Teal'c said. "Your confidence will not be misplaced."

"We'll do whatever we can, sir," Sam added.

"I know you will," the General replied. "It's why I told you. Now, I won't keep you any longer.
I know you're all busy. Dismissed."

Silently we filed out of his office. Stood in the corridor like lost sheep, blinking at each
other. Daniel said, suddenly stricken, "God. No wonder he was so angry with me over Shyla. The
naqueda mine. It was Cromwell and Iraq all over again."

"Hey," said Sam, gently, and rested her hand on his shoulder. Gave him a little shake. "That's
over. Okay? Remember what we agreed?" And then she smiled, a small, mischievous smile.
"Besides, look on the bright side. At least he didn't stop talking to you."

Daniel managed a kind of watery chuckle. Sniffed. "Well. Not for long, anyway."

And then we stared at the floor, the walls, our fingernails. What now? Did we pretend the last
half hour hadn't happened? Go away on our own and think about what we'd learned? Find somewhere
to sit, in private, and talk about it? It was the last thing I wanted. Everyone knows I know a
lot of stuff about all the SGC personnel. Private stuff. Stuff you wouldn't want anyone else to
know. And everyone knows that of course I would never discuss it. But now Hammond had opened
the door on questions I didn't want to be asked, didn't want to answer. Not just for Jack's
sake. For mine, too.

So we stood there, avoiding each other's eyes, chewing our lips. Until Teal'c said, "I must
return to the Gateroom. I am assisting with the installation of the new iris."

Staring, Daniel said, "You mean you're not going to sleep at the foot of Jack's bed? Teal'c!"

"If it were not for the new iris, I would indeed take my place at O'Neill's side," said Teal'c.
"And I will do so, once my other duties have been discharged."

"He's teasing, Teal'c," said Sam, and slapped Daniel. "Stop it."

He clutched his arm in mock agony. "So what are you going to do now?"

"Finish up my report," said Sam. "Why?"

"Well, I've got one last box of stuff to catalogue," said Daniel. "Then I think we should go
see Jack. Agreed?"

Teal'c nodded. "Agreed."

"Sam?"

She frowned. "Yeah. I guess so. Agreed."

So we said our goodbyes, and I watched the three of them head down the corridor together,
united in purpose and stride and affection and worry.

Then I rapped on Hammond's door, and went back in.

He didn't look very surprised to see me.

"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "But after seeing him this morning, I had no choice. Whether he
cares to admit it or not, he needs his friends right now."

"That may be true," I said. "But he needs control of his own life even more."

The General tipped back in his chair and considered me. "If you had a patient in desperate
straits, wouldn't you do whatever was necessary to save them, even though they were afraid of
the pain?"

The bastard had me, and we both knew it.

"Keep me posted, Doctor," he said.

"Yes, sir," I replied, and closed the door very, very gently on my way out.

*****

For the next six hours, I tag teamed the last of the base counselling sessions with Eric Avery,
one of our on-call psychiatrists. It's exhausting work, listening to other people's griefs and
fears and trepidations. And when you're hearing the same themes over and over again, as we
were, it's easy to start worrying. But in this case, I had good cause. The blow up in the mess
hall was just the tip of the proverbial ice berg. People were afraid. Uncertain. They were
questioning the work, the risks, the dangers. Each other. It hadn't been this bad before, not
even during the Apophis crisis. I think because nobody died, then, and we had a brilliant
victory snatched from the very teeth of defeat. We had four good guys, and no bad guys and none
of it could be seen as anybody's fault.

This time was different. This time we were the bad guys, and it was our fault, and people died.

My heart was heavy as I typed a preliminary report for the General, and had it sent up to him
for appraisal. Once I'd finished that, I went for a wander around the Infirmary. The nature of
the work means we usually have at least one guest at any given time. That day, apart from Jack,
we had Helen Garver from SG11 recovering from a septic wound, SG2's Juan Chavez with a broken
ankle and Mick Lee from SG7 getting over an allergic reaction to an alien plant. They all had
people with them, chatting quietly. I've given up trying to police visiting hours. SG team
members are welded at the hip. Wound one and they all bleed. So we just work around the
visitors, and only kick them out if its absolutely necessary.

When I finally got around to checking on Jack, surprise, surprise: Sam, Daniel and Teal'c were
warming chairs in his room. I stood in the doorway, unnoticed, and watched them. Jack asleep,
twitching a little. Dreaming. Daniel, pencil in hand, muttering under his breath as he
scribbled notes in the margins of whatever textbook he was devouring this time. In all the time
I've known him, I don't think I've ever seen him with a novel. Sam was flicking through the
latest issue of Popular Science. Teal'c was frowning over something, paperback dwarfed in his
hand.

He looked up. "I do not trust this Gandalf," he announced.

Lowering her magazine, Sam said, "But Teal'c, Gandalf is one of the good guys. Really."

"He is cryptic," said Teal'c. "He knows more than he is telling."

"His middle name's probably Jack," said Daniel, still scribbling.

Sam shot him an amused look, and said, "Gandalf's a wizard, Teal'c. It's kind of a package
deal, comes with the robes and pointy hat."

Teal'c stared at the book. "I do not recall mention of a pointy hat --" he began.

Sam was laughing. "Metaphor, Teal'c, metaphor. Just -- keep reading. He's okay, I promise."

Teal'c looked unconvinced, but he lifted the book again, willing to give it another try on her
say so. Between them, Jack grunted. Flung one arm out. His face twisted, and his head thrashed
on the pillow.

"Frank!" he gasped, and sat bolt upright, eyes wide and staring, breath rasping in his throat.

Two books and a magazine hit the floor.

"Jack, its okay -- its okay." Daniel. Reaching out his hand.

Jack knocked it aside. Fell back against the pillows. "No," he said. His voice was dull.
Blunted. "It's not." And covered his face.

Silently they drew close to him. Sam sat half way down the bed and took his free hand in hers.
Daniel crouched at his shoulder, cradling the back of his head in his palm. Teal'c stood by his
feet, fingers lightly upon his ankle. The only sound was Jack's ragged breathing, pressured and
raw and perilously close to breaking.

Daniel said, so gently, "Jack. We know about Frank."

There was no mistaking his meaning. Jack stiffened. Said from behind his sheltering hand, "What
do you mean, you know?"

Sam, chafing his fingers gently, said, "We're very sorry, sir."

"Very sorry," echoed Teal'c.

Jack didn't order them out. Didn't pull free of their touch. He just lay there, stone still and
silent, accepting what he couldn't ask for.

Until that moment, I really had thought Hammond was wrong to do what he did.

I closed the door and left them alone.

*****

When I stopped by to see him the next morning, he was out of bed. Dressed. In a chair. Reading
some kind of report. Whatever it was, he wasn't enjoying it. His expression was grim.

"Good morning," I said. "I don't recall authorising you to get out of bed, or requisition
official documents. You're still concussed."

"I'm fine," he replied, curtly, and tossed the folder onto the neatly made bed. "Who told my
team about Cromwell? Was it you?"

I closed the door behind me. Pushed my hands into my pockets and came a little further into the
room. "No. It was the General."

"Hammond." He made the name sound ugly.

"Colonel, before you fly off the handle, I want you to listen to me," I said. "He's worried
about you. We're all worried. Losing Hank, SG10. Colonel Cromwell. None of us is blind, you
know, we can see that you're taking this badly, and --"

"Christ," said Jack. "Why would I do that?"

"Be fair," I said. "He cares --"

"Fair?" Jack interrupted, rigid with anger. "Tell me what's fair about any of this, Doctor!
Five people dead, five good people, and for what? For nothing. What the hell are we doing,
anyway? What's the point? Stargates and alien races and running around the galaxy playing Flash
Gordon and Star Wars?" Slumping in the chair, he ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Said softly, all fire quenched, "What's the damned point , Janet?"

Uncertain, I stared at him. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't want to do this anymore," Jack replied. His voice was liquid with despair.
"I'm saying I'm tired of people dying. I'm tired of my friends dying. It was fun for a while,
and now its not. Okay? That's what I'm saying."

I didn't know how to respond. Opened my mouth anyway ... and realised we weren't alone. The
door was open, and General Hammond was standing behind me with a strange look on his face.
Shock and sorrow and grim determination, all at once. "Colonel. Doctor Fraiser."

I stared hard at him. Hoped he could read the warning signs I was flashing. Hear the red alert
in my voice. "General."

He looked worn. Uniform jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in hand, he came into the room,
pushed the door closed and said, "How are you feeling, Jack?"

Jack sat up. His eyes were hard and cold. "You sonofabitch. How dare you divulge information
about me to my team without consent?"

Hammond didn't miss a beat, which is more than I can say for my heart. Reasonably, ignoring the
insubordinate venom, he said, "I did what I thought was best, for you and your team. And this
facility."

"You had no right," Jack said, on his feet now. "If I'd wanted them to know I would have told
them myself. What I feel about Frank Cromwell --" His voice betrayed him. Gratingly, he
finished. "--is my business, and nobody else's."

Hammond marched to the end of the bed and glared across it at Jack. "Sorry, Colonel, but that's
where you're wrong. What you feel about the weather is everybody's business, because you're not
in the habit of keeping your opinions to yourself. In my considerably experienced judgement,
your team had a right to know what was going on behind the scenes, and if I thought for one
moment that you'd tell them yourself, I never would have opened my mouth. But we both know that
wasn't about to happen, don't we?"

"Maybe it would have and maybe it wouldn't," said Jack. "Either way, it wasn't your decision to
make. It was mine."

Hammond held his ground. "I disagree."

"So what exactly did you tell them?" Jack demanded.

"What they needed to know," Hammond replied. "Nothing more."

"Like what?"

I cleared my throat. Time for a little damage control, before things got said that would come
back to haunt us all. "Just that you and Colonel Cromwell served together in the Gulf. That as
a result of a compromised mission you were captured and held prisoner by the Iraqi.... and that
your friendship with Cromwell ended because of it. That was all, Colonel. No -- details."

Slowly Jack turned his head to look at me. The expression on his face pushed me back two paces
and into another chair. One leg was missing its rubber stopper; the scrape of metal on linoleum
was loud. "You were there?" he asked, softly. "And you allowed it?"

"I -- had my doubts at the time," I said, chin up, hands fisted in my coat pockets to stop the
shaking. "But now I think --"

He looked away, and I ceased to exist.

It's what he did to Frank Cromwell for seven years ... what he did to Daniel, for a much
shorter period. Hey presto: now you see us ... now you don't.

It's not an experience I'd recommend.

"Don't blame Dr Fraiser," said the General. "It was my decision. My doing."

"Then God damn you," said Jack, as quietly vicious as ever I've heard him. "God damn you to
hell. Sir."

"I'm sure He'll take the recommendation under advisement," said the General. "In the meantime,
you think on this, son. I've been watching you for more than two years, now. I know how you
operate. It's the way you've always operated. When the going gets tough, you walk. Oh, I'm not
talking about physical courage. You've got that. No question. But emotionally? You're a ninety
pound weakling who gets sand kicked in his face. You walked out on Frank Cromwell. You walked
out on your marriage. You damn near walked out on your own life. You wanted to walk out of here
last year when we thought Jackson was dead. And now we've lost SG10, and the Air Force has lost
Frank Cromwell, and here you are getting ready to lace on your walking shoes again. Well, you
can throw them back in your locker, airman, because you're not going anywhere. Your team needs
you. I need you. We're staring down the barrel of a major morale crisis and whether you like it
or not, folks in this place will be looking to you for a lead. I won't have you leading them
out the front door."

Chalk white, unflinching, Jack held Hammond's gaze. With deceptive calm he said, "I can do
whatever I want."

"Not in my Air Force you can't," Hammond retorted. "You want to know what the point is,
Colonel? I'll tell you. The point is that Senator Kinsey was right. Nearly four years ago we
did indeed open Pandora's box. Actually, you opened it. You and Daniel and Sam and Catherine
... the whole damned lot of you. You got that Stargate operational and you went through it and
you changed the course of human history. So now, instead of enjoying my well earned retirement
teaching my granddaughters the finer points of fly fishing, I am spending my twilight years
lurching from crisis to crisis, flying by the seat of my pants, trying to keep a lid on
everything from alien invasions to deadly viruses to renegade black holes! And if you think I'm
doing it without you, then you can think again."

"So quit, if you hate it so much, " said Jack.

"Trust me, Colonel, trust me: there are days when I wish I could. But I swore an oath to
protect this country, and I keep my promises," the General retorted. "Henry Boyd and his team
swore that same oath. So did Frank Cromwell. They died doing what they believed in. They died
in the service of their country. Their ... planet. So here's the thing, Colonel. How are you
going to honour their memories? By walking away? Or by upholding the oath you swore. By
finishing what you started. You think about it." He turned on his heel and marched out,
snapping the door shut behind him.

Almost too shocked to breathe, I stared after him. Stared at Jack, whose face was a blank mask.
"I'll -- I'll be right back," I stammered, and left.

I caught up with the General half way down the corridor. Ducked in front of him so he couldn't
get past, and stared up at him, fists planted on my hips. "That -- that --" I took a deep
breath. "That was cruel."

All the belligerence and righteous anger were gone. Hammond looked old, and tired, and
inexpressibly sad. "Yes, Doctor. I know."

I wasn't expecting that. Nonplussed, I shook my head. "Sir -- what did you expect? You must
have known he'd be furious when he found out."

He nodded. "Furious I'm used to. Furious I can deal with. What I can't deal with right now is
Jack O'Neill in a full blown depression."

"Why General, I wasn't aware you had a degree in psychiatry," I said, way too angry to care
about protocol.

His lips pinched at that, but he let it go. "I know I was hard on him. I didn't have any
choice. I fly to Washington on Saturday for my meeting with the President and the Joint Chiefs.
God alone knows how long its going to take me to rescue the Project from annihilation after
this latest fiasco. Or even if I can. But no matter what happens in that meeting, I have to
know that while I'm away, this facility isn't going to fall into a heap. I have to know that
Jack O'Neill is here, on his feet and functioning in his capacity as second in command, and the
fastest way I know to achieve that right now is to make him mad. You know damned well we're
facing a morale crisis, Doctor, you wrote the report! I need him to be part of the solution,
not part of the problem. If I'd thought all he needed was to break a few windows, I'd have
given him my car. Hell, I'd have given him both! But its a damned sight more serious than that
this time, and you know it."

"General, I fail to see what my report has to do with what I just saw and heard," I snapped.
"Jack O'Neill has just lost two very close friends and three other people he worked with on a
daily basis. What he needs is the room to grieve in his own way, in his own time. And if that
means he gets to be depressed for a week, or two weeks, or a month, I --"

The General held up his hand. "Right now I can't afford to care about what he needs. What I
need is more important." The shock must have shown in my face, because he reached out and
touched my arm. Lightly. Softened his voice, and his face. "You're a good doctor, Janet. You
care about your patients. I appreciate that. I rely on it. But I am Commander of this base.This
project. And I have an obligation to everybody here, to this country, to this planet, God help
me, to see that nothing and nobody compromises the work that we do. Not even Jack O'Neill."

"Even though," I said, grittily, "he has just bought the safety of this base, this country,
this planet, with his own blood and pain? Again?"

That hit home. For a moment the General couldn't speak. Then he pulled a wry face. Shifted his
briefcase into his other hand, and flexed his fingers. "Ordinarily I'd agree with you," he
said. "No argument. But look around you, Doctor. This isn't an ordinary place, and we don't
lead ordinary lives. If you think I enjoy this, you do me a grave disservice."

Against my will, I could feel the anger draining away. "I don't, sir. Believe me. But --"

"Doctor Fraiser," he said. "Are you going to stand there and tell me that when Jack O'Neill
catches cold, the rest of this place doesn't sneeze?"

I glared. "No. But --"

"There are no buts, Doctor. Sometimes we have the luxury of sending our wounded to the hospital
where they can be treated properly, in comfort. And sometimes we patch them up as best we can
on the battlefield and send them right back into the fray. By telling his friends what was
behind his unhappiness, so that they can give him the help and support he needs, I did the best
patching job I could, in the time I had available. End of story. I'm sorry if he doesn't like
my first aid, but its just too bad."

I straightened my spine. "I wasn't aware we were at war, General."

His smile was kind, and reproving, and sorrowful. "Weren't you?" he asked softly. And walked
away.

*****

When I went back to Jack's room, I discovered that he'd locked the door. Which meant nothing,
of course, since I had a key. But I'm not stupid. I can take a hint when it lands on me with
both feet. I briefed the nursing staff, told them not to say anything when they did their next
rounds, but to make sure the door was left unlocked. Then, exhausted and mindful of all the
overtime I'd been putting in, I called in Bill Warner and went home. Took a hot shower and fell
into bed to sleep until Cass came home from school. But not before I double checked in the
mirror to make sure I really was still there.

As luck would have it -- I'll let you decide if it was good or bad -- I was rostered on at the
Academy Hospital for the next four days. I stayed away from the base. Checked in with Bill to
make sure Jack's recovery was progressing normally. It was. I didn't call Jack, or go round to
see him. Concussions need a lot of peace and quiet, you know. And I was busy. And of course he
needed space, to -

God. Who am I kidding?

In two and a bit years we'd progressed from being friendly colleagues to close friends. And
then, within the space of sixty seconds, I'd ceased to exist. Just like that.

I'll be honest: it hurt. A lot. And I'll admit it , I was angry. Damn him! After everything
we'd been through. All the times I'd patched him up and sewn him together and ... saved his
life.

I know, I know. It's my job to save his life, just like its his job to risk it. He didn't owe
me anything. I suppose you could say that I owed him. An apology. For being a co-conspirator in
the violation of his privacy.

But dammit, we did it for him. Because we knew he wouldn't do it for himself. We did it because
we care.

And I'll be damned if ever I apologise for caring.

So for four days I did my rounds at the USAF Academy Hospital with one ear cocked for the sound
of the telephone, ringing. The doorbell, chiming. Knuckles rapping briefly on my office door.
Hoping against hope that without noticing I'd suddenly become visible again.

No ring. No chime. No rap.

Cassie asked me what was wrong. I told her, nothing. She looked at me in that quaintly adult
way of hers. Patted my hand, and made me a cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows. I
swear, sometimes she acts like she's the mother and I'm the child. I thanked her, and sent her
outside to play with Jack-the-dog so I could snivel in private. Which I did.

Like the song says: You don't know what you've got till its gone.

I hear you, Joni.

Sam came by to tell me that General was back, and the Project was safe, and that everyone
seemed to be getting over the whole debacle okay. Makepeace had even apologised, after which
she'd had to go and lie down for a while, to recover. Jack seemed fine. He'd thanked them for
their concern, which was unnecessary -- of course -- and then was scarce as he took over from
Hammond while the General was in DC. The subjects of Frank Cromwell and SG10 and who knew what
about which, and how, weren't raised.

What a surprise.

After dinner on the night before the Base memorial service for SG10, Cassie and I were doing
the dishes. Me washing, her drying. The dishwasher was broken and I hadn't had time to get in a
repairman. We were almost finished when Jack-the-dog leapt to his feet, barking. A moment later
we heard the sound of tyres scrunching on the gravel out front.

"Go see who it is, would you, honey," I said. "I'm all sudsy."

"Okay," Cass said, and bounced out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door with
Jack-the-dog at her heels, yelping his excitement. I heard the door open. Jack-the-dog's
welcoming bark. Cassie's delighted cry of, "Colonel Jack! Hi!"

Jack. Heart thumping, I let the water of out of the sink, dried my hands, and turned around as
my daughter and her friend clumped back into the kitchen.

I say clumped because they were doing their favourite thing again. Cassie calls it playing
circuses. Jack calls it valuable gymnastic training. I call it downright dangerous, but hey,
I'm only the mother. What do I know?

Shrieking with laughter, bare toes wriggling in Jack's face, ankles clasped in his firm hands,
her own fingers anchored to his running shoes, Cassie hung with her face scant inches from the
floor and loudly encouraged him in their mutual lunacy.

"Do the goosestep, Colonel, do the goosestep!"

Jack pretended to stagger. "You're getting too heavy for me to do the goosestep," he protested.

"I am not either," said Cassie, and bounced up and down like a vertical stick insect. "Do the
goosestep! Please?"

So Jack paraded around my island bench in a solemn goosestep, while Cassie sang breathless
snatches of 76 Trombones, loudly and offkey.

"Okay," said Jack, after the third circumnavigation. "That's it. I'm an old man, I can do no
more."

Cassie let go of his feet. He lifted her a little higher and swung her gently from side to
side, inciting more mirth. Jack-the-dog was practically blue in the face from barking and
leaping hysterically every time she went by.

One last big swing and he had her in his arms, safe and tight, and hers were clasped around his
neck, and her legs were limpet-like about his waist, and I don't know who was hugging who the
tightest. Cassie, leaning back, pink cheeked and starry eyed, said, "Where have you been? I
haven't seen you for ever."

Jack shrugged. "Oh, well, you know. Work."

She snorted. "Huh. You mean hospital. Again. Janet said. I wanted to come visit you but she
said you were asleep." She made it sound highly unlikely.

He nodded. He still hadn't looked at me. "I kind of hit my head. That can make you pretty
sleepy."

Cassie put on her scolding face. Wagged an admonishing finger. "I thought I told you to be more
careful?"

"Sorry, ma'am," said Jack.

Intently she stared into his eyes. Reached out her small hand and laid it against his cheek. It
was a searingly grown-up gesture. "I'm sorry, too. About your friends. Janet said."

I winced, but still Jack didn't look at me. He just took Cassie's hand in his own, one arm
supporting her weight, and kissed her fingers. "Thanks, Cass," he said. "I appreciate that."

"Cassandra," I said gently. "Time for bed."

She heaved a huge, Iım-soooo-put-upon sigh, but didn't argue. Grinned at Jack. "Tuck me in?"

He pretended to think about it. Said grudgingly, "Oh, all right. I suppose so. If I have to."

"And tell me a story?"

"Tell you a story?" echoed Jack. "Hell's bells and buckets of blood! And what are you going to
do for me, then?"

"Be your girlfriend for ever and ever," said Cass.

"Oh," said Jack. "Okay. I can live with that." He headed for the door, Jack-the-dog at his
heels. "Which story?"

"Umm," said Cass, as they wandered away down the hall. "The one about the time you got back at
the school bully by painting the rabbit poo and making him think it was candy."

"Again?" Jack's voice demanded. "Cassandra Fraiser, is there something you're not telling me?"

As their conspiratorial giggles faded upstairs, I turned back to the business of cleaning up.
By the time Jack came back to the kitchen the second lot of washing up was done, the dishes
dried, the benches wiped down and Cass's lunch was made up and in the fridge.

"She's asleep," he said, hesitating in the doorway.

I turned from my contemplation of the moonlit garden beyond the kitchen window. Enquired
delicately: "Rabbit poo? Just what are you teaching my daughter, Colonel?"

"Vital lessons in tactics and strategy," Jack replied promptly. "Besides. He deserved it."

"He?"

"Billy McGrath."

"Ah," I said. "The school bully?"

"The same."

I turned away. Reached into a cupboard and pulled out the Laphroaig and two glasses. Held them
up. "Drink?"

He nodded. "Sure."

So we sat at the kitchen table, and sipped the smokey malt, and listened to the moths batter at
the window.

"Bill Warner says you've made a good recovery," I said, after five minutes had stretched to
ten. Ten to fifteen. Fifteen to nearly twenty.

"Yeah," he said. "Not bad."

"Headaches?"

"Some."

"You taking anything?"

"Mmm," he said, which meant no.

I didn't bother arguing. Just rolled my eyes and reached for the bottle. "More?"

He shook his head, regretful. It was very good whiskey. "Better not."

So I poured myself another half inch, and nursed it. Waited for him to say something. Anything.
For once I didn't feel like being the first to go.

Eventually he said, staring at his fingernails, "I know you meant well."

I waited for the next part of the sentence. Waited some more. Said finally, patiently, "But?"

He looked up. "I don't have to say it. You know."

I took a mouthful of whiskey. Let it sit on my tongue for a moment. Swallowed. "Yes."

"My relationship with Frank Cromwell was private and personal," he said. "Not for public
consumption."

I sat back in the chair. "Well if that's true, why did you go out of your way to let everyone
within earshot know you had a beef with him?"

He stared. "What?"

"You were rude to him in front of me. Sam. General Hammond. God knows who else. You might just
as well have taken out an ad, Jack."

He shoved away from the table. Paced the length of the kitchen and fetched up against the sink
to stare into the moonsoaked night. I shifted around in my chair to watch him.

"I--" He stopped. Cleared his throat. "You know my file. Probably better than I know it myself
by now. You know what happened in Iraq."

"Unfortunately I do, yes," I said.

"Those are the facts. Who did what, to which bits, and how many times. But the file won't tell
you what it was like." His gaze remained steadily on the garden. "And I can't. I can't talk
about that, Janet. Not to you. Not to anybody."

He didn't have to. His face, enmeshed in nightmare, had already told me everything I needed to
know. More than I ever wanted.

"We knew what the Iraqis would do to us if we got caught," said Jack. "We talked about it.
Frank promised, he promised, that no matter what, nobody would be left behind. He promised he'd
shoot us himself before he let any of us get taken. We believed him. And then he left me
there." He turned a little, and I caught a glimpse of his face. It was haunted. "Afterwards,
people kept asking me, how did you do it? How did you beat them? How did you survive? And I
told them, I was well trained. Or, my family. Or, knowing my buddies back at HQ were counting
on me." He smiled. "Lies." Turned away again. "It was hate."

I felt my throat constrict. "He thought you were dead, Jack."

"He thought wrong", said Jack. And flinched.

"What?" I said. "Are you okay?"

He nodded. Was silent for some time before speaking again. "Frank said that what he did to me
in Iraq was the same as what I did to Hank."

"Well, he was wrong," I said quietly. "Because you didn't do anything to Hank."

"Yeah, I did," said Jack. "I killed him."

I opened my mouth to argue. Thought about it. Sighed. Said, "So you killed him. So now what?"

That got a reaction. Jack jerked away from the window and stared at me, shocked. "You think I
killed him?"

I shrugged. Remembered the look on his face, in his eyes, as he made me disappear. "I think its
pretty clear that you don't care what I think."

I watched the words sink in. Their meaning strike home. He said, "I was angry."

"Oh," I said. "Well. Sure. That makes it okay, then."

"You're hurt."

I lifted my glass. "Give the man a kewpie doll."

"You don't think I had the right to be pissed off about you and Hammond telling everyone about
... stuff?"

"Well, for one thing it wasn't 'everyone', it was Daniel and Sam and Teal'c," I pointed out.
"And for another, it wasn't a joint operation. He called me and the team into his office at the
same time and just started talking. There was nothing I could do."

Jack chewed his lip. "I didn't know that."

"You didn't ask."

He turned around. Leaned against the sink with his hands buried in his pockets. Jeans and a
sweatshirt and a glint of stubble: what I've come to think of as his recuperation outfit. There
were smudges beneath his eyes and the lines in his face were carved a little deeper than
before.

"Do you want to know what I think?" I asked.

He shrugged and nodded: ambivalence personified.

I said, "Okay. Here's what I think. I think Frank Cromwell had a split second to make a
decision. I think he decided to save his team instead of risking them for someone he thought
was already dead. I think he probably wanted to die himself when he found out he was wrong. I
think he hurt every day of every week of every month of the last seven years because of it. I
think you were wrong not to see him. I think you probably know that now, because you've led
your own teams for the past six years and you've made some tough calls that weren't always
appreciated and you've lost one or two men of your own and suddenly its not so black and white
any more. I think you were blinded by your own pain, and then when you finally began to
understand things from his point of view, you were too stubborn to admit it. Too pigheaded to
make the first move. And now he's gone, and he's not coming back, and the things you thought
you'd say to him one day ... one day when it suited you ... they're just smoke on the wind."

If ever there was a time I thought I'd see him cry, it was then. His face was glazed with
anguish. His whole body a muted scream of pain. It was a frozen moment, one I can still see
when I close my eyes at the end of the day. When I am sorrowed or weary to my bones or overcome
with other griefs.

Eventually it passed, and he was able to speak again.

"He sent flowers to Charlie's funeral," he said. "Sara wanted me to call him. Say thanks. Say
something. Anything. She never stopped trying to get us talking again. But by then it was way
past too late. By then I wasn't talking to anyone, not even her."

I got up from the table, leaving the whiskey behind. Moved quietly to lean against the island
bench opposite him. "I'll say this once, and then I won't mention it again because I know it
makes you uncomfortable. I am desperately, desperately sorry about Frank's death. And Hank's,
and the rest of SG10. I wish there was something I could say, or do, to make the pain go away.
We all do. But there's not. It just has to be lived through, one day at a time. Nobody knows
that better than you. Just don't forget that you have people who care about you, and who are
hurting for you. Don't make the same mistake twice, Jack. Don't shut out the ones who care."

Silence, as Jack struggled for self-control, and won. He said, "You'll be at the service,
tomorrow?"

"Of course."

"Sam said there was nothing we could have done to save them."

"Well," I said, "I don't even pretend to understand all this business about black holes and
gravity wells and relativity and time dilation, but if Sam says it was hopeless, I believe
her."

"I know. So do I. " He shook his head. "God. I gave him every trick in my book. Taught him
everything I ever knew. Everything Frank taught me. And it still wasn't enough." His face
tightened.

Gently I said, "People die, Jack. You do everything right. You pull out the bullets, you stitch
them together, you replace the lost blood, give them a new heart, even. Whatever it takes. They
still die. So what do you do? Kill yourself? Give up? Walk away? And then what happens to the
next one you could have saved, if you'd been there?"

Silently he pushed away from the sink. Reached out his arms and wrapped them around me. His
heart beat hard and strong beneath my cheek. Muffled against his sweatshirt I said, "Jack?"

"Janet?"

"Go home. You look like hell."

He laughed. Released me and stepped back. "Yes, ma'am."

"And take a damned Tylenol, would you? Stop being a martyr."

"Yes, ma'am," he repeated. Dropped a kiss on my hair, and dimmed my kitchen with his leaving.

*****

SG10's memorial service was scheduled for 1400. Of course, their family stuff had already been
taken care of, elsewhere, days earlier. This one was for us, for the people who knew what they
really did. How they really died. What their sacrifice truly meant.

I didn't talk to Jack before the official ceremony. Saw him from a distance a few times, crisp
and as always strangely unfamiliar in his dress uniform. I caught a glimpse of him at one point
in deep discussion with the General. It looked amicable, so clearly they'd moved on, too. I'd
get around to asking him, sooner or later.

By the time the service was due to start, the gateroom was full to bursting. The overflow was
crowded into the control room and the briefing room, pressed against the brand new glass,
looking down at the proceedings. Blue light from the open Gate rippled over all our faces.

Jack was the last person to speak. Sombre but relaxed, he stood at the microphone, hands
resting lightly on the lectern, and gazed around the packed room.

"This isn't the first time we've gathered here like this," he told the silent crowd. "And it
won't be the last. What we do is difficult and dangerous. It costs lives. Nobody knew that
better than Hank Boyd and his team. But Hank never was one to turn away from a challenge.
Neither were Mark and Abby and Phil." He paused. Swept us all with a measuring gaze. "You all
know that Hank and I went back a few years. I recommended him for the Stargate project. I
nominated him as a team leader. I suggested his team for the mission that cost them their
lives. It was supposed to be a routine recon. Nobody expected trouble." His lips curved in a
brief, sardonic smile. "Nobody ever does. So when it snaps us in the ass, we're surprised.
We're angry. Hurt. We wonder what the hell we're doing here, anyway. I know I've asked myself
that question these past few days." Another pause. I saw him find Sam and Daniel and Teal'c in
the second row, and his eyes softened, just for a moment. He said, "But as a very wise, very
tough man once told me ..." His gaze flickered left, to where General Hammond was sitting with
the visiting brass. "... when we opened the Stargate we opened a Pandora's box, and someone has
to keep the lid on it. Today, its our turn to be that someone. I think we could do worse than
follow in the footsteps of Hank Boyd, Abby Hunt, Mark Tyler and Phil Brooks. God bless them and
keep them in the palm of His hand, until we meet again."

He stepped down from the lectern. The pipers played Taps. I cried. I wasn't the only one. Jack
and General Hammond sent a wreath through the Gate. It shut down.

The service was over.

Someone, Graham Simmons probably, patched an Ella Fitzgerald CD through the loudspeaker, and
'Stairway to the Stars' rolled around the cavernous gateroom. The ordered ranks broke up,
milled and roiled and communed. I caught Sam's eye, waved. She threaded her way through the
packed bodies and kissed my cheek: a measure of her distress.

"Hi," I said. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay," she replied. "You?"

"Yeah. Okay. You know." We exchanged rueful smiles.

"Uh huh..." she said. Then she straightened as a hand landed on my shoulder. "Colonel."

"Sam," said Jack.

She smiled. "That was really nice, what you said."

He offered her a little bow. "Thank you."

With a glance from his face to mine, she said, "Well, if you two would excuse me, I have to go
find Teal'c. We're going to the theatre tonight and there's something I have to tell him,
before I forget."

My eyebrows lifted. "Not Les Mis?"

"Yeah. It seemed a shame to waste the tickets."

I considered the prospect with a kind of horrified fascination. "Do they even have musicals on
Chulak?"

Sam smiled. "Apparently not."

"Oh," I said. "To be a fly on the wall ..."

"I'll tell you all about it tomorrow," she said. Waggled her fingers. "Bye."

"Have fun," said Jack. Watched her for a few moments, staring over my head, then said, "I'm
going out of town for a few days. Frank's funeral is the day after tomorrow."

"That's late. "

He shrugged. "Yeah. Some family thing. I don't know."

"And afterwards?"

"I thought I'd take a drive."

"Where to?"

"Wherever the road leads me."

"But you're coming back," I said.

"Oh yeah," he replied, and smiled. "I'm coming back."

We never talked about Frank again. I have no idea if they managed to patch things up during
their brief reunion. I don't think even Daniel dared to ask that one, so I guess we'll never
know. We talked about Hank, though, and the others. All of us. Held a wake, without breaking
any windows this time. Kept on bowling every Saturday we could manage, competing for the
inaugural Hank Boyd Challenge Trophy. Held a pizza party the first Tuesday night of the month,
same as always ...

I don't know who started the thing about leaving one piece of pepperoni pizza in the box. I
suspect it was Jack, but that's something else I'll never ask him. For one thing I doubt he'd
admit it. For another ... it doesn't really matter. Pizza in the box, no pizza in the box ...
in the end its just window dressing.

Hank will always be with us ... every time Jack laughs.