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 Author's note (Wednesday 2 July 2008): Having heard about the untimely death of Don S Davis late on Monday, I delayed posting this story out of respect for his passing. His is a sad loss - much too fast and way too young. His family, friends and fans will surely miss him. God speed, Don! Title: Jack Hammered! Author: Su Freund Email: su_freund@ficwithfins.com Website: http://www.ficwithfins.com/ Category: Angst/Romance/Drama/Whumping Content Level: Age 13+ Content Warnings: Themes of domestic and other violence. Language. Pairings: Jack/Other (Catherine), Sam/Pete Season: 8 Spoilers: Anything up to and including S8 Summary: Outside of a certain city hospital, it was an average Sunday with people going about their usual Sunday type routine. Yet inside, the seemingly endless Saturday night had been far from normal, at least for some. Sequel/Series Info: Sequel to Part 12 of Jack/Catherine series: More Waiting For Jack Status: Continuing series Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Copyright 2008 Su Freund More Author's Notes: 1. Many thanks to Lynette (Flatkatsi) for checking over this story for me, and her great advice. Definitely above and beyond the call of duty, given she had so little time for various reasons. If any errors remain, they are all mine. 2. Thanks also to all of you who have been reading and enjoying this series and have told me so. Your comments feed my muse and I am sincerely grateful to receive them. 3. Finally, abject apologies for the bad pun used in the title of this chapter Irresistible, I'm afraid! :-) Jack Hammered! It was the early hours of the morning and the sun had come up. Saturday night had been a very long one indeed, but now it was Sunday. Birds sang, newspapers got delivered, and it would not be too long before bells rang in churches throughout Colorado Springs. Outside of a certain city hospital, it was an average Sunday with people going about their usual Sunday type routine. Yet inside, the seemingly endless Saturday night had been far from normal, at least for some. Take Colonel Jesse Ellis of the SGC, for example. His job through that long night had definitely not been typical of his Saturdays. Ordinarily he might be sitting in front of the TV watching a movie. Or possibly, when it was his turn for them to stop over, he would be entertaining his kids. Or perhaps out with the guys having fun like your average footloose divorcee probably should. Or, if he was very lucky, he could have been in bed sleeping soundly. But had Jesse been doing any of these things? Hell, no. Not a solitary one. And either sleeping or playing had been the last things on his mind. Any one of those other pursuits might have been preferable to his duties that night. The interminable hours had been stressful and worrisome. Despite all that, however, Jesse was pleased he was there instead of doing any of those normal things. In fact, he wanted to be there. Because there was where the boss was, and the colonel would do whatever he could to ensure the continued wellbeing of General Jack O'Neill. Now, for once, he was not playing avoidance of the waiting room. It held no fear for him anymore. He knew most of its occupants had disappeared back to their hotel rooms or homes, giving up on hanging around, instead relying on him to call with news. Not SG-1 or Catherine Fellowes, of course. They still waited, forlornly clinging to hope, desperate to know what was happening with O'Neill. They were the people Ellis most cared about keeping informed. For a refreshing change, he strode purposefully toward the waiting room, a spring in his step and a smile plastered all over his delighted face. News at last. Good news - or at least positive rather than dreadful - and he would be the man who got the pleasure and privilege of delivering it. 'Halleluiah!' thought Jesse. 'What a great way to start Sunday morning.' Later, he would try to attend his local church and praise the Lord, like he tried to each and every Sunday if he could. And on this particular Sunday, he would have more reason to praise him than on most. God had answered his prayers. The general was going to be okay. Jack O'Neill had suffered harm, been hurt badly, and it had been touch and go for a while. He would endure pain before he healed, and need recovery time, but he had lived through his operation. It had been a success. Doc Brightman, whose opinion Ellis trusted, had confirmed the hospital's positive prognosis. So unless something unforeseen happened it was very likely he would continue to live for a great many years to come. "Amen to that," Jesse muttered under his breath. He knew O'Neill's friends would have questions. This was inevitable. Jesse did as well so he may or may not have the answers they sought. When it came down to it, though, like him they would simply be relieved and happy the general pulled through. Both the questions and answers would wait. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 The waiting room was silent, almost peaceful. Having pulled an all-nighter, the remaining occupants were exhausted from a combination of lack of sleep and agitated waiting. Most conversation had ceased a while ago and the room settled into an atmosphere of quiet unease. Daniel Jackson was wishing he had one of Jack's yoyos. He supposed that would probably have irritated Sam as much as his earlier pacing had, but he felt a need to better occupy his hands. He had developed an overnight appreciation for Jack's constant fidgeting, thought he understood where it might come from. Nervous energy, detracting from his feelings, a cover. As it was, Daniel's hands were in almost constant movement - kneading, thumbs tapping a rhythm together or twisting around each other. Although she could see Daniel out of the corner of her eye, Carter tried to ignore him. His restless hand movements were getting her down, but she said nothing. He was beginning to remind her of the general with that continual squirming - sheesh! Her fiance had joined them earlier and one of his arms looped around her in a comforting embrace. Her head rested on his shoulder. It was soothing and well needed. Detective Pete Shanahan was off duty now. He had done almost everything he could do for the moment. He had one of Catherine's photographs of her ex and would pay a visit to young Johnny in the hope of receiving verification of his involvement in this debacle. That, however, would wait until later on in the morning. He figured Mrs James would dig her heels in if he turned up at their door at an inhospitable hour. Johnny was an important witness. The youngster might be eager to help, but Pete needed his mother's cooperation too. He did not wish to provoke or alienate her. So, he would hold off asking Johnny to look at the photograph of Peter Rodgers and hopefully ID him as one of the men he had seen in the alley. Currently, Shanahan centered his main hopes on getting an opportunity to talk to O'Neill. He had some questions that required answers only the general might be able to provide - if he recovered sufficiently to provide them. Taking some time to support a distraught Sam was important to him. Just as important to Pete as his investigation. So he took that time, returning to the hospital to be there with her after having done some more work. He was making progress. More progress than he might with other similar investigations, so Shanahan was content for the moment. Catherine Fellowes, meanwhile, was slightly twitchy. She wanted to cooperate with the police, wanted to find Jack's attackers, wanted to see them punished. But she was scared - for Jack, for herself, for the future. She thought the scared of her husband feeling had disappeared a while ago and the fact she now knew it had not, unnerved her. The idea of giving evidence with him sitting right there in court made her feel nauseous, but she would do it. Maybe it would help exorcise her demons. And with Jack supporting her, Catherine felt she might be capable of almost anything. She was an accomplished, independent woman on her own, Catherine knew. Had been before Jack, would be afterwards. Despite the experiences with her husband, the fear lurking deep in her gut, she did all right by herself. More than all right. Jack's support, however, was a big positive. But what if he was not there? What if Jack...? She did not even want to go there. She was desperate for news. Good news about Jack. Earlier that night, Catherine had reluctantly accompanied the police detective back to her apartment, handing over a picture of her ex. She had not wanted to leave the hospital until she heard something about Jack's condition, but she knew Pete Shanahan needed to investigate, needed evidence and witnesses. He had dropped her back at the hospital and then driven off into the night to do heaven knows what. Investigating something, she guessed. Something to do with what had happened to Jack. Maybe everything would become clearer with time. For now, she was too exhausted and befuddled to worry too much more about anything but her hopes for Jack. Teal'c was Teal'c - a solid, seemingly tranquil presence in the midst of high tension. His eyes were closed as if in kelno'reem, but he was not. Aware of his friends' anxiety, however, he was blocking out any other distractions, his mind occupied with comforting thoughts of revenge. As Colonel Ellis entered, they all looked up expectantly and the room's atmosphere changed immediately. The quiet unease turned to palpable relief and then excited twittering and they all rose from their chairs and surrounded O'Neill's Executive Officer. Sure, they had questions, but Jesse's broad smile told them almost everything they wanted to know. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 Ellis knew his next big problem was going to be how to handle visitors. The whole world and his dog seemed to want a piece of O'Neill. Once he came round sufficiently, unwanted guests could inundate the general - people seeking answers, which meant questions and more questions. It was Jesse's job to protect his boss, and this was something he would do with single-minded determination. Cops, Feds, MPs, NID and assorted government types. Screw the lot of them! He was in charge here, along with the hospital authorities. He needed to have another word with them, he thought. Concoct a plan of action, get them on his side. Crowd control. O'Neill required rest, not an influx of people poking their noses into the private corners of his life. The general was a very private man. Sure, this attack needed investigation. Sure, they had to guarantee there were no security issues arising from the incident - or further threats to the general himself. This did not, however, mean a zillion people needed personal access to O'Neill. Not if his Executive Officer had anything to do with it. Jesse was thinking that once he had sorted this mess out, maybe he could get someone in to relieve him for a while. Go to church as he wished and thank God for answering those prayers of his. So having considered his options, the colonel went to speak to the hospital powers that be. Then he returned to the waiting room to have a quiet word with Sam Carter's fiance, Detective Pete Shanahan. He had a plan and he was certain the cop would go along with it. Most of these interested parties were unknown quantities to Ellis, but Shanahan seemed to have his head screwed on straight. Sam Carter was an intelligent woman and if she trusted him, Jesse believed he probably could too. Time to put some wheels into motion. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 Fuzzy. Good word fuzzy. O'Neill had experienced it many times and could think of a lot of other appropriate words to describe the feeling. Vague, misty, bleary, hazy, blurry, unclear, even nebulous. Being fond of the simple, he kind of liked fuzzy. A thick layer of fog encased his brain and his mouth felt like the ass end of the universe. He knew this because he had visited that ass end many times, both literally and figuratively. Then, as he became increasingly alert, Jack realized he was in pain too. He began to wonder which train he had walked under. Must have been an express. "Crap!" he exclaimed, uncertain whether he had uttered it aloud or even voiced it at all. He was vaguely thinking he ought to be adventurous and open his eyes, risk the intrusion of light that would probably make his brain explode. That was if he could think at all - and if he could prize open those gummed up gritty eyelids. "Nah," he muttered. Why bother? Takes too much effort. "General O'Neill?" 'Wha...?' Jack thought as the sound slowly seeped into the cotton balls he called a brain... a voice? The voice seemed to come at him from miles away, a whisper on the wind. Indistinct. Was it real? General O'Neill? Who he? He had the vaguest feeling that was him, but was not at all sure. Maybe he should make that effort after all. Check it out. Cracking open even just the one eye seemed impossible. Until it happened. The glue keeping his lids sealed up tight seemed to take an age to become unstuck. Once his eye opened, the light made him wince and suck in a breath outwardly as well as scream inwardly. Head detonation - pyrotechnics! Quickly closing it again to ward off the less than appealing fireworks, he took a few determined breaths before trying for a second time. A strain and no better but he forced it to stay open this time, attempting to focus, to concentrate. Then he slowly opened the other eye. Much to his relief the action failed to light the fuse on yet more rockets flashing inside his head. At least it was no worse. What he saw, however, confused his bewildered and throbbing head even further. It was not mere coincidence that Pete Shanahan was the first person to meet Jack's eyes when he finally woke from that long sleep. Nor was it Pete's fault. Pete had no doubt that Sam would be pissed he was sitting there while she and the rest of O'Neill's friends continued to wait. Tough. Pete was a cop. He was doing his job. On the other hand, his face probably had not been the one O'Neill would have wished to wake up to. No sirree. Jack murmured something groggily, but his throat was parched and it came out sounding like an incoherent grunt. "W-wat...? He managed to croak after some effort. His mouth felt as dry as Death Valley and the temperature of his body seemingly just as hot. He ached. Ached was not the word, but he did not think there was likely to be a word that could describe his heap of pain. "M-morph...?" he added forlornly. Jack could have sworn his words were an indecipherable babble. Surely, no man could speak with a mouth as dry as that. Shanahan, however, seemed to understand him and he chuckled. Ack! Chuckling at a sick man in pain. Wrong on sooo many levels, Jack thought. "Water," he gasped again, pleased with himself because he had managed to form a word. "I'll call a nurse," Shanahan said with a grin. "She'll bring you some ice chips." O'Neill did not react, simply staring at Pete with a puzzled, pained expression, as if he had no idea what was going on, which he probably didn't. The cop pressed the buzzer for a nurse and they did not wait long before one bustled in. It seemed like an age to Jack, though. His throat was red raw and when he swallowed he could have sworn it was on fire. By the time his nurse sorted out some of the basic checks on her patient and fed him an ice chip or two, Jack desperately needed the cooling liquid to quench the flames. As the ice melted down his throat, Jack allowed himself to relax and let the nurse finish whatever she had to do. The arctic water was a relief and he was beginning to feel a whole lot better. Kind of. There was that pain thing, and the fuzzy thing, and the catheter he could feel intruding in his most intimate parts, and the relatively unwelcome presence of Pete Shanahan... and... and the pain thing. Crap! At least he felt slightly more with it, although O'Neill still was not certain about what the hell was happening. Whether he was asleep and dreaming or awake and in some awful alternate reality he wished he could find a way home from. Jack tried to be stoical about pain but if he was honest, he was heartily fed up with being on its receiving end. That should surely be one of the advantages of being a general. He could sit on his butt all day and let other people take the heat for a change. Not that this was what O'Neill really believed, he missed the action after all. However, right then and there with his ribs and chest aching like hell and much of the rest of him feeling as if it had been squashed by a steamroller, he thought he could live without it. Now he comprehended he was indeed this General O'Neill person, Jack realized he had probably had worse. This fact did not make him feel any better about how much it hurt now. The nurse indicated the morphine and placed the dosing apparatus in his hand, explaining all the usual gobbledygook about dosage limits and the rest. Jack was hardly listening because he was more concerned with killing the pain. Besides, he had been through this rigmarole before. It was all coming back to him now and he took no great pleasure in the recall. Ah, sweet morphine... nice if you can get it, he thought, taking immediate advantage of its availability. One thing you can say about morphine is that it works. While dosed up on it, you didn't give a shit about much else, but at least you did not hurt like all the furies in hell were thrashing you from the inside out. Shanahan had been hanging back to allow the nurse to work, providing required privacy. Then she went away muttering something about the doctor and Pete pulled a chair up close to the bed and sat down, leaning over Jack to talk in a low tone. "Pleased to see you're still with us," he said. Jack felt the muscles of his face pull themselves into an involuntary but faint smile. "Me too," he agreed. "Hospital?" Pete nodded and O'Neill figured he might have got a clue from the nurse, but this was not the SGC infirmary. The surroundings were way too bright and cheerful, the nurse unfamiliar. He had almost forgotten what a real hospital was like. Filled with strangers with an atmosphere he was no longer used to. Ack! He was not a happy camper. No, not at all. "What you...?" Forming words was an effort, so Jack pointed at Pete to indicate his meaning - what are you doing here? "Cop duty." "Ah!" Jack looked slightly discomforted by this fact. "You look like shit, O'Neill." Blunt and to the point. Nice! Thanks a lot. Jack had no doubt Shanahan was right. Certainly if he looked even half as bad as he felt. But he was not sure he appreciated the comment right now. "Sho... see... other guy," he retorted wryly, even more self-satisfied because he had managed nearly a whole sentence. Pete grinned at the remark. It seemed O'Neill had not totally lost all of his faculties. Not if he could make a crack like that. "What do you remember?" he asked. Jack paused, thinking. "Light. Fog..." His words petered out "Gi' me... minute..." Pete nodded affably, sitting back in his chair. "All the time in the world, pal." Closing his eyes again, Jack hazily wondered when Carter's fiance had started thinking of him as a pal and then about whether he was simply being ironic. This was a delusion, right? Or the morphine was working its dreamy magic. He didn't much care which. In fact, he didn't much care about anything. Sweet! Meanwhile, Pete waited patiently. He knew he did not really have all the time in the world, but he probably had enough. O'Neill needed to get his head together, and this was fine by him. Although he was not certain how possible it was going to be for a man dosed up on morphine. Shanahan, however, knew he would get O'Neill's side of the story before anyone else. Almost exclusively, actually. He and Colonel Ellis had come to an arrangement in association with the hospital staff. The detective wanted access to O'Neill and Ellis wanted to protect his CO from the ravening horde. So, with a few notable exceptions, the detective was the only "official" visitor allowed in to see O'Neill. From what the police had learned so far, this was their investigation and unless and until evidence to the contrary was uncovered, it would stay that way. SGC and hospital staff would keep the Feds and everyone else away. They would have to feast on the scraps of the Colorado Springs PD table. The SGC's own investigation team was in on it, of course. Ellis would not countenance their exclusion. But Shanahan would be the main man and pass on the knowledge he gleaned from O'Neill. This was an unusual arrangement in the circumstances, perhaps. But the hospital authorities were willing. They wanted minimum of fuss, and said O'Neill needed peace and quiet for successful recovery, which was at least partly true. It covered Ellis' ass anyway. Sam, Catherine Fellowes and the rest would get their turn as O'Neill's closest friends. Shanahan realized some of the government types might not be happy with this arrangement. But as Ellis had said, screw 'em. Apparently, the colonel had cleared this plan at a much higher level than any of those guys could aspire to. Ellis was happy to run interference. It was part of his job, and Pete got the impression the man thought very highly of O'Neill so would be more than willing to take it in the neck for him if necessary. Probably already did on a daily basis, he figured. A couple of security guys from the SGC stood guard outside and knew who they should let pass and who they should not. For now, the list of visitors allowed inside was extremely short. "So, general, are you getting anything?" Pete asked after a hugely long silence. "How about I ask you questions and you just nod or shake your head?" A bleary eyed O'Neill peered at him woozily, thinking if he nodded and shook his head it might actually detonate or possibly just fall off. This might, however, be easier to cope with than attempting to get his mouth to form real words. For a moment, it seemed like he was struggling to remember who Pete was and then he nodded acquiescence. The dizzy nausea arising from this movement was the polar opposite of an enjoyable experience, but Jack forced himself to handle it. He had been down this road before, had lots of practice. Minus the cop, admittedly, but he would deal. It was the right thing to do and O'Neill knew quite a bit about doing the right thing. "Was it your girlfriend's ex?" Shanahan asked. Jack appeared to consider this for a moment and nodded, holding up some fingers. Two hands worth of them. Pete figured he was trying to indicate there were others involved and how many, but from what young Johnny had said he knew that number was way wrong. He wondered if O'Neill was trying to crack a self-mocking joke, deliberately exaggerating. The corners of the general's mouth turned up into a small smile. Sure, a joke. "Three oth... I... th..." he muttered with a slur. 'Damned morphine!' Pete cursed inwardly, although O'Neill's figures seemed to tally with the James boy's account, so maybe he was not totally out of it after all. Consequently, his interrogation continued. Shanahan tried to phrase questions that were easy to answer. O'Neill nodded or shook his head and inserted the occasional short comment or wry quip. Haltingly slurring his words, but just about comprehensible. Bit by bit, Pete built up a picture of events and it was pretty much as he had envisaged. In a nutshell, O'Neill went looking for his girlfriend's ex just as Shanahan had predicted, but Rodgers was waiting. Expected him, it seemed. His hired thugs jumped him, taking the general by surprise. O'Neill was outnumbered and Rodgers' men armed. It seemed O'Neill figured Rodgers might have planned the assault from the start. Catherine Fellowes' ex had attacked her at least in part to bait O'Neill and lure the general into seeking him out. Then he sprung his trap. An ambush. Watching, waiting, believing O'Neill would seek revenge, would come and find him. And it worked. It certainly fit with what Catherine had revealed to Shanahan about her ex husband. Rodgers had outsmarted O'Neill and the cop thought this had pissed him off big time. He was probably the kind of man that normally did most of the outsmarting, Pete reflected. Only very smart men got to be generals in the United States Air Force. Man, it must rankle! O'Neill was stoic about it, though, and self-effacing. More than willing to deride himself. He obviously knew he had screwed up. SNAFU, he had muttered at one point - situation all fouled up, to put it in a polite vernacular. Pete was amazed at how easily the man managed to convey his meaning with so few words, and the odd nod, shake, facial expression or gesticulation. It was clear that the general had not stood much of a chance, although Pete imagined he would have tried to put up a fight. As much as a man could against armed crooks. Men like O'Neill do not simply allow themselves to be taken or beaten half to death. Not without a struggle. This probably made the beating all the worse for him, Pete thought. Apparently, they threw him in the back of a truck and trussed him up like a turkey at Thanksgiving. Then they took him off somewhere private where they could kick the shit out of him to their heart's content. No witnesses, no one to hear his agonized screams. Afterwards, they tossed him in the truck again like a hunk of dead meat and dumped him in the alley, leaving him to rot. Probably to die, actually. After all, if not for the immediate intervention of Johnny James, Jack O'Neill would likely be dead. Murder one, bang to rights. When the two men had finished their half-baked but useful attempt at communication, O'Neill was exhausted and Pete ready to leave him in peace. The detective eyed the general with sympathy. The man needed to rest. Jack had been fighting the effects of the morphine throughout the interrogation and it was trying to claim him. He realized he should sleep, the opiate told him so, but instead he continued to fight. He needed something and wanted to stay awake for it. "Ca...rine here?" he asked, his rasping voice almost a whisper. Pete smiled warmly. "Sure. She's been here all night. If the doc will let me, I'll bring her in." Jack felt a warm glow at the notion of seeing her. Or maybe it was the influence of the numbing narcotic. He chuckled internally at his little joke and sighed. "I-I... like that." 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 With barely suppressed anticipation, Catherine hurried to Jack's room. One of the SF's guarding him examined her briefly and solemnly before letting her in. She was on Colonel Ellis' list. "Jack!" she cried out softly as she entered, rushing to his bedside but coming to an abrupt halt when she reached it. His eyes were closed and he looked peaceful, but his bruises kind of ruined the tranquil image. The flesh beneath them looked pale and sickly and Catherine hitched a breath at the sight. She had not really prepared herself for how dire he might look. She had considered death and all kinds of terrible things, but not this dreadful countenance. His handsome face battered and blackened and who knew what lay hidden under the bed covers. Her heart stuttered when he failed to respond and she watched for a short while to make sure he was breathing, relieved to see the regular rise and fall of his chest. Then she sat on the chair beside the bed and leaned closer, whispering. "Jack." A small tear trickled down her cheek and very gently, Catherine brushed his face with the tips of her fingers. "I'm here Jack," she said, moving her hand to grasp one of his. "I'm here." He was alive. But it seemed he was asleep. The morphine had got the better of him at last. TBC |