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 Title: Jack's Big Sleep Author: Su Freund Email: su_freund@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: Danger, he could sense it. Danger and death. It came for him. Sequel/Series Info: Sequel to Part 13 of Jack/Catherine series: Jack Hammered! 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 Author's Notes: Many thanks to Lynette (Flatkatsi) for picking over this story and saving me from making the odd blunder. Any remaining errors are entirely down to me. Thanks also to those people who are enjoying this series and tell me so. Your words of encouragement keep me going! :-) Jack's Big Sleep Danger, he could sense it. Danger and death. It came for him. Keep going. Gotta keep going. Gotta to find them. Gotta save them. It was dark as ebony, cloud cover obscuring any hope of a shimmering silver moon to help light the way. A damp mist penetrated his clothing and he shivered, its scent in his nostrils reminiscent of death and decay. The haze hung menacingly in the air, seemingly unmoved by the chill breeze. He wished for a gust of wind to blow it away, but realized this was not going to happen. That was not the way of this place. The planet seemed designed to remind a man of his mortality. Forbidding and bleak. Rocks and debris littered the earth, large strange shapes jutting out threateningly in the oppressive gloom. O'Neill had lost his flashlight a ways back. He was stumbling forward almost blindly; barely able to see his hands in front of him let alone find his way safely through this perilous obstacle course. But he had to continue. He had to find them. Find a safe haven. Find peace. O'Neill had been running, hiding and searching for a very long time. Too long. Fatigue was his enemy. One amongst many, but potentially deadly by itself. Despite the cold, he was sweating. O'Neill turned up the collar of his jacket and removed his cap, wiping his brow and pulling it back on tighter over his head, pressing on with his search. As time passed, he grew more desperate, more helpless, more fearful. Hope was fading fast. As rapidly as the dark had descended. When it came, it came so quickly and severely that it shook him to the core. Jack O'Neill was not a man that got shaken easily, but this place made him nervous. Danger, he could sense it. Danger and death. It came for him. He'd lost his team as carelessly as the flashlight, it seemed. Could not recall how, why or when. Forever ago, maybe. Useless. Powerless. They needed him. He should protect them. His job, his responsibility. Never leave anyone behind. No one should come to harm on his watch. Not while he still drew a breath. Yes, they needed him - and he needed them. Alone and vulnerable, Jack's concern for his missing team was augmented by the spine-chilling atmosphere of this strange planet. He had failed. Failed to find them, failed to protect them. He was a loser, a busted flush. That hurt. Deep down. Fundamental. Keep going. Gotta keep going. Gotta to find them. Gotta save them. He needed rest, required food and water but had none. Must have lost his pack along with that flashlight, and his team. He wondered when he had become so sloppy. He had been better at this kind of thing once. Getting old. Feeling old. Drained, weak, powerless. Exhaustion, hunger and thirst. They might take him before anything. Before he found them, before he found a way home. He knew it was only a matter of time. He could not go on like this for much longer. This place would claim him. Death would come for him. The planet would take its prize. Soon. Very soon. He could feel it. He knew it. Danger, he could sense it. Danger and death. It came for him. Then he felt something. It brushed his arm and he looked down. Long, gnarled fingers, clawed and grey. He gasped, stepping back. Trying to get away. Then something grasped at him, another hand. They surrounded him. A hundred gnarled, clawed grey hands, reaching for him out of the dark. They were everywhere. They pulled, they pushed, they snatched. They hit, they punched, they seized. "Teal'c! Carter! Daniel!" he cried. But it was too late. They had him. They took him down. "Jack!" Catherine exclaimed, distressed as she observed Jack's fitful restlessness and he screamed out loud for his friends. "Jack, you're dreaming. But I'm here. I'm here for you." Then he murmured her name. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 On that early Sunday morning, frustration was the watchword for the three waiting members of SG-1. Acute and apparent. Pete Shanahan was right about Sam. She was a little pissed that he got visitation rights when Jack's closest friends were left sitting there twiddling their thumbs - relieved, sure, but continuing to fret. Jesse's news about O'Neill was good, certainly, but they wanted to see the evidence with their own eyes and, unless ordered to do so, no way were they moving until they did. As he returned from his interrogation of her CO, Carter's eyes darted to Pete and she rose from her chair, surrounding him along with the rest of Jack's friends. She was disappointed when he immediately spoke softly to Catherine, telling her O'Neill wanted to see her. The remaining threesome glared at the detective disconcertingly as she left. That Catherine Fellowes was next up merely added insult to injury for all three of them. Although logic told them both Pete and Catherine's access was the right thing, when tired and tetchy after a long anxious night, logic does not necessarily apply. They cared too much about the general. He was not simply their CO and never had been. O'Neill was special to each of them. So hearts ruled heads, at least for the human contingent. Teal'c was more forbearing, which did not mean he cared less, just that he hid his concerns better. Nevertheless, Pete got the distinct impression the big Jaffa was not a happy camper. That made him appear menacing, which was not something he particularly wished to be on the receiving end of. "Hey, don't shoot the messenger. He asked for her!" Pete exclaimed defensively before any of them spoke. He could see from those disquieting expressions that all three of O'Neill's ex-team mates were a little irate. All weary, all upset, all having waited for too long for the good news. Now they needed some action and felt stymied. "What about us?" Sam replied, an irked tone on her lips and eyes narrowed into slits. Pete felt a slight shiver run down his spine. Sam could be darned terrifying when she was pissed, he thought. He was not afraid of her, of course. Actually, he found it a little hot and sexy. Besides, he loved her too much to feel fear. Trepidation, however, was another matter. Briefly, he wondered if she ever felt like that about him. Probably not. Sam was nothing if not dogged, and very protective of her friends. Traits he admired. He could be the same, and might react in a similar way in these circumstances, but he was not certain she had ever had an opportunity to see him in that light. "I'm sorry. It's not my show. Maybe you should speak to Ellis. The general isn't supposed to have too many visitors all at once. No excitement." "B-but..." Daniel stammered. "We just want to see him!" Sam spat out in frustration. "I get it but it's not my fault, all right? And as you asked, he's okay. Flaky. Looks pretty bad. But he's okay." Sarcasm laced his words. They had not asked, and all three suddenly felt pangs of guilt. It should have been the first question, but they were all eager to see O'Neill for themselves. Pete's reassurances aside, and anyone else's for that matter, they would not quite believe he was okay until they had seen him themselves. "Flaky? Bad?" Daniel queried with concern. "What do you expect? Cinderella? The fairy godmother waving her wand to make a fairy tale happy ending? These people made chopped liver out of him, Doctor Jackson. This ain't no picnic!" Pete snapped. He too was tired and thus too overly emotional. Daniel recoiled and, regretful of his retort, Pete sighed and held up his hands in a gesture of apology, shaking his head and then rubbing his hands through his hair. Realizing her fiance was troubled, Sam rapidly moved to his side and grasped his arm gently, quick to be supportive just as he had been with her earlier. "Sorry," she said. "We didn't mean to take out our frustrations on you." She smiled, something Pete found irresistible. Thought he could probably forgive almost anything when she turned the corners of those lips upward. "I'll make up to you for your frustration later. When we get the chance to occupy the same bedroom," he replied with a smirking wink. Sam kissed him softly on the cheek and Daniel and Teal'c exchanged knowing looks, some of the tension relieved slightly. Then Pete gestured for them to sit and answered as many of their questions about O'Neill as he considered appropriate. There were limits to both his knowledge and what he deemed fitting to reveal, but he hoped the discussion would give them some degree of reassurance until they saw their friend for themselves. Sam could see her fiance was exhausted. He had probably had as little sleep as the three of them. She also knew he would likely continue to pursue his investigation as soon as he left the hospital, not affording himself the luxury of rest. So she held his hand while they spoke, squeezing it periodically in a gesture of comfort and smiling softly when he looked her way. Pete had to admit he found her quiet support soothing. By the time the foursome had finished talking, he felt more relaxed and ready to face his work. As Carter returned from kissing her fiance goodbye and waving him off to that work, she bumped into Jesse Ellis, who was also returning to the confines of the hospital. He looked tired. Just like the rest of them, she supposed. "Hi Sam," he said in greeting, the smile on his face turning back those years the stress and exhaustion had added to that countenance over the last few hours. "Back to the grind. Another day, another dollar." He rolled his eyes and frowned. "Been sleeping?" she asked and he shook his head. "Church," he clarified. "Right," she acknowledged. Church attendance was not her personal thing, not for many years, but each to their own she thought. "You look like you need some sleep." "You and me both. SG-1 still here? You should go get some rest. Come back later." "Not until we've seen the general!" she retorted. Ellis was puzzled by the comment and could tell she was a tad fraught. "You haven't seen him yet?" he replied in surprise. "Why the heck not?" Carter stopped in her stride, so Ellis paused too. "We're allowed?" she asked excitedly. Ellis' bafflement hitched up a notch. "Sure!" he exclaimed. "I left instructions... Darn it, do I have to do everything myself?" He smiled ruefully, thinking it was too bad he couldn't simply take some time for church and expect everything to run smoothly while he was absent. "Go to it Sam!" "Really?" Carter's excitement mounted. "Catherine is with him. We thought... well, we understood he shouldn't have too many visitors." Jesse shrugged. "True. The doctors don't want him overly exerted or excited. But he sure will want to see you guys!" "Great! Thanks Jesse!" Having quickly elicited his room number from her CO's Executive Officer, she turned on her heels and hot footed it back into the hospital, eager to tell the others. At last, they would have their chance to see him. Then they could all go home and get their well-needed sleep. They would get other opportunities. Later, tomorrow, whenever. When she entered the waiting room, the colonel had a huge grin on her face, and light shining in her previously dulled eyes. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 The overcast sky threatened showers, but it was warm. When they had started their hike, the sun had been shining low in the sky, promising a glorious day. It seemed weather forecasters had been wrong. Could be worse, could be cold, O'Neill thought. The terrain was not that difficult. He had chosen an easier hike this time because of his companion. But they had reached the foothills and now the only way was up or turn back. Not too steep, but before climbing he suggested they take a break. Eat. Drink. Rest up. They passed the down time in mainly companionable silence, exchanging the odd word or two as they ate sandwiches. They did not need words. The pair had a special bond - the bond of father and son. Easy company. Secure and intimate. "You ready, son?" he asked with a smile, thinking it was time to press on. Otherwise, they might not make it back at the promised time and Sara would be pissed with him. He did not want to provoke a row with his wife. Charlie nodded and they packed away the trash and their gear, prepared to climb the small, relatively undemanding mountain ahead. Charlie was learning fast, but O'Neill would not yet risk more complex hikes and climbs. In the years ahead, sure. They had plenty of time. Part-way up, the weather started pressing in and the going seemed far tougher than O'Neill remembered from earlier walks along this path. Looking back it seemed a long way down. He could not recall it being so high either. As the skies opened and thunderous rain fell on them, he thought they should probably turn back. Should have done that a while back, he figured. O'Neill had made a mistake. Possibly a bad one. Shelter, have to find shelter. Can't risk Charlie. Danger, he could sense it. Danger and death. It came for him. Just above them, he spotted an outcropping that might protect them from the elements, but it looked difficult to reach. He led the way, instructing Charlie to follow and then wait until he could turn and help him traverse the precipice. A fall in this place could be dangerous. He was taking no chances. O'Neill was soaked, suddenly cold. Their gear afforded little protection from such a downpour. He was unprepared, and could not quite believe how stupid he had been. Should have seen this coming. He had failed. Failed to protect Charlie. He was a loser, a busted flush. That hurt. Deep down. Fundamental. Danger, he could sense it. Danger and death. It came for him. Carefully, he eased his way up the rock face, turning at the top to reach for his son's hand. But the hand he sought was not there. Instead, long, gnarled fingers, clawed and grey, stretched up to him. He gasped, moving back. Trying to get away. Then something grasped at him from behind, another hand. They surrounded him. A hundred gnarled, clawed grey hands, reaching for him out of the dark. They were everywhere. They pulled, they pushed, they snatched. They hit, they punched, they seized. "Charlie!" he cried. But it was too late. They had him. They took him down. Catherine sobbed at his heart rending scream. She recognized the name. Jack's son. His long dead son. A nightmare. "Jack, wake up Jack!" she cried, but to no avail. He did not hear or respond. She took his hand and held on tight. "I'm here Jack. Right here." Then he murmured her name. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 Back at the SGC, everything was returning to normal at last, with O'Neill's very much relieved subordinates going about their everyday business. Reports got written, teams readied for briefings and off-world trips, scientists probed the mysteries allocated to them, maintenance continued on its perpetual loop. For Sergeant Walter Harriman, and a few others who had waited up all night for news about their CO, it was a time of rest. Strict orders from Colonel Eastman, who was determined to look after O'Neill's people properly and fittingly in the great man's absence. If it was the last thing on planet Earth he ever did, the colonel would do right by the CO he admired and respected so greatly. Walter did as Eastman ordered. What the boss wanted, he got. The sergeant was happy to have the break, not take his stint in the control room, not make any stupid mistakes because he was too tired. Eastman made the right call. Lives could be at stake, aliens could invade, universes could implode. Okay, so maybe not universes, but shit could happen and high stakes errors were something the sergeant did not wish to risk. Eastman too, it seemed. Loosening his tie, Walter had laid down on the bed in one of the SGC's many bolt holes, sighing. He was exhausted but his brain was futzing with him. Too overly active, still too tense. So he lay awake for a long time reflecting on the night's activities and General O'Neill. Eastman was a wind up artist. His serious expression when he got off the phone to Colonel Ellis had them all worried, sitting on the edges of their seats waiting with collectively held breath. That was until the colonel smiled. Then they knew the general was going to be okay. Eastman would never have smiled if not. So the whole room exploded with relief, cheers and babbling excitement. Eastman could hardly make himself heard to utter the words of confirmation. It did not really matter. The assembled band of worriers knew, and it spread through the SGC very quickly. Throughout the mountain complex, O'Neill's subordinates celebrated the news in their own individual ways. A huge weight was lifted, the heavy oppressive mood lightening. "Go get some sleep, sergeant," Eastman told Harriman with an encouraging grin after the initial excitement died down. Through the course of the night, the two men seemed to have become comrades. A common cause, a mutual concern, had bonded them together in a way that Harriman had never previously thought possible. Eastman was okay, he had decided. Walter merely nodded an acknowledgement of the colonel's suggestion come order, a weary smile on his face. He started to leave, ready to obey, but turned back at the last moment. "What about you, sir?" he asked. "You've been awake all day and night too." The two men exchanged affable and supportive looks. "I'll be fine, sergeant. A little bit of roster reorganization and then I'll take a nap," Eastman replied. "See that you do, sir. With all due respect, of course, colonel," he added hastily. "Thanks for your concern, Walter." "Any time, sir." Walter thought he saw a thoroughly self-satisfied gleam in the colonel's eyes before he turned to leave. Sleep, however, did not come as easily as Walter had anticipated. He had expected to doze off as soon as he hit the bed, but he was restless. Still too exuberant, perhaps. He was happy the general had pulled through, would live to fight another day. Tough old bird, that was O'Neill. They did not come much tougher, it seemed, and Walter had seen ample evidence of the fact over the years he had known the man. The general was simply too stubborn to let himself die, although one might have been fooled into thinking the guy had a death wish. He surely put himself into enough death defying situations. He surely had come close many times. How many lives did the wily old cat have for heaven's sake? No wonder his hair was gray and the lines on his face had multiplied. Okay, so simply growing older had played its part but so must those many close encounters with death. Walter imagined his boss playing one long game of chess with death, and each time coming up with the winning moves. Death must be one hell of a pissed off guy. Impatiently waiting for O'Neill to make the fatal mistake, to fail to protect his king. The general was a master strategist. Defense and attack were his bread and butter. Death should learn to play a better game of chess. The images conjured by the thought amused the sergeant and he giggled aloud. Must be high on palpable relief, he thought. Good job there were no witnesses. He felt a little bit giddy and light headed, he realized. Need sleep. But restlessness prevailed. Walter had peered at himself in the mirror a little earlier. He looked haggard, old. The excitement and lack of sleep had taken its toll, and not for the first time. This job was enough to age almost anyone overnight. He had watched as other people he worked with grew older - the hair, the face, the telltale hands. General O'Neill for example. It seemed Walter simply could not get his CO out of his mind. All roads led to O'Neill. A lot had happened to his CO over the last eight years, so Walter was not very surprised. The general was lucky to be alive. Many were not. The SGC had suffered its losses, but SG-1 seemed to keep on going. With some exceptions, like all that weirdness with Doctor Jackson. The SGC was plagued with weirdness. This was one reason Walter's job was so different and interesting. The general's too, he guessed. O'Neill had faced captivities and tortures, life and death situations and decisions, loss of good friends and colleagues and much more. He had earned each and every one of those gray hairs and lines on his face, paid his dues. What surprised Walter, however, was looking at his own image in the mirror. When had he acquired those wrinkles and sallow skin? It wasn't like he was out there fighting in the field, was it? It wasn't like he had the hard decisions to make? So, when had he gotten so old? Briefly, he wondered what O'Neill thought when he looked at his face in the mirror. Did he think he was lucky? Did he regret? Did he realize what a fortunate bastard he was and then keep on practicing the chess with a wicked, obstinate gleam in his eye? Gonna get you, death. You are sooo going down! "Gee, Walter, get a grip," he said to himself, laughing. Trying to think about something else. Trying to count sheep. It was not working. The sergeant's mind ranged back a few years. The first time O'Neill had turned up at the SGC since that original trip to Abydos. Apophis had just taken one of their own but left some of his people behind. Dead Jaffa. Hammond sent that asshole Samuels to bring O'Neill in. Walter had to admit, he was pleased to see the colonel again. Of course, they had not kept in touch since their previous posting together. Why would they? But he got the feeling that now O'Neill was there things would be very different inside the mountain. Change was coming. Change for the good, he believed. Harriman's posting to the SGC had seemed like being in the pit of the universe. Nothing ever happened. They were mothballing the place; Hammond was planning retirement; the sergeant was looking forward to the better, more interesting posting his superiors had promised. Then Apophis came - and O'Neill came out of retirement. Life was never the same after that. Yeah, it sure had been good to see his old mentor again. O'Neill remembered him. Walter recalled feeling slightly flattered by this fact. The old war horse had always had a way about him - a way to make a subordinate feel like that. Despite he could be ornery. Despite he could sometimes be a bastard. These negatives were not the traits that lingered in the minds of many of his colleagues, only in the heads of those people who never saw the best of him. What lingered were the positives - those qualities that commanded loyalty and respect. Not merely because he was a senior officer, but because he was Jack O'Neill. And with these thoughts, Walter started to doze and the relief of rejuvenating sleep came to him at last. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 He could not seem to move. Helplessly paralyzed. The world revolved around him in slow motion. All he could do was watch. With failing hope, ineffectual and horror-struck. They had Catherine. O'Neill saw them take her, pull her away from him. She screamed, called his name, called for help. They were hurting her, beating her as they dragged her off. O'Neill could do nothing. He tried calling out, trying to move, but he was stuck fast, mute. No, no, no, no, no! He cried out in his silent prison. Have to get to her, protect her, save her. But she disappeared into the far distance, pulled, mauled, injured. She had no one on her side. No one to help her. She was alone. It was his responsibility to help her, but he could do nothing. He had failed. Failed to protect Catherine. He was a loser, a busted flush. That hurt. Deep down. Fundamental. Danger, he could sense it. Danger and death. It came for him. He was crying now. Sobbing his heart out. Immobile and voiceless. Hopeless. Ineffective. Pathetic. No, no, no, no, no! Catherine! A void. Nothing surrounded him. A big nothing. Featureless, desolate. Attempting to move a foot, he screeched with anger, frustration. Nothing. Then long, gnarled fingers, clawed and grey, reached for him. He gasped, flinching away. Trying to avoid them. Then something grasped at him from behind, another hand. They surrounded him. A hundred hands gnarled, clawed grey hands, reaching for him out of the dark. They were everywhere. They pulled, they pushed, they snatched. They hit, they punched, they seized. "Catherine!" he cried. But it was too late. They had him. They took him down. She stared in horror as he called her name so plaintively. Jack's eyes opened for a moment, looking vacant and lost, then filled with terror before they closed again. And he continued to dream, mumbling her name with tears rolling down his sleeping cheeks. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 More disappointment awaited SG-1 when they finally got to see O'Neill. He was dead to the world. Catherine attentively sat at his side holding his hand. He seemed peaceful for now and she was thankful. Her watchful horror at his previously fitful state had turned to stares of deep affection. She was here for him, and that mattered. She hoped he knew. As the door opened, she turned her head curiously. "Shhh..." she whispered with the accompanying gesture of raising a finger to her lips, "he's sleeping." She could see the disappointment writ large on his friend's faces. Leastwise, in Sam Carter and Daniel Jackson's expressions. The large imposing man Teal'c, however, showed nothing in his features. He was an enigma and she determined to ask Jack about him when he was well enough. "How is he?" Daniel asked in a low voice. Catherine shrugged because, in truth, she did not know the answer to that question. "I don't really know. He's been asleep since I came in." She sighed regretfully, glancing at Jack and then back to the threesome, who hovered around the bed peering at their friend with concern and exchanging worried looks. "He looks bad, I know. But the doctor says he'll be okay - after some recovery time. Apparently, he's dosed up on morphine. He'll be fine." She seemed confident of the prognosis, but then Daniel noticed her eyes begin to water and he stepped closer to squeeze her shoulder comfortingly, a faint smile on his lips. "Told you he's tough," he said, and Catherine returned the small smile, raising her hand to cover Daniel's and then letting go to turn back to O'Neill. "He's quick at the recovery thing. Hates convalescing so much he forces himself to get better fast." Daniel chuckled and the rest of the team smiled. Catherine missed that part, though, as she was had eyes only for Jack. "I hope you're right," she mumbled. "Probably looks worse than it is," Sam inserted hopefully. Catherine was right that he looked pretty bad, although SG-1 had seen him in worse situations, she supposed. The bruising was awful, but just cosmetic. It was what lay hidden that worried her. Catherine turned to look at Sam, loosening her hold on Jack temporarily. Noticing the dark shadows under her eyes, she peered at the rest of his friends. They appeared worn-out. Not surprising, she guessed. She had not even dared look in a mirror at her own face and imagined she probably looked terrible too. She did not care how dreadful she might appear. Jack was her primary concern, and Catherine doubted he would worry much about how she looked either. Looks were cosmetic too. There was far more to their relationship then mere physical attraction, even if that was how it had all started. An attractive woman spotting and picking up a handsome hunk in a bar, finding a connection, a spark. The connection had strengthened and that spark continued to ignite. It was a blessing she had not been looking for when she saw him across the crowded bar. "You all look as exhausted as I feel," she said sympathetically. "I've no idea how long he'll be out. Maybe you should go get some rest and come back later." "What of you, Catherine Fellowes? You too have not slept." Teal'c asked kindly. "I'm not going anywhere. I want to be here when he wakes up," she replied, grateful for his concern, but she was not worried for herself, only for Jack. Catherine thought Teal'c had a strange manner of speaking, unlike anything she had previously encountered. His phrasing reminded her of a foreigner who had learned proper English rather than the colloquial. He spoke a little bit too precisely than was normal to a native English speaker, but she could discern no accent. This made her curious about his origins and how such a man had ended up in the US Air Force. He certainly had a soldierly bearing. Sam Carter too. Daniel Jackson was another enigma. He did not seem to fit. Jack had told her he was an archeologist and anthropologist who spoke many languages. What did such a man do inside Cheyenne Mountain? Catherine knew Jack's work was secret. He revealed little, but these small things piqued her interest. Once again, she filed that interest away, thinking to ask Jack one day, although she doubted she would ever get to the truth. Not if it was something important to Jack's work. She understood the need for secrecy and wished things could be different. On the other hand, the things Jack failed to reveal made him more of a mystery, and Catherine kind of liked that in a man. It could be titillating, and it kept her on her toes. She could be a bit of a mystery herself, she realized, although Catherine had told Jack much that she had concealed from almost anyone else. It would not hurt to ask, she thought. If Jack did not tell then, well, so be it. "I'll be okay," she added to her previous comment. "Better than he is." She indicated Jack, and smiled softly. The damage wrought on O'Neill was extensive. Far worse than anything Catherine's ex-husband had inflicted on her. Jack's friend, Doctor Brightman, had popped in a little earlier to check on him and the two women had talked. Brightman was clearly relieved that Catherine's own beating was now out in the open, and probably even more relieved that her part in the illegal cover-up remained uncovered. Catherine understood the doctor would be in a lot of trouble if people found out she had not reported the assault. She might even lose her medical license. So she was more than happy to keep the secret. Now, she did not dare mention the woman's visit for fear of letting something slip and making Jack's friends suspicious. If Jack told them, it was his call. Catherine believed he trusted them completely because he had implied it, but she did not. To her, trust was something people earned, not a given because of someone else's word. Not even Jack's. Catherine had trust issues. Not surprising considering her past. She trusted Jack and a handful of other people. Outside of her small, select group of close friends, it was a 'prove I can have confidence in you' scenario. What the doctor had done was a decent thing. Loyalty to Jack, Catherine supposed. Such loyalty was a good thing and she would do nothing to betray Brightman's trust in him. Catherine told Brightman about his fitful nightmares, expressing her concerns, weeping gently as she spoke. The doctor helped. She had not been surprised and said it would have shocked her more if he did not have them. They discussed post traumatic stress and Catherine got the impression this was not the first time Brightman had encountered such nightmares with Jack. Daniel Jackson had implied he'd seen worse, so perhaps Catherine should not have been surprised either. She knew some things about Jack's past. His capture and torture in Iraq, for example. Only briefly, but enough. All she could do was to be there when he needed her. He needed her now. "W-we just wanted to see him. Make sure he's okay," Carter stammered hesitantly and Catherine nodded her head in understanding. These three people obviously cared a lot about Jack. More loyalty. Colonel Ellis too. There was a lot she did not know about her lover, but the feelings he elicited from these others confirmed her own thoughts about his character. He was a good man. Respected not just for his rank, but for the person he was. They liked him, possibly loved him in their own ways. She wondered if the whole Air Force base inside that mountain felt likewise. Maybe. Jack had a special way about him. Indefinable, perhaps, but it very much existed. Maybe this was what they meant by charisma. Jack had a kind loving heart and felt things very deeply, much more so than he would ever reveal to anyone, she suspected. Even to her. He cared about people. They must know or sense it so no matter what, they cared right back - even the President of the United States, or so it would seem from their brief encounter a few weeks before. And Jack had not earned all those medals or been promoted to the rank of general for nothing. Astute, intelligent and brave, that was her man. Oh yeah, and not forgetting that he was one heck of a gorgeous hunk, even with all those bruises. Although that kind of thing only mattered to her, not the US Air Force. The thought made Catherine smile inwardly. "We'll hang around for a few minutes," Daniel said. "He seems peaceful." Catherine remained quiet for the longest moment, then eyed Jack's friends and sighed. "At the moment, but he's having nightmares." The three members of SG-1 looked slightly ill at ease with the statement, each of them conscious that O'Neill probably would prefer they did not know such an intimacy. Carter and Daniel visibly squirmed. Each of the team had witnessed O'Neill having bad dreams at one time or another, more than once. All three had suffered similarly restless sleep. His nightmares, however, were personal and private to O'Neill. Something they did not discuss. "Do you know if it happens often?" she asked, then realized from their manner that they felt awkward about this subject and started to regret having raised it. Daniel rubbed his chin thoughtfully wondering how to respond, and Carter's cheeks flushed a little. "He does not speak of it," Teal'c replied, stepping in where his two friends feared to tread. "Oh," said Catherine. "I guess that's Jack." She smiled faintly, thinking to drop the subject and a long silence ensued while the visitors pondered O'Neill's current condition. "Why don't you get chairs and sit down?" she asked after a few minutes. The threesome's looming presence was starting to make her feel ill at ease. "Maybe he'll wake up soon." Feeling equally awkward, Carter eyed Teal'c and then Daniel, smiling self-consciously. "Um... we ought to get going. Right guys?" Catherine wondered if Sam feared her revealing more confidences about Jack, and their response made her curious about the nature of his friendship with these three. Men can be so oddly reticent, she thought. Jack was one such man, but these people were his friends. She wondered how they spent their time together, what they did, what they talked about. Maybe one day she would find out. Meet them again under better circumstances. She hoped so. They left swiftly, promising to return later, and once they had gone, Catherine turned her mind to contemplating friendship, the intricacies of relationships and their boundaries. Each was unique, she supposed. Then Jack groaned, his peace retreating to make way for restiveness once more, and she took his hand in hers again. This time, he squeezed back. Hard. 0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0-0 The box was barely larger than him. A tight squeeze. A coffin, perhaps? O'Neill struggled, clawing at the covering, pushing, squirming. No matter how hard his exertions, he could not seem to get out. But he had to escape. He had something to do. He sought to recall what it was and failed, but knew it was important. Something... Thrash, thump, bang, push, kick... scream! Dark. Total blackness. Claustrophobic. Air in short supply. Breathless. Hot. Scared. Never give up. Never! Not gonna die, damn you, whoever you are! Not gonna stop fighting... last breath. Thrash, thump, bang, push, kick... scream! O'Neill could not breathe. Wasting the little air he had with vain resistance. Resistance is futile, he thought, vaguely curious about where he had heard the phrase before. One last attempt. One last chance. One last breath. He inhaled the dank, virtually oxygenless air deeply. This is different, he thought. Then he woke. He could not catch his breath. It seemed stuffy and overly warm. Jack struggled and felt someone gently take hold of him. Heard someone anxiously whisper his name, trying to calm him, trying to tell him they were there for him. Jack opened his eyes, taking in large gulps of air, and she was there. Catherine, her beautiful but damaged face framed by long dark hair, bent over him and holding him in her arms. A slightly fuzzy image to his currently unfocussed eyes, but she really was there nonetheless. Jack tried to smile but it hurt, so he groaned and croaked her name from his arid lips. "Catherine!" Suddenly, his blurry vision cleared and he could distinguish her face lucidly. She looked into his eyes with an expression mixed with excitement and relief. It had been a long night and day, but Jack had come back to her. "Jack!" she said, the tone of that one word reflecting everything he could see in her face. And then he smiled. TBC Author's footnote: Having left this story in a vaguely happy place, I can go on my long and well deserved vacation without feeling guilty about leaving readers hanging on the edge of a cliff. Okay, so I know many loose ends needing tying up in this story arc, but you'll have to wait a while because very soon I will be jetting off to Vancouver and will be away for quite some time! Sorry and all that, but Richard Dean Anderson comes first. Rick, Vancouver, Gatecon, other Gatecon guests, the great fellow fans I'll be meeting at Gatecon, playing tourist around other parts of British Columbia and the Canadian Rockies, and so on... oh, and the bears. Mustn't forget the bears! Did I already mention Richard Dean Anderson, btw... and Gatecon... and the bears? :-D TTFN Su |