Episode Tag to Morpheus. Once again Cam Mitchell's pov aka: where your brain goes when it's fighting to sleep. This came from my own all nighter and finding my ticket stub to Monty Python's Spamalot.
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"And I'll be…right here…waiting for you". White noise filled Mitchell's brain as he tried to sit up. Check that – tried to think about sitting up, which hurt just as much as the actually process of pushing off the dirt. His head was buzzing with the mother of all hangovers, but he was pretty damn sure he hadn't experienced the fun part that comes before the fuzzy and the spots and the spike right behind his left eye.
So drunken hangover was out. That left either zat blast or yet another "incurable until we get our resident geniuses working on it" disease. Ah, yeah. Merlin, Sir Gawain, the knights who say "ni!", and sleeping beauty syndrome. When exactly did his life become a fairy tale on crack? "I swear if the cure is to be woken by a kiss, it better be Heidi Klum." Mitchell grumbled to himself as he tried to roll over, then just belly flopped back into the dirt.
This was bad though for not only was he beyond bone tired, he was now humming a song that just aggravated the pounding and the nausea. Stretching his legs out behind him, Mitchell hummed to himself, trying to figure out who was the mullet haired lounge singer who wrote this torture mechanism. And why the hell was it boring into his ear? Communism…Lenin…No. Marx. That was it – Something Marx. Right here waiting for…Teal'c. "Note to self – next time you are left in a cave on another planet across the galaxy and you say so long, farewell to your teammate, under no circumstances shall you use lines from really bad monster ballads."
While part of his brain mocked him by repeating the chorus over and over, the rest concocted an elaborate scheme to torture those Ori bastards into surrender by playing a "Worse of the 80s" song mix. That would get 'em. A little Richard Marx, a little New Kids…wham bam thank you ma'am – an end to this unholy mess.
He was a genius. There was no need for some super weapon from Merlin. They were SG-1, damn it. They just needed an Ipod.
He'd get Teal'c right on that; crazy jaffa had an insane collection of music. Thanks to Gen. O'Neill's obsession with the Wizard of Oz, Teal'c was now on a musical kick and the strains of Rent and Wicked, among others, could be heard wafting through the corridors of the Mountain.
Mitchell found himself humming "always looking on the bright side of life", feet twitching in time. He tried to whistle but inhaled dirt instead, causing him to choke.
He could so have been a Knight in King Arthur's court. Hadn't he kicked the ass of the Black Knight twice? Hell, he could be Arthur and Siler could be his...that squire dude holding the coconuts. Jackson was so pretty he could be Sir Robin, and…he had no idea a person could be this freaking tired. Fingers began to play in the dirt, badly mimicking "air piano".
"His Name is Lancelot…he likes to prance a lot…he likes to dance a lot…" This was insane. He was a manly man, a lieutenant colonel in the US Air Force, kicking alien ass and yet he was singing along to the Broadway musical playing out in his head. When he got back to the Mountain, he was burning Teal'c's Spamalot CD, buying beer, starting a bar fight, and picking up chicks. Hot chicks.
A muffled noise came from the other end of the cave that grew louder as the seconds ticked by very slowly. His eyes were fuzzy now, glazed over by sleep denied and he barely made out the boxy shapes of the men coming to get him. Mitchell felt himself relax, they were here to get him now which had to mean Teal'c had gotten Curly Joe Bob to Carter and everything was alright now.
He's not quite dead yet.