Awareness came gradually, old habit keeping his body still as his mind groggily sorted out where he was. His mouth softened into a smile as he remembered. His first night home and he had fallen asleep on the couch. It was comfy enough -- he'd been sure to buy one that was good for sleeping -- and one of his friends had covered him with a warm blanket. He nestled there, drowsing contentedly in the combined warmth of blanket and friendship. It was good to have friends.
When I open up my eyes, I will lose you
He froze at the words, suddenly cold. No! This was real. When he opened his eyes, he would still be here, still home, still safe.
So why didn't he just open them? What was he supposed to do? Hide under his blanket forever?
Forever's too good to be true.
Stop it! Who was saying those things? Somebody make it stop!
He clenched the blanket in his fists, eyes screwed tight shut, heart pounding. The blanket? Feel the blanket? The bad guys wouldn't have given you a blanket.
Unless it was part of another mind game.
No! He railed inwardly at the doubts, the fear that this was another trick. He was home. Safe. Feel the couch? Soft beneath you, not like a hard floor. And the cushions against your back? Never even had a wall in those last weeks, unless you count the sharp stuff they'd occasionally surrounded you with. Take a look. This is home.
When I open up my eyes, I will lose you
No! Not true. The nightmare was over, he was home. No hands tied. He cautiously wiggled his fingers; yep, one hand beneath his head, the other at his chest. He couldn't tell if he was blindfolded; the thing had been on for so long it was nearly a part of him.
When I open up my eyes, I will lose you
Wait. If he had the blindfold on, he couldn't open up his eyes. Nothing to lose, then. Still fighting the fear, and telling himself it was irrational, he held his breath and tentatively tried to raise his eyelids.
His living room appeared before him, dimly lit from the streetlight outside, and he sighed with relief. Taking a deep breath, he sat up, pulling the blanket around his shivering body. He rose and looked out the window into the yard. Nothing illuminated the darkness. Checked the driveway. Empty. They must have left after he fell asleep.
I'm out here in the dark. All alone and wide awake.
What? The words weren't a dream. They were real; some horrible song playing on his stereo. Even the voice was familiar, someone he used to know and trust, taunting him now, hurting him. The song was a nightmare all in itself, tailor-made to bring back the memories; the pain, the fear, and the broken hope of rescue.
I'm empty and I'm cold. And my heart's about to break. Come and find me.
Enough already! He stormed across the room and flung open the cd player door to stop the awful words. He grabbed the disc, determined to send an anonymous hate letter, or maybe an anonymous grenade, to the villainous singer. It was┘ Winnie the Pooh.
He stared at it. Couldn't be. Winnie the Pooh? Winnie didn't sing stuff like that. He sang nice things, happy things. And yet, it had been the traitorous bear's own voice singing those painful words.
Traitorous bear? You're losing it, O'Neill. He stared at the cd. Winnie's cheerful face smiled happily back at him. Every kid's favorite stuffed animal. Never noticed what beady little eyes he has. He rolled his own eyes at the stupid thought, and put the disk back in its little case.
Where had the disc come from, anyway? Not his collection, that was for sure. Oh, yeah. Cassie had given it to him. Cassie. He remembered how embarrassed the girl had been. She had told him in confidence that Janet had put her up to it; had pressed Cassie to give Jack the cd. Janet said it had soothed Cassie when she had first come to Earth, but Cassie herself didn't remember.
Janet.
Janet had wanted him to listen to this?
He let Cassie put it on just before she left. It must have been playing that horrid song over and over as he slept.
For the first time in days, he hadn't had the dream, the current box-office hit of the nightmare realm. Instead, he had dreamed that the rescue itself was the dream, that he was still a prisoner wishing that his team would
Come and find me.
The words, in Winnie's plaintive voice, sounded again in his mind and he shivered. He should go to his bed, get warm, but he knew there'd be no more sleep tonight.
What time was it, anyway? 04:00. Barely morning, really.
But when the morning comes, And the sun begins to rise, I will lose you. Because it's just a dream
No, he reminded himself firmly. It's not a dream. This is really home. If only that god-awful song would stop running through his mind.
I'm empty and I'm cold. And my heart's about to break.
Empty and cold. That I can fix. He started a pot of coffee, drumming his fingers and looking at the walls as he waited. There was nothing to do here. Nothing that he felt like doing, anyway. He held the hot cup with both hands, warming his fingers. Maybe a shower would warm him up the rest of the way. He headed upstairs, mug still in hand.
The water was warm, but it stung his still-raw skin like a hail of razors. Ok, there was a memory he didn't need right now. He was finished and out in record time, stopping the flow of the tiny liquid knives with a triumphant flourish. If only he could remove their big brother so easily. That big honking dagger Special Ops had plunged into his back when they tricked him into their deathtrap. It was still there, its wound festering in his heart.
He had been trying to ignore it, or imagine it away. But it seemed like every time he relaxed, even a little bit, someone would twist the knife. Not the same huge blow as your own countrymen intending to torture you to death; little betrayals, small hurtful things that built up and made sure you never had any relief. Like that song, just another twist of the blade.
Why? Why that song? Why now? Because you relaxed, Jack, his mind filled in. You let your guard down and look what happened. Gotta watch your six or someone will twist that knife.
Dammit! He should be able to relax in his own house! He slammed his coffee mug into the sink angrily and it shattered. He stared at it, as unable to pick up its pieces as he was to pick up the pieces of his own broken self. Another mental image he really didn't need right now.
Come on, O'Neill, pull yourself together, he ordered himself. He was a veteran of psychoanalysis as much as battle; he knew all the usual routines, he should be able to handle this. Deep breath. Ok, visualization. Not a problem -- he was visualizing all over the place today. So, change the image. Visualize something else, change the bad image into something better. He drew a blank. He glared at his haggard reflection in the mirror and his own hollow eyes glared back, anger fragmenting into despair as he could think of no healing image.
He was broken inside, and he didn't know how to fix it.
He left the pieces where they were, firmly ignoring them and his feelings. Both would be easier to handle once he left them alone for a while. He dressed and went back to the kitchen for a fresh cup of coffee.
See? Good as new.
He complimented himself on his metaphor, blowing a mental raspberry at the part of his own mind that kept dredging up the uglier images. At least all this fascinating mental imagery must have filled up a couple hours of the day; it sure felt like a long time had gone by. Maybe it was late enough that someone else would be around to talk to.
04:23. Great. All dressed up and nowhere to go. He decided he might as well head in to work early, grimacing at the thought; his day was scheduled to start with an exam to check how he was healing. He drove slowly in, taking the long way, killing time.
He flipped the radio on. Any song would do, just to get that evil tune out of his head.
"...that's all it takes to-o-o-o
Completely break you"
Argh! He stabbed the next pre-set button.
"...have betrayed me
I thought I'd die Why? All the reasons still evade me"
He snapped the radio off angrily; he didn't even want to hear the next words to that one.
And they wondered why he listened to opera.
He wished he could listen to some now; it would relax him as he drove the empty early-morning roads to the base. But of course, the cd player was gone, along with his truck, the other victim of his unfortunate "demise." He hadn't had time yet to go and buy a new one, and the borrowed Mustang didn't have a cd player. Didn't have leg room either, for that matter. His right knee collided with the keys whenever he had to switch between the brake and gas pedals.
Taking a curve much too fast, especially for the little two-wheel drive car, he skidded toward the embankment. He struggled with the wheel, fighting to get the vehicle back on the road. It slid perilously close to the edge -- not a good thing on these winding mountain roads.
With a sigh of relief, he got it straightened out and slowed down. Calm down, Jack, he told himself. Drive reasonably, with no music. Just get there. What was it they said? Put a smile on your face and you'll start to feel happier?
He clenched his teeth into a semblance of a grin as he neared the base. The guard at the entrance stepped forward, then back a half-step when he saw Jack. Guess the smile thing wasn't working too well. The man gave him a couple of sidelong glances as he checked his credentials and looked relieved when he waved him on in.
He closed the car door, trailing his hand gently along the side of the car as he walked around it. The metal felt smooth to his touch; hopefully the bushes he'd scraped along that curve hadn't scratched the shiny almond paint. He couldn't be sure in the pre-dawn gloom; he'd have to come back later to find out if he'd have to send it to get fixed.
But when the morning comes, and the sun begins to rise, I will lose you
He was going to use Winnie the Pooh for target practice one day. Soon.
04:57.
"You're in early today, Colonel," the security guard commented as he signed in.
"Yeah. You're just about done for the day, aren't you, sergeant?" Maybe he could kill a minute or ten here.
"Yep! Home for a nap, then off to school with the kids. It's 'Field Day' today, and I'll be judging the water-balloon toss." He smiled at the officer before him. "You got kids, Colonel?"
Twist went the knife in his back.
"A son." He had promised himself never to deny Charlie's existence, but that didn't mean that he wanted to get into details with the night watchman. He pushed the clipboard back at the man, preparing to continue on into the base.
The man didn't notice, or didn't react to, the gesture. "Ever play catch with him?"
Ouch. Definitely time to retreat. "Yep. Gotta go, sergeant. Have a ball at Field Day."
05:04. He stared at his desk, not really seeing the paperwork. He was thinking about his physical. Not the exam itself so much, though it certainly wasn't his favorite pastime. Seeing her again. Especially after last night's Winnie the Pooh concert. And then there was that dream, the one he kept having. He shuddered to think of those hands, her hands, on him.
Wait. The order was to be examined. Not specifically to be examined by her. He headed for the infirmary.