Gathering Up the Courage

Disclaimer: Wish I do own them… (sigh!)

Rating: K

Season/Story timeline: Six/Set a few weeks before the events of The Other Guys.

Summary: Not everyone feels the same way about Jonas Quinn.

Comment: Very first fic posted – ever. If this pans out better than I thought, well… (twiddles thumbs)

A/N: Everything here is basically what I've come up with while brooding at home one rainy weekend. Made some revisions, but the plot is still the same.

"Only two things are infinite: the universe and human stupidity; and I'm not sure about the former." - Albert Einstein (1879-1955)

Chapter One – Awareness

He's here again.

Every time he ventured in here alone, the same thing always happened: he'd go in and all conversations, if not lowered, would abruptly cease. He tried his best to ignore it and the accompanying hostile stares directed at him. He'd then bravely snake his way around the tables to reach the food counter on the other side of the room to inspect today's breakfast selection.

Once that was done, a sea of unfriendly faces greeted him as he turned around. He stood there for a few seconds as he scanned the room, his face impassive as he tried to find anyone familiar, or maybe anyone who would dare invite him, to join their table. Currently, he's "friends" with only four people in the entire complex and none of them were presently at the commissary.

The Kelownan didn't waste another second and simply left the room quietly with his food-laden tray to eat somewhere else.

Conversations began in earnest as soon as he was out the door… like nothing happened.

Someone should've done something.

I should've done something.

Instead, I just watched and sat by while the guy was shunned from every direction—like he was carrying some sort of deadly transmittable disease. It wasn't right.

My parents must be turning in their graves right about now.

I was taken out of my reverie when I heard Capt. Burkes, who sitting beside me, began talking about stubborn aliens who didn't know what was good for them. The others at our table readily agreed; highly entertained at the change of subject. No doubt, the entire commissary was discussing only one subject. Usually, I would agree, too, but there was something about what happened a while ago that made me think otherwise.

I studied the faces around the table with me. SG-4 had just arrived from a recon mission four hours ago. SG-13, where Capt. Burkes belonged to, was currently on stand down—they had just submitted their individual mission reports and was waiting for deployment in the next couple of days.

My own team, SG-2, was away on a return mission to P1C-586, a trinium-rich planet that we recently stumbled upon via the Abydos Gate list. Although the planet was ravaged by a very powerful storm, I would rather be there than to stay on base recuperating from a concussion, a broken collarbone, and two cracked ribs after falling headlong down a 30-foot ravine while attempting to rescue a little kid that got trapped below.

It was SOP that teams would automatically be out of active duty if a member was recuperating from an injury, but circumstances warranted SG-2 to return to '586 ASAP without me. Meanwhile, dear me had been stuck at Stargate Command for five days now with a sling on my right arm and a banged up torso covered by this huge bruise that eerily looked like Australia.

Because I broke my clavicle in three different places, I had to undergo surgery where the doctors pieced it together like a jigsaw puzzle and placed a metal support to keep the bigger fragments in place. They said surgery would help the healing process faster than letting it heal on its own. I had to wear an arm sling for the next four to six weeks and then physical therapy once I was out of it, both of which spelled desk duty.

In Col. O'Neill's own words, I was not a happy camper.

There were times when I wanted to say, "Screw SOP!" but one look at Dr. Fraiser's no nonsense face was all it took for whatever bravado I had left to leave the building.

I wasn't in the mood for anything today. I ached all over and lying down certainly didn't help. Although I was permitted to leave my bed for short periods of time, I did not bother bothering myself. Luckily, my knight in shining armor—or in this case, dark navy BDUs to be precise—in the guise of SG-13's Lt. Sykes came to whisk me away, even for just a few minutes, from Dr. Fraiser's ever watchful eye. He asked me if I wanted to join him and his team for breakfast at the commissary. I was so elated that I almost kissed him.

After checking in with the doctor, who wore a reproving look on her face, we both set off as fast as my sore body allowed half dreading of being recalled back to my sterile prison even before I could take a step towards freedom.

The commissary was already crowded by the time we got there. SG-13 was sharing a table with SG-4. You couldn't miss them: they were the loudest group in the room.

My dark mood began to lift after being surrounded by people wearing anything other than immaculate white lab gowns and different colored stethoscopes for accessories in just a span of 30 seconds. My injuries, how I got them, the dark cloud hanging over my head, the infirmary, and Dr. Fraiser all became a thing of the past as we swapped stories and laughed at jokes thrown around the table. It even made me feel good about being confined to base, sort of a blessing in disguise kind of thing. I was able to catch up with the rest of the world since we'd been "out there" protecting our little part of the universe most of the time. It was then that I felt a sense of contentment.

Then, it happened—No. He happened.

I could literally feel the temperature in the room drop at an incredible rate as soon as Jonas Quinn stepped in and also as it clearly went back up again as soon as he had left it.

I schooled my features before they became a dead giveaway to what I was really feeling at that moment. To onlookers, it would seem that I became acutely interested at the bowl of raising bran before me stirring it occasionally, when in truth, my mind was far away.

I successfully drowned out the mocking voices around me, the vitriol dripping in each word they said, and tried not to feel the heavy weight of oppression directed at someone so vehemently and forced myself to concentrate on one single bubble floating on the milk that my distracted stirring had caused.

Witnessing such cruelty placed on someone who gave everything—who gave up everything—to help Earth and SGC, I felt a myriad of emotions, but none as strongly and as overwhelming as the feeling that I summed up into one word.

Remorse.

I knew that the way SG-1's newbie was treated around the base, by the very people whose lives he saved every time he crossed the event horizon, wasn't right. It never was or would ever be.

But did I do anything to stop it?

Feedback much appreciated, good or bad. Thanks in advance for taking the time to read this. Did I just say that this is my very first fic ever? Just give a holler if you think it is worth continuing over or otherwise. Please be gentle.