Chapter 7

Daniel had just grabbed cookies and coffee when he spotted Jack in the mess. It was late. He'd planned to stay in for the night with a large stone slab from P4C-528 with inscriptions that looked very much like oghamic inscriptions. Jack usually went home at night, unless he had paperwork to finish. But he didn't look like he was doing paperwork. Actually, he was stabbing a doughnut with a straw. The typical O'Neill cry for help.

"Is it dead yet?" asked Daniel, sitting down by Jack.

Jack suddenly jerked towards him. "Huh? Who's dead?"

"Your doughnut. Looks like it's lost a lot of... jam."

"Shaddup, Daniel," muttered Jack with a slight smile in his eyes.

"Maybe Janet can patch it up."

"Huh."

"Didn't you have to see MacKenzie today..."

"Yeah." Jack jabbed the doughnut again.

"Did you manage to get him to do that freaky smile of his?"

Jack didn't take his eyes off the mutilated pastry. "Wasn't hard."

"Jack!" Daniel was getting annoyed with the monosyllable routine. Jack was clearly mulling over something important, and he wouldn't be doing it in public if he didn't somehow want help.

"Walsh told him how to do his job and forbade him to call her by her first name. Then I asked him why he was still calling me Jack and not Colonel. He did the freaky smile thing. I think we pissed him off."

"I wish I'd been there to see that," said Daniel with a smirk. He didn't like MacKenzie either, especially not after his little stay in a padded cell. He found the shrink patronising and too closed-minded to really work well in unusual situations.

"He got Walsh to talk about her feelings or whatever." Jack's voice sounded a bit hollow. Not a good sign.

"Was it bad?"

Jack sighed and rubbed his face. "I dunno."

"Well, does she hate you? Is she insane? What?"

He grunted and prodded the doughnut some more. "She's in the infirmary now."

"What?" A shudder of panic went through Daniel. Had Jack lost it and got into a fight? If he had, there would be endless trouble with Hammond, probably a court-martial, he could get suspended...

"She kinda broke down after we were with MacKenzie, made a scene." He shook his head. "Should have known better."

"What do you mean?" asked Daniel, still feeling cold sweat tingling on his spine.

"Remember how you were, after all the sarcophagus treatments? The withdrawal?"

"Yeah..." And another patented Jack O'Neill non-sequitur. He just loved changing the subject when it got uncomfortable.

"When you were pointing that gun at me, I told you that I knew what it was like. D'you remember that?"

"I do." Now he slowly started to see the link with Walsh. Had she got Jack hooked on something? It looked like she'd done that to a large number of her own recruits, after all...

"They call them happy-pills, but when you come off them, sometimes there can be hell to pay."

"What, you mean like Prozac, or...?"

"It was after Charlie died, they prescribed this antidepressant to 'stabilise' me, so that I didn't go nuts on Abydos. After a while, when I'd retired, I stopped taking it. Never liked what it did to me."

Jack was carefully avoiding eye contact as Daniel listened intently. He still wondered where Walsh came into the equation, but it had become secondary. Jack sharing anything this personal was generally a big event.

"I thought I was going to go nuts. There were these massive headaches, sweating, trembling, throwing up... It got so bad that I wanted to put a bullet through my skull. I dunno why I called her. I was confused and sick, and she was a doctor. I guess I kinda trusted her."

"Walsh?"

"Yeah. I... she was a shrink and we disagreed on most things, but... well, she wasn't so bad. She figured out what was wrong with me pretty fast and helped me through it." He stabbed the jammy mess in front of him one last time, before dropping the straw.

Daniel was at a complete loss. He thought that Jack was going to explain why he disliked Walsh so much. Instead, he was saying that he liked her, sort of.

"I'm not sure I understand where you're going with this, Jack."

"Walsh started getting the same symptoms this afternoon. Looks like she never got to look after me, in her world. She thought she was doing the temporal failure thing, but it didn't look the same as... well, anyhow, I figured out it was because of the pills she'd been on. How ironic is that?"

"It's... still very confusing," answered Daniel. "I'm sorry, Jack, I must have missed something, because last time I checked, you hated her guts. And now you're helping out with her treatment?" Just when you started to think that Jack was predictable in his own quirky way, he pulled something like this.

"The Maggie I knew, she changed. Became cold, shut off."

There was a pause. Daniel took in all the implications the word "Maggie" held. Patients didn't usually call their doctor by their first name, and in the military, surname-only was usually the standard.

"She just skipped town one day. The next I hear of her, four years later, she had some kind of crazy project going in California and got herself killed."

"And you're pissed off... because she bailed on you?"

Jack grunted vaguely.

Well, that did make sense, in a way. Charlie was dead, Sara had left, and Jack wasn't really the sociable type. If Walsh had disappeared during that delicate phase, it probably hadn't helped much. Daniel remembered how irritable and sensitive Jack had been during their first year or so together in SG-1. And he had a bunch of abandonment issues. Things were starting to look a little clearer.

"This Walsh, the one who's here now..." Jack sighed "I know she's not the same as the one I knew. But it doesn't mean she might not be just as unpredictable. It's not like I'm the only one who's paranoid about her, the Pentagon's wary too."

Daniel nodded. It was pretty convenient for Jack, wasn't it? It was so much easier to hide hurt feelings behind some security concern. And of course, much easier to avoid facing up to them than trying to resolve them.

"So why did you help with her treatment?" asked Daniel.

"It seemed like the right thing to do. I don't get kicks out of seeing people in pain. Looks like I'm a sucker after all." He sighed wearily.

"Maybe this Walsh will be a better friend than the other was?"

Jack pulled a face. "I don't want to find out. I'll be civil... well, I'll try. Best I can do."

"Okay... and, well, since she's here to stay, will you be upset if we get friendly with her?"

O'Neill sighed and rubbed his face. "Fraiser already looks like she loves her. I think it's all that neurological babble, it's some kind of kinky MD bonding language."

Daniel nearly choked on his coffee. "Filthy mental image!"

"What?" said Jack with a mischievous glint in his eye. "I said bonding, not bondage."

"I know what you said, it's the way you said it."

"Anyhow, I guess Walsh will probably worm her way into here... if she recovers. They're still not really clear with the za'tarc detector, you know."

"I thought she'd been cleared," said Daniel, raising an eyebrow.

"Yeah, except where it comes to me. MacKenzie said something about complex emotions not getting read right. They both assure me that she doesn't want to kill me though."

"Well, considering that even your friends end up wanting to kill you at some point in their relationship with you, I'd say that's where the za'tarc detector could sense a lie."

"Hey!"

Daniel gave Jack his best snotty expression. Jack gave him the evil eye. Well, it looked like everything was falling back into place. Hopefully, Jack would become more bearable as time went by.

Walsh stirred when she heard voices in the background. She felt groggy and nauseous, as usual. The headache had subsided though. It felt as though she hadn't slept at all, or rather, that she'd been sleeping in the tumbler of a washing-machine, and she had no idea if hours or days had gone by since she'd been brought into the infirmary. She closed her eyes again, and listened to Janet talking to the nurse in the infirmary.

"... Major Wade's wound is bleeding again, I changed the dressing but..." She heard them shuffle towards him to take a look.

Walsh couldn't see them. She'd been put in a corner of the infirmary, behind a screen that offered a little privacy. Walsh vaguely recollected having shouted, in the midst of a panic attack, that she didn't want to be seen in that state. The fact that O'Neill was staring at her certainly hadn't helped her feel at ease. This was better, she didn't want to face people looking at her with suspicion or, worse yet, pity. Which they were going to do as soon as she got out of the infirmary, after her little outburst in the corridor.

"How has Dr Walsh been?" asked Dr Fraiser.

"She hasn't eaten anything, so I put in an IV as you asked. She's got tremors and I don't think she's slept much."

Walsh stared down at her arm. She couldn't even recall when they'd stuck that needle into her. Well, she probably needed it. She didn't feel like she could keep anything down, at the moment.

Janet soon appeared, holding a portfolio in one hand. She stood by the screen for a moment, and Walsh felt that she was assessing her. Janet's was the only gaze she could stand. It felt professional, and unprejudiced. She was the only one who didn't treat her as if she were a new type of dangerous alien.

"Hey?" said Fraiser softly. "How are you doing?"

"Well, I'm not going to die yet, apparently."

"Feeling depressed?" Fraiser pulled up a chair and sat down to face Walsh.

"Confused. I hate feeling confused." She started trembling again as she spoke and cursed her stupid body.

"Did you manage to sleep?"

"I'm not sure. It doesn't feel like it."

"Perhaps we'll give you stronger sedation. You need to rest."

"Jan–" she shook her head and sighed. She couldn't call her that. It wasn't her world. "Dr Fraiser, it's hard for me to tell what's going on here."

"Apart from the withdrawal symptoms?" asked Fraiser with a smile.

"I wish I'd seen those for what they were. It would have spared me some embarrassment."

"You're embarrassed? You told me you were taking an SSRI, you said you had migraines, and I had to be reminded about SSRI discontinuation syndrome by Colonel O'Neill, of all people!"

Walsh couldn't help but laugh. "That was really out of left field."

"The Colonel helping you?"

"Yes. Ever since I got here, he and... well, most people really have been treating me as if I'm some sort of criminal. I wish I knew why, because..."

She didn't want to say it. Because it hurt. Her skin was usually thicker than that, or at least she liked to think so. She felt so vulnerable, after everything that had happened in the last few months, and with these stupid symptoms.

Fraiser was looking at her quietly, thoughtfully. Walsh suspected that she knew why everyone here was afraid of her; in Walsh's world, Hammond frequently trusted her with highly sensitive information.

"I suppose it's classified," muttered Walsh, sighing and stretching her sore back.

"Actually, I got permission from General Hammond to tell you what you'd like to know."

Walsh straightened, feeling a glimmer of hope. The questions she'd asked – screamed at – O'Neill at the height of her little panic attack were still running through her head, and she'd give anything to make them stop.

Fraiser seemed to notice Walsh's eager expression. "That is, if I consider that you're in an adequate state to hear about it."

Walsh snorted. "Do you think that I could get worse? I need to know what's going on, it's driving me crazy."

"All right," said Fraiser, opening up the folder she was carrying. "Shall we go over it together?"

"Please."

Fraiser's company was welcome, if only to convince Walsh that she wasn't dreaming. The resume was similar to hers until her mid-twenties, where this dimension's Walsh had never enrolled in the Air Force and had gone on to work in the experimental neurobiology field, until her collaboration with the military in the 90ies.

It was harder for Walsh to take in the meaning of the NID's files, which were a record of the Initiative Project. Her alter ego had apparently been commissioned to study "subterrestrial hostiles", and to create "super soldiers" by drugging up young recruits and tinkering with their nervous system. The final goal of the project was to build a prototype out of various cybernetic, human and subterrestrial parts.

Walsh had trouble concentrating on the paper; it was starting to distress her. The name of Riley Finn, which popped up at regular intervals, wasn't helping. She could feel the electric headache creep back into her skull.

Her counterpart had finally attempted to terminate a young woman who was getting too curious. Professor Walsh had then been killed in an unrelated accident involving her own creation, which she apparently referred to as her "child".

"I can't believe this," she muttered.

"Does it look familiar?"

"Somewhat. I received a thesis on subterrestrials from this Dr Angelman before the Stargate project was re-opened. I was studying the Goa'uld at the time, so I never had a chance to get back to him." She leafed through the pages again. "The Initiative Project seems..."

"Demented?"

Walsh nodded.

"Looks like Professor Walsh and Dr Angelman were trying to play Dr Frankenstein. And that never ends well."

"Yes. I've seen some sick things created by the Goa'uld and other races... and I did some rather unethical experiments myself, but it never went that far..."

Walsh wondered just how much the people in this dimension could accept it. She'd worked on Jaffa and their Goa'uld symbiotes until they died. She was following orders, of course, but knowing their relationship with Apophis' First Prime – Teal'c, was it? – there was a good chance that they had more respect for the life of Goa'uld symbiotes in this world than they'd had in hers.

"Apparently a prototype for the anti-violence chip is still being developed..."

Janet's voice sounded distant, Walsh's body had started to tremble uncontrollably. Her head was pounding and buzzing, and she bit her lip to keep in a moan as a violent shudder went up her spine and into her brain. It was unbearable. She faintly heard Janet's voice and felt her warm hands on her shoulders, gently pushing her down on the bed. Walsh grabbed at her, as if having a hold on Janet would stop the pain and panic that overwhelmed her.

Minutes passed, tremors turned to faint trembling and the electric storm in Walsh's head returned to a low buzz.

"Well, wasn't that a fun ride," gasped Walsh, when she trusted herself enough to talk without her stomach heaving. She noticed that Janet had a syringe in her hand and had probably injected her with a sedative. She was tired, now, everything was fuzzy.

Janet gave her a small sympathetic smile. "According to the information I have, most cases of withdrawal improve a couple of weeks after the subject last took the medication. Or, well, we could put you on another SSRI and taper it off."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd rather tough it out and wait for the withdrawal symptoms to pass on their own."

"Are you sure? Some people take longer than others to recover from withdrawal."

Walsh nodded. She'd had enough of the pills even before she left; the fact that she'd forgotten to ask for a new prescription was probably a sign that she wanted out.

"Well, all right. But if I don't see improvement within a week, we'll do it my way. And in the meantime I'd like to keep an eye on you in here."

"But I'm not in any dang–"

"Ah!" Fraiser glowered at Walsh, waving the empty syringe to emphasise that she wouldn't take any objections, her face set in immutable resolve.

It was funny, and so typical of Janet that Walsh burst out laughing. She hadn't expected the laughter to dissolve into tears a few moments later. She quickly swiped her hand across her face, laughing and sobbing at the same time.

It was so hard. They all looked so much like her friends that there were moments when she felt they were there... and then she realised that they'd gone, that the person facing her was a stranger. It would have been disturbing even if her team had still been alive, in her world; with them dead, it was unbearable.

"Sometimes I just wish I'd stayed there," she said, practically to herself. "You'll never be my SGC."

Janet laid a hand on her shoulder. "Perhaps we aren't your SGC, but I'm here to help you out of this. And if you're going to stay here, you'd better get used to us."

Her words sunk in slowly. "Am I really going to be kept here in the long term?"

"President's orders. If you'll share your knowledge and experience, you're free to stay. And he'd rather you did, you know our policy about people who know about the Stargate Project."

Walsh nodded. It was good, better than she'd hoped, but somehow she felt even more lost than before. "I'm not sure I'll be able to cope."

"We'll see about that. First, how do you want me to call you?" asked Janet. "You're not considered an officer until you reapply to our dimension's Air Force, so I can call you Dr Walsh. Or whatever you–"

"Maggie." The name came out unexpectedly, and Walsh cringed. She must have sounded so desperate.

"Right, Maggie. You can call me Janet, if that's what you're used to calling me."

Tears prickled her eyes. "It's... it's pretty familiar."

"I don't mind one bit," said Janet with a soothing smile. "And now I'd like you to try and sleep."

Maggie felt tears run down her cheek, and some of the soreness in her chest shifted just a little. She closed her eyes and relinquished Janet's arm, letting herself relax at last. This wasn't home yet, but it would do for now.

Author's note: Just a little comment on antidepressants and psychiatrists. If they're portrayed quite negatively at times it's for the purpose of my story only – and mostly because Walsh and O'Neill are stubborn asses (and MacKenzie isn't exactly shown as competent on the show, either). I personally have a lot of respect for the profession and believe that psychiatry is mostly beneficial to patients. SSRI withdrawal is a real thing, one which wasn't really addressed in the media before the 2000s.