Title: Jack's Tough Choices

Content Warnings: Language and domestic violence

Spoilers: Endgame and Gemini

Summary: Jack has options. He'll do the right thing – won't he? The right thing according to Jack O'Neill.

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 Note:

1. My muse was inspired to write this new chapter by the encouragement of readers like Astra, Lynette and others, who nicely nagged me for more. The beginning of this story owes much to Astra's memories about choice, or lack of it, in the former German Democratic Republic - and the huge shock of, and adjustment to, the sudden abundance of choice thrust upon a society that previously had a dearth of choices. Her memories provoked my thoughts. Thus, the chapter is dedicated to my good friend Astra, those who have patiently waited for more Jack and Catherine and enjoyed my alternative partner for Jack, and to all those who value freedom, of both choice and spirit.

2. Thanks to Lynette (Flatkatsi) for beta reading this story, for pointing out the errors of my ways, and for her always helpful suggestions. Thanks also to ImmerRDA for having a read through and reassuring me about aspects of this plot that centre around domestic violence. Any remaining errors are, of course, entirely my own.

Title: Jack's Tough Choices

Jack O'Neill stood in front of the large array of breakfast cereals pondering which one to throw into his cart. Choice. Sometimes he thought there was way too much of it. Life would be much simpler if there were fewer options. On the other hand, this is what living in a free and democratic country was all about, isn't it? Making choices, all the way from breakfast cereals through to Presidential candidates.

Making choices could be hard. Sometimes, he had to make choices that could impact on the whole universe. They were never easy, but he made them and lived with the consequences. Yet, sometimes, choosing the right breakfast cereal could seem like the most difficult thing in the whole world. Sheesh!

His eyes wandered over the options, from the simple cornflake to the more complex muesli, from the bran to the oats. Oats. They were meant to be healthy, right? Good for the heart. Catherine liked oat based cereals, he recalled. He should get something she enjoyed so when she stayed over he could offer her some breakfast she might like.

Reaching out, he picked one and placed it in the cart. Then he saw the Froot Loops and grinned foolishly at a memory of the time looping incident. For weeks on end, Jack had started each boring Groundhog Day like loop with a mouthful of Froot Loops.

The fact that he looped with Loops was an oddly perverse coincidence that might have been funny if it had not been so darned frustrating. Needless to say, he had been unable to face that breakfast cereal for months. Now, without further thought, he reached out for some of them too and placed them alongside the rest of his shopping. Nothing like having a choice, right?

The trouble with choices is that sometimes they can get you into trouble. He had made many poor choices in his time, but then didn't everyone? He had made good ones too.

Occasionally, good choices can also be bad ones. Like the choice he had made recently to delay The Prometheus from firing on Osiris' stolen al'kesh. There was a perfect example of the conundrum. That had saved SG-1's collective asses, and the Stargate, but it meant the Trust still had an al'kesh, and a quantity of Goa'uld poison. That was hard to live with. Downright risky and dangerous, but so worth it to see SG-1 make it home.

Jack figured living with that decision was never going to be a piece of cake, but who said life had to be easy, right? He was more than happy that he had saved his team – always something he could live with, whatever the consequences.

Then there was the whole Carter debacle. The notion of duplicate Carters running around the universe was weird enough. When one of them is a Repli-Carter, all that knowledge and intellect bound up in an evil twin, it was a terrifying prospect.

He made the wrong choice by letting Carter run with her gut feeling and talk to the damned thing. Instead, he should have followed his own gut and given the Replicator what she claimed to want – a quick death. That wrong choice seemed to be the right thing to do at the time. O'Neill should have known better.

The Replicator had played them, played Carter, planned it all to the last detail. She had outsmarted them all. Of course she had, she was Carter, right? Carter with bad ass Replicator attitude. Scary. Man, he sure was pleased the real one was on their side. It might give them a fighting chance at defeating the duplicate when she came. And she would come, along with her bug-like armies. Jack was certain of that. He so hated those guys, and the thought made him shudder. Oy!

Carter blamed herself, however, and she was right to, no matter what he told her. Bottom line was, though, that the buck stopped with him. His decisions; his fault.

O'Neill knew these recent choices were going to come back and bite him on the butt. Consequences. Inevitable. They would deal with it. They always did - he hoped.

The day one of his decisions destroyed Earth would be the day he would welcome kissing his ass goodbye. He would take that bullet, and willingly, although not before taking as many of them with him as possible, whoever they may be. Never say die until you have to, that was an article of faith with Jack O'Neill.

If he was to blame, though… that didn't bear thinking about. So, he would avoid thinking about it and keep making those decisions, hoping they were the right ones. It was all he could do; his best. If his best was not good enough then he would not be the first man to wear those shoes. He would just have to hope like hell he was not the last.

Preoccupied with these dark thoughts, O'Neill paid the cashier almost on auto-pilot, making his way to his truck in the same way. As he loaded the shopping into the trunk and jumped in to start her up, Jack made a determined effort to think good thoughts. Catherine. She was normally sufficient to lighten a gloomy day.

Things at the SGC had been so funky lately that Jack had not had much time to see her. The little get together at his place, planned so SG-1 could meet Catherine, had been postponed a number of times. That sure was getting tiresome. Jack hoped nothing happened to stop it going ahead this coming weekend. He was looking forward to it, wanting to show her off to his friends, wanting their approval.

Not that he needed their approval, not really, but it would be the icing on the cake. He was certain Daniel would like her, and Teal'c… well, who knew with the big guy, but Jack could see no reason why he wouldn't. Who could fail to think she was great, for crying out loud? There was nothing not to like, was there? Then, Catherine and Carter had that science stuff in common, so he figured they were bound to get on like the proverbial house on fire.

The fact that Catherine was a scientist type still amused Jack highly. He had nearly choked on his beer a couple of times while he and Catherine discussed her scientific background on their date a few weeks before.

To O'Neill, it sounded like she might have been just like Carter, once upon a time: almost nothing more satisfying than time spent in the lab laboring over an experiment and research – a dedicated workaholic. He was relieved to discover she had never got into the astrophysics type stuff, more interested in bio-engineering, which had become her specialty. But this still meant she was pretty darned hot at physics and math and all those other pesky things Carter was into.

Catherine had gone the whole way with the Bachelor of Science route, which had meant a lot more work than the alternative Bachelor of Arts in Engineering Science. Part of Jack's beer choking came when she referred to research in nanotechnology. Apart from the obvious bad memories nanobots brought to mind, Jack had not even realized that such a thing as nanotechnology had even existed back then. Not that Catherine was old, of course, just that he believed those little beggars were one of those newer cutting-edge of technology things.

When he loudly exclaimed "what?" at the mention of machine like creatures smaller than a pin head that blithely run around your blood stream wreaking havoc, Catherine simply assumed he hadn't a clue what nanobots were. Jack didn't demur and her patient, no nonsense explanation was so simple and concise that it made him believe he could have told Carter what they were.

That would give his ex-second in command a shock and O'Neill sometimes wondered if he should try it. Top marks to Catherine for failing to confuse him with techno-babble; bright, beautiful, sexy, and able to communicate in plain English that even a simpleton like he could understand. Yay! He occasionally wondered whether she knew anything about wormholes so she could explain them to him without using fruit as a visual aid.

Jack asked why she had given it all up; the glittering career that appeared to be following on from her Doctorate - not to mention the Nobel Prize that Jack was secretly certain she would have gotten around to earning eventually. Had he thought her bright? Brilliant more like.

The answer had been Peter Rodgers. Might have guessed. Jack realized feminists were right in believing men had a lot to answer for.

Marriage and what Pete believed was a wife's duty to support her husband's career because that came first. Way more important than her little sideline of a "job". He insisted she hang on his arm like a trophy wife so he could show her off to all his wealthy friends and business contacts, be the perfect hostess and all that crap. Sheesh! Hadn't that kind of thing gone out of style years ago? Apparently not.

Jack could not believe the woman he knew had gone along with it, but she had. Wouldn't now, but obviously this was a different Catherine to the person who had married Rodgers.

Her parents had raised her to be dutiful. Educated, sure, but this was merely the equivalent to what learning an instrument or drawing might have been a couple of hundred years ago. Marriage and duty come first. Having an educated wife was an advantage to a man like Peter Rodgers. She could entertain his friends and be intelligent company. Rather than having a career of her own, she should be involved with charity work, organize dinners and parties and make her husband look good. Jack thought that "accomplished wife" nonsense sounded a little too Jane Austen but, apparently, this was often the way with people like the Fellowes and Rodgers families, or so it seemed.

Jack could relate to being dutiful, but not like that. For him, this was yet another reason for disliking her parents. There were many of those, in his humble opinion; most of which he would never voice to Catherine. She was still considering whether to grasp the olive branch her mother had held out to her at the fundraiser in New York.

Catherine was taking her time about it, with good reason, Jack thought. Whatever she decided, he would support her to the hilt – right by her side if needs be, no matter how much he loathed her family. They so did not deserve her, but if she wanted to make nice with them, that was her decision. Another choice, for good or ill, and not an easy one to make.

O'Neill was not about to make things worse for her by expressing his opinion of the despicable Mr. and Mrs. Fellowes. No sirree. So he kept his mouth shut on that subject as much as possible.

He had read a lot about them from his internet explorations. There was good and bad, as with anyone. It was those little details he knew about them personally, from what Catherine had told him, that made him despise them. They had treated her badly, not believed her words about her husband, nor listened to her pleas for help. Quite some ma and pa!

If they were willing to believe her now, willing to listen, that could be a good thing. Maybe Catherine could find some peace of mind about her family at last. Jack, however, did not trust them. Neither did Catherine, it seemed. This was one reason she was prevaricating about that olive branch. She worried the branch might have a poisonous asp wrapped around it, ready to strike.

If they hurt her again… O'Neill was determined he would find a way to hurt them back.

Ack! Negative thoughts. He had so promised himself he would stop it with the negativity. Good thoughts, think good thoughts, he admonished himself as he turned the truck into his street.

He was seeing her later and that would cheer him up. With everything that had been going on, the rare occasions he had seen her lately had mainly been to sleep. This was good. Jack loved waking up entwined with Catherine. But it was not good enough.

So far, they had failed to manage that promised second date. O'Neill was contrite about this, although she seemed to understand. All being well, tonight would be the night he made up for his neglect. If the crap hit the fan back at the SGC, he would be furious, spitting blood.

Jack was picking her up at her place later and taking her off to Denver for the night – dinner, the opera and a nice hotel. What could be better than that? The en suite had a very large spa type bath. They sure were going to have some fun with that. The very notion made him feel horny. Making love to Catherine in a Jacuzzi - what a score!

Then, when they returned to the Springs, Catherine was coming to his house for the night. This was her first visit since that one time a few weeks before. Jack believed it was wrong she had not yet returned, and was determined to right any wrongs. That is what the next couple of days were all about. Romancing Catherine, giving her whatever she wanted. She deserved that.

O'Neill was so looking forward to their couple of days together, but was afraid of jinxing it by thinking about it too much. Ditto the barbeque he had arranged with his friends for the coming weekend.

He was seriously hoping that none of those bad choices he had been contemplating would come back to bite him on the ass within the next few days. He deserved a life, didn't he? Life had cut him a break by introducing him to Catherine in the first place. He sure could do with it cutting him another one right about now.

Jack unpacked and put away his shopping, purchased on the off chance that he might have an opportunity to eat some of the fresh food before it went off for a change. Then he hit the shower. He had already done all the chores, tidied the place and cleaned, packed an overnight bag. All he had to do to prepare for their couple of days together was get ready and go pick her up.

As he relaxed under the hot streaming water, Jack smiled dreamily to himself. Catherine was a woman worth making an effort for. Despite wealth, brains and beauty, she'd had it tough and he did not intend to make her life tougher. Not if he could help it.

He admired the fact she had crawled out from under Pete's bullying, scumbag thumb and created a very different life for herself. Apparently, Catherine's painting had started as a hobby, become a passion, and then turned into a career. She fell under its spell, and that was that. She loved being an artist and felt lucky that life had given her an opportunity many other creative people did not get.

Catherine was good at it, enjoying the creativity more than experimental lab work. Art fitted the new lifestyle she wanted to lead - a different, new improved lifestyle: the bohemian, liberated, confident woman.

Scratch the surface, however, and the old Catherine was underneath. Although she didn't voice it, Jack figured she was afraid this old Catherine would rise again and take over her life. Fearful she would revert to the obedient second citizen, the cowering heap on the floor that allowed a spineless, despot of a man to kick the crap out of her. Jack didn't think so, but what did he know? He prayed this never happened because he liked the new improved Catherine very much indeed.

Why had she married Pete? Apparently, Catherine couldn't figure it either. Parents, upbringing, the desire to please and put others first, because that way of life was what was expected in her family, as it had been for generations - who knew?

Having got ready, Jack realized he was way too early and made coffee before double checking the contents of his bag to ensure he had everything. Of course, he had everything. O'Neill knew how to pack a bag, right?

Slightly jittery, he sat back to relax and enjoy his shot of caffeine. Why was he jittery, for crying out loud? He had checked the hotel booking and everything was in place for the perfect evening: the bouquet of flowers and bottle of bubbly he had arranged for their arrival; the hotel spa treatments he had booked for Catherine next morning. His tux was packed. All he needed now was the beautiful Catherine.

This was all good, right? So why did his neck prickle like there was danger lurking around the next corner. It made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. What worried him most was that he was rarely wrong about those kinds of things. If his neck prickled, shit invariably happened.

"Not today, please," he begged the thin air. "Pretty please?" he added, looking around hopefully. The prickle stubbornly remained firmly in place. "Crap!" he exclaimed, wondering whether to call the SGC. If they needed him, surely they would call? 'Sure they will, leave it O'Neill,' he cautioned himself. 'No point looking for trouble, right?'

The ringing cell phone took him by surprise and he glared at it for a couple of rings. Scrunching up his eyes, he hoped it would stop nagging at him in that accusing and persistent manner. It did not. Sighing heavily and without glancing at the caller ID, he picked it up.

"O'Neill," he snapped, angry that his well laid plans seemed to be about to turn to brown smelly stuff. But, instead of someone at the SGC, he heard Catherine's voice on the other end. She sounded very upset, her tone small and weak.

"Jack, can you come over? Now?" she asked, actually more of a plea than a question. Jack's heart leapt. Something was very wrong, he knew it.

"Catherine? Honey, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Please just come, Jack."

"I'm there, baby. Hang on in there."

Grabbing his jacket and overnight bag, he flew out the door into the truck, had the engine gunned up and was on his way in double quick time. He was still holding the cell phone with Catherine at the other end.

"Catherine?" he said worriedly. "You there? Catherine?"

She had hung up. He hit redial, but got nothing. The discomforting itch in his neck worsened and he tried to calm himself. There was nothing he could do for her until he got there. Jack hated that; felt helpless. He also hated that he had absolutely no clue as to what could be wrong.

Trying to suppress his fears so he could concentrate on the road, Jack drove as quickly as he could without allowing himself to get a ticket en route. It was frustrating, but necessary. He could not help Catherine if the cops pulled him over.

His frustration deepened with every delay; red lights, other drivers, pedestrians, traffic. Jack was beginning to understand road rage. He tried to control that rage knowing it would do more harm than good. Generally, it was better to use anger in positive ways. A brilliant motivator when channeled correctly. That was not always an easy creed to live up to; nevertheless, it was another one of O'Neill's articles of faith.

The relatively short journey seemed to take an age. During that time, Jack's dark mood had started to descend on him again. He could not help worrying about what he might find at Catherine's place. It was not like her to call sounding upset - so upset that he was fairly certain she was crying. His prickly skin coupled with this fact about Catherine, and her failure to answer her phone again, disturbed him enormously.

By the time he reached her apartment block and parked the truck, his heart was racing and Jack was imagining all kinds of horrors. He sprinted to the door, his long ringing on the buzzer close to desperation.

"Catherine!" he called into the intercom when she failed to answer. "Catherine, it's me; Jack!" He buzzed again. 'Where the hell is she? What's happened?' he thought frantically.

Cursing his stupidity, he reached into his pocket. She had given him a set of keys so he could let himself into her apartment, and into her bed, no matter what time he finished work. This had been a real big thing for both of them, but he was so uptight that this little factoid had almost slipped his mind.

Hands shaking, he fumbled with the lock, dashing in and to her apartment, groping awkwardly with the key again at her door and slamming it behind him once it opened.

"Catherine!" he cried out again as he darted into the nearest room only to find it empty. Backing out into the hall, Jack hurried to the next room. Then he heard her.

"Jack! Jack, I'm here!"

O'Neill traced the sound to her studio at the back of the apartment and he quickly made his way there, pausing with shock at the door. The room was a mess. There was paint everywhere, containers and brushes scattered all over, along with broken glass, shredded canvas and paper.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed.

At first, Jack did not see her, although his eyes darted this way and that. Then he heard what he could only describe as a whimper and, looking in that direction, he gasped. Catherine was curled up into herself on the floor in the corner of the room. She was a mess too, covered in paint, maybe worse. He could not make it out.

In a flash, he was kneeling in front of her. "Catherine, honey. What happened? Are you alright?" She obviously was not all right, but what he really wanted to know was whether she was injured. Because of the paint, it was hard to tell just by looking at her.

"Oh, Jack," she sobbed, grasping him. "Thank god you're here."

Catherine buried her face in his chest and started sobbing. Jack had never seen her like this before and it terrified the living daylights out of him. Something very bad had happened and he was itching to know what, but he had to be patient. She was in one hell of a state.

At a loss, O'Neill cradled her in his arms, caressing her soothingly and whispering reassuring but trite words in her ear, like "I'm here now, baby" and "You'll be okay now, honey; everything is fine now."

He knew the words were meaningless. Nevertheless, he persisted, hoping to calm her down so she could tell him what had happened.

Eventually, she did calm down and stop sobbing. When she raised her head from the comfort if his chest and looked up at him, her face and eyes were red and puffy from the tears.

"Pete was here," she said.

Jack was stunned. "Pete? Here?" Clearly, his warning to her ex in New York had not worked as he had hoped. It might even have provoked the son of a bitch. O'Neill tried to smother his anger as it was the last thing Catherine needed right then. "What did he do? Did he hurt you?"

"He's crazy. He ruined everything. He ruined your portrait." This prompted her to start crying again. Jack let her continue for a while before saying anything.

"The portrait doesn't matter, honey, and the things don't matter. You can get new things, paint new portraits. What about you? Did he hurt you?"

O'Neill was not sure he knew what he would do if her answer was yes, was not sure he could be held responsible for his actions. He did know, however, that he would have to do something; probably something extremely unpleasant and distasteful.

"A little," she replied weakly. "I sure whopped him back, though" She smiled then and Jack chuckled.

"Boy, am I glad to hear that. What did he do? Apart from wreck the joint, that is."

She paused silently and when she spoke, did not answer his question. "I think I'd like to get up now," she said, sounding way more like the Catherine he knew; the stronger Catherine.

Sighing inwardly at her lack of response to his question, Jack got up and then helped her. For a moment, he simply regarded her anxiously and stroked her hair.

"Is all this red stuff paint, or is some of it blood?" he asked with concern.

"I'm not sure," she replied, frankly. "I think I'm mainly okay, although I'm a little sore."

Jack's heart lurched dramatically at the uncertainty over injuries. He could be doing the wrong thing. Should he get her a hot drink, clean her up, or what? Maybe he should call an ambulance. Dithering for a moment, he took a breath to calm down and then spoke decisively.

"Let's get you to the bathroom and clean you up." Catherine nodded mutely. "Can you walk okay?" She nodded again.

Gingerly, he helped her to the bathroom, stripped off her clothes and stood her in the shower. He didn't step in with her but removed his jacket and t-shirt, threw a few towels on the floor, and stood with the cubicle door open, helping to wash off all the paint and whatever else might be covering her. He was getting soaked, as was the floor, but Jack had more important things to worry about than a little H20.

Catherine simply stood there unmoving and let him get on with it. Although she had started to sound a little more like her usual self in her manner of speech, Jack took this to be a sign that she was far from normal. She let him move her gently when he needed to, but was otherwise unresponsive. This demeanor bothered him.

As he washed the paint away, he began to notice the bruises. Rodgers had grasped the tops of her arms so overly powerfully that O'Neill could almost see the fingerprints. A large bruise was forming on her back. It looked like her bastard ex had punched Catherine in the stomach and slapped, if not punched, her in the face.

Who knew what else that slime ball had done to her? Catherine needed to see a doctor. She might be suffering from internal injuries, although Jack was relieved to see that her skin appeared to be unbroken, which was something.

Unfortunately, oil-based paints are darned stubborn and simply refuse to budge with mere soap and water. Having tenderly washed away any water based concoctions, Jack wanted to get a good look at the extent of her injuries so was determined to remove the rest of it. Sighing to himself, he leaned in to kiss Catherine softly on her wet hair and explain his intentions.

"Catherine, honey, I'm gonna need to use something else to get rid of some of this oil-based gunk. Just stay here and I'll be back soon, I promise."

Because she was unsteady on her feet, Jack gently propped her against the shower stall, pausing for a moment to ensure she would be alright before venturing back to her studio. Then, as he looked around for something to use to remove the paint, he started to worry about using powerful chemicals on wounds he was uncertain about, so he about-faced and quickly returned to the bathroom. Surely, even he could tell the difference between superficial injuries and paint, damn it?

Examining her briefly as best as he could, O'Neill decided there was little more he could do for her in the shower. She was as cleaned up as she was going to get without risking exacerbating her injuries. He needed a proper medical opinion.

"I need to get you to the hospital," O'Neill said as he encouraged her out of the shower and wrapped her in a large towel. He was so going to get Rodgers. The son of a bitch was not getting away with this one.

"No." Jack was startled because Catherine was so emphatic.

"Catherine…" he started.

"I've had far worse. I'm fine," she interrupted. Jack had used that one himself so remained unconvinced. "I'm just scared; terrified if truth be told."

"Shit. I'm gonna kill that guy." He could do it too, possibly without a qualm, although Jack doubted that, even though Rodgers would deserve it. O'Neill had warned the man.

But Jack realized right now was not the time to think about it. Catherine needed something else, not revenge. "C'mere," he said, and she almost literally fell into his open arms. He wanted to tell her she need not be scared, that he was there for her, but Jack knew he could not protect her every hour of the day. She was vulnerable and he did not like that one little bit.

After long moments of holding her in silence, O'Neill encouraged her out of the bathroom and stopped at the bedroom for her robe. Once he helped her put it on, he took her to the living room and sat her on the couch.

"I'll make some herbal tea," he said, bending down to kiss the top of her head. Caffeine was out, he thought, at least until he was sure about her injuries. Herbal tea was unlikely to be harmful, he hoped. "Be right back."

O'Neill did not want to leave her alone even for a second, not when she was scared, but did not have much choice. Briefly, he considered calling one of his friends, but dismissed the thought. Catherine would not want any of them to see her like this.

Then he thought of a plan that might satisfy both him and Catherine, avoiding the hospital unless it was strictly necessary. If Janet was still alive, he would have called her and he bet she would have come, but she was not. He wondered, however, whether Dr Brightman would consider making a house call. Jack did not know her that well, not like Janet, but she might be willing to do him a favor. Having the base commander owing her one could come in useful.

When he returned with the tea, Jack sat next to Catherine on the couch and took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. "Wanna tell me what happened."

She shrugged almost casually; too casually. "Pete turned up, played nice at first. When things didn't go the way he wanted, he made some threats, wrecked the studio, nearly wrecked me, and then went away again. Then I called you."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, just like that."

Jack nodded. "I guess you'll tell me when you're ready. I'll settle for that. You don't have to hide anything from me, Catherine."

"I don't want you to get yourself into any trouble. I know you, flyboy."

"You think I'll go after him?"

"Tell me truthfully that you won't."

Jack said nothing. What could he say? She was right and there was no point in lying about it. So, he remained silent and placed an arm around her shoulder. Catherine snuggled into his neck.

"I'd feel better if you saw a doctor," he commented. "You should get checked out to make sure there aren't any injuries we can't see."

Jack was also thinking about police and that he might have washed away evidence, but knew that if she baulked at a hospital, the police were out of the equation too. He did not like the helplessness and indecisiveness caused by this situation - screwed whatever he did. But if Catherine wanted to keep this personal, he would live with that. Maybe it was for the best. He had some options and he would do the right thing, wouldn't he? The right thing according to Jack O'Neill.

"I told you, I'm fine."

"I've heard myself tell that little lie so many times that I can't believe it coming from anyone else. Please, Catherine."

She was finding it difficult to refuse him. Jack could be persistent, if not downright stubborn. Catherine knew he would not let this go. "No hospitals."

"Um, okay. Not if you don't need one. But I work with a doctor who might be willing to do me a favor."

"All right," she agreed reluctantly. "If he will come here."

"She," Jack corrected. "Doc Brightman. She's a doll." Catherine chuckled and Jack was relieved to hear that sound on her lips.

After calling the Doc and persuading her to come, which was not as hard as he had feared, Jack returned to his previous position on the couch as chief hugger and protector.

"I'm sorry I wrecked your plans; Denver, the opera and everything," she said. The words angered him, not because she said them but because none of this was her fault. Catherine should in no way be blaming herself, but wasn't this often the way with battered wives? If that bastard had destroyed her self-esteem, he would pay big time.

"You didn't wreck my plans," he replied more placidly then he felt, all the while caressing her arm soothingly. "Pete Rodgers did that. Don't start with that blaming yourself crap. It's his fault. He did this. You didn't do anything to deserve it."

"Are you angry?" she asked.

"Yes, furious, but not with you," he responded in a calm tone that might have seemed to belie his words.

She seemed satisfied with that response but Jack was finding it hard to gauge her mood. "I was looking forward to our trip," she said.

"So was I, but there'll be other times, won't there?"

"I hope so."

"Sure there will, baby," he said, kissing her forehead softly.

Silence descended once more until she broke it. "He didn't leave here unscathed. I gave him what's for. I was terrified but…"

"You fought back?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Good. That's the spirit."

Jack smiled. That's a good sign, right? When married to the man she had rarely, if ever, fought back. Rodgers had knocked the fight out of her, at least until the end, when she plucked up courage to leave him. Fighting back now would seem to indicate that Catherine still had some of the self-esteem she had recouped. Not that Jack knew a lot about the psyche of battered wives, but he figured it was a positive thing.

Catherine leaned up to kiss his neck and lay her hand on his thigh, stroking it gently but absently. "I vowed I would never let a man do that to me again, not without a fight."

"You go girl."

"Jack, I was so frightened," she confessed.

O'Neill drew in a breath. It pained him to know she was scared, but he understood her fear. How could she fail to be afraid of her ex, of men, after her experiences? Jack felt blessed to have gained her trust and he would never betray that precious gift.

Placing a hand on her chin, he gently eased her face upward to look into his, and she met his eyes. "I know," he replied in a sad tone. "I wish you didn't have to be. You deserve better." He softly pecked her on the lips and then withdrew, but continued to hold her gaze. "I wish I could make your fear stop, make the whole thing go away, but I can't. I hate that I can't."

She smiled. "You really are a very sweet man. A good man."

"Sweet? I can be a bad assed, mean motherf… if I have to be."

"I'm sure you can, Jack, but not with me."

He grinned, but then his expression took on a serious air. "I'm way short of perfect, Catherine…"

"Aren't we all?" she retorted. "How bad do I look?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Hey, you always look hot to me," he answered with a smirk.

"Seriously, Jack." He nodded acknowledgement of her need to know and started looking her over.

"The left side of your face is beginning to swell up. You're gonna have one heck of a shiner," he said, smoothing his fingertips very softly over the swelling flesh.

"Feels like it," she said, wincing slightly.

Jack quickly withdrew his finger. "Sorry! I didn't mean…" As he apologized for hurting her, she grabbed the hand.

"You weren't hurting me Jack. You would never hurt me. Not physically, anyway."

He cocked an eyebrow, wondering what she was getting at. Did that mean she believed he would hurt her non-physically? Maybe he would, come to that. He did not want to, but it happened. Life was like that. One day, he might. O'Neill decided to let the comment go and say nothing. Far safer. Besides, he could hardly blame her for feeling a little cynical right now, not after what her ex had just done.

Jack was surprised when she kissed the hand she had grasped. "It smarts, but not because you touched me. It just hurts. Does it look really bad?"

"It looks pretty painful, yeah."

She sighed. "My back hurts, my stomach hurts, my face hurts. That…" Catherine did not complete the curse she had been about to utter. Instead, she turned inward, self critically. "Why the hell did I let him in?"

'Good question,' Jack thought but remained silent, waiting for her to continue.

"He seemed so plausible, so..." she paused, sighing as if struggling for the right words. "Pete can be a charmer when he wants to be. I guess that's why I married him, why my parents…"

She tailed off and O'Neill gave her a small squeeze of encouragement, acutely aware he did not wish to hurt her inadvertently. His wrath seethed beneath the surface. Its destructive tendrils twisted over and through him, squeezing, crushing and choking him. They taunted and tempted Jack like the Devil disguised as a snake in the Garden of Eden, but he quashed his fury with firm self-control. Anger could wait. He would grasp those perilously creeping tendrils and turn them toward his purpose at a more appropriate time.

When the apartment's buzzer interrupted their thoughts, Jack felt her start with fear and grimaced. "That will be Brightman," he said, getting up.

"It might be him," Catherine retorted fearfully.

"You think he'll come back?" He glanced at her, feeling sickened by the look of terror in her eyes.

"I don't know. He said he'd be sticking around town for a few of days. He wanted to scare me. That was the whole point."

"Freakin' scum!" Jack exclaimed. "Stay put. If that bastard has the nerve to show up while I'm around he'll get what's coming." Catherine looked horrified.

"Jack, please don't make trouble for yourself."

He merely glanced at her thin lipped and went to answer the door cautiously. O'Neill was ready if he needed to be. Of course, it turned out to be Brightman.

Jack paced in the living room while the Doc checked Catherine over in the bedroom. He was fit to explode, a volatile volcano that might blow any moment, muttering and cursing about Rodgers under his breath as he paced. The need to do something, to protect, to avenge, dominated his thoughts. For now, however, he would settle for knowing Catherine was physically okay – although her mental wellbeing worried him too.

His beautiful, bubbly, smiling Catherine. She had already known too much fear, too much pain and angst. The son of a bitch had raised the demon all over again and Jack feared she might not be herself for a long time to come. Who knew what impact these events might have on her psyche? Or how they might affect the great relationship they had been building over the weeks since they had met.

Had that been Pete Rodgers' intention? To ruin her life again, to spoil what happiness she had found? Possibly. He claimed to want her back, and maybe that was true. More likely, however, it was a case of if he could not have her, then no one else could either.

Jack blamed himself. He had a tendency to do that, think things were his fault. If he had not attended the fundraiser with Catherine, this might never have happened. If Rodgers had never seen them together, if Jack had never threatened him, if… it came down to choices yet again. Everything comes down to the choices one makes, doesn't it?

He paused in his pacing to pour himself a large scotch and down it in one. Then he poured another, which he placed on her coffee table, and started pacing once more. Fretful, fearful, regretful, and furious. He could not allow Catherine to see that fury, or his need to avenge her. She should never know about that other person Jack O'Neill could become. The angel of death.

When Doctor Brightman entered the room, she interrupted his vengeful and turbulent thoughts. O'Neill looked up at her expectantly, waiting for the report, as he had done so many times with injured members of his command.

"No serious damage," she said and one of the weights on his shoulders lifted. "She's battered and bruised, but nothing is broken and I don't think there is any internal damage. It could have been way worse. I've given her a sedative and she's asleep now."

"Thanks, Doc. No hospital, then?"

"I don't think it's necessary for her injuries, no, although I would have preferred it. She doesn't want to go to hospital, and I'll live with that, sir, as a favor to you, but you ought to report this to the police."

"That's kind of up to her, don't you think?"

Brightman stared at him silently for a moment before responding, as if in thought. "She doesn't seem to want them involved either. That's often true of domestic violence cases, but it doesn't make it right."

"No." Jack agreed, but no way was he going to force Catherine's hand on this one. It was not up to him. This was her life, no matter how it impacted on him.

Reluctantly, he asked one of the questions about the attack that had been playing on his mind, dreading the response. "Um, maybe I shouldn't be asking but… sh-she… he didn't…" he stammered, finding it hard to ask and unable to meet Brightman's eyes. "Was there any sign of sexual assault?" he managed to say eventually, looking at her sharply now he had asked the question.

The doctor looked grim but shook her head. "No signs of it and she says not. But you washed off most of the evidence, sir." She looked more than unhappy about that. "I managed to find some skin and blood under her fingernails. Seems you didn't think to get rid of that." Her tone was a rebuke, although Jack had no doubt that it was intended to be a dig at him washing away the evidence rather than because he'd inadvertently left some behind. "She must have put up quite some fight. I've bagged and tagged it just in case. By the way, I managed to remove the remaining oil-based paint while I was treating her. A mild alcohol solution."

Jack nodded an acknowledgement, relieved that Rodgers hadn't sexually assaulted Catherine. "I didn't give her a shower to get rid of evidence, captain. I needed to know what he'd done to her. I couldn't see. Paint got in the way."

The doctor made him feel defensive of his actions and O'Neill did not require any lectures. Maybe he had done the right thing, or maybe not. Having determined her injuries did not appear to be a threat to her life or limb, or not immediately, he had made the choice and to hell with the consequences.

"I understand, General. I just hate the idea that this bastard might go unpunished, sir."

"He won't."

The doctor glared at him, wondering what he was thinking. General O'Neill had quite a reputation at the SGC. He could be one heck of a bad ass when circumstances required it, and he was extremely well trained, and wily.

"You should let the police handle this, General O'Neill," she commented.

"Yes, I should."

"But you won't?" she queried. Brightman's eyes narrowed as the glare continued. Jack felt slightly discomforted by her gaze. What is it with doctors, he wondered. Janet Fraiser would probably have made him react exactly the same way. No doubt, they would have had a 'little chat' right about now. He did not know Brightman well enough for that yet.

"I don't think that's for you to worry about," he replied, a deadpan expression on his face.

"With all due respect, sir, you brought me into this."

"And you've done your job. I'm sure you have other duties to attend to." His words seemed to be a dismissal, but they were not at the SGC now.

"I'm off duty, sir." She paused, not sure what to say, worried about what this man might do, what kind of trouble he could make for himself and, therefore, for the SGC.

Brightman did not know O'Neill well, although they had been building a kind of tenuous relationship. She knew he had respected and admired the late Janet Fraiser. In his mind, she still had a high mountain to climb before she could fill those shoes. But Brightman respected and admired O'Neill, something he probably was not even aware of. These feelings were born from both what she had experienced, and what she knew the other members of the SGC thought about him. The respect and admiration of his subordinates kind of rubbed off.

"If you need to talk, sir, my door is always open."

Jack smiled faintly. "I'll bear that in mind."

Brightman knew he would not take her up on that offer. Not now. Maybe in another few years, when she had gained his trust like Fraiser had. He had called her here, asked her for the favor, and that meant something, but it was only a small thing.

"I'd appreciate it if this incident stays off the record. I don't want people at the SGC to know," he said. O'Neill realised this was asking a lot. A doctor might get into trouble for that kind of thing, but Brightman seemed willing to risk it. Catherine was not armed forces, after all. This might be stretching a point, but it was a good point.

"Yes, sir. I'm a doctor. I'm good at keeping secrets." She sighed inwardly, frustrated by, but understanding, his silence. Brightman could see his fury bubbling under the surface and hoped he was able to suppress it in front of his girlfriend. However, she would not want to be walking in the shoes of her attacker. The man might be slime but she suspected the wrath of O'Neill could be something terrible to behold.

"I owe you one," he said. "A big one."

"And I'll bear that in mind, general" she responded, throwing his own words back at him.

He nodded an acknowledgment, certain that she would. O'Neill wondered what manner of payment he would have to make for this favor. No matter. He'd live with it. It seemed they had reached some kind of understanding and, for this, he was grateful. Calling Brightman has been the right choice to make; possibly the only one.

"She probably shouldn't be left alone for a while, sir. She's scared," the doctor warned.

"I'm not going anywhere, doc. Is there anything more I should do? Medically speaking that is."

"Be here when she wakes up. I hope she'll sleep for a while. Try to avoid giving her any other medication, although Tylenol should be okay if she needs something, and strictly no alcohol. Call me if you need to, but I'll drop by tomorrow to check on her. I'll call first."

'That just about covers it,' thought Jack. "Yes, ma'am," he said out loud. "And thanks."

"You're welcome, but don't make a habit of it, sir."

Her tone was formidable, reminding O'Neill of Janet. Perhaps all doctors are alike, the very good ones, anyway. For the first time, Jack realized he and Brightman would get along. Sure, they would have differences. This had been the case with Fraiser, both with him and Hammond. Probably it would likely always be so between an SGC commander and the base medics. In the end, Brightman was okay, one of his kinds of people – for a medical practitioner.

After she left, Jack picked up his still full glass of scotch, entering Catherine's bedroom and staring down at her for a long time while he nursed it. He wondered what kinds of nightmares she might have because of this experience. Hopefully, none for now. She appeared deeply asleep.

Pulling up a chair, he sat next to the bed so he could watch her. The rise and fall of her covers as she breathed were a comfort. Deep in thought about his deadly mixture of emotions, it was not until a little later that he remembered the drink in his hand and took a sip.

Grimacing, he placed the glass on her nightstand. Jack did not feel like drinking. He felt like lashing out at someone or something. O'Neill was pissed, but his thoughts of Catherine and his feelings for her tempered this anger. Those feelings were, of course, part of what made him pissed. Someone he cared deeply about had suffered and would probably continue to suffer for a while. It was like the anger he might feel if something bad happened to his team, probably multiplied by a factor of X. This was personal - very personal.

So Jack watched over Catherine protectively, his thoughts mainly dark and thunderous, with brighter patches between the grey clouds. And as he watched, he contemplated consequences, because O'Neill also planned his vengeance for Catherine, no matter what those consequences might be.

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Choices. Life is all about choices, and Jack was about to make another one. Whether it was a good or bad choice, he did not know, but he would live with it come what may. Picking up his cell phone, he looked up an emergency contact number he had for one of his team and called it. The phone rang a couple of times before the other end picked up.

"Shanahan," the voice on the other end said.

"This is Jack O'Neill." Jack could only imagine the look of stunned amazement on the other man's face, and he would not have been far wrong. The two men were not exactly best buddies. The cop irritated Jack for a number of reasons he did not even like to think about, and O'Neill was sure the feeling was mutual. "Can we meet? Today, and soon?"

'What the hell are you getting yourself into, O'Neill?' he thought as he rang off after having made suitable arrangements.

Aw, for crying out loud…

TBC