Chapter 10

Alarms clanged dully – wrong tempo, wrong pitch – Jack ran, shouldering through airmen, Tok'ra, side-stepping a squad of Marines. Kowalsky fell into a jog beside him. "It's bad, Colonel."

Jack couldn't speak, words twisting to dust in his mouth.

Blood burst from Kowalsky's throat. "You can't stop it." His bared teeth were stained, eyes glowing.

"I can," Jack shouted, furious, terrified, reaching out to strangle the thing that had torn its way free, neck ruffle flapping, tusks dripping.

In the 'gate room, the shimmer of the event horizon was the only light, tinting the air blue. Teal'c, weighed down with Jaffa armor, stood immobile, staff weapon held stiffly across his chest. "You have waited too long, O'Neill."

"No! I need to go through!"

"Colonel – Jack –"

A thin hand on his shoulder held him back. He turned into Carter's arms. "He doesn't need you," she whispered, blue eyes uncertain.

Jack pushed her away, frowning, guilty when she stumbled and fell into a heap at the base of the ramp, white pajamas crushed and stained. He stepped towards her. "Are you okay?"

Zat fire erupted behind him and he watched it dance along her body, shaking her. A snake slithered from beneath her and skittered under the ramp.

"Jack! We have to catch it!"

"Shut up, Daniel!" Furious, he grabbed at Daniel's sleeve, to draw him back.

"But it's priceless! Irreplaceable!"

"Shut the hell up and obey my orders," he barked, nearly growling, shaking Daniel hard enough to rattle his teeth. "It's a Goa'uld!"

Blue eyes bright behind his glasses, Daniel frowned, trying to push Jack's hands away, to peel off his fingers. "No, Jack, it's a Tok'ra. Can't you tell?"

"No, Daniel! You can't tell!" Jack was frantic, hands clutching tight to Daniel's vest, the sound of marching boots thumping in his ears. "You can't tell!"

"Just look, Jack, see?" Daniel gestured with one hand towards a figure coming into the light around the side of the ramp. Martouf. Smiling. One hand reaching out.

"No! Get back!" Jack shoved Daniel down behind him as Martouf pointed two fingers towards Jack's chest and shot out an energy beam, his eyes glowing gold. The heat passed straight through Jack and he clutched at the thin material of his t-shirt, spinning to make sure Daniel – to find -

The sweet smell of death, a red ocean spreading out on the metal floor. Daniel lay propped against the open door of the mothership, chest wound gaping, skin too pale for human flesh, smoking weapons gripped tightly in both hands. "Did I do it right? Are you proud of me?"

"Daniel, no … no." Jack knelt, chest bursting with wailing despair, one hand rising to rest gently against his friend's cheek. "You lived. You lived, Danny, you saved yourself."

"I saved you, Jack."

The bells rang again, loud, thrusting Jack from the dream world into the chill of his dim bedroom. He panted, heart thudding painfully, sweat and tears salty on his lips, and he clutched consciousness with a tight-fisted grip. God. No more. Please.

The two-toned chime of his doorbell rang again.

"Thank God," he muttered to himself, prying nerveless fingers open to rub his shirt hard against his face. "Never thought I'd send up a prayer for door-to-door salesmen." He lurched to his feet, shaking out each leg to try to fling off the pins and needles feeling, and shuffled down the hall.

"Yeah, yeah, hold your –"

"Jack."

"Jacob?"

"Hey, Jack."

Moving out of the way on autopilot, Jack's nightmare-fogged brain tried to play catch up as he watched the former Air Force general begin to sweep past him into his house, then hesitate a moment in the doorway, to slap a file folder spilling crumpled white pages against Jack's chest. One hand reaching just as automatically to keep the papers from slipping to the floor, Jack frowned and shook his head. He hadn't had that many beers last night, had he? What the hell time was it?

"Jacob?" He blinked, following the older man's determined stride with wary eyes and a painful wince as stiff neck muscles objected.

Jacob came to a halt in at the bottom of the stairs, turning to flash a quick smile in Jack's direction. "Close the door, Jack," he directed before turning the corner into the living room.

Right. The door. Jack glanced down at the door handle clutched in one hand then peered around the open door into the chill morning air, looking for … what? A staff car? An escort? A tel'tak parked in his front yard? How about a walking explanation of why – and how – Carter's dad with an added Tok'ra chaser was gracing his humble abode. He glanced down at his wrinkled sweats and bare feet. Cold bare feet. Not another nightmare, then.

Still clutching the papers over his heart, Jack gently closed the door and strolled down the steps. Nonchalant. Relaxed. Veteran military guy, not some schmuck who spent the past eight hours fighting the worst battles of his career over and over again with even worse results.

"Not that I'm not happy to see you and all, but," eyebrows raised, he gestured with his free hand towards the former general and then dropped his chin to look pointedly at the SGC file he was wearing like a breastplate, "wha'dya bring me? And, why aren't there donuts?"

Jacob shrugged, his smile nasty. "Sorry, Jack, thought you should probably start watching your waistline." He patted his flat stomach. "Believe me when I tell you that, without a … friend like Selmac keeping me in line, as soon as the sedentary life kicks in, the weight packs on. Oh, and that?" He pointed towards the file. "Just a little light reading to see you through the long, boring hours of retirement."

What? Jack's brain stuttered, coming completely awake with a nearly audible snap of twanging synapses.

"You know," Jacob continued, "during those frustrating hours while you're stuck at home, waiting for the little woman to get back from her latest jaunt through the wormhole, leading your team – former team, sorry," Jacob's features morphed into a mockery of sympathy that made Jack wince. "You, stuck here making dinner, doing the laundry – careful, Sammy likes stiff, starched collars, Jack – waiting to hear about the latest firefight or rescue mission." The older man sauntered around the room, adjusting the framed picture of Charlie and Sara on the mantle, stroking one finger through the dust on Jack's bookshelves, twitching the blinds straight. Jack's eyes followed him easily, but his thoughts were racing to catch up.

"The house is nice – needs a woman's touch, of course. I'm not sure the picture of your ex-wife is going to go over too well. And I hope you're okay with cooking 'cause," Jacob shuddered very dramatically, "that's one gene Sam's mom did not pass on to her daughter." He spun back to face Jack. "Well, you should know. MREs are almost too much for her some days."

Jack's hand tracked lazily through the air around him. "Okay. This is one nightmare I don't recall having before." No. Nightmares were reserved for uglier things, for the dark places his waking mind refused to go, rehashing his mistakes, reliving his utter failures, his fatal stupidity. He gestured with his chin, face carefully blank, sarcasm pulled tight around him like a jacket. "No glowing eyes, no demands to 'kree,'" no teammates – friends – dying, "or being shoved to my aching knees before pretentious, posing, over-dressed psychotics. Although," he tilted his head, looking the clearly disgusted Tok'ra up and down, still too drained from his restless night to figure out the rules to whatever game the man was playing, "you are acting pretty damn scary in your own right, Jacob."

Ugly laughter twisted Jacob's lips. "Oh, it's a nightmare all right, just one that you and my daughter are determined to make us all live out in the real world. And it's threatening to be chock full of angsty hormone-driven longing," he pressed one hand over his heart, bad attitude easily a match for Jack's, "and characters whose brainlessness makes your teeth bleed." Hands on his hips, he tried out a big feral grin. "I'd take a couple of Goa'uld and a herd of Jaffa armed with pain sticks if you asked me."

"Jacob-"

"Will it be a spring wedding, Jack? I'll need the date as soon as possible so I can make sure I'm available for all the activities – the engagement party, the tux fittings, your bachelor bash, you know."

"Jacob – stop." Jack meant it for a command, for a growling order. It sounded more like a whine. He cleared his throat, willing to beg if the guy would just shut up and let him have ten minutes to pull on his mental armor and sniff out some coffee.

"What?" Mock surprise turned rapidly into bitter accusation. "You telling me you're tanking your career and splitting up SG-1 for anything less than happily ever after? Or do you just want my daughter to tank hers for a roll in the hay with an over the hill flyboy?"

"Hey!" Jack threw the folder on the table and stepped into Carter's space, eyes hard.

Jacob's eyes flashed in a way Jack couldn't possibly equal as he finished closing the scant distance between them, unintimidated. "What, Jack? What? Tell me, explain to me how this freaking mess you two idiots have gotten yourselves into could go any other way?"

Jack's face twisted into a half smile and he shook his head, backing away, hands up in surrender. "That's not… it's not like that between us." Caring. That's what he'd admitted to. That's all he'd admitted to. And, dammit, that's all it ever was, is, or will be.

"Not like what? Not like 'true love?'"

Jack spun, blunt words triggered by too little sleep and too much honesty. "No, Jacob, not love at all."

And, from the smug but nauseated look that appeared on the older man's face, Sam's dad wasn't exactly surprised. "Yeah, that's what I figured. Nice little fantasy you had going there, Jack. Too bad you didn't let anybody else in on the gag, though. Especially my daughter."

Collapsing onto his couch, Jack scrubbed both hands through his hair, totally indifferent to the fact it probably looked like a zatted porcupine. He sighed. "Yeah, well …"

"And here I thought that 'stupid colonel' act was just an act."

Jack's eyes narrowed. "Sorry to disappoint," he snapped.

Still seething, Jacob rocked back on his heels. "I wouldn't try the arrogant approach just yet, Colonel." He jabbed one finger down at him. "You've screwed up yourself, Sam, and your team. Nice job for finally admitting it – but fixing it? That's gonna take more than your usual glib apology and 'can't we all be friends' approach."

Jack glared up at him. "What do you want from me, Jacob?"

The former general bent and grabbed the bundle of papers now spilling all over Jack's table. With symbiote-added aim and agility, he flung them straight into Jack's lap with enough power to sting. "I wasn't kidding about bringing you a story. And that," Jacob pointed again, "is a much better tale than the tired romance you and Sam were writing. It's pure fiction, of course, but the characters are compelling if a little stereotypical for my taste. The heroic commander: conflicted, hiding inner pain with sarcasm and a smile. His feisty second-in-command: brilliant and beautiful. Their third: the strong silent warrior type, loyal to the core. Three larger-than-life heroes who bear the dreadful burden of saving the world under the direst circumstances imaginable. And, of course, the plucky, clueless, useless kid who the other three are saddled with as some kind of karmic albatross, that they have to keep risking their lives to rescue from his own thoughtlessness."

Fire surged up from a well of rage in Jack's belly. He'd stood, muscles tensed, file crushed to pulp in one fist, before the last word had slipped from the Tok'ra's mouth. "Tell me right now who had the fucking balls to say that about Daniel?"

Jacob stood his ground, eyebrows barely twitching, silently meeting Jack's accusing stare.

Jack swallowed, trying to get rid of the acid filling his mouth, the bile that wanted out, erupting from a stomach curdled with self-reproach as the unwelcome realization slammed into him. He stood motionless as images from his tortured night chased themselves through his mind. Dismissive words. Remarks sharpened to cut through bone. Hardened muscles pushing a little too hard just to see a stumble. Ruthlessly cutting off enthusiasm that made an old soldier feel every day his age, and then turning to share his joke, his victory, with a pair of soft blue eyes. Ego swelling, he'd fed that new, heady connection with broken pieces of a friendship he left shattered behind him. He'd convinced himself Daniel was too young. Too different. Too open, too accepting of differences, of risk, of mindsets so alien to Jack that the very thought of them ate at his control, challenged his long held assumptions. Made him think. Made him question everything.

Panting, he flung himself away from the Tok'ra's half-lidded observation, reality catching up with those dream images and filling in every last detail with vibrant intensity. Not nightmares or fantasies this time, but the God's honest truth. Jack hadn't just watched it happen, all of it, he'd made it happen. His command. His lead. His attitude warped and twisted all the others' from the top down. His dreams had reminded him, and had, damn it, filled in the blanks about where it all could lead. An angry, vengeful Jaffa, headed out alone to fight his people's battles. An officer torn between her sworn duty and some lingering feelings he'd done nothing to quell, hesitating just that instant too long between command and compassion, that fraction of a second of doubt leading to death and hell and pain. And a lonely, disillusioned archaeologist trying to find a new home – a new family – with no one to haul him back from his own fatal curiosity.

Yeah, Jack knew just where the future could lead his friend because his conscience would not let him forget the past. Daniel stepping between a suicidal Jack O'Neill and Ra's staff blast. Dragged off by a clawed monstrosity. Crushed by a mine cave-in. Left behind, broken and bloody, on Apophis' ship. Daniel had come back again and again, against all reason, all hope, to buy back Jack's soul from damnation. In the beginning, Hammond had called him on it – demanded Jack's explanations for his actions, his decisions, how the leader of SG-1 had consistently and completely failed to protect the program's greatest asset. More than that, a civilian, a man with a desperate personal agenda to rescue his family. As months passed, Hammond had stopped asking. He shouldn't have.

Jack pressed both hands to his eyes, teeth grinding, trying to shut out the truth. He'd written that story, Colonel Jack O'Neill. He'd written it every time he ignored Daniel's insight or belittled his contribution, with every breath of disdain or reckless action that put his civilian expert at risk. God, he'd left Daniel behind time after time, turned his back, expected an archaeologist to cover retreats, to hold positions; he'd left him with an imprisoned, condemned Jaffa on Cartago, with the alien Nem, alone in a padded cell driven crazy by an alien landmine, alone in a storage closet on an alternate Earth to be beaten by Jaffa. Again and again he'd pressed the scholar into duty as a soldier, and then complained – loudly – when he acted like a genius, instead.

He didn't know what words were emblazoned on the pages he watched fall to the floor, that he ground beneath his bare heels as he strode out onto his deck, the sliding glass door thumping hollowly in its track. Both hands braced against the railing, drawing in the taste of the clear, cold air of dawn, sharp pine and earthy musk in the back of his throat, Jack knew whose hand had typed those lies into reality. And why. And there was a combination Air Force general/high level Tok'ra/angry father/disgusted friend right behind him who'd be happy to lay it all out for him if he pretended otherwise. Jack turned to find that Jacob had followed him, eyes dark, arms crossed over a borrowed, ill-fitting shirt, and, clearly, not finished.

Nodding, Jack straightened, his mouth tightening into a thin slash, eyes narrowed but open. He'd closed them long enough, or turned away to stare into some dim, foggy distance filled with sweaty teenage dreams. Jack had been the original rebel without a cause among the Air Force officer corps, reveling in his 'unique' sense of discipline, his flaunting of rules and regs. He was good, and he knew it, but he'd never been so damned overconfident, so cocky that he let the people on his team – his men, his family – get hurt by it. Air Force trained to examine, to assess, to look beneath the smiles, the comforting facades, to see the threat in friendly gazes and the sniper perches in the beautiful green trees - the one thing Jack had not been trained to see clearly was himself.

Jacob was still stiff with anger, all sarcasm and pointed humor left behind. Out here in the daylight Jack could make out the deep lines of worry around the older man's eyes, the flush of heat across his cheekbones. Behind the masks, the Tok'ra's condescension and the decorated general's righteous ire, Jack noticed a lingering fear. Jacob was afraid for Carter's career, for her future, sure. Probably even for Jack's. But this felt deeper, felt a lot like Jack's own sorrow, his own guilt for screwing up the best team – the best friends – he'd ever had in his life. For tearing apart SG-1. He nodded, mirroring Jacob's posture, arms crossed. "I screwed up, Jacob. Sent the wrong messages. But I have no intention of breaking up SG-1. None."

"That's good to hear," Jacob responded evenly. "Sounds like you had that wake-up call long before I got here."

"Maybe." Jack's hands fisted as the blood-soaked nightmare images tried to creep back into his peripheral vision.

The Tok'ra shrugged. "Teal'c wanted to come – to read you the riot act and kick your ass until your head fell out of it, but Hammond wouldn't let him, told him he had to stick with the letter of the law until the investigation was over."

"I'm betting T didn't quite put it that way."

"Not exactly, but that was the gist of it."

Good. They'd dealt with Carter. Now with Teal'c. With Hammond. One left. Jack's heart started slamming against his ribs again and he forced himself to take deep breath.

"Okay. What else is going on?"

Jacob walked forward a few steps and placed one hand on the deck railing, staring out into the misty sunlight that hung over the lake beyond Jack's property. "Since you brought it up, Jack, what makes you think SG-1 isn't already broken?"

Jack shifted back against the corner of the railing, far enough away to watch the play of emotions over the other man's features. "I'll fix it." Damn straight. Take whatever Hammond wanted to hand out for screwing up team discipline, get Carter back in line, make sure Teal'c knew where he stood. And then …

"Huh. Funny, that." The older man turned, his features blank. "Might be hard to do when part of your team is no longer on this world."

Jack's heart? Yeah, slamming didn't even being to cover it. Throwing itself painfully against his chest to try to find a way out, more like it.

"Here I was, headed to Earth to congratulate Danny on the treaty and maybe put a whisper of a warning in his ear, when George tells me he's off for an 'extended visit' with Per'sus. On Vorash. Alone." Jacob tilted his head to one side. "Sounds … cozy, doesn't it?"

No. It didn't sound cozy. It sounded wrong. Dangerous. And … wrong.

"Do me a favor, Jack," Jacob motioned back through the open door. "I'll make some coffee while you read that little story Daniel wrote to try to cover for two of his best friends. And then, after that, you fill in the ending to explain what happens to that clueless guy on Vorash who thinks his team – his family – is a thing of the past." Strolling past Jack into the house, he patted him condescendingly on the shoulder. "And then tell me how you're going to 'fix this.'"