Chapter 12 – A Rock Feels No Pain

A few minutes deeper into the woods, Jack stopped to check Chanah's vitals again. Her pulse was weak and thready. Jack applied pressure bandages, but feared they wouldn't suffice. He strained to remember where she'd pulled that healing patch from earlier. It had healed her leg almost entirely in an hour. If he could just find a couple, then maybe she had a chance. If only he'd paid more attention to her doohickeys. After rummaging through numerous concealed pockets in her clothing, he thought he found the right patches. Being Jack, he worried a bit if they might not be the screens that went with the pebbly probe thingies.

Jack kept this stop no longer than necessary. As fast as he could, he made for the cave. They arrived safely. Setting Chanah down, Jack thought he already saw signs of improved breathing and pulse. He'd like a lifetime supply of those patches for those pesky little holes aliens were always poking in him.

He tried to hold her still, but she thrashed as she neared a return to consciousness. The stuff was good at healing but he wasn't sure if it included pain killers, and if so, how much. It didn't seem to him to be enough. He risked giving her some morphine. At least that would keep her calm for awhile. Jack suspected there'd be hell to pay when she woke and found him there.

Jack propped Chanah sideways on his lap to keep the injured area as still as possible and clear of hard surfaces. For the first time since they'd met, he studied her face. Pretty. Chestnut hair and eyes to match. Her sleeping face looked softer, losing the hardness of her attitude when she was awake. She probably was a real looker, he thought, before she'd acquired so many scars, outside and inside.

She was a mystery, that was for sure. There was a lot to admire in her deeds. But there was a big, deep dark hole inside her. Jack could relate because he had lots of these holes. One nearly led him to take his own life, but Daniel drew him back from the brink of self destruction. Still, he never shared the burdens of these personal hells with anyone. Why would anyone want to share hell? He wondered was it the same for her.

The morphine gave her a few hours of quiet sleep. As it wore off, Jack could see the nightmares come to her. He heard some names uttered, some with terror, others with grief. He heard her efforts to control herself even in her dreams, repeating mantra like: "I will tell you nothing." He felt awkward, like a voyeur.

Jack gave her some more morphine and she returned to a more comfortable sleep for a while. At first light, she awoke with her head cradled in Jack's lap. She was not a happy camper.

"Good morning, glory. Welcome back to the land of the living."

Chanah was not amused. She was very quiet. Quiet as in pissed as hell. Quiet as in not appreciating his efforts at all.

"Wake up on the wrong side of the bed, did we?"

This man was relentless. She was feeling a type of anger and frustration she had not experienced in a long, long time. She had not even thought herself capable of such feelings any more. She could not even gather the words to begin to speak.

"Cat got your tongue?"

The unmitigated gall of this man. To not respect her wishes and her choices. What right had he? What did she do to deserve this man's ceaseless optimism when all she wanted was stop feeling anything? Finally, she'd had reached the point where she could stop fighting and have peace at last. Why wouldn't he just go away and let her die?

In a depleted voice and with a heart in a far darker place than his, she tried to parry to his endless supply of cheery clichés. "O'Neill, do I not speak English properly? How many times did I ask you to leave?"

"That's the thanks I get for saving your six back there?'

"Who asked you to?"

"My, uh, male bravado?" At least he answered honestly.

"O'Neill, I have more than enough bravado of my own, thanks. I knew what I was doing."

"Getting yourself killed."

"Whether I lived or died, all that I sought to accomplish here would be nearly done now. The guards would have taken me. The toxin would have been unleashed upon them, and the Goa'uld killed. You have changed nothing of importance, only delayed the liberation of the children."

"Do you want to die?"

She paused a moment before responding. "I will sooner or later. It doesn't matter when."

"It might to others."

"There are no others."

"That's only by your choice. Trust me, I know from experience."

She arose, and gathered herself together as if to leave. "It is my choice O'Neill. Please respect it, as I would respect yours. Do not follow."

"Bullshit. "

"Excuse me?"

"I don't believe you. If it had been me down by the gate, and I told you to leave, would you have left me there to die?"

"We'll never know, O'Neill."

He'd got her number now, he was sure. Well, Bra'tac had told him earlier, but he really could be dense. She would do what she needed to protect others, but she didn't want to be put in that position. O'Neill understood only too well the pressure of being responsible for the welfare of others and the consequences of failure.

She was now at the mouth of the cave, staff in hand unsteadily walking. "Goodbye, O'Neill. Please do not follow me."

"You won't shoot me if I do, will you?"

At this, Chanah stopped. For a moment, O'Neill saw in her face the look of a deer caught in a car's headlights. Then her voice came out weak and pained. "I will not be responsible for your welfare, O'Neill." She turned her back to him and quickened her pace as best she could.

O'Neill had hit a nerve. And all of the sudden, he understood her pain. It had been, and still was, his. He had killed someone he loved through his negligence. She lived with a similar pain. For all he knew, a worse one.

"Crap, crap, crap," O'Neill chastised himself. "Me and my big mouth." He'd meant to throw a life line. Instead, he threw her off the boat. "Damn it, I'm not Daniel."

He followed her at a respectful distance. He knew that she knew he was there. But she couldn't outpace him. She was struggling. No matter how good those healing patches were, the neck was a bad spot for a wound. She'd lost a lot of blood. Plus there'd been that morphine.

Jack had to find a way to get through to her. But more talking without a good strategy would just get him in a deeper hole.