Chapter Fourteen

Daniel let the stills slip through his fingers to fall onto his lap. He should be used to it; he'd seen it enough just in the cultures he'd studied here on Earth, let alone the thousands of others throughout the galaxy, to know that contexts could be lost, meanings hopelessly corrupted, and language itself shifted within only a few generations. Put that together with the severing of a group of people from their homes, their isolation on an alien planet, and interference from supposedly benign Ascended beings and it was no wonder that the people in Hosta had managed to re-invent a ritual that skidded across the truth to land directly in the center of madness. He didn't blame them – no, he'd seen far worse: the Cennarans of P8X-334 and their 'coming of age' ceremony, the hill people of Turnan's monthly ritual to bring the moon back to life, and far more human civilizations in Earth's own past who were willing to sacrifice their friends and neighbors to ensure their own survival. No, his blame was for Merlin and Morgan, Moros and Ganos Lal, whatever they were called wherever they were. And to think he had actually felt sorry for her in Atlantis when the Others had pulled her away, had wasted any small part of his life worrying about the fate of an Ascended Being. He should know better. Between the two of them, they had managed to screw the Hostans royally. He leaned back against the pillows he'd appropriated from the empty beds nearby and closed his eyes. As soon as he'd heard the name they'd adopted for their village he should have known: Hosta – a form of the Ancient word hastia, meaning victim. An entire village of victims.

He shook his head, even more annoyed with himself. He could feel the familiar euphoria of the chase mounting behind the fatigue and residual pain from his trip through Forsner's Wonderland. He might be able to fake apathy for a while, give his research into all things Ancient the metaphorical 'silent treatment,' but it wouldn't last. Nope. He was Daniel Jackson, eternal sap to his own rampant curiosity - glutton for punishment. And this was just too important. Isn't that what Mitchell had said to convince General Landry that the team should go to P2L-688 without him? The chance to bring back information about the Ancients was worth any risk, any means, any sacrifice, physical or otherwise. He'd heard through the infirmary grapevine that Mitchell had been released this morning, pronounced fully recovered, and put on stand-down for 48 hours. Daniel had hoped to see him – and hoped to avoid him. He snatched off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose to try to quell the persistent headache that was not made any better with the addition of some internal conflict.

Daniel had been here before – the familiar treadmill of guilt and blame – he'd worn some pretty deep grooves in the tracks during his life. If he hadn't been so caught up in his own anger at the oh-so-typical military philosophy of 'what you don't understand is to be feared' he might have been able to talk himself onto the mission with the team. He'd done it before - many, many times before if memory served. This time…this time his heart just hadn't been in it. And Mitchell nearly died. His mouth quirked. Always an endless supply of guilt to be had at the SGC. You'd think if he could have learned one thing from Jack O'Neill over the past ten years it would have been how to put his own feelings about his inadequacies, and their consequences, into some deep recess in his mind and bury them. But no, he had to learn inappropriate sarcasm instead. The shuffling of boots against the concrete floor brought his head up. Mitchell had taken a few steps into the room, a look of concern on his face, which was still on the pale side, before Daniel noticed him.

"Dr. Lam know you're working?"

Daniel blinked at the blurry figure standing inside the open doorway opposite his bed, hands shoved deeply into the pockets of his blue BDUs. He put his glasses back on and shifted to a more upright position. "Hey, you feeling better?" Daniel kept his tone light while the voices inside his head continued their chorus of 'you should have known' that they'd started sometime in the middle of the night.

Mitchell smiled and pulled his hands out of his pockets, turning his arms back and forth to display the absence of any sign of his injuries. "Not even any souvenir scarring to show off to the grandkids," he quipped. "I gotta say that having access to the power of the Goa'uld healing gizmo almost makes putting up with one female space-pirate worth it."

"Almost," Daniel grinned quickly. He placed his pen in his notebook to save his page, closed it and set it on the bedside table he'd covered with books, references, and the rest of the information the team had brought back from P2L-688. "Although her experience does come in handy when one needs to smuggle things past over-protective medical types."

"I see that," Cam nodded. His careful gaze had already noted the monitors still glued to Jackson's chest, and the wires and tubes that continued to connect him to Lam's monitors. When Mitchell had opened his eyes in the infirmary yesterday afternoon, vague memories of pain and confusion the only leftovers from the infamous Hostan Tegera, he'd assumed, at first, that Vala's pinched expression had been because of his injuries, and her efforts to heal him. He had to give it to them: the medics and the rest of his team did a pretty good job distracting him with questions, tests, and needles, but it didn't take long to realize that something was wrong. The concerned faces and nervous glances shot between Teal'c, Landry, and Sam, and the absence of one mocking, bespectacled archaeologist checking in had been enough to send him flying off the bed – that is, it would have if one fast-acting Jaffa hadn't been there to pin him down. He reached up to feel the bruise on his sternum. If it hadn't been for the blood loss, he could have taken him. Between Sam's reassurances and Landry's orders, not to mention a little something Lam slipped into his IV, they'd managed to keep him stationary until they'd crammed three pints of blood into him, but seeing Jackson alive and awake – and himself – with his own eyes finally released the band of tightness that had clamped around his chest.

"So," Mitchell began, standing at his teammate's bedside, hands on his hips. They'd both lived through another one. But this time – it could have been, it should have been, so much worse. Good of the planet, good of the team – when had it become so hard to balance the two? Looking out for the individuals who made up SG-1, the brilliant group that had saved the planet so many times before he came along for the ride, was part of his job, his bigger job, of looking out for the planet, wasn't it? How the hell could he have divorced one from the other? He couldn't blame it on curiosity about Jackson's Ascension, face it, he'd been dying - almost literally as it turned out - to prove that he didn't need the guy to interact with an alien civilization. Knowing what Jackson had undergone at Forsner's hands, dammit, his heart had stopped, yeah; it cut one Air Force colonel down to size. Suddenly the air in the infirmary seemed stifling, stagnant, weighed down with regrets and guilt. He saw his own perceptions mirrored in the narrowed blue eyes behind the ever-present glasses on Jackson's face.

"So," Daniel echoed.

"Oh, for crying out loud."

Mitchell turned and Daniel leaned forward, craning his neck to get a look around him.

"Jack?"

"General?"

Arms crossed, casually leaning against one side of the open doorway, O'Neill's gaze begged the heavens for wisdom. He lurched forward, dark eyes flitting between Mitchell's quick 'attention' and Daniel's restrained irritation. Waving one hand to release Mitchell from military protocol, he took a position at the foot of the infirmary bed. "Let me see if I can uncork this and get your little mutual guilt-fest started for you," he fluttered one hand in front of him, encompassing both men in the gesture.

"…and 'up jumps the devil,'" Daniel started, but Jack held up one finger.

"Ah!"

Glancing towards the archeologist, Mitchell watched him close his eyes as if in patient surrender to whatever the general was doing. "Sir?" he tried.

"I mean it!" Jack pointed the finger at Mitchell this time. Daniel looked over at him and shook his head, sending a clear message – 'don't even try.'

"Mitchell, let's start with you," O'Neill snapped. "New leader of SG-1, you get the 'band back together' to promptly leave one of your men here," the finger pointed to Daniel but seemed to take in the infirmary, the SGC, and the entire situation, "to the care and comfort of one of the idiots from Area-51, knowing full well that the aforesaid 'man,'" he punctuated the phrase with another point of the finger, "never heard of the term 'self-preservation' and is known for not being able to stop himself from falling on a live grenade, even if no one else is in the room." He turned the fierce black gaze fully onto Mitchell, all kidding suddenly aside. "Did you think the phrase, 'leave no man behind' only referred to off-world situations? Even with your minimal time here, you have enough military experience to know that friendly-fire is just as fatal as enemy fire."

"Jack, that's not…"

O'Neill turned on Daniel so quickly that he recoiled in alarm. "Case in point," he enunciated. "Oh, I'll get to you in a minute, don't you worry, Danny-boy." His eyes narrowed and Jack took a step towards the rigid form of Cameron Mitchell. "So you got some orders that you didn't like," he lowered his voice to an impersonation of sympathy. "And you put up a token resistance, argued a bit, but tell me you weren't just a little bit satisfied, deep down inside, that this guy," he jabbed a thumb at Daniel over his shoulder, "would not be second-guessing you on just one mission. That just once you'd get to run point with a new bunch of aliens without 'Mr. Expert on Everything' pointing out your mistakes."

Mitchell's jaws clenched. "I never…"

"No, you never let yourself actually think it, but it was there," O'Neill nodded, "believe me, I know," he smiled. "Eight years," he whispered, shifting his eyes towards Daniel's bed. He leaned away from Mitchell and took his place back at the end of the bed. "And that's why you're all twisted up, coulda, shoulda, woulda, aren't you?"

Mitchell crossed his arms over his chest in such a typical Daniel Jackson move of self-protection that Jack couldn't help an inward smile, but he kept any amusement from showing on his face. It was "General O'Neill" time, and Mitchell had to learn that the position of leader of SG-1 came with enough crap that you could wallow comfortably in it for years, if you let yourself. "Let me give you a clue: you're human, and you're gonna screw up sometimes. This was one of those times." He went on quickly, before either Mitchell or Daniel could interrupt. "Yeah, orders can suck and shit can happen, but you have to learn how to put it behind you. Apologize. Get over it. Your people are in the direct line of fire, and sometimes, they're gonna get hurt."

"Jack, you're so far out of line…" Daniel's voice was tight with effort, his eyes blazing.

"No," Mitchell interrupted. "He's right." He maintained eye contact with O'Neill, his face a mask of military stoicism. "My command, my decision, my responsibility."

"Hell, yeah," O'Neill nodded, relieved that Mitchell had stepped back from the guilt, for now, hidden it away to be chewed over when the enemy wasn't so damn close to the gate. Oh, he could tell him stories, as long as they were accompanied by lots and lots of alcohol. He brought his gaze back to Daniel, raising one eyebrow at the animosity in his friend's features. "It's something they teach you in Colonel School, Daniel," he sneered, knowing that he was just adding fuel to fire his anger, but angry-Daniel was better than guilty, self-blaming-Daniel any day of the week.

"You sanctimonious…"

"Hey, you want him to feel guilty?" Jack shot at him. "Think it would be good for his ego? Teach him a lesson?"

That did it. Daniel's eyes widened in alarm. "No! What the…Jack!" He flicked his gaze rapidly between Mitchell's stiff figure and Jack's curious expression. Sighing, he closed his eyes and leaned back again. "And here I was hoping I'd be unconscious for the lecture part of this visit," he murmured, low and bitter. He felt a couple of pats on his right foot on top of the infirmary blanket and reluctantly opened his eyes, focusing with difficulty on the earnest face of Jack O'Neill.

"Sorry, Danny." He blamed many of his grey hairs on his self-imposed job of bringing Daniel Jackson's focus back from that proverbial black pit that always seemed to be yawning close to the younger man's feet. That veneer of "tough" that the archaeologist had put on recently had been welcome, and painfully earned, but Jack knew that the same baggage full of self-doubts and recriminations Daniel had taken with him to Abydos had come right back with him, with some added souvenirs, were all still there, waiting for an opportunity to spring on his unsuspecting ego. Yeah, he'd been determined to start off with his new commander a different person – long hair, quick smile, and eagerness replaced with hard-won experience and confidence. He almost didn't recognize him – almost. Then he looked closer.

"So…what?" Daniel started, headache causing him to narrow his eyes. Well, maybe it wasn't just the headache. "Can we just get this over with so I can go back to sleep?"

"Sleep, right," Jack's broad sarcasm as he looked pointedly at the books and papers strewn over Daniel's bed drew an agreeing snort from Mitchell. "'Throwing ourselves into our work,'" Jack made air quotation marks to emphasize his words, "is the standard Daniel Jackson response when he's about to choke himself on second-guesses. Yes, Daniel, you should have known Mitchell couldn't handle a mission to meet people associated with the Ancients, however loosely, without you." He was picking up steam again. "Instead of knuckling under to the IOA and their insane plans, you should have fought harder, stood up for yourself, not gone off to sulk in your office."

"I wasn't…"

"Oh, yes, you were sulking, admit it," Jack pounced. "And then, then," he raised both hands to his sides, "you actually went off alone with Dr. Frank-N-Furter and let him screw with your brain! What were you thinking?"

"I wasn't…"

"Oh," Jack nodded with a snide grin, "believe me, I know."

Daniel bit back a quick retort, his jaw clenched. It just had to be Jack who swooped in and saved the day, didn't it? Someone who knew exactly what to say to cut through his standard defenses and put him back in his place on the SGC ladder. Resentment and gratitude – such a thin line divided those two. For a long moment the two concepts struggled for ascendance in his mind. If he'd made it to P2L-688 nobody would have needed saving this time.

"Don't."

Daniel frowned. Now Jack seemed genuinely angry.

"Get it into perspective, Daniel," Jack growled. "You both made mistakes. You both got hurt. But neither of you is ultimately to blame. This crapfest sits squarely on the shoulders of the IOA."

Cameron turned to face Daniel, back turned slightly to the Major General and head of Homeworld Security, as if to try to secure a scrap of privacy. Daniel hitched his weight on the infirmary bed, raising one knee to block out the black-clad figure still standing at his feet. Jack was right about one thing – they didn't have time for this. Mitchell's hands were back in his pockets. Daniel adjusted his glasses.

"I heard you found something fascinating in the pretty pictures your girlfriend brought back," Mitchell asked evenly.

Daniel snorted. "Funny. But yes, Landry's scheduled a briefing for 10:00 tomorrow."

"Sounds good. You gonna be sprung by then?"

"One way or another," Daniel smiled scornfully.

"You know something about this place that I don't? Secret passage, code phrase, walk through walls device?" Mitchell waved his arms at the substantial concrete around them.

"Years of experience," Daniel drawled, ignoring the eye-roll he could feel coming from the end of the bed.

Mitchell walked to the door before turning back to eye the archaeologist. "'Danny?'"

"Don't try it."

His shrug claimed that it was worth a try. "So, we good?"

"Yep," Daniel smiled before lying back against the pillows. A few minutes later he looked down at the figure still haunting his bedside. "Jack?"

"Still here, Daniel."

"Thanks, Jack." Seems gratitude won. This time.

Jack O'Neill moved slowly, lowering himself into a seat at Daniel's side. "You're pretty good at fooling him, you know?"

"I wish you'd make up your mind, Jack," Daniel blinked, one hand reaching up to try to massage the headache deeper behind his eyes. "I'm either an unthinking adolescent trying to prove that the world can't get along without me, or, what, a clever manipulating genius." He could feel exhaustion pulling at him, making his words sound clipped and callous.

"He may be over this, for now, Daniel, but you're not. Guilt is your middle name."

Daniel brought his blue gaze to rest on Jack's concerned face. "Quod se Judice nemo nocens absolvitur." After a moment he smiled. "It means, 'No one who is guilty is acquitted at the judgment seat of his own conscience.'"

"Said, no doubt, by some famous dead guy," Jack observed caustically. When Daniel nodded wearily, he reached up and ruffled his hair. "As Homer Simpson said, 'If he's so smart, how come he's dead?'"

"Jack."

"Daniel."

"I'm fine. Go do 'General' stuff."

"'General' stuff?" Jack stood up, not convinced that Daniel wouldn't continue to beat himself up over this last in a long line of personal disasters, but certain that nothing else he said right now would matter. "Sounds boring. Rescue ops are a lot more fun." Daniel would figure it all out, eventually. He always did.

"Glad I could help out, then," the archaeologist's eyes closed.