Night Music

A/N: This story is set in "Urban Legends", a variant of Gryph's "Deep Water" universe, developed by Gryph and Laura Boeff. Stargate belongs to Showtime, MGM, Gekko, and Double Secret, Airwolf belongs to Bellisario and Universal. No infringement intended for any of these. "All Through The Night" is a Welsh traditional, with multiple variants.

~*~*~*~*~

"Daniel?" An auburn vision loomed out of the near-darkness of an infirmary night. "It's time for your medication."

The archaeologist rubbed at yet another IV, winced. Darn broadswords. Movies always had them sharp as razors. In reality, they bruised as much as they cut. If it hadn't been a glancing blow, Dr. Fraiser would be casting his leg, not just treating him to ward off potential blood poisoning. "Please, Janet. You've already got me loaded up on antibiotics. Isn't that enough?"

Her lab coat rustled softly as she sat in the SG-1 chair. "Pain doesn't help healing. You need to sleep."

I would. If Jack were in that chair. But no, the man was wrapped up in some bureaucratic paperwork. Or mooning over Sam. What was with that, anyway? And why did they think he didn't notice? Hello? Earth to SG-1; anthropologist here. You didn't get that degree by not watching people.

Gaah. Antibiotic wooziness. And Janet wondered why he didn't want to add heavy-duty painkillers to the mix.

Anyway, he'd thought his friends had better sense. Both of them. One thing to ruin your career by claiming aliens built the pyramids; quite another to lust after someone in your chain of command. Janet ought to be checking them for alien mind control. "Please. I just... I don't want it."

He heard her sigh, knew she was rolling her eyes. "Trade you. I hold off on the painkillers, you go the next twelve hours without coffee. So you can have a chance at getting some sleep."

Gods. Agony. "Deal."

Dark brows rose. "You're sure."

No. But he knew he didn't want any more drugs. "Can I go to sleep now?"

"Daniel-"

"Medical alert. Dr. Frasier to the 'Gateroom. Medical-"

"Good luck," Daniel called after her fleeing footsteps. Gods; who was out, who might have run into that kind of trouble? SG-3, maybe; they had a knack for finding Jaffa where there shouldn't have been. Or SG-2. They were making a follow-up visit to a friendly planet, but he couldn't even count how many ways those could go wrong....

Please don't let it be Ferretti.

And now he did feel awful; petty, for wishing harm toward SG-3, and away from SG-2. Major Lou Ferretti wasn't a close friend, even now, but he was the last of the Abydos survivors. Besides Jack.

And Ferretti never blamed him for Kawalsky. Or Sha'uri. Or-

Oh, this is going to be a bad night.

But he'd gotten used to that, the past few years. So he curled himself into a ball under white sheets, and waited for the nightmares to drag him down.

And tried not to count the tears.

~*~*~*~*~
Thump.

Stringfellow Hawke pushed a whining coonhound out of his face, blinked sleep out of his eyes. Night ringed the cabin; starlight pouring through the window was plenty to see by, though it drained a little color out of Tet's blue-tick coat. What the heck... Tet didn't get onto the bed-

No, he was on the floor. On Tet's rug, to be specific, which meant he'd tossed and turned all the way off the mattress. Which meant- Angel?

Incoherent whimper in the back of his mind. Sadness, fear, confusion-

Angel. Wake up.

A mental start. Miles away, he felt systems called up involuntarily. Preflight, weapons check, comm - Hawke?

Angel. String reached out toward the AI; tried to soothe, despite the leakage of terror that had his own adrenaline spiking upward. What's wrong?

Unknown.
Systems read normal.
No pilot hazard on record.
Airwolf security systems set.
Lair security systems set, double-checked, match visuals. No intruders detected.
Aircraft commander?

Which meant Airwolf wanted a parent more than a partner, right now. Patting Tet, String started climbing back into bed. You had a nightmare?

Highly probable. Systems started powering down; String felt the fine edge of the helicopter's fear soften. She leaned into his comfort, much as Tet was leaning into his hands; seeking reassurance, the knowledge that she wasn't alone in the dark. Checking secondary systems... detecting unexpected PKE flow. Empathic projection fear/anger/guilt.
Projection apparently from three sources.
Primary source: registered passenger, Daniel Jackson.
Secondary source: pilot Michael Archangel, leakage from minor link, Daniel Jackson.
Tertiary source: pilot Stringfellow Hawke, leakage from secondary link, Michael Archangel.

String thudded his head against the pillow.

Worried curiosity. Pilot Hawke?

String blew out an annoyed breath. Let me get this straight, Angel. You're catching an echo from Jackson - how the hell did Jackson wind up registered?

Unknown. And it irked her, too; he could feel it. Psychic scans indicate Daniel Jackson likely to have minor empathic ability. Possibility of preexisting minor link with Michael Archangel. Link compounded by active presence during Combat Mode.

"Where you're supposed to catch pilots," String grumbled into goose-down. This was not good. The archaeologist might have installed Michael's back door into the SGC, but Jackson still hadn't made a direct move to talk to Archangel. And though Michael was determined to wait until Daniel made the next move, String could feel the spy getting worried. If Jackson reconsidered... if the man decided to double....

Yes.
Daniel Jackson does not possess pilot license or enhanced senses.
Should not be susceptible to link.
Evidence indicates Bethancourt files incomplete.

Damn. "So," the covert pilot sighed to Tet's perked ears, "Michael's catching a nightmare from Jackson. I'm catching it from Michael. And you're catching traces from everybody."

Pilot assessment appears accurate.

"Did you wake up Dom? Or Cait?" Cait had work tomorrow; an early flight, chartering in some power-company exec to schmooze with Hollywood producers who wanted to film high-octane action around an oil rig. And Dom... well, last String knew, Dom had found a willing lady for the night and left word that he did not want to be disturbed for anything short of WWIII.

Checking... no.

"Good." Scooping up jeans and hiking boots, String headed downstairs. Tet's toenails clacked behind him as he plucked up his cello, sharp counterpoint to the mellow sound of plucked strings as he tuned the Stradivarius.

Hawke?

"Waking me up's one thing. Michael needs his sleep." The clock on the wall reaffirmed what the starlight had already told him; couldn't be much past three in the morning. "And so do you." Seating himself by the banked fire, Tet by his knee, Hawke started to play.

Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee,
All through the night.
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night.
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping,
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping,
I my loved one's watch am keeping
All through the night.

~*~*~*~*~
"Daniel?"

The archaeologist blinked the auburn haze into vague focus, fumbled for his glasses. "Ah... morning."

"Afternoon," Janet corrected, checking his bandages. Satisfied, she handed over a steaming mug. "Twelve hours' straight sleep. I'm impressed."

Coffee. Daniel dipped his nose in the heady steam, sipped delicately. He could feel the caffeine taking the edge of the headache, almost as well as the music....

Music?

He cocked an ear toward the radio one of the nurses had just turned down; pop rock, full of electric pianos and thrumming guitars. Nothing like the gentle strains he could almost hear in his head, of a lonely cello singing to an eagle in the dawn. "Prokofiev."

Making notes on his chart, Janet raised an eyebrow. "Who?"

"I'm... not sure." Prokofiev? Daniel wondered. "Where's Jack?" He glanced around the infirmary, frowned. A definite absence of SG-1. "Sam? Teal'c?"

"Up with the general." Dr. Frasier nodded in the general direction of the briefing room. "Jacob and Selmac managed to drop by between crises. Or so he says." Dark eyes rolled at how likely that was.

Oh, great. Another Tok'ra emergency in the making. With Earth about to get caught in the middle. As usual.

But this time....

Daniel wet his lips. "Janet?" He waved toward his hospital gown. "I need to get to my office. I promise I'll take the IV stand, and I won't pull out any needles. But I need to get to my office."

Something eased around her eyes. "Think you've got an idea how to head them off at the pass?"

"Gods, I hope so." If he could get onto his computer quickly enough, and call up a friend for advice on how to handle arrogant, pushy, parasitic intergalactic saboteurs.

Her grin was a flash of sunlight, thirty-odd floors underground. "Sergeant Merril." Janet beckoned to a burly orderly. "Help Dr. Jackson to his office. This time, when the Tok'ra spring something on us, we're going to have some options."

Merril snapped to. "Yes, Ma'am!"

And that's our problem in a nutshell, the archaeologist typed quickly, paying just enough attention to make sure Sergeant Merril couldn't see the computer screen. We know they're going to try to use us. But we can't afford to alienate them.

Oh, no? Michael typed back.

Well....

They're Goa'uld, yes? Michael's message flashed up. Philosophical differences aside?

Technically, Daniel admitted.

Ethnicity beats philosophy nine times out of ten. Trust me on this one. Fingers must have been flying on the other end; text scrolled up in a hasty sprawl of letters. Look, I've had people working on this since we got the Russian files. Goa'uld parasitize and take over; that's their basic instinct. If they have power, they try to get more of it; if you yield power, you're a host, which means your opinion doesn't matter. Face them down. Draw a line. Push them, Daniel. Push hard.

Daniel drew in a sharp breath. You're sure?

(EG) I do this for a living, remember?

Oh, yeah. You've had people working on this?

(LOL) What are profilers for? Hang on, sending you some of our preliminary conclusions.

Files popped up; Daniel opened one, started skimming with frantic haste. Conclusions... observations... damn, it did fit.

But at least he knew what he was getting into now. And if he could talk General Hammond into taking a harder line with their so-called "allies" - the general was already more than a little annoyed at the last Tok'ra hi-jinks he'd had to pick up after. Maybe they could pull it off.

One last question plagued him. What's Prokofiev?

A second of blank screen. What String plays, when he can't sleep. Good luck, Daniel.

"Thanks," Daniel breathed as the message screen winked out. Wondering how he'd known. And why Michael hadn't been surprised.

And why - in the depths of Cheyenne Mountain - he suddenly wanted the wind.