Chapter 7
A/N: Got a bit carried away here. Not for squeamish people (not too much blood actually, but enough x3) R&R!!!
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Jack blinked open his aching eyes. Closing them again in a hurry, he tried to marshal his thoughts. Right, take stock. Arms? Legs? Yup, still seem to be there. But it was touch and go. There was burning pain everywhere, threatening to engulf his mind and sink him back towards unconsciousness. Whatever they'd gone through, it sure as hell hurt. And Carter...
Suddenly he remembered that few seconds in the artefact room, where time had stretched out endlessly. He saw her blue eyes crystalline with pain, her blonde head turning towards him with wordless pleas etched into her face, begging him to do something. And he couldn't bear it, the way she had screamed, that light pulsing up her arm, and he had to stop it. And he had jumped forward, and his shoulder had hit the light first, and the agony had hit him like a fist in the stomach. Then we were here.
He struggled suddenly to get up. Where was she? God, what would he do if she wasn't there? He opened his eyes again and tried to focus on the rocky ceiling far above. So far, so good. Now to get up. He rolled over, onto his left side. Black spots danced in front of his eyes at the hideous pain and he retched, coughing weakly. Okay, that was a bad idea. Try the other side. He eventually got to his knees, and as soon as he put his head up, blood started running into his eye from somewhere.
"Shit."
He croaked the expletive, raising a trembling hand to wipe his eyes. No time! Where was she? He cast around slowly, then suddenly spotted her slender figure thrown doll-like against the nearby dusty wall. Her head was thrown backwards, and her face looked like someone had scrubbed sandpaper across it. Jack tried to get to his feet, but that wasn't going anywhere, so he settled for crawling over towards her, fear mixing with the pain in his head.
He reached out to her neck for a pulse. For a few agonising moments he felt nothing, then a faint bound jumped against his fingers. He smiled slightly.
"Carter? Carter, will you wake up, dammit," He said softly at first, then trying to inject his military authority into it, as if he was trying to bully her into consciousness. Jack looked down at the rest of her, checking for the most serious injuries. God, her right arm looked like it had been in a flash fire, raw and shiny and red. Where her black shirt hadn't protected her skin, there was the sandpaper effect – like a giant graze everywhere. She didn't seem to be bleeding severely where he could see, but her knee looked at a funny angle, and she was still unconscious. Damn!
"Come on, Carter, don't give up," he muttered, trying to take off his jacket as his fuzzy mind registered need for bandages. "One thing's for sure, you ain't leaving me here on my own, no way to get back," he continued, wondering if he had concussion or something. "Okay, jacket – OW! – jacket for binding arm, check. Carter, come on! Wake up, willya?"
As he tried to manoeuvre her burnt arm, her head rolled forward, and her eyes started blinking rapidly. She coughed slightly, and raised her other arm to weakly bat away his hand on the burn. Jack smiled widely, the pain forgotten for a second.
"Thank God. Come on, Sam!"
Sam coughed again, and tried to focus her eyes on the worried brown ones above her. Did she just hear someone calling her name? The Colonel? No, he would never do that. Holy crap, her arm hurt. Come to think of it, she ached abominably all over. And her knee, and her fingers, and he kept trying to move them. He... Jack...it was him!
"Jack?" she tried to say, then suddenly remembered. "Sir?"
"Carter, you had me worried there for a second," he said practically, wiping away the blood from his face again and taking his jacket off her arm. But he hadn't missed that, where she had called him by his name. And for some reason he was absurdly happy, despite the situation. Maybe she didn't hate him so much, after all.
"I want to deal with your knee. It looks dislocated." He continued, shuffling over the sandy floor. She was still blinking, trying to reorient herself, but nevertheless nodded.
As he gently lifted up her knee, her face under its red graze paled to an unhealthy shade. "Hurts bad, huh," he said, keeping talking, if anything else to keep himself on track. "I'm not the Doc, but I'll try put it back, okay?" He glanced at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else. They seemed grazed too.
"Sure," she replied hoarsely, struggling to sit up. She propped herself on one arm to watch him as he looked back worriedly at her. She smiled her reassurance. If there was anyone she trusted more, she doubted it. Then he pulled at her knee sharply, and she nearly passed out again, turning over to retch as he clumsily strapped it back in place.
"I'm so sorry sir," she said, mortification colouring her voice.
Jack just smiled and pointed over to where he had been sitting a while before. "Chill it, Carter. Nothing I can't cope with." He automatically reached up to wipe his eyes again, then scrubbed his stained, aching hand on his trousers. "There. Feel any better?"
"I expect it will in a minute, sir." She leant back against the wall, closing her eyes and trying to control herself. She opened them again and they automatically sought the Colonel. He was busy trying to tighten the jacket binding on her knee. On his left shoulder his black shirt was torn and ragged; she could see his face and arms were rubbed as raw as hers felt, and a contusion on his head was busy dripping blood into his eyes. Even as she watched, a runnel of it ran down across his face. He sat back on his heels, closing his eyes for a second as if he was dizzy. Then he opened them again, and realised she was watching him, and she looked aside.
"What... about you, sir? At least let me do something about that cut," she said, beckoning him towards her. He obediently shuffled forward to sit beside her, and handed her a tissue from his pocket.
"Ow."
"Only take a minute, sir," she said, cleaning his head with painful fingers.
"Ow. Ow, Carter! Get off will you?"
"Sir, get a grip, and pay attention," she said sharply, suddenly remembering why she'd been so angry with him earlier. He tried to raise an eyebrow at her.
"You're not my mother, Carter."
"Stop acting like a six-year-old then," she retorted, trying to bring herself to be more rough with cleaning the wound, but she couldn't bring herself to do it any more than gently. O'Neill's brown eyes took on their usual sarcastic stare, and he looked about to say something, and then he stopped.
She looked at him expectantly, waiting for the reply, but instead a fleeting gentle look crossed his face, and was then replaced with apologetic admission.
"Sorry, Carter."
She blinked, more than a little surprised, and then let her hand fall back to the floor. "All done," she said, and if her tone was a little less harsh, and a little softer, Jack picked up every bit. His face remained unreadable, and then he grinned ruefully.
"Move over. Don't think I can stay up much longer without that handy piece of wall to lean against," he said, twisting round and wincing as he leant slightly on his shoulder. As comfortable as was able he let himself relax a little, and then suddenly looked up.
"Next thing on the agenda, Carter..."
"Sir?"
"Where the hell are we?"
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A/N: Got a bit carried away here. Not for squeamish people (not too much blood actually, but enough x3) R&R!!!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Jack blinked open his aching eyes. Closing them again in a hurry, he tried to marshal his thoughts. Right, take stock. Arms? Legs? Yup, still seem to be there. But it was touch and go. There was burning pain everywhere, threatening to engulf his mind and sink him back towards unconsciousness. Whatever they'd gone through, it sure as hell hurt. And Carter...
Suddenly he remembered that few seconds in the artefact room, where time had stretched out endlessly. He saw her blue eyes crystalline with pain, her blonde head turning towards him with wordless pleas etched into her face, begging him to do something. And he couldn't bear it, the way she had screamed, that light pulsing up her arm, and he had to stop it. And he had jumped forward, and his shoulder had hit the light first, and the agony had hit him like a fist in the stomach. Then we were here.
He struggled suddenly to get up. Where was she? God, what would he do if she wasn't there? He opened his eyes again and tried to focus on the rocky ceiling far above. So far, so good. Now to get up. He rolled over, onto his left side. Black spots danced in front of his eyes at the hideous pain and he retched, coughing weakly. Okay, that was a bad idea. Try the other side. He eventually got to his knees, and as soon as he put his head up, blood started running into his eye from somewhere.
"Shit."
He croaked the expletive, raising a trembling hand to wipe his eyes. No time! Where was she? He cast around slowly, then suddenly spotted her slender figure thrown doll-like against the nearby dusty wall. Her head was thrown backwards, and her face looked like someone had scrubbed sandpaper across it. Jack tried to get to his feet, but that wasn't going anywhere, so he settled for crawling over towards her, fear mixing with the pain in his head.
He reached out to her neck for a pulse. For a few agonising moments he felt nothing, then a faint bound jumped against his fingers. He smiled slightly.
"Carter? Carter, will you wake up, dammit," He said softly at first, then trying to inject his military authority into it, as if he was trying to bully her into consciousness. Jack looked down at the rest of her, checking for the most serious injuries. God, her right arm looked like it had been in a flash fire, raw and shiny and red. Where her black shirt hadn't protected her skin, there was the sandpaper effect – like a giant graze everywhere. She didn't seem to be bleeding severely where he could see, but her knee looked at a funny angle, and she was still unconscious. Damn!
"Come on, Carter, don't give up," he muttered, trying to take off his jacket as his fuzzy mind registered need for bandages. "One thing's for sure, you ain't leaving me here on my own, no way to get back," he continued, wondering if he had concussion or something. "Okay, jacket – OW! – jacket for binding arm, check. Carter, come on! Wake up, willya?"
As he tried to manoeuvre her burnt arm, her head rolled forward, and her eyes started blinking rapidly. She coughed slightly, and raised her other arm to weakly bat away his hand on the burn. Jack smiled widely, the pain forgotten for a second.
"Thank God. Come on, Sam!"
Sam coughed again, and tried to focus her eyes on the worried brown ones above her. Did she just hear someone calling her name? The Colonel? No, he would never do that. Holy crap, her arm hurt. Come to think of it, she ached abominably all over. And her knee, and her fingers, and he kept trying to move them. He... Jack...it was him!
"Jack?" she tried to say, then suddenly remembered. "Sir?"
"Carter, you had me worried there for a second," he said practically, wiping away the blood from his face again and taking his jacket off her arm. But he hadn't missed that, where she had called him by his name. And for some reason he was absurdly happy, despite the situation. Maybe she didn't hate him so much, after all.
"I want to deal with your knee. It looks dislocated." He continued, shuffling over the sandy floor. She was still blinking, trying to reorient herself, but nevertheless nodded.
As he gently lifted up her knee, her face under its red graze paled to an unhealthy shade. "Hurts bad, huh," he said, keeping talking, if anything else to keep himself on track. "I'm not the Doc, but I'll try put it back, okay?" He glanced at his own hands as if they belonged to someone else. They seemed grazed too.
"Sure," she replied hoarsely, struggling to sit up. She propped herself on one arm to watch him as he looked back worriedly at her. She smiled her reassurance. If there was anyone she trusted more, she doubted it. Then he pulled at her knee sharply, and she nearly passed out again, turning over to retch as he clumsily strapped it back in place.
"I'm so sorry sir," she said, mortification colouring her voice.
Jack just smiled and pointed over to where he had been sitting a while before. "Chill it, Carter. Nothing I can't cope with." He automatically reached up to wipe his eyes again, then scrubbed his stained, aching hand on his trousers. "There. Feel any better?"
"I expect it will in a minute, sir." She leant back against the wall, closing her eyes and trying to control herself. She opened them again and they automatically sought the Colonel. He was busy trying to tighten the jacket binding on her knee. On his left shoulder his black shirt was torn and ragged; she could see his face and arms were rubbed as raw as hers felt, and a contusion on his head was busy dripping blood into his eyes. Even as she watched, a runnel of it ran down across his face. He sat back on his heels, closing his eyes for a second as if he was dizzy. Then he opened them again, and realised she was watching him, and she looked aside.
"What... about you, sir? At least let me do something about that cut," she said, beckoning him towards her. He obediently shuffled forward to sit beside her, and handed her a tissue from his pocket.
"Ow."
"Only take a minute, sir," she said, cleaning his head with painful fingers.
"Ow. Ow, Carter! Get off will you?"
"Sir, get a grip, and pay attention," she said sharply, suddenly remembering why she'd been so angry with him earlier. He tried to raise an eyebrow at her.
"You're not my mother, Carter."
"Stop acting like a six-year-old then," she retorted, trying to bring herself to be more rough with cleaning the wound, but she couldn't bring herself to do it any more than gently. O'Neill's brown eyes took on their usual sarcastic stare, and he looked about to say something, and then he stopped.
She looked at him expectantly, waiting for the reply, but instead a fleeting gentle look crossed his face, and was then replaced with apologetic admission.
"Sorry, Carter."
She blinked, more than a little surprised, and then let her hand fall back to the floor. "All done," she said, and if her tone was a little less harsh, and a little softer, Jack picked up every bit. His face remained unreadable, and then he grinned ruefully.
"Move over. Don't think I can stay up much longer without that handy piece of wall to lean against," he said, twisting round and wincing as he leant slightly on his shoulder. As comfortable as was able he let himself relax a little, and then suddenly looked up.
"Next thing on the agenda, Carter..."
"Sir?"
"Where the hell are we?"
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