Because you all asked so nicely (okay, so some of you begged), I've posted another chapter. Thanks as always for the amazing reviews. Have a good whump-filled evening/morning/day. Vini
It shouldn't have happened. In fact, the chances of it actually happening were infinitely low. But the fact was, it did happen and the consequences were disastrous.
He'd travelled the galaxy. He'd been through hazards the people on Earth had never even heard of. He'd been blown up, shot at, hit, stabbed, zatted, etc, etc. He'd walked over terrain that was more than treacherous, with booby traps both natural and man-made, and he'd survived. He was experienced. He was skilled. And he was usually lucky.
But not today. It was an accident, a fluke a freak occurrence and it was going to leave him fighting for his life.
He turned to head back upstairs, tired after his attempt at cleaning. He was also hungry and thirsty, from having skipped dinner. He figured that's what had done it. He wasn't his usually coordinated and careful self. Instead he'd caught his foot on something – some piece of junk he was probably planning on throwing away. It had caused him to trip and he'd taken a couple of running hops and skips to keep himself from falling. He'd thought he'd made it, that he was safe with what had been no more than an embarrassing dance, which fortunately no one had been around to see. But he was wrong. Just as he thought he was going to make it an old ping pong ball rolled out from under another pile of junk, right under his foot.
That caused him to stumble again and this time, with a wild wave of his arms and a loud curse, he'd gone hurtling to the ground. He'd known it was going to hurt and he braced himself. And it flashed through his mind quickly that he must be cursed - he'd never actually owned a ping pong table in his life.
As he went down he briefly closed his eyes. If he was lucky he was going to get by with nothing but a few bruises. He waited for the moment of impact and pain he knew he was going to feel as he landed on the hard cement floor.
That would have been it – a few bruises, a few curses, a limp up the stairs and a hot bath and some Tylenol, except for one slight thing. When he'd fallen he'd knocked into the pile of magazines, which had fallen into the pile of old video tapes, which had careened into the ceramic garden gnome (he knew he hadn't bought that one) which tipped over onto the box – which held his father's hunting knife. Now even that wouldn't have been a problem, except the knife went flying into the air, turning slowing over – once, twice, three times – until it landed.
Now, the rule of nature suggests that a knife when dropped, not thrown – because of its very shape and size – will usually land either on its side, or blade side down. That would have been true except for one small thing – or maybe not so small a thing – and that was Jack's old pair of boots.
For some strange and terrible – reason, after the knife did it's slow and almost lyrical movement in the air, it landed inside one of those old boots headed for the trash. It landed with the handle right in the hole where your foot normally goes. The blade – the long, dull, serrated blade - stuck straight up from the boot like some malevolent bud in a very old and dirty vase.
Even this event would normally have occurred with few, if any, negative consequences. This time however, the forces which had aligned against Jack combined to ensure that it did have consequences and very, very bad ones.
As he went down he didn't see the blade sticking up in his path, thinking only of the concrete and his bones. The thought that his flesh was about to be pierced didn't even cross his mind – that is until he felt the molten agony that flooded through his chest when he hit the ground.
"Gaaahh!" he gasped – the pain too sharp for a scream. It took him a moment - quite a few moments actually – to try and make sense of what had happened. Of course it took even longer than normal because he had to concentrate on breathing, something that was way harder than it was supposed to be.
What the hell happened, he asked himself? He tried to pull in a breath but something was stopping him – something that hurt – a lot. It reminded him slightly of the feeling he'd gotten when down in – oh hell no! He took another breath, this time managing to get some air in his lungs and then forced himself to look down.
Shit, shit, shit! He had a knife – his father's knife – sticking out from his chest. He swallowed and knew that he was in big, big trouble.
Okay Jack – get off your ass, or in this case your side, and move. You need help and you need it fast. He glanced down again and could see the red stain spreading rapidly on his shirt. That, and the burning agony, forced him to move, something he really didn't want to do.
"Aaargh!" he choked, the sound coming from his throat a strangled cry for help. He managed to make it to his back and lay there, staring at the multitude of black spots that swam before his eyes. He didn't know how long he stayed like that but all he knew was that if he moved another inch, if he tried to breathe too deeply, to speak, to yell, to cry – or even to scream bloody murder – he'd pass out.
Eventually the world returned to some semblance of normalcy, even if it was filled with almost unbearable pain. It was only as things became clearer – his eyesight and his awareness both – that he realized his chest wasn't the only problem. "F**K!" His leg was killing him too.
Shades of Antarctica came rushing back. A broken leg, most likely a punctured lung, a lot of pain and stuck. The only difference was here he was bleeding on the outside, rather than on the inside.
The other difference, of course, was that there was no Samantha Carter here to help him and to give him a reason to go on. Not that he was giving up – never that – but he knew that there was nothing he wanted more than to hear her voice at this moment.
Ain't gonna happen Jack! They all think you've gone to your cabin and they're off doing their own thing. If you want to make it out of here, you're gonna have to do it yourself.
He allowed his head to flop to the side – he couldn't really claim he'd moved it using any kind of muscle control, and peered towards the stairs. It wasn't that far. He could make it. All he had to do was drag himself over there, and then up thirteen stairs to the kitchen, where he could pull himself to a standing position and grab the phone. He'd make one simple little 911 call and then he'd spend a few merry days in the hospital or infirmary. Piece of cake O'Neill. You'd better get on it.
There was one slight problem of course, and that was that he was bleeding all over his floor and if he didn't do something quick he'd never live to make it up those stairs. So – stop the bleeding, don't pull out the knife, as much as you want to, and then pull yourself out of here, yadda, yadda, yadda.
Another head flop, this time the other way. There had to be something in this mess that he could use to stop the bleeding. His eyes wandered all over the even more useless junk until he came across an old ripped Air Force T-shirt. He prayed it was clean, although at this point it didn't matter that much. He'd die of blood loss way before infection – and there were those wonderful things called antibiotics.
Okay, he decided as the world again swam and his non-existent dinner wanted to make an appearance all over the ever-reddening basement floor, don't try and move so quickly. With a gulp, an attempt at a deep breath and a slow reach of his arm he tried to snag the T-shirt.
Of course it was too far away. He'd have to move, which was really stupid as it was in the wrong direction, away from the stairs. Still – blood loss Jack – not good, very not good. With another breath – which were still difficult – he managed to inch himself towards the shirt. At one point he felt like he was going to pass out and stopped, forcing himself to stay conscious and not succumb to the pain and ever growing weakness. "You – can – do it – O'Neill", he gasped. Another thing to remember. Don't talk. There's no one to hear you except yourself and you need the oxygen too badly to waste it on an empty room.
God Sam – where are you when I need you?
Success! He finally managed to grab the shirt and slowly pulled it towards himself. The next thing he had to do, which he had no desire to even attempt, was to staunch the blood. The knife was still sticking up, mocking him, and he was going to have to work around it. He had an almost overwhelming desire to yank it out, but knew that most likey would be the death of him.
"Ow, ow, ow", he muttered, forgetting his own thoughts about being quiet. It hurt! He attempted to clumsily wrap the shirt around the knife and press as firmly as he could bear. Tears instantly filled his eyes and he jerked his head sideways, as if that could alleviate some of the burning pain.
He wasn't sure how successful he had been in stopping the blood, but he couldn't wait to find out. He had to make it upstairs to the phone, or he was a dead man.
So began the excruciating journey across his basement floor. He had to use one hand to keep the shirt pressed against his chest, the other was used to attempt to drag himself. He also used his leg, the non-broken one. He would reach with his arm and bend his leg at the same time. He pull with his arm and push with his leg, trying to gain as much purchase as he could.
At this rate he'd make it to the bottom of the stairs by Monday, he thought. Still, he didn't know what else he could do.
Maybe the best thing would be to get up on his knees – or at least one knee, and try to crawl. It would be painful and definitely ungainly, but he might make better time – and time was now of the essence.
Pushing himself over onto his side made the knife sway and move. He let out a gasp and instantly felt the hot blood seep out of the wound at a faster pace. His breathing hitched – the awkward position making it even harder to get air in his lungs. After a moment things settled down and he moved, inch by inch until he was finally leaning on one arm, almost facing the ground again.
"Here – goes – O'Neill", he gasped to himself. He pulled up his good led until it was under him and transferred his weight onto it and his arm. He groaned and stayed perfectly still until things stopped swimming. "Kay – get – ass – in gear!" He slowly moved forward an inch, and then another, and another. He forced himself forward, ignoring the steady drip, drip, drip of his blood on the floor underneath him. He had to continue to press, not just on the shirt, but on the knife as well. The position he was in had caused it to move.
"God!" he groaned as he moved another few inches. Things were going black and there was a loud wooshing noise in his ears, almost as if he was by the ocean. The gorge rose in his throat and he was terrified he would start to vomit – which would surely kill him.
Keep going O'Neill! He glanced up and the distance to the stairs looked unsurmountable. But he couldn't – wouldn't stop. He had to make it. He had too much to live for now – he would not give up.
Sam wandered aimlessly around her house. She'd spent all of three hours cleaning, only to come to the realization that she was barely home enough to make her house dirty – and there was little or nothing left to do.
"You were right Colonel", she muttered to herself. "Spring cleaning was not the best thing to do on my down time!" She finally plunked herself on her couch and tried to figure out what she wanted to do with the rest of her time off.
Well, actually she knew what she wanted to do and that was to go with the Colonel to his cabin. That couldn't happen though – even if she decided to be courageous and go for it. The fact was – it was too late. He would already have left for Minnesota!
She could call Daniel. He was working on his book but she figured he wouldn't mind spending some time with her. She laughed. What was wrong with her that she spent all her days with these guys but then when she had some time away all she wanted to do was get together with them. Was that sick? She hoped not.
What she did know is that they were her best friends. They understood what she did and who she was better than anyone in the universe. She could be honest with those guys – okay almost honest. She thought about the Colonel. They had to retain some barriers or else … Well, they both knew the 'or else'. Nope, she couldn't go to the cabin, but she could call Daniel.
She glanced at her watch. Damn! It was almost 12 o'clock. Too late to call him. She sighed and decided she might as well go to bed. She'd give him a call in the morning.
As she padded her way into her bedroom, with her soft flannel pajamas and her piggy slippers (a gift from the Colonel for Christmas) she thought again of her boys. She smiled as she thought of Teal'c spending time with R'yac and Daniel writing his book. She hoped the Colonel was enjoying his time at the cabin.
It was only as her head touched the pillow that she got a strange feeling – a feeling as if something was wrong. She frowned and stared at her ceiling. After a few moments she shrugged and decided she was imagining it. If something had happened they would call her.
She closed her eyes and tried to relax. She really wished she was at the cabin with Jack O'Neill.