"I'm having a hard time believing that Daniel's that petty, sir," was Carter's opinion. "He's not the jealous type." She set down her safety goggles onto the bench, turning off the power to the laser she had just lined up. The object of her endeavors, a twisted bit of metal with an embedded crystal, signaled its relief by letting the red hot glow ebb away.

Jack had wandered into her lab, eyeing suspiciously the various doohickeys that seemed to be able to jump by themselves. This was stuff he could appreciate. Carter was good at learning how to make things go fast, and back-engineering weapons that they came across. In fact, this little metal wrist-band they'd picked up yesterday in their mad dash across P3X-6J4 was sitting in a prominent spot on the afore-mentioned lab bench, just waiting to be prodded into action by Carter once she figured out how to do more than heat it up to near molten metal.

He shrugged. "Daniel said, and I quote: Waste of time. Whole mission was a waste of time. End quote. Then he said a lot more to me, which I'd rather paraphrase to you so that I don't have to remember all the high-falutin' words he used. Said that we only brought back stuff that we already knew about, and that Deavers must have missed the really good stuff. Said all that after one quick look at everything we risked our asses to get home. Said that after I showed him all the cute pictures that Deavers took, if you can believe it." He picked up something mechanical from Carter's bench, and quickly set it down when it beeped at him. "Maybe he's cranky from giving up caffeine. Although I have to admit, I'd expected him to give me a lot harder time than he did. Didn't raise his voice once. Just talked very calmly. And used a lot of big words."

Carter sighed. "He wasn't happy at being left behind, sir. Not that I'm questioning the decision, sir," she hastened to tack on. "This mission had to be military through and through." She indicated the white dressing on her arm. "You would have been calling me Samantha 'One Arm' Carter if Teal'c and Deavers hadn't been there to pull me back out of the line of fire. But you know Daniel. Every day there's someone around to remind him that he's not military, and to question his right to be here just because he's a civilian. I've been hearing a lot of that recently."

"Daniel's proven himself over and over again," Jack started in hotly.

"To us," Sam broke in. "He's proven himself to us, and to General Hammond."

"And to most of the SG teams," Jack said, "all of whom would go to Hell and back for him. Some of us already have."

"But not to the newcomers on the base," Sam reminded him. "And not to some of the outside brass. To their minds, Daniel's just some eccentric egg-head that we've taken a liking to. Daniel's probably scared stiff that General Hammond's going to take him off of field duty and stick him in an office full time like Yamamura."

"Not gonna happen, Carter. Not if I have anything to say about it. Daniel's too valuable to keep locked up in a wad of cotton."

"Yes, sir. But look at it from Daniel's point of view: where were you when the decision to turf him was made for P3X-6J4?"

"I happen to have agreed with that decision, Major."

"Yes, sir, and if it had been my place to give input I would have agreed also. But that's not the point."

"What is the point, Carter? Humor me. Make believe I'm not as smart as you."

Carter flushed but kept on going. "The point is that Daniel got left behind. We just pounded all of his 'kick me, I'm not one of the guys' buttons. He's feeling very insecure right now, sir."

"So we'll make it up to him. I'll talk to Hammond, see if we can't get pushed up on the roster, go to a nice deserted planet with lots of rocks. Think that'll make Daniel happy?"

"It ought to, sir."

"Good." O'Neill mimicked putting a phone up to his ear. "'Can you hear me now, Daniel? You're still part of SG-1.'"

Teal'c surveyed the devastation in Daniel's office with displeasure, noting the books that were tossed carelessly onto the floor, and the broken shards of pottery that dusted one corner. It was just the beginning: someone had taken pride in smashing every light bulb in every lamp, and had ended by tossing the old coffee grounds from the pot in the corner onto the computer keyboard. It would take a day to clean up, and longer to re-organize if the appearance of the file cabinet was any indication. "Who has done this, DanielJackson? They shall be reported to General Hammond." Unless I get to them first, went unspoken.

Daniel dropped heavily into his chair, not bothering to remove the debris on the seat. "Leave it, Teal'c. I'll get it later."

"But—"

"It's not worth the aggravation," Daniel said, a little more forcefully. "Taking notice of this will only encourage them. Believe me; I've been through this sort of thing before. It's just some of the macho types having fun."

"At your expense."

"It's not as though it hasn't happened before," Daniel started to say, when Deavers walked in and gaped. And said a bad word in Goa'uld. Teal'c flashed him a disapproving glance. That's not an expression that I taught you.

"Kind of my reaction, Beaver," Daniel said wearily, shoulders drooping. "I should have seen it coming. It's been way past time for an incident on this scale." Unspoken, at least to Teal'c's ears, was the acknowledgement that this had happened before. Several times before, and recently. Teal'c scowled.

"I'll get this cleaned up in no time," Deavers promised earnestly. "I'll have you humming again, no problem, Dr. J."

But Teal'c had caught the comment. "What do you mean, DanielJackson?"

"It's nothing. Forget I said anything."

"What's nothing?" O'Neill sauntered up to the doorway in time to hear the linguist and did a double-take. "Whoa, Nellie! What's the matter, Daniel? Throw a party and forget to invite me?"

"Right," Daniel snapped back. "We had a wonderful time. I danced around with a lampshade on my head, got stinking drunk, and made a complete and utter fool of myself. As usual."

"Hey, ease up on the caffeine withdrawal, Daniel," O'Neill ordered. He looked around. What had gone on was no accident and went well beyond O'Neill's definition of amusement. "What happened here?"

"What does it look like? Somebody trashed the place."

"Who?"

"How should I know?" Daniel hunched his shoulders, trying to melt into his chair under the stare of the three military men. "Some card-carrying member of the anti-geek brigade, I suppose, having a little fun."

"This goes way beyond a harmless prank, Daniel." It was time to get serious. And O'Neill didn't like the way his archeologist cringed at every word. Carter's comment about pushing all of Daniel's 'kick me' buttons echoed in his mind. It had taken a long time for Daniel to understand that he had earned the respect of the SGC, and O'Neill wasn't about to let that get thrown away by a couple of stupid grunts new to life at Cheyenne Mountain. The mission to P3X-6J4 had had more consequences than anyone could have imagined. O'Neill didn't want to believe that Daniel could be subjected to this sort of treatment while the rest of his team was off-world, but that apparently was what had happened. "This has impacted your ability to do your job, Daniel. It has set you, and therefore all of SGC, back by a day or more. You can't work and translate if you don't have your tools." Or your self-respect, he wanted to add. He glared at the computer keyboard, coffee grounds dripping onto the carpet. "What a mess." He didn't mean just the room.

He glared at Deavers. The airman hadn't done it, but O'Neill needed to glare at someone, and Daniel wasn't up to it. That left Teal'c and Deavers, and of the two O'Neill preferred to glare at Deavers. "Better get moving, Deavers. This is going to take a hell of a lot of work to clean up and we've all got a mission briefing in two hours. That's what I came to tell you."

Daniel didn't move. "Another mission you need my input on, Jack? How much sun tan lotion to pack?"

O'Neill couldn't help the sarcasm in return. "No, Daniel. The MALP sent back pictures of trees and rocks with funny little markings all over them. Rocks with words that don't look like anything anybody's ever seen before. Think you're up to it? 'Cause nobody else around here is. 'Can you hear me now?'" There. That ought to tell Daniel that he's valued.

O'Neill made a show of checking his watch as he walked into the Gate Room, backpack over his shoulder and P-90 at his side. All of the others were there, waiting for him, packs loaded and ready. Carter was doing a last check on her own weapon. Teal'c was waiting at the top of the ramp, Deavers alongside readjusting his own backpack. Even Daniel was standing at what passed for attention for the civilian. O'Neill smiled in pseudo-disbelief. "Am I late?"

Teal'c took his words seriously. "No, ColonelO'Neill, you are not. Rather, the rest of us are early. And eager to disembark."

"Chevron One, locked." The Stargate whirled, the mechanism clanking into position.

"Even you, Daniel," O'Neill grinned. "The pictures of the rocks the MALP took must have intrigued you."

"Artifacts, Jack. They're artifacts. And, yes, the writings look like an off-shoot of ancient Hebrew. They could be—"

"Chevron Two, locked."

Good. Daniel's back to normal, talking a mile a minute and that's before we head through the 'Gate. O'Neill hurriedly stepped back to have a word with Deavers. "Nice work, getting him here early. I haven't been able to do that in two years."

"Not me, sir," Deavers had to admit. "This was all Dr. J. Couldn't slow him down."

"You sure you're not slipping him a little high-octane caffeine?"

"Not me, sir. I'm afraid of Dr. Frasier."

"Smart man. Me, too." A belated thought occurred to O'Neill. "Um, listen, Deavers, you don't happen to speak ancient Hebrew as well as Goa'uld, do you?"

"Me, sir? I have trouble understanding someone speaking with a Yiddish accent, let alone Hebrew, sir."

"Good." O'Neill turned to wave at Hammond, high in the control booth. Last thing we need, someone able to horn in on Daniel's area of expertise. Goal one for this mission: collect rocks. Goal two: restore Daniel's confidence in himself. Goal three: restore team spirits by accomplishing goal two. "See you in a few days, General."

"Chevron Three, locked."

"SG-1, you have a go. God speed."

"Teal'c, point. Carter, take the six; Deavers, you watch over our favorite archeologist. Don't want to lose him, now that we've finally got him broken in. Might get stuck with some military jackass instead. Ready, Daniel?" he tossed back without looking. He had Daniel right where he wanted him, excited and ready to head out through the Stargate. All O'Neill needed was four more chevrons to lock and a giant blue flush.

"Fine." Daniel didn't sound fine.

O'Neill whipped around. He knew that tone of voice. It was the sound of his civilian specialist going under. Normally it happened some time after they'd gone through the 'Gate. Normally it happened after meeting up with some Jaffa, or some strange tribe with an attitude, or an earthquake on P3-whatever.

This time it was happening on this side of the wormhole. Daniel's face had gone pasty white, sweat beading out on his forehead. Knees were buckling, eyes rolling back into his head, the man looking as if he'd been shot by a zat gun.

"Daniel!" O'Neill's pack hit the ramp in a flash, O'Neill grabbing for Daniel before he went down. "Medic! Carter!"

Deavers was there first. "His heart is racing. He's not getting any circulation."

"He's right, sir. Daniel, can you hear me?" Carter had one hand on Daniel's wrist, the other checking his pupils. "Daniel, what's wrong?"

"Chest," Daniel gasped. "Can't…breathe…"

"Dammit, where's the medic?" O'Neill snarled. Of all of the times that this had to happen. "Medic!"

"Isn't he a little young, doc, for his heart to be acting up?" O'Neill didn't want to imply that Janet Frasier didn't know her stuff. He just wanted her to be wrong. That his team member, his civilian archeologist, his friend, wasn't lying in the infirmary bed, white as the sheet he was on top of, looking like he'd just gone three rounds with Apophis. And the rest of his team was milling around, looking like thunder, looking for someone—or something—to vent their ire upon. Carter had commandeered the plastic bedside chair as the only team member who had the societal acceptance to hold Daniel's hand in front of the rest of the SGC and make sure that he wasn't about to run away. As if he could, O'Neill reflected bitterly.

"Not necessarily, colonel." Frasier made a small notation on the clipboard she held. "And in this case, I warned him. And you."

"Me?"

"Airman Deavers, did Dr. Jackson get any caffeine today?"

"No, ma'am!" It looked silly for the six foot four giant to be afraid of the petite doctor, but O'Neill was grateful not to have that glare turned on him. He didn't blame the Beaver one iota. Deavers swallowed hard. "No, ma'am," he repeated. "Not one drop. Not that I gave him. You can check the stash I've got in his office. De-caffeinated, from the specialty store in town. Said it tasted almost as good as the regular stuff."

"Daniel?" Frasier zeroed in on her patient.

The voice didn't sound as if it ought to be coming from Daniel. It sounded old, and peevish. "I've been behaving myself, Janet. I gave up caffeine. Don't yell."

Frasier wasn't satisfied, and launched into a lecture worthy of Daniel himself and aimed at all present. "This type of heart arrhythmia is generated by an inborn genetic disorder, triggered by an outside agent. That outside agent is most commonly seen in two scenarios: excessive stimulant use, and excessive long term stress. Neither of which is conducive to walking around, as you have just found out. While it is not likely to kill you, Dr. Jackson, it is enough to ground you until we get it under control. There are several ways to get it under control. The first, and easiest, is to give up stimulants; namely, caffeine."

"Been there, done that." 'Muttered' was the polite term. 'Growled' was more accurate, though it was difficult to tell through the oxygen mask covering the archeologist's face. The quaver in his voice didn't help. Carter squeezed his hand sympathetically.

"Really." One look at Frasier's face was enough to tell how accurate she thought that assertion was. O'Neill wondered what the tests were telling the doctor. "Step two: reduce stress. Frankly, I doubt very much that reducing the stress in this facility is a realistic option. That leaves us with step three."

"Which is?" O'Neill put it into words.

"Medications."

"Oh." O'Neill couldn't say the relief he felt, and that Daniel didn't.

"Why? What did you think I was going to recommend, colonel?"

"I don't know." O'Neill gestured helplessly. "You know… Maybe…"

"Grounding him?" Frasier shot Daniel a quick glare. "I am. Temporarily, Daniel," she added swiftly at his instinctive objection. "Until we get this under control, I want you where state of the art medicine is more than chanting rituals around a fire. You're spending two days with me here in the infirmary hooked up to a heart monitor, then at least a week off duty."

"Janet—" Daniel tried to complain.

"You want two weeks off? Fine with me, Daniel. I'll approve it. In fact, I insist. This is nothing to monkey around with, Daniel. You've been abusing your body for some time, and it's payback time. Or do you want someone trying to fill your shoes here at SGC?"

O'Neill winced. She couldn't have known. Daniel went white, tight-lipped. "Low blow, Janet."

"Then get with the program, Dr. Jackson. This is yourself that you're hurting, along with the rest of the SGC. Cut out the caffeine, for real this time. In the meantime, I'm placing you on some medications that should resolve the problem until you've de-toxed from the caffeine." Frasier hung up the clipboard and walked away, ignoring Daniel's snarl that he'd already given up regular coffee.

Daniel eyed O'Neill with a certain defiance. "I did give it up, Jack. Coffee, cola's, chocolate, you name it."

"Not me you have to convince, Daniel."

"Janet knows her stuff, Daniel," Sam put in. "Maybe there's some other way that you're getting a stimulant. Or stress. There's been a lot of stress here recently. That could do it."

"Don't humor me, Sam." Daniel turned back to O'Neill, his lips set in a straight line. O'Neill recognized the look. It was Daniel's I'm going to talk about this if it kills me look. "What about the mission to PS-284?"

"What about it, Daniel? We postponed it. We're on stand down until you're feeling better."

"That's crap," Daniel said, borrowing one of O'Neill's favorite phrases. He set his jaw. "You don't need me to go collect a bunch of rocks with writing on them. Deavers is capable of doing that, and take the pictures that I need to translate."

O'Neill went cold. He knew how much this must be costing his civilian specialist to make the admission you don't need me out there. He also knew how wrong it was. After Apophis-knew how many missions to how many worlds, O'Neill was well aware that bringing back pretty photographs and a rock or two inevitably ended up in a second and usually a third mission just to prove that there really wasn't anything worthwhile on P-whatever the hell planet it was. People like Deavers were just a preliminary to the real thing: Daniel Jackson, Ph.D.

It was time to end Daniel's charade. "Listen, Daniel," O'Neill said, measuring his words. "You know damn well that we need you on the other end of the wormhole, so stop sulking about the one time you didn't get to go along. There's a reason that SG-1 is the premier team at SGC, and you're a big part of that reason. So shut up, stop drinking your damn coffee, and work at getting your ass out of this bed so we can all get back to doing what we do best. Understand?"

"Uh. Yeah." Don't make the relieved look on your face so obvious, Daniel. People might talk.

"Good," O'Neill snapped. Enough sappiness. Someone might even vent an emotion if he wasn't careful. He focused on the other members of his team. "Carter, don't you have some research to complete? A Goa'uld toy sitting on your workbench?"

"Yes, sir." Carter fled.

Deavers was next. "Airman, I think there's an office that needs straightening up. A few light bulbs to replace, as I recall. A keyboard to clean out. Get to it."

"Yes, sir!"

One left. Teal'c favored his commanding officer with a cold pair of black eyes. O'Neill wisely shut down his mock tirade. "I'll be in my office. Writing reports." And, as a parting snarl, "I hate writing reports."