Author's Note: I felt my original two parter needed a proper end, so here it is.

Thawing

Far too long after being rescued I'm finally out of the infirmary, if only managing to reach the privacy of my quarters. It's not that I don't appreciate the medical staff, and their professionalism can't be faulted, but you're left with very little dignity after an extended stay in their domain.

Thawing me out meant a gradual increase in temperature and complete isolation. My body had skin to replace and infection was a very real possibility. Leaving so much of it behind on the cell floor hadn't been my choice, but then these situations rarely are.

So stripped down to nothing but a light covering I lay for days, touched only by sterile instruments and gloves and exposed to no one. Thank goodness I had no idea what was going on for most of that time. The inactivity would have driven me to distraction.

After almost two weeks in isolation and another few days in a small room off the main infirmary, my ordinary and very plain personal quarters have suddenly taken on the appearance of an exotic resort. Even the bright yellow covers of the 'National Geographic' issues on my bookshelf beckon to me in a way they haven't since I was nine and enthralled by the photos of half naked native women. Color, there's color! No more sterile white or infirmary grey.

I can't wait to get outside, take a walk, jump in my truck and enjoy the sounds and smells of the city beyond the confines of the Mountain. Hell, I may even be persuaded that a trip to the mall is fun, but unfortunately it will be a while before I'm let out into the big wide world. Janet has made it pretty clear that I need to be careful exposing myself to anything that may cut or otherwise damage my patches of delicate new skin.

So lifting my shirt and poking at my side probably isn't a good idea?

Hearing a knock, I hurriedly pull my shirt back down and breathe a sigh of relief when I open the door to find a smiling team instead of a scary doctor. It isn't long before they're lounging about the room chattering about how good it is to see me and how well I'm looking. Actually, no one could ever accuse Teal'c of chattering, but he's certainly holding up his end of the conversation with profound sounding 'indeed's and 'as do I's. Daniel grabs a pack of cards from my desk and before I know it we're playing a lively game of poker, using matches Carter had in her pocket as chips.

Unfortunately the excitement of my first day out of the infirmary soon catches up with me and it isn't even an hour after they entered that, despite my half-hearted protests, my teammates are leaving again, with orders to 'get some rest'. Like a good boy, I obey them and it's nighty-night for Colonel O'Neill.

Maybe it was the unusual time I'd gone to sleep, or maybe it's just restlessness, but I wake in the early morning hours when even life in a mountain slows into natural sleep patterns. Sweat drips into my eyes and I realize I can't fool myself with excuses – it wasn't anything but fear that woke me. Yes, I can admit to being afraid when the lights are out, I'm alone and it's completely dark.

Like it had been for so long before I was rescued.

So, instead of attempting to go back to sleep, I sneak out, shuffling my weary bones forward along the corridor and toward the elevator, heading for the mess hall. Surely a trip of only three levels won't hurt. Except I miss my stop, realizing I've pressed the wrong button only as the door opens on 21.

Infirmary.

For crying out loud, that's the last place I want to be! I've just gotten out of Janet's clutches and I really don't want to land in them again so soon. Frantic button pushing results in the doors closing again and I'm heading up, stress causing my breathing to come faster and faster until I feel as if I'm running. Tumbling out at the first opportunity, I stare down one of those generic corridors the SGC seems to breed, grasping for anything recognizable. It's long moments before I spot the huge 18 painted on the nearest wall. There, just a few doors down, is the sanctuary of Daniel's office where I can recoup my shattered nerves.

Sure enough, the door is unlocked. Switching on the light, the familiar clutter beckons me in. I turn, letting the mundane details of random books and papers and objects haphazardly scattered around overtake the disquiet I'm trying too hard to ignore. Soon I can breathe normally again and I feel just a tiny bit stupid.

Daniel's computer is beeping quietly to itself, a message showing about restarting for changes to take effect. Another one of those odd facts I seem to remember for no good reason pops into my head and I realize it's the night we are always asked to switch everything off for some computer nerdy reason. Maybe I can prevent Daniel from getting one of those irate emails from the IT guys. I make my way around his desk and reach over, knocking some photos as I do so. It only takes a second to turn off the PC and as I wait for the screen to darken I look down.

That's odd. Picking up the top photo of the pile, I peer at it, holding it more toward the light. It's a kitchen, with ovens and large copper pots and strings of stuff hanging from ceiling hooks, like one of those country kitchens you see in magazines about France. I idly wonder why Daniel has such pictures on his desk, but then my attention is drawn to the next photo and I poke it with a suddenly shaking finger as if it is some strange beast.

It may not bite, but it can hurt none the less, and I flop into the chair, unable to look away. Despite my better judgment, I tentatively fan the pictures out across the surface, seeing each with more clarity as my eyes skitter between them.

The evidence is there, plain to see. Pieces of people, an arm with hand still attached, a thigh covered in some sort of leaves, and most damning of all, a child's torso, its surface gouged and filled with pieces of the same alien plant that hangs from the ceiling in thick bunches.

The designation of the planet is marked at the top of each picture – one I am intimately familiar with – and I swallow down the hot bile that rises in my throat.

Leaving the office as I found it, with only a silenced computer to show anyone has entered it, I stumble back to my quarters to lie awake, unable to close my eyes for fear of finding myself joining those other poor souls at the dinner table. Soft whispers of machinery sound eerily like the ones I heard in what I now realize wasn't a cell but a freezer, and the slow drip I usually ignore from the bathroom faucet echoes as it falls, like my tears of pain frozen before they hit the floor.

When the sounds of night change to the sounds of day I rise, wondering as I walk the few steps into the tiny bathroom for the warmest shower my new pink skin can stand, how my teammates could joke after what they had seen. Long minutes later I lean against the shower wall, shivering in the heat, unable to warm myself, and I sink slowly down while water pools, puddling around my legs.

If it wasn't for the insistent beep of the phone I might be there still, but I manage to find a towel amongst the haze and, still shivering, squelch through the door and across the room to the phone beside my bed in time to answer it before the caller gives up.

It's Hammond, wanting me, if I'm feeling up to it, to sit in on a briefing with SG-9. They're going back to one of the planets SG-1 visited a few months ago to broker a treaty and apparently my advice on the inhabitants would be welcome. Naturally I agree and am soon dressed and walking to the elevator as if nothing was ever wrong – as if I haven't spent the night in a sleepless funk and the morning running out the entire base hot water supply.

Opening the briefing room door, I smile and offer up a witty comment, nodding happily at the rest of SG-1 and the others already seated at the table.

It's what I do. It's what we all do. It's our job.

Life goes on.

Best not to dwell.

The End