Life, Jack thought hazily as he regained consciousness, is like an onion: if you squirt its juice in your eye, it stings.
Deciding that was pretty good, he decided to pocket that one to say to someone later, if only to annoy and confuse them. He almost laughed aloud at that thought, then realized he really didn't feel well enough to laugh yet.
Well enough? Had he been sick?
Then it came back to him in a rush, and he opened his eyes to see the reassuringly familiar, if dull grayish ceiling of the infirmary in the SGC. Equally reassuring and familiar was the sound of Doc Fraser's heels clicking on the concrete, and Jack thought with amusement of all those movies where a fake nurse was revealed because she was wearing heels. Maybe that was revealing elsewhere either because of the demand for hospital approved shoes, or perhaps footwear that was comfortable to wear standing up for long hours, but Dr. Fraser must not believe in either practice. Never having been awake in the surgery or having paid attention when watching from the outside, he wondered if Dr. Fraser wore her heels even when performing surgeries.
"How are you feeling, Colonel?" Dr. Fraser asked, leaning over the bed so he could see her without having to move, and Jack felt comforted by the gentle tone of her voice and the sympathy in her eyes.
Dr. Fraser had a good bedside manner, but she was not a woman who hid her feelings well. If somebody was dead, or Jack's prognosis was bad, she wouldn't manage a smile, and there would be a strange sadness in her brown eyes that didn't belong there. But she looked pretty relaxed, if a little tired, so Jack decided he and Carter must be doing okay.
Locating his voice and deciding to use it, Jack answered, "Like I fell down the last flight of stairs outside Daniel's apartment."
"You may feel that way, sir," a new voice, equally familiar and comforting to hear, spoke up, "But the way I hear it is that Daniel carried you down those stairs."
Jack turned his head to see Carter was already awake, sitting up with the support of some pillows and reading no less. He wondered how long he'd been out. One thing he'd learned about alien diseases was that the ones that took a long time to drag you down also usually took forever to recover from. The ones that hit hard and fast took more out of you, but recovery was usually faster. That wasn't a rule set in stone, but it seemed to be the case this time.
"Did he?" Jack asked, mostly to make conversation, "I think I blacked out on the stairs, came to in the truck, because I don't remember what happened between."
He was pleased to hear himself talking, and doing so clearly. His voice felt well-used, indicating he hadn't been out more than a day, more likely a few hours or so. He couldn't quite feel the ache in his bandaged hand, or in his abused knees, but he figured there must be something in the IV he'd been hooked up to. That probably also explained why everything was more amusing and reassuring than it might have been under ordinary circumstances. He felt lazy and sleepy and comfortable, and recognized the drugged feeling. He didn't try to fend it off. There was no reason to right now.
"You're lucky," Carter said, holding up a bandaged wrist of her own, "I crashed into a table and hit the concrete. Fortunately with my hand instead of my head."
"Well the sprain is on the other side, right?" Jack replied evenly, "At least now you're balanced."
From the bright, uninhibited laughter that came out of her at this remark, Jack was pretty sure Carter was also on drugs. The joke wasn't that funny, and normally she would have only smiled and said something professional like, "Yes sir," in one of her warmer, more amused tones, possibly while pretending to try not to roll her eyes.
Content with the fact that Carter was well enough to laugh, Jack turned his attention back to Fraser.
"How long was I out, Doc?" he asked.
"About twelve hours, maybe," Dr. Fraser answered, "All things considered, you were lucky. You were both brought in fast, and Dr. Jackson's team was able to retrieve the samples we needed to make an antibiotic quickly. Once we were able to identify the pathogen that caused it, developing a cure was fairly simple," she smiled softly, "I get a lot of practice at developing cures for disease on the fly."
Jack knew that was true. Anywhere else, cures for diseases usually took years to develop. Dr. Fraser often had to come up with them in hours. Granted, she didn't have to get approval to test and use her medicines, because she had standing governmental permission to do so, but Jack was still convinced that Dr. Fraser and her medical staff were the greatest doctors the Earth had ever seen. Not that he was inclined to say that out loud, particularly to her face. Wouldn't want it to go to her head.
"Well," Dr. Fraser said, "I promised Dr. Jackson that I would call when you were awake."
"Where is Daniel anyway?" Jack asked.
"He got an airman to take him home," Dr. Fraser answered.
"That's good," Carter volunteered, "He's had a long week."
"Haven't we all," Dr. Fraser tossed back, clicking her way to her office, presumably to make a call.
Meanwhile, Jack felt an inexplicable pang of worry, developing as a sort of sourness in his stomach. He knew there wasn't any reason to be worried. Obviously Daniel hadn't been hurt doing whatever it was Dr. Fraser had sent him to do, otherwise he'd be here. And clearly he either hadn't eaten the wrong fruit, or else he was immune to the effects. Jack was reasonably convinced James Chianti wouldn't be back, the man had looked completely terrified when Daniel pulled a gun on him, and he didn't strike Jack as having the balls to come back and face anything that scared him.
On impulse, when Dr. Fraser came back through, Jack asked, "How's Daniel?"
"Probably asleep," Dr. Fraser replied without concern, "I left him a message."
That made sense. In fact it was perfectly normal to have to dispatch someone to fetch a team member who'd just come off mission if they were needed because not only did they fall into sleep almost instantly (sometimes even falling into bed still fully dressed), they tended to sleep so deeply that nothing short of a hurricane would wake them.
And yet, the unease still grew, spreading from Jack's gut to his chest, working its way into his nerves despite the attempts of the drugs in his system to keep him relaxed and feeling comfy. In a way, that wasn't unusual. The last time he'd seen Daniel, things had been going to hell on a bobsled, and some part of Jack just wouldn't believe everything was alright until he'd seen all his team mates alive and well. But it stuck in his mind that this feeling of concern was not spreading itself to Teal'c, though he had not seen the Jaffa since awakening either.
Fraser had not seen Jack's growing worry on his face, and went about her business. Jack debated with himself. He told himself it was probably just paranoia, a memory of the look of fear in Daniel's eyes at the sound of James Chianti's voice, remnant of the sense of purpose and duty that had come off Daniel when he'd demanded Jack's truck keys, the lingering jangle of post-mission nerves. But he knew even as he told himself these things that they were all lies.
Life in the Stargate program had shown him a lot about strange, almost supernatural means of sensing things, such as bizarre, seemingly impossible means of transferring information and even entire personalities from one body to another, as well as the ability Carter possessed now to sense the Goa'uld. But all of that involved something alien, something from the Other Side of the Stargate.
Without needing anyone to tell him or explain it to him, Jack knew what he felt now wasn't his imagination, and it wasn't alien, and it sure as hell wasn't supernatural. Not unless instinct, and possibly a deep connection to his team counted. Jack would later be given time to wonder if maybe a part of his brain had put together the chain of events and realized something he hadn't recognized consciously, but would have if he hadn't been so druggy and recently unconscious. Perhaps, he would absently consider, this sort of thing was what people meant when they talked about the silent but heard warnings whispered by angels.
But he did not wonder now. Right now, he started working on freeing himself from this hospital prison, starting with the IV stuck in his arm. Technically you weren't supposed to remove those unless you were a qualified medical person, but Jack never had cared for technicalities.
Carter noticed, and a worried look came into her eyes, "Colonel?"
Her inquiry drew the attention of orderlies, and Dr. Fraser.
"Colonel, you're not supposed to get out of bed," Dr. Fraser said, "I need to keep an eye on you."
"Something's wrong," Jack said, successfully swinging his legs over the side of the bed and managing to get unsteadily to his feet, "I have to go."
"You don't have to go anywhere," Dr. Fraser said, obviously now concerned about his mental state, fearing lingering effects of the disease that had tried to do him in just a few hours before, or possibly a side effect of the drugs he was currently on, "You need to get back in bed and let us continue monitoring your condition."
She had arrived to block his path, a tiny woman of iron. Moving Heaven and Earth itself would be easier than forcing Doc Fraser to back down when it came to medical matters.
"Doc," Jack said, "It's Daniel. I have to go."
Dr. Fraser looked him in the eyes, and seemed to see a distinct lack of madness there that puzzled her.
"Dr. Jackson is fine, he's at home," Dr. Fraser said, but in her voice there was the tone of doubt, as if perhaps she was receiving a message from an angel herself.
"Please," Jack insisted, "He's in trouble. He needs my help."
The certainty in his voice and lucidity in his gaze started to crumble her resolve. Hearing his phrasing, she did not even try to suggest that someone else could go in Jack's place. But she still looked doubtful.
"Look, I promise I'll come right back," Jack said, "I won't even try to slip out of the infirmary again before I'm released," SG-1 was notorious for escaping Fraser's clutches before she was well and truly done with them and having to be wrangled back into the infirmary under protest.
"You can't operate a motor vehicle," she pointed out.
"So I'll grab an airman," Jack replied with forced levity, seeing that he'd won.
And a pistol, he thought as Dr. Fraser stepped aside to let him go. She held up a hand to prevent the orderlies from trying to stop him as he quested about for his pants. There was a wary, almost frightened look in her eyes as she watched him, the intensity with which he'd spoken, and the strangeness in his eyes as he did so had unsettled her. Hell, Jack was also unsettled. But he wasn't questioning it now.
After he left the infirmary, Jack went straight to the locker room, retrieving the M9 from his locker. As he headed to the elevator, he grabbed a passing airman by the arm.
"Congratulations..." he quickly checked the name tag on the uniform, "McCord... you're my new chauffeur."
The young airman looked profoundly worried at this turn of events, and hesitantly held up a file he was carrying, "But, Colonel, I was told to take these directly to General Hammond without-"
He broke off as Jack snatched the file from his hands and thrust it into the surprised arms of a tech passing them in the hall, and said, "Here. Take these to General Hammond. Immediately."
Jack turned back to McCord, "There. Now you're free. Let's go."
"Uh... yes sir," the airman shakily replied, and followed Jack to the elevator, and from there to the parking lot, where Jack discovered the airman drove a dinky little sedan that rattled whenever you pushed it above about forty-five.
The drive to Daniel's apartment wasn't air conditioned, or quick, or pleasant, but Jack did not complain and McCord was too scared of him, or perhaps the drug-crazed look in his eyes, to speak without prompting. When Jack told him to wait at the curb outside Daniel's apartment, McCord only nodded, and stared owlishly after Jack as he left the vehicle and started up the stairs.
Not knowing exactly what he'd find, Jack resisted the urge to try to run up the stairs or take them two at a time. Instead, he climbed them purposefully, inwardly steeling himself for whatever he might find, hoping the drugs had cleared out of his system enough for him to do whatever he would have to. It didn't even occur to him until he was a flight and a half up that he should have considered bringing some kind of backup with him. But the instinct that told him Daniel was in trouble also told him that Daniel needed Jack, not someone else. Not right now. He let instinct continue to guide him unhindered.
Somehow Jack wasn't surprised to find the apartment door not only unlocked, but fully open. He pulled his M9, and listened cautiously. Hearing nothing, he advanced slowly through the door, turned and went down the entry hall, careful of the ridiculous short stair flights in the middle of it. He could see already that the apartment was not as he'd seen it last.
Some of the old broken junk looked more broken than it had been, and the wait had not been in vain for those things that had been precariously perched, waiting for an errant elbow to knock them off. Pictures were crooked. Jack froze for a moment as he noticed something further wrong with one of them without at first seeing what it was. Then he figured it out. The painting had a bullet hole in it, and the bullet itself had lodged in the wall behind the painting. That was new.
Jack ventured further into the apartment, but saw nothing until he came around the corner to the living room. The sturdy coffee table wedged between a pair of couches had been knocked up onto its side, leaving an open space which had been filled with a body.
It seemed Daniel was going to have to clean his rug after all, because it was soaked with blood. James Chianti lay in that blood face down, and a quick check for a pulse revealed he was no longer alive.
Jack looked around, but didn't immediately see Daniel. A second visual sweep of the place and he spotted blood on one of the plastic plants positioned on either side of the door to Daniel's bedroom/office. Leaving Chianti where he'd found him, Jack proceeded onward, not sure if he was looking for Daniel or some degenerate friend of Chianti's, so he kept his pistol at the ready.
He found Daniel perched on the edge of his bed, his head bowed and hands hanging limply between his knees, the M9 he usually kept in the closet held loosely in his right hand.
"Daniel?" Jack inquired to see if Daniel was responsive as much as to let him know he was there.
Daniel lifted his head, and Jack's heart twisted at the tortured look in his eyes. Daniel opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out. He managed a pained whimper, then dropped his head again and shook it, as if trying to deny reality itself. Even from across the room, Jack could see him shaking.
"Aw, Danny," Jack holstered his pistol and went across the room to sit beside Daniel.
They sat, not quite touching, and Jack made a visual inspection of Daniel. Daniel was coated in blood that had dried, which Jack suspected belonged primarily -if not entirely- to Chianti, but he couldn't be sure. He knew now wasn't the time to start checking for wounds though. If he did, Daniel in his state of apparent shock would probably resist.
Daniel's hair was damp with sweat and plastered to his head. He was still dirty from his recent mission, his clothing rumpled and torn in places, and now blood-drenched as well. The first few inches of his boots were encased in mud, and blood had splashed on them. Daniel looked pale and gaunt, and the bruise that Scar had given him on the side of his face stood out grotesquely, a rainbow of ugly colors now it had begun to heal. Small scratches marred the exposed portions of Daniel's skin, though he had mostly recovered from the bug bites he'd received and therefore had only a few red spots on his skin, which was currently unnaturally pale. In short, he didn't look good.
Finally Jack managed to pick out a tear in Daniel's jacket, the left sleeve near the shoulder, blood around its edges, that suggested a fresh wound. Still he didn't move. He could sense Daniel's mind was far distant from him, and Jack needed to bring him back from whatever cliff his mind appeared to be teetering on the edge of, and bring him back fast.
He didn't need Daniel to recap what had happened. What Jack had seen in the living room told the story plainly enough for anyone who'd participated in as many gun fights as Jack.
When Daniel had entered the apartment, Chianti must've been inside, waiting for him. Chianti had taken a shot, the one that went through the painting. Jack didn't know if that bullet had missed, or if it was the one that had grazed Daniel's shoulder. Likely Daniel hadn't been carrying. He hadn't changed clothes after his mission, but in dumping his field gear he had also put down the M9 he carried during missions, and likely the P90 he sometimes consented to bring along, leaving him weaponless. Always ready to throw himself into the lion's mouth, Daniel had probably gone right for Chianti instead of taking cover or even running away, despite there being an exit available to him.
What Jack didn't know was whether the gun had gone off in the struggle, or if Daniel had managed to take it and shoot Chianti. The glazed look in Daniel's eyes was not enlightening, and the fact that his glasses were missing (probably having skittered off under a piece of furniture during the struggle) didn't tell him much either. But Jack didn't really need to know. Whether it was an accident or on purpose, Daniel had certainly been in fear for his life, and had defended himself. But in so doing, Daniel had hit the proverbial end of his rope so hard he'd almost broken his neck.
"Life," Jack began, then paused as a thought struck him, "is just peaches and cream."
Daniel's eyelids fluttered; clearly he'd heard.
Thus encouraged, Jack concluded, "Except the cream is expired, and you're allergic to the peaches."
Daniel twitched slightly, blinked, and came up out of his daze enough that he was able to lift his head and looked at Jack, deep puzzlement in his sky colored eyes.
"I'm not allergic to peaches," Daniel said, his voice little more than a strained whisper.
Relieved that Daniel seemed to have stepped back from the precipice, Jack said, "Well let's pretend for the sake of this analogy that you are."
A thin, humorless smile appeared on Daniel's face, though it didn't reach his eyes. He knew what Jack was doing. He understood, and he was grateful for the distraction.
"Wouldn't it be more compelling if it was true?" Daniel asked, his voice rough, but louder than before.
Jack sort of wobbled his head from one side to the other.
"Maybe," he reluctantly admitted.
They lapsed into silence for several seconds, just looking at one another, each glad to see the other was alive, and that whatever damage had been done, they would manage to recover. Then Daniel's brow furrowed, and he looked down at the hand holding the gun. It seemed to take considerable effort for him to lift that hand and, holding the gun by the barrel and trigger guard, offer it to Jack. Quietly, without a word, Jack took the M9 by the grip, and checked that the safety was on.
"I'm afraid your unwashable rug will have to be replaced," Jack remarked softly, not sure if Daniel was yet ready for this macabre humor, which so often served as their shared coping mechanism.
It seemed that he was.
"Putting something on the floor you can't wash is a mistake," Daniel said, slight color beginning to return to his face as he smiled, still rather grimly but not as falsely as before.
"I told you so," Jack replied, "Nothin' but hassle. You've got perfectly good carpeting on the floor, there's no reason to put rugs you can't wash on top of it."
Daniel wasn't able to come up with a retort, but he managed a nod.
"So... uh," Jack persisted, unwilling to let Daniel start drowning again, "Where are the cops?"
"I called the SGC when... right after..." he gestured vaguely at the living room, which was mercifully beyond sight.
"Who did you call?" Jack asked, surprised, "Ol' Doc Fraser thought you were fine here."
Daniel blinked, staring at Jack without comprehension, then a faint awareness dawned in his eyes.
"I thought I heard the phone ringing," Daniel said thoughtfully, then sighed, "Anyway, I called the extension for the office at the SGC that deals with on-world crises related to the Stargate Program. Turns out they have guys lying around whose only job for us is to turn police cars around and keep them out of our way."
"Huh," Jack said, though he wasn't really surprised, most secret government operations had such a division after all.
"Then I... I guess I kind of just... came in here. I don't really remember," Daniel admitted, "I just... I guess I've been... sitting here since."
It wasn't uncommon for details and even portions of time to be lost after such a trauma, so Jack wasn't too all-fired worried about that. However...
"Look, I promised the Doc I'd be back in her infirmary as soon as I made sure you were alright," Jack said, "And I have an airman waiting in a deathtrap on wheels downstairs."
Daniel stared at him blankly for several seconds.
"Oh," he said finally, "I guess we should..."
"Go," Jack finished, "Yes, we should go. We can assign someone to come and clean up your living room when we get there. And don't worry, I'll tell them to leave your polystyrene decorations alone. Chianti's not going anywhere after all."
"No," Daniel agreed, his voice heavy, "No, he's not."
Jack got up, apparently a little too fast because a wave of dizziness hit him and he swayed. Daniel was immediately at his side, a hand gripping his upper arm firmly to steady him. Jack waited for his equilibrium to come to terms with the continued spinning of the Earth, then nodded that Daniel could let go. But Daniel didn't let go, and Jack didn't try to make him.
"Guess I'm still a little druggy," Jack admitted.
"How did you even get up the stairs?" Daniel asked, "Dr. Fraser's painkiller and sedative concoctions are enough to drop an elephant mid-charge."
"I'm not an elephant," Jack said, "So that's irrelephant."
"You are high, aren't you," it wasn't strictly a question.
"I'm just glad you're not dead. Again," Jack muttered.
"Yep, you're high. C'mon, let's go."
Each put an arm around the other, and Jack wasn't entirely sure which one of them was supporting which. They stepped over the body in the living room, and made it through the door. Daniel started to turn back to lock it, but Jack shook his head dismissively.
"Who cares today?" was his assessment.
"Fair enough," Daniel replied.
They helped each other down the stairs, Jack leaning on Daniel more heavily than he'd expected to need to. But the illness had drained him, and the adrenalin and profound need to get to Daniel's side that had powered him were spent. He was beyond done. Daniel wasn't much better, truth be told, and they sort of took turns supporting each other down the stairs, helping one another maintain their balance, each careful of the weaknesses and limitations of the other.
In this fashion, they made it back to McCord's car, which was right where Jack had left it.
"You weren't kidding about the deathtrap," Daniel observed, opening the passenger door in front to let Jack get in, before climbing into the back of the vehicle.
"Mmm," Jack grunted, mostly so that McCord wouldn't know what question he was answering.
"Where to now, sir?" McCord asked, looking from Jack to Daniel as if he wasn't sure which of them he was asking, or if either of them was in any condition to answer.
"Beam us up, Scotty," Jack replied.
McCord's eyes widened in surprise, and he looked back at Daniel.
"He means back to the SGC," Daniel clarified.
"Oh," McCord nodded worriedly, "Yes sir."
As McCord started the engine, Daniel leaned forward and put a hand on Jack's shoulder.
"What?" Jack asked, turning his head to look at Daniel.
"They're still Polistes Exclamans, by the way," Daniel said.
Now McCord looked worried about both of them.
"Of course they are, Danny," Jack replied, "Of course they are."