Those Exist?

A/N: Okay this is my first Stargate fic so please go easy on me… As far as I know this can be placed in any of the seasons where Daniel is there, Jack is still a Colonel, and Carter is a Major. So yeah, hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the Stargate characters…

The Sickness

Worshipping the porcelain goddess. The stupidest, sickest metaphor on the face of the Earth. At least at the moment. Why the hell would someone make a metaphor like that for the disgusting feeling of heaving up whatever you ate last into a toilet? It's called puking, barfing, throwing up. Yeah, that comes a heck of a lot closer to describing it then that sickeningly awful metaphor. Damn it! Why now! What the hell! He hadn't thrown up since… since… A while ago. Puked? Years ago. Feeling nauseous was a bit of a different matter. Stupid Zats.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd actually thrown up his dinner. He was pretty sure it was a long time ago. All the more reason to believe he shouldn't have had to ever, ever feel like this again for the rest of his life! He had a steel stomach! He's lived off local plant and animal life from another planet, for god's sake! But, no. Now… now, he was sitting on the cold floor, leaning against a wall in his bathroom, none-to-far from his toilet, fighting back the nausea and hoping that he wouldn't do it again. He had thrown up four times in the past two hours.

Four! And he'd been feeling perfectly fine before that. No indications that he'd be puking up his dinner ten minutes later. Just minding his own business, watching tv, drinking an after dinner beer… Yep, that's when he felt it.

Absently, he scratched at the edge of the bandage on his right forearm. The wound wasn't large, but it was deep. Damn dog. He scratched at it again. It was healing slowly, he'd gotten it a week ago on another planet, P9-something-4 – he couldn't remember and didn't really care. The natives seemed nice, welcoming them with open arms and a feast prepared. It was like a huge village party after the feast, dancing women and moonshine. He smiled slightly at the memory until his stomach decided it had had enough of his smiling and sent a wave of nausea through him. He grimaced.

The next day, though, after the party the natives—what did they call themselves? Lycamphs? Lycathes? Something like that—had insisted that they leave by nightfall. Something about something being loose: wolves or dogs or something like that. He hadn't really been able to understand them all that well. They had very thick accents, even Daniel was having problems.

So, SG1 had left that afternoon, but it was nearly a four hour trek back to the Stargate, and by the time they got there it was dusk. Out of the blue, while Carter was dialing the 'gate, this wolf-dog thing came out of nowhere and attacked him. Bite him on the arm, for crying out loud. He had shot at it and scared it off, he wasn't sure if he hit it or not. The wormhole had done its whoosh thing and they had left. Doc Frasier had fixed him up and he was okayed to go home. That was a week ago, and the damn bite was still itchy as hell. Itchier then most wounds were at this stage, anyway.

He should have the Doc look at it again. It was turning all brown and he wasn't sure whether it was getting infected or not. But that wasn't the problem at hand. Maybe he got food poisoning or something? The Chinese take out? That had to be it. What else could it be?

Noticing that he was feeling a little better, and silently ordering his body to stay that way, he pushed himself up into a proper sitting position. His back was starting to hurt. Taking that as a good sign—because he actually noticed the dull pain in his back instead of completely ignoring it in favour of his stomach—he decided he would try to get some sleep. He was due back at the SGC tomorrow.

"Well, is it infected or what?" Colonel Jack O'Neill snapped irritatedly. He was still feeling nauseous and hadn't taken the chance at eating anything yet.

"Actually, sir, I don't know. I'd like to take a blood sample. It doesn't show the regular signs of bacterial infestation, but it shouldn't be that colour…" she trailed off as she turned to get a needle. "Anyway," she continued as she took his blood, "are you feeling alright otherwise, sir? You don't look very good."

Jack didn't answer immediately. He didn't trust his body enough to open his mouth to talk. He waited until she had pulled out the needle before answering. "Actually, doc, now that you mention it…" He grimaced and lied back on the bed he was sitting on, he was feeling dizzy and light-headed, his stomach had decided that since it had nothing to empty itself of, that it would settle for just being in pain. "No, I don't!"

There, he said it. He closed his eyes against the light.

"What are you feeling?" Frasier's voice softened a bit.

He waved his hand in the air dismissively as he listed off what he felt. "You know, dizzy, light-headed, sick, kinda tired –"

"How sick? What do you mean?" Doc Frasier probed, clipboard in hand.

He sighed. Now he was in for it. She wouldn't stop until she knew enough to keep her happy… which was everything. Time to try to get away.

"You know Doc, just talking to you, I feel better." He began to sit up but she pushed him back down.

"Uh uh, sir. There's obviously something wrong with you or you wouldn't have said anything in the first place. Now, tell me."

She had a point there. "Alright, alright," he said crankily. "Fine. Sick. As in, sick to my stomach," he enunciated each syllable of the last part trying to annoy her.

"Nausea? Pain? What?"

"Both," he said simply, dismissively. He was no longer volunteering information.

"Have you gotten sick? Thrown up?"

He could hear concern behind her professionalism. He shrugged noncommittally.

"Okay, I'll take that as a yes. How many times?"

What the heck did that matter? But he didn't feel well enough to actually put up a fight about it. "Four."

"When?"

"Last night."

"Any other symptoms?"

He shook his head.

"Well, sir, I'd like you to stay here, until we have some of the test results back. It may just be a simple flu but we have to make sure."

"Whatever," he said trying to make his voice sound normal, but to him it sounded tired and dull. He would never admit it to anyone else, but whatever it was, wasn't just making him tired, but it also made him feel weak, like his arms were too heavy to lift.

That feeling made him want to run a few laps or hit the gym. Work it off. He didn't like feeling weak. In fact he didn't usually tolerate it from himself. And had he the barest amount of energy, he would be up and headed for the gym. As it was, all he wanted to do was sleep.