By Mickey
STORY STATUS: Completed 7/2/07
WORD COUNT: 2172
AUTHORS NOTE: Many thanks to my beta readers, Cokie and Cyn. Also, thanks to Cokie for the title.
He's screaming again. God, I hate it when he screams. Especially when it's like that. The blood-curdling scream of a person whose very soul is being ripped apart. I mean - I hate it when any of the men or women under my care scream in pain, but somehow it's just so much harder to take when it's him.
After a minute, he settles down again. I check his vitals and, satisfied with what I see, go back to my chair and pick up the book I was reading. After a few minutes, I give up trying to get back into it and just watch the colonel sleep.
I've only been stationed here at the mountain for about a year and-a-half, but I've tended more injuries and sicknesses in that time than in the twelve years I've been an Air Force nurse. And that's not including the alien possessions.
I never thought, in a million years, I'd hear myself say that.
In my time here I've seen Colonel O'Neill through some tough times. Since I've been here, he was attacked by some weird firefly type bugs (which was about three days after I started), had a concussion, has been shot by a gun twice (in one incident), stabbed with a knife twice, contracted some form of alien flu, zatted God only knows how many times, burned with a Goa'uld "pain stick" twice, had one of those hand device thingies used on him at least three times (though thankfully never anywhere on his head; I've seen what those things can do to a human brain and it ain't pretty), a partially torn ligament in the right knee, contracted an unidentified alien virus, was tortured with acids and knives then killed and revived with a sarcophagus more times than we will ever know (or care to know).
And that's just the major ones. That's not including the minor cuts, scraps, and bruises that all SG team members incur on missions.
Now he has to deal with the effects of the withdrawal from his repeated exposure to the sarcophagus.
Right from the beginning, he reminded me very much of my husband, Scott. Both were veterans of the Gulf War. Both served in Special Ops units. I've seen in the colonel, in those rare unguarded moments, the same haunted look. Stubborn as all hell and refusing to admit they're sick or in pain until it becomes too bad to hide.
I think that's part of the reason we hit it off so well. Like Doctor Fraiser, I didn't take any of the colonel's crap. He couldn't sweet talk, cajole, or pull a guilt trip on me like he could most of the other nurses. Even the male ones. After eleven years of dealing with Scott, and ten years of being a mother, I was ready for all of the colonel's tricks, and immune to the pleading, puppy dog looks. I was firm when he begged and pleaded, and I let it roll like water off a duck's back when he cursed and hollered and bitched at me. I could also see right through the "who me?" innocent act. I think he respected that.
Oh, and don't forget his child-like antics. Sometimes I swear he is worse than Ryan, Aidan, and Grady together. On a sugar high.
On the other hand, I also used to sneak him extra helpings of Jell-o, pudding, or chocolate cake. On a few occasions, if he'd been particularly well behaved, I'd bring him a piece of my homemade meatloaf.
He's even invited my children and me to his home a few times when he's thrown big barbeques. My children have become quiet fond of him and inquire about him often. He went on a Boy Scout father/son fishing trip with my oldest son, Ryan, this past summer, which Ryan talks about often. When my seven year-old daughter, Aidan, had suddenly burst into tears for no apparent reason at the last barbeque, it was Colonel O'Neill who was finally able to calm her down enough to find out what had happened. Though it had turned out to be something silly and hardly worth crying over, he never treated it that way. He pulled her into his arms and wiped away her tears, reassuring her in soft, soothing tones.
He was here for me when my middle son, Connor, died at the tender age of five. He was diagnosed with Ataxia Telangiectasia, an extremely rare, degenerative disease, at the age of two. Shortly after his fifth birthday he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin lymphoma. My husband had died in a car accident two years before, which was just six months after the birth of our youngest son, Grady. Colonel O'Neill gave me a shoulder to cry on. Although the circumstances were very different, he'd lost a son as well. He knew what I was going through. He helped me deal with the grief and the loss.
Colonel O'Neill had found me crying in a supply closet one day about two weeks after Connor had died. He had heard me crying as he'd walked past, and came in to find out what was going on. I'd been crying so hard I couldn't speak if I'd wanted to. He knew why I was crying. He and the rest of SG-1 had been at the funeral. With no thought to regulations or what it might look like if someone else walked in, he pulled me into a tight embrace and held me until the sobs stopped. He had given a rueful look at his now wet and snotty dress uniform shirt, but said nothing as he pulled a clean hanky from one of his pockets and handed it to me.
I apologized profusely for the shirt; he brushed it off with a smile and a joke. I still don't know why he was wearing his dress uniform that day. He never told me and I didn't ask. It just didn't seem that important. He'd laughed and told me to keep it when I tried to hand the sopping wet hanky back. I blushed and stuck it in my back pocket. He listened patiently and held me when I needed it, as I told him how much I missed Connor. I'd heard rumors that he'd had a son who died. When I asked, he told me about the circumstances surrounding (Janet had told me shortly after I'd started here that the colonel had lost a son but wouldn't say more than that; There was also mention of the mandatory psyche evals after Charlie died, in his file) Charlie's death with pain-filled eyes.
Unlike the colonel, I still have two sons and a daughter. They'll never replace Connor, but it helps to have them.
You may be wondering why my children all have Gaelic names when my husband's last name is definitely not Irish and he had dark brown hair. The fact is, both of us are at least half Irish. Scott's mother was Irish. His father had some Irish in him as well. My father and mother were both half Irish. My husband never really was sure what nationality his surname is. He thought it might be French. You can really see the Irish in my children, especially Grady. Right down to his red hair and freckles.
Besides, we just really loved the names.
I think he's getting over the worst of the withdrawal. He doesn't scream or thrash against the restraints nearly as much as he did even a few days ago. He's sleeping better too. Doctor Fraiser says she might be able to start reducing the sedatives he's on in another day or two.
As hard as the withdrawal has been on him, it's worse for those who care about him. He is so out of it right now, it's highly unlikely he will remember any of what's happened since the worst of it started. Those of us who care about him, however, have been forced to sit idly by and do nothing but watch him fight the demons of his past. I imagine it's even worse for Major Carter, Jonas, and Teal'c, because they aren't even allowed to be in his room. At least Doctor Fraiser and I can go in and sit with him and talk to him.
For Colonel O'Neill, the hardest part is yet to come. Dealing with the after effects of the withdrawal and what Ba'al did to him.
I've seen parts of his file, only what Doctor Fraiser has deemed necessary for me to treat him and even then, only with the Colonel's permission, so I know some of what he went through even before joining the SGC. I don't have high enough clearance to know it all, but I've seen enough. I'm one of the very few people he trusts enough to let me see what I have. I guess you could say I've become his personal nurse when his injuries are serious enough to warrant putting him in a private room.
He trusts me that much.
I don't stare when something embarrassing happens. Depending on what it is, I turn my head and pretend I don't see until he's ready for my help. I never speak of what happens to anyone, except, of course, Doctor Fraiser. And that's only if it's really necessary. I don't make a big deal about it when he urinates or vomits on himself. I simply clean it, and him, up and go on like it never happened. I don't ask him about the nightmares that bring back the horrors of his past. On the rare occasion when he speaks about what has happened to him, I listen and offer encouragement and support.
I would never do anything to violate that trust.
Sometimes, he talks about Charlie. Never, since that day in the supply closet, about his death. No, when he does talk about Charlie, it's about happy times. He talks about Charlie's love of baseball and the Cubbies. About his little boy's dreams of playing for the Cubs, then becoming an Air Force Aviator like his daddy used to be. He talks about how badly Charlie wanted a dog. It didn't even have to be a puppy he just wanted a dog. Charlie didn't know it, but they were going to take him to a local chapter of the German Shepherd rescue on his tenth birthday to pick out a dog. Charlie died a month before that was to happen.
Talks about Charlie are few and far between, but I enjoy them. During them, I see a genuine, happy, smile on his face. Occasionally, he even talks about Sara. I wonder if he even realizes how much he misses her. He is still in love with her. I can see it in his eyes and see it on his face.
Usually when we talk it's about general goings on around the base or what strange things the other SG teams will bring back with them. We take great pleasure in teasing the other members of his team. Major Carter for her obsession with her "doohickeys" as the colonel calls them, Jonas for his obsession with food and the weather channel, and Teal'c because, for all he has learned, there is still so much he doesn't know about American catch phrases and superstitions, and Earth things in general. Before he ascended, poor Doctor Jackson took the brunt of our teasing. For the most part, he was amazingly good-natured about it.
Colonel O'Neill doesn't talk about Doctor Jackson anymore. None of them do. That ordeal was hard on all of them, but I think it was worse for the colonel. I wasn't here at all the week that it happened, Grady was sick and I had to stay home with him, but I heard about it when I came back. Something happened that he isn't telling me about.
The colonel begins to toss and turn again. He's having another nightmare. This time it's about one of the times he was captured and tortured while on a mission here on Earth. He must have been in or around Germany. He's muttering in German. My German is pretty good, but I can't make out very much of what he's saying. Which is probably a blessing. From what I can make out, what they did to him was not pleasant. My God, how can people be so cruel? How can they take so much pleasure in hurting other human beings?
The thing is though, as horrible as what the people in the past have done to him is, it's nothing compared to what that slimy snakehead bastard did. It will take a long time for him to get past this, but he won't do it alone. He'll have his teammates, Doctor Fraiser, and General Hammond to help him through the rough times ahead. I'll be there for him as well. Just like I have in the past.
Just like he has been here for me when I needed him.
TBC