Chapter 3-Please heed the warnings about violence and language. Also, herein lies the injury of which you are to suspend disbelief...
And I had forgotten to add a thanks in my first chapters-my long-time writing partner, Sazz, was integral in the writing of this story, and I bow to her sagacity.
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The event horizon blew into the embarkation room, and moments later SG1walked through, an unceremonious entrance after an unceremonious mission.
"You're home early," General Hammond stated, meeting them at the base of the ramp.
"The Tok'ra weren't ready for us," Jack summarized. Sam quickly glanced in his direction. "But they have that disk thingy, so hopefully we'll be hearing from them, though I'm not holding my breath."
"Very good," the general said. "Report to the briefing room at 2000 hours. We'll make it short, and then call it an evening." He turned and made his way up the steps to his office.
Peeling off her hat, Sam turned to Jack, and said, "Sir, I think I'll stop in and see Daniel."
"Do it after the briefing, Major," Jack said.
"But, sir…"
"After the briefing, Major. That's an order," he said, standing a hair's breath from her. "You have a responsibility to your duties first and your friends second. Do I make myself clear?"
Sam adopted Jack's steely eyes and glared back at him. "Sir. Yes, sir."
"Good."
Jack marched out of the embarkation room.
Sam stared, aghast and angry. She raked a hand through her hair and begrudgingly decided she should follow orders. Even so, her mind whirled with thoughts of how the colonel could be so cold, so uncaring, especially in regards to Daniel. After all, they were friends. Weren't they?
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"So, that's it?" Hammond asked, rocking in his chair at the head of the table.
"Yes, sir," Jack said, flattening his hands against the table.
"Very well then," the general said. Sam, Jack and Teal'c began to shift in their seats, making moves to end the meeting, but General Hammond held up a hand. "Before we adjourn, I have news about Doctor Jackson."
Sam and Teal'c turned with nervous expectation to listen. Jack pulled a dour hand across his jaw.
"Two hours ago, Doctor Jackson went into surgery at the Academy Hospital to remove a membrane from his trachea."
"A what?" Sam asked.
"It isn't clear why it was placed there, but Doctor Fraiser is fairly sure whoever was holding Doctor Jackson inserted a…liner of sorts inside his windpipe, thereby taking away his ability to speak."
Sam, shocked and numb, dropped her head into her hands and tugged on the side of her hair. She couldn't comprehend this latest attack. Hadn't he been through enough? Hadn't they all?
"In light of the fact that this was alien technology, General, should not that type of procedure have been performed here on base?" Teal'c asked.
"We simply don't have that kind of equipment here, Teal'c. Apparently, this is a delicate operation for which the infirmary is not equipped. I can assure you that Doctor Fraiser is going to be at his side the entire time, and after recovery he'll be brought back to the SGC."
"Maybe he'd be better off at the Academy Hospital, sir," Jack said, twiddling his pen between his fingers. Hoping that some of his nervous, angry energy would dissipate during the finger play.
General Hammond shook his head. "The security issues are too sensitive."
"Colonel," Sam asked, gritting her teeth against the long succession of cold, indifferent or hurtful comments made by the colonel, "if I may, why would it be better for him to stay at the AFAH?".
"Look, all I'm saying is that he's not talking obviously, so…well, he's not talking. What's the risk of keeping him there?" Jack asked, looking only at General Hammond.
"And why, may I ask, do you think it would be better for him to stay?" the general asked, becoming increasingly suspicious of the colonel's intent.
"I'm only concerned for his quality of care, sir," Jack said, offering the general a cold eye. "After all, Daniel is…still a member of SG1."
Teal'c focused in on Jack's curt expression and held him in bitter contempt. "Yes, he is, O'Neill."
"Then you'll be pleased to know that your teammate will be returning to the SGC as soon as he's fit to transport," the general said, staring at Jack, making it quite clear he was speaking directly to him. "Now if there isn't anything else you'd like to add, this meeting is adjourned. Dismissed."
Jack exploded out of his seat and shoved his chair under the table. "Yes, sir," he replied, half way out the door.
The three who were left seated stared at each other while a blanket of tension covered the room.
"Major, is there something I should know?" the general asked of Sam.
"I wish I knew, sir, but I have no idea what's going on," Sam told him.
"Colonel O'Neill believes it is time to replace DanielJackson," Teal'c said. "He offered Andy Packard the position."
"Colonel O'Neill has no authority to make such an offer," the general stated, rising from his seat. Blooms of uncontrollable red anger sprang up under his skin. General Hammond thumped the table with his fist and grabbed his folder. "No authority whatsoever."
Sam and Teal'c remained standing while the senior officer charged out of the room. When he was gone, Sam slumped back down into her chair and thanked the powers that be that she wasn't Colonel O'Neill for the next ten minutes.
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It was mid-afternoon by the time Teal'c and Sam made it to the Academy Hospital. They checked in at the desk, showed proper ID, and were escorted to the ICU where they found Janet reading a chart at the nurses' station.
Sam touched her elbow. "Hey, Janet." Sam turned to the escort. "Thank you, Private."
The young man turned with learned precision and walked away.
"How is DanielJackson feeling?" Teal'c asked.
"All things considered, he's doing well," Janet said, motioning for them to follow her to his room. Janet slipped her hands into her lab coat and led them down the hall. "I don't know how much you were told, but yesterday I examined his trachea and found an obstruction—a filament of sorts. I had him transported here to the Academy Hospital where an ENT and a neurosurgeon operated to remove the film."
"Were you able to do it?" Sam asked.
"Thankfully, yes. It was adhered above and below his vocal folds, but there is considerable swelling and tissue damage at the site," Janet told them. She stopped the two outside Daniel's door. "We had to insert a tracheotomy in order for him to breathe, so don't be alarmed when you see it."
"So, he can talk now?" Sam asked.
"Well, presently there's too much swelling for him to talk. In a few days we're hoping the swelling will subside and then we'll begin to work on vocal production."
"But he will be able to talk," Sam reiterated.
Janet deliberated her answer.
"Janet? Janet, he will be able to talk, right?" Sam asked. She felt her heart beating a wild cadence inside her chest.
"Physically, there shouldn't be any problem," Janet said.
"Physically?"
"During the surgery, we performed a palpitation of the arytenoidal cartilage, a CXR, a cervical spine series, a thyroid scan, a CT and MRI—Hell, we even did a laryngeal electromyography. Every test indicates the vocal folds are able to function," Janet said.
"But…"
"But for some reason he's not able to mouth words. He's not able to understand simple commands," Janet told her.
"Are you now concerned with an injury to the brain?" Teal'c asked.
"Well, that's just it," Janet said. "According to our scans, there has been no injury to the cerebral cortex."
"You said yourself that these…people healed him of his injuries," Sam said. "Is it possible he did have some sort of closed head injury, and they healed it?"
"Not without there being residual dead or scar tissue, no," Janet explained.
"So, this is…"
"I'm not sure what it is," Janet said. She continued to walk toward Daniel's room. "When you speak with him, try to remember to slow it down a bit, keep your sentences shorter than you otherwise would."
"It really is that bad?" Sam asked.
"Yes, Sam, I'm afraid it is," Janet said. She opened the door for Sam and Teal'c to pass through.
The quiet room seemed highly decorated compared to the spartan surroundings of the infirmary. The clean white walls and the light blue privacy curtain that draped around the bed glowed in the afternoon sun pouring through the window.
When Sam and Teal'c entered the room, they found Daniel staring out the window, his eyes brilliant blue with tiny dots for pupils. They could hear the slight rasping of air, but with his mouth closed, they knew it had to be coming from the stubby white button protruding from the base of his neck.
"Daniel?" Sam said, ashamed to find herself affected by the sight. She cleared her throat and stepped to the side of his bed. Teal'c joined her.
Daniel was unaware of their presence. He was drawn to the warmth of the sun upon his face. Drawn to the quiescent comfort of its heat. So many days and nights he had spent cold and shivering, and the ambient sunlight helped to further remind him that he was home. That he was safe.
But things follow you home from peregrinations into the horrific. Images and memories and muscular twinges were a constant reminder you that you were once not home. That you were once not safe.
The solace of the radiant light transmuted into the consuming fire of The Ring, and the beast began to scratch against the sheet…
Up and down and up and circle, circle, circle…
Up and down and up and circle, circle, circle…
"Daniel?" Janet said, taking his hand, stilling it, letting him know she indeed had heard him speaking. "What is it?"
Daniel turned away from the light and to the two small hands holding his.
"Are you with me?" Janet asked him while she caressed his fingers.
"Janet, what's going on?" Sam asked, her fear increasing while she took in the lost and anxious look on Daniel's face.
"He spells," Janet told her, patting Daniel's hand. "With his fingers, he spells words. Right?"
Daniel focused on her gentle mouth and let the words fall into place. Spells. Fingers. Daniel blinked and nodded.
"I think it's the only way he could communicate for a long time," Janet said, wanting nothing more than to brush her fingers against the side of his face, comfort him with a light touch, a hardy embrace. She knew it was neither appropriate nor would Daniel readily accept it. Maybe another time. Maybe never again.
"Daniel?" Sam said, stepping beside Janet. She looked back to see if Teal'c still stood by her side. "Daniel, Teal'c and I just wanted to see how you're feeling."
These were his friends, he knew. These were the faces he conjured up in those confusing and painful moments when he needed something in which to take shelter. Daniel glanced from the blue eyes to the dark skin, and for the first time in many months, found the ability to smile—a slight, tenuous show of his relief.
"Hi," she said. Sam leaned over and kissed him above his eye. She pulled away, and his eyes followed her, holding her focus with tenacity.
"It is good to see that your convalescence has been progressing satisfactorily," Teal'c told him.
Daniel squinted, concentrating on Teal'c's mouth, and found the effort to understand draining.
Sam smiled, knowing that Teal'c's syntax could be challenging even at the best of times. "Daniel, Colonel O'Neill sends his best," she lied.
Colonel. Daniel turned the word over and over in his mind until it shone bright. Daniel pulled a hand to his face and pinched the bridge of his nose. The sound, the sound. He could see the colonel's face, he knew it was the one he was thinking of, but the sound, how to convey the sound…
Daniel held his hand up in front of his face and pointed his finger. He watched his finger trail through the air and hook to the right. It didn't seem correct. Daniel grimaced and waved his hand.
"Daniel? What?" Sam asked, sitting on the edge of his bed.
Again he lifted one finger in the air, drew a long, choppy line and then paused at the bottom. Right or left? He pressed his lips together and concentrated. His pointed finger wavered in front of him waiting for the designated direction. Left.
"Was that a…" Sam started, looking to Janet and Teal'c. "Was that an…L?"
Daniel dropped his hands to the bed and pressed his head back into the pillow. A thin sheen of sweat beaded his upper lip.
"It's okay," Sam told him. "Take your time."
Daniel lifted a hand to his head and pulled his hair out of his eyes. He could visualize his friend, could see the darting black eyes, the scarred brow, the glinting hair. Frantic, Daniel rummaged through his memory for the way he used to gain the colonel's attention. What was the sound? A bubble of a thought floated in his mind, coming tantalizingly nearer, always to be carried away on an unseen current of air. Closer. Come closer…
"Janet, do you think if we gave him a pen and some paper?" Sam asked, turning to the doctor.
Janet grabbed Daniel's chart and the pen from her breast pocket and placed them on top of the bedside tray. She rolled the tray over to Daniel's bed and offered him the pen. "Here, Daniel. Try it with this."
Daniel grasped the pen and held it over the paper on the chart. He held the pen in his hand, crushing the end with his frustration.
The sound! There's a sound for him!
Daniel stabbed the paper with the pen and began to etch out…
…up and down and up and circle, circle, circle…
Sam craned her neck to read the scribbling. "No?"
Daniel pulled in his lip and bit it hard. His head shook and the sound of air entering his trachea became more laborious. He hammered the pen against the chart and tried again.
Up and down and up and…
Exasperated and afraid, his brow knotted with tension, Daniel stared at the paper and knew that wasn't right. That's not right. It's not right. Why can't I get it right?
"Daniel, stop," Sam said, holding his hand and the pen still, keeping it from nailing all the way through the chart.
Daniel threw down the pen and pressed both hands to his eyes. His chest rocked with mute tears while he sucked in harsh air through the small tube in his throat.
"It's okay, Daniel," Sam said, feeling her own frustration and fear surfacing. She covered his hands with hers, and he recoiled. Sam ripped her hands away, frightened by the suddenness of it all. Flailing, Daniel scrambled in his bedding, threatening to pull all his IVs from their anchor.
"Daniel!" Janet cried out, reaching through the scrum for Daniel's wrist.
"How can I be of assistance?" Teal'c asked.
"You can't," Janet said, clasping a hand over the port in his arm, playing a dangerous waiting game. "It should pass. Come on, Daniel! Come back to me!"
The frightened creature pulled its arms to its face and turned onto its side. Shaking hands covered the side of its face, anchored its fingers in twists of hair. The tremulous beast waited and waited and waited some more for a beating that would not come. Finally, gathering up a grain of courage, the beast looked into the faces of those who would hurt him and saw neither the glaring eyes nor the readied fists, but familiar faces. Friends. Daniel dropped his hands to his pillow and closed his eyes, ashamed that he once again had shifted away from reality.
"Daniel?" Sam said, trying to use a soothing tone to calm him. She bent forward to be closer to him. He opened his eyes, but dared not look at her. Not yet. "Daniel, sweetie, I'm here. Teal'c is here. Janet's here. No one is going to hurt you." She reached for his hand and when he neither pulled away nor indicated that he didn't want her to touch him, she slid her fingers across his and with a gossamer's touch, held his hand.
Daniel let the feel of her hand meld with his before pulling it to his chest. He pressed her fingers to him and wept silent tears.
And pled with the silence to give him back his gifts, give him back his life.
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"That's fine, Doctor Jackson," Shirley Neville, the speech pathologist, said. Her doughy hands gathered up the picture cards from the desk and returned them to the deck. She placed four more cards onto the table in front of Daniel. "Now, please find the smallest block," she said, folding her hands before her. She looked over her purple-framed reading glasses at the man sitting across from her, dressed in a light blue hospital gown and a dark blue robe.
Daniel studied the cards and repeated the words to himself—find block—but the pictures on the table looked the same, and even so he wasn't sure what they were. He rubbed his eyes and stared hard at the pictures. Daniel pulled the thick pile of the robe closer around his neck. Cold. It was always too cold in the room. No matter how close he held his arms to his body, he never seemed to warm up. Daniel twisted his fingers around each other and pressed them against the meager warmth of his cheek while he studied the meaningless pictures.
"Which one is the smallest?" she said, taking one card away.
Smallest. What…what does that mean? he thought. Smallest…
Shirley removed a second card and kept her voice even and calm. "Which box is smaller? Is this box big?" she asked, pointing to the card with the primary colored box. "Or is this box small?"
Daniel untangled the chilled snarl of fingers, lowered his cheek wearily into one hand and picked up the card. He stared at the box, studied the bright colors of the sides, blinked a few times, and let the card fall from his hand. Crushed by the complete inability to understand even the smallest damn thing, Daniel raked his hands through his hair, covering his ears with both palms.
"I know this is frustrating," she said. "It probably feels like a black hole that's swallowing up your ability to communicate. I'm sure you're very angry."
Daniel closed his eyes and tried to block out the intrusive noise of the speech pathologist, but two of her sounds penetrated his brain and threw up clear, concise images in his mind—angry, frustrating. Yes, I am angry. I am frustrated.
"We'll work together. We'll put this behind you," she said gathering up her tools and cards. She placed them in her tote bag and stood beside him. "I'll see you tomorrow, Doctor."
Her hand touched his shoulder in a brief show of support, and that one innocuous contact started the rigor again in earnest. Daniel forced each of his trembling hands inside the opposite sleeve and screwed his eyes shut so tight he could hear the blood rush through his ears.
And then he could hear the sound of hoarse, raspy air flowing in and out of his tracheotomy. He concentrated on the rhythm, focused away his anger and his fear on the undulating rale, until nothing existed but the sound. Until he was alone again, cold and shivering, with only his body's overwrought cadence to fill his mind.
Shirley stepped outside the room, and the young guard stood at attention. The halls of the Academy Hospital were well known to her, so she passed by him and offered the guard a pleasant smile but did not wait to be given one in return.
The heels of her shoes clicked against the linoleum floor, and her legs created a gentle swishing accompaniment. She made quick work of the short distance between Daniel's room and the doctors' conference room where his neurologist, his ENT, his CMO and CO were waiting for her assessment. She wished she would be able to tell them it was a simple deviation, but it simply wasn't that easy.
Shirley stepped into the room and was greeted by Janet Fraiser, who introduced her to the roomful of people. Shirley took her seat next to Janet and once again folded her soft, round hands together.
"I believe it is Broca's aphasia," she said, her voice level and to the point.
"I agree," said Doctor Schubert, the neurologist.
"Broca's aphasia?" General Hammond said.
"Yes, sir," Shirley said. "Broca's aphasia is characterized by patients who have a great deal of difficulty expressing themselves. What's more, the patient is keenly aware that he is unable to do so, and this only adds to the problem."
"Obviously, you were unable to assess his verbal skills," Doctor Columba, the ENT, asked.
"That is correct. I tried to get him to mimic vowel placement, but he steadfastly refused," Shirley told them. "Now, the good news is his writing skills are substantially better than most Broca's patients."
"He can write?" Doctor Schubert said, taking notes.
"With some limitations, yes."
"Doctors, I am under the impression that aphasia occurs after a trauma to the brain. Is this correct?" General Hammond asked.
"Generally, yes. When there is a TIA…a transient ischemic attack where there is a sudden and temporary blockage of blood to the brain—especially in the left cerebral hemisphere, aphasia does occur," Doctor Schubert said.
"But I have also heard you say that there was no injury…or TIA of any sort to Doctor Jackson," the general said, becoming disheartened by the duplicitous nature of the prognosis.
"That's true, General," Janet said.
"Then which is it, Doctors?" the general asked, eyeing each one.
"It most definitely is Broca's aphasia," Shirley told him.
"And it does not seem to originate from any neurological trauma," Doctor Schubert said.
"From the standpoint of physically being unable to talk, that point is a non-issue," Doctor Columba said.
"Which means?"
"Which means, more than likely, the aphasia stems from a severe traumatic event," Janet concluded for her colleagues. "Certainly having one's ability to speak taken away in such a manner constitutes a traumatic event, especially for Doctor Jackson."
"I'd have to agree," Shirley said.
"So you're saying this is a matter for mental health, not medical science," the general said.
"I'm saying we should consult with mental health, yes, most definitely," Janet said. "I'd like to make the call when he's more physically able to speak."
"Certainly," General Hammond said.
"In the meantime, I'll continue working with Doctor Jackson," Shirley said. "Whether it's emotional or physical, he'll need someone to work with him. It's been a long time since he's talked."
General Hammond gathered up his notes and rose from the table. "I appreciate your time, doctors. Thank you for your efforts concerning Doctor Jackson."
"Yes, sir," three of them said, rising for their superior officer. Doctor Shirley Neville nodded her acceptance.
"My schedule today is tight. Doctor Fraiser, please give my best to Doctor Jackson. Tell him I'll check in on him when my schedule is more accommodating," the general said.
"Yes, sir. I will."
"If there's nothing more…" General Hammond said, opening wide his hands to accept any other comments. When he received none, he said, "Very well. Meeting adjourned."
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Janet Fraiser had certain qualms about giving Jack O'Neill the results of his cholesterol test. It really had nothing to do with the numbers, per se (although the gloating about what a perfect specimen of a man he is was fairly humorous). It was the actual thought of carrying on a normal conversation with him that bothered her. His attitude had been subdued and gloomy when Daniel was missing, but it had absolutely deteriorated since Daniel's return.
Still, Janet was not only Jack's doctor, but also she was the SGC's CMO and as such, it was her responsibility to apprise the team leader of the health and welfare of his teammates.
The problem was, Jack carried this terribly disconcerting aura with him that the health and welfare of Daniel Jackson meant about as much to him as the health and welfare of Maybourne.
She decided to make a quick "touch and go" in his office, give him the results, and then try to hold her tongue.
Janet knocked on his door and waited for the answer.
"Yeah? What is it?" came Jack's voice from behind the closed door.
"Colonel, it's Doctor Fraiser."
"Come on in, Doc."
Janet pushed open the door took a few steps into his office. "Colonel, I have your cholesterol test results. Your good cholesterol level is…"
"Look, the numbers mean squat to me," he said, letting the pen topple from his fingers onto his desk. "Just tell me—am I good or bad?"
Janet bristled. "You're fine."
"Good," he said, picking up the pen and continuing on with his work. Janet stood watching him, chagrined by his brevity. Jack sensed her indignant presence and glanced up. "Yes?"
"Nothing, sir. I was just wondering if there were any other questions I could answer for you," she said.
"About my health? No," Jack said.
"Fine. Thank you for your time, sir," she said, hoping to get the hell out of his office.
"How is he?"
The uttered words stunned her. She almost didn't want to acknowledge them. Let him wonder, she thought. Let him ask himself over and over how his best friend was, wallowing in a sea of vexation. But she was an officer, and as such had to act like one. "Doctor Jackson is undergoing speech therapy and other neurological tests, sir, to find the cause for his aphasia."
"Aphasia?" Jack asked, laying down his pencil.
"Yes, sir. Doctor Jackson is, for whatever reason, unable to speak."
Jack stared at her with callous disregard. "I thought you took out that thingy-majig."
"We did, sir," Janet offered, in as cold and clinical a tone as she could muster. "We believe his aphasia is a result of his severe emotional trauma."
Jack let her words skitter past his mind. He didn't want to hear it. He didn't want to be bothered with it. He picked up his pen and continued to write. "I'm sure you're doing everything you can."
Janet felt her cheeks flush with bitter anger. "Yes, sir. WE are."
Jack bore down on his files and papers, attacking them with a vehemence he'd never shown to paperwork before. Finally, after a moment of thunderous silence, he sat up and glared at Janet. "Is there anything else, Doctor?"
"No, sir. Not in the least." Janet marched out the door and decided an hour of punching the heavyweight bag was in order.
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"Hi, Doctor Neville," Sam said, entering Daniel's room.
The portly woman continued sliding cards and sheets of paper into her tote while she looked up and said, "Hello there, Major Carter. How are you today?"
"Fine, thank you," Sam said. She stepped over to Daniel's side and rubbed his back. "Hey, Daniel."
Daniel glanced over his shoulder and gave her a fragile smile.
"We'll see you tomorrow, Doctor Jackson," Shirley Neville said, tipping her head genially to Daniel. "Good work today." Shirley touched Sam on the hand and pointed to the door.
Sam hesitated a moment and then leaned over and told Daniel she'd be right back. Daniel nodded and pulled one side of his robe tighter around his body.
Meeting out in the long, antiseptic corridor of the Academy Hospital, Shirley clasped her hands in front of her and regarded Sam with a kindness most unusual for a military setting. "Sam…may I call you Sam?"
"Yes, ma'am. Please do."
"Sam, today Daniel and I worked on phonation. He can, with some difficulty, produce sounds. It's very uncomfortable for him, but he needs to practice." Shirley flicked her stubby eyelashes behind her half glasses. "It's not hard to see that you two are very close."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You're his best hope for regaining his voice," Shirley told her. "Talk to him. Try to get him to talk to you."
"Of course, sure," Sam said. "but…"
"All he has to do is take a deep breath and cover his tracheotomy opening so the air passes his vocal cords," Shirley said, answering Sam's unspoken, hesitant question. "Don't…don't be surprised if it's only a whisper. There's quite a bit of dysphagia there."
"Dysphagia?"
"The muscles that help us to swallow, chew and speak—they're very weak in Doctor Jackson."
"Oh, right. I'm sure they are."
"So, see if you can get him to talk a little, all right?"
"I'll do my best," Sam told her.
"Your friend…it's fairly obvious he's a shattered soul."
"Yes, ma'am," Sam agreed.
"You'll get him to talk, hmmm?"
"I'll try my best."
"Fine. Well, you have a nice day, Sam."
"Thank you, ma'am." Sam watched Shirley saunter down the hall before returning to Daniel's room.
"It sounds like you're really doing well, Daniel," Sam said, pulling Shirley's chair next to Daniel's. She took his hand in hers and smiled cheerfully to him.
Daniel watched her warm hand, swallowed up in his larger hand.
"That's some mean bed head you got going there," she joked, looking at the knotted tuft of hair at the back of his head. She reached forward, pulled her hand back, and then decided to keep going. She pushed an errant lock of hair from his eyes, noticed the tease of gray within, and found herself pulling her hand away once again, as if the gray were repulsive. As if it symbolized every bit of color that had been stripped from his spirit. She smiled, hoping he couldn't feel how nervous she was, and said, "Yup, you've got quite a tangle back there."
Daniel pawed at his hair, suddenly self-conscious.
"Oh, Daniel. No. I didn't mean…It looks fine," Sam said, and realized that he had been able to successfully process her words. Her mouth curled into a heartfelt smile. "Hey, you understood. That's great, Daniel."
Daniel's face shot up and he regarded her with a mix of surprise and scant happiness. His eyes fluttered and a smile, slender and fleeting, crossed his lips.
"Wow," Sam said, beaming. "Wow. I've missed that smile, Daniel."
But the clarity of her words was lost again, sucked up into the nebula in his mind. He lowered his eyes and pulled his hand away from Sam's.
Please don't do that, she thought. Don't leave me again so quickly. Stay for a while. I miss you so much. She choked back the knot forming in her throat. "So," she began, clearing her throat, "Doctor Neville told me you tried talking today. How was that?"
Daniel pressed both hands onto the table in front of him. He saw each of his ten fingers, splayed out on the smooth surface. Ten digits- two thumbs and eight fingers. He noticed each knuckle, the way the slightest movement caused the tendons below the dull skin to jump.
"Daniel?"
The hands grasped at nothing, holding the beast to a wall that it was pinned against by a brutality that pierced the beast. It watched the hand slide across the wall while its body screamed, roaring with dissociative pain. Thunderous puffs of air protesting the act with sacrificial vehemence. Thunderous and impotent. Thunderous.
"Daniel?" Sam said again, touching his face.
His eyes, filled with the beast's memories, lifted from his hands and settled on her face. He knit his brow, pinched his eyes down to mere squints and wanted her to hear him. Hear the terrible pain in his body. He focused all his energy on her, as if to say, "Keep thinking, Sam. It will be apparent to you if you just keep thinking."
Sam searched his eyes, darting from one to the other, while flashes of speculative fear shimmied down her spine. She fumbled trying to pick up the pencil from the table and placed it in his hand. "Tell me, Daniel. Tell me."
Daniel tilted his face down and saw the pencil between his fingers, obscured by his distorted vision. He turned over his hand and pressed the shaking pencil to the paper. With great effort and halting motions, he found one word…
LOUD
Sam read the word and peered into his tear-filled eyes. "What's loud, Daniel?"
He turned his face to her, silently pled with her to just keep searching, keep asking. I'm here, Sam. Keep looking for me. I'm here. Please find me…
Sam squeezed every muscle in her torso trying to hold back her tears. When she finally spoke, her voice warbled. "What's loud, Daniel? Am…am I too loud? Me?" she asked, pointing to herself.
Daniel choked out a sob, grateful that she understood him. Yes, you. Find me.
"Should I speak quieter?" she asked, lowering her voice to a whisper. Her lips trembled with restrained emotion.
Speak…speak? Qui..qui-er…Daniel closed his eyes and slumped in his chair. No. I don't understand…He pressed his palms to the side of his head, wishing the beast would leave. Wishing the abominable images and crashing memories would become quiet. Quiet. Daniel grasped the pencil and with great hesitancy drew out a word.
QIET
"Right," she said, finding a slight reprieve in his one-word interpretation. "Right. I said quiet." Sam pulled in closer to him, stroked his back. She swiped her hand under her nose and asked, "I should be quiet?"
Daniel concentrated on her lips, on the words they were forming. I be quiet. No, Sam. Scream for me. He shook his head back and forth.
"I'm sorry, Daniel," she said, her heart filling with remorse. "I wish I could understand you. I'm so sorry. But…" Sam stopped, sniffed away her tears and took his thin face in her hands. She pushed his long, scraggily bangs away from his eyes, wishing away the odd gray hairs. "…but we'll figure it out. You and me. We'll figure it out, okay?"
Daniel touched his lips with two tremulous fingers and reached across to touch Sam's. Scream for me, Sam. Scream.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
He hadn't worn street clothes in, God, it seemed like forever. They hung on him, barely holding up on his waist, slumping over his shoulders like a cape. The more layers he wore, the more the superfluous material clumped and bunched up. He had to constantly pull down his t-shirt so that the collar wouldn't get in the way of his trach.
The only things that felt right were his shoes. Something about binding them, tightening them around his icy feet made him feel secure, made him feel like he had some control.
"A few minutes," Janet had said. "I'll come get you in a few minutes, and then we'll get back to the SGC."
She had said that, but could she be sure? People say all sorts of things they can't possibly promise…
Daniel sat in the chair next to the window picking at the dead skin on his thumb. He picked at it, held his thumb next to his lips and thought. While he thought, he rocked. While he rocked, he remembered.
"You can't do this."
He rocked and remembered his voice.
"You can't DO this!"
He held his forehead in his hand and rocked and remembered the pain.
"Please, don't do that."
He clenched his hands over his ears and began to sweat and could feel the hands. The Others' hands…
"Don't! Don't! No!"
He tucked his chin in tight and drilled into his skull with his nails and could taste the rancid brine.
"NO!"
He rocked and rocked, and they wouldn't go away and he could feel his fingers scrape a painful motif into his scalp—
Up and down and up and circle, circle, circle.
From that moment on it was silence and folding and moving inward and away and hiding and forgetting and forgetting and forgetting. From that moment, when his world imploded and he was powerless to use his greatest gift to halt the destruction, it was endless, relentless hours and days and weeks and months of scrambling to escape into the silence.
Here. Take these things, these useless, obsolete, inefficient words. Take them. They are all I have. Take them as payment for a place to hide. I don't need them anymore. They are worthless to me now and only serve to remind me of who I am. Who I was. Who I…See? The "I" is no more. See? See how pointless they are? Take them, please. Take them and let me disappear into your unceasing reticence.
He rocked, and the hands stopped holding him down, and the pain dissipated, and the acrid recollection left his palate. Only the silence remained, and it consumed him.
Open your mouth, the surd taunted him. Open and speak. I have them all here, waiting for you to seize them back, but you won't, will you? You won't. You are afraid. You are weak. You would rather abandon your treasures to the infinite vacuum than open your mouth. The others have given you some, but I have the rest. Go on. Open your mouth. Why are you afraid? Part your lips, and I'll let them trickle back, a polluted stream through mired sludge, until you have them all, millions and millions of inutile baubles.
Daniel rocked and grasped hold of the chair arms. He rocked, and tried to work up the courage to meet the challenge. He rocked and gnashed his teeth together but forced his lips to part. And then his tongue pressed against the bony ridge behind his teeth, and his lips made a ring, and he snatched back his first word…
"No."
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
He had received the memo from Fraiser; Teal'c had informed him twenty minutes after reading the memo; Carter had poked her head into his office and made a comment to the effect—Daniel was back at the SGC. Daniel was in the infirmary where he would continue to recover, and wouldn't it be nice if you could just stop in and say hi, Colonel?
Just stop in and say hi.
Jack paused just before entering. Paused outside the door and quashed his desire to just let things be as they were. He didn't know what to say or how to act even, and going with his instincts (which seemed to work for him, but somehow always managed to piss people off) wouldn't help anyone at that point.
He looked inside the room and saw him there.
There he was. There was Daniel Jackson, wearing the ubiquitous white scrubs, the ever-present Air Force blue robe, the ridiculously ineffective disposable slippers, and all because Daniel disregarded Jack's direct order all those damn months ago.
Filled with an unquenchable anger, Jack watched Daniel stare at a pencil, held up close to his eyes, examining it as if it were the one artifact that they had been searching for all those years.
What a stupid waste of time, Jack thought, punching open the door. "Hey, Daniel."
Daniel's stunned expression shot up and just as quickly he looked back down.
"Carter thinks I've been avoiding you. I'm not. I've been busy," Jack phlegmatically said, pulling up the back of his pants. He hooked his thumbs into his waistband and pulled air through his pursed lips. Jack played with a canker on the inside of his cheek with his tongue and blinked. "So, I hear that…"
"Sorry," Daniel mouthed, his eyes shifting from Jack's face to Jack's chest and back down to the floor.
"How's that? I, uh, I didn't quite…" Jack said, stepping nearer.
Daniel reached for the pad of paper next to him and scribbled a note. He turned it to Jack—sorry.
Jack straightened up from the crooked position he had taken to read the note. "Sorry for what?"
Daniel pulled the pad back, notated a quick line and handed it to Jack—Not for orders.
Jack crumpled his brow. "What?"
Daniel looked at the note and ripped off the top sheet off. He tried again, writing almost in a panic, as if Jack might leave in the middle of the sentence— not follow orders.
Jack read the note with a carefully crafted apathy and tossed the pad back on the tray. Apologies and excuses—hollow, empty words that meant nothing and changed things even less. Jack walked to the second, unoccupied bed in the room and sat on it. He hooked his heels on the lower rail, wove his fingers together and refused to acknowledge the plea for forgiveness.
"You remember Aris Boch?" he asked. "Big guy; cool toys."
Daniel sagged back in his chair, dejected and drained. He lowered his chin, rubbed his eyes and nodded. A frigid draft snaked across the back of his neck and down the collar of his robe. Daniel tightened the neckline and drew up his quaking shoulders.
"Seems he knew a guy who had a friend who once dealt with a guy who thought he heard of someone who might have known something about you. Eight short months later, here you are," Jack stated, never once changing the stoic, somber expression on his face. "That's my side of the story; what's yours?"
Daniel grabbed the pencil off the tray and held it for a brief moment in his shivering hand before beginning to write. When at last he had scribbled out the details to the best of his recollection and ability, he tossed the pad onto the bed between his chair and Jack, and rubbed his hands together against the cold.
Jack glanced at the pad and then at Daniel who stared somewhere other than at Jack. Jack hopped off the bed, pushed his sleeves up and picked up the pad, coughed a little and read it at arm's length—
-Went Eporian. Knock out. Wake up on ship. Maybe three week holding sell cell. Took us 10. Sent to diff planet. Holding cell. Sold, think. Them.
"Them?" Jack read from the note. "Who is 'them'?"
Daniel's mouth opened and closed, he blinked a number of times, shook his head and shrugged.
Jack looked him over, wondered if he was telling him everything. "Well, doesn't matter. You're back." He stepped toward Daniel, dropped the pad of paper onto his table, and began to leave.
Daniel tapped the table and held up one hand, hoping Jack would wait until he finished writing. Jack turned back, stymied by Daniel's call to him, and when he turned it was with great drama, showing his irritation.
Daniel made quick work of the note, keeping a watch on Jack, making sure he wasn't leaving. He let the pencil fall and handed Jack the note.
"You're sorry," Jack said, reading the note. "I know. You already told me." He passed it back to Daniel.
Daniel took the note and folded it in half and then half again and half once more. He pinched the tight folds between his blue-tinged fingers.
Jack looked around the room, pretty sure he was finished for the day. "I, uh, I have some work to do," he said. He ran a hand through his metallic hair. "I…I'll check in on you…later."
No, Daniel thought, his eyes darting from side to side. He bit his lower lip and slapped his hand against the table to get Jack's attention once again. He hunched over the table, wrote as fast as he could, tore off the top sheet and thrust it out in front of him for Jack.
- came for info? That all?
He stared with bitterness and anger at Jack, daring to look Jack in the eye.
Jack took the paper and read it. His head bobbed up and down. He knew what Daniel was asking. He heard the insinuations, even through the perfunctory words. "Well, you know reports. Things needed to be cleared up, other…" he continued while Daniel began a new note, "…other things need to go forward. Protocol and all."
- get came for?
Jack didn't even take the note out of Daniel's fist. The script was hurried, almost illegible, but the acrimony was clear. Daniel breathed quick, raspy air through his tracheotomy.
Jack squinted his eyes and regarded Daniel with as much indifference as he could muster. He took a deep breath and said, "You think of anything else, have someone call me."
And then he was gone, and Daniel was left with only the pounding of his heart in his ears to fill the silence.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
"Sir, may I come in?" Sam said, just outside Jack's office.
Jack put his lacrosse stick back in the corner and plopped down in his chair. "Sure, what's up, Carter?"
Without one more cautionary thought, Sam stepped into the subject. "Sir, it's about Daniel."
"Oh, here we go…"
"Sir, have you been in to see him lately?"
"As a matter of fact, Carter, I was just with him yesterday."
"How did he seem to you?"
"I don't know, Carter," Jack said, leaning back in his chair. "Why don't you tell me how he seemed?"
"Sir, I think he would really like it if you talked with him more."
Jack pressed forward and drilled his elbows into his desktop. "Don't start, Carter. I'm not in the mood."
"Sir," Sam said, continuing, "he's lost, and he needs all of us…"
Jack shot a hand into the space between them. "I'm warning you, Carter."
"Sir, you're Daniel's friend…"
"See, now that's where you're wrong," he said, suddenly on his feet. "I'm not his friend; I'm his CO. Seems that's where Daniel misunderstood things as well."
"Whoa! Do you really mean that?" she asked, daunted by his indignation.
"Carter, goddamn it, you're an angstrom away from insubordination. And, ya know, maybe that's my fault. I let you all take too many liberties where orders are concerned. Well, that's over. I'm the CO; you're my 2IC. If you have a problem with that, I can see to it that you're reassigned."
"No, sir," Sam said, standing her ground. "I don't have a problem with that."
"Fine," Jack seethed. "Dismissed."
Sam tilted her head to the side to hide her incredulity from her CO and then marched out of the office.
SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1SG1
It was a rare occurrence for Teal'c to leave the mountain unaccompanied, but under the circumstances, he believed the situation called for a talk between friends.
He knocked at Jack's front door, filling his lungs with fresh air, punching up his massive chest.
Jack opened the door and looked down his driveway, not knowing what to suspect. "Teal'c? What's goin' on?"
"I believe it is time we had a discussion, one male to another," Teal'c said, waiting with genteel manners on Jack's front stoop.
"Yut, okay," Jack said, letting the mountain of a man through his door. "Can I get you anything?"
"I require nothing, O'Neill."
"Well, I think I require a beer and a shot," Jack shot back. "Sit down. Make yourself at home."
Teal'c stepped into Jack's living room and took a seat in the chair closest to the heat of the fire. Teal'c had grown accustomed to this Tauri representation of home and heart—crackling logs, a welcoming fire. But Teal'c felt nothing of the warmth and hospitality associated with the scene. He sensed only bitterness, a cold disregard for the suffering Daniel Jackson battled against.
Jack returned with an opened bottle of beer. "You play chess, Teal'c?" Jack asked, setting his bottle next to a mahogany inlaid chessboard. Jack began to place each gleaming piece in its appropriate square.
"No, I do not. However, I am fully aware of the objectives."
"Then, by all accounts, you could play."
"I cannot."
"Sure you can. It's a classic game of strategy. Come on, I'll teach you," Jack said, spinning the board.
"That is not why I'm here, O'Neill."
"I'm sure it's not," Jack said, "but I think I'd rather play a simple board game than get into it with you over Daniel Jackson."
"I come to you tonight as your friend, O'Neill, not as a member of SG1."
"Well, friends play chess together," Jack said, taking a swig of his beer. "You can even go first."
"Is it not your motto that no one person shall be left behind in battle?" Teal'c asked, disregarding Jack's words.
"I'm not sure if I could take credit for it, but, yeah, I've been known to say that…from time to time." Jack sat back on his couch and propped up one foot against the table.
"Have you not, in effect, left DanielJackson behind?"
Jack glared at Teal'c across the neck of his beer bottle. He took a long draw, narrowed his eyes and let the amber bitterness spill across his tongue. "And just what is that supposed to mean?"
"I believe, in your anger, you are leaving him behind once more," Teal'c said.
"He's home. He's being cared for. I believe I had some part in that," Jack remarked, showing only a touch of resentment.
"Does your responsibility end there?"
"I don't need this, Teal'c," Jack said, sipping his beer.
"I am wholly unconcerned with your needs, O'Neill," Teal'c said. "I am concerned with DanielJackson's welfare."
"And I'm facing facts," Jack said. "The fact is he's damaged goods. Now, we can either coddle him, or we can be realistic and move on."
"If he is, in fact, damaged goods, is it not our duty to help him through his ordeal?" Teal'c said, his voice lowering while he maintained his studied grasp on equanimity.
"That's not my responsibility," Jack said, finishing off his beer. With care and precision he placed the empty bottle on the back row of the chessboard. "Nowhere on my uniform does it say nursemaid."
"I am referring to your responsibility as his friend."
"Well, now, let's talk about that one, shall we?" Jack said, rising from the couch and walking with feigned exuberance to the kitchen. "Friends, in my humble opinion, respect each other," he called from the kitchen where he procured a second beer. "I only remind you of that because I'm taking it in the ass here from you and Carter about me not being Daniel's friend." Jack lowered himself onto his couch once again, opened his beer and tossed the cap onto the chessboard. "So, respect. Would you agree that that is one of the cornerstones of a friendship?"
"I would indeed."
"Fine. So, continuing along that line, would going against orders, defying my directives-does this show respect?"
"If you are referring to DanielJackson's field behavior, I believe the point is moot. The situation is decidedly different now, as you have pointed out. He is no longer in the field with us."
"That's a good point, T," Jack said, tipping his bottle to Teal'c. "And because Daniel is no longer able to be part of our fieldwork, he is no longer part of SG1."
"But he remains our friend."
"See the thing about that is Daniel gets off on being a pain in my ass out in the field. I get frustrated with him, he talks circles around me, and that, my friend, is the basis of our friendship. He's not talking-so I hear-so THAT point is moot. Our friendship, it would seem, is inextricably bound by the SGC." Jack sniffed with haughty self-approval and took another pull on his bottle.
"He is still within the SGC," Teal'c said through clenched teeth.
"He's in the infirmary, Teal'c. He's not in SG1. And while we're at it, why is it he's even in the infirmary? Oh, right! He was being…friendly with—who?—the sons of bitches who took him, not-who?—the one he keeps saying is his friend. Well, he chose his friends poorly this time, and I wash my hands of it." Jack emptied his beer with one long gulp, placed the empty bottle in the back row on the other side of the board.
Teal'c rose ominously. "O'Neill, I have fought by your side for many years now, and I have come to know you well. And although I have many more years of combat experience than you, I never once gave you anything but my respect and my allegiance. I have respected and will continue to respect your authority as leader of SG1." Teal'c stepped in front of the coffee table. "This situation, however, extends beyond the bounds of our unit, so I am compelled to speak my true feelings."
"Which are what, Teal'c? Just spit it out."
"I believe your behavior toward DanielJackson is reprehensible in the worst kind. You have not only turned your back on him, you have given up on him. If seeing your authority questioned has hurt you, so be it. But keep in mind, my friend," Teal'c said, leaning forward and taking the beer bottle on his side of the board into his hand, "the pain that DanielJackson has suffered and continues to suffer is greater than your petty concerns." Teal'c grasped the bottle on Jack's side of the board and replaced it with his. He tipped Jack's empty bottle over on its side and nodded in respect to him.
Teal'c walked to the door and let himself out.
Jack sat watching the overturned bottle list and roll, fall over the edge of the board, across the table and onto the floor with a startling crash.