A/N's:as always, thanks for all the reviews, alerts, follows... I do try to reply to every RV I can reply to, but the anonomous posted onces I can not respond to in person... but please know that I appreciate your comments!

all right, are you ready for a long chapter? And you can thank Olliebella, who reminded me it is Monday... I almost forgot! You know, RL, getting in the way, I didn't forget on purpose, or to torture you guys... Enjoy!

Major Crook woke up groaning, the slightest movement sending waves of agony through his abused chest. At least two ribs were broken this time and every intake of breath left him gasping in pain.

Damn.

He hadn't told them anything though. The commander kept asking where the box was that he and his team had retrieved from the airplane that had crashed into the mountains. He'd hidden it carefully as soon as he had found out the troops were following them. He couldn't afford to let the Tyberian Forces get their hands on the knowledge that was inside that box. Hopefully Captain McKean would be able to retrieve the box, or direct another team to the location where they'd hidden it.

His head was pounding unmercifully, his right cheek swollen from the blows he'd received and when he opened his eyes, the cell started spinning dangerously. Quickly Marc closed them, fighting against the dizziness that was overwhelming him. After a while, he tried again, holding his head as steady as he could. That was better. His eyesight was clearing; he could now recognize his surroundings.

Slowly Crook moved his body, shifting until he was sitting up, his back resting against the moist wall. He had had a hard time fighting off the effects of the sleep deprivation and starvation. He had no idea how long the guards had kept up with the game, but he estimated it was at least three or four days. The little water that was provided to them was the only thing that had kept them barely alive.

He'd been urging Jack to drink the water as the man had become more and more disoriented, drifting. Obviously a fever had set in, as O'Neill's body attempted to fight off the infections from the shrapnel that was embedded in his flesh. The added sleep deprivation, lack of food and little water had only impaired the Colonel's condition. Marc was deeply worried, knowing that his friend wouldn't be able to keep up the fight for long, no matter how stubborn he was.

If only he could think of a way to get them out of there. They had saved each other on so many occasions that it was hard to accept that this time they would fail. He turned his head towards the cell next to him, afraid for what to find there.

Nothing.

O'Neill wasn't there. That meant they had taken him for an interrogation again. Crook cursed. Those damn bastards. He'd wished they would leave his friend alone for a while, but it turned out to be idle hope. He was vaguely aware of the wrenched door to the cell next to him and wondered what had happened to it.

Marc decided to sit back and relax; giving his abused body time to rest and to recuperate. He knew he was going to need his strength and with that thought, he drifted off.

The sounds of guards approaching through the hallway startled him awake. He looked expectantly at the door, hoping they would bring O'Neill back, more or less in one piece. Although he knew the Elite guards weren't known for their kind treatment, he was still shocked by the sight of his friend, hanging lifelessly in the guards' arms. The guards hauled their burden inside, letting his legs drag over the floor. One of them opened Marc's cell door, before they unceremoniously dropped the unresponsive man on the floor.

"You!" One of the guards raised his finger at Crook. "Fix him up."

Marc struggled to sit upright, taken by surprise. "I need more water," he protested, motioning to the only half-filled canteen by the door.

The guard turned to his colleague. The other man nodded briefly. "The commander wants them alive and well before the next interrogation."

The first guard left and returned with two additional canteens. Leaving them on the floor, they closed the door and left.

Marc crawled closer to the prone man on the floor, softly calling his friend's name. Railing at the guards, he placed his fingers on Jack's neck and found his pulse racing. He could hear the fast, shallow breathing, and, placing the back of his hand against his friend's sweaty forehead, he realized the fever had gone up.

Crook's next worry was his friend's injured shoulder and he slowly let his hand run over it, flinching as even the soft touch caused the unconscious man enough pain that he moaned deeply.

Shit. They wouldn't have, would they?

Marc quickly moved his attention to O'Neill's right wrist, since that arm was closest to him and found his suspicions confirmed. The skin of O'Neill's wrist was damaged, caused by hanging from those nasty chains in the interrogation room. He knew, since his own wrists were in similar shape.

Inhaling faster, Crook's mind raced. He had to do this fast, before the shoulder became too swollen to fix. Remembering how O'Neill had relocated his own shoulder, Marc tried to figure out the best way to get the job done. There was no way he could lift the unconscious man to a sitting position without harming him further, let alone get him to standing. He needed another idea.

Deciding quickly, he rolled the limp body of his friend as gently as possible onto his back. Wincing in sympathy as another groan escaped from O'Neill's lips Marc now had the opportunity to fully examine the misshapen shoulder.

The Major struggled to his feet, supporting his broken ribs with one arm. With the other he lifted O'Neill's left arm up and Crook searched the best spot, placing one of his feet solidly into the Colonel's armpit. Repositioning his weight, he now took O'Neill's arm with both hands. "I'm sorry," he whispered and pulled hard on O'Neill's arm.

The unconscious man moaned, his eyes flew open only to roll up in his head again as Crook felt the shoulder slide back into the socket.

There. Done.

Slowly Marc eased Jack's arm down, absently wiping his own face with his bare hand. He let out the breath that he had been holding and sank back to his knees. One job taken care off, he concentrated on the next task at hand. He needed to clean the wounds on O'Neill's arms and legs again; it was necessary to find the source of the infections in order to get the fever down. Bending forward, he carefully positioned his friend on his right side. This way he could take care of Jack's left arm and he would be able to treat Jack's legs as well. He'd have to worry about the other arm later.

Jack's bare left arm still showed signs of livid bruises and swelling from the beating he'd endured a couple of days ago, but on closer inspection Marc detected two troubled areas where the embedded shrapnel had caused the wounds to fester. Running his fingers over the infected parts he could feel the unconscious man flinch underneath his touch. Gathering the canteens of water, he drenched the cloth he'd saved and patted the wounds, attempting to cool the hot skin.

Marc knew he needed to open the wounds in order to get the pus out and searched around his cell, looking for something he could use. There was nothing that could be of any help so he touched his own clothes, feeling, searching and his face lit up as he felt his belt. Wondering briefly why the guards hadn't removed it, he hurriedly took off the belt; tore the buckle off and rinsed the pin with the wet cloth. The Major used one arm to stop his friend from moving and without hesitating he used his provisory tool to lift the skin, opening up the closed wounds. Even unconscious, the wounded man tried to withdraw from his touch and Marc winced at the deep groans his actions caused. He pushed with his fingers around the wounds to force the pus out and dabbed the area, wiping it clean with some water.

Satisfied with his handy-work on Jack's left arm, Marc shifted his attention to one of the man's legs, tearing his pants partially with two hands to enable himself to inspect the injured area. Blood was oozing down from many of the wounds and the fresh bruising and swelling told Crook the guards had chosen the legs to inflict more pain this time.

Meticulously continuing his work, Marc cleaned Jack's legs, cooling the inflamed skin with the water. He used his thumbs to apply pressure on the sides of the festering areas, wiping them clean with the damp cloth. He also found three angry red, infected wounds on the Colonel's legs that weren't opened by the beating. Repeating the process he tore the skin with the pin of his belt and cleaned the purulence pouring out of the wounds afterwards. Finally he rolled his friend on his back to clean the right arm.

By the time Marc was finished, Jack was shifting restlessly on the floor, mumbling words and phrases Marc couldn't make out. He really needed to immobilize that arm, but had nothing that could be of any use. Marc wiped his friend's face with the remaining water, all while whispering soothing words in an effort to calm the restless man down. Gathering the canteen, he carefully dropped small amounts of water into the parched mouth.

Crook shifted, found a more comfortable position to lean his throbbing head against the bars of the cell, and sighed. He didn't know why he even attempted to keep his friend alive. What good would it do? The guards weren't going to release them and their hospitality wouldn't get any better. Losing hope at alarming rate, he was unable to suppress the devastating feelings that were engulfing him.

The rescue team sat in the back of the plane, all packed and geared up. Doctor Fraiser had a backpack stuffed with the most vitally medical equipment with her, hoping it would be enough to treat anything they may run across.

Daniel had been listening to the interpreter's pronunciations and was now practicing, determined to learn the differences between the languages he knew and the one he needed to speak very soon.

It was going to be a short night since they were flying east.

Nobody said much.

Teal'c was quiet, his face stoic as he sat back, leaning against the plane's interior. Sam's mind was racing, trying to answer all questions that had been bugging her the last couple of hours.

Colonel Bayfield had spent the last hour studying the grim faces around him. He tried to read the mind of each person that had volunteered to accompany him on this mission. What would they expect? Were they prepared for this? Were they able to focus on the task at hand? He needed them; needed them to get in and to get out. He couldn't afford for any one of them having too much trouble dealing with the situation. They needed to be prepared for the worst.

He opened the briefcase he'd been carrying and gathered the pictures he'd deliberately had taken with him. He carefully laid them out on the floor, so the others could see them.

There were all sorts of pictures of injuries, inflicted by guards on prisoners of war. None of them revealed the identity of the victim, some edited for that purpose. They were taken to show the extents of damage, for medical files, for reports on missions, but also to expose them deliberately for training, background information and to keep the members of the Forces alert and focused.

Bayfield closely watched to see how the others reacted.

Fraiser studied them, her face grim. She'd probably seen similar ones during her time as a doctor, Bayfield thought.

Major Carter was shocked, inhaling sharply. Although she was smart enough to know what had happened to many victims during different wars, it was a whole other matter to be confronted with it this abruptly.

Teal'c just threw one look at the pictures and showed no reaction at all. Bayfield, shortly briefed by Hammond about the alien's background, suspected the Jaffa had seen more in real life than he could ever imagine.

Daniel had been busy looking up something in his dictionary, but moved closer, frowning, alarmed by Sam's reaction. His eyes fell on the pictures and he gasped. "Oh, God," he whispered, wrapping his arms around his chest.

Carter looked up at the Colonel. "What's this?"

Bayfield carefully picked his words. "I have no idea what the Elite troops will have done to our men. I do know that it won't be pretty. I can only hope that we'll reach them in time; that they're still alive…" He stared at the floor, at the pictures he'd spread out.

"I also need to know that you are prepared for it. I need to know that nobody's going to lose it out there. You see; torture doesn't only affect the victim. It also affects the people around the victim… Especially when it's a close friend…" Bayfield fell silent, watching how his words sunk in and wondered how he needed to continue.

Teal'c broke the silence after a while. "I think what Colonel Bayfield wants to explain is that facing injuries caused by battle or accident is not comparable to ones inflicted by torture."

Bayfield nodded. "Exactly. It is not a matter of bad luck anymore; or of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. You can't blame it on ducking too late, or having made a bad move. It's about somebody treating somebody else like dirt for fun, inflicting pain deliberately and God only knows how, but the tormentor loves this, is actually living for it."

Looking around, he could see they seemed to understand his words. "I need all of you to concentrate on one thing, and one thing only. We are here to get those men out of there. That's all." Eyeing each of the team carefully, he raised his voice harshly. "Don't give in to the what-ifs, to rage, hate, guilt, pity or desperation. We'll deal with all that when we're safe. Focus. Get them out and run like hell. That's it. Is that clear?"

Receiving silent nods, Bayfield slowly collected the pictures and put them away.

It was hot. Incredibly hot.

Yet he wasn't sweating at all. Maybe that was because he hadn't had something to drink for ages.

He was thirsty. Incredibly thirsty.

If only he had a little sip of water, to ease his throat, to wet his cracked lips. He really should get up and find himself some water.

He was tired. Too tired to even open his eyes, too drained to move a finger. He felt as if he'd slept for ages and he was still exhausted. His eyes felt as if they were glued shut, as if it was impossible to open them. What had happened? Where was he?

Where the hell was he?

Oh. Hell. That's where he was.

Stupid, Jack, really stupid. He'd figured that out before and had forgotten it again.

Somehow his dull brain told him he should say something. Something about a Colonel and the Air Force. Would the devil care he was an Air Force Colonel? Don't think so, Jack.

There was something else, though. He almost remembered; it was very important. He needed to stay quiet. Keeping his mouth shut. That was it.

Why?

Why was that important? Although he knew that mouth of his had got him in trouble on a couple of occasions before, he couldn't remember why he was supposed to say nothing.

He shifted restlessly, the movement sending waves of pain throughout his body. Groaning deeply, he moved his parched mouth. "I won't tell you squat," he cracked, his voice gravelly, yet determined.

He was in some stinking prison. They were asking too many questions and beating the pulp out of him. Damn. How could he forget?

Somebody approached him, slowly, silently. He heard him. He heard the scraping sound, proving to him that somebody was getting too close for comfort.

"Jack? Jack, wake up..."

Trick. They knew his name and it was a trick. Don't listen to them. He shifted, instinctively trying to move backwards, away from the voice, from whoever was trying to wake him.

"Jack? Easy, you'll hurt yourself. It's me, Marc."

Frank, Daniel, Charlie, Marc, sure. Who else?

Who ever it was, it wasn't somebody he knew and he didn't want him to get any closer. "No, no, no..." he stumbled, flinching as every movement caused more agony, flaring in his arms, shoulders and legs. What had hit him?

They had.

"No," he protested weakly, prying his eyes open to scan his surroundings but it was dark, too dark to recognize anything. He took in the silhouette approaching him and noticed the outstretched hand.

He acted.

He forced his aching limbs to obey him; his arms moving forward with such a speed that it completely took the other man off guard. He grabbed the outstretched hand, pulled hard, twisting it as the man tumbled forward. With his other hand balled into a fist, he levered a blow, directed at his opponent's chin and was rewarded by a loud groan as it hit home.

"Damn-it, Jack, will you stop that?" The other man rolled over and attempted to grab him, holding him down.

He wouldn't allow it. He fought, his arm flailing even as his energy was draining, but he was unwilling to give up. Strong arms grabbed him, steadying him, holding him as he struggled to get free, although he was unable to succeed.

"Jack! It's me, Marc. Marc Crook. Remember?" The words were hissed near his ear, demanding, urging and pleading.

Marc? Marc Crook?

Jack stopped fighting, surprised while his dulled brain struggled to recognize the voice. "Marc?" he cracked, shocked by this sudden event. "What the hell..." he muttered.

"Yes, Jack. It's me, Marc. You have a bit of a fever here. How do you feel?"

"Peachy," he said, slowly allowing his body to relax. "Just peachy."

Marc loosened his grip, satisfied that O'Neill was back in the present for now at least. He grabbed the piece of cloth he had used earlier, rewet it and wiped the Colonel's face before offering him something to drink. "Come on, let's get you sitting up a bit," he announced and supported his friend, leaning the weakened man with his back against the cell bars.

O'Neill gladly took the canteen and sipped, the coolness of the refreshing water almost as good as the beer he really wanted right now. He wiped his face and closed his eyes, assessing his condition silently. His left shoulder was dull, stiff and throbbing. His arms were burning, he couldn't think of another way to describe it. As a matter of fact, so were his legs. With these being the major hurting parts he didn't bother thinking of the bruises he felt on his face and chest. He was also hot and, with his vision blurring and the hard time he had concentrating, he realized Marc was probably right about the fever. Damn.

Jack forced his eyes open and visually inspected his friend. Marc was sitting close by, with a concerned frown on his face. Jack noticed the swollen cheek and black right eye and the darkly bruised chin. His trained mind had already told him that Crook moved slowly, protecting his midsection when possible. The labored breathing and the sharp gasping as a response to sudden movements were added to the symptoms list and O'Neill knew that at least one of Marc's ribs were broken. "You don't look so good, Marc," he concluded softly.

Marc shrugged. "I still look better than you, Jack. Always have..." he tried to quip.

Jack smiled briefly, then looked around. "Do we have something I can wrap your ribs with?" he asked, getting ready to remove what was left of his own shirt.

Crook shook his head, raised his hand to stop his friend. "Don't bother. I'll be fine..."

Jack gave him a look, knowing that that was far from the truth, but since he didn't find anything else, there was really not much he could do. "Wanna fill me in?" he asked, still having trouble putting all the pieces of the puzzle together.

"We're in Tyberia, Camp Ockeloen. You remember how you got here?"

Images of disarmed mines floated through O'Neill's mind. Vaguely he remembered how he'd made an entrance to the camp. The memory of a huge explosion was next in his memory. "I think so," he nodded.

"You came in, managed to get my team out, then you got caught in a mine detonation. The commander of the base is not being very nice. He dislocated your shoulder, twice," Marc continued, pointing at the Colonel's still swollen stiff shoulder.

Jack frowned. Unconsciously he shifted his upper body, surprised at how much of an effort that was. He glared over his shoulder at the bars. "No shit..." he mumbled weakly. Working hard to get his dull brain to work, he remembered how he'd re-located his shoulder. Vaguely, he also remembered being taken away for a second questioning, but he had no idea what had happened next. He shuddered. "Twice?"

"Maybe hanging from those chains caused your shoulder to dislocate again. Do you remember?" Marc looked at his friend, knowing the Colonel had been disorientated from the sleep-deprivation and the fever when the guards had taken him to start with.

Jack shrugged his shoulders and winced at the movement. "Barely," he commented, while running his right hand over his swollen shoulder. "Everything is a little bit mixed up. Did you set it back in place?"

Marc nodded. "Yes, immediately after they threw you in. You also have a lot of shrapnel from the explosion embedded in your arms and legs. I'm keeping the wounds open to relieve the pressure and pain from the infection. Hopefully this way we can keep the fever under control."

"Cool," the Colonel mumbled. "Why... why am I in her with you?"

Crook looked at him. "I think you've ruined their cell door. Don't you remember?"

Jack frowned. "Nope. Must have pissed them off then. The guards… haven't been back?"

"No. They came to check up on us twice, but luckily they left again. Hopefully they've got something more important to do; you need to rest," Crook answered. He'd been praying for the guards to leave them alone ever since they'd thrown O'Neill into his cell.

The Colonel in the meantime was having a hard time concentrating on the conversation. He wearily leaned his head against the bars, allowing his eyes to close. His breathing was increasing and a shimmer of sweat beaded his forehead.

Crook, alarmed by these symptoms, bent closer. One hand quickly touching his friend's brow confirmed his suspicions. The fever was rising again. He grabbed the canteen of water and pushed one arm behind O'Neill's neck, lifting his head. "Jack?"

No response.

Shaking his friend a little, he tried again. "Jack? Come on... I need you to drink some water..."

O'Neill's eyes slowly opened and he blankly stared at the person in front of him. He searched his brain for recognition; he forced himself to focus, although it was hard. Who was this?

"Jack?"

Where had he heard that voice before? "Marc?" he whispered.

A brief smile formed itself on Crook's face. "Yeah, it's me, Marc. Drink, Jack."

O'Neill gratefully drank from the canteen that was touching his mouth; taking only small sips at the time. He was so thirsty and so hot and the water felt so good... He wondered briefly what had happened, but at the moment he was too exhausted to care.

Crook, meanwhile, had checked out his friend's left arm and knew he had a job to do. "Listen, Jack. I'm going to have another look at your arms and legs, okay? You just lay still and rest."

Crook lowered O'Neill down into a comfortable position, when Jack suddenly lifted one hand, briefly touching the Major's wrist. "Marc?"

"Hmm?"

"Thanks."

A/N's: see you guys on Friday...