Chapter 7 - New arrivals. New Troubles.

Interview Room
Level 27
SGC

Mitchell sat at the briefing table, studying a file; another leaning tower of paper Pisa was on the table to his left, using the means of arcana to stay there. A small stack of two folders was to his right, looking pitifully inadequate against the one bordering on mystical. A female Air Force officer sat across from him, Dr Lindsay, flapping her gums at supersonic speed.

"I'm fluent in Mandarin, Russian, Spanish, three dialects of Goa'uld, Teneeze, Golap, and the yet unnamed language of the cave people of P3K-447. And of course, Ancient, spoken as well as written. Go ahead, say anything."

What she made him wonder was whether her interview footage could be admitted to the unwritten list of torture tools they kept for emergencies and desperate situations.

"Nah, that's okay. I believe you." Mitchell said, barely holding back a groan.

"Tua puta ego. Which is actually just, 'I believe you.'" the woman replied enthusiastically, making him wince. "'That's okay" is a modern vernacular that can't be directly translated into Ancient. However…"

"This is really unnecessary." he cut her off, raising a hand in surrender.

"On na matta netario." The woman didn't get the clear, verbal cue to goddamn stop. And she had the gall to declare herself a language expert.

"Thank you," he muttered, saying something entirely different in his head.

After her departure, a Marine drone walked in and took the seat she vacated.

While Mitchell read his file, the man rattled off the entire service record in a sharp, robotic tone."...87 mission hours to 32 alien planets. Front-line ground combat on four different occasions–"

"I was hoping you could tell me something about yourself?" Mitchell flashed a personable smile. "Something personal?"

The Drone was so surprised it blinked and glitched for a second. "D-Dave. People call me Dave."

Mitchell didn't bother to hold back his bone-rattling sigh this time. "They would because that's your name."

It went on like that for five more agonising minutes before Mitchell could call the next in line for the interview.

The next two, the scientists, came up with a detailed proposal that frankly scared him out of his mind. And, that was by the bits he understood. There was a hell of a lot more he just couldn't get his tired, exhausted mind wrapped around. They had solid ideas, he was sure, and some whacked-up way of thinking. But they just weren't the fit he was looking for. So he sent them back with a few words.

By the time he came across another military drone that dropped on the floor and started doing push-ups, he felt his already thin control on his temper falter dangerously. He shut down the process for the day and stared down at the dormant Stargate pensively, wondering if it was the time for him to kiss his commission goodbye and go home to join his daddy's farm.

Lost deep in his thoughts, flashing back to the wildest events of his life - tours in active theatre, his admittance to top secret F302 programme, the battle of Antarctica and the long and bitter period of rehabilitation - he didn't quite hear the footsteps entering the room behind him until they cleared their throat.

Mitchell whirled around to find General Jack O'Neill standing behind him, dressed in his utility uniform, with a briefcase tightly clutched in his left hand. The General was also staring at the Gate with a look that bordered on…sadness. He snapped to attention automatically and muttered an apologetic, "Sir, sorry, sir. Didn't hear you coming in."

"So I noticed."

"Sir."

"Come," the man snapped before leaving the room, just as quietly as he had entered it without Mitchell ever noticing. "I got something for you and Hank."

They didn't go that far. In fact, the General only led him to the room next door where there was a conference table with comfy chairs surrounding it. General Landry was already there, holding onto a large mug of steaming coffee.

Mitchell waited until O'Neill filled a mug as well before getting himself one and going back to join them by the table. Once he sat down and turned his chair to face the two Generals, O'Neill placed the briefcase on the table to pull out two large identical files. Mitchell knew they were service records the moment he laid his eyes on them; he had been wading through a sea of them for the past five hours straight.

Only those files looked like a couple of copies of YellowPages. Which meant either those files belong to long-term veterans. Or somebody who wrote reports as if they were aspiring to major in English literature.

General Landry spared a cursory glance at the files before looking up to O'Neill. Mitchell was sure he had noticed the same thing.

"Jack?" he said, sounding a little bit hesitant to Mitchell's great surprise. "Is that what I think it is?"

"You bet," O'Neill nodded. "It's time."

"Um, time for what, sir?"

O'Neill turned to him and rested his chin on the back of his right palm. "I believe you've been asking around about an asset who was responsible for saving you from the crash back in Antarctica, haven't you? You and several others, four pilots and three navigators, to be exact?"

Yes. Mitchell had, to a point where he had started to get funny looks from his doctors and nurses. "The rogue Al'Kesh?"

"Yup," the General nodded. "That's the one."

"Somebody finally found the rebel Jaffa?"

O'Neill squinted at him as if he had spoken another language.

"It wasn't a Jaffa, Colonel," Landry interjected. "It was one of ours."

That was news to Mitchell. Maybe that was why he hadn't gone anywhere with his questions. He had been asking about a Jaffa all the time when the guy had, in fact, been a human. Although the General could have at least given him a hint back at the hospital when he had visited him, he thought sourly. He had also given him the blank look and a head shake before changing the subject.

"So you found him now? Where is he?" he inquired politely, intrigued beyond measure.

"Mitchell, we found him two weeks after the battle," O'Neill said. "Actually, the Tok'ra found him. His captors kept him moving around in the decommissioned Jaffa bases. When they finally found him, the Tok'ra insisted on keeping him," he shrugged as if it was a perfectly acceptable outcome and turned to Landry. "Well, until now. I just got the message."

"But why would you let them keep one of ours after the rescue?" Mitchell tried but failed to keep his anger at the General's callus attitude from his tone. A human POW under Jaffa, found and hauled off to be stashed away again with a horde of Tok'ra! No matter how different they were, or how well-intentioned, somebody who was already most probably messed up would have had a hard time coping with that.

Landry didn't rebuke him for his outburst. He looked away with a sigh instead. O'Neill took a deep breath and started to speak softly, placatingly. "I understand your point. It's justified even," his voice went quieter then, and his gaze kind of unfocused as if he was reliving an unpleasant memory. "I was there when they found him. Letting him go with the Tok'ra was the best option at the moment because he had a lot of healing to do. His condition was not something we could have realistically managed. Not with any amount of success…So I approved."

Mitchell felt an icy cold feeling of dread run down his spine, causing all the hair on the nape of his neck to stand up and bristle. What the hell kind of horrendous torture had the Jaffa put the man through before he was found? He couldn't help but feel a certain kinship, a responsibility for the unknown man, and not only because he owed him his life.

"So you finally decided to share his work, his reports and his service record?" Landry inquired, pulling a file closer to him and sliding one across the table to Mitchell.

"As promised," O'Neill nodded. "With his initial stipulation, he agreed to make his identity known at the time he invoked his right to request his return to base–" the General continued, reciting very seriously and formally, which was somehow bizarre coming out of the eccentric man.

"Is this his callback to base?"

"Yes," O'Neill confirmed to Landry. "We're his home base even when none of you knew it. Consider this me handing you the responsibility of his care and reintegration." O'Neilled pinned Landry with a narrow-eyed look, making it absolutely clear he expected this mysterious asset's wellbeing was of utmost importance to him, personally.

Landry nodded once, sharp, accepting the direct order for what it was.

Mitchell decided it was probably the time for him to remind them he was also there on O'Neill's invitation. He was now quite baffled. "Sirs, I've gotta admit, I'm a bit lost."

"Your knowledge of the history of the US Air Force is that rusty, Colonel?"

Ah. There was the crusty, sarcastic bastard he knew and was painfully learning to love. For a moment, he was worried a body-snatcher had replaced Landry. Phew.

"Um–"

"Sanctuary Protocol," O'Neill interjected, obviously taking pity on him. "Ever heard of it?"

Yes. Thank you. Fucking finally. Ask him a direct question and watch him answer like the golden poster boy everybody assured him he was.

"Yes, sir. It entered into our code of military ethics and law in 1915, July when a deep cover operative who'd been positioned in Russia for over half a decade by then broke cover and sent out a call for assistance," he recited from memory. "He wished to return to home base. An end of mission. He brought back intel that saved a lot of lives, lives that nobody knew were in danger in the first place - USS Callaghan."

"Give the man a cake," O'Neill said to Landry. "He knows his history."

It was only then the meaning of the entire situation clicked. "Wait!" he blurted. "You mean this guy was a deep undercover agent? One of ours, as in SGC?!"

"He was, for a little over a year," O'Neil admitted. "He saved a lot of asses before he was captured by one of the surviving Jaffa commanders."

Mitchel knew that. He was there. Jesus Christ! Sorry, Grandma, for cursing His name in vain. But this was fucking wild!

"I'm sure you heard of the anti-Trust operations, the number of coordinated hits we carried out that took down the entire network of the Goa'uld and Trust during the last week of your hospital stay?" Landry stared at him expectantly.

"Yeah," he nodded, still a little dazed. "Those missions ended up bagging over two hundred trust operatives…. not just here but on a few other planets, if I recall correctly."

"Yup. that was carried out thanks to the intel our boy got for us," O'Neill said, sounding kinda proud. "That was his handy work; information and contacts he cultivated and traps laid over the year."

"Wow!" Was all Mitchell could think to say to that.

"Yes. he's something. I'm bringing him home tomorrow," O'Neil said before pinning them both with a serious look this time. "Take care of him."

Both Mitchell and Landry gave instant affirmatives to that order, which earned them both a pleased grin from the man. Mitchell idly opened the cover of the file, curious to find out the identity of his mysterious saviour who eluded him for months.

His eyes found the black-and-white image of the Air Force Major and he was…stunned.

The photo was faded, taken with him in his uniform, medals and ribbons. The cap hid the silkiest and unruliest cowlick Mitchell had ever carded his fingers through in his life. The pair of eyes that looked straight into the camera was a rare shade of hazel and green, he knew this. Despite the no-grinning rule, there definitely was that familiar faint smirk on his lips Mitchell had found so damn enticing once upon a long time.

It's been more than six years since Mitchell had seen that face up close and personal. It's also been that long since he had glimpsed something in those beautiful hazel eyes, something soft, vulnerable, and yet, so intense, it had managed to carve out an everlasting impression in Mitchell's very core.

It's also been that long since he had taken that unconditional affection and turned it around against the same man because he had been a damn stupid fool.

That little inch-by-inch brought forth a plethora of those technicolour memories with the unforgiving intensity of a freight train.

His eyes skipped over the rank and found the name; John Sheppard, Major. The innocuous little print announced.

Then he remembered that this was the man who had just risked his own life to save Mitchell and his downed fighters. He had done that and had gotten himself captured by the very Jaffa who had reasons to hate him by then.

Fuck it all to hell.

Shep… John.

Gods…no. Why him?

It was too late for futile prayers, intellectually he knew that. But his heart - the stupid thing that had fallen so hard once, scaring him enough to make probably one of the most regretted mistakes in his life - faltered into a fast, irregular beat. Tiny drops of perspiration beaded over his forehead and his hands holding the file went clammy. He closed it before the Generals noticed the faint tremor running through them. He grabbed his mug and gulped down his coffee in one massive gulp, to hide his panic and get some moisture in his suddenly parched throat.

"Something wrong?" O'Neill had noticed the way he snapped the file shut like it was a snake coiled to strike.

"Uh, no, sir," he said, wincing at how rough he sounded all of a sudden. It wasn't even a choice. The other man was coming to the Mountain whether Mitchell wanted it or not. He wasn't really sure what he wanted, not that it mattered. He just couldn't keep something vital to this particular situation to himself. "This, uh, Major Sheppard…I know him."

Two pairs of eyes boggled at him. So he continued. "Six years ago. Afghanistan. We did a tour together. We were wing leaders of our flight groups. We were…er, close friends. Went different ways after the tour."

"That's good, Colonel," Landry beamed. "He will have a friend here until he gets used to the Stargate Command," then he turned to O'Neill, his beam turning into a smirk. "Mitchell might even persuade him to join SG-1."

He almost choked on his own spit at the suggestion. There was just too much history - resolved and unresolved - between them, not to mention Sheppard's current mental state when he finally got here. Having him on the same team would be a colossally bad idea!

Unless...

What if Sheppard was open to the idea of working so close together again? Would he agree? Mitchell sure hoped he did.

"One other thing," O'Neill said, standing up to get himself a refill. "Tok'ra says he's got the Ancient gene, plenty of it, apparently. He can go and have some playtime in the Defence Outpost too if he wants to."

Landry frowned. Mitchell crossed his metaphorical fingers and chanted a string of 'please don'ts.' It didn't work.

"What about the Atlantis expedition?" Landry said, but not really putting much weight into the suggestion. Like he was checking boxes before moving on. "Weir could use him."

"She could. But she can't. Why? Because I'm not sending him into another galaxy when he expressly asked me to let him return to his normal life… As normal as it gets at SGC, that is," O'Neill stated as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Mitchell let out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. Landry nodded like he hadn't expected anything different. "I already had to say yes to Daniel just to get him to stop nagging."

"Fair enough," Landry agreed before levelling another of his analytic gazes on the General. "You gotta know, Jack, You've given this Major a lot of leeway–"

"Damn right. That's how I got all the results in return," O'Neill declared proudly, before muttering something that alarmingly sounded like, 'plus his time travel shtick kinda helped…'

"What?"

"Nothing, Hank. Never you mind," he shook his head. "Anyway, all you need to know is all there." Then he gathered his briefcase again and pushed the chair back. "Happy reading."

O'Neill stood up first and both Landry and Mitchell followed.

"When are you bringing this kid back, Jack?"

"I'll be leaving later in the evening today," O'Neill said, checking his wristwatch. "So I'm gonna go find a place to nap now."

With that, the General turned on his heel and left without another word. Landry patted Mitchell on the back and took his leave as well, strolling towards his office with the file held closely to his chest. Mitchell, utterly numb with everything he had just sat through listening, dropped back on his chair. Then, taking in a long fortifying breath, he opened the file, settling down to learn what the life of the man who had stolen his heart had been like for the past eventful year.

After about an hour into reading the file that flowed like a damned action movie, the Gate came to life with an off-world activation and sent all their lives barrelling down to hell.

Gate Room
Level 28
SGC

Klaxons blared and the warning lights flashed, and Mitchel saw a full contingent of security standing by at the base of the ramp when he jogged through the door to the Gate Room.

"What's up, sir?" he asked Landry, who was already there.

"I wanted you here for this. SG-12 sent word five minutes ago. They should be arriving momentarily."

Harriman proceeded to open the iris when he received the IDC. A tall brunette in a form-fitting, black, leather outfit backed through the stabilised wormhole, followed by two members of SG-12, one of whom carried a silver case. She spun around to take in the Gate room and the welcome committee her arrival had warranted.

"Well. Don't you all have me surrounded?" She sounded delighted by the fact, judging by the cheery grin she flashed at everyone.

"Welcome to the SGC. I'm General Landry."

"Vala. Vala Mal Doran," she announced with a flourish and strode down the ramp. "Thank you so much for the lovely greeting party. We all had a wonderful time searching each other, didn't we, boys?"

Then she saw him standing next to Landry and paused, scanning him head to toe with a glint in her eyes that Mitchell knew spelled trouble.

"I know we haven't met. That I'm sure I would remember."

"Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell," Landry made the introduction for him.

Mitchell cocked his head to the side and thought of something cordial to say. Landry seemed to be waiting for him to make a sound.

"Nice outfit," he muttered the first and only thing that came to mind.

"Thanks!" Vala grinned. "While I would normally be thrilled to have so much testosterone at my disposal…Where's my Daniel?"