Okay, so we’re locked up in a teeny, tiny little room, a very dark and dusty room, and I’m lying here with a variety of nasty bruises, bloody abrasions, and cracked and broken bones. Remember, Jack, you didn’t have to be doing this. You un-retired to do this. You could have stayed retired. You could have retired again. You could have gotten a safe job, like hauling dynamite or fixing nuclear plant leaks. But no, you had to come back to the Air Force and the Stargate project and life with Daniel Jackson.

Okay, so I’m having another bad day. Or more likely bad night. God, why me? I’m getting way too old for this. Isn’t gray hair supposed to denote wisdom, not just age? Doesn’t older make wiser?

I must have inadvertently let out a groan because now I can hear someone shuffling around in the dark, and Daniel’s disembodied voice asking "Jack?" I mean to tell him to stop. I know what he is going to do, but I’m not fast enough, I guess my voice isn’t working so well either, and he reaches out and touches me, and oh God, it hurts. I don’t think there’s anyplace on my body that doesn’t hurt.

"Jack, are you awake?"

"No." I wish I wasn’t.

"How do you feel?"

"Next question," I say, refusing to answer.

"Where are you hurt?" his hand touches me again, on my chest. I try to bring my arm up to brush his hand away.

"Aggh."

"Sorry, did I hurt you?"

"Hurt myself," I mumble. "Shouldn’t try to move broken bones."

"What’s broken?"

"Left arm. Couple of ribs. Something up in my shoulder."

"Are you sure?"

If it wasn’t so dark in here Daniel would be able to see the filthy look I’m giving him. "Broken bones I know," I say with authority.

"What else?"

"What, you want the whole report?" I ask, trying not to groan as I make an attempt to shift on the unforgiving stone floor. Just a little moan escapes me this time. There is no comfortable way to lie on this hard floor, not when I hurt all over. "I think it might be easier to tell you where it doesn’t hurt."

"Where’s that?"

"My left eyebrow. My right big toe. And a spot about six inches above and to the left of where my belt buckle used to be." I suddenly realize. "They took all our stuff?"

"Everything. Vests, belts, watches, even your sunglasses."

I don’t remember that part. Must have been unconscious at the time, I imagine. "Canteens?" I ask hopefully.

"Sorry Jack, they took everything."

Figures. I lay quiet a minute. "Daniel, did you check around the, ah, ‘room’?"

"Yeah, I haven’t had much else to do since they put us in here."

"And how long ago was that?"

"I’m not sure. I don’t have your sense of time, Jack, but there is a very tiny little window way up near the ceiling, and it’s still dark out, but of course night here last about 16 hours I think it was Carter said, so it could be..." his voice trails off.

"So..."

"So I think you were unconscious for a couple of hours."

"Umm."

"That was a pretty nasty bump on the head you took."

"Don’t I know it."

"God, I’m sorry Jack."

"Just what *did* you say to those people?"

"Well, I was trying to tell them that we were just peaceful travelers..."

"But..." I prompt.

"Maybe I said we were piercing trowels."

"That would confuse them," I say, sarcasm dripping from my voice.

"Or they might have thought I said we were practicing terrorists."

"That would have been *real* helpful."

"I know, Jack, I’m sorry...."

"I thought you knew Ancient Egyptian...."

"Well, I do but here they speak a dialect that’s just a little, umm, different than what we spoke on Abydos. They sound a lot alike but there seems to be slight tonal variations in the vowel sounds, providing options for interpretation based on the emphasis you place on the final consonant. Now that could totally change the meaning of key words and phrases...."

"Oh for crying out loud." Why, God, did you bless me with Daniel Jackson as my cross to bear? "So you don’t know *what* it was that you said to them?"

"Jack, I really thought they understood. They seemed friendly enough." Yeah right, until they ordered those big goons to put us in chains and drag us off to this dungeon, I thought.

"Jack, I’m sorry. I’ll find a way to get us out of here."

"A better one than how we got in here, I hope." One where I wasn’t bounced off the walls like an overused hockey puck.

"I’m sorry."

"You said that already. Enough." I heard him shift uncomfortably. Tried reaching out to him, or at least where I thought he was, with my right arm, which seemed in slightly better shape than the left one. In the dark, my hand hit his shoulder, patted it. "It’s okay."

"No, it’s not okay Jack. I messed up and you’re hurt because of me. Again. And God, I don’t know how you put up with me."

"Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we, Danny boy?" I say in that awful Irish brogue I can never quite make work.

"Jack, don’t. They could have killed you."

"But they didn’t."

"Right. But it’s still my fault you’re hurt and we’re locked up in here with no water, no medical supplies, not even a blanket to keep you warm."

"I’ll be okay. It’s not the first time I’ve been in a mess," I say with a sigh. "And probably not the last."

That’s when I feel it. I try to fight it, try to hold it back because I know it’s going to be bad, but I can’t stop it. I cough. Hard. Deep. It hurts, hurts, hurts.

Daniel’s grabbing me, trying to help, his touch hurting my already battered body, but I know he means well, and I do need his help. "Sit up, I... need... to... sit...," I gasp. He pulls me to a sitting position, and I feel the broken ends of ribs grind agonizingly, feel something in my shoulder slide the way it shouldn’t and when I forget and try to put my left arm out to steady myself, a bolt of pain shoots up my arm, so fierce it’s making tears well and slither down my face.

Good thing it’s dark in here.

"Jack?"

Sorry, Danny, can’t answer just now. I’m busy. This is hard work. Slow, easy. In, out. You can do it, O’Neill. You’ve been doing it all day, every day, all night, every night, for 40 plus years. It’s not so hard. Babies do it. Little old ladies do it. In, out, keep the lungs pumping, the oxygen coming. Maybe you shouldn’t have smoked all those years, huh, Jack old boy?

I feel a little better, upright, leaning in against Daniel’s shoulder, the hard wall at my back. A little water would help soothe my throat, stop that cough. Shouldn’t talk so much, I think. "S’ better," I manage to mumble, before letting my eyes close, before sliding back into the waiting darkness.

_______________

Waking up is an ugly experience, when your body is as big a disaster as mine is right now. I’m still propped against Daniel’s shoulder. It must be numb by now, but he won’t complain. He’ll only ask what he can do to help. Sometimes, I wonder what I’ve done to deserve his friendship, his unswerving loyalty. Unlike me, Daniel rarely lets his anger show or his frustration. He’s not quick to judge, or to anger. Yeah, he annoys me sometimes, with all those big words, with how much he knows, with how much he knows about things that I have a hard time understanding there is a use for. And then he surprises me with a use for some odd bit of information that saves our butts. I said once that he never ceases to amaze me. I meant it.

"How are you doing?" he asks softly.

"Peachy. Think maybe I’ll book a room here again, same time, next year."

"Right."

"Umm."

-----------------

Daniel’s voice is bringing me back to the moment, the reality of the dark little room.... I don’t know how long I was out this time. I’m lying with my head in Daniel’s lap, his jacket covering me, but I’m shivering still.

"Jack, there’s a little light around the window. Daylight."

"Did you call room service yet?" I mumble.

"Sure. Ordered your favorites, pizza and beer."

"For breakfast? Get a grip, Daniel. Bacon and eggs."

"That stuff is bad for you, Jack. All that cholesterol will kill you," he pauses.

"Never get the chance," I mutter, shaking from the cold.

The room is getting brighter, I can make out a few details, see the worried expression on Daniel’s face.

Then, footsteps in the hallway. "Someone’s coming," Daniel says.

"Ya’ think?" I whisper.

The door is flung open. Four big, burly guards, guys who would make Teal’c look like a 10-year old, probably the same men who threw me down the stairs last night, are standing impassively in the doorway. They’re carrying big stout-looking staffs, the kind that if they are swung just right, can break your arm. I know.

One of them snarls something. Daniel nods, answers in words I don’t understand. He turns to me, gestures, says more. Stony silence from the goons in the doorway. One starts forward. Daniel steps in front of him, protectively, placing himself between me and the guard. The guard stops.

"Jack, you have to get up," says Daniel.

"Sure thing. Nothing to it. Do it every morning." Just not with broken bones, lumps on my head, sprains, strains, bruises and abrasions, enough trauma for a whole episode of ER.

The guard starts forward again, raising his weapon menacingly. I don’t have to speak his language to understand that. I wave my good arm, find Daniel sliding underneath it, pulling me to my feet. "Arggggh. God."

"Sorry, I know this hurts. I’m sorry Jack."

"Just don’t say it anymore, huh? No more sorries."

"Sor-- Sure."

I’m on my feet, shakily, the walls and floor spinning and swaying dizzily around me. For a moment I’m afraid I’m going to be sick all over this lovely little room, and then I realize there’s absolutely nothing in my stomach to come up anyway. Geez, the thought of dry heaves with broken ribs, that’s a pleasant thing to anticipate, O’Neill. I bite back the bile, close my eyes, manage not to collapse in a quivering heap. I slide one foot forward, shuffling alongside Daniel, eyes still closed, trusting him to lead me. Wherever it is we are going.

I can hear Daniel breathing harshly, working hard to keep me on my feet, but I can’t spare any sympathy for him now. It’s taking every ounce of concentration I have to stay upright.

Out of the cell, down the hall, up the stairs. Oh God, climb those stairs. Takes a lot longer going up than it did coming down, rolling and bouncing off the walls and cracking my head and ribs and everything else. Maybe that guard wouldn’t have knocked me all the way down those stairs if I had kept my mouth shut. I’ve never been able to do that, though. He’d shoved me in the back, smacking that big staff across my already broken arm, and I’d spun around to him and said, "You know, is it illegal to take a bath on this planet? Or do you guys work at smelling that bad?" Sure, he hadn’t understood the words, but like Daniel always says, it’s the tone of your voice. And the sneer on your face. Dumb he might have been, but that goon knew he didn’t like what I’d just said to him, and he let me know it.

One good shove, and with my hands bound tightly behind my back, I couldn’t catch my balance. I’d bounced, skidded, jackknifed and careened down all those stairs. God, there were a lot of them. Counted them this time, on the way up, for lack of anything better to do, for something to concentrate on instead of the way my knee hurt and my arm throbbed and my back ached and my ribs ground and my head pounded....

Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight.

We’ve stopped. Opening one eye, I can see we are at the top of the stairs, thank God. Turning down a hallway, the guards pushing us forward. Back to the throne room. This time, no one has to break my arm to get me kneeling on the floor before the rulers. All on my own, I fall in an ungainly heap, exhausted.

I try to listen to Daniel. I don’t know the words, but I hear the passion in his voice, know he’s pleading, pleading for help, for food and water and medical care, for me.

Then someone brings him a cup, a fancy gold cup with sparkling gems encrusted all around it, but he doesn’t drink, he bends over to me, raises my chin, dribbles a little of the life-giving fluid into my mouth. I usually prefer coffee first thing in the morning, but water, oh water is fine. I sip, cough, groan, swallow.

"Easy Jack."

Sip more, letting the moisture soak into my dry mouth, ease down my throat. I close my eyes. Sometimes, the littlest things are all that matter. I drink more, deeply.

"Jack?"

"Better." Only when I am done does Daniel drink, too, Daniel who hasn’t had water since I did, yesterday morning, either. He drinks, then talks, gestures, coaxes. I don’t have a clue what he is saying but it seems to be working this time because the queen is smiling now, her smile growing, her voice light as she answers him.

And then the goons are reaching for me again, and I try to shrink away, but Daniel is saying it’s okay. They grab me, not roughly this time, but gently. One of them picks me up and carries me like a child, the giant's long strides taking me out of the palace, into the brilliant early morning sunshine, across the courtyard, and over to the gate.

Daniel is dialing. The gate spins, sparkles, the wormhole forms. I see Daniel has the GDO back, he’s punching in our code, and nods. He tells the guard something, and then the big man is setting me back on my feet, leaning me against Daniel for support. Daniel, who got us into this mess, but also got us out of this mess, and he’s really not so bad after all, you know? Just irritates me sometimes, like a kid, like a big kid who never grows up.

And then we are staggering up the final steps to the gate and into the wormhole, and home. Nothing to be sorry for, Danny boy.