Whipping Boy 101

by Lex

This was originally published in the zine Redemption 3 in 2003

The fact that Sergeant Duarte knew to call me was a little disconcerting. I can count on one finger the number of times I've visited the SGC library, and it was a mistake I never intended to make again. I mean, if I want to know something I ask the experts, right? That's why I have Carter, Daniel and Teal'c. Sure, both Daniel and Carter have a habit of prattling on endlessly if they're not curbed, but they get there eventually.

We'd just come back from the planet of the religious fanatics and I'd been through a particularly brutal post-mission medical thanks to Daniel telling tales out of school. Carter backed him up with some blather about the effects of electricity on the human body, and it was only my impressive negotiating skills that stopped Fraiser keeping me in overnight. Add to that the longer than usual mission debriefing to account for the sudden addition of Nyan to the citizenship of the United States, and then two hours writing a report about some torture session in such a way that wouldn't get me a session with Dr. Tell-me-what-you-feel Mackenzie, and I was about ready to drop.

So when the phone on my desk rang just after twenty three hundred, I was all for ignoring it. It rang. And rang. And since I hadn't quite got around to diverting the damn thing to voicemail for the night, my over-active sense of responsibility kicked in and I picked up.

"O'Neill."

"Colonel O'Neill, Sergeant Duarte here, sir."

Duarte, Duarte... Nope, not ringing any bells. "Yes, Sergeant?"

"Uh, I thought I should call you, sir. Doctor Jackson isn't quite himself..."

Oh crap. What now?

"... I think you need to come down here, sir."

Of course I do. "Down where, Sergeant?"

"The library, sir." He said it in such a stunned tone that you'd have thought I'd just admitted to not knowing the damn alphabet.

"I'll be right there."

I hung up and just sat there for a minute or two, trying to figure out what the hell Daniel could have done that would upset a librarian. Absolutely nothing sprang to mind. If there's anyone alive who has more respect for the written word than Daniel, I sincerely hope I never have to meet them.

Of course, I went.

The library is somewhere in the deepest bowels of the mountain. By all rights it should be a dusty, poky little thing. Instead, it's this cavernous space that holds more information than anyone could possibly read in one lifetime.

I nod to the sergeant as I walk in and he silently points off to the left. It's an unnecessary gesture; the thuds and splats are a veritable homing beacon. I pass Military History, Physics and Astrophysics, Biochemistry, and Languages (A-F) before I spot Daniel. Even though I have a fairly good idea of what I'll see, my gut twists at the scene.

Daniel is flicking through the pages of a thick volume, muttering to himself. He shakes his head, slams the book closed and tosses it over his shoulder. It misses the pile behind him by inches and lands on the bare concrete floor with a resounding smack.

I walk over and pick the book up to check the title. Defensive Techniques in Close Quarters Battle. Not my average bedtime reading, let alone his.

Daniel already has another book out, and he's thumbing his way through it with enough force to tear the pages. I don't know if he's ignoring me or he's simply not aware of my presence.

"Hey, Daniel."

He sighs. "Jack."

"What'cha doing?"

He purses his lips, his eyebrows beetling together. "I'm looking for something."

I glance down at the rejection pile. "Did these do something to offend you?"

He throws me an irritated look, then finally turns around to peruse his achievement. "Oh."

"Yeah."

"Hmm." His cheeks turn pink all at once.

"So," I say.

"I should probably pick those up."

"You want a hand?"

He nods.

We collect together the victims of his rampant search, flattening pages and putting the books back on the shelves in some semblance of order. Daniel frowns at the shelves, apparently realising something he hadn't figured out before.

"I'm not going to find the answer in these, am I?"

He turns to me, his sad expression mingling with expectancy as if I'm supposed to have his answers. "Well, I guess that depends on what you're looking for, Daniel. Some things can't be learned from books."

He seems happy with my response and doesn't elaborate.

"You want to get a beer?"

"I don't like beer."

"I know."

He stares at me from behind his glasses, confused. "Jack, it's," he checks his watch and his eyebrows raise at what it says. "It's almost eleven thirty. We both need to get some sleep. Janet won't be happy if it's my fault you miss out on your prescribed seven hours."

"I won't tell if you don't." I eye the bookshelves deliberately and he gets the message.

"Beer sounds good."

"Great. We can go back to my place."

We divert to my office to collect my keys, and stop by Daniel's for his jacket. At this time of night it only takes twenty minutes to get home. Daniel doesn't say much. Whatever it is that's bothering him is taking up the lion's share of his impressive brainpower. I get him settled on the couch, his coffee in hand, before I broach the issue.

I take a slug of my beer. "What was all that about, Daniel?"

"All what?"

"The senseless torture of innocent literature."

He ducks his head and studies the steam rising from his mug, but not before I catch the wince at my words. The fog is clearing from my mind.

"I'm sorry about today," I tell him. "I should have got us all out of there. Rygar's people should never have been allowed to get their hands on us."

"You couldn't have known."

"Threat assessment is my job."

"And that's meant to make you psychic?" The venom in his voice surprises me.

"No, but I've been well trained in avoiding such situations."

"And in how to behave when things go wrong." He glares at me, and I realise I'm still missing the point.

"Yes," I say carefully. "That too."

"You want to share?"

"Share what?"

"How you do it. All those tricks and techniques you use to ensure you don't give in when someone's determined to break you."

"I thought we'd covered this."

"Oh, we have. We've discussed the theory, studied reports of other missions, batted about possible options when faced with imprisonment and torture. I know the theory. I was a student for years. I'm outstanding at theory."

My beer is distinctly warm when I take a sip. He starts up again before I can come up with a response.

"What I'm missing is the practical experience."

I choke on a mouthful of beer. Liquid dribbles down my chin and I wipe it off with the back of my hand. "You want to be tortured?"

"Yes!" His eyes are shining, and I wonder if there's something Fraiser missed during her post-mission exam. "No," he sputters. "Well, not like that. I want to go through the same training you and Sam did. All that 'pretend to be a captive' stuff."

"No you don't."

"Yes I do."

"Trust me on this, Daniel, you really don't. You've already experienced more than any military training course can even attempt to recreate."

He slams his mug down on the table. Brown liquid sloshes over the sides and onto my Angling Monthly. I resist the urge to snatch it to safety.

"Then why am I still being singled out!"

If I didn't know better, I'd swear Daniel is pouting. He's up and pacing, hands waving in frustration.

"Jesus, Jack, I've paid my dues, don't you think? I've done everything that's asked of me. I work out, I run for miles every week, I follow orders... usually. I wear the same uniform as everyone else. What else do I have to do to stop being seen as the weak link?"

And that's where the conversation comes to a grinding halt. What the hell do you say to that?

I have this plan. It's a damn good plan, if I do say so myself. All that's needed is for Daniel to walk through the door and join me in the gym just about... now.

"Hey."

Perfect. "Are you ready?"

He has this look on his face like he's not sure he actually wants to go through with this. I know the feeling.

"Sure." He shrugs.

"First of all, I'm sorry it took me a week to come up with this idea, Daniel. But you kind of surprised me that night."

"I know. I surprised myself, a little. Er, why do we need to be in the gym?"

"We don't. Well, not for the first section, anyway. I figured it might be safer in case we want to try things out. You know, practical stuff."

"Okay." And just like that he's more relaxed. As if he trusts my plans or something. Wonders will never cease.

He sits down on the stack of exercise mats by the mirror; I stand a few feet in front of him. Nah, it feels too much like lecturing. I drag a bench over and park myself on it.

"I want to run through some scenarios with you, and you can tell me what you might or might not do in each situation. Okay?"

He nods.

"First up." I think for a second. "Imagine you're being held prisoner. The bad guys are threatening to kill you if a member of your team doesn't give themselves up. What do you do?"

He smiles at me as if I'm a backward child who hasn't grasped the basics of tying his own shoelaces. "I try to escape."

"You can't. You're tied up and under armed guard."

Daniel opens his mouth, shuts it, opens it. He frowns. "Tell me more."

"The bad guys want you to call to your team-mate and beg them to come forward to save your life."

He snorts. "I'm not going to do that."

"They really will kill you if you don't. Perhaps you'll live if you do as you're told."

"Better just me than two people die."

"Your team-mate is military -- they signed up for these risks. You're a civilian."

"Jack, that's a ridiculous thing to say. I'm part of the SGC. You can't pull that crap with me."

I shrug, then up the ante a little. "New scenario: you're alone in the SGC with a group of hostile aliens. They're threatening to blow up the base. What do you do?"

"Am I a prisoner?"

"Not in the conventional sense. There are no weapons in sight, but these aliens don't need them."

"Do they understand me?"

"Yes."

"Then I talk to them. I need to understand why they want to destroy us. Maybe we did something to them that they see as deserving of this punishment."

"Maybe they're an invading force."

"I won't know that until I talk to them, Jack."

"You know they've already killed everyone else. Surely that's enough proof."

"Then why am I still alive?"

"Uh..." Damn good question. "You're not considered a threat."

Daniel sighs. "Of course I'm not."

Crap.

"Okay, how about this one. SG-1 are off-world. We've been captured by a local warlord who refuses to believe that we're peaceful explorers. He thinks we're spies. He studies us all, asks us questions, then chooses you to question further. What do you do?"

"Why me?"

"Because you're the one who was calm and truthful up until that point. You're the one who tried to reason with the guy."

Daniel considers that for a few seconds. "This sounds a little too familiar, Jack."

I give him time to think.

"I'd do what I did before."

"You mean keep trying to convince him that what you're saying is true."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I have no other viable options. Because I can't escape and I can't rescue my friends and I can't contact help. The only thing I can do is stay alive and try to keep everyone else alive. In the process I can talk to them, gain their trust. I tell the truth."

"Not the whole truth," I say.

He smiles at that. "There are some things the bastard doesn't need to know."

"I agree wholeheartedly."

"But it's still me he's going for. That's the part I don't follow."

"You'd rather it was someone else?"

"Yes! No. I..." He ducks his head and goes quiet. I give him a minute, but no further insights are forthcoming.

This talking thing isn't as useful as it's cracked up to be. I manage to keep the devious smile off my face as I stand up. "Okay, theory is over. It's time for the practical." Daniel looks a little worried. "Come on, on your feet."

He complies, but little lines are creasing his forehead and his teeth are worrying at his bottom lip.

"Closer. I won't bite."

He shuffles forward, stopping just out of arm's reach. Smart boy.

I put on my most serious Colonel Take-No-Crap-From-Anyone face, hold out my right hand, the palm facing Daniel, and bellow, "Kneel before your god, Tau'ri scum."

Daniel crosses his arms and raises an eyebrow.

I clear my throat and try again. "I said kneel! Do you wish to feel the wrath of my ribbon thingy?"

I don't believe it. The little shit is laughing at me. He's blinking at my empty palm and giggling like a girl.

I drop my arm. "Jeez, Daniel, you have no imagination."

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm himself. "I'm sorry. Really. I'll be fine. Go ahead."

The minute I raise my hand he creases up all over again.

"You're utterly hopeless."

"I know what you're doing, Jack," he hiccups around his laugher, "But all this has told me is that I can do the right thing when I'm called on to do it. We still haven't established exactly why I get into these situations."

"Sure we have."

"No, we haven't. It's an important detail; believe me, I wouldn't have missed that revelation."

I turn him around so we're both looking in the mirror. "What do you see?"

"I see you and me."

Well, duh. "What else do you see? Describe it to me from the perspective of an alien. Please tell me you have enough imagination for that."

He rolls his eyes. "I see two men in green clothing, about the same height. I see one older than the other. One has glass circles in front of his eyes."

"What else?"

Daniel's forehead crinkles a little. "Do you want eye colour, hair colour?"

"I want first impressions. Who are the people that you see?"

"There are no weapons that I can discern. They speak my--"

"Nuh uh, no speaking. Looking."

"I see two men I don't recognise wearing clothes I haven't seen before. Depending on who I am, I may see a threat, a trader, a stranger or a potential friend. I may see a dozen different things, depending on my own background, my social status, whether I'm at war, whether the Goa'uld are present on my world or have ever been... I could go on for quite a while."

Don't I know it. "So what's the difference between you and me?"

"Nothing, so far."

"When will you -- the alien you -- perceive a difference?"

"When I, er, when the group is introduced."

"By you. You you."

"I'll introduce the team," he says.

"And you'll tell them I'm in charge."

"Yes."

"And within minutes they'll see evidence to back up that statement when I decide whether to stay and talk or go home. Or perhaps shoot them."

Daniel makes a face at that last comment, but he nods.

"We've established that you're the guy who'll talk. The one who's trying to extend the hand of friendship. Let's change the scenario slightly. Imagine we're both dressed to go on a mission. Do you see a difference now?"

"You have a bigger gun."

"Aw, Daniel, there's no need to feel inferior. They say size doesn't matter."

"That's funny," he says, not meaning it for a second. I thought it was at least a little bit funny.

"So you're not as well armed as I am," I continue.

"No."

"And then you speak, and we go through the same rigmarole. You greet them, I'm obviously in charge. It doesn't take long before these aliens figure out that you're also the one who wants to share knowledge, to learn and to teach in return."

"And that makes me weak?"

I shake my head. He's not getting it. "It makes you the best chance for our two groups to reach an understanding, Daniel. Even when we're prisoners and we can't see a way out, you're still talking, still trying to explain our point of view. That's what makes you different. It's a strength, not a weakness. What those aliens see is what we make them see. Putting this in your language, you're being presented as a beta male, one who defers to the leader of the group -- that's me. It's nothing to do with you personally; it's all about those social structures you blather on about. It's about your role."

The light bulb comes on at last, bright enough that I'd whip out my shades if I had them.

"That makes sense," he says, nodding slowly.

"It does?" The words are out before I can snap my mouth shut.

"It does. A good thing too -- I don't think I can deal with another Apophis impression."

He's smirking. But I'll let it go, just this once.

I clap him on the shoulder. This has been surprisingly easy. "My job here is done. You want to grab a late snack? All that thinking's given me an appetite."

"Yeah, why not."

We turn out the lights and lock up the gym. I just have to drop the key at the security desk on the way out. I feel lighter now, like this big problem's been lifted from my shoulders. Daniel's steps are lighter, too, I think, though I could be imagining it. I have a damn good imagination.

We turn left to head to the elevators.

Two guys are standing in the corridor dressed all in black, balaclavas concealing their features, weapons pointed directly at us. I hear movement behind me; cold steel touches my neck.

Oh shit.

Ow. Ow ow ow. Welcome back to the land of the living, Jackson. Ow, headache. Where... My glasses are about to slip off the end of my nose. I try to reach up and push them back up, but spiking pain shoots down my arms into my shoulders. I come awake instantly. Shit, my wrists are tied to something above my head. This is definitely not good.

I open my eyes and tilt my head back to look through my fogged-up glasses.

Four men are gathered together about six feet from me, dressed in black from head to toe as if they're on some kind of covert mission. One of them nods across at me. The other two glance over, but my being awake is apparently not interesting enough to warrant action. I'd talk to them, but the tape across my mouth is a barrier to utilising those incredible persuasive powers Jack seems to think I have.

I move on to other options: learn as much about the enemy and the situation as possible. My wrists are tied to an overhead pipe and I'm standing in the showers, which means the locker room. This is a good thing, because we're still in the SGC and there will be security patrols at least once an hour. It'll be hard attracting a potential rescuer's attention in my current predicament, but I'm sure I'll think of something. At least I know Jack is safe for now. He's trussed up opposite me, his head hanging down on his chest.

I suppose it's time for the usual questions.

What the hell just happened? At least that one's easy. One second Jack and I were all set to go home and the next we were outnumbered and sedated. The ease of our capture is slightly embarrassing, to be honest. This kind of thing simply doesn't happen in the SGC, assuming you ignore the odd alien incursion, or the bi-monthly alien incursion simulation. According to Jack, the SGC is the best protected installation on the planet, which is something I've always just taken his word for. I mean, he should know. Consequently, the possibility that four well-armed thugs might infiltrate the base never crossed my mind. Naturally, it's crossing my mind now, along with the worry that if Jack doesn't wake up soon I'll have to deal with four well-armed, suspiciously silent thugs all alone.

As if summoned by my thoughts, Jack moans, beginning to wake up. Did I ever tell him he has impeccable timing?

He shakes his head, trying to clear it, and finally realises what's going on. He phases from unnatural stillness to spitting and fighting in maybe three seconds. Okay, that's not strictly true. The tape across his mouth prevents any actual spitting, but he has the look that says it's what he desperately wants to do. He pulls at the ropes binding his wrists to the pipes, only realising as he tries to twist free that his ankles are bound together. The scowl on his face is as big as any I've ever seen.

He finally looks over at me. I want to reassure him, but I'm not stupid. I know I shouldn't show any kind of emotions to these idiots. Jack seems to have completely forgotten about that, though. He's making peculiar noises behind his gag, like an engine turning over and over that just won't catch. He nods his head violently at me, jerking it in the direction of the thugs. Well, yes, Jack, I have noticed we're in trouble. I tilt my head to one side in an attempt to convince him I'm not stupid. But he keeps at it. Maybe that stuff they used to knock us out affected his head.

One of the thugs finally wanders in Jack's direction. Jack turns his bizarre act on the thug -- let's call him Thug A, for the sake of clarity -- but the man isn't impressed. He reaches around behind Jack and turns the water on full blast.

Jack slams his eyes shut and lets out an impressively loud yell, considering his predicament. He yanks on his wrists, writhing and twisting in an attempt to get out of the spray. His face is turning an alarming shade of purple.

Thug A turns off the water with a flick of his wrist. "Play nice, O'Neill." His voice is distorted by some kind of electronic device. There's no chance I'll be able to identify him later.

Jack graces Thug A with a look that should have turned him to stone. The man's responding smirk is visible even with the balaclava.

Another of the thugs -- Thug B -- moves to stand in front of me, blocking my view of Jack. He watches me silently for some time. I can hear grunts and the smack of flesh on flesh coming from Jack's direction. I manage to resist the urge to lean out and watch the show. Somehow it's not difficult.

"We need something from you, Jackson." Thug B's voice has the same electronic buzz. "Just one simple thing and then you can go."

I raise an eyebrow. Does he really think I'm going to fall for a ploy like that?

"Actually, we only need one word. A small collection of letters. That's not much to ask for, is it?"

He's trying to sound cajoling, but the Goa'uld-like hiss of the voice modulator sends cold shivers down my spine.

"I'm sure you'd like to go home," B continues. "I expect you want to see in a new day. Perhaps you'd like Colonel O'Neill to do the same thing."

Thug B steps back at that point to give me a clear view of Jack. There's blood trickling from his mouth and more running down his left cheek from his hairline.

"What's your access code, Jackson?"

The question is not unexpected. I glance at the floor, then back at Jack. He shakes his head. Thanks, but I had that one figured out all by myself. I gift Thug B with my best glare.

He chuckles. He steps forward and rips the tape from my mouth in one smooth, stinging action. I grit my teeth and clamp down my hiss of pain.

"A few letters, Jackson."

"No."

"One word, and you get to live. O'Neill gets to live. We leave this planet. Everybody's happy."

"No."

Thug A punches Jack in the stomach.

"It doesn't have to be this hard."

"No."

Another punch.

"What can it hurt? We simply want to leave. You must want us to leave. Why not help us?"

"You really expect me to answer that?"

B nods at A. A slaps Jack around the face. Jack flings his head back, pulling on the ropes with all his strength. The pipe creaks ominously. Jack tries again. The pipe snaps, the rope falls free, and Jack drops on his ass with a grunt. Water cascades down on his head.

The remaining thugs rush forward and grab hold of Jack's arms, dragging him back to his feet. He struggles, trying to reach up and pull the tape from his mouth. They kick his feet out from under him, and one of them kicks him in the ribs for good measure. He fights like a hellcat, shoving upwards with a ferocity that shocks me.

"Enough!" Thug B yells.

Thug A grabs Jack's face in a tight grasp and forces him to look in my direction.

B pulls a knife and holds it to my throat.

Jack loses it completely.

B pulls my head backwards by my hair until I'm staring up at the ceiling beyond my own bound arms. The point of the knife pricks at the soft flesh under my chin. I draw in an extremely careful breath. Compared to Jack, I'm as still as the proverbial statue.

Of course, just because I can't see, doesn't mean I don't know what's happening. The wet splats of fists on flesh are unmistakable.

"Tell him to control himself," B hisses in my ear.

"Tell him yourself," I mutter.

"Do you want me to slit your throat?"

"I thought you needed my access code."

"We can use O'Neill's."

I almost laugh out loud; the knife stops me. "You honestly think he'd give it to you?"

"Why don't we ask him," B says.

The loud swish of tape being ripped from skin makes me wince in sympathy. I hear a gasp and brace myself for a spectacular Jack O'Neill rant.

"Waterman, you ass! Get off me!"

If I'd had three whole weeks to come up with a prediction of what Jack might say, I'd still have been stunned.

There's a deathly hush in the room, broken only by the water still spewing from the broken pipe. The tip of the knife vanishes from my skin; the hand in my hair loosens its grip. I don't know what's going on, but I don't risk moving.

There's a stuttered "Uh..." with Goa'uld undertones from the other side of the room.

"I've been trying to get you to stop for the past twenty minutes! What the hell's wrong with you?"

"Sir--"

"And turn that damn voicebox off," Jack snaps.

Is it just me, or has this whole situation taken a turn towards the surreal? I move my head forward millimetre by millimetre. Thug B makes no attempt to slit my throat, for which I'm rather grateful. In fact, he lets go completely and steps back. I spare him a wary glance before looking across to Jack.

Jack's half lying, half sitting on the shower floor, drenched and tied up, with a look on his face that would drop an elephant at fifty yards.

He reaches out with his still bound hands and snatches the balaclava off the nearest thug, throwing it back at the man's chest. This can't be right. I'm looking at the shiny, red face of Major Anthony Waterman. Make that the shiny, sheepish red face of Major Waterman, United States Marine Corps. I'm beginning to think I really don't want to know what's going on.

One by one, the other thugs tug off their balaclavas. SG-7, all present but not quite correct. Right now, they all look like naughty schoolboys caught out after curfew.

I don't like the direction my thoughts are heading. Jack wouldn't do this. Would he?

"You want to cut me loose?" Jack grates out.

"That sounds like an excellent plan," I add, keeping my tone as light as possible. Jack isn't fooled for one second.

"Uh, Daniel?"

"Jack?"

"There's a very good explanation for all this."

I ignore him. The room falls back into its previous wordless, water-filled state.

Lieutenant Wyzinski -- alias Thug B -- slices through the rope connecting me to the pipe overhead. He mutters a "sorry" under his breath when I hiss at the spasm that flares in my shoulders. I manage to keep my balance as Wyzinski kneels down and saws at the rope around my ankles. Finally it's safe for me to take a step. I take several -- straight towards the door.

"Doctor Jackson, don't you want me to..." Wyzinski points at my still bound wrists with his knife.

I consider my options for maybe half a second before turning on my heel. If I stay here any longer I'm quite likely to get violent.

Damn, the door is locked. I draw in a long, steadying breath. "Will someone please let me out of here?"

"Daniel. We should talk about this." Jack's voice has a pathetic plaintiveness to it that doesn't become an officer of his rank.

"Open the door," I say.

"Daniel--"

I spin around to face him. "I don't know what the hell this was all about or what you were trying to prove, but I want to leave. Now."

He narrows his eyes, studying me. I meet his gaze with as much righteous indignation as I can muster, but it's hard. Jack is drenched. Water is running down his face and dripping from his nose. His BDUs are soaked, clinging to him in all the wrong places. Tufts of hair that aren't plastered to his head are sticking up in defiance of nature.

Against my better judgment, the laughter bubbles up to overwhelm my annoyance. "You look ridiculous."

"I don't do well in a cold wash."

"Apparently."

He quirks an eyebrow, obviously unsure where to take the discussion. I'm certainly not going to help him out.

"So."

"So."

"Are you, uh... you know."

"Am I what?"

His gaze twitches back to the members of SG-7 for a millisecond. For an elite fighting force, they're doing a realistic impression of man-sized lumps of soggy putty.

"Mad. Are you mad?"

"Why would I be mad? It's not as if I was the one who was punched, kicked and half-drowned during someone's idea of a prank."

"Ah."

"Ah?"

He winces and drops his head. His words would have been soaked up by his shirt if it could have taken anything more in. "Things may not have been quite as they appeared."

"Really." I can't help it -- the sarcastic tone just sneaks out. "So, for instance, we weren't just abducted by an armed enemy and threatened with death. It was just an illusion."

"Well--"

"Maybe I'm not getting enough sleep."

"Daniel--"

"Or perhaps it's too much coffee."

"Daniel--"

"No, I've got it! I'm really at home in bed--"

"Daniel!"

"--and I just have to pinch myself to wake up." I do just that, which is kind of hard since my wrists are still tied together. "Ow."

"Are you done?"

"Am I..." I'm stunned is what I am. "You're joking, right? I've barely started."

"Well, if you're going to make me grovel all night, how about we let SG-7 leave and we can get comfortable. Maybe you'd like to shoot me, take out your frustration."

"Don't tempt me." But I step away from the door.

Jack nods at Major Waterson, who leads his bedraggled band of conspirators out of the locker room. He hands the key to Jack on the way past. Not one of them has the courage to look me in the eye.

Then it's just the two of us -- me and Jack, alone at last. I stay because I need more information. After all, it's only fair to let him admit his complicity in this disaster before I punch him.

"Do you want me to..." he waves a hand in the vague direction of my wrists.

I nod, and offer them up for release. His fingers are trembling and I realise all that water must have been freezing.

"Jack, get some dry clothes."

"In a minute." He fumbles at the knot.

"Now." I withdraw my hands and bob my head in the direction of the lockers. He doesn't argue. I'm not sure what to make of that.

Jack opens his locker and pulls out a towel before dropping down onto the bench and unbuttoning his shirt. Shirt and t-shirt land with a wet splat on the floor. Jack scrubs the towel over his hair and chest, before bending over to tug off his soaked boots.

I pick at the knot with my teeth, getting nowhere, while Jack changes. The water is still pouring down next door -- it's beginning to annoy me. "We should call someone to fix that pipe," I say.

"Later."

Jack walks over to me, looking marginally better. Icy fingers grasp my hands and he begins to untie the rope. It doesn't take long.

"I'm sorry," he says. "It seemed like a good idea at the time."

"It?"

"Um..."

"Being threatened with death?"

"Uh--"

"Having a knife to my throat?"

"Well--"

"Hearing you having the crap kicked out of you?"

"Look--"

"No, you look! I don't know why you set this up, but I have to--"

"Daniel--"

"--tell you I don't appreciate--"

"For crying out loud, Daniel, you asked me to!"

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Within the context and limitations of the site Disclaimer, Any and All original characters, situations, story line, dialogue and narrative © March 2003, the author