STARGATE SG-1: Do No Harm (57 page)

“Yes, sir.”

“How are Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter?”

Oh God. She was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “They’re deteriorating, General. Their symptoms are chronic, not acute, but… sickness is wearing them down. Wearing them out. They’re very weak now, and nothing I do for them is making a difference. Their only hope is the vaccine.”

“I see.”
Thousands of light years between them, and the grief in his voice was as loud as though he shouted in her ear.
“Well, when next you see them, give them my best.”

“Yes, sir.”

Feeling as though her own blood had turned to lead she returned to her lab, where Teal’c was waiting. The lamplight gleamed on his gold forehead brand. As she entered he sat up, his movements far less smooth than usual. He took one look at her face and bowed his head.

“Success.”

She nodded. “Yes. The vaccine works. But to treat Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter — ”

“You require more blood from my symbiote.”

She sat on the camp stool beside him and took his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“And the Adjoans? With the next blood I give you, can we also treat them?”

“One step at a time, Teal’c.”

He nodded, hearing too clearly what she hadn’t said. “In an ideal world, Doctor Fraiser, how long would you suggest we wait before harvesting more blood?”

“Two weeks at least. Preferably a month.”

“And in your estimation, how long do they Colonel O’Neill and Major Carter have before they succumb to the ravages of this plague?”

He’d insisted she not keep their condition from him. “Sam? A week. Maybe ten days. The colonel… longer. But less than a month.”

He smiled, painfully. “Then we both know what you must do.”

Oh God. “In the morning, Teal’c. We can wait until the morning.”

“Very well,” he agreed. “But no later.”

She left him to rest, and made her way through Georgetown’s
arc-lit alleyways to SG-1’s tent.

Thank God for naquadah generators. None of this would be possible without them.

The irony wasn’t lost on her. They’d come here in the first place to find a safe, reliable source of the damned stuff because without it their hopes of defeating the Goa’uld were slim to none.

And we did. We found it. But my God… the cost…

To her alarmed surprise Daniel was fast asleep on his camp bed. It was relatively early, by their reckoning only quarter to nine.

“Is he okay?” she asked Dixon, who was sitting beside Jack making notes on his medical chart.

“He’s exhausted.” Dixon dropped the chart, and shoved his pen in a pocket. “Surprise, surprise.”

She dropped to a crouch beside Jack and checked his pulse — sluggish — and then the level of fluids in the i/v she’d had to set up. He’d need a new bag in an hour. His swollen eyelids flickered at her touch, but he didn’t open them, or speak.

“He’s fading, isn’t he?” said Dixon, his voice soft.

She stood. “Yes.” There was little point in trying to deny it. Dixon was a medic and he’d seen active duty. He’d seen men die. “But there’s still time to save him, and Major Carter. We have a workable prototype vaccine.”

He started to grin. “Hot damn. Doc, you
are
a genius.”

Oh God, I wish
. “We’re not home yet, Colonel. There are some significant hurdles yet to overcome.”
Like, how do we create enough of the vaccine without killing Teal’c in the process?

His wide smile faded. “Oh. Okay then. Give it to me straight. What do you rate our chances of success?”

She wouldn’t insult him by lying. “Less than fifty-fifty.”

For a long time he was silent, then he sighed. “Okay.”

“Hey — the odds could be worse. Don’t give up just yet.”

“Yeah,” he said, then dragged a hand across his face. “I know. Only here’s the thing. And I know this is going to sound a hundred different kinds of selfish… but I’m just too damned tired to care.” He stared down at Jack. “That guy there was the last man to speak to Frank Cromwell before he died. And until Jack O’Neill tells me different, I have to believe Frank died thinking O’Neill hated his guts. Still blamed him for something he didn’t do on purpose, that was an accident, that he couldn’t fix. That he spent years
hating
himself for. Trying to make amends for. And if O’Neill dies too, I’ll never know if Frank found peace before the end. It’s eating me up, Doc. I could cry like a baby.”

He said it lightly, as if it were a joke, but the pain in his face told her no… he wasn’t joking.

She folded her arms. Cleared her throat. “Colonel…”

His expression changed. “You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? You know
exactly
what — ”

“I’m sorry,” she said, and took a step back. “I can only imagine how hard this is for you. But I’ve told you already. I can’t talk about it.”

And before the look on his face shattered all her convictions, she fled.

Colorado Springs June 20th, 1998

The night before the memorial for Hank Boyd and his team, O’Neill found himself on Janet Fraiser’s front step, ringing the doorbell. He wasn’t entirely certain how he’d got there. Unable to bear the stark silence of his own house, even with the stereo blaring something mournfully Mozart, he’d had to get out. Get in the car. Drive. Really fast.

And somehow, stupidly, he’d ended up here.

He could hear Jack-the-dog, barking hysterically. A moment later the door opened. Cassandra. Her face lit up in a smile of such innocent delight that he had to smile too, even though he had nothing to smile about.

“Colonel Jack!” Cassie exclaimed, and bounced forward to give him a hug. “Hi!”

“Hi yourself, grasshopper,” he greeted her, and returned the
enthusiastic embrace. The feel of small arms, holding tight. The
uncluttered, uncomplicated warmth of affection. Love without an agenda. “You’re in your pajamas.”

“I’ve had my bath.” And then she let go of him. “Do the thing, Colonel!” she begged. “Come on! Please? Let’s do the thing!”

He rolled his eyes. “Oh, God. Not the thing.”

The dog kept on barking as she danced on the spot. “Please? Please?”

So they did the thing. Playing circuses. She turned upside in a handstand, he grabbed her bare ankles and lifted, she clasped his running shoes, and he walked them over the threshold and into the house, pausing to swing the front door shut with one swipe of his hip. Then down the hall. Into the kitchen. Jack-the-dog followed, beside himself with excitement. Clearly this was the most fun he’d had all day. Stupid mutt.

Janet was at the sink. Seeing her, Jack felt a tingle of nerves. She turned as Cassie, giggling, implored: “Do the goosestep, Colonel, do the goosestep!”

The look on Janet’s face was daunting. Pretending to stagger, he shifted away so he wouldn’t have to see it. “You’re getting too heavy for me to do the goosestep.”

Cassie bounced up and down, her nose rubbing his knees. “I am not either! Do the goosestep! Please?”

How could he refuse? She was the only ray of sunshine in his life, these days. So he marched round and round Janet’s kitchen bench while Cassandra sang a show tune at the top of her lungs, off-key.

After the third lap his ears were screaming for mercy. “Okay,” he said, stopping. “That’s it. I’m an old man, I can do no more.”

She was such a good kid. She never whinged. Never whined. She let go of his shoes and dangled there, still giggling. He lifted her a few inches higher and, mindful of the island bench, swung her like a pendulum from side to side. She laughed so hard she was nearly sick and the dog about leapt inside out, licking her face every time she went by.

He could feel Janet’s gaze on him, hot between his shoulder blades.

With one last, huge effort he swung Cassie up and around and
caught her safely in his arms. She was a slip of a thing, there was nothing to her. All light and laughter, sunshine and song. She clamped her legs around his waist and her arms around his neck. Her cheeks, flushed with excitement, were close enough to kiss.

She leaned back a little and considered him intently. “Where have you been? I haven’t seen you for ever.”

He shrugged. “Oh, well, you know. Work.”

“Huh,” she said, unimpressed. “You mean hospital. Again. Janet said. I wanted to come visit you but she said you were asleep.”

Amazing, the amount of cynicism a kid her age could pack into one comment. One look. One huff of breath.

He still wasn’t ready to look Janet in the eye. “I kind of hit my head. That can make you pretty sleepy.”

Cassie unwrapped one arm to wag a finger at him and put on her severest scolding expression. “I thought I told you to be more careful?”

God. She slayed him. He pulled an apologetic face. “Sorry, ma’am.”

Her scowl faded. A shadow touched her serious eyes and she pressed a small warm palm against his cheek. “I’m sorry, too. About your friends. Janet said.”

That nearly undid him. He had to swallow, hard, and wait for a moment. Then he took the small warm hand that comforted him and kissed her slender, childish fingers. “Thanks, Cass,” he said, his voice rough. “I appreciate that.”

“Cassandra,” said Janet. She sounded… restrained. “Time for bed.”

Cass sighed and rolled her eyes, and then let loose with an impish grin. “Tuck me in?”

It was what he missed most, not having Charlie any more. The simple moments. The quiet intimacies. Lamplight and bedspreads at the end of the day. Of course he’d be a teenager now. Way too old for sissy tucking in. “Oh, all
right
. I
suppose
so. If I
have
to.”

“And tell me a story?”

“Tell you a story?” He pretended to be outraged. “Hell’s bells and buckets of blood! And what are you going to do for me?”

The impish grin widened. “Be your best girlfriend for ever and ever.”

She was already. “Oh,” he said, and found another smile for her. “Okay. I can live with that.” He wandered towards the kitchen door. The dog padded after, toe-nails clicking on the tiles. “Which story?”

“Umm,” said Cassie, as they left the kitchen behind them. “The one about the time you got back at the school bully by painting the rabit poo and making him think it was candy.”

Ah, the follies of youth. He’d told her that story six times at least. She could recite it with him verbatim, and often prompted when he left out a line. “Again? Cassandra Fraiser, is there something you’re not telling me?”

She giggled, pink with secrets, and he banged his forehead lightly to hers. The pain he couldn’t show her, a child, was numbing a little.

Maybe instinct had done him a favor, guiding him here.

He got her tucked into bed and told her the rabbit poo story. Told her another one, a highly edited version of a recent mission with names and places changed to protect his tender ego. By the time he was finished her eyelids were drooping. He kissed her on both cheeks, and when at last her fingers uncurled from his he left her to sweet dreams and went back to the kitchen.

Standing in the doorway, watching Janet as she stared through
the window into the silver night, he said, “She’s asleep.”

Slowly Janet turned and raised an eyebrow at him. “Rabbit poo? Just what are you teaching my daughter, Colonel?” Beneath the arch humor, she was still angry.

Yeah, well, so am I. And I didn’t start this.

“Vital lessons in tactics and strategy,” he answered. “Besides. He deserved it.”

“He?”

“Billy McGrath.”

She nodded. “Ah. The school bully?”

“The same.”

A heartbeat of silence, and then she moved to a cupboard, took out two glasses and a bottle of Laphroaig — he’d recognize the label blindfolded — and held them up. “Drink?”

Was it a peace offering? Or an overture to battle? He couldn’t tell. Not yet. But he was here, so… “Sure.”

They sat at the cleared and spotless kitchen table and sipped the smoky malt, unspeaking. Suicidal moths threw themselves at the window, making soft banging sounds before they fell to the ground outside.

At length, she shifted a little on her chair. “Bill Warner says you’ve made a good recovery.”

It was more than could be said for Frank Cromwell. Frank, swallowed alive by the monstrous wormhole that Carter’s bomb had collapsed. Redirected. Whatever. The bomb that had nearly claimed his life, too.

And yet here I am. Saved, again. There’s got to be a reason. I just wish I knew what.

“Yeah,” he replied. “Not bad.”

She looked at him sharply over the rim of her glass. “Headaches?”

“Some.”

“You taking anything?”

Stupid question. How long had she known him? “Mmm.”

Long enough not to bother arguing, at least. She just pulled a face and reached for the whiskey. “More?”

He could drink the whole bottle but that would be dumb. “Better not.”

So she helped herself to another generous finger of liquid gold, and sat there, and sipped it, and waited for him to speak.

He had no idea what he wanted to say.
If
he wanted to say. He was back to not knowing why the hell he’d come here. After all, she’d betrayed his trust. Broken an unspoken promise. Nobody in his life, now, not even Hammond, knew about him what Janet Fraiser knew. It had taken him a long time to feel easy about that. But he liked her, and trusted her, and in the end he’d let her in.