"Battlefields" by ellijay

Summary: A lot can happen in just a few days. When Daniel is missing in action for more than a week, Jack learns just how true that is. Set after the third season episode "The Devil You Know."

Author's Notes: This is an old story, written back when SG-1 was new and shiny. I'm reposting it now mainly to have all of my fic in one place, but also in the hopes that it finds new readers or maybe makes its way back to previous readers who might want to reminisce. This story was originally published under another name, but I'm still me, many years of life experience notwithstanding, and the title and contents of the story are the same.

(Original Author's Notes: A honkin' huge thank-you to my betas for their immeasurably valuable and insightful input - Jb, Scribe and OzK. This story had the potential to be quite a minefield, but you helped me keep my eye on where I was putting my feet.)

Chapter 1 - Lost and Found

Contrary to popular belief, SG-1 pulls its fair share of uneventful, even boring, missions. My team doesn't always come back with someone bleeding or Jaffa on our tails or aliens intent on mischief tagging along. Sometimes the natives are friendly, sometimes the ruins are as deserted as they appear, and sometimes there's nothing but plants and friendly critters.

P4X119 was just like that - plants and critters, that is. OK, so maybe the fauna wasn't all that cute and fuzzy in this case - scaly and warty for the most part - but at least they didn't try to slime, maul, bash, pummel or drag us off to be chew toys for their young. It was a quick and uneventful in-and-out.

I decided to dial home for a change, I suppose because I wanted to prove I was every bit as capable of playing "find the point of origin" as Daniel. I guess he was on to me because he didn't even twitch when I hesitated after punching in the first six oh-so- familiar symbols. OK, so maybe I don't know those glyphs quite as well as the Roman alphabet. It's not like I grew up crawling around tombs and squinting at old chicken scratches. So it took me a couple of seconds more than it might've taken Daniel. Not bad for a crusty old colonel.

Teal'c went first; then the MALP loaded with several pounds of glorious, oh-so-interesting soil and vegetation samples; then Carter the Keeper-of-Samples. Daniel went next, and I was just about to follow on his heels when the 'Gate flickered. In a word, shit. In three words or less, shit shit shit. I do not like it when usually reliable pieces of technology unexpectedly go on the fritz. Especially not when my team members just tossed themselves inside the piece of technology in question. Definitely not good.

Then the friggin' thing had the audacity to shut down completely. It kicked right back on again when I reentered the coordinates for home, but when I got there, I found one team member MIA. Daniel. Crap, shit, fuck. In that order.

Nine days he was missing. Not a big deal when you know where someone is and what he's doing. Hell, weeks had gone by before with Daniel offworld helping some other team dig some long-dead schmuck's remains and personal effects out of the ground, and I hardly gave it a second thought. But when you have no idea what kind of shit the person in question has landed in - and when he up and vanished on your watch to boot, when he was most decidedly your responsibility - it's more than a little difficult not to think about it. Constantly.

Outwardly, I managed to keep a lid on it for the most part, but secretly, my shoulders worked themselves into knots that would've done a Boy Scout proud and my stomach was doing an admirable impersonation of Mauna Loa. I thought nine months was a long time when Sara was pregnant with Charlie, but at least with a pregnancy, you have a reasonable expectation of ending up with a healthy baby at the end. In this case, the only thing I could be reasonably sure of was that every hour ticking away was that much closer to Very Bad News.

I'm not even going to try to compare this to the nine days I spent stranded in the desert in Iraq. Yeah, that was bad - very, very bad. But at least I knew where I was, what I had to do. Being a single-minded, goddamn stubborn son-of-a-bitch actually did some good in the end. With Daniel missing, though, I felt like I was running around in circles and getting dizzier and more nauseated every second.

But I'd be damned to hell and back again if I was going to give up. Daniel wasn't dead. I refused to even consider the possibility and was more than a little ruthless when anyone else tried to bring it up. Dammit, he couldn't be dead. Not the Spacemonkey. He was just...misplaced. Thrown off the path of breadcrumbs. Wandered away in the woods. Problem was, we had no idea what kind of creepy-crawlies might be lurking in those woods.

Past experience was getting us nowhere. There was no significant seismic activity at the time of the malfunction to indicate there might be yet another long-lost 'Gate hiding somewhere on Earth. There wasn't anything on either end of the wormhole which would indicate an overload on the order of the one that had sent Carter and me way, way down under - no Jaffa ambushes, no lightening strikes, no off duty airmen crashing the mainframe playing 'Quake.

Just in case, though, we tried working back along the route between Earth and P4X119, sending every available team on quick, down and dirty recon missions. Even headed up several missions myself, and temporarily assigned Teal'c to another team for ass-kicking duty. Not that the other teams really needed ass-kicking. We'd all grown close in a comrades-in-arms kind of way. Civilian, Marine, Army or Air Force - didn't matter. We all got a little bit nuts when one of our own ended up MIA. OK, I admit - I did eventually end up going more than a little nuts in this case. More like honkin' huge macadamias, if I'm really honest about it. The calm, cool, collected act only lasted so long and then I got thoroughly hacked off at the lack of results. Probably kicked a few asses that didn't need kicking, but sore butts heal with time. Dead people don't.

Carter tackled the scientific gobbledygook and did her damndest to figure out any possibility we hadn't run into yet that might explain how a person could step into a wormhole on one end and not come out on the other end along with the people who'd gone in ahead of him. I imagine she even thought about all the ways Daniel might've ended up dead instead of somewhere else, but she was smart enough not to mention any of those theories to me. She eventually settled on an explanation that had to do with some other 'Gate overloading and its wormhole going freaky and colliding with the one Daniel was in, ending up with a snatch and grab. One hijacked archeologist diverted to an alternate destination. Problem was, we had no idea how to take the idea and use it to narrow down our search in any appreciable way.

That's where the Tok'Ra came into the picture. Not exactly my favorite "people," and I use the term loosely, to deal with, but at that point, anything was better than continuing to thunk our heads up against the proverbial wall. They happened to stumble across Daniel's location and, wonder of all wonders, actually decided to come to us and volunteer the information. I should've known right off the bat when Martouf arrived with the news that there was some kind of ulterior motive lurking behind the apparent goodwill, but I was so damned relieved to find out Daniel was alive, my suspicious circuit temporarily went on the fritz. And then I had to deal with the fact that "alive" was about the only good part of situation he was in.

He was on a planet called Torrhena, which just happened to be embroiled in the middle of a particularly nasty civil war. And it seemed for some unfathomable reason, he had decided to ally himself with one faction in this war. And had spent the better part of the last nine days making a hell of a reputation for himself. They were calling him "the Butcher," and not the kind that's friendly with the baker and the candlestick maker. He'd been captured by the opposing side just the previous day and was now slated to be put on trial for war crimes.

War crimes. Daniel Jackson. The Butcher. Had to be some kind of a sick joke. But Marty assured us it wasn't. His captors claimed they had evidence. Clear and irrefutable. The kind of horrors I've seen with my own eyes more than enough times in the past, but to think Daniel would even be capable of imagining that kind of shit, much less doing it, was beyond belief. I mean, we were talking bodies hacked and slashed and beaten to bloody pulps. Yeah, killing is pretty much part and parcel of war, and Daniel had seen more than his fair share of that in his time with SG-1, but what Martouf was talking about went way beyond shoot 'em between the eyes and move on. And there were some non-combatants involved as well, some of them children.

No way. Not Daniel Jackson. No goddamn way.

From where I was standing, this was a rescue operation - rescue Daniel from the idiots who had obviously mistaken him for someone else or who were using him as a convenient scapegoat. Simple enough. Break him out of the clink and head for the hills. But then Marty laid the ulterior motive right out in the open. The reason the Tok'Ra had found Daniel in the first place was because they had a delegation currently on Torrhena, hip-deep in some serious negotiations for a stockpile of weapons. Seems the Karievesh, the faction that had Daniel in their filthy mitts, were doing a side business as interstellar arms merchants. Special.

The Tok'Ra, bless their snakey little hearts, were initially far too concerned about securing their spiffy new arsenal to take any interest in one little unblended human, but Marty made a point of reminding them they pretty much owed us a favor for that jaunt to Netu. So they half-heartedly twisted some arms to get the Karievesh to allow us to send our own delegation. Great. "Delegation" does not equate with "jailbreak" in anyone's dictionary. So we were into politics and diplomatic maneuvering. One more shit for good measure.

Marty cautioned us it wouldn't be easy to get them to hand over Daniel. Yeah, the Karievesh were shocked to find out their prize p.o.w. wasn't even from their planet, but that didn't mean a hill of beans to them in the end. They were intent on crucifying him. There was no doubt we'd be met with a less than cheerful welcome. Like I really gave a damn. The thing I was most looking forward to was spitting right in the eye of whoever had tried to pin this crap on Daniel. And then I'd make sure the real culprit paid for his crimes. Slowly and painfully.

It took several hours of heated debate to bang out who would be going to Torrhena. The Karievesh had graciously allowed us a whopping three delegates, which to me meant Carter, Teal'c and yours truly. But then Marty sprang yet another shit-fuck on us by quietly suggesting Doctor Fraiser be included on the team. He hadn't been able to get in to see Daniel himself before he'd been sent off to deliver his message to us, but the Karievesh guard who'd taken him back to the 'Gate had apparently been a chatty little bugger. He'd gone on at great length about how the Butcher had gotten a hefty dose of his own medicine when he'd been hauled in, and he'd just have to lick his own wounds because no Karievesh medic would waste time and medical supplies on someone who was going to be facing the executioner soon anyway.

That little revelation resulted in a couple beats of absolute silence, which I quickly broke by making an official request for Fraiser to be on the team. Approved by Hammond. Over and done with. Move on. Next choice, next decision.

Marty was going along for the ride, too - not as an official member of our delegation, but to meet up with his fellow Tok'Ra and see what he could do about applying the thumbscrews to get them to consider Daniel's release as a condition of the arms negotiation. I wasn't holding my breath there, but what the heck. Every now and then when you grasp at straws you end up with a handful of something. Of course, it might be something you'd really rather not have within ten miles of yourself, but that doesn't stop you from trying.

So that left one slot to be filled. I was doing a quick run-through of the relative merits of selecting either Carter or Teal'c, but Hammond beat me to the punch. He announced with the kind of finality that makes you know it's an order even though he hasn't said it in so many words that Major Kovacek would be rounding out the team.

Great. Absolutely fucking wonderful. The Bootlick himself. He hadn't done diddly for getting my team out of Hadante prison, a fact which I couldn't help but point out. Hammond shut me down with a glare. Told me I could live with it, or I could stay home. Rock and a hard place. Damn, he had that one down pat. And I could tell he wouldn't budge. I decided it'd be wise to stuff a sock in it.

Carter wasn't happy about being left out. I was expecting that. Teal'c was his usual accepting self. Expecting that, too. What really shook me was the complete and utter faith they both put in me to bring Daniel back. When they saw us off in the 'Gate room, I assured them come hell or high water, I was going to get Daniel out of there. Carter just said, "I know," and Teal'c simply nodded. But the looks on their faces - they really and truly believed. I guess it shouldn't have surprised me, not after all we'd been through together. But the reminder was a real kick in the teeth - and made me even more brutally determined not to set foot back on my home turf without Daniel in tow.

Torrhena turned out to be a charming little vacation spot. The place was blasted to hell and back again, complete with charred what-used-to-be trees and smoking ruins, cold wind and the smell of rain in the air. And mud. Lots and lots of sticky gray mud. Seems one of the major issues in this happy-go-lucky land war was control of the local Stargate, and neither side had been gentle with the surrounding environment.

We were met by a representative of the High Council of Karievesh, a guy with a name that sounded something like "hock spit." He was wearing a spiffy little impersonation of a Chairman Mao suit, but looked every bit the perfect Aryan. Charming combination. I was more than happy to let Kovacek handle the pleasantries. So maybe sucking up did have its uses, and if there was a professional ass kisser handy, all the better.

After brief introductions, Hock-spit hustled us off to a waiting ground car, a sleek, steel-gray little number thrumming with some kind of high-tech propulsion, but the slick Buck Rogers effect was completely ruined by the crude, brutally spiked treads it had been outfitted with to get it over the rough terrain and busted up roads. Guess they weren't into antigravity. Funny because their planet really sucked.

The interior of the car was cool and uniformly gray, moderately padded seats on three sides and the door on the fourth. Hock-spit slid himself into the seat nearest a console decked out with fancy monitors and touch screens, tapped out a sequence on one of the screens, and off we went with a little jerk and a whir.

I felt like we'd been dumped into the middle of some drug-induced vision of post-apocalyptic wasteland, art deco museum, and fascist Disneyland all in one.

Fraiser spent the ride staring out the window and fiddling with the strap of her medical bag, Marty closed his eyes and pretended to take a nap - I could tell his ears were perked up the whole time, though - and I focussed most of my attention on trying to follow along with the gabbling duo of Bootlick and Hock-spit. It seemed the Karievesh were concerned Daniel's presence on their bass ackwards little mud hole of a planet meant we were taking an interest in their war and had, in fact, given our endorsement to the Feloren, the erstwhile opponents of the Karievesh.

"The Feloren are vicious savages," Hock-spit told us. "But this Butcher has taken 'savage' to new levels."

"His name is Daniel Jackson," I couldn't help but put in, earning me a glare from Kovacek.

Hock-spit inclined his head toward me and said slowly, "Jackson, then." Like he was doing me some kind of huge favor by using Daniel's proper name. "His presence among the Feloren guerrilla forces only became known to us seven days ago. In the six days between that time and his capture yesterday - at great cost of life to our own loyal defenders, I might add - this Daniel Jackson managed to single-handedly slaughter, with brutal efficiency, at least one hundred and fourteen Karievesh soldiers, along with a sizeable number of non-combatants. Reports are still coming in from the field, so the final total may be well beyond that. The evidence is quite definitive - video records, eyewitness accounts. There can be no doubt the trial will result in a finding of guilt. I'm afraid you've only come here to see your compatriot convicted and executed for his crimes."

Spiffy. Just absolutely freakin' spiffy. Nice attitude, bucko. The whole situation was nuts. Beyond nuts to completely out of touch with reality. Salvador Dali time. Oh, for a gun so I could shoot the smug bastard right between the eyes. But we'd had to leave our weapons behind. I'd argued for handguns or zats at the least, but the Karievesh had specified we come unarmed. I guess they thought we were all bloodthirsty maniacs like they were accusing Daniel of being. Heck, I probably could've done a pretty close approximation if provoked, but Fraiser? Not likely, although she can be pretty intimidating on her own terms. And Kovacek? Forget it.

It took us on the order of fifteen minutes to get out of complete wasteland and into wasteland haphazardly scattered with non-descript metal and concrete buildings vaguely reminiscent of Quonset huts. Drilling in formation in the muck and mire between the buildings were ranks of soldiers unlike anything I'd ever seen outside of a B-grade sci-fi flick. Medieval Mongol biker gangs from hell. They were wearing dull black breastplates and matching bits of armor on shoulders, arms and legs, the whole ensemble studded with some sort of silver metal and topped off with visored helmets. Some of them were brandishing long black swords topped by crowns of wicked-looking barbs, and others were carrying what looked like mutant assault rifle/staff weapon hybrids.

The car droned to a halt, and we piled out to face a twenty-strong unit of heavily armed bad-asses. Half of them peeled off to escort Kovacek and his newfound buddy Hock-spit to meet with the Right Honorable Thellok Tristan, the commander of this military outpost and also charged by the High Council of Karievesh with trying Daniel's case. Probably a trained government ape ready and willing to put on a circus trial for the sake of a few bananas.

Fraiser and I were herded by the remainder of the guards over to a nearby building, ostensibly so the doc could see to Daniel's medical needs. They weren't willing to waste their own time and effort on what to them was a walking dead man, but they seemed perfectly willing to allow us to do whatever we wanted in that department. "We are not completely without compassion, after all," Hock-spit had assured us. Yeah, right. Regular angels of mercy. So that would explain why several minutes and a maze of dimly lit cellblock corridors later, we found Daniel stashed behind an energy barrier in his very own gray and barren cubicle - shackled hand and foot, collared and chained to the wall.

He was more than a little ragged around the edges - matted hair, bare feet, a wicked-looking scabbed-over gash across his temple and the scruffy start of a beard - and that was just what I could see right then. No telling what was hidden underneath the black jumpsuit he was wearing, which was entirely too large for him. His hands were tucked between his legs and chest, knees pulled up and his eye sockets pressed into his kneecaps, a chain running down his back and up to an anchor high on the wall.

The guard who had escorted us there said crisply, with more than a hint of a sneer in her voice, "I feel I should point out we do not treat civilized captives in this fashion. This one is particularly violent. He would not allow us to tend to him, although we insisted on cleaning the filth off his body." Yeah, right. Nice excuse. And if I know the first thing about battlefield prisons, that "bath" probably came either at the end of a high-pressure hose or in the form of a brutal dunking one step away from death by drowning. She couldn't leave it at that, though. She just had to add, "If you choose to enter, we will not be responsible for any harm inflicted upon you by the prisoner."

"Look, lady," I said, wanting to smash that upturned little nose right back into her face. "He's not gonna hurt me. Now open up and let us in."

"Very well. But you have been warned." I was sorely tempted to tell her where she could stuff her warning, but she'd already deactivated the force field via a palm print reader next to the door. Besides, I doubted there was any room for her to shove anything else in there, what with the corncob already in residence.

"How about the shackles?" I asked, sure she was either going to laugh at me or ignore me completely. I got the "knock yourself out, buster" treatment instead. She squinted her beady little eyes sadistically at me while reaching down and unhooking a small device from her belt - a flat, silver oblong with a black button.

"Point this and press the button. But only after I've reactivated the energy field. I strongly caution you not to release him, but if you insist, I'll be back later to collect what's left of you." She stabbed a finger toward the opening into the cell. "In. Now. Or leave. I have more important matters to occupy my time."

Such lovely manners. Probably spent her spare time practicing her goosestep. Zieg heil.

I led the way into the cell, Fraiser right behind me. Little Miss Corncob-Up-Her-Ass slapped the palm reader to reactivate the force field, then turned sharply on her heel, clicked her spit-polished knee-high boots together, and clomped off down the hall. Give my regards to Adolf.

Fraiser was ready to get down to some serious doctoring business, but I held her back for a moment. Daniel wasn't moving, and I was getting that ice cubes down the back kind of shivery feeling. I edged up to him carefully, calling his name. Still no movement apart from the slight shift of his shoulders as he breathed in and out, so I hunkered down next to him and reached out to touch his arm. Ended up with two fists slamming into my jaw. Knocked me flat on my keester. It took me a second to realize Daniel had actually hit me, then I was shoving myself back across the floor to get away from him as he lunged at me again. The collar hauled him up short, and with a strangled hacking noise, he bounced back into the wall and slid to the floor. His head rolled back, then to the side, and finally came to rest with his chin on his chest.

Fraiser offered a hand to pull me up, looking every bit as stunned as I felt, but I waved her off. I'd startled Daniel. That was all. He thought I was someone else. Probably someone coming to kick the crap out of him. Again. That must be how he got those bruises on his face, the black eye, the split lip. That's all it was. Had to be.

I shifted onto my knees and leaned cautiously forwards. "Daniel? It's me. Jack."

He slowly raised his head and blinked at me several times, obviously having difficulty focusing. "Jack?" It didn't sound like his voice at all, dry and harsh, barely above a whisper.

"Yeah, it's me. Doc Fraiser's here, too. We're gonna get you out of here, but for right now, how about you let her take a look at you. Make sure you're OK." Physically, at least. What we could handle at the moment. I was beginning to have serious doubts about his mental state, and what he did next didn't exactly boost my confidence. He let his head fall back to smack against the wall and closed his eyes. Then...he started laughing - choking, heaving, gasping laughter, desperate, almost hysterical, bordering on outright sobbing.

I honestly didn't know what to do. I was having flashbacks to padded cells and trashed storage rooms. Fraiser was rummaging around in her bag, probably looking for a sedative, but before she could find what she wanted, Daniel went dead quiet. He turned and looked right at me, and I swear I flinched. It literally hurt - physically - to look back at him. I had never seen shadows quite like that in his eyes, despite the couple dozen nasty experiences he'd been through just in the time I'd known him up to that point. Grief, pain, addiction - they can all do strange things to a person, turn him into something he's not. But this was different. This was the look of a man who would blow his own brains out without batting an eyelash if you handed him a gun. I'd seen that look before in other people's eyes, even seen it in the mirror, but it wasn't something I'd ever expected to see in Daniel Jackson's face. Not the original Timex Kid. But everyone has their limits. I suppose it was just a matter of time and circumstance.

I couldn't handle seeing him like that, but I also refused to look away - and he was just as determined as I was not to be the first one to blink. "C'mon, Daniel. Let us help you." It sounded completely trite and stupid, but it did have an effect. Not the one I might've hoped for, but something.

He shrugged his shoulders and laid his forehead back on his knees. "Whatever."

I looked up at Fraiser, but her eyes were locked on Daniel, every muscle in her face tense with concentration. Evaluating, assessing. She knelt down next to Daniel and set her bag down beside her. "Colonel? The shackles?"

Crap. I'd just about forgotten. The key thingy was still clutched in my hand. I pointed it at Daniel and clicked the button, one of my eyes twitching into an involuntary blink as the restraints around his ankles went clattering to the floor. Fraiser had to jimmy her hand between his chest and thighs to tug the loose manacles off his wrists, then she finished removing the loosened collar from his neck. Apparently, he was willing to submit to her care, but he wasn't going to do anything to help her.

Fraiser produced a blanket from her bag of tricks and spread it out on the floor. Then she looked up with a silent appeal in her eyes. This was going to take both of us, in more ways than one.

I went over and slipped my hands under Daniel's armpits while she grabbed his knees, and together we maneuvered him, now limp and unresisting, onto the blanket. I had no idea what signals I might've been sending out - I couldn't even begin to get a handle on what I was feeling - but she had at least a dozen different emotions playing across her face, chief of which was concern. Deep down in your gut, turn your world upside down anxiety. Yeah, that was definitely part of what I was feeling.

But practicality had to come first. Fraiser set about taking his vitals, then methodically began to check for broken bones, her strong and capable hands calmly running over arms and legs, a running assessment quietly muttered. For my benefit. Didn't seem like Daniel was taking any note. He wasn't doing anything other than staring up at the ceiling and occasionally flinching or sucking in a breath. Mostly pressing his mouth tightly closed or biting his lower lip. They must've given him a pretty thorough working over.

Fraiser's initial exam turned up a low-grade fever and a badly sprained wrist, but no broken arms or legs. She suspected a possible concussion even though he wouldn't respond to her litany of what's-your-name, what-day-is-it, how-many-fingers-am-I-holding-up questions. The knot at the back of his head was a big clue there. And if that hadn't done it, there was always the gash across his temple.

OK, so maybe it wasn't too terribly bad. But then she unzipped the front of the jumpsuit and eased it off of his shoulders, with me propping him up from behind since he was still doing his rag doll impression. I kind of hoped I was seeing things, but the light in the cell was sufficient for me to get a good, long, clear look.

Bastards. Absolute, complete and utter effing bastards. Oh, they'd done a number on him all right. What he was lacking in major injuries, he more than made up for in cuts, bruises and abrasions - some of them looking several days old and oozing from lack of attention. There was even some dirt still ground into a few of the slashes and scrapes. Must've been missed by the tender ministrations of the fire hose.

Fraiser pressed at the edges of one of the larger wounds, and Daniel jerked back against me with a barely suppressed groan. "OK, Daniel," she said softly, resting a reassuring hand on his bare shoulder. "I know this isn't very pleasant, but I need to check you for internal injuries. I'm going to have the Colonel lay you down, all right?" There was a slight twitch of his shoulder - I'm not sure whether it was an I don't care or a let go of me - but he did allow me to lower him back down to the blanket.

Fraiser set about poking and prodding his abdomen in ways I know good and well from too much experience can be downright uncomfortable when nothing's broken or ruptured or even bruised. She did her best to avoid the worst of the cuts and bruises, but in some cases, that just wasn't possible. The only sounds he made, though, were a few grunts and stifled groans, despite the fact that he had to be just about biting a hole in his lower lip and his eyes were squeezed so tightly shut he must've been seeing stars. When she was finally done, he let out a barely controlled, shuddering breath and let his head roll to the side.

She sat back on her heels and folded her hands in her lap. "There don't seem to be any internal injuries beyond some possible bruising. A couple of cracked ribs. He'll need a lot of suturing, but for the more serious wounds I'll have to do some thorough irrigation first, possibly some debridement, to be sure no infection sets in. I don't want to do any of that here. I'll give him an antibiotic injection for now, apply some antibiotic ointment to the wounds and dress them." She sighed and started pulling out the supplies she'd need. "A dose of morphine probably wouldn't go amiss either."

That finally got a reaction out of him. He hauled himself up to a sitting position and probably would have toppled right over if I hadn't grabbed him by the arms. His voice was steady enough, though. He said, "No," very clearly and firmly. "No morphine." I could feel the muscles in his back and shoulders tensing. Crap. I really didn't want to have to hold him down.

Fraiser set the medication aside and tucked her hands between her knees. "It'll help."

"No. It won't." It was the first sign I'd seen of the real Daniel since we arrived - stubborn as all get out - but damned if I knew why he was picking this particular battle to fight. I'd never seen him turn down a painkiller before.

"Why don't you think it will help?" Fraiser asked calmly, studying him intently with serious eyes.

"I want to feel the pain," he said, the slightest hint of a quiver in his voice. "It's the only way I can tell I'm still alive. The only way I can tell what's real and what isn't."

Talk about a vicious kick in the gut - two-footed with steel-toed boots. I swear I forgot to breathe for several very long seconds.

Fraiser's eyes were flicking back and forth between me and Daniel. She obviously didn't know how to respond to what he'd said. But I did. I'd been there before. And nearly hadn't made it back with my sanity intact.

I forced a deep breath and tightened my grip on Daniel's shoulders, shook my head sharply at Fraiser. If Daniel said, "No morphine," there'd be no morphine. Anger snapped briefly in her eyes, but then this awful...shadow...passed over her face, and the outrage fizzled and died away. She understood.

"Daniel," she said gently, and I was amazed she was able to get the name out on the first try, "you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to, but it might help if you tell us what happened."

What really happened. Not the lies we'd already had shoved down our throats.

He didn't say anything right away. I guess I wasn't really expecting him to answer. But all bets seemed to be off as far as expectations were concerned at that point. "I don't– I don't remember anything. I can't. I can't remember." His voice broke and he sucked in a deep breath, leaving me to wonder if he literally didn't remember, or couldn't allow himself to remember. Either way, it wasn't good. Not good at all.

Fraiser muttered some vague reassurances, told him it was OK, got him to lay back and close his eyes. Rest. Just rest and let it go for now.