“What?  That I really missed you this time?  Nope, didn’t realize I do.”  I shrug.  “It’s true every time.”

There’s silence for a bit, then Daniel shifts slightly and I can feel him digging in his pocket.  The rock comes out and like a magician he manipulates it between his fingers until they’re covered with gold dust.  “Teal’c says these rocks have med-disssss-in-al properties,” he says, elongating the ssss as he smudges his gold-dust covered fingers in the middle of my forehead.  “It made Sam look right again.”

“Made her look right?”

“Maybe this will make you look right, too, and help you feel better.”

“Mmmm,” I murmur, sliding towards oblivion.  “What do you mean look right?”

“Go to sleep,” Daniel says, sliding his arm back across my throat and around the back of my neck.  “You’ll see when you wake up.”

All soldiers eventually learn to sleep when and where they can snatch a few minutes of rest.  I drift off, secure in the knowledge that for the moment at least, my little corner of the universe is safe. 

A faintly familiar voice eventually works it way through the layers of sleep.  I lay still listening for several seconds before recognition yanks me the rest of the way to consciousness and stretch tentatively as I turn on my side. 

Ummm, less aches.  This is good.

“You’re watching the Simpsons?”  Surely I’m dreaming; cartoons are so not Daniel’s thing.

The kid and the dog are sprawled together on the floor.  From this angle I’m not sure who’s lying on whom. 

Daniel looks over his shoulder at me and smiles.  “Feel better?” he inquires.

“Yeah,” I cover a yawn as I sit up.  “I do.  I’m even hungry.  Did you get enough to eat?”  See?  I knew an hour on the couch would do the trick.

“Yep.  I’ll warm up the soup again.” 

I think the dog was lying on the kid because Hershey rolls sideways with a snort as Daniel pushes up off the floor.

“I’m good.  I’ll get it.  Anything I need to put away you couldn’t reach?  What’d you eat?”

“We got it all put away while you slept.  We had pears and popcorn.  Jack?  Is Bart Simpson an alien?”

“No, why?”

“Then why is he yellow?  I understand why the sponge is yellow; he’s a sponge.  But a yellow kid?”

He follows me into the kitchen, where I exchange the now warm bottle of beer for a cold one from the fridge.

“It’s a cartoon, Daniel.  The creator thought Bart Simpson would look cool yellow.”

“So he’s not an alien?”

“No, he’s not an alien.”

“Okay.  I’m tired; can me and Hershey go to bed now?”

“Hershey and I,” I reply automatically.  “Is Hershey tired too?”

“Nah, Hershey never gets tired, but that’s because all the time I’m not playing with him he’s sleeping.”

“Growing puppies need lots of rest.”

“Just like growing boys,” Daniel says with a grin.  “Will you come and read to us?”

“Yep.  Want me to run water for your bath?”

“Can I skip a bath tonight?  Since I had one this morning at Janet’s?”

“I thought you said that was last night.”

“Oh, yeah, it was.  But I don’t want to get in the bathtub tonight.”

“Okay, I’ll be up as soon as I’ve had some of Mrs. H’s soup.”

“’k. Come on, Hershey.  Let’s get ready for bed.  If you’re good Jack might let you lie on the bed while he tells us a story about the totem.  Do you want to hear about Watoomah or Orinea?  Or maybe you want to hear about the dragon flyers that look like Carlichich.  Jack looked better didn’t he, when he woke up?  Did you notice  . . .”

The sound of his voice trails off as they make the turn into the bedroom and I hear only the soft murmur of the one-sided discourse as I reheat the soup, retrieve it from the microwave and dump half the sleeve of cracker crumbs in it for texture.  I’ve never been a big fan of soup. 

Either I’m hungrier than I thought, or Mrs. H was right – this is nothing like American soup-in-a-can.  It’s delicious and I empty the container, as well as the sleeve of crackers, and scarf down half the loaf of bread Daniel bought as well.     

Rezula would be a paradise for dieters and fans of weight loss by sauna; it was too damn hot to be interested in eating. 

So having digested half the kitchen - all right for cryin’ out loud, for all of you realists in the crowd, half the contents of the kitchen counter, good enough? - I make my way down the hall to Daniel’s room feeling much more like participating in the usual long, drawn-out process that is bedtime in this house.

On a good night it takes forty-five minutes.   

Clothes get folded and put on the desk chair if he’s wearing them again or in the laundry basket if they’re dirty.  Shoes still usually end up wherever he takes them off, but since they get worn every day, I’m not too picky about those.  Toys are put away and the remainder of the day’s books re-shelved before the bedtime book comes out. 

Adult Daniel’s casual attitude toward tidiness just wasn’t going to cut in this military household, so this was our compromise, though this Daniel isn’t yet aware of that. 

It works well for our schedule and saves lots of weekend headaches since the room is basically clean and usually only needs a quick vacuum. 

He’s gotten really good about doing it without being told, too, so I’m a little surprised, when I get to his room, to find toys scattered from one end to the other, his clothes dumped in a pile beside the laundry basket, and Daniel in bed. 

The really unusual part of this scenario is finding him sound asleep already, with the light still on.  While this incarnation requires more sleep than the adult one, like his adult self, he rarely allows need to get in the way of what he wants.  He always attempts to stretch out the bedtime routine even longer than usual the first night home after a long off-world trip. 
 
Hershey, lying in bed beside Daniel - under the covers - opens one eye and yawns, curling his tongue and rubbing a paw at his nose like he has an itch. 

One small, fisted hand is lying on top of the covers; the other arm, fingers of that hand clutched around the totem, is flung over his head, already in his usual sleep posture.

More than a little puzzled, I peel the miniature fingers, one by one, from the new toy, take his glasses off and store them in their case on the nightstand, and bend over to kiss him goodnight. 

“Daniel?”  I sit down on the edge of the bed. 

Without opening his eyes, he holds out his fisted hand.  “Put this with the totem, please,” he mumbles, dropping the rock into my outstretched palm. 

“Hey, Sport?”  I brush a hand through his hair, concerned with the unusual warmth he’s radiating.  “You okay?”

“Hmmmmmm,”  He wrinkles his nose and squinches his eyes as he turns on his side and wriggles back to slide his butt up against the dog before tucking both hands under his cheek on a deep sigh.  “I‘m glad you’re home finally.  Missed you.”

“I missed you too.  Want me to read still?” 

“Tried, Jack.  Sleeping. G’nite.”

“Right.  Sleeping.”  But I don’t get up. 

This is too weird.  He always tries to finagle a bedtime cuddle; at the very least, cop a back rub, especially after we’ve been separated for awhile, I don’t care how tired he is. 

Maybe cuddling on the couch was enough to top off his love tank tonight.

It sure leaves me at loose ends.  That power nap rejuvenated me like Carter’s shower must have done for her.  I’m wide awake, pleasantly buzzed – hey, maybe it was cooking sherry that gave Mrs. H’s chicken soup its appetizing flavor – and clueless as to what might have caused my kid to prefer sleeping to cuddling.

I lean over him to pat Hershey and whisper, “Come get me when you’re ready to go out again.”

The dog nuzzles my hand - at least he’s pleased with the human contact - then yawns again and closes one eye.  The other watches me leave the room; I can feel it all the way to the door.

*     *     *

“I don’t know, sir,” I shrug, distracted by the stream of humanity hurrying past the open door of Hammond’s office.  “We don’t mind going, but I’d rather limit SG-1’s involvement to day trips whenever possible.  A week was too long.”

The treaty is a done deal, our diplomatic team is chomping at the bit to get on with the next bit of business, but we have to find them some first, which is where this conversation comes into play.

“I understand, but you’re my flagship team, Colonel, sometimes that’s just not feasible.”

“Yes, sir.  We’ve always been best at first contact though, and that’s rarely a lengthy process.  If we could try to stick with those missions . . .” and avoid the diplomatic ones that take forever. 

“Speaking of first contact.   Colonel Edwards sent Lieutenant Menard to see me late last evening.  He had some concerns he felt he needed to express over this treaty.”

“Edwards or Menard?  And what kind of concerns?” 

“Menard.”

Very little twizzles my neck hairs anymore, I’m about as jaded as they come, but Menard presenting concerns to Hammond on his own?  The kid stammers and blushes when spoken directly to in a briefing and scuttles away like a crab if you so much as look like you’re going to say ‘good morning’ to him in the hallway.  They tell me he’s a brilliant engineer, able to leap tall buildings in a single bound, or maybe that was build tall buildings in a single bound.  Whatever - he’s the least likely candidate in the entire SGC to approach Hammond individually on anything, let alone broach concerns about a treaty SG-1 brokered that’s already in place.

“Colonel Edwards has informed me Lieutenant Menard is particularly adept at picking up on subtleties that fly right over the heads of the rest of his team.  In this instance, Lieutenant Menard feels the Rezulins have not been upfront with us about their reasons for the treaty.”

“Ahhh, they don’t want an irrigation system?  They’re not really interested in easy access to as much water as they could possibly use?”  I slouch down in my chair, blocking out the continuous sound of hastening footsteps.

“No, he’s quite sure they’re pleased as punch about solving the water issues, he claims this is something less . . . tangible.”

“As in?” I inquire. 

Hammond frowns.  “He thinks their . . .” he trails off with a sigh and a shake of his head. 

It’s enough to make me sit up straight and lean forward.  It’s equally unusual for Hammond to beat around the bush like this.  “General?”

“He claims their spirits have ulterior motives for this treaty.”

“Their spirits?” I admit it, I can’t help myself, it comes out as a sarcastic drawl.  “The bear we saw, sir?  Has ulterior motives for this treaty?” 

“Lieutenant Menard was dead serious, Colonel.  I had the same reaction initially, but he held his ground and you know the difficulty that young man has meeting anyone’s gaze.  He looked me square in the eye and repeated himself.  His concern is valid, even if his anxiety is not.”

“So what evidence does he have to back up this claim, sir?”

Hammond sighs again and the fingers of his left hand start to worry the edge of the desk blotter.  “He overheard some of the village women chattering as they were preparing food, he says playfully at first, but the tone turned dark the longer the conversation went on.  It seems the spirits on Rezula require some kind of regular sacrifice to keep them appeased.  The women, at least, believe the spirits have agreed to allow the Rezulins to enter into this treaty in order to . . . here’s where the Lieutenant wasn’t positive they meant it literally, but he believes the gist of the conversation concerned bringing new blood into the life stream.”

“We heard nothing of the sort, sir.  And we spent a lot of time just hanging out with the villagers.  General, we didn’t see any kind of behavior that would indicate we were being hoodwinked; no sly looks exchanged, no villagers scurrying out of meetings to have a tête-à-tête out behind the woodshed.  There was no undercurrent of malevolence or cruelty about these people.  They’re simple folk, but not stupid.  Young, I guess you could say.  Like us, sir,” I offer cheerfully, “only younger.”

“If you’re certain, Colonel.”

“What did Edwards have to say about Menard’s disclosure?”  I know Hammond will have spoken with SG-11’s commander about this as well. 

“Pretty much the same as you, but he did add he’s learned to trust that young man’s instincts.”

“Did he suggest we pull out of the treaty, sir?”

“No, but he strongly recommended we proceed with caution.”

“You know, sir, it could have been something as earthy as the women discussing candidates for their own . . . shall we say - carnal pleasure?  Versus something sinister like sacrificial appeasement to the spirits.  Thinking in terms of new blood and all.”

“I’d like you to make a trip back, Colonel.  It doesn’t need to be another week-long trip, but soon.  Before Colonel Edwards takes his team back there to begin work.  This is unusual enough, especially coming from someone on the engineering team, I want you to check it out thoroughly.  I’d have expected something like this from Dr. Jackson, but Lieutenant Menard?”

“Sir, we just got home . . .” Out of the blue, a shiver of apprehension I can’t suppress runs down my spine and it has nothing to do with the fact I don’t want to go back to that planet. 

“Something wrong, Colonel?”

“No, sir.  I’ll talk to Edwards about their time frame for return and make sure SG-1 gets back there before they’re ready to leave.” 

“Thank you.” 

As dismissals go, it’s pretty abrupt, and I get that he’s picked up on my reticence to return to Rezula.  However, it has nothing to do with the planet.  Well, okay, it’s never going to make my top ten list of places to revisit – but we just got home from a long trip, I need to be home for a few nights in a row with my kid. 

“Did I miss some memo about a base staff meeting this morning?” The hallway is never this busy unless we’re under attack and I haven’t heard any Gate klaxons.  Rising, I glance over my shoulder at the General, who glances at the clock.

His irked frown blossoms into a smirk.  “If you read your memo’s in the first place, Jack, you wouldn’t be out of the loop.”  He rises with a chuckle.  “Let’s go.”

When the General says let’s go, he doesn’t mean, if you want to.  So I fall in next to him and we join the crowds jamming onto the elevators.  By virtue of the fact he commands the Mountain and I’m his 2IC, we’re on the next elevator going up.

To level 21.  The infirmary? 

It’s packed.  As in standing room only packed.  Every bed not occupied by a patient has a least half a dozen people sitting on it.  Base personnel are ranged around the walls, leaning against the ends of beds in the aisles, sitting on counters, even jammed into the spaces between the beds. 

Fraiser’s no where to be seen and I have to wonder if she knows this is going on.  We could be in a world of hurt if we have an emergency and have to move people out of here in a hurry.  Seems to me the Mess would be a more appropriate place for a gathering of this size.  And there are still folks trying to squeeze in. 

General Hammond leads the way to Daniel’s usual infirmary bed – where there’s a white tent card propped on the bed that reads Reserved for General Hammond and Guests.  He motions me to take a seat and sits down beside me.

Is this where I’m supposed to act surprised? 

We must be right on time because Janet’s office door opens and Siler strides out purposefully. 

How to describe this . . . hmmmm. 

All right, I’ll just give it to you straight. 

Siler mounts a six-inch plywood platform set up in front of Fraiser’s office.  He has on the SGC uniform of the day - with some slight modifications.  Over his black t-shirt and green fatigues, he’s wearing a cut-away camo-jacket.  Yes, with tails and lapels.  Accompanying this get-up is a shiny, black top hat and under his arm is what looks like a police officer’s baton.

He waits, imperiously staring at the clock over the infirmary doors, apparently for silence, since the concrete room stills immediately.  A sweeping glance over the gathered – for lack of a better word – audience, and he snaps his heels together with the precision of an SS officer. 

Brandishing the baton like a magician’s wand he announces, “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . .” he pauses through the canned trumpet fan fare that blares from the loudspeakers, “Lord Daniel, and his faithful companion, Hershey!”

To the sound of tumultuous applause, Daniel, in a downsized version of Siler’s get-up, but with the addition of a sweeping, floor-length black cape, swirls onto the make-shift stage and throws back the cape, revealing Hershey, who is also wearing a cut-away camo-coat. 

No, I’m not kidding.

“It’s . . .”   A long drum roll rumbles through the infirmary, a real drum roll, none of the canned stuff now.  “Showtime!”  Siler backs swiftly off the stage as Daniel and the dog bow deeply.

Daniel straightens, squares his shoulders.  “Today we’re going to add something new to our show,” he announces. “I have been fortunate enough to come into possession of a magic rock with grrrrrrrrrreat powers,” he intones in an exact imitation of Teal’c.  “Only very important people are allowed to see it, because, you see, it’s an alien artifact, not just a rock, of extreme value.  My assistant, the lovely and talented Major Samantha Carter, will be helping us this morning since there are so many of you.  Sam?”

Magic rock?  Yesterday it was medicinal, today it’s magic?

Carter emerges from Janet’s office, thankfully sans the cut-away coat, in her own black t-shirt and BDUs, bearing a tray with the rock and what looks like a bowl of gold dust sitting on it.

“In order to see and hear our show properly this morning you have to have the gold dust put on you.  It will only take a few minutes, so feel free to talk, but you have to stay where you are so we can do this fast.”

Hammond chuckles quietly as the trio passes through the audience tattooing everyone with Lord Daniel’s mark, the human-fingers-paw-print.  Leaning to me, he whispers, “Is this the rock Teal’c brought back?”

“Yes sir.  I take it this has been going on for a while already?”

“They’ve been doing two shows a day since the day after you left for Rezula.”

“Ahhhhh.”  That explains the burning hoola hoop. 

They’ve been working on this show for several weeks based on the antics they’ve been practicing in our driveway and backyard.

Carter grins and winks as the General and I are treated to special, from the rock, tattoos, as are all the infirmary patients, I notice, though the majority of the crowd gets powdered from the gold dust in the bowl. 

There’s not a single word of complaint.  No shuffling, no clearing of throats, not even desultory conversation.  Every eye is on Lord Daniel and everyone waits patiently for him to finish his rounds, which takes nine minutes by my watch.  Tucking the rock away in one of the side pockets of his BDUs, Daniel leads the way back up the center aisle, graciously dismissing Carter and her bowl of gold dust as he and Hershey trot back up to the stage. 

“And now,” Daniel proclaims, “I give you . . . Hershey!  The most intelligent dog in the universe!   This dog,” he says confidingly, putting a hand to the side of his mouth like he’s excluding the dog from hearing, “can do algebra, geometry and even . . . trigonometry!  He speaks twenty-three different languages and knows how to do tricks besides!  Let’s give it up for . . . HERSHEY!!!!”  He claps wildly, as does his audience, while Hershey calmly sits perusing the crowd.  “Hershey, can you say hello to all these people?”

Hershey looks out over the audience, looks at Daniel, does a 180, and waves his plumy tail to enthusiastic applause.

“Good job, Hershey.”

The dog does another 180, sits himself down by Daniel’s feet, and grins at us. 

“Okay, you ready, Hersh?”

Hershey stands immediately and turns to face Daniel.

“Let’s start with a few simple tricks.  Just a minute,” Daniel tells us, leaning down to whisper to the dog.  “All right, we’re ready.  Watch closely now as Hershey goes through his series of tricks.”  He makes a broad hand motion and orders, “Hershey, beg.”

The dog drops in a heap, rolls over, and sticks his legs in the air.

Daniel sighs and swirls his wrist.  “I said beg, Hershey, not play dead.”

The dog rolls over and over and over, then looks back over his shoulder expectantly, and rolls over again.

“No,” Daniel scolds, “roll-over is not beg.  Come on, beg!” 

His hand shoves air down to the floor and Hershey immediately stretches out with his chin down on his paws.

I watched him teach the dog this routine out in the back yard.  I happen to know the instructions to Hershey, when Daniel whispered in his ear, were to follow the hand signs, not the voice commands.

“No, no, no.  Not lie down, beg.  Come on, you’re a smart dog.  You know beg.  Beg, Hershey.”

Watching Daniel, the dog rolls over again, sticks his feet in the air, rolls again, and comes back to a lie-down position. 

Daniel turns to us with a put-upon sigh.   Behind him the dog sits up, pulls his front paws into his chest, and does a perfect Beg. 

A chuckle sweeps the audience and Daniel looks around with a classically bewildered frown.  “What?”

Hershey, of course, is sitting on his butt, looking innocent.

The audience roars when Daniel turns back and the dog resumes begging behind him. 

They’ve got this down pat. 

Someone must have helped him with his script, because Daniel is throwing out one-liners one after another and the dog’s a perfect foil for all his bad jokes. 

Hershey turns his back, hides his eyes with his paws, snorts and snuffles in all the right places, and generally makes Daniel look like he’s been doing this shtick for years.

They do a few tricks with the hoola hoop – sans fire, thankfully - Hershey performs all of his behaviors flawlessly, including begging, rolling over, playing dead, sitting, lie down, and heel. 

And then the dog has Daniel do tricks, barking out commands Daniel translates from French to English, Spanish to English, Latin to English and etc., while he does cartwheels across the stage, handsprings – the gymnastics with Teal’c are obviously paying dividends – and ultimately, Hershey’s final command in German, which Daniel refuses to translate.

“No, they don’t want to see me do that.  They’ve seen me do that too many times already.”

Hershey barks once.

“Come on, give me something else,” Daniel cajoles.

Hershey just looks at him.

“I don’t want to do that.  Think of something else.”

Hershey looks down at his paws for a moment, then back up at Daniel, and slowly moves his head from side to side. 

The hand signs the dog is reacting to now are very subtle.

“No, I’m not going to do it, I don’t care if I get treats or not.”

For a moment, Hershey doesn’t move.  Then with magisterial dignity, he comes to all fours, marches over to Daniel, and slowly raises a paw to plant it in Daniel’s chest.

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” Daniel intones as he keels over, “I don’t want to play dead!”

The audience roars hysterically!

We’ve discovered he’s an incredibly gifted mimic.  He’s got half the SGC personnel nailed, including Carter, Teal’c and me.  But his best impersonation is of Fraiser in her Napoleonic mode.

He had us laughing so hard the other night I thought Cassie was going to wet her pants.

Fraiser just grabbed him and gave him a noogie, then did that snuffle-snort thing Carter does with him, kissing his neck and making him giggle until he begged for mercy.

On stage, he opens one eye and turns his head to look at the dog.  “If you don’t let me up soon, I’m going to fall asleep, you know.”

Hershey appears to mull this over, barks once more, and Daniel scrambles to his feet, tossing back the cape as he throws his arms wide.

“And that’s all for today, folks.  Next show at 4:45 this afternoon.  Come one, come all!” he pronounces loudly, motioning for Hershey to bow with him.

They exit stage left to a riotous ovation and shouts of encore, encore!

I catch a glimpse of Fraiser and Carter as the door shuts solidly behind the pair and I glance over at the General.

That gentleman grins widely.  “Quite a show.  Even without a burning hoola hoop.”

We both rise to join the multitude flowing up the center aisle of the infirmary and like the Red Sea for Moses, the crowd parts as we head for the hallway.

“This is only the second time I’ve seen them,” Hammond says, grinning.  “I believe there are at least five routines now, with a few overlapping elements.”

“Five,” I repeat, more than a little surprised. 

“That child has a mind like a steel trap.  Nothing that goes in is ever jettisoned.”

“Another trait he has in common with his adult self,” I sigh.  “Way too smart for his own good.”

Hammond’s grin watts up as he runs his security card through the reader and asks, “What floor, Colonel?”

I so hope Leno is booked from now until Daniel is resized.

*     *     *
Regrettably, between making a two-day trip back to Rezula – a useless waste of time as far as I’m concerned – and six new recon trips - all to uninhabited planets with nothing to recommend them – it takes two weeks to catch all the shows on the Lord Daniel & his Faithful Companion show-schedule tacked to my bulletin board with an unbent paper clip.

With each new gig, I’m more and more astounded.  I know I’m probably prejudiced, but they’re producing a show with a level of sophistication people would pay money to see.  This whole venture should be far beyond this Daniel’s ability.  Heck, I doubt adult Daniel could pull off this kind of show.  Though I suppose that has more do with his serious lack of playfulness than any lack of ability.    

Three weeks into it - they started the week we were gone - their audience has dwindled significantly, but Daniel’s philosophical.  He says they never expected to play to a packed house constantly; they’re happy to do their show for the infirmary patients, besides – it’s a captive audience.  His aside, not mine.  The kid is turning into a real comedian.

The piece of this I don’t like one little bit is the new side of Daniel that seems to be blooming with their rise to fame, especially the cagey, evasive mannerisms he’s started to exhibit.

He’s all exuberance and charm when he knows he’s in the spotlight, but come up on him unawares and he’s shuffling books and papers around on his desk as though he’s hiding something, or furtively stuffing Teal’c’s rock back in his pocket.

That alone would be enough to ding my alarm bells.  But Teal’c tells me he’s having trouble keeping Daniel focused on school work since we got back from Rezula, and homework assignments for the days we’re off-world are being ignored. 
 
Daniel loves school.  For the last eleven months we’ve been the ones trying to broaden his interests, but more along the lines of outdoor activities than something else that has him hunched over a computer keyboard for hours on end.

Carter recently ran across a new outdoor sport she cajoled us into trying and got us all hooked.  It’s an adult, high tech version of treasure-hunting called geocaching.  Basically, utilizing GPS coordinates posted on the Internet, we go looking for what’s been hidden.

Anyway, since he started this dog and pony show, Daniel hasn’t wanted to do anything but work on it.  A week ago he spent the trip home from the Mountain trying to scope out a wireless network he could filch off of so he could work in the truck.  This past weekend we had a good shot at a first-to-find geocaching and he refused to leave the house.

Yeah, I realize this obsession is very adult-Daniel-like.  Let adult Daniel get a faint whiff of a puzzle and he’s all over it until he’s solved the thing.  Challenge a point and he won’t rest until he’s proved it ten times over.  Give him an artifact to translate and he doesn’t sleep until it’s done, even if it takes a week.  So, yeah, I’m not fooling myself into thinking this is brand new behavior.  But it is new for this incarnation of Daniel and in combination with the whole secretive thing he seems to have going on with that rock, my alarm bells are definitely ringing - stridently.

Bottom line, if we can’t come to some kind of compromise, the shows are going to have to stop.  This obsession is not healthy, and furthermore, they seem to be excessively draining.

I’ve found the kid and the dog lying on the sofa in Daniel’s office several times after a performance.    Fraiser says Daniel is expending huge amounts of energy, so it’s natural to need to recharge, especially for a kid this size.

I’ve lived with him for the last eleven months; I’m not convinced she’s right about this. 

So I have a definite purpose in mind when I track him down in his “office”. 

Normally during school hours when we’re on base, he’s with Teal’c in the converted classroom.  If Teal’c is otherwise occupied, and neither Carter nor I can cover, Daniel comes back here to his old office.  All the security shifts know to keep an eye on him wherever he goes, so I can call up at any given time and they can tell me where he is.

It’s how I found him now. 

Daniel’s office has a particular smell.  It’s a combination of old books and older artifacts, overlaid by the scent of candle wax and alien incense. 

It took me awhile to figure out the incense stuff worked like No Doz. 

Adult Daniel always said he liked the smell and since he could never resist digging through the garbage to bring back useless crap from every planet we went to, his office quite often smelled rancid for days after a particularly successful mission. 

Or at least what he considered successful. 

The incense was powerful enough to overcome even those smells and it never occurred to me he wasn’t being completely truthful about the stuff.  So I had no issue when he bartered or traded for it off-world.

Until Teal’c clued me in after a particularly bad mission where a sleep-deprived Daniel got his ass kicked and very nearly got the rest of us killed saving that sorry ass.  

Carter, Teal’c, and I ended up in the infirmary for a couple of days.  

Daniel was in for two weeks, and then on light duty for another month. 

I personally pitched the damn incense into the incinerator.  Coincidentally, nobody on base slept for three days straight. 

The smell of it still permeates his office, though I believe the effect has worn off. 

However, that’s not the memory that swats me across the back of the head as I stroll in to check on my pint-sized archeologist.

No, the memory that grabs me now is of standing in this door the first time I found him here after he descended.  I was standing watching him work, marveling at the consistent inconsistencies of the universe, when – without lifting or turning his head – he growled, “What do you want?”

It was the moment I realized that connection was still there.

“Hey, Sport.” I knock on the open door. 

He looks over at me – he’s perched precariously on a stool that allows him to use the counter and his laptop – then glances around for Hershey, who’s snoozing on the sofa.  “How long have you been standing there?”

Here we go with the shuffling kerfluffle thing.  And the back button on the computer definitely gets a glide and slide. 

“Why?  Got something to hide?”  I stroll up behind him to look over his shoulder.  Something else I’m not too keen on are the lavender smudges under those impossibly blue eyes.  Especially since they seem to be edging toward a bruised purple that makes me think he’s not getting enough sleep. 

“I’m doing school work, you’re not supposed to be interrupting, Teal’c said.”

“He did, did he?” 

Daniel leans back against me and I wrap my arms around him as we both study his computer screen.  It’s not unusual for him to want to cuddle, but this isn’t cuddling.  This is deep-sigh-stretch-abused-muscles-I’m-tired kind of leaning back.  In this case, I’m just a convenient prop.  

“Hmmm.”  I hit the forward button.  “Exactly what subject does lotsofjokes.com help you with?”

“Ummm,” Daniel says, flirting a shoulder, “English?”

Because he’s small, and I can, I twirl him around on the stool to face me.  “You’ve been allowed to stay in here by yourself because we trust you.  Is this really school work?”

He mulls it over for several seconds before answering solemnly, “No, but it is work.”

“Is your school work done?”

Indecision wars with temptation on the small, up-turned face. 

Was this face always this readable, or is it just the downsizing? 

“No,” he says finally, adding, with an uncharacteristic pout, “I don’t like math.”  He squinches up his nose like it has a bad smell too.  “Why do I have to learn all this stuff if I’m going to remember it soon anyway?”

“Are you?”

“What?”  Now the arms cross over his chest, but not in that old self-hug.  That’s a thing of the past; I haven’t seen that in a couple of months. 

No, this is your standard I-hate-this-I-don’t-want-to-do-it-and-you-can’t-make-me pose.

“Going to remember it soon?”

“I don’t know,” he snaps, adding the cross-eyed look to the list. 

He’s certainly got this kid thing down pat.

“What happens if you don’t?”

“Don’t what?  And don’t try to confuse me.”

I sigh.  “What happens if you don’t remember, Daniel?”

“Not going to happen,” he snarks, in a perfect imitation of me.

I take a step back and mirror his pose, arms crossed over my chest, staring at him down my nose.  He’s staring up at me over the top of his glasses. 

“What makes you think that?”

“I don’t think, I know.” 

“You know you’re going to be big again?  When?  How?”

“I don’t know that,” he says, in that tone of voice that scrapes nerves like fingernails on a blackboard.

“Then how do you know you’re going to be big again?” I repeat, allowing a bit more Colonel into my voice so he knows I’m not playing games anymore.

He stares at me a moment longer before uncrossing his arms to push his glasses up his nose.  “I don’t know how I know,” he sighs, reaching his arms up to be held.  “I just do.”

“Uh huh, I’ll pick you up, but not until we’re done with this conversation.”

“I’m done,” he announces, wiggling his still-held-up fingers insistently.

“I’m not, Dr. Jackson.  A few specifics are in order here, and you’re the one who started this, so don’t bother trying to weasel out of it.”

His arms fall to his lap and with a very put-upon sigh he swivels back around on the stool and opens the math book.  “All right, I’ll do the math.”

In two steps I reach over his shoulder and snap the book closed.  While he is one of two people in the universe I occasionally let manipulate me, that doesn’t mean I like it.

“This has gone beyond the math now.  What makes you think you’re going to be resized, Daniel?”

The blond head goes down and he draws a deep breath – such an adult Daniel response I’m momentarily left breathless – before he raises his head just enough to look at me,

“I’m itchy.  My skin feels too small to hold me.”

Now I’m sucking air.  “How come you haven’t told me this before?”

More internal debate, plainly visible on the small, elfin face, and the ring finger creeps up for a chew. 

All right, let’s try this from a different angle.  “What aren’t you telling me?”

The chewing notches up as his head swivels around until he finds Hershey again, still lying on the sofa.  The dog has his head between his paws, eyes bouncing between us like he’s watching a tennis match. 

Daniel drops his chin to his chest and mumbles something unintelligible.  This is something new he’s picked up in this incarnation.  Adult Daniel had no problem arguing; this one shies away from any kind of confrontation.

“Please look at me.”

Compliance is relatively quick.

“What’s going on you haven’t told me about.”

I’m treated to the eye roll, accompanied by the shoulder flirt and a tch.

“I just . . . talked to the dog lady again.”

“Dog lady?  Which dog lady?”

“What do you mean which dog lady?”

“Alissana? Or Oma Desala?”

“Who?”

“Ms. Ali?  The lady we got Hershey from?”  One word about prepositions and I’ll shoot someone.  “Or the lady who was also a dog on that damn island?”

“Oh.”  A moment’s frown, the arms cross over his chest again, and he looks back at the dog.  “You never told me that,” he says accusingly – to the dog.

“Told you what?” I prod, when he continues staring at the dog.

“Huh?  Oh, nothing.”  Daniel shakes his head as if coming out of a trance.  “The first one – the one from the island.”

Have I mentioned how much I hate twenty questions?

“That would be Oma Desala.  What did Hershey just tell you?  That Oma Desala was Alissana too?”

“How’d you know that?”

I think we’ll leave that one alone for the moment.  “Where did you see her?  And when?  Since Hershey came to live with us?”

The chewing notches up and the answer is unintelligible.

“Take your finger out of your mouth and answer the question.”

“Here.”  The ring finger comes out of his mouth and gets shoved into the circle of his closed right hand, where he worries it like a plunger.

“Here?  As in inside the Mountain?”

“Yes.”

“Where in the Mountain?”

“Here,” he says, tucking his chin back down inside the neck of his t-shirt.

“Right here?  In this office?”

“Uh huh.”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

Okay, I suppose that was a little open-ended.  “Why was she here in your office?”
More to the point, what the hell is she doing hanging around in the Mountain?

“Uhmmm . . . well . . . I sort of  . . . asked her.”

Oh, for cryin’ out loud!  “Why?”  I’m trying my best to keep a level tone, but I don’t think I’m doing a very good job.

“Hershey told me she was hanging around.  She said the cameras couldn’t see her because she’s energy and therefore un-defectable with that kind of technology.”

“Undetectable.”

He gives me the look.  “Yeah, that’s what I said.”

Can we say – role reversal? 

I sigh and swipe a hand through what’s left of my grey - now shading to white as he leaches out the last of the color - hair.  At least I still have some – hair that is. 

“When did this happen?”  I’m not touching the fact that the dog told him she was here, or that she appeared at his invitation.  What I really want to know is why is she hanging around? 

That requires patience, a commodity I’m in short supply of at the moment.

“When?” I repeat impatiently. 

He heaves another sigh.  “Just before you went to P8X-XYZ.”

“Which time?”  We’ve been twice in the last three weeks.

“The long time.”

“So you saw Oma just before we went to Rezula the first time.”

“Uh huh.”

“And you didn’t think it was important to tell me because . . .”

“I forgot,” he responds innocently, blinking those incredibly long lashes at me.

“Want to try again, Sport?  And I highly recommend this time you give serious consideration to telling me the truth.”

“I did.  I just forgot.”  Now he frowns as though he can’t believe I would think he’d lie to me.

“Daniel, I’m holding onto my temper by the skin of my teeth.  Know what that means?”

“Not much space between your temper and me?”

“Good guess.  The space is shrinking rapidly.”

“Okay!Ithoughtyoudbemad!” he says in a rush.

“No?  You’re kidding?  You thought I’d be mad?  Whatever made you imagine such a thing?”  Yeah, I know I’m giving free lessons in Sarcasm 101; nothing new for either incarnation of Daniel.  “Hershey, is she still here?”

The dog lazily opens one eye and thumps his tail – like any normal dog would do when he hears his name.

“Daniel, ask the dog if she’s still here.”

“Hershey, is she still here?” he mimics.

I grit my teeth.

“Hershey says no, she’s got other fish to fry.”

Oh, you are so busted, dog!

“Hershey is not the dog lady, no matter what you think, Jack.”
                        
Right.  And I spell my name with one L.

“There’s no L in Jack,” Daniel smirks.

Maybe not - but there’s lots of Dan-yel in Jack.  Twined around Jack’s brain stem like a little parasite.  Especially this incarnation, though the other managed to worm his way into my skull as well.  Now he’s in my mind too?  It’s one thing to toy with a little sub-vocal communication every now and then, quite another to have someone else roaming around in your head. 

Get out of here, right now; this is not a safe place for you to be.

Why?

“Stop it.  You’re not going to distract me with mind games either.”  Did I say shit already?  Not out loud?  Good.  I think it again; repetitively.  And sigh gustily.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.  “I should have told you.  I knew you’d be worried she’d try to take me again.”

“She didn’t take you, as we’ve already discussed, my little walking-encyclopedia-with-a-Venus-Fly-Trap-brain.  You went with her willingly.  The difference is - just in case I’m being too subtle for you – one is an invitation to go play, the other is considered kidnapping. Oma Desala invited you to play and you went.”

“See, I knew you’d be mad.”

“Ya think?”  I swing around to pace the length of his office behind the counter. 

“I wouldn’t have gone with her, Jack.”

“How do you know she’ll keep giving you a choice?”

 “You just said . . .” Daniel sighs.  “She didn’t take me the first time.  Besides, there are rules.”

“Rules?”  It comes out more as a snort than a question.  Not that I intended it to be a question.  “It’s been my experience she finds a way around those rules whenever it’s to her benefit.”

Hershey sits up on the sofa, takes a long, hard look at me, hops down, and comes over to pace beside me. 

“Don’t you start, too,” Daniel mutters.

Which gives me an idea.  Yeah, it’s totally bizarre.  What can I say?  But it feels . . . right.  I stop abruptly, grab the dog by the collar, and squat down so we’re eye level with each other.  “I expect you to guard him with your life.”

I let go of him and the dog slowly turns around, plants his butt, and solemnly lifts a paw to shake.  I swear on everything I hold sacred he knows exactly what I’ve asked of him.  It’s no less than he expects of me and we seal the bargain with a firm shake.  So what if it’s a paw in my hand, the pledge is no less binding.

“So what else did she tell you?”  I make an effort to quell the quivering nerve endings making my own skin itch and shuffle back to a standing position.

Yeah, I’m still pissed, but that ridiculous little ritual relived some of my stress.  If that dog is only a dog, I’ll eat one of Daniel’s boonies.

“She didn’t tell me anything.  Mostly she talked about things like rice that should have been cooked already and bowls that don’t need washing.  I told her if she wasn’t going to make things any better, to just go away.  We didn’t want her here.”

“Why do you think she’s hanging around?”

Daniel shrugs off-handedly.  “Well, I think she does want me to go with her again, but she’s never asked.  She talked a lot about paths and stuff and how I should always follow my own path.”

I’d like to clear a path for her, straight back to glowy land, where I’d like her to stay and leave us the hell alone.

Living in our neighborhood wasn’t close enough?  She told me she wasn’t responsible for this version of Daniel, that he’d done this to himself.  But it sure seems like she has some stake in this business, or why would she be hanging around? 

I need adult Daniel working on this puzzle.  But then if he was adult Daniel, we wouldn’t have this puzzle in the first place – so the question wraps around itself again and again until it resembles a python coiled around my brain, squeezing the life out of it.

Alex, I’ll take Timelines for Daniel Jackson for a thousand, please. 

Daniel lifts his arms again, but with a tentativeness that twangs my last nerve like an out-of-tune guitar string.

On another sigh, I pick him up and snug him close. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs, putting his head down on my shoulder.

“You feeling okay, Sport?”  I rest my cheek lightly against his hot forehead.

Instead of answering, he’s tries distraction.  “Why?”

“You’re kind of warm.”  Too warm.  He’s usually in a jacket or sweatshirt inside the Mountain.  This afternoon all he’s wearing is his t-shirt and BDUs and he feels like a hot-water bottle.

“Oh, it’s the rock.  Whenever I play with it, I get warm all over.”

“Really?  Can I see the rock?”

After a slight hesitation, he sits up, digs it out of his side flap-pocket and hands it to me. 

“How do you use it, Sport?”  I set him on the counter and take the rock, walking it up and down the backs of my knuckles until they’re coated with the gold powder.

His eyes follow the manipulated rock and he asks curiously, “How do you do that?” 

“Practice is all.  There’s no trick to it.  How do you use the rock?”

He shrugs and reaches for it, mewling a slight protest when I don’t let him take it. 

“I need it, Jack.  We can’t do our show without it.”

I glance at the clock over the door.  “And you’re on in less than fifteen minutes, huh?”

“Yes!  Give me the rock.  I have a lot to do in the next fifteen minutes,” he huffs at me.  “You’ve taken up way too much of my time already; we’re going to be late.”

“I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.”

“Oh, dear, whatever shall I do?”  Daniel slaps both hands to the sides of his face and widens his eyes.  “Give me the rock and go away,” he laughs, punching me in the arm and reaching for it again.

I hand it back, but not before I’ve examined it from every angle, tasted the powder myself, and rubbed my palm against the back of my knuckles.  The gold stuff is slippery and a little bit oily between my fingers, but it doesn’t make me warm.  It looks like a rock, feels like a rock, and smells like a rock.  So, based on the theory – if it quacks like a duck – this should be a rock, right?

Daniel slid off the counter onto the stool while I was examining the rock and is already beavering away at his laptop, eyes glued to the screen, tiny fingers flying over the keys as he mumbles to himself very much like his adult incarnation.

“Sergeant?”  On the way past, I remember to snag the office phone.  “I want an SF posted in Daniel’s office twenty-four/seven until further notice. . . . Yes, even when he’s in here . . . Yes, Sergeant Harriman, even when he’s not in here.  Did the words twenty-four/seven sound at all familiar? . . . Thank you.  Remind me to tell you what an invaluable asset you are to the SGC, Sergeant Harriman  . . . You’re welcome.”  I drop the receiver back in its cradle and whistle my way to the door.  Strategically, I actually step into the hall and stick my head back around the doorframe.  “By the way?  I need you to do me a favor.”

“What?”  He doesn’t even look up from whatever it is he’s busily typing.

“When this show is over, I want you to take that rock down to Carter and have her analyze it.”

“For what?”  Now he does look up, apprehensively.

“Just a precautionary measure.  I want to be sure there’s nothing harmful to humans in it.”

“Teal’c said its fine.”

“Yep, I know.  So humor an old man, just take the rock to Carter and have her make sure there’s nothing unusual about it, please?”

He purses his lips with a frown.  “If I have time,” he informs me.  “I’ll see what I can do.”

“If you don’t, I will.  We clear on this?”  I get a mumbled response that sounds suspiciously like ‘we’ll see’, so I prompt again.  “Dr. Jackson? 

“All right, I’ll take it to Sam, but there’s nothing wrong with the rock.  It’s not hurting me, Jack.”

“I’m glad you don’t think so, please have Carter confirm it.”

His sniff of disdain is meant to put me in my place; I ignore it. 

“See ya later, Sport.”

I didn’t quite meet my objective for this visit; the rock still isn’t in my possession, though I suppose another day or two probably won’t kill him.  In the meantime, this new intel bothers me almost as much as the rock.  What the heck does Oma Desala want with our kid?  And how the hell am I supposed to find out?

*     *     *
I don’t often work Saturday nights anymore unless I’m off-world; one of the perks of being a Colonel and 2IC of the Mountain.  One of the drawbacks of being guardian of this incarnation of Daniel is the things I get suckered into because I have a hard time saying no to him.  Colonel Penhall, from SG-2, was supposed to be the C.O. on duty tonight. 

Yeah, I know, surprise!  General Hammond doesn’t live here, it just appears that he does.

So, anyway, Penhall heard Daniel was doing a show for the weekend contingent this evening and asked if I’d mind subbing for him.   They’re having a birthday party tonight and his wife’s been ragging on him to be home to help chaperone.  I hear Penhall’s ordered his entire unit to attend, since it’s for his 18-year-old daughter.  Hope he remembers to put one of them on punch bowl duty.

On our way in tonight, Daniel explained to me, very carefully, why I didn’t need to attend this evening’s show.  It was an inventive list, touching on my responsibility to watch the Gate, to be available if some SG team came in hot, and answering the red phone should it happen to ring.  Not to mention, they’re just doing the same old show they’ve done a million times already.  I’d be bored to tears. 

He shut up when I told him I got the picture; that I understood I was uninvited.  Which makes me wonder why?  What’s he got up his sleeve he thinks he can get away with if I’m not there?  And this has clearly been planned for this weekend show – at a guess, because he thinks these people don’t know him in this incarnation.  One of those - I don’t know you, how could you possibly know me? – scenarios.  He hasn’t yet reasoned out that the entire base is aware of his downsizing, no matter what shift they work. 

For now, I have no plans to enlighten him.  Warner will call me if there’s a problem.

So I’m in my office whittling away at the mountain of paperwork in my inbox.  I prefer to work from my own office, even when I have command of the Mountain, I don’t do bored well and sitting watching the red phone doesn’t cut it for me.  So my inbox is perilously close to being empty when the alarms startle me from my oh-so-absorbed concentration.

I’m out of my office and on my way to the elevator for Level 28 when the subtle difference in the alarm tones makes the connection in my brain.

FIRE!

Those are fire alarms, not the Gate klaxons.  I have an instant vision of burning hoola hoops and change direction mid-stride.

My card is already sliding through my door reader when the overhead intercom blares. 

“Colonel O’Neill, to the infirmary, stat!  Colonel O’Neill, to the infirmary.  All clear on the fire alarm.”

Snatching up the phone I dial security.  “What level?”

“21, in the infirmary, sir, but the fire has already been contained.  No damage, sir, no one hurt.”

“What happened?”

There’s a discreet cough on the other end of the line.  They’re still watching whatever the hell is going on down there while I’ve got diddly squat.

“Airman?”

“Uh, well, sir, we think Daniel may have accidentally caught some papers on fire.”

Right.  Did I mention burning hoola hoops?  I sink down in my desk chair.  I’m too old for this, way too old.  If I don’t take a moment to calm down now, I’ll skin him alive when I get my hands on him.  “Call Dr. Warner, tell him I’m on my way.”

“Yes, sir.  There really was no harm done, sir.”

I don’t bother with a reply, just drop the phone back in its cradle and sink my head into my hands.  Way.  Too.  Old.

By the time I reach the infirmary, my heartbeat has returned to something resembling a normal rhythm, though if Warner took my blood pressure right now, he’d throw my ass in an infirmary bed.

Teal’c is standing guard at the C.M.O.’s office door, where I presume Lord Daniel and his Faithful Companion are being held.

Dr. Warner comes out, closing the door behind him when he sees me, and motions me aside, out of range of hearing of any of the patients.

“I’m not exactly sure what happened, Colonel, by the time I came on the scene, Lieutenant Morrison had put out the fire.  Dr. Jackson . . .” Warner looks away and clears his throat, “uh, Dr. Jackson appears to have suffered no ill affects from the small contretemps, sir.”

His discretion is admirable, but not what I want. 

“What did the little shit do?”

“Uhm, perhaps you should speak to Dr. Jackson about what went on, sir.  He might be clearer about what and how the . . . uh . . . incident happened.”

“Trust me, I’ll get the story from him, too, but I want an adult’s version of it first.”

“Sir, if I may?”  Lieutenant Morrison, one of Fraiser’s nurses, edges into our zone, looking mighty uncomfortable, but on a mission.  “Dr. Warner wasn’t even in the room, sir.”

“Lieutenant,” I sigh. “The doc says you put out the fire.”

“Yes, sir.  It really was nothing.  A single sheet of paper caught on fire.”

“More to the point, Lieutenant, what was he doing that caught a piece of paper on fire?”

“It happened so quickly, I’m not even sure myself, but I think Hershey must have distracted Daniel for a second and the hoola hoop drooped and bounced against the nearest tray.  It looked like a med order sheet.  It floated to the floor, sir, where I was able to put it out with just my shoe.”

“No harm, no foul,” Warner murmurs.  “It was an accident, nothing more.”

“I’m sorry, am I the only one who thinks this whole scenario is just WRONG?  Why would you let a kid in here with a burning hoola hoop in the first place?”

“No one expected it, sir.  But Daniel appeared to have everything well in-hand.  Before he lit the hoola hoop he played with the fire between his hands, then lit the hoola hoop and had Hershey jump through it.”

I want to stick a finger in my ear and jiggle it to make absolutely certain there’s no more wax build-up than usual and I’m hearing what I thought I heard.  Instead, I ask as calmly as the guardian of a seven-year-old genius with ascended genes can, “He was playing with fire between his hands?  Fire?  Real, hot, burning, fire?”

“Real enough to burn paper, though I was certain, at first at least, that it was some kind of illusion, sir.”

“Illusion.  Yeah.  Right.” 

I’ve got six hours before I can turn over command.  This is probably a good thing.  If I took him home right now . . .

“Thank you, Lieutenant.  Doc, should I take some aspirin to thin my blood before I go in there, so I don’t stroke out when I start screaming at him?”

To Warner’s credit, he suppresses the twitching smile.  “There’ve been amazing strides in stroke therapy in the last few years, but immediate treatment seems to be the key factor.  I’ll be . . . right here, sir.  If you need me.”

Why is it I appear to be the only one not amused by this little stunt? 

“What is your plan of action, O’Neill?”  Teal’c inquires, planting himself squarely in front of the door.

“Before or after I murder him?  Unless you want to deal with this yourself, T, I recommend you stand down.”

“Would it not be efficacious to allow your temper to cool before confronting Daniel Jackson?”

“No.  And I have no intention of arm wrestling you to get in the door.  Stand down.”

Teal’c eyes me for a moment longer, then steps aside and opens the door.

Daniel looks up from where he’s kneeling on the chair behind Fraiser’s desk.  It appears he has a file folder open on the desktop and when I lean in to look at it, I realize he has out his own medical file and is leafing through it.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”  I snatch up the folder, shuffling papers back into the overstuffed shell.

“It’s my file,” he says patiently, which has the effect of pouring gasoline on smoldering embers. 

The hold I have on my temper goes up in flames. 

“It is not your file, it belongs to your adult self and you have no business reading it.  What the hell has gotten into you lately?  Have you lost your mind?  Have you really reverted to a clueless seven-year-old?  Because if that’s the case, I’m going to have to lock you up until you’re capable of using your head again!  Setting something on fire INSIDE a building?  Are you out of your frigging mind?”

“It wasn’t really on fire,” Daniel inserts calmly.  “It just looks like fire.”

Onetwothreefourfive . . . nintynineonehundred.

See?  There.  I can do calm. 

“Oh.  Then the paper that’s now ash in a trashcan somewhere is just an illusion, too, right?”

He thinks about that one for a moment, then stands up on the chair and hops down to snatch up the hoola hoop leaning against a set of file drawers.  He carefully closes the drawer - the J drawer for Jackson, he probably owns the entire drawer between both incarnations – and shoves the hoola hoop out in front of him.  Hershey hops down from his chair in front of the desk, ready for action too.

“It’s easy once you get the hang of it,” he says, digging Teal’c’s rock out of his pocket and closing his eyes. 

Instantly a ring of fire circles the hoop, dancing across his knuckles as if it’s a breeze rather than a lethal essence.  Hershey contorts his body to hop through without banging into the desk or the file cabinets.  For a moment it appears as though the dog has caught fire, every little individual hair appears to glow at the tip, and then the illusion is gone and he’s just a dog grinning at me, his shaggy head framed like a picture, by the flaming circle. 

“You can touch it, I won’t let it hurt you,” Daniel offers. 

“Read my lips.  Put.It.Out.Now.”

“Look, it’s not real.”  He shoves the burning hoop against Hershey’s neck, who appears unfazed, and more importantly, does not immediately catch on fire. 

“DANIEL!”

When he taps it against a stack of highly flammable papers I instinctively grab for it.  The plastic is warm, but not melted, the flames tickle a little, but there’s no heat.  Until I give it a tug.  The instant it leaves Daniel’s hand, the flames sear across the backs of my knuckles, melting the plastic in my grip.  An instant later the flames are gone.

Daniel looks up at me, then down at my clenched fist. 

I open the door and hand out the artifact – along with some flesh.  “Get rid of this damn thing and take Daniel to our on-base quarters.  I’ll be along shortly.”

“You shouldn’t have done that, but I can fix it.  Give me your hand.”  Daniel holds his own out imperiously as I turn back.

“You will go with Teal’c without another word, and if you’re lucky, I’ll sleep on this before I decide what to do with you.  But you can be certain there will be consequences, young man.”

“I didn’t –”

“Now.”

Wisely, Teal’c steps inside and scoops up Daniel before he can start again.  The Jaffa, the kid, and the dog beat a hasty retreat.

“Doc?  I think I might be in need of some first aid.”

“Colonel?”  Warner has to pry open the fingers, they don’t want to open on their own.  “Nurse, get a burn kit!  Colonel, sit down.”

He doesn’t have to tell me twice.  Nor do I protest when he grabs an elbow and pulls me toward an infirmary bed. 

The doc drags a rolling tray over with his foot and props my elbow on top.  “Keep it elevated,” he orders, pulling on a pair of new sterile gloves before starting to open the various packages the nurse piles on the tray next to me.  “What happened?” he demands, gingerly taking my hand again.

“For some stupid reason, I took the burning hoola hoop out of Daniel’s hands.  Apparently as long as he’s in control of it, it’s only an illusion.”

Warner looks over at me with a raised eyebrow. “Kheb?”

I doubt my smile is a pleasant thing to observe.  “Oh, I don’t think he had to reach that far back, Doc.”
 
“You’re going to have trouble with this, Colonel.  It’s at least a second degree burn”

What should have been blisters is pretty much raw flesh, since the top layer of the blisters stuck to the hoola hoop when I passed it to Teal’c. 

“This is not going to feel good, do you want me to give you something?”

“Just do it, Doc, unless you want to cover for me for the next six hours.”

“No, thanks.  Nurse, get me a topical anesthetic.  I’m not going to try to debrid this without some kind of numbing. 

By the time he’s done, I’m very thankful he insisted, because it frickin’ hurts with anesthetic. 

He smears some gooey stuff across the palm of my hand and loosely wraps it with gauze.  “Keep it dry and above your heart and you’ll suffer less.  Will you leave it in a sling if I set you up with one?”

“No.”

“Figured that was a useless waste of breath.  Make sure one of us sees it every couple of days.  I’ll leave a note for Dr. Fraiser, so don’t make us come looking for you, Colonel.”   A very fine ash drifts up from the trashcan he sweeps the empty packaging into.  “Get him some aspirin and make sure he takes it before he leaves, Lieutenant.”  Warner dismisses me with a flick of his wrist.  “Good luck with your charge; I wouldn’t trade places with you for the all the money in the world.”

Part 3

~*~

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