The Morning After The Night Before, Part IIthothmesAugust 14 2009, 06:44:16 UTC
At 0948 Jack O’Neill surged to a sitting position from a dead sleep. Something had landed on his stomach, and the unexpected touch had put him into full defensive mode. His bed on-base. The Hell?!!! He looked down to see an infirmary robe and slippers on his lap, and looked up to see a small and angry doctor standing with folded arms in his doorway. Busted!
He stood, despite knowing, through repeated failure, that the doc was not susceptible to intimidation by height. It might not work on her, but it made him feel better.
“Well, Colonel?”
He glanced down, then up again. Still T.O.’d.
“I’m waiting!” Was that actually a toe tap?
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a syringe with the thickest damn needle he’d ever seen. Crap. She was playing hardball.
“Carter needed to get out, Doc. She felt trapped.”
No way he was going to mention her little panic attack in the elevator, or the word claustrophobia. He would not bare his Second’s flank to attack by the shrinks. Not now before she’d even really had a chance to rally. He’d face the damn needle if necessary, and whine loudly in hopes of putting the little dictator off using that method of control on him. He looked into the doc’s eyes and tried to stare her down. If he was going down, he would be fighting all the way.
Janet looked at the Colonel, taking in not only the tough and unrepentant stare, but the light beading of sweat on his brow beneath the riotous hair, and the drumming of his fingers against his right thigh, and the wiggling of his toes in his stockinged feet. The needle had been an unfair tactic. She’d read his file, and after what the Russians had done to him when they’d caught him in Afghanistan in 1980, it bordered on cruelty to use it against him, but in spite of it all, he wasn’t backing down. She’d made her point, and he’d chosen once again to take one for the team. She could live with that.
“My infirmary, Colonel, my rules.”
His stance relaxed fractionally.
“I got that, Doc. My bed, my head…” He gestured with his curvy thumb over his shoulder at the object in question. “And Doc?”
He stood, despite knowing, through repeated failure, that the doc was not susceptible to intimidation by height. It might not work on her, but it made him feel better.
“Well, Colonel?”
He glanced down, then up again. Still T.O.’d.
“I’m waiting!” Was that actually a toe tap?
She reached into her pocket and pulled out a syringe with the thickest damn needle he’d ever seen. Crap. She was playing hardball.
“Carter needed to get out, Doc. She felt trapped.”
No way he was going to mention her little panic attack in the elevator, or the word claustrophobia. He would not bare his Second’s flank to attack by the shrinks. Not now before she’d even really had a chance to rally. He’d face the damn needle if necessary, and whine loudly in hopes of putting the little dictator off using that method of control on him. He looked into the doc’s eyes and tried to stare her down. If he was going down, he would be fighting all the way.
Janet looked at the Colonel, taking in not only the tough and unrepentant stare, but the light beading of sweat on his brow beneath the riotous hair, and the drumming of his fingers against his right thigh, and the wiggling of his toes in his stockinged feet. The needle had been an unfair tactic. She’d read his file, and after what the Russians had done to him when they’d caught him in Afghanistan in 1980, it bordered on cruelty to use it against him, but in spite of it all, he wasn’t backing down. She’d made her point, and he’d chosen once again to take one for the team. She could live with that.
“My infirmary, Colonel, my rules.”
His stance relaxed fractionally.
“I got that, Doc. My bed, my head…” He gestured with his curvy thumb over his shoulder at the object in question. “And Doc?”
“Yes, Sir?”
“How’s Carter?”
Fraiser smiled.
“A little better.”
She pulled the door gently shut behind her.
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