SG-1 Gen Fic Day/Cam Alphabet Soup: E is for Exertion
Mitchell's legs burned with fatigue and buckled as he tried to force them to move, but he was pushing himself up again, even before the physical therapist could say, "Let's try once more, Colonel." He'd always been pig-stubborn, as his granma used to say, but since the crash he'd found reserves of obdurate will that sometimes surprised even him. 'Adversity builds character' he thought. 'And why do we need character? To cope with adversity.' His dad had told him that once. He grasped the bars and tried to force his shaking legs to move, accepting the pain. Pain was good. Far better than the terrifying lack of sensation after the accident- he pushed thoughts of the past behind him, and focused forward. His left foot moved, dragging and he shifted to put weight on it, looking past the end of the parallel bars. He had O'Neill's word- "Get well soon. And when you do, you can do anything you want, and I mean…professionally…anything you want." Bastard probably thought he was safe making that promise. He remembered the doctor telling him he was unlikely to walk again. O'Neill must have known that. Weren't they both going to be surprised...
The trees were wobbling gently somewhere past his feet, and someone was prodding him in the ribs with a stick. Staff. Jolan. Sodan warrior. The last few days came swimming back. The fight at the Gate. Learning the Sodan fighting style. Or not. He rolled away from the stick, feeling the bruises where Jolan had thrown him down and came to his feet. "Show me that one again," he said, in his breeziest and most annoying tone. The trees gave a final lurch and his vision sharpened. Not concussed, just knocked silly for a moment, he judged.
Jolan frowned. "You are slow and weak."
Mitchell smiled. "But persistent." Mitchell knew that the advantages were all with the Sodan, and that his best chance lay in talking his way out of this, not fighting. But continuing to fight meant the opportunity to talk. And also--Mitchell had never been a believer in odds. Time enough to deal with failure if he failed. It was balancing act--stay flexible, choose a course, then pursue it without holding back. PT, qualifying for gate travel, putting the band back together- poor odds had never yet stopped Mitchell from trying. He was determined that Jolan was going to become another of the long list of people Cameron Mitchell had surprised in the past. "Show me that one again," he repeated, and shifted his weight to block the Sodan's attack.
And do check out the other Cam Alphabet Soup entries.
The trees were wobbling gently somewhere past his feet, and someone was prodding him in the ribs with a stick. Staff. Jolan. Sodan warrior. The last few days came swimming back. The fight at the Gate. Learning the Sodan fighting style. Or not. He rolled away from the stick, feeling the bruises where Jolan had thrown him down and came to his feet. "Show me that one again," he said, in his breeziest and most annoying tone. The trees gave a final lurch and his vision sharpened. Not concussed, just knocked silly for a moment, he judged.
Jolan frowned. "You are slow and weak."
Mitchell smiled. "But persistent." Mitchell knew that the advantages were all with the Sodan, and that his best chance lay in talking his way out of this, not fighting. But continuing to fight meant the opportunity to talk. And also--Mitchell had never been a believer in odds. Time enough to deal with failure if he failed. It was balancing act--stay flexible, choose a course, then pursue it without holding back. PT, qualifying for gate travel, putting the band back together- poor odds had never yet stopped Mitchell from trying. He was determined that Jolan was going to become another of the long list of people Cameron Mitchell had surprised in the past. "Show me that one again," he repeated, and shifted his weight to block the Sodan's attack.
And do check out the other Cam Alphabet Soup entries.