When Jack comes to, he's upright, sort of. Two Jaffa are lugging him by the arms, and his feet are dragging on a stone floor. So much for his plan never to see this place. And the dragging hurts like hell.
He assesses the tactical situation without letting on that he's conscious. Carter is walking behind -- he can hear her -- so if she's injured, she's at least mobile. There are a couple other Jaffa with her, and one between her and Jack, probably with a weapon fixed on his head. He can't hear Jacob anywhere.
Internally, the signs are less clear. His head feels as big as a basketball, but he doesn't think it's a concussion. He tastes blood; probably just a split lip. The two staff burns haven't reproduced, though somebody's tied a tourniquet around his leg -- meaning that they want to keep him alive, at least for a while. His ribs ache and he guesses he got kicked some more -- a lot more -- but he doesn't feel a break there, either.
No, he knows exactly where the break is: his left ankle. He doesn't know if they stomped on it or beat it with rocks or what, but oh, it's definitely broken. Jack tries to relax the leg, to lessen the resistance against the floor.
Nice of them to limit the most severe damage to one extremity. Convenient. Hospitable, even.
He gives up his pretense of unconsciousness when he hears the whine of a force field being powered down. He has an idea what's about to happen, and he's right: the Jaffa both tense up and raise Jack's body, preparing to propel him forward.
"Ow ow ow," Jack says. "Take it easy on the old guy, will you?"
They don't take his advice. He's thrown into a cell, where he falls on his side and rolls over on his back, moaning. Broken bones and staff burns hurt. He covers his face with his hands and moans some more.
"This part I have not missed," he informs the empty cell.
Carter stumbles in after him, and then there's the whine of the force field, locking them in. Well, at least they're together. The Goa'uld never were too smart about that, and Baal's just another Goa'uld, right? So Carter will find a way out, and Jacob will find them, and everything'll be peachy.
"I need to look at your leg," Carter says, falling to her knees beside him. He feels one hand on his thigh and one on his knee, and knows she's about to rip a bigger hole in his pants.
Jack lets his arms drop to the floor. "Carter, stop," he says. "What the hell was that back there?"
"Which part?" she asks, clearly confused.
"The part where you paid more attention to an injured teammate than you did to the enemy."
She stares at him, eyes hard and unforgiving. "Go ahead," she says. "Blame me if you want. Now let me look at this."
"Carter, no. Just leave it alone." He scoots backward and leans against the first vertical surface he finds, which happens to be a bench. God, his ankle is trying to burst out of his boot, and his ears ring with questions about a woman he'd barely met.
"Jack, you're injured."
"Carter, I don't want him to know."
She blinks at him like she thinks he's finally lost it. "Know what? About us? Because I'm checking your leg?"
"Shhh!" He checks out the door, and then pulls out his best command glare. "Just don't, okay? It's fine."
"It's not fine."
"What the hell good do you think it would do? I've got a tourniquet, so unless you've got some antibiotics or a splint, there's no way you can help."
She's seething now, quietly. Six months ago he might not have recognized it. "No way I can help." Her jaw shifts, and she glances at the force field. Jack does the same. There are still no guards nearby. The Goa'uld were never too smart about that, either.
"Look, you don't have to like it," he says. "But the man is a lunatic, in case you haven't noticed."
She tilts her head, studies him like an equation she's just cracked. "He is," she says softly. "And hopefully you won't have to see him." But he catches her gaze flickering to his leg.
"Oh, no," he says, though he's not even sure if this is what the flickering was about. "No fucking way. Not even if we trip over the damn thing. No." No sarcophagi, for either of them. Absolutely not. He shifts and groans, involuntarily. "Now figure out how we're going to get out of here, because I do not intend to be a guest in this establishment any longer than I have to."
"Okay," she says, shaking her head, but she doesn't sound mad anymore. She pulls a tiny package from one of her pockets, and tears it open. Advil. It's not morphine, but it's still pretty great. She hands him two pills. "Take these, at least. I'll just go over there and think."
Jack blinks at her. "How much ya got?"
"Three more doses, so don't be greedy."
He swallows them and watches her move across the room. Then he drops his head onto the bench behind him, and attempts to find a decent position for his leg. No luck.
Carter examines the area around the doorway, looking for a control panel. When that doesn't pan out, she directs her attention to the walls themselves.
They've both been through this a hundred times; they both know she won't find anything. And for some reason that pisses him off.
"He's smarter than your average snake, Carter. There's not going to be a loose ventilation panel."
She stands up straight and stares at him. "You just ordered me to find a way out of here, and now you want me to stop?"
Jack grunts. She has a point, but he's not ready to concede it.
"Do you work at this, or does it come naturally? Seriously, Jack."
"I work at it," he says. "Daily."
Carter doesn't bother to answer, just turns back to the stupid hieroglyphs. Jack hauls himself onto the bench, ignoring his protesting ribs, and tries to get comfortable there instead. Goddamn. He broke his right ankle in Little League, sliding back to first after an attempted steal. Now he'll have a matched set. Break number, what, twelve?
"Try to keep it elevated," she says softly, not looking at him.
"I know, I know." He manages to balance his foot in the corner, maybe eighteen inches higher than the rest of him. It might not be the best idea, but he doesn't feel any new agony, so it's not the worst idea, either. He grinds his teeth and tries to think about other things.
Unfortunately, the first other thing isn't a good one. "You know where your dad is?" he asks.
"No," she says. "I didn't see him. They didn't say anything."
"Maybe none of them saw him, either."
"Maybe." But Jack heard staff fire in Jacob's direction, and he knows she did, too.
Well, there's nothing they can do about that until they find a way out. In the meantime, he might as well lie here and grind his teeth.
*
Jack dozes a little. Or passes out, whatever. The pain from the burns is worse now, and he knows the muddy one is going to get infected. The good news is that the rest of his leg has fallen asleep from lack of blood and is now tingling, not exactly pleasantly, but less excruciatingly.
Carter's watching him; he can feel it. He gives up, decides he really is awake, and angles his head so he can see her.
"You okay?" she asks from the only other bench, across the cell.
"No," he says. He lies flat again. He knows, even from here, that her body is as tight as a bow string. "We have any visitors?"
"No, nothing. It's been five hours."
Five? Really? He'd thought maybe one. "You know, some food would be nice. Little wine ..."
"How did they know?"
Jack turns back to the other bench. "Huh?"
"Baal's Jaffa. How did they know where to find us?"
"Hell, I don't know. Maybe they detected the ship through the cloak, tracked us somehow. Maybe they were just on patrol."
Her clothing rustles as she pulls her knees up and rests her chin on one of them. "I don't think so." But she says nothing else, and Jack can almost hear her brain spinning at top speed. That's good. Spinning Carter brain is good.
"So," he says, "how're we getting out of here, Carter?"
"I'm still working on that."
"You'll get it," he says. Because she will -- she always does -- but mostly because there's no way he can go through that again. None.
"You know," and she hesitates, "Baal might not even know who he's got yet."
Jack doesn't want to be mollified. "Two members of SG-1? I think he'll figure it out."
"We're not --"
"Oh, no, we are not having that conversation here."
"Fine. I just meant that he hasn't seen us, yet. That might be an advantage."
"Well, thank you for trying to reassure me, Carter. It's not working, by the way."
"Maybe we'll be lucky anyway."
Jack's not going to bet on it.
*
They're not lucky.
When Baal shows up to gloat, he's got half a dozen Jaffa at his back, all dressed almost as gaudily as the snake himself. He's also got a smug smile that Jack wants to slice right off his face.
So much for not knowing who he's got. Jack struggles to his feet, desperately pretending it's not a struggle, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Carter glancing in his direction. He doesn't glance back.
"Baal," he says, ignoring the way his heart's speeding up. "Always such a pleasure."
The smug smile deepens. "Oh, yes, Colonel O'Neill. A pleasure. And it's so kind of you to bring a friend this time."
"I live to please," Jack says.
"What do you want?" Carter asks. She's up now, too, her shoulders squared, her hands in fists against her thighs. "Because we'd be happy to just get out of your way."
Baal turns to her, and Jack's stomach drops. "We have captured your other associate. Unfortunately, he's proving to be highly resistant to torture."
Shit, Jacob.
"Good for him," Carter says.
"It's the Tok'ra," Baal says conversationally. "All that talk of blending, two minds in one body, when in truth they're just as happy to let the host suffer and die. But I don't need to remind you of that, do I, O'Neill?"
Jack forces his face to stay still, and notices that Carter's not budging, either. Just another snake, just another snake. "You know, I'd love to sit around and reminisce," he says, "but maybe we could move this along?"
Baal laughs, and Jack feels a cold twist in his gut. "I'm not sure you want that, Colonel." Then he focuses on Carter again, and the cold in Jack's gut radiates through his bones. "I happen to own a piece of equipment I can't seem to operate," Baal says. "It must be malfunctioning. I'm told this is your area of expertise, Major Carter."
Wait, no, this isn't right.
"Sorry, I don't think I can help you," she says. Jack hears the hitch in her voice, but he doubts Baal does. "I'm not all that bright."
"Perhaps not. But I'm confident I can change your mind." He cocks his head. "Eventually."
Oh, Jesus. No. This is not how it's supposed to go. No. Jack looks at Carter, finally, but she doesn't turn away from Baal.
"Bring the woman," Baal says, turning to go, and two of the guards lower the force shield.
No, Jack wants to say, as the guards enter the cell. No, you don't want her. It's me you want. Take me. But all that comes out is air, while his mouth works silently. One of the Jaffa grabs Carter by the elbow, and Jack's voice still won't work, and they take her away.
*
Five minutes later, he's got a lot to say. He says, "Oh, fuck fuck FUCK," and he says, "Damn you, Jacob," and he says, "And damn her, too, for agreeing to this fucked-up plan," and then he says, "Fuck," some more.
And Jack just watched her go. Jesus. That's not -- God, it isn't like him, and it isn't right. It was supposed to be him, dammit. But Carter -- Sam -- with Baal, and Baal's knives, and oh, God. No.
Jack chews on his lower lip until it starts bleeding again, and tries to distract himself with the question of what, exactly, Baal wants her to tell him. All the possibilities he comes up with make no sense. The Goa'uld don't need her help with technology. She's brilliant, and she could probably teach them a thing or two, but Jack can't believe Baal would ever admit that.
And he said nothing. They took her, and she didn't look back, and he said nothing. Of all the possible times to forget how to talk. Fuck.
He gets up, finally, and stands inches from the force shield, barely feeling the break or the burns. "Hey!" he shouts. "Jaffa! Kree, you bastards! I want to talk to Baal!"
Nobody answers, not even to laugh at the crazy Tau'ri.
***
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