Chapter 1

This is a first attempt at a Stargate fic. So… please be kind in your reviews. It's set somewhere in the first or second series, when Jackson still had long hair. How could he cut it? So cruel!

I know someone who looks freakily like Jackson. It was really weird, cos he's my best mate's mum's boyfriend, and me and my best mate were ice skating for her birthday party, and her mum went to pick him up. When he got there, it was like totally freaky, cos he watches SG-1 and as I said earlier, looks really like Jackson.

My last three SG-1 fics have been written in three consecutive science lessons. And, each of those lessons were on 'moments'. Dumb science thing. If anyone can tell me what they are in simple people terms, I will be very grateful. Well, I just had to put the word 'moment' in each fic. I'll point it out when we get here.

Anyhow. This is just weird, so humour me. Please…

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Jack O'Neill, Colonel of the SG-1 team, rolled into his bed with a groan. For the last three days, he and his team had been on a mission, on a different planet, on the other side of the galaxy. It had rained. Constantly. He had a cold- courtesy of Dr Jackson- and wanted only to sleep, in his own, very soft, bed.

The fates had other ideas. A knock on the door disturbed him, just as he had turned the light out.

Growling slightly, about- "Whoever that is, I am going to…. I dunno what I'm gonna do. But it's sure gonna hurt!" O'Neill made his way down the stairs, not turning on any lights- he really couldn't be bothered.

He slammed open the door, to reveal a young archaeologist- Daniel Jackson. "Daniel? What are you doing outside my house at two in the morning?"

"Jack…" Daniel whispered, in a voice filled with pain. Taking a step, he seemed to trip on thin air, and fell, towards the other man.

Startled, O'Neill grabbed his young colleague, supporting him until they were both inside, and he could lay Jackson on the couch.

Turning on the living room light, O'Neill stared at Jackson, and spoke in a voice that was barely even a whisper. "What the hell happened, Daniel?" The younger man had several bruises on his face and arms, and although O'Neill couldn't clearly see his chest or legs, the telltale rips in his clothing revealed bruises, red and angry, which implied that the rest of the younger mans body would be in the same sort of situation.

Across Jackson's forehead was a long, thin cut, not very deep, but obviously made by a knife. The blood from that wound had dripped down his face, drawing a long crimson path, stark against his pale skin, down his cheek.

"Gawd, Daniel! What'd you do to yourself?" O'Neill was shaken by Jackson's state, even as he noticed more patches of blood from various injuries, staining his clothes a dark brown as it dried.

He grabbed Jackson's wrist to check the other man's pulse, and the archaeologist stirred. The pulse was quite fast and light, but hopefully that was just shock, from whatever had happened.

A few seconds later, the younger man awoke. "Jack…?"

"Daniel, what happened?" O'Neill's face was a battleground of emotions, as concern, worry, and anger fought for dominance. Concern won out, just as Jackson answered.

"They were… in the park… seven of them… teenagers…" Jackson's voice was shaking, but O'Neill didn't dare interrupt. "Why couldn't I stop them, Jack? I should… I should know how to fight…" By the time he had finished speaking, Daniel was shaking, his teeth chattering. "I-It's cold in h-here…" he trailed off, too busy keeping himself warm to bother with talking, though to O'Neill, the house was fairly warm.

"Oh, Daniel…" O'Neill's eyes filled with tears of pity for the archaeologist who was also his best friend. "Gawd… Stay there!" He raced out of the room, and a few minutes later, came back in with an armful of blankets.

The archaeologist was shaking, his back turned to O'Neill, so the other had no idea what Jackson was doing.

O'Neill dropped the blankets and put a gentle hand on Jackson's shoulder. His face fell when Daniel flinched away, and he whispered, "Daniel, you are staying here tonight. There's no way I'm letting you out on the streets like this!"

When there was no reaction, O'Neill turned Jackson's head towards him, until he could see the younger man's eyes. Daniel was asleep, but there were tears still falling, taking the path of what looked like many that had gone before them. Each track crossed the trickles of blood from his wound several times.

Daniel was a real mess; his face bloody, his glasses missing- O'Neill had no idea how he had managed to get here without them.

O'Neill made his decision, and fumbled for the phone, not taking his eyes off Daniel.

He pressed the speed-dial for Samantha Carter's house. After a few rings, a sleepy voice spoke down the phone. Before it could say any more than "Sam Ca-", O'Neill interrupted. "Sam, O'Neill here. I need you round my house, as in, yesterday. Daniel needs some help." He slammed the phone down again before she had any time to reply or argue.

He snatched a blanket off the floor, and threw it over Jackson's shoulders. Tenderly, he wrapped it round the younger mans arms - he didn't want his friend getting cold.

By the time the doorbell rang, about half an hour later, Daniel was covered with two blankets, one of O'Neill's enormous fleeces- which absolutely swamped him- and was hugging a water bottle.

When O'Neill opened the door, Sam was standing there in jeans, T-shirt and jumper, shivering. "Jees, it's cold out here! Where's Daniel? What's wrong?"

"Come in, he's on the couch," O'Neill grabbed Carter's arm and dragged her through to the living room to show her Daniel, curled up on the couch under layers of material with only his head showing.

Sam immediately noticed Daniel's cuts and bruises. "Good Lord! What happened to him?"

The two of them moved to Daniel's side, O'Neill offering Sam the seat and sitting on the floor himself.

"He was attacked by seven teenagers, in the park. He can fight, you know. He was just outnumbered. He kept telling me –when he was awake- that he should have fought harder… I think he did as well as anyone could have, but with that many of them… As you can see, they messed him up pretty bad. I thought you could help me look after him for a bit."

Sam touched Daniel's mussed hair with a trembling hand, smoothing it and pushing it away from his eyes, but not touching his wound. "Ok…. We have to clean the cuts first, or we'll risk getting them infected.

O'Neill nodded. It made sense. "We'll need warm water, a flannel, and some antiseptic, if you have any. If not, just bring me some salt." Sam took charge, falling into her 'professional-scientist-type' role.

A few minutes later, O'Neill returned, with all the things Carter had asked for, including antiseptic, to see both of the others exactly where he had left them, except that Sam had slipped her hand into Jackson's own.

Sam turned when she heard his footsteps. "Jack, why would they pick on him? I mean… why couldn't they pick on someone who could really defend themselves?"

"That's why they beat him, 'cause he can't defend himself very well. He is, you have to admit, a bit geeky. It was just asking for it, for us not to train him in self defence."

A lone tear trickled slowly down Sam's cheek, and she let it run down her face until it slipped to the carpeted floor. "He's too innocent, Jack. He's twenty-eight, but he's still so innocent. How could they hurt him?"

O'Neill glared at the floor, furiously blinking away his tears. "I don't know, Sam. I don't understand it either. We… we should clean him up now, I think…"

Carter nodded, and resolutely picked up the flannel, and dabbed at Jackson's head wound.

Daniel flinched at the sting of antiseptic, and cried out. The flannel slipped from Sam's fingers, and she bent over, shaking.

O'Neill put an arm round her shoulders, and turned Sam round until she could lean into his chest. He rubbed her back, comforting her, as she sobbed into his shirt. "Shh… Sam, it's all right… It's all right… Daniel's fine, he's come through worse than this before… he's not even that badly hurt… Shh…"

(A/N- here's one moment.) Slowly, Carter's tears subsided, and she pulled away. "Sorry, Jack. I'm a bit emotional at the moment, I think. I'm ok. But… can you sort him out, please? I… it might set me off again, and that won't do any of us any good."

"Sure, Sam. I'll stay here, look after Daniel. You go sleep in my bed." O'Neill didn't take his eyes off Jackson.

"Sir, if you were thinking straight, you would put Daniel in your bed, and I would sleep on the couch. So that's what's gonna happen. Take Daniel up to your bed, sort him out there. If you feel tired, sleep. Do not keep vigil all night, or you'll be good for nothing in the morning. I'll stay down here and sleep on the couch," Sam snagged a blanket from the floor for herself and told O'Neill, "Go on, shoo."

Strangely enough, Jack obeyed her, gently picking Daniel up in his arms, and hugging him to his chest. Jackson's head and legs fell hung over the edge of O'Neill's arms, his hair falling into his eyes, a picture of broken spirit. Sam was startled as the expression popped into her mind.

"Goodnight, Sir. Try and sleep. Goodnight, Daniel." She gently pushed O'Neill up the stairs, then turned back to the room.

Sam pulled a cushion off the floor, and slung it onto the arm of the sofa, then turned the living room light out. She knew her way round O'Neill's house, from when she had stayed with him when Sara died. (A/N- Yeah, I know, she's not dead. Yeah, well. Humour me. It fits in with the fic. It fits, it sticks.)

Pulling the blanket over her body, she sighed. Sleep at last.

Upstairs, O'Neill softly lay Daniel on his double bed, left over from his marriage. He raced back downstairs, grabbed the flannel, water and antiseptic without waking Sam, and placed them back on the bedside table.

Carefully, he poured more antiseptic on the flannel, and wiped Jackson's forehead, then gently cleaned the cut, trying to ignore it when Daniel flinched.

O'Neill sat his friend up and lent him over his shoulder. Slowly, he drew the shirt over Jackson's head, and stared in dismay at the cuts and purple and black bruises that mottled his skin.

He grabbed a roll of bandages from the bathroom cabinet, and wrapped it tightly over the archaeologist's chest, which stopped the bleeding of the cuts. He couldn't do anything about the bruises.

One that had been done, O'Neill moved the younger man until he could be covered with the blanket, and smoothed his hair back. "Goodnight, Daniel," he whispered.

Yawning, he realised how tired he was himself. Moving round to the other side of the bed, he climbed in, and tucked a hand round Daniel's shoulders, then pulled the blanket over the both of them.

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