Drip. Drip. Drip.

The sound is driving me insane.

It could be rain trickling off the leaves of the massive trees towering overhead, or it could be Jack’s blood dripping in a slow, never-ending stream to the ice-coated rocks beneath us. I don’t want to think about the second possibility. I bandaged his wounds as best I could, but there was so much blood and I couldn’t make it stop. In the darkness I imagine that I can still see it coating my hands, painting them crimson.

Please don’t die on me, Jack.

It’s so very cold. I’ve wrapped Jack in my coat and his head is resting on my chest. We’re lying close together, sharing body heat. When Jack wakes up he’ll probably make some snippy comment about me not being his type.

He will wake up. He has to wake up.

As if he’s read my mind, his hands suddenly move toward his face. I grab them just in time, holding them gently but firmly. The last thing I need is for him to re-open the gash on his forehead.

“Daniel?” He mumbles dazedly, and I see the faint moonlight shining off his open eyes. His face is cold to the touch. If only I had a blanket. If only I could get him home. If only. If only.

“I’m here, Jack. It’s okay. You’re going to be all right.”

There’s a brief silence as he forces sluggish senses into action and evaluates the situation. Then he speaks again, his voice whisper-soft and fragile.

“As touching ... as this is ... I have to let you know ... that you’re not really my type.”

I can’t hold back a snort, more of relief than of mirth. I haven’t felt much like laughing for hours now.

“I just tend to go ... for members ... of the opposite sex. Females ... for example.”

“Jack!” The snort turns into a helpless giggle. Stress and exhaustion are beginning to catch up to me. Stay calm, Daniel. Stay calm.

Bad jokes are okay. Bad jokes mean that Jack is alive and conscious and breathing.

“We have to move as soon as morning comes,” I say. I’m so, so tired. I don’t know how long it’s been since I slept.

“Yeah, I know.” Jack coughs, a deep rattling cough that makes me wince. The faintest moan escapes his throat, and his body stiffens in a brief pain-induced spasm.

“We won’t be safe out here once the sun is up.” Brilliant deduction, Daniel. You think he doesn’t KNOW that already?

“Tell me ... about it. The question is ... will we be safe anywhere?”

I had hours to reflect on that very subject while Jack was taking his frightening little nap. “I’ve got a plan.”

“A plan?” Jack sounds doubtful. So I’m not a military strategist. Sue me.

“Yes. We have to get to the Stargate.”

“That’s a plan?”

“Do you have a better idea?” I ask, my voice tinged with irritation born of exhaustion. “It’s a good plan. We just have to keep from getting eaten.”

“There’s always some small, insignificant complication like that,” Jack quips. His breath rattles on the exhale. I refuse to admit that he’s dying.

Sam told me once what it was like in Antarctica. He knew all along, she said, knew he was dying by inches, and all the while he tried to hide it from her, tried to keep her hopes up.

I heard in her voice the pain that still lay shallowly buried beneath the surface even after years had passed, and I wondered what it must have been like for her.

Now I know.

It hurts more to watch my best friend die than it would to die myself.

Jack has fallen silent again. I don’t want him to lose consciousness. If there’s anything I’ve learned from my own numerous concussions, it’s that a person with a head injury should not be allowed to fall into a deep sleep.

“Jack, talk to me,” I say. It sounds more like a plea than an order.

“About what?”

“Anything. Just talk.”

“Fine. I’m talking. Are you happy?” He sounds petulant.

I glare down at the darkness where his face must be. “Don’t do this, Jack. Not now.”

“Do what?”

“Refuse to talk to me! It’s not like I’m asking you to share your secrets, although it wouldn’t hurt you to talk about those once in a while.” Damn. I didn’t mean for the conversation to take this turn.

He’s quiet for a long time. “Why do you want to know?” He asks finally, and his voice is so quiet it scares me. I expected anger. Instead, he just sounds tired.

Wishing I’d left the subject alone altogether, I say, “You know me. More curious than a cat.”

“Oh, isn’t that the truth.” He coughs once, then shifts and groans softly. “I guess if anybody ... has a right to ask, it’s you. You’ve saved my life ... in more ways than one ... and I appreciate that, Daniel. But I need you to accept ... that there are some things ... I can’t talk about. Ever.”

“Why?” The question comes naturally because it’s a question I ask of everyone and everything. I became an archaeologist, an anthropologist, a linguist, because I wanted to understand people: their ways, their thoughts, their dreams and beliefs. It has bothered me for nearly nine years that one of my closest friends is so completely unreadable.

After a long moment, Jack finally speaks. “There came a time in my life ... when I had to decide whether to keep secrets.” He coughs painfully, then continues, “By the time I started ... to think that maybe this wasn’t ... the way I wanted to live, it was too late. Before long I had ... secrets stacked on top of secrets, and if I tried ... to pull one of them out ... the whole stack would come down on me.”

“Okay. All right.” I feel bad for making Jack talk about it. It’s impossible for me to comprehend what it must be like to have a life built on years of silence. “What about your family, then? Are your parents still alive? Do you have any siblings?”

Jack’s muscles tense slightly, and the cool silence that follows says far more than words ever could.

“I’m assuming your childhood is off limits as well?” I ask in exasperation.

“You remember what I said about coming to a point where I started keeping secrets?” Jack sounds immeasurably weary. “I wasn’t talking about when I joined the military.”

I don’t reply because there really isn’t anything to be said.

This wasn’t supposed to be a dangerous mission. It was supposed to be easy, even fun. The Taloths were a friendly, if slightly primitive, people. They welcomed us with open arms, agreed to share their abundant naquadah, and enthusiastically requested to meet our leader. That would be Mr. Head Honcho himself, Jack O’Neill.

General Jack O’Neill.

I still can’t get used to it.

Anyway, to make a long story relatively short, the Taloths asked that all of us - Teal’c, Sam, Jack and I - accompany them on the annual Lireti Hunt. Evidently it was a very big occasion for the Taloths, and being asked to join the hunt was a great honor.

Three days before the hunt was to take place, Teal’c and Sam were trapped by a rockslide on P4X-339, receiving minor but irritating injuries. Dr. Brightman refused to allow them to go on the hunt. Jack and I offered to stay, but Sam and Teal’c stated in no uncertain terms that it would be better for all involved if we were off hunting the Great Lireti, rather than hanging around the infirmary bothering them.

If they could see us now, I think they’d change their minds.

If only the Taloths had told us exactly what we were hunting.

“You will see,” they’d said with secretive smiles.

The plan - and a good plan it seemed at first - was to approach the lair of a lireti at night, while the creature was hibernating, and shoot it before it could awaken.

I suppose I should have known the Taloths would want their Great Hunt to be more exciting than that.

What they failed to mention was that the lireti never dies immediately after being shot. Actually, the lireti never dies after being shot with “only” ten or fifteen arrows. The initial attack just makes him angry.

I don’t know what happened to the seven Talothian natives in our hunting party. Even they were unprepared for the whirlwind fury of the lireti. In all likelihood, they’re dead. It’s a miracle Jack and I aren’t dead as well.

Speaking of Jack, he hasn’t said anything for a while.

“Jack?”

Silence except for the slow, maddening drip, drip, drip of rain.

“Jack, come on.”

A trail of warm liquid trickles over my arm. He’s bleeding again.

I have no idea how I escaped unscathed, how Jack escaped at all. I only got a few glimpses of the furious lireti, but I saw enough to know we were all done for.

Imagine a panther the size of a Clydesdale, and you’ll have a pretty good idea what a lireti looks like.

Something rustles in the bushes nearby and I tighten my hold on Jack. My heart is pounding and I’m starting to shake. I still have my 9 mil, but it won’t help much if I can’t see what I’m shooting at.

Our guide did say the lireti weren’t nocturnal, didn’t he?

“Jack,” I whisper hoarsely. “Jack, please wake up.”

Fighting the Goa’uld for eight years has taught me a lot, but I’ll never be the warrior Jack is. It isn’t just his training, although that is impressive enough. Jack was born to combat, just as I was born to languages and cultures and dusty artifacts.

For a while, there’s silence. Jack doesn’t stir, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or concerned. The night seems to be getting warmer. I feel almost too warm, in fact.

Damn it. Jack.

I feel the heat radiating off his forehead before my hand even touches his skin. He’s burning up, but there are no hallucinations, no fevered dreams. He’s so silent and still.

If only there was enough moonlight to see the trail. If only I had a flashlight. We can’t be more than four clicks from the Stargate. It might as well be four thousand clicks in the dark. We’d be lucky to make it twenty feet without falling into one of the slimy swamps surrounding the trail.

Jack stirs a little and mumbles something in his sleep. I don’t catch it at first, but he says it again.

“Ave Maria.”

He is Irish, after all. I don’t suppose I should be surprised, but I am.

“Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta ... tu in mulieribus ... et benedictus fructus ventris ... tui, Iesus. Sancta Maria, Mater Dei ... ora pro nobis peccatoribus ... nunc, et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen.”

My eyebrows have risen to a Teal’c-like height. Jack’s Latin is almost flawless, albeit halting due to his injuries. I’m surprised that he speaks Latin, but even more surprised that he is reciting “Hail Mary”.

The prayer must be a leftover relic of the childhood about which he has always been so reticent.

“Kyrie eleison,” he whispers. “Christe eleison.”

“You don’t need your last rites yet, Jack,” I say loudly, trying to get through to him. “Do you hear me? I won’t let you die out here. I promise.”

“Kyrie eleison.”

Lord, have mercy.

The sky is beginning to lighten a little. Dawn is coming, and with it, the danger that we might encounter another lireti. I have to get Jack home, even if it means carrying him all the way to the Stargate. I know that he won’t survive another day on this planet. He knows it too.

“Jack.” I shake him. “Jack, wake up. It’s getting light. We have to go.”

“Mmm,” he mumbles. His face seems a little cooler to the touch. God, I hope his fever is down.

“Jack, come on.” When he doesn’t respond, I make my voice as authoritative as I can and shout, “Wake up, O’Neill! That’s an order!”

He opens blurry, pain-hazed eyes and looks around for the officer giving orders. When he sees only me, he whispers, “You joined the military?”

“No, but I had to wake you up. It’s starting to get light. We have to go soon.”

“You,” he says. “You go.”

“Jack - ”

“Daniel, don’t. We both know I won’t ... make it to the gate. If you try to stay with me ... you’ll die too. Go. Send ... send back a rescue team.”

“Sorry,” I say, “but there’s this rule I try to live by. It says something about not leaving people behind. The man who taught it to me is a stubborn son of a bitch and he will make it to the Stargate if I have to drag him there!”

For a moment we stare at each other, locked in a battle of wills; then the corner of his mouth rises slightly and he says, “Pot. Kettle. Black.”

“Excuse me?”

“You called me stubborn, Daniel.”

“Oh.”

“You’re at least as stubborn as me, and that was a good idea you had.”

“Idea?” I repeat blankly. Now I know how Jack feels every time Sam informs him he’s just come up with a wonderful plan.

“About dragging me. Make a travois. You can pull me faster than I can walk.”

“Ah, yes. Good idea.” I fumble for my knife, only to realize I must have lost it back at the lireti’s lair.

Grimacing, Jack carefully takes his knife from its sheath and hands it to me. “Start cutting limbs.”

It’s fully light by the time I finish the travois. I try to be careful placing Jack on it, but he can’t conceal his gasp of pain. Every movement, however small, tugs torturously at his lacerated flesh and fractured bone. He isn’t going to enjoy the trip to the Stargate; the trail is rough. I wish I had morphine for him.

Stop wishing, start moving.

The first half-mile is agonizing for both of us. Jack tries hard not to make a sound, but I hear his muffled groans every time the travois hits a bump.

After the first half-mile, he mercifully loses consciousness. I make better time after that, keeping an eye out for any sign of a lireti.

God, please, just this once, let us make it to the Stargate without running into trouble.

We don’t.

We’re almost within sight of the Stargate when fate decides to frown upon us once again. My hands have cramped into twisted claws - I couldn’t straighten my fingers even if I wanted to - and the muscles in my arms are screaming. Jack is heavier than he looks.

There is no sound, no warning. I look up and the lireti is there, in front of us. Its attention is fixed on Jack, who is helpless and reeks of blood. I am merely a minor annoyance.

Before I can reach for my gun, the giant cat swats me almost casually. I go head-over-heels and land, relatively unharmed, in the frosted grass.

The lireti moves forward, intent on its next meal.

Over my dead body.

I empty the 9 mil into the creature, then reload with my one precious extra clip. The cat has turned and is coming for me. It is five feet away when I fire my last bullet into its chest.

The swat this time isn’t casual. There is an instant of flight that ends in a horrible bone-crushing collision with the trunk of a massive tree. Something snaps and I hear myself scream in agony as I fall to the ground.

The lireti has turned back toward Jack. I try to crawl and discover that I can’t feel my legs. The pain is unbearable. Not even a slow death by irradiation hurt this much.

“I’m sorry,” I say to Jack, knowing he’ll never hear me. “I’m sorry.”

The lireti stops and seems to stagger, and then it falls with a sound that could almost be a whimper. I stare in disbelief, finally seeing the broken-off arrows protruding from the lireti’s stomach and the blood matting its tan fur. This was the same animal we hunted yesterday.

“Daniel,” Jack calls hoarsely.

“I’m here.” I try to keep the pain out of my voice and fail miserably.

“What just ... happened?”

“A lireti. The same one that killed ... the Talothians. I shot it ... but it must have already been dying.”

“How bad ... are you hurt?”

I try to reply but I’m so tired. The pain has eased up and I just want to sleep.

“Daniel!” Jack sounds almost panicked. “Come on ... talk to me.” His breaths are short and raspy. I can’t decide which of us is worse off.

“That’s my line,” I protest weakly.

“Mine now. How bad ... are you ... hurt?”

“I don’t know,” I lie. I do know. I’m dying.

“I think you do.” Jack always could see through my lies, although that might reflect more on my lying ability than on his intuition.

I blink and hardly have the strength to open my eyes again. “I think my neck is broken,” I say finally. “I’m dying.”

“Daniel ... ”

“Jack.” I blink again, surprised to feel tears trickling down my face. I don’t know whether I’m crying for myself or for those I’ll leave behind. “I know what it feels like ... to die.”

He knows I’m right. In all likelihood he’s dying as well, but I know he won’t tell me. Old habits die hard.

“I’m sorry, Jack,” I whisper.

“Don’t ... be sorry, Daniel. Don’t you ... dare ... be sorry.”

The numbness has crept upward through my chest. I can’t feel myself breathing. The utter stillness is bizarre, as if all my nerve endings have been deactivated. At least there’s no pain now.

It’s ironic. I struggled for so long to keep Jack alive, only for him to have to watch me die.

“You’re ... a good man ... Dr. Jackson,” Jack says, the words almost bubbling from his damaged lungs.

I lie with my eyes wide open to the sky and watch the darkness creep in to consume me.

Over the sound of my own tortured gasps I hear Daniel give a small, airy sigh. Its finality is unmistakable. I don’t even have to look at him to know.

He tried so damn hard to save me. No soldier who ever lived had more guts than that blue-eyed archaeologist.

He tried to save me like he tried to save Sha’re and Ska’ara and Reese and Abydos. He never let failure push him into apathy. I should have told him how much I respected him for that.

“General O’Neill? General, please respond.”

It’s about damn time!

“I’m here,” I wheeze into the radio. I don’t tell them that they’re five minutes too late to save my best friend.

“Sir, hang on. We’re coming.” Carter sounds calm. I don’t envy her the shock she will get when she finds us.

Colonel Reynolds arrives first, his face going chalky white. Medical personnel swarm around me and Carter kneels by Daniel, searching for a pulse and trying hard not to cry.

“He’s ... dead,” I say, choking on the words. “The dumb ... stubborn SOB is dead. I told him ... to leave. I told him.”

“Calm down, General. It’s okay. You’re going to be all right.” A nameless medic leans over me, earnest-faced. They’re all the same to me now, medical personnel, because none of them are Doc.

I’m not all right. Maybe I’ll never be all right.

I’m awake for a long time before they realize it. I hear their soft, concerned murmurs and feel their fingers brushing my face, but I don’t open my eyes. I’m not ready to face reality yet.

Doc would have known I was awake long ago. I never could fool her. She had a sixth sense about such things, but Doc is gone.

Finally I open my eyes. The nurse checking my monitors lets out a small squeak of surprise, then calls, “Dr. Brightman, the General’s awake!”

Ya think?

Brightman shows up in record time, and she actually smiles when she sees my eyes open. “Welcome back to the land of the living, General O’Neill.”

I gesture vaguely toward the tube in my throat, and she nods. “You know the drill, General. Exhale on three. One, two, three.”

After the tube is gone and I’m breathing on my own, she gives me some ice chips. They soothe my sore throat but fail to remove the disgusting taste from my mouth. I think something slimy crawled into my mouth and died while I was unconscious.

“How long?” I croak when my voice starts to work again.

“You’ve been here nine days, General. You had a collapsed lung and a raging infection and you’d lost a lot of blood. We had to put you into a coma to allow your body to heal.”

Damn it, that means I’ve missed Daniel’s funeral. “Daniel?” I whisper.

To my surprise, the response is a smile rather than the sadness I expected. She sweeps aside a curtain, and oh glory hallelujah praise God, there in the bed next to mine is the not-so-late Daniel Jackson.

My mouth opens and closes but nothing comes out. “How?” I finally say eloquently.

She finally realizes what I’ve been thinking. “Oh, I’m sorry! You must have been unconscious when he was revived. Dr. Jackson wasn’t breathing when the medical team arrived, but he still had a faint pulse. They were able to revive him and get him through the gate.”

“How is ... will he be all right? He said his neck was broken.” Oh God, please don’t let him be paralyzed.

“He’ll be fine, General. His neck wasn’t broken; there was swelling around the spinal cord, but no permanent damage. The ruptured spleen just about did him in, but he’ll recover from that as well. He also had a broken leg. His injuries were very serious and he has physical therapy in his future, but he should make a full recovery.” She looks at me, her head tilted slightly sideways. “The same is true for you, General.”

“Isn’t that nice.”

“Yes, sir, it is.”

I look away from Daniel quickly and take a few deep breaths. It would not benefit my hard-assed military image to be seen crying over a geek.

Dr. Brightman walks away, her heels clicking, and I can almost imagine that she’s Janet.

Don’t go there, Jack.

Daniel starts to make soft sighing noises, and his fingers begin to twitch. I’ve watched him in the infirmary enough times to know when he’s waking up.

He opens blue eyes and gazes blearily at me.

“Hi, Danny boy,” I say with a smile I couldn’t wipe off my face if I tried.

“Jack!” I can’t hold back a grin when I see that he’s awake. “I’ve been waiting for you to wake up. It’s boring in here with nobody to talk to.”

“We made it,” Jack says with wonder in his voice.

“Yes, we did. Both of us. I promised, remember?”

“You saved my life.” He gives me a lopsided, slightly woozy smile. “Again.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we’re even. You’ve saved mine a few times too.”

After a moment of companionable silence, I say, “Back there - on Taloth - you were speaking in Latin.”

Jack’s eyes skitter away. “Ave Maria, gratia plena,” he says quietly.

“Among other things.”

He starts playing with the sheet, his hands, as always, unable to remain still. “My grandparents were Catholic,” he says after a while. “They were good people.”

When he doesn’t elaborate, I know I’ll probably never hear anything more on the subject. He might never have mentioned his grandparents if it hadn’t been for the painkillers.

I could try to tell myself that Jack, in his delirium, had merely regressed to a random part of his past, but I know better. Some vital part of Jack O’Neill still clings stubbornly to the faith of his grandparents.

Maybe someday he will finally realize that, contrary to what he seems to believe, not even his secrets can push him past the point of redemption.