~*~

Chris swung his truck into Jack's drive way, the end fishtailing a bit on the wet pavement reminding him once again he needed to toss some weight back there. He probably could have taken the turn a bit slower, but he'd forget that next time just as he would forget to toss a sand tube or two in the bed. Turning the ignition off he shot a quick glance at the dashboard clock, fifteen minutes to spare. Hopping out of the vehicle he made his way up the front steps repeatedly flipping his keys around his index finger letting them slap against his palm with a satisfying chink.

Not bothering to knock, he entered the house, calling out his friend's name to announce his presence. He tried to avoid starting visits off by startling people. He hollered, not getting an answer from his first call. The living room as empty as were the kitchen and dining room. He saw an open jar of Nutella and bread on the counter so he made a slight detour. Pulling out a piece of bread, he did a careful mold inspection. There was a little bit on one corner, he tore it off and tossed it, and the rest of the loaf in the trash. Smearing on a liberal amount of the creamy mixture, he folded the bread in half and continued his search.

Finding the upstairs was empty; Chris carefully picked his way down the steps to the basement and the den of crappy comfortable furniture. "Jack! You down here?"

Stopping in the den's doorway he took another bite of his food, trying unsuccessfully to keep it from sticking to the roof of his mouth. Jack was down there all right. Slumped down in the lovingly titled fatty-boom-ba-latty chair with his feet on the coffee table. His head was tilted unnaturally off to the side, mouth agape and snoring as some young preppy looking judge with bad hair held a mockery of court on TV.

He studied the TV for a moment, idly wondering if the 'judge' got his hair from the same man as Sam Donaldson did, it had that shine to it that screamed preformed fiberglass. Entering the room Chris scooped up the blue foam ball that was lying inside the doorway, gently lobbing it across the room. It hit its mark, impacting with the side of Jack's face causing the slightly younger man to jolt awake.

The ball came flying back at him and he ducked easily out of the way. Walking around to the futon, he stopped in front of it, dropping down to take a seat completely forgetting the lack of support in the middle. He sank, narrow hips easily allowing him to drop into the place where the rails should be. It was awkward, but he managed to lever himself up. Trying again, he sat closer to the edge, relieved when he didn't sink any lower than expected.

"You need new furniture." He commented, stuffing the last bite of his sandwich in his mouth.

There was enough light from the television that Chris could see Jack flip him off as Jack reached for the floor lamp that was seated between the chair and couch. "What are you doing here?"

"Damn, what the hell happened to you." Chris hissed, seeing the bruising and lip sutures for the first time as the light from the halogen bulb came on. He cringed inside, knowing that the ball would have hurt when it hit, even if it was foam. "I thought you weren't supposed to be offworld for the next two weeks."

"Had an argument with a hockey stick and lost."

"Ah, that's right the hockey tournament was this week." Snatching the remote from the coffee table, Chris started to flip through the channels. "I thought you were refer-ringing this year."

"I was. Caught the blade of a stick during a face off."

Mouthing the word ouch, Chris cringed, touching his own lip and feeling the pain for himself. "You still up for tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes, tonight. The reason you asked to not to go offworld." A little unsettled by the blank look he was receiving from Jack, he continued. "You, Me, Denver, The Eagles. Good music, beer, doobies."

"Doobies?"

"Okay, so no doobies this time."

"This time?"

Chris swore that Jack was practicing the raised eyebrow move. Possibly to compete with Teal'c.

"The seventies were a marvelous time."

~*~

There were people. Everywhere. Bumping into him, shoving him out of their way. The occasional sharp elbow. Hundreds of happy, excited people who were all talking. Chattering on about the show, or shouting out names of the people they came with and names of places to meet. They were everywhere and they were touching him.

He could feel his heart speeding up, and his breathing going with it. His mind was out of control trying to sort through what was real and what was overactive memories that couldn't stay in their lock box. Jack knew where he was. He knew he was at the football stadium in Denver, and not on P9G-385 with the creepy pale blue-eyed natives. He knew this; the rest of his body just had to get with the program.

Only it wasn't. Each callused push and shove caused his fragile grip to weaken. His surroundings were slowly being replaced with the village on P9G-385. Backlit signs transformed into torches, fellow concert goers were replaced with the elders who examined him like a lab experiment. The cacophony of noise easily sounded like the constant gibbering the natives had kept up as they 'evaluated' him. Even though he knew he wouldn't, he desperately tried to find Chris. They had made plans to meet outside figuring that they would get separated in the exodus. He needed something to ground him in the unfamiliar surroundings.

Face and fingers tingling, Jack tried to keep it together as he flowed with the ebb of people down the exit ramps. Once outside the cooler air broadsided him causing him to shudder as the air wrapped around his calves and touched the sweat on the back of his neck. Effectively jerked back from P9G-385, Jack shakily made his way to "The Broncos" statue where he and Chris had agreed to meet.

"Hey, you okay?" Chris's hand on his shoulder made him jump, his heart thudding painfully as he whirled around to face the other man.

"Fuck, Jepp." Jack wheezed out trying to get a hold on his breathing.

"I'll take that as a no."

"I need a drink."

Chris's arm came around his shoulder and Jack managed not to flinch. "The last thing you need is a drink."

"Screw the Jameson's and go for the poteen."

~*~

Daniel sighed. He was bored. An extreme rarity when it came to missions. But there was nothing overtly interesting on MXY-372. The city was beautiful, the graceful architecture reminding him of his visits to Seoul and Japan. It was easy to see evolutionary changes in their architecture. Old, open air buildings that had massive wooden pillars supporting the swooping tiled roofs were interspersed with more modern, but no less graceful buildings.

There was just one problem.

Daniel didn't really speak or read Korean.

He knew some greetings, standard set of beginner questions, could count, and a few other phrases, but that was it. Panic had coiled in his stomach when he realized that he was going to be unable to communicate. Memories of previous altercations flittered through his mind when they had first arrived two days ago. Panic that was quashed with astonishment as Jack walked up and greeted the people they had met.

It was the complete roll reversal that was the shock. Daniel knew that Jack spoke other languages. It had come in handy on several missions before, two people being able to translate made his life a bit easier. But, in all of their past missions, there had never been a case where Jack became the sole translator.

Glancing at his watch, he looked over the railing to the city street below. It was almost time for them to head back to the stargate, and Jack and Sam would be coming back soon. They had gone off to look at some mining operation on the far side of the city, while he and Teal'c stayed behind. Daniel didn't mind too much, it had allowed him the chance to take a walk around the city. As much as he was glad that the mission was soon to be over, he was going to miss this place. The place exuded peace and Daniel hoped that he'd have the chance to return; perhaps after getting Jack to teach him some more Korean.

He had been writing in his journal when he heard Jack approach. His voice was off, the usual steadiness gone and replaced with a slight shake as Jack worked to translate between Sam and engineers that they had left with. Translating was hard enough work with simple conversations, go and toss in specialized terms and complex engineering processes and it was even more demanding.

Closing his journal, he stowed it in his pack and turned his attention to his boots. Daniel had learned early in his days on SG-1 that walking long distances without properly laced boots was a bad idea. It didn't take him long to finish and by the time he was standing up, Jack and Sam had finished talking and were walking over. Sam, a few paces ahead of Jack, was already excitedly talking about what her preliminary testing showed and what they saw at the mine.

Jack, Daniel noticed, was moving a bit slower than usual. Jack had left his usual glued on baseball cap off for the last two days giving Daniel a clear view of the older man's face with still a good twenty feet between them. It was pale, his eyes were pinched and several lines were evident on this forehead. Jack brought his left hand to the bridge of his nose squeezing it before pressing his thumb and index finger into his closed eyes.

Jack's hand dropped and his sight landed on Daniel. "I'm fine." He growled, barely opening his mouth to let his response out as he came to a stop directly in front of Daniel.

'Bullshit' Daniel stopped himself from saying the first thing that came to his mind knowing it would only lead to an ugly scene.

"I didn't say anything." He held Jack's gaze for a few moments before dropping his eyes, fixating for some reason on the thin pink line of fresh scar tissue on his friend's chin. Jack grunted and stepped back, moving over to grab is own pack in preparation for their departure.

"All right, we bid adieu to the good council and then we're out of here. Back in time for custom stir fry Thursday in the mess." Avoiding eye contact with the rest of his team, Jack turned and headed out.

Daniel spared a glance at his other two teammates, seeing the same concern he was feeling echoing back from them.

~*~

Jack flopped on to his back. He was so sure that he'd sleep the entire night for once. Hell, he'd be happy over four hours, twice as much as he usually got lately. Extending his right arm, he felt around on the side table for the alarm. The cordless phone toppled as his hand brushed by smacking into the hard wood floor sending the battery cover skittering off somewhere. Finally his fingers hit the familiar plastic alarm cover and he picked it up. The cord was pulled taut as he held the clock in front of him, squinting in a vain effort to get the liquid crystal digits to stop jumping around.

Two A.M. Ugh.

Jack let the clock slip from his grip and it joined its tablemate, the cordless, on the floor. Turning on to his right side, he pulled his knees up to his chest, stuffed his hands under his armpits, and willed himself to fall back asleep. He hated sleeping fully clothed preferring a lone pair of boxers, instead of the socks, flannel pants and sweatshirt he was currently wearing. But he was cold, and sleeping under the covers wasn't an option. The light jersey material clung to his skin, which didn't help him waking up from vivid replays of P9G-385.

Shit. He really needed to stop thinking. It was bad enough the unconscious part of his mind was hell bent on reliving it; the conscious part did not need to join in. As he laid there staring out the bedroom window into the moonless yard, he tried to shut down his over active mind. And it was working. His mind was blank as it could possibly get when his bladder demanded attention. One pesky body part had wrecked all of his carefully executed work. He always new that Oma had bad timing, but this was just cruel, ripping away a man's first chance of more than two hours of sleep because he had to take a piss.

Carefully, he unfurled himself, listening to the well-orchestrated series of pops and cracks that his joints felt compelled to provide. Once on his feet, he moved slowly, heading for the bathroom to take care of things before Oma decided to. Oma was a much more fitting name than Mother Nature. Mother Nature sounded too nice and nurturing, when in reality she was anything but. Oma, sounded more like a deviant crabby lady destine to make everyone's lives miserable.

Business done, Jack headed back to his bedroom stopping when he reached the doorway. It wasn't going to be worth it, going back to bed. He'd never get back to sleep, and spending the next four hours in constant motion trying to be comfortable wasn't appealing. The whole teaching a pig to sing deal he supposed. Flipping off the offending piece of furniture, he pivoted around and headed for the kitchen. Now that his bladder was empty, his stomach was violently protesting the lack of food it had received lately.

He just couldn't win, fix one thing, piss off something else. Or get caught in indecision over which should take precedence, the annoying foreign body between his toes in his left sock, or the growing itch on this right butt cheek. There was always the multitasking option, which proved to be a viable method in some situations. Using his feet and the braided runner in the hallway, Jack was able to slip his socks off freeing up his hand for the other problem.

Leaving the socks on the hallway floor, he proceeded to the kitchen to find something to eat. He didn't eat anything for dinner as he wasn't hungry. Which was the same reason he hadn't eaten much recently; he just wasn't hungry. Janet had told him off for it the other day during their post mission exams. If he lost any more weight, she'd ground him.

Grabbing the jug of milk from the fridge, he set it on the counter next to box of Froot Loops. He went for a bowl, pulling it halfway out before changing his mind and going for the measuring cup. The four-cup Pyrex measuring cup with the spout broken off and the handle severely chipped was the stand by for when he was out of bowls and not feeling inclined to do the dishes. It would work better this morning, the handle providing an easy hand hold eliminating the risk of dumping frigid, wet milk and cereal down his shirt as he ate.

Sustenance in hand he retreated to the basement. Sinking into the chair, he slouched down, resting his feet on the edge of the coffee table, bringing his knees almost to his chest, providing a convenient resting place for his cereal. With spoon handling grace that would have his mother and Aunt Ida turning in their graves, he ate. Shoveling in spoonfuls of cereal, occasionally a bead of milk escaped running down his chin returning to where it came from, as an old episode of Hong Kong Phooey played across the television

~*~

TBC in Part 3