Car Trouble
By Twitchy and the Nut
Oct 2003

It was ironic. He had always really liked his truck.

Then it repaid him by doing this.

It was a good truck. A nice truck. He groomed it. Fed it regularly with the finest oils, and treated it really well. He had even given it the occasional toy to play with – those fluffy dice really looked good.

But obviously he wasn't doing enough.

If only he knew what he had done wrong.

Why? What had he done? Had he chipped the paint? Had he forgotten to check the type pressure?

Or was it the brakes?

He really liked his truck, but he didn't like it sitting on his chest.

"Damned well get off of me!"

Maybe not the most polite thing to say, but under the circumstances he felt that he was being very restrained.

It didn't listen.

It never had.

Blasted thing! Worse than a woman.

When he had realised that there was something wrong with the brakes he had been determined to fix the annoying things himself. They had been driving him crazy, and his favourite mechanic was on holiday. He didn't trust anyone else with his prized vehicle.

Damn it, he had thought he could do it. If Carter could do it, he could. He was in charge wasn't he? He'd been working on it when his rarely used jack had decided to give up the ghost.

You'd think a Colonel in the US Air Force could check the brakes with no great deal of difficulty.

But obviously not.

Now the heavy weight was sitting, crushing him to the cold hard concrete floor.

Crap but it hurt!

Eternal target O'Neill, trapped by his own truck, on Earth, at home, no one in sight, in his garage no less, only feet from his phone.

Where was his team when he needed them?

Okay, he knew where they were, but he needed them HERE.

NOW.

Not in an hour, not at the base, here, now, and that was an order, damnit!

Typical. They never listened. Just like his blasted truck. He could see the defiant look in Daniel's eyes each time he tried to get him to do something, and Carter – always questioning - often he could hardly get a word in edgewise with her, and even Teal'c had that eyebrow as weaponry.

Oh god, but it was starting to hurt!

He gasped for air.

That time his breath didn't quite make it. Something burned in his gut. Something not good. It changed his desperate need for air into a choking cough before it made it out of his throat.

God, he wished his team was here.

Actually, he wished that anyone was here, even that annoying man from down the road who always complained when he hadn't mowed his lawn. But the neighbours were on holidays, one side anyway, and the other, well, they had so many screaming matches they would hardly notice a little extra yelling on the best of days.

He tried yelling. He tried screaming at the top of his lungs, but the top of his lungs were squashed down around his knees somewhere.

The car creaked.

Oh, god, please don't move.

Crap!

Calm, O'Neill.

He would have taken deep breaths, but that wasn't currently possible. Damn - he couldn't even hyperventilate. He couldn't ventilate, let alone hyper.

In moments of stress, think calming thoughts.

That wasn't going to happen!

He stared up at the roof of the garage, eyeing the pieces of junk left behind by his life. An old bike was shoved between the rafters, one that had seen many a trip to the mountains. But not for a while, not since...

Don't go there, O'Neill, think positive thoughts.

Oh look! That's where he had put the Christmas decorations. He had wondered. Last year, he had had to resort to buying a few cheap new ones two days before his team came over. The memory of that Christmas Day made him smile. Teal'c playing Twister had been the Kodak moment. He had even managed to get Daniel totally drunk, and on eggnog, no less. The result had been hilarious. One archaeologist, two strings of tinsel, and a fairy, you make the connections. Even now he had to laugh when he thought about it.

Crap! - no he didn't!

God it hurt!

Think other things, Jack.

He closed his eyes.

There is no pain.

There is no spoon.

Teal'c is a bad influence on your TV habits.

Okay, Hockey scores.. Can't remember any! He must be really bad. Surely he could remember that last game that he saw. His favourite team. That last goal, that flying puck, that...

Oh, dear god!

CREAK

Ohmigod!

No!

The ominous sound was loud. He shifted slightly, desperately looking. There had to be something around here he could put under the chassis. It was worth his life. He tried stretching his arm out, reaching, for anything. Anything.

The broken jack lay inches from his outreaching fingers. Spots danced before his eyes. This was it, he was gonna buy it here.

His hand touched something hard and cold, with just the tips of his fingers, but try as he might, he couldn't bring it closer. Forcing himself to stretch just that little bit further, he could almost...almost.

His chest screamed in protest.

He felt a rib give.

The truck made an ominous grinding sound and the pain became unbelievable. Every part of him hurt.

The truck moved.

He screamed.

And it rolled off him.

Suddenly he could breathe.

But at what cost?

There was something very bad about this. Time seemed to slow to a crawl.

There was a rush of blood in his throat. He could feel the burning as it flowed upwards. He felt like every thing inside him wanted out.

He had to turn.

He had to turn over.

Get it out; let it out, so that he could breathe.

Movement was agony, but it was move or die.

He chose to live.

He forced his battered body to move, to turn. Blood pooled beneath him as his lungs expelled his life fluid, mixing it with the black oil on the garage floor.

The garage wavered as his body shut down, and he knew no more.

He woke some time later, his face in a pool of warm blood.

His own.

He couldn't have passed out for long. It could only have been a few minutes at the most, or he doubted he would have woken at all.

He had been badly hurt before and recognised the signs - he had to get help, and quickly. Lying here would lead him nowhere. There wasn't much time and he knew it.

Time for some of that O'Neill stubbornness. It was only his chest that was hurt, after all. Not his legs. He could walk.

Oh shit!

Then again, maybe not.

Well, he could crawl.

He was abruptly and forcibly reminded of one other time he had had to force himself in a similar condition. At least this wasn't a desert.

The key was focus. Focus on the objective. Nothing else mattered. He knew that help was only a phone call away.

Think O'Neill, fastest way to help.

The nearest phone was in the house. Too far, much too far. He would try, but he knew that he'd never make it.

Then, in a blinding flash, it came to him.

His cell. Where was his cell?

He remembered. It was in his jacket, but where had he put the damned jacket?

He had taken off his jacket before he had started work on the car. Where had he put it?

He couldn't think straight

Where?

He tried to raise his head and look. Retrace his steps, but for some reason, he couldn't seem to move anymore. Even thinking hurt.

He managed to twist his head, and spotted it hanging over the hood of the car. It wasn't far away.

He could do it, couldn't he?

It was so close.

Just a very short distance.

He could do it.

He could feel himself fading.

Focus, Jack.

Objective Number One.

He felt his mind wandering. What was Objective Number One?
That was it.
Raise arms.

He struggled. It hurt like hell, but he did it.

Objective Number Two: move your body. That was even harder than One. It was as if he had forgotten how.

Oh, God, ack, oh, hell, aaaah!

He felt himself struggle to scream. Surely someone must have heard him that time? The pain was driving everything else from his mind, but he overrode his body's objections.

This was do or die O'Neill.

Move!

And he did. Inch by pain giving inch. He couldn't rely on someone else to help him. He had always had to rely on himself and this was no exception.

Focus.

Sheer determination had got him through it before and would do so again.

The jacket taunted him, hanging there calmly. The source of his salvation.

He pushed.

He moved.

He gasped a scream.

Inch by desperate inch he pulled his body forward, but he was getting there, his fingernails digging into the unyielding concrete, a trail of red slick behind him. His breath was shallower now and there was a hitch and a grating sound in his chest.

Doc was going to love this! He could see her now, heels clicking on concrete, storming towards him from the length of the infirmary, brows crossed in exasperation.

Man, was he gonna get it.

There was no thought that he wouldn't get out of this alive. He always did, and he was damned if he was going to buy it fixing his damned truck in his own garage. Not exactly heroic, was it? Not the stuff of legends.

He was almost there; he reached out a hand and brushed the hem of his jacket, missing the strength to pull it towards him.

Try again.

He swung at it feebly with his hand.

It was getting harder and harder to breathe.

Don't you dare give up, O'Neill.

If he could just catch the corner, pull it down He knew that his strength was giving out fast.

Again.

He could do it. He had to. There was no way that a truck was going to be his nemesis. Anubis maybe. Some nameless monster on a distant planet, but not his own damned truck!

Arm up, fingers reaching, he caught it. The jacket fell in front of him He would have sighed in relief but for the pain it would have caused

Oh shit! What if the cell had broken?

He fumbled with the material - only one hand seemed to be functioning now. In fact, it was as if one half of him had been chopped off. This was so not good!

The thought of the cell not being there was not an option His hand hit solid plastic just as the hitch in his chest moved to his throat

He coughed.

And coughed again.

Pain was his world. Each time he drew breath the agony grew, but he still struggled.

The phone. He must get the phone.

Through teary eyes, with weakening fingers he pulled it towards him Blood was sprinkled over its face, taunting him with the reality of his situation, but he didn't need to see the numbers. He just needed to hit speed dial.

He only needed to press one button.

His vision swam. The numbers on the cell blurred. His last cough sent bright red droplets spraying across the floor.

No, he had to phone.

He clung to consciousness with his entire soul.

It wasn't enough.

This was one battle that he didn't win.

Jack O'Neill lay, face down on the cold floor and there was the sound of a clatter as the phone slipped from his nerveless fingers, no power, no open line.

No hope.

Daniel had a sore foot.

It was his own fault really. That's what happens when you kick the side of your car in anger.

Firstly it refused to start. Then, once he had managed to finally give it life, it had moved to the sound of crunching wheel rim.

Damn, flat tyre.

He could do this. Changing a tyre was easy.

So why, oh why did he have to drop it on his foot?

Boy, was Jack gonna laugh when he found out he had dropped a tyre on his foot. He was never going to live this one down.

He'd given up at that point. He knew that it would just make Jack even more annoyed with him if he was late, so he'd tried ringing his friend to ask for a lift.

No answer.

He checked the time and decided to hop a cab to Jack's place and catch him before he drove up the mountain. He should still be home; maybe he could even grab a coffee before they left.

So here he was limping up Jack's driveway, trying to think of a more plausible excuse for his sore foot. One that wouldn't require several years of jokes, sarcastic, comments, and various retellings at the SGC Christmas party. Thank goodness they weren't due to go off world for a day or so.

The cab had taken longer to get there than he had expected. He just hoped that Jack was still home.

He rang the doorbell.

No answer.

He banged on the door. No answer.

Odd.

Damn! Maybe he had missed him. Perhaps he was out the back. Last ditch effort, cross the fingers. He walked around the side of the house.

The garage was open. The truck was there, he could see it through the open door.

But where was Jack?

"Jack?"

Maybe he was in the shower. No - Jack wouldn't have left it this late to get ready.

It was quiet.

No noise.

Nothing.

The first signs of worry began to stir in his stomach.

Perhaps not nothing. Daniel listened closely.

What was that noise?

A moan?

Faint, but there.

"Jack?"

The garage.

He hurried forward, bumping into the outdoor furniture in his haste, his limp disappearing as his mind started to conjure possibilities.

What he found, gave flesh to one of those possibilities.

Oh, god, Jack!

His friend was lying there. Head down. Blood was smeared all over the floor, grease and oil blending haphazardly with its water-based redness.

The low moan had gone. All that Daniel could hear was an awful rasping sound as if every breath was being forced from him. Daniel had heard the term "death rattle" before, but had never truly appreciated the sheer dreadfulness of its reality.

Jack's jacket lay beside his head, blood spattering its black shape, his cell phone mere inches from his outstretched hand.

Oh, God. He had to do something and fast.

He knelt beside his friend, reaching to check his pulse. It was there, faint, but there.

Daniel grabbed the phone. Ignoring the bright red flakes on its surface, he rapidly dialled 911; fretting over the time it took to be picked up. Finally, after what seemed like hours, it was answered. He stuttered out the required information to the polite, calm voice at the other end, mechanically giving them directions before hanging up.

For a brief moment he hesitated. Should he ring the base? Then he made a decision.

First aid first.

Jack needed help fast, but his mind was numb, all first aid lessons forgotten for a moment. Then it all came back to him.

Danger.
He looked around rapidly. What had caused this? Then he saw the red smears leading back from Jack's body to the truck.

Shit!

Response.
"Jack? Can you hear me?" Jack was not responding to his voice. He tried again. "Jack?"

Airways.

Breathing.

He knew that Jack was breathing. He could hear those awful sounds - rasping, catching in throat sounds. The sounds of a person desperately clinging to life.

Circulation.

Jack was breathing, his heart was pumping, there was life.

Daniel examined Jack for a source of all the blood. He could see no obvious wound. No open cut, but there had to be something.

Then he saw it.

A trail of red running from Jack's mouth every time that he took a labored breath. Flecks of blood coating his lips, a thin trickle running down his cheek until it became a river of blood, dammed and pooled beneath him, and with that sight came despair, because Daniel knew that there was nothing that he could do to help his friend. Nothing to ease the crumpled form of his friend's chest, misshapen by the bones of his ribcage, broken beneath the skin.

He could only sit and wait.

So he sat.

And waited.

His heart clenched.

He could only sit, wait, and watch as Jack's breath grew more and more forced. One by one, each moment ticked away by the laboured hiss of life giving air.

Where were they?

He checked his watch. What was taking so long? Five minutes.

The seconds seemed to stretch into hours before he heard it. The wail of the siren

He clambered to his feet and ran to the door, running down the driveway, waving wildly, desperately calling, knowing that every second counted.

These people could help.

They had to.

It was Jack, and he needed him.

And Jack needed them.

They came. They swarmed over his friend, and he was pushed to the sidelines, helpless to do anything but watch.

But he still had the phone, so he rang.

Rang.

Rang and rang.

So they knew.

So they would come.

And they would be there.

All those people to whom Jack O'Neill had become so important.

He walked slowly up his driveway.

Each step was harder than the last time he had made this walk, but he didn't care. He was just glad to be home.

Finally.

For a while there, lying on that hard garage floor, he had begun to wonder if he would ever make it back.

And his chest still caused him pain.

He approached the garage with a little trepidation, unsure of his reaction to returning to the scene of the crime.

There it was.

It almost looked triumphant, its headlight shinning like eyes with the reflection of the setting sun.

He found it odd that there was little remaining of the struggle that had been enacted here, beneath his feet. No oil, no grease. No blood.

Daniel had been here. He must have cleaned and scrubbed. Intellectually he knew that his friend had to have cleaned it up, but it was as if the blood had been sucked into the truck.

He couldn't erase the memory that was imprinted on his brain. His mind filled the gaps, and he was there once again, fighting that struggle, the struggle to hold on to life. It was a struggle that he was all too familiar with, but this was different. This had been on his own planet.

In his own garage.

This was personal.

He had won again. He always did. But he knew that one day the struggle would be his last.

He reached for the nearby crowbar, raised it above his head and stopped, mid motion.

He couldn't do it.

He couldn't injure his own truck.

The bar slipped from his fingers, and the metal clattered to the concrete floor.

"Jack? You here?"

Daniel.

Jack turned to find his friend standing at the back of the vehicle. "Yes, Daniel. I'm here."

"Jack, you okay?"

"I'm fine."

Daniel's response was a raised eyebrow. "I brought you some food for your refrigerator. I know its empty, I cleaned it out myself. Are you sure that you're ok, Jack?"

Jack knew Daniel probably wouldn't believe him, but he tried anyway. "Just peachy, Daniel. Just visiting the scene of the crime." He paused, and the silence became oppressive. "Want a beer?"

The fact that Daniel immediately agreed to the alcoholic beverage proved that he hadn't believed a word Jack had said. The two men turned and began walking towards the house.

"You know, Jack, you really should buy a smaller car."

"Ha, ha, funny, Daniel. I don't think so."

"No, really, Jack, you should. Save time, money, cheaper to repair."

"That really isn't the point though, is it? You've got to know that that truck and I have a relationship." He patted it on the hood and gave it a fond smile as he turned away. "Sometimes it isn't just a car, sometimes it's more. We understand each other. We're sort of alike, the truck and I. We don't suffer fools gladly. Sometimes we have bad days, and on those, I guarantee you do not want to mess with either of us."

"Well, that was one hell of a misunderstanding, Jack."

Daniel smiled, and Jack got the feeling he could see right through him.

Maybe men made the cars, but in some cases the truck made the man.

*********
FIN.