Jackfic Archive Story


The Teacher - Part 3 of 'An Education'

by Gumnut

Disclaimer: Stargate SG-1 and its characters are the property of Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. I have written this story for entertainment purposes only and no money whatsoever has exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author(s).




The smell of his own flesh cooking under the wave of intense orange light, blinding him with its brilliance.

But he could still see her eyes, and beyond the cruelty of the creature inhabiting her body, he knew she was there, and he smiled for her. They would get out of this, or he would die trying.

More likely the latter at the moment, Jack.

Oh, shut up.

A frown wrinkled her brow, and as his vision finally began to waver, his mind faltering under the onslaught, her eyes lost contact with his own and the orange light cut off leaving a green afterimage dancing where it had been.

She looked away.

He took the moment to draw in a breath of the cool air, the chill of the concrete floor sucking the warmth from the room. The burn continued to sizzle on his forehead.

Her body shuddered, and for a moment he thought she might walk away, but she didn't. Her shoulders straightened, and when she turned back to him, her eyes flashed white, a snarl of defiance on her face.

"Having a little trouble are we?" He managed to force just the right amount of sarcastic lilt into his voice to draw her attention. "Not learning fast enough for ya, huh?"

The Goa'uld moved so fast, he didn't have a chance to react. Her face was suddenly within an inch of his, her warm breath caressing his lips, the moisture in her brown eyes reflecting him in miniature. Her voice, raped by the Goa'uld's echo, sung a deadly whisper in his ears. "You are going to die, human."

He stood his ground, refusing to flinch. "Perhaps." His eyes traced her face, the face of a friend held by an enemy. "But not today."

With all the energy his depleted body could muster, he flung himself forward and head butted her between the eyes.

She dropped like a stone.

Swallowing pain as he lacerated the burn on his forehead, he closed his eyes, urging the world to stop spinning. Oh, god. He hung from his bindings, taking a brief moment to orient himself, and prayed he could get both himself and Janet out of this hell.

Okay, O'Neill, obstacle number one - you're tied up like a turkey roast.

He had spent every moment since awakening here working on the ropes holding his wrists. They were tight, but not tight enough to lose all hope, and his right hand was definitely looser now than it had been before. He worked it some more, stifling his own cry of pain as raw flesh rubbed against rough rope. The Goa'uld had trussed him up well, but there must have been a little Janet Fraiser fighting through when it did up the knots because after several more tugs, and a yelp as his wrist nearly separated, his hand slipped free.

Pain shot through his shoulders, one at the break of freedom and the return of movement, the other taking the strain of the weight of his body.

Oh, god.

He had no time for self-pity. He was very familiar with the Goa'uld capability to repair the human body in half the time it would normally take. He had to move.


She still lay face down in front of him, the soft curl of her hair caught and floating in the pool of blood around his knees. A single drop had landed on her exposed cheek, the red stark against her pale skin. It reminded him abruptly that the Goa'uld clock was not the only timer he had to race against. His body was quite capable of giving out on him at any time.

He reached out his one free arm. The knife was his only chance. It lay sheathed at her hip; he only had to reach out for it.

Of course, nothing was ever that easy. He reached. And reached. His fingertips brushed the hilt. His over-strained back spasmed and he collapsed sideways.

Goddamnit, O'Neill, this is your only chance. Do it or die.

Straightening, he tried it again.

Bone, muscle, every inch of height. His snared wrist howled at his mind as scabs were torn afresh, more blood ran down his arm.

His fingertips snared the knife, and holding his breath he dragged it towards him.

A flip of the wrist, knife in hand, the ropes binding him proved little obstacle. His body fell free.

Fell being the operative word.

Pain riddled him. Lacerations, bruises, stiff muscles long ignored, and a gaping hole in his side the obvious source of the majority of the blood on the floor, but it wasn't until he moved his legs that he realised there was something seriously wrong with his feet.

The gasp spat between his suddenly gritted teeth. Oh, shit, shit, shit. He coughed it out. He attempted to look down at his ankles. A brief impression of jagged bone was enough information. He was wearing no boots.

He briefly rested his forehead on the cold floor. Oh, god, O'Neill, you have to get your ass out of here. Janet is depending on you.

He eyed the staircase. It rose up into the ceiling cutting one wall in half along the way.

There was no help but his own.


Blood streaked across the cold concrete, telling the tale of his agony. He had made it inch by screaming inch to the bottom step of the stairs.

The Goa'uld had yet to stir, and O'Neill was blessed with both worry and elation. It was good it hadn't awoken to put an end to his escape, but yet, what if he had seriously injured Janet, what if she was dying by his hand only a few feet from him.

But he could not afford to chance returning to her. Too much depended upon his escape, and although no one ever gets left behind, he had to leave her here, there was nothing he could do for her, and he had to get help. Where was the rest of his team?

His mind ran in circles, fuzzy with blood loss, but his aim remained clear.

The stairs.


Concrete had never been so cold, stairs never so steep. The rough edges of the stone grazed his skin and caught in his injuries. At several points the world threatened to fade and only his stubborn determination held consciousness in his grip.

His fingers brushed the wood of the door at the top of his climb.

The handle teased him from way beyond reach.

Goddamnit, O'Neill!

Yet again he reached. Blood sang in his ears and ran down his arm.

His fingers smeared it all over the door handle.

But they pulled the door open.

It creaked quietly as he crawled through.

Into a hallway.

Carpet, the cheaper nylon variety, brushed his bare skin causing it to itch and irritate. Smiling faces decorated the walls, each looking at him as if asking him why he was bleeding all over their floor. One face stood out from all the others.

He was in Janet's house.


As he stared down the hallway, his vision blurring, one thought spun in his head.

Janet was downstairs in the basement, a Goa'uld embedded in her spine.

But there was one other inhabitant of this house.

Where was Cassie?


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